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.”
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
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.”
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
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.”
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.
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."
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!
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.
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.
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!
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.”
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.”
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.
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
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.
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."
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!
simon was not the type to enjoy moving house. as much as he were used to moving away for long times from long deployments, simon hated it. he hated how moving required picking up what life he'd established, even if it were small. he didn't understand how people could pack their lives up and ship across the country just like that. and plus, being deployed was different. a home was somewhere he could stay in peace, away from the gunfire.
but even he, too, needed a move here and there. wasn't really a must, but he wanted to downsize—he needed something a little smaller than what he had. it's not like he spent all his time there anyways—he was usually on base, and taking care of a bigger apartment was asking too much.
so he packed up, moved a few blocks away, holed up in a little apartment building. the day he moved in, carrying just a few boxes (he didn't have much to begin with), he couldn't help but notice the person right beside his door.
cute. you were wide-eyed and cute. stared at him across the hallway before sheepishly asking him if he minded moving out of your way so you could get to your apartment. lo and behold, you opened the door beside his and slipped in.
simon didn't give it much thought, to be honest. didn't really care how cute you were. he wasn't the type to want anyone, let alone a sweet little bunny. he doubted you could defend yourself if you joined a fistfight with a gun—he needed someone who could protect themselves while he was gone on long deployments.
but you thought differently. walked past his apartment extra times a day, hoping you'd catch him on the way out so you could get a better look at his biceps, or the scar on his cheek, dragging down to his lip. the bear was handsome as hell.
you lengthened your grocery lists, made sure the bags were a tiny bit too heavy, just in case you might see him in the parking lot and ask him for help.
you knocked on his door in the afternoon, shyly looking up at him with those big doe eyes, biting your lip and asking him, "um, sir, do you mind helping? my sink is leaking... and i just don't want to... bother anyone else."
simon had been pissed, the first time he had met you. he always heard some kind of excited prattling from through the thin walls, as you excitedly rambled to a friend. you just talked, and talked, and talked—simon's ears were going to fall off, subject to your loud conversations through the walls.
so maybe, if it shut you up, he'd entertain your silly little requests.
so here he was, under your sink, on his back, his shirt under his head as he'd taken it off.
(you'd increased the AC in your room, hoping he'd take his shirt off. sneaky little thing.)
you sat on the counter, uncaring about what he was saying about your sink. he kept talking and talking about the mechanics of it so you could fix it for yourself next time, but you were hooked on the slight rasp of his voice and the way his abs flexed as he tightened your pipes.
then simon was done, and you grabbed his arm as he sat up. you didn't want him to leave, not so soon."sir? can i pay you? um... don't have much money on me to give you, but i could give you something else."
and fuck him, you were so needy. felt your hand on his arm tighten every time he moved as if to leave. simon knew he was falling straight into a trap, and if he was being honest, he's not sure he minded. he sighs, the crease between his brows deepening. "'yer alright, luv. ain't gonna ask y'for anythin'."
you pouted. like a sad, kicked bunny. pouted at him with wide eyes and flattened ears, tail twitching unhappily. "please? stay a bit, let me... um. i can make you something to eat. cookies? i make really good cookies."
simon was really good at dodging negotiation tactics. really good at surviving the harshest forms of torture. but he hadn't been trained to dodge the torture suddenly straining in his pants as he took you in, pretty pink frills on your skirt, your thighs which dissapeared under the fabric. so he stayed, sat there whilst you busied about the kitchen, whipping together some cookies.
when they were done, you presented them to him, real giddy, jumping on your heels. "here, try one."
before he could reach for one, you sat yourself in his lap, right on top of him, offering the cookie to his lips. simon grunts, his hand instinctively moving to grip your hip. "watch y'rself, luv. don' wanna start somethin' you ain't gonna finish."
shame, that you were so confident, really. maybe then you wouldn't have ended up grinding on his lap like a bitch in heat. maybe then he wouldn't have bent you right over the counter, pushing your pretty skirt up to leer at the sopping wet patch of underwear over your cunt. "mh, she's real pretty, eh, luv?"
you were so confident up until you came on his fingers. simon didn't even give you a second to think, his fingers pressing deeper, squishing against your gummy walls. "c'mere, darlin', jus' wanna have some more."
you were losing your mind, hands gripping against the table, cheek mushed to the wood, your ears barely registered the thumping of the chair's legs every time he forced his fingers back into you. then it stops, and before you can whine, the sound of his fly unzipping reaches your ears.
in one smooth stroke of his cock, the rest of your confidence dissipated. the stretch burned, like he was splitting you in half, god, he was too fucking big. "s-sir, sir, it's too big..."
"hush, take it. y'asked for this, bun," he grunts, practically folding you over, his hips forcing against yours, his hand on your jaw. his thumb rubs over the corner of your mouth, swiping up the drool that slips from your mouth.
poor thing. you shouldn't have poked the bear, but you just couldn't help it, could you? craved the way his cock filled you up so good. he was going to ruin you for everyone else.
"ah, m'gonna fill you right up," he grunts out into your ear, heavy breaths puffing against your skin.
"ah, fuck... yes, please. please, sir, want you..." you're cut off by a desperate moan as he thrusts into you heavily, his bodyweight pressing against you. the chain around his neck, dog tags, press into the skin on your back, branding against your skin, leaving a little red mark, pressing his name into you.
when he comes inside you, he huffs, rubbing your clit gently as he pulls out, softening cock resting against your thigh. "good fuckin' girl."
(you may just have to poke the bear a little bit more.)
Ooh I liked this!! The little bunny just couldn’t resist the big bear. Simon tried to resist. I definitely would’ve tried to get him too! He’s too perfect. I enjoyed Simon’s reluctance while also enjoying our body too much. He’s probably not even done. Also I’m always weak to being a good girl. Great job!
Painfully shy reader getting absolutely obliterated drunk at the pub, losing all sense of timidity, and telling Gaz and Soap "I bet the reason Ghost actually hides his face is 'cause he knows everybody'd wanna sit on it".
Ghost overhearing, leaning over your shoulder, and letting you know "I'm just keeping your seat clean until you're ready to sit on it, love".
Obviously Simon fucks the embarrassment out of you the next day, but only after making sure you get your reserved seat nice and wet.
Warning: possible adultery, neglect, angry men, dark elements….
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: August Walker, side of Andrew Barber
Summary: You find a cold reception at your new job, but it’s not much better than your home life.
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 ❤️
The salad’s still in the fridge. The one you made Andy. The croutons are soggy and the lettuce is getting slimy. You wish you’d noticed before you prepped for tomorrow. At least the quinoa will keep longer.
You go to bed with the forgotten container on your mind. Did he forget or does he just not care? Each night you sleep alone and feel further and further from your own husband. You don’t know him anymore.
When you married, he told you what he wanted and you became that. Because you love him. You kept a clean house, you learned how to cook the things he likes; healthy things. Salads, pesto, consomme, all the fancy things from scratch, never from a box or a bag. Now he doesn’t even touch those things.
Or you.
You roll over and sigh. You close your eyes. You’re almost through the week. That’s something you can be proud of. Maybe even he will when you get your first cheque and let him know you can help with repair on the garage door.
Andy’s snoring beside you when your alarm goes off. Your head swirls with drowsiness as your unconsciousness sticks like sludge. He nudges you meanly with his knuckles.
You slap your hand over on the nightstand and silence the alarm. You sit up and bobble. You rub your eyes with the heels of your hand.
“I’ll get coffee going…” you speak through the frog in your throat.
You slide off the bed as he pulls his pillow over his head. His clothes from the night before are on the floor. You pick them up and put them in the hamper before you go.
You brew a pot of coffee. You hesitate by the counter. You won’t bother with breakfast. You’re not very hungry and you’ve wasted enough food.
You take a cup of coffee and drink it as you get ready for the day. Dusty grey trousers with an elastic band, a plain white blouse, and a knit vest over it in a similar shade to your bottoms. You step into your orthotic black flats and stare into the mirror.
More than Andy has changed. You’re older. A few new lines. Bigger. You have to wear the vest to hide how the blouse tugs around the buttons. Maybe with the extra money you can sign up for a gym membership. Working out at home never worked well for you.
You go back to the kitchen. Andy is drinking coffee and rubbing his head. He quickly drops his hand and blacks out the screen of his phone on the counter. He grumbles above his mug.
“How’s work?” You ask since he offers nothing.
“It’s work.” He says.
“Yeah.” You pause and watch him. He doesn’t look at you. “I think my job’s going okay.”
“Oh…? That’s good.” He intones dully. He checks his phone again. “I should get ready.”
You let him go. How are things so awkward with your own husband? You swear, your boss is easier to handle. Mr. Walker at least is blunt and direct.
Andy doesn’t take the food. Again. You take it with you. You’ll figure something out.
You get to headquarters and check in with your credentials. You continue up the elevator and shove your lunch into the fridge. You take the time as the coffee machine churns to get yourself focused.
You knock at Mr. Walker’s door before you enter. He’s inside, already scowling. He has a tablet in his hands, tapping at it in frustration. You put his coffee down. He doesn’t look up but he does thank you. His grizzled tone crawls into your ears. Did Andy even thank you for the coffee?
You go to the chair still against the wall and sit. You check the calendar in the secured phone app.
“Mr. Walker,” you pipe up cautiously as you lower the phone.
His eyes flick up.
“Is there anything you need for your meeting?” You ask.
His eyes cling to you and the corner of his lips twitch. “Nothing…” he looks back down. He sits up straight and you notice his shoulder is still off kilter. “Thank you.”
Footsteps echo from further down the hall. You listen through the wall as Walker sighs at his tablet. There’s an out of key whistling that grows closer with the slap of soles. Someone knocks at the door.
“August. Toodaloo.”
You recognise the voice. It’s the agent you dealt with the first day. Fowler. Walker growls and rubs his cheek.
“Damnit,” he growls.
You stand up and he watches you with a furrow. You don’t know what you’re doing either. You go to the door and open it only a little.
“Agent Fowler, is it?” You greet.
“Hey, there she is. You made it past the first day,” he puts his hand on the door frame and leans on one foot, trying to see past you. “Where’s Walker?”
“Busy.” You say. “I can pencil you in for later.
Fowler scoffs and eyes you up and down. “Excuse me?”
“He’s busy preparing for a meeting.” You insist. “Does one work for you?”
“Wow…” he whistles again. “Doll, I’m in that meeting too. Let me in.”
“I can’t. He’ll see you in the meeting.” Your heart pounds.
His eyes narrow and he pokes his tongue in his cheek. He rocks on his feet and drags his hand off the door frame. He nods.
“Hard ass,” he clucks. “Just like him.”
You don’t budge. You wait until he saunters away. You exhale and slowly shut the door. You turn back and sit down in the swivel chair. Walker is watching you.
“Sir, I…”
“Great job.” He says flatly and sits back, easing as he puts his gaze back to the tablet. “Guy’s unbearable.” He reaches for his cup. “Even when I have my coffee.”
You swallow and hold back a smile. You know that from someone like him, that’s a big deal. Hell, even from your husband, those words would make your day. Or any sort of acknowledgement or praise.
You wince. Don’t compare them. That’s home, this is work. Keep it separate. This is your thing. Your time away.
Maybe here, you’ll remember who you were before Andy made you into this boring cyborg.
I love a grumbly August. He just wants to work and have his shoulder stop bugging him. Now Andy, he’s the worst. Taking his sweet wife for granted when she just wants to please him. I guarantee things with his fling won’t go well and he’ll be back once he realizes how good he has it at home.
We did good dealing with Nick and taking initiative! But now I’m thinking about Nick and how he definitely needs someone to torment.
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