the nectar house

18+ honey’s home

[thezombieprostitute]

Great Pyrenees Kraven

Happy Birthday @honeybee-reads!

[bewbin]

you were born in 2006? what are you? a Honda Civic?

[saintcastiglione]

Summary: A Butcher and a Baker shouldn't mix. But when you accidentally become Frank Castle’s accomplice after a body turns up in your bakery, you learn the only man who can protect you is the one you swore was a plague. Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader Warnings: 18+ Always. Canon level Violence. Character Death (non-major). Smut. Frenemies. A little hurt comfort if you squint.

a playlist if you'd like to listen to the songs that inspired the story

Support an author trying to refine their writing! Lemme know if you'd like a tag.

🔥notes smut.

Chapter 1: Preheat to 375° Chapter 2: Beat Until Stiff Chapter 3: Sanitize Your Work Surface Chapter 4: Cut the Crust Off Chapter 5: Punch Your Dough Chapter 6: Burn to a Crisp Chapter 7: Fold in Wet Ingredients 🔥 Chapter 8: Serve Before it Cools

[honeybee-reads]

I’m here because I saw that you were writing for Frank Castle. I shall return 😈

[saintcastiglione]

I'll be here when you come back

[honeybee-reads]

It’s hard to out-freak me but I like a challenge… just you wait

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Grey Skies 2

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. three parts ish.

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.💖

That night, you make another mincemeat pie. You wrap it up in linen and twine. You leave it in the ice box until the morning. You find yourself as cold as if you were in with it.

You’re scared. A dozen times you wished Stuart away but you never truly thought of the reality. Without him, what do you do? Certainly, you could put your needle to task for some money, or seek a job at the factory as he once had. Yet there are many men in line for the same and a woman is always chosen second.

You don’t sleep. You don’t even try. You languish on the withering old couch and watch the window tint through the shades of the ebony and slate night. When the time comes, you rise without much feeling or thought.

You wash up as best you can. You pin your hair as tidily as you can and find a hat that isn’t moth-bitten or ragged. Then a dress. The old moss green with the belt. The brooch that was once at the cinch of it is gone; Stuart pawned it. Better off, it would only bring more attention to the tension in the fabric that wasn’t there before.

Gloves, coat, shoes. All brown. All dull. All aged and worn.

You hook your purse over your elbow and walk out with the pie. Mary Lynn sits on her step smoking. Her head is in her hand as she puffs out. Another late night for her.

You pay the trolley for your ride and sit, ankles crossed, shoulders stiff. You transfer to another, your heart fluttering the closer you get to your destination. You try to think of the last time Stuart took you anywhere.

You disembark as you thank the conductor again. You step onto the cobbles and barely avoid collision. Riders squeeze by you as pedestrians don’t slow in their path. You stumble through and hide against the brick wall until you find a way through.

You pass a newspaper seller and ask which way to The Garrison. He gives you a look but tells you. You thank him and he asks if you need a paper. You feel bad declining.

You press on. You see the moniker demarking your destination. As you get closer, you notice a group of men smoking and chortling in the caps. Those caps. The caps worn by Shelby and many of his comrades. Stuart chattered on the last night you saw him about having one of his own.

The men quiet as you near. You sense their gazes. You know you must stick out sorely.

You approach the door and one cuts away from the rest to open it for you. “Ma’am. Lookin’ for something?” He asks.

You stop before the door as he holds it. You clear your throat, “Mr. Shelby.” 

“Which one?” The man chuffs.

“Thomas, I believe.”

“You believe,” he scoffs.

“Willy, leave off,”  gritty voice comes from within. A skinny man in a brown cap and suit stands just inside, “Let the lady in.”

“Art” the man holding the door nods and shows a palm in deference.

You set your feet and chin and enter. Your legs struggle to bend, your feet fight to turn back. The door falls shut as you step into the mostly empty bar. It’s early yet. 

There’s one man slumped over the trim of the bar snoring loudly and the one who bid off your accoster.

“Mornin’, sir, I’m seekin’ Mr. Shelby.” You say as you hug the pie dish.

“I’d be him. Less you mean Tommy.”

“Yes, I believe I’m looking for him.” You say. “I… I brought him a pie and… I hoped to speak with him.”

The man’s slender face lines in amusement. “Eh, you don’t look his type.”

“Pardon, sir?” You utter.

“Eh, nothin’, love, nothin’. Forgive me. An old soldier carries old habits.” He pulls the cigar from behind his ear and bites it. “Have a seat, then. I’ll see if I can hunt him down.”

“Thank you, sir. Uh, Mr. Shelby.”

“Arthur,” he offers before he spins away.

He goes behind the bar as you look around. You go to a table and sit. You keep your hands on the dish and sniff. Is this a mistake? Imagine you go home and Stuart’s right there waiting and this was all a big panic for nothing.

“Oi,” Arthur’s voice grinds. You glance over as he holds a phone receiver to his ear. “Tommy?... Well, get ‘im on. I’ve gotta talk to him.” He huffs. “It’s bloody Arthur. Don’t fuck with me.”

You look down. These men are rough. The kind you shouldn’t speak to. The sort that whistle at you when you take a turn down the wrong street. Well, not you anymore, but a lovely young women in a lovely dress.

“Lady here. She’s got a pie. Lookin’ fer ye…” you hear the low conversation. “I didn’t ask. I ain’t even slept yet, Tom.”

The receiver slams down. Arthur turns halfway and strikes the wheel on his lighter. He lights his cigar. He puffs rings. 

“He’ll be ‘round. Soon.” He lets the cigar hang between his lips as he pulls a pint glass from the shelf. “Want som’in to drink?”

“No, sir, it’s early.” You cheep. “Thank you.”

“Mmm,” he pulls the tap and pours the pint. “Polite one.”

You don’t know what to say to that so you say nothing. Arthur slurps loudly. You peek over as he wipes the foam from his mustache. He puffs from the cigar again. You stifle a cough behind your fist and look out the window.

“Ah, ma’m, forgive me.” He taps and you look over as he tamps out the butt of the cigar. He replaces it behind his ear. “Ya play cards?”

“At church,” you answer.

“Mm, yes, suppose we don’t play the same games,” he snorts.

“Suppose not,” you agree and trace the brim of the pie dish.

“Eh… I’ll keep an eye out for Tommy. Send him in when he gets here…” He moves out from behind the bar. “Make sure these other scoundrels don’t bother ye.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby.” You say.

He goes to the man at the bar and smacks his skull with his knuckles. “Georgie, get your ass up.” He grabs the scruff of the man’s wrinkled shirt and hauls him to his feet. “Go find somewhere else to sleep.”

He drags the drunkard out and you linger. The longer you sit there, the more your doubt floods your chest. You should just get up and go. What are you doing here? Stuart is not Mr. Shelby’s problem. When you find your husband, you will tell him to go back to the factory. He can’t be about with these men in their caps.

When the door opens at last, you look up. Mr. Shelby enters. Thomas. Tommy. He shuts the door gently with his hand as he sees you. He nods and removes his cap. He smoothes the black and silver strands over the top of his head.

You stand.

“Mr. Shelby, I apologise for disturbing.”

“Mornin’, ma’am,” he intones. He crosses to the bar and sets his hat down. “You’ve had a drink?”

“Bit early for me.”

“I could find some leaves.” He offers.

“Sir, truly, I mean no trouble.” You hover your fingers over the linen cover on the dish. “I wouldn’t mean to waste yer time. I only… my husbands, Stuart Cress, he’s not returned the last three… four days now.”

“No?” He reaches over the bar and pulls out a bottle. A thick walled glass bottle of whiskey with his name printed on the label. “Well, I wouldn’t know. I didn’t give him a job. I met him down the row, he got his cut, laughed, and went on his way.”

“Oh?” You blink, confused. “Of course, you must be busy…”

He uncorks the bottle and takes a swig. His throat bobs and he growls out the heat of the alcohol. He pushes the cork back in and puts the bottle down.

“I’m sorry to hear he’s not been around. I told him though, I’ve enough men in my employ. He’s better finding honest work. ‘Specially with a wife at home.” Mr. Shelby reaches in his coat and takes out his silver cigarette case. “It’s a big city. I do my best to keep the rabble in order but… things happen.”

Your eyes tinge and your cheeks pinch. Not only have you wasted his time and your own, you’ve been foolish. If Stuart got money, he went off gambling and no doubt got himself in trouble.

“I apologise again for takin’ yer time,” you grab the pie dish and step out from behind the table. You near Shelby cautiously. “I figured I’d bring ya something for it. And since you couldn’t stay th’other night.”

You place the pie dish up on the bar. He turns so his jacket brushes you. You back up as he reaches to loose the twine. He holds his cigarette between two fingers as he peeks under the linen.

“That’s rather kind of ye, ma’am,” he drawls.  His eyes flick up to you and he teethes the inside of his lip. “Don’t got many bringing me pies.”

You feel even more foolish. You clasp your hands so your purse hangs at your wrist.

“I… I don’t have much money,” you look down at your handbag.

“Wouldn’t think of it.” He looms close to you. “I’ll keep an eye out for Stuart. I’ll even send some of my men around.”

“You– Oh I wasn’t meanin’ no–”

“It’s nothing, ma’am. Birmingham’s my city. I take care of it.” He assures. “How’d ye get here?”

You swallow. “The trolley.”

“Hm. Well, I’ll have my brother drive you back. For yer trouble comin’ down here.” He gently touches your sleeve. “And for my supper. Thank you. I’ll be slavering for that mincemeat til tea time.”

“Not at all, Mr. Shelby. I ‘preciate you puttin’ up with a lady’s worries.” You dip your head. “I’m sure Stu will show up. He must.”

🖤

It’s days yet. A full week. Your husband remains absent. You remain fraught. More so with each passing minute.

You’ve not much to sell to make the lease. You’ve the tin of coins that won’t meet half of it. Nothing in Stuart’s drawers or tucked away his side of the mattress. You’ll have to pawn every piece of furniture or vacate… to where. And when he returns, what then? How would he find you?

You sit with a cup of cold tea. You brewed it but lost your thirst for it as you sat and mulled. You hold your head and exhale.

What are you going to do?

There’s a knock at the door. Please don’t be Mr. Brenton. You’ve not the heart to explain that you haven’t got his money. Not the stomach to admit that you’re as good as vagrant without your husband.

You get up after the third series of raps. You answer the door. You hiss out a gasp. It isn’t Mr. Brenton and his greasy grey hair.

“Mr. Shelby,” you great. “Ahm, good afternoon.”

“Ma’am, I hope I’m not imposing.” He says.

You shake your head. “No, sir. Can I help ya?”

“Might I come in?” He glances past you then peeks over his shoulder. Mary Lynn’s smoking with Danny next door.

“Yes, sir, please.”

You back up to let him inside. He takes off his cap. You shut the door and sidle back by him.

“Would you like me to hang that?” You offer.

He puts it on the rack himself. “You’re a good woman but I can deal with my hat.”

“Pardon, I only–”

“No apologies. I’ve come to issue my own.” He takes off his coat and hangs it.

“Oh?” You breathe slowly. “Would you like some tea?”

His lips curve grimly. “Ma’am,” he says softly and stares at you. “Well, I can’t deny that kindness.”

You back up and turn to lead him through to the next room. You direct him to sit in the front room. The beaten old armchair creaks with his weight. You retreat to the kitchen to boil the water and gather your nerves. There’s enough time for you to steady yourself.

You come out with cup and saucer.

“Splash of milk, ye take, do I ‘member right, sir?” You set it on the table by the armrest.

“That’s right,” he rolls a cigarette between two fingers. It’s unlit.

“Sir, what’ve you come for? Stuart? I’ve not see him yet.” You clasp your hands.

“Please, sit, ma’am,” he gestures.

You sit on the couch, right on the edge. He takes the tea cup, his cigarette cradled between his fingers, and he blows away the steam. He sips.

“Lovely steep,” he praises. “As lovely as that pie you brought me.”

“Mr. Shelby,” you plead weakly.

He sighs and stares into the tea. He puts the cup down and slowly leans forward. He drags the tip of the cigarette along his lip then presses his lips around it. He thinks better of it and takes it out. He looks at you.

“I’ve not seen Stuart. My men report they haven’t either.” He says firmly.

You nod. “I didn’t think so…”

“It’s been a week now…”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s a long time.” His throat tightens and he sits straighter. “Do you work, ma’am?”

You shake your head. His eyes are thoughtful as they drink you in. His jaw clenches.

“He’s not here, that means… his money won’t be.”

“Sir. I… I’m looking… for work–”

“Yes, I supposed you would be. You’re a clever woman. You found me out at my bar, after all.” He wiggles the cigarette as he talks.

“But I can’t find… him.” You look away.

He sighs again. He puts the cigarette down and you flinch as he reaches across the space to touch your hand.

“I don’t know what happened to your husband. He was happy to have his money and he skipped off. I don’t know where. I’m trying.” He proclaims. “I can’t help feel some guilt…”

“Sir, my husband…” you look at his hand then in his face. “My husband wasn’t always… wise.”

“You are kind.” His lips twitch and he pulls back. “Much too kind for him or me.” He swipes up the cigarette again. “Let me give some back to ye. For it all.”

“It’s… you don’t–”

“You saw how empty my bar was, didn’t ya?” He interjects.

“It was early.” You shrug.

“Yes, it was. But I was thinking, people needa eat. Break their fast, sit for lunch, tea…” he explains. “It’s not much of a business opening six hours a night to drunks. So… I’ve thought a proper restaurant during the day light…” he lets the thoughts hang. “I’ll need a cook.”

You stare at him, confused. He reaches for his cup. He drinks again.

He hums as he lowers the brim. “Fine tea, indeed.” He muses and licks his lips. “Ma’am, you need work, I need a cook.” He tilts his head.

Your lips part and your lashes flick. “But I never… worked in no kitchen. Not a proper one.”

“But I know you can figure it out,” he winks.

[honeybee-reads]

I knew he was about to come up with something to keep her close. A job is perfect because in a way he controls her and he knows exactly where she is. I’m sure he gave Stuart something, just not money. That man straight disappeared and I don’t think he’s ever returning. But we might be better off without him, he was kind of awful! Ooh I’m so excited, Tommy is so hungry already, but he’s taking it slow because she’s a good woman and he can’t just jump at her.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Tommy sure knows how to be the problem and the solution lmaoooo. Stuart was no good but not dangerous like Tommy.

He's playing soft rn but who knows how long he can last.

[honeybee-reads]

Ooh yeah he might fall apart as soon as he eats that pie 🥧

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Grey Skies 2

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. three parts ish.

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.💖

That night, you make another mincemeat pie. You wrap it up in linen and twine. You leave it in the ice box until the morning. You find yourself as cold as if you were in with it.

You’re scared. A dozen times you wished Stuart away but you never truly thought of the reality. Without him, what do you do? Certainly, you could put your needle to task for some money, or seek a job at the factory as he once had. Yet there are many men in line for the same and a woman is always chosen second.

You don’t sleep. You don’t even try. You languish on the withering old couch and watch the window tint through the shades of the ebony and slate night. When the time comes, you rise without much feeling or thought.

You wash up as best you can. You pin your hair as tidily as you can and find a hat that isn’t moth-bitten or ragged. Then a dress. The old moss green with the belt. The brooch that was once at the cinch of it is gone; Stuart pawned it. Better off, it would only bring more attention to the tension in the fabric that wasn’t there before.

Gloves, coat, shoes. All brown. All dull. All aged and worn.

You hook your purse over your elbow and walk out with the pie. Mary Lynn sits on her step smoking. Her head is in her hand as she puffs out. Another late night for her.

You pay the trolley for your ride and sit, ankles crossed, shoulders stiff. You transfer to another, your heart fluttering the closer you get to your destination. You try to think of the last time Stuart took you anywhere.

You disembark as you thank the conductor again. You step onto the cobbles and barely avoid collision. Riders squeeze by you as pedestrians don’t slow in their path. You stumble through and hide against the brick wall until you find a way through.

You pass a newspaper seller and ask which way to The Garrison. He gives you a look but tells you. You thank him and he asks if you need a paper. You feel bad declining.

You press on. You see the moniker demarking your destination. As you get closer, you notice a group of men smoking and chortling in the caps. Those caps. The caps worn by Shelby and many of his comrades. Stuart chattered on the last night you saw him about having one of his own.

The men quiet as you near. You sense their gazes. You know you must stick out sorely.

You approach the door and one cuts away from the rest to open it for you. “Ma’am. Lookin’ for something?” He asks.

You stop before the door as he holds it. You clear your throat, “Mr. Shelby.” 

“Which one?” The man chuffs.

“Thomas, I believe.”

“You believe,” he scoffs.

“Willy, leave off,”  gritty voice comes from within. A skinny man in a brown cap and suit stands just inside, “Let the lady in.”

“Art” the man holding the door nods and shows a palm in deference.

You set your feet and chin and enter. Your legs struggle to bend, your feet fight to turn back. The door falls shut as you step into the mostly empty bar. It’s early yet. 

There’s one man slumped over the trim of the bar snoring loudly and the one who bid off your accoster.

“Mornin’, sir, I’m seekin’ Mr. Shelby.” You say as you hug the pie dish.

“I’d be him. Less you mean Tommy.”

“Yes, I believe I’m looking for him.” You say. “I… I brought him a pie and… I hoped to speak with him.”

The man’s slender face lines in amusement. “Eh, you don’t look his type.”

“Pardon, sir?” You utter.

“Eh, nothin’, love, nothin’. Forgive me. An old soldier carries old habits.” He pulls the cigar from behind his ear and bites it. “Have a seat, then. I’ll see if I can hunt him down.”

“Thank you, sir. Uh, Mr. Shelby.”

“Arthur,” he offers before he spins away.

He goes behind the bar as you look around. You go to a table and sit. You keep your hands on the dish and sniff. Is this a mistake? Imagine you go home and Stuart’s right there waiting and this was all a big panic for nothing.

“Oi,” Arthur’s voice grinds. You glance over as he holds a phone receiver to his ear. “Tommy?... Well, get ‘im on. I’ve gotta talk to him.” He huffs. “It’s bloody Arthur. Don’t fuck with me.”

You look down. These men are rough. The kind you shouldn’t speak to. The sort that whistle at you when you take a turn down the wrong street. Well, not you anymore, but a lovely young women in a lovely dress.

“Lady here. She’s got a pie. Lookin’ fer ye…” you hear the low conversation. “I didn’t ask. I ain’t even slept yet, Tom.”

The receiver slams down. Arthur turns halfway and strikes the wheel on his lighter. He lights his cigar. He puffs rings. 

“He’ll be ‘round. Soon.” He lets the cigar hang between his lips as he pulls a pint glass from the shelf. “Want som’in to drink?”

“No, sir, it’s early.” You cheep. “Thank you.”

“Mmm,” he pulls the tap and pours the pint. “Polite one.”

You don’t know what to say to that so you say nothing. Arthur slurps loudly. You peek over as he wipes the foam from his mustache. He puffs from the cigar again. You stifle a cough behind your fist and look out the window.

“Ah, ma’m, forgive me.” He taps and you look over as he tamps out the butt of the cigar. He replaces it behind his ear. “Ya play cards?”

“At church,” you answer.

“Mm, yes, suppose we don’t play the same games,” he snorts.

“Suppose not,” you agree and trace the brim of the pie dish.

“Eh… I’ll keep an eye out for Tommy. Send him in when he gets here…” He moves out from behind the bar. “Make sure these other scoundrels don’t bother ye.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby.” You say.

He goes to the man at the bar and smacks his skull with his knuckles. “Georgie, get your ass up.” He grabs the scruff of the man’s wrinkled shirt and hauls him to his feet. “Go find somewhere else to sleep.”

He drags the drunkard out and you linger. The longer you sit there, the more your doubt floods your chest. You should just get up and go. What are you doing here? Stuart is not Mr. Shelby’s problem. When you find your husband, you will tell him to go back to the factory. He can’t be about with these men in their caps.

When the door opens at last, you look up. Mr. Shelby enters. Thomas. Tommy. He shuts the door gently with his hand as he sees you. He nods and removes his cap. He smoothes the black and silver strands over the top of his head.

You stand.

“Mr. Shelby, I apologise for disturbing.”

“Mornin’, ma’am,” he intones. He crosses to the bar and sets his hat down. “You’ve had a drink?”

“Bit early for me.”

“I could find some leaves.” He offers.

“Sir, truly, I mean no trouble.” You hover your fingers over the linen cover on the dish. “I wouldn’t mean to waste yer time. I only… my husbands, Stuart Cress, he’s not returned the last three… four days now.”

“No?” He reaches over the bar and pulls out a bottle. A thick walled glass bottle of whiskey with his name printed on the label. “Well, I wouldn’t know. I didn’t give him a job. I met him down the row, he got his cut, laughed, and went on his way.”

“Oh?” You blink, confused. “Of course, you must be busy…”

He uncorks the bottle and takes a swig. His throat bobs and he growls out the heat of the alcohol. He pushes the cork back in and puts the bottle down.

“I’m sorry to hear he’s not been around. I told him though, I’ve enough men in my employ. He’s better finding honest work. ‘Specially with a wife at home.” Mr. Shelby reaches in his coat and takes out his silver cigarette case. “It’s a big city. I do my best to keep the rabble in order but… things happen.”

Your eyes tinge and your cheeks pinch. Not only have you wasted his time and your own, you’ve been foolish. If Stuart got money, he went off gambling and no doubt got himself in trouble.

“I apologise again for takin’ yer time,” you grab the pie dish and step out from behind the table. You near Shelby cautiously. “I figured I’d bring ya something for it. And since you couldn’t stay th’other night.”

You place the pie dish up on the bar. He turns so his jacket brushes you. You back up as he reaches to loose the twine. He holds his cigarette between two fingers as he peeks under the linen.

“That’s rather kind of ye, ma’am,” he drawls.  His eyes flick up to you and he teethes the inside of his lip. “Don’t got many bringing me pies.”

You feel even more foolish. You clasp your hands so your purse hangs at your wrist.

“I… I don’t have much money,” you look down at your handbag.

“Wouldn’t think of it.” He looms close to you. “I’ll keep an eye out for Stuart. I’ll even send some of my men around.”

“You– Oh I wasn’t meanin’ no–”

“It’s nothing, ma’am. Birmingham’s my city. I take care of it.” He assures. “How’d ye get here?”

You swallow. “The trolley.”

“Hm. Well, I’ll have my brother drive you back. For yer trouble comin’ down here.” He gently touches your sleeve. “And for my supper. Thank you. I’ll be slavering for that mincemeat til tea time.”

“Not at all, Mr. Shelby. I ‘preciate you puttin’ up with a lady’s worries.” You dip your head. “I’m sure Stu will show up. He must.”

🖤

It’s days yet. A full week. Your husband remains absent. You remain fraught. More so with each passing minute.

You’ve not much to sell to make the lease. You’ve the tin of coins that won’t meet half of it. Nothing in Stuart’s drawers or tucked away his side of the mattress. You’ll have to pawn every piece of furniture or vacate… to where. And when he returns, what then? How would he find you?

You sit with a cup of cold tea. You brewed it but lost your thirst for it as you sat and mulled. You hold your head and exhale.

What are you going to do?

There’s a knock at the door. Please don’t be Mr. Brenton. You’ve not the heart to explain that you haven’t got his money. Not the stomach to admit that you’re as good as vagrant without your husband.

You get up after the third series of raps. You answer the door. You hiss out a gasp. It isn’t Mr. Brenton and his greasy grey hair.

“Mr. Shelby,” you great. “Ahm, good afternoon.”

“Ma’am, I hope I’m not imposing.” He says.

You shake your head. “No, sir. Can I help ya?”

“Might I come in?” He glances past you then peeks over his shoulder. Mary Lynn’s smoking with Danny next door.

“Yes, sir, please.”

You back up to let him inside. He takes off his cap. You shut the door and sidle back by him.

“Would you like me to hang that?” You offer.

He puts it on the rack himself. “You’re a good woman but I can deal with my hat.”

“Pardon, I only–”

“No apologies. I’ve come to issue my own.” He takes off his coat and hangs it.

“Oh?” You breathe slowly. “Would you like some tea?”

His lips curve grimly. “Ma’am,” he says softly and stares at you. “Well, I can’t deny that kindness.”

You back up and turn to lead him through to the next room. You direct him to sit in the front room. The beaten old armchair creaks with his weight. You retreat to the kitchen to boil the water and gather your nerves. There’s enough time for you to steady yourself.

You come out with cup and saucer.

“Splash of milk, ye take, do I ‘member right, sir?” You set it on the table by the armrest.

“That’s right,” he rolls a cigarette between two fingers. It’s unlit.

“Sir, what’ve you come for? Stuart? I’ve not see him yet.” You clasp your hands.

“Please, sit, ma’am,” he gestures.

You sit on the couch, right on the edge. He takes the tea cup, his cigarette cradled between his fingers, and he blows away the steam. He sips.

“Lovely steep,” he praises. “As lovely as that pie you brought me.”

“Mr. Shelby,” you plead weakly.

He sighs and stares into the tea. He puts the cup down and slowly leans forward. He drags the tip of the cigarette along his lip then presses his lips around it. He thinks better of it and takes it out. He looks at you.

“I’ve not seen Stuart. My men report they haven’t either.” He says firmly.

You nod. “I didn’t think so…”

“It’s been a week now…”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s a long time.” His throat tightens and he sits straighter. “Do you work, ma’am?”

You shake your head. His eyes are thoughtful as they drink you in. His jaw clenches.

“He’s not here, that means… his money won’t be.”

“Sir. I… I’m looking… for work–”

“Yes, I supposed you would be. You’re a clever woman. You found me out at my bar, after all.” He wiggles the cigarette as he talks.

“But I can’t find… him.” You look away.

He sighs again. He puts the cigarette down and you flinch as he reaches across the space to touch your hand.

“I don’t know what happened to your husband. He was happy to have his money and he skipped off. I don’t know where. I’m trying.” He proclaims. “I can’t help feel some guilt…”

“Sir, my husband…” you look at his hand then in his face. “My husband wasn’t always… wise.”

“You are kind.” His lips twitch and he pulls back. “Much too kind for him or me.” He swipes up the cigarette again. “Let me give some back to ye. For it all.”

“It’s… you don’t–”

“You saw how empty my bar was, didn’t ya?” He interjects.

“It was early.” You shrug.

“Yes, it was. But I was thinking, people needa eat. Break their fast, sit for lunch, tea…” he explains. “It’s not much of a business opening six hours a night to drunks. So… I’ve thought a proper restaurant during the day light…” he lets the thoughts hang. “I’ll need a cook.”

You stare at him, confused. He reaches for his cup. He drinks again.

He hums as he lowers the brim. “Fine tea, indeed.” He muses and licks his lips. “Ma’am, you need work, I need a cook.” He tilts his head.

Your lips part and your lashes flick. “But I never… worked in no kitchen. Not a proper one.”

“But I know you can figure it out,” he winks.

[honeybee-reads]

I knew he was about to come up with something to keep her close. A job is perfect because in a way he controls her and he knows exactly where she is. I’m sure he gave Stuart something, just not money. That man straight disappeared and I don’t think he’s ever returning. But we might be better off without him, he was kind of awful! Ooh I’m so excited, Tommy is so hungry already, but he’s taking it slow because she’s a good woman and he can’t just jump at her.

[saintcastiglione]

Summary: A Butcher and a Baker shouldn't mix. But when you accidentally become Frank Castle’s accomplice after a body turns up in your bakery, you learn the only man who can protect you is the one you swore was a plague. Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader Warnings: 18+ Always. Canon level Violence. Character Death (non-major). Smut. Frenemies. A little hurt comfort if you squint.

a playlist if you'd like to listen to the songs that inspired the story

Support an author trying to refine their writing! Lemme know if you'd like a tag.

🔥notes smut.

Chapter 1: Preheat to 375° Chapter 2: Beat Until Stiff Chapter 3: Sanitize Your Work Surface Chapter 4: Cut the Crust Off Chapter 5: Punch Your Dough Chapter 6: Burn to a Crisp Chapter 7: Fold in Wet Ingredients 🔥 Chapter 8: Serve Before it Cools

[honeybee-reads]

I’m here because I saw that you were writing for Frank Castle. I shall return 😈

[cherienymphe]

thoughts on frank castle?

Needs to get it tf together and go be with his soulmate Karen

[honeybee-reads]

Dang I shouldn’t have read this while still on season 1 😭

[cherienymphe]

Most of their dynamic is seen in the punisher tv show anyway. You get a little bit of them in DD but the punisher is where most of their interactions are so you're good 😭

[honeybee-reads]

Unfortunately, the Punisher is what I’m watching haha. Didn’t even know this was about DD

[cherienymphe]

Oh! My bad 😭

[honeybee-reads]

Nah you’re good, that show came out in 2017?? I think. Can’t be mad haha

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Grey Skies 1

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. three parts ish.

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.💖

"Oi, big boss is comin' tonight." Stuart hollers from the front door as he clamours in.

You grab the cloth from your apron belt and dry your hands as you cross the small kitchen. You peek out onto the entryway as he takes out his pocket watch, the old thing dented on the back. Your father gave it to him on your wedding day. It was still shiny then.

"The boss? Mr. Dugin?" You wonder.

"Ah, lamb, I told ya, Fyodor ain't need me no more. 'sides, this new job's gonna get us outta this old cave. Promise. We'll have a whole second floor and tub you can lay in."

The mud on his boots crumbles off as he steps over the mat.

"Stu," you cross your arms. "I mopped t'day."

He looks down. "Mop again, lamb. What else ya got to do, then?"

"Make an extra plate for your boss, so ya says." You retort with a sigh as he tramps toward you.

You turn away and wave him off as you sense his pursuit. Stuart thinks it's funny to dismiss all you do to keep him comfortable, though you suppose he never thought once if you were comfortable. As you go back to the kitchen, he catches your arm and spins you back.

"C'mon, lamb, give ya husband a kiss." He pulls you toward him.

"Stuart," you chide. "I've got to get the mop."

"Now, then, you gotta pay the dues," he puckers at you, smooching loudly.

You wriggle. He's not letting up and you're not stronger than him. You stare above his head and quickly kiss him. 

"Ah, you can do better," he taunts.

You furrow your brow and look him on the face. "Stuart, really, if your boss is comin', we can't have a dirty floor."

He squeezes you and you squeak. He keeps on until you can't breathe and your ribs are ready to crack. You whimper and quickly press your mouth to his. He growls and bites your lip so you recoil.

"Don't ya be uppity when the man's 'round. He don't stand for it. He a rough man. Serious." Stuart warns and gives you one last cruel squeeze. "I married a nice girl. Sometimes I miss her.”

He lets you go. You resist the urge to rub your middle and cautiously back away. Your husband is a crafty man in his way. Charming, but behind these walls, he morphs into another man.

“I suppose he’ll be by soon, then. I’ll get everything ready,” you say and turn back to the kitchen.

“Make sure ya change ya dress. Man’s got taste.” Stuart adds.

You breathe out your agitation. “I’ll do that too.”

You’ve enough mincemeat for the extra plate. You don’t need too much yourself. You’ve a new tin of tea leaves as well, you hope that will help tide over hungry bellies. With that sorted, you set off to find a different dress.

You wouldn’t say a better dress. You don’t have any of those. Stuart doesn’t splurge on dresses and stockings. You’ve acquired quite a few from neighbours or ladies down at the church. You’re still mending the clothes you had when you got married to keep yourself dressed.

The deep blue cotton dress has a delicate collar. It was Lucille’s. You put it on and grab your apron. You go back to the kitchen and tie it on. You can smell Stuart smoking before you see the puff near the front window.

“Ach, there he be,” he tamps out the cigarette in the tray you just emptied that morning. He left it overflowing with stubs and ashes.

The kettle quakes and you turn off the burner before it can whistle. Your nerves flurry. You wouldn’t say people make you nervous, it’s only that you don’t get out much more than visits to the grocer or the church. Stuart didn’t like it when you went to the socials; even if you were just sewing and chattering.

The door opens as you pull out the faded china cups. The creaky frame groans. Your husband claps.

“Mista Shelby!” He greets emphatically. “Wife’s got dinner on.”

There’s a sniff and hum. You can hear the derision with just that. You realise it’s upon you to act hostess. You’ve not done that in years.

You go to the entry way.

“Good evening, sir,” you say as you enter. “Er…” You look at Stuart.

“Mr. Shelby, this is the wife.” Your husband explains.

You get barely a flick of the blue eyes of the man in his cap and finely tailored coat. You fold your hands and slowly near.

“Might I take your jacket and hat? Tea’s almost ready, Mr. Shelby.” You offer.

That’s when the man really looks at you. He tilts his head and his eyes skim over to your husband. He nods and removes his hat, tidying the dark strands beneath, the silver catching yellow tinge of the aged bulbs.

He hands over his coat and cap and you hang them on the rack. Your husband's coat is on the rickety stool next to the tall rack. You pick it up and hang it too.

“Right then, I’ll get that tea.” You back up. “Milk? Sugar?”

Mr. Shelby runs his hand down his lapel. “A touch of milk, ma’am. Thanks.”

“Ah, ain’t she nice?” Stuart chirps. “Come, Mr. Shelby. I’ve got a grand idea. Grand indeed. I told yer brotha ‘bout it.”

“Mm, I believe he was deep in his bottle.” Mr. Shelby remarks.

You retreat and your husband leads your guest into the house. You swelter in doubt and self-awareness. You keep the place tidy and yet, it’s hard to make the ripply wall paper and splintering old boards anything but ratty. Well, it’s not on you. Stuart gave you no warning.

You pour the tea. Sugar and milk for Stuart, just a splash of milk for Mr. Shelby, and you’ll be too busy for any of your own. You bring out the cups on saucers you have to wipe the dust from. 

You clink them down on the round tables next to the rigid back chair Shelby claimed and the sofa where your husband perches on the edge. The former thanks you, the latter ignores you. You nod and once more disappear back into domesticity.

“I already take a cut down that row,” Shelby’s voice comes firm.

“Yes, Mr. Shelby, but ya see, there’s things they’re hidin’ from ya. Things I know about.” Stuart insists. You know those things; the card tables where he loses the money you could use to fill the larder. “Ain’t you got a right to gamblings and all?”

“Gambling?” Mr. Shelby echoes warily. There’s a lull, the concentrated force of breath through tight lips, then a slow sip.

“I’m tellin’ ya, sir. You’re the boss and there’s people out there don’t be actin’ like y’are,” Stuart continues. You cringe. You don’t condone the men gaming in backrooms but you know better than to rat them out.

“Hm.” Mr. Shelby drones. He’s quiet a moment. “Ma’am,” his voice grits. You turn as you hold a knife above the mincemeat. “Tea’s lovely. But please,” he stands. “Save the pie. I’ve got business elsewhere.”

He nears with the cup and saucer in hand. It’s empty to your surprise. He steps close and sets it on the counter.

“Forgive my intrusion. I don’t often a chance to sit for supper.” He dips his chin. “I do wish I could stay and indulge. It does look tasty.”

“I could send you off with a piece,” you offer.

His cheek dimples and his brows ease above his bottomless blue eyes. “You’re a fine woman. That’s very kind of ya. Perhaps another day I’ll have a bite.”

He offers what could be a smile, a twitch of the lips, and turns away. He clears his throat and nods at your husband. “Stuart. Meet me down the row, tomorrow. We’ll figure it out.”

“Sir,” your husband’s hand shakes, as if he might salute.

“Good evening,” Mr. Shelby glances over his shoulder at you then promptly twists around to stride out.

You don’t move as you listen to his footsteps. He stops to gather his coat and cap. The door grinds open and closed. Your husband sighs.

“Man like him don’t like mincemeat, you old hen.” He chides. “He eats them French tartars and the like.”

You frown. “I’m sorry, husband, I didn’t have time–”

“I’ve not time or energy for you, eh, lamb. I’ve got business. Big business.” He rubs his palms together. “And when’s I get the money, you’ll be cooking me more’n your bloody pies.”

🖤

As any day, you see Stuart out in the morning. He has his breakfast of rye, eggs, and peameal. He leaves a mess around his plate and only wipes his chin when you offer him a handkerchief. You get his coat and his boots. He yammers on about Mr. Shelby as he ties them.

You watch him go out the door and shut it after him. He should’ve never left the factory. Ever since, he’s been floating around, convinced he’ll find some trove of good fortune. You thought of getting a job but the suggestion alone had him stomping your foot ‘by accident’.

You go about your day. Sweeping up cigarette ash, airing out the stale smell of tobacco, plumping the flattened cushions. You clean up after his breakfast and have a bowl of porridge to yourself.

You work at fixing the seam in his trousers as the time sifts by. You go out the yard to scour and wring out the laundry and hang it on the line. You sit out under the gloomy sky for a while then go back inside.

Stuart should be home soon. You’ll finish the mincemeat with some potatoes. You ready the food in the fussy old stove. You wait and wait and wait. He’s late. It’s not unusual.

He doesn’t return before you take the laundry down and fold it away. You leave the entryway light on and retire to the bedroom. Alone. Without him snoring, you fall asleep quickly.

You wake up the same. By yourself. In silence.

You get up and search the small one-floor townhome. He’s not there. You even call his name despite the fact there’s nowhere to hide. He’s not on the steps out front nor in the shared back lot with laundry lines and rubbish bins.

You’re sure he only had more business than he intended. This Mr. Shelby seems the important type. Surely, he must’ve been kept at his insistence.

You have your tea and porridge. The house is eerie without your husband stomping around. Usually you long for him to leave but this is… different.

You’ve less to do without him there. You will have the rest of the mincemeat yourself but be sure to have something fresh for him when he comes in. A hearty stew will do for the week.

You watch the rain through the window as the sky churns. The day is as dark as the evening. The only marker of the change are the hands on the clock. Your husband still doesn’t return. Now you worry.

You wait for the rain to slow. You go out in an old wool coat to knock on the door three down from your own. Harry’s in but he hasn’t seen Stuart. Same with Danny. Stu’s not been around.

The next day, you venture down to the river where Fyodor Dugin runs his business. He shakes his head when you ask about Stuart and mutters in Russian. You don’t linger as you sense his irritation.

You set off back home but stop halfway. You turn off and count the handful of pence in your purse. It’s meant for milk and butter. You pay the street trolley to take you down to the place called the Row.

The people there are grey and reticent. The women hide behind their doors and the children eye you like a hawk would a mouse. A man in a cap similar to Mr. Shelby’s spits tobacco onto the dirt.

You shiver and cross your arms. You address him. “Pardon me, erm, you wouldn’t happen to know a Mr. Shelby?”

The man scoffs. “Which one?”

You hesitate. “Um, black hair… er…”

“Tommy?” The man cackles and shakes his head. “Go home, lady.”

You sigh as the man waves you off and saunters away. A kid tossing pebbles at a broken barrel pipes up. 

“Miss? You looking for Tommy Shelby?”

You turn and nod. His socks are pulled to his knees, stains down the left one, and his cap is just like the man who told you to go home.

“You got money?” He asks.

“Not much.” You frown.

“Two pence and I’ll tell ya where to find the man.”

You look around. You curl your shoulders and cautiously reach into your purse. You use two fingers to open your coin purse and pluck out the coins blindly. You hand it over.

“Down at the Garrison,” the boy says. “He’ll be around sometime.”

“Thank you,” you back up and sense something behind you.

You turn as three other boys approach. The one who helped you tosses a handful of rocks at them.

“Oi, git on!” He hops up and comes up beside you.

The boys scramble away. You turn to the boy as he hollers at them not to look back.

“Thank you,” you say.

“That’ll be two more pence.” He rubs his fingers together.

[honeybee-reads]

Oh, he dead. Poor us, we’re all alone and vulnerable. Stuart sucks but it’s what we’re used to! Tommy seemed unhappy with our husband immediately and that doesn’t bode well. I don’t see her travels to the Garrison going well, but what can she do? I love this already.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Annoy Tommy once and you won't live to do it again

It'll be an interesting trip to the Garrison for sure... Very interesting.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Director's Cut 11

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 💕

You're awestruck. Gobsmacked. Flabbergasted. Completely out of your element.

A private jet. A different country. You really can't believe it's real. Not even as you come down the tall steps from the plane door. Or when you're led to a car with Nick; sleek and sporty. He gets in the driver's seat as you settle into the low passenger's, the angle awkward and slightly uncomfortable.

"All buckled in, sweetheart?" He reaches over to squeeze your knee. You flinch in surprise.

"Sure am." You answer.

He lets go and shifts the manual stick. You take off your crochet hat and shake it out before putting it back on. You hesitate with your fingers along the ruffle. It's not very European. Oh well.

"We'll settle in at the hotel. I don't have to be on set until the day after tomorrow. I have edits I could do in my sleep. No interviews right now. Told Colleen to keep me out of that stuff as much as possible." He says.

You nod. Unsure what to add.

He steers onto a plaza and parks. You look around, confused. He turns off the engine.

"No driving in the old city." He says. "We'll catch a town car just past the Piazza."

"Oh, uh."

"My guys got our luggage. No worries. We just gotta worry about each other, sweetheart." He assures.

"Oh yeah of course." You undo your seatbelt. "Sorry I'm just a little bit lost. Or a lot lost.”

He chuckles. “I got you, don't worry.”

He watches you. You shift and tap your fingers on your belt bag. He steps closer, hesitates, then tilts his head sideways.

“This way,” he nudges you gently with his hand behind your upper arm.

He urged you through the secured lot to the Piazza where signs announce your official arrival in Venice. The space is bustling as tourists in wide-brimmed hats and floral shirts squint at their phones, snip at errant children to hush, or look around in the same disorientation you feel. Nick's touch slips down your arm and he grips your wrist, pulling you back just before you get stampeded by a group of older women trilling about wine and pasta.

“Come on, let's get a team.” He slips his hand around yours and pulls you through the crowd.

You come out to the street as Nick pulls down his sunglasses with his other hand. He doesn't let go of you. You're happy for it. You feel like you might get lost if he did.

“Ah, here.” He says and tugs you towards a crowd shuffling onto a wired tram.

You blink at a zapping flash. You glance over at a man with a camera. You glimpse in the direction of his aim, right behind you. He must be taking pictures of the Piazza.

You trip behind Nick and he pauses, turning back to keep you steady as he catches your shoulder. “Y’okay, sweetheart? Just tell me if I need to slow down.”

“I'm fine. Promise.” You insist with a nervous smile. “It's… Venice.” You exhale away your nerves. “It's real.”

He chuckles and puts you ahead of him. He follows you up to the tram door. As you board, he calls behind you.

“Got her. For two please.”

He presses against you as he feeds the fare meter and says something in Italian to the driver. You watched the coins spiral into the slot. You didn't even think to exchange your currency, you just brought your card.

You have no idea what you're doing here. You don't know where you're going. You don't have the right money. And really, what reason do you have to be here? You don't have a job here. Not like Nick.

“Come on, sweetheart, pick a seat.” He nudges your shoulder blade.

You find a seat. He sits beside you, your backs to the window. As you wiggle your foot nervously, you catch a woman staring in your direction. Nick groans as he stretches and lets his arm fall behind you.

“Like it so far?” He asks.

“Sure, I mean… just got here but it's so pretty and exciting. And… could you imagine if LA was car free? That would be…”

“A fantasy,” he scoffs. “You know some of the studios even feel like cities. It's why I can't stand them. You got idiots on those golf carts too, acting like they can't walk the same ground as everyone else.”

“Oh, yeah, I don't…”

“Sweetheart, I been meaning to ask something.” He says. Your anxiety tweaks as he plays with the seam of your sleeve right at the top of your shoulder.

“What?” You bat your eyes at him.

“Do you think… maybe one day you'll let me see where your from?”

“What?” Really?” You cheep.

“Yeah, sure. I love little towns. They're great. I'm looking for the perfect middle of nowhere to shoot my next project.” He explains as he raises his other hand, showing his palm as he drags it through the air. “Quiet, quaint, but full of life.”

“It's really not that… interesting.” You shrug. “But if you want… I don't know if they have anywhere to land your plane.”

He laughs again. “You're funny.”

“Oh… I … know what that means.”

“Huh?”

“People say that. You're funny… when you say something stupid. I don't speak Italian but I'm learning how to speak Hollywood.” You sniff.

“No, no, sweetheart,” he sits up, squeezing your shoulder. “Never. I'd never ever… you're not stupid and nothing you say is stupid. I love it all. Everything. Just the sound of your voice.” His hand settles on your knees. “Really, you make me laugh. You make me… forget who I am. Who people need me to be.”

He rubs your knee, trailing up your leg, then pulls back. He sits against the seat and sighs. He quiet as his tongue slips out between his lips.

“Do you know what what a vaporetti is?” He asks.

“Mmm, no. That wasn't in my Duolingo.” You hum.

“Waterbus. We gotta hop off this thing shortly and we'll get one….” He stops and stares at your perplexed face. “A boat. We gotta cross the canal.”

“The canal?” You utter.

“You're not afraid of water, are you, sweetheart?” He asks.

You shake your head. “I don't think so.”

“Good. But you can hold onto me if you need. Just in case you fall.” He winks.

[honeybee-reads]

Oh she lit him up! He’s not about to make a fool out of her. But Nick is having the time of his life. He’s got his girl out of her element and in his. She’s my favorite and he better not hurt her too bad. Those pap shots won’t be kind though, I bet.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Nick is down bad but that only means once he got his power back, we're in trouble hehe. He can't wait to get to that hotel.

[honeybee-reads]

I’m eager too 😈

[cherienymphe]

thoughts on frank castle?

Needs to get it tf together and go be with his soulmate Karen

[honeybee-reads]

Dang I shouldn’t have read this while still on season 1 😭

[cherienymphe]

Most of their dynamic is seen in the punisher tv show anyway. You get a little bit of them in DD but the punisher is where most of their interactions are so you're good 😭

[honeybee-reads]

Unfortunately, the Punisher is what I’m watching haha. Didn’t even know this was about DD

[cherienymphe]

thoughts on frank castle?

Needs to get it tf together and go be with his soulmate Karen

[honeybee-reads]

Dang I shouldn’t have read this while still on season 1 😭

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Grey Skies 1

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. three parts ish.

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.💖

"Oi, big boss is comin' tonight." Stuart hollers from the front door as he clamours in.

You grab the cloth from your apron belt and dry your hands as you cross the small kitchen. You peek out onto the entryway as he takes out his pocket watch, the old thing dented on the back. Your father gave it to him on your wedding day. It was still shiny then.

"The boss? Mr. Dugin?" You wonder.

"Ah, lamb, I told ya, Fyodor ain't need me no more. 'sides, this new job's gonna get us outta this old cave. Promise. We'll have a whole second floor and tub you can lay in."

The mud on his boots crumbles off as he steps over the mat.

"Stu," you cross your arms. "I mopped t'day."

He looks down. "Mop again, lamb. What else ya got to do, then?"

"Make an extra plate for your boss, so ya says." You retort with a sigh as he tramps toward you.

You turn away and wave him off as you sense his pursuit. Stuart thinks it's funny to dismiss all you do to keep him comfortable, though you suppose he never thought once if you were comfortable. As you go back to the kitchen, he catches your arm and spins you back.

"C'mon, lamb, give ya husband a kiss." He pulls you toward him.

"Stuart," you chide. "I've got to get the mop."

"Now, then, you gotta pay the dues," he puckers at you, smooching loudly.

You wriggle. He's not letting up and you're not stronger than him. You stare above his head and quickly kiss him. 

"Ah, you can do better," he taunts.

You furrow your brow and look him on the face. "Stuart, really, if your boss is comin', we can't have a dirty floor."

He squeezes you and you squeak. He keeps on until you can't breathe and your ribs are ready to crack. You whimper and quickly press your mouth to his. He growls and bites your lip so you recoil.

"Don't ya be uppity when the man's 'round. He don't stand for it. He a rough man. Serious." Stuart warns and gives you one last cruel squeeze. "I married a nice girl. Sometimes I miss her.”

He lets you go. You resist the urge to rub your middle and cautiously back away. Your husband is a crafty man in his way. Charming, but behind these walls, he morphs into another man.

“I suppose he’ll be by soon, then. I’ll get everything ready,” you say and turn back to the kitchen.

“Make sure ya change ya dress. Man’s got taste.” Stuart adds.

You breathe out your agitation. “I’ll do that too.”

You’ve enough mincemeat for the extra plate. You don’t need too much yourself. You’ve a new tin of tea leaves as well, you hope that will help tide over hungry bellies. With that sorted, you set off to find a different dress.

You wouldn’t say a better dress. You don’t have any of those. Stuart doesn’t splurge on dresses and stockings. You’ve acquired quite a few from neighbours or ladies down at the church. You’re still mending the clothes you had when you got married to keep yourself dressed.

The deep blue cotton dress has a delicate collar. It was Lucille’s. You put it on and grab your apron. You go back to the kitchen and tie it on. You can smell Stuart smoking before you see the puff near the front window.

“Ach, there he be,” he tamps out the cigarette in the tray you just emptied that morning. He left it overflowing with stubs and ashes.

The kettle quakes and you turn off the burner before it can whistle. Your nerves flurry. You wouldn’t say people make you nervous, it’s only that you don’t get out much more than visits to the grocer or the church. Stuart didn’t like it when you went to the socials; even if you were just sewing and chattering.

The door opens as you pull out the faded china cups. The creaky frame groans. Your husband claps.

“Mista Shelby!” He greets emphatically. “Wife’s got dinner on.”

There’s a sniff and hum. You can hear the derision with just that. You realise it’s upon you to act hostess. You’ve not done that in years.

You go to the entry way.

“Good evening, sir,” you say as you enter. “Er…” You look at Stuart.

“Mr. Shelby, this is the wife.” Your husband explains.

You get barely a flick of the blue eyes of the man in his cap and finely tailored coat. You fold your hands and slowly near.

“Might I take your jacket and hat? Tea’s almost ready, Mr. Shelby.” You offer.

That’s when the man really looks at you. He tilts his head and his eyes skim over to your husband. He nods and removes his hat, tidying the dark strands beneath, the silver catching yellow tinge of the aged bulbs.

He hands over his coat and cap and you hang them on the rack. Your husband's coat is on the rickety stool next to the tall rack. You pick it up and hang it too.

“Right then, I’ll get that tea.” You back up. “Milk? Sugar?”

Mr. Shelby runs his hand down his lapel. “A touch of milk, ma’am. Thanks.”

“Ah, ain’t she nice?” Stuart chirps. “Come, Mr. Shelby. I’ve got a grand idea. Grand indeed. I told yer brotha ‘bout it.”

“Mm, I believe he was deep in his bottle.” Mr. Shelby remarks.

You retreat and your husband leads your guest into the house. You swelter in doubt and self-awareness. You keep the place tidy and yet, it’s hard to make the ripply wall paper and splintering old boards anything but ratty. Well, it’s not on you. Stuart gave you no warning.

You pour the tea. Sugar and milk for Stuart, just a splash of milk for Mr. Shelby, and you’ll be too busy for any of your own. You bring out the cups on saucers you have to wipe the dust from. 

You clink them down on the round tables next to the rigid back chair Shelby claimed and the sofa where your husband perches on the edge. The former thanks you, the latter ignores you. You nod and once more disappear back into domesticity.

“I already take a cut down that row,” Shelby’s voice comes firm.

“Yes, Mr. Shelby, but ya see, there’s things they’re hidin’ from ya. Things I know about.” Stuart insists. You know those things; the card tables where he loses the money you could use to fill the larder. “Ain’t you got a right to gamblings and all?”

“Gambling?” Mr. Shelby echoes warily. There’s a lull, the concentrated force of breath through tight lips, then a slow sip.

“I’m tellin’ ya, sir. You’re the boss and there’s people out there don’t be actin’ like y’are,” Stuart continues. You cringe. You don’t condone the men gaming in backrooms but you know better than to rat them out.

“Hm.” Mr. Shelby drones. He’s quiet a moment. “Ma’am,” his voice grits. You turn as you hold a knife above the mincemeat. “Tea’s lovely. But please,” he stands. “Save the pie. I’ve got business elsewhere.”

He nears with the cup and saucer in hand. It’s empty to your surprise. He steps close and sets it on the counter.

“Forgive my intrusion. I don’t often a chance to sit for supper.” He dips his chin. “I do wish I could stay and indulge. It does look tasty.”

“I could send you off with a piece,” you offer.

His cheek dimples and his brows ease above his bottomless blue eyes. “You’re a fine woman. That’s very kind of ya. Perhaps another day I’ll have a bite.”

He offers what could be a smile, a twitch of the lips, and turns away. He clears his throat and nods at your husband. “Stuart. Meet me down the row, tomorrow. We’ll figure it out.”

“Sir,” your husband’s hand shakes, as if he might salute.

“Good evening,” Mr. Shelby glances over his shoulder at you then promptly twists around to stride out.

You don’t move as you listen to his footsteps. He stops to gather his coat and cap. The door grinds open and closed. Your husband sighs.

“Man like him don’t like mincemeat, you old hen.” He chides. “He eats them French tartars and the like.”

You frown. “I’m sorry, husband, I didn’t have time–”

“I’ve not time or energy for you, eh, lamb. I’ve got business. Big business.” He rubs his palms together. “And when’s I get the money, you’ll be cooking me more’n your bloody pies.”

🖤

As any day, you see Stuart out in the morning. He has his breakfast of rye, eggs, and peameal. He leaves a mess around his plate and only wipes his chin when you offer him a handkerchief. You get his coat and his boots. He yammers on about Mr. Shelby as he ties them.

You watch him go out the door and shut it after him. He should’ve never left the factory. Ever since, he’s been floating around, convinced he’ll find some trove of good fortune. You thought of getting a job but the suggestion alone had him stomping your foot ‘by accident’.

You go about your day. Sweeping up cigarette ash, airing out the stale smell of tobacco, plumping the flattened cushions. You clean up after his breakfast and have a bowl of porridge to yourself.

You work at fixing the seam in his trousers as the time sifts by. You go out the yard to scour and wring out the laundry and hang it on the line. You sit out under the gloomy sky for a while then go back inside.

Stuart should be home soon. You’ll finish the mincemeat with some potatoes. You ready the food in the fussy old stove. You wait and wait and wait. He’s late. It’s not unusual.

He doesn’t return before you take the laundry down and fold it away. You leave the entryway light on and retire to the bedroom. Alone. Without him snoring, you fall asleep quickly.

You wake up the same. By yourself. In silence.

You get up and search the small one-floor townhome. He’s not there. You even call his name despite the fact there’s nowhere to hide. He’s not on the steps out front nor in the shared back lot with laundry lines and rubbish bins.

You’re sure he only had more business than he intended. This Mr. Shelby seems the important type. Surely, he must’ve been kept at his insistence.

You have your tea and porridge. The house is eerie without your husband stomping around. Usually you long for him to leave but this is… different.

You’ve less to do without him there. You will have the rest of the mincemeat yourself but be sure to have something fresh for him when he comes in. A hearty stew will do for the week.

You watch the rain through the window as the sky churns. The day is as dark as the evening. The only marker of the change are the hands on the clock. Your husband still doesn’t return. Now you worry.

You wait for the rain to slow. You go out in an old wool coat to knock on the door three down from your own. Harry’s in but he hasn’t seen Stuart. Same with Danny. Stu’s not been around.

The next day, you venture down to the river where Fyodor Dugin runs his business. He shakes his head when you ask about Stuart and mutters in Russian. You don’t linger as you sense his irritation.

You set off back home but stop halfway. You turn off and count the handful of pence in your purse. It’s meant for milk and butter. You pay the street trolley to take you down to the place called the Row.

The people there are grey and reticent. The women hide behind their doors and the children eye you like a hawk would a mouse. A man in a cap similar to Mr. Shelby’s spits tobacco onto the dirt.

You shiver and cross your arms. You address him. “Pardon me, erm, you wouldn’t happen to know a Mr. Shelby?”

The man scoffs. “Which one?”

You hesitate. “Um, black hair… er…”

“Tommy?” The man cackles and shakes his head. “Go home, lady.”

You sigh as the man waves you off and saunters away. A kid tossing pebbles at a broken barrel pipes up. 

“Miss? You looking for Tommy Shelby?”

You turn and nod. His socks are pulled to his knees, stains down the left one, and his cap is just like the man who told you to go home.

“You got money?” He asks.

“Not much.” You frown.

“Two pence and I’ll tell ya where to find the man.”

You look around. You curl your shoulders and cautiously reach into your purse. You use two fingers to open your coin purse and pluck out the coins blindly. You hand it over.

“Down at the Garrison,” the boy says. “He’ll be around sometime.”

“Thank you,” you back up and sense something behind you.

You turn as three other boys approach. The one who helped you tosses a handful of rocks at them.

“Oi, git on!” He hops up and comes up beside you.

The boys scramble away. You turn to the boy as he hollers at them not to look back.

“Thank you,” you say.

“That’ll be two more pence.” He rubs his fingers together.

[honeybee-reads]

Oh, he dead. Poor us, we’re all alone and vulnerable. Stuart sucks but it’s what we’re used to! Tommy seemed unhappy with our husband immediately and that doesn’t bode well. I don’t see her travels to the Garrison going well, but what can she do? I love this already.

[llliissyyy]

Imagine Simon coming home from a mission into his supposedly empty appartment and finding his stuff different from when he left.

He grabs the gun from the back of his pants and walks further into zhe appartment. He checks every room till only his bedroom is left.

Simon opens the door slowly getting hit with a sweet scent of roses.

His eyes scan the room till they land on the delicate form of a Person sleeping on his bed.

Slowly does Simon walk through the small space to stand next to the bed and the person.

The gun touches the persons head and they immediatly wake up.

"You´ve go' five seconds before i shoo' you. Wha' are you doing here?"

Reader looks at the big broody man like a deer in headlights.

"I-- Who-- I--" Reader studders and looks shortly around the dark room.

"Wha´ are you Doing in my apartment?" his voice doesn´t sound as rough as it did before but the gun is still against Readers head.

"I´m sorry" tears are running down readers face while they try to keep it together so Simon wouldn´t hurt them.

Simon asseses the Situation again.

There was a small, dirty backpackon the floor next to the bed. Reader is wearing a Gray tanktop with spots of dirt and... no pants.

His eyes snap back to readers face when he notices the panties they are wearing.

"You homeless?" Simon nods to the backpack on the floor.

Reader looks at Simon with Big wet eyes and then they nod. "Yeah"

Simon puts the gun down onto the nightstand after resecouring it. Reader jumps from the movement and looks at the man.

“Okay what are ye doing here?” Simon asks taking a step to the bed.

Reader explains that they lived in the alleyway behind the apartment complex so they noticed that Simon left and didn’t come back so they broke into his apartment taking the fire escape.

Something in Simon softens after they talked about their earlier living situation.

“You can stay” with that Simon turns around and leaves the room after he took the gun with him.

Reader just sat there shocked.

[honeybee-reads]

That man attracts strays like no one’s business!! I bet we were so cute and pitiful in the bed, just trying to get some rest. Now he’s adopted us and we won’t have to be out in the cold again. I loved this!!

[kurokothisskurokothatt]

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Single Mom!reader

a/n: Genuinely i need this man irl, if you know where to find him, lmk. ENJOY!!💕

Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley wakes up extra early to get your daughter dressed and fed, before taking and dropping her off at daycare, just so you can sleep in

Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley will play barbie’s with your daughter to keep her occupied so she won’t bother you while you work. “Come er’ pretty girl, mamas busy right now. Let’s go play”

Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley scanned every toy store and online store for the exact jumbo pink fluffy unicorn stuffed animal for your daughter, after she left it at a restaurant

Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley shed a tear when your daughter brought him a piece a paper with colors scribbled on it, that said “Happy Father’s day!”. He hugged her and whispered, “Thank you baby”. To this day shes still the only one to see this man cry.

Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley who agreed to accompanying you and your daughter to the park so quickly. He nearly ran out of his chair to get his shoes on. You couldn’t stop laughing when Simon fell of the swings.

Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley who rocked your baby girl to sleep and sat with her for an hour before placing her in her own bed. He peppered her little face with kisses.

Simon “I don’t like kids” Riley who stands in the kitchen making you tea, while you sit on the counter in his tshirt.

“Thank you, Si”

“For?” He grumbles

“For helping me, and loving her like shes your own”

He walks over to you and hands you the tea, then he places his hands on your waist. He kisses your forehead and says,

“Whatever keeps my girls happy”

a/n: RAHHHHH I WAS GIGGLING AND KICKING MY FEET WHILE WRITING THIS!!! I hope you all enjoy this as much as you enjoyed my last post. I do just want to say, based off my schedule i’ll most likely be posting twice, maybe three times a week💕

[honeybee-reads]

Aw I bet he’d be so good!! He loves both his girls and loves being useful. I know he’d make both of their birthdays super special. Maybe even trying to bake something which he might be surprisingly good at!

[kurokothisskurokothatt]

TF141 x Secretary!Reader

summary: You just started working as the Task Force’s newest secretary, and the boys love you. These are something’s they do, to try and make your life easier (except Soap 😘)

a/n: This is my first COD post, im actually super scared to post this but yolo, lmk if you like it and want more💕

When Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley first met you, you briefly mentioned you liked peppermint tea. Since then, every morning Simon stops by your desk & brings you a cup of tea on his way to his morning meetings with Price. He rarely speaks when he drops it off, but when he does it’s usually a “mornin’ luv”

Throughout the work day Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish will randomly come up & compliment you. Whether it’s “new shoes, aye? I like em” or “that lipstick looks really good on you, let me know if you wanna test if it’s transfer proof” after every little comment, he leaves with a wink, and it leaves you flustered for a solid ten minutes

During the day, Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick will stop at your desk to see how you’re doing. He always makes sure your office is the temperature you want, & makes sure you have some snacks and water. On those days he finds you overwhelmed, he’ll ask if you want to join him for lunch. “Hey honey, wanna go out to eat? Just me n’ you?”

Whenever Captain John Price drops off paperwork to you, he always makes sure it’s organized before it even lands on your desk. He doesn’t want you putting all your energy into getting the papers in order just because his boys couldn’t. If he sees you exhausted, he’ll sit with you and rub your back till you’re ready, then he’ll help you wifh the paperwork, he whispers sweet little things in your ear while you rest, “Take your time sweetheart, no rush”

a/n: I hope you all enjoyed this!! Once again this is my first post on them! Enjoy the rest of your day/night💕

[honeybee-reads]

So cute!! I’d definitely be overwhelmed by all the attention but in a good way. Are they hiring???

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Director's Cut 11

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 💕

You're awestruck. Gobsmacked. Flabbergasted. Completely out of your element.

A private jet. A different country. You really can't believe it's real. Not even as you come down the tall steps from the plane door. Or when you're led to a car with Nick; sleek and sporty. He gets in the driver's seat as you settle into the low passenger's, the angle awkward and slightly uncomfortable.

"All buckled in, sweetheart?" He reaches over to squeeze your knee. You flinch in surprise.

"Sure am." You answer.

He lets go and shifts the manual stick. You take off your crochet hat and shake it out before putting it back on. You hesitate with your fingers along the ruffle. It's not very European. Oh well.

"We'll settle in at the hotel. I don't have to be on set until the day after tomorrow. I have edits I could do in my sleep. No interviews right now. Told Colleen to keep me out of that stuff as much as possible." He says.

You nod. Unsure what to add.

He steers onto a plaza and parks. You look around, confused. He turns off the engine.

"No driving in the old city." He says. "We'll catch a town car just past the Piazza."

"Oh, uh."

"My guys got our luggage. No worries. We just gotta worry about each other, sweetheart." He assures.

"Oh yeah of course." You undo your seatbelt. "Sorry I'm just a little bit lost. Or a lot lost.”

He chuckles. “I got you, don't worry.”

He watches you. You shift and tap your fingers on your belt bag. He steps closer, hesitates, then tilts his head sideways.

“This way,” he nudges you gently with his hand behind your upper arm.

He urged you through the secured lot to the Piazza where signs announce your official arrival in Venice. The space is bustling as tourists in wide-brimmed hats and floral shirts squint at their phones, snip at errant children to hush, or look around in the same disorientation you feel. Nick's touch slips down your arm and he grips your wrist, pulling you back just before you get stampeded by a group of older women trilling about wine and pasta.

“Come on, let's get a team.” He slips his hand around yours and pulls you through the crowd.

You come out to the street as Nick pulls down his sunglasses with his other hand. He doesn't let go of you. You're happy for it. You feel like you might get lost if he did.

“Ah, here.” He says and tugs you towards a crowd shuffling onto a wired tram.

You blink at a zapping flash. You glance over at a man with a camera. You glimpse in the direction of his aim, right behind you. He must be taking pictures of the Piazza.

You trip behind Nick and he pauses, turning back to keep you steady as he catches your shoulder. “Y’okay, sweetheart? Just tell me if I need to slow down.”

“I'm fine. Promise.” You insist with a nervous smile. “It's… Venice.” You exhale away your nerves. “It's real.”

He chuckles and puts you ahead of him. He follows you up to the tram door. As you board, he calls behind you.

“Got her. For two please.”

He presses against you as he feeds the fare meter and says something in Italian to the driver. You watched the coins spiral into the slot. You didn't even think to exchange your currency, you just brought your card.

You have no idea what you're doing here. You don't know where you're going. You don't have the right money. And really, what reason do you have to be here? You don't have a job here. Not like Nick.

“Come on, sweetheart, pick a seat.” He nudges your shoulder blade.

You find a seat. He sits beside you, your backs to the window. As you wiggle your foot nervously, you catch a woman staring in your direction. Nick groans as he stretches and lets his arm fall behind you.

“Like it so far?” He asks.

“Sure, I mean… just got here but it's so pretty and exciting. And… could you imagine if LA was car free? That would be…”

“A fantasy,” he scoffs. “You know some of the studios even feel like cities. It's why I can't stand them. You got idiots on those golf carts too, acting like they can't walk the same ground as everyone else.”

“Oh, yeah, I don't…”

“Sweetheart, I been meaning to ask something.” He says. Your anxiety tweaks as he plays with the seam of your sleeve right at the top of your shoulder.

“What?” You bat your eyes at him.

“Do you think… maybe one day you'll let me see where your from?”

“What?” Really?” You cheep.

“Yeah, sure. I love little towns. They're great. I'm looking for the perfect middle of nowhere to shoot my next project.” He explains as he raises his other hand, showing his palm as he drags it through the air. “Quiet, quaint, but full of life.”

“It's really not that… interesting.” You shrug. “But if you want… I don't know if they have anywhere to land your plane.”

He laughs again. “You're funny.”

“Oh… I … know what that means.”

“Huh?”

“People say that. You're funny… when you say something stupid. I don't speak Italian but I'm learning how to speak Hollywood.” You sniff.

“No, no, sweetheart,” he sits up, squeezing your shoulder. “Never. I'd never ever… you're not stupid and nothing you say is stupid. I love it all. Everything. Just the sound of your voice.” His hand settles on your knees. “Really, you make me laugh. You make me… forget who I am. Who people need me to be.”

He rubs your knee, trailing up your leg, then pulls back. He sits against the seat and sighs. He quiet as his tongue slips out between his lips.

“Do you know what what a vaporetti is?” He asks.

“Mmm, no. That wasn't in my Duolingo.” You hum.

“Waterbus. We gotta hop off this thing shortly and we'll get one….” He stops and stares at your perplexed face. “A boat. We gotta cross the canal.”

“The canal?” You utter.

“You're not afraid of water, are you, sweetheart?” He asks.

You shake your head. “I don't think so.”

“Good. But you can hold onto me if you need. Just in case you fall.” He winks.

[honeybee-reads]

Oh she lit him up! He’s not about to make a fool out of her. But Nick is having the time of his life. He’s got his girl out of her element and in his. She’s my favorite and he better not hurt her too bad. Those pap shots won’t be kind though, I bet.

[catnippackets]

when we try to befriend cats we mimic their meows and get down on the ground to their level and try to gently coax them to interact with us right

that horrifying entity mimicking human noises at us maybe just thinks we’re cool and wants to pet us?

[catnippackets]

had to draw it

[catnippackets]

a few people pointed out that they probably wouldn’t understand what they were saying and just mimicking whatever sounds they happen to hear so I wanted to add this