just for reading stuff

“What did you ever do that makes you think that you deserve her.”

He didn’t deserve you.

“She doesn’t deserve the way you’ve been treating her.”

He didn’t deserve you. That was the sad, bitter truth.

“And what way is that?”

Finally Tommy spoke. Michael paused, seemingly surprised that Tommy had actually risen to his challenge, although there wasn’t much of one. Michael put his glass down, a little harder than Tommy thought was necessary, and said,

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“You fucking know what.”

“I’m afraid you’re not being very clear.”

Bored, Tommy turned his attention to the paperwork on his desk. Michael inhaled and exhaled deeply. He was not going to let Tommy get under his skin, not this time. You were too important to him to allow Tommy to get away with this.

“Y/n-“

“Is an adult,” Tommy interrupted, still not looking up, “She is old enough to make her own decisions.”

“Not when you keep threatening her.”

“And when have I threatened her?”

“Having people follow her home.”

“She’s an important part of this company. I’m making sure she gets home safely.”

“Warning off her friends.”

“Those people weren’t her friends, they were too unreliable. We need to make sure those around us are loyal. They weren’t.”

“Threatening off any potential… suitor.”

Michael became slightly quiet at the end and Tommy finally looked up. He grinned at Michael, although there was no warmth behind it.

“Thought you wouldn’t mind about that.” He said

“Y/n has a right to choose-”

“And what makes you think that she’ll pick you.”

Tommy leant back in his chair and lit a cigarette as he smirked at Michael.

“Over you?”

“Who else. What can you offer her that I haven’t already given her?”

“She’s frightened of you.”

“Not enough to leave.”

“You won’t let her.”

“Nothing’s stopping her. Or is this another threat I’m meant to have made? Like you said, she has a right to choose.”

Michael stood up and ran a hand over his face. He glared at Tommy who returned it was a bored look. Tommy downed his drink and pointed to the door with his cigarette.

“Your mum is waiting for you,” he said, “Best not to keep her waiting any longer.”

Just before Michael left the office Tommy called,

“Y/n is mine. Everyone else knows that. It’s time you remembered that as well.”

Michael slammed the door to Tommy’s office and stormed out of the building. Tommy was right, Polly was waiting for him. Michael ignored her as he marched down the road. He was aware that Polly was following him but she didn’t say anything until they were away from the building.

“It didn’t work,” she said at last, “I told you but you didn’t listen. When Tommy set his mind to something he won’t change it.”

“I had to try,” Michael slowed down allowing Polly to catch up, “I couldn’t sit back and do nothing. Y/n-“

Michael cut himself off and ran a hand over his face.

“I love her,” he said quietly, “And Tommy’s destroying her life.”

“I know.”

“And you won’t do anything?”

Polly’s glare told Michael everything. He quickly looked down at the ground and said,

“I know she loves me too.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Then what do you suggest we do? I’m going to help y/n if it’s the last thing I do.”

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐲

You're sitting in the drawing room of Arrow House, the fire crackling low, when Thomas walks in from one of his endless meetings. His cap is already off, coat slung over his arm, but the moment his eyes land on you, something in his posture shifts. He's been told. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the slow inhale of his cigarette as he crosses the room to stand over you.

"John," he says flatly, like the name itself tastes bitter. He doesn't ask if it's true. He states it. "John's in love with you."

You open your mouth, but Thomas raises a hand, the one holding the cigarette, and the smoke curls between you like a warning. He sinks into the armchair opposite, legs spread, eyes never leaving your face. There's no shouting, no immediate rage — that's not how Thomas works. Instead, the room grows heavier, the air thick with that dangerous calm he wears like armour.

"He's my brother," Thomas continues, voice low and measured, each word deliberate. "Blood. And still… he looks at you like that." A small, humourless smile ghosts across his lips. "I should have seen it. The way he lingers when you laugh at his jokes. The way he offers to walk you home when I'm busy. Foolish of me."

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying you like you're a new problem on the board that needs solving. His hand reaches out, calloused fingers tracing your jaw with surprising gentleness.

"You're mine, love. Not his. Not anyone's." The gentleness vanishes as quickly as it came. "I won't kill my own brother. But I'll make it very clear where the lines are. He touches you, he dies. He speaks to you alone, he answers to me. And you…" His thumb brushes your lower lip, pushing down slightly. "You tell me if he so much as looks at you too long. Understood?"

Thomas pulls you into his lap then, one arm locked around your waist like iron, the other still holding that cigarette. He kisses you hard, possessive, a reminder more than affection. When he pulls back, his eyes are storm-dark.

"John will learn his place. Or I'll send him to the fucking sea. But you — you stay right here. With me. Where you belong."

He doesn't let you go for a long time. The fire burns lower, and Thomas Shelby plots in silence, already three steps ahead of any move his brother might make.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧

The front door slams so hard the windows rattle. You're in the kitchen, drying dishes, when John storms in, cap twisted in his hands, face flushed with a mix of fury and something rawer. He doesn't even greet you properly — just marches straight up, grabs your waist, and pulls you against him.

"Fucking Michael," he growls against your hair, voice thick. "That little prick is in love with you? My woman?"

You try to speak, but John's already pacing, hands running through his hair, the Shelby temper in full blaze. He stops, points at you, then laughs a sharp, dangerous sound.

"I knew it. The way he watches you at family dinners. All polished and quiet like he's better than the rest of us. Thinks because he's got Tommy's ear he can have you too?" John steps close again, crowding you against the counter. His hands frame your face, rough but trembling with barely contained rage. "You're mine. We're married in all the ways that matter. You wear my ring when we go out. You sleep in my bed. And Michael Gray thinks he can pine after you like some lovesick dog?"

He kisses you— fierce, claiming, all teeth and heat. When he pulls away, he's breathing hard.

"I'll knock his fucking teeth in. Tell him straight. You're not some prize to be won. You chose me. You chose this mad fucking life with me." His voice softens just a fraction, eyes searching yours. "Did he say anything to you? Touch you? Look at you too long?"

John doesn't wait for a full answer. He lifts you onto the counter, stepping between your legs, hands sliding up your thighs.

"You tell me everything, right now. Then I'm going to remind you — and anyone else who needs reminding — exactly who you belong to." He grins, but it's edged with violence. "Michael wants to play? Fine. But he's gonna learn the hard way that my woman ain't for sharing. Not even in their fucking dreams."

He stays close the rest of the night, loud and protective, hands on you constantly. A man who fights with his fists and his heart, and both are fully aimed at keeping you.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥

Michael finds you in the bedroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow feels louder than a slam. He's still in his suit, tie loosened, looking every inch the composed businessman. Until you see his eyes. Cold. Calculating. Burning.

"Alfie Solomons," he says, the name dripping with contempt. "Is in love with you."

He walks over slowly, loosening his cufflinks one by one, never breaking eye contact. Michael doesn't rage like John. He doesn't brood like Tommy. He calculates.

"I should have expected it. The man has terrible manners and worse timing." He stops in front of you, tilts your chin up with two fingers. "You're with me. You've been with me. We've built something here, away from the worst of the chaos. And now that mad bastard thinks he can insert himself into my life? Into you?"

A muscle ticks in his jaw. He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

"I won't make a scene. Not yet. But I'll ruin him if I have to. Slowly. Business first — cut off every deal, every contact. Then, if he still looks at you…" Michael's hand slides to the back of your neck, possessive. "I'll remind him why we run this city now."

He kisses you deeply, methodically, like he's sealing a contract. When he pulls back, his expression has softened just for you.

"You're mine, darling. Not some toy for that barking lunatic to daydream about." His thumb strokes your cheek. "Did he approach you? Say anything? I need to know everything so I can handle it properly."

Michael pulls you down onto the bed with him, wrapping himself around you in a way that's both protective and territorial. He talks strategy late into the night — quiet, precise plans — while his hands never leave your body. Alfie may be loud and unpredictable, but Michael Gray is patient, and he's already decided the outcome.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐀𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐞

Alfie bursts through the door of the bakery office like a storm, flour still dusting his sleeves, eyes wild. You're at his desk, going over ledgers, when he slams it shut, hauls you up, and backs you against the wall in one fluid motion.

"Thomas fucking Shelby," he snarls, voice low and gravelly. "Is in love with you. My girl. My fucking woman."

He laughs, but there's no humour in it, just that unhinged edge he gets when someone's truly crossed him. One massive hand cups your face, the other braced beside your head.

"Now, I knew the man was a cunt. Always plotting, always watching. But this? This is bold, even for him. Coming after my treasure while I'm baking bread and minding my own bloody business." Alfie leans in, nose brushing yours, breath warm with rum and fury. "You're mine, right? You chose the mad Jew with the bakery and the guns. Not the fancy suit with the dead eyes."

He kisses you like he's trying to erase every thought of Thomas from your mind — messy, demanding, all tongue and teeth and possession. When he breaks away, he's still caging you in.

"I'll talk to him. Man to man. Or maybe I'll just shoot him. Haven't decided yet." Another sharp laugh. "Nah, can't shoot Tommy. But I'll make it very fucking clear. "You so much as breathe in her direction again, Thomas, and I'll feed you to the dogs. Slowly." Then I'll have a nice glass of rum to wash it down."

Alfie's hands roam your body, mapping territory, muttering half-curses and endearments in that thick Camden accent.

"You tell me if he looks at you. If he speaks to you alone. Anything. I'll handle it. Because you're my light in this dark, fucked-up world, yeah? And no Shelby — not even the king himself — is taking that from me."

Part 10: The Morning After & The Forever

The morning sun did not merely rise over Birmingham; it seemed to spill into the master suite of the Shelby mansion like liquid gold, illuminating the beautiful wreckage of the night before. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light that pierced through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains, landing on discarded ivory silk, a stray charcoal waistcoat, and the tangled, white linen sheets that held the heat of two bodies finally made one.

Thomas Shelby was the first to wake. He didn't move, afraid to break the spell of the most profound peace he had known since the world went dark in the tunnels of France. He lay on his side, his head propped up by his hand, watching his wife sleep.

Evelyn was a vision of soft, post-coital grace. Her dark hair was a wild, silken halo across the pillows, and her skin, once pale and hidden under a maid’s uniform, was flushed with a warm, rosy glow. He traced the line of her shoulder, his calloused thumb moving over the skin with a reverence that made his chest ache. She was no longer a ghost in his hallways. She was the heart of his home.

As the light hit her eyelids, Evelyn stirred. She let out a long, soft sigh, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks before she opened her dark brown eyes. For a moment, she looked disoriented, her mind catching up to the reality of the diamond on her finger and the man in her bed. Then, she saw Tommy, and a slow, beautiful smile bloomed across her face.

"Good morning, Mr. Shelby," she whispered, her voice husky and sweet.

"Good morning, Mrs. Shelby," he replied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

He didn't give her a chance to say anything else. He leaned down, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that tasted of sleep and a lingering, inexhaustible hunger. Despite the hours they had spent exploring each other in the dark, the fire hadn't been extinguished; it had merely been banked.

His hands, large and possessive, moved over her curves, reminding her of the way he had claimed her. The morning was slow and indulgent. There was no rush, no business to attend to, no empires to build—only the quiet, rhythmic sacrament of their bodies. Tommy was more gentle this time, his dominance tempered by a searing tenderness. He moved within her with a slow, deliberate pace that drew out every sensation, making her weep with the sheer, overwhelming love of it.

When they finally lay still, their breaths mingling in the quiet room, the reality of the day began to set in.

"We should... we should probably get up," Evelyn breathed, though she made no move to leave the circle of his arms. "My parents... your brothers... they’ll be waiting for breakfast."

Tommy let out a low, triumphant laugh, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip. "Let them wait. I’m a Duke’s son-in-law now. I think I’ve earned a lie-in."

However, the sounds of the house waking up—the muffled shouts of his brothers and the high-pitched laughter of Evelyn’s youngest siblings—eventually forced their hand.

Evelyn attempted to sit up, pushing the heavy duvet aside. "I’ll go first. I need to... oh!"

As she swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand, her knees immediately buckled. A sharp, localized soreness flared in her hips and between her thighs—the physical evidence of her transition from maiden to wife. Her legs felt like jelly, entirely unable to support her weight.

She let out a small squeal as she began to tip forward, only for Tommy’s strong arms to shoot out and catch her, pulling her back onto the mattress.

"Careful, Evie," he teased, his icy blue eyes sparkling with a wicked, smug amusement. "It seems you’ve lost your sea legs."

Evelyn’s face turned a shade of red that rivaled the embers in the hearth. She hid her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with a mixture of embarrassment and laughter. "Tommy! I can't... I can't walk. My legs won't work."

"I did warn you, didn't I?" Tommy murmured, leaning in close, his breath hot against her ear. He began to whisper, his voice a low, suggestive purr that brought back every vivid memory of the night before. "I told you I’d take my time. I told you I’d make sure you remembered every second. Do you remember, Evie? The way you wrapped those legs around my waist and begged me to—"

"Stop! Please stop!" Evelyn squealed, her voice muffled by her hands as she turned even redder. She swiped at his chest playfully, but Tommy caught her wrists, pinning them to the bed as he hovered over her, his grin widening.

"And the sounds you made," he continued relentlessly, his eyes dancing with mischief. "I didn't know the quiet little maid had such a loud voice. Especially when I had you against the headboard and I was—"

"Thomas Shelby, you are a devil!" she cried, half-laughing and half-dying of mortification. "You’ve completely wrecked me! I’m the daughter of a Duke, and I’m going to have to crawl to breakfast!"

Tommy laughed, a deep, genuine sound that came from his belly. He let her go and stood up, looking entirely too energized for a man who had barely slept. He moved with his usual predatory grace, entirely unbothered by his own nakedness.

He walked over to the wardrobe, pulled out a thick, silk robe, and helped her into it. Then, before she could protest, he swept her up into his arms, carrying her toward the en-suite bath.

"You’re not crawling anywhere," he said, kissing the tip of her nose. "I broke you, so I’ll carry you. It’s only fair."

He stayed with her, helping her through her morning ablutions with a devotion that was entirely new. He washed her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp, and he helped her dress in a beautiful, soft morning gown of pale blue silk. Every time he touched her, he offered a fresh bit of teasing—a comment on a mark he’d left on her neck or a reminder of the way she had reacted to his tongue—until Evelyn was a permanent shade of crimson.

Finally, it was time to face the world. Tommy lifted her into his arms once more, her arms looping naturally around his neck.

"Ready?" he asked.

"As ready as I’ll ever be to face Arthur and John," she sighed.

They descended the grand staircase together. In the dining hall, the scene was one of joyful chaos. The Blackwood siblings were scattered around the table, Sebastian and Caspian engaged in a spirited debate with Finn about the merits of racing horses. Duke Alistair and Duchess Genevieve were seated at the head, looking more relaxed than they had in years, speaking quietly with Aunt Polly.

As Tommy walked into the room carrying Evelyn, the conversation died for a split second before a roar of laughter and cheering broke out.

"Look at that!" Arthur bellowed, slamming his hand onto the table and nearly toppling his coffee. "The King has returned with his prize! What’s the matter, Evelyn? Did our Tommy forget he was supposed to be a gentleman?"

John let out a sharp whistle, leaning back in his chair with a massive, suggestive grin. "Bloody hell, Tom! We heard the headboard hitting the wall from the other wing! I thought the house was coming down!"

"John!" Aunt Polly snapped, though she couldn't hide the amused smirk playing on her lips.

Evelyn buried her face in Tommy’s shoulder, her squeal of embarrassment lost in the noise of the room. Tommy, however, didn't look bothered at all. He walked over to his chair, sat down, and kept Evelyn settled firmly on his lap, his arms wrapped possessively around her waist.

"The lady is a bit tired," Tommy said, his voice cool and calm, though he shot a wink at Arthur. "It was a long night. Lots of... business to discuss."

"Business, he calls it!" Julian, Evelyn’s brother, joined in, though his teasing was more refined. He raised a glass toward them. "In France, we call that a 'thorough introduction' to the family. Welcome to the fold, Thomas."

The breakfast was a long, lingering affair full of "fluff" and laughter. The Duke and Duchess watched their daughter with a profound happiness, seeing the way she leaned into Tommy’s strength, and the way Tommy—the man the world feared—looked at her as if she were the only thing that mattered.

As the day progressed, the reality of their new life together began to settle in. There would be trips to the Loire Valley to visit the Blackwood estates. There would be the continued growth of the Shelby empire, bolstered now by French gold and political weight. But more than that, there would be the quiet moments.

That afternoon, after the guests had begun to disperse to the gardens, Tommy led Evelyn to the library. He sat in the large leather armchair by the window, pulling her back onto his lap. The city of Birmingham hummed outside—the sound of the factories and the whistles of the trains—but inside, there was only the sound of their breathing.

"Are you okay, Evie?" he asked softly, his hand resting on her stomach.

Evelyn leaned her head back against his shoulder, her eyes fixed on the wedding ring on her finger. "I’m more than okay, Tommy. I was a girl with no name, scrubbing floors and dreaming of a man who didn't see me. Now, I have a family I never thought I’d find, and I have a husband who... who loves me."

Tommy squeezed her waist, his heart full to bursting. "I saw you, Evelyn. Even when I was too proud to say it, I saw you. I’ve been looking for you my whole life."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a sweet, lingering kiss. "The 'Invisible Maid' is gone, my love. From now on, the world is going to see exactly who you are. And they’re going to see that you’re mine. Forever."

Evelyn smiled, her fingers interlacing with his. The angst of the past three years, the pain of the orphans’ home, and the coldness of the service were all gone, replaced by a warmth that would never fade. She was Lady Evelyn Shelby, the heir to a Dukedom and the queen of a criminal empire, but most importantly, she was the woman who had brought Thomas Shelby home from the war.

And as the sun began to set over the city, casting long, peaceful shadows across the room, they sat together in the silence of a love that had finally, beautifully, been found.

To Be Continued...

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A/N: This the last chapter of this series. Thank you all for reading! I really enjoyed writing this, and I hope you all loved it too. This will have an Epilogue, but I'm not sure when I'll post it. It could be tomorrow or in the next few days. I'll post it as soon as I'm finished with it.💜

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You pull away, taking the seat next to him before leaning in to peer closely at his skin. “I don’t think you produce enough body hair to need that much shaving cream.”

Dick hands you your bag wordlessly, careful to avoid hitting the back of Wally’s head before taking the seat in front of you. Wally glances at Dick, eyebrows raised before turning towards you. “I’ll have you know that I shave very often.” 

You laugh, your hand reaching out to gently touch his chin. “Oh yes, you’re so right.” 

Wally juts his chin out further into your finger. You run your fingers lightly over his chin, feeling the little stubble that was too small to be seen with the naked eye. “It feels like I’m reading braille.” 

“Alright, that’s enough.” Wally rolls his eyes, gently pushing you away from him. You giggle in response, sticking the straw back into your mouth again. He returns his attention back to his laptop, fingers moving across the trackpad. “This is for the fundraiser my frat is throwing for our annual charity event. By the way–” He glances up to meet your eyes. “They keep asking about you. They keep trying to nominate you for fraternity sweetheart.” 

“Is that actually a thing?” 

“Yes.” Wally answers unequivocally, returning his attention back to his laptop. “And they won’t shut up about it.”

You hum, an amused smile on your face before you shrug. 

“Anyways, we’re doing a ‘pie a frat brother’ event.” Wally continues. “Five dollars will let you pie any frat brother you want in the face. We obviously can’t use real pies so we’re doing shaving cream since it’s relatively cheap–”

You glance over, an eyebrow raised. “It’s $105 for four cases.” 

“-- unless you can suggest cheaper alternatives, you better be quiet before I pie you instead.” 

You laugh, leaning into his side. Wally shifts so you can rest your head on his shoulder properly. Dick watches you fall into Wally’s space naturally, suddenly remembering the warmth of your body under his fingers when you leaned into him. His fingers flex on the table, curling them into a fist. 

Dick forces himself to laugh, hoping that no one noticed it was just a hairbreadth late. 

You do – but you won’t say anything. Your eyes flick up to meet his blue ones but he looks away. Dick shifts in his chair and suddenly the feeling that he was very, very far away surfaces again. 

Wally’s phone rings on the table, lighting up. You glance down as he picks it up to read the incoming message before setting it down, rolling his eyes. 

“They’re serious about the ‘sweetheart’ thing.” Wally looks down at you, your wide eyes meeting his. “Do you wanna do it?” 

“Do I get paid?” 

“No.”

“Then no.”

Wally grins, gently nudging your side. “That’s what I told them. You do know they’re still going to choose you, right?”

You sigh dramatically before nodding. 

Dick shifts in his chair, scraping the chair on the floor. “When’s the event?” 

Wally looks over at him. “Like a week from now. You gonna come?” He nudges you again. “You too, you coming?”

You nod, taking another sip of your drink. Dick smiles, a real one this time, cocking his head at his old best friend. “You think I’m going to pass up a chance to smash your face into shaving cream?” 

Wally groans, shaking his head as he mumbles under his breath. “It’s for a good cause, it’s for a good cause, it’s for a good cause.” 

“Yeah babe.” You laugh, sitting up to pull your laptop out of your bag. “Keep telling yourself that.”

x.

The day of the event is bright and sunny, the clouds parting as the entirety of Wally’s fraternity stands outside the Student Union, holding up signs. 

PIE-A-BROTHER

$5 PER PIE

DONATE TO A GOOD CAUSE

You wrap your arm around Kori’s waist, resting your head on her shoulder as you take in the commotion around the fraternity. Music blasts from the speakers intermingling with laughter and shouts from the fraternity brothers as plates of shaving cream get smacked into their faces.

From just over the noise, you can hear Wally shouting something that gets lost but you can tell he’s having way too much fun. 

“Pretty busy, isn’t it?” Kori murmurs, her arm wrapping around your shoulders. Donna nods, staring at the crowd with a raised eyebrow. “It doesn’t help that they’re the most popular frat on campus.” 

Roy stands next to you, arms crossed over his chest. “You think if I give them seven dollars I could pie Wally twice?” 

“It’s five dollars per plate.” You say, turning to face him. “Your math isn’t mathing.” 

“I’m operating under the assumption that I’ll get a discount because I’m close personal friends with Wally.”

Dick shakes his head from where he’s standing next to Roy. “I don’t think you’re getting that discount there, buddy.” 

“Then what’s the point?” He sighs, shaking his head. You laugh at his joke before standing up, pulling away from Kori. “Well, we can’t just stand here all day! Let’s go and pie some fraternity brothers – I mean, support a good cause.” You grin mischievously, meeting Kori’s eyes. 

She winks, grabbing your outstretched hand and the both of you take off without looking back. 

x.

Wally’s face is a complete mess, to say the least. Shaving cream hangs off his eyelashes, bits of it in his hair and clumps are still left all over his cheeks and chin. You gasp when you see him, hands flying up to your mouth.

“Oh my god.” You pull out your phone, unable to hide your grin. “You look like an absolute wreck.” 

Wally sticks his tongue out, posing for the photo. You capture the moment, laughing at his frazzled look. “What did you do for everyone to want to keep pieing you?”

“I’m just very popular.” Wally shrugs before brightening, his hands on his shoulder as he steers you towards the fundraiser booth. Immediately, his frat brothers gather round, more than half of them with the same smeared shaving cream bits and pieces left all over their noses, cheeks, chins and hairlines. 

“It’s our sweetheart!” 

“Come and pie me!” 

“No, me!”

You roll your eyes. “You guys are laying it on really thick to make me try and accept being your ‘sweetheart’.”

Wally grins, his face popping out from just beyond your shoulder. “Is it working?” 

“Let me pie you for free and I’ll think about it.” 

“Tell you what–” Wally gestures to his frat brother who’s sitting by a small till. “You can pie me twice, just pay for one of them. Give five dollars to Ryan.” 

You raise an eyebrow, turning towards him. “Twice?” You smile sweetly, clasping your hands behind your back. “Are you sure you’re okay with that?” 

“Yeah. You gotta pay for at least one. All proceeds go to charity.” Wally answers, turning to wave at Kori, Donna, Dick and Roy as they catch up to you. You grin wickedly, pulling your wallet out to press a crisp five dollar bill into Ryan’s hand. 

“Okay, done. Don’t take it back now.” 

Wally pauses, finally turning back from where Roy is poking at his face. “Wait, I don’t like the way you said that. I do not consent, I do not–”

His protests get lost in the noise as someone passes you a paper plate of shaving cream, loaded up high and topped off with a little swirl on top. The smell of eucalyptus cuts through the air, your eyes widening in delight at the giant tower that wobbles with every movement. You have a feeling they emptied out an entire can (or two) for this one. 

“Yo, who gave her that giant plate?” Wally looks around frantically, taking several steps back but Roy shakes his head, howling with laughter as he grabs the red-haired frat boy by the shoulders to keep him still. Wally struggles against Roy, his eyes widening in horror. He points at someone just beyond your eyesight, cursing angrily. “You did this! You definitely did, Lucas, you fucker, I’m definitely going to–”

“Wally, I’m going to be super nice for my first pie smash.” You interrupt his spiel, a dangerous smile on your lips. You swipe at the shaving cream tower, gently patting it onto his cheek. “See? Wasn’t that super nice?”

Someone in the crowd is hollering. Another is egging you on. You’re vaguely aware of all the cameras that are whipped out, eager to watch Wally get his face smashed with shaving cream. You glance up briefly, eyes catching on to Dick’s.

He doesn’t look away this time. Instead, he nods his head, a small smile on his face as he mouths something to you. 

Give him hell. 

You look back at Wally who watches you apprehensively. His hand reaches out to steady you by the waist when you plant your feet into the ground. 

“Wait, let’s just talk about this–”

You slam the plate directly into his face, making sure to rub it along the ridges of his cheeks for extra emphasis.

There’s a stunned silence for half a second before the crowd explodes, the frat brothers screaming in delight. 

Shaving cream is everywhere – your hair, your wrist – as the plate slowly falls off Wally’s face. Donna’s already taking a photo while Kori laughs loudly in delight. Roy lets go of Wally’s shoulders, and he stumbles backwards. Wally blinks blindly as foam slides down his nose. 

You cover your mouth with your hands, unable to stop the smile from escaping. “You look so cute.” You choke out, laughter intermingling with every word. 

Wally wipes at his eyes, finally managing to see again before they narrow. “You said you were going to be nice.”

“I was nice!”

Wally nods slowly, continuing to swipe at his face. Shaving cream gathers in the palm of his hand, a small pile forming. “Yeah. You were so very nice. Let me return the favor.” 

Before you can react, he presses his palms to your cheeks, shaving cream smushing into your face. You gasp at the cold contact, staggering backwards. “Hey!”

Roy’s eyes are wide open. Donna gasps, her mouth pulled into a large smile and Kori is already at the till with a ten dollar bill in her hand, ready to avenge you. 

You swipe at your face, bits of shaving cream dropping onto your tube top. “Wally! That was so rude!” 

“No, no.” Wally shakes his head, reaching for a can of shaving cream on the table. “You were rude first. That pie smash was personal.” 

You stare warily at his hand, already backing away. 

“Wally–” You warn.

He grins, winking at you. 

Wally lunges, and suddenly you’re both a mess, shouting playfully as shaving cream gets all over your hair and face while you wrestle the can from him. 

Someone is chanting your name. Someone else is filming. You can hear your friends laughing and paying Ryan for some plates of shaving cream.

Dick watches from where he’s leaning by the table where the till is. 

His eyes don’t miss the way Wally’s hands linger at your waist to steady you when you rip the can out of his hand, spraying foam into his hair. The way you instinctively curl into him when you almost lose your balance. The way your laughter echoes across the quad, unfiltered and perfect, each breathless little gasp making his heart pound a little faster. 

You’re glowing. 

You’re adored.

You’re… 

Well, Dick doesn’t bother to finish the thought. Instead, he hands a five dollar bill to Ryan at the till, picking up a plate of shaving cream as well. 

A strong arm lifts you up, pulling you into a warm, solid chest. 

“You’re stealing all the fun.” Dick’s voice murmurs into your ear. You shiver, but you don’t back down. You writhe in his grasp. “He started it! I’m just trying to get revenge!”

“You assaulted me!” Wally shouts, pointing a shaving cream covered hand at you.

“I paid to pie you! You did not pay me!” You yell back, twisting in Dick’s hold. Dick laughs, adjusting his grip as you squirm in his grasp. 

“You pied me harder!”

“You deserved it!”

Roy doubles over, his plate of shaving cream held precariously in his hand. Donna watches with a small smile, a matching plate held in her right hand. Kori’s smile twitches before she tightens her grip on the paper plate she’s holding. 

And Dick?

Still holding you up to his chest, the warmth from his body seeping into your back. His arm is firm around your waist, his breath warm against your cheek. 

He’s laughing, really laughing, as you and Wally bicker, but his finger tightens once before relaxing, gently letting you down. His hands linger a moment too long before he steps back. 

“Wally, you have four more customers waiting.” Dick calls and Wally pales, shaking his head, green eyes catching the devious smiles on Roy, Donna, Kori and Dick’s faces and their hands full of paper plates piled high with shaving cream. 

“C’mon guys, please go for someone else. I swear I have shaving cream in my brain–”

Donna shakes her head, gesturing for him to get up. “Nope. We paid and we’re going to get our money’s worth.” 

The crowd thins as quickly as it had formed, laughter dispersing as Wally is dragged towards the booth by Donna and Roy, still protesting loudly. Kori follows them, carefully stepping on the grass to avoid slipping over the shaving cream covered patches. 

You take a deep breath, leaning forward, cheeks still aching from the laughter. You swipe at your cheek spreading eucalyptus-scented foam all over your face. You take a careful step towards the table loaded with napkins, smiling in relief as Ryan drops a few napkins onto your hands. 

You wipe haphazardly. The napkin instantly gets drenched, rendering it useless. 

“Here.” 

Dick’s closer than you expect, a clean napkin in his hand. “Let me help.” 

You nod, letting your eyes flutter shut. Dick takes a deep breath, a steady hand underneath your chin to tilt your face up as he carefully wipes away the shaving cream Wally had lathered you with. 

“I think I have shaving cream up my nose.” You whine playfully, scrunching your nose when Dick swipes across the bridge of it. “I look insane, don’t I?”

He laughs again, softer this time, his breath uneven. “A little bit.”

“You’re supposed to say no!” 

Dick lets out a puff of air that resembles a laugh. “Don’t worry. You’re pretty hard to mess up.”

You finally open your eyes when his hands disappear from your face. Your skin tingles from where he once was, the warmth leaving behind something that folds itself neatly in your chest, tucking itself away within the beating of your heart. 

Dick’s already stepping back, pressing another clean napkin in your hand before he’s jogging off to where Wally is shouting something unintelligible and Roy is somehow sporting a shaving cream mustache. 

You keep wiping at your hands long after they’re clean.

a/n: hellooo hellooo! i hope you've all missed me very much bc i know ive missed you <33

& if youre wondering about the playlist, it's been created! unfortunately im trying to figure out where i can post it bc it's currently linked to my personal spotify & for internet safety reasons, i will not be giving that out. if anyone has any suggestions, please let me know!

Part 7: The Union of Two Empires

The transition from Evelyn Church, the orphan maid, to Lady Evelyn Blackwood, the firstborn daughter of a Duke, was not a seamless one. It was a violent, beautiful upheaval that transformed the Shelby mansion from a local stronghold into the center of a burgeoning international empire.

In the week leading up to the wedding, the house was a clash of two worlds. The grit of Small Heath—the smell of coal, the sharp tang of gin, and the rough-hewn accents of the Peaky Blinders—now mingled with the refined elegance of the Loire Valley. French silks draped over mahogany chairs, and the Duke’s personal guards stood in silent, stoic contrast to the flat-capped men who patrolled the grounds with razor blades tucked into their peaks.

For Evelyn, the most overwhelming part wasn't the sudden influx of wealth or the bowing servants; it was the five faces that looked so much like her own.

Her siblings were a whirlwind of energy that brought a sense of life to the mansion it had never known. Julian, at nineteen, was the first to approach her. He was the heir, possessing the same sharp jawline and dark hair as Evelyn, but with a protective, aristocratic edge. Initially, he had been wary of Thomas Shelby. He had seen the way Tommy looked at people—like he was calculating their value in a ledger.

"My sister was a servant in your house, Mr. Shelby," Julian had said one afternoon in the garden, his hand resting on the hilt of his decorative cane. "In my country, that would be seen as an insult to our blood."

Tommy had merely flicked his cigarette, his icy blue eyes fixed on the horizon. "In this country, Julian, she was the only thing keeping this house from falling into the dark. I didn't make her a maid. The world did. I’m the one making her a Queen."

Julian had studied him for a long moment before nodding slowly, a grudging respect forming between the young aristocrat and the gang leader.

The younger ones were easier to win over. Sebastian and Caspian, the two youngest brothers, were fascinated by Tommy. They followed him around like shadows, wide-eyed as he showed them the Shelby stables and the heavy black cars. Tommy, surprisingly patient, would let them sit in the driver’s seat of his Bentley, his hand resting on the back of their heads with a rare, paternal softness that made Evelyn’s heart swell.

Clarissa and Elara, the sisters, took it upon themselves to "reclaim" Evelyn. They spent hours in her room, teaching her the nuances of French etiquette, though Evelyn often found herself laughing and telling them stories of Birmingham life instead.

"You mean you actually scrubbed these floors?" Clarissa had gasped, her eyes wide as she touched Evelyn’s calloused palms.

"I did," Evelyn said, her voice steady. "And I’m not ashamed of it. It’s how I learned who people are when they think no one is watching."

But the true weight of the alliance was being forged in the study. Thomas Shelby and Duke Alistair Blackwood spent hours behind closed doors. They weren't just discussing the wedding; they were discussing the future. The Blackwoods brought political influence that stretched to the French Parliament and wealth that could buy half of London. The Shelbys brought the muscle, the trade routes, and the terrifying efficiency of the Peaky Blinders.

"With your name and my reach, Alistair," Tommy said, leaning over a map of the European ports, "we don't just control the whiskey. We control the movement of everything from the Mediterranean to the North Sea."

The Duke, once skeptical of the "peasant" who had found his daughter, was now captivated by Tommy’s mind. "You have the soul of a general, Thomas. It’s no wonder my daughter fell for you."

Amidst the power plays and the family reunions, the physical reality of the wedding was taking shape. The most pivotal moment came during the final dress fitting, three days before the ceremony.

Duchess Genevieve had insisted on a dressmaker from Paris. The bedroom was filled with the rustle of tissue paper and the scent of expensive perfume. Evelyn stood on a small velvet dais, her arms held out as the seamstresses pinned and tucked a gown of ivory silk and handmade Chantilly lace.

The dress was a masterpiece. It had a high, modest collar that elongated her neck and long sleeves of delicate lace that ended in points at her wrists. The bodice was fitted, accentuating the waist that Tommy loved to hold, and the skirt flowed into a dramatic train that seemed to hum with elegance.

As the Duchess placed a tiara of diamonds and sapphires—a Blackwood heirloom—onto Evelyn’s dark hair, Evelyn looked in the mirror and didn't recognize herself.

"You look like a goddess, Evie," Elara whispered from the corner.

Evelyn touched the silver necklace that still sat beneath the silk of the gown. "I still feel like the girl with the coal dust under her nails."

"Good," a voice rasped from the doorway.

Everyone turned as Thomas Shelby leaned against the doorframe. He was supposed to be at a meeting with the Birmingham police chief, but he had been unable to stay away. He was dressed in his signature charcoal suit, but his gaze was entirely fixed on the woman on the dais.

The Duchess and the sisters quietly ushered the seamstresses out, sensing the sudden, heavy charge in the air.

Tommy walked into the room slowly, his boots silent on the plush rug. He stopped just inches from her, his icy blue eyes raking over her from the diamond tiara to the hem of the ivory silk. He looked stunned, his usual composure fractured by the sheer radiance of her.

"Tommy," she whispered, her breath hitching. "You’re not supposed to see the dress."

"I don't see a dress," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He reached out, his calloused fingers trembling slightly as he touched the lace at her wrist. "I see the woman who saved me. I see the Lady I always knew was hidden under that apron."

He looked up at her, and the intensity in his gaze was enough to make her knees weak. "You’re beautiful, Evelyn. So beautiful it hurts to look at you."

He stepped closer, his broad chest nearly brushing against the delicate silk of her bodice. He reached up, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek with a reverence that brought tears to her eyes.

"Are you happy?" he asked, his voice a low, desperate whisper. "With the family. With the titles. Is it what you wanted?"

Evelyn leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut. "The family is a miracle, Tommy. And the titles... they’re fine. But the only thing I ever really wanted was to be yours. Whether I’m a maid or a Lady, I’m your Evelyn. Always."

Tommy let out a long, ragged sigh, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. The scent of her—now mixed with the expensive French perfume but still holding that core of clean soap—filled his senses.

"The Duke wants me to take a title," Tommy whispered against her skin. "He wants to make me a Count or some such nonsense to match your station."

Evelyn pulled back slightly, a playful smirk touching her swollen lips. "And what did you tell him?"

Tommy’s eyes darkened with a familiar, dangerous spark. "I told him I’m a Shelby from Small Heath. I don't need a title to rule. I told him I’d rather be the man who protects the Lady than a lord who sits on a throne."

Evelyn laughed softly, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. "That’s my Tommy."

He pulled her into a kiss then—a deep, possessive kiss that tasted of promise and a searing, pent-up desire. It was difficult with the layers of silk and the fragility of the lace, but Tommy held her with a firm, careful grip, his heart beating a frantic rhythm against her own.

As they pulled away, both of them breathless, Tommy looked around the room—at the finery, the diamonds, and the evidence of her royal blood.

"The world is going to try to take you away from me now," he said, his voice turning hard. "They’ll want you at balls in London and courts in Paris. They’ll look at me and see a gangster who stole a princess."

Evelyn took his hands, squeezing them tight. "Let them look. Let them see that the gangster is the only man who ever truly saw the princess when she was covered in ash. We are two empires now, Tommy. And no one—not the King of England or the Duke of France—is going to come between us."

Tommy nodded, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. He felt a surge of triumph that eclipsed any business victory. He had started with nothing, a broken soldier in a smoke-filled slum. And now, he was standing in a room full of diamonds, holding the hand of a woman who was the heir to a dynasty—a woman who loved him with a purity that defied the darkness of his soul.

The preparations continued into the night. The mansion was filled with the sound of a hundred bottles of champagne being chilled and the rhythmic chopping of a dozen chefs. The Shelby brothers and the Blackwood siblings were drinking together in the parlor, the laughter of Sebastian and Caspian echoing through the halls.

As the moon rose over Birmingham, casting a silver glow over the city of iron and fire, the "Two Empires" stood united. The wedding was only forty-eight hours away. The vows were written, the rings were forged in the heat of a Birmingham foundry, and the passion between the groom and his bride was a powder keg waiting for the spark of their wedding night.

Evelyn lay in Tommy’s arms that night, the two of them watching the shadows dance on the ceiling. She was no longer a maid, and he was no longer a monster. They were simply two souls who had found each other in the dark, and together, they were about to set the world on fire.

To Be Continued...

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Taglist:

“She wished she could explore his body and inspect him. Learn him and memorize him. That way she'd know what to miss when he was gone. Sam was heartbreakingly, hauntingly beautiful. It made her heart hurt. This couldn't end well.”  −Mary H.K. Choi, Emergency Contact

It was just your luck that the heavens opened right before your long walk back home. 

You curse under your breath that you had naïvely ventured out unprepared, without an umbrella or even a coat. It was a humid summer evening, but the night is drenched in relentless rain, the kind that clung to your skin and mingled with the city's distant lights. 

You shouldn’t be out this late, you know that like everyone else does, but you hadn’t been able to shake off a feeling of restlessness, as if something was calling out to you, that had brought you out.  

The Garrison is still open, light spilling gold against the wet pavement. Voices drift out, accompanied by laughter that sounded too loud and too forced and the clinking of glasses. You hesitate at the street corner, wondering whether you should just turn back, but your feet start to move as if no longer under your control towards the pub. 

You hurry along the slick pavement, picking up the pace, yearning for the safety and solace of somewhere familiar. It hadn’t been the best of days; the interview you had attended only a few hours earlier had taken an age and the pervy old goat who had been conducting it you swear had kept you in that room with him longer than was needed. 

You shudder as you remember his leery look, taking in your attire −a casual but smart black dress− the moment you had walked into his small office that absolutely stank of stale cigarettes and cheap liquor. You would kill your friend who had told you only this morning that there was an opening in the small…

Suddenly, a figure emerged from the misty veil, colliding with you. His dark silhouette, framed by the downpour, exuded an undeniable magnetism and when you look up, your eyes meeting, something that feels like an electrical jolt surging between you. You find herself inexplicably drawn to him, the rain blurring everything but the fierce connection that seemed to burn in the space between you. 

You knew him, you’d know him anywhere −who didn’t? You had bumped straight into none other than Thomas Shelby of the Peaky Blinders. And here you were, caught like a rabbit in headlights right under his blue, penetrative stare, unable to move or even utter any coherent word. 

Droplets of the heavy rain that cascaded down relentlessly ran small rivers along the hard lines of that well known, handsome face to drip down over the front of his dark navy suit. Your eyes were drawn to that quick clench at his jaw, the slight parting of those lips that glistened with watery moistness. 

He tilts his head slightly to one side and peruses you with a fresh, lingering amusement for a moment, and you suddenly feel as though you aren’t wearing a stitch as his gaze takes in your sodden state from head to toe. You straighten yourself, determined not to be ridiculed even if you were drenched, and even if he was the infamous Tommy Shelby. You had your pride after all. 

He arches an eyebrow, astutely noticing your change in stature, and this time he looks you deep in the eyes, finally addressing you in that deep, gravelly voice you had never heard this close to you before. “You alright, love?”

Your senses come alive, as though they are like paper that has just been lit with a match, and you start to become aware of the way his presence seems to be pulling you in like a magnet you are powerless to resist. You manage to nod at him, biting down so hard at your tongue you make a sudden noise. 

“Can I get you someplace?” he offers unexpectedly. “It’s not ideal weather for a pretty young girl to be out in so late.”

“Uh−,” you stammer, fighting to find your voice suddenly. “Actually, I was just going there.” You gesture towards the pub. 

“I see,” he says. “Come on then, I’ll walk you.”

He has the manner of someone who wasn’t used to anyone saying no −not that you would have said no anyway. It was Tommy Shelby, escorting you to the Garrison. This was a turnup for the books. 

Tommy makes his way to a table at the back, where he takes a seat with his back to the wall, cap dipped low over his eyes. You can feel the way the room bends around him, even if you hadn’t been looking at him. You’ve heard enough to know better than to stare, but you can’t help yourself. 

His gaze lifts and meets yours with something that presses like the air before a storm breaks. You look away first. There are empty tables, but none feel right, feeling too exposed or close, and you consider leaving again.

“Sit.” 

The word cuts clean through the room, not loud but absolute. You don’t move at first, telling yourself he couldn’t possibly mean you −but when you glance back, he’s looking right at you, there’s no mistaking it.

“Don’t make me ask twice,” Tommy adds, quieter now. 

You cross the room, unhurried and without hesitation. The chair scrapes softly as you sit opposite him carefully, aware of every eye that follows you. 

Up close and in this lighting, he doesn’t look how you had expected. He’s sharper somehow −not just the lines of his face, but the edges of him, as if he’s been carved down to something essential. There’s a bruise darkening along his jaw, half-hidden beneath shadow, and rainwater still clings stubbornly to his damp collar. 

His eyes are the bluest blue you had ever seen. Like cerulean pools you wanted to dive into and get lost. 

“You make a habit of being out so late?” he ventures.

“No,” you reply, a little too quickly, defensive. ”−Do you?” 

It slips out before you can stop yourself. Tommy looks at you, his gaze so piercing it feels like he can see right into your soul. You see the flicker of a smile at the corners of his lips, but not quite. How could you ask him something so stupid? 

You fold your hands in your lap, steadying them, waiting as he considers you. His eyes narrow slightly, as if weighing something, and you expect him to dismiss you with a curt remark. Instead, he leans back, the chair creaking softly. “I do,” he says matter-of-factly, “−because I have to. But as it happens, tonight I just didn’t want to be alone.”

It doesn’t sound like a confession, or even something vulnerable in the way most people would mean it −but his words find their way under your skin. You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything at all.

Tommy studies you again, longer this time. There’s a calculation there, yes, but also something else, and you can feel it like a thread pulled taut between you.

“What’s your name, love?” he asks.

“Y/N.”

He repeats it once, under his breath, as if testing how it feels. Then he nods, satisfied. “Drink?” he offers, gesturing vaguely toward the bar.

You shake your head. “I should probably−.”

“It’s already paid for,” he interrupts. “Everything in this place is tonight.”

You glance around, seeing the looseness that surrounds you −even the way people avoid looking directly at him, even in their gratitude. “You bought silence,” you state. 

“I bought a little peace,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

“And which one did you want?”

“Which one do you think I got?”

You don’t answer, you don’t think he expects you to. A barmaid appears, setting a glass of something amber that smells strong in front of you anyway. You don’t touch it, and Tommy glances at you through long, lowered lashes. “You don’t drink?” he asks.

“Not when I don’t know what it is.”

“Good,” he says, a flicker of what looks like approval crossing his face. “That’s good. You should always be careful, you never know who you can trust.” 

“So, what is it?” you ask. 

He stills, continuing to survey you for a beat as he pulls out a box of cigarettes from the pocket of his suit jacket. “It’s the finest whiskey served here,” he tells you. He offers the box towards you, but you shake your head no, and he pulls one out for himself. “It’s not poisoned, I guarantee it. I’d hate to watch a perfectly good drink go to waste.”

You reach for the glass as he lights up, bringing it to your lips almost in a daze. The first sip burns, but you hold fast and take another before setting the drink down. “It’s good,” you tell him. 

The corners of his mouth twitch in the beginnings of a smile, which doesn’t quite materialise as he exhales a plume of white smoke into the already cloggy air. His eyes are just as blue through the haze, as if they were the sky through the clouds. “Yeah?”

You nod, taking another hurried sip as if to highlight your opinion. A silence stretches around you, not uncomfortable or strained, but more like a suspension, as if something is waiting to surface at any moment. 

“Do I make you nervous?” Tommy asks suddenly. 

“No,” you state as boldly as you can. But the truth is he did make you nervous. 

He smirks. “You don’t have to stay if I’m making you nervous. I won’t stop you.”

“I’m not leaving,” you state resolutely. 

You can’t help but think about the weight of his attention and the way it anchors you in place more effectively than any hand could. The right thing to do would be to leave. 

Tommy looks at you curiously, leaning forward, elbows on the table with his fingers laced loosely. The movement brings him closer, into the dim light, and you see the fatigue etched deeper than you first realized.

“Then stay,” he says, sounding softer now. 

It’s not a command this time, but something closer to a request. You don’t ask why, because you’re not sure you want the answer. Time passes strangely after that. The room shifts around you, people coming and going, laughter rising and falling, but your world narrows to the space between you and him.

He speaks in fragments. Not stories or explanations, but just pieces. A comment about the rain, a remark about the city, or a question −occasionally about you. You answer carefully, choosing not to be evasive but not revealing much either. You get the sense he’s the kind of man who would notice the difference.

At some point, the crowd thins as people leave, one by one, until the pub feels hollowed out, echoing.

“You should probably go, love,” he says again, though there’s less insistence in it now, his eyes seem to be conveying an entirely different message as they flicker over your mouth. 

You flush and sit up straighter, wishing you had another drink ready, but you had thrown back the remains of the one you had been nursing whilst you had been listening in fascination to this man talk. Trying your hardest not to notice just how beautifully mesmerising he was. 

“Yeah,” you say. “I should.” 

But you don’t move a muscle, and you see the small tick of his jaw, as if he were swallowing back something he wanted to say that never quite makes it out. 

“You keep ignoring my suggestion,” he states finally. 

“Maybe I don’t trust you,” you retort, holding your own. 

That gets his attention and his gaze sharpens, something sparking behind those icy blues. “Smart girl,” he says. “And what about you −do you trust yourself?” 

The question hangs between you, heavier than anything that’s come before, and you feel it settle in your chest dangerously, laden with something that feels a lot like innuendo. 

You swallow, averting your eyes, but you don’t answer. Tommy simply watches you silently, and he doesn’t press for a response. Then he nods, once. “Fair enough,” he shrugs. 

The barmaid approaches again a little hesitantly. “Mr. Shelby, uh− we’re closing.”

He doesn’t look at her, his eyes focused solely on you. “Give us a minute.”

The woman nods quickly and disappears. Silence returns, thicker now, edged with something unspoken.

Tommy exhales; a slow and controlled breath. “You don’t belong here,” he tells you after a while. “You’re far too innocent for places like this.”

You bite at your lip, your face colouring with indignation. He made you sound as if you were just a girl who had indulged in underage drinking. “I’m not a child,” you snap, unable to hold back. 

He leans back, unphased by your outburst. You don’t feel like apologising either, still smarting at his patronising tone. 

“No,” he says, eyes appraising your face very slowly, lowering to the neckline of your dress and down to where the slightest hint of your cleavage was visible, “−You are most certainly not a child.”

“I’d like another,” you state, “Drink, please.”

Tommy smirks again but registers no surprise as he gets the barmaid’s attention with a click of his fingers and calls out for another whisky. “I like people who know what they want and aren’t afraid to ask for it.”

You give him a tight smile, you hadn’t forgiven him just yet. Not even if his eyes were oceans you wanted to jump into, and his lips were slices of illicit sin you wanted to feel on every bare inch of your skin. 

Two new drinks are set out on the table in front of you, one for you and one for him. “Do you know who I am, love?” he asks, gesturing for you to go ahead and take your glass. 

“I know who you are.”

“Hmm, yes.” His tone is flat and unreadable. “Stories travel fast.”

“I’ve never heard stories about this version of you,” you tell him after a long sip, the burn at your throat feeling good, and alcohol bravery disguised as bravery fills your blood. “The one where you’re not beating people up.”

Tommy lets out a quiet, humourless laugh. “That’s because this version doesn’t last.”

He seems so sad beneath the words, and you feel a pang in your heart of something. You soften, deciding to forgive him now. Instead, you want to know more. “Why not?”

Tommy looks at you as if deciding how much truth you’re worth. “Because it’s dangerous,” he replies. “For me, and for anyone near me.”

“But you asked me to stay.”

“I didn’t ask,” he corrects automatically, as if the distinction mattered more than it should. “I just didn’t stop you either.”

“Maybe you wanted someone to see the part of you that doesn’t want to be alone,” you suggest. 

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you wonder whether you’ve gone too far. That he might shut down and retreat behind whatever walls he’s built.

“You think that’s what this is?” he asks quietly. 

“I think that maybe you wouldn’t still be sitting here if it wasn’t,” you reply cautiously. 

A long pause ensues, and you swear you can hear the thudding of your heartbeat louder than the rain outside. 

“You’re not afraid to speak your piece,” he observes, giving you that almost-smile again, faint and fleeting. “I like it.”

“Seems like you need to hear it.”

“Touché.”

Then he stands, smooth and deliberate, and for a moment you feel the loss of his presence like a shift in gravity. You rise too, unsure what happens next. Tommy reaches for his coat, shrugging it on, then pauses to look at you.

“You’ve got somewhere to go?” he asks.

“Yes, home.”

“Good.”

He doesn’t leave yet, and the distance between you feels more significant than it did before. He studies you again, something unreadable passing through his expression. “Let me walk you out,” he says, surprising you.

You nod politely, letting him escort you to the Garrison doors, and for some reason the thought of your impending goodbye leaves you feeling oddly jaded. 

Outside, the rain has eased to a mist, the air cool and sharp. The street is nearly empty, lamplight reflecting in puddles. You step out together, the door closing behind you with a finality that seems louder than it should, and for a moment, you just stand there.

He turns to you, and you can feel something in the air around you. His posture changes, as if the distance he’s been holding so carefully wavers. “You’re not making this easy, are you, love?” he murmurs.

“I’m not trying−.”

“Y/N,” he interjects, taking a step closer to you. 

You can feel his presence, the heat of him around you, drawing you in. Your heart thumps behind your ribs with anticipation but you don’t know of what. All you can think of is how your name sounds on his lips. 

“Why didn’t you bring a jacket?” he asks softly. “Didn’t you see the rain?”

“I didn’t expect−,” you begin, “I was on my way home from an interview. It wasn’t raining when I left.”

He exhales, something like frustration threading through it. “And you thought going around alone in that dress was a good idea, eh?” 

His question shocks you, and you take a step back. What did he mean? What was he trying to suggest? 

“I’m not−.”

“You really don’t know how much danger you could have been in,” he warns sternly. “Alone, in this rain, in the dark. What if it hadn’t been me you ran into? What then, eh?”

You stare back at him, seeing past the sharp edges and the controlled exterior, where you can see something raw and tightly held. Something you sense he was trying not to show. 

“But it was you,” you say calmly. 

Those blue eyes pin yours as if marvelling at your defiance yet cautioning you that those stories you’d heard weren’t just stories. 

“You’re trouble,” he says quietly, the space between you disappearing inch by inch, until you can feel his breath, warm against your skin. You are so aware of your body willing him closer yet, wanting him to touch you. 

“So are you,” you reply quietly. 

“This is a mistake,” he says, eyes searching yours, although there’s no conviction in it.

You say nothing. Tommy lifts a hand, hesitating for a beat before it settles lightly at your jaw, fingers cool against your skin. You lean into it before you can stop yourself, and that’s when the last thread of his restraint snaps. 

His mouth collides against yours, the tension in the kiss high with a push and pull that makes your breath hitch. His hand tightens on you as you answer the kiss with equal certainty. Rain drifts around you, soft and steady, but you barely notice because in that instant, you are focused on how Tommy is letting go of whatever he’s been holding. The kiss deepens, his control slipping just enough to reveal something real beneath it. 

And then, as quickly as it had come, it’s gone. He pulls back first, breath uneven, eyes searching yours as if trying to place something he doesn’t quite understand. 

“This is as far as it goes,” he tells you, his voice cool steel under the breathlessness, conflict written clearly all over his face, no longer hidden. 

“For tonight?”  

He doesn’t answer, and that tells you everything you need to know. 

You don’t argue.

The rain is falling harder tonight. It isn’t like the quiet, needling kind from a week ago, but relentless, pounding and loud enough to swallow thought. 

You’re already soaked, but this time you knew you would be when you stepped out. But you didn’t turn back because part of you wondered if Tommy might be out again. Of course you convince yourself that’s not why you came, but it’s a lie that you don’t examine too closely.

The man beside you leans in slightly to be heard over the rain, his hand hovering near your arm near enough to suggest he wants to touch. “You sure you don’t want to go inside?” he asks. 

He’s been trying to talk to you for at least five minutes now and judging by the overwhelming smell of whisky on his breath and the slight stagger you’ve noticed on him, he isn’t sober enough for you to trust he would behave himself. 

You had only come out because of Tommy Shelby. You curse him under your breath, ever since that night he had turned you into some fawning schoolgirl with silly dreams. You were also starting to wonder whether you would ever be able to leave home without incident. 

You offer a polite smile. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it,” he says, glancing at the downpour through heavy eyelids. “You’re gonna get all wet.”

You shudder, barely managing to mask your disgust at the thought of his eyes on you. “I’m not too bad,” you state. “It’s not cold.”

He laughs like this is a harmless conversation between friends. Even though he’s clearly drunk, he seems predictable enough. Nothing like−

“Walk away.” 

The voice cuts through the rain clearly, and your breath catches before you can stop it. You don’t turn immediately, because you don’t have to. You already know. 

The man beside you frowns. “What?”

“Not you,” the voice says, more dominant now. “Her.”

You turn, and there he is. Tommy Shelby, standing a few feet away, coat darkened by rain, cap low, but his eyes are clear, fixed and unmistakably locked on you.

The man beside you straightens slightly. “Mr. Shelby,” he stutters nervously, now appearing completely sober as he backs up. “I think you’ve got the wrong−.”

“I don’t,” Tommy interrupts.

Tommy’s gaze flicks to the man, brief and dismissive, then back to you. “Go,” he says again, and this time it isn’t a suggestion.

“But−.”

Tommy steps a step forward, and the protest dies in the man’s throat. No raised voice or threat made out loud, just the weight of Tommy’s considerable presence was all it had taken.

“Right,” the man mutters, retreating further. “I’ll get going then.”

He looks at you once more in confusion, then turns and disappears into the rain. You don’t watch him go, you’re already looking at Tommy.

“Was that necessary?” you ask, your voice steadier than you feel.

Rain drips from Tommy’s jaw, his lashes and the edge of his cap. He doesn’t come nearer yet, but you can feel the tension coiled tight beneath stillness.

“Yes.” The answer is immediate.

You cross your arms, more to contain yourself than for anything else. “I can talk to whomever I want. It doesn’t concern you.”

His gaze sharpens. “No?”

“No.”

“You were letting that drunk come closer to you, eh?”

“I was being polite,” you snap.

“Didn’t look like it, love.”

“And what exactly did it look like to you?”

Finally, he steps closer, and now it’s impossible to ignore the heat of him.

“Like he thought he had a chance,” Tommy says.

“And that’s a problem?”

“Yeah.”

You stare at him. “Why?”

Rain fills the silence. “Because−” you press, moving closer too, “The last time I checked, you made it very clear−.”

“I did,” he cuts in.

“And yet here you are,” you continue, voice tightening, “−Telling other people to stay away from me like I belong to you.”

His jaw clenches. “You don’t,” he says.

“Then stop acting like you think I do.”

He moves in until there’s hardly any space between you. “I’m not acting,” he states. “And why do you have a habit of going out in the rain in dresses without a fucking coat on?”

You flush, lifting your chin up indignantly. Who the hell did he think he was? “What’s it to you anyway?” you say exasperatedly. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He doesn’t flinch at your outburst, his eyes dropping to your mouth for half a second. “I’m trying,” he says slowly, “−Not to do something I’ll regret.”

Your pulse stutters. “And what would that be?” you ask.

“Touch you again.”

You inhale sharply. “Then don’t.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It was simple enough for you to walk away last time.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I didn’t see you with someone else.”

You search his face, but there’s no deflection now. “You’re acting like you’re jealous,” you say quietly. 

“Am I?”

“Yes, you are. But you’ve no right to be jealous.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re the one who said it ends there last time we met, remember? What even was that?” You straighten up proudly. “You know, you can’t have it all ways.”

His gaze darkens. “Why did you listen?” he asks.

“I respected it.”

“Same thing?”

“No,” you admit.

Rain runs down your neck, your spine, but you barely feel it now as the air between you charges further. “Then maybe,” he says, “−you shouldn’t have.”

“That’s not my style,” you tell him. 

“Why didn’t you walk away when I told that man to go, eh?”

You hesitate, but you don’t know why exactly. Whether it was that you didn’t have the answer, or whether you did and just didn’t want to tell him. 

His hand moves, fast this time, closing around your wrist firmly enough to stop you from retreating into thought. “Answer me,” he says quietly.

Your pulse jumps at the contact. “I...” You stop, because the truth is right there, and you knew where that might get you. “I didn’t want you to−,” you admit.

“Didn’t want me to what?”

“Leave.”

The word barely makes it out, and his grip tightens enough to anchor you. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, breath uneven now. “That doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything, love.”

“How?”

“Because now,” he says, his voice dropping, “I know I’m not the only one thinking about it.”

Your chest tightens. “Thinking about what?” you ask, even though you already know.

His thumb shifts slightly against your wrist, rough and warm, heat searing through you at the point of contact. “This.”

Your back hits the brick wall behind you, rain soaking through everything, his hand braced beside your head, the other still holding your wrist as he kisses you hard. You feel everything all at once, the tension from before and the restraint, broken. You respond without thinking, your free hand gripping his coat, surrendering yourself to your own feelings, and to him.

His control slips further, the kiss deepening as if he’s trying to prove something or claim it. You don’t care which, and you don’t pull away. That’s what surprises him.

And this time, he doesn’t tell you to leave.

An urgency rises in you. Suddenly, you find that you don’t want to wait, you need him now. The rain pounds harder, you’re both getting wetter, but it doesn’t even compare to how soaked you are getting for him. Your walls clench tighter, your breathing shallow as you cling onto him, his kisses driving you crazy with an insatiable want. 

You were his girl. Belonging and claimed. For now at least, and it would do. 

You break apart and he looks down at you. When you look back at him, it’s like you can see into his darkness and see those faint shards of light that diminish with every day he fights through. Like a fire slowly dwindling out, its kindling growing thin and sparse, edging closer to extinguishing entirely. You long to be the petrol that reignites the flames. 

“I don’t want to see you with anyone,” he says, voice rough, jaw clenching as if the thought were too much to bear. “I don’t know why, but I can’t stand to see it.” He sighs deeply. “I don’t want to see men like that with their eyes, or anything else, on you. Do you understand me?”

You’re shaking now, trembling like a feather in the breeze, and it isn’t from the rain. “Yes,” you breathe, reaching up to curl your hands around his neck. You let your lips caress his, slowly like butterfly wings, not wanting to be too demanding all at once, give him some gentle, tender care. Reassure him that this was where you wanted to be, and nowhere else. 

He’s bittersweet on your tongue. Broken beyond repair, yet so in need and he doesn’t even know it. You ache with that deep, insatiable need to be his everything, to glue him back together and soothe over those cracks until he can finally find something to smile about and return to living without ghosts. 

“Tommy−,” you whisper, looking up into the cool blues of his eyes that even in the dim lighting of the evening are striking, prominent against the hard lines of his face. You reach up a hand and stroke his cheek, thumbs smoothing across, wiping raindrops away in its path. “Take me with you.”

He looks at you unwaveringly, studying you as if he wanted to see what lay behind your expression. You know that he will see that there is only love and desire, because you haven’t got the capacity for anything else right in this instant. 

You were here with the man you wanted. The hell with consequence and regret; the moment was now. 

He gathers you closer to him so that your face is pressed against the material of his waistcoat, his jacket already soaked and open. “You’re sure this is what you want, love?” he asks gruffly. “You know I might not the best company. I can’t do romance and roses, you understand?”

Your fingers find their way to his chest, curling at his tie, gathering it in one hand as you place a kiss at the hollow of his throat. “I never asked for romance and roses,” you reply softly. “I just want to be with you tonight, and I think that’s what you want too.”

He cups your face and studies you intently with darkened eyes, before his lips descend on yours to kiss you fiercely. “I knew you would be trouble,” he groans hotly against your mouth. 

You smile into the kiss. “You wouldn’t like it any other way.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard−,” he says, head dipping, voice low beside your ear, sending fingers of lightening jolting up and down your spine, “I’m a dangerous man. I could do anything to you now that we’re alone like this−.” His teeth nip at your earlobe, and you gasp with the unexpected ecstasy. He was turning you on like crazy. “Are you ready for that?”

“I’m ready,” you say.

Minutes later, you’re standing in Tommy’s living room, ready for him to take you apart right there on his expensive carpet. The look in his eyes makes you tremble as he moves in, guiding you up the stairs, the arousal between you so high that you can barely wait to make it to the bedroom. 

You let out a desperate moan as Tommy kisses you, your whole being alight, your desire unbridled against him, no longer caring about anything but the here and now. This is what you had been craving. 

You fall against him on the large bed, your mouth leaving his to rain kisses along the sharp angles of his face, over his cheek, his eyes, the dark eyebrows, his nose, his ears and then over the line of his jaw, lingering at the scars you find. You go down further over his neck, breathing in the scent of him, your lips wanting more and more. 

Tommy buries his face in your chest, his mouth feeling hot against your skin, as he tugs down the front of your dress, kissing the bared tops of your breasts. Your hands entwine themselves in his dark hair which was still wet from the rain. 

“You should be careful,” he warns, voice low and strained. “You might not like it if I let go.”

“Let go,” you say breathlessly, “I want you to let it all go for me. Forget everything, just concentrate on this, on now, and on me.” 

His eyes search yours for an instant, before suddenly, he tugs down your bra to expose your bare breasts, and you arch yourself up to meet his mouth. There is no shyness in your actions this time, just raw need. You wanted him to know how much you wanted him. This was such a different feeling to anything you had felt with anyone before. You feel ravenous for him, aching to feel him inside you, filling you up and bringing you to those heights you had fantasized about since that night in the rain. 

“Tommy!” you sigh as he cups your right breast, his mouth closing around it, sucking at you with purpose. 

One hand travels over your thigh, pushing up the material of your dress as it goes up. You love the feel of his touch on your skin, and the dress was a hindrance. You pull back, reaching for the hem and lift it over your head, discarding it over the side of the bed. 

Tommy needs no second invitation as he once more returns to your breasts. You feel his teeth clamp down over your nipple, his tongue flicking over the violated skin, one moment pain, the next pleasure. 

Tommy flips you onto your back, exchanging positions as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, eyes on you as he pulls them down slowly. You like naked, writhing with desire as he starts to stroke your clit, his mouth moving to your other breast. 

His touch sends searing heat through you as he rubs you firmly over and over again, arousing you to such a point you are giving begging moans to be allowed to release. “You are such a pretty girl,” Tommy whispers raggedly before he claims your mouth again, kissing you deeply while he continues to stimulate you. 

“Such pretty red lipstick,” he murmurs, thumb dragging over your mouth sensually, the sky blues of his eyes never leaving yours once. “−It’s almost a shame to take it off.”

You moan, pressing your hand over his, wanting him inside you so bad with a continued urgency. His fingers start to slide across your soaking, wet opening, before slowly he inserts one and then another into you. 

You groan loudly, calling out his name as he starts thrusting them into you. He leans over you, kissing your neck, his tongue tracing your inner ear to send shivers down you. “Feel good?” he says, his breath hot against you, pushing his fingers deeper into you. 

He starts to kiss his way down your body, over your neck, slowly biting at you, each kiss leaving you more and more insatiable. “I want you, Tommy,” you moan. “−Now!”

He takes his hand away from you, leaving an empty feeling inside as his touch deserts you. “You’ll have to wait a moment, love,” he says, coming off the bed and beginning to strip, clothes efficiently removed down to his underwear, and placed neatly on a small stool at the side. You take him in with hungry eyes. “I’ve not even started.”

His threat makes your longing intensify, unable to move because you are so enraptured by the sensations sweeping over you. It couldn’t be possible to want someone so much, surely. A slow, excruciating death would hurt less. 

Tommy comes back onto the bed once he’s naked, spreading apart your legs, his body covering yours as he kisses you. You whimper as he kisses down your body, over your stomach, dipping his tongue into your navel and nipping at your skin. Your body quivers as his mouth goes low, between your legs to find your opening. His tongue licks at you, teasing up and down, pushing and probing. 

Tommy’s mouth closes around your clit, sucking slowly, leaving you gasping for air as the sweet painful sensation sent your body wild. Your physical attraction and yearning for him controls you as you grasp his hair and press him harder to you, wanting and needing to be satisfied. 

You feel his tongue find its way inside you and hear yourself begging for Tommy to take you. After an eternity of torturing her body, bringing you to the verge of release before taking his mouth away and repeating the process, Tommy finally reclaims your mouth. You kiss him back ardently, tasting yourself on his lips, your hands pressed against the masculine hard warmth of his chest. 

Tommy positions himself between your legs and you feel his hardness pressing against you. Your breathing is shallow in anticipation as he rolls off you and takes off the remainder of his clothes without blinking an eye. You take in his naked male form, enthralled by his lean body and the size of his hard cock, filling with the appeal of touching him. 

You rise to your knees and take him into your mouth, causing him to gasp with pleasure as you suck him, wanting him to feel as tortured as he had made you under your touch. You move your lips over him, tongue running up and down the length of his shaft, taking him as far into your mouth as you could manage, tasting him. 

Now you had him where you wanted him, as you hear his jagged breath when he tells you to stop. He pushes you back down onto the ground and lies on top of you. Your heart pounds, lost in the intensity of your lust. You can feel Tommy’s cock pushing against you. He holds your gaze as he slowly enters you, filling you gradually, going as deep as he could into you. 

You cry out his name as he starts to move, slowly initially until his whole length was inside you, before he starts to go faster. With each thrust, he buries himself in you right to the hilt, causing you to cry out louder, imploring him to take you harder. The wanting in you had escalated into fever pitch as his thrusts grew faster and deeper and harder. He kisses your open mouth, his hand grabbing at your hair to pull your head back as he did so. 

You can see the concentration and raw carnal lust in his face as over and over he slams his hard cock into you, bringing your ravaged body closer and closer to climax. Your dreams were nothing like this, they couldn’t have lived up to this force, this depth and this heat. You had never imagined pleasure like this existed. The pure strength of feeling burning you up brought with it a wanton lust like nothing you had ever experienced before. 

“Don’t stop,” you plead, feeling him hit your spot. 

“Look at me, Y/N,” Tommy says.

You obey, watching his eyes narrow with desire, engaging you in a look that could see right to the depths of your heart.

“Say my name,” he says, as he feels your body give way to the volcanic crescendo that’s been coming around him. 

“Tommy!” you scream as you feel yourself coming. 

He continues to thrust inside you, as you cling onto him, rocked by the sheer force of your orgasm. You hear him swear as he comes inside you, filling you up. When he’s finished, he sinks into your arms, leaving his cock inside you, holding you close. 

“Satisfied?’ he murmurs into your ear, kissing your neck. 

“Yes,” you whisper, staring into the blue depths of his eyes. 

“That should have been your first time,” he said softly, “−Ever.”

You kiss him on the lips gently, stroking his hair. “It was my first time,” you say. “−With you.”

thanks for reading❤ Taglist ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃 @scorpiosdemise, @shelbyblinded, @trulyscrumptiousangel, @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld, @omgphanphorever, @urmom418, @theangelofbastogne, @emilycookie86, @vbqueen02, @licornie, @liquidmongoose, @archiveofsnow, @illgeekthefout, @pineapleguy, @maironluv,  @missyviolet123

“I’m really in the mood for Cuban food for dinner tonight.” Kori doesn’t look up from her laptop as she speaks, concentrating on finishing the sentence for her paper. “Do you want to order?” 

Donna nods, glancing over at her phone. “Yeah. Text me what you want and then we can get it delivered.” 

Kori nods before finally looking up to stretch her neck, flopping sideways onto the shark. “Should we do pickup? It’ll cost less.” 

Donna hums, scrolling through UberEats. “We could do pickup.” She turns to face Kori who was busy burying her face into the fabric of the shark. “You look like you need the drive.”

“I do?” Kori looks up, her eyes barely visible from where her face had sunk into the plush of the shark.

“You’ve been… quieter.” Donna sets her phone down. “It’s been like that since that date you had with Dick after we all went out. It’s been…” She looks up, searching for the right word. “…daunting to [Name]—your sudden coddling behavior.”

“Oh.” Kori sits up, avoiding Donna’s eyes. “I hadn’t realized.” She leans her head back on the couch, closing her eyes. “I’ve just been… thinking a lot.” 

Donna nods, accepting her answer. Beyond the two of them, the TV continues to play. Overdramatic fanfare swells out of the speakers, filling the silence. 

“I don’t regret going on those dates with Dick.” Kori finally says, eyes slowly opening. She works her jaw, searching for the right words. “They were fun and I did have a really good time.”

A beat. 

Kori’s finger curls around the shark’s fin. “I just…” 

Donna waits patiently, her dark brown eyes watching Kori carefully. 

“It’s a little weird, you know?” Kori finally says, looking at Donna. “To see him with [Name]? She’s not doing anything wrong, and neither is he. It’s just… weird.” 

Kori plays with the shark fin in her hand. “I don’t regret anything I’ve done. I think I’m just… lagging behind everyone else – and when we were at the arcade and the worker recognized Dick and I from when we went there on our first official date?” She looks up at Donna, letting out a small, helpless laugh. “It just felt like everything was all off.”

Donna nods understandingly. 

“I don’t regret rejecting him and I don’t regret my time with him.” Kori shakes the fin in her head for emphasis.”But I do like him – liked him.” She corrects herself quickly. “These feelings will fade. It’s just… taking some time. That’s all.” 

She smiles -- a little soft, a little sad. “You know?”

“Yeah. I get it.” Donna reaches out, putting her arm over Kori’s shoulder to squeeze her tight. “I’m here for you, you know that? And i’m sure you already know this but [Name] loves you too.” 

Kori laughs, a real one this time, nodding. “Yeah. I know.” 

She settles back onto the cushions, reaching for the remote to change the channel. “Did you order the food yet, by the way? Because I'm actually so hungry.” 

Donna rolls her eyes, picking up her phone. “You forgot to send me your order, silly.” 

“Oh, oops. Sorry!” 

x.

Dick finds you easily among the throng of students loitering in the hallway.

“Hey.” He smiles, soft and warm as his hand curls around the crook of your elbow, gently turning you to face him and out of the rush of students going to and from one classroom to another. 

“Dickie?” You blink, surprised. Your friends giggle at your wide eyes, one of them blowing you a kiss as they continue down the hallway, chortling to themselves about something that sounded a lot like ‘Oooohhh, we have a new couple coming!’ and ‘Wow, she calls him ‘Dickie’. She’s in loooooove.” 

You shoot them a half-hearted glare. Dick just laughs lightly, his cheeks a pale cherry red. 

“What are you doing here?” You tilt your head, shifting your bag on your shoulder. Dick lets go of your elbow, his hand curling around your purse. 

“I can carry that for you.” 

You nod, absentmindedly handing it off to him. “I thought you had class at Anderson Center? Isn’t that like on the other side of the campus?” 

“Class was cancelled today.” Dick hoists your bag over his shoulder, his hand brushing against the plushie bag charm. “I was walking towards the library to meet up with Wally after his frat meeting.”

You nod, reaching out to pick a piece of lint off his shirt absentmindedly. 

“What about you?” Dick’s hand slowly slides up to rest itself on your wrist, thumb against your pulse. “You just ended class, right?”

“Yeah.” You rest your hand on his chest, looking back over your shoulder. “I was going to get a matcha with my friends before you came and interrupted.” You sigh dramatically, rolling your head back and closing your eyes. “Now I guess I’ll never get my sweet treat. Unless…?” You peek out from one eye to look at Dick’s expression.

He stifles a laugh, pretending to look away thoughtfully. “Hmm, I don’t know…”

You open both eyes, shaking your head. Your voice drops several octaves, a poor imitation of him.“No, no. You’re supposed to be all like ‘of course we can go get matcha! Of course we can do whatever you want! Your happiness means everything to me! I feel so bad I interrupted your sweet treat trip, I’ll buy you one to make up for it!’”

Dick grins. “Is that what I sound like to you?” 

You laugh, your free hand reaching up to rest on his shoulders as you lift up on your tiptoes. “Yes. It is.” You say seriously, eyes twinkling. 

“Then I guess I should go buy you that matcha.” He pretends to sigh, his hand resting on the small of your back. 

And then he goes very still. 

The warmth of your body spreads into his hand, fingers curling around the fabric of your shirt. He plasters a smile on his face as you say something about hoping they have this specific blend, all words lost on him.

He doesn’t know why he let himself touch your back like that. 

You pull away, blinking. “Dick? You okay?”

“What?” 

The noise of the hallway suddenly rushes back in. Dick lets his hand slowly fall from your back, his fingers flexing. 

“You like zoned out there.” You tilt your head. “Are you that excited to get me a matcha you started daydreaming?”

He forces a laugh. “Yeah. Exactly that. You know me, I live to be the man who serves your every whim.” 

You smile, already leading him down the hall. “That’s the kind of man I like.” 

Dick pretends like his heart didn’t just jump in his chest. 

“So anyways,” you turn to face him when he catches up to you, footsteps matching yours. “What’s Wally’s meeting about? Do you know?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I think it’s something about this fundraising they’re going to host for their philanthropy.”

“What’s their philanthropy again?” You pull out your phone, fingers already typing away on the screen. “Something about blood disorders?”

“They raise awareness for blood disorders and support cancer research.”

You look up, a small smile on your face. “You said that way too fast for someone not in the fraternity. Maybe you should pledge next year.”

“Not happening.”

“Speaking of which—“ you turn around as the door to the cafe nears, “why didn’t you pledge with him?” 

DIck looks over at you, opening the door with ease. “Was I supposed to?” 

“I thought you might’ve. Isn’t that what rich white boys do?” 

He raises an eyebrow, his hand hovering over the small of your back as students crowd in around you. “Is that how you see me?”

You stand in line, sighing at the sheer amount of people in front of you before turning to face him. “You’re asking how I see you?” 

He nods. Dick forces himself to smile politely, ignoring the way his heart was rattling in the cage of his ribs. His hand reaches for the brown leather strap of your purse hung over his shoulder, clutching it tight in his hand. 

Your opinion shouldn’t matter this much to him. 

It really, really shouldn’t matter at all. 

But still, Dick finds himself waiting with bated breath as you look up at him, scrutinizing him with that cute little smile on your face.

You reach up, gently pulling on the collar of his shirt. He leans forward, letting you pull him in close, bringing him to your height. “I see you as…”

Dick waits. His smile twitches for a second, cheeks hurting from the effort. 

“... someone with pretty eyes.” You smile, letting him go. 

Pretty eyes. 

He blinks, straightening. Your answer threads into his chest, folding into the hollows of his ribs, leaving him strangely breathless. 

“Guess I won the genetic lottery, huh?” Dick laughs, the sound thin and hollow in his ears. He clears his throat, taking a small step back. His hand tightens briefly on the leather straps of your bag digging into his shoulder.

“Anyways, have you decided what you want?” He gestures towards the cashier. “You’re next.”

You nod, catching his thin-lipped smile. 

He stands next to you, his hand on his card, making sure to follow through on his promise but the space suddenly feels very, very… far. Your hand curls around the iced jasmine matcha latte, letting the cold numb your fingers. Dick picks up his own cup of coffee, nodding his head towards the door.

“Shall we?”

Dick smiles at you, same as before. He keeps his hand on the straps of your leather purse, the little plushie waving at you. 

“Yeah.” You smile and Dick nods, leading the way. He pulls open the door, the cool outside air rushing through the doorway. 

This time, he doesn’t wait for you to pass first. 

a/n: surprise surprise! im back !! had a quick moment to post this chapter & i'm off again on my holiday. i hope you've all missed me bc ive missed you too (& if u really want to know, my tarot cards said to post the chapter) (yes i used tarot) (yes im insane). also not to put any spoilers but u know i feel like the song 'betty' from taylor really fits the story (or what's to come mwahaha)

Part 2: The Dagger in the Heart

The victory at the Epsom races had turned the Shelby mansion into a den of hedonistic chaos. The smell of expensive cigars, spilled champagne, and roasted meats hung heavy in the air, clashing with the underlying scent of gunpowder and rain that always seemed to follow the Shelby brothers. For the rest of the world, it was a night of triumph. For Evelyn, it was a night of grueling, back-breaking labor.

She had spent the last six hours running up and down the back stairs, her feet throbbing in her thin-soled shoes. She carried heavy trays of crystal glasses, wiped up spills of amber whiskey, and cleared away the debris of a celebration she was never meant to join. She was a shadow moving through the golden light of the chandeliers, a silent ghost in a starched apron.

The "Cinderella" of Small Heath felt the weight of her invisible crown more than ever tonight. Every time she passed Thomas, her heart performed a painful, hopeful dance. He was at the center of the room, the sun of this violent, beautiful system. He looked more like a king than ever—his coat discarded, his waistcoat snug against his chest, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the powerful forearms she so often dreamed of holding.

Every time she approached him to refill his glass, she lingered for just a fraction of a second. She hoped for a glance, a nod, or perhaps a repeat of the softness she saw in the dead of night. But Tommy was in "Leader" mode. He looked past her as if she were a piece of the furniture he had recently purchased to fill the grand house.

By midnight, the party had shifted. The high-society guests and the hangers-on had been ushered out, leaving only the inner circle—the brothers and their closest associates—in the heavy oak-paneled study. The air in there was thick with the scent of man, sweat, and the kind of rowdy drunkness that always made Evelyn’s skin prickle with anxiety.

"Evelyn, take the fresh bottle of Irish into the study," the head cook, Mrs. Fitz, whispered, patting her arm. Mrs. Fitz was the only one who showed Evelyn any scrap of motherly affection, and she noticed the exhaustion in the girl's eyes. "Then you go to bed, dear. You’ve done enough."

"Thank you, Mrs. Fitz," Evelyn murmured, straightening her cap and lifting the heavy silver tray.

As she approached the study door, she heard the raucous laughter of Arthur and John. They were well past the point of sobriety, their voices booming through the thick wood. She paused for a moment, shifting the weight of the tray, her heart thumping. She always felt a surge of nerves before entering Tommy’s private sanctuary, especially when he was surrounded by his brothers.

She reached for the handle, but stopped dead when she heard her own description mentioned.

"I’m telling you, Tommy," Arthur’s voice boomed, thick with drink and amusement. "The little bird. The one with the brown eyes and the quiet feet. She’s always hovering, isn't she? Like a moth to a bloody flame."

Evelyn froze. Her breath hitched in her throat, her fingers tightening on the edges of the silver tray until the metal bit into her palms.

"Arthur’s right," John chimed in, followed by the clink of a glass. "She’s a pretty little thing, even under that drab rag of a uniform. I’ve seen the way she looks at you, Tom. She doesn't just bring you tea; she brings you her bloody soul on a plate. Always lingering, always mending your coats. She’s half in love with you, man. Maybe more than half."

A cold shiver raced down Evelyn’s spine. She felt exposed, as if they had stripped her bare right there in the hallway. Her secret—the love she had nurtured in the dark for three years—was being dragged into the light and mocked by the very men she served.

She waited, her heart stopping, for Tommy’s response. She prayed for him to defend her, or at least to stay silent. She imagined him saying her name, acknowledging the care she had shown him during his darkest hours.

Then, Tommy’s voice cut through the air. It wasn't the soft, tired voice of 3:00 AM. It was the voice of the Devil of Small Heath—cold, flat, and dripping with a calculated, cutting arrogance.

"A maid? Don't be ridiculous," Tommy said, and Evelyn could practically hear the dismissive shrug in his tone. "I don't look at the help, and I certainly don't think about them. She’s a pair of hands that cleans the floor, nothing more. A tool to keep the house running so I can focus on things that actually matter."

The words were like jagged glass being forced down her throat. But he wasn't done.

"I have empires to build, Arthur," Tommy continued, his voice rising with a sharp, defensive edge. "I have kings to topple and a family to protect. Do you honestly think I have time for a girl from the slums? A girl with no name and no future? She’s a maid in a white apron. She means nothing to me. If she’s lingering, it’s because she knows her place is to serve. Nothing more, nothing less."

Inside the room, the brothers laughed, the sound echoing like thunder in Evelyn’s ears.

Outside, the world stopped turning.

Evelyn stood paralyzed. The heavy silver tray felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, her muscles screaming under the strain, but she couldn't move. Her eyes were wide, staring at the grain of the wooden door, as hot, heavy tears began to pool in them.

A lump, thick and agonizing, formed in her throat, threatening to break free as a loud, painful sob. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting with every ounce of her strength to swallow it down. She couldn't cry here. She couldn't let them hear her. She couldn't give them the satisfaction of knowing they had finally broken the "invisible" girl.

Her heart didn't just break; it felt as though it were being slowly ground into the dust of the floor she spent her days scrubbing.

A girl from the slums.

A pair of hands.

Nothing more.

The cruelty of it was breathtaking. He knew she had no family. He knew her surname was a mark of her abandonment. And he had used it to reinforce the wall between them. He had taken all the nights she had sat with him in the dark, all the tea she had brewed, all the extra coal she had hauled to keep him warm, and he had spat on it.

Slowly, with a trembling that started in her knees and moved to her very soul, she turned away from the door. She didn't deliver the whiskey. She couldn't. She walked back to the kitchen, set the tray down on the counter with a muffled clatter, and fled.

She ran up the back stairs, past the linen closets and the storage rooms, until she reached the tiny, cramped maid’s room that was her only sanctuary. She slammed the door and sank to the floor, her back against the wood.

And then, she broke.

The sobs came in violent, silent waves. She buried her face in her hands, her body racking with the force of her grief. She cried for the baby abandoned on the steps of St. Mary’s. She cried for the little girl who grew up in a cold, grey orphanage where no one ever held her. She cried for the three years she had wasted loving a man who viewed her as a "tool."

Why? her mind screamed into the darkness. What have I done to deserve so much silence? So much cruelty?

She thought of the older maid who loved her, the only person who had ever shown her kindness, and realized how pathetic her life truly was. She was twenty-one years old, and the only man she had ever loved—the man she had given her heart to without him even asking for it—had just compared her to a floorboard.

Her internal monologue was a funeral for hope. Every "accidental" brush of their fingers, every soft look in the 3:00 AM shadows, every moment she thought they were "close"—it was all a lie. It was a delusion she had created to survive the drudgery of her life. He didn't see a woman when he looked at her; he saw a vacuum of service. He didn't see Evelyn; he saw "Church," the charity case.

The realization was a cold, hard stone in her chest. The "Cinderella" story was a myth. The prince didn't want the girl in the cinders; he wanted the empire, and he wanted the high-society women who didn't smell like lye and woodsmoke.

As the hours passed and the moon climbed higher over the soot-stained roofs of Birmingham, Evelyn’s tears finally ran dry. She remained on the floor, her eyes red-raw and her heart feeling like a hollowed-out shell.

A new feeling began to stir beneath the grief. It wasn't anger—she didn't have the energy for anger. It was a cold, icy resolve.

If he wanted a pair of hands, she would give him a pair of hands. If he wanted an invisible maid, she would become the most transparent spirit he had ever encountered. She would rip him out of her heart, thread by agonizing thread, until there was nothing left but the duty he paid her for.

"No more," she whispered to the empty room, her voice cracked and hollow. "No more tea. No more coal. No more looking for the man in the monster."

She reached up and touched the Blackwood necklace beneath her collar. It felt heavy tonight, a reminder of a life she didn't have and parents who hadn't wanted her. She felt like a person made of shadows, a girl with no past and, after tonight, no future.

The next morning, the sun rose over the mansion, but for Evelyn, the light was gone.

She stood before her small, cracked mirror and pinned her hair back with brutal efficiency. She smoothed her apron until there wasn't a single wrinkle. Her face was a mask of perfect, professional neutrality. Her eyes, once bright with the secret fire of her love, were now as flat and cold as the winter sea.

She descended the stairs at exactly 5:00 AM.

She walked into the study, which still reeled from the scent of the previous night’s debauchery. She didn't look at the chair where Tommy had sat. She didn't look at the desk where she had once dared to touch his hand. She simply began to clean.

She emptied the ashtrays. She picked up the fallen glasses. She scrubbed a stain of whiskey off the rug.

When Tommy eventually emerged, looking hungover and sharp-edged, he walked into the room expecting the usual. He expected the girl who would flinch slightly when he entered. He expected the girl who would linger, her eyes searching his for a sign of connection. He expected the warmth that had silently fueled the house for three years.

He found none of it.

Evelyn didn't look up. She didn't offer a "Good morning, sir." She simply stepped aside, her head bowed at the perfect angle of a subordinate, and continued to polish a silver tray with a mechanical, rhythmic precision.

She was perfect. She was efficient. She was exactly what he had claimed she was.

And as Tommy sat at his desk, reaching for a cigarette and realizing the room felt inexplicably, bitingly cold despite the fire, he had no idea that he had just committed the greatest mistake of his life. He had killed the only thing in the world that could’ve been truly, purely his.

Evelyn Church was gone. In her place was the "Invisible Maid," and she was going to ensure that Thomas Shelby never felt the warmth of her soul again.

To Be Continued...

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Part 3: The Coldest Winter

The transition was not loud. It did not come with a scream or a confrontation. Instead, it was a slow, agonizing freeze that settled over the Shelby mansion like the first frost of a Birmingham November.

Evelyn Church had spent three years being a flicker of warmth in a house made of stone and iron. Now, that flame had been extinguished, leaving behind nothing but the cold, hard reality of service. She had made a vow in the dark of her room, and she was a woman of her word. If Thomas Shelby wanted a pair of hands, she would be the most efficient, most detached pair of hands he had ever employed.

The change was most apparent in the small things—the things Tommy hadn't realized he relied on until they were gone.

The first night after the celebration, Tommy woke at 3:15 AM. The nightmare had been a particularly brutal one: the sound of shovels in the dirt, the smell of damp clay, and the suffocating weight of the earth pressing down on his chest. He sat up in bed, his heart hammering against his ribs, his skin slick with a cold sweat. He waited, his ears straining for the soft, rhythmic sound of footsteps in the hallway. He waited for the soft click of the door and the gentle clink of a teacup against a saucer.

He waited for the girl with the brown eyes to appear like a vision of mercy in the shadows.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The house remained as silent as a grave. The hallway stayed dark. No tea arrived to soothe his parched throat; no quiet presence came to anchor him back to the world of the living. He eventually rose, his legs feeling like lead, and walked to the kitchen himself. The hearth was cold. The kettle was dry. The absence of her care felt like a physical weight in the room.

The next morning, the "extra coal" disappeared. For years, Evelyn had made sure Tommy’s fireplace was always roaring, adding an extra shovel of coal just before he retired so the room wouldn't lose its heat in the predawn hours. Now, when he entered his study at 6:00 AM, the air was biting. The fire was laid, but it was modest—exactly what the servant’s manual required, and not a single lump of coal more.

When she finally entered the room to clear his breakfast tray, he watched her. He sat at his desk, a cigarette unlit between his fingers, his icy blue eyes narrowed as he followed her movements.

She was perfect. Her apron was blindingly white, her hair tucked so tightly under her cap that not a single dark strand escaped. She moved with a mechanical, brisk efficiency that was entirely new. She didn't linger. She didn't look at the mended seam on his coat. She didn't even look at him.

"Evelyn," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that usually made her catch her breath.

She stopped, her back to him, her posture as straight as a soldier’s. She didn't flinch. She didn't turn with a hopeful smile. She simply turned her head slightly, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere near his shoulder.

"Yes, Mr. Shelby?" she asked. Her voice was flat, professional, and entirely devoid of the soft, melodic lilt he hadn't realized he’d grown accustomed to.

"The tea last night," he began, his brow furrowing. "You didn't bring it."

"I was under the impression that my duties were to be performed during working hours, sir," she replied, her tone as cool as the November rain. "If you require a night service, I can speak with Mrs. Fitz about adjusting the roster."

Tommy felt a strange, sharp prickle of irritation—and something else he couldn't quite name. "That won't be necessary. It was just... a change."

"Will that be all, Mr. Shelby?" she asked, her voice cutting through his attempt at conversation like a blade.

Tommy stared at her. He looked for the girl who used to lean into his touch in the dark. He looked for the girl who had gazed at him with such raw, unshielded adoration that it had made his ego swell with silent satisfaction. She wasn't there. In her place was a stranger wearing her face.

"Yes," he snapped, flicking his lighter with a sharp clack. "That will be all."

She curtsied—a perfect, shallow dip—and vanished from the room without another word.

As the weeks went by, the tension in the mansion became a living thing. The "Invisible Maid" had become so invisible that it was starting to drive Thomas Shelby mad. He found himself distracted during meetings with the IRA and the Russians. He would be in the middle of a high-stakes negotiation, and his eyes would drift to the door, waiting for her to enter. And when she did, she would move through the room like a breeze, silent and untouchable, leaving him feeling more alone than if the room were empty.

Ironically, now that she had withdrawn her heart, Tommy finally began to see her.

He noticed the way her waist was cinched by the apron strings. He noticed the pale, delicate curve of her neck. He noticed the way the light from the chandeliers caught the gold flecks in her dark brown eyes. He noticed her because she was the only thing in his world he could no longer control.

Then came the jealousy—a cold, poisonous snake that coiled around his heart and squeezed.

It started in the kitchen. Tommy had gone down to fetch a bottle of wine for a late-night meeting when he saw her. She was standing by the back door, talking to a young man—a new delivery driver from the local brewery. The man was young, handsome in a rugged, uncomplicated way, and he was leaning against the doorframe, grinning at Evelyn.

"You’re far too pretty to be tucked away in this house all day, Miss Church," the man said, his voice thick with a Brummie accent. "There’s a dance at the town hall Friday. I’d be honored if you’d let me take you."

Tommy froze in the shadows of the pantry. His hand tightened around the neck of the wine bottle until his knuckles turned white. He waited for Evelyn to blush. He waited for her to stammer or look away.

"That’s very kind of you, Mr. Harrison," Evelyn said. Her voice wasn't warm, but it wasn't the icy shell she gave Tommy, either. It was polite. Human. "I’ll have to check my schedule with the housekeeper."

"I’ll be back Thursday," the driver winked. "I’ll hope for a 'yes' then."

As the man left, Evelyn turned back toward the kitchen, only to find Thomas Shelby standing in the center of the room. The air between them instantly turned electric. Tommy’s eyes were like shards of ice, his jaw set in a hard, dangerous line.

"Who was that?" he demanded, his voice a low, lethal growl.

Evelyn didn't even blink. She walked past him to the sink, picking up a cloth. "The delivery driver, sir. He was confirming the order for the weekend."

"He was asking you to a dance," Tommy stepped toward her, his presence looming, filling the kitchen with his heavy, masculine energy. "I don't pay my staff to flirt with tradesmen at the back door."

Evelyn stopped her work and turned to face him. For the first time in weeks, she looked him directly in the eyes. There was no love in her gaze. There was only a weary, profound indifference that cut Tommy deeper than any bullet ever could.

"With all due respect, Mr. Shelby," she said, her voice trembling only slightly, "what I do with my time outside of my duties is my own concern. You said it yourself: I am a pair of hands that cleans the floors. You don't look at the help, and you certainly don't think about them. So why does it matter who I go to a dance with?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Tommy felt as if he had been slapped. The words he had tossed out so carelessly to his brothers—the words he had used to protect his pride and his image—were now being thrown back in his face with the force of a landslide. He only hopes she didn’t listen to every cruel word he said after.

"Evelyn—" he started, his voice cracking for a split second.

"Will that be all, Mr. Shelby?" she interrupted, her mask of professionalism snapping back into place.

He wanted to grab her. He wanted to shake her until the invisible girl broke and the girl who loved him came back. He wanted to crush his mouth against hers and prove to both of them that she wasn't just "the help." But his ego, that towering, iron-clad fortress of Shelby pride, wouldn't let him. He couldn't admit he was wrong. He couldn't admit he was jealous of a delivery boy.

"Yes," he hissed, his eyes burning with a frustrated rage. "That will be all."

She curtsied and left him standing alone in the cold kitchen.

As December arrived, the house grew even colder. Tommy was becoming paranoid. He started staring at her openly, his gaze following her every move whenever she was in the room. He didn't care if Arthur or John noticed anymore. He was distracted, his mind a whirlwind of Evelyn’s short replies and her clinical obedience.

He began to notice other men noticed her, too. When they walked through the market for business, he saw the way the shopkeepers' eyes lingered on her. He saw the way the local constables tipped their hats to her. Every smile she gave someone else was a dagger in his ribs. Every polite "thank you" she offered a stranger felt like a betrayal of the intimacy they had once shared in the 3:00 AM shadows.

He was in love with her. He knew it now. He had probably been in love with her for years, but he had been too arrogant to see it. He had taken her for granted, assuming she would always be there, a quiet, warm constant in his violent life. Now, he had lost her heart entirely, and the empire he was building felt hollow and meaningless without her light to guide him through the dark.

One afternoon, he was sitting in the parlor, attempting to read a report, when Evelyn entered to serve tea to a guest—a business associate of the Blackwood family who was visiting to discuss a potential trade deal.

The guest, a well-dressed gentleman in his fifties, watched Evelyn as she poured the tea. He seemed struck by her, his eyes following the graceful movements of her hands.

"An exceptionally poised young woman you have here, Mr. Shelby," the man remarked, his gaze lingering on Evelyn’s face.

Tommy’s hand clenched around his pen. He felt a surge of possessive fury so strong it made his vision blur. "She is a maid," Tommy said, his voice dripping with a coldness that made the guest blink in surprise. "Nothing more."

Evelyn’s hand faltered for just a second, the tea splashing slightly against the saucer. It was the only sign that she had heard him. She set the cup down, wiped the spill with a clean cloth, and straightened.

"Will that be all, Mr. Shelby?" she asked, her voice a hollow echo of her former self.

Tommy looked up at her, his icy blue eyes searching hers, begging for a sign of the fire, the hurt, or even the hate. He found only the "Invisible Maid."

"Get out," he whispered, the words sounding like a plea and a command all at once.

As she walked away, the guest noticed something. "That necklace she’s wearing... quite an unusual piece for a servant, wouldn't you say?"

Tommy looked at her retreating figure. He hadn't thought about the necklace in months. He had seen it a thousand times, but he had never truly looked at it. Now, as the silver catch glinted in the light, he felt a strange sense of unease.

The turning point was coming. The Blackwoods would soon arrive unexpectedly seeking answers, and the tension in the house was a powder keg waiting for a spark. Tommy was on the verge of madness, his pride warring with his desperation. He had her full obedience, her perfect service, and her absolute silence.

And he realized, with a soul-crushing certainty, that he would give every penny of his empire just to hear her whisper his name with love one more time.

To Be Continued...

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Kori had looked up, a mischievous smile on her face. “Anything?” Her hand reached over, caressing his jaw, tilting his face towards her, noses brushing. 

Dick nodded, his hand tight against the steering wheel, knuckles white “Whatever you want, beautiful.” He had gently pulled back, clearing his throat. “Let’s get ready to go, yeah?” 

Kori smiled, giggling before bouncing back to her seat. “Okay!” 

The world blurred around them when Dick drove off and the memory fades. 

Kori looks out the window, marveling at the building, decorated cozily. “Oh it’s cute!” She turns towards Dick, her hand reaching for his on the gear shift. “I hope it’s good.” Kori threads their fingers together, smiling brightly. “Ready to go?”

Dick looks out the window on Kori’s side to take a glance at the building, nodding. “Yeah. Where did you see this again?” 

“[Name] sent it to me.” Kori watches Dick’s expression carefully, her voice neutral. “She really likes going to different cafes and trying their pastries.” 

But Dick doesn’t seem to care. 

He just nods, still peering out the window. “Guess we’ll find out if she has good taste.” He turns to face her, an easy smile appearing. “Let’s go.”

Kori nods, letting go of his hand to open the car door. 

Dick stares at his gear shift for a moment, a vision of a dark blue scrunchie wrapped around it, before turning away to open his car door. 

The bell on the cafe door rings cheerfully as Dick opens the door for Kori, his thumb mindlessly rubbing her knuckles. The little gesture makes her shiver, a small bubble of happiness in her veins. Kori skips towards the register, eyes already on the menu. 

“What looks good to you?” She leans against Dick, letting him bring his arm around her shoulders, before he interlocks their hands again. “I think I’m going to get the cookie butter latte.” 

Dick stares at the menu for a while, going through the choices before pressing his lips against her temple, his eyes faraway. “A vanilla bean latte.” 

“That’s not as sweet as all the other drinks you’ve gotten before.” She twists her head to face him, eyebrows knit together in concern. Dick smiles, his blue eyes finally focusing on her. “I don’t need anything sweeter than you.”

Kori beams, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Dick doesn’t move an inch. 

“Why don’t you go grab us a table and I’ll get the drinks? I’ll grab us some pastries too.” He gestures to a small booth by the windows and Kori nods, looking back at him once more before walking away. 

Dick steps up to the counter, his hand pulling out his wallet. The cashier smiles at him, her hand resting on the IPad. “You and your girlfriend are pretty cute.” 

He looks up, confused. “What? She’s–” He stills, his hand curling around the platinum American Express. The cashier looks at him, a faltering smile on her face. 

Dick clears his throat. “I haven’t asked her out officially yet.” He laughs despite the hollowness in his chest. “But it’s nice to hear that we look good together.” 

The cashier looks relieved, a small sigh escaping her. “Oh, super cute. She’ll definitely say yes.” 

He smiles again.

“Anyways,” the cashier drones on. “What can I get for you two lovebirds?” 

Dick orders, his mind drifting. 

He can’t smell anything but white peaches and orange blossoms.

x.

The date is good.

It’s really good. 

Kori laughs at something Dick says, his blue eyes bright and clear. 

“Oh god, I thought Roy was going to throw up in the car.” Dick recounts the night, shaking his head. “It was so bad.” 

Kori takes a sip of her drink, resting her head on her palm. “Did anything else happen?” 

Dick looks at her blankly, tilting his head to the side for a moment before shaking. “Nah. It was uneventful otherwise. Wally was half-asleep in the back and [Name] passed out the second she sat down.” 

Kori nods, splitting a pistachio croissant before holding a piece out to Dick. “And how was driving her car?” She watches as he takes a small bite, careful to avoid her fingers. “It’s a bit…flashy, isn’t it?”

Dick wipes his mouth with a napkin, sweeping his pants when a crumb falls on them. “It’s alright. Drives smooth.” He shrugs, feeding her a bite this time before speaking again, voice quiet. “She takes good care of it.” 

Kori hums, chewing thoughtfully. “She seems like someone who’s never had to lift a finger in her life.” Her green eyes watch him like a hawk. “Her dad probably takes care of it for her.”

Dick stiffens, just barely. “That’s not a nice thing to say.” He breaks apart a biscoff croffle with a little more force than needed, careful to keep his voice steady. “She’s not helpless.” 

Kori blinks, then smiles effortlessly. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I just meant that she’s lucky to have everything come to her so easily.” She takes a sip of her drink, letting the sweet coffee cleanse her mouth. 

“Don’t you agree?” She looks at him expectantly. 

He opens his mouth before closing it, forcing his jaw to loosen.“Yeah.” He finally says.“Sounds nice.” Dick clears his throat, taking a bite out of the croffle. “What about you? How was the rest of your night? Anything eventful happen?”

“Donna missed the entrance to the parking lot like three times because she was so tired, but that’s really it.” Kori lets out a small laugh at the memory before getting up to sit next to Dick. “I really wish you were able to come with us though.” she pouts. 

“Me too.” Dick pulls her in closer, hand resting on her waist. “If it wasn’t so late, I would have been tempted to.” 

“You could have stayed over.” Kori says, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. She puts a leg over his, hooking her foot under his calf. “I have a pretty big bed. Could definitely fit both of us.”

He thinks about a bed with a giant pink bunny plushie, his heart racing before he shoves it down, focusing on Kori’s little smile.

Dick raises his eyebrow, smirking. “Is that so? I think I might need to check it out some time then.” 

“You’re always welcome.” 

Kori shuffles even closer, her hand reaching up to turn Dick’s face towards her. “I’m sure Donna won’t mind if you sleep over. I know I won’t.” She tilts her chin up, their breaths mingling. “We could do lots of stuff.” 

Dick reaches up, ignoring the way his stomach rolled and twisted as he cups her jaw, his thumb brushing along her cheek. “Yeah? Like what?”

She gently tugs on his collar, pulling him impossibly closer. “I think a live demonstration works better than me just telling you.” 

Kori parts her lips. Her eyes flutter shut, her lips tingling as she guides him closer, closer, closer—

Chime.

Dick pulls back from Kori’s grasp before he even realizes he’s moving. Kori opens her eyes, confused.

“Dick?” She looks at him, eyebrows furrowed turning to follow his starstruck gaze. 

Oh. 

There you are. Dressed in a gray hoodie and matching sweatpants, your car keys dangling from your fingers as you shift on your feet to stare at the menu. You yawn, rubbing your eyes, the bell on your bracelet rocking to and fro. 

Kori looks back at Dick, who hasn’t moved a single inch, but it looks like he’s in another world entirely. His eyes soften as he watches you, the ends of his mouth twitching upwards as though threatening to burst into a smile. 

Her heart slowly sinks to her stomach, ice running through her veins. 

The worst part is that you haven’t even noticed either of them. 

Kori clears her throat, withdrawing from him. Dick doesn’t seem to realize. You turn away from the counter, holding your iced matcha latte before looking up from your phone, eyes catching sight of the two of them in the booth.

Kori braces herself, already expecting you to bounce over like your usual sunshine self, but you don’t. You only smile, waving briefly before turning out the door, the straw resting in between your teeth. 

Dick watches you go into your precious car before you drive away. He blinks, turning to face Kori after, a small dazed smile on his face. 

Kori looks away instead, focusing on a small spot on the table. 

Dick notices. He stiffens slightly, suddenly aware of the growing space between him and Kori. He reaches over, taking her hand into his. “Hey,” he says, softer now. He places his hand on her cheek, gently turning her to face him. “I’m sorry. I got distracted.” 

He smiles, gently coaxing her eyes to meet his. “Listen. We’ve been dancing around this, haven’t we?” 

Dick takes a deep breath, squeezing her fingers in his. “I like you.” He says earnestly, smoothly. “I really do. We’ve been on a few dates now, and I think we should make this official.” He looks at her, a tentative smile on his face. “So I was hoping…” His heart beats dully in his ears. “Could I be your boyfriend? Officially?” 

Kori stares at him for a moment, her soft green eyes gazing into his bright blue ones. 

She wants to say yes. Her heart beats fast against her ribs, buzzing like a hummingbird. It was everything she wanted to hear. She liked him. God, she liked him so much, but…

Not yours 

Kori pulls her hand away from Dick, ignoring the way her heart squeezed in her chest at his crestfallen expression. 

“Look Dick,” she says gently. “I really like you, I do, but I don’t think we’re in the same place.”

Dick stares at her, his jaw tight. 

“I think we both want different things.” Kori continues, letting her fingers brush his, a momentary comfort that relaxes her. “Like I said, I do like you Dick. Maybe when we find ourselves in the same place, we could try again.” 

“I’m really sorry.” She finally looks away from him, letting her gaze fall to the half eaten pastries on their table. “Maybe we could just be friends for now?”

Dick stares at her for a moment, an uncomfortable heat rushing to his face, spreading across his chest and neck. “Yeah.” He laughs, pulling away. “I got it. Of course we’ll still be friends.” 

Dick looks out the window, curling his hand into a fist before turning back. “It’s getting late.” He says, a strained smile on his face. “We should head back.”

Kori looks at him, concerned but Dick avoids her gaze, focusing his energy on wrapping the pastries in clean napkins. “Dick, I—“

“You liked the pistachio croissant, right?” Dick carefully slides it into a paper bag. “You can take all the pastries here and I’ll buy you a new one too.” He finally looks up at her, lips barely curved up into a semblance of a smile. “I’ll get one for Donna too so she can try it.”

“You really don’t have to—“

“Think of it as a thank you for those past few dates, and a start to our friendship.” He cuts her off, gently guiding her out the booth so he can get back in line. 

Dick turns to smile, his hands shoved into fists and in his pocket, desperate to calm his shakiness. “Seriously, it’s fine. I gotta get Wally something anyways, he’s been texting.” He grins, the one that the Wayne galas see too often — bright, empty, good enough to pass. “Wait here, I’ll be back.”

Kori watches him turn on his heel, walking away briskly like the rejection never happened. 

He doesn’t look back.

He wishes it was a giant pink bunny plushie instead—but he just sighs, burrowing deeper into his sheets. 

He has too much to do to be thinking about that. 

Too much to take care of instead of thinking about sleeping in a full size bed that was more plushies and pillows than a mattress, too much to get done to be imagining his legs tangled with another pair that was wearing his missing Ralph Lauren PJ’s, too much to finish to be thinking about the shape of your body pressed against his, his hand resting under your shirt—too much, too much, too much. 

His phone rings once, a loud, blaring sound that jolts him. His hand sticks out from underneath his blanket, blindly searching the mattress for the phone he had thrown somewhere on his bed last night before falling asleep in last night’s clothes. 

Kori Anders: I had a lot of fun last night :) wish we could’ve gone back in the same car too :( 

Dick stares at the message with one eye open. For a moment, all he can smell is your perfume–white peaches and orange blossom. 

He sighs, pushing himself deeper into his blanket cocoon. 

Too much to do, too much to do.

Dick Grayson: I did too. wanna grab coffee in a bit? 

x.

Kori stares at her phone excitedly, Dick’s text popping up on her screen. 

She sits up from her bed, hair still wrapped in the microfiber towel, glancing at her closet. What was she going to wear?

Her eyes fall to the clothes she had peeled off of her last night before falling into bed, immediately asleep the second her head hit the pillow. 

She could remember everything–the bass of the music as it beat in her chest, the way Dick held her close, noses brushing as he whispered in her ear, the kind of things you wouldn’t want others to overhear and made her blush three different shades of red darker than her hair, the way he refused to let go of her. 

Kori let out a squeal, kicking her legs in the air before falling back down onto her pillow, breathless. 

Her phone rings again and she immediately grabs it, eyes bright and eager. 

Dick Grayson: I’ll come pick you up? give me some time to get ready though, I knocked out last night

Kori Anders: can’t wait!

Dick Grayson: see you soon gorgeous

Another burst of butterflies in her stomach. Another high pitched squeal she can’t stop emitting out her mouth. 

From outside her door, Donna shouts something at her, something about ‘the neighbors are going to hear and complain!’ but Kori can’t be bothered to care. 

Dick wanted to see her. Dick wanted to get coffee with her. Dick liked–

Not yours. 

She freezes, her fingers curling around the edges of her phone. The memory of Dick’s possessive voice hits her like a cold hand around her throat in the quiet of her bedroom. 

It wasn’t meant for her. It wasn’t meant for anyone else but… you. 

Her smile falters. That couldn’t be right. Dick had spent the entire night with her. Hell, both of you barely spoke to each other the entire night except for–

Not yours.

Her stomach drops, her mouth suddenly dry. The room is suddenly very, very, very quiet. 

She clears her throat, taking in a deep breath. She was imagining it. Dick didn’t mean it like that. It made sense for him to say that, for him to press you into his chest so intimately, his arm wrapped around your waist the same way it was to hers several minutes ago. There was a stranger trying to touch you! If Dick hadn’t done that, who knows what would have happened?

Kori shivers. She didn’t even want to think about it. Donna and Wally would have definitely gone off the rails. 

She sets her phone down on the bed, her fingers lingering on it for a moment too long, as if letting go would make the memory ache louder. She stares at her fingers, vision blurring together. Her room suddenly feels too still, too sharp around the edges. 

Kori sighs, shaking her head as she pulls off the towel her curls were sitting on. There was no time to waste before Dick came. She glances back at her closet, the bright colors calling for her to try them on but the way her stomach tumbles and turns makes her hesitate. 

Dick liked her. He wanted to see her. He called her gorgeous. 

Gorgeous. 

Gorgeous girl. 

Gorgeous girl with gorgeous eyes. 

Dick’s voice rings in her voice, his blue eyes staring sweetly into hers. 

A gorgeous girl on a date with me? That’s fate. 

But the words don’t hit the same way it did before. Kori worries her lip in between her teeth, and like a bruise she can’t stop pressing, she hears it again. 

Not yours. 

She squeezes her eyes shut, inhaling slowly through her nose. Her heart beats in her throat, her fingertips, the hollowness of her chest. She forces herself to take another breath before moving, her feet hitting the soft carpet of her bedroom to get ready. 

It was just a fluke, that’s all it was. 

And if it wasn’t, she’ll just keep saying it until she believes it.

a/n: u might be wondering why im uploading so much & the honest reason is because im going to go MIA in about like idk 2/3 weeks & then i'll be back again like for a week and then gone again for another week & also if i think the chapter is a bit short i'll j update it again so legit im j posting like crazy haahahahahahahaa anyway im churning all this out like a madman so i hope u all enjoy!!!

i. pilot

ii. all the dominos are falling in line

iii. sure, i have time. i always have time for you. sure, whatever you need, whatever you need.

iv: gravitationally bound to one another

v. you will pay in naivety

vi. you meet your fate on the road you take to avoid it

vii: we recognize each other by a look, by a touch of a hand. we recognize each other and call it love

viii: it's getting harder and harder to call you a friend

ix: you can run but you can't hide

x. in the dream state, forgiveness comes easily

xi. if you need to be mean, be mean to me

xii. to love someone is to confess: i am prepared to be devastated by you

upcoming:

xiii. i desire violently, and i wait