Im 26, from England, im female, I struggle with depression, anxiety, I have fibromyalgia and I am diabetic. Music is my life, the bands I listen to are what keeps me going, so turn up the volume, tune out the world and get lost in the lyrics.
synopsis: after escaping the countryside and starting a new life in seoul, you’re faced with the decision of choosing between the life you once had and rekindling your occult family legacy.
the only catch is that there’s no time. there are many people that are more than willing to choose your fate for you.
pairing: saja boys x shaman/witch!gn!reader
warnings: mention of burn scars
kpdh m.list here
Ants.
Lower life forms made to be exploited, killed, consumed by the demon lord.
Corrupted.
Disgusting.
But so delicious.
That was what human souls were to Gwi-Ma.
If humans were the ants, then the demons were the spiders. They were quick. Cunning.
They spun their webs to catch their prey, only for their catch to be collected by the higher lifeform.
What a sorry display, Jinu thought, his eyes scanning the vast dark realm before him. An assembly had gathered around the fiery mountain, and on top was the blazing purple inferno they called their king.
Progress had just started. A demon boy band wasn’t just going to miraculously build itself, wasn’t it? Jinu had only about one percent of his plan finished, and that was to propose his idea and recruit demons that were… somewhat willing to go through with his plan.
The incentive of having their memories erased was most certainly a big factor in why most of them had joined.
The human realm had drastically changed since they had been damned. They’ve seen glimpses during soul harvesting, but they were never able to stay for very long to enjoy any of the sights.
But damn, the more they enjoyed modern conveniences, the more that they fell into their greed.
The food? So much better. There were so many foreign foods they could just… buy. They could just walk five minutes to the convenience store, which had just about everything they needed in one tiny room and buy it.
The transportation? Screw walking, they never had to walk more than a meter away from their apartment. Now, they could flag down giant vehicles made of metal and rolled on rubber to get to their destination. They could hail taxis, take a high speed metro system, or go on buses.
Technology. This was surely the most convenient thing to ever come out of their mission. With just a second of contact on square glass that met wire and electricity, they could order food, order a ride, speak to each other at long distances, with endless entertainment at their fingertips.
Gwi-Ma was sure to remind them of their place, of course. They were here for a reason. They were here to take down the newest generation of hunters and destroy the Honmoon once and for all.
Jinu didn’t know all too much about the new hunters. He only possessed the knowledge that they have gotten the closest to achieving the golden Honmoon, a sentence that would surely curse them all to the demon realm for all eternity.
To stew in their own suffering even more. To waste away at the hands of their creator.
Jinu scowled at the very idea. He didn’t think, he knew, that he wouldn’t be able to live with his guilt and baggage any longer.
It wasn’t their only objective for the mission. While yes, destroying the Honmoon was one of the main targets, they’ve been assigned another.
Specifically, a person.
They were given little information on them, only that they knew of the existence of demons, despite not being a hunter or a demon themselves.
Even more intriguing was the fact that they knew of Gwi-Ma’s existence. To Jinu’s knowledge, not even the generations of hunters knew about the demon lord. If they did, they most likely didn’t know him by name.
A human? What made you so special that you knew about demons? How could you possibly know anything about Gwi-Ma himself if you weren’t a demon?
He decided to pocket the information for later. If you knew about demons, then despite not being a hunter, you most likely have some ties to them.
He would focus on the girls first before getting to you.
But even before then, he had to weave together an award winning, chart-breaking boy band to overthrow one of the biggest K-Pop girl groups in the entire world.
No pressure.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
HUNTR/X.
Everyone in Korea knew them by name.
Their songs would play everywhere, during any time. They broke records, shot up the music charts, and their ads would play on every single screen.
But even pop star royalty had their own problems.
They were an internationally famed girl group by day, but demon hunters by night.
Little did two of the members know that there was a demon hiding amongst their own group.
No matter how hard she sang, no matter how hard she scrubbed her skin raw from frustration, no matter how hard she worked to free herself from her demon heritage, she would always be one.
At least until the hunters could seal the Honmoon.
Once they do, then she would be free of those patterns, and she will live her life as a normal human being again.
No more secrets, no more lies.
All her life, she’s had to hide who she truly was from the world.
And it seemed like it was starting to catch up to her.
The patterns that had once only circled her upper arm had infiltrated most of her body, now climbing up towards her throat.
Her voice had become affected by this, when she was so close to fixing everything.
Oh, how cruel the world was.
If there was just one person that would be able to understand, then maybe things wouldn’t be so bad.
If she could just tell her friends…
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Hums echoed across the chapel walls. The hymns and the continuous journey of the notes painted an auditorial picture of the grace of the Lord.
The chapel itself was sparse. There were only about a handful of people inside, some kneeling on the floor rests, rosaries clasped between interwoven fingers.
Prayers escaped their lips, ones of forgiveness and mercy.
Prayers in hopes of an everlasting life.
Reincarnation was suffering.
It was a small church. Nothing like the lone churches that were surrounded by the city buildings, their dark bricks out of place with the bright grey and white color palette of the rest of them.
Actually, it wasn’t even its own building. It was the top floor of a mixed use establishment. Underneath it rested a naengmyeon restaurant.
The windows gave the illusion of stained glass, which was really just stick colored window film. Some of the corners have even begun to curl into itself from time.
You sat on the dusty pew, one arm propped over the backrest. Your single leather gloved hand ran a finger over the wood as you lazily hummed with the hymns.
You tugged your sleeve over the peeking flesh underneath your sleeves.
It was too hot in the chapel. You were steaming alive in your long sleeves, and it didn’t help that the air conditioning unit was broken.
You’ve never been inside a real church. You grew up spiritual, but not exactly religious. You could see the world beyond, spirits and demons alike.
But you didn’t worship anything. You never gave your spirit and faith to any sort of god. Coming into any type of place of religion were recent experiences for you.
There were so many rules, so many restrictions, and so many willing patrons that subscribed and submitted to all of them.
It was one thing if they have ever truly witnessed their deity’s presence, not just by their belief, but you’ve learned first hand from a young age that these types of laymen were guided by only their blind faith.
And if their deity was perhaps real, where does their dedication end? Will they give their lives up to them, even if their merciful god weren’t how they were spoken to be?
You pitied them.
Belief was a flexible thing, a lesson that you learned long ago.
Your power was an inherited gift from your family line. A gift that you had invested your entire life into.
And you excelled at what you could get your hands on.
You were never the type to be tethered down to one specific thing. You wanted anything and everything.
You had to know. Had to have it all.
And even after you lost almost everything, after you realized that everything had been a lie, you were determined to gain every single thing you once had all back.
Standing from the pew that you sat on, you turned away from the altar. You didn’t even bother to genuflect as you exited.
You needed no god.
You were the closest thing that came to one.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Advertising wasn’t easy.
The guys had been able to gather a small team to handle all of their bigger tasks, leaving most of the scheduling, the rehearsals, and the booking to Jinu.
He was the one that approved everything in their brand and his word was final, much to the dismay of the other boys.
Of course when he had proposed his plan to them all, some fought for his leadership position. Once they realized how much work needed to be invested in a plan such as this, they had yielded to him.
The boys wandered around the streets of Gangnam, killing time and handing out the remainder of their fliers until they were supposed to debut in the middle of the plaza.
He had to wrangle the boys in the group together. Romance and Abby were especially easily distracted, what with the amount of stores and the bright city attractions.
It had only been about a week since they had arrived in the human realm. A week was all they needed to prepare a makeshift boy band to top the charts and successfully dethrone Huntrix.
Despite some of the minor conflicts that arose between the boys, they had been able to put together the bright bubbly future song of the summer.
Jinu was aware that Huntrix’s penthouse was somewhere in the area. He had deliberately chosen the streets of Gangnam, one of the most influential and popular places in Seoul for their debut. If their street performance wasn’t going to get their attention, then surely their appearance on the game show later tonight would.
They had to stick the landing here.
Jinu suggested a detour through the alley. They were going to be late, and the agenda for today was much too booked for them to be anything but punctual. He wasn’t going to let his plan be a complete waste of their combined efforts.
He and the rest of the boys knew that centuries of torment would finally be able to come to an-
A single footstep did more than break all of them out of their trance.
A wave of overwhelming dread had crashed into them, so powerful that it flooded the surrounding atmosphere.
They all fixed their gaze forward, their focus zeroing on the person walking past the alley they were about to enter.
No. A layman like that surely wasn’t the source of all that power.
They ran a finger across their nose with their singular gloved hand, seemingly unaware of the boy group walking up to them.
As they passed the guys, they unknowingly revealed the poorly disguised girl group in the alleyway.
So that was where all that power was coming from.
It did make sense, considering that this generation of hunters was the closest to achieving the golden Honmoon.
The boys were admittedly intimidated. If this was the power that the hunters wielded, then they were extremely outmatched.
No matter. With this performance, they would weaken the Honmoon and steal their fans, too distracted to stand up to them face to face.
If the boys couldn’t keep up with them, then they would drag them down to their level.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
If you thought the chapel was hot, then the outside was one giant frying pan.
You were being cooked alive, sweating like a pig in your much too long sleeves and glove.
You had checked the weather app this morning and it had most certainly lied to you. Fake news.
Not like you could wear anything else other than long sleeves, though.
God, what were all of these fliers on the street? Why were people just littering now? There was no more respect for the planet nowadays.
You tore one off from one of the electric poles. The colors on the paper were neon and garish, an amalgamation of abominable colors. You fought the urge to cover your eyes with your hands.
After you got over the design, you realized that it was a pamphlet for a new boy band. You nearly flung the paper over your shoulder when you noticed that their debut performance was going to be in the middle of the plaza.
You were already heading there anyway. Might as well.
You didn’t even need to pay attention to the directions. The music was so loud that all you had to do was listen.
Maybe you should have come quicker. The crowd was forming quickly and if you didn’t secure a good spot now, then your trip here would have been a waste.
Pushing through the ocean of people, you shoved your way through.
You made your way to the front and weaseled to the spot next to a girl with pink hair, wire rimmed glasses, and a black baseball cap.
Damn. If you were sweating in your outfit, then those boys should be dead of heatstroke.
Especially since they were dancing around too.
They weren’t half bad in your opinion. It was a bright fun song, and it suited the tropical colors of their whole band.
The girls next to you were constantly murmuring. You couldn’t quite catch their conversation, nor did you really care that much.
It wasn’t until you spotted a quick flash of stripes on one of the boys’ skin.
Very familiar patterns.
Ah. They were demons.
You swallowed, your throat tight and your eyes narrowing.
It was terrifying how human these demons are appearing. You hadn’t fought a demon in a while. The last time you had encountered one, you remembered that they barely had a grasp on any type of human culture. They tended to stay out of sight to most humans as well, even with their disguises.
Their disguises were always a bit too distorted. Their eye shape wasn’t quite right. The way they smiled was too wide, and their appearance would shift noticeably every time you blinked.
They were also very poor at hiding their patterns at all.
Yet here these five were, jumping and prancing around the streets as they advertised their new boy band.
They had still set off your uncanny valley senses, but it wasn’t because they seemed flawed in any way.
Quite the opposite, actually. They were too perfect.
Too real.
They looked like dolls, completely inhuman.
And yet look at the people they managed to attract.
With glamour as flawless as that, they must be one of the more stronger demons.
Actually, it wouldn’t have been a stretch to say that they were most likely the strongest demons you’ve encountered so far.
You began to turn back around, pushing through the crowd once more.
Gwi-Ma must be getting desperate.
And he had sent them after you.
ch. 2 here
a/n: woooo first chapter is out! i have a week holiday break coming up, so i'll be able to work on this fic more then!
uploads will be less frequent since, again, school has started for me. I'll try to pick one day of the week to upload!
ty for the support! if you want to send stuff or ask me stuff about this fic (spoiler free, of course), my inbox is always open!
synopsis: it turns out that you aren't the only person who can see spirits.
pairing: saja boys x gn!reader
warnings: violence
they were just as well kept and shiny since the day you had left your hometown for seoul.
the blades, twice as big as a standard kitchen knife, fit in your hands perfectly. they were now lighter than when you had first held them as a child. you hadn’t seen them used like this since the day you had left home for seoul a few years ago.
the distance between the spine and the edge started out thin from the handle. they increased in size away from the pommel, and swelled at the tip, curving at the point. tiny silver scratches decorated the belly from the rituals and wars against demons that had occurred long before you were born.
the handle was made from peach wood and wrapped in leather. the leather shone from the patina. years and years of aging made the color a deep dark glossy brown. there were even little indents where the previous wielders’s fingers rested.
despite its appearance and reputation, the blade itself was dull. it didn’t slice anything, but would be able to tear through flesh with enough force.
they were given to you after you had your first encounter with a demon. your family taught you how to move with grace, how to use them as if they were an extension of yourself. generations and generations of family history passed down and finally resting in your tiny palms.
it felt like a holy experience holding them for the first time.
they weren’t used for slaying demons. it wasn’t their original purpose at least. actually, now that you thought about it, you couldn’t exactly remember what it was for. it just seemed to sit on the altar of your home, untouched. maybe that was why it was kept dull.
your family’s probably explained it once. something about redirecting energy, maybe. something to use during rituals, hence their name.
honestly, you were just stoked to be able to hold two mini swords as a kid.
what you did remember was that they were regularly cleansed and considered “blessed” items, which may have been the reason why they could exorcise demonic spirits. even though the metal was blunt, it could still very easily carve through demon flesh as if it were sharp.
you hadn’t packed it when you were leaving your hometown for seoul. you only just came back for it this trip.
metal clashed with claws and teeth. sparks flew when they both collided in a harsh screech. pushed back by the sheer force of the demon’s strength, you realize that perhaps you may be outmatched.
even with your protection and strength charms, you were struggling significantly.
the red one lunged at you once more, a blood curdling scream escaped its lungs. her sharp talons traveled through the air in a lightning fast blur, prepared to tear out your throat.
her claws didn’t even go as far to touch a single hair on your skin before she had been launched backwards through the air from your powerful kick. her back hit the wall, the sound of her body crashing onto the surface created a sickening crack which reverberated throughout the cabin.
you winced for her, before turning towards the rest of the demons in your area. one began to crawl up towards the ceiling, its attention focused solely on you.
you chucked your weapon at the demon closest to you, the dagger somersaulting through the air before it had sliced through its forehead. instantly upon contact, the demon dissipated into purple embers.
the blade didn’t stop there, however.
the leather handle ricocheted off of the pole it had climbed on to, cycling through the air once more before it cleaved through the neck of the one on the ceiling. they bursted into violet sparkles as well, raining down on you. you reached out to catch the thin metal between your fingers before you flung it at your next victim that scurried towards you. they, too, were reduced to nothing but glitter.
before the red demon was able to pick herself back up, you had already begun to sprint your way to them, picking up your weapon that had clattered on the floor after eliminating the other demon.
the train had other plans, though.
you were nearly tossed backwards when the train decided to brake in a fashion that was anything but graceful. your body slammed to the ground, your head and the train beginning to spin.
“this stop is: jamsil. jamsil. the doors are on your-”
you didn’t need to be told which side the doors were gonna open before you kicked your discarded suitcase as hard as you could out the sliding doors. you scrambled to stand back up, but the sudden movement had disoriented your balance. your body was halfway out the door before you had been ambushed.
the demon, taking a page out of your book, took advantage of your temporarily weakened state and leaped on top of you. you managed to push against her, your arm separating your bodies. kicking her over your body, you were finally able to stand up as the train doors closed.
one thing you had noticed about her was that she was impossibly fast. her movements were just blurs, and you could barely parry her attacks.
you realized that she had noticed where you were weak. while your protection charms protected your soul, it did very little to protect your physical form. she could kill you physically first before taking your soul for herself.
she didn’t even move, you swore to god. she teleported faster than your eyes could follow her. the only way you were able to barely keep up with her was to track her glowing irises. they left streaks in your vision, creating a path to which direction she had darted off to. you were too late in noticing her before her leg had contacted your chest.
you now knew how it felt when she had been thrown to the wall. your back had slammed onto one of the ridges of the stairs. your spine was (barely) intact at least, even though you felt like you were now paralyzed from the waist down. honestly, after that collision, you were just about ready to crawl home on your hands and knees if it came down to it. your weapons had escaped your hands a few feet away from you, far from your reach now.
the demon, triumphant, pinned your form down with one leg, before raising her claws once more above her head. you turned away, closing your eyes.
the pressure on your chest was suddenly gone. you opened one eye cautiously. what was left where she was standing was sparkles.
oh, and the tip of a curved moon sword.
you panted as you sat up as best as you could. the leftover adrenaline from the fight still coursed through your veins. you looked up, and you were face to face with one of the familiar faces that you saw on the train’s advertising screens earlier.
mira.
they didn’t call her the ‘visual’ for nothing, you thought.
you two both stared at each other for a good minute, the same expression etched on your faces: shock and realization.
the same question lingered between you two.
‘you can see them too?’
the sharp pain in your spine brought you back to reality, hissing as you attempted to move.
“oh, right. sorry.” she apologized, her gok-do disappearing into thin air. mira held out a hand for you, which you took as you shakily stood up. “do you think you can walk?”
you nodded, wincing as you rubbed your back. there was no doubt already a bruise forming. you were lucky that it was just a bruise.
the two other members of huntrix weren’t far behind mira, stopping when they saw you.
those posters and ads didn’t do them justice. they were even more stunning in real life.
“oh my god!” the girl you knew as zoey shrieked. her eyes were the size of dinner plates, twinkling with stars as she ran up to you. “we saw the whole thing! we were in the train too, a few cabins away!”
you blinked in surprise, not noticing that you were still holding mira’s hand. zoey continued to ramble on, describing in detail how you had taken on the demon so bravely and so effortlessly.
you didn’t know what she was talking about. you got your ass beat.
you smiled awkwardly as zoey continued to sing your praises, eyeing your now slightly battered suitcase and discarded ritual blades on the floor. you nodded every once in a while to signify you were still listening, really just wanting to go home.
if you had met huntrix in different conditions, maybe you’d feel less inclined to want to bolt out of the station and find a hole to crawl into to die of shame.
“oh, right! here i am going on and on about you when i don’t even know your name!” zoey flushed, her cheeks turning a light pink out of embarrassment. you gave her your name before walking around the group to pick up your dropped items.
”you can see them.” it was rumi that had asked the question that was on everyone’s mind. “how?”
you patted the dirt off of one of your blades before picking the other one up as well.
”i should be asking you three the same question.” you said. you opened your suitcase, placing your weapons inside before zipping it back up. they watched in silence as you propped your bag up, extending the handle so that it could trail behind you.
“we’re… demon hunters.” mira hesitated before replying. there was no use in lying about anything. you all saw the whole thing. you frowned. hunters?
”like… a shaman?” you raised an eyebrow. it was the closest thing you could think of to a demon hunter. shamans exorcised demons, but it was a very small part of what they did. you would know since you’ve grown up with a few.
”the first demon hunters were shamans, so… in a way?” rumi shrugged. you nodded slowly, still perplexed that an idol group was actually demon hunters in disguise. how do they find time in their busy schedules to slay demons on the side?
”but what about you? where did you learn how to fight like that?” zoey questioned.
you were about to answer her question when your vision veered to mira’s direction. she looked wary of you, her eyebrows furrowing as she seemed to examine you. it made sense she was suspicious, considering you had just shown up out of nowhere and squared up with a demon. she had the right to be cautious. it was likely she had never seen any other person be able to see spirits.
your eyes glanced at one of the tv screens that displayed the times the trains would arrive, reminding you of how late it was.
”i apologize, but i have to be heading home.” you bowed to them, cutting the conversation short. “i would love to chat about this more, but i’m sure you’re all busy. it was very nice meeting you three.” you began to drag your suitcase behind you, walking towards the elevator. you could hear the three of them whispering amongst themselves as you waited in front of the lift.
”wait!” zoey flagged you down. she held up her phone in her hand. “we should totally talk about this more at a later date. can we get your number?”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
you closed the front gate behind you, descending down the concrete steps towards your basement home. inputting the key code, your door opened with a friendly chime.
ah, home sweet home.
you took off your shoe and passed your kitchenette. you opened the door of your room with a bit of difficulty, as the humidity made the wood swell and stick to the frame. you turned on the tv as you took out your blades from your suitcase, making your way to your other room.
the altar wasn’t nearly as fancy as the one at your childhood home, but it was the best you could do with the resources and money you had.
you laid the ritual blades down on a piece of cloth, wrapping them up and placing them in the middle. grabbing a stick of incense, you began to cleanse the blades of its bad energy.
you checked up on your small peach tree next to the door, still healthy and still green as ever. the budding blossoms indicated that fruit would be produced soon.
after you had unpacked fully and taken a shower, you grabbed a handful of ice from your fridge and made a makeshift ice pack with it for your back. the adrenaline had worn off only a short while ago, which meant that it felt as if your spine had shattered into a million tiny fragments.
groaning, you sat in front of the tv. more and more people have begun to go missing, the report said. frustrated, you turned the tv off, your eyes landing on your phone. the last text you got was from zoey, reassuring you that you must have a lot of questions. she had asked you when you were free so that they could all meet up.
there was one question that you wanted to get the answer to, and that was rumi.
whatever, you thought. you feel like you’ve been broken in half like a kit kat, and all you wanted to do was sleep.
you were sure that you’ll get the answer to your questions soon.
a/n: hi guys! the first three chapters are now confirmed to take place four years before the movie.
i have the full fic mostly planned out now. I will say that i’ve foreshadowed a ton of stuff in the first chapter...
ty for the support! if you want to send stuff or ask me stuff about this fic (spoiler free, of course), my inbox is always open!
Genre: Dark, angsty psychological smut with fluffy vibes 18+
Word count: 4,8k
Summary: You're a nurse caring for the injured Michael when the well-known leader of the Shelbys walks in: Tommy. His cold, commanding presence makes the whole ward uncomfortable. But when he's around you, something shifts...the memories you stir in him soon become a danger – one that draws you in more than it should.
CN: Post-war trauma & intimacy, power play, traumatized Tommy overdoing his “threat or flirt”-games, self-confident female protagonist puts Tommy in his place, yet dub-con vibes with choking, p in v and a and stuff, rough and kinky like always. Please note that this is all just fantasy. Things that happen in my stories should always be consensual. Take care.
Author’s note: Feel free to leave comments and share my story if you enjoy it – I truly appreciate every bit of motivation to keep writing.
***
You’ve heard the story already.
The man guarding Michael Gray’s hospital room – dead, throat cut. Michael was obviously supposed to be shot in his hospital bed, but for some reason he was spared. A message from Luca Changretta, written not in words, but in actions that could undoubtedly be described as psychological terror. The Peaky Blinders are at war, and someone crossed a line that was supposed to be sacred.
An eerie silence reigns in the hospital. The staff has made efforts to quickly remove the traces of the gruesome act, but the smell of blood and disinfectants still lingers in the air.
With the tray in your hand, you push open the wooden door with the glass panels and enter the room. You've heard of the Peaky Blinders, but most of it is just rumors, a few newspaper reports here and there, but ultimately enough to give them a wide berth. But your job as a nurse requires professionalism, and Michael's wounds need tending. During the last few weeks, while you were caring for him, he was at least polite and didn't cause too much trouble. His wounds just weren't healing as they should have been because he kept picking at the scabs, probably as a stress reaction.
A man stands by the window, tense posture, one hand resting in his pocket. His black tailored suit looks out of place against the washed-out hospital walls. His hair is razor-sharp in a classic crop, the kind only the Peaky Blinders wear with pride. And he doesn’t just look important – he radiates command. What was their leader’s name again?
It must be him.
You try to remember the latest news about the infamous clan. You've never had much time for gossip about the city's so-called "celebrities."
The man turns his head at the sound of the door, just enough to glance at you. One sharp, appraising look before he faces forward again. You’re just the nurse. It seems like the boss himself has given you the unspoken permission to stay here, even if it feels like a toleration at best. You can roughly imagine what human traits it takes to become the leader of a clan: cold, arrogant, calculating. This man surely has all of those qualities. Though everything about him appears like a red flag, you feel a strange kind of attraction to him, in a way that catches you off guard.
Michael sits propped up in the bed, pale but focused, his face tight with something close to resentment. The other man speaks. His voice is clear, cut from something hard that fits perfectly with the aura that surrounds him.
“You should have seen it coming.”
Michael exhales. “So now it’s my fault.”
“You’re alive. You don’t get to be innocent.”
Michael shifts under the covers, and although he is still visibly in shock, defiance comes through in his response. "It wasn’t my job to–"
"It’s always your job! You're breathing, aren’t you?" the man answers Michael. "Then you’re responsible. Doesn’t matter if the man outside the door had a gun, a badge, or a bloody halo. If someone gets in, it’s on you."
You approach the bed without speaking. You’ve done this many times before, in worse places. The tray rattles faintly as you shift it into place. Michael glances at you, briefly. Then he stares into the emptiness of the room again and listens to his visitor, who reprimands him incessantly.
“You had people watching you. Still, they walked in like they knew the blueprints.”
The conversation continues as you clean the wound. They don’t even bother to lower their voices. It’s not for your ears, but they don’t care if you hear. Or maybe it is, because the visitor's comments also suggest that the hospital staff might have made a mistake.
The man becomes even clearer in his accusations: “Luca doesn’t take chances. If he walked into this building, someone made it possible.”
Michael doesn’t answer. You can truly grasp how life in crime doesn’t just teach paranoia – it feeds on it.
You sincerely hope not to be drawn into this heated discussion. You blot a streak of dried blood from the edge of the stitches. Fold new gauze. Concentrate. It helps.
Just as you're about to secure the fresh bandage, you glance up.
The visitor watching you. Not openly. But your eyes meet.
And something shifts.
Is this –?
You’re not sure. Not entirely. But your body remembers a different room. A different kind of blood. Years ago. A man on a stretcher, barely conscious, your hands slick from trying to stop what couldn’t be stopped.
You hold his gaze for half a second too long.
But you see nothing but stillness in his face. No recognition. Rather, it seems that something pulled taut behind his eyes, as if your presence has hit some old, invisible wire.
He turns back without speaking. Doesn’t react.
You’re probably wrong that you know each other.
But when he turns back to Michael, his voice has changed. Softer, maybe. You can't say what it is that must have happened inside him, but obviously something is going on.
You secure the bandage without a word and leave the room.
But long after your shift is over, as you cross the threshold of the hospital, something follows you – a feeling you can’t quite name.
***
The next day, your shift is barely underway when you hear footsteps in the corridor outside the nurses' station. Certainly not your colleagues, who are rushing through the corridors. The muffled steps in hospital-typical slippers – they are familiar to you for too long. These footsteps are different. They sound heavy, almost threatening. With eerie determination they unmistakably approach the nurses' station.
You don’t look up right away. You're sorting the morning medication trays, organizing them into neat rows. The cabinet door is open, the air faintly metallic from crushed pills and antiseptic wipes.
“Excuse me.”
You turn.
It’s him.
The man from Michael's room.
He's leaning in the doorway of the nurses' station, his left hand in the pocket of his long, gray coat. It's obviously a typical posture for him, as if he has something to hide or as if he's always ready to shoot. It creeps you out to imagine him always walking around with a gun in his hand like a real gangster. Although like a real gangster isn't quite right here.
You nod. “May I help you?”
“I'm looking for hot water. Thought I could make Michael some tea.”
You blink once. A pot of hot water is always in the hallway. Every visitor passes by the small coffee and tea corner. And every family member who's visited more than twice knows it. You’re certain he knows it too.
Still, you don't let your irritation at his question show and remain polite. "Down the hall on the right. You'll find everything you need there. A herbal tea will surely do Michael good."
“Thank you,” he says.
You nod again. “Of course.”
You resume your work, slowly, humming quietly to yourself, like you often do when you focus on tasks like this.
There’s a pause. You expected him to turn around and leave. Instead, he continues to lean in the door frame. You look up, a little confused. His gaze drifts to the tray on the counter. The pills you’re arranging.
Something seems to be off. His eyes move, just slightly, as if adjusting to a brightness that isn't there. Then they settle on you.
He hesitates. Almost imperceptibly. “What song was that? Just now.”
You don’t answer right away. The question is... strange.
“An old tune,” you say. “I don’t know the name.”
He nods, like he understands. But something flickers across his expression. You see it again. This strange mixture of softness and…freezing?
He clears his throat, looking almost embarrassed. “I just thought I’ve heard it before,” he says. “Anyway. I won’t keep you.”
He steps back.
“Oh,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “Thomas Shelby.”
You look at him.
Tommy.
That was the name of this one wounded soldier in the military hospital in France, back then.
"Y/N," you answer, your head not yet able to process the information.
He gives you the ghost of a smile. Then turns and walks away down the hall.
You watch his back until he disappears through Michael's door.
***
You were right. Something is going on inside him. But he really doesn't seem to remember you. Sure, it was several years ago. Terrible things happened. Often, you couldn't do much for the soldiers; so much was lacking. Only your painkillers were plentiful, and they were strong. They granted many brave soldiers a blissful transition to the afterlife, a consolation for you, who would have liked to do more, albeit a weak one.
The soldier named Tommy was seriously injured back then, and you weren't sure if he wouldn't also walk the blessed path to the afterlife. There were so many injured that summer, the stuffy tent full of pain-filled groans. Your rounds consisted of the same routine: treating wounds, administering painkillers, moving on to the next person whose groans needed to be muffled. But it was never quiet.
It's quite possible that Tommy was so lost in his stupor that he barely noticed you. Just another face, another set of hands. But you lingered by his cot. Dabbing sweat, whispering calmly.
And humming a lulling tune.
That’s it. He doesn’t remember. But his body does. It just needs a small hint that triggers a memory…
A memory that awakens…something in him. Something you can feel stirring between you like static – curious, charged, and far from finished.
Yesterday's bandage change. That was another situation where something suddenly changed inside him. You recap the situation in your mind. The specific smell of the fresh bandages – a standard product in most medical facilities for years, one you would recognize among hundreds of other smells. Not just you – apparently Tommy's subconscious too, if your assumption is correct. At least this characteristic smell has the greatest recognition value. Sterile, clean, a smell that represents care and healing. A smell that can calm an agitated nervous system when unconsciously recalled. Maybe that's why he felt the urge to come back to the hospital – and to you in the nurses' station.
***
Michael's injuries are numerous and severe; he would certainly have to stay for a while longer, especially since his behavior wasn't exactly helping him heal. But every plea to keep his hands off the wounds fell on deaf ears.
His mother is at his side almost daily, and Thomas Shelby – Tommy –, who had been so full of accusations and who continues to seem extremely nervous about the Changretta feud, is also frequently present, often for hours. It is probably less a close connection to Michael than his urge to maintain control of the situation. Because even though there is a new bodyguard outside Michael's room door (and presumably other men around the hospital), he obviously prefers to trust only himself.
He never lets go of his hypervigilance, and whenever he comes into contact with the staff, he is bad-tempered and bossy. Your memories of your time as a nurse during the war – you would have preferred to lock them away in a dark place forever, at least the vast majority. How must the soldiers have felt?
The gang war with Luca Changretta and his men must have put Tommy in a state of constant fear. A deep-rooted fear that only allows him to function – fight or flight. A fear that Tommy Shelby would never let show. The little bit of softness he showed you seems to have vanished. You, too, repeatedly experience his condescending manner, with which he tries to belittle others.
That one time, when you move toward the window in Michael’s room to air out the place. He makes no effort to step aside, not until you politely ask him to.
“Of course. I’d never stand in your way,” he replies with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. But still, he stays just a moment too long before moving away. As if silently marking his territory, with no need to say a word.
Encounters with him feel like he’s testing boundaries…and pushing them, inch by inch.
But it’s more than that. Something in him does seem to remember you – not consciously, that’s for sure, but deeply enough to draw him in. As though he’s circling – chasing? – something familiar without knowing why.
A glance that lingers too long, taking in every inch of you.
Remarks that could be innocent, but certainly aren’t.
His request for you to stay a little longer, “to make sure Michael’s well looked after.”
There’s something almost clingy in it, though never openly affectionate. Always wrapped in a quiet arrogance that makes your skin prickle.
How badly you wish you could reveal yourself, if only to coax his softer side into the light more often. He never says it, but his presence makes one thing very clear: you must never dare speak of the first time you met.
A part of you wants to respond to the vague pull he exerts – but your mind knows better. In your role as the nurse, you're supposed to stay neutral. Anything else would be playing with fire. In general and with regard to the Shelbys in particular.
***
Your colleagues have had enough. Tommy overstays, commands the room like it’s his. So, you volunteer to end it – politely, but firmly.
You knock on Michael’s door and open it just a crack. The two men are sitting next to each other on his bed – silent, like they’ve been keeping each other company without saying a word.
“Visitor’s hour ended twenty minutes ago, Mr. Shelby,” you say, your tone calm but resolute.
“Must’ve lost track of time,” he says, voice cold, gaze still fixed ahead. “Terrible shame, eh?”
It’s clear he has no intention of leaving.
You steady yourself, trying not to let him rattle you. “Time works the same for everyone. Even you.”
He lets himself sink back into Michael’s bed like a man settling onto his couch after a long day’s work, almost casual. That deliberate calm of his, it drives you almost insane. Then, with a slow, exaggerated turn of his head, he looks at you: “I’ve learned this much, Nurse Y/N: If you stay long enough, you get what you want. It’s the same with doors – they open, if you knock long enough. Or kick.”
Is that meant to be a threat or a flirtation?
For a second, the sheer audacity of it almost robs you of speech. But you're not about to let him win this round. If he's threatening, you'll threaten back – just with a smile sharp enough to pass as flirtation.
You match his gaze, refusing to look away. “I've learned something, too. Something you might benefit from.” You pause, just long enough to make sure you have his full attention. “Some doors stay shut for a reason.”
Inwardly, you cheer at your sharp comeback, aimed to throw him off balance.
He huffs something close to a laugh. “Makes it all the more fun, eh?”
In war times, you used to wonder what he might be like when he flirts. What kind of lover hides behind that wounded soldier. He was different then, softer, maybe? You can't quite remember. But France left you broken too, dulled.
His hard, distant demeanor shows flashes of something else, a kind of playful dominance, yes. Maybe this is the only way he is able to handle that kind of risk – a risk greater than everything he risked in France – the risk of being rejected. This way, he could always claim it was never meant that way.
So, you play along – but not without returning fire in his little “threat or flirt” game. Your responses are carefully weighed, as precise as his provocations. If he wants a game, you'll play to win. “Perhaps the real question is why you never try the handle from your side.”
Only after the words have left your mouth do you realize the full weight of their double meaning. Sure, the round goes to you – there’s hardly a more elegant way to call out his overblown dominance.
But isn’t that the point?
Would he need to act this way if he were truly open to others – if he could let someone in, face his fears, process them, learn to trust again?
But you’re not naive.
You know better than to believe in hopeful illusions. His tactics have been honed over years – perfected until they cut deep without drawing blood. Like a dog that bites out of fear, long before it knows whether the hand reaching out is there to harm or to feed.
He doesn’t seem to need long to recover, slipping out of checkmate with infuriating ease. “That tone, Nurse Y/N.” He emphasizes your name in a way that makes you feel as if he's already deep beneath your skin. Or as if he could get there with ease. “Makes me want to misbehave on purpose.”
Michael, who’s been staring out the window the entire time, barely suppresses an eye-roll.
You smooth down the hem of your uniform and fix Mr. Shelby with a look as sharp as the edge of a scalpel. “Mr. Shelby, I must insist that you leave now.”
“What if I don’t?” he asks, without even pretending to play nice. “Will you report me, then?”
You offer no reply. Instead, you press the clipboard silently to your chest and walk out – leaving him to wonder just how to interpret your silence.
***
You close the door, heart hammering. You held your ground, but didn’t win. He’s still there. Still in control. Fortunately, most of your colleagues have already left for the day. One of them is probably still finishing her evening rounds. At least your failure has no audience.
You decide to focus on the weekly inventory restock, hoping the routine task will offer some distraction. When you step into the small supply room at the end of the hallway, a bead of sweat trickles down your forehead. You tell yourself it must be the heat radiating from the boiler room next door, but the excuse feels paper-thin, even as you think it.
The room is crammed with medical supplies of every kind, stacked all the way up to the ceiling. A small stepladder stands in the corner, used to reach the upper shelves. A few cobwebs drift lazily around the exposed lightbulb, which flickers uncertainly overhead.
You're sorting through a box, back turned to the door, when the light suddenly dims. You sigh in frustration, already making a mental note to request a new bulb. It's been flickering all day, and you had hoped it would last just a little longer.
Then you hear the soft click of the door falling shut.
You spin around, startled. Thomas Shelby is standing there. Not in the doorway this time, not leaning in with one foot still outside like earlier. The door is fully closed behind him.
"Mr. Shelby…" you breathe, caught between alarm and – you’re ashamed to admit it to yourself – arousal.
He studies you for a beat, then tilts his head slightly.
"Tell me? What did your supervisor say about my…little breach of protocol?" he asks, voice smooth with mock concern. "Am I about to be dragged off in chains?"
You try to hold his gaze, but your pulse is racing.
He lets a pause stretch, then adds, lower now, "Would you like to see me that way? Bound and…powerless?"
You fight to keep your face neutral, but he doesn't let up.
"Or are you the one who prefers the losing hand?" He steps forward, and the space around you shrinks.
You instinctively lean back, only to feel the edge of a shelf pressing into your spine.
"Mr. Shelby, I didn’t…" you begin, trying to sound firm, trying not to let your voice betray the flutter in your chest.
"Report me?" he finishes for you. "I know. I suppose I wasn’t quite bad enough yet."
There’s something predatory in his tone now, something playful and sharp at once. His presence is overwhelming in the cramped room, and you’re suddenly aware of how far away help would be. If anyone is even left to hear you.
You glance around, eyes searching for something, anything, you could use to create space between you.
He catches it and gives a dry, amused laugh.
"What’s this? You want to stop a Shelby from being a bad boy? After poking the beast?"
The bulb above you sputters again, this time violently, and with a low, electric hum, it dies.
Darkness falls.
Only a few narrow slivers of light slip through the ventilation grates into the small room.
Tommy gasps, the sound sharp and raw, like panic breaking the surface. He nearly stumbles into you, and in a flash, his strong hands close around your throat.
"Don’t move, got it? One sound, and it's over," he hisses in a clipped, military tone.
Darkness. Heat. Claustrophobia.
He’s not here anymore. Not in this room.
The ghosts of the past have taken hold of him.
He’s back at the Somme. Back underground.
And now? You’re not Nurse Y/N. You’re the threat.
A threat that needs to be neutralized.
Just as instinctively as he attacked, you claw at his hands, trying to pry them away from your neck. But they hardly budge. He presses down harder.
"I said keep still. Keep quiet. Makes it easier for both of us," he growls, voice sharp and hostile.
You close your eyes. Try to conserve your last energy.
Instinct.
And then, just as instinctively, you turn your head to the side. Expose the vulnerable skin of your throat to him. Like a beaten she-wolf offering her neck to the alpha, hoping he will spare her. Hoping he won’t go in for the final bite, even though he could.
His face brushes your skin. The scrape of stubble is harsh against the softness there.
He breathes in. Deep. Sudden.
"Fuck," he mutters. The grip on your throat slackens.
You gasp for air. Your lungs burn as air rushes back in, and you feel the raw imprint of his hands on your neck. Your pulse is thundering in your ears, but it is no longer only fear that drives it.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
You keep your eyes closed, just to process what happened. You stopped his fight-or-flight mode again. His nose on your neck, a deep breath...
A floral, familiar scent, laced with innocence.
Your perfume. The one you've worn for years. Even back then. At the Somme.
It hits a place in him no war ever reached. And that's what makes it even more dangerous, although it is calming on the surface. It cuts straight to the bone, bypassing logic, reaching his nervous system to unfold its effect. His instincts are still on fire, but something has shifted. They are no longer turning against you. Not now. Not entirely.
It is as if Tommy collapses into you.
You stumble back but catch yourself on the small stepladder behind you, just enough to keep from falling. Your fingers seize the fabric of his shirt, gripping hard near his chest.
"Shhh," you whisper, trying to soothe him, to calm his wolfish nervous system.
Then, almost desperately, you pull him toward you.
Your lips meet his. Searching. Finding.
The line you’ve so carefully drawn, day after day, has blurred. You have kept your distance, kept your control, held your ground behind professional words and folded hands. But now, here in the dark, with his breath on your skin and your body still trembling beneath the memory of his grip, something breaks.
You feel his chest rise and fall against you, too fast, too shallow. He is still somewhere else, not fully here, caught between past and present, you assume.
You could push him away.
Call for help.
Fight.
But instead, you tilt your face just slightly toward him, not away. Your fingers, still curled against his chest, do not fall away. You stay.
Because you recognize the ache in his touch. The same absence that hollowed out the men who came back. Hunger not just for flesh, but for grounding. For something human. Something soft.
You tell yourself this is for him. To anchor him. To calm him.
But your body, heat-slick and alert, says otherwise.
You’re not just soothing him. You’ve already cracked the door the second you played along instead of shutting him down.
His hand still rests on your neck while his thumb brushes your pulse, slow now, but firm, like he’s reminding you that his gentleness is a choice, not a guarantee. He could tighten again if you push the wrong buttons. You both know it. The game is far away from over.
You gasp at his other hand that slides lower, over fabric, under it, with an aim that leaves no question. He sets the rules, whether you like them or not.
"You remember what I said?" he murmurs.
You let out a questioning sound.
"The losing hand."
His fingers find the slick heat between your thighs.
"Seems to me," he mutters, smug, "you like playing it."
Your breath stutters. "Is that what you think? That giving myself to you makes me weak?"
Tommy growls softly. "No. It makes you mine."
You barely have time to exhale before his lips crash into yours again. The next kiss is deeper, hungrier, as if something in him has finally snapped free.
You can’t deny that you want this. Want him – this broken soldier who became an unpredictable, dangerous criminal. The craving coils low in your belly, tightening with every inch he claims. But something churns inside you at his very last word.
Mine.
Clearly not an invitation. A verdict.
He has responded to gentleness before. The scent of the bandages reminded him of care and healing, which softened his voice when he spoke to Michael. When you hummed a soothing tune, he didn’t lash out; he listened.
And now, in this small supply room, when his trauma surged, it wasn’t logic or commands that brought him back, or rather: stopped him from killing you. It was your perfume.
You had tools, not weapons, but levers. You had ways to steer him, to anchor him.
Now, caught in the tide of his possessive need, you ask yourself: Is there still something you can offer that turns this from coercion into something mutual?
Not overt control; you know better than to reach for that. You want consent, or at least the shape of it. If you can reach him – not the soldier, not the animal, but the man – maybe, just maybe, he’ll meet you in that space between need and choice.
Your conflict is barely hidden, etched into every shift of your body. Your fingers press against his chest, not to push him away, not really, but just to carve out the illusion of choice. Your head tilts, as if defying the inevitability. But your body, traitorous and aching, leans into his.
He reads you, of course, senses your hesitation, and it keeps his guard up. You know that this still makes him dangerous to you. His grip around your neck is firm, not cruel, but certain. You freeze, not out of fear, but awareness. In his world, he didn’t steal control. He reached for it because fear had narrowed his world to instinct. In his heightened state, physically overpowering you is the only language he trusts. Because he never learned how to ask.
If he’s to ease his grip, he must sense that you're not offering yourself out of fear, but because, this time, you want to be touched.
You shift a little and lean into his touch. Then you lift your hand to cover his. Not to push, just to claim a part of it. To say: I see you. You don’t have to hold on so tightly.
He goes still.
His fingers no longer hold; they wait. You close your hand around his for a moment and give it a gentle stroke. Slowly, he loosens his grip.
You reach out to stroke his temples. His hair clings damply to his skin.
“I don’t want to be taken,” you whisper in your trained soothing tone, as you have done so often for your patients – and as you assume it’ll work to calm him as well. “I want to give myself. That’s not weakness, Tommy. That’s trust.”
He stills. You feel the shift in his breathing, the way his body eases just slightly beneath your touch.
“I know sweetheart, I know…,” he pants, biting and sucking the tender flesh of your neck in lustful anticipation. “you’re not weak. You’re just smart enough to know when to surrender.”
You don't answer aloud. But you don't pull away.
He senses it, your unspoken agreement: he may lead, but only for as long as you let him.
“Now be smart again,” he whispers, fingers fumbling with his belt. “Open for me.”
The words hit like an electric current and you feel the heat painfully pooling between your legs, unbearable in its immediacy. You didn’t miss the chance in his voice; it’s edged with heat now. You realize with relief that it’s more temptation than threat, like he’s playfully testing whether your earlier words were bravado or a real invitation.
The darkness sharpens everything, every noise, his intent, your desire to feel what he hasn’t even given yet. You’d never admit aloud how much you like the command laced with bittersweet praise. And how easy it is to obey.
He steps back a little and you hear the soft metallic click as his belt comes undone. He hesitates to move closer. You glimpse him in the faint slats of light slipping through the vent in the door, his fingers are paused at his waistband, his silhouette appears tense with restraint.
Your palm finds his jaw again. Damp, tense, warm. You guide him forward until his hips brush your thighs. You notice that his breath falters differently now, deeper, heavier. Lust, not vigilance. It settles you more than words could.
“Use me, Tommy. Be rough. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”
His head drops for a second, forehead resting against yours. There’s heat in the contact. And something else – gratitude, maybe. You both know, you will stay if he respects your boundaries. Then his hands settle on your waist, sliding under the hem of your uniform again, rough fingertips skimming over skin still chilled from fear, pulling down your slip with practiced ease.
“Don’t worry, Y/N. I’ll break you just right.” He lifts you by the hips and pulls you forward on the ladder’s narrow rung until your legs fall open around him. “You’ll thank me for it.”
If this is how his “threat or flirt” game goes on, you’ll love to play it till the end.
His zipper goes next, silent but decisive, and then there’s nothing but his hardness against you – demanding, impossible to ignore.
You gasp as he pushes into you. Not from pain, but from the way it overwhelms: the stretch, the pressure, the sheer size of him forcing you to take more than you thought you could. He stays still, forehead resting on your shoulder, breath warm against your neck. It’s not hesitation. It’s a silent check-in.
You tighten your legs around his hips, and that’s all he needs. His mouth finds yours again, this time with no restraint. It’s not a question anymore. It’s a claim you’ve offered, one he accepts with hunger and something close to reverence. He lets gravity do the rest – his hands guiding your thighs as he tilts his hips and lets your weight slide down onto him. The sudden fullness draws a choked moan from you. It’s deep. Deeper than you imagined.
“Fuck,” he rasps, voice strained and reverent all at once. “What a tight little thing you are.”
His thrusts are agonizing slow at first, grinding your spine against the ladder’s frame, like he’s savoring the permission. There’s no escape from the sensation. His body fills your vision, your core, your mind. His size borders on too much, and for a flicker of a second, you’re glad for the shadows. You don’t want to see how much of him is still left outside you.
He knows. Of course he knows. That deliberate pace, his strained breath – he’s done this many times before, and he acts as if he’s addicted to the rhythm and the depth with which he uses your body for his very own pleasure. He knows exactly how to give you too much, then back off just enough to make you beg for it again.
You hadn’t expected tenderness, though. Not from him. Not like this. But it’s there – buried in the precision, the restraint, the way he listens to your body even when you don’t speak.
You can’t suppress a muffled moan into his mouth. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a warning flickers – someone might hear. Your colleague, doing her final rounds before night shift really settles in. The one with the maddeningly squeaky shoes. Right now, you’re grateful for that noise; if she’s still walking, she’s not close.
You try not to make another sound but each thrust punches the air from your lungs, sharp and high. You kiss him deeper, try to smother the sounds in his mouth.
But he doesn’t let you hide.
His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bare your throat, to make you loud.
“Let me hear you,” he growls. “Don’t hide those filthy little noises – they’re for me.”
When you finally moan his name, it wrecks him. He groans like he’s been holding back too long – and the rhythm turns sharper. Your thighs begin to tremble from the sheer overstimulation. But there’s no pulling back now. He’s too far gone, chasing a finish he won’t be denied. His grip tightens on your hips and spine, holding you in place like he owns the rhythm – and you with it. Your attempts to wriggle out of his grasp – more of a test than a real intention – he doesn’t register them. Or he deliberately ignores them.
This might be breaking the rules. But God, you want him to.
The metal creaks dangerously under you. You half-laugh, half-moan. “Tommy, careful. We’re going to break this thing.”
“You first,” he growls into your neck, pushing even harder as if it were a challenge for him. “I promised you.”
This fucking stepladder. It gives him the perfect angle – lets gravity do the work as he drives deeper, hips locking yours in place, no room to shift, no escape from the drag and stretch of him. Every thrust is calculated, relentless, each one sharper than the last. He uses your own weight to trap you where he wants you, pinning you there with force and precision – clearly chasing both your undoings.
You’re close. He must feel it.
Then he murmurs against your ear, voice hoarse and thick with something that breaks the last thread of restraint:
“So good for me, love. Letting me in like this. So fucking perfect.”
It shatters you.
Because suddenly, it isn’t just about dominance or hunger. It’s about being wanted. Trusted. Needed.
You break around him, trembling, gasping. He’s not far behind, chasing the high like it’s salvation, a curse dragged from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt, body locking against yours. His mouth finds your shoulder, your neck, like he can’t get close enough. The rhythm breaks, falters, and still, he doesn't let go – of your hips, your breath, the space between you.
After a moment, he shifts, careful now. His hands are gentle as he helps you off the stepladder, steadying your knees. You’re both quiet…the kind of quiet that lingers when something important just passed between two people.
You smooth down your uniform. He does it better, fingers brushing at your collar, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, lips ghosting your temple like a secret. When you carefully open the door, the hallway is still empty.
He gives you one last look, mischief flickering in those impossible blue eyes.
“You were right, Nurse Y/N. Visitor’s hour is long over.” He straightens his jacket, lips twitching with mischief. “Still, can’t say I regret overstaying.”
You keep your face neutral, your steps steady. But inside, you're a coil of nerves and want.
And as you walk in opposite directions, heart still thudding from more than just exertion, you already know you’ll be counting the hours until the next time he shows up – to break the rules again.
One of the reasons I love Aleksander so much is that, much like the Allied forces during World War II, he found himself in a situation where his choices were dictated by the necessity of survival and the greater good. War is never fought in black and white, and victory rarely belongs to those who refuse to step into moral grayness. The Allies, faced with the monstrous threat of Nazi Germany, had to make devastating decisions that often led to civilian casualties, deception, and destruction, but ultimately resulted in dismantling a regime that threatened the world. Aleksander, in his war against Fjerda, Shu Han, and the Ravkan monarchy itself, walked a similarly ruthless path, where every compromise, every difficult decision, was not made out of cruelty but out of necessity. This is yet another thing his critics like to forget.
One of the most well-known examples of the Allies’ morally complex decisions was the strategic bombing campaign against Germany. The bombing of Dresden in 1945, a city known more for its cultural significance than its military strength, caused enormous civilian casualties. Yet, it was part of a broader strategy to break the Nazi war machine. Similarly, Aleksander’s use of the Fold and its expansion can be seen in the same light—not as an act of senseless destruction, but as a weapon, terrible, yes, but still a weapon against those who sought to eradicate and enslave Grisha. Just as the Allies sought to dismantle the infrastructure and morale of their enemy, Aleksander used the Fold to prove a point, to deter, to protect his people.
The D-Day invasion of Normandy was another instance where the Allies had to weigh terrible losses against long-term victory. The landings on Omaha Beach alone resulted in thousands of Allied casualties, and yet, had they hesitated, had they refused to take the risk, Nazi Germany might have remained unchallenged. Aleksander’s actions reflect the same understanding: standing back, waiting, and hoping for justice would have meant certain death for Grisha. Instead, he took control, knowing that wars are not won through passive and noble ideals but through decisive, often brutal action.
It is crucial to understand that the war Aleksander fought was not one of conquest but of survival. Grisha were hunted, experimented on, treated as subhuman by their enemies and had no safe refuge. Just as the Allies had to forge alliances, sometimes with deeply flawed leaders, Aleksander also had to make difficult choices to secure his people’s survival. His war was not about morality in the conventional sense but about ensuring a future for those who had none.
It is easy to judge him from a distance, to believe that war should be fought with honor, fairness, and strict moral codes. But history has shown time and again that such wars are lost before they even begin. Aleksander, like the Allies, had no luxury of purity. He was forced to fight fire with fire, knowing that to do anything less would mean condemning his people. His actions, like theirs, did not stem from cruelty, but from the understanding that sometimes, to stop a greater darkness, one must be willing to walk through the shadows. That is why I stand by him.
shaking myself (very gently) . being in pain takes a lot of energy!!!!!! being in pain is exhausting!!!!!!! you are not lazy or weak because you need to spend so much time resting, this is your body coping with how much pain you’re in literally 24/7!!!!!!!!!
Pre-manufacturing cultures will really be like, here is the most elegant and gorgeous outfit you can imagine, and it’s achieved entirely with rectangles, ropes, and pins.
Over and over again, across the world, in cultures that never even knew of each others’ existences. Just, rectangles, knots, and pins. And I love that for them.
[image description: tweet by Netchimen’s Reverie that reads “Tolkien describing places that are evil: no trees grow there” /end description]
This is doubtless because of his experience of the trenches in the Great War.
Like, this is what things looked like to soldiers who fought in that war (image in black and white of a solitary soldier walking across a muddy wasteland pocked with puddles):
Here’s Delville Wood, the site of a battle in 1916 (sepia image of a wasteland dotted with broken and dead trees):
Here’s an image from the Battle of the Somme, in which Tolkien participated (image of soldiers standing above and inside a trench or earthwork in a grey wasteland; smoke from artillery is on the horizon)
So yeah: no trees = evil was Tolkien’s own direct lived experience. It’s precisely why Mordor and the wastelands around it look like they do in his books.
the plateau of gorgoroth, the heartland of mordor, is described as being scarred by countless pits dug by orcs
the true seat of evil is full of foxholes and trenches
Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader (Female/Incestuous)
Warnings: Incest (at this stage accidental), Age Gap, PTSD, Domestic Abuse, Self-Harm, Fluff, Mild Smut
Words: 5,456
Summary:
This plays after Grace’s death but before Tommy becomes a politician. Lizzie is pregnant with Tommy’s child, so it is somewhere around season four.
In this fic, Tommy suffers from episodes of PTSD and so does the reader, resulting from trauma and abuse. They will help and save each other without realising that their connection is much stronger than they could have anticipated.
There will be love, fluff and smut as well as a highly taboo relationship.
PLEASE COMMENT AND ENGAGE!
QUESTION: WHO IS TOMMY TO THE READER? WHOOPS!
YOUR POV
The following day, you again, arrived at the gambling den on time only to find out that Tommy was not there and neither were any of his brothers.
Polly and Michael too were absent from the den that day and the only person who barged in at around 9 o’clock was a woman by the name of Linda.
She was blonde and beautiful, with lovely curls and hypnotic eyes. She appeared stressed however and when you introduced yourself to her, she chuckled.
Summary: Beaten and bruised, Thomas finds his wife in the safe-house, unresponsive and broken, surrounded by death.
Warning: little bit of fluff, guns, death, mices
Word Count: 1.5k
a/n:.This is following there-goes-thefighter❤️ for the lovely´s @zablife's story share. you can find the rest of the story HERE with all the previous parts and I am passing the story onto my dear @cillmequick❤️
The receiver was dangling on the wire. The enemy's blood, darkened and cold, clung to the soles of his polished shoes freckled by mud and grime. A deep voice, nearly mirroring his called out, called him by his name, faint and barely audible, but Thomas Shelby did not answer.
Creatures escaped the rising shadows, ran into the house, rats and mice, screeching and giggling, gnawing at the rotting bodies, drinking blood and feasting on pale skin, screaming for the friends to hasten and feast.
The man stiffened. Swallowing, Thomas loosened the tie around his neck and lowered his gaze to the remains of the dinner on the plate with blueish tendrils on the round notched table with rounded corners and sanded edges. Tears clouded his eyes and pain numbed his senses. He flexed his hand. The first tear fell as the sobs grew louder, pulling him back into reality, realised it was not a dream and the man cruel as the northern wind, dreaded like a wolf failed to stay strong for the woman he loved. Thomas put the loaded pistol away, realised he had pulled it out, knew the men in tattered clothing with outflung arms and broken limbs lying beyond the thick walls bore lifeless eyes.
His eyes had seen much and his ears had heard gruesome news, but he found himself unable to count the soulless shells, the holes in the walls and the wooden floor but a sense of pride filled Thomas at the sight of his wife, the warrior who had raised her weapon against the intruders.
Slowly, as if he feared the sight, the truth, a child fearing the cabinet, the monster under the bed, Thomas turned and faced his sobbing wife. He dried his damp palms on the trousers. He clenched his hands into fists, regretting he had not been at her side, had failed to protect the woman. The question of how she was, did not fall again.
The gashes painting her skin, darkening marks snaking like ivy around her neck and arms, told a tale of death and struggle he did not want to read. The hem of her dress was tattered, the hair dishevelled and Thomas guessed it was dirt and grime, hoped it was not crimson.
Relief flooded his body. His shoulders slumped forward, and he gave her a weak, encouraging smile and walked towards Y/N, paralysed by pain and fear. The last wall of defence crumbled and the last dam broke free and released raging torrents down on the town. Thomas ran, jumped over the destroyed table and fallen chairs. Wood creaked under his shoes. His arms wrapped around her trembling body. Unintelligible, Thomas cried out, uttered a silent prayer, breathed soft promises, too good to be true into her ear and plastered featherlight kisses on her bruised cheek. Shaking fingers sank into her hair, hugged her tighter as the weight of the world, the entire universe, settled on her shoulders and forced her to fall like a star.
"Everything is alright," Thomas mumbled into her ear.
It was a fact, but it sounded like a question as if he had to convince himself of the sincerity of his own words. Lowering her eyes in shame, Y/N lifted her hands and clawed her fingers into the button down. Gently his battered fingers slid over her exposed arms, back and hips, ribs and neck, on the endless search for a wound, crimson seeping through the fabric, for pain dimmed by adrenaline but apart from trivial yet painful abrasions, bruises of various sizes, the Shelby could find nothing.
"You are a strong woman. I saw what you did. I don't know many men who could do something like that. I am proud of you," Thomas continued, praising the breaking woman.
Y/N laughed out, chuckled bitterly, and braced herself to answer.
"It doesn't feel like something I could be proud of. I had to do it. I feel guilty about it." she cawed, the voice faint and roughened by screaming.
Freeing himself from the suit jacket, keeping one hand on her body, he threw the jacket on the floor and lowered Y/N onto the warming fabric. Groaning, Y/N slowly sank to the floor.
"The men stormed the house. I heard them. I thought I would never see you again, that I will die. I took the gun and killed them all. I had to do it." she sobbed into his shoulders, slurred, but Thomas understood every syllable.
Almost healed wounds tore open. Blood oozed. She sank her teeth into her lower lip. Copper spilt in her mouth. She wanted to scream and curse, cursed the deceased like a witch, but only a croak emitted from her throat.
"Careful. Slowly. Hold on to me. I won't let you go. I will take you to the hospital, the doctors will take care of you and I will do the rest." he reassured.
His thumb stroked her bruised cheek, wiping away tears and worry.
"Are you hit?" Thomas questioned.
Y/N shook her head.
"Please, talk to me." he continued, needed to hear the answer, her voice.
"Grazed. My arms hurt. One tackled me, tried to knock me out and probably broke my nose." Y/N whispered and pointed to the door, the corridor, to the men facing the other side of the wall.
Thomas nodded with glassy eyes.
"Your nose is still beautiful. It won't take away from your beauty." Thomas complimented her.
He looked at her as if nothing had happened, as if he had forgotten everything as if she had never disappeared without a word, looked at her like a goddess, a fallen angel.
He pulled an ironed handkerchief out of the pocket, twitched it back and forth, opened it and moistened the almost transparent dark blue material with red decorations with his initials on his tongue, moistened it and washed away the traces of struggle from cheeks and forehead, danced over her skin and Y/N did not flinch in disgust or contorted her face and allowed it.
"I've called Arthur. You don't have to worry anymore. I will take care of everything. No one will dare to touch you again.", "You're going to leave me?" Y/N questioned with widened eyes.
His heart twitched; the arrow struck his heart and buried deeper and deeper. His lips did not touch, wanting to start a sentence. Soft footsteps echoed through the deserted house. Thomas freed himself from the tight embrace, turned and his right hand found itself on the trigger of the pistol. The footsteps came closer. Shaking, Y/N slid back, heard commotion and cursed like a banshee. Her eyes dilated searched for her pistol, clutched it, breathed a bloody murder as she noticed there was no round in it.
Running, John stepped into his field of vision, gun drawn, ready to kill, and Thomas saw relief in his brother's eyes wandering back and forth from him to the whimpering woman. Sweat dripped down his forehead and carried away the fear and anger boiling in his body. Heaving John leant against the frame, relieved, filled his lungs with air and almost let go of the gun.
Quickly Thomas turned to his wife, jumped back, threatened to fall like a soldier struck by a bullet, put his hand on her body and supported Y/N. Carefully he removed the gun from her, fearing she would injure herself, and shoved it aside. His warm breath brushed her cheek, breathed into her ear that she need not fear, that it was John who had followed him and no one had woken from the deathly sleep.
"Take care of the bodies. Take them away. Burn them, do with them whatever you want, throw them into the streets." Thomas commanded gruffly, a king sitting on the throne and ruling with iron first over the kingdom.
Nodding, John backed away, turned his back on the pair, put away his gun and did as his brother demanded, saw the seething anger in his eyes, nodded again, and sped away. Thomas watched after his brother and pressed the panting woman closer to his heart. Hushing vows in her ear, Thomas placed his lips between hushed words of love and adoration on her temple while his hand clasped her shaking fingers. Dangerously his eyes darkened, and vengeance, was clouding his senses.
Nici, I’m sorry I’m just getting a chance to catch up on the story share and comment. However, I’m glad I saved this for a time when I could savor it bc…WOW!! I am blown away by this beautifully written and highly evocative chapter.
The way you’ve described the eery scene as Tommy arrives is masterful. I felt as though I was there taking in the horrific carnage, fearful of what might be lurking around the next corner. My fave part was Tommy finding his wife and realizing what she’s endured tho.
I swooned over his protectiveness. The way he compulsively searches for injury and takes the gun away so she doesn’t hurt herself. He’s so gentle as he comforts her. Using the handkerchief to wipe her face and telling her her broken nose is still beautiful. I especially liked the bit when he tells her he’s proud of her and she replies that she feels nothing but guilt. This felt so true to their characters.
As I contemplate the ending, I’m wondering how Tommy will take his revenge. Looking forward to reading @cillmequick chapter 11 to find out!
