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nanaslutt · 2 years ago

Note

PLEASE write more of geto being a perv🙏🙏

“pt.1” here

Geto x reader, in showing you how sorry he is for being a creep<3

perv!geto is my obsession atm

contains: fem reader, non consensual photography (reader is kinda ok w it), pervy roomate!geto, crack, gojo makes an appearance, talk of gojo wanting reader, sexual tension, cunnilingus, masturbation(geto), degradation, soooooooo much dirty talk, sweet!geto at the end<3

MDNI

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔

About a week ago you were watching a scary movie with geto on your laptop, drinks placed on the table next to it; dumbly.

So of course when the scariest jump scare you’ve ever seen in your life occurred, your legs jerked into the glass of liquid, spilling it all over your laptop and absolutely ruining it.

“God- Fuck! Noooo! nonono!” you shot up to grab a blanket, pillow, anything, to soak up the liquid, “TAKE YOUR SHIRT OF NOW,” you yelled in a panic to your dark haired roommate, who; you noticed throughout this entire excursion had barely moved a muscle to help, besides the muscles used to laugh at you.

“Babe I hate to be the one to tell you this, but that shit is beyond saving,” he laughed, placing his hand over his chest while he did.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck, I use my laptop every single, and day I absolutely cannot afford to buy a new one right now.” you placed your head in your hands in defeat.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” geto said, at the end of his fit of giggles at your expense.

“Yeah right, ur broke as shit too, that’s why we’re living together.” you said, muffled into your legs as your body had now fully collapsed in on itself.

“Yeah ur right, but that kinda hurts my feelings,” he said, smirk showing through his faux pout, “thought you liked livin’ with me,”

The two of you bickered back and forth for a while. You ended up putting the laptop in a bag of rice; to no avail, it was completely ruined.

Geto had been nice enough to let you use his laptop in the meantime; only when he was with you though, which you found slightly weird but at least you had access to it to some degree.

Right now you had the house to yourself though. Satoru had picked him up half and hour ago, saying something about wanting to try some new coffee shop with word famous sweets; that meant you had free range of his laptop.

You knew how to clear search history, so you would be fine. You just wanted to watch a movie anyways, nothing criminal.

Sneaking into his room, you unplugged the silver electronic, sliding it under your arm as you took it back to your room. Placing the laptop on your bed and getting comfortable against your pillows, you cracked it open, You had accidentally seen him type in his password before, so getting in was no problem.

What was a problem is what was on the screen when the laptop came to life. An entire folder of up skirt panty shots; and not just anyone’s panty shots; they were yours.

Scrolling through the decently filled folder, you noticed ones that dated back months ago. You saw a picture of you laying on your bed, head in your hands while you kicked your feet behind you; the short skirt you were wearing gave geto the perfect view of your unobstructed ass, slight pink peaking between your cheeks.

Other too, you doing more mundane things like sitting on your knees on the barstool you had in the house, poking out your ass, once again giving that dark haired pervert the perfect shot of your clothed mound.

You were almost impressed at how many there were, and how make different angles he was able to get without your knowledge.

Trying to wrap your head around the idea that yes, your sweet roommate who has never attempted to come onto you once, had a secret folder filled with lewd photos of you.

Saving the file, you sent it to yourself. Once you heard the chime on your phone you quickly copied the link, and sent it to the culprit himself, no other message attached to it but the folder alone.

——

“Ummm ooh, I’ll also get the triple chocolate cream filled crepe cake please! What do you want suguru?” gojo chirped.

Geto started at him with disbelief, he had just ordered 5 full size deserts with the longest name he’d ever heard; all sounding like a stomach ache and a half; and they were all for himself.

“Right..uh, i’ll just get the vanilla scone and a black coffee please.” Geto politely spoke to the man taking his order.

Gojo continued conversing with the cashier, finishing up ordering any last minute items and paying.

Geto felt his phone buzz in his pants, checking it quickly while gojo finished up the interaction; both of them starting to walk to booth in the corner of the cafe.

Suguru’s heart sank to his balls when he opened your message. He knew you were mad too, because you didn’t say anything else other than a link to his private folder of your panty shots. “Fuuuuuuuuuck haha,” geto laughed, hand coming up to cover his smirk as they slid into the booth.

“Huh? let me see, what happened?” Gojo nosed, trying to peek over the table at geto’s phone when he noticed it was the source of his distress.

“I might have to sleep at your house tonight, maybe for the rest of my life I don’t know.” he said, hand dropping back into his lap as he shut his phone off.

“Did you forget to do your dishes or somethin’?” he asked, knowing how angry you got at Geto when he didn’t pick up after himself.

“Yeah maybe, or maybe my roommate just found the upskirt pics i’ve been taking of them for the past couple months.” he giggled, slight remorse in the back of his head. Not from doing it, but from being caught.

Gojo’s jaw dropped, covering his own mouth as he let out a boisterous laugh. “Hahaha oh man, you really are fucked.” the blonde slapped his own knee, “I’ll let you co-sign my lease tonight,” he said, scared that if suguru went home, he might actually get murdered.

Geto kicked satoru’s shin underneath the table, making him wince. Their giggles died down at geto’s misfortune after awhile. “So..” gojo started, “Yer’ gunna let me see the pics right?” he asked, “Already hurt you didn’t tell me about this,” he pouted,

“In your fucking dreams satoru,” geto snorted. He already saw the way gojo looked at you when he was over, always making passes at you and touching you any chance he got.

He would be damned if his bestfriend got his hands on you before he did. “WHAT???” gojo yelled a little too loud for the tiny space they were in, resulting in him getting shushed by geto, “pleaseeeee, I know how good you are at taking pictures I bet they’re soooo gooood.” gojo wined, crossing his arms on the table and laying his head against them.

“Keep dreaming satoru.” he laughed. The whine haired man kept his pouting up for awhile, calling Geto selfish and unfair, his sorrow immediately being forgot about when the massive tray of his deserts finally came out.

——

When you heard the front door to your shared apartment finally crack open open a couple hours later, you were in your bedroom.

His laptop had been tucked away in your bedside table in confiscation, while you awaited with a racing heart, for him to knock on your bedroom door.

You heard him place his keys on the table through the thin walls, then you hear his heavy footsteps as he starts to make his way to your room.

The air was still when the footsteps came to a stop in front of your door. You were feeling a lot less confident than you were before he got here, now the thought of confronting him made your mouth feel dry; heart beating out of your chest.

Finally, the knocks were being rapped on your door, you swear you died for a second when you heard his familiar voice call your name, followed by him asking politely if he could come in.

"Its open," you yelled back. When the wooden door creaked open and his frame came into view, you had to fight off all the neurons in your brain telling you to look away from his hooded eyes.

You felt like you couldn't breathe, the tension in the room was so thick it could be cut through with a knife. You had no idea why, but the current situation was admittedly arousing.

You stayed silent for a while, just staring at each other, neither one of you daring to break eye contact first, "So? What do you have to say for yourself?" you asked, voice coming out a lot less confident than you wanted.

"Im sorry." he replied, swallowing thickly, quickly sucking his lip into his mouth to wet it.

"You're sorry for what?" you asked clarifying, This wasn't going how you expected.

"I'm sorry for being a pervert and taking panty pics of my roommate." He said, taking a couple steps towards where you were sitting at the edge of the bed.

"Are you really sorry?" You asked, voice full of need, as you did your best to supress it, trying to ignore the growing heat in your stomach.

"So sorry" he answered, having made his way inches away from you, eye contact still not being broken. You both noticed how heavily you were breathing, his eyes flitting down to your lips for a second before he sucked his lip into his mouth again, and letting it slide out, dark eyes meeting yours again.

The only thing you heard was your heart beat loudly in your ears as you spoke your next words, "Show me how sorry you are."

----

"Mm so fucking sorry," geto's voice vibrated against your clit.

"F-fuck ohmygod," You moaned at the feeling of him wrapping his lips around the bud, tongue peeking through to flick at it.

"A-again-" you whined,

"'M sorry," he groaned, staring up at you with a smirk as he released your clit, flattening his tongue over the sensitive bud.

You were laid back, ass placed at the end of the bed, Geto was sitting back on his heels as he perched himself on the floor between your thighs, hand rapidly stoking over his throbbing cock.

"W-wipe that sm-ile off your face" you wined, trying to keep the little hold you had over geto.

He didnt stop smiling, but you could'nt tell when he burried his tongue inside your pussy, pressing his face hard into your wetness and shaking his head. His pointed nose rubbed your clit in the most delicious way when he did that.

"S-so fucking dirty" you chastised at how sloppily he was eating your cunt. He was trying to fuck his apology into your pussy with his tongue, really trying to prove how sorry he was.

Loud slurping noises bouncing off the walls and going straight to your head; and to his cock; making you both dizzy at the situation.

"Sorry I'm so nasty," he groaned, muffled by your folds as he tongue fucked you like his life depended on it.

Quickening the pace of his hand against his cock, he was squeezing it the same way your walls squeezed his tongue, trying to mimic the feeling. Pre was dripping steadily from his cock and onto the floor, leaving a little puddle there.

Geto was getting off on this so hard.

Every time you squeezed your thighs around his head and degraded him, his abs clenched, balls tightening with the need to blow his load.

"O-only thing youre good for is eating my pussy, f-fuck" you said meanly with a whimper, eyes dropping down to his handsome face and seeing how fucked out he looked from your words, as he nodded his head and moaned into you, agreeing with you.

He needed to you keep talking to him like that, to keep humping his face, suffocating him, treating him like a bitch, he needed it.

"Use me-" he cut himself off as he moved his mouth back up to your clit, making out with the little bud messily, "wanna show you how sorry I am." he drunkenly smiled at you.

You gripped his hair in a makeshift bun, rolling your hips against his face as he stuck his tongue out for you to get yoruself off on.

Groans of "mhm mhmm" could be heard from Geto between your legs, pumping his cock impossibly faster feeling your wetness gush out of you from his minstrations.

"Ohmygod feels so good- shit-" You wined, tipping your head back, feeling your orgasm build quicky as you rubbed against his tongue just right.

His chin was absolutely covered in your slick, pretty eyes rolling back in his head as he felt himself get pushed towards the edge as well, abandoning his hand keeping your thigh spread to join his other between his legs. He massaged his balls between his fingers, increasing the pleasure he felt while you worked towards your end together.

"Fuck t-tell me your sorry again," you whimpered out, teetering on the edge of your orgasm, "Sorry" his deep voice immediately groaned out, cock throbbing when you yanked on his hair.

"Ag-ain" your moans broke up your speech,

"Sorry, m' sorry, sorry-" He kept babbling against your pussy, sending delicious vibrations through you.

You were feeling hotter at the strange power dynamic going on, using that to your advantage as he kept mumbling the word into you, sending you straight into the most mindblowing orgasm of your life.

"Coming f-uck fuck f-" your voice getting cut off as your stomach started contracting and jerking, you rode your high out on his tongue while he groaned a lengthy moan into you.

Behind where your vision was blocked by the bed, Geto was cumming all over his hand and the bottom of your comforter.

Geto's eyes repeatedly rolled back in his head, hand massaging his cum out of his balls as he stroked himself roughly through his orgasm.

Finally being able to breathe when you loosened your legs from their hold on his neck, dropping your hands from his hair as you laid back on the sheets. Geto's hands wet with his seed came up to massage your thighs, his head rasing from between them.

You both took a second to breathe heavily into the open air, your cunt as his cock alike twitching in the aftershocks of your orgasms.

You felt his hold on you cease for a moment, a couple seconds later something was bouncing heavily next to your head. When you turned your head you were faced with a brand new, rose gold laptop, still in its packaging.

You looked back up at geto, who was now standing, running one of his damp hands through his hair, "If me eating your pussy didnt prove how sorry I am, I hope this will." He smirked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Fuck, Geto are you serious?" you beamed, picking your limp body up from the sheets and holding the package in your hands, he smiled at you fondly, watching you tear it open like a kid on Christmas.

Peeling the plastic from the cardboard you spoke, "Still making you delete all those photos by the way," resulting in him tipping his head back in a loud groan of defeat.

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fleuraliasave · 6 months ago

Text

❤ Version 8.0 Fleuralia Save File ❤

Download link down below (please read entire post before installing)

This save file uses all EP’s, GP’s, SP’s and most of the kits (Except Sweet Slumber Party, Cozy Kitsch, Urban Homage, Goth Galore, Grunge Revival, Carnaval Streetwear and Modern Menswear kits).

What’s new in this update?:

Ciudad Enamorada and Ravenwood have been completely redone, added multiple new lots, updated other lots and provided make-overs for the households.

Added new households (when living in world; with jobs, friends, preferences etc).

Current Status of Worlds:

Finished worlds: Willow Creek, Oasis Springs, Newcrest, Magnolia Promenade, Windenburg, San Myshuno, Forgotten Hollow, Brindleton Bay, Del Sol Valley, StrangerVille, Glimmerbrook, Sulani, Britechester , Evergreen Harbor, Mt. Komorebi, Henford-on-Bagley, Tartosa, Moonwood Mill, Copperdale, San Sequoia, Chestnut Ridge, Tomarang, Ciudad Enamorada (NEW!) and Ravenwood (NEW!).

Finished vacation worlds: Granite Falls and Selvadorada.

Finihed other lots: Hospital, Science Lab and the Police Station.

To be updated: the Magic Realm and Grimm's office, will either be included in a future update or on the gallery (OriginID: fleuralia)

What do you get with this save?:

For my save file all lots are either completely new builds (almost all) or renovations, ofcourse created by me. Exception: I have added the official build for the release of the Paranormal SP by Dr Ashley to this save. This build is therefore not my own creation, credits are given in the description to Dr Ashley. The lots in newer worlds are largely created by GameChangers. The ratio is around 50/50 with my builds versus renovations (done by me but with the original as the base).

All the townies had make-overs plus I added new families to spice it up a bit. Some of the townies are made by other creators, who are given credits in the description of the household. All the townies in the different worlds have a story, some include sentiments and adjusted relationships to the story.

Added plenty of community lots to give your Sims something to do (YAY!). Almost every world has one restaurant, but it also includes festivals that represent the four seasons (park lots) and a fully functional shopping street in Magnolia Promenade (toy store, bridal store and more).

I have added rental lots so you can go on vacation in more worlds. For example in Sulani, Willow Creek and Windenburg.

Other details:

As mentioned at the beginning, this save uses almost all packs (except some kits). This means that if you download it without owning or installing most of the packs a lot of objects will disappear from the save, but if you are not bothered by this you can still download and play in it.

I disabled the neigborhood action plan voting/environmental changes, you enable them again in the pack settings menu. I also disabled the neigborhood stories, you can enable them again in the household menu.

I would love to add some households in this save created by all of you! Add your household under the hashtag #fleuraliatownies in The Sims 4 Gallery, you can add a storyline and world in the description but thats not obligatory. If I respond on your creation it means that I have incorporated it in the save for the next update.

Sadly every game update comes with a lot of bugs. I suggest before reporting problems in the save to me, to check on forums if its related to a general bug/glitch or to mods (if you use them).

Questions and supportive feedback are always welcome, you can reach me here via a comment on this post, an ask or through a DM ��

As said in my previous post I will be slowly starting on moving the builds and sims to a fresh save to help with bugs and incorporate fixes from the Sims team that only work in fresh saves (like Grimm not being able to woohoo). But this will take me some time, when its nearly done I will update on here as always.

How to make it work in your game:

Download the save file from the link below.

Drag it in your saves folder under: PC/Documents/Electronic Arts/The Sims 4/saves.

Change the numbers if you already have a save with the same name.

It should now show up in your game as: Fleuralia Save V 8.0.

DOWNLOAD (SFS) / Alternate (GD)

!!Don’t re-upload or claim as your own!!

Future updates will follow after each pack release (if it includes a world). The time the update will be uploaded after each release depends on how much I have to change and on my work schedule around that time.

Last but not least, enjoy and till next time! XX

Fleuralia

Feel free to support me ❤️: Ko-fi account

#fleuraliasave #sims 4 save file #update #save file #fleuraliatownies #the sims 4

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killerpancakeburger · 1 year ago

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KNIGHT IN SHINING KHAKI

Gif by @bastardcompany

SUMMARY: You've angered the wrong officer. You think you're a goner when Johnny sweeps in to save the day.

PAIRING: Soap x f!Reader ("her" is used to refer to reader once, that's it) (+ Reader's hair is long enough to grab)

TAGS: Civilian!Reader, Depressed!Reader, Insecure!Reader, Angry!Soap, Protective!Soap, GuardDog!Soap, canon violence, hurt/comfort, swearing, blood mention. Ghost makes an appearance as a matchmaker lol. The love is requited they're just insecure idiots. Making Shit Up for the Plot/military inaccuracies.

WORD COUNT: 2.7k

A/N: My original prompt for this was: civilian!reader sees Soap in action and gets Horny. No Scared Just Horny.

Then I found out that Soap canonically beat up an officer. I am also obsessed with this video.

Part 1. Part 3.

This is it, you thought to yourself.

This is how I die.

The day had unfolded like any other. Your shift was over and you were locking up your office, as usual. Your attention was focused on your hands’ motion, your guard dropped, your back exposed.

This explained why, when the stranger grabbed your hair and bashed your head against the door mercilessly, you didn’t see it coming in the slightest. The fact that you had zero combat experience while the person manhandling you was a decorated military officer obviously made matters worse, but at the moment of the assault, you didn’t know that.

The thud of the collision was eclipsed almost immediately by the pain exploding in your face. Half-stunned, all you could comprehend at the moment, every single signal sent by your brain was compacted in one word: suffering. Sharp, all-encompassing. You yelped, your hands vainly pushing against the cold, hard surface to get away.

“I've finally found you, you little snitch. Didn’t think you'd get away with it, now did you?”

Despite the blood thumping in your ears, and how groggy the hit on your head made you, his words reached you perfectly. They were seeping with fury and disdain. His voice didn’t ring a bell, so you tried to turn your head to glimpse him, if only at the corner of your eye, and he granted you some leeway to do so.

Perplexity filled you as you finally caught sight of your aggressor: you've never seen that man before.

“I don't even know who you are,” you winced.

Talking back in your situation would be judged stupid and reckless by a majority of people. Laying low assured more chances to avoid harm.

However most people hadn't been mugged at knifepoint like you had been, and most people valued their lives way more than you did.

Once the confusion and incredulity subsided, the pain still vivid but manageable, you were left with frustration and anger towards your interminable bad luck and the man behind you. His aversion was harder to take seriously when it seemed to have no foundation.

The grip on your hair tightened, making you grit your teeth.

“I'll refresh your memory, then.”

One part of you managed to be pleased to know that this mystery would be solved; the rest was ringing alarm bells when hearing the underlying threats in his tone.

“Weeks ago, you filed a report for embezzlement.”

You frowned, having no recollection of his claims, before a memory emerged. You saw them in flashes: the sudden, abnormally high spendings, the certificates full of anomalies, the incoherent dates; all this lead you to complete a reporting form, just as your job required you to. It was just a formality. You hadn't even even paid attention to the name attached to the expenses, therefore the officer was still anonymous.

Your aggressor scoffs menacingly, easily reading on your face that you remembered.

“They're gonna strip me of my rank and throw me in jail because of you. I'll make you pay even if it’s the last thing I do.”

That last sentence was finished in an almost shout, making you flinch, wishing you could pass through the door.

You quietly resigned yourself to your fate. No one was coming for you. You were no stranger to the inner workings of the military - no one would dare cross an officer that high-ranked for your sake.

I've lived a good li- well, no. A pretty shitty life, actually. But at least I can say I did the right thing.

Just as you closed your eyes and braced yourself, hoping this wouldn’t drag on, a Scottish-accentuated roar resonated in the empty hall.

“Get yer hands off her-”

You had never heard Soap sound so enraged, nor his pitch so gravelly. Relief flooded through you at the sound of his voice, blended with gratitude. Tears stinged the corners of your eyes.

All of a sudden the unyielding grip on your hair was gone, the sound of something violently hitting the wall punctuating your newfound freedom.

“-ye fucking bastard!”

You immediately turned around to see what was happening, leaning against the door behind you. Your legs were too shaky to be reliable. The harmed side of your face was throbbing in pain as you took in the scene with wide eyes.

Johnny had pinned the officer against the wall with one forearm across his chest. He dealt him a punch to the face powerful enough that the resulting thud made you grimace, despite not feeling any sympathy for his target.

He managed to administer a second blow before his adversary snapped out of his stupor, and the advantage he gained from taking him by surprise ran its course.

As your assailant defended himself with the strength of someone backed into a corner, you couldn't help but fear for Soap's safety for a moment. Despite knowing that one's rank didn’t reflect their fighting prowess, a rush of anxiety passed through you at the idea that he could lose that confrontation.

Nonetheless, he quickly put your mind at ease as his skills proved to be largely superior. The gap between the two was deep enough that it was obvious even to a neophyte like you.

Paralyzed, you couldn’t do anything but stare at the display of violence with a mix of morbid fascination and sadistic satisfaction. Honestly, if you could borrow Soap's body, you would without a doubt inflict the same treatment on that man. Maybe worse. Fair payback for the threats, the smashing of your face, the probable trauma you'd get from this. Maybe not that fair. But maybe for once you'd stop trying to act like a paragon of virtue.

You should have been scared, you realized. You had never been involved in a fight before. You had never witnessed firsthand the brutality Johnny was capable of, despite being aware of it, between his status as a soldier and the reports you read. The dog tags jingling from his neck and the khaki of his uniform were like so many visual reminders that he was a killing machine. His ferocious wrath, his yelling and his punches should have made you cower in fright.

However the only feeling inhabiting you was safety, as paradoxical as it sounded. Soap was safe, you were convinced of it, consciously or not.

This whole ordeal felt like it lasted an eternity and a minute at the same time. You blinked and out of nowhere, Johnny was straddling the officer on the floor. Blows kept pouring in but they were one-sided - the sergeant had gained the upper hand. The rhythm of his strikes seemed attuned to the beatings of your heart. Each resonated inside of your ears with your skull as their echo chamber. The noise was loud enough to cover your own thoughts.

As you focused on your breathing, you managed to slow down your heartbeats, and the blood-fueled pump between your ribs no longer felt like it could burst out of your chest at any moment. You failed however to contain the tremor in your hands.

You chose to focus on Soap's hands instead. They were soaked red from blood spilled, but not his. Specks of crimson sprinkled his hair, his face, his neck, his t-shirt.

There was a certain sort of lethal beauty to this brutal display that you couldn't help but contemplate in reverent silence: the way his bicep swole when he threw his arm back before hitting his target. The tightening of the muscles beneath the tanned skin of his arms. His icy stare. The harsh line of his jaw. His stern, inflexible expression, one he usually wore in meetings or after Price gave the order to leave.

The expression of someone who would stop at nothing, provided a bleak little voice in the back of your mind. The idea didn’t bother you nearly as much as it should have.

“Not gonna make him stop?”

The familiar grunt of Ghost's voice almost made you jump out of your skin. You pivoted and the behemoth of a lieutenant was there, in casual clothes, right by your side. You had no idea when he arrived or how long he's been standing there, quiet like a shadow.

Something dark flashed in his brown eyes as his gaze lingered on the hurt side of your face.

“Why would I show mercy to someone who would have granted me none?” you scoffed bitterly.

“Someone's bloodthirsty.”

“You're one to talk.”

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

You turned your attention back to Soap and Ghost did the same.

“I doubt he would listen to me.”

“He would,” stated the masked man, with the assertiveness of someone announcing a conviction.

“But if ya don't believe me…”

A beat, then.

“Oï, Johnny!”

The shout was nonchalant, like it was something he did often, calling off his sergeant from some prey like the Scotsman was his personal attack dog.

The effect was immediate.

Soap abruptly froze, blinking a couple times as if awakening from a trance. Then he perked up, and turned around, eyes searching. The first sound that left his lips was a call of your name. His gaze latched onto you and didn’t let go as he stood up and rushed towards you. The naked vulnerability, the raw openness in his voice and on his face were so earnest that they felt like a Cupid's arrow shot straight between your lungs. It left you devoid of speech and motion, so as Johnny reached for you, all you could do was try to convey your reassurances through your eyes; that you were mostly fine, and so grateful, but worried for him, that he made everything better-

His arms closing around you made the outside disappear, and suddenly the whole world came down to Johnny, and only him. His embrace was enjoyable for a second before the pressure of his body against your face woke up your contusions. You let out a muffled cry of pain and he released you immediately, swearing and apologizing. However his hands didn’t leave you, grasping your shoulders.

“C'mere hen, lemme have a look at ye.”

“Oh, I'm fine, you should worry about-”

Your voice pathetically died in your throat as he cupped your face, leaning over, way too close for your heart to not start stammering uncontrollably.

The combined attention of his fingertips on your skin and the turquoise of his eyes roaming your visage turned your cheeks into a blazing inferno.

Unable to maintain eye contact, your gaze wandered over his own injuries, a split lip and a couple of bruises.

Suddenly he grabbed your chin between his thumb and index, tilting your face one way and the other. Your skin flared up at the contact, pleasant yet nervous tingles scattering all over your body.

“Ye sure he didn’t hit ye on that side? Yer a wee bit red.”

You bit back a whine of complaint at that comment. He couldn’t be that oblivious.

“Yer makin’ it worse, Johnny.” sneaked Ghost, the amusement manifest in his voice - at least to you.

Soap looked up to him, frowning in incomprehension, indignant.

“The hell ya on aboot L.T.? How am ah makin’ it worse?”

You panicked.

“Shut up Riley!” you hissed, in a desperate attempt to put a stop to his shenanigans, forgetting that you were supposed to be severely intimidated by the masked man.

That drew a gruff chuckle out of him. Your sudden outburst caused Johnny to release you.

“Not that I'm not glad to see you, but why are you two even here, anyway?”

You were kind of proud of your ability to change the subject.

“Was comin’ tae get ye fer a game,” smiled Soap, and it reminded you of a pet proudly presenting its owners with its findings.

“This one wasn’t coming back, and neither of you were answering your phones, so we figured somethin’ went wrong. And we were right. This poor fucker is wanted. Called in reinforcements to deal with him.”

Footsteps’ noises caught your attention. A group of soldiers in uniform seized your aggressor and brought him to his feet, before unceremoniously shoving him in the direction opposite of you.

“Gotta tell Gaz the game ain't happening tonight.”

By the time you took in what Ghost had said, and turned away from the procession, he had already disappeared.

“This isn’t over,” menaced the officer, passing by your spot as he was hauled away. “When I get out-”

“Shut the fuck up,” snarled Soap instantly, protectively positionning himself in front of you.

“Found yourself a faithful guard dog, uh?” the other man taunted.

One one hand, that last remark wasn’t so far from the truth - he had been acting a lot like that: barking threats, baring his teeths, standing between you and the menace, reducing a man to a bloody pulp for hitting you…

But on the other hand, letting that piece of shit talk to Johnny this way was simply out of the question.

Before thinking, you found yourself walking in front of the sergeant and retorting.

“What, jealous he's ten times the man you'll never be?”

Fortunately for you, he was dragged away before he could snap anything back. That didn’t prevent you from regretting your snarky comment immediately. It had been a purely impulsive urge, the kind that could make you feel heavy remorse for days, if not years. As if this seasoned combat expert needed your aid to defend himself. The idea was ludicrous.

You didn’t get a moment to mope around however, as Johnny proceeded to grab you by the hips and press you flush against him with a jubilant smirk. You couldn’t do much except prop yourself with both hands on his pectorals to avoid stumbling.

“My hero.” he praised like a smitten damsel in distress.

“Look who's talking.”

You lowered your gaze despite yourself, mumbling your reply, a half smile on your lips, embarrassed but amused.

“Going after bastards is mah job, not yours. You gutsy little thing.”

You refrained a sarcastic laughter at the nickname - gutsy and little were two things you have never been called, as far as you can remember. But you weren't about to argue with the man who just saved your sorry ass.

His fingers pressed into your flesh, sending tickles at the bottom of your spine.You were about to ask him to let you go, the position too incriminating for this public setting, when you noticed how dilated his pupils were. He had to be high on adrenaline from the fight.

You may have let yourself get lost in the blue pools of his eyes, until his expression turned grave.

“Ye sure yer good? Yer too calm about this. No need tae put oan a brave face fer me, aye?”

The genuine, serious concern in his eyes made the inside of your stomach twist.

“I'm good. You arrived just in time,” you assured.

How peculiar it felt to be the one to comfort Johnny, rather than the opposite; that the lionhearted, superhuman sergeant Mactavish might even need such a thing; that he might require it from you, of all people.

“He didn’t get to do much.”

His pretty features contorted into a scowl at the reminder of your attacker.

“That sonuvabitch… raising a hand on ye in broad fuckin’ daylight… if he ever touches ye again, I swear I’ll…”

As he kept fulminating against your assailant, you couldn’t stop an endeared smile from spreading on your lips. Listening to one of Soap's rants brightened your mood; it was familiar. The sincerity in his words and his tone was welcome. He wasn’t able to fake those emotions even if he wanted to; they spilled out of him like a waterfall. His honest worry and righteous ire towards someone who hurt you was… flattering, in a sense. It made you feel cared for, like you mattered.

Then red started dripping.

“Johnny… your nose is bleeding.”

He wiped it negligently with the back of his hand, only succeeding in smearing it over his face. You couldn’t hold back a snort.

“Bend over. It will stop faster.”

“Buy me dinner first.”

He punctuated his quip with a suggestive wriggle of his eyebrows. You rolled your eyes.

“Let's just go to medical already.” you grumbled, starting to walk decisively, albeit stiffly, in the right direction.

“Aye, aye,” acquiesced your savior, jogging a bit to catch up to you.

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jihyoruri · 22 days ago

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❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ HOUSE OF BALLOONS (richgirl!yn | chaewon x reader )

richgirl ⭢ that girl (she’s delicious) ⭢ idon’t smoke ⭢ pretty when you cry ⭢ homesick ⭢ super rich kids ⭢ girl, so confusing ⭢ take your mask off ⭢ carmen ⭢ untitled

— BONUNS CHAPTER | the dark sides of the moon family- the tales of the three young moons on a power trip (or slowly loosing their minds) the lost media of the young heirs that can never be found

SEPTEMBER 1st 2016

ARTICLE HEADLINE—“RICH KIDS GONE BAD??”

“a deeply unsettling video featuring moon yn, a first-year high school student, and her older brother moon jae, now in his final year, has started circulating online and it’s sparking serious concern.” click the video below ⭣

the shaky footage, clearly taken in secret, shows the two siblings in their school uniforms, each wearing a distinct chanel brooch. but this was no time to admire their luxury.

the video begins with a girl standing nervously in front of them. jae has his hand under her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes. his words are too quiet to hear, but his body language says enough, sharp, intimidating, and cold.

he lets go of her chin and moves his hand to her shoulder in what looks like a comforting gesture, until he begins applying pressure, pushing her down until she’s sitting against the wall. he lets out a low laugh and walks away, leaving yn standing over the girl.

yn kneels in front of her, mimicking her brother’s earlier gesture. she lifts the girl’s chin again, but where jae’s aggression was clear, yn is harder to read calm, collected, and unreadable in a way that makes your skin crawl. she says something too quiet to hear, then smirks.

as she straightens up, she turns her head, looking directly into the camera. there's a soft gasp from behind the phone as the person filming realizes they’ve been caught. the video cuts off abruptly.

the internet explodes… and then goes quiet

but as quickly as the clip emerged, it vanished. users began reporting that links were broken, posts were mysteriously deleted, and accounts sharing the video were suddenly locked or suspended. some claimed the file had been “scrubbed” from search engines entirely. a few who claimed to have saved the video reported their files becoming corrupted.

with no formal statement from the moon family and no official media coverage, the moment began to fade from public memory. a handful of reddit threads and obscure blog posts remain, clinging to what little evidence is left, but for the most part, the world has moved on.

those who still remember are left with questions, unease, and an unsettling silence.

but who they to question what’s going with the moon family? whatever yn and jae did was completely warranted obviously.

THE VIDEO IN THIS ARTICLE IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

OCTOBER 31st 2016

ARTICLE HEADLINE—“WHO WOULD’VE THOUGHT THE YOUNGEST WOULD BE LIVING UP THE MOON NAME THE MOST?”

“a voice audio of who seems to be moon yn the youngest of the moon family talking to a teacher has people thinking only one thing, her father sure did raise her.” click the video below to hear the audio⭣

it starts off soft.

“sir…” her voice is sweet, almost delicate. “I’ve been feeling like this for a while, and my brother’s noticed it too. it seems like you’ve been treating us a little unfairly… because of our name? would i be correct if i said that?”

there’s a pause before the man responds, calm and condescending. “yes, you would.” his voice is firm, too confident. “the moons need humbling, and you prove that every day. I’ve been doing this since your oldest brother was here. he took it. so did jae. now it’s your turn. moons don’t deserve the benefit of the doubt, so suck it up, young lady.”

“oh…” she sounds hurt. quiet. small. but don’t be fooled.

“that’s too bad,” she says, and there’s a shift. some faint shuffling. her tone sharpens, losing its sweetness. “but here’s the thing… I’m not like my brothers. take that as a mental note.”

he doesn’t respond. silence.

“but anywho…” she sighs, fake and theatrical. “I should get going. it’s a shame we couldn’t come to better terms.”

then, her voice lowers to a near whisper. “but I guess everyone’s gonna love to hear about how much you like your female students.”

the laugh that follows is soft. too soft. and then, the audio cuts.

as of now, moon yn, is rumored to be a trainee under sm entertainment. insiders claim she’s been groomed for the spotlight her whole life, and based on this clip, it’s clear she knows how to perform, even when no cameras are supposed to be rolling.

but just like the infamous school hallway video of the moon siblings, this audio has vanished from the internet.

accounts that posted the original clip were suspended, links broken, files corrupted. forums discussing the audio were locked or mass reported. even users who claimed to have saved it privately say the file mysteriously disappeared or won’t play. no trace remains, and most who've heard it now speak of it like an urban legend, something you had to be online at the right time to witness.

and now, another piece of moon family history is buried.

but hey, she was so right, who was he to mistreat a moon?

THE AUDIO INCLUDED IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

FEBRUARY 5th 2017

ARTICLE HEADLINE — “ALL THREE MOON SIBLINGS CAUGHT IN DISTURBING LATE NIGHT FOTAGE.”

a leaked clip of daeun, jae, and yn leaving an exclusive bar has resurfaced whispers about the moon family and this time, no one was laughing. click the video below to watch ⭣

it’s dark, filmed from across the street, blurry, shaky, and obviously taken in secret.

the video opens with the glowing sign of the club, an exclusive bar only frequented by chaebols, heirs, and politicians' children. entry is invite only. drinks are never cheap. and minors are never allowed.

but in the video, all three moon siblings step out of the building. daeun, the eldest and the only one legally allowed to drink, walks out first in a sleek designer coat, jaw tight with exhaustion. jae follows, swaying slightly as he pushes his hair back and looks like he’s trying to hold back a glare. and yn the youngest walks behind them both, not stumbling, but not exactly steady either.

the three of them look like they’re falling apart in silence. no one speaks. no one smiles. the air is thick.

a black car pulls up, but none of them move toward it.

daeun turns to jae and says something low. he flinches. daeun throws his cigarette down. yn leans against the wall, staring at the pavement like it’s talking to her. none of them look like they want to be there. none of them look like they want to go home either.

and then, jae lashes out, not violently, but enough to startle. he kicks something near the curb, mutters something at yn that makes her roll her eyes, and she finally snaps back. it’s silent on video, but the way they speak, no hesitation, no filter, it’s clear the masks they wear in public aren’t on tonight.

daeun rubs his temples. he looks older than ever.

the three eventually pile into the car. the door slams shut. and the video ends.

why was this ever online?

the footage appeared online late one night under the caption “are the moons okay?” and in less than an hour, it was reposted hundreds of times. viewers weren’t shocked by the drinking, they were disturbed by what it revealed.

“daeun looks like he’s seen hell.” “yn isn’t old enough to drink and she looked the most checked out.” “jae’s energy is always so off. the way he moved… i can’t explain it but it made me sick.” “why did they just stand there like that for so long? they looked so… broken.”

and then it was gone.

just like the school hallway video. just like the teacher audio. accounts were suspended, posts wiped, and copies of the video corrupted or removed. users now speak about it like some sort of cursed file — if you didn’t see it when it dropped, you probably never will.

some believe sm’s legal team got involved now that yn is a trainee. others say the moon family themselves had it buried. and a few claim it was never supposed to exist at all.

THE VIDEO INCLUDED IS NOW UNAVAILABLE.

#richgirl!yn #lesserafim x reader #lesserafim #le sserafim x reader #chaewon x reader #kim chaewon #chaewon #kim chaewon x reader #girl group imagines

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peariote · 2 months ago

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YAAAYYYY OMG TYSM!

okok so could u pls write a mari x f reader?

maybe she's best friends with jackie and shauna and they notice she'd been spending more amd more time with mari or just around her.

reader is 100% in love with mari😔🙏

THANK YOU!

mari x reader pretty gworl !!! love her. absolutely forgot this was finished and in my drafts. so sorry to my mari lovers

The lunch area was already bustling when you got there. Obviously, you’d expected Jackie and Shauna to already have a table. Who else would be there, though? That’s the question.

Sometimes Lottie and Nat filed in, giggly and absorbed in each other in a way that screamed that they had been smoking whatever pot Nat got her hands on. Others, Tai would come to talk to Shauna about English—Van following to talk to Jackie about whatever movie they’d recommended her. But the best days were—

“Mari!” You’re bounding over before you even realize, plopping down next to the familiar head of black hair instead of next to your best friends. Her resulting nose crinkle is only for show; she’s always saving face for the few seconds before she relaxes into your energy.

“Yes, yes, hi. I know, you love me.” Her response is flippant, as expected—but she also hits the nail on the head. And of course, Shauna notices your hitch of breath, subtle as it is.

Her gaze turns to you, suspicious glare firmly planted. All you can do is avoid her gaze, smiling indulgently at something Van quips. The table laughs, and the awkward moment melts away.

The next few weeks, Jackie and Shauna get noticeably more skeptical. You were already aware they were protective—no girl got through to you without their thorough scrutinization. The team, apparently, was no exception.

“So… what’s up with you and Mari?” They’d set it up perfectly—a sleepover, a few beers snuck from Mr. Taylor’s stash, and a the sound of her radio crackling softly with the mixtape’s old tape. It’s probably almost burned through with how much you’ve played it.

You were all sporting a healthy buzz—enough to make Jackie giggly and Shauna slightly sullen—and they’d relaxed you with a quiet activity. Jackie had insisted on painting your nails, pushing you down and making quick work applying the polish. The question comes completely out of left field, and it shows with how you blink owlishly.

“…what?” You’re just a bit caught off guard and a bit too tipsy for this. They grin—well, Jackie does. Shauna returns your wide-eyed gaze with something much more focused.

“You’re into Mari.” Shauna murmurs. She’s not asking you—not in the slightest.

…fuck. You’re caught now. The scrunch of your face tells them all they need to know, but they want to hear it from your lips.

“…yes.” You confirm, careful not to jostle Jackie’s work with your sudden, uncomfortable shift.

All you get, surprisingly, is a hum from the both of them. Despite their apparent acceptance, it settles in your gut like a rock. You’re uneasy—and you’re well within your right to be.

The sleepover, and its resulting uneasiness, has faded in the haze of alcohol and the slow effluxion of time. You’re unassuming when Jackie and Shauna ask you out to the drive in—another girl’s night to see some terrible slasher film. Nothing out of the ordinary.

They both leave you to “get snacks”, as they said, but with the way Jackie giggles and the slow, easy smile spreading across Shauna’s face you wouldn’t be surprised if they were scheming. Or hooking up—you should’ve considered that sooner.

It’s seems to be the first answer.

You’re treated to the sound of muffled yells and ceaseless giggles getting closer—slowly creeping towards you and around the car.

“You bitches—let me go—“

The movie’s snuck into your brain, the sudden thought of a killer swiftly dashed when your idiotic best friends shove Mari into the open trunk of Shauna’s shitty hatchback—the seats folded down for more room.

Then they’re running off, probably to stow away in Lottie’s car. Mari’s yells after them, now without a hand over her mouth.

“Fuck you two!”

It’s enough to make you laugh, her attention swiftly turning to yours. Her acute gaze, burning with anger, directed completely at you is overwhelming enough to bring heat to your cheeks.

“…did they plan this with you, or…” she huffs, settling back against the makeshift wall of pillows and spread of blankets you’d carpeted the car’s trunk with—resigned to her fate.

“No, no.” You confirm through laughter. “They just…”

You pause, lick your lips. Your gaze flickers away, so you don’t notice how she follows it.

“They just know… that I like you.” It’s uncomfortably earnest—hanging between you. In a bid to end break the tension you turn your eyes back to the movie, just in time to see the 12th terribly SFX-ed murder. You don’t get to look long, though.

Mari’s fingers push your jaw, bringing your face back into her eyeline.

“You’re not fucking with me?” She mumbles lowly, focused so intently your cheeks burn.

“No. Not fucking with you.” You respond through a shaky exhale. Your next inhale is interrupted by the press of her lips, the touch swallowing the air from your lungs.

“You should’ve told me that before your cronies kidnapped me.”

“Well, I didn’t know they’d do that.”

#kiera’s fics #yellowjackets #mari yellowjackets #mari ibarra #mari x reader #mari ibarra x reader #mari x you #mari ibarra x you #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x you

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fgojous · 1 month ago

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love wins all | chapter one ( satoru g. )

from childhood summers and petty high school banters, to the endless college lectures—med school and the chaos of residency, you've been through it all. you've built everything together. you're each other's home—everything. but what if your relationship breaks beyond repair? what if the one thing you couldn't save was each other? can your love still win it all?

neurosurgeon!gojo x trauma surgeon!reader

warnings. romance, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, hurt no comfort, fluff, medical au, established relationships, high school sweethearts, unresolved feelings, unresolved issues, grief, emotional repression, mutual pining, emotional trauma, childhood trauma, explicit sexual content | eighteen plus only!

word count. 5.5k

masterlist.

note. hi, here's chapter one. please ignore the errors (or some inaccuracies lol). i hope you enjoy! reblogs are appreciated <3

CHAPTER ONE: MEET THE GOJOS!

You stare at the mug in front of you. Carefully watching the steam curl up lazily, blending in the atmosphere along with the sterile smell of the hospital lounge. You have been awake for what—eighteen hours? Maybe nineteen or twenty. You’ve lost count somewhere between stitching a ruptured artery and watching one of your patients almost code in front of you.

You could feel everything. Your eyes burn, the ache just below your brows, the tightness of your back but despite it all, one thing was running through your mind—your husband, or soon-to-be ex-husband, if he could just sign the papers. But he wouldn’t give you that satisfaction, right? He just couldn’t let you go.

But why? Why is he dragging this out when he knows this is far that you can go. This relationship is already flatlined. He knows it, you know it. You both know it.

The door opens, and without even looking at it you recognize the person who just came in. You know it by his scent, the way he moved, the way he could just take over a room, you know it all too well.

“You did good today.” he says gently, too familiar, too comfortable. “My shift just ended. We should go—”

“Sign the papers.”

He stops, and you look his way. He’s staring at you with that face again—like he couldn’t believe that you were saying it that easily when you’ve been with him for what—nineteen years? You stare at him, his hands stopping midway from unbuttoning his coat.

“You need to sleep.”

“Did you hear me?” you say once again, too brave to stare right in his eyes, but too cowardly to acknowledge the ache growing inside your chest.

“I did.” he looked away, opening his locker, methodically shoving his white coat inside. His hand lingers on the edge, “We should go home.”

Ah. Home. Home where all the floors are neatly polished, where dishes are barely used anymore.

Home where you sit across each other in complete silence, barely looking at each other. Home where you sleep in the same bed but your backs facing each other, like there’s a cliff in between your bodies.

Where you pretend that this is something that you could fix. Believing that this was just a phase in your marriage even though you filed for divorce three weeks ago.

You don’t even know if you could call that home anymore when you have been sleeping in the on-call room for God knows how long.

You push the chair back, the wood screeching on the tiled floor, “I’m going to sleep in the on-call room. I need to monitor my patient anyway.”

You almost sprinted out of the break room, your freshly made coffee discarded on the table. You couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

Not because you’re angry. But because you couldn’t fathom this feeling where he doesn’t try enough but doesn’t want to let you go. And you hate it, you hate all of it.

You were tired of arguing.

The door clicked behind you.

It hit that you were alone, that no matter what you did, you still felt alone. No matter how he says that he was there, you still felt alone. You gripped your coat, letting your tears silently fall down your cheeks as you toss your coat on the chair.

You kick your shoes off, letting them land wherever, you let your body fall on the cot. You stare at the ceiling and you just breathe.

You press your face to your hands, letting your feelings catch up to you. Maybe he’s right, you were just tired. Maybe you just needed sleep because when was the last time you slept? You don’t even know. You don’t remember.

When was the last time you let yourself feel something? When was the last time you didn’t push something down? You wanted to scream, you wanted to throw things.

But instead, you bury your face on the worn out cotton of the pillow. Nothing like the one you have at home. Nothing like you have with him.

You reach for your phone, the screen is bright, no new messages.

Your patient is stable, post-op vitals are holding and you aren’t on-call. You could message him. You could go home with him.

Maybe he’s still here, still waiting. But you stop yourself because once you do—once you let yourself give in, you might take it all back and you can’t afford to do that.

Not when you’re the one who wanted to end it. Not when you’re the one who messed it up.

You hear the door open and you immediately turn to the other side, you tuck your arms under your chest.

You could feel the cot sink. Confusion washes over you when he nudged you to move but you did anyway. He lays beside you, hands gripping your waist gently to pull you close to him.

The contact made you shudder. It has been months— three months, since you’ve been this close.

“What are you doing?”

“If you want to sleep here, then we’ll sleep here.” he says, his voice steady. His hand slides under your scrubs—to hold you, to feel you. His palms press against the skin of your stomach, the contact making your spine shiver.

“Satoru.” you breathe, gripping his wrist as a warning.

You have no idea what’s running on your husband’s mind. Why? Why is he doing this now?

“I just want to hold you.” he murmurs against your shoulder, his lips brushing on the soft of your skin, “Please, just let me hold you.”

His thumb strokes the curve of your waist and you almost break, you almost falter. Everything he does, everything he does could break you in a way that nothing else could.

You missed this. You missed him more than you could admit.

You could push him when he pressed a soft kiss on your neck. You could pull away when he turns you around to face him. You could look away when he stares into your eyes.

But you don’t. You just let him. You just let him take the gap between the two of you, until your lips are inches away from each other—then none at all.

You gasp, like he’s taking your breath from you. He looks at you with worry, he always does. Like you’re going to break if he utters just one word.

You didn’t know who moved first, but all you knew at this moment was to cling to him, press your lips against him like your life depended on it.

“We shouldn’t.” you whisper in between.

“Then tell me to go. Tell me, and I’ll leave.” he says softly, leaning his forehead against yours.

But you don’t answer, you kiss him again, slowly—hesitantly. Your lips quiver as you did, your body was tearing down the part of you that still wanted to be strong. His white strands slipping in between your fingers as you pull him in, he bites your lip tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do so.

But you deepen the kiss, pulling him a little bit more closely as if there’s still space left in between, and suddenly, he wasn’t hesitating anymore. He was kissing you with certainty—earnestly, you could feel the ache with every move his lips make.

You clutched onto him desperately, like you’ve been deprived of touch for so long. And you… have. For too long.

Your trembling hands reach for the hem of his shirt and he helps you, pulling it up until it’s teared away from him, his hands lifting your shirt over your head in return.

He pulls your pants down along with your underwear, allowing him to see the skin that he has touched for years, the skin that he has adored and worshipped.

His lips find their way to yours again, his hands slid on your back unclasping your bra. Your hands travelling down to the waistband of his pants, pushing it down eminently, more than you intend to.

His kisses went to your face, to your jaw, down to your collarbone. You’re becoming too sensible in the way your bodies are close. You could feel his weight pinning down on you and all you could think about was how you love him. How you’d give him everything without a second thought.

Even if he didn’t ask you to.

All you could think about is how he’s touching you, how he’s making you feel like you’re his whole universe.

His breath hitches. All that’s running through his mind was he’s touching you again—like he has been starved, like feeling you against his skin would make him whole again.

He kisses your skin like he has never seen it before. His hands palms your waist, his thumbs pressing gently on your skin. “You’re so beautiful. You’re so… fuck. I..” he murmurs against your skin.

His hands slide in between your legs, coaxing it open. You gasp, arching your body into him as he slid his fingers inside you—curling up, just enough to make your hips jerk. You felt your thighs twitch, you grasp on his wrist, letting yourself unravel in the safest place you knew. He watches your face, how your eyes flutter. How your lips tremble, he listens to you breathe.

“Satoru.” you gripped his hair, “I need you. Please.”

He almost loses his mind when you beg him. It has been months since you’ve been like this to him, it’s driving him crazy. It’s so infuriating how much he wants you—how much he loves you.

How much he’d give you all of him.

He kisses you again like it’d kill him if he doesn’t, he groans into your mouth when you pull him, your hands gripping his waist as you push him closer. You’re so desperate, hopelessly desperate.

“Please,” you gasp, almost whispering, out of breath, “Please.”

Without saying anything, he positioned himself into you, both gasping as he pushed inside, you bit your lip as you felt the abrupt stretch—neither of you moved for a bit, savoring every second he filled you in.

You gripped his shoulder, your nails digging a bit on his skin. You should stop him, you shouldn’t let him. But, it felt like home. Yes, fuck, it felt like home.

Because he is your home. What were you thinking? What are you doing?

“God.” he whispers, pressing his forehead against yours, “I miss you.”

Tears prick from the corner of your eyes because of this overwhelming ache of needing him, of him needing you—and how it terrified you.

You wanted to say it back.

You really did.

Instead, you reeled him in. You kiss him, and he sinks into you more. Slowly moving his hips, driving himself deeper—harder. All your sane thoughts vanished into thin air as he abandoned all his restraint, slamming you into oblivion.

You wanted to curse him, for making your chest ache, for making you feel good. For fucking you too good.

The cot creaks, and you were biting down your lip to keep yourself quiet—but all that went out the window when he was hitting all the right spots in you because he knows it all. He knows your body like no one else.

He knew every inch of you, he knew how to make you fall apart. He knew where to touch you like he owns all of you.

His fingers find yours again, intertwining them as he buries them on the cushion atop your head. Then you feel it, that familiar sensation building up on your stomach, fast.

“Satoru.” you heave, your legs losing all its strength, you tighten around him. “I’m going to…”

You were breathless, uncontrolled—like a string waiting to snap. Your whole body tightens. Your mind was spiraling—you didn’t deserve him, you didn’t deserve to experience his love like this but your body didn’t care, because you craved him. You needed him.

It was—is, selfish but you’re letting him down with you again.

“Fuuuck.” You heard him groan, his face burying on your neck as his breath ghosts over your ears. “You feel so good.”

He doesn’t stop, his pace quickens—your breathing was sharp, stuttered. You close your eyes. “No, baby. Look at me.”

His voice was ragged, “Look at me, please. I need to see your face.”

And it hits you hard, you grasp his arm as you hold onto the piece of sanity that’s left of you. Pleasure coursing through your whole body, you gripped him as if he’s the only one anchoring you to the surface.

Then you felt the tremble in his arms, the way his hips slowed down, his voice shattering as he let himself go.

His body collapsed on top of yours. You didn’t speak, you didn’t move. You just listened to him trying to catch air, you felt the warmth of his breath on your neck—your fingers gently stroking his hair.

You didn’t know if this is something you’d regret. You didn’t know if this would fix things or become another wound that you would carelessly patch up.

But you didn’t let go.

—

The shrill sound of the alarm woke you up, you tapped the side of the cot where your phone is, desperately trying to turn it off. Then you see his message,

Satoru | 8:56 AM

I got pulled into a surgery. Didn’t wake you up. I’ll see you later.

Then you see the second message.

Satoru | 8:58 AM

I love you.

Your chest aches.

Then you look down, you see a blanket carefully wrapped around you. You pulled it up to your face, his perfume still etched on the cotton, remembering the thing that happened this morning.

The one where you shouldn’t have let happen. Because, you’re divorcing him—no, you’re saving him.

Right? From you?

You pushed the blanket hastily and looked at the time, it’s already 1 pm. No one has paged you or anything. And you really need to take a bath. You sat up, rubbing your eyes, tossing your phone onto the side to pick your clothes up from the floor, clutching the blanket close to your chest. Hoping that no one came in while you were sleeping in here—naked.

You got dressed and looked at your reflection in the mirror. What have you done?

You sighed, picking up your white coat along with your hospital badge from the chair.

Dr. YN Gojo, RPT, MD, FACS | Chief of Trauma Surgery | Cardiothoracic Surgery Fellow

You went out of the on-call room, some of the nurses greeted you and you greeted them back with a smile. But of course, one of them looked at you knowingly—like she’s not buying that crap you call a smile, she knows you too well.

“Go home.” she walks with you, you looked at her and chuckled. “Don’t you laugh at me, young lady. You need some rest.”

“I will.” you say, “In fact, I’m going now.”

Nurse Tanaka pats your back, “Good. How’s things?”

You paused for a while, inserting your hands into your pocket. “Things are okay.”

“And you?”

“Fine.” you simply answered, trying to avoid the upcoming question. You pretend to look at the time, clearly avoiding whatever it is that she wanted to ask you. “I’ll get going, I’ll see you later.”

She just nodded, the frown on her forehead visible because the way you dodge her question is as if you’re dodging a bullet. You weren’t ready to talk about whatever it is she wanted to talk about. And you don’t know if you’ll ever be ready.

You should be going home now, maybe take a shower, or eat—then sleep a little bit more, but your feet have carried you somewhere else.

There in the gallery of OR 3. Where your husband stood—calm, precise.

You watch him in silence, sitting at the back in the hopes that he wouldn’t notice that you’re there. You watch his every move, every flick of his finger, every tilt of his head.

He is in his element—he’s living up to his name, he’s continuing his father’s legacy. He’s right there, where he should be. Brilliant. Shining.

He looked like nothing had happened. Like you haven’t given him another piece of hope that you’re not sure if you’d shot down again.

You lean on the wall, just for a second and you’ll leave. Just for a second before you take back everything that you’ve said—before you regret everything that you have decided.

But you stay. You always stay.

—

Your keys clattered on the side table, your bag discarded on the couch. You looked around, the apartment was too clean. No dishes in the sink, no pillows scattered—like there’s no one living here.

Well, between your shifts and your preference to sleep in the on-call room instead of your own bed, nobody really has been living here. You know Satoru isn’t coming home either.

Because there’s no half-drunk coffee cups randomly placed here on the counter or on the table in the balcony.

Because his scent is nowhere to be found. You forced yourself to move, walking through the hallway when you passed by the shelf where that photograph is seated.

You stop. Your hands tremble as you pick up the frame. You stare at the picture, your eyes slowly burning.

Satoru’s arm draped around your shoulders, his lips pressed against your temple—you, smiling, your cheekbones almost taking over your eyes—your friends, pointing their fingers in your direction with smiles on their faces, like you’re the star of the show.

You hated this picture right now because you looked so happy, so genuinely, stupidly happy.

You couldn’t believe that this was taken just three months ago. It’s funny—how things could change in a glimpse.

Your fingers ghost over the glass, over his image. Over your figure. You could back away, you could throw it in the trash, smash it. But instead you put it back, facing it down.

Instead, you stepped back—strip off all your clothes and let the steam consume you. You let the water hit your body, chest heaving, tears falling silently.

You sobbed quietly until your body decided to betray you, until your body decided to stop protecting you against yourself.

You just let yourself falter because here—you weren’t Dr. YN Gojo, you were just a woman who’s grieving, who’s mourning the version of herself who wasn’t here anymore.

—

You were drying your hair the moment your phone buzzed. You looked at it, even though you didn’t want to—it’s your job, it’s not like you have a choice, right?

The moment you read the page you were already heading out the door—slipping on your shoes like you have got no time to lose, well you really don’t.

The moment you stepped into the hospital, you weren’t the woman who cried in the shower like her life was hanging on a balance. No, you were Dr. Gojo again, Chief of Trauma.

“Okay, what do we got?” you asked while tying your wet hair up, you grabbed the chart from the nurse without stopping.

“Male, 33. MVC, multiple left-sided rib fractures. Suspected flail chest. Sats dropped to 89% en route. His chest x-ray confirmed hemothorax.”

You scanned the image quickly, “Prep an OR for a left thoracotomy. Start large-bore IVs and have two units of O-neg on standby. Page anaesthesia, now.”

Your voice was dominating—sharp but calm. You’ve done this a thousand times before. Even though the whole room buzzed with chaos, you remained focused.

You tied your cap, walking towards the scrub room when he walked out of OR 3. And for a minute, you stopped, locking eyes with him.

He looked so tired. His white strands falling carelessly on his forehead. You know he wanted to say something to you by the way his mouth slightly opened, you know him.

He’d want you to talk about what happened this morning. He’d want you to open up again.

But you won’t. You couldn’t.

You didn’t give him a chance when you pushed towards the scrub room.

You have no time to lose, you can’t think of anything else besides your patient.

The surgery had gone well. All of it was textbook save. But you didn’t escape the way your back aches, how your arm was sore from holding all those surgical tools for hours.

You just wanted to collapse on the floor and stay there if it’s possible.

Everyone was doing their part and you’d done yours, so you took your mask off, slipped off your cap and gown. You walked towards the nurses lounge, typing something on the tablet when a cup of coffee was placed in front of you.

“Dr. Gojo—I mean, the other Dr. Gojo left this for you.” you almost smiled, because how many times have Satoru been referred to as the ‘other’ Dr. Gojo? Barely.

You look at the cup for a second too long—he left you coffee, just the way you like it.

You snapped back, your hands moving as your fingers hesitantly wrapped around it. “Thanks.”

You were about to walk away when you remembered something, you turned to the new nurse, “By the way, don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t call him, the ‘other’ Dr. Gojo. He’ll wreak havoc.” you said jokingly, giving her a faint smile before walking away while sipping on your coffee.

—

“Listen up!” Maki—the Chief Resident—started, the chatter died down, a smile almost slipping past her lips as she watched her intern’s faces.

She cleared her throat and looked around the shiny new interns, fresh scrubs, new badges—it’s a good day for her, and for the attendings too. “You’ve all made it through med school, big deal. Welcome to the real world. Where you’ll learn and fail and hopefully, not kill anyone.”

The door creaked open as she orientated the interns, the attendings going in one by one to observe the fresh batch of interns. And silently hoping that the ones assigned to them aren't a dud.

And then he came in, Dr. Satoru Gojo, the whispers started again. There he was effortlessly tall—they never thought that a white coat would look that good on someone. It just… fits. His hair was slightly disheveled, his face looked so pretty even though it was obvious that he hadn't had any decent sleep in years.

“That’s him, right?”

“Fuck, this is getting real. I heard he made a resident cry once.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he just said ‘try again’ and she cried.”

“We’re so fucked.”

Satoru almost laughs when he sees the interns sitting in a row with eyes wide open. He knows that some are looking his way—maybe some of them even applied to this hospital’s program just because of him, and he’s not surprised, not everyday you get to see and work with a brilliant neurosurgeon such as himself.

He leaned on the wall, sipping on his coffee while scrolling on his phone—looking bored already. Suguru leans, “That one looks like he might faint.”

“God, I hope he’s mine.” he mumbles with sarcasm.

He looked around, searching for you, and you weren’t here. Probably caught up again in some emergency. Or a consult? He doesn’t know. How would he when you barely talk to him?

“Now, you’d be assigned under the supervision of an attending. You’ll follow them, do what they want. You will breathe if they say so and hope to God that they don’t hate you. Each of your performances are evaluated, so don’t mess up.” Maki says and starts calling the interns one by one.

“Itadori.” Maki looks up, she sees the young intern with his hands up, nervously and enthusiastically. “And… Fushiguro.”

“You’re with Dr. Gojo.” and just by saying that, Itadori got pale in the face. Some of the interns are already consoling the two of them in their minds.

“Miwa and Kugisaki. You’re with Dr. Gojo.”

Nobara blinks, almost stutters. She subtly points at Satoru at the back, who raises his eyebrows in amusement without saying something. “Also? Him?”

“No. Dr. YN Gojo.” and as if on cue, you enter. The interns exchanged glances. There you were with a soft look on your face, the one where the interns gave hope that not all attendings are you know… evil.

Their eyes followed you as you sat beside Ieiri. “There she is.”

You smiled and gave them a wave, a bit confused as to why they were looking at you. Maki pointed at the girls, “They’re yours.”

“Wait, she’s also a Gojo?” Nobara whispers to Miwa, glancing a bit in your direction. “Is she like his sister?”

Miwa shrugs, “Maybe just a coincidence? Or maybe it’s a common last name?”

“I don’t think so.” Nobara says.

“She’s his wife. They’re married.” Megumi says, and their eyes widen.

“He’s married?!” she says a little bit loud, but covers her mouth when she realizes how loud she was. She turned to Megumi, “How did you know?”

And the young man just shrugged his shoulders, Nobara pouts, dissatisfied with his answer. Maki finishes assigning and the interns go with their attendings.

“She looks nice. Thank God we weren’t assigned to him.” Miwa whispers to Nobara, and she excitedly nods. They watched as you walked towards the door, frowning when you realized they weren’t following you.

The look on your face says they celebrated too early.

“Are you going to follow me or are you going to waste my time?” you say, that angelic smile adorned on your face earlier was now gone. “Let’s go. First round starts in ten minutes. I hope you had your breakfast. Walk fast, don’t expect me to slow down for you.”

Nobara stops, her face turns white and Miwa scrambles to walk towards you.

“Now!”

And you were gone before they could answer you. Satoru finally speaks in soft sing-song voice with a big smile plastered on his face as he walks past Nobara, “Good luck~”

He walks out with his interns following him, but before Megumi could walk out the door he says something to her. “By the way, she’s the Dr. Gojo who made the resident cry. Not him. If I were you, I’d be running by now.”

“Wait… what?!”

—

“Dilated cardiomyopathy.” you murmured, tapping your foot on the carpeted floor as you stare at the tablet in your hand.

She has a history of repaired congenital heart defect. Your eyes stroll down through the numbers, the chart, her whole history.

And… you stopped. Your hands stiffen, gripping on the tablet too hard. You read it, once—twice, maybe even a hundred times.

You blinked, staring at that one line like it is going to change anything. “No.”

“No?” the Chief of Surgery repeated—a little shocked, because how could you say no to him?

“Are you saying ‘no’ to me, Dr. Gojo? Do you know how much time we have? You’ve seen her chart. I think you’re in no position to say no.”

“I am.” you slammed the tablet on his table, not too hard, but enough to tell him that you aren’t doing this one. No, not this one. It hits too close. “Not me. I won’t touch this. Not this.”

You’ve tried hard enough not to react. Not let your emotions get the best of you, but that isn’t easy in this situation. “YN.”

“What?!”

“You’re the only one I trust.” his voice was calm, and it unnerves you. “You’re the only one who could do this.”

He stands up and goes in your direction, you take a step back. “You’ve seen her numbers. She’s unstable, her oxygen is dropping.”

You were frustrated. Because it’s true.

All of it was true, her condition is worsening but you’re not the only one who could do it. You’re a cardiothoracic fellow for pete’s sake—granted you’re already in the final year of your fellowship but still.

“That’s why we need to max everything, her medications—”

“We already have. She’s not responding.” he pauses, “You know Dr. Yamada is not here right now. This is an urgent case, you’ve worked under her. I’m sure you’ve learned a lot from her.”

But that’s not the point. That’s not why you would do it. And it baffled you—you could feel it, the breath you unraveled. Your vision blurs and everything feels like it’s closing in on you.

“Dad—” it had slipped before you could stop it. The vulnerability you’ve tried so hard to conceal.

Tears fall from your eyes, and he sees it. “Please. What if she coded into the table? What if I can’t save t—”

You’re frustrated. Because you’re not just his surgeon now. You’re his daughter.

And hurt, because never did your father put your feelings into consideration. You’re a doctor, you’re not supposed to let your feelings take over you.

But one thing just ran through your mind repeatedly, you’re his daughter.

For once, just this once, you hoped he’d think about what you feel. You’d just wish he’d think about what this means to you.

“You can!” he pushed, “You’re my daughter. You’re your mother’s daughter, if anyone could, it’s you! Do not give me this crap.” you flinched, tears falling endlessly but he doesn’t stop there. “She’s young, she has no prior comorbidities. You’ve seen it, she already has decompensated heart failure, she won’t make it another 24 hours without intervention.”

You bite your lip, harshly wiping your cheeks but the tears come anyway, “She may not make it in surgery either.” you say, voice quiet, defeated.

“I know, but you’re the only surgeon I trust to try.”

—

Your breathing was heavy—sharp, you could barely hear your footsteps as you descended the emergency stairwell. You couldn’t hear anything beside the storm roaring in your head.

The papers clutched in your hand, your knuckles had gone white along with the shaking of your arms.

“Fuck!” Without any second thoughts, you slam the papers on the floor, it had scattered like leaves falling down. The sound of your voice bounces through the walls, but there wasn’t any care in your body right now.

You stopped, your world spinning as your back slides on the cold wall, your body hitting the concrete on your feet. You pressed your palms on your face, trying to calm yourself down.

Breathe. Just… breathe.

You can do this, right? You’ve done this countless times before. You are Dr. YN Gojo, you were trained for this, you are the best. If anyone could do it, it would be you.

You’ve put yourself together a thousand times, like you’ve never been hurt, been broken apart. But why can’t you do it now? Why can’t you pull yourself together?

A sob escaped you, like a traitor. Too loud, too painful. You’ve opened a can of worms that you couldn’t contain. It all came bursting out. You had no control.

It all hit too close because you’ve been here before. You’ve watched life slip from you. You know what it’s like to gamble, and they’re asking you to do it again.

Your sobs echoed, it was raw. Helpless. Your shoulders shake with every breath you take.

You don’t even notice the door slip open, you don’t even hear the hurry behind his steps—he moved fast, just to get to you.

“Hey,” and just like that, he cuts through the noise in your head.

He kneels almost immediately, arms wrapping around your shoulder, pulling you into his chest. “I’m here, baby. It’s okay. I’m here.”

You clutched on his shirt, like he’s the only thing keeping you afloat. Small whimpers escaping your lips, “Satoru.”

“I’m here.” he pressed his lips on your head, “I won’t leave.”

“I can’t.” you were choking on your words, you bury your face on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat in contrast to yours. “I can’t do this. She’s going to lose it too, Satoru. She’s…”

You feel his body stiff, but his hold tightens and he presses a gentle kiss on the side of your head once again. You know this was affecting him too. This is why you couldn’t do it. This is why you’d rather feel this alone.

“She’s… I’m going to lose her. I’m going to lose them.”

Because you’ll pull him down with you and you would never forgive yourself for that.

“I’m going to…” you were spiraling—right in front of him and you know it will break him. All these walls that you’ve spent a long time building just to protect him came crumbling down and you hate it.

You hate yourself for this. You hated everything. But never him. God, no, never him.

There’s a throe in his chest but he held you, keeping you close as if he’s putting you back together.

“I’m not going anywhere.” he whispers, it’s as if he knew what you were thinking, “Even if it breaks me—I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a long time. You let him in. You didn’t want him to see you like this but you needed him.

You know you need him.

“I’ll stay, YN. I’ll always stay.”

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jtargaryen18 · 2 months ago

Text

The Arrangement ~ Chapter 3

Series Masterlist

Words: 9k

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: References to disappearances, kidnapping, threats, and emotional angst. Care. Comfort.

Tommy meets your brother when he shows up at the betting shop looking for you. You meet Ada looking for help with a little problem and find a champion in Polly. Tommy surprises you completely.

Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

The betting shop was unusually quiet when an unfamiliar young man walked in. He wasn't hesitant, like many who weren't regulars there, but he wasn't charging in like a fool either. His approach was measured, like he knew he didn’t belong but had decided to walk in anyway. He couldn’t have been more than twenty. Slim build, shoulders squared in a patched coat that had seen too many winters. The young man's eyes were sharp, locked on Arthur, who leaned back behind the counter, watching him like this was all a bit of theatre.

"You lost something, lad?" Arthur asked, grinning around his cigarette.

The young man’s jaw tensed. His voice was tight and controlled, but steady. “My sister.”

Arthur’s smile faded—not with guilt, but with interest.

“Ah. That one.” He stood, stretching like he’d been waiting all morning for something to liven the place up. “Bit late for all that, eh?”

The younger man didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. Tommy watched from the back office doorway, caught the way his hand hovered near the inside of his coat. He was armed. Brave but stupid.

Tommy stepped out then, made his presence known.

Arthur lit up. “This one’s yours, brother. Came to collect what’s left.”

Tommy said nothing at first, just studied the stranger. Young. Angry. Focused. But the lad wasn't reckless. He wasn’t here to posture, the way John Boy did more and more these days. No, he was here because someone he loved was gone, and nobody was giving him answers.

"Name?" Tommy asked quietly.

"Rory." The young man met and held Tommy's gaze. "Rory Flynn."

The surname matched the girl’s—his girl’s—file he’d already had drawn up. But now, standing in front of him, the boy wasn’t just a name on paper. He had her eyes—same shape, same quiet fire behind them. The sharp, observant way he took everything in was familiar too, saying very little but missing nothing.

But Rory Flynn reminded him of someone else. Tommy couldn't immediately place it.

Tilting his head, he studied him for a beat longer. "Who's your father?" he asked.

Rory’s gaze dropped for just a moment. "He died in the way in France. 1916."

Their father had died in the war then. “Name?”

"Malachy Flynn."

There it was. Tommy’s expression didn’t change, but inside, recognition tightened his chest. He remembered Malachy Flynn. Their father had been older than him by at least a decade. They hadn’t served side by side. Flynn was in earlier, already a sergeant when Tommy was still green. The name Malachy Flynn meant something. Tommy had heard it in the trenches. Flynn died a hero, pulling two younger soldiers out of a crater after a shelling. He could’ve saved himself but chose not to.

“I knew your father,” Tommy said in a lower tone as the boy blinked in surprise. “He was a good man.”

In that moment, the something shifted between them—something almost like understanding. He understood the boy in front of him better. He was his father’s son.

"My sister’s been gone two days," Rory said in a tight voice, cutting to the chase. "She was supposed to be… delivered to your brother. No one’s seen her since.”

Arthur gave a low whistle, but Tommy raised a hand. Quiet. Let him talk.

"Our mother’s worried sick," Rory added, his expression cracking just enough to show the truth of it. “She doesn’t know who to ask, who to trust. So I came here.”

Tommy stepped closer, arms loosely crossed. “And your stepfather?”

The boy's gaze hardened, but he didn't answer.

And that was answer enough. Tommy watched him try to control his emotions, mostly suceeding. The kid wasn’t just worried—he was plotting something. A pistol hidden in the lining of that patched coat or maybe a cheap folding knife meant for a throat that had made a deal no decent man would’ve dared. Tommy recognized that look. A young man with nothing left to lose, trying to change his world with a single, violent act. It was foolish, but he respected it.

“You plan on killing him?” Tommy asked bluntly.

Rory’s gaze returned to his. Some intense emotion flashed there before his expression was guarded again. “He deserves worse.”

"Why?"

"For wanting my sister out of his house," Rory said tightly. "She's a temptation to him, see. He wants her more than our mother."

Tommy filed that bit of information away. He recalled her telling him that their stepfather wanted her gone. Now he knew exactly why. She wasn't another mouth to feed and she helped the household earn money. No, the man just wanted her. While was a good, decent young woman, he couldn't do that without resorting to rape. No, now him offering her up made sense. Once the Shelbys soiled her, she was fair game to him.

As he returned his attention to her brother, he realized the boy wasn't bluffing. This was a brother who cared more about his sister than himself. And that meant something. The young man had more honor than many of the men Tommy had dealt with this week.

He exchanged a glance with Arthur, who shrugged, then grinned. “You’ve got your hands full now, don’t you?”

On the one hand, the boy let him know that, so far, his plan was working. No one outside the family knew where she was. Not the local blokes who’d heard about the wager and were sniffing around for gossip. Not the old women who watched from behind their curtains on Gray Street, waiting for her to come walking back home in shame.

She’d disappeared.

And in Small Heath, disappearing meant one of two things: death or Shelby. The right people were wondering. The wrong people were staying quiet. That was exactly what Tommy wanted. She wasn’t just gone—she was untouchable. Hidden. Held. And the longer she stayed out of sight, the louder the message would ring when Tommy was ready to speak it.

But the rest of the conversation? The situation was too delicate, too exposed, to continue it there. The last thing Tommy needed was a scene in the middle of the betting shop. Too many eyes and ears. Word about the girl couldn’t get out—not yet.

Tommy straightened, smoothing the front of his waistcoat with a slow, practiced motion. “Walk with me,” he said, already turning toward the hallway that led to the back office.

Rory didn’t move. “I came to speak to Arthur.”

Stopping mid-step and turning back, Tommy eyed him with a glint of steel behind his eyes. “You’re speaking to the man in charge.”

Arthur let out a small chuckle behind the counter, clearly enjoying the moment. Mostly because he was still pissed at Tommy for the entire affair. “He is, y’know. Always has been.”

Rory’s spine straightened, but Tommy saw the hesitation. He didn’t trust this. Didn’t like being led somewhere less public. Smart.

But Tommy didn’t ask twice. He met the boy’s eyes, voice low and final. “If you want answers about your sister, you’ll come with me. Now.”

There was a beat of silence, thick with challenge. Rory’s hand hovered near his coat again, and for a second Tommy wondered if the lad would actually try to be brave enough to draw on him. But then—a slow nod. Rory stepped forward, lips pressed into a grim line, eyes burning with controlled fury.

Tommy turned without another word, the sound of Rory’s boots following close behind. And just like that, the game moved behind closed doors—where Tommy always played best.

Once the door was closed and it was just the two of them in the back office, Tommy voice was calm, final. “She’s safe.”

Rory's demeanor didn't change. He barely moved. When he spoke, it wasn’t with the blind deference most gave the name Shelby. “You say that like it’s supposed to mean something.”

Tommy’s eyes flicked to him, sharp.

But Rory didn’t flinch. “You’re a powerful man, Mr. Shelby. But I'm just supposed to take your word for it? That she’s safe, that she’s unharmed, that she’s not—” He cut himself off, swallowing the emotion before it could break the surface.

Tommy could see it—the fight between pride and fear, fury and helplessness all crashing together in someone too young to carry that much weight, and yet doing it anyway. This wasn’t about challenging authority. It wasn’t about standing up to the infamous Tommy Shelby just for the sake of pride. Here was a brother asking the only man who might know the truth if his sister was still the same girl who’d left their doorstep two nights ago. And now he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Why am I talking to you?” Rory asked, voice sharp but not disrespectful. “Why isn’t it Arthur telling me she’s safe?”

Tommy let him talk on.

“Arthur made the deal.” Rory’s hands twitched at his sides, as if even his body didn’t know what to do with the storm building in his chest. “And now she’s gone. You’ve got her then. And I’m supposed to believe she’s just… being looked after?” There was a beat of silence, heavy, still. Then he added—“You turning her out? Passing her around behind those big gates like she’s…” He couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t say it out loud.

Tommy’s face didn’t change, but inside, something coiled tight. The boy was bold, reckless, and about three seconds from pushing too far—but not wrong for asking or for being afraid. The lad knew how the world worked. And worse, he knew what the Shelbys were capable of.

In a softer voice, he finished with, “You’ve got no reason to lie to me. But I’ve got every reason not to trust you.”

Rory Flynn wasn’t a fool, nor soft either. He’d walked into a lion’s den armed not just with a weapon, but with the kind of quiet conviction Tommy rarely saw in men twice his age.

Stepping away from the desk, Tommy crossed to the cabinet near the wall. He poured two fingers of whiskey into a short glass, then set it on the edge of the desk without pushing it forward. A gesture, not an invitation.

“She’s not being turned out," Tommy said. The boy's gaze searched his, looking for the lie. “And she’s not being passed around. Your sister’s not a message. She’s the punctuation at the end of one.”

Rory’s brow furrowed slightly, not getting the answer he expected.

“Your stepfather made a wager," Tommy continued. "That debt was collected. You know what she walked into—and who made it happen.”

Rory nodded stiffly.

“But I made sure she was protected,” Tommy added. “From Arthur. From your stepfather. From every bastard in Small Heath who now thinks she’s someone they can have a turn with.”

“Why though?" Rory's voice broke through the weight of it all. “You don't know us.”

Tommy looked at him for a long moment. “Because your sister deserves better than what the world would’ve given her.” Another beat. “And maybe... I wanted her for myself.”

Rory’s first reaction was a flash of anger, sharp and instinctive, the kind of response any brother would have when hearing a man like Tommy Shelby admit he’d taken something that wasn’t his to take. Disbelief, drawn across his brow as he blinked, probably had the lad wondering if this was a twisted test or a joke he wasn't in on. Neither lasted. Rory's mind was impressive for his age. Tommy could see it behind his eyes as the weight of the situation settled in. His sister had been plucked out of a world that treated her like currency and was now in the hands of the most dangerous man in Birmingham.

Rory visibly didn’t like it—not by a long shot— but he understood the value in that. In a world as ugly and unforgiving as theirs, maybe it wasn’t the worst place for her to be.

He straightened just slightly, holding Tommy’s gaze. “So then what?” he asked, voice rough. “You planning to keep her locked up forever?” The worry hadn’t left. But neither had the fight. Not for blood. Not for vengeance. But for his sister.

Tommy held Rory’s stare, unflinching. The lad wasn’t backing down. More than most men in Small Heath, this one had the guts to ask a question that would’ve earned others a bullet.

“No,” Tommy said finally, voice low but sure. “Not forever.” Stepping around the desk, slow and deliberate, he kept his tone measured. "She’s not my prisoner, Rory. But right now, she can’t be seen. Not until the people who gambled her away learn their lesson. And not until she understands she’s safe here. With me.”

Tommy watched more emotion cross his young face, the way he wanted to argue—but didn’t.

“When this is over,” Tommy said, choosing each word carefully, “she won’t go back to the life she had before. I won’t allow that.” A pause. “And she won’t want to.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

“You came here today prepared to do something stupid if you didn’t like the answers," Tommy redirected their conversation back to Rory himself. “You're armed. But you didn’t. You asked questions instead. You listened. That’s more than most.” There was no mocking in his tone, no challenge—just an observation. A truth. Tommy would be truthful in turn. “She’s not your concern anymore. But she will be taken care of. You have my word.”

For a moment, Rory didn’t move. He stood there bravely, like he was trying to be a man in a room where boys didn’t last long. But something in him cracked, just slightly. He looked down—not in submission, but to keep himself from saying too much. Tommy admired the boy's control.

When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “She’s still my sister, sir.”

The words landed full of weight that didn’t need to be shouted. Fear, pride, and the guilt for not being able to stop any of it. She was still his sister. And no matter who claimed her now—that wouldn’t change. But there were conditions the boy needed to understand.

Tommy looked him in the eye, the edge returning to his voice like a blade slipping back into a gloved hand. “You can’t say anything, Rory. To anyone.”

The younger man’s brows drew together, the fire in him flaring again.

“To anyone,” Tommy repeated, voice low, steady. “Not your mates, not your foreman at the factory, not the neighbor who always has something to say. And not your mother.”

Rory stiffened. “You can’t expect—”

“I do.” Tommy’s tone cut through the room like a gunshot. “Because the minute anyone knows where she is, the point of all this falls apart. The lesson ends."

The words hit hard—because they were true. And Rory knew it. But he wasn’t done. “Can I at least see her?” he asked, voice low now, more pleading than angry. “Or let my mum? Just to know she’s not… hurt. Scared.”

Tommy didn’t hesitate. “No.”

Rory’s mouth opened, protest rising, but Tommy cut him off before the words came. “She’s under my roof. That means she’s under my protection. And she stays hidden until I decide otherwise.”

Rory shook his head, frustration bubbling over. “And I'm supposed to what? Just give her up?”

Tommy’s voice lowered again. “No. But if you tell your mother, and she tells someone else—intentional or not—we’ve got a problem. And if this becomes a problem…” He let the sentence hang, unfinished but understood. “You’re a good brother, Rory. So be a smart one, too.”

Tommy turned slightly, as if the conversation was over—but then paused, glancing back at Rory with something like recognition. “Your stepfather isn’t worth the noose.”

Rory’s posture stiffened again. The flash in his eyes said it all—he’d been thinking about it. Planning something.

“I’ve seen lads like you ruin their lives trying to settle scores that weren’t theirs to carry.”

Rory didn’t speak, but he was weighing Tommy's words.

“You want to punish him? Fine.” He held Rory’s gaze. “Make something of yourself. Become a man he’ll never be, like your father. Protect your mother. Look after your sister when the time comes.” He let that settle before adding, “But don’t end up in a grave over a man who already buried himself.”

Rory stared at him, the weight of it landing heavy—but not wasted.

Tommy stepped back behind the desk, nodding to the glass he hadn’t touched. “Drink that and go home.”

The boy's hand shook slightly. Still, he took pains to try and hide it. Knocking it back, he did as Tommy wanted and walked out the door.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Tommy remained still for a moment, eyes lingering on the space where the boy had stood.

Rory Flynn.

The boy was wasted on the factories. That kind of fire—controlled, not reckless—didn’t belong behind a grinding machine or buried under soot and orders. The boy had walked into a Shelby stronghold, armed and alone, and hadn't flinched. Had spoken with conviction, not desperation. He had the look of his father—Malachy’s grit, that quiet backbone. But more than that, he had the one thing Tommy valued most in a man: purpose. Even if it wasn’t quite shaped yet. And that made him valuable.

Loyalty born from blood is dangerous. But loyalty born from debt? From earned respect? That was something Tommy could build on.

Tommy reached for his cigarette case and lit one slowly, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. He'd keep an eye on Rory Flynn. There were uses for a lad like that. It wouldn’t just be strategic for Tommy—it would be personal leverage cloaked as kindness. His girl might not trust him now—probably didn’t—but if her brother was safe, fed, and rising under the Shelby name, it would chip away at her resistance more effectively than any locked door or quiet threat. It would show her that he wasn't just keeping her—he was looking after her people. That meant something to a girl like her.

She was fiercely loyal, just like him. If she saw her brother being taken seriously, being respected, she’d start to question her own resentment for the man who took her. She might not forgive him—not yet—but she'd feel tethered in a way Tommy could work with. Bringing Rory in gave her a stake in the Shelby world. And if she had something to lose inside it, she’d stop thinking so hard about running from him.

Better still, it gave Tommy a way in. A reason to have her near without forcing it, to speak to her under the veil of family concern. It made him look like a protector—not just of her, but of the people she loved. And that kind of power was far more effective than fear.

Because eventually, fear fades. But debt? That lingers.

***

You heard the commotion before you saw it the next morning as you carried your breakfast tray downstairs, just to get out of that room. A baby fussing, a door swinging open, and the kind of voice that carried through hallways like it belonged there. It wasn’t Polly. And it wasn’t one of the house staff. No, the young woman stepped cautiously into the corridor just in time to see a you coming through the front hall, a babe perched on her hip, and confidence radiating from every inch of her like she’d never once been told no. The stranger stopped mid-step when she saw you, arching a brow as if she’d just walked into the most interesting scene in Birmingham.

“Well,” the woman said, eyeing her with open curiosity. “You’re definitely not one of the housemaids.”

You panicked, unsure what to say. You were supposed to be hiding. Panic rose as you just stared at the lovely young woman.

She shifted the baby higher on her hip, adjusting the wool blanket around him. “I’m Ada. Arthur’s sister.”

Of course. The Ada. The one Polly mentioned with half pride, half exasperation. The one who’d married a communist and kept her spine straight about it. Ada tilted her head, looking you over with a keen eye—not cruelly, but thoughtfully. Then a devilish excitement flashed in her eyes. You'd seen Tommy react the exact same way.

“You’re the girl, then?” she asked casually, as if they were talking about nothing more serious than a new dress Polly had brought home. "The one from Gray Street?"

Heat crept up your neck. “I… suppose I am.”

Ada grinned. “Well, I’ve been dying to know who managed to stir up this much Shelby drama and still be breathing after two days. You're all anyone's talking about. The girl Arthur won... You’re not exactly his type.”

The baby gurgled in her arms, waving a tiny hand, and Ada bounced him gently with an ease that didn’t match the sharpness of her words. Her face softened as she looked down at him, and for a moment, the sharp edge of her Shelby wit dulled. The baby was beautiful—rosy-cheeked, dark lashes, that innocent glow untouched by everything swirling around him.

Ada looked back up at you. “You don’t have to look so terrified,” she said, with a kinder smile this time. “I’m not here to drag you off and parade you through Small Heath. I wouldn’t want to face down that lot either if that was done to me.”

Out of all the Shelbys you'd encountered so far, Ada seemed to be the kindest. And you were grateful for that. You woke up with a headache, an ache in your lower back. Sharp cramps signalled it was time for your monthly and your lack of supplies there left you somewhere between panic and despair. As if your situation wasn't bad enough. It had taken a little while but you'd finally talked yourself into seeking out Polly to let her know of your latest situation and begging for her help.

Her expression shifted, brow knitting slightly. “Truth be told, I came here to ask Polly what the hell was going on. Last thing I heard, you were delivered to Arthur for the night and then…” She made a vague motion with her hand. “Gone. Vanished. Like smoke. And now here you are—in our house. Looking like a ghost someone forgot to let out.”

Before you could answer—before you could even figure out what to say—Polly’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Ada.”

Ada turned, smirking over her shoulder as her aunt descended the stairs with that familiar tight-lipped look that warned of no-nonsense ahead. “I was just talking to your guest,” Ada said lightly. "Or should I say Arthur's guest?"

Polly shot her a glare as she reached the bottom step. “She doesn’t need your commentary. And you—” her sharp eyes flicked to you, then softened just a touch, “—shouldn’t be running around the house."

"I'm sorry," you told her, watching the older woman's knowing gaze drop to the tray in your hands. You'd hoped to avoid that. You'd barely eaten anything.

Shaking her head, Polly took the tray and carried it just inside the kitchen.

Ada raised a brow. “So why is she here?"

Polly didn’t answer right away when she returned. She looked at you for a long moment—not coldly, but carefully, as if trying to decide whether to tell the truth in front of you or send you out of the room first. “She’s here because your brother made a decision,” Polly said finally, her voice clipped, measured. “And now we all have to live with it.”

Ada's gaze shifted from Polly to you and back, the baby shifting in her arms. “What does that even mean?”

Polly cut her niece a steely look. “It means Tommy stepped into something Arthur started and decided he could fix it by making it worse.”

Ada blinked. “Tommy?”

Polly nodded. “Tommy's the one who settled the debt.”

Heat crept up your neck again, but something colder lingered underneath—shame, confusion, and the terrifying sense of being spoken about like you weren’t standing right there.

Ada’s gaze landed on you again, but her amusement was gone. Just realization. She adjusted the baby gently, then said, softer now, “I didn’t know.”

“None of us did,” Polly replied, eyes never leaving Ada. “Not until it was already done. He's hiding her here.”

To Polly’s astonishment, Ada didn’t argue. She didn’t huff or scold or lecture the way Polly expected. Instead, she stood there in the middle of the hall, baby on her hip, brow furrowed as she actually thought it over. The silence stretched a beat too long before Ada finally said, “Well… from a certain point of view…”

Polly blinked. “Ada.”

“No, hear me out.” She gave you a small, sideways glance—not unkind, just curious again. “He didn't send her walking home in shame the next morning over a stupid wager she wasn't even a part of. He's hiding her here and there are worse places to hide. I should know.” She shrugged, bouncing the baby again gently. “I mean, it’s twisted. But it’s Tommy. And for him?” She gave a small, incredulous laugh. “It’s almost… romantic.”

Polly stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “Do you hear yourself?”

Ada's smile was impish. “I wouldn’t have expected it of him. That’s all I’m saying.” She turned her gaze back to you, a little spark of amusement in her eyes. “You’ve clearly shaken something loose in that cold, dead heart of his.”

You didn’t know what to say—was this a compliment? From the look on Polly’s face, even she wasn’t sure how to take it.

"Why does everyone think she’s missing then?" Ada asked.

"Because that’s what Tommy wants them to think," Polly said, and there was warning in her tone. “So you’re sworn to secrecy.”

Ada’s brows lifted slightly, but she nodded. “Of course. Shelby rules.” Then her gaze shifted back to you, her voice gentler. “What about her family?”

It was the same question you’d been asking yourself over and over again for the last two days. They must have been worried sick. Your mother probably hadn’t slept. Your brother… God, Rory. He could be doing anything right now. Searching the streets. Demanding answers from men more dangerous than he realized. The thought of him searching for you in vain cracked something open inside you. You tried to blink the tears away before they could fall, but it was too late. Both Shelby women saw.

Ada’s expression softened instantly, and even Polly’s sharpness dulled. “Oh, love…” Polly murmured, stepping closer.

Pressing your lips together, you tried to keep your voice steady. The wave of emotion hit you fast. The weight of being taken, hidden, claimed—and forgotten by the world you left behind—was suddenly too much to hold in. You were scared and angry now. You were grieving. And now, finally, someone realized it.

Polly didn’t say another word—she just gently placed a hand on your shoulder and turned you, guiding you down the hall like a mother ushering her child out of a storm. “Come on, love. Let’s not fall apart in the foyer.”

Ada followed without question, as Polly ushered you into the sitting room. She waved you toward the sofa while Ada settled into an armchair near the fireplace, the baby now babbling softly against her shoulder.

Polly’s eyes narrowed slightly as she looked you over, her arms folding across her chest. “You didn’t eat this morning.”

“I’m not sick,” you murmured, a little embarrassed. “It’s just… it’s my time.”

Ada gave a soft “Ah,” nodding in understanding.

Polly, however, straightened slightly, her expression immediately shifting to one of disapproval bleeding on concern. She shook her head and you weren't sure who she disapproved of - you or Tommy.

“I'm sorry," you added quickly. "I wasn’t exactly… prepared.”

Ada snorted softly, adjusting the baby’s blanket. “Well, if there’s any silver lining, that’s it, isn’t it?” she said, almost too casually. “At least we know you’re not pregnant.”

The words hit the air and settled there, a truth no one wanted to say but couldn’t ignore. And you were grateful for that considering the last two nights.

Polly’s jaw tightened, her mouth a thin line. “Same clothes since she got here. No proper supplies. No privacy. No explanation. Just dropped into this house like she’s one of the bloody spoils of war.”

You looked down at your lap, fingers curling in the fabric of the dress you'd been wearing since your ordeal started. You couldn't even bringing yourself to mention you had no draws on top of it all. You were ruining a small towel you found to use until you could ask for help.

Ada shook her head. “This isn’t how it should’ve been handled.”

"It shouldn't have happened at all." Polly’s voice softened then, but didn’t lose its edge. "All this so your brother could strike more fear in the hearts of all those in Small Heath."

Polly looked at you then—really looked. Not just as someone Tommy was hiding here, but as a young woman dropped into something too big, too fast, and too cruel.

And in that moment, you saw it clear as day: Polly Gray had just decided she was going to look after you.

Whether Tommy liked it or not.

***

Tommy stepped through the front door later than usual, the scent of rain and coal smoke clinging to his coat. His boots echoed in the hall, the kind of sound that announced his arrival. The low murmur of voices drifted in from deeper in the house—John Boy and Finn, unmistakably, and Polly holding court in that no-nonsense tone she saved for family. The scent of supper wasn't lingering in the air, letting him know just how late he was.

He shrugged out of his coat, and laid it across the chair by the entry—his movements automatic and his mind was elsewhere.

Tonight, his thoughts weren't on the Garrison, nor on business.

They were on her.

He didn’t like the feeling. It was a crack in the armor he wore every waking hour. But it was there all the same, threading through him like the last drag of a cigarette he hadn’t meant to enjoy.

His conversation with her brother made it worse. Rory Flynn walked into the betting shop, ready to draw blood if it meant finding his sister. He’d held his nerve, asked the right questions, listened when it counted. Seeing the boy’s loyalty—his quiet devotion to his sister—unsettled something in him. It reminded him of what he was holding onto.

Exhaling through his nose, he started toward the stairs. The truth was simpler, but much harder to admit. He just wanted to see her. And he didn’t like how much that mattered.

Polly caught him before he could make it farther. “Ada’s been by,” she said without preamble, arms crossed like she was bracing for his reaction.

Tommy stopped. “What did she see?”

“Everything.”

He sighed. “She saw her?”

Polly gave him a sharp look. “She found her before I could stop her. Ada won’t say anything. She actually seemed charmed by the whole thing.”

Charmed. Christ.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his shoulders sore from a day spent putting out fires at the Garrison—men needing reminders, deals needing to be reinforced. From trying to keep his focus on business all day and failing.

“I’m going to wash up,” he muttered, brushing past her. "Have my supper brought up."

“Don’t stomp in like you own the place,” she said, her voice low and clipped. “I'll send something for her too. She's not eating.”

Tommy paused mid-step, one brow lifting. “What?”

Polly’s expression didn’t flinch. “She’s not eating. Said she's not feeling well today.”

The words hit harder than he expected. He didn’t show it to Polly, but the truth of it pressed in just beneath the surface. She wasn’t eating. And that meant this game he’d started—this lesson for Small Heath, this cold, calculated plan—was wearing her down more than he’d accounted for.

He set his cap on the sideboard, slow and deliberate. “Send supper up then, Pol," he said. "And laudanum. She'll eat. I'll talk to her."

“Then mind your tone, Tommy.” Polly watched him for another beat, she could always see right through him. After a moment, she stepped aside to let him pass.

He didn’t ask anything else. Didn’t need to. Because now, as he climbed the stairs toward his room, that single detail—she’s not eating—settled into him, heavy and unwanted, coiling in that quiet part of his chest where concern lived, the place he rarely let anyone touch.

Tommy had built an empire by knowing what men valued. He hadn’t stopped to consider how often women like her weren’t valued at all. And now here she was, pulled out of one world and into another, not asked—just taken. Her brother's visit, the details about her relationship with her stepfather, ran through his mind. His girl's life had been far from easy. And just so he could have her, just so he could impose his will on the people in Small Heath, he'd gone and thoughtlessly made her plight worse. What had he thought? That she’d be grateful? That she’d look at the Shelby name like it was a lifeline instead of a collar?

The tension in his head grew, a culmination of business, family, guilt, and the uncomfortable realization that he’d miscalculated the one thing he thought he’d handled precisely.

When he reached his room, he opened the door quietly. She was already in bed. Not asleep—he could tell by the way her breathing changed, the slight tension in her shoulders. She was lying on her side, facing the wall, hands wrapped around her abdomen like she was holding herself together.

Stepping inside, he closed the door gently behind him, and studied her in the dim light from the lamp on the bedside table and the fire the maid kept up in the fireplace. Polly had said she wasn’t eating. Said she wasn’t feeling well. And now that he really looked—the way her body curled in slightly, the faint clench of discomfort in her posture—it didn’t take him long to work it out. She wasn’t ill. She was in pain.

Pain had been a companion to him many times in his life, particularly during the war. But this pain wasn't the kind she could explain to a man like him. A woman's pain. It hit him then—the silent panic she must’ve been living with, knowing what he might expect from her, unable to say a word without fear and shame burning her alive. Of course she wasn’t eating. Of course her anxiety was through the roof. She was miserable. And worse—she was bracing for something she didn’t have the means to refuse.

Tommy stood there for a long moment, staring at the girl he’d dragged into his world, knowing full well he was the last person she could admit that kind of vulnerability to. And he hated that, more than anything. Because he hadn’t just made her his. He’d made her afraid.

She shifted slightly beneath the covers, just enough to catch him in the corner of her eye. Her gaze met his for a second—just a second—and that was all he needed. It was there. The tension. The guarded fear. The unmistakable flicker of dread. Not the kind that came from the threat of violence or cruelty. The kind that came from not knowing how to say something you shouldn’t have to say. From being a woman stuck in a man’s world, afraid he might ask something of her that her body simply couldn’t give tonight.

Tommy’s chest tightened. He was right. And that look in her eyes twisted something deeper than guilt. It was shame. And it didn’t belong to her.

He crossed the room slowly, keeping his movements careful. No swagger or sharpness. When he reached the edge of the bed, he didn’t touch her. Didn’t sit. Just stood there and kept his tone low and even. “You’re alright. I’m not here for that.”

He watched the emotions in her eyes shift—not into trust, not yet—but into something softer. Something closer to relief.

As he turned to pull the armchair away from the corner, his hand brushed against soft fabric—a small bundle of Ada’s old dresses draped neatly over the backrest. Tommy paused, staring at them. They weren’t folded like someone had forgotten them. They’d been placed there with care. His jaw tightened as the realization sank in. She’d only had the one dress. Since she’d found herself in his world, she'd been used like a bargaining chip and told nothing, given nothing. He’d been so caught up in deals, territory, strategy, and her silence—he hadn’t noticed. She’d been wearing the same thing, day after day, too proud to say a word, too uncertain of her place to ask for more.

Pulling the chair forward slowly, he sat down, and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. He didn’t like all this said about him. Didn’t like that she’d gone without because he hadn’t made time to think about her comfort. Only her presence. Only her usefulness. He was so used to having everything handled for him once he made decisions. He took for granted that the girl would request what she needed and that Polly and his house staff would provide it. Careless.

She'd been surviving, and he—the man who claimed to have rescued her—hadn’t even noticed she needed something as simple as a change of clothes. And now, here she was, in pain, curled up and too afraid to tell him. He exhaled slowly, voice low as he spoke—not to her exactly, but into the quiet. “This isn't going to happen again.”

And he meant it. Because if he was going to keep her, he’d damn well start acting like she was worth keeping right.

His voice, when it came, was low—steady but softer than she was used to hearing from him. “Supper’s on its way up.”

She shifted slightly under the covers, still not facing him, but he knew she was listening.

“You need to eat,” he added. “Not because I said so.”

Quickly, he cleared his desk of the few items on it. It would work as a makeshift table. Moving the armchair next to the chair at the desk gave her a seat. It would work.

“After you’ve eaten, I’ll give you something for the pain. Laudanum,” he explained as he walked back to the bed, his tone even, steady. “I won’t hide it from you. You’ll see me pour it. You’ll know what it is. Can you sit up?”

She swallowed hard, taking a breath that trembled just slightly before she carefully rolled onto her back. Tommy’s eyes swept over her in the simple white nightgown she wore—a soft, modest thing Polly must’ve set aside for her. His gaze lingered only long enough to register what he needed to: no blood, no visible distress. It eased something in him.

She had what she needed, then. Polly had seen to that.

He moved closer to the bed, one hand extending toward her, the other already steadying her shoulder. “I’m going to carry you over to the desk,” he said quietly. “Supper’ll be easier that way.”

Her eyes widened just slightly—not in fear, but surprise. Like she couldn’t quite believe he would.

“Hang onto me,” he added.

Her arms wrapped gently around his neck, tentative at first, like she was still waiting for some trick or test. But she didn’t pull away from him.

Tommy lifted her with ease, careful with every step as he crossed the room to the armchair he’d moved by the desk. She weighed nothing. And yet, somehow, he’d never carried anything that felt so significant. Easing her down gently into the chair, he adjusted the cushion behind her back before pulling the blanket from the foot of the bed and tucking it around her legs.

When she looked up at him, there was something in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. The beginning of trust mixed in with the surprise. "Thank you,” she whispered.

Tommy didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, smoothing the blanket one last time before stepping back.

The knock at the door came softly, and a moment later the maid stepped in, carrying a silver tray neatly arranged with two covered plates, a teapot, and a small glass bottle—the laudanum with a small empty glass. If she thought anything of Tommy Shelby taking supper at his desk, with a girl tucked gently into an armchair beside him, she didn’t show it. Not a flicker of surprise, not even the briefest glance between them. Shelby business was Shelby business. She moved efficiently, placing the tray on the desk and uncovering the plates—sliced roast, buttered potatoes, greens, a bread roll each.

But Tommy’s eyes weren’t on the food. He caught the subtle flicker in his girl’s gaze—the way it locked onto the small dropper bottle, amber glass glinting in the light. She didn’t say anything, but her hands tensed in her lap.

The maid finished setting the table, gave a small nod, and slipped out without a word. The silence that followed felt heavier than before.

She stared down at the plate in front of her, then glanced sideways at him. “I don’t think I can eat.”

Tommy didn’t push the food toward her. Didn’t sigh or scold or tell her she needed to try harder. He just leaned forward, his voice low, calm. “You have to.”

She blinked, unsure, her fingers curling slightly around the edge of the blanket.

“Otherwise,” he continued, tipping his head toward the laudanum, “that’ll hit you like a punch to the gut and you'll feel worse than you do already.”

A pause.

“A little food first. Then the medicine.” Tommy watched her carefully, giving her the truth—not an order, not a demand.

And for a moment, he saw her shoulders drop, just a bit. He hoped she saw he wasn't trying to control her. He was offering help. And maybe—just maybe—she believed that now.

Tommy reached for his fork, slicing into the roast as if this were just another evening—ordinary, unremarkable. “It won’t be much,” he said, nodding toward the laudanum. “Just a little. No more than I gave Finn last summer when he broke his arm falling off the wall outside the Garrison.” He smiled at the memory. “Cried like a baby. The laudanum knocked him out cold after that. He slept like a prince.”

He felt her gaze on him as he took his first bite, still wary but not frozen anymore. Her fork inched toward the plate. Slowly, cautiously, she followed suit—a small bite at first, testing herself. Then another.

Tommy didn't react or try to praise her. He just kept eating, giving her time to do the same. Once her posture relaxed, he said, “Your brother came to see me today.”

Her fork paused mid-air. Her gaze met his—wide, searching.

“Rory,” he added. “Turned up at the betting shop.”

She swallowed, lips parting like she wanted to ask something, but the words didn’t come.

Tommy filled in the silence. “He wanted answers. He wanted you. He didn’t care who I was or what it might cost him.” He looked directly at her. “That’s loyalty.”

Her eyes began to shine, but she blinked quickly, holding herself together. She took another bite, listening with new hope shining in her eyes.

“I told him you were safe. That you were being looked after. And I made sure he understood he’d see you again, just not yet.” He paused, then added—more quietly this time, “He reminded me a lot of someone I used to know.”

She looked up at him then, brows knitting faintly. He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring into the distance, one hand still loosely holding his fork.

“Your father,” he said, finally. The words came slower than the others, like he’d turned them over in his mouth before letting them go. “I didn’t put it together until today.”

Her breath caught.

He leaned back slightly, his gaze fixed on the edge of the desk, his voice quiet but firm. “Not until I saw your brother. The way he stood. The way he spoke. That edge in his voice when he talked about you—like there wasn’t anything in the world that mattered more. That’s when it hit me. He looked just like your father... Malachy Flynn was one of the few men I knew in France that I’d call decent. Quiet, steady, older than the rest of us. He wasn’t trying to be a hero, but he died like one,” Tommy continued, his voice rougher now. “I knew him. Not well—not in the way men know each other in peacetime. But well enough in France.”

He looked at her, and this time, there was no distance in his eyes. Only memory. She was making an attempt at eating something so he carried on. Maybe she thought if she kept eating he'd have more to say.

A pause, and then—“Your brother's got that same fire. That same kind of bravery that doesn’t need noise to be felt. That’s how I knew who I was looking at.” He continued, something like respect in his voice. “He’s his father’s son. I see his strength in you too.”

He didn’t say it for comfort. He said it because it was true. But as soon as the words left his mouth, Tommy saw the way she reacted—subtle, but real. Her eyes dropped, not in dismissal, but in disbelief. As if no one had ever told her she was strong before and meant it.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the napkin in her lap, her shoulders rising with a slow breath that trembled just enough to give her away. He watched the flicker of emotion pass through her—a flash of something close to pain, maybe even grief—like the truth of who her father had been, and what she had lost, was only just settling in now. She blinked rapidly, lashes wet but holding back. No tears. Not yet. But her lips parted like she wanted to respond, say something—thank you, maybe. Or I didn’t know. Or I wish I remembered him better.

Instead, she gave the smallest nod.

And for Tommy, that said more than any words could. She’d heard him. And maybe—just maybe—she believed him.

Her voice, when it finally came, was soft. Fragile. “Is he okay? Rory?”

Tommy nodded. “He’s fine. Angry, worried. But fine. Taking care of your mother.” And then—just to make sure it sank in—he said, gently, “I just wanted you to know you haven't been forgotten."

He didn’t mention the stepfather. He didn’t have to. Because the way she looked at him in that moment—a flicker of trust blooming behind her tired eyes—told him she already knew.

“I’m worried about Rory,” she said after a moment, her voice quiet but steady as she dabbed at her mouth with the napkin from her lap.

Tommy looked up from his plate, knowing where this was going.

“I’m afraid he’s going to…” She trailed off, but she didn’t need to finish.

Tommy knew what she was going to say. The moment Rory stood in the betting shop, shoulders tense, hand hovering near his coat pocket—he knew. Just like he knew that fire wasn’t going to burn out on its own.

“Sean O’Grady,” Tommy said flatly.

She nodded, her fingers curling slightly in the napkin. “He’s not the type to just let things go. And Rory—he doesn’t care what it costs. Not if it means protecting Mum or me. He hates him.” Her voice cracked just a little on the last part.

Tommy leaned back in the chair, his gaze meeting hers. “He’s already planning something,” he muttered. “Even if he doesn’t know what yet.”

She held his gaze, fear creeping into her expression. “If he does something stupid—if he goes after Sean—”

“He’ll either get himself killed,” Tommy finished, “or arrested.”

The room fell quiet again, but this time it wasn’t a peaceful kind of silence. She looked to him, eyes searching. “I have no right to ask you for anything but... Can you stop him?”

Tommy didn’t answer right away. He didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. “I’ll talk to him again. I’ll find a way to keep him from doing something that can’t be undone.”

She nodded slowly, but the worry didn’t vanish—it clung to her like fog. But, something in her eyes softened when she looked at him. Like she believed him. That he had the power to fix the world she'd been pulled from, and maybe even the one she’d been dragged into. It wasn’t worship or naïve. It was hope, shining just behind her tired eyes like a candle he hadn’t expected her to light again. And it had his heart squeezing in his chest.

A look like that was dangerous to a man. Not because of what it demanded, but because of the emotions it stirred. What wouldn’t a man do to have a woman look at him like that? Like he could work miracles. Like he might be something more than what the world had carved him into. Tommy held her gaze with an unfamiliar ache curling in his chest. He hadn’t set out to earn her trust.

But now that he had a glimpse of it, he’d do whatever it took to keep it.

Tommy shifted in his seat, glancing at their plates. They’d eaten most of the meal. It would do. The moment had grown too heavy, and she looked tired—like the weight of the day, the pain in her body, and the emotion in her chest had all fused together. So, he reached for the small medicine bottle, uncorking it with practiced care.

“Alright,” he said gently, pouring a measured dose into the small empty glass Polly sent along with the bottle. “Just a little. Enough to take the edge off and help you rest.”

She didn’t protest, just watched him in that same quiet way. He handed her the glass and waited, eyes on hers as she took it. No tricks. No pressure. In that moment, she trusted him, swallowing it down with a slight grimace because of the bitterness. She handed the empty glass back with a soft “Thank you.”

Setting it aside, he rose from his chair. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

Her eyes fluttered slightly, already dulled by the slow creep of laudanum, but she nodded.

He stepped toward her, careful and unhurried. “Arms around me, love,” he said softly.

She did. Lighter than she had been before, her body already relaxing, she melted into him as he lifted her—gently, like something precious. As he carried her across the room, he felt the faintest sigh against his neck, and for one brief moment, it felt less like an obligation and more like something sacred. He laid her down, pulled the blanket up over her with quiet precision, then stood there a moment longer, just watching.

Still not knowing what to do with what she’d just given him. But knowing damn well he wouldn’t let anyone—especially himself—ruin it.

She was already fading on him by the time he finished at the washbasin, shrugging out of his shirt and unfastening the rest of his clothes. The laudanum had dulled the edge of her pain, and it showed—she wasn’t curled up anymore, wasn’t holding herself tight like she might break open. She lay on her side, eyes half-lidded, facing him. Watching him without fear or dread.

Just… watching. As if she didn’t quite know what he was yet—a threat, a protector, a man who’d claimed her or someone who might one day earn the right to be more. But there was no flinch in her gaze. No recoil.

He let out a slow breath as he crossed to the bed and stretched out beside her. The sheets were cool against his skin, the sound of rain whispering against the windows. It was a cold night and the air was heavy. It was one of those nights that settled into your bones if you let it. He looked at her once more—eyes barely open now, lashes brushing the tops of her cheeks—then reached out and pulled her gently toward him. She didn’t resist him.

She came easily, her body soft with sleep, her head resting near his collarbone, one hand tucked between them like she wasn’t sure it belonged. He held her close, his arm curved around her back, his other hand resting lightly against her hip. Not to claim or to control. But to keep her warm, close.

To keep her.

And as the rain deepened outside, and her breathing evened out against his chest, Tommy Shelby—a man who never slept easy—let himself rest.

@outlanderuniverse @alyssajunelle

#The Arrangement #Peaky Blinders #Thomas Shelby #Polly Gray #Ada Shelby #Arthur Shelby #Thomas Shelby x Reader #Tommy Shelby x Reader #Tommy Shelby x You #Cillian Murphy #Soft-dark fics

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phossiii · 5 months ago

Text

｡𖦹°‧⭑ monsters: chapter six

synopsis: you and mahalat come to an impasse during battle. and phosphorus saves your ass.

cw: reader is a monster, mature themes, violence, profanity, innuendos, phosphorus is phosphorus, reader has a bit of a psychotic break, mahalat is horrible.

"Da?" Alexi raised a brow, keeping a hand on the wheel as he picked up the phone.

He paused a moment, expression darkening slightly as he glanced at the Bride, who was sitting in the passenger.

"Da."

He paused again, brows dropping sternly.

"Da."

With a quick snap, he hung up, plastering on his usual happy expression and turning to everyone, as if you didn't notice the huge change in atmosphere.

"He says there is unfortunate traffic on the way to the castle, so we should take alternative route."

With a small rev, he cut a corner, turning into a random side street with a completely straight face.

After arriving at the Pokolistan airport once again, you were greeted by Alexi, he, as well as the other guards, completely oblivious to the true objective of your mission.

Kill the princess.

You almost felt bad, seeing as these people had been nothing but nice to you.

But orders were orders, and the quicker you got this out of the way, the quicker you could go back home.

Discreetly, you glanced at Phosphorus, him doing the same, the two of you silently noting the odd behavior before going back to your usual shenanigans.

"Quit man-spreading. Your leg's takin' up most of my room," you ordered, lowly, using your knee to push his closer to the door.

"It's a cramped car, sweetheart, you barely had any room to begin with," he shrugged you off, widening his spread to fight back against your assault before patting his thigh. "But I got a space right here for you. Free parking. No handicap."

"And feel your disco stick stab me every time we drive over a pothole? No thanks," you scoffed, rolling your eyes.

"Sounds delightful to me."

"To you," you emphasized.

"Could use my arm as a seat belt."

"Don't think I can file a sexual harassment complaint against a seat belt."

"Sexual harassment? Where?" he asked, sarcastically, whipping his head around as if he was looking for something.

"Half the shit that falls out your mouth is sexual. And you haven't stopped harassing me since this whole thing started."

"Last I checked, Belle Reve didn't have HR."

"And last I checked, skeletons didn't have dicks. But here you are."

Glancing into the side mirror, the Bride raised a brow, noticing that the palace was behind them, and getting farther and farther

"What's up, Alexi?" she asked, turning to him. "This isn't—We're leaving the city. The castle is that way."

"Oh! It seems roundabout, but it's good shortcut," the captain assured, flashing the woman a smile before focusing his sights back on the road.

Out the corner of her eye, the Bride took a quick glance at the back seat, sharing a suspicious look with you and Phosphorus.

The two of you nodded, turning to look out the window, finally noticing that you all were in the abandoned part of town, dilapidated buildings and trash galore.

'Aw, fuck...'

You knew exactly what was happening here.

Suddenly, the car pulled to a stop, the Bride's patience running thin.

"What the hell?" she asked, sharply, turning to the captain.

"Engine was making funny noise. Did you hear that?" Alexi excused, suddenly sputtering like an engine. "Did you, huh?"

"No," your brows furrowed, arms crossing over your chest as you sized him up with a suspicious look.

"I am afraid I am screwing up. How do you say? The... The suedinitel? How do you—?"

"I think how we say it is Keep moving, Alexi!" Phosphorus exclaimed, leaning forward in his seat.

"You want me to permanently damage vehicle?"

"Yes!"

Just then, two other armored trucks pulled up in front of yours, the men inside hopping out instantly and drawing their very high-powered guns, training them on the car.

And on perfect cue, the cavalry arrived, a few flying knights and a helicopters swooping in to cut off any form of aerial escape.

'For fuck's sake...'

"Damn it!" the Bride exclaimed, brows cinching at the sight.

"My men have fought and died for the Princess. We are not going to let you kill her now," Alexi stated, firmly, eyes deadly serious.

Leaning over the skeleton next to you, you tried the door, quietly cursing to yourself when it wouldn't budge.

'Bastard locked us in.'

Suddenly, he drew his pistol, pressing it into the Bride's temple.

"Stand down, Bride. You—"

Without hesitation, Phosphorus sent his radiated fist flying through the head rest, punching a hole right through it as well as completely demolishing the top half of Alexi's head, splattering blood, brains, and teeth all over the dash.

"Jesus, fuck, Phos," you grimaced, watching the remains of the poor man's jaw, as well as the rest of his body, flop forward against the steering wheel.

"What a shame. I liked that guy," he sighed.

But before you all could even get a moment to breathe, the guards opened fire, littering the truck with bullets.

Quickly, you all ducked down, the Bride unlocking and opening all the doors, allowing everyone to roll out and duck for cover.

Instantly, you all scattered, forcing the men to break off into smaller groups and fight you off.

"I smell blood, o' pityful flesh..." Mahalat's voice boomed within your mind, teasingly, sending a cold shock down your spine as you ran down an alley, bullets whizzing past. "Have you more for me to feast upon?"

'Jesus Christ...'

The wave of dread that washed over you was uncanny, your legs wanting nothing more than to buckle and drop you to the ground.

"Leave me the fuck alone!" you exclaimed, fed up, as you jumped onto the wall, bounding off of the other and back-flipping in mid-air to tackle the flying knight in the sky. "I'm busy! I don't need a peanut gallery!"

As he attempted to buck you off, you wrapped your legs around his waist, holding him in place as your sharpened tail stabbed him right in the neck.

Twisting his arm, you used his gauntlet to shoot down the soldiers below, managing to take out three before you began to plummet toward the ground.

Loosening your hold and flipping yourself around, you used the poor man as a landing pad, crushing his ribs as you collided with the ground, fully upright.

But another armored truck was quick to swerve a few feet in front of you, soldiers jumping out an opening fire.

'Shit!'

Quickly, you dropped into a split, using your acrobatic prowess to flip and maneuver around them.

"On the contrary, it looks to me that you seem to be struggling against these peons."

"Shut up!" you spat, performing a front handspring into a handstand, propelling yourself into the air to scissor kick two men at once, before your tail wrapped around another's neck and swung you back for seconds. "I don't need your help! I'm doing just fine on my own."

"You know as well as I, (y/n), that our power could be so much greater, so much more potent... humans crawl over this rock like maggots, we alone could rule them all."

"Skip over this part! You've had the same pitch for years and my answer hasn't changed!" you groaned, landing on the shoulders of another soldier before snapping his neck. "Never! Gonna! Happen!

"Your humanity holds you back! You're weak! Pathetic!"

"Fuck you!"

"SUNUK ZETAM MA—" "NO!"

Quickly, you whipped your tail around, its pointed tip stabbing you in the thigh and forcing you to let out a howl of pain.

But it distracted you, preventing you from switching over.

"I am in charge!" you barked, scrambling to your feet and sprinting toward the alley wall, "This is my body! You listen to me!"

Without hesitation, you smashed your face into the bricks, breaking your nose on impact and splattering blood everywhere.

Disoriented, you fell backward, smacking your head on the ground with a sick thud.

Everything in your mind was coming to a head, bursting violently from every pore.

Your captivity.

Your self-loathing.

Your fear.

Being so desperate—and so off your anti-psychotics—you were grasping for anything to stop the torture, anything to stop her from winning.

Even if that meant maiming yourself.

Swiftly, your tail snatched up a large shard of broken glass, quickly moving and stabbing you in the stomach.

"I HATE YOU!" you screamed at the top of your lungs, tears welling in your eyes as you pulled the glass out, only to stab it right back in.

Repeatedly.

"I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YO—"

"SUNUK ZETAM MA'AK KULA BAA NAT SU DA MAHALAT!"

Instantly, your body stopped, your limbs and tail falling limply to your sides as your eyes rolled over white, and you slowly began to float into the air.

Unable to hold them back, your tears floated with you as well, disappearing into nothing as you burst into hellflame, destroying any evidence of your humanity.

Slowly, but surely, the demon employed her magic, using fire to arduously heal all of your wounds.

Blood returning.

Vessels sealing.

Muscles fusing.

Flesh mending.

Until, eventually, there was no trace of you ever hurting yourself at all, rendering your pain and your actions ultimately meaningless.

'Why... Why couldn't I have never been born...?'

When Mahalat emerged—wings, fangs, horns, and all—she let out a howling, maniacal laugh, zooming into the air in search of meat.

"Enough of this rebellion, (y/n)!" Mahalat laughed, her voice, once again, dubbed over yours. "You have lost! You lost the moment your wretched mother shoved you out of her revolting womb!"

Soaring through the air, she set her sights on a flying soldier, who opened fire after catching her in his periphery.

But she swiped her hand through the air, sending an effortless blade of fire to cut him in half.

Bisected, he let out a blood-curdling scream, quickly losing consciousness as Mahalat caught his top half, using his torso as a shield from the bullets below while she ripped off his helmet and took a huge bite out of his cheek.

"I am the one that is in charge! I am the one who dictates life or death! You belong to me!"

She relished the flavor, eyes nearly rolling to the back of her head as she savored the taste of human meat.

The maggots at Arkham fed her nothing but lettuce and cabbage, as if she were some plow-horse to docile and tame.

But this... there was no heaven like it.

"You are nothing but a satchel of blood and bones in a flesh-drawn sack! A pitiful husk of meat! With me, you will survive for eons! Countless lifetimes! And we will rule this grievous hunk of rock, and all the maggots that fester on its surface!"

Glancing down at the ground, a sadistic smirk stretched across her lips, more trucks pulling up to attack.

"Like lambs to the slaughter..."

Large flames burst from Mahalat's palms, her eyes glowing bright red as she charged, allowing herself to heat up hotter and hotter and hotter, until finally...

She burst.

A tidal wave of hellflame erupted from her every direction, completely incinerating everything within a ten block radius.

The men below didn't even have a chance to scream before they were turned to ash, along with the countless other surrounding buildings.

Right then and there, Mahalat could've cried with joy.

It had been so long since she'd seen a scene like this, the smell of singed rubble and burning flesh like a goddamn Yankee candle to her.

But, in her happiness, she let her guard down, allowing you to take control just long enough to recite the incantation.

"KUNUS MATEZ KA'AM ALUK BAA NAT SU DA (Y/N)!"

"NO!" the demon roared, furious.

In her last moment of control, she grabbed her own wrist, using her strength to quickly swirl herself around before throwing your body clear across the city.

When you landed, you would be in for a world of hurt.

Pupils dilating, you snapped out of it with an aggressive gasp, eyes shooting wide as you suddenly collided with the wall of a building

Turning away from the man melting under his foot, Phosphorus raised a brow, eyes quickly scanning over the area at the sudden noise.

'The hell was that?'

Looking closer, he slowly began to make it out, the dust settling to reveal a naked, red woman, who was lying unconscious on the sidewalk.

You.

"(y/n)," he muttered under his breath, quickly snatching up his lab coat and jogging toward you

From what he could see, you were banged up pretty bad, but the little fires burning on your skin seemed to be patching you up—snapping your bones back in place, sucking up your bruises.

'Whoa... didn't know she could do that...'

You were such a mystery; there was still so much he didn't know about you.

But, on the contrary, there was a hell of a lot more you didn't know about him—a fact he was hoping to maintain.

Whatever reason you had for being incarcerated, he could already tell it had nothing to do with you being evil or malevolent in any way.

You hid behind swears and sharp looks, but behind your prickly exterior was a genuinely kind, caring, and beautiful person—of course, with a great rack, nice ass, smoking hot bod, heart-stopping smile, and delicious pussy.

...

But all of those were just bonuses.

Guys like him didn't associate with women like you.

Guys like him shouldn't associate with women like you.

He knew that, thoroughly, yet for some reason...

He just couldn't seem to stay away.

Suddenly, the siren of a cop car echoed throughout the streets, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Looking out to the streets, he could see the swirling red and blue drawing neared, the sirens getting exponentially louder along with them.

'Shit.'

Not wasting a second, Phosphorus scooped his arm under your waist, sitting you up and haphazardly tugging his coat on your naked body before tossing you over his shoulder.

"C'mon, doll face," he sighed, ducking into the shadows as he started off in the direction of the castle.

Once again, it looked like you both would be in it for the long haul.

"We gotta lay low for a bit..."

#creature commandos #creature commandos x reader #dc #dc x reader #dcu x reader #doctor phosphorus #dcu #doctor phosphorus x reader #dr phosphorus #dr phosphorus x reader

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ballsandbabes · 23 days ago

Text

Haikyuu Captains reaction to their s/o showing up to their game for the first time

Daichi Sawamura

The gym buzzed with energy—sneakers squeaking on the floor, the rhythmic thud of volleyballs, and the familiar shouts of teammates echoing across the court. Karasuno was warming up for a scrimmage, and Sawamura Daichi was in full captain mode: focused, steady, composed.

Until he looked up. Just beyond the bleachers, half-hidden behind a group of students, you stood. Eyes bright. A small, shy wave aimed directly at him.

Daichi blinked once. Then again. You came? Normally you weren't a fan of spending your Saturdays in the local gyms. It just wasn't your thing. His usually serious expression cracked—slowly at first, like ice thawing—until a wide, completely unguarded smile spread across his face. The kind of smile he only saved for moments that truly mattered.

"Oi, Captain! Ball!"

The shout came too late. The volleyball bounced harmlessly off his shoulder, to the amusement of his teammates.

"What’s with that dopey look, Daichi?" Tanaka teased.

But Daichi didn’t answer. His eyes hadn’t left you. And when he finally jogged toward the sideline during a break, he barely managed to contain the flush of pride in his voice.

“You came?!,” he said, slightly breathless.

“Of course,” you replied. “You said tis game today was really important to you....sooo I thought I could you know, come and see you play.”

His hand found yours briefly—just a touch, barely a squeeze—but it said everything. He looked back at the court, then at you again, and this time his voice was quieter, almost reverent.

“Guess I’ve got one more reason to win today.”

Tōru Oikawa

The gym was buzzing, as always when Aoba Johsai played. Students were filing into the stands, the sound of volleyballs thudding on the court mixing with the hum of conversation and the occasional scream from Oikawa’s fan club. He was in his element—smirking, hair perfectly styled, throwing finger hearts at the crowd and spinning the ball effortlessly on his finger like a showman. Classic Oikawa.

“Ladies, try not to faint when I serve~!” he teased dramatically.

But then he froze mid-spin. There, just past the third row, barely peeking over the heads of some overly excited second-years… was you.

Oikawa blinked. For a second, his entire brain just… blue-screened.You were actually here. He hadn’t told you to come. He’d joked about it, sure—countless times. "You have to see me in action sometime," he’d say with that mock-dramatic flair of his. But he didn’t think you’d really show up.And yet here you were, giving him a tiny wave and the sweetest smile. The smile that made him forget entire plays.

“Iwa-chan,” he whispered, grabbing his best friend’s arm.

“What?” Iwaizumi grunted.

“They’re here.” He pointed.

Iwaizumi followed his gaze and sighed. “Focus, Oikawa.”

“I am focused. On love.”

“God help us.”

The whistle blew. Oikawa jogged onto the court, but not before shooting you a wink so exaggerated it almost made you laugh. Every time he scored, he’d sneak a glance toward you, just to see if you were watching. And when you cheered? He glowed.

After the match—victory, of course—he practically sprinted off the court and threw his arms around you. “You came! You came to see me crush it on the court!” he said, still slightly sweaty but far too excited to care.

“I did. You were amazing.”

“I know! But hearing it from you? It’s different.” He grinned, leaning his forehead against yours. “You’ve officially made this my favorite match ever.”

“Even better than that time you scored the game-winning point against Shiratorizawa?”

“Especially better. Because this time, I got to win with you watching.”

Tetsurō Kuroo

The gym was chaos. Shoe squeaks. Thunderous cheers. The ref’s whistle piercing through it all. It was everything you usually avoided on weekends. You weren’t exactly the scream-from-the-bleachers type. But today… well, today was different.

Today was Kuroo’s game. You weren’t even sure how he spotted you—tucked away near the back, hoodie half-zipped, arms crossed like someone trying to pretend she wasn’t exactly where she wanted to be.

But somehow, he knew. In the middle of warm-ups, his sharp golden eyes flicked toward the crowd. His head tilted. A smirk slowly curled across his face. And just like that, you were caught. He didn’t wave or make a scene—yet. No, Kuroo just offered that sly, cat-like grin of his that said “Oh, you’re mine now.”

And it only got worse from there.

Every serve? Flash of smug confidence. Every point he scored? He looked directly at you. Like the crowd didn’t exist. Like the whole gym was just the two of you.

And then it happened. Right before match point, as he jogged back into position, he glanced your way again. This time, he didn’t bother with subtlety.

He blew you a kiss.

Right there. In the middle of the game. Surrounded by yelling teammates and echoing whistles. You nearly sank into your seat. The second-years sitting nearby definitely noticed and started whispering. Kuroo, of course, looked very pleased with himself.

After they won (of course), he trotted over during cool-down, sweaty and flushed with victory.

“You came,” he said, tossing a towel over his shoulder, grinning like he was holding back a million teases.

“I did,” you replied, trying to sound unimpressed. “It was loud. And crowded. I hated every second.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, stepping closer. “And yet… you stayed. For the whole game.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warm. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Oh, too late,” he smirked, leaning down, voice low and warm, “You blew my mind just by showing up. Figured I’d return the favor.”

Kaname Moniwa

The gym was loud. Too loud, in your opinion. The constant echo of shoes on the floor, the sharp thump of volleyballs, the buzz of excited fans—it was the kind of sensory overload you usually avoided like the plague. You were more of a quiet-coffee-shop-on-a-Saturday kind of person.

But this wasn’t just any Saturday. It was Moniwa’s game. You stood toward the back of the bleachers, not quite ready to throw yourself into the crowd. But your eyes were on the court, scanning Date Tech’s warm-up line until—

There. Him.

Moniwa looked locked in, focused, the reliable captain he always tried to be. Calm voice, patient instructions, shoulder claps to his teammates. The pressure of leading never showed too much on his face. But then, like he felt your gaze, his eyes flicked to the stands.

He saw you.

And just like that, his expression broke—surprise first, then something soft and warm blooming over his features. His lips parted slightly, and then the tiniest smile tugged at the corners. A quiet, stunned kind of happiness.

You mouthed, “Hi.” A little awkward wave followed.

His cheeks pinked immediately. He missed the ball that was gently tossed his way by Futakuchi, who, of course, made some snarky comment about "Moniwa-senpai being in love or whatever," which only made his face redder.

The game began, and you stayed tucked in your spot—cheering when you could, flinching a little at the louder moments. But Moniwa? He kept glancing at you between plays. Every time Date Tech scored, his eyes would dart up, like he was silently asking, “Did you see that?”

After the game—Date Tech won—he jogged over to where you stood, his hair a little messy, still catching his breath.

“You came…” he said, like he still couldn’t quite believe it.

“I did,” you smiled. “Loud gym and all.”

Moniwa’s gaze softened. He stepped closer, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know this kind of stuff isn't really your thing… so thank you. Really.”

You shrugged, gently bumping his arm. “I figured if I was ever going to sit through a game, it should be for the guy I like.”

Moniwa laughed quietly, eyes bright. “That’s dangerous talk. You keep saying things like that and I’ll get used to seeing you here.”

You smirked. “We’ll see.”

And right then and there, still surrounded by the noise and chaos, Moniwa looked at you like you were the calm in the storm.

Would you like a version where the team finds out and gently (or not-so-gently) teases him afterward?

Kōtarō Bokuto

The gym was alive with energy—yelling fans, squeaky shoes, the echo of volleyballs slamming against the court. Kōtarō Bokuto was in his zone. Confident, loud, grinning from ear to ear as he launched himself into another perfect spike. “Bo-kutoooo-saaaaan’s in the ZONE!” he shouted, arms raised in celebration.

But then—

A flicker of movement in the crowd caught his eye. Something unexpected. Someone unexpected. There you were. Tucked off to the side, clearly not dressed like the typical volleyball crowd. You looked a little awkward, a little out of place… but you were smiling. At him.

Bokuto froze mid-celebration, his grin faltering into a wide-eyed stare.

“AKAAAASHIIIIIIII—” he half-whisper-yelled across the court, grabbing his vice captain’s arm and practically vibrating. “They're here! THEY'RE HERE! My babe showed up!! I didn’t even guilt-trip them this time!!”

“Yeah,” Akaashi replied calmly, “I see them. Eyes back on the game, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto spun back to the court, but it was no use—he was on cloud nine now. His serves got more dramatic, his spikes somehow even louder, and every single time he landed a point, he immediately whipped his head around to see if you were watching.

You were. During a timeout, he couldn’t help himself. Right before heading back onto the court, he turned toward the bleachers, locked eyes with you, and—grinning like a fool—blew you a kiss.

You immediately turned red. He knew it. He could feel your flustered reaction even from halfway across the gym.

Victory? Already his.

After the game (they won, obviously), he jogged over to you, still dripping with sweat and pride.

“You came!” he beamed, eyes practically sparkling. “You came even though it’s loud and annoying and not your thing and everything!”

You shrugged, a little embarrassed. “Well… it’s you. So.”

Bokuto made a soft, dramatic noise like he’d just been shot in the heart. “You’re gonna kill me with cuteness, babe.”

Then he threw his arm around your shoulder, gently tugging you close.

“Next time,” he said, “you’re sitting in the front row. Right where I can see you every time I score.”

You laughed. “You act like that’s not what you did already.”

He winked. “Guilty. But hey, you were my lucky charm.”

Wakatoshi Ushijima

It was full, very crowded. Almost as if the gym was bursting.The energy buzzed like electricity, tension coiling around every bounce of the ball, mood is at its peak. It was one of Shiratorizawa’s biggest matches of the season—the match Ushijima had mentioned more than once with a rare kind of intensity in his voice. You knew how much it meant to him.

You also knew loud gyms and sweaty sports matches weren’t exactly your idea of a good time. But… this was Wakatoshi, your Toshi. So you made the exception.

And more than that—you were wearing his jersey. You figured, if you were going to go then you wanted to give it a hundred percent. The crisp “USHIJIMA” across the back felt a little big on your frame, but it made you feel closer to him, even from the bleachers.

He didn’t know you were coming. Not until the teams lined up to warm up and his eyes flicked across the crowd like they always did, calm and unreadable—until they landed on you.

His stoic expression wavered. Barely.

But if you knew Ushijima, and you did, you could see it: the ever-so-slight softening of his eyes, the subtle part of his lips, the faintest breath he held in his chest. You gave him a small wave.

His eyes dropped to the jersey. His name. On you. That was it.

For the briefest moment, Ushijima looked overwhelmed in the quietest way—like someone had just handed him a truth he didn’t expect but never knew he needed.

“...You good, Ushiwaka?” Tendou murmured beside him, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” Ushijima said simply, his voice lower, grounded. “Better than good.”

He turned back to the court with quiet determination, shoulders squaring, eyes sharper than ever.

He played flawlessly.

Spike after spike, point after point—he was unstoppable. But after every break, every timeout, his eyes would find you again. Just a glance. Just enough to remind himself you were really there.

And after the win, when the gym was slowly emptying out, he found you waiting near the exit, still wearing his jersey, arms crossed like you weren’t as out of place as you felt.

He walked up, quiet as ever, and stood in front of you with that signature stillness.

“You wore my jersey.”

You gave a small shrug, trying to play it cool despite your heart hammering. “Well, I figured… you said this match was important.”

Ushijima nodded once. Then paused. And then, in a tone so soft it barely reached your ears, he said, “It meant a lot to me. That you came. That you wore that.”

You blinked, surprised by the warmth in his voice. He looked down at you, something gentle and deeply sincere flickering in his eyes.

“I always play to win,” he said. “But today, I wanted to win for you too.”

Shinsuke Kita

The gym was buzzing—shouts, squeaks of sneakers, the sharp echo of volleyballs slamming against the floor. It was the kind of environment you usually avoided. Too loud, too many eyes, too much everything. And you’d told him as much, gently and apologetically. “I want to support you, I do,” you had said, “but crowds just… drain me. I’m sorry.”

Kita hadn’t pushed. Of course he hadn’t. He’d simply nodded, his voice as calm as always. “I understand. Don’t worry. I know you’re supporting me, even if you’re not there.” And yet… he’d mentioned this particular game more than once. It was important. A chance to qualify for something bigger. And every time he spoke about it, you could hear it in his voice—how much it mattered.

So here you were.

Tucked quietly near the back row of the bleachers, hoodie slightly too big, hands clutched in your lap. Heart pounding. You’d snuck in just as warm-ups started, unnoticed by most.

But not by Kita.

He spotted you as he turned after stretching, mid-routine. At first, he froze, subtle and still. A blink. A quiet breath. He hadn’t expected it—you’d told him you wouldn’t come—but there you were. Watching. Really there. His expression didn’t change much. Not like some of his louder teammates would react. But you knew him. And the soft widening of his eyes, the way his gaze lingered on you for just a heartbeat longer than usual, the tiniest upturn at the corner of his mouth?

It said everything.

You came anyway.

That was all he needed.

He played with the same precision and calm strength he always did, but there was a new sense of quiet pride behind each move—like your presence grounded him more than it distracted him. Steady and sure. After the game (they won, of course), Kita approached you as the gym slowly emptied out. He didn't rush, didn't say anything flashy. Just walked up and stood in front of you, hands in his jacket pockets, soft brown eyes meeting yours.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, voice low and warm.

You fidgeted slightly. “I know. I… I thought I could handle it. Just this once. Because it was important to you.”

Kita was quiet for a moment.

Then he smiled. Not just with his mouth, but his whole presence—something gentle and solid.

“It means a lot,” he said simply. “More than I can say.”

And then, so naturally it made your heart flutter, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers warm and careful.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “You didn’t have to. That’s what makes it special.”

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