#thomas sharpe x fem!reader

[asgards-princess-of-mischief]

— Wedded —

Author: @yespolkadotkitty

Synopsis: You and Thomas spend your wedding night exploring each other in every way possible.

Chapters:

Part One || Part Two || Part Three

<< Previous || Thomas Sharpe Master Index

[smolvenger]

The Baronet Seeks A Wife, Chapter One.

A Crimson Peak Multi-Part Fanfiction.

Thomas Sharpe x fem! Reader Arranged Marriage AU.

Summary: England in the 1890s. When your spirited sister, Charlotte, defies your family by running away from her arranged engagement to Sir Thomas Sharpe, you are the one who must keep your family from scandal and ruin...by taking her place as the baronet's bride.

Word Count: >7K words. You may want tea and scones as a repast as you read this.

Warnings: Angst, some hurt/comfort, and fluff at the end. I attempt to convey the period as accurately as I can bc if you don't like it or find it interesting why write it. Period accurate attitudes of gender and social class. Mentions and discussions of sex, but no smut (yet...let me just say...after Bridgerton season 3 episode four...I have *ideas* heheheheh). Brief mention of childbirth. The fear of domestic violence is mentioned, but not portrayed. Grammar and spelling mistakes. If I miss something and you see something that could be triggering that I didn't mention, then it is your responsibility to please please please tell me. I will take full accountability for how I portray marginalized groups and sensitive subject matter and make sure to better my writing and make sure affected parties are protected.

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69 @skittslackoffilter @mischief2sarawr @jijilaufeyson @steasstuff @anukulee @kimi01985 @goblingirlsarah @foxherder @giona45-5 @goddessgirl43

London, 1898.

“I won’t marry him!” your sister cried.

You have seen this scene plenty of times. You could recount it like a play production you had seen too much. You were sitting in the parlor, trying to read a book and rest your feet. But your mother and your older sister, Lottie, were on each other’s last nerves.

‘Lottie, you have to!” your mother insisted.

You found you couldn’t focus on the words. You only sat there in stillness, watching in silence. A maid walked by the door, her eyes flicking over to the scene, but then she kept walking down the hallway.

Your mother pressed a hand to her forehead and sighed as if in pain. 

Your older sister, Charlotte, was curling her fists on her side. The red dress, the new one father ordered for her at the shop, only made her seem angrier. She was literally burning with the fire of fury.

Mama let out a huff. Then she glared at Charlotte, her arms akimbo.

“Listen to me. Right. Now.” your mother began.

You felt bad for your mother. There was a lot on her mind. To have both daughters out in society at one time. They agreed it wasn’t fair for one daughter to go about having fun when the other couldn’t. Charlotte was older, so she was more experienced in being out in society. She made her debut it seemed ages ago. You recalled your own debut. You had your turn to wear white and curtsy before the queen before she dismissed you for the next girl. You were already beaming with excitement. Ready to enter the glittering, grown-up world of the London social season. Prepared to dine and dance in pretty dresses every April until August.

But every year, it seemed the bags under Charlotte’s eyes increased. Now years had passed since then. And mam still had two daughters who were still out. And unmarried.

Charlotte dreaded going from your country home to London for the warmer months.She hated the constant balls, parties, meals, picnics. She at least liked riding her horse in Hyde Park but loathed she couldn’t go faster. She would sneak out to smoke cigars. Bugs and reptiles fascinated her more than gossip. She scribbled down notes. She turned prickly if any man asked for a dance. She spoke boldly and even swore. She enjoyed the horse races and polo games and sports, but the art of feminine flirting was beyond her.

But your parents had plenty of money and two daughters. But only so much money could support so many seasons. And as the eldest, the pressure was on Charlotte. There was the occasional brave soul who proposed marriage to her. Only to face the inevitable, flat rejection.

So Mama and Papa took matters into their own hands.

Mama met enough people who networked her to cross paths with a single baronet. They porposed a marriage between him and Charlotte, to which he agreed. Your sister was engaged after a mere three meetings with the fellow. Not that you had a chance to meet him either. So no rejection. No proposal. A ring on Lottie’s finger forcibly placed on her like a child force-fed turnips to her mouth.

“Lottie, do you know how much that dress costs? The very one on your back? Every season, your father and I make sure you and your sister have new gowns so you may be presentable in public. That is what they demand- that eligible ladies always dress in fresh new clothes. So any gentleman will not scoff at you wearing yesterday’s rag. You may not like it- but this is for your future. For your family’s future.  May I remind you- You are the eldest. You must make a good match not only for your sake- but your sister’s future. If you marry well-then she will be set up to succeed. There are plenty of decent men with more than enough money to make you comfortable here. Every year, they ask to dance with you. Every year, at least one proposes. And every year, you say no. ”

Charlotte huffed, folding her arms.

‘I didn’t want to marry them. Any of them. I wouldn’t make them happy and they wound’t make me happy at all.”

Your mother glared down.

“You have had more than enough chances to secure yourself forever. Do you want to live at the mercy of your father’s charity all of your days? If he cut you off this minute and threw you out of the house, you would have nowhere to go, and no way to survive. Lottie, do you realize how many seasons you have had? Do you realize how much we must pay more and more for you both to be presentable when you are out? Do you realize how much this is costing us and yourself?” she scolded.

She caught her breath. Charlotte was breathing hard, and you could see glimmers of tears in her eyes. Mama stepped closer.

“Charlotte…you’re no figure of pity. Not yet. You have had plenty of chances- they still call you the Wild Rose of London. Your face won over dukes, earls-so many girls would have loved to be in your shoes!” she said softly.

Mama was right. Charlotte was considered the beauty of the family. When she made her debut, heads turned to look at her. Everyone, you included, thought she would make a match easily. After all, your father was in charge of a great business that made a lot of money. You were now part of the upper crust. So a pretty face, a decent family reptutation and a sizable dowry with her bold, vivacious character would have won someone’s heart. And in a way they did. The first man who proposed to Charlotte you thought was going to be like shooting a sitting duck.

Even though “spinsterhood” did nothing to dampen  your sister’s face,you were all proven wrong. Very, very wrong. 

Lottie slouched as much as she could in her gown and frowned. A habit she never abandoned as a child.

“Your father had to take action. You will be a part of the esteemed Sharpe baronacy and he will reap the monetary benefits. He is a nice man, pleasant, charming, and he will take care of-”

“So am I nothing more than a thing you auction off at a bazaar? Not a person with a heart? With feelings?” Lottie combated.

“We were going to be driven at this rate to ill repute, and financial ruin all because you wouldn’t marry!” your mother argued.

“Then why not let me wear an old dress?” Lottie shot back. “Or have me not do a season! Let me remain a spinster and paddle my own canoe!” 

“Sir Sharpe will take care of you. He promised it!” Mama assured.

“Being stuffy old Lady Sharpe and wasting my life in balls and parties is going to drive me to insanity! An arranged marriage- mama, it’s practically medieval!” Lottie shouted.

Your mother folded her hands.

“Your father has set it in stone. There is no point in this conversation. You are going to marry Sir Thomas Sharpe, and that is final!”

Your sister jumped up. She stormed off, slamming the door shut childishly as she huffed off to her room.

Your mother turned to you. You sat in your own blue tea gown, not expecting company. For a night of no events in the London season was a special treat. All of the picnics, lunch parties, park trips, operas, theatre, and balls were fun- but back to back, it was exhausting. But hearing your mother and sister yell at each other was ten times worse than the exhaustion. 

You stood up.

“Am I….a bad mother?” she asked. You saw tears in her eyes too.

You put a hand on her shoulder, a fine, matronly gown of dark green brocade. You offered her a handkerchief. 

“I only think you are a desperate mother put into a difficult situation.”

“She won’t listen to me. Much less your father…she only listens to you anymore. I hate we must do this…and I hate myself,” she sniffled. 

You patted her shoulder.

“Mama, let me speak with her. Let me help patch things up. Make her happy,” you offered.

She nodded. You exited the library, walking up the stairs to Lottie’s bedroom. The odd servant paused in their dusting to curtsy at you. You wold give them a nod and a smile, before you continued. Walking past vases of daffodils and over velvet rugs, you found the door locked shut. Crying coming from inside.

You knocked on the door.

“Go away, papa!” she fussed.

“Lottie, it’s not papa, it’s me!” you assured her.

Your sister went over and opened the door, letting you in and shutting it after you entered. With it’s wine red wallpaper, the place seemed to be dark as the sun was dipping outside. Her desk empty of any papers and her hat set on top. Her colllections of newspapers piled on one chair near her parasol. The drawer where she hid her cigars was kept with a lock and a key she dared not tell even you.

“Lottie…I’m so sorry you have to do this, and how miserable it makes you…it sounds like a nightmare,” you admitted.

You could see tears streaming down her face.

“Do you remember when I was eleven and asked mama and papa for a pet snake? They know how much I love snakes- they’d give me little toy snakes. I wanted a real one. I’d call her Cleopatra for the irony of it. But they said no. Every year I asked and they kept saying no.would always say no. They try….but they can’t love me, or understand me. And I keep trying to please them…and I keep failing and now…they’re throwing…”

She sat on the bed and began to cry. And you hugged her.

“Here….here…” you said. “My poor girl, my poor Lottie!” you cooed. 

“I want to go places. Have adventures and jolly, capital times.  I want to run, and explore and see things! Not be stuffy old Lady Sharpe in some stupid house having babies until I’m killed from it!” she mourned.

She shoved aside her journal and laid down on her bed. Tears streaming her face.

“It’s what you deserve…Lottie. A life like that! But now,  we need to think of what we can do and not what we can’t do,” you suggested.

You paused, thinking for a second. You leaned closer as she turned away. A gentle hand on her side.

“Sir Sharpe…you’ve met him, haven’t you? What is he like?” you asked.

“He talks about his stupid inventions all day,” she muttered from her side. “And he won’t answer anything about what his dead sister was like or what was in that old mansion.”

There were only three things you knew about Sir Sharpe as of this morning. He was a baronet. He grew up in a mansion called Allerdale Hall. He lost an older sister. But that was it. Now thanks to Lottie, the sum rallied up to four.

You leaned closer, more mischief in your voice. You hushed to a whisper.

“What does he even look like? Perhaps he’s at least handsome! Maybe at least…on your wedding night…” 

Lottie turned over, wrinkling her nose. 

“I’m sorry, YN, but he’s ugly! He has a big forehead, and big ears, and a big old nose!” she cried. Her voice far too loud for the question you asked.

She grabbed her pillow and hugged it around her.

“Don’t get me started on my marital duties. I could retch at the thought of it. If Sir Sharpe even thinks of going to bed with me, I’ll box his big ears off!” she decalred.

Part of you couldn’t help but laugh a little. Even Lottie’s own pretty, pink mouth was curved up in a small smile at her own words.

“Practice on that pillow!” you dared.

She hit the pillow again and again.

“This I’ll give Sir Sharpe and -this! I’ll give Sir Sharpe!”

She reached over and got her parasol and gave it a few more good whacks. Feathers were starting to burst out from it and litter the floor.

“Heavens, at this rate you’d have killed him!” you commented. 

“He would have earned it!” she replied.

‘“Then you’ll be a criminal and I’d have to bail you out of prison!” you replied.

“Oh no! Then I guess we must be outlaws and run off and live like Robin Hood and the rest! Better than listening to Mrs. Mean drone on about governesses!”

Both of you burst into laughter. The Means lived up to their name and every reception they found a new group of people to complain about. You both heard it all and had to silently look at each other to promise to only laugh at them when it was done.

You both laughed, smilng bright. How you missed the easy days of your younger years. You could play about and get in and out of trouble. You and your sister knew where to strike to hurt each other, but couldn’t live without the other. You fought as intensely as you played. You did everything side by side. You took her hand and hugged her again, even though she was still sniffling.

Lottie sagged her shoulders. Her hold on the pillow loosening.

“But…I’m unhappy. I wake up every day with this and I’m miserable. Like I can’t get out.” she sighed.

“Think of this….” you reasoned. “I hear husbands are easier to manage and persuade then fathers! Once you have money and you’re not under their thumb, you can go about as you want and do what you want! Idon’t think Sir Sharpe would stop you….”

You paused. A horrified shiver ran through you.

“Not that I…know much about him. Do you think he….did he ever…ever…hurt you?” you asked.

She shook her head.

“No, he hasn’t been less than gentlemanly. And he wouldn’t hurt me in any way after we’re married, I’m sure.” she replied.

You both sat on the bed and held hands.

“Then don’t be afraid, Lottie…maybe marriage isn’t a prison, but your key to freedom! Once you’re a married woman, you can do whatever you want and Sir Sharpe won’t stop you. And if he does anything, tell me. And I’ll box his ears!” you replied.

Lottie’s tears were drying in trails down her cheeks. Yet she smiled in spite of herself. Then you hugged one last time.

“I should ring for some cakes and mint tea from Anne! That will cheer you up!” you said.

As you rang the bell for them. Anne, one of your maids, hurried up. She took the order and promptly left. She returned with a tray in only ten minutes. You both relaxed on chairs as the tray balanced on a mahogany table.

Turning, you saw Lottie write about in her journal.

“Oh, croissants! My favorites,” Lottie cooed. She picked up one and began to dig in.

“I’m just glad you have thing that make you happy…I just want you to be happy, Lottie,” you said.

The pastry returned to her plate.

“And…YN…”

Her mouth opened as if to speak. Then she stopped. She reached over and held your cheek. Studying you carefully, as if you were a piece of art. A work she could only admire in person once before she had to leave. Something she had to commit to memory. There was a sad smile on her face.

There was a sad smile on her face.

“I want you to be happy too…”

She kissed your forehead and you smiled. As she helped herself to a big slice of strawberry cake. Her eyes were tired, crinkly.

“I think Lady Charlotte Sharpe has a ring to it. Like the heroine of a book!” you said.

Charlotte turned to face the window. The sun melting down and the sky promising night.

“But this isn’t a book, this is reality…” she responded.

She looked at you and then at the ring on her finger. The engagement ring already commissioned. Costly and pretty, but useless and ominous on Lottie’s hand.

“I think you would have liked him...” she said.

“Sir Sharpe will be nice to have as a brother,” you replied.

She looked at you. But said nothing as she nibbled on her croissant. As the tray was partially emptied, you excused yourself. But Lottie caught your arm. You saw her lip quiver. She leaned closer, her voice quiet. And Lottie was not a person who liked to be quiet. 

“I’ll always remember that your words. That we must do what we can and not dwell on what we can’t. Thank you, Y/N. Thank you for the tea, too.”

By dinner time, she was quiet. She dressed nicely and ate modestly. Then went to bed without a word to you.  As you went back up to change for bed. How unlike her! Your sister was chattiest at night! But you but shrugged it off. She was probably just exhausted. London’s balls lasted from night until six in the morning and you would be lying if you said they didn’t take a toll on you too. And you would need some rest if there were to be callers, a garden party, and maybe a horse ride in the park  the next day.

❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖ ❁

When you awoke the next morning, the sunlight streamed like melten butter into your room. Outside, it was another lovely day in May. People were already tittering about the Ascot opening later this month.

Your maid helped you into your day outfit of a white lace skirt and a blue skirt with flowers patterned with silk. You only hoped Lottie had improved. Before breakfast, you would check.

You knocked on her door.

“Lottie! Good morning!”

No reply.

“The chef is making us bacon! It’s going to be delicious!”

No response. 

You beat your fists against the door.

Nothing. And she was a light sleeper.

“Lottie?” you called out louder.

You realized the door was unlocked and opened easily.

She was gone. Servants followed you inside. Her bed wasn’t made, there was no sign of her.

“Is she in the garden? Is she riding in Hyde park this early? ” you asked Anne. But the maid shook her head.

Then, to your shock, you saw there was a piece of paper on it. And a ring. Coming closer, you saw it was her engagement ring.

You felt the world pause as you read her handwriting.

“Hello everyone,

You need not fear, for I am not hurt or seduced by some scoundrel.

I cannot be Sir Sharpe’s wife.

I love all of you. But I cannot do this. This is not what I want for my life.

I shall be safe, do not worry.

But do not try to reach me for some time.

All of my love.

Charlotte Y/L/N.”

Breath knocked out of you. You stood frozen. You hardly heard your parents rushing in. You didn’t feel your father snatching the letter from your hands. Looking down, they were still in the air and shaking.

Your mother began to sob.

All of your plans were canceled. A private detective was hired and Charlotte’s lady’s maid was fired for permitting this. Though the sobbing maid insisted she didn’t know where Charlotte went. All day long, people scurried about in a panic. 

You felt tears well up in your own eyes. Alone in your room, it was your turn to burst into crying.  It was already as if your dear sister was already dead.

You recalled the letter said she was unharmed. She wasn’t about to be left pregnant with some scoundrel’s bastard. She hadn’t…taken her own life and for her to return only as a corpse. As far as you knew, no news meant she was alive and safe. That would have destroyed you. Taking hope in that, you went back to put on a brave face to your family.

There was the odd caller in the afternoon. But their noses were upturned. Knowing they would report anything and everything. The slight smiles on their faces as they looked about made you want to scream.

Why didn’t Charlotte think about this? The next day, your grief boiled to a silent rage. By running off and vanishing, it meant there was a scandal. And now society would all turn their faces away from you. They would frown and whisper and gossip. The unvirtuous daughter who ran off. And no one would want to go to your parties or dinners. No one would want to see you or associate with you. And no man would ever want to marry you, knowing you were the sister of the runaway spinster of a disgraced family.

That last part pained you. Not that you knew from Charlotte there was shame in being a spinster. But…you hoped to fall in love. Not just to marry a man of stability, to meet a wonderful, nice man who made your heart patter fast. To be kissed and receive valentines and dance and have him drop to his knees, begging for you. Just like in the fictional books you loved. 

But the days dragged by. The detective returned after a week and shook his head. And the hope for anything good in your future seemed more and more like a fiction itself.

❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖ ❁

You paced about in the gardens one afternoon. It was better to do something with your anxious energy. Two weeks and no sign where Lottie vanished. You sat by, hoping the coolness of the breeze drifting through flowers would calm you. But not even the loveliness of an English June could distract you.

Anne stepped forward and curtsied.

“Pardon me, Miss. But your father wants to have a word with you in private,” she announced.

She led you up, taking you to Papa’s study. It was a room in dark green, his favorite color. A few books lined up the walls and his desk was placed behind the window. Your father was staring outside when he turned around as you were brought in.

“Ah, sit down, my dear,” he requested.

You obeyed. Sitting on the wooden chair before his desk. Your father brought out a decanter of brandy and poured himself some in a little glass. You noticed it was a generous amount. Not that you would blame him.

He poured himself a second glass and offered it to you.

“I have some news with you, Y/N…” he began.

“Have they found her?” you asked with hope.

“No. And that is exactly why I have to tell you this…”

If there was no update, then what could it be? You wondered. You took the cup and held it in your hands. A little hesitant to drink it yet since it was still so bright in the day.  It didn’t feel right to drink such a spirit so early to you. Something was brewing- you just had to let him say it. 

“The engagement between your sister and Sir Sharpe it was…it is still and shall be beneficial. To us and to the Baronet. We must be respected by all sorts of society through connection to the baronacy. He needed the money- his own little toys wouldn’t be enough to sustain a gentleman’s life. And with Charlotte’s disappearance- you understand why we don’t have as many visitors as we do?”

“It’s a scandal, papa, I know.” you replied.

“But…we must return to society. We cannot show up defeated. We cannot let them beat us. We cannot become a laughingstock or a figure of pity.”

Where was he going with this? You held your tongue and folded your hands. The drink carefully balanced over your lap. He was only repeating everything you already knew.

“There is one way out that solves all our problems. Especially if at this point, Charlotte isn’t to be found…”

“We can’t give up on finding her, on making sure she is safe!” you insisted.

“We have more immediate matters..” he continued.

You raised the glass to your lips, taking only a sip. It burned down your throat onto your churning stomach. Your father looked directly into your eyes.

“ I have one daughter left who is out. But YN, I don’t think there are many gentleman who will want to associate with a ruined family. No gentleman will consider you marriage…But…”

“But?” you prompted.

“But there is one gentleman who doesn’t think so…” he continued.

“Who?” you asked. You put both hands over your cup.

Papa looked directly into your eyes.

“Sir Sharpe.”

Your throat tightened. Part of your vision went dizzy. You began to piece together where this was leading. Nausea gripped your insides as your hold on the glass turned into a grip.

“He knows he needs our money and to be back into society. We still need the respect of his title…and we have a daughter left who must be taken care of…”

You found yourself hyperventilating. Words choked out of you.

“Am I…am I…”

“YN, you are going to marry Sir Sharpe in your sister’s place this coming month.” he announced flatly.

A sound came out of you. You put a hand over your mouth. You now knew what Lottie felt. Your whole body went tight. You had to catch your breath. How glad you were to be sitting, for your legs were already shaking bad and your vision was spinning. You looked down at the floor, trying to pull yourself together. Your father kept talking.

“Now, I know this isn’t pleasant. Especially for a romantic such as yourself. I know you have yet to be formally introduced to him. But, Y/N, my dear- we have to be practical about these matters. There is no respectable solution to this problem at this point, if Charlotte is to not return.”

He was right. As twisted as this was, was there another option? 

Who would want to associate with a family who couldn’t keep an eye on their eldest? Who would want to invite a family who let their daughter run away to their breakfast party? Who would want to court the sister of the woman who ran off from her own marriage? Who would want to marry the daughter of disgraced family? 

The more you thought about it, the more you realized there were few options. You were now too socially stained to marry anyone. Your days would be spent alone. Sitting in your house as others lived their lives happy and free, laughing at you behind closed doors.

Your family had no other options out. 

A marriage to a man who belonged to a knighted family would earn you respect. It would be telling society that at least one man from a respectable house saw worth in you. You would still go to events not as a figure of pity and ridicule, but as one of them- even ranking above them.

You didn’t want to be a figure of ridicule. Someone who everyone would smugly turn. Whispering to each other “how glad I am that I’m not her!”

You had to marry. And marry well.

You would never be proposed to at this point. There would be no courtship. No dances. No poetry. No marriage proposals. No valentines. No love letters. No Passion. No balls. No laughter.

But there was never going to be a proposal like this.

No future. No safety. Nothing if you denied your father or refused him or rebelled as Lottie did.

You would just be tied and tethered to a ruined family all of your days. But becoming Lady Sharpe would free you from that. You could start anew. Spring again like a wild tiger breaking out of its cage to bear her claws.

And this was your only chance.

“Yes, papa. It will be an honor.” you replied. You would do your duty, as all daughters must.

Father walked out from behind, abandoning his drink. He put a hand on your shoulder and then pulled you for a hug.

“There’s my brave girl,” he said.

He released the hug.

“Alright, Sir Sharpe is going to visit at dinner tomorrow. And my associates at work will be there too, to celebrate. That way, you will have a formal introdution and you won’t be walking down the aisle to a complete stranger.”

You felt your fists grab your skirt. With your free hand, you grabbed your cup of brandy and downed it in one gulp. The burning ran through your body, and you prayed it would calm your racing mind.

“Do I need to wear my nicest dress?” you asked. You at least didn’t want Sir Sharpe to think he was settling from the society beauty. Downgraded from the Wild Rose to her frump sister.

“Considering he has already said yes to this arrangement, I doubt wearing your ugliest dress will do anything to about the matter,” replied your father.

❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖ ❁

Anne dressed you in a cream dinner dress of country silk and velvet. Your sleeves puffed like clouds. there was lace as a “belt” around your waist. The bottom showed an underskirt that was a color between light brown and pink. Anne had hair like yours, and knew how to style it as you liked. Your dress almost white in the light. Already you were going to meet Thomas looking like a bride.

The grandfather clock in the hall chimed seven o clock. You thought you would sweat through your dress. Part of you was tempted to lock the door and not step a foot out the whole night. But you knew you could not delay the meeting anymore. At this rate, you would just meet him on your wedding day. You just had to get it over with.

Besides, you were going to spend the rest of your life with him until only death or divorce did you part. You were just holding back the inevitable. 

“You look beautiful, miss,” she gushed as she looked at you.

“I wish I was as pretty as Lottie, sometimes. Or as brave as her…” you lamented quietly.

“Don’t compare yourself to her, miss. You know she has her own sufferings. And it will only make you more unhappy.” Anne advised, giving you a pearl necklace. She attached it to you from behind. 

 Both of you looked at your reflection in the mirror. Anne leaned in closer with an encouraging smile. “Just think of all this like armor to a battle, Miss Y/N. You can’t give up the fight, yet.”

I can be brave, like Lottie. I can fight, like she can. You thought. How could you be as stupid as to forget your own advice to her not long ago? You would do your best to find the way to make it a good situation. Manipulate your position and standing to your favor, even. For that was what women always did. For being the “weaker sex”, they always found a way through to survive. So what made you think you would just cry and pity yourself all of your days?

You reminded yourself of this. Still you felt heart racing hard as if the gallows was what awaited you next month and not the altar. Holding your head high, like a queen in her palace, you walked out of your room and downstairs.

A few women had shown up in the foyer. They eyed you greedily but you would not give them a figure to be pitied. You kept a stoic face as they offered a few tepid congratulations. But you felt so buzzed with anxiety, you only half heard.

“We’re so happy you found a husband,” said one.

Husband- husband! A husband! A fiancee! How was it that it happened already? And with no romantic proposal in a moonlit garden away from a ball. Just in an office that smelled of whiskey with your father relaying that you were now engaged. And your husband- no, you weren’t married yet, no need to panic now. Though you saw no men around, you knew that your fiancee was under this roof. 

You didn’t feel ready. You felt like you were just an adolescent playing dress up and not a grown adult. 

“Ah! There you are, YN!” your father greeted as he walked over, dressed in his evening tuxedo. He offered his arm.

“He’s in the library, sharing a drink with the other men. I think it’s time I introduce you both,” he announced.

Swallowing, you took his arm. The one thing keeping you afloat in the ocean of turmoil raging inside you.

Papa walked you over to the library. Your heart picked up as if you were running. In just a few short seconds, you would see the man you were bound to for the rest of your life. Your mind was itself running at a hundred miles a second and you felt yourself shaking like a leaf.

Father turned to the door and your fears screamed inside of you.

You dreaded what your sister said. Her voice ringing in your ears bemoaning Thomas’s apparent ugliness.

“He has a big forehead and big ears and a big old nose!”

He was ugly. You had to settle for that. But what made you were frightened was that perhaps he was a bad person. Perhaps he would hurt you, betray you, break you even.

Wait…didn’t Lottie say herself he wouldn’t treat her in that way? But…you weren’t Lottie! He could act completely differently…

No…you were forming an entire judgement on someone you hadn’t even met!

But, even if he wasn’t handsome…perhaps he would be a nice man. Men didn’t have to be handsome to be good. They could be kind, respectful, patient, gentle, genuinely kind husbands.

So which one was he? A kind, pure soul? Or an irredeemale monster?

Both? In between? Neither? There was only one way to find out. And the answer was standing with the other men beyond that wall.

You took in a deep breath, your father opened the door.

The dark green, musty library already smelled of cigars. Lottie would have loved it. There was a bit of laughter, as their smoke floated to the air. Cups of whiskey was passed and there was talk of this and that issue in Parliment. So many men in black suits like a horde clamored around, as if each one was copied from the other.

Your father cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen, may I introduce to you my daughter, Miss Y/L/N.”

Once, it was Lottie who was “Miss Y/L/N” and you just went by Miss and your first name after. But now that she was gone, you were promoted up. You were Miss Y/L/N and the family’s fortune and future were already on you like a yoke you had to drag across the field.

“It appears that for one of you, you are about to be a very lucky man next month…” your father continued.

One by ones, heads turned to see you. Some in curiosity. Some in boredom. Some in hunger seeing your neckline. You were already making guesses as to who your fiancee was with each passing face. Already one man had a curled mustache. Another had grey hair with busy sideburns. Another round spectacles and short brown hair with a mousy face. Most of them were wrinkled, lined with grey, with a gruffness to their demenaer.

“Sir Sharpe,” your father announced, turning his head.

Your eyes followed at once. That is him- you thought. That  is him! That is him, that is him, thatishimthatishimthatishim-

An old man patted a hand on the shoulder of another. The younger had hair had longer, dark curls He was so deep in conversation with someone that he almost forgot. The grandfather nudged him. The younger figure paused.

“Thomas! I believe your lady is here.”

Then he turned around. 

Thomas Sharpe was the handsomest man you had ever seen. 

The breath you had was knocked out again as you took him in. What on earth was Lottie thinking? Looking at him, you began to question her taste and strength of vision.

Thomas was a tall man with a hair full of raven curls. Slender, but not thin for he had a broad chest. Soft blue eyes that only contrasted with his dark hair and a face the color of porcelain. You now understood the fairy tale of Snow White and why she was the fairest in all the land. For the male equivalent was here before you. He had high cheekbones and large hands. He looked like the hero of a Bronte novel, but one if the author confirmed his handsomeness rather than his ugliness. 

He looked into your eyes and he smiled at you. Butterflies fluttered around your stomach and you could feel your eyes widening.

Your father gestured at him and he walked over.

“Sir Sharpe, this is my daughter.Your fiancee.” your father announced.

“Miss, I am glad to finally be acquainted with you. You look beautiful, tonight,” Sir Sharpe greeted. 

He raised your hand to his lips and looked right into your eyes as kissed your hand. A gasp could not even escape your throat. Something was stirring beneath you when his lips touched your gloved hand. You felt a sensation you dared not name in the most private part of you. 

Finally, steeling yourself back to the earth, you remembered basic etiquette.

“Thank you, Sir Sharpe. I am glad to make your acquaintance as well,” you replied with a curtsy.

Sir Sharpe sat across from you at dinner. You hardly said a word unless someone asked you something. 

You couldn’t believe this. You couldn’t believe him. You somehow found your appetite again and ate. But you felt self conscious with each bite. Thomas was watching you- what was he seeing? Would he judge you? You moved even more carefully and properly as you could.

 Every time your eyes met,  Every time he looked at you, a heat rushed through your whole body and your eyes would return demurely back to your plate or the napkin on your lap. When he smiled at you, you felt as if you could die. You had to remember your feet was touching the ground as you wiggled your toes in your pointed shoes.. 

He spoke poliely when asked to, but mainly listened. There was polite talk about the weather or the Ascot opening race. Thomas would ask you about what you thought and you found your replies were timid. You didn’t want to make a wrong move, you didn’t want him to hate you, you didn’t want-

Then your father stood up, raising a glass.

“Now, everyone,” he declared. “Let us have a toast. To Sir Sharpe, the delightful Baronet who I have the honor to call my son in law not long from now. And to the marriage of my beloved, dutiful daughter-”

You found yourself looking down. Dutiful, dutiful. This was why you were here. Lottie was not dutiful and broke everything. But now here you were to fix it all. For everyone’s sakes, including yours. It would have be you thrown to face the unknown of marriage to this unknown aristocrat. Yes, he was handsome. But he was still a stranger.

“Cheers!” toasted your father.

Everyone replied with cheers as they clinked glasses. Thomas gave you another smile and clinked yours. You felt yourself become timid. His looks, his smiles, and you were acting no better than an loony adolescent.

Thomas delayed going to after-dinner sips of brandy with the other men. He remained in the parlor with the women sipping on coffee and went to you. He led you over to a corner away from nosy mamas. He spoke lowly, for you to hear.

“How are you, Miss Y/L/N?” he asked.

“If I must be entirely honest, I am afraid,” you confessed.

His eyes softened at you. They were the color of a spring sky. You had never seen eyes as blue as his.

“YN, I know this is sudden. And I’m shocked as you are. But…”

He offered his hand and you took it. Your glove over his skin. Then he placed his other over yours, and already you found yourself chilled comparing his large hand to your own. To feeling that one bit of touch. For now you were almost married, and to touch was permitted.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me…I will try to make you happy, with everything I can.” he promised.

“Nothing will happen to me. You won’t hurt me. And you won’t let anyone hurt me, will you?” you asked.

A shadow of sadness passed over his face.

“No. I won’t.”

[pretty-little-mind33]

Tangerine x best friend fem!reader

Summary: When your best friend has said, "—in ten years if we're both single, I'll gladly marry you." You didn't think his words had any weight. Turns out, they did.

Genre: Angsty hurt and comfort

Warnings: if canonTangerine can jump onto a moving bullet train, fanon Tangerine can jump from a train as well, violence, guns, swearing, best friends to lovers, Tan and Lem have real names but they aren't mentioned (apart from the first letter ;)).

~ inspired by @little-miss-dilf-lover <3 ~

TANGERINE MASTERLIST

The party is loud and you're not quite sure how your friends have managed to convince you to come, especially on exam week, but here you are—sweaty, slightly drunk, and also starving?

"Oh, look, it's that guy you like!" Your friend, Allie, exclaims as she points through the swarm of students. She's drunker than you, her words horribly slurred.

You look where she's pointing and see the boy who sits behind you in your Biology class. The one that always looks bored and uninterested and still somehow always has a higher score than you do. It would annoy you if he didn't intrigue you so much. 

"His friend is cute," Allie says, seemingly interested in the boy's friend; the slightly taller boy with the lopsided baseball cap and football jersey. You aren't surprised Allie likes him. His smile could light up any room.

"C'mon, I want his number—" she tugs your arm, practically stumbling over with you close behind.

You know the drink you're nursing is kicking in because you're not nearly as nervous as you should be standing in front of this boy now. His chestnut curls fall across his forehead as he looks at you, his blue eyes so sharp you can almost feel them cut through you. His expression doesn't shift. 

"Hi," you say, watching as Allie and his friend fall into easy conversation beside you. Their voices are drowned out by the music but you can see them laughing as Allie touches his arm. You glance up at the boy from your class—you can't seem to remember his name. Tyler? Theo? Thomas? Something with a T—

"Hey," he says, a question in his voice as he tilts his head and studies you. "Do I know you?"

Embarrassment creeps up your cheeks. "Oh, we're in the same class. Bio? With Professor Cooper?"

Recognition passes across the boy's features but he doesn't mention it. He simply nods, looking away. "Ah," he looks down at you again after a moment, "And what do you want?"

Any sensible person would have fled this conversation immediately, but you're too stubborn and drunk to heed the warnings. You excuse his snappiness because the loud music is annoying you as well. "Do you want to go somewhere quieter?" you ask, chewing your lip. 

You couldn't possibly handle rejection. 

He is silent for a moment, simply staring at you, but he nods and lets you lead him across the party and towards the fire escape. The fresh air feels nice on your skin as you climb, the cool metal from the fire escape pressing against your thighs as you sit on the edge. The boy joins you, sitting in silence for a moment. It isn't awkward, but you assume that's the alcohol. 

You shiver, breathing out into the cold air. 

"Here," he interrupts, handing you his worn-out leather jacket. He doesn't smile, but the gesture is enough to show his kindness and you accept happily, slipping your arms into the velvet of the sleeves. You hum.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he says, cracking his first smile of the night. 

Turns out, he isn't as uninterested in you as he seemed. Conversation flows easier and he's surprisingly funny. The drinks you've had makes your cheeks burn and you're now ranting about your favorite fruits, as the boy, whom you still haven't asked his name, looks at you with round, confused eyes.

"You don't like them?!" you practically screech, leaning forward and the boy's arm stops you from falling over the fire escape but he doesn't mention it. Instead, he's staring at you with his eyebrows scrunched. 

"No? I mean, aren't they just oranges? What's so special about them?"

You gasp, blinking at him as if he'd just said the most outrageous thing and a smirk curls his lips. 

"Tangerine's are so delicious! They're much sweeter in taste than an Orange and in China, they also represent good fortune. They're my favorite out of the citrus family. And doesn't the name sound kinda sophisticated? T-an-ger-ine—" you spell out, turning and locking eyes with him. You're too tipsy to see the faint blush creeping up his cheeks but he clears his throat and looks away.

"I'll have to keep that in mind," he hums, looking out into the night sky with a small smile. A few moments pass until he feels a weight on his shoulder and his lips curl downwards. He tilts his head and when he sees your cheek resting on his shoulder, your chest rising and falling with light snores, he doesn't have the heart to move you. 

You look so peaceful. So beautiful. 

Instead, he pulls you in just a little closer and helps you become comfortable on his shoulder. 

~ Around Ten Year Later ~

The rattling from the train wakes you up, your cheek hitting the glass and then you jolt your head up and you quickly wipe your hand across your mouth to eliminate any proof that you'd been drooling in your sleep. Your cheeks burn hot and you look around. Your eyebrows knit together. The compartment is empty. Weird. How long have you been asleep?

You stand, moving into the alley. You look up at the name of the next station and curse. You missed your fucking stop. You pinch your nose. At this point, you're gonna miss your business meeting and your boss might as well fire you. 

You sit down again, holding your head in your hand. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—" you groan and you startle when you hear the doors of the compartment slide open. Strong footsteps follow. You look up absentmindedly, your breath catching in your throat when you see someone you haven't seen in years. Instantly, you shoot up, catching the man's attention and he pauses. 

Apart from the blue of his eyes, he looks different. His shoulders are slightly broader and he looks hardened by life. His boyish clean-shaven face is replaced by scars and wounds and a thick mustache that shouldn't work with his features as well as it does. 

You're moving on autopilot as you walk away from your seat and into the aisle, looking him over. You must be mistaken. He's covered in blood. He's wearing a dark blue suit, although half of the suit is missing, and he is staring at you like he's just seen a ghost. 

"T–" His name begins to fall from your mouth but he quickly interrupts you and walks over, gently pushing his hand over your mouth. 

"Tangerine," he whispers, his voice hoarse and the familiarity causes a shiver up your spine.

"What?" you ask behind his hand, your body tense. Is this not—

Suddenly, there is a loud screeching and the train comes to a half. You gasp, falling forwards and onto Tangerine's chest.

He topples backwards, his large hand cupping the back of your head, keeping you still against him, as you fall on top of him. He grunts, his side colliding with the bottom of the seats.

You push on your arms, hovering over him. "Are you alright?" You exclaim, examining him for injuries that weren't already there. 

"Just peachy," he grumbles sarcastically, running a hand in his hair. Tangerine sits up once you've scrambled off his lap and his gaze lands on you. He frowns, standing up and helping you up as well. He lowers his gaze to your left hand, his fingers skimming your ring finger and you hold your breath, looking up at him and then down to his left hand.

No ring, you both think as the memory remains ingrained in both your minds.

It had been your twenty-second birthday, the one where your arsehole of an boyfriend had broken up with you and you'd found yourself in Tangerine's dorm, curled up against him on his bed as you cried into his shoulder. Since the party, you've grown into very close friends. He wasn't cold anymore, he was gentle and kind and utterly hopelessly in love with you—something he didn't want you to know. 

"He's a twat," he spits, stroking your hair. 

"I'll be forever alone, T!" You exclaim, not listening to him as you sit up and stare at him with wide teary eyes. What was said next differs from both your memories, but that proposal, the one he'd made of his own accord, remains clear—

"I'll tell ya what, if in ten years we're both single, I'll gladly marry you."

You'd laughed, unaware of the truth behind his words, and neither of you ever mentioned it again. Although, as the years passed and he distanced himself from you—his words lingered in your mind. You'd been sure he'd forgotten them, but judging by the look on his face now—he must not have. 

You pull your hand away and clear your throat, pulling you both from the memory. You're about to ask why he's here and covered in blood but the sound of gunshots interrupts your plan.

Tangerine pushes you behind him, pulling out his revolver from his suit pants and checking the chamber. He curses and points his gun at the door. You grasp his arm and ask in a whisper. "What's happening? And why do you have a gun T—"

"Tangerine," he growls, anticipating your next word, looking at you through the corner of his eye. 

"Why do you keep insisting I call you that? You hate—"

"I don't know who's around," he interrupts. There is another round of gunshots and you tighten your grip on his arm. "Now back up slowly."

You do as he says, sensing an authority he didn't possess ten years earlier. Once you pass the compartment doors, you feel the wind in your hair and look to the side. "T, why is there a hole in the train?!" You ask, watching as Tangerine jams the door with his gun. "Wait—don't you need that?" You squeak.

Tangerine looks at you, his gaze hard. "Do you trust me?" he asks sternly.

Your eyes widen even more as the train suddenly speeds up and you crash into the opposite wall. 

What the fuck is happening?

Tangerine grips your arm and pulls you upright. "Do you trust me," he asks again, his voice strained.

You falter. "I- I don't know!"

"Well make up your mind, because we don't have much time!"

"What?" You gasp when he grabs your waist and pulls you into him, facing him. He walks closer to the hole and you push against him. "Are you crazy?" you hiss, "back up!"

"No," Tangerine looks directly into your eyes, his gaze hard. "Do you trust me?"

"Stop asking me that!" 

He says your name and you pause. Something you can't decipher hangs in the air as you stare at him and before he can ask again, you nod hastily. "I trust you. Okay. I trust you." 

You almost think you see a hint of a smile but then his hand tightens on your waist as the other pushes your face into the crook of his neck. 

And then he jumps through the hole and from the moving train. 

You feel like you can't breathe. For a moment, you're sure you've fallen onto the tracks and you're dead. Nothing hurts, not really, but your eyes are still screwed shut against Tangerine's shoulder. He smells like smoke and pinewood and you can feel his heartbeat against yours. 

He's breathing.

You use your hand and lift yourself. Tangerine's hand falls to his side as he grunts. You realize you're sitting on him. "Fuck," you say and try shifting off him. He only groans more and steadies your hips. You pause, looking down at him; he's bleeding from his shoulder and his hair is damp with blood.

If he didn't already look like shit, he sure does now. 

"Gentle," he coughs, opening one eye. "M-my ribs."

Your blood runs cold and you jump up, not listening to him. Tangerine groans. You look around. The platform is empty and the train has passed. You look at Tangerine and your voice comes out shaky when you say, "You jumped from a moving train! What the fuck is wrong with you?" You kneel down, assessing his injuries. He's hurt but he's still aware and breathing. You press a hand to his side and he hisses. 

"Who the fuck are ya?" A familiar voice rings out and you hear the cocking of a gun. The metal presses against your head and you freeze. Slowly, you turn around and see his brother. 

His name falls from your lips as he does the same with yours and his arm lowers.

"Lemon," Tangerine groans, managing to sit up. He coughs, blood dripping out of his mouth. 

You turn around. "Lemon?" you narrow your gaze and point, "and Tangerine."

Lemon nods, putting his gun away as he kneels beside you. "Code names, so shh," he presses his index to his lips and grins. He turns his attention to Tangerine and cocks his head. "Now what happened to leaving the train normally, and where's the boy?" 

You sit back on your heels, listening to them. 

"They found me. Had a shit ton of guns and shit. And, my landing would have been much easier if I didn't have to cushion her fall," he looks at you but there is no real bite behind his words.

Your cheeks feel warm. "I didn't ask you to do that!" 

"Would ya rather I left ya defenseless on a doomed train?"

Your head is spinning. You fell asleep for what? At most 30 minutes and all went to shit? 

"T, she's clearly shaken up. Be nice."

"I am nice. I saved 'er life." 

Lemon rolls his eyes and assesses his brother's injuries. You watch them, seeing how different and grown-up they look now. Still, they bicker in the same way as they did in Uni and you can't help but smile.

"Next time, we do this together, easy job or not, Lemon says as he helps Tangerine up. The latter leans against him for support and grumbles something in return. He doesn't look very pleased. You stand as well and call after them. 

"Wait," you say and run up to them, "Can I come with you?"

Lemon pauses and looks over his shoulder. "It isn't safe for ya, sweetcheeks. 'Tis best if ya just hurry home now." You hear Tangerine whisper something that sounds like, "don't let her come," and your chest tightens. Still, you don't simply take the no. 

"He needs a doctor," you argue. 

"He's fine."

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"You both know I studied medicine in school. Please. If you won't take him to the hospital could you please let me look him over?" you plead, holding onto Lemon's sleeve. He pauses and looks down at his brother. Tangerine looks pale and more blood drips from his lips. You whisper Lemon's real name and he sighs. 

Soon, you find yourself in a luxury hotel room, kneeling on the floor of the bathroom as you wipe Tangerine's wounds clean. He's leaning against the bathtub, his shirt abandoned on the tile as you apply some antiseptic to the wound on his temple.

He shifts and you shake your head, pushing on his shoulder to steady him. "Stay still," you command and press on the bandages gently, making sure the ice packs stay in place. Tangerine's sharp blue eyes are glued to you. He looks serious and stoic. However, there is also a glossy shield over them from the pain meds you'd given him. It would have been torture to leave him in the state he was in. And after all, it was your fault he'd gotten badly hurt. 

"Why didn't you become a doctor? That's your dream, innit?" he blurts out suddenly, his words slurred. 

You shake your head, smoothing a hand over the bandage. "It was. I guess I wasn't cut out for it—medical school kicked my arse." 

"Bollocks," Tangerine says, narrowing his gaze as he lifts himself up to position himself better against the tub. "Ya were the best in your year at Uni. Everyone knew that. What happened?"

Your heart sinks as you press like cloth against another cut on his cheek. Biting the inside of your cheek, you whisper, "Drop it? Please." How can you tell him you'd just given up when things got hard? How could you tell him when he was your biggest supporter? How could you tell him all that without blaming him for leaving you?

Ten years with no contact. Not one response to your texts or calls. You'd gotten the message quickly enough. 

You push back some of his curls, watching as his head falls back and his gaze remains on you. "I didn't think I would ever see you again," you say, changing the topic of discussion. Tangerine doesn't say anything for a moment until he sniffs. 

"I've seen you," he starts and tilts his head. His voice becomes softer. "In my dreams."

You hold your breath, leaning back against your heels. "T—Tangerine," you whisper.

"You can say my name now," Tangerine exclaims, looking at you almost guiltily. "There is no one that could hurt us. Please, say my name."

You hold your breath before whispering his name. When you do, he shuts his eyes and makes a small sound. You frown, confused why you saying his name would cause this big of a reaction. You feel him reach over, holding your hand and your heart speeds up.

"You aren't married," he breathes out. 

Your gaze snaps to him. 

"Neither am I—" he adds, his thumb stroking over your skin. 

"T—that was years ago—"

"And yet, you remember. You know exactly what I'm referring to because you remember."

There is truth in his words. Had you gone that long without thinking of him or that stupid proposal?

No.

You'd dated and did all you could to pretend that he hadn't said that and to pretend that he wouldn't show up out of the blue and marry you like he'd said. 

And yet here he is, reminding you of his words. 

"I never looked for someone. Not when I knew you were out there somewhere. It's always been you," he admits, his eyes still glossy and he's still breathing heavily like he's in pain. You want to believe him, you do, but realistically you know that it's the pain medication. He isn't thinking properly. 

"That's sweet, T," you say and squeeze his hand. "Really sweet."

He frowns. "It's not supposed to be sweet. It's the truth. I love you."

You stand up, your mind is fuzzy. "Okay–I'm gonna call in your brother. He can take care of you from here—"

"Wait, l-love, it's the truth. I love you. I always have, please don't leave," he pleads but he's in too much pain to walk after you. All he can do is sit there as you slip from his grasp once more. 

Outside, you run into Lemon as he walks over with two warm teas. "What's wrong?" he asks, frowning as he sees the look on your face. You shake your head, not bothering with a response, as you walk to the entrance to find your coat. Coming here was a mistake. This entire ordeal was a simple mistake. A trick of fate.

"Oi, wait." You hear just as you open the front door. You look over your shoulder and an envelope hangs in front of you. You look up, catching Lemon's intense stare, and you only receive a nod. Once outside, the cold air stings your skin as you walk away from the hotel. The city is busy and the lights shine bright over the darkness of the night. You squint, wasting no time in opening and reading the letter—

Y/n,  I know you will not understand why I need to leave. Or why I won’t respond to your calls or your texts. I can’t make you understand either. Not yet, not until I’ve figured things out for myself. It’s too dangerous for us now. I would rather never see you again than put you in harm's way.  I’m not even sure if I will ever send this to you. I don’t think I deserve it. Not after what I must do. But still I must tell you.  Do you remember what I told you? How I would marry you. You laughed and I know you did not believe me. I’m not sure if I will ever see you again anyways, not anymore, but if by luck it’s ten years later and I see you. Just know I’ll marry you in a heartbeat.  Because I love you.  I love you so much.  Yours forever,  T

Your hands tighten around the paper. You think back to the train—the gunshots—the codenames—the codename of your favorite fruit—the mention of a job—and nothing makes sense but the apparent danger you'd been in and one that the brothers' seemed familiar with. 

He left you to protect you.

Tears sting at the corner of your eyes as you press the letter to your chest. You've stopped walking. 

He loves you. 

And you don't want to accept that you love him just the same. 

But you can't help yourself as you run back to his apartment, his real name falling from your lips as your tears roll down your cheeks. 

[cleo-fox]

Close Quarters

Part 2 of 2

(Part 1)

Summary: The thrilling conclusion to Part 1.

Pairing: Loki x Fem Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+ (Minors DNI), dirty talk, praise kink, fingering, elevator sex, a hint of dom/sub, Dom Loki, Reader gets a little bratty, little bit of a sir kink, cunnilingus, blow jobs, filth.

A/N: I know I usually choose a Loki GIF but Thomas Sharpe seemed…more appropriate. I’ve got a couple more one shots with these idiots, so if you want to see more, lemme know.

Mercifully, the hallway is empty.

You imagine that your exit from the elevator looks as scandalous as what happened inside it. You are draped in Loki’s arms, still out of breath and a little glassy eyed from the two earth shattering orgasms that he’d given you only minutes prior. In contrast, Loki looks relatively put together and intently focused, like there’s nothing more important on this earth than getting you both back to your suite as quickly as possible. That thought gives you a bit of a thrill—the idea of you wanting him is not necessarily new or unusual, but the idea that he might want you just as much is utterly thrilling.

It occurs to you that you’re in rather close proximity to his neck and it seems like a shame to let that opportunity go to waste. You press your lips against the pulse point in his throat and lazily make your way along his jaw. His breath hitches when you catch his earlobe between your teeth.

“Are you trying to ensure that I take you in the hallway, Mrs. Pine?” he says, his voice dropping deep.

“I won’t be able to scream for you in the hallway,” you breathe into his ear, “and I kinda think you want that.”

“Minx,” he growls, picking up his pace just slightly as you resume kissing his neck.

“I take it that means I’m right,” you say. “Or that I’m in for it when we get back to the room.”

He chuckles. “Oh, it’s both, darling.”

You shiver and nip at his earlobe once more.

Loki drops the glamor as soon as the door to your room shuts behind you and while you like the cropped blond hair of Jonathan Pine, there is something about his natural long, dark locks that drives you wild.

“Let’s me make two things clear, Agent,” he says as he carries you into the bedroom. “First: there are no covers in here; I want you screaming my name when you come. Second—” he sets you down at the foot of the bed. “—I want to taste your pretty cunt.”

Heat and tension coil in your hips. “I can agree to both of those things.”

“Good. Undress.”

He watches as you slowly strip off your swimsuit, his eyes greedy and hungry. Once you’re completely naked, he gives himself a moment to look you over in full, unconsciously licking his lips when his gaze falls on your breasts and hips, his eyes devouring every inch of you. Finally, he nods at the foot of the bed. “Sit.”

You sit down on the bed and he begins unbuttoning his shirt. He takes his time and you watch, enraptured by the slow reveal of his well-muscled chest and taut, flat stomach. The shirt is discarded on the floor with your swimsuit. He undoes his belt, then the button and zip on his shorts.

He’s wearing black boxer briefs, which surprises you—you had assumed that his preference was likely to go commando. But honestly, the boxer briefs are so fitted that the effect is essentially the same: they cling to every dip and swell and leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. The material is taut across his thighs and his cock strains hard at the fabric. If pressed, you could probably create a reasonably accurate sketch based on this view alone.

You don’t have terribly long to contemplate this, though—he kneels in front of you, pulling you in for a slow kiss, his large hands cupping your breasts. His kiss is thorough and sensual, but the addition of his hands kneading your breasts and gently teasing and pinching the sensitive skin of your nipples may actually send you into the stratosphere.

And then he lowers his mouth to your breast and you lose the ability to form coherent thoughts. He strokes his tongue lazily on your nipple in slow circles, lightly teasing the hardened bud with his teeth and bringing another flood of slick arousal to your cunt. Your hips rock fruitlessly against nothing, seeking friction to ease the throbbing pulse of your clit.

You sigh, letting your eyes close and your head tip back, your fingers tangling in his hair. After a moment, you reach for his free hand and guide it between your legs. His fingers dip between your legs, collecting your slickness and gently rolling against your clit.

You moan and he draws back, eyes dark. “Lie back,” he says softly.

You recline on the bed and his focus shifts to you spread out before him. “Lovely,” he says. He is being sincere—and there’s a power in that that thrills you, that sends even more heat and slick to your aching cunt.

When he’s looked his fill, he brings both of your legs over his broad shoulders. He lowers his head to your cunt slowly, first dipping down to inhale your scent and then with one wicked grin, slipping the warm blade of his tongue between your folds.

Your exhale is shaky and turns into a soft whine in the back of your throat as he licks a long, broad stripe from your entrance up to your clit.

“Fuck, Loki.” His name falls from your lips unbidden. You prop yourself up on your elbows and drink in the sight of him between your legs, head bowed like he is worshiping at the most sacred and solemn altar.

In the elevator, he was determined to make you come as quickly as possible; now, though, in the privacy of your room, he seems intent on taking his time and building you up achingly slowly. His tongue laves over your clit at a leisurely pace, teasing and tasting and sucking until he finds the rhythm and movement that makes you try to press your quaking thighs together because it feels so incredible. He gently presses your legs back open, keeping you spread and fully at the mercy of the rolling waves of pleasure that his mouth is creating. One of his long and elegant fingers slides inside of you and curls, pressing against that sweet, soft spot that makes your hips buck and your eyes roll to the back of your head.

When a second finger joins the first a few minutes later, you know that it won’t be much longer. Loki looks up at you, lust-glazed eyes glittering like he knows that too.

You approach the edge slowly, your breath coming in rolling gasps, your hands gripping his hair. He watches you, his gaze both hungry and mischievous. You bite your lip, breath stuttering as you furrow your brow against that final ascent.

And then the tension finally snaps and your head tips back as you tumble off the edge and into your climax, your free fall as decadent and shiver-inducing as the beautifully slow buildup.

You don’t manage to gasp his name because the concept of words has fled you entirely and the only sound that escapes your lips is a sharp cry. From the glint in his eye and the low groan of approval offered against your clit, Loki doesn’t seem to mind at all.

The aftershocks roll through you in rippling waves that make your toes curl and it takes you a moment to catch your breath.

“I confess, I’m quite tempted to stay here all night,” says Loki, placing a gentle kiss on your clit. “You have the sweetest cunt.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” you say, your words slurred with pleasure.

“Hardly.” He licks you very slowly from your entrance to your clit and you sigh, running your fingers through his hair. He repeats the same circuit twice more.

“In fact,” he murmurs, placing another kiss on your clit, “I think I may need another taste.” Another lingering kiss, his tongue teasing your entrance. You suck in a shuddering breath.

“One more.” Another long stroke of his tongue and you shiver again.

“Darling, I’m so sorry—” a quick kiss to your clit, “—but I think I’m going to have to make you come again. I'm simply famished.”

Your back arches and you moan as his mouth once again envelopes your clit and his fingers slide back inside you, curling into that soft, sweet spot. You’re a little sensitive, but he’s moving with such achingly perfect precision that you can already feel another orgasm starting to build in your hips.

The ascent is much quicker this time, and you soon find yourself whimpering and panting, your hands tangling again in his hair. He groans against you and you swear you feel the vibrations shimmer all along your aching core.

“Please,” you moan. “Please. I’m so close. Please.”

He lets you ride the edge for a little bit longer, despite your pleas and your iron grip on his hair. But after a minute or so, he seems to take pity on you and he increases his pace just slightly. Your orgasm blossoms in your hips, your cunt clamping down on his fingers as you moan his name to the ceiling.

“That’s my good girl,” he purrs a moment later, as his fingers coax you through the aftershocks. He looks you over, licking his lips. “You’re gorgeous like this, you know,” he says, eyes dragging greedily over your body. “Naked and utterly fucked out. Perfection.”

You shiver and slowly convince your loose muscles to allow you to sit up. “I don’t think you can say I’m fucked out if you haven’t actually fucked me.”

His eyebrow arches, “Is that so?”

You scoot to the edge of the bed so that you can run your hands over his firm chest. You press a kiss just above his belly button, tongue flicking out briefly against his skin. “Seems reasonable to me.”

“Do you want me to fuck you, Agent?” he says, his voice dropping low.

“I mean, that’s what I was hinting at, yes,” you say.

His eyes are hooded as he gives you a sly, calculating smile. “But do you deserve to be fucked, Agent?”

Feeling a little bold, you place your palm flat against the substantial bulge in his boxer briefs, running your hand along the hard, thick length of him. Fuck, he’s big. “Yes,” you say.

“I’m not so sure about that,” he says, his expression and voice deliciously stern despite your hand on his cock. “You’ve been quite pert. Disobedient. Mouthy.”

You think you have an idea where this is going. “So am I getting punished or begging for you to forgive me?” you ask with a coy smile.

The hunger and delight in his gaze makes you ache. “Let’s see what your smart mouth can do to my cock and maybe then I’ll consider fucking you.”

You lick your lips and trace your fingertips along the sharp lines of his Adonis belt, pausing at the waistband of his boxer briefs. You hook your fingertips under the elastic and pull them down.

His cock springs free as the fabric falls to the floor. Between sitting on his lap and the unsubtle nature of the boxer briefs, you knew he was long and thick, but you’re still not fully prepared to experience the full effect of seeing his cock be hard and ready for you.

“Fuck,” you breathe. You take a moment to admire him, despite the fact that you know it’s likely only inflating his ego. 

“Do you want me, Agent?” he drawls with a lazy smile. “Do you want my cock?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” you say. “In fact, I’m certain you do.”

“Perhaps I like hearing you say it,” he says, bringing one hand up to stroke your cheek. “Would that be such a terrible thing?”

Impulsively, you get to your feet and pull him into a kiss. You can still taste yourself on him—salty and a little sweet.

“You like hearing me talk about how I want you?” you say, pressing your hips against his.

“Very much.” His voice is a low purr and you shiver in his arms.

“I’m aching for you to fill me,” you murmur, leaning in to kiss him. “I’m dripping just thinking about it.” You nip at his lower lip and he groans against your mouth. “But first, I want to get on my knees and worship your perfect cock with my mouth.”

There's a low, pleased rumble deep in his chest and you shiver as you draw away. “Sit down.”

He sits down on the foot of the bed and you position yourself in front of him, standing between his spread thighs and lowering yourself to your knees. You run your hands up his thighs, lightly dragging your fingernails along his skin, enjoying the slight hitch in his breath. You kiss the inside of his left knee and slowly make your way up the inside of his left thigh, dragging your tongue along his skin every so often. You continue this all the way up to the crease where his thigh meets his hip, close enough that he can feel the heat of your breath on his beautiful cock.

And then you lean back and begin the same process again on his right leg.

“What,” he says, his voice going deep and dark, “did I say about playing games, Agent?”

You tilt your head to look up at him. He’s staring down at you with a stern look that makes your cunt clench.

“You know, I came so hard earlier, I can’t quite recall,” you say, making your eyes as wide and innocent as you can.

“And if you want to come again tonight, you’ll find a way to remember,” he says. He’s stern and authoritative, and it’s ridiculously hot. “Now put that smart mouth to work on my cock,” he growls.

“Yes, sir.” The phrase just sort of slips out, but the way it makes your cunt ache and his eyes glitter is absolutely delicious.

“Oh, I like those manners, pet,” he purrs. “I want to hear more of that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you say, pausing to lick your lips, “sir.”

“Good girl.”

His cock is flushed and so hard it presses up against his stomach. You wrap one hand around his shaft and you suck in a breath when your fingers don’t quite meet. He’s huge and the thought of having him inside of you makes you shiver and ache in anticipation.

You stroke him once and lower your mouth to the tip of his cock, placing gentle, closed mouth kisses on it.

He tolerates this for about thirty seconds.

“Agent.” His voice is laced with warning. “I won’t warn you again.”

Your lips curl into a slight smile and you flick your tongue against the tip of his cock, savoring the sharp tang of his pre-come. His eyes glitter down at you, still watching, waiting for you to disobey him.

“Am I not allowed to savor this experience?” you ask, intentionally licking your lips.

“I would urge you to consider that only good girls get to come on my cock, darling,” he says, his voice going dark and deliciously stern. “Choose your next moves wisely.”

The reality is that you desperately want to come on his cock and you wouldn’t put it past him to deny you. So, you offer him a sly smirk before you slowly begin to lick the tip of his cock, gradually opening your lips and bringing him into your mouth.

He groans softly. “You just need a firm hand, don’t you?” he says as you begin to move your head, stroking his shaft in a slow rhythm. His fingers card through your hair as he leans back on one hand, allowing himself to relax a little. “Or perhaps it’s that you want my cock more than you want to be a brat.”

You look up at him and raise an eyebrow. He’s not wrong.

He laughs low in his throat. “Oh, I think I’m going to  have you taking my orders by the time the week is up.” He reaches out to stroke your cheek with his thumb. “You have such a needy little cunt and I rather think that will prove to be an advantage for me.”

Your instinct is to let out a low whine, but you also don’t want to give him the satisfaction. You can’t fully stop yourself from reacting, though, and a soft whimper makes its way out of your lips.

He catches this and smirks. “You like being mouthy and talking back, but I think you also crave a little discipline. Being told what to do gets you off, doesn’t it?”

This time, you do whine and he smiles down at you, eyes hooded. “That works out rather nicely,” he says, his voice dropping deep, “because I quite enjoy giving orders.”

You shiver and he notices, running his fingers through your hair.

“Filthy girl,” he purrs. “We’re going to have so much fun together.” He watches you for a minute, eyes hooded, lips slightly parted. “You’re gorgeous like this, too, you know,” he says. “On your knees with my cock in your mouth like a good girl. I could watch this for hours.” You glance up at him and catch his lazy smile. “Though,” he continues, “I suspect you’ll also look gorgeous riding my cock. Or perhaps spread out and tied to the bed.”

This image is too much for you: a high pitched whine makes its way out of your throat before you can think better of it.

“Oh, you like that idea?” he says, not sounding very surprised at all. “You like the thought of being bound and completely at my mercy?”

Another embarrassing whine escapes you before you can stop it.

“We’ll have to explore that some time this week,” he says. “Though I am starting to develop a rather lengthy list of things I want to do to you.”

Fuck. You are caught between wanting him to keep talking and wanting him to shut up so you stop making such embarrassing noises.

Admittedly, the idea of making him feel so good that you render him speechless is also incredibly appealing.

You suck just a little harder, cheeks hollowing as you start running your tongue along the underside of his shaft, swirling it on the tip as you come up.

His eyebrows draw together, his lips parting slightly. “Fuck. That’s it.”

You pick up your pace just a little and he groans, his hand going to grip your hair.

“Yes—just like that.” His grip tightens on your hair. “If your cunt is even half as good as your mouth—fuck, yes, right there—I’m going to have a hard time leaving this room this week.”

You hum against his cock and he groans, his hips starting to rock toward your mouth. “Do you like this?” he asks, his voice husky. “Do you like being on your knees for me?”

You moan against his cock, sucking harder.

“You do, don’t you?” he says, his voice a little unsteady. “Barely an hour and you’re already such a slut for my cock.”

You moan again, bobbing your head up and down his length.

“Such a good girl,” he purrs. “A bit of a brat to start, but I think I’m going to have to reward you for this. Your mouth is too fucking good.”

Another moan slips past your lips. He groans and is quiet for a minute or two, his hips rocking toward you.

His breath is coming in shaky gasps now. “I’m close, love,” he says, his fingers flexing in your hair. “I’m going to spill myself in your pretty mouth and then I’m going to fuck you into the mattress.”

You can’t help but moan, which seems to spur him on. His lips part and you can almost feel how close he is.

He makes the most beautiful noise as he comes, a low groan that seems to reverberate in your cunt as he empties himself into your mouth. You swallow his release greedily as you continue stroking him, your head moving up and down his length.

You pull off of him slowly, licking your lips and you look up at him, your mouth curling into a smirk. “So, was that a proper enough apology for you?” you ask.

He growls low in his chest, eyes opening to look down at you. “You are still far too pert for your own good,” he says. “I suspect I’m going to have to put you over my knee at some point this week. You need discipline.”

You suck in a deep breath as your cunt clenches at the possibility.

“But right now, I need to fuck you.” He gestures to the bed. “Get up here. Now.”

You don’t need any encouragement to follow this command, but the way that he delivers the order and the way his green eyes get all steely is enough for more slickness to collect between your legs. You clamber to your feet, but before you can even try getting on the bed, he’s pulling you to him and flipping you onto your back. He rolls on top of you, caging you in with his body, his impossibly hard cock throbbing against your stomach.

He kisses you, tongue pressing into your mouth, hungry and claiming. “Do you want me inside you?” he purrs against your lips. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“I need you to fuck me,” you say, spreading your legs and tilting your pelvis up toward him. “I want you to claim me.”

His smile is sharp and he drags the tip of his cock along your cunt, coating himself in your slickness. “Still so fucking wet,” he growls.

“I told you I need you,” you murmur.

He lines himself up at your entrance and ever so slowly begins easing into you. He presses forward, inch by glorious inch, until his hips are flush against yours.

“Oh fuck,” you breathe. “You feel so good.”

He smiles and withdraws just an inch or two before pressing back in. You arch underneath him and let out a soft moan.

“How about that? Is that good?” he asks.

You moan and nod.

He repeats the action. “And this?”

You offer up another moan and he grins. He repeats the action again, clearly teasing you. “What about this one?”

“Loki, please—”

“What is it darling?”

You’re not quite sure if you want to kiss or slap that smirk right off his face.

“Please don’t stop, please—”

“Oh, you want me to keep doing this?” he says, his brow furrowing in mock confusion. “You should have said something.”

“Loki, please—”

He chuckles quietly and begins rocking his hips against yours in slow, shallow thrusts. You sigh and wrap your legs around his waist, meeting his mouth as he kisses you. You can tell he’s holding back, though.

“I’m not going to break,” you finally say, tilting your hips to rock with his. “I want more. I want you to fuck me.”

He kisses you hard and his thrusts lengthen and deepen, his pace increasing just a hair, and you cry out because he’s now hitting that soft, sweet spot and he feels even better.

“You’re taking me so well, darling,” he says. “This snug little cunt was made for my cock, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” you breathe, arching your back. “Fuck, that’s so good.”

He wraps those long fingers around your ankles and brings your legs up so that they are draped over his shoulders, your body folded in half. He thrusts again and his cock presses even deeper, rubbing against that tender spot inside you. His thumb finds your clit and you whimper. Pressure is starting to build in your hips again.

“You’re getting close already, aren’t you?” he rasps, grinning at you like a devil. “I can feel you starting to tremble.”

You keen, your cunt clenching around his steadily thrusting cock.

“Are you going to be a good girl and come on my cock?” he growls.

You nod, words somewhere beyond you.

“I want you to soak my cock,” he purrs. “Let it all out. Scream for me.”

You feel yourself poised on the edge. So close.

“Come for me, darling, that’s it, let go, come for me, let me feel that sweet cunt milk me dry…”

You arch your back as your orgasm blossoms and unfurls. The sound that falls from your lips is a high pitched keening that would be Loki’s name, except there’s no space for anything besides this incredible feeling, his cock inside you, and the weight of him on top of you.

“Oh there you go, that’s it,” he murmurs. “You have the tightest, most exquisite cunt. I could fuck you for days.”

You moan, shuddering in the final throes, your cunt spasming around his thick cock. He withdraws for a moment and you moan at the loss, but he quickly flips you onto your stomach and slides right back inside you.

From this angle, his cock thrusts even deeper, pressing more directly against your G-spot. A few strokes in and it becomes glaringly apparent to you that you’re going to come again.

“You’re insatiable, aren’t you?” he pants, thrusting hard into you. “I can feel you starting to tremble already.”

You moan into the comforter, arching your back so he hits that spot again.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he scolds, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you up so your back is flush against his chest. “I want to hear every filthy little sound that you make. Every. Last. One.” He thrusts in time with those last three words and you moan.

“You love this, don’t you?” he growls, his hips thrusting hard. “You love me taking you from behind like a fucking animal.”

Your legs are shaking and you can feel your orgasm building. “Loki, I’m gonna come again,” you whimper.

“I know you are, sweet girl,” he growls. “I can feel your tight cunt trembling.” His free hand slides between your legs, fingers rolling over your clit in the same rhythm as his thrusting cock.

Your breath stutters and a low whine escapes your lips. You are deliciously close.

“Please.” Your voice is barely a gasp. You’re riding the very edge of that wave and it feels so good that you’re almost certain the oncoming climax couldn’t possibly feel better. Almost.

“Oh, you’re almost there, love, you can do it,” says Loki, his hand still moving with his hips. “You just need to let go.”

You whimper. You are almost there.

“Be my good girl and let go for me,” he rasps. “Come for me.”

It breaks quite suddenly, your whole body shuddering and your cunt clamping down hard on his cock as you come. The noise you make is animalistic, torn from somewhere deep in your chest.

“Fuck!” Loki is fucking you hard, hips pistoning against your ass. “So fucking tight, you’re like a vise when you come, fuck—” His speech gives way into either Asgardian or Old Norse—you’re not quite sure which, but the idea that you’ve made him feel good enough to abandon English is incredibly appealing.

You’re dreamily floating back down from your high when you hear him make that beautiful noise again, that low, deep groan that falls from his lips only when he comes. You feel his release flood your cunt, hot and thick, as his hips finally start to slow.

It’s another minute or two before he rolls off you, flopping down next to you on the bed. Before you even have a moment to miss him or the comforting weight of his body on yours, he’s wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close.

You both lie there for a long moment, catching your breath.

You think back to your initial meeting with Fury, when you complained about being sent in with Loki. You’ve never been more pleased to be wrong in your entire life.

“So,” you say once you feel capable of speech, “you said you had some ideas for the rest of the week?”

If you thought his grin was devilish before, it’s nothing compared to what he looks like now as he pulls you on top of him.

“Darling,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “I thought you’d never ask.”

[earlysunshines]

vixen

hirai momo x fem!reader ; pining, fluff, angst, smut

wc: 14.7k

synopsis: when your boyfriend takes you to meet his family the last thing you had expected was to be eyed up and down by his step-sister – and honestly, you’re checking her out too.

warnings: smut!! ; fingering ; oral ; making out against the door, on the couch, in the elevator ; some soft sex ; reader has a *gags* bf ; momo is readers boyfriends’ very hot step sister ; not too happy with the pacing ; pining pining and pining ; brief implied homophobia ; anything else I didn't mention ; not proofread

a/n: i’ve never had a bf ever in my life or even talked to a man romantically so sorry if the whole having a bf part is really bad (lesbian since birth basically)

literally nothing could have ever prepared you for this moment. nothing.

the woman standing right there in front of you, a foot away looking down at you from the door; she’s gorgeous, she’s fucking hot. 

you’re meeting your boyfriend's family for the first time after dating for three months, yeah you were nervous about this whole meeting, picking out appropriate clothes for dinner with his parents and sibling. it was normal to feel this way, however, you’re much more nervous as the woman in front of you scans you down. 

those cheekbones could have been carved by aphrodite herself, sharp and perfect. her eyes, a dark brown, send a shiver down your spine. her lips are a tempting shade of pink, parting just a bit the more she takes in your presence. she gives you a curious look, you can't help but avert your eyes and your gaze inevitably travels, trailing down her crop top, lingering on the tantalizing glimpse of abs peeking out–

“and you are?” she clears the air, looking you up and down with the same hint of interest.

clearing your throat, you respond, “oh, hi. i’m um, thomas’s girlfriend…” 

the word girlfriend rolls off your tongue weirdly in the presence of whoever she is. you’re indicating that you’re taken, taken by… thomas.

“ahhh,” she says so casually, it still makes your breath hitch right then and there, the tremble of her voice vibrating in the air and reaching your ears like a cold brush of wind. then she smirks, and your knees go weak. “you’re y/n? i didn’t know he managed to get with someone so–” she eyes you up and down, smiling wider now. “--striking.”

you don’t know what to say, don’t know how to react because jesus fucking christ the woman of the century has just complimented you. you’ve just met her and weirdly enough she has you like putty.

“momo?” you hear a deep voice shout from inside the house. 

the familiar face of your boyfriend appears seconds later, he smiles at you, pulling you in by the waist - you almost trip. and then he kisses you on the lips, deeply. the fact that the woman from before is witnessing this makes you cringe internally, so you pull away for a bit, stopping his advances with a hand on his chest.

“hey, babe, not um, now.” you whisper, earning a strange look.  

“oh, okay.” he says dissapointedly. you turn to the side, looking at the woman again. your boyfriend raises his brows in disinterest. “oh, her? she’s my stepsister.”

the stepsister (the prettiest woman you’ve laid eyes on) looks at you again. her eyes go from your eyes to your lips, down your body and back up to your eyes. her brows raise up in interest, amusement – something along the lines of that – before she introduces herself.

“momo.” it’s such a simple name, but it fits her image. you’d love to know this momo more. “it’s nice to meet you, y/n.”

“yeah, likewise.”

she smiles at you, almost like she knows she has you under a spell.

“thomas been treating you well?”

“oh, yeah.” you look over to your boyfriend, he’s rolling his eyes at momo. “he’s great.”

momo snickers, “uh huh, sure. i bet.”

“oh stop that.” thomas says, “you’re being annoying.” he puts his arm around your waist again before tilting his head to the side and winking at you. “let’s go to my room.” 

you nod and he leads you down up the stairs, still, you manage to catch another glimpse of momo before you head up. she looks at you with narrowed eyes, complimented by a grin that shows a bit of her teeth. 

your clench your jaw before redirecting your attention.

–

the fact that you’re thinking about your boyfriend's step sister more than him the whole time he’s entertaining you in his room is a little concerning.

even when he shows you his stupid trophies and pictures of his lacrosse team, you can’t shake momo off your mind.

momo, momo who’s probably the prettiest person you’ve seen. she looks nothing like thomas, clearly not because if you’re being honest, his visuals don’t have a chance against hers. it’s terrible though, you shouldn’t be thinking this, you can’t.

but even when your boyfriend is kissing you suddenly, sliding his hands up your torso and shifting his lips to your jaw, you still think of her. 

–

thomas sits you down at the dinner table, squeezing your hand as you situate yourselves.

thomas’s dad sits in front of him and his stepmom – you assume, she has similar features as momo – sits on the same end of the table. 

in front of you is momo, of course.

if you were to lift your head up, even shift your look up, you’d meet her features. 

as she sits at the dinner table, engrossed in her phone as she waits for the food to cool down. your boyfriend's parents initiate the conversation, delving into inquiries about your life, your background, your family, etc – basically throwing around questions you’d expected. they come across as warm and inviting, particularly momo's mom, whose voice is sweet and genuine – contrast to thomas's dad's straightforward and blunt tone.

“so, what are you majoring in?” momo’s mom asks.

“public health, i also used to minor in art… but it didn’t really fit.” you answer. 

she raises her brows, looking at momo now. “did you hear that honey? she used to do art. my daughter does something in that field, what was it?”

momo looks up and into your eyes, making you shrink in your seat.

“architecture and graphic design.” she says, tilting her head. “what classes did you take when you minored?”

“oh, um, intro to art history and the basics, you know… um…” you start to trail off, watching as the woman in front grins wider.

“that’s cool” she says simply. she thinks it’s cool, this is great.

thomas speaks up, chicken and rice still half eaten in his mouth, “yeah, art is cool but it’s not gonna get you paid.” his tone is judgemental, making you frown. “momo spends all her tuition on classes that teach you how to draw a stick figure on a laptop and make buildings with popsicle sticks.”

momo grimaces. “oh shut up, at least everyone that takes art isn’t an egotistical snob.” 

her mom butts in, “hey, let’s not fight at the dinner table in front of our guest.”

thomas puts his hands up in defense. “right, sorry for reminding you that i have a secure job and career coming my way. my bad little sis.” he grins, raising his brows. “y/n has a good path too, not as good as business, sorry babe, but still, good money – at least after you go to medical school or whatever.”

“hey, thomas…” you respond, voice small. he’s unbelievably obnoxious right now. “i think… art is cool momo.”

momo looks at you again after your words of reassurance, smiling. you could be delusional, maybe just a little, but you swear there’s a little flush on your cheeks. you might just be delusional, though.

as dinner progresses, you make a point to compliment thomas's dad on his delicious chicken recipe, eliciting a bright smile from him, probably the first of the evening. momo's mom shares more details about her, capturing your attention more than any information that’s dropped about thomas. you like how momo get’s a little more timid when anecdotes are dropped, you don’t pay attention to any shared of thomas other than the time he got hit by a seagull when he was four. that made you laugh, it made everyone laugh.

the night comes to an end with thomas’s arm around your shoulder, the feeling of it heavy and a little overwhelming, but he’s your boyfriend and you’re in front of his family out for display, so you decide to ignore the weird feeling in your heart – especially the discomfort when momo manages to meet the scene.

thomas is later sent to do the dishes, giving you more time to converse with his parents one on one. they seem to genuinely enjoy your company. his dad's smiles become more frequent, and his stepmom expresses her fondness for you, commenting on how cute and wonderful you are.

you spot momo in the corner of your eye wiping the table down, her tricep flexing when her arm moves forward, the small curve of her bicep prominent when she brings her arm back. you decide – after seeing this sight – that you want to talk to her, alone.

you walk towards her, standing just by the side of the table. feeling the new presence creep in, momo turns to her left, catching you in her vision.

the sight of you there, clad in a loose sweater and shorts, makes her smile a little.

“hi.” you greet, offering a small smile back.

“hey.”

“do you need help with that?” you ask her, “i feel bad just letting you two do the work.”

“i’m almost done.” momo shrugs, then begins to wipe again. “don’t worry about it, you’re our guest y/n.”

you frown slightly, feeling helpless as you stand there, watching momo wipe down the table silently.

“by the way,” she starts, making you perk your head up. “why do you like my brother? how did you two even meet?”

“oh,” you shrink when momo’s eyes meet yours. “my friend introduced me to him when we went out to eat. he made me laugh a lot and, i guess i thought he was cute–”

but wow, if i knew you were even cuter? i don’t know what i’d do.

“--and he’s funny. we went on a few dates later on and now, now i’m here.”

momo hums, looking at you with narrowed eyes now. “well, i’m glad he makes you happy. you guys are cute.”

you respond with a “thanks.” before momo turns to finish off the last side of the table, but before she can do that, you invade her personal space a little. she’s surprised when you’re leaning in, lips near her ear and muttering, “i’m sorry for how he acted earlier, i thought it was really rude, i’ll talk to him about that. i think architecture and graphic design are really cool, my friend chaeyoung is an art major actually.”

when you pull away, faces a hand width apart, the two of you find yourselves staring at each other for a bit. momo chuckles, her smile even wider now.

“wow, you’re really cute y/n. no wonder my brother pursued you.” her words ring in your ear as if you’d been thrown against some giant bell. you find yourself blushing and look away. momo begins again, “it’s fine though. he’s my brother, he’s always like that – it’s how siblings are.”

“right, sorry i just, i thought it was rude.” 

“he’s like that.” momo shrugs, “i guess he’s nicer to you than he is with me.”

“oh, maybe.”

she places her hand on your shoulder, her very nice-looking hand with nude colored polish and visible veins running on the top of it. you almost shudder, the contact makes you stiffen up a bit.

“don’t overthink it.” momo suggests, “he’s just a guy. he’s like that, don’t worry, seriously. i’m not going to cry myself to sleep because some 5’7 guy made fun of my major.” 

you giggle at her joke and find yourself being pulled into someone seconds later – to your dismay.

��alright, that’s enough of bothering my girlfriend.” he teases, kissing your forehead. “let me drive you home babe, that okay?”

“yeah of course, let me get my bag.” you kiss him on the cheek as well. 

momo begins to walk away from the scene and you feel a twinge of disappointment. you kind of hoped to have more conversation with her, but there’s always more opportunity considering the fact that you’ll probably be over more.

part of you has to remind yourself that the reason you’ll be over is to hangout with your boyfriend – not to learn more about momo.

–

you’ve lived alone for a few semesters, the first two being the year you shared a dorm with yeri. you were sent on a scholarship, almost a full ride, so your parents decided to be generous since you pretty much lived out their expectations.

having your own place also meant having a whole living place to do whatever you want. you had a single bedroom apartment to yourself, no bathroom to share, no roommate to bicker with over stupid little things like dishes. sure, it got pretty lonely without your best friend, but she visited often anyway. now that you have your own place, the world is basically your oyster. you missed yeri a good amount of the time – at least she didn’t have to have that fear of walking in on you and thomas getting a little… intimate. 

thomas hovers over you, his grunts muffled into your neck as he desperately thrusts into you. it’s not the worst feeling – his dick inside – but it’s definitely worse than the foreplay, which says a lot.

now that you and thomas have more time and space to get hot and heavy, he never takes it for granted, and you’re never against it, wanting your boyfriend to feel good.

and when he cums – not really minding that you didn’t do the same – he kisses you on the lips sloppily, muttering a few curses against your lips while you send your hands down his back, falsely scratching at the muscles he’s worked for as if you’d felt the same sensation as him.

(you like him a lot, really, enough to the point where you’ll fake pleasure.)

“fuck, baby,” he sighs as he flops down next to you, catching his breath. “that was so,” he kisses the corner of your lips, “amazing.”

maybe for you.

“mhm,” you hum, he smiles at you, and it’s kind of cute, so is the ruffled hair. thomas can be cute sometimes.

the sound of buzzing fills the now quiet room. thomas looks over to his left, reaching for his phone, then tenses his jaw a bit. you quirk a brow, turning over to place your arm over him and before you can even ask – he sits up.

“baby.” he turns, looking down at you with an apologetic expression. “i’m sorry, i have this thing to go to.”

“now?” you prop yourself up on one arm, your palm holding your cheek as you question, “what thing?”

“business, you know.” and you for one, do not know. what business does he have at three – almost four – in the afternoon? he runs a hand through his hair before kissing you on the forehead, whispering a, “i’m sorry, i’ll text you later, okay baby?”

“um, okay.” you mumble, looking at him confusedly as he finds his boxers, slipping them on before checking his phone again.

“seriously, i’ll text you.”

“okay thomas, have fun.”

you lie there, your eyes half-closed, listening to the rustling of fabric as he retrieves his jeans and t-shirt. just before he leaves, you hear him mumble a "love you," and then the door shuts, leaving you alone, naked in your own disheveled sheets.

turning over, just enough to let the afternoon light seep through the blinds and into your eyes, you pull the blanket up and over you, engulfing your whole body. 

your phone makes a loud ding from the bedside table, prompting you to open your eyes a little so you can check whatever the notification is. you lazily scoot your head over to peek at the screen, reading the words on the screen–

your eyes widen at the “cafe pop up at the park!!! spring flavors!!!” reminder, instantly giving you a burst of energy despite the activity from before.

then it hits you; you haven’t done shit today, nothing at all. waking up with thomas was one thing, but not enough(clearly), and then that movie you can’t even remember the plot of since thomas was too busy eyeing you, feeling you up, rubbing your thigh and fuck, you really wanted to finish that movie. some stupid rom-com that you were invested in, thomas seemed to be interested in something else.

you force yourself up and the blanket falls down to your stomach, your tits out on display now and you can see a faint hickey on the left side of your chest in the mirror across from you. you comb your fingers through your hair, fixing it up before heading to your bathroom.

this is better than being a bum for the rest of the day anyway.

–

the ten minute walk to the infamous park – adorned with beautiful cherry blossoms, blooming tulips, and public spaces to gather and catch up – makes you forget about everything that had happened before.

there are various friend groups around, each holding a cup of coffee with the words “kim’s kaffeine,” belonging to the new cafe that opened months ago, the same cafe hosting a little pop-up to promote their new blend.

once you reach the cafe, there’s already a line – maybe seven or eight people – unfortunately. 

still, you decide that it could be worst, considering it’s a pop up and at the newest cafe. recently you had seen a promotion video of the place on instagram, so it’s not surprising that there’d be a wait that would take more than ten minutes. 

after scrolling through texts in he groupchat with your friendgroup, looking at their various reels sent and stupid debates on where to hangout next; you look up and finally it’s your time to order. you were here for one thing, that popular latte they’ve been advertising and of course that’s what you had ordered. 

it takes about five minutes for the barista to finish up your drink, and when she’s done, she calls out your name with enthusiasm and smiles at you once you walk over, quickly rushing a “thank you!” before tending to the next order. 

you swirl the coffee around and take a sip, relishing the taste and considering coming over more often. usually you’d be underwhelmed by foods or drinks that had gained so much attention, but this particular beverage really met your standards. 

without thinking, you turn around swiftly and manage to run into a woman. you hear her gasp as soon as you two clash and feel the iced coffee from your drink seep into your clothing.

you look down to see a damp, rosy region on your t-shirt and a few drops on your white shoes.

“oh my god im so sorry–” her voice is laced with panic, and then she looks up, looking horrified when she processes just who she’s run into. “y/n?”

mouth agape and eyes widening, you pause in place as you stare at the woman: momo.

she’s an inch taller, eyes angled downwards in the slightest to meet yours apologetically. she reaches for the pocket inside her blazer, pulling out a napkin before handing it to you. 

“momo?” her name rolls off your tongue almost like a question, but also as if you were happy to see her despite the circumstances.

(you are, in fact, happy to see her despite your t-shirt being stained with half your cherry blossom latte.)

“y/n, sorry, i was rushing and i didn’t see you.” her voice is bashful, eyes tearing away from yours as she takes off her blazer, which reveals a black tank top underneath. she hands you the blazer, insisting, “here, take it – for the trouble of course. i’ll get you another drink.”

shaking your head and waving your hand at her, you flash a smile and quickly respond, “no, no it’s fine. it was an accident, no need to–”

“no, please, let me.” momo butts in, “i know the owners, i mean, i was the one who designed the posters and menu after all. i also know the barista really well, she’ll give them for free.”

you can’t really argue with her after that, so you reluctantly nod. “right, okay.”

she puts her hand on your shoulder, looking relieved. your eyes meet her hand, the hand on your shoulder. your shoulder. her hand. on you. 

“i’m sorry again, here–” momo puts the sleeves of the blazer on either shoulder before making a little knot, which covers the stain solidly. “this should do it.”

she grins at you, looking proud of her work (she’s done the bare minimum, but somehow cutely) and you can’t help but grin back after seeing her like that. the glasses she has on make her seem a little dorky, which is honestly adorable to you, making your smile grow even wider – a toothy one. 

warmth spreads across your cheeks, and you even feel your ears grow a little warm too. “thanks momo.”

-

momo was right; not only did you get your drink, but it got upgraded from a small to large, with an extra shot of espresso, and it was all free.

she interacted with the barista freely, joking around and even getting teased. the barista had sent you a cheeky look – one which you ignored – when she realized that momo was ordering for you as well. 

“one large iced cherry blossom latte! one hot, large mocha!” the barista had shouted soon after. once you and momo had received the drinks, the barista smiled at you widely, eyes moving back and forth between the two of you with a little smirk. “you two enjoy the rest of the evening.”

“thank’s dahyun, see you soon.”

“yeah yeah, thanks for leeching off my business.” the barista jokes, rolling her eyes at momo. “and have a good one, momo’s friend.” 

caught off guard, you laugh, “thank you, you too!” before momo reaches for your tricep and lures you away from cafe. you turn around to see the barista – dahyun you assume was her name – waving, adding a little wink to the mix.

you and momo find yourself walking over to a bench, and once you sit down she immediately apologizes.

“i’m so sorry again, i’m so dumb.” she pinches the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. “so sorry.”

“don’t say that, trust me it happens to a lot of people.” you assure, giving her a smile. you take a sip of your latte, smiling even wider as you sit next to her. “thank you for the drink – and the size upgrade. your friend is very sweet.”

“it’s no problem, i mean even if it weren’t for free i’d pay for it. you’re thomas’s girlfriend after all.” 

you turn away from her, snickering before you look down at the drink in your hand. “is that all you see me as?”

“what?”

“your brother’s girlfriend?”

“no, not at all.” momo pauses, turning to face you instead of the little boy playing with his dog across the park. “do you see me as just his sister?”

“not right now, no.”

“not now?”

your faces meet each other now after you turn, smug smirks that mirror each other. momo laughs and all you can do is laugh too.  

“i mean, last time i just saw you as thomas’s really pretty sister. now all i see is momo, the person who spilled coffee all over me.”

she pushes your shoulder playfully, rolling her eyes to hide how flustered she is after hearing you call her “really pretty.”

“oh stop that.” momo sighs, “i’m sorry, again.”

“apologize again and i’ll spill coffee on you.” you warn teasingly, making momo laugh again. 

silence falls over for a short moment as the two of you people-watch. momo sips on her mocha, and you catch her in your peripheral, waiting for her to continue the conversation or say something else.

she’s interesting, you note, with the way you’ve already warmed up to her. she’s a stark contrast from her brother; talking to her is definitely less stressful. you can speak your mind and joke freely. 

momo doesn’t look at you when she suddenly asks, “are you doing anything? or did you only drop by to get coffee and go back?”

“oh, no not at all. i’m pretty much free, thomas had something to do so…” you force a smile, pursing your lips together a bit. “why do you ask?”

“i came here to study for a project actually. do you want to accompany me?” 

you grin at her, crossing one leg over the other before you respond, “of course,” because what else do you have to do? and besides, momo’s company would be much better than walking around the park alone.

“great.” momo says, then stands, grabbing your wrist and urging you up with her.

–

–

she leads you down the park, a little deeper where there’s less families and more students trying to study in an area that’s full of sunlight.

the two of you walk beside each other and halfway through the walk momo pulls out a small notepad, then fishes for a pen in her bag. you observe carefully, watching her take notes of her surroundings and sketch small designs of what looks to be some type of public architecture. momo sits you two down by a concrete bench, right in front of a singled out tree that’s surrounded by grass and the wooden trail through the park.

her tongue sticks out as she sketches, then her glasses slip down her nose and you’re quick to push them back up with your finger. momo looks at you in surprise, a small blush painted on her cheeks as she mutters a small “thank you.”

momo’s really cute, which is a little conflicting for some reason. 

you’ve been silent most of the time, not really saying anything because momo hasn’t either, and because you’re too busy watching the way her expression’s change as she thinks to herself, finding the purse of her lips and those scrunched brows oddly alluring – and that smile of yours hard to fight back.

“what are you working on by the way?” you ask, which makes her perk her head up in surprise.

“oh, it’s for a project. we’re proposing architectural designs and ideas that might be considered – like, they might actually build it.” momo explains, then scoots over so that your shoulder is touching hers, showing you the notepad. there’s a sketch of the tree and around it are sketches that you can’t really make out. shecontinues, “surrounding it are little sitting areas, maybe to protect the tree and prevent it from deteriorating, i don’t know.” she puts the pen to her bottom lip, thinking to herself again. “there’s not a lot of seating in this particular area because they don’t want to get rid of the natural aspect, but that means it’s not as versatile because people don’t want to stay in a spot thats–”

momo looks up at you, second guessing herself. 

you look away from the notepad and back at her, tilting your head in confusion. “why’d you stop?”

“sorry i just– you know, i feel like im rambling.” momo chuckles awkwardly, looking down at her notepad once again. “it’s just something for my class–”

“no, i like it, keep talking.” cutting her off, you reach out for her hand to stop her from closing the notepad. “it’s interesting, and i like your rambling so…”

your hand is on her’s, spiking both your heartbeats. momo gulps lightly, giggling her nervousness off again.

“you’re so strange y/n.” momo teases, smiling down at the pen in her hand. “anyway,”

she continues on about her ideas for eco friendly study areas, small structures and designs that are fit for the elderly and others that are fit for the younger generation. she’s really lively about it too, using her hands ask she talks, her expressions growing more animated. 

you find yourself propped up on both hands while you sit, body leaned back as you listen and watch her with stars in your eyes.

“momo.”

she hums, looking up from her notepad. “yeah?”

“are you single?”

she freezes, her cheeks starting to flush as she looks away. she starts to laugh under her breath, shaking her head before responding, “what kind of question is that?”

“just curious.” you admit. “you’re pretty and youre passionate about this and it’s really adorable. i kinda just started thinking if you were single or not because if you are, that would be unbelievable.”

your compliments are like bullets, and you just keep shooting and shooting until her knees and body grow weak. momo doesn’t know how many more shots she can take.

“well, i guess you might not believe me then.” she mirrors the way you sit, then turns her head to face you. “i’m very much single.”

“you’re kidding.”

“no.” she looks away again. “you sound so patronizing right now.”

“hey , hey, i’m not making fun of you or anything – i just think it’s weird that no one has made a move.” you say, and momo looks at you in a way that asks for more. you sit up again, slouching a bit as you rest your elbow on your knee. “you and thomas are so different you know, but you both have one common trait from what i’ve observed so far: you both are oblivious.”

“what?”

you shrug, then state simply, “just an observation.” momo opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. instead, she looks at you again, watching you smirk like you haven’t sent her brain into a swirl. “anyway, tell me more about your architecture stuff.” you tilt your head and laugh lightly. “i think your ramble is much more interesting than anything business related i’ve heard from thomas.”

“business majors…”

“business men.” you correct.

both of you laugh harmoniously, playfully shoving each other in the process and it seriously feels just right.

-

after getting her number, you discover that she even rambles through text. she shares her thoughts and feelings in a stream of consciousness that makes you laugh. her messages are filled with blurbs about things that have made her happy or pissed her off, the level of openness and expressiveness contrasts sharply with thomas. 

her candid messages and pictures, plus the willingness to share her emotions freely make you realize how much you appreciate that quality. you can't help but wish that thomas were a little more like her, it’d make him just as cute. 

a few days later, while you’re with thomas, momo gets the courage to ask you out to the park again, sending a little text that reads “coffee? won’t spill it on you this time…” and you can’t help but smile at your screen. 

thomas notices the change in expression, raising a brow in suspicion.

“and who’s got my girlfriend smiling at her phone like that?”

you shake your head and grin to yourself. “your sister, actually.”

“momo?”

“yeah, she’s nice.” 

he looks at you from the bed, watching you sit back in the office chair in your room as you reply to the text. your fingers tap against the screen, and your smile grows wider with each second. he can’t help but notice the way your eyes light up, the joy on your face undeniable as you exchange messages. his brows crease as he sits up, looking at you like you owe him an explanation.

you look back at him with a confused stare. “something wrong?”

“when did you hang out with her?” 

“oh,” your face lights up again. “i went to the park after you left for your business thing, and then she bumped into me and spilled coffee all over my shirt.” your tone reflects the scene like it’s some sort of thrilling story, even though it isn’t – at least to thomas. to you, it was a memory you had thought about a little too much. “it was really funny, she’s adorable, your sister is, haha. anyway– she got me some coffee and we just strolled around and hey, architecture is really interesting! i don’t know why you bashed her that one time at dinner.”

thomas lays back down, rolling his eyes and picks his phone back up again. you tilt your head as he responds, “she’s a loser, you know.” the features on his face contort into something not so short of resentment.

“you’re just saying that because she’s your sister.”

he sends you a weird look, nearing a glare, then adds, “not just that.”

you can’t help but giggle at him, finding the chance to poke at him and tease him. your hand meets your opened mouth as you gasp dramatically. 

“you’re jealous.”

“what? no.”

“oh you’re so jealous– that’s adorable!”

thomas loosens up as you laugh at him, immediately making your way over to the bed and pinching his cheek as he pretends to be annoyed by it. you kiss his knuckles, your lips soft on his rough skin before placing his hand on your cheek. 

“your sister won’t take me away from you, and besides, this is a good thing! i’m getting along with family.”

he sighs before bringing his arms out and pulling you closer. “yeah, whatever.”

placing your head on his chest, you let him gently rake his hand in your hair, waiting for him to fall asleep.

the signature snoring – loud and honestly, quite bothersome – fills the room, prompting you to fish for your phone blindly. it’s on the table, still there as you left it, meaning momo had been on read. the thought of her being left with the text “read” at the bottom of her own message makes you pout, so you end up with an apology, a response, and a stupid emoji in order to make up for it.

on the other end of the line, momo watches her phone light up, redirecting her attention from the book in her lap.

the contact reads “y/n,” and the mere sight makes momo smile. she picks up the phone, nearly on the edge of her bedside table, and reads your little text. a small chuckle leaves her lips as she fixes the glasses to sit on the bridge of her nose, the frames just barely reflecting your text:

[11:30pm]

y/n: 

sorry for the late response :( 

your brother is jealous that you’re using my time for him

kidding lol

anyway, coffee sounds great, i look forward to that.

tomorrow in the afternoon? let’s get lunch while we’re at it

sleep tight, momo

😛

momo grins, immediately typing up a response.

[11:33pm]

momo: 

let’s meet at kim’s and find our way out from there

i’ll see you there, 3pm sharp

you sleep well, y/n

your eyes had been closed, kind of, just not enough for you to not notice the light from your phone after momo sends her message. you’re quick to grab your phone, your tired features unlocking it and displaying her text in the small default font of your phone. you grin again, placing the phone back on the bedside. 

the thought of a little “date,” with momo doesn’t sound too bad, it urges you to fall asleep faster. little do you know, your limbs start to loosen up and your body slowly strays away from thomas’s, turning ever so slightly to the point where it faces the ceiling. 

–

sitting down at a small two seat table in front of the cafe, the sun shines down on you in fragments. the sky is adorned with clouds, they’re scattered all over, but not to the point where you might wonder whether you’ll need an umbrella or not.

it’s not even three yet, but still, you worry.

you worry a little more than you should. worry that momo may not show up, won’t give you that smile that shows her teeth, her eyes won’t slim as she does so – and who knows, you worry that it might even rain despite the forecast assuring semi-clouded skies, a faint breeze, and warm, wonderful weather.

without thinking, you fidget with your fingers before fixing the collar of your t-shirt for absolutely no reason.

“y/n! hey!” a voice calls out, heard from your left and just the sound of momo’s voice reaching your ears makes your turn in her direction.

you’re greeted by a smile as she walks over, and then brown eyes drill into you through black frames and it brings a little warmth to your cheeks. you figure it might be the warm weather, the sun shining – but momo seems to radiate much more than what had been forecasted.

“momo, hey.”

she’s wearing a gray tank top that showcases a small display of her tummy – you note that, making sure to revisit the landmark once you get the chance since it’s oddly enticing – and a light flannel over it. hair flows down to her shoulders, she scratches the dip of her collarbone and it moves a strand. for a moment, you wonder what it’d be like to be the one moving her hair out of the way, how soft the skin of hers feels like if you were to just graze your fingers across.

“hi y/n.” she fixes her bangs. “did you order anything yet? you better not have, you know my perks.”

“relax, relax.” you start to stand, chuckling. “i wouldn’t do that to you.”

“that’s what i thought.”

she tilts her head and signals for you to follow her to the line. thankfully, it’s not busy, lending the chance for you two to be those people who stand and observe the menu carefully with expressions that make you both look more considerate about your choices than you really are.

(at the end of these few seconds, you’ll both be ordering something you’ve already had, nothing out of your comfort zones.)

her barista friend isn’t working that day, but momo manages to playfully banter and immediately, the barista present laughs along with her, waving her hand and you hear a faint sentence that guarantees free drinks.

this time you order a small, iced caramel latte, while momo orders an iced white mocha instead. 

momo waits with you, standing a little close. you watch the barista intently, zoning out a bit as she steams milk and swirls the metal jug around. the woman next to you finds herself staring at you while you’re distracted, eyes tracing you, cherishing the moment to just look at you.

“i like your face.”

you’re quick to snap your head in her direction, immediately responding with an unbelievably flustered sounding “what?”

momo freezes, waving her hands in the air and trying to fight back the flames of embarrassment that threaten to have her cheeks burning. “no! no, no. that came out wrong, sorry, thinking out loud. i just– you have pretty features and… yeah. god that sounded so weird, don’t take it the wrong way.”

“i won’t, i won’t.” you chuckle, raising a brow mischievously which causes momo to gulp. “but i will be using this against you. it would be funny if both siblings were in love with me, wouldn’t it? his pretty sister drooling because of me, how adorable.”

momo rolls her eyes, shoving you with her own shoulder playfully. “oh shut up. i’m not in love with you.”

“right~ it’s okay momo,” placing a hand over your heart, then the other on her shoulder before you lower your voice and push your bottom lip out teasingly. “don’t fight it, stare at me all day if you’d like, gorgeous.”

“gosh, you’re a handful.” momo groans. “i don’t know how my brohter handles you.”

“he–” you cut yourself off, recollecting every moment shared with thomas. 

you struggle to remember when you’ve flirted so… easily. really, you aren’t much of a flirt, but with momo in front of you, looking so good, it’s just relaxing and easy to talk to her; your stupid remarks flow out of your mouth without thinking, but none of what you say isn’t true. and then you start to wonder whether this is morally wrong, flirting with your boyfriend’s stepsister, but really, it’s playful—even if you can’t help but be a little attracted to her. 

honestly, you don’t know how thomas handles you either because you’ve never been this teasing, never been so relentless and filled with stupid remarks. the worst you’ve done is tease him for being jealous and maybe call him hot once or twice. 

– manages.” you continue, looking away from her. “um, enough about him. let’s… let’s get lunch? i would kill for some cold noodles.”

momo sips on her drink, then chuckles. “whatever you want.”

and then you two end up having more than lunch together, finding yourselves in momo’s car while she drives both of you downtown. the two of you explore shops because hell, why not. everything you do with her that afternoon – and into the evening – is spontaneous. 

the minutes pass, and with each store you visit, you find yourself a little closer to momo. your shoulders brush, and your hands accidentally graze each other's skin with every few steps. every touch is like ice water trickling down your back, sending shivers. you start to step in a way that makes your knuckles brush against hers more frequently. there's a pang in your heart, and the thought of maybe linking pinkies, arms, or really anything—anything physical with momo—crosses your mind. the proximity feels electric, and the idea of a small, intentional touch becomes increasingly enticing.

momo is dragged by the wrist into some sunglasses store, following you in while giggles escape from you.

a variety of sunglasses are given to her so she can try them on for you, and each time you look at her with admiration, some sort of pink dusting your cheeks, momo can’t help but laugh and smile like a little kid.

there’s this wall, a wall of tension that’s thinner than thread and both of you are waiting for it to break down – momo’s the one to obliterate it.

she grabs a pair of sunglasses with square-ish frames and tinted, green lenses. you’re standing in the mirror, fixing some strands of hair that fall loose when you feel someone creep up behind you.

momo’s hands reach over your shoulders and one side of her face peeks out from behind you in the mirror. she places the sunglasses she’s brought on your face, fixing how it sits on your nose bridge before placing her hands on your shoulder. momo’s head is still close – even closer when she uses her right hand to tilt your head to the left, facing her completely.

her features become more apparent: the subtle curve shaping her nose, big brown eyes focused on you like a camera about to capture a moment, smooth cheeks, and parted lips revealing her oddly perfect teeth. her rosy lips hold you captive until she gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. your eyes shoot back up into hers—those honey-like eyes that leave you speechless and rooted to the spot. 

“these suit you well.” momo says softly. you wonder if your heart is beating louder than her voice.

you’re still stuck in place, faces four or five inches apart when you struggle to mutter out, “oh, thanks.” 

momo smirks like she knows what she’s done to you, moving away and taking her hand off your shoulder, to your dismay.

"you should buy them. here, hold on." she presses the edge of her palm against your face, lifting the sunglasses to hold your hair in place. the rush of heat in your cheeks intensifies, and just when you think you couldn’t feel more flustered, she gently pulls out a few strands of hair to frame your face better. “there we go, the green compliments your eyes.”

it feels like you’ve been punched in the stomach.

momo pulls away, smiling at you. all you can do is gulp.

“maybe i will.”

her eyes scan you up and down before momo fixes her flannel, then she leaves you in front of the mirror as if she hasn’t just rocked your world.

–

after your first (intentional) hangout with momo, the words “coffee?” and “are you free?” are a common text between the two of you.

from short coffee runs to various cafes after classes to walking in the park at night on a weekend, the two of you become attached quickly. 

eating with momo is your favorite thing to do, probably, and it’s really not the food that you like; the way momo stuffs down food like it’s going to grow legs and leave her only adds to your interest in her.

the thing is, momo listens. she’s aware and attentive, and as much as you don’t want to admit it, she’s not a man-baby like thomas. spending more time with her makes you smile, makes your cheeks burn, makes you feel heard and seen. you start to point out thomas’s flaws everytime you’re alone with him the more you spend time with his sister, and it throws you in for a loop.

hanging out with momo is different than hanging out with anyone, really. you’ve noticed that even when she rambles, she’s attentive to you and your reactions, always waiting for a response and reading your features with every word uttered. 

even worse, or maybe definitely  better; the mention of momo is becoming more frequent whenever you’re with your other friends. they’ve started to notice just how special she is to you. they see the way your smile and laugh come more easily when she’s around, and especially how a natural blush appears on your cheeks whenever her name comes up.

being around momo is wonderful, amazing really – like a fresh breeze that picks you up as if you were a feather.

it’s great, perfect – right until the revelation hits, the one that picks you up and throws you to the ground like some wwe wrestler. 

it can’t be, this can’t be.

you’re at thomas’s house, not with him though, instead you’re with momo.

your visits at your boyfriends house become more frequent; you’d spend three or four hours on a free day there and at least an hour would be with momo. sometimes you’d spend all those hours with her.

she sits next to you on the couch in the living room on her phone as you scroll through movies to watch. 

here’s another thing you like about momo; she’s the type of person who’ll actually watch a movie, and even better, she’s into the same media you’re into. it’s a completely new experience. she’s someone who cares.

she even puts down her phone when you start the movie, even if it’s one she’s watched before. tonight you’re watching lost in translation for the first time, momo tells you that it’s good. you trust her judgement.

with each minute that passes, the urge to scoot closer grows heavier. from your peripheral, momo doesn’t budge. she’s lounged lazily against hte couch, that impeccable profile of the side of her face trying to steal your attention away from the tv in front of you. her hand rests tantalizingly on her thigh, so close yet so far from simply making contact with you. 

and you figure you might go crazy from just sitting there and watching the movie, oddly enough, right until she turns to you, noticing how stiff you are.

“hey, you wanna sit closer?” she asks, you nod like an idiot. 

scooting over, your arms press together. she looks at you, scanning your features and you scan right back, eyes stalling at her lips – plump and soft up close – before she turns back to watch that stupid movie. 

you wonder to yourself, the ache in your heart is like a slap to the face, is this how thomas feels? is that why he’s so eager to be so touchy with you? because everything he does to you, you want to do it too, oddly enough; you really want your hands on her, to be close in any way possible, and honestly she looks really good. good isn’t even enough to describe what you see right now – what movie were you even watching before?

“something on your mind?” she’s looking at you again now, head tilted down as she looks at you through her lashes and you feel yourself shift your hips involuntarily.

“oh, just zoned out.” you assure, pursing your lips together into a forced smile.

she tilts her head and smirks so that her teeth show, earning a quick breath from your lips.

“is the movie getting boring for you? i really liked it to be honest.” 

you shake your head. “no, no, i just– um, my legs–” your legs are tapping up and down against the carpet under your feet. “does the couch have a leg rest? um, there’s just, yeah i just need–”

“it’s broken right now.” momo says, frowning. “i have an idea though.”

“and what is that?”

her grin widens, more teeth showing and you feel that rush of heat in your cheeks again – nothing foreign when near momo. 

she abruptly grabs just below your thigh right under where your knee bends, moving your leg up and over to rest on her lap. she taps your other leg – right on your thigh and you swear there’s a small noise that gets stuck in your throat – which prompts you to rest it on her lap as well. 

“sit back and relax, i can be innovative.” she jokes.

“whatever miss architect,” you laugh, shaking your head. “you gonna make a leg rest out of your lap for your next assignment?”

“oh, no. this one’s exclusive only to you, lucky girl.” she smirks at you knowingly, then rests her hand on your thigh. turning back to the tv, you’re left speechless, gulping, and tense in your spot. 

your teeth trap your bottom lip; you’re head over heels for her, it strikes you like a blow to the stomach.

the flutter in your abdomen, the burn of your cheeks, and all your admiration – it all makes sense now, it’s clear as day the more flustered you get from momo rubbing circles into your skin.

as you two continue to watch the movie, you try not to shift too much in your seat from the weird, hot sensation you feel in the moment. it’s difficult, all too difficult to ignore the concerning rate of your heartbeat or the little pulse in between your legs when momo sinks her hand higher, her skin smooth against your own as she moves it mindlessly, tantalizingly. 

you’ve found your answer, the answer as to why thomas doesn’t arouse you or leave you breathless like this. you’re not sure whether it’s a good thing or not.

your mind runs in circles, you feel your head spin, and it stops whirling once it reaches the idea of momo kissing you, hands falling to your skin and leaving you breathless. she’s still in front of you when you daydream of this, and you realize once she looks you dead in the eye, raising her brows.

–

fucked, that’s what you are. 

getting fucked? yeah, about to as well, probably.

thomas has his hands around your waist, messily fumbling with the edge of his shirt as he roughly slides his tongue into your mouth.

he’s not a good kisser, not really. his short, sweet ones are nice, the small, rare pecks to your lips are not bad. honestly, you like the quicker ones the most. but right now you can’t really breathe, he’s practically devouring your mouth, not in a good way. you can’t reciprocate the kiss with how bombarded your tongue is, the texture of it all throwing you off so much that you have to place a hand on his chest and push him away for a bit.

he raises a brow, “what?” sounding almost offended, a little annoyed too.

“just,” a sharp breathe leaves your lips, “needed to catch my breath. actually– i just, i don’t know if i can do this right now.”

thomas just stares at you for a moment, then scoffs. you watch him tense his jaw, turning away from you and disappointingly and muttering a small “okay.”

“babe, i’m sorry.”

“it’s fine.” he lies, you can hear the irritation in his voice. 

for some reason, you can’t help but feel off when he touches you or shows affection, anything intimate. you can hold his hand and throw on a smile, kiss him quickly on the cheek or anywhere else – only if it’s brief and swift – and go out with him. the thing is, he doesn’t care for that these days and it’s getting more blatant with each passing day. the only time he seems interesting and pays the slightest bit of attention is when it’s heated.

you haven’t felt anywhere near horny for at least a month with him – it’s been dying down since that first encounter with momo.

–

thomas noticed the change in your relationship with his step-sister, finding it off, but not really paying attention to the detail of it until recently. he noticed that the time you’d usually spend with him would be shared with his step-sister – and your lowered (almost nonexistent) libido was the biggest deal for him.

he finds himself pissed, confused, and sexually frustrated. not the best state for a man, not at all. of course, he doesn’t draw it down to square one – him – and instead tries to find reasons for why you’re being so difficult. everything leads to momo, it’s all started since then – everything. 

a few days later, he sits beside you on his couch in the basement. his arm is around your shoulder as you two watch the movie – a crime show he likes.

his fingers graze your shoulder, revealed by the tank top you wear. 

“baby,” 

your turn your head to answer, “hm?”

“you and momo been getting close, huh?”

giggling softly at the mere mention of your name, you nod. “yeah, she’s lovely.”

“sure.”

you punch him playfully on the chest, earning the tilt of his head. he almost looks offended.

“she is! don’t be so mean to your sister.” you emphasize their relation, because siblings are supposed to be relatively nice to one another (is what you assume, because you have none yourself). “she’s so sweet and funny.”

“she’s a leech, you know. not good to hangout with people like that.”

your body faces him more after the comment, you frown. “what?”

thomas looks back at the screen, watching the detective in the show connect different points from the cases he’s been going through. “a leech. her mom married my dad because he’s rich, and now she gets to live comfortably with that stupid, childish career plan of hers. all she does is take.”

“thomas, what the fuck?”

he rolls his eyes and looks at you again, raising his brows and shoving his face closer to you. “l-e-e-c-h. leech. just wanted you to know who you’ve been spending your time with because ever since you’ve met her you’ve been getting so distant and shit. she’s really stubborn you know, and really, i’m trying to protect you babe. not a good influence.”

scoffing, you remove his arm from your shoulder, scooting away from him and looking at the smug smirk on his face in disbelief. 

sure, you didn’t know the full details of how they became siblings, but still, that’s fucked to say about someone who’s been so sweet to you. 

“what the fuck is wrong with you.”

“it’s the truth.”

“you’re fucked thomas, you are fucked.” you reprimand, “why would you say that?”

“oh sorry, my bad!” he says sarcastically, raising his hands up in the air. “i’m sorry she’s been taking all the fucking time away from you, that bitch.”

you push yourself away from him, standing up. your expression shifts to one of frustration, brows crunched with a trembling bottom lip. he looks at you, raised brows and a shit-eating look that you want to slap off.

“okay, if you’re jealous, i understand that, really. but calling her a bitch? a leech? what the fuck is wrong with you? i know you’re siblings but that’s far.” 

he scoffs, then chuckles unbelievably. “what, you defending the person who’s stopping you from fucking me?”

you want to puke. struggling to contain yourself, your hands shake as they ball into fists, and tears prickle in your eyes.

“fuck you, thomas. fuck you,” is all you can say. he's unbelievable, absolutely terrible and it’s clear as day now, if comparing him to momo didn’t make it apparent already. he's so fixated on this one thing, his lust-driven desires – not even bothering to deny how fucked up and in the wrong he is. 

“it’s true.”

“you know what’s true?” a tear rolls down your cheek before you poke the inside of your mouth with your tongue angrily. “now that i think about it, maybe i spent so much time with momo because she liked being around me, actually took interest into my wants and needs and interests unlike you. you’re really this mad? because i don’t want to makeout with you every two seconds? because i’m – if not before – repulsed by your dick inside of me? for fucks sake thomas, you’ve made me cum like three times total. fuck you.”

he stands up, oh now he’s offended, all from the mere mention of anything sex-related. he walks up to you, looking down at you with a disgusted, angry look.

“you’re so lucky y/n. you know there’s a line of girls waiting for me and it’s a fucking privilege to be with me like this. i’ve been so goddamn patient with you and your fucking priorities. you want to insult me because you don’t feel good? yeah, sounds familiar don’t you think? so all that shit coming out from your mouth–”

your hand comes into contact with his cheek, making a loud clap in the process. 

thomas’s eyes widen, his face turned and angled at the ground. 

his cheek burns, and he presses his hand to his skin. he looks at you in disbelief, watching tears fall and fall until you’re staring at him with trembling features and visible regret – not from slapping him, but for putting up with him.

“we’re fucking done, fuck you thomas, fuck you.”

“you bitch –”

you scoff, turning around and running up the stairs. 

the bag you had brought is still in the living room, but the last place you want to be is in the same house as thomas – his house – so you’re rushing towards the door, opening it and slamming it close once you’re out.

tears continue to fall, you wipe away at them desperately and sniffle a bit. you can’t be crying over someone like him, you can’t. 

momo pulls up to the house in her car, only to spot you storming out with a disappointedg, bothered expression.

she stops just in front of the driveway, you spot her too. your nerves seem to settle, and surprisingly; you’re relieved just to see her from the window rolling down. immediately, your tears stop flowing down your face, your nose is less runny, and you quickly compose yourself.

“y/n?” 

“can i get in?” you stop her before she can really question you, ask why your nose is pink, why your eyes are a little red and watery, or really the evidence of a post-crying y/n. “can we just–” you speed over to her car. “get out of here.”

momo shifts the car to park immediately. “yeah, of course, where to–”

“just drive.” you say, opening the door and settling in the passengers seat. “please.”

“okay.”

momo does what you’ve practically ordered her to because one: you’re a mess. and two: she would do a lot of things for you. as soon as you’re situated in the car with your seatbelt buckled, momo shifts the stick to “drive” and presses down on the gas. 

she turns over to you swiftly, only to see you looking forward with a dazed expression. 

momo drives, well, somewhere. she takes the bigger road and finds herself turning into random neighborhoods, glancing over when she hits stop signs to see you looking out the car window. when she’s had enough, the red light at the busy intersection giving her a little time to pry, she places her hand on yours. 

your head shoots in her direction, your eyes locking onto hers. she takes in your post-crying face, noting the remnants of tears but also the effort you made to appear relatively normal again. it's a stark contrast to the vulnerable state she found you in outside her house.

before momo can ask you anything – you beat her to the punch.

“we broke up.” 

momo lets out a breath. “oh gosh, y/n, i’m so sorry–”

“don’t be, your brother is a terrible person. i’m just, sorry for myself. i can’t believe i put up with him.” the light turns green, momo steps on the gas again. “can you take me home?”

“yeah, yes. of course y/n.” she looks at you again, giving you a comforting smile. you manage to smile back. 

she shuffles her hand so that your fingers intertwine, squeezing subtly to offer comfort. she drives one-handed for the rest of the way to your apartment, her thumb rubbing against your skin absentmindedly, providing a soothing, repetitive motion that grounds you both in the moment and really, you feel much better already.

she reaches your complex, then parks in the designated lot. you lead her over to the elevator, then to your place. you left your bag at thomas’s house, but luckily, your keys were still on you.

you two are inside in no time and momo simply watches you flop onto your couch, leaning your head back into the cushions defeatedly. 

she sits down next to you without asking, and without any warning, you place your legs on her lap like you’ve done before. momo watches as you close your eyes, relaxing into the material beneath you. she gently rubs her thumbs along your thigh, comforting you with the small, soothing motion.

“he got mad at me because i didn’t want to fuck him anymore.” you speak up, opening your eyes and watching momo nod. “he’s an asshole.”

“i know.” momo agrees, “he’s terrible.”

“why didn’t you warn me?”

“y/n,” she begins, then sighs. “i’m not a homewrecker. plus, he’d whine to his dad like a man-baby.”

“fuck him.” you groan. “i can’t believe i fucked him. he’s pathetic.”

the tone of your voice slowly simmers down to something more casual, shifting from the brink of tears to general insults. momo continues to soothe you with her touch, her thumbs still rubbing gentle circles on your thigh, providing a steady source of comfort.

“do you feel better?” she asks you again.

looking at her, you’ve honestly just pushed aside the events from before. she’s here with you and that’s all that matters.

“yeah, thank you. you’re so sweet to me.”

she chuckles softly, then her expression shifts to a pout as her phone buzzes. glancing at the screen, she bites her lip nervously. curious, you scoot closer and catch a glimpse of the notifications: one from "mom" and another from "thomas."

“they’re going to be on my ass, especially my brother.” momo frowns. “i should go before thomas bothers you more, i’ll try to diffuse the flame.”

her hands leave your thigh, and disappointment washes over you, making you pout as well. she gently moves your legs off her lap and stands up, her eyes scanning the texts with a stressed look on her face.

she makes her way over to your door, it renders your heart weak. the one person you need with you is momo, especially now, you need her.

“momo, stop, wait.”

you pause her, and she turns around, her eyes meeting yours. for a moment, you both just stare at each other, eyes locked in an unspoken exchange.

she’s a step away from you, you can tell she doesn’t want to leave you alone here. she grips the phone in her hand tightly.

your eyes steal a glance at her lips before your own our on hers. 

she reciprocates immediately, her hand finding the base of your neck as you two exchange a kiss. when you pull away, she looks at you like you're insane—right before pulling you back in by the waist and closing the distance again.

the timing is awful, but so right at the same time. 

her lips are just as soft as they look, just as you had imagined. she brings her hand to your cheek as you desperately grip onto whatever she's wearing. she smells like peaches, and her lips taste like them too. you kiss her again and again, pushing her against the door. then, with a sudden move, she grabs you by the waist, turning you both around and pinning you against the door instead.

you can’t help but groan, feeling your breaths grow heavier as soon as she swipes against your bottom lip, curving her fingers to tilt your jaw up. you two exchange saliva for a minute, tongues against each other, exploring and savoring each other before momo pulls away, halting everything.

“y/n, wait.” she says breathlessly, “i– i have to, you know, go.”

“i need you here with me momo. i need you.” you move over to peck her again, holding the base of her neck.

to fight the urge to go on, she looks away from you. “you’ve just broken up with thomas, i– i can’t. and i have to resolve things, i’m sorry.”

“momo, are you serious?”

you want to cry. she can’t leave you, she’s the only thing you need right now, the one person who can ground you after everything that’s been going out. she’s the reason you went out more, started exploring new places and everything about her screams that she’s the one you should’ve been kissing and loving this whole time.

“i wish i weren’t.” she looks into your eyes. “i’m so sorry.”

–

momo doesn’t text you the rest of the night and you have no clue what to do with yourself.

you lay on the couch, unable to pick yourself up and go to your room. the ceiling is the only thing you can see and momo’s the only one on your mind. you lift up your hand for the first time in a while, bringing two fingers to gently settle on your lips, lips that momo kissed. 

god, everything about the kiss was fulfilling, it was perfect. 

the thought of staying in your apartment alone all night kills you, especially with so much pent up inside of you. you reach out for your phone, unlking it and scrolling through your contacts to find someone who can listen: yeri.

–

momo grits her teeth as soon as she steps into the house. 

her mom watches her angrily storm through the hall. “thomas is in his room.”

she rushes up the stairs, practically knocking the door open with how aggressive and angry she is in the moment. she watches thomas lay there, on his phone like nothing had happened. 

he spots momo and looks up like he’s just been pestered. “yes?”

“what the fuck happened between you and y/n?”

he yawns, then puts his phone down. 

momo bites down on her teeth, clenching her jaw. just the sight of him there makes her thoughts scream at her to punch him in the face, but momo doesn’t, because that’s something an immature, impatient man-baby would do; that’s what thomas would do.

“she dumped me because i insulted you, guess she can’t handle truth.” he laughs like it’s a joke. “fucking bitch slapped my–”

“don’t call her a bitch.”

“oh? what’s this? defending the bitch now?”

momo moves her lower jaw in an attempt to suppress her anger. “fuck you, seriously. you’re an ass you know?”

“you’re an even bigger one for being the reason y/n wouldn’t fuck.”

she can’t believe what she’s hearing. you were right, you were so right. all he is is a lust-driven prick who’s the reason some of your hangouts with her have been you complaining about him. he’s never really loved you, not at all. 

momo wonders how someone who’s dad had been able to treat her mother right, could love her wonderfully and provide so well, could have a son like this. the sight of thomas after hearing what he’s said – especially about you, calling you a bitch and all – makes her sick to the stomach. it’s difficult to hold back from punching him in the face and kicking him where he’d suffer the most.

he perks his head up. “oh, forgot to mention: picking up your brothers ex-girlfriend after they’ve broken up isn’t the best look.”

“i don’t care what you tell your fucking dad, he actually has morals and a heart. you’re a snob.”

“you’re a desperate little bitch, i knew something was going on between you as soon as she had hung out with you the first time. y/n is a fucking homosexual because of you.”

“or maybe it’s because your tiny ass dick can’t satisfy her, or the fact that you’ve never treated her well, you selfish fucking– ugh.” momo stops right there because it’s no use wasting all her anger on thomas, he’s just a guy after all.

“well, you’re a fucking whore. if anything happens with you two after, i wouldn’t be surprised. all you are is desperate and jealous, getting with her would prove that.”

she watches him poke his tongue at his cheek, then leaves the room, annoyed and frustrated.

momo considers texting or leaving a call, but decides to drop it, afraid of saying something she shouldn’t say or making things worse due to her emotional state. 

–

the two of you see each other two days later because momo’s conflicted, wanting you to take time for yourself, and you are simply someone who’s longing for a person you’ve recently realized you’re in love with.

the whole time away from her is grueling even though she had texted you.

when both of you meet for lunch you fight the urge to hug and kiss her. 

she looks wonderful walking into the small sit-down restaurant, a tank top – your weakness when it’s on momo – and sweats on. she’s stunning, especially those lips of hers that you can’t stop staring at because you’ve had the privilege and lucky chance to kiss them.

momo on the other hand fights back the urge to kiss you too, because after her anger had fizzled out, that had been the only thing on her mind prior to seeing you at the table for two.

“hi.” momo greets.

you force a smile. “hey.”

she sits down in front of you, then looks at the menu in front of her. “is everything okay?”

“it’s alright.” you say, only alright because one: your ex boyfriend is a fucking bitch and two: momo hasn’t been there when you needed

sure, it was relatively very strange to move on so quickly from your whole thomas situation, but it’s justified because hell, you’ve basically been dating momo simultaneously without realizing you had been in love. 

and now that you’re aware, so aware that it keeps you up at night, you’re hoping for something to happen.

“have you talked to thomas?”

“i’d rather not. he’s not worth my time.”

she looks up at you again through her eyelashes. “you’re right.”

“momo,” she flips through the menu and you focus on each movement. “i really want to kiss you again.”

“y/n, you just broke up with your boyfriend.”

“if this is because of me dumping thomas then throw it out the window.” you respond sternly, almost mad and it catches momo off guard. she looks at you with surprise, stopping her little act of trying to act uninterested. 

she can’t give in; it would only prove thomas right. yet, what you feel is genuine, and what momo feels isn’t born of desperation. the time she’s spent with you has nurtured her admiration and her growing affection for you. momo cares deeply about you, and her feelings are sincere, not driven by a sense of urgency or lust like your ex-boyfriend. she can’t recall the last time she enjoyed someone’s company so much or wanted to be with them constantly. from the start, she sensed something different about you—how you made her ponder at night, made her blush, made her fall head over heels for you.

you continue, “because kissing you was the best thing to happen to be, even after everything that happened – and that says a lot. momo, i’ve liked you for probably so long and i’m a dumbass for realizing it just now, so please, please just consider it.”

“y/n, i’ve thought about it ever since.” her response earns the raise of your brows. “i’ve dreamed about doing that since our first encounter, and i wish it were in a better situation, so let’s just… take it slow from here.”

taking it slow is a much better option than anything that involves cutting her off, so you smile and nod.

–

the rest of the day is spent with her, both your uncovered feelings allowing you to fully bask in each others presence without anymore concealing. it feels right, talking to momo about everything you’ve felt recently and simply being around her.

and then you both find yourselves glancing too long at each others lips but not commenting on it, despite the easy going time spent together, there’s a thick tension hanging in the air.

the tension is even worse when momo drives you back to your apartment complex, and even heavier when you two step into the elevator.

momo is not a woman of her word. she wanted to be the bigger person by “taking things slow,” but she can’t fight back the urge when you’re alone together, your features drawing her in.

“oh fuck this,” momo groans, pulling you by the wrist and turning you to face her. you look more beautiful than anyone she’s ever seen, your lips are calling her name.

before you know it, momo’s planting her lips on yours and you melt right into it.

“what–” you gasp when you pull away, “happened to taking it slow.”

“fuck that, i can’t if it’s you.”

that’s how you find yourselves stumbling out of the elevator into the empty halls, eager to savor each other’s presence after the arduous forty-eight hours apart. you manage to make your way to your apartment door, fumbling with the key as momo kisses the edge of your jaw, both of you entering messily, unable to keep your hands off each other like horny teenagers in the janitor's closet in highschool.

every kiss that followed felt like cool raindrops during the burning summer day. it’s electrifying, all of it, really.

you’ve never felt this satisfied. nothing really processes other than the pounding pulse from in between your legs, and momo’s lips bruising your own as she pins you against the door after it’s closed. crazy with want, you let her do anyhitng, let her kiss you anywhere. 

she’s in control when your tongues find their way back to each other, fingers bruning as they tighten against your skin, squeezing on it just above your hip bone. she kisses like you’re going to leave her grasp any minute, holding you close and pressing herself against you.

she starts to trail down to your neck in a way that thomas has never done before. she’s not attacking your skin like a desprate, thirsty dog, but like someone who knows what they’re doing. she definitely knows what she’s doing, the way she earns all these gasps and whines proves it.

“wait,” you gasp, then she pulls away, only to watch you hurriedly taking off your top. “continue.”

she chuckles before leaving opened mouth kisses against you, simultaneously moving you two to the couch. 

her fingers render you weak, like putty in her hands while you desperately grip at her hair. she moves you over and sets you down on the couch, gazing as she towers over you.

“you’re so fucking gorgeous,” momo slides her hand down the side of your torso. “you know that?”

“stop, you’re so– fuck you.” 

momo giggles before kissing you again, then retreats from your lips. your arms are around her neck, playing with strands of her hair before she asks,

“you’re okay with this, right?”

you giggle against her lips before pecking her again. “momo, i don’t think anyone has made me this weak – espseically thomas – i’m so wet it’s almost embarassing.”

“oh yeah?” she says teasingly. 

“just  shut the fuck up and fuck me already.” you rush out. 

momo grins against your lips as she kisses you again, and then you feel her hand trail down to your sweatpants. you gasp loudly when she slips her hand inside, pressing against your panties, and you break away from her lips in surprise. 

“you are very wet.”

“thanks,” she presses harder which earns a twitch and a gasp, “s-smartass.” 

her fingers slide your panties to the side of your folds, giving her access to slide up and down with ease. you can’t help but whine lowly at the feeling, biting your lip to conceal your excitement.

she inserts two fingers in, making your head shoot back into the cushion of the couch. you curse when she thrusts in, your walls pulsiate around her, clenching. 

“fuck,” she bites her lip. “you feel so good.”

you gulp roughly. “you– shit momo, keep that going.”

you gasp audibly the more she fingers you, the repetition of her name making her smile against you as she kisses your skin. she’s blazing against you, your bodies so hot against each other despite the clothes in the way. you grip her hair, close your eyes, and shift your hips up the more she pleases you. your back arches, momo keeps you situated in place with her free hand, then slides it over to palm your clad chest.

“m-momo, fuucckk–” 

momo feels you grip her shoulder tightly and watches you throw your head back. your legs close around her when her palm hits the nub above your folds again, and then she moves her palm in a circle over your clit aggresively, earning one last cry from you before your mind goes blank.

you let your head rest back for a while more as you catch your breath. you feel momo massage your thigh as you come down from your high. momo presses more kisses on your neck, letting her hand trail up your body and reach your head, raking her fingers through your hair. 

she pecks your jaw. “how was that?”

“holy shit,” you sigh, bringing your head back up to look at her. momo’s pupils are dilated beyond oblivion, and her flushed skin prompts you to bring a hand to caress her cheek. she looks adorable, even after she’s made your legs shake. “so good.”

she laughs and it’s like angels singing from above. you might melt.

“let’s clean up together, if you’re cool with that.”

you blink. “like, shower together?”

“yeah – unless that’s too forward!” she catches herself. “sorry, maybe too forward, i just want to make sure you’re okay and–”

momo is cut of when you kiss her, and then you pull back. she feels your thumb graze her cheek. 

“it’s perfectly fine momo.”

“okay, and then maybe if you want we can get food or something,” she begins, brushing her fingers against the skin of your shoulder. she moves over to play with your hair and looks at your lips. “or if you’re too tired then we can just sleep.”  

you pull her in for another kiss, that’s all you can really answer with for now. she reciprocates, following the slower tempo of your lips. 

you part from her. “i think i just want to kiss you more for now,” then you catch yourself. “wait, i haven’t even done anything to you yet, oh my god–”

“no, no. i’m already pleased enough hearing you say my name so much.” she assures teasingly. momo presses a kiss to your nose before mumbling, “let’s go with what you want.”

“you’re so lovely.”

“thanks y/n.” 

a hand finds it’s way to just below momo’s jaw on her neck, and momo’s hand slides down to the skin on your rib.

you smile, momo smiles.

you kiss her, she kisses back.

–

a groan leaves your mouth when you wake up. you feel someone clinging onto you and look down to see a face that brings a lazy smile to your lips.

momo’s head is on your shoulder, features pointing to the base of your neck. her breath is warm against you, and so is her body, and so is your heart. 

you rake a hand through her hair and she starts to shuffle against you. 

“y/n?”

“oh, momo, sorry to wake you.”

“no, i kind of woke up earlier.”

“are you lying?”

“no, not at all.”

she lifts her head up and you meet the messy hair framing her face, puffy cheeks, and partially squitned eyes. she’s adorable, you note, just naturally so. 

your bodies are naked, flushing against each other under the sheets because momo got needy and wanted to hear you screaming her name again. of course you didn’t complain, because if anything, you wanted it too. 

momo’s attentive to everything she does, and you find out that she’s like that with what she does to you. with every motion, touch, and anything intimate, she’s making sure you’re into it, making sure you’re left gasping and whining under her. she’s aroused from you feeling good, that’s all it takes for her to be wet herself.

her eyes meet the skin above your chest. “that hickey is pretty dark.”

“and who is responsible for that?”

momo rolls her eyes. “let me give you some more.”

you’re not arguing against that.

it’s ten in the morning, both of you had just woken up and momo is slipping under the blanket. her head makes its way in between your legs and the thrill of not knowing what she’s doing under the blanket makes you blush. and then you feel a hand on your upper leg, her fingers ticklish adn making you giggle. 

you let out a loose groan when momo licks up your entrance, the grip on your legs grows tighter. momo’s tongue moves inside you, then tends to your clit; her tongue moves in ways that has your voice ringing out, reverberating in the room.

and when you cum, so wonderfully when it’s momo who’s making you do so, you shake and arch even as momo keeps going. she slows her tempo down before kissing the inside of your thighs, seconds later she peeks out the covers and you can’t help but laugh at the way she emerges.

“we’ve just woken up and you’re already wet.”

you scoff playfully, ruffling momo’s hair. “again, who’s fault is that.”

“mine but,” she hovers over you before kissing your lips. “you like it.”

she sits up now, straddling you in a way. “now let’s get breakfast, eating you out is great but my stomach might yell soon.”

you laugh at her. “you’re like a vacuum.”

“well who else is going to finish your food, y/n. be grateful. besides, you like that too.”

–

you like momo a lot, that’s for sure.

you like the way she asks how you are, how she listens to you, and how she’s given you aftercare for the first time since the first time you fucked thomas.

momo’s like a breath of fresh air. it feels different being with her, like a wild animal feeling tenderness and care for the first time – different, calm, and nice. the more you spend time with her after this, going on more dates and rambling your tongues off until you’re both tangled up and passed ou ton the couch; you can’t help but realize that she’s who your time belongs to.

she’s nothing like thomas, light years away from being any similar to him. it’s satisfying watching him watch the two of you bond like you should, his presence reminds you that momo’s the upgrade you need, and he can’t do anything about the fact that he’ll never compare to his step-sister.

—

–

it’s a few months later after your first encounter with momo – almost two months after you slept with her – the two of you walk with your arms linked through the same park near your place.

she orders you coffee and you fish out pastries from your bag to share. she leads you to the same place that she had brought you to when you had first met, sitting the two of you down in front of the same tree.

momo pulls out her sketchbook, you lean on her when she unlinks arms.

“y/n,”

you peer at her curiously. “yes?”

“remember when i was talking about that design when we first met? the little seating area around that tree right there.” she points over at the little area where the tree stands. “it was for an assignment, but i tweaked some of the model and idea, looked over at some materials and–”

“what are you getting at?”

momo’s smiling big, so big that all her teeth show and her eyes almost close. 

“they’re going to add it.”

“what?”

“it’s happening, we talked to the park management and they really like my idea.”

your eyes widen and jaw slacks open. momo laughs as you hug her pulling away and then kissing her on the lips proudly.

“oh my god? oh my god. momo! i’m so proud, oh my gosh…”

she giggles before kissing you again. “thank you baby. i actually wanted to thank you.”

“what?”

“if it weren’t for you who listened to all my stupid rambling and listened so well, i don’t know if this would’ve happened.” momo begins, looking down at the paper and pen in her hands. then she looks at you with those big eyes of her, softening upon meeting your features. “and i know so much has happened and you’ve always been so great and–” 

she pauses, inhaling deeply.

“i just love you so much.”

she’s sitting there, looking at you with so much emotion, and you feel like a star in the sky has just been picked out and placed right in front of you. 

“momo, i love you too.”

if the world fell apart right this moment, you’d cling onto momo like your life depending on it. your hands find their way to her cheeks, you hold her face in your hands like she’d crumble if you let go – then, you kiss her, soft and sweet.

she moves her hand out of the way and you gasp. 

her cup of coffee tips over and leaks over, creating a palm sized stain on your coat. you watch as momo’s face contorts into one of panic, and then she picks up the cup, moving you away from the spill. you can’t help but laugh; you’re laughing at how she reacts to the situation, but also how perfect it is considering how your first time spent together – alone – had happened.

“i’m so sorry.” stars litter her eyes when she says it, you simply pull her in by the collar and kiss her again.

“you’re perfect.”

[little-diable]

Miss Possessive - Tommy Shelby (smut)

Requested by @zablife for my Deadly Sins challenge. I loved writing this! Please like and reblog it you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: The reader hates watching her husband make eyes at his new barmaid, but the envy she feels only spurs her on to remind Tommy of the bond they share as a married couple

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, jealousy/envy, possessive reader, she's a bit of a freak I won't lie

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x fem!reader (1.2k words)

She had her eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, body wrapped in a dress he’d have instantly recognised had he been focused on her. It was the dress he had bought for her years ago, shortly after their wedding. But by now she was torn between loving the dress and hating it almost enough to burn it, all because of his wandering eyes and distracted mind.

It was sad almost, how she stood there, hidden from his eyes as he kept speaking to the blonde barmaid (y/n) had instantly disliked ever since she had started working for Tommy. Something glimmered in her eyes, something (y/n) was all too familiar with, reminding her of the way she had looked at Tommy when she had met him first.

Back then he had been nothing but a shy boy, already painted by the hard years he had been forced through, but by now he had nothing on the boy he had been back then. Now he was ruthless, selfish sometimes, and hungry for more - more his wife couldn’t seem to offer to him, no matter how hard she tried. 

(Y/n) had to stop herself from calling out to the two of them as Grace took a step closer to Tommy, hand pressed against his chest. He was hers, would always be, that much (y/n) would make sure of, and yet she couldn’t swallow the bitter taste of envy lingering on her tongue. 

Grace had tried to befriend her, had tried to put on a sweet smile whenever Tommy Shelby’s wife was close, acting like they were friends, but they were everything but. They were the opposite, seated on different ends of the table Tommy had both invited to, oblivious to the glances both women shared whenever they were close. 

She would make sure that he’d never leave her side, no matter how hard Grace tried to lure his attention away from his wife. 

…

“It’s funny, you know.” (Y/n) spoke the words as she undressed, eyes set on his features. Tommy was leaning against the headboard of their bed, smoking a cigarette while only letting go of a hum. “Stars seem to blink in her eyes whenever she looks at you. As if you created the universe she lives in.” 

“Who are you talking about?” His raspy question forced a humourless chuckle out of (y/n). She stepped out of her dress, body bare for his wandering eyes, before she spoke up again.

“That barmaid of yours, Grace. It seems as if she can’t leave you alone, no matter how many times we meet.” She clicked her tongue while slowly walking towards her husband, spurred on by the envy simmering deep inside of her. It was a disgusting feeling, something so strong, (y/n) couldn’t help but curse herself for loving her husband this much.

“Don’t be ridiculous, she knows I’m a married man.” He put his cigarette down as (y/n) found her spot in his lap, naked thighs pressed against his. It was as if their bodies were having a different conversation, pulled closer by his wandering hands and her determined gaze. “Don’t be jealous, love, I’m here with you, eh?”

“I’m not jealous, Thomas. I’m not a naive little girl.” No, the envy she tasted on her tongue cut by far deeper than jealousy ever could. It was more intense, more hurting, something so sharp, she feared it would cut her deep inside to leave her bleeding out. 

“Then don’t act like one, it doesn’t suit you.” His words were left hanging between them as she fisted his cock, hardening in her grasp. Her tongue kissed her teeth while she stroked him, softly at first to communicate the power she held over him, no matter where, no matter when, she’d always win the upper hand. 

“Then I want you to fuck me like I deserve to be fucked, fuck me like a husband who only has eyes for his wife would.” Tommy didn’t need to hear more, he pushed her hands away to bury her beneath him. His hand found its place between her thighs, called closer as if her body was a siren he couldn’t say no to. Carefully he circled her pulsing bundle, feeling her tremble beneath him as he studied her naked frame. 

“I don’t need to prove anything to you, I married you, that should be proof enough.” He dipped his head down to suck on her nipples, shifting between them to draw moans from her. “But for tonight I’ll humour us both.”

His hand let go of her to grab his cock. She watched him spit into his hand to lube himself up before pushing into her. Both moaned at the sudden intrusion, silently wondering when he had fucked her last. It had been too long since their bodies had been connected like that, forced together by an indescribable intimacy they couldn’t share when he came home at the time her day normally started. 

“Do you feel that? Do you feel how your husband fucks you just right, eh?” (Y/n) only moaned against his lips, pulling him in for a kiss as her legs found their way around his waist. She pulled him in deeper, walls fluttering around his cock at every ferocious thrust. 

His name rolled off her tongue, filling the sticky air between them like a cold breeze momentarily shaking them out of their trance. Perhaps he was right, perhaps he did remember his promise to her, how he was supposed to love her, only her. But deep down she knew that his words could only be trusted whenever he gained something from this very promise. Perhaps it was on her to remind him who he got married to after all, a woman who knew no boundaries when it came to claiming her man. 

Tommy pulled out of her for a second, hands finding her waist to flip her around. She was pressed against the mattress, face buried in the pillow which smelled like him as he pushed into her again. His pace was ruthless, his touch was bruising, and his words were sharp, but not sharp enough to pull her away from the mission she had yet to complete.

“Fuck, Tommy, make me cum.” He only hummed, arm finding its way around her waist to find her pulsing bundle once more. It only took a few more touches to push her over the edge, making her moan his name even louder this time around. Tommy kept fucking into her from behind, high on her closeness and the way she let him use her. 

He came with a deep groan, body falling against hers while he stayed buried inside of her. For a second, neither of them spoke, sharing nothing but deep breaths to try and calm their racing thoughts, only finding the strength of their voices again when he pulled out of her. 

“You’re mine, and I won’t keep on watching her trying to throw herself at you, Thomas. If you don’t put an end to this, I will. And I promise you, I won’t be the one wiping her blood off the floor once I’m done with her.”

[cami040405]

Pleeeeeeeeeease 🙏, a oneshot of fem reader going with her friends and stops for gas, our girl is on her period, but it ain't the usual one. It hurts a lot, and there's no paracetamol to ease the pain cause Luda sells none. When Thomas comes to hunt them down, he finds her delirious from the sunlight and pain to the point she doesn't even run. So when he's about to haul her over his shoulder, she accidentally grips onto him, and Thomas ends up carrying her in bridal style. She clings and snuggles him for comfort, which makes Tommy second guess himself, in the end, he decided to keep her cause he liked the feeling of her needing him for comfort and protection.

Oneshot: Crimson Sun - Thomas Hewitt x Future S/O with Intense Period Pain

Summary: While on a road trip with friends, you struck with intense period pain and heat exhaustion during a stop at a remote Texas gas station. As your friends mysteriously vanish, you're too weak to run when Thomas Hewitt appears.

Texas heat had a way of swallowing the air whole. Thick. Suffocating. The kind of heat that crawled under your skin and sat heavy on your chest. It made the world feel slower, like the hands of time had melted alongside the asphalt.

You could barely keep your eyes open as the station wagon rumbled along the gravel path toward a rusted-out old gas station. Dust clouds rose in the rearview mirror like smoke, blurring the fading stretch of road behind you.

In the passenger seat, Bree was flipping through a dog-eared map with the kind of irritated energy only someone lost in Nowhere, Texas, could conjure. The other two girls were bickering softly in the front about a weird turn back at the last fork in the road.

You weren’t listening. You were curled up in the backseat like a dying thing, legs pulled tight to your chest, arms wrapped around your midsection. Sweat dotted your forehead, sticking strands of hair to your skin. Each heartbeat sent a pulse of sharp, relentless pain straight through your abdomen like a blade twisting inside you.

This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t your normal, anyway.

You were on your period—sure—but this wasn’t the dull, manageable ache you were used to. This was something else. A tidal wave of pain that left you breathless and shivering despite the triple-digit weather. Your limbs ached, your spine throbbed, and your thighs trembled from the effort of not crying in front of your friends.

When the car rolled to a stop outside the gas station, you didn’t even lift your head.

“I’m gonna ask if they have pain meds,” Bree said, swinging open the door with a groan. “You look like hell.”

You meant to mumble something back. Maybe a thank you, maybe a half-hearted insult. But the words didn’t come. Your jaw clenched as another cramp seized your body, curling your toes in your boots.

God, make it stop.

The metal roof of the station shimmered under the sun. The place looked like it had been abandoned for years, except for the faint movement inside—a shape behind dusty windows. No signage, no air conditioning humming. Just a screen door swaying in the breeze and a few cracked gas pumps that looked like they hadn’t seen real fuel since the seventies.

The minutes passed in a blur. Bree came back empty-handed, muttering curses under her breath.

“The woman inside—some old hag with a cigarette—said they don’t stock anything like that. No pills. No vending machine. Just homemade soap and pickled vegetables. What kind of gas station is this?”

You swallowed thickly. “A cursed one.”

“Seriously. I don’t even think she had a register.”

The car grew hotter. The windows trapped the sunlight like a greenhouse, and your skin started to prickle from the heat. Your lips were chapped. Your vision, spotty. Distant voices became muffled—like hearing underwater.

You caught fragments of a conversation.

“The tire’s low.”

“Go check the back.”

“…something’s off here.”

But your ears were ringing now. Your body was a traitor. You couldn’t sit up. Couldn’t focus. Every breath was effort. You slid sideways onto the seat, lying down, the cracked upholstery sticking to the sweat along your back. You barely noticed when the first scream split the silence.

It was high-pitched, frantic, and short-lived.

You blinked. Was that—?

Then came another. This time deeper, masculine. A grunt. A thud. A wet sound. You blinked again, sluggish and confused. The door beside you opened.

“…Bree?” you croaked.

No answer.

You saw a shadow move across the gravel. A shape—wrong, too broad for anyone you knew. The edges of your vision pulsed red, swimming in heat and nausea. You tried to sit up, panic threading through your chest like wire.

Something was wrong. Something was really wrong.

Then you saw him.

At first, he was just legs—thick, trunk-like legs wrapped in filthy jeans and caked boots. Then the apron. The stained, leather apron. Your gaze drifted upward, inch by inch, past heavy arms to a massive chest, rising and falling with shallow breaths.

Then the face.

Or the mask.

It was patchwork—skin and leather, stitched and fused over a large, square jaw. One eye visible through the hole. The other hidden in shadows. Dead, dull, silent.

Thomas Hewitt.

You didn’t know his name. Not yet. But the moment your eyes met his, your body knew.

Death.

You should have screamed. Should have run. Should have fought, clawed, anything—

But your limbs were jelly. You were so tired. So hot. The pain in your stomach flared violently, and your mouth fell open in a silent cry.

He reached for you.

You tried to push away, but it was like moving through concrete. Your hand slipped on the door. Your knees buckled as you stumbled onto the dirt. 

Thomas loomed over you. Tall as a tree. Silent as a grave. The chainsaw wasn’t in his hand. Not yet. Instead, he crouched beside you, giant palm reaching down to haul you up like a sack of meat.

“No—wait,” you whimpered, but it came out as a breathless rasp.

His rough hand closed around your upper arm, lifting—

Your hand shot out, instinctively. It grabbed a fistful of his shirt. Not to fight.

To cling.

Your body betrayed your mind. Some part of your subconscious—swimming in pain and heatstroke—recognized something in him. Not safety. Not really.

But strength. Warmth. Your cheek fell against his chest. And then—you snuggled.

Thomas froze.

Completely.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t sob. Just held on, weak and shivering, face pressed into the fabric of his apron, nuzzling blindly for comfort like a sick kitten.

A soft sound escaped you. A tiny, pitiful sigh.

“…please…”

Thomas blinked. He looked down at you, dazed, stunned. He’d lifted hundreds of people in this spot. Dragged them kicking and screaming. The usual routine. And yet here you were, curled up in his arms like he was the only stable thing left in your spinning world. For the first time in years, Thomas hesitated. He could feel your fevered skin through his gloves. The way your body trembled in his grip—not from terror, but from weakness. Your breathing was shallow. Your legs were trembling.

You needed help.

Not to die.

His jaw clenched under the mask. Slowly, gingerly, he adjusted his grip—one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back. He picked you up, not like prey, not like cargo—but like something fragile.

You didn’t fight it.

Your arms wrapped around his thick shoulders, half-conscious, and your head lolled against his collarbone. You mumbled something soft, incoherent. Words soaked in fever and confusion.

He held you tighter. 

And then he walked.

He didn’t toss you over his shoulder.

He didn’t carve you open.

He carried you—through the brush, past the dirt path where your friends had fallen, their blood soaking into the cracked earth.

You didn’t see them. And maybe that was for the best.

When you woke, the light had changed. Dim. Orange. The inside of a house. Warm, but not from the sun—from low lamps and old wooden walls.

The room smelled like herbs and must and something cooked long ago.

You were lying on something soft. A cot, maybe. There was a wet rag on your forehead, and a heavy quilt wrapped around your lower half. You groaned softly, shifting.

Pain still lingered in your gut—but dulled now. Fading.

Your eyes fluttered open.

And you saw him.

Thomas.

Sitting on a chair in the far corner of the room. Looming, unmoving. A beast in the shadows.

But he was watching you.

Not with hunger.

With something… almost tender.

Cautious.

Afraid to move and scare you.

You licked your dry lips. “...where am I?”

No answer. Just the sound of his breathing.

You blinked. “You… didn’t kill me.”

A slow nod.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, wincing. “Why?”

Thomas’s hands clenched on his knees. He looked away. There were no words. Not really.

But there was the memory of you clinging to him in the sun. The way you nuzzled against him like you’d known him for years. The way his chest had ached after, missing the warmth of you curled there.

You were still sick. Still soft. Still needful. And maybe… maybe Thomas had never been needed like that before.

He didn’t understand it.

But he liked it.

And that was enough.

.

[taeaura]

I've been thinking about this for a while because I haven't actually seen or read any Thomas Hewitt x reader fanfic where the main character is a meek/shy individual with an emotional nature. By that, I mean somebody who is timid, not self-assured, soft-spoken, gentle, pacifistic, and often afraid to speak up for himself/herself. Not to mention that if being mocked or bullied, will start to tear up a bit and become more secluded.

Every time I read about Y/n, they are always this Mary Sue like temple who still ends up with odd or disrespectful issues. Like there's too many of them. Get rid of them! Bring me something new! Because I have no idea what the Hewitt's would do with that sort of person. Especially if it was a female instead of a male. What would Thomas and the family do with such a person? In theory, it seems obvious, but I genuinely don't know.

Hi again! I broke this up into headcanons as well as a little one shot - Hope that's okay!

Below are other posts dealing with similar topics if you'd like to view those additionally:

Soft-spoken s/o | mauswyx

Slashers x Socially Anxious! Reader | tac-the-unseen

Thomas Hewitt x Meek/Emotional Reader

This GIF felt fitting idk why god I wish that was me

_____

Thomas is a shy individual himself - Knowing this, I doubt he'd have an issue with any aspect of your nature. He'd actually be more protective of you than of someone who's much more..vocal about their displeasure.

Thomas doesn't mind the timidness, he's fully willing to be the 'strong' one in the relationship..he's kinda been forced into the roll within his family.

Charlie will tease you. A lot. He knows what gets on your nerves, how to pry under your skin - What makes you tick, cry, and breakdown; It's a favorite pastime of his, that is, when you're still a 'guest' captive.

He'll bring up traumatizing moments, taunting you with the possibility of 'ending up like the rest.' Hoyt pulls strings not even you knew were there:

"One word, and you'll end up splattered 'cross this damn wall."

{If you're fem-presenting} "Momma only likes you 'cause you're a girl, Once she see's how much of a harlot you are, she'll throw you right on out."

Once he's gotten used to you {or you've proved your 'worth'}, he'll switch things up a bit:

"Y'know, Tommy's got a real sensitive heart..you break it, s'not gone end well for any of us."

{Talking to a family member} "They're not too bad, huh? Small, quiet, always does as they're told, not too much of a hassle, now, are they?"

--

Thomas won't necessarily stand up for you, but he'll comfort you almost immediately

If you're ever in a particular mood, Thomas is pretty respectful of boundaries. If you need to be left alone, he's just fine with that. He might leave you a note and slide it under your door - Just a quick little "I love you" or something similar.

If you prefer direct comfort, he's fully willing to let you cry it out , or vent to him. He won't be able to respond much, but know he's processing it all. Depending on how comfortable the two of you are, he's willing to hold you/your hand, some pats on the back and such.

Any comfort you show him, he'll show back. For example; If you gently wipe/caress his face down after {or when} he cries, he'll do the same for you. Ask for what you want, and he'll do just that..most of the time 🫀

--

Thomas isn't a huge fan of confrontation - Anything confrontational outside of 'work', really. He knows his 'place' in the family, and isn't willing to push it {aka, argue with his family}. He won't argue for you, or get any family members to stop their pestering, but he will kill for you. Anytime a victim gets too close, he's got something sharp in his hands.

If they hurt you {or anyone in the family, really}, whether it be emotionally or physically, prepare for the goriest, most blood-caked basement you've ever encountered. He needs to take his anger out, and believe me, he will - Even with your pacifistic pleas.

--

Outside of his protective nature, your pacifistic and emotional nature tends to rub off on Thomas. He knows what he's doing, and how important it is to the family - But he gets moments of doubt at times, which are amplified around you.

Those people had lives..families just like his.

Meat.

Meat is all they are.

Don't fail the family, Thomas. They're {you} disposable, family isn't.

_____

Everyone was overwhelmed with the new..'livestock' that came in this afternoon. Although a small group, they fought hard. Hoyt had gotten his nose punched in just thirty minutes prior - It was all crooked and overflowed with blood dripping down his cupid's bow. Momma had gotten it taken care of - Thomas had helped 'realign' his nose best he could, whilst momma helped pack the bleeding. Hoyt would sure swell up and bruise within the next few days..if he hasn't already..

Instead of trying to rest, he bombarded you with insults - "What the fuck is wrong with you?! You didn't think to tell us one of them got out?" - "How fucking useless are you?!" He was really mad at you for that one..

Just like last time, you cried. Frantic, raw, disheveled cries. You fucked up...badly. The thought plagued you terribly, it ate away every ounce of assurance you had. I'm sorry..I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..it rung through your mind, but your body was paralyzed as it knelt on the carpet; You wouldn't be speaking for quite some time..

It wouldn't matter anyway - Hoyt wasn't the type to hear it. You put the family in danger, that's all that mattered. It didn't matter if you were "sorry" or not - You threatened the Family. Who the hell do you think you are? After all we've given you? Food, shelter, safety, a place of purpose?

Ungrateful. That's what you are. A selfish, clumsy, inconsiderate ingrate.

You were shaking - Desperate to apologize, make it up to them. Your hands covered your face, leaving only small opening to peer through. The room was lit only by a small, vintage lamp in the corner, though that light suddenly blurred within darkness -

You felt your hands being pried from your face, though gently. It was Thomas - Wasn't much of a surprise, he was always the one to ground you.

He held eye contact with you as he lightly dusted away your tears with the backside of his index finger. He held your shaking hands tenderly, placing them at your knees. As he let go of your hands, he slowly raised his {hands} back to your face, tilting his head slightly as if to ask for permission -You continued to sniffle and gasp, providing a small, shaky nod in affirmation. Thomas benevolently grasped your cheeks, wiping tears as he did. You and Thomas had developed this wordless affirmation - a way to ground each other in times of need; He placed his forehead to yours. You often joked that you two 'looked like bugs' from the unconventional angle, and he'd chuckled best he could. He loved you. Truly, loved you.

The room was unusually silent - You looked beside you to see Luda Mae and Hoyt gone, only Uncle Monty facing the window as he read the news. Momma must've dragged Hoyt out...thankfully. You finally looked back at him, he really did look like a bug from this angle.., but he was the sweetest man. He left you a note earlier this morning, right after Charlie had yelled at you the night before:

Nothing's gonna hurt you, baby - I love you.

-Thomas

_____

I hope this isn't too bad - Love you guys thank you so much for the request 🫀

[nymph0maniaccc]

Misery Loves Company

1k words

Jax Teller x Fem!Reader

Background: Jax is fresh out of Stockton, but instead of going home to Tara, Abel, and Thomas the newborn son he hasn’t even met yet, he’s forced to stay in a halfway house. That’s where he meets you—troubled, sharp-edged, and dangerous in all the ways that should make him stay away. But he doesn’t.

Series Warnings: Strong language, mentions of drug use, criminal past, cheating themes, eventual smut MDNI, show spoilers.

a/n: This will be a 4-5 partish series will a few blurbs in between cos if you have any request you can send them<3, this is also written with a black female reader in mind but anyone can read as long as you aren’t being weird. Also thank you to my baby @starfxkrinc for proof reading mwah<3, last but not least enjoy!

14 months. 14 months without Tara, 14 Months without Gemma breathing down his back about shit at the club. 14 months without Abel. 14 months he’s been locked behind those cold metal bars not even able to meet his newborn son.

Chibs and Opie are supposed to pick him up, but instead, some smug state worker in too tight khakis and a clipboard is standing outside, calling his name.

“Jackson Teller.”

Jax stops walking, glancing over at the guy in the khakis and cheap button-down. Looks like every other pencil-pushing asshole who gets his rocks off on controlling people’s lives.

“Yeah,” Jax says, jaw tight.

“Follow me.”

He doesn’t like being ordered around, never has. But he follows anyway, knowing better than to fight it. His lawyer already told him early release, but he’s got to do time in some co-ed halfway house before he can go home. Supervised reintegration, they call it. Glorified babysitting really.

Jax doesn’t say shit as he’s driven through Stockton in some government-issued beat up sedan, watching the city pass by. He wants to go home. He wants Tara. Abel and Thomas considering he hasn’t even met him yet. He wants his bike. Instead, he gets this: a two-story house with barred windows and a sign out front that says Hope Recovery Home.

Yeah. Fuckin’ great.

Inside smells like burnt coffee and old cigarette smoke. The place is barely livable dim lighting, stained carpet, a couch that looks like it’s been through hell. He’s seen worse, but not by much.

“You’ll have a roommate. House rules are simple no drugs, no fighting, curfew at ten. You work a job, you go to your meetings, you check in with your PO. You screw up, you’re back in Stockton. Understood?”

Jax doesn’t answer, just clenches his jaw and nods once.

“Good. Go introduce yourself to your housemates.”

He walks in without looking back, running a hand over his buzzed hair. It still feels foreign short, military-tight, a constant reminder of the past months spent inside. He doesn’t even get two steps in before he sees you.

You’re slouched on the couch, one leg propped up, taking in his every move. The first thing Jax notices are your eyes.sunken in, dark, too big for your face. They don’t move when he walks in, just stay locked on him like you’re sizing him up.

He does the same.

Medium brown skin, smooth despite the rough life he can tell you’ve lived. Tattoos creeping up your ribs, a hint of ink peeking from beneath the bottom of the white tank top doing little to cover anything. Angel wings on your lower back.

He recognizes the look in your eyes, one he’s seen in the mirror too many times to count.

“You staring cause you like what you see, or cause you’re tryin to figure out if I’m crazy?”

Your voice is hoarse, like you spent the night screaming or smoking, maybe both.

Jax smirks despite himself, shifting his weight. “Little bit of both.”

That makes you grin, all teeth. He can tell you like that answer.

“You got a name?” he asks, dropping onto the couch across from you.

You exhale, biting away at the black chipping pain on your nails. Then, finally, you tilt your head and say, “wouldn’t you like to know.”

“You new here too?” he asked, trying ease the tension.

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you let out a soft laugh and looked him over.

“I’m Jax,” he said, offering her a hand, though he didn’t expect her to take it.

You studied his hand for a moment, eyes dragging up his tattooed arm fingers grazing dangerously against his skin. when you spoke again, your voice was low and almost seductive. “Call me storm.’” You didn’t explain why, but Jax wasn’t sure he needed to know.

“Storm,” he repeated, the name rolling off his tongue easily. It was both soft and dangerous, and it fit you somehow. You clearly weren’t the kind of girl who would take any shit.

“Just got out for assault,” you added, almost as an afterthought. “Drugs. Long story. Don’t ask.”

Jax raised an eyebrow. You clearly aren’t the type to overshare. Not that he blamed you.

“So you’re stuck here too, huh?” he asked, his voice softer now. You seemed like trouble, but it was the kind of trouble he was used to. The kind he saw every day when he looked in the mirror

Your gaze flickered briefly up and down his body like a predator sizing up its prey. “Yeah. For now.”

Jax couldn’t help but feel the pull between the two of you, like gravity was pulling him toward you in a way that didn’t make sense. Maybe it was because you didn’t treat him like some hero, Hell you barely knew him. Maybe it was because you got it, the rawness of it, all the frustration, the anger, the feeling that nothing would ever be the same again.

And maybe, just maybe, you understood him better than Tara ever had.

But as much as he was drawn to you, Jax couldn’t shake the guilt. Tara. Home. Everything he was supposed to come back to.

Still, when he studied your face again, smirk barely contained, something told him this wouldn’t be a simple story. Not by a long shot.

“Storm” he said, his voice low, as he took a step closer, “I’m not looking for trouble.”

You looked him up and down, her eyes sharp. “Trouble’s been looking for me my whole life.”

Jax chuckles, but there’s something in his chest that tightens. It’s not a good sign.

He felt the tension in the air. The kind of tension that could make you forget everything else. For a second, he thought about turning back to the door and walking away. Something he wouldn’t be able to. Not with his freedom on the line and not with you watching him like that.

“You ever think about what you’re running from?” Jax asked.

You tilted your head, studying him. “All the time,” you said softly, a flicker of something in your eyes.

Jax didn’t have to ask anything else. He knew. You were just like him.

[tinybrooms]

Our Last Day, or maybe the first?.. - Thomas Hewitt x fem. Reader

Summary: Is Thomas last day on the slaughterhouse and a pretty girl is going to help him today...or forever

Warning: Murders, Workplace Harassmen, hard vocabulary

NOTE: This is my second one shot and it's pretty long, maybe i am thinking about a second part so let me know if you want that, hope you like it, comments and feed back is always welcome.

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

A few months had passed since your work at the slaughterhouse had started, you were one of the few people who had been able to access education and that had given you the opportunity to work as the supervisor's secretary.

Your days were longer than normal dealing with the male staff who looked at your body with desire and said rude comments every time you passed beside them, as did your boss who took the opportunity a couple of times to touch your ass "by accident'' and called you to his office for useless tasks that ended with indecent comments.

They were all idiots, all except Thomas, he just dedicated himself to his work and every time you said "good morning" he responded with a slight grunt while bowing his head a little, always a gentleman like his mama taught him.

-I see you're already packing - your supervisor looked at you from the door frame while you put your things in a cardboard box.

-Yes, I'm almost done - you looked at him smiling kindly trying to ignore the uncomfortable look he had on your butt that was visible in your pencil skirt.

-Leave that there for a moment, I need you to go down and tell Thomas that he has to go, the animal is still cutting meat and doesn't want to go home - the old man took off his glasses, wiping them on his shirt regardless of the worried expression on your face.

-Do I… should I go? sir, I think the best thing would be…

-It's an order, you still work here, that's why I didn't want to hire women, they're always so useless- the disgusting man laughed mockingly as he walked to his office - get off your ass and get down right now

Your gaze quickly fixed on the large window of what was your place from where you could clearly see Thomas hitting the pieces of meat with his sharp knife making a sound against the wooden table, it took you a few seconds to take a breath and pass saliva to get down, the aroma of raw meat disgusted you too much, just like the blood spread all over the place, that was what bothered you more than anything else.

-Hello..Hello Thomas - you smiled behind his back while your hands played nervously in front of you - well, I think they had already informed you that the slaughterhouse is going to close today and..- you sighed, adjusting your cat-eye glasses on your nose sighing holding on not to get dizzy with the intense aroma of meat - and well you must go home

Thomas paused a little but after a few seconds he hit the flesh again with such force that he made you jump on your heels.

-Thomas…please don't make this more difficult, I don't want them to come down and scold you like they always do- Your voice lowered a little, almost in a whisper, trying not to let your supervisor hear you and get you both in trouble, but Thomas just continued ignoring your advice

-Don't you listen to what she said you damn animal? You won't work here anymore, go home with your stupid family - your supervisor came down the stairs, standing halfway screaming in the distance, making the huge man turn around with his knife in his hand, squeezing it so hard that his knuckles seemed like they would break the skin from his hand

Your eyes looked with at the man with glasses and then at Thomas with fear that something would happen, after all you were in the middle and the tension of both collided with your small and fragile body, that was when your poor gaze weakened between you in the dark and humid environment, you could notice how Thomas's hand was shaking and his breathing was agitated making his chest rise and fall.

-Thomas..please - with fear your hand extended making the giant barely look at you through his long locks of hair - no…it's not worth it - with fear you took his hand, it was the first time Thomas felt the skin of a woman against his and despite the anger he felt, his breathing was not still agitated because of it, but because of the delicate way your skin felt against his - give me that, I'll put it here okay? -You looked at him slowly taking the knife, placing it on the table and you smiled shyly walking away a few steps slowly so that he wouldn't feel threatened.

-That's it damn idiot, I bet you've never felt that before, huh?, You'll get so hard with this bitch that you'll forget why you came here- The disgusting old man laughed as he returned to his office, leaving the two of you alone, tense and nervous.

Thomas just looked at the floor shyly, he knew he was right, no one had ever touched him even by accident and that made him feel vulnerable.

-It's okay Thomas, don't worry about what he says go home, I hope you and your family are okay - you smiled at him again, turning around in a hurry, almost running to the bathroom, you could feel a knot in your stomach because of all the vices and meat that were scattered on the tables, crossing the long corridor in a hurry until you reached the bathroom where as soon as you opened the door you vomited.

Your knees on the cold floor and your hands holding your own hair made it impossible for you to hear what was happening outside, retching made your eyes water and after a few minutes with shaky legs you stood up wiping your lips with the front of your hand.

You took a little longer looking at yourself in the mirror, fixing the lipstick that had been ruined with your fingers and carefully washing your hands, always taking care of your image as mom had taught you since you were a girl.

After that you went to your desk putting away the few things that were left, a couple of photographs and your notebooks with notes that maybe would no longer work at all but you still wanted to keep them, after all they were from your first job so with the box of cardboard full of your belongings under your arm you prepared to go say goodbye to your boss.

-I'm done sir, is there anything I can do… -your feet stopped dead looking at the completely destroyed office, the desk was broken in half and there we re objects thrown all over the place- sir? - You walked in fear towards what looked like a pair of destroyed legs under the wood of the table and as soon as you got closer you could notice the old man lying in a pool of blood with his head shattered.

The box under your arm slid hard, making it sound on the floor as it fell while your hands covered your face and a loud scream came from your throat and you took steps backwards trying to get out of the traumatic scene until your back collided with a firm figure making you spin fast.

There was Thomas, looking at you with his strong breathing and his dark eyes like you had never seen before while he held a chainsaw in his hand.

-Thom..Thomas-you looked at him scared, walking back again in fear looking at his hand-leave…leave that, leave it on the floor

Only a growl came out of his throat, answering you firmly and confusedly, but it was definitely a refusal to your request.

-Please…don't hurt me, I won't say anything, I promise -your wet eyes and your heavy breathing made him doubt, of course you were going to say something, but in the same way he didn't want to hurt you, you were always kind to him, you were the only person who noticed him when he arrived and who received him every morning wishing him a good day.

Your eyes and his were staring at each other, as if either of you were waiting for a movement from the other to attack or to scream, whoever acted first was going to react to the other, but the sound of a car interrupted making both of you look towards the front door which after a few seconds opened and they both could notice Officer Hoyt entering with the gun in his hand.

-It's the police…- you looked at him again, curious as to how they could find out about the crime - Thomas, they are going to arrest you, if they find you they will take you with them.

The big man looked at the floor confused, realizing what he had done and a fear began to grow in him, not knowing what to do to remedy the mistake he had made.

-Come with me - you approached with fear, careful not to make any movement that would make him believe that you were going to attack him or that you were going to run away and again your hand held his so delicately that once again Thomas felt special - I will get you out of here

You hurriedly pulled his hand, his huge body almost following you, looking behind you in fear of being discovered, but at the same time in his mind he kept having that curiosity about how you had decided to help him after what he did, he was a murderer and what he had done was wrong

-Come, here there is a door through which we entered, it is far from the main door, no one will notice - you looked at him to make sure that he remained calm and after a few minutes walking you let go of his hand to push the door with both hands and help him escape - no one will find you if you get home quickly

Thomas shook his head, approaching you again but this time extending his hand, offering it to you while his head remained down and his eyes avoided looking at yours.

-Do you…do you want me to go with you? -You looked at him curiously with a little fear and he just slowly shook his hand indicating that he wanted you to take it so you carefully approached taking his hand, following his step when he began to walk without bothering his chainsaw in the other hand

The road was silent at first, just the two of you both walking along the side of the road under the strong Texas sun, at no time letting go of the other's hand, which in the same way if you wanted to you couldn't do it, his hand was huge and strong making Yours will be hidden between his thick fingers.

-And…is anyone from your family at home right now? -You looked at him curiously, feeling stupid knowing that he wouldn't answer you but he just nodded with his head without taking his eyes off the front-Oh really?…is…your mother?

He denied and you continued asking trying to guess who was home, feeling stupid and insistent.

-Well, your uncle? -You looked at him, sighing in relief when he nodded, looking at you with a touch of innocence that was difficult for you to believe after knowing that he had ended your boss's life - oh really? That's good…I'm alone you know, my mom moved to Austin a week ago and I told her I would go with her as soon as I finished my work.

Thomas looked at you stopping his pace, his gaze was the same as always but his eyebrows furrowed with some sadness making you also look at him without knowing what was happening.

-Something happens? I said something wrong? Thomas, sorry, I didn't want to…- your free hand barely moved on your chest, trying to make him understand that you were sorry from the bottom of your heart, but he barely grunted denied and leaving your hand, his finger carefully touched the center of your chest and then touched himself pointing at him - you?…I don't understand

He again pointed at you and then at him almost desperately as if he wanted to let you know what he wanted to say but his words did not come out and your little understanding of him was almost impossible.

-You…do you want…me?…Do you want me to stay…with you? - Thomas nodded, taking your hand again walking without waiting for you to take a step, making you stumble - but, I can't…

His hand gave a strong squeeze to yours making you moan a little in surprise, an action that made him feel something strange, that was also something new that he had heard from a girl,

-I really would like to stay but I have to go with my mother- your eyes kept looking at the road trying not to trip again but then you fixed them on him when you didn't hear any grunt from him, at this point you had already understood that this was his way of communicating.

But the road became even quieter, only your footsteps could be heard on the asphalt and from time to time a sigh came out of your mouth due to the suffocating heat you felt on your forehead.

It was a couple of meters ahead when again the sound of a car behind you made you turn your head, feeling relief but worried when you noticed the police car stopping in the middle of the road.

-Hands up son, stay away from that poor girl - Officer Hoyt pointed at Thomas, cutting the cartridge from his gun.

Thomas knew what that sound meant, he had heard it many times when he saw Charlie and Monty hunting, so with his hand he pushed you a little away from him worried that something bad could happen to you.

It was your time to run away, you could run and get away until you lost sight of them but something made you stay there, watching as the policeman pointed his gun at Thomas and honestly inside you just felt scared that something could happen to him.

-Sir, he didn't do anything wrong to me, we were just walking…- you looked at him trying to fix the situation, believing that that would be enough for him to leave.

-I saw what he did in the slaughterhouse sweetheart, you should not protect this damn animal- Hoyt looked at you for a second to return his attention to the big man in front of him. -You murdered a man ya’know, you will go to prison for what ya’did

You could feel your breathing really hard, nervous and afraid that a bullet could come out and hurt Thomas, after all yes, he murdered a man but he did it to defend himself after all the bad things that they had been done to him and in the same way , it was not such an exemplary man who died, so it had not been a great loss

-We have a problem, sheriff - your attention quickly focused on an elderly man who was holding a shotgun and shot without thinking killing the officer, again your hands covered your face while you screamed in fear.

-Calm down your little girlfriend, Thomas - the man laughed, approaching the body and a pair of hands held your shoulders delicately, making your hands lower in fear, looking at the giant in front of you.

-I want this to stop, I don't want to see any more people die - you looked at him crying with fear - I don't want to be next, I've only been good to you, please don't hurt me.

-No one will hurt you darling- the old man laughed as he placed the sheriff's hat over his cap - This is the girl who's been making you hard for months uh Tommy? She is very pretty, of course we won't do anything bad to her right?

The fear inside you grew more and more, this man was even more disgusting than your boss was and it seemed that like Thomas, he had the idea that from today you would be part of the family and you would stay with them forever

Thomas looked at the man next to him, giving him a growl and standing in front of you looking at him threateningly.

-What? you're in love? - his laugh was louder this time - okay, I won't say anything to your little doll, now come here and put the sheriff in the trunk before he stink.

Thomas took a couple of steps and effortlessly took the officer's lifeless body and placed it in the trunk without difficulty, all in front of your disbelieving eyes.

-Come on honey get in the car, we have to go home with mama after all she has to meet her new girl

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

Thanks for reading

Part 2 here!

[batmanlovesnirvana]

THE SHRINK

THOMAS SHELBY X FEM!READER

PART 2 ( PART 1 )

synopsis : After constant pressure from Polly, Tommy finally gives in and goes to see a therapist … though he’s not happy about it.

A/N : Here you go, guys … Part 2 :) As always, I have no idea what to think of it, but oh well... I just hope you enjoy it. Lmk what u think, and if you’d want this to turn into a series or smth. English isn’t my first language, so sorry for any mistakes.

THE SECOND TIME Thomas Shelby walked into the office, he looked just as reluctant as the first. If anything, there was a slight edge of irritation about him now, like he was here because he’d lost a bet.

He looked different too.

He still had the same sharp cheekbones, the same heavy wool coat, the same cigarette rolled between his fingers — but there was something else. A tension in the way he carried himself, something coiled tight beneath the surface.

You noticed the bruises on his knuckles the moment he walked in.

Split skin. Faint swelling. Deep purple seeping beneath the surface.

But you didn’t comment.

You just tilted your head toward the chair, the same one he’d occupied last time.

He hesitated for half a second, then sat.

“You came back,” you remarked, pen poised over your notepad.

He exhaled sharply, barely a sigh. “Polly made me.” Then, after a beat, he added, “And I was already in town.”

Which meant he had no real excuse to avoid it.

You nodded, scribbling something down. “How was your week?”

His mouth pulled slightly at the corner, something between amusement and exhaustion. “Same as always.”

You arched a brow. “Which means?”

He leaned back, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. The match flared, its sharp scratch loud in the quiet room. He took his time inhaling before answering.

“People talk. People drink. People want things from me.”

You let your gaze drop to his hand again. The bruises. The tension still coiled in his fingers.

“Rough day?” you asked, tone neutral.

His eyes flicked up, unreadable but unimpressed. “You could say that.”

You just nodded. No more questions. Not yet.

Silence stretched between you, thick but not uncomfortable. You waited, watching, knowing he’d fill it when he was ready.

Tommy wasn’t a man who responded well to direct questioning, especially not when he was like this. He needed space to say things in his own time, in his own way.

Finally, he sighed, running a hand down his face. “We had a bit of trouble with a family called the Lees.”

“I see.” You glanced at his hands. “They didn’t take kindly to you, I assume?”

Tommy smirked faintly. “Nobody ever does.”

He stretched out his fingers, looking at his own hands like they belonged to someone else. “It’s always the same. They come at us, we go at them. People act surprised, but it’s just how it’s always been.”

“Because of your background?”

His gaze flicked up to you, sharp, measuring. “You mean because we’re gypsies?”

“Yes.”

Tommy exhaled slowly, rolling his cigarette between his fingers. “It’s not just about that. But yeah… it plays a part.”

He tapped the unlit cigarette against his knee.

“People don’t like people like us. The coppers, the rich bastards in their suits, even some of the ones who drink in our pubs. Doesn’t matter that we’ve been here for years. Doesn’t matter that we fought for this country. We’re still what we are.”

“And what is that?”

His jaw tensed slightly. “Outsiders.”

You studied him for a moment before responding. “Your mother —was she an outsider too?”

Something flickered across his expression. Not quite pain, but something close.

“She was … like us.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “She used to say things were better when we were on the road, before we settled. Said when we had wagons, we had freedom.”

“And what did you think?”

Tommy hesitated, tilting his head slightly. “I was a kid. I liked the horses, liked running through the fields, the smell of wood smoke at night. But I never thought it’d last.” He glanced at her. “Nothing ever does.”

You nodded, tapping your pen lightly against your notebook. “You said she used to say that things were better before. Is that how you feel about your own life? That things were better before?”

He gave a short, humorless chuckle. “Before what?”

“That’s up to you.”

He leaned back slightly, considering. Then, he exhaled through his nose. “Before the war, yeah. Before everything turned to shit.”

“That’s normal.” you met his gaze. “Your brain was wired to adapt to survival. The war changed the way your mind processes everything — danger, safety, even time. That’s why nothing feels the same now.”

Tommy watched you, unreadable. “And what do you suggest? That I start painting? Take up knitting?”

You smiled faintly. “I suggest you start understanding what’s happening in your head instead of pretending it’s not.”

When he didn’t respond, you continued.

“When we experience trauma, especially repeated trauma like war, our brains go into survival mode. We stop thinking about long-term consequences and focus only on immediate threats. That keeps us alive when we’re in danger, but when the danger is gone, our brains don’t always know how to switch back.”

Tommy’s jaw tightened. “So what, you think I’m still in the trenches?”

“In some ways, yes.”

His fingers twitched slightly. He was listening, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

You leaned forward slightly. “Have you ever heard of hypervigilance?”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

“It’s when your brain stays on high alert even when there’s no immediate danger. You scan for threats without realizing it. You sit with your back to the wall in a pub. You notice exits in every room. You don’t sleep properly because your brain is waiting for something to happen.”

Tommy’s lips parted slightly, but he didn’t speak.

“That’s why people who come back from war feel like the world is moving too fast and too slow at the same time. It’s because your brain is still in survival mode.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “That’s a nice little theory, but — ”

“It’s not a theory, Mr. Shelby. It’s science.”

You continued to tap your pen lightly against your notebook.

“When you were fighting, your body was flooded with adrenaline every day. That’s what kept you alive. But now, when things are quiet, your body doesn’t know what to do with itself. That’s why you drink more. That’s why you get into fights. Because, whether you realize it or not, you’re chasing that feeling again.”

Tommy swallowed slightly, fingers still against his knee.

“You said before that things don’t feel loud enough.” She tilted her head slightly. “That’s because your brain got used to the volume being turned up all the way. Now that it’s quiet, it doesn’t feel real.”

He didn’t respond. Just sat there, staring at a spot on the floor.

For the first time since you met him, he looked truly ... unsettled.

Good, you thought. That meant he was listening.

You leaned back slightly. “I know you don’t like the idea of talking to someone, but you’re not the first man to sit in that chair feeling like this. And you won’t be the last.”

Still, silence.

Then, finally, Tommy exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I don’t need fixing.”

“I know.” You nodded. “But you do need to stop running.”

He lifted his gaze to yours.

Then, after a long moment, he stood.

He didn’t say anything as he reached for his coat, pulling it over his shoulders.

But just before he reached the door, he paused.

Without turning around, he muttered, “Same time next week, then.”

And with that, he was gone.

When Thomas got home that evening, Watery Lane smelly like coal smoke and damp earth.

The street was quiet, save for the distant barking of a dog and the occasional murmur of drunks staggering out of the Garrison.

He pushed open the door, stepping inside the cramped but familiar house. Dim candlelight flickered from the sitting room, casting long shadows against the walls.

Polly was waiting for him, perched in her usual chair, cigarette in hand. The amber glow of the tip pulsed as she took a slow drag.

“You went,” she said, not looking up.

Thomas sighed, shutting the door behind him. He shrugged off his coat, wincing slightly as his knuckles brushed against the rough fabric.

“You gave me no choice,” he muttered, making his way to the small drinks cabinet.

The whiskey sloshed softly as he poured himself a measure.

Polly exhaled smoke, finally meeting his gaze. “And?”

He took a sip, savoring the burn before answering. “And nothing. Same as last time.”

She tilted her head, watching him closely. “You talked?”

He smirked, shaking his head. “I answered questions.”

Polly sighed, leaning back. “And how long do you think you can keep that up?”

“As long as I need to.”

She scoffed. “You think you’re clever, Thomas, but that woman — she’s not fucking stupid. She’s not one of your men. She knows when you’re dodging.”

He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the way the candlelight caught the amber liquid. “Doesn’t mean she’ll get more than I want to give.”

Polly studied him for a long moment, then flicked ash into the tray beside her. “And what exactly do you want to give, eh?”

Thomas didn’t answer right away.

No, he downed the rest of his drink and set the glass down with a quiet clink.

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted.

Polly hummed, a knowing look in her eyes.

She stood, brushing past him on her way to the kitchen.

“You’ll figure it out,” she said, disappearing down the hall. “Whether you like it or not.”

Thomas stayed there for a moment, then, with a quiet sigh, he poured himself another drink.

The following week, Thomas Shelby walked in without hesitation.

No reluctance this time, no irritation.

If anything, he looked resigned, as if he’d already made peace with the fact that he’d be here again.

But there was something else too.

A heaviness in the way he carried himself. A deeper tiredness lining his face. The same cigarette between his fingers, the same wool coat draped over his shoulders, but his shoulders looked heavier today.

You noticed the fresh cut along his cheekbone, a thin line of red just starting to fade. The bruises on his knuckles were darker now, healing but still visible.

He sat without waiting for an invitation.

You didn’t comment on the cut, nor the bruises.

Instead, you simply noted, like a mantra. “You came back, again.”

Tommy scoffed lightly. “Against my better judgment.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am.” He exhaled smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling. Then, after a pause, he muttered, “My aunt said she’d send Arthur instead.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And that convinced you?”

He smirked, just barely. “Arthur talks too much.”

You let that sit for a moment before glancing at his hand, the one holding the cigarette. He noticed.

“No fighting this time,” he muttered preemptively.

“Then what happened to your face?”

His smirk deepened slightly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Would you believe me if I said I walked into a door?”

You gave him a look. “No.”

“Well, then.” He took another drag, exhaling slowly. “Let’s just say not everyone in Birmingham is thrilled about the Peaky Blinders expanding.”

You made a note, then met his gaze again. “And how do you feel about that?”

Tommy chuckled, shaking his head. “What is it with you and feelings?”

You didn’t respond, only waited.

He sighed, rubbing his temple. “It’s not about feelings. It’s about business.”

You tilted your head. “Business doesn’t bruise your knuckles.”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

He hated being asked like that, yet instead of staying away, he kept coming back.

Maybe it was because you intrigued him, or maybe he just liked the way you made sense of him, how you saw him in a way others didn’t.

Thomas didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied the cigarette between his fingers, like he was weighing his words.

“Sometimes business requires persuasion.”

“And sometimes persuasion is just an excuse.”

That made him pause.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours, sharp as ever. But instead of snapping back, instead of deflecting, he just watched you, considering.

Finally, he exhaled, shaking his head. “You’re a persistent one.”

“I have to be. Otherwise, men like you wouldn’t come back.”

Another pause.

Then, to your surprise, the faintest glimmer of amusement crossed his expression.

“Is that what I am?” he murmured. “A man like me?”

You tapped your pen against the notepad. “You tell me.”

He smirked, but it was softer this time. “You really think there’s a way out of this?”

“Out of what?”

His jaw tensed. “The way things are. The way things have always been.”

You watched him carefully. “That depends. Do you want there to be?”

Tommy held your gaze for a long moment. Then, for the first time since he walked in, he looked away.

“I don’t know.”

Honest.

Uncharacteristically so.

You nodded, jotting something down before setting your pen aside. “Then maybe that’s something we should figure out.”

He didn’t answer. Just sat there, cigarette burning between his fingers, gaze fixed on the desk in front of him.

Then, Tommy stirred, breaking the stillness.

“You know,” he said, his voice a bit more distant now, “I’m heading to the races tomorrow. You’d think a man like me would get tired of it, but…” He trailed off, lips pressing into a thin line.

“You’re going to the races?” You echoed, raising an eyebrow.

It was an odd way to shift the conversation, but not unexpected.

For all his layers of business and violence, Tommy Shelby was still a man with his routines, his vices, his escapes.

He flicked his cigarette into the ashtray, leaning back in the chair. “Yeah,” he muttered, sounding almost casual, but you could hear the undertone of tension, the same tension that always surrounded him like a cloak.

“And you invited someone?” You probed further, your curiosity piqued.

He hesitated, just for a beat, before the words left his lips. “A woman,” he said, then smirked, though it was more to himself than anyone else. “Grace. The barmaid at The Garrison. Thought it’d be good to have a little company.”

He was waiting for your reaction, but you didn’t let it show. If anything, you appeared... uninterested.

Surprised, yes, but mostly indifferent.

"Grace?" You said, leaning back in your chair. “And what makes you think she’s the right choice?”

Tommy’s lips quirked into a half-smile, though it was brief. “It’s not about right or wrong. She’s been around long enough. Thought I’d take her out, see how she handles herself in a crowd.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, picking up on the layers beneath his words. “So, you’re testing her?”

Tommy’s smirk softened, his gaze flicking over to you for a brief moment. “Maybe. Or maybe I just need someone who doesn’t ask too many questions.”

You knew better than to dig into Tommy’s words too deeply.

There was always more beneath the surface.

But you couldn’t help but wonder, what was Tommy really looking for in Grace? What did she represent to him?

“Well, I hope she’s ready,” you said, tapping your pen against the desk idly. “The races are never just about the horses.”

Tommy gave you a look, a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn’t quite place. “They never are.”

He stood, moving toward the door with the same fluid grace he always had. His coat swished as he turned, looking back at you.

“Same time next week?” He asked, though his tone made it clear that it wasn’t a question.

You nodded, meeting his gaze. “Same time.”

Tommy lingered for a moment, a strange silence hanging between the two of you.

He adjusted his cap, slipping back into the cold, calculated Thomas Shelby you knew all too well.

But what came next was something you weren't prepared for.

"Your name is Y/N L/N. Daughter of F/N and M/N L/N. You live in Small Heath, just outside Watery Lane. You studied in France. You were a nurse during the war. You have two siblings. Not married, not seeing anyone. You go to the apothecary every Friday, and that’s how you met my aunt.”

Your eyes narrowed, but he continued, as if reciting a poem, his tone detached and matter-of-fact. "I know everything that goes on in my town, Doctor. And you better keep everything from our meetings to yourself."

Your hands tightened around your leather notebook, the pages flipping nervously. You inhaled sharply, steadying yourself before responding.

How the fuck did he knew all of that ?

“I took the Hippocratic Oath. Everything my patients say stays strictly within this room.”

“It better,” he muttered, colder than ever, sending a chill through your spine.

With one final glance, he turned and walked out the door.

It was only then that you exhaled, the tension in your chest releasing.

Fuck.

taglist : @mrsnms

anyway bye and plz drop a comment or two babes xx

[smolvenger]

The Baronet Seeks A Wife Chapter Three

A Crimson Peak Multi-Part Fanfiction.

Thomas Sharpe x fem! Reader Arranged Marriage AU.

Fic Summary: England in the 1890s. When your spirited sister, Charlotte, defies your family by running away from her arranged engagement to Sir Thomas Sharpe, you are the one who must keep your family from scandal and ruin...by taking her place as the baronet's bride.

Chapter One//Chapter Two

Chapter Summary: You marry the Baronet, with only a few small problems here and there

Word Count: 5992 (I had to research actual menus in the Victorian Era for weddings, so help yourself to some ham and veal pie as you read, because we're gonna be here a while)

Chapter Warnings: Discussions of sex and anxiety around it, general wedding anxiety. Your Dad Tempts fate. Sometimes hints at Period Accurate Gender Roles, especially when it's kind of...hot. Oh and...

Speaking of which, there is smut in this chapter. (P in V sex, loss of virginity). this is NSFW!!!! Only eighteen years plus can reblog this! It starts with Make love with your wife,” you voiced and ends with "Both of you dropped into the bed, panting hard".

A/N:*old Rose voice* it's been 84 years... Hi guys, sorry for my absence. But i am in Grad school, and while I do become busy, I get hit with writer's Block and still have it to some degree (writing the first draft of this was rough, and it took literally months! I had no idea where to go with this story!). Plus, in a life update, I found out I have Bipolar Disorder (it runs on both sides of my family) and went manic in January, and it was terrifying and traumatic, and I almost died, and I had to be hospitalized. It's been almost six months since it happened, and I have been on medication that works for me and I'm doing everything in my power to prevent another episode and be ready for one and take care of my mental health, even though the idea of going manic again terrifies me to my core (from March to April I was having anxiety attacks about it almost every day). It feels like waiting for a bomb to drop every day. So, I thought writing would help with the healing process of such a thing happening to me, a creative outlet, and getting back into hobbies and all that, instead of letting my anxiety over going manic consume me and keep me from things I enjoy or living a fulfilling life. It's been a long time coming, so I thought this would be the right one for me to use to get back into writing fics again, since it's the most requested one. I hope you enjoy it! Also, since the third season of The Gilded Age is coming out as of now, I am now realizing this sort of thing happened in America in history and that Gladys is going through the same thing as in this fic. Though...as of now, I doubt it's going to go in the direction this fic is with Gladys and The Duke. But...we'll see!

If I miss something and you see something in my work that could be triggering that I didn't mention, then it is your responsibility to please please please tell me. I will take full accountability for how I portray marginalized groups and sensitive subject matter and make sure to better my writing and warnings so affected parties are protected.

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69 @skittslackoffilter @mischief2sarawr @asgards-princess-of-mischief @steasstuff @anukulee @kimi01985 @goblingirlsarah @foxherder @giona45-5

@muddyorbsblr (shout out to you, bestie, for your suggestions! They helped!!!) @goddessgirl43

The Baronet Seeks A Wife Taglist: @stainlessciel @mjsthrillernp @thegodofnotknowing @magicalmichelle96 @princessdragon23 @heavyymetalchick @xalphafox (if anyone wants to join a general taglist of my work or just be on this specific one, let me know!)

Wednesdays were the best day to get married, so Betsy told you. 

“Indeed, miss, you are right lucky that it is on Wednesday that it’s taking place!” she would comment as she delivered a tea tray to your room.  All this was said on a Wednesday, only a week until your life would change forever. 

Your mother rushed into your room, right as you were putting your feet up.

“Ah! Y/N! Good, you are here! I have a selection of ribbons you must consider!” she babbled.

You didn’t imagine the day of the wedding would arrive so fast. Yet it did. The storms of the planning- it all made your head swim. You had to remind your mother that it was your wedding, not hers! She wanted details down to the last flower to be shown to you. And to give her opinion on it to boot. The number of times you said “no, mama” was countless- “No, mama, I would like the roses in this shade”-“No, mama, those gloves won’t do.”

This time, you looked at the selection and prepared with a deep sigh.

“No, mama- I would like that one,” you pointed to the ribbon with your favorite color on it.

You could see her lips twitch, ready to give a rebuttal. But you cut in.

“Look at it, it’s lovely. I think it would make me very happy,” you added.

She took a look at the ribbon again. Holding it up to the golden light of the sun pouring into your room.

“Yes…It is lovely after all,” she managed to agree.

All of this back and forth. It seemed you would be on the verge of fighting. And it got close, but mercifully, there was none.

“Now…Y/N…I think we need to talk…” she said. 

The ribbons were put away, and the maid dismissed. She sat down next to you. You knew immediately where this would go.

“Mama…Lottie told me a lot,” you assured her.

“Well…I must warn you that, yes, a husband expects his wife to lie with him. And your husband will be no different. But…a good husband won’t scare his wife. He will be patient. Lead her in. Gentle as a fawn.”

“Mama, I…I have a question. And Lottie isn’t here to answer it,” you began. Your teacup was set down.

“Yes, ask away,” she replied. There was a slight heaviness in the air at the mention of your sister being gone. But it had to be ignored for the business of the marital bed.

“Will-will it hurt?”

She poured her cup of tea, but left it on its saucer.

“It does when it first happens. Sometimes there is a little blood, but easily cleaned up. And sometimes you have a little stomach ache, but it goes away.”

Blood and stomach aches. Delightful. 

You let out an exhale.

“So it is painful for the woman, but pleasurable for the man,” you summarized.

Your mother’s fingers curled into her hands and then released.

“Well, to some extent. But…Thomas seems to be a gentleman of decency. I do not know what he is like in such private matters, and it is not my business,” she said, a slight, shameful look on her brow.

She reached for your hand.

“But…it is good advice for husbands not to scare their wives by being too excited too soon. I hope Thomas does that as much. It might seem…much. But he will not jump onto you the minute you are alone- he cannot, he should not!”

“I know, mama,” you cooed.

“Why, if he tries anything, oh, I’ll box his ears off if he’s lucky!” she threatened.

You let out a laugh. It was the first time you had done so in a while.

“Why, Mama!”

“Yes, I would! But…should you ever need it, we are here, Y/N. Marriage can seem daunting…but I’ve done it for years. I’ll be glad to help you. As will your father.”

Moved, you opened your arms and embraced you. She hugged you back, accepting each other’s warmth and softness. Though you held on. For just a little bit, you could be a child again. One who could run to Mama if anything bad happened. Nothing a little hug and kiss wouldn’t fix. Not even the brink of wedding and bedding a baronet.

“Oh, your tea will get cold! Don’t forget it!” she reminded you.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

On the eve of the wedding, there was a small party. You, your parents, a few businessmen of your father's, and, of course, Thomas. Ever as smart in his suit.

One businessman looked at Thomas, puffing his thick cigar. The smoke curled into the air and melted. Yet the smell remained, warm and pungent.

“So, Thomas, it is a shame the late Baronet Sharpe is not here to see this!” he said.

Thomas blinked and then bowed his head. You had frozen, your drink untouched in your hand, still as if it were an ice pond.

You recalled his words, “My father- He was…an intimidating man. He wanted me to be like him.” You knew too well that any reminder to Thomas of his past would send him into this state. And of all the times to bring it up, it was now?

You took a step forward, curling your arm into Thomas’s. He, too, had hesitated. But now that you were beside him, he began his polite, dry response.

“Yes, sir, indeed it is most unfortunate.”

“Would he have approved of the choice?” the businessman continued.

You ground your teeth beneath your mouth. And Thomas felt tense. Why, this man didn’t know or suspect a thing. And he was pressing on! Thomas turned to look at you. You looked at him. What sort of question was this? The night before the wedding, too! What did this man think- that a dead man would rise from the grave and stop it? Did he honestly expect Thomas to say “oh, no, not at all, Y/N would be most unsuitable to him” right in front of you?

You squeezed your fiancé’s arm. 

“Why…why yes, yes he would,” Thomas replied. 

But Thomas seemed somewhat pale. Then he exhaled and took another small sip of his champagne. 

You blinked. You were not used to seeing him unsteady. Thomas was calm, cool, and a confident man who made a striking figure in a top hat. Yet now he was faltering.

You turned to him. Your voice was a whisper.

“He didn’t know. But he shouldn’t have asked that,” you said.

“I don’t mind it,” replied the Baronet.

From a distance, your father and mother were laughing at the businessman’s insipid jokes.

“Thomas, you look like your nerves are on edge.”

“You know I…I have difficulty discussing my family. But this won’t be the last of these questions. What is another one?” he asked.

“Thomas…would…would your family have approved of the match? Be honest with me,” you said.

Your stomach clenched, ready for the answer. Yet it took a point you had forgotten.

“They would have approved it based on your family’s status and money.”

You leaned forward.

“And of me? Personally?”

 But Lucille disliked everyone who wasn’t me. Mother would have just wanted me out of the house. Father…Father would not say I was enough of a man for you.”

Both of you walked over to the fireplace. He patted the part of the couch next to him, and you joined him. Grateful to have a more private conversation amid the armies of relatives who would be there. 

Thomas folded his hands and looked at you.

“Y/N, you deserve to know the truth. Everything faltered when my father passed, as did his assets.” 

You were not naive. He agreed to this arrangement for the financial benefits. Your family needed a foothold in society. Yet there was something about Thomas saying it out loud. It stung.

Thomas noted the look on your face.

“Now, I know I am not a man who lives a life as comfortable as you, but…”

He took your hand and then placed his other one over it. It felt warm on your gloves. His hands were the softest you had felt.

“You won’t go hungry. I will do everything I can to make sure of it,” he promised.

“ What will I eat then?” you prodded. In the mood to lighten the mood and tease him.

“Hm, I am not sure…I was never a cook,” he added.

“Neither am I. We are at Mrs. Dalloway’s mercy,” you replied with an assuring smile. 

After the honeymoon, you would move into Thomas’s place. There would be a few servants from your dowry. You both agreed to hire a woman named Mrs Dalloway as a cook. Her constant frown, frazzled hair, and round, red face. Her small eyes disapproved of everything they saw. But she made some fantastic raspberry scones.

 “Do not upset her, Thomas. Or else you’ll get sugar in place of salt!” you added.

The grandfather clock struck the hour of nine o'clock. The appointed hour crept slowly but surely.

“How…how do you feel about tomorrow?” he asked.

You looked down at your hands. You knew the answer to every aunt, fellow debutante, and employee of Father’s was “thrilled. But the solitude allowed you to be earnest.

“I’m…I’m scared,” you confessed.

“Scared?” Thomas asked. Though there remained a small smile on his face. Not in mockery, but in kind assurance.

You nodded.

“My…my life is changing. I’m going to be a wife. And I’m going to be your wife. I’m living somewhere completely different. I…I don’t even know where to begin. It’s all happening so fast that I cannot help but feel overwhelmed.”

And I’m scared about the wedding night. You thought. The words were phantoms floating in the air. About the pain. About the awkwardness. About the blood. About not being ready, and if you…

You fought back the urge to say anything. It would be the least proper conversation to have in such a public space.

“I…I’m frightened too,” he replied. 

“You are?”

Thomas’s eyes lowered.

“What are we getting ourselves into? I know you didn’t wish to be trapped with me. A man who makes somewhat of a living, a man of only so much, marrying you after…I’m a toymaker, Y/N, I’m no great lord.”

You stepped forward. This time it was your free hand that came over his.

“You are great… in your way. And Thomas, one day you’ll see it.”

Thomas smiled.

“Of course.”

It was time for the guests to leave. Including the groom. Thomas put on his top hat and his coat, though he tipped it for you. He wished his goodbyes to your parents. Then, when it came to you, he lowered himself, kissing your hand as if you were royalty.

“Goodnight, my dear.”

Your voice left you for a second.

“Goodnight, Thomas.”

He raised himself.

“The next time I see you, we’ll be at the altar. Ready or not.”

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

The morning arrived. And you missed your sister. Charlotte. Yes…Charlotte. You always imagined Charlotte would be there at your wedding. Part of the party as a maid of honor. How she would complain of the finery, but laugh and indulge in cake. Say little things to make you chuckle to relax. Fuss over your appearance. Perhaps get into trouble. But…she wasn’t. Perhaps you would never see her again.

She should have been here today. On your wedding.

 You knew the wedding served a function.  It was another outing for the debutantes to go out to. Yes, some might envy your position. But they weren’t without hope. Another guest or connection would leave them to their prospective grooms. But that was their future. This was your present.

You got up early. The early morning sunshine filtered through as light as a feather. Looking about, you saw the packed things. Your heart was pounding as the maids went into your room. Some gathered your things and left. Anne was there to make sure your hair was done up. How glamorous it felt to be a bride. It was like preparing for a part in a play, complete with a set and lines to know.

Your hands shook. Your heart pounded as you sat down for a light repast. Your stomach was constantly churning, but you made yourself have some bites of fruit and toast.

Your mother went to the door and walked in. She stood in the corner smiling. Sometimes giving an odd comment to a maid. You couldn’t even speak.

They dressed you out of your nightgown and robe. Then into a fresh shift. Your wedding corset with a special lace for today. Stockings. Anne helped your pads and petticoats. She laced the front of your corset cover

Finally, out of its place in the closet came the dress. An elegant concoction of the usual fashionable style. After all, don’t little girls dream of a wedding day with such a gown? It was ivory with silk taffeta over the bust and puffed-up sleeves. But the puffs of taffeta were more oval than circular. And what was most striking was the little greenery on it for decoration. A sprig of a plant with tiny, white blooms was over your left shoulder. At the bottom of the long skirt was a pattern of small green leaves on the training skirt. Once you put it on, there was a train added at the back of you. A magnificent cape of ivory silk with green leaves around the edges.

Finally, a veil was attached to your head. It was a motley collection of fake white flowers with a ghostly train behind you. When you looked in the mirror, you wondered what you saw: a fairy? A specter? A being benign or wicked? She wasn’t human.

“Oh, how lovely!” Your parents stood up once you descended the stairs.

Taking your father’s arm, you went to the church, your heart pounding in your chest. You were shaking, and your stomach threatened to remove its contents. But you tried hard to remain composed. Your mind kept spinning, reeling after everything that happened, that was happening. You stepped into the carriage and stared out the window. You seemed half in the present moment and half in a dream.

Already, you could hear church bells.

The carriage finally arrived at the church. Its door looked like it would swallow you whole. You got up, making sure your train wasn’t in bad condition or stuck, though it did take some effort to pull it all out. The organ inside playe,d and it was like you could feel its notes in your bones. You got to your place at the end of the line and waited. The bridal party marched out one by one. Music kept swelling from the organ in waves. The,n finally, you were at last walking down the aisle. 

You walked down as the church was decorated with roses. The guests stood up in their pews, and a few hatted heads bowed down a little. In reverence of the sacrificial lamb. You frantically looked about. You didn’t feel your feet touch the ground. Your heart raced like you were running.

You then looked at the figure in a black tuxedo at the altar as it got closer and clearer.

Thomas looked stunning. He already looked stunning in a tuxedo. But this one looked crisp and modern compared to his old-fashioned suits. It was tailored well to his lean, broad form. His dark curls were clean and soft. You wanted to touch them to see how soft they were. He gave you something of a smile. And your racing mind and unsure body seemed to calm down.

Once you were there at the altar, your father handed your arm to be draped over Thomas’s. You then both faced the priest. He was a docile old man with a balding head and spectacles. He spoke with a voice as gentle as a grandfather's.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this Congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy Matrimony,” he began.

He recited the Book of Common Prayer about the importance of marriage’s sanctity. Though you did peek over at Thomas a few times to see him in his tuxedo again. The old priest continued.

“I require and charge you, as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgement, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if anyone knows any impediment, why these two may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, do now confess it. For be well assured, that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God's Word doth allow are not joined together by God; neither is their Matrimony lawful.”

“I have cause,” came a voice.

You turned around and saw one gentleman standing up. A fellow with grey sideburns and whiskers that stretched around his face like a belt.

“Thomas is engaged to Miss Charlotte Y/L/N. Not her sister. This is a sham! The wedding should have Charlotte at the altar.”

. 

Thomas stepped forward, his arm remained on yours.. “Miss Charlotte has yet to be discovered. We do not know her whereabouts or what she is doing, or even if she is still alive.”

Inspired by him, you gave your response. You didn’t want this gentleman to stop the wedding. Nerves or no.

“She isn’t here, and…she did not wish the union. She left a note saying that was why she ran away. She ended things with Thomas. He became free to marry another,” you confirmed, standing firm.

A scoff came from the objector.

“Perhaps so. And what of the Sharpe family?” he added.

Thomas’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

“Are they truly the right family to be united with this virtuous, decent lady? Why, I don’t see any relatives under the name ‘Sharpe’ about this church?” he went on.

Your father stormed forward.

“None of them could make the wedding in time, but all wished him well! You’re overthinking, Mr.Scroop. And I don’t see why anything in Thomas’s personal history renders him unfit to wed. He is alive, he is free, and he is suitable. Now, sit and let us get on with it!”

“The Sharpe family

The ceremony went by in a blur. Thomas got out a ring- a silver band with a large ruby on it. He insisted on that being your wedding ring.

“I, Thomas, take thee, Y/F/N to be my lawfully wedded wife,” he repeated after the priest.

The ring felt snug, but it did fit well. It looked like having a large, jeweled beetle on your finger, always winking up at you. Ready to bite at a minute's notice.

Before you knew it, the priest had a final blessing. He gestured for you both to turn.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” he intoned.

The congregation burst into applause. The organ blared a triumphant procession as you took Thomas’s arm and walked down the aisle.

 Here it was, a new part of your life. A new part of your identity- wife, wife. It didn’t feel real. And if you had to be honest with yourself, the unknown of the future scared you. You felt scared of so many things. Scared of failing, scared of what was new, scared of leaving the old behind, and wishing it would come back.Scared of a disaster beyond the horizon. Scared something horrible would happen- promised without a date when it would strike. You longed for your past. You wanted to be back to before so badly. Back to being carefree. Back to when things were simple. Even back to your childhood.

But you mustered your courage. There had to be a way through this, right? Even as your body and mind felt a disconnect, an uncertainty, there had to be an answer. You could feel Thomas’s arm supporting you and feel the warmth from his body. He appeared cool and composed after the objector's nonsense. 

The bells sang out the nuptial joy. Well-wishers by the dozens threw “congratulations” like flower petals. You kept on until you both walked out of the church doors. The carriage arrived and halted before the church. People waved handkerchiefs. Thomas kept the door open, and you stepped into it. The rollicking taking you right back to your home.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

Wedding breakfasts were an awaited noontime delight for society. The morning ceremony caused a great deal of rumbling in the stomach. You and Thomas were placed to sit at the center of the table. The guests all smiled and then helped themselves. There were various summer fruits in little bowls. Then servants arrived, white ribbons pinned onto their uniforms. Out came the dishes onto the table. Lobster Salad, Lamb ribs, mayonnaises of fish, Veal, and Ham Pie to up one end. Stuffed shoulder of lamb, Charlotte russe a la vanille, and decorated ham took up the other. Complete with three cakes sitting like porcelain figurines. Charms baked inside each.

Once the guests were distracted by the lamb ribs, you turned to Thomas.

“How…how are you?” you asked shyly.

Thomas gave you a small smile.

“As well as I can be, it’s not every day you get married!” he answered.

“No, it is not…” 

Your attention turned to another guest going up and saying, “My dear Y/N! Congratulations!” And the awkwardness of a nuptial exchange dropped.

But Thomas stood up.

“May I speak, everyone?” he announced.

Heads turned to him.

“My dear friends, I thank you for coming today. And as a token of my gratitude, I have created something.”

He gestured to the corner, and a servant wheeled in a cart with a cloth over it. Thomas walked over and flung it away.

On it was a large mechanical swan. On top of the swan sat a few bottles of champagne. As Thomas turned its wheel, an arm popped open the bottle. Another arm picked up the bottle and poured it into a glass. Applause erupted from the guests. Everyone cooed to receive a glass.

Thomas remained standing, holding his glass.

“I made it for a celebration. And there is much to celebrate, so I would like to propose a toast to my wife,” he declared.

He turned to you, raising his glass.

“To Lady Sharpe.”

“To Lady Sharpe!” the others repeated as they each took a sip.

Soon, people were standing up. Some waddling from their full bellies. Leaving bit by bit into the afternoon. Thomas went away to boast of his creation to a few curious admirers. Then Mr. Scroop approached you.

“A word, please, Lady Sharpe,” he said.

You nodded and approached him. He was placing his top hat on his head.

“Hello, sir, thank you for coming to the wedding,” you began. Ignoring everything that happened during the ceremony.

“Forgive my boldness at the ceremony, but I cannot help but be concerned,” he said.

“Concerned? Do you mean my sister?” you asked.

He shook his head.

“In truth, It is not your sister that concerns me. It is your husband.”

“What do you mean?” you asked. Your wedding dress felt suddenly tight.

“It appears you are unfamiliar with the Sharpe family and their history. That is what concerns me. But the family is not what you would expect,” he warned.

Guests laughed at a quip Thomas made.

“I know that most of Thomas’s family passed away. Including his parents and sister,” you recited.

“Yes, but their circumstances when they were alive appear …interesting, shall we say. Yes, Thomas managed to do well for himself. Almost too well,” Mr. Scroop said.

“He earned it. Thomas is a hard-working, decent gentleman!” you insisted.

Mr. Scroop leaned closer.

“The Sharpe family is many things. They worked hard. But they are what you consider decent. Not even Thomas,” he warned.

“Tell me, what do you mean?” you asked. “Who did what?”

“I can only tell you this on your wedding day…I’d be careful if I was you.”

He then tipped his hat and walked away. You scurried and blocked his path.

“What do you mean, sir? Please, give me specifics!” you begged.

“I will give none today. Unless you want a broken heart,” he said.

“My heart broke when my sister left. I can handle another one!” 

He walked away, leaving you there. Standing awkwardly. Sticking out in your white gown and fiddling with your hands, your ring gives you something to twist around in your nerves.

Who was this gentleman? What did he know? What did he want? Perhaps this was blackmail. You couldn’t deny that people wanted your family’s money. Or making an exaggeration? A con artist who wanted to scare you into writing a check. If he was so concerned about you and this marriage, why didn’t he contact your father or you before it went through? Why now? Maybe his words were an exaggeration of the facts. He wanted to make this a melodrama for his amusement.

You felt an arm. It was Thomas.

“Is everything alright?” he asked.

“I…I had the strangest encounter with one of our guests,” you said.

“Oh, a guest?”

Taking in a breath, you turned to face him. Your supposed indecent husband.

“Yes, he was…he was speaking strangely, and-”

“Why, Miss Y/N! I suppose you aren’t Miss Y/N anymore, but Lady Sharpe! Oh, congratulations, dear, on this happy occasion!” cried out one other lady guest as she bustled in to shake your hand with a fervor.

Taking a moment to recognize the rosy cheeks, pink dress, and tufts of brown hair, you returned the smile.

“Why, Mrs. Browning, thank you so much for coming!” you replied, back to your old hostess self.

By the time the guests left, servants were packing up the carriage. There was going to be a honeymoon in a rented country house some miles from London. And then you would move into Thomas’s place. You changed out of your formal bridal gown into a traveling one.

Walking down in your coat and hat, you met your parents outside the door. Servants who weren't packing lined up to say their goodbyes. Finally, you reached your parents.

You glanced at your mother. The one subject you could not discuss in Father’s presence weighed between you both. Both of you knew exactly what would happen in a few hours. She looked back at you. Knowing the very thought in your head and saying nothing. You hugged her and then your father.

“Travel safe, be sure to write when you arrive there,” your mother insisted.

“I shall.”

Thomas arrived in his lighter coat and top hat. He made well wishes to his in-laws and then helped you into the carriage. He took his place across from you, and soon the carriage moved towards your wedding night.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

It was raining by the time you entered the cottage. Servants bustled in to get the luggage. But as the carriage door opened, your hat could not protect you from the pelts.

“Allow me,” Thomas suggested, already outside. 

He ran forward and opened his coat wide enough that you could bend beneath it like a chick beneath a hen’s wing. You both hurried forward to the door, rain and mud getting on the ends of your skirts, and opened the door.

The cottage was comfortable. A bit plain compared to the house in London, but perfect. The servants got the luggage out and then carried on their business.

“I…I’m going to change out of my wet things,” you said.

“Of course… we both should,” Thomas agreed.

You went to your shared room. There was a screen to hide behind and change clothes. You dressed down in a shift and a tea robe. 

Walking out, you saw Thomas in just a white shirt and black overalls. He was just adjusting the straps.  But he was beautiful. It was low-cut, showing some of his chest. His curls looked soft and freed rather than patted down with a comb. He looked natural, even raw. And he was every bit as beautiful in this as in his suit. It made your blood warm.

His eyes turned up to notice you. 

“How are you?” he asked.

“I am well.”

It seemed like the tenth time you exchanged this pleasantry today. There was a pause. You were both by the fireplace. A roaring ember cracked, and the rain pelted the roof above. 

Thomas’s jaw tightened. A slight blush entered his cheeks and his voice darkened.

“Do you…have you been told about…”

“Yes,” you answered.

“Yes? By whom?”

“Lottie would tell me about it. She learned everything from her friends, and she would then tell me. Then Mama gave me a few talks.”

“Well…I am glad. I…I don’t want to push you to…to anything…nothing has to happen,” he assured you.

But he looked so beautiful. He looked so soft. His body had been hidden beneath all of those layers. And you didn’t want to go to a cold bed without a touch from him. Only one touch. No one was here. No one watched. No one interrupted. And you were married. 

“How about a kiss?” you requested, boldness overtaking you.

“A kiss?”

“On the lips.”

He leaned forward and kissed you. He then reached his hand and cupped your cheek, keeping you close. Warmth spread through your body, and the fire had nothing to do with it. He smelled of musk and the rain. And his lips had the light hint of champagne. Your pulse began to speed up. The warmth in your body flushed down. By the time he released his lips, disappointment settled in your chest. It felt…early. Outside, there was a bit of thunder. The rain pelted on.

“How was that?” you asked.

“How do you think it was?” Thomas replied with a smirk.

You raised a hand and put it over his heart. You could hear his heart thumping in a quick rhythm.

“Your heart is racing. Mine is the same…here…” You offered.

You took up his hand and placed it over yours. Keeping close to one another. His hand was close to your chest. Deliciously close. You realized you wanted him to touch you there. To not keep those large, beautiful hands to himself. To touch you in every forbidden area.

“Well then…could you give your husband another kiss?” he asked.

You leaned forward and kissed him on the lips again. Something inside you melted, let down. He wrapped his arms around your waist, and you felt yourself sway into him. His arm went around your back, supporting you. You could have fallen into his arms, and he would have caught you. 

He released the kiss.

“Y/N, I…I could let you have this room for tonight, if-”

“Thomas…” you whispered. 

Inside you, you didn’t want this to stop. You liked touching him, feeling how warm and soft he felt. And your inner warmth couldn’t stop. You felt if he turned and left you, you would scream. 

“Yes?” he asked.

You cupped his face and kept him close.

“Stay. Stay and make love to me. Make love with your wife,” you voiced.

In answer, he leaned forward and kissed you with passion. His hands found their way to your back. You pulled him close. Closing your eyes and feeling his soft lips, his warm breath, his body pressing against you. His erection brushing against your body. 

“Go to the bed,” he requested, keeping the dark husk in his voice.

Per your marriage vows, you removed your tea robe and obeyed.

He unbuttoned his shirt and let it slide off. You stared in awe at his bare chest. You placed a hand on it, felt his heartbeat.

“Will…will it hurt?” you asked.

“It might be a little…if you need me to stop…” he offered.

“No, keep going!” you insisted.

“Then…I’ll ready my bride. You’ll be ripe as a peach and ready soon,” he whispered.

 He kissed your neck, one arm around you. Then you felt it go up. You felt one of his hands go to your shift and loosen one sleeve down. to show your shoulder. He pressed a kiss into it. He then slid both sleeves off and revealed your chest to him.

He put a hand over one, his finger grazing the nipple.

“Beautiful,” he said.

He leaned down to kiss it, and you let out a sigh. He began to kiss all over your body, a trail exploring every bit of you. His hands took off your shift until you were naked beneath him. You felt blood rush at seeing him look at your naked body. He started with your breasts and traveled down to your stomach. You shook with anticipation, feeling his soft lips. 

“Yes…yes, please- Thomas,” you moaned, arching your back.

He then finally removed his trousers. You looked at him again in awe. It was so large, thick, and dripping already. You swallowed, wondering how it was going to fit. But…you wanted him. You wanted it inside you so badly, you felt as if you would burst. Your desire overcame your fear of the pain.

He then kissed you again and prepared your legs. He grabbed one and kissed the inner thigh. Your voice came out of you. “Thomas…oh, Thomas…” it melted into another moan.

He positioned himself between you, the tip brushing your entrance. You looked up at him and he at you.

“Do you want this?” he asked.

“Please…please take me,” you begged breathlessly.

He then began to insert himself. And there was pain; you let out a small cry at first. Then…it was over. It felt…good. Right. You belonged there. You adjusted. 

“Yes…that’s my good wife,” he rasped.

He began to move slowly. Grunting as he did. You were breathing out, clinging onto him, nails digging lightly into his skin.

“God-oh, God-have mercy-Thomas-please-I-I-yes-”

He reached a hand down and found a spot in you, he strummed it around. A fresh wave of pleasure struck you. 

“Thomas!”

“There, my dear?” 

“There!”

He moved your legs up to his shoulders. He thrust a deeper spot and you let out a cry. His pace increased. He panted and groaned with each one. Every sinful thrust taking you over, and his long fingers stroking that spot inside you. It was spinning up, and the pace increased, of his hips slamming into yours and the curl of his finger. It kept up, up.

“God-oh-oh God-I-I’m going to die-oh-oh God-Thomas-”

“You’re-you’re close-and you-your heat-it’s going-it’s going to make me- my dear-go-go on-just come, come-come, damn it-come-,” he whispered.

Something in you shattered, and you let out a cry from the impact of it. The pleasure exploded inside you. It came down in shivers all across your body and made your head spin. Nothing else mattered in the world. Except for what you felt.  After a few more thrusts, Thomas followed suit and released as well. His cum shot inside you, hot and spurting. Once he emptied, he pulled out.

Both of you dropped into the bed, panting hard. He pulled up the blankets. He touched your face.

“Lady Sharpe…how are you?” he asked.

“Never better,” you replied with a grin, kissing his nose.

Settling into the blankets, you wrapped your arms around him. His curls loosened. And his shoulders relaxed. You held each other as the fire crackled. Both of you were giddy by the time dinner arrived in a tray. You ate dressed in nightclothes and then went to bed. You wrapped your arms around Thomas, discussing only little things here and there. What you should do or not do while out in the country. Soon, he was fast asleep. 

Though in your head, after the haze of pleasure faded, Mr. Scroops words returned. You couldn’t help but wonder…who was this man you married and made love to?

[ikinremu]

what about a tommy fic where he punishes you for teasing him in public.. please and thank you in advance <3

Hi anon! Thank you sm for requesting, hope you enjoy! <3

What you’re told

Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader

! Smut Warning !

Tags: Teasing, Public, Pussy Spanking, Light Spanking, P in V, Riding, Cream Pie, Degrading

"Cheers!” A messy, drunken uproar rattled through the Garrison's walls, a faint smirk playing upon Tommy's pinkish lips as he watched the celebration radiate between his men, his arm slung lazily round your shoulder.

The two of you were easily to be deemed the least intoxicated there, though the others made that a rather easy accomplishment considering the amount of empty glasses strewn across the table top. Truthfully, you weren't exactly sure what they were celebrating, though whatever it was seemed to have grown adults grinning like giddy little boys.

Raising your own drink to the brink of your lips, you smiled as the folk conversed in sloppy, practically unintelligible sentences. Your opposing hand rested gently upon Tommy's leg beneath the table. It only then occurred to you that nobody's eyeline was within actually seeing under the surface - given the cramped atmosphere, and an idea sprung into your whirring brain, banishing all other thoughts. Besides, yourself and Tommy were at the very edge of the table, Tommy to your right and a blank space to your left.

With a slight, well-concealed smile, you snaked your hand slowly over the broad of Tommy's thighs, finding the bulge of his crotch as your palm gently brushed over it. His eye twitched a little, though he upheld his unbothered facade as well as ever; if there was one thing to note about Thomas Shelby it was that it was incredibly rare to see him break.

He lifted his tall, half-empty glass to his lips, tilting it backward as it masked his mouth. Softly, you began stroking the length of him through his dark, costly trousers, feeling him harden beneath your teasing touch. He spluttered into the very brink of his beverage less than subtly, caught off guard by the way your pace quickened, applying ever so slightly more pressure.

Briefly glanced at by a few men, Tommy offered a dismissive signal - assuring that he was alright despite the cough.

You made a successful effort to defy attention, just mildly arching your hand as you stroked his stiffening cock through the lavish fabric. He shuffled atop his seat, a light hitch of breath catching in his throat as he shot you a clear, sharp warning glare. You tossed him a kind, innocent furrow of your brows in response, presenting as though you were oblivious to whatever he was implying. This only irritated him further, you could tell.

Finally, you trailed your eager grasp from the harsh strain of his crotch, and you could see the momentary relief paint his face, though you knew it wouldn't last long. Instead, your palm took ahold of his own, slowly guiding it between the warmth of your legs. His jaw ticked. You hadn't worn any underwear, and you wanted him to know it, to feel it. You slid his large, callous hand to the part of your thighs, brushing his fingertips against your bare, slickened cunt. His Adams apple bobbed in this throat, and he quickly wet his lips with his tongue.

Tommy inhaled sharply through his nose, turning only slightly, breath angled hot and quiet against your neck.

"Drop it now, or the fucking second we're alone, you'll regret it." He whispered, "Understand?"

He granted himself another short sip of his drink with with his unoccupied hand.

His words were understood, of course they were, though understood and cared for were two entirely different things.

You sported a sweet smile as the chatter continued around the table, and you lead his familiar touch to the direct, sodden heat of your bare pussy, feeling the rough skin of his fingertips brush against you.

His nostrils flared ever so slightly, frustration playing on his falsely calm features.

"Fine." He mumbled in a low tone, "Have it your way."

And you planned to.

--------

The dark, obnoxiously sleek wood of the door slammed behind you as Tommy's strength hauled you into the bedroom.

"What did I fuckin' say to you, eh?" He spat, pale hand rubbing harshly over his jaw as he stared at you with shamelessly pointed frustration.

Refusing to shake your own pride, you shrugged, "Uhm.. I can't quite remember, can't have been that important."

His jaw twitched once again, and he utilised his grip to position you atop the bed, your clothed back pushed to the well-polished headboard as he joined you on the mattress, roughly parting your legs.

"No panties, hm?" He raised one thick, tame brow, "What kind of fuckin' game are you playing, eh?"

Butterflies danced around in your stomach, swarming with anticipation for whatever was to follow.

"Tommy, I-" You began, although judging by the vexation on his features, his question was rhetorical.

With a teasing pace, his fingertips brushed against the slickened arousal of your cunt, toying softly with your clit. "This what you wanted? You wanted my fingers fucking your desperate little cunt, hm?"

A sweet, broken moan slipped your mouth as you nodded frantically, "Y-Yes, please.."

With zero trace of warning, the rough palm of his hand met your bare pussy, a light slap tingling against the sensitivity as a harsh gasp rolled from your tongue.

"Think you deserve my fingers?" He mock frowned, "This is what you fuckin' deserve, love."

You stared directly at Tommy's satisfied face, your own eyes far wider than his.

Once more, you felt the very same smack of his hand against your sopping cunt, this time more intense than the last.

"Fuck," You couldn't help but curse, breath pouring shakily out, your tormented cunt twitching beneath the sting of his hand.

His other hand snaked quickly up your torso, resting quite gently around your throat, offering it a small squeeze.

Each slap felt slightly harsher than the previous, useless pleas filling the air as your drenched arousal pulsed against Tommy's hand.

After each smack, he brought the graze of his thick fingertips to the swell of your clit, granting you mere moments of sweet pleasure before tearing it away.

Despite the punishment, yourself nor your body could deny the spark of enjoyment.

"You're drenched." Tommy chuckled, feeling the heat of your slickness on his pads of his fingers, "You want more, that it?"

"Mhm." You offered a gentle, willing nod.

"Tell me what you fuckin' want, love." He encouraged, a low gravel to his tone.

Breath hitching in your throat, your soft lips parted,

"I..I want you to fuck me."

"You want my cock filling you up like a pretty fucking whore, hm?" A smirk tainted his pert lips.

His hands eagerly seized at your hips, altering your relaxed position, bringing you to straddle him as he leant backward atop the mattress.

Tommy offered the thick of your ass a rather harsh spank, freeing his hard cock with the opposing hand, "You're gonna take what I fuckin' give you, understand me?"

Fist surrounding his twitching shaft, he lined himself with your begging entrance.

"My fuckin whore, isn't that right?" A low, hoarse chuckle escaped his lips, your heavy eyelids fluttering together as his thick, pre-cum coated tip brushed with your cunt. Once more, his familiarly large hand came down on your behind, scolding you. "Look at me."

Stomach flitting, you did as he asked, met with his satisfied features.

"Better." He praised, "So you can do what your told, eh?"

One loud, breathy moan fled your throat as you revelled in the sensation of his length filling you, ridges of your teeth planting themselves down on your bottom lip. A groan vibrated on his tongue as your soaked folds wrapped his cock, squeezing his shaft as you took him in.

At the absence of his hips snapping up, you peered at him, painted in puzzle.

"I'm not going to fuck you, you're going to do it yourself." Tommy stated, and it certainly wasn't up for debate, "This is a punishment, remember."

Having brought the instruction upon yourself, you began slowly grinding your hips upon his, the pair of you swarming the air with both humidity and eager, sultry sounds as you moved. His greedy grip met your ass once more, kneading the flesh, bringing you impossibly closer.

You whined helplessly as the throbbing head of his cock caressed your g-spot, reaching deeper and deeper, his eyes fixated on the motions in which your breasts moved beneath your shirt.

"That's it.." He practically grumbled, chest rising and falling, "Take it."

Your empty palms sought out a rest atop Tommy's well-concealed torso, utilising the hold to stabilise your motions, beginning to bounce so very softly at your own pace.

"You're fucking killing me.." He groaned roughly, landing yet another - far lighter - spank to the rocking of your pelvis, pace quickening rather drastically as you yearned for a new-found sense of depth.

"Fuck.." You whimpered, only further intoxicating Tommy as your chain of broken, breathy noises floated by. The apple of your cheeks flushed with raw heat as your warm skin hit against him, "P-Please, Tommy.."

"Work for it." He instructed, no lenience present whatsoever.

Rather deeply, he grunted as his gratified length twitched between your walls, taunted mercilessly by your hot, dripping pussy. Grasping your behind with a depraved force, Tommy trailed one hand up your spine, swathing the back of your neck with his touch, craning it so your eyes met directly with his own as you moved.

"Fuck," He uttered, "There you go.."

Clenching eagerly, your cunt quivered, stomach fluttering with the intimacy of his hand cradling your neck, helpless moans escaping your throat, skin burning with each intensifying bounce.

You picked up the pace, overworked legs trembling, chest practically heaving beneath the thin cotton of your shirt.

Tommy's plump, pinkish lips curved upward, forming a familiarly smug smirk as his cock twitched, reaching deeper. Abruptly, his loose grasp upon your neck faltered, instead sliding its way over your body, halting between the warmth of your thighs.

His gaze flitted directly up to yours from below, his callous, skilled fingertips merely ghosting over the swell of your clit.

Your teeth punctured down on the pillow of your lower lip, further weakened by the teasing manner in which he brushed over your heightened sensitivity, "Please.."

He chuckled, "Right there, hm?"

Nodding mindlessly, you whimpered gingerly as his digits applied pressure to your clit once more, toying flawlessly with his touch.

The sensations combined with the perfect angle of his tip to your g-spot, you revelled in the build of a familiar, long-awaited sensation brewing in your abdomen.

"I'm so close.." You whispered out.

"Cum on my fuckin' cock.." Tommy encouraged, planting yet another - perhaps more gentle - slap to your ass as he worked his fingertips faster, his words blatantly breathy. He was close too.

Accompanied by the likes of a loud, pent-up moan, the lustful coil in your stomach snapped so suddenly, waves of insurmountable pleasure submerging your body as your orgasm hit, "Oh, F-Fuck.."

His fingers only continued, assisting to ride your orgasm out. As your sodden, spasming walls squeezed him with your release, Tommy groaned similarly loud. Seemingly beyond his control, his hips bucked upward, smacking messily against yours, a warm burst pooling throughout your cunt.

The pair of you breathed in synchronised, heavy breaths, Tommy’s plush lips parting to speak once more, "You going to do what you're told next time?"

Thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed! Please feel free to use the requests/asks feature on my page - it’d be so greatly appreciated!

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

More (Thomas Hutter x fem!vampire!reader)

-> you finally put an end to Thomas’s torment and your own, claiming him once and for all

Warnings: smut, p in v, fingering, a pinch of somnophilia (reader kisses Thomas while he sleeps), dom!reader (mostly), teasing, no denial this time but reader is still a bit mean, blood drinking, potentially life-endangering loss of blood (no death)

*sequel to Devourable ‘cause I couldn’t leave you guys—and Thomas—like that

Mature content below the cut - minors DNI!!!

When Thomas wakes, your tongue is already upon him. It’s the slow, wet glide of it along his throat which rouses him, so similar to the heated touches with which you have been tormenting him in his dreams, he nearly believes himself to be asleep still.

But he truly is aware, and here, and so are you—lying at his side, already half atop him, luring his mind back to consciousness with your wicked mouth. Your teeth may be sharp, but it’s dangerously easy to forget that when his skin revels in the softness of your lips. Your leg is slotted between his, thigh nudging teasingly at the growing bulge in his pants whilst your fingers hold his neck in a loose grip which could tighten at any moment. Thomas opens his eyes with a quiet moan, reaching up to caress your cheek as you nip at his earlobe.

“Awake at last,” you whisper with a trace of amusement. Entertaining the silent plea in his touch, you lift your head to look Thomas in the eyes.

“I waited for you,” he confesses—so much like a child awaiting praise and hoping for reward.

In the hours after dawn, when you had left him hard and aching, he could scarcely think past the lust plaguing him. He had brought himself to eat as much as he could stomach, heeding your warning that he do so before you inevitably feast on his blood when you come back to claim him as he had begged you to. Only in late afternoon did he finally manage to fall into a fitful sleep, still taut with anticipation for that moment when you would finally be together, fully and without restraint. His hefty meal had done nothing to erase the taste of you on his tongue, and the sheer memory of your flesh tightening around his fingers as he licked an orgasm out of you was enough to send his blood rushing ever so torturously downward.

But he never once attempted to take himself in hand after you told him not to.

And, as you’d warned him you would, you know whether or not he speaks the truth. Your dear, dutiful Thomas. Of course he had obeyed. You’d known it the moment you had walked into his chamber, and felt his mind still reeling from the unsatisfied lust he had endured the entire passing day, even in his sleep. Without so much as an ounce of supernatural interference from you, your voice had filled his dreams, your imaginary touch had been enough to keep his cock hard and ready for you until now.

In truth, you found yourself in quite a similar state. Though you don’t dream, you had roused at sunset with a persisting ache between your thighs, your flesh as slick as though Thomas were there at that very moment, pleasuring you with that not-quite-so-polite-anymore tongue of his. It had taken all your willpower to ensure your lust for blood was slaked before you sought him out to at last quench the maddening desire which has bound the two of you against all odds.

“I fed,” is all the answer you give him, satisfied with the slight pinch in his brow as his obedience goes unmentioned and you withhold your praise—for now. “Even full,” you muse, eyes drifting to his chest, “my appetite for you is barely assuaged.”

You bring a finger to the hollow of his throat, his flesh dipping slightly beneath the tip of your nail as he swallows, then trail it slowly over his collarbones, before letting it wander down to the sparse hairs revealed by his shirt, idly tracing lines over his heart.

Thomas releases a deep breath, trying to relax under your touch. “I suppose I should take that as a compliment,” he jests softly. You could plunge your nail into his heart with but a press of your inhumanly strong finger, and he jests.

“It is a curse,” you rasp out, piercing him with a dark gaze. “I offered you freedom, and you laid your life and body at my feet instead.”

You wonder why you say such things, even as they leave your mouth. To taunt him, perhaps, though your words hold little bite for that. To offer him one last chance at escape? Would you even allow such a thing?

You need not decide. Thomas’s only response is to take hold of your hand and, eyes boring into yours with all the unspoken emotion of the gesture, flatten it against his chest.

You glance at your hands for a moment—yours over his heart, his over yours. What a hopeless romantic he is. He has answered the question already, but you ask it anyway.

“You would join me in flesh of your own will?”

He feels as though his heart has stopped—you feel it quicken beneath your fingers. “Yes.”

The word is as good as an open vein on your tongue. You’ll never tire of the eager breathlessness with which he offers himself to you, nor the quiver in his slightly parted lips right before you cover them with yours.

He moans as your tongue plunges into his mouth, responding to your kiss with equal fervour. He tastes of wine, and smells of the blood singing in his veins at your touch, and you are reminded how intoxicatingly desirable he has somehow become in your eyes. Be it his body or his mind, something he said or did, or even just the artful ways in which the moonlight paints the relief of his pretty cheeks, you crave his life too much to be the cause of his death. There are… options, of course, as there had been for you, but you want him just like this: humanly fragile within your grasp, kissing you to oblivion and striving to pull you impossibly close, hips rolling into nothing in despairing attempts to achieve even the slightest ounce of relief from the torment of needing you.

You find yourself catching his lower lip in your teeth, a primal urge too fierce to prevent from manifesting, and release the flesh a dangerously short moment before it splits open. Thomas winces, but reconnects your lips as soon as they are parted. He should know better by now than to tempt your vampiric lust when it has visibly flared, but he is a man painfully aroused and vexingly sentimental.

Perhaps to remind him of why the latter is a fool’s bargain when it comes to you, you hook your nail into the neck of his shirt and rip the piece of clothing open, neck to waist, in one aggressive cut.

“Fuck,” Thomas gasps, jerking up in surprise. “Don’t cut—Not the pants,” he says hurriedly when he notices where your lethal finger is next headed. Your lips tighten around a suppressed chuckle.

“Easy, Thomas,” you purr, lips brushing his as your nail lightly scrapes its downward way along the inviting trail of hair below his navel. “I would not risk injury to such a useful part of you.”

Your hand reaches and cups said part over the constraining fabric of his trousers, and Thomas is left without a trace of worry once again as his head falls back against the pillow, eyes closed with the mild relief you are finally providing him.

To his dismay, it ends after a short, teasing fondle. With a last, sensuous peck to his lips, you rise up and gracefully straddle his knees, keeping them firmly pinned beneath you. There is little he can do but lay back, chest heaving as he watches you meticulously undo the fastenings of his trousers. To his visible—and most delectable—frustration, you make no haste in your task, savouring the sight of his skin beginning to glisten with perspiration in the moonlight.

He groans when you finally free his length, swollen and wantonly red against his stomach. All that blood gathered in one, tantalizing organ… But you meant what you said. This particular part of him will not know the sharpness of your teeth.

That does not mean, however, that it shall be spared your wicked teasing. You run a single finger from the bottom to the weeping head of his cock, the sharp tip of your nail only just barely grazing his sensitive skin, and Thomas’s mouth falls open, eyes nearly rolling back into his skull.

“Oh, God—I can’t.” He grabs your wrist to still it, shaking his head. “I’m too close, I—I won’t last.”

With a devious curl of your lips, you begin to lean forward.

“And you think you will if I put you inside me this very moment?” you taunt as you drape yourself over him, his erection becoming snugly trapped between your stomachs. “You think you can keep this lovely cock hard long enough to satisfy me?”

The words alone have him quaking with a shudder beneath you. You barely even move—only the lightest roll of your belly over his swollen length, and his tortured whimper goes straight to the already creamy flesh between your thighs.

“I’ll try,” he vows breathlessly, wrapping his arms around you like you’re his only anchor in the world. “Let me try.”

Oh, you don’t doubt he would. He would truly steel himself, rebel against his own body with all his human might, only to fall apart the moment even so much as the tip of his cock would be met with your cunt’s tight embrace.

You don’t even let him get that far.

“You really are infuriatingly sweet, you know?” you murmur, your lips a breath away from his as you run your fingers through his hair. “My Thomas.” He gasps as you begin to move your hips, cruelly rubbing against his throbbing cock. “My sweet, obedient Thomas. So pretty. So good.”

Your praises go straight between his legs and wrench an agonizing whimper from his throat, fear rolling off him in waves—but not of you. He is genuinely terrified he’ll spill any second, and that you’ll make him wait another excruciatingly long day before you give him the chance to finally be inside you. His hands cling to your waist, then one drifts to your backside as he tries to no avail to better align your moving hips with his. “I want… I need you. My lady, please…”

Thomas moaning out your title… Oh, you like that. Not enough to give into his pleas, though. Your fingers clench in his hair, pulling his head back without mercy as you put your lips to his ear.

“No.”

Your denial is as sharp as your bite would be, and it ruins him in the most exquisite way. Thomas shudders violently beneath you, a pitiful sound bursting from his chest as his come soaks your nightgown at the stomach. He ruts into you helplessly until it begins to hurt, and only then does he try to push you off with trembling hands. Graciously, you lift your hips to allow his overly sensitive cock the space it begs for, but your condescending laugh might just be more painful than if you were pumping him with your fist.

“Oh, Thomas,” you coo mockingly, running a finger down his cheek as he frowns deeply up at you. “How do you expect to fulfil my appetites, when I have yet to fuck you and you are spent already?”

“You are not fair,” he protests, valiantly willing himself to sound firm despite his still laboured breathing.

You lift a brow. “Did you ever think I was?”

“You have been tormenting me for days.” He swallows thickly, trying to lower the desperate pitch of his voice. “Haunting my dreams, touching me only to leave me in despair. I tried, but there is only so much a man’s body can endure without… without….”

“Without spilling all over himself like an untouched pup of a boy?”

You are being cruel. You must be, if you are to remain the cold villain of the night you pride yourself upon being, despite this… this… weakness, as you must begrudgingly call it, that you feel for him. He must not think he holds more sway over you than he already knows of.

But Thomas holds fast himself. Something hardens in his gaze.

“Mock me all you want,” he says, hurt but not defeated. “I am not ashamed of my desire. And yours—” He cups you intimately. “—is quite evident as well.”

It takes you by surprise—his sudden, firm touch through your thin nightgown—and the jolt of pleasure he elicits from your clit combined with the bold kiss he plants on your lips without warning throws you sufficiently off balance that he manages to flip you over. It’s his body pinning yours to the mattress now, a confinement narrower than even that of your coffin, and a growl rips past your throat as your hand flies to his neck.

“Wait! Wait,” Thomas pleads frantically before you can throw him off or reverse your positions once again. “Just wait a moment, please.”

It’s precisely because of that pesky weakness that you do. You don’t crush his throat, or kick him off. Though your chest still heaves with the primal urge to do so, the softness in Thomas’s eyes stays your hand, his thoughts nearly as clear in your mind as they are in his. He knows it isn’t in your nature to be beneath another. He knows how it wounds your pride to admit you desire him as he does you. He relishes being held under your thumb, and he does not seek to do the same to you, only…

“I couldn’t hurt you if I wanted to,” he murmurs. Your hand may be slack, but it’s still ominously wrapped around his throat. He leans in anyway, nose brushing yours. “Please, just let me… Let me…”

And you do let him. You let him press his gentle, trembling lips to yours, and part them when he seeks to deepen the kiss. His tongue brushes against yours as if to tame its meanness, his unhurried kiss carrying a sort of innocence which grips your heart in a warm ache. Your hand leaves his throat to tangle in his hair, and—you’d all but forgotten his hand was between your legs until he begins to rub you through your nightgown again.

Perhaps he does seek retribution for the sensual torment you had inflicted upon him, if only by returning the smallest part of it. He touches you with unbearable slowness as his lips part from yours to drift to your neck, only slightly more vigorous in the way he licks and nips in worship at your skin. Soon enough, he is tugging at the shoulder of your nightgown, uncovering a soft breast, and at once leans to lavish it with adoring kisses. You can’t help how you arch into him as he takes your nipple in his mouth, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud whilst his fingers begin to quicken over your covered clit.

To hell with your pride. You make a sound, something between a growl and a whine, as you force a hand between you to interrupt his movements and pull away that damned fabric. Then, you grab his hand and put it to your bare cunt, all but pushing his fingers knuckle-deep inside you with your own.

“All right,” he breathes out in acquiescence, a glint of a smile in his eyes as he lifts them to yours briefly. “All right.”

His lips return to your breast, his fingers sink as deep as they can go into your heat, and control is the last thing on your mind. All you can feel is his thumb finding your clit, drawing circles over it as his fingers curl against those sensitive nerves from the inside.

“Is that good?” Thomas asks, only half-sure.

Your voice is somehow deadly and pleading at the same time. “I’ll kill you if you stop.”

He smiles, nearly, but knows better than to show such blatant smugness. Instead, he lowers his mouth to your neck, lavishing your skin with kisses as he keeps fucking you with his fingers, taking his time. You could prompt him to hasten in his movements again, but… there is an undeniable flavour of bliss in the act of simply writhing with the rhythm of your pleasure, basking in the adoration rolling off him in waves without attempting to bend him to your will. He cherishes each inch of skin you allow him to feel beneath his lips, thanks you silently for every moment you welcome his fingers within the intimate embrace of your flesh. For now, that is devotion enough.

You have grown obscenely wet, each glide of his fingers into your cunt eliciting a soft, creamy sound. It’s nearly as arousing as the rush of blood in his veins, which fills your ears along with the heavy breaths he releases onto your skin. You lift his face and bring his lips crashing into yours, if only to muffle your increasingly high-pitched whimpers as you feel yourself nearing your end. He nods in encouragement, you think, but he is too busy kissing you, and his fingertips are hitting your sweetest spots with impeccable aim, and the heat is too blinding for you to protest you don’t need his permission before you shatter beneath him, all but sobbing into his mouth.

At the last moment, he pulls away, wishing to take you in. His eyes are filled with wonder as he watches your face soften in the wake of your climax, and you can feel how privileged as well as deeply satisfied he feels to know he has brought you in such a state, and that in doing so, he has so quickly managed to—

Oh, yes, you note, following his gaze to where he then lowers it with a needy pinch in his brow. He is quite hard again.

“Perhaps I’ve had enough for tonight,” you tease, though your voice is still airy with lingering bliss.

Thomas knows better by now. He gives you a look of firm disbelief, which wavers as he takes himself in hand and gives his erection a relieving stroke before boldly running his cocktip along your folds, soaking it in their wetness.

“Have you?” he whispers as your lips part in a silent gasp. He is hot and rigid as he bumps into your sensitized clit, and you hiss, once again put in the unsavoury position of admitting that you don’t hold much more control over your desire than he does with his own.

He doesn’t wait for you to say it—that would take much longer than either of you are willing to wait. “I would join you in flesh, of my own will,” he repeats the words he knows you so love to hear. “Let me in. I beg you.”

He positions his cock at your entrance, nudging without pushing, waiting, hoping. The soft crack in his pleading voice tugs at your undead heart in a way you could never admit out loud without shattering your pride. This damn man—he‘s already more in than anyone else has ever been.

“Go on, then,” you murmur. “Give yourself to me.”

With a breath of relief, he does—in one thrust, swift and deep, his cock fills you to the exquisite brim. Your gasp dies on his tongue as your mouths meet, and all at once you are moving together, writhing, panting, lost to the onslaught of sensation where his flesh is enveloped by yours, over and over.

He makes no further attempt to draw out your pleasure. Thomas buries himself inside you like he wants to make of your body his grave, to rest there until the flesh decays off his bones, leaving them in the eternal embrace of yours. Your skin, always cold, now burns against his, heated by the relentless friction of which you are both frantically seeking more, more, never enough. It’s so unlike you to allow another atop you, you could not have imagined it for what feels like—and probably have been—lifetimes. Yet here you are, laid back with Thomas in between your thighs and his face buried in your neck, deeply intertwined in a type of carnal bliss which has little to do with the only craving you thought you were capable of feeling any longer.

Little, but not nothing—and the longer Thomas moves on top of you, laboured breath heating your neck and skin flushed with exertion, the less easy it is to ignore what other pleasures his body has to offer one of your twisted kind. There is little grace to the way he ruts into you now, driven by pure bodily despair. He mouths at your skin sloppily, his moans all but delirious, wordless whimpers interspersed with gasps along the lines of ‘so good’, ‘all yours’ and even ‘thank you’. He is so warm. His pulse, so quick, throbbing in his veins. You can’t decide what you crave more—your teeth in his flesh or the peak of the pleasure he plants inside you with each eager thrust of his hips.

An inhuman sound leaves your throat as you push against him, flipping your entwined bodies so that his is beneath you. As it should be, at last—the lion standing proud above the lamb, claws at the jugular.

Thomas groans, wasting only the moment it takes to adjust to the new position before he drives his hips upwards, anxious to keep fucking you. You slam yours down, pinning him beneath you, your assertive growl nearly dissolving into a whimper as his cock lodges itself superbly deep inside you, hard and throbbing as you hold him still, an unforgiving hand planted onto his chest. His rampant heartbeat is so damn tempting.

You hate how pretty he is, looking up at you. Hate how his longing expression elicits something close to fear, deep in your bones. The wounds left by your teeth the previous nights are rough beneath your fingers, beckoning you to make them fresh once more, but those bites had been different. At the time, you hadn’t cared whether he lived or not. Hadn’t craved him so deeply, in more ways than one. Hadn’t been half mad with the feeling of him filling up your cunt.

“Do it,” Thomas whispers beneath you, taking hold of the hand pressed in a now hesitant threat against his chest. “Bite me. Please.”

Never has a man begged for his death so beautifully.

Not death, you remind yourself, as best you can. You want to keep him, just as he is—sweetly human, quivering with need as you slowly lean over him, and lay a lingering kiss onto his lips.

You begin to grind your hips into his once more, lips descending along his jaw and throat. Thomas quivers beneath you, but strives to keep still as you follow the tantalizing path of his jugular. Your teeth could pierce his skin at any moment, but if anything, that makes his cock throb even more desperately within you. He is already close enough to coming undone that he’s gripping your hips just to anchor himself against that urge, willing himself to hold out at least until he learns what it is for you to be opening each other up all at once, him sinking into you whilst you sup on his—

Thomas cries out when you finally bite his heart, ruthlessly drawing in the blood that rushes into your mouth. You’ve tasted him before, relished his heady flavour, but with his hand flying to the back of your head to keep you close and his hips bucking up into you, you are truly lost to raw, animalistic want. Nothing exists past the hunger and the lust. There is only him, only his taste, only his flesh joined with yours.

The air fills with the sound of long, grotesque drags of liquid into your mouth, along with Thomas’s frantic moans. He wails, pain and pleasure mingled in the sound, and his seed spills inside you barely moments after his blood had spilled onto your tongue. There is no describing the ecstasy that fills you as he writhes in your clutches, clinging to you for dear life through the onslaught of sensation. You can’t endure it for long before you fall over the edge yourself, pleasure like you had never known in life overtaking every inch of your undead body as you clench and suck and moan throughout your release.

It’s only long moments later, when your hips still and the orgasmic high has run its course, that you regain a sliver of clarity, barely enough to muster the thought that you have been feeding on Thomas for… well, therein lies the issue. You’ve lost track of time.

Not that he seems to mind. When at last you dislodge your teeth from his flesh, grunting with the effort to restrain yourself as blood drips down your chin, he tugs at the nape of your neck, feebly attempting to bring you back.

“More,” he murmurs, even as he struggles to keep his eyes open. “Take more.”

Something crumbles in your chest. He’s pale, even moreso than usual, and you fear you may have taken more than his body may handle.

Fear. A feeling you had been happy to forget after your death. It shouldn’t hold the sway on you that it does, but it leaves only one option. You put your index to your lower lip, and press until the skin splits open under your sharp nail. Thomas watches in morbid fascination as blood blooms at the centre of your already blood-smeared lip, but is eager to kiss you all the same when you lower your mouth to his.

He licks over your lips with fascinated languidness, groaning softly at the metallic taste of your combined blood. When you pull away, red stains his mouth as well. He is particularly handsome this way, you think as he brings his fingers to his reddened lips, frowning.

“Why?” he asks. Not appalled, simply curious—and deeply tired.

Your pretty Thomas. Perfect as he is, soft and adoring and human. You much prefer him this way, but should worst come to worst…

“If you die,” you murmur as you rest your head upon his chest, right above the wound you have left behind, “you shall be like me.”

His heart, already suffering from shortage of blood to pump, all but stills beneath your cheek. Yet, after a moment of silence, all he says is:

“Good.”

Peaceful. Content. Foolish, as usual. You are spent enough yourself that you lack the will to argue. What’s done is done.

Thomas drifts to sleep. For you, that is not possible. But you remain lying in his arms, for as long as is left of the night.

Next part -> Covenant

[cillslover]

Hi there 👋❤️

I absolutely love your fics, keep up the great work!

Now, I was wondering if you could write for Teacher!Tommy x student fem!reader, where your grades has been dropping, but you can't fail school as your parents have depended on you, so Tommy helps you a bit ;)

Extra Lessons

Pairings: Professor!Thomas Shelby x Student!female reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+, power imbalance (professor/student dynamic), dom/sub undertones, disciplinary kink/spanking, strong language, mild degradation (verbal), consensual non-consent themes, age gap.

Summary: Y/N's grades are slipping, and Professor Shelby isn't the type to let failure slide. When she's called into his office after hours, it becomes clear he has his own method of correcting bad behaviour, and it has nothing to do with textbooks.

A/N: Thank you so much for this request, I’m literally obsessed with anything Thomas Shelby smut-related, and this kind of dynamic with him is one of my absolute favourites to write. I really hope this is close to what you had in mind, and that you like it as much as I liked writing it!

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The lecture hall was a cavern of old wood and high ceilings, the kind of place that smelled of polished oak and ambition. Rows of students sat hunched over notebooks, scribbling furiously as Professor Thomas Shelby paced the front of the room. His tailored three-piece suit—charcoal grey, immaculate, cut a sharp silhouette against the chalkboard. His piercing blue eyes scanned the room, missing nothing, his voice low and deliberate, carrying the weight of authority that made every student sit a little straighter.

Y/N sat near the back, her pen hovering over her notebook, but her mind was elsewhere. Her grades had been slipping for weeks, each red-inked paper a fresh wound. She couldn’t afford to fail, not when her parents were counting on her to be the first in the family to graduate collage. The pressure was suffocating, and Thomas Shelby’s history course, with its dense texts and unrelenting exams, was her weakest link.

Thomas paused mid-sentence, his gaze locking onto Y/N. She felt it like a physical touch, her breath catching as those icy eyes pinned her in place. “Miss Y/L/N,” he said, his Birmingham accent curling around her name like smoke. “Care to enlighten us on the economic factors leading to the Great War?”

Her mouth went dry. She stammered, “Uh… trade disputes… and, um, colonial rivalries?”

His lips twitched, not quite a smile. “A valiant attempt, but vague. See me in my office after class.” He turned back to the board, dismissing her with a flick of his wrist, but the weight of his attention lingered.

The rest of the lecture passed in a blur. When the other students filed out, Y/N lingered, her heart pounding as she gathered her books. The walk to Professor Shelby’s office felt like a march to the gallows. His office was tucked in a quiet corner of the history department, the door heavy oak with his name etched in brass: Professor Thomas M. Shelby.

She knocked, and his voice came through, low and commanding. “Come in.”

Inside, the office was as intimidating as the man himself: dark wood shelves lined with leather-bound books, a single window letting in slanted light, and a wide mahogany desk dominating the space. Thomas sat behind it, his suit jacket draped over the chair, his waistcoat unbuttoned just enough to hint at the lean strength beneath. He didn’t look up from the papers he was grading, his pen moving with precise, deliberate strokes.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him without lifting his eyes.

Y/N sat, clutching her bag in her lap. “Professor Shelby, I—”

He held up a hand, silencing her. Finally, he looked up, his gaze cutting through her like a blade. “Your grades, Miss Y/L/N. They’re a fucking disgrace.” His voice was calm, but the profanity hit like a slap, raw and unfiltered, so quintessentially Thomas Shelby. “You were top of the class last term. Now you’re scraping by with Cs and Ds. Care to explain?”

Her cheeks burned. “It’s… personal. My parents, they’re relying on me. I can’t fail, but I’m struggling to keep up.”

He leaned back, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his lighter. The smoke curled around him, adding to the air of danger that clung to him like a second skin. “Personal problems don’t excuse failure. You’re better than this, Y/N. Or at least, you were.” He exhaled, studying her. “You’re beautiful, you know that? Too beautiful to be wasting your potential.”

The compliment caught her off guard, her pulse quickening. “Thank you, Professor, but—”

“I’m not finished.” He stood, circling the desk to stand in front of her, his presence overwhelming. “You need discipline, Y/N. Structure. Someone to guide you back on track. I can help you, but it won’t be easy. You’ll have to trust me.”

She swallowed, her voice barely a whisper. “How?”

He leaned down, close enough that she could smell the tobacco and cedarwood cologne on him. “Come to my office after hours. Tomorrow, 7 p.m. We’ll work on your assignments, and I’ll teach you what it means to commit. But you’ll do exactly as I say. Understood?”

“Yes, Professor,” she said, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and something else she couldn’t name.

—

The next evening, Y/N stood outside his office, her heart racing. She wore a simple blouse and a pleated skirt, her hair loose around her shoulders. She knocked, and his voice called her in.

Thomas was behind his desk, his suit as impeccable as ever, though he’d shed his tie, the top button of his shirt undone. The room was dimly lit, the window now dark, casting long shadows. He looked up, his eyes raking over her, a slow, deliberate appraisal that made her feel exposed.

“Close the door,” he said. “Lock it.”

She hesitated but obeyed, the click of the lock loud in the quiet room. He gestured to the chair, but when she moved to sit, he stopped her. “Stand there. In front of the desk.”

She did, her hands clasped nervously. “Professor, I brought my notes—”

“Forget the notes.” He stood, moving to her side of the desk, his movements predator-smooth. “You’ve been a bad student, Y/N. Failing my class, wasting your potential. That’s unacceptable.”

“I’m trying,” she said, her voice small. “I just—”

“No excuses.” His tone was sharp, but there was a glint in his eyes, something dark and hungry. “You need to learn what happens when you don’t apply yourself. Take off your skirt.”

Her breath hitched. “What?”

“You heard me.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low growl. “Take. It. Off.”

Her hands trembled as she reached for the zipper, her mind racing. This was Thomas Shelby—ruthless, commanding, magnetic. She should leave, but the intensity in his gaze, the way he seemed to see straight through her, held her in place. She slid the skirt down, stepping out of it, leaving her in her blouse and white lace panties that hugged her curves.

Thomas’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he took in the sight. “Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’re even more beautiful than I thought.” He circled her, his fingers brushing the edge of his desk. “Lean over the desk. Now.”

Her heart pounded, but she obeyed, bending over the polished wood, her hands gripping the edge. The cool surface pressed against her thighs, her lace panties the only barrier between her and his gaze.

“You’ve been naughty, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Failing my class, distracting me with that pretty face of yours. You need to be punished.” He moved behind her, his hand grazing her hip, sending a shiver through her. “Do you agree?”

“Yes, Professor,” she whispered, her voice thick with anticipation.

His hand came down on her ass, a sharp, stinging spank that made her gasp. The lace offered little protection, and the heat of his palm lingered. “That’s for your first failed exam,” he said. Another spank, harder this time, and she whimpered. “That’s for the second.” He leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. “You’ll take five more, and you’ll thank me for each one. Understood?”

“Yes, Professor,” she said, her voice trembling with a mix of pain and something darker, something that made her press her thighs together.

He delivered the next five spanks with precision, each one drawing a gasp or a moan from her lips. After each, she whispered, “Thank you, Professor,” her voice growing softer, more submissive. Her ass was warm, the sting blending into a strange, intoxicating heat.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his hand soothing the reddened skin. “Now, take off those panties.”

She hesitated, her cheeks flushing, but his tone left no room for argument. She slid the lace down, stepping out of them, and he plucked them from her hand, tucking them into his pocket with a smirk. “These are mine now.”

He pressed himself against her, his suit trousers rough against her bare skin. She could feel the hard length of him through the fabric, and her breath caught. “You’ve no idea how much you’ve been testing me,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Every class, sitting there, looking like that. I’ve wanted to bend you over this desk for weeks.”

“Then do it,” she said, surprising herself with her boldness.

His chuckle was dark, dangerous. “Careful what you ask for, love.” He unbuckled his belt, the sound sharp in the quiet room, and freed himself, his cock hard and ready. He didn’t bother undressing, his suit still pristine, only his trousers parted to reveal his desire. He positioned himself behind her, his hands gripping her hips. “You ready for your lesson?”

“Yes, Professor,” she gasped, her body aching for him.

He entered her slowly, deliberately, letting her feel every inch. She moaned, her fingers digging into the desk as he filled her. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, his voice rough with restraint. He began to move, his thrusts deep and controlled, each one pushing her against the desk. The wood creaked under her weight, her body rocking with his rhythm.

“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his hand tangling in her hair, pulling just enough to make her arch.

“I want it,” she gasped. “Please, Professor, I need it.”

He growled, his pace quickening, each thrust harder, more possessive. The desk rattled, papers sliding to the floor as he claimed her. His hand found her ass again, delivering a light spank that made her cry out, the mix of pleasure and pain dizzying. “You’re mine now, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “You’ll study harder, won’t you? You’ll make me proud.”

“Yes, Professor,” she moaned, her body trembling as she neared the edge. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

He leaned over her, his lips brushing her ear. “Good girl. Now come for me.”

His words pushed her over, her body shattering around him, her moans filling the room. He followed moments later, his grip tightening as he spilled inside her, his breath ragged. For a moment, they stayed there, his body pressed against hers, the air thick with the scent of sex and tobacco.

Finally, he pulled back, adjusting his trousers with the same precision he did everything else. He lit another cigarette, exhaling slowly as he watched her straighten, her legs shaky. “Get dressed,��� he said, his tone softer now, but still commanding. “We’ll start your extra lessons tomorrow. 7 p.m. Don’t be late.”

She nodded, pulling on her skirt, her body still humming from his touch. “Yes, Professor.”

He smirked, tapping the ash from his cigarette. “And Y/N? Don’t expect those panties back.”

She blushed, hurrying out of the office, her mind reeling. Thomas Shelby was a man who got what he wanted, and now, it seemed, he wanted her. As she stepped into the cool night air, she knew one thing for certain: her grades were about to improve, but her lessons with Professor Shelby were just beginning.

[l1vingd3adg1rl-05]

Join me in Death pt2

Thomas Hewitt x fem reader

Sorry for slow updates! There will be another chapter very quickly. Not proofread.

Your leg jitters nervously beneath the table, nails tapping softly against the cold oak surface of the large, rickety dining table. The kitchen is quiet, only the faint sizzle of meat in the pan breaks the stillness. The air feels thick, heavy with unspoken words, as if the silence itself is oozing with tension. You catch yourself drifting back to that man from earlier, Tommy, was it? Luda Mae had said she lived here with her sons, but they were older than you expected.

Glancing over, you see her standing over the stove, stirring a pan of meat with slow, deliberate movements. Deciding to break the silence, you finally speak, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the quiet: “So, you said you live with your sons, yes?” She turns her head slightly, flashing you a gentle, knowing smile before returning to her cooking. “Yes, I sure do. You’ve already met them. Hoyt and Thomas.”

Your eyes widen, surprised. They looked nothing alike, not to mention their noticeable age difference. Still, you remain polite. You don't want to go assuming things. Her expression shifts subtly, and her tone softens to almost a hushed whisper, like she doesn't want anyone else to hear. “Tommy’s my youngest. He’s a quiet boy, doesn’t talk much. But I promise, he means no harm, just had a hard life, that’s all...” Her voice trails off, and her aged hand grips the pan handle a little tighter, a flicker of sorrow crossing her features.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Wanting to ask more questions, you hesitate, unsure if it’s appropriate. You don’t want to pry; whatever she was hinting at earlier seemed serious, maybe even painful. “Is that why, when I walked in, he was wearing that... mask?” Your voice is soft, cautious, trying not to sound judgmental, and you’re genuinely curious about the man you saw earlier.

She looks over at you again, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studies you, as if weighing your intentions. Her gaze lingers, searching for any signs of judgment or misunderstanding. The silence stretches between you two, thick and heavy, until she finally speaks.

“He was born with some facial... problems,” she says lightly, almost dismissively, as if it’s nothing. “But that doesn’t mean anything to me. I love my boy all the same.” Her tone is defensive, a shield to protect her feelings and her son, and you can sense the deep well of love and pride behind her words.

You notice the slight tremor in her voice, the way her hands tighten on the edge of the stove, and you realize she’s protecting herself as much as her son. You nod slowly, understanding more than she might realize.

“I understand, ma’am,” you say softly, looking down at your hands on the table.

Time quickly slips away, and before you know it, you’re helping Luda Mae set the table. You carefully place the porcelain white plates and arrange the silverware accordingly, seeing you work makes Luda still, and she gently ushers you to sit down.

“You're our guest. Why don’t you just sit for a bit, and I’ll handle the rest,” she says softly, her voice calm and reassuring. Before you can respond, she quickly turns and leaves the room, heading back into the kitchen.

You sit at the table, your leg bouncing anxiously beneath you. The silence stretches on, thick and heavy, until suddenly the floorboards creak loudly, an abrupt, sharp noise that seems to cut through the stillness. Your head snaps up to see who has entered the room.

It’s Hoyt, standing in the doorway, his expression bitter as he looks you up and down. His tone is blunt and short, lacking any politeness. “Where’s Luda?” he asks, his voice edged with impatience, clearly not interested in engaging in conversation. His eyes search the room briefly.

You shakily clear your throat, trying to gather your nerves. “She went into the kitchen, sir,” you reply softly. His eyes linger on you for a moment, his eyes flickering down to your body a couple of times too many, before he offers a thin, almost mocking smile and turns away, leaving the room. A shiver runs down your spine from that interaction, and you find yourself gripping the edge of the table tightly.

More time passes, the ticking of the clock filling the silence like a slow, steady drum. You hear faint voices from the other room—murmurs and grumbles, whispers that sound strained and tense. You hesitate, unsure whether to check on them, but you tell yourself there’s nothing wrong with offering a quick check to see if everything’s alright.

Carefully, the chair legs scrape against the dusty floor as you slowly get up from the table. You start to move toward the kitchen, but something makes you pause. You freeze in place, listening intently. You can now hear them—hushed whispers, low grumbles, almost like arguments.

“Just let me get this over with already, damn it,” Hoyt mutters in a hushed, frustrated tone, his voice tense with impatience. “It’s been going on long enough.”

Luda Mae quickly interrupts, her voice sharp but controlled. “Oh, you just stop it, Hoyt. You know I don’t get much socializing these days. Besides, this is the only one I somewhat like.”

Your ears strain to catch more of their conversation, but suddenly, the sound of heavy footfalls can be heard coming down the stairs cuts through the hushed voices. You straighten up instinctively and take a step back, backing away from the doorway. You stand perfectly still in the dim, drab dining room, your heart pounding slightly as you listen to their footsteps fading into the distance.

The large man from earlier enters the room. He wears a tattered, dirty striped button-up shirt, stained brown work pants, sturdy black boots, and most prominently, a black leather mask tied tightly around the lower half of his face. Tommy stands tall and rigid, his gaze scanning around the room with a tense aura around him.

You speak up once more, your voice cutting through the heavy silence. “They’re in the kitchen still.” The words hang in the air briefly before the quiet returns, thick and oppressive. You can't help but cringe at the palpable tension filling the space. A small wave of regret passes through you. Maybe you should have just stayed at your truck instead of bothering this strange family.

Feeling awkward and out of place standing in their home, your thoughts are suddenly interrupted as Luda Mae and Hoyt enter the room. Hoyt mutters something under his breath, a low, grumbling sound that’s quickly silenced by a sharp glare from Luda Mae. Without another word, he heads toward the living room, but not before returning and wheeling in an older man in a wheelchair.

Everyone takes a seat at the table. You notice Thomas’s eyes almost burning into your skull, staring deeply and unblinkingly, making you slightly uncomfortable. Luda Mae begins serving generous, heaping plates of food—mashed potatoes topped with gravy, warm biscuits, and what appears to be pulled pork.

“Thank you, Luda,” you say softly, expressing your gratitude. “For this dinner and for letting me spend the night.” She waves your thanks off with a warm smile. “No need to thank me. Now, go ahead and eat,” she replies kindly, her tone light and welcoming.

You grasp your fork and stab into a piece of the meat. As you bring it to your mouth and take a bite, your expression shifts. The taste is unfamiliar, almost strange. The texture feels peculiar, almost like pork, but not quite. It’s different from anything you’ve ever had.

“What meat did you use for this, if you don’t mind me asking?” you inquire, lifting your eyes from the plate to the others around the table. Once your gaze lifts, you see everyone staring at you. A small knot of anxiety tightens in your stomach, but you quickly dismiss it. They haven’t seen you before, that’s why they’re staring. Or so you tell yourself.

Hoyt, with a creepy smile, bares his teeth slightly. “That’s a family secret,” he says proudly.

Luda Mae nods and grins. “Tommy here handles the meat, used to be a butcher at the slaughterhouse,” she adds, her voice tinged with pride.

A heavy silence settles once again. The man in the wheelchair hasn't spoken a word, instead shoveling food into his mouth quietly. You glance over at Tommy, who remains silent, eyes cast downward toward his plate. He doesn’t like the attention.

You decide to break the silence, speaking softly to Tommy. “Well, it’s very good, Thomas.” Your tone is gentle and polite, careful not to come across as rude. Luda Mae’s gaze flicks toward you, her expression warm but with an undercurrent of pride. She smiles, proud of her son. “That’s right. My Tommy’s a great butcher, slaughters everything himself, just like he used to at the slaughterhouse.”

Thomas keeps his gaze low, eyes fixed on his food. He doesn’t enjoy the spotlight, that much is certain. The room settles into a quiet stillness once more. Suddenly, Hoyt clears his throat, breaking the silence. “So, what are you doing around these parts, girl?” he asks bluntly, his tone direct and uninviting.

You swallow quickly, your stomach tightening as you hurriedly finish the bite you were chewing. “My grandfather left me his house, so I came to Texas to check it out,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

He nods slowly, then begins to look you up and down, as if weighing you like a piece of meat. “Mhm... you tell anyone you were coming to Texas?” he asks, his tone casual but with an edge that makes you uneasy.

His sudden, personal questions catch you off guard, surprising you. You hesitate for a moment before responding. “No, I don’t see the point, considering I wasn’t going to be gone for long. Why do you ask?”

He just shrugs, dismissing it. “Nothing, just… good to know,” he says, and the line of questioning abruptly ends. The air remains thick with unspoken tension, but the conversation moves on, leaving you with a lingering sense of unease. That man gives you the creeps.

Dinner quickly ends, and you help bring the dishes to the sink for Luda. She smiles warmly. “How about I bring you upstairs, hmm? It's awfully late. Your eyes flicker over to the window, and no light streams in from the old lace curtains, now pitch black outside. You turn back to Luda. “Okay, thank you again for letting me stay.”

her hand is on your back as she leads you upstairs, a large grin on her aged face “Belive me, its our pleasure to have you hear, were really glad you came” she voices ina strange manner, not quite understanding but you cant question it because she leads you in the room and closes the door, leaving you alone in your thoughts.

You analyze the room, it's outdated, and clearly not kept in good condition, but nonetheless, you're thankful. Your brows furrow, noticing your bag left on your bed. You had left it downstairs earlier this evening, someone must have brought it up. Most likely Luda or Thomas

After such a long day of driving, you're ready to finally go to bed, your body aches from stiffness. The past two days have been nothing but driving, and a nice warm bed is what you need. Opening your bag, you reach into it, rummaging through your clothing looking for something nice to sleep in. You decide on a pair of soft sleep shorts and a thin tank top. You take off your top, then your pants. You look into the mirror as you take off your bra and toss it into the bag, a long sigh of relief leaves you after finally being able to take off your bra.

You bend down to take off your cotton panties, and then you hear a loud thump in the hallway. Your gaze shoots over to the doorway, which is now slightly ajar. Didn’t Luda Mae hastily close it after guiding you up here? You walk over to the door and only open it slightly, just enough to poke your head out.

You can see in the open bathroom door a reflection of Thomas, his eyes shooting around as he haphazardly tries to busy himself; you could feel shame radiating off of him from here. Did he open your door? You shudder just thinking that, but you push those feelings aside. You're probably just being paranoid. It felt wrong to blame the poor guy.

Quickly putting on your clothes for the night, you are finally ready to sleep. Turning off the light, you head over to the old spring bed, the springs creak as you lay down, this bed has seen better days, it sags in the middle because of the ruined frame, the mattress is flat and sad looking, and their is strange marks on the top of the bed post.

Your eyes start to droop, and it's now hard to stay awake. After such a long and demanding day, you've earned this rest. Finally, allowing your body to succumb to sleep, you can now drift off to slumber.