#thomas sharpe x fem!reader

[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.”

[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 your 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.”

[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!

[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!

[batmanlovesnirvana]

‘our love still remains.’

BRUCE WAYNE X FEM!READER

ONE SHOT | angst, death, murder, depression, drugs, suicidal thoughts.

synopsis : A year had passed since you died, but grief lingered, clinging to Bruce like the ash of a fire long extinguished.

A/N : This was inspired by this haunting scene between Thomas Shelby and Grace’s ghost. It’s one of my favorite moments—so raw and emotional—and I couldn’t help but feel it resonates deeply with Bruce. The weight of grief, love, and unresolved pain feels like a perfect fit for his character.

English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes!

WAYNE MANOR had never seemed so empty.

A place once filled with quiet purpose, with the steady rhythm of lives intertwined, was now a mausoleum—a tomb for memories that Bruce could neither escape nor embrace.

You had been dead for a year, and with you, everything human in him had begun to rot.

He was barely functional. No. That wasn't right. He wasn't functional at all. 

A ghost of himself wandered these halls, sat in these rooms, wore his skin, but it wasn't him. 

Not anymore.

The fire in the study crackled weakly, but its warmth never reached him. It flickered, casting trembling shadows on the dark oak walls, as if mocking his inability to burn with anything but guilt.

Bruce sat hunched in his chair, his head low, his shirt disheveled and sleeves rolled up. 

The man who had once stood as Gotham's unshakable guardian, a force of sheer will, was now a fractured thing.

His eyes, sunken and bloodshot, stared into the flames, but they saw nothing. He didn't need to see. He had already memorized the way the world looked without you in it.

The decanter of whiskey shimmered in the firelight, its amber liquid untouched at his side. He had never been one to drink—not before. But since you'd been gone, nothing was the same.

Tonight, though, the glass remained full. Not yet. Not for this. 

He couldn't dull the edges of this particular torment. He had to feel it, let it pull him under, heavy and unrelenting, like a stone tethered to his chest, dragging him to the depths.

His hand hovered over the glass, fingers curling tightly around it, the tension in his knuckles sharp and pale. The tremor wasn't from the cold but from the brutal weight of his own restraint. His mind hissed its merciless refrain, over and over, unyielding:

It should've been me. Not you.

Me. Not you.

Me. Not you.

The glass gave way with a brittle snap, the shards biting into his palm, the sound cutting through the suffocating quiet like a scream. He didn't flinch. The brief sting was insignificant, a pale shadow of the raw, festering wound buried deep within—a wound that time had refused to heal, a wound that still bled.

He craves the burn. Craves the searing pain, the consuming fire that might finally match the inferno raging inside him—the fire that could never touch you the way it's devoured him.

The night presses close, suffocating and merciless, but he doesn't move.

He doesn't patrol. He doesn't sleep. He doesn't eat.

He simply exists, caught in the liminal space where grief and guilt coil around each other, tightening like a noose. Waiting—for the silence to break, for the weight to crush him, for something, anything, to drag him back from the edge of this endless void.

The door sighed as it swung open, the faint creak swallowed by the oppressive stillness.

Alfred entered, a silver tray balanced in his steady hands, its polished surface catching the flickering glow of the fire. Every movement was deliberate, quiet, as though the room itself demanded reverence. He set the tray down with a soft clink, his weathered face composed, but his eyes—sharp and searching—betrayed the concern he could no longer contain.

"Master Wayne..." His voice was soft, hesitant, like stepping onto fragile ground.

Bruce didn't stir. His gaze remained fixed on the fire, the flames reflected in his eyes like ghosts of battles fought and lost.

Undeterred, Alfred took a step closer, his measured footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. "I thought you might need something to eat. It's been... some time." His tone was calm, but beneath it lay a quiet plea.

The silence stretched, vast and unyielding. Bruce remained a statue, motionless, unhearing—or perhaps unwilling to hear.

Alfred lingered, his hands clasped behind his back. He studied the man slumped in the chair, once an unshakable force—a sentinel against the darkness, a man who bore the weight of Gotham like it was his birthright.

But now?

Now, he was something hollow.

A shadow consumed by grief, its edges blurred, its substance eaten away until nothing but silence remained.

"No patrol tonight, then?" Alfred asked, though he already knew the answer.

Bruce's hands trembled faintly—not from the cold, nor from the blood still drying on his knuckles—but from something far deeper, raw and unrelenting.

The old butler sighed.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he withdrew a small glass vial and placed it on the tray with deliberate care. The gesture was quiet, pointed—a subtle admonition wrapped in concern.

"I'm worried, sir," Alfred said, his voice thick with the weight of restrained emotion. "About the medicine. You've been relying on it too much."

Bruce's eyes flicked to the vial, his fingers curling involuntarily, but his lips remained sealed.

His gaze turned distant, unfocused, as though he were retreating into some unreachable corner of his mind. The flicker of firelight played across his expression, but it gave nothing away. The silence, though, spoke volumes.

The fire crackled softly, its warmth feeble against the icy void that seemed to envelop the room.

"She wouldn't want this," Alfred ventured at last, his voice trembling at the edges. The words came haltingly, heavy with pain. Saying them was a struggle; even he found it difficult to speak of her. "I know it's hard, but—"

But he faltered.

What could he say to a man who had lost so much? To a man who believed the one constant in his life—the one light in his endless night—had slipped from his grasp because of him? What comfort could Alfred offer someone who carried the unbearable weight of guilt and grief and punished himself for it, day after day?

Not even the ever-thoughtful Alfred had answers for that.

He lingered for a moment longer, his weathered gaze heavy with unspoken worry, before letting out a quiet, resigned sigh. Stepping back, he retreated as softly as he'd entered, unwilling to disturb the fragile stillness any further.

The door closed behind him with a muted click, leaving Bruce alone once more in the oppressive quiet, the firelight casting shadows that danced like ghosts around the room.

Bruce didn't move. The tray remained untouched, its polished surface glinting dully in the flickering firelight. The room seemed colder somehow, emptier, as though the flames themselves were losing the will to fight against the encroaching dark.

The silence pressed down, heavy and suffocating.

His hand moved slowly, hesitantly, reaching for the vial. His fingers trembled as they closed around the cool glass, the faint quiver betraying the storm raging beneath his impassive exterior. He held it up, watching the liquid swirl under the amber glow of the fire. For a moment, he hesitated—then tipped his head back, letting the bitter contents slide down his throat in one unbroken motion.

The burn was sharp. Familiar. Almost comforting.

But it fixed nothing.

The ache inside him remained, raw and unrelenting. He stayed rooted to the chair, unable to move, the weight of his grief pinning him down. His eyes drifted to the shards of glass scattered across the carpet, their jagged edges catching the firelight like cruel reflections of his fractured soul.

With a sudden, violent motion, he hurled the empty vial into the flames. It shattered on impact, the fire greedily consuming the fragments until nothing remained.

His head dropped into his hands, shoulders curling inward as though trying to shield himself from the crushing weight of everything he couldn't escape. The room fell silent again, save for the crackle of the fire, each ember rising like a ghost of what once was.

And then, it happened. Just as it always did.

The impossible.

You appeared.

Bruce's cold, detached eyes flickered, his breath hitching as the warmth of an illusion—one he neither welcomed nor could let go—took shape before him.

You were perched on the edge of the canopy seat by the window, your silk pajamas catching the soft firelight in a way that felt achingly real. One leg was tucked beneath you, the other dangling lazily, your toes grazing the rug in that familiar way that sent a sharp pang through his chest.

Your hair spilled loose around your shoulders, soft and untamed, just as it had on those stolen nights when dawn would catch you both mid-conversation, the rest of the world forgotten.

And then there was the smile. That quiet, tender smile—the one that had unraveled him every time, breaking through walls he hadn't even realized he'd built.

The billionaire swallowed hard, his voice hoarse when he finally spoke. "What now?"

Bruce's bitter smile wavered as you tilted your head, amusement flickering in your eyes like embers in the fire.

"What am I, a genie?" you teased, your voice light but carrying an undercurrent of something deeper, something unspoken. Your gaze darted to the flames, where the shattered remnants of the vial had disappeared. "Summoning me with your little bottle of dope?"

His laugh was dry, almost inaudible. "I take it for the pain," he murmured, the words heavy, fragile, as if they might shatter under the weight of his grief. His eyes found yours, softening in a way that made him feel utterly exposed. "To keep warm."

You moved then, gliding across the room with that effortless grace he had memorized, your bare feet soundless against the carpet. He stiffened when he felt your fingers ghost across his shoulder—a touch too warm, too tender to be real. Yet he didn't pull away.

"Is that what it's for?" you asked, your voice wrapping around him like a balm for a wound that would never heal. "The warmth?"

Bruce closed his eyes, his head dipping forward slightly as if trying to catch just a moment more of the phantom sensation. "The warmth," he echoed, his voice breaking. "All this time..."

You moved again, slipping into the space beside him on the couch, your presence as vivid as the firelight dancing in his peripheral vision.

He turned toward you, and for the briefest, most treacherous moment, it felt real—your scent, your nearness, the way you looked at him like you could see straight through to his soul.

He leaned in, his breath catching as he inhaled the memory of you, his eyes fluttering shut in the desperate hope that he could hold on just a little longer. Just a little longer.

But deep down, he knew.

It wasn't real.

It never was.

The realization struck like a knife twisting in his chest, but he clung to the illusion all the same. He would take anything—anything—to feel you again, even if it was a cruel lie conjured by his own fractured mind.

To touch you. To kiss you. To lose himself in you, the only solace he had ever known.

Since your death, there had been no one else. No empty arms, no fleeting connections. He didn't want anyone else. Couldn't. It was always you. It would always be you.

"I know," you whispered, your hand brushing his cheek in a gesture so gentle, it nearly broke him. His breath hitched, a tear slipping free.

"Our love still remains," you said, your words a quiet promise in the suffocating silence.

And you were right.

Because no matter who tried to step into his life, none of them could ever compare to you.

Bruce's head bowed, his shoulders trembling as he pressed his forehead to the illusion of your hand.

He didn't speak, didn't dare. He let the hallucination linger, let it fill the gaping void inside him for as long as it would. When it faded—and it always did—the cold would return, and he would be alone once more.

They lingered in that fragile silence, heavy with the weight of unsaid words, the room echoing with everything neither could bear to voice.

At last, you broke it, your tone steady yet tender. "But you have to listen, Bruce. To the voices you hear. To what they're telling you."

His brow furrowed deeply, his eyes squeezing shut as if to block out everything but you. "There's too much to do," he whispered, his voice trembling, breaking under the strain. His breath hitched unevenly. "The kids... the city... it never stops."

When he finally opened his eyes, they met yours, glassy and filled with unshed tears. "I need to say goodbye," he confessed, his voice a raw whisper, hoarse and fractured.

He rubbed his face with trembling hands, weary to his bones. "I need to sleep... just for a little while."

Your hands cradled his face again, grounding him in the moment, as real to him as the warmth of the fire. "Then think, Bruce," you urged, your voice a mix of unwavering love and quiet strength. "Think about what I would tell you. About what you need to do."

A tear slipped down his cheek, his body trembling as he leaned into the phantom touch. He tried to form words, but they came out as fractured pieces of his anguish. "It's too much... I can't... I should've..."

His voice cracked and faltered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've protected you. I should've saved you."

"You don't need to apologize," you said softly, your voice cutting through his despair like a light in the dark. "I was never angry with you, Bruce. I never could be."

His chest clenched painfully, a fresh wave of tears spilling free. "But I failed you," he choked out, his voice barely audible.

"You didn't fail me," you replied, your words sharp yet soothing. "But you're failing yourself."

You moved in closer, kneeling in front of him, your hands lifting his face so his eyes met yours.

There was a love in your gaze that steadied him, but also something more—a heaviness, a truth he couldn't yet name. "This isn't the way, Bruce. I won't let you destroy yourself like this."

His grief overtook him, his entire frame trembling with the force of it. "I can't let go," he admitted, his voice breaking as fresh sobs racked his body. "Not of you. Not yet."

Your smile returned, soft and filled with sadness. "Then let go of the pain," you said gently. "Let go of the guilt. Let go of the past. I'm here, but I can't stay. Not like this. Not while you're lost in the dark."

His heart shattered again, the pieces cutting deeper, but he couldn't deny the truth in your words.

"Please," he whispered, his voice raw, pleading, desperate. "Please don't leave me. I can't do this alone."

But you were already slipping away, your warmth dissipating like smoke, fading from his grasp.

He reached out, his hands trembling, but there was nothing there—nothing to hold onto. The room grew colder, your presence vanishing into the shadows, leaving him alone in the silence.

The fire crackled softly, its flames flickering weakly against the oppressive darkness. The emptiness of the room settled over him, pressing down with a weight he couldn't bear.

"I'll never let go," he whispered, his voice fragile, a shattered promise he knew he could never keep.

But you were gone. And the silence consumed everything.

Bruce's hand lingered on his cheek, still warm from where you'd touched him, but it too began to cool, slipping away too quickly.

Long moments passed before his voice cracked through the stillness, breaking the silence like glass. "I'll think," he murmured into the void. "I promise."

Even as the words left his lips, they felt empty—hollow echoes in a room full of nothing. 

As hollow as the man who spoke them.

go check [ TU’BURNI (Bruce Wayne fic) ]

Little thing while I write the next chapters of TU’BURNI :)

I’ve been considering publishing one of my Tommy Shelby fics, so if anyone’s interested, please lmk.

[ssweetleaf]

shame.

tommy shelby x fem!reader

summary: you urge tommy to speak up and tell you exactly what he wants while he’s on his knees.

includes: sub!tommy, dom!reader, allusions to cunnilingus

˖ ࣪⭑

“Come on, Tommy- can’t give you what you want unless I know you really need it.”

Thomas stared up at you, face all warm and blotchy, a pretty blush swarming along his skin out of sheer embarrassment and the constant throbbing of his cock. He was on his knees, hands grasping at your thighs to get you to go easy on him, to let him get up off his achy knees and pathetic position.

But no, of course you wouldn’t let up, he needed this, he needed someone to take over control and force him into submission— and that person was you.

So, like any good, obedient boy, he was going to have to beg for it.

“Cat got your tongue, hm?” Your brows raised, a faux look of disappointment flashing across your pretty features. “Really thought you were gonna be my good boy tonight, Thomas.”

Oh no. Thomas. You only called him that when you were really disappointed, his full name uttering off your lips in a huff and a scowl, annoyed that he wasn’t complying to your commands.

He had to fix that.

“N-no!” He rushed out, reaching up and pressing his cheek into your tummy, hands encircling your full hips when he he breathed out. “I want to be good.”

His speech came out as a mumble, hard to hear, muffled too by the fabric of your dress in his face, so you took a handful of his hair, tugging his face back and urging him to look up at you— into your eyes.

“Speak up.”

“I want to be good— for you,” he said, much louder that time, eyes pleading you to coo at him as if you were proud.

A small smile graced your lips and you let go of his hair to cup at his cheek, rubbing your thumb along the sharp line of his jaw and cheekbone, over and over, soothing him just a little and letting his eyes flutter shut.

“I know you do,” you replied, “and you are.”

He let out a shaky breath. His cock was painful, tenting the crotch of his trousers, a little wet spot forming where his tip was resting, pre-cum already saturating him and you hadn’t even played with him yet.

There was a part of him that felt wrong for how pliable he had become, how soft and submissive he was around you— a person like him, of his status, should crave dominance inside the bedroom just like how he would outside of it.

But it was just so easy to let go, to submit and fall apart.

He desired attention and praise— your attention and praise.

Tommy swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing and eyelids squeezing shut, he lifted up the skirt of your dress slightly, bunching it up around your thighs.

“Can I taste you?” He muttered, looking up at you before shuffling closer so his nose grazed against your clothed cunt.

You raised your eyebrow at him, waiting for that certain word.

“Please?” It was almost a whine, nosing at the wet spot on your underwear, the tip of his tongue swiping along it, just for a little preview of the real thing.

You ran your fingers through his cropped hair, scratching at his scalp the way you knew he liked, cooing down at him.

“Go ahead, sweet boy.”

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Moonlight

-> a self-indulgent little Thomas Hutter x fem!vampire!reader drabble

Warnings: reader watches Thomas sleep and contemplates biting him; mentions of mind control

He is so terribly beautiful in the moonlight.

Your undead heart, it seems, is still capable of aching in the face of beauty. It is a curious feeling you have not experienced in lifetimes, and are not sure you ever had, even when you walked still amongst the living. Your infernal nature urges you to sink your teeth into your unsuspecting prey, bite into his heart as you have done countless others... yet you are oddly compelled to preserve the sight before your eyes, caress it with your gaze as you would a most precious painting.

Thomas stirs in his sleep as you ease yourself onto the bed, but it’s not the slight motion of you sitting at his side which disturbs him. His dreams are tortured, leaving his skin aglow with perspiration. There is a shroud over his mind, equal parts his own terror and your dark influence crawling around within, ever since he set foot inside your ancient castle.

Slowly, you raise your hand, and his ragged breathing is soothed into a sigh as soon as the shadow of your fingers caresses his cheek. Your knuckles soon follow, an icy graze upon his feverish skin. Yet he leans into your touch, still fast asleep, lips slightly parted and—rosy, plump with blood you could bring rushing to the surface with but a press of your deadly sharp nailtip.

You shut your eyes, shuddering as you fight to keep at bay the hunger ravaging your senses. You must not give in now. You cannot. For if you do, if you were to throw yourself upon him and kiss his lips, and bite them open, there would be nothing in the world of the living or the dead that could stop you from draining him of every last drop he has to give. And if he were to die, the sweet torment of this desire he has awakened in you would die with him.

“My lady?”

His eyes have opened, you find as his murmur draws your gaze to him. Your fingers linger at his jaw still. They drift upward, sinking in his hair as you cradle the apple of his cheek. His breath quickens once more, lashes fluttering as though he is torn between remaining transfixed by your eerie beauty or hiding behind closed lids from a touch he feels to be his doom.

“My Thomas,” you whisper in return, overcome with an achingly tender craving. You watch as your other hand finds his chest, palm flattening over his heart. How quickly it beats beneath your fingertips. How strongly.

One bite, and it is yours.

You envision it—the tearing of flesh, the gushing of blood, the gasp torn from his throat—as Thomas brings his hand over your own. You raise your gaze and find his pleading. If there was any doubt left in his mind that the evil he feels in this place was you, it is now gone.

You could make him forget. You could make him do anything you wished, but it is of his own will that he turns his head into your hand that is cupping his cheek, brushes his lips against the heel of it. Then, lifting his gaze to yours, he breathes into your skin:

“Are you Death?”

You could be. You are.

Devourance is all you can think of as you lean down, your shadow falling over him as you bring your lips a breath away from his. They brush, not quite a kiss. Thomas releases the softest gasp. Shuts his eyes. Tilts his chin ever-so-slightly upwards.

More.

“No,” you rein in the craving in between you, as well as give the answer that he seeks. “Not tonight.”

When Thomas next opens his eyes, breathless and trembling, it’s as though you were never there. But he knows, by the ache of his need and the ghost of your touch, that indeed you were—and when the coming day has passed and night returns, so shall you. And though every inch of his being quakes with the certainty that you will bring utter ruin upon his body and his soul, he can’t help but think...

You are so terribly beautiful in the moonlight.

[smolvenger]

The Child Called Sharpe (Thomas Sharpe x fem! Reader Blurb)

Summary: You and Thomas Sharpe welcome your first baby and his second, as Thomas himself faces his own demons regarding his past.

Word Count: 1K (er...blurb or short oneshot, whatever)

Warnings: Mentions of Pregnancy and childbirth, but nothing graphic. In this version, though I try to have a more nuanced take on Lucille, In this fic I choose to portray the Lucille/Thomas relationship as nonconsensual, pedophilic, and abusive so if you don't like that don't read this, so mentions of sexual abuse, death, illness, blood with some of the canon events of Crimson Peak. But it becomes a lot of tooth-rotting fluff.

A/N: I can't please everyone with Crimson Peak on the is Lucille good or bad vrs. is Thomas good or bad discourse, so why bother trying anymore. I just wanna write my stuff. From @holdmytesseract's request!

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

Love for him meant creation. It brought out Thomas’s gift of invention tenfold- for love itself was creation. For the first time in his life, an act of love brought out the child’s creation. So it was natural for Thomas to spend hours inventing more for this little child on their way.

That is, his second child. For he had a child, once, and lost that child, once. 

Yes, it was a child conceived from control rather than consent…but it was still a child in need of care. A hungry baby- a human life crying for milk, and burning with fever. A child “born wrong.” A child Enola swore to fight to keep alive. 

And a child that despite everything died anyway. As did Enola. 

Despite Lucille’s cruelty, he did pity her grief for that child- For it was his grief as well.

Lucille caught ill and died not long after. He at least made sure she died comfortably. Warm beneath blankets on a soft bed. Assured her she was loved and kissed her cheek as she took her last breath.

It was complicated, his feelings about his late sister. He never could decide one thing about her. For everything was true- there was both in her. Lucille, both cruel and misunderstood, powerful and pitiful, villain and victim.

Though he never once forced himself on anyone or took advantage of a child as she did to him…

And yet…

He was still guilty of scheming, of blood, of darkness as she was. Of the invention that he wanted to be funded, that he bought at the price of three women’s lives… 

But… assaulting him when he was little? Using his innocence until when he was grown he knew no other but her? You would tell him that even if the murders were understandable, she did cross a line in that regard.

He still didn’t know if the woman who at once was his partner, his equal, his sister as well as his jailer, his predator, his molester was deserving of it. 

Or not. 

Or both.

Yet, all of that darkness and blood was now in the past. Here you were his current wife. A wife who would never take advantage of him. A wife who listened and respected when he said “no.” A wife who wouldn’t push him. Wouldn’t manipulate him. Wouldn’t control him. A wife who forgave him and saw he was now trying to do right with his life, and his choices and would be there to support him.

 Your pregnancy was poignant.  A reminder that he had a new life now- and a life that was about to expand as your stomach did each month.  A new life was about to come forth literally and figuratively for him. 

In the corner of his workshop in a special box were toys he made once. Toys were made for the first child who died. 

He never prayed, but he did now to whoever listened. For once, those toys would know being loved, being played, and for a baby’s laughter and delight and adoration. They wouldn’t rust from age, but with use. To be worn not with dust, but with love.

He brought out the box one morning and set it in the nursery of his new house. A simpler house compared to Allerdale Hall’s Majesty. Smaller and brighter, made of cherrywood and over earth rather than clay. But cheerful, the warmth bursting in every room.

The toys were cleaned and set ready in that nursery corner. You squeezed his hand after he did so.

When making sure you were comfortable, or when you slept or napped, away he would be in his workshop. He had a special toy shop now next to the house. So in his downtime, he would be found creating little toys that a child of any sex would love. A little teddy bear that twirled on top of a drum. A little cat that lifted to lick its little paw next to a puppy that wagged its tail. 

But…what else would a baby need!? His mind was reeling. It had been too long…

Of course! A place to sleep! You had insisted the old wooden rocker would work…but he still had that itching, the gears in his mind whirring faster than any clay mine.

He took a few weeks to study the designs and then set right to work. He stayed up late, rolling up his sleeves. Working on one where if you pressed a small pedal, it would rock gently, oh so gently, as to not stir a baby to more wailing, but only to sleep.

So when he discovered that Lady Sharpe’s water broke, he insisted on staying by you.

“Thomas! But…husbands don’t..don’t usually stay!” you cried. You clutched his hand as he led you to the bed.

Lucille would urge him to leave when it was time to put a cleaver into one of the wives.

For once, he would look at the blood and the bodily innards spilling from his wife and not turn away.

He shook his head, though his hand was still in yours.

“No- My dear, all of my life, I closed my eyes and ran away. I didn’t look when things happened. Not this time- after I get the midwife, I am staying with you. I will not run away for once. I’m going to stay with my wife and keep my eyes open, no matter what I see. I love you- and for once, I am not leaving.” I will not leave you alone to deal with it now.

You grabbed him and kissed his cheek. Then he ran and fetched the midwife. He held to his word and stayed.

Labor is always long. Labor is always primal. But he waited there. Squeezing your hand, cooling your head for every painful cry and push. 

Then, after the long hours, though he was a man used to blood he turned pale… Then at last there was a cry.

The midwives smiled, bringing out a little baby in their blaket. Declaring, “It’s a girl!”

You let out a smile and then a laugh of relief. Thomas kissed your hand, then looked at her. His blue eyes brimmed with tears, but for once in his life they were happy ones.

The little girl was brought out in her blanket, needing her mother’s touch- being so new to this cold world and wanting the soft embrace of knowing she was loved now that she was here.

“Look at her…look at her- our baby! Our daughter! Oh!” you cried, a mess of crying, swear, and relief—the pain of the last several hours was forgotten for the tiny baby.

“I never could imagine it,” he agreed, he pecked her tiny forehead.

Once she had settled down, you handed her over to Thomas. The warm, living bundle in his arms. Yes, her cry was loud and bright…but it only signaled that she was alive.. He had never known such joy without confinement, without limits.

The midwives and nurses were paid and thanked. They left, but though it was a long day his Daedelian mind was eager to share his gift.

As you sat in the bed after a while, Thomas got up.

“I have a gift now. For her,” he announced.

Setting you in the wheelchair for rest, he led you to the nursery. The little girl in your arms. Inside the little pastel room there was something in the middle that was tall beneath a blanket.

Thomas walked forward and slipped the blanket off. You let out a gasp.

Beneath was the cradle Thomas made. It was stunningly beautiful- a little pedal that when he stepped on it, would make it rock. Over the bed was a music box on the side that trinkled a lullabye. Stars and a crescent moon dangled were placed to spin over the babies head where she would be placed.

You gasped, seeing how ornate it was. Every bit made with love. As you got up and placed her inside, she opened her little eyes and cooed. You made a little gasp as she took in the sight- her parents and her special gift. Music, rocking, and the stars and moon to dance above her.

To think, after all he had seen, experienced, and done…that he would come to know this moment. Here it was…and he didn’t feel worthy of it.

What when she was older? His own father was a monster. And for a while, fatherhood was linked to such things…

“I only hope I shall be a good father for that little girl…” Thomas wondered..

“You already are,” you assured him. You wrapped an arm around him and kissed him on the cheek.

That night, you were set to sleep after the exhaustion of delivery and elation of the baby. Thomas offered to be there in the nursery. For she was crying through that night, as any baby. Not that she was hungry, as he found out, she just needed warmth.

He got her out of the lovely cradle and went to the rocking chair. He wanted to hold her, feel her close. Her warmth and beating heart and life. 

His most precious creation of all…and the one that would survive. He knew she would.

“I promise you, my little love…” Thomas told the baby. “You will not know of attics. Of cold and punishments. Of plotting and murders. Of blood and cruelty…”

He kissed the top of her head.

“No- you will be Protected. Wanted…and loved.”

He would do everything so that his daughter would never have to suffer as he did.

[tenpintsof-sundrop]

Some Kind of Disaster - Preview

Gally (TMR) x Fem!Reader

Concept: You saw Gally take a spear through the chest, and you are more than shocked to find him alive and well, in front of your eyes.

Preview Word Count: 970

If you like this preview, follow my writing blog @sundrop-writes and turn on notifications there as the full fic will be posted there sometime within the next few months when I have the time and energy to edit it. I may or may not make a TMR taglist, I'm not sure??

A/N: This is based entirely on the movie version of Gally, as I haven't read the books and don't plan on doing so. The title comes from an All Time Low song of the same name - which I would highly recommend listening to in order to get the vibes for this fic. Also apparently this is the same concept as a dozen other Gally fics, but I don't really care right now - because I got inspired to do it and it's entirely self indulgent, and this is my take on the concept lmao. I am currently on hiatus, but I've been working on fics as a form of stress relief during this time - but I haven't been editing fics. This fic will be posted after its edited sometime within the next month or two. (And there is already a sequel in the works, shhh.) Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, and feedback is much appreciated!

Warnings: the full fic will be smut, but this is more of a tease of that; the reader character uses she/her pronouns and has a vagina; spoilers for the films if you haven't seen them; arguing that turns into kissing; Gally has a self-deprecating/insecure inner monologue; mentions of Newt x Reader (it's one-sided in this fic, but may be something more later on ;)); Gally being possessive, Gally being rough (but the reader likes it); mention of Gally masturbating to thoughts of the reader; implications of Gally being taller than the reader (which I think is likely for most people cause Will Poulter is pretty fuckin tall); technically virginity loss (but it's not a big focus of the fic) - it's more about two people naturally enjoying their first time together (and I wrote this the same way I would write a first time in a relationship with two slightly more experienced characters) - and also nothing majorly sexual comes up in this part; this section: heated kissing with intentions towards sex, and that's pretty much it.

...

“Look, I’m sorry I’m not like them, okay?”

He spat out these words bitterly when you didn’t speak, and this left you confused. “I’m sorry I’m not some dumb brave hero guy-” 

You reached out and roughly shoved the middle of his chest again. Unknowingly, this aggravated the healed scar where the spear had gone through him, sending a dull ache through him at having the tender pink skin so roughly prodded without his chest armor on this time. 

“You’re so stupid!” You barked back, utterly insulted by his words. 

He thought this was par for the course, that you would begin hurling more insults before storming out. He thought that you would tell him his supposed ‘death’ had been the best thing that had ever happened to you, and the longing looks Newt had given you were truly something more. 

“God, you’re so-!” 

You choked on your own words and tears welled up in your eyes, and you took a sharp breath before you continued. 

“You are that dumb brave hero guy!” You yelled back, speaking like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Gally gaped at you, and you continued. 

“What do you think all that was?” You gestured vaguely behind yourself, obviously speaking about the events earlier in the day - when he had rushed into heavy bomb fire to drag you and the others to safety. “That was the dumbest hero guy thing I have ever seen.” You said, putting a stain of emphasis on the word ‘dumb’, pinching his own phrasing for it right in the ass. 

“That was nothing, I just did that because you were in danger, and-” 

“And that’s exactly what Thomas would have done.” You replied, quickly cutting him off. “You’re every bit as good as him. You are.” 

There was a tense moment where you stared him down, deep contemplation knit across his features while you waited for him to agree with you. 

“I wasn’t when you left the Maze.” He added on, quiet guilt floating through his voice. “I wasn’t brave then. I was a coward. I couldn’t be what you needed-” 

“You have always been what I need, Gally. When will you get that through your thick shank skull?” 

You were done rehashing the past. 

You were done contemplating the details of what could have been. It hit you truly then - all that mattered to you now was the fact that Gally, your Gally was in front of you, somehow alive and well. And though it was something you never could have predicted, you wouldn’t let such a beautiful thing slip through your fingers. 

You reached out and grabbed the front of his sweatshirt, pulling him forward roughly. At the end of that jerking motion, he was met with your lips, and he sunk into the kiss without a second thought, closing his eyes and letting out a soft sigh that shouldn’t have suited him so well. Adding to that softness as he reached up to gently cup your cheeks while you gnawed at him with a feral passion. 

This is exactly what he had been waiting for. This was the reunion he had wanted all along. 

In a moment, the touch, your desperate grip on the front of his shirt, the way you ran your teeth along his bottom lip, edging toward something more - it triggered something within him. A possessive streak over you that had long been dormant; something once fueled by rage and jealousy and fear over the bad things that might happen to you if he wasn’t constantly looking over your shoulder. Now, it came from something much deeper. 

That immature love he had felt for you that had only grown and matured during your time apart, adding to a hungry passion for you now that he had you back in his arms - now that he could feel the heat of your skin, smell you, hear the whimpering patter of your breath and know that you were so damn real. (Not just another falsehood of his imagination with the details poorly filled in that he tried to soothe himself with, while he had a hand on his cock.) 

He was the one who charged at you this time, shoving you backwards and walking tightly with you, crowding you back until you hit a wall. You hadn’t truly taken in your surroundings, and if you had half a mind to, you would have noticed that this was some kind of dingy store room - used for scavenged spare parts for the vehicles and old guns that needed to be repaired in order to be put into use. 

But your brain didn’t take any of that in when your back made contact with the wall, Gally still kissing you fiercely, making you downright dizzy. You didn’t have time to think when one of his hands took a possessive hold on your thigh, hiking your leg up around his hip while his presence loomed over you, like the perfect protective wall you always felt that he was. He continued the heated liplock for a moment before he pulled away for air, and then, a particular query couldn’t be contained within you. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” You asked, half-teasing, still holding your death grip on his shirt. 

There was a particular hum between your thighs - something hot and beating and alive, a calling that demanded to be answered. You knew that you would be devastated if Gally stopped too soon or didn’t rise to that call. So you had to know what his intentions were now to prepare yourself for the potential disappointment. 

“Showing you how much I missed you.” He answered firmly, entirely certain, leaning in to capture your mouth again - pressing his whole body tightly against yours now. 

It sent a thrill through you - knowing that he would answer that call and thensome.

[hoe4hotchner]

Chapter 6 - Fractured trust

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x figure skater (fem)!Reader

Summary: The story follows you a figure skater training for nationals and Aaron Hotchner as your lives intertwine during an investigation into the abductions of young athletic women, including the your close friend, Leah. As the BAU delves deeper into the case, you find yourself captivated by Hotch’s quiet strength and protective presence. When Leah’s body is tragically discovered at the rink, the tension escalates, surrounding you in an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty.

Word count: 8k

Warnings: Blood, murder, death, suicide, grief, guilt and confusion. Heavy themes. Reader is a little delulu

A/N: Hotch is a very professional man and therefor doesn't get horny on the job, but there's a part somewhere where he definitely has a mental boner. You'll understand later. ;)

For the record, this was written before Liam Payne died… but some of the feelings are very relevant for a lot of people right now.

Masterlist

The lights overhead flickered briefly, casting long shadows across the conference table where the team had gathered for the night. The quiet hum of the overhead lamps mixed with the steady tap of Garcia’s fingers flying across her keyboard filled the air. The sound was almost rhythmic. Her brightly painted nails moved with such speed and precision that would leave anyone besides the BAU silently in awe. Each tap felt like a countdown, pulling more and more information to the surface.

Garcia’s monitor was a chaotic spread of files, timelines, and news clippings. Photos of Thomas Mercer in his prime, dressed in sparkly costumes, flashed alongside detailed records of his skating career: a golden boy once destined for the Olympics, now reduced to tragedy — one of the headlines wrote. His once-promising future was chronicled in the endless stream of reports and interviews — headlines of victories, discussions where his potential was praised, and then, the downfall — the dreaded downfall of Mercer. The articles began to shift in tone, highlighting his short temper instead of his extraordinary skating techniques, the scandal at his final competition, and the career-ending outburst that left him blacklisted from ever competing within the skating world again.

Hotch paced slowly near the head of the table, his arms crossed tightly against his chest, the tension in his movements mirroring the weight of the case. His steps were methodical, like he was trying to unravel the complexities of the case with each circuit he made around the room. Occasionally, his sharp gaze would fix on Garcia, brows furrowed, his expression intense and unreadable. If it had been anyone else, that look might have felt like a warning — but his team knew him better. It wasn’t frustration aimed at them; it was his way of focusing, of dissecting every piece of information being fed to him.

Garcia was used to his demeanor. Her fingers never faltered as they danced across the keyboard, pulling file after file from the databases, cross-referencing details, and hacking through the sea of data in front of her. Each time she uncovered something relevant, Hotch’s eyes would dart to the screen, laser-focused as if willing the information to form the missing link he was looking for.

“Here’s another record,” Garcia murmured, scrolling through a dense report. She highlighted sections as she spoke, she was calm, but the urgency in her words was unmistakable by the tempo of her voice. “Mercer’s last known address was right outside Arlington — it seems he moved there a few months after that competition — Before he went completely off the grid, he had several altercations with other skaters, coaches… even some journalists. It looks like his rage wasn't limited to just the rink.” Garcia looked up from her screen, waiting for Hotch's thoughts about her findings — or perhaps just his next request for information.

Hotch paused his pacing, his eyes narrowing on the paragraph displayed on the screen as he processed her words. His arms remained crossed, tension building in his shoulders. “Anything from the past few months? Any signs of contact with anyone involved in the case? Or sightings of him?”

Garcia shook her head, pulling up a timeline of Mercer’s movements. “No Sir, nothing recent. The last confirmed interaction with any of the skaters from the pavilion we have is almost five years old, just before his disappearance.”

The rest of the team sat quietly, reviewing the profile. There was a sense of anticipation in the room. They knew Hotch well enough to recognize when he was locked onto something, and right now, that something was Thomas Mercer. Despite your gut feeling — your firm belief that Mercer wasn’t the guy — Hotch wasn’t about to let his name fade from their investigation without turning over every possible stone.

Morgan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table as he rubbed his face, he looked tired — but it was understandable, none of them had slept much the past couple of weeks. “Any chance he stayed around the Virginia area after the incident?”

Garcia's fingers paused for a second, listening to his question, before resuming their dance across the keyboard. Her tone shifted slightly, more somber than their usual banter. “Actually, no,” she replied, her gaze fixed on the screen. “After his last public appearance in New York, Mercer packed up and left. Looks like he was hoping for a fresh start somewhere else.” She sighed softly, skimming the news article further. “He tried to rebuild his career in Chicago, then moved through a few other cities in the Midwest, but nothing ever stuck in seems. No coach wanted to take the risk on him again after what happened.”

JJ’s brow furrowed as she considered the information, her motherly instincts confused and sad for Mercer. “He didn’t have anyone to help him? No family, or friends? Someone he could've turned?”

Garcia shook her head with a frown on her face as she opened another file. “Not that I can see. His family didn’t seem too involved, at least not after he spiraled. His mother passed away when he was young, and he bounced between his grandparents and father's house. No close friends from what I can tell, either. Most people distanced themselves after his temper started ruining things.” She grimaced, scanning through more of his records. “By the time he left Virginia, Mercer was pretty much on his own.”

Morgan rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling slowly, he couldn't quite figure out why they weren't seeking him out yet. “So, he’s isolated, burned every bridge, and has no support system. Ding ding ding, that's our unsub! Can we go get him now so we can wrap this case up?”

Garcia hesitated, and then her voice softened even further. “That's not exactly the case I fear. He didn’t snap, at least not in the way we’d expect." She took a deep breath, mostly bracing herself to say the words in front of her, at least more so than she was preparing the team for the grim news. "He took his own life six months ago. The last record of him was an obituary. Suicide by overdose.”

A heavy silence settled over the room, they all knew what this meant for the investigation. The team exchanged glances, the weight of the revelation sinking in.

Morgan sighed, shaking his head. “So, we can rule him out as the unsub. I guess it's back to the drawing board then.” Hotch could tell that Morgan wasn't happy, debating whether or not he should send his team home for some well-deserved rest. He could after all just continue the investigation himself — at least now that they were back to square one. 3 dead bodies and a profile with no matches.

Hotch nodded slowly, his expression was just as tired as the rest of the team's as he processed the information given. "His anger could’ve influenced someone else. If someone was close enough to him and shared his views on Leah, they could be carrying out his vendetta in his place — that's if Leah was the target all along."

Hotch’s eyes darkened, his mind already working through the next steps. “We need to look into anyone who was still in contact with him, anyone who might’ve followed him when he moved. Friends, training partners, anyone who sympathized with his situation.” His gaze moved from the screen to the team as he pinched his nose for a brief moment. He exhaled, the weight of the revelation about Mercer hanging in the air. “We’ve done enough for tonight,” he then said, his voice was low — he too sounded tired. “Go home, get some rest. I’ll handle the next steps from here.”

Morgan furrowed his brow, glancing at the chaos of files scattered all across the table. Papers were everywhere — profiles, crime scene photos, timelines — forming a disorganized sea of details that he couldn't quite make head or tail of, each file more confusing than the next.

The weight of the case had long since seeped into other aspects of their lives, thickening the air with fatigue and frustration everywhere they went. They all knew it had become increasingly more personal to Hotch, even if he didn't want to admit it — they all knew just why he wouldn't let this one rest. Maybe even let some of the B-team agents take over the less crucial parts of the profile to catch the killer quicker.

Morgan’s eyes scanned the scene before letting his eyes rest on Hotch, concern etching deeper into his expression. “You sure, Hotch?” Morgan could tell how exhausted Hotch was, maybe even more exhausted than the rest of them combined. “We can stay — there’s still work to be done.”

Hotch shook his head. “We’ve hit a wall for now, and pushing through it while we’re all running on fumes won’t help. Besides—” Hotch hesitated for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have a very uncomfortable visit to make to the ice pavilion.”

Emily looked at him, catching onto what he wasn’t saying. “You mean Y/N?”

Hotch’s expression tightened his mouth a firm line as he gave a short, confirming nod. “I have to inform her about Mercer.” His voice was quiet but resolute. He wasn’t just delivering bad news; he was about to shatter your childhood star, one he could tell you had clung to despite his downfall, and that knowledge clearly weighed on him.

The gust of cold air hit Hotch the moment he pushed through the heavy doors of the pavilion, the chill biting a little at his skin despite his overcoat. He pulled it a little tighter around him. His breath formed small clouds in front of him, dispersing into the open space of the arena.

The rink was mostly silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigeration system and the sharp sound of your skates gliding over the ice. He stood still for a moment, scanning the pristine stage of glistening ice. He was searching for a sign — a sign of danger, any sign really.

Most of the non-competing athletes had been relocated to another arena for the duration of the investigation, the once busy rink now lay eerily quiet without the usual crowd of skaters and coaches filling up the space. The echo of several skates cutting into the ice no longer mingled with laughter, casual conversation, or the occasional shouted instructions. Instead, it felt like the ice itself had absorbed the tension hanging in the air.

Only the top few competitors, including yourself, had been granted permission to continue practicing on the rink’s grounds, a privilege meant to ensure that the investigation didn’t interfere with your training schedules. But the shift in the atmosphere was undeniable. What used to feel like home, a place to push yourself to new limits, to hang out with your peers, now felt cold and deserted — a place where shadows lurked, and each practice session was haunted by the weight of what had happened to Leah — and what could happen to you.

The decision to allow only a select few skaters to remain was both a practical and psychological one. It ensured that the competition-ready athletes didn’t falter in their rigorous training, but it also placed a heavy burden on those left behind. Hotch had fought tooth and nail with the local authorities to completely close the rink, but in the end, had to realize that his energy was better spent elsewhere.

For those who remained, every glide on the ice carried the memory of Leah’s absence, you had all known her on a deeper level that the newbies and even the simple act of lacing up skates had become a reminder of her.

You were midair, your body twisting gracefully as you rotated, the fabric of your skirt rippling like water in the air. Time seemed to slow down as Hotch’s eyes locked onto you. The elegance and precision of your movement were captivating in their own mystical way — each twist, each turn measured perfectly. Every muscle in your body was taut with control and power, your focus undisturbed, completely immersed in the flow of your routine.

It was a stark contrast to the tension and unease that swirled in his mind every time he stepped into the pavilion. Here, in your element, there was no sign of the fear or darkness that had invaded your life once you stepped off the ice. Yet, even in the grace of your movements, Hotch knew he carried the weight of a truth that would shatter that fleeting peace.

For a split second, you seemed weightless, suspended in the air, and all Hotch could focus on was how serene and beautiful you looked in that moment — completely absorbed in your world. He hated that he had to break the news to you.

His eyes lingered on the way your dress for sectionals shimmered under the lights, the deep navy-blue fabric hugging your body perfectly, adorned with rhinestones that glittered like stars with every movement. He had never seen you in any of your costumes before, but he vividly remembered the day you had received it in the mail. You had practically dragged JJ, Prentiss, and Garcia into the bullpen to where you had dropped your gym bag, the three of them laughing with joy as you carefully unfolded the dress to show it off. You had huddled together like sisters, fingers tracing over the intricate details of the rhinestones and the delicate stitching, voices bubbling with excitement.

Hotch had caught snippets of the conversation — Emily had been the first to compliment the open back, her eyes widening as she had called it a “showstopper,” while JJ teased you about how you’d have to skate like you were wearing a galaxy. Garcia, of course, had been the most enthusiastic, gasping dramatically and insisting that the dress was “fit for a queen,” urging you to take a thousand photos and videos once you had it on.

It was one of those rare moments in the BAU office where the weight of their work seemed to lift, and he had watched from a distance, quietly amused by the way you all fussed over the dress like it was something sacred. But he guessed this was just a part of the girlhood Garcia once had tried to teach him about.

Seeing you now in it, gliding effortlessly across the ice, each rhinestone reflecting the rink's bright lights like a cascade of stars, he realized the ladies had been right — it truly was a showstopper. Every movement you made transformed the dress into a spectacle of grace, and Hotch found himself mesmerized, momentarily forgetting the heavy news he carried.

The sheer sleeves, dotted with delicate stones, gave an ethereal sparkle to your arms, and the open back added a touch of exposure to your elegance. As you glided across the ice, the dress moved effortlessly with you, enhancing every leap, every graceful spin. Hotch couldn't help but admire how the dress seemed to be an extension of you, amplifying the beauty of your performance.

For a moment, he felt a pang of regret — how could he shatter this peaceful moment with the weight of what he had to say? But he had no choice — you had to know. It was only right.

Time seemed to slow as he kept looking at you. The way you moved, jumped, and spun, and the way your body suspended in the air for brief moments, was like a work of art. Everything about it — the precision, the grace, the sheer effortlessness — was fascinating.

Hotch found himself momentarily lost, watching the way your arms extended, the way your muscles seemed to work in perfect harmony with the ice beneath you. You were beautiful and elegant, in complete control of your world out there.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the sound of your skates hitting the ice after another spin brought him back to reality. A sharp crack echoed through the rink as the blade made contact, and you smoothly landed the jump, coming out of it with the practiced ease of someone who had done it a thousand times. His chest tightened, not only with admiration but with the heavy knowledge of the danger you were unknowingly still in.

You spotted Hotch at the edge of the rink, leaning slightly against the boards with his elbows resting on top of them. A small smile tugged at your lips, and without missing a beat in your routine, you gave him a little wave before gliding toward him with effortless grace. As you neared him, the tension he had been carrying all day seemed to ease, if only for a moment.

When you reached the edge of the rink, you came to a graceful stop, the ice dust spraying lightly from beneath your skates. You leaned casually on the boards, still slightly breathless from your routine, your cheeks flushed from exertion but truthfully, some of it was accredited to Hotch's presence.

“Hey,” you greeted, your voice was soft as you tilted your head slightly with a curious smile. "I wasn’t expecting you to stop by." Your chest heaved with deep breaths as you slowly started regulating your breathing.

For a split second, Hotch found himself captivated by the lightness in your tone and the relaxed nature of your stance. You looked so peaceful. He hesitated, but the weight of his responsibility crashed back to him, but for just a few seconds longer, he allowed himself to linger in the relief he saw reflected in your eyes.

Hotch's lips quirked into a small, almost imperceptible smile. Despite his attempt at a warm greeting, the tension in his face didn’t fade, and it was clear something was pressing heavily on his mind. “I came to see how you were holding up... and to talk. We’ve made some progress.”

You nodded slowly, already suspecting where this conversation was headed. As you caught your breath, you peeled off your gloves, the cold bite of the air clinging to your skin for a moment before you grabbed your jacket and shoved them into the pocket.

"Let me guess — it’s about Mercer?" You tried to keep your tone neutral, but the underlying tension in your voice was unmistakable. Your brows furrowed slightly as you looked at him more closely, scanning his face for any indication of what he was about to say.

There was something about the way Hotch stood in front of you, the stiffness in his posture, the way he seemed to be choosing his words carefully, that made your stomach twist with apprehension — something was wrong. You could sense it.

You already knew. It had to be about Mercer. And yet, a part of you desperately hoped that it wasn’t. Maybe it was something else, someone else, something less personal and something easier to hear. But the serious glint in Hotch’s eyes told you otherwise, and as much as you wanted to delay the inevitable, you couldn’t avoid it. Not anymore.

His eyes softened, knowing this part of the conversation wasn’t going to be easy. He could tell that you wanted answers just as much as they did, but for now, he had to share the news that might complicate things even more.

 “Can we sit down?” Hotch asked, gesturing toward the bleachers with a seriousness that made your stomach tighten further.

You nodded, your heart racing as you stepped off the ice. As you pulled on your jacket, the fabric felt like a flimsy barrier against the chill in the air. You walked beside him, each step echoing the moment. When you reached the bleachers, the cold wood bit through the skirt of your costume, sending a shiver up your spine as you sank onto the hard surface.

“What is it?” you asked, anxiety bubbling up in your chest.

Hotch exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening as if bracing himself for your reaction. “It’s about Mercer.”

Your heartbeat quickened, echoing in your ears like a drum. “What about him?” The mention of Mercer had a way of igniting your instincts for the worse.

“He... we found out that Mercer moved away from Virginia after his career took a hit,” Hotch began slowly, his gaze fixed on you as he carefully watched your reaction. Each word seemed to hang heavy in the air. “He tried to restart somewhere else, several times, but they didn’t work out for him. A few months after that, he... took his own life.” Hotch paused, waiting for your reaction.

Your breath hitched in your throat, the shock sending your mind spiraling into chaos. “What?” you blinked rapidly, struggling to grasp the gravity of what he was saying. The words felt surreal, as if they belonged to some distant reality you couldn’t quite comprehend. “No, you’re lying,” you stammered, shaking your head in disbelief, the denial instinctively rising within you. “That can’t be true.” The thought of Mercer — someone you had looked up to, someone whose struggles had seemed so distant for the past couple of years — now felt like an insurmountable reality crashing down around you. Confusion mingled with grief, leaving you reeling as you fought to process the enormity of his loss.

You sat there, numbness spreading through your limbs as Hotch’s words echoed in your mind. How could someone who had once been so vibrant and talented reach such a devastating conclusion? The reality of his absence felt like a punch to the gut, leaving you gasping for air in the wake of an unthinkable tragedy.

Hotch didn’t say anything. He just held your gaze, his eyes filled with a sadness that seemed to resonate deeply within you. Although his sadness wasn't from Mercer, he couldn't care less about whether Mercer was dead or alive.

You stared at him, waiting for him to say something — anything — that would make it all make sense. You needed him to tell you that he was lying, to offer a glimmer of hope, some explanation that could ease the weight of reality. But he didn’t. He didn’t have to. The truth was written plainly in the way he looked at you, and it hit you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless and reeling.

“No… no, no, no,” you muttered, talking more to yourself than to him. “That doesn’t make any sense. I don’t… I don’t understand. He’s supposed to be…” The words tangled on your tongue, each syllable feeling heavy as your thoughts spiraled, struggling to catch up with the overwhelming truth. “How could I not know this?” Your voice broke in a whisper of disbelief. “How—”

You felt tears welling up, blurring your vision as the reality of the situation pressed down harder. It was as if the ground had fallen away beneath your feet. Memories of Mercer flooded your mind — moments you had taken for granted now twisted into reminders of what was lost. The guilt settled on your shoulders, heavy and suffocating, as you grappled with the haunting question of how someone like him could slip away without a trace.

Hotch’s hand found its way to your knee, his grip gentle but firm, grounding you in the moment as the world around you felt like it was slipping away. He didn’t say anything; words seemed inadequate in the face of such sorrow like nothing he would say would help. Yet, the warmth of his hand was enough. His presence was enough. It felt like an anchor in the stormy sea of your emotions, and it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart and shattering completely.

You wiped at your face, desperately trying to collect yourself, but the tears kept coming, each drop a testament to the pain that surged through you. The truth of Mercer’s loss felt like a dark cloud. You fought against the rising tide of grief, knowing you had to hold on.

The atmosphere in the BAU had shifted dramatically as the investigation dragged on. Each passing day brought new leads and new revelations, and with them came the undeniable sense that the stakes were rising with every hour. You could feel the pressure mounting, pressing down on your chest, leaving little room to breathe every time Hotch called you in to consult on anything related to the pavilion or figure skating.

The latest briefing had peeled back another layer of the investigation, revealing unsettling details about the unsub’s profile that sent shivers down your spine. The pieces were falling into place, but nothing had fully prepared you for what lay ahead.

When Hotch called you a couple of days later to witness an interrogation, you felt a surge of unease. You hadn’t expected to find yourself standing on the other side of a one-way mirror, watching someone you once respected face the full force of the BAU’s investigation.

Hotch’s intense interrogation techniques were on full display, each question designed to unearth the truth buried beneath layers of possible deceit. You watched intently as he leaned in, his voice commanding as it cut through the defiance of the suspect. It was a side of him you hadn't seen before, but witnessing it so closely now felt unsettling, especially knowing the personal dots connecting you further and further to the case.

Eric Collins. The name echoed in your mind, carrying a weight of respect and admiration that felt almost nostalgic. He had been a well-known coach at the rink where you had started your journey, a place that now felt like a lifetime ago. You could still picture the early mornings spent training under his watchful eye, his voice echoing in the chill, guiding you through every jump and spin. He had been more than just a coach to you; he had been a mentor, instilling a passion for the sport and a sense of discipline that shaped your formative years.

His sharp eye for technique and authoritative demeanor both on and off the ice set him apart. He was, without a doubt, the best of the best. You remembered how other skaters looked up to him, their eyes filled with admiration and a hint of fear, as he commanded respect with his presence alone. But as you transitioned to training under Branson at the pavilion, the dynamics shifted. Rumors began to swirl in the community, whispers that you were too young to fully comprehend at the time.

Looking back, you realized how those discussions had lingered in the air amongst the older skaters at the pavilion, like an unshakeable cloud. You now fully understood why they had been as cold to you in the beginning as they had. Was it jealousy? Disappointment? Perhaps a mix of both? You hadn’t understood the implications of your choice then, but the murmurs had reached your ears, and they had certainly reached the ears of your parents. They stirred a mix of emotions that you now recognized — loyalty to your roots clashing with the desire for growth. Eric had been a pivotal figure in your life, but as you navigated your own path, you wondered if he held a grudge against you for the choices you'd made as a young teenager and the fallout that had followed between you.

Now, as you stood in the cold, sterile confines of the observation room, watching Eric sit across from Hotch, a new sense of unease gripped you. The years had changed him in ways you hadn’t anticipated. The once-confident figure now looked worn and weary, his shoulders hunched slightly as if bearing the weight of countless burdens. You studied him through the glass, trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the one you once knew so well.

His face was now etched with lines of tension that spoke of stress and anxiety. The vibrant spark in his eyes had dulled. As you watched, his gaze darted nervously around the room, flitting from what you could only guess was the famous Hotchner stare — that Emily had told you to look out for — to the sterile walls, as though searching for an escape from the uncomfortable situation.

He seemed to have lost that light in him you remembered from your early days as a skater, swallowed by whatever shadows had crept into his life since those days. You couldn't help but wonder what had happened to him in the years since you had last shared the ice. What struggles had he faced? What demons lurked just behind his mask?

Hotch sat directly across from him. The atmosphere crackled with tension, an almost tangible force that made it hard to breathe — even for you.

But it was the slow unraveling of Collins’ responses that tightened the knot in your stomach. You watched as he fidgeted in his chair, his fingers tapping against the table in a nervous rhythm. His answers came out short and to some extent evasive as if he were struggling to articulate the truth or perhaps deliberately avoiding it. Each word he uttered felt heavy with implications, and the more he spoke, the more unease settled deep into your bones.

With each passing moment, it became increasingly clear that something was very wrong.

Collins wasn’t just nervous—he was hiding something. The longer you watched him squirm in his chair, the more you realized that the respect you had once held for him had now become a distant memory, overshadowed by a creeping sense of dread. It was unsettling to witness a man who had once stood as a pillar of strength now appeared so fragile, unraveling under the pressure of a single unit chief of the FBI.

Hotch’s voice broke through your swirling thoughts. “Mr. Collins, we need to know about your relationship with Leah and any potential conflicts you may have had with her.” The directness of his question pierced the atmosphere in the room like a sharp blade, demanding answers that Collins seemed reluctant to provide.

You weren't even sure if he knew Leah, maybe only by word of mouth.

You could see Collins stiffen at the mention of Leah’s name though, his expression shifting momentarily as if Hotch had struck a nerve. Would he deny knowing her, or would he confess to something? As Collins hesitated, a flicker of something — fear? Guilt? — crossed his face, and you felt a flash of goosebumps running down your spine.

Eric shifted in his seat, crossing his arms tightly over his chest in a defensive posture that immediately set off warning bells in your mind. It was as if something within him had suddenly flicked a switch, burying any nerves deep down where they could no longer be seen. This abrupt shift in demeanor was unsettling.

“I’ve never even met the girl. How could I have anything to do with her murder?” he snapped, the irritation sharp in his voice, cutting through the air like a knife. The fervor in his denial felt desperate.

His words, though defiant, rang hollow, as if they had been rehearsed for this very moment. The conviction behind them seemed more like a facade, a flimsy shield against the truth. Hotch didn’t flinch at the outburst; his expression remained stoic and composed. However, you noticed how his eyes sharpened, narrowing slightly as he focused intently on Collins. It was the look of a seasoned profiler who could sense the cracks in a lie, who understood that the truth often lay buried beneath layers of bravado and evasion.

“Your name came up in several interviews with Leah's friends and teammates,” Hotch said, his voice steady as he kept his focus on Collins. His gaze only flicked momentarily to the file in front of him, where he slightly skimmed the printed-out interview notes. “They mentioned that you were upset when Leah started outperforming your skaters,” Hotch pressed. The implication of his words was clear, and you could see the way Collins' jaw tightened at the mention of Leah's success. “Was there any reason you might have wanted to hurt her, Mr. Collins?”

As Hotch posed the question, you could sense the tension in the room ramping up. Collins shifted in his seat again, his body language betraying his increasing discomfort under Hotch's stare. The defensiveness that had initially shrouded him was slowly giving way to distress.

You watched as Collins swallowed hard, the color draining from his face. For a moment, he seemed to weigh his response carefully, as if calculating the repercussions of every word that might slip from his lips.

“I wasn’t upset,” Collins ground out, his voice audibly laced with irritation. The denial spilled from him like a plea, but it felt forced. “Leah had talent — more than most, I'll admit that.”

“I encouraged all of my skaters to watch her competition videos,” he continued, his tone growing more defensive. “I would never harm one of my skaters — past, present, or potential ones. This is ridiculous, what you're accusing me of!” The last words erupted from him with exasperation, echoing off the walls of the interrogation room.

As he spoke, you could see the agitation flicker across his face, the way his hands clenched into fists on the table, as if he were trying to anchor himself.

Hotch’s expression remained unreadable, but you knew he was picking apart every word, every twitch of Eric’s face. There was something more here, something beneath the surface, and you could see it in the way Eric’s defensiveness bordered on desperation.

It was becoming clearer by the second — Eric Collins was hiding something.

Memories of your time training under Eric Collins flooded your mind, each recollection a tangled web of emotions. You remembered the moments when his praise felt like validation, lifting your spirits and fueling your ambition. His approval had been intoxicating, making you believe you could achieve greatness on the ice. Which you had. But alongside those moments were flashes of resentment and jealousy you had overheard from fellow skaters — conversations whispered in hushed tones behind closed doors.

There had always been rumors about Collins' character once skaters moved on from his teaching. Tales circulated about the way he held grudges against those who didn’t meet his lofty expectations, and how he could turn a blind eye to their accomplishments if they fell short of his standards.

Those whispers, which had once seemed easily dismissible, now gnawed at the edges of your consciousness, transforming into a haunting echo of warning.

As you recalled the sharp glances and muted conversations, you began to question everything you had once believed about him. Was there truth buried in those rumors? The thought made your stomach churn, the contrast between the mentor you once admired and the man sitting across from Hotch became more pronounced.

You crossed your arms, closing your eyes, trying to calm your mind for a moment.

Could someone you once respected, someone you thought you knew, really be capable of such violence? If that were true, what did it mean for the rest of the people in your circle? — the ones you had considered friends, mentors, allies? Were the supportive voices you relied on truly as trustworthy as you had believed throughout your whole career?

Each name that came to mind — friends and mentors who had cheered you on, who had stood beside you through countless competitions — now became shadowed by doubt. The friendly faces you’d shared victories and defeats with suddenly appeared as if they might be masking darker intentions, leaving you questioning not only Collins’ integrity but also the loyalty of those around you.

“Mr. Collins, we have a source who mentioned that you had very high expectations for your skaters,” Hotch stated, his gaze locking onto Eric’s, refusing to let him evade the question. “She also mentioned that if someone didn’t meet those expectations, you had a reputation for being... cruel and degrading. Care to elaborate on that?”

Hotch’s tone was measured, his calm demeanor belying the intensity. Hotch was making half-statements now, twisting your words as the source in a way that felt almost accusatory of Collins. You had never experienced anything but motivation from Collins, who had always pushed you to be your best. Yet, as you looked at Eric’s posture, you couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that maybe there was more to the story.

“Cruel?” Collins scoffed. “I pushed my skaters to succeed because I believed in them! High expectations are part of coaching; it’s how they grow.”

You felt the urge to defend him, but the truth was, you couldn’t definitively deny the claims. While your experiences had been largely positive, you knew there were other skaters who had left his coaching, some of whom had openly complained about their time with him. What had they endured that you hadn’t witnessed? Was there a darker side to his coaching style that you were blind to because of your age at the time?

We need to understand how your methods affected your skaters, Mr. Collins. Were you ever frustrated with them when they didn’t perform to your standards?”

“Of course I was frustrated; I wanted them to succeed. But frustration isn’t cruelty. I cared for my skaters; I wanted them to be the best they could be.”

“But did that frustration ever turn into something more?” Hotch pressed his tone sharper now. “Did it ever make you cross the line?”

Eric’s eyes flared, his defenses rising once again. “I never hurt anyone!” he snapped, the denial laced with a defensiveness that felt more and more like desperation. “That’s a stretch!” Eric snapped, his voice rising defensively. “Do you know how competitive this world is? It’s about pushing your limits, not punishment. You push hard, or you get left behind. That’s how it works.”

Hotch didn’t flinch, his gaze steady as he countered, “Perhaps. But competition can also breed resentment. It’s human nature. You’ve got to admit, Mr. Collins, you’ve had conflicts with Leah. Whether you want to acknowledge them or not, they existed.”

“I had conflicts with a lot of skaters. It’s part of coaching! It doesn’t mean I wanted to hurt anyone. Leah was good, but she wasn’t the only one. I had others to think about.”

Hotch leaned forward slightly, his voice calm yet unwavering. “But Leah stood out, didn’t she? It’s clear she had potential that could overshadow your skaters. It’s understandable that you might have felt threatened, even if you didn’t intend for that to turn into murder.”

Collins opened his mouth to retort but closed it again, the fight leaving his eyes as he looked away. “I didn’t feel threatened,” he muttered, almost to himself. “I just wanted to see all of my skaters succeed. It’s what any coach would want.”

Hotch pressed on, sensing the slight crack in Collins’ defenses. “Yet, your behavior can speak volumes, Mr. Collins. Did you ever say anything to Leah that could have fueled her resentment toward you? Any comments about her performance or her place among your skaters?”

Eric’s expression shifted again. “I may have said things in the heat of the moment. But that doesn’t mean I wanted her gone! I wanted her to succeed! Just not at the cost of my own skaters.” He muttered the last part, hoping Hotch wouldn't catch it.

“You don’t have to be a monster to contribute to a toxic environment, Mr. Collins. Sometimes, even unintended actions can lead to devastating consequences. We just need you to be honest with us about your relationship with Leah and how it may have affected her.”

“I may not have treated her as kindly as I should have,” he admitted, his voice dropping. “I had high expectations, and maybe I let my frustrations get the better of me. But that doesn’t mean I wanted to see her hurt! I never wished her harm.”

Hotch nodded, allowing the moment to sink in. “You must understand how your actions are perceived, Mr. Collins. Words can wound just as deeply as physical actions, especially in a competitive atmosphere.”

“Fine! I’ll admit I didn’t always handle things perfectly,” Collins said, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. “But I still didn’t want anything bad to happen to her. I never crossed that line.”

As Hotch prepared to wrap up the interrogation, you felt a sense of bittersweet resolution. Collins wasn’t the monster you had feared he might be, but he was also not the respected coach you had once known.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Collins,” Hotch said. “We may have more questions for you in the future.”

Hotch approached you in the bullpen as you were gathering your few things. He leaned against a nearby desk, arms crossed and a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Are you starting to feel ready for sectionals?” he asked.

You paused, giving him a small glance as you rifled through your bag for your guards to your skates. “I think so. I’ve been training hard, but the nerves always kick in right before,” you admitted, trying to sound more confident than you felt with everything going on.

Hotch chuckled softly, an amused glint in his eyes. “Nerves are normal. Just remember all the hard work you’ve put in. You’ve prepared well.” He watched you as you packed. “What tricks are you planning?” He asked. As if he knew what the words coming out of your mouth would mean.

You shrugged slightly, your fingers brushing over the smooth blades of your skates. They needed to be sharpened you thought. “I’m hoping to nail my triple salchow this time. I’ve been practicing the entry and landing, but I still feel a bit off sometimes. Maybe it's my blades?” You glanced up at him, gauging his reaction. “Do you think I’m pushing it?”

“I'd like to say not at all, but I honestly have no clue what you just said meant” he replied firmly raising his brows a little with amusement. “You know your limits better than anyone. Trust your instincts out there. You’ve got the talent and the drive.”

As you zipped up your bag, a commotion near the entrance caught your attention. You glanced over for a brief moment, and your heart dropped as you saw Eric Collins being led out of the office by one of the agents.

His demeanor was stiff, and his eyes flicked around the room like a trapped animal searching for an escape. You didn’t notice his gaze land on you; you were too absorbed in your conversation with Hotch.

“Are you going to be at the rink to watch me practice?” you winked, trying to divert your focus back to your upcoming competition.

“If danger is lurking” Hotch replied, his expression softening. “I'll be there.”

You smiled at that, appreciating the effort. “Maybe you can give me some pointers after I skate.”

“I’ll try not to embarrass you too much with my lack of skating knowledge,” he joked, and you laughed lightly, the tension from earlier dissipating.

But from the corner of your eye, you noticed Eric’s eyes narrowing as he caught sight of you, his expression darkening for just a moment before the agent nudged him forward. The contact was fleeting; you were too lost in your conversation to fully grasp the change in Collins’ demeanor.

“Just keep your focus and enjoy it,” Hotch continued, breaking you from your thoughts. “Competitions are meant to be exhilarating, not just nerve-wracking.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Hotch.” You tossed your bag over your shoulder, feeling a sense of determination swell within you. As you turned to head out, you glanced back to look for Eric for a moment, but he was already gone.

“Good luck,” Hotch said as you headed toward the door. You turned, giving him a small smile before stepping out into the hallway.

As you stepped out of the academy building, the chill of the evening air enveloped you, it felt nice compared to the heavy air in the observation room just moments earlier. The sun had dropped below the horizon, leaving the world bathed in shades of indigo and deepening shadows.

Each step you took echoed on the pavement, the rhythmic sound barely breaking the silence that hung in the air.

You were lost in thought, replaying Eric Collins' defensive outbursts in your mind as you walked home while trying to shake off the lingering unease that had settled in your chest. Just focus on the sectionals, you told yourself.

Sectional should have been your main concern, you should've prioritized your training more, you thought.

You turned the corner onto your street, and a bizarre sensation skittered along your spine. Something felt off. Way off. The streetlights flickered erratically as if all the bulbs were about to die at the same time. They cast long, warped shadows that danced unnervingly on the pavement. You quickened your pace, eager to reach your apartment. Quickly. The comforting familiarity of home was just a few moments away. You needed to get home.

But as you approached your front door, your heart plummeted into your stomach. There, slumped against the door, was a figure. A figure you hadn't hoped to see. You froze, dread pooling in your gut as your breath caught in your throat. It was Mark. He was splayed awkwardly against the wood, the grotesque sight of him sending waves of nausea crashing over you.

The moonlight was the only source of light illuminating the horrific scene. Branson’s body was lifeless, his face twisted in a final expression of shock and pain.

An ice pick protruded from his heart, it looked to be buried deep, and a dark pool of blood blossomed around it, seeping into the cracks of the pavement. Your hands trembled as you took a hesitant step closer, your heart racing with fear.

But the real horror struck when your gaze flicked up. Scrawled in bold, jagged letters on your door, the words "You’re next" glared back at you in bright red blood, it was dripping slightly as if it had just been written mere moments ago. It sent a chill down your spine, a reminder of the threat moving closer and closer to you.

You staggered back, almost stumbling to the ground, panic rising in your throat. The reality of what you were witnessing crashed over you like a wave, drowning out all rational thought. This wasn’t just a sick prank or a random act of violence; this was something deliberate and calculated. Branson wasn’t breathing, his life extinguished in an instant. He had been alive only moments before your arrival, you were sure of it.

With your heart racing wildly, and your vision blurred with fright, you fumbled for your phone, your fingers slick with sweat as they trembled. You somehow managed to dial Hotch’s number, the ringing in your ear sounding almost deafening against the silence surrounding you. Each tone amplified your fear. When he finally picked up, the voice that came through sounded tired, as if you'd woken him from a nap.

“Hotch,” you gasped, the words struggling to form as the terror seized your throat. You barely recognized your own voice as you uttered a soft, broken whimper, “Help.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, the silence stretching between you. You could hear Hotch stumbling to his feet, the sound of something heavy clattering to the floor echoing in your ear as he processed the raw fear in your voice. His quick breaths came through the phone, each one heavy with concern.

All the while, your gaze remained locked on Branson’s lifeless body, the sight seared into your mind. The dark stain of blood beneath him only grew larger with each passing moment. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, transfixed by the brutality of it all — the blood, the ice pick, the message on your door.

"I'll be there!" The line went silent as Hotch hung up.

Tag list: @love4lando @therealbaberuthless @crazyunsexycool @pear-1206 @bookworm124 @itsmytimetoodream @c-losur3 @lumestar @evvy96 @booknerd2004 @werebearcocoon

[hottpinkpenguin]

Nighttime

Tommy Shelby X Fem!Reader WC: 1380 Content warnings: PTSD, drug use, alcohol use, mentions of war Summary: When your brother, Daniel "Danny Whizz-bang" Owens, comes back a broken man from WWI, Tommy Shelby is the only one who seems able to put him back together. And the more Tommy helps your brother, the more you realize he's helping you, too. Author's Note: First time writing for the incomparable Tommy Shelby and the PB boys! Thoughts on a part 2, anyone??

Nights like these made the dark parts of you wish that Daniel hadn’t come home from the War. Nights when he couldn’t remember your face, when he got so lost in the bottom of a bottle or the smoke of his pipe that even you couldn’t find him anymore. The brother Daniel was when he’d left in ‘14 hadn’t come home four years later. Most times, sunlight and a hard day’s work help him hide that fact well enough. Nighttimes were the hardest. Especially starless, rainy nights like this one. Something about the rain reminded Danny of the dark tunnels where his innocence had died. It’s always night in the tunnels, he told you. The sounds of his pathetic whimpering from the room next door fractured the ice you’d been forced to pack around your heart to keep life together. 

Yet, nights like these were the only times you saw Thomas Shelby. So, in some ways, nights like these made the darker parts of you grateful that Daniel was as broken a man as he was. You were certain that, if it weren’t for the destructive acts of “Danny Whizz-bang”, you wouldn’t be fortunate enough to have the second-eldest Shelby brother sitting in your kitchen, sipping tea. 

“You’re good to ‘im, you know.” 

You met Tommy’s eyes over the lip of your teacup as you took a sip of the bitter, bitingly hot liquid. His eyes were strikingly blue and steady. He regarded you evenly from the other side of your table, his expression guarded but not unkind. 

You smiled softly and sadly as you swallowed the hot tea, focusing on the way it seemed to melt through your chest.

“He’s my brother,” you replied matter-of-factly. “I love him. He’s not the same, but I won’t turn him out.”

You knew that’s what Tommy was getting at. You were good to Danny because you hadn’t turned your back on him, despite his broken parts. Most men who’d come back from the War with cases of shell-shock as bad as Danny’s had been turned out by their families. In some cases, it was because of embarrassment. Sometimes it was purely for safety. In your case, you were both ashamed and afraid of Danny’s fits, so you couldn’t say for sure why you hadn’t told him to leave. You wanted to believe that it was because of compassion, as you were happy to let Tommy believe. But there was a gnawing guilt deep in your gut that suggested other, more self-serving motives. 

The sound of Tommy’s teacup clinking into the saucer dragged you out of the downward spiral of your own thoughts. 

“More tea?” you asked, wondering if Tommy could hear the hopeful edge in your voice. He nodded gratefully, and you poured him another serving. He pulled out a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it, the glow from the match casting his handsome face in sharp shadows. You busied yourself with pouring yourself a second cup as well, if only to distract yourself from staring. 

A particularly sharp yelp of terror from Danny’s bedroom set your nerves clanging. You nearly dropped the kettle on the floor as you stood, reflexively, and hurried towards the barely ajar bedroom door. You heard Tommy’s strong, sure footsteps behind you. 

From the other side of the door, you could hear Danny sobbing in his bed. You’d left all the lamps burning brightly in his room to dispel the darkness that tormented him. He was curled under the covers, laying on his side and rigid. 

“Danny?” you called quietly. He jumped at the sound. You pushed open the door, gently so as not to slam it against the wall. 

“Danny, it’s me. It’s your sister. You’re alright, Danny. You’re home.”

It never mattered what you said. It was the sound of another voice that dragged Danny out of his reveries. Surely, as the words kept flowing, you saw Danny’s tight muscles begin to unwind. 

“It’s OK, Danny. You’re safe. Home in Birmingham. This is your room. And Mr. Shelby is here, too.” 

Tommy was no stranger to the scene before him, and he picked up on your cue easily. He stood behind you, so close you could smell his cigarette and the twang of whiskey on his breath as he spoke. 

“They’re gone, Danny. No more tunnels. No more Germans. The War is over.”

Danny rolled over in his bed, his eyes wide but focused. He honed in on Tommy like a moth to a flame. You could hardly blame him: the deep tone and firm, unhurried cadence of Tommy’s voice reminded you of ocean waves. Undeniable, strong, and magnetic. 

“Mr. Shelby-”

“It’s alright, Danny. Just rest now.” 

Tommy never let Danny talk to him when he was like this. You had never asked him why - you didn’t dare to - but you suspected it was because Thomas Shelby didn’t want to be reminded of the things that haunted Daniel Owen’s nights. In fact, if you’d been a betting woman, you’d have guessed that the same horrors stalked Tommy’s dreams. There were dark pools in the back of Tommy’s eyes sometimes that reminded you of the way Danny looked when he got like this. 

“Yes, Mr. Shelby.”

Danny nuzzled down under the covers, his eyes darting to you in questioning. Finally convinced of his lucidity, you stepped forward to tuck your brother into bed. You bent over and placed a soft kiss on his forehead, dabbing away the sweat that had beaded there with the hem of your sleeve. 

“Rest now, Danny Boy,” you whispered, using the name your mother had called him. Danny’s eyes drifted shut, and exhaustion took him quickly. He didn’t sleep well these days, and as the clock in your kitchen heralded the arrival of 3am, tonight was quickly shaping up to be a similarly wasted venture. 

With Danny calmed, for the moment at least, you followed Tommy’s retreat out of the bedroom. The lamps still burned merrily, burning through the precious oil you struggled to purchase at a rate comparable to the demand generated by Danny’s nightmares. Once his bedroom door had been pulled almost shut, only a sliver ajar, Tommy spoke again. 

“I should be off, y/n. It’s quite late.” 

You hated nights like these, and most of all this part of the night. The part when Thomas Shelby left. 

You didn’t trust yourself not to beg him to stay, so you bit down on your lip and said nothing. You watched as Tommy gathered his hat and wool coat from the coat rack next to your apartment door. He turned back to you, his eyes shining like pools of clear springwater. 

“Thank you for the tea,” he offered with a gracious, half-bow. So genteel and gallant. 

“Tommy, this bitter excuse for tea is the least I can offer, and you know that. Please stop thanking me for it.” It sounded bitter and outside of convention, but you meant every word. Thomas Shelby had saved your brother’s life in the War, and he continued to save it on a daily basis. The work that Tommy supplied to Danny through the Peaky Blinders gave your brother the only sense of purpose that he’d found after coming home. And Tommy’s steadfast guidance on nights like these was no small feat. You knew Danny loved you, and after almost 3 years, you’d learned how to handle your brother’s shell-shock, but Tommy had an effect on him that even booze and opium couldn’t replicate. Tommy grounded Danny. To say nothing of the effect Tommy had on you. 

As if to underscore the point, Tommy let out as close to a smile as you’d ever seen as he donned his hat. The sight made your heart twirl between your ribs like a little girl around a maypole. 

“It’s never a bad thing to express gratitude, even for humble gifts,” he replied easily. “And I am grateful.” The sincerity with which he delivered these last words silenced any retort you might have had. You could only smile back as he turned and showed himself out your front door into the dingy hallway. You didn’t close the door fully until Thomas Shelby’s footsteps had fully faded in the stairwell and down the cobbled street outside… 

**if I write a p.2 and you want to be tagged, shoot me a message!

[samcrosfaith]

WITCHCRAFT 🔮

Jax Teller x random fem!oc because I suck at writing character x reader.

warning ⚠️; 18+, a little bit of smut towards the end, paranormal stuff like witchcraft and blood.

a/n; please feel free to leave requests in my ask box for Halloween and Christmas One Shots. Happy and Jax only please because I'm not good at writing the other characters lol. If you have a specific wish/look/backstory for your OC, please let me know— otherwise I'll come up with something. 🦇🎃🕸️

If you want to get tagged in future Halloween and Christmas One Shots just let me know in the comments and I'll add you to the tag list! 🤎🍂

this was requested by one of my lovely Wattpad followers!

tag list; @ravennaortiz

word count; about 2.5k

Nola lifted her head as the front door slammed shut and Jax stormed into the kitchen, knowing from the smell of herbs that he would find his Old Lady there. No one but him knew what she was, how special she really wasᅳ and that was a good thing, for her own protection.

He knew that his club would be able to deal with it after they declared him crazy first, and maybe Jax would tell his brothers about Nola's abilities at some pointᅳ but only when his Old Lady was ready. Until then, she continued to secretly help lead the club on the right path, mainly by helping Jax talk to his dead fatherᅳ rarely, after all, it was no longer white magic once you summoned the dead.

But sometimes Jax needed the guidance that only John could give him, as much as he hated using his Old Lady for thatᅳ but Nola was happy to help, in any situation. When someone in the club was injured, she worked in the background to make sure that the healing happened much faster or that something worse could be prevented.

But that wasn't all. Thanks to Nola, Jax had learned to love again, to let warmth back into his cold heart after Tara had run off again two years ago and tried to take his sons away from him. In the end, Tara had agreed to leave the boys with him as long as she could see them both regularly, and finally moved to Oregon to take on her new job.

And when Nola came into his life about six months later, it hit him like a truck. Something about this woman had drawn him in immediately, the shimmer in her greenish eyes so strong that it felt like she could see into his soul, as if she knew exactly what he neededᅳ and shortly afterwards he had found out why.

The fact that she was a witch was a shock at first, but it made no difference. It was her person he loved, for whom he would go over dead bodies. And she would do the same for him, as he'd soon find out.

"What's wrong?" Her voice was sharp, different than usual, as if she knew something bad had happened. "What happened, Jax?"

She took a step closer, tentatively reaching for his wrists as he ran his hands down his face in despair, anger flashing in his glassy eyes. "Tara took the boys. She's gone, Nola, just gone."

He watched as Nola stumbled back, her face twisted in shock as she let the news sink in. One hand flew to her chest, the other used to brace herself against the doorframe, just as broken as he was.

Nola loved the boys as if they were her own and Jax had mentioned often enough that she was more of a mother than Tara ever had. But the doctor still had a right to see the kids because Thomas was her biological son and Jax was stupid enough to sign half of the rights to Abel over to her years ago.

"She took my babies?", she asked through a sob before blind rage overcame her. Her gaze turned cold, her eyes shining dangerously. "Do you have anything from her? It doesn't matter what, even a photo is enough."

"Can such a spell harm the baby?" Jax asked, gently grabbing her hand before casting a worried glance at her not-yet-visible baby bump. "If so, we'll find another way, babe."

"No, it can't. She'll pay for this. She can't just keep coming into our lives and ruining it by taking our babies", Nola seethed, tears of anger at Tara and fear for her children welling up in her eyes. "She'll feel the consequences."

"As much as I want that", Jax began seriously, pulling her flush against him before placing a hand against her cheek. "I don't want you to put yourself and our daughter in danger."

"You don't even know if it's a girl", she murmured quietly, seeking refuge in his arms, her head resting on his chest. "I've been a witch my whole life, Jax. I know what I'm doing, let me help."

"I just have a feeling", he mumbled against her long, raven-black hair before he placed a kiss on the top of her head, gently pushing her away by her arms. "Are you sure about this, darlin'?"

"Yes, absolutely sure", she assured him eagerly. The young woman could never do anything that could harm her own flesh and blood. "And now bring me something from Tara so I can find the bitch."

ᅳ

An hour later, Nola was sitting at the large dining table in the small but perfect house in which Jax and the kids now lived with her, the room dark due to the drawn curtains. Only the light of a few candles illuminated the dining room with soft light.

The words Nola spoke were barely understandable, but Jax still tried to figure out what exactly his Old Lady was saying; to no avail. However, concern rose in him when some blood dripped from her nose and her voice vibrated more strongly. But before he could say anything, his hand already resting on her shoulder, her eyes shot open.

"Done", she purred softly and pointed to the candles in front of her, which was placed right above an old picture of Tara, the only one Jax had found in a box in the garage. Next to it was another candle with a picture of Thomas and Abel. "The candles have to burn until they burn outᅳ don't blow them out. Give me a piece of paper, I'll write down the address of the motel."

"Why, if you've already found her?" Jax asked, standing up and coming back with a piece of paper, a pen and a tissue. "Why is your nose bleeding, Nola? I told youᅳ"

"I'm fine, baby", Nola hummed, placing a hand against his arm before taking the things with a soft 'thank you'. Only when the address was written on paper did she wipe the blood from her nose. "I want to come with you, and before you say noᅳ"

This time Jax interrupted her with a gentle kiss, caressing her cheek as he slid the note into his pocket. "We'll do this together, babe, you and me."

Nola smiled gratefully. "Then let's go, I wanna look her in the eyes again before it's too late."

"Wait, what do you mean by that?" Jax' chair slid across the floor with a squeak as he stood up after Nola, who was covering the candles with special glasses so nothing could happen. "What did you do?"

"I told you she would feel it", she shrugged nonchalantly, grabbed his hand and dragged him outside. "Come on, I want my babies back."

"Maybe I should stop asking questions", Jax muttered under his breath before they hurried to her SUV so as not to waste any more time.

ᅳ

While Jax and Nola were on their way to the motel just a few miles outside of Charming, Tara was thinking of a plan to hide with the kids until she suddenly felt a scratchy pain in her throat that was getting stronger by the second.

On her way to the bathroom to get a glass of water, she was overcome by a coughing fit. Everything in her chest tightened, taking away her ability to breathe. Panic rose in her as she was unable to stop the coughing. She brought a hand to her mouth as she gasped for air, her eyes growing as she noticed the blood in her palm.

"What theᅳ", she couldn't say more, the words just a broken croak.

A sharp pain shot through her chest, sending her to the floor in panic. Trying to sit on her knees, her upper body arched in pain. The doctor began to gag until blood gushed out of her mouth like a waterfall.

The liquid seeped into the floor, staining the beige carpet a crimson red. Her panicked gaze fell on the boys, who had both fallen asleep at the same time about twenty minutes ago, and nothing seemed to wake them upᅳ  and Tara wasn't exactly quiet.

It was weird, but the boys' chests were rising and falling at regular intervals, so they had to be okay.

Tara crawled across the floor to get to her bag, and again she threw up blood, this time it even gushed out of her nose, causing her to roll onto her back and clutch her throat hastily, out of pure reflex.

With each long cough, blood spurted upwards, covering her face. This was her end, she could feel it. If she didn't get to the hospital within a few minutes, she would dieᅳ that much was certain.

Tara jerked her head to the side as the door swung open, her eyes nearly popping out of their sockets as Nola and Jax stormed into the room, the latter closing the door behind him.

"You bitch!" It was Nola who approached Tara first, kicking the doctor in the ribs, not surprised at the sightᅳ after all, she was responsible for it. "Did you really think you could take my kids?", the woman let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head as she slowly crouched down and brushed a few strands of Tara's short hair out of her face, smiling as the woman twitched and whimpered under her touch. "How are you feeling? You made quite a mess here."

"Babe, what is this?" Jax looked at the two women, not quite sure what he was staring at exactly.

He didn't care about Tara, but he didn't want Nola to have to take such steps just because his life was pure chaos. "I don't want you to kill anyone for me."

"Baby, I really love you", Nola began with a deep sigh, looking up at her fiancé. "But it's not always all about you. The bitch took our kids and kept trying to ruin our livesᅳ I've had enough."

Lifting an eyebrow, Jax was at a loss for words, not sure what to say, but his chest still filled with pure pride. His Old Lady could be a bitch, a protective one, and that was hot as hell.

"Alright, do what makes you happy, darlin'", he said, lifting his hands before he stopped behind her and crossed his arms over his chest. "But what about the boys? I don't want them to see this."

"Don't worry, they'll sleep until we blow out the candles", she reassured him, frowning. "Do you really think I would've risked our kids seeing that? You should know me better, handsome."

Jax rubbed his neck sheepishly, giving her an apologetic smile. "Sorry babe, that's not what I meant."

When Tara reached for help and grabbed Nola's wrist, Nola pulled her arm back in disgust, her eyes darkening. "I could make this stop", she said with a sweet smile, making Tara nod frantically. "On one condition.."

Nola closed her eyes, hummed a few words to herself and tapped Tara's forehead with the tip of her index finger for a few seconds, making Tara's coughing fit stop immediately.

Tara rolled onto her stomach as panicked sobs left her throat, tears streaming down her pale face. Only when she realized what had just happened did she sit down on her butt and slid as far away from Nola as possible, her features twisted in shock.

"Oh, so now you're scared?" Jax sneered angrily, his steps heavy as he slowly walked towards Tara and crouched down in front of her, Nola right next to him. "What do we learn from this?"

"Iᅳ I'm sorry", Tara choked out, bursting into tears as she pulled her legs against her trembling body. "Please..please don't hurt me!"

"Aww, she's even begging!" Nola snorted a laugh, her face only inches away from Tara's. "Here's what's going to happen. You go back to Oregon, never set foot in Charming again, and never think or talk of us again. If you try anyway, well..",

Nola sighed theatrically, almost as if she was enjoying the idea of hurting the doctor again. "Then next time I'll let you choke miserably on your own bloodᅳ and I'll watch with a smile on my face."

Tara's bitter sobs bounced off the walls, both of her hands covering her mouth to muffle the volume. "Wᅳ what are you?"

"None of your damn business", Jax snarled, his gaze murderously intense as his blue lenses dug into Tara's skull. "Did you hear what Nola said? Are you goin' to listen to her?"

"Yes, yes for God's sake! But please, please let me go", she pleaded, the sight almost heartbreaking if only someone would care about her.

Nola smiled contentedly, pushing herself to her feet. "Okay, then we're done here! Have a nice life, bitch."

While Nola turned around and threw her black hair over her shoulders so she could pick one of their sleeping sons up, Jax glared at Tara again, his gaze nothing but a threat.

"Don't say a word to anyone or you'll wish you never messed with us, Tara",  Jax said, more serious than ever before, his voice was dangerously calm, before he spat at Tara's feet and then picked up Abel before he left the motel room with his family.

ᅳ

Moaning Jax's name, Nola threw her head back, her hands placed on his chest as she moved her hips in circles, his cock buried all the way inside her slick folds.

They had both needed a break after that day, and after spending the evening with their children, they had retreated to the bedroom and wasted no time in ripping off their clothes.

"That's it, darlin', keep goin'", Jax urged with a groan slipping from his lips, slapping her ass as he pushed his hips up, helping her out a little.

He felt his climax building, so he brought a hand to Nola's full breasts, kneading one in his palm as he rolled her nipple between his fingers, knowing that Nola never lasted long when her breasts got touchedᅳ this was one way to make her come, always.

"Fuck Jax", the woman on top of him gasped, locking eyes with him, returning Jax' grin, savouring every second as she rode him. "I'm close, baby", she drawled sultry, another moan falling from her plump, dark-red lips.

"Good, let go for me", he demanded encouragingly, licking his lips as his own breathing quickened and his cock twitched inside her. "Wanna feel you cum on my cock, sweetheart."

And that was it. Something in Nola's lower abdomen snapped and a moment later she climaxed, moaning his name loudly as she squirted all over him after Jax rolled and pinched her nipple between his fingers again, a gush of fluids now covering his pubes, her long nails leaving bloody welts on his chest.

"Fuck babe", he panted, his voice deep and hoarse as he slid his hand to the back of Nola's neck to pull her head down, his lips brushing hers.

"I love it when you do that", Jax croaked against her lips, an excited whimper falling from them before he pulled her into a sloppy kiss, chasing his own climax.

Nola moaned into the kiss as thick ropes of cum filled her, the warm, thick liquid warming her walls even more. She was already pregnant, so what else could happen?

As she collapsed onto his chest, her breath coming in quick, ragged gasps, she closed her eyes and sighed softly as Jax ran his long fingers through her raven-black strands.

"I love you, Nola, I hope you know that", he murmured, the weariness slowly becoming audible in his tone as the day took its toll. "Thank you for todayᅳ for getting out boys back."

"I know, don't worryᅳ and I love you, too, more than you know", she hummed, not doubting his words. The advantage of being a witch was that she could tell when someone was being honest or not.

Nola slowly lifted her head, leaving a kiss on his lips. "I think there's nothing I wouldn't do for you and our childrenᅳ and I mean that."

Jax smiled weakly, rubbing his thumb against her cheekbone after she rolled off him, laying down next to him. "Good, because I'd do anything for you too, darlin'."

"I know, handsome", Nola smiled again as she laid her head back on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat soothing.

When Jax placed his hand on her bump, like he did every night since they had found out that she was pregnant, their eyelids fluttered shut, both falling into a deep sleep after a few minutes after the eventful day.

[darkshelbyfiction]

An Unusual Proposal

FOR: THOMAS SHELBY X FEM! READER

WARNING: DUBCON SMUT, NAME CALLING, ROUGH HANDELING

The sun was beginning to set when Thomas Shelby summoned you to his office. As you entered the room, you couldn't help but notice the sheer power radiating from every inch of the place. Your heart raced, as your gaze swept across the austere space bathed in harsh light. High ceilings adorned by intricately woven tapestries reflected the family's past glories, casting an air of authority around the room.

As you approached the large wooden desk, it felt like walking into a lion's den. The sharp gleam of Thomas Shelby's piercing blue eyes bore into your soul, chilling you to the core.

"Come here," he growled, beckoning you closer. You obeyed, feeling a mixture of fear and excitement coursing through your veins. Stepping nearer, you couldn't help but note the sheer size of Thomas, towering above you like a colossus.

The raw intensity of his presence seemed to envelop you, leaving no part of your body untouched. His strong hands grasped your hips, pulling you even closer, until you were just inches away from the massive wooden desk.

With a sinister grin, Thomas whispered into your ear, "Do you remember what I told you earlier?" His words sent shivers down your spine, as they reminded you of his promise – one that left you both thrilled and terrified.

Unable to control yourself, you began to tremble under his fierce gaze. With an authoritative tone, he commanded, "Bend over the desk."

You hesitated for a moment, your body refusing to comply with his orders at first. But then, something snapped inside you. You could feel the anger boiling beneath the surface, transforming into an explosive mixture of resentment and desire. As you lowered yourself onto the cold wood, you fought back tears, knowing full well that your submission would only fuel his appetite further.

He gripped your hips more firmly, guiding your body to the exact position he desired. Your legs were splayed wide apart, baring your most intimate parts to his hungry gaze. Thomas stood tall behind you, a predatory smile playing upon his lips.

"Fucking hell, Love. You will never learn, eh?" he growled. "Now spread those legs for me. You will take my cock, whether you like it or not," he said, his voice dark and commanding. Reluctantly, you obeyed, feeling your cheeks flush with shame. Your thighs trembled as you parted them, exposing your wetness to his view.

Thomas stepped closer and unbuckled his belt, followed by his zipper.

His hardened manhood jutted out, standing proudly before you.

As if toying with you, he teased your entrance with the tip of his penis, gently circling your rim before swiftly thrusting inside.

You cried in pain as he bottomed out against your cervix, making sure to push deep into your tender flesh. Each time he pulled out, it seemed like you were torn apart all over again. His relentless assault continued until you were drenched in sweat, your body begging for mercy.

Despite your pleas, Thomas' only response was to increase the tempo, hammering your tight walls with relentless determination. Every thrust echoed throughout the room, driving you towards the brink of ecstasy and agony simultaneously.

"Flirting with another man is fucking unacceptable, eh," Thomas muttered, gritting his teeth as he plunged deeper into your depths.

A mixture of pain and pleasure danced across your face, betraying your feelings to him. In spite of the intense discomfort, you found yourself craving his touch, the need for release taking hold of you.

Your breath caught in your throat as you reached your peak, the wave of sensation crashing over you. As you climaxed, Thomas' own release exploded inside you, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your entire body.

"That's it you fucking whore, take my cum," he growled, a mix of triumph and possessiveness in his voice.

You could feel the warmth of his seed pooling inside you, claiming your body as his.

The weight of his body pressed down on yours, crushing you beneath his might. You could taste the saltiness of his skin as he held you close, the scent of his musky arousal filling your nostrils.

For a moment, there was silence, punctuated only by the sound of your laboured breathing. Then, as you regained some semblance of composure, Thomas spoke once more.

"You know what? You are quite the piece of work, aren't you?" He let out a sigh, his breath caressing your neck as he moved away from you.

"Don't you ever think about how we could make this work?" he asked, his voice laced with bitterness. "We have been friends for so long. We've been fucking for years and still, you go off and look at other men," he spat, his breath hot against your skin.

His words cut deep, bringing up memories of a time when you two had shared laughter and confidences.

"Then fucking marry me already, Thomas!" you blurted out, frustration getting the better of you. "Or at least stop treating me like this!"

Thomas paused, considering your suggestion. His eyes were hard, yet a spark of curiosity flickered within them.

"Alright Love, let's get married, eh?" Thomas responded coolly, his eyes gleaming with interest. "But let's do this properly, shall we? No more fucking around, only respectful love-making."

You swallowed hard, your heart racing at the thought of what such a marriage might entail. "What does proper mean to you, Thomas?"

"Proper means, no more fucking around in this dingy office after you have gotten on to my nerves simply to prove a fucking point." Thomas exclaimed, his eyes blazing with passionate fury. "From now on, you will give me complete loyalty and commitment, do you hear me?"

You nodded, your cheeks burning red with embarrassment. Deep down, you knew that this arrangement wouldn't last. However, the prospect of living together, married to a man like Thomas Shelby, was something you couldn't resist.

[ikinremu]

|| Nsfw || R U mine? || Tommy Shelby

Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader

A jealous Tommy smut oneshot! Please feel free to request oneshots/drabbles/blurbs on my page :)

The glare of Tommy's eyes punctured your chest, shooting through you like the spear of a dart. Usually this gaze you'd been subjected to would set your heart racing - but today was rather different. You peered across the well-lit hall, an idea suddenly sparking in your mind. Your relationship with Thomas Shelby was exceptionally complicated - that was no secret, though earlier that morning, said relationship had crossed a bump in the road. It was a simple situation - he'd pissed you off. And in this moment, you knew exactly how to return the favour.

If there was one thing to note about Thomas Shelby - it was that with a substantial amount of provoking, his jealousy could defy the scale. You knew that like the back of your hand, and had no shame in using it for your own petty games.

You ambled through the throngs of people, passing figures adorning silk dresses, waistcoats and suits as you approached the bar. To your delight, a familiar face loomed behind the polished, wooden island, bottles arranged on the collection of shelves behind the man. You took it upon yourself to perch atop one of the vacant bar stools, swivelling the copper plating slightly as you adjusted yourself to a suitable position.

"Frankie?!" You lifted your lips into a graceful smile, the barman flickering his gaze away from the stained cloth bunched between the hooking of his knuckles - looking to inspect who had called for him.

"Oh, hello!" He chuckled, his thick, untamed brows raising ever so slightly, "Fancy seeing you 'ere"

"Tommy brought me." You spoke, the mention of his name prompting you to send a swift glance in his direction. And as you'd suspected - more so planned - his focus was completely set on you. "And.. you too, I thought you strictly worked at the Garrison?"

As Frankie began spluttering out a rather tedious monologue about how he 'wouldn't miss an event like this..', you allowed a wave of smugness to wash over you.

Tommy hated Frankie, he utterly detested the man. You were unsure as to why, always had been, but you certainly knew it was a long lasting affair. You'd never cared to get involved in what you viewed as such a minor situation - this very moment finding you particularly grateful for your lack of interest.

"But anyway, can I get you somethin?" The barman's voice suddenly snapped you back into the room, dark eyes briskly wandering across your person.

"I'll just have a French seventy-five please." You requested, sporting a sweet smile as Frankie nodded in response.

"Coming right up."

As your view alternated from the front of his waistcoat to the back, you turned your head to scan for Tommy's whereabouts - though this time it wasn't so simple. All you could truly see was some rather eloquent looking groups making small talk beneath the hall's chandelier.

Before you knew it, the man responsible for completely baffling you was stood directly to your right.

"Tommy." You beamed, presenting a weak attempt at concealing your self-acclaimed victory.

"We best be off." He spoke, the low tones of his voice snaking into your ear, "Something needs takin care of at the Garrison."

Internally, you called very obvious bullshit - however, externally you found yourself willingly demounting the copper plated stool.

"Bye Frankie, we've gotta leave!" You exclaimed, briefly eyeing the sight of the man turning to face you - looking somewhat disheartened. He offered a rather idle wave, granting himself a sip of what would've been your beverage.

The sound of Tommy's muffled disapproval lingered aside your ear as the two of you exited the hall - his fingers still tightly clutching your lower arm. The pair of you took a sharp turn, a sleek door swinging open, soon clanking against the doorframe as it trapped you inside.

It wasn't so much a room you'd arrived in, more so an ill-lit cupboard.

"Garrisons had a redo, has it?" You mimicked curiosity, apparently nowhere close to amusing the man stood before you.

Tommy's piercing eyes returned to you, shooting a warm buzz down your body.

Mere seconds passed of you awaiting the gruff tone of his voice, but instead you met a significantly different form of response from his lips.

His callous hands went to cup your jaw, lips intertwining with your own in a deep, messy kiss. In a rather instinctive sense, you melted into the embrace, his tongue snaking a path between your lips.

Without breaking contact, Tommy stepped forward, surrendering you to a fairly harsh bump against the wall. His left palm weaved it's way down your silk-clad stomach, sneaking it beneath the gentle ruffles of the dress he'd treated you to. He reached the now sodden fabric of your underwear as his lips pressed further against your own, his nimble fingers beginning to trace supple circles around your pulsing clit.

"This what you wanted, eh?" He grunted, softly nibbling the skin of your ear.

You nodded, an arch hollowing out between your back and the wall supporting it. A whimper escaped your throat as you helplessly sank into the feeling of your panties being dragged down your legs.

"Off." Tommy huffed, pitch pupils sending a clear signal in the direction of your black dress.

Before you knew it, any previous cover of yours had been wholly discarded, leaving your body shamelessly bare - Tommy being a single garment away from matching your state. His underwear was shortly hauled down and tossed away, releasing the sight of his erect cock.

"On your fuckin knees." He grumbled, gently tilting his chin towards the polished flooring. 

His words alone had the power to intoxicate you - and weren't afraid to do precisely that. A roaring flame couldn't help but ignite in your lower abdomen, tantalising your growing arousal as you kneeled before him.

The intense wetness of the earlier kiss transferred from the plumpness of your lips to Tommy's tip with a single connection. Pushing your lips further, his cock slid down your throat with one swift motion, the sweet warmth of your mouth wrapping his length.

"Such a good cocksucker, int' that right?" He taunted, words parted by the vibrations of his low groans.

You began sliding your now dripping mouth up and down his shaft, finding the perfect rhythm as his throbbing tip slapped the damp surface of your tongue. Now presented with enough slickness, your soft hands began trailing teasing strokes over his erection.

"Get up." He instructed, watching as your brows contorted into a rather notable furrow. "Up."

At the repetition, you complied - taking a puzzled stand.

The familiarity of Tommy's large hands gripped your behind, beginning to grope the smooth flesh as the two of you took a collective fall against one of the chipping walls.

"Spread your legs for me." The heat of his breath tickled your neck, his mouth trailing sloppy, open-mouth kisses down your clavicle. The split second of your legs parting, Tommy somehow bridged the minute gap between you.

His cock pushed into you, your own drool serving as a lubricant as he filled your tight hole in the most pleasing way - the pair of you slipping sharp moans at the sensation.

As he marked his first thrust, a burning desire seeping through you, Tommy suddenly buried his now reddened face between your exposed breasts. His hips began relentlessly bucking, increasing in several factors as his hot tongue flicked at your hardening, left nipple.

"Fuck!" A breathy whine fled your mouth. It took no longer than a second for his leaking tip to locate the importance of your sweet spots, hard length slamming deeper into the mess of your dripping arousal. His moistened lips nibbled at your pebbling nipple, licking tender circles around the areola.

"Frankie couldn't have you like this, could he? Eh?" Tommy grumbled, detaching his assault on your left nipple.

And there was the jealousy.

"He couldn't fuck you like I do." He punctuated his words with a gloriously deep buck of his hips. "You're mine, mm?"

"Shit!" You moaned, the next words reducing to the simplicity of panting. "I'm yours, only yours. I only want you Tommy.."

A familiar sensation possessed the very pit of your stomach, the beginning of a euphoric release winding itself up.

"I'm getting close." You whimpered, pearly teeth digging into the thin layer coating your bottom lip. Your tight hole pulsed at a rigorous pace, soaking walls clenching around him.

"Fuck, with the way you're squeezing me, so am I." Tommy groaned, pounding deeper into your sopping cunt.

The alluring knot within your stomach expanded, winding tighter and tighter until you felt your arousal peak. The orgasm tore through you, the heavenly sensations transporting you to a whole different realm as you called out - the volume of it taking yourself aback.

"You gonna let everyone know how good i'm fuckin you?" Tommy's pinkish lips curved into that ever so familiar cocky smirk, delivering one final thrust as you felt a warm inflation spread within you.

Your head lolloped atop Tommy's shoulder, strands of your now completely disgruntled hair flopping over with a sense of accompaniment. Placing a gentle peck on your lips, Tommy slid out of you - a rare smile on his face.

You return the soft nature of his expression, "Oh and I think everyone got the message."

Thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed! As I said, please feel free to use the requests/asks feature on my page - it’d be greatly appreciated <3

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Chapter nine | in plain sight.

masterlist

pairing : battinson x fem!oc (can be read as x reader)

words : +3k

A/N : This chapter is a bit shorter than usual since it was originally part of Chapter Eight. A special thank you to @faeryki for your amazing support—it really keeps me motivated to keep updating this fic. I hope you enjoy it and like this chapter! 😊

cw : Bruce being obsessed at this point, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, depression, ptsd, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

IT WAS HIM.

No, it wasn’t.

Yes, it fucking was.

Her mind screamed in a frantic battle, two voices tearing her apart.

Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, and her pulse surged, each beat a frantic drum as the truth unraveled in her mind—a shattered, tangled mess slowly coming together.

His eyes—those grey-blue eyes, the same ones that had haunted her thoughts more than once—stared back at her, and the recognition hit like a tidal wave.

It wasn't just the eyes, though. It was also his jawline.

That sharp, angular line, the one she could pick out from anywhere, no matter how dark the room.

But there was more.

The little cut beneath his jaw—the scar she'd left him when they were chasing each other, when she had let him get too close that night.

She hadn’t meant to, not really, but she caught him right as he was about to turn, in that split second when everything seemed to slow down. She left a small mark on him, something only she would ever notice. In that moment, he didn’t feel like a stranger.

As she walked through the crowd, her hand instinctively pressed against her red lips, her mind still in shock. It all made sense now, she thought.

The way he had looked at her, the way he had moved, everything about him screamed familiarity.

But the truth had been concealed behind the mask of a man she had never fully understood—Bruce Thomas Wayne. Billionaire heir. Tragic orphan. Vengeance. The Bat… Zorro.

Her footsteps faltered, her breath shallow, as the weight of the revelation pressed down on her, too heavy to carry. People hurried past her, heading toward the main hall, brushing against her shoulders, murmuring quick apologies she didn’t respond to.

The scene back at the entrance of City Hall was nothing short of chaotic—the crowd pushing, the tension between the men—still fresh in her mind, vivid and overwhelming.

But now, everything had shifted.

The man who had captivated her without her even realizing it, the one who kept his distance yet left an indelible mark on her, had been standing right in front of her the entire time.

And somehow, she had never connected the dots, never seen the truth through the fog of lies she had wrapped herself in.

She continued walking, her feet moving of their own accord, though her mind raced to catch up. She wasn't sure if she should be angry, surprised, or relieved.

Maybe a little bit of all three. And yet, the thought that kept swirling in her mind, like a persistent whisper, was the same: How could he have been so close, and yet, so far away?

She needed to regain herself.

Standing at the threshold of City Hall, the weight of the revelation—of seeing him again, of everything she had just discovered—crashed over her, but she couldn't afford to let it consume her.

Not now.

She had a purpose, a responsibility that was far more pressing than her own chaotic emotions. There were people waiting, people who needed her strength, and there was George.

She didn't like his father—had never trusted the man—and she barely knew his widowed mother.

But George was still a child who had just lost a parent. A child who needed someone who understood. She had been there herself, had known that hollow ache, the unbearable weight of loss. She understood what it was like to feel invisible in the face of grief, to be caught in the middle of a world that seemed to keep moving while your heart was frozen in time.

With a steadying breath, she opened her small clutch and took out the figurine.

It was delicate, simple, a small knight in polished metal, its stance strong but humble.

Maryam had bought it at a little shop while grocery shopping the day before, drawn to it for reasons she couldn't quite explain.

It was reminiscent of the one Bruce had left years ago in the subway, the one she had never forgotten, though this one was less ornate, far less expensive, and more... ordinary. Yet something about it felt right.

Maybe it was the symbolism of it—the idea of a knight, standing tall, in the face of all odds. She couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, in some way, it would bring George comfort.

She ran her fingers along the smooth surface, a small smile tugging at her lips as she thought about him again.

Gosh, why were they always linked? she thought, frustration threading through the question.

She and Bruce—always drawn to each other by some strange, unspoken pull.

Maybe it was fate, or perhaps something far more insidious, but every time she thought she was escaping him, every time she thought she had let him go, some new twist would bring him back into her orbit.

She pushed the thought away.

There would be time for that later.

Now, she needed to focus.

As Bruce scans the crowd, the solemn hum of the mourning event fills the hall. Mourners continue to flood in, their somber expressions a blur as he searches, his eyes darting over every face, every moving figure. 

Where is she?

His gaze flicks between the tight knots of conversation, desperate for a glimpse of Maryam, his pulse quickening.

Above, he spots a handful of officers, their keen eyes scanning the room for any signs of trouble, the tension palpable. Bruce's focus sharpens, but the crush of people is like a living, breathing wall. Faces blur together—some tear-streaked, some stony, all wrapped in the weight of loss.

She's here, he thinks, she has to be.

The PA announcer's voice cuts through the noise.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming to today's memorial for our beloved mayor, Don Mitchell, Jr. Our program will begin shortly. As a reminder, the family asks that those wishing to honor the mayor's memory consider a donation to the cause most dear to his heart, the Gotham Renewal Fund, our city's safety net."

Bruce barely registers the words. 

His attention is elsewhere, weaving through the sea of mourners, his heart pounding as his search intensifies. He pushes forward, his eyes scanning, never pausing, never faltering.

Then, a movement catches his eye. 

Two uniformed cops are stopping a man who looks out of place—a scruffy, bitter figure, his hood pulled low, eyes filled with rage. 

The man's jaw tightens, muttering to himself, his anger almost palpable.

"What good's a safety net if it doesn't catch anybody?" The words slice through the air, harsh and accusatory. He spits the words out, clearly disgusted. "Didn't help my daughter when she needed it. I can tell you that. That guy—" He points toward the VIPs filing past, his voice filled with venom—"just another rich scumsucker. He got what he deserved."

Bruce studies the man, his brow furrowing. But as his gaze holds steady, the bitter man's eyes shift, catching his. 

"Yeah, I said it," the man mutters, locking eyes with Bruce, a dark smirk curling his lips.

Bruce's eyes flick to the man's acne-scarred face. The bitterness is familiar, the kind that seeps from the forgotten corners of society. He nods once, acknowledging the man's presence, but his thoughts stay elsewhere.

Then, the expression shifts. The man's eyes narrow as he studies Bruce, confusion flashing over his face as if he's trying to place him. Before Bruce can turn away, another voice pierces through the tension.

"Bruce Wayne."

Startled, Bruce turns. A familiar face—one that he had been saying more and more on TV. 

Bella Real.

She approaches with the kind of unwavering confidence that commands attention, her stride purposeful, her expression an enigmatic blend of determination and restraint.

"I'm Bella Real," she begins, her voice cutting cleanly through the noise around them. "I'm running for mayor." She pauses, just long enough to let her words settle, then adds with a flicker of irritation, "I wouldn't be here, interrupting like this, but your people keep telling me you're 'unavailable.' Or at least that's the story my PR team keeps feeding me."

She gestures subtly toward a woman standing amidst the sea of onlookers—a polished figure with a sleek bun, tailored black trousers, a long coat, and heels that seem to challenge the ground beneath her. Rania. Another of Maryam’s sisters.

Beside her is the pregnant woman from earlier, her husband standing protectively close, and flanking them are Maryam’s other sisters—Sherine, the sharp-eyed journalist, and Alma, the soon-to-be lawyer with a poised demeanor. 

Yet the one person he’s searching for, the one he’s desperate to see, remains nowhere in sight.

Bella’s gaze sharpens as she turns back to him, her words cutting through his distracted thoughts. "Will you walk with me?"

Bruce hesitates, the weight of the situation pressing in.

Walk with her? He’s here for Maryam—though, initially, it was the Riddler who brought him here.

His thoughts waver, scattered like leaves in the wind. But as the moment stretches longer, he steels himself, forcing his composure to hold firm.

He can't afford distractions, but Bella is persistent, and something about her energy—something in her voice—stops him.

A flicker of annoyance crosses his face as he glances over her shoulder, the crowd of mourners pressing in tighter, the path to Maryam growing narrower by the second. 

But there's no turning back now.

Bruce's mind spins as Bella leads him through the sea of mourners, her arm tucked firmly under his. 

He's scanning the crowd, eyes darting from face to face, searching for any sign of Maryam. The city's chaos, the event, the memory of the Riddler's cryptic clues, and his need to track down his old friend, and the woman who's been lingering at the back of his mind for far too long, all converge in his thoughts.

He barely registers Bella's words about Gotham, the Renewal Fund, and her political campaign. 

"You know, you really could be doing more for the city," she says, her voice insistent. "Your family has a history of philanthropy, but as far as I can tell, you're not doing anything. If I'm elected, I want to change that." She smiles at him, disarmingly, as they approach the front where the choir's soft voices swell into the haunting strains of Schubert's "Ave Maria."

Bruce's eyes scan the crowd with mounting urgency. 

Where the hell is she?

The hum of voices around him dulls, retreating into the background like static. Every sound—Bella's steady voice beside him, the faint rustle of clothing, the shuffling of mourners—becomes meaningless noise as his focus sharpens.

Maryam. She's somewhere here. She has to be.

His thoughts churn restlessly, consumed by her. The weight of the mayor's memorial, the riddler, the tragedy unfolding in the city, even Bella's pointed comments—all of it fades under the single, gnawing question: Where is she?

Bruce catches himself glancing toward Commissioner Gordon, standing a few rows back with a group of officers. The commissioner's stance is familiar—steadfast, commanding attention even in a room filled with grief. It's then that Bruce sees her.

Maryam.

She's standing with Gordon and several other officers. The sight of her feels like a gut punch—unexpected, leaving him momentarily breathless. Her body language is composed, steady, a quiet confidence radiating from her even in the chaos surrounding them.

He leans forward almost instinctively, the world narrowing to her. Bella's voice beside him is an indistinct murmur, her words about Gotham and its future dissipating like smoke. He knows she's talking, but he can't bring himself to care. Not now.

Maryam's voice carries faintly across the room as she speaks to Gordon, her words too low for him to hear. He can't make out the conversation, but the cadence of her tone is calm, deliberate. His gaze is riveted on her, heart pounding as a dozen questions flood his mind. What is she saying? Why is she here?

His chest tightens.

"I'll be right back," Bella says, her clipped tone cutting through the haze. "I'm going to pay my respects to the family—my God, what a mess. His poor wife and son..." She gives Bruce a tight smile before stepping away, her presence swallowed by the crowd.

Bruce doesn't respond. He simply just can't.

His gaze stays fixed on Maryam as her posture shifts slightly. Then her head turns, as if sensing his pointed stare, and for a brief, electric moment, their eyes meet again.

But just as quickly, her gaze shifts away.

It's subtle—an almost imperceptible flicker—but Bruce catches it. The way her shoulders tense, the slight stiffness in her movements as she excuses herself from Gordon's side. Her grace remains intact, but her steps quicken, purposeful as she weaves into the sea of mourners. Her eyes never meet his again.

Damn it.

A knot tightens in Bruce's chest, frustration simmering just beneath his composed exterior. He doesn't move, doesn't follow. Instead, he watches—watches as she retreats toward the mayor's family, where her own relatives, draped in mourning veils, are already offering their condolences.

Bruce's gaze sharpens, narrowing in on Maryam as she approaches Mayor Mitchell's widow. She shakes the woman's hand, her expression one of measured compassion. The two veiled women beside her—familiar figures—draw her attention briefly. Aunts, Bruce realizes. He remembers them from fragments of the life he's pieced together about her, though they remain enigmatic, like so much else about Maryam.

The mayor's son, sitting nearby, draws her focus next. The boy is small, his posture hunched, his eyes wide with confusion and sorrow as he glances at the crowd around him. His presence pulls at something deep within Bruce—his own memories of being that child, lost and surrounded by adults who didn't understand the weight he carried.

And then, Maryam kneels.

The movement is fluid, gentle, as if lowering herself to the boy's level is the most natural thing in the world. Her face softens, her gaze meeting his with a warmth that Bruce has rarely seen in her. She reaches into her small clutch and withdraws something—a figurine. It's a knight, unassuming yet deliberate, its presence more meaningful than its simplicity suggests.

Maryam presses it into the boy's hands, her fingers folding his small ones around it. She leans in, whispering something inaudible, her voice undoubtedly soft and soothing. Bruce can't hear her words, but he sees the boy's expression shift—hesitation giving way to a tentative smile as he clutches the figurine tightly to his chest.

Then, with a touch so gentle it nearly unravels him, Maryam cups the boy's cheek. Her thumb brushes across his skin, a gesture of quiet reassurance, maternal and heartbreakingly tender. The boy leans into her touch, his grief momentarily eclipsed by the comfort she offers.

Bruce's breath catches. He's transfixed, unable to reconcile this Maryam—the one kneeling before a grieving child, radiating care and warmth—with the guarded woman he's come to know. This side of her is foreign yet achingly familiar, stirring something he can't quite place.

The haunting strains of Ave Maria swell around them, the choir's mournful melody filling the air with a weight that presses on Bruce's chest. The music mirrors the scene before him, amplifying the emotions he tries so hard to suppress.

His trance is broken by a familiar voice, low and urgent. "Gil Colson is missing."

Bruce's focus snaps back, his head turning sharply. Gordon stands nearby, speaking in hushed tones to Mackenzie, the Chief of Police. Bruce's mind stirs, the name registering like a cold gust of wind.

"'Scuse me, Chief? Can I talk to you for a moment?" Gordon's voice is measured, his tone low as he adjusts the rims of his glasses.

The Chief of Police, Mackenzie, looks up with a gravelly whisper of a voice, as if his vocal cords have been worn thin. "What?"

"Gil Colson is missing," Gordon replies, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

The Chief exhales heavily, his tired demeanor speaking volumes. "Jesus, not again."

The phrase lingers like a shadow, and Bruce feels the significance of it. The District Attorney's name slices through his thoughts, momentarily grounding him in the reality of the situation.

"He hasn't been heard from since last night," Gordon continues, his voice steady but grim.

Bruce's mind starts turning, the implications of Colson's disappearance settling into place. But before he can focus, a voice—loud and jarringly cheerful—breaks through the somber atmosphere.

"Hey! Bruce Wayne!"

It's Martinez, one of the officers standing nearby.

He's grinning broadly, his enthusiasm so out of place it draws several curious looks. As if to cement the awkwardness, he raises his hand in an overly eager wave.

The billionaire heir remains motionless, his expression an impenetrable mask. He doesn’t respond to the greeting, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Instead, his gaze shifts, drawn inevitably back to Maryam, who now lingers on the outskirts of the mayor's grieving family, her presence both distant and watchful.

It’s a subtle shift, but Bruce notices.

Something about her stance, the tension in her frame, feels different—like a thread pulled taut, on the verge of snapping.

The way her posture stiffens, her sharp glance toward him at Martinez's outburst, and that fleeting flicker of recognition in her eyes before she looks away.

It's deliberate, calculated—she's retreating, pulling herself into an impenetrable shell.

But before he can dwell on it, a distant noise cuts through the air—a low hum, like tires screeching against asphalt, followed by muffled screams. The sound grows louder, reverberating through City Hall, and a ripple of unease spreads through the room. Heads turn, people standing, craning to see where the commotion is coming from.

Bruce instinctively scans the crowd, his eyes locking on the mayor's young son. The boy has moved into the aisle, drawn by curiosity, and Bruce's heart lurches. Maryam is there too, close behind, her brows furrowed in concern. She places a firm hand on the boy's arm to keep him from venturing too far. Her protectiveness is palpable.

The noise swells, screams rising alongside it—an awful crescendo of chaos.

Then—BAM!

A sickening explosion of sound as the main entrance bursts apart in a storm of shattered glass and concrete. The crowd screams as an SUV rockets through the doors, its grill tangled with flowers from the vigil outside.

Pandemonium erupts.

People scatter, some thrown into the air as the vehicle careens past guardrails and barrels toward the seated area. The air is a cacophony of panic, footsteps, and cries.

Bruce spins, his gaze zeroing in on the boy—standing frozen in shock amid the chaos. Maryam reacts instantly, grabbing him and pushing him toward his mother, who is screaming and clawing her way through the crowd to reach her son.

But Maryam doesn't make it far. Someone shoves past her in their desperate flight, and she stumbles, falling directly into the SUV's path.

Bruce doesn't hesitate. He lunges toward her, his body moving before his mind can catch up. He tackles her, the force sending them both sprawling just as the vehicle roars past, its weight and momentum tossing chairs and debris into the air.

They hit the ground hard, Bruce shielding Maryam as the SUV slams into the central staircase with a deafening crunch. The engine sputters, grinding in protest, before finally going silent.

For a moment, everything is still.

Bruce lifts himself slightly, his arms still bracing Maryam. She's breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling against his. Her hands clutch his biceps tightly, as if grounding herself.

"Maryam," he whispers, his voice low, urgent. One hand moves to her neck, tilting her face toward him. Her hazel eyes flutter open, dazed and unfocused. His sharp, grey eyes meet hers, scanning her face for injuries. He spots a thin trail of blood on her forehead, likely from flying glass.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, concern etched into every word.

She doesn't respond immediately, still catching her breath.

But then—the surreal silence is shattered by screams and cries. The chaos hasn't abated; if anything, it's worse.

Bruce's head snaps up, his gaze darting to the wreckage.

He helps Maryam sit upright, though he keeps a steadying hand on her arm. His attention shifts to the second-floor landing, where people are panicking, pointing to something—or someone. But the figure he saw earlier is gone.

The SUV below is now surrounded by Gordon and a squad of officers, their guns drawn and aimed. The vehicle is smeared with a grotesque pattern of crossword-like scrawls, and in bold letters across the hood, the chilling message: "D.A. — D.O.A.?"

Bruce pulls Maryam to her feet, his arm steadying her as the chaos swirls around them.

Her breathing evens out, and she seems to recover, though she's still pale.

Before he can speak, a red-haired woman pushes through the crowd, her resemblance to Maryam striking. Her sister, Bruce assumes.

She rushes to Maryam, worry etched deeply into her face, pulling her away from him as though he were the cause of her distress.

Questions spill from her lips one after another, but Maryam doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even look at her sister—instead, her gaze remains fixed on him, her lips forming a silent thank you.

Bruce gives a tight nod, his jaw clenched as he lets her go.

He watches as she steps back into the embrace of her family, their presence closing around her like a shield.

But his mind remains sharp, the weight of the moment heavy on his shoulders. His gaze shifts to the wreckage once more, the grim message burning into his thoughts.

He snaps his attention back to the SUV, his instincts flaring. He moves closer, slipping through the panicked crowd as mourners scatter in every direction. His focus sharpens, each step deliberate, his heart pounding in time with the chaos around him.

Then, with a metallic creak, the dented driver-side door begins to crack open.

The hall falls into a tense, electric silence, broken only by the metallic clicks and clatters of dozens of weapons chambering simultaneously.

"Get out of the car! Hands up!" Gordon shouts, his gun unwavering, his voice cutting through the mounting dread.

The door swings wide, groaning under its weight.

A figure emerges—unsteady, hands trembling in the air. Blood streaks the man's face, his mouth taped shut. Scrawled across the tape in bold, jagged letters are the words: NO MORE LIES.

The sight freezes the room.

Even Bruce's breath catches for a split second.

"Holy Christ..." Gordon breathes, his voice low, filled with disbelief. "It's Colson."

The district attorney stumbles forward, his eyes wide with terror.

Around his neck, a crude metal collar clamps tight, its grotesque machinery catching the flickering lights. A faint glow pulses ominously—a countdown device.

A horrified voice cuts through the tension.

"There's a bomb around his neck!"

The words send a shockwave through the hall. A piercing, mechanical beep-beep-beep rings out, sharp and relentless.

People scream, dropping to the floor or shoving toward the exits. Police scramble, some shielding others, their shouts blending with the chaos.

But Bruce remains rooted in place, his gaze locked on Colson.

The D.A. doesn't explode. Not yet. The incessant beeping continues, but the device stays dormant. The confusion in the air is palpable, suffocating.

Colson, his movements awkward and sheepish, raises his hand slowly. Taped to his palm is a cell phone, its screen flashing. The relentless beep-beep-beep is nothing more than an incoming call.

Bruce's eyes narrow as the sound echoes through the cavernous space.

"Let's get this place cleared! Now!" Gordon barks, waving officers toward the panicked crowd.

Police start ushering people toward the exits, their movements hurried, their voices commanding.

But Bruce doesn't move.

Something pulls at him—an invisible thread of dread, tightening.

He notices it then, taped crudely to Colson's chest. A folded card, the edges weathered, but the lettering meticulously printed.

The billionaire steps closer, his focus narrowing, his heart heavy with grim certainty.

The card's bold address reads: To The Batman.

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