#Thomas Shelby x Reader

[kinkyniragi]

Truth or Dare

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader Genre: Smut 18+ Word count: 3,6k Summary: You're at one of Tommy's legendary parties with his sister Ada. A little drunk and caught up in the thrill of the night, you let her talk you into a game of Truth or Dare. You confess that your secret fantasy is to be fucked dumb by her brother. Too bad you didn’t realize he was listening the whole time… CN: Dirty talk, vaginal and oral penetration, rough sex, domination/power imbalance, dubious consent. Please note that this is all just fantasy. Things that happen in my stories should always be consensual. Take care. Author’s note: I asked you, you voted for this. Now live with it LOL

***

Masterlist

Cheerful music, played by a live band, thrums through Arrow House, loud and bass-heavy, making the walls vibrate with each pulsing beat. The air is warm, charged with laughter, smoke  and the scent of expensive whiskey. People dance exuberantly, bodies pressed close, heads tipped back in carefree abandon. Fragments of lighthearted conversations reach your ears. It’s a hell of a party—one only Tommy Shelby could throw.

You and Ada have been friends since school—years of shared secrets, bad decisions, and late-night confessions binding you together in a way that never really faded. She’s always been the wild one, the kind of girl who drags you into trouble with a wicked grin and a promise that it’ll be worth it. And, more often than not, it is.

You’ve heard plenty about Tommy over the years. His name comes up in stories about dangerous deals and legendary parties, whispered like a warning and an invitation all at once. But until tonight, you’d never been part of it. Never seen the infamous Arrow House in all its debauched glory.

And Tommy himself? You’ve only ever known him in passing—glimpses at Ada’s family gatherings, half-formed impressions from the way people talk about him, fleeting small talk. He’s always been a mystery to you, a presence looming just outside your world. You never knew exactly what to make of him, but his mysterious, attractive appearance always turned you on.

But now, standing in the middle of his party, surrounded by drunken lightness and swirling smoke, you wonder if you’re about to find out more.

Somewhere in the middle of the dance floor, you and Ada are twirling, flushed with drink and mischief, your fingers laced briefly before you spin apart again. You giggle excitedly as your dance speeds up, making you dizzy.

After what feels like hours of dancing and shameless flirting with every attractive stranger in arm’s reach, Ada suddenly grabs your wrist, tugging you toward a quieter corner.

"Stay put," she grins, disappearing only to return moments later with two more drinks. She hands you one and lifts her own in a mock toast. "To bad decisions."

You clink glasses and drink deep.

"We should play a game," Ada announces suddenly, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. Her lips shine with whiskey. Gosh, Ada and her so-called games. You know what is about to come up.

"Truth or Dare."

You laugh, but there’s a challenge in her eyes. "Alright. You go first."

It starts off harmless—favorite childhood memory, worst kiss, a dare to take a shot without using your hands. But then—you chose “Truth” again—Ada tilts her head, eyes sparkling with curiosity, and asks, "What’s your dirtiest desire?"

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the way the room spins just slightly, making everything feel deliciously unreal. Or maybe it’s the way Ada leans in, close enough that her perfume mixes with the smoke and spirits in the air. You've simply known each other for too long and have talked too often about your experiences with men. Whatever it is, the words slip from your lips before you can stop them.

"There is a certain person…I can’t get out of my head. I wanna be…be fucked dumb by him. No control, no mercy—just taken, used, ruined until there’s nothing left in my head but the way it feels."

Ada’s eyes widen before she bursts into delighted laughter. "You little slut," she teases. "Tell me more."

Heat creeps up your neck, but there’s no taking it back now. You lick your lips, voice dropping. "Just filthy words and rough hands until I forget my own name, until all I can do is moan and beg for more."

Ada hums, sipping her drink as if she’s considering something very important. "And who, exactly, do you want to do that to you?"

You shake your head quickly, smirking. "That’s the next question. Your turn first."

Your heart is hammering, but you keep your expression playful. If you drag this out long enough, maybe she’ll get distracted, maybe someone else will butt in, maybe—hell, maybe the house will catch fire and save you from this mess. Anything to avoid saying his name out loud.

Because once it’s out there, you can’t take it back.

What if she gets weird about it? What if she’s offended? Ada is bold and reckless, but this is her brother. There’s a fine line between teasing and crossing into something uncomfortable, and you have no idea which side she’ll land on.

You force yourself to take a slow sip of your drink, feigning nonchalance. Just play it cool. Don’t let her see you sweat.

Ada narrows her eyes at you, sensing the deflection, but she lets it slide—for now. She swirls the last of her drink, considering.

"Alright, my turn," she muses. "Hit me."

You think for a moment, then grin. "Truth or dare?"

Ada stretches her legs out dramatically, pretending to be deep in thought. "Hmm. I do love a good dare."

You smirk. "Then I dare you to go up to—" You scan the party, searching for the most ridiculous target. "—that guy over there in the red suspenders, grab his ass, and tell him he’s the love of your life."

Ada barks out a laugh, shaking her head. "Nope, too easy." She leans in conspiratorially, eyes gleaming. "I’ll take ‘Truth.’"

You raise an eyebrow, surprised. "Oh? Feeling sentimental?"

She winks. "Just feeling nosy. Go on, ask me something juicy."

You drum your fingers against your glass, pretending to think, though you already know exactly what you want to ask. “Alright, Ada,” you say slowly, drawing out the suspense. “Since we’re already on the topic—who’s the best fuck you’ve ever had?”

Ada throws her head back with a cackle, clearly unbothered by the question. “Oh, babe, you’re going to have to be more specific than that.” She grins wickedly. “Best in what way?”

You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean. The one you still think about when you’re alone.”

Ada hums, pretending to be deep in thought. Then she leans in, lowering her voice just enough to make you do the same. “Alright,” she whispers, eyes gleaming. “There was this one time, in a car—”

What follows is a shamelessly detailed story that has you laughing and cringing in equal measure. Ada tells it with the kind of confidence only she can pull off, completely unapologetic, feeding off your reactions. By the time she’s done, your face is warm from both the alcohol and the secondhand embarrassment.

“Jesus,” you mutter, shaking your head. “I don’t know if I’m impressed or horrified.”

Ada smirks. “Little bit of both, I hope.”

She leans back, looking way too pleased with herself. “Alright, your turn again. Truth or dare?”

You hesitate. She can sense it. You could pick "Dare" again, but Ada is relentless—if you try to avoid the question, she’ll only come up with something even worse. Something you’d never, ever do.

"I swear, if you don’t pick ‘Truth’ right now, I’m making you streak through this party wearing nothing but a bow."

Your stomach drops.

"Truth," you blurt out, before she can make good on that threat.

Ada grins triumphantly. "Good girl!" Ada’s grin turns downright devious as she places a hand on your thigh, giving it a squeeze. “Alright, babe. Spill. Who’s the mystery man?”

And the alcohol has loosened your tongue enough that it almost feels like a game.

So you lean in and whisper, "Tommy."

Ada freezes. Then she snorts so loudly that a few heads turn. Covering her mouth, she shakes with laughter, eyes dancing with amusement. "You dirty little thing," she wheezes, wiping at her eyes. "My brother? Really?"

You groan, smacking her arm, but she just keeps giggling. The moment is too ridiculous not to laugh along, and before long, you’re both breathless with mirth, stumbling back toward the music.

You lose yourself in the rhythm again, Ada’s fingers briefly twining with yours before she’s pulled into another dance. Then, suddenly, a shadow looms in the periphery.

Tommy.

He steps in smoothly, effortlessly claiming your space as if it’s always been his to take. One hand settles low on your waist, the other taking your fingers, guiding you into the sway of the music.

Then, his lips brush against your ear.

"So," he murmurs, "you wanna be fucked dumb, eh?"

The seconds in which you cannot answer seem like an eternity.

“By me.” His tone makes it clear that it’s less of a question and more of a cold statement—one that is becoming increasingly impossible to deny.

Blood rushes hot beneath your skin. You go stiff, but Tommy’s grip is firm, keeping you flush against him. You know you should say something, laugh it off, anything—but the words have turned to ash on your tongue.

Tommy chuckles, a low, knowing sound. "Cat got your tongue?"

You shake your head, but it only makes him press closer.

"Makes you wet, doesn’t it?" His voice is barely audible over the music, but it slides down your spine like a caress. "Dancing like this. Feeling me against you. Bet you’ve thought about it before. Wondered how I look naked. How my cock feels. How I fuck."

A shiver rolls through you. Your nails dig into his shoulder.

"Tell me I’m wrong."

You can’t.

Tommy makes a satisfied sound, his fingers tightening just slightly on your hip. Then he leans in again, his lips brushing your temple, as he continues to lead the dance skillfully. "How about we continue our little…dance…in a darker place?"

Your breath is shallow, your pulse wild, but you don’t protest when he takes your hand and leads you off the dance floor. Ada catches your eye as you pass, grinning like the devil himself, raising her glass in silent approval.

You barely register the walk through the house before you’re inside his office, the heavy door clicking shut behind you. Tommy discreetly turns the key in the lock.

He turns to you, expression unreadable.

"Now," he says, as if it were a serious matter, "why don’t you explain to me exactly what you mean by ‘fucked dumb’?"

Your mouth falls open, but you feel incapable of answering. Even though you're noticeably drunk, the shame of your vulgar language hits you full force. If only you'd held back...or maybe not? You're confused, ashamed, aroused. It hits you all at once—how perfectly suited Tommy is to the role of the experienced, dominant man. How effortlessly he plays with it, nudging you into the part of the naïve little thing, so easily led by him. Ada warned you for a reason—getting involved with her brother is like playing with fire. A game you already love as much as you hate.

Tommy doesn’t break eye contact as he unbuttons his vest, shrugging it off with practiced ease. "Or maybe…" He tilts his head, studying you like he’s considering an alternative, one that’s just as inevitable. "You had plenty to say just a moment ago. Now you’ve gone all quiet. Too bad." His fingers brush over your jaw, coaxing your gaze back to his. "Maybe you’re better at showing than telling."

Your gaze drops—and heat flares in your core as you take in the very prominent bulge in his trousers.

Your reaction obviously doesn't go unnoticed by him. "That’s what I thought," Tommy says with a self-satisfied nod. “You want my cock so badly, naughty little thing, eh?”

His fingers move to his shirt next, working the buttons loose with infuriating patience. One by one. Like he’s giving you time to stop him. Like he knows you won’t. You're transfixed, watching as he strips off the fabric, baring his chest to you.

"From the way you’re looking at me…" He lets the words linger, his lips curving slightly. "I’d say I’m already heading in the right direction."

He takes your hand, pressing it against his skin, guiding you over the hard planes of muscle before leading you lower. You swallow, nodding hesitantly. His grip tightens around your wrist, his ice-blue eyes fix on you and his breathing betrays his arousal. With deliberate force, he presses your palm against the bulge in his trousers.

He’s so fucking hard. So hot and full beneath the fabric that you bite your lip at the thought of what’s waiting underneath.

"Come on," he urges teasingly with playful dominance. "Don’t be shy. Take him out."

You obey without thinking, your fingers fumbling at his belt before pulling him free. He springs into your palm, warm and thick.

"Now," he murmurs, "where do you want it?" He leans in, his lips ghosting over your ear. " I can be anywhere inside you, wherever you want.”

This man is going to ruin you.

Your fingers tighten around him instinctively, and he hisses, full of approval and desire. "Good girl," he mutters. "Get a feel for it." His own hand slides up your thigh, pushing your dress higher, teasing at the bare skin beneath. As if by chance, his fingers brush over your soaked panties. "Holy fuck, you’re a mess down here, baby. So fucking wet, so needy—just waiting for me to stretch you open." His fingers flex against your hip, pulling you closer, letting you feel the solid weight of him against your stomach. "Bet I could slide right in without any resistance." You long for nothing more than for him to do just that as his fingers tease your entrance.

He watches your reaction, drinking in every tiny flicker of arousal, every unsteady breath. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reaches down, wrapping his fingers over yours, guiding your hand to stroke him. His grip forces you to move exactly the way he wants—no hesitations, no teasing, just smooth, firm strokes.

"Feels good, eh?" His voice is thick with satisfaction. "You can admit it. No one’s here to judge you, sweetheart."

You nod, but he clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Uh, uh. That’s not enough. I know you need more." His fingers circle around where you desperately crave him, without giving you the relief of plunging inside you.

"You know," he drawls, "when I said you could show me, I lied." His eyes glint with playful cruelty. "I don’t like it when a woman goes silent on me. Makes it awfully hard to figure out what she needs." He leans in closer. "So, speak up, young lady. How exactly do you want me to fuck you?"

You swallow hard, pulse hammering.

Tommy’s patience drives you insane. With how fucking hard he is, he must have a ridiculous amount of self-control. He waits, amusement dancing in his ice blue eyes, like he’s enjoying watching you struggle to say it. His fingers ghost over your damp panties, teasing, barely there. "Come on. I know you’re not shy."

Your breathing stutters as you shift against him. "I…"

His grin widens. "Go on. Say it."

You bite your lip, heat coiling low in your stomach. He leans in, his hand grabs your hair. He whispers, "Or do you want me to make you beg for it?"

A desperate whimper escapes you, and his answering chuckle is dark and triumphant.

"Not that I don’t love hearing a woman beg to be fucked senseless," he continues. "But my cock would much rather be inside you right now than waiting for you to find your words." His smirk turns sharp. "So don’t test me more than necessary."

Before you can process it, he grips your hips and lifts you onto his dark, wooden desk in the middle of the room, pushing your dress up, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties. A single sharp tug, and the fabric is shoved aside.

You barely have time to breathe before he steps between your thighs, hands gripping your legs, pulling you against him.

"That’s better," he mutters, his cock heavy and hot against you. "Now, last chance. Tell me how badly you need it."

Your fingers dig into his shoulders as you wrap your legs around him, yanking him closer, hips arching against him in pure frustration. "Please," you gasp. "Fill me up, I can’t stand this anymore."

He groans, the sound almost pained. "Fuck, yes…this is a start."

You feel him pushing inside, stretching you open with the tip of his cock, followed by an agonizing break.

“What did you just say, can you explain this to me in more detail,” he teases you. In response, you try to pull him closer to you - into you - with your legs.

“Uh, uh,” he backs away. “Tell me more!”

"Fuck me until I can’t think straight…wreck me…use me…make me yours…,” you grit out every raw desire that comes to your mind, not giving up on pulling him into you.

His grip tightens on your hips as he thrusts forward, visibly satisfied with the words he elicited from you, fully sinking into you with a sharp groan. The stretch, the sheer size of him, knocks the breath from your lungs. His pace is brutal—every movement deliberate, every stroke calculated to drag a desperate sound from your lips.

"I’m gonna make you feel me for days," he grinds out. His hands move with purpose—pushing up your dress, freeing your breasts from their confinement, fingertips digging into your skin as if to mark you.

After what felt like an eternity, Tommy pulls you up against his chest, one hand fisting in your hair as he drives into you harder. His mouth finds the curve of your neck, biting, sucking, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. Your fingers scramble for purchase, nails digging into his forearm, but it only seems to spur him on.

Then, suddenly, he withdraws. Before you can whimper at the loss, he pulls you to the velvet chaise longue next to the massive bookshelf and drags you up onto your knees. His hand slides down your spine, his palm pressing between your shoulder blades to press your upper body into the cushion.

"Stay just like that," he orders, lining himself up before slamming back inside.

The angle has you gasping, fingers curling into the dark red velvet. Every thrust is rough, punishing, and exactly what you need. Your moans grow desperate, pleasure coiling unbearably tight inside you.

“Don't you dare come unless I tell you,” he hisses with a strained voice.

Each thrust sends shockwaves through you, scattering your thoughts until nothing remains but the dizzying, all-consuming need to obey. Your vision blurs, the rows of bookshelves before you warping as your knees weaken beneath the force of his movements.

Tommy’s hands roam over your body with unrestrained possession, squeezing your ass roughly before delivering a few playful, stinging smacks. His fingers dig into your back, anchoring himself to you as if claiming every inch of your skin. By now, you must be covered in his marks, each one a silent testament to his dominance.

Suddenly, he grabs your hair, yanking you upright with effortless control. Before you can catch your breath, he grips your shoulders, spinning you to face him. His fingers clamp around your jaw, prying your lips apart as he crashes his mouth onto yours, devouring you in a searing, breath-stealing kiss. When he finally pulls away, his eyes glint with satisfaction, a slow, knowing smirk curling his lips.

"Look at you," he murmurs, tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his. "Already too dumb to think straight, eh?"

As if in a trance, you nod weakly. His fingers disappear into the heat of your crotch. You whimper softly.

“So fucking wet for my cock, so beautifully fucked open,” he praises you, before he drives his fingers, slick with your juices, into your mouth. Instinctively, you start to suck them clean.

“Good girl!” His grip shifts to your throat, tilting your head back just enough for his voice to curl into your ear.

Without a warning, he shoves you down onto his desk again, this time facing forward, your torso landing harshly against the cold wood. Before you can steady yourself, he grabs your wrists, pinning both arms behind your back with an unyielding grip. Then, without hesitation, he thrusts into you again—deeper, harder—pulling a broken gasp from your lips.

"Come for me, my little fuck doll" he demands. "Now."

And you do—helplessly, violently, your body shuddering around him as he fucks you through it.

“Oh, how I love the way your tight pussy twitches around me,” Tommy gasps.

With a groan, he pulls out, dragging you off the desk and onto your knees before him. His fingers tangle in your hair as he strokes himself, gaze locked onto yours.

"Open up," he commands.

You barely get your lips parted before he spills across your tongue and cheek with a deep, satisfied growl. His thumb swipes over your chin, smearing it across your skin as he exhales shakily.

“We both know this is exactly what you deserved, eh,” he lectures you. “And if you set foot in Arrow House again, don’t expect me to wait for an invitation."

Then, with a smirk, he tilts your face up to his.

"Don’t wipe it off," he instructs, amusement laced in his tone. "I want you to go back to the party just like that.”

His grin sharpens. "Let’s see if you can manage that without anyone noticing."

Without giving you a chance to react, he tugs your dress back into place and swiftly readjusts his own clothes. Then, without hesitation, he opens the door and pulls you back into the lively chaos of the party night.

***

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

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[briefinquiries]

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 23

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 23

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: In the aftermath of the wedding chaos, you and the rest of the Shelby's take shelter. As the night drags on, you begin to learn more about Luca Changretta.

Word count: 7k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language

A/N: omg I haven't updated in way too long, sorry everyone. this is sort of a filler chapter, but more angst and action coming soon :)

--

For once, you woke before Tommy.

The room was still dim, the pale light of dawn just beginning to filter through the curtains in soft, silvery strands. Everything was quiet, the kind of hush that only existed in those early morning hours before the world stirred.

And beside you, Tommy slept. His face was turned slightly toward you, the muscles of his jaw slack, his breathing slow and even. The furrow that so often carved itself between his brows had softened, gone entirely, like the weight of everything he carried had, just for a moment, let him rest.

You didn’t move. Instead, you watched him, your cheek nestled against the pillow, heart aching with something you couldn’t quite name.

He looked younger like this. Softer. Like the boy he must’ve once been, long before the war, before the business, before everything.

You let your eyes trace the familiar lines of his face, the curve of his mouth, the faint shadow of stubble, the way his lashes rested gently against his cheekbones. He looked so peaceful it almost made your throat tighten.

How many nights had you fallen asleep to the sound of him pacing the floor below, cigarette glowing in the dark? How many mornings had you woken to find the space beside you already cold, already empty?

But not today.

Today, he was here. Safe. Breathing slow beside you.

For a while, you didn’t move. You just watched him, trying to memorize the way the morning painted him in gold. The soft rise and fall of his chest. The way his arm had draped across your waist sometime during the night, still resting there like even in sleep he needed to know you were close.

Your thumb brushed over his wedding band, worn for less than a day, and something inside you twisted. Not out of fear, exactly. But the kind of aching love that came with knowing peace like this never lasted long. Not in his world. And not in yours, anymore. 

Carefully, you let your fingers drift up, skimming the line of his jaw, the faint stubble there. You traced the scar just beneath his cheekbone, the soft dip above his brow, the lashes so dark against his skin. Your touch was featherlight, reverent. Like if you pressed too hard, he’d vanish.

He stirred. A quiet grunt escaped him, and his brow furrowed ever so slightly, the beginnings of a frown tugging at his mouth.

“‘S too early,” he mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.

You smiled, the sound of him like honey in your chest. “Go back to sleep, then.”

He didn’t answer, just shifted, catching your wrist in his hand before you could pull away. Without opening his eyes, he brought your fingers to his lips and kissed them, soft and slow, then pulled you down into him.

You went willingly, melting into his chest, into the heat of him. His arm looped around your waist, strong and sure, and he pressed a kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth.

Lazy and warm and just a little bit greedy.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were open, half-lidded but focused on you. 

A slow smile tugged at his lips, still heavy with sleep. “Think I’m going to spend the whole morning right here,” he murmured, voice rough. “In bed. With my wife.”

You raised a brow, teasing. “Didn't realize you were such a romantic.”

“I know better than to leave a warm bed and a beautiful woman without good reason.” he said simply, brushing his nose against yours. 

Before you could reply, he rolled you gently onto your back, his weight settling over you, not heavy, just enough to remind you of his strength, his presence.

His eyes searched yours, dark and hungry now, but still quiet and unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world.

Your breath hitched as his lips found the hollow beneath your ear, as his hand slipped beneath the sheets, dragging slow over your waist, your hip.

“Tommy…” you warned, though it didn’t sound like a protest.

He hummed, the sound deep and satisfied, before pressing a kiss to your throat. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

Because in that moment, wrapped in linen and morning light and him, there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

…

Tommy left later that day.

He pressed a kiss to your temple and made a promise to be back before dinner. A quiet apology hidden in the way his hand lingered at the small of your back before the door closed behind him, Arthur, and John.

Now, the house felt both too big and too full.

“You’d think,” Ada said from behind you, her tone brittle, “after his wedding ends in gunfire, maybe the groom would take a day off.”

Esme snorted from where she sat cross-legged on the edge of the hearth, flipping a playing card between her fingers. “Please. That man probably counts bullets the way most people count wedding gifts.”

“Enough, both of you,” Polly said sharply, though her voice was calmer than her eyes. She didn’t even look up, just cradled her teacup in both hands, her rings catching the firelight, gaze fixed on the flicker of flames like she was trying to read omens in the ash.

You turned, taking in the room fully for the first time. 

Ada was pacing along the length of the rug, arms folded tight across her chest, her jaw set. She’d already burned through half a cigarette without noticing, the ash curling dangerously close to her fingers. 

Polly sat in her usual chair, spine straight, elegance untouched by the weight pressing on the house. Her tea sat cooling in her lap, untouched. 

Esme, ever the wildcard, looked like she could either laugh or start a fire, depending on who spoke next. Her foot bounced idly, knee jostling as she flicked the card again—King of Hearts this time. 

You leaned a shoulder against the wall, your gaze drifting. “At least he slept,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “Didn’t think he would. Not after everything that’s happened.”

Ada flopped onto the arm of the couch. “Must’ve been exhausted.”

“That or getting married really wore him out,” Esme said. 

You snorted. “Probably both.”

“How’s Finn?” Ada asked, glancing toward Polly.

Polly leaned back in her chair with a quiet sigh, her hands resting over her cup like she was weighing the question. “Also exhausted,” she said. “I checked on him earlier. He was still dead to the world. Didn’t so much as twitch when I called his name.”

Your stomach fluttered, equal parts concern and relief.

“He looked better than yesterday,” Polly added after a moment. “Color’s back in his face.”

You let out a slow breath through your nose and nodded. “Good.”

Ada tucked her legs up underneath her on the couch and gave you a look. “So, how’s married life treating you? One full day in. Any regrets yet?”

You smirked. “Ask me after my next near-death experience.”

Esme chuckled into her tea. “That’s the true Shelby spirit.”

“Do you remember your wedding?” you asked Polly, more curious than anything.

Polly raised a brow, as if deciding whether to share. “I do.”

Esme snorted. “John told me there was a fistfight at the reception.”

“Two, actually,” Polly said primly, taking a sip of tea. “Only one was justified, though.”

You laughed, and Ada leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. “You know, I half-expected Arthur to give some drunken, weepy speech about the meaning of love last night.”

“He tried,” Polly said dryly. “I stopped him.”

Before you could respond, the sharp buzz of the doorbell cut through the laughter.

The four of you froze, eyes flicking toward the hallway.

Ada was the first to move, slowly setting her cigarette in the ashtray. “Who’d be coming around at this hour?”

Polly stood, setting her teacup down with practiced care. “Stay here,” she said.

You were already rising. “Polly—”

“I said stay.”

Her tone left no room for argument. She moved swiftly, her footsteps quiet as she disappeared down the hall. You, Ada, and Esme all exchanged a glance, the ease from moments before replaced by a slow, creeping tension.

Esme exhaled through her nose. “Fucking hell,” she muttered. “Nothing good ever happens in this house, does it?”

You tried to smile, but your pulse had picked up. You strained to hear—anything. Voices. Footsteps. But all you caught was the soft patter of rain and the faint groan of the floorboards.

A minute passed. Then another.

Finally, Polly returned, her expression unreadable.

She didn’t speak right away, just walked into the room and placed something on the coffee table between you. A box wrapped neatly in cream-colored paper. It was tied with a red ribbon with a card tucked beneath the bow.

Your name written across it in looping black ink.

You stared at it, unease prickling beneath your skin. “What is that?”

Polly didn’t look away from you. “There was no one at the door. It was just sitting there.”

Ada reached over slowly and plucked the card from the top. She flipped it open, eyes scanning the message inside. Her brow furrowed.

“What does it say?” Esme asked.

Ada hesitated. “It says, ‘For the bride. May your days be long and your nights quiet—while they last.’”

No one moved. Silence fell between you all, slow and suffocating.

Ada stared at the card for a second longer, then set it down beside the box like it might burn her fingers. Her jaw tightened. Your pulse thundered in your ears. You hadn’t touched the box, hadn’t even moved. It sat there on the table like it was waiting.

“Ada,” Polly said quietly and firmly. “Call Tommy.”

Ada looked up. “Is that really necessary Pol?”

“Now.”

Ada looked at Polly for only a moment before pushing off the sofa. She strode toward the hall, already pulling a cigarette from behind her ear with one hand and reaching for the phone with the other. You stayed rooted where you were, your eyes fixed on the neat red bow, now seeming almost cruel in its precision.

Polly stepped between you and the box. “Don’t touch it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” you murmured, though your voice sounded far away. “Do you think it’s—”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But until we do, no one goes near it.”

In the hallway, you could hear Ada’s voice rising slightly, sharp and clipped. “I don’t care where he is—get him. Tell him it’s important— Christ, just put him on the bloody line—”

Your mouth went dry as you turned to Polly. “Is it… from him?”

Polly nodded once. “Luca Changretta.”

…

The box hadn’t moved.

Neither had you.

Polly sat across from it, arms folded tight, her expression carved from stone. She hadn’t touched her tea in over an hour. Her eyes stayed fixed on the neat red ribbon as if sheer will could keep it from doing something unspeakable.

Ada paced the hallway like a caged animal, smoke curling from the cigarette clenched between her fingers, her boots echoing softly on the floorboards. Every few minutes, she’d glance toward the front door—sharp, impatient, waiting for the sound of Tommy’s return.

Esme sat sprawled on the rug near the hearth, legs stretched out in front of her. She was rolling a cigarette with practiced ease, her fingers quick and precise even as her eyes flicked up, again and again, to the box. She hadn’t said much since it arrived, just muttered a few things under her breath in Romani now and then, like she was warding something off.

The silence was thick, the kind that hummed behind your ears. No one had touched the box. No one wanted to.

Then, soft footsteps from the stairs.

You turned just as Finn appeared, blinking against the low light. He wore a crumpled shirt and a dazed expression, his hair sticking up on one side like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Why’s everyone so quiet?” he muttered, voice still rough with sleep. 

Ada turned toward him, visibly relaxing for the first time in hours. “You’re up. We thought you might be hibernating for a minute, there.”

Finn rubbed a hand over his face and yawned. He glanced around, eyes landing on the box on the table. “What’s that?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Polly said gently.

You moved toward him instinctively, scanning him from head to toe. He looked pale, but alright. 

“How do you feel?” you asked.

Finn shrugged one shoulder, his eyes still flicking uneasily toward the box. “Okay. Kind of weird. My ears won’t stop ringing.”

You knelt beside the sofa, your hand resting lightly on his knee. “That’s normal. After something like that… your body is just trying to catch up.”

He glanced at you then, properly, and for just a moment, the little boy slipped through the cracks.

Then, the front door slammed open, hinges groaning in protest.

You heard footsteps. Fast. Heavy.

“Where is it?” Tommy’s voice cut through the house like a blade.

You turned just as he appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, rain clinging to his coat, eyes already scanning the space until they landed on the box. On you.

“Where is it?” he repeated, more to Polly now, breath ragged like he hadn’t stopped moving since Ada called.

Polly nodded toward the table. "There."

Tommy didn’t hesitate. He stalked forward, coat dripping, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping beneath his cheek.

“Did anyone touch it?” he barked.

“Just me,” Polly said. “But only the box. We haven’t opened it.”

You rose slowly, the back of your knees aching from how long you’d sat. “It had my name on it.”

“I know,” he said without looking at you, eyes fixed on the neat red ribbon like it personally insulted him.

He crouched low, inspecting it—silent for a moment that stretched like wire. You could see his mind working, grinding through possibilities, calculating every angle.

No one moved. The only sound was the quiet tick of the clock on the mantel. Then Tommy exhaled through his nose and reached into his coat, pulling out a pocketknife. He flicked it open, then crouched beside the table.

You watched as he slid the blade under the red ribbon and sliced it cleanly in one motion.

No giant explosion. No trick. Just silence.

He lifted the lid carefully.

Tommy’s jaw ticked once, then twice, before he reached inside and drew out a delicate silver necklace. The chain glinted faintly in the low light, and at the end of it hung a single small charm: a teardrop pearl set in filigree.

Polly peered over his shoulder, frowning. “Why would he send a piece of jewelry?”

“It’s not just jewelry,” Tommy said, rising to his feet. 

He held it out, the necklace dangling from his fist like a noose. “It’s him saying he knows who you are. And what would suit your neck.”

Your stomach turned. You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly cold.

Tommy’s gaze found yours then, sharp and dark and protective. “Someone was close enough to leave this at our door without being seen.”

Polly’s face was pale, hardening. “You think he’s threatening with proximity?”

Tommy’s grip tightened on the chain. “This is him saying he knows where to find us.”

Tommy stared at the necklace for another beat before turning to Polly. “Stay with her,” he said, low and firm. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

Polly gave a single nod, already understanding.

“Tommy.” You stepped forward, eyes searching his face. “Where are you going? You just got here—”

His jaw shifted. “I need to make sure he doesn’t get closer.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He looked at you then, and for a brief moment, the fury faded, replaced by something rawer. Something tired. “I need to go figure out if anyone knew about this.” 

Ada blinked. “What if no one talks?” 

“I can be persuasive,” Tommy said, jaw ticking. His tone was cold now. “John and Arthur are already on their way to the Black Lion to lean on a few men we’ve had eyes on. I sent Johnny Dogs up to Digbeth to ask around the betting shops—see who’s been talking. Charlie went with him.”

You felt a chill run through you, not from the words, but the way he said them. Flat. Certain. Like violence was already a given.

“Tommy—” you pleaded. 

He crossed the space between you and pressed his hands gently to your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. “You’re safe here with Polly. Just don’t open the door. Don’t leave the house.”

You blinked at him. “I don’t want you to go.”

His hands stayed on your face, steady despite everything. “I know,” he said quietly. “But I have to.”

Your throat tightened. “You don’t. Not right now. We could wait. We could—”

“We can’t wait,” he cut in, voice low but firm. “He sent this today. Tomorrow it could be something worse.”

You shook your head, pressing your palms against his chest like you could anchor him there. “I don’t care about necklances or cards or fucking threats—I care about you coming back.”

He didn’t speak right away. He just covered your hands with his own, holding them in place over his heart.

“I married you to protect you,” he said. “Not let you be threatened in your own home. Not to bring a war to your doorstep.”

You stared up at him, heart aching. “Here I was thinking you married me because you loved me.”

His eyes softened. “That too.”

You wanted to kiss him. To beg him to stay. But you knew better. Tommy Shelby didn’t run. Not from anything. 

So instead, you said the only thing you could. “Promise me you’ll come back.”

He leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm against your cheek. “I will. I always do.”

Then he kissed you—deep and certain, like it might have to last you both for a while.

When he pulled away, he turned without looking back.

And this time, when the door closed behind him, it felt like the whole house exhaled with it.

…

The hours passed slowly, stretched thin by the waiting.

Tommy didn’t call—not like you had really expected him to this soon. The quiet had its own kind of weight. Every creak in the house felt louder. Every car engine from the street set your nerves on edge.

Still, you did what you could to fill the silence.

Polly brewed another pot of tea, stronger this time. She moved with the same grace she always did, but her eyes were sharper, constantly flicking toward the window. Watching.

Ada had taken up residence on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her as she flipped through the paper, occasionally snorting at headlines and offering running commentary whether anyone responded or not.

“They described it as eventful,” she muttered, puffing on a cigarette. “Birmingham’s bloody standards, I suppose.” 

You offered a small, dry smile, but the silence that followed felt like it had weight—like the walls themselves were listening.

Still, you did what you could to fill it.

Across the room, Esme sat cross-legged on the floor, her skirt bunched around her and her dark braid swinging over one shoulder. She was carving something small from a scrap of wood, the shavings collecting in a soft pile beside her like snow. The little figure looked like it might become a horse, or maybe a wolf—it was hard to tell.

Every few minutes, she’d glance up at the fireplace or the box still sitting tucked beneath the sideboard, her eyes narrowing.

Finn was curled up in the armchair near the window, a heavy knit blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He wasn’t reading the book open in his lap so much as staring through it, his gaze occasionally drifting toward the door.

You weren’t sure he even realized he was chewing on his thumbnail until Polly gently reached over and tugged his hand away, replacing it with a warm teacup.

“Drink,” she murmured. 

He didn’t argue. Just nodded once, quiet as ever, and took a sip.

You watched him for a moment—how small he looked in that big chair, how tightly he gripped the cup in both hands like it might keep him grounded.

Later, Ada convinced everyone to help her bake something—though "bake" might’ve been generous. It was more her ordering Finn around the kitchen while you tried not to burn your fingers on the dishcloth.

“Better learn how to run the house if you’re going to be Mrs. Shelby,” Ada teased, hip-bumping you aside as she took over your attempt at sifting flour. 

Polly made a noise in her throat. “Like any man in this family could run anything without us.”

You chuckled despite yourself, shaking your head as the oven clanked and groaned to life.

There was a moment where things almost felt normal. Like you were just five people in a house with too much time on your hands, not waiting for word from a man in the midst of waging war in the streets.

As dusk settled outside, casting long shadows over the floorboards, Polly poured a glass of sherry for each of you and lit the lamps one by one.

“I used to hate nights like this,” she said suddenly. “All the waiting. Reminded me too much of the war. Sitting and staring at walls.”

You glanced at her, something aching in your chest. Your fingers curled around the stem of the glass, the sherry untouched. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, throwing flickering light across the sitting room, and for a moment, you weren't in Small Heath anymore.

You were standing in a narrow hallway that smelled of iodine and burning wool. Your apron stiff with blood. The quiet in between waves louder than the screaming ever was.

"I used to wait, too," you murmured, eyes unfocused. "Back at the aid station. We'd hear the shelling in the distance, and we'd wait. For trucks. For stretchers. For whoever came through the door next.”

No one said anything. 

You took a slow breath. “Sometimes… It was hours. Just silence. And the longer it went on, the more unbearable it got. Because I knew it meant something worse was coming. Something big.”

The image came back too easily—white bandages stained red, the tin cup of tea someone had tried to offer you with shaking hands, the endless shuffle of boots in corridors.

“And then,” you continued, voice low, “someone would come in missing half their face. Or screaming. Or already dead. And I’d move. I’d do my job. I’d stitch and clean and calm and talk and hope they made it until morning. But in those hours before?”

You looked down at your hands, flexing them like you could still feel the sting of alcohol and the way gloves would stick to your skin.

“In those hours, I felt so useless. Like a ghost in my own body.”

Ada reached out, wordlessly placing her hand over yours.

You didn’t look up, but you gripped her fingers tightly. “I’ve never heard you talk much about the war,” she said quietly. 

You let out a huff. “It’s not something I like to remember.”

Polly, quiet as ever, just nodded. 

You sat back in your chair, the warmth of the fire barely reaching your skin.

And as the clock ticked on, you waited again. Only this time, it wasn’t for the wounded to come through the door. It was for the man you loved to walk back through it in one piece.

…

The windows had gone dark.

Outside, the streetlamps buzzed to life one by one, casting long, fractured streaks of light across the living room floor. The day had slipped quietly into night, unnoticed until the shadows began to stretch.

Someone had drawn the curtains halfway earlier, but the wind kept nudging them open, making them flutter like restless ghosts. The fire had burned down to embers. The room was warm, but the silence made it feel colder than it was.

You sat curled in one of the armchairs, mug in hand, long gone cold. The others had grown quiet, too. Even Ada, who’d been talking just minutes before, was now staring blankly at the wall, a cigarette burning low between her fingers.

And then, finally, the phone rang.

Everyone froze.

No one moved to answer it at first. Polly was the one who finally rose from her chair, smooth and composed as ever, though you could see the tension in the set of her shoulders. She disappeared into the hall, footsteps light but brisk, the ringing still echoing in your ears.

No one spoke while she was gone.

Finn lay beside you on the couch, his head nearly resting in your lap and his blanket bunched up at his waist. He’d drifted in and out of sleep for the last hour, the tension finally wearing down into exhaustion. Now, his eyes were open again, watching the dancing glow of the firelight with a distant, heavy-lidded stare.

Your hand rested lightly against his shoulder, thumb brushing absently back and forth. He didn’t say anything, but he leaned into the touch like it grounded him.

“He’s gonna find the man who's doing all of this, right?” Finn murmured, barely louder than a whisper.

You glanced down at him. “Of course. Tommy always does.”

Finn nodded, but it was a quiet, solemn sort of nod. Not a child’s blind faith—something closer to a weary kind of knowing. Like he understood, even at twelve, that when Tommy Shelby went looking for someone, he found them.

“I wish I could help,” he murmured, voice barely above the fire’s crackle. “I’m a Shelby, too.”

You looked at the flicker of frustration in his young face, and the way his fists curled beneath the blanket. He was so young. Too young to be carrying that name like a burden instead of a legacy.

He stared into the flames, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Everyone else is doing something. Aunt Polly, Arthur, John… even Ada sometimes. I just get told to stay out of the way.”

Your fingers smoothed down the back of his hair, gentle, slow. “That’s not a punishment, you know. That’s protection. Because you’re important to all of them.”

He stayed quiet after that, eyes locked on the fire, jaw set in that stubborn Shelby way.

Polly’s voice rose faintly in the hall, sharper now. You couldn’t make out the words, but the tension in them cut clear through the wall.

Finn blinked slowly. “He’s mad.”

You didn’t answer.

Because yes—yes, he was.

But more than that, he was afraid. And that was always worse.

The call ended a minute later, and Polly returned to the room, her face composed but pale. You felt Finn tense as he shifted, pretending to still be asleep as Polly’s eyes swept the room.

“He’s alright,” she said, voice carefully measured. “Following a lead. John and Arthur are with him. Says he’ll be back late.”

Esme made a sound in the back of her throat and rose to her feet, brushing shavings from her skirt. “That calls for a drink.”

Without waiting for agreement, she crossed to the cabinet and pulled out a bottle—deep amber, expensive enough to be reserved for more than casual sipping. She popped the cork with a practiced twist and set a handful of glasses down on the table.

“No arguments,” she added, already pouring. “I’m not sitting here sober while we all wait for another ghost to knock.”

Ada stretched her legs out on the couch, accepting a glass with a shrug. 

Polly raised a brow as she took hers. 

You hesitated for half a second before accepting the drink Esme handed you. The liquid warmed your palm instantly, and you welcomed the sting of it when you took a sip.

Finn still lay beside you on the couch, quiet, still bundled under his blanket. His eyes were closed now, lashes brushing pale cheeks, his face slack with something close to real sleep. You watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his small fingers curled slightly around the edge of the cushion.

The hours slipped by slowly, thick with silence and flickering firelight.

No one said much anymore. The whisky had mostly been forgotten. Polly kept her seat near the front window, arms folded tightly, eyes fixed on the darkened street like she could will headlights to appear. Ada sat curled up in the armchair, chin resting on her fist, her cigarette burned down to the filter without her noticing. Esme stretched out on the rug, head tilted back, fingers tapping idly on the floor in a steady rhythm.

You were still on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, staring into the fire but seeing very little.

Finn had fallen asleep again, his breathing slow and even. You brushed hair from his forehead, pulling the blanket higher. He never stirred.

The house felt like it was holding its breath.

Finally—sometime past one—a car pulled up out front.

Everyone jolted upright.

The front door opened a moment later, and in stepped John, then Arthur. Both looked exhausted. Rumpled. John’s knuckles were scraped raw, and Arthur’s coat was soaked through at the shoulders.

But neither of them were bleeding. And neither of them were Tommy.

“What happened?” Polly stood immediately. “Where’s Tommy?”

Arthur let out a long breath as he peeled off his coat. “Still out.”

“He sent us back,” John added, voice low. “Said he needed to follow something up on his own.”

Polly’s jaw tightened. “Of course he did.”

Ada stood now too, eyes narrowed. “And he didn’t say where?”

“Said he’d be back before sunrise,” Arthur muttered, running a hand through his wet hair. “Said not to wait up.”

“Like hell,” Polly snapped. “What did he find out?”

John glanced toward Finn’s sleeping form, then back at you. “Someone who helped the Italians get close. Name came up in a backroom at The Barrel. Tommy wants to make sure it was real before he tells anyone.”

Arthur, still drying rain from his face with his sleeve, shrugged like it was out of his hands. “He said it had to be quiet. If word gets out that we know, this bastard’ll disappear.”

Your gaze drifted to the window. The rain had picked up again, tapping against the glass in a steady rhythm. You could just make out the reflection of the firelight behind you, but the street beyond was a blur of shadows.

Polly stood by the door for another minute before finally locking it with a quiet click, her jaw still tight. The echo of it seemed to settle something, if only on the surface.

She stayed there for a moment longer, her hand resting on the doorknob, eyes scanning the dark street beyond the frosted glass. The house behind her had fallen into a heavy, worn kind of silence—the kind that clings after too many hours of bad news and not enough rest.

John rubbed a hand over his face, rolling his shoulders with a grunt as he turned back toward the room. “I’m calling it,” he said, voice low but firm. “If he’s not back yet, he’s not coming until morning.”

No one argued.

It was the kind of resignation that didn’t need discussion anymore.

Arthur gave a small nod, already slipping off his coat, and Esme pulled the curtains tighter as she passed, muttering something under her breath about the cold seeping in through the floorboards.

No one made a move to leave the house. Not tonight.

Without a word, John and Esme drifted toward the back room they’d shared the night before, boots scuffing quietly against the floorboards.

Arthur bent down at the couch, brushing Finn’s hair back before lifting him carefully into his arms. The boy barely stirred, his head falling against Arthur’s shoulder, small fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“Little bugger’s a deadweight,” Arthur muttered softly, but there was affection in it, deep and worn.

He carried Finn up the stairs, his footsteps slow and deliberate, while Ada trailed behind. 

And just like that, one by one, the rest of the house began to dim. Floorboards creaked overhead. A door clicked shut. A blanket rustled into place.

Only the fire remained—low and steady, casting warm shadows against the walls.

Polly returned to her chair. And you stayed beside her, both of you facing the quiet like it was something alive.

Neither of you spoke for a long while.

The fire popped gently, and somewhere above, the faintest creak of someone turning in their sleep.

You didn’t say anything. Just stared into the fire until the shapes in the flames started to blur.

After a while, you asked, “Was it always like this? Before me?”

Polly huffed a quiet laugh. “You think this is new?”

You smiled faintly. “No. I guess I just thought… maybe it wasn’t this constant.”

Polly leaned back, closing her eyes for a moment. “The only thing constant in this family is that someone always thinks they can end it. And they always underestimate how far we’ll go to keep it standing.”

The fire crackled again, louder this time. You watched the embers pulse and fade, over and over.

The room fell quiet after that. 

Your body grew heavier with each passing minute. The weight of the night, the fear, the warmth of the fire—it all tugged at your limbs.

You meant to stay awake, meant to be there when the door finally opened, and when Tommy returned.

But your eyes fluttered shut sometime after two, and the last thing you felt was the soft dip of the cushion beside you, the fire painting the backs of your eyelids in flickering gold.

And then there was nothing but sleep.

…

You stirred at the sensation of fingers brushing lightly across your forehead, the touch feather-light, careful. Gentle fingertips swept a loose strand of hair back behind your ear, then lingered for a breath too long, like the hand didn’t want to leave.

A voice followed, low and warm, barely above a whisper. It reached you through the haze of sleep like something half-dreamed:

“Sweetheart.”

Your brows knit slightly as your body slowly remembered where you were—the couch, the fire, the weight of exhaustion still clinging to your bones. But it was the voice that pulled you further awake. Familiar. Rough around the edges. His.

Your eyes fluttered open, lashes heavy, the dim glow of the dying fire casting him in soft shadow.

Tommy was crouched beside you, still in his coat, the collar damp from rain. His eyes looked darker in the low light, tired, rimmed with something too raw to name, but they softened the moment they met yours.

His hand stayed on your cheek now, thumb sweeping slowly across your skin, as if reassuring himself that you were real. Still here. Still safe.

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding trembled out of you.

And without a word, you reached for him.

Your fingers barely curled around the lapel of his coat before he moved, leaning in and slipping one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back. You let out a small, unsteady breath as he lifted you from the couch, holding you close like something precious.

Your head dropped against his shoulder, your face nestling instinctively into the curve of his neck. He was warm beneath the damp chill of his coat, smelling of rain, smoke, and the faint trace of whiskey. His heartbeat thudded steadily beneath your cheek.

He said nothing, and just held you tighter.

The house was silent as he carried you upstairs, every step slow, careful, deliberate. His boots creaked against the old wood floor, the faint sound of the fire still crackling somewhere below.

At the top of the stairs, he hesitated only long enough to shoulder open the bedroom door, the familiar scent of the space you’d shared the night before welcoming you like an exhale.

He crossed to the bed and lowered you gently onto the mattress, his hands never leaving you, not even as he pulled the blankets over your legs and brushed a final kiss to your forehead.

You blinked up at him, only half-awake now. “You came back,” you whispered. 

He shed his coat, tossing it on the chair in the corner, before loosening his collar.

“I always come back,” he murmured. 

Your voice was quiet. Barely a whisper against the hush of the room. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just worked at the buttons of his shirt for a moment, each one slow, deliberate, like even that required more energy than he had left.

“I followed a name,” he said finally, voice rough with fatigue. “It was someone who’s been close to us for years.”

You watched him in the low lamplight, your cheek still pressed to the pillow. His hands moved with tired precision, sliding the shirt from his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor without a second glance.

He had a bruise on his side—like a shadow blooming on his ribs. He ran a hand through his hair, then let out a long breath and turned toward the bed.

You shifted to make space, lifting the blanket as he eased in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. The chill of the room clung to his skin, but he was warm beneath it—his body radiating heat, his breathing still uneven.

Neither of you spoke as he pulled you gently into him, one arm wrapping around your waist, his other hand sliding beneath the pillow.

You curled instinctively against him, your forehead brushing his chest, your palm resting just over his heart.

“Did they talk?” you asked quietly. 

Tommy’s jaw ticked. “Eventually.”

The word settled heavy between you.

You studied him in the quiet—how tired he looked, how far away his eyes had gone. Like some part of him was still in that back room, still in the moment he’d gotten the truth he’d gone looking for.

You swallowed, hesitant. “Who was it?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the ceiling, his fingers absently tracing a line across your hip beneath the blanket. The touch was thoughtless, gentle—something to keep his hands busy while his mind worked through the damage.

“His name is O’Dolan,” he said finally. “Used to run messages for us. He helps with small jobs. He sold some information,” Tommy continued, voice flat. “Didn’t even ask who it was going to. Said he needed the money. Said he didn’t think it would lead to blood.”

Tommy’s jaw worked as he stared at the ceiling, like he couldn’t quite unclench it.

“He told them everything. Which doors we’d use. What time the guests would arrive. Which men were watching the grounds. Even mentioned you—”

His arm tightened around you as if he’d said too much, like the words themselves made the danger real all over again.

You felt it in the way his body tensed, the way his breath hitched just slightly before he kissed your forehead, soft, lingering. Like a promise, or maybe an apology.

You stayed still for a moment, soaking in the warmth of him, the smell of rain and smoke clinging faintly to his skin. But the question had already lodged in your throat, and it burned too much to hold back.

“What does Luca Changretta even want, Tommy?”

He stilled beside you, his hand frozen against your hip. You felt him inhale through his nose, slow and sharp.

“Revenge,” he said finally. “For his father. His name was Vicente Changretta. For so long, we were bleeding territory. Changretta was playing both sides—taking money from us and from them. Passing messages. Selling lies. We warned him twice. There’s been a lot of bad blood.”

His eyes flicked toward the ceiling, gaze far away now.

“Not long ago, John shot Luca’s brother—and it started a chain reaction. They tried to retaliate. Nearly put a bullet in Arthur. It escalated fast.”

You felt your breath catch. 

“So I made the decision,” he said. “Vicente was handed over to us.”

There was no pride in his voice. No bravado. Just the blunt weight of a man who’d lived long enough with the choices he made.

“You killed him?”

Tommy shook his head. “Arthur pulled the trigger. But I tied him to a chair in a butcher’s shop. And now, Luca wants me to feel what he felt.”

You rested your head against him, heart pounding.

“He wants us to bleed,” he said quietly. “One by one. And he wants me last.”

You closed your eyes, your hand fisting in the fabric of the blanket.

“You weren’t supposed to be part of this,” he said, voice rough.

You looked up at him. “Too late for that.”

His jaw flexed. “I will protect you. I promise you.”

“I know.”

He met your eyes, and something shifted there—just for a second. The sharpness dulled. The weight settled.

You reached up and touched his face, your thumb brushing beneath his eye. 

He caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to your palm like a silent promise. Then he tucked you back against his chest, his chin resting against your hair.

And in the quiet, with the storm still circling outside, the two of you held on to each other, because there was nothing left to say, and nowhere else either of you wanted to be.

<< Previous Chapter

Next Chapter >> (coming soon)

[wastingmylifesecondatatime]

Thomas Shelby Masterlist - One Shots/Drabbles

Updated: March 30th, 2025 🔞 = mature Other masterlists: mother masterlist (2019-2024), mother masterlist (2025)

NEW ADDITIONS:

Ain't She Sweet by @look-at-the-soul (added: March 30th, 2025)

↳ "“How was school, Charlie?” You tried to make small talk with Tommy’s son, he had been very quiet, looking out the window."

If Speaking Is Silver, Then Listening Is Gold by @queers-gambit (added: March 30th, 2025)

↳ "You require a bit of reprieve after the week you had, and Tommy's a gentleman."

Little You-s and I-s by @multific (added: March 30th, 2025)

↳ "You and Tommy deal with the changes that come with your pregnancy."

Me Time by @garrison-girl-08 (added: March 30th, 2025)

↳ "Flicking through your many dresses, you bit your lip."

After The Storm, The Sun by @call-sign-shark (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "If there was one thing you had never seen since your wedding with the infamous Thomas Shelby it was his smile."

Birthdays Are Better In Bed by @runnning-outof-time (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "(Y/N) starts her birthday off in the best way possible: in bed with her family."

Don't Touch Me by @calummss (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "You are alone in the dark on your way back to your husband, when a man shows up. Tommy wouldn’t let this slide."

Happy Wife, Happy Life by @evita-shelby (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "Or Tommy gets drunk and assumes his wife is someone else so he sleeps on the floor instead."

My Favorite Story by @runnning-outof-time (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "Tommy finds himself spending time in his office for other reasons once he finds out (Y/N)'s interest in the room."

No One But You by @runnning-outof-time (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "Tommy assures (Y/N) that she’s the only woman he wants after two women from his past reappear in his life."

Runaway by @princessofmarvel (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "Thomas has made a deal with a man to help his business. Thomas’s only condition? To marry the man's daughter. Except she doesn’t want to marry him."

Solace by @garrison-girl-08 (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "You had been in a deep sleep, your whole body relaxed."

Tailored by @peakbys (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "Your little double life starts to unravel when your husband shows up to avenge his father."

The Brother That Always Wins by @runnning-outof-time (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "(Y/N) is oblivious to the fact that three of the most powerful men in Birmingham are interested in her. When it's all said and done though, the brother that always wins, wins."

The Woman In The Painting by @little-diable (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "The reader works as Tommy's maid, she knows all about Arrow House, even about those souls that are no longer alive but still around."

Three Years by @runnning-outof-time (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "Tommy’s attempts to reconnect with (Y/N) don’t go as he hoped they would."

🔞 Treat Me Wrong by @lovelybucky1 (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "“I think we should break up,” you say."

[fel-09]

Hi i was windering if you could write something ahout tommy shelby with a mathematition female reader who is dominating the physics field

Chapter 1: Formulas of Solitude

Tommy Shelby x reader

Author's notes: I really like your idea, maybe I'll make another chapter! Or two, it depends if everyone likes the fanfic

Her story began not with a love of science, but with a hatred of chaos.

In a house where the walls cracked with her parents' screams, where cups banged against the floor, and footsteps in the hallway always meant a storm, she realized early on: order was a luxury. In the evenings, with her mother sobbing behind the wall and her father slamming doors, she would sit at the window with a pencil in her hand and write out numbers in a thin notebook, trying to fit into the lines the things she couldn't control around her.

At first it was simple calculations-the sum of toys, the number of steps from the room to the kitchen, the multiplication table. But the messier the world became, the more complex the tasks she chose.

At eleven, she was solving second-order equations. At thirteen, she was reading theoretical physics papers that her teachers didn't understand. At fifteen, she already knew that human emotions were unpredictable, but math was not.

Learning was her refuge. Books on quantum mechanics instead of parties. Notebooks full of formulas instead of diaries. She studied with ferocity, with cold, brutal discipline - not for praise or a future, but because only among numbers did she feel free.

By the time she was twenty-two, she had graduated with a red diploma, and on a day when other graduates were laughing, drinking champagne and making plans for their lives, she walked out of the square into the drizzling rain and went home, alone, with a book under her arm.

She wasn't looking for recognition. And perhaps that's why she got it.

The University of Birmingham, old and haughty, had not opened its doors to women for professorships for a long time. But her name was getting louder and louder in academic circles. Her papers were published in scientific journals outside England, her formulas quoted by men who, in private conversations, allowed themselves to sneer at "girls with numbers."

At twenty-eight she became a junior lecturer. At thirty, she took the chair.

Harsh, fragile, straight as a cut glass, with a voice like a shot across the silence.

In lectures she wrote formulas without looking at the students, and then turned to the audience and coldly asked:

- Who among you is capable of disputing this?

No one was capable.

She was feared. She was respected. She was hated for her arrogance and intelligence, for her indifference to other people's views and for not trying to be liked. Because she lived outside the rules that society made, but by the rules that logic dictated.

Life went on as scheduled. Morning lectures, evenings at manuscripts, rare conferences where she broke down other people's theories with a slight, murderous smile. She didn't build friendships. She didn't build love.

The world was predictable. Like a mathematical proof, complete and clear.

Until one day, over a cup of strong tea, she received a letter from the rector.

"Due to changes in the administrative structure..."

The letter stated that the university had been bought out by a private investor. That the funding, the management, even the academic programs would soon undergo a review.

The signature at the bottom was neat, almost beautiful:

Thomas Shelby

A name that meant nothing in the world of physics. But too much beyond it.

She set the letter aside, looked out the window carefully at the smooth, geometrically correct lines of the campus, and felt a chill of unpredictability run down her spine for the first time in years.

It was as if someone had taken her constructed formula-and added an unknown variable to it.

The morning was no different from a hundred others. Birmingham greeted her with gray skies and the cool, damp air that seemed to be the eternal companion of its streets. She walked with a quick, polished step, as she always did-as if she herself were part of the city's machinery, well-oiled and predictable

The shop at the corner, the smell of fresh baked goods - an indispensable element of the route. The shopkeeper, an older woman with kind eyes, nodded to her with a welcoming smile, as usual:

- Good morning, miss. Your favorites?

She nodded briefly, held out the coins and took the small paper bag of donuts.

Those donuts were her one weakness. A silly, human pleasure on a schedule where every minute was subject to logic

The university greeted her with the familiar cold of high walls and the smell of old books, dust and chalk. Students in the corridors, professors with folders under their arm, no one paid any more attention to her than usual. She walked past everyone with a confident stride, no distractions, no looking around, thinking only of the upcoming lecture.

Today she had a new office. The old one had been given to the archives. It didn't matter - she didn't care about the space, it was the formulas, the blackboard and the silence that mattered.

She opened the door and walked in, set the paper bag of doughnuts on the edge of the desk, put the cup of coffee next to it, and threw her coat over the back of the chair without looking.

But the moment her fingers touched the paper with her lecture notes, an unfamiliar, low voice echoed in the silence of the room:

- So this is what the best teacher we have.

The voice didn't belong to any of her colleagues. It sounded neither like a question nor a compliment - more like an assertion, a cold statement of fact.

She turned around, so quickly that she elbowed the cup and it nearly toppled over.

There was a man standing at the window, in the shadows. Alien. Alien to this place. His figure seemed out of proportion to the academic walls - too calm, too collected, too dangerous.

A cigarette in one hand, a piercing gaze in the other.

Thomas Shelby.

He was looking at her, the way one looks not at a person but at a problem about to be solved.

The air smelled of coffee and tobacco, and for the first time in a long time something happened in her life that she couldn't have calculated in advance.

- Who are you?! And what are you doing in my office? - her voice cut through the silence, ringing, nervous, almost like an equation that suddenly had a mistake in it.

The man standing at the window didn't even flinch. He turned around slowly, as if he already knew what she was going to say. The cigarette smoldered leisurely in his fingers, and his eyes - cold, penetrating - slid over her from head to toe as if he were examining a dossier, not a woman.

He couldn't have been more than thirty-seven, but there was a tiredness in his gaze, as if he'd seen too much. The suit was impeccable: expensive fabric, perfect cut, everything, down to the last button, spoke of a man accustomed to controlling the space around him.

He took his time answering. He took a drag, blowing smoke toward the window before he spoke:

- Ah, didn't you read the note that was sent to you, Master? - His voice was low, with a slight sneer. - You should have at least been informed that Shelby Company Limited now owned the place.

He took a step towards her, lazily, as if in no hurry to show that the distance between them no longer existed.

- So I'm afraid this office is now more mine than yours.

Her gaze slid to his hand - to his cigarette - and the tension in her shoulders became almost palpable. She wrinkled her nose like a man who'd had a rotten egg put under his nose. Her fingers pinched the bridge of her nose and she clucked loudly, not hiding her irritation.

She hated the smell of tobacco. Hated those who smoked in enclosed spaces. In her world, order was defined by clean air, formulas, and silence-not by smoke and discourtesy.

- Amazing," she said dryly. - Even your suit smells better than that poison.

And before he could answer, she took a step, snatched the cigarette right out of his fingers, and walked silently to the window. With a movement that was quick and honed, she swung the frame open and tossed it away as one would throw away garbage.

Thomas Shelby froze, raising his eyebrows. He'd seen a lot of insolence in his life, but no one-no man or woman-had ever let it happen to him. No one had dared.

She, however, turned back to him, folded her arms across her chest, and said coldly:

- This office is used to work with dangerous substances. If you smoke another cigarette in here, I don't care who you are. I'll rip your head off myself, whether you're a queen or a devil from the underworld.

Thomas grinned slowly, almost invisibly, with the edge of his lips, looking at her with renewed interest.

He had expected to see a boring teacher. He expected to see numbers in a skirt.

He didn't expect to see an equation he couldn't solve himself yet.

Thomas watched her silently as she tossed his cigarette out the window, and for the first time in a long time something resembling a slight grin appeared on his face. But only for a moment.

He wasn't used to having rules dictated to him, much less a woman, at his own university.

Shelby slowly, deliberately unhurriedly pulled a new pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his suit, looking straight into her eyes.

His look said: you can throw one away-but not me.

But before he could pull one out, she was already standing in front of him, deftly, almost like in a game of chess, anticipating his next move.

She snatched the pack out of his hand with a swift movement and without a second's hesitation threw it through the open window.

- I see you're suicidal, huh?! - her voice rang like metal against metal. - If you're in such a hurry to die, be my guest, but not in the same room as me!

Her eyes burned, her voice trembled not with fear - with rage. Principle.

For the first time in years, Thomas Shelby felt he had nothing to say.

How someone had raised their voice at him-not out of fear, not out of submission, but out of pure, icy anger.

He stood there, unmoving, scrutinizing her like an outlandish animal that had suddenly broken out of its cage and bit his hand.

- I didn't think physics taught you to throw yourself through windows," he said slowly at last, still studying her as if he were trying to calculate in his mind the formula by which she lived.

- I didn't think principals were so irresponsible as to smoke where reagents and students were stored," she countered, still staring at him.

Tension hung in the room, as if before a thunderstorm.

And for the first time in a long time, Thomas Shelby wondered which of the two of them would be the first to lose his temper.

[batmanlovesnirvana]

THE SHRINK

THOMAS SHELBY X FEM!READER

PART 2 ( PART 1 )

synopsis : After constant pressure from Polly, Tommy finally gives in and goes to see a therapist … though he’s not happy about it.

A/N : Here you go, guys … Part 2 :) As always, I have no idea what to think of it, but oh well... I just hope you enjoy it. Lmk what u think, and if you’d want this to turn into a series or smth. English isn’t my first language, so sorry for any mistakes.

THE SECOND TIME Thomas Shelby walked into the office, he looked just as reluctant as the first. If anything, there was a slight edge of irritation about him now, like he was here because he’d lost a bet.

He looked different too.

He still had the same sharp cheekbones, the same heavy wool coat, the same cigarette rolled between his fingers — but there was something else. A tension in the way he carried himself, something coiled tight beneath the surface.

You noticed the bruises on his knuckles the moment he walked in.

Split skin. Faint swelling. Deep purple seeping beneath the surface.

But you didn’t comment.

You just tilted your head toward the chair, the same one he’d occupied last time.

He hesitated for half a second, then sat.

“You came back,” you remarked, pen poised over your notepad.

He exhaled sharply, barely a sigh. “Polly made me.” Then, after a beat, he added, “And I was already in town.”

Which meant he had no real excuse to avoid it.

You nodded, scribbling something down. “How was your week?”

His mouth pulled slightly at the corner, something between amusement and exhaustion. “Same as always.”

You arched a brow. “Which means?”

He leaned back, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. The match flared, its sharp scratch loud in the quiet room. He took his time inhaling before answering.

“People talk. People drink. People want things from me.”

You let your gaze drop to his hand again. The bruises. The tension still coiled in his fingers.

“Rough day?” you asked, tone neutral.

His eyes flicked up, unreadable but unimpressed. “You could say that.”

You just nodded. No more questions. Not yet.

Silence stretched between you, thick but not uncomfortable. You waited, watching, knowing he’d fill it when he was ready.

Tommy wasn’t a man who responded well to direct questioning, especially not when he was like this. He needed space to say things in his own time, in his own way.

Finally, he sighed, running a hand down his face. “We had a bit of trouble with a family called the Lees.”

“I see.” You glanced at his hands. “They didn’t take kindly to you, I assume?”

Tommy smirked faintly. “Nobody ever does.”

He stretched out his fingers, looking at his own hands like they belonged to someone else. “It’s always the same. They come at us, we go at them. People act surprised, but it’s just how it’s always been.”

“Because of your background?”

His gaze flicked up to you, sharp, measuring. “You mean because we’re gypsies?”

“Yes.”

Tommy exhaled slowly, rolling his cigarette between his fingers. “It’s not just about that. But yeah… it plays a part.”

He tapped the unlit cigarette against his knee.

“People don’t like people like us. The coppers, the rich bastards in their suits, even some of the ones who drink in our pubs. Doesn’t matter that we’ve been here for years. Doesn’t matter that we fought for this country. We’re still what we are.”

“And what is that?”

His jaw tensed slightly. “Outsiders.”

You studied him for a moment before responding. “Your mother —was she an outsider too?”

Something flickered across his expression. Not quite pain, but something close.

“She was … like us.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “She used to say things were better when we were on the road, before we settled. Said when we had wagons, we had freedom.”

“And what did you think?”

Tommy hesitated, tilting his head slightly. “I was a kid. I liked the horses, liked running through the fields, the smell of wood smoke at night. But I never thought it’d last.” He glanced at her. “Nothing ever does.”

You nodded, tapping your pen lightly against your notebook. “You said she used to say that things were better before. Is that how you feel about your own life? That things were better before?”

He gave a short, humorless chuckle. “Before what?”

“That’s up to you.”

He leaned back slightly, considering. Then, he exhaled through his nose. “Before the war, yeah. Before everything turned to shit.”

“That’s normal.” you met his gaze. “Your brain was wired to adapt to survival. The war changed the way your mind processes everything — danger, safety, even time. That’s why nothing feels the same now.”

Tommy watched you, unreadable. “And what do you suggest? That I start painting? Take up knitting?”

You smiled faintly. “I suggest you start understanding what’s happening in your head instead of pretending it’s not.”

When he didn’t respond, you continued.

“When we experience trauma, especially repeated trauma like war, our brains go into survival mode. We stop thinking about long-term consequences and focus only on immediate threats. That keeps us alive when we’re in danger, but when the danger is gone, our brains don’t always know how to switch back.”

Tommy’s jaw tightened. “So what, you think I’m still in the trenches?”

“In some ways, yes.”

His fingers twitched slightly. He was listening, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

You leaned forward slightly. “Have you ever heard of hypervigilance?”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

“It’s when your brain stays on high alert even when there’s no immediate danger. You scan for threats without realizing it. You sit with your back to the wall in a pub. You notice exits in every room. You don’t sleep properly because your brain is waiting for something to happen.”

Tommy’s lips parted slightly, but he didn’t speak.

“That’s why people who come back from war feel like the world is moving too fast and too slow at the same time. It’s because your brain is still in survival mode.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “That’s a nice little theory, but — ”

“It’s not a theory, Mr. Shelby. It’s science.”

You continued to tap your pen lightly against your notebook.

“When you were fighting, your body was flooded with adrenaline every day. That’s what kept you alive. But now, when things are quiet, your body doesn’t know what to do with itself. That’s why you drink more. That’s why you get into fights. Because, whether you realize it or not, you’re chasing that feeling again.”

Tommy swallowed slightly, fingers still against his knee.

“You said before that things don’t feel loud enough.” She tilted her head slightly. “That’s because your brain got used to the volume being turned up all the way. Now that it’s quiet, it doesn’t feel real.”

He didn’t respond. Just sat there, staring at a spot on the floor.

For the first time since you met him, he looked truly ... unsettled.

Good, you thought. That meant he was listening.

You leaned back slightly. “I know you don’t like the idea of talking to someone, but you’re not the first man to sit in that chair feeling like this. And you won’t be the last.”

Still, silence.

Then, finally, Tommy exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I don’t need fixing.”

“I know.” You nodded. “But you do need to stop running.”

He lifted his gaze to yours.

Then, after a long moment, he stood.

He didn’t say anything as he reached for his coat, pulling it over his shoulders.

But just before he reached the door, he paused.

Without turning around, he muttered, “Same time next week, then.”

And with that, he was gone.

When Thomas got home that evening, Watery Lane smelly like coal smoke and damp earth.

The street was quiet, save for the distant barking of a dog and the occasional murmur of drunks staggering out of the Garrison.

He pushed open the door, stepping inside the cramped but familiar house. Dim candlelight flickered from the sitting room, casting long shadows against the walls.

Polly was waiting for him, perched in her usual chair, cigarette in hand. The amber glow of the tip pulsed as she took a slow drag.

“You went,” she said, not looking up.

Thomas sighed, shutting the door behind him. He shrugged off his coat, wincing slightly as his knuckles brushed against the rough fabric.

“You gave me no choice,” he muttered, making his way to the small drinks cabinet.

The whiskey sloshed softly as he poured himself a measure.

Polly exhaled smoke, finally meeting his gaze. “And?”

He took a sip, savoring the burn before answering. “And nothing. Same as last time.”

She tilted her head, watching him closely. “You talked?”

He smirked, shaking his head. “I answered questions.”

Polly sighed, leaning back. “And how long do you think you can keep that up?”

“As long as I need to.”

She scoffed. “You think you’re clever, Thomas, but that woman — she’s not fucking stupid. She’s not one of your men. She knows when you’re dodging.”

He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the way the candlelight caught the amber liquid. “Doesn’t mean she’ll get more than I want to give.”

Polly studied him for a long moment, then flicked ash into the tray beside her. “And what exactly do you want to give, eh?”

Thomas didn’t answer right away.

No, he downed the rest of his drink and set the glass down with a quiet clink.

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted.

Polly hummed, a knowing look in her eyes.

She stood, brushing past him on her way to the kitchen.

“You’ll figure it out,” she said, disappearing down the hall. “Whether you like it or not.”

Thomas stayed there for a moment, then, with a quiet sigh, he poured himself another drink.

The following week, Thomas Shelby walked in without hesitation.

No reluctance this time, no irritation.

If anything, he looked resigned, as if he’d already made peace with the fact that he’d be here again.

But there was something else too.

A heaviness in the way he carried himself. A deeper tiredness lining his face. The same cigarette between his fingers, the same wool coat draped over his shoulders, but his shoulders looked heavier today.

You noticed the fresh cut along his cheekbone, a thin line of red just starting to fade. The bruises on his knuckles were darker now, healing but still visible.

He sat without waiting for an invitation.

You didn’t comment on the cut, nor the bruises.

Instead, you simply noted, like a mantra. “You came back, again.”

Tommy scoffed lightly. “Against my better judgment.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am.” He exhaled smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling. Then, after a pause, he muttered, “My aunt said she’d send Arthur instead.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And that convinced you?”

He smirked, just barely. “Arthur talks too much.”

You let that sit for a moment before glancing at his hand, the one holding the cigarette. He noticed.

“No fighting this time,” he muttered preemptively.

“Then what happened to your face?”

His smirk deepened slightly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Would you believe me if I said I walked into a door?”

You gave him a look. “No.”

“Well, then.” He took another drag, exhaling slowly. “Let’s just say not everyone in Birmingham is thrilled about the Peaky Blinders expanding.”

You made a note, then met his gaze again. “And how do you feel about that?”

Tommy chuckled, shaking his head. “What is it with you and feelings?”

You didn’t respond, only waited.

He sighed, rubbing his temple. “It’s not about feelings. It’s about business.”

You tilted your head. “Business doesn’t bruise your knuckles.”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

He hated being asked like that, yet instead of staying away, he kept coming back.

Maybe it was because you intrigued him, or maybe he just liked the way you made sense of him, how you saw him in a way others didn’t.

Thomas didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied the cigarette between his fingers, like he was weighing his words.

“Sometimes business requires persuasion.”

“And sometimes persuasion is just an excuse.”

That made him pause.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours, sharp as ever. But instead of snapping back, instead of deflecting, he just watched you, considering.

Finally, he exhaled, shaking his head. “You’re a persistent one.”

“I have to be. Otherwise, men like you wouldn’t come back.”

Another pause.

Then, to your surprise, the faintest glimmer of amusement crossed his expression.

“Is that what I am?” he murmured. “A man like me?”

You tapped your pen against the notepad. “You tell me.”

He smirked, but it was softer this time. “You really think there’s a way out of this?”

“Out of what?”

His jaw tensed. “The way things are. The way things have always been.”

You watched him carefully. “That depends. Do you want there to be?”

Tommy held your gaze for a long moment. Then, for the first time since he walked in, he looked away.

“I don’t know.”

Honest.

Uncharacteristically so.

You nodded, jotting something down before setting your pen aside. “Then maybe that’s something we should figure out.”

He didn’t answer. Just sat there, cigarette burning between his fingers, gaze fixed on the desk in front of him.

Then, Tommy stirred, breaking the stillness.

“You know,” he said, his voice a bit more distant now, “I’m heading to the races tomorrow. You’d think a man like me would get tired of it, but…” He trailed off, lips pressing into a thin line.

“You’re going to the races?” You echoed, raising an eyebrow.

It was an odd way to shift the conversation, but not unexpected.

For all his layers of business and violence, Tommy Shelby was still a man with his routines, his vices, his escapes.

He flicked his cigarette into the ashtray, leaning back in the chair. “Yeah,” he muttered, sounding almost casual, but you could hear the undertone of tension, the same tension that always surrounded him like a cloak.

“And you invited someone?” You probed further, your curiosity piqued.

He hesitated, just for a beat, before the words left his lips. “A woman,” he said, then smirked, though it was more to himself than anyone else. “Grace. The barmaid at The Garrison. Thought it’d be good to have a little company.”

He was waiting for your reaction, but you didn’t let it show. If anything, you appeared... uninterested.

Surprised, yes, but mostly indifferent.

"Grace?" You said, leaning back in your chair. “And what makes you think she’s the right choice?”

Tommy’s lips quirked into a half-smile, though it was brief. “It’s not about right or wrong. She’s been around long enough. Thought I’d take her out, see how she handles herself in a crowd.”

You narrowed your eyes slightly, picking up on the layers beneath his words. “So, you’re testing her?”

Tommy’s smirk softened, his gaze flicking over to you for a brief moment. “Maybe. Or maybe I just need someone who doesn’t ask too many questions.”

You knew better than to dig into Tommy’s words too deeply.

There was always more beneath the surface.

But you couldn’t help but wonder, what was Tommy really looking for in Grace? What did she represent to him?

“Well, I hope she’s ready,” you said, tapping your pen against the desk idly. “The races are never just about the horses.”

Tommy gave you a look, a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn’t quite place. “They never are.”

He stood, moving toward the door with the same fluid grace he always had. His coat swished as he turned, looking back at you.

“Same time next week?” He asked, though his tone made it clear that it wasn’t a question.

You nodded, meeting his gaze. “Same time.”

Tommy lingered for a moment, a strange silence hanging between the two of you.

He adjusted his cap, slipping back into the cold, calculated Thomas Shelby you knew all too well.

But what came next was something you weren't prepared for.

"Your name is Y/N L/N. Daughter of F/N and M/N L/N. You live in Small Heath, just outside Watery Lane. You studied in France. You were a nurse during the war. You have two siblings. Not married, not seeing anyone. You go to the apothecary every Friday, and that’s how you met my aunt.”

Your eyes narrowed, but he continued, as if reciting a poem, his tone detached and matter-of-fact. "I know everything that goes on in my town, Doctor. And you better keep everything from our meetings to yourself."

Your hands tightened around your leather notebook, the pages flipping nervously. You inhaled sharply, steadying yourself before responding.

How the fuck did he knew all of that ?

“I took the Hippocratic Oath. Everything my patients say stays strictly within this room.”

“It better,” he muttered, colder than ever, sending a chill through your spine.

With one final glance, he turned and walked out the door.

It was only then that you exhaled, the tension in your chest releasing.

Fuck.

taglist : @mrsnms

anyway bye and plz drop a comment or two babes xx

[s0urw00lfsrants]

Being a girl is: wanting to go to bed early but deciding to just get on tumblr/wattpad/Ao3 for a little bit and then end up finding a fic series that you really like and read until well past your usual bedtime then keeping on because it’s already past your bedtime. Then being mad when you wake up in the morning because you overslept your timer.

[venusbyline]

i can fix him (no really i can)

[mx-pastelwriting]

Saving My Fanfiction Work

First. Side note: This post was only intended to give resources to fanfiction writers and enjoyers. My talk on recent political events was a context/reasoning on why I made this post. Also I’ve had to add more information to this post over time due to people’s confusion in my comments. Explaining it was to make sure that this post didn’t come off as out of the blue for my followers and this community. Which is fanfiction.

Also, why I made this post was from people asking if they could download my fanfiction because of the recent political events in America hence why I named it “saving my fanfiction work” and added my context. So this was also a post to tell people that liked my fanfiction they could download it as long as it was for their personal collection. I merely just wanted to list resources to people who wanted to download fanfiction and don’t know where to start or don’t have the immediate resources. I’m not here to fear-monger. I am just giving resources and the reasoning on why I’m giving them along with urging people to look into those information/recent events as staying aware is important. I respect everybody who’s given their opinion and yes, some of my grammar in this post is not adequate as this post was merely made for giving/stating resources.

Lastly, I will no longer update this post with comments as I’ve said my peace, nor will I pay attention to the notifications as they are muted. As my page is for fanfiction not politics. Thank you for the people in this community who share this post for the resources see you around the tags! Stay safe friends!!✨ Remember I love you! And you are loved!💛

-

Due to the recent events in the United States. To clarify the recent events being Trump becoming president of the United States, Project 2025 more than likely going to be integrated. If you are not familiar with Project 2025 I urge you to look it up.

Along with the KOSA bill that has many problems and it has passed the senate now needing the finally vote in the house, which both are majority red. Go here to learn more on why it needs to be stopped and how you can. This is another component that will harm our communities. Go to: stopkosa.com

With all of its harmful plans some of the plans are to take down/restrict internet sites that have LGBTQ+ communities that means communities like the fan-fiction communities/sites in the United States.

I am only giving resources to those inside and out of the US in case they banned sites that hold fan-fiction. Better safe than sorry.

Being that I live in the US the possibly of mine and many others Fanfiction has the possibly of being in danger. Therefore I'm giving you recourses. (I'm not leaving or stopping my writing, I'm here for the fight!)

For those wanting to save my fanfiction, I give you permission to download them off of AO3 and to be used for your personal collection. Meaning, your eyes only. To clarify I’m saying this as others have asked if they could download my fanfic so for those who would like to you can.

If you do not know how to download them many others on online have tutorials on how to download them and add them to our phone libraries.

Here are some links to tutorials:

Downloading Fanfic

Adding to Iphone & Android Library

Adding to Kindle Library - Video on How (On TikTok)

Adding Book Covers (At the bottom) - Good EPUB Cover Changer (I use this)

Types of Files and What they mean

Please stay safe out there! Remember to follow the rules below.

DO NOT share the downloaded file anywhere online.

DO NOT repost the downloaded file under your name.

Fanfiction is protected under copyright law when plagiarism is involved. If you plagiarize my work, either a piece or whole in any language, I will take legal action. Inspiration or the same idea does NOT apply to this, only word-for-word plagiarism in any language.

♥ mx-pastelwriting does not consent to their fanfiction being copied, copied & credited, translated, used in videos and/or audios, screenshotted, used in AI, or reposted on any other platform without permission.

♥ mx-pastelwriting does give consent to "reblog," sharing links to direct work, and being in recommend lists.

Please stay safe out there friends! I love you so much! Know that there will always people that love you and in for the fight to make sure you are loved!

And here are some resources in case you don’t feel okay! Resources here

[mydear-corinthian]

phone call

synopsis - tommy receives a phone call in the middle of having sex with his wife.

pairing - tommy shelby x reader / thomas shelby x reader

warnings - SMUT +18, rough sex, use of foul language, breeding kink, praising kink, creampie, just full of porn, unprotected sex, p in v

notes - short (w.c <850), gif and picture isn't mine, divider is mine

main masterlist | peaky blinders masterlist | cillian murphy masterlist

His hands explored every inch of your sensitive body with a satisfying touch that sent shivers down your spine. There was an irresistible affection between the two of you that was endless. Your breath caught as his dominant, wild hip thrusts into yours, causing hectic, unrestrained moans with every thrust.

"Oh my God- yes, Thomas!"

As he pushed you farther into the mattress, his weight and heat surrounded you as you lay beneath him, your bodies linked. He drew closer as your legs coiled around his hips, stretching you in the most delicious way as he slid deeper with each thrust. Tommy started to breathe hard, his chest heaving as sweat collected on his forehead and trickled down to mix with the heat from your smooth skin. He met your gaze with lust and something deeper than that.

"Yes, baby.. fuck- you take me so well.. so fucking well," he praised on your ear as he rested his head on your neck, his deep thrusts not stopping.

The telephone on top of the nightstand beside your shared bed rang loudly. Your husband stopped, looking at the phone near him.

Who the fuck is calling at this hour?

Tommy picked the phone up, not leaving the bed.

"Thomas Shelby." he answered.

You expected him that he would draw away and stop, especially when the phone rang. He stopped and reached for it, and you felt upset. Tommy, though, chose to stay still and answered the phone with one hand while tightening his grip on your waist with the other and suddenly thrusting his hips forward once more.

His thrusts continued to shock you, causing your body to tense in surprise, but before you could respond, pleasure took over. His cock sank farther, each malicious movement finding that exact spot. You ended up speechless by both of his soothing phone voice and the way he caused your body to react to him.

"What ha-happened?" Tommy asked over the phone, his breathing heavily telling each question with a struggled and unsteady voice. He attempted to keep his composure, but the force of his motions made it almost impossible as his chest rose and fell quickly. As he tried to concentrate on the talk, you could feel his heart thumping against your body and his breath rapid and hot against your skin.

Tommy looked at you, a smirk painted on his face. With his free hand, his fingers toyed with your hardened nipples, brushing them and squeezing it.

"Tomm-" you covered your mouth immediately as you nearly moaned his name out loud, afraid of whoever is on the phone hearing that Tommy is fucking his wife at the moment.

"Yeah, I'll handle that tomorrow morning," his voice was deep making you feel wetter and wetter. A familiar feeling coiled down through your stomach.

"Tommy, I'm so close," you quietly moaned. Your fingers gripped the silk bedsheets tightly as you felt your high coming.

The room was filled with the constant sound of your bodies meeting, the heat between you growing with each slap of flesh on skin. Your thoughts were taken over by the intense pleasure that was shooting through your entire body as your eyelids fluttered closed, buried in a fog of ecstasy. You vaguely heard Tommy drop the phone somewhere in the distance, but it didn't really matter. The way he grabbed you closer and pounded your hips with such merciless pace that every thrust sent shivers of pleasure through your entire body was all that mattered. Heavy intakes of breath from him, merging with your groans as he pushed you both to the edge.

"Good girl, yes, yes.. Finish on my cock."

Tommy experienced the same closeness as your cock clenched all over it. With a deep moan, he raised your right leg to his shoulders. He treated you like the most precious gemstones that thieves like him could take. Tommy groaned and praised as his head rolled back.

"D'you want me to cum inside you? Breed you? Make you mine?"

"Yes, yes! Fill me up, sir! Please!"

His back was scratched by your nails, and in a few hours, scars will definitely begin to appear. You groaned, breasts bouncing and the bed creaking with every pound.

And then, after a few more thrusts, he smashed deep inside of you until he poured all of his seed into your abused and tight walls. It was warm and filled. Tommy groaned loudly and pleased, then rested his head on the side of your neck to inhale yourself. He waited until every last drop of his cum filled you before pulling out.

As soon as he pulled out, a mixture of his and your load leaked outside your throbbing pussy. Tommy got up, grabbing a box of tissue and cleaned the both of you up.

"Who was that?" you asked.

"Just the betting shop asking for me to check on something."

"You think they.. heard me?"

"I'm sure they did and I'm glad so that they know how much I fucking please my lovely wife." he chuckled before planting another kiss to your lips.

You gladly kissed him back but the kiss deepened and the both of you know what that means.

Another round.

[slut4thebroken]

Baby Fever

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Tommy Shelby x wife!reader

Summary | Free use wife.

Warnings | Smut, breeding kink, free use lol, in public, exhibitionism, pregnancy (very few details cause… c’mon lol… I’m the one who wrote it💀), light humiliation.

Words | 1.5 k

Notes | Yeah this gif still makes me feral

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

Kinktober | day 2: free use + breeding kink

Tommy didn’t expect much from you as a wife. There were already staff who cooked and cleaned and you didn’t have any children yet. The one thing he did expect from you though, was being ready and willing to take his cock at any time of the day. 

Sometimes he’d be more gentle about it, coaxing you away from whatever task or conversation you were involved in to somewhere more private where he’d ravish you until you could only think about him and his cock. Other times, he’d be more desperate. 

If you happened to bring him lunch on a particularly stressful work day, he’d drag you in his office and bend you over the desk, fucking away all of his stress, if at least for a few minutes. 

Sometimes at the race track he’d pull you away to a more secluded— but still very public— area and cover your mouth as he plowed into you, rough and desperate, borderline animalistic. If the sound of your muffled moans didn’t give you away, the loud slapping of skin definitely did, but he didn’t care. If he wanted you, nothing was stopping him from taking you. 

A few times you even woke up to him lazily rutting into you, fucking you deep, but keeping the pace slow. He’d moan quietly, kissing and biting your neck, even sucking on the sensitive skin to leave marks. 

If he was ever short on time, he’d force you to your knees and fuck your face, making you gag and choke on his cock until tears streamed down your cheeks. Sometimes he’d blow his load down your throat. But if you weren’t in public or in too much of a hurry for anything, he’d paint your pretty face with his come, marking you as his. 

He knew you were embarrassed everytime you came back after he dragged you away. Every single time, without fail, you always looked like you were just fucked stupid. But that only encouraged him. He liked showing people that you belonged to him— that his wife was more than happy to satisfy him, even in public. 

It was also common for him to pull over and make you ride his cock in the car, smiling at all the people who drove past. If he couldn’t pull over, he’d grab your hair and force you down on his cock. Even if he arrived at the destination, he wouldn’t stop until you drained his balls and swallowed every last drop. It didn’t matter if it was the middle of the day or if it was pitch black out— it didn’t even matter if the window was open or not. He’d fuck your face and throw his head back as the pleasure consumed him until he finally fell over the edge. Sometimes, his sounds would attract attention, and he loved the look on people’s faces when you lifted yourself up, smiling and wiping the lower half of your face with the back of your hand. 

This didn’t happen often, but if he were ever in the middle of fucking you, too consumed by the feeling of your tight cunt squeezing his cock, and someone knocked on the door, he’d tell them to come in. It was usually someone you didn’t even know— one time it was Arthur… that was a particularly humiliating experience for you— but he wouldn’t stop. He’d keep you bent over his desk or on his lap and continue fucking you as you tried to not make any sounds. He always thought it was amusing when you tried to be quiet. 

One time, he walked in on you holding Ada’s baby, smiling and cooing at him, making him giggle relentlessly. As soon as Tommy got you alone, his cock was inside you and he rambled on about fucking a baby into you, breeding you nice and deep until he knocked you up. His words were almost incoherent with arousal as he described this fantasy of your belly full with his kid, your tits swollen with milk, and the glow that you’d have from all of it. He rambled on about raising them together, how good you’d look as the mother of his kids, how he wanted to fuck baby after baby into you… breed you until he fucking ran out of come. 

That sparked a conversation between the two of you. While the original plan was to wait a few years, you both agreed to shorten that time frame. So less than two years later, you were off of birth control and he was breeding you every chance he had. Honestly you were getting a little worn out, but you never complained. No matter how tiring it could be, you still absolutely loved it. 

It became even more of a frequent occurrence for you to be walking around with either come soaked panties or come running down your thighs. He also took a liking to cock warming. In bed, on his desk chair, in the car— anywhere he could— he’d fuck you and fill you with his come, then keep you plugged up, wanting to make sure it really had a chance to take. 

At home, he’d put you in the mating press position, then stuff you full of his come. Only instead of letting you relax, he'd keep your hips tilted up so none of it could leak out and make you come again with his mouth as a reward for staying in that position. 

The first time he fucked you after finding out you were pregnant… he was practically feral. The fact that there was a baby inside you— that it was his baby, made him all but lose control. He ravaged you with an intensity he’s only had a few times, rambling on about how he planned to fuck you like this for a while since he would eventually have to be gentler— if he could even fuck you at all. The problem was that his promise didn’t just apply to when he fucked you in the privacy of your own home, but it was just a problem for you. Tommy loved that you couldn’t keep quiet. 

Months down the line, rough, hard fucking turned into gentle love making. He’d kiss you tenderly as his hips rocked into you, keeping the pace almost tortuously slow. He tended to kiss over your stomach whenever he could and caress it with gentle hands. Both of you were surprised and disappointed by the fact that your breasts were far too tender for any touch to feel good. So he kept his hands and mouth elsewhere. 

The love making usually took place in bed. But every once in a while, he’d come up behind you and wrap his arms around your small frame, placing his hands on your belly as he kissed your neck until he finally got too impatient and lifted your dress to slip his cock inside. 

Around eight months, and even for weeks after the birth, he showed no sign of needing you like that. He never made you feel pressured either, even when he’d hold you at night. You were grateful though because your body definitely wasn’t ready for that yet. 

It was a little after two months postpartum that you were becoming a bit too needy though. One day, after watching him play with and hold the baby, you finally snapped. The second you were alone you practically jumped his bones, kissing him almost animalistically and pulling on his hair until he moaned into your mouth and finally grabbed your hips. 

“Love,” He started, but cut off when you unzipped your dress and let it fall to the floor, pooling around your feet.

“If you don’t fuck me right now I’m going to lose my mind.” You warned breathily, working on ripping his clothes off. 

“Slow down, darling. You have to be careful.” He said gently, making you more frustrated.

“Thomas Shelby, I swear to god if you don’t fuck me, I’ll go find someone who will.” You growled, giving him one last warning. He raised his brows, shocked and amused by your words. “I carried your child for nine months. The least you could do is make me come on your cock until I forget my own name.” 

“You’re that needy, eh?” He smirked, making you scowl. “Calm down, Mrs. Shelby, I’ll give it to you…” you still get butterflies when he calls you that, “but you know I can’t resist teasing you.” 

“You’ve teased me for months. Either fuck the shit out of me or I’ll get it from someone else.” You said, voice low and almost threatening, but you knew it only made Tommy more amused. 

“How have I teased you for months?” He asked innocently. 

“Christ, Tommy— just fuck me already. You have to do what I say because I just birthed a whole baby for you.” 

“I guess you're right.” He said with a sly smirk. “Until you forget your own name?” You nodded eagerly and he walked you backwards until your legs hit the bed. Once you were laying down, he crawled over you and kissed you deeply, making you moan against his lips and bring your hands up to his hair. “As you wish, darling.” 

[briefinquiries]

Tommy Shelby x Reader: By Order of Blood

Summary: Tommy Shelby thought sending you away would keep you safe, until the carriage was intercepted. Now, as he cradles your trembling, broken body, he swears two things: he will never let you go again… and the men who touched you won’t live to see another sunrise.

Word count: 8.5k

Warnings: angst, violence, injury descriptions (mentions of blood, torture, SA), PTSD, nightmares, and panic attacks, emotional distress, and revenge-driven violence (also includes lots of hurt / comfort).

A/N: Lost all motivation to write my normal stuff recently, but currently rewatching peaky blinders and feeling all sorts of ways about my boyyy tommy shelby.

"Tommy, please. Don't do this." Your voice was barely above a whisper as the weight of the moment pressed down on your chest like a stone.

You reached for him, fingers trembling as they grazed the fabric of his coat. 

But he didn’t budge. He stood rigid, back straight, his jaw locked so tight you could practically see the muscle ticking underneath his skin. A cigarette burned low between his fingers, a thin wisp of smoke curling in the dim light.

His face was unreadable, a mask of cold detachment. It was the same one he wore when giving orders that decided life or death. 

"You’re leaving tonight," he said, his voice quiet but firm.

You shook your head before he was even finished speaking, your breath catching. "No– no, I don’t want to leave."

Tommy exhaled slowly, as if he was gearing up for a fight. "This is not about what you want."

Your throat tightened. "Tommy, please–"

"You’ll be safer away from me."

You let out a dry, hollow laugh. "Safer?" The word tasted bitter on your tongue. "Tommy, I’m safe when I’m with you. The further away you are, the less safe I’ll feel."

For a second, you thought you saw something flicker in his eyes. Hesitation. Regret. Maybe even doubt. But then, just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. Buried beneath layers of steel.

His shoulders stiffened, his fingers tightening around the cigarette. "You’ll have guards."

"I don’t want guards." Your voice wavered. "I want you. What if something happens, Tommy? What then?"

His breath hitched, but he remained stoic. "It won’t," he said firmly.

You searched his face, desperate for something, anything, that would tell you he wasn’t as sure about this as he was pretending to be. That this was tearing him apart, too. But all you saw was cold resolve. Complete certainty. 

A hollow feeling spread through your stomach as the truth settled in your bones. He had already made up his mind. And there was nothing you could say to make him change it.

Panic pressed against your ribs. You wanted to tell him that being away from him would be worse than any danger that lurked in Birmingham. But you couldn’t find the words.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, Tommy took one last drag from his cigarette before putting it out with slow, deliberate movements. When he finally looked at you, his blue eyes were unreadable.

"The carriage is waiting."

The words hit you like a blow, stealing whatever fight you had left.

You felt yourself nod, but you didn’t say anything. There was nothing left to say. Without another word, you turned and walked away, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the silence.

And Thomas Shelby let you go. 

…

The wooden seat beneath you felt cold and unforgiving. But not nearly as cold as the hollow feeling in your chest.

You sat stiffly, arms folded across your body. Your stomach churned– a mixture between fear, anger, and grief. Each emotion fought for dominance, and yet all you could do was stare blankly at the road stretching endlessly ahead of you, your surroundings blurring past the window.

You tried to rationalize his actions and remind yourself why he made the choices he did. But this didn’t feel like protection anymore. 

It felt like a punishment. 

The hours dragged. The rhythmic clatter of hooves and the occasional creak of the carriage were the only sounds filling the silence. You hadn’t spoken a word to the driver or to the men Tommy had sent to guard you. You refused. Who cared if they thought you were some entitled brat?

But then, suddenly, something in the air shifted.

You weren’t sure what it was at first. Maybe it was just a feeling, an unease that coiled in your stomach like a vice. But then you noticed the hooves come to a gradual stop. One of the guards riding ahead straightened in his saddle, glancing toward the dense trees lining the road.

Your pulse quickened, but before you could even part your lips to ask what was wrong, you heard the gunshot.

A sickening crack followed by shouting. One of the men slumped forward on his horse before crashing onto the dirt road in a heap. The horses screamed, rearing violently. The carriage lurched, sending you slamming into the side with a sharp gasp.

Another shot. Another thud. 

The second guard fell before he could even draw his gun. Then the driver let out a strangled yell, yanking hard on the reins. 

But it was too late.

Figures emerged from the darkness of the trees, their boots pounding against the dirt, moving fast. Panic seized you. Without thinking, you scrambled toward the door, heart hammering, fumbling for the latch. You could still get out, still run, still–

But when you threw your weight against it, the door didn’t budge.

The impact from the gunfire, the carriage rocking on the uneven road– it had bent the frame inward. The wood creaked, but the metal hinges were jammed tight.

"No, no, no–” you pleaded. You pushed harder, shoulders slamming against the door.

Then, the other door was yanked open violently, nearly ripping off its hinges. You barely had time to turn before rough, gloved hands grabbed you, wrenching you forward. You thrashed against them, kicking, clawing, screaming for them to let go. 

"Shut her up!" A voice snapped. 

And just like that, the back end of a gun slammed into your gut, knocking the air from your lungs. Your vision blurred as your body doubled over. Fingers fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so hard your scalp burned.

One of the men leaned in, his breath hot against your cheek.

"I guess Shelby should’ve sent more men."

Your heart pounded violently in your chest as the other men chuckled darkly.

Your hands shook as you tried to fight, but there were too many of them, too many voices, too many shadows closing in around you. You screamed again. 

Then, a final, crushing blow to the side of your head sent the world tilting. Your knees buckled. 

And then– total darkness.

…

The office smelled of whiskey and smoke as the low glow of candlelight flickered against the walls. Tommy sat behind his desk, fingers wrapped around a glass he hadn’t yet touched.

Across from him, Arthur was talking. Something about business, numbers, men needing paying, but Tommy wasn’t listening. He had been distracted all night.

His mind kept circling back to you. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself he made the right choice– that sending you away had been for your own good, that it was the only way to keep you safe. That image of you, eyes wide, pleading, your fingers brushing against his coat before he had forced himself to turn away remained at the forefront of his mind.

"Tommy, please," you had begged. 

He had ignored the way it made his chest ache, forcing himself to shut down the part of him that wanted to keep you close.

Because this was the only way.

Right?

But if it was the right choice, then why the fuck did it feel like such a fucking mistake?

"Tom?" Arthur’s voice cut through his thoughts.

Tommy blinked, setting the untouched glass down with slow, deliberate movements. His fingers tapped against the wood, a restless habit. "What?"

Arthur frowned, watching him closely. "You haven’t heard a single thing I’ve said, have you?"

A muscle in Tommy’s jaw twitched. 

Arthur exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "Jesus, Tommy. Forget about it. You did the right thing, yeah? She’s safer out of Birmingham. You said so yourself."

Tommy leaned back in his chair, running a hand down his face. He shook his head, reaching for the cigarette pack on his desk, desperate for something to quiet his mind. But just as he struck the match, the door burst open.

Tommy’s head snapped up.

John stood in the doorway, breathless and pale.

"Tommy–" he panted, eyes wide with urgency. "The carriage– we just got word– it was intercepted–"

For a moment, the words didn’t register. A slow, heavy silence fell over the room. Tommy just stared at him, cigarette burning between his fingers, unmoving. Then, a sharp, cold wave of panic slammed into his chest.

His chair scraped against the floor as he shot to his feet. "What?" His voice was dangerously quiet.

John swallowed hard. "One of the scouts came back. The men– the guards you sent– they’re dead. Driver too."

The room tilted. A deafening ringing filled Tommy’s ears, drowning out everything else.

No, no, no. No. 

"Where?" Tommy demanded, his voice now urgent, raw, trembling with barely contained terror.

"We don’t know yet–"

Tommy’s chest heaved, his breath coming sharp and ragged. "Find out," he snapped, grabbing his coat. His hands were shaking. "Find out right fucking now."

Arthur was already up, grabbing his gun. "We’re going after her, Tommy."

Tommy ran a hand through his hair, pacing, trying to think, trying to breathe, trying not to fucking lose it.

He had sent you away.

He had sent you away.

His heart pounded violently, his throat tight with a kind of fear he had never felt before.

Not anger. Not fury. Not vengeance.

Fear.

Because if they had taken you…

If they had hurt you…

Tommy couldn’t finish the thought.

Because the moment he did, he wouldn’t be able to fucking breathe.

…

When you woke up, the first thing you registered was the pain. 

The deep, aching throb in your skull. The metallic taste of blood coated your tongue, thick and suffocating.

Your body felt heavy, your limbs sluggish as you tried to move, only to realize that you couldn’t.

Panic slid into your chest, sharp and immediate as you became aware of the restraints, of the rough, biting feel of rope digging into your wrists, binding them behind the back of a chair. Your breath hitched, vision swimming in the overwhelming darkness that surrounded you.

You struggled against the restraints, muscles screaming in protest, but the chair barely creaked beneath your weight. The air was damp, thick with the scent of rotting wood and stale sweat. Somewhere in the distance, you heard the faint melodic drop of water.

A basement. Maybe a warehouse. Somewhere completely forgotten.

A door creaked open and your breath stilled. There were footsteps– slow and leisurely. 

A shadow loomed at the edge of the room, then a man stepped forward, boots scraping against the concrete floor. The dim light of a lantern illuminated his features, dark eyes full of amusement, a smirk twisting his thin lips.

"Well, well," he drawled, tilting his head. "Look who's awake."

Your stomach coiled in disgust as he came closer, circling you like a predator playing with its prey. You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to stay still, to keep your expression blank.

The man stopped just beside you, tapping a finger against his chin, mockingly thoughtful. "You’re prettier up close," he mused. "Is that why Shelby keeps you so close? Well… not this time I guess."

A beat of silence. Then, his voice dropped into something colder, sharper. "Where’s he keeping his next shipment?"

You didn’t answer but his smirk only widened. "Playing the silent game, are we?"

He moved closer to you, and before you could react, a sharp, stinging slap cracked across your cheek.

Your head snapped to the side, your vision blurring with the impact.

"You’ll want to answer me," he said menacingly. "Or this is going to get a hell of a lot worse for you."

You clenched your teeth, forcing your breath to stay even. 

He let out a disappointed sigh. "Stubborn little thing, aren’t you? Brave, even?" He stepped closer, gripping the arms of your chair, leaning in until his breath was hot against your ear. "But tell me, sweetheart… how brave do you think you’ll be when we’re through with you?"

You refused to let him see your fear. But inside, terror clawed at your ribs, sinking in deep.  

The man stepped back, studying you. His smirk hadn't faltered, but you could see the frustration flicker in his dark eyes.

"Not talking, eh?" He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as if this were some inconvenience, some tedious task he had to complete before moving on with his night.

Then, without warning, his fist slammed into your stomach.

Your body jerked violently against the ropes, a strangled gasp ripping from your throat as the air was stolen from your lungs. White, hot agony flared in your gut, the chair beneath you rocking from the force of it. You coughed, your body instinctively trying to double over, but the ropes held you upright, forcing you to endure it.

Still, you said nothing.

The man let out a humorless chuckle. "Tough girl, huh?"

Another blow. To your face again. You bit the inside of your cheek, swallowing the cry that threatened to escape.

"Tell me," he continued casually, shaking out his fist, "where the Peaky Blinders keep their weapons."

You lifted your head slowly, breathing heavily through your nose. Then, you spat blood onto the floor at his feet.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. And then, his hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so sharply you let out a strangled gasp.

"I was hoping you’d be difficult," he murmured, tilting his head. "It makes this so much more fun for me."

Deep fear curled around your bones like ice. Because you knew exactly what men like him were capable of. He let go of your hair abruptly, your head snapping forward from the force of it, pain splintering through your already throbbing skull.The next blow came before you could brace yourself. It was a heavy, brutal punch to your nose. Pain exploded behind your eyes, your body lurching sideways, nearly toppling the chair. Your ears rang, the room spinning wildly.

Your nose was dripping. It took you a second to realize it was blood, warm and thick as it trailed down your lips. Still, you didn’t speak. 

He let out a long, slow breath, tilting his head as he studied you. "I can do this all night," he said lightly, as if he weren’t already beating you bloody. Then, something darker crossed his expression. 

"But maybe," he continued, voice lower, silkier, more dangerous, "I could find other ways to make you talk."

Your stomach churned at the sight of his gaze, predatorial. Every muscle in your body seized as he took a step forward, one hand reaching for his pocket. Then, metal glinted under the dim light.

A knife. Not small, not discreet, but long, sharp, wicked.

He flicked it open with an almost lazy motion, rolling it between his fingers like a coin, as if the weapon was nothing more than a casual accessory to him. "You know," he mused, tilting his head, his eyes dragging over your bound, broken form with something close to amusement, "I've always wondered how many pieces a person can be cut into before they bleed out."

He crouched beside you, the blade dancing along his fingers, before slowly pressing the cold steel under your chin.

"Tell me what I want to know," he murmured, his voice almost gentle, like a whisper of silk against your skin. 

More silence. 

He smirked. A devilish grin spread across his face. “Maybe I'll start with the fingers."

Your heart pounded violently, every nerve in your body screaming at you to run, fight, do something– 

But what were you supposed to do? The ropes bit into your wrists, your limbs too weak, too battered, your breath too shallow.

"Think I'm bluffing?" he asked, watching your reaction. "Think I won’t carve you up, nice and slow?"

The knife dragged downward, grazing lightly along the column of your throat, just enough to prickle your skin, to remind you how easily he could cut deeper.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your cheek.

"Because I will, sweetheart," he whispered, almost fondly. "And when I'm done, I’ll send the pieces back to Shelby. One by one."

“I don’t know where the weapons are,” The words spilled out before you could even think, desperate, shaky, but holding just enough bite to make them believable. “Tommy doesn’t tell me those things– says it’s not a woman’s business to know– that we’d break too easily if we got questioned.”

Your breath hitched, your pulse roaring in your ears as you held his gaze, willing yourself to look small, weak, unimportant.

He laughed. Low, dark, amused. He leaned in again, the overwhelming stench of sweat and smoke rolling off him in waves.

"You think I believe that?" His voice was smooth as he tilted his head, watching you with something cruel, calculating. Your breath came in short, shallow bursts, your hands twisting uselessly behind your back, fingers numb from the ropes cutting into your skin.

You didn’t answer. Because you knew better. Men like him didn’t want the truth. They wanted excuses to hurt you.

He sighed, feigning disappointment. "See, sweetheart, here’s the problem with your little lie." He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a scrap of paper, something smudged with dirt and blood.

"One of your guards had this tucked in his coat. An order from Mr. Shelby himself," he said, unfolding it with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Says to keep you safe. Says not to let you out of their sight."

The bastard grinned as he tossed the paper onto your lap. "Now, why would Thomas Shelby go through all that trouble for someone who doesn’t know anything?"

You felt cold all over. He knew. No amount of lying was going to save you now.

"Yeah," he murmured, standing upright. "That’s what I thought."

His hand shot out suddenly, gripping your jaw, forcing your head back. You winced, but didn’t look away. A cruel smile spread across his face. "That’s good," he murmured. "I like when they look at me."

Then, cold steel pressed against your cheek. You flinched violently, your breath stuttering, but he only grinned wider, his grip tightening, holding you in place. 

"You’ll tell me what I want to know," he promised, his fingers digging into your bruised skin. "Sooner or later."

The blade slid downward, slow, deliberate, tracing the delicate line of your jaw.

Then, it pressed in. A sharp, searing pain bloomed beneath your skin, and you gasped, body jerking instinctively, but the ropes held you tight, trapped.

A thin line of warm blood trickled down your cheek. He hummed in satisfaction. His thumb dragged across your bottom lip, slow, taunting. "Maybe I’ll give you some time to think about it," he mused, releasing you with a sharp shove.

…

Tommy paced the office like a caged animal, fingers tugging through his hair, his mind racing faster than his body could keep up.

The room was too small, too fucking suffocating, and the longer it took to get information, the more his chest tightened, the more his hands shook.

"Where the fuck is she?"

No one had an answer.

Tommy turned on John. "Who told you? Who gave you the fucking word?"

John swallowed, shifting on his feet. "A scout, one of our boys in Small Heath– he saw the wreckage. The guards, the driver… all dead, Tommy."

His stomach dropped.

Bodies.

But no mention of her.

He felt sick. Cold. A new kind of fear he hadn’t felt since the war clawed its way up his throat like bile. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to focus. If they had taken you alive, that meant they wanted something from you.

He had to find you. Now. A sharp knock on the door cut through the tense silence. Isaiah stepped in, breathless, eyes wide.

"We’ve got something."

Tommy’s head snapped up so fast his vision blurred.

"Where?"

Isaiah wiped a hand down his face, shaking his head. "We don’t know for sure, but one of the lads caught wind of a group setting up shop in an old distillery just outside the city– on the outskirts near the river."

"Who?" Tommy’s voice was deadly calm, but the way his hands shook slightly at his sides betrayed him.

Isaiah hesitated. "You’re not gonna like the answer, Tom."

Tommy’s chest tightened. "Say it," he demanded.

Isaiah exhaled. "Sabini’s men."

The room went deathly quiet.

Arthur swore, kicking the leg of a chair so hard it splintered.

Sabini.

That filthy fucking bastard had been waiting for an opportunity to strike, and Tommy had handed it to him on a silver fucking platter when he sent you away. Tommy felt his pulse roar in his ears, drowning out every other sound in the room.

He turned to Arthur. "Get everyone. We move now."

His brother didn’t hesitate. As Arthur stormed out, barking orders to the rest of the men, Tommy grabbed his coat, his revolver already in his hand.

He didn’t just want to kill them.

He wanted to wipe them from existence.

Because they had taken you.

And Thomas Shelby was going to burn the fucking city down to get you back.

…

Your wrists were raw from the ropes, skin rubbed red and torn from how hard you had fought– fought for nothing, fought for no one to come, fought just to survive another minute, another second.

You were too weak to fight anymore. Your entire body was screaming in agony, every nerve burning, every muscle aching with exhaustion.

Your stomach throbbed violently, a deep, searing pain radiating from one of the larger gashes that had been carved into your skin. You could still feel the sting of the blade as it sank into your flesh, the warm trickle of blood spilling down your ribs, soaking into the shredded remains of your clothes.

What was left of them, anyway.

Your dress had been ripped apart, torn from your body in jagged, humiliating shreds, exposing bruised, violated skin.

The men had touched you, their hands roaming, gripping, forcing you still, their laughter ringing in your ears as they stripped you down like you were nothing more than something to be used.

You had fought, God, you had fought, thrashing, kicking, but their hands had been stronger, crueler, unyielding.

Now, you could feel the cool air biting at your skin, the exposed places where they had left their marks– dark bruises, bloody scratches, shame carved into your very bones. Your arms shook, the fabric clinging to what was left of you, offering little protection, little dignity.

You felt disgusting.

Ruined.

And even though they had been interrupted before they could take it any further, the damage was already done.

The way they had laughed. Cruel, mocking, like your pain was amusing, like your struggle meant nothing.

"Shelby won’t want you now."

The words had sliced deeper than the knife, burrowing into your chest, your ribs, your bones.

"Damaged goods."

"Bet he won’t even look at you when we’re done."

It was all still there, burned into your mind, bleeding into your skin like an invisible brand you would never escape.

And your ribs– God, your ribs. Every inhale was a battle, every breath felt like knives digging into your sides, sharp and relentless. You didn’t know if they were bruised or broken, but the deep, throbbing ache that rattled through your chest made you certain that something was damaged beyond repair.

Even the slightest movement sent sharp, unbearable pain lancing through you, making your vision blur, making bile rise in your throat.

Your face was swollen, beaten, the metallic taste of blood thick on your tongue.

Your body flinched violently as hands roamed over you, rough fingers gripping, bruising, tearing fabric, exposing too much. A cruel chuckle ghosted over your ear.

"Not so tough now, are you?"

The words barely registered through the haze, but the hot breath against your skin did, the weight of a body pressing against you. Suffocating.

You turned your head, gasping sharply, choking on a sob as your body tried to shrink away, but the ropes held you firm, like an animal waiting for slaughter.

Another pair of hands gripped your thigh, fingers digging hard enough to bruise.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to disappear inside yourself, trying to will yourself into a place where this wasn’t happening, wasn’t real.

Then– footsteps, shouting.

Not inside the room, but outside.

The hands stilled.

More voices now, low, urgent, laced with something that sounded close to alarm.

"Go check it out," one of the men shouted.

A few of them grumbled, hesitating, as if reluctant to leave, but then another loud thud echoed from beyond the door, followed by the distant clatter of metal hitting the floor.

The man above you cursed, pushing off of you abruptly, leaving behind a nauseating heat where his body had been pressing against yours.

"Fucking deal with her," he ordered the one who stayed behind before storming toward the door.

You heard them shuffle out, their boots heavy against the floor, the door creaking as it was pulled shut behind them. One remained. 

Then– Gunfire. A sharp, brutal crack shook the walls. The man froze. Another shot. Then another. Shouts of panic cried outside the door, the unmistakable sound of bodies hitting the ground. And then the door burst open.

The man barely had time to turn, barely had time to lift his knife, barely had time to do anything, before a bullet tore through his skull, the shot echoing like thunder.

His body crumpled to the floor.

More boots pounded into the room. Your swollen, half-lidded eyes struggled to focus, your mind fading in and out, but you knew– you knew those voices. Someone dropped to their knees beside you.

"Fuck– It’s her." The voice was urgent, but familiar. "She’s alive. Love, it’s me– it’s John. Can ya hear me?"

He moved to untie you, but you let out a small, broken noise. Weakly, you tried to turn away, as if you could somehow hide your exposed body from him– hide from what had been done to you.

"Shit– someone get her a coat, something!" John hollered. 

More hurried voices. More boots scuffing against the ground.

Then a voice rang out. "Get out of the fucking way!"

The tone was raw, shaking with rage, sharp enough to cut through the chaos like a knife. Everyone moved aside instantly.

Tommy’s blue eyes locked onto you, widening as he took in the bruises, the gash on your stomach leaking blood, the torn fabric barely covering your body.

Then, under his breath, so low it was barely a whisper, he muttered, "Jesus Christ.” 

His coat was off his shoulders in an instant. He crouched down and carefully draped it over you, covering as much of your exposed skin as he could. The weight of it should’ve been comforting, should’ve felt like protection, but you flinched. The sudden movement sent a fresh wave of pain coursing through your body, making your breath hitch sharply in your throat. Tommy’s jaw tightened. His hands hovered, like he was unsure if touching you would only make things worse.

John knelt beside him, fingers moving to quickly undo the ropes. 

Your body swayed forward as the last rope fell away, your muscles too weak to hold you upright, but Tommy’s hands shot out instantly, catching you before you could collapse completely. He felt the way you tensed. The way your body tried to shrink away, as if you weren’t sure whether his hands were safe ones or not. 

“Can you walk?” His voice was low, controlled, but his heart was fucking pounding.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t even manage to look up at him– like you didn’t even register his question.

Your head hung limply forward, resting weakly against his shoulder. Your breath came in shallow bursts as the weight of exhaustion and pain dragged you down.

That was all the answer he needed. Without hesitation, he scooped you up into his arms. The moment he lifted you, a sharp, strangled cry tore from your throat as the wound on your stomach pinched.

“I got you,” The sound of your pain sent a violent shudder through Tommy’s body, his grip instinctively tightening. “I know, love. I know.”

Your head lolled against his chest, another small whimper escaping your lips as his arms adjusted their hold, careful but unrelenting. His breath was uneven as he stood, keeping you pressed tightly against him, shielding you as much as he could.

Your pain was his pain now.

Your suffering was his burden to bear.

And he was going to make every last one of those bastards suffer for what they had done to you.

The night air was cold, but Tommy barely felt it. His grip on you didn’t waver, his arms locking you against his chest, shielding you from the world as he carried you through the bloodstained corridors of the warehouse.

Every step he took was controlled, deliberate, but inside he was barely holding it together. You were too still, your body too limp in his arms. 

“Almost there," he murmured, his voice softer than he’d ever let it be, barely audible beneath the pounding of his own heart.

You didn’t respond. But when his arms shifted slightly, having to adjust his hold as he stepped over a body on the ground, you let out a small whimper of pain. His grip tightened instinctively.

"Shh," he soothed, his lips brushing against your temple, voice raw. "I’ve got you."

The car was waiting outside, its headlights cutting through the darkness, and the backseat door already open. Arthur was barking orders to the men, his voice clipped and deadly, but the moment Tommy stepped outside, all movement stopped. The others watched as he carried you– silent, grim, waiting.

They had seen Tommy Shelby furious before.

But this was something else entirely.

Without a word, Tommy laid you down in the backseat, before climbing in himself. He adjusted his coat so that it covered you again before guiding your head to rest more comfortably on his lap. 

The door slammed shut and the engine roared to life. The moment the car jolted forward, you let out another soft whimper, your fingers weakly reaching for him. 

"It’s alright," he murmured, as his hand brushed through your matted hair. "You’re alright."

You heard his words, but they felt far away… like a voice carried through water, muffled, distant. Your head shifted slightly against his lap as you forced your swollen eyes open. 

And then you saw it.

Blood.

Deep red, seeping through the white fabric of his shirt, thick and dark, staining the material all the way down to his waist. Your breath hitched. For a second, you didn’t understand. Your dazed mind struggled to catch up, struggled to process how he might’ve gotten hurt. 

Then it clicked. It wasn’t his blood.

It was yours.

Your fingers twitched weakly, brushing against the soaked fabric.

"Tommy–"

The word came out slurred, almost inaudible.

His hands tensed around you instantly. "I’m here, love," he said quickly, his voice sharper now, urgent. "I’m right here."

Your vision blurred. The world was tilting again. The blood, so much blood– 

"Tommy, am I dying?"

His arms tightened around you, his grip firm, protective, as if holding you together was enough to keep you here. 

"No," he said immediately, but there was something frantic beneath his voice now, something breaking. "No, you’re not dying. You’re alright."

You blinked slowly, the exhaustion dragging you down. 

Tommy turned his head sharply.

"Drive faster," he snapped, his voice thick with something close to desperation.

Arthur was already pushing the car to its limit, the tires kicking up dirt and gravel as they sped toward home. Tommy’s hand cradled your cheek, his thumb stroking gently along your skin, even as his grip shook.

"You’re alright. But you have to stay awake," he said, almost pleadingly. 

You tried. And really, you wanted to. 

But the last thing you felt before the darkness pulled you under was the way his fingers trembled against your skin.

…

You felt the car lurch to a stop, the tires skidding against the dirt, but the world around you was hazy, your body heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and pain.

You jolted further awake when Tommy shifted, pulling you onto his lap before he pushed the door open.

Then, a rush of cold air. Sharp as it bit at your skin. Tommy stepped out, his grip on you unwavering, unrelenting. There were voices, then footsteps. The sound of boots pounding against the ground. 

Polly’s familiar voice. "Oh, my girl," she gasped. “What have they done to her?”

You tried to lift your head, to focus, but your vision swam, the world tilting in and out of darkness. 

Polly was moving fast, her skirt rustling as she rushed toward you, her hands reaching for you before you even realized what was happening.

"Get her inside," she ordered, her tone sharp, controlled, but beneath it there was fear.

Tommy didn’t hesitate. You felt the urgency in his body, the tension coiling tight in his arms as he carried you up the steps, past the doorway, into the dim warmth of the house.

Everything was spinning. 

When he set you down, the wound in your stomach pinched and a warm rush of liquid poured from it. You clutched at it– felt the blood pooling between your fingers. 

"Tommy, put some pressure on that!" Polly’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and commanding.

Your breath hitched, your body already trembling from exhaustion, from blood loss, from the deep, horrible throbbing wrapping around your ribs like a vice.

Tommy moved instantly, his hands already reaching for you. You felt him brush your hands away before pressing a towel firmly against the open wound on your stomach. 

The moment the pressure hit, white-hot pain exploded through you.

You screamed.

 Your body arched off the mattress, hands flying to his wrist, gripping hard, your nails digging into his skin, trying to push him away.

"I know," Tommy rasped without budging, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like he might break his teeth.

You tried to twist away, but his hands didn’t move, didn’t falter, didn’t let up.

Your vision swam, a high-pitched ringing buzzing in your ears, agony coiling through your body like fire, licking up your ribs, burning through your spine.

Polly was moving fast, grabbing bandages, ripping fabric, preparing whatever she needed, but all you could focus on was the pressure, the unbearable weight of Tommy’s hands pressing against your stomach.

"Fuck," Tommy cursed under his breath. "Pol, do something. Help her–"

"I need supplies, Tommy," Polly snapped. "I need you to go get them."

You saw Tommy hesitate.

"Tom," Polly’s voice was firmer now, demanding. "Go. Now."

A beat. Then, the pressure on your stomach lifted as he moved away. The moment Tommy’s hands left your body, you felt the loss like a cruel snap of cold air.

Your breath hitched, your body instinctively tensing, but Polly’s hands were already there, replacing his. 

She pressed tightly against the wound, and fresh agony ripped through you, another strangled cry spilling from your lips.

"Shh, darling," Polly murmured, her voice softer now, gentler than before, but still edged with urgency. "I know, I know. We’re going to get you all fixed up."

You let out a soft, weak noise as Tommy moved, as if your body somehow knew it was losing its only source of warmth, of safety.

"I’ll be right back," Tommy’s voice was hoarse, raw, full of something broken.

And then, the door swung shut. 

Your fingers clutched weakly at the sheets, your body writhing slightly, trying to escape the searing pain, but Polly held firm. "Easy," she murmured, one hand moving up to smooth your hair back from your face, her touch gentle despite the blood coating her fingers. "Just breathe."

You tried. But every inhale sent sharp daggers through your ribs, every second felt like your body was tearing itself apart.

"That’s it," Polly encouraged, even as her hands remained firm, even as she continued pressing into the wound. "Just keep breathing, sweetheart."

Footsteps. A door swinging open.

Then, his voice.

"Here," Tommy said, sounding breathless as he stormed back into the room. His hands were full of supplies.

Polly barely glanced up. "Put them on the table."

He did, his movements fast and urgent. But the moment he turned back to you, his face fell.

His blue eyes flickered to the blood pooling around Polly’s hands, to the torn fabric soaked with red, and then, to your face.

Your body was trembling, your breath coming shaky and weak, your skin far too pale.

Tommy’s hands curled into fists. Polly looked at him before releasing the pressure on your wound.

"It’s not clotting," she said, flat, grim. Polly exhaled sharply, grabbing the needle and thread. "We’ll have to stitch it up."

His jaw clenched, his throat working around words he couldn’t say, his hands hovering uselessly at his sides. Without a word, he took his place back beside you, his hands finding your shoulders, his grip steady, firm, unyielding.

Polly met his gaze. "Hold her down."

And with agony in his eyes, he did.

A sharp, searing sensation that tore through your body like fire, ripping you from the darkness and into the cruel reality of the moment. Your eyes flew open, your breath catching instantly as a white-hot, unbearable sting shot through your stomach.

A scream tore from your throat before you even knew what was happening.

"Keep her from moving!" Polly’s voice was urgent, firm, cutting through the haze of pain and confusion as she clutched the bottle of alcohol she was using to clean your wounds.

Then, strong hands gripped your shoulders.

"Shh, love, I know, I know."

Tommy pinned you down, his weight pressing against you just enough to keep you still, but not enough to hurt you.

You fought against it anyway, your body thrashing violently, panic and agony blurring together as Polly’s hands worked quickly, pressing something sharp against your skin. Another wave of pain crashed through you, and you sobbed, gasping, your body twisting uselessly beneath Tommy’s grip. 

"Please–" Your voice cracked, weak and frantic, as the burning sensation only grew worse. “Please, stop–”

Tommy’s grip tightened, his breath harsh against your ear as he whispered, "I know,” he repeated. “You have to let her do this."

You couldn’t do it, couldn’t bear the pain, the sting, the relentless wave of agony pressing down on every nerve in your body.

But Tommy wasn’t letting go. His hands stayed firm, keeping you still as Polly continued, her voice clipped, professional– but you could hear the pain in it too.

"It’ll be over soon," she murmured, but it barely reached you over the sound of your own ragged sobs.

Another sharp pain seared through your ribs, and your body arched violently, another broken cry ripping from your throat. Your fingers latched onto Tommy’s arm, gripping him so tightly your nails dug into his skin.

He didn’t flinch.

His voice was hoarse, desperate, like this was hurting him just as much as it was hurting you. "I got you," he murmured, his breath warm against your temple. "I’m right here, love. Just hold on. Just hold on."

But you couldn’t.

You felt yourself slipping away, the pain too much, too unbearable.

Your sobs grew softer, weaker, until the darkness swallowed you whole.

…

Sleep clung to you like a heavy shroud, pulling you under, keeping you trapped beneath the surface.

But then… voices.

Low, hushed, urgent.

You weren’t awake, not really. But the words drifted through the haze, barely reaching you, like an echo through water.

"I don’t know what happened in that room," Polly said, soft but grave, laced with something heavy, unspoken. "But our girl was hurt beyond what the eye can see."

There was silence– so suffocating that you could feel it settle over the room like a funeral shroud.

Then, Tommy’s voice, low, rough, dangerous in a way you had never heard before.

"What are you saying, Pol?"

A pause.

"You saw the bruises on her thighs, Tommy. The way her clothes were torn."

The words barely registered before a deep, unbearable shame clawed its way up your throat.

You wanted to pull the blanket tighter around you– to disappear, vanish, sink back into the darkness where none of this was real.

But your body wouldn’t listen. Your fingers twitched, barely moving against the sheets. Another silence. Longer this time. Heavier.

Then, Tommy’s voice, but it was different now. Not sharp, not angry. Shaken.

“Jesus Christ."

Another pause.

Then, a sound you never thought you’d hear from Tommy Shelby. A shaky exhale, almost like a breath that had been trapped in his chest for too long, forced out in a way that wasn’t entirely controlled.

You wanted to open your eyes.

Wanted to reach for him, for Polly, for something that made you feel whole again.

But your body was too broken, and your mind was too tired.

…

The room was quiet when you woke up.

Not the kind of peaceful quiet that brought comfort, but the kind that felt hollow, empty, like something had been ripped away. Your body felt heavy, every inch of you aching, wrapped in a deep, throbbing pain that radiated from your ribs, your face, your legs.

For a moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe too deeply.

Just listened.

The soft crackling of the fireplace. The distant murmurs of voices downstairs. The faint scent of whiskey, tobacco, and something familiar lingering in the air.

Then, movement

Your eyes shifted, and that’s when you saw him.

Tommy.

He was sitting in a chair beside the bed, his head bowed, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together like he had been praying but never finished the prayer.

His hair was disheveled, his coat abandoned somewhere, his sleeves rolled up. He looked worn down.  Like he had been carrying too much weight for far too long.

Your throat felt tight. When you shifted slightly, trying to ease the ache in your body, the mattress creaked softly beneath you.

Tommy’s head snapped up instantly. His blue eyes locked onto you, and for a brief second they widened, raw and unguarded, before he jolted forward, hurrying to your side.

"Hey–" His voice was rough, low with exhaustion, relief, and something deeper, something broken. “Hey, hey, hey. I’m here. I’m right here.” 

You tried to speak, but nothing came out. Your throat tightened painfully, your lips parting as if to form words, but all that came was silence. Then– tears. Hot, silent tears spilled over your cheeks, streaking down your skin before you could stop them.

Tommy’s breath hitched, his face contorting slightly, as if the sight of you like this physically hurt him.

"Hey," he repeated, his hands reaching up, cupping your face carefully, his thumbs wiping away the tears as fast as they fell. "It’s alright. You’re alright."

But you weren’t. And you both knew it.

More tears spilled, your body trembling despite the warmth of the blankets, despite the fact that Tommy’s hands were steady, firm, and safe. You let out a weak, shaky exhale, your breath stuttering.

Tommy’s jaw tensed, the pad of his thumb still brushing along your cheek.

"You’re safe now," he whispered, his forehead nearly pressing against yours. "You hear me?"

You closed your eyes and nodded weakly, but the tears kept falling. They wouldn’t stop– wouldn’t slow, no matter how hard you tried to breathe through it, to swallow it down, to push it away like it wasn’t happening.

His hands never left your face, gentle, steady, as if he thought you might shatter completely if he let go.

He watched you closely, his expression tight, unreadable, but his eyes gave him away. They were soft. Without a word, Tommy shifted, slowly, carefully, and sat on the edge of the bed. His weight made the mattress dip. And then, he reached for you. Not all at once. Not suddenly. Just gently. One of his arms slid behind your back, the other under your legs, his movements slow, deliberate, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. But you didn’t.  So, when he finally pulled you into him, when he gathered you against his chest, you just let him. Because the desire to be held so gently by him outweighed the pain in your stomach. 

A soft, shuddering sob broke from your throat the second your face pressed into his shoulder. His arms tightened and his chest rose and fell beneath you.

"I’ve got you," he said.

You just cried harder. Cried into his shirt, into his chest, into the only thing that felt remotely safe.

And Tommy just held you.

Like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

… 

The hands were everywhere. Gripping, clawing, pressing against your skin.

Hot breath ghosted over your ear, cruel laughter filling the darkness as rough fingers bruised their way over your body.

"Not so tough now, are you?" 

You thrashed, but you were trapped, bound, helpless. No matter how hard you fought, kicked, screamed, you couldn’t get away.

"Shelby won’t want you now."

"Damaged goods."

"Bet he won’t even look at you when we’re done."

No. No, please.

You screamed.

You jerked awake violently, gasping, drenched in sweat, heart pounding in your chest like it was trying to escape. The room was dark, shadows stretching across the walls, but the nightmare was still there, lingering, suffocating.

A figure moved beside you, reaching for you–  Too close. Too fast.

"Don’t fucking touch me!" The words ripped from your throat before you even registered them, your voice sharp, frantic, trembling with terror. 

"Hey, hey, hey. It’s me. It’s just me."

You sucked in a sharp breath, your pulse roaring in your ears as the terror began to splinter, reality bleeding through the nightmare. Your eyes darted to his face.

Not them.

Tommy.

A shuddering sob broke from your lips as you reached forward. Tommy caught you immediately, his arms wrapping around you, holding you firmly but carefully.

"Shh, you’re alright," he murmured against your hair. "You’re safe. I’ve got you."

His warmth grounded you, but the nightmare still clung to you like poison, lingering in your skin, in your bones. You inhaled, your cheek resting against the curve between his shoulder and neck. His scent wrapped around you, familiar and safe. He smelled of whiskey, tobacco, gunpowder, something darker, something uniquely him.

The fabric of his shirt was soft, worn, and beneath it, you could feel the subtle heat of his skin, along with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was faster than usual, uneven, like he wasn’t as composed as he wanted to be.

The silence stretched between you for a long time, a heavy, fragile thing hanging in the air.

Then, Tommy’s voice finally broke it. "What did they do to you?"

You stiffened. Every muscle in your body locked up, panic flaring hot in your chest. Your breath shook, your fingers twisting into his shirt as your mind raced, panicked, hesitated. 

If he knew, would he still want you?

"Shelby won’t want you now."

"Damaged goods."

"Bet he won’t even look at you when we’re done." 

The cruel messages from the men lingered in the forefront of your mind. You were damaged. Used. Broken. What if he’d see you differently now? What if he never touched you the same again? What if he’d– 

"Please,” he cut in. “I have to know." 

Slowly, you swallowed, your throat tight, aching, before you finally forced the words past your lips. "They–" your voice was barely a whisper. "They touched me, Tommy."

The air in the room shifted as Tommy stiffened. Then his jaw clenched, his breath sharp and ragged through his nose. Before you could process it, he was moving. Standing up and turning toward the door. For a second, your brain didn’t register it– or understand.

Then, it hit you. 

He was leaving… Heading straight for the door. Panic slammed into your chest, raw and frantic.

"Tommy–" Your voice broke, but he didn’t stop.

No, no, no– 

"I’m sorry, I– I tried," you choked out, your throat burning, your hands reaching for him but too weak to move from the bed. "I swear, I fought. I– I should’ve fought harder, I–"

Tommy froze in place.

You didn’t realize you were crying again, but the words kept spilling out, rushed and broken, desperate to keep him here, to explain how hard you fought. "I’m sorry," you gasped, barely able to breathe. "Please– please, don’t go– don’t leave me– I’m so sorry–"

Tommy turned sharply, crossing the room in two strides, and then, his hands were on your face, cradling you, forcing you to look at him.

"No." His voice was firm, steady, but his eyes… His eyes were shining, raw, and shattered. "This is not your fault."

Your breath hitched, but he didn’t let go.

"I should’ve been there," he whispered, voice thick with agony, regret, fury… at himself, at the men who did this, at everything. "You hear me? I should’ve been there. And I should never have sent you away. I was wrong. And I’m so fucking sorry."

A tear slipped down your cheek, and Tommy wiped it away with his thumb, his touch careful.

“I thought–” you stammered. “I thought you were going to leave.”

"Christ, I’m not leaving you love," he murmured, his voice so quiet, so broken it nearly undid you completely. "I just–" he swallowed thickly, his jaw tightening. "I want to go back there and kill every last one of those bastards for what they did to you."

You closed your eyes, your body shaking, exhausted, drained. But when you leaned forward, Tommy caught you instantly, pulling you into him, holding you tightly against his chest.

"Please stay," you whispered, your voice thin, fragile, desperate. "Please, Tommy– don’t go."

His hands tensed against your face, thumbs still brushing against your cheekbones, his blue eyes searching yours, reading every ounce of fear buried beneath the words.

"I’m not going anywhere, love," he murmured, his voice low, rough with emotion, as if saying the words out loud solidified them in stone.

A quiet, broken noise escaped your throat– not quite a sob, not quite relief, but something in between.

His hands slipped down, his arms gathering you close. Your forehead pressed against his chest, his warmth grounding you.

He dipped his head, his lips brushing against your temple, barely a whisper of contact, but the weight of it was enough.

"I never should’ve sent you away," he murmured, his voice softer now, but still laced with the guilt he would never forgive himself for. "And I promise you, love, I won’t make that mistake again."

Your fingers weakly clung to his shirt, your body melting against him as the last of your strength gave out. 

And Tommy held you together.

[vervainandspritz]

JUST ANOTHER OF YOUR MISTAKES

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Request made by @justsumtuffstuff: Could you do a tommy shelby imagine where you secretly have his kid but don’t tell him until one day aunt polly sees you and is like “holy shit” but that’s not the surprise, the surprise is you have twins. Just a lot of angst and fluff pretty please? ((:

This fic will have two parts!

Warnings: angst, swearing, violence, grieving, a lot of pain, eventual fluff, smut

A/N: It's a.. heavy fic, so beware. Interact for more

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE

~~

The land of Birmingham seemed to never change, not one bit. Ever since the first people settled there, the sky hung over them as if by force, never clear enough to see prospects for the future. Robbing the poor kids of dreams, of the loud thumping in their hearts caused by excitement for the good that never came.

It would seem that God has lost his way to Birmingham, not to mention Small Heath. Dirt, smoke and silence that rang too loud when working men would finish their shifts in factories seeking peace in their homes. After all, the human brain can get used to everything.

What was the difference between going to sleep hungry every night, and the relentless churning in the depths of her stomach that Y/N felt? Pain that never let go, waking up along her side like a loyal husband, never ceasing to accompany her throughout the day. Never loosening the hold on her heart.

Oh, how cruel the fate can be, Y/N thought, looking at the white ceiling of her bedroom. One she slept in for many nights too long, carrying the weight of the curse on her shoulders.

Because she was cursed, that one she was sure. Seeing the man she loved more than anything else in the world, losing himself in the grief after another woman.

Because that was the woman whose name Y/N dared not speak or even think. That's who she was, another woman. Embodiment of pain and betrayal of so many promises, taking away the beautiful, blue gaze Y/N yearned for so badly.

God must have been so cruel, putting her through the uncertainty of ever seeing him again throughout the war, and then taking him away.

Taking him away from Y/N, and letting her watch the process. Letting her see the distance growing, the dilated pupils in his eyes after each doze of opium, fruitlessly trying to numb the pain he carried.

Y/N couldn't help but wake up everyday, wondering how different his grief would be if it was her who died. Would he cry? Would he push the other woman away, like he did her? Sometimes the pain felt like too much to handle, but Y/N would never try to pull the trigger. Subconsciously feeling the weight of shame in her chest if she'd ever somehow found out she was right. That he wouldn't care.

So she lived, losing pieces of her heart day by day, warming his bed whenever he saw it convenient.

Until that one day came, that was. Hearing the... Scary, oh so scary news from her doctor she visited in secret. Putting both of her hands on her still flat stomach, she didn't feel anything physically. Yet it was enough to find the strength, buried so deep in her heart.

The love she felt for her unborn children outweighed the love for him.

The tension in Arrow house felt heavier than usual, as Y/N dragged her heavy suitcase down the stairs before slowly making her way to his office. The pain, longing in her heart slowing her down, extending the seconds into forever.

Y/N took a deep breath as her hand pressed down on the metal handle, the loud click echoing throughout the mostly empty room. Wordlessly she slipped inside, walking up to his desk quietly, letting out a shaky breath when she stopped mere inches away from the wooden furniture. His eyes didn't move from the documents he was reading, an empty gaze fixed on black letters despite knowing she was there. Y/N waited for a second, giving him a chance to look at her. Hoping he would.

But he didn't.

”I'm leaving” she said, loud enough to be heard. Silence followed her words, loud like never before as her heart squeezed in anticipation, silently begging him to stop her. To say something. Several moments passed before he finally did, making her heart stop for a mere second.

”Safe travels, Y/N Y/L/N” He responded in a cold, husky voice and for a moment, Y/N wondered who he was, wearing his face but sounding so different.

But the dust settled, just like the weight of his words as soon as she closed the door behind her back for what she thought would be the last time.

~~

Polly's eyes cut through his skin like a blade, her gaze never changing after that one feral day. The look of contempt and disgrace not even a bit different than one she gave him finding out what happened, back then.

”I was hoping you wouldn't be so stupid” She hissed, leaning forward, reaching for a cigarette with a shaky hand. Her eyes were teary, as she inhaled the smoke. ”When you were younger I saw your mother in your eyes. Now, they're full of greed and foolishness. Just like your father's” She spat out with contempt, raising from the chair. Quickly walking up to his own, she kneeled down for a moment, to meet his gaze.

One so empty, that gave her goosebumps.

”I will never forgive you, and... Neither will you.” She whispered. ”But you will have to live with the choice you made.”

Her words echoed loudly in his head several minutes after Polly left... And they never stopped ringing now, thirty eight months later. Thomas counted, every morning to be sure. After sobering up it was difficult to tell days apart. He rarely slept, fearful of the dreams he had at first.

He saw her, she was so close and yet no matter how fast Tommy ran, he couldn't reach her. Out of his reach no matter how hard he screamed or cried. Looking at him with the burning tears he caused.

It took him three months to sober up, give up on opium and... Feel. Thomas wasn't ready for the hellish pain that dawned on him once the drug wore off. The terrifying longing that dawned on him when he felt the remnants of her perfume on his pillow. The lack of relief he hoped for so badly, throwing away every single Grace's belonging he held onto previously, burning the photos and destroying the items, but it never came.

As time stretched, it became more intense. Thomas carried the pain and guilt wherever he went, finding the smallest bit of relief only in his office, searching for Y/N in every piece of England day by day.

Replaying the ways in which he treated her, internally setting himself on fire and forcing himself to feel every bit of it. Because that's what he deserved, to feel and carry the cross he created with his own hands.

Oh how beautiful the pain was, as he'd lean back in his armchair, closing his eyes and remembering her gaze. Her scent and her laugh, echoing so lively in his mind.

...but none of it worked, no matter how many people searched. How much money he spent on the search. Almost like she disappeared into thin air.

Day by day he was dying a little, bleeding through the wounds he so desperately prevented from healing every single time. Keeping the memory of her alive in his mind, not letting the hope die. Because it was all he had. Glimmer of hope. The leader of Peaky blinders became even worse than before. The pain shaped his mind in unknown ways, as the limitless cruelty became visible to anyone who dared to cross his path. Peaky Blinders were unmatched.

Nobody besides Thomas held onto the hope anymore. Knowing Y/N for so long, John and Artur knew she wouldn't come back. Not if her life depended on it. Polly only prayed for her safety.

...and Y/N? She stopped praying once her children were born. After finding out she'd have twins, she prayed every night for them to be born healthy. It was all that mattered.

Not the fact that she had to be using a fake name after moving to Coventry, mere miles away from Birmingham. But she couldn't afford to move further.

It's been.. so fucking hard. Everything. Y/N spent every night crying, begging any God that would listen to take away the pain in her heart. The pain that her babies only managed to lessen. Working as a waitress on nightshifts after accepting the kindness of her older neighbour. Mrs Wilson offered to take care of her boys while she works to help her make ends meet. Y/N had no idea what she would do without a woman she grew to call her only family.

”It's no problem, honey. They're little angels” She said quietly with a kind smile, taking one of the boys into her arms mere days after they were born.

The pain Y/N felt by having to leave her kids every night was stronger than the physical one. Having to work a demanding job after giving birth to keep the roof over their heads.

She cried, cried so much that eventually tears ran out and all she could do was.. keep trying. The two little people by her side were giving her strength. Light that she couldn't see before them, and only existed because they were here. Keeping her own heart beating.

***

”Are you sure? I can take care of them while you go, honey. You know how much I love them, don't you?” The older lady offered eagerly, caressing Nick's cheek with a smile, and a hint of concern while she glanced at Y/N.

”Thank you, but I will take them. The least I can do is spend time with them throughout the day.” Y/N responded, smiling sadly to her neighbour who just nodded along, understanding the allusion.

Letting out a sigh, she put her hands together.

”Be careful, dear.”

Y/N squeezed her hand lightly before pulling away as she held her son's hand, while carrying the other one on her hip.

”Always”

Travelling via train took no longer than forty minutes, and with each passing mile, Y/N's anxiety grew. She hasn't been in Birmingham for a long time now, not looking back.

Yet, because of her official address being still in the Arrow house, she needed to visit the office to complete documentation for boys. She put it off as long as she could, but it was inevitable now.

Despite the negative emotions, Y/N couldn't felt.. better, having her babies with her. The familiar facial expressions or blue orbs were enough to sometimes bring her to tears, but she couldn't love them more. They were a perfect little copy of the man whose name was engraved on her heart. The older they were, the more similar looking they were and now at dashing two and a half years, both boys were troublemakers.

Slowly making their way through Birmingham, Y/N held one little hand, chatting away with Nick, who was more energised than his brother who slept soundly in his mum's arms.

”...and dat?” He asked, pointing towards the building and glancing curiously at his mama. Y/N smiled at his curiosity, seeing how similar personality wise he was to her.

”that's a house” She replied calmly. The little boy cheered loudly, throwing his arms in the air.

"Yaay! Hooose!” He squealed making her chuckle, not caring about the scolding glances from other passengers.

A couple minutes later the other little one woke up, and started fussing because obviously he also wanted to walk now, while Nick wanted to be carried now. Sighing, Y/N put one of the kids down, and as she managed to pick up little Nick, she gasped loudly seeing her son's legs already in motion as he ran towards the crowd.

”Tommy! Thomas, stop!” She yelled after him, chasing him with Nick on her hip who watched the whole thing with his blue eyes wide open. ”Tommy!” She yelled once again, and he finally turned around, stumbling upon someone.

Y/N closed the distance as fast as she could, grabbing little Tommy and pulling him back to his feet, as she checked for any bruises – found none.

”I'm so sorry, i–” She started out, wanting to apologise to the random passenger, but words died on her tongue as soon as her eyes locked with the familiar brown ones.

”Y/N?” Polly stumbled out in shock.

Fuck

Part two upcoming

[cherrycranes]

A Proper Thank You (Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader) [+18]

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x female reader Summary: You're Tommy's younger girlfriend who he loves to spoil. Thankfully, you always know how to thank him. Word count: 2,954 Contents: (Minors DNI) Age gap (reader is in her 20's, Tommy is in his 40's), smut, daddy kink (a serious use of the word "daddy"), oral sex (male receiving), cum eating. Author's notes: Another collab with my bestie @fuckiingloser. Don't forget to give her some love too! Mandatory "english is not my first language" disclaimer. Love ya!

You were not the first young woman to be with a man in his 40's. It was still very common even if the times were changing. But there was something about this relationship that did mirror the societal shift. You were his sweet girlfriend who he paraded around town, who shamelessly sat on his lap while he worked and who shared his bed. Quite the scandal for those still stuck in Victorian times who would expect this to happen only between a married couple. Good thing the Victorian times had ended over 30 years ago. 

Tommy loved having you by his arm half of the time. The other half he loved having you under him. Or on top, he wasn't picky. He got a kick out of the variety of looks some people would give him for having a pretty, young girl as his sweetheart. But above all things, he absolutely adored the way his pretty baby looked at him whenever he spoiled her rotten.

Today, you went with him to a horse ranch near Southam. A lovely place where Tommy intended to see that beautiful look in your eyes once more. He smirked, seeing you caress a beautiful mare’s nuzzle, the animal calm and docile under your touch.

“Aye, I think she likes you.” Tommy announced with pride, already planning to buy the horse for his beautiful girlfriend.

“You think?” You turned your head to look at him and admire his poise. The cigarette kissing his lips, the fine dark suit, the piercing blue eyes. So intimidating to many, so dear to you. “She’s beautiful…” Your thoughts and eyes returned to the mare, giving her another soft pet.

“You two make a very pretty picture, baby girl.” He dropped his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out skillfully before making his way to you. His big arms wrapped around you from behind while he rested his chin on your shoulder. You smirked when a surprisingly sweet kiss was planted on the side of your head. Thomas Shelby was never sweet to anyone, not even in the dark humor jokes of those who knew him. His portrait could have easily been annexed to the definitions of “rugged”, “serious” and even “ruthless”, yet, here he was. This was what his lips that had spat out curses and threats were doing. Kissing. And very gently at that. 

Above all women, you had a special place in his soul. You had him wrapped around your finger like those expensive rings you wore. Anything you wanted, you could have it. And if tomorrow you were to ask for a heart on a silver plate, he would tear anybody’s chest open and serve it to you himself.

You leaned into him, just in time to meet his husky whisper:

“If you want her baby… She’s yours.” 

With a big, spoiled princess grin, you turned around and looked at him in complete elation.

“Thank you, daddy!” Your sweetness intoxicated him, the way you looked into his eyes killed him, and the way you called him “daddy” raised him from the dead. He absolutely loved it. 

A calloused hand came up to touch your cheek, his thumb gently rubbing over your bottom lip. He admired the joy upon your beautiful face and studied it devotedly.

“Anything for my girl.” He spoke softly, his sexy Birmingham accent made your knees feel weak and your pussy become wetter. In a heartbeat, Thomas spoke to the farm owner, purchased the mare without even caring about the cost and made the necessary arrangements so you could have your pretty horse. 

After a successful purchase, Thomas helped you into the passenger seat of his car, driving you back to town. You would have your horse tomorrow morning, right now, business called.

He drove you to the Garrison, the Shelby's family owned pub for a Peaky Blinder business meeting. Usually, women were not allowed, but you were not just a woman. You were Thomas Shelby’s woman. And the people who knew would rather chop a limb off than dare to deny you access.

With his hand on your lower back, Tommy guided you inside the rowdy bar towards the private Peaky Blinders table. Everybody was waiting for your arrival between sips of irish whiskey and puffs of smoke. Thomas took a seat and you took yours on his lap, the feeling of your weight on him as natural as the feeling of air entering his lungs. 

The men at the table did not bat an eye, your presence was the new normality. And in a way, a sign that things were good, that Thomas was relaxed and no conflicts were on the horizon. If something bad or difficult was preying upon them, you would be hidden away in some safe heaven and not happily sitting on Tommy’s lap. Perhaps, the only other emotion a few of the men could feel when looking at you was a secret, deeply buried longing. Anybody would love to have a beauty like you sitting on their lap. Not that they would allow Thomas to hear them admit that.

The meeting started around you, some usual business and many details you didn’t care for. Thomas concentrated, his thumb mindlessly rubbing back and forth on your clothed thigh. You liked the skirt you wore, the fabric was soft, and it incited Tommy to touch. It was not exactly close to the feeling of your bare skin when you fucked him, or when he would make you sit naked on his lap while he worked in his house studio, but it was pleasant. 

The more the meeting dragged on, the more you started to grow restless. And a little bored, in all honesty. Sitting on his lap sounded glamorous and sensual in theory but in practice it was a test of resilience and patience. Being a sweet arm candy girl like you required more than a pretty face and a hot body. You also had to possess the skills to tell when a meeting was dying out and calculate the exact perfect moment to lean closer to Tommy’s ear and whisper something to save you from boredom.

“You know… I never properly thanked you today for getting me my beautiful horse… I think daddy needs a proper thank you…” Thomas turned to look at you with a raised eyebrow and a little smirk.

“Is that right?” He leaned closer to you until your noses bumped together, giving your thigh a squeeze. “And just how would you thank daddy, then? Hmm?” He whispered, the meeting a mere background noise now. You leaned towards his ear again, whispering so quietly so only Tommy could hear.

“I wanna suck your cock… Or you can fuck me over your desk in the back?” You purred so innocently despite the pure filth of your words. His cock told you all you needed to know about his opinion. The twitch inside his pants impossible to miss. You pulled back to stare into his eyes and take in his tiny smirk. He knew that resistance was futile and completely incompatible with him when it came to you.

Without excusing words or explanations to the other gentlemen, Thomas scooted you two out of the booth, taking your hand and guiding you to the back. He kicked the small office door open and locked you both in. You could almost feel his piercing blues tracing the shape of your ass under that fashionable skirt you wore. 

“So...” You started, walking over to his desk and luring him to take a few steps closer to you. He towered over you, his rough hands touched your hips with interest. “How does daddy want me?” You purred innocently, looking into his eyes.

Thomas’ cock hardened even more in his dress pants. Your figure, your soft face, your pretty eyes, your voice, you. Lust took over his eyes.

 “On your knees baby… you know what daddy wants.” His voice was husky, overcome with his need for you and your pretty little mouth. You grinned, a hungry look in your eyes replicating his own. Steadily, you sunk to your knees, the fabric of your skirt your only padding on the cold floor. Tommy leaned against his desk and watched you work your magic. Your fingers undid the button of his pants with torturous care.

“You know… If you wanted to fuck me in front that whole room of men… I’d let you. I’d let you do whatever you want to me..” You were a tease, you killed him slowly. His breath hitched a bit, his possessive streak driving him to total insanity. You were right. You would let him do anything he wanted. He knew. But hearing you say that made the fire of his lower stomach ignite him whole.

“Oh, I know you would… You’d be my good little girl, wouldn’t you?” He whispered, brushing a hair out of your beautiful face. You nodded so innocently, and then lowered his pants down until they pooled around his ankles.

“I'll always be your good girl… I’ll always please you and let you use me however you need…” You whispered back, a soft sensual smile gracing your lips. Tommy couldn’t help but groan at your words, his painfully hard cock pulsing in his boxer briefs right in front of your face.

“God, you’re such a good girl… You’ll be good for daddy now won’t you?” He cooed. 

“Always.” You purred in devotion. Your hands reached up to grab the band of his boxers and, with one swift, well trained motion, pulled them down. His large throbbing cock sprung free for you to drool over. Mere inches away from your face. 

“You gonna thank your daddy properly, hmm?” He asked with a sexy smirk, heavily accented and incredibly husky. You nodded obediently, your eyes going from his beautiful irises to his hard cock. It had been over four months since you became his sweetheart and you still felt enamored at his sheer size.

“Yes daddy…” You answered softly then looked back up to his pretty blue eyes. “Gonna suck your cock and drain these perfect balls just how you like…” You made it a point to speak so innocently, stirring something in him. He could have lost himself right then and there from your words alone. It took him a second to fully take in the idea. The dirtiest promises coming from the prettiest girl he has ever seen.

“Fuck baby… You’re gonna be the death of me someday, you know that?” He asked in a playful little smirk, and you attacked. Your soft hand wrapped around his aching hard cock. He groaned softly.

“But at least you’ll die happy.” You purred, gifting him a few seconds to prepare himself before finally leaning in to swirl your tongue skillfully over the head of his dripping cock. Thomas let out a guttural moan, his hand gripping his desk behind him in an attempt to steady himself. His head fell back, the texture of your wet, warm tongue erasing each and every thought off his mind. It all became you and you only. You licking him, tasting his sensitive tip, you pleasing him.

“Fuck, baby… My perfect girl…” He managed to choke out, affected yet addicted. Your tongue swirled over him expertly, and you looked up at him. A sweet happy hum reverberated in your throat as you tasted the salt of his precum. Every drop that ran down his tip not making it far thanks to your eager licks. Your hum sent vibrations up his cock, making him feel like his knees were about to buckle under him. The only time he appreciated feeling vulnerable.

Tommy looked down at you servicing him, taking your sweet time on his sensitive tip. The fire in your eyes recognized his and burnt with it. 

“Holy-f-fuck.. my girl knows how to suck her daddy’s cock so good….” He groaned, and you took more of his lengthy cock in your mouth, working your way down and sucking it, your tongue massaging it slowly.

He tried his best to maintain his composure and control, but another swirl of your tongue made him admit to himself that he would not last long.

“F-fuck, baby girl… You keep going like that…” He groaned, gripping the edge of the wooden desk harder and urging you.

You bobbed your head on his cock in a skillful rhythm. The sounds coming from you were so filthy and obscene. Nothing could have torn his gaze away from you. It was a war between him and his throbbing cock. He wanted more, desperately needed more, but his orgasm neared closer than his next breath.

 “You’re too good to me, baby girl… You’re gonna make daddy come… And it’s gonna be right in your pretty mouth, and you’re gonna take every last drop, aren’t you?” He cooed with one hand touching the top of your head for support. You bobbed your head, up and down his shaft, with your nose bumping his pelvic area. You looked up and hummed in response. You always swallowed.

Noting his increasing pleasure, you pushed yourself to take more of his thick cock. You gagged a little and earned a loud moan from him akin to music to your ears.

“Goood girl… Good girl.” With his praise like a mantra, he watched over you, almost out of breath. “That's it. I'm gonna come for you… ‘m gonna come in this mouth and you’re gonna swallow all of it, aren’t you baby?” He repeated, unaware by now. No thoughts inside his head, only your perfect mouth that pulled back for just a second.

 “Yes, daddy.” You purred, looking up at him with innocent eyes before taking him in your mouth again, this time working faster and with much more intensity. Constantly swiping against the underside of his thick cock.

Thomas had to resist the urge of bucking into your mouth and fuck your face just the way he likes, but he found the willpower to stay calm. This was all about you pleasing him, putting that mouth of yours to work and thanking him. 

“Good girl, such a good fuckin’ girl…” He praised, his orgasm so close to hitting him and knocking him flat out. “Now, remember, baby girl… What’s my rule?” His voice almost cracked. Dominance was a hard thing to upkeep when his balls tightened this hard and your throat hummed around him. Your pussy grew wetter at the mention of the rule, one you had committed to memory.

“Before you can swallow, you have to show it to daddy... Need to see my come all over your pretty tongue, hmm?” Thomas said, barely hanging on at this point. One of his hands holding your hair back and the other gripping the desk behind him for stability.

You hummed as loud and as best as you can, his thick cock barely giving up space for sound to travel. You kept sucking him, and his resistance was hung on by a thread, ready to snap at any moment. His moans, his heavy breaths, the hot puffs of air he lets out, the way his cock throbbed in your  mouth… You wanted him done for. 

Your hand came up, gently cupping his balls and giving them a soft squeeze. His breath hitched and he cursed under his breath.

“Holy fuck, baby-” He choked out, and everything snapped inside him. “Coming..” That was the only word he managed to utter before his resolve crumbled and his orgasm hit him like a tidal wave. His hand grabbed your hair firmly, but not painfully, keeping you there, ready to take it all.

Your movements stopped in anticipation and his cock pulsed inside your mouth. A salty load of cum coated your tongue completely and his sensual low groan filled your ears. His eyelids fluttered shut for a moment and his lips stayed parted. When every last drop was unloaded, he opened his eyes back again and looked at you intently.

“Show daddy…” He murmured, his voice a little strained. You obeyed, pulling off him and sitting back on your knees. With pride, you stuck out your cum-painted tongue for his viewing pleasure.

“My good girl.” Tommy praised. You were indeed so good. So obedient. So perfect for him. “You can swallow now, baby girl.” 

His hand petted the top of your head with appreciative softness, and you, living up to his praise, did as he said. The salt taste of his cum mixing with your saliva before passing down your throat. A soft hum of approval coming from you made him smile ever so gently.

He reached down to pull up his pants, tucking his now soft, sensitive and tired cock back into his boxers and buttoning his dress pants. He reached his hands down, pulling you up from the floor easily into his arms. When you were close to his face, you gave him a cheeky little smile. His hands cupped your face and gently pulled you in for a burning hot, passionate kiss. His tongue invaded your mouth, making him taste himself on you. A pervertedly satisfied smile crept into the kiss.

Slowly, he pulled back, looking at you with half-lidded eyes.

“You know… If all it took to get you to do that for me is to buy you a horse… I think I'll buy you a horse, or anything else you want every single day for the rest of your life.” Tommy whispered in a mix of sensuality but also pure, deep love. 

Your eyes twinkled a bit and a soft smile appeared on your face. He was just as obsessed with you as you were with him. 

“Deal”.

[peaky1wh0re]

Smash.

[s0urw00lfsrants]

Being a girl is pt.2: deciding you’ve read enough fics for the moment and swiping out of the app just to re-open tumblr or open wattpad/ao3

[mypoisonedvine]

A tommy idea: he hires us to help take care of his kids when they’re home but he soon realizes that he likes us more and more seeing how maternal we are with them. He’s constantly checking us out, when we bend over he’s always accidentally bedons us, good girl girl and praising us for doing well taking care of them, and the idea of us carrying his next baby also turns him on so much

oh my goddddd!! this turned out pretty short cause I wrote it in my car on break from work 😭 but I just had to do this concept pronto

warnings: SMUT 18+ ONLY, slightly dubious consent (tommy is a little... pushy), age gap (not specified, everybody's grown), breeding kink

You were bouncing the little one on your hip when he came in; you gestured to the older child, already asleep, as a reminder to Thomas to speak softly so she wouldn't wake.

He approached you slowly, waving a quick hello to the baby but otherwise just watching him slowly shut his eyes as he drifted off.

"The children adore you," he noticed, smiling proudly, "as do I."

"I adore them," you returned, "and I'm... thankful you hired me to care for them."

You felt his gaze on you as you gently laid the baby in his crib, feeling a little strange about him standing so close behind you while you were bent over. "Don't you ever want any of your own?" he asked, lowering his voice a bit. "You'd make a lovely mother..."

He trailed off for a moment, his fingers brushing over your back through your dress, making your breath catch.

"...and such a sweet little wife, too," he added with a slow breath. You shuddered, turning to face him and completely intending to tell him how inappropriate this was, but the look in his eyes shut you up in a second.

"M-Mr. Shelby..." you mumbled, blinking up at him as he stepped closer again, nearly pressing his body to yours-- you tried to step back but only found yourself pressed against the crib.

"Well?" he pressed. "Don't you want children?"

"M-maybe someday," you answered nervously, struggling to keep your attention on the conversation when he rubbed your arm through your sleeve. "But I think I'm still too young--"

He knit his brows together, shaking his head. "Oh, no-- you're the perfect age for it, darling..."

You swallowed thickly, his fingers running gently over your jaw and lifting your chin so he could get a better look at your nervous, confused expression.

"You should have one," he decided suddenly, "and I should have another."

You opened your mouth to disagree, but nothing really came out... instead, he just pulled you into a kiss: slow, gentle, patient. You knew Tommy could be a volatile man, even violent, but you'd never known he could be so tender.

Of course, it didn't last long. He was anything but slow or gentle or patient when he had you in his bedroom, pressed up against the wall as he drove into you mercilessly, holding your legs open as he grunted with each rough thrust into your heat. "Good girl," he growled as your head fell back with a sigh of pleasure, "look how well you take it. I knew you needed a baby in you, darling-- as soon as I saw you, I knew. This body of yours just begging to be bred..."

You whined and bit your lip, but a hard thrust that went just a bit too deep made you yelp loudly-- and his hand quickly snapped over your mouth, muffling your noises as he panted in your ear.

"Shh, not so loud," he warned, "you don't want to wake the baby..."