#Or just flat out daft

[kathaynesart]

REPLICA PLAYLIST

MUSIC UNDER CUT

I have been receiving requests for any songs that inspired Replica, so here, have my personal playlist. Sorry it’s not Spotify/Soundcloud but they don’t have some of these songs available so uh… guess you’re stuck with YouTube vids. For fun I'll include my personal titles for them (which might give a few hints of what to expect in the future/end).

Replica Main Theme - “Die for You��� by Grabbitz Like Father Like Son Like Brother (Omega and Shelldon) - "As Above So Below" by Alistair Lindsay Mikey's Theme / The 1st Vision - "Suzume no Tojimari" by Nanoka Hara Military (Mad) Dogs / Central Park Colony - "Imperium" by Madeon Shanghai - "Icarus" by Madeon Boom Goes the Donnie-mite (Mikey/Donnie vs the Sweeper) - "The Red Zone" by Mitsuoto Suzuki The Day the Sky Bled Red - "7 Seconds Till the End" by Nobuo Uematsu Going Out Like a Boss (Raph and Leo) - "Agape" by Nicholas Britell Remembering the Right Way (Mikey and Leo) - "The Souls of Many" - by Alistair Lindsay Mystic Hands / The 2nd Vision - "Am I Dreaming" by Metro Boomin x A$AP Book 2 Trailer - "Sea Dragon" by Covet 7 Years Later - "Iron" by Woodkid Leo's Theme / Attack on the Labor Camp - "Ego Death" by Polyphia Omega's Theme - "Touch" by Daft Punk Flat Lines (Omega Alone) - "Die Toteninsel Emptiness" by 1000 Eyes Spear - "Monsters" by Tommee Profitt Final Protocol - "The Kraken" by Katie Dey Rise / Epilogue - "Close in the Distance" by Masayoshi Soken & Tom Mills

I will admit, it's a little embarrassing since you can easily see the patterns of what I've been listening to for the past year or two. I swear I listen to more than just videogame OSTs, these songs just jive well with the story and I often find lyrics distracting when brainstorming scenes. Regardless, the music I listen to is such an important part of my creative process and some of these songs really defined the scenes I now have locked in my head. So I figured it was only fair to give them the credit they're due.

I will continue to add to this playlist, and will note in comic updates when one of these songs is applicable!

[neo-nomatrix]

(My) Nuisance

Hobie brown x reader

word count: 964

find the rest of the mini series here

synopsis: You thought you hated Hobie, but for some reason you’re starting to like him just as much as you like Spiderman.

a/n: (maybe too much) british slang used

You hate your next door neighbor. No, no you loathe your next door neighbor. You think he is the worst person to possibly exist. His stupid flat decorations, his loud punk-rock music blasting at unruly hours, the way he would come back to his flat at 4 am stomping his boots yelling with his friends about their latest anarchist protest. But you hate nothing more than the way he looks at you.

Everytime you try yelling at him he opens his door with the cheekiest grin on his face. While you’re standing there fuming he’s leaning against the door panel looking you up and down. The worst part is how much he tries to smooth talk you.

“I already told you how annoying your music is, no one wants to hear that at 3 am alright? Some of us have work in the morning,” you complain, smoke practically coming out of your ears.

“Oh c’mon love it’s not that bad. Don’t have to be such a tosser ‘bout it. It messes up that pretty face of yours,” he says.

“Are you daft? You’re the one keeping everyone up at night with your dumb guitar,” you roll your eyes.

“It’s not that big a deal sweetheart. Y’know i'm starting to think you’re making up rubbish just so you can talk to me more. I’ll admit it’s pretty cute but you could just ask me out,” he leans closer to your flushed face.

“I don’t fancy you if that’s what you mean,” you scoff.

“Not saying that. I’m saying if you wanna snog me so bad you could just say so,” he shrugs.

You could burst out laughing. Kiss him? That’s fucking hilarious.

“You’re joking right? i’d rather die.”

“I don’t believe in comedy, love,” he says.

“Of course you don’t,” you mumble as you storm off back to your door.

You’ve decided he is the worst person ever. He doesn’t deserve your efforts and time.

You set your keys down and fall into bed as you hear amp feedback and the sounds of Hobie strumming his guitar. You can’t help but roll your eyes. How could someone be so incompetent?

You reach your hand over to where the bed and the wall meet to grab your Spiderman plush. You hate to admit it because it’s kind of dumb but you’ve always loved spiderman. Ever since you were a little kid you collected posters, figures, pins, and merchandise having to do with the superhero. Even now, your walls are decorated in spiderman posters, you own spiderman clothing, and even printed your keys to have a blue and red spider web on them.

There was something so nostalgic to the vigilante and his style that you had to adorn your room with touches of blue and red. You thought spiderman was the embodiment of “cool.” From his suit to the way he acted around criminals to the electric guitar on his back. Sure, a guitar was the main thing you hated about Hobie but Spiderman did it better. He made it work in the way Hobie dreams of.

You wake up to the loudest knock on your front door you’ve ever heard. You immediately know it’s him. You try to ignore the blaring pounding coming from your door but it keeps going. You force yourself to get up and answer the door. You hope you can open it, yell at him, then go back to bed.

To your dismay the second you open the door Hobie places his hand on the top of the wood, stopping you from moving it anywhere else.

“What do you want this early?” you groan.

“It’s like 9 am, love. But anyway-” He cuts himself off before finishing his sentence. You’re too groggy to notice that he’s staring inside of your flat. His eyes search the walls and decor in front of him.

“So, I take it you like Spiderman?” He laughs.

“That’s none of your business,” you sigh, crossing your arms.

He pushes his way inside of your flat, moving around like he’s looking for buried treasure. He picks up memorabilia and smiles at them. He holds up a Spider-Punk figurine and turns towards you.

“Spider-Punk huh?”

“Don’t touch my stuff! You know this is technically breaking and entering,” you scold him, taking the figure out of his hand.

He puts his hands in his pockets and just smirks at you. That stupid smirk, displaying half of his teeth and perfectly showing his lip ring.

“What do you want from me, Hobie?” you question after placing the figure back on its stand.

“Jus- Just wanted to apologize for last night,” he starts.

“You mean this morning? We talked at 1 am, remember?” You say, passive aggressively.

“Right, whatever. You’re… You’re right,” he exhaled, “I shouldn’t be blasting my music that early. It’s inconsiderate and rude to the people in my vicinity,” he breathes.

In the time you’ve known him you don’t think you’ve ever heard him say sorry. You’re taken aback, did he really apologize? And did he sound genuinely sorry?

“Oh, oh uhm thanks,” you sat, still skeptical a camera crew would come out laughing saying this whole thing was a prank.

“I wanted to see if you maybe wanted to come to my show tonight? We could get dinner after or whatever you want,” He scratches the back of his neck, he’s nervous.

“I’d like that, I guess,” you reluctantly say.

“Wicked. Uhm, i’ll be leaving then. Sorry again,” he says. Shooting finger guns at you and making his way out the door.

You smile, maybe, just maybe, Hobies getting to you. As he’s leaving you could swear you see some blue and red material with spikes on it slipping out of his pocket.

[betweenstorms]

Late night talks with Simon Riley

The balcony of your flat was surrounded by stillness, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the gentle autumn breeze, the distant hum of vehicles and the occasional hiss of your cigarette as you took a drag.

The city stretched out below you, its noise muffled by distance, streetlights glowing like indifferent stars. The cool air brushed against your skin like the lingering touch of a departing lover. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and then fell quiet.

Simon Riley stood beside you, a looming silhouette etched against the night, the soft glow of a distant streetlamp tracing the edges of his massive frame. He leaned against the railing, arms crossed over his broad chest, his mask still in place even though you were alone.

He didn’t seem out of place, even in your silent little apartment, though his size and demeanour should have made him feel alien against the backdrop of your soft furnishings, pastel colours and faintly floral candle scent. Somehow, he belonged here in a way you didn’t entirely understand, just as he belonged anywhere he decided to stand.

And in that moment, you wondered if perhaps the truth was simpler—perhaps it wasn’t the space itself that had been shaped to make room for him, but you. You, drawn to his gravity, reshaping yourself to fit into his orbit without even knowing it. He belonged here, beside you, in the way that storms belong to the sea, in the way that shadows belong to the light. 

You tilted your head back, blowing a stream of smoke into the evening air, the grey tendrils dissolving into the sky that was kissed by ink. “Y’know,” you began, your voice quiet but steady, “I’ve always wanted to be someone’s muse.”

Simon didn’t move, yet you felt it—his attention turning toward you, like the faint pull of the moon on restless tides. He tilted his head slightly, a silent invitation, or perhaps a challenge.

You smiled at him coyly as you tapped the ash from your cigarette, scattering it into the night like fragile, burnt-out stars, lost to the endless abyss below. “I mean, like in art, poetry, music. I want to be the reason someone picks up a brush or a guitar, someone to feel something so deeply for me that they have to create.”

Simon exhaled sharply through his nose.

You hesitated, searching for the right words. It wasn’t vanity that spoke, but a quiet yearning to matter, to etch your existence into the soul of another as deeply as the stars carve their light into the sky.

“I want a love that hurts. The kind that rips you open. I want to feel it so deeply that it bleeds into everything I do. I want the kind of love that’d make me die for someone, kill for someone, and know they’d do the same for me.”

Simon grunted, the low, rough sound cutting through the fragile stillness like a stone dropped into water. It wasn’t anger, not exactly, more like the weight of disbelief, a scepticism carved from years of lived truths. His gaze shifted, leaving yours to trace the city below, where the streetlights bled golden, silver and ruby trails across the darkness. “You describe pain like it’s somethin’ noble,” he said after a beat, his voice low and clipped. “It’s not.”

You frowned, your brows pulling together as you turned to face him fully. “It’s not about the pain, Simon,” you argued, though your tone was softer than you’d intended. “It’s about what the pain means. It’s about knowing you feel something so deeply it’s worth hurting for.”

“Pain doesn’t mean love,” his voice was grounded in a pragmatism that felt carved from stone. “Pain just means pain. Doesn’t make it grand. Doesn’t make it art.”

You scowled, though there was no real heat behind it. “You’re no fun, y’know that?”

That earned a quiet snort from Simon, the closest thing to a laugh you’d ever heard from him. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing briefly as he inhaled.

“Better borin’ than daft,” he said, his tone almost teasing but still blunt.

“You just don’t get it.”

“Don’t want to,” he countered, his voice calm, unbothered, as if the subject held no weight at all for him. 

You didn’t answer straight away, letting the silence breathe between you. The smoke burned its way down your throat, sharp and biting, but there was a strange comfort in the pain, like holding a burning match too close to your skin just to prove you could, watching the flames die before they could hurt you. “You’ve never felt it, then,” you said at last, your voice quiet, softened by the weight of something unsaid. “That kind of love.”

There was no edge to your tone, no venom, just understanding, a threadbare truth spoken not to accuse but to surrender. It was a question in form but not in spirit, the answer was already etched into the spaces Simon left unfilled.

He didn’t answer, but his silence was a language all its own, louder and clearer than any words he might have spoken. You turned your head slightly, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, searching his face for something, anything that might betray the man behind the mask. The faint light from the street below brushed his face, catching the edge of his jawline and the downward curve of his lips, but the rest of him was consumed by the dark.

“I think you’re afraid of it,” you said, your voice barely audible, a whisper carried on the faint wind. “Afraid of what it might mean. What it might take from you.”

Simon stiffened, the motion a whisper of tension that rippled through his massive frame, so fleeting it could have been imagined. But you saw it—the tension in his shoulders, the barely perceptible tilt of his head as though your words had struck a chord too deep to ignore.

His gaze flicked back to the city, his jaw tightening.

“Maybe,” he muttered at last, the word low and reluctant, spoken like a confession he didn’t want to make, scraped from some buried place within him.

The silence that followed was vast, an ocean of unsaid things swelling and breaking over the edge of the balcony. And yet, in the spaces between your longing and his restraint, there was something unspoken, a fragile truth suspended like the smoke curling from his cigarette.

Perhaps he didn’t share your desires, your romantic ache for love and creation, but maybe he recognized it. Maybe he knew the weight of it, the way it pressed into your ribs and made the world feel both painfully beautiful and unbearably empty.

But he wouldn’t name it.

Simon Riley wouldn’t meet you in the light of your confession, wouldn’t extend a hand into the soft vulnerability you offered. The stars above blinked just as faintly as him, indifferent to the weight of your conversation, and somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of laughter drifted on the breeze.

But here, on this small balcony overlooking a world too big to contain you, the silence between you was everything.

betweenstorms (next) (masterlist)

[myhappylittlesideblog]

Tell Me What To Do

A/N: okay you all convinced me. Daryl is inexperienced when it comes to sex. Bless.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader Prison Era

WC: 2.6K

Warnings: smut, masturbation (both), fingering, inexperienced Daryl, light voyeurism, premature ejaculation

Summary: when you need some help, Daryl is happy to offer his assistance and learn exactly what you need.

It was bad. It was hot, sweaty, and torturous and it was driving her to tears. It was like her own body was against her, making her crazy for a release that was too stubborn to come.

Pun intended.

By now, she had shoved a rag between her teeth which she bit down on relentlessly in both frustration and an attempt to smother any whimpers that unwittingly left her. It took everything in her not to tear the cloth to shreds.

Everyone around her was asleep, she was sure of it. It was an ungodly hour, after all. She was on the top level of the block and the cell next to hers was empty- newly empty. But that didn’t cross her mind right now. The only thing in her head right now was please please please…

Carol slept in the next cell block over, but she had taken over the night watch shift from (Y/N), which made this an optimal time to take care of this… need. This feeling that swelled deep in her gut and needed to be expelled.

She just couldn’t reach.

Her entire body trembled and her legs downright shook in the bed as her heels dug in and held her up. The curve of her back ached all the way up to her neck from its perpetual arching. She’d been so close for so long now, why couldn’t she just let go?

Out of breath, she laid out flat for a moment and stared at the ceiling, trying to imagine what had brought her to this point in the first place. She pictured strong, dirty hands, a slim mouth, and narrowed eyes. Deep in her mind, she heard grunts and curses. She even imagined whimpers.

It was too much. She tried again.

***

He’d seen her like that before. He didn’t do it on purpose, he certainly didn’t go looking. It’s just that the privacy screens on the cell doors only did so much, even when she yanked the ends of the curtain all the way to each side. He could still see.

And his tracker’s ears- they could still hear even when she did everything in her power to stay quiet. Just her breathing- as ragged as it was hushed- tipped him off.

Once he had just been passing by, grabbing Zack for his watch shift in the middle of the night. Luckily the kid was passed out, deep in sleep, and had no idea what she was doing just next door to him. It made Daryl’s chest light up with a jealous, protective fire that fueled him to push Zack silently along the balcony and out to the watchtower, none the wiser.

Daryl, though, was wise to it. To her touching herself in the dark. He wasn’t completely daft, he knew everyone did it and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t wonder about you previously. While he didn’t return to peek again- he wouldn’t, he respected you too much- he did rush back to his own cell like a grounded teenager sneaking back into the house at midnight. With shaking hands, he slammed his curtain up against the walls of his cell and leaned his back against the pillar of his bed.

He didn’t want to. It made him feel like a sleaze. She was nothing like anyone he’s experienced before- in his old life, his other life. And he thanked fuck for that. But he knew this aching hard on, the one that had so quickly spurred to life at the sight of her- that one tiny peek of her- wouldn’t go away without a fight. He had to take care of it. Had to rub one out right there, standing just inside the door of his cell, fly open and boxers pulled down just enough to get his fist around the base of his cock.

It was quick and dirty and he tried not to include her in his fantasies, but he failed. He pictured what he had seen that night, which was so similar to what he saw this night when he finally got the courage to peek through the sliver sized gap between the privacy shield and the wall of her cell.

***

The top level of the cell block was empty except for Daryl and her. He’d just laid down for the night- later than usual after returning from a run that evening- and he heard a breath catch.

He stood immediately, grabbing his crossbow from its perch on the ground right beside his pillow. Exiting his cell, he viewed with block from above, assessing any threat but he quickly realized there wasn’t one. Well, nothing more than a threat to his own sanity, that is.

He followed the noise, though she was successful in being almost silent despite her activities. He leaned against the wall, needing the support as he listened. He was sure there was only one person in the cell, no one else joined you, no other threat imminent.

One mouth hanging open, one set of lungs gasping for air, two feet sliding against the sheet, one her begging for orgasm. Though it was clear she couldn’t find it.

Just the sound of her had him losing his breath. And when his head slowly swiveled to the doorway, that was it for him.

Standing there outside her cell, he could imagine what caused her to make those struggling sounds. He could picture what her hands might be doing, where they could be touching, how she may have been trembling. Or shining with slick.

Now, however, he could see it all exactly. The saliva dampening the rag stuck in her mouth, the tears tracking their way down her cheeks, her breasts squeezed together like two mounds under her shirt as her arms reached and reached down between her legs. A sharp crack busted open in his chest as he watched her struggle. While he stood there with two good, free hands.

***

She was too lost in desperation to notice him slide past the curtain and into her cell. The hunter, after all, was silent. He set his weapon down on her clean desk and knelt at her bedside, taking in her furrowed brow and tangled hair. A moment passed as he simply watched her up close.

She only opened her eyes when he tugged the rag from her mouth. She jolted from him, shocked.

“Daryl-“

“Shh, s’alrigh’.” He wiped the tears from her face as he whispered to her.

“Is something- did I wake you? I’m sorry, I-“

He stopped her from shuffling the sheets closer to her body, but he himself tugged her shirt down to shield her from him. As if the image wasn’t burned in his mind already.

“I can help,” he said, taking her chin in his rough fingertips. “Yer workin’ so hard here,” he smirked.

“No,” she said.

His hands left her at the word. “Want me ta leave?”

“No.” She grabbed his arm, bringing his hand back to her face. “No, don’t leave.”

A grunt grumbled in his chest and left his throat. “Tell me what I can do. Tell me what ya want.”

She stared at him, taking in the face she’d been picturing all night and every other time she touched herself since meeting him. And now, he was right here. Offering to help. It sent a wave of slick down to her core.

Eyes falling into a lazy, needy haze, she moved his fingers from the tip of her chin to her lips. She sucked his middle two into her mouth, swirling her tongue around them and drenching them with her saliva.

“Shit,” Daryl groaned, feeling painfully hard in his filled out pants already. “Shit-cher such a pretty girl.”

She hummed around his digits, smiling at the praise. It was just as she imagined it might be.

With her feet, she kicked down the sheets and opened her legs for him so shyly. Just a bit.

“Please-“

“Tell me,” he said.

He’d fucked girls before, but it was just to get himself off. It was quick and sloppy and he barely used his hands, just his dick. He’d never worked for a woman’s pleasure before. He needed her to tell him what she wanted. He needed to feel her.

Her fingers never left him, wrapped tight around his wrist as she lowered his hand to the wet spot between her thighs. “I want your fingers in me,” she said.

The moment he touched her thigh, her knees fell wide open and he could have come right there and then, untouched. His cock jumped against the fly of his pants at the sight- at how wet she was for him.

“Jus-just one? Er-“

“Both. Please.”

The pads of his fingers rubbed at her entrance. He took a minute to explore her and she sighed happily, finally not needing to work so hard for her own pleasure. It was like a dream- he was like a dream to her.

Only when she nodded did his fingers slowly plunge into her. She was so warm and soft and spongy inside and when he pulled his fingers out, he felt her pussy suck him back in.

“Fuck,” he said.

She whined in answer, chasing his fingers and scooting her ass down the cot to be closer to him.

His fingers dove back in. “M’righ’ ‘ere,” he mumbled, leaning over her body as he knelt on the floor. He tucked his arm under her neck, his strong, round forearm acting as her pillow.

“M-fuck-yes,” she whined. “Yer fingers are so big, so long, yes-“

“Ya like tha’?”

“Yes, Daryl, please.”

He was drunk on her sounds. Drunk on the way her eyes squeezed shut and her teeth sunk into her lip and her back arched into him, curving to the side until it brushed against his chest. She wanted him so close.

She lifted her free hand- the hand that wasn’t practically tearing his shirt- and put her fingers in the air. She curled them up against her palm, showing him what she wanted him to do to her. Inside her.

“C-curl them, please, yes- like that.”

She was practically wrapping herself around him. After releasing these soft, high pitched whines, she moved into deep, guttural grunts and groans that had him falling over the cot, at her mercy.

“Fuck me, Daryl.”

“Whatever you want, baby. M’I doin’ good fer ya? Huh? Gotta be quiet now, good girl.”

She nodded, turning her head into him, kissing and sucking on his arm. He pulled her closer until the bulge of his bicep was flexed and right there for her to sink her teeth into.

It was all he could do to keep her on the bed. She was so sexy, so hot and pretty like this, he’d do anything for her. He already felt that way without this intimacy, but this night clinched it. He was hers.

He rested his cheek on her head and whispered to her, kissing her hair. “Ya gonna come fer me, baby? Huh?”

She nodded fiercely against his chest.

“Use yer words, girl.”

“Yes, Dare. Please, make me come.”

“Tell me wha’ I gotta do.”

She fell back on the cot, flat again like when they began this dance. “Don’t stop, please.”

He watched with hungry, black eyes as her hand trailed down her side to the little bundle right above the spot where his own fingers worked. His jaw dropped with a silent, knowing groan.

“Gonna rub yer clit fer me? Make yerself come ‘round my fat fingers, huh?”

She whined in confirmation. “Shit- please, please-“

“I gotcha, baby. Ya tell me, tell me what’cha want.”

“Harder.”

Fuck. That was it for him. He ground against the side of the bed, letting the friction finally touch his hard, oozing cock as he watched her. His fingers disappeared deep in her and he worked so hard to curl them the way she liked, the way that made her whine for him. But as she got closer to her orgasm, he felt that spongy spot on the top of her walls grow bigger and harder and it became more difficult for him to move his fingers. His hand felt as if it would cramp up and his veins were popping through the underside of his sore and tired forearm, but he’d die before letting his girl down.

This girl. Maybe at least for this stolen moment in the night she was his.

He watched her expertly draw little circles into what he knew was her clit- yes, there it was- and again, his barely touched cock twitched hard against his jeans.

“Fuck,” he ground out in a low growl. “Fuck me, (Y/N), look at me.”

She so quickly obeyed. Her eyes popped open and she bit her lip hard, but he couldn’t stand to see it so abused. His mouth crashed down to hers, sucking her bottom lip away from her teeth and soothing it with his tongue. He didn’t want to kiss her tonight, he didn’t want to ruin it with his sloppy, untamed mouth, but he couldn’t help it.

She moaned deep into his mouth and he ground into the side of the cot and came, shooting his cum into his pants.

Just as he was about to beg for her, she followed him into oblivion, ripping her mouth from his to suck in a gasp. She came whining his name and it was the best sound he’d ever heard. He wanted it tattooed on his skin so it would never leave him. Just the sound of her blissed out, fuck drunk voice.

Her hand shot down to his, where his fingers were still working inside her. “Slow, slow, please,” she said, trembling.

“Fuck, m’sorry-“

She kissed him again, this time softer against his lips. Her hands on his face smelled of her cum and he felt his cock blooming to hardness again.

“Thank you,” she said, exhausted and timid.

He chuckled as he sucked on his pruned, salty fingers, enjoying the taste of her and what he helped her do. “No problem.”

“You know, I can help with that,” she said, eyeing the bulge in his jeans. He thanked fuck that his boxers formed a barrier between his cock and his pants so she couldn’t see he’d already come once just at the sight of her, practically untouched.

“Next time,” he said, standing. He could see she was already fading, tired from the exertion. “Git sum sleep, girl.”

He turned his back to her, lifting his crossbow from her desk as quietly as he could, wincing at the uncomfortable, drying cum in his pants.

“Daryl,” she said from the bed. He expected her to fall asleep immediately, as he always did, but she’d sat up on the cot.

“Wha? Did I hurt ya?”

“No,” she said with a shy smile. “No, I’m good. But are we? Good?”

He shrugged, hiding his smile with a slanted smirk. “More n’ good.”

“Okay. Good. I’ll see ya in the morning, then.”

He nodded. “See ya.”

He ducked out the way he came in, silent with his crossbow on his back. His dick pressed stubbornly against his fly again and he knew he’d quickly take care of it by just closing his eyes and studying the image of her that was now burned into his eyelids. Sweet deal.

Maybe he’d actually be able to touch himself this time.

Before he made it to his cell, however, he passed Carol’s. She was already back from watch- how long had he been in (Y/N)’s cell?

Carol stood just inside her doorway leaning against it. “‘Bout damn time,” was all she said.

“Shut up,” Daryl said, as his whole body flushed red.

[rebouks]

“What’re we doing here?”

Oscar shrugged casually, “Hanging out?”

Robin scoffed with what little joviality he could muster, “Yeah, right…”

Oscar paused and broke eye contact, staring at nothing in particular as Robin waited. It was usually fairly easy to ascertain the direction of a conversation before it even started, given that people tended to rehearse what they’d say beforehand, but not Oscar. His mind was simultaneously blank and fit to burst; he was making it up as he went along most of the time, but that was one of Robin’s favourite things about his father. It paved the way for genuine, on the fly honesty.

“Figured maybe you’d wanna talk-..” Oscar rubbed his temple, “Ask me whatever you want.”

“Really?”

“Yeah-.. within reason.”

“Why’d you do it?” Robin blurted out; his eyes full of unbridled curiosity, though his father wasn’t looking at him.

“Willpower is a finite resource, y’know? I had a shitty day and I caved-.. didn’t really think about it all that much, to be honest.”

“What do you mean?”

Oscar sighed, backtracking slightly as he realised that wasn’t exactly the honesty he was going for. “Well, it’s not that you don’t think about it-.. I thought about not doing it a bunch of times, but the second I decided otherwise, I went on autopilot and got it over with as soon as possible so I wouldn’t have to think about it anymore. Probably because thinking on it too hard is uncomfortable.”

“Where’d you go?”

Robin wouldn’t usually have to ask such a mundane question, but he’d struggled to fill in the blanks for himself. Oscar’s memories of the previous night were fuzzy and his thoughts sprawling.

“There.”

“The bar?”

Oscar nodded, still unable to meet his son’s gaze. “You remember it used to be a vet clinic, right? Your grandma ran it briefly, years ago-.. we lived in the flat above for a little while, when you were a baby.”

“I remember.”

Oscar sounded surprised. “You do?”

“Kinda-.. you’ve told me about it n’ stuff…”

Oscar shrugged a shoulder, supposing that’d make sense.

“You don’t have to feel so ashamed.” Robin ventured.

Oscar almost looked at Robin, though his gaze fell somewhere near his shoulder instead. How could a fourteen-year-old boy conjure such compassion? Such accuracy too. Shame.

Sometimes it felt as though he were talking to a man, not a boy. He was still a child, of course; arguing with his siblings over utter nonsense, playfighting, whinging about school and homework, leaving his dirty socks all over the place-.. but sometimes it felt like he understood much more than he should’ve. Oscar couldn’t imagine many people being so emotionally mature at thirty, never mind half as young.

“Dad…”

“I’m sure I’ll get over it-.. I always assumed I’d relapse at some point, but as the years went by, I guess I got complacent.”

“How’d it start? Like, did you just wake up one morning and realise it was an issue or..?”

Oscar shook his head slightly, running his thumb over his beard in thought. “Nah, it was slower, I just ignored it. I’d always been daft and over the top with stuff like that, partying n’ shit, y’know? It was like a crutch after a while though, and eventually, I needed it just to feel normal-.. went too far to feel nothing.”

Robin opened his mouth to speak, but Oscar wasn’t finished.

“You’ll probably get some stupid cop coming to your scout meetings or your school one day and they’ll stand there n’ tell you all about how drugs and alcohol are terrible or whatever, but it’s bollocks. Sure, they’re bad for you, but they feel good and that’s the problem. At least for me it was-.. is. It shouldn’t even be legal, really, not that it’d do much good if it wasn’t-.. it wouldn’t have stopped me, anyway.”

“I’d love to forbid you from going near it, but I’m sure you’ll all try it for yourselves one day. Maybe it’s just something to do, maybe it makes a boring night more fun, gives you the confidence to do something you’re scared of, talk to someone you’re shy around, I don’t know-.. you might hate it, you might not.”

“You hate that you still like it, don’t you?”

Oscar finally met Robin’s gaze as he nodded. “So much.” He wondered if he was making a mistake, being so open, but it was too late now and Robin had yet to balk or appear uncomfortable. If anything, he seemed concerned and intrigued, glad of the chance to ask whatever he wanted-.. not that he couldn’t usually, but the invitation was clearly welcome all the same.

“All your troubles just melt away, but they’re twice as bad when you wake up and doing it over again doesn’t solve much. It’s not the answer, Robin.”

“I know it’s not.”

Oscar’s frown softened as Robin slid beside him, threading an arm around his waist.

“You prefer being sober though, right?” he asked.

“Ah, that’s a loaded question…” Oscar sighed. “I prefer my life when I’m sober, but maybe a part of me will always crave that oblivion. It’s just something I have to live with.”

“Do you think you’ll do it again?”

“I don’t know, bud-..” Oscar admitted. “I’d like to say no but I don’t think I can make any promises, that’s not how it works.”

Robin nodded understandingly; he would’ve preferred it if his father could’ve made that promise, but a harsh truth was better than a hollow lie.

“They don’t mean much if you don’t keep em.” Oscar added.

“I get it-.. thanks for letting me ask you about it though, I know you’d rather keep it to yourself.”

“You’re still young but I know it’d drive you nuts otherwise. Besides, I don’t want it to feel like a dirty secret we can’t talk about, at least between us-.. might not wanna go telling all your friends your dad’s an alky though…”

Robin buried his face in the crook of Oscar’s shoulder and squeezed him tightly, desperate to convince his father that he didn’t think any less of him.

“Nah, they’re got enough ammunition.”

Oscar couldn’t help but snort at that. “I love you so much.”

“I know-.. I love you too.”

Robin said nothing a while as his father held him - or he held Oscar - only breaking the silence upon feeling his restless thoughts return.

“It’ll be the summer holiday’s soon, maybe we could go camping or something?”

Oscar smiled fondly. “Yeah, that’d be fun…”

Previous // Next

[ceilidho]

Hi crazy Johnny with a single mam anon back because im insane and have brainrot and am seriously contemplating writing it bcus i feel compelled by the power of Christ (Johnny’s cock) to write something pervy and nasty and creepy but ultimately sweet but im also just braindumping and sharing bcus not enough johnny content floating around I fear so have to pull up my bootstraps and do it myself (this is so long ceil im so very sorry)

anyways so I think this is sooo much hotter if Johnny is either on a prolonged medical discharge or he’s been forced into retirement for one reason or another (because then can keep an eye on you lol) he and like this has been touched on before but he’s just got. nothing to fucking do. And holy hell he’s going crazy. He needs something to do. So his silly, terribly adjusted brain latches onto the poor single mam next door who DEFINITELY needs his help.

Im a sucker for forced codependency. You, who thinks you’re doing great on your own, versus ‘can’t handle this all on yer own, eh little lass?’ Johnny MacTavish. He’s SO fucking subtle about it. Commenting on how hard it must be to have to raise a baby all your own, and gods love you just look knackered here let me take the bairn for a bit. He comes round and makes little comments about your house being messy (disorganised, but not messy) and immediately starts ‘sympathising’ because you just mustn’t have time to clean up but it’s important to keep hazards out the way of the baby, here he’ll *help*.

Never questions your ability as a mother, god no, just slyly drops suggestions that you’re not coping as well as you thought. And it fucking NAGS at you. And eventually, you start going to Johnny more and more for help. I honestly think he would cause problems in your flat (fixable ones, like fucking up the electrics or messing around with the pipes but stuff he knows he can fix) so you either have to A. Move in with him temporarily or B. Have to ask him to fix them. Eventually just says that your landlords a cunt for letting you live in a shithole and insists you just move in with him permanently. You do (it’s not really up for debate).

He doesn’t use condoms. I’m sorry he just doesn’t, but he will TELL you that he does- especially the first time you have sex. You’re all worried because ‘oh god Johnny I’m not on birth control I just put it off after I had the baby and we didn’t use a condom-‘ and he’s immediately tucking you into his chest and stroking your hair and shushing you ‘divvint be daft lass, course i wrapped it up, stupid thing just broke. Did ye not realise? Must’ve been heat o’ the moment, don’t worry yer little heed about it alright? Johnny’s here.” and kisses you on your hair and lulls you into sleep. Adamantly denies whispering about how pretty you’re gonna look pregnant as if he’s trying to subliminal you into pregnancy. lol.

Will legally adopt your baby. Like he’ll suggest it, straight up. And you’re probably a bit taken aback because it’s only been six months but he is insistent. This is probably the catalyst for his ‘im the biological dad’ delusions. Once he’s down as the father he’s actually losing his mind a little. Can imagine Simon or Gaz popping round to check up on Johnny on their next leave and suddenly he has a family and they’re actually a little concerned because when Gaz makes a comment about the baby’s being cute Johnny’s like ‘Yeah we did a good job, didn’we lass?” and between the two of them there’s just silence because johnny this is not your baby but they can see that slightly deranged look in his eyes. Defo asks about all the heavy details of your pregnancy and labour and the first few months so he can pretend like he was actually there for it and will talk about it as if he were actually there (extra bonus points if Gaz actually pulls you aside in the kitchen and asks about Johnny’s behaviour and tells you to be careful LMAO).

So yeah anyways.

PLEASE WRITE THIS IM BEGGING YOU!!!!!! im screaming at that last bit i need this so bad please......i don't ask for much but i swear to god please write this for me. this idea was designed in a lab to inflict the maximum amount of psychic damage on me. please write this and i will happily beta/edit it for you if you need any help omg

[estellan0vella]

Good For You Lee Felix x fem!reader (Peaky Blinders AU)

WC: 20.1K

CW: sex work, reader is a prostitute, talks of war, violence against women, time period appropriate stereotypical views of prostitutes, talks of shellshock, injuries, guns, substance abuse (opium use), death, sort of pre-established relationship General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

The sharp smell of brine and steel hangs heavy in the air as Felix’s head lolls back against Minho’s shoulder. The three of them stumble forward, feet slamming against the slick, grimy cobblestones of the Birmingham docks, trying to outrun the trouble they’ve just stirred. Felix’s blood leaks in dark rivulets, soaking through his shirt and onto Minho and Jisung's coats as the two of them hold him between them.

“Fuckin’ hell, Felix,” Minho grunts, his voice low and rough, like he’s dragging each word out of his throat. “You’re heavy as shit when you’re bleedin’ out.”

Felix groans, his face pale under the weak lamplight. “I’m not heavy. You two are just weak.”

“You’ve just been stabbed, you daft bastard,” Jisung spits from Felix’s other side, his breath coming short as they drag him forward. “Shut up and let us save your sorry arse.”

The clatter of distant voices rises behind them, followed by the unmistakable click of bootheels echoing off the cobbles. The sound is distant, but it’s getting closer. Minho snaps his head over his shoulder and hisses a curse. “They’re still fuckin’ comin’. Move faster, Jisung!”

“I’m movin’ as quick as I can!” Jisung snaps, shifting to get a better grip on Felix. The man's knees buckle for a moment, and Jisung shoots him a glare. “Felix, if you die on me, I’ll kill you myself.”

Felix lets out a rough, breathless chuckle. “You talk too fuckin’ much, Jisung. Both of you do.”

Jisung’s face twists in exasperation. “We just stole a crate of guns full of enough fuckin’ weaponry to supply a small army, and now we’re draggin’ your useless body out of here, bleeding like a pig.”

Minho snorts. “He’s got a point.”

Felix coughs, wincing as the stab wound flares with pain. He leans heavier against Minho’s shoulder and mutters, “Your chatter’s not gonna stop ‘em followin’ us, is it?”

“We’re talkin’ so we don’t go fuckin’ mad,” Minho snaps. “Jisung, grab him tighter, will you?”

Jisung rolls his eyes but adjusts his hold, and they stumble faster toward the edge of the docks. Felix feels his head spin again, the throbbing in his stomach worse now than when the knife first went in. He tries to breathe, but the sharp sting of it makes him curse under his breath.

“You need to keep that blood inside you,” Minho says, glancing down at him, his tone serious.

Jisung cuts in, his voice sharp and panicked. “We need to get him to the Garrison. We’re closest to-”

“No.” Felix’s voice comes out harsh and ragged. Both men look at him, startled. “No Garrison.”

Minho furrows his brow, annoyed. “You’re fuckin’ kiddin’, right? You’re bleedin’ out. You’ll die in the fuckin’ street if we don’t get you patched up proper.”

Felix shakes his head, sweat glistening on his brow. “Take me to the flats.”

“The what?” Jisung barks.

“The flats,” Felix repeats, his voice weaker but resolute. “The block not far from the Black Swan.”

Minho swears, his grip on Felix tightening. “You’ve lost too much blood to be makin’ sense, mate. You’re talkin’ about Fenian fuckin’ turf now.”

Felix grits his teeth against the pain and snaps, “I got someone there.”

“Someone?” Jisung echoes incredulously. “What, some girl you’re keepin’ tucked away? You’re gonna get yourself killed for a-”

“Shut it, Jisung,” Felix cuts him off, his eyes flashing despite the pain. “I said I got someone who can patch me up, and you two are gonna take me there before I fuckin’ bleed to death.”

Minho curses under his breath, his jaw tight. “This is a shite idea, Felix.”

“So was smokin' opium before stealin’ the fuckin’ crate,” Felix mutters, his voice weaker now. "We grabbed the wrong one"

“That was your idea!” Jisung hisses, his face a mix of frustration and worry.

“Doesn’t matter whose fuckin’ idea it was,” Minho growls, shooting Jisung a glare. “The coppers are probably sniffin’ around, and Felix here looks like he’s about two minutes from keelin’ over.”

“Then let’s move,” Felix grunts.

Jisung looks like he wants to argue, but he bites his tongue and nods, his hands flexing nervously around Felix’s arm. “We get spotted near that block, the Fenians’ll have us strung up. I hope you know what you’re doin’, Felix.”

Felix doesn’t answer. He just lets his head rest back against Minho’s shoulder, his body growing heavier with each step.

Minho swears again, louder this time. “Right. We’ll get you to the flats, but you owe me a new fuckin’ coat after this.”

Felix smirks faintly, his eyes fluttering. “Deal.”

“Don’t you fall asleep on us, mate,” Minho warns, shaking him slightly.

“I’m awake,” Felix mutters, though his voice sounds far away.

Jisung glances around nervously as they turn down a darker, narrower street. “We’re gonna regret this.”

“Shut it,” Minho snaps. “Keep your eyes open, and keep movin’. If Felix’s  someone doesn’t patch him up, we’ll be buryin’ him in a fuckin’ ditch by morning.”

Jisung falls quiet, and the three of them stumble forward into the shadowy maze of backstreets that wind toward the block of flats near the Black Swan. The sounds of the docks fade behind them, but the weight of the trouble they’ve stirred lingers heavy in the cold night air.

The clock ticks softly in the corner of your small living room, the steady rhythm filling the silence as you turn the pages of Pride and Prejudice. A cigarette burns between your fingers, its smoke curling lazily in the air.

The soft fabric of your green dress shifts against your legs as you lean back into the armchair, the heels on your feet tapping idly against the wooden floorboards. A dull ache still lingers in your cheekbone, and the split on your lip stings faintly when you purse your mouth, but you don’t think about that. 

You’re halfway through a particularly sharp exchange between Elizabeth and Darcy when a thunderous pounding rattles your front door.

You jolt upright, the cigarette nearly slipping from your fingers. Your brows knit together as the hammering continues, each knock loud and urgent, shaking the thin walls of your flat.

“Christ alive,” you mutter under your breath, stubbed cigarette hanging forgotten from your lips. 

When you pull open the door, the sight nearly knocks the breath out of you. Standing there under the dim hallway light are two men wearing razor-lined Peaky caps, holding up a third between them. The man in the middle, blood-soaked and pale as a sheet, is Lee Felix.

“Hey, angel,” Felix croaks with a faint, bloody smile.

You blink in surprise, momentarily stunned, before the softness returns to your face. “Hello, Felix.”

Jisung, the smaller of the two with wide, panicked eyes, gestures impatiently toward Felix with a tilt of his head. “He said to bring him here, to you, so here we fuckin’ are.”

Minho, the taller and sterner one, raises a brow, taking in the gentle smile on your face and the way Felix clings to consciousness. “So, you two are...acquainted?” He jerks his chin toward Felix. “Who’s the girl, Felix?”

Felix lets out a breathy chuckle, though it turns into a cough. “This angel here is Y/N.” He winces as the pain pulls at his wound. “Y/N, this is Minho and Jisung. Don’t let their sour faces fool you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Minho mutters.

You shake off the shock quickly, ushering them inside. “Come in, quick. And shut the bloody door before the whole building hears you.”

The moment they step into your modest flat, you spring into action, clearing the small dining table of books and ashtrays with practised speed. You grab the half-empty bottle of rum from your cabinet, tipping a generous splash over the table to sterilize it, cigarette still dangling between your fingers.

“Put him on the table,” you say firmly.

Minho and Jisung exchange a look before hauling Felix’s weight across the room. “Watch his fuckin’ head,” Minho snaps as they lay him down. Felix groans as his back hits the hard wood, his breaths shallow and laboured.

Jisung hovers, wringing his hands. “We were at the docks-”

"Please don’t tell me anythin’. I don’t want to know”

Jisung clamps his mouth shut, looking sheepish. “Right. Fair enough.”

You glance at Felix’s pale face, eyes flicking to the blood seeping through his shirt. “You’ve really done it this time,” you murmur softly.

Felix grins faintly. “Only because I knew you’d fix me up, angel.”

Minho and Jisung take off their caps, flopping onto your small couch without invitation. Minho pulls out a cigarette and lights it with a grunt, leaning back with a sigh. “This is cosy.”

You glance up briefly. “Biscuits are in the cupboard up there if you want some.”

Jisung perks up immediately. “Oh, bless you, darlin'.” He springs up, rushing to the cabinet to root through it like he owns the place.

You roll your eyes before focusing back on Felix. You grab a pair of scissors and cut open his shirt, the sound of tearing fabric filling the room. Felix hisses as the cold air hits his wound, but you’re already examining it with sharp, trained eyes.

“Can you patch me up?” Felix asks weakly, looking up at you.

You give him a small, reassuring smile, pressing a hand gently to his arm. “Of course I can. I did it in France, didn’t I?”

Felix manages a faint smirk despite his pallor.

You grab the rum again and pour it straight onto the wound without warning. Felix arches sharply off the table with a shout, his teeth gritting. “Fuckin’ hell!”

“Stay still,” you say gently, though there’s no room for argument.

Felix’s breathing grows uneven, his hands clenching at nothing. You stride quickly to the stove, turning on the gas and grabbing one of your old kitchen knives. The faint hiss of the flame fills the room as you hold the blade over it, watching the metal glow.

From the couch, Minho squints at you. “What the fuck are you doin’ now?”

Felix groans faintly. “She’s gonna cauterize it.”

Jisung, halfway through his third biscuit, freezes mid-bite. “She’s gonna what?”

“This is gonna fuckin’ hurt,” Felix mutters.

You glance back at him, soft but firm. “Yes, it is. So prepare yourself.”

You grab a clean rag from the cabinet, placing it gently but firmly in Felix’s mouth. “Bite on that. And don’t you dare scream the whole building down.”

Felix meets your eyes, his gaze steady despite the sweat dripping down his temple. He swallows hard as you step back to his side. “Here,” you murmur, offering him your free hand.

Felix grips it tightly, his knuckles white as he prepares himself.

The knife in your other hand glows red-hot, the sharp edge blurred by the heat. You bring it down with precision, pressing it firmly to the wound.

Felix screams into the rag, his body jerking violently against the table. The smell of burning flesh fills the air, sharp and metallic. Minho and Jisung glance over, both grimacing as Felix’s muffled cries ring out.

“It’s alright, Felix,” you murmur. “Just a bit longer now.”

Felix squeezes your hand tighter, tears springing to the corners of his eyes as you finish the cauterization. When it’s done, you pull the knife back, tossing it into the basin with a clatter.

“There,” you say softly, pulling the rag from his mouth. “It’s over.”

Felix’s chest heaves as he slumps back against the table, his hand still gripping yours weakly. “Jesus...fuckin’...Christ.”

You offer him a small smile as you begin to wrap the wound with clean bandages. “Told you I could fix you.”

You finish bandaging Felix up with careful hands, the sound of his shallow breaths filling the quiet of the flat. Minho and Jisung, sprawled on your small couch, smoke their cigarettes like they haven’t a care in the world despite the chaos outside. You straighten up, wiping your hands on a rag, and glance at them.

“Alright,” you say, folding your arms. “Are you gonna be alright gettin’ him home?”

Felix’s head turns slightly on the table, his voice rough but clear enough. “About that…” he pauses, catching his breath. “Uh, can we lie low here for a few hours?”

You blink, surprised.

“I’ll pay you,” Felix adds quickly. “For your time and for patchin’ me up.”

Jisung nods, flicking ash onto the floor. “We’re too close to Fenian turf right now, love. If we step outside, we’re liable to get our heads kicked in. We’d be outnumbered.”

You look between the three of them. Felix, pale and sweat-slicked, Minho blowing smoke like he’s in his own bloody living room, and Jisung perched on the arm of the couch like a stray cat. You sigh softly, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“Sure,” you say, leaning back against the table. “You can stay as long as you need. Just don’t be makin’ a mess of the place, alright?”

Jisung grins and Minho nods in approval.

Felix exhales in relief, his hand settling over his stomach. “You’re an angel.”

You shake your head fondly, stepping closer to him as he pants quietly, his eyes fluttering shut. His hair sticks to his damp forehead, and instinctively, you reach down, brushing it back with gentle fingers. His eyelids flicker open, warm brown eyes locking onto yours.

“What happened to your face?” he murmurs, his voice soft but edged with concern.

You freeze for a moment before forcing a small smile. “Nasty client.”

Felix frowns deeply, his gaze narrowing as his hand moves up to you. Before you can stop him, his thumb brushes gently over your split lip. The touch is soft, far more tender than it has any right to be, and it sends a pang through your chest.

“I want a name,” he says, low and serious.

“It’s not that big of a deal, Felix,” you reply quietly, pulling back slightly.

Felix’s jaw tenses, his voice firm. “Name.”

You sigh, rolling your eyes. You know he won’t let it go. “That guy who works at the docks. The one whose wife went to the nuthouse after givin’ birth. He’s got a scar runnin’ through his lip.” You pause, your voice dry. “Didn’t pay for his time neither.”

Jisung stops mid-chew, his mouth still half full of biscuits, and frowns. Without a word, he reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a wad of cash, and thrusts it toward you.

You blink at the offering. “What’s this for?”

“Compensation,” Jisung says simply. “For that bastard.”

You hesitate before taking it, shaking your head. “You lot are somethin’ else, I swear. Thank you.”

Felix glances over toward Jisung. “You’re payin’ that prick a visit tomorrow, yeah?”

Jisung shrugs, nonchalant, like it’s just another item on his to-do list. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll sort him out. Don’t worry about it.”

“Good.” Felix’s voice drops low, dangerous even as he lies there half-dead on your table. He lets his head fall back again, his gaze lingering on you.

The silence is broken when Minho pipes up, his tone blunt and cutting through the air. “So, are you a whore?”

“Oi,” Felix snaps, his eyes blazing as he jerks his head up. “Watch your fuckin’ mouth, Minho.”

You hold up a hand before Felix can say anything more, your voice calm and even. “It’s alright.” You glance at Minho, unbothered. “Yeah. Not much use for a war nurse when there’s no war anymore, is there?”

Minho shrugs, seemingly satisfied with your answer, and blows out a long stream of smoke.

Jisung, surprisingly quieter than usual, speaks up. “So, is that how you met Felix, then?”

You nod slowly, a small smile tugging at your lips as your gaze flicks to Felix. “Yeah. Felix is one of the few good ones.”

Felix hums softly, smiling faintly despite the exhaustion in his eyes. “Actually met her in France, y’know. But that’s a story for another time.”

The room is quiet for a moment, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the hiss of Minho’s cigarette burning.

With Minho and Jisung settling into their cigarettes on your worn-out couch, you turn your attention back to Felix. He’s pale as a sheet, the blood loss catching up with him, and even though his breathing has evened out slightly, you can tell he’s struggling.

“Alright, Felix,” you say softly, brushing your hands against your dress. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable before you pass out on me.”

He grunts softly, trying to sit up as you help him off the table. He’s heavier than he looks, leaning on you with most of his weight. “I’m alright, angel. I got this.”

“Shut up,” you mutter gently. “You’re about as sturdy as a sack of potatoes right now.”

He chuckles faintly, his arm slinging around your shoulder as you guide him toward your bedroom. You take it slow, your heels clicking softly against the floor, every now and then catching him as he stumbles. Minho glances up as you pass, but you wave him off.

By the time you get him through the door and onto the edge of your bed, he’s panting faintly, sweat slicking his brow again. You help him ease back onto the mattress, fluffing the pillow behind his head as he exhales shakily.

“It’s lucky I like you, Lee Felix,” you tease softly, sitting down beside him on the edge of the bed. “I was readin’ Pride and Prejudice when you decided to bang on my door.”

A faint smile pulls at his lips, though his eyes are still half-closed. “Sorry, angel. I know how much you like readin’ your books.”

You smile despite yourself, gently smoothing a strand of his damp hair away from his face. “You’re lucky I’m sweet on you, or I’d have thrown you lot straight back out into the street.”

Felix’s warm hand suddenly reaches out, catching yours. His grip is gentle, but there’s a desperation in the way he holds onto you, thumb brushing softly over your knuckles. You look down at him, startled by the intensity in his gaze.

“Why won’t you marry me?” Felix asks, his voice quiet but steady.

Your heart skips a beat. “Felix...”

“No,” he cuts in softly, his voice rough around the edges but insistent. “I want to know. I’ve asked before. I’m askin’ again. Why won’t you?”

You sigh quietly, your free hand resting in your lap as you look down at him. “Felix, you know why.”

He shakes his head, not letting go of your hand. “Say it. I want to hear it from you.”

You meet his gaze, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because neither of us leads safe lives.”

Felix’s jaw tightens for a moment before he speaks, his voice calm but firm. “I’d keep you safe. You know I would, angel. You know I’d kill for you if I had to.”

Your chest tightens at the earnest look in his eyes. He means it, every word, and that’s what makes it harder. “And what if you don’t come back one day, Felix? What then?”

“I will,” he replies stubbornly, his hand squeezing yours. “I always come back.”

“You can’t promise me that,” you murmur, but the words lack conviction.

Felix’s lips tug into the faintest smile, his gaze softening. “Then let me promise you somethin’ else. I’ll keep you safe, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure I come back to you. I’m not a good man but I’d be good for you.”

The words settle heavily in the quiet room. You take a deep breath, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand.

“I’ll think about it,” you say softly.

Felix’s brows lift slightly. “Promise?”

You nod, your smile faint but sincere. “I promise.”

Felix exhales, the tension leaving his body as a tired grin spreads across his face. “That’s good enough for me, angel.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. His eyes flutter closed, and his breathing slows, your hand still tucked gently in his. You stay there, perched on the edge of the bed, watching him rest.

You’ve always been sweet on Lee Felix, more than you’d care to admit. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll think about it after all.

The cobbled streets of Small Heath glisten faintly under the weak evening light, leftover rain pooling in the cracks. Felix walks with a steady but deliberate stride, flanked by Minho on his right and Jisung on his left. The three of them are heading to the Garrison, the Peaky Blinders’ stomping ground.

“You know,” Jisung says suddenly, his hands stuffed into his pockets, “you’ve been seein’ that lovely lady of yours for nearly a year now, right? Since the war ended?”

Felix stiffens slightly, side-eyeing Jisung. “Shut the fuck up.”

Minho chuckles under his breath, looking amused. “It’s a fair question. You did say last night that you met her in France, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Felix mutters, his voice clipped. “Now stop askin’ me fuckin’ questions I ain’t gonna answer.”

Jisung huffs, pulling a face. “Miserable bastard.”

Felix shoots him a glare. “Twat.”

The three of them keep walking, boots smacking against the wet cobblestones. The Garrison’s golden light comes into view up ahead, the hum of life and noise spilling faintly from behind its doors. As they push inside, the smell of beer and cigarettes hits them like a wall.

The regular crowd is scattered throughout the pub, but Felix doesn’t slow. He leads Minho and Jisung through the haze of smoke and noise to the back room where Bang Chan and the rest of the Peaky boys are waiting.

Chan is perched at the head of the table, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips as he looks up, dark eyes narrowing. “Where the fuck have you three been?”

Jisung immediately takes centre stage, his grin sharp and boyish as he leans against the doorframe. “Well, after Felix here got himself stabbed last night, we took him to meet his lady friend who patched him up. Sweet girl, that one.”

Felix groans, rolling his head back against the doorframe. “Shut the fuck up. You don’t know shit, Jisung.”

Jisung snickers, undeterred. “What I do know is that Felix here’s a proper gentleman for this particular prostitute.”

The words hang in the air for a moment.

Hyunjin, leaning lazily in a chair with his feet propped up on the table, bursts out laughing. “That’s where you’ve been slippin’ off to? Gettin’ your dick wet?”

Felix rolls his eyes and mutters, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ…”

“Oi, don’t look so sour,” Jisung pipes up, grinning wide. “He calls her angel, you know. To be honest, prettiest girl I’ve seen in a long time.”

Minho nods approvingly, reaching for the bottle of whiskey on the table. “I’ll fuckin’ drink to that.”

Changbin leans forward, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “What, mate, you tired of women throwin’ themselves at you, so you’re payin’ for it now?”

Felix throws him a flat, unimpressed look. “You’re all a bunch of arseholes.”

Seungmin, ever the one to stir the pot, pipes up, his voice edged with sarcasm. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with her, Felix. She’s a prostitute.”

Felix’s head snaps up, his glare sharp as a blade. “Shut the fuck up before I cut your tongue out of your head.”

“Oh, come on,” Seungmin scoffs, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re in love with a whore? She can probably tell you’re sweet on her and is playin’ up to it so you’ll keep payin’ her.”

The room goes quiet for a beat, the tension thick enough to choke on. Felix pushes off the wall, stepping forward, his eyes blazing. “She ain’t like that, you fuckin’ gobshite. None of you know her, so shut your mouths.”

Chan raises a hand, his calm, measured voice cutting through the silence. “That’s enough.” His sharp gaze sweeps across the room, lingering on Seungmin before landing on Felix. “If Felix loves a whore, he loves a whore. His choice.”

The room relaxes slightly, though Felix still stands taut, his fists clenching at his sides. Minho, sitting back with a glass in hand, offers a shrug. “She’s a nice girl, minus the whole fuckin’ half of Small Heath for money thing.”

Changbin snorts, leaning back in his chair. “Is this why you go around cuttin’ up half the men in Small Heath, Felix? Because they’re fuckin’ your lady?”

Jisung shakes his head, his tone serious now. “Nah. It’s because they’re smackin’ her about and not payin’ her. Her face was busted up yesterday when Minho and I met her.”

That shuts Changbin up quick. Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, his usual teasing edge gone. “She got roughed up?”

“Yeah,” Jisung confirms, arms crossed, his grin gone. “Split lip. Bruise on her cheekbone. Bastards.”

Chan’s gaze sharpens. “Is that why there was a dead dockworker found in the Cut?”

Jisung raises his hand like a schoolboy. “That was me. Felix asked me to pay him a visit.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “I don’t like lady-beaters, so I went happily.”

Felix doesn’t say anything, but there’s a faint glint of approval in his eyes as he slouches back against the wall again, folding his arms over his chest.

Chan exhales a cloud of smoke, his expression unreadable. “Well. I can’t say I blame you.”

The room falls quiet for a moment, the only sound the faint hum of voices drifting from the main bar.

Felix finally speaks up, his voice softer now, but no less firm. “She ain’t just some whore to me.”

The room turns to him, but no one interrupts. Felix’s gaze is steady as he looks around at the group.

“She’s a good girl,” he says quietly, like he’s daring anyone to argue with him. “And she’s done more for me than most people ever have.”

Chan leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and tilts his chin toward Felix. “Well then, let’s see this patch-up job, eh?”

Felix sighs, already knowing he won’t get out of this. “For fuck’s sake…” he mutters, but he stands up with a grunt, shrugging off his coat. He tosses it lazily onto the back of the chair before his fingers start working on the buttons of his vest. The room watches, waiting, as he undoes his shirt next, then carefully rolls up his undershirt to expose the bandages wrapped tightly around his torso.

Chan leans forward, squinting slightly as Felix sits back down and rests his hands on his thighs. The white bandages are clean, no trace of blood leaking through. That in itself is impressive. “Seungmin,” Chan says sharply. “Scissors.”

Seungmin flicks open his coat pocket, pulls out a small pair of scissors, and tosses them over the table to Chan. Chan catches them without looking, the blade flashing briefly in the low light.

“Sit still,” he says to Felix.

“I am still,” Felix grumbles, flinching just a little when Chan starts cutting through the bandages.

The fabric pulls away with a faint ripping sound, revealing the cauterized wound underneath. The skin around it is red and angry-looking, but the burn itself is neat and precise.

Chan lets out a low whistle, sitting back and tilting his head as he takes it in. “Well, I’ll be fucked. Your lady did a good job.”

Felix smirks faintly, his expression proud despite the lingering pain in his side. “She’s good at what she does.”

Chan raises an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

Felix rolls the undershirt back down, wincing slightly as he shifts in his seat. “She was in France, just like the rest of us,” he says, his voice quieter now. “War nurse. It’s how I met her. That shrapnel I took to the chest in the Somme? She’s the one who patched me up. Sat by my bedside and everything.” He pauses, a faint, faraway look in his eye. “All the soldiers loved her.”

Changbin grunts, leaning back in his chair and smirking. “A regular Florence fuckin’ Nightingale, huh?”

Felix doesn’t deny it, just shrugs and reaches for the bottle of whiskey in the centre of the table. “She’s got a good heart. Better than most.”

Minho leans forward, slinging one arm across the back of his chair, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “Pretty as a picture, sweet as a songbird. Wore a green dress, looked nice on her.”

Jisung laughs, tapping his glass of whiskey against Minho’s with a smirk. “She’s got a face that belongs in the pictures. Could be a bloody movie star, that one.”

Hyunjin, perched casually with his boots up on the edge of the table, grins like a devil. “Well now we have to meet this lady of yours.”

Felix’s smile drops instantly, replaced with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Not happenin’.”

Hyunjin raises a brow, his grin widening as he gestures to himself. “Worried she’ll fall for my beauty, mate?”

Felix snorts, unimpressed. “No. Just don’t want her meetin’ you pack of fools. She’s a nice girl. Classy.”

Seungmin scoffs, leaning forward with a crooked smirk. “How classy can she be if she’s spreadin’ her legs for half the city?”

Felix’s glare snaps to Seungmin, his entire body tensing as he fixes him with a look that could kill. “Say that again"

Seungmin shrugs, unbothered. “Relax, Felix. I’m just sayin’.”

Jeongin, who’d been quietly nursing a beer in the corner, pipes up softly. “I think it’s sweet, actually.”

Changbin laughs loudly, slapping his hand against the table. “Of course you do. Our soft Innie.”

Jeongin rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Piss off, Changbin.”

Felix sits back again, shaking his head in frustration. “Listen here, none of you pricks are meetin’ her. The only reason Jisung and Minho saw her at all was ‘cause I was bleedin’ out, and she knows what she’s doin’. That’s the end of it.”

The room falls quiet for a beat as the boys exchange looks, smirks hidden behind cigarettes and whiskey glasses.

Hyunjin breaks the silence first, his tone sing-song and teasing. “Felix has gone soft on us, lads.”

“Say what you want,” Felix mutters, pouring himself a drink. “Doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”

Chan watches him carefully, his sharp gaze unwavering. “You trust her, then?”

Felix nods once, firm. “With my life.”

No one argues after that.

It’s early morning, and the pale light filtering through the curtains turns the room a soft grey. You sit at your brand-new dining table, the rich mahogany smooth under your fingers as you absentmindedly trace a groove along its edge. Felix had marched in with the damned thing two weeks ago, stubborn as ever, claiming he wasn’t going to let you keep “that bloodstained piece of shit” after he’d bled out all over it. You’d told him you didn’t mind, but he wouldn’t hear it.

Now, it’s your favourite spot in the flat. You sit there quietly, cigarette between your fingers, the thin line of smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. A steaming cup of tea sits beside you as you thumb through the worn pages of Little Women. The words blur slightly as you lose yourself in the story, a soft hum of peace settling over the room.

And then your door is kicked in.

The splintering crack of wood jolts you out of your thoughts. The door smashes open with enough force to rattle the frame, and the heavy thuds of boots follow immediately after. Four uniformed police officers spill into your flat like a pack of wolves, their faces hard and eyes sharp.

You don’t flinch. You don’t even move. You just take another slow drag of your cigarette and exhale softly, letting the smoke drift toward the ceiling.

The men start tearing apart your flat immediately. Books tossed off shelves, cushions ripped off chairs, drawers pulled out and dumped unceremoniously onto the floor. The sound of it is deafening.

You finally speak, your voice calm and even, as if discussing the weather. “If you’re lookin’ for somethin’, you can just tell me, and I’ll help you find it.”

One of the officers pauses long enough to glare at you. “Not your fuckin’ business what we’re lookin’ for.”

“Alright, then,” you reply, unbothered, turning another page in your book. “Suit yourselves.”

A heavy thud makes you look up sharply. The flat has gone quiet save for the slow tap of a cane against your wooden floor. A tall man strides in, his polished shoes clicking crisply with each step. He’s older, with silver streaking through his dark hair, and his sharp suit speaks to someone with authority. He removes his hat and nods at you with an unsettling politeness.

“Inspector Park,” he says smoothly, the cane tapping as he moves toward you. “Miss L/N, correct?”

You meet his gaze, your expression still soft despite the chaos around you. “That’s me,” you say with a faint nod.

He hums as if satisfied, then turns to the officers. “Grab her.”

Two of the uniformed men step toward you, rough hands clamping down on your arms and hauling you up out of the chair. Your cigarette falls from your fingers, landing on the floor with a faint hiss.

“Oi, watch the tea,” you say dryly, wincing at the tight grip.

Inspector Park steps closer, his shadow falling over you. He reaches out, his gloved hand gripping your chin firmly and tilting your face upward to look at him. His dark eyes scan your face as if searching for something. “Where are the guns?” he asks, his voice steady and cold.

Your brow furrows slightly, confusion flickering across your face. “What guns?”

The question earns you a sharp slap across the mouth. The crack of his palm against your skin rings out in the quiet, the force of it turning your head to the side. A sharp, metallic taste fills your mouth as blood trickles from the corner of your split lip.

“Where are the guns?” he repeats, his voice unchanging.

You turn back to face him, unflinching despite the sting, your eyes meeting his steadily. “What guns?”

Inspector Park stares at you for a long moment, his hand gripping your face again, thumb brushing across the split on your lip almost mockingly. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies you.

Then he hums, low and thoughtful. “Hmm… You don’t know, do you?”

You blink. “Know what?”

The corners of his mouth twitch slightly, as if suppressing a smirk. He lets go of your face abruptly, turning back toward the men still tossing your flat. “Alright,” he says. “Let her go.”

The officers release you, their rough hands falling away as you straighten your dress with quiet dignity, ignoring the blood on your mouth. Inspector Park places his hat back on his head, adjusting it carefully before speaking again.

“I’ll be back with more questions, Miss L/N.”

You offer him the faintest of smiles, sweet and steady. “I’ll have biscuits and tea ready and waitin’ for you, Inspector Park.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression, annoyance, perhaps, but he doesn’t respond. He taps his cane sharply against the floor, signalling to the officers, and they follow him out, leaving your flat in shambles.

You stand there in the centre of the wreckage, cigarette still smouldering on the floor and your tea cold on the table. You take a deep breath, smoothing your hands down your dress, and murmur to no one in particular:

“Rude bastards.”

Your hands shake slightly as you reach for your cream coat, pulling it from the hook near the door. It settles over your shoulders, the soft fabric a small comfort in the chaos left behind by Inspector Park and his thugs. You glance down at your blue dress, smoothing it as best you can before bending to pull on your matching cream heels, wincing slightly as the motion tugs at your already aching lip.

Blood drips slowly from the cut, leaving faint crimson streaks down your chin. The bastard’s signet ring left a deeper mark than you’d thought. You press your fingertips to the wound briefly, hissing softly at the sting, before slipping on your cream gloves.

On your way to the small stand by the door, you grab your clutch and slide the switchblade Felix gave you into your coat pocket. You never thought you’d actually carry the thing, but after what just happened, it feels like an extra layer of armour. Felix had handed it to you weeks ago, muttering, “Just in case, angel,” and now you find yourself silently thanking him.

The door groans on its hinges as you pull it closed behind you, unable to latch it properly after it had been kicked in. As you glance over the landing, you notice other flats being stormed, doors thrown open, officers pushing their way inside. Women yell in protest, children cry, and belongings, clothes, photographs, dishes, are strewn carelessly onto the stairs and into the hall.

You swallow hard, keeping your head down as you make your way toward the staircase. A sharp pang runs through your lip as you press your gloved hand against it again, catching another small drop of blood before it falls. Your feet hurry down the creaking stairs, heels clicking against the wood, each step a little faster than the last.

The streets of Small Heath are no better than the building you left behind. You keep your shoulders back and head high as you weave through the alleys, cutting across familiar roads until Watery Lane looms ahead. It’s quieter here, the noise of the raids lingering in the distance, but the tension in the air is unmistakable.

As you approach the heart of Peaky Blinder territory, you spot a black car rumbling down the street, its wheels kicking up dust from the cobbled road. You pause on the pavement, tucking your hands into your coat pockets, watching as it slows.

From a distance, you can see Felix. He’s in the back seat, his face shadowed but unmistakable. Bang Chan is driving, his hands firm on the wheel, with Minho beside him in the passenger seat. In the back with Felix are Jeongin and Changbin, all of them looking out at the mess the police have left behind, homes torn apart, belongings littered across doorsteps.

Felix’s eyes flick toward you almost instantly, as if he’s been scanning the streets for someone. When he spots you, his entire posture changes. Without a word, he shoves Changbin aside, earning a muffled complaint, and climbs over him to get to the door.

“What the fuck?” Changbin grumbles as Felix hops out of the moving car.

Felix slams the door behind him, ignoring the curses thrown his way as he strides across the street, his boots crunching against the gravel. You stop where you are, frozen as his hands come up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing ever-so-gently across the cut on your lip.

“Christ,” he murmurs, his brows furrowing deeply as he takes in the injury. “What happened, angel? Who did this?”

Before you can answer, Changbin leans halfway out of the car window, grinning like a devil. “So, Felix,” he calls, “you gonna introduce us, or what?”

Chan, still at the wheel, smirks. “Yeah, you’ve never jumped out of the car before. Lazy fuck.”

Minho leans back with a grin, turning to face the others. “That’s Felix’s Florence Nightingale.”

Jeongin cranes his neck from the back seat, wide-eyed as he takes you in. “Oh, you and Jisung were right,” he says softly. “She is pretty as a picture.”

Minho throws an arm across the seat, his grin smug. “I’m always right.”

Felix groans softly, his hands reluctantly falling away from your face as he turns to glare back at the car. “You lot are insufferable.” He exhales, gesturing lazily. “Angel, meet Changbin, Chan, and Jeongin. Obviously, you already met Minho the other night.”

You smile politely, despite the blood on your lip. “Nice to meet you three,” you say softly, then glance at Minho. “And nice to see you again, Minho.”

Minho tips his cap with a small, easy smile. “Pleasure, love.”

Felix rolls his eyes, but the tension hasn’t fully left his face. “So,” he mutters, his voice low, “what happened? Was it another client?”

You shake your head slowly, looking past him toward the car. “I think this is a discussion I need to have with him.” You tilt your chin toward Chan, who’s watching the scene unfold with an unreadable expression.

Chan’s eyes narrow slightly, but he nods, seeming to understand as he climbs out of the car. “Felix, drive the car back. I’ll walk with her.”

Felix hesitates, his jaw clenching. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” Chan replies firmly. “Get the others back to the shop.”

Felix grits his teeth but relents, stepping back. “Alright. Bring her to the bettin’ shop once you’re done talkin’.”

Chan nods, already climbing out of the car as Felix heads back, grumbling to himself as he slips into the driver's seat.

You turn to face Chan, who offers his arm to you as you both begin walking down the street, his gesture smooth and gentlemanly despite the grim circumstances. You hesitate for only a moment before slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow. 

Reaching into your pocket, you pull out a cigarette, placing it between your lips. Before you can even fumble for a match, Chan produces a lighter from his coat pocket, flicking it open with a click. The flame flares to life, and he holds it up for you, his gaze steady.

You lean in slightly, letting the cigarette catch, inhaling deeply before straightening up with a soft “Thank you.”

Chan nods wordlessly, tucking the lighter back into his pocket as the two of you walk in the direction of the cut, his boots crunching faintly against the gravel. The noise of the streets begins to fade behind you, replaced by the distant lapping of water and the faint calls of the morning hawkers.

“My flat block got raided,” you say softly, breaking the silence. Smoke drifts lazily from your lips as you glance at him.

Chan doesn’t react right away, but his brow furrows slightly. “Raided?”

You nod. “But an inspector came to my flat.”

Chan’s steps falter for the briefest second, but he recovers quickly. “An inspector?”

“Yeah,” you reply, flicking ash off the end of your cigarette. “Tall man. Walked with a cane. Polite enough, but a fuckin’ brute when he wanted to be.”

Chan’s jaw tightens faintly, his eyes darkening as he processes that. “And what did he want?”

You pause, exhaling smoke into the crisp air. “He asked me about guns.”

Chan comes to an abrupt stop, his gaze snapping to yours. You keep walking a few steps ahead before turning to face him, one brow raised.

“I don’t know anything about any guns,” you continue calmly, holding his gaze, “but I figured you’d probably want to know, because I reckon you know exactly what guns the inspector’s talkin’ about.”

Chan stares at you for a long moment, the muscle in his jaw working as he thinks. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fuckin’ hell.”

You both continue walking until you reach the cut. It’s quieter here, more private. Chan pulls out a cigarette of his own and lights it, leaning against the low stone wall that lines the water. The river reflects the grey sky above, rippling faintly in the breeze.

“What I’m about to tell you,” Chan says finally, his voice low and serious, “is only known by myself, Minho, Jisung, and Felix.”

You nod, understanding the weight of what he’s about to say.

Chan takes a long drag of his cigarette before speaking again, his gaze fixed on the water. “That night Felix got stabbed, they were stealin’ a shipment from the docks. Job was simple, or so we fuckin’ thought. Only they grabbed the wrong shipment.”

You tilt your head slightly, watching him as he talks.

“They got it to the BSA factory to hide it,” he continues, “and when they opened the crate, Minho, Jisung, and Felix found enough weaponry for a small fuckin’ army. Guns, ammunition. All bound for Libya. Then walkin' through the docks, Felix gets himself stabbed"

You blink, absorbing the information. Slowly, you nod, blowing out a stream of smoke. “So this inspector?”

Chan flicks ash from the end of his cigarette. “I’ve got coppers on my payroll, ones who hear things. He’s from Westminster. He’s been sent here with one purpose, retrieving those guns and makin’ sure anyone who knows about them swings.”

The faint sting of fear pricks at the back of your mind, but you keep your face calm. “So you’re the only ones who know?”

Chan nods once. “For now. I’ll only be tellin’ the trusted ones.”

You hum softly, taking another pull from your cigarette. “Well, this inspector,” you begin, your voice even, “I’ve been hearin’ about him. He avoided service, you know. That’s why they’ve shipped him off down here. He’s hated in Westminster.”

Chan raises an eyebrow, interest flickering across his face. “Oh?”

You nod, shrugging lightly. “A lot of coppers pass through my bed, Chan. One of ‘em told me three nights ago. They don’t like him. Not one fuckin’ bit.”

Chan takes a moment to process that before a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Useful to know.”

Silence stretches between you briefly, both of you standing there smoking, the distant sound of the water filling the quiet. Finally, Chan glances at you, his expression thoughtful.

“How would you feel about bein’ under my employment?”

You arch a brow, a small, amused smile playing on your lips. “How so?”

“You keep doin’ what you do,” Chan replies, “and you tell me what you learn about Small Heath. Things that might concern me and the Peaky Blinders.”

You tilt your head, pretending to consider it. “And here I thought Bang Chan knew everything.”

Chan smirks faintly, the glint in his eye sharp. “I know most things, sweetheart, but there are some things a man will only tell after receivin’ the touch of a woman.”

You huff a soft laugh, taking one final drag from your cigarette before flicking it into the water. “Alright,” you say, crossing your arms. “What do I get?”

Chan doesn’t hesitate. “A steady wage on top of what you already earn. Anyone gets rough, the Blinders will deal with them.”

You nod slowly, your lips curling into a small smile. “Alright, Mr. Bang. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Chan adjusts the cuff of his coat as he turns back toward Watery Lane, nodding for you to follow him. “Come on,” he says, his tone light but purposeful. “I’m gonna tell the rest of the boys about this shitshow. And while we’re there, might as well introduce you as the newest employee.”

You let out a small laugh and shake your head, slipping your arm back through his like before. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

“Time is a luxury we can’t afford, sweetheart,” Chan replies simply, glancing at you with that sharp gaze of his.

As you fall into step beside him, you glance up and ask softly, “So who are you tellin’, then?”

“Seungmin, Changbin, Hyunjin, and Jeongin,” he says, voice firm and steady. “Obviously, myself, Felix, Jisung, Minho, and now you are already in the know. All the other Blinders aren’t goin’ to hear a word about this. This has got to be kept quiet.”

You nod slowly, taking that in. “You think the inspector will come for you directly?”

Chan scoffs faintly, shaking his head. “He’s too smart for that. That’s why he’s shown up on your doorstep. Someone’s probably told him Felix’s a regular client of yours.” He pauses briefly, casting you a sideways glance. “And while we’re on the topic of Felix, you wanna tell me why one of my men is in such a tizzy over you?”

You smile faintly, pulling your coat a little tighter around yourself. “He wants to get married.”

Chan stops mid-stride, staring at you incredulously. “Well, I’ll be fucked.”

You laugh, unable to help yourself. “That’s about what I said.”

Chan’s expression shifts into a smirk, his brows raised as he starts walking again. “You’ve surprised me, sweetheart. And that doesn’t happen often.”

“Believe me,” you say, the cigarette dangling delicately from your lips as you speak, “I was surprised the first time he asked.”

“How many times has he asked?”

You shrug with a small, almost shy smile. “A few.”

Chan’s grin deepens. “And you don’t wanna marry him?”

“I do,” you admit quietly, eyes fixed ahead. “It’s just… it’s more complex than that.”

Chan hums thoughtfully, though he doesn’t push you for more. “I reckon it is.”

The two of you finally step onto Watery Lane, the bustling energy of the betting shop growing louder the closer you get. Men shout wagers, coins clatter against counters, and the general hum of Small Heath’s finest at work fills the air.

Chan gestures toward the shop, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “This is where the magic happens.”

You glance around, taking in the organized chaos of it all—the well-dressed men standing behind counters, the constant motion, the careful way it’s hidden behind the front of an ordinary house. “Felix tries to keep me away from all of this,” you say softly, an amused lilt to your tone.

Chan snorts, shaking his head. “Well, he’s gonna blow a fuckin’ bollock when he finds out you’re now on my payroll.”

You don’t have time to reply before Chan whistles sharply through his teeth, a short, commanding sound that cuts through the noise like a knife. Within seconds, Changbin, Seungmin, Felix, Jeongin, Jisung, Minho, and Hyunjin filter into the dining room at the back. The room is tucked neatly behind the main betting den, a trick to keep the real business hidden in plain sight.

You glance around, lips curling into an impressed smile. “Neat little trick.”

Chan smirks proudly. “I try.”

You settle into one of the wooden chairs at the dining table as the others filter in, pulling out chairs or leaning against the walls. Seungmin’s eyes narrow slightly as he gestures toward you with his chin. “Who’s this?”

Jisung wastes no time, grinning like a cat who caught a canary. “This is Felix’s lady friend, Y/N.”

Hyunjin grins widely, bowing slightly in your direction. “Oh? Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, darlin’.”

Felix groans softly, rolling his eyes as he drops into the seat next to you. “Give it a rest.”

Jisung, clearly enjoying himself, plops into the chair on your other side. “Nice to see you again, sweetheart,” he says with a teasing grin, leaning back comfortably.

Chan doesn’t waste time. He steps toward the head of the table, his voice firm. “She’s also our newest employee.”

Felix straightens sharply in his chair. “What?!”

Chan holds up a hand before Felix can explode. “I’ll explain why in a minute.” He gestures toward Hyunjin, Changbin, Seungmin, and Jeongin. “First, I gotta fill you four in on somethin’.”

Jeongin, ever the youngest but always calm, grabs a bottle of whiskey from the nearby shelf and begins pouring out glasses for everyone. He sets one down in front of you with a polite nod, the amber liquid swirling faintly in the glass.

You take a sip, flinching as the whiskey touches your split lip. Felix, noticing, pulls out his lighter, and without a word, he lights a cigarette and holds it out for you. You take it with a faint smile, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you.”

Chan leans his hands against the back of a chair, his sharp eyes sweeping across the table as the boys settle in. He doesn’t mince words, his voice low and steady, carrying a weight that silences the room instantly.

“Two weeks ago,” he begins, “Minho, Jisung, and Felix went to pick up a shipment from the docks. A simple job, should’ve been, anyway.” He glances briefly at the trio in question. “But these three idiots decided to puff on opium before they went. Isn’t that right?”

Minho shrugs nonchalantly, but Jisung grins sheepishly while Felix scowls at his boots, muttering under his breath.

“So,” Chan continues, ignoring them, “they grabbed the wrong shipment. When they opened it, machine guns, shotguns, grenades, any kind of weapon you’d find useful in a fuckin’ war.”

The room falls into a tense silence as the weight of the words settles on the group.

“Five days ago,” Chan adds, “an inspector showed up here in Small Heath.”

Seungmin, ever the pragmatist, leans forward with a frown. “He’s here to find the shipment?”

Chan’s jaw ticks as he straightens up. “I am the only person who knows where those guns are. And I’ll be the only person to ever know.”

Changbin snorts softly, glancing toward you with an arched brow. “Alright, so why’s she here, then?”

Chan turns his gaze on Changbin, voice sharp. “Because she can give me information I don’t have on the inspector.”

You lean back in your chair, cigarette perched between your gloved fingers as you speak. “The constable was one of my clients three nights ago. He told me the inspector arrived two days before that.”

Hyunjin whistles low, his grin fading as he crosses his arms. “He moves fast, then. Showin’ up five days ago and already raidin’ houses and flats this mornin’? That ain’t just quick. That’s planned.”

You nod, blowing out a thin line of smoke before continuing. “He’s a conscription avoider. Rumour is he busted his knee on purpose to dodge the war. No one in Westminster has a kind word to say about him, and the coppers down here aren’t much fonder. He’s been sent here to fix his reputation.”

The boys glance at each other as you pause. “He doesn’t find these guns? His career’s over.”

Chan nods approvingly. “This,” he says, gesturing to you, “is why she’s now on our payroll and under our protection. She’ll get a fair wage, and if anyone gets rough, we deal with them.”

You glance at Felix, whose smirk is as subtle as a brick through a window. “Inspector probably went for her ‘cause he knows Felix’s a regular,” Chan adds.

You sigh softly, offering a small, teasing smile as you murmur, “My most frequent client.”

Felix’s smirk widens, clearly pleased with himself.

“Right,” Chan says, cutting through the murmurs. “I want one of you to move into the flat next to hers.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “This inspector’s gonna keep gunnin’ for her. Won’t surprise me if he becomes a client himself to try and get close. It can’t be Felix.”

“I’ll do it,” Minho says, his voice calm and sure before anyone else can speak.

Chan nods once. “Good. You’re movin’ in tonight.”

You tilt your head, eyes flicking to Minho. “Any of you lot any good at fixin’ doors? Mine got busted when they kicked it in this mornin’.”

Minho raises a hand lazily. “I’ll fix that for you.”

You smile, gratitude softening your features. “Thank you.”

Minho pauses, then snorts, sitting back in his chair. “Wait. I just volunteered to hear Felix fuckin’ her at all hours.”

Felix’s smirk is immediate, his voice dripping with smugness. “Jealous?”

Seungmin, who’s been silent up until now, quirks a brow and mutters dryly, “And every other man in Small Heath, while we’re at it.”

Felix’s eyes snap toward Seungmin, the playful edge gone in an instant. “Seungmin, shut the fuck up.”

Seungmin rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Just statin’ the facts, mate.”

You hold up a hand, clearly amused despite yourself. “Boys,” you say softly, your voice cutting through the bickering like a gentle blade. “It’s been a long day, and I don’t need the lot of you fightin’ over what I do or don’t get up to in my own bed.”

That shuts them up quickly enough. Jisung snickers under his breath, but Minho nudges him sharply, and even Felix relents, though he mutters something you don’t catch.

Chan, who’s been watching the exchange with thinly veiled amusement, finally speaks again. “Alright, enough of that. Focus. We’ve got bigger things to deal with than Felix’s love life.”

Felix huffs quietly, but you can see the way his shoulders relax ever so slightly now that the attention has shifted away from you.

The smell of roast chicken and buttery potatoes lingers in the air as you set two plates down on the table, the dishes mismatched but charming all the same. The light of the single lamp casts a warm glow over the small flat, turning the edges of your blue dress into soft ripples of fabric as you move. Your hair is pinned up messily, stray curls falling around your face, but you don’t mind. The front door creaks faintly, sturdy once again after Minho’s handiwork earlier that evening.

Minho, seated across from you, cuts into the roast chicken with a satisfied grunt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his cap tossed onto the chair beside him. “You know,” he starts, mouth half-full, “this whole neighbour thing ain’t too bad if I’m gonna be gettin’ home-cooked meals like this.”

You laugh softly, taking a sip of water before replying. “Only if you keep chippin’ in for the groceries. Food doesn’t pay for itself, Minho.”

He smirks, holding up his fork in surrender. “Fair enough. That’s a deal.” He chews thoughtfully for a moment before glancing at you. “Felix said you was in France too.”

You nod, twirling your fork through a bite of potatoes. “Yeah. Nurse at the Somme.” You pause for a moment, the memories brushing against you like a cold wind. “That’s where I met Felix. Shrapnel to his chest. He was brought to the ward where I was workin’. My ward…” Your voice lowers slightly. “It was called the Final Destination.”

Minho raises an eyebrow at that. “Sounds fuckin’ grim.”

You offer a faint, sad smile. “It was. Soldiers named it that themselves. Most of ‘em didn’t leave it alive.” You take a breath. “They called me their angel in white. I’d hold their hands, tell ‘em stories to distract ‘em. Most of them died.” You look down briefly before meeting his gaze again. “Felix was one of the ones I managed to save.”

Minho sets his fork down, leaning back in his chair with a low whistle. “We all thought Felix was a goner, y’know. Seungmin and Hyunjin dragged him off the battlefield, chunk of shrapnel buried right in his chest, blood everywhere. The rest of us were shootin’ like mad bastards just to cover ‘em.”

“I remember when he came in,” you say softly, staring at your plate as if seeing the past instead. “He was a fuckin’ mess. Barely conscious, covered in mud and blood.” You smile faintly, shaking your head. “And you know what the first thing he started doin’ was?”

Minho raises an eyebrow, smirking. “What?”

“Flirtin’,” you say with a small laugh. “Said I was heaven-sent just for him.”

Minho lets out a loud bark of laughter, shaking his head. “That fuckin’ sounds like Felix. Romantic bastard, even with one foot in the grave.”

You chuckle, a soft warmth settling in your chest as you remember.

Minho picks up his fork again, grinning as he points it at you. “So are you why Felix fuckin’ reads now? ‘Cause I’ve known that man since we were lads, and he’s never so much as looked at a book. I was pretty sure the bastard couldn’t even read. But now, the fucker’s readin’ Jane Austen and Emily Brontë and shit.”

You laugh again, the sound light and easy. “Probably. I read a lot, always have. When he was in the ward in France, I’d recite him quotes while he was in and out of consciousness. Maybe it stuck.”

Minho snorts, shaking his head with a grin. “Felix, readin’ Austen. Unbelievable.”

The mood shifts slightly, and his tone lowers. “Did you see any combat?”

You pause for a moment, twirling the edge of your napkin between your fingers. “Some. One time, a whole group of field medics got took out. They asked for volunteers to go out on the field. Nurses stepped up. I was one of them.”

Minho frowns, clearly caught off guard. “You went out on the field?”

You nod. “We tucked our hair into our helmets, put on oversized medic uniforms. They gave us all guns like we had any fuckin’ idea how to use the bastard things.” You chuckle bitterly. “I didn’t even know how to load it properly. Still don’t.”

Minho shakes his head, visibly impressed. “You’ve got some guts, I’ll give you that.”

You smile softly and shrug. “You do what you’ve got to do.”

Minho takes another bite before looking up again. “So, how’d Felix end up becomin’ a regular?”

“Well,” you start, setting your fork down as you lean back slightly, “he figured from my accent that I was from Birmingham. He promised to come find me after the war was over. And he did.”

Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. “He did?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Showed up on my doorstep Christmas Eve, just after the war ended. Bladed cap on his head, gun at his waist, and that smirk of his plastered all over his face.”

Minho chuckles. “Sounds about right.”

“By then, I’d already started workin’ as a prostitute. He didn’t judge or nothin’. Just sat and had tea with me.” You pause, smile softening. “And then he became my most frequent client. We don’t even fuck half the time. Sometimes we drink tea, and I read to him, or we talk. But he always pays for my time.”

Minho’s fork pauses mid-air, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Wait. Felix sits and drinks tea and talks?”

“Sometimes,” you tease, smirking faintly. “We get real posh and have biscuits before we fuck.”

Minho snorts so loudly he nearly chokes, laughing as he sets his fork down. “Jesus Christ. That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

You grin, taking another sip of water.

Minho shakes his head, still chuckling. “I see why he fuckin’ hid you all this time. You’re a diamond, y’know that?”

You tilt your head slightly, curious. “None of you knew?”

“Not a fuckin’ clue,” Minho admits. “I mean, we all figured he was seein’ some bird, but this…” He gestures around the flat with his fork. “This is not what I expected. Didn’t expect him to tell us to bring him to some pretty woman’s flat to get patched up, either.”

You smile softly. “Well, you save a man from death, he’s gonna trust you to patch him up again.”

Minho nods, a grin tugging at his lips. “Fair enough.”

The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence for a moment, the sound of the flat settling around you. Minho finishes off the last bite of his dinner, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. “You’re alright.”

You smile as you begin clearing the dishes. “You’re not so bad yourself, Minho.”

And for once, the night feels calm. Peaceful, even.

Two months have passed since Minho moved into the flat next door to you, following Chan's orders. In that time, the uneasy silence that had once hung between you and Minho has turned into something more comfortable. He’s become one of your closest friends, and the bond you’ve developed over quiet conversations and shared meals has built a trust between the two of you. He’d never admit it out loud, but you’ve managed to break through his tough exterior.

Tonight, Minho lounges in his flat, sprawled out on the couch with his legs stretched lazily across the cushions. A cigarette dangles from his lips as he reads Pride and Prejudice. A request from you, of course. You’d begged him to read it, and he’d agreed.

“You’re makin’ me a bloody bookworm,” he’d grumbled when you first handed him the book. “But fine, I’ll read it.”

Now, two months later, he’s getting surprisingly invested in the story, his eyes scanning the pages as the words pull him in. He leans back further into the cushions, his fingers flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette as he moves through the chapters. Despite his tough exterior, there’s something about the way Elizabeth Bennet handles Darcy’s arrogance that seems to amuse him, and he’s enjoying it more than he expected.

But as he reads, a faint sound catches his attention. A soft murmur from the other side of the thin wall that separates his flat from yours. He shifts slightly, his ear straining to hear.

It’s you.

Your voice, gentle and soothing, drifts through the walls, but it’s not the usual low murmurs you share with your regular clients. There’s no grunting or heavy breathing, no hints of the usual physicality that comes with a visit. Instead, it’s calm. Too calm.

Minho’s eyes flick up from the book, his cigarette momentarily forgotten. He listens carefully, catching bits and pieces of the conversation. Your tone is patient, comforting, almost maternal as you speak to someone, but not in the way you usually do with your clients. This is different.

Shell shock, Minho thinks, his mind clicking into place. You’ve had other men like this. Men who couldn’t bring themselves to be touched, men who needed someone to listen, to talk to. He’s never really asked you about it, but he knows, from the way you’ve subtly mentioned it, that you’ve had your share of war-torn souls, men who came back from the frontlines broken, needing someone to hold the pieces together.

He shifts uncomfortably on the couch, closing the book as he leans forward, listening intently.

He hears you again, your voice soft but firm. “I know it’s hard, love. You’re not alone. I’ll be here to listen, alright? You don’t need to say anything if you don’t want to.”

Minho’s gut tightens. He knows enough to recognize the signs of shell shock. The symptoms, the disassociation, the silence that follows when a man’s mind can’t make sense of the horrors he’s seen. It’s the kind of thing that can make a man flip without warning, and Minho knows you’re too kind-hearted to turn them away.

You continue talking, but Minho can’t quite make out the rest. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is the tone you use, the soft empathy that fills your words. You’ve dealt with men like this before, he knows that much. But it doesn’t stop him from feeling protective.

Minho stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray with more force than necessary. His eyes flick toward the door, debating whether to check in, but then he hears your voice again, low and steady, easing whatever tension had been building.

“You’re safe here,” you say, and Minho feels a small knot in his chest loosen. “Just take a deep breath. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

He leans back again, but his eyes remain trained on the door. He knows you can handle yourself. Hell, you’ve been through worse than this. But still, he can’t shake the nagging feeling that one of these days, things might tip over the edge.

Minho picks up the book again but doesn’t read, his thoughts lingering on the conversation next door. He knows that, sometimes, the men you help aren’t in any state to be helped. It’s a fine line you walk, and he worries, more than he wants to admit, that one of them might cross it.

He flicks through the pages idly, not really reading, but still keeping his ear trained on the walls. He’s waiting. Waiting for any sign of trouble. Shell-shocked men can flip on a dime, and Minho knows that better than most. You don’t need to be touched to snap. Sometimes, it’s just the sound of a voice or a sudden memory that drags a man back into the horrors of war.

His fingers tighten around the book, his mind racing, but the sound from the other side of the wall stays calm. You’re still talking to him, still reassuring him, and the tension slowly eases from Minho’s shoulders.

Minho exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath. He goes back to the book, forcing himself to focus again. But there’s no denying the soft spot you’ve managed to carve into his hardened exterior.

Minho’s eyes flick to the door as a sudden crash echoes from next door. The sound is harsh, unnervingly violent, followed by a gasp from your voice, strained and panicked.

“Calm down, Eun,” you plead, your voice trembling, a tinge of fear bleeding through the calmness you’re always so good at holding. The sound of furniture crashing against the wall cuts through the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. Then, the worst, your voice, strangled and desperate, as you gasp out, “Please, calm down!”

Minho doesn’t waste a second. He shoves the book aside, eyes wide with instinctual panic. His hands fly to the side table, grabbing the gun he keeps there, fingers gripping the cold steel as he slides it into his coat pocket. He doesn’t bother to make noise, doesn’t bother with anything that might slow him down.

Running, he bursts out of his flat, racing next door toward your door, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum.

He kicks the door in with one swift motion, the splintering sound echoing through the small flat as he rushes inside, gun in hand, his body coiled and ready for anything.

The sight that greets him almost knocks the breath out of his lungs.

You’re on your hands and knees, barely clothed in just your underwear, coughing violently as you struggle to breathe, one hand massaging your throat as if trying to force air back into your lungs.

Your eyes are wide and terrified, and next to you lies the man unconscious, sprawled out on the floor with a shattered lamp beside him. The lightbulb has exploded, glass shards scattered across the room, marking the evidence of whatever struggle you’d just been through.

Minho swallows hard, his heart racing as he takes in the scene. The instinct to protect you kicks in hard, overriding the cold, calculating part of his mind.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice rough as he scans the room.

You don’t move, still on your knees, your breathing ragged as you slowly raise your hand from your throat, your face strained. You cough again, the sound raw and sharp.

“Y/N!” Minho calls, his voice tight with worry, stepping forward quickly. His gun stays in his hand, just in case, as he crouches beside you. “Are you alright? What the fuck happened?”

You glance up at him, shaking your head slightly, your lips trembling. “Shell shock,” you rasp out, voice still strained. “He thought he was in France again. He- He snapped, Minho. Thought I was someone else.”

“I’ll be right back,” Minho says sharply, his voice hardening. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

Before you can protest, Minho’s already standing, storming out the door. His boots pound against the hallway floor as he moves quickly, eyes sharp as he reaches the flat next door.

He bangs on the door, not bothering to be polite. The man who opens it looks startled, blinking up at him, but Minho doesn’t waste time with niceties.

“Go find Lee Felix or Bang Chan right now,” Minho demands, his voice low and full of menace. He thrusts a wad of cash into the man’s hand. “Tell 'em Minho needs 'em. And if you fuck me over, I swear I’ll kill you. Got it?”

The man’s eyes widen as he looks down at the money, his expression turning into a grimace of fear. He nods quickly, backing away from the door.

“Good,” Minho grunts, his voice colder now. “Get moving.”

The man doesn’t argue. He darts past Minho toward the stairs, the sound of his footsteps disappearing quickly as Minho hurries back toward your flat.

When he steps back inside, he finds you standing, struggling to pull a robe over your shoulders. Your hands tremble as you finish tying it, but you don’t look at him. Your eyes are fixed on the man lying unconscious on the floor.

Minho pauses for a second, just watching you before walking to the dining table and setting the gun down on the edge. He sits beside you as you sink heavily into the chair. His eyes sweep over your bruised neck and the red marks around your throat. You’re shaken, but you’re holding it together.

“Are you okay?” Minho asks, voice gentle but firm.

You glance at him, the corners of your lips twitching as you force a smile. “He didn’t mean it. It’s just the war in his head.” You take a deep breath, your voice shaky but trying to hold steady. “Eun... he’s usually sweet. Watches half his comrades die over there, and when I’m with him, I just listen. I don’t fuck him. I just sit in my underwear and let him talk. That way, he knows I’m not holding a weapon, that I’m just here to listen.”

You take a long breath, reaching for the bottle of rum you’d left on the counter. You pour two glasses, your hand steady despite everything. “I’ll be fine. I know how to handle it.” You slide a glass toward Minho, and he takes it without a word, letting you pour one for yourself.

“Shit’s fucked, isn’t it?” Minho mutters, his fingers curled tightly around the glass.

You nod, swallowing some of the rum as you lean back in your chair. “Yeah. But it’s the only way to keep ’em calm sometimes.” You glance at the unconscious Eun, then back at Minho. “I don’t know what else to do.”

Minho takes a deep sip from his glass, eyes hardening. “We’ll figure it out. You’re not alone in this, Y/N.”

You smile faintly, your eyes softening. “I know.”

As you both sit in the dimly lit room, the silence stretches between you. There’s a soft tension in the air, but Minho’s presence is a comfort, steady and solid as the world outside keeps turning.

Ten minutes pass in relative silence, the soft clink of glasses and the occasional breath breaking the quiet tension. Then, the sound of heavy boots echoes in the hallway, and the door to your flat swings open.

Chan steps in first, his eyes scanning the room with practised calm. Felix follows closely behind, his eyes darting between you and Minho before falling to the unconscious man sprawled on the floor.

Without missing a beat, Chan's gaze sharpens, his voice low and cutting. “I expected more from you, Minho.”

Minho’s lip curls into a wry grin, his shoulders rolling in a casual shrug. “That wasn’t me. That was Florence Nightingale here.” He nods toward you, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Chan’s expression softens for just a second, but it’s gone quickly. “Nice job,” he says, his tone genuine but with a subtle edge of tension.

Felix, who’s been quiet up until now, crouches down next to you, his hand lifting to examine the bruises around your neck. His fingers hover lightly above your throat, but he doesn’t touch, just inspecting the damage. His face hardens as he looks at the marks, his voice low but filled with disbelief.

“Fuckin’ hell, dollface,” he mutters, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Looks like it hurts.”

You blink, your gaze flicking to Felix’s face before shrugging slightly, offering a small, reassuring smile. “It’s fine.”

Chan, sensing the underlying tension, steps closer, his voice smooth but authoritative. “We’ll deal with him. Don’t worry about it.”

You nod, still trying to remain calm despite the aches in your body. “Please don’t hurt him. He has shell shock. We just talk, but then something just flipped, and he lost it.”

Felix glances at you, still kneeling beside you, his eyes narrowing as he processes the situation. “You talk in your underwear?” he asks, his voice laced with disbelief.

You nod slightly, shrugging. “Then he can see I ain’t got no weapons on me.”

Felix exhales sharply, shaking his head in disbelief. “Jesus Christ.” He stands up, running a hand through his hair. “Fine, but he ain’t bein’ your client no more.”

You look at Felix, nodding in agreement, though you feel a pang of sympathy for Eun. “I agree. I won’t see him again.”

Chan gives a sharp nod before turning to Minho and Felix, his voice firm. “Minho, Felix, get him home. Once you’re done, come back here. We’ve got more to sort out.”

Minho stands without a word, his eyes still calculating, but he nods in agreement. Felix steps over Eun’s body, grabbing his arms to help Minho drag him up. Together, they lift him as carefully as they can, mindful of the fragile state he’s in.

As they make their way toward the door, Chan sinks into the nearest chair, tossing his cap onto the table with a soft thud. He leans back, his eyes never leaving you, his thoughts clearly at work. The soft scrape of the chair legs against the floor sounds too loud in the heavy silence that’s descended.

Once Minho and Felix have left, the door shutting behind them with a quiet click, you sit back in your chair, the tension starting to loosen in your shoulders, but the exhaustion sets in quickly. The adrenaline that had kept you going is fading, and you find yourself feeling the weight of everything.

Chan leans forward slightly. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice softer now.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I’m fine,” you reply, though the lie feels hollow in your chest. “Just need a minute.”

Chan nods, his eyes scanning your face, lingering on the marks that mar your skin. “You’re one tough woman,” he says quietly. “But I can’t keep lettin’ this happen.”

You look up at him, a tired smile tugging at your lips. “I’ve got to do what I can, Chan. It’s all I know.”

Chan pulls a thick wad of cash from his coat pocket, the bills crisp and tightly packed. He places it on the table between you, his fingers lingering just a moment too long before he withdraws his hand.

“Your wage for the month,” he says.

You look down at the money, a small but genuine smile playing at your lips as you nod. “Thanks, Chan.”

He watches you for a second before his gaze sharpens. “How’s it goin’ with the Inspector?”

You sit back slightly, the smile fading, replaced with the exhaustion you’ve been trying to keep hidden. “He comes every week, Wednesday at nine. We fuck, he cries, and then spills his secrets.” You shrug slightly, not making it sound like a big deal. “It’s routine by now.”

Chan nods slowly, his brow furrowing just slightly. “He said anything of use yet?”

You sigh, glancing down at the pile of cash before looking back at him. “He’s under a lot of pressure from Westminster. I mean, he’s been here two months and has found nothin’. I’m steering him to believe it was someone from the BSA, and I think he’s startin’ to buy it.”

“Good,” Chan mutters, his voice low and approving. He leans forward slightly, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. “But?”

You take a breath, knowing what’s coming. “But he’s still keepin’ an eye on you lot. He mentioned raidin’ the wharf where you lot stock your important imports that aren’t on the books.”

Chan’s face doesn’t shift, but his eyes darken slightly. “Alright,” he says calmly. “I’ll get that moved.” He pauses, staring at you for a beat longer. “Has the inspector been rough with you?”

You wince slightly, the question hitting a nerve. But you don’t shy away from answering him. “A few times. Nothing I can’t handle. Minho always comes in once he leaves, patches me up.”

Chan’s jaw tightens for a second, the muscles in his neck shifting as he watches you. “You want out?” His voice softens, but there’s an edge to it.

You shake your head, your eyes meeting his without hesitation. “I can handle it.”

Chan stares at you, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, he nods once, as if he expected you to say that. “Good. I didn’t want to have to pull you from it.” He hesitates, then asks, “He said anything about Felix?”

You think for a moment. “I’ve made him believe that Felix loves me,” you say quietly. “and that I use that to keep a good income. It works. He doesn’t question it.”

Chan’s eyes flick to the glass you’re holding, his fingers tapping on the edge of the table again. “Does he know Minho lives next door?”

You nod. “Yeah. I managed to convince him it was unrelated, something to do with the landlord owing money to the Blinders, and Minho’s intimidatin’ him into paying it back.”

Chan raises an eyebrow, impressed. “You’re good at this.”

You smile faintly, taking a slow sip of your drink. “Have to be.”

Chan leans back in his chair, letting out a slow breath. “You got any drink?” he asks, the first sign of a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah,” you reply, walking over to the cabinet and pouring two glasses, one for yourself, one for him. You return to the table and slide his glass toward him. “Here.”

“Thanks,” he says, taking the glass and looking at you. The faintest warmth in his gaze is all that’s left of the cold, calculated man who usually walks into the room. “For what?” you ask, genuinely puzzled.

Chan’s smile widens just a fraction. “For saving Felix back in France.”

You shrug, lifting your glass slightly before taking a long drink. “Just doin’ my job, like you boys were doin’ yours.”

Chan hums softly, the sound more thoughtful than anything else. “What shit jobs they were,” he mutters, his fingers curling around his glass.

You smile again, a little warmer this time. “I’ll drink to that.” You lift your glass and clink it gently against his. “To the shit jobs.”

Chan laughs quietly, shaking his head as he takes a sip from his glass.

Minho and Felix return, their footsteps muffled in the hallway as they come back from dropping off Eun. The door creaks open, and Chan finishes his drink in one smooth motion. He gives you a knowing glance, his eyes softer than usual.

“I’ll leave you in Felix’s capable hands, sweetheart,” he says, his tone lightly teasing, but there’s a warmth in it that makes you smile.

“Night, Chan,” you reply. You watch him as he heads toward the door, the heavy sound of his boots retreating into the hallway.

Minho, ever the mischief-maker, raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean wanderin’ hands?”

Felix, stepping in behind him, smirks. “My hands can be both,”

Minho chuckles but doesn’t argue. “See you tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder, and you wave him off.

Once the door shuts behind them, the sound of Minho clattering around in his flat next door fills the quiet of your flat.

Felix lets out a long sigh. “Noisy bastard,” he mutters, half under his breath.

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “You’re one to talk.”

Felix doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he walks over to the small table, uncorking the rum bottle and pouring a generous glass. He takes a deep swig from it before patting his lap, a lazy, confident grin on his face.

“Come here,” he says, his voice warm with a playful edge.

You glance at him, a smile tugging at your lips as you cross the room. Without hesitation, you settle yourself in his lap, your legs draped over his as you adjust comfortably. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as he takes another drink.

He looks down at you, his dark eyes softening. “Make a toast, angel,” he murmurs.

You raise your glass, your fingers grazing his as you bring it to your lips. “May you be in heaven a full half hour before the devil knows you’re dead,”

Felix raises an eyebrow, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You sayin’ I’m goin’ to hell, angel?”

You smile coyly, tilting your head. “Aren’t we all?”

Felix laughs, the sound low and rich in his chest. “True enough,” he says, taking a long gulp from his own glass. “But I reckon Chan’ll probably run the place. We’d all be livin’ the life of Riley down there anyway.”

You chuckle, swirling the rum in your glass before taking another sip. Felix leans back in the chair, his hand resting on your leg as he watches you with an unreadable expression.

“Felix,” you say softly, breaking the comfortable silence between you.

He hums, his eyes never leaving yours as he takes another slow sip of his drink. “Yeah, love?”

You hesitate for just a second, then speak, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Once this business with the inspector is done… I’ll marry you.”

His face lights up in a split second, the seriousness in his expression fading to pure joy. He sets his glass down and leans in, pulling you toward him in one swift motion. His lips crash against yours, and for a moment, everything fades. The world, the tension, the uncertainty. It’s just you and him, lost in a kiss that says more than words ever could.

When he pulls away, he’s grinning, his breath a little heavier than usual. “I’ve been waitin’ for you to say that, angel.”

Without another word, he stands, lifting you effortlessly in his arms. You wrap your arms around his neck, your heart pounding as he carries you toward the bedroom.

The door shuts softly behind you, and as he lays you down on the bed, his hands trailing over you with a gentle, possessive urgency, you can’t help but smile. There’s no turning back now. And maybe, just maybe, this life you’re living might finally be worth it.

Felix strolls into the Garrison, whistling a tune under his breath as the smoke from his cigarette curls lazily in the air. His boots click sharply against the floor, a confident rhythm that matches the grin plastered on his face. He’s in a good mood tonight. Too good, by the looks of it.

The moment he steps into the backroom, the entire card game comes to a halt. The chatter dies down, and every set of eyes in the room turns toward him, as if they’ve just witnessed a ghost walking in. Felix’s grin widens, and he takes a long drag from his cigarette before flicking it away carelessly.

Jisung, unable to hold back, breaks the silence. “It’s finally happened.”

Hyunjin, his eyes narrowed in disbelief, adds, “He’s lost his fuckin’ mind.”

Changbin looks Felix up and down, clearly bewildered. “Whatever it is, it’s makin’ my balls shrivel just watchin’ it.”

Felix simply shrugs, unfazed. He tosses his coat onto one of the chairs and flings his cap onto the table with a satisfying thud. He heads straight to the bar, pouring himself a generous glass of whiskey, not bothering to acknowledge the questions or the stares.

Jisung raises an eyebrow, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “Did you smoke opium before you came here?”

Felix takes a sip of his whiskey, savouring it, before looking at Jisung. “No.”

Seungmin, never one to let an awkward silence pass, asks, “Are you drunk?”

Felix shakes his head, giving a low chuckle. “No.”

Seungmin, sensing the tension building, tosses in his own theory. “You get hit on the head or somethin’?”

Felix takes another swig of whiskey, clearly amused now. “No.”

That’s when Chan, who’s been quietly observing, leans back in his chair and raises an eyebrow. “Did she finally agree to marry you?”

Felix freezes for a split second, eyes widening in surprise before he grins widely. “You knew I asked her?!” he exclaims, genuinely surprised that Chan was in the loop.

“Yeah,” Chan replies casually. “She told me. Shocked the shit outta me.” He looks at the rest of the group, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Felix.”

Jisung’s mouth falls open as he lets out a loud whistle. “You proposed to Y/N?!”

Felix rolls his eyes, taking another deep sip of whiskey. “I’ve been tryin’ to get her to marry me since before you cunts even met her.”

Minho leans forward, resting his chin on his hand, still eyeing Felix. “Well?”

Felix smirks, clearly enjoying the attention. “I’m gettin’ fuckin’ married once that Inspector packs his bags and gets the fuck outta Small Heath,” he announces proudly.

The rest of the room erupts into cheers, loud whoops and clapping filling the air. Even Changbin can’t help but laugh, raising his glass. “That’s fuckin’ fantastic, mate!”

Changbin’s celebration dies down quickly, though, as he narrows his eyes at Felix. “Well, why the fuck isn’t Y/N here to celebrate with you?”

Chan takes a long drag from his cigarette and exhales slowly. “It’s a Wednesday.”

Felix chuckles, his gaze turning toward the door. “She’ll be here once the inspector leaves her flat.”

Minho grins at that, raising an eyebrow. “Is this why you fucked her all night long?”

Felix’s smirk is all too knowing, the corners of his mouth curling even further. “Yeah. What’s it to you, Minho?”

Minho slouches in his chair, his hands behind his head. “I had to listen to it all night, you bastard.”

Jisung laughs loudly, clearly finding the situation amusing. “Poor Minho,” he says with a smirk, leaning back in his chair.

Minho, his expression exaggerated in mock despair, nods. “Saint fuckin’ Minho right here. Bang, bang, bang against my wall all night. The poor girl. Can she even walk?”

Hyunjin, always quick with the banter, adds, “Not if Felix did it right.”

Changbin cackles, his deep laugh echoing in the room. “Well, did you do it right, Felix?”

Felix’s grin widens, an unspoken confidence in his expression. “You’ll find out when you’re married, mate.”

Everyone laughs, but Jeongin, who’s been quiet for most of the conversation, chimes in innocently. “Why wouldn’t she be able to walk?”

The room goes silent for a moment as all eyes land on Jeongin. Chan, looking at Jeongin with a bemused expression, shakes his head slowly. “Don’t mind Innie,” he says. “He makes love to all his girls.”

Jeongin looks genuinely confused. “I treat them nice,” he protests, his voice earnest. “That’s what you’re supposed to do, right?”

Jisung bursts into laughter. “You can fuck them hard and still treat them nice, Innie,” he says with a teasing grin.

Jeongin sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes. “I’m just sayin’, I don’t think I need to do anything extra.”

Felix, still enjoying the chaos around him, chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Well, whatever works, mate. Just don’t get caught up in it too much. That’s when you get into trouble.”

Two hours later, you walk into the Garrison with the smooth grace of someone who knows their worth. The green dress hugs your figure perfectly, the heels clicking sharply against the wooden floor, announcing your presence as soon as you step in.

The coat draped over your shoulders adds an air of casual elegance, the red lipstick on your lips a bold contrast against the soft curl of your hair. You take a drag from the cigarette between your fingers as you move through the room, the smoke swirling lazily in the air.

As you pass by the patrons, all eyes follow you. You can feel their gazes like a heavy weight on your skin, their murmurs rising in the air.

"That's Lee Felix's whore," someone whispers too loudly, clearly hoping you’ll hear. "Anyone who touches her wrong ends up in the Cut."

The whispers ripple through the room like a wave, but you don’t flinch. You walk with purpose, keeping your head high, letting their words fall away like nothing more than noise. The patrons look you up and down as you breeze past them, their eyes widening with a mix of fear and admiration.

You continue on to the backroom, the heavy door creaking open as you step inside. Felix, seated at the table with the others, immediately breaks into a grin as soon as he sees you.

"Oh, if it ain’t the bride-to-be," Chan remarks from his chair, his tone teasing but warm.

You smile, a glimmer of pride and amusement in your eyes as Felix immediately pulls you into his lap. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close, and you settle against him comfortably, the familiar scent of him grounding you.

Chan watches the two of you with an approving smirk. “So, how was the Inspector?”

You sigh, letting the tension from the outside world fall away for a moment. “Same old,” you reply. “Finishes in a few minutes, cries his heart out about being a failure, spills his secrets, and leaves.”

Hyunjin looks at you sympathetically, shaking his head. “You poor thing,” he says, his tone genuinely pitying.

You nod in agreement, the weight of the past few weeks pressing down on you. “It’s not so bad. It’s all routine by now.”

Minho leans back in his chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he watches you with a knowing look. “It’s sad to hear through the wall. He’s a proper crier.”

You laugh softly, resting your head against Felix’s chest as he holds you close. “He really is. But it works for us. Keeps him talking.”

Chan looks over at you, his brow furrowing slightly. “Anything of note?”

You straighten up slightly, giving him a sharp look. “He’s going to be coming at everyone full force. He’s been given two weeks to find the guns. So Minho and I are setting up a scapegoat for him.”

Changbin, never one to hold back, leans forward, his curiosity piqued. “Who?”

You grin, the plan already beginning to take shape. “We’re setting up that BSA man who lives in my flat building. The one who beats his wife. Gonna make the Inspector believe he sold the guns to the IRA.”

Minho flicks his cigarette and looks at you with approval. “It’ll be easy. He spends most of his time drinkin’ in the Black Swan. He’s been seen with IRA members before. We just have to plant papers in his flat, make it look like he’s involved.”

You nod, eyes flashing with confidence. “Then I’m gonna tell the Inspector that he came to me as a client and spilled his heart out to me. Two birds, one stone.” You look at the group with a satisfied grin. “We’re in the clear, and the Inspector’s out of a job for failin'.”

Chan looks at you for a long moment, the approval in his eyes unmistakable. “You’re getting a fuckin’ raise.”

You smile, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. “Thanks, Chan.”

Jeongin, who’s been silent for most of the conversation, raises his glass with a grin. “To getting the bastard out of Small Heath, so Lee Felix can get fuckin’ hitched!”

The rest of the room erupts in cheers, everyone raising their glasses in unison. The clinking of glass rings in the air as they join in the toast.

“To Felix and Y/N,” Chan says, his voice strong, as the rest of the room follows suit. “May the bastard get out, and may you two live the life you deserve.”

Felix’s grin widens, his arm tightening around you as he leans in to kiss your temple. “I’ll drink to that.”

You chuckle softly, feeling a warmth in your chest. The tension from the past few months is finally starting to melt away, replaced with a sense of relief, and even something more. Hope. The road ahead still has its bumps, but for now, you’re here, safe, and surrounded by the people who have your back.

And for once, it feels like things might actually go your way.

The tea room is quaint, quiet, and comfortably warm, the clink of china and low murmurs of other patrons filling the air. You step inside with the confidence of someone who’s been in rooms like this before, and yet, the anticipation courses through you. The plan is coming together, and you can feel the weight of the moment pressing on your shoulders.

You’re dressed for the occasion. A light blue dress that hugs your frame just right, a cream coat draped over your shoulders, cream gloves, and a matching cream beret perched atop your perfectly curled hair. The red lipstick is bold, a stark contrast to the delicate details of your outfit, and it’s all part of the act. You know how to play your part, how to make the Inspector see exactly what you want him to see.

As you sit at a table by the window, you pull a cigarette from your bag and light it with a slow, deliberate motion. You don’t look around when the door opens, knowing exactly who it is. You wait, letting him approach on his own terms.

The Inspector spots you immediately, his face softening as he walks toward your table. You can see the slight flicker of something in his eyes, something you’ve noticed over the past few meetings. He’s starting to fall for you, and you know just how to use that to your advantage.

"Good evening, Inspector," you greet him with a soft smile, your voice smooth as silk. “I’m sorry to have called you here, but I have something I must tell you. I’m scared, and I believe you’re the only one who can help me.”

The Inspector sits down across from you, leaning in with an intensity that suggests he’s already anticipating what you’ll say. His gaze is hungry for information, but there’s something else in his eyes. Something personal.

"Tell me what worries you, dear," he says, his voice low and thick with concern. He leans closer, his attention fixed entirely on you.

You allow yourself a moment of hesitation, just enough to make him lean in further. Then, you drop the bait. “It’s about the guns,” you say quietly, your voice trembling just enough to sound convincing. You can see the shift in him, the way his posture straightens as he registers the words.

The Inspector’s eyes widen slightly. "You’ve finally found something for me?" His voice has a hopeful edge now, like he’s clinging to the idea that this will be the breakthrough he’s been waiting for.

You nod slowly, your hands wrapped around your teacup as you take a delicate sip. “There’s a man in my flat building, a BSA worker. He came to me as a client last night and... he confessed to having stolen the guns from the docks.”

The Inspector’s face hardens, the weight of your words sinking in. "Where are they?" he demands, the desperation clear in his voice.

You glance around the room for a moment, making sure no one is listening, then lower your voice. "He was sayin' he’s been talkin’ to some Irish folk in the Black Swan. He got paid to ship the guns to Ireland. They’re in the hands of the IRA now. He said it all went down about a month ago."

The Inspector’s face drops, his eyes widening with disbelief. “The guns are with the IRA?” His voice cracks slightly, as though the realization is a blow he didn’t expect.

You lower your gaze for a moment, feigning regret. “I’m sorry I didn’t have better news for you, Inspector,” you say softly. You see the way his shoulders slump, and you know this is hitting him harder than he wants to admit.

You stand, smoothing out the creases of your dress and adjusting your coat. The moment is over, and now you’re done with him for tonight. You give him a soft, sympathetic smile before turning and walking toward the door.

The Inspector remains seated, his hands gripping the edge of the table as if he’s trying to hold himself together.

Once you step out of the tea room, you breathe a sigh of relief. The hard part is over. You turn into an alleyway around the corner, just as planned, and there they are. Felix, Chan, and Minho, waiting for you.

Chan’s eyes narrow as he steps toward you, his gaze sharp. “Did he buy it?” His voice has a tinge of impatience, but there’s also pride in it, as if he’s already expecting a positive answer.

You smile, the satisfaction evident in the curve of your lips. “Of course he did.”

Minho lets out a low whistle. “Shit, that was quick. I was worried he might start questioning you.” He leans against the wall, arms crossed, a cigarette hanging from his lips. “Guess he’s more of a fool than we thought.”

Felix smiles, the warmth in his eyes cutting through the usual sharpness of his expression. “He’s already fallen for her,” he says, his tone teasing but affectionate. “No wonder she’s so damn good at this.”

Chan grins, tapping his cigarette on the ground before putting it out. “Good work, sweetheart. That’s one step closer to gettin’ rid of the bastard.”

You nod, feeling the tension leave your shoulders. “Now we just have to set the trap. Once the Inspector moves on this BSA guy, he’s done.”

Felix chuckles lowly, his hands slipping around your waist as he pulls you close. “He’s finished. And then we get to move on to the next chapter.”

The group falls into an easy silence for a moment, the weight of the plan sinking in. You know the road ahead is still long, but tonight, it feels like the pieces are finally falling into place. And with Felix at your side, you’re certain there’s nothing you can’t do.

The morning air is damp and cold, fog lingering low over the street like a blanket of smoke. The sound of shouts and heavy boots echo up through the narrow lane, breaking the stillness of the early hour. Minho stands next to you in the doorway of your flat, both of you leaning against the weathered frame. Cigarettes dangle lazily between your fingers, smoke curling from the tips like quiet spectres as you both watch the chaos unfold across the way.

The BSA man is being dragged from his flat by two burly police officers, thrashing wildly like a man drowning on dry land. His shouts are loud, almost frantic, but no one in the surrounding flats dares step outside to intervene. Not when the coppers have their batons raised and ready.

“Get the fuck off me!” the man bellows, twisting hard, trying to wrench his arms free from their grip. “I didn’t do nothin’! You’ve got the wrong bastard!”

The officers ignore him, their faces hard and impassive as they shove him toward the steps. When he plants his feet and resists, one officer raises his baton and cracks it across the man’s shoulder. The impact is brutal, the dull thud audible even from where you stand.

You exhale a slow breath of smoke, watching as the man lets out a strangled yell and staggers forward. “That must hurt,” you comment idly, your voice light, as if you’re watching something far less brutal than the beating in front of you.

Minho glances at you sideways, cigarette perched between his lips as he takes a long drag. “Probably,” he mutters around the smoke, his tone as disinterested as yours. “But he’s a wife-beating bastard, so I ain’t gonna lose sleep over it.”

The man collapses to his knees on the cobblestone as another officer lands a sharp blow to his side. “I didn’t fuckin’ do it!” he screams again, spitting blood onto the ground. His voice cracks, a mix of desperation and rage. “I didn’t sell nothin’ to the Irish!”

Minho chuckles quietly under his breath, a sardonic smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, this is a nice way to start my day,” he mutters, flicking the ash off his cigarette onto the doorstep.

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you pull another drag from your cigarette, the smoke filling your lungs before you exhale slowly. “I’d have thought framin’ someone would’ve been harder,” you muse, your gaze fixed on the scene in front of you as the police finally get the man on his feet and start hauling him toward the waiting black mariah.

Minho snorts, his voice dripping with casual arrogance. “For foolish people, maybe.” He turns his head to look at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “But not us.”

You meet his gaze, a sly smile tugging at your lips as you nod in agreement. “Not us.”

You both turn back to the street, watching as the BSA man is thrown unceremoniously into the back of the police wagon. The heavy doors slam shut with a loud clang, and the officers wipe their hands on their uniforms as if to rid themselves of the man entirely.

“That’s that, then,” Minho says, leaning back against the doorframe and stretching lazily, cigarette still burning between his fingers. “One less problem for Chan to worry about.”

You hum softly in agreement, a small, satisfied smile still lingering on your lips. “And one more nail in that Inspector’s coffin.”

Minho turns to look at you again, an approving smirk on his face. “You’ve got a knack for this. Chan’ll be pleased.”

You shrug, feigning modesty, but the pride glimmers in your eyes. “Someone’s gotta keep the lot of you out of trouble.”

Minho laughs, a deep, genuine sound, before shaking his head. “Keep talkin’ like that and Chan’ll start payin’ you more than me.”

You smile, leaning back against the frame beside him as the street slowly settles back into uneasy quiet. The BSA man is gone. The trap is set. And Small Heath will never know what hit it.

The flat is quiet except for the faint tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall. You sit with Felix on the worn couch, his arm draped lazily across your shoulders, the both of you bathed in the soft light filtering in from the window.

You’re wearing a cream-coloured dress, one of your nicer ones, the fabric soft and elegant against your skin. Felix’s fingers trail absentmindedly along your arm as he talks lowly about something, his words a faint hum in the back of your mind as you stare out at the empty street below.

Then comes the knock. Sharp. Loud. Demanding.

Your spine straightens, and Felix’s hand stills on your arm.

“Miss L/N!” The voice calls through the door, unmistakable. Inspector Park.

Felix tenses immediately, his gaze darkening as he pushes himself up from the couch. He leans close, pressing his lips to your ear. “I’ll be in the bedroom.” He slips off silently, his boots barely making a sound as he heads to your room, closing the door behind him without a word.

You smooth out the creases in your dress, steadying your breath as you make your way to the door. The knock comes again, louder this time, as if he’s ready to break the damn thing down. You swing the door open, greeting him with a soft, practised smile.

“Inspector,” you say, the sweetness in your voice veiled by a hint of steel. “What a surprise. I thought you’d be back in Westminster, tryin’ to save your career.”

The Inspector stands rigid, his hat low over his eyes, his face set in a scowl. He steps inside without invitation, the door creaking on its hinges as he crosses the threshold.

“I know you set that man up,” he says, his voice low and full of venom.

Your brow arches delicately, your smile unfaltering. “I’ve no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

He steps closer, the tension rolling off him like heat. “It’s all too perfect,” he says. “He just happened to have all the proof in his flat. He confessed to you when no one else can corroborate it?”

You tilt your head slightly, taking a slow step back, giving him just enough space to realize how ridiculous he sounds. “I don’t know,” you reply evenly. “Sounds to me like the case is closed, and your career is fuckin’ done.”

The Inspector’s face flushes red, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You conniving little whore,” he spits, his voice trembling with rage.

Your smile sharpens, your eyes glinting like polished glass. “If you can prove any of your accusations, Inspector, then you’re more than welcome to return,” you say coolly. “Otherwise, I bid you farewell and hope you enjoy unemployment.”

His eyes narrow, his nostrils flaring as he takes another step forward. “It’s for him, isn’t it?” he sneers. “That Blinder bastard. Lee Felix. You lied to me. You made me believe you loved me.”

At that, you laugh softly, tilting your chin up as you meet his glare without hesitation. “How could I ever love a man who injured himself to avoid servin’ his country?” you ask, your voice cutting through the room like a knife. “I spent two years tendin’ to your fellow countrymen in France while you sat at home, hidin’ from the frontlines.”

The Inspector freezes, his entire body going stiff. His hand moves suddenly to his coat, and before you can fully process it, he pulls out a revolver and aims it directly at you. The metallic click of the safety being released fills the air, but you don’t flinch. You hold your ground, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear on your face.

“I love you!” he shouts, his voice unhinged, cracking at the edges.

“I don’t love cowards,” you reply simply, your voice calm and even.

His hand trembles on the gun, his eyes wild as he stares at you. For a brief moment, the silence is deafening. Then, Minho’s door bursts open.

In one swift motion, Minho grabs the Inspector from behind, locking his arm around the man’s neck in a tight headlock. The gun falls to the floor with a loud clatter as the Inspector struggles, gasping and thrashing against Minho’s grip.

“Fuckin’ bastard,” Minho mutters, his voice low as he tightens his hold.

Before the Inspector can react, the sound of doors opening fills the hall. Chan, Seungmin, Changbin, Hyunjin, Jeongin, and Jisung all step out of the surrounding flats, guns drawn and pointed squarely at the Inspector. The hallway is filled with the clicking of hammers being pulled back, the ominous sound cutting through the tension like a blade.

You can’t help but grin, the sight of them appearing like ghosts in the mist bringing you a deep sense of satisfaction. Felix steps out of your bedroom then, slipping up behind you as he wraps his arm around your waist protectively.

Minho looks down at the Inspector, whose face is turning red from both rage and the headlock. “In the eyes of the posh twats in Westminster, you failed,” Minho says evenly, his voice dripping with mockery. “And you did. But not because you were too slow catchin’ the criminal. It’s because we’re too smart.”

Minho glances at you briefly, his grip still unrelenting. “That woman you’re in front of? She’s smarter than all of us. She’s the reason you failed—because you underestimated her.”

The Inspector’s eyes dart between all of you, sweat dripping down his temple as he tries to catch his breath. “At the end of the day,” he spits, his voice hoarse, “all you’ll ever be is a woman. A whore.”

Chan steps forward, his gaze icy as he lowers his gun slightly. “You lost, Inspector,” he says calmly, his tone firm and final. “And ain’t no one gonna believe you lost to a prostitute engaged to a gangster.”

The Inspector goes still at those words, realization finally sinking into his face. He’s beaten. Outplayed. Done for.

Felix leans down close to your ear, his voice soft and full of pride. “You're the smartest one of us all, angel.”

You smile, resting your hand over Felix’s arm as you stare down at the defeated Inspector. For all his threats, all his bluster, he’s nothing now. A crumpled man, bested at every turn. And you? You haven’t flinched once.

“Get him out of here,” Chan says with a flick of his head, and Minho drags the Inspector down the hallway, his struggles growing weaker with every step.

The Blinders watch him go, their guns still in hand, but the moment the man disappears down the stairs, the tension in the room finally breaks.

You turn to Felix, your smile softer now as you glance up at him. “Well, that’s that, then.”

Felix grins, pressing a kiss to your temple. “That’s that.”

The day dawns cold and crisp, the sky over Small Heath a patchwork of slate grey and pale blue. Despite the chill in the air, there’s an unexpected warmth that hangs over everything. A feeling of quiet joy that no one dares speak aloud, as though doing so might somehow break the spell.

You stand in the small chapel on the edge of town, your cream dress simple but elegant, with lace cuffs at the wrists and a modest train trailing softly behind you. Your hair is curled perfectly, pinned back to frame your face, and a soft cream veil falls gently from your curls. Your cheeks are flushed with excitement, the red on your lips a bold contrast to the softness of your gown.

Chan stands beside you, looking sharper than usual in a clean black suit and tie. He tugs at the collar with a slight grimace, muttering something about how “bloody tight” it is, but when he looks at you, his expression softens. For all his roughness, there’s a flicker of pride in his eyes that makes your throat tighten.

“You sure about this?” he asks, his voice low, his usual teasing tone softened into something more genuine.

You smile up at him, your gloved hand resting lightly on his arm. “Sure as I’ll ever be.”

Chan exhales, nodding slowly before offering you a small smile of his own. “Alright then. Let’s get you married, sweetheart.”

The chapel is small and bare, the kind of place where no one expects much ceremony, but it’s perfect for today. A row of pews sits half-filled with the Blinders, all cleaned up for the occasion. They look wildly out of place in their sharp suits, caps left at the door, but there’s something solemn in the way they sit quietly, waiting for the moment to begin.

Minho glances back as the doors creak open, his usual smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth when he sees you. “About bloody time,” he murmurs under his breath, just loud enough for Jisung to snort beside him.

At the altar, Felix stands waiting, his black suit tailored just right, his blonde hair swept back neatly. His hands twitch slightly as he adjusts his cuffs, betraying his nerves, but when he looks up and sees you, his face breaks into a wide, boyish grin that’s nothing short of breathtaking.

Chan clears his throat and offers you his arm, leading you forward as the small organ in the corner starts playing. It’s a soft, simple melody, but it carries enough weight to make the moment feel grand.

“Don’t trip,” Chan mutters under his breath as you begin walking, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

You roll your eyes, smiling softly. “Thanks for the confidence, Chan.”

“I’ve got to keep you grounded,” he replies with a smirk, though his grip on your arm is steady and reassuring.

The room falls into hushed silence as you walk down the aisle, your heels tapping softly against the wooden floor. Felix’s eyes don’t leave yours for a second, and there’s something so tender in the way he looks at you that it nearly steals the breath from your chest.

As you reach the altar, Chan pauses, turning to you with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Your parents’d be proud of you,” he murmurs, his voice rough around the edges.

You blink, the words hitting harder than you expected, and nod as you squeeze his arm lightly. “Thank you, Chan.”

He steps back, giving Felix a pointed look as he places your hand in his. “You take care of her, or I’ll come for you.”

Felix grins, his fingers curling around yours. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Chan.”

Chan steps aside and takes a seat with the others, leaving just you and Felix standing at the altar. Felix’s thumb brushes over your knuckles as he stares down at you, his grin softening into something warmer, deeper.

“You look beautiful, angel,” he murmurs, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

“And you look nervous,” you tease, though your voice is gentle, filled with affection.

Felix chuckles quietly, shaking his head. “Nah. Just can’t believe I finally convinced you to marry me.”

The ceremony is short and sweet. The priest says the necessary words, his voice steady and calm, though it’s drowned out in your mind by the sound of your heart pounding in your chest. Felix’s hand remains in yours the entire time, his thumb still tracing slow, soothing circles over your skin. When the vows are said and done, and the rings are exchanged, simple gold bands that glint faintly in the dim light, there’s a brief pause before the priest announces:

“You may now kiss the bride.”

Felix doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you to him, his hands cupping your face as he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is warm and lingering, and for a moment, it feels as though the rest of the world has disappeared. When he pulls back, there’s a bright, giddy grin on his face that makes you laugh softly.

The Blinders erupt into cheers and whistles from the pews behind you. Jisung lets out a loud, triumphant “Finally!” while Minho smirks and mutters, “Poor girl doesn’t know what she’s gotten herself into.”

Hyunjin shouts, “Oi, Felix, save some for later!” as Chan rolls his eyes, shaking his head.

Felix laughs, slipping his arm around your waist as he turns to face the group. “Piss off, all of you.”

“You’re stuck with us now,” Changbin calls out, grinning broadly.

Felix presses another kiss to your temple, holding you close. “You alright, angel?”

You nod, smiling up at him. “More than alright.”

As you both turn to leave the chapel, the rest of the boys trailing behind you, there’s a sense of peace you haven’t felt in a long time. The road ahead may not be perfect, nothing in Small Heath ever is, but for now, you’re happy. You’re home. And as Felix squeezes your hand in his, you know that whatever comes next, you’ll face it together.

“Mrs. Lee Felix,” he murmurs as you step outside into the chilly afternoon air.

You laugh softly, leaning into him as you walk down the steps. “Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Felix grins, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Perfect.”

The Garrison is alive with laughter, shouting, and the unmistakable sound of whiskey glasses clinking together. The backroom is stuffed full of the familiar faces that have become like family. The air is thick with smoke, the table cluttered with bottles of whiskey, half-empty glasses, and discarded caps that no one cares about retrieving right now.

Chan sits at the head of the table, his tie loosened, a glass of whiskey in one hand as he watches the chaos unfold around him with a smirk. Felix has you tucked close at his side, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders, his cheeks flushed with drink. You’ve been smiling all night, cheeks aching from the endless laughter that fills the room.

Minho, having claimed the seat next to you, slams his glass down on the table with a little too much force. “Right,” he declares loudly, pointing a finger at you. “I’ve decided somethin’.”

You raise an eyebrow, already suppressing a grin. “Oh yeah? What’s that, Minho?”

He leans back in his chair, smug as anything, arms folded across his chest. “I’m stayin’. Permanently. I intend to be your neighbour until the end of bloody time.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Fine by me, Minho. You’re one of the better neighbors I’ve had.”

“That’s because I’m a fuckin’ delight,” he says, jabbing a finger at his chest before reaching for his whiskey again. “Not like the others, you know, pissin’ about in the hallways. I don’t cause trouble. Well, not for you, anyway. Also, I’ve been thinkin’ about Little Women, you know, the book you lent me?”

You choke on your drink slightly, barely holding back a laugh. “You’ve been thinkin’ about Little Women?”

Minho nods solemnly, waving his glass for emphasis. “Jo deserved better. I’ll die on that fuckin’ hill.”

Hyunjin, sitting across the table, raises an eyebrow and squints dramatically. “Wait, Minho, you can read?”

The table erupts into laughter, and Minho shoots Hyunjin a murderous glare. “I’ll cut you, you lanky fuck.”

“Oi!” Felix says, throwing his free hand into the air like a referee. “No fucking fighting on my wedding day, or I’ll cut you both.”

You burst out laughing at that, pressing a hand to your mouth as Hyunjin shrinks back with a mock look of innocence. “Alright, alright. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Felix.”

At the far end of the table, Jisung stands up abruptly, stumbling slightly. “I’m off to the bar, no wait, someone, come with me, ”

Jeongin attempts to follow suit, but his foot catches on the leg of his chair, and before anyone can stop it, there’s a loud crash as Jisung and Jeongin trip over each other.

“Fuck!” Jisung shouts as he topples straight into Changbin, sending him flying backwards onto Seungmin, who’s been minding his own business.

The resulting heap of Blinders sprawled on the floor, Jisung tangled with Jeongin, Changbin sprawled flat on his back, Seungmin swearing profusely, sends the rest of the room into uncontrollable fits of laughter.

“Jesus Christ!” Chan calls out, grinning as he watches the scene unfold, his glass raised like a toast.

You and Minho are howling with laughter, tears threatening to spill as you clutch your sides. “I can’t breathe!” you manage to gasp, leaning forward as you try to recover.

Minho, doubled over, topples sideways out of his chair, still laughing, and you nearly go with him. Felix catches you around the waist at the last second, tugging you upright and pulling you safely into his lap.

“Careful, angel,” Felix murmurs into your ear, his grin wide as he presses a kiss to your temple. “Don’t want you breakin’ anything.”

Minho, meanwhile, lands hard on the floor with a thud, pulling Hyunjin down with him in the process.

“Fuckin’ hell, Minho!” Hyunjin groans, his voice muffled as he sprawls halfway over Minho’s legs.

“I’m fine,” Minho declares dramatically from the floor, still laughing as he tries to sit up. “Didn’t spill my drink!”

“Priorities,” Chan says dryly, taking a slow sip of his whiskey as he watches the chaos with clear amusement.

You glance around the room, your head resting against Felix’s shoulder as you smile to yourself. It’s madness, pure and simple. Minho and Hyunjin fighting to untangle themselves from the floor, Jisung trying and failing to help Jeongin up, Changbin still swearing as Seungmin mutters something about idiots. But it’s your madness.

Felix watches you for a moment, his thumb brushing absently along your arm. “You alright?” he asks softly, his voice low beneath the noise.

You tilt your head up to look at him, your smile soft and content. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I’m perfect.”

He grins, pressing another kiss to your forehead before raising his glass toward the group. “Oi! To family, and to my beautiful wife!”

“To Y/N!” the rest of them shout in unison, Minho lifting his glass from the floor as Hyunjin finally shoves him off.

The room bursts into another chorus of cheers and laughter, whiskey glasses clinking together as you lean back into Felix’s embrace, surrounded by the only family you’ve ever known. For once, everything feels right in the world, and you wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

“Welcome to married life, angel,” Felix murmurs into your ear, his voice full of affection.

You smile, your fingers lacing with his. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx

[garbinge]

The Black House (Pt 1)

Sirius Black & F!Reader (Sirius's Daughter) Mention of a Neville Longbottom x F!Reader Pairing 30 Day Fic Challenge (17/30)

Word Count: 2.7k A/N: First time every writing for the Harry Potter Universe!

Warnings: All my fics are 18+ regardless of content. Angst, follows the timeline for Order of the Phoenix. Part 2

All Writing Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics @kmc1989

You heard the echo of his voice throughout the house and it was still shocking to you. While in the grand scheme, it had been years since your father, Sirius Black, had been back in the family house, this wasn’t the first time you’d heard the voice in the house. He had been here all summer with you but it didn’t stop your stomach from dropping each time you heard him speak. The sound of him discussing the Order downstairs currently should have been unsettling but it gave you a comfort you had been longing for for years. Him back home. 

It took you a minute to snap out of it when you heard your friends greet Harry in the room over. Despite you being in your room, the walls tended to be thin in all flat’s in London and this one, although magical, was no different. 

Harry might as well have been your brother, Sirius looked at him as such, especially since his parents had appointed the man his godfather. Harry had asked you questions about Sirius, about who he was, what he was like before everything. But before you even had the ability to bring Harry down from reality he knew you probably knew just as much as him since you were around the same age when he was taken to Azkaban. 

You didn’t bother getting up to go over, the three of them had a friendship that although they never intentionally left you out of it was easy to feel like the odd person of the group when it was just the trio. You didn’t mind, you had your group of friends, and when you didn’t, you knew you always had Neville. 

Being the first one in the dining room meant all eyes were on you when people entered and you got to see everything that happened as well. 

Sirius was beyond happy to greet Harry, it reminded you how long it had actually been since the two saw each other. You weren’t daft, the men must’ve exchanged owls, messages, Sirius was a fan of popping up in fiery places you had learned. But it was a reminder that he hadn’t spent the same amount of time with Sirius since he had been back like you did. That first summer after your third year at Hogwarts was a little hectic. There was no assurance that Sirius wouldn’t be caught and he couldn’t put anyone in that kind of danger, but this past summer, he moved back into the home he left to you and you got to create a lot of memories with him. He taught you magic that he’d use to prank his friends, spells that would get one out of a bind, he shared some of his favorite books with you, built you a new shelf to house them as well since yours were filled to capacity. 

“You know, you can enchant your shelves? You’ll never run out of room.” He pointed to the stacks upon stacks on the shelving in your room. 

“I know, but I rather like them this way, I can see each and every one whenever I want, with enchantment shelves, you never know what you have.” “Very well, I guess I’ll be building you a new shelf.” 

When he said that, you assumed he’d toss a spell at something and your shelf would be built but instead he took an old piece of furniture and created something new by hand. He ofcourse added the enchantment to it. 

“Just in case you need to hide a book or two.” He said before casting the spell on it. 

It was one of your most enjoyable experiences over the summer, but the biggest one was dinner, everynight. You’d talk about so many things, your days, the books you were reading, the books he gave you to read, and you’d both gush about your favorite parts, argue about your interpretations of them. 

“Well I’d like to think that the fade to black in the end was symbolizing that they both had moved on to the next obstacle in their life.” The wine glass was near his mouth as he spoke it. 

“I mean, I agree, I just think that next obstacle is death.” You argued taking a bite off your plate. “It’s quite literally a rip of Shakespeare, I thought it was obvious the two would end in tragedy.” 

“Quite literally a rip of Shakespeare?!” He boomed with a laugh, not even able to take a sip of his wine because he was astonished by your statement. “My dear girl, I have to get you some more cheery reads, you need to see the good in things.” 

“I never said I didn’t see the good in it, just because it was a tragedy doesn’t mean it wasn’t happy. I mean, isn’t that how things become a tragedy? You have to feel the good first?” 

You remembered Sirius’ face when you spoke those words, the smile on his face as you interpreted depth and emotion of a book at such a young age. 

“Perhaps in tragedy its the thought of what could’ve been good that hurts the most.” He added to your statement and to which you agreed. 

When he was your age he wouldn’t have been caught dead eating dinner with his family discussing books, let alone reading them the way you did, that was more a hobby he picked up as he got older, when he left Hogwarts and books weren’t forced upon him. 

“Very well, then I shall get you some books with far less of a depressing ending. How does that sound?”

“That sounds good, Dad.” 

It was the first time you’d let the title fall from your mouth, and you honestly hadn’t noticed it. Just like Sirius thought you wouldn’t notice the absolute grin on his face when the word fell from your mouth since he was hiding it behind the wine glass but when you looked up at him you saw it in his eyes. 

But now all those memories, they ached differently when you saw Harry and him. They weren’t just reminders that you had so much more to catch up on with your father, but reminders that you were way ahead of Harry, who really had no one. 

Before you could give it anymore thought, Tonks was sitting down next to you. 

“Hi darling.” She spoke rather abruptly as she placed her beer on the table. 

“Hello, Tonks.” You smiled. 

“Where’s Neville? Thought he’d be here by now, was practically here any chance he could this summer.” 

You smiled and felt your face get warm from a bit of embarrassment. 

“Now, now, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. When you find the right one, it just works.” She was looking off where Remus was standing, by Sirius and Harry. 

“He’s with his grandmother, I expect him to be here within a few days, before–” Your sentence was cut off by the group of Weasleys coming in and making themselves comfortable. 

The noise in the room got obnoxious between the lot of them, specifically Fred and George, and when the rest of the members of the Order came in there was no silence expected now. 

“Before what?” You heard Harry’s voice was suddenly behind you. 

“Harry.” Your legs shot up and moved to hug him. He embraced you back but you could tell he was looking for the end of the sentence you weren’t able to finish. 

“Before your trial.” It was hard to look him in the eye when you said it. 

“That’s enough of that,” Mrs. Weasly interrupted you both and a large amount of plates flew in between the two of you. 

“Harry, come!” Sirius called out for him to come closer to his side of the table. 

It was so like Harry to look at you, almost for permission, and despite it being your normal seat that Sirius was looking for Harry to fill, there was no jealousy or ill-will in your heart about it. “Go, I’ve listened to his stories all summer, I could use a break. Plus Tonks is my favorite dinnertime entertainment.” You pointed to the girl who was shapeshifting her face to different animals. 

The fun didn’t last long, and to your surprise, the room got quiet once everyone had pretty much finished eating, the main conversation at the head of the table taking a turn to more serious talk which let the room fall in respect. 

“What does the ministry of magic have against me?” 

As Harry skimmed over the paper that showed just how much the Ministry did have against him, you felt your insides turn. Everyone here had the entire summer to wrap their brains around this, except Harry. 

“We believe you Harry.” You felt that it needed to be said, but by the looks of everyone around you they thought best to leave the conversation to everyone else. 

“Well, we do, don’t we?” You took their silence completely different. 

“Of course we do.” Sirius backed you up with a nod. 

That’s when Sirius began explaining how Voldemort was suspected to be building an army, much like before, and that this group had done the same. That was another thing you had spent the summer doing, recruiting more members of the Order, helping Sirius find people who went into hiding, those who were a part of things before. That’s specifically what Neville had come to help you with when he’d come by. His parents were a part of the original Order, it felt like his duty to them to help see this through now. 

Despite the stress of the night, it ended pretty enjoyably. Molly Weasley served dessert, there had been laughs at the table again, but once it hit midnight you found yourself sneaking back off to your bedroom. 

“Waiting on an owl from Neville?” Sirius spoke as he crossed his arms in your doorway pointing to the open window. 

You shook your head. “That and it helps drown out the sound of the company, I’m still not used to this house having so many people in it.” 

“I’m sorry about that,” he was making his way to sit on the chair near your desk. 

“It’s not your fault. I’ve told you that.” It was said frustrated but only because you really wished Sirius could understand that you never blamed him. 

“I left you in the care of Remus, I know he’s not the most social, but Tonks, she’s a lot of fun.” It was like he was only speaking the words to convince himself that he had done the best he could. It was the only decent option, with him going away to Azkaban, your mother having passed when giving birth to you, it was either adoption or putting you in the care of a friend. 

“Remus and Tonks are incredible caregivers, they watched over me.” You agreed with him. It was the truth, they did everything for you that a guardian should. Remus had been your guardian since Sirius went away. It was rumored that he adopted you, and no one corrected the rumor, if just anyone knew you were really Sirius Black’s daughter, it would have put you in serious danger. It wasn’t until you had started school when Tonks came into the picture and became your other guardian. They kept you safe, they kept you fed, they made sure every book and necessity each school year was in your possession, each summer they’d make sure to stay at the Black house with you so you felt at home, you spent most holidays with them. But what no one knew was, some holidays, when you’d tell Lupin or Tonks that you’d be staying at Hogwarts you’d come to this house by yourself. 

“I used to come here by myself.” You spoke up to Sirius who looked at you confused. 

“I’d lie, tell Tonks that I was staying at Hogwarts, say a few of my friends didn’t want to go home so I’d just hunker down there with them, go to Hogsmead, prank Filch, I really sold it, you know?” 

“And you’d come here?” Sirius seemed shocked. 

“I would. I liked being here alone. I just feel like I’m home here.” You shrugged, bringing your feet to sit criss crossed. 

Sirius let out an astounded laugh. “I’m laughing because I absolutely hated it here growing up, I’m glad it could be a safe haven for you.“ He frowned as the next thought came to his head. “What did you do when Remus was at Hogwarts?”

“The year he was our professor, I told him I was going to the Weasley’s.” You chuckled. “I actually got caught that year. I didn’t realize him and Arthur were close.” 

“Can’t believe he didn’t tell me this when I was back.” Sirius was grinning seeing his troublemaking ways shine through in you. 

“We had many other things happening,” you spoke obviously, “plus, I didn’t make it a habit to lie or act out, I earned a couple along the way.” Your hand instinctively ran over the fresh tattoo you had on your arm. 

Sirius’ eyes dropped down to see what you were doing. “The skin won’t be raised forever. It’ll subside.” 

You quickly brought your sleeve down, completely unaware of what you were doing. 

“No need to hide it now.” He was sitting so his arms were resting on the back of your desk chair. “I sense that was one of the reckless bouts you earned from Remus.” He tried to get a look at what you had gotten tattooed. 

“Um, no. Remus, I don’t think knows about this. No one does, besides Neville.” 

The thought of Neville Longbottom knowing secrets about your body boiled Sirius’ blood in a way any father would feel, it truly had nothing to do with Neville, if anything he supposed he should be grateful it was a young boy like Neville who had stolen your heart and not someone with ill intention. That’s what made Sirius think. 

“You took Neville Longbottom to a muggle tattoo parlor?” 

“It wasn’t a muggle shop, it was down in Diagon Alley. Nearly fainted the poor boy.” You let out a laugh. “But he stayed there with me the whole time. Even told the wizard giving me the tattoo to lighten up his grip.” Your nostrils flared as you let out a sincere laugh this time remembering the moment. 

“I think I quite like that boy.” Sirius was laughing along with you. “Well, let’s see it then.” He was looking over the chair waiting for you to show him the tattoo. 

You raised your sleeve and the symbol that sat at his sternum was minimized and placed on your forearm. He stared at the familiar ink for a few minutes trying to understand why this one.

“I’ve been practicing my animagus form and I finally got it.” It was a mumble, you weren’t really sharing that information with anyone, again besides Neville, but this was different. 

Sirius was amazed, his face was full of joy. “You’ve gotten it down in such a short time?” 

“Two summers.” You shrugged, the idea was put into your head after you saw your father for the first time since you were a baby. 

“Merlin’s beard.” He whispered and then took another look at the tattoo. “And you’re a?” He looked down at your arm. 

“A wolf. An arctic wolf to be more precise.” 

Sirius was grinning. “You do know that this symbol means a gray wolf, right?” 

“What’s your excuse?” Your eyebrows raised clearly aware of the mistake but calling out Sirius for the same thing. He turned to a black dog, not a gray wolf.

There it was. That’s what Sirius was thinking at the quick witted response of the girl. There he was. 

Before he could say anything there was an owl arriving at the window. 

He was standing up knowing that was his cue. Looking around at the room, seeing photos of your life, the bookshelves, the tiny potions station that was next to the window for ventilation of course, and then back to you. He wished he didn't miss so much of your life, he felt like one moment you were a little baby and the next you were this teenager. It was sort of true, he missed the time in between. Now you were getting owls from boys, one boy, he had to remind himself. Neville. He liked Neville. He placed his hand on your shoulder and squeezed before moving to leave your room. 

“Tell Neville I say hello.”  

[redfoxwritesstuff]

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart (Chapter 14) Human Alastor x Married Reader

Chapter Trigger Warnings: None, really- just lowkey shittyness from Laurence.

Prev Masterlist AO3 KoFi

The smile on Alastor’s face pulled wider as he drove, the world passing by as he hummed along with the rumble of the engine. There were few things that felt as good as watching a plan fall into place. It was plain as day that everything was falling into place. 

There was no denying it, though he was sure at this point you still were denying what you were feeling. Everything about the way you acted around him screamed to him he was already winning his little game. It was in your timid looks, glances to him when you thought he couldn’t see. It may as well have been a sign over your head as your protests and flinching away from him gave way to careful eye contact and quiet acceptance. 

His grin twitched wider as he pictured the way you would flush as his hand dipped lower down your back, not indecently low but certainly a bolder move. It surprised him how quickly you were falling into his trap but he supposed it shouldn’t. You were such a meek thing. The way you reacted, he was near sure that you hadn’t experienced kindness or proper courting in your life. 

Alastor turned the wheel, hardly paying attention to the world he was navigating through. He knew the way nearly as well as he knew the way to his own home. There wasn’t much time, and he needed to get himself straightened out. 

Standing on the sidewalk with you earlier that morning, Alastor had suggested a late lunch, more like an early dinner, shared between two friends. It was a bit of a bolder suggestion, far more than stealing you away for a shared cup of coffee.

He had to push, ever so slightly, but after some performative pushback for the sake of propriety, you folded to his will, just as he knew you would. The plan left you enough time to scurry home and make a good start on the cleaning while Alastor made his way nearly halfway across the city. 

Alastor took his time, straightening his jacket in the dirty mirror under Mimzy’s watchful eye. It wouldn’t kill the woman to clean it but he wasn’t in the mood to nettle his long-time friend over the mess, this time at least. Long fingers picked at his hair, pulling strands this way and that as he tried to convince them to lie just a little flatter. 

He didn’t have enough time to really run all the way home and get himself polished up so he drove to Mimzy’s little flat, near to her speakeasy. It was only fair that he invaded her space. Heaven above knew how often she had helped herself to his home. 

“Things goin good then?” She asked as Alastor ran his fingers through his hair, effectively resetting it to start fresh as she handed him a hot comb. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen him primp, but it was infrequent, at best. Or at least it had been. “Ya know, your hair was good three passes ago, right?”

“Things are going swimmingly,” Alastor confirmed, leaving his hair alone after passing the comb through the strands, letting the heat pull the slight curl straighter. “She’s proving to be great entertainment.” 

“And you’re just playing with her?” Mimzy asked, eyebrow raised as she perched herself against the dresser. It was improper for her to have a man like Alastor in her home, let alone her bedroom, without someone to ensure he didn’t take advantage of her, but she had no fear of him. Alastor held no interest in her, though she had tried to win his romantic affections once, long ago. 

“Of course,” Alastor rolled his eyes as he turned away from his reflection, “All just good fun. Lure her away from dear Laurence for a bit and show her some life. Poor thing is just wilting away. You want a supplier who can’t even take care of his wife? Yet you trust him to keep your deliveries coming?” 

“Well, I can’t have you as a supplier.” Mimzy watched him, a small smile on her face. For someone as smart as Alastor was, he sure could be daft at times and about the strangest things, Mimzy realized. How was he unaware of how much you seemed to be more than just a passing toy to him? 

Oh well, Mimzy decided. It wasn’t like anything could come of this. Maybe Alastor’s need for love, want for romance would awaken with you and he could go on and find himself someone proper. 

Each step was measured as you fought the urge to rush down the sidewalk. That would draw the wrong attention to yourself. It boggled your mind that this was the second time you’ve done this. It was wrong. You shouldn’t be sneaking around behind your husband’s back to spend time with anyone, let alone with another man. 

You turned the corner into the alley, bowl hat pulled low over your face and ugly orange shawl wrapped around your shoulders as you let yourself relax a little more. Each step took you further down the dirty alley, shoes clicking against the stones as you approached a dark figure leaning against the back of a car.

“Hello,” you said, fearlessly. What a thought that was? Someone you could speak fearlessly with, even if just in greeting. Alastor had yet to give you a reason to fear his moods or wait to see if he brought a storm with him. He was simply always calm, even-tempered. 

“I’ve got you something, if you think you can hide it?” You could just see Alastor’s smile in the dark, light reflecting off his teeth and shining in his eyes, highlighting them against the rest of his dim features, hidden in shadows. 

“Oh?” you ran your teeth over your bottom lip, trying to convince your heart to calm as it humped around in your chest. “You didn’t need-” 

“Nonsense,” Alastor said, not offering any other information, instead turning to the trunk behind him and twisting the key already seated in the lock. It popped open with a soft thump that reverberated through the small alley. 

The darkness prevented you from seeing the tarp, folded neatly around a saw and tied together with twine, just as Alastor had been counting on. Even if you saw it, he was sure you had no reason to question whatever story he gave you. Men were known to keep strange things in their trunks, items to help with a breakdown. He could come up with something for cover. 

In the trunk’s front sat a round hatbox, covered in a floral pattern that gave away the high end shop it had come from. Along with it was a bag, paper sporting the same floral pattern. 

“For you,” he stepped aside and motioned for you to look. It was dim in the alley, but you could just make out the pattern on the items sitting toward the front of the trunk. The deeper recesses of the space may as well have been a black void to you. “You can take a better look later, but I thought, if this is going to become a more regular arrangement, this would help you.” 

“What?” your heart pounded in your chest. He wanted this thing to continue, so much so he wanted to help it be easier? What did that mean? Lifting the lid of the box, you found a red bowl hat, perfectly in style, much unlike the one pulled down over your head currently. The ribbon around the band, shiny silk, accented with little roses embroidered onto the felt of the hat. 

“There’s a cape to match. I know coats are a bit more in style, but it’s knit and I’m told that’s still in style.” Alastor hesitated for a moment, taking in the soft expression on your face. “I thought the cape would suit you better.” 

Blood roared in your ears as your vision wavered. Breaths came broken as you tried to will yourself to calm down. When was the last time someone had gifted you anything? It had been flowers. The ones Laurence had given you to replace the ones Alastor gave you. Then the fear began to truly hit, sending a tear running down your now pale cheek. How would you explain this to Laurence? 

“It’s small enough you could tuck it under the steps, or somewhere else if you think he would find it.” Alastor’s hand rested on your shoulder, arm laying across your upper back as he held you almost to his side, the distance between your bodies too small to be proper but too large for you to call it an embrace. “I thought perhaps you could wear them when coming to meet me, instead of something you could be recognized in.” 

“Mr. Moreau,” you patted his chest with the back of your hand before you thought twice about such a bold move. It was too easy to feel that comfortable with him. “You make it sound like sneaking out with you is going to be a regular occurrence.” 

“Would that be a bad thing?” Alastor asked as he slipped the shawl from your shoulders and tossed it into his trunk. “You could use a friend.” 

Friend. Alastor had called himself your friend. That word bounced around in your head as he wrapped the cloak around your shoulders and tossed the hat you had been wearing in the trunk with little care. 

If you were just friends, why did it not feel like that? Why did it feel like more? Why did the idea of it not being more make your heart pain?

“Shall we?” Alastor’s hand took up its place against your back, just a touch lower than you considered proper but where you were becoming accustomed to it resting. 

“No hat?” You asked as he closed the trunk with one hand. 

“You’re already here,” he chuckled as he smiled down at you. “If you wore a hat, I wouldn’t get to see your lovely face.” 

The trunk slammed shut with a solid thunk, sealing away your items. The sound broke you out of the spell you still lingered in, touched by his kindness and the fear of your husband it inspired. 

“Darling,” Alastor stepped in front of you slightly, turning to face you. His knuckle grazed your cheek tenderly, wiping away the trail left by the tear that had escaped. “If you don’t think you can hide then, you don’t have to take them. I wouldn’t want to cause you to go through another… grievous incident.”

“I-” you took a shaking breath, “I think I can. I just- I’m not used to such kindnesses.” 

With a smile, Alastor led you around to the passenger side. He reached around you, opening the door as he let you sit with your admission. 

Finally, he said, “You deserve to be treated with kindness,” as he tucked you into the seat. 

The door closed, leaving you with your thoughts as Alastor walked around the front of the car. It was the first chance you had to process his words without the sight of his warm eyes in the darkness clouding your mind. Reaching up, you let your fingers caress over the bruise around your eye, faded now, more green and yellow than red and purple. It was easier to cover, hidden now under layers of cream and powder. 

He wanted to see your face. Knowing how you looked and what you were hiding, he wanted to see you.

“How long do we have?” Alastor asked as he settled into the driver’s seat, pulling the door closed. The keyring jingled as he slotted the key into the ignition. With a quick turn of his wrist, the engine roared to life. 

“He told me not to wait up,” you answered, only realizing how that could be taken as an invitation to something far more than what you had planned after the words left your lips.

“Good!” Alastor pulled the car forward, out of the other side of the alleyway and onto the street. “Are you hungry? I figured a late lunch and then an early show at the cinema. Hows that sound?” 

“It sounds wonderful,” you told him as he turned onto the city streets. “But I’ll be seen. People will talk.” 

Alastor only looked over at you and winked with a cock of his head. The radio filled the silence, covering for your inability to think of anything to say. As minutes passed, one after another, the city giving way to scenic landscapes. You were torn between watching the land passing by and watching Alastor driving, his long fingers wrapped around the wheel as he navigated with practiced ease. 

“Do you leave the city often?” You finally braved saying. 

He glanced at you, the bright afternoon sun lighting up his eyes as he turned his head. “More often than I probably should.” 

“What’s that mean?” Your voice came softly. It was a struggle to have enough air to breathe when he looked at you that way, let alone talk. 

Alastor shrugged, “I get recognized in the city, more often than I’d like sometimes.”

“That’s a problem Mr. Big Deal Radio Host?” You laughed as he gave you a pointed look that dissolved into the smile he always wore. It felt okay to tease him. It felt safe. 

“It can be,” Alastor was silent for a bit, looking between you and the road. It was clear he wanted to say more. You sat, waiting patiently until he spoke again. Usually you’d wait because it wasn’t a woman’s place to speak over a man, but not this time. As the world passed by outside the window, you waited because you wanted to know what it was he was debating about saying, not wanting to risk scaring away his words. “You know I’m not like you, right? Not from money, but also…” 

“I suspected,” you said simply, “But that’s alright. I don’t mind, you’re kind and a gentleman.” Your voice fell silent for a moment. Alastor debated in that moment clarifying, making it clear it wasn’t just money he referred to but you spoke again before he could. “That’s what matters, not the color of your skin or that of your parents or their parents. What matters is that your mother raised you right.” 

Alastor didn’t speak at first and you feared you had said something wrong. Fingers twisted around each other, taking a bit of your blouse with them. You pushed down the urge to say something, anything, to fill the void seemed to grow within the car. 

“Not everyone thinks that way.” Alastor’s voice broke the silence, shattering the void. “People know me and no one says it because I look close enough to them they can make themselves forget, but it’s the first thing they remember when I make a mistake. Out here,” Alastor tilted his head forward, to the open road and the small town in the distance, “no one knows me. They don’t know or if I mess up, it’s just some unknown guy.” 

“It must be stressful.” You caught yourself as you reached out, wanting to rest your hand on his forearm. Instead, you pulled your hand to your chest and clasped in your other hand. 

Alastor laughed, “It can be. But I manage.” 

“And out here, maybe I can just be some girl, too.” You said, watching his face, “Some girl out with you.” 

“If you want to be.” Alastor’s smile had dimmed with the conversation but now it turned cautiously brighter. 

“And if I do?” The words were hardly more than a whisper as you carefully nudged your toe just a bit further over the line. 

“Guess you’re just some girl out with some guy, then.” 

The diner was small, casual and easy but with Alastor it didn’t feel that way. He pulled your chair out for you as if you were somewhere fancy, scooting you into the table with care. It could have been the highest class restaurant, something Laurence would have taken you on to celebrate your engagement for all the care Alastor was putting into settling you at the table. 

With the red knit cape over your shoulders, you indulged in the fantasy. You smiled warmly at Alastor from across the table as he talked about the radio, what he did in the day and the hours he spent poring over scripts and show plans. 

It made you want to sit and listen to his show. It made you thankful for Laurence’s late nights, allowing you to indulge in upcoming shows. The idea of getting caught and setting Laurence’s rage off was too terrifying to brave listening to Alastor on the radio since meeting the man himself, but now, the way Alastor talked about his work, you wanted to hear the thing he loved to do so much. It would be like hearing it with brand new ears. 

It wasn’t as if you’d never heard his broadcasts in the past. You’d caught them here or there in passing. Though you had enjoyed them, you were always busy tending to your home or your husband, regardless of your desire.

It felt strange to wish to hear the voice of a man, but you were craving Alastor’s voice more and more, the longer you had known him. His love and passion for his chosen profession, you feared it would make your longing all the worse. 

“What do you do when you’re not going about your work?” You asked, setting the napkin aside after dabbing at your face. 

Alastor paused and thought, something you had grown to appreciate about him in the short time you’d known him. “I read,” he finally said, “And hunt, though I fear I seldom have time for either.”

“You’d have more time if you were not sneaking away with a-” you whispered the next words, leaning across the table, “married woman.” 

“But my dear!” Alastor laughed, “I find spending time with,” and his voice lowered to a matching whisper as he leaned across the near empty plates on the table, closing much of the distance between the two of you, “one specific married woman to be rather refreshing.” 

“Oh my,” you covered your mouth in feigned outrage as a smile you wouldn’t have recognized spread across your face, “How scandalous!” 

“The true scandal,” Alastor admitted, wicked grin spreading wider across his face, “Is how she seems to enjoy my company as well.” 

You walked arm in arm with Alastor through the cinema hall as he led you to your theater as a few others milled about. It was a show you’d already seen, but you didn’t mind that at all. You had never seen this show with Alastor and that was what you were eager for. 

Was he the one to whisper through the show? Would he laugh? Would he doze off? 

It was early yet, and the theater was little more than half filled as you took your seats. The darkness felt strangely safe because he was in it with you. No monsters in men’s dress would get you in this darkness. Today, there was nothing to fear. 

No unwanted hands would grip your thigh. No hands would slip under your dress. No one would whisper lewd promises in your ear that would only spark fear. You were safe, respected. 

While you watched the show, some of it at least, mostly you watched Alastor watch the movie. Not at first, but as his arm reached behind you, resting along the back of your seat, you couldn’t help it. Light reflected off his glasses and he chuckled softly at jokes. 

You envied some woman you didn’t know. It was hardly more than the idea of a woman, really. She would come into his life, steal the attention and affection you had no right to lay claim to. She would get to call Alastor hers. 

Was it possible to hate the idea of someone? You thought so, as he turned to look at you, a smile stopping your heart in your chest. 

Friends, you reminded yourself. Just friends. Just a secret and highly improper friendship. You could keep your feelings at that level, right?

Forcing your eyes back to the screen, you tried to ignore the way his thumb would caress your shoulder from where his hand dangled off the backrest of your seat. He was not holding you and yet he came so terribly close to it. You ignored the feeling of his eyes on you as he leaned closer to whisper in your year, his breath washing over your neck and the side of your face as he moved closer. 

“I’m glad you came out with me today,” his voice was soft velvet in your ear, his lips moving against your hair. Your heart was going insane as you chanted in your mind that you were friends. Just friends. Only friends. 

He pressed against the side of your head. Was it a kiss? You weren’t sure. The very idea of it terrified you. There was no way you could brave asking . Your heart pounded in the most delightful way. You could hear him breathe you in for a moment before he pulled away, sitting properly in his seat again with his eyes on the screen. 

Did he know what he did to you? 

Laurence sat in his large office with the blinds drawn closed against the bright spring sunshine. Smoke curled up from the cigar he had no business buying, let alone smoking with the state of things. That didn’t stop him, though. It was alright, he would find a way out of this, he always did. 

There were papers spread in haphazard piles in front of him, red glaring up at him. Canceled, the red screamed. Contracts canceled. Work not yet delivered. Past due notices. Bills unpaid. Threats of legal action. Things were spiraling out of his control, but that was alright. 

He just needed one more good break and he could pull things back together as if he had never broken them. He had always been good at finding opportunities, taking the right risks. He was a master gambler. This was just a string of bad luck, that’s all. Everyone had runs of bad luck but his never lasted long. He would pull out of this, he always did. 

First, he’d finish up work at the office. That was the easy part. Throw together some marketing materials from the crew that was left and have them deliver it with some sob story. If he was lucky, the client would bite it and at least one of these contracts would be settled. 

Then he’d meet up with the guys and play some cards. If he played his game right, he’d come out on top. He had to be careful, not too much on top or they’ll question him. This wasn’t a week where he could rely on lady luck alone to line his pockets. 

Once he had some winnings in his pocket, it would be late enough to run an extra load of goods for his best gal’s brother and collect a little extra money. It wouldn’t be enough to change the trajectory of his finances, but it would be a start. He just needed a fucking start. 

If he had a good night, he’d have enough cash in his pocket to make his first payment to that damned slimy radio fucker. Just the idea of how that man had the fucking nerve to shame him for offering you as collateral, then to turn around and slink around his home as if he owned the place. How fucking dare he get you alone when he was a guest in the home? 

That man was bad news. Laurence felt it in his bones. Nothing good could come from a man who so shamelessly spent time with an unattached spinster like Mimzy but really, why was it surprising? Just look at who his fucking mother was.

A family history of boundary crossing and not knowing one’s goddamn place, that’s all that fucker had going for him. Alastor, the promising radio personality- fuck him. Just another man with dirty blood who didn’t know his fucking place in society. 

What was the world coming to? It was going to hell in a handbasket, that was for fucking sure. First the blurring of racial lines and now women were expected to vote? How would they know what’s best for society? What they know was the best way to get clothes clean, to mop the floors and to bake if they were good at anything at all. 

Laurence took a deep breath, pulling open the desk drawer. Things rattled around from the force. He shoved papers and boxes around, grabbing the vial of tincture he kept hidden in the back of the drawer, safely out of sight. He had purchased his office supply from across the city. Nosey pharmacists couldn’t mind their business and had to question how much his back had to be hurting. 

Fuckers. His back hurt. He needed the drops. That’s all there was to it. Who the fuck were they to question how much pain he was in?

The bitter taste was something he had gotten used to, even come to enjoy, as he emptied half the dropper into his upturned mouth. Swallowing it, he leaned back and waited for the pleasant fog to wrap around his mind and take the pain away. 

He had to figure out a plan, a better plan. Work harder, not smarter. No, that wasn’t right. He had flipped it around as the fog encroached into his mind. Work smarter, not harder. That was it. He had to do that. 

There were empty bottles in the back room, behind the old boxes of scarped marketing materials. Could he use those to somehow make some more green? Yes, that was an idea. How?

He could pick up the load, split it between whatever extra bottles he had and top them all up with water. No one would notice, no one would even dare question Emma’s family about it- that was a great way to get shot. 

He could sell the extra bottles himself and pocket the money. He’d have enough then to make the first payment on that fucking loan. What kind of asshole wants the first payment before the first month had passed, anyway?

Arrogant prick, Laurence thought as he leaned back in his chair, eyes slipping closed. He’d rest his eyes for just a minute, then he’d leave. He had to get on his way to his next meeting or this deal would slip from his fingers, too. 

Rest his eyes for just a few seconds, then the meeting. After the meeting, gambling. Then running the hootch. Then he’d take Emma off somewhere, make her scream his name. Maybe she’d suck his cock. 

That was something he couldn’t get his wife to do for him. Dumb broad had no interest in sex. What man enjoys having to spell out how to please him? Fucking her was like fucking a dead fish. She just laid there and cried. Too sheltered or too dumb to enjoy it- he wasn’t sure which was the case with her. After all these years, he would have thought she’d figure it out, but she was just as bad as the first night. 

Come home. If he was feeling good, maybe he’d fuck his wife, too.

What a night, getting laid twice. 

But first he’d just… 

Rest his eyes…

Just a moment longer…

Then he’d be off to the meeting…

In just a moment… 

Just a moment…

Next

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[empresskylo]

beneath the mask ✩ chapter 8 ⬅ch.7

➠𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈; 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓; 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 ➠SIMON "GHOST" RILEY X AFAB!READER ➠CHAPTER TAGS | afab!reader. alcohol. nsfw. wc 4.8k ➠AUTHOR'S NOTE | had the pleasure of writing this chapter... also the fic is at 27k words already! whoo, this is officially my longest fic.

𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ✩ 𝐜𝐨𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ✩ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“we’re all meetin’ down at the local pub, if you’d care t’join,” soap said, leaning against the doorway of the infirmary with his arms crossed over his chest. 

you looked up from your clipboard and raised a brow. “oh, yeah?”

“yeah. the men could use a load off.”

he was right. it had been a tense week at base as the men worked on tracking down hassan and going out on missions but turning up with no luck. it was frustrating and tiring. you could see it in their drained faces. 

the infirmary was empty for the night, no one having any substantial injuries that required overnight care, so you figured it’d be alright to go with them.

“yeah, okay,” you said, nodding your head in agreement.

“sweet!” soap’s reply made you smile. he always made you feel wanted. 

something in you yearned to ask if ghost was going to be there, but that would just raise alarms. and as daft as johnny could be, you didn’t want to risk him finding out about your little… crush . ghost’s words rang in your head and you quickly abandoned that thought process, a flush rising on your face and chest.

you stood in your room feeling like an imposter. you glanced at yourself in the mirror and debated multiple times on removing your dress, but you really had nothing else nice to wear. 

all you had in your wardrobe was workout wear and your uniform. you just never found yourself needing much more than that. you mentioned your lack of a wardrobe to your friend in the infirmary and she immediately offered her assistance. “i have the cutest little dress you can wear! i think you’re my size…” she said as she looked between the two of you. 

you felt your face warm. “a dress? oh, i don’t know,” you said with a nervous laugh. “don’t you think that will be a bit much for a bar?”

“no! we’re always in these drab clothes,” – she gestured between the two of you – “it will feel good to put on something feminine for once. trust me.”

“oh, are you saying i don’t look feminine?” you teased, gesturing to your outfit which was a dark shirt, cargo pants, and boots. 

she rolled her eyes and grabbed her bag, ready to head back to her room. “shut up and follow me.”

now you were standing alone in your room and rethinking everything. the dress was simple: black, just short enough, and flattered your figure. but you still felt odd in it. after seeing yourself in your uniform for so long, this felt completely out of the ordinary. 

you played with the hem and debated changing. but what would you change into? sweatpants? 

you made a note to get some casual wear – jeans, a simple top, a sweater maybe – just things to wear on your off days. 

before you could talk yourself out of it more, you slid on the flats your friend has also let you borrow and you fumbled out of your room. 

it was nice enough out, and the bar was pretty close, so you decided to walk, your friend beside you. “you look hot,” she said. a smile was dragged out of you, not used to such compliments. she sported a similar outfit: a shorter dress, simple shoes, her hair down in waves. 

she hooked her arm around yours and you both giggled. maybe it would be nice to feel normal for a bit. to go out like most women your age do on the weekends.

you wondered if johnny and the others were already there. maybe you should have told him to wait for you so you could go together. 

you pushed your hair out of your face as the wind blew and looked up at the stars. it was such a beautiful night. you deserved this . you deserved to have a little fun. 

and you knew the men did this rather often. but that was before you had become friends with johnny and slowly with the others as well. now you were officially invited to things like this and it made your chest flutter with acceptance. 

the bar was a bit grungier than you expected, its windows blacked out, the sign light flickering, a group of motorcyclists outside smoking. your friend looked the men outside up and down, intrigued, and you heard them whistle back at her. “let's go,” you said, pulling her along with you.

you both pushed your way inside and were greeted with the smell of sweat, alcohol, too much cologne, and burning wood. the bar was dimly lit and there was already a crowd of people inside. 

you felt nervous as you scanned the room for someone you knew. you spotted soap and gaz in the corner and you smiled. your friend slipped away from you, seeing her friends at the bar, but not before making sure you were okay. you nodded to her then made your way towards soap. 

“soap!” you said cheerfully, making the man spin to face you. 

his face lit up, looking you up and down. “you clean up nice.”

“wish I could say the same,” you laughed. he gave you a cheeky grin in return.

your growing smile faltered when you saw a looming figure behind soap at the table. ghost . 

shit. shit. shit .

you could feel his eyes on you and you shifted uncomfortably on the heels of your feet. 

soap noticed your empty hand. “let me get you a drink,” he said over the noise and slipped off to the bar. 

you awkwardly turned to the table and greeted gaz who was talking with a few other men you recognized but couldn’t remember their names. 

you couldn’t stop your eyes from wandering over to where ghost was sitting he wore a black hoodie that he had pulled over his head, his balaclava mask, and dark jeans and boots. his hands rested on the table and he was still staring at you. 

letting him win, you turned away. why did things have to be so weird between you two? were you the one making things uncomfortable?

before you could wallow in your thoughts, soap appeared beside you again and handed you a beer. 

“i’m not supposed to take drinks from strange men,” you teased. 

“ha. ha. very funny, lass.”

you nudged him in the shoulder.

“hey,” a voice said beside you. you looked up and saw commander graves approaching your table. “fuck,” he said, taking you in. “i didn’t recognize you. you look great,” he complimented. 

you thanked him a bit awkwardly. soap reached over you and wrapped an arm over your shoulders protectively. “i don’t like the way you’re lookin’ at her,” johnny said towards graves. 

graves laughed, raising his hands in surrender. you rolled your eyes at the nonsense of these two men. “i can do my own bidding,” you said up to soap. 

“you heard her, she can turn me down herself,” graves teased. 

you smiled, all three of you laughing, however, your smile broke when ghost got up and left the table. 

“what’s his problem?” you asked soap, trying to sound casual, taking a sip of the cold beer. 

“honestly, m’not sure. he’s been like this all week.”

you nodded, wanting to pry more, but that would be a bit conspicuous, so you just drank your beer and fell into conversation with the men around you.

three beers and three shots later, you were slurring your words slightly as you argued with the table about how you had the ability to multiply any set of numbers in your head. 

“you’ve got a calculator under there,” gaz said, referring to your hands conveniently placed under the table. 

you held your hands up, “go ahead. ask me another.”

soap laughed and spewed off a random combination of numbers, “four hundred eighty-six, times three thousand five hundred and seven.” gaz quickly punched the numbers into his phone's calculator.

you took a moment, the gears in your head turning, before answering. “one million, seven hundred four thousand, four hundred and two.”

the other two men beside gaz leaned over to look at his phone screen to read the correct answer.

“well, i’ll be fucked,” gaz said astonished, all the men gaping up at you. 

you smiled and did a little twirl in victory. “i believe you owe me a drink, kyle.”

gaz nodded before standing. “honestly, i’m not even mad,” he said before passing you and going to the bar. 

you turned to soap, “i’m going to the restroom. i’ll be right back. make sure gaz doesn’t spit in my drink.”

he smirked and nodded then focused back on the guys who were now spewing out nonsense about who could down a beer the quickest. personally, your bet was on soap.

you laughed to yourself and made your way through the moving bodies. once you made it through the crowd, there was a small, dark hallway in the corner of the bar with two bathrooms at the end. it was a lot less busy over here and the music rang far quieter in your ears, you were thankful for the reprieve. 

as you edged around the corner you tripped and stumbled, laughing to yourself as you did. two arms caught you and you giggled at how drunk you were. “t-thank you,” you muttered. you finally focused on the person’s arms and spotted tattoos peeking out of their rolled-up sleeves. your eyes went wide and you quickly snapped your head up. simon . 

“s-sorry,” you said, trying to get untangled from his grip and lock yourself away in the bathroom out of embarrassment. 

“wait,” he clutched your arm and pulled you back to him. it was easy for him to move you, like you weighed nothing to him. that sent both a thrill of fear and excitement through your body. 

you clashed into his chest and immediately tried to gain a bit of space between you two. you hesitated but looked up at him as he loomed over you. to anyone else, they would be terrified to be faced with a man in a dark hallway, his hood pulled, his face covered, and his stance over six feet. but you knew ghost. knew he wouldn’t hurt you. 

“what?” you asked, a bit more snippy than you intended. 

his hands lingered on your arm, tightening briefly before letting go. “are you with johnny?” the seriousness in his tone surprised you. 

you scoffed. “what?” you were certainly taken aback. then you got a bit annoyed. “is there something wrong if i was?” you rolled your eyes and bit the inside of your lip. “I’ll have you know, there’s nothing forbidden about soap and i. there’d be no conflict of interest. so really, you have no right t-to ask.” you hiccuped on your last sentence and crossed your arms over your chest, trying to look assertive.

“how much have you had to drink?” he demanded. 

“ god, ghost,” you threw your hands up in defeat. “what does it matter? why do you care? me being drunk or s-sleeping with soap has nothing t’do with you. and my intoxication level has nothing to d-do with what i’m feeling.”

“so, you are with him, then?” his eyes darkened as he glared at you from beneath his mask. a smudge of his black face paint was still circled around his eyes, making him appear cynical and slightly terrifying. 

you laughed, he was missing the point. “no. jesus . i’m not with soap. we’re friends ,” you dragged out the ‘s’. 

you stared at him, waiting for him to say something. you decided if he didn’t answer in the next few seconds, you were going to turn around and walk away. this outing was supposed to be fun.

just as you were about to sidestep him, he took a step towards you. you actually had to crane your head back now to look at him. “you know why i care? why i’m askin’ you all this?” you could smell the whiskey on him and it sent a shiver through you.

you shook your head. “no. that’s what i’ve been asking you ,” you whined in mental exhaustion, your voice was far quieter than mere moments ago. the anger behind your words seemed to have left you. “enlighten me. tell me why you’ve been so hot n’ cold lately,” you whispered, losing all your momentum as his eyes flickered between yours. “do you hate me, or n-not?!”

one of ghost’s hands came up and tucked a tendril of your hair behind your ear. your lips parted in a silent gasp. his fingers tickled as they barely brushed over your skin. you swallowed and his hand cupped the side of your face, his fingers slipping into your hair. he leaned forward and you felt your breath get caught in your throat, your eyes widening in surprise. all sane thoughts left your body. all that filled your senses was him. simon.

he used his free hand to snake up between your bodies and push his mask up to his nose, exposing his stubble and scars. “ i’m going to kiss you now ,” he mumbled. he lingered a moment, giving you enough time to escape his hold, but you stayed rooted in place. 

in a painfully slow motion, simon leaned forward, hunching over and pulling your face up to meet him, and placed his lips on yours. 

your eyes fluttered shut and you felt a race of adrenaline pump through you. his hand was gentle as he caressed your face, pulling you further and further into him. you couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

your lips moved out of sync for a moment but you quickly learned how to flow together. your hands instinctively reached out and fisted his shirt, allowing you to extend higher up into him and also keep your balance. 

he turned you so your back hit the wall, making a squealing noise sound in the back of your throat, his free hand going to your hip, pushing you backward. he pressed his body into yours, his tongue tracing along your bottom lip and then slipping into your mouth. 

you groaned into the kiss as he consumed you, his body shielding you completely. if someone saw ghost from behind, they’d have no idea you were pinned underneath him. 

you gasped as he pulled away, his mouth still dangerously close to yours. 

“simon… i—“ you began, panting as you spoke, trying to catch your breath. 

your hands were still lost in his shirt, his hand still on your hip, but his other one was now on the wall beside your head. “don’t talk.” he kissed you again before you could protest. his lips felt so soft against yours, his stubble tickling you. his hand on the wall couldn’t stop itself from coming back to the side of your cheek, wanting to kiss you as deep as he possibly could. he was truly stealing the breath away from you.

your body rolled into his and you heard him grunt in the back of his throat. it was one of the hottest sounds you’ve ever heard. you felt like you were getting high off him, as he attacked your mouth with such fervor and heady need.

when he pulled away again, you gaped up at him. his eyes danced between yours, appraising you. trying to cypher through your thoughts. you looked at him through your eyelashes, waiting for him to speak or to move. you felt frozen in time. like if you moved, the illusion of him would fade away into a puff of smoke. 

then he moved you in a haze, your eyes focused solely on his silhouette. he grabbed your hand, engulfing it with his own, and pulled you into one of the single-person bathrooms. 

“what’re you—?” 

he shut the door behind the two of you, locked it, and pushed you up against it, your feet rising so you were standing on the tips of your toes. he was panting again, completely succumbing to what he explicitly told himself not to do. the alcohol gave him just strength to suppress the voice yelling at him in his head.

then he kissed you again. this time rough and hungry. your body fell limp as you let him hold you up, his mouth moving against yours in sync. your arms reached up and draped across his shoulders, both of you fighting for dominance, but you gave up rather quickly and let him win. 

simon’s hands roamed your body like he couldn’t get enough of you. any rational thought about pushing him away vanished. you knew you needed to talk about things — to figure out what he wanted from you. but right now, all you wanted was whatever this was. 

“this goddamn dress ,” he murmured in between kisses, his voice husky and low. your chest rushed with flames at his words, knowing that you were affecting him by simply wearing a short dress, and it made you clench your thighs together. 

simon’s hands went to the hem of your dress and he pushed it up, your body hot and clammy as his hand gilded along your skin. he nipped at your lip, his hand slowly descending between your legs. when he got to the apex of your thighs, he softly dragged his fingers across you, forcing you to moan into his mouth. 

“i fuckin’ hate seeing you with other guys,” he said hoarsely. 

you looked at him, a bit dazed, and still intoxicated — but now by more than just alcohol. “what?” you said breathlessly.

“soap. gaz,” he said flatly. “graves,” he said the commander's name with more anger, his fingers beginning to slide up and down you above your underwear. 

you gripped his shoulders. “okay,” you hastily spoke, still not understanding him, but also not wanting him to stop. 

he pushed your underwear to the side and you were thankful you wore one of your skimpier pairs tonight. as his fingers glidded across you, his fingers getting coated with your arousal, he spoke again. “jus’ with me,” he said. 

just with him? what the fuck was he talking about? you nodded anyway. “just with you,” you repeated. 

“ good girl .” your heart fluttered in your chest at his praise. you never knew those two words could sound so heavenly. but when ghost’s thick accent growled them out breathlessly, you found your core warming more than you thought possible. 

simon pressed two fingers against your entrance, his lips now attacking your neck. you were trying to catch your breath, your mind fogged, your body limp, your heart racing. 

when he pushed them both in, you gasped rather loudly. “ ohmygod ,” you slurred. you were beginning to pant wildly.

you could feel him smile ever so slightly against you. “ mmm ,” he hummed. 

he slowly began to move his fingers, your body ready for him and letting him move with ease. “ so fuckin’ wet for me ,” he mumbled. 

you clutched onto his shoulders, your eyes squeezing shut as you focused on the feeling of him inside you. he curled his fingers slightly as he went, pumping them in and out at a decent speed, your body squelching with each thrust. 

normally, you might be a bit self-conscious about being vocal the first time you were intimate with a new person, but you literally could not contain your sounds. you moaned and mewled, crying out when he sped up, his palm bumping your clit each time his fingers went in as far as they could. 

he felt you clenching around him and he marveled at how fast you were approaching your orgasm. it’s not that he had any doubts in his ability, but he’s never made a woman come quite this fast. and you had never had a man make you come this fast either. it was new for both of you.

one of your legs hooked around simon’s thigh, wanting to take him as deep as you could. “fuck,” he grunted, his free hand palming your breast over your dress. “you gonna come for me already, pet?” 

you nodded your head repeatedly, raspy breaths the only response you could vocalize. 

“go on then,” he commanded, keeping his speed. 

your walls spasmed around his fingers and your head buried against his chest. your legs began to shake as you felt yourself reach your high. “fuck, fuck, oh fuck !” ghost engulfed you, holding you up and into him while you clutched him in desperation.

you moaned into his chest and you could hear him panting above you — as if he had just climaxed too. 

he kept moving his fingers, making sure to bump your clit, letting you ride out your orgasm to completion.

when you stopped shaking and were trying to catch your breath, he slowed and eased his fingers out of you. 

neither of you moved. you were still clinging to him and he still had his hands around you, your leg propped on his waist. 

after several beats of silence while you both gasped for air, your hands snaked down his body and fiddled with his belt. you felt simon straighten slightly at your touch, his hand slipping into your hair and making you look at him. 

you succeeded in undoing his belt and you let him tilt your head up toward him. “you don’t have t—“ your hand slid into his pants and grabbed him, cutting him off. he was painfully hard and he groaned the second he felt your fingers on him. 

simon cleared his throat, trying to concentrate as you slowly began to stroke his length. “i’m serious. you d-don’t have to,” he stuttered.

a lazy smile filled your lips knowing how intensely you were affecting him. “i wanna,” you whispered. 

simon’s eyes opened and searched yours, looking for any sign of… displeasure? 

you let your leg fall to your side and you both untangled your bodies. you pushed his chest, baking him up against the sink so he was half sitting on the counter. you pried his pants down enough to free him completely. he watched you intently as you fell to your knees. he was thankful he had the counter for support because seeing you drop to your knees before him made him want to do the same.

god, he wasn’t sure how long he was going to last. he was already impossibly hard from hearing you moan at his touch. and now you were on your knees, begging to suck him off. he was absolutely fucked. 

you gulped, realizing how big he was. simon murmured your name and you immediately took him in your mouth. 

“ugh— fuck —!” he cried. one of your hands grabbed his base where your mouth couldn’t reach and you started a steady rhythm, bobbing your head up and down. your hand made twisting motions and your tongue pressed against his cock as you sucked. 

“jus’ like that,” he groaned, his hand coming out to tangle in your hair. his other hand gripped the countertop, holding it so harshly he thought he might crack the porcelain. 

you came up for a breath and a bit of spit dribbled out of your mouth and onto his cock. simon groaned, his hips begging to buck forward. 

you took him in again and simon’s grip in your hair tightened. “not gonna last much— f-fuck —longer,” he said through bated breaths. 

you hummed against him and the vibrations made his cock twitch. he gently bucked his hips forward and you gagged. the noises you were making were so obscene, and simon wanted them ingrained in his brain forever. 

“god, pet. you feel so fuckin’ good .” 

you sucked at the tip of his cock and began to stroke him at a more erratic pace. then you slipped him back in and his cock hit the back of your throat, making you gag again. 

“if you d-don’t want me to come in your mouth, you better stop n-now,” he moaned, his head tilting back slightly in pure ecstasy. 

you continued to work him, wanting to taste him. and with a few more bobs of your head and jerk of your hands, simon came in your mouth. 

the hoarse moan he made sent a wave of pleasure between your legs, making you ache to fully have him. you held your mouth in place but continued to suck, making simon’s legs shake slightly. his hand in your hair was now painfully grasping at you but you didn’t mind. 

simon moaned your name as he slowly came back to earth. you popped him out of your mouth and caught your breath, looking up at him. his cheeks were flushed where his mask was pushed up and he was looking at you in astonishment. 

you were kneeling before him, swallowing his come, blinking at him through your eyelashes, your dress still hiked up a bit too high and you’d hair disheveled. you were a fucking work of art and simon was so fucking screwed. 

reality came crashing down on him and he let go of your hair and stood up from the counter, pulling his pants up and redoing his belt. 

he pulled his mask down and you rose in apprehension at his sudden shift. 

“i’m sorry,” he said.

you furrowed your bows. “for what?” 

simon cleared his throat, trying to gain some distance from you. “i shouldnt have taken advantage of you.” 

you gave a mirthless smile. “i told you i wanted to. you didn’t take advantage—“

he breathed your name. “you want something i can’t give.”

“you don’t know what i want,” you said with more merit, but you hugged your arms over your body which said the opposite.

“you’re not the kinda girl for a quick fuck. and i can’t do all the–” he gestured around him with his hands, “– strings.” 

you looked at him with hurt in your eyes. simon wished he could take back what he said. but he kept going anyway, sabotaging himself. 

“you looked good in your dress. that’s all. m’sorry.” 

you gulped, nodding your head but averting your eyes. you swallowed back tears and stood there dumbfounded for a moment. 

you turned to leave the bathroom. you wanted to get as far away as possible from him. 

he called out your name and reached for your arm. 

“don’t!” you shouted, shrugging him off and storming out of the bathroom and back into the bar. 

ghost cursed under his breath as the door slowly shut. he turned and put both hands on the sink’s counter and hung his head. why was he this fucking stupid? why did he hurt you like that? 

why did he lie to you ?

it was true — he didn’t think he could do a proper relationship — but what wasn’t true was that you were simply a warm body to him. no. he had never wanted anyone the way he wanted you. he had been thinking about you against his will for weeks now. and seeing you in that dress, looking up at him with such soft eyes, he was done for. 

he had never had butterflies when he kissed someone. but with you, his stomach did flips and his heart raced in his chest. he should have stopped then. he couldn’t give you what you wanted. and he couldn’t give himself what he wanted.

it was like he thrived on punishing himself. he didn’t deserve good things. and good things never last. the way you pulled at him led him to believe that he wouldn’t fully recover if he let you get close just to leave him. so he couldn’t let himself get to that point with you. 

and you were innocent and full of hope. you’d hate him once you got to know him. he’d been hurt too many times to count and he thought he had forgotten what it was like to love — to have someone you care about. he wasn’t sure he even knew how to love anymore. he’d hurt you. and he was your superior. it was a disaster waiting to unravel. 

but bloody fuckin’ hell, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to feel what he just felt in that shitty bar bathroom with anyone else. and that scared him. 

he could chase after you. you probably hadn’t gotten very far. he could explain everything. tell you upfront about his concerns. you could discuss this like adults. he could let himself have something good for once in his life. but he didn’t feel like he deserved it… deserved you.

he stayed in the bathroom, sick of his face, and punished his reflection, slamming his fist against the mirror, and shattering it. his knuckles coated with blood and he growled. he threw the bathroom door open and startled the two people waiting outside it. 

“what the fuck—you okay, man?” the stranger asked noticing ghost’s hand. 

ghost pushed past them and left the bar, but not before spotting you with soap. you were drunk and he needed to be sure you’d get back safely. 

he saw tears staining your cheeks and a pang of guilt filled him as he stormed out of the bar. 

chapter 9 ➡

[tncts]

✨💜SH✷P OPEN💜✨

Happy holidays everyone, my 2024 shop update is now LIVE! Featuring lots of new keychains, stationery items, risograph prints and much more. My store will be open for two weeks before closing on Friday, December 13th at 11:59pm EST. This will be the final opportunity to grab something before the year is over!

Below you will find additional info regarding the update. Please read if you are shipping to either the EU/UK or Canada! Thank you so much for being patient, I know it's been quite a while since my work has been available online to purchase. Likes + Reblogs are sincerely appreciated! Thanks for looking and happy shopping!!

✨💜 SHOP HERE 💜✨

✷ STOCK ✷ All items stocked are leftovers from the 2024 con season with a good quantity of each product available to purchase. If by chance anything sells out, I will offer preorders (depending on the item) which may ship out later to account for restocking. Anything that is marked as "Last Act" has a low quantity and will not be restocked in the future. This will be the final opportunity to purchase these items other than in person at cons if any stock is remaining after the shop closes!

✷ DAFT RALLY ✷ I know a few people expressed interest in the DP Stamp Rally prizes from Anime Expo way back when. Just to be transparent, there's only 3 available (sorry)! That includes the sticker sheet and two risograph prints along with the original packaging for the prize. While the sticker sheet will not be reprinted, there will be a listing for the risograph print I created for the rally available separately for anyone that's interested!

✷ SHIPPING: EU/UK + CANADA ✷ I will be shipping both domestically and internationally but there will be some changes this time around. Regarding shipping fees, there will be a slight increase to $25 for orders outside of the US to account for the holiday season but like domestic orders ($7), it will remain a flat fee.

While shipping is available to the EU/UK, customers will be responsible for any VAT fees on the package. I've read there is a regulation change coming that could make it impossible to send packages to the region in the future. Therefore, all EU/UK orders must be received on or by FRI, DEC 6TH to be shipped before they come into effect.

Regarding shipping to Canada, USPS has suspended all package types for delivery due to the ongoing postal strike. However, I will still be accepting Canadian orders to be held until further notice. Please keep in mind that I do not know when service will resume and it could potentially be after the holidays! Any alternative carrier would cost approximately $40 at the minimum but if a customer expresses interest, I can ship a package sooner. If you're located in Canada and are interested in a USPS alternative, please let me know in the order note and I'll contact you!

✷ TRACKING ✷ Smaller items such as stickers and patches are sent via stamped mail by default. This delivery method is low-cost and does NOT include tracking information. If your order contains small items but you would like tracking included, please include the "Tracking Add On" in your order from the shop menu. All other items will be sent through Ground Advantage and includes tracking.

Thanks for looking! ✌🏾✨

[certifiedcodbabygirl]

Hi Sweet🖤

could I please request some Bodyguard!Price x Socialite chubby f!reader?

• He's late 30's, she's mid - late 20's

• despite being a socialite, reader is anything but social. She's introverted house plant with hobbies including being alone and keeping to herself.

• She's been through bodyguards before , because she hated being treated like a daft rich person so Price comes in under the impression she's spoilt and impossible until he sees a whole different story.

• Price goes from 'I'm gonna hate her guts' to 'I want to be in her guts'

• Please add forced proximity (living together), and give them that teeeension 🥺

• nsfw is 1000% welcome if you're keen.

There's no rush for this at all if you decide to do it, whenever is convenient for you is fine by me. Please write this however you feel is most comfortable to you. I'll appreciate it all the same 🫰🏼

Thank you🥀

Sorry this is late!

At first he doesn't like you. Flat out. Retiring early from the military caused him to need a sort of transition job so he figured he'd take on being a bodyguard. He definitely has the credentials, so why not?

He's not a fan of rich people, but hey, money is money. What he wasn't expecting was to be set up with a pretty thing like you. It almost made it worse. He figured, given your lifestyle, that you'd be like the others.

You're quiet, direct, and come off a stuck up. You never keep conversation going, and he doesn't bother to finish. It's his job. He keeps you safe. That is all he is required to do.

It all changes when you go to a social gathering, a political part to celebrate a successful election as of late. He hadn't seen you in a social setting before until now. You're just like how you are at home; Quiet, reserved, not talking unless needed to.

He realizes your behavior towards him isn't one of defiance, or being stuck up, but one of nature. He realizes it's possible social anxiety. It would make sense. You were pressured from a young age to be surrounded by people, standards higher for you than other people, every movement being watched.

His attitude towards you changes almost immediately. He makes you tea (or whatever drink you like most) for you before you wake up. He watches tv with you in the living room, allowing you to warm up to his presence in a more comfortable way. Conversation starts slowly, but eventually you become close. You apologize for being so closed off and unwelcoming at the beginning, but he reassures you that he understands and came to realize you just needed time.

It isn't until around 8 months that he begins to notice you. He walks by your room to the guest room (basically his now) when he hears a whimper from yours. It doesn't sound like pain, but he pauses outside your door just incase. It isn't until he slows his breathing that he notices the soft buzzing coming through the door. Your whimpers sound more strained, trying to keep quiet but you let out a moan as you gently swipe the vibrator over your clit. You turn it off, panicked that he may have heard you, but turn it back on when you notice there's no noise.

He stays for your climax, unable to move if he wanted. His cock is restrained in his boxers, painfully tight. You sound so pretty as you cum, he can't help but his heads feels all fuzzy. He quickly walks to the guest room, not even bothering to quiet his footsteps. He cums so hard that night, imagining your pretty lips wrapped around him. All spread out below him, pussy gripping his like a fucking vice.

A month passes by since that night and he can't help but get hard every time your hand brushes against his arm, unable to keep his mind off of if that's the hand you used. He excuses himself every time to go wait for his cock to soften before being around you again. It gets to a point where you begin to think he doesn't enjoy being around you.

He overhears you talking to a friend on the phone about how he's been distant. You admit to her that you like him and don't understand why he's acting like this again. His stomach sinks a little when he realizes it's upsetting you, but he walks away before you see him.

Later that night, he hears the buzzing coming from your room again, but it's different this time. Your whimpers come out as pants, his name tumbling from your mouth as you begin to feel the knot in your stomach form. He groans and pushes the door open. You yelp and try to cover yourself but he yanks the blanket from you, pulling you to the edge of the bed by your ankles.

"You been hidin this from me, love?" He taunts, spreading your legs and taking a look at your pussy, "Look at how wet she is. Why're you hidin her from me? It's okay, I'll treat her good" He says before getting on his knees and showing you how much he wants you.

[hogwartsfirebolt]

yes, and

It was a no for so long. A rejected handshake, long years of tipping different sides of a scale. No, Harry wouldn’t talk to him. No, Harry wouldn’t look at him even though Draco sought his gaze with a mindless desperation only possible because they were so young. No, Harry wouldn’t try to save him, even though he saved everyone else. No, no, no.

Yet fate’s puppeteering hands acted in mysterious ways, beyond anything he’d ever been able to comprehend. No, he wasn’t saved, but he was … pardoned. No, he couldn’t take back everything he’d already messed up by then, but he could atone. Community service, two years of it in the kitchens of the Ministry, with the long tables and magic dictating every move, every stir of a spoon. He did his time at first grudgingly, sick on the scent of spices that clung to his apron and the way the still air would make the back of his hair stand on end, but as months passed and he became familiar with the intricate, purposeful magic he needed to master to cook, and the people working beside him, he came to love it. The twin chefs who were his bosses, Poppy and Aspen, were outrageously funny in a foul-mouthed way, and halfway through the year they were already inviting Draco and the other sous-chefs to their flats to have game nights and sparkly drinks. No, his friends from school wouldn’t even hear from him, his letters would return unopened and no, his parents weren’t home, but abroad, exiled, forbidden from making contact. No, he had no family left. But the mismatched group of five who spent their mornings charming potatoes out of their peels with him began to tug at his heart.

No, they didn’t have much in common, but they got him, he got them. This was a connection that was unblemished, for the first time in his life, untainted by his background. It was brilliant, sun-water bliss, and in it, he had the chance to nurture parts of himself he’d only peripherally known about and let them bloom. What he found was that, stripped of the need to be cleverer than everyone else, his opinion was seen as smart, valued, and taken seriously. What he found was that, stripped of ill intent, his jokes and drama were actually quite well received, with loud laughs and occasionally clutched stomachs, tear-streaked cheeks. They loved his theatrics, would go hysterical over his imitation of the stand-offish inflection of the Unspeakables when they came to get their lunch, the brutish tone of the Cursebreakers, the loud laugh of the Auror force.

And well, no, it wasn’t all sunshine and flowers; no, they didn’t entirely get him sometimes, wouldn’t understand why he didn’t want to serve the Aurors their meal, ever. They could understand that he hated serving in general, why he much preferred staying safely inside the kitchen over spooning food onto trays and handing it to Ministry employees who all looked at him like he was a joke at best, or pretended he was entirely invisible at worst; but they couldn't comprehend why he’d serve the haughty Unspeakables and daft Cursebreakers with mild irritation, but went pale when faced with the generally well-liked Aurors. No, they definitely didn’t get it, so no, he couldn’t always avoid it, had to bribe Cooper to trade his serving day for her butter-churning day, had to beg Luisa out of her dish-washing week so she’d mind the counter, had to promise Pip a bottle of wine whenever he took over his serving duties, but there were times when no, nobody wanted to trade, and no, he couldn’t do anything but suck up and do it.

One such day, queuing in between a group of arrogant Unspeakables and a pair of thick-headed Cursebreakers, came Harry Potter. No, it wasn’t the first time Draco had been forced to serve him but no, it never got any easier. Draco tended to avoid his gaze, to pretend the bowl of pasta he was holding was far more interesting than the wild man standing in front of him in blood-crimson robes for a few short minutes each day, hoping he’d just go away as swiftly as possible. But no, Harry had never let things be simple between them. Because no, Harry wasn’t like the others, but not only for the obvious reasons. Despite their — frankly titanic — history, the truth was that no, Harry didn’t look at him like he was a joke, wouldn’t pretend Draco was invisible, and honestly wouldn’t even look at him with derision anymore. He just … looked. No, he didn’t stay quiet, not content with pretending Draco didn’t exist. Instead, he asked questions. He’d say “hey, how are you doing?”, he’d say, “hey, bit cold today, right?”, he’d say, “hey, do you think we could talk, maybe?”

And no. Draco most definitely did not think they could talk. He opened his mouth to say as much, because no, what did they even have to talk to each other about? But Harry must have sensed it, because he added, “Please?” Open and earnest, one word dripping with the easy confidence he’d carried for a lifetime, the unassuming kind.

It had been a no for so long, for so many good reasons. But not all of those reasons remained true, not even most of them — they’d been swept away by the stream of time, by life allowing the pieces that had held each of them slot into their fated place, no longer on opposing sides of a scale. Draco heard the sound of his own voice say, “yes.” He said, “yes, alright.”

And suddenly, a lot of things shifted, things that had been a firm, unmovable no.

And then they were yes.

Yes, he went to get drinks with Harry and they talked. Yes, he promised he’d hear Harry out without fighting. Yes, he was sorry too. Yes, he wanted a fresh start.

Yes, he was free next week at the same time.

Then, as a knit jumper catches on a nail and unspools, a friendship with Harry was pulled out of him, accidentally, irrevocably.

Harry kept asking, and Draco kept answering, yes. Yes, Draco was free that night, yes, Draco liked Japanese food and would love to get some, yes, Draco would hear the speech Harry had written for the function and tell him very, very honestly if he thought it was shit (it wasn’t). Yes, he’d be at the function himself. Yes, fine, they could match their neckties.

Their back and forth became an exercise of yes, and. They’d always connected in a way that went beyond logic, only now that they were using it to work alongside each other instead of against each other, they were unstoppable and unbearable and so much fun that Draco’s ribs hurt from how hard he laughed most days. He’d imitate the cretin Unspeakables and Harry would say, “yes, and how about this caviar?” while poking the Ministry’s rice and beans. Then Draco would say something purposefully daft and Harry would whack him over the head and ask him if he was a pea-brained Cursebreaker.

Harry would have Draco over at his flat and show him the thread-board of his latest case and work through what he knew out loud in case Draco could spot something he hadn’t, and most of the time Draco didn’t even have to say anything, would only open his mouth to say, “Have you thought that maybe —?” And Harry would exclaim, “You’re so right, I should interrogate the reporter.” And when he solved that case with absolutely no real input from Draco whatsoever, he had him over at his flat again and clinked their wine glasses together with a huge smile and said, “Couldn’t have done this without you, really.”

Yes, Draco’s help had been non-existent, but oh yes, he adored the appreciation. And yes, those glasses of wine flowed incredibly quickly and yes, Draco had tried mezcal once and he was very open to trying it again and yes, he was one hundred percent sure he could knock back that shot quicker than Harry and yes — they were spectacularly drunk a short two hours after getting to Harry’s flat.

Yes, it was insane that this should be happening, but it … also wasn’t. They were friends. They were good friends. No, he hadn’t wanted to show the rougher sides of his personality at first, even if Harry had at one point known them better than most people. Draco was hesitant, their budding friendship felt delicate, and he knew he was a bit much, much too coarse, much too rude most times, that anyone would think so, that they’d be right if they did. But there was something in Harry that made his resolve to hide crack open like an egg and he found himself just being. It was something in the way Harry knew who he was, knew exactly why he was there, yet he seemed to want him, continuously. Want his opinion, his support, his ideas and conversation, his jokes, mean as they occasionally were.

Most of their free time was spent seeking one another or trading barbs and anecdotes through quick-floo notes. Cooper and Luisa had a field day with it, made fun of Draco relentlessly when Harry came in for lunch and they’d snatch the three seconds he spent queuing to chat, would call Harry his man, his boyfriend. Chefs Poppy and Aspen would draw chia seed hearts on Harry’s toast and wink, acted as though they were doing him a favor. And yes, Harry found it hysterical. He’d blow Draco kisses over his toast, call him sweetie pie and bonbon where the others could hear and yes, Draco pinked and raged and returned it by bringing Harry’s tray to his table the next day, where he sat with his loud Auror bunch, and saying, “For you, pumpkin.” Yes, he savored Harry’s spluttering thanks, walked back into the kitchen with a grin.

But yes, that night at Harry’s flat, when Draco settled in on the big green sofa and Harry handed him a cup of homemade sangria saying, “here, love,” it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

It was a no for so long, but Harry’s wine-stained lips grazing his felt not like a first time, but a hundredth, a thousandth, a lifetime of a connection that had shapeshifted but always existed, and probably always would. So maybe, going back around to it, giving it some thought, peeling back the layers … it had truly always been a yes, deep down. A yes, and.

Read on ao3

[thalialunacy]

[for the @calaisreno May Promptadoodledoo; land o Goshen, this was a tough one, so thanks for sticking with me]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) 12: family (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) (30) (31)

Breach imminent

MH

Sherlock groans, shoving his phone between couch cushions and drawing a sleeping Rosie closer to him. 

'Bad news?' John asks from his chair. He looks over his reading glasses at where Sherlock is curled around his daughter, and feels affection sting so hard in his chest that he absently rubs at it.

'The worst,' Sherlock answers sullenly

John runs through the likely options in his head, then goes with his gut. 'Your parents are coming to town?'

Sherlock opens his eyes and stares at John, his expression full of surprise, then affection, then shammy casualness. 'I have been a good influence on your deduction skills, clearly.' 

John chuckles. 'That, or your brother advised me to clear my calendar and clean the flat.'

'Meddling queen,' Sherlock mutters into Rosie's hair. Then his phone pings again. 

I haven't told them.

MH

John doubles down. 'He knows, I take it? About our… development?' 

'You are doing very well today.' 

'Feelings, Sherlock. I'm good at people and their feelings.'

'Yes, yes, that's why I keep you around. Of course he knows; I let him keep the surveillance up in the stairwell in exchange for having none in here.' 

'Ah.' John had suspected as much, though admittedly he had not considered it at the time of the first (very unplanned) tryst. 'Has he told your parents?' 

'Apparently not.' 

Silence stretches. They've come a long way, but John feels too keenly the risk/reward scenario here, and is undecided.

This time it's John's phone that pings. 

It's up to you, of course, but rest assured: they would be inordinately pleased. 

MH

John's eyebrow quirks. 'Your parents like me?' he finally says, going for casual but missing, and he knows it. 

'You're very likeable.'

'You know, from anyone else that would be a compliment.' 

Sherlock doesn't answer beyond a grunt. It's somehow safe to have this conversation in this arrangement, with the comforting stretch of the room and the gorgeous sleeping toddler between them. They're connected, but not so much as to overwhelm. 

'How much time have we got, do you reckon?' John asks, almost to the air.

'Far too little,' Sherlock grumbles.

'Right, but from you that could mean three months.'

'Yes, well, seeing as your birthday is in two weeks, but tis the season of primroses so they have to schedule us in between, I'm surmising it to be about three hours, in actuality.'

John snorts. 'That's a bit harsh.'

'No, no, they're beautiful primroses.'

'Hang on,' John says suddenly, running back through what Sherlock has said. 'They know when my birthday is?'

'Of course.'

'They care when my birthday is?'

'Don't be daft.'

'I'm trying, but they hardly know me. And what they know of me is not altogether flattering.'

'I said don't be daft.'

John can't stop a frustrated noise. 'Then explain it better.'

Sherlock opens his eyes, considers him for a moment, then he breaks eye contact and buries his nose in Rosie's hairline. 'They know of my affections for you. And that's enough for them.'

John's breath deserts him for a moment. 'Sherlock…'

'Don't let's make a big thing out of it, please.'

John wants to laugh. It's already literally the biggest thing in his life. 'Alright,' he says instead. 'But... let me be the one to tell them, yeah?'

Sherlock goes very still, not lifting his gaze. 'You'd be amenable to that?'

Sod this, it's been long enough. John shunts his reading glasses aside and stands, listening to his bones crick as he crosses and crouches in front of the two most important people in his orbit. 'Yeah, course.' He presses his lips against Rosie's forehead, then Sherlock's, without hesitation. 'Try and get rid of me.'

Sherlock finally, finally meets his eyes, and John feels so much he wants to tackle both of them and just cocoon for a little while. Tell the world to bugger off.

So, of course, there's a knock at the door. Sherlock groans, and Rosie's face scrunches up in the universal expression of, "How dare you wake me up, you rude creature."

'Three hours?' John says while scooping his daughter out of Sherlock's embrace. She needs a change. Maybe he should use that baby magic and let Sherlock's parents do it, he thinks with a grin.

'I am not in control of all variables, unfortunately,' Sherlock mutters into the sofa, where he's pressed his face.

John's mouth curves into a smirk as he heaves up (bloody hell, getting older is not for the weak) and turns towards the door. He wishes fleetingly that Sherlock was behind him, in solidarity if nothing else.

Then, suddenly, he is, his mouth pressing against Rosie's sleep-rumpled cheek over John's shoulder. He doesn't turn to John, but he doesn't have to. 'Into battle?'

John nods, then reaches for the door.

[❤️]

[idontknowreallywhy]

Father’s Day

A little something for today - I maintain the Tracys would follow the US/Europe date for it rather than AUS/NZ. That’s my excuse anyway…

💛💙❤️

It had gone well. The atmosphere had been joyful. Hugs had been plentiful and the little tears of happiness badly concealed. Every scrap of the mighty takeout feast Scott had fetched from their favourite Auckland steak house had been demolished. Balloons littered the villa. MAX, in collaboration with EOS, had created a playlist that reflected every family member’s favourites spanning a good seven decades.

There had been singing, both tuneful and otherwise.

Six cards graced the mantelpiece, each varied in decoration as befitted the personality of the giver, but all containing a version of the same message - we are so glad you are home. We missed you. We love you. All but one had some reference to pink flamingos. The sixth had a remarkably detailed diagram of Thunderbird Three’s circuit of the sun.

The Man of the Moment had finally been chivvied off to bed by his mother when his head started nodding where he sat on the couch amongst his family. In her words, nobody needed to hear his boar-like snorting, but the flicker of concern in her eyes betrayed the real need to ensure he didn’t overdo it.

The eldest son of the Man of the Moment leant on the balustrade, watching the stars come out and absently swirling the whisky in his glass. The air was still warm and he had to slowly adjust the movement of his wrist to maintain the rhythm of the rapidly shrinking ‘rocks’. He’d come to prefer it un-iced anyway, but when your long-lost father offers you a sample of his secret, secret stash… well. Scott would have taken it with gravel and he would have enjoyed it.

It was good, if a little chilly. And the day had been wonderful, if a little strange. Like stretching a muscle that had gone untested for eight years. Maybe longer.

They’d never really made a big deal of the day before that in any case - even when he was alive their father had often been absent.

But there were always cards (some somewhat delayed in receipt). And he hadn’t realised until today, until he helped Dad drag a large flat box out from underneath his bed, that every card had been kept - from the first one picked out by Mom and signed on behalf of a 2-month old Scott - right up to the year Jeff disappeared. There wasn’t even a gap whilst Scott himself had been missing, thanks to the ingrained military practice of buying and writing cards in advance of deployments. Toddler scribbles, homemade masterpieces, that 4ft monstrosity Gordon had dragged home aged 10… even the obviously-last-minute convenience store purchases hurriedly signed 3 minutes before the still-damp envelope seal was broken. All were bundled together by year, little elastic bands and post-it notes delineating the passage of time.

There had been a lot of laughter, a fair amount of cringing and a few sniffles as those were explored. Happy times.

What Scott didn’t mention, what he’d never mention, was that when Jeff went missing, the cards didn’t stop. Not completely.

Every year except the first, where everything was still so raw and chaotic the day passed with nobody even knowing what date it was, there had been three Fathers’ Day cards written by the Tracy family.

Two were quietly slipped together under Scott’s door - a rare moment of collaboration between the Tinies. They were never the traditional kind, didn’t ACTUALLY mention Fathers Day on the front, but a would be a ‘blank for your own message’ card with a funny or interesting picture. Often an aircraft or some kind of bird. The contents would often be daft nonsense - silly puns, banter about the grey hairs and denial of liability for them, once a comedy poem about an albatross and the Kraken which had kept him smiling for days. But next to the signature, there’d be a little “you’re not so bad after all” or “thanks for everything, big bro” or even once a “Just wanted you to know it doesn’t go unnoticed xxx”

Nothing was ever said, but he’d find them later in the day and squeeze their shoulders or drop a kiss on the top of each head. Maybe there would be less squabbling and teenage stroppiness that day… often there wouldn’t. But things would feel lighter between the three of them for a while.

The third card was more of a letter, more of an incoherent flood of news, worries… regrets… requests for forgiveness. But it was always folded like a card for… reasons. And then folded again. And again until it was halved 7 times and couldn’t physically be squished up any smaller. Then, late at night when everyone else was asleep it would be set aflame right here on the balcony. Scott would watch the sparks fly into the sky and nurture a moment’s foolish hope that the message would be received.

No need for that this year. Dad was right here. Scott could tell him anything he wished at any moment, seek his advice, share his concerns, ask for… approval? All of that. He was right here.

And yet…

He shook himself. And downed the remainder of the whisky, flinching a little at the cold on his teeth and eyed the glass, wondering whether he could risk another one… a less rocky one. There was time for all the talking later. When he was well. When it was safe to burden him with such things. Not yet.

His pondering was interrupted by scuffling and heated whispering from just inside the balcony door behind him. He braced himself to mediate the latest nonsense from the Tinies but all went quiet and there was just a quite clack-swish of something falling through the doorway and sliding a little across the ground. Then running feet as they departed.

He looked down to see a single blue envelope at his feet. Unaddressed but for a tiny cartoon of a child’s scooter…

He rolled his eyes. Suspecting a prank was pending but, too tired to resist the inevitable, he crouched to retrieve it and slid his finger under the flap of the envelope to peer inside. Then closed it again, hurriedly. A chunky font screamed “BESTEST DAD EVER!” from the midst of a multicoloured explosion. They’d got the envelopes mixed up, clearly. He went to call after the two idiots but they were long gone.

With a sigh, he stood back up and decided he’d better chase them down but was arrested by curiosity. Both had given Dad cards earlier… what was this for? He hoped it wasn’t a prank… he didn’t think Dad was ready for that yet… they were trying to keep surprises to a minimum until his heart started behaving more reliably.

They wouldn’t, would they?

Hmm.

He’d better check.

Leaning back on to the railings with a good portion of free space in front to fling anything unpleasant into… he pulled the card from the envelope and opened it… very carefully.

Nothing exploded. Or popped out at him. There was no glitter in his eyeballs nor squeaky earworm tunes blasted from tinny micro speakers.

And yet he gasped harshly as his heart raced and his eyes blurred with sudden tears.

The card was empty but for his name at the top, Alan and Gordon’s at the bottom and two words in the middle, underlined and emphasised with a heavy full stop:

Still True.

Part 2

Part 3

[biblical-chronicles]

Say the words

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where the reader tries to make Noel finally say the magic three words.

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The clock on the wall ticked on, filling the silence in your small shared flat. The warm glow of a dim table lamp lit the room as you sat curled up on the couch, absently flipping through a magazine you weren’t really reading. Noel was on the other end of the sofa, a guitar perched on his knee as he lazily picked at its strings, testing out a melody that wasn’t quite taking shape.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. The familiar sight of his head tilted down, his fingers moving deftly across the fretboard, should’ve filled you with contentment. And it did, for the most part. But tonight, something in you stirred restlessly.

You’d been dating Noel for months now, and though things were good—great, even—you couldn’t shake a growing insecurity. You’d thrown subtle hints, tried to coax him into saying the one thing you were dying to hear. But he was Noel Gallagher, master of deflection, and every attempt either went over his head or got brushed aside with a cheeky comment.

It wasn’t that you doubted his feelings; he was affectionate in his own way. He’d write little songs inspired by you, or bring you your favorite takeaway without being asked, or spend hours just sitting with you, strumming his guitar. But he hadn’t said it. The three words that would make all the difference.

And tonight, it was eating away at you.

“Noel?” you said, setting the magazine aside.

“Hmm?” His focus stayed on the guitar, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Do you ever think… I don’t know, that some things are better said out loud instead of assumed?”

He stopped playing, his fingers stilling on the strings as he looked up at you. “Where’s this coming from?”

You hesitated, the words jamming in your throat. “Just something I’ve been thinking about.”

“Right,” he said slowly, setting the guitar down. “What kind of things, though?”

Your chest tightened. Noel wasn’t the easiest person to have emotional conversations with; you knew that going in. But tonight, you couldn’t keep brushing this under the rug.

“Things like… how people feel about each other.”

He blinked at you, his face unreadable. “You’re getting deep on me tonight, aren’t ya love?”

“Noel, I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he said, a faint grin tugging at his lips.

You frowned, the frustration bubbling over. “Do you even love me?”

The question seemed to land like a physical blow. His grin faded, and his blue eyes widened slightly. “What?”

“You’ve never said it,” you continued, the words spilling out now that the dam had broken. “Not once. And I’ve been patient, Noel, I really have. But it’s starting to feel like maybe… maybe I’m the only one in this.”

“Hey, don’t be daft,” he said, shifting closer to you on the couch. “What’s all this about? You know how I feel about you.”

“Do I?” you shot back, the sharpness in your voice surprising even yourself. “How am I supposed to know if you don’t say it? I feel like I’m throwing meself out here, telling you how much you mean to me, and all I get back is silence.”

Noel’s mouth opened, then closed, as if he was searching for the right words. “I didn’t think I needed to say it,” he said finally, his voice softer. “Thought it was obvious.”

“Well, it’s not,” you said, tears pricking at your eyes. “Not to me.”

The room went quiet again, save for the steady tick of the clock. Noel reached out, his hand brushing against yours.

“I’m not good at this stuff,” he admitted, his voice low. “Never have been. I thought… I thought you knew by the way I look at ya, or the things I do for ya. But if it’s words you need…” He took a deep breath, his eyes locking onto yours. “I love ya. Alright? I love ya, and I have for a long time. I just didn’t think I needed to spell it out.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words settling over you like a warm blanket. “You mean that?”

“’Course I do,” he said, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of your hand. “Don’t go doubting it now, yeah? You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You let out a shaky laugh, the tears spilling over as you threw your arms around him. “I love you too, you idiot,” you whispered against his shoulder.

He chuckled, holding you tight. “Figured as much. Who else’d put up with me?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers brushing his cheek. “You could’ve just said it, you know.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve said it now,” he said, a cheeky glint returning to his eyes. “Reckon I’ll have to make up for lost time, won’t I?”

You laughed, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. “You’d better.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “Love you,” he murmured against your mouth, as if testing the words out.

“Love you too,” you replied, the smile never leaving your face.

For a moment, everything was still, the weight of the earlier tension dissolving into the soft glow of the room. Then, you pulled back slightly, your fingers tracing the collar of his shirt. “I’m sorry,” you said, your voice quiet.

“For what?” he asked, tilting his head.

“For pressuring you,” you admitted, biting your lip. “I know saying stuff like that doesn’t come easy to you. I just got so in my head about it, and I shouldn’t have snapped.”

He let out a soft chuckle, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Don’t be daft, you’ve got nowt to be sorry for. If I’d known it was eating at ya like that, I’d have said it ages ago. Should’ve known better, really.”

You gave him a sheepish smile. “Still, I could’ve handled it better.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he teased, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “But I’ll let ya off, seeing as you’re so lovely and all.”

You laughed, swatting his arm lightly before snuggling into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear was enough to ease the last of your lingering worries.

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cutesy little request for you lot today hope you like it xx

I love Noel so much lord