#dark swan rising
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pk-kai · 9 months ago
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Dark Choco and Peppermint Bark take a look at the PureCacao family tree.
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It’s a bit…
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Interesting to say the least…
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gothluke · 2 years ago
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creds to this post
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darkparablesgainira · 2 years ago
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How the neural network sees the characters of the Dark Parables
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my-desertroses · 3 months ago
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I'm a bit sad. I have been a long time fan of the Dark Parables games that were developed by Blue Tea Games and Eipix Entertainment and released by Big Fish Games and I just found out that there probably won't be any more. The reason for this is that Blue Tea Games has been inactive since sometime in 2019, which was the year of the release of the 16th, and probably final, game in the series; Dark Parables: Portrait of the Stained Princess. So I checked Eipix Entertainment, ya know, just in case, and it turns out Eipix Entertainment was acquired by Playrix Entertainment that same year and has not released any new games on its own since so now I'm sad. On the bright side, I do have all 16 games and can play them anytime I want but I'm still sad that there probably won't be any new ones because they're so good!!!
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caffeinewitchcraft · 3 months ago
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The Fool Dies
Summary: You are a villain known for telling the future. When a Hero kills your right hand, you’ll let the future burn to get her back.
Hero Cowboy kills your henchman after you’ve already surrendered.
Gunshot silence, the scent of iron heavy in your nose, the crippling cold that floods your chest. All familiar sensations, companions you’ve carried with you since you even became a villain, but this time—
This time it’s…different.
You’re on your knees, the rock salt on the road digging into your kneecaps, with your hands above your head, the ghost of your signature smirk fading fast. The street isn’t empty. There are witnesses. The Hero pulls his punches when there are cameras and citizens and teammates. That’s what your plan says. He pulls his punches.
She asked if you were willing to bet her life on that and you said yes.
Your henchman’s body is stuck in the crumpled side of a car. You see her out of your peripheral, the pale oval of her face unencumbered by the mask you’d lovingly bestowed upon her six years ago. Cowboy backhanded it off of her as she was falling to her knees beside you. There is wet and red and twisted metal dancing foggily around her. The air is harsh and cold to breathe. The world is wavering as tears flood your eyes. You can’t blink them away. If you do, you won’t be able to see her just at the corner of your vision, you won’t be able to watch for a breath you already know won’t come, you’re afraid she’ll disappear—
“Clever to pretend to surrender,” the Hero says. He’s like a swan, spreading his arms out so the leather tassels lining the underside of his sleeves look like wings. He tips his head back so that the news cameras rushing in can catch the strength of his jaw under his wide-brimmed hat. She’d managed to singe it in the fight and the light catches in his blue eyes through the resulting hole. “Was it worth it, Prophetess? Was your attempt on my life worth the life of your sidekick?”
Snow falls, a few flakes here and there. The street is lit like the middle of the day thanks to the news cameras swarming out of the side streets now that the fight is over. The fire is being put out and thick curls of smoke rise from just beyond the gathering crowd of onlookers.
Your spellbook is lying a hundred feet away at the bottom of the lake. That’s why the Hero is flaunting himself in front of the cameras, trying to minimize her death at his hand. He did what he had to do. They were wrong, not him. Unfortunate but expected. The Hero always wins.
She’s gone.
The Fool. She always wanted a different name. But you were adamant she wouldn’t receive one until she earned one outside of her service to you. Until then, her name was a reflection of your journey. Your first step, foolish and unknowing, young and ignorant of the consequences. The name felt right when you called it and you never thought to question why. Only now can you taste your own cruel power in the decision. The power of prophecy spelled her fate out in front of you and, like always, you didn’t listen.
Your tattered cloak ripples in the breeze coming off the water. The vibrant purple is stained with soot and worse, the once smooth velvet charred and eaten away at by the Fire Cowboy’s flames.
They don’t remember that you surrendered before he struck. He’s dismissed your uncharacteristic action as an act, and so the world will too. The Prophetess always lies. Isn’t that the first line in your Hero Force file? The Prophetess has no powers of divination; she lies.
The world is magic. You believe it like the sun, like the earth, like the ocean—
--like her—
--and there is magic even here. The spell of your grief rises over your head like a shroud and, for a moment, you are drowning in the dark as the world heaves. You can taste the last cup of coffee she ever gave you going sour at the back of your mouth, the small daily comfort washing away under the metallic scent of her blood. There is a purple current around your thoughts, painful and biting. You will always be in this moment with her jester’s mask – cruel, you are so cruel – leering up at you, closer to your hands than her. How did you let her get so far out of reach?
Why didn’t you hold her close?
“I asked,” Cowboy says from directly in front of you, “if it was worth it?”
The world pulses back into purple focus. Cowboy is looming over you and the smoke of your battle rises into the night behind him. The media jockeys closer the longer you are silent and they’re inching around the car she’s lying against.
“Tell them to get away from her,” you say. Normal, your voice is so normal. Your arms are burning from holding your hands over your head and your neck aches from forcing yourself not to look. You are afraid your tears will fall if you blink so you stare at the gaudy belt buckle in front of your face. Your eyes are purple in the reflection and your face is as pale as hers. “P-please.”
Cowboy must kill all the time. He has no problem glancing towards the slowly gathering swarm and you can feel his eyes on her body as if they were on your own. “They’re trying to help her.”
“She’s beyond helping,” you say. Why would they even try? You can’t even look at her and you can tell that. “I don’t want anyone touching her.”
“They’re not monsters,” Cowboy says. There’s a scoff and then he’s crouching in front of you. He smells like singed leather. “Not like you.”
You’ve never seen the Hero this close. He’s older than you thought, only a few years shy of your age. His stubble is darkened with soot and his nose bears scars of past battles. His eyes—they’re not blue. You can see the edge of brown behind his contacts, the same deep brown as his mask.
“You killed her,” you say.
“No, you did.” He answers you so quickly it’s like he was waiting for those exact words. He tilts his head so the brim of his hat hides his lips in shadow. “She wouldn’t have died if it weren’t for you.”
He’s so confident that you nearly believe him. Your hands ache with phantom bruises from the blows and the weight of your sin falls onto your shoulders like the sky itself coming to rest there.
--------------.
 You see the trajectory of her life lined in gold. Her first day at your firm, her finding out your identity, her wavering in front of the window overlooking the Charlotte skyline as she admitted to knowing exactly who you are and how you’d been hiding more than your fair share of power all along.
That moment shines. She wasn’t the Fool then. She ripped her pencil skirt up the side as you debated her fate. When you asked her why, she said in case she needed to run.
“You would run from me?” you asked, eyebrow raised, conveying with expression alone how ridiculous you found the idea of her getting away was.
“I would,” she said. She grinned unhappily. “You can kill me, but you’ll break a sweat doing it.”
You laughed and held out your hand. When she took it, the outline of her life changed. No longer edged in gold. All black. A night sky all around her.
“You’re a fool for this,” you told her.
“The biggest one around,” she said, chagrined. Then she laughed with you.
You’ll never hear her laugh again.
----------.
There is a protocol for arresting a villain. Cowboy is already so outside of Hero Force code that it takes a while for things to be ready. He stands over you for the better part of an hour, smiling at the cameras, glaring you into submission, waving to the officers that eventually come to secure the scene.
An ambulance comes to take her body away. Only when they load her into it do you move. You watch the side of the vehicle like you can see through it. Cowboy tenses when it starts to drive away, but you don’t twitch. Her body isn’t her. If you start clinging to it now, you will never let her go.
“I know they call you Cowboy,” a woman drawls, “but you aren’t supposed to act like one.”
The reporters leap out of Strongwoman’s way. Barely five feet, Strongwoman is a super hero. Nobody is willing to get too close, regardless of how good and moral she is. The dark-haired woman is one of the few heroes who don’t wear a mask. No villain is stupid enough to think that makes her weak. Her dark eyes catalogue the scene quickly and efficiently. The ground rumbles as she approaches.
“Heat of battle,” Cowboy dismisses. His shoulders relax with another hero to support him and he shakes out his leather vest. Soot and snow falls from him. “Literally.”
“Hm.” Strongwoman finally turns the weight of her attention towards you. “Where’s her spellbook?”
“Bottom of the lake.”
“She hasn’t tried to summon it?”
“Her minion was in charge of that.”
Strongwoman’s voice whips. “We don’t call them minions.”
“Sorry.”
“You should be,” Strongwoman says. She folds her arms across her chest. She always gives the impression of being wrapped in armor and it takes you a moment to realize she’s wearing a tank top despite the cold. The muscles in her arms twitch. “That’s your third body this year.”
Cowboy hisses, eyes flying over her head towards the reporters. “Don’t—” A coalition of people in dark suits are already herding the media away. Cowboy’s lips thin. “Not in public.”
Strongwoman raises an eyebrow. She reaches down with one hand and hauls you up by the collar of your robes. “Fine. The car then.” She frowns at the way your hands hang by your sides. “You didn’t cuff her?”
“She doesn’t have her spellbook.”
“Protocol, Cow.”
“It’s Cowboy.”
“…”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
Strongwoman cuffs your hands behind your back. The familiar sting of power suppressors races up your arms. The last time someone managed to get them on you, the Fool had to break them off once you escaped. You feel her breath against the shell of your ear and her voice whispers, Now who will do it for you?
Her memory is another spell on you. The edges of your life – dark and violently violet – cover your eyes so that you’re blind and deaf to the world around you. Once this new incantation runs its course, you’re sitting in the back of a Hero Force car. The grate between you and the front seat is closed. Beyond it, you can see Strongwoman at the wheel, shoulders vibrating with tension. Cowboy is sitting in the passenger seat like a petulant child.
You read their lips in the rearview mirror.
--review, Strongwoman says. Three. Three deaths on your hands.
This one was just a villain—
Tell that to Foresight. I beg you. See how he likes that excuse.
Cowboy changes tactics. You know the Prophetess is basically an S-Class—
Without her spellbook?
She had it for most of the fight.
Did she?
You lean your head back and close your eyes. Cowboy’s been operating alone for too long. They’ll likely stick him in probation and then transfer him to a hero team with an established leader. Maybe Atlas’ team in San Francisco or Light’s team in LA. Hell, if they really want to punish him, they’ll assign him to Omit’s team in Chicago. The guy’s the most righteous and the most powerless leader out there. Cowboy might actually become a villain if he’s forced to follow that guy’s lead.
“He’ll suffer,” you say in your prophecy voice.
A speaker crackles to life overhead. “No divination,” Cowboy snaps.
“I wasn’t talking about you,” you say.
“Prophetess lies,” Strongwoman says to Cowboy. “Remember, she always lies.”
“It’s still a threat—”
“Prophetess,” Strongwoman says. “Let’s go over next steps. When we get to Charlotte HQ, you’ll be taken to a secure floor where you’ll be asked to remove your mask. It’s important that you understand your identity will remain confidential until your loved ones can be secured—”
“He killed her,” you interrupt. You watch the ceiling of the car. “I can tell you my identity now if you’d like.”
There’s a pause. “That won’t be necessary,” Strongwoman says. Is it just you, or is her voice a little softer? “There is a proper course to this investigation.”
The way she says it makes it sound like she’s promising you something.
It’s like your mind is scrambling for connection to her. There is nothing in what Strongwoman says that reminds you of the Fool. And yet, as the car falls back into weighted silence, one word rings. Proper.
There is a proper way, the Fool whispers. You could fight this spell, but don’t. You sink into the car seat the best you can with your hands behind your back. Hear me out.
Please, you think. By all means.
------.
The first time you ask her to dinner, you’re too hasty. There’s blood on the hem of your robes (possibly a tooth) and the city is still screaming the sirens of your escape. The Fool isn’t shivering like the rest of your henchman; she is standing next to you. Her Jester’s mask is carefully secured with three exact ties despite the haste with which she put it on.
“I can never wear this skirt again,” she says. She is standing on the very edge of the building, the toes of her sensible work shoes a bare inch away from nothing. “This was my best work skirt.”
The city sparks with the purple of your magic, violet vines climbing the buildings and blocking your view of the street below. Your magic is mostly illusion, but all power leaves behind a mark. Where your spell has started to fade remains a charred outline of leaves and flowers against the concrete and stone of the buildings.
While the rest of your minions look a bit like chimney sweeps, the Fool remains untouched. It’s an obvious sign of favoritism; you had room for one other person underneath your cloak and you chose her.
Somehow the memory of her pressed against your side as she used her power to lift you both up to the rooftop makes you blush.
“You don’t have any residue on you,” you say. “You can stitch it up.”
She scoffs. At you. “It’s recognizable, Prophetess.”
It’s really not. The black pencil skirt is the same kind she wore when you first met. How many does she go through? You find yourself smiling at her bare thigh.  Since she first told you she knew who you were, you’ve seen her rip at least three.
“Something amuse you?” she asks. Her voice is short and snappish, the tone she uses when one of the other paralegals aren’t as thorough as they need to be with the briefs. She turns to face you so that the setting sun lights her outline in orange and pink and gold.
“Have dinner with me,” you say.
And for a moment, the hope of her saying yes is as blinding as the sun behind her. Her lips part and you imagine that her eyes widen behind her jester’s mask. A wind picks at the long strands of her hair, sending them fluttering around her like a halo, and you’re standing so close that one brushes your cheek.
“There is a proper way,” she says and then stops. Her right hand twitches at her side. “There is—” is she stuttering? “This isn’t—Prophetess.”
You’re fascinated. She’s always so precise with her words. Even when you threatened her all those months ago she never once floundered like she’s doing now. “Hmm?”
“Hear me out,” she says.
You nod. “Of course.” You lean forward so that you’re only inches away from her. “I’m listening.”
“This…is not the time,” she says. You feel her attention slide to the others and then back to you. She hisses when she finds you even closer. “Prophetess.”
You don’t want to push too hard.
You lean back onto your good leg. “You let me know when it is time,” you say. Your lips quirk. “My little Fool.”
“Oh my god,” she mutters. She turns sharply on her heel. “Get yourself off the roof. I’m going home.”
You watch as she steps off the roof without hesitation. Her telekinetic powers are unique in that they can work on people too. You usually rely on her to get you home.
Maybe you should have asked her afterwards…
You turn to your other minions. Low-level villains without the drive or power to execute their own heists who all owe you the same favor. You raise your brow. “So how are you lot getting me off this roof?”
“You’ve got legs,” the Ace of Swords says.
“I broke my left one,” you say. And, to prove you aren’t lying, you draw away your cape to show that your pant leg is soaked in red.
The Ace of Swords stares. “This is why she said no.”
“Was that what it sounded like to you?” you ask. His surety makes you frown. “For that, you get to carry me down.”
The Ace of Swords groans as the other Swords flee.
-----------.
Your Swords are not always Swords. Sometimes they are Pentacles or Wands or Cups. There’s meaning to the costuming you put your people through, a meaning that escapes Hero Force.
“Where are the others?” Cowboy growls at you over the interrogation table. He keeps aggressively tapping the photos he flung in front of you. Grainy shots of your Wands storming through the Christmas Parade you used as a cover to kidnap the Mayor, blurry screen grabs from security footage of them as Pentacles in the art museum, a delightful brochure featuring them as Cups in a reproduction of Macbeth you used to do some light money laundering. “If you tell us, we might cut you a deal. Six of your people are being prepared for interrogation right now. Want to bet who breaks first?”
The ghost of you smiles behind your dead eyes, leans forward, and sneers in Cowboy’s face. That version of you is delighted by Cowboy mistaking six people for twenty-four and wants to play the interrogation game he’s offering. But the real you feels as heavy as lead and it takes all your strength to watch as Cowboy slowly works his way into a frenzy.
“For too long you’ve been tormenting this city,” he says. He shakes a finger in your face. “I told Headquarters, I said you were a problem when you first showed up in Raleigh. I said, ‘This one is going to come to Charlotte and she’s going to show up with an army.’ I did. I said that and now you’ve got the largest crew in America.”
“Quite the fortune teller, aren’t you?” you murmur. The Fool is at the front of the brochure, all done up as Macbeth. You’d tried to get her to be Lady Macbeth, but she’d insisted she be the main character for once.
You don’t understand Macbeth, you’d said.
His name is the play, she argued.
Lady Macbeth is the mastermind.
Did you read the play?
Did you?
Neither of you had.
Cowboy slams his hand on the table. “Look, Prophetess, I’m the only chance you’ve got at a deal. As soon as those DC heroes get in here, it’s off the table.”
Ha.
“It would be convenient for you if there were no witnesses,” you observe. “More convenient if you get to them before the DC crowd.”
“Witnesses to what?” Cowboy blusters. But he draws back and his gaze is colder than the Hero Force air conditioning that’s already making this room glacial. “To justice?”
How dare he lie to you? Her pale face haunts your peripheral vision. You can see her in the window of the interrogation room.
“To murder,” you say. Your glares clash when you finally look up at him. The soot is still in his stubble and you imagine you can smell her blood coming from his singed leather vest. “She surrendered. We all saw it.”
“She was an A-rank villain with telekinetic powers strong enough to crush my skull,” Cowboy bites back. “I acted in self-defense.”
“With us both on our knees—”
Cowboy whips his arm across the table, scattering the photos of your people into the air. He slams his hand again. “Last chance. Tell me where the rest of your minions are!”
In your holding cells, you stupid—
“You’re a pathetic worm of a man,” you say. You clear your throat. “Sorry. Let me say it in a way you’ll understand.” You adopt your prophecy voice. “The dust Cowboy leaves behind is red, red as the blood on his hands. His golden star is stained—”
You see the blow coming. Not a prophecy, of course.
You just know what heroes do when their buttons are pushed.
-----.
The second time you ask her to dinner, you’re too stupid for her to say yes. It’s not your fault though. How could you have known the Mayor had superpowers? He didn’t do anything besides embezzle taxpayer money!
“Maybe,” she says tightly, dragging your leaden and paralyzed body through the grand halls of the mayoral house, “you could have done a single iota of research instead of sewing all those costumes.”
Feeling is coming back into your hands. They still ache from finishing the elf-themed Wand costumes you’d made for your employees. You think the group costume of Five of Wands came out particularly well. All those little elves holding giant candy cane wands…a perfect symbol for the tumultuous election Season. You flex your fingers and then wince when the Fool’s nails dig into the soft undersides of your arms. “Ouch. Could you—”
“I am not slowing down,” she says. She grunts as she slings you around another corner. “We need to get to the backyard. Ace is meeting us there with the chopper.”
“Such a waste of money,” you bemoan. The chopper had been Two’s idea and all she does is maintain it. She won’t let you fly it until you get your license. “We should’ve got a boat.”
“Great idea,” the Fool snarls. She adjusts her grip so her nails are now digging into your shoulders rather than your arms. “A giant vehicle we have to keep in the harbor. The heroes would never find that.”
“Okay, you have me there,” you say. Your words are crisper now and you can even push a little with your legs as she pulls you into the empty kitchen. “But consider this. I could take you to dinner on a yacht. I can’t take you to dinner on a helicopter.” She stops in her tracks, head whipping down to look at you. Your noses nearly touch. You grin dopily. “Hi.”
“Are you asking me to dinner right now,” she asks in a tone that tells you you’d better be careful with your answer.
She’s so pretty. That’s why you aren’t careful when you slur, “Yes.”
She drags you through the doorway into the backyard. “I sure hope it’s the drugs making you this stupid.”
“Hey—”
“Hey!”
Both of you look back towards the house to where the Mayor has just appeared. He’s wearing the smoking jacket he’d monologued in and the handkerchief he’d used to drug you is hanging limply in his grip.
He points at you. “You. You should be unconscious! Nobody escapes my venom!”
“Oh gross,” the Fool says. “Does he make the sedatives from his body?”
“From his sweat,” you affirm. Then, raising your voice over the growing sound of the chopper and her gagging, “Maybe you should sweat better drugs, huh?”
The Fool coughs and wheezes. You recognize a laugh in the sound. “Don’t antagonize—”
The Mayor bellows and sweat begins to drip from his forehead. He mops at it with his handkerchief and then advances across the grass. “Get back here!”
“Hahaha,” you say, “He was definitely a hero. I know how to push their buttons.”
It becomes a race to who gets to you first; the chopper or the Mayor.
As usual, the Fool wins.
-----.
Cowboy isn’t allowed in your room after hitting you in the face. You can feel him lurking in the hall outside when Strongwoman takes the seat across from you.
“That…wasn’t supposed to happen,” she says and pinches the bridge of her nose. She’s sitting on a special crate they brought in for her. It creaks when she leans forward. “Are you sure you don’t need medical attention?”
The Fool is the only one you let tend to your wounds. Blood stings your eye. Cowboy was wearing his rings when he hit you. “I’m fine.”
Strongwoman sighs through her nose. She’s short and stocky, dark hair and wide nose. There’s a beauty to her when she’s still and quiet. When she moves? She moves like a threat. “We need to know where your base is,” she says.
“Home is where the heart is,” you say. And you killed mine.
Strongwoman’s lips thin. “Look, if you want the guys who speak riddles, we can wait for them. Or you can answer my questions and maybe we can come to some sort of understanding.”
“Interesting offer.” You lean back and contemplate her. “You have my spell book.”
“Except that,” Strongwoman says immediately. She winces. “Sorry. You’re in custody. The spell book isn’t even on-site anymore.”
“Then you can take these off,” you say, nodding to your cuffs. Their faint glow is making you sick. “As a sign of good faith.”
“Tell me everything about your operation,” Strongwoman retorts. She shakes her head. “Nobody believes you’re harmless without your spellbook.”
“Cowboy does.”
“Cowboy is operating under a lot of false assumptions,” Strongwoman says. She leans forward to match you. “Like the one where you have over 30 lower-level villains working for you.”
“Oh?”
“We have six,” Strongwoman says. “Tell me where the rest are and we can negotiate.”
Ha. She doesn’t know either. You are so good at costuming. It’s not like your henchmen can multiply. There are always just six with you and it’s through your costumes that they transform. You’ll have to tell the Fool—
Your mood sours. Tell the Fool. Who’s the Fool now? You’re not in the mood to play games. “I tell you everything, you let me talk to those you have.”
“No—”
“I don’t know everything about them,” you snap. “You’re asking me to betray my people. Fine, I’ll do that. You lot will pry and pull and claw until you find out anyway. But allow me to give them the chance to tell you about whatever family or loved one they haven’t told me about. If I must take them down with me, at least let them beg Hero Force for leniency for their loved ones.”
Strongwoman considers you. “And what do you want in exchange?”
“Let,” you clear your throat. Your eyes are hot and itchy. “Let me have a moment with them. To mourn one of our own passing. To—” you clear your throat “-to lay the Fool to rest.”
The silence sticks to the walls and builds. It presses into you on all sides until you feel like you’re in a coffin. You once told her you would die with her.
Not allowed, ma’am. I don’t think we’d go to the same place.
You swallow hard and stare at your hands.
“Deal,” Strongwoman says finally.
“Thank you,” you say. Your head bows until your forehead presses against your shaking hands. “Thank you.”
“Cuffs will stay on,” Strongwoman says gruffly. She pulls out a pen and pad. The pen looks like it’s made of metal. “Start talking.”
You do.
-----------------.
The third time you ask her to dinner, she stares at you for a long time. It makes you nervous in a way you haven’t been before, her unrelenting stare. Is it because she’s usually so quick? Or could it be because you can feel her eyes on your bare face for the first time since she stood in your office and called you a villain?
The same office you’re currently standing in now as the sun sets behind her?
“I have concerns,” she says at last.
Oh thank god. You’re smiling too widely. “I can work with concerns.”
“Can you?” Her eyes flash gold with the sun. “You keep asking me out while we’re working,” she says.
You blink. “Do I?”
“You do.”
You consider her words, leaning back against your desk. You’re wearing your pinstriped suit today and it’s getting a little tight. She feeds you before and after every meeting you have and you have a lot of meetings. “I’m always working.”
“That’s true,” she says. She turns on her heel. “And that’s the concern.”
You stand up. “Wait, how is that—”
She stops at the door and turns to look at you in a way that steals your breath. “I am not work,” she says. Her lip twitches. “Nor am I a fool.”
“I know, you’re—”
“Ace says they’re already at the meeting place. According to your schedule, we’re running late.”
“We haven’t finished talking.” You try to sound firm, like you used to. Instead, the words come out as almost a plea. “We can be late.”
“You’re never late. Besides, I hear it’s going to be a regular rodeo.”
“Cowboy? Ha! When did he blow back into town?”
“His probation period is up.”
“Lucky us.”
-----.
Lucky us.
You Fool.
--------.
You look over the bowed heads of your employees. Ace, Two, Five, Eight, Ten, and Page. The room Strongwoman led you to looks like the cockpit of a spaceship. Noxious blue light undulates up the concave walls. There are no chairs in here, no pulpit for you to stand behind.
So your employees kneel when you walk between them all to stand in the very center.
“Prophetess,” Ace says. Her voice is thin and high. “We—I’m so sorry.”
Two looks up. Her face is drawn and there’s a deep bruise along the side of it. “We know how it is to lose.”
“You do,” you murmur. You’re aware of the eyes on you here. You saw Cowboy sneering in the observation room on the other side of this one. There are cameras scattered like black stars across the ceiling. “I know you do. But there is a renewal in Death. If—” you swallow hard “-if you allow it.”
You expect fear. What you’re asking of them has happened exactly six times. The favor they owe is not only to you, but to each other. Death is the complete annihilation of everything you know. It can be the end. Or it can be the beginning.
But it takes people to begin.
And you have asked them too many times before.
“Anything,” they say as one.
Your head shoots up. “What?”
Six of your employees – your friends – return your gaze unflinching.
“If I have to redo everything again, I will,” Ace says. She presses a hand over her heart. You know a picture of her son lies there. “Time doesn’t matter. We won’t lose anything but time.”
“We know we can rebuild,” Two says. Her eyes are fierce. “We can do it better.”
“You taught us how to do it better,” Five says.
“I thought you would’ve already done it,” Page says. He scratches the back of his head. “I didn’t eat lunch thinking you woulda done it by now.”
“You didn’t miss much,” Eight tells him. Then, to you, “You did it for us. Again and again and again—”
“—and again and again and again—”
Eight punches Page. “Shut up.” She breathes in through her nose. “Prophetess. It’s okay. We’re okay.”
“The memories you have made will only remain with you,” you remind them. Your hands are shaking. This—you have asked this favor for the sake of others. Did they feel this vulnerable asking? So hopeful and so full of dread. “It will be different. Time changes all and you who have experienced it—”
“—will be like fortune tellers in a strange new land,” Ace says. “We know.”
“We’re okay with it.”
“Are you?”
The time is approaching. You can hear voices outside the room. Ten minutes. She’d promised you thirty, but you figured they’d interrupt sooner. Especially considering what you’re saying.
You breathe in deeply through your nose. You think of her pencil skirt and her flashing eyes and her warm smile. The ghost of her pale face is fading into blackness as this curtain closes.
Your resolve firms. It was a bad ending. As a villain, you’re allowed to rewrite those.
“Tonight,” you say in your whispering voice, “we rebalance the deck.”
The blue in the room flickers. The voices in the corridor gain urgency. The cuffs around your wrist flare and then go dormant.
“I see my son a babe again,” Ace sings. Her eyes burn with your purple power as she brings her hands up towards you. The memory of the favor you granted her rises with her words. “I hold his hand.”
The blue flickers purple and electricity arcs. The Hero Force suppressors are to stop superpowers.
There is very little they can do against fate.
“I see the bus that takes them away,” Page says. He doesn’t sing. His voice is as dry as the desert and he salutes you. His hand glows against his temple. “They get on it.”
“I see my friend at the crossroads,” Two says. She holds her hands palm up and tilts her head to the sky. Tears of neon violet fall down her face. “I follow them.”
“The power I have falls into my hands like rain,” Eight says. She cups her hands in front of her and they fill with your power until it spills over onto the ground. “I drink from it.”
“The harm I caused erased,” Five says. He crosses his arms over his chest and bows his head. A halo the color of lilac blooms over his head. “I atone.”
“I do better,” Ten says simply.  They stand with their hands by their sides. Their eyes burn with your power and they do not flinch. “I don’t bury them.”
Your power crawls along the walls. There are no more blue arcs of power. There are purple flowers and thorns that leave shadows in their wake. They seal the door shut and you are distantly aware that Strongwoman is trying to smash her way inside and can’t.
Fate takes a different type of strength to overpower.
“I see her again,” you say. The tides of the world pull at your long hair. You are drowning in light. The ground shakes under your feet. You think of her life outlined in gold, yourself outlined in gold. Is it possible you can see it glittering there in the unrelenting ocean flooding into you? “I see her again.”
Thunder crashes and everything becomes nothing.
-----------.
You are at your desk. You blink at the pages lying before you. A brief. A case. From four years ago.
You release a trembling breath. You never doubted it would work but it’s a relief to see not so much time has passed. Ace will still share some memories with her son. Page will not have to sit by his brothers’ bedsides again. Ten won’t be trapped in her father’s house.
The rest…the rest will not expect your help. You didn’t help them the last three times. Cruel, maybe. Fate often is.
You think Two is in Charlotte at this point. She mentioned something about a halfway house…
You freeze grabbing your coat as familiar footsteps echo from the hall outside your door. The skyline is twinkling with city lights, but it’s nearly midnight. Nobody should be here, you don’t remember anyone being here at this time—
The door opens without a knock. Her hair is chopped beneath her ears and she has a lip piercing and there isn’t a pencil skirt to be found. But it’s her. It’s her.
“Anika,” you breathe.
Her gold eyes flick to you, to your desk, to your coat in your hand. “You working?”
“N-no,” you say. Your words pile up behind your teeth. Do you remember? Of course you do, otherwise how would you be here. But how? Did I infect you? Did the outline of my life really drag you into my power enough--
Anika waits. When you continue to stare at her, she prods, “I’m not your paralegal.”
“You don’t look like you’ve even finished your degree,” you blurt out. You point. “A lip piercing?”
Anika rubs her piercing. “I’m not the Fool,” Anika says patiently.
A light bulb goes off. “Oh,” you say. “Oh!” You get down on one knee. “Anika, will you marry me—” Anika throws her purse at you. It misses by about three feet. You stand and try again. “I mean, will you go to dinner with me?”
“Yes, I’ll go to dinner with you.” Anika rubs a hand over her face. “Everytime I give you an inch, you take a mile—"
“For the rest of our lives,” you promise.
Anika shakes a finger at you. “Dinner.”
“It’s a beginning,” you say cheerfully.
The best one you’ve ever had.
-------.
Thanks for reading! I do love my supervillain stories and appreciate you for making it through this one! Sometimes I wonder if I can even write flash fiction anymore haha
Next week's story is already up on my Patreon (X)! I'm super excited to share it as it made me laugh writing it. It's an AITA style post from a woman who used to be a Cryptid professionally and feels like she's made a misstep with her Slasher boyfriend.
See y'all next time!
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bloodydeanwinchester · 1 month ago
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based off imdb ratings again. i was going to leave lazarus rising off for the same reason i left swan song off the season finale poll but im afraid you guys might kill me
click the read more if you want to see the episode ratings
1x01 -> 8.5 2x01 -> 9.2 3x01 -> 8.4 4x01 -> 9.4 5x01 -> 8.7 7x01 -> 8.9 8x01 -> 8.2 9x01 -> 8.6 10x01 -> 8.2 11x01 -> 8.5 12x01 -> 8.3 13x01 -> 8.7
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celestialtarot11 · 6 months ago
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Placements in your chart that can indicate otherworldliness 🌊🤍
Hey friends! Today we’re looking at placements that indicate otherworldliness or etherealness 🕊️ Enjoy! Feel free to like comment or reblog!
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• Aquarius sun/rising/moon- Their ethereal charm comes from owning their individuality. After being cast out, set aside and criticized for their personality, Aquarians learn to accept themselves, which creates an otherworldly charm. They have a way of trademarking themselves, like a brand 🤍
• Capricorn moon/rising- Same here, cap moon babies are raised by Saturn’s harsh lessons. They always seem to be in another world, after the experiences they’ve had as a kid. They’ve seen the worst. I think their charm comes from their ability to home multiple perspectives and their ability to shed old selves.
• Neptune 1h- Need I say more? Mermaid like, dreamy, you never truly know this person. They adapt to the environment around them like mist. Always changing their energy, vibe. You think you caught them, only for them to take off 🕊️
• Virgo sun- Literally almost all virgo suns have had an ethereal vibe to them. Like a plant faerie. So put together, effortless and yet with a charm 🌊 Virgo suns are intelligent at knowing what works for them appearance wise, and also carry a grounded energy to them.
• Libra rising/moon- Effortless, graceful, like a swan. Movements are slow, languid. Always there for a good time, and leaves a good impression. Always has a trick up their sleeve to charm anyone 🕊️
• Cancer/sun/moon/rising- Ruled by the moon 😻 Literally. Guided and called by the moon that sits above the water. These natives have an alluring dark aura to them, you cant help but be pulled in. There’s always something to them you feel like you can’t figure out. Almost like the tide pulling you in more and more.
• Pisces placements- Half in one world, half in another. Head is always swimming somewhere else, imagining a story unfolding before them. Everywhere they look, they are captivated by their imagination. You cant help but wonder what they see, how artistic their mind is.
Thanks everyone! That being said, you do not only have to have these placements to be ethereal and unique! So many placements exist and combinations, and so many people have their own vibe 😻🤍 Love ya’ll! Feel free to like, comment and reblog to help this blog 🥥
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greenwitchcrafts · 4 months ago
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September 2024 Witch Guide
New Moon: September 2nd
First Quarter: September 11th
Full moon: September 17th
Last Quarter: September 24th
Sabbats: Mabon- September 22nd
September Harvest Moon
Also known as: Autumn Moon, Child Moon, Corn Harvest Moon, Falling Leaves Moon, Haligmonath, Leaves Turning Moon, Mating Moon, Moon of Brown Leaves, Moon When Dear Paw the Earth, Rutting Moon, Singing Moon, Wine Moon, Witumanoth & Yellow Leaf Moon
Element: Earth
Zodiac: Virgo & Libra
Nature spirts: Trooping Faeries
Deities: Brigid, Ceres, Chang-e, Demeter, Freya, Isis, Depths & Vesta
Animals: Jackal & snake
Birds: Ibis & sparrow
Trees: Bay, hawthorn, hazel & larch
Herbs: Copal, fennel, rye, skullcap, valerian, wheat & witch hazel
Flowers: Lily & narcissus
Scents: Bergamot, gardenia, mastic & storax
Stones: Bloodstone,carnelian, cat's eye, chrysolite, citrine, iolite, lapis lazuli, olivine, peridot, sapphire, spinel(blue), tourmaline(blue) & zircon
Colors: Browns, dark blue, Earth tones, green & yellow
Issues, intentions & powers: Confidence, the home, manifestation & protection
Energy: Balance of light & dark, cleaning & straightening of all kinds, dietary matters, employment, health, intellectual pursuits, prosperity, psychism, rest, spirituality, success & work environment
The full Moon that happens nearest to the fall equinox (September 22nd or 23rd) always takes on the name “Harvest Moon.” Unlike other full Moons, this full Moon rises at nearly the same time—around sunset—for several evenings in a row, giving farmers several extra evenings of moonlight & allowing them to finish their harvests before the frosts of fall arrive. 
• While September’s full Moon is usually known as the Harvest Moon, if October’s full Moon happens to occur closer to the equinox than September’s, it takes on the name “Harvest Moon” instead. In this case, September’s full Moon would be referred to as the Corn Moon.
This time of year—late summer into early fall—corresponds with the time of harvesting corn in much of the northern United States. For this reason, a number of Native American peoples traditionally used some variation of the name “Corn Moon” to refer to the Moon of either August or September. 
Mabon
Known as: Autumn Equinox, Cornucopia, Witch's Thanksgiving & Alban Elved
Season: Autumn
Element: Air
Symbols: Acorns, apples, autumn leaves, balance, berries, corn, cornucopia( Horn of Plenty), dried seeds, equality, gourds, grains, grapes, ivy, pine cones, pomegranates, vines, wheat, white roses & wine
Colors: Blue, brown, dark red, deep gold, gold, indigo, leaf green, maroon, orange, red, russet. Violet & yellow
Oils/Incense: Apple, apple blossom, benzoin, black pepper, hay/straw, myrrh, passion flower, patchouli, pine, red poppy & sage
Animals: Dog & Wolf
Birds: Goose, hawk, swallow & swan
Stones: Agate, amethyst, carnelian, lapis lazuli, sapphire, yellow Agate & yellow topaz
Food: Apples, blackberries, blackberry wine, breads, carrots, cider, corn, cornbread, grapes, heather wine, nuts, onions, pomegranates, potatoes, squash, vegetables, wheat & wine
Herbs/Plants: Benzoin, bramble, corn, ferns, grains, hops, ivy, milkweed, myrrh, sage sassafras, Salomon's seal, thistle, tobacco & wheat
Flowers:  Aster, heather, honeysuckle, marigold, mums, passion flower, rose
Trees: Aspen, cedar, cypress, hazel, locust, maple, myrtle oak & pine
Goddesses: Danu, Epona, Inanna, Ishtar, Modron, Morgan, The Morrigan, Muses, Pomona, Persephone, Sin, Sophia & Sura
Gods:  Bacchus, Dionysus, Dumuzi, Esus, The Green Man, Hermes, Mannanan, Thor & Thoth
Issues, Intentions & Powers: Accomplishment, agriculture, balance, goals, gratitude & grounding
Spellwork: Balance, harmony, protection, prosperity, security & self-confidence
Activities:
•Scatter offerings in a harvested fields & Offer libations to trees
• Decorate your home and/or altar space for fall
• Bake bread
• Perform a ritual to restore balance and harmony to your life
• Cleanse your home of negative energies
• Pick apples
• Collect fall themed things from nature like acorns, changing leaves, pine cones, ect)
• Have a dinner or feast with your family and/or friends
• Set intentions for the upcoming year
• Purge what is no longer serving you & commit to healthy changes
•Take a walk in the woods
• Enjoy a pumpkin spice latte
• Donate to your local food bank
• Gather dried herbs, plants, seeds & pods
• Learn something new
• Make wine
• Fill a cornucopia
• Brew an apple cinnamon simmer pot
• Create an outdoor Mabon altar
•Adorn burial sites with leaves, acorns, & pinecones to honor those who have passed over & visit their graves
The name Mabon comes from the Welsh/Brythonic God Mabon Ap Modron, who's name means "Divine/great Son", However,there is evidence that the name was adopted in the 1970s for the Autumn Equinox & has nothing to do with this celebration or this time of year.
• Though many cultures see the second harvest (after the first harvest Lughnasadh) & Equinox as a time for giving thanks before the name Mabon was given because this time of year is traditionally when farmers know how well their summer crops did & how well fed their animals have become. This determines whether you & your family would have enough food for the winter.That is why people used to give thanks around this time, thanks for their crops, animals & food
Some believe it celebrates the autumn equinox when Nature is preparing for the winter months. Night & day are of equal legth  & the God's energy & strength are nearly gone. The Goddess begins to mourn the loss she knows is coming, but knows he will return when he is reborn at Yule.
Related festivals:
• Sukkot- Is a Torah-commanded holiday celebrated for seven days, beginning on the 15th day of the month of Tishrei. It is one of the Three Pilgrimage Festivals on which Israelites were commanded to make a pilgrimage to the Temple in Jerusalem. Originally a harvest festival celebrating the autumn harvest, Sukkot’s modern observance is characterized by festive meals in a sukkah, a temporary wood-covered hut, celebrating the Exodus from Egypt.
• Mid-Autumn festival- September 17th
Is also known as the Moon Festival or Mooncake Festival. It is a traditional festival celebrated in Chinese culture, similar holidays are celebrated by other cultures in East & Southeast Asia. It is one of the most important holidays in Chinese culture; its popularity is on par with that of Chinese New Year. The history of the Mid-Autumn Festival dates back over 3,000 years.  On this day, it is believed that the Moon is at its brightest and fullest size, coinciding with harvest time in the middle of Autumn.
During the festival, lanterns of all size and shapes – which symbolize beacons that light people's path to prosperity & good fortune – are carried & displayed. Mooncakes, a rich pastry typically filled with sweet-bean, egg yolk, meat or lotus-seed paste, are traditionally eaten during this festival. The Mid-Autumn Festival is based on the legend of Chang'e, the Moon goddess in Chinese mythology.
• Thanksgiving- This is a secular holiday which is similar to the cell of Mabon; A day to give thanks for the food & blessings of the previous year. The American Thanksgiving is the last Thursday of November while the Canadian Thanksgiving is celebrated in October
• The Oschophoria- Were a set of ancient Greek festival rites held in Athens during the month Pyanepsion (autumn) in honor of Dionysus. The festival may have had both agricultural and initiatory functions.
-Amidst much singing of special songs, two young men dressed in women's clothes would bear branches with grape-clusters attached from Dionysus to the sanctuary of Athena Skiras & a footrace followed in which select ephebes competed.
Ancient sources connect the festival and its rituals to the Athenian hero-king Theseus & specifically to his return from his Cretan adventure. According to that myth, the Cretan princess Ariadne, whom Theseus had abandoned on the island of Naxos while voyaging home, was rescued by an admiring Dionysus; thus the Oschophoria may have honored Ariadne as well. A section of the ancient calendar frieze incorporated into the Byzantine Panagia Gorgoepikoos church in Athens, corresponding to the month Pyanopsion (alternate spelling), has been identified as an illustration of this festival's procession.
Sources:
Farmersalmanac .com
Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines
Wikipedia
A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs
Encyclopedia britannica
Llewellyn 2024 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living
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sauronxgaladriel · 7 months ago
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Haladriel Library
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Saurondriel/Haladriel Fanfic Recommendations. Some of these stories could fit into multiple categories. If you have any more recommendations feel free to add them!
Marriage
Shadow-Bride by eye_of_a_cat
Bridesprice by FormerlyIR (Irony_Rocks), Irony_Rocks 
Poison & Wine by Coraleeveritas
Galadriel takes longer to discover Sauron's identity
no matter how many skies have fallen by stitchingatthecircuitboard
A man is a god in ruins by eye_of_a_cat
Queen of the Southlands by FormerlyIR
Galadriel Says Yes
The House That Fire Built by Ready_For_The_Laughing_Gas
dig up the bones (but leave the soul alone) by Wyrd_Syster
Gilded by eye_of_a_cat
And white winter, on its knees by eye_of_a_cat
The Trials of Mairon by EllieCarina
Mortal Laws by Helholden
A Portion of Thyself by Frotu
Reforged in the Making by FormerlyIR (Irony_Rocks)
Fabricated by Frotu
Canon Divergence/Reimagining of S1 and onwards
I could be your king by cliffdiving
The Tides of Fate by fireheart321
In Case of Defeat, Break Glass by eastwynds
that i may rise and stand, o'erthrow me by mortaltemples
Five times Halbrand's secret got revealed by eye_of_a_cat
Across That Fine Line by MyrsineMezzo
Instruments of Salvation by Scriberated
a fair form by properhaunt
Autocorrelation by EisforEverything
The Return of the Queen by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo)
A Feast of Starlight by TheLightofArwyn
Supernatural Creature AU
should have known better by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo) (Witch/Demon AU)
Wild Magic by Scriberated (Witch/God)
Storm Tides & Weaving Threads by elssiie (Siren AU)
just a taste by stardustspell (Vampire AU)
Haladriel meet before TROP
Spark, Ignite, Burn by cliffdiving
our souls were made from the stars by silverwing12 (Deleted)
Necessity's Bargain by Scriberated
Though the Gods and the Years Relent, Shall Be by Helholden
determination is the cure (for longing) by downtheroadandupthehill
where the spirit meets the bones by kangaroopaws
people throw rocks at things that shine by ophidion
Pick a star, and follow it home by CloudlySkies124
Hades Persephone Vibes
Beasts of the Hill and Serpents of the Den by Helholden
a dust like thine by mortaltemples
One-Shots
Unsired by shady-swan-jones (sweetleaf), sweetleaf 
the light of his eyes by eastwynds
now dark, now glittering by mortaltemples
In the Shadow of Your Heart by mzladybird
i cannot heave my heart into my mouth by fallofrain
this love is glowing in the dark by Orcas86
we could just kiss, like real people do by justatinycollector 
a millstone around my neck by mortaltemples
the nameless by bimmyou
next time by you_wear_fine_things_well
ouroboros by Amuria
Pregnancy/Parenthood
Light and Power by chronicallyexhaustedwriter
shining like a fiery beacon by ophidion
A Blessing of Eru by Scriberated
mitosis by Orcas86
Darkness Bound by no_more_doubt
Smut
A Stressed Tiding by FormerlyIR (Irony_Rocks), Irony_Rocks
this love is glowing in the dark by Orcas86
Buried in Bone by Invisible_Hand
Riptide by makeshiftdraco
Perfection by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo)
like magnets work, only drawn to thee by audreystark
To Follow the Light by Thrill_of_hope
A Moment of Honesty by Draconic_Grace
Dream Within a Dream by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo)
bind yourself to me by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo)
Dream Within a Dream by Nenya Business (Cec_Jo)
Lady of the Seas by eye_of_a_cat
Dark/Dead Dove
all your pain will end here by poeticmemory
Land of Enchantment by EisforEverything
perle by emphemeron
Glanduin Kiss by Anonymous
The Cost of Victory by EisforEverything
what you and i have wrought by thefudge
what heart's ease by fallofrain
Sauron as Annatar
hold her head above the water by Orcas86
next time by you_wear_fine_things_well
the light of his eyes by eastwynds 
Contaminate by Frotu
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bumblesimagines · 3 months ago
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Imagine:
Imprinting on Bella Swan
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Request: Yes or No
Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader
It's hoa hoa hoa hoa hoaaa season y'all they might feel ooc i havent seen the movies in forever
~~~
With the leaves changing and the weather resuming its almost never-ending chill, Bella hoped a new season marked a fresh beginning. Her first year in Forks proved to be far from what she'd expected when her father picked her up from the airport to haul her back to her old childhood home. She hardly expected much from the quiet, peaceful town but being introduced to the Cullens and then learning of a whole secret world hidden away from the eyes and minds of humans had promptly turned her world upside down. 
Vampires and shapeshifters roamed the Earth, some killing and others protecting mankind. She never thought her friendship with the odd boy in science class would lead to her discovering beautiful creatures that glimmered in sunlight and drank blood nor that it would lead to her old friend becoming the enemy of the coven by shifting into a gorgeous yet intimidating wolf. Of course, the thing that'd caught her off guard the most hadn't been blood-sucking immortals or oversized dogs... but the fact she had a soulmate.
A soulmate who was as grumpy and aloof as his twin sister. 
"Bella! You came!" 
She'd never admit it aloud, least of all to Edward, but a warm feeling always rushed through her when she visited the reservation and was greeted joyfully by the boys. Jared shot off the porch, his bare feet leaving imprints on the ground before his arms picked her up and brought her to his chest. She released a breathless chuckle and stumbled slightly when her feet returned to the ground only to be lifted once more with Seth and Embry's greetings. 
"I wouldn't want to miss the bonfire." She chuckled, a thankful smile sent Seth's way when he steadied her. She caught Emily lingering in the doorway and raised a meek hand to wave. "I hear your brother's back in town, Seth." 
As expected, Seth's sweet brown eyes lit up. "Yeah! He and Leah should actually be-" He cut himself off for a moment to scan the woods surrounding the small wooden house Emily and Sam called home. His concreated features softened and he raised his hand to point toward the figures emerging from the treeline.
Despite how much the Cullens fussed, Bella thought the wolves were as equally as majestic as them. She smiled immediately at the familiar sight of Jacob's reddish-brown fur as the three wolves trotted across the field toward them. Jacob's pace quickened and once close enough, he dipped his head and gently pressed it against her stomach. She ran her fingers through his soft yet damp fur in greeting, still taken aback by the sheer size of him and his packmates. 
"Hey, Leah," Bella greeted softly, raising her attention to the woman and earning a grunt in response. Leah was just as beautiful as the others, perhaps more with the mixtures of silver, dark gray, and hints of brown strung along her coat. The shifter gave a quiet huff, and even an eye roll, before she began turning away to shift in the privacy of the woods. 
"This is my brother, Bella. (Y/N), this is Bella Swan, the coolest girl in town." 
Chuckling bashfully, Bella retracted her hand from Jacob's fur and rubbed the wetness off on her jeans before she stepped to the side to peer around Jacob's form and take in the last wolf. He reminded her of a mixture of Leah and Seth with the clash of brown and silver fur and (E/C) eyes that seemed almost scrutinizing until the two of them locked eyes. Her lips parted to greet him but the words died in her throat when she noticed him tense and go completely rigid.
With a frightening snarl that sent a jolt up her spine and made her flinch back, Jacob ripped his head away from her to face the older boy with bared teeth and the fur along his back rising like that of an angry cat. Jared's arms circled Bella, pulling her back and behind them despite the amused grin spreading out across his face. Bella flinched again and gasped when Jacob lunged forward toward (Y/N), their bodies tangling and rolling down the grassy field in a blur of fur and snapping jaws. Leah raced after them swiftly, her body slamming into Jacob's to peel him off her twin and thus turning Jacob's abrupt anger onto her.
"Come inside, Bella. Let the boys handle this." Emily called out to her gently, watching her stumble toward the house and carefully taking her hand with a comforting squeeze. "Sam will take care of them, alright? I made some muffins for you but I'm afraid Jared already took a bite out of one."
"W-What- I- Is (Y/N) okay?" Bella stuttered out, feeling Emily's arm wrap around her shoulder and lead her toward the dining table where the basket of freshly baked muffins waited to be plucked. She took one into her hand and found herself unable to stop from turning toward the window to watch as Sam's bulky black-furred form shoved itself between the three. "What happened? Everything was fine."
"Imprinting happened," Paul laughed as he stepped into the house, snatching the muffin Embry reached for and flashing him a smirk. "Jake's girl got snatched right from under his nose." 
"What are you talking about?" Bella's head snapped toward the short-fused man, her brows knitting tightly together and gaze flickering between the rest of the pack as they piled into the house. 
With a sympathetic smile, Seth shrugged. "I guess you're my new sister-in-law, Bella."
"He won't talk to me, Jake." 
"I know," Jake murmured glumly as he stuck a marshmallow at the end of his stick, the cool breeze tussling his hair but barely phasing him despite the cold nipping insistently at her cheeks. "It's messing with him but he's as stubborn as Leah. He wants to be around you, he can't help it, and it bothers him. (Y/N)'s never been the type to give up control. It took a year for him to even join the pack and follow Sam's orders." 
Bella tilted her head further down the beach where (Y/N) sat on the cold sand away from them. She found him already staring at her but when she lifted her hand to wave, he turned his attention back to the rolling waves. "What's going to happen to him? Can.. he die from ignoring me?" The quiet snort from Jake made her swat at his arm. "I'm serious, Jake!"
"I know, I know, I..." Jake released a heavy sigh, the light of the fire reflecting in his brown eyes. He hovered his stick over the flickering flames, checking on the marshmallow as they waited for it to cook. "It's not good for him to ignore it but it won't kill him. He's making himself uncomfortable."
"I'm making him uncomfortable. I told you it was a bad idea-"
"Bella, you're his soulmate. You'll never make him uncomfortable and that's what's bothering him. Take this to him and just.. talk to him." Jake blew away the flame from the toasted marshmallow and offered her the stick, giving her an encouraging nod despite the way his lips tugged into a small frown. "Try your best.. or else Leah will rip your head off." 
Bella gave a small huff. "I don't think her brothers would like that." 
Taking a deep breath and flashing Seth an appreciative smile when he offered a thumbs-up, Bella began the trek across the short distance toward the seated young man. He glanced at her, the ever-present scowl reminding her of his sister, but the fact he remained in his spot gave her a small boost of confidence. She carefully lowered herself down, crossing her legs and giving the marshmallow a few taps to check the heat before tentatively offering it to him. 
When (Y/N) continued staring forward, she pursed her lips but her eyes caught the way his body seemingly relaxed. "You haven't said a word to me since the bonfire, and I know it can't be a good feeling. Seth said you'd come around eventually but it's been weeks and- and I don't want to see you get hurt, okay? Stop.. stop fighting it." 
"It should have been Jacob." (Y/N) muttered, taking the stick and biting into the marshmallow. "He's the idiot in love with-" His brows furrowed in irritation and he ripped the marshmallow off the stick, shoving the rest in his mouth and tossing the stick aside. 
"But it wasn't Jake," Bella spoke softly, hesitantly reaching out to place her hand over his knee. "And I don't plan on rejecting you."
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buckets-and-trees · 4 months ago
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Chosen, Part 1: Arrival
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Characters/Pairings: eventual Bucky x curvy Millennial Female!Reader, Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Word Count: 3.4k Summary: After surviving three rounds of interviews, you have been invited for a full-day to tour and interview at the estate and headquarters that belong to the Winged Heritage Foundation.
SERIES Content Warnings: SOFT!DARK STORY, cult themes, explicit smut, dubious consent and enthusiastic consent, veiled truths, gaslighting
CHAPTER Content Warnings: none
Notes: I started writing this story with the intention for it to be a long one-shot, but after it shot past 18k, I realized I would need to break it up into installments, so ... expect sort of a slow burn for the plot? Installments will be posted on Mondays and Thursdays.
Shout outs to @stargazingfangirl18, @witchywithwhiskey, @biteofcherry, and @vonalyn for helping me get my ideas sorted out for this trip!
↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
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You scroll through the note in your phone with questions to ask during a final interview as the car pulls off the interstate and starts down a country highway lined with trees.
At least you hope this is the final interview.
You had applied for a basic administrative assistant position with the Winged Heritage Foundation, but after your first interview you had been called by a recruitment officer and asked if you would consider a different position with the organization, one that hadn’t been posted publicly.
You still don’t know what the position is you’re being considered for, but after two more interviews, you had been notified that you were a finalist and invited to a full-day interview and tour of the Foundation’s headquarters – an estate outside of the city. They had even arranged for a professional car service to pick you up and take you there. The offices in the city, where your previous three interviews had taken place, evidently handles most of the business operations for the Foundation, and the estate is where the more focused work takes place.
You are naturally a bit nervous for a fourth - and full day - interview, but you feel you like your nerves are at a healthy level - present but not paralyzing, a small buzz that will keep you focused.
The car slows as it approaches a break in the trees, and your driver signals to turn. As you round the corner, your breath catches in your throat. A wrought-iron gate stretches across a wide driveway, its intricate scrollwork spelling out "Winged Heritage" in elegant script. The gate swings open silently as your car approaches, as if by magic.
The driveway stretches before you, a winding ribbon of pale gravel cutting through a verdant landscape that takes your breath away. Ancient oaks and maples line the drive, their branches reaching across to form a dappled canopy overhead. Bright morning sunlight filters through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the ground.
As you travel deeper into the estate, meticulously manicured gardens unfold on either side. Vibrant flower beds burst with color - deep purple irises, sunny yellow daffodils, and blood-red roses. The gardens give way to rolling lawns of emerald green, dotted with sculpted topiaries in fantastical shapes.
As the car rounds another bend, a shimmering pond comes into view. Its surface is like polished glass, reflecting the azure sky and fluffy white clouds above. A family of swans glide gracefully across the water, their long necks arched in elegant curves. At the far end of the pond, a delicate bridge of white marble spans the narrowest point, its railings gilded with gold.
The driveway begins to climb a gentle slope, and as you crest the hill, your jaw drops at the sight before you. A magnificent mansion rises from the landscape, its pale stone walls glowing warmly in the morning sunlight. The architecture is a stunning blend of classical elegance, with graceful arches and intricate stonework that seems to ripple and dance as you approach.
The central facade is a masterpiece of symmetry, with wide steps leading up to a grand entrance flanked by towering columns. Ivy climbs the walls in artful patterns, as if guided by an invisible hand to accentuate the building's most beautiful features.
The car follows the curve of the driveway as it sweeps up to the grand entrance before coming to a stop. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself for what lies ahead. The driver opens your door, and you step out onto the gravel, the crunch beneath your feet grounding you in the moment.
A figure emerges from the ornate double doors at the top of the steps, and your heart skips a beat as you recognize her instantly. Natasha Romanoff, the Chief Recruitment Officer, descends the stairs with astonishing grace. Her vibrant red hair catches the sunlight, creating a halo effect that seems almost otherworldly. She's dressed in a sleek black pantsuit that exudes both professionalism and an air of mystery. As your eyes meet hers, you're struck by the intensity of her gaze - piercing green eyes that seem to look right through you.
As she draws closer, you notice a subtle smile playing at the corners of her mouth, a mix of confidence and what you suspect to be mischief. Over the course of your brief interactions up to this point, she had been nothing but professional, but you could feel some alluring pull or energy that seemed to run deep beneath the surface of her controlled demeanor. She had been present in your second interview, conducted the third with one of her associates, and had been the one to schedule you for this.
"Welcome," Natasha says, her voice smooth as silk. "We're so pleased you could join us today." She extends her hand, and you shake it, noting the firmness of her grip.
"Thank you for having me," you reply, proud that your voice doesn't betray your nerves. "The estate is absolutely breathtaking."
Natasha's smile widens slightly. "It is, isn't it? We find that beauty inspires greatness. But come, let's not linger in the driveway. We have a full day and much to show you."
She gestures towards the entrance, and you fall into step beside her as you ascend the stone steps. The massive doors swing open silently, revealing a grand foyer that takes your breath away. The ceiling soars overhead, at least three stories, adorned with an intricate fresco depicting a beautiful sky, birds in flight, and towering trees, bringing the beauty of the grounds into this entry.
Natasha guides you through a doorway off to the side of the foyer, leading you into a small sitting room. The space is elegantly decorated with plush couches, rich mahogany furniture, and intricate paintings on the walls.
"Please, have a seat," Natasha gestures towards one of the couches as she takes a seat in an armchair across from you. You sink into the soft cushions, trying to take in everything at once - the opulence of the room, Natasha's presence, and her piercing gaze.
"First things first,” Natasha says, a professional smile on her face, “the nature of what goes on here is very sensitive and so I'll need you to sign this NDA before we continue." She hands you a stack of paperwork and a pen.
You quickly skim through the document before signing it, feeling slightly uneasy about signing something so quickly without fully understanding what the day ahead of you will entail. But your curiosity outweighs your hesitation and when Natasha takes back the signed document, she slides it into a briefcase by her side.
"Now that's out of the way," she says smoothly, "let me tell you more about our foundation."
She proceeds to give you an overview of the Winged Heritage Foundation – an overview of its history, mission, and values. It's all very intriguing and impressive - but although what she shares is engaging, outside of supporting initiatives identified as important to its founder and possibly something to do preservation of history or historical places and artifacts, you still feel you don’t have any clearer of an idea of what the Foundation’s actual purpose is. But since you have an entire day here, you don’t press the point now, assuming some part of the day will be dedicated to diving deeper into the work they do.
"But enough about us," Natasha says with another enigmatic smile. "Let's talk about what brought you here today."
She pulls out your resume from her briefcase and goes over your experience and qualifications with sharp attention to detail. She asks probing questions that make you feel like she's reading between the lines of your professional achievements.
"Impressive," she comments once she's finished going over your resume. "Your professional and personal character references also speak very highly of you."
Your brow furrows slightly. “Sorry,” you interject, “I don’t remember giving personal references?”
“No, you did not. But we do a lot of work on our end to vet candidates at this point for positions like this. Surely you understand.”
You nod slowly and train your face back into a smile. At least whatever homework they seem to have done on you came back with a positive result.
She leans forward slightly, and you can feel the intensity of her gaze. "We need someone who's truly suited for the responsibilities, but personnel fit is also incredibly important to us.”
“Of course,” you respond. “And what responsibilities exactly would you be looking for me to fulfill?”
Natasha presses her lips together and seems to scrutinize your face more closely. “You’re being considered for two opportunities. Until later in the day when I’ve made a determination on which I’ll recommend you for, I won’t be disclosing that information to you.”
“Oh,” you’re a little surprised at her directness, but you suppose her reason for withholding the information is logical.
“As the Chief Recruitment Officer, I’m very good at what I do, so I’ll know your future with us by the end of the day.”
Natasha rises from her chair with fluid grace. "Shall we begin the tour?" she asks, extending her hand to help you up. You take it, noting the surprising strength in her grip. “I'm eager to show you the wonders of our estate."
She seems to hold your hand longer than necessary, or maybe it’s just your nerves, maybe you looked unsteady standing up and she was only ensuring you were okay.
As you follow her out of the sitting room, you're once again struck by the grandeur of the foyer. Natasha notices your gaze lingering on the fresco above. "That was commissioned by our founder," she explains. "It's said to depict the view from the highest peak of a mountain range that no longer exists."
She leads you down a long corridor, its walls lined with portraits of distinguished-looking individuals. "Our benefactors and notable members throughout the years," Natasha explains. "Each one has contributed significantly to our mission."
The corridor opens into a vast library that takes your breath away. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stretch as far as the eye can see, filled with leather-bound tomes. The air is heavy with the scent of old books and polished wood. Sunlight streams through tall windows, casting a warm glow over the room. The library is a bibliophile's dream, with rolling ladders affixed to the shelves, gorgeous wooden tables for spreading out books for research, and cozy reading nooks tucked into alcoves.
As you walk between the towering shelves, you notice that some of the books look ancient, their spines cracked and faded with age, some even appear to be bound in unfamiliar materials. Others appear to be in pristine condition, despite clearly being very old.
"Our collection is quite extensive," Natasha says, running her fingers along the spines of nearby books. "We have texts dating back centuries, some of which are the only surviving copies in the world."
"How do you preserve them so well?" you ask, unable to hide your fascination.
Natasha's lips curl into a mysterious smile. "We have our ways. Mostly it’s all down to our librarian Jarvis.”
She leads you through a set of double wooden doors at the other side of the library. Once you exit, Natasha leads you through a series of grand hallways, each more breathtaking than the last. The walls are adorned with tapestries and paintings that seem to come alive as you pass, their subjects' eyes following your movement. You could swear you see a figure in one portrait shift slightly, but when you look back, it's perfectly still.
"This wing houses our main offices and research facilities," Natasha explains as you walk. "We have state-of-the-art equipment for analyzing artifacts and documents, as well as a world-class conservation lab."
You pass by rooms filled with people working diligently at computers, their screens displaying what look like ancient texts and complex diagrams. In one room, you glimpse a team carefully examining what appears to be an old manuscript under specialized lighting.
As you continue down the hallway, you notice a door that seems different from the others. It's made of dark, heavy wood and adorned with intricate carvings. Unlike the other doors which are open or have glass panels, this one is firmly shut.
Natasha catches you looking at it. "That area is off-limits, I'm afraid. Some of our more... sensitive projects require absolute secrecy."
You nod but can't help feeling a prickle of curiosity. What could be behind that door that requires such concealment?
Natasha guides you to an elevator at the end of the hall. As you step inside, you notice there are more floors than you would have expected from the outside view of the mansion.
"We have quite extensive facilities underground," Natasha explains as she presses a button for one of the lower levels. "It allows us to maintain the historical integrity of the mansion's exterior while having all the modern amenities we need for our work."
The elevator descends smoothly, and when the doors open, you find yourself in a sleek, modern space that contrasts sharply with the ornate decor above. The walls are a pristine white, and the floors are polished concrete. The lighting is bright but not harsh, giving the space a clean, almost clinical feel.
Natasha leads you down a corridor lined with glass-walled rooms. In one, you see people in lab coats hunched over microscopes. In another, a group is gathered around a large touch screen, manipulating 3D models of what look like ancient artifacts.
"This is our primary research facility," Natasha says, leading you down a wide corridor. "We have some of the most advanced technology in the world at our disposal here."
As you walk, you pass by rooms with glass walls, allowing you to see inside. In one, you spot what looks like a holographic projection of a complex molecule rotating in mid-air. In another, a team of scientists in white lab coats huddle around a table, examining something you can't quite make out.
You pause for a moment, trying to take it all in. The contrast between the classical architecture upstairs and this futuristic facility is striking. "This is incredible," you say, unable to keep the awe from your voice. "I had no idea the Foundation had such advanced capabilities."
Natasha's lips curl into a satisfied smile. "We pride ourselves on being at the cutting edge of research and technology. It's essential for some of our work. We’re also one of the few science labs in the world that still is granted an affiliation with the nation of Wakanda."
As you continue down the corridor, you notice a few doors that aren't made of glass like the others. These are solid metal, with keycard readers and what look like biometric scanners next to them.
"What's behind those doors?" you ask, curiosity getting the better of you.
Natasha's expression doesn't change, but you sense a slight shift in her demeanor. "Those are our most sensitive research areas. Access is strictly limited to senior researchers and leadership."
As if orchestrated for this precise moment, the doors slide open, and two men emerge, engaged in a heated discussion. Or, rather, one of them is heated, and the other is shooting back casual, sarcastic comments.
Natasha clears her throat, “Gentlemen.”
They both stop.
“We have company,” she says, gesturing to you.
The two men turn to face you, and your jaw nearly drops as you instantly recognize them. Standing before you are none other than Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, two of the most famous figures in the world and certainly at the Foundation.
Tony Stark, looking every bit the billionaire genius he's known to be, is dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that probably costs more than your current yearly salary. His goatee is perfectly trimmed, and his hair is styled with just the right amount of casual messiness. There's a faint blue glow visible beneath his shirt - the arc reactor that's become his trademark.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" Tony says, his eyes sparkling with curiosity and mischief. He steps forward, extending his hand. "Tony Stark. But you probably knew that already."
As you shake his hand, you can't help but feel a bit starstruck. Tony Stark's grip is brief but firm and confident, his smile charming yet slightly calculating as he sizes you up.
"And this strapping specimen of American values is Steve Rogers," Tony adds, gesturing to the man beside him.
Steve, standing tall and broad-shouldered, offers you a warm smile that seems to light up the room. He's dressed more casually than Tony in khakis and a fitted blue shirt that barely contains his muscular frame. His handshake is strong but gentle, and his blue eyes radiate sincerity.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Steve says, his voice deep and reassuring. "I hope you're enjoying your tour of our facilities."
You manage to find your voice, introducing yourself. “The tour has been nothing but fascinating and impressive so far,” you affirm.
Tony's eyes gleam with interest. "Oh, you’re the one they’ve been wooing, eh? I was sent no less than five reminders this morning that I was to be on my best behavior,” he discloses with a wink.
Natasha rolls her eyes, and you have the suspicion Steve only barely restrains himself from doing so.
"Anyway, welcome to the Foundation," Tony says.
"Stark is supposed to be one of our most valuable researchers," Natasha explains.
"Eh, that’s why you send Steve down to get me back in line when I’m pursuing tangential projects."
This time Steve does roll his eyes.
You can't help but chuckle at the banter between Tony and Steve. Their dynamic is exactly as you'd imagined from what you've seen in the media - Tony's quick wit and sarcasm playing off Steve's more serious demeanor.
"So, what do you think of our little operation so far?" Tony asks, gesturing broadly at the surrounding facility. "Pretty impressive, right?"
Before you can answer, Natasha interjects smoothly. "I'm sure our guest is finding everything quite fascinating, but we should continue the tour. I'm sure you both have important work to get back to."
Tony raises an eyebrow at Natasha, a silent exchange seeming to pass between them. "Right, right. Important work. Can't keep the world waiting, can we?" He turns back to you with a grin. "It was a pleasure meeting you. I’m sure we’ll be seeing you around."
“You’ll at the very least be seeing me,” Steve says. “I believe I’m scheduled to join you for lunch.”
“And I’m not invited?” Tony protests, but he sports an unrepentant grin rather than any genuine offense.
Steve puts a hand on Tony’s shoulder to steer him away, “You’re not the Executive Director of the Foundation, so, no.”
Tony shrugs out of his grip, “And remind me why that is?”
���‘All administrative, no science,’ as you aptly put it so many times when you remind me why you don’t want to listen to what I say.”
“Right,” Tony replies, but does fall into step with Steve heading down the corridor.
As they leave, you can't help but feel a mix of excitement and bewilderment. Meeting two such prominent figures so casually during your interview process only adds to the surreal nature of this experience.
Natasha gently touches your elbow and guides you away from the metal doors and continues down the corridor. "My apologies for that interruption," she says, though her tone suggests she's not entirely displeased. "Mr. Stark has a tendency to... make an impression."
You nod, still processing the encounter. "It's no problem at all. I'm just surprised to see them here. I knew they were involved with the Foundation, but I didn't realize they were so hands-on."
Natasha's lips curl into a knowing smile. "The Winged Heritage Foundation values the direct involvement of all its key members. You'll find that everyone here, regardless of their public status or their position in our organization, contributes actively to our mission.”
She leads you through more state-of-the-art laboratories and research facilities, each more impressive than the last, before returning to the elevator to bring you surface-level again.
As the elevator ascends, you find your mind racing with questions. The encounter with Stark and Rogers, the glimpses of cutting-edge technology, and the air of mystery surrounding certain areas of the facility have only heightened your curiosity about the true nature of the Winged Heritage Foundation is, showing you so much, but not truly illuminating any answers.  
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NEXT PART: LUNCH
Welcome to the Winged Heritage Foundation, lovelies. This is only the beginning... Where will this day take you? And what is going on here?
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!
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bratzkoo · 4 months ago
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barely yours | mingyu pt. 4
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Author: bratzkoo | navi Pairing: rockstar! mingyu x reader Word Count: 1.5k Genre: fluff, angst, smut-ish Rating: NC-17 Possible Warnings: written in third person.
Summary: you flirt, you fuck, but when you hint that you want to be more he dismissed it as if you’re joking… and when you decide to ignore him he comes back with flowers at your doorstep.
taglist (hit me up if you wanna be added): ​​@ca-clover, @junniesoleilkth , @gaslysainz , @darkerrdaze , @mansaaay , @childish-fear , @lixisoul99 , @cherrylovescheol , @yuyu1024 , @tacolombe , @black-swan-blog27 , @tulipndtale , @xuimhao , @cookiearmy
requests are open, but you can just say hi! | masterlist
The pulsing beat of HHT's latest single, "Shadow," reverberated through the stadium, drowning out the deafening roar of 50,000 fans. As the final chords faded away, Mingyu raised his guitar triumphantly, his chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline. The crowd's cheers reached a fever pitch as confetti rained down from above.
"Thank you, London!" Seungcheol's voice boomed through the speakers. "You've been an amazing audience! We are HHT, and we love you!"
As they took their final bow, Mingyu's eyes swept across the sea of light sticks and banners. Five years ago, he could never have imagined this level of success. HHT had gone from rising stars in the K-pop scene to a global phenomenon, selling out stadiums across the world and topping international charts.
The irony of their latest hit being named "Shadow" wasn't lost on Mingyu. The song, with its haunting melody and lyrics about chasing after something just out of reach, had resonated deeply with him during the writing process. Now, as he stood on stage, he couldn't help but think about the shadows in his own life – the lingering feelings and unresolved emotions that he'd never quite been able to shake.
Backstage, as the euphoria of the performance began to fade, Mingyu found himself in a familiar state of restlessness. He scrolled through his phone, barely registering the congratulatory messages and social media notifications.
"Looking for something specific?" Vernon's voice startled him. The younger man was grinning knowingly, a towel draped around his neck.
Mingyu locked his phone quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Just checking the time. We have that afterparty, right?"
Vernon's grin widened. "Uh-huh. And it has nothing to do with a certain collection launch happening in Paris tonight?"
Mingyu felt heat rise to his cheeks. Was he that transparent? "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled, but he knew it was useless. Vernon had always been too perceptive for his own good.
"Sure, sure," Vernon chuckled, clapping Mingyu on the shoulder. "Just remember, we have a flight to catch tomorrow afternoon. Try not to stay up all night stalking social media, okay?"
As Vernon walked away, Mingyu sighed and unlocked his phone again. This time, he didn't pretend as he navigated to Instagram and searched for a familiar name: @YN_Beauty.
The latest post showed an elegantly decorated venue, champagne flutes and flowers artfully arranged around sleek packaging of skincare products. The caption read: "Tonight's the night! Can't wait to share our new 'Solène' collection with all of you. ✨ #YNBeauty #SolèneLaunch"
Mingyu's heart skipped a beat, then began racing. "Solène." The name hit him like a physical blow, memories flooding back of a night long ago, of whispered confessions and intimate moments.
He remembered tracing the delicate script on Y/N's hip, the tattoo hidden from the world but shared with him in a moment of vulnerability. "Solène," she had explained, her voice soft in the darkness of her bedroom. "It means 'sun' in French. A reminder to always seek the light, even in the darkest times."
Now, seeing that name splashed across Y/N's beauty campaign, Mingyu felt a complex mix of emotions. Pride at her success, nostalgia for their shared past, and an ache for what they had lost.
His thumb hovered over the like button, trembling slightly. After a moment's hesitation, he tapped it, watching the heart turn red. It was the first time he'd interacted with Y/N's social media in years.
Four years. It had been four years since he'd last seen Y/N in person. Four years since she'd left her position as HHT's manager to pursue her own dreams. They'd kept in touch at first – casual texts, the occasional phone call. But as both of their careers skyrocketed, those communications had become less and less frequent, until they'd stopped altogether.
Now, Y/N was a celebrity in her own right. Her beauty and skincare lines had taken the world by storm, and she had become a fixture at fashion weeks and high-profile events. She was a regular on magazine covers, her face gracing billboards in major cities around the globe. The girl who had once managed their schedules and scolded them for being late to practice was now a sophisticated socialite, moving in circles that sometimes felt worlds away from the music industry.
But "Solène"? What did it mean that she had chosen that name, so personal and intimate, for her new collection? Was it just a coincidence, or was Y/N sending a message? To him? To the world? Mingyu's mind raced with possibilities, each more unlikely than the last.
He found himself opening their old text thread, scrolling up to see their last exchange. It was from over a year ago – a simple "Happy Birthday" from him, and a "Thanks! Hope you're doing well" from her. How had they let things get so distant?
Mingyu's finger hovered over the keyboard. Should he message her? Congratulate her on the launch? Ask about the name?
"Mingyu! Car's waiting!" Wonwoo's voice snapped him out of his reverie.
Shaking off his tumultuous thoughts, Mingyu plastered on his best idol smile and made his way to the exit. He had an afterparty to attend, fans to meet, an image to maintain. But even as he posed for selfies and signed autographs, his mind remained fixed on a glittering event happening across the Channel, where a woman he'd never quite gotten over was celebrating a triumph that echoed with their shared past.
Meanwhile, in Paris, Y/N was in her element. The launch party for her newest skincare collection, "Solène," was in full swing. The who's who of the fashion and beauty world mingled in the opulent venue, the air filled with the delicate scent of her latest creations – a complex blend of fragrances that reminded her of late-night conversations and stolen moments backstage.
"Y/N, darling, this is absolutely divine," gushed a famous actress, sampling one of the new serums. "And the name! So intriguing. Is there a story behind it?"
Y/N's smile faltered for just a moment before she regained her composure. "Every product tells a story," she replied smoothly. "This one's about finding light in unexpected places."
As she made her rounds, shaking hands and accepting congratulations, Y/N couldn't help but feel a sense of surreality. How had the girl who once spent her days wrangling a bunch of rowdy K-pop idols become... this? A successful entrepreneur, a name brand, a socialite with an invitation to every A-list event?
Shaking off his tumultuous thoughts, Mingyu plastered on his best idol smile and made his way to the exit. He had an afterparty to attend, fans to meet, an image to maintain. But even as he posed for selfies and signed autographs, his mind remained fixed on a glittering event happening across the Channel, where a woman he'd never quite gotten over was celebrating a triumph that echoed with their shared past.
She excused herself for a moment, stepping out onto a balcony for a breath of fresh air. The Parisian night sparkled before her, the Eiffel Tower illuminated in the distance. Y/N closed her eyes, letting the cool breeze caress her face.
In moments like these, when the whirlwind of her life slowed for just a second, she often found her thoughts drifting to a certain tall, handsome guitarist. She wondered what Mingyu was doing right now. Was he on stage somewhere, sending thousands of fans into a frenzy with his soulful voice and killer riffs? Was he in the studio, crafting the next hit that would top charts worldwide?
Y/N pulled out her phone, giving in to the urge she'd been fighting all night. She opened Twitter, quickly finding HHT's official account. Their latest post showed the band on stage in London, confetti raining down as they took their final bow. Her eyes were drawn immediately to Mingyu, his face alight with the joy of performance.
A familiar ache bloomed in her chest. They'd promised to stay friends, to support each other as they grew. But somewhere along the way, daily texts had become weekly, then monthly, then... nothing. Their lives had taken them in different directions, their paths diverging more with each passing year.
"There you are!" Her assistant's voice startled Y/N out of her thoughts. "The CEO of Sephora wants to discuss potential exclusive distribution deals. Are you ready to go back in?"
Y/N took a deep breath, schooling her features into a polite smile. "Of course. Lead the way."
As she re-entered the party, slipping back into her role as the poised, successful businesswoman, Y/N couldn't quite shake thoughts of Mingyu from her mind. She absently touched her hip, where the "Solène" tattoo still rested, hidden beneath layers of designer fabric. She had worked hard for this life, this success. She should be happy, fulfilled.
So why did that one little word, now emblazoned on products around the world, make her feel more vulnerable than she had in years?
Little did Y/N know, halfway across Europe, Mingyu was asking himself the same question. As both of them went through the motions of their glamorous but separate lives, neither could shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, it was time to bridge the gap that had grown between them.
But fate, it seemed, wasn't done with Mingyu and Y/N just yet.
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shiftthemoon · 7 days ago
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THINGS YOUR DRS REMIND ME OF ✷ sunlight, or moonlight?
✺ TABLE OF CONTENTS :
harry potter dr. fantastic beasts dr. percy jackson dr. fame dr. mermaid dr. f1 driver dr. httyd dr. game of thrones dr. hunger games dr. marvel dr. spider-man + spiderverse dr. marauders era dr. arcane dr. vampire dr. pirate dr.
psssst!!! post's layout was ib hrrtshape!! my fav mootie ever,, ♡
⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ harry potter dr.
your hogwarts reality feels like rainy afternoons, where clouds cling to the sky like an unspoken promise. it’s libraries that smell of leather and parchment, the kind where you breathe in and suddenly remember things you’ve never lived.
• it reminds me of the soft hum of the cranberries’ “dreams” or the low ache in radiohead’s “exit music (for a film).”
• it feels like the gothic spires of edinburgh, dark green scarves blowing in the wind, and the cold stone streets of york.
• movies like dead poets society and stardust carry the same weight, that blend of whimsy and melancholy, where magic isn’t just magic—it’s rebellion, it’s survival.
• this dr smells like earl grey tea, sharp with bergamot, and the flickering glow of a candle dripping wax onto an old oak desk. it’s virgo sun with scorpio moon energy: structured, mysterious, aching with purpose.
• autumn is your season—cool winds, warm fires, and leaves crackling underfoot.
⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ fantastic beasts & where to find them dr.
this dr is gold filigree and vintage maps, the kind you get lost in, only to discover yourself in the borders. it’s the delicate art of understanding things bigger than you—creatures, love, alchemy.
• it’s the nostalgic drawl of jeff buckley’s “hallelujah” or fleetwood mac’s “the chain,” songs that sound like they were written by ancient souls.
• feels like london, fog rolling off the thames at dawn, or somewhere quieter, like oxford or canterbury, where history whispers to you in cobblestone cracks.
• watch the theory of everything or midnight in paris, for that subtle sense of chasing something you’ll never quite touch but will die trying to understand.
• it smells like leather gloves and ink-stained fingers. it feels like cancer venus — taurus mars — gemini mercury energy: tender, protective, but a little guarded.
• winter. always winter. the kind of cold that bites, but you endure it because it reminds you you’re alive.
⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ percy jackson dr.
camp half-blood hums like cicadas at twilight, drenched in summer heat and the salt of the sea. it’s friendship forged in battle, love found between cracks in the earth.
• this dr is nirvana’s “come as you are” and smashing pumpkins’ “1979.” chaotic, nostalgic, but alive.
• it’s greece in all its ancient glory—the ruins of delphi, the waves crashing at the cliffs of santorini. but it’s also the rugged coastlines of california, where myths could hide in the spray of the pacific.
• the movies the perks of being a wallflower and the goonies echo this vibe: coming-of-age stories tied with adventure and heartache.
• it’s that faint copper smell of blood and the earthy scent of olive trees. sagittarius rising — aquarius mercury — aries mars energy: reckless, bold, chasing freedom with no map in hand.
• summer. long days, wild nights, golden sunsets.
⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ fame dr.
this dr is glitter in your veins, like electricity is the only thing keeping you moving. it’s the hum of the spotlight, the chaos of dreams colliding with reality.
• this one is björk’s “human behaviour” and radiohead’s “high and dry.” a little experimental, a little tragic, but undeniably iconic.
• it’s new york city, obviously—broadway lights cutting through the smoke, or maybe los angeles, a city burning with ambition.
• black swan and whiplash—these movies carry the same brutal hunger, the obsession that eats you alive but makes it all worth it.
• it smells like sweat and perfume and cigarette smoke, all blending together under flashing lights. aries moon — leo sun — gemini venus energy: fiery, intense, unapologetically raw.
• spring—the season of beginnings, of things growing, of chasing what could be.
⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ mermaid dr.
this dr feels like the ocean’s lullaby, where the waves carry secrets and the moon pulls your heart like a tide. it’s otherworldly and yet familiar, like a dream you wake up from, still tasting salt on your lips.
• it sounds like enya’s “sail away” or the cure’s “lullaby.” haunting, ethereal, but grounding.
• the turquoise waters of the maldives, or the dark, stormy coasts of cornwall, where cliffs meet an endless horizon.
• the shape of water and ponyo—love stories where the sea breathes life into forgotten places.
• it’s the smell of saltwater and seaweed, the sting of ocean spray against your cheeks. pisces sun & neptune — taurus moon energy: dreamy, fluid, a little lost but beautifully so.
• late summer, early autumn—those blurry in-between days when the air holds onto its warmth just a little longer.
⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ f1 driver dr.
your f1 dr feels like adrenaline in your veins, the roar of engines, and the wind whipping against your face. it’s speed, competition, but also the camaraderie of shared obsession.
• it sounds like oasis’ “champagne supernova” and the killers’ “all these things that i’ve done.” songs that echo triumph, heartbreak, and everything in between.
• monaco glitters in this dr: yachts anchored in the harbor, the narrow streets drenched in sunlight. but it’s also the neon-soaked nights of singapore and the deserts of bahrain, where the air hums with tension.
• movies like rush and ford v ferrari capture the heart of this dr—rivalries, passion, and the pursuit of perfection.
• it smells like burnt rubber, sweat, and the metallic tang of engines. aries sun — capricorn mars — aquarius uranus energy: fiercely competitive, always chasing the next thrill.
• summer, specifically those late august days when the air is electric with possibility.
⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ how to train your dragon dr.
your how to train your dragon dr is wind-tossed hair, wild laughter, and the freedom of flying. it’s the untamed beauty of a world that doesn’t quite exist but should.
• it’s muse’s “starlight” and florence + the machine’s “dog days are over.” songs that feel like they could lift you into the clouds.
• it smells like the briny ocean, dragon scales warmed by the sun, and the smoky scent of campfires.
• the cliffs and fjords of norway, the volcanic shores of iceland—this dr is rugged and alive, filled with places where magic hides in the landscape.
• movies like spirit: stallion of the cimarron and brave echo this vibe: freedom, connection, and the push against expectations.
• it feels like sagittarius moon & jupiter — aquarius moon energy: wild-hearted, always exploring, always yearning for more.
• spring, where the world blooms and feels untamed, uncharted, and full of life.
⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ game of thrones dr.
your game of thrones dr is fire and ice, betrayal and loyalty, the sharp edge of power balanced with the fragility of hope. it’s a world where survival is its own form of poetry.
• it’s joy division’s “atmosphere” and led zeppelin’s “stairway to heaven.” haunting and raw, filled with the weight of kingdoms rising and falling.
• the ancient castles of scotland, the desolate beauty of the sahara, the twisting streets of dubrovnik—places where history feels alive, where whispers of power still linger.
• movies like gladiator and kingdom of heaven hold the same pulse: grand, epic, and dripping in drama.
• it smells like blood, snow, and the faint sweetness of wine. scorpio rising — capricorn mars & mercury energy: intense, strategic, magnetic, but dangerous if crossed.
• winter—long, harsh, and unforgiving, yet filled with moments of beauty that steal your breath.
⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ hunger games dr.
your hunger games dr is survival carved into your bones, rebellion written in the ashes of the world. it’s the quiet rage of the oppressed turned into a wildfire.
• it’s nine inch nails’ “hurt” and linkin park’s “in the end.” desperate, raw, and relentless, but with a thread of hope.
• the forests of appalachia, the industrial grit of detroit, the sprawling deserts of utah—it’s a patchwork of places where survival feels elemental.
• movies like children of men and the road share this dr’s heart: bleak and brutal, but deeply human.
• it smells like damp earth, gunpowder, and the acrid scent of fire. capricorn mars — virgo venus — leo rising energy: unrelenting, ambitious, and forged in hardship.
• autumn, when the air turns cold, and the trees burn with color, reminding you that beauty exists even in endings.
⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ marvel dr.
your marvel dr is the blur of action and humanity, larger-than-life stakes grounded in the intimacy of love, loss, and choice. it’s heroes who bleed and villains who cry.
• it’s u2’s “with or without you” and audioslave’s “like a stone.” powerful, aching, and utterly cinematic.
• new york city pulses through this dr: the skyline glowing at night, the chaos of people, the hidden corners where stories unfold.
• movies like the dark knight and logan carry the same weight: gritty, emotional, and built on moral gray areas.
• it smells like leather jackets, rain-slick streets, and the metallic tang of battle. aquarius sun — leo mars — gemini moon energy: visionary, a little distant, always fighting for the greater good.
• spring and fall—transitional seasons that feel like the calm before and after the storm.
⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ spider-man + spiderverse dr.
your spiderverse dr feels like swinging between skyscrapers, the air electric with possibility and purpose. it’s chaos and connection, a kaleidoscope of choices and the weight of responsibility.
• it’s the strokes’ “reptilia” and gorillaz’s “feel good inc.”—gritty, pulsing, and full of edge.
• the streets of brooklyn, the neon haze of tokyo, or the rooftops of chicago, where the city is a character all its own.
• movies like blade runner 2049 and tron: legacy carry this vibe: sleek, emotional, and larger than life.
• it smells like rain on pavement, fresh paint on a graffiti wall, and the ozone tang of lightning. aquarius mercury — gemini mars — libra moon energy: inventive, unconventional, and sharp-witted.
• spring—when the world starts to bloom again, full of fresh starts and untold stories.
⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ marauders era dr.
your marauders dr is all late-night laughter and whispered secrets, rebellion scrawled in ink and moonlight. it’s the ache of youth, of moments that feel infinite but are fleeting.
• it’s pink floyd’s “wish you were here” and fleetwood mac’s “rhiannon.” bittersweet, timeless, full of soul.
• feels like the hidden alleys of london, the rolling hills of wales, or the misty forests of the scottish highlands.
• movies like the breakfast club and dead poets society carry this dr’s energy—complicated friendships, rebellion, and nostalgia for a time that might not have been perfect but was yours.
• it smells like old books, cigarette smoke, and the faint sweetness of butterbeer. libra moon — cancer sun — pisces venus energy: romantic, thoughtful, and deeply tied to relationships.
• autumn, when the world feels crisp, nostalgic, and alive with change.
⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ arcane dr.
your arcane dr is a masterpiece of contradictions—gritty streets juxtaposed with glittering innovation. it’s a world of broken dreams and endless ambition.
• it’s placebo’s “every you every me” and radiohead’s “no surprises.” raw, haunting, and brimming with unspoken emotion.
• zaun is the heart of this dr: neon lights cutting through the smoke, the underbelly of progress. piltover looms above, all gold and power.
• movies like v for vendetta and ghost in the shell share this vibe: revolutionary, futuristic, and deeply human.
• it smells like oil, soot, and metallic sparks. pluto & mars in aquarius — scorpio moon energy: transformative, innovative, and unapologetically intense.
• winter—the cold amplifies the tension, the longing for warmth, the fight for survival.
⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ vampire dr.
your vampire dr is velvet and shadows, the allure of eternity balanced with the weight of it. it’s beauty that bites, darkness that whispers, and immortality that aches.
• it’s bauhaus’ “bela lugosi’s dead” and depeche mode’s “enjoy the silence.” moody, sensual, and timeless.
• feels like prague at midnight, the foggy streets of victorian london, or the endless forests of transylvania.
• movies like interview with the vampire and crimson peak embody this dr—hauntingly beautiful, filled with danger and longing.
• it smells like old wine, wax-dripping candles, and the iron tang of blood. scorpio sun — libra venus — pisces mercury energy: intense, magnetic, and deeply tied to the unseen.
• late autumn, when the world is cold and still, and the nights stretch on forever.
⊹₊ ✰ ⋆ NOW READING ┋ pirate dr.
your pirate dr is salt spray in your hair, the endless expanse of the horizon, and the reckless freedom of a life untethered. it’s treasure maps and tempestuous seas, loyalty forged in fire.
• it’s the rolling stones’ “paint it black” and led zeppelin’s “immigrant song.” wild, untamed, and unapologetic.
• the caribbean islands, the rocky cliffs of ireland, or the misty coasts of the azores—where the ocean feels infinite and alive.
• movies like pirates of the caribbean: the curse of the black pearl and master and commander echo this dr: swashbuckling adventure, grit, and loyalty.
• it smells like saltwater, rum, and the wood of a well-worn ship. sagittarius mars — pisces rising — aries sun energy: adventurous, daring, and always chasing the next horizon.
• summer, especially in the golden haze of dusk, when the ocean glows like molten gold.
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tadpolesonalgae · 1 year ago
Text
Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 4[*]
Azriel x Third-oldest-Archeron-sibling!reader
a/n: a truly beautiful friendship is always founded in chaos (it’s funny because of who Eris is in mythology)
Also, I would like to emphasise the bickering at the end is entirely whispered—enjoy
Warnings: Just general angst, sexual undertones, unjustly jealous!Azriel, swans (don’t even get me started on how scary they are, and don’t try to tell me otherwise if you haven’t been cornered by at least one)
Word Count: 6,618
-Part 3- -Part 5-
A voice is calling your name from somewhere: somewhere foggy, and distant.
A voice that really has no business interfering with the hot, male body that’s pressing you into the wall.
Large, playfully rough hands grip your hips, using his own to keep you pinned against the brickwork, groping your ass appreciatively.
You arch up into him, mouth opening over his own, tongue stroking and flicking. Fingers rake through his hair, turning it messy as you haul him closer. The lovely press of his cock against your abdomen, the ego-boosting sign of his appetite. He groans into your mouth, bucking his hips, and you drag the soft swell of your breasts over his chest. The cool night air scrambles beneath your skirts, making them flutter and billow, urging him closer.
The voice sounds again. Clearer; closer.
It’s strange how it sounds like—
The male body is forcibly torn off you, cold flushing your front, leaving the uncomfortable dig of brick into your backside. You blink away your haze, real world events crushing back down, slamming home when your eyes lock with sharp hazel. He’s clearly pissed. It’s probably the most emotion he’s ever shown to you.
How miserable.
“Did you forget we’re have dinner tonight?” He asks gruffly, hand still resting firmly over the male’s shoulder who’s looking warily between the two of you. It dawns on you what he’s just seen you doing, the position he’s caught you in; heat swallows your body whole. The shameful, humiliated type, and you force yourself to keep his gaze. Beg yourself not to hang your head.
“I’m not going,” you manage, eyes flicking away from his. “I already told Fey, and she said it was fine, so…” His brow narrows, attention piercing into you, judging. “They’re not compulsory, anyway,” you mumble, “so really I— there’s no reason for me to be at one.”
“It’s a family dinner. There’re plenty of reasons for you to be there.” His eyes flick to the male who just had you pressed between him and a wall, “unless something more important comes up.”
There’s no obvious sign, but he’s agitated. Irritated. Maybe a foul mood.
Azriel releases the male, eyes flicking over his shoulder—a sure dismissal. When the male refuses to leave, Azriel’s shadows thicken. Definitely a foul mood. “Is there something I can help you with?” He mutters sharply, piercing attention zeroing in on the male—Bas.
His golden eyes turn on you, peering warily, “who is this? You said you were on your own.” Heat washes down your spine, gaze flicking between them, wishing for the floor to open up under your feet. “He’s—nobody. Just a—…” You fumble, unsure what to say. “Acquaintance,” Azriel finishes for you, hairs rising at the back of your neck as he stares at you. “A friend of a friend.”
Bas’ lips lift into a smirk, and you pray he’s going to keep his mouth shut for once. But he turns to Azriel, standing less than an inch shorter than the shadowsinger, “I don’t see what business you have with a friend of a friend,” he drawls, making both of you stiffen.
The dim faelights gleam in his intelligent golden eyes, bringing out the rich darkness of his skin, the outcropping of his sharp jaw, the thickness of his hair that hangs in lovely, rough locks.
Azriel’s eyes narrow, shadows coiling at his back, peeking over menacingly large wings, “and what business do you have with her? She has plans for tonight.” One of Bas’ brows quirks in subtle challenge, and you brace yourself. “Considering she sought me out, I think her plans have changed,” he says, that provocative smirk still tipping his lips.
“Bas…” you murmur, stress tensing your muscles.
Both of their attention switches to you, and your mouth seals itself shut.
Azriel shakes his head, “she’s coming with me. Don’t bother her again, Bas.” The words are final, and you can tell the conversation is over. Bas doesn’t back down, though. Always ready for a bit of rough and tumble. Practically lives off the edge. “Now I didn’t realise she was your property, Az,” he drawls challengingly, his attention then settling over you. “And you should have told me who this other person was, sweetheart.”
They know one another?
“She’s not your anything,” Azriel says, a rough sharpness to his voice. “Back off, Bas.”
The male doesn’t budge. Instead his gleaming eyes fall on you.
Oh no…
“Sweetheart?”
Heat warms your skin, gaze darting anywhere but the two males before you. You really don’t want to go to the dinner. To see all of them so soon after the mess that happened precisely one week ago… And it would be weird to show up after having said you weren’t going. What if you went and there wasn’t enough food? She has enough on her plate, she doesn’t need to worry about extra dinner guests.
You’re staying with Bas.
Hazel meets your gaze, and words stumble. “I…” I’m not going to the dinner.
“You…?” Azriel repeats, jaw tightening.
You flush, eyes lowering, heat warming your cheeks against the cool night air.
You turn to Bas, and he frowns. “Sorry,” you say gently, “I should see my sister.”
The wings at Azriel’s back loose a slight bit of their tension—still pulled taut. “Right, let’s go,” he says, cutting off any communication, “we’re already late.” You shoot Bas an apologetic look as you move to follow behind Azriel—keeping his gaze ahead. He merely shakes his head, giving you an easy smile, “find me after, okay?” A wave of gratefulness washes over you, and you push every drop of it into the thankful look you send him. Then you turn, hurrying down the uneven cobbles after the Shadowsinger.
He’s silent when you catch up, walking at his side, a pace behind. He doesn’t look at you once, continuing down the road that will lead to the River House. Fighting down the humiliation, you clear your throat. “Can you—” You nearly trip, righting yourself a second before your tipping point. Stumbling, you scoop the fabric of your long dress into your hands, raising it out of the way of your feet.
He continues walking, though slows a little as you scramble after him.
“Azriel,” you say, a little breathless. “Azriel, wait.”
He halts suddenly, making you flinch with the abrupt stop. Sharp hazel eyes press down on you, and you falter. “Yes?” He asks. Fumbling for words, your eyes flick out from under his, skipping over the shops in the darkening streets. “I—…” you begin, unsure what to say. “Can you…can you not mention any of that?” You request softly, embarrassing heat warming your cheeks.
“Who would tell?” He replies coldly.
Humiliation settles in the pit of your stomach. You lower your head a little. Nod. “I didn’t want you to think…”
“I don’t make a habit of interfering with other people’s business,” he says pointedly, watching you. Why does it feel like he’s scolding you?
Your lips press together, shoulders curving inward almost imperceptibly.
His eyes flick to your hair, and his hand raises, as if to shift a strand—tuck it away. But he stops, noting your gaze. “You need to fix your hair,” he says, a touch softer than before. “It’s obvious what you were doing.” Shame is like a deadweight in your gut, hands feeling dumb as they attempt to neaten out a mess you can’t see. His eyes narrow when you lower them, and you both know it would be easier if he was the one to right whatever’s wrong with you. He doesn’t, though.
“I’m not like Nesta,” you say softly, a little shakily.
His brow narrows slightly, “nobody said you were. There’s nothing wrong about being similar to her.” Heat warms your skin, and you stumble under the look.
“I mean, that—what you…saw—that’s not normal. It’s not a… I’m doing doing any of that…”
“Drinking and fucking?” You flinch at the crude wording, and a gleam of apology flashes in his hazel irises. He watches you quietly for a moment, and you shift under his gaze, hands moving to rest on your elbows, dress swishing close to the ground.
“You know it’s fine if you are,” he says, gently. “As long as you’re being sensible about it,” he adds, “there’s nothing wrong with doing that if it works.” Your lower lip wobbles at the implication—that he knows you’re doing this to try and get over him. How desperate you’ve become.
“But find someone other than Bas,” he says, making you furrow your brow.
“What’s wrong with Bas?” You ask. He’s been great. Azriel watches you silently again, hazel eyes piercing into you blankly. Has your lip-tint smudged?
“He’s not…” Azriel begins, as if debating how to frame what he wants to say. Make sure you’ll understand. “You shouldn’t spend your time with someone like him,” he settles on.
“‘Someone like him’?” You echo, looking back up the street to where the two of you had been. Heat crawls up your spine, and you hastily look away.
“He’s different from you,” Azriel says, bluntly.
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” you argue softly, peering at the cobbles. You hear him sigh, as if he doesn’t know what to do with you. “He can’t give you what you’re looking for. He’s the type to string you along until he’s bored, then never visit again. Stay away from him.”
“He hasn’t done anything bad…” you say quietly, shifting lightly from foot to foot. “He’s been…he’s been very nice.”
Azriel sighs again, and that funny feeling settles in your stomach. Disappointment tickling your insides. “That’s to draw you in. As soon as you try to bring him to a dinner, or to meet one of your sisters, he’ll bolt.”
“Why would I bring him to meet any of you?” You ask bitterly at the lack of confidence. “Do you plan to keep your partner a secret?” He counters with, tersely. “Maybe.” You reply defensively, still looking at the ground.
He’s quiet again, and you can almost feel the air shift. “Need I remind you of last week’s events,” he asks, quietly. “You’re not known for keeping your mouth shut.” You bite your lip to keep it from trembling, nails digging into your elbows. “And I thought you didn’t make a habit of interfering with other people’s relationships,” you murmur.
“I know they’ll make good decisions,” he counters. “You don’t have enough experience. To know what you’re doing.”
“Stop treating me like a child,” you whisper, head dipping. “I know what I’m—” you cut yourself off as a sob tries to work its way from your throat. Take a deep breath. Swallow. “I know what I’m doing,” you manage quietly.
“You’re going to get yourself hurt,” he argues. “You don’t want to damage yourself like that.”
Your body stiffens at the words, then a breath eases from your chest. You nod. “Okay.” You begin walking again, one foot in front of the other. He sighs again. “I didn’t mean it like that.” You keep walking.
“I’m trying to help you,” he says flatly, falling into pace.
“Okay.”
“So you’ll stay away from him?” Azriel asks, eyes falling on your smaller frame.
“Okay.”
His brow narrows on you, watching intently. Then, “look at me.”
Look at me.
The feeling of his fingers inside of you, close enough to share breaths, yet you were the only vulnerable one. Not an ounce of intimacy to be exchanged. You keep walking toward the River House.
Azriel doesn’t say another word.
————
In the end, you’re somewhat glad you went to the dinner.
If you hadn’t, you would be back here, in the mortal lands.
Well, with no wall, you’re not sure what to call your previous homeland. But you’re here, nonetheless, and all thanks to Elain. She’d wished to see Lucien, who had near permanent residence in the mostly intact house, and had invited you along with her. Whether she knew you needed some time away, or simply offered, you don’t know.
You’d arrived most likely around an hour ago, Fey and Cassian departing soon after, leaving you and Elain to spend the day as you pleased. You’d opted to take a stroll around the gardens, walking alongside the river that was just beginning to refill after an apparently hot and dry summer.
That was your first encounter with Eris.
You nearly jump out of your skin when he winnows to the river bank mere feet to your left, stumbling backward a few steps in surprise. Cutting caramel eyes pierce into you with razor-sharp scrutiny, noting your pointed ears. His brow narrows as he takes you in; he doesn’t look pleased with what he finds.
Blinking, you mark the blazing colour of his hair, the beautifully tailored finery, the flicker of flame in his eyes—remarkably similar to Lucien. “What…who are you?” You manage, calming your heartbeat. It’s a nonsense question, you realise—it’s obvious who he is. Anyone could figure it out through simple deduction. So you shake your head, “why are you here?”
Eris’ eyes narrow on you, then he’s striding forward, moving up the river bank until he’s come to stop before you. You take a single step back—if you have to crane your neck to look at someone, you’re too close. He’s remarkably imposing with his height and muscle, despite the inherent beauty of the fae.
“Who are you?” The words are short and efficient in a sharp, brazen way, and you find yourself wondering if you should have just continued on your way. “I’m—” you open your mouth to give your name, then realise it would be rude to assume he knew who you were. There’s no reason for him to. “Feyre’s my younger sister,” you supply instead.
His brow narrows. “I didn’t know there were four of you.”
Heat flushes your skin, and you look away. It’s not an insult, yet you feel embarrassed.
“So, why are you here?” You repeat, a little quieter, trying to change the subject.
“I’m expected,” he replies shortly, turning to face the way you had come. “Why have you been kept a secret?” He asks. You mentally scramble for an excuse to continue on your walk. You don’t want to go back yet, and he’ll probably expect you to winnow, and you aren’t really in a talking mood at the moment. No excuse comes to mind.
“I haven’t been kept a secret,” you respond finally, falling into step a little behind him. “Not intentionally, anyway,” you add as an afterthought, frowning. He's walking fast, and you’d like more time to take in the scenery. At least he’s not winnowing.
“You haven’t been present at any meetings,” he counters, “I find it hard to believe that’s a coincidence.”
Your frown deepens, “why would I be at any of them? Elain hasn’t been to any, either. The only time you would have seen her is in the Hewn City.”
“Which you were kept away from, too.”
You come to a stop, watching him. His brow narrows as he’s forced to slow his pace, looking vaguely irritated. “I was there when you danced with Nesta,” you correct, “all of us were.”
Eris stares at you blankly and it’s an effort not to squirm. “I was there,” you insist, “behind Elain?”
He doesn’t remember you.
Well.
“So you’re good at remaining unseen,” he says, turning to set you into motion again. You hurry after him, a little taken aback at the compliment. It’s a nice way to think about it, a faint smile tipping your lips, “thank you.”
“It was a question.”
“Oh…” you say, smile vanishing. It hadn’t sounded like one. “I guess… I prefer it…”
“You and the Shadowsinger must get along swimmingly,” he mutters, continuing along the path, neatly avoiding muddied parts. Something you fail spectacularly at.
The comment registers in your mind and you stiffen, muscles contracting as you force yourself to continue moving. “Not particularly…” you hedge, uncertain what’s appropriate to tell him. You aren’t familiar with Court politics. “No more than anyone else, anyway,” you correct, soothing out the slight rumple.
“No? Not settling in well?” He asks. You could swear there’s some sort of mocking undertone to the question, but you can’t figure out what the taunt is for.
“I…I guess not?” You answer, slowly. “It’s not bad,” you add hastily, not wanting to talk negatively behind their backs. He might bring it up later. You repeat the thought in your head, then shake it, smiling faintly. He hadn’t even know you existed until a few minutes ago, yet you think he could be trying exploit you. How silly.
The result of an over-inflated ego. Maybe you really should stop fooling around with Bas—he’s giving you all sorts of ideas about the value of your person, and it probably isn’t healthy.
“I mean, it’s fine. Just…normal, I guess. Compared with the initial chaos,” you add, satisfied with the end result of your rambling. The house is in sight now. All you need to do is pass between the river and the pond, and—
You stumble.
Not literally—it’s more of a mental scramble. Because right there, where they weren’t mere minutes ago, are a pair of large, powerfully built swans.
Eris continues walking like the two beasts aren’t eyeing you up with those sharp, beady eyes. You can practically see the light catching on the small teeth hidden beneath the beak. Glittering with menace.
“Let’s go this way,” you say abruptly, pointing to the path that winds around the pond. He comes to stop, clearly irritated by the unnecessary hinderances you’re causing. “This way is perfectly usable. We go this way,” he turns, continuing forward, fear rising in y our throat.
You scramble forward, clutching the skirts of your dress, “Eris!”
His caramel eyes slice into you, piercing in their intensity, but you don’t buckle. “I understand that maybe they don’t seem as vicious as the creatures of Prythian,” you murmur, as if they can hear you, “but swans are still very dangerous. We should go around.” Again you point to the pathway, ears perked up for any signs the massive birds are approaching. “And I get that you have magic, but you can’t just go around butchering local animals if they get in your way. That’s not how things are done here.”
He stares at you, as if asking if you’re serious. You hold his gaze because yes, you’re completely serious.
“You know they won’t attack you,” he counters, “and you’re correct, they aren’t dangerous compared to the beasts in Prythian. So move aside.”
You shake your head, “they could break your arm,” you insist, refusing to budge. His brow narrows in a scathing scowl, “they could break a human’s arm. I am not human.” He walks around you.
“They’re still dangerous, Eris. We should really go around,” you urge, watching as he walks along the path, remaining rooted to the spot. “Just winnow,” he snaps, then looks over his shoulder. “Unless you aren’t strong enough.”
“I can winnow fine, but…” Even that’s too close to them. You firmly believe animals have a sixth sense humans do not—you wouldn’t put it past them to know they’ve been cheated. “Please, let’s just go around.”
He watches you with narrowed eyes, weighing; judging. You freeze beneath his gaze, refusing to even breathe in case it’s the wrong thing to do. He turns fully to you then, and you think he might listen to you. Relief washes over you, but—
“You’re scared of these creature?” He asks, amusement underlying his tone. You flush. “Like I said, they’re dangerous,” you defend, lowering your gaze a little.
“You know, you’re fae. They won’t attack you.”
Your eyes flick up, doubting. “Why would they act any differently?”
“We are creatures of magic. Greater than they are. They know it would be unwise to attempt anything.” You blink, having not thought of it like that. The fae had felt different when you were human, more intense, more concentrated in a way humans weren’t. You hadn’t considered maybe other animals would understand that primal difference, too.
Eris’ lips twitch, and he holds out his arm—you’re completely certain it’s a mocking gesture this time. But also a challenge.
It’s also a prompt to face your fears. It’s been long enough.
You can do this.
You can prove to yourself there’s no need to be afraid of them any longer.
You take some small steps forward. Then a few more. And a few more after that. And then your arm is overlapping with Eris’, feeling the hot strength of muscle cording his forearm. An odd feeling of security settles over you, as the two of you begin to move forward.
You’re unable to help tensing as you pass them, even if Eris is on the side closest to them. Then to your dismay, he stops. “You can pet them, if you want,” he says, lips still quirked in the corners. He’s enjoying watching you shake and tremble at something half your size. “Are you insane?” You mutter under your breath, staring at the white beasts that seem to be waiting for an opportunity to strike.
Eyes widen and you stare at him, “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean that.”
He watches you steadily, eyes gleaming as he turns toward the swans, forcibly dragging you with him, despite your protests. “Eris…” you mutter, digging your feet into the mud, but you nearly slip. “Eris, seriously, stop it.”
He stops; you sigh in relief, but the tension doesn’t leave your body—still much too close to the great birds.
“Go up to one,” he says, a smirk on his rosey lips. “Touch one, then you can go.” He’s enjoying this far too much for your liking.
“No way,” you hiss, trying to pull out of his hold. The swans shift at the jerky movement, and you still. You stare at him, but he doesn’t seem inclined to move. “They’ll definitely do something if I try to go up to one!” You argue, as softly as possible. He just hums, and you wish you had continued walking instead of addressing him. Then you could be looking for blackberries, enjoying the natural sounds of the outside.
But here you are.
“You’re fae,” he reminds, eyes gleaming as he watches you intently.
Muscles tremble, thoughts flash in and out of existence within your mind as you look at the swans, sat neatly on the river bank, just at the water’s edge. A few long steps there, then back, and it’ll be over.
He’s right—you’re fae. They won’t attack you.
Still.
His arm unlinks from your own, hand pressing gently against the base of your spine. Egging you on.
You exhale a heavy breath, then move forward. Silently cursing him—unkind as it is. One step at a time as you descend the bank. The wind seems to have picked up, and you’re grateful for your preternatural sense of balance as you move down the muddy slant, feet settling on the pebble-filled shore.
Just three more steps, and you can turn back.
Two more.
One more, and then you’ll be in reaching distance.
The beady eyes pierce into you, wings stiffening, and you force yourself to breathe deeply.
“Just tap one on the head, and it’ll be over,” he reminds from your back, a little too loudly for your liking. Like he’s trying to get them to startle.
You steady yourself, blocking him out.
Come on, you can do this. You’re twice it’s size, and have immortality on your side. You can do this.
Slowly, shakily, you take the last step forward, reaching out your hand.
Black eyes meet your own, and you falter.
The swan shrieks, the second one hissing viciously, wings flaring to strike. You jump away, feet landing on the slippery rocks of the river. The massive birds surge forward, beak opening to snap at you, and you stumble, yelping as you fall backward. Icy water soaks up to your waist, and the breath whooshes out of you, your arms covering your face as wings flap.
When you open your eyes, the swans have taken off, and you’re up to your ribs in freezing river water. Trembling and shaking, you ease yourself out, soaked from the waist down, clothes wet and icy against your skin as you shiver.
Up on the bank, Eris is grinning, eyes gleaming with mirth as he watches your soaked state shuffle from the river, barely keeping his laughter to himself.
“You said—” Your heart is still pounding, vision blurring a little as you fumble for words. “You said they— That they wouldn’t…” Your teeth are already chattering, and you have to get warm quickly. You know how deadly the cold can be. Even with a reinforced body, the cold is as vicious as you remember, softly sinking into your arms, numbing your lips.
“Every animal has a fight or flight response,” he replies, voice lilting with amusement at your terror. “It was foolish of you to think you were above that.”
“But you said—”
“If I told you to dip beneath the river for five minutes without coming up for air because fae lungs are larger, would you do it?” He counters.
“…I wouldn’t disbelieve you,” you stammer, lips numb from the cold, lumbering back toward the bank.
The water in your shoes makes it hard to climb the muddy slope, and you end up having to use your hands to keep yourself steady, gritty dirt sliding beneath your nails. “Why did you lie?” You manage, heart pounding from fear, blinking away tears. His lips are still quirked into a rueful smile, enjoying your terror.
Hateful, hateful, hateful male.
“Don’t blame your idiocy on me,” he says smoothly, offering you a viper’s smile as he turns to continue along the path, leaving you freezing and shivering, soaked in river water. “Anyone with half a brain would have been able to see through that,” he calls over his shoulder. Tears spill down your cheeks, and for once, you don’t think, or fret over the consequences.
You winnow, and land a smack square across his cheek. As hard as you can.
He blinks, startled.
Then flame ignites in his eyes, glittering ire blazing hot as a forge.
“Don’t you ever,” you snarl, “do something like that again.” Fury heats your body, and you feel like a physical warmth is wrapping around you, fingertips tingling as if glowing, skin itching just below the surface. “Do you hear me, Eris?” You repeat, rage sharpening your words as your lip pulls back from your teeth.
The flame banks in his caramel eyes, and he yields a step. It’s satisfying, until you realise why.
You are glowing. But it’s not the bright, warm golden of Feyre’s happiness.
It’s green, and vivid.
Hands the colour of radiant starfall.
————
The Mother seems to enjoy putting you through various trials.
You come to this conclusion as you resist the urge to press deeper into the firm heat of Azriel’s chest as he carries you through the air.
For reasons you can only guess at, Cassian was otherwise preoccupied, leaving the Shadowsinger to fill in. Now Elain understands your relationship with the male, Feyre can guess at the complexities, and Azriel is part of the mess, so it should be obvious you’ll fly with your younger sister, right?
Unfortunately, Lucien had to be accounted for.
He’s well aware of the history between the Spymaster and his mate, and while he would never ask Elain to avoid him, she can guess well enough it would make him unhappy. That’s how you end up in his arms, split between wishing to be anywhere else, and wishing to be able to bask in his touch without anyone questioning how close you would lean. As it is, you’re stuck between keeping your distance, and not leaning so far it looks like you’re attempting to plummet to the ground far below.
The group is moving in silence, passing over the final stretch, and you can make out the twinkle of lights in the distance—Velaris. They’d gotten caught up in—what sounded like—a rather heated conversation with the Autumn Court heir, while you had opted to wait outside. The hallway had seemed too cramped, and you weren’t sure if you could manage being pressed so close to him without making your discomfort obvious.
Azriel breaks the silence. “Was everything okay with Eris suddenly turning up?”
The question startles you from your inner thoughts, and you replay it to catch the beginning. “Yeah,” you reply, trying to keep your eyes off him. “He’s just a bit…” You fumble for words, but he’s already nodding, knowing what you’re getting at. “He’s a little intense,” you settle on, “but everything was fine. For the most part, anyway.” You’re rambling.
“For the most part,” he echoes, a soft question in his voice.
“Well, I ended up falling into the river, but you know how it is…” you mumble, suddenly finding the sky very interesting. More interesting than Azriel.
(Liar.)
“I don’t think I do,” he replies. “What does soaking yourself to the bone have to do with him?” He asks, grip tightening ever so slightly as you begin the descent. You really don’t want to tell him—it’s not going to win you any adult points. At best it’ll just show how emotional your are, and that means baggage.
“It’s a long story,” you hedge, trying not to cling too tight to him as your stomach lifts in your belly. “We’ve got a while left,” he replies, gazing ahead. He could definitely be going at a steeper angle.
You sigh softly, trying to figure out how to make it as quick and concise as possible. “Well…he kind of…appeared out of nowhere, and we ended walking back together.” Azriel’s fingers press into your skin lightly, slowly spiralling in wide circles, “and there was a river involved.”
You nod gently, “yeah.”
“How?”
Teeth worry your lower lip, mouth pursing.
He exhales quietly. “We’re in an alliance, but that doesn’t mean you should trust him. I need to know everything that happened so precautions can be made,” he explains firmly.
“Okay…”
“So tell me what happened when you were walking alone with him,” he prompts.
“There’s not much to say…” you try, but he gives you a look that tells you to quit lying. “I don’t know…we were walking past the river, and there were some swans, and he convinced me to touch one, and…well, I slipped and fell in.” You leave out the glowing hands part. If you mention it, you know they’ll pounce. You don’t want to go through what Nesta did. The things she had to endure just to activate her powers…
Granted, there’s no looming threat of the queen anymore, but still. You’d rather not.
“He convinced you,” Azriel mutters under his breath, “and how did he do that?” You flush with heat, and pray he can’t tell. “I didn’t want to walk past them, and he…encouraged me to tackle my fear.”
“Stop forcing a good narrative on that prick,” he says sharply. “He didn’t encourage you, he manipulated you.”
“Maybe,” you murmur, “but I’m a little less afraid of swans now.”
Azriel sucks in a steadying breath. “And what did you talk about?”
You cast your mind back to the conversation. “He said he hadn’t known there were four sisters,” you admit, quietly, “he thought there were only three, and that Rhys was hiding me, for some reason.” He hums, and your hairs stand on end, able to feel the resonance thrumming through you. You hurriedly shift your mind elsewhere before your scent changes. “What else?”
You put your teeth into the inside of your lower lip, “I…” said we weren’t on the best of terms. “He asked…how…I was settling in,” you manage to string the words together, selecting each one with great care. “And?” He prompts. Oh dear.
“I said it was fine,” you reply, purposely vaguely. His eyes flick to you, and your own snap away in response. “Just fine?” He questions, softly. You make to nod, but he mutters your name under his breath, a quiet reprimand on his tongue. Heat coils in the pit of your belly, making you shift uncomfortably in his arms, leaning away.
A muscle feathers in his jaw, and he tightens his grip on you. “Stop doing that. You’ll fall.” You’re squeezed closer to him, and you squirm, the heat doubling. He mutters your name again, rougher.
“Stop doing that,” you hiss, sharply. You don’t have time to feel bad—it’s better to be rude than for him to realise the immense effect he has on you. “Stop leaning away from me,” he counters, “you’re being difficult.”
“I’m sorry my responses are an inconvenience for you,” you snap, quietly. No louder than a whisper.
“Don’t weaponise your emotions like that,” he murmurs back.
“I don’t see how I’d be able to when I don’t even know what that means,” you return, quietly. You feel his eyes press into you, and you look further away, inspecting the ground. “Don’t feign ignorance either,” he says sharply, “it’s immature.”
“Immature is making a problem out of something I can’t help,” you whisper back, snappily. His eyes narrow on you, and you shift again.
His hold tightens abruptly, fingers digging into you as he roughly readjusts his grip on your thighs and around your back. You squeak at the harsh treatment, heat bursting in your lower belly, and you squeeze your lips together, praying no sounds slip out. “It’s like you’re trying to get me to drop you,” he mutters beside your ear, “just keep still. We’re almost there.”
“Keep still?” You repeat incredulously, staring at him. “I don’t know if you’ve somehow forgotten, Azriel,” you hiss, emphasising his name. Hazel eyes flick down to you, and you gently push away the heat for a moment. “But I struggle to even think straight when you’re around. I can barely keep my head as it is, so forgive me if I’m a little shifty in a position like this,” you snap quietly. Probably the most aggressive you’ve ever been for a consistent time period.
“And I don’t know if you’ve forgotten,” he snipes back, eyes piercing into you, “but you managed to pull away on the brink of an orgasm.” Wild heat swallows you whole, and there’s no way your scent is remaining undetected now. “So you’re clearly more in control than you say you are.”
You stare at him, lips parted, skin flushed with heat.
“We are done with this conversation,” you hiss, breaking your gaze away. He doesn’t appreciate the verbal dismissal. “We’re done when I say we’re done,” he hisses in return. “Now what did you mean when you told Eris you were fine?”
You purse your lips, pointedly averting your eyes.
He mutters your name, grip tightening on you. You ignore him.
He repeats it, rougher this time, shadows twining around you.
“Cut it out,” you whisper, sharply.
“Expand on the fine comment,” he pushes, and you can physically feel the weight of his gaze upon your cheek. “Why are you so hung up on that one, tiny part?” You return, a sliver of irritation peeking through. “Because you’ve been acting strangely for a while now,” he hisses, “and if you’re starting to spiral like Nesta—”
“Do not threaten me, Azriel,” you snarl softly, skin heating—tingling. His eyes flicker, and his hold lessens on you a little, “it’s not a threat,” he soothes, “just an observation.” You narrow your brow as you watch him warily. “Like I said: you’ve been acting strange recently, and if you even gave the slightest hint that something’s off, Eris will exploit it.”
Your eyes flick away, slightly embarrassed by your tiny outburst. That wasn’t appropriate.
“So tell me, what happened when you said you were fine?” He repeats, gritting out the question.
“I…” You bite your lip, then give up. “He asked if I was settling in well, and I said I wasn’t.”
“Why did you tell him that?” He asks, gaze returning to pick out Velaris, much closer now. “Because it’s the truth,” you reply, a little weakly.
“I don’t care if it’s the truth, you shouldn’t have told him,” Azriel hisses. “He’ll give you the comfort you want, offer the reassurance, until you’re wrapped so tightly you choke on it.”
Hurt flickers in your eyes, vision blurring. “Maybe if I was better than fine I wouldn’t need the comforting,” you snap, turning your head and blinking away tears. His jaw tightens, “that’s not the point.” You stare at him. He stares back, features set in a stony line. “What is the point, then?” You ask weakly, the small spark of fight banking, beginning to flicker out beneath his oppressive gaze. “The point is,” he says, dragging out the words like he’s talking to a child. “You’re too naive.”
It’s like a smack to the face, your head reeling.
“You don’t know the dynamics between the courts. You don’t know about the feuds, or the history of Prythian. You don’t know enough to be trusted to act on your own,” he continues, oblivious to the number of scars he’s striking. “You’re a loose cannon, that I now have to compensate for.”
You stare up at him, hazel eyes glittering beneath the starlight.
“What’s worse—”
You put your hands over your ears. You can’t take anymore. If it was coming from someone else—fine. From anyone else it would be fine; understandable.
But not Azriel. That’s too much.
His brow furrows, lips moving, and you can guess he’s telling you to remove your hands.
You shake your head softly, unable to stand another word.
But his shadows contract around your wrists, tugging them away, and you hate the heat the bubbles in your lower belly at the roughness.
“You need to grow up,” he mutters, lowly. “You can’t just run away from something if you don’t want to hear it. You’re going to have to face it.”
A sob breaks from your chest, and your hands cover your face as the tears finally break, spilling down your cheeks. “Just leave me alone,” you cry, shoulders shaking as the tears continue streaming. “You find me irritating? fine. You find me annoying? Fine. You think I’m the worst, ugliest, most useless female in the world, fine,” you sob, unable to look at him. “But keep it to yourself, because every single word from your mouth holds more weight that you can probably even understand. And it is crushing me.”
You tremble in his arms, wishing they were there to offer comfort instead of being purely obligatory.
“You think Eris is the viper? You think he’s the one who’s bad for me? The one who’s trying to choke me?” You ask through your tears. “But you’re the one succeeding.”
Azriel’s eyes harden, and you feel the fractures growing larger. “I’m trying to keep you in line,” he replies, coldly. “For the sake of my Court, my High Lord and Lady, I am doing my best to keep people safe,” he emphasises. “And you are a proving to be a burden.”
You don’t know if he intentionally selected that word, burden.
You don’t know if he even realises which wound he’s targeted—so many have been picked open.
But you go quiet in his arms.
Docile.
The fight finally winking out.
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estellan0vella · 27 days ago
Text
Good For You Lee Felix x fem!reader (Peaky Blinders AU)
WC: 20.1K
CW: sex work, reader is a prostitute, talks of war, violence against women, time period appropriate stereotypical views of prostitutes, talks of shellshock, injuries, guns, substance abuse (opium use), death, sort of pre-established relationship General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist
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The sharp smell of brine and steel hangs heavy in the air as Felix’s head lolls back against Minho’s shoulder. The three of them stumble forward, feet slamming against the slick, grimy cobblestones of the Birmingham docks, trying to outrun the trouble they’ve just stirred. Felix’s blood leaks in dark rivulets, soaking through his shirt and onto Minho and Jisung's coats as the two of them hold him between them.
“Fuckin’ hell, Felix,” Minho grunts, his voice low and rough, like he’s dragging each word out of his throat. “You’re heavy as shit when you’re bleedin’ out.”
Felix groans, his face pale under the weak lamplight. “I’m not heavy. You two are just weak.”
“You’ve just been stabbed, you daft bastard,” Jisung spits from Felix’s other side, his breath coming short as they drag him forward. “Shut up and let us save your sorry arse.”
The clatter of distant voices rises behind them, followed by the unmistakable click of bootheels echoing off the cobbles. The sound is distant, but it’s getting closer. Minho snaps his head over his shoulder and hisses a curse. “They’re still fuckin’ comin’. Move faster, Jisung!”
“I’m movin’ as quick as I can!” Jisung snaps, shifting to get a better grip on Felix. The man's knees buckle for a moment, and Jisung shoots him a glare. “Felix, if you die on me, I’ll kill you myself.”
Felix lets out a rough, breathless chuckle. “You talk too fuckin’ much, Jisung. Both of you do.”
Jisung’s face twists in exasperation. “We just stole a crate of guns full of enough fuckin’ weaponry to supply a small army, and now we’re draggin’ your useless body out of here, bleeding like a pig.”
Minho snorts. “He’s got a point.”
Felix coughs, wincing as the stab wound flares with pain. He leans heavier against Minho’s shoulder and mutters, “Your chatter’s not gonna stop ‘em followin’ us, is it?”
“We’re talkin’ so we don’t go fuckin’ mad,” Minho snaps. “Jisung, grab him tighter, will you?”
Jisung rolls his eyes but adjusts his hold, and they stumble faster toward the edge of the docks. Felix feels his head spin again, the throbbing in his stomach worse now than when the knife first went in. He tries to breathe, but the sharp sting of it makes him curse under his breath.
“You need to keep that blood inside you,” Minho says, glancing down at him, his tone serious.
Jisung cuts in, his voice sharp and panicked. “We need to get him to the Garrison. We’re closest to-”
“No.” Felix’s voice comes out harsh and ragged. Both men look at him, startled. “No Garrison.”
Minho furrows his brow, annoyed. “You’re fuckin’ kiddin’, right? You’re bleedin’ out. You’ll die in the fuckin’ street if we don’t get you patched up proper.”
Felix shakes his head, sweat glistening on his brow. “Take me to the flats.”
“The what?” Jisung barks.
“The flats,” Felix repeats, his voice weaker but resolute. “The block not far from the Black Swan.”
Minho swears, his grip on Felix tightening. “You’ve lost too much blood to be makin’ sense, mate. You’re talkin’ about Fenian fuckin’ turf now.”
Felix grits his teeth against the pain and snaps, “I got someone there.”
“Someone?” Jisung echoes incredulously. “What, some girl you’re keepin’ tucked away? You’re gonna get yourself killed for a-”
“Shut it, Jisung,” Felix cuts him off, his eyes flashing despite the pain. “I said I got someone who can patch me up, and you two are gonna take me there before I fuckin’ bleed to death.”
Minho curses under his breath, his jaw tight. “This is a shite idea, Felix.”
“So was smokin' opium before stealin’ the fuckin’ crate,” Felix mutters, his voice weaker now. "We grabbed the wrong one"
“That was your idea!” Jisung hisses, his face a mix of frustration and worry.
“Doesn’t matter whose fuckin’ idea it was,” Minho growls, shooting Jisung a glare. “The coppers are probably sniffin’ around, and Felix here looks like he’s about two minutes from keelin’ over.”
“Then let’s move,” Felix grunts.
Jisung looks like he wants to argue, but he bites his tongue and nods, his hands flexing nervously around Felix’s arm. “We get spotted near that block, the Fenians’ll have us strung up. I hope you know what you’re doin’, Felix.”
Felix doesn’t answer. He just lets his head rest back against Minho’s shoulder, his body growing heavier with each step.
Minho swears again, louder this time. “Right. We’ll get you to the flats, but you owe me a new fuckin’ coat after this.”
Felix smirks faintly, his eyes fluttering. “Deal.”
“Don’t you fall asleep on us, mate,” Minho warns, shaking him slightly.
“I’m awake,” Felix mutters, though his voice sounds far away.
Jisung glances around nervously as they turn down a darker, narrower street. “We’re gonna regret this.”
“Shut it,” Minho snaps. “Keep your eyes open, and keep movin’. If Felix’s  someone doesn’t patch him up, we’ll be buryin’ him in a fuckin’ ditch by morning.”
Jisung falls quiet, and the three of them stumble forward into the shadowy maze of backstreets that wind toward the block of flats near the Black Swan. The sounds of the docks fade behind them, but the weight of the trouble they’ve stirred lingers heavy in the cold night air.
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The clock ticks softly in the corner of your small living room, the steady rhythm filling the silence as you turn the pages of Pride and Prejudice. A cigarette burns between your fingers, its smoke curling lazily in the air.
The soft fabric of your green dress shifts against your legs as you lean back into the armchair, the heels on your feet tapping idly against the wooden floorboards. A dull ache still lingers in your cheekbone, and the split on your lip stings faintly when you purse your mouth, but you don’t think about that. 
You’re halfway through a particularly sharp exchange between Elizabeth and Darcy when a thunderous pounding rattles your front door.
You jolt upright, the cigarette nearly slipping from your fingers. Your brows knit together as the hammering continues, each knock loud and urgent, shaking the thin walls of your flat.
“Christ alive,” you mutter under your breath, stubbed cigarette hanging forgotten from your lips. 
When you pull open the door, the sight nearly knocks the breath out of you. Standing there under the dim hallway light are two men wearing razor-lined Peaky caps, holding up a third between them. The man in the middle, blood-soaked and pale as a sheet, is Lee Felix.
“Hey, angel,” Felix croaks with a faint, bloody smile.
You blink in surprise, momentarily stunned, before the softness returns to your face. “Hello, Felix.”
Jisung, the smaller of the two with wide, panicked eyes, gestures impatiently toward Felix with a tilt of his head. “He said to bring him here, to you, so here we fuckin’ are.”
Minho, the taller and sterner one, raises a brow, taking in the gentle smile on your face and the way Felix clings to consciousness. “So, you two are...acquainted?” He jerks his chin toward Felix. “Who���s the girl, Felix?”
Felix lets out a breathy chuckle, though it turns into a cough. “This angel here is Y/N.” He winces as the pain pulls at his wound. “Y/N, this is Minho and Jisung. Don’t let their sour faces fool you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Minho mutters.
You shake off the shock quickly, ushering them inside. “Come in, quick. And shut the bloody door before the whole building hears you.”
The moment they step into your modest flat, you spring into action, clearing the small dining table of books and ashtrays with practised speed. You grab the half-empty bottle of rum from your cabinet, tipping a generous splash over the table to sterilize it, cigarette still dangling between your fingers.
“Put him on the table,” you say firmly.
Minho and Jisung exchange a look before hauling Felix’s weight across the room. “Watch his fuckin’ head,” Minho snaps as they lay him down. Felix groans as his back hits the hard wood, his breaths shallow and laboured.
Jisung hovers, wringing his hands. “We were at the docks-”
"Please don’t tell me anythin’. I don’t want to know”
Jisung clamps his mouth shut, looking sheepish. “Right. Fair enough.”
You glance at Felix’s pale face, eyes flicking to the blood seeping through his shirt. “You’ve really done it this time,” you murmur softly.
Felix grins faintly. “Only because I knew you’d fix me up, angel.”
Minho and Jisung take off their caps, flopping onto your small couch without invitation. Minho pulls out a cigarette and lights it with a grunt, leaning back with a sigh. “This is cosy.”
You glance up briefly. “Biscuits are in the cupboard up there if you want some.”
Jisung perks up immediately. “Oh, bless you, darlin'.” He springs up, rushing to the cabinet to root through it like he owns the place.
You roll your eyes before focusing back on Felix. You grab a pair of scissors and cut open his shirt, the sound of tearing fabric filling the room. Felix hisses as the cold air hits his wound, but you’re already examining it with sharp, trained eyes.
“Can you patch me up?” Felix asks weakly, looking up at you.
You give him a small, reassuring smile, pressing a hand gently to his arm. “Of course I can. I did it in France, didn’t I?”
Felix manages a faint smirk despite his pallor.
You grab the rum again and pour it straight onto the wound without warning. Felix arches sharply off the table with a shout, his teeth gritting. “Fuckin’ hell!”
“Stay still,” you say gently, though there’s no room for argument.
Felix’s breathing grows uneven, his hands clenching at nothing. You stride quickly to the stove, turning on the gas and grabbing one of your old kitchen knives. The faint hiss of the flame fills the room as you hold the blade over it, watching the metal glow.
From the couch, Minho squints at you. “What the fuck are you doin’ now?”
Felix groans faintly. “She’s gonna cauterize it.”
Jisung, halfway through his third biscuit, freezes mid-bite. “She’s gonna what?”
“This is gonna fuckin’ hurt,” Felix mutters.
You glance back at him, soft but firm. “Yes, it is. So prepare yourself.”
You grab a clean rag from the cabinet, placing it gently but firmly in Felix’s mouth. “Bite on that. And don’t you dare scream the whole building down.”
Felix meets your eyes, his gaze steady despite the sweat dripping down his temple. He swallows hard as you step back to his side. “Here,” you murmur, offering him your free hand.
Felix grips it tightly, his knuckles white as he prepares himself.
The knife in your other hand glows red-hot, the sharp edge blurred by the heat. You bring it down with precision, pressing it firmly to the wound.
Felix screams into the rag, his body jerking violently against the table. The smell of burning flesh fills the air, sharp and metallic. Minho and Jisung glance over, both grimacing as Felix’s muffled cries ring out.
“It’s alright, Felix,” you murmur. “Just a bit longer now.”
Felix squeezes your hand tighter, tears springing to the corners of his eyes as you finish the cauterization. When it’s done, you pull the knife back, tossing it into the basin with a clatter.
“There,” you say softly, pulling the rag from his mouth. “It’s over.”
Felix’s chest heaves as he slumps back against the table, his hand still gripping yours weakly. “Jesus...fuckin’...Christ.”
You offer him a small smile as you begin to wrap the wound with clean bandages. “Told you I could fix you.”
You finish bandaging Felix up with careful hands, the sound of his shallow breaths filling the quiet of the flat. Minho and Jisung, sprawled on your small couch, smoke their cigarettes like they haven’t a care in the world despite the chaos outside. You straighten up, wiping your hands on a rag, and glance at them.
“Alright,” you say, folding your arms. “Are you gonna be alright gettin’ him home?”
Felix’s head turns slightly on the table, his voice rough but clear enough. “About that…” he pauses, catching his breath. “Uh, can we lie low here for a few hours?”
You blink, surprised.
“I’ll pay you,” Felix adds quickly. “For your time and for patchin’ me up.”
Jisung nods, flicking ash onto the floor. “We’re too close to Fenian turf right now, love. If we step outside, we’re liable to get our heads kicked in. We’d be outnumbered.”
You look between the three of them. Felix, pale and sweat-slicked, Minho blowing smoke like he’s in his own bloody living room, and Jisung perched on the arm of the couch like a stray cat. You sigh softly, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
“Sure,” you say, leaning back against the table. “You can stay as long as you need. Just don’t be makin’ a mess of the place, alright?”
Jisung grins and Minho nods in approval.
Felix exhales in relief, his hand settling over his stomach. “You’re an angel.”
You shake your head fondly, stepping closer to him as he pants quietly, his eyes fluttering shut. His hair sticks to his damp forehead, and instinctively, you reach down, brushing it back with gentle fingers. His eyelids flicker open, warm brown eyes locking onto yours.
“What happened to your face?” he murmurs, his voice soft but edged with concern.
You freeze for a moment before forcing a small smile. “Nasty client.”
Felix frowns deeply, his gaze narrowing as his hand moves up to you. Before you can stop him, his thumb brushes gently over your split lip. The touch is soft, far more tender than it has any right to be, and it sends a pang through your chest.
“I want a name,” he says, low and serious.
“It’s not that big of a deal, Felix,” you reply quietly, pulling back slightly.
Felix’s jaw tenses, his voice firm. “Name.”
You sigh, rolling your eyes. You know he won’t let it go. “That guy who works at the docks. The one whose wife went to the nuthouse after givin’ birth. He’s got a scar runnin’ through his lip.” You pause, your voice dry. “Didn’t pay for his time neither.”
Jisung stops mid-chew, his mouth still half full of biscuits, and frowns. Without a word, he reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a wad of cash, and thrusts it toward you.
You blink at the offering. “What’s this for?”
“Compensation,” Jisung says simply. “For that bastard.”
You hesitate before taking it, shaking your head. “You lot are somethin’ else, I swear. Thank you.”
Felix glances over toward Jisung. “You’re payin’ that prick a visit tomorrow, yeah?”
Jisung shrugs, nonchalant, like it’s just another item on his to-do list. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll sort him out. Don’t worry about it.”
“Good.” Felix’s voice drops low, dangerous even as he lies there half-dead on your table. He lets his head fall back again, his gaze lingering on you.
The silence is broken when Minho pipes up, his tone blunt and cutting through the air. “So, are you a whore?”
“Oi,” Felix snaps, his eyes blazing as he jerks his head up. “Watch your fuckin’ mouth, Minho.”
You hold up a hand before Felix can say anything more, your voice calm and even. “It’s alright.” You glance at Minho, unbothered. “Yeah. Not much use for a war nurse when there’s no war anymore, is there?”
Minho shrugs, seemingly satisfied with your answer, and blows out a long stream of smoke.
Jisung, surprisingly quieter than usual, speaks up. “So, is that how you met Felix, then?”
You nod slowly, a small smile tugging at your lips as your gaze flicks to Felix. “Yeah. Felix is one of the few good ones.”
Felix hums softly, smiling faintly despite the exhaustion in his eyes. “Actually met her in France, y’know. But that’s a story for another time.”
The room is quiet for a moment, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the hiss of Minho’s cigarette burning.
With Minho and Jisung settling into their cigarettes on your worn-out couch, you turn your attention back to Felix. He’s pale as a sheet, the blood loss catching up with him, and even though his breathing has evened out slightly, you can tell he’s struggling.
“Alright, Felix,” you say softly, brushing your hands against your dress. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable before you pass out on me.”
He grunts softly, trying to sit up as you help him off the table. He’s heavier than he looks, leaning on you with most of his weight. “I’m alright, angel. I got this.”
“Shut up,” you mutter gently. “You’re about as sturdy as a sack of potatoes right now.”
He chuckles faintly, his arm slinging around your shoulder as you guide him toward your bedroom. You take it slow, your heels clicking softly against the floor, every now and then catching him as he stumbles. Minho glances up as you pass, but you wave him off.
By the time you get him through the door and onto the edge of your bed, he’s panting faintly, sweat slicking his brow again. You help him ease back onto the mattress, fluffing the pillow behind his head as he exhales shakily.
“It’s lucky I like you, Lee Felix,” you tease softly, sitting down beside him on the edge of the bed. “I was readin’ Pride and Prejudice when you decided to bang on my door.”
A faint smile pulls at his lips, though his eyes are still half-closed. “Sorry, angel. I know how much you like readin’ your books.”
You smile despite yourself, gently smoothing a strand of his damp hair away from his face. “You’re lucky I’m sweet on you, or I’d have thrown you lot straight back out into the street.”
Felix’s warm hand suddenly reaches out, catching yours. His grip is gentle, but there’s a desperation in the way he holds onto you, thumb brushing softly over your knuckles. You look down at him, startled by the intensity in his gaze.
“Why won’t you marry me?” Felix asks, his voice quiet but steady.
Your heart skips a beat. “Felix...”
“No,” he cuts in softly, his voice rough around the edges but insistent. “I want to know. I’ve asked before. I’m askin’ again. Why won’t you?”
You sigh quietly, your free hand resting in your lap as you look down at him. “Felix, you know why.”
He shakes his head, not letting go of your hand. “Say it. I want to hear it from you.”
You meet his gaze, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because neither of us leads safe lives.”
Felix’s jaw tightens for a moment before he speaks, his voice calm but firm. “I’d keep you safe. You know I would, angel. You know I’d kill for you if I had to.”
Your chest tightens at the earnest look in his eyes. He means it, every word, and that’s what makes it harder. “And what if you don’t come back one day, Felix? What then?”
“I will,” he replies stubbornly, his hand squeezing yours. “I always come back.”
“You can’t promise me that,” you murmur, but the words lack conviction.
Felix’s lips tug into the faintest smile, his gaze softening. “Then let me promise you somethin’ else. I’ll keep you safe, and I’ll do everything I can to make sure I come back to you. I’m not a good man but I’d be good for you.”
The words settle heavily in the quiet room. You take a deep breath, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand.
“I’ll think about it,” you say softly.
Felix’s brows lift slightly. “Promise?”
You nod, your smile faint but sincere. “I promise.”
Felix exhales, the tension leaving his body as a tired grin spreads across his face. “That’s good enough for me, angel.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks. His eyes flutter closed, and his breathing slows, your hand still tucked gently in his. You stay there, perched on the edge of the bed, watching him rest.
You’ve always been sweet on Lee Felix, more than you’d care to admit. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll think about it after all.
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The cobbled streets of Small Heath glisten faintly under the weak evening light, leftover rain pooling in the cracks. Felix walks with a steady but deliberate stride, flanked by Minho on his right and Jisung on his left. The three of them are heading to the Garrison, the Peaky Blinders’ stomping ground.
“You know,” Jisung says suddenly, his hands stuffed into his pockets, “you’ve been seein’ that lovely lady of yours for nearly a year now, right? Since the war ended?”
Felix stiffens slightly, side-eyeing Jisung. “Shut the fuck up.”
Minho chuckles under his breath, looking amused. “It’s a fair question. You did say last night that you met her in France, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Felix mutters, his voice clipped. “Now stop askin’ me fuckin’ questions I ain’t gonna answer.”
Jisung huffs, pulling a face. “Miserable bastard.”
Felix shoots him a glare. “Twat.”
The three of them keep walking, boots smacking against the wet cobblestones. The Garrison’s golden light comes into view up ahead, the hum of life and noise spilling faintly from behind its doors. As they push inside, the smell of beer and cigarettes hits them like a wall.
The regular crowd is scattered throughout the pub, but Felix doesn’t slow. He leads Minho and Jisung through the haze of smoke and noise to the back room where Bang Chan and the rest of the Peaky boys are waiting.
Chan is perched at the head of the table, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips as he looks up, dark eyes narrowing. “Where the fuck have you three been?”
Jisung immediately takes centre stage, his grin sharp and boyish as he leans against the doorframe. “Well, after Felix here got himself stabbed last night, we took him to meet his lady friend who patched him up. Sweet girl, that one.”
Felix groans, rolling his head back against the doorframe. “Shut the fuck up. You don’t know shit, Jisung.”
Jisung snickers, undeterred. “What I do know is that Felix here’s a proper gentleman for this particular prostitute.”
The words hang in the air for a moment.
Hyunjin, leaning lazily in a chair with his feet propped up on the table, bursts out laughing. “That’s where you’ve been slippin’ off to? Gettin’ your dick wet?”
Felix rolls his eyes and mutters, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ…”
“Oi, don’t look so sour,” Jisung pipes up, grinning wide. “He calls her angel, you know. To be honest, prettiest girl I’ve seen in a long time.”
Minho nods approvingly, reaching for the bottle of whiskey on the table. “I’ll fuckin’ drink to that.”
Changbin leans forward, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “What, mate, you tired of women throwin’ themselves at you, so you’re payin’ for it now?”
Felix throws him a flat, unimpressed look. “You’re all a bunch of arseholes.”
Seungmin, ever the one to stir the pot, pipes up, his voice edged with sarcasm. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with her, Felix. She’s a prostitute.”
Felix’s head snaps up, his glare sharp as a blade. “Shut the fuck up before I cut your tongue out of your head.”
“Oh, come on,” Seungmin scoffs, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re in love with a whore? She can probably tell you’re sweet on her and is playin’ up to it so you’ll keep payin’ her.”
The room goes quiet for a beat, the tension thick enough to choke on. Felix pushes off the wall, stepping forward, his eyes blazing. “She ain’t like that, you fuckin’ gobshite. None of you know her, so shut your mouths.”
Chan raises a hand, his calm, measured voice cutting through the silence. “That’s enough.” His sharp gaze sweeps across the room, lingering on Seungmin before landing on Felix. “If Felix loves a whore, he loves a whore. His choice.”
The room relaxes slightly, though Felix still stands taut, his fists clenching at his sides. Minho, sitting back with a glass in hand, offers a shrug. “She’s a nice girl, minus the whole fuckin’ half of Small Heath for money thing.”
Changbin snorts, leaning back in his chair. “Is this why you go around cuttin’ up half the men in Small Heath, Felix? Because they’re fuckin’ your lady?”
Jisung shakes his head, his tone serious now. “Nah. It’s because they’re smackin’ her about and not payin’ her. Her face was busted up yesterday when Minho and I met her.”
That shuts Changbin up quick. Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, his usual teasing edge gone. “She got roughed up?”
“Yeah,” Jisung confirms, arms crossed, his grin gone. “Split lip. Bruise on her cheekbone. Bastards.”
Chan’s gaze sharpens. “Is that why there was a dead dockworker found in the Cut?”
Jisung raises his hand like a schoolboy. “That was me. Felix asked me to pay him a visit.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “I don’t like lady-beaters, so I went happily.”
Felix doesn’t say anything, but there’s a faint glint of approval in his eyes as he slouches back against the wall again, folding his arms over his chest.
Chan exhales a cloud of smoke, his expression unreadable. “Well. I can’t say I blame you.”
The room falls quiet for a moment, the only sound the faint hum of voices drifting from the main bar.
Felix finally speaks up, his voice softer now, but no less firm. “She ain’t just some whore to me.”
The room turns to him, but no one interrupts. Felix’s gaze is steady as he looks around at the group.
“She’s a good girl,” he says quietly, like he’s daring anyone to argue with him. “And she’s done more for me than most people ever have.”
Chan leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and tilts his chin toward Felix. “Well then, let’s see this patch-up job, eh?”
Felix sighs, already knowing he won’t get out of this. “For fuck’s sake…” he mutters, but he stands up with a grunt, shrugging off his coat. He tosses it lazily onto the back of the chair before his fingers start working on the buttons of his vest. The room watches, waiting, as he undoes his shirt next, then carefully rolls up his undershirt to expose the bandages wrapped tightly around his torso.
Chan leans forward, squinting slightly as Felix sits back down and rests his hands on his thighs. The white bandages are clean, no trace of blood leaking through. That in itself is impressive. “Seungmin,” Chan says sharply. “Scissors.”
Seungmin flicks open his coat pocket, pulls out a small pair of scissors, and tosses them over the table to Chan. Chan catches them without looking, the blade flashing briefly in the low light.
“Sit still,” he says to Felix.
“I am still,” Felix grumbles, flinching just a little when Chan starts cutting through the bandages.
The fabric pulls away with a faint ripping sound, revealing the cauterized wound underneath. The skin around it is red and angry-looking, but the burn itself is neat and precise.
Chan lets out a low whistle, sitting back and tilting his head as he takes it in. “Well, I’ll be fucked. Your lady did a good job.”
Felix smirks faintly, his expression proud despite the lingering pain in his side. “She’s good at what she does.”
Chan raises an eyebrow. “Clearly.”
Felix rolls the undershirt back down, wincing slightly as he shifts in his seat. “She was in France, just like the rest of us,” he says, his voice quieter now. “War nurse. It’s how I met her. That shrapnel I took to the chest in the Somme? She’s the one who patched me up. Sat by my bedside and everything.” He pauses, a faint, faraway look in his eye. “All the soldiers loved her.”
Changbin grunts, leaning back in his chair and smirking. “A regular Florence fuckin’ Nightingale, huh?”
Felix doesn’t deny it, just shrugs and reaches for the bottle of whiskey in the centre of the table. “She’s got a good heart. Better than most.”
Minho leans forward, slinging one arm across the back of his chair, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. “Pretty as a picture, sweet as a songbird. Wore a green dress, looked nice on her.”
Jisung laughs, tapping his glass of whiskey against Minho’s with a smirk. “She’s got a face that belongs in the pictures. Could be a bloody movie star, that one.”
Hyunjin, perched casually with his boots up on the edge of the table, grins like a devil. “Well now we have to meet this lady of yours.”
Felix’s smile drops instantly, replaced with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Not happenin’.”
Hyunjin raises a brow, his grin widening as he gestures to himself. “Worried she’ll fall for my beauty, mate?”
Felix snorts, unimpressed. “No. Just don’t want her meetin’ you pack of fools. She’s a nice girl. Classy.”
Seungmin scoffs, leaning forward with a crooked smirk. “How classy can she be if she’s spreadin’ her legs for half the city?”
Felix’s glare snaps to Seungmin, his entire body tensing as he fixes him with a look that could kill. “Say that again"
Seungmin shrugs, unbothered. “Relax, Felix. I’m just sayin’.”
Jeongin, who’d been quietly nursing a beer in the corner, pipes up softly. “I think it’s sweet, actually.”
Changbin laughs loudly, slapping his hand against the table. “Of course you do. Our soft Innie.”
Jeongin rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Piss off, Changbin.”
Felix sits back again, shaking his head in frustration. “Listen here, none of you pricks are meetin’ her. The only reason Jisung and Minho saw her at all was ‘cause I was bleedin’ out, and she knows what she’s doin’. That’s the end of it.”
The room falls quiet for a beat as the boys exchange looks, smirks hidden behind cigarettes and whiskey glasses.
Hyunjin breaks the silence first, his tone sing-song and teasing. “Felix has gone soft on us, lads.”
“Say what you want,” Felix mutters, pouring himself a drink. “Doesn’t fuckin’ matter.”
Chan watches him carefully, his sharp gaze unwavering. “You trust her, then?”
Felix nods once, firm. “With my life.”
No one argues after that.
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It’s early morning, and the pale light filtering through the curtains turns the room a soft grey. You sit at your brand-new dining table, the rich mahogany smooth under your fingers as you absentmindedly trace a groove along its edge. Felix had marched in with the damned thing two weeks ago, stubborn as ever, claiming he wasn’t going to let you keep “that bloodstained piece of shit” after he’d bled out all over it. You’d told him you didn’t mind, but he wouldn’t hear it.
Now, it’s your favourite spot in the flat. You sit there quietly, cigarette between your fingers, the thin line of smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. A steaming cup of tea sits beside you as you thumb through the worn pages of Little Women. The words blur slightly as you lose yourself in the story, a soft hum of peace settling over the room.
And then your door is kicked in.
The splintering crack of wood jolts you out of your thoughts. The door smashes open with enough force to rattle the frame, and the heavy thuds of boots follow immediately after. Four uniformed police officers spill into your flat like a pack of wolves, their faces hard and eyes sharp.
You don’t flinch. You don’t even move. You just take another slow drag of your cigarette and exhale softly, letting the smoke drift toward the ceiling.
The men start tearing apart your flat immediately. Books tossed off shelves, cushions ripped off chairs, drawers pulled out and dumped unceremoniously onto the floor. The sound of it is deafening.
You finally speak, your voice calm and even, as if discussing the weather. “If you’re lookin’ for somethin’, you can just tell me, and I’ll help you find it.”
One of the officers pauses long enough to glare at you. “Not your fuckin’ business what we’re lookin’ for.”
“Alright, then,” you reply, unbothered, turning another page in your book. “Suit yourselves.”
A heavy thud makes you look up sharply. The flat has gone quiet save for the slow tap of a cane against your wooden floor. A tall man strides in, his polished shoes clicking crisply with each step. He’s older, with silver streaking through his dark hair, and his sharp suit speaks to someone with authority. He removes his hat and nods at you with an unsettling politeness.
“Inspector Park,” he says smoothly, the cane tapping as he moves toward you. “Miss L/N, correct?”
You meet his gaze, your expression still soft despite the chaos around you. “That’s me,” you say with a faint nod.
He hums as if satisfied, then turns to the officers. “Grab her.”
Two of the uniformed men step toward you, rough hands clamping down on your arms and hauling you up out of the chair. Your cigarette falls from your fingers, landing on the floor with a faint hiss.
“Oi, watch the tea,” you say dryly, wincing at the tight grip.
Inspector Park steps closer, his shadow falling over you. He reaches out, his gloved hand gripping your chin firmly and tilting your face upward to look at him. His dark eyes scan your face as if searching for something. “Where are the guns?” he asks, his voice steady and cold.
Your brow furrows slightly, confusion flickering across your face. “What guns?”
The question earns you a sharp slap across the mouth. The crack of his palm against your skin rings out in the quiet, the force of it turning your head to the side. A sharp, metallic taste fills your mouth as blood trickles from the corner of your split lip.
“Where are the guns?” he repeats, his voice unchanging.
You turn back to face him, unflinching despite the sting, your eyes meeting his steadily. “What guns?”
Inspector Park stares at you for a long moment, his hand gripping your face again, thumb brushing across the split on your lip almost mockingly. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies you.
Then he hums, low and thoughtful. “Hmm… You don’t know, do you?”
You blink. “Know what?”
The corners of his mouth twitch slightly, as if suppressing a smirk. He lets go of your face abruptly, turning back toward the men still tossing your flat. “Alright,” he says. “Let her go.”
The officers release you, their rough hands falling away as you straighten your dress with quiet dignity, ignoring the blood on your mouth. Inspector Park places his hat back on his head, adjusting it carefully before speaking again.
“I’ll be back with more questions, Miss L/N.”
You offer him the faintest of smiles, sweet and steady. “I’ll have biscuits and tea ready and waitin’ for you, Inspector Park.”
There’s a flicker of something in his expression, annoyance, perhaps, but he doesn’t respond. He taps his cane sharply against the floor, signalling to the officers, and they follow him out, leaving your flat in shambles.
You stand there in the centre of the wreckage, cigarette still smouldering on the floor and your tea cold on the table. You take a deep breath, smoothing your hands down your dress, and murmur to no one in particular:
“Rude bastards.”
Your hands shake slightly as you reach for your cream coat, pulling it from the hook near the door. It settles over your shoulders, the soft fabric a small comfort in the chaos left behind by Inspector Park and his thugs. You glance down at your blue dress, smoothing it as best you can before bending to pull on your matching cream heels, wincing slightly as the motion tugs at your already aching lip.
Blood drips slowly from the cut, leaving faint crimson streaks down your chin. The bastard’s signet ring left a deeper mark than you’d thought. You press your fingertips to the wound briefly, hissing softly at the sting, before slipping on your cream gloves.
On your way to the small stand by the door, you grab your clutch and slide the switchblade Felix gave you into your coat pocket. You never thought you’d actually carry the thing, but after what just happened, it feels like an extra layer of armour. Felix had handed it to you weeks ago, muttering, “Just in case, angel,” and now you find yourself silently thanking him.
The door groans on its hinges as you pull it closed behind you, unable to latch it properly after it had been kicked in. As you glance over the landing, you notice other flats being stormed, doors thrown open, officers pushing their way inside. Women yell in protest, children cry, and belongings, clothes, photographs, dishes, are strewn carelessly onto the stairs and into the hall.
You swallow hard, keeping your head down as you make your way toward the staircase. A sharp pang runs through your lip as you press your gloved hand against it again, catching another small drop of blood before it falls. Your feet hurry down the creaking stairs, heels clicking against the wood, each step a little faster than the last.
The streets of Small Heath are no better than the building you left behind. You keep your shoulders back and head high as you weave through the alleys, cutting across familiar roads until Watery Lane looms ahead. It’s quieter here, the noise of the raids lingering in the distance, but the tension in the air is unmistakable.
As you approach the heart of Peaky Blinder territory, you spot a black car rumbling down the street, its wheels kicking up dust from the cobbled road. You pause on the pavement, tucking your hands into your coat pockets, watching as it slows.
From a distance, you can see Felix. He’s in the back seat, his face shadowed but unmistakable. Bang Chan is driving, his hands firm on the wheel, with Minho beside him in the passenger seat. In the back with Felix are Jeongin and Changbin, all of them looking out at the mess the police have left behind, homes torn apart, belongings littered across doorsteps.
Felix’s eyes flick toward you almost instantly, as if he’s been scanning the streets for someone. When he spots you, his entire posture changes. Without a word, he shoves Changbin aside, earning a muffled complaint, and climbs over him to get to the door.
“What the fuck?” Changbin grumbles as Felix hops out of the moving car.
Felix slams the door behind him, ignoring the curses thrown his way as he strides across the street, his boots crunching against the gravel. You stop where you are, frozen as his hands come up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing ever-so-gently across the cut on your lip.
“Christ,” he murmurs, his brows furrowing deeply as he takes in the injury. “What happened, angel? Who did this?”
Before you can answer, Changbin leans halfway out of the car window, grinning like a devil. “So, Felix,” he calls, “you gonna introduce us, or what?”
Chan, still at the wheel, smirks. “Yeah, you’ve never jumped out of the car before. Lazy fuck.”
Minho leans back with a grin, turning to face the others. “That’s Felix’s Florence Nightingale.”
Jeongin cranes his neck from the back seat, wide-eyed as he takes you in. “Oh, you and Jisung were right,” he says softly. “She is pretty as a picture.”
Minho throws an arm across the seat, his grin smug. “I’m always right.”
Felix groans softly, his hands reluctantly falling away from your face as he turns to glare back at the car. “You lot are insufferable.” He exhales, gesturing lazily. “Angel, meet Changbin, Chan, and Jeongin. Obviously, you already met Minho the other night.”
You smile politely, despite the blood on your lip. “Nice to meet you three,” you say softly, then glance at Minho. “And nice to see you again, Minho.”
Minho tips his cap with a small, easy smile. “Pleasure, love.”
Felix rolls his eyes, but the tension hasn’t fully left his face. “So,” he mutters, his voice low, “what happened? Was it another client?”
You shake your head slowly, looking past him toward the car. “I think this is a discussion I need to have with him.” You tilt your chin toward Chan, who’s watching the scene unfold with an unreadable expression.
Chan’s eyes narrow slightly, but he nods, seeming to understand as he climbs out of the car. “Felix, drive the car back. I’ll walk with her.”
Felix hesitates, his jaw clenching. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” Chan replies firmly. “Get the others back to the shop.”
Felix grits his teeth but relents, stepping back. “Alright. Bring her to the bettin’ shop once you’re done talkin’.”
Chan nods, already climbing out of the car as Felix heads back, grumbling to himself as he slips into the driver's seat.
You turn to face Chan, who offers his arm to you as you both begin walking down the street, his gesture smooth and gentlemanly despite the grim circumstances. You hesitate for only a moment before slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow. 
Reaching into your pocket, you pull out a cigarette, placing it between your lips. Before you can even fumble for a match, Chan produces a lighter from his coat pocket, flicking it open with a click. The flame flares to life, and he holds it up for you, his gaze steady.
You lean in slightly, letting the cigarette catch, inhaling deeply before straightening up with a soft “Thank you.”
Chan nods wordlessly, tucking the lighter back into his pocket as the two of you walk in the direction of the cut, his boots crunching faintly against the gravel. The noise of the streets begins to fade behind you, replaced by the distant lapping of water and the faint calls of the morning hawkers.
“My flat block got raided,” you say softly, breaking the silence. Smoke drifts lazily from your lips as you glance at him.
Chan doesn’t react right away, but his brow furrows slightly. “Raided?”
You nod. “But an inspector came to my flat.”
Chan’s steps falter for the briefest second, but he recovers quickly. “An inspector?”
“Yeah,” you reply, flicking ash off the end of your cigarette. “Tall man. Walked with a cane. Polite enough, but a fuckin’ brute when he wanted to be.”
Chan’s jaw tightens faintly, his eyes darkening as he processes that. “And what did he want?”
You pause, exhaling smoke into the crisp air. “He asked me about guns.”
Chan comes to an abrupt stop, his gaze snapping to yours. You keep walking a few steps ahead before turning to face him, one brow raised.
“I don’t know anything about any guns,” you continue calmly, holding his gaze, “but I figured you’d probably want to know, because I reckon you know exactly what guns the inspector’s talkin’ about.”
Chan stares at you for a long moment, the muscle in his jaw working as he thinks. Finally, he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Fuckin’ hell.”
You both continue walking until you reach the cut. It’s quieter here, more private. Chan pulls out a cigarette of his own and lights it, leaning against the low stone wall that lines the water. The river reflects the grey sky above, rippling faintly in the breeze.
“What I’m about to tell you,” Chan says finally, his voice low and serious, “is only known by myself, Minho, Jisung, and Felix.”
You nod, understanding the weight of what he’s about to say.
Chan takes a long drag of his cigarette before speaking again, his gaze fixed on the water. “That night Felix got stabbed, they were stealin’ a shipment from the docks. Job was simple, or so we fuckin’ thought. Only they grabbed the wrong shipment.”
You tilt your head slightly, watching him as he talks.
“They got it to the BSA factory to hide it,” he continues, “and when they opened the crate, Minho, Jisung, and Felix found enough weaponry for a small fuckin’ army. Guns, ammunition. All bound for Libya. Then walkin' through the docks, Felix gets himself stabbed"
You blink, absorbing the information. Slowly, you nod, blowing out a stream of smoke. “So this inspector?”
Chan flicks ash from the end of his cigarette. “I’ve got coppers on my payroll, ones who hear things. He’s from Westminster. He’s been sent here with one purpose, retrieving those guns and makin’ sure anyone who knows about them swings.”
The faint sting of fear pricks at the back of your mind, but you keep your face calm. “So you’re the only ones who know?”
Chan nods once. “For now. I’ll only be tellin’ the trusted ones.”
You hum softly, taking another pull from your cigarette. “Well, this inspector,” you begin, your voice even, “I’ve been hearin’ about him. He avoided service, you know. That’s why they’ve shipped him off down here. He’s hated in Westminster.”
Chan raises an eyebrow, interest flickering across his face. “Oh?”
You nod, shrugging lightly. “A lot of coppers pass through my bed, Chan. One of ‘em told me three nights ago. They don’t like him. Not one fuckin’ bit.”
Chan takes a moment to process that before a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Useful to know.”
Silence stretches between you briefly, both of you standing there smoking, the distant sound of the water filling the quiet. Finally, Chan glances at you, his expression thoughtful.
“How would you feel about bein’ under my employment?”
You arch a brow, a small, amused smile playing on your lips. “How so?”
“You keep doin’ what you do,” Chan replies, “and you tell me what you learn about Small Heath. Things that might concern me and the Peaky Blinders.”
You tilt your head, pretending to consider it. “And here I thought Bang Chan knew everything.”
Chan smirks faintly, the glint in his eye sharp. “I know most things, sweetheart, but there are some things a man will only tell after receivin’ the touch of a woman.”
You huff a soft laugh, taking one final drag from your cigarette before flicking it into the water. “Alright,” you say, crossing your arms. “What do I get?”
Chan doesn’t hesitate. “A steady wage on top of what you already earn. Anyone gets rough, the Blinders will deal with them.”
You nod slowly, your lips curling into a small smile. “Alright, Mr. Bang. You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Chan adjusts the cuff of his coat as he turns back toward Watery Lane, nodding for you to follow him. “Come on,” he says, his tone light but purposeful. “I’m gonna tell the rest of the boys about this shitshow. And while we’re there, might as well introduce you as the newest employee.”
You let out a small laugh and shake your head, slipping your arm back through his like before. “You don’t waste time, do you?”
“Time is a luxury we can’t afford, sweetheart,” Chan replies simply, glancing at you with that sharp gaze of his.
As you fall into step beside him, you glance up and ask softly, “So who are you tellin’, then?”
“Seungmin, Changbin, Hyunjin, and Jeongin,” he says, voice firm and steady. “Obviously, myself, Felix, Jisung, Minho, and now you are already in the know. All the other Blinders aren’t goin’ to hear a word about this. This has got to be kept quiet.”
You nod slowly, taking that in. “You think the inspector will come for you directly?”
Chan scoffs faintly, shaking his head. “He’s too smart for that. That’s why he’s shown up on your doorstep. Someone’s probably told him Felix’s a regular client of yours.” He pauses briefly, casting you a sideways glance. “And while we’re on the topic of Felix, you wanna tell me why one of my men is in such a tizzy over you?”
You smile faintly, pulling your coat a little tighter around yourself. “He wants to get married.”
Chan stops mid-stride, staring at you incredulously. “Well, I’ll be fucked.”
You laugh, unable to help yourself. “That’s about what I said.”
Chan’s expression shifts into a smirk, his brows raised as he starts walking again. “You’ve surprised me, sweetheart. And that doesn’t happen often.”
“Believe me,” you say, the cigarette dangling delicately from your lips as you speak, “I was surprised the first time he asked.”
“How many times has he asked?”
You shrug with a small, almost shy smile. “A few.”
Chan’s grin deepens. “And you don’t wanna marry him?”
“I do,” you admit quietly, eyes fixed ahead. “It’s just… it’s more complex than that.”
Chan hums thoughtfully, though he doesn’t push you for more. “I reckon it is.”
The two of you finally step onto Watery Lane, the bustling energy of the betting shop growing louder the closer you get. Men shout wagers, coins clatter against counters, and the general hum of Small Heath’s finest at work fills the air.
Chan gestures toward the shop, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “This is where the magic happens.”
You glance around, taking in the organized chaos of it all—the well-dressed men standing behind counters, the constant motion, the careful way it’s hidden behind the front of an ordinary house. “Felix tries to keep me away from all of this,” you say softly, an amused lilt to your tone.
Chan snorts, shaking his head. “Well, he’s gonna blow a fuckin’ bollock when he finds out you’re now on my payroll.”
You don’t have time to reply before Chan whistles sharply through his teeth, a short, commanding sound that cuts through the noise like a knife. Within seconds, Changbin, Seungmin, Felix, Jeongin, Jisung, Minho, and Hyunjin filter into the dining room at the back. The room is tucked neatly behind the main betting den, a trick to keep the real business hidden in plain sight.
You glance around, lips curling into an impressed smile. “Neat little trick.”
Chan smirks proudly. “I try.”
You settle into one of the wooden chairs at the dining table as the others filter in, pulling out chairs or leaning against the walls. Seungmin’s eyes narrow slightly as he gestures toward you with his chin. “Who’s this?”
Jisung wastes no time, grinning like a cat who caught a canary. “This is Felix’s lady friend, Y/N.”
Hyunjin grins widely, bowing slightly in your direction. “Oh? Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, darlin’.”
Felix groans softly, rolling his eyes as he drops into the seat next to you. “Give it a rest.”
Jisung, clearly enjoying himself, plops into the chair on your other side. “Nice to see you again, sweetheart,” he says with a teasing grin, leaning back comfortably.
Chan doesn’t waste time. He steps toward the head of the table, his voice firm. “She’s also our newest employee.”
Felix straightens sharply in his chair. “What?!”
Chan holds up a hand before Felix can explode. “I’ll explain why in a minute.” He gestures toward Hyunjin, Changbin, Seungmin, and Jeongin. “First, I gotta fill you four in on somethin’.”
Jeongin, ever the youngest but always calm, grabs a bottle of whiskey from the nearby shelf and begins pouring out glasses for everyone. He sets one down in front of you with a polite nod, the amber liquid swirling faintly in the glass.
You take a sip, flinching as the whiskey touches your split lip. Felix, noticing, pulls out his lighter, and without a word, he lights a cigarette and holds it out for you. You take it with a faint smile, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you.”
Chan leans his hands against the back of a chair, his sharp eyes sweeping across the table as the boys settle in. He doesn’t mince words, his voice low and steady, carrying a weight that silences the room instantly.
“Two weeks ago,” he begins, “Minho, Jisung, and Felix went to pick up a shipment from the docks. A simple job, should’ve been, anyway.” He glances briefly at the trio in question. “But these three idiots decided to puff on opium before they went. Isn’t that right?”
Minho shrugs nonchalantly, but Jisung grins sheepishly while Felix scowls at his boots, muttering under his breath.
“So,” Chan continues, ignoring them, “they grabbed the wrong shipment. When they opened it, machine guns, shotguns, grenades, any kind of weapon you’d find useful in a fuckin’ war.”
The room falls into a tense silence as the weight of the words settles on the group.
“Five days ago,” Chan adds, “an inspector showed up here in Small Heath.”
Seungmin, ever the pragmatist, leans forward with a frown. “He’s here to find the shipment?”
Chan’s jaw ticks as he straightens up. “I am the only person who knows where those guns are. And I’ll be the only person to ever know.”
Changbin snorts softly, glancing toward you with an arched brow. “Alright, so why’s she here, then?”
Chan turns his gaze on Changbin, voice sharp. “Because she can give me information I don’t have on the inspector.”
You lean back in your chair, cigarette perched between your gloved fingers as you speak. “The constable was one of my clients three nights ago. He told me the inspector arrived two days before that.”
Hyunjin whistles low, his grin fading as he crosses his arms. “He moves fast, then. Showin’ up five days ago and already raidin’ houses and flats this mornin’? That ain’t just quick. That’s planned.”
You nod, blowing out a thin line of smoke before continuing. “He’s a conscription avoider. Rumour is he busted his knee on purpose to dodge the war. No one in Westminster has a kind word to say about him, and the coppers down here aren’t much fonder. He’s been sent here to fix his reputation.”
The boys glance at each other as you pause. “He doesn’t find these guns? His career’s over.”
Chan nods approvingly. “This,” he says, gesturing to you, “is why she’s now on our payroll and under our protection. She’ll get a fair wage, and if anyone gets rough, we deal with them.”
You glance at Felix, whose smirk is as subtle as a brick through a window. “Inspector probably went for her ‘cause he knows Felix’s a regular,” Chan adds.
You sigh softly, offering a small, teasing smile as you murmur, “My most frequent client.”
Felix’s smirk widens, clearly pleased with himself.
“Right,” Chan says, cutting through the murmurs. “I want one of you to move into the flat next to hers.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “This inspector’s gonna keep gunnin’ for her. Won’t surprise me if he becomes a client himself to try and get close. It can’t be Felix.”
“I’ll do it,” Minho says, his voice calm and sure before anyone else can speak.
Chan nods once. “Good. You’re movin’ in tonight.”
You tilt your head, eyes flicking to Minho. “Any of you lot any good at fixin’ doors? Mine got busted when they kicked it in this mornin’.”
Minho raises a hand lazily. “I’ll fix that for you.”
You smile, gratitude softening your features. “Thank you.”
Minho pauses, then snorts, sitting back in his chair. “Wait. I just volunteered to hear Felix fuckin’ her at all hours.”
Felix’s smirk is immediate, his voice dripping with smugness. “Jealous?”
Seungmin, who’s been silent up until now, quirks a brow and mutters dryly, “And every other man in Small Heath, while we’re at it.”
Felix’s eyes snap toward Seungmin, the playful edge gone in an instant. “Seungmin, shut the fuck up.”
Seungmin rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Just statin’ the facts, mate.”
You hold up a hand, clearly amused despite yourself. “Boys,” you say softly, your voice cutting through the bickering like a gentle blade. “It’s been a long day, and I don’t need the lot of you fightin’ over what I do or don’t get up to in my own bed.”
That shuts them up quickly enough. Jisung snickers under his breath, but Minho nudges him sharply, and even Felix relents, though he mutters something you don’t catch.
Chan, who’s been watching the exchange with thinly veiled amusement, finally speaks again. “Alright, enough of that. Focus. We’ve got bigger things to deal with than Felix’s love life.”
Felix huffs quietly, but you can see the way his shoulders relax ever so slightly now that the attention has shifted away from you.
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The smell of roast chicken and buttery potatoes lingers in the air as you set two plates down on the table, the dishes mismatched but charming all the same. The light of the single lamp casts a warm glow over the small flat, turning the edges of your blue dress into soft ripples of fabric as you move. Your hair is pinned up messily, stray curls falling around your face, but you don’t mind. The front door creaks faintly, sturdy once again after Minho’s handiwork earlier that evening.
Minho, seated across from you, cuts into the roast chicken with a satisfied grunt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his cap tossed onto the chair beside him. “You know,” he starts, mouth half-full, “this whole neighbour thing ain’t too bad if I’m gonna be gettin’ home-cooked meals like this.”
You laugh softly, taking a sip of water before replying. “Only if you keep chippin’ in for the groceries. Food doesn’t pay for itself, Minho.”
He smirks, holding up his fork in surrender. “Fair enough. That’s a deal.” He chews thoughtfully for a moment before glancing at you. “Felix said you was in France too.”
You nod, twirling your fork through a bite of potatoes. “Yeah. Nurse at the Somme.” You pause for a moment, the memories brushing against you like a cold wind. “That’s where I met Felix. Shrapnel to his chest. He was brought to the ward where I was workin’. My ward…” Your voice lowers slightly. “It was called the Final Destination.”
Minho raises an eyebrow at that. “Sounds fuckin’ grim.”
You offer a faint, sad smile. “It was. Soldiers named it that themselves. Most of ‘em didn’t leave it alive.” You take a breath. “They called me their angel in white. I’d hold their hands, tell ‘em stories to distract ‘em. Most of them died.” You look down briefly before meeting his gaze again. “Felix was one of the ones I managed to save.”
Minho sets his fork down, leaning back in his chair with a low whistle. “We all thought Felix was a goner, y’know. Seungmin and Hyunjin dragged him off the battlefield, chunk of shrapnel buried right in his chest, blood everywhere. The rest of us were shootin’ like mad bastards just to cover ‘em.”
“I remember when he came in,” you say softly, staring at your plate as if seeing the past instead. “He was a fuckin’ mess. Barely conscious, covered in mud and blood.” You smile faintly, shaking your head. “And you know what the first thing he started doin’ was?”
Minho raises an eyebrow, smirking. “What?”
“Flirtin’,” you say with a small laugh. “Said I was heaven-sent just for him.”
Minho lets out a loud bark of laughter, shaking his head. “That fuckin’ sounds like Felix. Romantic bastard, even with one foot in the grave.”
You chuckle, a soft warmth settling in your chest as you remember.
Minho picks up his fork again, grinning as he points it at you. “So are you why Felix fuckin’ reads now? ‘Cause I’ve known that man since we were lads, and he’s never so much as looked at a book. I was pretty sure the bastard couldn’t even read. But now, the fucker’s readin’ Jane Austen and Emily Brontë and shit.”
You laugh again, the sound light and easy. “Probably. I read a lot, always have. When he was in the ward in France, I’d recite him quotes while he was in and out of consciousness. Maybe it stuck.”
Minho snorts, shaking his head with a grin. “Felix, readin’ Austen. Unbelievable.”
The mood shifts slightly, and his tone lowers. “Did you see any combat?”
You pause for a moment, twirling the edge of your napkin between your fingers. “Some. One time, a whole group of field medics got took out. They asked for volunteers to go out on the field. Nurses stepped up. I was one of them.”
Minho frowns, clearly caught off guard. “You went out on the field?”
You nod. “We tucked our hair into our helmets, put on oversized medic uniforms. They gave us all guns like we had any fuckin’ idea how to use the bastard things.” You chuckle bitterly. “I didn’t even know how to load it properly. Still don’t.”
Minho shakes his head, visibly impressed. “You’ve got some guts, I’ll give you that.”
You smile softly and shrug. “You do what you’ve got to do.”
Minho takes another bite before looking up again. “So, how’d Felix end up becomin’ a regular?”
“Well,” you start, setting your fork down as you lean back slightly, “he figured from my accent that I was from Birmingham. He promised to come find me after the war was over. And he did.”
Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. “He did?”
You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Showed up on my doorstep Christmas Eve, just after the war ended. Bladed cap on his head, gun at his waist, and that smirk of his plastered all over his face.”
Minho chuckles. “Sounds about right.”
“By then, I’d already started workin’ as a prostitute. He didn’t judge or nothin’. Just sat and had tea with me.” You pause, smile softening. “And then he became my most frequent client. We don’t even fuck half the time. Sometimes we drink tea, and I read to him, or we talk. But he always pays for my time.”
Minho’s fork pauses mid-air, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Wait. Felix sits and drinks tea and talks?”
“Sometimes,” you tease, smirking faintly. “We get real posh and have biscuits before we fuck.”
Minho snorts so loudly he nearly chokes, laughing as he sets his fork down. “Jesus Christ. That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”
You grin, taking another sip of water.
Minho shakes his head, still chuckling. “I see why he fuckin’ hid you all this time. You’re a diamond, y’know that?”
You tilt your head slightly, curious. “None of you knew?”
“Not a fuckin’ clue,” Minho admits. “I mean, we all figured he was seein’ some bird, but this…” He gestures around the flat with his fork. “This is not what I expected. Didn’t expect him to tell us to bring him to some pretty woman’s flat to get patched up, either.”
You smile softly. “Well, you save a man from death, he’s gonna trust you to patch him up again.”
Minho nods, a grin tugging at his lips. “Fair enough.”
The two of you lapse into a comfortable silence for a moment, the sound of the flat settling around you. Minho finishes off the last bite of his dinner, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. “You’re alright.”
You smile as you begin clearing the dishes. “You’re not so bad yourself, Minho.”
And for once, the night feels calm. Peaceful, even.
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Two months have passed since Minho moved into the flat next door to you, following Chan's orders. In that time, the uneasy silence that had once hung between you and Minho has turned into something more comfortable. He’s become one of your closest friends, and the bond you’ve developed over quiet conversations and shared meals has built a trust between the two of you. He’d never admit it out loud, but you’ve managed to break through his tough exterior.
Tonight, Minho lounges in his flat, sprawled out on the couch with his legs stretched lazily across the cushions. A cigarette dangles from his lips as he reads Pride and Prejudice. A request from you, of course. You’d begged him to read it, and he’d agreed.
“You’re makin’ me a bloody bookworm,” he’d grumbled when you first handed him the book. “But fine, I’ll read it.”
Now, two months later, he’s getting surprisingly invested in the story, his eyes scanning the pages as the words pull him in. He leans back further into the cushions, his fingers flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette as he moves through the chapters. Despite his tough exterior, there’s something about the way Elizabeth Bennet handles Darcy’s arrogance that seems to amuse him, and he’s enjoying it more than he expected.
But as he reads, a faint sound catches his attention. A soft murmur from the other side of the thin wall that separates his flat from yours. He shifts slightly, his ear straining to hear.
It’s you.
Your voice, gentle and soothing, drifts through the walls, but it’s not the usual low murmurs you share with your regular clients. There’s no grunting or heavy breathing, no hints of the usual physicality that comes with a visit. Instead, it’s calm. Too calm.
Minho’s eyes flick up from the book, his cigarette momentarily forgotten. He listens carefully, catching bits and pieces of the conversation. Your tone is patient, comforting, almost maternal as you speak to someone, but not in the way you usually do with your clients. This is different.
Shell shock, Minho thinks, his mind clicking into place. You’ve had other men like this. Men who couldn’t bring themselves to be touched, men who needed someone to listen, to talk to. He’s never really asked you about it, but he knows, from the way you’ve subtly mentioned it, that you’ve had your share of war-torn souls, men who came back from the frontlines broken, needing someone to hold the pieces together.
He shifts uncomfortably on the couch, closing the book as he leans forward, listening intently.
He hears you again, your voice soft but firm. “I know it’s hard, love. You’re not alone. I’ll be here to listen, alright? You don’t need to say anything if you don’t want to.”
Minho’s gut tightens. He knows enough to recognize the signs of shell shock. The symptoms, the disassociation, the silence that follows when a man’s mind can’t make sense of the horrors he’s seen. It’s the kind of thing that can make a man flip without warning, and Minho knows you’re too kind-hearted to turn them away.
You continue talking, but Minho can’t quite make out the rest. It doesn’t matter. What does matter is the tone you use, the soft empathy that fills your words. You’ve dealt with men like this before, he knows that much. But it doesn’t stop him from feeling protective.
Minho stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray with more force than necessary. His eyes flick toward the door, debating whether to check in, but then he hears your voice again, low and steady, easing whatever tension had been building.
“You’re safe here,” you say, and Minho feels a small knot in his chest loosen. “Just take a deep breath. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
He leans back again, but his eyes remain trained on the door. He knows you can handle yourself. Hell, you’ve been through worse than this. But still, he can’t shake the nagging feeling that one of these days, things might tip over the edge.
Minho picks up the book again but doesn’t read, his thoughts lingering on the conversation next door. He knows that, sometimes, the men you help aren’t in any state to be helped. It’s a fine line you walk, and he worries, more than he wants to admit, that one of them might cross it.
He flicks through the pages idly, not really reading, but still keeping his ear trained on the walls. He’s waiting. Waiting for any sign of trouble. Shell-shocked men can flip on a dime, and Minho knows that better than most. You don’t need to be touched to snap. Sometimes, it’s just the sound of a voice or a sudden memory that drags a man back into the horrors of war.
His fingers tighten around the book, his mind racing, but the sound from the other side of the wall stays calm. You’re still talking to him, still reassuring him, and the tension slowly eases from Minho’s shoulders.
Minho exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath. He goes back to the book, forcing himself to focus again. But there’s no denying the soft spot you’ve managed to carve into his hardened exterior.
Minho’s eyes flick to the door as a sudden crash echoes from next door. The sound is harsh, unnervingly violent, followed by a gasp from your voice, strained and panicked.
“Calm down, Eun,” you plead, your voice trembling, a tinge of fear bleeding through the calmness you’re always so good at holding. The sound of furniture crashing against the wall cuts through the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. Then, the worst, your voice, strangled and desperate, as you gasp out, “Please, calm down!”
Minho doesn’t waste a second. He shoves the book aside, eyes wide with instinctual panic. His hands fly to the side table, grabbing the gun he keeps there, fingers gripping the cold steel as he slides it into his coat pocket. He doesn’t bother to make noise, doesn’t bother with anything that might slow him down.
Running, he bursts out of his flat, racing next door toward your door, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum.
He kicks the door in with one swift motion, the splintering sound echoing through the small flat as he rushes inside, gun in hand, his body coiled and ready for anything.
The sight that greets him almost knocks the breath out of his lungs.
You’re on your hands and knees, barely clothed in just your underwear, coughing violently as you struggle to breathe, one hand massaging your throat as if trying to force air back into your lungs.
Your eyes are wide and terrified, and next to you lies the man unconscious, sprawled out on the floor with a shattered lamp beside him. The lightbulb has exploded, glass shards scattered across the room, marking the evidence of whatever struggle you’d just been through.
Minho swallows hard, his heart racing as he takes in the scene. The instinct to protect you kicks in hard, overriding the cold, calculating part of his mind.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice rough as he scans the room.
You don’t move, still on your knees, your breathing ragged as you slowly raise your hand from your throat, your face strained. You cough again, the sound raw and sharp.
“Y/N!” Minho calls, his voice tight with worry, stepping forward quickly. His gun stays in his hand, just in case, as he crouches beside you. “Are you alright? What the fuck happened?”
You glance up at him, shaking your head slightly, your lips trembling. “Shell shock,” you rasp out, voice still strained. “He thought he was in France again. He- He snapped, Minho. Thought I was someone else.”
“I’ll be right back,” Minho says sharply, his voice hardening. “Stay here. Don’t move.”
Before you can protest, Minho’s already standing, storming out the door. His boots pound against the hallway floor as he moves quickly, eyes sharp as he reaches the flat next door.
He bangs on the door, not bothering to be polite. The man who opens it looks startled, blinking up at him, but Minho doesn’t waste time with niceties.
“Go find Lee Felix or Bang Chan right now,” Minho demands, his voice low and full of menace. He thrusts a wad of cash into the man’s hand. “Tell 'em Minho needs 'em. And if you fuck me over, I swear I’ll kill you. Got it?”
The man’s eyes widen as he looks down at the money, his expression turning into a grimace of fear. He nods quickly, backing away from the door.
“Good,” Minho grunts, his voice colder now. “Get moving.”
The man doesn’t argue. He darts past Minho toward the stairs, the sound of his footsteps disappearing quickly as Minho hurries back toward your flat.
When he steps back inside, he finds you standing, struggling to pull a robe over your shoulders. Your hands tremble as you finish tying it, but you don’t look at him. Your eyes are fixed on the man lying unconscious on the floor.
Minho pauses for a second, just watching you before walking to the dining table and setting the gun down on the edge. He sits beside you as you sink heavily into the chair. His eyes sweep over your bruised neck and the red marks around your throat. You’re shaken, but you’re holding it together.
“Are you okay?” Minho asks, voice gentle but firm.
You glance at him, the corners of your lips twitching as you force a smile. “He didn’t mean it. It’s just the war in his head.” You take a deep breath, your voice shaky but trying to hold steady. “Eun... he’s usually sweet. Watches half his comrades die over there, and when I’m with him, I just listen. I don’t fuck him. I just sit in my underwear and let him talk. That way, he knows I’m not holding a weapon, that I’m just here to listen.”
You take a long breath, reaching for the bottle of rum you’d left on the counter. You pour two glasses, your hand steady despite everything. “I’ll be fine. I know how to handle it.” You slide a glass toward Minho, and he takes it without a word, letting you pour one for yourself.
“Shit’s fucked, isn’t it?” Minho mutters, his fingers curled tightly around the glass.
You nod, swallowing some of the rum as you lean back in your chair. “Yeah. But it’s the only way to keep ’em calm sometimes.” You glance at the unconscious Eun, then back at Minho. “I don’t know what else to do.”
Minho takes a deep sip from his glass, eyes hardening. “We’ll figure it out. You’re not alone in this, Y/N.”
You smile faintly, your eyes softening. “I know.”
As you both sit in the dimly lit room, the silence stretches between you. There’s a soft tension in the air, but Minho’s presence is a comfort, steady and solid as the world outside keeps turning.
Ten minutes pass in relative silence, the soft clink of glasses and the occasional breath breaking the quiet tension. Then, the sound of heavy boots echoes in the hallway, and the door to your flat swings open.
Chan steps in first, his eyes scanning the room with practised calm. Felix follows closely behind, his eyes darting between you and Minho before falling to the unconscious man sprawled on the floor.
Without missing a beat, Chan's gaze sharpens, his voice low and cutting. “I expected more from you, Minho.”
Minho’s lip curls into a wry grin, his shoulders rolling in a casual shrug. “That wasn’t me. That was Florence Nightingale here.” He nods toward you, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
Chan’s expression softens for just a second, but it’s gone quickly. “Nice job,” he says, his tone genuine but with a subtle edge of tension.
Felix, who’s been quiet up until now, crouches down next to you, his hand lifting to examine the bruises around your neck. His fingers hover lightly above your throat, but he doesn’t touch, just inspecting the damage. His face hardens as he looks at the marks, his voice low but filled with disbelief.
“Fuckin’ hell, dollface,” he mutters, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Looks like it hurts.”
You blink, your gaze flicking to Felix’s face before shrugging slightly, offering a small, reassuring smile. “It’s fine.”
Chan, sensing the underlying tension, steps closer, his voice smooth but authoritative. “We’ll deal with him. Don’t worry about it.”
You nod, still trying to remain calm despite the aches in your body. “Please don’t hurt him. He has shell shock. We just talk, but then something just flipped, and he lost it.”
Felix glances at you, still kneeling beside you, his eyes narrowing as he processes the situation. “You talk in your underwear?” he asks, his voice laced with disbelief.
You nod slightly, shrugging. “Then he can see I ain’t got no weapons on me.”
Felix exhales sharply, shaking his head in disbelief. “Jesus Christ.” He stands up, running a hand through his hair. “Fine, but he ain’t bein’ your client no more.”
You look at Felix, nodding in agreement, though you feel a pang of sympathy for Eun. “I agree. I won’t see him again.”
Chan gives a sharp nod before turning to Minho and Felix, his voice firm. “Minho, Felix, get him home. Once you’re done, come back here. We’ve got more to sort out.”
Minho stands without a word, his eyes still calculating, but he nods in agreement. Felix steps over Eun’s body, grabbing his arms to help Minho drag him up. Together, they lift him as carefully as they can, mindful of the fragile state he’s in.
As they make their way toward the door, Chan sinks into the nearest chair, tossing his cap onto the table with a soft thud. He leans back, his eyes never leaving you, his thoughts clearly at work. The soft scrape of the chair legs against the floor sounds too loud in the heavy silence that’s descended.
Once Minho and Felix have left, the door shutting behind them with a quiet click, you sit back in your chair, the tension starting to loosen in your shoulders, but the exhaustion sets in quickly. The adrenaline that had kept you going is fading, and you find yourself feeling the weight of everything.
Chan leans forward slightly. “Are you alright?” he asks, his voice softer now.
You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I’m fine,” you reply, though the lie feels hollow in your chest. “Just need a minute.”
Chan nods, his eyes scanning your face, lingering on the marks that mar your skin. “You’re one tough woman,” he says quietly. “But I can’t keep lettin’ this happen.”
You look up at him, a tired smile tugging at your lips. “I’ve got to do what I can, Chan. It’s all I know.”
Chan pulls a thick wad of cash from his coat pocket, the bills crisp and tightly packed. He places it on the table between you, his fingers lingering just a moment too long before he withdraws his hand.
“Your wage for the month,” he says.
You look down at the money, a small but genuine smile playing at your lips as you nod. “Thanks, Chan.”
He watches you for a second before his gaze sharpens. “How’s it goin’ with the Inspector?”
You sit back slightly, the smile fading, replaced with the exhaustion you’ve been trying to keep hidden. “He comes every week, Wednesday at nine. We fuck, he cries, and then spills his secrets.” You shrug slightly, not making it sound like a big deal. “It’s routine by now.”
Chan nods slowly, his brow furrowing just slightly. “He said anything of use yet?”
You sigh, glancing down at the pile of cash before looking back at him. “He’s under a lot of pressure from Westminster. I mean, he’s been here two months and has found nothin’. I’m steering him to believe it was someone from the BSA, and I think he’s startin’ to buy it.”
“Good,” Chan mutters, his voice low and approving. He leans forward slightly, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. “But?”
You take a breath, knowing what’s coming. “But he’s still keepin’ an eye on you lot. He mentioned raidin’ the wharf where you lot stock your important imports that aren’t on the books.”
Chan’s face doesn’t shift, but his eyes darken slightly. “Alright,” he says calmly. “I’ll get that moved.” He pauses, staring at you for a beat longer. “Has the inspector been rough with you?”
You wince slightly, the question hitting a nerve. But you don’t shy away from answering him. “A few times. Nothing I can’t handle. Minho always comes in once he leaves, patches me up.”
Chan’s jaw tightens for a second, the muscles in his neck shifting as he watches you. “You want out?” His voice softens, but there’s an edge to it.
You shake your head, your eyes meeting his without hesitation. “I can handle it.”
Chan stares at you, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, he nods once, as if he expected you to say that. “Good. I didn’t want to have to pull you from it.” He hesitates, then asks, “He said anything about Felix?”
You think for a moment. “I’ve made him believe that Felix loves me,” you say quietly. “and that I use that to keep a good income. It works. He doesn’t question it.”
Chan’s eyes flick to the glass you’re holding, his fingers tapping on the edge of the table again. “Does he know Minho lives next door?”
You nod. “Yeah. I managed to convince him it was unrelated, something to do with the landlord owing money to the Blinders, and Minho’s intimidatin’ him into paying it back.”
Chan raises an eyebrow, impressed. “You’re good at this.”
You smile faintly, taking a slow sip of your drink. “Have to be.”
Chan leans back in his chair, letting out a slow breath. “You got any drink?” he asks, the first sign of a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Yeah,” you reply, walking over to the cabinet and pouring two glasses, one for yourself, one for him. You return to the table and slide his glass toward him. “Here.”
“Thanks,” he says, taking the glass and looking at you. The faintest warmth in his gaze is all that’s left of the cold, calculated man who usually walks into the room. “For what?” you ask, genuinely puzzled.
Chan’s smile widens just a fraction. “For saving Felix back in France.”
You shrug, lifting your glass slightly before taking a long drink. “Just doin’ my job, like you boys were doin’ yours.”
Chan hums softly, the sound more thoughtful than anything else. “What shit jobs they were,” he mutters, his fingers curling around his glass.
You smile again, a little warmer this time. “I’ll drink to that.” You lift your glass and clink it gently against his. “To the shit jobs.”
Chan laughs quietly, shaking his head as he takes a sip from his glass.
Minho and Felix return, their footsteps muffled in the hallway as they come back from dropping off Eun. The door creaks open, and Chan finishes his drink in one smooth motion. He gives you a knowing glance, his eyes softer than usual.
“I’ll leave you in Felix’s capable hands, sweetheart,” he says, his tone lightly teasing, but there’s a warmth in it that makes you smile.
“Night, Chan,” you reply. You watch him as he heads toward the door, the heavy sound of his boots retreating into the hallway.
Minho, ever the mischief-maker, raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean wanderin’ hands?”
Felix, stepping in behind him, smirks. “My hands can be both,”
Minho chuckles but doesn’t argue. “See you tomorrow,” he calls over his shoulder, and you wave him off.
Once the door shuts behind them, the sound of Minho clattering around in his flat next door fills the quiet of your flat.
Felix lets out a long sigh. “Noisy bastard,” he mutters, half under his breath.
You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “You’re one to talk.”
Felix doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he walks over to the small table, uncorking the rum bottle and pouring a generous glass. He takes a deep swig from it before patting his lap, a lazy, confident grin on his face.
“Come here,” he says, his voice warm with a playful edge.
You glance at him, a smile tugging at your lips as you cross the room. Without hesitation, you settle yourself in his lap, your legs draped over his as you adjust comfortably. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as he takes another drink.
He looks down at you, his dark eyes softening. “Make a toast, angel,” he murmurs.
You raise your glass, your fingers grazing his as you bring it to your lips. “May you be in heaven a full half hour before the devil knows you’re dead,”
Felix raises an eyebrow, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You sayin’ I’m goin’ to hell, angel?”
You smile coyly, tilting your head. “Aren’t we all?”
Felix laughs, the sound low and rich in his chest. “True enough,” he says, taking a long gulp from his own glass. “But I reckon Chan’ll probably run the place. We’d all be livin’ the life of Riley down there anyway.”
You chuckle, swirling the rum in your glass before taking another sip. Felix leans back in the chair, his hand resting on your leg as he watches you with an unreadable expression.
“Felix,” you say softly, breaking the comfortable silence between you.
He hums, his eyes never leaving yours as he takes another slow sip of his drink. “Yeah, love?”
You hesitate for just a second, then speak, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “Once this business with the inspector is done… I’ll marry you.”
His face lights up in a split second, the seriousness in his expression fading to pure joy. He sets his glass down and leans in, pulling you toward him in one swift motion. His lips crash against yours, and for a moment, everything fades. The world, the tension, the uncertainty. It’s just you and him, lost in a kiss that says more than words ever could.
When he pulls away, he’s grinning, his breath a little heavier than usual. “I’ve been waitin’ for you to say that, angel.”
Without another word, he stands, lifting you effortlessly in his arms. You wrap your arms around his neck, your heart pounding as he carries you toward the bedroom.
The door shuts softly behind you, and as he lays you down on the bed, his hands trailing over you with a gentle, possessive urgency, you can’t help but smile. There’s no turning back now. And maybe, just maybe, this life you’re living might finally be worth it.
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Felix strolls into the Garrison, whistling a tune under his breath as the smoke from his cigarette curls lazily in the air. His boots click sharply against the floor, a confident rhythm that matches the grin plastered on his face. He’s in a good mood tonight. Too good, by the looks of it.
The moment he steps into the backroom, the entire card game comes to a halt. The chatter dies down, and every set of eyes in the room turns toward him, as if they’ve just witnessed a ghost walking in. Felix’s grin widens, and he takes a long drag from his cigarette before flicking it away carelessly.
Jisung, unable to hold back, breaks the silence. “It’s finally happened.”
Hyunjin, his eyes narrowed in disbelief, adds, “He’s lost his fuckin’ mind.”
Changbin looks Felix up and down, clearly bewildered. “Whatever it is, it’s makin’ my balls shrivel just watchin’ it.”
Felix simply shrugs, unfazed. He tosses his coat onto one of the chairs and flings his cap onto the table with a satisfying thud. He heads straight to the bar, pouring himself a generous glass of whiskey, not bothering to acknowledge the questions or the stares.
Jisung raises an eyebrow, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “Did you smoke opium before you came here?”
Felix takes a sip of his whiskey, savouring it, before looking at Jisung. “No.”
Seungmin, never one to let an awkward silence pass, asks, “Are you drunk?”
Felix shakes his head, giving a low chuckle. “No.”
Seungmin, sensing the tension building, tosses in his own theory. “You get hit on the head or somethin’?”
Felix takes another swig of whiskey, clearly amused now. “No.”
That’s when Chan, who’s been quietly observing, leans back in his chair and raises an eyebrow. “Did she finally agree to marry you?”
Felix freezes for a split second, eyes widening in surprise before he grins widely. “You knew I asked her?!” he exclaims, genuinely surprised that Chan was in the loop.
“Yeah,” Chan replies casually. “She told me. Shocked the shit outta me.” He looks at the rest of the group, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Felix.”
Jisung’s mouth falls open as he lets out a loud whistle. “You proposed to Y/N?!”
Felix rolls his eyes, taking another deep sip of whiskey. “I’ve been tryin’ to get her to marry me since before you cunts even met her.”
Minho leans forward, resting his chin on his hand, still eyeing Felix. “Well?”
Felix smirks, clearly enjoying the attention. “I’m gettin’ fuckin’ married once that Inspector packs his bags and gets the fuck outta Small Heath,” he announces proudly.
The rest of the room erupts into cheers, loud whoops and clapping filling the air. Even Changbin can’t help but laugh, raising his glass. “That’s fuckin’ fantastic, mate!”
Changbin’s celebration dies down quickly, though, as he narrows his eyes at Felix. “Well, why the fuck isn’t Y/N here to celebrate with you?”
Chan takes a long drag from his cigarette and exhales slowly. “It’s a Wednesday.”
Felix chuckles, his gaze turning toward the door. “She’ll be here once the inspector leaves her flat.”
Minho grins at that, raising an eyebrow. “Is this why you fucked her all night long?”
Felix’s smirk is all too knowing, the corners of his mouth curling even further. “Yeah. What’s it to you, Minho?”
Minho slouches in his chair, his hands behind his head. “I had to listen to it all night, you bastard.”
Jisung laughs loudly, clearly finding the situation amusing. “Poor Minho,” he says with a smirk, leaning back in his chair.
Minho, his expression exaggerated in mock despair, nods. “Saint fuckin’ Minho right here. Bang, bang, bang against my wall all night. The poor girl. Can she even walk?”
Hyunjin, always quick with the banter, adds, “Not if Felix did it right.”
Changbin cackles, his deep laugh echoing in the room. “Well, did you do it right, Felix?”
Felix’s grin widens, an unspoken confidence in his expression. “You’ll find out when you’re married, mate.”
Everyone laughs, but Jeongin, who’s been quiet for most of the conversation, chimes in innocently. “Why wouldn’t she be able to walk?”
The room goes silent for a moment as all eyes land on Jeongin. Chan, looking at Jeongin with a bemused expression, shakes his head slowly. “Don’t mind Innie,” he says. “He makes love to all his girls.”
Jeongin looks genuinely confused. “I treat them nice,” he protests, his voice earnest. “That’s what you’re supposed to do, right?”
Jisung bursts into laughter. “You can fuck them hard and still treat them nice, Innie,” he says with a teasing grin.
Jeongin sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes. “I’m just sayin’, I don’t think I need to do anything extra.”
Felix, still enjoying the chaos around him, chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Well, whatever works, mate. Just don’t get caught up in it too much. That’s when you get into trouble.”
Two hours later, you walk into the Garrison with the smooth grace of someone who knows their worth. The green dress hugs your figure perfectly, the heels clicking sharply against the wooden floor, announcing your presence as soon as you step in.
The coat draped over your shoulders adds an air of casual elegance, the red lipstick on your lips a bold contrast against the soft curl of your hair. You take a drag from the cigarette between your fingers as you move through the room, the smoke swirling lazily in the air.
As you pass by the patrons, all eyes follow you. You can feel their gazes like a heavy weight on your skin, their murmurs rising in the air.
"That's Lee Felix's whore," someone whispers too loudly, clearly hoping you’ll hear. "Anyone who touches her wrong ends up in the Cut."
The whispers ripple through the room like a wave, but you don’t flinch. You walk with purpose, keeping your head high, letting their words fall away like nothing more than noise. The patrons look you up and down as you breeze past them, their eyes widening with a mix of fear and admiration.
You continue on to the backroom, the heavy door creaking open as you step inside. Felix, seated at the table with the others, immediately breaks into a grin as soon as he sees you.
"Oh, if it ain’t the bride-to-be," Chan remarks from his chair, his tone teasing but warm.
You smile, a glimmer of pride and amusement in your eyes as Felix immediately pulls you into his lap. His arms wrap around you, pulling you close, and you settle against him comfortably, the familiar scent of him grounding you.
Chan watches the two of you with an approving smirk. “So, how was the Inspector?”
You sigh, letting the tension from the outside world fall away for a moment. “Same old,” you reply. “Finishes in a few minutes, cries his heart out about being a failure, spills his secrets, and leaves.”
Hyunjin looks at you sympathetically, shaking his head. “You poor thing,” he says, his tone genuinely pitying.
You nod in agreement, the weight of the past few weeks pressing down on you. “It’s not so bad. It’s all routine by now.”
Minho leans back in his chair, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he watches you with a knowing look. “It’s sad to hear through the wall. He’s a proper crier.”
You laugh softly, resting your head against Felix’s chest as he holds you close. “He really is. But it works for us. Keeps him talking.”
Chan looks over at you, his brow furrowing slightly. “Anything of note?”
You straighten up slightly, giving him a sharp look. “He’s going to be coming at everyone full force. He’s been given two weeks to find the guns. So Minho and I are setting up a scapegoat for him.”
Changbin, never one to hold back, leans forward, his curiosity piqued. “Who?”
You grin, the plan already beginning to take shape. “We’re setting up that BSA man who lives in my flat building. The one who beats his wife. Gonna make the Inspector believe he sold the guns to the IRA.”
Minho flicks his cigarette and looks at you with approval. “It’ll be easy. He spends most of his time drinkin’ in the Black Swan. He’s been seen with IRA members before. We just have to plant papers in his flat, make it look like he’s involved.”
You nod, eyes flashing with confidence. “Then I’m gonna tell the Inspector that he came to me as a client and spilled his heart out to me. Two birds, one stone.” You look at the group with a satisfied grin. “We’re in the clear, and the Inspector’s out of a job for failin'.”
Chan looks at you for a long moment, the approval in his eyes unmistakable. “You’re getting a fuckin’ raise.”
You smile, a soft chuckle escaping your lips. “Thanks, Chan.”
Jeongin, who’s been silent for most of the conversation, raises his glass with a grin. “To getting the bastard out of Small Heath, so Lee Felix can get fuckin’ hitched!”
The rest of the room erupts in cheers, everyone raising their glasses in unison. The clinking of glass rings in the air as they join in the toast.
“To Felix and Y/N,” Chan says, his voice strong, as the rest of the room follows suit. “May the bastard get out, and may you two live the life you deserve.”
Felix’s grin widens, his arm tightening around you as he leans in to kiss your temple. “I’ll drink to that.”
You chuckle softly, feeling a warmth in your chest. The tension from the past few months is finally starting to melt away, replaced with a sense of relief, and even something more. Hope. The road ahead still has its bumps, but for now, you’re here, safe, and surrounded by the people who have your back.
And for once, it feels like things might actually go your way.
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The tea room is quaint, quiet, and comfortably warm, the clink of china and low murmurs of other patrons filling the air. You step inside with the confidence of someone who’s been in rooms like this before, and yet, the anticipation courses through you. The plan is coming together, and you can feel the weight of the moment pressing on your shoulders.
You’re dressed for the occasion. A light blue dress that hugs your frame just right, a cream coat draped over your shoulders, cream gloves, and a matching cream beret perched atop your perfectly curled hair. The red lipstick is bold, a stark contrast to the delicate details of your outfit, and it’s all part of the act. You know how to play your part, how to make the Inspector see exactly what you want him to see.
As you sit at a table by the window, you pull a cigarette from your bag and light it with a slow, deliberate motion. You don’t look around when the door opens, knowing exactly who it is. You wait, letting him approach on his own terms.
The Inspector spots you immediately, his face softening as he walks toward your table. You can see the slight flicker of something in his eyes, something you’ve noticed over the past few meetings. He’s starting to fall for you, and you know just how to use that to your advantage.
"Good evening, Inspector," you greet him with a soft smile, your voice smooth as silk. “I’m sorry to have called you here, but I have something I must tell you. I’m scared, and I believe you’re the only one who can help me.”
The Inspector sits down across from you, leaning in with an intensity that suggests he’s already anticipating what you’ll say. His gaze is hungry for information, but there’s something else in his eyes. Something personal.
"Tell me what worries you, dear," he says, his voice low and thick with concern. He leans closer, his attention fixed entirely on you.
You allow yourself a moment of hesitation, just enough to make him lean in further. Then, you drop the bait. “It’s about the guns,” you say quietly, your voice trembling just enough to sound convincing. You can see the shift in him, the way his posture straightens as he registers the words.
The Inspector’s eyes widen slightly. "You’ve finally found something for me?" His voice has a hopeful edge now, like he’s clinging to the idea that this will be the breakthrough he’s been waiting for.
You nod slowly, your hands wrapped around your teacup as you take a delicate sip. “There’s a man in my flat building, a BSA worker. He came to me as a client last night and... he confessed to having stolen the guns from the docks.”
The Inspector’s face hardens, the weight of your words sinking in. "Where are they?" he demands, the desperation clear in his voice.
You glance around the room for a moment, making sure no one is listening, then lower your voice. "He was sayin' he’s been talkin’ to some Irish folk in the Black Swan. He got paid to ship the guns to Ireland. They’re in the hands of the IRA now. He said it all went down about a month ago."
The Inspector’s face drops, his eyes widening with disbelief. “The guns are with the IRA?” His voice cracks slightly, as though the realization is a blow he didn’t expect.
You lower your gaze for a moment, feigning regret. “I’m sorry I didn’t have better news for you, Inspector,” you say softly. You see the way his shoulders slump, and you know this is hitting him harder than he wants to admit.
You stand, smoothing out the creases of your dress and adjusting your coat. The moment is over, and now you’re done with him for tonight. You give him a soft, sympathetic smile before turning and walking toward the door.
The Inspector remains seated, his hands gripping the edge of the table as if he’s trying to hold himself together.
Once you step out of the tea room, you breathe a sigh of relief. The hard part is over. You turn into an alleyway around the corner, just as planned, and there they are. Felix, Chan, and Minho, waiting for you.
Chan’s eyes narrow as he steps toward you, his gaze sharp. “Did he buy it?” His voice has a tinge of impatience, but there’s also pride in it, as if he’s already expecting a positive answer.
You smile, the satisfaction evident in the curve of your lips. “Of course he did.”
Minho lets out a low whistle. “Shit, that was quick. I was worried he might start questioning you.” He leans against the wall, arms crossed, a cigarette hanging from his lips. “Guess he’s more of a fool than we thought.”
Felix smiles, the warmth in his eyes cutting through the usual sharpness of his expression. “He’s already fallen for her,” he says, his tone teasing but affectionate. “No wonder she’s so damn good at this.”
Chan grins, tapping his cigarette on the ground before putting it out. “Good work, sweetheart. That’s one step closer to gettin’ rid of the bastard.”
You nod, feeling the tension leave your shoulders. “Now we just have to set the trap. Once the Inspector moves on this BSA guy, he’s done.”
Felix chuckles lowly, his hands slipping around your waist as he pulls you close. “He’s finished. And then we get to move on to the next chapter.”
The group falls into an easy silence for a moment, the weight of the plan sinking in. You know the road ahead is still long, but tonight, it feels like the pieces are finally falling into place. And with Felix at your side, you’re certain there’s nothing you can’t do.
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The morning air is damp and cold, fog lingering low over the street like a blanket of smoke. The sound of shouts and heavy boots echo up through the narrow lane, breaking the stillness of the early hour. Minho stands next to you in the doorway of your flat, both of you leaning against the weathered frame. Cigarettes dangle lazily between your fingers, smoke curling from the tips like quiet spectres as you both watch the chaos unfold across the way.
The BSA man is being dragged from his flat by two burly police officers, thrashing wildly like a man drowning on dry land. His shouts are loud, almost frantic, but no one in the surrounding flats dares step outside to intervene. Not when the coppers have their batons raised and ready.
“Get the fuck off me!” the man bellows, twisting hard, trying to wrench his arms free from their grip. “I didn’t do nothin’! You’ve got the wrong bastard!”
The officers ignore him, their faces hard and impassive as they shove him toward the steps. When he plants his feet and resists, one officer raises his baton and cracks it across the man’s shoulder. The impact is brutal, the dull thud audible even from where you stand.
You exhale a slow breath of smoke, watching as the man lets out a strangled yell and staggers forward. “That must hurt,” you comment idly, your voice light, as if you’re watching something far less brutal than the beating in front of you.
Minho glances at you sideways, cigarette perched between his lips as he takes a long drag. “Probably,” he mutters around the smoke, his tone as disinterested as yours. “But he’s a wife-beating bastard, so I ain’t gonna lose sleep over it.”
The man collapses to his knees on the cobblestone as another officer lands a sharp blow to his side. “I didn’t fuckin’ do it!” he screams again, spitting blood onto the ground. His voice cracks, a mix of desperation and rage. “I didn’t sell nothin’ to the Irish!”
Minho chuckles quietly under his breath, a sardonic smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, this is a nice way to start my day,” he mutters, flicking the ash off his cigarette onto the doorstep.
You laugh softly, shaking your head as you pull another drag from your cigarette, the smoke filling your lungs before you exhale slowly. “I’d have thought framin’ someone would’ve been harder,” you muse, your gaze fixed on the scene in front of you as the police finally get the man on his feet and start hauling him toward the waiting black mariah.
Minho snorts, his voice dripping with casual arrogance. “For foolish people, maybe.” He turns his head to look at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “But not us.”
You meet his gaze, a sly smile tugging at your lips as you nod in agreement. “Not us.”
You both turn back to the street, watching as the BSA man is thrown unceremoniously into the back of the police wagon. The heavy doors slam shut with a loud clang, and the officers wipe their hands on their uniforms as if to rid themselves of the man entirely.
“That’s that, then,” Minho says, leaning back against the doorframe and stretching lazily, cigarette still burning between his fingers. “One less problem for Chan to worry about.”
You hum softly in agreement, a small, satisfied smile still lingering on your lips. “And one more nail in that Inspector’s coffin.”
Minho turns to look at you again, an approving smirk on his face. “You’ve got a knack for this. Chan’ll be pleased.”
You shrug, feigning modesty, but the pride glimmers in your eyes. “Someone’s gotta keep the lot of you out of trouble.”
Minho laughs, a deep, genuine sound, before shaking his head. “Keep talkin’ like that and Chan’ll start payin’ you more than me.”
You smile, leaning back against the frame beside him as the street slowly settles back into uneasy quiet. The BSA man is gone. The trap is set. And Small Heath will never know what hit it.
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The flat is quiet except for the faint tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall. You sit with Felix on the worn couch, his arm draped lazily across your shoulders, the both of you bathed in the soft light filtering in from the window.
You’re wearing a cream-coloured dress, one of your nicer ones, the fabric soft and elegant against your skin. Felix’s fingers trail absentmindedly along your arm as he talks lowly about something, his words a faint hum in the back of your mind as you stare out at the empty street below.
Then comes the knock. Sharp. Loud. Demanding.
Your spine straightens, and Felix’s hand stills on your arm.
“Miss L/N!” The voice calls through the door, unmistakable. Inspector Park.
Felix tenses immediately, his gaze darkening as he pushes himself up from the couch. He leans close, pressing his lips to your ear. “I’ll be in the bedroom.” He slips off silently, his boots barely making a sound as he heads to your room, closing the door behind him without a word.
You smooth out the creases in your dress, steadying your breath as you make your way to the door. The knock comes again, louder this time, as if he’s ready to break the damn thing down. You swing the door open, greeting him with a soft, practised smile.
“Inspector,” you say, the sweetness in your voice veiled by a hint of steel. “What a surprise. I thought you’d be back in Westminster, tryin’ to save your career.”
The Inspector stands rigid, his hat low over his eyes, his face set in a scowl. He steps inside without invitation, the door creaking on its hinges as he crosses the threshold.
“I know you set that man up,” he says, his voice low and full of venom.
Your brow arches delicately, your smile unfaltering. “I’ve no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”
He steps closer, the tension rolling off him like heat. “It’s all too perfect,” he says. “He just happened to have all the proof in his flat. He confessed to you when no one else can corroborate it?”
You tilt your head slightly, taking a slow step back, giving him just enough space to realize how ridiculous he sounds. “I don’t know,” you reply evenly. “Sounds to me like the case is closed, and your career is fuckin’ done.”
The Inspector’s face flushes red, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You conniving little whore,” he spits, his voice trembling with rage.
Your smile sharpens, your eyes glinting like polished glass. “If you can prove any of your accusations, Inspector, then you’re more than welcome to return,” you say coolly. “Otherwise, I bid you farewell and hope you enjoy unemployment.”
His eyes narrow, his nostrils flaring as he takes another step forward. “It’s for him, isn’t it?” he sneers. “That Blinder bastard. Lee Felix. You lied to me. You made me believe you loved me.”
At that, you laugh softly, tilting your chin up as you meet his glare without hesitation. “How could I ever love a man who injured himself to avoid servin’ his country?” you ask, your voice cutting through the room like a knife. “I spent two years tendin’ to your fellow countrymen in France while you sat at home, hidin’ from the frontlines.”
The Inspector freezes, his entire body going stiff. His hand moves suddenly to his coat, and before you can fully process it, he pulls out a revolver and aims it directly at you. The metallic click of the safety being released fills the air, but you don’t flinch. You hold your ground, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear on your face.
“I love you!” he shouts, his voice unhinged, cracking at the edges.
“I don’t love cowards,” you reply simply, your voice calm and even.
His hand trembles on the gun, his eyes wild as he stares at you. For a brief moment, the silence is deafening. Then, Minho’s door bursts open.
In one swift motion, Minho grabs the Inspector from behind, locking his arm around the man’s neck in a tight headlock. The gun falls to the floor with a loud clatter as the Inspector struggles, gasping and thrashing against Minho’s grip.
“Fuckin’ bastard,” Minho mutters, his voice low as he tightens his hold.
Before the Inspector can react, the sound of doors opening fills the hall. Chan, Seungmin, Changbin, Hyunjin, Jeongin, and Jisung all step out of the surrounding flats, guns drawn and pointed squarely at the Inspector. The hallway is filled with the clicking of hammers being pulled back, the ominous sound cutting through the tension like a blade.
You can’t help but grin, the sight of them appearing like ghosts in the mist bringing you a deep sense of satisfaction. Felix steps out of your bedroom then, slipping up behind you as he wraps his arm around your waist protectively.
Minho looks down at the Inspector, whose face is turning red from both rage and the headlock. “In the eyes of the posh twats in Westminster, you failed,” Minho says evenly, his voice dripping with mockery. “And you did. But not because you were too slow catchin’ the criminal. It’s because we’re too smart.”
Minho glances at you briefly, his grip still unrelenting. “That woman you’re in front of? She’s smarter than all of us. She’s the reason you failed—because you underestimated her.”
The Inspector’s eyes dart between all of you, sweat dripping down his temple as he tries to catch his breath. “At the end of the day,” he spits, his voice hoarse, “all you’ll ever be is a woman. A whore.”
Chan steps forward, his gaze icy as he lowers his gun slightly. “You lost, Inspector,” he says calmly, his tone firm and final. “And ain’t no one gonna believe you lost to a prostitute engaged to a gangster.”
The Inspector goes still at those words, realization finally sinking into his face. He’s beaten. Outplayed. Done for.
Felix leans down close to your ear, his voice soft and full of pride. “You're the smartest one of us all, angel.”
You smile, resting your hand over Felix’s arm as you stare down at the defeated Inspector. For all his threats, all his bluster, he’s nothing now. A crumpled man, bested at every turn. And you? You haven’t flinched once.
“Get him out of here,” Chan says with a flick of his head, and Minho drags the Inspector down the hallway, his struggles growing weaker with every step.
The Blinders watch him go, their guns still in hand, but the moment the man disappears down the stairs, the tension in the room finally breaks.
You turn to Felix, your smile softer now as you glance up at him. “Well, that’s that, then.”
Felix grins, pressing a kiss to your temple. “That’s that.”
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The day dawns cold and crisp, the sky over Small Heath a patchwork of slate grey and pale blue. Despite the chill in the air, there’s an unexpected warmth that hangs over everything. A feeling of quiet joy that no one dares speak aloud, as though doing so might somehow break the spell.
You stand in the small chapel on the edge of town, your cream dress simple but elegant, with lace cuffs at the wrists and a modest train trailing softly behind you. Your hair is curled perfectly, pinned back to frame your face, and a soft cream veil falls gently from your curls. Your cheeks are flushed with excitement, the red on your lips a bold contrast to the softness of your gown.
Chan stands beside you, looking sharper than usual in a clean black suit and tie. He tugs at the collar with a slight grimace, muttering something about how “bloody tight” it is, but when he looks at you, his expression softens. For all his roughness, there’s a flicker of pride in his eyes that makes your throat tighten.
“You sure about this?” he asks, his voice low, his usual teasing tone softened into something more genuine.
You smile up at him, your gloved hand resting lightly on his arm. “Sure as I’ll ever be.”
Chan exhales, nodding slowly before offering you a small smile of his own. “Alright then. Let’s get you married, sweetheart.”
The chapel is small and bare, the kind of place where no one expects much ceremony, but it’s perfect for today. A row of pews sits half-filled with the Blinders, all cleaned up for the occasion. They look wildly out of place in their sharp suits, caps left at the door, but there’s something solemn in the way they sit quietly, waiting for the moment to begin.
Minho glances back as the doors creak open, his usual smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth when he sees you. “About bloody time,” he murmurs under his breath, just loud enough for Jisung to snort beside him.
At the altar, Felix stands waiting, his black suit tailored just right, his blonde hair swept back neatly. His hands twitch slightly as he adjusts his cuffs, betraying his nerves, but when he looks up and sees you, his face breaks into a wide, boyish grin that’s nothing short of breathtaking.
Chan clears his throat and offers you his arm, leading you forward as the small organ in the corner starts playing. It’s a soft, simple melody, but it carries enough weight to make the moment feel grand.
“Don’t trip,” Chan mutters under his breath as you begin walking, his voice low enough that only you can hear.
You roll your eyes, smiling softly. “Thanks for the confidence, Chan.”
“I’ve got to keep you grounded,” he replies with a smirk, though his grip on your arm is steady and reassuring.
The room falls into hushed silence as you walk down the aisle, your heels tapping softly against the wooden floor. Felix’s eyes don’t leave yours for a second, and there’s something so tender in the way he looks at you that it nearly steals the breath from your chest.
As you reach the altar, Chan pauses, turning to you with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Your parents’d be proud of you,” he murmurs, his voice rough around the edges.
You blink, the words hitting harder than you expected, and nod as you squeeze his arm lightly. “Thank you, Chan.”
He steps back, giving Felix a pointed look as he places your hand in his. “You take care of her, or I’ll come for you.”
Felix grins, his fingers curling around yours. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Chan.”
Chan steps aside and takes a seat with the others, leaving just you and Felix standing at the altar. Felix’s thumb brushes over your knuckles as he stares down at you, his grin softening into something warmer, deeper.
“You look beautiful, angel,” he murmurs, his voice low enough for only you to hear.
“And you look nervous,” you tease, though your voice is gentle, filled with affection.
Felix chuckles quietly, shaking his head. “Nah. Just can’t believe I finally convinced you to marry me.”
The ceremony is short and sweet. The priest says the necessary words, his voice steady and calm, though it’s drowned out in your mind by the sound of your heart pounding in your chest. Felix’s hand remains in yours the entire time, his thumb still tracing slow, soothing circles over your skin. When the vows are said and done, and the rings are exchanged, simple gold bands that glint faintly in the dim light, there’s a brief pause before the priest announces:
“You may now kiss the bride.”
Felix doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you to him, his hands cupping your face as he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is warm and lingering, and for a moment, it feels as though the rest of the world has disappeared. When he pulls back, there’s a bright, giddy grin on his face that makes you laugh softly.
The Blinders erupt into cheers and whistles from the pews behind you. Jisung lets out a loud, triumphant “Finally!” while Minho smirks and mutters, “Poor girl doesn’t know what she’s gotten herself into.”
Hyunjin shouts, “Oi, Felix, save some for later!” as Chan rolls his eyes, shaking his head.
Felix laughs, slipping his arm around your waist as he turns to face the group. “Piss off, all of you.”
“You’re stuck with us now,” Changbin calls out, grinning broadly.
Felix presses another kiss to your temple, holding you close. “You alright, angel?”
You nod, smiling up at him. “More than alright.”
As you both turn to leave the chapel, the rest of the boys trailing behind you, there’s a sense of peace you haven’t felt in a long time. The road ahead may not be perfect, nothing in Small Heath ever is, but for now, you’re happy. You’re home. And as Felix squeezes your hand in his, you know that whatever comes next, you’ll face it together.
“Mrs. Lee Felix,” he murmurs as you step outside into the chilly afternoon air.
You laugh softly, leaning into him as you walk down the steps. “Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
Felix grins, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Perfect.”
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The Garrison is alive with laughter, shouting, and the unmistakable sound of whiskey glasses clinking together. The backroom is stuffed full of the familiar faces that have become like family. The air is thick with smoke, the table cluttered with bottles of whiskey, half-empty glasses, and discarded caps that no one cares about retrieving right now.
Chan sits at the head of the table, his tie loosened, a glass of whiskey in one hand as he watches the chaos unfold around him with a smirk. Felix has you tucked close at his side, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders, his cheeks flushed with drink. You’ve been smiling all night, cheeks aching from the endless laughter that fills the room.
Minho, having claimed the seat next to you, slams his glass down on the table with a little too much force. “Right,” he declares loudly, pointing a finger at you. “I’ve decided somethin’.”
You raise an eyebrow, already suppressing a grin. “Oh yeah? What’s that, Minho?”
He leans back in his chair, smug as anything, arms folded across his chest. “I’m stayin’. Permanently. I intend to be your neighbour until the end of bloody time.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Fine by me, Minho. You’re one of the better neighbors I’ve had.”
“That’s because I’m a fuckin’ delight,” he says, jabbing a finger at his chest before reaching for his whiskey again. “Not like the others, you know, pissin’ about in the hallways. I don’t cause trouble. Well, not for you, anyway. Also, I’ve been thinkin’ about Little Women, you know, the book you lent me?”
You choke on your drink slightly, barely holding back a laugh. “You’ve been thinkin’ about Little Women?”
Minho nods solemnly, waving his glass for emphasis. “Jo deserved better. I’ll die on that fuckin’ hill.”
Hyunjin, sitting across the table, raises an eyebrow and squints dramatically. “Wait, Minho, you can read?”
The table erupts into laughter, and Minho shoots Hyunjin a murderous glare. “I’ll cut you, you lanky fuck.”
“Oi!” Felix says, throwing his free hand into the air like a referee. “No fucking fighting on my wedding day, or I’ll cut you both.”
You burst out laughing at that, pressing a hand to your mouth as Hyunjin shrinks back with a mock look of innocence. “Alright, alright. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Felix.”
At the far end of the table, Jisung stands up abruptly, stumbling slightly. “I’m off to the bar, no wait, someone, come with me, ”
Jeongin attempts to follow suit, but his foot catches on the leg of his chair, and before anyone can stop it, there’s a loud crash as Jisung and Jeongin trip over each other.
“Fuck!” Jisung shouts as he topples straight into Changbin, sending him flying backwards onto Seungmin, who’s been minding his own business.
The resulting heap of Blinders sprawled on the floor, Jisung tangled with Jeongin, Changbin sprawled flat on his back, Seungmin swearing profusely, sends the rest of the room into uncontrollable fits of laughter.
“Jesus Christ!” Chan calls out, grinning as he watches the scene unfold, his glass raised like a toast.
You and Minho are howling with laughter, tears threatening to spill as you clutch your sides. “I can’t breathe!” you manage to gasp, leaning forward as you try to recover.
Minho, doubled over, topples sideways out of his chair, still laughing, and you nearly go with him. Felix catches you around the waist at the last second, tugging you upright and pulling you safely into his lap.
“Careful, angel,” Felix murmurs into your ear, his grin wide as he presses a kiss to your temple. “Don’t want you breakin’ anything.”
Minho, meanwhile, lands hard on the floor with a thud, pulling Hyunjin down with him in the process.
“Fuckin’ hell, Minho!” Hyunjin groans, his voice muffled as he sprawls halfway over Minho’s legs.
“I’m fine,” Minho declares dramatically from the floor, still laughing as he tries to sit up. “Didn’t spill my drink!”
“Priorities,” Chan says dryly, taking a slow sip of his whiskey as he watches the chaos with clear amusement.
You glance around the room, your head resting against Felix’s shoulder as you smile to yourself. It’s madness, pure and simple. Minho and Hyunjin fighting to untangle themselves from the floor, Jisung trying and failing to help Jeongin up, Changbin still swearing as Seungmin mutters something about idiots. But it’s your madness.
Felix watches you for a moment, his thumb brushing absently along your arm. “You alright?” he asks softly, his voice low beneath the noise.
You tilt your head up to look at him, your smile soft and content. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I’m perfect.”
He grins, pressing another kiss to your forehead before raising his glass toward the group. “Oi! To family, and to my beautiful wife!”
“To Y/N!” the rest of them shout in unison, Minho lifting his glass from the floor as Hyunjin finally shoves him off.
The room bursts into another chorus of cheers and laughter, whiskey glasses clinking together as you lean back into Felix’s embrace, surrounded by the only family you’ve ever known. For once, everything feels right in the world, and you wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.
“Welcome to married life, angel,” Felix murmurs into your ear, his voice full of affection.
You smile, your fingers lacing with his. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
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General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx
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sunnie-angel · 2 months ago
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Part 13: The Coworker
part 12 | series masterlist | ao3 link
jason todd x f!reader
summary: a strange holding pattern develops where nothing really happens and all you can do is bury yourself in work while jason keeps hiding things from you
tags: angst, reference to off screen violence
rated explicit (mdni) | wc: 2.2k
a/n: more of a set up chapter before the next big plotty thing happens. umm don't throw tomatoes at me?
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Jason Todd is lying to you. Or at the very least he’s keeping things – important things – from you. Knowing that, being unable to close your eyes and turn the other way anymore, it fractures you a little more in ways you had thought you were long past. Still, stupidly, you love him. You keep waiting for the day when it gets easier to breath and your stomach stops swooping anytime Jason Todd is in sight. Hope rises and falls. His kindness mixed with cruelty burns but you can’t stop drinking it down as though you’ve been days in the desert.
In some ways, not being around Jason and the friends you share is easier, not having to wonder with every stilted interaction what there is left to hold you together. Much easier then, to bury yourself in work, in school. Lose yourself to distractions until the fear and paranoia dogging your every step fade into the background with the hum of routine and the mindless chattering of people who don’t know you well enough to hurt you with their well meaning questions.
It feels silly to plan for your future when it might very well come to an end in an alley, but the thought of a next month, a next year, a next moment keeps you clinging to sanity like a life preserver. So you put your head down and work, fingers crossed that all your effort will pay off with the summer research position currently being dangled over the heads of all the English department interns. A stepping stone, maybe, to being able to work your way through grad school that certainly no one else but you and your student loan from Gotham Trust will be paying for. For 15 hours a week you can tune out the present, get lost in the daydreams and the work of building that future which rests just hazily out of your reach, beyond the taint of murderers creeping in the dark and a love that seeps like poison.
Something close to regret always passes over you when the work day ends and Jason stands at the door waiting for you. Maybe even something ugly, a twisted up anger, jagged and sharp, that buries itself under your breastbone. Your life is held together with duct tape and sticky glue, balanced precariously on one wobbly leg, but no matter what happens to you, Jason will be fine as always. In a few months he’ll have his degree and a family that apparently doesn’t hate him as much as he’s implied and he’ll go swanning back off to wherever the fuck he mysteriously appeared from. After graduation, who’s to say that you’ll stay friends at all? That he won’t move on with his life and maybe, occasionally, he’ll think fondly of the girl he was friends with for less than a year while he’s off saving the world, saving the Alley, from yet another idiot villain. The future is yours, shining and pristine, but yours alone. A shining knife that’s lodged itself in your chest and twists in anticipation of the moment when he’ll let you go.
You don’t let any of those thoughts show on your face though. Don’t want to ruin any of the dwindling moments you have left and so you bury it down inside, pack the soil down on top hard and cross your fingers that it won’t grow any poisonous fruit.
The first time you stay late, you’re apologetic when you ask Jason to come back in a few hours but there’s none of the usual claustrophobic sensation. Jaimie had asked for help and you had volunteered to give it to her, any excuse not to go home and sit in your tiny apartment and flinch at the wind outside. It’s the first time you stay late but not the last.
Really you had never intended to be so distant from the other research interns but when all the seniors are competing really for the same opportunity, one that would make or break your future plans, it’s not hard to see everyone else as competition. People to be polite and helpful to, but not people to get close to in the eventuality that they break your heart by getting the position or you break theirs. But in searching for more and more reasons to stay distracted, to prolong the moment just before you see Jason again, before you fall into his arms again begging for scraps, it’s hard not to get to know them better.
There’s sweet Jaimie with her bottle thick glasses who only started this semester, Amira with her nearly magical knowledge of the library’s cataloguing systems, and Louisa whose German accent only comes through when she gets annoyed. Stoic Miguel that never really says much but doesn’t have to in order to get his point across and Ian whose charm has even crabby Dr. Duvall smiling broadly. They’re friends, all of them, or at least on friendly terms. It’s hard not to thaw towards them when suddenly you’re making a point to spend so much time with them.
Probably, you should be on your guard. Probably, you should listen to the paranoia whispering at the back of your mind about strangers and hidden motives. But with all the lights turned on in the tucked away office for interns, the space heater warming the old bricks and mild laughter and offers of help freely given, it feels safe in a way. That this space makes them safe even if you couldn’t name their birthdays at gunpoint (you really hope you’ll never have to do that). Here you can leave all of your messy emotions at the door, all the bagging and sleepless nights forgotten in the face of people that don’t know you.
Three weeks and never once does Jason complain about the hours stretching later and later. He never mentions how your feet seem to trudge slower and slower to him where he waits at the door. How the lightness seems to leave you as you hit the cold night air. Three weeks until his patience hits its limit.
“Seems like you’ve been working more than last semester,” he drops leadingly into conversation one morning as he rolls out of the side of your bed he’s claimed for himself.
“Seems like it,” you reply as you struggle to get your bra hooked on right. He comes up behind and does the clasp for you, hovers like he wants something more he’s not sure he’ll be allowed in the bright light of day.
“I just worry about you, yeah? Don’t want you to work yourself sick with— with everythin’ else goin’ on.”
“Well don’t,” you tell him, harsh words that drip with your frustration as you dig through your drawers for a sweater. Dannika and Lina have already been on your case about all your overtime hours, not to mention Rei’s quiet concern. “Don’t worry about this, okay” You say more gently, turning back to him as you tug the sweater over your head. “Work’s the one place where I don’t have to deal with—” you gesture expansively “—all of this.” Quickly you register the way his eyes go blank and shuttered. “With the fear, I mean. No time for serial killers when I’m trying to collate lists of possible sources for Dr. Higuchi’s next book.” He nods, and then doesn’t bring it up again. 
It’s a Tuesday, so it’s only you, Amira, and Miguel working. The office is quiet without Jaimie’s constant questions and Ian’s little asides but its a cosy kind of quiet. Slowly the quality of the light changes as the sun creeps below the skyline and eventually you have to admit that there’s nothing more to keep you there for the day. You pack up simultaneously, Amira bumping your elbow with her overstuffed satchel as she swings it onto her shoulder.
“Oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t ding you too hard did I?” She apologizes. It was a pretty solid hit, the several hardcovers in her bag as good as bricks but she didn’t mean anything by it and so you don’t take it personally.
“No harm done,” you let her know, shouldering your own bag as you do.
“Any plans for tonight?” Amira asks.
“Just tackling some readings for class, nothing interesting,” you reply with the conspiratorial tiredness that all students have by this time of the year.
“Hmmm okay, what about Thursday?”
“Thursday? Why?” You ask, a tightness to your spine. She’s never asked, none of them have ever asked before. There’s been the usual how was your weekends and have a good nights but never anything this direct.
“Well most of us sneak into the grad student bar on Thursday for their trivia night and you need five people for a team only Louisa’s got that paper due Friday and probably won’t come. So, if you’re free, would you want to join us?”
“I— uhm I’d have to check?” You tell her, suddenly panicked because this wasn’t what you’d been expecting at all. Yes, you’d been getting on with your coworkers better but you hadn’t thought that you’d been getting on well enough to be invited to their plans outside of work. And yes, technically a Thursday should be fine, should be safe, no one’s gone missing on a Thursday. But to meet? Outside of the office, outside of the place you’d neatly marked as ‘safe’ with people that you barely know? “When does it— when does it usually end?” You ask instead. “Just with everything going on I usually have a friend—” the word catches in your throat “—walk me home at night.”
“Hmmm like eleven or so?” She cocks her head. “I’m so sorry I didn’t even think of that. It’s so scary and I don’t even look like a potential victim.” Amira smiles at you pityingly and you can already feel the sympathy curdling in your stomach. “You know what, why don’t you bring them along? The teams only have to be a minimum of five but they can go all the way up to ten.”
“I’ll see if he’s free but I’ll let you know?” It’s pathetic at how easily just the thought of Jason’s presence makes you breath easier, feel more up to accepting what’s probably a genuine invitation. Amira happily gives you a number to contact and you part ways. Jason’s waiting, like always but it takes you a while to figure out exactly how to phrase your request to take up his time with something so trivial.
“I got invited out by my coworkers today,” you tell him, staring out the bus window as you speak. He’s folded himself into the aisle seat beside you, something you’d snorted about earlier and muttered about a clown car until he’d scowled from swallowing his laughter.
“Do I know any of them?” He asks, grumbling as he tries to find a position kinder to his knees.
“Maybe I introduced you to Jaimie?” You rack your brains thinking back. “Anyway, the point is they invited me to trivia night with them and when I was worried about making you wait for so long to walk me home they invited you too,” you say in a rush.
“When?” He cranes his neck to check the next stop as he asks.
“Thursday, ends around 11.”
He sighs through his nose. “If it was any other day I’d say no problem, yeah? But I’ve got a thing.”
“A thing,” you deadpan.
“Yeah, a thing,” he evades.  The two of you get off at the stop, the bus kicking up dirty slush in its wake.
“You should go, have a good time,” Jason tells you in front of your building. “I’ll make sure to be there at 11 and I’ll still make sure you get home. But you should have some fun, yeah?”
He’s hiding something again, isn’t he?
It’s silly to be so distracted by a maybe but you can’t stop thinking about it. You miss a very obvious trick question on the publication of Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë, though Ian smiles very kindly when he changes the original date you had written to the date the book was first published under the author’s real name. Even without doing anything at all Jason still manages to knock you off balance. You don’t regret it, coming out with your coworkers, even if the bar starts to get more rowdy as the night goes on. That sense of safety, of oh these people won’t hurt me, isn’t restricted just to the office it would seem. Miguel still doesn’t speak very much but he smiles more and Jaimie is strikingly confident when she isn’t wrestling with spreadsheets. It’s almost, almost enough to distract you from thoughts of Jason by the time the evening is wrapping up.
You’re laughing freely at a sly joke from Amira you wish Dannika was there to hear too when you finally spot him. He’s leaning against the wall outside the building, phone still cupped to his ear when you run up to him, the snow muffling the sound of your foot steps. Even in the low lighting of the bar’s neon sign he still looks beautiful and you’re loath to disturb the moment. He’s just ending the call as you get closer, fat snowflakes catching in your hair.
“...yeah, yeah love you too Barbie.”
Oh.
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a/n: on the other line, barbara's threatening to castrate jason for making dick sad
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