#venus keeps talking(⁠^⁠.⁠ ⁠.⁠^⁠)

[that-one-girl2020]

Saja Boys x Rumi’s Sister! Reader Pt. 4

A/N: Hello all of you. Wow, you all keep popping out of the kpop woodwork but thank you for all the support! I love reading your comments! I decided to post this today since I was able to squeeze it out tonight.

Reminder for people, I can’t tag more than fifty people so the tag list is closed. But, feel free to share outtake ideas in the comments or dm me!

TW: Self mutilation (just scratching on the arms), insecurity, and toxic mentalities (Thanks Celine)

Word Count: 4,457

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

(Reminder: Baby = Jum, Romance = Chungae, Mystery = Hyeon, and Abby = Kwan)

That night, as the Saja Boys laid outside the venue for Huntr/x’s fan sign event, there was nothing for them to do but scroll on their phones or talk to each other. Each had a single sleeping bag and only Jinu had a chair to get more comfortable so the boys were a little miserable. But, needs must in war.

“Sooo… who else has been hardcore simping for (Y/n)?” Kwan suddenly asked to fill the quiet.

“Hardcore.”

“Yeah, same.”

“Yes.”

“Obviously.”

There was just something about you that called to them. Maybe it was the way you smiled or the way you laughed without restraint? The way you treated them with normal kindness despite knowing that they served Gwi Ma? The way Gwi Ma’s voice quieted when they were around you? The way you made them feel more human than they had in centuries?

There was more to say between them. Of course there was, they were fond of this half human, half demon girl and they were plotting to destroy her world and kill her sister and her friends. And the moment you told them your weakness, they would have to exploit it to make the Honmoon and the Hunters shatter.

The Saja Boys felt a creeping feeling of despair.

~~~

That morning, you had gotten the girls up and made them something to eat then let the wardrobe and makeup team up. Their outfits were already set out in the living area along with the girls' makeup. The girls hated this part, usually doing their own makeup but it kept appearances up when there was a team doing final checks on their appearances. And pampering them. It also gave more people more jobs.

It was totally chaotic and you caught yourself scratching every now and then before your focus was drawn to something else.

“Okay okay okay, girls, team, everyone down to the cars! Gotta get the venue set up!” Bobby ushered everyone toward the elevator, the girls and you going down first and Bobby would follow with the rest of the team. You were so thankful for a private garage. It kept rabid crowds of fans trek crowding them.

When they got there, they set up the tables and the posters quickly, you making last minute adjustments to their appearance. For fan sign events, you stood behind the girls to get them anything they needed and to take care of gifts the fan gave them to keep room on the table.

Bobby set the last of the posters in front of them as the girls did final stretches and settled into their seats. “All right, team, I know everyone is all Saja, Saja, Saja, but we’re gonna turn it into Huntr/x, Huntr/x, Huntr/x! Yay! These fans slept on the sidewalk, overnight!” He did his best to hype them up.

“And I got all the fuel you guys’ll need to get through the next few hours,” You told them, nodding your head to the box of drinks and snacks you had for them.

The girls did their little circle, cheering each other with their pens, “Happy fans, happy Honmoon!” They whispered.

You took your place behind the girls as the doors opened and the fans flooded in, spearheaded by five people in sleeping bags, “Let’s bring them in! Welcome!”

The five sleeping bags eagerly waddled up to the table despite Bobby’s urging to go in a single file without pushing. You couldn’t help but giggle, it reminded you of the sleeping bag Mira had you design for her for the Met. Maybe they were Mira fans…

“And who should I make this out to?” Rumi greeted them.

“‘To our biggest fans.’”

‘Wait. You knew that sly, antagonistic, pretty voice.’

The sleeping bags dropped and the Saja Boys smoothly posed. Your jaw dropped. Did they really spend all night on the sidewalk just to mess with the girls? Were they that petty? Apparently, yes. Yes they were.

Bobby moved quickly, greeting the boys respectfully despite the interruption and the girls' complaints as they snapped their pens, summoning another table for the boys. But as soon as half the line split to line up in front of the Saja Boys’ table, Rumi stood, “The Saja Boys will sit with us!”

Zoey and Mira protested but the half of the crowd swiftly rejoined the original line as Bobby teared up at Rumi’s genius. The girls rearranged themselves, spreading out though Mira and Zoey clearly didn’t want to.

You couldn’t help the frown you had as Chungae and Kwan sidled up to Mira while Zoey fawned over Hyeon. And Jinu was whispering with Rumi. You did your job, grabbing five more waters from your box to pass out to the boys. It kinda… hurt when they didn’t acknowledge you, you knew they couldn’t, not with the fans and the other girls here, but still. It stung.

You couldn’t help but giggle when Kwan started passing out signed sketch outlines of his abs though.

You blinked and then sighed fondly when Hyeon started barking at a fan for some reason. You bit your lip, you wanted to pull him back but you couldn’t make any contact with the boys like this. You scratched at your arms in stress.

“No!” Zoey hit him with her pen, scolding him, “Bad Saja Boy!”

Hyeon backed down unhappily, pouting as he bit back a growl at the girl. He crossed his arms, sulking. ‘She hadn’t noticed how the fan’s eyes kept flickering up to stare behind them, at you,’ Hyeon mentally growled.

At the same time, Kwan, Mira, and Chungae started fighting over who would sign a fan’s leg cast first. Seeing the huge problem, you grimaced and quickly rushed over since no one else was doing anything.

“Woah, woah, woah,” You waved your arms over them, smiling tensely down at them, “Good idols don’t further injure their fans,” You hissed pointedly though your customer service smile didn’t waver. You shoved Chungae’s pen in his hand and slid the man’s leg over to him first.

”So sorry about any discomfort sir, they were just so excited to sign for you,” You bowed to the fan and scurried back to your place. You made sure to keep a watchful eye on them.

‘Why couldn’t they be like Jum? Jum was just quietly signing the posters and whatever the fans asked to be signed—within reason. Jum is being perfect. Be more like Jum guys.’

Speaking of Jum, he waved you over and you leaned down to offer your ear when he crooked his finger to the squeals of some of the fans. “Do you have any energy drinks? It was a long night on the sidewalk…” He whispered. Your face heated at the sensation of his voice in your ear and his breath fanning over your skin.

‘No! Bad thoughts (Y/n)! Focus on the boy, he wants an energy drink!’

Straightening up stiffly, you didn’t dare say anything because you knew you would stutter and stumble and make a mess of yourself. You smiled and nodded your head, hurrying over to your drink and snack stash. You were not running away from the hot maknae.

Jum couldn’t help but smirk and chuckle fondly as he watched you scurry away to get an energy drink for him. The back of your neck was flushed so he could imagine the flustered look on your face. He hadn’t even meant to, he was just really tired. But your reaction definitely gave him a little bit more energy, at least enough to smile at fans and send hearts at them every now and then. Jinu would owe them big time for this one…

“Here you go, Jum,” His name slipped out without you meaning to but, thankfully, no one seemed to hear you.

Jum took the can with a smile, making sure your fingers brushed as he did, “Thanks (Y/n).”

And then he cracked it open and took a long drink, his throat bobbing with every swallow.

‘Was this fan service!? Run (Y/n)!’

You got out of there as fast as you could. You scurried back to the safety of your drink and snack stash so you could bury your face in your hands until your face cooled down. ‘In front of the fans too…’

You looked up in time to awe over the cutest little girl ever going up to the table with a drawing, her eyes on Jinu. You couldn’t see Jinu’s face as he slowly took the drawing, other fans shouting about how much they loved Jinu.

You blinked, cocking your head in confusion when Rumi suddenly stood, her arms held out to gesture at Jinu, “Isn’t he great? Woo! Jinu, everybody! Yeah Jinu!” Rumi cheered. It set off the crowd of fans, cheering and clapping wildly as they threw bouquets of flowers to each of the Saja Boys.

“‘Woo, Jinu’?” Mira echoed in disbelief. You grimaced, she didn’t sound happy at all…

Jinu then stood, “Unfortunately, the Saja Boys have to run. Thank you, everyone.” The rest of the boys followed his lead.

You stood at attention when Bobby suddenly waved to you, “(Y/n), can you show them to the back exit and call one of the cars around?” He trailed off into muttering about how the boys never had any managers or employees with them, a little disgruntled.

You started to nod when Rumi’s protective streak flared anew, “No!”

Everyone was looking at her.

”Uhhh, I mean, I was gonna ask (Y/n) to get me a, uhhh…” Rumi trailed off, her mind blanking on what to say. The Saja Boys already kidnapped her sister once and put her in danger, she didn’t want them doing it again.

“Some more water! You wanted some more water, right Rumi?” Zoey chimed in, her smile strained as she tried to help.

“Yeah! Yeah, I need some more water!” Rumi agreed quickly. All eyes went to the half full water bottle on the table. She quickly snatched it up and chugged it down. Aggressively.

“Okay… I’ll get you some more water, you can go ahead (Y/n),” Bobby reassured and you smiled awkwardly. There was no getting out of this. Not that you really wanted to get out of it…

“It’s fine, I’ll be right back Rumi,” You reassured your sister before leading the boys to the back as they waved to the fans, “This way.”

As soon as the boys were out of sight of the fans, they sagged with exhaustion, tossing the bouquets out.

You grimaced, and fished them out of the garbage, “Come on guys… I know you guys are tired but, just take some pictures with them later or something, the fans’ll like that…” You knew they were exhausted and probably aching from sleeping on the sidewalk all night but you couldn’t just let them do that right in front of you.

Jinu was quiet behind you, staring thoughtfully at the girl’s drawing in his hand.

“Tired…”

“Too much effort…”

“Can’t do it…”

“Nghhh…”

You shook your head at them, leading them to the back exit as you juggled the flowers in your arms to get your phone and text one of the drivers to come around to the back door.

“Okay, wait right here and one of our drivers will come and take you guys wherever you need to go,” You told them, shoving your phone in your pocket.

You almost fell over when someone’s body weight was suddenly on top of your shoulders, their face resting in the crook of your shoulder. “So tired…” Hyeon groaned. You blushed but couldn’t move before Chungae and Kwan plopped on the ground to lean their back’s against both sides of your legs. Jum pouted, settling with just leaning his head against your arm as all four boys tiredly closed their eyes. You were stuck.

It was like when a cat or a dog deigned you with the honor of them laying in your lap so you didn’t dare shift even a millimeter in the horrible case of you disturbing them. Your muscles were tense and you felt like your legs were going numb but you didn’t dare move.

You looked up flatly when you heard Jinu snickering to himself. “These are your children, shouldn’t you take them?” You hissed at him.

Jinu held his hands up in surrender, “Hey, they like Mama more, that’s not my fault,” He smirked.

The cluster of five people all looked at him in deadpan. Did this guy really just insinuate that he and you were their parents? “Ew.”

Your phone chimed and you slowly shook the boys off, “Alright, car’s here guys.”

They whined but released you and got to their feet. Chungae took your hand in his, swinging them back and forth as he pleaded, “Come with us, wanna cuddle…”

‘Okay, so Chungae got childishly clingy when he was tired. Noted.’

“I can’t, you guys can’t keep kidnapping me. I gotta stay with the girls for this event,” You told him and started herding the boys outside and to the car.

“Fine…” Chungae huffed, mindlessly giving you a kiss on the cheek before he shuffled into the car first, “Bye darling…”

‘Was he really that tired?!’ Your face combusted.

Looks like they were taking turns.

Hyeon was next, taking your hand and pressing a lingering kiss to the back of it before he followed after Chungae, “‘Till next time, princess.”

Kwan wrapped his arms around you, squeezing you in a tight hug and oh gosh. You can feel all his muscles. “See you later, babe.” And then he was climbing into the car too.

Jum approached you with a cool air, but his eyes didn’t meet yours as he took your hand in his and gave it a soft, shy squeeze, “Thanks for the drink earlier, beautiful.” You opened your hand as he climbed into the car to see your favorite candy. Was this gift-giving…?

Jinu tried to hide his chuckle at how red and flustered you were as snores started sounding from the car already. You pouted at him. “You look like the co-host from ‘Play Games With Us!’ after the spicy challenge,” He quietly cackled.

Was your face really that red? You pressed your hands to your cheeks to cool them down, tossing the flowers into the car after the boys. “Shut it, pretty boy,” You grumbled petulantly.

Jokes on him, now he was flustered and blushing. Jinu could dish it out but he couldn’t take it when the flirting was directed at him apparently.

Jinu cleared his throat, looking away from your little smirk as he fumbled with his hands. “Okay, uh, I’ll see you around.”

“Okay. Bye Jinu,” You waved as he fumbled to get into the car as you walked back to the door.

“Uh, byeee, ugh,” he cringed at the way his voice came out. You didn’t get to hear him mutter and groan at himself as he quickly closed the car door behind him and the car soon took off.

You shook your head in amusement at the boys and went back inside to finish the event with the girls.

It was hours later of Rumi glancing worriedly at you out of the corner of her eye until the event finished, Bobby grinning happily at the success of the event.

“Great job girls!” He cheered, circling the table as employees cleaned up the venue. He showed his phone to Mira and Zoey joined to see what it was, “The internet loves this, and the internet is never wrong!”

You looked over their shoulders as Mira snatched Bobby’s phone to go through the stories, “Rujinu! That’s genius.” It was a picture of Jinu and Rumi’s feet touching under the table with the caption, ‘Rujinu?! Playing footsie?!’

Mira tapped through to a drawing of Zoey with a glowering baby Jum in her arms and Hyeon at her side with a beaming smile, “Zoeystery. Where did they come up with that?”

And an edit of Mira with Chungae and Kwan on each side of her, the three surrounded by hearts, “Miro-mabby?” Mira tried to sound out the poly ship name as her fist clenched.

“Aw, you’re so cute together!” Zoey cooed lightheartedly.

Your eyes widened when Mira clicked again and this time it was a collage of Jum whispering in your ear earlier, drinking the energy drink, and you burying your red face in your hands with the caption, ‘(Y/n) is literally us, same girl! I hardcore ship it tho! (Y/n) + Baby!’ With plenty of hearts.

Zoey gasped excitedly, “They even did you, (Y/n)!”

You bit your lip, flushing as Mira turned her head to look at you, “You were blushing over them?” She asked you incredulously.

You stared flatly back at her, “I don’t wanna hear it when you kept watching Abby make those sketches of his abs.”

She shrugged, “Point taken.”

Zoey nodded, “Yeah, fair enough.”

~~~

Rumi didn’t know what to do.

On one hand, she had Zoey and Mira with this diss track, racing towards their goal of destroying all demons and trapping them in the demon realm with Gwi Ma for eternity.

On the other hand, she had Jinu and the constant niggling in her head that not all demons deserve to suffer.

And below it all, the protective determination to protect you, her sister. The faster she completed the Honmoon, the faster her and your patterns would be gone so you both could live normal lives. That’s what she wanted for you.

Rumi couldn’t talk to you about what was going on, you wouldn’t understand. And she didn’t want to freak you out over Jinu knowing about her—and by extension—your patterns.

But she did have to talk to Jinu. Maybe there was hope for him. And if there was hope for him, then there must be hope for you and her.

That’s why she gave the note to Derpy to give to Jinu.

So, early in the morning as the sun was just barely about to come up, she saw Jinu waiting for her. “She wants to meet, and she’s late?”

Rumi couldn’t help but sneak up behind him and land on the wall, making him shriek and flail as he turned and saw her suddenly crouched behind him. “You made me come all the way out here so you could jump-scare me?!” He panted, gripping his chest as he felt his heart slowly come down from the hummingbird speed it had jumped to. (Y/n) would never treat him like this…

Rumi jumped down smoothly, ignoring his question. “Follow me.”

He did. “Well, I’m glad you’re finally ready to talk. Although, you could’ve picked somewhere nicer for a date.”

Rumi faltered, “‘Date’? No! Ew! What are you talking about?”

Jinu pointedly held up the invite she had sent him, reading, ‘Save the Date.’

“That doesn’t mean—“ She sighed frustratedly, “You’re so old. This is strictly a business meeting.” She snatched the invite from him, going back to her walk as he trailed after her.

“Right… I thought you were into your friends. Glad it’s not me,” Jinu mused as he followed the purple haired girl.

Rumi blanched again, “What?! No! No way! I— They— We— Just, just keep your nose out of my love life, okay?! Business. Meeting.”

Jinu held up his hands in surrender, “Okay, loud and clear,” He agreed and the two resumed walking, Rumi with much redder cheeks than she had arrived with.

“What if I told you there’s another way to get your freedom?” Rumi asked him, her face serious and solemn now.

“Go on.”

“Help us win the Idol Awards. Because when we win, the Honmoon will be sealed,” Rumi explained, hopping up onto the wall with a touch to the Honmoon so it glowed out over the city. “And that will guarantee your freedom. Gwi Ma will be permanently cut off, and all the demons will be gone from this world. My sister and I will finally be free of these patterns. No more hiding. No more secrets. You can be on this side when the Honmoon is sealed. Away from the demon world, away from Gwi Ma. You can be free from those voices forever.”

Jinu looked away in consideration. Rumi didn’t know his true story, she thought he had made a deal for his family, when in reality, he made the deal for himself. Besides, her thinking was flawed, even he could see it. She was telling herself comforting lies.

“But I am a mistake.”

Jinu frowned at her words, looking up at her.

“Have been since the moment I was born. So, I have to believe. Because if there’s no hope for you, what hope is there for me?”

After a moment, he couldn’t help but ask, “And your sister? Is she a mistake too?”

Rumi looked down, conflicted. “(Y/n)… I don’t want to think so, I love her. But… if we weren’t born the way we were, maybe she would’ve been able to use the Honmoon like us…” Rumi trailed off softly, unsure and bitter over her own conflicted thoughts and emotions on her sister.

They were interrupted by a middle aged woman offering a bracelet to Jinu to give to his ‘girlfriend.’ The two flailed, stumbling over their words until the woman gave Jinu a flat look and Rumi the bracelet with the advice to find a better boy since Jinu was hopeless.

“Well, there’s your answer. Hopeless.”

Rumi gave the bracelet a soft, thoughtful look, “That’s the funny thing about hope. Nobody else gets to decide if you feel it. That choice belongs to you.” She held the bracelet out to offer him, “Here. Think of it as a… friendship bracelet.”

When Jinu took too long to think about it, Rumi turned away to leave with a sigh. “Wait.” He told her, holding his hand out for the bracelet when she turned. She smiled softly and slid it into his hand.

Looking at the bracelet in his hand, he couldn’t help but say, “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you or your sister are mistakes.”

Then they went their separate ways.

~~~

It was all getting to be too much for you.

The girls were at the venue for the Idol Awards since early this morning, practicing their performance for Takedown. You had asked Bobby to deliver snacks to girls for you because you were busy running errands in the city. Bobby had reassured you that he would do that while you did your errands—i.e. getting some air.

Since the fan sign event, you had been scratching at your patterns more and more. The Idol Awards were tomorrow and it seemed like you couldn’t escape Takedown whenever you were in the apartment with the girls. It always seemed to be playing, whether the girls were changing lyrics, working on choreography or just rehearsing singing the song.

And the more time you spent with the Saja Boys, the less you wanted the Honmoon to be completed.

Jum pretended to be aloof but he liked to give you little things that reminded him of you. He often found you while you were out running errands just so he could follow you while you did, no matter how boring it was like getting groceries. The both of you had gone back to the cat cafe the other day and had taken selfies on his phone with the cats. He had a whole album of them now.

Chungae came to your balcony most nights to whisk you up to the tower roof balcony. You two would sit and look out over the city, just talking. He would insert a flirty line every now and then to see you blush and rile you up but would always smooth it over with a fond smile.

Hyeon was more of a wildcard. He would find you while you were getting a breath of fresh air at the park or just in the city. Like he had a built in radar for you, he would find you when you felt stressed and he would distract you. He was a little protective though, growling at people he felt were too close to the two of you.

Kwan was starting to make a foodie out of you. He would barge in during random parts of the day when you were alone to drag you off to a new food place he had found or heard about. No matter how bizarre it seemed, he would always try it and you somehow ended up trying it too. He would draw you into little debates, getting you wound up in your bickering until you were laughing with your eyes passionate as you argued your point.

And Jinu was like a ghost fading in and out between all these different interactions. He was probably the calmest besides Jum and Chungae—it was a little weird that those two were the calmest when they were the two youngest of the group. Jinu introduced you to Derpy, his tiger and the little demon bird that always accompanied him. You laughed when he explained that he had made the hat for Derpy but bird kept taking it. Jinu and you bonded over music. You shared modern music with him, not just modern kpop, but jazz, rock, punk, pop, classical, everything you could think of. The two of you would sit under the night sky, an earbud in each of your ears as you listened to music.

You didn’t want to lose the five boys that had somehow wormed their way into your heart, not when they made you feel more safe and seen than even Rumi did. Besides, if even the five boys who were so kind and comforting to you ended up trapped on the other side of the Honmoon, then what hope was there that you would get to stay? In your stress, your patterns have progressed more than Rumi’s has. She could still wear shorts and skirts if she wanted to, even if her arms and neck had to be covered. But you?

Your patterns have progressed well onto your legs to the point where you couldn’t wear shorts or anything that showed your legs at all. The stress was making you scratch so bad despite you taking Jinu’s advice and trying to keep your nails short, that you had to start bandaging your arms under your sleeves to try and mitigate the harm you were unintentionally doing to yourself.

“(Y/n)?” You looked up at the call of your name. Oh yeah. You were trying to get some air so you went for a walk.

Who is it?

(A/N: Vote for who it is here! Can’t post anything until the poll is over!)

Outtakes:

*Before the Series*

You: “You completely wrecked your private jet?!”

Huntr/x: “It wasn’t our fault! It was the demons!”

You: *Pulling your hair out* “That is literally your excuse for everything!”

…

Jinu: *Resting semi-comfortably on a chair* “So…How you guys doing?”

Saja Boys: *Laying on the cold hard cement sidewalk, plotting Jinu’s death* “Shut the f*** up.”

…

Random Fan: “Awww, Mira, Romance and Abby get along so well, it’s so cute!~”

Mira, Romance, Abby: *Currently trying to kill each other*

Other fan: *side eyeing their friend* “Yeah…so well…”

Random Fan: *Manically whispering* “I will die on this ship.”

…

Jinu: “So, you like those other girls, right?”

Rumi: *Bipanic mode activated, blue screen mode activated* “Uhhhh…”

…

Rumi: “Yeah…me and my sister were born as mistakes.”

The Saja Boys, Mira, Zoey: *Ready to fight* “I’m sorry, what?”

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[astrolook]

🏠Mundane Natal Astrology: Planets in Houses as Daily Behavior 🛋️

Note: These are all my personal observations and patterns I've noticed over the years. Take what resonates with you more and leave the rest. Lemme know in the comments if it hits home! A single placement or aspect isn't enough to conclude and the whole chart has to be analyzed!

Venus in 1st -> These natives always check the mirror before leaving any room. Can mimic others' tone and body language naturally. Can be photogenic. Would feel “off” if they don’t like their look that day. Usually better treated in public or in customer service than their friends.

Mars in 2nd -> Seriously, these natives works better when they’re a little pissed off or under pressure. They dislike it when people touch them (even their peers/ family) or move their belongings without permission. Can get impatient waiting for paychecks or deliveries. Less likely to share their food with others. Less likely to lend things easily to others. They would rather throw it away.

Sun in 3rd -> Corrects the grammar usage of others. Takes pride in “knowing things” before others like news, facts, trivia, and movies. Repeats jokes louder if no one laughed the first time. Gives people nicknames instantly and uses them like they’ve been friends for years. These natives have at least one go-to story they’ve told a dozen times with perfect delivery. Will correct others' proNunCiaTion under their breath if it’s wrong.

Moon in 4th -> Cooks or cleans when emotionally overwhelmed like resetting their furniture or wardrobe. These natives have playlists they loop hard when they're doing chores. Hate when people sit in their “spot” at home, even if it’s just the end of the couch. They’ll randomly hum the same song a family member was just thinking about or say the same thing at the same time without meaning to.

Saturn in 5th -> These natives avoid karaoke, dancing, or anything that makes them look silly in public. Natives would abandon their hobby if they weren't immediately good at it. Plays to win even in board games. They get visibly annoyed if their friends don't take a game seriously. They won't get along with overly playful people. For example: If they're playing Monopoly with their friends, they make sure people are followin' the rules exactly.

Mercury in 6th -> These natives Google symptoms immediately, even if it's just a headache or stomach pain. They might keep a diary/ notepad to note things down like phone numbers, addresses, etc. These natives are very good at finding small errors/ mistakes others make. They're always the one who catches the professor’s typo or the boss’s small mistake in a document. Has strong opinions about pens, mobile phones, and gadgets. Makes their own cheat sheets just for peace of mind, even when they don’t use them.

Jupiter in 7th -> These natives would give long answers or more than one answer to a simple question or during arguments. They can't stand narrow-minded people or people who are pessimistic. These natives somehow end up talking to strangers in checkout lines or elevators. Overshares if they like someone. More likely to buy expensive gifts or things that are way too big to show their love. One can expect a sink full of dishes after they make a quick meal.

Uranus in 8th -> These natives can get obsessed with documentaries about cults, serial killers, aliens/ UFOs, or bizarre crimes. They use words like, "Not to sound crazy/ weird but....." at least once a week. Out of boredom, these natives would look up people’s net worth, criminal records, or family history just out of curiosity. Would never share their password for streaming, even with their own family, and are less likely to have joint accounts with their spouse. Watches absurd things, UFO stuff, occult documentaries, etc, while eating dinner.

Neptune in 9th -> These natives zone out in classrooms, meetings, etc. These natives can develop a "weird connection" to a place/ country they never visited b4 and would think they had a past life there. For example, someone living in California feels a connection to Egypt. More likely to fall for fake quotes, toxic positivity, MLMs, or inspirational videos when young. Will impulsively sign up for a class or course because the title felt “right,” then drop out within weeks.

Pluto in 10th -> These natives delete or hide old posts, or photos that don’t “match” who they are now. Keeps a tight grip on what personal info people know about them. More likely to keep their phone brightness low in public. More likely to browse incognito, even for normal things. They always sit where they can see the whole room and their backs never face the door. They delete chats/ messages after reading them if they feel unnecessary or too revealing.

Saturn Rx in 11th -> These natives might hesitate to post on social media. Canel plans last-minute. Feels uncomfortable around people who are super loud, overly fun, or touchy in friend settings. Seriously, they will take the long way home just to avoid walking by a group of people they kind of know. They stare at textboxes for long minutes before deciding not to reply at all.

Jupiter Rx in 12th -> These natives hoard screenshots of quotes, threads, or spiritual advice they never look at again. These are the kind of people who start writing a journal, write 3 deep pages, then forget it in a drawer for 6 months. Also, they zone out while doing dishes and imagine writing a book they’ll never start. Would say they’re “not religious” but low-key gets spooked if at night after watching a horror movie or prays to God just in case a ghost shows up.

Uranus Rx in 1st -> These natives adjust their expression in mirrors to see which version looks most “acceptable” for today. They sit in corners or far edges of rooms instinctively. When shopping, these natives avoid busy aisles or wait for people to move instead of squeezing past, as they don’t like being “in the way.” Can repeat outfits even if they have a lot to wear. Buys one random item in bulk “just in case.”

💌For readings, check out my pinned post for pricing! ✨💌🪐

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Boy toy

Written for @switcheddieweek, day 6, and for round two of the @steddiebingo

Prompts: Exposure | Switch, Sugar Daddy, Sub!Eddie

Relationship: Steve x Eddie

Rated: E

Words: 1,290 [also on AO3]

Tags: Switching; Sub!Eddie; Dom!Steve; Rock star Eddie; Movie star Steve; Modern AU; Blindfolds; Lace; Lingerie; Toys; Collars; Humiliation; Dirty talk; Finger sucking; Dry humping; Blow jobs

“Eddie Munson’s newest boy toy.”

Steve reads out the headline in the same bored drawl that he recited the last two articles in, but a faint tremble of amusement is creeping in. Even without being able to see, Eddie can picture him perfectly: phone balanced in one hand, the other fiddling softly with the remote on the armrest, the barest of smiles grazing his lips.

“Subheading, wait for it: … Who's the face behind that ass? God, who comes up with these? Do you think this is serious or some silly joke?”

Silence settles over the room, only disturbed by the low hum of the toy buzzing against Eddie’s prostate. Steve lets it linger, just long enough for the warm coil of arousal in Eddie’s belly to settle back in. Just long enough for the dull, painful tingle in his knees to start bothering him again, now that there's nothing to distract himself. Just long enough for him to start wondering if he should answer the question.

Then again, Steve was pretty clear in his instructions.

Kneel.

Head down.

Don't make a sound.

It's a bit strange. For all that Steve loves to test Eddie’s patience when their positions are reversed - always wiggling and whining and pleading at him with those big, wet eyes of his - he has no tolerance for disobedience when he's the one calling the shots, not even on a good day.

And today is not a good day. Today, Steve is pissed.

“It's common knowledge by now,” Steve reads, casually turning up the vibrations of the toy, “that Eddie Munson has a type. Corroded Coffin’s frontman likes his men young, athletic and shapely. And what can we say? His newest catch, spotted recently at luxury BDSM club The Hideout, clearly ticks all of those boxes.”

There’s another beat of silence. Eddie hears how Steve fiddles with the remote again, and this time, the pattern of the vibrations changes. Not a constant buzz anymore, but a slow ebb and swell, each crest sending delicious shockwaves of pleasure into his leaking cock. His fingers twitch, longing to touch himself, but he keeps his arms crossed behind his back just like Steve told him.

“There’s pictures, too,” Steve says. “I don’t need to describe them, I think?”

He doesn’t. Eddie has seen them approximately a hundred times since the first article came out this morning - and even if he hadn’t, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way Steve looked that night. How the lace hugged his legs and thighs. Dark, shimmery black contrasting beautifully with his tan skin, matching the color of his shorts and collar. The broad lace blindfold - the same one Eddie is wearing right now - making his lips look all the more shiny and pink. Eddie still remembers how he begged and pleaded against it. Steve doesn’t like having his vision impaired, least of all when they’re out in public. He says it makes him feel exposed and helpless, but Eddie was feeling a little mean that day, so he stayed firm.

In retrospect, it was probably a good thing. Paired with the low light of the venue and the distance from which the pictures were snapped, the blindfold makes it near impossible to make out features - apart from Steve’s strong jaw and the spectacular swoop of his hair, maybe. Steve should be happy about it, truth be told.

Except he isn’t.

“Fans are, of course, dying to know who Eddie’s newest sugarbaby is,” Steve continues. “Knowing him, it’s probably only a matter of time until we find out. … Well, I’m sure they’d fucking love that, huh?”

A long, slender finger hooks itself through the o-ring of Eddie’s collar and pulls. Not very harshly, but since Eddie doesn’t see it coming, he still yelps in surprise and struggles to maintain his balance, not daring to bring his hands forward to support himself. The sudden shift in position nudges the toy a bit more firmly against his prostate. The next vibration comes reliably and relentlessly, and he moans, precome dribbling onto the fabric of his lace stockings.

“You told me,” Steve says, voice suddenly very close to his ear, “that place was discreet. You told me I didn’t have to worry about it, and look where it got us. What if anyone recognizes me, have you thought about that for a- … Are you smiling?”

Eddie shakes his head as well as Steve’s hold on the collar will allow, biting the inside of his mouth to get the treacherous little tug of his lips under control.

Did he plan for this? Fuck, no! The Hideout is discreet, usually. They’re probably moving heaven and hell as they’re speaking, trying to figure out who snapped the pictures and sold them to the press. Whatever poor bastard did it will rue the day he ever set foot into the club.

But no place is ever truly safe, and they both know it. Steve better than him, probably. Being the only child of Hollywood’s most beloved celebrity couple, he was practically raised on the big screen. Steve had his first movie contracts under his belt before he could even walk, way before Eddie ever dreamed of picking up a guitar. Hell, if anyone is anybody’s sugarbaby here, it sure as hell isn’t Steve.

“Well,” Steve sighs. His hand has released its hold on the collar and is travelling up, tracing the shape of Eddie’s bobbing throat, the curve of his jaw. “At least one of us seems to be enjoying himself. Now, how do you plan on making it up to me, huh?”

Eddie turns his head, searching and finding Steve’s thumb and sucking it into his mouth. Steve makes a low, pleased sound from somewhere deep in his throat and Eddie’s neglected cock twitches.

“That’s your solution to everything, huh?” Steve murmurs. A foot pushes itself between Eddie’s thighs, and he moans, swirling his tongue around the finger in his mouth. “Sucking my cock? Well, I don’t think you’ve earned that today, have you?”

Eddie hollows his cheeks, bobbing up and down on Steve’s thumb while he grinds himself against Steve’s leg. If he looks pathetic and desperate enough, maybe Steve will change his mind.

Steve, as if he read his thoughts, laughs softly.

“God, the sight you make. Wish the fucking tabloids could see you like this. Maybe that’s what we should do, huh? Maybe I should get the leash and take you out. Maybe I should let them see what a dumb little slut you are.”

He won’t. Eddie knows he won’t. Unlike him, Steve still cares about both of their reputation. It's cute, in a way.

But God, the thought of it? The thought of Steve parading him around like this, naked and exposed for everyone to see? Feeling a dozen and more eyes on him, even with the blindfold on, burning into his skin while he kneels at Steve's feet, the perfect picture of discipline and obedience?

“You're actually getting off on that, huh?” Steve’s voice is a low, awed rumble. Eddie whines when the finger slides from his mouth, but Steve makes a soft shushing noise, cupping a hand to the back of his neck to pull him closer. The scent of his arousal is strong and heady, and the tip of his cock is slick as it nudges Eddie’s bottom lip. He opens up and eagerly presents his tongue. Waits.

Steve sighs, and the grip of his hand on Eddie’s neck goes a little gentler. “Alright already. You know I can't say no to you when you're like that. If you make it worth my while, I might consider letting you come.”

Eddie has every intention of making it worth his while.

He always does.

More Steddie Bingo

Ko-fi

[batsandbirdbrains]

If you don't mind answering, what's your favorite platonic Dick Grayson relationship? I very much love the differing father/son vibes he has with both Bruce AND Damian, but I'm also a sucker for a good brotherly relationship like with Tim or Jason. Also can't go with the codependency he has with the Titans (or YJ)

Dick and Donna is one of my absolute fav pairs of bffs. I like that they’d both absolutely defend each other to the death, and that they’ve known each other since they were young. Love the Wonder Twins they’re def my fav platonic pair.

And I think Dick & Roy and Dick & Garth are under explored too. It’s always either Wally or Donna. And I like them don’t get me wrong, but I want to see Dick and Roy hanging out at a gala bc Bruce and Ollie dragged them there, and maybe they’re making fun of Lex Luthor who’s also there and then sneaking cigarettes in the alley behind the venue. Maybe Dick is super interested in Atlantis and Garth teaches him all about it, and Dick in turn helps Garth with some surface world stuff that he’s been nervous about.

I enjoy all of the fab five together though, the concept of a group of superhero bffs is so fun, especially since they started when they were all so young. They’ve def all trauma bonded. And I like fics where the fab five all know Bruce is a shitty dad and they do everything they can to keep Dick away from him/protect him/comfort him.

Dick & Damian are my fav pair of all the batkids. Probably because they parallel early days Bruce & Dick so much. But I think they’re so fascinating to read/think about regardless of whether they’re the correct ages with Dick being older and Damian being younger, or if it’s a reverse robins situation. They have a fun mix of brotherly affection and father-son dynamic.

I do of course also love Bruce & Dick being a weird mix of father-son and brothers too. But I also enjoy fics where Bruce is very clearly The Dad.

In a Young Justice cartoon setting, I actually really like when he’s good friends with Conner and Kaldur. I feel like his friendship with Wally is always the focus, and his relationships with other characters aren’t as explored. Especially in a platonic setting. I don’t want Dick and Conner to be dating, I want Conner to look at this fluttery kid who helped save him from Cadmus and think “I have to protect him now, look at him, he’s pint sized.” Nevermind the fact that Robin in yj is objectively a terrifying little weirdo, that’s Conner’s terrifying little weirdo. I want them to watch Dick grow up and become Nightwing and for them to be so proud of their friend. I want them to get mad at other heroes when they talk shit about Nightwing because that’s their best pal, their buddy, their bff.

Probably derailed this a bit sorry abt that. But I just love fics that explore his relationships with other people without making it romantic.

[lightsoutmatthews]

willy just posted new pics from cannes on his insta and it gave me an idea! can you do willy x reader at some fancy event and the alllll the ladies keep coming up to will, so reader starts to feel really insecure/not enough. but sweet sweet willy is so loyal and so in love with reader and wants to show her that. thanks chica <3333

Those pictures made me go all 😵‍💫

There´s only you – William Nylander

You stood in front of the hotel mirror, adjusting the strap of your dress for the third time in probably as many minutes.

It wasn’t that it didn’t fit, it did, perfectly actually. You had gone shopping a week ago just to find something perfect for tonight.

A sleek, dark navy gown with a slit up the side, elegant but not too showy. Subtle jewelry, hair done up just the way you liked. You looked nice, good, even.

Unfortunately, good didn’t seem like enough for tonight.

Tonight, you were going to a red-carpet charity gala in Toronto on the arm of Leafs winger William Nylander.

You had been dating for a while at this point, but it would be the first time you would accompany him to such an event.

William was adjusting his cufflinks nearby, looking completely at ease in the tailored black tux.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. His blonde hair was slicked back, his jawline sharp and eyes bright. He looked like a movie star.

He was famous after all, but it was more than that. He glowed in places like this.

You felt lucky but at the same time incredibly nervous.

“You ready, älskling?” he asked, smiling at you in the mirror.

“Yeah,” you replied, forcing a smile. “Let´s do this.”

-------------

The venue was stunning. All marble floors, hanging chandeliers and tall windows overlooking the Toronto skyline.

Cameras flashed as you and William stepped out of the car. He held your hand the whole time, even as the mass of reporters shouted his name.

“William! Over here!”

“William, who are you wearing?”

“Is this your girlfriend?”

You clung to his side, eyes darting everywhere.

He leaned down, whispering softly against your ear as he sensed your unease, “You´re doing great.”

The moment you got inside, though, the swam began.

First, it was a group of women, models, maybe, with perfect hair and bright red lips. They recognized him immediately.

“Willy! Oh my God, I didn’t know you would be here tonight!” one of them almost shouted, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

She didn’t even spare you a glance.

Another one giggled, resting a hand on his arm. “I swear you get more handsome every year.”

You laughed politely, stepping a little closer to him. he didn’t move away, but he didn’t say much either, just gave them that soft, easy smile he used in public.

That professional smile you saw him spot many times before.

More women joined throughout the night. Models. Other attendees wives. Influencers. All gorgeous, all confident, all dressed to kill.

And every time they looked straight at William and barely at you. Some didn’t even hide they scanned him from head to toe.

It was starting to bother you, but you didn’t want to be that girlfriend. The clingy, insecure one. So, you smiled, sipped champagne and stayed close but not too close.

But your chest was getting tighter by the minute.

You started comparing.

You dress wasn’t as bold. You shoes weren’t as high. You didn’t have that high-society polish that they all seemed to carry effortlessly.

The way they walked, talked and flirted, it was like they belonged here, and you were just someone tagging along.

At one point, while William was chatting with a group of other Toronto athletes, you stepped away to the restroom.

You needed a break.

Your cheeks were hot, and not from the champagne or the warmth inside the building.

Why did you feel so small? You were the one here with him after all.

You knew William loved you. He told you all the time, but here, tonight, he fit so well in this world of flashing lights and glamorous women.

You couldn’t stop wondering, what if someday he realized he wanted someone more like them?

You swallowed the lump in your throat and pressed your lips together, trying to shake it off. He hadn’t done anything to even give you remotely the impression that he would.

You just needed a second to breathe.

--------------

When you came back out, you saw him standing near the bar. A tall blonde was leaning in close to him, hand resting lightly on his chest as she laughed at something he said.

It punched you in the stomach immediately.

You turned back towards the hallway and ducked outside to the balcony. It was quieter out there, the city lights glittering below.

You leaned against the stone railing and took a deep breath, wrapping your arms around yourself even though it wasn’t that cold tonight.

You didn’t cry, but the tears picked at the corner of your eyes.

You heard the door slide open behind you a few minutes after initially stepping out.

“Hey,” William said softly.

You didn’t turn around right away, the sound of his voice making the tears threaten to fall any second.

“Sorry,” you muttered. “I just needed some air.”

“I noticed,” he said, coming up beside you now. “Are you okay?”

You hesitated for a second. Debating to tell him the truth.

“I´m fine,” you lied instead. “Just a little overwhelmed with it all.”

William watched you for a second after that. “Something is wrong,” he pointed out.

You looked up at him finally and that was when your voice cracked. “I don’t fit in here, Will. I feel like I´m just standing in the background while all these girls throw themselves at you.”

His expression fell instantly. “What?”

“They´re all so confident and glamorous and they look like they belong with someone like you. Meanwhile I´m just me.”

He was quiet for a beat, his brow furrowing. Then he reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Älskling” he mumbled, the Swedish term of endearment sending shivers down your spine. “You´re the only person I see in a room like this.”

You scoffed a little, not because you didn’t want to believe him, but because it felt too good to be true.

“I´m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “You think I care about them or that any of them matter to me?”

You looked down. “I know you don’t mean to make me feel this way, but when they look at you like that, it just…it gets in my head. I start wondering if I´m good enough.”

Williams hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face up. “You are good enough. You´re more than enough and you´re everything to me.”

Your eyes burned.

“They don’t know me,” he said gently. “But you do. You know the dumb stuff I watch when I´m sick, the way I get grumpy when I haven’t eaten. You´ve seen me at my worst and still love me. That means more than some girl laughing at my jokes for five minutes.”

You swallowed hard. “But they´re all so…”

“Älskling,” he interrupted you softly. “I don’t want them. I want you. Always.”

He leaned in and kissed you softly, slow and sure. His hand stayed on your waist, grounding you.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “I know I don’t say this nearly enough,” he murmured. “But I love you. Not because you came here with me tonight or because you look amazing in that dress…which you do by the way. But because you´re you and nothing any of them say or do is ever gonna change that.”

You blinked quickly, trying to keep your tears from falling. “Do you really mean that?” you asked quietly.

“I swear on every hair product in the bathroom,” he laughed, and you joined in a second later.

He smiled at the sound. “Are you coming back inside?”

“Yeah,” you nodded slowly.

He took your hand again, and this time, you didn’t feel like you were trailing behind him. You felt like you were right where you belonged.

-------------

Inside, the event was still in full swing, but William didn’t drift back into the crowd.

Instead, he led you to one of the cocktail tables off to the side, ordered you a drink and sat beside you with his arm around your shoulder.

When people came up to him, he smiled, but he didn’t entertain them for long.

When another woman approached with that flirty tone, he didn’t give her the polite brush-off. He simply turned to you and kissed your cheek.

It was a small thing, but in that moment it felt big.

You saw the woman blink, then glance between the two of you before she smiled politely and excused herself.

William leaned into you. “Better?”

You leaned into him, heart full. “Much.”

--------------

Back in your hotel room later that night, everything felt quieter and softer, like the tension of the evening had finally melted away, leaving just you and William, as you were meant to be.

You kicked off your heels the second the door closed, groaning in relief. “My feet are killing me.”

William chuckled and dropped the room key on the table. “You looked incredible, though.”

You gave him a look. “My toes are genuinely numb. I think beauty might actually be pain.”

He laughed in acknowledgement while he was already slipping off his tuxedo jacket and loosening his tie. “Do you need help with the dress?”

You turned around without answering and he unzipped it slowly, carefully, almost sensually.

His fingers brushed the bare skin of your back, lingering just a little longer than necessary.

You didn’t stop him.

Once free, you let the dress fall to the floor and stepped out of it, his glaze roaming over your body until you tugged on the hotel robe.

William toed off his shoes and changed into sweats and a shirt while you whipped off our makeup and tossed your jewelry on the nightstand.

Finally, the two of you ended up on the bed. Him stretched out, you curled into his side with your legs draped over his.

You felt warm, safe and exhausted.

William pulled the blanket over you both, one hand resting on your thigh, the other scrolling through photos on his phone.

“Look at this one,” he said, holding up a picture of you two from the red carpet. “We look hot together.”

“Speak for yourself,” you laughed.

“Babe,” he groaned in disbelief, setting the phone down. “Don’t make me fight you on this again.”

You buried your face in his chest. “I know. I´m sorry. I just… it was a lot tonight. Seeing how people look at you and how those women flock to you. I just felt like I didn’t measure up…”

He shook his head immediately. “You don’t have to measure up to anyone. You´re not in competition.”

You looked up at him. “It´s hard not to feel like I am in those situations.”

Willima stat up straighter, shifting so you were facing each other fully. “Okay. Listen to me,” he started gently. “I love you. Not you on a red carpet or you in a dress. You. The one who is always honest with me and weird and overthinks everything while trying to be chill even when you´re clearly not. I love every part of that.”

Your eyes prickled again, but you smiled.

He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “I know I´m used to this stuff. The events and the attention and the cameras, but I don’t care about that stuff. The second you walked away tonight; I couldn’t focus on anything else. I was standing there thinking where you went because I didn’t want to do any of it without you.”

You swallowed and then mumbled. “I didn’t want to make it about me.”

“You are it for me,” he said without hesitation. “You´re the best part of my life. These nights don’t mean anything without you in them.”

You stared at him, overwhelmed in the best way.

He reached for your hand, playing with your fingers as he spoke. “I´m never going to let anyone make you feel like you don’t belong. Especially not in a room I´m in.”

After a short pause he continued before you could interject. “You´re mine and I´m yours. That´s it. That’s the whole story.”

“William,” you breathed, voice tight with emotion.

He leaned in and kissed you. Soft, slow and grounding. The kind of kiss that said “I see you and I choose you. Again, and again.”

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours like it had on the balcony earlier in the night.

“You´re the only one I want to come home to. After a shitty practice or a bad game, after a long road trip or just dinner with the guys, for as long as you will have me.”

You blinked fast, but the tears slipped out anyway.

You let out a quiet laugh. “God, I´m a mess tonight.”

He smiled and kissed you again. “You´re my mess.”

You curled tighter into him, heart full in a way that had nothing to do with the champagne or fancy clothes or flashing lights.

It was just him, just the warmth of his body and the quiet of this moment along with the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in his life.

This time you believed it. Not because he said it, but because you knew he really meant it.

[uhuhmaries]

If You Could, Would You? | PART 9

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), heavy angst, emotional relapse, unhealthy coping, emotional manipulation, self-loathing, trauma bonding

Full Series: If You Could, Would You?

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

You start going to therapy. Like, really going.

Not just showing up and sitting there, waiting for your 50 minutes to end. You talk. You listen. You finally let your past breathe.

And that’s when you realize Reese doesn’t belong in your life.

He’s kind. He means well. But he’s just been… something to hold onto. A warm body to keep the shaking away. A placeholder for something you can’t name but crave like a drug.

You tell him the truth on a Thursday night.

You sit on the floor of your apartment with your knees pulled to your chest, and he watches you say it—not like he didn’t know it was coming.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you say. “You deserve someone who’s actually here. Not just someone trying to stay afloat.”

He nods. Says, “Okay.” Leaves a hoodie behind by accident. Doesn’t come back for it.

You cry after the door closes.

Not because of heartbreak.

But because the silence after is loud as hell.

The alone phase is the worst.

You’re not used to sitting with yourself. You don’t even know what your favorite food is when no one’s choosing for you. You don’t know how to fill time without someone distracting you.

You try journaling. Cooking. More therapy.

But you relapse.

Of course you do.

You end up at a bar across from Harry’s venue. Not his stage. Just the seedy one next door where the drinks are cheaper and nobody asks questions.

You’re too loud. Laughing too hard. Letting some stranger’s hands slide up the back of your thighs as you lean against the cold brick wall outside.

And that’s when you hear it.

“Y/N?”

The voice isn’t loud, but it slices through the night.

Harry.

You blink through the blur of alcohol, turning slowly.

He’s there, half in shadow. Dressed down, but it doesn’t matter. Your body still reacts like he’s a fucking wildfire.

“Get off her,” he snaps at the guy, who raises his hands and walks off muttering something. Harry walks straight up to you.

“You’re wasted,” he says.

“No shit,” you smile, then your lip trembles. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I wasn’t supposed to be.” He sighs, looking down at you. “You shouldn’t be either.”

“I didn’t know who else to be.”

That silences him.

He takes your arm gently. Guides you toward his car. Doesn’t speak until you’re in the passenger seat, head leaning against the window.

“I’m not mad,” he says quietly. “I just hate seeing you like this.”

You close your eyes. “Me too.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

The ride is silent. But your skin? On fire.

He brings you back to his place. Smaller. Tidy. New. No Alice. You’re not even sure why. You’re not sure he knows why. But it’s too late the moment the door closes behind you.

“You want tea?” he asks, like the tension between you doesn’t feel like thunder.

You nod. “Sure.”

But you don’t wait.

You cross the room, gripping the collar of his shirt, pulling him down.

He catches your mouth with his like it’s instinct. Teeth. Tongue. Raw and furious.

He lifts you with both hands under your thighs, slamming your back into the wall. You gasp. He bites your bottom lip. Hands everywhere. Hungry. Starving.

“Tell me to stop,” he growls.

You don’t.

“Tell me this isn’t what you fucking want.”

You wrap your legs around his waist. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

He carries you to his bedroom and throws you onto the bed like you weigh nothing.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he mutters, pulling his shirt over his head. You whimper at the sight—tattoos, veins, all of him tense like a wire ready to snap.

“I do. I do, Harry.”

Your clothes are gone in seconds. He kisses you like he wants to erase the world. His mouth trails from your throat to your tits, sucking hard enough to leave marks. You arch, panting. He groans against your skin.

“You’re mine tonight,” he snarls.

You nod. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

He grabs your hair and yanks your head back, mouth hot on your neck. “You want to feel used, don’t you? You want to feel fucked, not loved.”

“Yes,” you choke. “I want it. Please.”

He groans. “Fuck—this is so wrong.”

He lines up at your entrance, rubbing his tip through your slick folds. You gasp, already clenching.

“I have no condom,” he says.

You nod. “I don’t care.”

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch. You both moan, breathless. It hurts. It stretches. But it feels so fucking right.

“Oh my God,” you cry. “You’re so big.”

“Look at you,” he pants. “Taking it so well. Been waiting for this, haven’t you?”

You nod, fucked-out, barely able to speak.

He fucks you like he’s trying to forget. Like he wants to punish you. Like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His hand wraps around your throat—firm but not tight.

“You like being ruined, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp.

He pulls your legs wider. Hits that spot over and over again. You’re crying, shaking, begging.

He doesn’t stop.

“Don’t come yet,” he commands.

You whimper. “I’m so close—Harry, please.”

“Hold it. You take what I give you.”

He leans in, kissing you so deep it feels like he’s swallowing your soul.

When he finally lets you fall over the edge, it’s with a snarl and his hands gripping your hips like he owns them. You shatter, moaning his name like a prayer and a curse.

He follows with a loud, broken groan, spilling inside you. It’s hot. It’s messy. It’s too much.

You cling to him thinking it’s over.

You think you’ll lie there, sore and pulsing, Harry’s weight half on you, and maybe fall asleep in the hazy mess of what you just did.

But he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t even move away.

His lips are still on your neck, open-mouthed kisses turning into soft, bruising sucks. His hands keep roaming, still touching like he hasn’t had enough—like he’ll never get enough.

And then he shifts. Pulls out slow. You gasp at the sensation, sensitive and trembling—but he groans at the sight of it.

His come, leaking out of you. The wetness between your thighs glistening in the low light.

“Fuck…” he whispers. “Fuck, look at that.”

“Harry,” you murmur, unsure if you’re begging for more or asking him to stop.

He licks into your mouth like it’s the first time all over again.

“You’re not done,” he mutters into your kiss. “I can’t be done. I can’t fucking stop.”

He sits back on his heels, eyes dark and wild, then grabs your ankle and pulls your legs apart again.

“Turn over,” he demands.

You blink. “What?”

“Bend over for me,” he says, voice lower now. “Get on your fucking knees.”

The tone does something to you—cuts through your spine and straight down between your legs.

You obey. Slowly. Sore and shaky, you shift onto your hands and knees. Chest against the mattress, ass in the air. Completely exposed.

Harry exhales sharply.

“Stay just like that.”

You feel him move behind you. Expect to feel his cock again. But no—his hands grip your thighs and then his mouth is on you.

You cry out instantly, your face pressed into the sheets.

He’s starving for you. Groaning into your soaked core. Tongue licking between your folds, flattening against your clit, circling, sucking. His hands bruise into your hips, holding you in place when you instinctively try to pull away from overstimulation.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he moans into you. “I’ve been thinking about this. Dreaming about it. Since that night in the car.”

Your back arches. Your thighs shake. You’re practically sobbing.

“Please—Harry, please, I can’t—”

“You can,” he growls. “You will.”

His fingers dig into your ass, spreading you open, and his tongue flicks relentlessly. Your cries melt into moans, gasps, and incoherent begging.

He doesn’t stop until you’re screaming into the mattress.

When you come, it’s full-body. Convulsing. Shaking. Your legs nearly collapse under you.

But still—he kisses your thighs, your spine, your shoulder blades, until your breathing slows.

Then, he rises. You feel him hard again, pressing between your cheeks. He lines himself up once more.

“Can I?” he asks this time.

You nod, dazed. “Yes… yes, please.”

He slides in deeper this time. Easier. Smoother. You’re soaked, ruined, ready.

This round is slower. Deeper. He leans over you, his chest to your back, one hand around your throat again—not choking, just holding.

“I want everything from you,” he whispers. “I want all of your broken pieces. I want to ruin every man that ever thinks he can touch you.”

You whimper, squeezing around him. His hips stutter.

“I’ll make you mine,” he grits out. “Again and again. Until nobody else fits.”

His hand slips between your legs and rubs your clit in tight circles.

“Come for me one more time,” he breathes. “Come on my cock.”

You break—again.

So does he.

His moan is loud, low, and desperate. He fills you again, collapsing on top of you, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades.

And finally—finally—the room is silent.

For now.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author’s Note:

AYEEEEEE THEY DID IT …… weird timing but they did it 🙂‍↕️

[helslastangel]

My favorite perfumes as synastry aspects

🔎🍒 Lost Cherry – Tom Ford

🌑 Venus square Pluto

Obsession in a bottle. Fall hard, get addicted, and can’t stop replaying conversations in my head like a psychopath. Got me stalking their close friends list, them blocking me, unblocking me, and then texting “u up?” during Mercury retrograde.

🐅🌹

🔥🍒 Lovefest Burning Cherry – Kayali

🔴 Mars square Moon

Fight-me-then-f*ck-me ahh aspect. Emotional needs? Trampled. Sexual tension? Crippling. I trigger them, they trigger me, and we keep coming back for more. Kissing one minute, kicking each other out the next.

🐅🌹

🍦🍒 Whipped Cherry – Clean Reserve

🤯 Mercury square Neptune

It all started with cute banter and soulmate vibes. Now I'm sitting here wondering if everything was all a lie. Confusing, charming, and laced with delusion. That's what passes for communication in our dynamic. Gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss? Nah. I don’t even know what the fight was about, but I definitely lost.

🐅🌹

🍏❤️ Apple Love – Ellis Brooklyn

🌞 Sun opposite Uranus

On some “I love you, but please go away” timing. Exciting but chaotic. Just when it feels stable, they ghost, or I suddenly decide to “travel and find myself. Talk about explosive beginnings, shocking endings, and a deep craving to reconnect ...just one more time.

🐅🌹

🍃🍎 Eden Juicy Apple – Kayali

🌀 Venus opposite Saturn

We should be happy together. SHOULD. But we're not. Not really. Almost there, but the happy part always feels slightly out of reach. Fun and flirty, until it turns karmic and cold. I love them... but I'm not so sure if they love me back. I stay longer than I should because ... it could work, right? Maybe? One day.

🐅🌹

🍦🥃 Vanilla Bourbon – Nest NY

🔁 Moon conjunct South Node

Ahhh, yeah. That one lover I never got closure with. They owe me. Or do they? They feel sooo familiar, safe, cozy... oh, that's right. I'm on a karmic loop, a sad eternal dance with time. Met them before in a past life. Didn't learn my lesson then, haven't learned it now. "How am I supposed to move out when they feel like home?" Says I. As we break up for the thirteenth time.

🐅🌹

☕ Black Opium – YSL

💌 Mars conjunct Lilith

Oh. Yeah. I already know what this is. The kind of attraction where I whisper "father, forgive me, I'm about to sin" on my way through the door in satin and stillettos. Deep eye contact, breathy arguments, makeup sex, and that eerie feeling that no one else will ever make me the same way again.

↤ go back to the masterlist

[yuta-nakamots]

Talk About - L.Mark (Teaser)

Pairing - Boyfriend!Mark x University!Female Reader

Genre(s) - Fluff, Angst, University!AU, Band!AU

Warning(s) - takes place in a club (alcohol consumption, lots of yearning from the reader and Mark included in the full fic)

Summary - During winter break, you return home and watch Mark perform a new track revealing cracks in your relationship with him. On this Saturday night, you finally confront everything that’s been left unsaid, realizing Mark’s lyrics were always about you.

Teaser Word Count - 0.8k

Estimated Release Date - July 3, 2025

Author’s Note - This is a deleted scene from my fic Everybody Talks but can be read as a standalone. Lyrics from the song will be formatted like this.

Taglist - @k-vanity @cosyhomenet @neocity-net @k-films @dinonuguaegi @tinyzen @fancypeacepersona (send an ask or leave a comment to be added!)

Written for the Band AU Collab originally hosted by @gohyuck. Part of my NCT Dream: Seven Days Collection.

Now playing: Talk About - Mark Lee, Child - Mark Lee

December, 2017. Now playing: Talk About by Mark Lee, 2020.

The car radio buzzes faintly with static before you shut it off. It’s not worth fighting the reception. Outside, the wind bites at the edge of the windshield, gusting hard enough to push your car while coasting on the freeway. You tap the steering wheel in rhythm to nothing, just muscle memory and nerves.

It’s been a few days since you got home for winter break, long enough for the silence in your childhood bedroom to feel familiar again, long enough to notice that Mark’s name doesn’t light up your phone as often as it used to. 

Not that you weren’t trying to keep in contact with him. You always tried. 

Texts. Voice notes. Late-night calls filled with muffled laughter and half-drowsy ‘I miss you’s. You kept the chat alive, even when it started to fray. But time stretches things. And so does ambition. 

You haven’t seen Mark in person since the end of August, when his hands still smelled like your shampoo and you promised not to lose track of each other. Now it’s December. And he’s no longer yours in the same way he used to be. He’s busy now. Riding the high of his band’s first few shows. New songs, new crowds, new photos where his arm wraps around the shoulders of someone who isn’t you. 

You told yourself you were okay with it, that this is what you both wanted, which is why you came tonight. A Saturday night gig at a downtown venue you’ve only ever heard of in passing. Somewhere between underground and legendary, the kind of place where people say they saw something before it blew up. 

You weren’t invited. You just came after seeing the announcement. 

You took the next exit, passing dim street lights that blur into long streaks of amber. Your phone buzzes in the passenger seat, a text from a friend, not him, still nothing from Mark. Your eyes flicker to the folder flyer next to your phone, black and white, blurry ink. 

MIDAS TOUCH. Live @ The Dream Room. 

You trace his band’s name with your finger. You’re not sure why you were going to see them, just that you had to. 

My room looking like a town.

Inside, the club breathes heat. You step in and it hits you like a wall of humid, smoky air thick with sweat and perfume. The bass isn’t just sound, it’s sensation, crawling up your legs and settling behind your ribs like a second heartbeat. Your shoes stick slightly to the floor, soles catching on dried beer and god knows what else. The lights smear like wet paint. Red, then purple, then blue. Your eyes don’t have time to adjust before everything shifts again. Bodies move in slow, synched chaos. Everyone seems to know the beat, the rhythm, the way to sway their hips just enough. 

You don’t. You’re just trying not to flinch when someone brushes your arm. 

You make your way toward the back of the venue, where the lights don’t reach as far. You pass strangers who smell like smoke and know all the lyrics, placing one foot in front of the other until you can press your back against the wall. Exhale and watch. 

Mark’s bandmates are visible just beyond the curtain that separates the stage from the floor. You catch a glimpse of Jisung laughing with Chenle, both of them vibrating with the kind of energy you haven’t felt in months. Wild, directionless, young. 

One of the other members spots you, Jaemin, probably. He lifts his chin in a nod that says ‘hey’ and ‘you’re still here’ and ‘you’re not part of this anymore’ all at once. You nod back. 

You don’t belong here. But he does. 

Then, the shift. You feel it before you see it, the way the crowd pushes slightly forward, how the air tightens. The lights go low right before the first notes cut through the room. The strobe lights kick on slow, then fast, dizzying. 

And there he is. 

Mark walks onstage like he never left it. Yellow-tinted sunglasses. A half-zipped bomber jacket. His chin catches the light just so. His mouth curls into something between a smirk and a snarl. He pulls the mic to his lips. 

The bass rattles the walls, then the beat drops. 

“말하지 않아도 느껴, distance (I feel the distance, even if you don’t say a word). 풍기는 내 vibe에 다들 미쳐, addiction (Everyone’s addicted, going crazy over my vibe).”

His voice is sharp, razor wire wrapped in velvet. He moves like he’s chasing something. 

You recognize the track. You were there in the studio with him when it was just an idea. When it was about ambition, restlessness, the hunger to make it, but it’s changed. Now it sounds like missed calls and emotional whiplash. It sounds like you.

[fakingitftm]

CW: misgendering, deadnaming, breeding

A story about being pushed into being a wife on your wedding night instead of the husband.

———————————————

The night I’d fantasized about for years had finally arrived. I woke with butterflies churning in my stomach, my eyes catching the crisp lines of my freshly steamed suit hanging by the door. The smell of her perfume was still fresh in the air. My fiancée was already gone, some old-school tradition keeping her dress a mystery—bad luck, they called it. I rolled out of bed, my body heavy with anticipation, and shuffled to the bathroom. Staring into the mirror, I saw myself: bearded, a bit weathered by time, definitely in need of a cleanup.

I turned the shower on, and I stripped down, trimming my beard short and neat as I waited for the water to heat up. As I looked back up at the mirror while I shaved, a thought crept in. What if I shaved down there for her? A smooth surprise, a little wedding gift to drive her crazy. I grabbed a razor and hopped into the shower with a handheld mirror, the steam fogging around me. The blade glided over my skin, sending a shiver up my spine—damn, that felt good. I always get so sensitive when fully shaved and exposed. I moved higher, tracing my thighs, imagining a garter belt cinching my curves tight.

Focus, idiot, you’re the groom today; don’t do this again. But the razor kept going, and I chuckled to myself, “Oops, shaved a bit too much—oh well, she’ll love it.” My suit would hide it, right?

Before I knew it, I was shaving my ass, my stomach, my chest, lathering up my nipples until they tingled, sensitive under my touch. An hour somehow slipped away, and from my neck down, I was soft and smooth. I hadn’t been this bare since pre-transition. Panic hit. No one can know! What do I tell her? I have to keep this suit buttoned up tight.

My mind raced until I spotted her white lace bodysuit peeking from the drawer—forgotten, huh? I want to see her in that, but how do I get it to the hotel without embarrassing her? I’ll have to sneak it to the wedding, I decided. The only way I could think of doing that was by wearing it. I know I shouldn’t, but I have no bags or any other way to get it there. I began sliding it over my freshly shaved skin. The lace grazed my clit, and fuck, it was a struggle to think straight. I looked in the mirror and felt myself throb. I must just be confused; I’m just thinking of how she will look in this, I told myself. My thoughts started drifting, but then the alarm blared—I had minutes. I neatened my beard, tousled my hair, and bolted out the door.

My friends piled into the car, hyping me up, buzzing about how excited I must be. Then, like guys do, they dove into the dirty talk—how I’d fuck her, become a man, maybe even start a family. They didn’t know my past, just assumed I’d be balls-deep all night with my cock inside her. Because why wouldn’t they? They didn’t know what I had underneath all of this. I laughed it off, telling them to shut up.

Nerves kicked in hard as we rolled up to the venue. I needed to ditch the lace, but they dragged me to the altar. No time. My face flushed red, sweat beading, that secret pulsing beneath my suit.

The music began, and there she was—stunning, a vision that stole my breath. Tears pricked my eyes. That’s my wife. Holy shit, I’m the luckiest person alive. She stepped up, her fingers brushing my cheek, her voice a sultry, “Hi, baby,” that melted me into her touch. The vows blurred as I got lost in her gaze, time slipping away until “You may kiss the bride” snapped me back. She grabbed me, kissed me hard, dipping me with a wicked grin as the crowd chuckled.

At the reception, we drank, danced, her hands sliding around my waist down my hips, making me feel small beneath her. I tried playing the tough husband, puffing up my chest, but she spun me back, her flirty dominance taking over. Friends slapped my back, winking about the night ahead, and soon she grabbed my hand, pulling me to the car for our hotel stay before the honeymoon. She stumbled a little, more drunk than she’d planned, and I loved it—loved when she let her guard down, saying and doing whatever her heart craved. In the car, her hand slid up my thigh, pressing against the warmth between my legs. Her fingers slipped under my pants, brushing my smooth skin, and her eyes widened. The driver interrupted her before she could say anything to let us know we were arriving.

In the elevator, she whispered, “What’s under that suit, baby?” I stammered, blushing, “I wore it for you… to get it to you, but I got stuck!” She laughed, her voice dripping with mischief, “Oh, you cute little tease. Nervous to fuck me tonight?” “No way,” I lied, my face burning. “Hm, we’ll see.”

In the room, she climbed onto my lap, her lips crashing into mine. I admitted that I couldn’t get the bodysuit off like this. She smirked, kissing my neck, her hand squeezing my chest.

“Oh, sweetie, that was for you. I have a secret to tell you…I’ve always wanted you as my wife—the husband thing was just an act to keep the world off our backs. I can’t help it; I’m sorry, but just look at these curves, this smooth little body.” I mumbled, “I’m your husband,” but her hand slid between my legs, teasing and jerking my clit. “Oh, really? Feel that, ‘husband’?” I moaned, and she grinned, “Or how about this—doesn’t this feel better?” Her long fingers pushed deeper into my wet pussy, curling just right. “Don’t you think this feels better than ‘jerking off,’ baby? This is how it would feel to be my wife. Don’t you like that?” I accidentally let out a higher-pitched moan. “See, you’re mine now, and I can have you however I want. Let’s get that suit off—I need to see you.”

She yanked off my belt, tossed my jacket aside, revealing the soaked lace clinging to my shaved pussy. “Fuck, look at you, so pretty,” she groaned, lifting me onto the bed, peeling back the lace to expose my smooth, feminine body. “Hmm, just one more touch,” she said, grabbing a razor and bowl from the bathroom, shaving my face with soft, teasing kisses. “There’s my girl—so soft for me now, much better.” Her hands roamed my waist, towering over me, pulling me close. She shoved the lace aside, moaning at my swollen, dripping slit. “Look at you, no packer or fake cocks—thank fuck. I knew you’d snap out of the delusion. Even on our wedding night, you didn’t wear one, huh? That’s telling.” I stuttered and couldn’t even get a word out about it.

Her fingers plunged back in, and I gasped, “Oh fuck…ohhh fuck.” She pinned my wrists, biting my neck. “You’re my girl to breed. I’ll stretch this tight cunt, fill you with cum, and turn you into my housewife. Every moan from now on is mine.” The room filled with sloppy, wet sounds, my pussy speaking for me when I couldn’t catch my breath enough to reply.

She stripped out of her dress, revealing a matching set with a strap-on underneath. “I knew I’d make you my wife tonight,” she winked, rubbing it against my clit. “All I had to do was plant the seed by leaving that lingerie there.” I blushed. “You set the whole thing up?”

“Of course I did. Now pay attention. Say yes, and I’ll fuck you better than you’ve ever had before. I know you want it—just say I do for me one more time tonight.” I gave in as my hips bucked, “Please, breed me, make me your wife.” She thrust in, the strap vibrating, moaning as she fucked me. All the way in immediately, she bottomed out. Fuck, that hurt, but she didn’t stop. “Mommy, please,” I cried. She bit my neck, “That’s right, baby, you feel so fucking good.” Her thrusts hit hard, the strap pulsing with a warm, slick sensation I assumed was just a new lube. “Special stuff, baby, for our wedding night,” she teased, and I bought it, lost in the heat.

Stunned, I felt her grip my thighs, spreading me wide open. She stood back for a second, just looking at my wet cunt. “Fuck, kayleigh,” she purred, the name sending a shiver through me. “I get to call you whatever I want now, right, baby?” I nodded yes. That seemed to ignite her; her need to fuck me harder was undeniable. She didn’t stop, her pace relentless, each thrust pushing that warm “lube” deeper. She flipped me onto my stomach, hiking my hips up, slamming into me from behind, her hands gripping my soft ass. “Look at this perfect little body,” she growled, spanking me roughly. “I’ve wanted to breed you since we met—your tight pussy was made for my cum.” My nipples hardened as she reached around, pinching them, teasing, “These tits are gonna swell so nice when you’re carrying.” I lost it, my body responding to her every word. She knew how much I loved when she spoke to me like this. She leaned in, her breath hot against my ear as she wrapped her arm around my neck, “You know, I never saw myself with a man long-term. But the first time I tasted that pussy when we met, I knew you were the one. That sweet, tight slit? I knew I could turn you into my wife, and now look at you—mine to fill.” I was lost in a daze, her words sinking in as she confirmed what I’d secretly craved.

She pulled out briefly, grabbing a vibrator, pressing it against my clit as she slid the strap back in. “Gotta make sure it takes,” she purred, cranking it up. My body shook, moans spilling out as she rode me harder, her fingers digging into my hips. “I ditched your T, left it at home. We’re heading to a remote vacation tomorrow, just us, where I can fuck this pussy raw and watch your belly grow.” The thought sent me over, cumming hard around her strap as she moaned, “That’s it, take it all, my good girl.”

Hours blurred into a frenzy. She kept my legs up, that warm “lube” dripping but trapped inside, fucking me in every way—against the wall, on all fours, her sucking my nipples raw, calling them “my tits” with a grin. She pushed me onto my back again, spreading my legs wide, thrusting deep while rubbing my clit with her thumb. “Feel how wet you are for me, sweet girl? This pussy’s begging for my baby,” she teased, her strap hitting spots that made me scream. She slowed, teasingly pulling out to lick my cunt, tasting the mix of my juices and that warmth, moaning, “Fuck, you taste better than you ever have before.” Then she pushed back in, harder, her hands cupping my tits, squeezing as she whispered, “These are gonna be so full, leaking for our baby and me.” At this point, I was so fucked out and overstimulated I could barely respond. I gave in to just letting her use my body. I started to wonder why she was so much more vocal about her breeding kink. Is she still that drunk? She can’t be.

She flipped me over, bending me over the bed’s edge, entering me from behind with slow, deliberate thrusts. “Imagine it, baby—your belly rounding out, these hips widening, all because I filled you,” she murmured, spanking my ass again. “You’re really into breeding me tonight, huh, baby?” The vibrator returned, pressed against my clit as she fucked me, my moans bouncing off the walls. She sped up, her grip tightening, and I felt that warm pulse again, thinking it was just more of her lube. She added a twist, sliding a finger into my ass while thrusting, the dual sensation making me gasp, “Oh fuck, Mommy, don’t stop.” She laughed, “Oh, I won’t, baby—gonna make you mine in every hole.” She reached back and grabbed a dildo with a suction cup and put it up against the bed. “Suck on it and choke while I fuck you. I want to imagine you taking it in every fucking hole.” The harder she fucked me, the more I gagged, and the more pleasure she felt. “You look so good choking on cock while you take me, baby. Such a perfect girl having all your holes up for abuse like this.”

As the night wore on, she pulled me into the shower, the hot water cascading over us, steam filling the air as she pressed me against the tiles. The strap slid in and out, her hands roaming my wet, slippery body, squeezing my waist as she moaned, “Look at these curves—fuck. How could you ever have wanted to be my husband, baby?” She turned me around, lifting one leg over her, thrusting deeper, the water mixing with the wetness, dripping down my thighs. She didn’t let up, pinning me against the wall, her fingers joining the strap, stretching me further as she growled, “This pussy’s mine—feel how it takes me.” The water amplified every sound—my gasps, her moans, the wet slap of her thrusts—until I was trembling, another orgasm ripping through me. This time, my cunt squirted all over her thighs, shaking uncontrollably. My cum dripped down her strap and thighs. She had finally done it. She’d broken my body down all the way to cumming like the girls she watched in porn. She couldn’t contain herself after that and needed to use me.

Back on the bed, she spread me wide, straddling my face first, grinding her own wetness against my mouth. “Taste me, baby—get me ready to fill you again,” she demanded, and I obeyed, licking her eagerly as she moaned above me, cumming into my mouth, dripping down my throat and the sides of my face. I couldn’t get enough of how she tasted, fucking my mouth until I couldn’t breathe as my pussy leaked onto the bed while she watched.

Dawn crept in, and she finally slowed, collapsing beside me, rubbing my stomach with a tender yet possessive touch. “You’re my dream come true—gonna be the hottest mommy.” She grinned, “Our honeymoon starts tomorrow and I’m not stopping till you’re swollen.” I laughed, still thinking the cum was fake, teasing, “You and your wild lube, huh?” Her eyes sparkled with a secret.

“Oh, baby, that wasn’t lube. It’s real—my special wedding gift. I had that strap loaded with real cum. We’re making a baby now that you’re my wife.” My jaw dropped, heart racing. “Wait, what? Real cum?” She nodded, smirking, “Yep, straight from a donor. When you said ‘I do,’ you committed to this. I told you I wanted a baby, and now it’s happening.”

Shock hit, but the heat lingered. Before I could process, she rolled me onto my back again, spreading my legs wide, sliding two fingers in to push the cum deeper. “Feel that, kayleigh? That’s my baby taking,” she whispered, kissing my belly, then lower, licking my clit as I flinched, overwhelmed by the realization. “We’ll check in a few weeks—your tits will start growing back, your hips widening. I’ve just always wanted you like this, princess.” She grabbed the strap again, teasing my entrance with it. “One more round to seal it,” she grinned, thrusting in slow and deep, her hands roaming my body, promising a future of being nothing but her wife. Small and cradled under her, this time her thrusts soft and loving. “I’m going to take care of you, baby.” I was lost in her, the shock blending with desire, imagining that swollen belly she craved as she claimed me fully. Thinking of how I was supposed to do this to her…what will everyone think? She put her full weight down into me and came one more time. When she finally finished, she wrapped around me, holding me with her fingers tracing where our future baby would grow. Slipping away into sleep, finally, all I could think about was what she planned for the honeymoon ahead.

[divaofmads]

Venus in Exile | Part I

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Female Reader (OC)

Summary: You tried to avoid writing him, but Thomas Shelby is determined to pull you into his own story. With every sentence, you unravel a little more. This love isn’t a narrative, it’s a revolution.

!!Warnings!!: Angst, Non-canon, Fluff, +18, Slow-burning, Intense psychological themes, Gender identity conflict, Soft!Thomas, Trauma & healing themes, Melancholy & existential reflection, Dominant energy in subtle intimacy, Protective but controlling tendencies, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: 15k

Dividers by @cafekitsune @saradika-graphics

A/N: This story is not just fiction, it's the echo of my inner conflict. A battle between forgotten femininity and a voice longing to be remembered.

That day, the Shelby family had gathered around the table. The air in the room was thick as always; a mix of tobacco smoke, the soot smell from the coal stove, and the distant sound of Polly brewing tea.

Thomas stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of a file. John was impatient, Arthur was twisting his glass of whiskey in his hands. Polly frowned, waiting for a response to Thomas’s long, motionless gaze.

“If we’re going to do this, let’s do it, Thomas. Or I’ll send someone else,” Polly said, her voice sharp and clear.

At that moment, Ada was sitting on the couch. She had a newspaper in her hand, her legs crossed, keeping a silent rhythm. At the peak of the Peaky Blinders’ tense meeting, they all flinched at the sound of her delicate, graceful voice.

Her fingers were smudged with ink. Her eyes were gleaming. “Wait a minute... You need to see this,” she said, cutting Polly off.

John grunted. “Is it another one of those ridiculous writers again?”

“No,” Ada replied, locking eyes with Tommy. “This one’s different.”

She opened the newspaper and pointed to a section with her finger. “Y.S. ...They’ve written again.”

Polly sighed and shook her head. “Ada, you’re not going to get anywhere reading the writings of some pseudonymous philosopher kid.”

Ada didn’t care. The admiration in her voice was unmistakable. “Listen. Just this one sentence...”

“Every man who tips his hat, wears his glasses, and drinks his whiskey straight is a kind of god to you.”

The silence in the room became suffocating. Only the crackle of the stove and the slight tilt of Thomas’s head could be heard.

Arthur raised his moustache and laughed. “Who the hell wrote that? Bloody hell... What kind of talk is that? As if we invented god ourselves…”

“Let her go on,” Tommy said quietly, his eyes still on the paper.

John raised his head. “What’s the matter, Tommy, you like it?”

“It’s rare to find someone so sharp and intelligent. The language is cutting. Whoever wrote this either saw the war... or came very close to dying.”

Polly pursed her lips. “If it’s a woman, it’s just false courage. Doesn’t impress me.”

Ada stood up, walked toward them, and waved the newspaper in the air with a faint smile. “It doesn’t mention a gender anyway. Just the initials: Y.S.”

Thomas took the paper from Ada’s hand. He scanned the piece from beginning to end. His eyes locked on the lines, echoing in his mind:

“Every criminal is the tragic rider of childhood traumas, cast in the leading role of a novel.

The hand that holds the gun gets its story told, but the silence of the one shot is never spoken of.”

He frowned. “I want to meet this person.”

Arthur laughed. “Mate, you’re going to meet a writer who hides their name? Could be an old geezer with a beard.”

Tommy lifted his eyes from the paper and looked at Arthur with a cold expression. “The person who wrote this... uses the pen like a blade. They’ve either seen hell... or grew up in it.”

Thomas folded the newspaper. His fingers ran along the edge. As if his eyes were still scanning the lines. “Someone who writes with such power and precision… if they speak for us, we stand to gain a lot.”

Ada raised her voice in surprise. “You want to work with them? You want them to write for Shelby Company Limited?”

Thomas shrugged lightly. “Media is more dangerous than the streets now. This writer uses words as weapons. But also, as an opportunity.”

Polly raised her eyebrows, looking at Thomas with some suspicion. “So, you’re saying it’s a threat… but you still want to chase it. Is it your heart talking again, or your mind, Thomas?”

Thomas turned his gaze to Polly, paused briefly, then said, “I don’t know yet.”

Arthur grumbled, “Well I know. I won’t sit at the same table with whoever wrote that!”

“Then you won’t sit at the table. But I will meet them.”

In the silence of the room, only the ticking of the clock could be heard.

...

The atmosphere in the office was heavy. The red curtains had suffocated the dim light even more, casting an ashen gray shadow inside. Thomas Shelby sat at his desk; in front of him was an open notebook, beside it a half-finished glass of whiskey. He had just dipped his pen in ink but hadn’t moved for several minutes. His eyes were fixed on a single point, weighing words in his mind. This wasn’t a letter; it was a move. And Thomas Shelby made every move with the last square of the chessboard in mind.

The corner of the newspaper article was still folded. The signature “Y.N. Y.” seemed etched into Thomas’s mind. The language of the piece was harsh, almost combative. But poetic too... As if the words were dancing on a battlefield.

Y.S.,

I’ve read your piece. I could be proud just for being the only man who didn’t slam his fist on the desk after reading it.

Your words are striking. As graceful as they are sharp, and as sharp as they are honest. These aren’t writings to be read from a distance. They are writings that need to be spoken of.

I’m not inviting you for a drink. Not to a bar, not to a table, not to a club.

I’m offering you a table; a place where you can speak your thoughts, and where not only men, but truths will be heard.

If you accept, the date and place of the meeting will be provided.

If you refuse... you’ll probably keep writing anyway.

This is an offer. But you know as well as I do, some offers never remain just offers.

—Thomas Shelby

After signing the letter, Thomas paused for a few seconds. Then he turned his eyes to Ada, who was watching both the newspaper on the wall and her brother’s expression.

Ada crossed her arms. “I doubt it. That writer doesn’t seem like the type who’d accept such an invitation, Tommy. And I don’t think they’d like men like you either.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes and placed the letter into an envelope. “I don’t care what attention-seeking men like, Ada. I care about what they can’t stand.”

Ada raised an eyebrow. “And are you what they can’t stand?”

Thomas didn’t answer. He slowly sealed the envelope. Then he called for Curly and gave a brief order:

“Drop this letter off at the publishing house. Say it’s meant for ‘Y. S.’ It doesn’t matter who you give it to, but after you do, look them in the eye and say... ‘Thomas Shelby is waiting. Patiently.’”

Curly nodded and left. As the door closed, Thomas leaned back in his chair. He picked up the glass of whiskey and brought it to his lips. After taking a sip, his eyes drifted to the window, as if searching the darkness for a face.

When Polly entered, Thomas was still staring at the window.

Polly asked, “What are you doing?”

With a calm but cunning smile, Thomas replied, “Waiting for the first line of tomorrow’s headlines.”

That grey intoxication that seeped in just minutes before settling over Birmingham had begun to slip quietly into the office. The dim light filtering through the wide window painted the whiskey bottle on Polly’s desk in amber hues, turning the stacks of documents on the shelves into golden-gilded memories. Everything was slow, restrained, wrapped in a deep silence. Only the ticking sounds resembling a clock, the soft crackling of ash forming at the tip of Thomas Shelby’s cigarette...

Thomas was seated at his desk. As always. The first three buttons of his shirt undone, his vest resting on his shoulders like a burden. His eyes were not on the newspaper before him — but his fingertips were still occupied, smoothing out a crumpled corner at the edge of the writer’s new article. As if this new piece carried meanings deeper than the last.

Arthur Shelby was pacing back and forth in the room. His anger, his impatience — they were never hidden. His loosely tied tie, the shirt untucked from his belt, the collar of his jacket missing a button, each told of his mood.

Spreading his arms, Arthur said, “How many days has it been? Three? Four? What do you think this silence means, Tommy? That writer might be an intellectual, but if he’s a man at all, shouldn’t he be afraid of us?”

Thomas didn’t respond. And that only made Arthur more irritated.

Arthur continued, his tone laced with sarcasm, “Maybe the writer is just a whore, what do you think? Or a child who’s never seen war. Thinks he’s something because he’s got a pen...”

Polly, sitting in the corner, looked up from her knitting. “If you don’t know, be quiet, Arthur. You’re speaking without thinking.”

“I’m the one speaking without thinking? There’s a writer out there insulting us. Doesn’t even give a name. Tommy writes a letter, knocks on their door, but still not a word back. I should keep quiet but when they do, it’s holy?”

John Shelby wasn’t around, but had he been, he probably would’ve laughed. Ada hadn’t shown up either, choosing to keep some distance from Thomas’s obsessive interest.

Silence settled over the office. Only the smoke from Thomas’s cigarette rose slowly. The stub, nearly burned to the end, was still between his fingers. Even as the smoke reached his eyes, he didn’t move.

Then… there was a knock at the door.

Polly sat up slightly. Thomas’s gaze didn’t shift. When the door opened, Curly walked in. He held a small, pale white envelope.

He seemed almost reluctant to hold it. Entering, he avoided Thomas’s eyes.

With a timid whisper, Curly said, “This… this just came from the paper, Mr. Shelby. They asked it be given directly to you.”

Arthur jumped to his feet. Polly stopped him with a gesture. Curly approached slowly and placed the envelope on Thomas’s desk.

Thomas stared at it for a few seconds. His fingers stubbed out the cigarette, then slowly took the envelope. On it was written:

“To Mr. T. Shelby, to be delivered personally”

Arthur snorted. “See what I said? Writing is easy. Facing someone, that’s hard. Finally worked up the nerve to reply.”

Polly murmured, “Or perhaps they’re starting another game.”

Thomas didn’t blink as he opened the envelope. The paper inside was thick and smooth. Not feminine, but meticulous. Neither expensive nor cheap. It had been chosen with intention.

After reading the letter, Thomas took a sip from his whiskey. He closed his eyes for a brief moment. There was a curl at the corner of his lips, but it wasn’t from pleasure.

Quite the opposite…

It was the unease of something dangerous.

Arthur asked impatiently, “Well? What does it say? Is it a man? Or have we been reading the ramblings of a nun?!”

Thomas placed the letter on the table. Then slowly brought his hand to his chin, touched his lips with his fingers. Took a deep breath. “They said your offer was no different than the promises made under street lamps.”

A pause followed. Arthur blinked. Polly’s lips curled into a faint smile.

Arthur furrowed his brow, confused. “What?!”

Thomas began reading the letter aloud:

“Though your offer was sent in a graceful envelope and on fine paper, to me it seemed no different than promises made beneath street lamps: bright, but insufficient.

My pen does not exist to sit at any table, but to question those who sit at them.

I have sharpened my pen not to flatter, but to cut.

So I must respectfully state that I have no intention of meeting with you.

There are boundaries in this world, Mr. Shelby.

And there are words meant to be read only from a distance.

I am one of them.”

Arthur paused. Slowly turned his head. “So they rejected you. That’s what all those pretty words mean: ‘You’re not worth knowing.’”

Polly narrowed her eyes. Thomas was still staring at the letter. His silence was what Arthur didn’t understand. Because the shadow at the corner of Thomas’s mouth wasn’t one of anger from being rejected…

It was the appetite of someone provoked.

Polly warned gently,

“Don’t fall into their game, Tommy. Behind every pen is a face. And that face might not be as masculine as you think.”

Thomas didn’t respond. He slowly folded the letter and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he rose from his desk. Took his cigarette case, put on his coat.

Arthur:

“Where are you going?”

Thomas:

“To search for light in dark places.”

Arthur, mocking: “You’ve become a poet now…”

Thomas turned, looked into his eyes. “No. I’ve become a hunter.”

And he closed the door behind him, silently.

Once Thomas Shelby set his sights on someone, no writing or word — not even nothingness — could save them.

The sky was as clouded as Birmingham’s infamous grey curtains. Footsteps echoed on the sidewalks, someone was selling newspapers, someone else was arguing, but the real noise was yet to rise, from within.

The three-story brick building on Gray Lane looked ordinary from the outside. But inside, it was a sanctuary where words were written in blood. The office of the magazine "The Midland Examiner" resembled a rebellion headquarters more than a place of journalism. Posters pinned to the walls, piles of files, the sound of typewriters... And now the editor-in-chief was drenched in sweat. Because Thomas Shelby had arrived. Not only had he arrived, he had stationed his men at the door. He lit a cigarette, spoke softly, but was heard loud and clear.

“If you don’t arrange a meeting with the writer,” Thomas said in a soft yet threatening tone, “your next article will be an obituary.”

Those in the office looked at each other. Nobody seemed to know the writer. Or at least, they acted that way. Because Y/N was known more for her silence than her pen. No one ever really saw her leave her office.

But she had heard them. The voices. The footsteps. They echoed like a threat in her veins. And so she had prepared.

Amidst all the intellectual chaos, one room in the corner was always quieter than the others. That was the room of Y.S. There was no name on the door, no title, just two letters: Y.S.

Inside, a desk lamp was lit. A figure sat at the typewriter. A grey vest, pressed trousers, a tie, and a 1920s flat cap. Their back was turned to the door. Broad shoulders, accentuated by the jacket's padding. The posture was upright, decisive. No fingers moved across the keys; they were still. Waiting.

And finally, the footsteps reached the room. First, the position of two men behind the door. Then, the sound of Thomas opening it...

As the door opened, he stepped inside. The room smelled of tobacco and ink.

“So you’re the man who sharpens his pen,” Thomas said in a calm, cold tone. “How many tongues did you cut to write those words?”

The figure at the typewriter didn’t move. Fingers slowly pressed against the table. A deep, velvet silence filled the air. Thomas took another step. Slow, confident.

“You like challenging me, huh? The arrogance of poets... Still, I wanted to see you. To find out if your face is as sharp as your words.”

Then... the cap tilted back. The shoulders tensed.

And the figure turned around.

Time stopped.

First, the curve of the neck.

Then, the outline of the eyes.

And finally, all the darkness, all the words, all the fury… echoed in a single pair of eyes.

When Y/N turned, Thomas’s eyes locked onto her face. The cap was still on, but there was no longer any doubt about what she was.

A graceful yet defiant face. A woman’s face. But one with the stare of a warrior.

For the first time, Thomas Shelby couldn’t speak for a few seconds. When he reached for the inside of his coat, Y/N spoke.

“So you’re the famous Thomas Shelby,” she said in a calm, mocking tone. “Took you longer than I expected. I guess you’re not much of a postman.”

That slow, sly half-smile appeared on Thomas’s face. But his eyes… his eyes were still frozen. The bullet-like gaze pierced through her face and into her throat.

“If I had known you were a woman,” he said through narrowed eyes, “I’d have delivered the letter myself.”

You crossed one leg over the other. Not like a woman, but with a relaxed, masculine confidence. You rested your elbow on the back of the chair. You were speaking like a prizefighter in a writer’s office, not like an academic. “That’s why I didn’t sign my name. I knew the meaning would change once you found out I was a woman.”

There was a moment of silence. As if two sharp blades clashed in mid-air.

Thomas took a step forward. “Still, I came.”

“It’s not where you came, it’s how you came. Those who come with threats often act tough not because they’re right, but because they’re desperate.”

Now there were only a few steps between you. Just a corner of the desk remained between you.

He leaned on that corner. Took out a cigarette case. Opened it. But you didn’t offer even a single match.

Staring at you, Thomas said, “I asked you to use your pen for us. I still want that. But the reason has changed now.”

Without standing up, you asked, “What reason?”

“I’m no longer interested in what you write, but how you write it. And someone who does something this well… either stands beside us… or against us.”

You tilted your head. And for the first time, a woman’s smile appeared on your lips.

But it was full, mocking, defiant.

“Are you used to women who stand in front of you, Mr. Shelby? Or only the ones who kneel?”

In that moment, the heat in the room changed. The words were loaded with gunpowder.

Thomas Shelby said nothing. But he took out a match. Lit his cigarette. Took a drag.

And as he left, he said only one thing:

“Wait for tomorrow.”

When he closed the door, the silence left behind was still trembling, just like he left it.

But this was only the beginning.

.

The Birmingham sun left a pale orange hue in the sky, as if the city had curled up for a long winter sleep. Outside, street kids quietly fled at the sight of men with bullets in their pockets, and the windows of the Garrison Pub were fogged up with tobacco smoke and the haze of whiskey. In the back room of the pub, the one reserved especially for the Shelbys, time was moving slowly.

In the dim light, the dark walnut table in the center of the room looked like a post-war strategy desk, scattered with half-filled glasses and slowly burning cigarettes in an ashtray. John had leaned his head back, escaping the world through the bottom of a glass. Arthur was tapping his fingers on the table, unable to sit still like an impatient soldier.

But Thomas Shelby…

He had adjusted the collar of his coat, his hands clasped as he sat at the corner of the table. Standing a step behind him was Ada Shelby, her eyes carrying an unusual intensity.

Arthur shifted, mockingly, “What’s the matter, Tommy? Still thinking about that writer? Tell me, is it a man or a woman? Still can’t figure it out, can we?”

Thomas lit a cigarette. The weak spark from the lighter briefly lit the room. He drew in the smoke, then exhaled it slowly. His voice, like the smoke, was calm, but a volcano rumbled beneath it.

Thomas, thoughtful, said, “A woman.”

“What?!”

“I said a woman. But a different kind. Not the sort who sells herself with skirts and lipstick.”

A silence followed. John briefly raised his eyes, then returned to his glass. Arthur laughed through pursed lips.

Taking a sip of his drink, he said, “A woman who writes against us, then writes you letters the moment she sees you... How romantic!”

Thomas gave a cold smile. “This isn’t romance. It’s tactics. She hides herself, Arthur. So well, in fact... Her shirt hides a woman, but her shoulders carry a warrior.”

Ada stepped forward, placing the notebook in her hand gently on the table. Her eyes locked with Thomas’s — curious, silently admiring. “This is the first time I’ve seen a woman affect a man like you this much.”

Without looking away, Thomas picked up his whiskey and sipped it slowly. Then he silently took something from his pocket: another article by the author.

“There were people like her during the war too. Those who waited silently in ambush. But give them a rifle, and they’d kill more for you than anyone else... This woman kills with her words. Harsh. Dirty. Sharp. With every sentence she writes, she can tear down a man’s dignity. And we…”

He leaned forward, placed the article on the table. With his fingertips, he traced the lines of the writing.

Thomas, in a clear tone, said, “…for men like us, this pen is either a curse or a blessing.”

Arthur snorted, then grew serious. “Or a bloody problem. A woman, huh... So what now? Peaky Blinders working with lady writers?”

Thomas squinted, a dark grin playing on his lips.

“If we can win over a woman with a pen that powerful, we become the wall the press leans on. And in this city, if you have a voice, you don’t disappear like a shadow.”

Ada sat down slowly, sparks dancing in her eyes.

“If you hadn’t known she was a woman, would you still be this interested, Tommy?”

Thomas turned to look at her. He didn’t answer for a long moment. Then he struck a match and lit a new cigarette.

Quietly, he said, “It’s not her face that got to me, Ada. It’s the voice of her pen. And that voice… even if she dresses like a man, it moans like a woman. But this isn’t love.”

Ada asked, “Then what is it?”

Thomas Shelby stubbed out his cigarette on the table. As the smoke left his nostrils, a steadfast fire lit in his eyes.

“A danger. But maybe one we can use.”

The door creaked open. Polly entered. Thomas fell silent again. His thoughts still lingered in your eyes, your cap, the restrained traces of undeniable femininity beneath your shirt.

You were a woman. But a mind that had abandoned womanhood. And for the first time, Thomas Shelby was struggling to decipher a woman. That’s why, instead of pulling away, he drew closer. Because Tommy always drew closer to the things he couldn’t understand. And this... was a declaration of war.

As the last light of the day slid along the coal-dusted sidewalks of Birmingham, a grey Bentley slowly turned the corner. When the engine stopped, the silence was so complete that even the crunch of the tires on the stones echoed like a threat. The door opened. Footsteps were heard. A cigarette was lit before the coat buttons were fastened. The glowing tip of the cigarette shone like a lone star in the evening sky.

Thomas Shelby was walking.

Short but firm steps. The stones beneath his feet seemed to recognize him—he walked on them with a stride no one else would dare. He stopped in front of the house. His gaze lifted to the narrow window on the third floor.

Your sentence at the typewriter had been left unfinished.

A single key struck but not yet forming a word, hanging in midair.

The light filtering through the streetlamp fell inside the room, giving even the dust on the books a touch of grandeur. Yet within that grandeur, there was a strange unease.

You stubbed out your cigarette. Turned to the window. Took a deep breath, feeling a tightness in your chest.

The typewriter had been silent for a while. Outside, it wasn’t just the sound of footsteps… it was the sound of a presence. Something—or someone.

It wasn’t the usual curses of drunkards hitting the stones, but something clearer, heavier.

So deliberate it didn’t even frighten—it was beyond fear. A threat, once recognized, stops being fear.

Then the door knocked. Twice.

No voice shouting, no introduction. Just a deep knock. If you opened it, Shelby would have arrived. If you didn’t… Shelby would’ve come in anyway.

After a moment’s hesitation, you pushed your chair back with the backs of your knees. The sharp scrape of wood on the floor echoed through the room. Then you walked to the door.

Your steps weren’t hesitant—they were measured.

The door opened slightly. The chain was still in place.

A single sentence hung in the air. “Shelby.”

He recognized your voice. The sentence was short, but heavy. Even the way you said his name sounded like a command.

The chain slid off. The door opened without a creak.

Thomas Shelby, wearing his cap, clad in a sharp black coat that fit like a blade… stepped out of the darkness and into the house. Dim light, cigarette smoke, and the scent of old books greeted him.

His hands were in his pockets, but his eyes had already scanned the room in detail. His face held the usual coldness, but in his gaze there was a different spark: He hadn’t come to see you. He had come to solve you.

“Sorry for showing up at your home,” he said, though his voice carried no apology. “But if you run this much, someone’s bound to follow. Lucky for you, it’s me this time.”

You closed the door. “If a man scared of my pen shows up at my door... I suppose my words found their mark.”

You stood in the middle of the room. A loose, white shirt hung from your frame, its fabric worn thin with time. Below, a pair of tan trousers, held up by a leather suspender strap slung over your shoulder.

Without looking at Thomas, you gestured with your arm. “If you’re going to sit, don’t judge standing up. There’s no defense here.”

Thomas laughed, but silently—it was more of a smirk laced with contempt flickering at the corners of his lips. He lit his cigarette. Inhaled. Didn't respond.

Nor did he sit. “I came to offer you a job,” he said. “No envelope this time, no gold-embossed paper. Now you’re here, in front of me. And yes... I know now. You’re a woman. And not just any woman. The kind that brings men to their knees with her words.”

You locked eyes with him. It wasn’t a confrontation—more like a battle for balance. Who would lose control first? Who would need to think about the next sentence?

“Did your opinion change when you found out I was a woman?” you asked. “Or does this version of me bother you a little, Thomas Shelby?”

When he heard you say his name, something shifted inside him. Maybe, for the first time, a name hadn’t landed on him… it had sunk into him.

“You didn’t bother me,” he said. “But your refusal to write still annoys me.”

You stepped closer.

“I can’t lend my pen to a mafia fairytale. I don’t use my words to interview powerful men… I use them to question why those men are so powerful.”

Thomas stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. Then he leaned in. His face was now level with yours.

“Then write about me,” he said. “But be honest. As honest as the bullets on the table. Write so everyone sees who I am. And remember... if you don’t write, I’ll find another way to show you who I am.”

The words ended.

You didn’t look away. But for just a moment, just one fleeting beat… your heart aligned with the rhythm of Thomas Shelby’s footsteps.

When the door creaked open, you slipped inside like a ghost. Your masculine suit was the deepest, most matte shade of black. As you slightly removed your hat, your eyes scanned the room—glancing at Thomas Shelby as if noting every detail, yet not a flicker stirred in your gaze.

Thomas hadn’t turned around. As always, he was leaning back in the tall leather chair by the window, one hand holding a glass of whiskey, the other resting on the scattered files atop the desk. His eyes weren’t on the horizon, but seemed fixed on a battle that wasn’t there. Smoke drifted lazily into the air, and the faint light sneaking through the thick curtains cast a familiar shadow on his face.

“I don’t think you owe me anything,” Thomas said, without turning his head. “But there are debts that get paid without being acknowledged.”

The corner of your mouth curved slightly. Your steps were steady, but where you stopped was deliberate: neither too close, nor unnecessarily distant. Your eyes lingered on the clock on the desk, the bottle of whiskey, the blue ceramic tiles on the wall—yet it was all habit. Because looking directly at Thomas Shelby meant, inadvertently, placing the rope in his hands.

“A week has passed. That’s enough time.”

Thomas turned slowly. When his eyes met yours for the first time, something cracked in the air. There was no smile, no welcome… only a sharp, timeless, and dangerous recognition.

“I wonder what you wrote about me,” he said.

Each word in his voice was as heavy as cigarette smoke.

But the real threat wasn’t in the sound, it was in the curiosity lodged between the silences.

You didn’t bow your head. You adjusted the buttons on your shirt and slipped your hands into your pockets. Daring enough to catch Thomas Shelby’s attention, but careful not to step on a line.

“You should’ve guessed,” you said, your voice low but steady. “I wrote nothing.”

Thomas leaned back. He twirled the whiskey in his glass for a while, then set it down on the table.

His fingertips tapped the wood. There was no rhythm. He wasn’t impatient, he was measuring.

“Writing nothing about a man like me… can be more dangerous than writing some things.”

You looked at him without blinking. “Because the story of a real gangster can only be written as long as he likes it.”

“Wrong,” said Thomas. “A real gangster lives with his eyes fixed on the ones smart enough to write his story.”

A brief silence.

Thomas rose from his seat. Slowly, carefully, he moved to the edge of the table. Standing, he lit a cigarette.

With the smoke, the air in the room thickened. Nothing was being said, yet so much was.

“When I first read your work, I thought about how sharp your pen was. Like someone who knows how to loosen a man’s tongue before killing him.”

“My pen may be sharp,” you said, “but writing about you would be the same as breaking my own pen.”

Thomas lowered his head. He smiled slightly. But it wasn’t satisfaction, it was the first move of a strategy.

“Maybe you… don’t want to write because you’ve started to understand me.”

You fell silent, with the tiniest flinch. That was being seen. Too bare. Too exposed.

“Maybe,” Thomas went on, “…you’ve become too much of me to write me anymore.”

Everything in the room seemed to shift in density after those words. There were no longer any words, only two souls, each wandering through the thoughts of the other like shadows.

You were silent. Your gaze finally drifted away. But it wasn’t out of fear. It was the middle move of a mental chess game.

Thomas Shelby tilted his head slightly to the side.

“If you won’t write,” he said softly,

“then at least watch.

Maybe then… you’ll see how the story ends.”

The air in the room had grown heavier. Thomas was turning his half-finished cigarette between two fingers at the corner of the desk. His eyes were on you.

You were still standing. Elbows relaxed at your sides, hands in your trouser pockets, as if being in this room wasn’t your choice. But you knew. Anyone who stepped into the darkness of Thomas Shelby could never return. And you were close to that threshold now. You could feel it.

“What is it you want me to watch?” you asked calmly. “The slow disappearance of a man?”

Thomas let out a faint laugh, but there was no mockery in it. That laugh was like a ghost from his past.

“No,” he said, his voice deepening. “I want you to watch how a man governs his own hell.”

He took a step toward you. The distance between you two was now as thin as a lie. But you didn’t retreat, and he didn’t stop approaching.

“My hell is orderly, Miss Y/S/N.”

He didn’t say your name. Because he hadn’t figured out who you were yet. But that complicated mind of yours...

That was the only thing that truly intoxicated him.

“Your hell has glass walls,” you said. “No one gets in. But you watch everyone.”

There was a moment of silence. That moment was the breath right before a war begins. Thomas let his eyes roam over your face. He noticed a loose curl that had fallen from under your hat. It was feminine. But in your expression, in the steel of your gaze, there was nothing soft.

“What is it that keeps you here?” he asked, voice soft, but sly.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t look away, but you said nothing. Because that question was the only one that left you defenseless.

“You write because words are the only thing you trust. Because everyone who ever loved you first tried to shape you, then forgot you. Isn’t that right?”

Your eyes froze. A few seconds of silence hung between you like lead. It was as if cold water had been poured down your spine. But you gathered yourself. Straightened your shoulders. Locked eyes with him once more.

“If you think you can figure me out,” you said, “then you’re not as clever as you think.”

Thomas crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. There was no sound, but something cracked between you.

Your walls trembled under the weight of his pride.

“I don’t want to figure you out,” he said. “I just want to know you.”

It was the most dangerous sentence he could say to you. Because to be known was to be exposed. And being exposed was like bleeding. And you were tired of bleeding long ago.

“I’m not someone to be known, Mr. Shelby. I’m just a story meant to be written and forgotten.”

In that moment, Thomas saw your loneliness more clearly than ever. The darkness behind your eyes was as deep as his own. But that didn’t make him want you less—on the contrary, it made him want to possess you even more.

“In that case,” he said quietly, “let me be the only one who reads you, so no one forgets.”

Once again, the air in the room cracked. This time it wasn’t words, it was the collision of glances.

A match had been struck, but the flame hadn’t yet touched. And even though you knew how much it would burn, you didn’t move.

He looked at you, but it wasn’t the way a man looks at a woman. It was the way a warrior assesses potential, like holding a weapon for the first time and sensing the value hidden inside. He was trying to understand what lived within you, but at the same time, he wanted you to step into that foggy darkness on your own. There was no pressure. But the game? It was always there.

He moved closer to the edge of the desk. Rolled the cigarette pack between his fingers. He spoke without needing fire:

“There’s a night.” His voice fell into the room like raindrops, slow and deep. “Three men will sit at a table. One of the rival gangs. Silver in their mouths, mud in their eyes. They can’t be trusted. They’ll sit with us because they have no other choice. But their true faces will only appear in silence.”

He kept speaking without breaking eye contact. “You’ll be there that night. You won’t speak. You’ll just watch. You’ll see what makes them rise, what makes them bow their heads. And... who they tremble for with a single look.”

He turned the words slowly in his mouth. Because this wasn’t a proposal... this was a calling. You stood at the edge of the path he was offering. And in the wind blowing from the other side, his scent lingered... danger, power, and a kind of poisonous allure.

But what stirred inside you wasn’t just fear. Speaking to Thomas Shelby, standing this close to him, shook something in you that nothing else had in years.

You swallowed. Even that echoed in the silence. “And me?” you asked. “What will I be at that table? A piece of decoration? A distraction?”

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. It was a smile that burned like coal... slow and scarring.

“No. You’re a writer,” he said. “I won’t put you in that filth. I just... want to see where you look, what you notice.”

He took another step toward you. Now, there was only breath between you. He lowered his voice.

“And I want to force you to know me. Because only then will I truly believe you won’t write about me.”

He leaned in, but didn’t touch. The softness in his voice was like a trap scattered across the night.

“I don’t want to trust you. Trusting you… opens doors to other things. But I want to know you’re there. Watching me. That night, at the table, you’ll see me. The real me. And maybe...”

He was close enough now that his breath touched your skin.

“…you’ll see yourself, too.”

Your eyes narrowed, almost as if trying to shield themselves behind your lids. Because this closeness hit you deeper than any word ever could.

But you didn’t back away. His darkness was familiar to the void inside you.

“I don’t want to be a mirror to your darkness,” you said. “I’m only here to look at myself.”

Thomas tilted his head slightly. Never looking away from you, he whispered,

“Then be ready to look into that mirror. Because I’ll be the one to bring you there.”

The wind howled through the beams of the warehouse with a broken roof. The night had settled like a sooty veil over everything, not cold, but oppressive. It didn’t touch your skin; it seeped into you. Hidden among whiskey barrels, you watched from behind a rusty door. The space was dark and narrow; the smell of iron, rotting wood, and dampness clung to your lungs. But you held your breath, eyes unblinking.

Thomas Shelby was there.

With confident steps, he walked straight to the table. He wore a dark, pinstriped suit, elegant as always, yet carrying a sinister grace. His fingers were bare this time, a visible message about the danger hidden at his wrists. Behind him, Arthur stood, his eyes bloodshot, his jaw tense. Finn waited silently in the corner, young but unflinching.

At the table were three men: Billy Owen, Chris Dawson, and a third unknown figure, a bearded man with a threatening glare. Sitting at the same table as the Peaky Blinders was a sign of desperation, yet their arrogance still clung to them like rising steam.

You saw everything through the crack in the wood. Most of all, you watched Thomas.

He didn’t see you. But he knew you were there. This was one of those invisible games between you.

Thomas moved to the head of the table. He didn’t sit. He lit a cigarette. His first words, rising with the smoke, were cold and sharp:

“We’re not here to talk. We’re here to listen.”

Owen grunted.

“Since when do Shelbys listen?”

Arthur stepped forward, but Thomas raised a hand to stop him. Smoke curled around his face, grey, thick, menacing.

“Since the moment, Billy,” Thomas said, “we started carrying more bullets than words in our pockets.”

Owen’s face tightened. The others exchanged wary glances. You held your breath. But this wasn’t the kind of meeting you were used to covering. Here, words weren’t headlines, they were triggers.

For a while, no one spoke. Only the rain tapping on tin roofs and the sound of Thomas breathing echoed in the warehouse.

Then Thomas spoke again, slower this time, more dangerous.

“I have an offer. Accept it, you live. Refuse, and… well.”

Billy grunted.

“Is that a threat, Thomas?”

Without even looking at Arthur, Thomas said something... softly. But you heard it.

“Arthur.”

Arthur stepped forward, calmly pulled a knife from his pocket, and drove it into the table. The rusty blade split the wood. Chris flinched. The third man instinctively reached for his waistband. Thomas stopped him with just a glance. That’s when you realized, there were no guns on this table. But fear... fear was drawn faster than any weapon.

Your fingers pressed against the cracked wood. Your breath was uneven, but you stayed quiet. Curiosity had brought you here. Staying, though… was becoming something else entirely.

Thomas spoke again. But this time, his words weren’t for the men at the table. They were for you. You knew it, his voice dropped, but his gaze cut through.

“Some people can only be understood in the dark. You can’t show them the light, it blinds them. But if you see those who glow in the night… then you know who they really are.”

He meant it for you. The others didn’t catch it. But you did. This was the moment he tested you. And you were still there.

Billy Owen smiled, more like bared his teeth.

“I’m not the silent type, Thomas. Everyone knows that. I’ve got nothing unsaid.”

He leaned back, arms spread.

“But I’d love to hear what you’re hiding.”

Thomas didn’t even raise an eyebrow. He lit another cigarette. Then he placed an envelope on the table. Inside—you couldn’t see, but you knew—there were documents, names, dates. A few seconds passed in silence. Chris leaned forward slightly.

Chris:

“This... this isn’t our deal, Thomas.”

His lips trembled with fear.

“Did you... find out something we don’t know?”

Arthur's hand hit the table with a creak of wood.

Arthur:

“Thomas doesn’t talk from what he doesn’t know. Haven’t you learned that yet, eh?”

Thomas took a step back. There was no threat in his posture, but every muscle in him pulsed with potential.

Thomas:

“Everything that happens in Birmingham comes to me. Not on the wind, but in blood. And you’ve forgotten the blood.”

In the silence that followed, you watched him. You realized: It wasn’t voice or weapons that commanded respect. It was gaze. And fear... came from footsteps that echoed without sound.

Owen stood up abruptly.

“I don’t fall for Shelby’s bedtime stories. Are you threatening me, huh?!”

Your first thought: Someone’s going to die. But Thomas didn’t even flinch.

“If you’re looking for a threat, watch the one who doesn’t speak. Sit down.

Otherwise, Arthur won’t carry your chair, he’ll start digging your grave.”

Billy’s eyes narrowed for a moment. Then slowly, he sat back down. Rage burned in his eyes, but his instinct to survive was stronger. Cormac moved his hand away from his weapon. Chris cleared his throat.

You... you realized what you were witnessing. No article could describe this moment. This wasn’t charisma, it was the instinctive rule of a system. And that system was called “Thomas Shelby.”

But for you, one thing had finally become clear:

No one could raise their voice against him.

He was the man who changed the air in the room with a glance.

And everyone… feared his silence most of all.

The door slammed shut. The metallic echo shattered the night’s silence. The rival gang members scattered as if they’d left their will in Thomas’s hands. Arthur’s footsteps were heavy and menacing, like the tremor that follows a storm.

And you were still there. As your eyes adjusted from the shadows, you slipped out, a ghost beneath the moonlight. Your breath was unsteady, but slowly regaining rhythm. The cold didn’t sting your skin, it chilled your mind. What echoed in your head wasn’t the click of a gun or Owen’s fear, it was the space where Thomas Shelby had said nothing.

That was when you felt him without needing to turn.

His steps were silent. But close.

And suddenly, the scent of rain-soaked earth, old metal, and dark tobacco pierced right through you.

Thomas:

“Did you see enough?”

His voice came low, nearly hoarse. Not a whisper more like a man speaking to the night.

“Or do you need more… to stop yourself from writing?”

You didn’t turn. You knew, if your eyes met, something would ignite in that collision. Still, you answered, half a smirk playing on your lips.

“If I dared to write this... it wouldn’t be my paper that burns. It’d be me.”

You didn’t laugh. But your voice was lined with tense irony.

“You really are as dangerous as I thought, Thomas Shelby.”

He stepped beside you. When his feet aligned with yours, the steam rising from the rain-soaked ground formed a thin veil between you. Almost invisible.

“You’re trying to understand me. I saw that tonight.”

Without turning to you, he looked up at the sky.

In his eyes: echoes of war, the weight of lost brothers in London, the memory of men who never came back from France.

“Sometimes people become more attached to the things they don’t write. Writing creates distance. But watching… pulls you in.”

As he said it, something cracked in his voice. Something unseen. A hidden fracture… the part left behind after war, but never healed. And you heard it.

“I’m not trying to know you.”

You stepped back, not to flee, but to stand straighter.

You rolled up your sleeves slightly, adjusted your posture. Your voice was firm, but something in you trembled.

“I’m trying to understand. How much you show is up to you.”

That was the moment your eyes met.

In his gaze, for the first time, there was not gunpowder, but ash.

And in yours, not just the look of a woman, but of a solitude masked by masculinity.

But Thomas… he recognized that solitude in you.

“You’re not afraid. But there’s a fear you even hide from yourself. Like a silence that screams… something writhing beneath your shell.”

He turned to you, fully.

“I was the same. For a long time. Until I got used to the dark.”

You paused. Then you said, never breaking eye contact:

“Maybe… I just wanted to describe the night to someone who’s already used to the dark.”

Your breath caught for a moment. But you didn’t stop.

“If you still know how to speak… maybe we talk a bit more tonight?”

It wasn’t just an invitation. It was a hand extended from the shadows.

But even as you offered it, you kept your guard.

You raised the collar of your coat.

Your posture proud, gaze defiant.

“And how about doing it at the Shelby house?

There’s a fan waiting for you at home.”

The pavements of Watery Lane were quieter than usual that night. The moon peered down with a thin, soapy whiteness as you stood at the door of Thomas Shelby’s house. The door was heavy as a log, but when it opened, the warmth spilling inside created such a sharp contrast that you forgot the grey cold of the outside.

As you stepped in, a slight unease from seeing the house for the first time weighed on your shoulders. Polished dark walnut furniture, military medals on the shelves, well-worn leather chairs by the coal fireplace, echoes of lived memory.

In the dim light, golden cigarette ashtrays gleamed atop the suede chairs. A soft scent of whisky, tobacco, and old books filled the air. Thomas had not yet removed his coat. His eyes never left you.

“If you can still speak…” you had said.

He answered with a sip from his glass:

“Someone who comes to the Shelby house to talk is either an enemy… or a friend. We’ll see which you are.”

There was no threat in his voice. But each word drew a boundary, and you were being pulled into its center. Inside the walls, but outside the glass.

As Ada Shelby came down the stairs, her eyes lit up when she saw you.

“You must be Y/N. I know your essays by heart, the one titled Blood and Roses… It was beautiful.”

She smiled, and her warm, gentle tone briefly lightened the seriousness of the room. Thomas lit a cigarette. Turning to you, he raised one eyebrow with a hint of mockery:

“Men try to demolish the walls built by women’s pens with dynamite. Isn't that right?”

You hadn’t answered yet when the parlor door swung open sharply. Arthur Shelby entered with heavy steps, a half-empty whiskey bottle in hand and that familiar, mocking arrogance in his eyes. He sized you up from head to toe. A comment was inevitable.

“So you’re that wise one writing about us… the man himself, huh?” He squinted and laughed. “Well… excuse me. A man… are you still?”

The mood in the room flipped. Arthur’s voice cut through the air like a lamp swinging from the ceiling rafters. But before you could respond, Thomas spoke first.

“Arthur,” Thomas said quietly but sharply. Just his name, yet his icy tone was enough to silence Arthur. Thomas didn’t even turn. His eyes stayed on your face.

“You don’t speak that way to someone I invited here. Especially when she’s my guest.”

Arthur paused, nodded, and forced a smile.

“Alright, Tommy. She’s your guest. Then I’ll take my whiskey and… shut up.”

The whiskey was drunk in short time, a few sentences exchanged. But Thomas Shelby never broke eye contact with you. Then he directed you toward the old Chesterfield armchair opposite the fireplace.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s talk there.”

As the fire crackled and whiskey glasses clinked, the air in the room grew heavier—not with threatening silence, but with an intimacy that hinted at opening old files, at words kneeling before truth. Thomas sipped his whisky slowly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. It was like an old calculator processing your sentences, the operators his gaze, the result still uncertain.

You had seated yourself in the Chesterfield, but you weren’t lounging—you looked like someone entering the ring. Your masculine clothes, the crisp lines, the high-collared shirt—all gave a sense of a past buried like a button pressed deep. And you never broke your posture. Your legs spread, elbows resting on your knees, your gaze spoke for itself.

Arthur half-sat on the arm of the chair, cigarette dangling from his mouth, grinning at you.

“Alright… so they say you have fans who love your writing. Those ‘living in the shadows of love’ type essays.”

“But why… why do you enjoy taking potshots at guys like us?” —His gaze flicked to Thomas and back to himself— “…you didn’t write about the Peaky Blinders, but if you had, what would you have said? Come on.”

His tone was mocking, but with that typical Arthur warmth woven in, not cruelty, but a love for wordplay. Part of his heart was still the street kid who grew up kicking around the streets of Birmingham.

You wet your lips, about to answer when Ada intervened first. She tapped Arthur on the shoulder.

“Enough now, don’t bother her!” she said. Then she turned to you, leaning in with a soft smile.

“But I am really curious,” she said. “Some of your essays talk about love, passionately, complicatedly. As if you’re not afraid of pain. But looking at how you dress…”—she looked over your masculine attire— “…it’s like your heart is tied with a belt. You live like a man but feel like a woman. Is that a contradiction… or something else?”

Something clicked inside you. Behind that question was compassion, and a woman asking for an honest answer. Then Thomas stepped in. This time his voice was slow, low, but intensely focused. He spoke with the patience of someone flicking the ashes from his cigarette.

“My brother provokes, Ada understands. But I will ask something else. As a woman, you tear into the male world so easily with your writing. So… why did you choose to live like a man? War? Fear? Or protecting someone?”

He was looking right into your eyes. At that moment, Thomas Shelby wasn’t just asking you, he was staring into your history.

You opened your mouth, but before a single word could be spoken, the door inside opened gently. Polly appeared like a ghost, her heels pressing into the rug. She carried a glass of whiskey and walked slowly toward you. Her eyes, different from the others’, saw only you, and one look was enough to hear the silence that came from you. Perhaps in that instant, a woman understood another woman without words.

Polly paused, not sitting. She simply studied you. Then she looked at Arthur, then Thomas, then back at you.

“If you ask me,” she said, voice slightly trembling but sharp, “there’s something in this young woman’s past. Behind those clothes is a wound. And that wound may have masculinized her pen, her voice, her body. But the woman inside… speaks through your eyes.”

Then she moved closer, took your hands in hers.

“Welcome. To our circle.”

Her voice had the warmth of the one you’d forgotten, perhaps for the first time, someone welcomed you not just for being a woman, but for being you.

Polly’s words spread across the room like a velvet cloth dropped into the center.

"She carries a wound behind her clothes. And that wound might have turned her pen, her voice, her body… into something more masculine."

The sentence felt like it cut something out from within you. There was a moment of silence. Everyone forgot their drinks. No sound overtook the crackling fire. In that moment, the footsteps of the past were returning, and unlike always, you didn’t bow your head—you held it high. But your lips trembled. Polly’s eyes were still locked on yours, but now Ada had leaned forward, her voice soft, almost timid.

“Is it true?” she asked. “Is there… a reason for this? The thing that made you so strong… is it also your loneliness?”

There was no pity in her words, only curiosity. And a kind of compassion mixed with a woman’s intuition. But for you, putting it into words meant turning years of silent turmoil into spoken truth. Still, the topic was now too close to avoid.

You cleared your throat. Your eyes turned to the fire. But Thomas Shelby… was watching you. A cigarette rested between his lips, unlit. He simply held it. As if it were a question in his mouth, waiting for your answer to give it meaning.

“I was born in France,” you said at last, your voice soft but fractured. “Near Paris, in a big family with vineyards. The story always starts the same way: an old aristocratic name, heavy meals, empty words, and lives trapped inside them.”

Your eyes stayed on the fire, but the crack in your voice sharpened Thomas’s gaze. The line between his brows deepened. You went on: “They wanted to shape me into a mold. One that was narrow, silent, and always smiling for men. But each day, I tried to break it. Not with my hands… with my words. With my questions. Some tied their love for me to my submission. Every refusal… left me more alone.”

You swallowed. The man watching you now saw another fracture within you. But you were still in control. Or so you thought.

“One day… I took some money from my mother’s jewelry box. Packed only my books and my typewriter. Got on a train. And came here.”

Ada hadn’t taken her eyes off you, but she lowered her head. Arthur had stretched his feet toward the fireplace, saying nothing this time. There was surprise in his eyes, and maybe a bit of respect. Polly tilted her head slightly as she listened, her whiskey forgotten in her hand.

And Thomas… He wasn’t hearing you anymore. He was seeing you.

He imagined a woman walking among crowds leaning on her own shadow, biting her lips at night while writing just to keep from screaming, staring at her reflection in the morning trying to feel nothing. He saw that vision as he watched you.

“And now you’re here,” he said quietly. “In the house of the Shelbys. Someone who escaped with her pen, now sitting in a room with the Peaky Blinders. There are molds everywhere in the world. But you… you look like someone who could burn them.”

What he didn’t say was this: He was curious about your broken pieces. The dark corners of you. And for the first time, Thomas Shelby didn’t want to touch a woman… he wanted to understand her.

There was a pause. Polly’s eyes stayed on you. But her voice was gentle this time. “You’ve walked a hard road. But you’re not alone anymore. I know what it costs to write those words.”

You tried to hide what passed through you. You didn’t answer. Just smiled faintly. But your hands were trembling. And Thomas noticed.

As your gaze dropped to the floor, his lingered on your lips. He wasn’t trying to figure you out anymore. He was engraving you into memory.

You were talking. Telling Ada something. Polly had smiled slightly. Arthur raised his glass. But Thomas was watching you like you belonged to another time.

A woman once broken, once escaped, reshaped, then rebuilt by her own hands. And to him, that set you apart from everyone else. Because you had survived something. And Thomas Shelby loved survivors. Not the weak, but those who had bled and endured. Yet this time, it wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t instinct. It was desire.

And throughout the night, one thought anchored itself in the back of his mind: What was it like… to be with you?

Truly. Not to own. Not to consume. But to share a night with you. How would you surrender to a man, if ever?

As he watched you hold your cigarette, Thomas thought about your hands. How many doors had they closed? How many slaps had they taken? How many touches had they pulled away from, how many gazes had they escaped? And now those hands weren’t even safe holding a glass. Because in his mind, those fingers were already tracing his chest, his throat, his hips. But the fantasy wasn’t dirty. It was hungry. Yes. It was passion. Of course. But above all, it was longing.

He imagined the sweat sliding down your back, the tremble in the corner of your lip, the whispers rising from you when your eyes closed. But what he truly craved wasn’t just skin. It was the storm beneath it.

For Thomas Shelby, to make love to you wouldn’t be just union, it would be redemption. Because he couldn’t make love to his past. But maybe… he could forget it with you. And the last thought that echoed inside him was this: “When I touch that woman, it won’t just be a body… It will be my way out of hell.”

He didn’t take his eyes off you. Arthur was saying something, but he didn’t hear. Ada had asked a question, he nodded without knowing what.

But Thomas Shelby… He spent the entire night thinking only of you.

..

After you were handed your last drink and farewelled with laughter, the door of the house closed behind you slowly. As your footsteps faded along the cobbled path, the air inside didn't change—it merely became more bare. The presence you left behind seemed etched into the room.

Ada leaned back on the couch, holding her glass between her palms, eyes fixed on the fire in the hearth. There was a half-genuine, half-contemplative smile on her lips.

“That woman… she's different,” she said softly, not as a statement but almost in awe. “I read her writings, yes, her pen is powerful, no doubt. But tonight… it was something else. As if even words fall short compared to what she carries inside.”

Arthur shrugged, taking a sip. “Too posh. Talks too much. But beautiful. No denying that.”

Ada shot him a mocking look but didn’t engage further. Then her gaze shifted to Thomas.

“What about you, Tom? For someone who barely speaks… you were rather talkative with her tonight.”

Thomas didn’t answer. A faint tension flickered at the corner of his lips. He kept puffing his cigarette. His eyes remained on the fire’s glow, but his thoughts were somewhere else. Or maybe… very close.

Just as silence was about to settle, Polly entered the room. Black veils, footsteps soft like velvet. She poured herself a drink, then sat down. Her gaze wasn’t on Ada; it was locked directly on Thomas.

In the quiet pause, Polly parted her lips.

“That girl became a man because in this world, staying a woman is like dying.”

The room contracted with all the unspoken words it held.

The amusement on Arthur’s face vanished.

Ada went silent, as if she’d just heard something from her mother, or a saint.

Thomas… Thomas lifted his eyes to Polly for the first time. He didn’t pretend he hadn’t heard. He had. And it sank deep.

Polly went on, eyes still fixed on him:

“To be a woman, where she came from, meant kneeling. Staying. Enduring. Remaining silent. So she stood up. But as she rose, she left her womanhood behind. Hid it. As if someone might steal it. She dresses like a man because that’s her armor. Her tongue is sharp because she was silenced long ago. And her words, they're her weapons.”

Ada whispered, “How do you know that?”

Polly tilted her head slightly, smiling with pain.

“Because I once lived in armor too. But I kept my womanhood. Hers though, it’s buried.”

She lifted her glass. “And yet she still shines. Despite all her suppression… she’s still a woman. She just doesn’t let anyone see it.”

Thomas turned his eyes back to the fire, as if something deep within him had been touched. Polly’s words had struck like bullets, into his past, and into you.

Because that’s why he wanted you.

You weren’t a woman who lacked femininity. You were a woman who gave it up to survive.

And for the first time, something flickered inside Thomas Shelby:

“I want to give her womanhood back. Not by making her weak. But by letting her be herself, strong, unbroken, vulnerable without fear.”

Polly lowered her head and sipped her drink.

“She’ll fight for you, Thomas,” she said. “Because she’s trying to understand you. But you’ll have to fight for her too. If you can’t figure her out… she’ll figure you out. And then she might leave.”

Arthur stood up, trying to lighten the tense mood, raising his glass.

“Come on, Polly. A girl shows up and suddenly everyone’s all dramatic?”

But no one laughed. Because by the end of that night, everyone knew one thing:

You had met the Shelby house.

But more than anything… you had met the darkness inside Thomas Shelby.

And for the first time, that darkness was afraid of losing something.

Of losing you.

Time moved forward like a wound. It had been two weeks since you last saw each other. No message, no greeting, not even a shadow of Thomas Shelby’s smoky eyes searching for you at a street corner… He was nowhere to be seen. But this absence wasn’t a disappearance. On the contrary, the pull between you had begun to take a visible form. A silence growing larger each day now carried two people who had no courage left for words.

You were busy finishing your columns. You tried returning to your old topics: the cruelty of war, the rights of workers in industrial Birmingham, the invisible face of social inequality… But every sentence felt foreign. Each paragraph was dull and cold without the shadow of Thomas Shelby in it.

You sat at your writing desk. Your hands lay still over the page. The ink of your pen was drying, but your mind was still burning. Every piece you tried to write scattered in a different direction. For the first time, the pen didn’t feel like yours.

None of them made it past a paragraph. Because all your words revolved around one man.

Thomas Shelby.

As you sipped your coffee, his presence—bodiless but tactile, came to mind. When your finger brushed against the paper, you saw him lifting a cigarette to his lips. In your mind, you were already talking to him.

Thomas Michael Shelby. A man. A leader. A shadow. A crime. And maybe… the most honest confession of a woman writer. Read under abandoned streetlamps at night, echoing in a woman’s mind like a manifesto.

And for the first time, your pen moved to write about him.

You were going to write now. About him.

But this wouldn’t be an exposé; it would be a recognition, a cry, a surrender. Because Thomas Shelby hadn’t just made you think, he had left you without yourself.

At the same hour, in another street…

With the collar of his grey coat turned up, Thomas was walking through the foggy streets of Birmingham. Brief conversations, clipped commands… business meetings… cold whiskeys… None of it could fill the emptiness inside him. Without you, no victory meant anything. A man, even if a king, could find a city to be his grave if he was alone.

Thomas Shelby, collar raised, stood in front of a clothing shop window. His steps seemed premeditated, but his gaze was entirely detached from all plans. Behind the glass, a deep midnight-blue fabric flowed like silk… A delicate cut falling from slender shoulders… A sash at the waist… A tasteful slit at the knee… The moment he saw the dress, he thought of you.

You, in that dress… But not just the dress. You, at peace with yourself. Not fighting, not hiding… not needing to prove your womanhood to anyone.

He narrowed his eyes. Dropped his cigarette. Crushed it with the tip of his shoe. And for a moment, he closed his eyes.

He imagined draping that dress over your back. Watched you letting your hair fall over your shoulder. In the darkened frame of a doorway, he saw you walking toward him in that dress. And then, he imagined you undressing. But not hastily. Slowly. Gently. With reverence. Because to desire you didn’t mean to possess you. To see you, to understand you, to unravel with you that was what he wanted.

He wanted to put that dress on you because… he wanted to show you that being a woman wasn’t death, it was survival. And he didn’t want to own you. He wanted to belong to you.

He didn’t want to protect you. He wanted to burn with you. Maybe he would bury all the silence he had carried for years into your skin in a single night. And he wanted to let your darkness meet his darkness, and from that, let something be born.

A scream. A name. A story. A destiny written with you.

You both missed each other.

But Thomas Shelby never spoke of longing. He spoke through the dress you never wore. You shouted through the lines you never wrote about him. You were both silent.

But the city was now too full of this silence to carry you any longer.

And the decision was made.

You started to write.

He bought the dress.

You wiped your tears.

He lit the last cigarette he would smoke before reaching for you.

And one night, one of you would complete the words. The other, touch between the lines.

.

Paper did not only carry ink. That morning, the newspapers distributed throughout Birmingham carried the contents of a heart. It was the moment when a writer, after struggling to define love, finally poured her tangled words onto the page with courage. And those words, like bullets, had found their target.

A woman waiting at the station read the lines on the fourth page again and again.

A mother who had given birth to a child and then lost her own identity while raising it.

Another woman, lighting her morning cigarette, read the article aloud to her prostitute friends.

One who had never cried over a man fell silent, clutching her throat at a single sentence.

A young tailor’s apprentice abandoned his breakfast and took refuge in the corner of the paper.

Because that piece wasn’t just about love—it spoke of the punishment love could bring, and of a rebellion echoing within silence.

The writer’s name was not listed; not even initials had been printed this time. But everyone knew who had written it.

You.

You were the author of those lines. And now, the streets were speaking your name. Even if it didn’t appear on the page, the article was the voice of your heart. For the first time, your words weren’t about war—but about a man.

…

The city’s hum remained outside. In Thomas Shelby’s office, the air was as heavy as ever with smoke, with thought. On the dark walnut desk, the morning’s newspaper lay open. No one had handed it to him. He had picked it up himself. He had seen the headline with his own eyes: “For Those Who Pass Through Love and End in Silence”

His gaze slowly scanned the lines. Behind the letters, a silhouette began to form. That man… The one who had once drowned in his own darkness and later searched for light in a woman’s eyes that man was Thomas Shelby himself.

“Some men don’t get caught in love. They see it as a trap. But one day, a woman comes along… and turns that trap into gold. Because true love is not a surrender; it is a challenge, a rebirth. That man tore down the walls he had built from thorns inside me. And behind those walls, I found a boy. Silent, wounded, but still worthy of being loved…”

His fingers slowly closed over the paper. He adjusted the collar of his jacket. Leaned back in his chair, but his face was tilted downward. His eyes were fixed on one spot: a gift box in deep burgundy satin sitting at the edge of his desk.

Inside was the dress. The one from that shop he had gone back to after pausing for a moment, thinking of you. At the time, he had never felt you so close.

Now… You had written him. Not by name, but by heart.

For the first time, a piece of writing had disarmed Thomas Shelby—not like an enemy, but like a man. His mind wasn’t filled with war strategies, but with your words. He remembered the way you looked at him. Thought of the times you fell silent. And now, he understood the reason for that silence.

You had loved him. Despite all his darkness, his past, his curses.

At first, Thomas Shelby had wanted to use you for prestige. He wanted you to write about him. But if you had written back then, none of it would have felt this way. None of it would have stung the chest and warmed the heart with such honesty. Now, someone had finally told him: “You are worthy of being loved as you are.”

That’s why he walked toward the gift box. Opened the lid slowly. Touched the dress. As his fingers moved over the fabric, what passed through him was too close to hide any longer:

“I want you to be my woman, Y/N… I want to be with you.”

That day, Thomas Shelby made his decision. Yes, he had built an empire.

But for the first time, he had been defeated by words by a woman.

And for the first time, he had found himself in a writer’s heart.

He would confess his love to you. But he would do it as a man. Not with a weapon, but with his heart. Not inviting you to a bed, but to a life.

The streets of Birmingham always turned the same shade of grey in the evening; if the cobblestones didn’t shine with rain, footsteps would seem to vanish between the cracks. Your steps echoed, but even that echo wasn’t enough to bring you back to yourself.

With a brown coat over your shoulders, you walked against the wind, your boots pressing over the cracked pavement. The corner of the magazine bag in your hand was folded, and between the pages peeked the headline of that much-discussed article: “For Those Who Pass Through Love and End in Silence.” You had left the office late. Congratulations, praise, hands patting your shoulder… all because of that article. You had touched something inside everyone, torn them open, then gently stitched them back together. How strange… Among the hearts you had touched with your writing, yours was not one of them.

Your heart was still a battlefield.

As you turned a corner, you held your breath. You tried to suppress the thing rising inside you. A strange warmth…

No, this feeling, it wasn’t yours.

It belonged to love.

To a woman.

And you… you had long ago torn that piece out of yourself.

“You lost the right to feel like a woman.”

You’d told yourself that years ago.

At the edge of a bed, behind a closed door, maybe suffocating in a smile...

In the eyes of the men who looked at you, there had been no love, only ownership.

And you had pulled yourself away from those stares.

You had changed your skin, your hair, your tone of voice.

You had ripped away everything feminine within you and replaced it with sharp edges.

But now...

That damned feeling was sprouting from within again.

Not in the words Thomas Shelby whispered beneath his breath as he looked at you, It was growing in all the things he never said.

While walking down the street, you noticed your hands were trembling.

Not from the cold. From remembering. From longing.

How long had it been since you forgot what it meant to be a woman?

Your steps quickened. As if trying to outrun a thought…

But where could you go?

The woman inside you had already run far away.

You had let her go.

But now…

That woman was coming back.

And it scared you.

Because that woman wanted love. She craved tenderness. She wanted to be touched, to be heard, to be felt.

And Thomas Shelby -that damned gangster- seemed to offer all of it. Without a single word. Just by looking. Just by being.

You stopped against a wall. Took a deep breath.

When your eyes began to water, you looked straight at the sky.

You wouldn’t cry. No… you’d drown this feeling.

“Women like you can’t carry love. Because love won’t carry you.”

But another voice inside you whispered.

From a different language,

From a different possibility:

“But what if Thomas can carry you?”

As you turned the corner, your steps slowed.

The wind blew your coat.

No, not a coat… for a moment, you imagined it was that favorite dress in your room in France.

You imagined the satin brushing your legs,

Thomas’s gaze kissing your neck...

You parted your lips slightly, held your breath.

You were afraid of yourself.

Not because you wanted Thomas Shelby...

But because you wanted to be yourself with him.

Your steps grew heavier as you reached the corner of your building. Until that moment, you'd been wrestling with your thoughts, fighting yourself, avoiding a confrontation with the woman inside you, but now, now you were getting close to home. Your safe space. The cellar of your pen, your solitude, your cold coffee cups, and the emotions you kept tightly under control. Nothing ever changed there. No one ever came close.

But even from the end of the street, you noticed it.

Something was wrong.

Your gaze instinctively lifted to your apartment window. The light was on.

You stopped walking instantly. Your pulse quickened in your chest. For several seconds, you just stared at the light, not thinking... just feeling. Your mind pushed you toward your most vulnerable place. And your heart, for a fleeting second, chose joy.

“Is it him?”

For a moment -yes, for a moment- Thomas Shelby could’ve been there.

Maybe he was waiting for you.

Maybe he had realized he missed you, just as you missed him.

Just as you’d imagined…

But that feeling only left a warm flicker in your chest before slipping away.

Because you were… smart. And in this city, an apartment with a light on meant only one thing:

Someone had entered. Without your permission.

And for the first time, when you said Thomas Shelby’s name in your mind, it wasn’t with affection...

It was with fury.

“How dare you?”

Your fists clenched.

That woman you’d been running from all day, you tore her out of yourself now.

Everything feminine, everything soft, you cast it to the edge of your heart.

And with the wind whipping your hair, you marched toward the building with sharp, unwavering steps.

When you pushed open the cold iron door and climbed the old stairs, your rage only grew with every step.

That rage kept you upright.

It cleared your head.

It erased your fear, your longing, your weakness.

“If you’re in there… if you’re really in there…”

“…I’ll show you.”

You paused at your door. Your hands were sweaty, but you ignored it. You took out your key. And turned it in the lock. A soft click. A shifting sound. The door opened.

And you, you saw him.

Thomas Shelby.

You stepped inside. Thomas was at the desk near the far wall, the one where you wrote at night, accompanied by the solemn silence of your typewriter.

His legs were crossed, his body leaned back in the chair, his head turned toward you. Like a shadow. Like a ghost. But more real than you.

He was still wearing his dark navy coat. A white shirt underneath, but the collar was loose. No tie this time. Instead of a tie, he wore that inward silence rising to his throat.

His face held nothing, as always.

But his eyes spoke like the night.

“Welcome home,” he said, his voice low but firm. As if this wasn’t your house. As if he had been summoned here by you.

But you stood there, caught in a few seconds of stunned stillness.

Your gaze fell on the large box on the desk. Wrapped in velvety fabric. Tied with a ribbon. The kind of box sent to women. To selected women. To women you never thought you’d be.

But your anger reminded you who you were.

Right before your emotions could surface.

You clenched your jaw, pressed your feet harder into the floor, and your voice came out like a blade, cold and sharp:

“You people make a habit of breaking into places, but not here. Not in my home.”

Thomas didn’t speak for a moment. As if he wasn’t arranging his words, but listening to the crack behind your voice. He looked at you without blinking. This time, with every mask stripped away.

He stood up from behind the typewriter, slowly. As if he’d sat there ready to write, but couldn’t.

He didn’t button his coat. Didn’t shove his hands in his pockets. He simply took a step toward you.

“You didn’t write about me. Not about Peaky Blinders. Not about Thomas Shelby,” he said. “But you wrote about someone I didn’t expect. I read that piece.”

The sentence echoed through the walls. Just like the echo you'd heard inside yourself. Silent but shattering.

You didn’t respond. Because any word you gave would let him in further.

“There’s a woman inside you, Y/N. A quiet, bleeding woman. Hiding. And you… you’re trying to kill her.”

The way he said your name was different. It wasn’t soft. It was firm. Because he was a man who read your wounds, not with pity, but with truth.

He reached slowly toward the box on the desk.

His fingers held the ribbon but didn’t untie it.

Just held it.

“Everyone in this city knows you like this now. Tough. Cold. Masculine. Like a predator who doesn’t show her teeth.

But I... I saw you from the beginning.

Not just the way you talked. The way you walked. The way your breath paused. The way your eyes recoiled at a single look…

You used to belong to yourself. But then someone took you.”

He took another step. Only a few feet stood between you now. But your breaths were on the same rhythm.

Breaking the air in the same pattern.

Your eyes were fixed on him, but he could see right through them.

“I don’t want to put you in a mold. I want to put you in a dress. A dress that belongs to you. And when you look in the mirror wearing it, you’ll see that woman again. The one you’ve been trying to kill, but the one I still hear. I want to bring her back to life.”

Your answer didn’t come quickly. Because any word that left your mouth would be a declaration of war. And you realized, suddenly, you were tired of fighting.

Still, your face showed nothing. But your heart betrayed you. And then Thomas Shelby said his final words, not like a criminal, but like a man. Locking his gaze with yours:

“If you don’t want this... I’ll leave. But if I stay, I won’t leave until I bring that woman back.”

The voice inside you said, “Tell him to leave.” But the shadow falling across your face whispered, “Tell him everything.”

And yet, once again, you betrayed your heart and chose the fight.

Your gaze drifted from Thomas’s hand resting on the box to his eyes once more. You had learned that, to truly understand someone, you had to start with hatred. And the man standing before you was strong enough to be hated… but worse, broken enough to be understood.

Your chin was high, your shoulders tense. And deep in your chest, as always, you carried a curiosity hidden beneath anger.

Your voice hit the walls like cold steel.

“Why? Why do you care? To you, I’m just a writer who won’t bend her pen for the Peaky Blinders. What about me are you so curious about? What connects me to you?”

This was a challenge. But also an invitation. A door opened, demanding the truth. And Thomas Shelby, as always, responded first with silence.

Out of all that noise, he arrived with nothing but his quiet gaze.

He didn’t light a cigarette. Didn’t rush into words. Didn’t use any unnecessary gesture.

He only dipped his head slightly. Then lifted it again.

And then he spoke.

“When I look at you, I see my own exhaustion. I replaced something inside me years ago… something that died. But you… you just buried yours. It’s still alive. Still there. The woman in you.”

He stepped closer. You weren’t supposed to touch him, but in your mind, you were the one closing the distance.

The heat in your veins wasn’t only anger now. It had become something else. And Thomas kept going, never breaking eye contact.

“I’m not trying to save you. I’m not trying to fix you. I’m not God. I’m not a hero. But I want to watch you. I want to see the moment those masks start to fall. I want to be there when you start living in your own skin again. And… I want to be with you when it happens.”

It was the shell of a confession. But to you, the shell was already visible enough.

You said nothing. Because you were afraid your words would betray you.

You didn’t want to surrender to a man’s sentences after all you’d fought.

But your face had changed.

In your eyes, there was a glimmer of the woman Thomas hadn’t yet known. And he saw it.

For a while, silence filled the space. Eye to eye. Breaths unspoken. Time unbroken.

Then Thomas Shelby stepped back. A stillness like polar cold surrounded him. He didn’t turn away, but his gaze had already gone beyond your heart.

He reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out a small white envelope. Placed it gently on the table. As he drew his hand back, he left behind one sentence.

“Tomorrow night. Charity Gala. Seven o’clock. You won’t need an invitation. I’ll bring you.”

When he looked at you again, he wasn’t watching you anymore, he was watching who you could become.

“You can come wearing what you have on. But if you wear what’s in the box… You’ll be walking toward yourself. Not me.”

And then he turned toward the door. It opened. The wind came in.

“You don’t have to come. But if you don’t, I’ll still be someone who wants your words. If you do.... Then I’ll be the one writing you.”

The door creaked open. Silence entered. And Thomas Shelby left without leaving a single footstep behind.

You were alone. But this time, loneliness didn’t feel familiar.

It felt like something inside you was finally… coming back.

[carpesabrina]

Sabrina watched as Max’s face turned into disgust, “oh good. I know your moomoo’s boy so wasn’t sure if that just trailed onto sex your life.” She said teasingly. “But agreed. Nothing older than 40. 50 might not be so bad either.” She had always been into older man, Chris was probably the oldest she had ever slept with. But she definitely flirted with even older in the past. She rose her eyebrow, her gaze going over to his hair as he mentioned going bald. “I mean, I’d still find you hot if you go grey. I think you’d look marvelous with salt and pepper hair. But bald? Not going to happen. I need something to pull on when you’re eating my pussy.” Her hands were always in his hair, whether they were just making out or making love. She loved stroking it and brushing it with her fingers just as much as she liked to tug on it. “People keep talking about you shaving your hair now that you’re part of the Hurt Syndicate and I’m just saying this now, if you do, I’m leaving.” She told him. She wouldn’t actually follow through with that threat. She loved him, and didn’t care what he looked like. His looks wasn’t why she was with him. She was with him for how he made her feel when they were together, how happy she was to be his. Sabrina nodded in agreement, “Our love is more than just sex. We don’t need it to flourish or to show each other how much we love one another.” Their relationship started off with it, but it had grown to be more than just that over the past few months. She loved their slow mornings of cuddling in bed and kissing just as much as she loved making love to him. She laughed as he mentioned Ricky hitting on Cayla. “That’s fine. Maybe she’ll date a wrestler too and we’ll have more in common.” Cayla was easily the sister she didn’t have a lot in common with. But the eldest carpenter daughter was still one of Sabrina’s best friends. She went to Cayla to things she couldn’t go to her other sister’s about. She was the first person that she told about Max. “I agree, I don’t want to be working that day. I’ll sing along to songs but that’s about it. Is it a good idea? I’m worried it won’t be and he won’t like it.” She knew that was a crazy fear. Her dad liked all of her songs, even if he didn’t completely approve of their lyrics. An he would love a new one about him. “I’m glad you’re mine too, baby. I don’t think I could have picked any better.” She mused, leaning up to kiss his cheek. She knew people judged the relationship, and said she could pick better. But he was everything that she had ever imagined in a partner. “It’d have to be after. You can’t see my dress until I’m walking down the aisle.” She reminded him. She knew it wasn’t as much as a tradition anymore. A lot of couples did first looks at weddings and she was still on the fence about it. Once they were at the porch, she leaned against it, and smiled. “We are getting married in Long Island, Mr. Friedman.” She confirmed with a head nod. A year ago, she would have definitely wanted a place like this venue in the city. But now she was falling in love with Long Island and couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. She had kept her apartment for now, but also was becoming well aware she would have to eventually get rid of it. As he opened up the door she slid into the passenger seat and buckled up. As he drove back home, she called the venue they had picked to confirm all the details that they could confirm in that moment. She gave them her card info so she could reserve the rooms before she hung up the phone. It had felt like a short phone call, but it had taken up most of the drive as Max pulled into their neighborhood. “Alright, we got two dressing rooms, the big ballroom, and then assistants for us. We’ll have to go back closer to try food and cake. Decide if we want a live band or a DJ.” She told max as he pulled up to the house. The big things were decided but now it was time for all the little things that came to make the wedding. 

Max twisted up his face in disgust. "No granny kinks for me. I wouldn't turn down a hot woman up to 35 but that's about it." Max was almost thirty and didn't mine older women but after a certain age gap it was a no. "Maybe up to 40 but they would have to be very hot but that's as far as I could go. No granny's for me." He was aware that Chris was 44 and Sab had went out with him but he couldn't see her going much older than that or her family approving. "You have amazing genes and will be totally hot at 80 and I'll still be older than you and probably bald or have a head of white hair. "You going to still find me hot? They both had a ways to go since they were still in their 20's but he had no doubt no matter their love would last. "I promise I'll still love you and even if we aren't into sex anymore that I'll still hold you, kiss you and make sure you feel as loved as you do right now. Love isn't about sex but emotions and we're never losing that." Ricky was a lot like Max when it came to charming the ladies but unlike Max, Ricky was always nice to people. It was rare for him to lose his temper. "I'm sure they'll be fine but he might hit on her." Max said smiling. He glanced down at her fingers as they rand along his and smiled. It was something he loved about her and caught himself often doing the same, rubbing the back of her neck or playing in her hair. "I'm glad because you need to enjoy your special day and not be working. I love hearing you sing but I just want you to have fun and not deal with anything but saying I do and being with those that truly love you and want to celebrate with you." Max was touched as she told him what she meant and he knew how special it would be for David. The man had made a mistake but he loved his family and his girls. It was a way to show she had forgiven him and loved him in spite of everything. Sure he knew that but this was more personal and Max knew that. "I think that's a good idea, kitten. You are and hopefully Sarah will be next, he's got a lot of crying coming his way. All of you girls are beautiful and anyone would be lucky to have you for theirs. I'm glad you're mine, I really am." He squeezed her hand lightly before turning the corner. "I think you're right because Winnie would want to be with you the whole time. Bjorn, Benny and Piper might be find to curl up on a tree at the alter but not Winnie. We can do pics with them before or after. A family pic to hang in our living room." Long Island seemed the obvious choice the more they talked about the wedding. "Unless this wows us then it has to be Long Island. You're right, everything keeps pointing there." He loved walking in with her and seeing people turn to look at them. His chest always seemed to puff up with pride that she was on his arm After listening to everything and going back outside to the car he agreed. "I do too, looks like we're getting married in Long Island, Mrs. Friedman." He opened the door for her and then got in and started the drive back home. They had a venue and a date.

[egophiliac]

CROWLEY SSR THOUGHTS

there is zero basis for this, but I can't get this thought of my head

I don't know why I decided to draw it this way

[twilightakiishi]

you guys…..i am feeling ooey gooey sentimental rn about y’all….those of you who have been here since i was posting my ugly tokyo revengers doodles 2 yrs ago and to those of you who i bonded with over windbreaker last summer and those of you who are new and kind and funny you all just brighten my day so much 🖤🦋🖤🦋🖤🦋🖤

[teemhaunts]

rocky planets are doooone

[cheap-lemons-and-theatrics]

remembering that alot of the odd shit i did from the ages of 7-16 were because my foundation for human interaction was minecraft roleplays then webtoons

[ssongsboo]

bro im seeing one pact next week in the exact same venue all(h)ours performed in like two weeks ago and omg it was SO hot in there i genuinely felt sick as soon as i stepped into that building bUT ON THE 22ND ITLL BE LITERALLY 10°C WARMER THAN IT WAS THAT DAY?????? LITERALLY HOW TF AM I SUPPOSED TO SURVIVE THIS