the nectar house

18+ honey’s home

[thezombieprostitute]

Great Pyrenees Kraven

Happy Birthday @honeybee-reads!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Director's Cut 12

Warning: power imbalance, dark content, obsession, and all around sexiness.

Summary: Powerful director Nick takes interest in a new project; you. (director!Nick Fowler, plus!reader)

I always see this gif and wanna write something so here we go.

Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕

Nick reaches back to catch your hand before you can outpace him. He pulls you down a walkway of stone inlaid with intricate designs. You almost don’t want to step on them as you can see and almost feel the history carved into them.

He brings you past to wide pools of crystal water alongside trimmed hedges and greenery. He approaches a set of arched double doors and grabs the lock box hooked around the handles. He punches in a code to open it and a key falls out. He catches it in his palm and turns to jingle it at you.

“Benvenuta,” he purrs in Italian.

“Is this… a hotel?” You wonder.

“It’ll be our hideout for the next little while.” He opens your hand and presses the key into your palm. “Go on.”

“I…” you look down at the key. “No, no. It’s yours. I couldn’t.”

“Ours!” He corrects as he runs his hand up your forearm to just above your elbow. He turns you to face the doors and sidles behind you. He puts his hands on your shoulders and crowds you. “Come on. It’s exciting, isn’t it?”

“Sure, very. It’s just… I don’t know. You do it.” You turn to him and his hands barely miss your chest as they fall. He inhales and his brows twitch. “Please,” you shove the keys against his chest. “Just… it doesn’t feel right if I do it.”

“Alright, sweetheart, no problem.” He wraps his hand around yours and slides the keys free. “Don’t wanna do anything that doesn’t feel right.”

His eyes flick down then up and his jaw squares. He takes another deep breath. He moves around you subtly and unlocks the door with a single hand. His other hovers by your lower back.

“Come on, you gotta at least be curious.” He pulls the key free and gestures you inside.

“It’s… okay! Okay! I just… I don’t want to overstep.” You clasp your hands together.

“Never,” his fingertips graze your shorts as he drops his hand completely to his side.

You poke your head in as he stays close. He reaches over casually to flip on the light switch; the sort you have to twist. Above, a chandelier of tear drop bulbs bloom to light. You bat your lashes as you look around. 

A marble staircase trimmed in iron railings winds up to another level in the foyer and a rounded archway looks into a sunny front room, pulsing with the refracted light from the ripples outside the wall of glass panes. You look to the other side, another archway, a dining area with wooden chairs and a clear glass table.

“Which way to our room?” You ask.

Nick chuckles.

“This is it.”

“What?”

“All of this. This is where we’re staying.”

“Huh?” You sway. “But this is like a whole house.”

“All ours.” He assures.

“Hmm,” you hum and lean forward, too wary to take a step.

“You don’t like it?” He wonders.

“I love it but… I don’t want to break anything or… I don’t know. It’s so much! This is bigger than my apartment. Bigger than the house I grew up in.”

“Really, you haven’t even seen the whole thing.” He chides.

“This alone,” you peer between the archways.

He grins. “There’s a real pool in the back…”

“Oh, shut up!” You smack his arm playfully. “You’re not serious.”

He laughs again. “I am,” he looks down at his bicep where you hit him.

You gulp. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to– I was only joking–”

“Sweetheart, you do whatever you want to me.” He looks up at you. “I don’t mind.”

“Err, you’re too nice, Nick.” You sigh. “Well, maybe I shouldn’t stay too long. I’m sure you have lots of work to do… when am I going back?”

“Trying to get away already?” His voice sinks.

“No, no. I just… I keep seeing all this stuff about the movie. I saw a whole ET thing on the new actor they hired.”

“Young kid. He’s got a good reference,” Nick’s tone goes dull. “I don’t want think about work right now.”

“I’m sorry,” you tug on your ear lobes nervously. He narrows his eyes and touches your elbows.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m not upset.” He brushes along your forearms. “Do I really scare you that much?”

“Scare me? Not exactly. It’s just… this is the furthest I ever went from home and you’re like famous and I’m… no one.” You giggle meekly. “Oh, I didn’t mean to say all that out loud.”

“No, I like your honestly.” He insists. “Sweetheart, people lie to me every day. They say what they think I want to hear. They pretend to be who they think I want to know. Thing is, I don’t want to know anyone but you.”

“You’re too sweet.” You rock and fold your hands in front of your stomach. “Well… is Leon here? Maybe I could help out while you’re working–”

“What’d I say about work talk?” He grits.

You make an O with your lips. His eyes dart down to your mouth. “Oops! I’m not meaning to… I guess… I don’t know what to do or say!”

“Well, I mentioned the pool…” He suggests.

You smile but it falls just as quickly. You slap your forehead. “Gee, I think I forgot a suit.”

“Forgot your bikini?” He tuts.

“Bikini? No…” you blush hotly. “I… I had a whole list and I forgot to put that on it.”

“That’s alright. I’m down for skinny dipping if you are.” Your eyes go wide. He tilts his head then snickers. “Kidding… obviously.”

“Oh. Hahaha. Of course. That would be… ha.” You cough. “Well, I could put on shorts and I think I have like a tee shirt–”

“On it, sweetheart,” he pulls out his phone. “The girls are coming with our luggage. I’m sure they can find you something on the way.”

“No, I couldn’t–”

“You can. It’s done.” He taps the screen with his thumb and lowers the phone. “It’s too hot in this city not to swim.” He leans on one foot as he watches you. “And you’re not gonna let me hang out all by myself, are you?”

You stare at him and chew your cheek. You came this far and he’s done so much. You can’t be ungrateful. Besides, it’s just a swimsuit. It’s all your fault for being so dang forgetful.

“Of course not.” You relent. “I… thank you, Nick. You’re so…” you search for the end of the sentence as his brows tweak. “Nice to me. Really. You’re like the nicest person I’ve met in LA.”

“Hmph,” his cheek dimples. “Nice. Yeah…” He looks past you. “I can be pretty damn nice.”

[honeybee-reads]

“Of course not.” You relent. “I… thank you, Nick. You’re so…” you search for the end of the sentence as his brows tweak. “Nice to me. Really. You’re like the nicest person I’ve met in LA.”

Oh, poor us. He’s actually the most dangerous man we’ve met in LA. Nick doesn’t want to be thought of as nice. He wants to lay us out, and quick! He’s trying to stay patient but we had to go and touch his arm. Oh nooo. Bet he can’t wait to get her in the pool and was definitely hoping she’d take him up on the skinny dipping. I loved the mention of Peter, I bet he’s somewhere pining for his hairstylist.

[mijomii]

July is disability awareness month but a lot of people tend to forget it :/ :/ :/

[mijomii]

It’s all OK if you didn’t know, don’t feel bad about it, it’s a great occasion to listen to disabled people! We might not have pretty flags who will catch your attentions like during pride months, but we’re still here!

[ainejm]

more spobby doodles from the pocket journal. made w highlighters and ripped up sticky notes

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Clean Yourself Up

Warnings: this fic contains suggestions of addiction and withdrawal. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

You voted, I wrote it. This is the next June fic! (It’s late. Sorry)

Raymond Smith + “You need to stop running away from the inevitable.”

I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3

You watch the smoke curl up beneath the hazy evening sky. The smell of rain lingers on the pavement, water dripping from the eaves. You suck on the cigarette and let out another grey furl as your lashes droop.

You hum and keep from leaning to the side. A car passes and footsteps scrape up the sidewalk. You hover the smoke in front of your lips, hunching forward as your fingers nice away without meaning too. You catch yourself and your eyes pop open.

A blurry figure approaches and you snort. You inhale the tobacco and puff it out as your vision clears just enough to make out the man in his tweed jacket and glasses. You pull the cigarette away and salute with your other hand.

"Rrray..." You slut. "Fine night."

"Rain let up." He shrugs as he stops at the bottom step, just three below where you sit on the stoop. "How's it goin' then?"

"Goin'," you drone and take one last drag before you butt out the ashy tip. "You sellin' or cashin' out?"

He tilts his head. "Not selling what you're on, dear." He grabs the railing as he lifts a foot onto the bottom stair. "Told ya, you needs get off that stuff."

You giggle. "Easy 'nough to say if you never tried it, Ray Ray." 

You reach up and latch onto the railing. You struggle to get yourself to your feet. You sway and stumble down one step. Raymond moves to catch you. You manage to stay upright and wave him off.

"Don't you worry for me," you point at him and sag. "I needa sleep. Thatsall."

You stick out your tongue and turn your back to him. You saunter up the stairs and stop at the door. You twist and look back at him.

"Comin' or gon' buzz up?" You prompt.

Raymond sighs and climbs the steps. "Coming." He answers as he hurried forward and grabs the door. "Listen, you ever get off them things, I'll get you some of my stock for free. Take the edge off." He crowds you as he pulls the grated door shut behind him. "Better 'n pharmaceuticals."

"Not strong enough," you scoff and turn up the staircase. "Tell Billy to open his damn windows. Tired of smelling that skunk.”

You lean on the railing as you climb and sway down the hallways to your door. You push through and close the door without any care for the dangling chain or lock. You yawn and smile at the numb ripple flowing through you. 

You fall onto the couch and moan. Your eyes roll back in cloudy content. You sink further and further away from reality, not thinking, not feeling. Just lost in oblivion.

💜

You roll over, arm numb from the weight of your body, and groan. Your shoulder aches at the socket and your head swims with the dregs of the pills. This is the part you hate. When you have to feel again. When you have to get up and face the world.

You throw your hand over your eyes and think of popping half a perc with your coffee. Those losers at the shop can be patient while you find their brand. Especially that idiot who expects you to remember which lites he prefers.

You sniff and rub your cheek hard. You wonder if Tonya got her new script yet. You really don’t want to pay Gregory double for his grandma’s sock. You flop your arm down on the bed and open your eyes.

Your heart floods with adrenaline. Bed? You don’t remember getting that far and this is much cushier than the stiff old futon on the floor. And the wooden trim around the ceiling isn’t dusty and faded like the old plaster of your flat.

Where the fuck are you?

Sitting up makes your head pound. You blink and look around at the dark wainscotting. Shit, did you somehow wander off and break into someone’s estate? You’ve done some zany shit on pills but mostly you just sleep.

You shake your head and it pulses again. You groan and rub your temples. You cradle your skull as you move slowly to the edge of the bed. You’re still in your loose pajama bottoms and baggy tee.

You stretch your neck and stand. You grab onto the orb at the top of the footboard’s post to keep from tipping. You scan the room again.

The windows have iron grating across the outside…

You turn and stagger to the door. The long curled handle doesn’t turn. You grip with both hands and jiggle. You crank down as hard as you can. Nothing.

You huff and let go. You cross the room, tripping on the edge of the carpet, and grab the window frame. You can slide it open but the metal cage doesn’t budge on the other side. The hell?

This can’t be real. You back up and stomp back to the door. You thump on it with your hand and holler, “Hey!” The echo shakes your brain. You cup your ears and whine.

You back up and sit on the bed, bending over your lap as you rock. Goddammit. You need out of this place. You need pills.

You stay like that, slowly leaning to the side as your eyelids droop. You’re weak. The thunder in your head travels down your spine.

A click makes you flinch. You turn your head and peek out from under your arm. You force yourself up to stare at the man that steps inside. It’s Raymond.

“Ray..” you murmur.

He stares at you, eyes pensive, disapproving behind his lenses. He tilts his head. You gape back at him, confused.

“You need to stop running away from the inevitable.” He says. “I told you to quit that junk.”

You blink again.

“Ray Ray, what do y’mean?” You gurgle.

“I walked straight into your place. You never knew. Not the first time.” He crosses his arms. “Coulda been someone a lot damn worse than me.”

You frown and shake your head. “What are you doing? Where am I?”

He tuts. “Cleaning you up.” He backs up and turns to the door. “You’re welcome.”

A surge of terror and rage strikes in you. You lunge up to your feet and towards him as he grabs the handle. He easily elbows you away and you fall to the floor with a thud. You cough and look up at him.

“You can’t do this!” You cry out.

He calmly opens the door. He stops inside the frame and looks back at you. You shakily sit up.

“And who’s goin’ to look for you, dear.”

He spins and slams the door at his back. The lock clicks. You growl and kick your heels into the floor.

Holy shit.

💜

Click.

You’re ready this time. The door opens and you jump. He’s ready too.

Raymond catches you by your jaw, squeezing until you’re still as he balances a plate in his other hand. You groan as his grip thrums in your neck and skull. He marches you back to the wooden chair at the desk.

“Sit.” He demands.

You whimper. It’s been hours since you had anything. Getting close to a day. His thumb pushes in behind your jaw until you obey.

“You need to eat.” He lets go and places down the plate of food. Mandarin slices peeled and divided, cottage cheese dressed with pepper and sesame, and baked chicken sliced with zucchini and broccoli.

You growl through your teeth. “I need some damn pills.”

He lets go and taps your cheek, enough to just sting.

“No. Eat.”

You touch your cheek and glare at him. “What’s wrong with ya? Why are ya–”

“Helping you?” He interrupts and points at the plate. “Eat.”

“Let me go–”

“You can eat or I can feed you.” He warns and shoves you..

You look down at the plate and curl your lip. There’s a plastic utensil; one end a spoon, the other a curved spork. You sigh and reach for it.

You hover it over the bland white heap.  You grip it tightly and act as if you might take a bite. Instead you twist and jump up, aiming the tines at his face. He catches you and knocks the utensil from your hand.

He grasps the back of your head and turns you back to the desk. He pinches your neck and forces you into the chair. He bends you over until your face is right over the plate.

“Act like an animal. Eat like one.” He smushes your face into the food. “I’m not leaving until the plate is clean.”

The cheese smears all over your face and a piece of broccoli nearly impales your nostril. You cough and grip the edge of the desk.

“You choose how this goes.” He snarls.

You wriggle and grunt. “Let me go. Ow! I’ll… eat.”

He pinches until you whine but relents. You sit up and he reaches into his pocket. He offers you a fabric kerchief. You rip it away from him and wipe your face.

You keep your head down, crumpling the cloth in your fist as you grab a mandarin wedge with your other hand. You put it in your mouth and bite down. You eat quietly. Your stomach churns at the smell of the broccoli. The taste only makes it worse.

You cover your mouth and your shoulders rack. He backs up and returns with the bin placed at the corner of the desk. He holds it patiently beside you. You turn and wretch into it.

“First few days will be bad. Week or so, you’ll feel better.” He pats your back and you stiffen. “Drink water. Stretch your legs when you can.”

“You’re an asshole.” You mutter into the bin.

“And you’re an addict.” He drones back smugly. “No one else’d do anything for ya.”

💜

“Hey, jerk! Hey, Hey!” You yell and stomp, stomping to hammer on the walls with your fist.

For hours, you laid in bed, restless and dizzy, until you just couldn’t stay still. Now you’re pissed. And sweating. Somehow soaked in sweat but freezing. You sniff through your clogged nose and hit the wall again.

“Lemmeouttttttt.” You shout so loud it makes your ears ache. “Lemme–”

You stop as your stomach clenches. Ugh. Not again. You hurry into the bathroom and panic. You don’t know what end it’s coming out of.

You end up sitting, curled over your knees, shaking and sniveling. When you’re done, you barely have the strength to get yourself off the bowl. You flush and wash your hands, shivering endlessly.

You’re light-headed. You stumble into the wall and turn your back to it. You slide down and hug your legs. You hang your head forward and close your eyes. You stay like that for a while, dazed and dull.

The scent of something sweet tickles your nose. You lift your head. You didn’t hear him. You’re embarrassed as Raymond lights three wicks of the candle and slides it back on the counter.

He turns to you. You stare dumbly. He picks you up and drags you to the tub. He sits you on the edge and grabs the top of your tee shirt.

“What’re you–”

“Told you to wash up, didn’t I?” He tears the cotton over your head. “You need to keep care of yourself.”

He exposes your chest and you quickly hug yourself. He tosses the shirt. You sway.

He takes your arms and you struggle to keep them closed. He shakes his head and forces them open and around his neck. He stands you up and pushes the elastic of your pajamas past your hips and ass. His palms graze your skin firmly.

It’s been days. He told you yesterday to take a bath. You ignored him, too anxious to do more than pace and ramble. What the fuck is this guy’s problem? Why is he doing this to you? Can’t he mind his damn business.

He leans you against the tub again. You lift your hand and he mirrors it with his own. He points at you.

“You do not want to do that.” He sneers.

You believe him. You drop your hand and look down. He bends over the porcelain and cranks on the faucet. He tests it with his thick fingers.

“Ray, why…”

“Does it matter why I’m helping you?” He stands up, his hands on his hips.

“I don’t want help. I want to be fucking high.”

“Ta!” He slaps your cheek lightly.

You recoil and cradle your cheek. You glower at him. His eyes bore into yours then drift down. You cower and cover your nudity.

“Get in.” He orders. “I don’t want to hurt you, otherwise I’d have left you as you were.”

“What do you care about me?” You scowl.

He’s quiet. He grabs your arm and forces you to turn. You lift your leg over the edge and he helps you down into the deep basin.

He stirs the water with his hand. You cross your arms and bend your legs. He stares into the clear ripples around his fingers. “You’ll feel better once you’re clean.” 

💜

“You’ve been good.” Raymond declares as he enters. You sit on the bed, exhausted. You can’t shake the fatigue. “You can choose your reward; chocolate, caramel, or cherry?”

You stare at him. “I don’t care. I don’t want it. I want to go.”

He clucks. “You’re doing so well, don’t make me rescind the offer.”

You sigh. “Caramel.”

“Good girl.”

Later, he brings you a salted caramel sundae with your dinner. You don’t admit it out loud, but it’s delicious. You could cry. It’s much better than what he’s been serving you; unseasoned protein and fruit.

“If you’re good tomorrow, you can choose your supper too.” He says as he puts the empty dishes on the tray.

True to his word, he lets you choose supper the next night. You ask for Nandos. He acquiesces, though he seems less than impressed by the meal as he watches you eat. He clears away the remnants and tells you to brush your teeth and clean your face.

You don’t do either of those things until he returns to make sure. You don’t need him shoving the brush halfway down your throat again. He supervises you until you’re dressed in the satin nightie he brought you.

He kisses your cheek with a good night and leaves you to your cage. You don’t sleep. You shut off the lamp beside the bed and stare up at the shadowy ceiling as the static silence fills your ears.

You toss and turn. Rolling one way then the other. You just can’t settle down.

Your hand goes to your cheek. Why did he do that?

Click. You tense but don’t let on that you heard it. Maybe you didn’t. It can’t be.

It is. You hear him approach the bed behind you. Feel his weight dip at the edge. He whispers your name and touches your arm.

“You can’t sleep.” He says.

You don’t react. He spreads himself behind you, his warmth swathing over you.

“Can’t either.” He slings his arm around you. You twitch.

He lays like that, right against you, for a while. Quite, breathing in the scent of your hair, exhaling out his thoughts. He nuzzles behind your ear.

“You’re doing better. Do you feel better?” His lips graze the rim of your ear. You don’t answer. His hand stretches along your stomach and he pulls himself even closer. “I’m proud of you.”

You bite down. His touch slowly crawls higher, tickling you through the thin satin. You shift.

“You’re almost ready.” He purrs. He presses his palm over your tit. You growl and catch his hand.

“Ray…” you whisper.

“Shh,” he hushes you as rolls his hips. “I’ve not earned my reward yet.” He drags his hand off your chest and snakes his arm around you, squeezing you until you stop squirming. “Sleep, love. You’re almost there.”

[honeybee-reads]

I believe I was unfamiliar with his game. Wow, Raymond. He just took us because he could. And wanted to. He saw a wife in the rough and was determined to see us all polished up. He’s bad omg! But his reward system was quite effective and I can’t complain. I’m glad he allows desserts. He wants her so bad, but he has to deserve it too. Ugh, I love him! He was rough when he needed to be but he tried to be as nice as he could. Obviously, we need a firm hand though. Thank you for this I’m woozy

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Don't Move

Warnings: this fic contains arranged marriage and suggestions of dubcon and noncon, as well as adultery. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

You voted, I wrote it. This is June 9th’s fic!

Curtis Everett + “You really thought you could leave me?”

I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3

Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!

Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖

Callouses graze along your throat as teeth sink into the muscle along your shoulder. You whimper as another hand tickles along your hip and grips tightly. Curtis growls into your hair and snaps his teeth.

You shiver and clasp his wrist as he squeezes your neck. He inhales your scent and nuzzles your ear, teething the tender brim. You close your eyes as your muscles knot.

Fear courses coldly beneath the tide of heat flowing from your core. His hand slips down your pelvis and toys with the curly hair there. You tense even tighter as he inches closer and closer to his need.

His roughened fingers dip between your folds and you gasp past the vice of his other hand. He rubs you, lightly at first, then presses firmly and drags across your clit. You whine and bite down.

“Shhh,” he hushes you as his naked torso grazes your back.

He plays with you, deliberate and determined. He swirls and twirls his fingers, changing his motion each time you make a noise or twitch. Your insides clench over and over as you fight the rising pressure deep inside.

You squeeze his forearm and bite your tongue as you drone. Your body shakes and spasms as your voice flows out of you with the tension, the release trembling in your thighs. You gulp and gasp as your orgasm storms through you.

He doesn’t stop. Not even as you beg. His fingers are so certain, so adept, that it isn’t long before you're cumming again, thighs pressing against his large hand.

His fingers glide back and he delves inside you. One finger, into its limit, then out. A second, down to the knuckles, several thrusts of his hand as you whimper. Then a third, forced past the tight resistance until you wail.

He hushes you again, sniffing the back of your neck, his nose tickling you. He extends his tongue and licks the drop of sweat as it trickles down your nape. You roll your head over his locked hand and let it hang forward.

He slides his fingers out of you and smears the wetness up your cunt and pelvis. He snarls and shifts behind you. He pushes his fingers between your folds again and spreads them. You twitch as he angles you up.

His tip flicks down your cunt and he catches himself in the crooked of two fingers. He guides his dick to your entrance and wiggles, teasing you as he growls. He pushes his tip into you with his fingers as you groan.

He holds himself there, just inside you, as you squirm. He pushes his nose into your hair as he slowly enters you. You tighten around him and writhe. He stills you with a squeeze on your throat and rubs your clit.

You heave and dangle from his embrace as he bottoms out. You squeal as your insides tremble. Your arms fall straight and you clutch at the barren mattress. He rears back, slipping out inch by inch, then thrusts back in with a single sharp thrust.

You wail and slap the sides of his thighs. “Please, ow–”

He shushes you a third time. He picks up his pace with each delve inside of you until he’s in full rut. The friction and impact of your flesh echoes through and around you. You hang weakly as he fucks you without relent.

He falls on you with his full weight as his voice rumbles in his chest. His head hangs down next to yours and a roar breaks free like thunder. His hips pump relentlessly as he shakes the creaky metal frame.

He cums as he smothers his voice in the crook of your neck. You can feel it inside, spilling out around him as he keeps thrusting through his climax. When he finally stops, the world seems to as well. He pants heavily beside your ear as his weight crushes you.

You don’t move. Not even as he slides out of you. He kneels over you and plays with the cum leaking out of you. He pushes it back in with a hum, spreading his fingers wide as he stretches you, then pulls out gruffly.

He shoves off and the bed lurches. His footsteps slap away. You bury your face in the bed as your heartbeat steadies. You wait.

He doesn’t return. Slowly, you roll over. It takes some time to find the strength to sit up. You look down at the gush that spills out between your legs. You quiver.

A hand claps down on your shoulder and pushes you to your back. Curtis is behind you, snarling down as his dick bobs above your head. He bares his teeth.

“You really thought you could leave me?” He grits.

“No, I was–”

“You don’t move unless I move you.” He smacks your cheek lightly. “That’s a warning.”

[honeybee-reads]

Oh HELLO! How did I miss this masterpiece? That melted me into the floor. And then Curtis having to prove himself as her man? Ugh delightful. But he better be nice. She laid there for a while! He took too long to come back. I just know he’s not done with her yet. He might be a bit insecure about their relationship if he’s so intense. Oh but the sniffing and hushing her was killing me ugh. I was not readyyy

[yardsards]

but i stay silly! *←said in the most world-weary voice you ever did hear*

[fizzlepop-frog]

“but I stay silly!”

[sensiblereblogifposts]

Reblog you stay silly

[weaselle]

on it boss

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

frank castle and brock rumlow would actually be a insane duo. never getting away from those guys.

This is correct and @honeybee-reads needs to think about it

[honeybee-reads]

You say as if I don’t constantly

I’d let them ruin me and remake me how they need

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Grey Skies 3

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as power imbalance, violence, criminal activity, noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your husband starts working for Tommy Shelby but when he goes missing, you find yourself drawn into the shady business of Birmingham’s most dangerous.

Characters: Tommy Shelby

Note: I think this will be a short series. Or I keep saying so.

I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3

Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!

Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖

Another day, another dream. They have stopped since the night Stuart didn't return. Dark wings around a swinging pendulum. Your father's old pocket watch ticking and ticking, thunderous as a summer storm.

The shadows of your restless nights nestle under your eyes. You mostly ignore your reflection, focusing only on specific parts as you put yourself together. Some cream scraped from the bottom of a pot across your cheeks and forehead; a chafe of dried lipstick on your lips.

You put the last pin in your hair as a knock comes at the front door. Mr. Shelby mentioned a car despite your insistence on the tram. He won't hear of it, he said. Stuart never much worried when you went out unless you weren't back to his expectations.

The man announces what you already know. He's come on behalf of Mr. Shelby. You introduce yourself. The man seems surprised by the courtesy but does the same. His name is Joseph and he's younger than you. You can tell. Likely no more than twenty two or three.

He shows you to a car. You like the leather trim and you tell him so. He says it's the boss' car but he might have one like it some day. The boss. Thomas Shelby.

You cradle your purse above your knees. You notice how Mary Lynn and old man Robert watch the car pass. It's much too polished for the council housing. Have they noticed your errant husband as well? And Mr. Shelby's visit?

The Garrison waits, not so desolate as the first day you went. You thank Joseph as he directs you inside and remains without. The bulbs are lit and there are no stragglers at the bar. But the place is still empty.

You slowly walk between the bar and the tables and take it all in. You're not sure this will be a bustling breakfast salon, not that you've ever had the luxury of eating in one. You simply think of those illustrated Parisians on the front of magazines with their pastries and coffee.

There's a clamour. You look for the source but cannot find it. Your turn as it gets closer. You nearly stumble as you avoid stepping on the little boy. A child with dark hair and suspenders. Perhaps three or four.

"Missus, can I have some tea?" He asks politely.

You stare down at him. How on earth did he get into this place? You smile as kindly as you can.

"Certainly, I'd love to make you some, though I've not any idea where to find a kettle, little sir." You reply.

"Sir? My name is Charlie." The 'ar' is more of an 'aw'. "Charlie Shelby!"

The sense clicks in your head. You nod and bend, offering your band. "Lovely to meet you, Mr. Shelby. I know your father."

"Everyone knows Papa. He's a mean man." He pipes up. He shakes your hand with his small one, taking only two of your fingers.

You blink in surprise at the remark. "Well, Mr. Shelby. I should like to find you that tea. Perhaps your mother could point me to the pot?"

"Mama is dead. She can't help no one." He says brightly. You're taken aback by the child's matter-of-fact tone.

"Apologies, and my condolences," you stand straight.

"There's a kitchen behind there!" He points at the bar. "Papa bought some new pans and knives. He took one away from me."

"Ah, thank you, Mr. Shelby." You clasp your hands. "Shall we find the tea then?"

"I'm not Mr. Shelby." He pouts.

"Sorry. Charles. Charlie." You correct yourself. He is head strong like his father. At least by your measure.

He spins and stomps ahead. “This way, missus.”

You follow, concerned about the unattended child. Especially in this bar. At least by his name, you know he’s not very lost.

He takes you into the kitchen and throws up his arms.

“Nice ‘n shiny. Papa had them all scrubbing and cleaning.” He proclaims.

“Ah,” you look around at the shining metal and polished wood. There’s large fridges at the very end of the kitchen and hanging utensils along the shelves. “I think I see a kettle.”

You go along the counter to the stove. You take the silver kettle and fill it with water. You put it on the burner and light the flame. Charlie is close by as he toys with a cupboard door.

“Papa was on the phone. He talks a lot.” He says. “Nanny told me go away.”

“Oh, that’s not very nice.” You say as you search for a pot or a cup. “Breakfast tea, sir?”

“But you’re nice. I’m happy I found you.”

You nod. You find a pot. Now for the leaves. You turn and wearily search the shelves of a doorless cupboard. There’s all sorts of seasoning in tins and jars.

“Well, it’s an honour to meet you too, Charles.” You say as gently nudge aside a box.

“Charlie!” A holler shakes you and you nearly drop the round tin of tea leaves. “Charlie!”

Heavy soles march through the bar. You look at the child. He grins.

“In here!” You call out.

You hear a huff and Mr. Shelby, the elder, appears in the doorway. He exhales and puts his hands on his hips, pushing back his jacket. “Charlie, you’ve gone and given the nanny a fright.”

“She didn’t want nun’ to do with me,” the boy harrumphs.

“We’re having tea, sir. Would you like some?”

Thomas looks at you then his son. “I wouldn’t mind tea.”

He crosses the kitchen and picks up the errant toddler. He holds him in one arm. “Did he demand it?”

“He asked nicely.” You assure Shelby as you measure by eye. “Didn’t you, Charles? When you’re done, I could even show you how to read the leaves.”

Mr. Shelby tilts his head and brow. You hesitate.

“Unless… you’d rather I not. Sorry. I forget…”

“You know how?” he wonders as Charlie bends up the front of his cap. He gently waves him away.

“My Aunt Genevieve showed me. She loved her tea. Had no bed but at least a hundred tea cups. She claimed one belonged to Queen Charlotte herself though I don’t know it’d survive so long.” You explain. “Forgive my rambling, sir.”

“It’s far more interesting than most of my men,” he says. “If I’m being honest, I wasn’t sure you’d come. I thought you were rather reticent yesterday at the suggestion.”

“Intimidated, I think. I’ve cooked for one man for fifteen years. His mother on occasion and she never liked it much.” You take the shaking kettle off the stove and pour it into the pot.

“Well, it’s your menu, ma’am. Your dishes. You make the rules.” He says.

“Papa,” Charlie pokes at Thomas’ cheek. “Who’s the pretty lady?”

“She’s the new cook.” He pulls Charlie’s hand away, a pink spot left on his cheek.

“She’s the one you bought all the pretty dishes for.” Charlie says.

Shelby’s dark brows draw close. “Yes. She made that pie you gorged yourself on th’other night.”

“Mince is my favourite!” Charlie beams at you. “Are you going to make some more, missus?”

You smile. “Perhaps we might have some left over.”

“Do you make biscuits? I like biscuits and tea.” Charlie exclaims.

Thomas gives you a look. “Please…”

“Yes. Please can you make some biscuits, missus?” Charlie says.

“I can try… if I’ve the time?” You look at Mr. Shelby.

“I’m sure the customers wouldn’t mind some as well. We’ll set aside a few for you, Charlie.”

🖤

Mr. Shelby takes the boy away with his cup of tea. He leaves you to ‘sort the kitchen’; ‘your’ kitchen as he emphasized. You’re not sure where to begin.

You cautiously take stock of ingredients. Sausage, bacon, eggs, even blood pudding. Enough for a full breakfast. Bread enough, beans too. You can’t recall the last time you had enough for an English breakfast. Stuart often bemoaned the lack of bacon.

Shelby returns alone as you set out stations.

“Barmaids are here. They can help if you need.” He says as he nears and takes his half-emptied teacup. He swigs and looks into the bottom.

“How long until you expect customers?”

“Oh, we’ve a few waiting without. Do you think you can get started?” He prompts.

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”

“Nothing wrong with making them wait. It’ll be worth it.” He nears. “You said you read leaves?”

He puts his cup down. You grin.

“I’m probably not very good. Aunt Genevieve was… a character.” You shrug.

“Humour me.” He drawls.

You put a skillet on the burner and leave it there. You lean over the cup. You focus on it.

“A… pear.” You make the shape with your finger over the brim. Wealth… prosperity. Good business or a good union. Possibly a business partner?” You guess. “Though you might have quite a few already.”

He squints. He glances past you. “And yours?”

You peek behind you. Your cup is right beside the tin of leaves.

“Mr. Shelby, I should start cooking.”

“I’m curious,” he insists.

You relent and drink the last mouthful. You let the leaves settle. You see a kettle; death. You hesitate.

“Well, what do you see?” He asks.

You clear your throat. “It looks like a square? Contentment?” You lie. “Perhaps then I will find Stuart soon.”

He’s quiet. You don’t look at him. You put the cup aside and reach for his.

“I’ll be sure to rinse these.” You say.

“I will get Ruth to come help.” He assures, tapping his fingers. “That’s all you saw?”

“Yes. But… it’s just… leaves.”

“Mm. You have traveller in you?” He asks.

“Hm?” You look at him.

“Your aunt? Reading leaves? A collector? No bed.”

“I… people called her a witch, I think. I never believed them.” You shrug and turn back to the skillet.

“No, not a witch. A prophet,” he says.

You focus on the pan and all the food before you. He lingers, dragging his fingers along the edge of the counter.

“Right then. S’pose it’s time,” he says.

-

You get lost in the thick of it. Oiled pans, spitting slabs of bacon, steaming beans. You send out plate after plate as the barmaids call for more and sweep in and out to help clear plates. A few of Shelby’s men have taken off their jackets and joined the effort.

The last order goes out. There’s nothing left. You’re about gone yourself. Worn down to the bone.

You gather the dirty pots and pans. Joseph, the same man who drove you, is at the sink scrubbing. He tells you not to help and calls over his cohort, Zachariah. They argue over who gets to scour the iron.

You’re tired but restless. You need to help. You go out into the bar room and help gather up empty plates with the barmaids, Ruth and Dierdre.

On your way back to the kitchen, your name comes from across the room. The stacks in your hands bobble.

“Eh, you don’t need to be doin’ all that,” Mr. Shelby crosses to you. “You’ve done enough.”

“Sir, I… I made the mess–”

“You made a wonderful meal for all these people,” he insists as he takes the plates. “You sit down and let yourself a break.”

He nods to the kitchen door. You push through and hold it open for him. He brings in the plates and puts them at the sink, warning Joseph not to spray his reluctant companion with the hose. They both straighten up and quiet down.

“Ma’am,” Shelby turns and grabs the stool from the back of the kitchen. “Go on, sit.”

He slaps the seat. You walk along the counter. “Mr. Shelby, I should help–”

“You’ve done what I’ve brought ye for.” He argues. He offers his hand. “Sit.”

You accept his help and climb up onto the stool. He squeezes your hand as you settle on the seat. He doesn’t let go right away, his fingertips grazing over your knuckles.

“I’ve secreted a few biscuits for Charlie,” he pats his jacket and whispers.

You scrunch your nose in amusement. “How nice of you. I could’ve made an extra batch.”

“Eh, a few might find their way to me,” he says.

You smile and nod, folding your hands together. You look around the kitchen as the men clean the dishes and the barmaids come in and out. You really should be helping.

Sitting there isn’t helping anyone. Not you or Mr. Shelby. Or… Stuart. You frown. You’d almost forgotten him.

“Ma’am?” Mr. Shelby intones.

You look at him, almost startled. “Sorry, I only… you’ve not heard anything?”

His lips part and he pauses before he answers. “Stuart? No. Not yet.” He hooks his fingers in his pockets. “Sorry, ma’am.”

[honeybee-reads]

Aw, Charlie is the sweetest! Found the first person and requested his tea. And he did indeed ask nicely!! What a cutie pie. He was quick to expose his dad too. He got the kitchens immaculate for his woman. I’m glad breakfast went well, but we’re working too hard!

I know Tommy gets pissed every time we mention our husband. He wants that man very forgotten. I love this series. He’s being so patient, for now.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Charlie is the bit of softness we need before things get rough hehe.

He really did tell on his dad.

Tommy does not appreciate all the questions about the old husband. Let's be clear EX husband. Move on. Tommy is right there!

[honeybee-reads]

Here and ready to bang ❗️

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The False Bride 11

Warning: stealing, vagrancy, food sparcity, and some other elements to come.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Geralt of Rivia, short reader

Summary: you lie to get some food, but get more than you bargain as the Witcher comes to collect his debt.

Note: I hate being this way but couldn’t get this one out of my head.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

"Your dad?" Geralt growls as his boots crunch over twigs.

You reach to slap his stomach and stop him. You bend to move a snail out of his path and whisper an apology. The Witcher sighs.

"Yep. Thought I mentioned before he isn't the nicest fella," you shrug. "But he's family."

Your father marches ahead of you on his hooves, chittering and listening to the response. He's calling to the rest of the settlement; to the watchers in the brush and the archers on the trees. You recognise the broken branch where you fell as a child and the rock where you etched your initials. You knew this was the place but you hoped to just pass through.

"What's a fawn adopting a little girl for?" Geralt harrumphs.

"She's mine own blood." Your dad calls over his fuzzy shoulder. "Half me, half her ma... Unfortunately."

Geralt grumbles. Your dad snorts.

"You should know we fawns have keen ears," your dad drawls.

"Know lots about fawns." Geralt retorts. "I know they can be as pestilent as fleas."

"I'm sure ye know about fleas too, witcher." Your dad chirps back.

Your reluctant companion sighs. You suppress a grin. Your dad's with isn't too bad when it isn't aimed at you.

"Can't say I'm surprised at ye, girl. You always was good at finding trouble." He growls as he leads the way along the path. "Send ya off on her earth voyage and you get lost, come back with this thing."

"Thing..." Geralt snarls under his breath.

You snort and shake it off.

"Well, I saw all sorts. A thing called a drowner. Some sort of tree monster. Met a ghoul named Gareth." You say.

"Sure you saw all sorts."

"You sure you're blood related..." Geralt whispers. "You don't have hooves, though you can be a donkey."

"Oi, quiet," you rebuffs.

"Look, we're just on our way past, y'know? Travelling. Protecting people from those who ain't so nice as us." You explain.

"Mm. So you think you can be one of them?" Your dad signals with his hand.

"No, I'm... Being me. You sent me off to figure out who that is."

"I thought you might find some sense." He rasps.

Farlan approaches, the tawny fawn you recognise by the tattoo above his left brow. Your father assures him there's no danger and you wave to him. The familiar figure jolts and smiles as he sputters your name.

"Your daughter's come back, Griffey."

"So she has," your father waves him off. "Give em soup and a place to sleep for the night. They're gone in the morn."

"Da, wait," you call after him. "I wanted to ask you something."

"You were s'posed to find your own answers, girl." He clomps away on his hooves.

You huff and cross your arms. You roll your eyes. Farlan says your name.

"Eh! So long, eh?" You grin at him. "Didn't think I'd see ya again."

"Was starting to think the same," Farlan says. "It's nice. And..." He glanced at Geralt who grits and rubs his shoulder. "You married?"

You laugh. Loudly. Geralt sneers.

"Business partners. Sorta." You say. "Whatsa matter with da?"

"Ah, you know Griff. He's always like that."

"I saw the emblems. They're far out." You say.

Farlan frowns. He peers around. "Come, you should eat." He gestures. "You remember Jenetha?"

"Sure do. She was the best."

"She's still got some sanity about her." Farlan leads you through the campsite.

You see some familiar faces. Trudy, who used to call you ten toes, is bulging with pregnancy. She squints at you as several other fawns you hunted with twist to watch you. Geralt tramps heavily beside you.

"She can fix up your business partner too." Farlan promises.

You pass a fence of reeds and the little fairy house with butterflies fluttering and chimes made of broken shells. You catch a glimpse of one of the residents before the window snaps shut.

Farlan takes you to the clay door of Jenetha's hut and he whistles. He waits. Geralt leaves roach outside the fence before he follows.

He does it several more times then a squawk comes from within. He enters and beckons you after him.

Jenetha's braided hair is woven with willow strips and dandelions. She hunches in her chair, the socket of her missing right eye behind a patch of cobra skin. Her head wobbles as she sniffs the air.

She says your name. Then she turns to look at Geralt as he brushes against her loom. She cackles.

"Witcher." She flips up her eye patch and sits up straight. "I see you."

He grunts and crosses his arms before flinching. He rubs his shoulder and the old fawn woman clucks.

"Prodigy of Vesemir." She declares. "Ah yes, the one who took my eye."

Geralt exhales. "I know him..."

"Yes, all you white devils do." She tuts.

"I've not come to hurt anyone."

"Yes, I know. Griff heard ye near the brook. That man's paranoid." She sits back, still hunching. "Though not without reason."

"Jenetha," you step forward. "Why are the emblems so far out?"

She hums. She shakes her head. "There's black rot. South of here. It creeps into the soil. We have searched for the source but alas... Ah, well, the emblems keep it from our woods."

"Rot?" You ask. "What kind?"

"Unnatural." She says. "Your witcher would know more than I."

Geralt sniffs. "I suppose you don't have any nearby?"

"Do you think me mad?" She trills. "Go south, along the Ford, past the old arch." She says. "You will see it. As black as the pits of your witcher heart."

He snarls.

"Do not fret, dear slayer. If you were not welcome, you would not have crossed the threshold. I saw you coming too." She signals to Farlan. "Boy," she calls the middle aged fawn. "Fetch me my herb box." She points at Geralt. "And you, witcher, come, let me see that shoulder."

He hesitates but goes to her. He removes his leather armour and exposes his shoulder from beneath his torn tunic. Jenetha points to a stool nearby and he pulls it up to sit.

Farlan comes with a chest and opens it for the old woman. She pulls out a vial of sludgy tonic and swirls it. Geralt grimaces.

"No magic, witcher. Just natural remedies." She assures.

She uncorks it and smears the paste on his shoulder. It smokes as he watches. He hums.

"It doesn't hurt?"

"It wouldn't, witcher." She chides. "It's healing. I used the same on that other white haired thing before he took my eye. He called it poison." She shakes her head. "You witchers are all the same. You assume all are as you... Dangerous."

He clears his throat. "Mm..." He rolls his shoulder. "Thank you... Jenetha?"

"Call me Jenny." She pats his thick arm. "Though you witchers are right on one thing. Not all is as it seems."

Her eye glints at you and your brows tweak. She looks at Geralt and snaps her fingers. "There's stew on the stove. Eat, sleep if you can."

[honeybee-reads]

Her dad is such a grouch!! Surprising. But more layers are being revealed! I love the depth to this story. Poor Gerry is definitely in over his head, but I’m glad he got some help for his booboo shoulder. Hopefully he’ll leave Jenny’s eye alone!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

With a dad like that, no wonder she can put up with Geralt. Jenetha was too nice to him and I suppose if she survived another witcher, she's more than she appears and he better keep his dumb witcher magic to himself.

[honeybee-reads]

He’s compromised rn anyway 🤭

[broodmotherophie]

Imagine...

Ghost is very old fashioned and is (accidentally) incredibly misogynistic without even grasping it.

Pairing: Ghost×Fem!Y/N | Comedic | Accidental Misogyny

────────· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·────────

────────· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·────────

Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley considered himself an old-fashioned man, and he wore that belief as comfortably as he wore his mask—like it had always been fixed there.

The world could shift and twist itself into whatever new shape it fancied, but some things, in his mind, remained fixed. Proper.

A man provided. A woman was provided for.

Simple as that.

He didn’t think it cruel.

Didn’t think it limiting.

If anything, he thought it kind.

Women, in his eyes, were meant for softer things. Quiet mornings with sunlight spilling through the windows. A book resting open in her lap. Maybe paint on her fingertips or the citrus scent of a mandarin orange as she peeled it slowly.

Not this.

Not hauling around something that looked like it could snap her bloody spine in half.

So when he turned the corner and saw Y/N staggering slightly under the weight of a box that was, frankly, absurdly large for her frame, he didn’t hesitate. Didn’t pause. Didn’t consider that perhaps she had chosen to do this.

He stepped in.

“Oi,” he called, voice low and firm, boots echoing against the corridor floor as he closed the distance. “Put that down.”

Y/N didn’t. She adjusted her grip instead, stubborn thing, shifting the weight higher against her stomach as if that would somehow make the situation more acceptable. Ghost frowned behind his mask, irritation flickering to life.

“I said put it down,” he repeated, already reaching for it. “Women can’t do that.”

The words came out as naturally as breathing—no malice, just a statement of fact as he saw it. His hands closed around the sides of the box, effortlessly lifting the burden from her arms before she could protest further. It might as well have weighed nothing to him.

“There,” he muttered, settling it against his chest. “No reason for you to be strugglin’ like that.”

She gaped at him.

Ghost tilted his head slightly.

“What?” he asked, brow furrowing beneath the skull-patterned fabric. “You shouldn’t be carryin’ things like that. Not your job.”

He started down the hall again without waiting for an answer, fully expecting her to fall into step beside him like this was the most natural thing in the world. “You’ve got better things to be doin’,” he went on, tone shifting into something that almost resembled a lecture. “Stuff that suits you.”

He gestured vaguely with his head as if the air itself could supply examples. “Reading. Painting. Hell, sittin’ in the sun doin’ nothin’ at all. That’s the point, innit? Not this.”

Behind them, a door creaked open.

Captain Price stood in the doorway of his office, mug halfway to his lips, frozen mid-sip as he took in the scene before him. His eyes flicked from Ghost to Y/N, whose face was utterly unreadable.

Horror slowly crept across Price’s face.

Ghost, oblivious, kept talking.

“A man’s meant to handle the rough parts,” he continued, adjusting his grip on the box with ease. “No sense in you wadin’ through muck when someone like me’s right here, s'there?”

Price lowered his mug.

Very slowly.

“Ghost,” he said, voice edged with genuine disbelief that was rapidly shifting into panic.

But Simon Riley didn’t hear the warning in it. Didn’t see the silent what the hell are you doing written all over his captain’s face.

Because as far as he was concerned, he’d done exactly what he was supposed to do.

"Next time, you bloody ring me. Daft thing." Ghost muttered.

────────· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·────────

a/n: this is so bloody funny to me, i dunno why 😂

[honeybee-reads]

Awww Ghost noooo. I’d be happy to hand off the box, but don’t talk to me like that 😭 but I’d be calling him for everything just to tick him off. Ugh, my mug is too heavy, come grab it! Oh no, I can’t get my jacket on! He’d be very sick of me. I love this concept and how he didn’t give her a choice. Just snatched!

[thelegendofjenna]

I'm trying to take the high road but I'm like, dragging myself bleeding and sobbing along the high road while looking so so longingly at the low road

[probablily]

i say yay outloud too like this isn't just my internet persona this is real me

[tilthat]

TIL “Yankee Doodle” was written by the British to mock americans. “Doodle” is thought to come from the German “dödel”, meaning “fool” or “simpleton” and “macaroni,” a flamboyantly stylish type of dress, painting the Yankees as morons who thought placing a feather in one’s cap made them a “dandy.”

via reddit.com

[toastpotent-deactivated20250619]

so you’re telling me that “stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni” would be like saying “wrote a G on his belt and called it gucci”

[beggars-opera]

that’s…a pretty good analogy actually

[ti-bae-rius]

US moron came to town

Hunting for some coochie

Wrote a G up on his belt

And this bitch called it Gucci

[ti-bae-rius]

Seeing my notifications get flooded with this every July 4th is the only thing I respect about America

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Grey Skies 3

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as power imbalance, violence, criminal activity, noncon/dubcon, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your husband starts working for Tommy Shelby but when he goes missing, you find yourself drawn into the shady business of Birmingham’s most dangerous.

Characters: Tommy Shelby

Note: I think this will be a short series. Or I keep saying so.

I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3

Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!

Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖

Another day, another dream. They have stopped since the night Stuart didn't return. Dark wings around a swinging pendulum. Your father's old pocket watch ticking and ticking, thunderous as a summer storm.

The shadows of your restless nights nestle under your eyes. You mostly ignore your reflection, focusing only on specific parts as you put yourself together. Some cream scraped from the bottom of a pot across your cheeks and forehead; a chafe of dried lipstick on your lips.

You put the last pin in your hair as a knock comes at the front door. Mr. Shelby mentioned a car despite your insistence on the tram. He won't hear of it, he said. Stuart never much worried when you went out unless you weren't back to his expectations.

The man announces what you already know. He's come on behalf of Mr. Shelby. You introduce yourself. The man seems surprised by the courtesy but does the same. His name is Joseph and he's younger than you. You can tell. Likely no more than twenty two or three.

He shows you to a car. You like the leather trim and you tell him so. He says it's the boss' car but he might have one like it some day. The boss. Thomas Shelby.

You cradle your purse above your knees. You notice how Mary Lynn and old man Robert watch the car pass. It's much too polished for the council housing. Have they noticed your errant husband as well? And Mr. Shelby's visit?

The Garrison waits, not so desolate as the first day you went. You thank Joseph as he directs you inside and remains without. The bulbs are lit and there are no stragglers at the bar. But the place is still empty.

You slowly walk between the bar and the tables and take it all in. You're not sure this will be a bustling breakfast salon, not that you've ever had the luxury of eating in one. You simply think of those illustrated Parisians on the front of magazines with their pastries and coffee.

There's a clamour. You look for the source but cannot find it. Your turn as it gets closer. You nearly stumble as you avoid stepping on the little boy. A child with dark hair and suspenders. Perhaps three or four.

"Missus, can I have some tea?" He asks politely.

You stare down at him. How on earth did he get into this place? You smile as kindly as you can.

"Certainly, I'd love to make you some, though I've not any idea where to find a kettle, little sir." You reply.

"Sir? My name is Charlie." The 'ar' is more of an 'aw'. "Charlie Shelby!"

The sense clicks in your head. You nod and bend, offering your band. "Lovely to meet you, Mr. Shelby. I know your father."

"Everyone knows Papa. He's a mean man." He pipes up. He shakes your hand with his small one, taking only two of your fingers.

You blink in surprise at the remark. "Well, Mr. Shelby. I should like to find you that tea. Perhaps your mother could point me to the pot?"

"Mama is dead. She can't help no one." He says brightly. You're taken aback by the child's matter-of-fact tone.

"Apologies, and my condolences," you stand straight.

"There's a kitchen behind there!" He points at the bar. "Papa bought some new pans and knives. He took one away from me."

"Ah, thank you, Mr. Shelby." You clasp your hands. "Shall we find the tea then?"

"I'm not Mr. Shelby." He pouts.

"Sorry. Charles. Charlie." You correct yourself. He is head strong like his father. At least by your measure.

He spins and stomps ahead. “This way, missus.”

You follow, concerned about the unattended child. Especially in this bar. At least by his name, you know he’s not very lost.

He takes you into the kitchen and throws up his arms.

“Nice ‘n shiny. Papa had them all scrubbing and cleaning.” He proclaims.

“Ah,” you look around at the shining metal and polished wood. There’s large fridges at the very end of the kitchen and hanging utensils along the shelves. “I think I see a kettle.”

You go along the counter to the stove. You take the silver kettle and fill it with water. You put it on the burner and light the flame. Charlie is close by as he toys with a cupboard door.

“Papa was on the phone. He talks a lot.” He says. “Nanny told me go away.”

“Oh, that’s not very nice.” You say as you search for a pot or a cup. “Breakfast tea, sir?”

“But you’re nice. I’m happy I found you.”

You nod. You find a pot. Now for the leaves. You turn and wearily search the shelves of a doorless cupboard. There’s all sorts of seasoning in tins and jars.

“Well, it’s an honour to meet you too, Charles.” You say as gently nudge aside a box.

“Charlie!” A holler shakes you and you nearly drop the round tin of tea leaves. “Charlie!”

Heavy soles march through the bar. You look at the child. He grins.

“In here!” You call out.

You hear a huff and Mr. Shelby, the elder, appears in the doorway. He exhales and puts his hands on his hips, pushing back his jacket. “Charlie, you’ve gone and given the nanny a fright.”

“She didn’t want nun’ to do with me,” the boy harrumphs.

“We’re having tea, sir. Would you like some?”

Thomas looks at you then his son. “I wouldn’t mind tea.”

He crosses the kitchen and picks up the errant toddler. He holds him in one arm. “Did he demand it?”

“He asked nicely.” You assure Shelby as you measure by eye. “Didn’t you, Charles? When you’re done, I could even show you how to read the leaves.”

Mr. Shelby tilts his head and brow. You hesitate.

“Unless… you’d rather I not. Sorry. I forget…”

“You know how?” he wonders as Charlie bends up the front of his cap. He gently waves him away.

“My Aunt Genevieve showed me. She loved her tea. Had no bed but at least a hundred tea cups. She claimed one belonged to Queen Charlotte herself though I don’t know it’d survive so long.” You explain. “Forgive my rambling, sir.”

“It’s far more interesting than most of my men,” he says. “If I’m being honest, I wasn’t sure you’d come. I thought you were rather reticent yesterday at the suggestion.”

“Intimidated, I think. I’ve cooked for one man for fifteen years. His mother on occasion and she never liked it much.” You take the shaking kettle off the stove and pour it into the pot.

“Well, it’s your menu, ma’am. Your dishes. You make the rules.” He says.

“Papa,” Charlie pokes at Thomas’ cheek. “Who’s the pretty lady?”

“She’s the new cook.” He pulls Charlie’s hand away, a pink spot left on his cheek.

“She’s the one you bought all the pretty dishes for.” Charlie says.

Shelby’s dark brows draw close. “Yes. She made that pie you gorged yourself on th’other night.”

“Mince is my favourite!” Charlie beams at you. “Are you going to make some more, missus?”

You smile. “Perhaps we might have some left over.”

“Do you make biscuits? I like biscuits and tea.” Charlie exclaims.

Thomas gives you a look. “Please…”

“Yes. Please can you make some biscuits, missus?” Charlie says.

“I can try… if I’ve the time?” You look at Mr. Shelby.

“I’m sure the customers wouldn’t mind some as well. We’ll set aside a few for you, Charlie.”

🖤

Mr. Shelby takes the boy away with his cup of tea. He leaves you to ‘sort the kitchen’; ‘your’ kitchen as he emphasized. You’re not sure where to begin.

You cautiously take stock of ingredients. Sausage, bacon, eggs, even blood pudding. Enough for a full breakfast. Bread enough, beans too. You can’t recall the last time you had enough for an English breakfast. Stuart often bemoaned the lack of bacon.

Shelby returns alone as you set out stations.

“Barmaids are here. They can help if you need.” He says as he nears and takes his half-emptied teacup. He swigs and looks into the bottom.

“How long until you expect customers?”

“Oh, we’ve a few waiting without. Do you think you can get started?” He prompts.

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.”

“Nothing wrong with making them wait. It’ll be worth it.” He nears. “You said you read leaves?”

He puts his cup down. You grin.

“I’m probably not very good. Aunt Genevieve was… a character.” You shrug.

“Humour me.” He drawls.

You put a skillet on the burner and leave it there. You lean over the cup. You focus on it.

“A… pear.” You make the shape with your finger over the brim. Wealth… prosperity. Good business or a good union. Possibly a business partner?” You guess. “Though you might have quite a few already.”

He squints. He glances past you. “And yours?”

You peek behind you. Your cup is right beside the tin of leaves.

“Mr. Shelby, I should start cooking.”

“I’m curious,” he insists.

You relent and drink the last mouthful. You let the leaves settle. You see a kettle; death. You hesitate.

“Well, what do you see?” He asks.

You clear your throat. “It looks like a square? Contentment?” You lie. “Perhaps then I will find Stuart soon.”

He’s quiet. You don’t look at him. You put the cup aside and reach for his.

“I’ll be sure to rinse these.” You say.

“I will get Ruth to come help.” He assures, tapping his fingers. “That’s all you saw?”

“Yes. But… it’s just… leaves.”

“Mm. You have traveller in you?” He asks.

“Hm?” You look at him.

“Your aunt? Reading leaves? A collector? No bed.”

“I… people called her a witch, I think. I never believed them.” You shrug and turn back to the skillet.

“No, not a witch. A prophet,” he says.

You focus on the pan and all the food before you. He lingers, dragging his fingers along the edge of the counter.

“Right then. S’pose it’s time,” he says.

-

You get lost in the thick of it. Oiled pans, spitting slabs of bacon, steaming beans. You send out plate after plate as the barmaids call for more and sweep in and out to help clear plates. A few of Shelby’s men have taken off their jackets and joined the effort.

The last order goes out. There’s nothing left. You’re about gone yourself. Worn down to the bone.

You gather the dirty pots and pans. Joseph, the same man who drove you, is at the sink scrubbing. He tells you not to help and calls over his cohort, Zachariah. They argue over who gets to scour the iron.

You’re tired but restless. You need to help. You go out into the bar room and help gather up empty plates with the barmaids, Ruth and Dierdre.

On your way back to the kitchen, your name comes from across the room. The stacks in your hands bobble.

“Eh, you don’t need to be doin’ all that,” Mr. Shelby crosses to you. “You’ve done enough.”

“Sir, I… I made the mess–”

“You made a wonderful meal for all these people,” he insists as he takes the plates. “You sit down and let yourself a break.”

He nods to the kitchen door. You push through and hold it open for him. He brings in the plates and puts them at the sink, warning Joseph not to spray his reluctant companion with the hose. They both straighten up and quiet down.

“Ma’am,” Shelby turns and grabs the stool from the back of the kitchen. “Go on, sit.”

He slaps the seat. You walk along the counter. “Mr. Shelby, I should help–”

“You’ve done what I’ve brought ye for.” He argues. He offers his hand. “Sit.”

You accept his help and climb up onto the stool. He squeezes your hand as you settle on the seat. He doesn’t let go right away, his fingertips grazing over your knuckles.

“I’ve secreted a few biscuits for Charlie,” he pats his jacket and whispers.

You scrunch your nose in amusement. “How nice of you. I could’ve made an extra batch.”

“Eh, a few might find their way to me,” he says.

You smile and nod, folding your hands together. You look around the kitchen as the men clean the dishes and the barmaids come in and out. You really should be helping.

Sitting there isn’t helping anyone. Not you or Mr. Shelby. Or… Stuart. You frown. You’d almost forgotten him.

“Ma’am?” Mr. Shelby intones.

You look at him, almost startled. “Sorry, I only… you’ve not heard anything?”

His lips part and he pauses before he answers. “Stuart? No. Not yet.” He hooks his fingers in his pockets. “Sorry, ma’am.”

[honeybee-reads]

Aw, Charlie is the sweetest! Found the first person and requested his tea. And he did indeed ask nicely!! What a cutie pie. He was quick to expose his dad too. He got the kitchens immaculate for his woman. I’m glad breakfast went well, but we’re working too hard!

I know Tommy gets pissed every time we mention our husband. He wants that man very forgotten. I love this series. He’s being so patient, for now.

[readwritealldayallnight]

To say that you’re surprised to find out the first time you travel together, that Simon supposedly has a fear of flying you never knew of, would be an understatement

It’s just a quick flight out of London, less than an hour in the air to go spend the long weekend together somewhere different for a change

And yet your mountain of a man hasn’t said a peep since the moment you took your seats, eyes staring straight ahead with his hands gripping the armrests for dear life

You’re just a tad bit bewildered on how a lieutenant in the SAS has been harbouring an aversion to flying without you ever hearing of it

Unbeknownst to you, Simon hasn’t got a single problem with flying, he’s just pissed as all hell that you put your own bag in the overhead storage instead of letting him do it when he offered

[honeybee-reads]

Ooh Simon you better tell us! We didn’t know. And I’d hate to deprive him of the pleasure. That’s so hilarious though! I’d love to have a Simon built man in my life, alas.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The False Bride 11

Warning: stealing, vagrancy, food sparcity, and some other elements to come.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Geralt of Rivia, short reader

Summary: you lie to get some food, but get more than you bargain as the Witcher comes to collect his debt.

Note: I hate being this way but couldn’t get this one out of my head.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

"Your dad?" Geralt growls as his boots crunch over twigs.

You reach to slap his stomach and stop him. You bend to move a snail out of his path and whisper an apology. The Witcher sighs.

"Yep. Thought I mentioned before he isn't the nicest fella," you shrug. "But he's family."

Your father marches ahead of you on his hooves, chittering and listening to the response. He's calling to the rest of the settlement; to the watchers in the brush and the archers on the trees. You recognise the broken branch where you fell as a child and the rock where you etched your initials. You knew this was the place but you hoped to just pass through.

"What's a fawn adopting a little girl for?" Geralt harrumphs.

"She's mine own blood." Your dad calls over his fuzzy shoulder. "Half me, half her ma... Unfortunately."

Geralt grumbles. Your dad snorts.

"You should know we fawns have keen ears," your dad drawls.

"Know lots about fawns." Geralt retorts. "I know they can be as pestilent as fleas."

"I'm sure ye know about fleas too, witcher." Your dad chirps back.

Your reluctant companion sighs. You suppress a grin. Your dad's with isn't too bad when it isn't aimed at you.

"Can't say I'm surprised at ye, girl. You always was good at finding trouble." He growls as he leads the way along the path. "Send ya off on her earth voyage and you get lost, come back with this thing."

"Thing..." Geralt snarls under his breath.

You snort and shake it off.

"Well, I saw all sorts. A thing called a drowner. Some sort of tree monster. Met a ghoul named Gareth." You say.

"Sure you saw all sorts."

"You sure you're blood related..." Geralt whispers. "You don't have hooves, though you can be a donkey."

"Oi, quiet," you rebuffs.

"Look, we're just on our way past, y'know? Travelling. Protecting people from those who ain't so nice as us." You explain.

"Mm. So you think you can be one of them?" Your dad signals with his hand.

"No, I'm... Being me. You sent me off to figure out who that is."

"I thought you might find some sense." He rasps.

Farlan approaches, the tawny fawn you recognise by the tattoo above his left brow. Your father assures him there's no danger and you wave to him. The familiar figure jolts and smiles as he sputters your name.

"Your daughter's come back, Griffey."

"So she has," your father waves him off. "Give em soup and a place to sleep for the night. They're gone in the morn."

"Da, wait," you call after him. "I wanted to ask you something."

"You were s'posed to find your own answers, girl." He clomps away on his hooves.

You huff and cross your arms. You roll your eyes. Farlan says your name.

"Eh! So long, eh?" You grin at him. "Didn't think I'd see ya again."

"Was starting to think the same," Farlan says. "It's nice. And..." He glanced at Geralt who grits and rubs his shoulder. "You married?"

You laugh. Loudly. Geralt sneers.

"Business partners. Sorta." You say. "Whatsa matter with da?"

"Ah, you know Griff. He's always like that."

"I saw the emblems. They're far out." You say.

Farlan frowns. He peers around. "Come, you should eat." He gestures. "You remember Jenetha?"

"Sure do. She was the best."

"She's still got some sanity about her." Farlan leads you through the campsite.

You see some familiar faces. Trudy, who used to call you ten toes, is bulging with pregnancy. She squints at you as several other fawns you hunted with twist to watch you. Geralt tramps heavily beside you.

"She can fix up your business partner too." Farlan promises.

You pass a fence of reeds and the little fairy house with butterflies fluttering and chimes made of broken shells. You catch a glimpse of one of the residents before the window snaps shut.

Farlan takes you to the clay door of Jenetha's hut and he whistles. He waits. Geralt leaves roach outside the fence before he follows.

He does it several more times then a squawk comes from within. He enters and beckons you after him.

Jenetha's braided hair is woven with willow strips and dandelions. She hunches in her chair, the socket of her missing right eye behind a patch of cobra skin. Her head wobbles as she sniffs the air.

She says your name. Then she turns to look at Geralt as he brushes against her loom. She cackles.

"Witcher." She flips up her eye patch and sits up straight. "I see you."

He grunts and crosses his arms before flinching. He rubs his shoulder and the old fawn woman clucks.

"Prodigy of Vesemir." She declares. "Ah yes, the one who took my eye."

Geralt exhales. "I know him..."

"Yes, all you white devils do." She tuts.

"I've not come to hurt anyone."

"Yes, I know. Griff heard ye near the brook. That man's paranoid." She sits back, still hunching. "Though not without reason."

"Jenetha," you step forward. "Why are the emblems so far out?"

She hums. She shakes her head. "There's black rot. South of here. It creeps into the soil. We have searched for the source but alas... Ah, well, the emblems keep it from our woods."

"Rot?" You ask. "What kind?"

"Unnatural." She says. "Your witcher would know more than I."

Geralt sniffs. "I suppose you don't have any nearby?"

"Do you think me mad?" She trills. "Go south, along the Ford, past the old arch." She says. "You will see it. As black as the pits of your witcher heart."

He snarls.

"Do not fret, dear slayer. If you were not welcome, you would not have crossed the threshold. I saw you coming too." She signals to Farlan. "Boy," she calls the middle aged fawn. "Fetch me my herb box." She points at Geralt. "And you, witcher, come, let me see that shoulder."

He hesitates but goes to her. He removes his leather armour and exposes his shoulder from beneath his torn tunic. Jenetha points to a stool nearby and he pulls it up to sit.

Farlan comes with a chest and opens it for the old woman. She pulls out a vial of sludgy tonic and swirls it. Geralt grimaces.

"No magic, witcher. Just natural remedies." She assures.

She uncorks it and smears the paste on his shoulder. It smokes as he watches. He hums.

"It doesn't hurt?"

"It wouldn't, witcher." She chides. "It's healing. I used the same on that other white haired thing before he took my eye. He called it poison." She shakes her head. "You witchers are all the same. You assume all are as you... Dangerous."

He clears his throat. "Mm..." He rolls his shoulder. "Thank you... Jenetha?"

"Call me Jenny." She pats his thick arm. "Though you witchers are right on one thing. Not all is as it seems."

Her eye glints at you and your brows tweak. She looks at Geralt and snaps her fingers. "There's stew on the stove. Eat, sleep if you can."

[honeybee-reads]

Her dad is such a grouch!! Surprising. But more layers are being revealed! I love the depth to this story. Poor Gerry is definitely in over his head, but I’m glad he got some help for his booboo shoulder. Hopefully he’ll leave Jenny’s eye alone!