#Sound Bar Review

[akhilsu12]

Top 5 Zebronics Soundbar in India for Home Use

मित्रों, होम एण्ड किचन एप्लायंसेस पर आपका पुनः स्वागत है। इस बार का लेख साउंडबार पर है। मित्रों, साउंडबार भी घरेलु उपकरण है। इसलिये हमने इसे रिव्यू के लिये यहां लिया है। इस लेख में मैं आपको जेबरानिक्स के 5 शानदार साउंडबार की पूर्ण जानकारी दूंगा। यह सभी साउंडबार पोर्टेबल है। इनका उपयोग आप अपने अनुसार कर सकते हैं। आप पढ़ रहे हैं लेख, Top 5 Zebronics Soundbar in India for Home Use. आइये शुरू करते…

[leatherbookmark]

i know it's probably because of the strict word limit, but god i kinda hate those music reviews that go "Songtitle is a blindingly scrumptious bobble through heterochromia, splashing through lush gametophytes to bulbous spangled frocks, more like a scrimbled bimblo than a sclumpered frungle" that's very nice, a+ on thesaurus usage, but did you like the song or

[mu1edeer]

zhao’s karaoke song is so funny. he is not taking his twitter suspension well

[gogetyoursreviews]

Majority Elias 160w Soundbar Review - Does it Live Up To The Hype?

[alisonblackmanadvicesisters]

What Did She Say? ZVOX Helps You Hear Your TV Clear as a Bell

It was love at first sound when I reviewed ZVOX AV50 headphones in 2020.  In 2023, ZVOX celebrated its 20th Anniversary so for the holidays of 2023,  I am featuring a great gift from ZVOX –ZVOX AV 157 soundbar/speaker.  This is not just a huge boon for the elderly or hard of hearing, it’s for everyone who wants clearer sound. My hearing is fine,  but I am always wondering what s/he said when the…

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Can you please do a George having a daughter the same age as Kimi, and he finds out there dating, and freaking out?

The boyfriend/teammate

"I can't believe he thinks he's faster than me through Sector 2," Kimi scoffed, tossing a protein bar toward Yn, who caught it effortlessly.

They were sitting on a low wall just behind the hospitality area, the warm hum of the paddock swirling around them. Mechanics rushed by, PR people clicked down the walkways in sharp heels, and the ever-present sound of tires being rolled echoed nearby.

"You are faster," Yn said with a smirk, unwrapping the bar. "But he's not wrong about your starts. Those are a disaster."

"Okay, rude," Kimi mock-pouted. "I'm trying my best."

"Your best almost ended up in the pit wall in Bahrain."

Kimi blinked at her. "That was one time."

Yn arched an eyebrow. "Two."

"Okay, fine. Twice. But we’re not talking about that anymore. We’re talking about how awesome I am in Sector 2."

"Your ego needs its own garage space."

Kimi grinned, leaning back on his hands. "You love it."

Yn flushed, just barely, the warmth rising in her cheeks not from the sun.

She did. God help her, she really did.

Yn had grown up in the paddock. Her earliest memories included race day adrenaline, the scent of burning rubber, and her dad’s voice on the radio. By the time she was twelve, she could tell the difference between tire compounds just by looking. By fourteen, she was helping her dad review telemetry.

And now at eighteen, she had the run of the paddock like it was her second home.

Which was great.

Except for the part where her dad’s new teammate was annoyingly charming and exactly her type.

Kimi was just a few months older. He was confident, a little too pretty for his own good, and had a laugh that made her stomach flutter.

It had started slow. A shared joke here. A walk back from the media pen. Watching data together. And then... more.

Now, they snuck hand squeezes behind hospitality tents, exchanged texts all through the night, and once, memorably, made out in the motorhome when the team was at a strategy meeting.

But they'd kept it quiet.

Until now.

"You what?!"

George stood in the team’s motorhome, eyes wide, voice somewhere between a shout and a squeak.

Yn winced. "Dad, calm down."

"I am calm!" George said, clearly not calm. "You’re dating him?"

Kimi, ever unbothered, lifted his hand in a little wave. "Hi."

"Don’t 'hi' me! I trusted you! I mentored you! I— I— I taught you how to heel-and-toe!"

"That was very helpful, thank you," Kimi said earnestly.

George flailed. "Kimi!"

"Dad," Yn said, stepping between them, voice steady. "It’s not like we planned it. We just... started spending time together. You know how often I'm around."

"Yes, and I trusted him!"

"I’m still me," Kimi offered. "Just with your daughter’s number now."

"Not helping!"

"Sorry."

George paced a few steps, hands on his hips, then turned to his daughter.

"Yn. You’re my little girl."

"I’m eighteen."

"My baby girl."

Yn groaned. "You let me drive a car at Silverstone at fifteen."

"Exactly! Because I trust you! But this—this is different."

"Why? Because it’s Kimi?"

"Yes! No! I mean—he’s my teammate!"

Kimi raised a finger. "I’ll never crash into him on purpose."

George stopped pacing. "On purpose?"

"I mean—I wouldn’t crash at all. Sorry. That came out wrong."

George sighed dramatically and sank onto the couch.

"This is going to be a disaster."

"Or not," Yn said softly. "Dad... we care about each other. A lot."

George looked up at her, then over at Kimi, who looked surprisingly earnest. He’d taken his cap off, ruffling his hair like he always did when nervous.

"I’ll take care of her," Kimi said. "Promise."

There was a long pause.

George sighed again. "I need coffee."

The next day, the entire paddock knew.

Not because they told anyone.

Because George told everyone.

"Did you know my daughter is dating Kimi?" he said to a stunned Toto at the morning briefing.

Toto blinked. "...Congratulations?"

"Thanks. I think. Maybe. I don’t know!"

When Max wandered into the lounge later, George cornered him.

"She’s seeing Kimi."

"...And you’re telling me this why?"

"Because you’ve known him for years! Should I be worried?"

Max blinked. "About what? That he’s gonna crash her into a wall of roses? He’s the most boringly respectful guy I’ve ever met."

George frowned. "That's what worries me. No one is that respectful."

Later that afternoon, Kimi was cornered by a swarm of drivers in the cool down room.

"You’re dating George’s daughter?" Lando asked, grinning wide.

"Please tell me you told George in the car."

"No, it was in the motorhome," Kimi muttered.

"Coward," Pierre said, flopping onto a beanbag. "I would’ve done it in the garage. With the radio on."

Oscar leaned over. "Are you scared of him?"

"Terrified," Kimi admitted. "He keeps looking at me like he’s imagining pit stop sabotage."

George, for his part, was trying to be supportive.

He just... had moments.

Like when he stood outside the motorhome while Kimi and Yn were inside, dramatically clearing his throat every five minutes.

Or when he "accidentally" sat between them at dinner.

Or when he started casually asking Kimi about his intentions. Every day. In public.

"So, Kimi," George said, strolling up with a totally fake smile, "where do you see yourself in five years?"

Kimi blinked. "...Still racing, maybe. Traveling. With Yn, hopefully."

George narrowed his eyes. "Mm-hm."

"You asked," Kimi said defensively.

"Just making sure we’re on the same page."

Yn rolled her eyes so hard she almost tipped over.

But slowly, things softened.

George saw how Kimi waited for Yn outside of interviews. How he held her hand protectively in crowded media zones. How he watched her with the same tenderness George remembered in Carmen’s eyes when Yn was born.

One evening, George found them sitting under a canopy of stars behind the paddock, Kimi’s jacket wrapped around Yn’s shoulders, her head on his shoulder.

George didn’t interrupt.

Just watched for a moment.

Then smiled.

The race that weekend was a blur of chaos—rain, safety cars, unexpected pit stops. Kimi managed a podium. George finished just behind.

As they stepped off the podium, champagne-soaked and exhausted, George nudged Kimi.

"Nice drive."

Kimi turned, blinking. "Thanks. You too."

George gave him a long look.

Then smirked.

"Hurt her and I’ll replace your steering wheel with a baguette."

Kimi grinned. "Noted."

"Good. Now go kiss your girlfriend before the photographers find her."

And with that, George walked off, already planning to call Carmen and tell her everything.

Kimi ran straight to Yn, swept her up in a hug, spinning her slightly before pressing a kiss to her lips. She laughed into it, arms wrapped tight around his neck.

"He smiled," Kimi whispered.

"My dad?"

"He didn’t even flinch."

"Wow. Progress."

"Do you think he likes me now?"

Yn grinned. "Let’s not get ahead of ourselves."

Back in the motorhome that night, George flopped onto the couch beside Carmen.

"She’s in love."

Carmen looked up from her book. "We knew that."

"With Kimi."

She smiled. "I know."

George groaned. "I’m not ready."

Carmen kissed his cheek. "You don’t have to be. You just have to be there."

He sighed. "Do you think I can still scare him a little? Just to keep him on his toes?"

Carmen smirked. "Oh, absolutely. That’s a father’s job."

George nodded. "Good. Tomorrow I’m sending him a list of dating rules."

Carmen raised an eyebrow. "Color-coded?"

"Laminated."

She laughed, leaning into him.

And in the next room, Yn and Kimi lay curled on the couch, watching old race replays, fingers entwined, hearts full.

Love, it seemed, had found its place on the grid.

Even if it had to dodge a few protective elbows along the way.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you!

Also, please ignore that the ages of the people don't really make sense. Thank you!

Another also, thank you to 🐴Anon for your kind words (OMG, I have an anon (can I even say that?)).

To answer some questions, yes I can speak German because I'm from Austria. About writing Part 2's for some stories, I'll have to think about that.

Thank you for all your kind words and support!

Special shoutout to @heyitspapayaontop for defending me with their life. Now that's what I call a real girls girl

-🤍🦢

[soliddaddy96]

ohhh so love is a circle that transcends time . ok

[pukefactory]

(Absolutely don’t do this if you aren’t comfortable) ENA (Dream bbq) getting drunk with reader?

•☽────✧˖°˖ FIZZY VALLEY ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcannons Featuring Drunk Salesperson Ena X Reader

★ Character(s): Salesperson Ena (Ena: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): Mentions And Descriptions Of Alcohol

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ You should’ve known something was off when Ena invited you to what she called “a high-stakes engagement strategy brainstorm over beverages.” You were picturing coffee. Not tequila. Not her slamming two shot glasses on the bar and declaring, “Let’s reframe the concept of reality, darling.” She drinks like it’s a performance review—firm eye contact, exaggerated praise, and PowerPoint levels of misplaced confidence.

☆ Once Ena’s a few drinks in, her Salesperson side becomes so aggressively charming it’s like being smothered in coupon codes. “If you subscribe to this partnership now, I’ll offer you unlimited emotional support and complimentary hand-holding,” she hums, voice like cherry soda and half-suppressed giggles. You try to hide your flustered expression. She sees it. She logs it as “high conversion potential.”

☆ Her Meanie side doesn’t come out often at first—until she tries to order fries, but the kitchen’s closed. Suddenly she’s slamming her forehead on the bar, sobbing, “I AM THE TRAGIC EMBODIMENT OF CORPORATE WASTE—WHERE’S MY SALTED PRODUCTIVITY?!” You offer her a peanut. She throws the bowl at a breathing taxidermy moose.

☆ “Here’s your performance feedback,” she slurs, twirling a swizzle stick like a laser pointer, “You’re hot. You show initiative. You opened a door for me once. I will die for you.” You tell her that’s not how feedback works. She pulls out a clipboard from her suspenders and tries to make you sign a form titled “Love Contract (Beta).”

☆ She draws gimmicks on napkins. Terrible ones. Drunk ideas like “emotionally sentient office chairs” and “a pyramid scheme where everyone sells little hats.” You try to say “maybe we shouldn’t do this.” She claps a hand on your back like a frat bro and shouts, “WRONG ATTITUDE, PARTNER. THINK BIGGER.” Then she draws a diagram that’s just the word “VIBES” in a circle.

☆ She stares at you for a full minute, eyes glassy, voice flat: “Are you in the mood for shared assets and mutual annihilation, or should I put on my mask again and pretend not to like you?” You blink. She blinks. Her red side winks. You are either about to get kissed or yelled at. Or both. Probably both.

☆ The bar has one of those ancient karaoke machines. She picks a glitchy jazz remix of the Windows 95 startup sound. Halfway through she forgets the words (there are no words) and starts yelling improvised business jargon in rhythm. “Synergize my dividends, baby! Let’s OUTSOURCE THE PAIN!” Someone in the back cheers. You cry.

☆ Her Salesperson side leans over the counter, cheeks flushed, voice soft and too sincere: “Do you think people like me more when I smile? I’ve been smiling all night. It hurts now. But I—I want to be liked. I want you to like me. For me. Even if I mess up the pitch.” And her Meanie side chimes in: “GØD, I hate being real.”

☆ You’re not sure what triggered it—maybe someone said “quarterly”—but suddenly she’s sobbing into your shoulder like a malfunctioning LinkedIn ad. “I DIDN’T ASK TO BE A PRODUCT OF CAPITALISM! I just wanted to sell fruit. Or stickers! Or happiness! But now I’m selling ME!” You rub her back. She hiccups and asks if you’d still like her if she was “just a weird triangle girl with debt.”

☆ The bar’s quiet now. Her hat’s fallen off. You’re holding her upright and she’s murmuring nonsense like, “Let’s invest in each other’s feelings… diversify the pain into smaller dividends… I’ll build a company out of your laugh…” Then, barely audible: “You’re my best client. Don’t ever unsubscribe.” You smile. You don’t say anything. You just let her rest.

[darilto-blog]

A Verdade Sobre a Sound Bar Samsung HW-A555

Neste artigo, apresentamos a Samsung HW-A555, uma soundbar de entrada que se destaca no mercado por oferecer suporte a som surround e compatibilidade com DTS:X, proporcionando uma potência impressionante de 410W RMS, juntamente com um subwoofer. A Samsung mais uma vez demonstra sua excelência na área de áudio, oferecendo uma experiência de home cinema de qualidade a um preço acessível. Nossa…

[screwitbaby]

naive

hamzahthefantastic x reader (fic)

day 1/7

[part 2]

summary: a short story about the boys’ trip to curaçao. hamzah’s oblivious with girls and you’re not one to turn down a challenge.

contains: SFW content

wc: 1.8k-ish

~

The first thing that crossed your mind when you met him was that he was hot. Way too hot. Like, he must have the worst personality (and/or stroke game) behind closed doors to still be single. He truly is an enigma.

A pair of pale legs comes between your view of a shirtless Hamzah walking out of the water like he's in a sexy cologne commercial and blocks you from staring at him any longer. You whine and look up to see Martin with his arms crossed over his pasty chest.

"Enjoying the view?" he asks sarcastically. He sits on the beach chair next to yours.

"I was," you say, pulling your sunglasses off your face and placing them atop your head. "Then you had to go and ruin it."

"I think I made it better, actually,” he says. He lays on his side with his hand on his popped hip. You nearly gag.

"Jumpscare warning next time, please?"

"Ha-ha." He flips to lay on his back. "So go to talk to him."

"Hell no," you say. "He needs to come to me."

"You're delusional." Martin shakes his head. "And Hamzah's oblivious. He friendzones every girl he's interested in. It's really painful to watch, honestly."

"This is your best friend you're talking about," you remind Martin. "Shouldn't you at least talk him up to me a bit?"

"I'm not a good liar," he sighs. "But I know one thing."

"And that is?"

"He likes you."

Your head whips in his direction. "Don't mess with me."

"I'm not!" He squeals. "Seriously, he's bad at showing it, but I know him. He gets a certain way around girls he likes."

"You better not be bullshitting me," you point at him. "Because I will be taking that and sprinting with it."

"Mhm, go for it." Martin puts his arms behind his head, acting suave. "I'm good with this type of stuff. It's a heavy gift to bare."

"Didn't Mandy have to make the first move with you?"

"She told you about that?" He sulks. "I told her not to..."

"Bros before hoes." You throw your hands up defensively.

Deciding you've had enough of this rascal, you throw your lacy cover up over your bikini and walk down the beach to meet the object of your desire halfway.

"Hey," you greet, digging your toes in the sand.

"Oh, hey," he replies. You catch a glimpse of him looking at your legs from over his shoulder. "Welcome to my humble abode."

You eye the limp sand castle he's building with one of the empty margarita cups you guys ordered a round of earlier.

"Looks structurally sound," you joke, plopping down next to him.

"It's a work in progress," he defends himself. "Here is the start of the moat, and here's the tower I'ma save a damsel in distress from.”

"And who's the damsel in distress?"

"I don't know," he says, turning to make eye contact with you. "She'll make herself known sooner or later."

You raise your eyebrow and wonder if there's some deeper meaning that you're supposed to decode beneath his expression. Then, you remember Martin's words and shake the thought from your head.

The two of you work on improving his architectural masterpiece. It proves to be a difficult task considering the fact that the ocean waves keep knocking the castle walls down. Perhaps the location should've been reviewed before you sunk so much time into perfecting it. All you know is that every time he leans over to fix something on your side and your thighs make contact, your stomach flutters.

The Curaçao sun sets and you guys pack up your belongings, stopping by the bar to grab one last mixed drink before heading back to the hotel. Martin attempts to carry Mandy bridal style and trips, sending them straight into a bed of flowers. He says it was because of his flip flops in an attempt to cover up how much of a lightweight he is when it comes to alcohol.

With rosy cheeks and tired limbs, you say your goodbyes to the couple at their suite and make your way back to your room. Hamzah offers to walk with you so you're not alone in the dark and you accept his gracious offer because his shirt is tossed over his bare shoulder, long forgotten. Oh, and your safety, of course.

"My feet are killing me," he groans. "I stepped on, like, a billion seashells."

This triggers a "sally sold seashells by the sea shore"-off between the two of you, keeping you entertained while you clumsily make your way up the stairs of the hotel. You may or may not have been swaying your hips a little extra when you were ahead of him.

Hamzah insists on walking you to your room even though his is a floor lower. When you make it to your door together, you say goodnight and enter the air-conditioned room with a sigh.

You immediately strip and step under the shower head, washing the sand and sunscreen off of your body and massaging your sore extremities. You'd gone sight seeing with the whole gang for the past three days and it took a toll on your body. Despite that, you were the happiest you'd been in a long while. It was a good kind of exhausted. Content.

When you step out of the shower and into a complementary robe, you hear a sudden knock on your door. You frown because you were certain you had placed the do-not-disturb sign on the handle. You put slippers on and shuffle over to open it.

"Hey, again," he sighs.

Your eyes widen, "Hamzah. What's wrong?"

"I lost my card for my room," he explains as you let him in. "And my ID's inside, so I couldn't even prove that it's my room to the front desk."

"Shit," is all you can say. "What do we do?"

"I tried calling Martin ‘cause the bookings are in his name, but he didn't pick up. I think they knocked out already."

He sits on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. "And I'm still fucking tipsy."

This makes you laugh, even though you know you should be sympathetic towards the poor guy. He lifts his head to look at you and smiles.

"I'm glad you think this is funny," he says, leaning back on his elbows. "Because in case you hadn't already pieced it together, that means I gotta sleep in here."

Your heart skips a beat and the laughter fades from your throat. "But there's only one bed."

He furrows his brows in thought. "I can sleep at the foot of the bed."

"No, you freak, you're not a dog," you say, sitting beside him. "Y'know what? We'll just share."

"Is that okay with you?" he questions. "I don't wanna, like, overstep..."

"What other choice do we have? And I'm certainly not letting you sleep on the floor."

"I guess you're right."

You both sit still for a moment, eyes on everything except each other. It's cliche, really, but you couldn't let him wake up with a crook in his neck or something. Then the next day of activities would be sullied. At least, that's what you tell yourself.

"So.... can I use your shower?"

"Yeah, go ahead," you say. "But, um, do you want to borrow some clothes, or?"

"I doubt your clothes would fit me." He snorts. "I'll go buy something from the gift shop."

"I think I packed a pair of comfy sleeping shorts if you want to try?"

He shrugs, so you walk over to your luggage and search for the shorts. You find them bunched up underneath one of your dresses and cover your mouth with your palm. It was a good thing they were stretchy because they definitely were not going to be his size.

You hand them to him and he holds them up to inspect them. Then he looks at you with squinted eyes.

"Thanks." He retreats to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. You take a deep breath and decide to go watch some TV.

Once you hear the water turn off, you cross your legs nervously. The door cracks open.

"This is crazy," Hamzah shouts. "They fit!"

He steps out fully and your breath hitches. He stands there, water still dripping from his curls and onto his chest, only in your tight shorts that barely reach the tops of his thick thighs. It was like a replay of the beach, but better. You cross your legs tighter and try to avoid staring for too long.

"Yay."

He dries his hair with the towel and asks if there's a spare toothbrush. You point to the drawer below the sink and avert your gaze when he bends over to grab it. He finishes up and walks over to the bed.

"The shower floor is destroyed. I think I had 3 pounds of sand in between my ass cheeks."

You burst out laughing and so does he, climbing under the sheets. "Me too, honestly."

You sit up against the headboard, watching some random Dutch family show that was on. You don't understand much, but your phone is charging so you have no choice but to tune in. Hamzah pretends he knows what's going on and creates a riveting plot for the characters that is infinitely funnier than whatever they were actually doing. At some point, the both of you start yawning. You decide it's probably best that you sleep, even though every part of you would love to stay up all night and listen to him ramble on.

You grab some pajamas from your suitcase and turn to him.

"Could you...?" You gesture for him to turn around.

"Oh, yeah, course." He lays on his side facing the wall.

You quickly throw on an oversized tee and shorts, wincing when the bands of your underwear smack loudly against your skin.

When you're fully situated in bed next to him, you turn the TV off and nestle into the sheets. You stay on your side and he lays on his back. All there is to hear is the sound of your breaths and the crash of the waves from the open window.

"Today was fun." He yawns, running his palms over his sun-kissed face. "I wish we could stay here forever, just doing stupid tourist-y shit and hanging around the beach."

"I know," you agree. "I'm glad I got to come on this trip with you guys. I really needed it."

Your chin is tucked under the blanket. He blinks slowly and even in the darkness, you see his big brown eyes find yours.

"Well, I'm glad you came, too." You don't know if it's just the amount of drinks consumed between the two of you, but you swear you see his eyes on your lips. "I like spending time with you."

You don't know what to say, so you say nothing at all. He turns onto his side after one final "goodnight" and the two of you fall asleep in the glow of the moonlight.

~

a/n: did i have to include the one bed hotel room cliche? no. did i anyway? i’m just a girl… lmk if u liked it or if u hate my guts and want to curse my bloodline !!!

[fratttymatty]

MorphMe

(All characters are 18+)

Elliot Hart was the definition of niche. A 20-year-old computer science major with a stack of anime Blu-rays, a Bernie Sanders sticker on his laptop, and more Funko Pops than friends. He was proudly gay, proudly nerdy, and proudly convinced that his brain was his best asset. His social life consisted mostly of online forums and heated Reddit debates about politics and Star Wars continuity.

One evening, as he scrolled through a lesser-known app store to find some quirky productivity tools, a strange app caught his eye: "MorphMe: Update Your Self". It had zero reviews, a glowy blue icon, and a tagline that read: “Be the you you’ve never met.”

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “Sounds dystopian. Love it.”

He downloaded the app.

Upon opening it, a series of sliders and checkboxes appeared on screen. Gender: Male. Sexual Orientation: Gay. Intelligence: 100%. Appearance: Twink. Personality: Cute.

He chuckled and set everything just right, including a little sparkle emoji next to “cute.” Then he hit “Confirm.”

The screen glitched. Hard.

Lines of code zipped across the screen. A notification popped up: "Applying New Settings..."

Suddenly Elliot’s phone vibrated violently. He dropped it as a bright flash filled the room. When he opened his eyes…

Everything had changed.

He sat up in bed — a bed that was now massive, messy, and covered in protein bar wrappers and gym shorts. The posters of Studio Ghibli were gone, replaced with flags: American flags, Gadsden flags, and a giant Sigma Alpha Theta frat banner. The air smelled like Axe body spray and whey powder.

Elliot… wasn’t Elliot anymore.

He was Chad.

Literally. His phone buzzed with a message:

"Yo CHAD bro, kegger tonight at Mike’s. Bring Stacy 🍑🍒"

He stood and caught his reflection in the mirror. Shaggy dirty-blonde hair, rippling muscles, tanned skin, a backwards cap, and not a hint of irony anywhere. His rainbow pride pin had been replaced by a “Don’t Tread on Me” button. His brain felt… lighter? Not stupid, just… breezy. Like algebra was a foreign language, but chugging beer and flexing came second nature.

“Dude… sick,” he said to no one, admiring his pecs. His voice was a deep, confident baritone — not a trace of his former nasally tone.

He opened his closet: polos, tank tops, khakis, and way too many pairs of Oakleys. No more anime tees. No more cardigans. No more Bernie.

And… he didn’t miss them.

Later that day, Chad strolled across campus, his arm wrapped around Stacy, a blonde with lips so glossy they could reflect sunlight. She was chirping away:

“Baaaabe, we totes have to go to Cancun for spring break! Like, it’s gonna be sooo wild. You, me, margaritas, and like, no thoughts. Just vibes.”

He laughed. “Hell yeah, babe. Cancun sounds hella rad.”

He didn’t remember Elliot. He didn’t remember being gay. All he knew was the gym, the frat, and how Stacy looked in a bikini. He fist-bumped his new bros, cracked open a Bud Light (Ironically, he hated IPAs now), and settled into his life.

He never opened the MorphMe app again.

Because as far as Chad was concerned — this? This was who he was always meant to be.

[skzophreniic]

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content. unprotected sex, creampie, size kink, oral fixation (implied), possessive language, mild marking (biting), dom!chan, desperate sex, praise kink, loss of contact, emotionally charged one-night stand, bodily fluids (cum/slick mention), heavy detail/descriptive intimacy, public/semi-public sex setting (lounge)

⍣ ೋ notes: so this is pretttttttttty late i'm soso sorry 😭i kinda hate it actually but this was the best i could do :(

🧾 FORMAL INVESTIGATION REPORT Filed by: Concierge Aeryn Subject: Staff Conduct –Lost Number Staff Member Under Review: General Manager Chan Requested by: Guest (Room 330) Requested Resolution: Formal Investigation & Internal Service Memo

INT. SKZOTEL – GENERAL MANAGER'S OFFICE – EVENING

The knock on Bang Chan’s office door is almost courteous — two sharp taps — but the way Aeryn steps inside without waiting for permission strips it of any real politeness.

Chan doesn’t look up right away. He's hunched over his desk, flipping a pen between his fingers like it's a stress ball, a muscle ticking at his jaw.

The pink clipboard in Aeryn’s hand wobbles slightly as she waves it in the air. “I have a guest complaint for you, Mr. Bang.”

That gets his attention. His head snaps up, eyes narrowing immediately.

“If it's about Jeongin again, I already handled it,” Chan mutters, voice tight.

“Oh no,” Aeryn says lightly, stepping further into the office. She sets the clipboard down just out of his reach. “This one’s about you.”

Chan freezes.

Aeryn beams, all professionally sweet, the kind of smile that would’ve scared a smarter man. “Shall I read it aloud? It’s quite the compliment to your…prior performance.”

Chan drags a hand down his face. “Aeryn—”

“She specifically mentioned how delightful Mr. Yang Jeongin was. Very charming, very professional.” Aeryn taps the clipboard like she’s punctuating every word. “Unlike a certain general manager, who, in her words, was ‘terse, unprofessional, and suffering from misplaced jealousy.’”

Chan looks like he’s either going to throw himself out the window or flip the desk over.

“I wasn’t jealous,” he grits out. “I was—” He waves a hand, searching for the words like they might save him. “Protecting staff integrity.”

“Ah yes.” Aeryn folds her arms, deadpan. “That’s why you glared at the guest like you were about to throw her over your shoulder and lock her in your office.”

Chan mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a threat in his Australian accent.

Aeryn lets him stew for a moment, savoring it. Then, almost kindly, she leans in.

“She remembers you, you know,” she says, voice lower now. “Not just from the spa.”

Chan’s shoulders stiffen.

He doesn't say anything.

Aeryn straightens up, smoothing her blazer like she’s just finishing a performance. “For what it’s worth, she requested an early check-out.” She tilts her head, considering. “Although she did suggest that perhaps if you’d been more diligent in securing your…contact information, none of this would’ve been necessary.”

Chan slouches back in his chair like the world has personally wronged him.

“I didn’t forget her,” he mutters under his breath.

“Misplaced her number, then?” Aeryn supplies helpfully.

He scowls. 

Aeryn can’t help it. She laughs — a short, sharp sound that makes Chan look even more miserable.

“I’ll file the formal investigation report,” she says brightly.

With a final, polite smile, she scoops up the clipboard and turns to leave, heels clicking smartly against the marble floor.

Chan slouches even lower in his chair once she’s gone, staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him.

And the worst part?

He can still feel her — the guest — the ghost of her hands on him, the sound of her laughing in his ear, the way she whispered her number against his mouth and he’d sworn he’d remember it just by taste.

______________________________________________________________

The bar is half-empty, dimly lit, and blessedly quiet — a rare luxury.

Chan sits slouched at the end of it, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. He hasn’t taken a full breath all day. The meetings ran over, the contracts weren’t ready, the staff kept screwing around, and every time he closes his eyes, he sees the bright pink edge of Aeryn’s clipboard like a migraine warning.

He exhales slow, rolling his neck with a soft crack, and downs the rest of his whiskey like it’s water. It burns, but it’s a good burn. Controlled. Predictable. Nothing like the mess in his head.

His phone buzzes.

He doesn’t check it.

He’s already gone over tomorrow’s schedule six times and it’s not going to change: back-to-back meetings, supplier drama, some guest requesting complimentary crystals in her mattress for “vibration alignment” — whatever the fuck that means.

He gestures for another drink.

The bartender knows him. Says nothing. Just pours.

The moment stretches, soft and slow, until the door swings open behind him—quiet, but enough to shift the weight of the room.

Chan doesn’t look up at first. He doesn’t need to.

He feels you walk in.

Not because of the sound. Not because of the sudden lift in perfume in the air. But because something in him—tight and strung out from the day—pulls tauter, as if he’s already being watched.

He turns his head lazily, more reflex than curiosity.

And there you are.

The lights are low, but they catch on the slope of your cheek, the shine at your collarbone. You walk in like you know exactly where you’re going but aren’t in any rush to get there—coat draped over one arm, heels quiet against the floor, gaze flicking once around the room before it lands on him.

It lingers.

Not long. But long enough.

His chest pulls tight without meaning to.

There’s nothing showy in the way you move. Nothing loud. Just... controlled. Like you’ve done this before. Like you’ve already decided what kind of night it’s going to be.

You slide into a seat three stools down. Not beside him. But close.

The bartender greets you with quiet familiarity, asks if you want the usual. You say not tonight. Something different. Something stronger.

Chan lets his eyes drop back to his drink—but only for a second. He can see your reflection in the mirror behind the bar, the curve of your lips as you speak, the way your fingers toy with the base of the glass when it arrives.

And then, like clockwork, your gaze meets his in the mirror.

Not coy.

Not shy.

Just intentional.

And when he doesn’t look away, neither do you.

Something shifts in his chest. Heavy. Immediate.

Then you smile.

Subtle. Barely there. But it lands like a spark to dry wood.

Chan feels it catch.

And he doesn’t even try to put it out.

______________________________________________________________

You don’t remember how you got here.

Or rather, you do — it’s just hard to focus on anything when Bang Chan is buried inside you, deep and deliberate, grinding his cock into you like he wants to stay there.

Like he owns it now.

You're still half-dressed. Your panties are somewhere across the room, his shirt is open, and your dress is bunched up around your waist, straps slipping down your arms. His belt hangs loosely from one of your wrists — not tight, not binding, but reminding — and your thighs are spread wide over his lap, his hands splayed across your ass, pulling you down with every roll of his hips.

He’s not fucking you.

He’s fucking into you — slow, deep, so obscenely wet with your arousal that you’re embarrassed at how loud it sounds in the quiet room.

And he hasn’t looked away. Not once.

You try to breathe through it, but every time he thrusts up, it knocks your breath out again — gasping, stuttering, breaking.

“God, baby,” he rasps, jaw clenched tight. “You’re dripping down my cock. Look at this mess.”

You look. You shouldn’t. But you do.

Glance down and see where your bodies meet — where his cock disappears into you again and again, coated in slick, strings of it catching when he pulls out slow just to watch you clench around nothing.

Your head falls back with a choked moan.

Chan watches it—eyes locked on the exposed line of your throat, the slack of your lips, the tremble in your thighs where you straddle him. He shifts his grip, one hand gripping the swell of your ass, the other sliding up your spine until it’s fisted in the fabric clinging to your shoulder blades, keeping you there.

He’s buried so deep you can feel him in your ribs. Thick and pulsing, soaked in slick. The roll of his hips is slow, deliberate, filthier than anything rushed—he fucks into you like he’s savoring every stretch, every obscene, wet sound your cunt makes around him.

You can feel how wet you are. It’s everywhere. Slick coats your thighs, pools where your bodies meet, dripping down his balls with every bounce of your hips—every grind he guides you through with bruising hands and an unforgiving rhythm.

He shifts again, pulling you down hard as he thrusts up deep. Your body jerks, mouth falling open in a whimper that’s swallowed by the hot press of his mouth on your skin—tongue dragging slow across your collarbone before his teeth sink in.

The bite makes you cry out—sharp and breathless—and Chan growls against your skin in response, the sound low and fucking filthy. His cock twitches deep inside you as he grinds up, slow and thick and relentless, like he wants to live inside the mess he’s made.

He shifts again, pulling you down hard as he thrusts up deep, and your entire body jerks, a sharp “ah—!” punched out of your chest, spine arching like he just split you in two.

Chan grunts low and deep in your ear, the kind of sound dragged straight from the gut. “Shit… just like that.”

His cock is thick, stretching you wide, the slow grind of his hips forcing you to take him again and again, all the way to the base, until you’re stuffed full and pulsing around him. You’re soaked—soaked—slick squelching loudly with every bounce of your hips, your arousal smearing all the way down to his thighs.

The room is filled with it. Nothing but your broken breathing, his labored grunts, the wet, filthy sound of your pussy clenching around his cock like it never wants to let go.

“F-Fuck—Chan—” your voice breaks, almost a sob, and your nails dig into his shoulders, trying to ground yourself.

His teeth sink into the curve of your shoulder with a groan. “This pussy,” he pants against your skin, “is so fucking greedy. Keeps suckin’ me in like it’s starving.”

Another wet slap, and you yelp—head thrown back, mouth open around a high, needy “hah—ngh, fuck!”

He loves that. Gathers your hair in one hand, jerks your head back so he can watch your face twist in pleasure as he starts thrusting faster, harder—each drag of his cock so heavy, so deep, you can feel the air being punched out of you in whines.

Your thighs are shaking, your cunt fluttering around him as your orgasm creeps back, fast and brutal. Every thrust is met with a soaked, messy squelch, your slick now streaming down to the ruined cushions below.

“Listen to that,” he growls, grinding deep. “You fucking hear yourself?”

You do. You can’t not..

Your cries go high and soft—“ah—Chan—”—and your body jerks in time with the rhythm, collapsing into him when his fingers find your clit and rub fast, merciless.

“You gonna come for me again?” he pants. “Yeah? Gonna soak my cock like a good girl?”

“Y-Yeah—please, please—!”

It hits hard.

You come with a scream—your whole body locking down on him, cunt spasming, gushing slick across his lap in wet, audible spurts. You cry through it, moaning sharp and high with every pulse.

“Fucking hell,” he growls, hips stuttering. “You’re milking me—gonna fuckin’—fuck—”

His grip turns bruising, both hands clutching your hips now as he thrusts up into your pulsing cunt, chasing the last seconds of your orgasm—wet, fluttering, still squeezing the cum out of him before he even finishes.

The first twitch of his cock inside you makes him curse—loud and ruined—and then he’s coming hard, slamming into you one final time, buried to the hilt as he empties himself with a ragged moan.

“Ah—fucking shit, baby—take it—”

Thick ropes of cum fill you deep, each twitch pumping more inside until you're full and dripping, the heat of it spilling out around his cock and down your thighs in hot, messy streams.

You whimper, broken and overwhelmed, thighs trembling as your cunt clenches through the aftershocks—still needy, still twitching even with him buried inside you, keeping every last drop in.

He slumps forward, chest slick with sweat against yours, breath hot against your cheek.

“Jesus Christ,” he pants. 

You hum, dazed, fingers threading weakly into his damp hair as his hips roll slow again—languid, filthy, grinding his softening cock through the mess between your legs.

And it is a mess. You feel it—his cum leaking out of you in heavy drips, your slick coating his thighs, the cushions, your skin tacky with it.

“So fucking good for me,” he murmurs against your throat, dragging his fingers through the mess between your legs. 

You whine when he pushes two fingers back inside—shallow, spreading your cum-slick folds with a wet shlk as he watches more of his release spill out around them.

“Look at that,” he groans.

You can’t respond—your voice gone, body limp, completely ruined. And Chan loves it. Stays there, buried deep, pressing kisses to your collarbone like he didn’t just fuck you stupid in a lounge, like he didn’t just wreck you so thoroughly you can’t even remember your own name.

He stays buried for a long time.

Still twitching, still thick inside you, softening slowly with every breath that passes. The room is humid with sweat, slick, sex. Your bodies fused by the filth between you, the mess he’s left inside you still trickling out around his cock in lazy, wet drips.

His fingers move lazily between your thighs again—spreading you open just to watch. Just to see the cream-white spill of him leaking from your stretched cunt, your folds still twitching from the aftershocks.

“Could stay like this,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Fuck, I could stay inside you all night.”

You sigh softly, worn out and ruined and far too content for how wrecked you feel.

Chan shifts slowly, finally pulling out. You both groan at the loss—your pussy flexing around nothing, his cock dragging wet and heavy against your thigh, still sticky with your slick, his cum, sweat.

He leans back just enough to see your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone, then down to your jaw, tilting your face up to his.

“Give me your number,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter now. Almost shy. Almost vulnerable.

You blink, a soft laugh catching in your throat.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding. “I mean… how else am I gonna see you again?”

There’s something in the way he looks at you that makes your chest ache—like maybe he didn’t mean to want more, but he does now. Like maybe it snuck up on him between the way you screamed his name and how you didn’t ask for anything in return.

You reach past him, dragging your bag clumsily toward you with a shaky hand. Pull out a pen. A napkin.

He watches you scribble your number, eyes never leaving your face.

When you hand it to him, he folds it carefully. Tucks it into his back pocket like something sacred. His hand lingers there a second longer than it should, like he’s trying to anchor it—you—in place.

“I’m gonna call you,” he says, cocky but soft. “Tomorrow.”

You don’t tease him for it.

You just smile, a little lazy, a little satisfied. “I’ll answer.”

And for a while, you both just sit there. In the heat. In the quiet. In the after.

But later—

Later, when he’s back in his car, still smelling like you, still tasting you on his lips, hands shaking around the wheel like he can’t drive straight—

He reaches for his pocket.

And it’s empty.

He checks the other.

Then his wallet.

Then the floor.

Then the passenger seat

The napkin’s gone.

His heart punches hard in his chest, jaw clenched as he rifles through everything again, again, like maybe it’ll just reappear.

But it doesn’t.

All that’s left is the soreness in his thighs, the mess drying on his skin, and the ghost of your name echoing in his head like a song he already knows he’s going to forget.

And fuck—

He never even asked for your last name.

______________________________________________________________

INT. SKZOTEL SPA – EVENING

The spa is lit with soft ambient lights. Calming music plays faintly in the background. There’s a large hand-lettered sign taped to the eucalyptus diffuser: SPA TRIVIA NIGHT – Hosted by Your Favorite Masseuse 💆🏻‍♂️

JEONGIN (confessional): [He’s sitting cross-legged in a spa robe with a clipboard, trying very hard to look calm.] “Spa Trivia Night is a sacred SKZOTEL tradition. Or, well, it’s been a tradition for three months. I made it one. And everyone said they’d come this time if I brought snacks, so…”

[Cut to the refreshment table. There is exactly one bowl of pretzels and a half-full Brita filter.]

______________________________________________________________

INT. SPA FLOOR – MOMENTS LATER

JEONGIN stands in front of a whiteboard that says: “QUESTION 1: What is the difference between a Swedish massage and a deep tissue massage?”

The staff are loosely seated on beanbags and floor cushions. SEUNGMIN looks like he wants to die. FELIX is filing his nails. CHANGBIN is already halfway through the pretzels.

JEONGIN: “Okay! Question one. Please raise your hand, don’t shout—”

CHANGBIN: “Is one of them what Chan gave that guest in the lounge last week?”

[Loud laughter. CHAN makes a strangled noise.]

JEONGIN: “No—nope. No, we’re not doing that—”

MINHO (dryly): “What’s the difference between a deep tissue massage and being deeply in someone’s tissues, though?”

CHAN: “I will revoke your comped minibar, Lee Minho.”

MINHO: “Worth it.”

CHAN (confessional): [He’s sitting with arms folded, clearly unamused.] “Did I lose a napkin with a phone number on it? Yes. Did I forget to get her name? Also yes. Is that anyone’s business but mine? No. Absolutely not. ...Have I checked laundry for it? Also yes.”

Back on the floor, JEONGIN tries to regain control.

JEONGIN: “Let’s… let’s keep it spa-related, please? This is supposed to be relaxing. Educational. A safe space.”

HYUNJIN (stretching, dangerously casual): “Did she seem relaxed, though? The guest? Because she left very relaxed.”

CHAN: “Hyunjin.”

HYUNJIN: “I’m just saying. She walked out of here like she’d been realigned spiritually and physically.”

JEONGIN: “Please.”

FELIX: “Honestly, I respect it. I’ve been trying to get someone to rail me against the eucalyptus diffuser for weeks.”

SEUNGMIN: “Can you not say ‘rail me’ within ten feet of a scented candle?”

JEONGIN claps once. Too loud. Too desperate.

JEONGIN: “Okay! Lavender-scented trivia, not libido-scented trauma. Next question.”

[He glances at his laminated list. Regrets everything.]

JEONGIN: “What are the therapeutic benefits of exfoliation?”

MINHO (without missing a beat): “Emotional cleansing. Like when you scrub away a one-night stand by pretending it never happened.”

CHAN: “I will throw a hot stone at you.”

JISUNG: “I’d just like to say, I exfoliated my ass this morning and I feel amazing.”

SEUNGMIN (without looking up): “No one asked. Ever. In the history of time.”

______________________________________________________________

CUT TO: CONFESSIONAL

JEONGIN, now aggressively applying eucalyptus balm to his own temples.

JEONGIN: “I wanted one night. One single trivia night without a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting in the wings.”

[He breathes in. Holds it. Blinks.]

JEONGIN (more to himself): “Maybe next quarter.”

______________________________________________________________

Back in the spa, JISUNG raises his hand.

JISUNG: “Not to derail, but—can I get bonus points if I guess exactly where in the lounge the incident happened?”

CHAN: “No.”

JISUNG: “Because I have a theory.”

CHAN: “No.”

JISUNG (already standing): “So, the curvature of the velvet couch—”

CHAN: “Jisung. I swear to God.”

CHANGBIN (to Seungmin, deadpan): “Why didn’t he just take her to a guest room? Like a professional.”

______________________________________________________________

CUT TO: CONFESSIONAL

FELIX, twirling a marker, looking suspiciously angelic.

He pulls a folded napkin from his pocket.

FELIX: “Still haven’t decided what I’m gonna do with this. Part of me wants to return it like a loyal friend.”

[He grins.]

FELIX: “And part of me wants to rewrite it with Minho’s number and see what happens.”

[He tucks it back into his robe pocket.]

TEXT OVER BLACK:

"The spa is closed until Jeongin stops crying in the foot soak room. No refunds."

series taglist: @nightmarenyxx @miyaluvvsyou @jisuperboard @fackeraccount @silly250 @lov3rachan @lze325 @angel-writes-here @jesuisstay @lov3rachan @lze325 @scribblesnsketches05 @jesuisstay @slut4junho @wickedbutlovely @woozarts @pixie-felix @dessianna1

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Man Called Danger 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You avoid drama, you avoid confrontation, and overall, you avoid men. But some men can’t be denied. ~ short!late 30s reader

Characters: biker!Bucky Barnes

Note: I have no chill.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The morning comes too soon as you toss and turn through the night. You drag yourself out of bed and wrap yourself in your housecoat before braving the cold floors of the house. It isn’t a big place but it traps draughts like a tundra cavern.

You put on a pot of coffee to brew and go through your typical routine. That day is different as you listen for Eva. You told yourself last night, you’re going to lay off. You’re going to let her figure herself out.

As you take a jar of prepared overnight oats out of the fridge and fish out a protein bar for the mid-afternoon, you hear your sister sniff. She yawns as she enters. To your surprise and relief, she dressed, presentably so. She leans on the other side of the counter and flicks her lashes.

“Coffee?” She asks, sounding only a bit desperate.

“Some left,” you confirm.

She grumbles and comes around to get her own mug and pours with another yawn. You could say it. I told you so. I told you not to stay out late for your first day. At least she’s awake.

“Good luck,” you say as you zip up your small lunch bag.

“Right,” she turns and leans on the granite and blows over the mug. You peek over your shoulder as she narrows her eyes. “How did you find me last night?”

You withhold a sigh. You don’t want to argue. You don’t need her walking into her first day in a mood.

“Eva, we can talk later.”

She’s quiet, “really? You’re tracking me?”

You grab your mug, “I really need to get ready.”

“Sure,” she scoffs.

Silence roils and you make yourself face her. “I deleted it last night, okay? I meant it. You’re an adult. You’re going to do what you’re going to do.”

“You still did that,” she says.

“I did and I’m sorry,” you admit. “I won’t make excuses. We can’t keep doing this.” You chew your lip and tap your fingers on the porcelain cup, “I just hope this works out. It’ll be nice for you to have some extra cash.”

“Sure,” she shrugs.

You leave it. She’s going to simmer for a while. In her shoes, you would too. You take your coffee into the bathroom and put it on the counter. As you open the mirror to grab your face cleanser, you wince. You blow through your lips as you shut the reflective door.

You put the bottle down and untie your house coat. You roll up your camisole and cringe. You gently touch the tender spot along your ribs. It's bruised pretty good. The bone hurts too but you’re not too worried about a break.

You shudder and ignore the soreness as you go through the steps. Cleanse, moisturise, tone. Brush your teeth, figure out your hair. Then only a swipe of mascara, a tint of lip stain, and a subtle kiss from your blush stick. Natural but something. You were never one for the whole primer to highlighter parade.

You put on a striped blue blouse and a pair of grey herringbone pants. You spritz a bit of jasmine body spray over yourself then go to get your lunch and purse. You step into your leather loafers and shrug on your beige jacket.

“Eva, am I driving you?” You call down.

“Coming,” she scuffles around unseen before she appears.

If she isn’t in the best mood, she does look her best. She’s added a rosegold chain to her skirt and sweater combo, and a pair of slingback kitten heels, some earrings, and her face and hair are just perfectly done. Not too much, not too little. Her freckles peek through and give her a little extra character.

“Wow, you look nice,” you praise.

“Really? You look dead inside,” she snickers.

You’re relieved that she’s joking. You take it with a shrug, “Time of death, I’d say ten years ago.” She rolls her eyes, “you bring something to eat?”

“Nah, I looked up the place. It’s near Sage. I’ll go there.”

“Okay,” you accept. You’re not sure where she got the money to do so. You eat in chronically but she’s always out with her friends getting all the fancy lattes and fusions.

You head out, not used to the company. It's about time she got something going. She worked at the dentist office for a summer in high school but she hated her boss. You told her that she probably always will. Lord knows you’re no fan of yours.

“No pressure, but try to make this one work, Eva,” you say. “I called in a favour for it.”

“I know,” she snips. “You don’t need to remind me. I didn’t ask, you know?”

“I’m not—I just—I only want the best,” you resign. “I shouldn’t project. I know you will do wonderfully.”

She blows a raspberry, “alright, cheesy.”

You steer along the usual route. Her building is only a block from yours. You drop her off like you would outside school. Her teen years were rough. For you, but not her. After you left her with your mom, you made sure she got to graduation. You feel like you owe her so much more for abandoning her for so long. If you hadn’t though, would you be here? Would you be able to get her out at all?

You continue down to your office building. There’s a loud rumble behind you. A motorcycle. You hate the things. They remind you of someone you’d rather not think of. Not to mention they’re noisy and put out pollution like crazy.

You flip on your blinker as the early morning rider skims past you. Your parking past dangles from the rear view as you find a spot in the grid. You gather up your things and ready yourself for another day.

You march inside and opt for the stairs. You try to skip the elevator at least three times a week. Your job keeps you idle far too much. Even with a standing desk. As you climb, your breath picks up and the bruise on your side throbs. You should’ve popped some advil.

You get to your floor and get yourself set up. You raise the desk and straighten the standing mat. You sign into your station and start down the new list of orders. As you ease into the morning, others arrive and groggily do the same.

Your fingers skitter over the keyboard in a flurry. As you send another request to the mail dock, a shadow appears in your peripheral. Mr. Walker leans the corner of your desk. For a moment, you wonder if he has a brother or cousin that likes to troll the bars for young girls.

Your boss puts his other hand on his hip. Even with your desk raised, he dwarfs it with his size. You pause your typing and look at him.

“Morning, Mr. Walker,” you say.

“Morning,” he returns. “I didn’t even see you here, hiding.”

That’s the problem. Standing, sitting, no one notices you behind the double monitors.

“Big day, huh?” He asks.

You stare at him, confused for a moment.

“Yeah, Hansen was saying your sister starts today?”

“Right, uh, yeah,” you affirm. “Thanks, again. I really appreciated the referral.”

“You’re a hard worker,” he says.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Hansen is a bit of a hard ass. I should’ve warned you.” He adds.

You nearly blurt out your first thought; look who’s talking.

“I’m sure she’ll do fine, she is your sister,” he remarks as his fingers curl around the corner of the desk. “Really kind of you to take her in.”

You don’t think you’ve ever spoken so much to Walker. Not since you asked him to put in a good word for Eva. Even then, he kept to his short replies and grunts.

“She’s family,” you say.

“Sure, but... I don’t know. Thought you would already have one of those,” he replies. You tweak a brow. “Kids, husband? I always sort of assumed...”

“A woman my age, yeah.”

“I wouldn’t... no, not because of that, I just... you’re very responsible.”

“Thank you, sir,” you shift on your soles. “I was just getting started on that Lafayette order.”

“Mmmm,” he hums and tilts his head. He drags his hand down his tie. He’s a big man. Most people are compared to you but he’s gargantuan. “Always working hard.”

“Yes, sir,” you look at your screen and click on the spreadsheet, changing the cell colour of the last completed order.

“Let me know if there’s anything else you need from me,” he slaps the corner of your desk then struts off.

You stay focused on your screens. That was strange but you’re not stupid. He’s reminding you of his favour. He wants you to remember that you owe him. You’re sure you’ll be picking up overtime to pay him back.

Work rolls on. Dull, repetitive, but it pays the bills. You eat your oats at your desk as you make your way through the daily rota. You can’t help but notice Mr. Walker’s frequent trips to the break room. It tempts you to grab a coffee yourself as your eyes burn but you resist. You're trying to cut back on caffeine.

When the day ends, your protein bar sits beside the base of your monitor. You’re hungry but you can wait for supper. You sign off and lock your desk. You check your phone. No messages from Eva. Is that good or bad?

As you come into the overcast afternoon, the day weighs in your shoulders and hips. All day you can’t wait to be done but by the time you’re free, you’re exhausted. You dig out your keys and traipse along the row of bumpers to your car.

You hit the button to unlock the Honda and the roar of a motorcycle tears through the air. To your surprise, it only gets louder. You have the door open as its shadow rolls up behind your car. You throw your bags into the passenger seat and ignore it. That is until, the engine quiets and the steel beast doesn’t move from behind your vehicle.

Don’t tell me Eva hopped on someone’s bike. She would. A final act of rebellion before she surrenders to corporate purgatory. You look over, further disappointed by what really awaits you.

The man in leather undoes his helmet, vintage without a visor or anything. He tucks it under his arm and slides off his sunglasses. You recognise him. That’s not good.

His jacket is zipped to his chin but you’re certain that gold medallion hangs against his chest. It’s the same man as the night before. The one that was a little too late. How did he find you?

You shake your head and dip into the driver’s seat. Before you can close the door, his gloved hand is on it. He keeps it open as he steps up. You sigh.

“Sir, would you kindly move your bike?” You drone as you ram your keys into the ignition.

“Hey, doll, just wanna talk,” he says.

“I have somewhere to be,” you reach for the door and he steps closer, inserting himself so you couln’t close if you try.

You keep your eyes aimed at the windshield. Your other hand reaches for your purse. He clucks.

"Now, you don't gotta go calling anyone. Got a few buddies on the force I wouldn't mind catching up with but I'm being good," he steps back and shows his palms. "Just curious."

"I said I'm on my way somewhere--" you begin and grip the wheel.

"To get your daughter? You're a good mom--"

You stay silent. There's not much you can say that won't make this worse. It's none of your business. Piss off. A few choice epithets.

You search the brick wall ahead of you. Your heart beats faster and faster. No matter how you avoid men, they make themselves a problem.

You grab the shifter and crank it. You hit the gas and jerk backwards. You hit his bike and it crashes with a clatter. He let's go of the door as the door jars him.

"The fuck?" He exclaims.

You have just enough room to turn through the empty spot next to you. It's a deep spin of the wheel but you manage to redirect and roll past his bike.

As you swerve around and set the car straight, you glance over. He rubs his shoulder as he watches you, approaching his overturned bike with stunned steps. To your surprise, there's a big grin across his face.

Shit.

You stomp the pedal and tear out of the lot. You don't look as you turn into traffic and you squeeze the wheel until your knuckles hurt. What the fuck!

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Movie Week [review]

Day 1 - Fear (1996)

Yandere Score: 8/10

Overall Score: 8/10

Fear does exactly what it's supposed to. Not perfectly by any means, but well enough that I don't mind spending an hour and a half in its world.

A very fun world too - cute fashion, a great score, pleasing cinematography and a male lead who slowly becomes more despicable the longer the film goes on. Alyssa Milano, Mark Wahlberg and Reese Witherspoon look incredible the entire movie. And I guess their acting isn't bad either.

We start off with a man out on a jog. And we know it's going to be a thriller because a) shaky cam and b) very dramatic music just two minutes in. Great start. After that, we're introduced to Nicole (Reese Witherspoon), a high schooler with a slightly strained relationship with her dad and teenage angst lite.

She's cute. The girl next door with a daddy's girl bracelet and a kid brother who loves her. If she didn't have the bad luck of running into a bad man, I'd say things would have worked out just dandy.

But no such luck. Not for you kid.

Enter David.

He walks on screen to audible screams from the audience (me). He's hot. And the way he's introduced is hot. Shady bar, music in the background, leather jacket delinquents playing pool. From the get go, he screams bad boy. Rubbing (read: jerking off) his pool cue - at hip height - while looking at our female lead? C'mon, that's too easy.

I won't go into detail, but they obviously end up in a relationship. And it's hot stuff. At one point, he has his hand up her her skirt while they're on a rollercoaster. Yeah, we all see the symbolism. Coming (down) must be pretty fun on a ride like that, huh Nic?

It's not great the entire movie - their first conversation is stilted and awkward, filled with clichés. But the build up in tension is what does it for me.

There are plenty of little things that tip you off from the get go. David isn't as nice as he seems, not by a long shot.

It starts with a few tense looks between him and Nicole's dad. Just a father being a bit picky, right? Nope. He turns back the office clock so he can have a little more time with Nicole before curfew. He flirts with her best friend. He tells Nicole to, "Get me a coke." Bossy. Commanding.

I'll be honest, if I didn't know the synopsis of the film, I'd say dear old dad was being overly protective. Nope. Those red flags are about as red as they can get.

When things start going off the rails, the movie handles it pretty well. The scenes are decently tense, even though they're missing that little bit of careful handling that would make them terrifying.

As a yandere, David does everything you'd expect. He's manipulative. He's violent. He doesn't know where to draw the line in anything. Oh, and he's hot. Did I mention that already?

He's a Levi's and t-shirt kind of guy, with a great car, a nice voice, and biceps you want to sink your teeth into. When it comes to deranged stalkers, you can do a LOT worse.

The third act is a ball of a time. There's room for it to have been a bit more tense - it suffers from being a little too short, the twists not having enough time to breathe. The pace doesn't feel quick in the so much happening, I'm at the edge of my seat sort of way, but in the oh no, we only have the budget for thirty more minutes of run time sort of way.

Still, it's very enjoyable. David says and does plenty of very yandere things. I'm absolutely stealing some of his lines.

In terms of style, the movie is a knockout. I think it's a big part of what carries my recommendation. The cinematography is really pleasing, with lots of reds and dark greens. Very 'Seattle on a rainy day.' The sound track is totally 90's, with a nice mix of rock, pop and indie. It gives the movie a sense of place and time that exponentially improves the story.

How does it hold up as a piece of yandere media? It doesn't do anything radical or new, but the classics it sticks to are done well enough that it's worth the watch.

Oh, and David is very hot. I don't know if I mentioned that. 

Day 1 - Fear (1996)

Day 2 - Secret Obsession (2019)

Day 3 - Hush (2016)

Day 4 - The Perfect Guy (2015)

Day 5 - The Boy Next Door (2015)

Day 6 - The Invisible Man (2020)

Day 7 - Til Death Do Us Part (2017)

[jtargaryen18]

The Arrangement ~ Chapter 9

Series Masterlist

Words: 9.5k

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: Yearning, Tommy being a grump, Rory being adorable, smut

You're back home in Birmingham, recovering and getting ready for another wedding. This chapter is all comfort, yearning and smut. Then, we're back to the gas pedal as the Changrettas emerge. Enjoy!

It had been three weeks. Three calm, steady weeks, something you hadn’t realized you’d been craving until it finally settled in around you like a blanket in the cold. 

You were still sequestered in Tommy’s room, but this time, you didn’t mind. The walls no longer felt like prison bars. The sheets no longer smelled foreign. And the silence was no longer the kind that came before the storm. It was peace, or something close to it.

That first week, Tommy tried hard not to leave the house. Outwardly, he acted like it was nothing, cool and composed. He made it seem like he just happened to have a few things to sort through at home. But you weren’t blind. You saw the way he moved a little slower in the mornings, how he lingered at the door longer than necessary. The way he'd straighten his cufflinks at the window just so he could steal glances at you from the corner of his eye.

Instead of rushing off to the betting shop early as he had in the past, he started bringing work home, ledgers, contracts, letters he dictated to someone named Lizzie, but insisted on reviewing himself. He set up at the desk in the corner of the bedroom, always within reach but pretending not to hover.

You’d pretend too, for his sake, closing your eyes and letting him believe you were sleeping while he sorted through papers, the quiet scratch of his pen the only sound between you. But you felt him. You felt the way the air shifted when he looked up from his work just to make sure you were still there.

Those early mornings had been hard. It didn't take long once you woke up for nausea to cramp your stomach, send you scrambling off the bed to the basin kept at your bedside for that purpose. Most days, it was just bile. You'd be sitting there on your knees, shaking and trying to get your stomach to calm. 

And Tommy... he stayed. There he was helping you off the floor, ready with a glass of water. It would be mere minutes before one of the maids would come in to retrieve the basin for washing, another came in with a tray with a light breakfast, served quietly like you were someone special. It hadn't taken you long to figure out that if you didn't at least try to eat something, he was just going to keep hovering. 

When encouragement alone wasn't working, and you were trying, he started bargaining with you. Tommy knew you wanted to get back into the world to see Small Heath again, to visit your mother or Rory. He didn't need to remind you of everything that had happened before. No one said much to you about it but the last people heard, you'd been handed over to the Shelbys on a coin toss. Then you just disappeared. Your stepfather beat your mother severely, and then she disappeared. Whatever had been done to your stepfather, and you knew neither Tommy nor Rory were telling you that, people saw something or heard about it. Rumors grew of what a mistake it was to cross the Shelby family. Then Rory became a Blinder, and tongues had to be wagging over that. 

You knew all of that. But Tommy would still reiterate how you weren't safe after all of that. Not until the wedding was announced and all of Birmingham found out that you weren't fair game. You were marrying the king of the city. You weren't safe until that was known, until you were protected by his name and his ring on your finger. Then he'd point out that the wedding could take place as soon as you were back on your feet. 

“Just a little,” he’d say in that low voice, nodding towards the tray that had been brought for you. “Once you've got something down, you'll feel better.”

Like he'd ever been pregnant before.  

But, damn him, he was right. By the end of the first week, the nausea wasn't an all-day affair any longer. The early morning nausea wasn't as bad either, but still there some mornings. Tommy always stayed right there just long enough to make sure something had stayed down. Then, and only then, would he head to the betting shop or whatever meeting waited for him. And that was after Polly shooed him out the door with one of her trademark sighs.

“She’s not going to wilt the moment you’re gone, Thomas,” she’d scolded more than once.

He didn’t argue. But you saw the look he gave Polly every time. That wariness in his eyes that hadn’t quite gone away since the day he carried you out of the church.

Nadya came by each day like clockwork. The woman was sharp-eyed and unbothered by anyone else’s authority in the house, not even Tommy’s. She looked you over and each time, she seemed a little more pleased with your progress. The grim expression she’d worn the first time she laid eyes on you, thin and hollow with worry, was easing. She still frowned at your weight, still clucked her tongue at hearing your appetite was faltering, but there was a new patience in her manner.

“It will come back,” she said once, almost gently, as she pressed a warm hand to your stomach. “The body remembers how to heal when it’s given the chance.”

Tommy never asked for a report in front of you, she always came by while he was off working. But you knew he spoke with her somewhere each day about your condition. Nadya would recommend fresh lemons for your water or tea to help ease the nausea so you could eat. The next day, they were served to you with every meal. 

But little by little, you were getting stronger.

You saw your mother each day and Rory most days, their visits helped you immensely. Your mother always came with something tucked under her arm, a bundle of mending from her shop, or some small project to keep your hands busy. She said it was for the sake of the shop, but you knew better. She knew you needed something to do, something to remind yourself that you were still useful. And you were grateful for it. 

Rory usually dropped by late in the day, just long enough to pull up a chair, arms crossed, easy as ever. He talked about fixing up the house where you’d both grown up, where he and your mother were living again, like it was a simple thing. Like reclaiming it would stitch up everything else.

“Got the roof looked at,” he said one afternoon, a little proudly. “They’re patchin' it up proper before the next winter sets in. Won’t have to worry about leaks.”

You looked at him carefully, fingers pausing where they smoothed a scrap of cloth in your lap. “Really?” you asked, softer. “You’re really okay out there?”

Rory gave you a look, one you recognized from when you were both much younger and he’d lie about a skinned knee just to keep you from worrying. But this time, there was no lie in it. Just a steady, quiet kind of certainty. “We’re good,” he said, nodding firmly. “Better than we’ve been in years.”

You exhaled slowly, grateful that your mother had healed and could do what she loved. Now she was protected by Tommy. You didn't know if anyone had come around asking questions, fodder for gossip. She wouldn't tell you that. But she'd never lack for money ever again, not if either you or Rory had any say. And Rory was doing well for himself. There was a satisfaction about him that you'd never seen before. Like he was now where he was always meant to be.

Rory nudged your foot gently with his boot, a crooked grin playing at his mouth. “House feels like ours again,” he said. “Feels like Dad’s still watchin' over it, somehow. Like it’s right.”

You blinked against the sudden sting in your eyes, swallowing hard. 

Rory never could leave a heavy moment alone for too long, and he added, "And you'd better get yourself well enough to come see it soon. Tommy’s not the only one expectin' you to listen to orders, y’know.”

You huffed a laugh, rolling your eyes, but you couldn’t help the warmth that bloomed quietly in your chest. To your mounting annoyance, Rory took every chance to drop some variation of the same warning, always casual, always with a smirk. “Eat somethin’. He’s already scary enough without you givin' him more reasons.” It was infuriating and endearing all at once. Rory, standing solidly behind Tommy’s back like a proper Blinder.

You raised a brow at him, lips twitching despite yourself. “What do you mean he’s scary?” you asked, voice light but curious. Before, yes, he'd terrified you. But now not at all.

Rory leaned back in the chair he'd dragged to your bedside, arms crossing over his chest like he was settling in to explain something you should’ve already known.“I mean he’s Tommy Shelby,” Rory said plainly. “The man carries a storm around with him. You can feel it when he walks into a room. And lately?” He gave a low whistle. “Lately it’s worse. Like he’s ready to tear the world apart if anyone so much as flinches wrong.”

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of the way your heart gave a little jump at the thought.

Rory’s gaze softened a little, catching the look on your face.“He’s not scary with you,” he added after a beat. “He’s careful... It's somethin' else to see.”

A small, unsure smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. You weren’t sure you deserved that kind of loyalty, from Tommy or from Rory. But you were starting to wonder if maybe… just maybe… you could try harder. You weren’t used to people looking out for you like that. It unsettled you a little. But it also warmed something inside you that you hadn't dared touch for a long time.

By the third week, thinking about Tommy’s hovering and Rory’s not-so-subtle suggestion, you’d started eating better. It wasn’t easy, not when the nausea still came and went like an unwanted visitor, but you made the effort. And Polly, ever sharp-eyed, noticed.

“Glad to see you takin’ better care of yourself, love,” she said one afternoon, pouring you tea with a certain approving glint in her eye. “You’ve got more than yourself to think about now.”

Tea with Polly became a ritual you looked forward to. Some days Ada came to visit from London, the baby balanced on her hip, bringing a brightness to the room that was hard to resist. She teased you gently, laughing about the joys and terrors of motherhood to come with dirty nappies, sleepless nights, and more love than you ever thought possible. And, slowly, you started looking forward to it too. You stopped seeing yourself as a girl caught between worlds and started imagining yourself as a mother. As his family.

It was during one of those easy afternoons that your mother arrived, flustered but smiling, a worn sewing basket in hand. You'd dressed today in one of Ada's dresses and came downstairs to the sitting room. A part of your efforts to get better. You straightened from your seat near the window, brushing crumbs from your lap.

“Mum? What’s all this?” you asked, eyeing the basket warily. 

Mary set the basket down carefully. “I’m here to measure you,” she said, her voice lighter than usual. “For all your new clothes and... your wedding dress.”

Shaking your head, you knew a moment of panic. “Mum, no. You don’t have to--”

She cut you off with a gentle look, the kind she used to give when you were small and stubborn.“It’s what Tommy wants.” Her hands stilled over the sewing kit. “He wants me to dress you like a proper lady in Birmingham. He’s paying for all of it.”

And knowing Tommy, he was also paying your mother very well for her efforts. 

Across the room, Polly and Ada exchanged a knowing glance. Ada’s smile softened, and Polly gave a tiny, approving nod, like they’d both known all along this day would come. It was a small thread of hope winding itself through you, and it had been a long time since you had any.

Now Tommy pulled you into his world, and he was dressing you for the part.

Ada grinned wide as she rocked her son gently. “He’s already started planning that wedding,” Ada said, winking. “Sounds like he’s planning a bloody royal coronation.”

That's when the realization hit you. It wasn’t just talk. Tommy wanted to marry you.  

Your mother opened her sewing kit, pulling out a measuring tape with trembling hands. She tried to keep you from seeing it, but you did. You saw the way her eyes were misting up.

“Stand up, love,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion that she was trying very hard to hide. “Let’s get these measurements before I get too weepy to see straight.”

You rose slowly, smoothing your hands down your borrowed dress, and suddenly felt the weight of the moment. As she worked, measuring your expanding waist, your arms, and the curve of your back, her fingers lingered longer than necessary, like she was committing every part of you to memory. Like this was a moment she never thought she'd get to see.

“I always dreamed of this,” she murmured as she measured your shoulders, her voice barely a whisper. “You, standing there, about to be a bride.” She glanced up at you, her smile wobbling but proud. 

You swallowed hard. Because you didn’t see it the way your mother did. You weren’t sure you were worthy of any of it, the protection, the future Tommy Shelby was giving you like it was something you deserved. Part of you still clung to the past, to the mistakes, to the weight of everything that had happened. You didn’t feel like someone to be cherished. So much of what happened had been your fault.

But your mother was happy and hopeful. So you didn’t say anything, you just smiled, and let her have it.

“I just wish Malachy could’ve been here to see it,” she said after a moment, her voice thick with old grief. “He would’ve been so proud of you, love.” The tape slid from her hands for a moment, and her fingers brushed your arm in a mother’s steadying touch, stronger than the ache that lingered between words left unsaid.

From the window, Polly made a small noise, half sigh, half huff, as if to clear the lump from her own throat. “He sees it, Mary,” Polly said, her voice rough but certain. "A man like that, a father like that... he’s watchin’. Probably threatening Tommy from the afterlife to make damn sure he doesn’t screw it up.”

Ada snorted a laugh that she tried to smother against the baby’s hair. You had to laugh too. Somehow Polly made even the unbearable parts lighter.

Polly crossed the room with a purpose, snatching the tape measure from where your mother had set it down. “We’re not stoppin’ there, mind you.” She flicked the tape against your hip lightly, the way a woman might swat a child with a dishtowel, affectionate but commanding. “We’ll need the finest silk Birmingham’s got. And lace. Real lace. None of that cheap rubbish.”

Ada grinned over the top of the baby’s soft hair. “Better pick quick,” she said, teasing you. “Won’t be long before you’re really showin', and Tommy won’t want to wait.”

“Mark my words,” Polly added, her eyes dancing as she turned back to you. “He’ll want you married proper and soon. Before he has to commission a second gown to fit around that belly.”

The laughter that rose around you was warm, filling up a space inside you that had been empty for far too long. It wasn’t the perfect story you’d imagined once, long ago. It was rough around the edges, messy, and marred by everything you and Tommy had survived.

But it was yours.

It was then that you realized you weren’t as scared anymore. You weren’t just surviving anymore. You were wanted and loved. And soon, the whole bloody world was going to know it.

Your mother finished adjusting the fabric around your waist, then set her hands lightly on your shoulders. She stood there a moment, looking at you, not the dress, not the measurements, but you. “You’re gonna be beautiful, love,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Now let’s get to work,” she said with a wink, reaching for the fabric.

Tommy didn’t lift his head from the papers spread across his desk, but his pen stilled over the ledger. He’d been aware, keenly aware, that Arthur, John, and Rory hadn’t been talking about business for the past several minutes. Their voices had dropped, gone casual in a way that always signaled some topic not meant for the boss’s ears. He didn’t miss the way Rory’s glance kept sliding toward the door, or how John shifted in his chair, restless.

It was an improvement over the conversation about Angel Changretta. John had spent a good ten minutes growling about the Italian prick, voice sharp, words laced with venom. He’d rattled off a dozen reasons why he hated the man from his suits and hair, to the way the man talked and smiled. But none of it rang true. The real problem, the one John wouldn’t say, was that Lizzie Stark was seeing him. And John, even though he was still married to Esme, was jealous.

And then he heard his girl's name. His knuckles tightened around the pen. But still, he said nothing. Tommy learned a long time ago that some truths you had to let come to you. 

Then Arthur’s voice broke through, rough and unceremonious, dragging Tommy’s full attention like a hook under the ribs. “She’s lookin’ better,” Arthur said, tossing it out like a simple fact, but his gaze was steady. “Carried that sewing machine down to the sitting room all by herself yesterday. Smilin’, even.”

Without a word, he rose from the desk. He didn’t bark orders or look back. Just moved with that quiet, deliberate force that made men shift out of his way without thinking.

Behind him, he caught Arthur’s voice muttering low to John and Rory. "Christ, why’d I open my mouth..."

Tommy didn’t slow or even acknowledge then. Worried? Aye, he was. The thought of her overexerting herself, of risking her health and the child’s, twisted something sharp and brutal in his gut.

But beneath the worry, there was something else. Anger. Not the kind that burned wild and reckless. No, this was colder, deeper. Not directed at her, but at the world that had forced her to think she had to prove herself. To make herself useful. Even now and after he'd told her he wanted her to focus only on getting well.

She should’ve known she didn’t have to lift a bloody finger. She could’ve asked. He would’ve carried that heavy machine wherever she wanted it himself.

The last three weeks had been a slow kind of torture. Oh, things were better. She was back home, sleeping In his bed next to him, curled against his side with one hand curled protectively over her growing belly. She ate, if reluctantly and smiled sometimes. 

It was worse those first few mornings. The first time he saw her doubled over, hovering over the basin Polly found, he'd had to step into the hall for a minute. Not because he was angry or disgusted. Because he was helpless. He could command armies of men with a glance, could order blood to spill and cities to kneel. But he couldn’t do a damn thing to make this easier for her, to make her better. And it hollowed something out in him.

She’d wake up trembling, sometimes not even able to sit up without help. He learned early not to speak too quickly, not to crowd her. He'd just sit beside her, offering a cloth for her forehead, a hand at her back when she was sick. Sometimes, he sat behind her, letting her lean back into him. He'd started hearing from Polly that the sickness was going away during the day, and over the last few days, there were a couple of mornings when she wasn't sick at all. Polly told him that morning sickness usually didn't last the entire pregnancy and Ada, now that she was speaking to him again, backed up her statement.

It should’ve been enough to steady him. But it wasn’t. Every time he looked at her, Tommy saw the wreckage he’d caused. And for all his careful planning, all his power, he couldn’t undo it. 

Tommy hadn't slept much, even when she slept peacefully beside him. He hadn’t trusted anyone else to look after her, so he brought paperwork upstairs, spread ledgers and shipment manifests across the big oak desk in his bedroom, pacing between figures and the slow rise and fall of her breathing. He told himself it was about her health and that of the baby.

But deep down, he knew the truth. He couldn’t stand the thought of her needing him and him not being there.

And every day, as the shadows under her eyes faded, her body began filling out, and the little life they made grew stronger inside her, he knew he was more hers now than he'd ever been his own.

The chilly slap of winter's last wind caught his coat as he crossed the courtyard toward the house, boots hitting the stone with deliberate strides. Tommy pressed his palm flat to the mansion’s front door for a beat, steadying himself, before pushing it open. The weight of it all pressing against him, love, protectiveness... frustration. It wasn’t just about the sewing machine. It was about her mindset.

The door swung open with a quiet groan. Inside, the house was warm, firelight flickering along the dark wood paneling, casting soft gold over the walls. Voices drifted faintly from somewhere upstairs, likely Polly going about her day. He hung up his coat and cap, listening to the sounds of his household.

But it was the low, steady whir of the sewing machine that pulled Tommy’s gaze toward the sitting room. He found her there. Sitting by the front window where the afternoon light poured in, her head bent over the fabric, hands moving carefully, methodically. The damned machine sat like a stubborn old soldier between them, ticking and humming like it remembered it was alive.

She hadn’t seen him yet, wearing a dress he thought Polly had altered for her newly changing figure. Now he realized it was more likely she'd done it herself. It fit her lightly now, soft at the waist. She was still thinner than he wanted, but she looked a little more vibrant each day. The set of her shoulders was more relaxed than it had been when she returned.

Tommy blew out an exhale, battling relief and fury. There was maybe a little pride in there too that he couldn't have untangled if he tried. He stood there for a long moment, unnoticed. Just watching her. And then, because he couldn’t fucking help himself, he crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, the floor creaking under his boots.

She looked up sharply at the sound, eyes wide, then softening. It was that shy, unsure smile blooming across her lips. It nearly knocked him off his feet.

He stopped a few feet from her, voice low and rough with all the things he wasn’t saying. "You are supposed to be restin’."

She blinked up at him from the sewing machine, hands still resting lightly on the fabric. "I was resting," she said, almost sheepishly. "And then I wanted to finish this while the sun was still up."

She sounded defensive, but not afraid. It was an important distinction Tommy didn't miss. Still, he stepped closer, slow and deliberate, like he was approaching a skittish colt.

"Carrying that damn machine down the stairs?" he asked, a little firmer than he intended. "You could've called someone. You could’ve bloody well waited." It wasn’t anger lacing his voice. No, it was worry, stripped raw and sharp-edged.

Her smile faltered. "I didn't want to bother anyone," she murmured, glancing down. "Especially not since you're all doing so much for me every day."

Tommy crouched slightly in front of her, one hand braced lightly on the edge of the table beside the machine. "You're not a bother," he said firmly. "Not to me. Not to any of us... You're carrying my child. That makes you the most important person in this house."

Her eyes welled, but she blinked fast, looking away like she was trying not to make it worse. Tommy’s fingers reached out, gently gripping her chin and turning her face back to look at him. 

"Your life is different now," he said, quieter now but his frustration still bled out. "You don’t have to do everything by yourself or struggle. You don't have to work long hours to survive. Do you understand? As my wife, you're only concern is taking care of our children and--"

Tommy stopped himself before he could say it. Me. If he had said it, she would have taken it mean he expected her to be a good wife, supportive. And he did. But that's not where that thought ended and he needed to get those urges under control right now. He had to remind himself he couldn't have her right now.

He redirected his thoughts back to the other side of the problem. How she saw herself fitting into a new life. The weight of it, all the years she’d spent surviving with her mother and brother, settled between them. But Tommy wasn’t afraid of that weight. He meant to carry it.

She opened her mouth, maybe to apologize again, but he shook his head.

"No more sorries," he said roughly. "Do what I tell you. Just let me look after you. Yeah?"

She nodded then, looking contrite.

Tommy straightened slowly, tracing his fingers over your cheek. Motioning to the machine, he smirked. "Finish that," he said. "Then you’re finished for the day. Orders from the top."

And somehow, her soft laugh, eased the tension flooding him just a little. 

Tommy lingered there for a moment longer, watching her fingertips brush lightly over the fabric she’d been working on. The stubborn little crease between her brows was gone and her shoulders were relaxed now. Maybe he'd been a bit harsh, showing up like this. Maybe he should have trusted her to know her own limits.

But then again... maybe a reminder wasn't the worst thing. She needed to know nothing she did, not a stitch, not a sigh, escaped him. And if it made her think twice next time, made her more willing to lean on him instead of trying to carry the world alone, then maybe he'd start sleeping again. 

Nadya tapped lightly on the bedroom door before letting herself in, her satchel tucked under one arm. A wide smile already spread across her weathered face as she looked at you.

You had just finished a nap. You were sleepy all the time now. You shifted on the edge of the bed, trying to sit a little straighter. There was something about her presence, earthy and steady, that made you want to be stronger.

"You look better," she said, approval clear in her tone even before she set the bag down. "Your weight is better. There's more light in your eyes."

You smiled. You had fought for this recovery. Every mouthful of food that stayed down, every slow, careful walk down the hall, every quiet afternoon stitching dresses your mother and Polly brought to you by the basketful.

You were careful, though. Careful not to work late enough for Tommy to catch you still sewing. If he did, or if he even suspected you’d been there for hours, he’d assume the worst. Best case? He’d crouch down beside your chair, his voice low but firm, lecturing you with that razor-edged concern he couldn’t quite hide anymore. Worst case? He wouldn’t say anything at all. He’d just get quiet and that heavy, brooding sort of silence filled the whole room like smoke. And somehow, somehow, that was always worse.

So you were cautious. You were stronger now. But you were also smart enough to know that Tommy's patience, when it came to you, wasn't a bottomless well. It was a fierce, fragile thing, and you treasured it.

Nadya examined you. She checked your vital signs, your tummy, feeling for signs that everything inside was progressing the way it should. You held your breath without meaning to until Nadya’s mouth tugged into a small, approving smile.

"You’ve been doing everything I asked," she said, nodding with satisfaction. 

Your tension eased a little after hearing her assessment.

"You keep this up," Nadya added, straightening, "and you’ll be ready for that wedding soon enough."

Wedding. The word landed differently now than it had weeks ago. It felt less like a noose, more like a promise. You managed a small smile, though your heart thudded unevenly. Because ready or not... it was coming. And this time, you would walk toward it with your head held high. Or try to.

Once she was done, Nadya sat back in the chair beside the bed. She watched you for a long moment, weighing something. Then, with a small smirk, more sly than kind, she said in Romani-accented English, “You may resume relations with your husband... when you're ready.”

That had heat rushing to your cheeks. “I...” you stammered, looking anywhere but at her. "He'd probably be afraid he'd break me or something..."

Nadya chuckled, tucking everything into her bag. "Not for long. A man like that one... He looks at you like a starving man."

She laughed again when you buried your face in your hands.

“Best get your rest while you can, little one,” she said, winking as she headed for the door. “You’ll need it.”

And with that little parting shot, Nadya headed for the door, leaving you flustered but with some things to think about.

Tommy’s pen stilled again, tension bleeding into his shoulders as Arthur and John hovered outside his office, whispering like a pair of schoolboys afraid to poke a bear. Finally, with a sharp sigh, he barked, “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

Arthur shifted uneasily, glancing at John like he was hoping his younger brother would do the talking. John didn't disappoint.

"Look, Tom," John said, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. "We know the weddin’s close. Couple weeks, yeah? But at the rate you're going... you’re not gonna make it three more days. None of us fuckin' are."

Tommy had no patience for this. "And what’s that supposed to mean?"

Arthur opened his mouth, stalled as they walked into his office, and John just powered through, blunt as ever. "She's carrying your kid, mate. Pregnant women... they can still do things, you know? Put a man out of his misery."

Arthur winced like he'd been struck. John gave him a look that said what?

And that was exactly the moment Rory strolled in through the door, having caught just enough to stiffen like he’d been slapped. 

"The fuck did you just say about my sister?" Rory snapped, his voice low and dangerous as he marched right up to John. "Eh?"

Arthur put his hands up immediately, stepping between Rory and John. "Easy, lad. It’s not like that."

Rory’s eyes burned into John’s, jaw clenched tight. And while John would tell anyone he wasn't afraid of taking on Rory, his body language said otherwise. Rory grew more fearless and dangerous by the day.

John, for once, looked like he was regretting his lack of filter. "What I meant," John said quickly, "is that it’s...natural. Happens all the time. I should know, I've got four kids and one on the way. When the missus is far enough along and feelin' better, sometimes a man--" He caught Arthur’s glare and wisely shut his mouth.

Tommy, behind the desk, simply leaned back in his chair, his arms folding slowly across his chest, watching the chaos he hadn't even had to cause this time. Just watched Rory fuming and Arthur trying to calm him and John trying, badly, to explain himself. Watching them, he didn't feel anger or even irritation. It was something closer to... relief.

Even with all the chaos, the sharp edges and raised voices, the display of loyalty pleased him. Rory, stepping in like a man ready to throw fists for his sister’s honor. Arthur, clumsy but trying to defend her too. John, an idiot sometimes, but with the right heart underneath all that roughness. His family. His girl’s family now too. And it grounded him more than he wanted to admit. As he sat there behind the desk, he realized he wasn’t holding everything up by himself. What if he was allowed to look forward to the life they were building instead of constantly bracing for it to fall apart?

Still... he wasn’t about to let them see that softness. 

Clearing his throat sharply, he said, deadpan, "John, shut your mouth before the lad finishes what he started."

Arthur laughed, Rory huffed but stepped back, and even John gave a sheepish grin. And just like that, the tension broke.

Tommy felt something like hope. The kind of hope that scared a man like him more than any gun ever could. He'd always had something to lose, his own family, who were worth more than money, power, or even reputation. Now his family was expanding. The girl he loved and the child he hadn't even met yet. He had a brother-in-law who would bleed for him. He had a mother-in-law who looked at him like he was a decent man, even when he didn't believe it himself.

All of them mattered more than anything he’d fought for in Small Heath. He would burn the whole bloody world down before he let anyone take it away from him.

It was almost sunset, and he decided to call it an early day, grabbing his coat and cap and heading out of the betting shop. 

"Think about what I said!" John called after him. 

How could he bloody not think about it? 

As his girl regained her strength, his mind dove straight into the gutter. It had literally been months since he'd last had her, and no one but himself to blame. But his needs had started bleeding in far more often than he would like. Memories of when they'd been together, so many dirty thoughts of what he wanted to do with her. And as the days stretched on, with the added worry of returning her to health and the wedding coming up, Tommy knew he'd been the devil to deal with over the last couple of weeks to everyone, sometimes even a little impatient with her when he didn't need to be.

He found Nadya where she normally was at this time of day, enjoying a spot of tea in the shop her brother owned. Tommy leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest, watching as Nadya packed away the last of her tools into her battered leather satchel. She glanced up, those sharp Romani eyes narrowing slightly in amusement.

"You wanted to confirm it with me, didn’t you?" she said, snapping the bag shut with a definitive thud.

Tommy’s brow furrowed, the faintest crease between his eyes. "Confirm what?"

Nadya smiled, a sly knowing smile that made him feel like a boy caught stealing sweets from a market stall.

"I told her today," she said casually, slinging the bag over her shoulder. "She’s well enough now. Even for those activities."

Tommy's face didn’t move, working hard at not reacting to her words. His body was a different story. "You think I need your permission for that?" he asked coolly.

"No," Nadya said simply, brushing past him toward the hall. She stopped, turning her head to pin him with a look both maternal and amused. "You’ve been patient with her. But you don't have to treat her like glass anymore."

Tommy stayed in the doorway a moment after she left, the weight of her words settling deep into his chest. He could move carefully, quietly, plan every step a man took toward power and survival. But when it came to her, no plan had ever been enough. No timing ever perfect. No strategy ever foolproof.

He’d waited because she mattered more than anything else. Because her safety, her strength, her heart, they were worth more than the world he’d built with blood and iron.

And now, Nadya had taken away the excuse he hadn’t even admitted he was clinging to. It wasn’t fear, but reverence. It was the awful, aching knowledge that she wasn’t just another piece of his life. She was his life. 

Tommy straightened slowly, the familiar weight of resolve sliding back into his bones like armor. Straightening his cap, he exhaled hard, and headed for the mansion. He had no intention of waiting another minute.

Your mother had just left, taking the mending she'd brought you yesterday with her, all finished. Her business was thriving now that she was out from under the cruel yoke of her second husband and it turns out she really did need your help to get it all done. On top of that, she'd brought the first set of dresses she'd made for you at Tommy's request. You hadn't tried them on yet but they looked exquisite and you were excited to wear them. 

Polly and Ada were gossiping about John and someone named Angel while you held baby Karl on your lap. You heart melted at the way he reached for your fingers, how he giggled when you bounced him on your knee. It made you think you couldn't wait to meet your own baby. Would it be a boy? A girl? Would he or she be a happy baby like Karl?

They would if you had any say in it. 

When you heard the front door close, you assumed it was Rory. When he came to visit you, it was usually around this time. But when you heard the heavy steps coming up the hall, you knew they weren't your brother's. They were Tommy's and he was home early. When he reached the sitting room, he didn't wander in like he was joining the conversation. He came to a stop, his intense gaze fixed on you, and the baby on your lap. You smiled at him but he wasn't returning it. Was something wrong?  

You barely had time to set Baby Karl back into Ada’s waiting arms before Tommy marched straight for you, his hand closing around yours, firm and insistent. Not rough, but not leaving room for argument either.

"Come with me," he said, low and urgent, his voice vibrating against your skin more than your ears.

You blinked up at him, your heart giving a little stutter. His coat was still damp from the light rain outside, hair slightly mussed, tie a little loosened like he hadn't bothered adjusting it properly. His blue eyes, sharp and stormy, barely moved to Polly and Ada in acknowledgment before fastening right back onto you.

Polly arched a brow, giving you a smile over the rim of her teacup. Ada, smirking slightly, jiggled Karl on her knee like she'd seen this coming.

You opened your mouth to ask what was going on, only to be gently but firmly tugged to your feet, your words swallowed by the suddenness of it. "Tommy--" you started.

"Later," he said under his breath. His thumb brushed across your knuckles, an unconscious gesture, almost soothing, but the iron in his grip said otherwise.

Whatever this was, he wasn’t playing. He didn’t wait for your protests or offer explanations, just steered you toward the hall and out of earshot. And then you were alone with him.The soft creak of the mansion’s stairs underfoot as he dragged you in the direction of the bedroom. The low thud of your heartbeat grew louder, but he didn’t let go until you reached the door, and even then, only to open it and guide you inside. When the door shut behind you with a quiet click, you finally found your voice again.

"Tommy, what’s--"

But the look in his eyes, dark, determined, a little wild around the edges, silenced you all over again. Tommy didn’t speak right away. He just stood there for a long moment, staring at you like he wasn’t sure how to start -- like the words were trapped somewhere deep in his chest, behind walls he usually never let anyone near.

You shifted slightly, nerves twisting tighter. “Tommy…?” you said, softer this time.

He moved then, two slow steps forward until he was standing close enough that you had to tip your chin up to hold his gaze. Close enough that you could feel the faint tremor of restrained energy radiating off him like heat.

“I talked to Nadya today," he said finally, voice rough-edged but steady.

You blinked, confused for a second, then your heart skipped a beat as the meaning caught up. “Oh,” you managed, your throat suddenly dry as you recalled her parting remarks.

“She said you’re well enough now... " His gaze moved over you, at the way your hands slid up his chest, and something inside him softened. Not enough to stop him from stepping closer though. Not enough to save you from the way his voice dropped lower, dangerous. “She said I don’t have to be afraid to touch you anymore.”

You swallowed hard. Your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

“I knew you needed time,” he went on, softer now. His hand lifted, slow and careful, tracing over your cheek. "You needed to heal. To choose me again, if you wanted to.," he said, thumb tracing the line of your jaw, feather-light. 

The words punched through you with devastating tenderness. Your voice trembled when you spoke. “I didn’t stop wanting you, Tommy.”

His breath hitched, a sharp, wrecked little sound. He leaned in, forehead brushing yours, and you heard the smile in his voice when he whispered. "Then marry me soon, eh, love? Before I lose my fucking mind."

And you smiled too, because now there was nothing between you and him but truth. He caught that smile with a kiss before it could slip away. He wasn't rough or urgent, but his kiss was deep, like he was anchoring himself to you all over again. His hands framed your face, strong but trembling slightly, like he was holding something breakable. You felt him breathing you in, savoring the moment, not rushing it. So much hunger thrumming just beneath the surface, and he fought it back so you'd know this wasn’t just about possession.

When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing raggedly. “You tell me no,” he rasped, “and I’ll stop. Right here."

But you didn’t want him to stop. Instead, you reached for him, fisting your hands in the front of his vest, and pulled him into you.

That was all it took.

Tommy’s control shattered like glass underfoot. Gone was the measured restraint, the careful distance. In its place was pure, raw need. He swept you into his arms effortlessly, cradling you against his chest as if you weighed nothing at all. You barely had time to let out a breathless gasp before he was carrying you across the room. There was no more distance. No more doubt. Just Tommy and you, and everything waiting to be claimed.

Tommy set you down on the bed with a gentleness that didn’t match the fire in his eyes. His hands lingered at your waist, just holding you there for a moment, almost like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. Then, slowly, he sank to his knees before you. Carefully, he tugged loose the laces and buttons of your dress with a patience that had your heart flying in your chest, making you ache. His hands trembled, moved carefully like each garment he pulled from you was something sacred. Tommy undressed you like he was unwrapping a gift he never thought he'd receive or deserve. And when you were bare before him, vulnerable and all his, he didn’t rush to take.

He took a moment to just gaze at you. His hands skimmed your hips, your thighs, your arms, everywhere with a slowness that set your nerves alight. Like he was memorizing you, tracing every inch he’d nearly lost, branding it to memory. His palms were warm and rough, a contrast that made you shiver under his touch.

"Jesus Christ,” he murmured, voice wrecked and raw, as his hands cradled your slightly swollen belly. His thumb brushed in slow, trembling strokes over your skin. “You're beautiful."

Tears stung the backs of your eyes, but you blinked them away. You didn’t want to cry right now. Not when he was looking at you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

When he leaned up, pressing his mouth to your stomach with aching tenderness, you released the breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. He breathed you in like a vow and all you could do was tremble, caught in the gaze of those ice-blue eyes. 

When Tommy finally moved to join you on the bed, it was slow and careful. He shed his own clothing without flourish. Shedding layers until it was only skin against skin, heat against heat. Pulling you up the bed, his body covered yours, but he didn't crush or overwhelm. He surrounded you, and you wound yourself around him like a vine. He was warm, his weight on you felt so good. 

"Tell me if I hurt you," he whispered fiercely against your ear. "Tell me and I'll stop."

You shook your head, breathless already. "You won't." You trusted him with everything.

Tommy kissed you again, slower this time, coaxing rather than claiming. His hands never stopped moving over your body, tracing your shoulders, your breasts. His heated lips followed after, teasing your nipples until they ached. His mouth blazed a trail down to your tummy, lower... When his mouth covered you, you sucked in a breath as your hands slid into his hair. No matter how much you begged, pleaded with him, he took his time with you. Your hands clutched in his hair, your back arching wildly, as he took a long taste of you, working you up. Just the sight of it would be burned into your mind for the rest of your life. The view of his head between your thighs, the way he was grinding himself into the mattress as he did. He kept you dancing on the tip of his tongue until you came, your breathy cries filling the room. And you were beyond any place where you were worried about who could hear. 

Your eyes were closed, you were just trying to breathe when he moved back up to you, his kiss smearing the taste of your own desire across your lips. His hands were running up and down your hips and thighs, short nails raking across your skin as he went. It sent chills through your body, had you trembling beneath him. It took you a moment to realize, he was trying to keep himself under control. 

You opened your eyes in time to see him take himself in hand, his knees pushing yours apart. Tommy started pushing into you and it stung at first, it had been a while. But he moved with such care, slow, watching your face the entire time for any sign of distress. When he reached the end of you, his forehead pressed to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut like he was holding back the entire fucking world just to make this good for you.

"I've got you," he rasped. "I swear to God, I've got you."

Tommy started moving, slowly, capturing your hands with his, lacing his fingers through yours. Your thighs cradled his hips and he buried his face in your neck, brushing hot kisses in the hollow below your ear. His breath was hot on your skin and your heart pounded in time with his. 

"Saw you with Ada's baby in your arms," he rasped near your ear, making you shiver as he moved in you. "It was all I could do not to fucking come right then and there..." His thrusts were firm now, a little faster. "I can't fucking concentrate... Not with a piece of me growing inside you. You have any bloody idea what that fuckin' does to me?"

One hand slid between you, his fingers seaching through your folds until he found your clit, zeroing in on it with strokes that were maddeningly delicate. One hand free now and you just used it to hang onto him as he changed how he touched you, learning what took you apart when you didn't know yourself. 

"Once this child is born," he went on, his deep voice and dirty words pushing you closer to the edge of oblivion, "I'm going to breed you again. Fuck another baby into you... Keep you full of me... I want everyone to know... who you belong to."

You came again on his cock, his voice sending you flying this time. Your walls fluttering around him as he drove on inside you, filling you over and over. All you could do was hold on, your cries muffled into his shoulder. 

When he finally reached his end, a deep sob pulled from his chest. You loved seeing him like that, so lost in you that his eyes were closed, his full lips parted as his breath came in a rush along with yours. You held him, moving with him as he finally finished, pumping himself into you in a frenzy. 

Some minutes later you were dozing. Tommy rolled onto his back, gathering you against him without hesitation. He pulled you onto his chest like he needed you there to breathe. His hands didn’t stop moving, slow strokes down your spine, careful sweeps along your arms, his thumb brushing the back of your hand where it rested against his heart. You felt it beating, strong and steady beneath your palm. You wondered if he could feel yours too, wild and tender, tangled up in him.

For a long time, neither of you said a word, but the silence was safe and warm. Eventually, you shifted slightly to look up at him, your cheek still pressed against his skin. His eyes found yours instantly, and what you saw there-- it wrecked you. No walls or armor up, just him. 

You saw the question in his face before he could ask. "That felt wonderful," you whispered, needing him to hear it.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead. "Good," he said hoarsely.

You rested there for a moment longer, feeling the way he tucked you even closer. His hand slipped to your stomach again, his thumb tracing lazy, absentminded circles over the faint curve. It made something inside you ache, soft and fierce all at once.

“You’re tired,” he murmured, voice lower now, rumbling against your ear.

You nodded slightly, unable to lie to him. It had been a long day, a beautiful one. But it had worn you thin.

Tommy shifted carefully, pulling the covers up around both of you. He moved you with him until you were fully tucked against his side, your head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped securely around you. You felt him settle, the tension drained from his body.

As you drifted, heavy and content, you heard his voice again, rough and tender, threading through the dark. “You’re my wife now. In every way that matters. And soon, you'll be mine by law... And no one’s ever takin’ you away from me again.”

It wasn’t a threat, but a truth. Pure and simple. As certain and unshakable as the earth beneath you.

You pressed a soft kiss to his chest, right over his heart where a ring of black sun rays were tattooed to his chest, and closed your eyes, letting sleep pull you under. You didn't have to run now, and you were no longer afraid.

You were exactly where you belonged.

You stirred slowly, the cool weight of morning pressing against your skin. For a moment, you were alone in the warm cocoon of sleep, until you shifted, and the faint sound of breathing, steady and controlled, reached your ears. Your heart skipped. When you turned your head slightly,  there he was. Tommy, fully dressed, perched at the edge of the bed like he had all the time in the world. His jacket slung over the chair. His cap on the bedside table. His elbows rested on his knees, head tipped slightly toward you, just watching.

You didn’t even think. Half-asleep, your hand reached blindly for the shirt he’d worn the night before, crumpled in the sheets, and pulled it on over your bare skin. It hung off you, swallowing you up, sleeves draping past your fingers.

When you glanced back at him, Tommy’s mouth twitched, the ghost of something darker and tender all at once glinting in his eyes. He didn’t say a word at first. Just let his gaze move over you, slow and possessive, like he was memorizing the sight.

“You love me yet, eh?” His voice was rough silk. A little cocky, but a little unsure. And it cut through the quiet of the bedroom like a match to kindling.

You gave a breathless little laugh, barely a sound, and pushed yourself up on your elbows, the shirt falling loose around your shoulders. 

Before you could answer that, he moved, pulling something from the pocket of his coat. It was a small black velvet box that he flipped open between his hands, holding it toward you. Inside, nestled against dark satin, was a shiny, new ring that was just beautiful in its simplicity. It was heavy gold framing a single deep emerald accented by a ring of tiny diamonds.

Tommy’s voice, when it came, was low. A little raw. “Marry me. Not ‘cause you owe me and not ‘cause of the child. Just because it’s you and me. And there’s no one else for either of us.”

For a second, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. And then, without thinking, without a doubt in your head, you just launched yourself into his arms. 

Tommy caught you with a grunt of surprise, one arm locking tight around your waist as you nearly knocked him backward on the bed. His other hand cradled the back of your head like something priceless. No  more hesitation or second-guessing. When you finally pulled back enough to see him, tears blurring your vision, you nodded fiercely. So hard it made him huff a quiet breath of laughter against your forehead.

Carefully, he slipped the ring onto your finger with shaking fingers, his thumb brushing your knuckles after like he didn’t want to let go. He kissed you then, slow and deep, taking his time. And when he finally broke the kiss, when he tucked you against him, holding you there like the last piece of something he never thought he’d have, he murmured against your hair. “Gonna need my shirt back, love.”

The smile that bloomed on your face hurt in the best way.

You were his. And somehow, impossibly, he was yours too.

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