I HAVE A REQUEST I HAVE A REQUEST I HAVE A REQUEST!!!
It’s Inspired by this tweet, a little backstory, user was traff*cked at 17. three years later, she finally snaps when her traff*cker (who is also the main guy in the mob) tries to force another 17 year old girl into the same thing he did to her. she slits his throat on spot. harry’s there, he’s been working as a bartender in that pub because he owes a debt to the mob leader and has no other way to pay it off. he’s always been kind to the girls, sneaking them Shirley Temples with extra cherries, trying to protect them in small ways. he and user had always gotten along well, so when she kills the main guy, he’s the one who helps her clean up and cover it. that’s basically how their whole bond + eventual marriage starts.
Now a few years later. User is the queenpin, and she has a very fair rule. She goes to great lengths to protect innocents, and her killings are always calculated and strategic. She never loses control, but she does kill and it’s terrifying. That’s how the people beneath her stay in line.
Now, Harry and user are married. Harry is a stay at home husband, completely devoted to her. You can start the prompt with Harry standing over the kitchen sink, scrubbing a bloodstain out of her blouse with lemon and bleach, humming like it’s normal because for him, it is. From there, you can take it wherever you like. I hope you like it :)
“You scrub blood and feed me carbs? You’re spoiling me, baby.”
“Talking to my laundry again?” Your voice drifted into the kitchen, low and tired but warm. I glanced up and found you leaning against the doorway, hair loose, face bare. The transformation was always jarring—your crew saw you as something lethal, untouchable. But here, barefoot in one of my old T-shirts, you were just my wife.
“Maybe if your laundry listened better, I wouldn’t have to,” I shot back with a grin.
You chuckled, walking barefoot across the tiles. Your fingers brushed along my arm before settling at my waist. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”
“’Course I do.” I kissed the top of your head without looking up. “Can’t have the Queen of the East End walking around with bloodstains on her blouse. People would talk.”
“They already talk.” Your lips quirked. “They say I’m merciless. Terrifying. That I’ll gut a man for looking at me wrong.”
“They’re half-right.” I wrung the blouse out and hung it over the sink, finally turning to face you. My green eyes softened as they swept over your tired face. “But they don’t know the other half.”
Your throat tightened. I always had that effect—seeing through the armor you built, peeling it back without asking. You leaned into me, pressing your cheek to my damp shirt.
“Sometimes I hate it,” you whispered. “The blood. The fear. The way they look at me.”
My hands softly cradled your face, tilting it up so your eyes met mine. “Then remember this: they look at you that way because you survived what killed them. You protect who they’d throw away. You make rules in a world that never had any.”
You swallowed, your chest aching. “And you?”
“I look at you,” I said softly, “and I just see the girl who liked extra cherries.”
And as the silk blouse dripped into the sink behind me, the queenpin exhaled, letting herself be small in her husband’s arms—just for tonight.
your delulu husband (I loooove powerful women)
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