#Cillian murphy

[moondoll13]

need me an old man who sends me pictures like this

[probablynot4me-blog]

😋

mens thighs.

[weheartcillian]

i have nothing appropriate to say 🧎‍♀️

[cherrycilly]

Men be like "omg he is so sigma" and show the most submissive little slut to ever grace our screens

[face-card-never-declines]

Cillian Murphy | DGA Awards (2024)

[jaymir]

On The Edge (2001)

[cillianmurphysdimples]

[kinkyniragi]

Red Flag Revolution

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader Genre: Smut 18+ Word count: 1,5k Summary: You are a union activist fighting for women’s rights at Shelby Ltd. Enraged by the unbearable working conditions, you storm into Mr. Shelby’s office to confront him. But the conversation takes an unexpected turn… CN: Enemies to lovers (?), hate fuck, rough sex, domination/power imbalance. Please note that this is all just fantasy. Things that happen in my stories should always be consensual. Take care. Author’s note: Feel free to leave comments and share my story if you enjoy it—I truly appreciate every bit of motivation to keep writing.

***

The heavy oak door slams against the wall as you storm into Thomas Shelby’s office. You don’t give a shit. And you don’t give a shit that the secretary tried to stop you with a sharp voice, that she grabbed your sleeve as if sheer willpower could hold you back. You ignored her. You don’t give a shit that the loud slam of the door echoes through the entire goddamn Shelby Ltd. building, that everyone inside now knows you’re about to march into Mr. Shelby’s office and rip him apart.

Your blood is boiling.

“You absolute bastard.”

Mr. Shelby barely looks up. He calmly exhales smoke from his cigarette, leaning back in his chair like your anger is nothing more than an amusing inconvenience. “Good morning to you, too.”

The moment his gaze lifts to you, it drops again just as quickly. Without a word, he resumes scanning the stack of papers on his desk, flipping through them at an agonizingly calm pace before jotting something down with a casual flick of his pen.

Your fists clench. Fury claws up your spine.

With a single swipe of your hand, you knock the papers off the desk. They flutter to the floor in a scattered mess.

Nothing. No reaction.

Not a single flinch, not even a scolding glance. Just a slight, almost amused twitch at the corner of his lips.

It enrages you even more because he is purposefully ignoring your fury. “Don’t you dare patronize me, Mr. Shelby. You know why I’m here.”

His blue eyes flicker with something unreadable—curiosity, perhaps. He takes another slow drag of his cigarette before tapping the ash into a crystal tray. “Why don’t you enlighten me, sweetheart?”

You slam your palms onto the desk. “Your factory. The women. I warned you, didn’t I? I told you that the conditions were unsafe, that the fumes from the dye vats would make them sick, but you ignored me. And now?” Your voice rises with fury. “Three of them collapsed today. One of them—Margaret Cole—she’s barely breathing.”

Thomas Shelby leans back slightly in his chair, his cold blue eyes scanning you like you’re an amusement on an otherwise uneventful morning.

“And?” His voice is smooth, detached. “I assume the others called in sick?”

“Of course, they did! Or at least, they tried.” Your fingers dig into the wood of his desk. “Until your foreman cornered them. Until they were pressed against the wall, his hands on their thighs, his breath in their faces. Are you telling me you knew nothing about this?”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Unruly women sometimes need a reminder of where they stand.”

Something inside you snaps. You lean closer, your breath uneven. “They need what? Are you fucking kidding me, Mr. Shelby? They have every right to fight for themselves! No man has the right to touch a woman against her will! And you know this and don't stop it. You should be ashamed of yourself! Women’s lives mean nothing to you, do they? As long as they keep working, keep making you money—”

His lips curl at the corner. “You sound quite emotional.”

Your stomach tightens. “Excuse me?”

He tilts his head slightly, feigning concern. “Women. Always so... dramatic.” His voice is soft, deliberate. Cruel. “A few sick girls, an appropriate punishment for refusing to work, and suddenly, you’re storming in here like a bloody hurricane.” He exhales smoke again, slow and steady. “Hysterical.”

Your vision blurs with rage.

“You smug, misogynistic—”

"Shut the fuck up!" he cuts you off, his voice sharp yet eerily controlled. “So, this isn´t about men and women, this is about me, eh?”

Your hand moves before you can think. The slap cracks through the air, your palm colliding hard against his cheek.

You immediately regret it the moment you touch him.

Not out of fear—but because you know that’s exactly what he wanted.

His misogynistic, self-important arrogance had baited you into losing control. And now, you’ve given him exactly what he was waiting for.

Thomas Shelby doesn’t stumble. He doesn’t curse. He doesn’t even touch his face. In one swift motion, he’s out of his chair, pressing forward, his body pinning yours against the desk. His hands grip your wrists, forcing them back against the wood.

“You think that was wise?” he hisses.

Your breath hitches. His grip is strong, unyielding, his chest barely an inch from yours.

“Let me go.”

His lips twitch. “No.”

You try to regain composure. “You have no right to touch me. I am the official representative of the Women’s Union, and you—”

His unbearably smug laugh cuts you off.

“And I,” he leans in slightly, “am Thomas Shelby.”

As if that alone settles the matter.

“You hate me, don’t you?” His breath is warm against your skin, his voice taunting. “I can see it in your eyes.”

You glare up at him, your chest heaving. “More than anything.”

He hums, tilting his head as if considering. Then, slowly, he leans closer, until his lips nearly graze your ear.

“Then prove it.”

A pulse of something wicked coils in your stomach. If you could move, you would. You would strike him again. Harder. Drive your knee between his legs, bite into his skin, rake your nails across his face until he bled.

But you can’t.

He’s too strong. Your struggle against him is useless. His grip tightens just enough to painfully remind you of exactly who he is—Thomas Shelby, the man who bends Birmingham to his will.

Maybe that’s exactly what settles the matter.

And yet...

Your breath shudders as he presses you harder against the desk, his thigh slipping between yours. You should push him away. You should scream at him, fight him.

But you don’t.

Instead, you arch against the bulge in his crotch.

The smirk that ghosts over his lips is nothing short of victorious. “That’s what I thought.”

Your nails dig into his arms. “Go to hell.”

He chuckles darkly. “Sweetheart, I am hell.”

And then his mouth is on yours, warmer and more pleasant than you like.

It isn’t a kiss—it’s a battle. Teeth clash, tongues fight for dominance. It’s all heat and fire, pent-up rage exploding into something neither of you can control.

His hands are rough as they roam your body, his fingers curling into the fabric of your skirt before yanking it up. You gasp against his lips, but he swallows the sound, his grip bruising, demanding.

You shouldn’t want this.

But you do.

God help you, you do.

His fingers trace up your thigh, slow, teasing, making you squirm beneath him. “You’re trembling,” he murmurs against your neck.

“Shut up.”

His teeth scrape against your skin, and a sharp gasp leaves your lips.

“Make me.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him growl against your throat.

And then, in one skilled and forceful motion, he has you turned around, bent over the desk. His hands press against your hips, keeping you firmly in place.

“I should ruin you, as you deserve it” he mutters, his desire hard to deny. “Take you apart piece by piece until you can’t even remember why you hate me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, your breath ragged. “Then do it.”

A beat of silence.

Then—

The world narrows to nothing but sensation.

The hard press of his body against yours. The sharp intake of his breath as he moves inside you. The way your fingers dig into the wood, desperate for something—anything—to hold on to.

He takes what he wants.

And you let him.

The room is filled with harsh breaths, muffled moans, the sharp slap of skin against skin. Every movement is a fight—a challenge, a test of wills. You push back against him, refusing to surrender completely—but it’s futile. Every single thrust reminds you that he has already won. That no matter how much you fight, your body betrays you, melting into his control.

And then—just as you think you can’t take any more—he grips your hair, yanking your head back so his lips hover over your ear.

"Who wins now, sweetheart?" he taunts, his fingers sliding between your folds, circling your clit with relentless precision.

A desperate moan escapes you.

You bite your lip, too late to mask the sound, too lost to resist.

But it doesn’t matter.

You both already know.

Because when the tension finally snaps, and you can no longer avoid the inevitable, you don’t hold back the cry of his name.

And that’s victory enough.

When it’s over, the room is silent except for your ragged breaths.

Tommy leans over you, his lips ghosting over your shoulder, still not letting you go. His hands are possessive on your hips, his body pressed against yours as if daring you to move first.

You swallow hard.

“This doesn’t mean—”

“I know.” His voice is lazy, satisfied. Amused. “You still hate me.”

You do.

You really do.

But you can't deny that you already crave the next fight—ready to lose again... ***

New to the Cillian party, so just let me know if you (don't) want to be tagged to my next stories!

@jbrownta @mythicalcowboyatheart @shelbybabysblog @simpfortoomanymen

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[cillmurphyslover]

🥵😘

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Read her stuff because she's legit one of the most talented writers on here!

Last Updated 28/4/25

THE BEAR THE BIKERIDERS THE LAST OF US MOBLAND PEAKY BLINDERS RPF-CILLIAN MURPHY TOP GUN MAVERICK MOODBOARDS WRITING CHALLENGES + CELEBRATIONS

I do not give consent for my work to be copied, translated or posted on any platform, including Tumblr.

Header credit: @saradika-graphics, Divider credit: @strangergraphics

[cillianloveforever]

[cherrycilly]

[slut4thebroken]

BOOM SHAKALAKAAAAAAAAAA YES GAWD

[fel-09]

His headache

Fluff

Author's note: I didn't know what to write so sorry for the long absence

P.s. I love the pairing where lazy reader and Tommy

The gloom hung low over the streets of Birmingham, as always unmoving—suspended between the grey rooftops and the ashen sky, as if too weary to break into rain. The city seemed to know that Thomas Shelby was driving through its veins—and held its breath, the way everything does before a storm.

The car was strangely quiet. No crackling of the radio, no flick of a lighter, no lazy remarks from her side. Just the dull thud of tires against uneven cobblestones, and the soft tapping of her fingers on the armrest—somewhere between sleep and vague unrest. He glanced sideways—not often, but enough to notice her eyelids growing heavy. Familiar. Too familiar.

The silence between them wasn’t tense—it was tired, like an old blanket kept for comfort. Something had changed since Michael’s return from America—but not in her, not in Tommy. It was the silence that changed. Less sharp, more muted. Or maybe it was just the exhaustion pressing down on them both so evenly, it smoothed out all the edges.

He parked the car outside the house. Gravel groaned under the wheels, like a muttered complaint. He cut the engine and stepped out. As always, he rounded the bonnet to open her door—and, as nearly always, froze halfway. She wasn’t moving. Her head was tilted to one side, lips slightly parted, her breathing slow and even.

Tommy let out a sigh—tired, almost annoyed.

“Bloody hell. Again,” he muttered under his breath.

He should’ve known this would happen. Every time the drive lasted more than fifteen minutes. She’d said once, “It’s nice. Puts me to sleep.” Said it like he was her bloody chauffeur and not the head of a criminal empire. Like his time was just another soft cushion for her afternoon nap.

He opened the door wider, leaned down, and without hurry, lifted her—one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. She folded into his arms like she belonged there. Her head fit perfectly against his shoulder, and there was nothing left for him to do but carry her—again—across the yard.

He remembered once, when she was sixteen, she’d fallen asleep on the underground. Back then she wasn’t part of his world—just drifted near it, like a lazy ghost with no plans and too much time. He’d had to carry her two whole kilometers through the noisy streets, bracelets clinking, a bag full of nothing but books and chocolate slung across her back. And when he finally got her home, she cracked one eye open and mumbled:

“I wasn’t asleep. Just didn’t feel like walking.”

That was it.

Since then, he should’ve known—it was her way. No fighting, no arguing—just letting things happen until the world shifted to fit her weight. She was passive, but not weak. Quiet, but never hollow.

And maybe that’s what pissed him off the most—how effortlessly she allowed herself to be helpless around him.

He carried her into the house unhurriedly. Arthur didn’t even need to look—he knew. It was her again. Usually, Tommy entered with a crash, never caring about creaking doors or heavy footsteps. But today, he closed the door so quietly that the house seemed to fall into a special kind of silence—the kind that spoke louder than any words: she was back.

John lounged by the fireplace, lazily swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand. Finn sat nearby, eyes fixed on the flames, turning something small over between his fingers. Tommy didn’t bother to look. Didn’t matter.

Polly stepped out of the next room, saw him—and understood immediately. Without a word, she opened the door to Tommy’s bedroom, gave a short nod, and quietly closed it behind him, leaving him in the dim hush of the room.

He stopped in the center, still holding her in his arms. For a few seconds—maybe minutes—he stared at her, searching her face like he was trying to find something new. But… nothing. Just the same. The same damn girl.

That bloody dyed blonde.

"Still the same, you little devil," he muttered under his breath.

He felt her body shift slightly in his arms. Not really asleep. Not really offended. Just a familiar, theatrical flinch—as if to say, don’t call me that.

He didn’t even glance down. Just dropped her on the bed with careless ease and smacked her lightly on the head with a pillow.

"I know you're not sleeping. Stop pretending. That was attempt number seventy-eight—I’m not buying it anymore," he said, deadpan.

The pillow slid off her face as she lazily opened one eye, a smug grin curling at her lips, as if this was the most ordinary exchange in the world.

"And a good morning to you too."

[barmaidatthegarrison]

Green Eyes and Gunpowder (5/?)

Thomas Shelby x OC (Emily Hughes)

Summary - Sharp-tongued, steady-handed, and raised beside the Shelbys like blood, Dr. Emily Hughes weaves through their war for Birmingham with a surgeon’s precision—offering comfort, challenge, and quiet resistance, especially to the man who’s forgetting how to be anything but a weapon.

Word Count - 4,121

Warnings - Nothing that wasn't there before

A/N - Polly is Conniving and I support her.

Thanks for the support <3 Would love to know what you think!

Chapter 4

The anger carried Tommy into his confrontation with Ada and then his subsequent conversation at home with Polly. It even lasted until the betting shop had closed. He’d regretted what he said as soon as it came out of his mouth, but he was angry enough to ignore the guilt.

They weren’t supposed to have fucking secrets. Emily and him were supposed to share everything but she’d been keeping this secret for fucking months. A big fucking secret that he should have known about from the bloody beginning.

“Arthur, where’s Emily?”

It was Finn’s question that caught his attention. It was late, dinner long over and she still wasn’t home. The anger was still burning in his chest, but a tendril of worry had made its way in.

For his part, Arthur looked to Polly who shook her head.

“I don’t know, Finn. Ada, you hear from Emily?”

She shook her head, “Not since this morning.” She was giving Tommy quite a wide berth, but it may have only been because she was, for some reason, just as pissed at him as he was at her.

“Tommy?”

“No.” He said simply, pulling out yet another cigarette and lighting it.

“She’s probably at John’s.” Ada offered with a shrug. “You know she stays there to help with the kids sometimes. John’s useless at bedtime.”

John was useless at all times since Martha had died.

Arthur didn’t look pleased with Ada’s suggestion, Tommy didn’t feel pleased with it either, but he seemed to accept it. Maybe she’d just forgotten to let anyone know she’d not be home. Or maybe it was another fucking secret.

“She said she’d read with me tonight.” Finn showed his book to Arthur with a sad pout. Black Beauty, Emily had bought that for him just yesterday.

“It’s a story about a real horse.” The book wasn’t too long, but it had a green cover and a drawing of a horse on the front. “In the book, the horse is the one who tells his own story.”

“The horse tells the story?” He asked, disbelieving. She nodded, reaching around his body on her lap to take her teacup off the table. “Horses can’t tell stories, Emmy! That’s silly!”

He tried not to laugh at the disgust in his littlest brother’s tone, Emily hiding her own smirk in the hair at the back of Finn’s head.

“That’s true, sweetie.” She said, infinitely patient. Always so fucking patient with the Shelby boys. “I think I explained bad. Remember we were talking about fiction and non-fiction? This is fiction. The horse was real, but his owner tells the story and pretends it’s the horse doing it.”

Finn’s face scrunched up, taking the book from Emily’s hands and running his fingers over the design on the front. He loved horses, like Tommy did, like Emily did, or more like they had before. Before, when all they wanted to do was ride them and care for them. When this life would never have occurred to them.

“Okay. Can we read it now?”

“Not now, Finn. Tonight. Right now, you need to finish your breakfast and then I’ll take you to school.”

And there went that acceptance. Emily was strict about not breaking her word to Finn if she could help it. He’d been clingier since they all came back, almost afraid they would leave again, and Emily had been working hard to make sure he felt better.

He thought of that bullet with his name on it, could practically feel it digging through his pocket and into his thigh. But that was just for him, right? There’s no way the Lees would–

“I’ll read with you, Finn.” Ada offered, gesturing their little brother over but he crossed his arms and shook his head.

“No. Emily reads with me.” There was that touchiness. “We’re going to learn the horse’s story together!”

“Call John.” Tommy directed that command to Polly. “Make sure she’s there.”

She wasn’t. When Polly shook her head at him, Tommy immediately looked over at Arthur who was already poised to go searching.

It took a good couple of hours, but eventually the bartender at the Marquis told them he’d seen her. She had a few drinks earlier in the evening and then left with a man he didn’t know. Tommy ground his teeth when he said the man’d been chatting her up for a while before they left.

“Blimey, couldn’t she had said something if she went looking for a fuck.” Arthur groused, tossing his jacket back on the hook, ignorant to how the source of Tommy’s anger had partially shifted. “Could have saved us so much bloody time. I’m going to bed.”

Tommy didn’t follow and he didn’t intend to rest.

She was back decently early the next morning. John hadn’t made it in, and Ada was still asleep, but everyone else was around. Breakfast hadn’t been made yet. Tommy had lost track of his cigarettes at this point, exhausted and somehow angrier.

Polly, Arthur, and his eyes immediately shot to her when she came onto the betting shop floor. She was wearing the same clothes from yesterday, making a beeline for the stairs.

“Good morning.” That’s all she had to say?

“Where the fuck have you been, eh?”

Emily stopped in her tracks and regarded him flatly, noticing at last the way all three of them were staring at her. Tommy didn’t yell but he was aware of how harsh he sounded.

“Out.” Contrastingly, her voice was even. Controlled. Removed.

“You didn’t come home last night and that’s all you have to fucking say?”

Her eyebrows raised at him, something about the lack of warmth in her gaze made him uncomfortable. It pushed into the guilt that had made a home in his chest. He leaned into his anger enough to ignore it.

“What of it?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He was toeing the line of yelling now, but he couldn’t stop himself.

She sighed and turned away from him back towards the stairs.

“I am not your family, Tommy. You made that fact effusively clear yesterday. You are not entitled to my whereabouts just because you want them.”

The guilt reared its ugly head and suddenly even his anger wasn’t strong enough to keep it at bay, draining away to near nothing. He’d regretted it as soon as he’d said it, and even more so now. He hadn’t fucking meant that. He’d just been so angry, because he was so frightened.

Halfway through her ascent, she added over her shoulder: “I’m going to change and then I’ll telephone Patrick – I haven’t forgotten, if that’s your concern.”

It took about a minute for him to move, finally remembering that they hadn’t been alone during that argument when he saw Arthur and Pol staring at him, the former surprised and the latter disappointed. He didn’t bother to say anything to them, didn’t even bother to take the time to hear what they were going to say – it couldn’t be any worse than what he was thinking.

“Fuck me.” He growled, extinguishing the butt of his cigarette in an ashtray and quickly making his way upstairs.

“People normally knock.” Emily said, placidly. Even her sarcasm felt flat.

He shut the door behind him and let out a huff of air. She wasn’t looking at him, hadn’t even turned around when he barged in, still staring into the darkness of her closet.

“If you’re going to ask where I was again, can we skip ahead in that conversation and begin directly from the part where I ask you to leave? It remains none of your concern.”

Her tone was clipped, controlled. This was how she spoke to other people, people she didn’t trust. One night, after they’d drank a bottle of whiskey between just them, she admitted that talking posh when she was at school was her way of protecting herself. Slipping in larger words, changing the structure of her sentences, even softening her accent. She said it distanced her from the conversation, made her feel more secure. That the person she was talking to didn’t respect her and it was her own version of a shield when she knew someone was looking down on her.

She said she wished she’d had the knowledge to be able to pull it off when her mother was still in her life. That she thought it might have been helpful against someone that hurt her, that maybe it would have made little her feel a bit less worthless.

She was doing it to him right now.

Drunkenly slurring, “I mean I can control my emotions, yeah? That’s all bloody good and all, keeps me from losing it when I know I shouldn’t, but the posh bit’s good at making me feel bigger. Can’t hurt me if I’m bigger, yeah?”

“It’s odd.”

He was leaned back against the pile of hay just outside Charlie's yard. They had laid there staring at the moon together. Tomorrow she would have to head back to school for another few months.

He’d heard her talking posh when someone had phoned the house looking for her, someone she obviously didn’t want to talk to.

“Hearing you talk like that. I don’t like it.”

She giggled at that, “Good thing I don’t need to do it around you then, eh?”

The way she’d beamed at him made his chest feel full. He was going to miss her constantly till she was back home.

“I’m sorry.” He was. He really was. “Okay? I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“No need to apologise.” She offered, still so fucking flat. He hated this fucking tone, hated having this version of Emily talking to him. “You were just speaking your mind. Though perhaps less loudly in the future should you feel yourself getting angry in the stables; you nearly spooked the horse.”

She pulled a new blouse out of the closet, a blue one, and laid it down on her bed. Moving away, she found a new focus of attention in her dresser. The floor creaking as she shifted. Emily still didn’t even glance at him once. And she was still talking like that.

“Em.” He heard the pleading in his own voice. The sadness.

She hummed in acknowledgement, her eyes finally flicking over to look at him before returning to the skirt she grabbed.

“Can you please leave me? I need to get dressed.” She placed the skirt on her bed, and finally turned vaguely in his direction, but she stillwasn’t looking at him and she was still talking like that. “I’ll let you know when I call Patrick so you can listen in, that way you can be assured I’m doing as I promised.”

She really thought he didn’t trust her. She wasn’t forgiving him. She always forgave him. Why wasn’t she forgiving him?

He took a step closer to her and saw the way she tensed, afraid, and it felt like someone had just punched him in the stomach. His step stuttered. Did she think he would hurt her? That he could ever hurt her?

Steeling himself, he got close enough to reach out and take her hands. They were cold – she was always cold, always had been since they were kids. That’s why there were two blankets on her bed and why she carried a pair of gloves with her no matter what season it was. She tried to pull away, but he held firm.

“What do you want from me?” It was the first time her voice wasn’t flat, but she sounded so exhausted that it ached just as fiercely.

“I want you to forgive me.”

She sighed. “You just told me what you thought, and you were right. I’m not a Shelby, this is your family, not mine. I don’t have one.” The bitter twist in her words felt like someone had physically stabbed him. “I had no right to be making deals on your behalf. However, I will not apologize for keeping Ada’s confidence, because even if I’m not her family, I am her friend. I do not owe you her secrets.”

“You are family. Of course you’re fucking family.” He could hear the anger building in his tone again, the sharpness, but this time it was solely directed at himself. “I didn’t mean what I said. I was an ass, love. We’re your family and you’re the heart of us.”

She was the only heart he had left.

She tried to turn from him, move her gaze away so he wouldn’t see the heartbreak in her eyes. The doubt and fear, the loneliness of being excluded from the only people she had in the world. This was what she had been trying to hide behind her tough front, beneath her education and false confidence.

Threading fingers into dark curls, he pulled her into his arms. Still tense, he held on until she relaxed, until her arms came around him too, until she let her head rest on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean it.”

“I forgive you.” And his shoulders relaxed.

The plan she had made, the deal she had struck with O’Hare, was a good one. It was more than he was ever going to get, and he told her as much. Told her not to call it off. She told him to stop fucking apologizing when she’d already forgiven him. He chuckled.

“Tired, Emmy?” Her weight leaned more heavily into him, but he wasn’t ready to let go just yet. It soothed him to have her close. If he couldn’t have her the way he wanted, he could at least have these moments.

She hummed. “Katie and Leo kept me up half the night. I love John’s kids, but God they need more structure than he gives them.”

But now he had to pull back, just enough to look at her face, brow creasing. “Pol called John last night, said you weren’t there.”

And he ignored the anger that flared at the idea of her sharing another man’s bed. The possessive fury.

It was her turn to look at him funny. “I was though. Got in close to ten. I told Pol I’d be spending the night at his; asked her to break the news to Finn that I couldn’t read with him last night and tell him I’d make it up to him today.”

Wait what? Pol told them she wasn’t at John’s.

“What about that bloke at the Marquis? Barman said he was chatting you up.”

She blinked at him, lost. He knew when she was lying… and she wasn’t lying. Why would Pol keep this from them?

“Yeah. I went for a drink, met up with Dr. Haddington by chance, and…” Taking a step back, he didn’t let her get too far, grabbing her hand again and threading their fingers together. Comfort. “I got my old job back. I’m starting at the hospital next week.”

She continued on about how she’d let him walk her to John’s since it was so late, and then he’d gone home to his wife, but Tommy was too focused on his own disappointment.

“I thought…” He trailed off. He thought she was going to help him run the business, lead the family side-by-side. They were supposed to do this together.

It was like she read his mind, knew what the unhappiness in his eyes meant.

“I’m still going to help, Tommy. With anything and everything you want. I will always be what you need me to be.” It sounded like a vow because it was a vow. She’d made this vow before, and she’d always lived up to it. “But you were right yesterday, this is your family, your family business. And I’m a doctor, I should be doing that work or what was the point of that degree you worked so hard to pay for, eh?”

What he’d said yesterday. Yesterday she had been happy to work full time for the company. Yesterday this wouldn’t have been more than a passing thought that she dismissed. Yesterday he said a stupid thing and even if she’d forgiven him, she still took in what he said, still changed because of it.

This was going to take more than an apology.

People were happy again. Monaghan Boy had lost his race, but the people of Birmingham got their money back. It was a smart strategy, especially after the raids had pissed so many off, since the Inspector had pinned his reasoning on the Peaky Blinders.

But good will was something that came easily to them from the people of the city and, for the life of her, Grace could not understood why.

Watching the Shelbys, as she tended to do when they were at the Garrison, she could tell something was just slightly off that night despite the more jovial atmosphere. Tommy seemed tense, and he was sticking very close to Emily. At one point, she watched him glare John out of his seat, the one closest to the doctor, so that he could take it himself.

“Is everything alright?” Grace asked casually, grabbing another bottle of gin for Arthur. The oldest looked surprised and then confused.

“I don’t know – you all look tense.” She offered when he didn’t say anything. She wasn’t going to name Tommy specifically, but she didn’t need to.

Arthur chuckled, “You noticed that, eh?” He took a drag of his cigarette. “Tommy put his foot in it with Emily. They fought; they made up. He always gets touchy after. Should have seen them as kids, he’d apologise to her then trail after her for days like a bleeding dog.” His teasing tone turned more serious as he watched the pair for a moment, saw Emily lean up and whisper something into Tommy’s ear that made him smile. How was she able to get him to smile so easily? “He needs her though, always has. Don’t know where we’d be without her.”

He took the bottle with a nod and headed back into the snug, door shutting loudly behind him.

Harry really hadn’t been kidding when he’d told her how important Dr. Hughes was to the family. The inspector had already tried to get through to her, tried to get her to give something up, but even Grace knew she was a tough woman. Still, if even a fraction of what she knew about her relationship with the Shelbys was true, there wasn’t a doubt that she knew where those guns were.

“He’s going to show up.” They didn’t often talk at night when one of them had found their way into the other’s bed. But tonight… sleep was elusive. Tommy’s head was still tucked under her chin and her fingers were running soothingly through his hair, but she knew he was awake.

His grip around her waist tightened briefly. “I know how to deal with Billy Kimber.”

“I know you do, Tommy. You aren’t as hard to read as you think you are. You’re going to get him to want to meet you at Cheltenham, play on his ego, and leverage the Lee’s feud. I know.” She pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I just worry.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, love. Not with you helping.” His voice was softer, quieter. The whispering made everything feel less dangerous. “Besides, you’ll come to the races with me. Get to watch out for yourself.”

“If we get tossed out again, you have to buy me dinner, you hear me, Thomas?”

She could feel his smile, lighting up at the memory of how they’d snuck into the VIP area as teens and only got half a dance before they were escorted out. It’d started raining, but Tommy insisted on finishing the dance. No restaurant would let them in soaking as they were.

“I promise.”

“Freddie’s been our friend for years.” Emily said simply.

Tommy watched as she flipped the page in her book, not looking up at him. How was her version of an easy day sitting in his office with him? The letter Polly had given him still sat between them on the desk. If Emily hadn’t been in the room when he’d gotten it, he probably would have tossed it in the fire immediately.

He hummed, pulling out a cigarette.

“The three of us used to be thick as thieves, Tommy. He took a bullet for you in France.” Her hand tightened on the book, and he said nothing. “I remember digging it out of him. I remember the story about what happened.”

His jaw worked. He remembered when Freddie made it back to the front, telling him that Emily’d been the one to patch him up. Told him she looked worn, tired, but so fucking relieved to hear that he and Freddie were doing as well as they could. Hearing about her, getting the letter that she sent with Freddie, made the last few months more bearable.

“Do you really trust him so little now?” Now she looked up, but quickly her eyes went back down.

“All this communism shit’s gone to his head.” He bit out. This was uncomfortable at best. “He’s not the man he was.”

She closed the book then, squinting at him.

“Who is?”

Leaning forward, he took a deep drag of his cigarette. At least she was looking at him properly now, no longer hiding herself away. Still afraid, but he was working to keep himself in check, hoping she wouldn’t retreat again.

He’d made her scared of pushing too far. Made her feel like she didn’t belong. And now he had to deal with the consequences. A part of him was still relieved that she was still willing to give her opinion without being prompted. That was a good sign.

“I can’t trust him anymore.” The words came out sounding like a confession more than the cold statement Tommy intended.

“Do you trust me?”

His eyes shot back up, words coming out automatically. “More than anyone.”

“Okay.” She nodded, as if that wasn’t already a given. As if there was any way she wasn’t the most loyal person he knew. “Can you trust that I trust him? He loves her. He’s still the same smarmy troublemaker he was when we were racing horses and climbing buildings… and so are you. Even if both of you show it differently now.”

She was the same too. Sitting here with her, he still felt like he had before the War: at home. He knew he was colder, more reserved, less gentle. And he wasn’t going to deny that she was quieter, sadder, and the harshest parts of her personality came out more often than they had before. But being around her made him feel like him again, like the him before, like the him he didn’t know how to be around anyone else if she wasn’t there too.

“Tommy.” Her voice was soft, soft in a way it was whenever she was trying to extinguish a quarrel within the family.

“Tommy, come on. Arthur, stop!” Her eyes had flicked between the two brothers. Grabbing the older Shelby by the wrist, she had stopped him from rushing out the door in a rage.

For his own part Tommy had been shaking, filled with fury. He couldn’t remember now what the fight had been about – they were many back in the day, but they were the things brothers had been supposed to fight about, they hadn’t been as bad as now. Hadn’t been about money or gang feuds or killing.

He didn’t want to fight with his brothers now. He hadn’t then either. But he just couldn’t stop sometimes.

“Please. For me?” Her voice had cracked, tears in her eyes.

Her mother had just disappeared with her little brother, Polly and their mother had just taken her in. This had been the first fight since she’d moved in properly. Overwhelmed at the yelling, at the anger, shaking in fear and terrified that this would be the thing to pull them apart and send yet another family the way of the first.

Arthur’s shoulders had fallen when he had realised that she had started crying. Anger tempered with concern, frustration at Tommy still obvious but less volatile. Even then, Emily hadn’t been a crier, had always been so strong, so seeing it was enough to stop him in his tracks.

Just as he had then, Tommy sighed and let go of the anger growing in his chest. Leaning back in his chair, he took a sip of his drink.

“What are you reading?”

In the corner of his eye, he saw her smirk. She knew she had won.

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Tagged: @weaponizedvirtue, @taorislover94 @maaxxxaam