#Dark Tomy Shelby x WOC

[queenoftheworldisdead]

Legitimate

Chapter 1

A/N: Reader is female. No physical descriptors used. Let me know if i fucked up and not do that. Chat me up i don't bite! Thank you

Summary: Tommy’s thirst for power leads him overseas to the States, where he's after more than just business. What starts as a strategic move soon becomes something far more complex.

Warning: Adult content only! 18+ only please. Dark! There is potentially triggering stories ahead. Dark Slow Burn

Dark Tommy Shelby x Reader

🍸

You push through the heavy doors, hoping that just this once, you won’t be the first to arrive. Soft music plays in the lounge, where sleek pendant lights cast an amber glow, and the scent of leather mingles with a faint trace of old whiskey.

You scan the area, letting out a resigned sigh as you confirm it—you’re the first to arrive. It’s as though they’re all just waiting for your inevitable ‘Where are you?’ text before they even begin to leave home

A hostess steps forward, her professional smile firmly in place. "Good evening. Are you meeting someone?"

“Yes,” you say, glancing over her shoulder for any sign of your group-maybe missed them the first time. You give out your friend’s names and cross your fingers as she searches her digital notepad.

"Not yet. Would you like to wait at your table, or perhaps at the bar?"

“The bar, please,” you say, fighting off a frown. Better to blend in with the half-empty space than to sit alone in open view.

She gestures to the bar, where a few patrons are scattered in quiet solitude. You thank her and make your way over, settling into a seat at the far end, where the light is dimmer. The bartender doesn’t notice you—he’s glued to a muted game on the TV overhead—but you don’t mind. This quiet corner, with its polished brass rail and cushy stool, isn’t as bad as waiting in the section alone.

The group chat lights up with those same hollow assurances—they’re “just ten minutes away.” You scoff. Ten minutes will likely stretch to thirty, if not longer.

A low prickle crawls up your neck, subtle at first. You resist the urge to look up, grounding yourself in the glow of your phone. But the feeling sharpens, like the thickening air pressing against your skin.

Slyly, you keep your head low and peer out of the corner of your eye, catching a figure in the periphery—a shape standing tall, moving slowly, drawing closer.

The figure-a man slides onto the bar-stool beside you. You ignore him, fingers tightening around your phone, though his presence feels close, deliberate. He says nothing, just reaches into his pocket, pulls something, and taps it against his palm.

You hear a strikes a match before the sharp scent of sulfur mingles with the aroma of dark liquor. You catch the faint crackle as he takes a slow drag.

“Hey, you can’t smoke in here,” the bartender says, his voice breaking the low murmur of the lounge. But the man beside you seems to barely react, only exhaling another slow stream of smoke.

“Get the lady a drink,” he says, his accent curling through the words, smooth and deliberate, with a quiet authority that lingers in the air. Your brow rises, the urge to look over at him consuming you. He’s staring at you, talking about you, and you feel a weight settle in your chest, uncomfortable under his gaze.

He is handsome—handsome in a way that seems almost out of place, like a face too perfect for the room. His blue eyes cut through you, scanning you unabashedly, and you shift uncomfortably, trying to look anywhere but at him. His dark hair is neatly cut, and his square jaw sharpens his features as he takes another drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling in the air around him.

The bartender’s expression flickers, a hint of worry flashing in his eyes. “Y-yes, sir,” he stammers, nodding quickly before turning to you, clearly unsettled. “What’ll it be, ma’am?”

"Uh… an espresso martini, please.” You’re not sure why you picked it, but the words slip out before you can reconsider. The man beside you takes another drag, his gaze unwavering, a faint smirk edging his lips. He must be someone important, you think—or perhaps the owner?

Your phone hums softly in your hand—a welcome distraction. You glance down, mouthing a faint thank you before turning away, though the weight of his gaze doesn’t fade.  As you type a quick message to the group, his presence lingers beside you, casting a shadow you can’t quite ignore. Maybe next time you’ll just wait in the car.

🍸

Your small group barely fills the wide curve of leather seating, the empty glasses accumulating on side tables in quiet succession. As you anticipated, they were all late—blaming traffic and other excuses that didn’t quite hold up. 

You lost count of the drinks hours ago, and it’s clear everyone’s at their limit. Claire’s unsteady laughter spills out as she grabs for another glass, and Sarah and Beth scramble to keep her from sliding out of her seat, the chaotic scene sparking a new wave of laughter.

It’s all familiar—like a half-forgotten memory from college, when time stretched thin and nights seemed to last forever.

Tonight had been planned for weeks, a celebration for Bethany. She’s getting married, and the sparkle on her finger is hard to miss, a cluster of diamonds catching the dim light like fragments of some distant star. She recounts his proposal with a shy smile, every detail met with wide eyes and laughter, hands reaching out to admire the ring. These gatherings have grown rare since she met him, but you don’t mind it. Everyone’s older now, a few with kids, married, while you’re content to stay in, alone.

The shift from crowded clubs to quieter lounges feels nostalgic, almost soothing—until you catch a glint of something just out of view. You can feel him there, the man from the bar, like a shadow lingering at the edge of your night. He’d paid for your drink earlier without a word, his gaze heavy, cigarette smoke trailing like a ghostly reminder of his presence.

Bethany’s laugh snaps you back, her voice lifting over the chatter. “You don’t have to get me anything from my registry—just a McMansion if you can manage it,” she teases, her grin mischievous.

You match it with a wink. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I heard you’re on a hot streak,” Sarah chimes in, raising her glass. She’s right—you have been. Four houses in six months, commissions that exceed your expectations.

“Oh man, I’ve been begging Andy to get into flipping houses,” Claire chimes in excitedly. “ But he threatened to block HGTV.”

"Well, if you’re aiming for divorce, I wouldn’t recommend it. House flipping is a pain—it causes so much stress in relationships."

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and the atmosphere shifts instantly. You can feel the tension rise. They know how you got into the business—with your ex—and how that relationship ended.

"Not to say it can’t work, just that there’s a lot of money—and stress. Just look it up on Reddit." You scramble to recover, but it’s too late. You’ve definitely put your foot in your mouth again.

Bethany’s smile tightens, and the others exchange glances. The tension is clear, but before it fully settles, Bethany checks her phone. “Well, on that note, maybe we should call it a night?” she suggests, barely stifling a yawn. There are no objections.

You flag the waitress and ask for the check.

“It’s been taken care of,” she informs, to everyone’s surprise and delight. You have a feeling it’s him again—the one from the bar. He’d paid for your drink earlier, a gesture that should feel charming, yet instead it lodges like a thorn, unsettling.

You half expected him to make some move, some overture, but instead, he kept to himself, a silent presence that filled the air with the sharp sting of his cigarette smoke.

“Who?” Claire asks, her voice filled with curiosity. She twists around, scanning the area for the mysterious benefactor.

You watch the waitress fidget with the edge of her order pad, her gaze shifting from Claire to her manager and back.

“Sorry, ma’am. I don’t know,” she replies meekly.

“Oh, boo!” Claire sighs, shrugging as she reaches for her nearly empty glass. She dismisses it with a quick laugh, while the rest of the group gathers their things, ready to head out. You glance back to where you last saw him, but he’s gone, leaving only a faint, sharp smell of smoke in his absence. A bit of relief fills your lungs—though the unsettled feeling lingers.

🍸

You wait for Claire to climb into her Lyft before you order your own. Your head is a little light, the faint warmth of the alcohol still swirling in your veins as you shift on your heels and order your Lyft. Though you were the first to arrive, you’re always the last to leave, making sure everyone gets into their rides safely.

Your nose picks up the scent of cigarette smoke again. You think it’s him—the strange man from the bar. Of course. Same old game—buy drinks, and suddenly he thinks he’s entitled to more. Irritation crawls up your spine, a familiar, almost automatic response. Well, you're not the naive college girl anymore. You don’t go home with guys just because they bought you a drink.

“Looks like you were making sure everyone got home safe,” he observes, his tone light, a hint of curiosity behind it. “That’s pretty thoughtful.”

“Did you and your friends have fun?” he asks, his accent soft but distinct. You blink, the world spinning just slightly, the edges softening with the alcohol still lingering.

“Yeah,” you reply curtly, a bit slurred as you strain to keep his gaze. It’s easier with the haze of alcohol. At the bar, his stare had been sharp, insistent—too much. Now, it’s different, quieter, but still heavy with something unspoken.

“Heading home?” he asks, stepping closer. He’s taller than you thought, his lean frame filling the sharp lines of his tailored suit, the sharp cut of the fabric emphasizing his broad shoulders and commanding posture.

“Mmm,” you nod, rocking back and forth on your heels, suddenly feeling a sharp edge to your own behavior. You don’t know why you’re being so dismissive. He bought you drinks, paid for the tab—but then again, you’re used to guys in places like this always wanting something more.

“So, you’re British?” you try and rest your mood, offering a soft smile. You should be nicer—he was kind to you. “Are you visiting?”

“Yes. I’ve been here a while, thinking about sticking around a bit longer.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” you say with a slight, nervous chuckle. “I’ve always wanted to see London. You know, see the queen, the big clock, have tea at tea time… but I’m not the biggest fan of flying.”

“London isn’t always easy on newcomers,” he says, his voice low and smooth. His eyes hold yours, and there’s a glimmer of something else—you’re just not sure what. “Sometimes, you need someone to show you the ropes. Maybe even… look out for you.”

And there it is. He wants something more, of course—he wasn’t just being nice. His smooth words, his calm demeanor, all part of some unspoken game. The unease tightens in your chest, like a warning bell growing louder with every passing second.

“Well, if you ever decide to move here permanently, I’d love to sell you a house.” You pull a business card from your purse, swaying slightly as you search, trying to steer away from whatever it is he might be hinting at.

You hold out the card, your legs wobbling slightly. He looks down at it, a hint of a scoff escaping him before dragging his tongue over his bottom lip. His gaze sharpens, making your skin prickle.

"I wasn’t angling for your number," he says smoothly, tossing his cigarette down and crushing it beneath his shoe.

Did you misread him? He’s just some foreign guy trying to be nice. You’re bad at assumptions on a good day, and with the booze kicking in, you probably look like an ass.

"But I’ll keep you in mind when I’m ready to settle down," he adds, taking the card. You can't tell if it's out of pity or politeness. Either way, you feel bad.

"Right…" Your voice falters, a hint of embarrassment creeping in.

A car horn breaks the brief silence, impatient and sharp. He glances at the idling car, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I think that might be for you, love.”

Thank goodness. The relief presses down on you, stifling the embarrassment that rises like smoke, suffocating your chest. You nod, offering a quiet goodnight, hoping he doesn’t see the flush spreading through your veins. The sound of your footsteps feels too loud, each one echoing the unease twisting in your gut. You wonder if it will follow you—this feeling, like a shadow—until you're far enough to breathe again.