Ozyparda's Official "The Secret History" One Shot List (Explicit)
Updated: December 2025
The tags have been abridged on this post! Make sure to check the original tags before reading.
Enjoy XX
Money For Nothing
Relationship: Edmund "Bunny" Corcoran/Henry Winter
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 3,173
Additional Tags: Pre-Canon, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Intercrural Sex, Third person narration from Henry's POV, "and they were roommates"
Summary:
"Henry’s thoughts cycled through every possible scenario. Some bad, some worse, some deliciously promising. The next thing you know, he was fantasizing daily about his ditzy blond roommate and all the different ways that they could emulate the frescoes at Pompeii."
or
Set during freshman year of college, Henry realizes that throwing money at his problems is truly the best way to solve them.
Two-Person Bacchanal
Relationship: Edmund "Bunny" Corcoran/Henry Winter
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 2,867
Additional Tags: Pre-Canon, Bacchanal attempt, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Heavy Drinking, Outdoor Sex, Third-person narration from Henry's POV, No longer Extra Virgin Olive Oil
Summary:
"Henry couldn’t tell if Bunny had meant it as a euphemism. 'A two-person bacchanal?'"
or
Set at the beginning of sophomore year before Richard joins the Greek Class. Bunny and Henry find themselves alone in the country house with multiple bottles of wine.
Tick Check
Relationship: Francis Abernathy/Charles Macaulay/Richard Papen
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 2,393
Additional Tags: Post-Murder, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, Richard's First Person POV, Matters progressed again
Summary:
“'Charles, really, I am not that kind of guy.' I laughed nervously, which definitely did not make me sound convincing."
or
During their stay at the Corcoran house for Bunny's funeral, a walk around the property leads to a tick check, which in turn leads to a threesome.
- she was his muse for everything he was brave enough to fabricate. her heart was ravelled between the strings of his guitar, her name was silently uttered under every sound, and her touch awakened the poetry that he had never realized he could compose - ⋆｡ ﾟ⭑
- you say you’re sure? sure that you’re in love? how can you know it? you think love is so simple?
- sophie had been a dancer her entire life, but she never truly understood what it meant to lose herself in the midst of the music, the glamour, the chandeliers, and the vehemence - ✧
- she danced and danced and danced and thought of him. Her teary-eyed, reckless boy.
i have genuinely tried to read this book three times now because i always forget how violent the first sexual encounter is. i do not judge dark romance readers, i have indulged in the genre many times but i guess for me i do have lines drawn in how far i think it should go. that said, while i don’t believe the author was attempting to glorify rpe i do think the readers have issues acknowledging the behavior from the mmc. i am sad because i loved the setting of this book— specifically parsons manor— and the overall plot outside of the romance. i hope in the future carlton explores non smut books, she is very talented at creating a world i want to get lost in.
Summary: With Thomas Shelby behind bars for treason, Arthur is not only tasked with keeping the family business afloat, but also finding a distraction for his brother's unraveling mind. But what begins as routine correspondence soon turns into a dangerous dance of power, temptation, and exposure, when you seek an exclusive interview with the notorious Brummie gangster for your headlining piece set to boost your career. One letter. One look. And suddenly the shackles of fate are not the only pair of chains tightening around Tommy Shelby's ankles. But around yours too.
Warnings: Language, angst, Dark!Tommy, psychological mind games, psychological manipulation, delusional take on love.
Word Count: 3.5K
Authors Note: The song "Oranges and Lemons" is an old British nursery rhyme that even I can remember singing and dancing to at school in the playground.
[Masterlist] [Trailer]
"Return To Sender"
" Fuck" a breathy huff left your lips, eyes drifting over the stamped response on the sealed envelope waved in front of your face by your sighing assistant as the partially peeled orange in your hand slipped from your fingers, rolling off the table onto the floor with a thud.
" That's the seventh one in six weeks, Y/N" Dottie, the unfortunate trainee, lumbered with following you around like a chick waddling behind its mother hen into every reckless escapade you barreled head first into huffed.
" Patience is a virtue, Dottie..." you bit your bottom lip in concentration, hitching your skirt up to your thighs as you manoeuvred your leg until the pointy tip of your heel reached your lunch on the polished floors.
" Yes, and you're running out of it" Dottie raised a brow, arms folded, watching with both amusement and skepticism at her boss' attempts to scavenge the citrus delicacy and the words of wisdom meant for her young, inexperienced ears.
Nearly half your age, head firmly on her shoulders. Dottie was a stark difference in comparison to her supervisour, you, who each morning came sporting five-inch heels with a flurry of papers flying behind you before even the groggisest of greetings left your lips.
" Ah ha!" you said, stabbing the orange with your heel, bringing your shoe up into your hand as you waved your fruity accomplishment triumphantly in front of you.
" Mr. Shelby is playing the long game, Dottie. And I'm going for gold" you pointed your shoe, orange pierced through its heel at her with squinting eyes filled with feigned insight as a fond grin grew on her lips.
" Yes, well, your article goes to print in a matter of weeks. So you had better start sprinting towards that deadline before Mr. Collins calls you into his office, and you're standing on the losing side. Fired" she said with a pursed smirk swiveling on her kitten heels as your mouth opened in quiet disbelief at the shy girl you had turned into a sassy, straight-talking hustler in the space of a single month. A replica, and product of your own making.
" Y/N, my office. Five minutes!" the very same Mr. Collins bellowed at you, storming past your desk, brow arching at your obscenely high skirt and speared fruit with a grumble for his talented, yet reckless employee who had a tendency to cause a workload of mistakes that surpassed his salary.
" Shit" you mumbled under your breath, tugging your skirt back to an acceptable length, before the packed office of overpaid wolves caught sight and came sniffing for scraps of attention to boost their suited egos.
Plucking the orange from your heel, your hovering hand steadied it atop of your wooden desk before it made another fleeting attempt to escape as you straightened your back, cleared your throat of any lingering frustrations, and got to work.
" Mr. Shelby. I'm writing..." you read aloud each syllable in tune to the sound of your fingers tapping against the metal keys of your typewriter, when your brows knitted with criticism, and you ripped the paper from the feed, scrunching it in your palm with a huff.
" Dear Mr. Thomas Shelby..." you began again, shoulders taut, chin high, eyes flicking to each stamped letter as its accompanying clack resonated in your ears to the sound of the metal bar slowly dragging across.
" ...I'm writing to follow up on the interview I proposed six weeks ago" you frowned at your own words, feeling deflated by the sheer number of letters you had written, rewritten, and prepared couplous amounts of in advance to be sent to his current place of residence. HM Prison Birmingham, Winson Green.
Locked up, incarcerated, detained, and clearly with no functioning digits to bloody write back, you huffed to yourself pulling the paper from the typewriter, tossing it behind you for a fresh piece when frustrations suddenly had you going...rogue.
" Mr Shelby, OBE...ABC" you smirked to yourself, mischief gleaming in the corner of your eyes at your little detour from formality that absolutely, under no circumstances, would ever be read by anyone but you. Or so you believed.
"I'm sure the guards have a watchful eye over their most feared and prized possession, but perhaps under your charm they'd turn a blind eye so you can have your wicked way with this damsel in distress, sporting only heels and black stockings for a quickie behind the wardens office. So here is my new proposal, since you have an inclination for breaking the rules. Break one more with me so I can finish this article, and I will sing your praises in my riveting piece, highlighting the quality of said quickie. Kind regards..." you voiced aloud with each stroke of a key, snorting a hushed giggle as you pulled the paper from the roller, signing your name at the bottom.
" There" you bit your bottom lip with another amused giggle as Dottie glanced over at you suspiciously, watching you rub your wrist doused in perfume across the paper's edge, cherry lips pressing under your name to seal your fate before popping it into an envelope.
" Y/N!" your boss hollered your name from his leather throne, startling you as you aimlessly tossed the letter into the metal bin beside you with a huff, missing it by more than a foot as you scrambled to your boss' door.
" Arney?" you peaked around the door frame, testing the waters, and his patience with your constant use of informalities, and incorrectly so.
" Mr. Arnold Collins" he huffed, lifting his eyes over the rims of his glasses, cigar swirling lazy loops into the dimly lit room as he studied your first draft, or rather, the first line scrawled on a scrap of paper between his fingers.
" In. Sit" his gravelly voice commanded, eyes narrowing in on you, the wildcard he'd convinced the newspapers higher ups to take on despite your young age, and the glaring obvious that you were in fact, a woman working in what they wanted to remain a man's world.
"Mr. Thomas ‘Notorious’ Shelby, the dark, brooding king of Birmingham’s underworld. For over a decade, he’s ruled the shadowed alleys and rain-soaked cobblestones with a dangerous charm, leaving a trail of broken hearts and whispered legends in his wake. Any woman with a fluttering heart and weak knees would surrender herself willingly to his reckless, magnetic pull. And yet, very few have gazed into his famously piercing blues. This fair lady, being one of them" he read aloud your scribbles, ending the theatric piece with a grunting huff as his eyes locked onto yours.
" Sounds like a bloody woman's novel. A very short, bloody novel" he tossed the crumpled note into the bin as he leant back into his creaking chair with a disgruntled groan, resting his hands on his portly belly.
" It's a work in progress" you cleared your throat, legs crossing as your fingers curled around your bobbing knee.
" Then make it work harder, because I want to sell to the masses. Not a gaggle of tipsy girls at the corner of a road giggling over a gangster's bloody blues. He cuts eyes out of people's skulls for sport for Christ's sake!" he snapped, puffing on the end of his cigar, frown creasing his brows enough to resemble a disgruntled bulldog, pouting over his dinner being five minutes too late.
"He won't respond to my letters. Won't accept an interview. I'm having to use my...imagination" you raised your arms dramatically until they folded against your chest as you settled into the back of your chair, eyeing up your words in the bin with stubborn defiance.
"Last time you used your imagination, your factless article nearly caused a lawsuit" Collins jabbed his cigar accusingly at you, still reeling from the nationwide uproar it sparked.
" But it sold, didn't it?" your brow arched, challenging him to admit that it was the best-selling piece that year.
" Yes, it bloody sold" he begrudgingly agreed with a grumble, shifting in his creaking chair as he settled an arm on his mahogany desk.
" But this ain't no politician caught out on the razzle with some flapper girl. This man, Y/N, he's dangerous" he pointed his finger into his desk, eyes stern with a warning to tread carefully.
" Ok. Understood" your voice surrendered under your boss’s counsel, edged now with a simmering determination to finish the article and give him the proof he needed, that hiring you wasn’t a risk against his better judgment.
" Now, get the facts right and get out of my bloody office. Clock's ticking, Miss Y/L/N" he waved you off, picking up the morning's newspaper, circling every minute editorial mistake he'd bark at someone in the coming hour as you carefully shut his door, creeping out before he flashed his teeth and started yapping again.
"Are you fired?" Dottie's clicking heels raced over in a panic as she came to a stop beside you, widened stare drifting over your eyes locked on a thought running through your head.
" Not yet" your lips twisted with an emerging idea as your hands rummaged through the piles of precariously stacked papers, of junk spewed across your desk.
" Dottie, grab me one of those interview letters from the stack in my draw" you asked her as you rifled through the cluttered desk for the scribbled address of a man named Strong, when your searching hands toppled over a stack of files onto the floor.
" Shit..." you huffed crouching down, wading through the soggy papers drenched in your day-old brew left to become a murky swamp of tea leaves and sour milk.
" Here, let me help" Dottie perched the formal letter on your desk as she collected your miss match of scribbled thoughts into a pile. Unbeknownst to either of you, that the forgotten letter, destined for the bin, had found its way onto the very top.
Crumpled address in hand, you reached for the sealed envelope on the pile of neatly arranged papers, unaware, oblivious to the grave error your distracted mind had just made with only a flicker of doubt crossing your mind as you turned it in your fingers.
" Where are you going?" Dottie asked, snapping your attentions away from the letter in your hand, eyes filled with confusion as she watched you turn, sauntering away with a plan that spelled more trouble for Mr. Collins, and a chain of events that threatened to change your life indefinitely.
" To meet the royal family of Small Health"
" So much...mud" your eyes scanned the streets of Small Heath, sat in the passenger's side of a black cab, legs crossed, fingers fiddling with the crumpled address in your lap.
" Aye. You better watch yourself, love. You’ll sink right through out here" the driver eyed your pristine heels in the footwell, brow cocked with amusement at another city goer who had found their way into the trenches of outer Birmingham.
" You erh....you sure you've got the right address, there?" his brow furrowed as he studied the creased note between your fingers, eyes darting suspiciously to yours locked on the road ahead as the car's wheels grated along the road to a halt.
" Cause ain't nobody going in there unless they're looking for trouble. And, well..." he cleared his throat, shifting uneasily in his seat as his gaze drifted to the rusty metal gate blocking the muddy road ahead. Warnings for trespassers and the curious that they'd be shot on site or worse, mauled, hanging off the iron bars.
" That's exactly what I'm looking for" you threw open the door, landing heel-first into the sludge and grit of the soot-clouded town.
" Watch yourself, love" he warned, shaking his head, half expecting to read about a woman dressed in a pencil skirt and five-inch heels' disappearance in the paper the next morning as you paid your fare.
Cab quick to make a turn, leaving you stood at the gates of a scrapyard, your eyes scanned the eerie street as a gust of wind whipped your hair in front of your face, the chill of winter nipped at your legs.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
Only the faint lilt of children laughing could be heard as another gust of wind carried their singing along the cobble road as you stood by the rickety gate, worn hinges creaking against the steady whisper of a freeze coming in.
"Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement’s..."
You turned your head toward the haunting rhyme, to the sound of muddy boots dancing in unison, kicking up the sludge and muck of the road lined with terrace houses as they swang around in a circle.
" You owe me five farthings. Say the bells of St. Martins..." a waist-high, golden-haired girl, cheeks dimpled in chorus to the children's nursery rhyme, dipping her head under the arms of two muddy-kneed boys with a squeal.
"When will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey..."
" Children, come in now!" A motherly voice suddenly cracked through the grey skies like a whip as you squinted up to see a woman, leaning out the top window of her bricked house, pinny dusted with flour, hair pinned in place and eyes now pinned on...you.
" At once!" She barked, hand slicing through the air as her children filed inside. Muddy boots kicked off at the front porch one by one until the door clicked shut, sealing in the gentle warmth of the flickering gaslight hung in the hallway.
" Nothing good will come of going in there, child" her mothering voice drifted down to you with a weary warning, eyes scanning the empty street a breath too long, before she pulled her windows to, swiftly drawing back the netted curtains before her shadow could be seen
Stood alone on the deserted path, a gust of wind whistled past your ears, coaxing you forward to the gate with quiet steps until your fingers curled around its rusty frame.
" Nothing good..." you murmured, repeating your harbinger’s caution under your breath as you pushed it open, its shrieking hinges announcing your arrival as your heels crossed over the yard's muddy threshold.
One foot in, one step too far. You were already being watched under the shadow of peaked caps, already being circled by three-piece suits and pinstriped shirts as the muddy earth swallowed your heels, forcing you down from your lofty throne of misplaced arrogance, from a boldness that had no place in their lair.
Eyes flicking up to the curling smirks of street thugs dressed up as soldiers, to the unspoken orders being shot across the yard, that foolish bravado your boss warned you of, began to surface from under your skin.
Fake it until you make it Y/N, you thought to yourself, eyes darting cautiously to each amused grin as you slipped out of your heals into the thick of Small Heaths sludge, barefoot squelching footsteps and a shit tonne of brittle courage pushing you forward every step you took.
" 'ere Charlie, you've got yourself a pretty little visitor" a young peaky lad murmured through a cloud of smoke as Charlie Strong stepped into your line of sight, onto the muddy runway before you.
" What the devil..." the older man squinted through the smog, eyes trailing down to you barefoot and bold walking into dangerous territory with an arsenal of confidence. Reckless confidence.
" Get Arthur" he ordered lowly with a flick of his chin, tossing the oily rag in his hand onto the dismantled motor beside him.
" You mad, girl?" his brows furrowed together with bewilderment, eyes rising from your feet to that foolish courage politely smiling back at him.
" A little" a flicker of misgiving left your lips with a breathy chuckle, forcing the nattering voice of sensibility silent in your head, burying it with each sinking foot forward as your eyes scanned the yard under hooded lids with caution.
For you were being watched, and not by any cocky pup, still teething. But by a wolf. An old dog that had been in more scraps than he'd had Sunday roasts. And he was prowling.
" Charlie Strong?" you threw your hand out in the empty air between you both in a formality that could've fooled anyone into thinking you played by the book if it wasn't for your feet sinking into a foot's worth of sludge and mud.
" Aye" he nodded, soot-covered hand shooting out to shake yours. No softness in his grip, no cautious restraint. He shook your hand like you belonged on the same playing field. Like you were a grown man, and not a girl that had walked barefoot into his yard without so much as flinching.
" Y/N Y/L/N" you revealed your name, and in turn blew the whistle of recognition in his head. For kick off had only just begun, and Charlie Strong had already hung up his gloves.
" I know who you are, girl. And he ain't gonna bite" he turned his back to you, picking up the oily rag from the dismantled motorbike.
" He won't talk to the police, and he sure as hell won't talk to no journalist. Even one that walks into my yard barefooted" Charlie's eyes flicked over his shoulder to your feet, ankle deep in land that had been stained bloody with dodgy deals and buried bodies.
" Just one interview, no more than thirty...no, ten minutes" you began to plead your case as you rummaged in your bag for the letter you'd be better off not finding.
As your offer echoed through the smog, in the shadows of the yard’s barn, the lurking wolf bared his teeth with amusement, legs crossed casually, leaning steadily against the weathered wooden panels as peelings from his tart lunch fell at his feet.
" Arthur" the young peaky lad strolled over to the eldest Shelby sibling, warning him of the yards' unexpected visitor.
" I see her" a devilish smirk curled his lips as his eyes cut across the yard to the pretty journalist who had stupidly walked headfirst into his den. You.
Muddy boot kicking him off the wall, Arthur popped an orange slice into his mouth, spitting the pip in his pathway as he began to circle. Began to stalk.
" You could persuade him" you stubbornly failed to convince the gruff man, when the letter in your hand got plucked from your fingers, and you turned to see a lean soldier standing beside you, brow raised with mocking amusement.
" Well, Miss Y/L/N, you're just ripe for the picking, ain't you?" he smirked, lazy mouthfuls chewing on the citrus fruit grinding under the teeth, as he offered you a slice.
Slowly shaking your head in polite refusal, you eyed the orange fruit in his hand you had eaten an abundance of with the saintly day steadily approaching as you cautiously stepped a foot away from the presence that had suddenly shifted the whole yard and something fearful in you.
" Arthur Shelby. The oldest. The meanest..." his eyes fell on you with a daring smirk, tongue swiping across his bottom lip as his gaze dragged down your body, head tilting in clear appreciation as he pocketed your letter, having already decided your use.
" Pleasure..." your hand came out, eyes flicking from his unyielding blues staring back at you, when he cut into your pleasantries.
"...is all mine" Arthur gently shook your hand, deliberately dragging it out for an uncustomary length of time. For unlike Charlie, you were prey for his roaming eyes and had unexpectedly just found yourself on the menu. And one never spoils a creature as tender as you with a rough handshake before it's ready to be tasted.
" He ain't interested, sweetheart" his grinning smirk turned from you to the horizon of bricked factories beyond the cut, billowing clouds of smoke into the grey clouds.
"Just one interview. In good light" you took a brave step closer as Arthur's humoured chuckles filled the last of the shrinking distance between you.
" And since when do journalists do anything in good light, ay?" his attention flicked back to you, the corner of his eyes catching yours as his tongue pressed against his inner cheek with amusement to the sound of Charlies gravelly scoff wiping the last of your bravado off the playing field in agreement.
" Just his taste..." Arthur murmured lowly under his breath, following the curve of your hip, before launching the rest of his orange across the yard, it's bitter tang clinging to the air a stark contrast to the sweet smell of your exasperated sigh for the ground you were losing and the deadline of your article you were making no headway with.
" Tell you what..." he brushed his hands of the citrus fruits sticky remenants as Charlie's eyes snapped up to the devilish spark in the eldest Shelby's.
" I'll deliver your letter to my brother personally, with a few persuading words in good light" he tapped his jacket pocket with a finger over the sealed envelope as his eyes settled on those very same persuading words that clung to every inch of your body.
" He won't regret it" you chirped up, head lifting with a satisfied smile that had all caution to the wind leave with a breeze that did little to nothing but prickle your skin with only a small ounce of weariness.
" That I don't doubt sweetheart. That I do not doubt" his tongue rolled against the roof of his mouth, eyes lingering uncomfortably still on yours.
"Off you pop, lady writer. Before my charitable nature has me looking soft" Arthurs lips curled into a menacing grin, dismissing you with nothing but a nod of his head to the swinging gate at the end of the yard.
With a polite smile, you turned on your muddy heel for the exit, the heat of the yards eyes on you, every sinking step you took.
" Bloody hell...they don't make 'em like that anymore, Charlie" Arthur's raspy voice murmured, watching the sway of your hips as you bare feet kicked up mud behind you, inclined to keep you for himself if it wasn't for his brothers need for a distraction.
" He won't see her, Arthur" Charlie gravelly voiced, turning to the metal frame of the old motorbike, tearing the headlight with a snap, and tossing it to the swamped ground under his laced boots.
" That's because he ain't seen her, Charlie" Arthur smirked, eyes flicking to you tracing your muddy steps back to the gate. Erasing your path into a danger you'd soon learn, no British rainfall could wash away.
" You'll throw that girl to the wolves? To your brother, for his own entertainment?" Charlie's eyes flicked from Arthur with quiet disapproval to you leaning on the rusty gate, slipping your feet back into your heels with a composure that would surely falter the moment you met the very man you sought a private interview with.
" Tommy needs a distraction. He's getting...demanding. Starting to lose it in there" Arthur's hand swept down his face, the familiar headache that came with not only being Tommy Shelby's brother, but the caged beast the prison system had created already thrumming against his temples.
For when the Brum city slept, Tommy paced his cell, mind sharpening in the silence to the point where Arthur and his men would pull straws on who would be the next to make a visit to his brooding brother and deal with his never-ending list of demands.
" He already lost it, Arthur. Long before they banged him up. The rattle of the bars just loosened that last screw in his head for good" Charlie grunted, crouching down onto creaking knees as he yanked the petrol pipe from the engine, bleeding a river of black tar into your muddy footsteps.
" Well, he can lose it some more with her until we get him out then, can't he?" Arthur nodded to you closing the rickety gate behind you, wind nipping at your hair like a banner of surrender. One you hadn't willingly raised.
" Like a lamb to slaughter" Charlie gave his last gravelly piece of mind, as he rose to his feet, leather boot kicking the engine over into the mud for the last of the inky blackness to seep into the earth's bed.
" Good thing he's a pheasant man then, ain't it?" Arthur landed a heavy hand onto Charlie's shoulder, grinning with the confident surety that his little brother wouldn't spoil the taste of something so tender without savouring it first.
" Bye bye now, Miss Y/L/N" Arthur called after you as you glanced back, fingers slipping from the gate and the contract they had unknowingly signed.
" There’ll be no slaughtering of little lambs, Charlie!" Arthur turned on his heel, hands nestling into the warmth of his trouser pockets as he stopped by the discarded citrus orange, kicking it into the cut as his eyes lifted to the fading winter sun hanging over the row of terraced brick houses ahead of him with a curling smirk.
"Tommy lad, I have an early Christmas present for you"
" Morning, governor" Arthur swaggered through the gates of Winson Green Prison the very next morning with a gift no short straw would be needed to deliver.
" How's my, dear brother, Terry?" he asked with a grin, eyes gleaming with amusement at the guard’s sour expression over their most infamous houseguest.
Long arms spread wide, Arthur leaned into the familiar pat-down with the casual air of a man who’d made the trip up to his majesty's iron-cladded retreat more times than he'd care to admit.
" Pacing" the officer grunted, paid under the books by Shelby Company Limited to turn a blind eye to the snail mail of correspondence pouring out from Tommy's cell multiple times a day, and now, the loaded handgun tucked beneath Arthur Shelby's jacket pocket.
" Be a good lad and grab us a tea, ay?" Arthur nodded to the guard's station with a teasing grin, a gravelly voice that still called the shots no matter rank and title.
" Fuck off, Shelby" the officer grumbled, pulling the welded gate open, the metal ring of keys attached to his hip clanging against the iron bars as his body dragged the heavy door across the floor with force.
" I'll deduct that from your wages, Terry!" Arthur chewed his cheek with amusement as he walked through the dimly lit corridor, heavy boots thudding along the slick stones, damp from a steady flow of trickling water leaking through the aged walls.
" Brother" Arthur came to a stop before the head-to-toe iron bars of Tommy’s cage, hands sunk deep in his pockets as he watched his brother’s pacing slow to a halt within the cramped six-by-eight cell.
" Call my solicitor on Newhall Street. Tell him I want that bastard traitors address" a cloud of smoke followed by Tommy's orders thickened the stale air as he stubbed his cigarette out onto the stone walls of his temporary accommodation.
" Hello Arthur, lovely winter's day, isn't it? Oh yes Tommy, old Jack Frost be frosting" Arthur toyed with his brothers' fraying patience and the forgotten pleasantries his highly strung sibling was lacking in as he dragged a wooden chair across the cobbled ground.
" Arthur" Tommy warned with a raised brow as he sparked a match against the granite wall, orange flame catching the aspen wood as he brought it to the hundredth cigarette perched between his lips he'd smoked that day.
" Get Charlie to strip those motors at the yard before they get traced back" he ordered through a lungful of fumes, singing the burning match between his fingers onto the slippery ground of his cell with a flick of his finger.
" Already taken care of" Arthur nodded, crossing his long limbs as he pulled your letter out from inside of his tweed jacket.
" That for me?" Tommy's head snapped towards the sealed envelope, calloused hands reaching through the bars of his cage as Arthur leaned forward, lifting the back legs of his chair off the stony ground beneath him.
" Aye" Arthur watched Tommy flip the correspondence between his fingers as a breathy scoff of recognition for your signature scrawl bristled past his younger brother's lips.
" She got you playing postman, now Arthur? Tommy tossed the letter onto his bed with a sharp irritation for your boldness.
" Might wanna follow up on that one, Tom. Could be a nice little distraction for you to pass the time in here" Arthur sniffed, nodding to the envelope sat atop of the frayed bedsheets, stained and grimey from the ghost of every cellmate that came before him.
"I don't need a distraction, Arthur. I need to stay sharp" Tommy’s eyes darkened, voice low as anger coiled along his spine for the sheer nerve of you writing again, walking into his territory and commanding his men like errand boys, to deliver your demands.
" Alright, I'll have the pretty little thing then" Arthur's gaze flicked up with a smirk, provoking that Shelby greed already turning in his brother's eyes. A possessive greed, one that took everything, leaving nothing but bloody scraps for the rest of the pack.
" Sweet, with a tangy edge. Girls got bite, Tommy. Your kinda bite" his tongue dragged across his bottom lip with the taste of your breath still clinging there, the memory of it setting his senses alive as he watched Tommy's interest take a bite.
" Let her have her interview. Let her play with the big boys. Don't mean you have to stick to the rules, now does it?" Arthur leaned back into his chair, the creak of wood tightening the tension, reeling in the curiosity he'd spun out for his brother to hear.
" Read her letter, Tommy. See what the little firecracker has to say this time"
As the night drew in, and the shift change took their positions for the long stretch of darkness. Tommy lay back in his narrow cot, fingers slowly spinning your sealed letter over and over again in the pale beam of moonlight streaming across his darkened cell.
Hand coming to an abrupt stop, his finger ran over the glued seal, slowly teasing it open with the pad of his thumb until it gave way with a faint snap.
" Alright, let's see how much you bite" curiosity finally spun its stubborn web as he sat up, pulling your letter from its envelope.
Brows knitted together with focus, Tommy's eyes slowly dragged across the page as each crease of concentration softened word by word for a wicked smirk to pull every muscle in his face to the corner of his curling lips as he read your most damning of confessions.
...this damsel in distress sporting only heels and black stockings for a quickie behind the warden's office.
" That's one hell of a bite, sweetheart" Tommy's brow arched with dark amusement, his mouth parting slowly as he dragged his thumb down your written fantasy to the stain of your cherry-red kiss, brushing it with a stirring want coiling hard in his chest.
Starved too long of a woman's warmth, of soft flesh under calloused hands, of the sweet scent lingering on skin, Tommy brought the crumpled letter to his face, eyes squeezing shut as he breathed in the notes of your perfume like a man ravenous, like a man possessed, until his piercing stare suddenly snapped open.
" Guard! Pen and paper, now!"
" No sharing of personal information, no passing of contraband..." the guard recited, bored but firm as your heels clicked sharply along the stony corridor, drawing the attention and unwarranted leers of Tommy's housemates. Their crude intentions echoing off the damp walls as you moved with purpose, head high, eyes forward.
" And under no circumstances, any touching" he gave his final warning as his hand steadied on the handle of the iron latch, eyes dragging over your dress cinched tight at the waist, a pretty little present for Tommy's eyes to unwrap, to undress.
" I've set up a table and two chairs. You'd do well to stay on your side of that desk, Miss Y/L/N" his words sent a chill down your spine as he pulled the heavy door back, for a narrow stoned hallway, slick with rotting water to appear.
" Tommy's orders" he tilted his head with amusement, enjoying your quivering hesitation to step into the dimly lit corridor as your hammering heart rang in your ears, catching sight of his open cell.
" Don't worry, he's in chains" the guard chewed his cheek as he gestured you forward like a gentleman. One you might’ve believed had your best interests at heart if not for the smirk curling at his lip, his trouser pocket bulging with the stack of notes passed to him that morning by Tommy to fulfill his demands.
" Shelby! Visitor!" the officer's voice whipped through the still air, echoing of the bricked walls as you began your descent into darkness.
Heels tapping steadily along the cobbled walkway, your manicured confidence began to slip with each step you took until you came to a stop in front of the iron bars of his lair.
And there he was. Thomas Michael Shelby. Head of the notorious crime family that ruled with an iron fist over Birmingham, sat on the opposite side of the rickety wooden table, with steel eyes dragging torturously slow over your body as his thumb sliced over your letters edge between his fingers. A thrum of desire, of ownership settling in his soul.
"Hello, Mr. Shelby...I hope this is still alright?" you adjusted the strap of your bag over your shoulder, with a night’s worth of prepped questions crushed between your fingers as a cold flicker of doubt curled in the pit of your stomach with each step forward you made to his unblinking, unwavering stare, tracking, logging, your every move.
"Sweetheart... you had me at hello" his mouth parted for a lazy breath of smoke to slip past his lips as his eyes slowly indulged in the sight of you, dragging them from head to toe in shameless hunger.
Enjoyment, amusement, followed by a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth for the offer he should’ve accepted sooner, the clank of the metal chain fastened to his ankles echoed through the room as he shifted forward, for a better look at his much-needed distraction.
With cautious steps, you walked into the dimly lit cell to the sound of a dripping leak echoing of the stone ground as Tommy rhythmically tapped your typed letter between his fingers against the rough edge of the wooden table, when your eyes darted to the unmistakable smudge of red lipstick pressed into the paper. Your lipstick. Your letter. That letter.
"Sit" his voice cut through the silence, leaving no room for argument, no room for retreat as his boot slowly pushed the chair opposite him across the rough floors for you to take.
Shaky hands clutching the wooden frame, you slowly slipped into your seat as your eyes lifted inch by inch under an unyielding pull, dragging you to face your undoing, and the choking stare smirking back at you.
Oh, you silly...silly little girl.
*I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below 🧡*
[Next Part] coming soon!
Tag list: @mamawiggers1980 @thehanes22 @mrsnms @kittygirl634
Hello Beautiful 🤩 how are you doing? I currently have a massive headache just teetering on the side of Migraine. I also heard that sex whether oral or intercourse can help with headaches so I am wondering if you write a fic with either Alfie or Harry about their partner having a headache and they ask what they can do to help and you just casually mention in your pain “I heard sex is good for dealing with headaches”
Please and thank you. I love your writing so much.
“Doctor Solomons”
Alfie Solomons x Wife!Reader
Summary: A sudden migraine leaves you desperate for relief, and when you tell Alfie an orgasm might help, your ever-devoted husband is all too eager to step in and help.
You were curled up in bed, the heavy curtains pulled shut, draping the room in pitch black silence, because pitch black was the only way your head wouldn’t feel like it was being set on fire, even the faintest sliver of gaslight felt like it cut through your skull. One forearm was thrown over your eyes, your fingers pressing into your temples as if you could will the pain away. Your nightdress clung damp to your skin, sticky from the feverish warmth that came with the ache that had taken up residence behind your eyes.
Every pulse was a thunderous drumbeat of pain, echoing through your temples and crashing behind your eyes. The pressure built with every breath, a dull roar in your ears, each throb feeling like it might split you open. It was all too much.
And yet, even through the haze, you heard your husband approaching the room, the door opening, slow and gentle, the hinges groaning just slightly. Then you heard his voice, soft and cautious.
“Alright, my treacle?” Alfie’s voice was lower than usual, but still loud as thunder, still enough to send another spike of pain right through your skull.
“Migraine,” you murmured, barely lifting your arm. “Bad one. Please… keep your voice down.”
He crossed the room in measured, heavy steps, each foot fall like a distant tremor, as if the floor might collapse under his weight. He crouched beside the bed, towering you but trying to make himself small, his bulk figure casting a shadow even in the dark. Too large. Too solid.
He was trying hard not to make you feel worse, but Alfie wasn’t known for his graciousness. Even when he lowered his voice, he was still loud, even if he tried to make himself seem smaller, more careful, his presence was still huge, impossible to ignore.
His hand brushed gently across your forehead, his calloused knuckles grazing your cheek, fingertips barely there but grounding. You leaned slightly into the touch, exhausted by hours of insufferable pain.
“I hate this,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Hate seein’ you like this. My fragile little bird, wings all twitchin’ in pain. Breaks me heart, it does.”
You gave a tired little laugh, dry and cracked. “You know... You could help… if you want.”
He blinked. “What, you need a cold cloth or—?”
You cut him off, your voice a breathy whisper, laced with a hint of mischief. “I read somewhere… orgasms can help with headaches.”
You remembered reading that a few months ago in a medical journal, not that you were particularly interested in medicine, but most days felt boring with Alfie gone to handle the business, so you picked up whatever new articles you could find. And those words stuck with you.
He paused, a wicked smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to ease your pain, and here you were, telling him the cure was exactly what he loved doing most in the world? That was a great deal,
“Did you now?” he said finally, voice low, but with the distinct edge of something filthy sparking underneath.
You peeled your arm back, squinting up at him, managing a crooked, sleep-drunk smile. “It's supposed to help blood flow… release endorphins… Natural relief.”
Alfie tilted his head, his eyes glinting with amusement, disbelief, and a rush of darkness all swirling together. It was like you'd said the magical word: orgasms. He loved orgasms. Loved having them, loved giving them to you even more, and now you were here, telling him that eating your cunt (his favorite fucking meal) was the key for easing your pain? Time to get to work.
“Well then,” he murmured, tone gone velvet, slow and low. “Far be it from me to ignore a woman in pain… much less my beautiful fuckin’ wife. Especially when there’s a—what did you call it? A natural remedy available, right?”
He grinned as he leaned in a little closer, you could already feel the change in the air. He stood and unbuttoned his waistcoat with precision, his fingers working each button loose like he was undressing for war. The fabric slipped from his shoulders and he tossed it carelessly over a chair, then his shirt followed, until he was bare from the waist up, chest rising slow and heavy, muscles flexing under old scars, heavy ink, and contained tension.
“I’ll sort you out, love,” he said, voice gravel-dark, low enough to rumble in your chest. “Right here. Right now. With God as my witness, I’m gonna fuck that headache right out of you.”
You rolled your head on the pillow, heavy and aching, turning toward him with a wry expression. It was almost amusing to watch him so eager to give you an orgasm, like your suggestion had instantly turned into a top mission. But truth be told, that pounding headache wasn’t going anywhere, you needed to stop it before it drove you insane, so if your handsome husband giving you pleasure was the cure… then let it be that.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m devoted,” he corrected, eyes fixed on you like a man on a mission. “Ridiculous comes later.”
You could barely lift your head, your skull was still pounding, but the sight of him like this, bare, solid, radiating heat and purpose, it stirred something low in your belly, it always did, you still got just as wet for him as you did the very first day.
He didn’t climb on top of you right away. No, Alfie Solomons was a man who took his time when it counted. Instead, he crouched beside the bed and gently eased the covers down, moving with unexpected tenderness for someone built like a butcher. His fingertips ghosted along your thighs, tugging the hem of your nightdress up inch by slow inch, until your bare skin was exposed to the cool air and his hot gaze.
“Let me take care of you,” he murmured, his voice dropping into something soft, “like you always do for me, yeah? Let me be good for you now, my treacle.”
Then, he dropped to his knees, ready to worship the only thing that ever made him feel good, the only person he’d ever loved. When he leaned between your thighs, your breath caught in your chest, his thumbs spread your folds open to admire his favorite sight in the world.
Before you could register it, you felt Alfie's warm and wet mouth. The first stroke of his tongue was slow and full, dragging all the way up your slit with deliberate pressure, making your whole body jerk at the contact. His beard scratched your inner thighs, rough and coarse, but instead of pulling away, the burn of it only heightened the ache, making you feel every movement, every flick, every hum against your pussy.
He didn’t tease you tonight, he just ate. Tongue flat and firm, licking repeatedly from your entrance to your clit, then circling the sensitive bud like it was the center of his universe. He knew exactly how to eat you out, he had known since that first night together, but with time, it only got better. You knew he could make you cum with just a few right flicks of his tongue, but neither of you liked to rush it, you both enjoyed dragging out the pleasure as long as you could.
He moaned into you, low and rough, as if the taste of your pussy alone had undone him, as if he needed it… needed you more than air. You let out a shaky breath, your hips twitching under his touch.
“Shhh,” he whispered against your folds, his lips brushing sensitive skin. “Just let go, yeah? Let me give you somethin’ better to feel than that bloody thumpin’ in your skull.”
He slid his arms under your thighs, pulling you flush against his face, anchoring you, keeping you still while he devoured you like a starving man. He didn’t slow down for a second, if anything, he only went deeper, his tongue plunging with a slick, greedy noise, then back up to your clit again, building a delicious rhythm, messy but focused. Wet slurps and obscene licks were filling the room, every filthy sound echoing louder now than the pulse in your head.
He moved one big hand to press it against your lower belly, holding you down, as the tension inside you coiled and snapped tighter with every stroke. You could feel the pressure of his palm along with the way his tongue was working harder, trapping the pleasure in you, forcing it to build, to break.
Your hips kept squirming, but he only grunted and buried himself deeper, beard soaked, lips slick with you. Your hand fisted the sheets, the other one sliding up into his hair, grabbing a fistful, tugging it but not to pull him away, to keep him there, with his tongue buried in your cunt.
He grunted when you pulled his hair, growled into your skin like a man grateful for the pain. He loved when you got needy like that, when your body moved on instinct, chasing every movement of his tongue, grinding your hips down agaisnt his mouth, smearing your slick all over his face to mark him. He loved the way your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer like his mouth was the best thing you'd ever felt.
Just like magic, the pulsing in your skull began to dull, you felt the ache softening, like it was being pulled out through your cunt, sucked out with every obscene slurp and low groan from him. He was treating your pain like something edible, like something he could suck out of you and lick from your cunt. All that remained now was the hot, sticky tension building deep in your body, overtaking every other sense, that same feeling that you had everytime you got closer to the edge.
“Fuck, Alfie…” you moaned, voice barely audible over your breath. “Don’t stop… please…”
“That’s it,” he muttered, mouth slick, beard matted and glistening with your juices, lips dragging across your clit as he spoke. “That’s my good treacle. Let me take it. Let me take the pain. Let me fuckin’ eat it out of you.”
He hummed, a deep, filthy hum that vibrated through your entire body, shooting straight up your spine, right through your cunt, and that was what broke you. You came with a choked cry, back arching, thighs shaking, your whole body clenching around nothing, completely unraveling on his tongue. Your slick flooded his mouth and he groaned like it was the best meal he’d ever had, like he could taste the moment you tipped over the edge.
The room went black around the edges, your pain completely gone, forgotten, replaced now by raw pleasure and the wet sound of Alfie still kissing you down there, slow and greedy, like he couldn’t bear to stop.
He didn’t just stay there, he worshiped the mess you'd made. Kept his tongue lazily stroking through your folds, collecting every drop of your release, breathing heavy through his nose like a man high on your pleasure. The scrape of his beard still stung, still burned, but it made you throb, made your oversensitive cunt twitch against his mouth like you could cum again if he pushed just right.
“Holy hell.” You could barely breathe.
“Feeling better yet, love?” he rasped, voice rough with hunger. “Because I ain’t even started.”
He grinned wickedly and then leaned down to press slow kisses on your inner thigh with his sticky lips, his beard dragging wet trails across your skin, before crawling up your body, planting more kisses along your stomach, your ribs, your chest, like your body was fully his to worship.
He braced a hand beside your head, and kissed your mouth deep and messy, his tongue curling against yours, sliding wet and hot between your lips. You could taste yourself on him, the salt, the slick, the raw want. He kissed you like a man possessed, like he needed to feel your breath in his lungs.
His hand fumbled with his belt, then the fastenings of his trousers, his eyes never leaving your face. He shoved them down just far enough to free himself, and when his cock sprang free it slapped against his belly with all the weight and urgency of it, already leaking, flushed an angry red at the tip.
“Medical marvel, me,” he muttered against your skin, voice smug but trembling with restraint.
You could feel his need, his tension, the way his whole body thrummed like a wire pulled too tight. You glanced down and he was so hard, so painfully and proudly erect. It looked obscene, all his thick veiny length throbbing with hunger. And oh, right now, there was nothing you wanted more than to feel that wonderful cock that had made you see stars more times than you could count. Just that tought made your cunt ache again, desperate for the stretch, the perfect rhythm only he could give you.
His face was flushed too, his cheeks pink, neck red, his hair damp with sweat. And those eyes were so bright, so full, like he’d been holding back with everything in him, focusing on taking your pain away first, but now he needed his release too. The way you'd moaned for him, writhed under his tongue, came for him... it was driving him insane.
“Let me finish the job, yeah?” he said, brushing your hair back with fingers so gentle, so soft it made your throat close. Those now sweet fingers were the ones that had held your thighs open just minutes ago, that mouth was the same mouth that had wrecked you.
You nodded, feeling dizzy from the heat in your belly and the sudden wave of tenderness crashing through the filth, dizzy with how badly you wanted to feel every inch of him, every stretch, every thrust, every filthy groan that was proof of just how deep inside you he was.
He lined himself up, breathing heavy through his nose, and then he pushed in with a low, broken groan, the stretch was so big, so deep, even after years of taking him every single day, even after he'd just spend endless minutes getting you open first with his mouth. It almost burned, but it was perfect anyway, it was the kind of ache that your body always craved.
You felt yourself adjusting as every inch of his perfect cock slid inside you, forcing you open, so thick, so full and hot, that had you gasping for air. Your muscles were fluttering around him as he filled you slow and deep. It was devastating, it filled your lungs, your chest, your mind. There was nothing but the feeling of him in you now.
He held still, barely breathing, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut in pure restraint, waiting for you to adjust, giving your body time to catch up with the invasion his cock supposed. That was something he didn't do every time, sometimes he'd just take you fast and rough, with no patience, just raw and hungry need, and you loved that too, loved him brutal and angry. But tonight was about making you feel better, about taking your pain away, and so he waited with calm until your body grew accustumed to him.
And when it did, he began to move slow and precise, dragging his cock through your walls like he was trying to leave a mark in them, like he was trying to rewrite the very shape of your body from the inside out. Tonight it was long and deep thrusts that punched the air from your lungs. Every slide out made your cunt ache, letting you feel every inch leaving, and every push back in felt like coming home, filling you all over again.
The sound of skin on skin, wet and rhythmic, was purely pornographic, it filled the room like a second heartbeat. The slap of his hips, the wet suction of your cunt clenching around him, it was all filth, and he fucking loved every second of it.
He liked it dirty, just like him, filthy and unapologetically nasty. He liked when the sheets were soaked through and the room reeked with the smell of body fluids by the time sex was over. He liked to make a mess, liked when his beard was matted with your slick, when your thighs were trembling and covered in his cum, when his stomach and your tits were streaked with sweat. Sweat that he would lick off of you, because he loved the salty taste of it. That was his idea of a good time, of how a proper fuck was meant to be. What other people might find disgusting, Alfie considered it proof he’d done his job right, so if you weren’t both ruined by the end of it, it wasn’t worth it.
Every stroke was intimate and raw, as if his cock was talking to you, like it knew your body better than you did, and your body answered, trembling, throbbing, fluttering around him with every slow drag. Your migraine? No trace of it, like it had never been there in the first place.
He leaned close, and between thrusts, he whispered filth in your ear, voice rough, worshipful:
“Best fuckin’ cure you could find…”
“You need this, yeah? Your body knows it…”
“You feel so fuckin’ good wrapped ‘round me, squeezin’ me like that…”
“Gonna give you every drop, treacle… Gonna fill you ‘til you forget your own name…”
He groaned when you clenched around him involuntarily, making him slam deeper, like he couldn’t help it, like you’d pulled it out of him. You moaned and clung to him, nails raking down his back, scratching red into his skin. He arched into it, hissing with pleasure, like your pain marked him.
He growled in pure satisfaction, in pride, in the filthy joy of making you lose yourself under him, in knowing he was the only one who'd ever made you feel this way. Your body began to flutter around him, heat cresting too fast, pleasure blooming in your core, legs trembling as you pulled him closer, tighter, like you could keep him inside forever.
You came again. It was sharp and sudden, gasps breaking on his name and your whole body jerking beneath him, clenching down around him so tight he nearly collapsed. You screamed his name, sobbed it, said it like it was something holy, like it was carved into your cunt.
Alfie followed you seconds later, groaning into your neck, his face buried in your shoulder as his cock throbbed hard, spilling thick ropes of his cum into you. You felt it hot and endless as it flood you, filling you so deep it felt like his cum was going exactly where it belonged.
“That’s it, love,” he murmured against your ear, “take all of it. That’s where it’s meant to be, yeah?”
His hips kept slowly rocking with need, like he didn’t want it to end, like he needed to give you every last drop of his seed. He grunted through his teeth, muttering into your neck “take it, fuckin’ take it all, that’s it, my good wife” while his cock twitched again and again inside your spent cunt.
He collapsed on top of you with a grunt, making you feel his heavy and warm body, his chest slick against yours, his breath hitching. You both reeked of sweat and sex. A proper fuck, Alfie thought.
He looked down and noticed how his thick, white cum was slowly spilling out of your cunt, even with him still buried deep inside you, thrusting slow and shallow, each movement coating his shaft, and sending a wet, sticky trail between your thighs.
“Do they say anythin’ ’bout eatin’ it in those books you read, eh? Husband’s seed’s good for migraines too, yeah?” He teased, dipping two fingers back through your folds, he made you whimper from the hypersensitivity, then scooped up some of his dripping cum with a slow, deliberate curl.
“I’m not sure,” you purred, eyes half-lidded, “but I don’t like letting it go to waste anyway.”
He pushed those fingers to your lips and you licked them slow and deliberate, savoring the salty sweetness of him as your tongue swirled around them, tasting every drop. He chuckled softly, eyes darkening as if the sight of you eagerly eating his cum never failed to amaze him. With deliberate slow strokes, he pushed his fingers in and out of your mouth, rejoicing in the way you got them clean until not a drop was left.
He didn’t let you go, just shifted enough to roll to the side, but still keeping you tangled with him, one arm draped over your waist, his spent cock still nestled inside you, still leaking, still twitching, keeping you plugged full as his release kept making a mess on your thighs. It was thick, slow, hot, you could feel it everywhere, slick on your folds, sliding down to your ass, and soaking the sheets. You were so stuffed full of him. Marked and owned by him.
“So,” he muttered, lips pressed to your shoulder, “How’s that head o’yours, love?”
You grinned, eyes closed, body limp and finally at peace. “It’s gone, Alf. Completely.”
He smirked against your skin. “Knew I had it in me.”
You snorted softly. “You have something in you, alright.”
He laughed with satisfaction and kissed your neck like a promise. “Next time you feel one of those migraines comin’ on, you just say the word, yeah? Doctor Solomons’ll see to it personally.”
You chuckled and curled into him. The warmth of his body, the scent of sweat, your cum still coating his beard, and that subtle sweetness beneath it all wrapped around you like a warm blanket.
Together, you drifted off, peaceful, painless, and so, so loved.
A/N: Thank you so much for your request🩷🫶🏻 I hope you’re feeling better from your migraines, and if you’re still struggling, I hope this helps even a little.
I hope everyone enjoyed this fic, your support is very appreciated and makes me soooo happy🥹
On another note, this was the last request!!! omg I can’t believe it, there’s so much to come (I’ll probably put up a poll later to find out what you guys want to see).
★ ★ ★ ★ — i will always have a deep love for this book (even if it kinda sucks) it was one of my first romances. i wanted to reread the whole series but my heart is going towards dark romance right now lol.
ava is adorable i absolutely love her but i do think she is a pretty flat character. there is not much to her besides her trauma and her immediate flip to being into alex (same can be said for him). but i do think that the friendships she has with the girls is so cute — i just wish we saw more it and i feel this way in the other books too, it’s more talked about than shown.
alex is brooding and annoying. the whole vengeance thing makes sense but why would that not be his thought at the beginning about her dad?? i mean maybe it’s because he separated the two but i mean ultimately he doesn’t? his flip from emotion torture to quitting his job and pining for her for a year doesn’t make sense and feels inauthentic. but he is redeemed in the other books. i like when he doesn’t talk :)
over all cutesy book only 4 stars because it has a special place in my heart.
