#Thomas Shelby x Reader

[myladyship]

"Here," you said handing over the baby. "You left this in my vagina!"

"You begged for it." He casually said, holding the baby.

[queenshelby]

The Peaky Role (Part 43)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Age Gap, Best Friend's Dad, Pregnancy

Updating the Master List ATM!

With a quick glance over his shoulder, he took your hand, leading you toward the bedroom upstairs with a sense of urgency that echoed the chaos of your emotions.

The door creaked open, shadows flickering across the room as Cillian pulled you inside, his breath warm against your skin before he pressed you gently against the wall, his fingers tangling in your hair.

Cillian's lips grazed yours, igniting a fire that surged between you, filling the room with raw intensity. His hands cradled your face, tilting it towards him, as if seeking an answer in your eyes.

"I love you," he whispered, the weight of his confession hanging in the air, charged and electric.

Both of you stood frozen, breaths mingling as the world outside faded into silence, leaving only the palpable tension and unresolved feelings swirling between you.

"I love you too," you breathed, your heart racing as his eyes sparkled with a deep, unyielding connection.

In that moment, nothing else mattered, only the two of you, bound by a desire that transcended reason and consequences.

Cillian's hand trailed down your back, his fingers skimming the curve of your spine before settling on the hem of your jumper. With a swift movement, he lifted it over your head, leaving you in nothing but a lacy black bra and jeans.

"Fuck, Y/N," he growled, his eyes roving over your body like a starved man. "You're so fucking beautiful," he said as he stepped closer, his body pressing against yours. 

"And you really need to be quiet. My dad is right next door, and Max just went to bed," you whispered, your voice laced with urgency as you pulled his t-shirt over his head as well.

"Fuck," Cillian murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair as he captured your mouth in a desperate, hungry kiss. Your bodies pressed together, the heat between you palpable. You could feel his cock, hard and eager, pressing against your stomach.

You nipped at his lower lip, sucking it into your mouth before biting down gently. Cillian groaned, his grip on your hair tightening as he deepened the kiss.

"I need you," he rasped against your mouth, his voice hoarse with desire.

"I'm right here," you whispered back, your hands tugging at his belt, unfastening it with shaking fingers.

Cillian's breath hitched as you pushed his jeans down along with his briefs, his cock springing free, hard and ready. He stepped out of them, kicking them to the side, and then he reached for your jeans, his fingers deftly unbuttoning them and sliding them down your hips. You stepped out of them, leaving you both in your underwear.

Cillian's eyes drank in the sight of you, his breath coming in ragged gasps. 

"I love the way you look at me," you said quietly, your voice barely a whisper as you reached behind your back and unclasped your bra, the straps falling down your arms and revealing your breasts to him.

"Fuck," Cillian said, his voice rough with need as he reached out and cupped your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making them harden instantly.

You let out a soft moan, your head falling back against the wall as your eyes fluttered closed, savouring the sensation of his touch. He leaned in and took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it before sucking gently, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

You gasped, your hands tangling in his hair, holding him closer. Cillian switched to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, his fingers pinching and rolling the nipple he'd just left.

"Cillian," you breathed, your hips writhing against the wall, desperate for more. He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your sensitive skin.

"You like that, don't you?" he murmured, his voice thick with desire before dropping to his knees, his hands tracing the curve of your hips as he kissed your stomach, his breath hot against your skin. 

He then pulled down your panties, his fingers brushing against your wetness as he pushed them down your legs. You stepped out of them, leaving you completely naked before him.

"God, you're so fucking wet," he growled, his fingers tracing your folds, teasingly, making you squirm against the wall.

You bit your lip, your breath coming in short gasps as he spread your legs wider, his fingers exploring your most intimate parts.

"Oh god, please," you begged, your hips bucking as he teased you.

Cillian chuckled, the sound dark and dangerous. "Please what, Y/N?" he asked, his voice laced with desire.

"Please make me come," you whispered, your eyes locked onto his as he leaned in, his tongue tracing your entrance.

You let out a soft moan, your fingers tangling in his hair as he lapped at you, his tongue exploring every inch of you. He sucked on your clit, drawing it into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you.

You gasped, your grip on his hair tightening as your hips began to move in time with his mouth.

"Oh fuck, Cillian," you moaned, your body on the brink of abandon.

Cillian's tongue worked you with expert precision, alternating between slow, sensual licks and rapid, intense flicks. He inserted two fingers inside you, curling them upward to hit that perfect spot that made your vision blur.

"Fuck, right there," you cried out, your voice barely a whisper, fearful of waking the house.

"Right fucking there, Cillian." Your hips bucked against his mouth, matching the rhythm of his tongue and fingers.

Cillian grinned against your clit, feeling the warmth of your body shiver through him. He loved the taste of you, the sound of your pleasure, and the feeling of your body writhing beneath his touch. He flicked his tongue faster, his fingers curling inside you, searching for that spot that would send you over the edge.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you chanted, your breath coming in short gasps. Your body tensed, your muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap.

Cillian's fingers worked you with precision, thrusting in and out, curling against that perfect spot inside you. His tongue swirled around your clit, the sensation overwhelming as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.

"Fuck, I'm going to come," you gasped, your voice barely audible, the pleasure building like a tidal wave ready to crash down.

Cillian redoubled his efforts, his tongue lashing against your clit, his fingers pistoning inside you. You clamped your thighs around his head, your hips bucking wildly as the pleasure consumed you.

Cillian's fingers moved faster, his tongue flicking back and forth against your clit, sending sparks of ecstasy coursing through your veins. Your body was on fire, every nerve ending tingling with anticipation.

"I'm coming, fuck, I'm coming!" you cried out as, finally, your body convulsed, your vision blurring as waves of pleasure crashed over you, drowning you in its intensity.

Cillian's fingers slowed, his tongue gentling as he brought you down from the high, his breath hot against your sensitive skin.

He kissed your inner thigh, your hip, a trail of soft kisses leading up to your navel. You sagged against the wall, your body boneless and sated.

"Fuck, that was amazing," you murmured, your voice hoarse with pleasure. Cillian smiled against your skin, his hands roaming over your body, reacquainting himself with every curve and line.

"I could watch you come all day, Y/N," he whispered, his voice thick with desire as reached for him, your fingers fisting in his hair as you pulled him up to meet y our kiss.

His cock, still hard and eager, pressed against your stomach and you gasped into his mouth as he ground against you.

"I need you inside me," you whispered, your voice hoarse with desire as you pulled him towards the bed.

Cillian nodded, his eyes dark with lust and he followed you over to the bed, his hands roaming over your naked body, grasping your ass and pulling you close. He laid you down gently, his body covering yours, and you could feel his cock, hot and hard, pressing against your entrance almost instantly and, without even saying a word, he 

pushed inside of you. You gasped, your back arching as the sensation of him filling you completely overwhelmed you.

"Fuck, that feels so good," you moaned, your nails digging into the soft sheets as Cillian began to move, his hips thrusting against yours, his cock sliding in and out of you with a rhythm that drove you wild.

"You feel so fucking amazing," Cillian groaned, his face buried in your neck, his breath hot against your skin, as he picked up speed, his thrusts becoming harder and faster.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, your heels pressing into his ass, urging him deeper. "Fuck, yes," you cried out, your body moving in sync with his, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Cillian lifted his head, his eyes locking onto yours, the intensity between you almost unbearable. "You're so fucking tight," he rasped, his voice laced with need. "And so, fucking wet. God, I love how you feel."

You bit your lip, holding back a moan, as he ground against you, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside you that made your vision blur.

"Fuck, Cillian," you breathed, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he began to move faster, his thrusts becoming deeper.

"Y/N," he murmured, his voice thick with desire as he leaned down to capture your mouth in a fierce kiss. His cock pumped in and out of you, the sensation overwhelming as he swallowed your moan.

"I love you so fucking much," you whispered against his lips, your body on fire with desperation.

"I love you too, Y/N," Cillian groaned, his hips moving, drawing out his strokes while making sure to hit every sensitive spot inside you.

He shifted his angle, finding that perfect spot deep within you, and your back arched in response, a cry escaping your lips.

"Fuck, right there," you gasped, your hands gripping his biceps, your nails digging into his skin. "Don't stop, Cillian. Please don't stop."

"I won't," he promised, his voice a low growl as he picked up his pace, his hips snapping against yours, his cock filling you completely with each thrust.

Your hands slid down his back, your nails raking against his skin as your bodies moved together, skin slapping against skin, the sound of your lovemaking filling the room until you couldn't take it anymore.

"I am so close,” you gasped, your hips thrusting up to meet his, chasing that elusive release.

Cillian felt you tightening around him, your body on the brink of exploding, and he groaned, "Fuck, Y/N, I'm right there with you."

You bit your lip, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he increased the pace, his body slamming into yours with a force that sent shivers of pleasure down your spine.

"Fuck, Cillian," you moaned, your body trembling with anticipation. "Fuck. Oh god," you groaned, your body tensing as Cillian's hips slammed into yours, the bed creaking in time with the force of his thrusts.

Cillian's eyes locked onto yours, the intensity between you almost unbearable as your release washed over you.

You cried out, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm, your nails digging into his shoulders as you rode out the waves of pleasure together. You felt him tense, his cock pulsing inside you as he let out a low groan, his body shuddering as he came, filling you with his seed.

As the last ripples of pleasure subsided, Cillian collapsed beside you on the bed, his body slick with sweat, his chest heaving. You turned to face him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, a soft smile playing on your lips.

"That was... incredible," you whispered, your voice hoarse with satisfaction.

Cillian propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze intense as he looked down at you, his hair dishevelled and his chest glistening with sweat. He leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a tender, lingering kiss that spoke volumes about the emotions swirling between you.

"I love you," he murmured against your mouth, his fingers tangling in your hair. "And I am sorry for having ended things between us, Y/N. Fuck, I've missed you every single day since then," Cillian confessed, his blue eyes reflecting a mix of regret and longing.

You traced the line of his jaw, your heart swelling with emotions that were both comforting and painful. "I missed you too, Cillian. Every. Single. Day," you whispered, the words catching in your throat.

Cillian reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. "I can't promise that it's going to be easy, Y/N. We have quite a few obstacles in our way. But I'm willing to fight for us, if you are," Cillian said, his voice laced with determination.

You nodded, your heart swelling with love and resolve. "I'm in this with you, Cillian. All the way, but let's not jump the gun with this," you whispered, your fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. "We need to take things slow and really think this through."

Cillian nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I know," he agreed, his thumb still tracing lazy circles on your cheek. "We need to keep this between us until Nina settles down, with the baby, and my divorce is finalised, but I can't really ask you to wait for me forever, Y/N."

You felt a pang of sadness in your chest at the thought, but you nodded, understanding the reality of his situation. "It's not forever, Cillian. It's nine or ten months, tops. We can handle that, right?" you said, trying to sound more confident than you felt. The thought of waiting for him sent a wave of longing through you, but you pushed it aside, focusing on the bigger picture. "Despite, I am about to move to Galway for three months and you can come and visit me, and no one will ever know,” you suggested, a playful glint in your eyes as you turned the conversation around, trying to lighten the mood.

Cillian chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You're right," he agreed, pulling you closer, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare back. "We can make the most of it while we can. And maybe, just maybe, by the time you get back, things will have sorted out for us."

You nodded, snuggling into his chest, the warmth of his body enveloping you. "Exactly," you whispered, your breath hitching as he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

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[sl-newsie]

Um… yeah

[softcillian]

﹙Ꮺ࣭۪﹚ | FOOKIN' BABY — thomas shelby

you knew something was wrong when tommy shelby refused a cigarette.

he just sat there at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense, jaw ticking like a bomb mid-countdown. sunlight slanted through the curtains all soft and gold and holy, but your husband looked like war. looked like 1914 come back to haunt the breakfast dishes. looked like he was seconds from setting something on fire just to feel warmth.

you set the kettle down. hard.

“what?” you say, sharp like the edge of his razors, voice still sticky with sleep. “what is it now, thomas?”

he doesn’t answer. just stares straight ahead at absolutely fucking nothing, like the ghost of a thought has him by the throat. which, fine. you’re married to a man whose favorite pastime is brooding, right next to murder and tax evasion.

but then he says it. and it’s so goddamn unexpected, you forget how to breathe for a second.

“i want a baby.”

you blink.

“you—what.”

his blue eyes meet yours. stormclouds. cigarette smoke. something ancient and aching. “a child. ours. i want one.”

you laugh. because it’s easier than screaming.

“jesus christ, tommy. is this another one of your near-death existential spirals? do we need to call polly again?”

he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t blink. just says, deadly serious, “you’d be a good mother.”

and it hits you in the chest like a fucking freight train.

because here’s the thing about tommy shelby: when he loves, it’s not flowers and poetry. it’s knives. it’s promises soaked in blood. it’s protection so feral you almost choke on it. and when he looks at you like that—like the world is a house on fire and you’re the only thing worth saving—you believe him. against your better judgment. against every ounce of self-preservation.

you sit down. slow. because your knees aren’t working properly anymore.

“you’ve got three siblings with kids. and a fucking horse. why do you need this?” you ask, weak.

“because none of those are you. and none of them are mine.”

and there it is. raw and selfish and soaked in possession. tommy shelby in one fucking sentence.

you run a hand through your hair. “this is so unhinged. you can’t just—just decide you want a kid out of nowhere.”

he arches an eyebrow, infuriatingly calm. “i’ve wanted one since the wedding.”

you gape. “then why didn’t you say anything?”

“because the war never ended, love. just changed shape.”

you’re gonna cry. and you hate crying. especially in front of him, because he gets all tender and tragic and you end up in bed for three days trying to fuck the pain out of each other like that ever works.

you reach across the table. lace your fingers through his. and he lets you. because when you touch him like this, it’s the only time he doesn’t flinch.

“it’s not that i don’t want one,” you whisper. “it’s just … what if you get killed, tommy? what if i’m left raising a baby on my own, telling stories about a ghost who smelled like gunpowder and good whiskey?”

he squeezes your hand.

“then name him after me.”

you laugh through a choked sob. “you arrogant bastard.”

“takes one to love one.”

and then he’s pulling you into his lap like he’s starved for you. like he needs to feel your heartbeat just to keep his own steady. he kisses you like it’s a vow, like he’s swearing something to your bones. and you kiss him back because of course you do. because you love him in spite of everything. because of everything.

his mouth trails down your neck. “let me show you,” he murmurs against your skin. “how much i want this. how much i want you.”

you bite your lip, trying to stay rational, but the way he touches you should be illegal in at least seventeen countries. and when he says, “wanna see you round, carrying my baby. mine. all mine.” you’re done. you’re just done.

somewhere between the second orgasm and the wreckage of your dignity, you realize he’s serious. he holds you like he’s memorizing the shape of your future. palms flat against your belly like he’s trying to will life into it. and for the first time, you’re not scared. not really.

because if there’s anyone who can stare down the apocalypse and still plan for tomorrow—it’s thomas shelby.

and maybe, just maybe … you’ll give him one.

but not before you punch him in the arm and mutter, “next time, lead with flowers. not fucking baby fever.”

he smirks. “thought you liked me feral.”

“unfortunately, i do.”

and he kisses you again, this time soft. like the war has ended, if only for now.

[jtargaryen18]

The Arrangement ~ Chapter 11

Series Masterlist

Words: 8k

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: More misogynist insults, veiled threats, a looming war between gangs, threats of violence, explicit v sex, a little domination, oral (f receiving), and jealousy.

Vicente Changretta asks to meet with Tommy about the drama with Angel, John continues to struggle with the situation, wedding plans continue. You panic a little because you can't dance and Polly has an idea to remedy that. Not everyone is on board.

It was too early in the day to be dealing with the Italians. Tommy sat at his desk, the morning light filtering through the smoke-stained windows of the betting shop. The blueprints for the new factory were spread out in front of him, meticulous lines, careful math, and projections for something solid and forward-moving.

He hadn’t absorbed a single word of it. Not since he found out.

Angel Changretta, fucking coward that he was, had cornered her in town. Grabbed her arm, put his hands on her. Left her shaken, too shaken to even tell him until later, when it had already happened. The moment was gone, and Tommy couldn't rewind the world to be there when she needed him.

He hadn’t been there. That part echoed the loudest. Now it sat inside him like a coal, burning low, but steady. He was seething. Tommy could stomach a lot of things, power plays, rival gangs, backroom deals. But this? Angel Changretta putting his hands on her? No, that was a declaration of fucking war.

And on top of the bruising insult of it was the sick, sour jealousy curling inside him. Because some part of Angel had looked at her like she could be his. That was the part Tommy couldn’t let go of, the part that made his hands shake when he lit his cigarette that morning. He was barely into his first cup of whiskey-laced tea when the door cracked open.

Liam stepped in, cautious. He knew better than to knock when Tommy was like this. “Vicente Changretta’s here,” he said. “Wants a word. He’s brought two men with him.”

Tommy didn’t look up. Of course he was here. He'd expected some kind of theatrical follow-up to Angel’s stunt. Vicente would show up with that oily smile, pretending this was about business. Pretending Angel hadn’t just crossed the one line Tommy didn’t put on the table. His knuckles whitened around the porcelain teacup.

This didn’t need to be business anymore. Tommy no longer wanted peace.

He set the cup down, the clink louder than necessary. “Did you search them?”

“Yeah,” Liam nodded. “Them and their coats. Took their blades. Left them with nothing but manners.”

Tommy stood, tugging the hem of his waistcoat straight. Composed on the outside, boiling just beneath it.

“Fine,” he said coldly. “Let him in.”

A moment later, Vicente Changretta strolled into the office like a man arriving for afternoon tea, not like the father of a son who had just laid hands on Tommy Shelby’s bride. His two men, sharply dressed and too quiet, lingered just inside the door. Watchful and arrogant.

Vicente held his hat in both hands, smiling like he’d just come to borrow a cup of sugar.

“Mr. Shelby,” he said, his voice smooth, and his chin dipped in polite greeting. “I appreciate you seeing me on short notice.”

Tommy didn’t offer him a seat. He just said, “Speak.”

Vicente raised his eyebrows, but didn’t miss a beat. He lowered himself into the chair across from Tommy’s desk with the casual grace of someone who mistook arrogance for immunity. He smoothed a crease in his trousers like he had all the time in the world. “You know, when my family first came to Birmingham, we made a point of showing respect. We believe in harmony and cooperation.”

Tommy didn’t respond.

“I remember you boys back then,” Vicente said, easing into the leather chair like he owned it. The Italian glanced around the room, letting his gaze linger briefly on Arthur near the door, then John by the window. Then his gaze settled back on Tommy. "Running around Small Heath, trying to look like men. Borrowing your dead father’s coats, sleeves too long, shoes too big.” The man's smile was faint and knowing. “Even then, you had ambition. I’ll give you that.”

Tommy just kept listening to Vicente, letting the silence stretch. Long enough to see the first flicker of doubt creep behind his eyes.

“You,” Vicente said, his gaze landing on Rory. “You’re new.” He tilted his head, tone still pleasant. “But I’ve heard about you. Cold-blooded. Black heart. Some real creativity in your work, from what I hear.”

Rory's expression was stone and shadow, gaze locked on Vicente without saying anything.

Vicente chuckled softly, as if it were all a compliment. As if they were men who shared mutual respect.

“I’ve heard there’s a celebration coming. A wedding.” Vicente leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Congratulations, Tommy. Angel told me she is a beautiful girl.”

That was the moment the energy in the room shifted. The intensity shifted, making it feel like a bomb could go off any minute. All civility vanished there. And for Tommy, that was when the planning ended... and the war began.

“You know,” Vicente went on, adjusting his cuff with idle precision, “it still eats at him. My son, Angel.”

Tommy was barely keeping his fury contained.

Vicente’s voice dipped, slick and syrupy. “That girl of yours, Lizzie, he was in love with her, you know. Thought she’d be his. Until you had her break it off like it meant nothing. Like he meant nothing.” He leaned back in the chair, smug and unhurried. “That’s the thing about boys, Mr. Shelby. They don’t forget when someone takes what they want. Especially not when the man who took her turns around and picks out another like it’s nothing.” Vicente smiled wider. “I can see why a powerful man like yourself wants that. A little wife. A mistress. One for duty. One for fun."

John exploded, shoving off the wall. His voice sliced through the room like a blade. “You greasy little fuckin’ bastard. Say that again. I fuckin' dare you.”

Arthur stepped forward, already bracing. “John, don’t.”

But John was already moving, glaring at Vicente like he was ready to put him through the floor. “You think you can come in here, insult Lizzie like she was some side piece he tossed aside? Insult my brother's fiancée like she's nothing?”

Vicente remained seated, smug and smiling. Like he’d expected this reaction.

“John.” Tommy’s voice was low and dangerous.

But John couldn’t stop now.

“You're here because Angel couldn’t keep his hands to himself? I'll cut those fuckin' hands off. You think Angel can touch her, talk about her, like she’s a fuckin’--”

“That’s enough.” 

It wasn’t Tommy this time. It was Rory. He moved fast, grabbing John hard by the collar and the arm, yanking him back with a strength that surprised everyone in the room.

“Get off me!” John snarled, struggling.

“Outside,” Rory growled in his ear, dragging him toward the hall. “Now.”

“I’ll take the bastard’s fuckin’ teeth out--”

“You’ll do it out there, where he can’t twist it into an excuse to start a war,” Rory's voice was low. 

John kept fighting him, his feet skidding across the rug. He spat towards the floor, towards Vicente’s shoes. “Fuckin' Italians think they own the bloody place--”

The door slammed shut behind them.

The room stilled. Arthur stood tense near the door, one hand flexing like he was holding himself back. Rory’s heavy footsteps faded into the hallway, the echo of John’s fury still lingering beyond the door.

Vicente exhaled slowly, like he’d just finished a satisfying performance. He smiled again, smug and sure of himself. “You see?” he said, almost chuckling. “That temper’s going to be a problem. Hot heads make poor husbands, don’t they?” He leaned forward slightly, his eyes glittering. “But boys will be boys, eh? Same as my Angel. Passionate. Hungry for life.”

Tommy still hadn’t moved. If Vicente really knew anything about him, he would have realized there was no patience in that stillness. Only calculation and containment.

Vicente adjusted his jacket, slow and deliberate. “All I’m saying is men like our sons walk where they want. And if the woman’s not married…” he smiled, “well, the city’s open.”

That was the moment Tommy’s patience cracked clean through. Stepping forward, he kept his voice calm, “Let him walk. But if he takes one step toward my wife... I’ll cut him down where he stands. And I’ll bury what’s left with your fucking pride.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to draw blood. Vicente just looked at Tommy, studied him carefully. And for the first time, the smile slipped. Tommy didn't sense fear in the man, but recognition. 

Vicente smoothed the front of his coat, and rose slowly. “Well,” he said softly, almost amused. “I’ll be sure to pass along your… sentiments.” 

Turning toward the door, he paused. His voice lingering like a bad aftertaste. “You know, Mr. Shelby… it’s always the beautiful ones. They bring out the worst in men.” He dipped his head with mock courtesy. “Give the bride my regards.”

And then he was gone, his footsteps unhurried, his men trailing after him. 

The office stayed silent.

Tommy stood motionless, his chest rising and falling like he was counting each breath to stay grounded.

Across the room, Arthur shifted. Scratched his jaw. Finally muttered, “Fucking greasy bastard…”

Tommy was still staring at the door, but his eyes were far beyond it.

Arthur stepped a little closer. “You alright?”

Tommy’s voice was tight. “No.” A pause. “But I will be.”

Arthur gave a slow nod. No more questions. He already knew what was happening, that Tommy was already making plans to destroy the Changrettas. And someone wasn’t walking away.

You stood on the small platform in front of Polly's full-length mirror, holding your breath as your mother fastened the last hook at the back of the wedding gown she made for you.

It was quiet in the room, just the soft rustle of fabric, the occasional scrape of Polly's cigarette against the ashtray, and the quiet hum of approval from both women circling you like gentle storms.

The dress, your wedding dress, was perfect. You hadn’t expected it to be, not because you had any doubts in your mother's skills. You’d expected it to be tight across your belly or somehow reveal more than you wanted anyone to see. But your mother had worked wonders, a lowered waistline, flowing fabric, delicate lace sleeves that softened everything they touched.

“Christ,” Polly breathed, arms crossed as she took a seat on the chaise lounge. “You look like a princess.”

Your mother smiled, still fussing at the hem. “I wanted it to be something you could wear proudly… even with everything.”

You swallowed hard. “You mean the bump?"

“Yes. The bump.”

“I feel like it’s written across my face.”

Polly stood and walked closer, smoothing the bodice gently. “Ada was nearly due when she married Freddie. You’re glowing. That’s what people will see.”

You looked at yourself again. The soft ivory silk. The way the light caught the stitching. The faint curve of your body, mostly hidden beneath clever design and love.

The door opened gently, and one of the maids stepped in with a box. “Shoes, Miss.”

You stepped down as your mother took the box and opened it. Inside were the most beautiful shoes you’d ever seen, soft ivory satin, a delicate heel, tiny pearl buttons at the ankle. They weren't too tall. Just a simple, elegant design. 

Polly lifted one like it was made of glass. “Well, they were worth all the bloody drama.”

Your mother laughed quietly. “They’ll be comfortable, too.”

Polly gave you a look, one brow raised. “They should be. You’ll need to be able to dance in them.”

The air in your chest stopped moving. “Dance?”

Polly blinked. “At the wedding. The first dance, of course. You do know how--”

“I don’t,” you said quickly, stepping back. “I never learned...”

Your mother frowned slightly, concern flickering in her eyes. “Sweetheart, it’s nothing. Just a few simple steps. You’ll pick it up.”

But you were already shaking your head.

Polly tilted her head, cigarette between her fingers. “It’s just dancing. You'll learn, get in some practice before the big day."

“No,” you said again, softer this time. “I...I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

Polly opened her mouth, probably to argue. But instead, she sighed. “All right,” she said. “We’ll figure something out.”

You turned away from the mirror, pretending to fuss with the second dress your mother had hung on the wardrobe door. The panic had passed, mostly, but a tightness still sat beneath your ribs. Dancing was such a small thing. But you felt like everything could unravel if you didn’t get it right. What if you stumbled? What if you looked foolish in front of him?

Polly crossed the room slowly and sat down again, tapping ash into the tray before speaking. “You know,” she said after a moment, “when Ada got married, her dress didn’t fit well.”

You looked at her, surprised.

“She was bigger than you,” Polly added with a half-smile. “And twice as stubborn. I had to talk her out of wearing her bloody overcoat to the ceremony.”

That pulled a small laugh from your throat. But just as quickly, you looked down at your hands. “I don’t want to mess everything up,” you whispered.

“You won’t,” Polly said.

You sat beside her, and for a moment, the room was quiet again with your mother arranging clothes for you.

“I never thought I’d have anything like this,” you said. “Not the dress or the shoes. Not him.”

Polly looked at you, her eyes sharper now. “Then don’t be afraid of it.”

You hesitated. “I think... I’m more afraid it’ll disappear. Like it was never mine to keep.”

Polly reached over and took your hand. “It’s yours,” she said. “And if anyone tries to take it from you, they’ll have to go through all of us first. Which reminds me..."

Just like that, Polly stood and left the room like she'd forgotten something. 

Your mother smiled. "For a mother-in-law, you could have a lot worse."

That was true enough. She may not have been Tommy's real mother, but she was in all the ways that counted. 

You sat there, still in the glow of her words. Your mother moved quietly across the room, but when she returned, her hands weren’t empty. She held a small, worn box, edges scuffed with age and corners soft from years of handling.

“I was waiting for the right moment,” she said softly, as she sat beside you. 

You took the box, your fingers brushing over the lid. When you opened it, the breath caught in your throat. Inside, nestled in a piece of faded velvet, was a brooch, a flower wrought from solid gold and sapphires, each petal trimmed with smaller sapphires, still vibrant despite the years.

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, barely able to look away from it.

Your mother smiled, her voice a little tight. “It belonged to Malachy’s mother. Your grandmother. She gave it to me just before she passed. Told me to keep it for you.”

You looked up, startled. “But… I’ve never seen it.”

“No,” she said, her mouth tightening. “Because I hid it.” She looked out the window, the light catching the lines in her face. “Your stepfather, he’d have pawned it. Like he did with everything else of value. Even things that weren’t his. I buried it in a tin, under the lilac bush. It stayed there for years.”

Your breath caught.

“I had it cleaned up,” she added, reaching to gently touch the brooch. “There’s a man in town who polished it. I thought… you should have something from us.”

The emotion rose so fast you almost couldn’t speak. “Thank you,” you managed, blinking hard. “I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said, her hand covering yours. “She'd want you to wear it. So would your father.”

You nodded, your heart squeezing in your chest. “I will.”

Your mother smiled softly, but didn’t let go of your hand right away. “There’s something else,” she said gently. “Something I thought you should know before the day comes.”

You looked at her, sensing the shift in her tone.

“Tommy,” she hesitated, then gave your hand the smallest squeeze. “He asked Rory to give you away at the wedding.”

"What?”

She nodded. “He asked for him to take your father's place. Rory didn’t even hesitate.”

Her words were soft and devastating. You remembered walking down the aisle alone in your uncle's church. This time, it was a wedding you wanted, and Rory would walk you down the aisle. 

Tommy realized how much that would mean to you. Just like he knew you wouldn’t have asked. 

The tears came as they did more often now, blurring the room. Your mother just pulled you in and held you close. 

“He’s not perfect,” she murmured, pressing her cheek to your hair. “But he understand you well.”

He did, and it felt like another step towards putting you back together.

Another knock at the door came then, lighter this time, playful.

“Oi,” Finn’s voice called from the hall. “You decent in there? Pol says we're dancing.”

You and your mother smiled at the same time. And just like that, the quiet moment was over.

A couple of hours later, Tommy reached for the bottle. He poured a measure of whiskey into the nearest glass and tossed it back in one motion. The burn didn’t register.

Arthur had walked into his office calmly enough, but now he was lingering like a storm cloud. Rory stood still, arms crossed, silent as ever. He knew they'd given him some space to get over Changretta's visit this morning. John wasn't even there.

Tommy turned to them, voice sharp and even. “They’ve overplayed their hand.”

Arthur looked up. “They’ve underestimated you.”

“No,” Tommy said. "They’ve underestimated what’s important to me. That’s the mistake.” He looked down at the floor for a moment, the words dragging up from somewhere deeper than business. “They think this is about territory. Power and posturing.”

He glanced toward the window, then back at Arthur and Rory. His fingers curled slowly into a fist on the edge of the desk. “But it’s not. Not this time... They touched what’s mine. They looked at her like she was a move on a chessboard. Like she was some message they could send me. And now they think they’ve rattled me. That they’ve got leverage.”

Tommy looked up then, calm again. “But all they’ve done is show me exactly where to strike.”

Arthur blew out a breath, and dropped into the chair Vicente had occupied earlier. “John’s gone off the rails. We sent him home. Told him to go home to Esme and shut up.”

Tommy didn’t respond right away. Moving behind his desk again, he didn't spare the blueprints spread across his desk a single glance. He was thinking about John.

John', whose's fuse was shorter than ever lately. He’d watched their family splinter and rebuild too many times. He'd been dragged out of the room like a schoolboy because he couldn’t stomach hearing Lizzie being objectified. 

Tommy wasn’t angry at him for it. He understood. That kind of rage came from somewhere close to the bone, from love. And that made John a liability right now. 

He needed to keep himself in check too.

“I’ve got Rory keeping an eye on him,” Tommy said, more to himself than Arthur. “He’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Tapping the edge of the desk with his fingers, Tommy stared down at its surface.

Still. It wasn’t just stupidity he was worried about. It was the weight John carried, the kind of pressure that cracked men from the inside. And John had always felt things deeper than he let on. Always wanted to protect something. To be someone. And when he didn’t know how to do that… He unraveled.

Tommy exhaled slowly. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

Arthur looked up. “You think he’ll listen?”

Tommy met his older brother's gaze. “No. But he’ll hear me.”

Tommy straightened slowly, the last edge of restraint smoothing into something far more dangerous. Into purpose. He moved to the sideboard and poured himself another whiskey, but he didn’t drink it. Just held it, turning the glass in his hand like he was weighing something.

“They made it personal.” His voice was quieter now. Controlled. He set the glass down untouched.

Arthur leaned forward slightly, brow furrowed. “What’re you thinking?”

Tommy stepped back to the desk, resting both hands on it. “We don’t start with Vicente. Not yet.” He looked at Rory. “Angel’s the weak link.”

Rory nodded. “Already got eyes on him.”

Tommy gave a small nod in return. “Good. Follow everyone he speaks to. Anyone he drinks with. Sleeps with. Pays. Favors. I want names, patterns, any possible leverage.”

He turned to Arthur. “And while he’s being watched, we start applying pressure around the edges. I want the Italians uncomfortable.”

Arthur smirked. “How uncomfortable?”

Tommy’s jaw ticked. “Can’t breathe. Can’t sleep. Can’t take a piss without wondering if it’s the last one.”

Arthur chuckled darkly. “Now that’s more like it.”

Tommy continued, eyes dark. “We take their money first. Disrupt routes. Spread word among their suppliers that their deals are unstable. Then we hit their runners. One by one. Not dead. Just ruined.” He paused. “And we do it without a single bullet fired directly at Vicente. Not until he realizes we’ve taken everything but the ground under his shoes. By the time we're done, Angel will have nowhere left to walk.”

Arthur rubbed his hands together, eyeing Tommy carefully. “And what about her?”

Tommy didn’t look up right away. He reached for the cigarette he'd set aside and lit it with a steady hand, the flame catching and flaring before he shook out the match. Smoke curling through the space between them. "I’m staying close.”

Arthur’s brow lifted. “You’re not coming back to the office tomorrow?”

Tommy shook his head. “No. Not for a few days.” He moved to the window, watching the street through the slats of the blinds. “They made a move on her. That changes everything.” He took a slow drag, exhaled hard. “She’s safe at the house. Rory’s been rotating the watch, and I trust who we’ve got in place. But I want to be there. I want her to see me there.”

Arthur tilted his head, arms folded. “You think they’ll come back that bold?”

Tommy didn’t answer immediately. He tapped ash into the tray, still staring out into the quiet street like he could see the future moving through the shadows.

“No. Not yet.” He paused. "But if they do… I won’t be a phone call away. I’ll be the one at the door.”

Arthur gave a slow nod. 

There was a time Tommy would’ve assigned the protection, kept a distance, worked it all like another business problem. But she changed everything.

Tommy turned away from the window, the decision final in his posture. He was staying close. Not just to keep her safe, but to make sure she knew it. She’d been through enough at his own hands. And now Angel Changretta had cornered her. Vicente had spoken her name like it could be passed around.

Never again. He would make fuckin’ sure of it.

Across the room, Rory watched him carefully. He stood there, arms crossed, taking it in. “Good.”

Tommy looked up, surprised by the word.

Rory's gaze met his. “She needs to see you. Not just hear your orders. She’ll feel safer if you’re there.” Dropping his gaze, he said, “So will I.”

That last part wasn’t thrown in casually. It landed.

Tommy nodded. “Then we don’t leave anything to chance.”

Rory gave a half-smile, more like an edge of approval, and stepped back toward the door. “I’ll tighten the perimeter. Let me know where you’ll be in the house, and I’ll adjust the posts.”

Tommy almost smiled as Rory headed off to do his bidding.

Arthur watched the exchange, then huffed a quiet laugh. He shook his head like he was seeing something inevitable unfold. “Christ,” he muttered. “He’s more like you every fuckin’ day.”

Tommy didn’t react, not outwardly.

Arthur smirked, leaned back in his chair. “He's cold, loyal as hell. Only difference is, you actually talk sometimes.”

Tommy grinned at the truth in those words. But it was part of what made the lad so effective. He listened, didn't talk. 

Arthur’s voice softened, more serious now. “You really have gone soft for that sister of his.”

Tommy flicked his cigarette into the tray. “She’s mine.”

They made it back to the mansion just before sunset. Arthur pulled the door shut behind them, and Tommy stepped into the quiet of the front hall.

It was early evening. The house was warm. The lamps had been lit, casting soft golden light across the polished floors and crown molding. Somewhere, music was playing on the gramophone. The sound of laughter followed. What was this?

Arthur cut him a look, shrugged. 

Tommy moved in that direction, following the sounds of music, shuffling feet, then more laughter. When he turned the corner into the sitting room, there they were. 

And there she was. Her dress was new, soft blue and sleeveless. It showed off the shape of her in a way that made something inside him ache. To him, she looked like she belonged in a painting with her hair done up, eyes bright. She was laughing, dancing with Finn who was almost as tall as her. His youngest brother was counting off a rhythm, his hand hovering politely at her waist. Finn was still a lad, untouched by the violence that carves lines into a man's face.

"No, you're doing it wrong," John said. 

And then John stepped in, all charm and swagger. He barely paused before sliding in front of her like he belonged there. His hand went to her waist without hesitation, fingers splayed a little too familiar.

John shot Finn a grin. “Watch and learn, little brother.”

She didn’t protest. She was still laughing, eyes shining when John twirled her. Her dress swished around her knees as John pulled her back into rhythm. His movements were clumsy, like he was a step off, or half a beat too fast. It didn’t stop him. If anything, it added to his usual cocky rhythm, that barely-reigned-in energy that made him both magnetic and maddening.

She smiled, but it was tinged with nerves. Like she wasn’t quite sure how to handle him, but she didn’t want to be rude. And when she missed the next step, stumbling slightly into his chest, she caught herself on his arm and ducked her head.

John steadied her easily and flashed that crooked grin. “That’s alright, love,” he said, not missing a beat. “You’re just distracted by how handsome I am.”

She laughed again, softer now, less uncertain.

Tommy stood watching all of it from the doorway, and the warmth of the room suddenly felt suffocating. It was all innocent, harmless. He knew that. But something about the way John touched her, the way she looked up at him with that little smile, like he’d managed to make her forget whatever nerves she’d had... It burned. In that moment, she looked happy and relaxed. 

And it wasn’t him who put that look on her face. It wasn’t him making her laugh like that. Tommy knew he should have been glad, grateful even, that she could relax after everything she'd been through. 

Instead, he saw red. He saw John's hand low on her waist, and the way she tried to keep up with him. Vicente’s words, still echoed in his head. Men like our sons walk where they want. And if the woman’s not married, well… the city’s open.

And for a brief, dangerous moment, Tommy forgot logic. Lost all strategy and control. All he saw was something that was his, in someone else's arms.

That’s when it happened. His voice cold and sharp as a razor, "That’s enough.”

His words cut through the music, sharp and final. Finn backed away like he’d touched a hot stove. John blinked, caught mid-laugh, brow furrowing in disbelief.

She turned to Tommy, the excitement fading from her eyes, bleeding into confusion.

Tommy didn’t explain or soften. He just held out his hand to her. 

She hesitated for only a second before slipping her hand into his.

Tommy didn't look back, didn't say anything else. He just marched out of the room with her beside him. Her steps were light, but unsure as she followed him.

Behind them, the music stopped and the silence cracked wide open into whispered tension. Arthur muttered something Tommy didn’t hear.

John’s voice was louder. “What the fuck was that about?”

And then Pol. “Let it go. It's between them.”

Tommy didn't slow down as he led her past the stairs. He had to remind himself not to move too fast, or drag her along. He felt her gaze on him, searching his profile as they moved down the hallway.

She didn’t say anything or fight him. Still, he felt the shift, and her fading warmth. The slight hesitation in her steps. Just a moment ago, she'd been radiant. Now she was trying to read him, like he was something dangerous that might go off without warning. It made his stomach twist.

By the time they reached his study, his thoughts were already circling. Tommy knew he shouldn’t have snapped at her like that. But watching her in someone else’s arms, even John’s, had lit something in him that refused to be reasoned with. And worse, some part of him still didn’t regret it.

Opening the door, he let her step inside before locking the door behind them. 

To his knowledge, she’d never been in his study before. She paused, her eyes moving slowly across the room. It was nothing special, dark wood, heavy drapes. The smell of paper, leather, and smoke soaked into every surface. But it was his.

And now she was standing in the middle of it, her fingers brushing lightly over the edge of the massive oak desk as if she was touching something she wasn’t sure she had the right to. 

Tommy watched her carefully. He shouldn’t have brought her here. He knew that. This wasn’t a place for softness. It was where decisions were made. Threats issued. Enemies dismantled.

And yet… he’d brought her here anyway. He needed control. Because out there, for one unbearable moment, he’d felt it slipping away... He remembered her smile, John’s hands. And now here she was, standing quietly in a room where he held every card. And he hated himself a little for it.

She didn’t say anything right away, just looking around at the shelves of books he hadn't touched in years, the unopened letters, and the half-full whiskey decanter sitting on the desk. At the framed photo of his mother tucked discreetly in the corner of a shelf.

“This is where you disappear to,” she said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

He nodded. “Sometimes.”

Her gaze returned to him and there was no anger or accusation. She was just watching him, waiting. That made it worse. She wasn’t the one who needed to apologize. He was. And yet, jealousy still clung to him like thick smoke.

“You were laughing,” he said, the words low and rough.

She blinked. “Is that a crime?”

“No.” He paused. “You looked happy.”

Her brows pulled together, like she didn’t understand what that had to do with anything. And that’s when he realized, he didn’t know how to explain it. How it felt to walk into a room and see her relaxed and beautiful, and not be the one who put that light on her face. He didn’t know how to tell her that his rage wasn’t at her.

“You looked happy.”

Your brow creased. That’s what this was about?

You watched him carefully now, trying to read past the sharp lines and silence. Why was he angry? Why had he come home, pulled you out of a perfectly ordinary moment, one of the first moments you’d felt like a real bride, and brought you in here to this heavy room? Here he could stand behind everything he was and look at you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t solved.

Your heart slowly started beating faster. “What is this, Tommy?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away, so you stepped closer. “Did I do something wrong?” Your voice was a whisper now because you didn’t want it to be true.

"In three days time," Tommy's voice was low, sent a shiver down your spine, "you'll be my wife."

You nodded eagerly. "Yes."

"But I need you to understand something, love," he said, taking a step toward you. "Before you ever walk into that church, before you share my name... You already belong to me. You're mine. My property."

The intensity in his eyes, his entire demeanor, had you taking a step back. Had it bothered him that you were dancing with John? 

"No one touches what's mine," he went on, taking another step toward you. He was eyeing you in a way he hadn't since the night he took you away from Arthur. 

"I'm yours," you told him.

Instinctively, you took a step back. Tommy moved closer to you, until the backs of your thighs met the edge of his desk. 

"Show me." Tommy moved closer, his hand moving to your outer thigh, plucking at the silky fabric of your dress. "Show me what's mine... before I have to tear your pretty new dress off you."

You had no idea what was going on in his head, but your body already moved to obey him. Reaching behind you, your fingers scrambled to undo the fasteners at the back of your dress, to loosen the garment. You were shaking now, unsure of where he was going with this. Your heart raced as you shrugged out of the dress, letting it pool at your feet. 

The dress wasn't the only new thing you were wearing. Your chemise and drawers were cream silk with lace trim, the stockings that came up to your thighs were beneath that. His heated gaze moved over all of it appreciatively, his fingers sliding up the inside of your thigh now, verifying the border where the lace trim ended and your thigh began. You didn't withdraw from his touch, regardless of what had gotten into him tonight.

You trusted him. 

"The rest." Tommy was so close you could feel his breath on your face. 

His demanding gaze had you reaching for the hem of your chemise with shaking hands, pulling it over your head, revealing your breasts to him. And they were slightly bigger due to your pregnancy. His hand lifted from your thigh, his fingers tracing over one of your nipples. And it tightened to a hard peak beneath his touch. You saw a flash of something like triumph in his gaze at your body's response.

"Go on," he demanded without raising his voice.

And you didn't hesitate, pushing down your drawers until the only thing you were wearing were the sheer stockings that came up to your thighs and the simple shoes strapped to your feet. When you reached for the stockings, Tommy grabbed your wrist. 

"Leave them," he said heatedly, his gaze moving over you. Still holding your wrist, he pulled you behind him, naked and vulnerable, around behind his desk. With his other hand, he swept everything off the top of his it. Papers scattered in all directions, the glass whiskey decanter crashed to the floor like a bomb, startling you.

Tommy released your wrist then, patting his newly cleared space. "Up you go," he said in a voice that would brook no refusal. His gaze was so intense, you dropped yours. He waited for you to take a seat on his desk, but his stillness was charged like he could spring at you any time if you didn't do what he wanted. 

With your back to the desk, you planted your hands on either side, lifting yourself until sat right where he wanted you. Only then did he take a seat in his chair, right in front of you. Tommy still watched you with terrifying intensity. 

"I want to see everything," Tommy said, his voice sin deep. "Show me."

You froze when you realized what he wanted you to do. But you did it without question. Slowly, you spread your thighs for him. You were mortified because now he saw everything. How swollen and slick your private flesh had become since he'd locked you in his study. The drops of your excitement dotting the strands of hair covering your mound. You were going to make a mess on his desk, and he knew that. He knew exactly what distress he was inflicting upon you. He was enjoying it.

You were ashamed to admit it, but so were you.

Tommy stood then, the front of his expensive trousers tented. You didn't realize you'd licked your lips at the sight.

But he caught you staring. "Not yet, love," he said. "Lets see how good you can be for me. How many times I can bring you off..."

Tommy captured your neck with a single hand, holding you in place for his kiss. He wasn't as careful as he normally was with you, his kiss demanding and deep. Just as quickly as he started kissing you, he ended it. The hand gripping your neck pushed you back, not with real force but enough to get his meaning across. You eased yourself back until you were lying on the top of his desk, his body between your thighs keeping them open. 

Leaning down, his nose was almost touching yours. "Put your hands over your head and reach for the ege of the desk," he told you. "Grab on and don't let go until I say."

Your arms shook as you followed his instructions, finding the edge of the desk over your head and hanging onto it. Your back was arched, your breasts pushed up and on display for him. And his gaze was taking in everything. 

His hand slid down from your neck to skim over your chest, cupping one of your breasts in a firm grip, all the while watching your reaction. You didn't realize your lips were parted as you held still for him, trying to be good as he wanted. You didn't know your submission was making him feral. You had no idea the scent of your arousal rose on the heat from your body, making him fight the urge to rip open his pants and fuck you into his desk right now. 

When his hand slid down your body, down between your legs, your thighs tightened around him. His fingers slid on the wetness gathered there and you gasped as his mouth covered the breast his hand had just caressed. You jerked when his teeth teased your nipple, sending anxiety and desire rushing your veins. A moan escaped you when he soothed it with the lash of his tongue. 

"Your body knows it's mine," he spoked around your nipple. He slid a single finger inside you, pulling a gasp from you as you started writhing beneath him on the desk. It slid so easily, back and forth, while your greedy walls worked hard to grab him. "Your pussy is soaking my hand."

Your eyes slid closed at that, and he slid a second finger inside you. Your back arched, you gripped the desk so hard your fingers hurt. 

"Look at me," he whispered, but it wasn't gentle. A command. 

As you always did, you opened your eyes, your gaze locking with his. Your breath was coming fast as his gaze dropped to the hand he worked you with. When he curled those fingers, your body froze at the unfamiliar sensation. When the curve of his fingers hit a specific space inside you, you sucked in a breath.

"Keep those pretty eyes on me," Tommy said, another order in a soft voice. "I want you to watch while I eat you."

When his mouth covered your pussy, your entire body shivered. He was still using his fingers inside you in a way that was going to drive you mad. Between that skillful touch and his tongue teasing your pearl with barely any pressure, your entire body was trembling, burning like he'd set you on fire. Your back arched and your legs twitched, trying to get a respite from the overwhelming sensations he was drowing you in. When you couldn't keep still, his other hand moved to cover your belly. He was careful because of the life you carried, his hand covering the slight swell. But that wasn't the reason his hand was there. He was carefully holding you down on the desk, taming you for his indecent assault. 

You came on his tongue, and you didn't have the breath to cry out or scream. And Tommy didn't stop, doubling down on you as if you weren't coming apart on his desk right now. Your heart flew in your chest as he kept at you, the combination of his hands and mouth pushing you back to the edge of your limits. He was merciless, not relenting until you came again, fighting to keep your eyes open, on him.

The room was still spinning for you as he lifted his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. With an impatience you recognized, Tommy quickly worked his belt open, then his trousers. You watched as he took himself in hand, stroking his cock with a slow measured pace. 

"You think you've earned this?" Tommy asked you, his voice heated but not seductive. Like he owed you nothing. "You still hanging on?"

"Please," you begged, panting like you'd just run a mile. Your body ached, craving him. 

"You want me to fuck you?" He didn't make a move to touch you now, just watched as your body writhed, spread open before him and his for anything he wanted. And he knew you needed more. 

"Please, Tommy." You couldn't take your eyes off him, the motion of his hand. "Please... fuck me. I'm yours."

You almost came from him just pressing the head of his cock against your opening. You shook, moving your hips and hoping to encourage him to give you what you wanted. What you both wanted. 

"Who do you belong to?" he asked, not pushing deeper into you no matter how you shifted. 

"You, Tommy." Your voice was breathy, hard to recognize as your own with all the desperation in it. "I'm... yours."

"No one touches what's mine," he told you. "You understand?"

So it had been you dancing with John. Desperately, you nodded. "I understand. Please..."

Tommy pushed inside you, stretching you around his cock like he belonged there. He didn't wait to start thrusting. He grabbed your wrists, prying your hands from the desk. Roughly he held them to the desk on either side of your head as he began to move faster within you. Lowering his head, he stole kisses from your lips as he fucked you harder, letting you taste yourself on him. 

It only took a few seconds for you to feel orgasm riding you again. He was pounding you into his desk while your thighs trembled around his hips, your arms trying in vain to pull free of his grip. It felt amazing even as his dominance was just shy of painful. Every time you struggled in his hold, he tightened his grip, went at you harder.

When you came on his cock, he didn't slow down to acknowledge it. He kept going, so hard in you it felt like he was punching the air from your lungs. How was he holding out? You came three times, wilting beneath him as he continue to take from you.  

You could barely breathe. You were just hoping you lived through it. 

Impossibly, you were about to reach that plateau again, your body weak and trembling as he kept moving in you. You sucked in a breath, bracing for that final wave when Tommy pulled free of you, moving off you. And you had been right there. When a whine escaped your lips, Tommy smiled. 

"You want it, get up," he ordered. 

You were trembling when he pulled you up from his desk, letting him put you where he wanted. Tommy posiitioned you with a knee on his desk, protecting your tummy from how he was about to take you now. Your other leg was on the ground and the position made it easy for him to press himself into your back, slide into you from behind. Your arms were barely able to hold you up, as his thrusts gained speed and strength. Your scalp stung as his hand clutched in your hair, using it to pull your neck back and keep you upright that way. It also exposed your throat. 

"You're mine," he whispered in your ear as he continued to power into you. "You're mine when I want... Where I want."

"Yes," it came out as a desperate plea but only seemed to ecourage him.

Please let me come.

"And I won't see anyone else's hands on you." Tommy's breath pelted your ear, making you shiver as he kept fucking you. "Not even my own fucking brothers. You understand?"

Tears of frustration and need were sliding from your eyes. You would do anything for him to finish you. "I understand... please, Tommy."

"Then come for me," he whispered.

As if your body was his to command, the last release hit you hard, sending you spiraling into the darkness. 

You were aware that he reached his end, growling as he emptied himself into you, his hand around your throat until he was done.

But Tommy caught you before you could fall. He pulled you into his lap, cradling you against his chest. Mindlessly, you clung to him, your fingers clutching in his shirt. 

"Was I good?" you tried to ask, not sure if he could understand you or not. 

His lips pressed into your hair. "You're my good girl," he whispered, keeping you safe.

"M'sorry," he whispered. "I love you."

@outlanderuniverse @alyssajunelle @gothic-chinadoll @sparda1234 @mrsnms @alexakeyloveloki @theinheriteddutchess @wiseyouthingluencer @lovinglimerence @goldensunflowe-r @andydrysdalerogers @hellfirehopeless @wantedby-larry @mariaenchanted @moonbeamott @thetamtam9 @ayeeeitsmiracle

[cilleatandserve]

ᴡᴀʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛꜱ

Summary: After unfortunate events, Liana finds a way to turn back time.

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x (OC) Liana

Word count: 1K+

Warnings: Suicide mention, borderline fantasy, character bad at expressing emotions, series

A/N: Bit short sorry, Influenced by a show I watched + Sades song

In the bustling streets of 1920s Birmingham, a young woman named Liana moved with a grace that seemed to resist the grimy embrace of the industrial city. Her black hair was pinned back, revealing a face that was both sharp and kind, a stark contrast to the harsh lines of the world around her. Her eyes, a piercing brown, searched the bustling crowd as she walked, a sense of purpose in her stride. She had a task to complete, a gift to purchase for someone special, someone who meant the world to her without her quite realizing it.

Liana approached the jewelry store, her heels clicking loudly against the floor, the gleaming windows displaying a myriad of gleaming watches and trinkets. The bell above the door jingled as she stepped inside, the warm light enveloping her in a comfort that felt almost illicit amidst the chill of the evening outside. The shopkeeper looked up from his counter, his eyes lingering on her for a moment too long before he gathered himself and offered a curt nod. She knew he recognized her from her many visits with Thomas, her best friend, and the man that had unknowingly loved her since they were kids.

The watch she chose was a sleek, elegant piece with a leather strap that would compliment Thomas's attire. It was a significant investment, but she knew it would mean the world to him. She had saved up for ages at her boring corner shop job. As she handed over her coin, the weight of the moment settled on her shoulders. This birthday was different; something about it felt more critical than the ones that had come before. Perhaps it was because she had noticed the shadows under his eyes, the tension in his smile, the way he held onto his whiskey glass a little too tightly.

Liana wrapped the watch in a soft cloth and tucked it into her purse, her heart fluttering with excitement. She had never given Thomas anything so personal before, and she hoped it would fill the gap between them, even though she had never spoken about it aloud. The days passed quickly as she counted down to the moment she would give him the gift.

This was your city, a place where you felt most alive amidst the chaos. You've known Thomas Shelby since childhood, a bond that grew stronger than any blood tie could offer. As you approached the Garrison pub, the low murmur of conversation grew louder. The air had the scent of tobacco and the faint aroma of ale. The door swung open, and a gust of warmth enveloped you as you stepped inside. The familiar faces of the Peaky Blinders turned towards you, their eyes scanning and assessing before returning to their drinks. Thomas looked up from the bar, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. He raised a glass in silent greeting, his expression unreadable. You couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement at the sight of him.

The banter between the gang members washed over you as you made your way to Thomas. His eyes never left yours, a flicker of something unspoken passing between you. As you reached him, you murmured a sweet “Happy birthday Tommy.” His close proximity sending a shiver down your spine. You brushed off the feeling, attributing it to the cold outside.

Thomas had been more distant lately, and you couldn't put your finger on the reason why. It was subtle, but you felt it in the way he held eye contact a beat too long, the gentle brush of his hand against yours as he handed you your drink, and the way he'd find excuses to be near you without ever crossing that invisible line. Tonight was no different, his attentiveness a constant hum in the background.

As the night progressed, the tension grew. You found yourself drawn to the table, Thomas by your side. His hand resting on yours as his eyes scan the room with a weariness she had come to know all too well. She say with a tentative smile, the watch a silent promise in her pocket. She took it out and gave it to him, her eyes doe. As he took the small package, his hands calloused from a life of fighting and leading, she watched his face, looking for a sign, any sign, that he understood the message she hoped was conveyed in her simple gesture.

When Thomas saw the watch, his eyes lit up in a way she hadn't seen in months. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight of the timepiece, the tick of its heart, a silent metronome echoing the unspoken words between them. He looked up at her, his gaze intense, and she knew she had given him something far more precious than mere jewelry. He hugged her softly as he whispered a thank you, not fully embracing eachother but enough to provide comfort,It was a symbol of the moments they had shared, the moments that could have been, and the moments she would soon wish she could redo. Sooner than she would’ve wanted.

The night unfolded in a blur of laughter and camaraderie, but Liana couldn't shake the feeling that something was off, that the joy was a brittle facade threatening to crack at any moment. As she watched Thomas from across the room, staring down at his drink, she realized that she didn't know him as well as she thought she did. The realization was a knife in her heart, a sharp reminder of the walls he had always built around himself.

After his birthday, Thomas and Liana began to drift apart. Tommy had become Thomas. Liana wasn't overly concerned, as they sometimes took breaks for a month. Until three months later, the news of Thomas's death hit her like a freight train. She heard it from a whisper in the wind, a rumor that grew into a shout that echoed through the streets. She felt a void open up within her, a chasm of regret and unanswered questions. God! How stupid she felt for not noticing something was wrong. And then, in the quiet of her mourning, she received the watch she had given him. The same one she had hoped would be a bridge between them, now a haunting relic of a love that had never been spoken.

She walked to the graveyard near her house, bordering a lake. She sat on the edge and closed her eyes, listening to the waves hitting the rocks, letting tears fall down her cheek. Going to grab a tissue from her pocket, she felt something hard. When she pulls it out she furrows her brow slightly.

As she held the cold metal in her trembling hands, she noticed a button she had never seen before, hidden beneath the leather strap. Her curiosity piqued, she pressed it, feeling the slightest of clicks. In that instant, the world around her blurred, the noises of the present fading into the cacophony of the past. The smells of the city changed, the air thick with coal dust and the faint scent of lilac, the same scent that had always clung to Thomas.

Liana looked around, disoriented, and realized she was standing in the same graveyard. She ran to her house after the weird occurrence, unbothered at the fact of passerby’s. But oddly enough she receives a knock on the door, hearing Ada’s voice. Yelling. “Darl’! Are you ready?”. Confused, she opens the door and questions her, upon getting her answer she shuts her door abruptly. Convinced she’s in a dream, she pinches herself, no luck. She had travelled three months earlier, on the night she had given Tommy the watch. She put on one of her flapper dresses and met Ada to walk to the Garrison. The Garrison was alive with the same laughter and clinking glasses, but this time, Thomas's eyes didn't look so weary. This was her chance to change everything, to save him from the fate that had been written. She took a deep breath. A loud voice shook her, waking her up from her thoughts, from Arthur sitting around a table with everyone else. “Oi Love! Come join us!”

To be continued…

[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.

[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.

[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

[queenshelby]

His Property (Part Two)

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Virgin!Reader

Warning: Non-Con, Dub-Con, Forced Submission, Humiliation, Age Gap

Summary:

You are an innocent young woman sold by your father to Thomas Shelby in exchange for clearing his debt. Thomas views you as his possession, believing he can treat you however he wishes.

Please comment and engage to let me know what you think!

The following morning, when you woke up, you were asked to join Thomas for breakfast in the grand dining room. You walked in, your stomach fluttering with nervousness, and found him already seated at the head of the table, a newspaper spread out in front of him. He looked up as you approached, his piercing blue eyes meeting yours, and a hint of a smile played on his lips.

"Good morning, Y/N," he said, his voice low and steady, sending a shiver down your spine. "I hope you slept well."

"Yes, sir," you replied softly, taking your seat across from him. A moment later, Frances appeared with a pot of tea and a plate of toast.

She set them down on the table and gave Thomas a nod before leaving the room, closing the door softly behind her.

You sat down across from him, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest.

He looked up from the newspaper, his piercing blue eyes meeting yours. "You look nervous, Love," he commented, his voice low and steady, sending a shiver down your spine.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your nerves.  I am a bit nervous," you admitted, your fingers twisting the fabric of your dress.

Thomas put down the newspaper and leaned back in his chair, his piercing blue eyes never leaving yours. "And why is that, eh?"

"I don't know, sir," you mumbled, your cheeks flushing a soft pink.

Thomas chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Am I the one who makes you nervous?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips. He took a sip of his tea, his eyes never leaving yours. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, your gaze flicking to the tablecloth.

"Yes, sir," you whispered, your cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

A deep chuckle rumbled from Thomas's chest, and he leaned forward in his chair, his elbows resting on the table. "Well, let's see if I can help you with that, shall we?" he suggested, his voice low and suggestive.

You looked up, your heart pounding in your chest, and met his gaze as you took a nervous bite of your toast.

"Come here, Y/N," Thomas commanded, his voice low and firm, sending a shiver down your spine. You hesitated for a moment before slowly standing up and walking around the table towards him.

He reached out and grasped your wrist, pulling you closer until you were standing between his legs.

His hands trailed up your thighs beneath your dress until he reached the hem, his fingers hooking into the fabric before he slowly tugged it up, revealing your bare legs inch by inch. His hands were rough and calloused, a clear sign of his working-class upbringing, but his touch was gentle, almost reverent.

"You have beautiful legs, Y/N," he murmured, his eyes tracing the curve of your thighs before meeting yours again. "You have a beautiful body, in fact. It's a shame to keep it hidden away."

He continued to push the dress up until it was bunched around your waist, exposing your panties to him.

You gasped, your cheeks flaming with embarrassment as you tried to cover yourself with your hands.

"Don't," Thomas commanded, his voice firm but gentle as he caught your wrists and pushed your hands away.

"Mr Shelby, please...I can’t..." you pleaded, your voice trembling as you looked at him, your eyes filled with fear and uncertainty.

Thomas's eyes narrowed, and he let out a low growl. "Yes, you can, Love,” he insisted, his voice harsh yet commanding. "Now, be a good girl and take off your panties,” Thomas ordered, his voice stern yet gentle.

Your hands trembled as you reached behind and slowly slid your panties down, revealing your bare sex to him and, immediately, Thomas's eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you, naked from the waist down.

"Good girl," he praised, his voice a low rumble, his fingers trailing up your thighs, caressing your skin. "Now, sit up on the table for me, love."

You hesitated for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest, before slowly doing as he said. The cool marble of the tabletop sent a shiver through your body as you sat down, your legs dangling over the edge.

Thomas pushed your dress up until it was bunched around your waist, leaving you naked from the waist down, completely exposed to him.

Thomas stepped between your legs, his hands resting on your thighs as he stared down at you. "You're so fucking beautiful, Y/N," he murmured, his voice thick with lust.

He ran his hands up your thighs, his thumbs brushing against your soft skin. "Your skin is like fucking silk."

He spread your legs wider, his fingers tracing the line where your thigh met your pussy. 

Thomas looked up at you, his gaze intense before he used two of his fingers to part your folds, revealing your most intimate parts.

"Look at this, so nice and pink," he murmured, his voice like velvet as he inspected your opening, his fingers gently probing, teasing. 

You squirmed under his touch, your body responding to his exploration despite your initial hesitation. You felt a surge of heat between your legs, your body betraying your mind's nervousness.

"Does that feel good, Y/N?" Thomas asked, his voice low and husky. He slipped a finger inside you, slowly, penetrating you inch by inch. You gasped at the intrusion, your body tensing.

"Relax, love," Thomas soothed, his voice a low rumble. He began to move his finger in and out, slowly, gently. "I know it hurts, but you will get used to it," Thomas murmured, his voice a low rumble, his gaze locked onto yours. Your breath hitched as he added another finger, stretching you, filling you. You gasped, your hands clutching the edges of the table.

"That's it, Y/N. Just breathe and relax," Thomas coaxed, his fingers moving in a slow, steady rhythm, trying not to damage your hymen further.

"You have to get used to this because I want to be able to fuck you, fill your tight little cunt, and make you mine completely."

His words were filthy, but they sent a shiver of excitement down your spine, despite the discomfort you were feeling. You tried to focus on the pleasure his touch was bringing, rather than the pain, and slowly, your body began to respond.

"That's it, love," Thomas praised, his voice husky with desire.  "Look at you, taking my fingers like a good little girl," Thomas praised, his voice thick with lust. He watched as your body adjusted to the intrusion, your hips beginning to move in time with his hand.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groaned, his cock twitching in his pants as he felt the resistance around his fingers. "I can't wait to feel how tight your pussy is going to be around my cock."

The thought of him inside you sent a jolt of fear and anxiety coursing through you, and the thought of Thomas Shelby being your first was terrifying.

"Now let’s see if I can fit another finger inside you," Thomas said, his voice low and husky, his eyes never leaving yours.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest like a wild drum as he began to press a second finger into your tight entrance. 

You whimpered and tensed up, your hands clenching into fists, your nails digging into your palms. "Please, sir," you begged, your voice trembling, "it hurts."

Thomas's eyes narrowed, and he leaned in closer, his voice firm yet gentle. "I know, love. But we need to loosen up that tight little cunt for yours so that my cock can fit inside you."

Thomas's voice was soothing, yet firm, and you took a deep breath, trying to relax your body. You nodded; your eyes filled with tears as you looked into his.

Thomas smirked and pressed his fingers deeper, stretching you further. You cried out, your body tensing as the pain became almost overwhelming.

"Shh, love. Relax. You're doing so well," Thomas murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. You tried to focus on his words, on the sensation of his fingers inside you, rather than the pain.

You let out a whimper as he pushed deeper, the burning sensation intensifying. Thomas looked down at you, his gaze intense, his eyes darkening with desire.

"You are taking it like a good girl," he growled, his fingers moving in and out, slowly stretching you and you closed your eyes, your body trembling as you tried to relax, to accommodate his fingers.

The pain was intense, but there was also a strange pleasure mixed in, a sensation that made you feel both alive and utterly controlled but, what he did next, surprised you.

With your eyes closed, you suddenly felt something wet and warm

on your clit, and your eyes flew open to see Thomas's head between your thighs, his tongue lapping at your most sensitive spot.

"Oh, God!" you gasped, your hips bucking reflexively as the sensation sent shockwaves through your body. Thomas looked up at you, his eyes dark with lust, and smirked as he continued to lick and suck at your clit, his fingers still buried deep inside you, stretching you.

"You taste fucking amazing, Y/N," he murmured, his voice low and husky as he went back to work, his tongue flicking rapidly against your clit, sending jolts of pleasure through your body.

You gasped, your hands fisting the tablecloth as your hips moved of their own accord, seeking more of the sensation.

Thomas chuckled, the sound vibrating against your most sensitive flesh, making you squirm.

You were panting now, your body on fire with desire, your nerves forgotten as Thomas worked his magic.

His tongue was relentless, licking and sucking at your clit, while his fingers continued to stretch and tease your tight entrance. You could feel the pleasure building, coiling low in your belly, ready to explode.

"Sir, please," you moaned, your hips bucking against his face. "I-I think I'm going to..."

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and intense, his face glistening with your arousal. "Cum for me, Y/N," he growled.

"Let me taste you, love. Show me how much you want it."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt the pleasure coiling low in your belly began to unravel. You bucked your hips against his face, your fingers tangling in his hair, holding him in place as the first waves of your orgasm crashed over you.

"Oh, fuck!" you cried out, your back arching as the pleasure became almost too much to bear. Thomas didn't let up, his tongue lashing against your clit, drawing out your orgasm. You rode the waves of pleasure, your body shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

Thomas held you steady, his hands gripping your thighs as he continued to lap at your clit, drawing out every last drop of your orgasm. When finally, your body stilled, he pulled back, his chin glistening with your release. You lay there, panting, your body limp and sated, your eyes closed.

Thomas stood up, his cock hard and straining against his pants. 

"That should ease your nervousness, eh?" He said, his voice low and husky.

You nodded, your breath still coming in ragged gasps. Your body felt limp, but there was a sense of anticipation coiling in your belly, a desire that had been awakened by his touch.

"Good girl," Thomas praised, his eyes dark with desire. "Now, get up and clean this mess you've made," he commanded, pointing to the wet spot on the table where your juices had dripped.

You hesitated for a moment, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"Go on, taste yourself," he ordered and, reluctantly, you complied, scooting down the table and leaning forward to lick the spot clean, your tongue swirling over the table, tasting yourself.

The act was degrading, but there was something thrilling about it, something that made you feel strangely empowered.

When you finally finished, you stood back up, your breath coming in quick gasps. Thomas watched you, his eyes never leaving yours. "That's a good girl," he murmured, his voice thick with lust.

"Now, when you're done eating, I want you to go upstairs and shower. I'll meet you in my bedroom in half an hour," he said, and you nodded nervously, unsure what he had planned.

It was in the middle of the day, but he did not seem to care.  He wanted what he wanted, and he would have it, no matter the time. You finished your breakfast quickly, your stomach in knots with anticipation and fear. You retreated to your room, your mind racing with the possibilities of what he might do to you next. You showered and dressed in a simple nightgown as instructed, leaving your hair loose and wild around your shoulders. You took a deep breath and made your way upstairs, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum.

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[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.” 

[jtargaryen18]

The Arrangement ~ Chapter 11

It will post by Friday...

They made it back to the mansion just before sundown. Arthur pulled the door shut behind them, and Tommy stepped into the quiet of the front hall.

It was early evening. The house was warm. The lamps had been lit, casting soft golden light across the polished floors and crown molding. Somewhere, music was playing on the gramophone. The sound of laughter followed. What was this?

Arthur cut him a look, shrugged.  

Tommy moved in that direction, following the sounds of music, shuffling feet, then more laughter. When he turned the corner into the sitting room, there they were. 

And there she was. Her dress was new, soft blue and sleeveless. It showed off the shape of her in a way that made something inside him ache. To him, she looked like she belonged in a painting with her hair done up, eyes bright. She was laughing, dancing with Finn who was almost as tall as her. His youngest brother was counting off a rhythm, his hand hovering politely at her waist. Finn was still a lad, untouched by the violence that carves lines into a man's face.

"No, you're doing it wrong," John said. 

And then John stepped in, all charm and swagger, barely pausing before sliding into before her like he belonged there. His hand went to her waist without hesitation, fingers splayed a little too comfortably, a little too familiar.

John shot Finn a grin. “Watch and learn, little brother.”

She didn’t protest. She was still laughing, eyes shining when he twirled her, her dress swishing around her knees as John pulled her back into rhythm. His movements were clumsy. Like he was a step off, or half a beat too fast, but it didn’t stop him. If anything, it added to his usual cocky rhythm, that barely-reigned-in energy that made him both magnetic and maddening.

She laughed again, the sound lighter this time but tinged with nerves. Like she wasn’t quite sure how to handle him, but she didn’t want to be rude. And when she missed the next step, stumbling slightly into his chest, she caught herself on his arm and ducked her head.

John steadied her easily and flashed that crooked grin. “That’s alright, love,” he said, not missing a beat. “You’re just distracted by how handsome I am.”

She laughed again, softer now, less uncertain.

And from where Tommy stood, watching all of it from the doorway, the warmth of the room suddenly felt suffocating. It was all innocent and harmless. He knew that. But something about the way John touched her, the way she looked up at him with that little smile, like he’d managed to make her forget whatever nerves she’d had... It burned. In that moment, she looked happy and relaxed. 

And it wasn’t him who put that look on her face. It wasn’t him making her laugh like that. Tommy knew he should have been glad, grateful even, that she could still laugh after everything she'd been through. 

But instead, he saw red. He saw John's hand low on her waist. The way she tried to keep up with him. Vicente’s words, still echoing in his head.  Men like our sons walk where they want. And if the woman’s not married, well… the city’s open.

And for a brief, dangerous moment, Tommy forgot logic. Lost all strategy and control. All he saw was something that was his, being touched by someone else.

That’s when it happened. His voice cold and sharp as a razor, "That’s enough.”

The words cut through the music, sharp and final. Finn backed away like he’d touched a hot stove. John blinked, caught mid-laugh, brow furrowing in disbelief.

She turned to Tommy, the excitement fading from her eyes, bleeding into confusion.

Tommy didn’t explain or soften. He just held out his hand to her. 

She hesitated for only a second before slipping her hand into his.

Tommy didn't look back, didn't speak. He just walked with her beside him, her steps light but unsure as they left the room. 

Behind them, the silence cracked widened open into whispered tension. Arthur muttered something Tommy didn’t hear.

John’s voice was louder. “What the fuck was that about?”

And then Pol. “Let it go. It's between them.”

Tommy’s jaw was tight as he led her past the stairs. He had to remind himself not to move too fast, or drag her along. He moved with a purpose that left no room for questions. He could feel her eyes on him, searching his profile as they moved through the hallway.

But she didn’t say anything or fight him. 

Still, he felt the shift, her fading warmth. The slight hesitation in her steps. Just a moment ago, she'd been radiant. Now she was trying to read him, like he was something dangerous that might go off without warning. It made his stomach twist.

By the time they reached the door to his study, his thoughts were already circling. Tommy knew he shouldn’t have snapped at her like that. But watching her in someone else’s arms, even John’s, had lit something in him that refused to be reasoned with. And worse, some part of him still didn’t regret it.

Opening the door, he let her step inside first before locking the door behind them. 

She’d never been in his study before. He could tell by the way she stepped inside and paused, eyes moving slowly across the room. It was nothing special, dark wood, heavy drapes, the smell of paper, leather, and smoke soaked into every surface. But it was his. His world. His sanctuary.

And now she was standing in the middle of it, soft and uncertain in her new dress, her fingers brushing lightly over the edge of the massive oak desk like she was touching something she wasn’t sure she had the right to. 

Tommy watched her carefully. He shouldn’t have brought her here. He knew that. This wasn’t a place for softness. It was where decisions were made. Threats issued. Enemies dismantled.

And yet… he’d brought her here anyway. He needed control. Because out there, for one unbearable moment, he’d felt it slipping away... He remembered her smile, John’s hands. And now here she was, standing quietly in a room where he held every card. And he hated himself a little for it.

She didn’t say anything right away, just looking around at the shelves of books he hadn't touched in years, the unopened letters, and the half-full whiskey decanter sitting ont he desk. At the framed photo of his mother tucked discreetly in the corner of a shelf.

“This is where you disappear to,” she said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

He nodded. “Sometimes.”

Her gaze returned to him and there was no anger or accusation. She was just watching him, waiting.  That made it worse. She wasn’t the one who needed to apologize. He was. And yet,  jealousy still clung to him like thick smoke.

“You were laughing,” he said, the words low and rough.

She blinked. “Is that a crime?”

“No.” He paused. “You looked happy.”

Her brows pulled together, like she didn’t understand what that had to do with anything. And that’s when he realized, he didn’t know how to explain it. How it felt to walk into a room and see her relaxed and beautiful, and not be the one who put that light on her face. He didn’t know how to tell her that his rage wasn’t at her.

***

“You looked happy.”

Your brow creased. That’s what this was about?

You looked at him more carefully now, trying to read past the sharp lines and silence. Why was he angry? Why had he come home, pulled you out of a perfectly ordinary moment, one of the first moments you’d felt like a real bride, and brought you in here to this heavy room? Here he could stand behind everything he was and look at you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t solved.

Your heart slowly started beating faster. “What is this, Tommy?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away, so you stepped closer. “Did I do something wrong?” Your voice was a whisper now because you didn’t want it to be true.

"In three days time," Tommy's voice was low, sent a shiver down your spine, "you'll be my wife."

You nodded eagerly. "Yes."

"But I need you to understand something, love," he said, taking a step toward you. "Before you ever walk into that church, before you share my name... You belong to me right now. You're mine. My property."

The intensity in his eyes, his entire demeanor, had you taking a step back. Had it bothered him that you were dancing with John? 

"No one touches what's mine," he went on, taking another step toward you. He was eyeing you in a way he hadn't since the night he took you away from Arthur. 

"I'm yours," you told him.

Instinctively, you took a step back. Tommy moved closer to you, until the backs of your thighs met the edge of his desk. 

"Show me." Tommy moved closer, his hand moving to your outer thigh, plucking at the silky fabric of your dress. "Show me what's mine... before I have to tear your pretty new dress off you."

[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.

[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