angel in the snow

𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑒 & 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒, 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠.

[kittyycrisis]

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆⋆⭒˚.⋆

𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑

⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡ ⋆˙⟡

𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑢𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑡. 𝑖𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠. 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒. 𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔. ⋆˙⟡ ✩‧₊˚ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 🐇 ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ✩‧₊˚

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

#𝑘𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑦𝑦𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑖𝑠༉‧₊˚.

#𝑘𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑦𝑦𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑠༉‧₊˚.

#𝑘𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑦𝑦𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒𝑠༉‧₊˚.

[heartsformatcha]

「 ✦ ꩜ I've got a dream ꩜ ✦ 」

Neteyam x Reader ⋆.˚𓇼⋆°‧ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 ·｡

જ⁀➴𖦹A 2010 Tangled inspired fic In wich Neteyam is healed by a stranger with glowing hair, he realizes she is the long lost child whispered about in Metkayina legends. His discovery pulls them both into a truth hidden for years. ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖦹

WC: 16k

જ⁀➴𖦹Warnings: slow burn, aged over 18, Neteyam x y/n, was watching Tangled and felt inspired. Reader is Metkayina ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𖦹

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝  𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼༄.°

｡𖦹°‧There was once a child born beneath the soft glow of Eywa’s light, a child whose first breath stirred the sea itself. The Metkayina clan rejoiced on that night, for Tonowari and Ronal had been blessed with a daughter whose spirit shimmered like the surface of the ocean at dawn. Your hair, pale as moonlit sand, carried a strange radiance. When you cried, the glow brightened. When you laughed, it warmed the hearts of all who saw you.

Ronal knew at once that Eywa had touched you.

Tonowari held you close, and the clan whispered that you were a gift meant to guide their people.

But gifts draw eyes, and not all eyes are kind. Far beyond the reefs, hidden in the tangled roots of the deep forest, lived a woman named Seyla. She was Na’vi, but her heart had long drifted away from the People. She feared age, feared loss, feared the slow dimming of her own spirit. She had once discovered a strange pool of bioluminescent water that healed her wounds and eased her pain, but the pool had dried, leaving her desperate for another source of power.

When she heard whispers of a glowing child, she followed the currents of rumor like a hunter follows tracks. She watched from the shadows as the Metkayina celebrated you. She saw the light in your hair and felt a hunger rise inside her.

On a quiet night, when the sea was calm and the clan slept, Seyla crept into the marui pod where you lay. She lifted you gently, almost reverently, and whispered a promise to herself that she would keep this light forever. By the time the first rays of morning touched the water, you were gone.

Tonowari’s roar shook the village. Ronal’s grief echoed across the reef. The Metkayina searched every wave, every cove, every shadowed place. But you had vanished.

And so began a tradition of sorrow and hope.

Every year, on the night of your birth, the clan released glowing lanterns into the sky. They drifted like spirits of light, rising above the ocean, calling to the daughter who had been taken from them. They did not know you were alive. They did not know you watched those lanterns every year from a hidden tower woven of roots and stone, deep within the forest. They did not know you longed for them.

Seyla raised you far from the sea, in a tall spiraling structure grown from ancient trees. Vines wrapped around its sides like protective arms, and the canopy above filtered the sunlight into soft green hues. You grew surrounded by paintings you made on the walls, carvings you shaped with your hands, and the gentle hum of the forest.

Seyla never called you by your true name.

She simply called you child.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

She had been in a foul mood since dawn. Her steps were stiff. Her breath sharp. Her hand pressed often to her side where a deep bruise darkened her skin. She tried to hide it from you, but even as a child, you noticed everything.

“Mother,” you whispered, “you hurt.” Seyla stiffened. “It is nothing,” she said quickly. “Just brush.”

You nodded, small and obedient, lifting the carved comb with both hands. You brushed gently, humming a tune you did not remember learning. The rhythm felt natural, like something inside you knew it. Seyla winced again. Her breath caught. Her fingers dug into the floor. You frowned, your little brows knitting together. You brushed again, slower this time. And then it happened. A soft glow shimmered from your fingertips, spreading through the comb, through the strands of Seyla’s hair, and then across her skin. The bruise beneath her ribs faded, the pain melting away like mist in sunlight.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Now, Older, Your days were filled with weaving, singing, painting, and dreaming. You felt the forest breathe with you. You felt Eywa’s pulse in every leaf. But you also felt a longing you could not name, a pull toward the distant horizon where the trees thinned and the world opened. Every year, on the same night, the sky filled with drifting lights.

Lanterns.

Hundreds of them. You pressed your hands to the tower window and watched them rise. They shimmered like stars that had chosen to fall upward instead of down. Something inside you stirred, something ancient and familiar. You asked Seyla what they were. She always answered with a soft smile that never reached her eyes.

“Just lights, child. Nothing more.”

But you felt the truth whispering beneath your skin. Those lights were meant for you. Your hair held a strange power. When you sang, it glowed with warm golden light. When you touched a wound, the skin knit together. When you placed your hand on a dying flower, it bloomed again.

Seyla guarded this secret fiercely. She brushed your hair with careful hands, always reminding you that the world outside was dangerous, that others would seek to use your gift, that you must never leave the tower.

You believed her. But you also dreamed. You dreamed of the sea you had never seen. You dreamed of the lanterns that rose like prayers.

You dreamed of a boy you had never met, a boy whose eyes held the color of deep forest shadows and whose spirit felt like a warm breeze. You did not know his name. You did not know he was real. You did not know he was coming. In the reef village of the Metkayina, a new family arrived.

The Sullys.

Jake Sully, once of the forest clans, came seeking refuge with his mate Neytiri and their children. Among them was Neteyam, the eldest son, steady as stone and bright as the sun. He carried the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, yet his heart longed for freedom.

He explored the reefs with silent wonder. He trained with the Metkayina youth. He tried to follow his father’s rules, but the forest called to him in a way he could not explain.

He often slipped away, moving through the trees with quiet steps, drawn by a feeling he could not name. Jake scolded him for wandering. Neteyam bowed his head, promised to do better, and then wandered again. For Eywa was guiding him. Guiding him toward a tower hidden in the forest. Guiding him toward a girl with moonlit hair. Guiding him toward you.

The forest was quiet that morning, wrapped in a soft blue haze as the sun rose through the canopy. You moved through your tower home with the gentle rhythm of routine, weaving strands of glowing hair into long braids, humming a tune that made the air shimmer with golden light. The forest answered your song with a soft pulse, as if Eywa herself listened.

Seyla had left before dawn, as she often did. She claimed she needed to gather herbs, speak with distant traders, and keep the world outside from discovering you. You watched her disappear into the trees, her figure swallowed by shadows, and you felt the familiar ache of longing settle in your chest. The world beyond the tower called to you. It always had.

You pressed your palm to the window ledge and looked out at the endless green. Somewhere far beyond the forest, the sea waited. Somewhere beyond the sea, lanterns rose every year for a girl who never came home.

You wondered what it would feel like to touch the ocean. You wondered what it would feel like to belong. You did not know that someone was already climbing toward you.

Neteyam moved through the forest with the quiet grace of a hunter, though he was not hunting anything except a feeling he could not name. The trees whispered around him, their leaves brushing his shoulders as if urging him forward. He had slipped away from the village again, ignoring the echo of his father’s stern voice in his mind. He needed space. He needed silence.

He needed to breathe without the weight of expectation pressing on him. He followed a path he had never taken before, guided by instinct more than reason. The forest grew denser, the air thicker with the scent of moss and glowing spores. Then, through the trees, he saw it.

A tower. Tall, spiraling, grown from ancient roots and stone. Vines wrapped around it like the arms of a guardian. Light shimmered faintly from the highest window, a soft golden glow that made his heart quicken. He had never seen anything like it.

Curiosity tugged at him.

He stepped closer. You were painting the inside wall when you heard the faint rustle of leaves below. You paused, brush held mid stroke. The forest was alive with sound, but this was different. This was deliberate. This was someone.

You moved to the window and peered down. A boy stood at the base of the tower. Tall, strong, with braids that brushed his shoulders and eyes that held the deep calm of the forest. His skin glowed faintly with bioluminescent freckles. He looked up, and for a moment, your breath caught.

You had seen him before.

Not in life, but in dreams.

He placed a hand on the tower’s roots, testing their strength. Then, with a quiet determination, he began to climb.

Your heart leapt into your throat.

You stepped back from the window, unsure whether to hide or watch. Curiosity won. You pressed yourself against the wall, listening to the soft scrape of his hands and feet as he climbed higher. The bioluminescence of your freckles brightened with your rising pulse.

Neteyam reached the window ledge and pulled himself up with a quiet exhale. He expected an empty room, perhaps an abandoned lookout. Instead, he found you.

You stood in the center of the tower, hair glowing like captured sunlight, eyes wide with wonder and fear. The air between you shimmered with something neither of you understood. Neteyam froze, breath caught in his chest. He had never seen anyone like you. Your glow and Metkayina blue skin shining.

He had never felt anything like this. You only stared at him, as if trying to decide whether he was real. The silence stretched, soft and fragile. He spoke first, his voice low and careful.

“Forgive me. I did not know anyone lived here.”

You swallowed, unsure whether to trust him, unsure whether to speak at all. Seyla had warned you of the outside world, warned you of strangers, warned you of danger. But nothing about this boy felt dangerous. He felt familiar. He felt like a memory you had forgotten. Your fingers tightened around the staff. He lifted his hands slowly, showing he meant no harm.

The forest outside hummed with quiet approval, as if Eywa herself watched this moment with gentle anticipation. Neteyam took a small step inside the tower. You took a small step back. He noticed the paintings on the walls, the carvings, the woven mats, the glowing strands of your hair that pooled around your feet like liquid light. He noticed the way you watched him with equal parts fear and longing. He felt something shift inside him, something warm and certain. He had been wandering for weeks, searching for something he could not name. Now he knew what it was.

You.

He did not understand why. He did not understand how. But he knew this meeting was not an accident. You felt it too. A pull, gentle and undeniable. The lanterns rose every year for a girl who never returned. The forest whispered of a destiny waiting to unfold. And now, a boy had climbed your tower. The world outside had finally come to find you.

Tall. Strong. Eyes deep as forest shadows. Skin marked with soft bioluminescent freckles. Your breath caught. Your pulse quickened. Your hair brightened with instinctive fear. You stepped back from the window, panic rising like a tide.

He opened his mouth to speak. You acted first. You grabbed the nearest object, a carved wooden bowl, and swung it with all the strength you had. It struck his temple with a hollow thud.

Neteyam collapsed instantly. You gasped, dropping the bowl. Your hands flew to your mouth. You had never struck anyone before. You had never even met anyone before. You rushed to him, kneeling beside his still form. He breathed softly, peacefully, as if merely asleep. You exhaled in shaky relief. Then you remembered Seyla’s warnings. Strangers. Danger. The world outside. You scrambled for the long coils of your glowing hair and used them to bind his wrists and ankles. The knots were clumsy but firm. You dragged him to a support beam and tied him upright, your breath trembling with effort. When you stepped back, he hung there, unconscious and harmless. Or so you hoped.

Neteyam stirred with a soft groan. His eyes fluttered open. He blinked at the strands wrapped around him. He blinked at the carvings on the walls.

He blinked at you. Then he smiled. A slow, amused, bewildered smile. You stiffened, clutching your staff.He tilted his head slightly. “You are very strong.”

You tightened your grip.“You climbed into my home.”

He nodded, still smiling.

“That is true.”

You narrowed your eyes.“Why.”

He looked around again, taking in the tower, the paintings, the glow of your hair.“I was exploring.”

You frowned. “That is not a reason.”

He laughed softly, not mocking, simply charmed by the situation. You bristled. You stepped closer, bowl raised. He lifted his bound hands slightly, showing he meant no harm. You began your interrogation. You paced in front of him, trying to appear fierce.

Your hair glowed brighter with each step. “Who are you.”

“Neteyam.”

“Why are you here.”

“I was walking.”

“Why this tower.”

“I did not know it was a tower.” 

You stopped pacing. “That makes no sense.”

He smiled again. “It is the truth.”

You huffed, frustrated. He seemed entirely too calm for someone who was tied with fibres in a strange tower. You leaned in closer, studying him. He did not flinch. He only watched you with quiet curiosity, as if you were the one who had fallen from the sky. Your heart fluttered. You stepped back quickly.

You pointed your bowl at him.

“I will let you go. But you must take me to see the lights.”

He blinked. “The lights.”

You nodded.

“The ones that rise into the sky every year.”

Recognition flickered in his eyes.

He had heard of the lost girl, of the lanterns, Tsireya and Aonung have mourned the story to him and his siblings before. Never have even met the slightly older girl. He knew their meaning. He 

“I can take you.”

You hesitated. Seyla’s warnings echoed in your mind. But the lanterns called to you stronger than fear. You stepped forward and loosened the glowing knots. Your ties unwound from his wrists and ankles. He stood slowly, rubbing his arms. He looked at you with a softness that made your breath catch.

“I will not harm you,” he said.

You nodded, though your heart still raced. He moved toward the window. You followed. The world outside waited. And you were ready.

The forest opened slowly, like a curtain drawn back by unseen hands. You stepped through the trees with hesitant wonder, your glowing hair trailing behind you in a shimmering path. Every leaf, every flower, every drifting spore felt like a new world waiting to be touched. Neteyam walked ahead, glancing back often to make sure you followed. His steps were steady, confident, but softened by the awareness that each moment was your first. He did not rush you. He did not speak unless necessary. He simply guided you with the quiet patience of someone who understood the weight of discovery. The scent of saltwater grew stronger. The trees thinned. The light brightened. Then you saw it. The sea.

A vast expanse of shimmering blue stretched before you, glowing with the soft pulse of Pandora’s living waters. The horizon curved gently, meeting the sky in a line of silver light. Your breath caught. Your heart lifted.

You looked behind you to see neteyam and notice him clutching his hand. A wrong grasp on the climb down left an aching gash in his palm. “It is nothing,” he said, though his voice wavered. You stepped closer, your eyes wide with worry.

“You are hurt.” Neteyam shook his head.

“I will be fine.” But you did not listen. You knelt beside him, your small hands trembling as you reached for his palm.

“Let me help,” you whispered. He hesitated, confused, but he did not pull away. You brushed your fingers gently along the edge of the wound. A soft hum rose in your chest , the same melody you had hummed as a child without knowing why. Your hair fell over your shoulder, brushing his skin. And then the light began. A warm, golden glow shimmered from your fingertips, spreading across his palm. Neteyam inhaled sharply, eyes widening as the pain melted away. The cut closed slowly, the skin knitting together as if time itself reversed. You did not notice his shock. You only focused on healing him, humming softly, your hair glowing brighter with each breath. When the light faded, the wound was gone. Neteyam stared at his palm, then at you, then at the soft glowing strands of your hair. His voice was barely a whisper.

That moment Neteyam knew there was something special about you. Something he couldn't quite trace yet.

You stepped forward until the sand brushed your toes. Warm. Soft. Alive. You had dreamed of this moment. You had painted it on your tower walls. But the real sea was more than you ever imagined. Neteyam watched your expression with quiet awe. He had seen the ocean every day since arriving at the reef, but seeing it reflected in your eyes made it feel new again. The Metkayina village rose from the water like a living sculpture. Marui pods swayed gently on woven platforms. Children splashed in the shallows. Riders soared overhead on ilu and skimwings, their bodies gliding through the air with effortless grace.

You froze. There were so many people. So many eyes. So many voices. Your heart raced. Your freckles brightened with nervous light. Neteyam stepped closer, his presence steady and grounding. He did not touch you, but he stood near enough that you felt shielded. “Come,” he said softly. 

“I will not let harm come to you.”

You nodded, though your breath trembled. You followed him across the sand and onto the woven walkways. The village buzzed with life. Na’vi turned to look at you, their eyes widening at the sight of your glowing hair. Whispers rippled through the crowd like a rising tide. You lowered your gaze, overwhelmed. Neteyam moved closer, guiding you gently through the curious stares.

He led you toward a large communal hut built over the water. Its entrance was draped with woven curtains that swayed in the breeze. Inside, voices rose in laughter and song. The air smelled of roasted fish and sweet fruit.

It was the Metkayina version of a tavern. A place of noise. A place of life. You hesitated at the doorway. Neteyam looked back at you, his eyes warm.

“You will be safe.” You stepped inside. The room fell silent.

Dozens of Metkayina stared at you, their expressions shifting from surprise to curiosity to wonder. You felt your pulse quicken. Your fingers curled nervously around your braid. Then a girl stepped forward.

She was graceful, with bright eyes and a gentle smile. Her movements flowed like water. She approached you slowly, hands open in welcome.

“I am Tsireya,” she said softly. You nodded, unsure how to respond. She studied your glowing freckles in the daylight with awe, but not fear.

“You shine like the sea at night.” Her voice was warm, kind.

You felt your shoulders relax. Then another figure approached. A boy. Broad shouldered. Confident. Eyes sharp with curiosity.

“I am Ao’nung,” he said. His tone held a hint of mischief, but his gaze softened when he saw your nervousness. You did not know these two were your siblings. You did not know they had spent their whole lives mourning a sister they believed lost. You did not know they felt something familiar in you, something they could not name. Tsireya reached out and gently touched a strand of your slightly glowing hair.

“It is beautiful.” You felt warmth bloom in your chest. Neteyam watched the exchange with a small smile. He had hoped they would welcome you. He had not expected them to be drawn to you so quickly The hut slowly filled with sound again. Laughter. Music. Voices rising like waves. Tsireya guided you to a seat. Ao’nung brought you fruit. Others gathered around, asking gentle questions, admiring your glow, offering smiles. For the first time in your life, you felt surrounded by people who did not fear you. People who did not hide you. People who looked at you with wonder, not suspicion. You felt something inside you loosen. Something long held tight. You felt the first spark of belonging. Neteyam watched you from across the room, leaning against a support beam. His eyes softened as he saw you laugh quietly at something Tsireya said. He had never seen you smile like that. He felt warmth rise in his chest. A warmth he did not yet understand.

Outside the hut, hidden in the shadows of the village, a figure watched. Seyla. Her eyes narrowed as she saw you surrounded by Metkayina. Her breath sharpened as she saw your hair glowing brighter than ever. Her hands curled into fists.The world had taken her light. And she would take it back.

The village glowed with the soft colors of evening. The water shimmered beneath the woven walkways, and the air carried the gentle hum of distant song. You walked beside Neteyam, your glowing hair trailing behind you in warm golden strands. The lantern night had not yet come, and everything felt peaceful, almost dreamlike.

Children ran past, laughing as they splashed in the shallows. Their hands were painted with swirling blue spirals, the same symbol you had seen carved into the marui pods and woven into the nets. You paused, watching them with quiet curiosity.

Neteyam noticed. He stepped closer, his voice soft. “You like the spirals.” You nodded. “They feel familiar.” He smiled gently, as if he understood something you did not yet see. He guided you toward a small platform where a bowl of blue dye rested beside a woven mat. The dye shimmered with bioluminescent flecks, glowing softly in the fading light. Neteyam sat and motioned for you to join him. You lowered yourself beside him, your hair pooling around you like warm sunlight. He dipped his fingers into the dye. The blue light clung to his skin. “Give me your hand,” he said.

Your breath caught, but you placed your hand in his. His touch was warm, steady, careful. He held your palm gently, as if it were something precious. He began to paint. Slow, deliberate strokes. A curve. A line. A spiral. The symbol formed beneath his touch, glowing softly against your skin. You watched his face as he worked. His eyes were focused, his expression calm, but there was a softness there, a warmth that made your heart flutter. When he finished, he lifted your hand so you could see. A perfect Metkayina spiral. Blue and glowing. Alive with meaning. You traced it with your thumb, feeling a strange ache in your chest.

“It feels like I have seen this before, I have painted it many times,” you whispered. Neteyam looked at you with quiet understanding.

“Maybe you have,” he said. You met his eyes. The world felt still. The ocean breathed softly around you. Your glowing hair brightened with a gentle pulse. Neteyam dipped his fingers into the dye again. This time, he reached for your other hand.

“May I paint another,” he asked. You nodded. He painted slowly, carefully, as if each stroke carried a secret. When he finished, he held both your hands in his, spirals glowing softly between you.

“They suit you,” he said. You felt warmth bloom inside your chest. You felt seen. You felt known. You felt something you could not yet name. The spirals glowed brighter, reflecting in Neteyam’s eyes. And for a moment, the world felt perfect.

The sun dipped low over the horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of rose and gold. The Metkayina village glowed with warm light as the day faded into evening. You stood at the edge of the walkway, your toes brushing the cool water, your glowing hair trailing behind you like a river of captured sunlight.

You had never seen the ocean at night. You had never seen the sky open so wide. You had never felt the world breathe around you with such quiet magic. Neteyam approached with a small wooden canoe, carved with swirling patterns that shimmered in the fading light. He guided it gently toward you, the water parting around him in soft ripples.

He stopped a few steps away, watching you with steady eyes.

“You wished to see the lights,” he said softly.

Your breath caught. The lanterns. The ones that rose every year. The ones that called to you. The ones you had watched from your tower window, wondering why they filled your heart with longing. You nodded.

Neteyam held the canoe steady as you stepped inside. Your hair pooled around you, glowing softly against the wooden floor. He pushed off from the walkway and climbed in after you, settling opposite you with quiet grace. The canoe drifted into the open water.

The ocean stretched around you like a vast mirror, reflecting the sky above. The waves glowed with bioluminescent light, swirling beneath the canoe in soft blue patterns. The air was warm, carrying the scent of salt and distant flowers. You looked around with wide eyes, your heart swelling with wonder. You had never imagined the world could be so beautiful.

Neteyam watched your expression, a faint smile touching his lips. He had seen the sea many times, but seeing it through your eyes made it feel new again.

He dipped the paddle into the glowing water, guiding the canoe farther from the village. The lights of the marui pods faded behind you, replaced by the soft shimmer of the open ocean. You leaned forward slightly. “Where are we going.”

He answered with quiet certainty. “To the place where the lanterns rise.” Your heart fluttered. The sky darkened. The stars emerged. The sea grew still. Then, from the distant shore, a single lantern rose. It drifted upward, glowing with warm golden light.

You inhaled sharply, your eyes widening. Another lantern rose. Then another. Then dozens. They floated into the sky like spirits of light, rising higher and higher, filling the night with soft radiance. Your breath trembled. Your hands pressed to your chest. Your glowing hair brightened with emotion.

You whispered, barely audible, “They are real.”

Neteyam watched you, his heart tightening at the awe in your voice. “They are for someone very important,” he said. You did not know he meant you. You only knew that the lanterns filled you with a strange, aching warmth. You reached out toward the sky, your fingers trembling. The lanterns drifted above you like a constellation of hope.

Neteyam lifted a lantern from the bottom of the canoe.

It glowed softly, its light reflecting in his eyes.

He held it out to you.

“For you,” he said. Your breath caught. You touched the lantern with gentle fingers, feeling its warmth. It felt familiar, like a memory you could not reach. Neteyam guided your hands to the edge of the canoe. Together, you lifted the lantern into the air. It rose slowly, drifting upward, joining the others in the sky. You watched it go, your heart swelling with a feeling you could not name. When you looked back at Neteyam, he was watching you. The lantern light reflected in his eyes. The ocean shimmered around you. Your glowing hair cast soft golden light across his face. For a moment, the world felt still. You felt something warm and gentle bloom inside your chest. A feeling that frightened you and comforted you all at once. Neteyam felt it too. He looked away for a moment, as if steadying himself.

The lanterns drifted higher, filling the sky with golden light. The ocean glowed beneath you. The canoe rocked gently with the rhythm of the waves. You felt Eywa in the air. In the water. In the lanterns.

In the boy sitting across from you.

You felt a connection forming, delicate and bright. Neteyam reached out slowly, his hand hovering near yours. He did not touch you. He only offered the space between your hands, a silent question. You placed your hand in his. The touch was soft. Warm. Steady. Your glowing hair brightened, casting golden light across the canoe.

Neteyam’s breath caught. He had never seen anything so beautiful. You looked at him, your heart trembling. He looked at you, his eyes soft and full of something he did not yet understand. The lanterns rose around you like a blessing. And in that moment, the world felt perfect.

He had seen the ocean glow before. But never like this. Never because of someone.

A lantern drifted low above the water, close enough that you could see the woven pattern of its frame. You reached toward it, your fingers trembling with awe. The lantern rose just beyond your touch, drifting upward to join the others. You lowered your hand slowly.

“Why do they rise,” you asked softly. Neteyam hesitated. He knew the truth.

He knew the lanterns were for the lost daughter of Tonowari and Ronal. He knew the Metkayina had mourned her for years. He knew the lanterns were prayers sent into the sky. He looked at you, at your glowing hair, at the way the lantern light reflected in your eyes. He felt the truth stirring inside him, rising like a tide. “They rise for someone the clan misses,” he said gently.

You looked down at your hands. The glow of your hair brightened with emotion.

“Someone important,” you whispered. Neteyam nodded. You did not know why the words made your chest ache. You did not know why the lanterns felt like memories. You did not know why the ocean seemed to whisper your name. But you felt something shifting inside you. Something old. Something true.

The canoe drifted farther from the village, surrounded by lanterns that floated like golden moons. The night air was warm, carrying the scent of salt and distant flowers. The world felt suspended, held in a moment that belonged only to you and Neteyam.

He watched you with a softness he did not try to hide.

You felt his gaze like a warm breeze across your skin. You turned toward him slowly. The lantern light reflected in his eyes. Your glowing hair cast gentle gold across his face. The ocean shimmered beneath you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was not empty. It was full. Full of questions. Full of wonder. Full of something delicate and new.

Neteyam reached out, his hand hovering near yours. He did not touch you. He only offered the space between your hands, a silent invitation. You placed your hand in his. The touch was soft. Warm. Steady. Your hair brightened, glowing like a small sun. Neteyam inhaled softly, as if the sight stole his breath. You felt your heart tremble. You felt the world shift. You felt something bloom inside you, gentle and bright. A soft breeze rippled across the ocean. The lanterns swayed. The water shimmered.

You leaned over the side of the canoe, watching the glowing patterns beneath the surface. The ocean reflected your face, framed by your glowing hair.

Then the reflection changed. For a moment, you saw something else. A marui pod. A woman with eyes like the sea. A man with broad shoulders and a gentle smile. Two children laughing beside them. A family. Your breath caught. Your heart lurched. The vision faded as quickly as it had appeared, swallowed by the shifting water. You pulled back sharply, your hand flying to your chest. Neteyam leaned forward, concern in his eyes.

“What is wrong.” You shook your head, unable to speak. The image lingered in your mind, warm and painful. You had never seen those faces. But they felt familiar. They felt like home.

A single tear slipped down your cheek. It glowed softly, catching the lantern light.

Neteyam reached out slowly, brushing the tear away with gentle fingers.

His touch was warm. Steady. Comforting. “You are safe,” he said softly. You looked at him, your heart trembling. You did not know why the lanterns made you feel this way. You did not know why the ocean showed you visions. You did not know why Neteyam’s presence felt like a promise. But you knew one thing. You were no longer alone. The night after the lanterns felt like a dream that clung to your skin. The glow of the sky still shimmered in your memory, warm and soft, like the gentle brush of Neteyam’s hand against yours. The canoe had carried you both back to the shore in silence, but it was a silence filled with something bright and trembling. You walked beside him along the moonlit sand, your glowing hair trailing behind you like a ribbon of golden light. Neteyam glanced at you now and then, as if making sure you were still there, as if unsure whether the night had been real. You felt the same. But the warmth of the lanterns could not hold back the cold waiting in the trees. A soft rustle broke the quiet. A shift of shadow. A presence you knew too well. You turned. Seyla stepped from the forest, her figure framed by the pale glow of the moon. Her expression was calm, too calm, the kind of calm that hides a storm beneath it.

“Child,” she said, her voice smooth as polished stone. The word struck you like a blow. You had heard it your whole life. But now it felt wrong. Small. Untrue. Neteyam moved slightly closer to you, not touching you, but placing himself near enough that you felt shielded. Seyla’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and assessing, before returning to you.

“I can handle this” you whisper to him. Neteyam slowly retreats, eyes laced with concern as he pulls back and wanders away, not too far.

“You wandered far,” she said. “It is time to come home.” Home. The tower. The walls. The warnings. The fear. Your breath trembled. Seyla stepped closer, her voice softening in a way that made your skin crawl.

“You do not understand the danger of the world. You do not understand what you are. You must come with me.” You shook your head slowly.

“I wish to stay.” A crack appeared in Seyla’s calm. Barely visible, but there.

“You think this boy cares for you,” she said, her tone turning cold. “You think he sees you as more than a curiosity. But he will leave you. They all will.” Your heart tightened. The words slid into your mind like thorns. Seyla stepped closer still.

“You are safe only with me. You are protected only with me. The world will take from you. The world will use you. The world will break you.” Neteyam’s voice was steady.

“Come, child. Before you are hurt.” You stepped back. Seyla’s eyes hardened.

“You think this life is real,” she said. “You think these people care for you. But you are wrong. You are a stranger here. You do not belong.” The words struck deep. Because part of you feared they were true. Part of you feared you were nothing more than a wandering light in a world that did not know your name. But another part of you remembered the lanterns. The visions in the water. The warmth of Neteyam’s hand in yours. You lifted your chin. Seyla saw the change in your eyes. Her expression darkened. “You will regret this,” she said quietly.

She stepped back into the trees, her figure swallowed by shadow. But her voice lingered in the air like a cold wind.

“You will see the truth soon enough, Mother knows best.” Then she was gone. The forest fell silent. Neteyam turned to you, concern softening his features. But you could not meet his eyes. Seyla’s words echoed in your mind. Sharp. Heavy. Poisonous.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, your glowing hair dimming with uncertainty. You wished you could silence the doubt. But Seyla’s shadow clung to you, whispering that the dream would break. And for the first time since leaving the tower, you felt afraid.

The morning light shimmered across the ocean, soft and pale, as if the world still held the glow of the lanterns from the night before. You walked along the sand with a quiet hope blooming in your chest. Every step felt light. Every breath felt warm. The memory of Neteyam’s hand in yours lingered like a gentle flame.

You reached the place where the canoe had been left. The place where you and Neteyam had drifted beneath the lantern sky. The place where your heart had opened for the first time. You saw a figure standing beside the canoe. Your breath caught. Your heart lifted.

Neteyam.

You stepped forward, glowing hair brushing the sand, your pulse quickening with a soft, trembling joy. You imagined he would turn, smile, speak your name with that warm steadiness that made the world feel safe.

But when the figure turned, your steps faltered.

It was not Neteyam.

It was a Metkayina warrior you had never seen before. His face was unfamiliar, his eyes cold, his stance stiff. He looked at you only long enough to acknowledge your presence, then stepped into the canoe. Your heart stilled. You waited for Neteyam to appear behind him. You waited for his voice. You waited for anything that made sense. But the warrior pushed the canoe away from the shore. You took a step forward, confusion tightening your chest. The warrior did not look back. He paddled into the open water with calm, practiced strokes, guiding the canoe farther and farther away.

The same canoe you and Neteyam had shared. The same canoe that held the memory of lantern light and gentle hands. Your breath trembled. Why would Neteyam let someone take it? Why would he leave without a word? Why would he walk away from you after the night you shared?

The warrior glanced over his shoulder once, and in that brief look, you saw something sharp. Something secret. Something wrong. But your heart was already breaking. The canoe drifted farther into the shimmering water until it became a small shape against the horizon. The place beside you felt suddenly empty. The warmth of the lantern night faded like a dream slipping through your fingers. You wrapped your arms around yourself, your glowing hair dimming with each breath.

Seyla stepped from the trees behind you, her voice soft and smooth. “I warned you, you knew what he wanted… but it took you too long to give it to him. I suppose he's gone to find another girl to give him his needs.” You did not turn. You did not speak. You only stared at the empty water.

“He has left you,” Seyla said gently. “He has returned to his own people. You are nothing to him.” Your chest tightened. Your throat burned. Your heart felt heavy and hollow. Seyla placed a hand on your shoulder. “Come home, child.” This time, you did not resist. You followed her back into the forest, your steps slow and unsteady, your glowing hair trailing behind you like a fading light.

The dream had cracked. The world had dimmed. And you felt alone again.

The real Neteyam never reached the shore.

He had been ambushed in the forest by two warriors loyal to Seyla. They dragged him through the trees, bound his wrists, and carried him back to the Metkayina village. He fought, but the ambush had been swift and unexpected. Jake Sully stood waiting on the walkway, his expression dark with anger and worry.

“You missed the lantern night,” Jake said, his voice heavy. “You left without a word. You disrespected the clan. You disrespected your family.” Neteyam tried to speak, but Jake raised a hand.

“You are grounded. You will not leave the village again.” Neteyam’s heart pounded with panic.

Y/N.

Where were you? Were you safe? Did you think he had abandoned you? He tried to run, but his dad held him back. He tried to explain, but Jake’s disappointment cut through every word.

Neteyam stood on the walkway, breath shaking, eyes burning with fear. He had to find you. He had to reach you. He had to tell you the truth. But he was trapped. And somewhere deep in the forest, you walked beside Seyla, believing he had left you behind.

The tower felt smaller than ever. The walls pressed in around you, familiar yet suffocating, as if they remembered the girl you used to be and refused to let her go. You sat on the floor with your knees pulled close, your glowing hair dimmed to a faint shimmer. Seyla hummed softly as she moved about the room, her voice calm, her steps steady, as if nothing in the world had changed.

But everything had changed.

Your heart felt heavy, bruised by the sight of the canoe drifting away. The memory of lantern light flickered weakly inside you, struggling against the cold weight of doubt. You tried to hold on to the warmth of Neteyam’s hand, the softness in his eyes, the way the ocean had glowed beneath you both. But Seyla’s words echoed louder.

He has left you.

He has returned to his own life.

You were only a moment to him.

You pressed your forehead to your knees, trying to quiet the ache inside your chest.

Seyla approached with a woven cloth and draped it gently over your shoulders.

“You will feel better soon,” she said. “Dreams fade. The world is full of illusions. You must trust only what is real.” You nodded weakly, though the words felt wrong. Something inside you resisted them, faint but steady, like a small flame refusing to die.

Seyla returned to her work, humming again, her back turned. You lifted your head slowly. Your eyes drifted across the tower walls, tracing the paintings you had made over the years. Spirals of blue. Waves of green. Patterns of light. You had painted them without knowing why, guided only by instinct, by memory, by something deep inside your bones. Your gaze caught on a shape near the window. A spiral. A perfect Metkayina spiral. You frowned. You had painted it long ago, without understanding its meaning. But now, something about it tugged at your mind. You rose to your feet and stepped closer. Your fingers brushed the painted lines. The spiral glowed faintly beneath your touch. A memory stirred. A vision from the ocean. A woman with eyes like the sea. A man with broad shoulders. Children laughing beside them. A family. Your breath caught. Your heart began to race. You moved to another painting. Another spiral. Another symbol. Another memory flickered behind your eyes. You touched your glowing hair. The light brightened, responding to your rising heartbeat. You turned slowly, your gaze sweeping across the tower. Everywhere you looked, the same symbol appeared. Hidden in vines. Woven into patterns. Painted in corners. You had drawn them all your life. You had felt them all your life.

You had carried them all your life. They were not Seyla’s symbols. They were not forest symbols. They were Metkayina. Your pulse quickened. Your breath trembled. You stepped back, your glowing hair brightening with each heartbeat. The truth pressed against your mind, rising like a wave. You were not Seyla’s child. You were not born in this tower. You were not meant to live hidden in the forest. You were Metkayina. Your knees weakened. Your hand flew to your mouth. Your heart pounded with a mix of fear and wonder. Seyla turned sharply, sensing the shift in the air. “What are you doing,” she asked, her voice no longer soft. You stared at her, your eyes wide, your glowing hair brightening with a light she could not dim.

“You lied,” you whispered. Seyla froze. You stepped back again, your breath shaking, your heart racing.

“You lied about the world. You lied about the lanterns. You lied about me.” Seyla’s expression hardened, the calm mask cracking.

“Child-”

“I am not your child.”

The words left your lips with trembling certainty. Your glowing hair flared with golden light, illuminating the tower, illuminating the truth, illuminating the lies that had held you captive for so long. Seyla stepped toward you, her voice sharp.

“You do not understand what you are.” You shook your head, tears gathering in your eyes.

“I understand enough.” You saw the spiral again. You saw the visions. You saw the lanterns rising every year for a girl who never returned. You saw yourself. And far across the forest, in the Metkayina village, Neteyam sat alone, grounded and helpless, staring at the horizon with fear in his heart, whispering your name into the wind.

The tower felt smaller with every breath you took. The spirals on the walls glowed faintly in your memory, each one whispering a truth you were no longer able to ignore. Your glowing hair pulsed with a restless light, brightening and dimming like a heartbeat. Seyla moved around the room with quiet purpose, pretending nothing had changed, but you felt the shift.

 You felt the lie cracking open. You stepped toward the door. Seyla turned at once. “Where are you going,” she asked, her voice too calm. 

You swallowed. “I need to see something.” 

She stepped in front of the door, her eyes narrowing. “There is nothing for you outside. You are confused. You are frightened. You must stay here where you are safe.” The word safe felt like a chain tightening around your chest. 

You took another step. Your glowing hair brightened. Your heart pounded. “I need to go,” you whispered. Seyla’s calm cracked.

“You will stay.” You shook your head. She reached for your arm. You pulled away. The air in the tower shifted. Your glowing hair flared with golden light. Seyla’s voice sharpened. “You do not understand what you are. The world will take you. The world will use you. The world will break you.” 

You stepped back, breath trembling. “The world is not what you told me,” you said. “I saw the spirals. I saw the visions. I saw the lanterns.” 

Seyla’s eyes flashed with anger. “You are mine.” The words struck you like a blow.

 But the truth rose inside you, bright and fierce. “I am not yours.” Seyla lunged. You turned and ran. Your glowing hair streamed behind you like a comet of golden fire. You raced down the tower steps, breath sharp, heart pounding. The forest opened before you, wide and wild, and for a moment you felt free. 

But Seyla was fast. She caught your wrist and pulled you back with a strength that stole your breath. You stumbled, falling to your knees, your glowing hair spilling across the ground.

 Seyla knelt beside you, her voice low and cold. “You will not leave me. You will not throw away everything I have done for you.” 

Tears blurred your vision. “You lied,” you whispered. Seyla’s grip tightened. “I protected you.” You shook your head. “You kept me.” 

Her expression twisted. “You are not ready for the truth.” You looked up at her, glowing hair brightening with a fierce, trembling light. 

“I am ready for everything you hid from me.”

 Seyla’s eyes hardened. “You will forget this foolishness.” She dragged you back toward the tower. You struggled, but her grip was iron. The forest blurred. The tower rose again, tall and cold, waiting to swallow you whole. Far across the forest, in the Metkayina village, Neteyam fought against the his brother who held him. His breath shook with fear. His voice broke with your name. He had not left you. He had not abandoned you. He had been taken. But you did not know. Not yet. And the tower door closed behind you once more.

wer felt colder than ever. The golden light that had burst from you still lingered in the air, clinging to the walls like the last warmth of a dying sun. Seyla paced the room with sharp, restless steps, her calm mask shattered. She watched you with eyes full of fear and fury, as if she no longer recognized the girl she had raised.

You sat near the window, your glowing hair coiled around you in trembling strands. The light pulsed softly, refusing to dim, refusing to obey. You tried to steady your breath, but your heart beat too fast, too loud, too full of truth.

Seyla stopped pacing. “You will not leave this tower again,” she said. You lifted your head slowly. “I cannot stay here.” Seyla’s expression twisted.

“You think you know the world. You think you understand what waits for you. You are wrong.”

You rose to your feet. Your glowing hair brightened.

“I know you lied.” Seyla moved toward you with sudden force. She grabbed your wrist, pulling you closer, her grip tight enough to sting.

“I kept you alive,” she said. “I kept you hidden. I kept you safe.” You met her eyes, your voice trembling but steady.

“You kept me trapped.” Seyla’s jaw clenched. She dragged you toward the center of the room, her movements sharp and desperate. She reached for a length of woven vine rope she had hidden beneath the table.

Your breath caught.

“Seyla”

“You will not run again,” she said.

She wrapped the rope around your wrist, binding it to the heavy wooden post beside the bed. The vines tightened with a soft rustle, glowing faintly as they reacted to your hair’s light.

You pulled, but the knot held firm.

Seyla stepped back, breathing hard, her eyes wild.

“You will stay here,” she said. “You will forget the spirals. You will forget the visions. You will forget the boy.”

Your heart twisted painfully.

“I will not forget him,” you whispered.

Seyla’s face darkened.

“You will.”

She turned away, gathering herbs and cloth with shaking hands, trying to rebuild the calm she had lost. But the tower felt different now. The truth had seeped into the walls. The light had changed everything.

You sat on the floor, your wrist bound, your glowing hair pooling around you like a river of gold. Tears gathered in your eyes, but the light in your hair refused to fade. It pulsed with quiet strength, as if reminding you that the truth could not be chained.

Far across the forest, in the Metkayina village, Neteyam struggled against the guards who kept him confined. His wrists were raw from the bindings. His breath shook with fear and frustration. He stared at the horizon, whispering your name into the wind.

He felt your light. He felt your fear. He felt the distance between you like a blade. He pulled against the ropes again, desperate to reach you, desperate to tell you he had not left you, desperate to break free.

But the village held him. Jake’s rule kept him trapped. And the forest between you grew darker by the moment. In the tower, you closed your eyes, your glowing hair brightening with each heartbeat. You were chained. You were frightened. But you were no longer blind. And Seyla knew it. She watched you from across the room, her eyes full of a fear she could not hide. She was losing you.

Back in the village when everything was settled for the night, Neteyam ran. He sprinted across the walkways, ignoring the shouts behind him. His heart pounded with one thought, one truth, one name. You.

Seyla’s anger simmered beneath her calm voice as she gathered her satchel. “I must fetch herbs,” she said. “You will stay where you are.” She tightened the vine rope around your wrist, testing the knot, then swept out of the tower and disappeared into the forest. The door closed behind her with a heavy thud. 

You sat in the dim tower light, your glowing hair coiled around you in trembling strands. The room felt too quiet, too still, as if holding its breath. Then you felt it. A warmth. A presence. A heartbeat that was not your own. 

Neteyam. 

Your breath caught. Your glowing hair brightened. Footsteps approached the tower. Fast. Desperate. A shadow passed the window. A familiar voice called your name. You scrambled to your feet, pulling against the rope. “Neteyam,” you whispered. He reached the window and tried to open the shutter. It was locked. He pulled harder. The wood groaned. He stepped back, braced himself, and slammed his shoulder into it. 

The shutter cracked. He struck it again. And again. With a final blow, the wood splintered and fell to the ground below. Neteyam climbed through the broken frame, breath shaking, eyes wide with fear and relief. He saw you bound and trembling. You ran to him as far as the rope allowed. He crossed the room and pulled you into his arms. 

You pressed your face into his chest, tears spilling down your cheeks. “I thought you left,” you whispered. “I would never leave you,” he said, voice shaking. He held you tightly, his hands trembling against your back. For a moment, the world felt whole again. But the moment shattered. 

A sharp gasp echoed from the doorway. Seyla stood there, her eyes wide with fury. She saw the broken shutter. She saw Neteyam holding you. She saw the truth she had tried to bury. Her face twisted. With a scream, she tore aside a hidden stone panel in the wall, revealing a narrow passageway. She rushed up the steps, her footsteps pounding above you. Neteyam turned, pulling you behind him, but Seyla was already upon him. She grabbed a jagged shard of stone from the broken wall and slashed it across his side.

 Neteyam gasped and fell to his knees. Blood spread across the floor. You screamed and dropped beside him, your hands shaking as you tried to hold him. Seyla stood over you both, breath sharp, eyes wild. “It is too late,” she said. “He is dying. You cannot save him.” You pressed your hands to Neteyam’s wound, tears falling onto his skin. “Please,” you whispered. “Please stay with me.” Neteyam lifted a trembling hand and cupped your cheek. His touch was soft, gentle, full of love even as his strength faded. He pulled you closer. Your lips met in a trembling, desperate kiss. 

And in that moment, he reached for the knife at his belt. He cut your glowing hair. The golden strands fell to the floor. The light vanished. The magic died. Seyla gasped. Her skin cracked. Her body withered.

 Her youth drained away like water through broken stone. She stumbled backward, screaming, clawing at the air as her strength vanished. She fell through the broken window, her voice fading into the distance. Silence filled the tower. 

You turned back to Neteyam, breath shaking, heart breaking. Your hair no longer glowed. Your hands no longer shone. Your power was gone. You pressed your forehead to his, sobbing. “It is too late,” you whispered. “I cannot heal you. I cannot save you.” Neteyam’s eyes closed. You cried harder, your tears falling onto his wound, onto his skin, onto the floor. And then A soft warmth spread beneath your hands. A faint shimmer. A gentle pulse. A glow that did not come from your hair. You lifted your head, breath trembling. 

Neteyam’s wound was closing. Your tears had healed him. You had saved him before he cut your hair. You had healed him without knowing. His eyes opened slowly. You let out a broken, joyful cry and threw your arms around him. He held you tightly, breathing hard, alive and warm and real. The tower stood quiet. And for the first time, you were free.

The tower felt strangely quiet after everything that had happened. The broken shutter lay on the ground outside, the rope hung loose from the wooden post, and the golden strands of your cut hair rested in a soft circle on the floor. Nothing glowed anymore. Nothing shimmered. Yet the room felt brighter than it ever had.

You sat beside Neteyam, your hands still resting on his chest, afraid to move in case the warmth beneath your palms vanished. His breathing was steady now, soft and even, rising and falling beneath your touch. His eyes were closed, but his face was peaceful, no longer twisted in pain.

You brushed a trembling hand along his cheek.

“You are alive,” you whispered.

Neteyam opened his eyes slowly. They were warm and gentle, filled with a softness that made your heart ache. He lifted his hand and placed it over yours.

“I am here,” he said.

You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his, closing your eyes as relief washed through you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You simply breathed together, holding on to the truth that you had both survived.

Neteyam shifted slightly, sitting up with a quiet wince. You steadied him, your hands gentle on his shoulders. He looked around the tower, taking in the broken window, the fallen stones, the empty space where Seyla had stood.

“It is over,” he said softly. You nodded, though your heart felt heavy.

“She raised me,” you said. “She lied to me, but she raised me.” Neteyam touched your cheek with gentle fingers.

“You are free now.” The words settled over you like warm sunlight. Free. The tower no longer held you. The lies no longer bound you. The world outside was yours. You rose slowly, helping Neteyam to his feet. He leaned on you for a moment, steadying himself, then straightened with quiet strength. You walked together toward the broken window, the place where everything had changed. The forest stretched out before you, calm and green, the leaves shimmering softly in the morning light. The air felt fresh, new, full of promise. Neteyam looked at you, his eyes warm.

“Let us go home.” You hesitated.

“Will they accept me,” you asked. “After everything.” Neteyam took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours.

“They will see your heart,” he said. “They will see your light, even without the glow.” You looked down at your hair, now soft and ordinary, no longer shining with golden magic. For a moment, sadness tugged at your chest.

Neteyam lifted your chin gently.

“You healed me,” he said. “Your power was never only in your hair.” Your breath caught. You felt warmth bloom inside your chest, soft and steady. Together, you stepped through the broken window frame. Neteyam climbed down first, then reached up to help you. Your feet touched the forest floor for the first time as a free person. The tower stood behind you, tall and silent, no longer a prison. You did not look back. Neteyam squeezed your hand. You squeezed back. And together, you walked toward the village, toward the truth, toward the life waiting for you. The first dawn of your freedom had begun.

Neteyam held your hand as you walked along the familiar wooden paths of the Metkayina village. The ocean stretched out before you, calm and bright, its surface shimmering like woven glass. Your heart beat fast, each step heavier than the last. You were free. You were safe. But you were walking toward a truth you had never known.

Neteyam squeezed your hand gently.

“They have waited for you,” he said.

You swallowed, unsure, your breath trembling.

“Who,” you whispered. He did not answer. He only guided you forward. The walkway opened into the central clearing of the village. The marui pods glowed softly in the afternoon light. The sea breeze brushed your face. And standing at the far end of the platform were two figures.

A tall man with broad shoulders, strong posture, and eyes full of depth and sorrow. Tonowari. Beside him stood a woman with long braids, sea‑blue markings, and a presence that felt both powerful and gentle. Her eyes were already filled with tears. Ronal. You froze. Ronal took one step forward, her breath catching the moment she saw you. Her hand flew to her mouth, trembling.

“My child,” she whispered, voice breaking. Tonowari’s chest rose sharply. His hands shook at his sides. You stared at them, your heart pounding, your mind unable to understand the feeling rising inside you. Something ancient. Something instinctive. Something that felt like home. Neteyam placed a hand on your back, steady and warm.

“These are your parents,” he said softly. Your breath shattered into a sob.

Ronal moved first. She crossed the distance between you with trembling steps, tears streaming down her cheeks. She reached you slowly, as if afraid you might disappear. Her hands cupped your face, gentle and shaking.

“My precious one,” she whispered. “My daughter.” Tonowari stepped beside her, his voice thick with emotion.

“We have searched for you every day. Every tide. Every season.” Your knees weakened. Your tears fell freely. You leaned into their touch, overwhelmed by a love you had never known but somehow recognized. Ronal pulled you into her arms, holding you tightly, her breath shaking against your shoulder. Tonowari wrapped his arms around both of you, his forehead resting against your hair.

You cried into their embrace, your hands gripping their arms, your heart finally understanding the spirals, the visions, the lanterns. You had been loved. You had been wanted. You had been missed. When you finally pulled back, Ronal brushed your cheek with her thumb, memorizing every line of your face. Tonowari placed a hand over your heart, his eyes shining.

Neteyam stood a few steps behind, watching with soft, relieved eyes. You turned to him. He smiled. You ran into his arms, and he lifted you gently, holding you close. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath warm and steady.

“You are home,” he whispered.

Your parents watched with gratitude and quiet joy. The sea shimmered behind them. The village glowed with soft light. For the first time in your life, you felt whole. You were free. You were loved. You were home.

The village glowed with soft evening light as you walked beside Neteyam, your hand resting gently in his. The ocean shimmered with calm waves, and the air carried the quiet hum of distant song. Everything felt new, as if the world itself had shifted to welcome you home.

Ronal and Tonowari walked ahead, glancing back at you often, as if they still could not believe you were truly there. Ronal’s eyes softened each time she looked at you. Tonowari’s shoulders relaxed in a way they had not in years.

You stepped onto the main platform, and the villagers gathered slowly, whispering in awe. Some covered their mouths. Some pressed hands to their hearts. Some simply stared, tears in their eyes.

Ronal lifted her chin proudly.

“This is my daughter,” she said. Tonowari placed a hand over his chest.

“She has returned to us.” The crowd bowed their heads in respect. You felt warmth bloom inside your chest. Ronal approached you and gently brushed a strand of your now‑short hair behind your ear.

“You are perfect,” she said softly. “With or without the glow.” Tonowari stepped closer, placing a large, steady hand on your shoulder.

“You are strong,” he said. “Stronger than any of us knew.” You swallowed, emotion rising in your throat.

“I did not know who I was,” you said. “I did not know where I belonged.” Ronal cupped your cheek.

“You belong here,” she said. “With your people. With your family.”

Tonowari nodded.

“With your heart.” You felt tears gather in your eyes. For the first time, the word family felt real. Neteyam stepped beside you, his presence warm and steady. He looked at your parents with quiet respect, then at you with a softness that made your breath catch. Ronal noticed the way he looked at you. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile.

Tonowari let out a slow breath, as if accepting something he had already suspected. Neteyam reached for your hand. You took it without hesitation. Ronal spoke gently. “You have a place here. A home. A life waiting for you.” Tonowari added,

“And you may choose your own path now.” You looked at the ocean, at the glowing village, at the faces filled with hope. Then you looked at Neteyam. Your heart knew its answer.

“I choose this,” you said softly. “I choose all of you.”

Ronal pulled you into her arms again, holding you tightly. Tonowari wrapped his arms around both of you, his embrace warm and steady. Neteyam stood close, his hand resting lightly on your back, as if promising he would never leave your side. The village lights shimmered. The sea whispered against the shore. Your parents held you. Neteyam smiled at you with quiet love. Your new life had begun.

The village came alive the moment the news spread. Soft blue lanterns were lit along the walkways, drifting gently in the evening breeze. Children ran ahead, laughing and pointing, whispering your name as if it were a story they had only heard in legends. The sea glowed with bioluminescent light, as if Eywa herself welcomed you home.

Ronal stood beside you, one hand resting over her heart, the other gently holding your arm as if she feared you might vanish again. Tonowari walked on your other side, tall and proud, his eyes shining with emotion he rarely showed. Between them, you felt safe. You felt claimed. You felt loved.

Behind you, Neteyam followed closely, his gaze never leaving you. Every time you glanced back, he smiled softly, as if he still could not believe you were truly there.

The villagers gathered in a wide circle near the water. Soft drums began to play, slow and steady, echoing across the sea. Ronal guided you to the center, her touch gentle, reverent.

Tonowari raised his voice, deep and steady.

“Tonight, we celebrate the return of our daughter. She has endured darkness. She has survived lies. She has found her way home.”

A soft murmur of joy rippled through the crowd. Ronal stepped forward, her eyes full of tears.

“You were taken from us, yet your spirit remained strong. Eywa has guided you back. You are our light.” You felt your throat tighten. Your hands trembled. Your heart swelled with emotion you could not name. Ronal lifted a small bowl of glowing water and dipped her fingers into it. She touched your forehead, drawing a gentle spiral,  the same symbol you had painted all your life without knowing why.

Tonowari placed his hand over your heart.

“You are Metkayina,” he said. “You are ours.”

The villagers bowed their heads in respect. You felt warmth bloom inside your chest. Neteyam stepped forward, his eyes soft. He held out his hand. You took it.

The drums shifted into a brighter rhythm. The villagers began to dance, their movements fluid and joyful, their voices rising in song. Children wove glowing shells into your hair. Women embraced you with tears in their eyes. Warriors placed their hands over their hearts as you passed. Ronal watched you with pride. Tonowari stood tall, his expression full of quiet joy. Neteyam leaned close, his voice soft.

“You belong here.” You looked at him, your heart full.

“I do,” you said. “I finally do.” He smiled, warm and gentle, and brushed his forehead against yours. The lanterns drifted upward, glowing softly against the night sky. The sea shimmered. The village sang. And for the first time, you felt the celebration was truly for you. Your life had begun again. Your family was whole. Your heart was free.

The days that followed were gentle and full of discovery. You woke each morning to the sound of waves brushing the shore and the soft glow of the marui pod. Ronal guided you through the rhythms of the Metkayina, teaching you the ways of the sea, the meaning of the spirals, the songs of your people.

Tonowari watched proudly as you learned to swim with the ilu, your movements growing stronger and more graceful each day. Children followed you everywhere, fascinated by your story, asking you to braid their hair or paint spirals on their hands.

And always, Neteyam was near.

He walked with you along the sand.

He helped you learn the currents.

He laughed softly when you splashed him on purpose.

He held your hand when the memories grew heavy.

One evening, as the sun dipped low, you sat beside him on a quiet rock overlooking the sea. The water glowed beneath your feet.

“I never imagined a life like this,” you said.

Neteyam looked at you with warm eyes.

“You were meant for this life,” he said. “You were meant for the sea.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the peace of the moment settle around you like a soft tide.

Your new life had begun to take shape.The village gathered again one night, not for celebration, but for quiet song. The moon hung low over the water, casting silver light across the waves. You stood at the edge of the walkway, watching the sea breathe in and out.

Neteyam approached you from behind, his steps soft.

“You are quiet tonight,” he said.

“I am thinking,” you replied. “About everything I lost. And everything I found.”

Neteyam stepped beside you, his presence warm.

“You have endured more than most,” he said. “Yet you stand here with strength.”

You turned to him, your eyes soft.

“You helped me find that strength.”

He reached for your hand, lifting it gently.

“I will always stand with you,” he said. “In every tide. In every season. In every life.”

Your breath caught.

His words wrapped around your heart like a promise woven from light.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours.

“I will protect you,” he whispered. “Not because you are fragile, but because you are precious.”

You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of his voice settle into your soul.

“I promise the same,” you said softly. “I will walk beside you.”

The sea glowed brighter, as if blessing the vow.

That night, Ronal prepared a resting space for you inside the family marui pod. Soft woven mats, warm shells, and gentle sea‑scented cloth surrounded you. It felt strange to lie down in a place that was truly yours, a place filled with love instead of fear.

Ronal sat beside you for a moment, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“You are safe,” she said. “Sleep without fear.”

Tonowari placed a hand on your shoulder.

“We are here,” he said. “Always.”

When they left, the pod grew quiet. The ocean whispered outside, steady and calm. You curled beneath the woven blanket, feeling the warmth of the day settle into your bones.

A soft rustle came from the entrance.

Neteyam stood there, hesitant, respectful.

“I only wished to see if you were well,” he said.

You smiled.

“I am.”

He stepped closer, kneeling beside your resting place.

“Good,” he said softly. “You deserve peace.”

You reached for his hand.

He took it gently, brushing his thumb across your knuckles.

The touch lingered, warm and steady.

You whispered, “Stay for a moment.”

Neteyam’s breath softened. He leaned closer, his forehead brushing yours. The glow of the pod lights reflected in his eyes, turning them soft and bright.

“You are home,” he said. “And I am grateful you are here.”

Your heart fluttered.

You lifted your hand to his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palm.

“I love you Neteyam” you whispered. a large smile crept onto his face and he could swear hes never been more happy in his life.

“I love you so much Y/N” He beamed radiant and bright.

Neteyam leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You did not.

Your lips met in a soft, gentle kiss, warm, careful, full of everything you had both carried through fear and loss and hope. His hand cupped your jaw, steady and tender. Your fingers curled into his hair, pulling him closer for a moment that felt like the beginning of something new.

When you parted, your breath trembled softly.

Neteyam rested his forehead against yours.

“Goodnight,” he whispered.

“Goodnight,” you replied, your voice warm.

He lingered for one last heartbeat, then rose and stepped outside. The curtain fell softly behind him.

You touched your lips, still warm from his kiss, and closed your eyes.

For the first time in your life, you slept without fear.

You slept with love surrounding you.

You slept knowing you were home.

𓆝𓆟༝˚｡⋆𓆉︎⋆｡˚༝𓆞𓆝

⋆˚꩜｡epilogue: In which you and Neteyam spend the night together after mating. ⋆.˚𓇼Warnings: SMUT. ⋆.˚𓇼wc: 4k

Masterlist

[playdat]

The daughter neytiri could not look at

(all the parts of this series will be here)

masterlist

Story: you were born in the sully family, with five fingers, and a skin Like humans, so neytiri was never able to accept you

All parts here:

Part 1 different

Part 2 The first hunting lesson

Part3 your relationship with your Siblings

Part 4 a nightmare

Part 5 a father's breaking point

Part 6 The words you were never meant to hear

Part 7 A parent who stayed + The Grandmother Who Chose You

Part 8 The Day That Was Supposed to Be Yours

Part 9 "You Lost the Right to Be Called Mother"

Part 10 A Stranger Among Your Own Kind

Tags: @whiskles @shaheea @yoko7658 @nacihe @astrid-ash @gaiestguyever-to-exist @justmare @karma-reader @qardasngan @7leo7 @miss-aveline @cmalass @commandertorinshepard32 @splatashajumpinoff1226 @sarentuinmyheart @gmmcfarland04 @rainyreina31 @ottergirl @zenyboytheoneanonly @tubby23 @cantaloupesoda @bluecookies-and-ink @mcfeemarvel41-blog @miawolfo @th3realslimb1tch @romanreignsrealwife @werschitz @user153639937 @beka-gr33n @angiebeersblog @occasionallyfreshhound @h4loglowxx @kklovescookies @neteyamsrealgf01 @victoria2054 @stiveroon

@minqxchae @dusty-boo @lvlypinkesworld @sunmoonsweets @werschitz @deepangelpartykid @aloverofanything @sleep-all-day-everyday

@coloredsenses @theendlessvoidofdarkest

[imtooawesome]

𝘾𝙇𝘼𝙍𝙆 𝙆𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

❤︎𐙚 - face card: tom welling

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

𝙈𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

𝙎𝘼𝙁𝙀 𝙋𝙇𝘼𝘾𝙀

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙨 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙗𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙

𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙏𝙒𝙊: 𝙄𝙏𝙎 𝘼𝙇𝙒𝘼𝙔𝙎 𝙔𝙊𝙐

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙯𝙚𝙨 𝙞𝙩𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙃𝘼𝙐𝙉𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙖 𝙜𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙩

𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘽𝙊𝙔 𝙉𝙀𝙓𝙏 𝘿𝙊𝙊𝙍

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙮 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙙𝙤𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙖 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙣 𝙞𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙙𝙚

𝙅𝙀𝘼𝙇𝙊𝙐𝙎𝙇𝙔 𝙄𝙎 𝙎𝙊 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝘾𝙊𝙇𝙊𝙐𝙍

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚

𝙄𝙈 𝘿𝙀𝙑𝙊𝙏𝙀𝘿 𝙏𝙊 𝙔𝙊𝙐

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙗𝙖𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 "𝙙𝙚𝙫𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙙", 𝙨𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙧, 𝙚𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙧

𝘾𝙊𝙁𝙁𝙀𝙀 𝘽𝘼𝙍𝙄𝙎𝙏𝘼

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙥 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙨 𝙖 𝙙𝙖𝙮. . .

𝘿𝙀𝙎𝙄𝙍𝙀 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃𝙊𝙐𝙏 𝙍𝙀𝙎𝙏𝙍𝘼𝙄𝙉𝙏

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙙𝙤𝙤𝙧, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙨 𝙤𝙛𝙛

𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙏𝙒𝙊: 𝘿𝙊𝙉𝙏 𝙁𝙊𝙍𝙂𝙄𝙑𝙀 𝙈𝙀

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙣 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙡

𝙏𝙄𝙈𝙀 𝙄𝙎 𝙀𝙉𝘿𝙇𝙀𝙎𝙎

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙢𝙞𝙩 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝗲

𝙎𝙀𝘾𝙍𝙀𝙏𝙎 𝘼𝙇𝙒𝘼𝙔𝙎 𝘾𝙊𝙈𝙀 𝙊𝙐𝙏

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙨 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙞𝙙𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙡𝙮 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪

𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝙀𝙍 𝙄𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙉𝙎𝙃𝙄𝙋

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙣 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙥𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙣𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙈𝙚𝙩𝙧𝙤𝙥𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙥𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙪𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙧

𝙄𝙉𝙏𝙊𝙓𝙄𝘾𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙉𝙂

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙩 𝙙𝙞𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙣𝙤𝙧𝙢𝙖𝙡

𝘽𝙀𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙎𝙀𝙀𝙉

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙗𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙞𝙩 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙠𝙨

────୨ৎ────

[the-ghost-bird]

How Do I Break You Before You Break Me?

Part XVI - Viscous

Bullseye x Reader

Summary: The bullseye on Dex's forehead bleeds.

Word count: 1.5K

Previously

Y/N shoves the door open with an unintentional force that makes both Dex and herself flinch. When Dex turns to look, her mouth opens, ready to apologize, but she ends up staying quiet.

The vultures stay in the bathroom, but the flies followed her out. She hasn't hallucinated in years; Even underground, she held control over her mind, and losing it when she could breathe fresh air was the last thing she needed.

It's not real, she repeats internally.

But then Dex approaches. And the carved flesh of his forehead starts seeping black and blue.

It's thick as molasses, dragging slowly down the skin, but the spontaneous bleeding draws no reaction from him.

Because it's not real.

Don't think about it.

Get back control.

Act normal.

Talk.

Yet, she stays stuck in place. Staring.

Dex can see the distress in her paralyzed form, in the way she pulls the towel tighter around herself.

"Are you okay?" He reaches out for her. Their fingers meet, then entertwine. And the viscous liquid reaches his brows.

She should tell him, spell out exactly what's wrong. She should yell, say something like 'you don't know what you've done'. But would he even listen? She's exposed, but can he see the truth? Or is he too caught up on what he wants her to be?

"I'm fine." Is all she can manage before having to avert her gaze.

It's easier to focus on the room.

Dex used the time she spent spiraling to clean. It wasn't perfect but it was as good as he could get under the circumstances. The floors are clear from any broken glass or dried blood. With some focus, one could see there was faint discoloring on the wood. But there's hope it will go unnoticed or that, at worst, Earl will confuse them for coffee stains, a normal hazard with the occasional clumsy guests.

Dex also made the bed and left fresh clothes for her folded on the edge. The duffles were zipped up and neatly tucked by the door, as if ready to-

DRAG YOU BACK

"We're not going back." She blurts, looking back at him.

"I know." His fingers tighten on hers, some of the blue getting into his eyes.

It's not real.

Don't pull back.

Just stay calm.

You need control.

You-

Her thoughts come to a halt when thick arms circle around her. Y/N stops breathing for a second before finally, finally leaning into the hug. It shouldn't help with calming down, it shouldn't help with slowing down a racing heart or soothing fear.

But it does.

"Don't walk around barefoot." He warns. "There's probably glass shards I didn't catch."

She hums in understanding, hating how genuine the worry sounds.

"Do you regret it, Y/N? Is that-"

"Don't start." She cuts, trying to keep her voice firm. "Not now." And to her surprise, Dex actually listens.

But silence proves to be more dangerous; it gives space for the smell of temptation to invade her senses like burnt sugar. And suddenly, all she can think about is how soft and warm he isl.

"I care about you." He whispers, tightening the embrace.

She's got half a mind to go back on her word, to tell him yes, to put his fingers to work until he learns to spill something new out of a body.

But desire isn't enough to sweep this mess under the rug.

"I know." She answers, placing a hand of his chest to signal for space. When they part, his face reveals itself to be clean, black and blue gone. Dex frowns at her relieved sigh, but she moves to get dressed before he can comment on it.

She unwraps the towel around her body, handing it to him. There's no shame in the nudity, they're far past that. But there's memory in it; The early days of capture, before the cuffs got taken off, back when hygiene meant Dex helping.

Don't think about it.

He stays close while she pulls on a long sleeve and sweatpants. There's something in his tense form, an expectation he struggles to voice.

Give him something.

Don't run.

He'll drag you back.

"I want to regret it." She speaks up, pausing for a second to process the truth before it's thrown in the air. Then: "I want to. But I can't."

It hurts to admit, but it has Dex lighting up with hope and shifting to that wickedly sweet tone.

"This. Us. We're not wrong." He closes the distance again, hands cupping her face. "You know that, right?"

She inhales slowly, makes sure her is breathing is steady, and pushes the buzzing flies to the back of her mind.

The lack of response doesn't seem to stress him much; he's happy with breadcrumbs, at least for now. He leans in, presses a kiss to her temple, and lingers far longer than needed.

When he pulls away, he reaches for a jacket by the door. 

"I'm gonna get us breakfast." He smiles, as if his appearance isn't a mess.

"What? Hey! Absolutely not. You think I'm letting you leave with your face carved up?"

"I can go."

"No! And why didn't you bandage it or something?"

"It's from you." He explains, having the audacity to look like a kicked dog. "Didn't want to hide it."

"... fuck." she breathes, trying to not get caught in that rabbit hole. "Don't talk like that."

"I don't care about it or if anyone sees." He shrugs it off, turning for the door handle.

"Dex." Her voice turns to steel, making him freeze on the spot. "You wanted me to be in control, right?"

His breath gets a hint heavier, but there's no response.

Hands reach for him with a roughness she's grown too comfortable with, turning him around by the shoulder before shoving for extra measure.

"Are you fucking deaf? I'm talking to you." She raises her voice. "You want me to be in control. Right?!"

He nods affirmatively, quick and eager, pupils dilated to high hell. But it's not enough.

"Say it." She growls.

"... want you in control."

"Then stay." She orders, grabbing the jacket from his hand. "I'll go."

.

.

.

She slams the door behind her before the moment could drag further.

Stepping outside feels crossing an invisible threshold. She has to blink a few times, mind lagging a beat as the senses try to recalibrate to the world around and stitch it back to her reality. Being underground may have fucked with her sense of space and freedom, but there's no time to dwell on it.

The small cafeteria is emptier than usual.

There's no personnel at the serving station, reflecting a local, out-of-season assurance that no one will pick up more than their share, or that no wanderers will steal the food without paying for the night. Not that weak coffee and cold breakfast are all that appealing, but still.

It's empty aside from the hiker sitting at the center table and a passerby sipping coffee by one of the exits. It's a blessing there's few people to avoid, lest she wants to feel the judging stares of outsiders.

She walks up to one of the stations. The pancakes look decent, and- are they seriously out of maple syrup? She contemplates going to the souvenir store and grabbing those overpriced Boar's Head sandwiches from the mini-fridge. That could work. And afterwards, she'd have to make a real plan.

Hallucinations coming back are a sign she can't afford to stay in limbo anymore. She had to be rational, stay in control, and figure out where to go from here.

Maybe they can travel farther north, burn fuel to buy time, use the miles to think on what she wants. Maybe they can stop at a campsite. Maybe they can talk; Genuinely talk, without tearing each other apart. She can ask him questions, find what he wants too and start planning from there, maybe-

"Y/N?" She snaps around at the sound of her name leaving a stranger's mouth.

The passerby, a tall and dark man, is too close. Y/N's eyes dart around the room, scanning a second time, but the hiker from before is gone.

"My name's Curtis." He's quick to appease, lifting his hands in the air to signal peace. "Frank sent me."

That's when her brain short-circuits.

Before she can come up with words and press for explanations, Curtis places a pill on the counter.

"Drop that in some coffee and give it Bullseye." He instructs, tone hushed but... kind. "After he's knocked out, meet Frank down the trail by the creek."

He turns.

Walks away.

Disappears out the exit like he was never even there.

Gone before she can utter a single word.

The little tablet, white and round with no identifiable imprints, stares at her.

A/N: Finally... we're getting somewhere. Tagging my babes again bc i love yall (and lmk if you still want to be tagged so i know I'm not bothering 🫶🏽) @unsociableraccoon @efiask @shush0-0 @lovinglyjollytrap @in-heavens-trenches @kittyycrisis @chxrrybomb22 @nanamilkshake @baozhaoxin @daenerystargaryenapologist @star-dusst @killshotx @skylerepost @013282 @pns123tf @sgreer123 @crazydexling @notificationfromcol

Next

[pntdxs]

— Dex drabble .𖥔 ݁ ˖

Dex has a mole on the left side of his face. It's not directly below his eye, rather set high on his cheek closer to his hairline, just at the top of his prominent cheekbone. You adore it.

The first time you really noticed it, you were out with him on a coffee date. After accidentally running into him quite literally during rush hour on a Monday, you just managed to salvage both of your dignities by only spilling a few small drops of your drink on him. Between you spewing out apologies and him taking the situation in stride — which you were eternally grateful for — you managed to convince him to exchange numbers so you could buy him a coffee sometime as a real apology. (The fact that you found him really handsome might have played a part in your insistence too, but he didn't have to know that.) A few days of casual text messages later, you entered one of your favourite cafés in the area with Dex by your side. You did not want to call it a date, not when neither of you ventured into that territory yet, but with the way you two seemed to just click and how easily the conversation flowed, you started treating it as one in your head. There was no harm in giving it a different name rather than calling it an apology coffee, you justified yourself.

Finding an empty table at a somewhat secluded part of the café gave you the perfect view of him. Dex sat with his back turned to the big windows behind him, and while it provided him with the opportunity to watch the entrance and other customers, you could admire him freely without any interruptions. In the early afternoon hour, the Sun was just beginning to shine through the panes of glass, bathing Dex in an almost ethereal glow. That was when you noticed the little dot on his left cheek, when he turned his face to take a sip of his coffee and the sunshine hit his profile just right. He looked nothing less than gorgeous in the light, his blondish hair almost golden and hazel eyes turning into a warm color akin to honey.

You're not sure why out of all of his features, the little mole was what captivated you the most. Maybe it was because it gave a sort of softness to the otherwise harsh lines of his face, even though sometimes it also had the opposite effect when the lighting caught his profile in an angle and put emphasis on his strong cheekbone. Whatever the reason was, you couldn't help but stare at it every time you got to meet him in person.

As your relationship progressed with time, so did the physical contact between you. Shy, almost cautious touches turned into gentle hugs, which then changed into holding hands when you were together. Soon, this led you to break the unsaid boundary and peck his cheeks in greeting, and that quickly turned into a thing you did routinely. It wasn't long before you ended up giving him a real kiss, and there was no going back after that.

Still, you developed a habit during this process; you often planted kisses on his face, as a greeting, as a thank you, as just a casual display of affection. You were very specific about it too: you always aimed for the little dot on his left cheek. Dex seemed almost bashful about the attention you regularly gave to his face. Whenever you stared at that one spot a little too long, caressed his cheek, or complimented the mark, he more often than not ducked his head and avoided eye contact. It was easy to see the red creeping onto his ears and face because of his pale skin, and it made you smile every time. His reactions were terribly endearing and they just made you want to tease him until he turned scarlet all over.

Had FBI!Dex in mind while writing this ᡣ𐭩

[a3zore]

#BENJAMIN POINDEXTER X READER ➽──❥ OPTION TWO

synopsis stalker!Dex shows up to your restaurant after you got stood up by your date.

cw: cursing, reader is a dumbass who entertains stalkers, slight mentions of stalking

a/n: HIII ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵) this is my first post on here! I decided that instead of just reading all these amazing fics on this platform I might as well post some myself! Hope you like it⋆˙⟡

p.s! don't mind if there are any errors i'm still quite new to this lol.

You wanted to sink into that expensive velvet chair and disappear.

It was so embarrassing. After weeks of being cooped up in your apartment. You finally decided to give the guy you met on Tinder a chance. A terrible idea in hindsight-- who even goes on Tinder dates anymore?

Of course, Dex hated the idea the second you mentioned it.

You really couldn't care less what he thought.

The two of you had been talking for months-- if "talking" was even the right word. Dex would text you at odd hours asking how your day went, remind you to eat before you remembered yourself, and somehow always knew when you made it home. You'd long since stopped asking how.

Every now and then he'd even FaceTime you. Sometimes he'd show his face. Other times, he'd flip the camera around and casually point it to your apartment building from somewhere across the street.

It should've terrified you.

Instead, you'd roll your eyes, tell him he was being weird, and go back to complaining about your coworkers.

Dex, on the other hand, refused to call it a date, insisting it was just a “hang out” (he decided to call it that for his own sake) and spent the entire week trying to convince you to stay home instead.

You really should've listened.

────୨ৎ────

“Dex, I even did my fucking hair,” you whined into your phone, slumping over the table in a pathetic attempt to make yourself smaller. This was not how it was supposed to work! You were supposed to be the one ghosting him, not the other way around.

With a groan, you rubbed your temple as your eyes drifted toward the waitress making their way across the dining room.

'They're probably gonna ask me to leave'..

That thought only made your embarrassment worse.

You made a mental note to swear off dating for good.

...Okay, maybe not for good.

On the other side of the phone, Dex was furious. The thought of even leaving an angel like you waiting was something he’d never do.

“Didn't I tell you he was a piece of shit?” he replied flatly.

Balancing his phone between his shoulder and ear, he shoved his feet into his shoes and headed for the door. Within minutes, he was behind the wheel.

He already knew where you were.

Dex had your location for months. He'd even scoped out the restaurant before your reservation.

Just a few safety precautions.

By the time you reached for your purse, deciding you'd suffered enough humiliation for one night, someone slid into the empty seat across from you. Arms folded on the table, he settled in as if he'd been invited.

"Hey sweetheart." I knew that voice.

The dim lighting caught the edge of Dex's knowing smirk as though he belonged here all along. You just stared at him, blinking once.

Then twice. "...How did you know I was here?" A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, "I know a lot of things." He had the sheer audacity to grab your glass of water, taking a sip exactly where your lips made that sheer lipstick stain. A subtle claim in which you didn't bother correcting. "I also know that he left you sitting here for.." Dex checked the watch on his wrist. "...Forty-three minutes." His eyes swept your outfit. "You got dressed up for that?" "Don't" "No?" He shrugged, "I'm just sayin' if someone dressed up for me the way you did for him, I would never let that offer slip." In defeat, you set your purse on your lap. Leaning back against the chair, bitting the inside of your cheek. He didn't seem like he was leaving anytime soon, and you couldn't waste a perfectly good outfit either. With a sigh, your gaze flickered up towards Dex. "If you're gonna stay and keep talking, then pay for my meal." "Anything you want, princess," He answered rather quickly. A bit to happy to be at your disposal. "Guess that makes me option two."

[gcldie]

Make me feel like I am human — Jacaerys Velaryon

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

The duties of the future heir weigh heavy on Jace’s shoulders.

The desperation to be the perfect prince, to make up for what the realm considers his deficiencies, to be the steady pillar that ought to follow his mother’s rule, all act as a constant reminder to Jace of his precarious position in life.

Jacaerys sometimes wonders if drowning would feel all too different from the heaviness he feels in his chest, the lack of air that makes him feel trapped.

The tomes of Valyrian histories, written in his mother tongue litter the wooden table before him.

The candles burns low, forcing the young prince to squint, eyes growing blurry as he fights against the heavy hold of sleep.

The words before him blur together, stories of Aegon’s conquest swimming in his mind.

The library is quiet, safe for the sound of the wind, the stained glass squeaking from the strain of keeping the cold out.

Jace is close to nodding off again, soft footsteps against the cobblestone rousing him from sleep.

The dark cloak weighs heavy against your frame, the candle in your hand lighting the way only a few steps ahead.

But you don’t need to see clearly to find Jace, having danced through this sequence many times before.

The door creaks under the pressure of your palm, as you push into the library.

Jace’s head lifts from his palm, eyes finding your figure instantly.

“You are awake.” He notes, voice tired, heavy with a pain you’re desperate to ease.

“As are you.” You smile kindly, nearing the table he’s spread his books over. “Yet again.”

Jace’s lips twitch, recognising the familiar tone of judgement you inherited from your mother.

“I have to study.” He says, fighting back a yawn.

Your laugh echoes softly through the room, bouncing off the walls until it cements itself in Jace’s memory.

“You have done enough studying for tonight, no?”

You reach for him when you’re near enough to touch, fingers threading through his dark curls, as he leans into your touch.

“There is no such thing as enough studying.” His voice is soft as he looks up at you, brown eyes painted almost black in the dim light.

“Spoken like a true prince.” You smile down at him, leaning against the edge of the wooden table. “What are you reading about tonight?”

You look back at the old book, eyes scanning over High Valyrian text.

“Aegon’s conquest.” Jace says, resting his head over the cloak, against your stomach.

“Ah.” Your tongue clicks. “And what have you learnt?”

He sighs.

“That my Valyrian is not as good as I had hoped.”

The giggle that rips from your throat rings loud and true in the quiet space and Jace cannot help the satisfaction that fills his chest at the sound.

“That simply cannot be true.” Your voice deepens as your mother tongue slips from your mouth. “You speak it so fluently.”

“I know enough to converse with you, sweet girl.” He says, looking up at you again.

“That is more than enough for me, my prince.” Your hand slips down to his neck, pulling his head back as you lower your own face, lips meeting his softly.

Jace sighs against your lips, hands slipping through the opening of your cloak and finding their rightful place over the dips of your waist.

It takes you longer than you’d anticipated to pull back, the taste of him intoxicating.

Jace barely gives you time to recover from the kiss, before he’s pulling you down, sitting you atop his lap.

Your laughter is muffled by his hair as he buries his face into the crook of your throat, nose brushing against the soft skin.

“We ought to go to bed.” You muse as your fingers slip into his hair, scratching his scalp.

“I need to read.”

“You are half asleep.” You say, pulling at his hair softly.

Jace just hums against your skin.

“Still need to read.”

Your annoyed breath tangles in his hair, his long fingers slipping down to your covered thigh, gripping you through the light fabric of your nightgown.

“You can read on the morrow, when there is light and you are not fighting sleep on every page.”

He doesn’t answer.

You try to fight the shudder the passes through you when his lips move against the sensitive skin of your throat, the action performed half-consciously by the dark haired prince.

“You smell wonderful.” His voice is rough to your ears, lips kissing up the column of your throat.

“Yes, I bathe. Unlike some people.” He huffs a laugh against you, hand slipping from your back up your spine until it tangles in your hair.

“I bathe.” He protests weakly.

“Once a moon, mayhaps.”

You swallow the sound that tries to leave your lips when he tugs at your hair lightly.

You pull back from him and try not to laugh at his whiny sound of protest.

“Come to bed.” Your palm rests against his pale cheek, thumb stroking the alabaster skin.

“Soon.” He leans into your touch without thought.

“Now.” You try to make your voice stern, exhaustion fighting with your resolve.

Jace looks down at his books, ready to protest again.

You lean down, lips brushing his softly first before kissing him properly.

He hums softly against your lips, as both your hands caress his face.

Jace’s grip on you tightens, pulling you closer until your chests are pressed tightly against one another, breathing each other’s air.

His hand in your hair slips down to your neck, angling your head so he can kiss you more comfortably, tongue lapping at your lips until your mouth parts, inviting him in.

His tongue is hot in your mouth, the dragon blood that courses through his veins evident in every part of him.

You sigh against his mouth, lips moving in tandem with his until the threat of suffocation grows too serious and you’re forced to part.

His breath is hot against your skin, the rapid rise and fall of his chest matching your own.

“Come back with me.” High Valyrian slips through your lips again. “Come to bed, my love.”

Jace looks down at his books and looks back up at your pleading gaze.

“One more kiss.” He all but whispers to you, the language heavy and ancient against his tongue. “One more kiss and I’ll come.”

You sigh in mock-exasperation and cannot help the love that spreads beneath your ribs when he smiles, eyes creasing at the action.

“One more.” You warn and Jace nods before covering your lips with his, hand slipping into your hair again.

His mouth is hot and heavy against yours, kiss filled with a passion Jace thought his exhaustion had dulled within him.

Your hands grip his face tighter, pulling him closer until all he can feel and smell and see is you, you, you.

His tongue laps at yours again, teeth scraping against the softness of your lips.

You shudder under his touch, fingers slipping into his hair to pull softly at the curls.

You swallow the quiet moan that falls from Jace’s mouth at the action, noses bumping against one another.

The stubble that grows over his jaw grazes the pads of your fingers, tickling the skin there when your grip on his face tightens.

You hadn’t realised just how much you missed the feeling of his skin against yours, as Jace’s duties doubled and responsibilities began weighing heavier.

His hand tightens over your thigh, pulling you so close, you can feel his heart beat in tandem with yours.

“I have missed you.” His voice is soft and deep, the words falling from his mouth between the kisses he peppers against the skin of your face.

“And I, you.” He hums against you, lips closing over your jaw, sucking at the skin there.

“You are right.” He says, placing a kiss to the edge of your mouth. “We ought to go to bed.”

You smile down at him, big brown eyes looking up at you.

Jace pays little mind to the books scattered across the wooden places as he blows out the candle, hand holding tightly onto yours.

The heavy doors of the library close behind him as you lead him out into the familiar halls of Dragonstone.

The walk to your chambers is short and when the doors open, the dimly lit candles drenching you in an elysian light, Jace feels, for once, free of every responsibility, his only purpose in life — keeping you content and by his side.

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

yes, i did google the proper use of the em dash, so what 🤨

[brunettemarionette]

valentine date planner please? Something with John Shelby, a soft kind of date with this prompt "i've thought about doing this for a long time" from the new intimacy

title; want you

pairing; john shelby x fem!reader

prompt/s; "i've thought about doing this for a long time" — new intimacy prompt list

​🇵​​🇪​​🇦​​🇰​​🇾​ ​🇧​​🇱​​🇮​​🇳​​🇩​​🇪​​🇷​​🇸​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​​​ | 🇲​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | 🇳​​🇦​​🇻​​🇮​​🇬​​🇦​​🇹​​🇮​​🇴​​🇳

The evening air in Birmingham carried the faint tang of coal smoke, but here in Cannon Hill Park the world felt softer. The sun had dipped low, painting the sky in bruised pinks and golds over the distant factory chimneys. Gas lamps along the winding paths flickered to life one by one, their warm glow catching on the leaves of the horse chestnuts that lined the way.

You walked arm-in-arm with John Shelby, his wool coat brushing against your sleeve, the brim of his flat cap tilted just so. He’d surprised you an hour earlier, appearing at your door in his best shirt, insisting the family business could wait one bloody night.

The park wasn’t crowded this late. A few couples lingered on benches, an old man fed crumbs to pigeons near the bandstand, its ironwork still strung with faded bunting from some summer fête. The boating lake reflected the last of the light, calm as glass.

John’s usual swagger had eased into something gentler. He kept stealing glances at you, like he was still half-convinced you’d vanish if he looked away too long.

“Been thinking,” he said after a stretch of comfortable silence, voice low enough that only you could hear. “I’ve thought about doing this for a long time.”

You tilted your head, catching the faint scent of his cologne, something sharp and woody, undercut by cigarette smoke. “Doing what? Walking?”

He chuckled, the sound rough but warm. “Nah. Taking you somewhere proper. Not the Garrison with the lads shouting over the piano, not some backroom deal. Just… this.” He gestured vaguely at the path ahead, the trees arching overhead like a cathedral. “You in a pretty dress. Me not having to watch my back every second.”

Your heart gave a small, unsteady flip. John Shelby wasn’t one for poetry, but the way he said it—quiet, almost reverent—felt more intimate than any flowery declaration.

You squeezed his arm. “I like the Garrison sometimes. But this is nice.”

He stopped beneath a lamp, turning to face you fully. The light caught the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar near his eyebrow from some scrap years ago. His eyes—those bright, mischievous blue eyes—held yours without flinching.

“Yeah?” he murmured. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve been turning it over in my head for months. Every time I saw you behind the bar, or passing in the lane, I thought… one day I’m gonna get her alone. No interruptions. No fucking business.”

A small laugh escaped you. “Romantic.”

“I’m trying,” he said, grinning crookedly. One hand came up to brush a stray lock of hair from your cheek, his thumb lingering against your skin longer than necessary. “Not my strong suit. Tommy’s the one with the grand plans. Arthur’s the loud one. Me… I just know I want this. Want you.”

The words hung between you, simple and unguarded. New. The two of you had flirted for ages—quick glances, teasing remarks over pints, his hand brushing yours when he passed you a drink—but this felt like crossing a line you’d both been toeing for too long.

You stepped closer, the front of your dress brushing his coat. “Then do something about it, John Shelby.”

His grin softened into something hotter, more deliberate. He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t.

When his lips met yours, it was careful at first, like he was afraid of breaking whatever fragile thing had just sparked between you. Then his hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, and the kiss deepened. Warm. Hungry. His mouth tasted faintly of whiskey and tobacco, familiar in the best way.

You felt his fingers flex against the fabric of your dress, respectful but wanting, the suggestion of more lingering in the way he held you, like he was memorizing every inch.

When you finally parted, both breathing a little harder, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Christ,” he muttered, half-laughing. “Been dreaming about that too.”

You smiled, cheeks warm. “Worth the wait?”

“Every damn second.” He stole another quick kiss, lighter this time, then tucked your hand back into the crook of his elbow. “Come on. Let’s keep walking before some copper decides we’re up to no good.”

You laughed softly as you resumed your stroll, the path curving toward the lake. The lamps glowed brighter now, stars beginning to prick the darkening sky above the city haze.

John hummed under his breath, a half-remembered tune from the music hall, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your knuckles.

For once, the world beyond the park railings didn’t matter. No races, no coppers, no rival gangs. Just the two of you, the soft night air, and the quiet promise of whatever came next.

[bambiisin]

„If I see you again.“

What if you betrayed Alfie.

The office smelled like tobacco, rum, and rain.

You stood in the middle of it, hands trembling at your sides, while the man behind the desk looked like he’d aged ten years in ten minutes.

Alfie Solomons leaned forward slowly, both palms pressed flat against the wood as if the table itself was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Right,” he muttered, voice thick with restrained fury. “Right, here’s what we’re gonna do, love.”

You turned to face him.

That was a mistake.

Because the second your eyes met his, something ugly twisted in his chest. Not just anger. Not just betrayal.

Hurt.

God, he hated that look on your face.

That wounded, pleading look, like he’d just kicked a stray dog in the street.

Alfie scoffed and dragged a hand across his beard.

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t you start with that, alright? I ain’t got the stomach for it.”

Silence filled the room except for the distant crash of waves against the docks outside.

You swallowed. “Alfie.“

“NO.”

His fist slammed down on the desk hard enough to rattle the glasses.

The sudden shout made you flinch.

“Don’t you Alfie me,” he growled. “You had your turn speakin’, didn’t you? When you were runnin’ off to your little copper friends, yeah?”

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t..”

“Oh, spare me.”

He laughed bitterly, pacing away from the desk now, limping slightly as he moved across the room.

“You think I’m stupid, do ya?” he said, pointing at you. “You think I don’t notice a few officers suddenly knowing a bit too much about my shipments? My warehouses? My bloody schedules?”

He paused.

His voice dropped.

“And funny enough… that all started happenin’ right about the time you came into my life.”

The words landed like stones.

You shook your head quickly. “That’s not proof.”

Alfie’s jaw clenched.

“Proof?” he repeated softly.

Then he laughed again, but there was no humor in it.

“Darlin’, in my world we don’t bloody wait for proof.”

He stopped pacing.

For a moment, he just stared at you.

And for a second , just a second ,the anger in his eyes cracked.

Because he remembered the first night he saw you.

Too bright. Too kind. Too bloody perfect.

He remembered the way you laughed when he told some ridiculous story about Camden. The way you’d sit in his office chair like you owned the place. The way you’d press your forehead to his when you thought he was worrying too much.

He remembered thinking.This one’s dangerous.

Not because you were a spy.

Because he loved you.

And love made men weak.

Even men like him.

Across the city, Tommy Shelby had warned him about that very thing.

Alfie scoffed under his breath at the memory.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Tommy was right.”

Your voice trembled. “About what?”

“That I’m goin’ soft.”

His eyes hardened again.

“So here’s what’s gonna happen,” he said, pointing toward the door.

“You’re gonna leave.”

Your stomach dropped.

“And you’re not comin’ back.”

“Alfie….”

“You’re gonna go to that boss of yours,” he continued, voice growing colder with each word, “and you’re gonna tell him to fuck right off. Tell him Alfie Solomons says hello while you’re at it.”

You took a step toward him.

He stepped back immediately.

The movement cut deeper than anything he’d said.

“Because if I see you again,” he said quietly, “I hope God above stops me from stranglin’ the life outta you.”

The room fell silent.

You stared at him like you’d been shot.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he looked away.

“Now go,” he muttered.

“I’m not givin’ you another chance, love.”

Your lips parted like you wanted to argue.

To explain.

To beg.

But the look on his face stopped you.

It wasn’t just anger anymore.

It was grief.

Slowly, you turned and walked toward the door.

Each step echoed across the wooden floor.

Alfie kept his back turned.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

The door creaked open.

Cold sea air rushed in.

You hesitated for half a second.

Then you left.

The door clicked shut behind you.

And Alfie stood there, staring at the wall.

A thought crept into his mind like poison.

What if she didn’t do it?

What if someone had framed you?

What if the real spy was still out there?

His stomach twisted.

But he shoved the thought down immediately.

Too late now.

He’d already done what needed doing.

Because if he let you stay…

If you looked at him like that again…

He might forgive you.

And that, Alfie Solomons knew, would destroy him far quicker than betrayal ever could.

[brunettemarionette]

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐬

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐲

He notices you long before he admits it to himself. At first, you’re just an inconvenient detail— his new ally’s niece, the woman he absolutely should not be watching across crowded rooms. But then he starts memorizing how you hold eye contact with him instead of looking away, and that is where the trouble begins.

Thomas reacts to wanting you by becoming colder, not warmer. Every clipped answer, every narrowed glance, every sudden exit from a conversation is him trying to put distance between himself and the thing he knows could become dangerous.

He tells himself it’s strategy. He convinces himself that asking where you are, who you were seen with, whether you got home safely, those are business questions. They stop sounding like business the moment he starts asking them twice.

You would catch him studying you when he thinks you aren’t looking. Not with obvious softness, but with that sharp, unsettling focus that makes you feel like he’s trying to solve you and losing patience because he can’t.

The forbidden part makes him furious with himself. Thomas hates weakness, and falling for you feels exactly like that, an opening someone clever enough could use to put a knife straight through him.

He becomes more protective than he has any right to be. If someone speaks to you disrespectfully, he doesn’t explode publicly. He simply handles it later, quietly, efficiently, and with enough finality that the insult is never repeated.

Around you, his control slips in small ways. He lingers after conversations are over. He lights cigarettes and forgets to smoke them. He says your name like it means more than it should, and both of you hear it.

He would try to push you away first. He’d tell you staying near him is dangerous. He’d say it harshly on purpose, hoping you’ll get angry enough to leave before he loses the ability to let you.

If you challenge him instead of retreating, that’s what ruins him. Thomas is used to fear, obedience, calculation. You standing there, refusing to be intimidated, makes something in him shift permanently.

The first real sign he loves you is not a confession—it’s trust. He starts telling you things he doesn’t tell other people. Not everything, never everything, but enough for you to realize he has quietly made space for you inside the locked rooms of his mind.

He grows territorial in ways he tries very hard to hide. If another man takes too much interest in you, Thomas suddenly appears nearby, saying almost nothing, but making it unmistakably clear that he is paying attention.

When he finally gives in, it happens in a moment of exhaustion. Late at night, after too much blood and too much silence, he looks at you like you are the only peaceful thing left in the world—and that look says more than words ever could.

Loving you means accepting the one truth he hates most: you could destroy him simply by mattering. And once Thomas Shelby realizes he loves you, he knows there is no going back. He will still call you a bad idea but now he’ll say it while standing close enough that neither of you believes he means it.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧

John falls first and realizes it much faster than he wants to. You’re supposed to be off limits—his mate's little sister—but the moment you make him laugh when he’s in a foul mood, he knows he’s in trouble.

His first reaction is denial. He acts louder, flirtier, more reckless around other women, like if he keeps moving fast enough he won’t have to look too hard at why he keeps searching every room for you.

Unlike Thomas, John doesn’t get colder—he gets more restless. He finds reasons to be wherever you are. Suddenly he’s “just passing through” when you visit, or he volunteers for errands no one asked him to do.

He teases you relentlessly because it’s safer than honesty. He likes seeing you roll your eyes, hearing you snap back at him, watching you try not to smile when he says something outrageous just to get a reaction.

The moment someone reminds him you’re off limits, he gets defensive immediately. Not because he means to reveal anything, but because the idea of being told to stay away from you irritates him more than it should.

He becomes absurdly observant about you. John notices when you’re tired, when you’re upset, when you’ve been pretending not to be bothered by something. He acts casual about it, but he notices everything.

If you’re connected to a rival or someone he’s meant to tolerate, the conflict eats at him. John isn’t subtle about emotion, and being forced to act indifferent when he wants to pull you closer makes him sharp-tempered with everyone else.

He gets jealous fast. If another man leans in too close, John’s grin disappears. He won’t always start a fight but he absolutely will plant himself beside you like he belongs there.

Around you, there’s a boyish softness he can’t entirely hide. He brags less when you’re genuinely upset. He checks whether you’re cold. He remembers things you mentioned weeks ago and pretends it was accidental.

The first time he realizes it’s serious is when you’re in danger. That flash of fear hits him so hard it strips away every excuse he’s been using. It’s not attraction. It’s not amusement. It’s love, and he hates how obvious it suddenly feels.

He would probably confess in anger first. Not cruel anger—frustrated, cornered honesty. Something like, “You think I want this? You think I meant for it to be you?”

Once it’s out, John becomes stubborn about it. If you tell him it’s impossible, he’ll argue. If you tell him it’s a terrible idea, he’ll probably agree and then kiss you anyway.

Loving you makes him unexpectedly serious. He still jokes, still grins, still acts impulsive but underneath it is something steadier. If you matter to him, then you’re his choice, and John Shelby has never been good at walking away from what he wants.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥

Michael falls in love quietly, almost academically at first. He notices patterns—how you think before you speak, how your voice changes when you’re irritated, how you never quite behave the way he expects. He tells himself he’s only curious.

Because you’re off limits, he initially treats the attraction like a problem to solve. Distance should fix it. Logic should fix it. A few weeks later he realizes he’s somehow more aware of you than ever.

He becomes more formal around you, not less. Polite, composed, carefully measured. The better he likes you, the more deliberate every word becomes because he is terrified of saying too much.

You would notice him listening to you more closely than anyone else does. He remembers tiny details you assumed he’d forgotten—an offhand complaint, a favorite book, the way you once said you hated being underestimated.

Michael hates that other people could use you against him. The forbidden nature of it makes him cautious in a way that almost looks detached, but the truth is the opposite: he’s being careful because he already cares too much.

If you belong to someone politically inconvenient—an enemy’s daughter, a business partner’s niece—he starts watching every interaction for hidden meaning. Not because he distrusts you, but because he distrusts everyone around you.

He grows jealous in silence. Michael won’t make a scene. He’ll just go quieter, his expression flattening while he watches someone else monopolize your attention.

Around you, he has moments where his composure slips. His gaze lingers too long. His reply comes half a second late. His hand brushes yours and suddenly he forgets the rest of the sentence.

He tries to convince himself that if he never acts on it, it doesn’t count. Then he starts making choices with you in mind, and that’s when he realizes the feeling has already moved past control.

Michael’s protectiveness is subtle but unmistakable. He won’t hover. He won’t order you around. But problems disappear before they reach you, and you slowly realize that isn’t coincidence.

The first time he nearly confesses, it happens in private—late, quiet, when there’s no audience. He says your name differently, softer, and then stops himself because once he starts, he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop.

If you ask him directly, he cannot lie well enough. He might evade, might stall, might look away but the truth is there all over him, and for a man who values control, that vulnerability feels almost unbearable.

When Michael finally accepts he loves you, he becomes determined rather than reckless. He doesn’t want a stolen moment. He wants something real enough to be worth the trouble, and that is when you understand he has already decided you are worth the consequences.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐀𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐞

Alfie realizes he’s falling for you almost immediately, and his first reaction is irritation so profound it borders on personal offense. Out of all the women in the world, it had to be you, the one tied to someone he absolutely should not cross.

He starts talking more when you’re around, not less. Half of it sounds like nonsense, stories, insults, philosophy but underneath all that noise is a man trying very hard not to say the one thing he actually means.

You’d catch him looking at you with unsettling intensity, then saying something deliberately ridiculous the second you notice. Alfie hates being caught in sincerity.

The forbidden part doesn’t scare him morally, it annoys him strategically. He knows exactly how much trouble could come from wanting you, and that only makes him more fascinated by the fact that he wants you anyway.

He becomes infuriatingly attentive. He remembers what tea you prefer, which subjects make you angry, which ones make you laugh, who you dislike and why. He’ll pretend he hasn’t noticed a thing.

Alfie’s version of flirting is verbal warfare. He needles you, provokes you, pushes until you snap back. And every time you do, he looks absurdly pleased with himself.

He becomes very particular about who speaks to you. He’ll act like it’s about politics, appearances, timing. It isn’t.

The moment another man gets too familiar with you, Alfie’s entire mood changes. He doesn’t need to raise his voice. He just says something so calmly threatening that everyone in the room understands perfectly well.

Around you, there are rare flashes of startling gentleness. A chair pulled out before you ask. His coat around your shoulders. A hand at the small of your back guiding you through a crowd like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He tries to warn you away in his own crooked way. Not because he doesn’t want you, but because he does. He knows what proximity to him costs, and for once he isn’t entirely selfish about it.

If you refuse to be pushed away, that’s when he truly loses. There is something about you choosing to stay that cuts straight through every layer of bluff, wit, and menace.

Alfie’s confession would never sound like a confession. It would come out half-angry, half-amused, something rough-edged like, “You are, without question, the worst bloody idea I’ve had in years.” And yet the way he looks at you would make the meaning painfully clear.

Once he loves you, it becomes woven into everything. He still argues, still mocks, still pretends not to care nearly as much as he does but when it matters, when the room turns dangerous, when choices have consequences, you discover there is almost nothing Alfie Solomons won’t do for someone he has let under his skin.

[byorderofana]

Don’t Flinch, Mr. Shelby || Thomas Shelby x Reader

warnings: blood, injury, tension, mild danger

note: Y/n is a nurse and Tommy is far more interested in her than she is willing to be in him.

It was late into the night when you heard the clinic door open, the little brass bell above it ringing quietly through the stillness. You couldn’t help but look up, slightly startled, seeing as no one usually came in at that hour unless there was trouble, drink, blood, or all three.

You had just finished cleaning the examination table from your last patient, a young man who had split his eyebrow open during some foolish fight outside one of the pubs. You were tired, your sleeves rolled up, your apron already marked with faint stains from a long day of work, and all you wanted was a quiet hour before morning came and brought half of Birmingham back through your door.

But then he walked in.

Thomas Shelby.

You knew who he was before he even spoke.

Everyone knew who Thomas Shelby was.

He stood near the door, his dark coat damp from the rain outside, his cap low over his eyes and one hand pressed firmly against his side. Blood had soaked through his shirt, spreading darkly beneath his waistcoat, yet he looked as composed as if he had simply come in to ask for directions.

You looked at the blood first, then at his face.

He looked back at you, waiting.

Perhaps he expected you to gasp. Perhaps he expected you to be afraid. Perhaps he was simply used to women reacting to him in some way.

You did not.

“Sit down,” you said, already turning toward the cabinet for supplies.

Thomas raised his eyebrows slightly, almost as though he was amused.

“I won’t be here long,” he said, his voice low and calm.

“You won’t be anywhere long if you keep bleeding like that,” you replied.

For a moment, he simply watched you. Then, without arguing, he walked over and sat on the edge of the examination table. His movements were careful, although he clearly tried to hide it. You noticed anyway. Men always seemed to think they were better at hiding pain than they actually were.

“Coat off,” you told him.

He looked at you again. “You always speak to patients like that?”

“When they arrive bleeding after midnight, yes,” you said.

Thomas did not smile, not fully, but something shifted at the corner of his mouth. It was small and brief, but you saw it.

He removed his coat slowly, and you took the scissors from the tray beside you before stepping closer. The scent of tobacco, rain, and blood clung to him. He was handsome, you supposed, in the same way people found storms handsome from the safety of a window. Sharp cheekbones, pale blue eyes, a tiredness about him that made him look older than he probably was. There was something dangerous in the stillness of him, something that made the room feel quieter just because he was in it.

You ignored it as best you could.

“Shirt,” you said.

He began to unbutton what he could, but the blood had made the fabric cling to his skin. You sighed quietly and cut through the ruined material instead.

“That was expensive,” he said.

“Then you should’ve avoided getting stabbed in it,” you replied.

His eyes lifted to your face again.

You could feel him watching you as you worked. Not in a vulgar way, which you were used to from men who had too much drink and not enough sense. No, Thomas Shelby looked at you like he was trying to understand something. Like he was looking for a crack in your composure.

You gave him none.

The wound was deep enough to need stitches, but it was not fatal. You cleaned away the blood with a damp cloth, pressing against the injury while he sat almost unnaturally still.

Almost.

You felt the slightest tension go through him when the cloth touched the wound.

“Don’t flinch, Mr. Shelby,” you said quietly.

His eyes snapped to yours.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then he asked, “You know my name?”

“Most people know your name.”

“And yet you tell me what to do.”

“In here, yes.”

Thomas stared at you for a second longer, and you could tell that he was not offended. If anything, he looked more interested than before, which you found rather inconvenient.

You reached for the iodine.

“This will sting,” you told him.

“I’ve had worse.”

“I didn’t ask.”

You poured it over the wound before he could say anything else. His jaw tightened, but he did not make a sound.

You noticed that, too.

“You should have gone to a doctor,” you said.

“I came here.”

“This is a clinic.”

“And you’re a nurse.”

“A tired one.”

That time, he almost smiled again.

You threaded the needle and tried not to think too much about the way his eyes remained on your face instead of your hands. It was unsettling, being looked at like that. Not admired, exactly. Studied. As if every calm breath you took only made him more curious.

“You don’t seem frightened,” he said.

“I’m not frightened of blood.”

“I wasn’t talking about blood.”

You paused only for half a second, then continued preparing the thread.

“No,” you said. “I don’t suppose you were.”

The room went quiet again. Outside, the rain had started to fall harder against the windows, soft but steady. The lamps above you gave the clinic a dull yellow glow, making the blood on your apron look darker than it was.

“You know who I am,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You know what people say about me.”

“Yes.”

“And still nothing?”

You looked at him then, meeting his eyes properly for the first time since he had walked in. They were very blue, colder in the light than you expected, though there was something tired beneath the sharpness. Something buried deep enough that most people probably never saw it.

“I know enough men with reputations, Mr. Shelby,” you said. “Most of them still bleed the same.”

He went still at that.

Not physically, because he had already been sitting quite still, but something in his expression changed. It was subtle, almost impossible to name, but you saw it. Curiosity, perhaps. Or surprise. Maybe both.

You began stitching the wound.

Thomas watched you the entire time.

It should have annoyed you. In truth, it did annoy you. He looked at you as though he expected you to eventually blush, or look away, or soften. But you had treated too many men like him to be easily impressed. Men who carried guns. Men who spoke softly because they knew they did not need to shout. Men who thought danger gave them charm.

You had seen what danger did to people.

You had cleaned it from skin and floors and trembling hands.

So you kept your voice even and your fingers steady.

“You always this calm with injured men?” he asked.

“Only when they sit still.”

“And if they don’t?”

“I make them regret it.”

He looked down at your hands, then back at your face.

“I believe you.”

“You should.”

Before you could finish the next stitch, there was a knock at the door.

You froze.

So did Thomas.

The knock came again, heavier this time, followed by the muffled voice of a man outside.

“Clinic open?”

You looked toward the door, then back at Thomas. His face had changed completely. The quiet interest was gone, replaced by something cold and immediate. His hand moved toward his coat, which you were fairly certain had a gun inside it.

“Don’t,” you said quickly.

His eyes cut to you.

“You don’t know who that is,” he said.

“No, but I know I’m halfway through closing your wound, and if you move now, you’ll bleed all over my floor again.”

He looked almost irritated by how reasonable that sounded.

Another knock came.

You set the needle down carefully and stood. “Stay there.”

Thomas said nothing, but you felt his eyes on you as you walked toward the door.

You opened it only a little, leaving the chain in place.

A man stood outside in the rain, his cap pulled low and his collar turned up. You did not recognize him, but you recognized the type. Birmingham had plenty of them. Men who came to doors after midnight and expected women to move aside simply because they were men.

“We’re closed,” you said.

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Try looking tomorrow.”

His gaze tried to move past you, but you shifted slightly, blocking his view.

“A man came through here,” he said. “Bleeding.”

You gave him a tired look. “This is a clinic.”

His mouth tightened. “This man would’ve been easy to notice.”

“Most men think that about themselves.”

Behind you, Thomas made no sound, but you knew he was listening. You could feel the tension in the room behind your back, quiet and sharp.

The man’s eyes dropped to your apron, where Thomas’s blood had stained the fabric.

“That his?”

You looked down briefly, then back at him.

“It’s blood. In a clinic. Shocking, I know.”

He stared at you for a moment, clearly unsure whether to be angry or suspicious. You held his gaze, refusing to move. Your heart was beating faster than you would have liked, but you refused to let him see that.

Finally, he stepped back.

“Tell Shelby he’s got friends looking for him.”

“I don’t take messages from strange men in the rain,” you said.

Then you shut the door in his face and locked it.

For a moment, you stood there with your hand still on the lock, listening as his footsteps moved away from the clinic. Only when the sound disappeared did you turn around.

Thomas was staring at you.

He had not moved from the table, although one hand was still close to his coat. His shirt was open where you had cut it, the wound half-stitched, his pale skin marked with blood and iodine. Yet despite all of that, he did not look weak.

He looked fascinated.

It was strange, seeing a man like him look at you that way. Not with desire exactly, or at least not only that. It was something quieter. Something more watchful. As though, in the span of a few minutes, you had become a problem he wanted to solve.

You walked back to him and picked up the needle again.

“You bring that sort of trouble everywhere you go?” you asked.

“Not everywhere.”

“Lucky me.”

“You lied for me.”

“I lied for my clinic.”

“That all?”

You glanced at him. “Yes.”

Thomas looked at you as though he did not believe you, but he did not argue.

You finished the stitches in silence. His eyes remained on you the entire time, and though you did your best not to acknowledge it, you could feel every second of it. It was not that he was making you nervous. You would not give him the satisfaction. But his attention had weight to it, and you were aware of it in a way that irritated you.

When you finished, you covered the wound with clean gauze and secured it carefully.

“You need rest,” you said.

“I have business.”

“Then your business will have to wait.”

“It won’t.”

“Then bleed on your business instead of my floor.”

Again, that almost-smile.

“You speak to everyone like this?”

“Only the ones who make my night difficult.”

“And have I?”

“You walked in bleeding, tried to smoke before I could stitch you, nearly reached for a gun while I had a needle in your side, and brought a strange man to my door.”

You tied off the bandage and stepped back.

“So yes, Mr. Shelby. You have.”

He looked down at the bandage, then back at you. His gaze moved slowly over your face, and this time, you had the uncomfortable feeling that he had seen more than you meant to show. Not interest, because you had shown none. Not fear, because you had refused him that as well. But perhaps he saw the effort. The carefulness. The way you kept yourself calm on purpose.

“You’re very controlled,” he said.

“I’m working.”

“No,” he said softly. “That’s not what I mean.”

You looked away first, reaching for a cloth to wipe your hands.

“You’re done,” you said.

Thomas did not move right away.

Most men were eager to leave once the pain had passed. Some thanked you. Some tried to flirt. Some complained about the price. Thomas Shelby simply sat there and watched you clean the tray, as though leaving had become less important than understanding you.

Finally, he stood, slowly enough that you knew the wound hurt more than he wanted to admit.

You pretended not to notice.

He reached into his pocket and placed money on the table.

Too much.

You looked at it, then at him.

“No.”

His brow lowered faintly. “No?”

“You can pay for the bandages. Not my silence.”

The room went very still.

For the first time since he had arrived, you thought you had genuinely surprised him.

His eyes stayed on yours for a moment before he removed some of the money, leaving only what was fair.

“My silence is not for sale,” you added.

“No,” he said quietly. “I can see that.”

He put on his coat carefully, then picked up his cap from the table. You thought he would leave after that, but he paused near the door, one hand resting on the handle.

“What’s your name?”

You stopped.

It should not have surprised you as much as it did.

But it did.

Men like Thomas Shelby did not usually ask for names. They found them out. They had people tell them. They used names as if they were things to own.

But he had asked.

You looked at him for a moment, unsure why the question felt more dangerous than the blood, the gun, or the man outside.

“Y/n,” you said.

Thomas repeated it softly.

Just once.

It sounded different in his voice, and you did not like that you noticed.

You lifted your chin. “Try not to make me regret telling you.”

His mouth curved slightly.

“I’ll try.”

“You’ll fail.”

This time, he did smile, though it was brief and quiet. It suited him too well, which was unfortunate.

He placed his cap on his head, the shadow falling over his eyes again.

“You always this calm around men with guns?” he asked.

You looked at him evenly.

“Only the ones stupid enough to bleed on my floor.”

For a moment, he simply looked at you.

Then he opened the door and stepped out into the rain, the bell above him ringing softly as he left.

You locked the door behind him.

The clinic was quiet again, except for the rain against the windows and the faint dripping of water from the hem of his coat where he had stood. The room still smelled of tobacco, blood, and iodine. His ruined shirt lay in pieces on the tray, and the money he had left sat neatly on the table.

Exactly enough.

Not a penny more.

You hated that he had listened.

You hated even more that you noticed.

With a tired sigh, you rolled your sleeves higher, picked up the cloth, and began cleaning Thomas Shelby’s blood from your floor.

[slvt4agoodstory]

Never.

Synopsis: angst turned comfort. A argument between you and John turns into a need for dependability. Pairing: John Shelby x fem!reader Word Count: 1.5k+ Warnings: Violence (tried not to put a lot). SA! (NOTHING GRAPHIC) use of y/n. cursing. gangs. usual peaky blinder things. pretty short. idk if its actually good lol. ( A/U where John doesn't have children). Masterlist

if these things may trigger you, skip this one. your mental health is important.

   The garrison was packed with drunken men who were looking for a way to escape. You had only come to celebrate some win with the Shelbys. You could smell the overwhelming scent of liquor as you squeezed through the crowd to make your way to the private room. You knew your boyfriend and his family would be in there around this time of night.

“y/n you made it,”  you hear Polly say as you walk through the door. You give her a bright smile, not trying to show your disdain, you were not too fond of the idea of being here at such a late hour. You spot John sitting with his brothers, so you make your way towards him. He sees you and moves to give you room to sit. He slides a drink your way and kisses the top of your head. “Hello sweetheart, what took you so long?” You slide the drink back with a slight shake of your head. “ I was deciding on whether to come or not. Spending my night drinking with a bunch of drunk men isn't necessarily my favorite.”

He rolls his eyes and takes a puff from his cigar. He blows the smoke up, then turns his head towards you. “ It wouldn't hurt you to lighten up for one night.”  This wouldn't have hurt your feelings any other day, but when you had spent the whole day worrying if your husband was gonna come home while working at the same time, this wasn't the ideal night. And maybe you would have loved to celebrate with them and their big win. However, you weren't warned about anything this morning. You woke up bright and early this morning to the sun rising, just like every morning. This morning was different, though, you didn't wake up in John's arms or even beside him. He was gone before you woke. He left with no note or anything. Most people wouldn't have thought too much of this, but when your boyfriend was in the kind of job he was in, you couldn't help but worry. You had even gone to check if he went to work early, but no, he was just gone, without telling you.

“Of course you would say that, John. You've spent the whole day fooling around with your brothers, doing god knows what.” Your voice was laced with anger.  “Fucking hell, y/n, I can't have one good night with you,” he says, raising his voice. “John.” You hear Polly say in a scolding manner. You stand up from your seat and notice all the eyes watching you. “Fine. Since I am such a bother to you, I'll go,”  you start to walk away. “ Fine, maybe I'll be able to enjoy my bloody time.” With that, you walk out into the crowded bar.

You don't make it very far before you bump into a large figure. You look up to see an unfamiliar man standing before you. “ My apologies, sir, I wasn't watching  where I was walking.” You go to move out of the way before you feel his hand grab your arm, you turn quickly to face the stranger. “Maybe you should let me buy you a drink, I think you might need one.” You rip your arm from his grip. “No, thank you, I should head home.” You walk out of his way quickly, not wanting to encounter another interaction with him.

The air was cold, and the only thing lighting the dark Birmingham street was the light glow of the moon. You hated it when you would argue with John; you just wanted him to understand you and your feelings. You understood his busy schedule and all the difficult and dangerous work that came with it. You just couldn't help but feel like you were always pushed to the side, like his work always came before your feelings. You knew it was selfish to think such things, but you wanted to feel wanted. You could feel the tears threatening to fall from your eyes as the harsh wind hit your face. The tears start to fall from your eyes. Your breath begins to become ragged. You stumble on the sidewalk. You notice a nearby alleyway, so you make your way to it. You just needed to catch your breath and calm down.

You slide down the brick wall of the dark alleyway, and you begin to focus on your breath and stop your tears. “Breathe in,….breathe out,….breathe in” you begin to calm yourself down and wipe the tears from your face. “Well, who do we have here?” you hear a deep voice say. You look up and notice the man who stopped you earlier in the bar. Your heart begins to race at the thought of him following you here. You stand up and move quickly to leave. “ I was just on my way home, sir.” he moves to stand in front of you. “ Why, we could have so much fun together.” he grabs both sides of your arms and begins to take steps backwards. “N-no, thank you, sir, I should be on my way,” he pushes you hard against the brick wall you were once crying on. “No, I don't think you'll be going anywhere,” he pulls something out of his pocket, and before you could see what it was, he's putting it against your neck. “I wouldn't move if I were you.” You could feel the cold metal pressed against your neck. He pushes it farther, and you feel a sharp sting. “Please just let me go.” You feel the tears falling down your face once again. “Don't speak.” he presses the knife harder into your neck, and you let out a cry. You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel his hand venture down your body. A sob leaves your mouth when his hand begins to move your dress up. Before he gets too far, you hear the sound of a punch landing on skin. You feel the pressure on your neck lift off; it cuts your shoulder deep in the process, but that is the least of your worries. You open your eyes and see John punching the man who was threatening your life. John's standing over his bloody fist, not stopping to give the man a break. You turn your head away before you can see what he does to the bloody-faced man when he takes off his cap.

Your body shakes from fear, and adrenaline runs through your body. Sobs continue to leave your mouth as you try to find your balance. You feel a hand rest on your shoulder, and your body jolts in response. “It's okay, love, it's just me,you're okay now.” You hear John's warm voice say. You move closer to him, and he pulls you into his body. You sob into his shoulder and grip his shoulder in an attempt to pull him closer. “I've got you, sweetheart. I'm so sorry,” you shake your head. He doesn't let you get a word out before he picks you up bridal style. He carries you the whole way home while whispering “I'm sorry” every so often. You knew this was stressing him out; you felt bad for putting him through so much grief.

He carries you through your home and to your room. He sets you on the bed and begins to take your dirtied clothes off. “I'm sorry , John,” you mumble as he slips your dress off. He cups your cheek with his hand and tilts your head to look up at him. “Don't apologize, none of this is your fault, you shouldn't have ever let you walk home by yourself.” he takes your jewelry off, then walks to the bathroom to put them away. You feel yourself zone out, your mind buzzing with the events that went down throughout the night. Before long, John comes out of the bathroom. “I ran you a bath, you need to get cleaned up, and I need to clean your neck,” he says as he helps you stand from the bed. As you enter the bathroom, you glance up at the mirror. You notice the large gash on your neck and shoulder. The mascara you were once wearing has smeared down your cheeks, and your face was swollen and red. “Come on, love.”  John guides you to the bathtub that was now full of water. He helps you get into the water and begins to help you wash your hair and body. When the soap is all rinsed off, he helps you out and helps you into your robe.

“Come sit,” he says, pointing to the bed. He gets the first aid kit that is usually used for whatever injuries he comes home with. “Look up,” he says as he begins to clean the wounds on your upper body. “Thank you,” you mutter out.  He doesn't reply with words, but he kisses the top of your forehead. When he's done, he lets you get comfortable under the blankets. He undresses, leaving him only in his boxers, and gets comfortable on the other side of you. He pulls you close to his body. “I love you so much. I will never let someone hurt you, no matter what,” he whispers in your ear. “I love you too,” you whisper back.

@covenientblog @ilyrianbrat @sweetypien @asongofmarvelanddc @danycrum @moon-eclipse89 ( I promised to tag if I posted any peaky blinders fics )

[byorderofana]

Before I Knew Your Name Pt. 2

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Thomas Shelby x fem!reader

☾ Warnings: gang-related violence, gun violence, blood and injury mentions, threats/intimidation, forced confinement, reader being grabbed/physically restrained, Sabini being possessive and controlling, family used as leverage, power imbalance, reader feeling trapped, implied violence, smoking/alcohol, protective Tommy, dangerous attraction.

☾ Tags: @spn-reader,@itsnotthatbad-g,@unlearnthehate

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ───────────── ⋅ ˚₊‧☽

By morning, you knew Sabini knew.

He did not say it outright. Men like him rarely did when silence could do the work better. He only watched you from behind his desk with a calmness that made every ordinary movement feel like a mistake waiting to happen. When you poured his coffee, his eyes stayed on your hands. When you crossed the room to fetch a ledger, he paused mid-conversation until you returned. When one of his men entered with news from the docks, Sabini told you to stay instead of dismissing you.

That was how you knew.

He wanted you close enough to frighten.

Close enough to remind you that whatever small betrayal he suspected, he still had the room, the men, the locks, the streets outside, and every name attached to yours.

You stood beside his desk for most of the morning with a pencil in your hand and a notebook open to a blank page. No one asked you to write anything down. That was part of the punishment too. Uselessness made visible. Your body placed in the room like an object he had not yet decided what to do with.

Sabini spoke with three men about the warehouse attack as if discussing bad weather.

“Three gone,” one of them said, his voice low. “Rocco’s jaw is broken. He says they knew.”

Sabini glanced at you.

You did not move.

“Knew what?” Sabini asked.

“The route. The hour. Everything.”

Sabini leaned back in his chair, rubbing his thumb slowly against his lower lip. He looked almost amused, which was worse than anger.

“Then someone has been generous with information.”

No one in the room looked at you, but somehow all of them did.

You kept your eyes on the edge of the desk, focusing on a small scratch in the wood where the polish had worn thin. Your hands stayed folded. Your face stayed calm. Sabini had taught you that calmness was safety, and you hated him for making you so good at it.

“People talk,” one of the men said.

“Yes,” Sabini replied softly. “People do.”

His gaze moved to you again.

“Y/n.”

Your spine straightened. “Yes?”

He smiled. “You’re very quiet today.”

“I didn’t know you needed me to speak.”

“No,” he said, still smiling. “I don’t.”

The men laughed, not because it was funny, but because Sabini had made room for them to.

Your throat tightened.

He looked away from you then, dismissing you without words, and continued his conversation. But the damage had been done. He had reminded everyone in that room that your silence belonged to him too.

You thought of Thomas Shelby waiting outside the church the night before, rain on his coat, his eyes steady on yours as he told you he could move your mother and brother. You had wanted to believe him, and that was the part that frightened you most. Not the danger. Not even Sabini. You had lived with danger long enough for it to become a room you knew how to walk through.

Hope was worse.

Hope made you careless.

By noon, Sabini gave you a list of letters to post, then took them back before you reached the door.

“Actually,” he said, folding them neatly, “Marco can handle that.”

You turned back. “Of course.”

“And the afternoon meetings,” he added, looking down at his papers, “you’ll sit in.”

“I usually file during the afternoon.”

“You’ll sit in.”

The finality in his voice left no space for argument.

You nodded.

Sabini looked up again, and this time the smile was gone. “You understand why, don’t you?”

Your fingers curled once at your side. “No.”

A lie. A poor one.

He stood slowly.

The room seemed to grow smaller whenever he moved toward you. You hated that too, hated that your body understood him before your pride could refuse to.

“You have been distracted,” he said.

“I haven’t.”

“No?” He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the cigar smoke in his jacket. “Thomas Shelby comes to London, and suddenly you become forgetful. Papers misplaced. Doors left open. Eyes wandering.”

“My work is still done.”

Sabini’s mouth twitched. “That is not the same as loyalty.”

You lifted your chin before you could stop yourself. “I never promised you loyalty.”

The room went still.

It was a foolish thing to say.

You knew it the moment it left your mouth.

Sabini stared at you for a long second, then laughed quietly through his nose. Not enough to ease the tension. Just enough to make it humiliating.

“No,” he said. “Your father promised it for you.”

Your chest tightened.

He saw that. Of course he did.

“He borrowed more than he could ever repay, and when he died, he left me with a debt and a daughter with pretty eyes.” His gaze moved over your face with a cold sort of ownership. “I gave you work. I gave your mother a roof when no one else cared if she froze. I kept your little brother from men who would have found more painful uses for him than running messages.”

You swallowed, but said nothing.

Sabini leaned closer.

“And now Birmingham looks at you once, and you think you can forget who kept you alive?”

You wanted to tell him survival was not the same as mercy. You wanted to tell him a cage with a blanket in it was still a cage. You wanted to say Thomas Shelby had not looked at you once. He had looked at you like recognition could hurt.

Instead, you said, “I haven’t forgotten anything.”

Sabini studied you.

Then his hand lifted, slow enough that you had time to flinch but not enough space to hide it. His fingers brushed your cheek, almost tenderly. The touch made your stomach turn.

“Good,” he said. “Because I would hate to remind you.”

He stepped back, returning to his desk as if nothing had happened.

You stood there for a moment, blood loud in your ears.

Then the office door opened.

Marco entered, rain on the shoulders of his coat. He glanced at you before looking at Sabini.

“It’s done,” he said.

Sabini did not look surprised. “Both?”

Marco hesitated.

Your breath caught before you knew why.

“The boy, no,” Marco said. “He was gone before we got there.”

Your whole body went cold.

Sabini’s eyes lifted slowly to yours.

“Gone?” he asked.

Marco shifted. “Rooms empty. Someone moved quick.”

Sabini looked at you for a long, silent moment.

Your brother.

Tommy had moved your brother.

The thought struck so suddenly you nearly reached for the desk to steady yourself. You had given him the address. Written it down with shaking hands after leaving him by the church. You had not truly believed anything would happen by morning. Men promised things all the time. They promised safety, protection, money, love. Most of it turned to smoke as soon as it became inconvenient.

But Tommy had moved him.

Your brother was gone.

Safe, maybe.

Sabini knew it too.

His face changed so little that anyone else might have missed it, but you had spent years learning the weather of his moods. His anger did not arrive loudly. It sharpened.

“And the mother?” Sabini asked.

Marco’s eyes flicked to you again.

Sabini’s voice dropped. “Speak.”

“Still there.”

The room tilted beneath your feet.

Sabini smiled.

It was small, but it was enough to make you understand.

Your brother was out. Your mother was not.

Tommy had only moved one piece before Sabini closed his fist around the other.

Sabini walked around the desk and stopped near you again. This time he did not touch you. He did not need to.

“See?” he said softly. “This is what happens when people become romantic.”

Your voice came out thin. “Where is she?”

“Your mother?” He tilted his head. “Where she has always been. For now.”

“For now?”

Sabini looked at Marco. “Take Miss Y/n home tonight. Not to her rooms.”

Your heart dropped.

“Where?” you asked.

Sabini turned back to you.

“To her mother.”

For a second, you could not speak.

Then you understood. Not kindness. Not reassurance.

Bait.

Sabini wanted Tommy to come.

He wanted him angry. Hurried. Personal. A man was easier to kill when he stopped thinking like one.

You shook your head once. “No.”

Sabini’s face hardened.

Marco stepped closer.

You stepped back.

It happened quickly after that. Not dramatically, not with the dignity fear sometimes deserved. Marco caught your arm. You twisted hard enough to make him curse, the notebook falling from your hand and sliding beneath the desk. Sabini did not raise his voice. He simply watched as Marco got both hands on you and dragged you toward the door.

“Stop fighting,” Sabini said.

You did not.

Your heel caught on the rug. Your shoulder struck the doorframe. Pain flashed down your arm, sharp and bright, but panic was sharper.

“Sabini,” you snapped, turning your head enough to look at him. “Please.”

You hated the word the second you said it.

His expression softened.

That was worse.

“There she is,” he murmured. “There’s the sensible girl.”

Marco pulled you into the hallway.

You fought until he bent your wrist behind your back and the pain forced the air from your lungs. After that, you went still, breathing hard through your nose while tears burned hot and useless behind your eyes.

You would not cry in Sabini’s hallway.

You would not give him that too.

Outside, London was grey and wet, the kind of afternoon that made the city feel washed in dirty water. Marco shoved you into a motorcar, climbed in after you, and kept one hand locked around your wrist the whole way.

You looked out the window and tried to count streets.

You lost track after four turns.

All you could think was: Tommy moved your brother.

Then: Sabini still has your mother.

Then, much worse: Tommy will come.

And you did not know if that meant rescue or ruin.

Across London, Thomas Shelby stood in a rented room with your mother’s address in one hand and a cigarette burning forgotten in the other.

Arthur was pacing.

John was at the window.

A man Tommy had placed near your rooms had come running twenty minutes earlier, soaked through and out of breath, with the news that Sabini’s men had taken you from the club and moved you east.

Your brother sat in the next room with Finn, terrified but alive. He was younger than Tommy expected. Seventeen, maybe. Thin, dark-eyed, too proud to ask questions even though fear kept pulling his gaze toward the door.

Your mother had not been at the second address by the time Tommy’s men arrived.

That meant Sabini had moved first.

That meant Tommy had been too slow.

Arthur stopped pacing and pointed toward the door. “We go now.”

Tommy did not look at him.

“Tom.”

“I heard you.”

“Then move.”

John turned from the window. “Could be a trap.”

“It is a trap,” Tommy said.

Arthur spread his hands. “Right. So we know. That’s good, innit?”

John gave him a look. “That’s not good.”

Arthur ignored him. “He’s got her, Tommy.”

Tommy’s eyes lifted then.

Arthur went quiet.

The room had gone very still around him. He had not shouted. He had not thrown anything. That would have been easier for his brothers to understand. Anger was familiar. This was something else, something cold and deliberate enough to make even Arthur hesitate.

“I know what he has,” Tommy said.

John stepped closer. “Then don’t walk into it stupid.”

Tommy folded the paper slowly. “I won’t.”

“You sure?” John asked, braver than most men would have been. “Because since you saw her, you’ve been acting like—”

Tommy’s eyes cut to him.

John stopped, but only for a second.

“Like she matters more than the business,” he finished.

Arthur looked between them.

Tommy slid the paper into his coat. “She does.”

Neither brother spoke.

It was the first time he had said it plainly.

Maybe the first time he had admitted it to himself.

John’s jaw tightened, but there was no mockery in his face now. Only worry. “That’s dangerous.”

“Yes.”

Arthur exhaled hard and rubbed both hands over his face. “Christ, Tommy.”

Tommy reached for his cap. “Sabini expects me to come angry. He expects Arthur to come louder. He expects John to come fast. So we don’t give him what he expects.”

Arthur looked offended despite everything. “I can be quiet.”

John snorted. “Since fucking when?”

Tommy looked at them both. “Tonight.”

The room settled around the word.

Then Tommy turned toward the door, already moving pieces in his head.

There were three addresses Sabini used when he wanted someone frightened but not dead yet. One above a betting room. One behind a closed restaurant near Camden. One old house in Stepney that belonged to a cousin who never asked questions. Tommy chose the house. Sabini would want space. Privacy. Enough men around to make it look safe.

Enough room for Tommy to turn it into a grave if he had to.

Your mother was in the front room of the old house when they brought you in.

That was the only mercy.

She sat in a chair near the fire, a shawl around her shoulders, her face pale and drawn from illness. When she saw you, she tried to stand too quickly and nearly fell.

“Mama,” you breathed.

Marco’s grip tightened before you could reach her.

Your mother’s eyes moved to your wrist, then to your face. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly. “It’s all right.”

Even as you said it, the lie broke in the room.

Your mother knew. Mothers always did, even sick ones. Especially sick ones. Her eyes filled, and the sight of it made your chest ache so badly you thought you might fold in half.

Sabini came in behind you, removing his gloves one finger at a time.

“Family reunions,” he said. “Always touching.”

You turned on him. “Let her go.”

He sighed. “Still making demands. Very disappointing.”

Your mother looked at him. “Please. She’s done nothing.”

Sabini’s attention shifted to her, mild and cruel. “She has done exactly enough.”

You moved before thinking, putting yourself between them. Marco jerked you back by the arm.

Sabini smiled again. “There it is.”

“What?” you snapped.

“That spirit.” He stepped closer. “That is what men like Shelby notice, you know. Not just a pretty face. Pretty faces are everywhere. But a woman who looks frightened and still speaks as if she has somewhere to stand…” His gaze moved over you. “Men mistake that for strength. They want to test it. They want to own it. They want to be the one it bends for.”

Your skin crawled.

“You don’t know anything about him,” you said.

Sabini laughed.

“No?” He nodded toward the window. “He is coming here right now because you gave him a reason to forget himself. I know more than enough.”

Your mother’s lips trembled. “Who is coming?”

You looked at her, unable to answer.

Sabini stepped close enough that you could feel his breath near your cheek.

“And when he does,” he said softly, “you will see what dreams cost.”

The words landed too deeply.

You looked at him then, really looked.

“How did you know?”

Sabini’s eyes narrowed slightly.

You should not have said it. You knew that too. But the damage was done.

His smile returned, slower this time. “So it is true.”

You went cold.

He had guessed.

Not the details, not exactly, but enough. He had seen the look in the office, seen Tommy go still, seen you hide recognition too late. He had pressed, and you had given him the shape of the secret without meaning to.

Sabini turned away, pleased with himself.

“Get her upstairs,” he told Marco. “Her mother stays here.”

“No,” you said.

Marco grabbed you before you could reach for her.

Your mother cried out your name.

You fought harder this time, fear making you clumsy, your shoulder clipping the banister as Marco dragged you up the stairs. You twisted and scratched at his hand, catching skin beneath your nail. He cursed and shoved you into a room at the end of the hall.

You hit the floor hard.

The door shut.

The key turned.

For a few seconds, you stayed where you were, breathing through the pain in your shoulder and wrist.

Then you pushed yourself up.

The room was small, likely a bedroom once, though most of the furniture had been stripped out. A narrow bed. A cracked mirror. Curtains nailed shut over the window.

You went to the window first. It barely moved when you tried it. Painted shut or locked from the outside. Your wrist throbbed when you pushed harder.

You stopped only when footsteps came up the stairs.

Sabini’s voice reached through the door.

“You should rest, Y/n. You’ll want to look well when he comes.”

You stared at the wood.

“I hate you,” you said.

A pause.

Then he laughed softly.

“No, you don’t,” he said. “You hate that I’m right.”

His footsteps moved away.

You stood in the middle of the room with your hands shaking now that no one could see them. Downstairs, men spoke in low voices. A floorboard creaked. Your mother coughed once, the sound muffled through the walls.

You pressed your knuckles to your mouth and tried to breathe.

Tommy would come.

That thought should have comforted you. It did not. Not fully.

Because you knew what kind of men were waiting downstairs.

And you knew, by now, what kind of man Tommy was.

He had warned you himself.

You should be afraid of me.

You were.

But not enough to want him gone.

The first gunshot came just after dark.

It cracked through the house so suddenly that you flinched away from the door, your heart leaping into your throat.

A shout followed.

Then another shot.

Then the house erupted.

Men ran beneath you, boots slamming over floorboards. Someone cursed in Italian. Glass shattered. Your mother screamed downstairs, and the sound tore through you so violently that you threw yourself at the door without thinking.

“Mama!”

You slammed your hand against the wood.

No answer.

Another gunshot.

Then a heavy thud against the wall below.

You backed away, looking around the room for anything you could use. The mirror was cracked, set into a thin frame. You grabbed it with both hands and pulled until it came loose from the wall, one side splintering. The glass bit into your palm, but you barely felt it.

You struck the mirror against the bedpost until a jagged piece broke free.

Downstairs, the fighting moved closer.

You went to the door, gripping the shard so tightly blood slid warm between your fingers.

Someone came up the stairs fast.

Not one person.

Two.

A body hit the landing outside your room. A man groaned. Then there was a sound like a fist meeting bone, and the groaning stopped.

The key scraped in the lock.

You lifted the glass.

The door opened.

Tommy stood there.

His cap was gone. His coat was wet from the rain. There was blood at the corner of his mouth and more across the knuckles of one hand. His eyes found you, then the glass in your hand, then the blood slipping down your wrist.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“Is that yours?” he asked, nodding to your hand.

Your breath came unevenly. “Some of it.”

His jaw tightened.

“My mother?”

“Alive,” he said at once. “Arthur has her.”

Relief hit so hard your knees nearly gave.

Tommy caught your elbow before you fell, his grip firm but not rough. You tried to pull yourself together, embarrassed by the shake in your body, but he only watched your face with the kind of focus that made lying useless.

“Your brother is safe,” he said. “Finn has him.”

You closed your eyes.

For one second, there was nothing but that.

Your brother safe.

Your mother alive.

The room around you seemed to tilt back into place.

When you opened your eyes, Tommy was looking at your wrist.

“Give me the glass.”

You looked down as if you had forgotten you were holding it. Your fingers had locked around the shard. Slowly, you let him take it from you.

He tossed it onto the bed.

His hand closed around yours, turning your palm toward the dim light. Blood welled from a shallow cut across the inside, not deep enough to be dangerous, but enough to make his mouth tighten.

“It’s nothing,” you said.

His eyes lifted to yours. “Don’t.”

Just that.

Don’t.

Not sharp. Not cruel.

Only tired of you pretending pain was smaller than it was.

Something in your chest twisted.

Another crash sounded downstairs.

Tommy’s hand went to his gun.

You stepped closer without meaning to.

He noticed, but said nothing.

“Stay behind me,” he said.

“I’m not helpless.”

“I know.” His eyes moved over your face. “Stay behind me anyway.”

You hated that you listened.

The hallway smelled of smoke and damp wool and blood. A man lay on the landing, groaning through a broken nose. Tommy stepped over him without looking down. You followed close, one hand gripping the back of Tommy’s coat because the stairs seemed too steep and the house too loud.

Halfway down, Sabini appeared at the bottom.

He had a gun in his hand.

Tommy stopped.

You stopped behind him.

Sabini’s face was flushed with anger now, all that polished control finally cracking at the edges. Two of his men stood behind him, one bleeding from his temple. From somewhere beyond the hall, Arthur’s voice barked an order, followed by John shouting something you couldn’t make out.

Sabini looked at Tommy, then at you.

“Well,” he said, breathing hard. “There he is.”

Tommy’s gun was already in his hand, held low. “Move.”

Sabini laughed. “You break into my house, kill my men, steal from me, and now you give orders?”

“Yes.”

Your fingers tightened in Tommy’s coat.

Sabini saw.

His eyes brightened with spite.

“Look at that,” he said. “She holds on to you already.”

Tommy did not answer.

Sabini took one step forward, gun lifting slightly. “You think you’ve won something? You think because you carried her mother out of a chair and hid her brother in some Birmingham hole, she belongs to you now?”

“She belongs to herself,” Tommy said.

The words were so plain, so immediate, that you almost stopped breathing.

Sabini’s face twisted.

“You don’t believe that.”

Tommy’s voice remained even. “No. But she does.”

Behind him, your eyes burned.

Sabini looked at you. “Y/n. Come here.”

Tommy did not move, but you felt the tension run through him.

Sabini’s gaze hardened. “Now.”

For years, that voice had been enough to move you. It had moved you from rooms, into rooms, down halls, into chairs, beside desks, beneath hands that lingered too long. It had moved you with the weight of your father’s debt, your mother’s illness, your brother’s safety. It had made obedience feel like survival until you forgot there had ever been another way to live.

You looked at Sabini over Tommy’s shoulder.

“No,” you said.

The word shook.

But it came.

Sabini went still.

Tommy did not turn around, but somehow you knew he had heard the difference in you. Not fear leaving. Fear was still there, hard and bright in your ribs. But something else had risen beside it.

Sabini’s mouth parted slightly, disbelief making him ugly.

Then his gun lifted.

Everything happened at once.

Tommy fired first.

The shot cracked through the hall. Sabini’s gun went off a fraction later, the bullet splintering the banister near your shoulder. You ducked as Tommy turned into you, shielding you with his body while John appeared from the side hall and fired twice at Sabini’s men.

Arthur came out of the front room with blood on his shirt and murder in his eyes.

“Tommy!”

Sabini staggered back, one hand clamped to his shoulder, his gun fallen somewhere near the stairs. He did not fall. Not completely. He caught himself against the wall, teeth bared in pain and fury.

Tommy moved toward him.

You reached for his coat. “Thomas.”

He stopped.

Only because it was you.

Sabini laughed through the pain, breathless and bitter. “There. There it is. She says your name and you heel.”

Arthur raised his gun. “I’ll shut him up.”

Tommy lifted one hand slightly, stopping him.

He looked down at Sabini, who was sliding slowly toward the floor, blood darkening his sleeve.

“You’re alive because killing you here causes more trouble than you’re worth,” Tommy said. “But if you go near her, her mother, or her brother again, I’ll come back without my brothers.”

Sabini’s breathing was harsh.

Tommy stepped closer.

“And there won’t be a house left standing when I’m done.”

For once, Sabini had no answer.

Tommy turned away first, not because he was weak, but because he had decided Sabini was finished in the only way that mattered. His hold was broken. His men were either dead, injured, or running. His pride was bleeding on the floor.

John moved to cover the door. Arthur came to your side, his face softening in that rough, awkward way of his when he looked at you.

“Your mum’s outside,” he said. “Bit shaken. Breathing, though.”

You nodded, but the relief made speaking difficult.

Arthur looked at your bleeding hand and frowned. “Christ.”

“It’s fine,” you whispered.

“No, it fucking ain’t,” he muttered, then glanced at Tommy. “She needs seeing to.”

Tommy’s eyes moved from Arthur to you.

Something silent passed between the brothers. For once, Arthur did not make a comment. John did not either.

Tommy held out his hand.

Not like a demand.

Not like a man claiming what he had won.

Just there, steady in the ruined hallway, waiting for you to decide.

You looked at it.

Then at Sabini, slumped against the wall with hatred burning through his pain.

Then at the front door, hanging open to the wet London night.

Your mother was beyond it.

Your brother was somewhere safe.

The life you had known was behind you, bleeding and furious and losing its grip.

You placed your hand in Tommy’s.

His fingers closed around yours carefully, mindful of the cut across your palm.

Then he led you out.

The rain had started again.

Not heavy, just a fine mist settling over everything, softening the hard edges of the street. Your mother sat in the back of a motorcar with a blanket around her shoulders, Finn beside her with a gun held awkwardly in his lap. She began crying when she saw you, and the sound nearly broke you apart.

You climbed into the motorcar and held her as carefully as you could, whispering that your brother was safe, that she was safe, that you were leaving.

Your mother kept touching your face as if making sure you were still there.

Tommy stood outside in the rain, speaking low to Arthur and John. You watched him through the window. He looked composed from a distance, but you could see the blood on his mouth, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his hand flexed once at his side as if he was still holding himself back from going into that house and finishing what he had started.

Arthur clapped him once on the shoulder.

John said something that made Tommy glance toward the car.

Then Tommy came to the door and opened it.

“Your mother goes with John,” he said. “Your brother is waiting outside London. You’ll see him before morning.”

Your mother gripped your hand.

You looked at Tommy. “And me?”

His eyes held yours.

“You choose.”

The word was so simple you almost did not understand it.

Tommy nodded toward the second car waiting behind his. “You can ride with your mother. Or with me. Either way, you leave London tonight.”

No debt.

No command.

No hand at your back forcing you forward.

Just choice.

It frightened you more than Sabini’s orders ever had.

Your mother looked at you, tired but aware. Her fingers squeezed yours weakly. “Go where you need to, my love.”

Tears blurred your vision before you could stop them.

You kissed her forehead, then stepped back into the rain.

Tommy watched you cross to his car. He did not smile. He did not look triumphant.

He opened the door and waited.

You got in.

For the first few minutes, neither of you spoke.

London moved past the windows in smears of yellow light and wet stone. Your hand throbbed beneath the handkerchief Tommy had wrapped around it. Your coat was damp. Your body felt hollowed out by fear and relief.

Tommy sat beside you, one arm resting along the back of the seat, his gaze fixed ahead. There was blood drying on his knuckles. A bruise had begun to darken near his jaw. He looked exactly like what he was: dangerous, controlled, and not nearly as untouched as he pretended to be.

You looked down at your bandaged hand.

“You killed men tonight,” you said.

“Yes.”

“For me?”

Tommy’s gaze shifted to you. “For you. For your mother. For your brother. For the men who would have killed mine if I let them.”

You nodded slowly.

That mattered.

You were grateful he did not make it prettier than it was.

“Are you frightened?” he asked.

You let out a quiet breath. “Yes.”

“Of me?”

You looked at him.

His face gave nothing away, but his eyes stayed on yours like the answer mattered more than he wanted it to.

“A little,” you said.

He nodded once, accepting it.

“But not like before,” you added.

Something in his expression shifted.

You looked back out the window, watching London thin into darker roads and quieter streets.

“I thought when this was over, I’d feel free all at once,” you said. “I don’t.”

“No.”

Your mouth curved without humor. “You could lie.”

“I could.”

“But you won’t.”

“Not about that.”

You turned back to him. “Will I ever?”

“Feel free?”

You nodded.

Tommy looked ahead again. “Yes. Not all at once.”

The answer settled more gently than comfort would have.

You believed him because he did not try to make it sound easy.

The road stretched on. At some point, the city began to loosen its grip. Buildings grew lower. Lamps stood farther apart. The noise faded into the steady hum of the motor and the soft percussion of rain against the windows.

Your exhaustion caught up with you suddenly, heavy enough to pull at your bones. You leaned your head back and closed your eyes, meaning only to rest them.

The dream came quickly.

Smoke first.

Then a doorway.

Then Tommy standing on the other side of it, not as a boy, not as a soldier, not as the feared man from Sabini’s office, but as he had been in the churchyard. Rain on his coat. Eyes tired. Waiting without asking.

You looked down at your hands in the dream and saw no blood.

When you woke, the car had stopped.

Dawn was beginning to pale the sky.

You were no longer in London.

The safe house stood at the end of a narrow lane, plain and quiet, with fields stretching beyond it and smoke rising from one chimney. Your mother’s car was already there. When you stepped out, your brother came running from the doorway.

He hit you so hard you nearly stumbled.

You held him with one arm and pressed your face into his shoulder, laughing and crying at once while he said your name over and over like he had been afraid he would never get to say it again.

Your mother stood in the doorway with John’s coat around her shoulders. Arthur lingered nearby, pretending not to watch too closely, wiping at his nose when your brother began to cry.

Tommy stayed beside the car.

He let you have that moment without stepping into it.

You noticed.

Of course you noticed.

Later, after your mother had been settled near the fire and your brother had finally stopped shaking long enough to sleep in a chair beside her, you found Tommy outside.

He stood near the edge of the lane, smoking, his coat unbuttoned despite the cold. The early morning light made him look paler than usual, and for the first time since you had known him, the tiredness in his face was not hidden quickly enough.

You walked toward him slowly.

He heard you before you reached him, but he did not turn until you stopped beside him.

“Your family will be taken north,” he said. “Different name for a while. House is arranged. Doctor too, for your mother.”

You watched his profile. “And what do I owe you?”

His eyes moved to yours.

“Nothing.”

“Men always say that before the price appears.”

“I’m not Sabini.”

“No,” you said softly. “You’re not.”

He looked away first, taking a drag from his cigarette.

You stepped closer, not enough to touch, only enough that your sleeve brushed his coat.

“What happens to me now?” you asked.

Tommy exhaled smoke slowly. “Whatever you decide.”

“And if I decide wrong?”

“Then it’s still yours.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

There it was again.

Choice.

Still frightening. Still unfamiliar. But this time, it did not feel like a trick.

“The dreams,” you said.

Tommy’s gaze lowered briefly.

“What about them?”

“Do you think they stop now?”

He looked out over the fields. “Don’t know.”

You nodded, turning the thought over.

For years, the dreams had felt like something waiting to happen. A warning, maybe. A punishment. A thread pulling you toward a man you had no reason to know and every reason to fear. But standing there in the cold morning, with your family asleep inside and London behind you, the dreams no longer felt like the story itself.

They had only led you to the door.

You were the one who had walked through it.

Tommy dropped his cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe.

You looked down at his hand.

The knuckles were bruised and split. There was dried blood near his cuff. You reached for him slowly, giving him time to move away if he wanted.

He did not.

Your fingers touched his.

Tommy went still, but not in surprise. More like restraint. Like tenderness was something he had to stand very carefully inside.

You took his hand.

His fingers closed around yours with the same care he had used the night before, mindful of your injured palm. He looked at your joined hands, then at your face.

“You found me,” you said.

His expression shifted, almost painfully.

“I did.”

“You nearly ruined half of London doing it.”

His mouth twitched faintly. “Only half?”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. It came out tired and broken at the edges, but real.

Tommy watched you like the sound was something he wanted to remember.

Then the quiet returned.

Not empty.

Not heavy.

Just quiet.

You looked toward the house, where your mother and brother were safe because of him. Then you looked back at the road that led south, toward London, toward the office and the desk and the man who no longer held your name like a debt.

“Is this where the dream ends?” you asked.

Tommy’s eyes stayed on yours.

“No,” he said. “This is where it stops being a dream.”

The words settled between you with the pale morning light.

For years, he had known you only in pieces: smoke, shadow, the turn of a face he could never reach. You had known him the same way, in doorways and firelight, always near and never close enough. Dreams had made him feel inevitable, but they had never made him real. Not truly.

This did.

The cold. The blood. The ache in your hand. Your brother sleeping inside with his head tipped against the wall. Your mother breathing easier by the fire. Tommy standing in front of you with tired eyes and ruined knuckles, giving you the one thing no man had thought to give without asking for something first.

A choice.

You held his hand a little tighter.

Tommy looked down at the movement, then back at you.

He did not ask if you were sure. He did not make a promise too pretty to survive daylight. He simply stood there and let you choose him in the quiet.

And for the first time since you were a girl dreaming of a stranger’s face, you were not waiting to be found.

You were already gone.

Away from Sabini.

Away from London.

Not safe in the soft, easy way stories liked to pretend.

But free enough to breathe.

Free enough to choose.

And when Tommy lifted your hand carefully to his mouth, pressing a kiss just beside the bandage instead of over the wound, you did not feel owned.

You felt real.

So did he.

[byorderofana]

Before I Knew Your Name

Gif by @twobrokenwyngs

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Thomas Shelby x fem!reader

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: dreams/fate elements, obsession/fixation, dangerous attraction, gang-related tension, implied violence, threats/intimidation, Sabini being possessive/controlling, power imbalance, smoking, alcohol, Tommy being emotionally repressed

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ───────────── ⋅ ˚₊‧☽

Thomas Shelby had seen your face before.

Long before London. Long before Sabini’s office. Long before you stood behind an enemy’s desk with a folder held neatly against your chest, watching him with dark, careful eyes as if you were trying to decide whether he was exactly as dangerous as everyone said.

He had first seen you in sleep.

He must have been a boy then, though he could never remember his exact age. Young enough to wake unsettled by it, old enough to feel foolish for being unsettled at all. The dream had not been violent. There had been no warning, no blood, no voice whispering something he was meant to understand. There had only been a girl’s face, half-caught in shadow, looking at him from the far end of some room he did not recognize.

He remembered waking annoyed more than afraid, angry at his own mind for holding on to a stranger’s face with such stubborn clarity.

After that, the dreams came and went as they pleased. Sometimes years passed without them. Sometimes he would see you twice in one week and wake with your face still sharp behind his eyes. You were never doing much in them. Turning your head. Standing near rain-streaked glass. Looking at him through smoke. Once, your mouth moved around his name, though he woke before he could hear it.

Then France happened, and after France, everything in his head became darker.

The dreams changed with the rest of him. You appeared in the smoke more often then, sometimes standing so still among it that you seemed less like a woman and more like something his mind had dragged up from the tunnels. Sometimes you looked frightened. Sometimes sad. Sometimes you looked at him with a steady awareness that felt too much like recognition, as if whatever nightmare had made him had somehow reached you too.

Tommy never told anyone.

Not Arthur when he was drunk enough to listen and broken enough to understand. Not Polly, who had a way of looking at him like she could pull secrets out through his ribs. Not Grace. Not anyone.

A man could survive many things if he learned what to keep quiet about.

So he kept quiet.

He let the dreams rot somewhere deep and unnamed.

Until London.

The city was wet that morning, misting more than raining, just enough to leave the streets slick and the shoulders of every coat darkened. London had a way of making even daylight feel dishonest. The buildings stood close together, the alleys held their breath, and every man on every corner seemed to be pretending he was not waiting for trouble.

Arthur hated it.

He had said so once in the motorcar, again outside the club, and a third time under his breath as they were led through the back entrance by a narrow-faced man with a scar dragging down one cheek.

“Don’t like this place,” Arthur muttered, his eyes moving over the walls. “Stinks.”

John glanced at him. “That’s London.”

“No,” Arthur said. “That’s Italians.”

Tommy did not look back. “Both of you shut up.”

Arthur sniffed, still watching the hallway like he expected it to lunge at him. “Just saying, Tom.”

“I heard what you said.”

John’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing. He had been quieter since they crossed into London, not frightened, but alert in that sharp, restless way he became when he knew a room might turn ugly. His hand hovered close to the inside of his coat. His eyes kept checking doors, windows, corners.

Tommy noticed. Tommy noticed everything.

He noticed the two men at the end of the corridor pretending not to watch them. He noticed the polished floor, too clean for a place where men like Sabini conducted business. He noticed the smell of cigars and expensive cologne layered over old liquor. He noticed Arthur’s breathing getting heavier beside him. He noticed John’s jaw tightening.

And then the office door opened.

Sabini’s office was warmer than the hallway, lit low by lamps that made the dark wood shine. Heavy curtains blocked the windows, and a large desk sat at the far side of the room, polished and grand enough to suggest that Sabini liked playing king even when he was only a man behind a desk.

He smiled when the Shelbys entered.

It was not a friendly smile.

“Mr. Shelby,” Sabini said, spreading his hands a little. “You bring half of Birmingham with you?”

Tommy walked in first, Arthur on his left and John on his right. Their boots sounded too heavy on Sabini’s fine floor.

“Only the part that bites,” Tommy said.

Sabini’s smile thinned.

There were men around the room. Three of them, not counting the one at the door. One by the windows. One near the sideboard. One standing a little too casually near the wall, his hands loose but ready.

Then Tommy saw you.

You stood slightly behind Sabini’s desk, just to his left, half in the lamplight with papers held against your chest. Your dark hair was pinned loosely, though one piece had slipped near your cheek. Your dress was black, modest and neat, but it fit you well enough that the men in the room likely remembered you were a woman before they remembered you could hear every word they said.

Your face was calm. Beautiful in a quiet, old-fashioned way, the sort of beauty that did not need to beg for attention because men gave it before they realized they had.

Tommy stopped hearing Sabini for half a second.

It was not enough to make him freeze. Not enough for most men to notice. But his cigarette paused near his mouth, and his eyes stayed on you one breath longer than they should have.

You looked up from the papers.

And there you were.

Not a shadow. Not a dream. Not some broken thing his mind had carried out of childhood and war.

Real.

Your face did not change much when you saw him. That was the first thing he noticed once he had enough sense to notice anything at all. You did not gasp. You did not step back. You did not stare at him like some girl caught in a ghost story. But your fingers tightened around the folder, and your throat moved once before you lowered your eyes again.

Too careful.

Arthur saw it first, because Arthur knew Tommy’s stillness better than most men knew their own voice. He knew when Tommy was thinking, when he was angry, when something had cut under the skin and Tommy was pretending it had not.

Arthur’s gaze moved from Tommy to you.

John caught it a heartbeat later, his eyes narrowing as he looked between his brother and the woman behind Sabini’s desk.

Sabini noticed too.

That was the danger.

The room had barely shifted, and still Sabini saw enough to smile.

“Well,” Sabini said, leaning back in his chair. “London has made an impression already.”

Tommy put the cigarette between his lips and drew in smoke, grateful for the simple motion of it. It gave his mouth something to do besides betray him.

“You wanted a meeting,” he said.

“I did.”

You lowered your eyes to the papers again, but Tommy could feel you listening.

He hated that he could feel it.

Sabini spoke about territory. About respect. About how Birmingham men had a habit of entering places where no one had invited them. His voice was smooth enough for business and sharp enough for threat, each sentence carefully dressed so it could be denied later if needed.

Tommy answered when he had to. Arthur shifted beside him like a dog straining at a leash. John stayed quiet, watching the room and the men in it.

But Tommy kept finding you.

Not openly. Never openly. Only in the corner of his eye, in the movement of paper, in the turn of your wrist when Sabini asked for a letter and you handed it to him before he even finished the request. You were not just decoration. That became clear quickly. You knew where everything was, knew what each paper meant, knew which names mattered and which ones were there to make the room look fuller.

Sabini trusted you close to his desk, close to his documents, close to his voice.

That made you useful.

That made you dangerous.

At one point, Sabini asked you for a name from a list.

You stepped forward, placed the correct page beneath his hand, and said, “Mr. Darby. Two o’clock.”

Your voice was low. Not sweet exactly, too steady for that, but soft enough that Tommy’s eyes rose before he could stop them.

Sabini noticed again.

He laid one hand over the page, then glanced at Tommy.

“She keeps me in order,” Sabini said. “A rare thing, a woman who listens more than she speaks.”

You went still beside him. Not visibly enough to cause a scene, but Tommy saw the smallest lowering of your chin, the careful blankness of your face.

Sabini’s hand lifted from the desk and came to rest briefly at the back of your wrist.

It was a light touch, almost nothing.

Possessive enough to be seen.

Not rough enough to be challenged.

Arthur’s nostrils flared.

Tommy only smoked, but something colder than anger passed through his face.

“Useful,” Tommy said.

Sabini’s smile sharpened. “Very.”

Your eyes flicked to Tommy then, quick as a match strike, and for one ugly second he was back in every dream at once. Your face through smoke. Your hand against glass. Your mouth shaping a word he had never heard but somehow knew belonged to him.

The meeting ended with nothing settled, which was how men like Sabini preferred it. Enough threat to thicken the air, enough politeness for both sides to pretend no one had come there imagining blood.

Tommy stood.

Arthur stood with him, visibly relieved to be moving. John gave the room one last scan before turning toward the door.

Sabini did not rise.

“Careful in London, Mr. Shelby,” he said. “Easy city to get lost in.”

Tommy buttoned his coat. “I don’t get lost.”

“No?” Sabini’s gaze slid toward you. “Everyone does eventually.”

Tommy looked at him.

Then at you, just once.

Then he left.

The hallway felt colder after the office.

Arthur waited until the door had shut behind them before speaking.

“What the fuck was that?”

Tommy kept walking. “What was what?”

Arthur gave a humorless laugh. “Don’t do that.”

John fell into step on Tommy’s other side. “You know her?”

“No.”

Arthur looked at him. “Tom.”

“I said no.”

John’s eyes stayed on him. “Didn’t look like no.”

Tommy stopped at the end of the corridor and turned his head slightly. It was enough to make both brothers go quiet.

“I don’t know her,” he said.

It was the truth.

That was the problem.

Arthur stared at him for another second, then looked back toward Sabini’s door. “Well, he knows you noticed.”

Tommy’s jaw tightened.

“Yes,” he said. “He does.”

The first time you were alone with him, it was not planned.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

Sabini had sent you down to the records room for a file he did not need. You knew he did not need it because the paper he asked for had been sitting on his desk since morning. But Sabini liked movement. He liked tests. He liked reminding everyone around him that even the smallest errand could be a leash if he held the other end.

You walked down the narrow back staircase with one hand sliding along the rail, counting each step in your head.

Counting helped.

Numbers did not look at you across rooms like they had known you before.

You had recognized Thomas Shelby the moment he walked in. It was not something you wanted to admit, especially not to yourself, but there was no sense in pretending otherwise. You knew his face. The sharp line of his cheek. The cold blue of his eyes. The way he held a cigarette like it was the only honest thing in the room.

You had seen him in dreams since you were young. At first, you had thought all girls dreamed strange things. Then you grew older and understood that dreaming the same unknown man for years was not something people spoke of unless they wanted to be looked at differently.

He had never touched you in the dreams. Never kissed you. It had not been romantic in the easy way. He was simply there, standing in doorways, watching fires, turning when someone called his name. Sometimes he looked so tired that even asleep, you wanted to ask what had been done to him.

And then that morning, he had walked into Sabini’s office with his brothers beside him and death stitched into the seams of his coat.

Real.

Alive.

Looking at you as if you had disturbed him.

You reached the bottom of the staircase and turned into the corridor.

He was there.

Waiting.

You stopped.

Thomas Shelby leaned against the wall near the records room door, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He looked too calm for a man standing somewhere he had no business being.

You glanced behind you.

“No one followed me,” he said.

Your eyes returned to him. “That sounds like something a man says after making sure someone did.”

His mouth moved faintly, not quite a smile. “You always this careful?”

“Only around men who wait in dark hallways.”

He looked at you properly now, without Sabini watching, without his brothers beside him. The full weight of his attention settled over your face, and it took more strength than you liked not to look away.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

You held the folder tighter. “You came down here to ask that?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to know it.”

There was no softness in the way he said it, and somehow that made it harder to dismiss. A softer man would have tried charm. A foolish one would have dressed the question up as flirtation. Tommy Shelby simply asked as though the answer had become necessary.

“Y/n,” you said.

Something passed through his expression.

Not surprise. Something worse.

Confirmation.

He repeated it quietly. “Y/n.”

You hated how familiar it sounded in his mouth, as if he had not learned the name so much as recovered it.

“You should go back upstairs, Mr. Shelby.”

“You know my name.”

“Everyone knows your name.”

“But you knew my face.”

Your silence answered too quickly.

Tommy stepped closer. Not much, just enough to make the narrow hallway seem narrower.

“You looked at me in that office like you knew me,” he said.

You forced your voice steady. “Men like you don’t like being looked at properly.”

“And how do men like me look?”

“Like you think every room belongs to you if you stand in it long enough.”

That time, he did smile. Barely.

“You work for Sabini,” he said.

“I do.”

“By choice?”

You looked at the cigarette in his hand instead of his face. “Choice is a generous word in London.”

His eyes sharpened.

There. You had given him something, and he had caught it.

“Does he own you?” Tommy asked.

Your gaze snapped back to his.

The question was too plain, ugly.

“No man owns me.”

Tommy watched you. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Somewhere above, a door shut. Men laughed through the ceiling. Glass clinked. London carried on as if there were not two people standing in a corridor trying to understand why they had been haunting each other for half their lives.

Tommy lowered his cigarette.

“I’ve seen you before,” he said.

The words were quiet, but they landed with enough force to still your breathing.

You looked at him, and whatever clever answer you had ready died before it reached your tongue. He did not say it like a line. He did not say it like a man trying to seduce you.

He said it like an accusation.

“No, you haven’t,” you said.

His eyes held yours.

“No,” he agreed. “Not like this.”

Your fingers went cold around the folder.

Before you could answer, footsteps sounded at the top of the stairs.

You stepped back immediately.

Tommy noticed that too.

One of Sabini’s men came down three steps, then stopped when he saw you. His eyes flicked to Tommy.

“Mr. Sabini wants you back.”

You gave a small nod. “Of course.”

Tommy did not move out of your way at first. For one dangerous second, he only looked at you. Then he stepped aside.

You walked past him, close enough to smell smoke and rainwater in his coat.

His voice followed you, low enough that only you could hear.

“Y/n.”

You stopped, though you knew better.

Tommy’s eyes stayed on yours.

“Be careful who watches you.”

You went upstairs without answering.

Sabini was waiting in his office when you returned.

He sat behind the desk with his fingers folded together, smiling as if nothing had happened. That was when he was most dangerous. Not when he shouted. Not when he threw things. Not when he surrounded himself with men holding guns.

When he smiled.

“Find what I asked for?” he said.

You placed the folder on his desk. “Yes.”

Sabini did not look at it.

He looked at you.

“Mr. Shelby is a curious man.”

You kept your hands folded in front of you. “He seems like one.”

“He spoke to you.”

It was not a question.

“In the corridor,” you said.

“And?”

“He asked my name.”

Sabini laughed softly. “Did he?”

You said nothing.

He rose from his chair and came around the desk. You stayed still. You had learned a long time ago that stepping back only taught men they could step closer.

Sabini stopped beside you and studied your face.

“You know what men like Thomas Shelby do with pretty things?” he asked.

Your stomach tightened.

“No.”

“They convince themselves they’re saving them while they decide how to use them.”

His hand came up, touching the loose strand of hair near your cheek. He tucked it back with a gentleness that made your skin crawl.

“You are not stupid, are you?”

“No.”

“Good.” His fingers left your hair. “Then don’t become stupid now.”

You looked at the floor because looking at his face felt worse.

Sabini returned to his desk.

“And Y/n?”

“Yes?”

“If he speaks to you again, you tell me.”

You nodded once.

Sabini sat down.

“You may go.”

You walked out with your spine straight and your hands steady.

Only when you reached the empty back hallway did you let yourself breathe.

Tommy did not go back to Birmingham that night.

He should have. Arthur wanted to. John wanted a drink first, then decided he wanted to as well. London sat wrong on them, like a coat cut too tight.

Tommy got them rooms instead.

Arthur stood in the doorway of Tommy’s room at half past midnight, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair coming loose, his face set in that hard, worried way he tried to pass off as irritation.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?”

Tommy poured whiskey into a glass. “No.”

Arthur rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Right. That means something is.”

Tommy drank.

John appeared behind Arthur, leaning against the doorframe. “She’s Sabini’s.”

Tommy’s eyes lifted.

John shrugged. “Not saying she wants to be. Just saying that’s how he acted.”

Arthur looked back at John, then at Tommy. “You know her from somewhere?”

Tommy turned toward the window. London blurred beyond the glass, all wet rooftops and yellow lamps.

“No.”

Arthur’s voice lowered. “Then why’d you look at her like that?”

Tommy did not answer at first.

His brothers waited.

That was the trouble with brothers. They remembered the shape of you before you learned how to hide it.

Finally, Tommy said, “I’ve dreamed of her.”

Silence.

John blinked. “What?”

“For years.”

Arthur stared at him as if he could not decide whether to laugh or worry. Worry won.

“Tommy…”

“I’m not asking you to understand it.”

“No,” Arthur said slowly. “I fucking don’t.”

John looked toward the hall, then back at Tommy. “Does she know?”

Tommy remembered your face in the corridor, the way you had lied and failed by a fraction.

“Yes,” he said.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. “Bloody hell.”

Tommy turned from the window. “Find out everything about her.”

John straightened. “Tom—”

“Her family. Where she lives. Why she works for him. Who she owes. Who owes her.”

Arthur let out a breath. “And if she’s bait?”

Tommy picked up his cigarette case from the table.

“Then I’ll know.”

“And if she isn’t?”

Tommy opened the case, then paused with his thumb against the silver edge. He saw you again as you had been in the hallway, proud and careful, trapped enough to deny it.

“If she isn’t,” he said, “then Sabini made a mistake putting her in that room.”

You saw Tommy again two days later.

Not in Sabini’s office. Not in a hallway. At the side entrance of the club, where delivery men came and went and no one important was supposed to linger.

You had not meant to look for him.

That was the lie you carried as you stepped outside for air, coat pulled close, the evening cold touching your face. London smelled of rain, horses, smoke, and the river somewhere far off.

You made it three steps before his voice came from the shadows.

“Don’t take the main road home tonight.”

You turned sharply.

Tommy stood beneath the awning of the next building, cap low, cigarette lit.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said.

“No.”

“Then why are you?”

He stepped forward enough for the light to catch his face. “I heard something.”

“You hear many things, I imagine.”

“So do you.”

That settled between you.

A carriage passed at the end of the street, wheels hissing over wet stone.

You looked back at the club door, then at him. “If Sabini sees you here—”

“He won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

The arrogance should have annoyed you.

It did.

It also steadied you.

“Why shouldn’t I take the main road?” you asked.

Tommy watched you carefully. “Because Sabini has men on it.”

Your face went still.

“Why?”

“To see where you go.”

The cold seemed to slip beneath your coat.

You looked away from him, toward the street you always took home. The familiar route. The safe route because it was familiar.

Of course Sabini would know that.

Tommy’s voice lowered. “Has he done that before?”

You gave a small, humorless smile. “Men like Sabini don’t need to follow you every night. Only enough nights to remind you that they can.”

Tommy’s eyes darkened.

You regretted the words as soon as they left you. Not because they were untrue, but because now he knew.

“You have family?” he asked.

You looked back at him. “You ask a lot of questions for a man I’ve met twice.”

“Three times.”

Your stomach tightened.

You knew what he meant.

The office. The corridor. The dreams.

You looked away first.

Tommy came closer, stopping just out of reach. He always seemed to know distance. How much to take. How much to leave. It made you wonder how often he had used restraint as a weapon.

“My father owed Sabini money,” you said quietly.

Tommy said nothing.

“When he died, the debt stayed. My mother was ill. My brother was young. Sabini offered work.” Your mouth twisted slightly. “Protection.”

“A cage,” Tommy said.

You looked at him then.

The word was too close.

“Yes.”

His jaw flexed.

For a moment, he said nothing, and the silence felt more dangerous than speech.

Then you reached into your coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

Tommy’s eyes dropped to it.

“What’s that?”

“Something I didn’t give you.”

He looked at you.

You held it out.

He took it slowly, his fingers brushing yours for the smallest second. It should have meant nothing.

It did not.

His hand was warm despite the cold.

You hated that you noticed.

Tommy opened the paper.

Names. Times. A delivery route. Men Sabini planned to have waiting near a warehouse Tommy’s people had been watching.

Tommy read it once, then again.

His eyes lifted. “Why?”

You pulled your coat tighter. “Maybe I don’t like seeing men walk into graves.”

“Or maybe you want me alive for something.”

“You think everything is strategy.”

“It usually is.”

You laughed once under your breath, though there was no joy in it. “That must be a lonely way to live.”

Tommy folded the paper and put it inside his coat. “It keeps me alive.”

“Does it?”

That question stayed in the air longer than it should have.

His eyes moved over your face, and this time there was no office, no Sabini, no brothers to break the look apart. Only the two of you beneath bad London light, standing close enough to ruin something.

“I saw your face before London,” you said.

You had not planned to say it.

Tommy went very still.

There was no satisfaction in his expression. No triumph. Only the quiet impact of hearing something he had not allowed himself to expect.

“How long?” he asked.

You swallowed. “Since I was young.”

His eyes lowered briefly, then returned to yours.

“What did you see?”

“You,” you said. “Mostly. Smoke. Sometimes blood. Sometimes you standing in a doorway like you had lost something and didn’t know how to ask for it back.”

Tommy looked away.

That was how you knew you had hurt him.

Not cruelly. Not intentionally.

Truthfully.

“I thought I was mad,” you said.

He looked back. “You’re not.”

“Is that meant to comfort me?”

“No.”

It almost made you smile.

Almost.

The door to the club opened behind you.

You both heard it.

Tommy stepped back into shadow before the light fully spilled out.

You turned.

One of Sabini’s men looked at you from the doorway. His eyes shifted to the street, suspicious.

“Mr. Sabini wants you.”

Your heart had begun to beat too fast, but your face stayed calm.

“Of course.”

The man held the door open.

You took one step toward it, then stopped.

Tommy was still there in the dark, barely visible.

“You should stop looking at me like that,” you said quietly.

His eyes held yours.

“Why?”

“Because he’ll notice.”

“He already has.”

Your breath caught.

“Then stop.”

For the first time, something like helplessness crossed his face. Not softness. Not tenderness. Something rougher than both.

Honest, maybe.

“Can’t.”

You went inside before that word could become something you carried openly.

Sabini was waiting at the bar.

He did not shout. He did not ask where you had been.

He only looked at you for a long time and smiled.

That night, Tommy’s men avoided an ambush near the warehouse because of the paper you had given him.

Three of Sabini’s men ended up in the river.

One came back with a broken jaw and fear in his eyes.

By morning, Sabini knew someone had talked.

By afternoon, he knew it was probably you.

He did not accuse you right away. That would have been too simple. Instead, he made you sit in the office while he met with men who had no need for a secretary. He made you pour drinks with hands you refused to let shake. He asked for papers and then did not read them.

He kept you close.

Closer than usual.

When Tommy came again, it was with Arthur and John.

You stood beside the desk as they entered, and this time you did not look at Tommy first. You looked at Arthur. Then John. Then the floor.

Tommy saw.

So did Sabini.

“Mr. Shelby,” Sabini said brightly. “Back so soon.”

Tommy removed his gloves finger by finger. “You invited me.”

“I did.” Sabini’s gaze slid to you. “Y/n, pour Mr. Shelby a drink.”

Your hands stayed steady as you reached for the bottle.

Tommy watched Sabini.

Not you.

Somehow, that made it worse.

You poured the whiskey and carried it to him. His fingers closed around the glass without touching yours this time.

A performance.

For Sabini.

For everyone.

You returned to your place.

Sabini chuckled. “She serves Birmingham now too. How generous of her.”

Arthur’s eyes flashed.

John looked at Tommy, warning in the glance.

Tommy lifted the glass and took a drink.

“You keep good staff,” he said.

Sabini leaned back. “Loyal staff.”

The room held its breath.

Your face remained still.

Tommy set the glass down.

“Loyalty is expensive,” he said. “Most men confuse it with fear because fear is cheaper.”

Sabini’s smile faded at the edges.

You felt that sentence in your bones.

Arthur’s hand flexed at his side.

John shifted his weight.

Sabini stood slowly, palms flat on the desk.

“You come into my city,” he said, “speak in my rooms, look at my people, and now you lecture me on loyalty?”

Tommy’s voice stayed level. “Only correcting you.”

Sabini laughed, but it was ugly now.

Then he moved toward you.

Not quickly. That would have been easier.

He came around the desk and stopped beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him. His hand settled on your shoulder.

Your body wanted to pull away.

You did not let it.

Tommy saw that too.

Sabini squeezed once, lightly. “Tell me, Y/n. Are you afraid of me?”

The room blurred at the edges.

You knew the answer he wanted.

You knew the answer that kept women alive.

You looked at Sabini. “No.”

He smiled. “Good girl.”

Tommy’s face changed.

Not much.

But Arthur saw it.

John saw it.

And you saw it.

A door closing somewhere behind his eyes.

Sabini turned back to him. “See? Loyalty.”

Tommy looked from Sabini’s hand on your shoulder to Sabini’s face.

“No,” he said. “That’s practice.”

For a second, nobody moved.

Then Sabini’s hand left you.

The meeting ended badly after that.

No blood, but only because both sides had decided to save it for a better place. Arthur was nearly shaking by the time they left. John kept muttering curses under his breath.

Tommy said nothing.

Not until that evening.

Not until you found him waiting outside the little church two streets away from your rooms, the place you sometimes went not because you believed God listened, but because it was one of the few buildings where men lowered their voices.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said.

He turned from the gate.

“You’ve said that before.”

“And yet you keep appearing.”

His eyes moved over your face. “Did he hurt you?”

Your throat tightened. “No.”

“Y/n.”

“No,” you said again, firmer. “Not tonight.”

Tommy looked toward the street, then back at you. “Come with me.”

You almost laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because it was impossible.

“You say that like leaving is a matter of getting in a car.”

“It can be.”

“For men like you.”

“For you too.”

You shook your head. “You don’t know what he holds over me.”

“I know enough.”

“You know paper. Debts. Names. You don’t know what happens after a woman runs and the men looking for her can’t find her.” Your voice sharpened despite yourself. “They find her mother. They find her brother. They find the girl who sold her bread that morning and ask if she knew anything. They make everyone around her pay until the world becomes smaller than the cage she left.”

Tommy was quiet.

Good.

You wanted him to understand. You wanted him to stop looking at you like it could be simple.

“You think because you’re dangerous, you’re safe,” you said. “But Sabini is dangerous too. I have lived under his roof long enough to know what kind of man he is when he feels embarrassed.”

Tommy stepped closer, slowly.

“I can move your mother,” he said. “Your brother too.”

Your face faltered.

He saw it.

Of course he saw it.

“No,” you whispered.

“Yes.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Tommy’s eyes held yours. “I knew you before I knew your name.”

The words went through you too softly.

That was the problem.

A threat, you could have withstood. A bargain, you could have refused. But this quiet, impossible truth between you touched something you had spent years teaching not to answer.

“You don’t know what that means,” you said.

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t.”

“And still?”

“And still.”

You looked at him for a long time.

The church windows were dark behind him. Rain glistened on the shoulders of his coat. His cap shadowed his eyes, but not enough to hide them.

You remembered the dreams then.

Not the smoke. Not the blood.

The doorway.

The man standing there like he had lost something and did not know how to ask for it back.

“Men like you don’t save women like me,” you said.

Tommy’s expression did not soften, but his voice lowered.

“No.” He stepped close enough now that you had to tilt your head slightly to keep looking at him. “But I know how to take them from men worse than me.”

Your breath shook once.

Barely.

Tommy saw that too, but he did not use it against you.

That was new.

“You should be afraid of me,” he said.

“I am.”

His eyes moved over your face. “Good.”

You swallowed. “That isn’t a romantic thing to say.”

“No.”

“Then why say it?”

“Because it’s true.” He paused. “And because I won’t lie to you just to make you come with me.”

The street behind you was quiet, but London was never truly quiet. There were footsteps somewhere far off. A dog barking. A motorcar coughing to life. The city watching and pretending not to.

You looked down at his hand.

He did not offer it.

You were grateful for that.

If he had offered it, you might have taken it too quickly.

“What happens if I say no?” you asked.

“Then I keep looking for a way.”

Your eyes lifted. “And if I tell you to stop?”

Tommy’s jaw worked once.

There was the answer.

You both knew it.

“Thomas,” you said quietly.

His name felt strange in your mouth. Familiar and forbidden at once.

His eyes changed when he heard it, just slightly, as though he had been waiting years for a sound he had no right to want.

You took one step back because if you did not, you would step forward.

“I have to go,” you said.

He nodded once.

But as you turned, his voice caught you.

“Y/n.”

You stopped.

He came closer, only enough to speak low.

“Tomorrow night. Same place. If you want your family moved, I need names and addresses.”

You closed your eyes briefly.

“This is how it starts then?” you asked.

“What?”

You opened your eyes and looked at him over your shoulder. “The ruin.”

Tommy’s face was unreadable.

Then he said, “Maybe.”

It should have frightened you more than it did.

Maybe that was the trouble. Maybe the dreams had already done something to you long before he ever arrived in London. Maybe you had been afraid of him for years. Maybe part of you had been waiting too.

You walked away from him.

This time, he let you.

But you felt his eyes on your back until you turned the corner.

And when you reached your rooms, when you locked the door and leaned against it with your hand pressed to your chest, you knew something had changed.

Sabini had noticed.

Arthur and John had noticed.

Tommy had stopped pretending.

And you had said his name.

That night, Thomas Shelby dreamed again.

This time, you were not far away.

You stood close enough to touch, your dark eyes lifted to his, your voice quiet in the smoke.

“You found me,” you said.

Tommy woke before he could answer.

For a long moment, he lay still in the dark, listening to London breathe outside his window. Then he sat up, reached for his cigarettes, and lit one with steady hands.

Arthur was asleep in the next room.

John was probably still awake somewhere, drinking badly and pretending not to worry.

Sabini was alive.

You were in danger.

And Thomas Shelby, who did not believe in fate, omens, or dreams, sat in the dark with your name in his mouth and a plan already forming.

He had seen your face for years without knowing why.

Now he knew enough.

You were real.

You were trapped.

And he was not leaving London without you.

Part Two

[byorderofana]

how the shelby men react when you stop waiting for them

shelby boys x reader

thomas shelby: oh, tommy would not understand it at first. not really. he’d understand the practical side of it, of course. your things gone from the bedroom. the drawers half empty. the house quieter than it had any right to be. he’d understand that you left. what he wouldn’t understand is the part where you stopped believing he would ever change. because tommy is used to people waiting on him. waiting for answers, waiting for orders, waiting for apologies he gives too late or not at all. and you had waited longer than anyone. through the blood on his cuffs, through the midnight calls, through the lies he told because he thought protecting you and shutting you out were the same thing. so when he comes home from another reckless job and finds no angry voice waiting, no pale face in the hallway, no trembling hands reaching for his coat to check if the blood is his, it would bother him in a way he can’t put a name to. he’d stand there with his cigarette unlit, staring at the space where your coat used to hang, realizing you didn’t leave in a storm. you didn’t slam the door so he could follow. you left quietly. and that would be worse. because tommy can handle a fight. he can win a fight. what he can’t do is argue with an empty room. later, when he finds the note, he’d read it once. then again. then fold it carefully, too carefully, like if he creases it wrong he’ll have ruined the last thing you gave him. he wouldn’t cry. not where anyone could see. but he’d sit in that dead-silent house until the sun came up, finally understanding that you hadn’t stopped loving him all at once. he had just taught you, little by little, how to survive without him.

arthur shelby: arthur would break ugly over it. not in a poetic way, not in a quiet tragic way. ugly. loud at first, because loud is easier than hurt. he’d come home bruised and bleeding from something he swore he wouldn’t get involved in, already carrying the excuse in his mouth, already expecting you to be there furious and frightened and alive with worry. but instead, the house feels wrong. too still. too clean. no shawl over the chair. no cup by the sink. no you. and arthur would know before he even checks the bedroom. he’d know it in his stomach. still, he’d go looking because he has to. calling your name once, then again, rougher the second time. by the time he sees the open drawer, the missing clothes, the little spaces where you used to be, all that anger would turn on him so fast he wouldn’t know what to do with his hands. he’d curse. knock something over. maybe punch the wall because pain he can make sense of. but then it would get quiet, and that’s when it would really hit him. you were done waiting for him to become easier to love. done sitting in rooms wondering if the next body through the door would be his. done patching up the same man who kept walking back into the knife. arthur would sit on the edge of the bed with blood drying on his shirt, looking at the empty side like he expected you to appear if he stared long enough. and when you don’t, he’d put his head in his hands and just fall apart. because the worst part is, he wouldn’t blame you. not really. he’d want to. he’d want to be angry, want to say you gave up on him. but deep down, arthur would know you stayed longer than he deserved. and that would hurt worse than anything that happened to him in the street.

john shelby: john would be the one who tries to laugh it off until he can’t. at first, he’d think you were making a point. he’d see your things gone and tell himself you’d be back by morning, that you were at a friend’s, that you just wanted him scared a little. and he’d be annoyed, honestly. hurt, but annoyed. because john is used to being loved through his foolishness. he’s used to coming home with that grin, with blood on his sleeve and trouble behind him, and somehow getting you to soften even when you swore you were done. so at first he’d tell himself this was just another fight. a bad one, maybe, but still a fight. then morning would come. then afternoon. then another night where the bed stays cold on your side. and that’s when the joking would stop. because john doesn’t like quiet when it means absence. he doesn’t like realizing the person who always worried for him has finally chosen peace over panic. he’d start remembering every time you begged him not to go. every time you stood in the doorway with tears in your eyes while he kissed your forehead and promised he’d be careful, already knowing careful was never really part of the plan. and that would eat at him. john would try to find you, of course he would. he’d show up too casual, hands in his pockets, acting like his chest isn’t caving in. probably saying something stupid like, “you’ve made your point, love,” because admitting he’s terrified would feel too much like losing. but when he sees your face and realizes you’re not playing, that you’re tired in a way his smile can’t fix, he’d go still. properly still. because john can charm anger. he can kiss away a bad mood. he can make you laugh when you don’t want to. but he can’t sweet-talk you out of being exhausted. and for the first time, he’d understand that you didn’t leave because you didn’t love him enough. you left because you loved him so much it was starting to ruin you.

[byorderofana]

Nobody's Girl

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Tommy Shelby x fem!reader x John Shelby

☾ Warnings: love triangle/romantic tension, jealousy, possessive behavior, heated kissing, suggestive tension, smoking, alcohol, knife mention/weapon hidden in stocking, brief physical fight between brothers, blood mention, Y/n being a menace.

☾ Tags: @spn-reader

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ───────────── ⋅ ˚₊‧☽

The first time you sang at the Garrison, the room quieted like somebody had turned a key in it.

Not all at once. Men were never that obedient, not in Small Heath, not in a pub full of whiskey, smoke, and money changing hands under tables. At first, a few of them kept talking. Someone laughed too loudly near the bar. A chair scraped back. Coins clicked together in a palm.

Then your voice carried over it.

Soft at first.

Steady.

Pretty in a way that made men stop pretending they were not listening.

You stood near the piano in a black dress that held close through the waist and fell smooth over your hips, the slit at the side hidden while you stood still. Nothing about you looked desperate for attention. That was the reason you got so much of it. Your hair was pinned neatly, your gloves buttoned at the wrist, your mouth painted dark enough to make a man wonder if you would stain his collar and smile about it after.

By the time you reached the second verse, the Garrison had lowered itself around you.

A glass stopped halfway to a man’s mouth. Harry paused behind the bar with a cloth in his hand. Even Arthur Shelby, who looked like silence offended him on principle, glanced up from his drink with his brows pulled together.

John Shelby noticed with less subtlety.

He had come in laughing, cap pushed back on his head and his coat still carrying the cold from outside. Whatever joke had been sitting on his tongue died there. He leaned back against the bar, one elbow settling on the wood, and watched with a grin that came slow and shameless.

You caught that one easily.

John was the sort of man who wanted to be caught.

Thomas Shelby was not.

He sat in the snug with smoke curling near his face, one hand around a glass he had not lifted in a while. At first glance, he looked no different than he always did in that place: still, half-shadowed, unreadable. But his cigarette burned lower between his fingers without him noticing, and his eyes stayed fixed on you long enough that you felt it from across the room.

You did not look at him right away.

Men like that enjoyed being the first to unsettle someone.

So you finished the song.

Only when the last note faded and the room broke into rough applause did you let your gaze drift toward the snug. Thomas was still looking in your direction. You gave him the smallest lift of your chin, polite enough to be nothing and bold enough to be something.

John clapped louder than anyone.

Of course he did.

You stepped down from the little space by the piano, gathering your dress just enough to keep it from brushing the floor. John was waiting before you reached the bar, wearing a grin that made him look like trouble with good lighting.

“Didn’t know Harry could afford women like you,” he said.

You looked him over, taking your time with it. “He can’t.”

Arthur choked into his drink behind him.

John’s grin widened. “Is that right?”

“I’m only here because I got bored.”

“Bored women usually mean trouble.”

“Only for men who can’t behave.”

John’s eyes brightened as if you had handed him exactly what he wanted. He leaned in a fraction, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you smelled tobacco and cold air on him.

“And do you like men who behave?”

You let your eyes drop briefly to his mouth before coming back to his face. It was quick, but John noticed. He was good at noticing the things that fed him.

“Not particularly,” you said. “But I like knowing they can.”

That made him laugh.

A real laugh, too, not just a sound made to charm you. Arthur looked between you both with the early confusion of a man realizing he might have to watch his brother make a fool of himself.

“You got a name?” John asked.

“Yes.”

He waited.

You reached past him for the drink Harry had set down for you. “Y/n.”

“John Shelby.”

“I know.”

That pleased him far too much.

Before he could answer, you glanced past his shoulder. Thomas had not moved from the snug, though his glass was finally in his hand now. He lifted it slightly when your eyes met his, the gesture small enough that nobody else might have noticed.

You noticed.

John did too.

His head turned, following the line of your attention, and something faintly irritated moved across his face before he covered it with another smile.

“So,” he said, pulling your attention back to him. “You’ll be singing here again?”

You took a sip from your glass and let the whiskey warm your throat before answering.

“If the room deserves it.”

John laughed again.

Tommy did not.

But you saw his mouth shift against the rim of his glass, not quite a smile.

That was enough for the night.

John made himself easy to notice after that.

Not in a subtle way. John Shelby did very few things subtly when he didn’t have to. He found reasons to be near the bar when you came down from singing. He leaned into your path with a cigarette between his fingers and some half-clever remark waiting on his tongue. He bought you drinks you did not ask for and looked entirely too pleased when you drank them anyway.

You let him.

Not because you were fooled by him. John was too obvious for that. You let him because he was amusing, because he made the long nights feel less stale, and because every time he managed to pull a laugh out of you, Tommy Shelby’s silence from the snug grew a little sharper.

John noticed that too.

By the end of your second night, he was waiting near the door with his coat already on, pretending badly that he had not been watching you pin your shawl into place.

“You walking home alone?” he asked.

You glanced at him as you pulled on your gloves. “I walked here alone.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No,” you said, fastening the last button at your wrist. “It isn’t.”

He smiled at that, but there was something more careful beneath it than usual. The pub was still loud behind you, all shouting and smoke and glasses hitting wood, but by the door the cold had already started slipping in around the frame.

John opened it before you reached for the handle.

You looked at him.

He looked far too pleased with himself.

“See?” he said. “I can behave.”

You stepped past him into the night. “Opening a door is a very low bar, John.”

He followed you out laughing.

The street outside was wet from earlier rain, the lamps reflected in the stones, and the noise of the Garrison dulled as the door swung shut behind you. John fell into step beside you without asking. You let him get away with it for half a street before speaking.

“You always follow women into the cold?”

“Only the ones who leave before I’m finished talking to them.”

“You were finished.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You should learn to be.”

He grinned, hands tucked into his coat pockets as the two of you turned toward the canal. “You always this bossy?”

“Only when men need direction.”

“That often, then?”

“Constantly.”

John laughed, and the sound carried softer out here, without the Garrison around it. He was different away from the noise. Still bold, still smiling, but less like he was performing for the room. The cold put color in his cheeks, and every now and then his shoulder brushed yours as you walked, close enough to be noticed, not close enough to be excused.

By the canal, you stopped.

The fog sat low over the water, turning the lamps pale and blurred. John stopped with you, his smile fading by a fraction as he realized you were no longer walking, no longer teasing just to pass the time.

“You’re very sure of yourself,” you said.

John’s eyes dropped to your mouth before returning to your face.

“With you?” he said. “Not as much as I’d like to be.”

That was better than his jokes.

You hated that it was better.

His hand lifted toward your waist, slow enough to give you time to move away.

You didn’t.

That was all the permission John needed.

He kissed you like he had been trying to be patient for exactly three seconds before deciding patience was a waste of everyone’s time.

His mouth was warm against yours, eager in a way that made the cold around you feel suddenly far away. At first, he kept one hand at your waist and the other near your jaw, thumb brushing just beneath your ear. Then you kissed him back, fingers curling into the front of his coat, and John took that as permission to forget every good intention he might have walked over with.

He deepened the kiss without shame.

His tongue brushed past your lips, confident and greedy, and you nearly laughed into his mouth because of course John Shelby kissed like he was trying to start trouble. He pulled you closer with one hand flat against your back, his body warm through layers of coat and dress, and for a few seconds there was only his mouth, the cold stone at your side, and the faint noise of the Garrison behind you.

Then you pressed your palm to his chest and pushed him back.

Not hard.

Just enough.

John stared at you, breathing a little heavier than before, his grin gone crooked.

“You kiss every woman like you’re trying to win an argument?” you asked.

His laugh came rough. “Only the ones who argue back.”

You smoothed the front of your dress as if he had not just kissed you against the canal in the fog. That made his eyes narrow, amused and frustrated at once.

“Goodnight, John.”

He looked over your face like he was deciding whether chasing you would help or ruin his chances.

“You’re just leaving?”

“I usually do after saying goodnight.”

“That’s cruel.”

“No,” you said, taking a few backward steps before turning away. “That was kind.”

You left him there smiling after you, but there was something else in it now.

Something less playful.

Something that thought it had been promised more.

The next evening, Thomas sent for you.

One of the younger boys from the betting shop found you after your second song, nervously twisting his cap in his hands as he told you Mr. Shelby wanted a word. He looked frightened to be the one delivering it, which nearly made you smile.

You took your time getting there.

Not too long. Just long enough.

Tommy’s office above the betting shop was warmer than the street but not by much. A lamp burned low on his desk, laying gold over paperwork, an ashtray, a glass, and a pen placed too neatly beside a ledger. He stood behind the desk with his coat off and his sleeves neat, cigarette held between two fingers.

He looked busy in the way men looked busy when they wanted to be caught doing something other than waiting.

You stepped inside and shut the door behind you.

“Am I interrupting?”

“No.”

“Shame,” you said, slipping one glove off finger by finger. “I do like being inconvenient.”

That almost got a smile out of him.

Almost.

He motioned toward the chair opposite his desk. You sat before he finished the gesture, crossing your ankles neatly beneath the fall of your dress. Thomas noticed. Not in a way that most men would notice, with eyes that wandered and stayed too long. He noticed like he was building a case.

“You took your time,” he said.

“You don’t like waiting.”

“No.”

“Good. It’ll be healthy for you.”

The cigarette paused on its way to his mouth.

There it was again. That little break in him. Not much, never much, but enough to know something had landed.

Tommy moved around the desk slowly. He did not sit. He leaned against the front of it instead, one leg bent, cigarette hanging low near his knee. The office was quiet around you. Downstairs, the muffled business of the shop carried on in bits and pieces: men speaking, papers shifting, a door closing.

His eyes stayed on your face for a moment longer than necessary, then drifted to the glove in your lap.

“I heard John walked you out last night.”

There it was.

Not interest.

Not desire.

John.

You smoothed the glove over your knee, keeping your expression easy. “He opened a door and took a walk. I wouldn’t build him a monument for it.”

“He’ll build one himself if you give him enough encouragement.”

That pulled a smile out of you before you could stop it.

Thomas saw it.

His jaw shifted slightly, and you realized the smile had bothered him more than the walk.

You liked that.

“John enjoys being liked,” you said.

“John enjoys most things until they cost him something.”

“And you?” you asked, looking around the office with its locked drawers, neat papers, untouched glass, and tired lamp glow. “You look like you turn everything into a price before you know whether you even want it.”

Tommy’s eyes came back to yours.

The room changed after that.

Slowly, but surely.

He pushed away from the desk, and each step toward you felt deliberate, as if he had decided the space between you was something to be dealt with. He did not move with John’s warmth or impatience. He came closer like a man crossing a line he had drawn himself and already blamed you for making him notice.

You stayed seated.

That mattered.

Men like Tommy expected retreat, or invitation. You gave him neither. You only sat there with one glove off, the other still buttoned at your wrist, your posture relaxed enough to irritate him.

He stopped in front of you.

The lamp behind him turned his face half-gold, half-shadow. For a second, you could see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the sort that did not come from one sleepless night but years of refusing rest when it was offered.

“You’re comfortable here,” he said.

“Should I not be?”

“Most people aren’t.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” he said quietly. “You’re not.”

His hand came down to the arm of your chair. Not touching you. Not trapping you exactly. But close enough that you felt the shape of him around you, the heat of his body cutting through the room’s chill.

You lifted your chin.

He noticed that too.

Thomas Shelby noticed everything and pretended it was discipline instead of hunger.

His gaze moved to the glove still buttoned at your wrist. Slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, he touched his thumb to the little button there. Just a brush. Barely anything.

It still had your breath catching before you could dress the sound as something else.

His eyes rose to yours.

The corner of his mouth moved.

Not a smile this time.

Something worse.

You stood before he could say whatever he thought he had earned.

He did not move back.

Your dress brushed his leg as you rose, and the office seemed to hold its breath with you. There was no sudden grab, no clever line, no neat little exchange to make it simple. Only his eyes on your face, your hand resting lightly against the edge of his waistcoat, and the memory of John’s mouth against yours beside the canal.

Tommy kissed like he hated fire because he knew exactly what it could take.

At first, his mouth was controlled. Firm, slow, almost careful. His hand came to your jaw, fingers warm beneath your chin, and he kissed you like he wanted to learn the shape of your restraint before testing it. You had thought he would be colder than John. He wasn’t. He was only better at hiding heat.

You made the mistake of touching him back.

Your fingers curled into his waistcoat, and something in him slipped.

Not enough for anyone else to see. There was no rough shove, no loss of all composure, but his hand tightened at your jaw and the kiss deepened, the pressure of his mouth turning hungry for one brief, honest second. He caught himself almost immediately, but that was the best part.

You had felt it happen.

You pulled away first.

Tommy’s hand stayed where it was for a moment longer before he let it fall.

You stepped back and fixed the glove at your wrist, smoothing the button into place.

“I should go.”

His eyes dropped to your hand, then returned to your face.

“You should.”

Neither of you moved.

Downstairs, someone laughed.

You turned toward the door.

“Y/n.”

You paused, hand on the knob.

Thomas’s voice was steady again, but his mouth still looked slightly changed from yours.

“Don’t mistake John’s charm for loyalty.”

You looked back at him.

“And don’t mistake jealousy for wisdom.”

You opened the door before he could answer.

That night, when you returned to the Garrison, John was already there.

He knew.

Not everything. Not the shape of Tommy’s office or the feel of his hand at your jaw. But he knew enough from the way Thomas entered after you, a little too composed, cigarette already lit, eyes avoiding nothing.

John’s smile sharpened.

Tommy removed his cap and sat in the snug without a word.

Arthur, stuck between them at different points and somehow suffering through both, looked like he had begun regretting every choice that led him to being born the eldest.

Later that week the Garrison was fuller than usual. The sort of night where the walls sweated with heat and the tables stayed crowded no matter how many men stumbled out. You had sung twice already. Your throat felt warm from whiskey and use, but the room still hummed with the last song when you joined the Shelby's in the snug.

John poured your drink without being asked.

Thomas noticed.

Arthur noticed Thomas noticing.

You sat down before either brother could decide whether the gesture meant anything. Your dress settled neatly over your knees, slit hidden for the moment, one gloved hand curled around the glass John pushed toward you.

“To the singer,” John said.

Arthur lifted his drink. “To her makin’ this place less miserable for three minutes at a time.”

You smiled at that. “Only three?”

“Four if Tom stops scowlin’.”

Tommy looked at Arthur. “I’m not scowling.”

“You’re always bloody scowling.”

John laughed, and for a second, things almost felt easy.

Then you crossed your legs.

The slit in your dress opened with the movement, smooth black fabric sliding away to reveal the line of your thigh beneath sheer stocking. John’s eyes dropped first, because John was still John no matter how many feelings he tried to dress up as charm. Tommy’s followed after, not as obvious, but no less focused.

Then both of them saw the knife.

Small. Clean. Strapped high beneath the stocking.

John’s brows lifted.

Arthur leaned forward, squinting. “Is that—”

“A knife,” you said, taking a sip from your glass.

John stared for another second before his grin spread. “Jesus, love.”

You let the dress fall back into place. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“You carry that while singing?”

“I carry it while breathing.”

Arthur nodded slowly, as if that made perfect sense to him. “Fair enough.”

John’s grin turned wicked. “That for men who clap too loud or men who don’t clap enough?”

“Depends how close they stand after.”

Tommy’s gaze lingered on the place where the knife had disappeared beneath fabric. When he looked back at your face, his expression had changed in a way you liked too much. Less amused. More careful.

Respect looked good on him.

John pulled his cigarette case from his coat.

“Smoke?”

You looked at the cigarette between his fingers, then at his face.

One small nod.

That was all you gave him.

John leaned in and placed the cigarette between your lips himself. His fingers brushed the corner of your mouth with a softness that made it seem more deliberate, not less. Before he could move for a match, Tommy struck one.

The sound was small.

The room felt smaller.

You turned your eyes toward Thomas as he leaned in, flame steady in his hand. The light warmed his face for a moment, catching the sharp line of his cheek, the pale focus of his eyes. You dipped your head slightly, drawing in as the end of the cigarette caught.

John was close enough that his knee nearly brushed yours.

Tommy was close enough that the flame trembled with your breath.

You leaned back, took the cigarette between your fingers, and exhaled slowly.

Arthur sat back slowly, his brows pulling together.

“Right… so that’s what this is.”

John glanced over. “What’s what?”

Arthur pointed vaguely between the three of you.

“That.”

Tommy’s jaw tightened. “Use your words, Arthur.”

Arthur looked at him, then at John, then at you with the cigarette still between your fingers.

“No,” he said, reaching for his drink. “I don’t think I will.”

You bit back a laugh.

John did not bother hiding his.

Tommy dropped the dead match into the ashtray and looked like he regretted having brothers at all.

By the end of the night, the tension had teeth.

John stood too close when he spoke to you. Tommy interrupted at the most inconvenient times. John made remarks under his breath that sounded like jokes until Thomas answered them seriously. Arthur watched the whole thing with the increasing horror of a man realizing he might have to break up a fight he did not understand.

When John leaned against the bar beside you and murmured something that made you laugh, Tommy called from the snug.

“John.”

John did not look away from you. “What?”

“Need you at the shop.”

“It’s midnight.”

“Yes.”

Arthur set down his glass. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

John turned then, irritation plain across his face. “Send someone else.”

“I’m sending you.”

“No, you’re not.”

The pub noise around them softened. Not because everyone stopped, but because the people close enough to know better began pretending not to hear.

Thomas rose from his seat.

John pushed away from the bar.

You sighed into your drink.

Arthur stood so quickly his chair scraped back. “No. No, we are not doin’ this here.”

John gestured toward Tommy. “Tell him that.”

Tommy’s eyes stayed on John. “You’re making yourself look foolish.”

John laughed once, no humor in it. “Me?”

Arthur looked between them, then at you.

You lifted your glass slightly. “Don’t look at me. I’m just standing here.”

“Yeah,” Arthur muttered. “That’s the problem.”

You decided then that the Garrison had given you enough entertainment for one night.

You finished your drink and set the glass on the bar.

John’s eyes followed the movement.

Tommy’s did too.

Good.

You passed John first, close enough that your shoulder brushed his sleeve. He turned his head toward you immediately, anger softening into attention.

“Canal,” you said quietly. “Ten minutes.”

His expression changed before he could stop it.

Not victory exactly.

Anticipation.

You left him with that.

Thomas stood near the entrance to the snug, still watching John with the cold patience of a man trying not to strike first. You paused beside him, close enough that only he could hear.

“If you’re still interested in proving a point,” you said, “follow me when I leave.”

His eyes moved to yours.

You gave him one small smile and walked out.

The canal looked different without John arriving to make it warmer.

Fog sat thick over the water, dulling the lamps and softening the edges of the street. The night smelled of damp stone, coal smoke, and rain that had not yet decided whether to fall. You did not stand in the open. You waited near the mouth of an alley, half-hidden by shadow, coat pulled close around your shoulders.

John arrived first.

He tried not to look eager.

It did not work.

He came down the street with his hands in his pockets, glancing once toward the canal, then toward the alley, then back down the road. You watched him smile to himself like he thought he had finally been chosen.

Then Thomas appeared through the fog.

John saw him and stopped smiling.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Tommy stopped a few feet away, cap low, one hand tucked into his coat pocket.

John stared at him. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Tommy’s eyes moved over him once. “I could say the same.”

“She asked me to come.”

“She told me to follow.”

John’s mouth twisted. “Of course she did.”

Thomas looked toward the water. “You sound surprised.”

“I sound pissed off.”

“You often do.”

John stepped closer. “You always have to take everything, don’t you?”

That made Tommy look at him properly.

The fog moved between them, thin and gray, but nothing softened.

“Careful,” Tommy said.

“No, I’m tired of careful.” John’s voice rose, not loud enough to carry far but sharp enough to cut. “You see something I want and suddenly it’s a strategy. Suddenly it’s business. Suddenly you’re standing there with that face like you thought of it first.”

Tommy’s jaw tightened.

“You think she belongs to you because she let you kiss her beside dirty water?”

John’s face changed.

So Tommy knew enough.

John shoved him.

Tommy caught himself with one step back, then returned it hard enough to knock John’s shoulder against the wall. John came forward immediately, grabbing Tommy by the lapels of his coat. For a moment, they were close enough to look more like boys than men, all anger and old rivalry dressed up as pride.

“You don’t get to order me away from every room she’s in,” John snapped.

Thomas caught his wrist and forced it down. “Then stop acting like you need managing.”

John swung.

The punch caught Tommy at the mouth, quick and ugly, the sound cracking through the cold. Tommy’s head turned. He stayed that way for one second, tongue pressing briefly to the blood at his lip.

Then he hit John back.

Not like he would hit an enemy. Worse, maybe, because he knew exactly how much force to use and still call it brotherly.

John stumbled, laughed breathlessly in disbelief, and lunged again. They shoved each other into the wall, hands gripping coats, boots scraping on stone. Tommy cursed low. John said something about him being a miserable bastard. Thomas answered by driving him back a step.

You stepped out of the alley laughing.

Both of them froze.

John turned first, breathing hard, hair slightly mussed, one hand still half-raised like he had forgotten what he meant to do with it.

Tommy looked over more slowly, blood at the corner of his mouth and irritation burning through all that careful stillness.

You smiled.

“Are you two finished?”

John stared at you. “You think this is funny?”

“A little.”

Tommy wiped his mouth with his thumb. “You invited us both.”

“I did.”

John shook his head, anger flashing again. “Why?”

You came closer, your heels clicking softly against damp stone. Neither man moved out of your way. That pleased you, though you kept it to yourself.

“Because this was getting embarrassing.”

John laughed sharply. “For us?”

“For all three of us, if it went on much longer.”

Thomas’s eyes narrowed. “You planned this.”

“Not the punch,” you said, looking at his mouth. “That was your own little contribution.”

John muttered something under his breath.

You looked between them, letting the silence stretch just enough. They were both still breathing too hard, both too proud to admit they had been waiting for you to tell them what it meant.

“You cannot keep fighting over me,” you said.

John’s eyes snapped to yours. “Then stop playing.”

Tommy said nothing, but his attention fixed on you in a way that felt heavier than any question.

John stepped closer, his voice lower now.

“Tell us who you want.”

There it was.

The thing the whole night had been crawling toward.

John stood with his mouth bruised and his pride torn open just enough to show feeling underneath it. Thomas stood quiet, blood at his lip, his face controlled but his eyes giving him away if one knew where to look.

And you did.

You looked at John first.

At the man who had kissed you beside the canal like charm was just another kind of hunger. At the warmth of him, the impatience, the way he made desire feel easy until it wasn’t.

Then you looked at Tommy.

At the man who had waited behind a desk pretending he had not sent for you just to see if you would come. At the restraint that had slipped under your hands for one breath before he caught it and hated that you noticed.

Both of them waited.

For once, neither Shelby brother seemed to know what came next.

You smiled.

Not sweetly.

Not kindly.

Just enough to make John’s eyes narrow and Tommy go very still.

Then you turned and walked away.

Behind you, John swore under his breath.

Tommy said nothing at all.

For once, both Shelby brothers had nothing to say.

And you decided you liked them best that way.