cherry lipbalm

writing when the mood takes me (very rarely)

[cherry-lipbalm]

masterlists

tommy shelby

spencer reid

anthony bridgerton

[shymagnolia]

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

[shymagnolia]

okay so i just got my dream job??? a week after applying to it?? and now i’m thinking….maybe this is the good luck post

[flagellant]

…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment

likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post

[coffee-or-hot-cocoa]

i need all the help i can get for finals

[finnglas]

Hey so

the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like. 

So you know. 

This might be the real one, y’all.

[cherry-lipbalm]

tommy shelby

tommy shelby. marital bliss.

part five

concept: yn’s family is down on their luck, for want of a better phrase. tommy comes up with a rather extreme solution.

Tommy once told Arthur that he was the one who did all the thinking, so that the latter didn’t need to. It was a strength of his, what made him the man he is, but it was also, admittedly, a weakness, that had a certain tendency to bog him down. Like now, for example. While the outside protested a fairly contrasting picture, his mind was pummelling at a hundred miles an hour.

“I’m sure she’s just gone for a walk, Tom, no need to worry. She’s always goin’ off on us.” Her mother, sitting at the breakfast table, spread butter onto a slice of toast. “Isn’t she, Jack?”

Jack, through a mouthful of bacon, eggs, and the rest, just managed to muffle an agreement. “She cannit be tamed, Mum always says.”

Tommy flashed him a smile of acknowledgment, then turned, unaffected, back into the staring contest he was entertaining with the wall ahead of him. An untouched Full English did nothing to stir his appetite as he continued to falter between glaring at the wallpaper and the empty seat to his right. A, previously steaming, cup of coffee before it, but, evidently, it didn’t seem as if YN was going to show.

“But, I mean,” her mother sighed, pondering as she paused her knife and fork. “It’s not as if she’d ever have a reason to skip breakfast. Especially one like this.”

She blissfully returned to her pancakes, and Tommy died a little inside.

Marrying her had been a stretch, yes, okay, he’ll hold his hands up and admit that. But somehow kissing her had been even worse. Their marriage had been void of any genuine romantic feelings (apart from all of the ones he had harboured for maybe the whole time he’d ever known her), and to instigate them had now effectively unwound all the comfort his proposal had provided. He’d done this, mainly, to bring YN and her family some solace: a warm roof over their head. And now, what had he done? Make himself look a fool, and now YN won’t even come to breakfast because she can’t bear facing him.

“Like you say, Mum,” Jack said, “wild.”

Then, Tommy realised where YN was.

one full english later

Tommy’s thing had always been horses, ever since they were little, YN awed at the way he seemed to connect with them, and was rather jealous of how he had adopted a hobby of his own, and one that he could rely on financially. His empire began with horses, betting and fixing mostly, YN still enjoyed attending the races with him when she was invited. She could ignore the illegalities for the most part when she got to see Tommy in his element.

So, even though it was Tommy’s thing, sometimes she found it relaxing within herself to come down and visit the stables he had on his land.

“‘Ey buddy,” she whispered, hand gently on the nose of the brooding horse closest to her. Albeit the smell was… horrendous, to say the least, YN smiled to herself as her hands ran over the coarse coat of his torso, then the opulence of his mane. His nose almost took her out as he turned into her, but she took that as a sign that he liked her.

The nicker of the horse vibrated under her touch, and was so fantasising that YN didn’t even realise Tommy had entered the stable until she saw his shadow approach her, blocking out the dewing sun.

Mercifully, he avoided eye contact, slapping his hand instead on the neck of the stallion, admiring the animal with a gleaming eye and small smirk. Proud, was the emotion YN felt radiating off him, letting it hit her for a brief second until she began to drown in complete awkwardness. Her hands, longing for something to do, fidgeted with the mane as Tommy stroked him.

“Yeah, you’re not so bad, are you? Eh?” He whispered, amicably smacking his back. YN hummed in endorsement, and he then turned to her.

“Not coming to breakfast then? Got staff graftin’ in there for nothing?” He asked with a charming smile that made YN want to blush and cry at the same time.

She hadn’t had the time yet, even with the sleepless night prior, to emotionally prepare herself for seeing Tommy this morning. She didn’t know if things between them would be awkward, if he’d tense up around her, and put up all the defences he would if she were anyone else. The thought of her being just like anybody else to Tommy was enough to make her vomit. After all the years they spent with and apart, they’d been each other’s anchor, able to bring one another back to where they came from, even when things around them were changing so much and so quickly. Tommy had grown up in the bat of an eye, she’d realised that the other night as he tended to the fire. His eyes were older, the years evident in his posture, and the way he treated people with a considerable lack of tolerance was a testament to all he had endured. And yet, YN viewed that from the inside. Through all Tommy’s tribulations, he’d come to her to complain, to drink with her, and to be comforted by the fact that she was possibly the only person who saw him as Tommy, rather than Mr Shelby.

She bowed her head, willing her staggered sigh to not be so loud and of a tell-tale to her teary condition. Because Tommy was being nice, and jokey, and acting as if last night never happened, and she knew that, no matter what, Tommy would always be right for her, and she would always be wrong for him. The last thing she had wanted to do was to let Tommy know how upset she was, but it seemed that despite all the pep talks and notes-to-self, she had zero control over her emotions, or what Tommy did to her.

And, even, despite Tommy incoherence to the general well-being of anyone apart from himself, he noticed the bashfulness of YN’s posture, and how she was trying to cough away a wobble, how she wiped at her cheeks.

“‘Ey, ‘ey.” He grabbed her hand. “YN, I’m joking. I was just joking.”

He peered down at her, attempting to look at her while she wriggled away, bashful. He stepped closer, placing his hand on her arms to prevent her burrowing any further into herself. He heard her sniffle before looking up defiantly, seemingly annoyed more than anything that he was comforting her.

“I was just joking,” he repeated in a whisper. The scent of smoke let YN know just how close he was, had she not already been able to tell by how fast her heart was beating.

“I know,” she whispered back. Her arms dropped, but her hands conveniently fell into Tommy’s.

“This is about last night.”

“Oh, you’re smart.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Yes,” she conceded. “This is about last night.”

Tommy pulled his hands out of hers, and YN subsequently cursed herself for whatever she had said to make him do so. She cautiously watched him reach to the pocket of his trousers to take out his silver cigarette box. It clicked open, and YN watched him with a deadpanned expression as he stuck the cigarette between his lips and took his time in lighting it, and then possibly the longest drag of his life.

“Come,” he eventually said, beckoning his fingers and taking her hand again. Reluctantly she followed him as he led her onto the pasture and, for some odd reason, they started walking.

“What the fuck are you doing?” YN sighed, exasperated. It was far too early in the morning and she had had barely enough sleep to be arsed with going on a walk.

“Shush,” he told her. Had it been anyone else YN would have slapped them into next week.

Instead, she rolled her eyes and focused on the coarseness of her skin against his. His thumb gently grazed over a cut on her index finger which had only just began to scab from a week prior; she’d snagged it on the barrels in the Artillery.

Trying to rid her thoughts of the Artillery, she listened out to the birds around them. She very rarely heard birds singing anymore, with Birmingham growing more industrial every second, and it was one of the things she loved most about Arrow House, it was distant, far away, in distance, sure, but almost as if in time. She felt free here, like she was returning home. Her and Tommy were both children again; they could sit on the green until tea time, cloud-watching, playing tig or whatever it is kids did nowadays, it wouldn’t be odd. That’s what Arrow House did, it allowed them to be young again. Arrow House wasn’t in Birmingham, no, it was somewhere else entirely.

She let the dead weight of her legs persist, despite their crying urge to rest. A glance behind them told her they hadn’t travelled very far, she could still hear the neighing of the horse, but yet her body felt heavy, pins and needles were working their way up her bones.

“Tom, come on, I can’t go much further,” she said, stopping in her tracks then wishing she didn’t because all she wanted to do then was fall to the floor.

“Eh? Really, come on we’ve barely started.” He gestured to the hills, carrying on walking.

“Seriously, I can’t walk very far.”

He turned, observing her frail figure in how she slouched and trying explicitly not to collapse. Her face went solemn, the hollowness under her eyes protruding, and Tommy realised how cruel he had been to make her walk when she hadn’t had a rest her whole life.

“Alright, just– ‘ere, don’t flake out on me now, eh? Just, turn and look, you can see from ‘ere.”

He strode over, holding out an abiding arm until he stood behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. His shallow breath came next to her ear as he guided her into a certain spot. Past the trees, there was an opening, and YN saw the monument of bricks that encased the river.

“It’s a bridge,” she said, rather underwhelmed.

“Okay, yes, it’s a bridge. But you know what, YN, eh?” He turned her around, and YN tried not to feel dizzy. “I came across that bridge, when I came ‘ome from France, yeah? And I didn’t think about Polly, or Finn, nor Ada. I thought about you.”

YN sighed, looking past him so she didn’t have to face him and why he was saying these things.

“I thought about coming ‘ome to you.”

“Why are you saying this?”

“Because.” His grip on her shoulders clasped once more. “If last night was it. If that’s all that it ever will be, you tell me now. If not, we can both forget it ‘appened and get on with our lives.”

Tommy had always been impatient, YN figured, and this was no exception. He’d spent his whole life looking for and carving out answers, so it seemed only fair that he demanded this of her now.

YN gulped. She knew in whatever conscience she had that she loved Tommy. But what then? What did it change? Tommy was a Shelby– the Shelby. He ran Birmingham, oversaw and controlled what went in and out. YN would crumble at being his wife, for real. And, what if it was all in her head? Their laughs and their moments, what if that was all it was ever meant to be, truly? YN adored Tommy, but what if surpassed that was nothing?

“I can’t answer that, Tom.”

The hold on her lessened, drifting helplessly down her arms. He concealed whatever spout of disappointment he had with a gratifying nod.

“You can’t make me answer that,” she continued, distress evident in her tone. When Tommy stepped back, looking out to the bridge, she stepped towards him, back arched with the weight of exhaustion both with Tommy and the bloody walk he’d brought her on.

“How am I supposed to answer that!” She called again, fumbling after him in between the blades of grass. Above them, a grey overcast was shadowing over what little sun they’d initially had. YN clutched to the fraying fabric of her dress in some vain attempt to keep herself warm.

“Let’s go inside, come on,” Tommy said, outstretching his arm.

“Tell me how I’m supposed to answer!”

“YN, come on, it’s about to bloody rain!” He yelled.

Something rumbled, and they both looked up astonished when the first fall of rain succumbed to a heavy outpour, lashing down on them. The house seemed so far away in that instance. They gasped at the sudden onslaught, standing like two items of laundry gone out to dry. YN brushed back the hair that swamped her eyes, and watched Tommy –for whatever reason– remove his jacket.

“Stop this, YN, now. Come inside,” he said, trudging over and holding his blazer over her head in a feeble use of an umbrella. “Please.”

His eyes begged with her, painstakingly blue and wide and young as she stared back to him. His cold panting hit her face methodically, ambushing her with his closeness. YN stopped herself from falling into the open space of his chest where his arms came around her, holding up his jacket. She saw the boy she’d greeted at the train station, and the boy she’d said goodbye to months before. She saw the boy who had taken her to carnivals and docks and walked her home when it was dark. She wanted to keel over and vomit.

“Come on,” he said once more, for the last time. She nodded, and they began to walk back, trying their very best to avoid each puddle as it formed. Tommy’s pace was quick and desperate in climbing the hills, often leaving YN a few measly steps behind as he persistently ran back and forth in dragging her along. She wobbled, clutching onto his arm and waiting to be inside where she could fall to the floor. Her bones ached with fatigue, scraping against the walls of her skin to be relieved, but Tommy continued to pull her up.

“Not long now, not long now,” Tommy cooed in her ear, more to keep himself going YN guessed as he heaved an arm around her waist to carry her onto the porch. Tommy’s voice was ringing out, but it met her in muffles and static. He said something else, something with a tone of warning, and then his arms were under YN as he heaved her into the air. She recognised the familiarity of his hold around her, and allowed herself to rest her head in the crevice of his shoulder. He carried her dead weight the last stretch into the living room, and YN willed herself to ignore how well accustomed he was to carting bodies, which was, thankfully, especially easy to do when she was set in front of the fire.

She heard Tommy exude a sigh, one which sounded like he was rooms away, like he had left himself out in the rain. Her ears were muffled with rain water and an oncoming headache, and she suddenly found it dubiously hard to keep her eyes propped open. Her arms were shaking under the pressure of keeping herself propped up by the fire, but she fought to stay sat with whatever strength she had left in her —but YN had skipped breakfast and worked mercilessly for five years, so she wasn’t at all surprised when she felt her body slipping away from her.

“Tom,” she muttered, failing to get his attention at all. He was perched in front of her, trying to get the fire raging to a degree which could dry the damp off them both. With all the prodding and cussing, he didn’t notice her trembling limbs, how her body was going cold and heavy even in spite of his efforts. He didn’t notice until her arms gave out under her with a loud thud to the floor, a harsh whack to the head echoing behind him.

“Fuck’s sake.”

[machineryangel]

she's a 10 but her social battery dies before she even goes outside

[cherry-lipbalm]

anthony bridgerton

fifth season and counting. anthony bridgerton.

part two. (part one)

concept: yn has lost count of how many seasons she has gone without a suitor, but her mother certainly hasn’t, and if it takes recruiting anthony bridgerton to get her off her back, then so be it.

I was starting to think that maybe I wasn’t the issue, but in fact the serious lack of desirable men, their inability to convey a single well-established form of conversation, and my mother’s undeservedly high standards that prohibited me from a proposal. I knew I was kidding myself in pretending I really had no part to play in my status, but it was nice to believe, for once, that maybe it wasn’t all my fault.

“Alright, let me see who’s first on your dance card,” my mother said, grabbing my wrist with a sense of fervour she only inhibited at soirées.

“How is there no one on your dance card?” She asked next, as if she hadn’t been the one to turn away the last three suitors.

“I don’t know, mother.”

She sighed, a sound I had grown rather accustomed to this evening, and turned back to the scenery with a plastered smile. Even having been pushed to the outskirts of those that spectated the dancing, my mother seemed to be in somewhat of a pleasant mood, her eyes waltzing between everyone in attendance, waving courteously as if she had some sort of superiority here. I, meanwhile, slumped beside her, keeping my head low and failing to calm the panic within me every time someone neared, threatening the possibility of conversation.

Although my mother was my biggest critic, there was no shaking the thought that she didn’t exactly mind all of this. As I watched her in that conservatory ball, smiling and gently applauding, nodding graciously at anyone who dared look our way, I realised she had really never stopped being the same mother she was five seasons ago. She treated every time like it was the first, with pure excitement and virtue, as if she would spend the rest of her days doing this: trying to marry me off, as if she enjoyed it.

“Lady YLN,” an endearing yet patronising voice approached us, one I recognised very well indeed.

“Lady Danbury! Oh, what a pleasure,” my mother responded, finally turning from the crowd. Her hands gratefully found hers, clasping them with a tight smile as she entered our small circle.

“The pleasure is mine,” she smiled. The thud of her cane reverberated through me. “And I’m assuming, behind the mask, Miss YN.”

“Lady Danbury,” I curtsied in an affirming response. “We are truly grateful for your hospitality. You have outdone yourself, once again.”

She smiled approvingly, and my chest swelled with a vague sense of accomplishment that I knew meant nothing. People were watching, certainly, but not to observe me as a contestant, to awe at my eloquence or brandishing of knowledge, or even at the dress my mother had had tailored especially. They were at staring out of sheer competition — they were eyeing me up like prey.

“Come, now,” Lady Danbury said, oblivious or uncaring to the eyes that followed us. “We have lots to do.”

My mother and I exchanged a glance, with varying degrees of optimism, and followed suit. Lady Danbury walked with an air of superiority, and everyone she passed curtsied and bowed accordingly. It made me ashamed to follow her as she found her way through the crowd effortlessly. I knew I did not belong. We meandered past a couple dressed in blue who I remembered had married three seasons ago. She had always been adamant he would be the one of her suitors she should betroth, and their matrimony had been swift and successful. I vividly remember one night I shared with the girl where we spoke in this very conservatory. She was unsure of whether her feelings were reciprocated, and here they were married, and here I was, simply commenting on marriage, with nothing else to show for myself. I should have never left the house, I wish I had stayed at home.

“Are you enjoying the evening, Miss YN?”

“Very much so, Lady Danbury.”

“Don’t lie to me, child.”

“Okay,” I squeaked, and turned quickly away. Suddenly, I gained an immense interest for candles and how they lit up the room.

“This is your fifth season, correct?”

Really, I had lost count, and even if I hadn’t, the last thing I wanted to do now was talk about it. Had the underlying notion of it all in everyone’s stares not been enough on the matter? The fact that I was still unmarried hung in the air like a thick fog, it was irrevocably discernible, and I thought it rude of Lady Danbury to ask the question, nonchalant, as if everyone here did not already know that this was my fifth season.

“Indeed,” I replied within a sigh.

She craned her neck over the spectators, eyes glistening over and into them, through the sea of dancers, wading past one another with tight jackets and flowing dresses. I tried ardently to imagine myself being one of them: delicately poised, dancing to the right rhythm.

“Well, we better get a move on, I think.”

My mother laughed her I’m-trying-to-be-pleasant-but-am-certainly-not-about-to-be laugh.

“Do you not think my daughter has had enough time to do so, Lady Danbury? Five seasons is surely satisfactory enough to sift through the bunch.”

I bowed my head, knowing she was right. I was simply too picky. Every man was either too loud or too quiet, too opinionated or too timid. I found issue with their attire, or their home, or an overbearing family (though I’d be a hypocrite to judge on that one). I could never settle for a man, and that was exactly why I was in this position at present: having Lady Danbury as my matchmaker.

“Ah, Lady Bridgerton!”

Oh, kill me now.

“Lady Danbury!”

Seriously, kill me now.

As if tonight had not raised my blood pressure enough, the last thing I needed was to act even more proper than I already was struggling to accomplish. I did not have to have ever been introduced to the Bridgertons to be aware of their status and opulence. Their names carried everyone through the season, and Daphne Bridgerton’s, particularly, carried throughout my house, as well as the burden that came with not being her. At the mention of them, I wanted to shun away, turn on my heel and run out of the Ball. The last thing I could handle was trying to navigate a conversation with the likes of the Bridgertons. I knew I would say something stupid, embarrass myself or, god forbid, fall over again. My mother kept me in place with a hand on my shoulder, one which I’m sure would appear caring to anyone else, but which I knew was anything but.

“Oh, what a wonderful evening!” Lady Bridgerton smiled, approaching us and allowing the circle of her family to form behind her. My posture shadowed, compressed with the abundance of people ahead of us now, some even daringly encroaching beside us.

“It is indeed. Have you met Lady YLN?” She asked, gesturing to my mother. I watched her eyes jump over, recognising the surname and the status that came with it. In this town, names meant so much more than someone’s identity.

“I can’t say I have had the pleasure,” she smiled. My mother curtsied, and I bowed my head. Not out of courtesy, but out of a vehement wish to be anywhere but here.

“And of course her daughter, Miss YN.”

And then, shit. This was the moment I had dreaded. An obvious introduction, the saying of my name. I had managed to keep myself somewhat covered in the shadows and in between the bodies of everyone here, but now I was a statue in the room, to be observed. My bones became rigid, I forgot to curtesy, and I could find nothing within in me but to stare, dumbfounded.

A good start, if I don’t say so myself.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. Then, she took the liberty of introducing all her children, who smiled politely as they should in my direction. I gulped, wondering just how long of this interaction I had already endured.

“… and, oh, Anthony is here somewhere. Benedict, where is your brother–?”

“Here, mother!” A voice came, and a shuffle amongst the group as a brunet appeared with a more-than-charming smile. He nodded at all of us, and I watched his neck stiffen upon me, his eyes peering into mine with a gaze I recognised as the same of his who had given me his hand on my less-than-elegant entrance.

I decided, right there and then, that I would just have to pass away.

“Anthony, these are the YLNs.”

I thought about crying, about running away and never coming back, but my nerves kept me still. It didn’t help any more when the adults exchanged some knowing glance amongst them when Lord Bridgerton moved from greeting my mother to extending his palm to me.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, as if we hadn’t already met, as if we were those two old friends again sharing an inside joke.

I placed my fingers in his, with a determined nudge from my mother, and flustered entirely when he pressed his lips to my knuckles in a chaste greeting. I tried to ignore the whispers around us, as well as the excited giggle of my mother and proud hum of Lady Danbury, and somehow found it not too hard to do so. He stood back up straight with an easing smile, nodding again to me to which I couldn’t help but meet with a playful rolling of the eyes. I knew it had been inappropriate as soon as I had done it, and what would people think of me acting so rudely in front of a family as well-established as the Bridgertons? But the Lord laughed again, quietly, and it didn’t seem to matter what anyone else thought.

This is how all my friends had felt, I realised. All those other women who glistened under the sight of men and their suitors. I’d rendered them silly, dismissive of how one can instigate such a change in another, being a force of optimism and joy. Yet as Lord Bridgerton stood ahead of me with such a knowing smile, even being a man I had only met this evening, I seemed to understand it all at once. Had I been waiting five seasons for this moment? And had I been stupid to fall in so feverishly and deep within only a few sentences?

Had it not been for the shift in the haste of the atmosphere, I would have never noticed the orchestra starting up again, I had been so hilariously engrossed in whatever was or wasn’t between the Lord and I. I stumbled to my side when those around me flurried to find their partners, and most of them seemed to do so with the man ahead of me in mind.

“It seems you have a crowd, Anthony,” Lady Bridgerton said, and I watched his mask move while his eyebrows furrowed. He turned to the awaiting throng of women who had inched closer and closer during our meeting, with batted eyes and beaming smiles, doing all my mother had instructed me to do. Again, I had been too late, and had missed the mark. Overtaken a whole season again by women who were far prettier and more equipped to this lifestyle. I noticed the tone in his mother’s voice seemed just as keen for me to be out of the picture.

“I see,” he said, remorseful, and I was sure I would once again have to prepare myself for the rejection I had endured season upon season.

You can imagine my shock, then, when he extended his hand toward me for the second time that night.

“May I have this honour?” He asked, quirking his brow.

I, frankly, panicked. If it wasn’t for another merciful jab in the back from my mother I would have stared at him wide-eyed for the rest of the night.

“Oh, yes, yeah, love to,” I said, forgetting every lesson in grace and decorum I’d ever been taught. In my defence, I hardly had much practice of the whole ‘accepting a dance’ thing.

I took his hand, sensitive to his fingers curling around my palm. He smiled gratefully and led me to the dance floor, much to the dismay of the women around us waiting attentively. I, yet, found it remarkably easy to ignore the glares and whispers, possibly for the first time in my life, as Lord Bridgerton wandered seamlessly though the crowd with me on his arm.

“I’m not very good at this, by the way,” I said as he waded me to stand in front of him.

“Well, if going by your earlier performance is any credit,” he said, referencing our first encounter, “I should believe that.”

I bowed my head in a mixture of shame and amusement. His fingers benevolently clasped and unclasped against mine: a gentle reminder of his grounding presence. I willed myself not to get too carried away, I must first, at least, focus on not tripping myself up on this dance floor.

There was the hollowing reverberation of the cello, and with it I was swept along the tiles. I knew, with all the indoctrination of my mother, I should have been able to instantly recall the music, allow the rhythm of it to guide me in which steps were the right ones to take, for my feet to act on my own behalf and waltz in synchronisation with those around me, but it seemed no matter how hard my mother tried, I just could not dance.

“Sorry,” I cringed, feeling a tug when I had wandered in the wrong direction.

“Don’t be,” he assured me, a snicker under his words of which I didn’t feel was at my expense. I clutched tighter to the fabric of his coat, hoping maybe he’d be able to propel me into some sense. When he secured my waist and twirled me through the air, I was forced to suppress a squeal.

“You don’t do this often?”

“Why, can you tell?” I said, flustered when he placed me back onto my own two feet (for the second time that evening). He laughed, as if I had caught him off guard, and watched our feet –well, his feet– follow the music, while mine struggled to keep up.

“I suppose we can’t all be gifted,” he shrugged, and sent me off with a small smirk while our partners changed momentarily. My ears perked at his laughter upon my confusion of suddenly being in the arms of a Lord I’m sure had once escorted me to an unfruitful chaperone of an art exhibition two seasons ago. We skipped for a few short moments until I cascaded my way back to the brunet, who’s smirk had failed to falter.

“You’re too kind,” I continued. He pressed his palm to mine, raising it quickly so I was to spin, where he stopped me my back pressed to his front, and I was certain of his breath behind my ear.

The music paused, and I was sure we were to take our leave, but the faint strings of the violin altered us, maintaining our position. A hand cupped in mine with another lingering on my side, I felt a harrowing paradox of everyone’s eyes on me as well as the solitude between him and I. My dance card fumbled against my wrist, hanging there –as I– in anticipation until the music started again. Slowly, my heel turned under the direction of Lord Bridgerton, readjusting his hold more modestly with a curt smile.

Our hands, once interlinked above us, slowly descended until his knuckles were held in front of my face, almost cascading my eyes. With whatever expression upon his lips covered by his palm and mine, our eyes met in an odd sincerity I was unfamiliar to. There was a sensation I could almost acquire to pain in my chest, with the way it hollowed out my ribs under his stare and the way he looked at me. I wondered if this was that feeling described in all those novels, timelessly referenced, or maybe my organs were shutting down on me, I wasn’t sure.

The music stopped. There were bows, a few small shudders of applause, and the sound of heels as those unaffected walked away, subdued. I remained in the confined space the Lord and I had made of one another. I felt his pulse in his fingertips as he lowered my hand, making no subsequent effort to hinder his presence. Once the cloud had passed, fogging up my brain, I rustled for something to say – anything. God, why hadn’t I listened to my mother?

“Who else is on your dance card?” He asked, in such an accusatory tone I took a step back.

“I’m sorry?”

“On your dance card.” He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned down to me as if he were entertaining a child, but lowered his voice as if he were talking to anyone but. “Who else is on your dance card?”

There was a gravel to his tone, one which I couldn’t imagine someone would establish in public, never mind in such grandeur, and by such a figure.

“Oh, uh… well,” I flustered. He hadn’t even been a candidate on my dance card in the first place, so this, frankly, was embarrassing. There was no one on my dance card, and I knew it. For some reason, I pretended to have lost it, like it wasn’t dangling off my wrist for us both to see.

He took my arm, prohibiting me from my facade of searching for the card which was in plain sight, and turned me delicately to him. My face rushed.

“Your card is full,” he said.

“Ha, ha,” I replied, lacking all humour.

“What?”

“It is not funny. You need not rub it in.”

“That is not my intention.”

“Oh, don’t be condescending. I hardly wanted to come here in the first place, it is hard enough, I do not need you–”

“I am trying,” he interrupted, raising a hand to my face, “to tell you I want you to dance with no one tonight, but me.”

He had stepped closer again, and was tilting his head down to me and using that godforsaken tone. I felt that crushing feeling in my ribs once more.

“Oh, you’ve reserved me, have you?” I said. “Like a carriage?”

The flirtatious tilt of his mouth fell with such a colosal shift I ran the risk of snorting again. My lips tugged by some invisible godly force into a grin with the paling of his face. Something struck me that Lord Bridgerton was used to getting what he wanted.

“And, on your dance card?” I prompted, crossing my arms with a poised brow of my own. “Do I get to book you in?”

He looked on at me with astonishment, and it almost shocked me all the same that he seemed to have never seen a woman fight back. I understand Lords are Lords and the Bridgertons are the Bridgertons, but, whether being foolish to think so, I thought a relationship of some sort had been established where I could chastise him, at least. Or maybe I had been stupid once again and thrown away another suitor.

“Anthony!” His mother called across the floor. She waved elegantly and discreetly to the fleet of awaiting women, almost forming a queue. “Come.”

The Lord looked to the throng, then back at me with a vanishing and insincere apologetic expression. He nodded a farewell, and strode away. It happened so quickly I barely grasped it had even happened.

And then it was me, again. I felt new, like I had endured some great travesty in my life that would serve as the turning point in my story. All I had done was stand there and be the woman my mother had always expected of me, and it still brought no joy. Everything she had built up for me to do, and for what? Had I not just experienced the one potential interaction that gained me insight into this other world, and watched it be dragged away in the same minute? There was simply no use, I knew it. I’d done it again: thrown myself and my opportunities away by being too much of the bad stuff and not enough of the good. I would be one of those women that marries the much older gentleman, that lives a life of melancholy solitude: successful to my mother and any other established family, but graven with the burden of lost potential.

I wandered back to the outskirts of the dance floor.

“It is a lovely evening, isn’t it?” My mother implored.

“Oh, indeed,” Lady Bridgerton replied. I stood beside my mother like a the stand of an afternoon tea no one touched: of old cakes and egg sandwiches.

Lord Bridgerton would be wed this season. One of those women would appease him, and he should live a very satisfied life betrothed to her, running the Bridgerton household. He would be just as successful in his own marriage in how he had been in appointing Daphne and the Duke, who he’d painted together with ease.

The remnants of his family didn’t stick around for long, I’m sure they worried for what my presence would do to tarnish their reputation, and they wandered back into the delicate liveliness of the Ball, leaving me and my mother to stale in the silence.

“I should have known that one wouldn’t have lasted,” she said. “Nevertheless, let’s try again. Maybe Lord Darcy will take our fancy.”

I scoffed, this time with no humour to my tone. “You really have a considerable lack of faith in my prospects, don’t you?”

“YN,” she tutted, speaking softly and placing an equally benevolent hand over mine. I drifted back in the fear she was about to act.. maternal. “I’m only being realistic. Where would kidding ourselves get us?”

This was dreadful. I wanted to go home. I wanted Clarence to bake me a cake so I could eat it all whole and then go lie in bed until I was nine-and-twenty.

“You are mercifully supportive,” I seethed, sarcasm distinct.

“I’m merely stating the facts, YN. You are in your fifth season, and you think you can betroth someone like Anthony Bridgerton? I beg you, dear, gain some perspective.”

I inhaled. My lip pouted and I tried to think about anything but my mother’s unwavering disappointment in me. I thought about cake, about my bed, about how I would be alone, and how the fact of the latter no longer seemed to appease me as much as it used to.

[cherry-lipbalm]

anthony bridgerton masterlist

fifth season and counting

yn has lost count of how many seasons she has gone without a suitor, but her mother certainly hasn’t, and if it takes recruiting anthony bridgerton to get her off her back, then so be it.

part one part two

[cherry-lipbalm]

anthony bridgerton

fifth season and counting.

yn x anthony, not really enemies to lovers more i-fell-in-love-with-you-but-don’t-think-i’m-good-enough-so-i’m-going-to-pretend-it-never-happened vibe

concept: yn has lost count of how many seasons she has gone without a suitor, but her mother certainly hasn’t, and if it takes recruiting anthony bridgerton to get her off her back, then so be it.

Last season, Daphne Bridgerton wedded the Duke, and since, I have yet to have a single ounce of peace from it.

If it weren’t for Lady Whistledown’s debriefs, nor the tedious eyes of every lady I passed and their mothers, or even the judgemental gaze fermented in the portraits of the hallways I passed on a daily basis, willing me to do better, I’d be living a rather tranquil life, if I don’t say so myself. Yet, I was to be chastised at every minute. On every walk, at every meal, throughout every soirée and ball that presented itself, I felt my tolerance, and that of everyone else’s, deteriorate. With that, at least, my mother and I could find common ground.

“You’ve been awake since dawn, I suppose?” She asked, accompanied by the persistent anticipation of argument to her tone that she had seemed to make rather well an acquaintance with as of late.

“And why do you suppose,” I countered, focusing my gaze on the eggs ahead of me. To the sound of her sigh I remembered to remove my elbows from the table as I dug in, but not without a sneer to the empty seats surrounding us at the breakfast table to emphasise my point of who on Earth I was supposed to be impressing.

“I noticed the stable appeared rather… unkept on my walk this morning,” she hummed. An absentminded finger of hers droned around her glass, her appetite obviously more centred on something else entirely.

“You mean you’ve been spying,” I said, shoving a forkful of runny yolk and bacon in my mouth, much to her dismay.

I ignored the rolling of her eyes. “I’m not spying. Merely observant.”

I hummed back, glancing up to see her reprimanding expression before gladly returning to my breakfast. Clarence always seemed to know when tensions were running high, and served my breakfast accordingly: stacked to the brim. She knew that if anything was to take my mind off things, it was her Full English. I had smiled when realising she had added an extra slice of toast, with inch-thick butter to accommodate for it. She’d been right to do so; tonight was Lady Danbury’s ball, one that had been mentioned throughout the papers and this house far too many times to count. A dress had been hanging on the back of my bedroom door to be a painful reminder every time I opened my eyes for the past week, had my mother’s relentless comments not stricken the fear into me enough.

“I only say, YN, for I am concerned you won’t tire yourself out for tonight. I need you to be proper, and… observant, like myself.”

“Hm, you’ve made it abundantly clear,” I muffled, finding my way to the mushrooms.

“Oh,” she tutted, as if I were some sort of dog she’d seen relieving itself on the street. “Must you eat so…”

She failed to finish her sentence, but the scorn of her voice made me raise my eyebrows all the same. Looking up for the first time that morning, I adjusted to how far away we were, her sat at one end of the banquet table and I at the other. I struggled to see her face past the unlit candles and floral centrepieces, but felt the weight of her judgement from the distance between us all the same. It seemed, no matter how many times I endured it, there was no end to the way it pierced through me.

“So…?” I urged her.

“I just hope you have more sense of manners this evening.”

Something told me her issue surrounding me and my breakfast had nothing to do with my execution of manners.

“I will, mother, I always do.”

“And yet, here we are.”

I stopped eating, letting the blistered tomato go amiss on my fork as I set it down. I swallowed apprehensively, and wiped the corner of my mouth with a napkin. My mother had seemed to make some sort of game out of my failure as a lady. How I’d been unable, for the fifth season now, to entice any approval and secure a marriage — nay, not even a suitor. While it was some sort of cathartic ritual for her by now, the novelty had long worn off, and something my mother failed to imagine was how wearying it was for myself too.

The only solace I had obtained this upcoming evening was that it was to be a Masquerade Ball. The prospect of hiding my face and being unidentifiable swelled my chest with joy and relief. I had implored for my mask to be as covering as possible, my request hidden behind an eagerness for elaborate and flattering designs. Of course, I only cared for my countenance to be unrecognisable, to be protected from the knowing glances and prolonged stares. Albeit, while my desire to be betrothed may have diminished with every season, I knew my hidden identity would only work as an advantage for me. With no one knowing who I was, I was gifted a blank slate. There was no gossip attained to my face, and therefore no expectations or hinderances I had to apply to myself. For a moment, briefly, I was the young girl only just embarking onto her first season.

My mother cleared her throat across the table. I wondered, if I was particularly lucky, if I could use my new identity to formulate an excuse to be apart from my mother this evening, only to ensure no connections to my true self are made, of course. I sat back in the chair, allowing my plate to be taken away.

“Tonight is a big night, YN.” She spoke. “Lady Danbury will be accompanying us–”

Babysitting me, she meant.

“– and I am sure of it, this time. We will find you an eligible bachelor.”

And, my God, if I had a shilling for every time I heard her say that.

one dress fitting later

I had been reminded now, sixteen times, the way to hold my fan, to bat my eyes and, most importantly, to smile. My mother assured me that the only thing she wanted to pass my lips was a grin, and even then, only at the man who we (she) deemed most worthy.

I willed myself not to let it slip that beggars can not necessarily be choosers.

By the time our carriage arrived in front of Lady Danbury’s conservatory, I had managed to bite my tongue (I had learned well, it seemed). My mother and I, though already remarkably well acquainted with the instances of balls and, above all, Lady Danbury’s opulence to running them, peered through the carriage’s curtains eagerly. The courteous sound of people arriving provided a certain buzz to the atmosphere that I hadn’t missed at all. While my mother watched on with glistening eyes, already brandishing the delicacy of her posture, I greeted hello to the old friend residing in the pit of my stomach known as forsworn dread. I was much older than the first time I had attended a ball, and still, I hadn’t found a way to combat the nerves that attacked me in this moment. There was no alleviation in something that only got worse every year. I was convinced the stares would be more intense, the whispers even louder. Bile rose to my throat at the thought of how everyone would stop when I entered. They’d look down on me with pity, some would wonder why I put myself through trying, mercilessly, every year to be dealt the same fate, to only be in the same position again next year. The music would shudder with my footsteps, a falter to the ideal scenery, shattered by my mere presence. I’d be an impostor, a spinster. I didn’t belong here, and I wanted to go home.

“YN, come.”

My breath hitched. I swept a strand of curled hair from my eye and brandished my gaze to the mask sitting on the pillowed carriage seat beside me. The dressmaker had done a splendid job, despite my mother’s concerns, and had created a magnificently woven accessory. It matched my dress in colour, with accented gold framing the edges which, I triumphed, would run across most of my face, only stopping at the stoop of my cheekbones. Had I been told the maker had crept into my room one night and secretly melded my face to the creation, I would have been sharp to believe it. I draped the string behind my head and let it cling to my hair, the mask falling into my facial features.

“Y/N.”

My mother was wedged in the pebbled path to the conservatory, adorned with lights and ivies. The artificial hope in her countenance made me want to return home even more, but I knew it would be worse for me to do so, to admit defeat and to let down the woman in front of me, to whom I owed so much more.

“Yes, certainly,” I whispered. There was no ignoring the influx of people swarming into the conservatory, but I simply had to pretend it did not matter. I heard my mother beginning to entertain someone who had rushed to her presence, and she was swept away in an instance, leaving me on my own, which I was left to deliberate on whether was a fortune or not. I took solace in the fact that I hadn’t recognised the voice of who had cornered my mother, and relished in that, if there was one good thing that could come from my frequent annual visits, my generation had long been wedded off, and maybe no one around here would know me at all.

I stepped out, my hand guiding itself to where the guard stood, completely in awe of what Lady Danbury had presented, and in some oddly confound optimism that maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad.

Whatever hope I momentarily grasped subsequently dissipated, however, when my own grasp did not meet that of any guard alongside the carriage, and my heel slipped, sending me pummelling to the ground.

I, suddenly, no longer admired the dedication of the pebbled path, not when the rocks themselves were jabbed into my knees and palms. I only hoped the fall was not enough to draw blood, or graze what skin of me was visible, as it would surely be enough to ward off anyone that even dared to go near me. That, and I prayed my screech had not caught any eyes, although I knew it was fruitless to think my fumble had gone unnoticed.

Already, as I knelt on the ground of the path, having not even made it inside, I felt defeated. I subsided my weight onto my backside, slouching on the floor, barely concerned to any ripping of my dress or what onlookers may think. Let them judge, I thought, what more could they say? This was only this night’s entertainment to them. Something else to add onto the list of why my whole prospect as a woman was a failure.

“Oh dash, are you alright?”

I cursed myself. The last thing I needed now was anyone’s feigned pity.

“I am quite fine, thank you,” I said, clearing my throat and pushing down any flushed humiliation that threatened to make me a teary mess. I could at least still try to redeem myself, but I wasn’t going to do a good job of that whilst kneeling on the floor.

“Here, let me help you,” the voice came again. Insistingly kind, and yet I wanted to rip their face off. But I was a lady, so I glanced up and mercifully took the gloved hand outstretched to me.

I sighed, curling my fingers around their palm. “Thank you.”

They pulled me up with an ‘uumph!’ back onto my feet. The shock of it all must have still been coursing through me, for I wobbled on my stance, but the grip tightened on my hand and another came to my forearm to steady me. I leant on it dependently, desperate not to suffer another embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry, this is… humiliating, to say the least,” I said, trying to laugh it off.

“Please,” he said, “don’t apologise.”

The gratification of his voice willed me to raise my head. I was surprised, grateful and humiliated all over again when I saw he was someone relatively close to my age. He was adorned in a mask, but a meek one which suggested he was only playing the role as to appease someone dear to him. I was still able to see the youthful stubble across his skin, and the small smile he looked upon me with, like an old friend with whom I was sharing an inside joke with we had rectified years before. I felt more at ease in the ability to laugh at myself when what was a courteous smile reached his eyes and his hands fell.

“I rather indulge in a drink or two myself before an event as such in an attempt to dilute any nerves, but… dare I suggest you may have had one too many?”

I scoffed, much too loudly, unattractively, and close to his face, and was endearingly reminded of the time my mother had chided me for doing so a few years prior in front of a Lord Dawsdon, who I was to never hear from again after my mother likened the outburst to that of a certain farmyard animal. I composed myself rather quickly, and pursed my lips, reminding them their only duty was to smile.

“I assure you,” I said nevertheless, “I am somewhat appropriate. Even I am aware arriving intoxicated is less likely to make a good impression.”

“Ah, you are more well versed than you seem,” he said, and I resisted the urge to scoff again. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, perfectly fine, thank you.” I smiled. “Just a wobble.”

The fear coursed through me then that maybe I had broken a heel, and watched the amusement of the man before me transform to worry at my own as I frantically waded through the layers of fabric to my dress to ascertain the status of my shoes. My mother had bought them especially, and to think of her finding them broken made me revisit the bile in my throat from earlier. I bundled up my skirt, revealing their intact state, and breathed a sigh of relief. When I returned to the man’s gaze, I saw him peering at where I had previously with an astounding flush to his cheeks. I wasn’t particularly well-trained, despite my years’ experience, to the etiquette of… everything, and realised only then that maybe hiking my skirt up past my thigh and not been necessarily appropriate.

“My apologies,” I muttered, dropping the hem and fixing my hair in the awkwardness that ensued. He coughed clearly and abruptly, and insisted.

“The apologies are all mine, Miss…” his voice trailed away, and I clicked all too late that he was searching for my name.

As I fumbled, not yet acquainted to introducing myself, I caught my mother out of the corner of my eye, punctual as ever. She had obviously grown impatient; she had that wrinkle above her left eyebrow that told me so. I dreaded to keep her waiting any longer, but couldn’t disguise the thankfulness I felt for her interruption, for possibly the first time in my life. I bid my apologies and my farewell to the man with a, less than par, curtesy and rushed to meet my mother, a careful yet haste flurry in my steps as to not cause any real damage to my heels this time.

I hoped that maybe that would be the worst of it, and I could leave that part of the night behind me, outside of the conservatory, this ball and my prospects, where it belonged.

part two.

[ewrfewrewr-deactivated20230916]

hi everyone! it’s zahra, i accidentally deactivated my old blog (same user, milfrrynation) and was devastated to find out there’s no way to restore it. i’m trying to overlook what happened, please help me find my mutuals so things can go back to normal. all reblogs are appreciated <3

tagging a few of my old mutuals (unfortunately can’t remember everyone’s @s) to get the word out @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy @meetmymouth @fullofstyles @daaydreamy @stylesmygucci @darlingimbroke @allthegoodgirlzgotohell @chalametshoney @harrystylesslutt @finelinevogue @erodasfishtacos @iconicharry @londonharry @gucciwins @peterspeachy @justice4canyonmoon @g0ldenkiwi @harrysfolklore @givemesomeboobies @harryhandstan @hizzos @burberryharold @hoesontour @finekisses @daydreamswithme @for-fucks-sake-h @mindofharry @fkinavocado @mouthfulloftoothpasterry @damnasstyles @strawberryystyles @harryistheonlyoneforme @kwritingbooks @purplekiwis @swag13r @thismaydestroyme <3

[daydreamswithme]

!!!!

[cherry-lipbalm]

tommy shelby

marital bliss. tommy shelby.

part four.

concept: yn’s family is down on their luck, for want of a better phrase. tommy comes up with a rather extreme solution.

YN was never comfortable with telling people what to do, especially Tommy's staff. In fact, even calling them his 'staff' didn't feel right.

Every time she visited Tommy she could never demand anything from the maids that paced up and down the hallways; it didn't feel right asking them to do a task she could just as easily do on her own, and they always seemed busy; after all, working for Tommy Shelby had to be a demanding job, to say the least. Yet, when Tommy had asked a passing Mary to run the bath in his ensuite for her, she couldn't find it in her to protest. Instead, she followed behind her sheepishly, wringing her hands as she led the way to Tommy's room. YN got the feeling that neither of them were ready to trespass onto sacred soil, opening the door slowly and peering inside, almost as if expecting him to be there, scolding.

When they stepped inside, YN was surprised to see that Tommy's room was spotless. His bed was made, his bedside cabinet clear, no clothes sprawled on the floor like he'd so habitually made a frequent occurrence of when he came over to her house. The thought crossed her mind to throw her clothes around his bedroom when she got ready for the bath.

Speaking of, Mary escaped to the ensuite and began running the hot water. YN took a seat on the edge of Tommy's bed, trailing her hands over the thickness of the duvet, listening to the gushing of water. The anticipation of being soaked in warmth made her feet restless, tapping her toes in excitement. She wondered what side of the bed Tommy slept in.

Then, it wasn't long until Mary was finished, and she came out the bathroom drying her hands. "All done," she said.

YN beamed, jumping up and thanking her profusely, meandering past her in desperation to head into the ensuite, which she could see had steamed up over the course of the bath filling up, and the pile of towels on the radiator, too... it was enough to make her cry.

She thanked Mary again, then sauntered into the room, gracefully leaning her back on the door to gently push it closed. Closing her eyes in bliss, then opened them to see that, yes, she wasn't dreaming and this was all fantastically real. She didn’t allow a single second for the water to cool before she stripped, then stepped into the hot water. Even though it irritatingly burnt her skin, she didn't mind at all. Upon touch, she practically melted into the tub, draping her arms on the side, resting her head on the back, she let her eyes flutter close, feeling the melting sensation of all the joints in her body alleviate every tension and creak. Her body slipped further down, until she could dunk her head underwater, relaxing the tight curls of her hair. When she broke the surface she displayed a wide grin, and the hot water did the trick of rubbing the fatigue from her eyes. Again, she set her head on the bath, blissed that this was happening for her.

It still felt immoral. Like she was using Tommy in some sort of way, in spite of the fact that he’d been the one to offer. She knew she had to cherish it, still, even if it was tainted by the thought that she didn’t rightfully deserve any of this. Tommy had worked so hard, and she had just been able to saunter in, but, well, she wouldn’t be here for long. This was a quick fix, Tommy would want her out soon enough. He said himself it was just until she got back on her feet, and surely that wouldn’t take so long? Not that she no longer had to worry about their home and getting food on the table, all of that would be taken care off by the liberty of Tommy, and all that she would feel with an astounding amount of guilt. She tried, however, to abhor it for the time being, and instead focus on the vast warmth surrounding her.

Frankly, YN had never been so relaxed, it was like she was having an out-of-body experience. Then, a knock sounded to bring her right back out of it. "You alright in there?"

"Fucking 'ell, Tom!" YN exclaimed, rising with a start. Water splashed out of the bath as she jumped.

"Sorry," he chuckled. "Sorry. Just checking you 'adn't, you know, drowned.”

"Yeah," she called through the door. "I'm fine, thanks."

"Okay."

"I'll be out in a minute," she told him, beginning to pull herself out, not having realised how much time had passed. The minute she took herself out of the heaven that was the bath, she cursed the air, wanting immediately to fall back in, but her fingers were starting to prune and the water had turned a meagre room temperature. Plus, if she got back in she was bound to catch a cold, and she’d burdened Tommy enough already.

She wrapped herself up warm with the towel on the radiator, willing herself not to exclaim over how soft and purely magnificent it felt against her skin. This is how Tommy lived day to day? Why didn’t she marry him sooner?

Using a smaller towel to ruffle her hair dry, she stole a glance of herself in the mirror. Though steamed up, YN was shocked by her appearance, one she had failed to see in a long time. Her blurred silhouette was different to what she remembered, it was more crouched, it was smaller, frailer. YN gulped guiltily, and wrapped the towel around her closer. Her conscience wanting her to do anything but, she stepped to the mirror and used her cracked palm to wipe it clean, exposing her face in the reflection. Even with the healing powers of Tommy’s bath, the incandescence that had reached her cheeks was one YN knew was only temporary. The bags under her eyes were as prominent as ever, and led YN to wonder what her bedroom would be like, her bed! All to herself, too. None of her brother’s kicking legs to keep her up through the night.

Here, however, she realised she didn’t have any night-clothes to change into.

“Shit,” she whispered, more than aware that Tommy was on the other side of the door.

She balled her fists, beginning to pace along the tiles of the bathroom, hesitant to approach the door as she turned on her heel at the last minute. Asking Tommy to go get her clothes would be weird, wouldn’t it? But what was she supposed to do! Stay in the bathroom forever? Though, to be honest, that didn’t seem so bad…

However, as she thought that, the after-effects of being in the bath were starting to hit her now, and she was beginning to shiver, her feet bare against the tiles. She needed slippers, and she needed them now.

With a deep sigh, she called, “Tommy?”

“Yeah?” He answered, making YN silently curse.

“I haven’t, well, funny story actually. I just, I haven’t got my–”

The door creaked open a tad, then Tommy’s hand poked through, a pile of clothes hanging from his hold. She squealed in delight and clutched at them, cradling the thick cotton in her arms, beaming until she realised that she had never in her life been so privileged as to own thick material.

“These aren’t mine,” she said, a dead tone to her voice as she thought about slapping Tommy across the head because who on earth has the audacity to give his wife (granted, not really his wife) another woman’s clothes?

“I know,” he replied, sensing her drastic jump to conclusion. “They’re mine. Your clothes aren’t enough to keep a snail warm, never mind yourself. You’ll wear this for now until we can get you something better.”

YN heard him light a cigarette, leaning against the door to shut it closed as she dressed. Through the wood, YN held up the clothes (a jumper and a pair of trousers) and observed them with a quirk of her brow, sceptical, to say the least.

“You’re kidding, right?” She commented. Maybe it was just the luxury of being Mrs Shelby getting to her head, but she didn’t exactly see sleeping in itchy trousers as comfortable.

“It’s either that or nothing at all.”

“I think I’d rather take nothing at all.”

“Well, I wouldn’t complain about that,” he said, candidly, and YN smacked the door whilst pretending it was him. She called him disgusting and smirked at his laughter.

They fell quiet, both growing shy and both unknowingly to their counterpart. YN proceeded to drop the towel and stretch the jumper over her head, letting the warm softness drape against her, blissful at the realisation that Tommy had had it on the radiator. She was stumped when it came to the trousers.

“Seriously, what do you expect me to do here?” She asked.

“God, so picky,” he groaned. YN heard himself push off the door, disappear for a few seconds, and then stride back. YN dreaded to hear what solution he’d come up with.

“I can give you boxer shorts—”

“Boxer shorts! Tom, I am not wearing your underwear!”

She practically heard him roll her eyes. “What do you want me to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe, uh, literally anything else?”

“I’ve given you my bloody trousers!”

“The trousers are ridiculous!”

“Well I ‘aven’t got anything else, YN, you’ll ‘ave to deal with it.”

Astounded at his forward intentions to get her in his underwear, YN raised a brow. She contemplated on the pros and cons, filtering in between the pure awkwardness of what would unravel, and refuting it with the realisation that she could be comfortable. “Fine,” she grumbled, cracking open the door a smidge. Tommy avoided looking through, and instead essentially threw his boxers at her.

“These better be clean,” she mumbled under her breath. She stepped into the gaps, pulling them up to her waist. She was certain she looked a picture, dressed to the nines. For once, she was glad the mirror had steamed up to make her reflection invisible.

“Let me out.” She knocked on the door, feeling his weight still against it. He shuffled, and it opened. She peered out bashfully before stepping into his room, relieved that a pair of slippers awaited her. Hastily, she slid them on her feet, sighing contently when she recognised they were yet another item Tommy had left on the radiator.

And Tommy was staring at her, she could tell. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she had an urge to bow her head and never look up again. Her fingers wrung together, and when she eventually did crane her neck, Tommy was –indeed– staring.

“Don’t say a word,” she threatened. He dropped his stone-cold expression, raising his hands in defence and gaping wordlessly like he wasn’t even thinking of anything.

YN stifled a laugh, fighting the urge yet again to roll her eyes. She thumbed the cotton of Tommy’s jumper against her skin, and wondered how long she’d get to cherish all this. It was surreal, to be surrounded by such luxury, to be who she was in that moment, and to be with Tommy, so casually and yet committed at the same time.

“So, uh, you’re all settled in,” he said, breaking her reverie. “Mary’s done your room, just across the hall, so, if you need me, I’m right here,” he said, sauntering away. He dropped his cigarette box on his bed, beginning to undo his tie.

“Somehow I think I’ll be fine,” YN laughed, but made no such effort to move.

Tommy nodded, beginning then to unbutton his waistcoat after the discard of his tie. He threw it with a similar nonchalant fashion on the bed, and YN realised he had never cleaned up for himself at all. He looked up when he noticed she remained standing, and, after a reckoning quiet, made a movement of his own for the silver box. His fingers callously traced the edge, the eventual click of its opening striking the silence of the room. YN thought if anything summarised the years that had passed between her and Tommy, what had kept them anchored to the same meeting point, it was the sound of that cigarette box.

Tommy extended his hand, closing the space between them with his offer. YN, never mind feeling guilty, stepped forward and accepted. Her fingertips trembled in trying to pry one free, only doing so more when she felt Tommy’s eyes on her, and she smiled bashfully once she was successful.

“Got there in the end,” he said.

Again, he lit it for her, striking the match he brandished from a pocket and cautiously holding the flame up to YN’s lips. The latter tried, to no avail, to ignore that the warmth coursing through her wasn’t solely due to the smoke she inhaled. Tommy’s hands were unnaturally close to her own as they both cupped her cigarette to protect the flame, him looking down on her like she was some fulfilled project made her chest contract.

He waved out the match, then —to take YN even more off guard— held his own cigarette to hers, lighting the tip of it by her flame. His eyes shifted to hers, and she fretted that he’d seen the rush to her cheeks, and hoped he’d suspect the heat to be the cause.

Once lit, Tommy backed to the bed, and shuffled over to allow her a seat. She cleared her throat, dragging a smoke as she vacated the space, deciding to shove his arm playfully when she did so, and they both chuckled blithely under their breaths. Tommy pushed back, a little too harshly, almost sending her off the bed. YN exclaimed with a hearty laugh after guffawing at his nature. She stuck the cigarette firmly between her lips and jumped to drive him back, using the meagre strength of her arms to jostle him, promptly forgetting Tommy’s tenacity.

With a ‘pfft!’ he similarly readjusted his cigarette and subsequently gripped her arms in a wrestling stance, twisting her over to pin her on the bed as she cried out. He grinned at the sound of her laughter, beaming down at her with his legs trapped on either side of her own. In vain, YN wrangled her arms to propel against his, struggling to push him off, Tommy continued to patronise her. It was funny, she thought, to see a grown man with such menace as Tommy Shelby grappling atop her, play-wrestling.

“Okay, okay, stop now, I’m done!” YN announced, her words muffled behind the cig. Tommy laughed victoriously, dropping his hands down around her head, dipping into the mattress. He was breathless, somehow, and remained stationary, perched above her, eyes gleaming before scattering over her face, then landing primarily on her lips. YN couldn’t ignore it, like she tended to do when something filled with tension like this happened, she was obliged to see how Tommy analysed her face, dotting over her features again before circling back round to the same destination. He inhaled, YN mirroring him underneath. She smiled shyly.

“You can… get off now,” she said, tapping his forearm.

“Right, yes,” he replied bluntly. He hopped off, sitting straight on the edge of the bed. He removed his cigarette, extinguishing it in the ashtray on his cabinet. As quickly as he squished it, the humour left his system, and he sat with an arched back, arms rested on his knees, a pondering expression on his countenance.

YN propped herself up on her elbows, clearing her throat. “I, uh, should go to bed. It’s late.”

He mumbled, “yep, you should rest.”

YN considered refuting him, maybe even begging him not to be so melancholic, but she was tired, and the prospect of a nice warm bed appealed to her just that bit more. She shuffled off the bed with a sigh, brushing past him on her way. Tommy gave her a small glance, but didn’t relish in anything else apart from a bidding nod. With a smile, YN realised it was probably the best she was going to get, so she whispered a ‘goodnight’ and showed herself out, reluctantly, even despite every fibre in her body feeling foreign to the notion of leaving Tommy. She closed the door behind her with an internal curse. She rested her head against the wood, mouthing a swear to herself before pushing off it and heading to the room opposite, the door creaked open a tad to display the attractiveness of it. It was beautiful, YN could already tell, with a bed bigger than her entire kitchen, adorned with pillows and a thick duvet, candles galore surrounding it. A heavy sigh emitted past her lips, and when she entered the room she found that she wasn’t at all as fulfilled as she imagined she’d be.

Not through any fault of the maids, no, but more to the feeling that the room seemed awfully empty without Tommy in it. She wanted to slap herself for that thought, but there was nothing she could do to deny it.

But, even so, there was nothing to be done about it. She prepared herself for bed, pulling back the cover and climbing in, more than ready for a sleepless night upon the realisation that she longed and missed a man who was a mere ten feet away. But boundaries kept them apart: doors and whatever feelings and morals that separated them. YN was not a Shelby, despite what the paperwork said. She was nowhere near Shelby status; if they were to be anything, it would be nothing but wrong.

She tried her upmost best to dismiss the thought as she lay in bed. She had expected to be doused in serenity when she did this, but focusing on the silkiness of the sheets was evitable when all she could feel was Tommy’s proximity, still. The way he stalked towards her, eyes intent; how he didn’t touch her but YN felt him all the while. Even now, the pressure of his presence exacerbated around her, and she tossed and turned in the bed in a vain attempt to rid of it. It was fruitless. Tommy was the only thing on her mind, rather than the comfort encompassing her exit she had imagined would be the primary focus.

Frustration only accumulated when the hours went by without any redemption. YN sighed, threw the covers off and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She made it thus far, then contemplated on her oncoming decision, feet bare against the wooden floor. The bed became significantly more appealing, but something was pulling YN away in the other direction. She hung her head, then jumped off the bed and tiptoed to the door. It, obviously, had to creak when she opened it, yet when she popped her head out into the hallway she saw it had alerted no one, and she was alone.

She sent a sneaky eye to the door opposite her, closed and making YN freeze in her step. A dull light shone under its gap, and she cursed the fact that it had because it meant that she really had no excuse to not commit.

With a foreboding sense of regret, YN proceeded, raised her fist and took the leap to knock on Tommy’s door. The quiet that followed was claustrophobic, and, if it hadn’t been for the resounding fear that struck within her, she would have backtracked; escaped to her room, slam the door and pretend like she’d never left. Instead, the petrifying anticipation kept her still, and she was doomed to wait for Tommy to answer the door.

Of course, she could lie. Pretend she had got the wrong door, like she was looking for her mother instead, you know, like she hadn’t just been in his room and she was bound to know where it was as a result. Or, maybe, she could say she was hoping to get a glass of water, and didn’t want to bother the maids so please could he do it for her? It wouldn’t be weird… right?

The door opened before she could make her decision.

“You alright?” Tommy asked. He looked at her inquisitively up and down, leaning his arm on the doorframe.

YN was stuck for words, she thought she forgot the whole English language.

“Fine,” she exclaimed, surprised as if she hadn’t been the one to knock on his door in the first place. “Fine, yeah.”

He quirked a brow, “…alright.”

“I just,” YN continued, “I never really thanked you for all this.”

“No need to thank me.”

“I disagree.”

Tommy smiled, then stepped back to allow more room for YN to enter. She bowed her head and did so, wringing her hands as she headed inside. The door closed behind her, and Tommy gestured at the edge of his bed for her to sit.

“Drink?” He offered, swaying to the alcohol cabinet appropriately placed by his bedside. YN was of immediate refusal until she saw the array on his cabinet. In particular, a glass bottle stood out to her.

“Is that your gin?” She asked, excited.

In the midst of pouring his own whisky, Tommy’s eyes danced over to the bottle standing tall within his collection of booze. He allowed a small chortle, then grabbed the neck of it and swung it to his side. By his lack of caution, YN guessed he was already a few drinks ahead of her.

He set it on a nearby cabinet, pouring the Shelby gin into a drained glass which YN guessed had some remnants of another previous drink. She watched him feverishly, eyes wandering over his posture until they bulged at his antics.

“Jesus, Tom, alright.” She leaped forward, grabbing the glass when he surpassed the halfway mark. “You do know you’re supposed to have something with gin?”

“If you’re boring,” he said, shrugging a shoulder. YN scoffed, diluting it with a tonic she’d snatched off his trolley.

Tommy didn’t waver in joining her side, residing back into the imprint he’d formed on the bedsheets. He cleared his throat and swigged the whisky in his hand, clinking the glass back down on the trolley, ‘aah’ing in satisfaction. He propped himself sturdily up by his hands on his knees, eyes, like a rotting tree, hollow and full of decayed life, centred on the wall ahead of him. YN wondered vehemently what he was thinking, and came to the conclusion that she’d rather not know at all.

“You settle in okay?” He asked, out of nowhere, almost making her jump. The distant tone of his voice alluded that his query had been the last thing on his mind, but had simply been asked out of courtesy. YN felt an astonishingly overwhelming sense that she wasn’t welcome, but clutched her glass tighter and stayed. She turned her head to the side, focusing her attention on the small details of Tommy’s room that she’d failed to notice before. More of his clothes were strewn across the floor, and there were a few oddly disfigured stains on the carpet where ash had fallen and been rubbed in over time.

“Yeah, I did. Thanks,” she said. She took a drink, then found the courage to turn back to him and pull together a strong smile. He flashed one back with a similar uncertainty, finally craning his neck in an effort to peer at her.

“Good.” He coughed. “Good,” a whisper, now. YN’s heart began to expand against her ribs when Tommy’s stare remained on her, or rather, her lips. She bit her lower one to prohibit herself from saying anything stupid.

“So, I just, thought I’d come over and say, you know, thank you. I can’t explain it, really, what it means… to my Mum and Jack, too. I know Jack doesn’t say much, but—”

“YN.” Tommy’s hands clasping hers, all of a sudden. “You don’t need to thank me.”

YN, often prone to refute anything that came out of Tommy’s mouth, became uncharacteristically quiet, whether from astonishment of his kindness or the way his eyes traced every minuscule movement of her lips, she didn’t know. A sharp intake of breath shattered the silence of the room, and YN’s grasp tightened on her glass, wondering if she could really prepare herself for what she predicted would be next.

“There’s something else you should know.” Came Tommy’s husky voice, close, YN perceived, as he’d shifted nearer to her without her notice. “About my proposal to you.”

YN gulped, nodding in anticipation. She rested her glass on her knee with a gentle hold. Her eyes focused on Tommy’s mouth as he leaned in, his arm snaking behind her to rest on the mattress while his other graced her cheek. They were close now, with the callouses of Tommy’s fingertips trailing against her cheekbone. His eyelashes flickered upwards, peering almost sheepishly to her. YN struggled to repress a giggle, and raised her hand to rest on his bicep. There was a brief, tense moment, a quick, fluttering glance, before Tommy gently pulled her in and into his kiss.

Surprisingly, Tommy’s lips were soft. When they moulded into hers YN swapped her vacant hand to hold her gin and tonic in order to caress Tommy’s cheek; it quickly reached his hair, grazing against the buzzed sides until clambering to his scalp. Her fingers ran through while Tommy pressed their kiss further (YN allowed him), then travelled down to his chin, cupping it endearingly.

If someone had told her this morning she’d be living in Tommy’s house, married to him, she may have just believed it, knowing that Tommy is awfully prone to fathoming incredulous ideas. If someone had told her this morning that she’d be kissing him, she’d have laughed in their face.

Yet, here she was, holding his neck and moving her lips in rhythm with his, and not finding it completely utterly disgusting.

“Tommy,” she whispered, though, pulling apart from him. She willed herself to ignore the string of saliva that stretched out between them.

The aforementioned automatically gravitated back to YN, eyes still closed in a daze and silently begging for another indulge. Her hand pushed on Tommy’s chest, and he looked at her like a child whose favourite toy she’d just broken.

He cleared his throat, then sat back. “What’s wrong?”

The way he looked at her made YN want to backtrack the whole thing: shake her head and claim it was nothing before kissing him all over again. But she persisted.

“I don’t think we should,” she said, exhaling deeply, with Tommy followed suit.

“You’re my wife, no?” He joked.

“We both know that’s not what this really is.”

Her words made Tommy’s faltering smile finally drop, as well as his hands from her face. He cleared his throat, looking away in what YN could only establish was embarrassment.

He licked his lips, and YN turned her torso away to stare at the floor, resting a hand on her lap while the other was preoccupied with supplying the gin and tonic. She took a loud gulp, biting her lip in the abhorrent silence. Eventually, the sound of rustling cotton signalled her movement, standing from the bed.

“I should… I should go,” she said, smoothing out Tommy’s jumper against her. It was vital she didn’t look down at him when she embarked, instead she bid him goodnight and fumbled out the door, leaving –it felt– as quickly as she had arrived.

Inside, Tommy listened ardently to YN’s curses from the other side of the door, and wondered intently to himself what the hell he had gotten himself into.

part five

@katherinemelissa @misselsbells06 @datewithgianni @alreadybroken-ts @missymurphy1985 @littlebloodyshadow

[cherry-lipbalm]

tommy shelby masterlist

marital bliss

yn’s family is down on their luck, for want of a better phrase. tommy comes up with a rather extreme solution.

part one part two part three part four part five

[cherry-lipbalm]

tommy shelby

marital bliss. tommy shelby.

part three.

concept: yn’s family is down on their luck, for want of a better phrase. tommy comes up with a rather extreme solution.

The ride to Tommy’s house was quiet, to put it lightly. YN didn’t say a word, even with her mind running a thousand miles per hour. With every pot hole Tommy drove over she snapped back to reality, only to wander straight back into disillusionment, pondering on what hellish route her life had taken. Beside her, Tommy wondered the same thing.

He didn’t know how he’d let something like this go unmanaged. How had he noticed her prevailing absence, yet not the deterioration of her condition? She’d been working three jobs, for Christ’s sake! And he never even thought to ask. No, while YN and her family sat freezing, barely getting by, he sat in his mansion, complaining that it was too warm or his food hadn’t been cooked well enough.

He knew that tonight had to be the best night YN ever had, and every night after that was obligated to only improve. 

For the following moment he took his eyes off the road he wished he hadn’t. YN looked abysmal, her eyes still bloodshot red and wearing an expression that didn’t exactly scream happy bride. Not that there had been much to it, really, only a piece of paper to sign, over a desk and with a witness. The hardest part was getting it through to each of their families, who could hardly believe their ears that YN and Tommy were getting married.

If they’re honest, Polly and YN’s mum always conversed about how they pictured Tommy and YN falling in love and tying the knot, cooing over their fairytale reverie. Neither imagined it would carry out like this. The couple practically entered the room with their tail between their legs before they broke the news. Tommy announced it like a business transaction, which, YN admitted, was all that it really was. She didn’t want to fool herself into thinking that this was anything more than a friend helping a friend, she highly doubted he wanted it printing in the papers. 

“I’ll get Mary to do you up a room once we get there. She’ll take all your stuff, you needn’t worry about it yourself,” he said, steering around a corner and onto a country road. He was thankful to hear a faint hum of acknowledgment beside him, and began to regret insisting that he and YN drive together alone. Their families followed in the extra car John had to go and fetch, and YN resisted looing in the mirror to view their astonished expressions, which still hadn’t broken by the time they’d packed all their things and left the house.  “How’s Jack gonna get to school tomorrow?” She asked, ignoring Tommy’s comment of hospitality.

“I’ll take ‘im,” he replied, like it was obvious. “I take Finn, and I could do with someone to distract him from talkin’ to me.” He took his eyes off the road to flash her a small smile, and she reciprocated with hesitancy. When he re-focused, her head fell back onto the leather plush of the seats, lolling to the side as she whined pathetically, eyes beading up at Tommy who chuckled at her, and placed a benevolent hand on her thigh, patting her affectionately. 

Thankfully, it wasn’t long until the winding road led them to Arrow House. YN recognised the brooding architecture, the sound of horses far off in the stables. She spotted a congregation aboard the doorstep, and cursed under her breath when she realised a group of staff had positioned themselves to greet them. 

“Oh, Tommy,” she muttered, covering her face with her hands. Upon the horror of her voice, which he worried signalled another formidable breakdown, he turned attentively to her, then at the throng she was discreetly eyeing. His panic softened.

“Wait ‘ere.”

They pulled up directly in front of the house, the car jerking as it came to a stop. He gave YN an assuring smile that didn’t assure her at all, and then jumped out, waving his staff away, who grasped the hint and ushered off, not waiting around to see what would happen if they disobeyed his orders.

After they disappeared, Tommy walked round to YN’s side, opening the door for her and taking her hand. Had she not been under a severe amount of distress, YN would have slapped his hand away and told him not to be sappy, but she took it and followed by his side into the house, resisting making a comment when he draped his arm around his shoulders, guiding her inside.

The first thing YN noticed when she stepped inside was the warmth. Tommy was one of those select few that could afford to have the fireplace raging even when he was out the house. He didn’t have to wait hours for all the rooms to heat up, or the equally tormenting time taken to get it started in the first place. He could have a hot bath when the opportunity seized him, and he didn’t have to waste gruelling moments for the kettle to boil up, doing the same thing over and over again. And after that, he was treated to a hot meal, a drink, a warm bed.

YN stood still in her place, in awe of what Tommy got to call home. Despite having been in his home countless times, now was different. She didn’t know where she belonged. It felt odd to know she could call one of these rooms her own, in fact, it felt wrong, like she had trespassed on his ground. It simply didn’t feel right that she’d wake up here tomorrow morning.

Stiff like a rock, observing the home like she’d never been inside, Tommy tenderly pivoted her round in her spot, his fingers meandering under her collar to remove her coat, brushing against the forefront meshed material of her dress. She shrugged it off, clearing her throat as he hung his and hers up by the door.

“Stick you by the fire, come on,” he said, opening the door to one of his many living rooms. He shepherded her inside, and YN was blissed to be welcomed with a gust of heat, almost unbearable, but she dared not complain. She removed her cardigan, hanging it on the edge of the couch Tommy led her to. Her mother and Jack followed not far behind, but Tommy reserved the space beside her, stripping of his blazer and cap, draping it on the back of the spot to YN’s left. Her eyes trailed him as he rid of the jacket, his broad chest protruding as he stretched, cracking his neck.

He clapped his hands together, “right, then, get this going, eh?” 

He kneeled down to the fireplace, eyes searching for salvation. He gave the burning logs a few prods with some tool and called it a day, grimacing at the scorching heat melting his face. YN snorted at his incompetence, and so he continued.  

YN’s mother walked in soon, Arthur behind her like a nurse worried his patient was going to collapse at any moment. She was elated to see her daughter perched on the couch, arms wrapped around herself for comfort rather than scavenging for heat. Her face radiated in the glow of the fire, and she had long forgotten how innocence suited her so well, instead of the pressure that weighed her features down, shadowed her eyes. She took a grateful seat on the opposing couch, smiling at Tommy who glanced over his shoulder at the movement. Arthur took the bag by her feet, and she took in her surroundings with a tenacious smile. Jack had long gone to play in Finn’s room, and YN assumed John was on drink-duty. 

“That’s better, eh?” He said, proud of himself at the raging fire (that was already raging when he came in). He propped himself back onto his bottom, sitting before the flames, resting his elbows on his knees. Not a moment passed before he requested YN join him. He beckoned her over with an outstretched arm, waving her to take his hand. She furrowed a brow.

“I’m not sitting on the floor.”

“You’re my wife now, you do as I say.”

YN’s eyes widened, her head tilted, and her mouth opened to release what Tommy could only guess would be crude obscenities she ought not to reveal in front of her mother. He was confident, because it wouldn’t have been the first time he received the treatment.

“I’m joking,” he said, raising a surrender. “I’m joking.”

She sat back, eyes still narrowed in his direction, “you better be, or we’ll be divorced before you know it.”

Tommy smirked, his eyes wandering over YN’s physique as she leaned back into the length of the couch, her arm spanning along with a poised elbow to rest her face in her hand. She raised her eyebrows knowingly at Tommy, who reverted to the fire in order to deprive her of the knowledge she was capable of making him smile. YN’s mother watched on, intrigued, then arose.

“I was wondering, if it’s not too much bother, Tom, if I could take a bath?”

“Not a bother at all, Ms YLN,” he shook his head, standing up, he put his hands on her shoulders. “‘S your house now just as much as mine. Just upstairs, on your left, ask Mary to run it for you.”

She grabbed his hand, squeezing it in what he was sure was an expression of gratitude, then left the room with a kiss to YN’s cheek, more than desperate to have a good, hot wash. She left YN and Tommy alone gladly. 

The quietness that intruded was barely menacing. It shrouded them like a blanket, expanding into the room like the warmth from the fire. YN finally felt, for the first time in a long time, she could relax. 

Tommy continued to observe the fire, peering down at it, ready to maintain it if needs must. YN observed him just the same: determined, intrigued, and fascinated. A sensation resided in her chest suddenly, upon watching Tommy, despite his lack of doing anything other than staring with hands in his pockets. YN decided she didn’t like the way her heart began thumping, like with each beat it was contorting her chest tighter and tighter. Yet, her mind willed for it to proceed; she equally didn’t like the idea of taking her eyes off Tommy. 

It was moments like these, where her mind wasn’t preoccupied with how her family was going to survive that she could actually focus on what was right in front of her. She’d missed Tommy. And she felt like she’d missed him grow, he was this man now, all of a sudden, in the blink of an eye.

She remembered their days together when they were younger, playing in the streets just like Finn and Jack do now, stealing time away to head further out of town, or down to the docks, sneaking in places they shouldn’t have been. Sitting and having their lunch together on Small Heath’s green banks. Him pretending to know how to read her fortune and telling her all sorts of lies. 

“I should have a bath an’ all,” she said, not wanting to let her mind run ahead of her. Tommy had almost forgotten she was in the room. “Mind if I use yours?”

“Not at all,” he replied, waving her away. She dusted herself off when she stood, taking the moment when he wasn’t looking at her to give him a long stare. Pouting her lip, she realised just how much she had disregarded. She refused to ponder on it, it had already been a hard enough day.

part four

[cherry-lipbalm]

tommy shelby

marital bliss. tommy shelby.

part two

concept: yn’s family is down on their luck, for want of a better phrase. tommy comes up with a rather extreme solution.

The walls of YN’s house were thin, so it was inevitable that everyone would have heard her sobs, no matter how hard she tried to keep them quiet. She didn’t dare dabble in the thought of what everyone was saying about her after her… let’s say dramatic exit. Though she tried, she imagined the widened eyes and passing comments, and that only made her sob more.

She had resorted to smothering her face with a pillow, but that, too, was thin and acted as no barrier.

Outside, Tommy, despairingly, listened to her cries. He had come with rather strong intentions, marching after her not long after her outburst, once the residual shock had passed. The stairs thumped under him as he followed her, calling her name to no avail until she resoundingly slammed the door in his face. Trying to keep a bottle on his anger (he certainly wasn’t used to not being adhered to), he stood poised outside the door, teeth clenched as he debated whether there would ever be a good time to knock, rather than when it would arise. He exhaled deeply, struggling to listen to her sobs. Every time she went quiet and he found the courage to raise his fist and knock, she started again, and Tommy felt like a trespasser.

Still, he was glad he was here rather than downstairs, where the atmosphere was just as, if not more, awful. YN’s mother began to cry immediately after her daughter left, and Jack was left with wide eyes and to question why his mum was crying, innocent curiosity and all. Arthur, John and himself stood confused and hesitant, watching how Aunt Polly reached forward to console her. They had often admired Mrs YLN’s commitment to strength, and so watching her fragility was like witnessing the family dog speak. Therefore, he went after YN, not his discomfort of the dining room being the sole reason for his departure, of course. The thought of YN being alone, sorrowful, made his feet itch. Yet, he’d been listening outside her door for a while, withstanding any further action.

If anyone knew YN most, it was Tommy. They’d been friends for a long time now, in retrospect, their whole lives. Growing up alongside each other led to a certain connection YN feigned to find with anyone else, not that she’d really want to. She found it interesting how quickly time had passed them by, and how they’d both grown and matured so differently. Watching how Small Heath began to revolve around Tommy was odd, too, and only furthered the feeling that they were in completely different spheres. Though this separation persisted, the relationship between the two didn’t falter for a moment, and YN was eternally grateful.

Tommy wasn’t exactly gifted in the emotion department, and, despite their closeness, this showed. When it came to those he held dear, however, he had no option but to try his best. A little joke and a ruffle of the hair worked best for his brothers; he didn’t know how well that would go down with YN.

Still, he persevered.

A knock to the door seemed to work a treat at stopping her crying, but it remained closed, even after a few seconds. He furrowed a brow, leaning a fist on the doorframe before knocking again. While the anticipation gnawed away at him, he rubbed the nape of his neck, actively sighing in a lack of patience.

“I– I don’t want to talk to anyone,” came a muffled voice behind the door, interjected by hiccups from sobbing.

“It’s me,” Tommy said, as if that would make any difference.

Yet, it did. He heard distant footsteps, and the door creaked open not too long after. He peered intently through the gap, meeting YN’s reddened eyes, her nose running and eyelashes clumped together above the blotchiness of her cheeks. He offered a warm smile, noting the foreign feeling on his face.

“I still don’t want to talk to anyone,” she said, stubbornly, turning away. A good sign, however, being that she didn’t close the door.

“Fine,” he replied, following her inside. “We’ll just, sit here in silence, if that’s what you want.”

YN dumped herself down on the edge of the bed, clasping her hands in her lap, defeated. She didn’t have the capacity to laugh at Tommy’s preposterousness, aiming at tricking her into seeing her own.

He sighed, placing his hands in his pockets, quietly shutting the door behind him and shuffling to stand in the corner of the room. YN could have rolled her eyes, had she had the energy, at his distinct inability to even pretend to be remotely human. When they were younger, Tommy was particularly talented at making everything seem okay again, the man that had come back in his place had changed a bit. He was rougher around the edges, a statue that had been carved out by his trauma with a rusty chisel. YN feared that if it wasn’t for their time together already established, what they had would cease to exist. YN shook her head of the thought. Tommy watched her bite her lip, tears trailing past her cheeks with a blank expression. In distress, he scratched the top of his head, he hadn’t had to deal with this in a while.

Eventually, after possibly the longest silence in mankind, Tommy gave in. He pushed himself off the wall he was leaning against and strode over to the bed, staring at the space beside her as a signal for her to move along. Begrudgingly, she did, scoffing at him in the meantime. He grunted when he sat down beside her, exhaling deeply with a drop of his shoulders. Resting his hands on his knees, he turned to YN, who had resorted to staring at the floor.

“Here,” he said, brandishing a handkerchief from his chest pocket and dangling it in front of her. She gulped, rolling her eyes and snapping it off him. He retracted his hands, eyes wide at her predator-like nature.

She wiped her nose, sighing.

Tommy crossed his hands in his lap, looking forward, searching for the words to say. The last time he saw YN cry was when he returned from the War, and they were at least happy tears.

Here, he felt this was entirely out of his reach. Tommy didn’t know how to make this one better. It seemed entirely personal, in fact, Tommy felt like they were in completely different lives, distances apart. He’d missed out on all the signs that YN was struggling.

A deliberating quiet ensued. Tommy opened his jacket, delved in an inner pocket and wielded his trademark silver box. When he clicked it open he offered the cigarettes inside to YN, giving her a knowing look.

“I don’t even know where to start,” she confessed, taking him up on his offer and snagging a cigarette from the box. Tommy was quick to light a match and hold it to her lips, watching as she puffed the first drag. With it, her countenance fell to one of unsustained relaxation. Tommy followed suit, sticking one in his mouth and protecting the flame as he lit it. He waved out the match, taking a drag of his own. He waited a moment, savouring the nicotine, concluding that maybe all YN needed was a presence.

His head shot up at YN taking a stand, eyes eager to follow where she was heading. She crossed the room, and Tommy observed the frailty of her limbs in the quest to crack open the window. Arms poised, she grunted as she pushed the frame upwards. Frankly, the last thing she wanted was cold air, but she waved at Tommy and urged him to stand beside her.

“Come on, Jack sleeps in ‘ere too, I don’t want it stinking of smoke.”

He stood, sauntering over. They both remained hushed, repeatedly exhaling smoke out the parting of the window. YN rested her head against the frame, staring at the row of houses opposite her.

She turned to Tommy after a quiet, and saw he was looking at her helplessly. He even shrugged his shoulders at her, eyes wide as he rummaged his brain. God, Aunt Polly would be appalled with his behaviour. She always said he was lucky to have such a face, because the minute he opened his mouth (or, rather; didn’t) all hope was lost. Thankfully, though, this was the one thing to finally make YN laugh.

Retrieving the handkerchief she’d balled in her fist, she used it to cover the grossness of her snotty laugh, amazed he’d given her such fine material to be ruined by her meltdown. She guessed he could afford to get another one.

“I can’t stitch those trousers in time, and he doesn’t have anything else to wear to school,” she whispered, the smile quickly falling.

“He can borrow Finn’s. If worse comes to worse Finn’ll have to wear a skirt off Ada,” Tommy replied.

YN snorted, and Tommy exhaled a grateful sigh, leaning back, more relaxed now at her reacquaintance with brief exultation.

“I lost my job today,” YN said, the scarce joy of the exchange deteriorating as quickly as it had come.

“Eh?”

“Artillery closed down,” she confirmed. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

He paused for a moment. “I didn’t know you worked at the Artillery.”

“Yep. And the library, and the corner shop,” YN listed. “‘S still not enough.” She mumbled.

Tommy’s eyebrows were fixed in an almost permanent furrow, his cigarette hanging on the tether of an agape mouth as his mind placed all the pieces together.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He asked.

“Because it’s embarrassing!” YN scoffed, turning back to the window.

Tommy looked around the room, allowing the awkwardness to fill it up. He rubbed his face with one hand, internally cursing himself for not noticing sooner. He leaned forward, pushing himself into YN’s sphere, who stared at him bewildered to the lack of space he’d left between them.

“I’ll give you some money,” he said.

She shook her head, “no. No, Tommy, this is exactly what I didn’t want,” she objected, already walking away from him, snuffing out her cigarette on the window ledge. Tommy grabbed her hand on her way past.

“YN, this is no choice. I’ll give you enough until you can get back on your feet,” he pat his jacket for his cheque book. “Get Jack some new trousers, get your stove fixed. Pol’ll probably make youse some tea– proper tea, not sandwiches.”

“Nowt wrong with sandwiches,” YN mumbled.

“Here,” Tommy stood, retrieving the book and stealing a pen off her bedside table. He began writing until YN smacked his hand.

“Stop it, Tom! I don’t want your charity.”

“Not charity, I’m helping a friend.”

“I don’t want your help. It feels wrong.”

“Now we both know you’d do the same for me.”

YN sighed, crossing her arms. She knew that when Tommy set his mind on something it was impossible to persuade him, but she could certainly give it a good go.

“I won’t accept it.”

“Yes, you will,” he said, tearing off the cheque and grabbing her hand again to force it into her grasp. Annoyed, she glanced at his characteristically scrawny handwriting. Upon reading the content, she looked at him, deadpanned.

“What? Not enough?”

“Too much!” She clamoured, shoving the paper back into his chest. In the limited space of her bedroom, she wasn’t granted much of a liberty to put him out of her sight, but she could surely sit down on the bed in a huff and stare at the floor for a significant amount of time, which was just as good.

Tommy rolled his eyes. He’d watched YN grow up, but this one aspect of her had always remained the same. She was still the most stubborn person he had ever met. Funnily enough, YN thought the same of him.

The crumpled cheque balled in his hands reminded him of his helplessness. The only thing that could help YN, and she refused to take it. Well, what was he supposed to do? Sit back and watch his best friend and her family die? He simply wouldn’t allow it.

The Peaky Blinders were notorious for a lot of things, and while, admittedly, not all of them may be good things, Tommy liked to think they were perceived as some sort of guardians for Small Heath, at least. To the rarity of people that didn’t find him fatally intimidating, and approached him for help, Tommy prided himself that he could aid the needy. He had abundance, therefore he’d be one hell of a fool to not utilise it well. Here, however, was when it proved difficult. YN, really, had never been one to accept help, nor admit she needed it.

“Think of Jack, alright? Think of your Mum. Don’t you think they need this, just as much as you do? If you’re too stubborn to do it for yourself, at least do it for them.”

YN gulped, making sure to avoid eye contact with Tommy like she always did when she knew she was wrong and he was right (something that happened once in a blue moon). Persistent, still, she crossed her arms and focused on her shoes; it seemed embarrassing to backtrack now, even if she wanted to. But, the fact still remained: she couldn’t take money off Tommy.

“I… I can’t.”

“Fine,” Tommy sulked. Then, “marry me instead.”

That made YN look up.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Marry me,” Tommy shrugged. “You’ll be financially stable that way. And a roof over your ‘ead. We’ve got enough room for Jack and your Mum. No more sandwiches for tea.”

YN couldn’t believe what Tommy was suggesting. In fact, she hadn’t fully grasped if he was joking or not yet.

“You’re mad,” she scoffed, looking away, trying not to let her imagination run away with her.

Living at the Shelby house. God. Tommy’s house was magnificent. It was more a mansion, to be honest. Every time YN went round there she got lost, and had to seek a maid’s help on how to navigate herself back to the group, because –of course– Tommy had maids. And they ate so well there! Tommy was right, she would never have to have a sandwich for her tea ever again. The prospect of warm food made her want to cry, and not even having to cook it herself.

She told herself to stop getting excited. There was no way in hell she was marrying Tommy Shelby. It would be too… inappropriate. They were best friends, for crying out loud. She didn’t need to marry him, she was just fine on her own. Tommy Shelby being her husband, the thought made her gag.

“‘Ere, what, you want me to get down on one knee?” He said, proceeding to do just that, kneeling before her as she sat, baffled, on the edge of her bed. She never thought she’d see the day where Tommy got on his knees. She raised an eyebrow at him. She knew he was constantly drunk, but this had to be a whole new level.

“Get up, Tom,” she told him, whacking his arm for good measure. The sly smile on his face dropped.

“Eh? Come on. This isn’t the worst idea I’ve had.”

“You’ve had a lot of terrible ideas. I think this one takes the cake. Get up.”

“YN,” he turned solemn, YN subsequently grew terrified. He removed his cigarette, searching for somewhere to snuff it before deciding to do so on the frame of her bed. YN’s eyebrows fell into a deadpanned gaze while Tommy proceeded. He clasped her hands in his. “I’ve seen a lot of bad things happen to a lot of people who didn’t deserve it. I’m not going to sit ‘ere and watch you die. Youse are all coming ‘ome with me, married or not.”

YN usually was against being told to do anything, but the way Tommy looked at her so endearingly begged her to, for once, not fight back. There was no denying that she needed help; this was a deep hole she was in, one she couldn’t pull herself and her family out of all on her own. Hardly believing Tommy’s generosity, she gripped back his hand-hold, letting her head fall atop his knuckles in a succinct rest. Grateful, was the only word that could describe what she was feeling.

She felt a kiss to her forehead, a stroke to her hair. When she glanced up at Tommy he looked as if he was still awaiting an answer.

“Fine, I’ll marry you.”

A smile bombarded his cheeks, and YN thought even if this was the worst decision she had ever made, seeing Tommy grin had to be worth something.

“You could sound a bit more excited,” he said, shuffling to rise. YN cringed as his knee cracked.

“Oh, sorry,” she mocked, dropping his hands. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! I thought you’d never ask!”

“Alright, don’t milk it,” he muttered.

The rare moment of laughter subsided, then the two couldn’t help but stare at each other in an uncertain trepidation. When Tommy pulled out his box again and offered her a second cigarette, YN couldn’t help but wonder what she’d gotten herself into.

part three

[cherry-lipbalm]

tommy shelby

marital bliss. tommy shelby.

concept: yn’s family is down on their luck, for want of a better phrase. tommy comes up with a rather extreme solution.

YN had had a rough day, to say the least. The last thing she needed when she got home was her brother almost sending her to her grave.

“Oh!” She exclaimed when the boy ran past her legs, catching her off guard. “Watch where you’re bleeding going, will you?” She shouted after him, but doubted her voice was heard over his youthful giggles, echoing up the stairs with his thumping footsteps. All YN could do was roll her eyes, hanging up her scarf by the door, hardly greeted with any warmth when she did so. Her sigh even exuded a frosty mist within the hallway, making her eyebrows furrow in pain and fatigue, pondering on the fact that their home was colder than the outside, and on the question of how much longer they could put up with it.

“That you, YN?” Her mother called from the kitchen.

“Obviously,” she muttered in response, under her breath. She shrugged off her coat, regretting doing so once she felt –even more so– the state of the house. She only hoped that maybe whatever her mother was cooking, she’d had the sense to make it hot.

“Huh?” Her mum queried, back facing her as she focused her attention on the kitchen counter.

“Nothing,” she replied in a breath. “You alright?”

Upon her approach, she kissed her cheek chastely, an endearing yet brief hold on her arm. Her mother, mercifully, had the time to reciprocate the peck, before turning hastily back to the preparation of the family’s meal.

“… sandwiches?” YN asked, incredulously. Her mother turned sneakily at the time of her daughter’s condescension. The snide eye she gave over her shoulder silenced her up pretty quick; no matter how old she was, that look always sent dread through YN’s bones. She shot a grimaced smile, then reverted to laying the table, allowing her mother to dissipate her stern stature.

“But, seriously… sandwiches?” YN queried.

“Yes,” her mother replied, her calm voice in contrast with the way she was slathering, rather harshly, a layer of butter on a slice of bread. “Sandwiches.”

“… for tea?”

“Yes, YN!” She snapped, turning on her heel. “Sandwiches for tea! If you’ve got a problem with it you can go to shop yourself and take it up with them, they put the bleeding prices up, not me.”

YN, admittedly, had never felt threatened by a butter knife before, not until it was in the hands of her mother.

“Billy put the prices up? What for?”

“I don’t know,” she uttered, rage subsiding. “‘E was telling me all sorts, like “oh, it’s inflation, you know, got to make ends meet,” yeah? Well, what about us? What are we supposed to do, eh? How do we ‘make ends meet?’”

YN sighed. Her mother often ranted about every shopkeeper she ever met, but she hardly blamed her. It seemed everything nowadays was getting more expensive, and the quality of everything was getting poorer. Showing her dissatisfaction, YN took a seat on one of the dining chairs, resting her elbow on the table and collapsing her head into her hands.

Every day was proving to be a new challenge. Trying to keep this family afloat was becoming harder and harder, and YN was running out of options. She already worked three dead-end jobs – well, two now. The local pub was closing due to ‘unforeseen circumstances,’ whatever that meant. YN didn’t know, nor did she care, all there was now was the need to find another job, and they weren’t exactly up for grabs around here.

“I… uh, Mum,” she said, voice trembling, not knowing how she was going to break the news of her redundancy. The Artillery gave the family their biggest pay-check; without that… well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

Somehow, her mother didn’t notice the trepidation to her tone, how it was muffled between her head in her hands. She didn’t hear the deep, wobbling breath she exhaled, tears brimming at her eyes out of a heavy, debilitating fatigue.

“Polly’s coming over tonight. I’m sorry, I know you’re against it, but I’m asking her for help.”

YN perked up, dropping her mouth in protest.

“Mum, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can. Face it, YN, we can’t do this on our own anymore,” she argued, throwing the plate atop the table.

“We can’t ask people for money!”

A raised hand in her face ordered her to stop talking, and YN –obedient as ever– shut her mouth. Pouting like a child, she sat back in her chair, crossing her arms. She stared contemptibly at her mother’s actions, calling for her brother to come downstairs. She was going to embarrass this family.

The YLN’s had grown up alongside the Shelby’s as family friends, and YN had been forced to watch how they succeeded and flourished, only getting greater and greater. She kept her tongue bitten, not wanting to release her jealousy and feeling of injustice as to how they got to have everything YN had ever needed and more. They’d visited Tommy’s house a number of times, and YN was in awe of it. She couldn’t deny the feeling that there was a significant distance between the two families now; YN felt abandoned. How had they had the same upbringing, and yet lead such different lives?

This was going to damage her pride, for sure.

“What’s it gonna look like,” she muttered, cringing at the thought of asking them for money. Her mother, though desperate to, didn’t get a chance to reply, as Jack came tumbling down the stairs, and they were both forced to paint a smile.

“PB & J!” He exclaimed, giddily, rushing to his chair.

“Not PB & J, love. Tuna.”

Jack’s face fell. YN quirked a brow.

“Tuna?” He echoed.

“Oh, my god, yes, can everyone stop criticising my cooking?”

“Hardly cooking, is it?”

Her mother glared at YN, for once hearing the comments under her breath. She stared blankly, raising her eyebrows sternly after some time had passed. In the ominous silence, YN’s heart began to pace, until Jack interrupted with a guttural laugh. The women both turned to his radiating countenance, head thrown back in glee, cheeks bursting red. Fortunately, it was enough to diffuse the tension, and they both smiled at each other, laughing along soon enough.

YN jumped when there was a knock at the door, and she rushed to adhere to it, only suspecting it could be Polly. She heard her mother behind her quickly trying to make the house seem presentable.

Still giddy off the liberating laughter of her brother, YN approached the door with a small smile, one that dropped when she peered through the peephole and saw more than the expected Polly waiting at the doorstep.

“Fuck me,” she whispered. Stepping back, she considered pretending she wasn’t home, and leaving the door unanswered, but bit her lip in frustration when she knew she couldn’t do that. Instead, she opted for a silent groan and twisted the doorknob.

“Hi!” She greeted the Shelby’s. The last time she had seen them all together had to have been Christmas, not too long ago, but still, it was an odd sight to see all the Shelby’s under one roof nowadays; there seemed to be so much going on for them.

“Alright, love! I know you weren’t expecting us all, but they can’t take a hint,” Polly confessed, gesturing to the lads behind her, sporting polite smiles under the identifiable peaked caps.

“Uh, no, that’s alright, come on in,” YN deplored, widening the gap in the door. At the first opportunity, Finn raced past her legs, calling Jack’s name as if they hadn’t only hung out two days ago. She laughed, despite Polly’s reprimands, and assured her it was okay, inviting her further inside. Everyone ushered in after, squeezing past the door and through the compacted hallway. Arthur and John offered courteous nods in her direction, grinning like there was a shared secret between them that they’d managed to weasel themselves into coming along with Polly. YN smiled back just as fondly as if she was happy to have them in her home.

After, came the almost menacing footsteps of Tommy, who entered rather slowly, rolling his eyes at his predecessors.

“No manners on the lads,” he chided, albeit with a small smirk. He, contrasting to his brothers, leaned down to offer a peck on YN’s cheek, removing his cap all the while. He placed it on the coat hanger behind him, and YN spectated with a gentle smile, closing the door when he had moved and there was then enough room to do so.

He gave a satisfied nod, after he two had stared at each other in an unfulfilled silence for long enough. He pocketed his hands, then wandered down to hallway to the kitchen where he could hear the flurry of voices.

Once he turned the corner, YN sighed, resting her back against the door.

She didn’t have anything against the Shelby’s, no, not in the slightest, but she didn’t like having them in her home, it made her feel inferior and embarrassed. She dreaded how she was going to feel when her mum asked Polly for money– oh God, she wasn’t going to do it in front of all of them, was she?

The thought made her feet jump into action, hurrying to the kitchen where everyone was trying to find somewhere for their respective selves to sit down. It would be a struggle, and it was already claustrophobic with people only standing in the room. YN would have offered the living room, but that was hardly any bigger, and it would be colder, that was a guarantee.

She looked around helplessly, and before Tommy was about to step in (upon noticing her stress of being the hostess) to tell her he was fine standing, she clicked at Jack.

“Jack, why don’t you and Finn go play outside, yeah? Don’t go too far,” she told him, allowing an extra seat to become vacant. The boys didn’t need to be told twice, they practically raced out the door, already exclaiming what they would play.

Everyone remaining chuckled. John, Tommy and YN stared expectantly at the empty chair.

“YN,” Tommy said, gesturing for her to take it. She, obviously, refused.

“Oh, no, you’re the guest.”

“I’m not bothered, you sit.”

“Really, I don’t mind either. I’d rather you sit,” she insisted.

“YN, it’s—”

“Bloody hell, like an old married couple,” John cursed, leaping forward and taking the seat for himself. YN laughed incredulously, and Tommy stared agape at his brother like he’d just slapped YN in her face.

“John–!”

“Leave it,” YN said. “Anyone want tea?” She clapped her hands together, approaching the stove and grabbing the kettle. She was greeted by an excited chorus as their guests began to settle in. YN heard the unmistakable noise of the broken chair in the corner of the room being attempted to sat in.

“I’m afraid youse’ll have to go without. Stove’s bust,” YN’s mother tutted.

“What?”

“Just stopped on me this morning, can’t work out why.”

“Do you want me to have a look at it?” John asked.

“What you gonna do, stick a fork in it?” Arthur laughed, earning a clip on the back of his head.

“No, it’s alright, love,” her mother ignored the dispute. “Not worth it anyway.”

YN pursed her lips together at the recognition that her mother was covering up the fact they had, yet again, been unable to pay the bill. She remained turned for the few seconds it took to pull herself together, feigning replacing the kettle instead of revealing the deep breaths she was taking. Biting her lip to prevent it quivering, she then turned with a blasé shrug as if a broken stove didn’t matter.

Tommy caught her gaze, looking away as soon as they connected. Desperately, he focused somewhere else. He noticed the dinner table.

“Nice tea,” he commented, smirking at the layout.

His brothers followed in suit, innocently laughing.

“You’re ‘aving sandwiches for your tea?” Arthur snorted, reaching for a cigarette. Nonchalant, like he hadn’t just insulted their whole family and the enervating situation they had been struggling in practically their whole lives.

YN and her knot her shared a glance, both silently agreeing to just pretend everything was fine.

“Yeah, well, we’re due a shop, I think,” YN chuckled.

“We’ll go tomorrow.”

There was a definable silence that followed. YN bowed her head, arms leaning on the counter behind her. She shivered at the cold. She couldn’t help but imagine what the Shelby’s were thinking, wishing they had never come. YN had the same sentiment.

Tommy watched observingly. Seeing how YN had shrunk into herself. He knew last time he saw her she’d filled out the dress she was wearing a bit more, and she seemed irrefutably exhausted, even like she hadn’t had a wash in a while (not that he’d ever say that to her, of course). He inhaled sharply, catching the same weariness in his family’s expression, but before he could open his mouth to break the heartbreaking quiet, the door slammed open.

“Mum! Mum! I fell!” Jack’s voice squealed, running into the kitchen. The first thing YN noticed was the gaping hole in the knee of his trousers, exposing the grazed raw flesh.

“Oh, no–!”

“Jack! Look at your trousers,” YN kneeled down. “I’m never gonna be able to have them stitched up for school tomorrow! What were you doing!”

“We were playing Bulldog,” Jack said solemnly, humiliated by his sister’s scorn.

“Bulldog? Did you not think about what happened last time, eh? And now you’ve gone and bleeding done it again!”

“It’s alright, love, he’ll have a spare pair, won’t ‘e?” Polly intercepted, attempting to settle the air.

Her words, however, only shocked YN into speechlessness. She looked up to Polly’s optimistic expression, and took in a sharp breath. Harshly biting her lip, she bowed her head again before realising that this would not be a time where she could prohibit a sob. She shoved her face in her hands.

“Sorry,” she wretched, stumbling up and rushing out the room. Her shoulder collided with Tommy’s on her way out the kitchen, and where he tried to grab her to console her was dragged off in her determination, the small space pushing her other shoulder into the wall.

“This house is so small!” She exclaimed exasperatingly on her exit. The slamming of a door made both families cringe. Tommy looked to YN’s mother, and she stared back, embarrassed.

“What the bloody ‘ell was that about, then?”

part two

[zhan-xiaos]

the person reblogging this from you is rooting for you to have a happy, healthy, and successfull 2022

[korracrat]

[prince-opossum]

PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF HECK, DONT BUY A HEADDRESS!!! THEY ARE EARNED!!! IT IS A PART OF NATIVE AMERICAN CULTURE. PLEASE LET THEM STAY THAT WAY!!!

[korracrat]

[prince-opossum]

PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF HECK, DONT BUY A HEADDRESS!!! THEY ARE EARNED!!! IT IS A PART OF NATIVE AMERICAN CULTURE. PLEASE LET THEM STAY THAT WAY!!!

[bloodh4il]