#thomas sharpe x y/n

[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.”

[asgards-princess-of-mischief]

Last Updated: 2024-03-05

Disclaimer: I am not the author of these stories, just sharing my favourite Sir Thomas Sharpe stories. Find the authors' links below. If you want your work removed, message me privately.

Legend: 〔E〕 ⇢ Erotic/Steamy | 〔F〕 ⇢ Fluff | 〔A〕 ⇢ Angst/Hurt 〔M〕 ⇢ Minor Angst/Hurt | 〔C〕 ⇢ Comfort | ♥︎ ⇢ Established Relationship | 𑁍 ⇢ Pregnancy/Children | 🚫 ⇢ Content Warning

✑ Wedded￨Prt. II￨Prt. III by yespolkadotkitty • 18+ • 〔E᜶F〕 •

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

✑ Child Named Sharpe, the by smolvenger • 〔F᜶A〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

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

✑ Corsets and Courtship by babybluebex • 18+ • 〔E᜶A〕 •

Summary: "Your father's business partner comes to your home in hopes of discussing the future, and you both get more than you bargained for."

✑ Fill You by just-the-hiddles • 18+ • 〔E〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary:  "Now that you and Thomas have married, he is determined to have you with child come hell or high water."

✑ It's Something Special by lady-rose-moon • 18+ • 〔E〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: "Even though you had been married to the Baronet for three months now, you hadn't been touched by him. Until today..."

✑ My Sweet Baronet by lady-rose-moon • 18+ • 〔E᜶A〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: "Being married to Sir Thomas Sharpe had some... inconvenient setbacks but you are sure to worth through them with your husband."

✑ Ocean Eyes by andsheloved • 〔C〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: "When your own mind seems shattered, you're reminded of who will always be there to pick up the pieces."

✑ Please Forgive Me by just-the-hiddles • 18+ • 〔F᜶A〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: "After nearly being killed by Lucille and discovering Thomas'... role in the whole affair, the two of you [move] to Paris [for] a fresh start... unsure if you [can] forgive [him]..., you agree to attend the Paris Exposition with Thomas [to begin] moving forward."

✑ Secret Affair by sserpente • 〔E᜶F〕 •

Summary: "Imagine [Sir Thomas Sharpe falling in love with you, a maid]. He invites you to live at Allerdale Hall, to serve him and his sister Lucille... All you have to do is keep the affair a secret from her."

✑ To Escape by lady-rose-moon • 〔F᜶A〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: "After [discovering] the dark truth about Allerdale Hall, you confront Thomas. [Over] time, you [and your husband plan your escape]."

✑ A Definite Answer by laufeyamp • 〔F〕 •

✑ A Favour by just-the-hiddles • 18+ • 〔F〕 •

✑ Are You Sure? by tomhiddleston-is-mischief • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Buried by colorsunimaginable • 〔A〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Desperate by lady-rose-moon • 18+ • 〔E〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Family by ladyfluff • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ His Happiness by ladyfluff • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Indulge Me by ladyfluff • 〔F〕 •

✑ Kiss Me by ladyfluff • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Memories by tomhiddleston-is-mischief • 〔F᜶A〕 •

✑ No. by ladyfluff • 〔A〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Not Stopoing by just-the-hiddles • 18+ • 〔E〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Reading While He Works by foxgloveprincess • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Reading with Sir Sharpe by wanna-rock-n-roll-in80s • 18+ • 〔E〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Straight Through the Heart by the--blackdahlia • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Sweet Tooth by ladyfluff • 〔F〕 •

✑ Trapped by ladyfluff • 〔A〕 •

✑ Touch Starved by ladyfluff • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Within the Strongbox of My Heart by frostbitten-written • 〔A〕 • ♡ •

See Also: Navigation || Thomas Sharpe Master Index

Authors: @andsheloved || @babybluebex || @colorsunimaginable || @foxgloveprincess || @frostbitten-written || @just-the-hiddles || @lady-rose-moon || @ladyfluff || @laufeyamp || @smolvenger || @sserpente || @the--blackdahlia || @tomhiddleston-is-mischief || @wanna-rock-n-roll-in80s || @yespolkadotkitty ||

[ughbrie]

ravaged depths | rafayel

⤜ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ - You remembered the first Ebb day—how he’d clung to you, delirious, burning up from the inside out. Lemurians didn’t just get fevers. When they went into heat, it was instinct and memory twisted into something raw and feral. He’d held onto you like you were the only tether keeping him grounded. Because you were. You always had been.

So when Thomas told you he’d vanished, that chill ran up your spine.

You knew what this was.

He was probably hiding it. Probably painting himself into madness with those blood-soaked corals he kept sealed in glass like trophies. Maybe he was hurting again. Maybe he didn’t want you to see him like that—vulnerable, a god stripped bare.

⤜ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ - rafayel x female reader

⤜ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ - smut

⤜ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ - 4.2k

⤜ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ (or tags) - nsfw, mdni, no use of y/n, use of pet names (cutie), dom!rafayel, depictions of heat or mating cycles, references to rafayel's bond story (ebb and flow), possessive behavior, oral sex (f! receiving), clit play, fingering, overstimulation, handjob, cum marking, multiple orgasms, penetration (p in v), dirty talk, unprotected sex, mating press, breeding kink, creampie, and mentions of ownership.

⤜ ɴᴏ��ᴇ- Well, this was just something that had been bothering me and I had to get it out of my system, lol. There's no plot here, just plain smut. Enjoy reading!

You got the call on a Tuesday.

Thomas’s voice came through sharp and tight over the line, like he was trying not to panic but already halfway there. “I haven’t heard from him in three days. He’s not answering his phone. Studio’s locked, not even a brushstroke done for the exhibit.”

You rubbed your temples. Of course it would happen now.

The thing with Rafayel was—he disappeared sometimes. Not in the ghosting kind of way. No, he always told you where he was going. Always made you promise to text when you were working late, made you promise to tell him if you weren’t coming over. Just so he knew. Just so he didn’t wait by the window like some fool, eyes flicking toward every passing headlight.

“You don’t have to tuck me in, cutie,” he’d joke, head resting in your lap like he belonged there. “Just tell me when to stop waiting.”

He played it off like he was teasing, like he wasn’t dead serious. That was the thing about Rafayel—two faces, same man. Around you, he was soft, dramatic, a little clingy, a little spoiled. He pouted, he flirted, he draped himself on your couch like he paid rent. But when he was with others? Cold as ice. Calculated. He had that detached artist thing down to an art form, and it wasn’t an act. You’d seen the real switch happen more than once—the light in his eyes shutting off like a storm rolling in.

You remembered the first Ebb day—how he’d clung to you, delirious, burning up from the inside out. Lemurians didn’t just get fevers. When they went into heat, it was instinct and memory twisted into something raw and feral. He’d held onto you like you were the only tether keeping him grounded. Because you were. You always had been.

So when Thomas told you he’d vanished, that chill ran up your spine.

You knew what this was.

He was probably hiding it. Probably painting himself into madness with those blood-soaked corals he kept sealed in glass like trophies. Maybe he was hurting again. Maybe he didn’t want you to see him like that—vulnerable, a god stripped bare.

You didn’t wait. You grabbed your gear, told Thomas you’d handle it, and headed straight to his studio.

It was no surprise to find yourself pinned pinned beneath his muscular frame on the couch in his studio, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he feasted on your dripping sex like a man starved. The room was filled with the obscene sounds of his lips smacking and sucking, his tongue delving deep into your folds again and again. You could feel his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you in place as he devoured you with wild abandon.

“Rafayel—!” you gasped.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging at the silky strands as the pleasure built to a fever pitch inside you. Rafayel’shands slid up to grip your thighs, pushing them further apart as he buried his face between your legs, his nose pressed against your clit as he tongue-fucked your entrance with deep, powerful strokes.

Fuck.

You could feel your juices coating his chin, dripping down onto the couch beneath you as he ate you out with single-minded focus. Your hips bucked and writhed against his mouth, trying to grind your aching sex against his face as the pressure inside you reached a breaking point. You were so close, teetering on the edge of ecstasy as Rafayel’s tongue circled your clit with devastating precision.

Your fingers clenched in his hair, holding him tight against you as you felt your orgasm building, the coil of tension in your core winding tighter and tighter. You were panting and moaning, your chest heaving with each ragged breath as Rafayel brought you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel your walls fluttering, clenching around his invading tongue as he pushed you ruthlessly towards your peak.

Just as you were about to come undone, Rafayel pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal. He looked up at you with dark, lust-filled eyes, a wicked grin spreading across his face. 

“Not yet, cutie. Don’t come, okay?” he purred, his voice rough and low. “I’m not done with you yet.” And with that, he dove back in, sealing his mouth over your sex once more and continuing his relentless assault on your senses, determined to make you crazy.

He was succeeding, because you were in fact going crazy.

Your hands remained fisted in his hair, holding him tight as he ate you out with wild, unbridled hunger, your body trembling and shaking with the force of your impending release. The room filled with the filthy sounds of your coupling, the wet squelches and slurps of Rafayel’s mouth on your sex echoing off the walls as he brought you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion.

You whined, “I can’t—I can’t…. I need to—ah!”

You felt two of his long—thick fingers push deep inside your dripping core. Your back arched off the couch, a sharp cry of pleasure tearing from your throat as he began to finger fuck you with deep, powerful strokes. His fingers curled and twisted inside you, stroking along your inner walls and brushing against that sensitive spot that made your toes curl.

Rafayel’s fingers pumped in and out of your tight heat, matching the rhythm of his licks and sucks on your clit. The dual stimulation was almost too much to bear, and you could feel your walls clenching and fluttering around his invading digits—trying to draw them deeper inside you. 

Suddenly, Rafayel added a third finger, stretching you wider, filling you fuller and the new sensation pushed you over the precipice.

You can’t hold it anymore. 

You can’t.

You came with a scream, “Rafayel-!”

Your body convulsed and shook as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over you. Your sex clenched and spasmedaround his fingers, gushing and dripping with your release as Rafayel worked you through your orgasm, his fingers pumping and curling inside you, drawing out your pleasure.

You hiccuped, “S-Stop-! I can’t—"

Rafayel never let up his assault on your clit—licking and sucking the sensitive nub as you rode out the aftershocks of your intense orgasm. Your fingers remained fisted in his hair, holding him tight against you as you gasped and shuddered, your body still tingling with the lingering effects of your mind-blowing release. 

Rafayel’s fingers slowly stilled inside you, but he kept them buried deep, plugging you up, as he licked your sex clean of your juices, savoring the taste of your pleasure on his tongue.

You sighed and peered through your half-closed eyelids, Rafayel hovered above you like the tide itself—inevitable, consuming.

His eyes glowed with reddish pink melting into violet, a storm of color that shimmered like sunset trapped beneath the waves. They pulsed with something older, wilder, the kind of magic that belonged to deep-sea gods and forgotten lullabies. Looking into them felt like falling. They held you still, like gravity didn’t belong to the earth anymore, only to him. 

Specks of violet and blue shimmered across his cheeks and down the line of his throat—scales, iridescent and fine as dust, catching the light like stars scattered over his skin. They pulsed faintly with his breath, shifting as if alive, as if tasting the air around you.

You wanted to touch them. Trace them. Memorize the way they glowed like stars scattered across a sea that only he belonged to. But your hands stayed still, curled into the couch cushions, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and the part of you that ached for him.

His skin was damp, slick with heat—his own and yours—and glistened where it met the light, his chest heaving, breath labored but steady. Not desperate. Controlled. 

A god at the edge of surrender.

Sweat trickled down his temple, sliding over the curve of his jaw like it belonged there. His lips—parted, glossy, wet—obviously bitten raw and red from his assaults on your sex. You could smell salt on his skin. Not the kind from the sea. The kind born of fever. 

Of need. Of heat.

And still, the way he looked at you—fuck—it was reverent.

As if your body beneath him was sacred. As if you were the anchor keeping him from drifting into madness. His hand was firm on your hip, fingers splayed, possessive, keeping you pinned in place—not to dominate, but to keep himself from floating away. Like the warmth of you was the only thing tethering him to his shape.

“Rafayel,” you whispered, or maybe you just thought it. But his eyes flickered, focused sharper, like the sound of his name from your lips was enough to bring him back from wherever he was drifting.

He leaned in close enough that the scent of salt and skin filled your senses. 

His weight pressed down gently, never fully—like he was afraid of breaking you. Or maybe afraid of breaking himself if he let go. There was heat rolling off him in waves, dampening your skin where it met his, slick with sweat, pulse jumping in time with yours. You could feel the tremor in his muscles, the restraint, the feral edge buried just beneath the surface.

You weren’t even sure when you stopped breathing. Maybe it was the moment his hands slid up your trembling thighs, his fingers leaving trails of fire in their wake. Maybe it was when his lips hovered a breath above your breasts, his lips latching onto your t-shirt covered nipples. 

He sucked and nibbled at the hardened peaks through the thin fabric, the rough texture of the cotton rubbing deliciously against your sensitive skin. You could feel your nipples straining against the shirt, aching for the direct touch of his mouth, but he teased you mercilessly, refusing to give you the satisfaction of skin on skin contact.

“Please, Rafayel…”

He smiled, and finally his hands slid up your quivering stomach, his fingers splaying across your skin as he pushed your shirt up inch by torturous inch. You lifted your arms, allowing him to peel the garment off your body and toss it carelessly to the side. The cool air hit your newly exposed skin, your nipples pebbling instantly from the change in temperature and the intensity of your arousal.

But that coolness was short-lived as Rafayel’s hot mouth descended upon your breasts, his lips wrapping around one aching, bare nipple and suckling—greedily. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, your head falling back against the couch as pleasure sparked through your nerve endings like electricity. Rafayel’s tongue swirled around the sensitive peak, flicking and teasing, before he drew it into his mouth and suckled harder, sending jolts of white-hot bliss straight to your core.

His other hand came up to knead and squeeze the soft flesh of your breast, his fingers sinking into your skin as he massaged the supple mound. He rolled and plucked at your other nipple, pinching and tugging the hardened bud between his thumb and forefinger, giving it the same attention his mouth lavished on its twin. You could feel the heat building between your legs, your sex clenching and fluttering around nothing, still sensitive from your previous release.

Rafayel’s lips moved to your other breast, his mouth covering your nipple and suckling just as greedily as before. He nipped and bit at the tender flesh, his teeth grazing your skin before he soothed the sting with his tongue. You could feel the wetness of his saliva coating your nipple, the sensation of his mouth on your bare skin is a different sensation entirely.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close as he worshipped your breasts with lips and tongue and teeth. You arched your back, pressing your chest further into his touch, silently begging for more. Rafayel obliged, his hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place as he feasted on your flesh like a starving man at a banquet.

Rafayel looked up at you, eyes glassy and wide, his pupils blown so wide they swallowed the pink and violet whole—like he couldn’t see anything but you.

He gasped, voice muffled against your nipple, his lips wet, “Cutie…”

You felt his hips nestle between your thighs, his thick, heavy cock resting against your sensitive sex, still dripping with the evidence of your release. You trembled, thighs shifting and parting slightly, and you felt Rafayel’s cock twitch against your sex, growing harder, more insistent.

He groaned, “I need…”

Understanding him, you reached down between your bodies, your fingers brushing against the hard, velvety tip of his erection. You could feel the moisture from your combined arousal coating his length, making it slick and smooth beneath your touch. You wrapped your fingers around his thick shaft, feeling it pulse and throb in your grip as you slowly stroked up and down, exploring the shape and size of him.

Rafayel let out a low, guttural groan, his hips rocking forward slightly as you touched him. 

“Fuck, cutie… l-let me help you….” he purred.

His hand slid down to cover yours, his fingers curling around your own as he guided your movements, showing you how he liked to be touched, how to stroke and caress his aching flesh. You could feel the heat building between your thighs, the desire coiling tighter in your core as you felt Rafayel’s cock grow harder, more urgent against your touch.

Rafayel groaned, low and ragged, “More, please…”

His head dropped against your collarbone—his breath hot and uneven.

Your fingers danced over the tip, teasing the sensitive flesh, smearing the bead of moisture that leaked from the slit. Rafayel’s breath grew ragged, his chest heaving against your own as you continued to explore his length, marveling at the way it twitched and jumped beneath your touch. You could feel the power and the strength in his body, the raw, primal masculinity that both thrilled and terrified you. And as you stroked and caressed his cock, you knew that you were playing with fire—but you were more than ready to be consumed by the flames. 

His flames.

As your fingers continued to tease and stroke Rafayel’s throbbing cock, you could feel the tension in his body building to a fever pitch. His hips began to rock and thrust against your hand, seeking more of that delicious friction, more of your touch. You could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he chased his own release.

Suddenly, Rafayel’s body went rigid, his muscles tensing and flexing beneath his skin. A guttural, animalistic groan tore from his throat as his cock jerked and throbbed in your grip, pulsing with a life of its own. You felt the first hot, thick spurt of his seed erupt from the tip, coating your fingers and dripping down onto your sex. 

His hips bucked and shuddered, his body trembling, “Oh gods…”

You continued to stroke his cock, working him through the aftershocks of his release as he collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the couch. You could feel his heart racing, his skin flushed and damp with a sheen of sweat as he struggled to catch his breath. Your fingers remained wrapped around his softening length, gently caressing and soothing him as he came down from the high of his climax.

Rafayel’s hand slid up your body, cupping your cheek, tilting your face towards his own. He captured your lips in a searing kiss, pouring all of his desire and his gratitude into the heated embrace. You could taste the desperation on his tongue, the raw, primal hunger that only you seemed to bring out in him. And as you kissed him back just as fiercely, just as desperately, you knew that you would never be able to get enough of this man—of his touch, his passion, his all-consuming love. 

You were his, just as he was yours, two souls entwined in a dance as old as time itself.

His breath ghosted hot against your cheek, shaky and humid, like the tide pulling too close to shore.

“Tell me I can,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, lips brushing your skin. “Tell me I can have you…”

He pressed an open-mouthed kiss on your cheek, “Please… I need to feel more of you. All of you.”

“You don’t have to ask. I’m yours.” you whispered, as you reached up to caress his cheek.

He groaned, “You don’t know what you do to me—I’m holding back so much.”

“Then don’t hold back. I want all of it—all of you.” you reassured, “I trust you. Even like this, I’ll always trust you.”

His lips skimmed along your jaw, slick and trembling, like he was drinking you in one slow breath at a time. 

“You’ll ruin me,” he whispered, voice hoarse with need. “But gods, I want you to.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, glowing eyes flickering.

“I’ll give you everything. Just—don’t look away when I do.”

His gaze were intense and filled with a hunger that made your heart race. Slowly, inch by inch, he began to push forward, the thick head of his erection parting your swollen lips and sinking into your tight, wet heat.

You gasped as you felt him enter you, your walls stretching and yielding to his size. “Rafayel—“

You felt him shudder when you whispered his name, like a wave breaking at last against the shore. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, a low groan escaping his lips as your silken walls enveloped him, gripping his shaft like a velvet vice. He began to push deeper, inch by excruciating inch, allowing you to feel every throb and pulse of his hard cock as it disappeared inside you.

He hissed, “You’re so tight. F-Fuck, c-cutie—” his voice cracked—soft, desperate—as if the need was clawing its way out of his chest.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your nails raking down his back as you struggled to adjust to his size. Rafayel’s hand slid down to your hip, gripping it tightly as he continued his slow, steady push forward, not stopping until he was buried to the hilt inside you. You could feel the heat of him, the weight of him, filling and stretching you in a way that was almost too much to bear.

For a long moment, Rafayel remained still, allowing you to feel the throb and twitch of his cock deep inside your core. His forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with your own as he savored the feeling of being one with you, joined in the most intimate way possible. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the strength and power in his body as he held himself above you, pinning you down with his weight and his presence.

Slowly, Rafayel began to move, withdrawing his hips until just the tip of his cock remained inside you. Then, with a deep, guttural groan, he thrust forward again, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, powerful stroke. He set a steady rhythm, his hips rocking and rolling against your own as he began to make love to you with deep, purposeful thrusts that hit that secret spot inside you with every drive of his hips.

Your body responded instinctively, your hips lifting to meet his, taking him deeper, urging him on. The room filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, of your mingled moans and cries of pleasure as Rafayel took you with a passion and a hunger that left you breathless and aching for more. You could feel the pleasure building inside you, the coil of tension in your core winding tighter and tighter with every thrust, every stroke of his hard, thick cock inside your dripping sex.

He moved like he was drowning in want, and beneath the glitter of scales and heat-slick skin, he was unraveling, and you were the only thing holding him together, like you were the only air left.

Rafayel suddenly hooked his arms under your knees, pulling your legs up and back as he pushed your knees towards your chest. He maneuvered your body with ease, his strength allowing him to bend and position you as he desired. As he did this, he pushed your thighs further apart, opening you wider to him. Your legs were now bent at an angle, your knees pressed against your chest, completely exposing your sex to his hungry gaze.

With this new position, Rafayel could drive his cock even deeper into your core. He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of your ass as he began to piston in and out of you with long, powerful strokes. The new angle allowed him to reach even deeper inside you, his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust. You could feel every ridge and vein of his thick shaft dragging along your sensitive walls, igniting sparks of pleasure that raced up your spine.

“T-That’s it, cutie. Take it, yeah? Take it.” he moaned.

Rafayel’s hips slammed against yours, the force of his thrusts making your body jolt and shake. He was fucking you with wild abandon, his eyes dark and intense as he watched your face, watching the pleasure play out across your features. You could feel the heat building between your thighs, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core as Rafayel’s cock pounded into you, driving you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.

Your fingers clawed at his back, your nails digging into his skin as you clung to him, anchoring yourself against the force of his thrusts. You could feel the sweat dripping down your body, your skin slick and flushed with the exertion of your lovemaking. Rafayel’s chest heaved above you, his muscles flexing and rippling with every movement, showcasing his raw, primal strength.

“Fuck, cutie,” Rafayel growled, his voice rough and low. “You feel so fucking good. So tight, so perfect.” He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, grinding his hips against yours, stirring his cock deep inside you. “I can feel you squeezing me, cutie. You want to come on my cock, don’t you? Want to take every last drop of me?” His words were filthy, obscene, but they only served to turn you on more, to make you burn hotter for him.

You nod, frantically, eagerly. You gasped, “Yes, yes, yes—please, Rafayel!”

“Fuck, I want to breed this pussy—want to make you mine!” He growled, his voice cracking.

Rafayel’s fingers found your clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, fast circles. The added stimulation was almost too much to bear, and you could feel your walls starting to flutter and clench around his pistoning cock. Your moans grew louder, more desperate, as Rafayel continued to pound into you with wild abandon, his hips slapping against yours, the obscene sound of skin on skin filling the room.

“Come on, cutie,” Rafayel growled, his fingers moving faster, pressing harder against your clit. “Come all over my cock. I want to feel you come apart for me.” His words were rough, demanding, pushing you closer to the edge of oblivion.

Your body tensed, your back arching off the couch as you felt your orgasm building to a crescendo. Rafayel’s cock was hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, sending jolts of electricity through your veins. You could feel the pressure in your core winding tighter and tighter, your walls clenching and squeezing around Rafayel’s shaft, trying to pull him deeper, to keep him inside you.

With a scream of Rafayel’s name, you came undone, your body convulsing and shaking as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over you. Your sex clenched and spasmed around Rafayel’s cock, gushing and dripping with your release as he fucked you through your climax, drawing out your pleasure.

Feeling your walls clamp down around him, Rafayel let out a guttural roar, his body going rigid as he found his own release. His cock jerked and throbbed inside you, pulsing as he spilled his hot release deep into your core. You could feel the warmth of it, the thickness of it, painting your insides.

He was draped over you in an instant like a weighted blanket, limbs tangled, cheek pressed to your chest, his breath ragged. His skin was damp, faintly glowing, but his body had softened, all the tension melted into your touch.

“Mmh…” he mumbled, voice low and lazy, lips brushing your collarbone. “That felt so good, cutie.”

You laughed, well, tried to. “Are you feeling better now?”

He shook his head, “Still burning. But I’m choosing not to die about it right now.”

You huffed a laugh, fingers carding gently through his sweat-damp hair. “Choosing?”

“Mmhm,” he hummed. “Choosing rest. Choosing you. Very brave of me.”

He tilted his head up just enough to look at you, eyes heavy-lidded but still glowing faintly, pupils still too wide. “Don’t move, cutie,” he said, dramatically nuzzling back into your skin. “If you leave, I’ll literally melt. You’ll come back to nothing but glitter and salt.”

You didn’t move. Of course you didn’t.

“Good,” he whispered, already half-asleep. “Knew you had a soft spot for me.”

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[queenshelby]

His Property (Part One)

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Virgin!Reader

Warning: Non-Con, Dub-Con, Forced Submission, Humiliation, Age Gap

Summary:

You are an innocent young woman sold by your father to Thomas Shelby in exchange for clearing his debt. Thomas views you as his possession, believing he can treat you however he wishes.

Please comment and engage to let me know what you think!

The limousine purrs to a stop in front of Arrow House, and your heart pounds against your ribcage like a trapped creature yearning to escape. You gaze up at the imposing mansion, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and curiosity. You find yourself gazing at the towering structure that looms as a sentinel over the sweeping lawns and manicured gardens, its cold stone walls as forbidding as the ice-blue eyes of its owner.

Your father sits beside you, his grip on your arm firm and unrelenting.

His face is a mask of grim determination, eyes fixed on the mansion as if it were a monster he's about to feed.

"This is it," he says, his voice as harsh as gravel. "Your new home."

Home. The word sends a shiver down your spine. You have no choice but to follow him out of the car, your heels sinking into the dewy grass. As you approach the grand entrance, the heavy oak door creaks open, revealing a man in a crisp black suit. His sharp features and piercing blue eyes leave no doubt who he is. Thomas Shelby.

The mere mention of his name sends a shiver down your spine. He stands in the doorway, his eyes raking over you like a physical touch. You feel your cheeks flush under his scrutiny.

"Y/N," he says, your name rolling off his tongue like a dark promise. He steps aside, allowing you to enter the grand foyer. The air is thick with the scent of expensive cigars and something darker, more primal.

Your father clears his throat, his eyes darting nervously between you and Thomas. "Y/N, this is Mr. Shelby. He's...

taken care of our debt." His words hang heavy in the air, a finality that makes your stomach churn. Thomas nods, his eyes never leaving yours as he assesses you, from top to bottom, as if you were prey.

"Yes, your father and I have come to an arrangement," he says, his voice as smooth as velvet but with an underlying edge that sends a shiver down your spine. 

Your father shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flickering between you and Thomas before he nods, a grimace on his face. "I trust you'll take good care of her," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Thomas merely smiles, a slow, predatory curl of his lips that sends a jolt of fear coursing through you. "Oh, I intend to," he says, his eyes locked onto yours.

He turns to your father, his voice cold and dismissive. "You may go. I'll send for you when our business is concluded."

Your father nods, his eyes flickering between you and Thomas before he turns and walks away, leaving you alone with the man who now owns you.

Thomas closes the door, his footsteps echoing in the grand foyer as he approaches you. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, the power he exudes like a palpable force. He stops in front of you, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear.

His touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you can't help but flinch at the contact. He chuckles low, a sound that rumbles like thunder in his chest.

"You're frightened," he observes, his voice a low growl. 

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. You know what's expected of you, what your father has sold you for. But the reality of it is unlike anything you've ever imagined.

"Will...will you hurt me?"  The words escape your lips before you can stop them, a mixture of fear and defiance in your voice.

Thomas's eyes flash with amusement, and he leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"Only if you want me to," he whispers, his voice a low, seductive growl.

He steps back, his eyes scanning your body again, lingering on your breasts, your hips, your thighs.

"I don't want you to, sir," you reply, your voice barely a whisper, but it's enough for him.

A slow smile spreads across his face, and he reaches out, tracing the line of your jaw with his thumb. "We will see," he says softly. 

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, confused and slightly relieved but, before you know it, one of his maids appears, her eyes cast downwards as she speaks. 

"Let's get you settled in dear. I understand you have had a long 

journey," the maid says, her voice soft and soothing like warm honey. She guides you through the grand house, your footsteps echoing on the polished marble floors. The opulence of Arrow House is starkly apparent; crystal chandeliers drip from the high ceilings, casting prisms of light that dance on the walls, and paintings of landscapes and still lives adorn the walls, each one more expensive looking than the last.

You are led down a long corridor, the air growing colder as you move further away from the main entrance. The maid stops in front of a heavy wooden door, her hand on the brass handle.

"This will be your room," she says, pushing the door open. You step inside, your eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the heavy curtains. The room is large, with a four-poster bed draped in velvet curtains, a fireplace with a roaring fire, and a chaise lounge positioned in front of the window. It's luxurious, but the air is thick with an undercurrent of darkness, a subtle reminder of Thomas's presence.

"Is there anything you need, dear?" the maid asks, her eyes scanning your face. You shake your head, your mind racing with a million thoughts but your mouth unable to form the words.

The maid smiles softly, her eyes kind. "You'll be alright, dear," she then says as she turns to leave, but you call out to her.

"Wait," you say, and she pauses, turning back to face you.

"What exactly does he... want from me?" The question tumbles out of your mouth before you can stop it, a heavy weight settling in your stomach as you await her response.

The maid's expression softens, and she steps back into the room, closing the door behind her.

She walks over to the chaise lounge and sits down, patting the space next to her. "Come, sit," she says gently. You hesitate for a moment before moving to sit next to her.

"Mr. Shelby, he's... complex," she begins, her voice low and careful. "He likes things to be... just so. And he likes to be in control." She pauses, choosing her words with care. "He'll expect you to be obedient, to meet his needs, and to do so without question."

You swallow hard, the reality of your situation settling like a weight in the pit of your stomach. Your older sister had only just explained the concept of intimacy to you after you had been brought up strictly catholic, and the thought of experiencing it so suddenly and with such a man was terrifying.

"But what if I don't want to do the things he asks?" your voice barely a whisper, but your heart pounded in your chest like a drum, afraid of the answer.

The maid's eyes were kind, and she reached out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "I am afraid you do not have a choice, dear. Not now. But in time, you may find that you want to please him. Many have before you."

"But if I do not like what he does to me?" you ask, your voice quivering slightly, the reality of your new life crashing down on you like a wave.

The maid's expression turns softer, and she squeezes your shoulder gently again. 'You will learn to like it, dear, or at least to tolerate it. Mr. Shelby has a way of... making people see things his way.'

Your heart sinks, and you feel a lump form in your throat. You want to ask more, to understand what exactly he expects from you, but the maid's shoulders tense, and she glances at the door.

'I should go,' she says, standing up. 'We'll meet again though, and I'll help you as much as I can, but for now, you should wash up and get some rest. Tomorrow is a new day.'

You nod, a sense of resignation washing over you as she leaves. Alone in the room, you let the weight of your situation sink in. Your breath hitches as you think about what lies ahead, your mind racing with questions and fears.

An hour later, a soft knock at the door startles you. You hesitate for a moment before calling out, 'Come in.'

The door creaks open, revealing a young man, around your age, with shaggy brown hair and kind brown eyes. He's dressed in a simple but well-made suit, his demeanour friendly and unassuming.

He smiles at you, and you can't help but feel a small shiver of relief at the sight of someone close to your own age.

"Hey, I'm Lucas," he says, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. "I'm one of the housekeeper's son and I help out around here sometimes."

You offer him a small smile, your shoulders relaxing slightly. "I'm Y/N," you say, standing up from the chaise lounge. "Nice to meet you."

Finn nods, his eyes scanning the room before settling on you. "I heard you were coming," he says, his voice casual.

"Thought I'd come say hi, make you feel a bit more at home."

You appreciate the gesture, even if the words 'at home' still feel foreign on your tongue. "Thanks," you say, offering him a small smile. "I could use a friendly face around here."

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yeah, Arrow House can be a bit... intimidating at first. But don't worry, you'll get used to it."

You sit back down on the chaise lounge, and he takes a seat on the armchair across from you.

The room feels less daunting with his presence, and you find yourself relaxing slightly.

"So, what's it like here? I mean, living in Arrow House," you ask, trying to keep your voice casual.

Lucas leans back in his chair, his eyes thoughtful. "It's different, that's for sure. It's like living in a castle, you know? But I know it will be different for you. I mean, I know why you are here and I am... I am not in the same situation as you," Lucas says before he pauses, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to gauge how much to say. 

A shiver runs down your spine at the mention of your situation. "I don't want to be here," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lucas's expression softens, and he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I know," he says. "But try to make the best of it," he tells you. 

You nod, a lump forming in your throat at his kindness. 

"I'll try," you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lucas smiles warmly; his eyes filled with genuine concern. "Good," he said simply, resting his hand on yours in a friendly manner. 

His words are comforting, but the weight of your new life is a constant reminder, pressing down on you like a heavy shroud. You force a smile, grateful for his presence.

"Thank you, Lucas," you say, and he grins, standing up and holding out his hand.

"Come on, let's go for a walk in the gardens.

Fresh air might do you some good," Lucas suggests, his hand still outstretched. You take it, grateful for the offer of escape, no matter how temporary.

As you walk through the grand house, you can't help but feel like a prisoner in a gilded cage. The opulence is overwhelming, a stark contrast to the simplicity of your childhood home. Lucas guides you through the sprawling gardens, the scents of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass filling the air. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart.

"So, what's your story, Lucas?

How long have you been here?" You ask, trying to focus on anything but the heavy weight of your new reality.

Lucas shrugs, his hands tucked into his pockets as he walks beside you. "Not long. A few months. My mom got a job here, and I help out around the place. It's not so bad, really. The people are nice enough."

You nod, your eyes scanning the gardens. "What about you? Where are you from?" He asks, his voice casual.

You hesitate, unsure of how much to reveal. "Small town. Nowhere special," you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "I grew up catholic. My father had a big gambling debt, and now I'm here," you say, your voice tight. Lucas glances at you, his expression sympathetic.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. That really sucks," he says, his voice genuine. "But listen, you're young, you're smart, and you're tough. You'll figure this out."

You scoff, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. "Tough? I'm terrified, Lucas. I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know what he expects from me."

Lucas's expression softens, and he reaches out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"Hey, it's okay. Just know that you are not alone. I'll be here to help, alright? And I'm sure some of the other staff will be too. We're not all bad here, you know."

You nod, appreciating his words even if they don't completely ease your fears. "Thanks, Lucas. I appreciate it."

He smiles, his hand dropping to his side as he looked up, noticing Thomas Shelby 's silhouette in one of the grand windows.

You follow his gaze, your heart skipping a beat at the sight of Thomas's imposing figure. He stares back at you, his expression unreadable, before he turns and walks away.

"I should go," Lucas says, his voice barely above a whisper. "He doesn't like me talking to the... new acquisitions."

You frown, a chill running down your spine at his choice of words. "Why?"

Lucas shrugs, his expression grim.

"He just doesn't. Trust me, it's better if I go. I'll see you around, alright?" he says, squeezing your arm once more before turning and walking away, leaving you alone in the garden.

You watch him go, a sense of unease washing over you as Thomas's shadow looms large again in the window.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what's to come. You can't run, and you can't hide. You have to face this head-on. 

You make your way back to Arrow House, your footsteps echoing in the grand foyer as you enter.

The house is quiet, the staff moving silently through the halls, their eyes cast downwards as they pass you. The air is thick with an undercurrent of tension, a subtle reminder of Thomas Shelby's presence.

As you climb the grand staircase, you can't help but feel like a mouse in a maze, each step bringing you closer to the lion's den. You reach your room, the heavy wooden door looming in front of you like a barrier between you and the reality of your situation.

You take a deep breath, your hand trembling slightly as you reach for the handle of the door leading to your bedroom just as one of the maids approached you from behind.

"Here you are," she says softly. "Mr. Shelby wants to see you, in his study," the maid says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart pounds in your chest, your breath hitches as you nod, your fingers fumbling with the door handle.

"Come, dear. We don't want to keep him waiting," the maid says, her voice a soft nudge, but there's an undercurrent of impatience that brooks no argument.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest as you follow her down the wide, marble-floored hallway. The air grows colder, the scent of expensive cigars and something darker, more primal, clinging to the air.

The maid stops in front of a heavy oak door, her hand reaching out to knock softly. "Sir, she's here," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

The door creaks open, revealing Thomas Shelby standing by the fireplace, his back to you. He's dressed in a dark suit, the material moulding to his frame.

He turns to face you, his piercing blue eyes scanning your body, missing no detail.

He nods at the maid, dismissing her with a minimal wave of his hand. She scurries away, leaving you alone with him.

The room is illuminated by the flickering fire, the shadows dancing on the walls, creating a stark contrast with the opulence of the study. Your heart hammers in your chest like a drum, the air thick with fear.

Thomas stands before you, his eyes locked onto yours, a dark promise written across his sharp features. He takes a step closer, the smell of expensive cologne enveloping you.

"You look nervous, Sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his touch causing you to flinch away.

His eyes darken at your reaction, and he takes a step closer, crowding your space.

"You're going to have to get used to my touch, Love," he says, the words a low growl that sends a shiver down your spine.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you take a step back, only to find yourself pressed up against the wall. You can feel the cold stone against your back, the rough texture a stark contrast to the smoothness of his skin.

Thomas takes advantage of your lack of space, his hand coming up to cup your chin, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.

"Open for me. Let me taste you." His voice is a command, his eyes burning into yours as he waits for your response.

You hesitate, your breathing coming in short gasps, the fear warring within you. Thomas's grip tightens slightly, his thumb pressing harder against your lip. "Now," he growls, the warning clear in his voice.

With trembling fingers, you part your lips, allowing him access. His eyes darken as he leans in, his mouth capturing yours in a brutal, demanding kiss. His tongue plunges in, exploring, dominating, leaving no part of your mouth untouched.

You gasp, your body stiffening at the sudden invasion, but Thomas doesn't miss a beat. He pins you to the wall as his mouth ravages yours. He tastes like whiskey and sin, and the fear in your chest begins to raise. 

Thomas tears his mouth away, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes are wild, hungry, as they rake over your body. "You taste like innocence, like a fucking virgin," he growls, his voice a low and primal.

"Please," you whisper, your voice shaking. "I don't want to do this."

Thomas smirks, his eyes burning with hunger, and presses his body flush against yours. "You don't have a choice. You're mine now and I paid good fucking money for you."

He captures your mouth again, swallowing your whimpers as his hands roam over your body.

You feel like a deer caught in headlights, unable to escape or fight as his hands trail down your waist. He slips his fingers under your skirt, hooking them into the waistband of your panties and you tremble as he pulls them down.

They pool at your feet and a tear slips down your cheek.

Thomas smirks, his lips brushing against yours. "Sshh, it's alright Love," he whispers as his fingers first made contact with your most intimate part. "I am just getting to know what's mine."

His voice is like velvet over iron as he lets his fingers run over your still dry and untouched folds.

You can't bring yourself to respond, your mind a whirlwind of fear and uncertainty. Thomas doesn't seem to mind, his fingers exploring you, sliding against your opening, making you gasp at the unfamiliar sensation.

He then pushes a finger inside you, the intrusion causing you to cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Oh Sweetheart," he growls against your neck, "You're so fucking tight."

He begins to pump his finger in and out of you, the motion rough and urgent, causing you to gasp and whimper.

"Sshh, Love," he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. "I know it hurts, but I need you to relax and take it. You'll feel better once you get used to it."

You try to do as he says, but the sensation is overwhelming and foreign. You can feel your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps. 

You try to press your legs together, to close yourself off from him, but Thomas's free hand pushes your thighs apart, his fingers digging into your soft skin.

"Open up for me, Love," he snarls, the command in his voice leaving no room for argument as, suddenly, you felt something else when he used his thumb to rub your clit, slowly circling it with the pressure of his rough thumb.

The sensation is both foreign and slightly pleasurable, sending a jolt of confusion through you.

Thomas notices your reaction, a dark smile spreading across his face. 

"No, please," you plead, your voice trembling as you try to push his hand away, but this time for different reasons. The sensation was too overwhelming for you.

You can't help but let out a small moan as Thomas's thumb continues to circle your clit. He watches you closely, his eyes dark with lust and pleasure at your reaction.

"That's it, Love," he murmurs, his voice a low growl. "Let me hear you. I want to hear you scream for me."

His finger inside you continues to move, pumping in and out, painfully, but the pressure on your clit made you feel pleasure at the same time, confusing you as you tried to wiggle away from him.

"Please stop,” you whimper, but he just chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends shivers down your spine.

"Shh, just let go for me," he growls, his thrusts becoming faster, more urgent. You can feel the wetness building between your legs, a mixture of pain and pleasure. Your breath comes in short gasps, your body tensing as he pushes you closer to the edge.

"I... I can't," you stammer, your body shaking with the effort of holding back. Thomas leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot and moist.

"Come on, Love, you're almost there. Let go. Give in to it," he says as he increases the pressure on your clit, his thumb circling faster, sending electric jolts through your body.

"Please. No. I need to...you need to stop!" you cry out as you can't hold back anymore and your body convulses, and you let out a scream that echoes through the study.

"That's a good girl," Thomas grins, his eyes locked onto yours, watching you come undone under his touch. He continues to pump his finger in and out of you, drawing out your pleasure until you're a panting mess against the wall.

He finally slows down, his finger sliding out of you, leaving you feeling empty and exposed.

You're panting, your body still shaking from the aftershocks of your unexpected orgasm.

Thomas grins, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and lust as he smeared his blood-streaked finger over your cleavage, leaving a trail of your own wetness across your skin.

"There you go Sweetheart," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked but you couldn't help but feel a chill run down your spine at his words.

His fingers were still paint streaked from your wetness and virginity and he brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan of satisfaction. You felt a mixture of revulsion and shame at the sight, but also a strange kind of arousal you couldn't quite understand.

"Now, why don't you drop down to your knees for me, eh?" Thomas's voice is a low rumble, like distant thunder, as he steps back and begins to unbuckle his belt.

You hesitate for a moment, your body still shaking from the aftershocks of the orgasm he forced from you. But his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, burn into yours, and you know better than to disobey.

Slowly, you sink to your knees, your heart pounding in your chest like a trapped bird.

Thomas smirks, a slow, wicked curl of his lips as he pushes his pants down, his cock springing free.

He's long and thick, the head already damp with precum. He wraps his fist around the base, giving it a slow stroke.

"Open that pretty little mouth of yours, Sweetheart," he commands, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine.

You hesitate, your breath coming in short gasps, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. You've never done this before, never even thought about it. But Thomas doesn't wait for your consent. He grabs a fistful of your hair, his grip tight and painful as he steps closer. 

"Open, now," he growls, his cockhead prodding at your lips.

You hesitate, your lips pressed tightly together, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest as he waits

for you to comply which, hesitantly, you did, slowly parting your lips, just enough to let the tip inside.

"That's a good girl," he praises, his voice thick with lust and satisfaction. "Now take more."

He pushes his hips forward, forcing more of his cock into your mouth, the salty

taste of him filling your senses. You gag, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as he hits the back of your throat. You try to pull back, but his grip on your hair tightens, holding you in place as half of his cock disappears in your mouth, stretching your lips.

"Take it all, Sweetheart," he commands, his voice a low growl. "

You whimper, your tears falling freely now as he begins to move his hips, fucking your mouth in slow, steady thrusts. He grunts with each push forward, his cock growing harder, thicker with each passing moment.

You can feel the saliva pooling in your mouth, dripping down your chin, and you try to swallow around the intrusion, but it's no use. Your gag reflex kicks in again, and you pull back, gasping for air.

Thomas chuckles, a dark and dangerous sound that sends shivers down your spine. "You're not very good at this, are you, Love?" he says, his voice thick with lust. He grips your hair tighter, forcing you to look up at him.

His blue eyes are dark with desire, his jaw set in a harsh line. "You're going to take it all, understand?" His voice is a harsh command, leaving no room for argument as he thrusts his hips forward, his cockhead slipping past your lips and forcing its way into your mouth.

You gag again, your eyes watering as he hits the back of your throat.

You try to relax, to open up, but it's hard. His cock is so fucking big, and the taste of him, the smell of him, it's all so overwhelming.

Thomas growls, his grip on your hair tightening even further. "You feel so fucking good Love," he says through gritted teeth, his hips moving faster, fucking your face with more force.

You gag again, your mouth filled with his cock, your eyes watering as you try to breathe through your nose. Your hands grip his thighs, your nails digging into his flesh as you try to pull back, but Thomas holds you firmly in place.

You can feel it throbbing in your mouth, the veins pulsing with his heartbeat. The taste of him is salty and bitter, the scent of his sweat and arousal filling your nostrils. Both nauseating and arousing at the same time. You can't breathe, can't think, as he fucks your face with efficiency.

"Open that throat for me, Love," he groans, his voice ragged with desire. "Take it all, like a good girl."

His words send a jolt of humiliation and arousal through you which, again, was strange and confusing to you. Despite yourself, you feel a twinge of desire, a heat building between your legs. 

Thomas groans, a low, animal sound that vibrates through his chest. "Almost there, Love," he says, and you have no idea what he means by that

. You're dizzy, lightheaded from being on your knees for so long with his cock in your mouth. You feel like your jaw is going to dislocate as he thrusts in and out, his cock filling your mouth completely.

He pushes in deeper, his cockhead hitting the back of your throat, forcing you to take him in even further. You try to keep your teeth from grazing him, but it's hard to control anything when you can barely breathe.

Thomas's hips stutter, his cockhead pulsing in your throat, and you are unsure what is going on until he announces his impending climax. 

"I am going to cum in your sweet little mouth now and I want you to swallow every last drop of it, eh" he rasps out, his voice thick with lust and excitement.

You panic, your body tensing, still unsure what to expect, but there's no escape as he grips your hair, holding you in place as he thrusts into your mouth one last time, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he releases his load.

You gag in surprise as the hot, salty taste of him fills your mouth, coating your tongue and throat. He groans, his body shuddering as he empties himself into you, his hips jerking with each spurt.

"Swallow it, Love" he growls, his grip on your hair tightening painfully. "Every fucking drop."

You try to pull back, the taste of him overwhelming, but his grip is unyielding. You gag again, his cum and saliva splattering around your lips as you struggle to swallow his release. It is simply too much. 

"Good girl," Thomas praises you anyway, his voice still thick with lust. 

He pulls out, his cock gleaming with your saliva and his cum. He runs a hand through your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear. His cum was running down your chin, dripping onto your chest and even on to his shoe, and you can taste the bitter, salty tang of him on your tongue. 

Using his finger, he scoops up the cum that had dripped out of your mouth and on to your chin and feeds it to you, forcing you to swallow every last drop. You whimper, your stomach churning at the taste, but you obey, knowing better than to displease him.

"That's it," Thomas praises again, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and lust. He tucks himself back into his pants, his cock only semi-hard now.

You look down at your chest, at his release on your skin, and then at his shiny dress shoes, now with cum splattered on them too. You feel a wave of shame wash over you, your cheeks burning with humiliation.

"I... I’m sorry," you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't be Love. You did well," he says as you still sat on the plush carpet, your knees aching from the hard floor, your mouth still tasting like him. "But I do need you to clean up the mess you made, eh," he then ads, as if you had been careless, rather than struggling to perform a task you had never done before. 

"Yes, sir," you whisper, your voice trembling as you reached up to wipe off the cum from your chest first with your bare hand and Thomas watches you, his expression unreadable. 

"Lick it off your hand, go on," he commands, and you hesitate for a moment before bringing your hand to your mouth and licking off his cum, your stomach again. 

"That's a good girl,” he says, his voice a low purr. "Now, clean my shoe with your tongue."

You look down at the shiny leather and a wave of humiliation washes over you. But you know better than to disobey, so you lean forward, extending your tongue, and begin to lick the cum off his shoe.

Thomas watches you, his eyes dark with satisfaction. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. "Lick every last drop."

You continue, your cheeks burning with shame, your mouth tasting like him, feeling like you are nothing more than a slave to his desires.

The taste of him is bitter and salty, a stark reminder of what you are to him, of the role you must play in his life.

As you finish cleaning his shoe, you sit back on your heels, your body shaking with exhaustion and humiliation. Thomas watches you, his eyes roaming your body, assessing you like a piece of art.

Thomas looks down at you, his expression softening. "Good girl," he murmurs, his voice gentle. "Now, go clean yourself up and get some rest, eh?" he says, his voice suddenly softer, as he helps you to your feet.

You nod, your body still shaking slightly from the ordeal. He strokes your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle, almost comforting.

"You did well tonight, Love. Very well," he praises you once more and, somehow, this made you proud. 

You make your way back to your room, your body aching and your mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. You strip off your clothes, your body still sticky from his seed, and step into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over you.

You scrub yourself clean, trying to wash away the taste and smell of him, but it lingers, a constant reminder of what just happened.

Your body aches, and your knees are bruised from the hard floor.

You step out of the shower, wrapping yourself in a thick, plush robe that hangs on the back of the door but, even despite the humiliation you feel, there is something else that lingers, something that you can't quite put your finger on. A sense of accomplishment perhaps, or maybe it's just the exhaustion that weighs heavily on your body.

You collapse onto the bed, the cool sheets a welcome relief to your tender skin. You pull the covers up, burying yourself in the softness, trying to block out the memories of the night. But sleep eludes you, your mind racing with thoughts of Thomas and the things he made you do.

You toss and turn, the events of the night replaying in your head like a gruesome movie. The way he touched you, the way he tasted, the way he smelled. The way he made you feel. A mix of fear, humiliation, and whatever else this was. Desire or arousal perhaps?

You were confused and conflicted by the mix of emotions swirling within you but, after a little while, you finally managed to fall into a fitful sleep, your dreams haunted by the events of the night.

Tags:

@sunbeamseas @saint-ackerman @oatmealisweird @naxxsstuff @amanda08319 @r-m-cidnah @elysiannook @cillshot @infireddabdab @tastycakee @harrysbestiee @lilybabe22 @adalynlowell @henrywintersdearestgirl @ietss @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @ryiamarie @axionn

@nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

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[vervainandspritz]

could you do a smut where it takes place after season 4, episode one when Tommy murders that butcher, so right after that he’s extremely pissed off and frustrated so he goes to the bedroom where reader is sleeping in the dark and he wants to let out his stress so he fucks reader roughly while still covered in all that blood it turns reader on a lot and Tommy’s very degrading with his words:)?

WHAT YOU'RE MADE FOR

Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warnings: death, angst, violence, angry sex, degradation, smut

A/N: Y'all better start sending requests istg

~~

It felt almost deranged, as Thomas stared in the almost dead man's eyes. Life leaving his irises, lungs choking on blood while trying to take a breath. One so desperately needed. His mouth wide open, pathetically attempting to inhale some oxygen which was already impossible. Last blinks, last moves before he fell to the floor, dirtying everything around and... Leaving the meat raw on the table.

Thomas looked around, only now noticing the state he was in. Covered in blood, almost head to toe. His expensive vest and suit pants absolutely drenched, not to mention the shirt. Letting out a sharp breath, he dropped the sharp tool to the floor, making his way out of the kitchen.

He had so much to do before Christmas. Since the cook died, he needed a new one. Tommy had to call around, find someone last minute and pay extra for cleaning and keeping silent about whereabouts in the Arrow house. So much to do, yet he could barely think with the adrenaline pumping through his veins, making his heart thump and his hands shake.

Normally he would take opium to make it better, but Thomas was well too aware of his wife's reaction to the drug. She hated when he was under influence.

Huffing angrily under his nose he thought of an alternative, and frustration grew as he thought about how difficult Y/N has to make it by arguing. Always arguing. Forcing him to eat better, to take care of himself. So damn loud and opinionated. Throwing back a glass of whiskey, his eyes landed on the staircase and the idea suddenly appeared in his head.

Without missing a beat he made his way up the stairs, leaving bloody marks on the handrail and expensive wood. Quickly walking through the corridor he barged through the door, his precious wife laying on the bed, beautiful as ever. Her white gown hunched up slightly higher than usual, revealing her creamy thighs and reminding him of the lack of underwear.

Standing there, simply staring Thomas felt his pants becoming tighter, all blood going south, exactly where he needed it. Quickly unbuckling his belt and pants he walked over, leaning forward he cooed quietly seeing her peaceful face.

His hand traced her cheek lightly, leaving a bloody mark that made his teeth clench. Deep, crimson red colour in such a stark contrast with the innocent face and white gown of hers. Without waking her up, he quickly pulled her to the edge of the bed by her legs, startling her awake.

"T–Tommy?" She mumbled, eyes barely open as he flipped her on her stomach with a growl. Adrenaline buzzed in his ears as he pawed on her skin, leaving mark after mark from the blood he had on. After a moment she lifted her head, looking back and seeing him completely red, which caused her to squeak in fear. "Thomas, wh–" but he cut her off, pulling his cock out and shoving her legs apart, spitting on her pussy to use as a lube.

"Shut up!" He hissed, climbing onto the bed and straddling her thighs. "I kept you safe. I've fulfilled my duty, and kept you safe!" He hissed into her ear, grabbing a handful of hair, nudging her entrance with the tip of his cock.

A loud moan caused by the sudden stretch and pain filled the air as he slammed himself to the hilt, not able to wait any longer. His hand immediately covered her mouth, two fingers shoved into her mouth to keep her quiet. "The least you can do is fucking take it" He growled into her ear, thrusting impatiently into her tight heat, feeling the wetness pooling from her entrance at his rough manhandling. "That's what you're fucking made for!" She moaned loudly, feeling the bitter metallic taste on his fingers, filling her mouth and making it hard to breathe which made her keep squirming.

Thomas laid himself over her, fucking her from the back, putting his complete weight on top of her.

"You feel it? The fucking taste?" He growled, pulling her hair with another hand. "It's a taste of your safety." His voice was different, clearly because of the chaotic situation he's been through just a couple minutes earlier. Y/N had no idea what was turning her on so much, whether it was the danger to this whole situation, or maybe him fucking her so roughly. "Answer me!" He roared, plunging even deeper than before, his tip kissing her cervix really hard, causing her to nod frantically. "Some cock and you're already too fucking dumb to speak, eh? Good thing your cunt 's always wet then" He added, cruelly almost, knowing how much she loved being degraded. "Nothing more needed to be my precious little fuckhole" He purred, picking up his pace, fucking her faster and harder. Whimper after whimper leaving her lips before he pulled his fingers out of her mouth and wrapped them around her throat.

"Shhhh" He cooed, "You don't want to wake up the kids, do you?" He emphasized the last two words with painful deep thrusts, making her feel like he was already in her belly.

"Tommy" She managed to stutter out, holding onto his hand which was squeezing her pretty hard, cutting off the blood flow and causing her eyesight to go blurry.

"I feel you squeezing my fucking cock. You like that, eh? Being fucked, covered in blood and treated like a cheap whore." He groaned by her ear, the free hand reaching underneath to pinch her clit and rub brutal circles, causing her to cry out weakly. "Nasty fucking cunt" He purred as she came around him so hard, before completely going limp on top of her. Pressing her into the mattress as his thrusts grew frantic, deeper and slower while her cunt milked him for all he had.

Only then did he let go of her throat, slowly threading his fingers through her hair, as they both tried to catch their breaths.

Tommy lifted his head up, seeing her so beautifully fucked out and smiled. Kissing the side of her face, he murmured.

"We need a cleaning service in the kitchen... and a new cook."

[earlysunshines]

vixen

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

wc: 14.7k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yeah, likewise.”

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

“thomas been treating you well?”

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

momo snickers, “uh huh, sure. i bet.”

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

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

your clench your jaw before redirecting your attention.

–

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

in front of you is momo, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“oh, maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

maybe for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“seriously, i’ll text you.”

“okay thomas, have fun.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

“thank’s dahyun, see you soon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“what?”

“your brother’s girlfriend?”

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

“not right now, no.”

“not now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

momo looks up at you, second guessing herself. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“momo.”

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

“are you single?”

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

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

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

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

“you’re kidding.”

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

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

“what?”

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

“business majors…”

“business men.” you correct.

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

“momo?”

“yeah, she’s nice.” 

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

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

“when did you hang out with her?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“you’re jealous.”

“what? no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[11:30pm]

y/n: 

sorry for the late response :( 

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

kidding lol

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

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

sleep tight, momo

😛

momo grins, immediately typing up a response.

[11:33pm]

momo: 

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

i’ll see you there, 3pm sharp

you sleep well, y/n

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

“momo, hey.”

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

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

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

“that’s what i thought.”

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

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

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

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

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

“i like your face.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“maybe i will.”

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

–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it can’t be, this can’t be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“and what is that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

–

fucked, that’s what you are. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“babe, i’m sorry.”

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

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

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

–

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

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

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

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

“baby,” 

your turn your head to answer, “hm?”

“you and momo been getting close, huh?”

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

“sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

“thomas, what the fuck?”

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

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

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

“what the fuck is wrong with you.”

“it’s the truth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“it’s true.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you bitch –”

you scoff, turning around and running up the stairs. 

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

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

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

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

“y/n?” 

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

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

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

“okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

“we broke up.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“why didn’t you warn me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“momo, stop, wait.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“momo, are you serious?”

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

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

–

momo doesn’t text you the rest of the night and you have no clue what to do with yourself.

you lay on the couch, unable to pick yourself up and go to your room. the ceiling is the only thing you can see and momo’s the only one on your mind. you lift up your hand for the first time in a while, bringing two fingers to gently settle on your lips, lips that momo kissed. 

god, everything about the kiss was fulfilling, it was perfect. 

the thought of staying in your apartment alone all night kills you, especially with so much pent up inside of you. you reach out for your phone, unlking it and scrolling through your contacts to find someone who can listen: yeri.

–

momo grits her teeth as soon as she steps into the house. 

her mom watches her angrily storm through the hall. “thomas is in his room.”

she rushes up the stairs, practically knocking the door open with how aggressive and angry she is in the moment. she watches thomas lay there, on his phone like nothing had happened. 

he spots momo and looks up like he’s just been pestered. “yes?”

“what the fuck happened between you and y/n?”

he yawns, then puts his phone down. 

momo bites down on her teeth, clenching her jaw. just the sight of him there makes her thoughts scream at her to punch him in the face, but momo doesn’t, because that’s something an immature, impatient man-baby would do; that’s what thomas would do.

“she dumped me because i insulted you, guess she can’t handle truth.” he laughs like it’s a joke. “fucking bitch slapped my–”

“don’t call her a bitch.”

“oh? what’s this? defending the bitch now?”

momo moves her lower jaw in an attempt to suppress her anger. “fuck you, seriously. you’re an ass you know?”

“you’re an even bigger one for being the reason y/n wouldn’t fuck.”

she can’t believe what she’s hearing. you were right, you were so right. all he is is a lust-driven prick who’s the reason some of your hangouts with her have been you complaining about him. he’s never really loved you, not at all. 

momo wonders how someone who’s dad had been able to treat her mother right, could love her wonderfully and provide so well, could have a son like this. the sight of thomas after hearing what he’s said – especially about you, calling you a bitch and all – makes her sick to the stomach. it’s difficult to hold back from punching him in the face and kicking him where he’d suffer the most.

he perks his head up. “oh, forgot to mention: picking up your brothers ex-girlfriend after they’ve broken up isn’t the best look.”

“i don’t care what you tell your fucking dad, he actually has morals and a heart. you’re a snob.”

“you’re a desperate little bitch, i knew something was going on between you as soon as she had hung out with you the first time. y/n is a fucking homosexual because of you.”

“or maybe it’s because your tiny ass dick can’t satisfy her, or the fact that you’ve never treated her well, you selfish fucking– ugh.” momo stops right there because it’s no use wasting all her anger on thomas, he’s just a guy after all.

“well, you’re a fucking whore. if anything happens with you two after, i wouldn’t be surprised. all you are is desperate and jealous, getting with her would prove that.”

she watches him poke his tongue at his cheek, then leaves the room, annoyed and frustrated.

momo considers texting or leaving a call, but decides to drop it, afraid of saying something she shouldn’t say or making things worse due to her emotional state. 

–

the two of you see each other two days later because momo’s conflicted, wanting you to take time for yourself, and you are simply someone who’s longing for a person you’ve recently realized you’re in love with.

the whole time away from her is grueling even though she had texted you.

when both of you meet for lunch you fight the urge to hug and kiss her. 

she looks wonderful walking into the small sit-down restaurant, a tank top – your weakness when it’s on momo – and sweats on. she’s stunning, especially those lips of hers that you can’t stop staring at because you’ve had the privilege and lucky chance to kiss them.

momo on the other hand fights back the urge to kiss you too, because after her anger had fizzled out, that had been the only thing on her mind prior to seeing you at the table for two.

“hi.” momo greets.

you force a smile. “hey.”

she sits down in front of you, then looks at the menu in front of her. “is everything okay?”

“it’s alright.” you say, only alright because one: your ex boyfriend is a fucking bitch and two: momo hasn’t been there when you needed

sure, it was relatively very strange to move on so quickly from your whole thomas situation, but it’s justified because hell, you’ve basically been dating momo simultaneously without realizing you had been in love. 

and now that you’re aware, so aware that it keeps you up at night, you’re hoping for something to happen.

“have you talked to thomas?”

“i’d rather not. he’s not worth my time.”

she looks up at you again through her eyelashes. “you’re right.”

“momo,” she flips through the menu and you focus on each movement. “i really want to kiss you again.”

“y/n, you just broke up with your boyfriend.”

“if this is because of me dumping thomas then throw it out the window.” you respond sternly, almost mad and it catches momo off guard. she looks at you with surprise, stopping her little act of trying to act uninterested. 

she can’t give in; it would only prove thomas right. yet, what you feel is genuine, and what momo feels isn’t born of desperation. the time she’s spent with you has nurtured her admiration and her growing affection for you. momo cares deeply about you, and her feelings are sincere, not driven by a sense of urgency or lust like your ex-boyfriend. she can’t recall the last time she enjoyed someone’s company so much or wanted to be with them constantly. from the start, she sensed something different about you—how you made her ponder at night, made her blush, made her fall head over heels for you.

you continue, “because kissing you was the best thing to happen to be, even after everything that happened – and that says a lot. momo, i’ve liked you for probably so long and i’m a dumbass for realizing it just now, so please, please just consider it.”

“y/n, i’ve thought about it ever since.” her response earns the raise of your brows. “i’ve dreamed about doing that since our first encounter, and i wish it were in a better situation, so let’s just… take it slow from here.”

taking it slow is a much better option than anything that involves cutting her off, so you smile and nod.

–

the rest of the day is spent with her, both your uncovered feelings allowing you to fully bask in each others presence without anymore concealing. it feels right, talking to momo about everything you’ve felt recently and simply being around her.

and then you both find yourselves glancing too long at each others lips but not commenting on it, despite the easy going time spent together, there’s a thick tension hanging in the air.

the tension is even worse when momo drives you back to your apartment complex, and even heavier when you two step into the elevator.

momo is not a woman of her word. she wanted to be the bigger person by “taking things slow,” but she can’t fight back the urge when you’re alone together, your features drawing her in.

“oh fuck this,” momo groans, pulling you by the wrist and turning you to face her. you look more beautiful than anyone she’s ever seen, your lips are calling her name.

before you know it, momo’s planting her lips on yours and you melt right into it.

“what–” you gasp when you pull away, “happened to taking it slow.”

“fuck that, i can’t if it’s you.”

that’s how you find yourselves stumbling out of the elevator into the empty halls, eager to savor each other’s presence after the arduous forty-eight hours apart. you manage to make your way to your apartment door, fumbling with the key as momo kisses the edge of your jaw, both of you entering messily, unable to keep your hands off each other like horny teenagers in the janitor's closet in highschool.

every kiss that followed felt like cool raindrops during the burning summer day. it’s electrifying, all of it, really.

you’ve never felt this satisfied. nothing really processes other than the pounding pulse from in between your legs, and momo’s lips bruising your own as she pins you against the door after it’s closed. crazy with want, you let her do anyhitng, let her kiss you anywhere. 

she’s in control when your tongues find their way back to each other, fingers bruning as they tighten against your skin, squeezing on it just above your hip bone. she kisses like you’re going to leave her grasp any minute, holding you close and pressing herself against you.

she starts to trail down to your neck in a way that thomas has never done before. she’s not attacking your skin like a desprate, thirsty dog, but like someone who knows what they’re doing. she definitely knows what she’s doing, the way she earns all these gasps and whines proves it.

“wait,” you gasp, then she pulls away, only to watch you hurriedly taking off your top. “continue.”

she chuckles before leaving opened mouth kisses against you, simultaneously moving you two to the couch. 

her fingers render you weak, like putty in her hands while you desperately grip at her hair. she moves you over and sets you down on the couch, gazing as she towers over you.

“you’re so fucking gorgeous,” momo slides her hand down the side of your torso. “you know that?”

“stop, you’re so– fuck you.” 

momo giggles before kissing you again, then retreats from your lips. your arms are around her neck, playing with strands of her hair before she asks,

“you’re okay with this, right?”

you giggle against her lips before pecking her again. “momo, i don’t think anyone has made me this weak – espseically thomas – i’m so wet it’s almost embarassing.”

“oh yeah?” she says teasingly. 

“just  shut the fuck up and fuck me already.” you rush out. 

momo grins against your lips as she kisses you again, and then you feel her hand trail down to your sweatpants. you gasp loudly when she slips her hand inside, pressing against your panties, and you break away from her lips in surprise. 

“you are very wet.”

“thanks,” she presses harder which earns a twitch and a gasp, “s-smartass.” 

her fingers slide your panties to the side of your folds, giving her access to slide up and down with ease. you can’t help but whine lowly at the feeling, biting your lip to conceal your excitement.

she inserts two fingers in, making your head shoot back into the cushion of the couch. you curse when she thrusts in, your walls pulsiate around her, clenching. 

“fuck,” she bites her lip. “you feel so good.”

you gulp roughly. “you– shit momo, keep that going.”

you gasp audibly the more she fingers you, the repetition of her name making her smile against you as she kisses your skin. she’s blazing against you, your bodies so hot against each other despite the clothes in the way. you grip her hair, close your eyes, and shift your hips up the more she pleases you. your back arches, momo keeps you situated in place with her free hand, then slides it over to palm your clad chest.

“m-momo, fuucckk–” 

momo feels you grip her shoulder tightly and watches you throw your head back. your legs close around her when her palm hits the nub above your folds again, and then she moves her palm in a circle over your clit aggresively, earning one last cry from you before your mind goes blank.

you let your head rest back for a while more as you catch your breath. you feel momo massage your thigh as you come down from your high. momo presses more kisses on your neck, letting her hand trail up your body and reach your head, raking her fingers through your hair. 

she pecks your jaw. “how was that?”

“holy shit,” you sigh, bringing your head back up to look at her. momo’s pupils are dilated beyond oblivion, and her flushed skin prompts you to bring a hand to caress her cheek. she looks adorable, even after she’s made your legs shake. “so good.”

she laughs and it’s like angels singing from above. you might melt.

“let’s clean up together, if you’re cool with that.”

you blink. “like, shower together?”

“yeah – unless that’s too forward!” she catches herself. “sorry, maybe too forward, i just want to make sure you’re okay and–”

momo is cut of when you kiss her, and then you pull back. she feels your thumb graze her cheek. 

“it’s perfectly fine momo.”

“okay, and then maybe if you want we can get food or something,” she begins, brushing her fingers against the skin of your shoulder. she moves over to play with your hair and looks at your lips. “or if you’re too tired then we can just sleep.”  

you pull her in for another kiss, that’s all you can really answer with for now. she reciprocates, following the slower tempo of your lips. 

you part from her. “i think i just want to kiss you more for now,” then you catch yourself. “wait, i haven’t even done anything to you yet, oh my god–”

“no, no. i’m already pleased enough hearing you say my name so much.” she assures teasingly. momo presses a kiss to your nose before mumbling, “let’s go with what you want.”

“you’re so lovely.”

“thanks y/n.” 

a hand finds it’s way to just below momo’s jaw on her neck, and momo’s hand slides down to the skin on your rib.

you smile, momo smiles.

you kiss her, she kisses back.

–

a groan leaves your mouth when you wake up. you feel someone clinging onto you and look down to see a face that brings a lazy smile to your lips.

momo’s head is on your shoulder, features pointing to the base of your neck. her breath is warm against you, and so is her body, and so is your heart. 

you rake a hand through her hair and she starts to shuffle against you. 

“y/n?”

“oh, momo, sorry to wake you.”

“no, i kind of woke up earlier.”

“are you lying?”

“no, not at all.”

she lifts her head up and you meet the messy hair framing her face, puffy cheeks, and partially squitned eyes. she’s adorable, you note, just naturally so. 

your bodies are naked, flushing against each other under the sheets because momo got needy and wanted to hear you screaming her name again. of course you didn’t complain, because if anything, you wanted it too. 

momo’s attentive to everything she does, and you find out that she’s like that with what she does to you. with every motion, touch, and anything intimate, she’s making sure you’re into it, making sure you’re left gasping and whining under her. she’s aroused from you feeling good, that’s all it takes for her to be wet herself.

her eyes meet the skin above your chest. “that hickey is pretty dark.”

“and who is responsible for that?”

momo rolls her eyes. “let me give you some more.”

you’re not arguing against that.

it’s ten in the morning, both of you had just woken up and momo is slipping under the blanket. her head makes its way in between your legs and the thrill of not knowing what she’s doing under the blanket makes you blush. and then you feel a hand on your upper leg, her fingers ticklish adn making you giggle. 

you let out a loose groan when momo licks up your entrance, the grip on your legs grows tighter. momo’s tongue moves inside you, then tends to your clit; her tongue moves in ways that has your voice ringing out, reverberating in the room.

and when you cum, so wonderfully when it’s momo who’s making you do so, you shake and arch even as momo keeps going. she slows her tempo down before kissing the inside of your thighs, seconds later she peeks out the covers and you can’t help but laugh at the way she emerges.

“we’ve just woken up and you’re already wet.”

you scoff playfully, ruffling momo’s hair. “again, who’s fault is that.”

“mine but,” she hovers over you before kissing your lips. “you like it.”

she sits up now, straddling you in a way. “now let’s get breakfast, eating you out is great but my stomach might yell soon.”

you laugh at her. “you’re like a vacuum.”

“well who else is going to finish your food, y/n. be grateful. besides, you like that too.”

–

you like momo a lot, that’s for sure.

you like the way she asks how you are, how she listens to you, and how she’s given you aftercare for the first time since the first time you fucked thomas.

momo’s like a breath of fresh air. it feels different being with her, like a wild animal feeling tenderness and care for the first time – different, calm, and nice. the more you spend time with her after this, going on more dates and rambling your tongues off until you’re both tangled up and passed ou ton the couch; you can’t help but realize that she’s who your time belongs to.

she’s nothing like thomas, light years away from being any similar to him. it’s satisfying watching him watch the two of you bond like you should, his presence reminds you that momo’s the upgrade you need, and he can’t do anything about the fact that he’ll never compare to his step-sister.

—

–

it’s a few months later after your first encounter with momo – almost two months after you slept with her – the two of you walk with your arms linked through the same park near your place.

she orders you coffee and you fish out pastries from your bag to share. she leads you to the same place that she had brought you to when you had first met, sitting the two of you down in front of the same tree.

momo pulls out her sketchbook, you lean on her when she unlinks arms.

“y/n,”

you peer at her curiously. “yes?”

“remember when i was talking about that design when we first met? the little seating area around that tree right there.” she points over at the little area where the tree stands. “it was for an assignment, but i tweaked some of the model and idea, looked over at some materials and–”

“what are you getting at?”

momo’s smiling big, so big that all her teeth show and her eyes almost close. 

“they’re going to add it.”

“what?”

“it’s happening, we talked to the park management and they really like my idea.”

your eyes widen and jaw slacks open. momo laughs as you hug her pulling away and then kissing her on the lips proudly.

“oh my god? oh my god. momo! i’m so proud, oh my gosh…”

she giggles before kissing you again. “thank you baby. i actually wanted to thank you.”

“what?”

“if it weren’t for you who listened to all my stupid rambling and listened so well, i don’t know if this would’ve happened.” momo begins, looking down at the paper and pen in her hands. then she looks at you with those big eyes of her, softening upon meeting your features. “and i know so much has happened and you’ve always been so great and–” 

she pauses, inhaling deeply.

“i just love you so much.”

she’s sitting there, looking at you with so much emotion, and you feel like a star in the sky has just been picked out and placed right in front of you. 

“momo, i love you too.”

if the world fell apart right this moment, you’d cling onto momo like your life depending on it. your hands find their way to her cheeks, you hold her face in your hands like she’d crumble if you let go – then, you kiss her, soft and sweet.

she moves her hand out of the way and you gasp. 

her cup of coffee tips over and leaks over, creating a palm sized stain on your coat. you watch as momo’s face contorts into one of panic, and then she picks up the cup, moving you away from the spill. you can’t help but laugh; you’re laughing at how she reacts to the situation, but also how perfect it is considering how your first time spent together – alone – had happened.

“i’m so sorry.” stars litter her eyes when she says it, you simply pull her in by the collar and kiss her again.

“you’re perfect.”

[little-diable]

Miss Possessive - Tommy Shelby (smut)

Requested by @zablife for my Deadly Sins challenge. I loved writing this! Please like and reblog it you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: The reader hates watching her husband make eyes at his new barmaid, but the envy she feels only spurs her on to remind Tommy of the bond they share as a married couple

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, jealousy/envy, possessive reader, she's a bit of a freak I won't lie

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x fem!reader (1.2k words)

She had her eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, body wrapped in a dress he’d have instantly recognised had he been focused on her. It was the dress he had bought for her years ago, shortly after their wedding. But by now she was torn between loving the dress and hating it almost enough to burn it, all because of his wandering eyes and distracted mind.

It was sad almost, how she stood there, hidden from his eyes as he kept speaking to the blonde barmaid (y/n) had instantly disliked ever since she had started working for Tommy. Something glimmered in her eyes, something (y/n) was all too familiar with, reminding her of the way she had looked at Tommy when she had met him first.

Back then he had been nothing but a shy boy, already painted by the hard years he had been forced through, but by now he had nothing on the boy he had been back then. Now he was ruthless, selfish sometimes, and hungry for more - more his wife couldn’t seem to offer to him, no matter how hard she tried. 

(Y/n) had to stop herself from calling out to the two of them as Grace took a step closer to Tommy, hand pressed against his chest. He was hers, would always be, that much (y/n) would make sure of, and yet she couldn’t swallow the bitter taste of envy lingering on her tongue. 

Grace had tried to befriend her, had tried to put on a sweet smile whenever Tommy Shelby’s wife was close, acting like they were friends, but they were everything but. They were the opposite, seated on different ends of the table Tommy had both invited to, oblivious to the glances both women shared whenever they were close. 

She would make sure that he’d never leave her side, no matter how hard Grace tried to lure his attention away from his wife. 

…

“It’s funny, you know.” (Y/n) spoke the words as she undressed, eyes set on his features. Tommy was leaning against the headboard of their bed, smoking a cigarette while only letting go of a hum. “Stars seem to blink in her eyes whenever she looks at you. As if you created the universe she lives in.” 

“Who are you talking about?” His raspy question forced a humourless chuckle out of (y/n). She stepped out of her dress, body bare for his wandering eyes, before she spoke up again.

“That barmaid of yours, Grace. It seems as if she can’t leave you alone, no matter how many times we meet.” She clicked her tongue while slowly walking towards her husband, spurred on by the envy simmering deep inside of her. It was a disgusting feeling, something so strong, (y/n) couldn’t help but curse herself for loving her husband this much.

“Don’t be ridiculous, she knows I’m a married man.” He put his cigarette down as (y/n) found her spot in his lap, naked thighs pressed against his. It was as if their bodies were having a different conversation, pulled closer by his wandering hands and her determined gaze. “Don’t be jealous, love, I’m here with you, eh?”

“I’m not jealous, Thomas. I’m not a naive little girl.” No, the envy she tasted on her tongue cut by far deeper than jealousy ever could. It was more intense, more hurting, something so sharp, she feared it would cut her deep inside to leave her bleeding out. 

“Then don’t act like one, it doesn’t suit you.” His words were left hanging between them as she fisted his cock, hardening in her grasp. Her tongue kissed her teeth while she stroked him, softly at first to communicate the power she held over him, no matter where, no matter when, she’d always win the upper hand. 

“Then I want you to fuck me like I deserve to be fucked, fuck me like a husband who only has eyes for his wife would.” Tommy didn’t need to hear more, he pushed her hands away to bury her beneath him. His hand found its place between her thighs, called closer as if her body was a siren he couldn’t say no to. Carefully he circled her pulsing bundle, feeling her tremble beneath him as he studied her naked frame. 

“I don’t need to prove anything to you, I married you, that should be proof enough.” He dipped his head down to suck on her nipples, shifting between them to draw moans from her. “But for tonight I’ll humour us both.”

His hand let go of her to grab his cock. She watched him spit into his hand to lube himself up before pushing into her. Both moaned at the sudden intrusion, silently wondering when he had fucked her last. It had been too long since their bodies had been connected like that, forced together by an indescribable intimacy they couldn’t share when he came home at the time her day normally started. 

“Do you feel that? Do you feel how your husband fucks you just right, eh?” (Y/n) only moaned against his lips, pulling him in for a kiss as her legs found their way around his waist. She pulled him in deeper, walls fluttering around his cock at every ferocious thrust. 

His name rolled off her tongue, filling the sticky air between them like a cold breeze momentarily shaking them out of their trance. Perhaps he was right, perhaps he did remember his promise to her, how he was supposed to love her, only her. But deep down she knew that his words could only be trusted whenever he gained something from this very promise. Perhaps it was on her to remind him who he got married to after all, a woman who knew no boundaries when it came to claiming her man. 

Tommy pulled out of her for a second, hands finding her waist to flip her around. She was pressed against the mattress, face buried in the pillow which smelled like him as he pushed into her again. His pace was ruthless, his touch was bruising, and his words were sharp, but not sharp enough to pull her away from the mission she had yet to complete.

“Fuck, Tommy, make me cum.” He only hummed, arm finding its way around her waist to find her pulsing bundle once more. It only took a few more touches to push her over the edge, making her moan his name even louder this time around. Tommy kept fucking into her from behind, high on her closeness and the way she let him use her. 

He came with a deep groan, body falling against hers while he stayed buried inside of her. For a second, neither of them spoke, sharing nothing but deep breaths to try and calm their racing thoughts, only finding the strength of their voices again when he pulled out of her. 

“You’re mine, and I won’t keep on watching her trying to throw herself at you, Thomas. If you don’t put an end to this, I will. And I promise you, I won’t be the one wiping her blood off the floor once I’m done with her.”

[thewolffairytaler]

Hi🌹✨

I hope it's not too inappropriate but may I request a pregnant reader x Thomas Hewitt? Like fluff, how he'd be overprotective, obsessed💐❤️

Thank you🌸🪻

One devoted husband | Obsessed Thomas Hewitt x pregnant reader

_____________________________

Summary: It ain’t easy living in Texas, but it isn't easier to survive with the Hewitt family. However, Thomas does remind her of why she even obliged to stay with him. He makes it nice. He can't always protect her from his own family and their viewpoints, but he does make it better. Even when they are times where she questions if he would ever turn on her too.

The promise of a July rain and the aroma of wildflowers filled the hot Texas air. Thomas moved with surprising gentleness, adjusting the thin blanket around his partner, his face motionless and unreadable beneath the hideous mask of stitched-together skin. Beneath the fading flowered frock, her bulging belly from their child had a soft curvature that contrasted sharply with the hardness of their surroundings.

In the harsh terrain of his life, her presence had created a tenuous haven. The world had been a clamour of hunger and need before she arrived, a never-ending battle for existence. With Y/n, his life now had meaning that was interwoven with everything else. She may not have initially been drawn to him out of full commitments, but rather by her own compass of survival and a whispered sense of pity in the mute, scarred guy. At this shift in him, the other men in his family complained, their eyes narrowed in mistrust, but Thomas ignored them. He was hers and Y/n was his. For her, he was an oddity made of damaged mind and muscle, a beast against the world.

He watched her now, her hands gently stroking the growing swell of their child, her eyes the soft colour of a weathered palette. She was radiant, even with the dust that clung to her skin and the worry that sometimes flickered across her face. He reached out a hand, calloused and scarred, and hesitantly touched her arm, his hum deepening into something akin to a rumble of contentment. She turned to him, a small smile gracing her lips, and he felt something within him loosen, a tension he hadn't even realised he held. Y/n knew him, understood the chaotic storm raging beneath the leather mask. She saw the silent tenderness, the longing for something gentle, something good.

Carefully guiding her through the house's tight threshold, he brought her inside. His senses were overwhelmed with the familiar smells of old wood, grease, and dried blood, yet even these smells seemed subdued today, somehow mellowed by the strawberry-sweet perfume that Y/n always wore. He had observed her meticulously caring for the little patch of berries and wildflowers she had planted close to the porch. little bursts of colour in the otherwise subdued, dusty environment. It demonstrated her tenacity and the obstinate optimism that blossomed amid the violence and mayhem she encountered upon her arrival. He led her to the old, woven armchair, its stuffing spilling out in places, and carefully helped her settle in. He retrieved a worn blanket, another of Y/n's small comforts, and tucked it around her with painstaking care.

His hum became to a steady, gentle throb of devotion as he continued to stare at her. She captivated him with the soft curve of her belly and the miracle that blossomed beneath her skin. In a manner that words could not express, he realised that he was now inseparable from her and the child she was carrying. With all his might and resources, he would defend them, even if it meant facing Hoyt's wrath.

His typical lumbering pace was a sharp contrast to his precise, almost delicate, movements as he made his way to the kitchen. He poured her a glass of milk, being especially cautious not to spill any. A tablespoon of honey, a rare treat he had discovered tucked away in the ancient pantry, was added. With his gaze fixed on her face, he brought it to her and watched as she took tiny, delicate sips, her cheeks turning a gentle shade of pink.

He crouched beside her chair, resting his large hand on her knee, feeling the gentle warmth of her skin. He pressed his cheek to her leg, nuzzling against her in a way that was almost kittenish. Y/n’s hand came to rest on the back of his head, her fingers gently combing through the short, rough hair beneath the leather. She leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his mask, her lips lingering for a moment. It was a silent communication, a declaration of a love that somehow defied logic and expectation, a tenderness that bloomed in the shadows of their harsh reality.

This frail woman and the baby developing inside her were his entire universe. Yes, he was obsessed since their welfare had become the centre of his universe. Within the walls of their dilapidated, dusty house, he would hunt, guard, and create a safe haven. If only for her, he would learn how to be a partner and to treat the delicate miracle of life with the same tenderness and care that he had grown to love her. He had no desire to subject children to the suffering of his world. He would be their silent, loyal guardian, keeping them secure and loved. With complete devotion, he would offer them everything he had, which at the time was everything of himself. The dust motes swirling in the air were illuminated by the Texas sunlight streaming through the dirty window, and for a brief moment, there was calm in the little, peaceful area of the earth they had made. And in that tranquilly, a silent vow between a silent man and his expectant wife blossomed, a love as wild and fierce as the land around them.

[taeaura]

I've been thinking about this for a while because I haven't actually seen or read any Thomas Hewitt x reader fanfic where the main character is a meek/shy individual with an emotional nature. By that, I mean somebody who is timid, not self-assured, soft-spoken, gentle, pacifistic, and often afraid to speak up for himself/herself. Not to mention that if being mocked or bullied, will start to tear up a bit and become more secluded.

Every time I read about Y/n, they are always this Mary Sue like temple who still ends up with odd or disrespectful issues. Like there's too many of them. Get rid of them! Bring me something new! Because I have no idea what the Hewitt's would do with that sort of person. Especially if it was a female instead of a male. What would Thomas and the family do with such a person? In theory, it seems obvious, but I genuinely don't know.

Hi again! I broke this up into headcanons as well as a little one shot - Hope that's okay!

Below are other posts dealing with similar topics if you'd like to view those additionally:

Soft-spoken s/o | mauswyx

Slashers x Socially Anxious! Reader | tac-the-unseen

Thomas Hewitt x Meek/Emotional Reader

This GIF felt fitting idk why god I wish that was me

_____

Thomas is a shy individual himself - Knowing this, I doubt he'd have an issue with any aspect of your nature. He'd actually be more protective of you than of someone who's much more..vocal about their displeasure.

Thomas doesn't mind the timidness, he's fully willing to be the 'strong' one in the relationship..he's kinda been forced into the roll within his family.

Charlie will tease you. A lot. He knows what gets on your nerves, how to pry under your skin - What makes you tick, cry, and breakdown; It's a favorite pastime of his, that is, when you're still a 'guest' captive.

He'll bring up traumatizing moments, taunting you with the possibility of 'ending up like the rest.' Hoyt pulls strings not even you knew were there:

"One word, and you'll end up splattered 'cross this damn wall."

{If you're fem-presenting} "Momma only likes you 'cause you're a girl, Once she see's how much of a harlot you are, she'll throw you right on out."

Once he's gotten used to you {or you've proved your 'worth'}, he'll switch things up a bit:

"Y'know, Tommy's got a real sensitive heart..you break it, s'not gone end well for any of us."

{Talking to a family member} "They're not too bad, huh? Small, quiet, always does as they're told, not too much of a hassle, now, are they?"

--

Thomas won't necessarily stand up for you, but he'll comfort you almost immediately

If you're ever in a particular mood, Thomas is pretty respectful of boundaries. If you need to be left alone, he's just fine with that. He might leave you a note and slide it under your door - Just a quick little "I love you" or something similar.

If you prefer direct comfort, he's fully willing to let you cry it out , or vent to him. He won't be able to respond much, but know he's processing it all. Depending on how comfortable the two of you are, he's willing to hold you/your hand, some pats on the back and such.

Any comfort you show him, he'll show back. For example; If you gently wipe/caress his face down after {or when} he cries, he'll do the same for you. Ask for what you want, and he'll do just that..most of the time 🫀

--

Thomas isn't a huge fan of confrontation - Anything confrontational outside of 'work', really. He knows his 'place' in the family, and isn't willing to push it {aka, argue with his family}. He won't argue for you, or get any family members to stop their pestering, but he will kill for you. Anytime a victim gets too close, he's got something sharp in his hands.

If they hurt you {or anyone in the family, really}, whether it be emotionally or physically, prepare for the goriest, most blood-caked basement you've ever encountered. He needs to take his anger out, and believe me, he will - Even with your pacifistic pleas.

--

Outside of his protective nature, your pacifistic and emotional nature tends to rub off on Thomas. He knows what he's doing, and how important it is to the family - But he gets moments of doubt at times, which are amplified around you.

Those people had lives..families just like his.

Meat.

Meat is all they are.

Don't fail the family, Thomas. They're {you} disposable, family isn't.

_____

Everyone was overwhelmed with the new..'livestock' that came in this afternoon. Although a small group, they fought hard. Hoyt had gotten his nose punched in just thirty minutes prior - It was all crooked and overflowed with blood dripping down his cupid's bow. Momma had gotten it taken care of - Thomas had helped 'realign' his nose best he could, whilst momma helped pack the bleeding. Hoyt would sure swell up and bruise within the next few days..if he hasn't already..

Instead of trying to rest, he bombarded you with insults - "What the fuck is wrong with you?! You didn't think to tell us one of them got out?" - "How fucking useless are you?!" He was really mad at you for that one..

Just like last time, you cried. Frantic, raw, disheveled cries. You fucked up...badly. The thought plagued you terribly, it ate away every ounce of assurance you had. I'm sorry..I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..it rung through your mind, but your body was paralyzed as it knelt on the carpet; You wouldn't be speaking for quite some time..

It wouldn't matter anyway - Hoyt wasn't the type to hear it. You put the family in danger, that's all that mattered. It didn't matter if you were "sorry" or not - You threatened the Family. Who the hell do you think you are? After all we've given you? Food, shelter, safety, a place of purpose?

Ungrateful. That's what you are. A selfish, clumsy, inconsiderate ingrate.

You were shaking - Desperate to apologize, make it up to them. Your hands covered your face, leaving only small opening to peer through. The room was lit only by a small, vintage lamp in the corner, though that light suddenly blurred within darkness -

You felt your hands being pried from your face, though gently. It was Thomas - Wasn't much of a surprise, he was always the one to ground you.

He held eye contact with you as he lightly dusted away your tears with the backside of his index finger. He held your shaking hands tenderly, placing them at your knees. As he let go of your hands, he slowly raised his {hands} back to your face, tilting his head slightly as if to ask for permission -You continued to sniffle and gasp, providing a small, shaky nod in affirmation. Thomas benevolently grasped your cheeks, wiping tears as he did. You and Thomas had developed this wordless affirmation - a way to ground each other in times of need; He placed his forehead to yours. You often joked that you two 'looked like bugs' from the unconventional angle, and he'd chuckled best he could. He loved you. Truly, loved you.

The room was unusually silent - You looked beside you to see Luda Mae and Hoyt gone, only Uncle Monty facing the window as he read the news. Momma must've dragged Hoyt out...thankfully. You finally looked back at him, he really did look like a bug from this angle.., but he was the sweetest man. He left you a note earlier this morning, right after Charlie had yelled at you the night before:

Nothing's gonna hurt you, baby - I love you.

-Thomas

_____

I hope this isn't too bad - Love you guys thank you so much for the request 🫀

[mssorceressupreme]

Hi! I absolutely adore your writing (also going through a maze runner hyper fixation🤭).

Would you be able to do a fic where reader was thought to have died when they originally escaped the maze but reader got out with Gally. Then Minho and reader reunite when they see Gally again (if this makes any sense).

Thank you!! 🫶🏻

hiii aw thank you love that means a lot 💓💓 omg yesss this is such a lovely prompt!! I love reunions lol especially when one s/o was thought to be dead 😝

——

Into Your Arms

Pairing: Minho x Reader

Summary: the gladers thought you were dead (you were shot instead of chuck), but what happens when you’re reunited at last. Your bond with Minho proves unbreakable as you face the future together.

Warnings: mild violence, mentions of bullet scars

——

You sat in the dimly lit room of your shared safe house in the Last City, your fingers tracing an old scar on your stomach.

It was a constant reminder of the day you had narrowly escaped death, a brutal memento left by a bullet from Gally, who wasn’t in the best state of mind a year back.

The pain of that moment, both physical and emotional, had nearly broken you. Yet, here you were, alive and determined, haunted by thoughts of your friends from the glade. Every night, you wondered if they had survived, if they were out there somewhere, fighting the same fight. If Minho was doing alright.

The last memory you had of your boyfriend was him shedding tears as he cradled you in his arms, before you passed out from the loss of blood. That was when they presumed you were dead. Everything after that was a blur, well, until Lawrence and his crew rescued you and Gally.

A knock on the door broke your reverie. Gally stepped in, his expression serious but tinged with something else—hope. “We spotted something, or rather, some people, and we’re bringing them in soon. You might want to be there when we arrive back.” What did he mean by that?

Though Gally was the person who gave you that scar, you forgave him for it. The both of you looked past that and decided to start fresh when Lawrence brought the two of you to his army. Gally even became a brother figure to you, constantly on the lookout to keep you safe.

Moments later, they returned.

Your heart pounded as you waited for their vans to reveal the mystery guests inside.

No shucking way.

The sight that greeted you made you gasp. As soon as the doors slid open, familiar faces emerged. Your gladers. Thomas, Newt, Frypan—they were all here. Relief and joy surged through you, but a sharp pang of anxiety struck you when you didn’t see Minho.

You stood there blending in with the crowd, not knowing what to say or do.

“Hey Greenie.” Gally greeted Thomas, to which he replied by striking Gally’s jaw. Gasps were heard and our soldiers cocked their guns, aiming at Thomas.

“Woah woah woah—stop, stop!” Newt rushed to the front, preventing Thomas from striking Gally once more.

“He killed Y/N…” Thomas spat, “do you have any idea what that did to Minho!”

“I know, I remember. I was there…but I also remember that he was stung and out of his mind.” Newt defended Gally, hoping to calm Thomas down before a fight escalated.

“I’m actually right here...” You said aloud, pushing past the crowd and making your way to the front. You slowly helped Gally up and stood face-to-face with your fellow gladers.

“Y/N??” They gasped in unison. Thomas and Newt rushed to hug you, Fry followed not long after.

“It’s so good to see you again.” Thomas softly said, squeezing you, “He would be elated to know.” You immediately knew who he was referring to. But where was he?

“H-how?! How is this possible? We watched you die. Both of you.” Newt questioned, glancing from Gally to you.

“No, you left us to die.” Gally retorted, “We were lucky Lawrence found us when he did, if not Y/N wouldn’t have made it.”

“What’re you guys doing here anyway?” You inquired, “and where’s—” Before you even finished your question, Newt read your mind.

“Minho. WCKD has him here, we’re looking for a way in.”

Your heart sank, he was here the whole time and you didn’t know?! “Let’s get him then! Gally?”

Gally nodded, “I can help with that. Follow me.”

——

The hours that followed were a blur of planning and preparation. You donned WCKD soldier suits, your faces hidden behind masks. Each step you guys took inside the compound was a step closer to Minho, but also a step deeper into danger.

The tension was thick enough to cut through it with a knife, every sound amplified, every shadow a potential threat.

As you fought your way through the facility, the adrenaline was mixed with fear. You were fighting to save someone you thought you’d lost forever.

“We’ll wait here.” Gally and you waited outside a tall modern building, WCKD’s headquarters, squatting behind a large pillar.

“Are you sure they’re doing alright inside? Shouldn’t we go in to help them?” I demanded, “I need to know that Minho and the others are safe.”

“Trust me, they’ll find a way out of that building.” As though Gally had predicted the future, a glass window on one of the higher floors smashed, and out jumped three figures.

“That’s our cue!” Gally hastened, both of you got in position and followed the other “WCKD soldiers” as they approached the trio.

“Freeze! Put your hands in the air!” One of them commanded pointing guns at your boys, “Uh uh uh!” He continued, when Thomas reached for the gun in his leg strap.

Gally and you acted quickly, shooting them, one by one the soldiers passed out.

The trio stood there dumbfounded, and finally sighed with relief when Gally revealed his mask first.

“Gally?” Minho’s jaw dropped.

“Minho.”

You followed, revealing yourself next.

Minho froze, eyeing you up and down. He shook his head, tears welled up in his eyes, “Y/N?….”

You nodded, wasting no time running up to him and embracing him. “Minho!” You breathed, your eyes filling with tears, body trembling with relief and emotion.

He held you tightly, his breath ragged in your ear, “You’re alive…?!?” He whispered, disbelief and relief mingling in his voice, “All this time…baby, I thought you were dead.“

You pulled back slightly, tears streaming down your face, and punched him playfully on the shoulder, “You were here all this time, and I didn’t know?”

Minho’s eyes were wide with emotion, his voice cracking. “I thought I lost you forever when you got shot in the glade…by him,” He glared at Gally but couldn’t find a reason to be angry now that you were alive, “I mourned you every day.”

Your heart broke at the raw pain in his voice. You reached up, cupping his face in your hands. “I’m here now, Minho. I’m here.”

He hugged you again, tighter this time, as if afraid you might disappear. “Gally took me under his wing,” you explained softly, feeling Minho tense at the mention of Gally.

Minho’s eyes flickered over to Gally, anger flaring briefly, “You shot her,” he said, his voice hard.

Gally raised his hands defensively, “I was stung and truly didn’t mean to—”

“Thank you.” Minho’s responsed baffled Gally, he was sincere, “Thank you for taking care of her.” Once Minho saw that you were safe and well, forgiving Gally was easier.

Minho’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had flared. He sighed, his shoulders relaxing, “I’m just glad you’re okay.” He said, looking back at you, “that’s all that matters now.”

——

Timeskip to Safe Haven (and Newt survives cause I want him too 😩):

After the festivities of celebrating your first day at the safe haven, Minho guided you to a quiet corner, his eyes never leaving you while the others continued socialising.

“Let me see your wound,” he said gently.

You lifted your shirt slightly, revealing an old scar. Minho’s fingers traced the mark, his eyes filled with sorrow. “I never should’ve left you at the glade,” he whispered, “I should’ve protected you then.”

“You couldn’t have known,” you replied, placing your hand over his, “none of us could have known what would happen.”

He looked up at you, his eyes wet with unshed tears, “When I thought I lost you, I didn’t know how to go on.”

“You don’t have to anymore,” you gently replied, “We’re together now. We’ll face whatever comes next, together.”

He pulled you into his arms, and you rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. For the first time in what felt like eternity, you felt a sense of peace. The nightmares of your separation were over, and you had been given a second chance.

As the night wore on, you talked with Minho, your words a balm for your wounded souls. The two of you shared everything—what you had endured, the fears you faced, and the hope that had kept you going. Each word, each touch, strengthened the bond between you.

The sun began to disappear into the horizon of the sea tinting the sky a beautiful shade of orange, purple and pink.

That was when Minho finally spoke the words you had longed to hear. “I love you,” he said, voice raw with emotion. “I never stopped.”

“I love you too,” you replied, your heart swelling with joy. “I always have.”

You held each other close, the horrors of the past fading in the light of your reunion. You had found each other again, and together, you were ready to face whatever the future held.

[smolvenger]

The Baronet Seeks A Wife, Chapter Two

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: 6441 (have your tea and biscuits ready)

Chapter warnings: Grammer and spelling mistakes that missed my radar. Hints of past child abuse and a brief mention of sex, but nothing explicitly discussed, my performing arts side rears its head. I do my best to portray the period as accurately as I can and Thomas as accurately as I can. Some angst and something of a small anxiety attack/meltdown if you can call it. But fluff! Lots of fluff!

If I miss something and you see something in my work that could be triggering that I didn't mention, then it is your responsibility to please please please tell me. I will take full accountability for how I portray marginalized groups and sensitive subject matter and make sure to better my writing and warnings so affected parties are protected.

A/N: Missed it? It's back, baby! I had some BAD writer's block with this miniseries, but I figured it out. Thanks to your help!Without it, part 2 wouldn't see the light of day. So enjoy!

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

Taglist: @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69 @skittslackoffilter @mischief2sarawr @asgards-princess-of-mischief @steasstuff @anukulee @kimi01985 @goblingirlsarah @foxherder @giona45-5

@muddyorbsblr @goddessgirl43

The Baronet Seeks A Wife Taglist: @stainlessciel @mjsthrillernp @thegodofnotknowing @magicalmichelle96 @princessdragon23 @heavyymetalchick @xalphafox (if anyone wants to join a general taglist of my work or just be on this specific one, let me know!)

The sun beat down on you for the opening day of Ascot and your little lace parasol and hat could only shield so much. You were in light-colored laces and full trim. Your dress was a light pink. You needed a lighter color to not attract heat  

Plenty of other ladies would be in lighter fabrics for the June weather. But their eyes would flicker to you and whisper. You held up your open parasol and hid beneath it. Wishing it would block more than the sun. You scurried behind your mother.

The men, that is, papa and Sir Sharpe were with one servant picking a spot for the picnic before the horses could be released.

 It would be your first outing as the betrothed of Lady Sharpe in the public eye. Your schedule had already been booked for a one breakfast party, a reception, and a ballet next week. The last one you were particularly excited for as they were doing Tchikovsky’s The Sleeping Beauty and scrambled to get tickets. But ballet or horses or breakfasts could not hide the fact that you would be a figure of attention, weather you wanted it or not.

You closed your parasol and set it on the ground. Walking with it like a cane. 

The stretch of grass continued like the sea beneath you. How big the Ascot grounds were! And people were crowding everywhere all over the grass. Plenty of picnic blankets were already stretched out, a healthy distance away from the stands and the dusty tracks. There were people all around, standing and chatting. 

Eventually, you noticed two men. Two familiar voices, though one a little less familiar than the other.

“Here, let’s put the marmalade right here- and I think we’re ready,” you heard Sir Sharpe advise a servant. He nodded as the fellow got out jars from a picnic basket and put it on the red blanket.

His voice. There was something about it that made you falter. It was a rich, creamy baritone that made something inside you shiver. And all he did was talk about food!

Yet, even as attractive as he was, the Baronet was a stranger. You knew very little about him and you were about to enter his title, his house, and his bed-

No, now was not the time to dwell on such matters.

Taking a deep breath, you walked forward, meeting your mother’s brisk pace to greet the men.

Your father perked up as did Thomas, in their typical dark suits and their top hats. Sir Sharpe even lowered his hat and smiled at you in greeting.

“Why, ladies, it is good you both made it in time,” he wished. 

All of you sat down, obediently sitting next to your fiancee. Nibbling on sandwiches and fish and fruit. Waving away flies that dared disrupt finery. For that was the true purpose of the race,  far more than the horses- to be part of a walking parade of who was the most elegant in London.

“Now, Thomas, how has the clay mining been coming along?” your father asked.

You were sat down next to him. He grinned at your father, his posture relaxing.

“Very excellent, sir. The warmer seasons meant the mining has been smoother,” he reported.

“Hmph, well- that is all good. But, speaking of seasons, where the devil is old Mr and Mrs. Barnes? They never miss as Ascot and I’ve yet to see them!” your father teased.

Turning around, you noticed people turning their heads to watch you. They would pause. Then turn to their neighbor and whisper something in their ear. Men and women, the young and the old. Studying you. Looking at every last speck of marmalade you spread on bread and every crumb you ate. 

Suddenly, your stomach was too turned to have cake.

Thomas looked over at you.

“Miss Y/L/N?” he asked.

You leaned closer to him, your shoulders hunching up. You got closer to his ears.

“Everyone- they’re looking at us. Talking about us,” you hissed.

He followed your eyes, scanning and seeing the invisible court displaying their silent judgment. He turned to you.

“I notice them too,” he whispered.

“I’m glad. I’m not going mad and seeing things.” you confided.

“Then, let’s give them something to talk about,” he replied.

He offered his hand outstretched. You accepted it, your bare hand meeting his as he helped you up. He pulled you up as easily as you were air. He then positioned your arm to be wrapped around his.

“I would like to walk with my fiancee, if you don’t mind,” Thomas announced.

“Oh, of course!” your mother replied.

 With his top hat on, you retrieved your parasol and opened it for shade. Then you walked on. 

Faces turned and a few heads bowed, you returned the gesture. 

But you noticed Thomas. His head was high and his chest up. He smiled with a pride not even the most wily gossip could deter. Thomas would look at you and smile, and you would smile back.

He was happy with you, or at least acting like it. And you could not resist a smile with him. And anyone who came up to Thomas, he introduced you as “my charming fiancee, Miss Y/L/N.”

The message was then received. No figure of pity was Miss Y/F/N.

Let them look. Let them see. You would not let the murmurings of strangers make you fret. Thomas seemed perfectly fine and happy with you and you would appear perfectly fine and happy with him. Strolling with him on the grass beneath a sunny day felt natural. Something any ordinary couple would do.

Reaching near the stands, it seemed as people were less interested in the two of you. Crowds more intrigued as to who would win and watching for jockeys and steeds than scandal.

You had to learn more about him. A little by little. You turned over to Sir Sharpe.

“I never hear about your own family. You know everything about mine, but I know nothing of yours. What were they like? Your mother and father?” You asked.

Thomas kept walking forward, you passed the stand for lemonade but you brought no cash to pay for some. Thomas kept his eyes forward as you strolled on past everything.

“My father- his name was James and his wife was Beatrice. He was…an intimidating man. He He wanted me to be like him- taking me with him to work or on hunting trips. He ran a clay mining buisness, but he lost it in an accident. There was…a disaster occured, costing him the mining lives and much of his fortune. We lived over in the countryside, near a small town. I grew up in a large manor house with my sister.”

“What was her name?”

He hesitated.

“Lucille. Lucille Sharpe,” he answered.

“Was she older or younger?”

“Older. We…we lost both of my parents. First my father, and then my mother when I was young. I was sent to boarding school and then reunited with my sister. She fell ill. And never got better. So since then, I have no close family and only distant relations.”

“Oh, Thomas, I am so sorry!” you cired.

His face turned a little white when you turned to face him. He looked down. “I think of them. Lucille, especially. She in many ways was an astounding woman. Intelligent, careful, brave, hard-working...she cared for me. She loved me, in some way, and did so much to help me. And she suffered quite a lot. Especially in her sickness. I could at least make sure her passing was peaceful.”

“Would she have liked me?” you asked.

He paused in his steeps. It was so abrupt, you felt a small jolt.

“No, she wouldn’t have.”

You tilted your head.

“Why?”

He again hesitated.

“She was more…cynical of the world. Life had been hard for her. And for mother. And for me.”

You blinked. He kept his eyes lowered, and began to blink rapidly. At one point, he just squeezed them shut. Part of you felt guilty for pressing it.

“I…I do not wish to discuss it now. Please,” he replied.

You took a step back, releasing from his arm.

“I’m so sorry, Sir Sharpe. I didn’t know it would be-”

“Don’t be,” he replied

His eyes were back open. A small, cold shiver ran down you despite the heat. Then you closed the gap, placing a hesitant hand on his arm in comfort.

“A sibling is like having your closest friend always with you. I was inseparable from Charlotte. And then when she ran away out of nowhere, with no warning…it was like she died. I grieve her still. I cannot imagine what it is like for you.”

He looked up at you. It was as if the crowds never mattered and it was only you both alone around the tracks.

“We have something in common, then. We have both lost sisters,” he pointed.

“We’ll grieve them. But we don’t have to greive them alone. Not anymore,” you assured him.

There was a sudden excitement among people as they scurried over to their seats. You had jumped. How much time had passed?

‘I think it’s best we get our seats, the race is about to begin.” he advised. 

It wasn’t long before you found your parents and joined your seats for the races. 

But your mind was elsewhere.

You remembered Sir Sharpe’s words. You knew a little bit more about him. He seemed less a stranger and more an acquaintance now. Yet- what happened to make him turn so pale? To not wish to speak? If that made him act like that, then whatever happened with his family…it wasn’t good. At least Lucille seemed interesting…but whatever made her so cynical? To where she would have hated you if you met her alive?

Part of you knew the answer. And it made your heart break for him- he was hurt as a child. His parents were cruel to him and his sister. But he didn’t want to discuss it in such a public area.

You settled into your seats from your tickets with your family. You passed around small opera glasses. Watching and watching for the stampede to pass by. For the hooves and horses and rush of wind to bring you to the present, and not the past of a sad little boy in a big manor frightened of his father.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

It seemed the week swirled by. Now as an engaged woman, there was less pity and gossip.

At least, negative gossip.

 Sir Sharpe played the role of a good fiancee in public. Appearing to help escort you around gallatnly and smile at you warmly. Though he was a quiet man, observing everything. Sometimes a loud noise made him seem to want to shrink his tall frame. 

You still put in your mind the bits and pieces about him. That he lost parents, the father mistreated him. He even lost a sister he was close to. That he ran a mining business harvesting clay. He was always polite at least and charming at most. You did feel your stomach flutter when he would smile at you.

But at the breakfast and garden parties women flocked to you like puppies. They bombarded you with questions about the wedding. What you would pack. Where you would hold it. If you have picked a dress yet. You had always replied with a demure “Well, I don’t know,” yet. Sometimes you threw in “I am only grateful that Sir Sharpe is a good man,” for good measure. That seemed to please them for now. They would offer their congratulations and hopes for an invitation for the marriage where you would become a lady.

Lady. You would be a capital L Lady. Steps below earls and viscounts, but still among them. You would outrank some of these very women. No wonder they flocked to you- it was good to be an ally to a baronet’s bride, not a foe.

Tonight was finally the ballet. No one would run to you to congratulate you or pepper you with questions you couldn’t answer yet. Not for long. Instead of socializing, you could sit back and watch something long for once.

You were dressed in a lovely gown. It was satin, a deeper, more womanly color of rich, dark blue than the fluff at Ascot. You had long matching gloves and the sleeves were small but showed off your shoulders. You had a train cut into scallops. A soft flounce of tulle extended to your shoulder. Jewels across your bodice tinkling as you moved, the satin touching the floor. None needed to doubt that soon you were going to be a baronet’s wife. You had to look the part one way or another. By far, it was the most expensive of your wardrobe this season and the most beautiful. Now was the time to unleash it.

Your father praised you as a vision as you descended the stairs. “Won’t your baronet be beside himself! Now, go enjoy, my dears,” he wished your mother and you.

You headed to the carriage. London was lovely at this dark hour. There were lights on to contrast with the night’s shadow. The opera house appeared like a temple above any house on the street.

Though there was a crowd of audience members, who should be out on the steps but Thomas Sharpe. He had an opera coat and his classic top hat. He was standing watching other go by.

The carriage stopped and the door on your side was opened.

 Sir Sharpe paused and took you in. The coachmen helped you down  and your mother after. You felt a little exposed in all this. Self conscious it was too much.

Sir Sharpe then went up to your hand.

“How are you?” you asked.

“I hardly know. I only know that you are radiance itself,” he replied. He took your hand and wrapped it around your arm.

You got warm all over from his voice saying that. Oh, blast him! Blast how he could make you feel so giddy and fighting the urge to giggle like a girl!

You walked up the stairs into the lobby of the theatre. Your shoes touched red carpet and you passed the creamy insides- all marble with vases of flowers and paintings and electric light. Some stared at the Baronet and his Lady, and you let them. Giving them a show as good as any dancer could.

You had your tickets approved and were escorted to your seats. You had a certain box where the three of you had some privacy to sit amongst each other. As you sat on red velvet plush, you rested your gloved hands on the high railing and looked at Thomas. In his tuxedo, his dark curls combed back, he still seemed like every bit of a ladies’ dream.

“Have you ever been to a ballet by Tchaikovsky?” you asked him.

“Oh, no I haven’t. Only concerts of his music,” he replied. But then he smiled. “They’re such lovely pieces, though.”

“Then you’re in for a treat. When there are dancers added to tell the story, it becomes something very special. I saw The Nutcracker two Christmases ago and adored it. Lottie only liked it when the little girl in the ballet hurled a shoe at the mouse king,” you reported.

He let out a light chuckle

“I’m not surprised,” he said.

You sat down with the pamphlet, re-reading the title and the cast list. Your mother was using her opera glass to watch the audience below. You returned to your fiancee. 

“The Sleeping Beauty- did you ever like fairy tales when you were little?” you had to ask questions, know a bit more of him.

“Oh, yes, I did,” he replied. “I enjoyed many of them. But I don’t remember them too vividly.”

“What kind of stories did you hear?” you asked.

Thomas leaned forward. His voice quiet.

“Well…ghost stories.” he explained.

You squinted, surprised at his reply.

“Ghost stories!? Isn’t that much for a little child?” you asked.

“Perhaps it was. But that was what was told,” he answered.

 One could hear the orchestra warming up. You put a gloved hand on his arm. Thomas didn’t say a peep and the crowd could only mutter. Besides, that always felt a little rude to you. When people lounged about during performances like it was a party and chatted loudly, unappreciative of the artists at work before them!

The conductor arrived to applause and bowed. Then he turned around, lifted his baton, and began the ballet as he lowered it like a magic wand. A spirited introduction blasted, almost making you jump. 

The stage curtains parted and dancers entered as the music slowed down with a harp and sweet flutes as the king and queen entered, holding a bundle in their arms.

For those three hours, you were not an adult. You were a child again who could believe in such things. A child who believed fairy tales was what life was like. Complete with pink ribbons, lace, and magic, fairy’s wings, and princess’s crowns. Where flutes and strings surrounded you. Where dancers smiled as they stood up on their toes and leaped like it was as simple as sleeping. 

You glanced at Sir Sharpe once when the Lilac Fairy entered. He didn’t whisper to you. You only met his eyes to see he was already looking at you. Something warm crawled up you. You didn’t know if you wanted to touch him or to not be touched by him. Then hearing the sound of feet hit the ground on a leap, you turned back to the stage, hypnotized by what you saw.

It was a world where the politics of society didn’t matter. Scandals were trifles, and sisters didn’t disappear. Where fairies could be met at parties. Where magic would prevent a couple from losing their daughter. A princess may be smiling and full of life- but even when she pricked her finger, she would not have had her life cut short because of forces beyond her control. It was where a cursed princess would be kept safe in a deep slumber. Soft and cozy on her beautiful bed. A world where a prince and a fairy could overcome evil. 

When the prince awoke the princess, they knew they were meant for each other. That the one person they waited their entire lives for was right before them. They could marry and not be afraid the choice was wrong. The wedding would be blessed and celebrated with everyone smiling and dancing to sumptuous music. 

As it got close to the end, no one wondered if the prince and princess would be miserable in their union or if another wicked fairy would arrive to hurt them or their families or their people. Everyone would be alive, safe, and happy.

If only things were that simple in real life.

You had to remember yourself after the applause. Blinking rapidly, you then squinted your eyes as the house lights came on. You re-emerged from the darkness like Orpheus returning from the Underworld, transformed by what you saw and returned. You then rose to your feet and applauded. You were watching with a heavy heart as the curtains closed and people left their seats. You had to remember that you were you and this was the real world. No magic. No fairies. No princes. Just baronets.

“Here, let me walk you to the carriage.” Thomas offered, giving you his arm. 

You held onto him, leaning tight. How easily he was able to pull you through! Despite his leanness, he did have strength! 

As you walked down the hall, you clung to your program, making sure you would always have a reminder of tonight.

“What did you think?” your mother asked as she scurried up to you.

“It was…it was incredible,” you replied, your voice suddenly breathy from wonder.

“Well, I was fighting the urge to sleep!” your mother replied. 

She stopped both of you in your tracks before you could proceed a step.

“Now, my dear Y/N, we have a wedding to discuss and plan. So I hope you sleep well, ready for some discussion the next morning, won’t you?” she asked.

“I shall.”

But when you went to bed, your mind was torn. Imagining yourself in stories was a way to help you go to sleep, you found. As music from the ballet kept playing in your head, you found yourself split into two characters.

One was a stoic, obedient bride of a wedding out of convenience who would not cause one toe to step in the wrong place or else ruin everything. The other a fairy tale princess protected by fairies who would survive her curse and find true love. 

But only one of those was real.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

The next morning, as soon as you woke up and went down for breakfast, your mother stormed you with books. They were journals and catalogues, listing courses and decorations, and options of churches.

All of your parents wanted you all of the time. 

“I like these colors,” you pointed out, seeing samples of cloth.

“But no! It’s not in fashion!” your mother cried.

There were invitations to pick. And then trying to decide who to send them to. You had to include family members, sure, as well as the few people Thomas was related to. But there were also father’s business partners, with whom he wanted to share cigars and brandy and business. Then you had to pick who to invite and if they would gossip or appreciate the triumph. But you had to think of Miss So and So or Mrs. So and So who was rumored to do this and that and wouldn’t it be unbecoming if she so much as turned up on the steps of the church and-

A heaviness grew on you. How much did you actually sleep last night?

But then deciding on family members meant your mother got out her boxes of photographs. She had a hobby of familial history and photographs and would lovingly tell you all about them. For one hour. Then two. You were itching to get up, do something productive, but stuck with your mother in her distracted cycle.

The next days passed and you had to select wedding cakes. You wished for a certain cake, but you felt ashamed choosing it since you knew it might not be what everyone wanted. Aunt Jacqueline coudln’t eat it because of her indigestion. That would be rude. But Mr. Linnet, Papa’s buisness partner, had a particular hatred of almond cake. Any and every flavor was wrong. You had to plan a wedding they would not scoff at or think otherwise.

You were running between shops, spending more on ribbon samples than actual ribbons and there was no color everyone was happy with.

As for the wedding gowns, you had visited one boutique and you had tried on so many dresses that it seemed you were going to hallucinate looking at so much white. And no one would all agree on what gown would be the best one. One wasn’t even decided on and you all ate lunch in sour moods.

And that was on top of callers and people coming in and out from the season and trying to keep up with events.

The week was going by in a flurry. Your business tripled. You were certain at every meal and when you sat down, your mother brought out photographs because the  invitations made her sentimental and by the second week, you were certain you were hearing her recall the same stories over and over again until you could even predict the cadence of her voice.

The gatherings only tripled. Your parents were always asking you to change this or that, or what do you think of this flower or this color or this ribbon or this food, or here is a picture of this great aunt you barely remember but you must care about, and oh- you have to select what flowers you want for the bouquet and which ones on the reception table and to please start planning your trousseau, Y/N, because you must decide which things you wish to take with you when you move into Sir Sharpe’s home, you must consider what to bring, you really ought to-

The few hours you had to yourself, you wanted to relax. Sew something or read a book or anything…but your mind would not focus, would not settle. And those were the hours when no one called for your presence, word, or help. You felt exhausted, and yet at night sometimes you struggled to go to sleep from how wound up you were.

Your head was spinning one afternoon a week later. At luncheon all everyone would talk about was the wedding as they flittered around with vases of flower examples and ribbons and pictures of cakes and dresses from advertisements. As your mother got out her photograph box. But you could only sit there, drained and silent, and feeling like you were staring into nothing.

You were trying so hard to be everything to them. The good daughter. The virtuous bride. The one who could make everyone happy. One who could have her entire life change at once and endure it with only a stoic smile.The one so glad to help and listen and who knew everything. 

As your mother got out a second pile of photographs and began to tell you for the fourth time all about your great grandfather Kenneth and his wife, Bertha, going on a camping trip in nature and getting lost, you had a sudden urge to scream “I’ve already heard this stupid story enough! I don’t care about them!” and rip up the photos before you.

But you swallowed it down, your face hot. Your chest was tight. Ashamed you would even consider wrecking something that made your mother happy? Priceless momentums of your history destroyed in a flash of weakness? Of losing your temper in front of everyone? 

Everything got tight, tight and you were getting warmer and warmer. People began to crowd around you. Their chatter swirling around you like the sea and you could not breathe for air.

“Miss Y/L/N-”

‘St. Joseph is a lovely church-”

“What about blue for the-”

“There should be duck with wine sauce and-”

At once you pushed away your seat from everyone. The lump in your throat growing. A dull, heavy ache all over your body.  A weight in your head and your mind about to break.

“I-I-I..” you began as they gaped.

You tried to calm yourself. To put the feelings in a box and push it away for a little bit. But still it rumbled on.

“I need a moment!” you claimed. You then turned around, starting to make a brisk walk out of the door.

In walked one maid.

“Oh, we have a visitor!” she announced.

You made no reply and went past her, down the hall, hurrying for your room. Once inside, you locked the door.

Legs trembling, you tried to make it to the bed. 

Instead, you collapsed in a heap on the floor. 

Finally, alone, you did not have to pretend. Crumpling up into a near fetal position despite your dress, the long-suppressed tears coming out. There was no dignity, no strength. Just the washing of your tears as it ebbed and flowed out of you.

 It didn’t make sense. You had a wedding to look forward to, and so much you took for granted. Your future was secured. Your family’s reputation was revived. You had no reason to curl up and sob. Someone would look at you and say you were acting immature, that you were too old for your age to be lying down and crying. 

‘That’s what I am. An immature, ungrateful fool,’ you thought.

It made no rational sense. Emotions never made any rational sense. 

Despite all this, here you were sobbing. Crying out the exhaustion, the overwhelm. Hot tears sprang out and went to the floor. At this rate, you’d ruin the carpet. Your throat scratchy and your body shaking as each new cry heaved out.

There were footsteps. Then three knocks.

Your mind spun on in its cycle of misery. ‘I even ran away when we had callers. I am the worst. I waste my time. I’m foolish and wasteful. I don’t deserve anything good, I’m so miserable and scared and I hate myself and I don’t know what’s going to happen to me and I hate who I am and I wish I could change that, but I can’t and I-’

The knocks returned. 

But you got up and turned. You reminded yourself of how hard it felt. To be back in your body, and not in your head. You turned around.

“Come in,” you croaked out.

Outside was Anne. Your lady’s maid curtsied.

“Sir Sharpe is here. And he wishes to speak to you in private in the parlor and your father consented.”

She reached a hand and helped you up. You wiped off any remaining tears from your eyes.

“Tell him I shall join him soon,” you replied.

Anne nodded and hurried out. You made sure to fix yourself. Your eyes looked a little tired and you dried off any tracks of tears from your cheeks. After checking that your appearance was decent, you followed out to the parlor. 

Your parlor had green and white patterned wallpaper and portraits watched your every move as you got inside. Thomas stood. Dressed in his usual black coat, his hat to his side. He looked odd amongst hte ostentatious furniture of red velvet couches. But he bowed to you nonetheless.

No chaperone. No eyes. Only the two of you. One of the blessings of being an engaged couple.

“Would you like me to ring for some tea?” you asked, eyeing the long chord from the ceiling on one corner of the room.

Thomas stepped closer. 

“Miss Y/L/N…you’re distraught,” he observed.

Your lips parted but did not make a sound. Then a small string of them came out.

“I…I…I shall be fine, sir-” 

“Miss, you do not speak as a content woman. Tell me- what is it?” he asked.

He gestured to the couch to sit next to him. You joined next to him, your hands folded and nervously fidgeting. You noticed you were close to him. His warmth from the dark colors and the smell of his light cologne. You felt your chest heave a little, the words so heavy on your tongue. Eager to come out.

“I’m so sorry…it’s just..everything is changing…” you began.

You looked down at your hands. How close his thighs were next to your skirt. Then you looked up at him. There was a…a gentleness in his face, in his eyes. A softness. He was not judgemental. And if he was, he wasn’t saying anything.

“It’s changing so fast. My sister is gone. I’m going to live in a different house and not see my parents. I’m going to be Lady Sharpe and I don’t know what's going to happen to me after we’re married. I- I want to be married, I always have. Now it’s finally happening.”

Your breath was shallower. The emotions burst up. But Thomas made no change in his gentle expression.

“But it means I have to plan a wedding in a month. And all of the time that I have is taken up on this wedding. No one can agree on anything. I can’t find the right decorations, food, or dress. And everyone asks for me and needs me. They need me to listen to them babble on. And I’m trying so hard to be good, to make everyone happy, and get everything done but I…I…”

The lump in your throat returned. Your eyes felt heavy with tears again. They began to well up in your eyes despite yourself. Right when you thought you were done, that there would be no more, they came again.

“I am just…I… there’s so much to do, I don’t even know where to start. And I…I want to shut it all off, but I can’t. And I’m scared. I’m scared I’ve already ruined everything. Or I’m about to…” you babbled on.

He offered his handkerchief. It was a plain cream with lining.

“Thank you, Sir Sharpe,” you said.

“Thomas, please.” he insisted.

You took it in your hand.

“Thank you, Thomas,” you said.

His lips curled up as he heard your name. 

“You can say it. I’m making a big fuss of nothing. That I’m a fool,” you replied.

Thomas shook his head.

“ I’ve met foolish people. You are not one of them,” he answered. 

He leaned closer.

“And have you considered that it takes months to plan a wedding? And you are doing it in one. That is Herculean, don’t you think?”

His voice was a whisper.

“If there are any fools, it is your parents,” he teased.

You wiped your face with the handkerchief again. A small smile grew on your face.

“I…I…I suppose”

He offered you his hand and you took it. It was comforting- warm and large and beautiful. You liked it when he offered his hand, you liked touching it, touching him. Something about it always comforted you.

“We will have a wedding. I don’t think it should matter if it is a spectacle or not. What does matter is…is that…”

He began to hesitate. Then he looked up.

“I know you don’t know who I am. Or much about me. Or if you can trust me- but what does matter, Y/N. I will do my best to make sure you are provided for. That you are safe. Content, if not happy. We will make sure our wedding is a fine day. And if it is not, then It will only be one day and then it will be over.”

You felt his thumb trace over your hand. A small little back-and-forth movement, just grazing your skin.

“The wedding- how will I plan it?” you questioned. 

“You will choose what you want. And forget them all. You are the bride. You should have a final say. And if anyone disagrees- you can bring them to your husband.”

Swallowing, you lowered your eyes briefly. Timidity overcoming you from all of this for a moment.

“We’re not married yet,” you reminded him.

A light laugh got out of Thomas in an exhale. 

“Well…no…”

You looked back up at him.

“Thomas, will you- will you help me with all of this? Speak to them, perhaps? Reason with them? Try to- to help?” you asked.

“Oh, of course.”

You felt yourself breathe out a sigh of relief.

“I’m glad…and yet…Thomas, I confess, I’m scared.”

“I am too.”

He paused. You looked into him and saw fear in his eyes as well. It struck you that of course, he would be feeling the same as you regarding this. Marrying someone he knew partially out of convenience. 

“Y/N…you…you do not hate me, do you? Because that is what I fear,” he asked.

You placed another hand over him, leaning closer.

“Oh no! Thomas, you have been nothing but a gentleman. I don’t hate you at all.”

He smiled.

“There. That’s better than a quarter of the marriages here already,” he replied.

Part of you laughed lightly. To think both tears and laughter could be shared in so short of a time with him. That you could release your sorrows and then have cause for sudden bursts of joy.

“ But…we will adjust to it. Everything won’t be horrible. We’ll just become acquainted with each other. Bit by bit. We could be friends,” you replied.

He took your hand and leaned down, pressing another kiss to it gallantly. He then released the hold and reached into his inner coat pocket.

“I have a gift for you. It was going to be a wedding gift, but I was wondering how you were feeling amidst all of this and  thought it might cheer you up.”

Perhaps it was something sweet. Or a tiny book? What could be a small, but tasteful and not too expensive gift he could give? 

Out came a small box- that is, if “box” could apply. It was a small circular item. Like a lady's powder or dusty blush container. But there was a knob on its side.

“Turn it,” Thomas instructed.

It struck you- it was a music box.

You turned the knob with a small “krrk” sound. The lid opened to reveal tiny, mechanical ballerina spinning on pointe. The chimes crinkled out a tune in three-quarter-time time. It was the Sleeping Beauty waltz.

You gasped. He placed it in your hand to cup it as the ballerina twirled to the music. You saw a crown on her head and a smile on her face, just like the prima from when you saw it.

“Do you like it?” he asked shyly. Something of a blush on his cheeks.

“Thomas! It’s exquisite! Where did you find this?” you asked.

“I made it,” he explained.

You turned around, careful not to drop it.

“You made this?” you asked.

“I did,” he confirmed.

Looking closely, it was so lovingly detailed and crafted, it had to be the work of a person. Not a common souvenir from the theatre.

“You…you make things?” you asked.

“Yes. I have since I was a child. And now I made a machine that harvests clay from all of the times I fiddled with gears. I find lately now I can come up with toys as well, Isn’t it silly?”

“No, not at all! It’s more business! And…you made the machine from the business! It’s- it’s incredible…” you rattled in your excitement. 

His hand returned to yours, joining it as the lid of the music box closed.

“Y/N, I know there are concerns, and I may not have the affluence of your family, I promise, you won't be marrying a pauper.”

You looked

“With something like this, I may as well be the richest woman in all of England,” you said.

His smile returned, his posture relaxing.

“I’m glad of it. Should we return to them now?” he asked.

You nodded your head. You got up by his side. You were not afraid of the hordes of things to do and people to meet, not overwhelmed.

“Yes...I’m ready, Thomas.”

[asgards-princess-of-mischief]

Last Updated: 2024-03-05

Disclaimer: I am not the author of these stories, just sharing my favourite Sir Thomas Sharpe stories. Find the authors' links below. If you want your work removed, message me privately.

Legend: 〔E〕 ⇢ Erotic/Steamy | 〔F〕 ⇢ Fluff | 〔A〕 ⇢ Angst/Hurt 〔M〕 ⇢ Minor Angst/Hurt | 〔C〕 ⇢ Comfort | ♥︎ ⇢ Established Relationship | 𑁍 ⇢ Pregnancy/Children | 🚫 ⇢ Content Warning

❆ Christmas at Allerdale Hall by sserpente • 〔F᜶A〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: "Imagine spending Christmas with Thomas Sharpe at Allerdale Hall, while the Baronet is determined to make the holiday special for you, Lucille cannot be more cross with [you for celebrating the holidays]."

❆ Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas by just-the-hiddles • 〔F᜶A〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: "Your sister and children have come for the holidays to Allerdale Hall but all is not merry and bright."

❆ London Blizzard by sserpente • 〔F〕 •

Summary: "Imagine getting stuck in [London due to] a blizzard with Thomas Sharpe over Christmas."

❆ A Special Present by ladyfluff • 〔C〕 • ♡ • 𑁍 •

❆ Chilly by ladyfluff • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

❆ Darling, You Shouldn't Have by ladyfluff • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

❆ Mistletoe Kiss by sserpente • 〔F〕 •

❆ Snow Day by ladyfluff • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

See Also: Navigation || Thomas Sharpe Master Index

Authors: @just-the-hiddles || @ladyfluff || @sserpente ||

[httpvomitello]

Could you do a George x Reader where he gets jealous over her spending time with someone else and he gets over protective? I would love that!!

Helloooooo! We love a over protective boyfriend, don't we? Hope you like it ~ ♡

Mr. Jealous *⁠.⁠✧

Summary: George Weasley has never been the jealous type—until he sees you laughing a little too much with Dean Thomas. Convinced that he’s losing his chance with you, George goes full overprotective boyfriend (despite not technically being your boyfriend… yet).

george weasley x f!reader

George Weasley was not jealous.

At least, that’s what he kept been telling himself as he sat in the corner of the Three Broomsticks, arms crossed, jaw clenched, watching you laugh at something Dean Thomas had just said.

Dean bloody Thomas.

And you—his best friend, the girl he’d been half in love with since fourth year—were sitting there, giggling, twirling your hair around your finger, looking at Dean like he was the most interesting person in the world.

George was about to combust.

"Alright, mate, you’re staring," Fred muttered beside him, amusement clear in his voice. "You look like you’re two seconds away from cursing Dean into next week."

"I’m not staring," George grumbled, still watching you. "I’m observing."

Fred snorted. "Right. Observing. Because glaring at him like you’re about to duel for her honor is completely rational."

George ignored him. He was too busy watching Dean lean in way too close, whisper something to you that made you throw your head back in laughter.

That was it. He’d had enough.

Slamming his drink down, George shot up from his seat.

Fred sighed dramatically. "Oh, this should be good."

George marched across the pub, weaving through the crowd until he reached your table. He didn’t even hesitate before dropping into the seat next to you, throwing an arm around your shoulders in a way that was not subtle.

Dean blinked. "Uh—hey, George?"

"Hey, Dean," George said, voice a little too bright, a little too sharp. He turned to you with a grin, squeezing your shoulder. "Fancy seeing you here, love."

You frowned at him. "You knew I was here."

"Did I?" he mused. "Must’ve slipped my mind. So, what are we talking about?"

Dean hesitated, looking between you and George, clearly sensing the tension. "Uh… just telling Y/N about this guy I’m seeing."

George faltered. "Wait. What?"

Dean looked at him, unimpressed. "Yeah... Like, my boyfriend?"

George blinked. "What?"

You smacked a hand against your forehead. "Oh my God, George. He’s literally been dating Seamus for months."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Honestly, I thought everyone knew."

Fred, who had somehow appeared out of nowhere, clapped a hand on George’s shoulder, howling with laughter. "Merlin’s beard, mate. You got jealous over Dean?!"

George’s ears burned red. "I—I didn’t know!"

You sighed, shaking your head. "George Weasley, you absolute idiot."

Dean snorted. "You’re so in love with her, it’s embarrassing."

"Shut up, Dean," George muttered.

You turned to George, a smirk playing on your lips. "So… jealous, were you?"

George groaned. "Can we not talk about this?"

"Absolutely not," Fred said gleefully. "This is the best thing that’s happened all week."

"Alright, alright, laugh it up," George grumbled. Then, clearing his throat, he turned back to you, rubbing the back of his neck. "Er—so, since I made an absolute fool of myself just now… any chance you’d be willing to, uh, go on a date with me?"

You tilted your head, pretending to think. "Hmm… let me check my schedule."

"Y/N," George whined.

You laughed before leaning in and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Of course, you idiot. Took you long enough."

Fred groaned. "You mean we could’ve avoided all of this if he’d just asked sooner?"

Dean sighed, shaking his head. "Heterosexuals, man. So dramatic."

[ughbrie]

anchored to you | rafayel

⤜ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ- You rolled your eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” he mused, his voice lilting, coaxing—so effortlessly familiar. “You wound me, Miss Bodyguard. Here I was, trying to paint a masterpiece, thinking of you after an agonizing week apart, only to check my notifications and find you, in the dead of night no less, liking another man’s post. Truly, a betrayal of the highest order.”

“Thomas is your agent.”

“Doesn’t change the facts.”

You sighed again, but this time, it was laced with amusement. “You know what? I’m coming over.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, sharper now— “What?”

(Or... at 3:30 AM, Rafayel calls about you liking Thomas’ post. You know him far too well to believe that’s all it is. So you go to him, finding him amidst half-finished paintings and restless emotions, teetering between wanting space and needing you too much.)

⤜ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ- rafayel x female reader

⤜ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ- smut & fluff

⤜ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ- 10.5k words

⤜ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ (or tags)- nsfw, mdni, no use of y/n, use of pet names (cutie & miss bodyguard), dom!rafayel, jealous!rafayel, themes of codependency and insecure feelings, references to rafayel's limited five star memory (intertidal zone) and bond story (nightly stroll), angst (slight-ish), possessive behavior, making out, clit play, mutual masturbation, cum marking, overstimulation, penetration (p in v), dirty talk, unprotected sex, marking (biting), creampie, mentions of ownership, and aftercare.

⤜ ɴᴏᴛᴇ- I've always wanted to write about that one time in the game when Rafayel called MC (us) early in the morning just because she (we) liked one of Thomas’ posts—but, of course, with a little more plot. Hope you enjoy!

The quiet hum of the city at 3:30 AM was a stark contrast to the sharp vibration of your phone on the nightstand. You blinked, momentarily disoriented, your screen casting a cool glow over your hands as you stared at the caller ID. 

Rafayel.

Bringing the phone to your ear, you barely got a word out before Rafayel’s voice came through, low and unmistakably petulant.

“At 3:30 AM, four hours after you said goodnight to me, you liked Thomas’ post. Instead of, like, sending me a message.”

There was a slight pause, just long enough for you to picture the way he must look right now—sprawled out somewhere, his dusky purple hair a tousled mess, one hand probably still holding his paintbrush, the other curled around his phone. His voice was smooth, casual even, but you caught the edge beneath it, the restless undercurrent of something deeper.

“Rafayel—” you sighed, rubbing at your temple, but he cut in before you could finish.

You had only just liked a post. A simple tap of your finger on Thomas’ latest Moment, barely even thinking about it. But somehow, that was enough.

“Is this what you do when you can’t sleep, cutie? Scroll through posts and ignore me?” His words were lighthearted, teasing, but that wasn’t all there was to it.

You knew him well enough by now—there was a reason he called, and it wasn’t just to complain about a liked post. It was the same reason he always asked you to update him, the same reason his messages came at odd hours, checking in without outright saying he needed to. He wouldn’t ask for reassurance, not directly. Instead, he’d do this—wrap himself in playful irritation, hide behind his usual theatrics, and hope you’d read between the lines.

And you did. 

But it had been a week since you last saw him—because he asked you not to visit, claiming you were too distracting. “Cutie, if you’re here, how am I supposed to suffer properly for my art?” he’d said, all dramatic sighs and faux despair. “What if I forget to be miserable and start painting you instead?”

You had laughed, indulged him, and then you had listened. Given him the space he asked for. But now, with his name flashing across your screen at 3:30 AM, his silence stretching between you like a thread pulled too thin, you wondered if that had been the right choice.

Shaking your head, you drew in a slow breath and let a small smile tug at your lips, even though he couldn’t see it. “I didn’t think you’d still be awake.”

“I was trying to paint,” Rafayel admitted, his voice carrying the faintest hint of exasperation. “But then my phone buzzed, and—what do you know? Turns out I am capable of being abandoned and creatively drained at the same time. Tragic, isn’t it?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” he mused, his voice lilting, coaxing—so effortlessly familiar. “You wound me, Miss Bodyguard. Here I was, trying to paint a masterpiece, thinking of you after an agonizing week apart, only to check my notifications and find you, in the dead of night no less, liking another man’s post. Truly, a betrayal of the highest order.”

“Thomas is your agent.”

“Doesn’t change the facts.”

You sighed again, but this time, it was laced with amusement. “You know what? I’m coming over.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, sharper now— “What?”

“You’re still in your studio, aren’t you?”

“That’s not the point. It’s late.”

“Exactly. And now you’ve got me wide awake.” You sat up, already reaching for your sweater. “Besides, if you’re going to whine about being abandoned, I might as well do something about it.”

“Cutie.” His tone was suddenly more serious. “It’s dangerous.”

“I’m a Hunter, Rafayel. I deal with Wanderers. I can handle myself.”

“That’s not—” He exhaled, as if weighing whether to argue, but he must’ve known it wouldn’t change anything. 

“Cutie, you’re being reckless,” Rafayel muttered, exasperation slipping into his voice.

“And you’re being difficult,” you shot back. “I’d much rather talk to you in person.”

He let out a sharp breath, like he was running a hand through his hair. “I’ll get angry.”

You smirked, already slipping on your jacket. “Try not to get too angry when I’m there, then.”

A pause. Then, quieter— “You’re impossible.”

But he didn’t tell you not to come.

You pulled a sweater over your head, the soft fabric settling over your shoulders as you slung a small bag across your body. Extra clothes—because you knew this wouldn’t be a short visit. Because you knew, deep down, that appeasing him would take time.

As you grabbed your phone and house keys, it vibrated once. Then again. And again.

Rafayel.

You ignored it for now, slipping out of your apartment and making your way down the quiet hallway. The city outside was still alive, neon lights flickering in puddles from the earlier rain. You stepped through the building’s gate, raising a hand to hail a cab.

Only when you were safely in the backseat, the soft hum of the engine filling the silence, did you finally check your phone.

The next message was just a long, broken string of typed-out ellipses.

Rafayel: dun come

Rafayel: ill get mad

Rafayel: cutie cutie listen to me i mean it

Rafayel: ur so stubborn its insane who raised u like this

Rafayel: if u show up i swear to god ill

You could picture him—pacing in his studio, running a hand through his hair, chewing on his bottom lip as he typed and deleted messages, trying so hard to pretend he didn’t want you there.

Rafayel: fine but im not opening the door

Rafayel: i mean it

Rafayel: its locked

Rafayel: double locked

Rafayel: barricading it rn

You typed back.

Rafayel: go to sleep like a normal person

Rafayel: cutie go home dont test me

Rafayel: actually u know what im turning my phone off

Rafayel: fr

Rafayel: im pressing the button

Rafayel: last chance to stop being reckless

Rafayel: …

Rafayel: wait what r u doing why r u not answering

Rafayel: hello???

Rafayel: ur not actually coming right

Rafayel: right

Rafayel: CUTIE

Try not to trip over all that furniture when you let me in.

The little “typing…” bubble popped up immediately. Then disappeared. Then popped up again.

You smiled.

Rafayel: ????????

Rafayel: EXCUSE ME

Rafayel: who said ur getting in

Rafayel: who said im letting u in

Rafayel: who said ur not gonna get stuck outside FOREVER

A few minutes passed, you were near his studio and once the cab turned onto his street, there he was.

Rafayel stood outside the gate of his studio, arms crossed over his chest, his sharp silhouette carved against the dim glow of the streetlights. His tousled hair, usually a careful kind of mess, was more unkempt tonight—like he’d run his hands through it too many times while pacing. Even from a distance, you could see the way his jaw tensed, the slight furrow of his brows. He looked intimidating. Unapproachable. Like someone who hadn’t just been blowing up your phone with ridiculous messages.

And yet.

Here he was. Outside. Waiting for you.

The cab slowed to a stop in front of the gate, the tires rolling over the uneven pavement with a soft crunch. Before you could even reach for the door handle, Rafayel was already there.

His fingers curled around the handle of the passenger seat, yanking it with a sharp pull—only for it to stay locked. A fleeting scowl crossed his face, irritation flickering in his eyes—like a storm brewing in a sky streaked with rose-colored clouds as he rapped his knuckles against the window, then motioned for the driver to unlock it.

The driver hesitated.

You could see it in the way his grip tightened on the wheel, his gaze shifting to you in the rearview mirror, uncertain. Concerned. And maybe, if you weren’t you—if you didn’t know Rafayel, if you hadn’t memorized the way he carried himself like an unspoken warning, all sharp edges and simmering intensity—you might have felt that hesitation, too.

But you only sighed, already reaching for your bag. “It’s fine,” you reassured the driver, voice steady. “I know him.”

It was only after you placed the bills into his hand that the lock clicked open.

The moment you pushed the door open, you barely had time to step out before Rafayel’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a tight embrace. His entire demeanor shifted like a switch had been flipped—gone was the intimidating figure who had been standing outside, waiting with crossed arms and a brooding scowl. Instead, the Rafayel in front of you was warm, playful, the same one who had sent you all those ridiculous messages. His hold on you was firm, pressing you flush against him, his chin resting atop your head like he had been waiting for this the entire time.

“You’re so stubborn,” he muttered, his voice laced with something between exasperation and relief.

You huffed a laugh against his chest. “I thought I was staying outside forever since you barricaded the door?”

Rafayel stilled for a fraction of a second before exhaling sharply, his grip on you tightening just the slightest bit. “Yeah, well,” he drawled, his tone slipping back into something teasing, “I figured you’d just break in anyway.”

You sigh into his arms before he’s leading you towards the entrance of his studio.

Inside, the studio was dimly lit, the scent of paint and turpentine clinging to the air. You had barely stepped in before Rafayel was already leading you deeper into the space, steering you toward the large canvas propped up on an easel. He didn’t give you a chance to bring up the real reason you had come—not his cryptic messages, not the weight in his voice, not the way he had been waiting for you outside despite claiming he wouldn’t let you in.

No, instead, he gestured at the painting, his voice smooth, light, deliberately avoiding whatever had been simmering beneath the surface. “What do you think?”

Your gaze drifted over the painting, but before you could answer, something else caught your eye—the mess surrounding it. Crumpled papers littered the floor, discarded sketches with deep, frustrated lines slashing across them. Streaks of paint smeared over the nearby desk, some dried, some still tacky, as if he had gone through so many iterations, chasing something he couldn’t quite reach.

It wasn’t hard to understand why.

The painting in front of you was unmistakably his—a swirl of haunting beauty, a dreamscape teetering on the edge of something sorrowful. And in the center, hidden within layers of colors that bled into one another, were streaks of red coral. Not just any red coral. The same shade, the same intricate, fractured formations that you had seen in all his works.

Rafayel’s work had always been laced with something more than artistry. It was a requiem, a quiet, painstaking tribute to a world long buried beneath the sand. His people. His home. The Lemurians, slaughtered and scattered, their blood mixing with the ocean until all that remained were these paintings, these desperate fragments of a civilization that humanity had tried to erase.

And yet, standing here, seeing the evidence of his struggle—all those discarded attempts, the restless, feverish way he had chased this image—you knew this one was different.

This wasn’t just another piece to be sold to the highest bidder, another silent form of vengeance wrapped in beauty.

This painting—this one meant something to him.

You exhaled softly, still taking it in. “It’s beautiful.”

The words left you before you even had time to second-guess them. And they weren’t just words—you meant it. This painting was raw in a way that went beyond his usual work, and knowing what he had gone through to reach this version of it only made it more striking.

But as soon as you said it, you felt his gaze on you. Heavy. Unwavering.

You turned to him, and your breath caught at the sight.

His eyes—those pools of blue and pink—were darkened, pupils blown wide, swallowing up the usual sharpness of his gaze. There was a strange kind of intensity there, something unspoken, something restless. Like he was waiting. Like he was memorizing the way you looked as you said those words.

You’d seen him like this before, but it never failed to leave a lingering warmth in your chest, a quiet awareness curling at the edges of your thoughts.

You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself against the weight of his stare. “So… about that phone call.”

Rafayel blinked once, slow and deliberate, before tilting his head, watching you beneath thick lashes. The studio light caught the pink in his irises, making them gleam like crushed petals under glass. For a moment, he didn’t react, didn’t move, and then—like a tide pulling back—his expression changed.

His lips curled into something languid, lazy. A smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He ran a hand through his already-messy hair, tousling the dusky purple strands even further. “Tch. Here we go.”

You ignored his theatrics, crossing your arms as you leaned against the closest surface. The room still smelled like oil paint and damp canvas. “You sounded—” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “Like you needed me.”

His fingers twitched at his sides.

For just a second, you saw it—the way his breath hitched, the way his eyes flickered, something raw flashing across his face. But then, as quickly as it came, it was gone. His shoulders rolled back, his stance shifting into something looser, deliberately careless. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, cutie. All I remember is telling you not to come and you showing up anyway.”

You arched a brow, tilting your chin. “Oh? So you didn’t mean it when you said you’d get mad?”

He scoffed, casting his gaze aside, suddenly engrossed in the streaks of dried paint staining his fingers. “I was gonna get mad.”

You stepped closer—close enough to catch the faint flush creeping up his ears, close enough to see the way his jaw tensed, just barely. “Then why were you waiting outside for me?”

Silence.

A long, stretching silence.

His tongue swiped over his lips—slow, deliberate, stalling. Then, finally, his eyes lifted to meet yours. Something swam beneath the blue and pink, something unreadable, something fragile.

He exhaled—a breath caught between a sigh and surrender.

“Because you were coming.”

Then, as if realizing the weight of his own admission, he turned away, raking a hand through his hair, mussing it further. “So you came all this way just to nag me? So unromantic, cutie.” His voice was all drawl, all lazy amusement, but beneath it, beneath the teasing, there was something else—something raw, something he didn’t want you to see.

You crossed your arms, unimpressed. “You were the one who called me first.”

“And you were the one who liked some other guy’s post at 3:30 AM.” He shot back without missing a beat, eyes flickering toward you, sharp even in his supposed nonchalance.

You rolled your eyes. “Thomas is not ‘some other guy.’”

“Don’t care.” Rafayel flopped down onto the couch with dramatic flair, draping himself over the cushions like an exhausted cat, arm thrown over his forehead. “What’s done is done. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

You sighed, gaze drifting past him to the painting still propped on its easel. In the dim studio light, it looked almost alive—the deep reds and ink-dark blues swirling like something dredged up from the ocean’s depths. The scattered, crumpled drafts around it told you everything you needed to know.

“Rafayel.” Your voice was quieter this time, careful.

He didn’t look at you, but his fingers twitched against the couch cushion.

“You don’t have to pretend everything’s fine,” you continued. “I know why you called me. I know why you’re like this.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted. Then, finally, he let out a slow exhale, tilting his head back against the couch, eyes meeting yours.

“Yeah? And what am I like, cutie?” His voice was light, teasing, but you could hear the thread of something else beneath it—something taut, something fraying at the edges. A quiet challenge.

Your gaze didn’t waver. “You’re scared.”

That got him.

His lips parted slightly, breath catching—just for a second—before he covered it up with a slow, lopsided smirk. “Scared? Of what? You?”

“Of me leaving.”

His smirk lingered, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Rafayel didn’t answer right away. His fingers curled into the fabric of the couch, grip tightening for the briefest moment before he forced them to relax. The smirk on his lips wavered—just a fraction—but enough for you to catch it.

Then, with a scoff, he turned his head away, staring somewhere past you, toward the half-finished painting standing in the dim light. “Don’t say stuff like that,” he muttered.

You took a step closer, voice softer now. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

His jaw tightened, his throat bobbing in a swallow. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But you could see it—woven into the way his body tensed, the way his hands refused to stay still, fingers tapping restlessly against the couch. You knew him. You knew how he was when he got like this. When he tried to pretend things didn’t bother him, when he played the fool because it was easier than admitting the weight pressing against his ribs.

You sat down beside him, close but not quite touching. “Rafayel.”

Nothing.

You let out a slow breath. “I’m here. You don’t have to act like I’m not.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, suddenly, he let his body slump sideways, his head dropping against your shoulder in a heavy, boneless motion. His hair tickled your cheek, and his warmth seeped through the fabric of your sweater.

“I don’t like it,” he muttered. His voice was low, muffled against you.

“Don’t like what?”

“You being far.”

Your heart squeezed in your chest. Slowly, carefully, you reached up, brushing your fingers through his hair. He didn’t stop you. If anything, he melted further, like a thread pulled loose.

“I’m not far,” you murmured. “I’m right here.”

He huffed, but it wasn’t his usual theatrical sound of complaint—it was something quieter, something raw. “Still don’t like it.”

His arms moved before you could react, looping around your waist, pulling you in, pulling you against him like you’d disappear the second he let go. His grip wasn’t desperate—but it was firm, certain, stubborn.

You exhaled, smoothing your fingers over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth of him pressed against you. “For the past week, I gave you space,” you murmured. “You said you’d be painting something for an exhibit. That having me around was… distracting.”

Rafayel let out a soft scoff against your shoulder, his grip tightening—like he knew exactly where you were going with this and didn’t like it one bit.

“So I listened,” you continued. “I gave you space. And yet—” you pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt your head and look at him, “—you’re acting like I vanished off the face of the earth.”

His eyes flickered over your face, something restless, unreadable, shifting beneath the surface. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he pulled away, flopping back against the couch.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, cutie,” he drawled, throwing an arm over his eyes like he was shielding himself from a particularly blinding light. “I was doing just fine.”

You raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking pointedly to the chaotic mess of crumpled papers and paint-streaked cloth littering the room. “Yeah. Clearly.”

A pause.

Then—his fingers twitched. A tell.

You caught it—the way his fingers curled slightly, a fraction too tense, like a stray thread barely holding everything together. It was the smallest thing, but with Rafayel, the smallest things always spoke the loudest.

Your gaze softened. “Rafayel.”

His arm remained over his eyes, but his lips twitched—just a little, like he was debating whether to smirk or frown. In the end, he did neither.

Instead, his other hand lifted, reaching blindly for you, fingers curling loosely around your wrist. He didn’t pull you closer. Didn’t say anything. Just held on.

Your chest ached.

“You were doing fine, huh?” you said quietly, shifting so you could properly look at him. “Then why does this look like the aftermath of a war zone?”

Rafayel groaned, finally dragging his arm away from his face to glare at you. “It’s called the creative process, cutie. Not all of us can be effortless masterpieces.”

You snorted, unconvinced. “Right. Creative process. Is that why you sent me a hundred messages at three in the morning?”

He clicked his tongue, clearly about to dodge the question with something absurd, but you squeezed his wrist before he could. The reaction was immediate—his mouth shut, his eyes flickering toward your touch.

For a second, just a second, you saw it again—that restlessness, that hesitation, the war between wanting you close and pretending he didn’t.

Then, quieter, you asked, “You really didn’t want me here?”

His jaw shifted. He looked away, fingers tightening around yours, voice dropping lower. “That’s not—” He exhaled sharply, as if physically forcing himself to swallow down whatever instinct had been his first response. “Don’t twist my words, cutie. You know what I meant.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “You could have just asked me to come by, you know.”

Rafayel’s gaze snapped back to yours, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“For the past week,” you continued, voice steady, “even when you told me I’d be a distraction… if you really wanted me here, you could have just said so.”

His fingers twitched again, his grip flexing slightly around your wrist. “That’s—” He clicked his tongue, his expression shifting like he was trying to rearrange his thoughts faster than he could say them. “That’s not how it works, cutie.”

You raised an eyebrow. “No? Then how does it work?”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his tousled hair before letting his head loll back against the couch. “I don’t know.” His voice was quieter now, like he hated admitting it. “I don’t know how to want something and not ruin it at the same time.”

Your chest tightened.

It was the closest he had come to saying it outright—that he didn’t just want you here. He needed you here.

And it terrified him.

You sighed, shifting closer, your hand settling over his where it rested on the couch. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t look at you either. His fingers flexed beneath yours, restless.

“I don’t want you to shut me out,” you said, gentle but firm. “Even if I know what you want by now—I still respected what you asked of me. I didn’t come by, I gave you space, because I thought that’s what you needed.” You hesitated, then softer, “Was I wrong?”

A muscle in Rafayel’s jaw twitched. His lips pressed together, something pensive behind his gaze.

Then, with an exhale, he finally looked at you.

“You weren’t wrong,” he murmured. “I thought I needed it too.” He huffed a soft laugh, humorless. “Turns out, I’m just an idiot.”

You smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t say you’re an idiot.”

“Then what would you say?”

You squeezed his hand lightly. “Stubborn. A little dramatic.”

His lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but instead, he only turned his hand over, fingers curling around yours. His thumb brushed idly over your knuckles, contemplative.

“You should’ve just ignored me,” he said after a moment.

You raised an eyebrow. “And let you suffer in silence?”

“I would’ve survived.”

You gave him a look.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, fine. Maybe I wouldn’t have.” He peeked at you from between his fingers, voice quieter now, more uncertain. “But you still listened to me, didn’t you?”

Something in the way he said it made your stomach twist—not with relief, but with something heavier. Like it hurt him in a way he didn’t know how to put into words. Like it would’ve been easier if you hadn’t.

You held his gaze, steady, unwavering. “I did,” you admitted. “But I would’ve come—if only you asked.”

You exhaled, your fingers tightening around his. “And now I did come, because I knew this wasn’t just about me liking Thomas’ post.”

Rafayel stilled. Just slightly. His hand in yours remained lax, but his grip on your other hand faltered for half a second—like you had struck something he wasn’t prepared for.

Then he scoffed, leaning his head back against the couch, gaze flicking elsewhere. “Obviously. You think I care that much about some dumb post?”

You gave him a pointed look. “You called me over it.”

His mouth opened—then closed. His expression twisted into something begrudging.

“Okay, maybe I cared a little.”

You rolled your eyes. “Rafayel.”

He sighed, rubbing his temple, before finally—finally—meeting your gaze. But he didn’t look teasing now. Didn’t look like the Rafayel who had whined about your stubbornness through text messages or tried to act put out when you showed up at his door.

There was something raw there. A flicker of hesitation, of want, of something he had trouble admitting even now.

“Fine,” he muttered. “It wasn’t just about the post.” His eyes searched yours, voice quiet. “It was about you.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but the words hesitated—lingering somewhere between thought and voice.

Then, with a heavy breath, he raked a hand through his tousled hair and dropped his head back against the couch, exhaling sharply through his nose. “You really wanna talk about this, huh?” His voice was light, almost teasing, but there was something else beneath it. Something strained.

You didn’t answer right away. You just held his gaze, waiting.

Rafayel let out a soft, humorless laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Shit,” he muttered. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Wherever you want,” you said gently.

He was silent for a while. Then, finally, he sat up properly, elbows resting on his knees, fingers lacing together like he was grounding himself. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. Not soft—Rafayel never did soft—but honest.

“I don’t like being alone.” The words came slow, deliberate. His thumb ran idly over his knuckles, a nervous habit you rarely saw from him. “Not really. Not when it’s—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Whatever. You get it.”

You did.

He exhaled, tilting his head, gaze flickering toward the painting propped up on the easel—the one he had clearly agonized over. “I told you I needed space. That I had to focus, that I—” He scoffed, pressing his fingers to his temple. “But the second you gave it to me, it was like—like something was missing.” His eyes flicked to you, laced with something almost accusing, almost vulnerable. “It was unbearable.”

You swallowed, watching the way his fingers curled, the way his expression twisted between frustration and something he wasn’t sure he wanted to name.

“I kept telling myself it was fine,” he continued, voice rough, like he hated the confession even as it left his lips. “That it was good, even. That I could work without distraction. But every time I tried to paint—every time—I just ended up staring at the damn canvas, thinking about you instead.” He let out a breath, shaking his head. “I hate that.”

You frowned. “Hate what?”

Rafayel clenched his jaw. “Hate that I need you this much.”

Your breath hitched. His words, raw and unguarded, settled between you like something heavy.

He laughed, short and sharp. “God, it’s pathetic, isn’t it?” His fingers curled against his knee. “I used to paint because I had to. Because it was mine. And now—now I feel like I’m dragging you into it too.” His expression darkened, something bitter curling at the edges. “Like I’m taking from you.”

You knew what he meant. Rafayel had always taken from the world. From pain, from suffering, from the ghosts of things that could never be restored. His art had always come from that—extraction. And now, you could see the fear in his eyes. That he had started doing the same with you. That his love for you, his need, had become something he feared he would drain dry.

But you didn’t move away. Didn’t recoil. Instead, you reached out, your fingers brushing over his, grounding him back.

“You’re not taking from me,” you said, firm but gentle. “I’m here because I want to be.”

He stared at you for a long moment. Then his fingers curled over yours, his grip tight—desperate, almost.

“…Yeah,” he muttered. But you could hear the waver in his voice. The uncertainty.

Like he wanted to believe you. Like he didn’t know if he could.

Rafayel’s fingers tightened over yours, his grip feverish, like he was anchoring himself to something—someone—before he could spiral too far. His eyes flickered, restless, torn between frustration and something else, something raw.

“It doesn’t help,” he muttered, almost like he was talking to himself. “That you’re always here. That you’re not—” His jaw clenched, and he looked away, shaking his head. “That you’re not pushing me away.”

You frowned, squeezing his hand. “Why would I?”

His laugh was sharp, almost bitter. “Because you should.”

You inhaled, steadying yourself. “Rafayel—”

“No, listen.” He pulled back slightly, though his fingers still lingered over yours, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go. “You don’t turn me down. Not when I act like a pain in the ass. Not when I pull you into my mess. Not when I—” He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “You don’t even get mad when I tell you to stay away, then act like an idiot when you actually do.”

You swallowed, watching the way his expression shifted—tight, conflicted, like the words hurt to say.

“You don’t leave,” he said finally, quieter this time, almost accusing. “And it just—it just makes it worse.”

Your breath hitched. “Worse?”

His eyes flickered to yours, something turbulent beneath the surface.

“I keep thinking,” he murmured, voice rough. “That if you did—if you pushed me away, even just a little—maybe I could stop needing you this much.”

The air between you felt heavy, thick with something unsaid.

He huffed out a humorless laugh, tilting his head back against the couch. “But you won’t, will you?” His eyes, shadowed and tired, flicked to yours. “You never do.”

You didn’t hesitate. “No.”

Rafayel exhaled, shutting his eyes briefly before opening them again, something tired—something helpless—settling behind his gaze.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s what I thought.”

Rafayel let out a slow breath, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. His fingers raked through his tousled hair, shoulders tense, like he was holding something back—like he was bracing himself.

“I don’t trust it,” he admitted finally, voice low, rough around the edges.

You frowned. “Trust what?”

His lips twisted, like he was trying to find the right words. “This. You.” A pause, then he huffed out a quiet laugh, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Not because of anything you’ve done. You’re—you’re too good to me, cutie.”

The way he said it—like it was an accusation—made your heart ache.

Rafayel’s hands flexed against his knees before curling into fists. “It’s just that…I know what it’s like. To have someone be everything. To be convinced that no matter what, they won’t leave.” His fingers twitched. “And then one day, they do.”

Your chest tightened. “Rafayel—”

“You can say it won’t happen,” he cut in, looking at you now, eyes dark with something heavy. “You can promise all you want. But I’ve heard it before.” He let out a shaky breath. “I’ve believed it before.”

Your heart pounded.

“And that’s why I—” He broke off, shaking his head. “That’s why I don’t know what the hell I want. One second, I need you here, and the next, I think maybe—maybe it’d be easier if you weren’t.”

Your breath caught.

“Because if I let myself have this—if I let myself need you—” He swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “Then what happens when you leave?”

There it was. The real fear.

Not anger. Not frustration.

Just the quiet, aching certainty that he would be left behind. Again.

Your throat tightened. Slowly, carefully, you reached for his hand. His fingers were still curled into a fist, knuckles white, but you pried them open, threading your fingers through his. Warm. Calloused. Shaking.

“Then I won’t,” you said simply.

His breath hitched. His gaze snapped to yours, searching, uncertain. “You don’t—you can’t know that.”

“I do.” You squeezed his hand. “Rafayel, I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out a ragged breath, and you held his hand tighter. “No matter what happens, no matter what you do, how much space you need, or how much you push and pull—I’m here.” Your voice was steady, certain, because you meant it. “I’ll always be here.”

Rafayel exhaled sharply, as if the weight of your words had knocked the air from his lungs. He looked away, jaw tight, throat working like he was trying to swallow something down.

“You say that now,” he muttered, voice rough, “but—”

“But nothing,” you cut in gently, tugging his hand just enough to make him look at you again. “You’re not just some phase in my life, Rafayel. You matter to me.” Your thumb brushed over his knuckles. “I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever.”

His breath shuddered out of him, his fingers tightening around yours like he was afraid to let go. And for the first time since you’d arrived, you saw it—that tiny flicker of hope beneath all the doubt.

Your lips curled into a small smile. “You know… you’re not the only one who needs someone, Rafayel.”

He huffed, shaking his head. “That so?”

“Mmhm.” You squeezed his hand, tilting your head playfully. “I just happen to be better at hiding it. Comes with the job, you know. Can’t have my client thinking his bodyguard is just as much of a mess as he is.”

That earned you a scoff, though there was the faintest trace of amusement in it. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You shrugged. “I mean, think about it. If I didn’t need you, why the hell would I be here at three in the morning?”

Rafayel stilled. His grip on your hand faltered for half a second before tightening again. You saw his throat bob, his lips part slightly—like he wanted to argue, to throw something back at you. But he didn’t. Because you were right.

His gaze flickered, searching yours, as if trying to find a crack in your resolve, some sign that you were just saying this to make him feel better. But there was none. You meant it.

A breath left him, shakier than he probably wanted it to be. Then, quietly, he muttered, “…Idiot.”

You grinned. “Takes one to know one.”

You suddenly sighed dramatically, stretching your arms above your head before letting them drop. “You know, you didwake me up in the middle of the night. And I did drag myself all the way here, just for you.”

Rafayel arched a brow, skepticism flickering over his face. “You just said you came for me.”

Before he could go any further, you reached out, cupping his jaw with one hand and pressing his cheeks together, effectively smushing his lips into a ridiculous pout. “Shhh.”

His brows furrowed, a muffled noise of protest escaping him.

You smirked. “See? Much better.”

His eyes burned into you, but the effect was entirely ruined by the way his lips were puckered like a sulking child. You had to bite back a laugh.

Rafayel made another unintelligible sound, hands coming up to pry yours away, but you held firm, tilting your head. “Now, are you gonna make it up to me or what?”

Without letting go, you leaned in, pressing the softest, most fleeting kiss against his ridiculously pouted lips.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Rafayel tensed, his entire body going rigid beneath your touch. And then—

His face erupted in color. A deep, searing red that bloomed across his cheeks, climbed to the tips of his ears, and even dusted down the length of his neck. His eyes widened, pupils dilating, mouth parting slightly as if his brain had short-circuited entirely.

You pulled back just enough to see the full effect, utterly pleased with yourself.

His hands, which had been trying to pry yours off a second ago, twitched uselessly before dropping altogether.

“Wha—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, glaring at you as best he could while still blushing furiously. “What the hell was that?”

You grinned, finally releasing his jaw, tapping his cheek lightly. “You looked too cute not to.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing. But the red across his face refused to fade. If anything, it darkened.

“I hate you,” he muttered, voice thick with embarrassment.

You hummed, utterly unbothered. “No, you don’t.”

He didn’t respond—because he couldn’t. Not when his body betrayed him so obviously.

Before he could recover, you leaned in again, this time pressing a soft, lingering kiss against his flushed cheek.

Rafayel froze.

A sharp inhale, his fingers twitching against your waist as if debating whether to push you away or pull you closer. The warmth of his skin burned beneath your lips, the heat radiating from him palpable.

And then—

A strangled noise. Half a scoff, half something else entirely. “You—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply, tilting his head away as if that could somehow hide the deepening red overtaking his face.

His ears. His ears were burning.

You smiled against his skin. “You’re really easy to fluster, you know that?”

His hand curled into the fabric of your sweater. “Shut up.”

You kissed his other cheek just to spite him.

Another sharp inhale. Another full-body flinch.

“Cutie.” His voice was strained, and when you finally pulled back to look at him, his eyes were dark, unreadable, something perilously close to desperate lurking beneath the surface.

It sent a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you were. The way his breath fanned against your skin. The way his grip on you had tightened, like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers if he let go.

And then, quieter and lower—almost hesitant—he spoke.

“…You’re doing this on purpose.”

You barely had a second to process the way his eyes darkened before he moved.

A sharp tug—your breath hitched—then suddenly, the world tilted.

Before you could react, you found yourself toppled onto the couch, your back pressed against the cushions, Rafayelhovering above you. His grip on your waist was firm, his body heat overwhelming, and his beautiful eyes—flushed with something you couldn’t quite name—devoured you.

You blinked. “Raf—”

And then he kissed you.

No hesitation. No teasing remark. Just desperation, raw and unfiltered, poured into the space between you. His lips found yours in a feverish press, warm, insistent—taking.

Your fingers curled into his shirt instinctively, anchoring yourself as he deepened the kiss, as if trying to chase away something neither of you had spoken aloud. His weight caged you in, a solid, unrelenting presence above you, his hand sliding from your waist to cradle your cheek.

It was different from before—this wasn’t just his usual playful antics, wasn’t just him indulging in his own flirtation.

This was real.

A shuddering breath left him as he pulled back just an inch, enough for your lips to part but not enough to create space. His forehead rested against yours, his own breath uneven.

“…You came for me,” he murmured, almost like he still couldn’t believe it.

You smoothed your hands over his back, feeling the tension in his frame, the way he was holding himself back. “I did.”

His lips brushed against yours again, softer this time. “Say it again.”

You smiled, breathless. “I came for you.”

His exhale was shaky, his hold on you tightening. Then, he kissed you—slower, more lingering, like he was memorizing every second. 

For a moment, it was like that.

His lips pressed against yours again—harder this time, more forceful, less patient. The teasing, the usual playful give-and-take between you, was gone.

This was different.

His weight pressed you down into the couch, his hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, keeping you exactly where he wanted. His other hand curled around your hip, firm, possessive—demanding.

You barely had time to breathe before he was kissing you again and again—deeper, slower, like he was trying to carve the feeling of you into himself. There was heat, unmistakable and consuming, but also a quiet desperation simmering just beneath the surface.

His lips left yours only to trail along your jaw, then lower—lower—pressing against the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

“You always do this,” he murmured, voice rough, breath warm against your throat.

You shivered. “Do what?”

He pulled back just enough for you to see his face, still flushed, ears burning, but his gaze? That wasn’t the usual playful Rafayel staring down at you. It was something deeper. Darker. Unrestrained.

“Make me want more,” he said, his thumb tracing slow, maddening circles against your hip. “And you don’t even try.”

Your breath hitched as his lips found yours again, more insistent, more relentless. His grip tightened, keeping you right there, letting you feel every bit of his warmth against you.

Your breath was unsteady as you tilted your head back against the couch, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt. His lips ghosted over your jaw again, trailing lower, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to make you feel him.

“What…” Your voice came out weaker than you intended, a soft, breathless thing. “What are you doing?”

Rafayel huffed a quiet laugh against your skin, his lips brushing against the hollow of your throat. When he pulled back just enough for you to see his face, his smirk was smug, but his eyes—half-lidded, dark with heat—betrayed something else.

“Making it up to you,” he murmured. “Like you asked.”

Then his lips were back on you—pressing, dragging their way down the curve of your neck, slow and deliberate. His hands, warm and steady, slid along your sides, mapping out the shape of you through your clothes.

You barely had time to breathe before his kisses wandered lower—just beneath your collarbone, just above the fabric of your sweater—his fingers toying with the hem as if debating how much further he could push.

He wanted to push.

You could feel it in the way his grip flexed against your waist, the way his breath came out uneven, like he was barely holding himself together.

But he was waiting.

Waiting for you to stop him.

Waiting for you to tell him no.

And when you didn’t—when you stayed still beneath him, your own breath shaky, your fingers curling into his shirt like you needed him there—his smirk faltered for just a second.

Rafayel barely gave you a second to register what was happening before his arms wrapped around you, strong and unwavering. A startled gasp left your lips as he lifted you, pressing you flush against him as he rose to his feet.

Your arms instinctively tightened around his shoulders, legs curling slightly, but he carried you with ease—his grip firm, his body heat seeping into yours through the fabric of your clothes.

He didn’t stop kissing you.

Even as he moved, his lips barely left yours, stealing breath after breath, deepening the kiss with each slow, deliberate step. His pace was unhurried, almost lazy, like he was indulging in every second it took to drag you both toward the bedroom.

His fingers flexed against your thighs, pressing you closer, and you could feel the way his heart pounded—just as wild, just as reckless as yours.

Somewhere between the hallway and the door, you tried to murmur his name, but he swallowed the sound with another kiss, tilting his head, teasing you, taking you apart one stolen breath at a time.

By the time your back met the soft sheets, Rafayel was hovering over you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his lips swollen, his breath uneven. His tousled hair framed his face, a few strands falling over his forehead, and his cheeks—his ears—were still red.

But his expression was different now. Not the usual playful teasing. Not the embarrassed flustered mess you were used to. Something deeper. 

And he was still looking at you like he was starving.

You felt yourself shrinking under his gaze.

But he doesn’t let you.

Instead, his fingers trail up your skin, his touch searing, possessive. “Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs, voice low, thick with something you can’t quite name “You said I had to make it up to you. What, getting shy now?”

You barely have time to react before his fingers curl into the fabric of your sweater, tugging it up with slow, deliberate intent. The air kisses your skin as he drags the material higher, his fingertips brushing along your sides—light, teasing, making you shiver.

His gaze never wavers. Heavy-lidded, sharp with intent, the dusky pink in his eyes darkening like the sky before a storm. He drinks in every inch of you as more of your skin is revealed, his breath coming a little heavier, his lips parting just slightly.

“See?” His voice is low, almost coaxing, though there’s an edge of something darker beneath it. Hungrier. “Nothing to be shy about, cutie.”

The sweater slips over your head in one smooth motion, and before you can even process the loss of warmth, his hands are on you again—this time against the curve of your waist.

His hands move with unhurried precision, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your pajama pants. The fabric bunches under his touch as he drags it down, knuckles grazing the curve of your hips, the dip of your thighs—his touch light, but purposeful.

He doesn’t look away, doesn’t give you the chance to hide. His eyes drink you in, dark with something unreadable, something smoldering beneath the surface.

“Still with me?” His voice is lower now, rougher, as if he’s feeling the weight of this just as much as you are.

You nodded.

The fabric pools at your ankles, and his hands return to your skin, smoothing over newly exposed warmth. His thumbs press gently into your hips, grounding, as if savoring every second. As if making sure you’re not going anywhere.

“You’re perfect—so perfect.” he mumbled.

“Raf—” you murmured, skin flushing at his words.

His lips curved, fingers tracing slow, reverent lines over your skin, as if memorizing every inch. He leaned in, pressing a kiss just above your knee, then another, his breath warm against your skin.

“You don’t even know, do you?” His voice was quiet, almost in awe. His hands skimmed higher, thumbs grazing your hip bones, his touch a slow burn. “How impossible it is not to want you. Not to need you.”

Your breath hitched. He was everywhere—his warmth, his presence, the way his eyes pinned you beneath the weight of his gaze.

“Rafayel—” You swallowed, trying to steady yourself, but he only hummed, the sound deep, pleased.

“I know,” he murmured, pressing another lingering kiss to your skin. “You don’t have to say anything.”

His fingers curled against your thighs, his grip tightening just enough to make you shiver. His touch was deliberate, lingering—like he wanted to take his time. Like he had no intention of letting you go.

You shuddered as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties. With a slow, deliberate tug, he began to drag them down, inch by excruciating inch, his knuckles grazing against your sensitive skin.

You could feel your heartbeat pounding between your legs as he finally eased your panties off completely, leaving you bare and exposed before him. His gaze was intense, almost reverent, as he took in the sight of you, his eyes darkening with desire.

Without saying a word, he parted your folds with his fingers, exposing your glistening, needy flesh to his hungry gaze. You felt a rush of heat flood your cheeks at the intimacy of the moment, your body trembling slightly under his touch.

Rafayel traced a single finger along your slit, not quite penetrating, but teasing you mercilessly. He gathered the moisture that had already begun to gather at your opening and brought his coated finger to his lips, his tongue darting out to taste you.

His eyes fluttered closed briefly at the flavor, a soft groan escaping his lips. “God, you taste so good, cutie.” he murmured, his voice rough and low.

A whine bubbled at your throat, “Rafayel, y-you…”

He dipped his finger between your folds once more, gathering more of your essence, before smearing it along your sensitive flesh. He didn’t push inside, didn’t give you the satisfaction of penetration just yet. Instead, he simply smeared your arousal along your slit and around your clit, teasing you with the lightest touch.

Rafayel reached for your hand, his fingers curling around yours as he guided it between your legs. He pressed your palm against your slick, heated flesh, urging you to start touching yourself.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded, his voice low and rough with desire. “I want to watch you pleasure yourself while I undress for you.”

With his other hand, he began to unbutton his shirt, his fingers working slowly, almost teasingly. He shrugged the garment off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor as he revealed his toned, pale chest.

His eyes never left yours as he reached for his belt, unbuckling it with deliberate slowness. The clinking of the metal made your heart race, your breathing growing more ragged as anticipation built.

“I want to see you touch yourself, cutie. Come on…” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. 

He shoved his pants down his hips, his hard, thick length springing free, already visibly aroused, slick forming at the tip. He wrapped a hand around himself, giving a single, slow stroke from base to tip.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered again, his voice leaving no room for hesitation. “Show me how much you need me.”

With trembling fingers, you began to touch yourself, tracing your slick folds and circling your aching clit. Soft mewling sounds escaped your lips as you pleasured yourself, your hips rolling instinctively into your touch.

Rafayel loomed over you, kneeling between your spread thighs, his gaze riveted to your face. He stroked himself slowly, his eyes dark and intense as he watched your every expression, every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features.

His other hand gripped your thigh, spreading your leg further, opening you more to his hungry gaze. “That’s it….” he murmured, his voice a low, approving rumble. “Touch yourself just like that.”

You could feel the heat of his body, the way his skin seemed to burn against yours. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps as you circled your clit faster, your fingers slick with your arousal.

Rafayel’s strokes grew more purposeful, his grip tightening around his thick length as he watched you. The sight of him touching himself while he stared at you with such raw, unbridled lust sent a surge of heat through your core.

“Rafayel,” you gasped, your back arching off the bed as you felt the first flutters of your impending release. Your fingers moved frantically over your clit, your body tensing, your thighs trembling.

“Don’t stop,” he commanded, his voice a low growl. “I want to watch you come undone. I want to see your face, cutie.”

His words, his intense gaze, the feeling of your fingers on your clit—it all pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you, your body shaking and convulsing as waves of intense pleasure consumed you.

Through it all, Rafayel watched you, his strokes growing more urgent, more desperate as he chased his own release. The sight of your pleasure seemed to drive him wild, his chest heaving, his grip on himself almost punishing.

As your orgasm subsided, leaving you trembling and gasping, Rafayel let out a guttural groan. His strokes became erratic, his grip tightening around his throbbing length as he found his own release.

“Look at me. Just m-me.” he moaned, his voice cracking.

Your eyes locked, and almost immediately, thick ropes of his hot seed spilled from the tip of his cock, painting your stomach and thighs with his essence. The sight of his pleasure, the feeling of his warmth coating your skin, sent a fresh surge of desire coursing through you.

Before the last waves of his climax had even subsided, Rafayel pressed the swollen head of his cock against your sensitive, dripping folds. He coated himself in your arousal, mixing your fluids together as he teasingly parted your lower lips.

“Rafayel,” you whimpered, still sensitive from your own intense orgasm. The feeling of his hard, hot length pressing against your core made you clench and quiver with anticipation.

He didn’t push inside, not yet. Instead, he simply rubbed the head of his cock along your slit, up and down, coating himself fully in your slick heat. His eyes, dark and intense, stayed locked with yours, watching your every reaction.

“Tell me you want it,” he murmured, his voice rough and low. “Tell me you need my cock inside you…”

His words, the feeling of his hard length stroking your most intimate place, made your heart race and your breath come in short, sharp gasps. You could feel the heat of him, the way his skin seemed to burn against yours.

“I need it,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please, Rafayel. I need you inside me.”

Rafayel cursed under his breath, “Fuck. You’re driving me insane.”

Agonizingly, he pushed the head of his cock inside you, a low groan rumbling in his chest at the feeling of your tight, wet heat enveloping just the tip. He paused there, his hips pressed against your inner thighs, as he savored the sensation.

Your back arched off the bed slightly, your hands fisting in the sheets below you. The stretch of you around him was delicious, the way your walls fluttered and clenched around just that small part of him.

“You feel incredible,” Rafayel breathed, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. His fingers dug into your hips, his grip tightening as he fought the urge to surge forward and bury himself fully inside you.

He rolled his hips forward just slightly, the head of his cock pushing in a little deeper, stretching you just a fraction more. The movement made you gasp, your fingers scrabbling at the sheets as a jolt of pleasure shot through you.

Rafayel’s eyes were glued to your face, watching every flicker of emotion and sensation cross your features. 

He let out a breathy chuckle, his lips curving into a smirk even as his cheeks and ears burned red. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice laced with amusement and something darker, more indulgent. “Clinging to me like this, and I’ve barely even started.”

You glared at him, your body trembling, “S-Shut up…”

His breath hitched, the smirk on his lips faltering for just a second before he leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. “Can’t,” he rasped, his voice unsteady, tinged with something raw. “Not when you feel this good… not when you’re making it so damn hard to hold back.”

Rafayel couldn’t hold back any longer. With a low, guttural groan, he surged forward, burying his hard, thick length deep inside your tight, wet heat. He didn’t stop until he had pushed in to the hilt, his hips pressed flush against yours, his heavy balls nestling against your skin.

“See?” he murmured, voice rough, uneven. “Told you… I need you. Don’t ever—” His lips found your temple, your cheek, anywhere he could reach. “Don’t ever leave me…”

You bit your lower lip, before gasping, “I-I won’t Raf—”

Slowly, almost torturously so, Rafayel began to move. He withdrew until just the tip of his cock remained inside you, before thrusting forward again, burying himself to the hilt. He set a deep, powerful rhythm, each thrust pushing you further up the mattress.

His hands gripped your hips, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he held you in place. “If I ever tell you to leave me alone for a week again…” He let out a shaky laugh, pressing his forehead against yours. “Smack some sense into me, alright? Because that’s not me—never me.” 

He angled your hips to take him even deeper, his cock kissing your cervix with every driving thrust. The room filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, punctuated by your gasps and his grunts of pleasure.

His lips brushed against your ear, voice raw, pleading. “Let me hear you, c-cutie—oh!” A pause, a sharp inhale as he held you closer. “Don’t hold back.”

Your breath hitched, fingers clutching at him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. “I—I’m not… just—” Your voice wavered, breaking into a gasp as heat curled in your spine. “Rafayel—”

His breath was hot against your skin, ragged and uneven. Then—sharp. A gasp tore from your lips as his teeth sank into your shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make you shiver.

“Mine,” he mumbled against your skin, lips brushing over the fresh mark before he soothed it with his tongue. His grip on your waist tightened, like he wanted to pull you even closer—like even now, even here, it wasn’t enough.

He pressed another bite just below the first, this time lingering, as if engraving himself into you. Then he pulled back, gaze hooded, cheeks flushed, lips red. “There. Now you really can’t leave me alone for a week.”

Rafayel drew back, breathless, his lips hovering just above your skin. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dazed, his flushed cheeks still burning with heat—but then you saw it.

The mark.

Faint at first, but unmistakable, glowing softly against his chest, just above his heart, near his collarbone. It pulsed in rhythm with his ragged breaths, a delicate yet unyielding reminder of something ancient, something that had endured beyond time itself.

Your fingers lifted before you could think, you’ve always been drawn to it. Even more so now. The moment you touched it, Rafayel shuddered—a full-body tremor, like you had reached inside and wrapped your hand around his very soul. His breath hitched, eyes snapping to yours, wide with something raw.

“Cutie—” His voice was hoarse, almost pleading, but he didn’t move away. He couldn’t.

It’s like something in him snapped. Suddenly, Rafayel gripped your hips tightly, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises. He used the leverage to pull you towards him, meeting each of his powerful thrusts and pressing you even closer.

Your own body moved with the force of his actions, your breasts bouncing with every slam of his hips against yours. You could feel the coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter in your core, your walls beginning to flutter and clench around his pistoning length.

“That’s it, c-cutie,” Rafayel grunted, his voice thick with desire and impending release. “Take it. Fuck, I can’t—you’re too much.”

He drove into you harder, faster, the bed creaking beneath the force of his thrusts. His balls slapped against your skin, the obscene sound spurring on his lust.

Suddenly, with a roar of your name, Rafayel slammed into you one last time. His cock jerked and throbbed as he found his release, thick ropes of his hot seed painting your insides. He ground his hips against yours, pressing as deep as he could go, making sure every last drop of his essence was buried inside you.

“Cutie—!” he bellowed, his body shuddering and convulsing above you. 

You could feel the heat of his release flooding your core, filling you up. Your own body responded in kind, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. You cried out, your voice joining his in a symphony of pleasure as you came undone around him.

You both stayed like that for a while, the sound of your breaths mingling.

As Rafayel finally pulled away, you shuddered at the sudden loss of warmth, your body still thrumming from him. He huffed out a breath, his forehead dropping against yours as if gathering himself—his flushed cheeks and dazed eyes making him look almost boyish, despite everything he’d just done.

Then, in true Rafayel fashion, he smirked. “Tired, cutie?” His voice was hoarse, but smug.

You scoffed, swatting weakly at his shoulder. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

He chuckled, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “Just checking. Wouldn’t want my bodyguard passing out on duty.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t protest when he eased you onto your back, his hands already reaching for the discarded sheets to pull over you both. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they traced over your skin, smoothing over every mark he’d left.

A comfortable silence settled between you as he ran his hands over your arms, your waist—touches more soothing than teasing now. Then, quietly, “You okay?”

You softened at that, at the way his usual bravado slipped just enough for you to see the raw concern underneath.

“I’m fine,” you reassured, brushing your knuckles over his cheek. “Though I think you owe me a week’s worth of massages for all that.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh, flopping dramatically beside you. “Demanding, aren’t you? First, you drag me out of my self-imposed exile, now you want labor?”

You smirked, shifting to drape yourself over his chest. “Shouldn’t have woken me up at 3 AM, then.”

Rafayel clicked his tongue but didn’t push you off. Instead, his arms curled around you, holding you so close it was almost suffocating—but in the best way. His lips ghosted over the crown of your head, lingering there.

“Not gonna make that mistake again,” he muttered. “Next time, just smack me back to my senses.”

You laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “Deal.”

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[queenshelby]

The Peaky Role (Part 17)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Age Gap, Best Friend's Dad

The set had been feeling different for the past few days since you returned to filming and, each time you glanced at Cillian, a weight settled in your chest, the air thick with unspoken words as you both clearly took some time to reflect on your most recent choices in life, none of which were merely casual decisions.

Despite your best efforts to return to normal, there was some awkwardness between you and your best friend's father now and it was uncomfortable, making you worry about how this would affect the filming and, more importantly, your friendship with Nina who was set to arrive on set with her young sister next week.

Despite this, however, your first week back on set passed in a blur.

You were busy filming and, whilst you had some awkward interactions with Cillian, such as exchanging perfunctory conversations that felt more like carefully constructed scripts than genuine exchanges, you both managed to keep things professional while staying out of each other’s way.

By the time Friday came around though some others on set had picked up on the distance between you and Cillian. It was a distance that had not been there before and, as it became known that Cillian was getting divorced from Danielle, everyone just assumed that his change in mood, even towards you, was due to the breakup which simply took a toll on him.

You caught whispers exchanged by the crew and cast relating to Cillian's failing marriage, the sharp undercurrent of curiosity buzzing in the air, and it was Shaheen, in particular, who caught on quickly that there was something more going on beneath the surface. There was something between you and Cillian and she wanted to know what it was.

***

One day, she observed you staring into the distance during a break, her knowing eyes scanning your face. "Everything okay?" she asked, her voice carrying that maternal concern that made you want to simultaneously confide everything and retreat.

"Yes, I am fine," you replied, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. "Just thinking about the scenes for the evening," you lied, and her raised eyebrow suggested she didn't quite believe you.

Despite being an actress, you were a terrible liar and the tension in the air hummed like a live wire.

"It's really just a long week," you replied, the corners of your mouth turning up slightly when you realised that she was suspicious.

Shaheen crossed her arms, studying you. "Alright, I won't annoy you with anymore questions but just know I'm here if you need to talk," she said before turning her head and watching as the new cast member strolled in, which is when the energy in the room changed.

***

The Irish man, who was cast to play Thomas Shelby's son as well as one of your many lovers in the movie, entered with an easy grin, the energy around him shifting almost instantly.

He had a confidence that drew all eyes, and you couldn't help but feel a spark of intrigue as he approached.

"Hey, I'm Barry," he announced, extending a hand, eyes glinting with mischief. "And you must be Y/N, right?" he asked, flashing a charming smile that lit up his handsome face.

"Yeah, that's me," you replied, shaking his hand, feeling warmth radiate from his touch.

"Nice," he grinned, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "I've heard good things about your acting, so I am looking forward to working with you," he said politely, and you smiled, feeling a flicker of excitement at his enthusiasm.

"Glad to hear it," you replied, sensing Cillian's gaze from the corner of your eye as he appeared on set, his expression hardening momentarily as Barry gave you one of his signature smiles. "And… uhm, I am looking forward to working with you too, although our first scene later today is somewhat awkward," you blurted out, causing Barry to chuckle, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Yeah, I love how they schedule these scenes on the first day we work together," Barry teased, leaning against a nearby crate. "What were they thinking?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "I don't know, but's quite the introduction, isn't it?" you thought out loud and Barry chuckled again, seeing the humour in the situation.

"Jupp," he thus said. "It's the perfect way to break the ice," he winked, the playfulness lifting your spirits right before you noticed Cillian watch the exchange from the sidelines, arms crossed, jaw tense.

Barry caught sight of him, and his smile widened, unfaced. He didn't know the extent of your connection to Cillian but had heard from Steven Knight that he was your best friend's father, thus assuming that he might be somewhat protective of you.

This, however, did not deter Barry from being flirtatious at all and, if anything, it even spurred him on as he turned on the charm. He thought it would be funny to edge Cillian on while you, however, felt a little trapped, caught in a tension that thickened the air.

Barry was known to be a bit of a womanizer ever since his career took off and he split up from his last girlfriend who was not much older than you and you wondered whether it bothered Cillian that you seemingly got along with him.

Going by age alone, Barry was a much more appropriate match for you and, even though you had absolutely no interest in him, seeing Cillian's jealousy from afar made you suppress a smile.

It made the corners of your mouth twitch upward slightly as you glanced back at Cillian before Barry caught your attention once more, noticing your somewhat awkward interaction with Cillian.

"Looks like you've got a personal bodyguard back there," Barry remarked, gesturing towards Cillian with a playful smirk. "So should I back off?" he asked, feigning a mock-serious expression as he took a step back, hands raised in surrender.

Cillian's jaw tightened, eyes narrowing but he remained silent, watching the exchange unfold with a simmering intensity that made you wonder what exactly he was thinking.

"Do you mean Cillian?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at Barry. His grin widened.

"Yeah, your 'bodyguard'," Barry teased, leaning closer, a playful smirk dancing on his lips but, instead of laughing at his comment, you swallowed hard, the pit in your stomach tightening.

"No, it's not like that at all. Cillian is just... protective," you quickly clarified, glancing over your shoulder. "We've known each other for a while, and...," you began to explain, nervousness creeping into your tone, but Barry interrupted.

His grin widened, clearly unfazed. "Relax Y/N, I was just trying to make a joke. I know that he is your friend's father, so I was just messing about," he clarified, which is when you realised that Barry's nature was just that. He was naturally flirtatious and charming, while enjoying a good laugh.

"Right," you laughed, but the knot tightened in your stomach, which was not the kind of reaction Barry expected. He tilted his head, studying you, his grin fading just a notch.

"I suppose I see you on set in an hour then?" he asked, arching an eyebrow with a playful glint.

"Yeah, definitely," you replied, forcing a smile, your thoughts still lingering on Cillian's watchful gaze and Barry nodded, turning to gather his things, before walking away, wondering what had just happened.

***

An hour had passed since you met Barry for the first time and, as you were getting ready for your final scene of the day, nervousness began to set in.

Your last scene for the day was also your first scene with Barry where your character manipulates his character to sleep with her as part of a revenge plot against Thomas Shelby and, whilst there was no more than a kiss that is being displayed on screen, you felt a knot tighten in your stomach.

"You've got this!" Shaheen encouraged you as she noticed your nervousness, but you still did not feel ready.

"Right," you thus replied, pacing slightly as you adjusted your costume and, unfortunately for you, when you finally stepped onto the damp cobblestones, preparing for your next scene, you caught sight of Cillian standing amidst the crew, his arms crossed, brow furrowed.

When he caught your eye, his expression shifted to one of tight-lipped concern, a look you couldn't decipher.

"You good, Y/N?" Shaheen's voice broke through your thoughts, her gaze steady, eyes flickering between you and Cillian, curiosity igniting a spark in her tone.

"Yeah, just... thinking," you replied, forcing a smile while your chest tightened at the sight of Cillian. "I thought, you know, this was a closed set," you whispered, leaning into Shaheen's ear as you adjusted your costume nervously.

"Not unless you've got your clothes off, so no, this isn't a closed set," she teased, her grin infectious as she nudged your shoulder.

You shot her a sidelong glance, feigning irritation but failing to suppress a grin.

"Right, of course," you mumbled as Steven Knight called for you.

"Are you ready Y/N?" His voice boomed across the set, commanding attention. You squared your shoulders, pushing the nerves aside.

"Ready as I'll ever be," you replied, stepping into the light on set as Barry was already adjusting himself in front of the camera, relaxed and confident.

"I can do this," you whispered to yourself as you slid into character, trying to embody the vibe of the sullen lover.

"Alright... here we go," Steven called out, his voice slicing through the tense silence of the set.

You exchanged a quick glance with Barry, who smiled with encouragement, also noticing your nervousness just before the director called 'action'.

As soon as the director called 'action', Barry began his dialogue and, as the scene progressed after two takes, you also found yourself lost in your character, momentarily forgetting about Cillian standing there, watching you both.

But then, when Barry suddenly pulled you into a passionate kiss, your heart raced - not from thrill, but anxiety.

"Cut!" the director barked, breaking the spell that hung between you and Barry.

Cillian's glare pierced the air as you stepped back, warmth pooling beneath your skin.

"Y/N, I need to see some passion in those eyes," the director called, his brow furrowing in frustration and you noticed an audible sigh of frustration from Cillian.

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of discontent passing over his features.

"Again, Y/N. Show me the fire," the director urged, impatience creeping into his voice. "Whatever you did during your scene with Cillian two weeks ago, I need you to bring it!"

You nodded, determination coursing through you before you inhaled deeply, focusing on the moment.

"Let's do this," you declared, stealing a glance at Barry and, immediately, his playful smirk returned, and the energy crackled between you both.

"Right, back in character," he winked, and the world narrowed to just the two of you.

After a handful of repeats, you still felt the tension though but not from the script, but from Cillian's palpable frustration lurking at the corner of the sound stage. It mounted like a tempest.

It was obvious to you that he wasn't frustrated with your performance though but, rather, the sheer fact that you were kissing someone else.

For a seasoned actor, this kind of thinking was completely irrational though and, yet, Cillian's brow furrowed deeper with each take until, finally, the director called 'cut' again.

'Take five,' he then announced which, for a scene like this, was not unusual, but it was then when Cillian, as an executive producer, interrupted, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the set.

"Steven, I think we need to rethink that scene," Cillian's eyes pinned on the monitor, intensity radiating from him.

"Why's that?" Steven turned, surprise flashing across his face.

"It's just not necessary," Cillian replied, unwilling to meet anyone's gaze, his tone final and for everyone to hear while you bit your lip, a flicker of fear rippling through you.

"Just let it flow, Cillian," Steven replied, waving him off. "It's key for the character dynamics," he explained before noting the character's manipulated nature.

Cillian's eyes narrowed, frustration twisting his features. He disagreed and was ready to voice his concerns.

"With all due respect, Steven, this scene feels overdone. We don't need another cliché to tell the story," he said which is when Barry chuckled lightly, glancing between them, but tension hung thick in the air.

"Well, I am sorry, but you are wrong Cillian. We need this scene," Steven said and, soon enough, the scene shifted back into focus and you prepared for another round, yet every time Barry leaned in, the heat of the moment flared, only to be extinguished by the weight of Cillian's gaze.

By the time the director called "wrap," you felt drained, the emotional rollercoaster of your character resonating in stark contrast to the knot in your stomach. You stepped away, desperate for air, only to find yourself wandering towards the coffee station.

As you grabbed a cup, the corner of your eye caught Cillian again, observing you from a distance, the intensity of his presence drawing you in like a moth to a flame. But beside him loomed Shaheen, light-heartedly chatting as you approached.

"I screwed up, didn't I?" you asked her as you poured the coffee, tension coiling in your gut.

Shaheen chuckled, sipping her own drink. "You didn't screw anything, and Steven said he got what he needed in the end, even though it took eight takes," she chuckled, rolling her eyes while Cillian's narrowed eyes shot daggers towards Barry across the set.

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[vervainandspritz]

WHEN I TOUCH HER

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Summary: Tommy sees Y/N some time after breaking it off, she doesn't seem to notice him.. or does she?

A/N: Interact with the stories you read! It's important. Who wants something more tonight?:)

~~

People surely noticed, looking over curiously as several blinders entered the pub. Not making a ruckus of sort, slipping between other people in the fairly big crowd.

Some joined others by the table, greeting with wide grins those they know so well. Others, like John and Arthur came up to the bar, so much bigger than one in the Garrison. Three barmaids worked behind the counter, skillfully pouring all kinds of alcohol for the men in need. Known well among the people of Birmingham, they didn't have to call over to the working women to get what they came for. One of the barmaids handed over a full bottle of the finest Irish whiskey, receiving a good tip as the younger man left it on the counter, pushing it towards her with a wink.

Y/N, one of the barmaids didn't notice any of the Shelby brothers just yet, focused on the orders and techniques she taught herself so well. Tips were pouring like never before that night, as the rich guests consistently ordered more and more. A woman with such abilities was surely never seen before in any local club around here.

Night seemed to be coming to a head as the crowd slightly dispersed, giving her a much more clear view on the whole, rather massive, room. To say she saw him right away would be a lie, but Y/N could feel an intense gaze on her hands and face as she worked, cleaning up the glasses and wiping the counter down before finally looking up.

The man she avoided for over a month, more or less successfully stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets as he watched her from across the room. Despite the fact that this place was bursting at the seams, his gaze didn't falter as he watched her expression change, one much more bitter than the whiskey he held in his right hand.

”Fuck” Y/N sighed under her nose, internally rolling her eyes as she saw in her peripheral vision him slowly approaching.

Not giving him a chance to speak to her, Y/N turned around, wiping all the shelves behind her, keeping herself busy with anything, just so he wouldn't speak up. Involuntarily, the corner of her mouth raised slightly hearing his sigh of annoyance behind her back.

”Y/N” Thomas said, sitting on one of the stools. He wasn't surprised with the way she was acting, not really, knowing the situation he put them in some time ago. ”Y/N” He repeated, a little louder before dropping the glass onto the counter, causing her to huff before finally facing him.

Taking in the sight of him, already sitting by the counter, Y/N realized he wasn't planning on leaving anytime soon.

”What the hell did I do to see you here today, Shelby?” Came out of her mouth as a greeting, her tongue effortlessly sharp as always before she cocked her eyebrow. ”Don't you have whiskey in your own pub?”

Tommy looked at her for a moment, nodding lightly with an amused smile, causing her anger to simmer even harder.

”Came to see what all the noise's about, yeah?” He offered, pushing his empty glass forward, as in a silent order for a fill up. Without missing a beat she turned it upside down, slamming against the wood in front of him.

”Unfortunately we're closing soon. Find your way out, would you?” She said, smiling so nicely in such a fake manner, Tommy internally winced.

Letting out a sigh, he got up from his chair, leaning forward on his arms.

”Don't be like that,” He insisted, looking her in the eyes.

Tommy knew how this... The whole situation looked. Without knowing the details, it was messy and he was an asshole. Like always. When usually it didn't bother him much, Tommy couldn't shake this off. So aware of what was going on in her head about him.

”Like what?” She hissed, unable to hold back the anger she held in her fear for so many days now. ”You made your choice, now don't you dare come around in a state of boredom telling me what to do!” She stated sharply, a little louder than intended which brought the attention of one of her coworkers, Diana.

She came closer, tossing the rag aside as she eyed both Thomas and Y/N, before reaching out to touch her shoulder.

”Everything alright, hun? Is this man bothering you?” She offered, narrowing her eyes without dropping his gaze.

Hearing it, Tommy smirked lightly, highly amused with how... Fitting this environment was to Y/N's combative personality.

Are all of them that feisty?

Y/N sighed, shaking her head as she ran a hand through her hair.

”No, Diana, it's fine he's just... A bloody idiot, he is.” She said, glaring at him before adding. ”But he's no threat. I'm fine. Get behind the bar, would you?”

After hearing an affirmative answer, Y/N grabbed a pack of cigarettes from under the counter, walking around it and heading through the door. Tommy stood there for a moment, with his eyebrows raised in surprise. Only when Diana narrowed his eyes at him, contempt clear as day in her eyes, he rolled his own before following after Y/N.

She didn't go far, as a cloud of smoke awaited him right by the entrance, in the slightly darker side of the building. Moving closer Tommy lit his own cigarette, the air around them much different as the scenery changed. The reality heaving on his heart as he saw her hardened face.

”Y/N just let me say something, aye? If after that you decide you can't be arsed to talk to me, I'll leave.” He offered, the previous confidence and cockiness in his voice now gone. A long silence followed the echo of his low, husky tone while Tommy awaited her answer, standing nearby, yet not close enough.

Her hand was super still, eyes blank as she stared ahead for a moment.

”I simply don't understand why you're bothering me now, Shelby. It's been a couple weeks and you're suddenly back like a bloody boomerang.” Y/N made sure her voice was steady and confident as she spoke, knowing that she would be able to read her eyes, so the poor lighting was an advantage she was happily using.

He walked back and fourth a couple steps, smoking the cigarette before throwing it on the ground, stepping on it with the heel of his black, leather shoe.

”Campbell sent her to the Garrison. She came and sang, lied to us lot sayin' she's from Ireland.” Thomas finally spoke up, taking a step forward and keeping just the minimal, necessary distance he knew she needed. His eyes locked on her as best as he could in the dark, feeling her gaze as she hears his words. ”But Polly knew, saw her by the cut with 'im. Wore a hat, thought it would be enough to fool us.” a dry chuckle left his lips. ”After a couple meetings she started spilling, believed I felt the same. Kept talkin' and I needed to have the full view before the races.” The explanation slowly started.. having sense. But not enough to calm her nerves fully.

”No need to explain it all, no it's in the past.” She said, focusing on the black material of his tie, not looking at his face. ”You've had a long time to tell me, hell, to warm me you'd go 'round with a blonde on your arm, but you didn't. Now it's– not important.” Y/N said, involuntarily stuttering by the end of her sentence.

It was all... Hard. Hard on a different level. Before it all came to a head, it was all uncertain as well. He'd come, take her places or fuck her over the counter. He'd tell her things, but never enough to make it special. Keep his arm around her shoulders in the pub but never call her his. Y/N wasn't sure what was happening between them back then, but she liked it. Felt good around the man with blood on his hands and dimples in his cheeks. The casual flings turning into something she held dear to her heart, without trying to make it hard on him with confessions.

...but then she came around, taking all his attention. Leaving Y/N feeling like nothing important, like an underwhelming fuck he'd want to forget about.

Not calling, not talking, not coming to see her.

So she moved past it, and now he was back, suddenly scooting closer and getting ahold of her hands as she finished her cigarette, ripping her out of the dark thoughts.

”He was watching you. Knew about us, I couldn't risk them taking you to jail. Not after Arthur came back barely walking.” His voice was stern, more desperate now as he saw what seemed to be indifference in her eyes. ”Look at me, Y/N” He asked, quieter, and this worked.

It always did when he talked to her gently, using the soft tone he hasn't used with anyone else. So she looked, seeing the sadness in his eyes.

”I'm looking, Thomas. It's a lot.” She admitted, her teeth nipping on her lower lip nervously.

”I know.” He responded, leaning down for a better look on her eyes. ”Today were the races. I was supposed to take her with me so she'd sing all the missing bits into my ear.” Tommy added, his voice growing husky, breathing more ragged.

”Why the hell would you tell me that now?” She asked, frustrated with his weird tactics, jealousy gnawing on her throat. Thomas smiled lightly, not noticeably seeing it.

”Because I didn't take her. Made sure she's gone for good.” Y/N's eyes widened in surprise, her eyes meeting his as she searched for the truth. He was honest. Another step closed the distance between them, his firm chest pressing lightly against her own before he leaned forward, caging her between the wall. Calloused fingers gripped her chin, tilting her head up so she wouldn't look away.

Oh, how he missed the way she looked at him. These deep, expressive eyes he grew to yearn after whenever she wasn't around.

”Because when I touched her...” Tommy whispered, moving even closer. His warm breath touching her lips and chin. ”It felt like I was cheating on you.” His forehead came to rest against hers, feeling how she slightly relaxed against his body. ”I couldn't risk putting you in danger just because I so desperately need you around, Miss Y/L/N. You must forgive an old fool, eh?” His low voice slightly muffled, as his lips moved against hers in the incredibly close proximity they found themselves in.

Y/N chuckled, hearing him. The tears in her eyes remain hidden from his watchful gaze only because of the awful lighting by the pub.

”You're awful, Shelby.” She finally breathed out, leaving a small kiss, almost a peck on his lips before pushing her arms beneath his coat, wrapping them around his torso. ”Hug me, Tommy” Y/N asked quietly, touching the terrain they never explored before. The simple intimacy with no sexual undertones.

Surprisingly, Tommy couldn't imagine a better ending to this encounter as his arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her face into his neck.

Resting his chin on her head, Thomas knew he was the real winner, regardless of the race results.