#Tommy Shelby fanfic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

briefinquiries · 2 months ago

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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.

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.

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x y/n #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders imagines #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby x imagine #peaky blinders fic

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kinkyniragi · 2 days ago

Text

Through the Keyhole

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader Genre: Smut 18+ Word count: 3,1k Summary: Thomas Shelby can fuck you without touching you. Yes, even—especially—if you're his new maid. CN: Masturbation, domination/power imbalance…ok, heavy ownership vibes, orgasm denial. Please note that this is all just fantasy. Things that happen in my stories should always be consensual. Take care. Author’s note: Feel free to leave comments and share my story if you enjoy it—I truly appreciate every bit of motivation to keep writing. Even though I'm not a native speaker, I'll do my best 😉

***

Masterlist

You shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t be standing outside Mr. Shelby’s office, your hand pressed against the cold wooden door, your breath shallow as you peer through the keyhole. But here you are, heart hammering in your chest, unable to move, unable to look away. What you hope to see behind the closed door seems way too tempting.

You have been working at Arrow House for only a few weeks, assigned as one of the maids responsible for maintaining the estate. From the beginning, you sensed something unusual in the air—a quiet, charged tension between you and Mr. Shelby that neither of you acknowledged aloud. You told yourself you were imagining it. You kept your head down, kept your hands busy, and did your best to ignore the way his presence seemed to command every room he entered. But the feeling never faded. If anything, it grew.

It didn’t help that the uniform they gave you felt… wrong. The skirt hem a touch too high, the bodice a fraction too tight. More decorative than practical. You’d worked in other houses before, but none had required anything like this. But you felt like you had no choice. You needed this job. Badly. Which meant you couldn’t afford to let yourself be noticed—not for the wrong reasons. You were careful. Controlled. Professional.

And yet.

The day had been a haze of tension, a slow burn you hadn’t been able to shake since this morning. It had started with an offhanded remark—a quiet comment as you polished the desk in the drawing room. “If you bend over any further, sweetheart, I’ll start thinking you’re trying to tempt me.”

Your fingers had tightened around the cloth, your pulse skipping, but you had swallowed your response, pretending not to hear him.

Except, he knew.

He had seen the flush creep up your neck, the way your hands trembled ever so slightly when you set the glass down in front of him at lunch. And later, when you passed him in the hallway, he had let his fingers brush against the back of your hand—it would undoubtedly have been possible to pass you without any physical contact. Still, you doubted your perception and wondered if you had just imagined it.

You hadn’t.

It wasn't a coincidence, not carelessness. It was something more deliberate, more testing. As if he were watching, waiting, pushing just enough to see when you’d break—when you’d lose that carefully practiced composure. Was this how Thomas Shelby flirted, seduced? Making it seem like an accident, yet inevitable, until you mistrusted your own senses and wondered if it was you who initialized it? And yet, beneath the provocation, you sensed something else. A warning. A dare.

You had resisted. Because you weren’t foolish enough to believe that giving in would lead to anything good at the end of the day. For all you knew, it was a test. One misstep, one moment of indulgence, and he’d decide you weren’t suited to this kind of household. That he had hired a whore, not a maid. Not only would you lose that much-needed job, but you might find yourself in another job sooner than you'd like. You've heard too much about Thomas Shelby and his shady businesses.

So, you pretended. You ignored the heat curling in your stomach, the unspoken challenge in his gaze. You kept your head down and did your job.

But the tension had only grown heavier.

Which is why, when you saw the flickering glow of the fireplace under his office door late tonight, long after you should have knocked off work, you had paused. And then you had done something you shouldn't have.

You decided to secretly watch him.

Inside, Mr. Shelby sits in his armchair facing the fireplace, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the armrest, the other holding a glass of whiskey. His head is tipped back slightly, exposing the sharp cut of his jaw, the hollow of his throat. The light from the lit fireplace casts dancing shadows on his face, making him appear gentle and peaceful. But this is deceptive.

He takes a slow sip, his lips parting just enough for the amber liquid to slip past them before he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

Just the sight of him sitting there and the knowledge that you're doing something forbidden makes your knees go weak.

And then—he sets the glass down on the small wooden side table, his fingers drifting lower, slow, unhurried. Your pulse slams against your ribs as you watch his other hand move to his belt, fingers working the buckle open, then the button of his trousers, then the zipper. Heat is pooling between your legs as he slips a hand inside.

God.

You should leave. You know you should leave as fast as you can.

But you don’t.

You watch, paralyzed, as he exhales slowly, his fingers wrapping around his twitching cock, his grip firm, practiced. His hips lift slightly as he pushes his trousers lower, exposing more of himself, and when his head tips back further, eyes fluttering shut, a quiet groan escapes his lips.

A shudder rolls through you, your fingers gripping the doorframe as your thighs press together involuntarily. You find yourself thinking about ripping open the door and sitting on him without warning. But nothing seems more unimaginable and inappropriate. He's your boss.

You shouldn’t be seeing this. You shouldn’t be feeling this. But the sight of him like this—so controlled even in his own pleasure, so unbothered by the rest of the world—it makes something dark and forbidden twist inside you.

You have to stifle a scream of terror when you suddenly hear him shout something—

"Y/N"

Holy shit. How could he—

For a moment, you think you must have hallucinated it. He couldn’t possibly—

"Y/N. Come in. Now."

His voice is sharper this time, edged with command, and panic spikes through you as you stumble back. No doubt that he caught you. Your feet move before you can think, and before you know it, your hand is on the doorknob, pushing it open. You don't know if it's blind obedience to your boss or a suppressed desire trying to find its way to the surface.

The room feels impossibly warm as you step inside, your skin burning under his gaze. He’s still seated, still exposed, but his hand is no longer moving. Instead, he watches you with the same quiet intensity as always—calculating, knowing. The fact that you can watch him in this intimate moment, pleasuring himself, doesn't seem to embarrass him in the slightest. On the contrary, it seems as if he's holding his cock like a weapon against you.

He leans back slightly. "You enjoy invading your employer’s personal space, eh?"

Your mouth opens, but no words come out.

“So, is this your idea of how to do your job conscientiously?”

You indicate a shy shake of the head and avoid returning his gaze.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?” He picks up his whiskey again, taking a slow sip, smirking. “I know maids. Always curious. They listen when they shouldn’t. They watch when they think no one sees.”

Your heart hammers.

He shakes his head with mock regret. “And do you really believe a man in my position wouldn’t have his own ways of knowing when someone is creeping around his house?”

“But, I haven’t—” you try to justify yourself, knowing full well that it is hopeless.

"I’d suggest you stop lying to me," he interrupts you, voice calm, steady. “Because I’d hate to punish you for it.”

Heat coils in your stomach at the quiet warning beneath his words.

And then—his fingers tighten around himself again, moving just slightly.

“Tell me,” he says, watching you, measuring your reaction. “Do you like what you see?”

He lifts his cock toward you as if he's aiming it at you. He not just his very personal weapon against you, but also an invitation you know you'd better decline—if you can.

He hums while still shamelessly stroking himself, breathing heavily. “Tell me the truth.”

Heat floods your face, you lower your chin in shame, but your body betrays you before you can deny it—your thighs pressing together, your fingers twitching at your sides. His eyes flicker lower, catching the movement, and his smirk deepens.

“Thought so.”

And then he says something that makes you gasp.

"Well then... let’s make things even, shall we?"

Your eyes snap to his, wide, disbelieving.

His voice remains calm, even. "It’s only fair, isn’t it? You watched me. Now, I watch you."

Your breath stutters, your legs frozen. "I—I can’t—"

"You can," he says simply, his fingers tightening ever so slightly. "And you will." His tone is almost lazy, but his eyes—his eyes are anything but.

When you hesitate, he exhales a quiet laugh.

“Or should I assume that you are defying your boss? With all consequences? Do you want me to think that my lovely new maid is looking for trouble? That would be a very bad thing.”

The way he says it—slow, deliberate—makes you realize, in that moment, that this isn’t a test at all.

It’s an order, the silent warning brought to life, which you now realize too late, when there is no way back.

Silence stretches between you, thick and charged. His gaze never wavers, pinning you in place, commanding you to obey him.

Thomas Shelby, the man who is used to have a whole town follow his commands.

The way he’s looking at you leaves no doubt that he already knows you’ll obey. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s still lazily stroking himself, still impossibly composed, while your own skin feels too tight, too hot, too sensitive.

Whatever it is, your hands tremble as they move to the hem of your nightdress.

A flicker of approval crosses his face, brief but unmistakable.

"Go ahead," he murmurs. “Pleasure yourself the way you always do.”

Your pulse pounds as you pull the fabric higher, baring your thighs, your hips, the soft cotton of your underthings. His eyes darken, his hand moving just a fraction faster.

"I bet you do this a lot, don’t you?" He lets out a low chuckle. "Poor thing… no husband to fuck you properly. How often do you need it?"

As if his command to touch yourself in front of him wasn’t overwhelming enough already. You have a sinking feeling that his little game of question and answer is going to push you right to your limits…and beyond.

"I—I don’t know. Usually, I don’t—"

He cuts you off again. "Don’t play innocent, sweetheart. That only makes things harder for both of us." His tone sharpens. "When your boss asks you a question, you answer properly. And keep doing what you’ve started."

Your fingers slip beneath the fabric of your underwear, finding the heat between your legs. A soft gasp escapes before you can stop it.

A pause. He watches you with an intense gaze.

"Now answer my question. How often?"

"Maybe… once a week?" you offer hesitantly, trying to give him something without handing him every detail on a silver platter. "I don’t really keep track…"

He hums, considering. "And here, in your quarters—have you done it since you started working for me?"

Heat floods your face.

Yes. You have. Not just once. Not just once a week. Ever since you met him, you haven’t been able to stop.

"Yes," you whisper, ashamed.

A beat of silence.

"I see." His voice is unreadable. And then, casually—too casually—"I suppose it might be worth my while to take a peek through your keyhole sometime, don’t you think?"

Your stomach twists.

You swear to yourself—right here, right now—that from now on, you’ll keep your hands to yourself.

Or at least, you wish you could swear it.

Because if you lose this job and have to go home to confess that you got yourself fired for fucking your employer…

Your parents would never forgive you.

You look at him with wide eyes, hoping that what you’re doing in front of him will be enough of a distraction—enough to draw his focus away from his…inappropriate interrogation. The situation has long since crossed the boundaries of a professional working relationship, but you haven’t given up on damage control just yet. If you give him a little show, let him get what he wants and take his pleasure, maybe he’ll let you go. Maybe you’ll never have to speak of this… incident again.

But then, his expression shifts. Mr. Shelby doesn’t look satisfied.

"Ah, ah—" His voice is almost scolding. ""I can't see anything like this. Take off your panties and lie down on the couch. Legs apart."

Reluctantly, you slide your underwear down and lower yourself onto the plush velvet couch. From his armchair, he has the perfect view of you—laid bare before him, exposed in a way you never should be. At least the indecent sight between your parted thighs does succeed in momentarily diverting his attention from his questioning. And at least this way, it’s him pulling you into whatever this is, leaving you innocent, whatever it may be of use to you.

His breath hitches at the sight, and his grip tightens as he strokes himself, his movements quickening. But you know, with absolute certainty, that this won’t stop him from pressing you further. From giving you more orders.

Your fingers circle your clit, dip into the wet heat between your thighs. Mr. Shelby stills for a moment, taking another slow sip of whiskey, before resuming his unhurried pace. Minutes stretch endlessly between you until, suddenly, he stops and gestures toward his dark wooden desk.

"I can’t keep watching this," he says, voice low. "Go to my desk. Open the top left drawer."

You cringe. The top drawer on the left. You know that drawer.

He knows maids. Always curious. Damn it.

You hesitate but reach for the handle. Inside, nestled among the usual office supplies, are candles—thick and long enough to rival his own impressive size. Your fingers twitch slightly as you skim over them, trying to suppress any reaction, but you can feel his gaze burning into you.

"Go on, don’t act so shy now," he drawls. "Pick one. I know your sweet little fingers aren’t enough for you. Why else would one of them be missing?"

You gasp. Your intuition was right again. He knows.

Your thoughts scramble for an escape, but there’s none. This man sees everything. He has you in the palm of his hand. And now, you’re not even sure whether his comment about looking through your keyhole was just a threat— or a confession.

Slowly, you pick up a candle, red and heavy in your grasp, quickly warming to your touch. Your knees are weak as you sink back onto the couch.

"Now," he says, his tone leaving no room for disobedience, "I want to see you use it. No teasing. No shy little act. Do it like you always do. Fuck yourself the hard way. And don’t you dare stop until I say so."

You part your legs wider and guide the candle between them, pushing it inside. Even though you’re already soaked, your breath stutters at the stretch, at the slow, deep fullness of it. He’s caught you—he knows exactly what you’ve done, what you’ve thought about. And now, with every steady thrust of your hand, you feel his gaze weighing heavier on you, waiting to witness your relief. Not only is it degrading that you're supposed to masturbate with a candle in front of him, the craving for his cock is almost consuming you and simultaneously bringing you closer to climax. He's so close, almost tangible, and yet out of your reach.

Mr. Shelby’s own pleasure builds in tandem, tension coiling in his body as he watches, utterly riveted. His strokes become erratic, his breathing uneven. You hear it before you see it—the sharp intake of breath, the low groan of release. He spills over, onto the floor, onto the side table, his body shaking with the force of it. A few final, languid strokes, and then he collapses back into his armchair with a satisfied sigh.

His eyes fall shut as he basks in the aftershocks of his climax.

You’re still teetering on the edge, aching, desperate to finish. Cautiously, you glance at him, fingers slowing—

"Don’t you dare."

Your breath stills. His voice is firm, lazy but laced with authority. Of course, his eyes weren’t fully closed.

"You’ll put the candle back where you found it," he murmurs, amusement flickering across his expression.

As you stand up, your legs tremble, and your vision blurs. With a soft click, you place the candle back into the drawer.

“And the other one too,” he says coldly. “Return it before you go to bed. As long as you work in my house, you follow my rules.”

His rules. You think you must have misheard. He left it deliberately vague, but you already know what it means. It’s not just about working hours or instructions—he wants control. Control over you, over your body.

You stand with your back to him, hardly daring to turn around. But then he speaks again.

“Y/N,” he says, calm but firm. “Tomorrow, you’ll receive an amendment to your contract. I expect you to be available in the evenings as well. Don’t worry, you’ll be well compensated. Your family could certainly use the money, as maybe they can keep their house after all the debt your father has accumulated.”

That damn bastard.

Your hands clench into fists.

“It’s the right decision,” he continues calmly. “You’ve shown me that you understand. I like that.” A pause. “We’re going to have a productive partnership.”

He leans back, studying you. “And before you go to your room—take care of the mess here.” He points to the side table and the floor, which are stained with the remnants of his lust.

You take a deep breath, straighten your clothes, and head for the door.

“Where are you going?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“To the kitchen, to get a cloth. So that your office shines in its usual glory tomorrow.” You put on your fake smile and try to return to a professional tone.

He shakes his head and gets up. “That won’t be necessary, sweetheart.” His hand rests heavily on your shoulder. “I think you’ll find another way to handle it.”

His gaze locks onto yours, challenging. Your heart pounds.

"You'll clean this up without a cloth. And I'll be watching. Quite a fitting preview of our future collaboration, eh?"

***

New to the Cillian party, so just let me know if you (don't) want to be tagged to my next stories! @narlytude @cassandratyrellm @floweradroble1123 @whoreforzendaya @flowertoo2 @go-mimi30 @myheadspaceisuseless @softcaesar @queenv319 @qkiq @zita90 @aryannavspx @ashamedtobewhitemanswhore27 @aradianti @egoluv @ailynkali @hrhfuturects @venvsfly @sweetsweet52802-blog @nana-bells @isabelaaaaraujo @allison7048 @whore4man @yslvtre @hanxuh @simp-for-bucky-barnes @oscengrim @gacrux @amberyalenka @peakysgiri @cillianlove @clockworksficstoread @catnoodle32 @caroliciouss-world @nraschmnn @letsnini @dearrosary @mcookie @saintscreamworks @ch3esecak31 @moodyfries0 @liv1991 @bubulubu777 @sky3xx @star017 @yuki4545 @klxyn @zoeecita @poisonedteaa @angel-bat43 @persephonaoflove @schizoflm @sasha28x @thehuntressbailey @vzz1milloca @niamhgraham321 @mrs-bond @cloudofdisney @cillianssweet @tommyshelbysgoodgirl @kmc1989 @breakthestereo @jamesmcavoyfan1 @en0xx @notmalak2002 @syfixx09 @sherlockstolemyname @rachelljeann222 @mmfj14 @leialix @mayrapaulina28 @delulu-blog @ourlightsqueen @blogg-100 @westtimoooe @ncis0mrs0gibbs @falloutfiddler @epanimeton @niggette @itzzzchloeee @raisully15 @luvforsmut @xochizzl @babydollgutz @starstruckthingcat @sol-101 @bruhidkjustwannaread @tinyminxie @porcelaindollsvault @xsoftxsoundsx @cillliaannnnn @prettycay23 @fourleafcloves-blog @mlioravanfleet @sunbeamseas @oatmealisweird @naxxsstuff @death-of-the-golden-days @amanda08319 @elysiannook @borntodiemp3 @cillshot @harrysbestiee @lilybabe22 @adalynlowell @henrywintersdearestgirl @ietss @juleshadalittlelamb @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @ryiamarie @milkpwuff @1-fuzzy-squirrels @iambored24601 @letixslvdr @untitleddd74 @iwantadilfplease @leomiloo @nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @matilda-jone @bonahona @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @hunnibearrr @lunyyx @nadloves @mcavoy-girl @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @cherrycilly @victoriak01 @leviackermannsupremacy @richiesgroupie @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @xcinnamonmalfoyx @buduguru-blog @smailaway @sophia @blondie-drawings @meadows58 @randomcreator-09 @hagarsays @kikimurphys @strangeobsessed @elya660 @i-love-batman @garciaa1996-blog @nemesis-writer @namjoonsloveforpop @nyxxie-pooh @theangelofbastogne @abb112095 @raesslitz @alussya99 @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @zanytalecherryblossom-blog @paulao1507-blog @lolitastories @kittenonpluto @littlecasperthewitch @thisnameistaken1234 @divine-death2 @fullygreen @amberrrrsblog @hottestgirlintheworld @lichi-dunkera @katerinahttps @ana73maria @smokinonthatza @hereforthefandoms12 @purple-umbrella-girl @igotsoulbutimnotasolider @aethernallyyours @mytanuki-kun @fizzyboba @rpf-archival @galactict3a @kath-reviews @nymphadora7 @xerroe @bookloverfilmoholic @shopgirl6us @enretrogue @alltoowellbeneaththemangotree @journalofmoonlight @slut4thebroken @beepitybeepboop @thefanficarchivee @kyeomcakes @your-nanas-love @renuzuy @kte-alxxndr @skydisneylover @psycheetamore @aias-fxtns @fuckiingloser @zablife @mischievouslittlecreature @peakyblindas @jbrownta @mythicalcowboyatheart @shelbybabysblog

#thomas shelby smut #thomas shelby x reader #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy #cillian x reader #cillian fic #cillian fanfic #cillian x fem!reader #peaky blinders smut #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #tommy shelby smut #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby

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cherrybombx1 · 5 days ago

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can someone recommend me peaky blinder fanfics pls i’m so bored.

I need me some Tommy Shelby fake scenarios

#tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby #i’m ovulating #smutty smut smut #dark tommy shelby

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brummiereader · 2 days ago

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Sweet Dreams, Darling (Part Eight)

Summary: Having cruelly left you with his dismissive words the previous night, Tommy goes to the Garrison to wallow in his sorrows the next day, when a proposition is made to him through the disguise of friendly drink. One you found yourself stumbling upon when you opened the doors to the dimly lit pub in search of him. Left facing your own insecurities, you seek comfort in Ada back at Watery Lane. But after a heart-to-heart, and a plan for the evening to forget your troubles, your and Tommy's relationship is left hanging by a thread when jealously takes over and a bloody fight breaks out.

Warnings: Language, mutual pining, PTSD, violence, mentions of blood, absolute bloody heartbreaking angst.

Word Count: 4K

[Masterlist] [Previous Chapter] [Trailer]

"Whiskey, Harry" Tommy reached into his trouser pocket for a copper coin as he stood at the bar of the Garrison, eyes heavy with fatigue, burdened by the past two weeks of mistakes he knew he could no longer ignore, knew he could no longer bury.

" Double" he nodded at the tumblers pitiful fill, tossing the loose change onto the counter top. A mere fingers' worth of sharp liquor, not enough to see him through his emerging shame, the pangs of guilt constricting his drying throat in desperate need of relief.

Spinning against the polished wood, the coins' brassy edges scrapped against the bar, drawing out its rattling finale until the pads of Tommy's fingers pressed down on its printed front, stilling the agitation within him.

Shit, his head dropped between his shoulders, eyes honing in on the lone coin sat on the counter, face twisting away from its taunting shrill still echoing in his ears.

Unsettled, disjointed, Tommy's eyes rimmed red as his piercing stare tunneled in, breath catching in his chest as his mind made way for the suffocating truth.

For the resonating rattle of the coin may have only been mere background noise, gone unnoticed by those sat drinking their own worries away in the small pub. But for Tommy, it was as loud as any bomb he had heard in the fields of France. One he didn't need to hear a second time to know that it wasn't just a copper penny that had slipped from his fingers but something, or rather someone, worth more than any money the world had to offer him. More than any distracting endeavour to the top.

" Another, Tommy?" a voice broke through his thoughts, as its owner's heels came to a stop along the wooden floorboards beside him with an offer, an unspoken suggestion cloaked in a friendly drink. One he'd heard presented to many returning soldiers, seeking someone to warm their bed, to dull their nightmares.

" Lizzie" Tommy’s eyes lifted slowly over the rim of his glass, jaw clenching with irritation at the unwarranted invitation.

" You've got the wrong soldier, love" he downed the last of his whiskey with a scoff, rolling the idea that he'd seek such a thing off his shoulders, the thought of betraying you in such a way from his body, as he turned to leave.

" I just thought..." her eyes followed him to the Garrison door, words scrambling to dull the sting of embarrassment she felt, to cover the misstep she'd unknowingly wandered into.

“Thought what, eh, Lizzie?” Tommy halted. His strides, sharp and deliberate, carrying him back to the bar, jaw set tight beneath a furrowed brow of insult.

" That I needed you to keep my bed warm, is that it?" his simmering anger came to a bubbling boil, offended at the suggestion he was in need of her services. A suggestion that had his stomach twisting into a knot of panic, at what it implied.

" I heard talk, that you and Y/N were no longer..." her eyes cast away from the piercing judgement in his, lace gloves curling around the gold armrest of the bar.

“Talk?” Tommy’s need to know the reason behind her uninvited approach had him cut her off, the furrow of his brow deepening, jaw locked with restrained fury at the apparent gossip circulating the streets of his childhood home.

" Last night, down in The Black Swan. An Irish bunch were in drinking the place dry. Drunk, fighting and talking about you. And no, before you ask it Tommy, I didn't catch anyone's name" Lizzie snapped back, beating him to his question before it left his lips as Tommy's demands fell silent, giving way to confusion.

His private life, his troubled relationship, had spilled out onto the streets of Small Heath for everyone to gawk at, to gossip about when conversations about their own life's hardships bored them. He'd been a fool to think he had it contained, an even bigger one to think you hadn't confided in someone about it.

Mind racing, Tommy's thoughts sought the owner of the loose tongue that saw his private life being aired in public, seconds from weaving out the drunken culprit when Lizzie's voice cut through the emerging revelation in his head.

“You’re not the only one trying to keep their head above water, Tommy.” she spoke not just for him, but for herself and her means of survival, when the Garrison door gingerly creaked open, bringing with it someone else that was also desperately paddling to keep afloat. You.

“I know, Lizzie. We're all...we're all just trying to survive, eh?" a breathy sigh of regret for his behaviour left his lips as he placed a gentle hand to her arm. A quiet gesture, nothing more than a shared understanding. But one your widening eyes, stinging with tears, only saw the intimate nature of as the words of the gossiping woman from the previous day rang in your ears.

Keep an eye on your men, ladies.

Feet moving quicker than your mind, quicker than any rational explanation that would soothe your heartbreak, you back peddled out of the door with tear-streaked cheeks, humiliation burning hot beneath your skin.

Gone unseen, unnoticed. You raced home with your head low, desperate to silence the sobs trembling past your lips, to hide them from the inquisitive eyes of Small Heath.

" Freddie, shh!" Ada swatted him across the chest, yanking him into the closet of spindly wooden brooms and dustpans by his buttoned shirt as the door to Watery Lane flew open.

"Shit" Ada sighed, peering through the crack, heart sinking at the sight of you collapsing into the dining chair as Freddie nodded to the kitchen, brows drawn in confusion.

" It's Y/N" she whispered with a gut-wrenching concern, quickly pulling her attentions back to you as she opened the creaking door.

" Hey, you" she stepped out, slowly approaching like one would with a startled horse, scared of its own shadow. Afraid that any misplaced step, any misspoken word might see it bucking its hind legs in defence, galloping away in frightened desperation.

For Ada was not oblivious to your and Tommy's struggles, nor was she inclined to defend her brother's inner demons that had spilled over into you.

Two weeks you had spent crashing in her room with the details of your argument left unspoken. But its aftermath, the pain it had caused, visible from her side of the bed each night as she watched your longing eyes stare through her open door to the closed bedroom at the end of the hallway. Tommy's bedroom.

Easing down beside you, Ada cupped her hands tightly around yours as your teary eyes slowly drifted up from your crumpled tissue clutched between your fingers, when the thud of a falling broom pulled your attention to the cluttered cloak room.

“God’s sake,” Ada huffed through gritted teeth, eyes squeezing shut as she battled to keep the infamous Shelby temper at bay. Fighting the urge to unleash a string of profanities at her clumsy lover during a moment too raw, too delicate for any graceless interruption.

"Hi Freddie" a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips as he stepped out the darkened closet, the faint greeting not enough to hide the sadness clouding your eyes, the upset in your cracking voice.

" Alright, Y/N? he softly replied, voice low and careful as he cautiously approached with his hands stuffed in his trousers pockets, eyes flicking to Ada, waiting for her lead.

" Go on" Ada subtly tilted her head to the door, knitted brow of concern softening as Freddie pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head before leaving. A tender show of affection that had your heart jump in your chest with happiness for your friend, but sorrow for yourself. Sorrow for the lack of connection, for the walls you and Tommy couldn't seem to break through. Ones that had you believing he’d found someone else. That he'd replaced you.

"Oh babe..." Ada pulled your shaky body into her arms as another wave of your sobs tore through you for the show of love you were starving for.

"...whatever's the matter?" she slowly pulled back, enough to see your eyes darting with worry across her face, bottom lip quivering with a desperate ache to confide in someone you trusted.

" Ada....Ada, tell me" your trembling hand gripped her arm as you scooted forward with urgency.

"Is Tommy...is he seeing Lizzie?" the words barely made it out, broken by sobs forcing their way past your lips.

"Goodness, Y/N, no! What on earth made you think that?' her brow knitted, eyes wide with a deepening concern, watching your shoulders sag under the weight of everything.

"I don’t know…I don’t know,” you whispered, squeezing your eyes shut, desperate to block out the image of him with Lizzie, and the feelings of vulnerability it had provoked within you.

"It's a mess Ada, everything is just one big fucking mess" a heavy exhale cracked through your frustration, embarrassment stopping you from spiraling into your surfacing insecurities. Knowing full well, Ada would be out the door in a heartbeat, marching straight to her brother with a loaded gun and a promise to blow his bollocks off if he dared to consider betraying you, dared to talk to you with such disregard as he had the previous night. A fiery response you feared would burn down what little was left of Tommy and your relationship if you got a third party involved.

" What's happened, Y/N?" Ada's voice shifted, sisterly protection taking over with urgency as she watched your mumbling worries cling to the edge of your tongue.

" Does Freddie talk to you? About...about the war? About France?" you tip toed around your words. Hoping, praying, you weren't the only one trying to navigate the minefield of loving a broken man.

" Sometimes" she confessed, brow furrowing with gentle concern at the sudden wave of disappointment washing over your face.

“And sometimes…” Ada squeezed your hand, grounding you, anchoring you back from the edge, from the hopeless spiral of blaming yourself for Tommy’s deep-rooted need to keep everything locked away.

" ... sometimes he doesn't need to. Some days he'll sit there in silence, and a noise, some...fucking bird flying into the window or a car's exhaust popping will have him wide-eyed, blood pumping hot like he's gearing himself up for a fight" she looked past you to the cupboard of framed family photos, to the pictures of her brother's dressed in full regalia as her words sunk in, stirring enough of a reaction out of you, that your head raised for the briefest of moments to the sound of familiarity.

" It's just trombones and tubas, he tells me. Just noise..." her eyes drifted back down to you with a gentle smile of reassurance, hoping to have doused your worries.

And it did for a fraction of a second, until the memory of Tommy crept back in. Not jumpy, not spooked like her Freddie, but explosive.

For his moments of silence weren't just absence, they were the calm before the storm. A storm you had witnessed one too many times to know that a violent war was still waging within him.

" Tommy doesn't talk to me at all, though. He won't let me in for even a second. Not one, fucking second, Ada" you let go of her hand with a sigh, turning with frustration to his picture on the wooden dresser.

" Listen to me, Y/N" she gripped hold of your shoulders, turning you back to face her with a speech tough love ready to cut through the last of your foggy thoughts.

" That man..." She nodded to the cupboard behind you, eyes quickly weaving through each silver frame to find the lone picture of Tommy that had left him feeling like a stranger to you.

" My stubborn, headstrong bloody brother, loves you, Y/N. In a way I've never seen him love anything, anyone. And that kind of love doesn’t come easy, wrapped up in a pretty bow with emotions laid out. It comes kicking and screaming, biting the hand that’s trying to soothe it every time it gets scared it'll lose what it cares about the most. But eventually, he'll get tired of fighting himself, and when that day comes he'll need you there to bandage him back up. And if he's lucky, if he's got any sense left in that thick skull of his, he'll do it before he says or does something stupid, again" she finished with a stern nod of her head as a smile etched on the corner of your lips, a flutter hope stirred in your chest.

" Ok?" her brows raised, shoulders stiff with apprehension as she waited for your reply.

" Ok" you echoed back as she let a heavy sigh of relief ripple past her lips.

" Right. Come on, up you get" she pulled you to your feet, eyes scanning your snotty face as her mouth desperately tried to chew away her amusement.

" You look a bloody mess" she grinned as your emerging giggles caught fire, and you both fell into an explosion of rib-aching laughter.

" Come on, let's go out tonight. No boys, and NO talk of boys" she pointed her finger at your stuttering lips, ready to unload another hours worth of worries.

" Only if it's about how useless they are are in the sack" she bit down on her lip with a chuckle, reaching behind your head to pull the pin from your gathered locks with a statement that only spelled trouble for the evening that awaited you both.

"Let's let our hair down..."

As the afternoon bled into the evening, Tommy found himself back at the Garrisons' door, having spent the past two hours pacing the streets of Small Heath in search of you. Looping the same rows of houses, passing the same corners into empty shops, only to be met with shrugging shoulders when asked about your whereabouts.

" What you 'aving, Tommy?" Harry called out, voice raised over the jaunty click of the piano, over the dull roar of laughter echoing off the tightly packed walls, crammed with punters keen to spend their Friday pay.

Fingers lightly tapping on the wooden bar in a rhythmic unease, Tommy's restless eyes swept the room in search of you, collar tightening around his throat when the heaving crowd parted and they landed on you, sat with Ada at a round table with a neat line of empty glasses in front of you, head thrown back in laughter.

There you were. The weight of his troubles off your shoulders, giggling into your drink as your head lulled to the side, relaxed in conversation, in the company of his sister with shoes kicked off to the side.

" Whiskey, Harry" Tommy leaned his body against the wooden countertop with a heavy sigh, longing eyes pleading you to look his way, to notice him, to have the sweet smile you had given his sister, find its way to him instead. To let him believe, even if only for a fraction of a second, that you were happy to see him after his behaviour the previous night.

But Tommy's brooding need for your attention would be met with only a flicker of acknowledgement when he caught your eye from across the room, and his quiet gesture for you to join him was met with a sharp turn of your head, leaving his silent peace offering hanging in the space between you.

"What you sulking about?" Arthur sniffed as he approached his moping brother sat with his elbows pressed against the polish wood as he placed his glass on the countertop for a refill.

" Leave it out, Arthur" Tommy mumbled into his drink, glaring at you in the corner of his eyes as he tossed it back in one swift moment.

" Charming" Arthur snorted, brain shining bright with an array of colourful ways he could wind his younger brother up when a boisterous laugh sliced through the hum of the pub, drawing both their eyes across the room.

Sean.

“Fancy a spin, Y/N?” O'connors voice cut across the room, thick with bravado as he eyed you up over the table with a predatory grin.

Sat around his gang of sniggering friends, egging him on with rough shoves and loud jeers, eager for a testosterone filled show of manliness, you turned at the call of your name with a smile. A smile lingering on your lips from Ada's hushed story still echoing in your ear, but one Sean took as an invitation to boost his ego.

" Ahh, look at that pretty smile, lads. I think she's still got a soft spot for me" Sean lifted his glass to you with a wink, legs spreading as he patted his thigh for you to join him when Tommy launched from his seat.

" Ay up. Here comes lover boy" he chuckled, swallowing a gulp of ale with ease. Comfortable with the knowledge that his pack of pitbulls would have his back if anything were to kick off.

" Leave it, Tom" Arthur came up behind him, squeezing his shoulder with a gentle pull urging him away, when Tommy's eyes snapped to the panic in yours, to your feet slowly approaching to simmer his anger before fists went flying.

" Tommy, we're going home" you firmly stated, pulling his attention, his glaring stare honed in on Sean back to you as you rested your hands over his hammering heart.

Fingers coming to sit over your tethering touch, Tommy gave your hands a gentle squeeze in a silent promise when O'connor's voice rang out again.

" Absolutely done in the fucking head, you are" Sean's insult came thick with mockery as he stepped into the empty space behind you.

" Y/N! Y/N!" he crowed, tossing his head back to the ceiling, body ducking from a swarm of planes as he replayed the vulnerable moment he'd witnessed a fortnight ago with the intention to not only mock Tommy, but to drag him back into the trenches, to rile him up In front of a crowd of judging eyes and the only person whose opinion mattered to him.

" Fucking idiot thought a bomb was about to drop!" he and his friends erupted into laughter as your hands fell from Tommy's chest, welling eyes drifitng up to see his rimmed red, face bubbling with fury as Arthur stood behind him twisting in anger with Freddie and an emerging crowd of a dozen fallen soldiers forming around him.

Two men locked in a brutal stare, waiting for the other to make the first move, the room fell deadly silent as each opposing side glared at each other with vicious intent when Sean's curling lips lit the fuse that would see Tommy fly into a fit of rage.

"Tell me, does she flinch when you touch her? Or just lie there, thinking of the man you used to be?"

A blink of an eye, a beat of a heart, a single splintered second was all it took for a guttural roar to erupt from Tommy's chest, for his body to lunge forward blind with fury, pushing you into a brassy beam as he battled Sean down to the floor.

" Y/N!" Adas calls for you ripped through the chaos as Sean's pack of dogs clashed with Tommy's brothers in arms.

As fists flew, as blood-curdling screams of wives and girlfriends ripped through the air, you lifted your hazy eyes, blurry vision squinting through the crowd of shuffling feet to Tommy looming over Sean, pummeling blow after merciless blow to his face.

" Shit...oh sweetie" Ada swooped down beside you, eyes darting in a panic at the trickle of blood seeping through your hairline.

Anger storming within her, fury whirling behind her eyes, she reached for her bag, fingers clutching around the cool metal of her loaded handgun.

" ENOUGH!" her voice came with the crack of her gun firing into the ceiling, splitting the room in half with a sharp thunder that saw every man freeze as a dusting of plaster settled on their shoulders.

" Fucking enough, you hear me!" her pointed pistol scanned the room, daring each and everyone one of the blood thirsty hoard of men to make another move, when Freddie breathlessly came up behind her with a steady hand over hers, gently lowering the shaky gun to the ground.

" Look around! Look! Beating each other bloody. Bleeding your own misery onto the women trying to hold you together. There's not a brave enough man in this room to say it. Just a bunch of fucking cowards!" her words tore through the pub of heads falling in shame as Tommy's bloody knuckles broken and bruised loosened, releasing Sean's limp collar.

Brows furrowing with confusion, Tommy's eyes drifted to his shaky hands when the spinning room suddenly came to a silent stand still.

Not a dug-out ditch in sight, no mile-length trench lined with soldiers, no fog of war clinging to the air. For when Tommy raised his eyes over the shattered shards of glass splayed across the floor, over the wreckage of broken chairs and turned tables, the battlefields of France felt but a distant memory in comparison to your eyes of horror staring back at him through the steady stream of blood dripping down your face.

" Darling...?" his twisting face collapsed back into reality with widening eyes at the injury to your head.

" Let me...I didn't mean..." he reached for your hand, shaky fingers too slow, too late to comfort your flinching body as your teary eyes drifted to Sean's wheezing breaths, gasping for life beneath him.

" Y/N, please...don't" he watched you snatch your shoes from the floor, wobbly legs coming to a stand as the crowd of eyes suffocated you with every retreating step you took.

"Y/N..." his hands, slick with blood slipped out from under him as he scrambled to his feet in a panic, knowing he was losing you with each step you made out the door.

"Y/N!" his desperation to right his wrongs had him quickly finding his footing as he raced from the Garrison to Watery Lane with calls for you cutting through the night sky.

" No! No!" you pushed away each staggering approach with fists to his chest until he lifted his hands in surrender.

"Sweetheart..." his voice cracked with an unbearable ache to fix you, to fix the damage he'd done as his hand slowly gestured to the seeping wound to your head.

" ...you need to see a doctor. You need..." his concerns for your wellbeing were brought to a stuttering stop, slicing through the delicate muscles of his heart, quicker than any bullet wound buried under his skin.

" Who are you? I...I don't know you" your brow knitted, head coldly jerking away as Tommy's face twisted at the bitter aftertaste your words had left on his silenced lips.

" You wanna see who I am, eh?" he took a step forward, throwing his suit jacket to the floor with a shrug of his shoulders as his jaw snapped tight with pent-up frustration.

" This is me, Y/N. Not what I was. Not what you remembered. This is what I am, this is what I came back with, blood on my hands" he uncurled his fists, crimson palms splattered red, laid bair for you to see.

" That boy at the summer fair you still dream about is gone, Y/N. And I'm what's left" his voice deepened, the reality of the turmoil you found yourself in not spoken in gentle heartfelt words, but instead shoved into your chest, giving you not time to breathe, no room for hope.

" So go on, take a good fucking look, sweetheart" he tilted his chin up, swaggering steps closing in the distance like he was daring you to come at him with fighting words, provoking you into pushing him back with the same matching stubbornness.

"Because this is your man. And if you're gonna run again, then make it count, and go for good" his gravelly voice cracked with the weight of his words as he dismissed any further conversation with a flick of his hand to the empty road that was yours to take.

" Just like that?" you blinked away the sting in your eyes, voice snapping back, not with the soft measured tone of concern he was used to, but with anger. A red-hot, blazing anger. One that saw doubt creep into Tommy's mind, his breath falter as his dismissive orders caught up with him.

Had he really risked the fragility of your relationship, on a sure bet that he'd call your bluff? That you'd push through another day just to stand by his side? That you wouldn't...leave?, his mind taunted him with his grave error as he watched you step back along the cobbled ground, an eerie calm washing over your face as you slowly disappeared into the dimly lit street.

" Y/N?" your name caught in his throat, struggling to rise over the sound of your retreating steps as he watched your pace quicken.

" Y/N, where you going?" panic took hold as he darted in front of you, feet stumbling with you as you walked him back to the door of his childhood home.

" What you doing, eh? his voice rose with urgency, clamping his hands around your arms, with the belief he could stop the unraveling, take back his words.

"Darling wha...what you doing?" his hand racked down his face, fearful eyes emerging over his fingers to see you turning the key in the lock.

"Y/N..." he followed a step behind you as you climbed the stairs in silence. His thundering heart weakening with each foot in front of the other when his eyes landed on the portrait of his mum.

No longer the soldier, no longer the hardened criminal the streets feared. Just a boy again. Whispering silent prayers to a mother long gone. Begging her to fix everything, to fix him. To stop it. Just fucking stop it.

"What, wha..." he breathlessly watched with welling eyes as you pulled a suitcase from under Ada's bed, calmly folding your clothes into its corners, wrapping your belongings into its cushioned sides.

He wanted to speak, to scream. To drop to his knees. But all he could do was stand there silently watching you lock your heart away like it had never belonged to him at all.

Heals creaking along the wooden floorboards you came to stand in front of him. But with no arm stretched out to stop you, no pleas for you to stay, you brushed past his shoulder in one last gentle goodbye. Leaving him not with a kiss, nor a promise, but with words that would haunt him more than any silence ever could.

" We won, Tommy. And yet...you're still looking for another war. Just this time, with me.

*I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below 💚*

[Next part] (coming soon!)

Tag list: @mischievouslittlecreature @peakyswritings @jbrownta @youngbananamilkshake

@meadowshelby @dragonsneversharetheirtreasure @novashelby @tiedyedghoulette

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#tommy shelby #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader insert #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x y/n #tommy shelby x female reader #tommy shelby x fem!reader #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby fanfiction #tommy shelby series #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders series #cillian murphy

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littlepeakydevil · 11 days ago

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Part 1: Hidden Devotions

Summary: Tommy's attempts to manage his family has mixed results, and Lucy gets closer to Heavenerys.

Word Count: 4,704

Warnings: References to death in childbirth, torture, PTSD, arranged marriages, violence, and sexual content.

Notes: Amos and Heavenerys belong to @call-sign-shark.

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Chapter 5: Heart of Stone

She dreamed of blood under her nails. Burrowed so deeply that she could not rid herself of it, no matter how hard she scrubbed at her hands. There was the slice of blades in the dark, the bark of rabid hounds at her heels. Something cold and heavy in her hand. The metallic scent of blood in the air. Clammy flesh under her palms. She brought the knife to it and began to cut. Like peeling an apple. Or skinning a rabbit. Don’t push the blade in too deep or too shallow. We’ll make trophies of their pelts later.

Screams. Voices begging for her to stop. For it to end. Please, please, please…

Lucy woke up with a spasm. Her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, chest heaving with frantic breaths. Beside her, Shadow raised his large head, ears pricked up, shifting closer with a whine to nudge at her with his cold nose.

Trembling, she drew the furs on the bed up tighter around her, reaching with one hand to pet the dog where he laid his head on her stomach. Gaze focused on the canopy above her, she swallowed down tears, stomach churning unpleasantly. The screaming from her dream still echoed in her ears, reverberating endlessly, never to be totally silenced.

And even though she could not see the blood under her fingernails, she could still feel it there. Lodged so deep she would never be free of it.

∗ ∗ ∗

“I won’t do it!”

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut, battling back the stress-induced headache he could already feel coming on. “Aeda, please…”

“No, Tommy!”

“We’ve put this off as long as we can. We agreed that you had until Heavenerys’s wedding to find your own suitable match.” He spread out his hands. “And here we are. Hev’s wedding has come and gone, and you still aren’t betrothed. Which means I will find someone for you.”

Aeda’s lips drew back from her teeth, spitting her words like fire from her lungs. “I am not marrying some stuffy lord twice my age!”

For fuck’s sake, did she really have so little faith in him? “I’m not going to pick someone for you who is twice your age, Aeda. There are plenty of young, kind lords out there–”

“You marry them then, if they’re so kind and wonderful! I’ve no interest in them.”

He felt his temper start to fray. “For fuck’s sake, Aeda, you can’t put this off forever! I’ve already given you plenty of time–”

“Why in the seven hells do I have to get married, when you and Aerthurys aren’t yet even betrothed either?”

He met her blazing lilac eyes levelly. “You know why.”

She met his gaze with her head lifted, jaw working stubbornly. “I’m not doing it, and you can’t make me,” she declared, spinning on her heel and going to the door.

“Aeda!” Tommy shouted, rising to his feet, hands planted on his desk. She didn’t stop, instead wrenching open the door and stalking out into the hall. “This conversation isn’t over!”

The door slammed shut behind her with a resounding boom.

“Fuck’s sake,” Tommy murmured, collapsing back into his chair, temples properly throbbing now.

The weeks following the wedding at the Dreadfort had passed quickly, all things considered. Heavenerys and Amos had been in King’s Landing not too long ago for their coronation ceremony, staying awhile after to allow Amos to become acquainted with those at court before returning north.

Tommy supposed it was smart to split their time between the north and south. It had been a problem in the past with the northerners feeling neglected by their southern rulers. Hopefully this new tactic would help change that.

But it did mean that when they were up at the Dreadfort, ruling of the south fell heavily onto his shoulders.

There was a soft knock at the door and Tommy huffed, drawing himself to sit up straight.

“Come.”

Jon poked his head in. “You wanted to see me?”

Tommy beckoned him inside. “Close the door.”

Jon did as told, moving to take one of the chairs across from the desk. “What’s going on, Tom?”

He examined his younger brother carefully. Yet another fucking mess one of his siblings was kicking up that he had to swoop in and fix. Like always. Silently, he reached out, picking up a scroll, its wax seal broken, and held it up for Jon to see. His brother cursed.

“How did you get that?”

“The Grand Maester gave it to me after you asked him to send it with this morning’s ravens. He was…concerned when he saw who it was addressed to.”

“It was none of his bloody business.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it? You attempting to arrange a marriage behind the backs of me, the king and queen, and the rest of the small council very much does seem to be our business to me.”

Jon scowled, looking out the window. Tommy examined him for a long moment.

“Jon…” he tried to keep his voice gentle with compassion. “I know that it’s been hard since Margot died…”

Jon flinched at her name, a look of deep sorrow crossing his face. Tommy knew he had to tread carefully here. Margot’s sudden death had been traumatic for Jon.

Hells, to all of them. Tommy didn’t think he would ever forget the sounds of Margot’s screams of agony as she labored for hours, howling so loudly she could be heard in even the furthest corners of the Red Keep. Nor Jon’s bellow of grief. Tommy had watched the servants clear away the blood soaked sheets after it was over, the heaving cries of the newborn baby Margot died giving birth to echoing in his ears.

“The kids need a mother,” Jon murmured, still not quite looking at him.

“We have plenty of maids to look after them…”

“It’s not the same.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, beginning to sense that this was more about what Jon needed than the children. “You don’t think that it’s too soon?”

Jon looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I wanted to give you time to grieve.”

“It’s been over a year.”

“No one would begrudge you for taking longer.”

“I need someone,” Jon’s eyes were beseeching. “The kids need someone.”

Tommy searched his face for a moment, then sighed, relinquishing. “Alright. But…Lizzie Stark, Jon?”

“What’s wrong with her?” Jon bristled.

“You hardly know her.”

“We spoke several times at Hev’s wedding. She’s lovely–”

“I’m sure she is. But she’s only a cousin of the Stark boys. You’re a Targaryen prince. Any match you make needs to be of a higher level of prestige. And we already have a strong enough foothold in the north. We need to spread our influence, not just concentrate it in one region.” He held up a hand when Jon opened his mouth to argue. “But, if you really are ready to remarry, we’ll find you someone.”

Jon regarded him for a moment. “Someone nice.”

“Of course.”

“And pretty.”

“Mhm.”

“And who is good with kids.”

“Right.”

Jon’s face softened. “Thank you, Tommy. I’m sorry about going behind your back.”

He shrugged, relaxing. Thankful that this meeting had gone loads better than the one with Aeda. “Just don’t do it again, eh? It’s hard enough managing everything already. I don’t need my brother running off and getting married without telling anyone.”

Jon nodded. “You’re heading back north soon, right?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow. I’ll bring this up to Hev and Amos while I’m there. See if they have any suggestions for a good match.”

“Might be good to pop by Dragonstone on your way. It sounds like Aerthurys has been causing some trouble.”

Tommy felt his jaw unconsciously clench. “What sort of trouble?”

Jon shrugged. “Dunno. Just heard Aunt Pol say something about it in passing.”

“I’ll be sure to discuss it with her before I leave.”

Jon rose from his seat. “Thanks again, Tom.”

“Mhm.”

Jon went to the door, sidestepping around Polly who was out in the hall. She stepped inside, watching Tommy curiously as he rose to his feet, picking up the scroll addressed to Lizzie Stark and containing Jon’s swirling words of proposed marriage. In a few quick strides, he went to the hearth, and fed the paper into the flames.

“I heard that your conversation with Aeda could have gone better,” she said, going to pour herself a glass of wine from the pitcher on the table by the window. Tommy merely grunted, hands bracing on the mantle with his gaze pointed towards the dancing flames.

“I don’t know how to make her see reason.”

“She’s almost as stubborn as you are,” Polly mused, voice fond. But when she looked back at him, her gaze sharpened a bit. “You could go a little easier on her.”

Tommy bristled. “I have been going easy on her.”

“You really don’t think it’s a little hypocritical to strong arm her into a marriage when you yourself aren’t betrothed?”

Straightening, he returned to his desk. “It’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

He felt irritation start to simmer under his skin again. Was she really going to make him say it out loud? “I’m not exactly the most desirable prospect, Polly.”

Her eyes grew sad. “You’d be surprised.”

He looked away, not believing her for a moment. She was only saying it to spare his feelings.

“You can’t avoid marriage forever either, Thomaryon. You know that as well as I do; we need matches to secure our reach across the realm. And heirs to continue the bloodline. You’re one and twenty; it is far past time that you were wed.”

When he still said nothing in response, she sighed.

“It’s just something to think about, alright?”

“I don’t see you getting on Aerthurys’s case like this.”

Polly sighed again, eyes turning up towards the ceiling. “We both know Aerthurys isn’t in any state to be marrying anyone right now.”

“Jon mentioned that there was some trouble at Dragonstone.”

Polly’s lips pursed. “Yes. There was an…accident of some sort. During a sparring session between Aerthurys and a boy. Aerthurys lost control, and…” she trailed off, not needing to say anymore. Tommy had seen plenty of times what happened when Aerthurys’s madness erupted. “The boy is dead.”

Tommy lifted a hand to rub at his eyes, wetting his lips while he processed Polly’s words. “How old was the boy?”

“Four and ten.”

Fucking hell. “Speak to his family. Make sure they are…well compensated.” The word felt wrong in the context with which they were speaking. As if any amount of gold or lands would ever make up for what the boy’s family had lost.

“And Aerthurys?”

“It’s been a fucking month since the wedding and he hasn’t shown even the slightest bit of improvement.” Tommy’s jaw worked. “If anything, he’s only gotten worse.” He turned his gaze towards the windows, mulling over the situation in his head. “I’ll send him to the crownlands,” he decided.

Polly’s brows rose. “To deal with the Blackfyres?”

He nodded. The growing rebellion House Blackfyre had incited was quickly spinning out of control. They needed to act swiftly, before more houses joined their cause. “Might as well put that aggression of his to good use.”

“Alright,” Polly agreed. “You’re leaving tomorrow?”

“Yeah. In the morning.”

“I’ll try to speak with Aeda while you’re away.”

“Thank you.”

“How did it go with Jon?”

“Well enough. I told him we would find him a good match.”

Polly tilted her head. “I like Lizzie Stark. I know she’s only a cousin of Jared, James, and Jay, but I think she would make a good addition here…”

“I don’t want it to seem like we’re playing favorites with the north.”

Disappointment seemed to flicker in her eyes, but she shrugged. “Fair enough. I’ll start to draw up a list of prospects.” She smiled a little to herself. “If things go well, we’ll have had three weddings in only about one year’s time.”

He hummed in agreement, already feeling tension build in his temples at the thought of all the arrangements that would have to be made. Not to mention ensuring they could pay for it all…

“Right,” Polly reached over and gave him a pat on the arm, knowing him well enough to sense that now their business was done, he wanted to be alone. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He waited until she left before standing, going to the window. Tension coiled in his shoulders, fingers squeezing against each other. At the rate they were going, he would have a list as long as his arm of things he needed to address with Heavenerys and Amos by the time he arrived at the Dreadfort.

Since returning home from the wedding, he often felt himself seized with a sense of eagerness each time he thought about his inevitable trip up north. Though why, exactly, he could not entirely say.

He shut his eyes, and the image of fiery red hair flashed across his closed eyelids. He quickly opened them again, giving a sharp shake of his head.

It was just because he could not remember the last time he had made a genuine friend before. It was the feeling of understanding that he missed. The ease of being able to talk to another person. That was all.

And so, he chose to pay no mind to the little skip in his heartbeat when he thought of seeing Lucy Bolton again.

∗ ∗ ∗

The little spoon Lucy was using to stir the sugar into her tea clinked against the sides of the delicate cup. Her chest spasmed with quiet giggles. Seated across from her, Heavenerys was also smiling, slathering a scone with cream and jam while she told Lucy stories of her childhood at the Red Keep. Of running through the halls with her cousins and getting into all sorts of mischief.

After Heavenerys and Amos returned from their coronation in King’s Landing, Lucy had seen the new queen on many occasions, either at meals or wandering through the castle. But they did not speak much. Amos was almost always by Heavenerys’s side and monopolizing her attention, and Lucy figured it would be best to leave them be. They were still newlyweds, after all.

It still took her by surprise how happy they seemed to be. It was not rare to stumble across them playing games of cat and mouse throughout the castle, or to hear Heavenerys laugh while Amos hoisted her over one of his shoulders with a smile of his own. There was no point in thinking that it was an act anymore. Amos loved her. It was obvious to everyone. Even Lucy, with her less than glowing opinion of her cousin.

Things settled into a more regular routine around the castle. One day, Amos departed with his men into the woods on a hunting trip, and Heavenerys had looked so lonely, Lucy was unable to stop herself from approaching her with an invitation to have tea with her.

They became fast friends after that. And soon Heavenerys was often seeking out Lucy to keep her company whenever Amos was busy or away.

It was nice: having a friend.

“Did you always get along so well with all your cousins?” Lucy asked, setting her spoon aside to take a sip of her tea.

Heavenerys shook her head. “Not at first. Tommy and I used to fight like cats and dogs when we were younger.”

Lucy inclined her head, fighting to keep much expression off her face at the mention of Tommy. “Really?”

“He could be such a stick in the mud. Always so cold and stoic.”

“Cold?” Lucy frowned. Tommy’s reputation was well known, but she had started to believe it was just rumor and embellishment, considering how he had been anything but cold towards her.

But Heavenerys nodded her head. “He’s always so serious. It’s all about duty and what’s best for the house or the realm with him. I’ve seen him make decisions in an instant that others would have spent days agonizing over.”

“Like what?”

Heavenerys’s face grew deadly serious. “Like…whether or not to burn cities or villages to the ground.”

Lucy swallowed hard. The past few years had been peaceful until House Blackfyre decided to start a war with the crown. What began as a small skirmish had quickly built into a full-blown, bloody rebellion. And while most of the realm remained loyal to the Targaryens, a handful of houses across the continent had declared themselves for the rebelling house. It was no doubt a conflict that was beginning to grow more and more concerning for the crown. They needed to stamp it out quickly, before the Blackfyres managed to sway even more great houses to their cause.

She often wondered if the wedding between Amos and Heavenerys did not have something to do with it. Not only did it ensure House Bolton remained loyal to the Targaryens, but it also gained the crown a large advantage and stronger reach in the north. It would be much harder for the Blackfyres to find allies up here with Amos on the side of the dragons.

“Mum is right that he really was born for politics.” Heavenreys continued, taking a small bite of her scone. “I don’t think he ever really lets himself relax or have fun. Except maybe at the brothel.”

Lucy’s musing about the war in the south were quickly distracted by that last bit. She felt her stomach drop a little. “Brothel?” The word tasted unpleasant on her tongue.

Heavenerys didn’t seem to notice the way that her mood shifted, merely bobbing her head up and down in affirmation. Her eyes sparked with the fond amusement of a younger sister teasing an older sibling. Lucy supposed with how closely they had grown up, Tommy probably was more like an older brother to her than a cousin.

“Mhm. I say this with nothing but love, but he’s always been a bit of a slut,” she snickered. “With a whole slew of broken hearts left behind in his wake. Poor girls.”

“Oh.” Lucy had heard the gossip about Tommy, but like those about his coldness, she let herself hope that they were just that–rumors.

Was he only being nice to her because he saw her as yet another of his conquests?

“Not that I think he’s ever been intentionally cruel or unkind to any of them, mind you. He’s just…not interested in anything more than a quick roll around.” Heavenerys offered her a small smile. “He really is alright, though. I know that he cares for all of us very much. He’s just addicted to his work, is all.” Her voice lowered. “I always thought that he felt like he had something to prove…”

She did not need to specify further what she meant. Lucy bit her lip, debating if the topic was something that she ought to pursue further.

“Do you think that the rumors are true?” she asked, relieved when the question did not get her scolded. Instead, Heavenerys just sighed, shaking her head.

“I don’t know.”

“He has a dragon.”

“Yes. But it doesn’t prove who his father was. Not when his mother was also a Targaryen.” Heavenerys looked out towards the window. “And with her dead, we’ll likely never know for sure.”

Lucy opened her mouth to say more, but was interrupted by a knock on the door, the maester quickly shuffling in and out with a small scroll for Heavenerys.

“Ah,” the queen smiled while reading over its contents. “We seem to have summoned him.”

“What?”

She set the scroll aside in favor of scooping up a small chocolate covered pastry. “Tommy is on his way up north. He’ll be here in a few days.”

Despite what Heavenerys just told her, about the coldness and the whoring, Lucy could not stop the flutter of excitement that came with the news.

“That’s good,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. “I look forward to seeing him again.”

∗ ∗ ∗

It was well into the evening by the time Tommy landed Syndor on the field surrounding the Dreadfort. Slipping from the saddle to drop onto the ground, he gave his dragon a light pat on the side of his neck, murmuring in Valyrian before heading off in the direction of the front gates. Snow crunched under his boots, breath visible in the cold night air.

He could see lights blazing and flickering from the Dreadfort’s windows. A warmth seemed to emit from it which had not been there prior.

Heavenerys was already having an influence, then. Good.

At least something was going right.

Not too far from the gates, Kairaxès was standing guard. Coiled with his white scales blending seamlessly into the frost that covered the ground. He stirred when Tommy approached, lifting his huge head to appraise him.

“Hello, Kairaxès,” Tommy greeted in High Valyrian. Heavenerys’s dragon hummed in acknowledgement, lowering his head back down to the ground, giving silent permission for Tommy to continue towards the gates. He could feel the dragon’s glowing blue eyes watching him as he walked away.

He stepped into the courtyard to be met with a rather flustered set of guards, apologizing profusely for the lack of a welcome party. But he quickly waved them away.

“Tommy!”

He looked up, something in him instantly relaxing at the sight of Lucy walking towards him from the main entrance into the castle. She was in the middle of tugging a dark cloak around her shoulders, long red waves spilling down over one shoulder, lips stretching into a smile.

“Lucy,” he greeted when she came to a stop in front of him. Her beauty had not dimmed since he’d last seen her. If anything, she seemed to have grown only more breathtaking.

“I thought I saw your dragon land. It’s so dark, I couldn’t be sure if my eyes were playing tricks on me.”

“Syndor tends to blend in well with the dark.”

“We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“The wind was good, and I figured it made more sense to finish the journey rather than stop at Hornwood castle.”

Her head tipped up to look at him, eyes so big and brown, that he managed for a moment to forget just about everything else. All the stress that had followed him from the south, the infinite things that needed managing and tending to, all evaporated from his head in the instant that their eyes met.

“It’s good to see you,” Lucy said, voice very, very soft even though it was only them in the courtyard.

“You too,” Tommy answered.

She stared up at him for a moment more, then seemed to shake out of some sort of trance, gesturing for him to follow her. “Come on, let’s get out of the cold.”

When they entered the castle, two serving girls appeared almost immediately to take their gloves and cloaks.

“Are you hungry? We were just about to have dinner,” Lucy was rubbing her hands together against the lingering chill from outside. “I’m sure Heavenerys and Amos will be glad to see you.”

“Dinner sounds grand.”

She started to lead the way. Tommy raised his eyebrow at the many candles lining the halls. He was fairly certain those had not been there last time.

“How are Heavenerys and Amos?” he asked while they walked.

“Fine. Great, actually. I’ve never seen Amos…”

Tommy recalled the way that the king looked at Heavenerys during the wedding and coronation ceremonies. “Happy?”

She nodded. “I’ll admit, I thought that it would fade after you and your family members left. But so far, it seems to have stuck.”

“Good.”

“How are things in King’s Landing?”

He let out a long, deep sign. Lucy looked at him in the corner of her eye, brow raised. “That bad?”

“No, it’s just…” he hesitated, weighing whether or not to let her into his mind, and huffed again. “I had a fight with my sister before I left.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. What were you arguing about?”

When he hesitated her expression turned sheepish.

“Sorry. You don’t have to answer that. It’s none of my business…”

“It’s alright. She doesn’t want to get married.”

Lucy’s head cocked. “Is she betrothed to anyone?”

“No. We had an agreement that she had until Hev’s wedding to find herself a match, and if she hadn’t by then, I would find one for her.”

“I see. Did she say why she doesn’t want to get married?”

“No,” he sighed. “She’s always been rebellious.”

Lucy hummed in sympathy. Tommy cast an assessing glance her way, looking her up and down.

“Can I ask you something?”

Lucy raised a curious eyebrow. They came to a stop at the entrance to the great hall. “Sure.”

“Why aren’t you married yet?” She was nine and ten, smart, sweet, and fucking gorgeous. And despite their reputation, House Bolton was still a significant seat of power in the north, even before Amos and Heavenerys’s marriage. Tommy found it almost impossible to believe that no one had made offers for her hand.

Something in Lucy’s mood shifted, face falling. “Father won’t allow it.”

He frowned. That made no sense. What sensible lord wouldn’t be looking for a good match for his daughter? “Why?”

“I don’t really know.” Her fingers had started playing with the golden rings she was wearing. A nervous habit, he had noticed. When she spoke again, her voice was so quiet Tommy almost didn’t hear her. “He said once that he didn’t think anyone would want me.”

Tommy felt his jaw drop open, shocked in equal measure of the assertion itself, and that Victor would actually say something so horrid to his own daughter.

“That’s ridiculous.” He couldn’t imagine anyone not wanting her.

Lucy shrugged. “Whatever the reason, he thinks it better for our house if I remain locked away here.” She gave a small shake of her head, turning her brown gaze back to him. “What about you? Why aren’t you married yet?”

He hesitated, clearing his throat roughly. His voice was lowered when he spoke. “Most lords aren’t exactly eager to betroth their daughters to a rumored bastard.” Not to mention one who was a second son and with a reputation for being cold and heartless.

Her face shifted, softening. Her lips parted to speak, but was promptly cut off by voices approaching them.

“Prince Thomaryon,” Amos’s voice boomed through the hall, Victor and Heavenerys in tow. Lucy stepped back, allowing space for Heavenerys when she rushed forward to fling her slim yet strong arms around his neck.

“Hello, cousin.”

“Hi, Hev,” he hugged her back, letting her go to examine her. She looked well, gleaming eyes shining happily, practically glowing with newlywed joy.

“Welcome back to the Dreadfort,” Amos said, hovering behind his wife, a hand resting delicately on her lower back. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“Had we known, we would have had a welcoming party for you,” Victor added.

Tommy quickly waved away the suggestion. “I expect I’ll be traveling here a good deal, Lord Victor. There’s no need to make a fuss every time I arrive. Lucy escorted me from the courtyard.”

Amos’s dark eyes were darting between him and Lucy, narrowing a fraction. “How kind of you, Lucilla.”

Lucy’s freckled cheeks turned pink. “I thought that I saw Syndor from my window,” she explained.

Amos’s eyes only narrowed further.

“Let’s go in.” Heavenerys announced before her husband could pry further, linking her arm with Tommy’s and starting to drag him away towards the high table. He could not help the pulse of fondness he felt towards his cousin, to go along with the relief that she looked happy and well.

And yet, despite her voice in his ear, he could not help but chance a glance over his shoulder at Lucy, who was rolling her eyes at something Amos was saying to her. When her gaze met Tommy’s, the muscles in her cheeks twitched, as if trying to suppress a smile.

Something in his chest seized, though he could not for the life of him say what it was.

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#peaky blinders #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc #lucy winters #lucy winters x tommy shelby #embers in the frost #lucilla bolton #lucy bolton #thomaryon targaryen #tommy targaryen #lucy bolton x tommy targaryen #peaky blinders oc #tommy shelby fanfic

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cherrycranes · 5 months ago

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A Proper Thank You (Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader) [+18]

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x female reader Summary: You're Tommy's younger girlfriend who he loves to spoil. Thankfully, you always know how to thank him. Word count: 2,954 Contents: (Minors DNI) Age gap (reader is in her 20's, Tommy is in his 40's), smut, daddy kink (a serious use of the word "daddy"), oral sex (male receiving), cum eating. Author's notes: Another collab with my bestie @fuckiingloser. Don't forget to give her some love too! Mandatory "english is not my first language" disclaimer. Love ya!

You were not the first young woman to be with a man in his 40's. It was still very common even if the times were changing. But there was something about this relationship that did mirror the societal shift. You were his sweet girlfriend who he paraded around town, who shamelessly sat on his lap while he worked and who shared his bed. Quite the scandal for those still stuck in Victorian times who would expect this to happen only between a married couple. Good thing the Victorian times had ended over 30 years ago.

Tommy loved having you by his arm half of the time. The other half he loved having you under him. Or on top, he wasn't picky. He got a kick out of the variety of looks some people would give him for having a pretty, young girl as his sweetheart. But above all things, he absolutely adored the way his pretty baby looked at him whenever he spoiled her rotten.

Today, you went with him to a horse ranch near Southam. A lovely place where Tommy intended to see that beautiful look in your eyes once more. He smirked, seeing you caress a beautiful mare’s nuzzle, the animal calm and docile under your touch.

“Aye, I think she likes you.” Tommy announced with pride, already planning to buy the horse for his beautiful girlfriend.

“You think?” You turned your head to look at him and admire his poise. The cigarette kissing his lips, the fine dark suit, the piercing blue eyes. So intimidating to many, so dear to you. “She’s beautiful…” Your thoughts and eyes returned to the mare, giving her another soft pet.

“You two make a very pretty picture, baby girl.” He dropped his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out skillfully before making his way to you. His big arms wrapped around you from behind while he rested his chin on your shoulder. You smirked when a surprisingly sweet kiss was planted on the side of your head. Thomas Shelby was never sweet to anyone, not even in the dark humor jokes of those who knew him. His portrait could have easily been annexed to the definitions of “rugged”, “serious” and even “ruthless”, yet, here he was. This was what his lips that had spat out curses and threats were doing. Kissing. And very gently at that.

Above all women, you had a special place in his soul. You had him wrapped around your finger like those expensive rings you wore. Anything you wanted, you could have it. And if tomorrow you were to ask for a heart on a silver plate, he would tear anybody’s chest open and serve it to you himself.

You leaned into him, just in time to meet his husky whisper:

“If you want her baby… She’s yours.”

With a big, spoiled princess grin, you turned around and looked at him in complete elation.

“Thank you, daddy!” Your sweetness intoxicated him, the way you looked into his eyes killed him, and the way you called him “daddy” raised him from the dead. He absolutely loved it.

A calloused hand came up to touch your cheek, his thumb gently rubbing over your bottom lip. He admired the joy upon your beautiful face and studied it devotedly.

“Anything for my girl.” He spoke softly, his sexy Birmingham accent made your knees feel weak and your pussy become wetter. In a heartbeat, Thomas spoke to the farm owner, purchased the mare without even caring about the cost and made the necessary arrangements so you could have your pretty horse.

After a successful purchase, Thomas helped you into the passenger seat of his car, driving you back to town. You would have your horse tomorrow morning, right now, business called.

He drove you to the Garrison, the Shelby's family owned pub for a Peaky Blinder business meeting. Usually, women were not allowed, but you were not just a woman. You were Thomas Shelby’s woman. And the people who knew would rather chop a limb off than dare to deny you access.

With his hand on your lower back, Tommy guided you inside the rowdy bar towards the private Peaky Blinders table. Everybody was waiting for your arrival between sips of irish whiskey and puffs of smoke. Thomas took a seat and you took yours on his lap, the feeling of your weight on him as natural as the feeling of air entering his lungs.

The men at the table did not bat an eye, your presence was the new normality. And in a way, a sign that things were good, that Thomas was relaxed and no conflicts were on the horizon. If something bad or difficult was preying upon them, you would be hidden away in some safe heaven and not happily sitting on Tommy’s lap. Perhaps, the only other emotion a few of the men could feel when looking at you was a secret, deeply buried longing. Anybody would love to have a beauty like you sitting on their lap. Not that they would allow Thomas to hear them admit that.

The meeting started around you, some usual business and many details you didn’t care for. Thomas concentrated, his thumb mindlessly rubbing back and forth on your clothed thigh. You liked the skirt you wore, the fabric was soft, and it incited Tommy to touch. It was not exactly close to the feeling of your bare skin when you fucked him, or when he would make you sit naked on his lap while he worked in his house studio, but it was pleasant.

The more the meeting dragged on, the more you started to grow restless. And a little bored, in all honesty. Sitting on his lap sounded glamorous and sensual in theory but in practice it was a test of resilience and patience. Being a sweet arm candy girl like you required more than a pretty face and a hot body. You also had to possess the skills to tell when a meeting was dying out and calculate the exact perfect moment to lean closer to Tommy’s ear and whisper something to save you from boredom.

“You know… I never properly thanked you today for getting me my beautiful horse… I think daddy needs a proper thank you…” Thomas turned to look at you with a raised eyebrow and a little smirk.

“Is that right?” He leaned closer to you until your noses bumped together, giving your thigh a squeeze. “And just how would you thank daddy, then? Hmm?” He whispered, the meeting a mere background noise now. You leaned towards his ear again, whispering so quietly so only Tommy could hear.

“I wanna suck your cock… Or you can fuck me over your desk in the back?” You purred so innocently despite the pure filth of your words. His cock told you all you needed to know about his opinion. The twitch inside his pants impossible to miss. You pulled back to stare into his eyes and take in his tiny smirk. He knew that resistance was futile and completely incompatible with him when it came to you.

Without excusing words or explanations to the other gentlemen, Thomas scooted you two out of the booth, taking your hand and guiding you to the back. He kicked the small office door open and locked you both in. You could almost feel his piercing blues tracing the shape of your ass under that fashionable skirt you wore.

“So...” You started, walking over to his desk and luring him to take a few steps closer to you. He towered over you, his rough hands touched your hips with interest. “How does daddy want me?” You purred innocently, looking into his eyes.

Thomas’ cock hardened even more in his dress pants. Your figure, your soft face, your pretty eyes, your voice, you. Lust took over his eyes.

“On your knees baby… you know what daddy wants.” His voice was husky, overcome with his need for you and your pretty little mouth. You grinned, a hungry look in your eyes replicating his own. Steadily, you sunk to your knees, the fabric of your skirt your only padding on the cold floor. Tommy leaned against his desk and watched you work your magic. Your fingers undid the button of his pants with torturous care.

“You know… If you wanted to fuck me in front that whole room of men… I’d let you. I’d let you do whatever you want to me..” You were a tease, you killed him slowly. His breath hitched a bit, his possessive streak driving him to total insanity. You were right. You would let him do anything he wanted. He knew. But hearing you say that made the fire of his lower stomach ignite him whole.

“Oh, I know you would… You’d be my good little girl, wouldn’t you?” He whispered, brushing a hair out of your beautiful face. You nodded so innocently, and then lowered his pants down until they pooled around his ankles.

“I'll always be your good girl… I’ll always please you and let you use me however you need…” You whispered back, a soft sensual smile gracing your lips. Tommy couldn’t help but groan at your words, his painfully hard cock pulsing in his boxer briefs right in front of your face.

“God, you’re such a good girl… You’ll be good for daddy now won’t you?” He cooed.

“Always.” You purred in devotion. Your hands reached up to grab the band of his boxers and, with one swift, well trained motion, pulled them down. His large throbbing cock sprung free for you to drool over. Mere inches away from your face.

“You gonna thank your daddy properly, hmm?” He asked with a sexy smirk, heavily accented and incredibly husky. You nodded obediently, your eyes going from his beautiful irises to his hard cock. It had been over four months since you became his sweetheart and you still felt enamored at his sheer size.

“Yes daddy…” You answered softly then looked back up to his pretty blue eyes. “Gonna suck your cock and drain these perfect balls just how you like…” You made it a point to speak so innocently, stirring something in him. He could have lost himself right then and there from your words alone. It took him a second to fully take in the idea. The dirtiest promises coming from the prettiest girl he has ever seen.

“Fuck baby… You’re gonna be the death of me someday, you know that?” He asked in a playful little smirk, and you attacked. Your soft hand wrapped around his aching hard cock. He groaned softly.

“But at least you’ll die happy.” You purred, gifting him a few seconds to prepare himself before finally leaning in to swirl your tongue skillfully over the head of his dripping cock. Thomas let out a guttural moan, his hand gripping his desk behind him in an attempt to steady himself. His head fell back, the texture of your wet, warm tongue erasing each and every thought off his mind. It all became you and you only. You licking him, tasting his sensitive tip, you pleasing him.

“Fuck, baby… My perfect girl…” He managed to choke out, affected yet addicted. Your tongue swirled over him expertly, and you looked up at him. A sweet happy hum reverberated in your throat as you tasted the salt of his precum. Every drop that ran down his tip not making it far thanks to your eager licks. Your hum sent vibrations up his cock, making him feel like his knees were about to buckle under him. The only time he appreciated feeling vulnerable.

Tommy looked down at you servicing him, taking your sweet time on his sensitive tip. The fire in your eyes recognized his and burnt with it.

“Holy-f-fuck.. my girl knows how to suck her daddy’s cock so good….” He groaned, and you took more of his lengthy cock in your mouth, working your way down and sucking it, your tongue massaging it slowly.

He tried his best to maintain his composure and control, but another swirl of your tongue made him admit to himself that he would not last long.

“F-fuck, baby girl… You keep going like that…” He groaned, gripping the edge of the wooden desk harder and urging you.

You bobbed your head on his cock in a skillful rhythm. The sounds coming from you were so filthy and obscene. Nothing could have torn his gaze away from you. It was a war between him and his throbbing cock. He wanted more, desperately needed more, but his orgasm neared closer than his next breath.

“You’re too good to me, baby girl… You’re gonna make daddy come… And it’s gonna be right in your pretty mouth, and you’re gonna take every last drop, aren’t you?” He cooed with one hand touching the top of your head for support. You bobbed your head, up and down his shaft, with your nose bumping his pelvic area. You looked up and hummed in response. You always swallowed.

Noting his increasing pleasure, you pushed yourself to take more of his thick cock. You gagged a little and earned a loud moan from him akin to music to your ears.

“Goood girl… Good girl.” With his praise like a mantra, he watched over you, almost out of breath. “That's it. I'm gonna come for you… ‘m gonna come in this mouth and you’re gonna swallow all of it, aren’t you baby?” He repeated, unaware by now. No thoughts inside his head, only your perfect mouth that pulled back for just a second.

“Yes, daddy.” You purred, looking up at him with innocent eyes before taking him in your mouth again, this time working faster and with much more intensity. Constantly swiping against the underside of his thick cock.

Thomas had to resist the urge of bucking into your mouth and fuck your face just the way he likes, but he found the willpower to stay calm. This was all about you pleasing him, putting that mouth of yours to work and thanking him.

“Good girl, such a good fuckin’ girl…” He praised, his orgasm so close to hitting him and knocking him flat out. “Now, remember, baby girl… What’s my rule?” His voice almost cracked. Dominance was a hard thing to upkeep when his balls tightened this hard and your throat hummed around him. Your pussy grew wetter at the mention of the rule, one you had committed to memory.

“Before you can swallow, you have to show it to daddy... Need to see my come all over your pretty tongue, hmm?” Thomas said, barely hanging on at this point. One of his hands holding your hair back and the other gripping the desk behind him for stability.

You hummed as loud and as best as you can, his thick cock barely giving up space for sound to travel. You kept sucking him, and his resistance was hung on by a thread, ready to snap at any moment. His moans, his heavy breaths, the hot puffs of air he lets out, the way his cock throbbed in your mouth… You wanted him done for.

Your hand came up, gently cupping his balls and giving them a soft squeeze. His breath hitched and he cursed under his breath.

“Holy fuck, baby-” He choked out, and everything snapped inside him. “Coming..” That was the only word he managed to utter before his resolve crumbled and his orgasm hit him like a tidal wave. His hand grabbed your hair firmly, but not painfully, keeping you there, ready to take it all.

Your movements stopped in anticipation and his cock pulsed inside your mouth. A salty load of cum coated your tongue completely and his sensual low groan filled your ears. His eyelids fluttered shut for a moment and his lips stayed parted. When every last drop was unloaded, he opened his eyes back again and looked at you intently.

“Show daddy…” He murmured, his voice a little strained. You obeyed, pulling off him and sitting back on your knees. With pride, you stuck out your cum-painted tongue for his viewing pleasure.

“My good girl.” Tommy praised. You were indeed so good. So obedient. So perfect for him. “You can swallow now, baby girl.”

His hand petted the top of your head with appreciative softness, and you, living up to his praise, did as he said. The salt taste of his cum mixing with your saliva before passing down your throat. A soft hum of approval coming from you made him smile ever so gently.

He reached down to pull up his pants, tucking his now soft, sensitive and tired cock back into his boxers and buttoning his dress pants. He reached his hands down, pulling you up from the floor easily into his arms. When you were close to his face, you gave him a cheeky little smile. His hands cupped your face and gently pulled you in for a burning hot, passionate kiss. His tongue invaded your mouth, making him taste himself on you. A pervertedly satisfied smile crept into the kiss.

Slowly, he pulled back, looking at you with half-lidded eyes.

“You know… If all it took to get you to do that for me is to buy you a horse… I think I'll buy you a horse, or anything else you want every single day for the rest of your life.” Tommy whispered in a mix of sensuality but also pure, deep love.

Your eyes twinkled a bit and a soft smile appeared on your face. He was just as obsessed with you as you were with him.

“Deal”.

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy fic #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy characters #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #thomas shelby smut #tommy shelby smut #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #thomas shelby fanfic

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kat-mobile · 9 months ago

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could i request a small fic/imagine where tommy is soft with only his girlfriend/fiancé/wife and his kids?🫶🏼

Scary? My God you're divine!

A/N: hey babes, this is actually longer than I was expecting lmao. It still is under 1000 though. I am a huge sucker for soft!Tommy so thank you so much for this request 😍. I named the baby Charlotte before I realised how much her full name sucks and then couldn't be arsed to change it, so apologies to Charlotte Shelby. This is probably also ooc but I don't give a shit, but I hope you like it anon!!! 💕💕

You knew what Tommy did, what came with his job. All the illegal affairs and cutting people up. You'd be a fool not to. But you couldn't help but feel as if the real Tommy Shelby was the one who came out when he was with you.

Ever since the start of your relationship, Tommy had always acted differently around you, much softer, always there to place a soothing hand on your back or hunch over to talk to you with his lips brushing your ear, his words meant for no ears but your own. His hardened gaze softened and the corners of his mouth would quirk up in a a miniscule smile, only momentarily but you would count that as a win no less.

Arthur had employed you to help run things at the garrison, you weren't exactly excellent at maths but you were certainly better than Arthur so you would help with the books as well as working as a barmaid. The two of you met for the first time when Tommy burst into the office of the garrison with a cut on his sharp cheekbone, he thought he would be opening the door to his brother, you thought he was the most handsome man you had ever seen. You insisted on helping and sanitising the "wound" and although he initially refused he soon gave in to your worried frown and relentless offer of help. The two of you had been practically inseparable since, rarely seeing one without the other and if one was missing they were never very far behind.

Tommy took to you almost immediately after meeting you, and Polly clocked him the very next day. The woman always was good at reading Tommy and that day was no different.

Over the next couple of months, whenever he was around Tommy barely let you lift a finger, always eager to help lift things and assist in anyway possible, never letting you out yourself in any risk whatsoever, no matter how small. At first you were offended, thinking that he was doing it because he thought you incapable, what with you being a woman, or if he didn't trust you enough to do things on your own. But when you brought it up one day, thoroughly fed up, he was quick to quell your suspicions and doubts by instead admitting his growing feelings towards you. Absolutely zero persuasion was needed for you to agree to a date with the handsome Tommy Shelby, and now three years later you're married with an adorable little four month old baby girl named Charlotte.

Tommy often refers to your small family as his greatest weakness, saying that if it ever gets out how soft he is that his reputation would never recover. But you just laugh to yourself and cuddle in closer, hand coming up to stroke Charlotte's head. No one would believe it if it got out, he has nothing to worry about.

The first time Tommy had held her you would've thought she was made out of cheap glass, fragile and likely to break at even the smallest of mishandlings. You knew from the moment that little Charlotte Shelby first opened her eyes, sharp and blue like her fathers, that she had Birmingham's most feared gangster wrapped around her teeny tiny pinky. Once the doctor had shown him how to hold the baby properly, supporting her head and all that, it was hard to separate the two.

Every night when he came home to you he would lie in the centre of the bed with you curled up into his side, head resting on his firm shoulder, and he would place the small babe to lie on his bare chest, small legs tucking up in a scrunch like a frog and cute babbles making the corners of his eyes crease.

#tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders #peaky blinder imagine #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinders fic

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dilf-issues · 9 months ago

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Vanilla | C.M

Requested by Anon: hey dunno you take requests but since your writing is so hot , I'm willing to ask if you consider writing about roleplaying with Cillian and his wife or gf to break the dull routine they were stuck into , the way he suggested that to her being embarrassed and the sweet moments they ditch the characters in bed. He could bring his characters *cough cough * Tommy shelby. Thank you x

Synopsis: In which your boyfriend, Cillian, finds out you’ve been reading erotic fiction about his character in the Peaky Blinders, Tommy Shelby. Cillian shows you how much of a great actor he is.

Warnings: Age gap, the reader is in her 20s and Cillian is in his 40s. Roleplaying, extremely rough sex, dumbification, degradation, face slapping, spitting, pussy spanking, oral sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, and a little cnc. THIS IS KIND OF DARK SO BE WARNED. Everything is consented it’s just that... Cillian’s gonna be rough, like ROUGH

Cillian had been busy. He had an upcoming new season this year and his schedule was packed. You haven’t spent time with him in quite some time now. He constantly apologized for not giving you enough attention and promised to make it up to you.

He decided to fulfill this promise.

Since he was the main character in his series ‘Peaky Blinders’, he did have massive privilege in the production. He had never done it before since he had been such a dedicated person to work with, however, he felt like he should sacrifice his work just for you. He wanted to spend the time with you, maybe have some dinner together at a nice restaurant. Just the usual things the both of you would do. Every time he had some free time he would do some nice things for you, treat you like a princess.

He came home from work that day, he got permission to take the week off and he even got back early from set. He wanted to surprise you, he had a flower in his hands a box of your favorite soft cookies. It was all so perfect.

When he came home, he saw that the first floor was empty and there were no signs of you anywhere. He went upstairs since he reckoned you were in the bedroom, probably taking a nap or reading a book.

Cillian was so happy. He was a man who barely showed any emotions in public but with you, it was different. He had a wide smile on his face, ready to surprise you but when he opened the door, he didn’t see you on the bed.

Instead, he heard the shower running and so he hummed to himself, setting the gifts down as he sat on the bed to wait for you.

As he patiently waited, he noticed your phone was still on. You were the type of person to let the screen go on forever instead of turning it off every 3 minutes like him. He glanced absentmindedly as he saw you were reading some sort of story on your phone. His actions were harmless, he just wanted to see what you were reading.

His eyes skimmed through the words as his blood runs cold.

‘Tommy had me bent over his desk, ass red and swollen from all the beatings. My pussy was leaking down onto the expensive wood, desperate for his cock to ram inside me.

“Please, Mr. Shelby, I need your cock!” I plead like a good whore as he growled.

“You are nothing but a filthy cocksleeve”

Tommy? Shelby? His Tommy Shelby? The character that he played?

It seemed like all of the blood started circulating to his face as he flushed at the filthy thing he had just read. Y/N? His sweet Y/N was reading something like that?

Cillian couldn’t believe it because someone as young and pure as he would never be this dirty. Because of their age gap, he saw her as someone that he needed to protect, shield from the rest of the goddamned world. His fragile little princess that he wouldn’t dare to inflict even a slight force in fear that she might break and shatter into pieces.

The sound of the shower became silent and it interrupted his thoughts, he quickly placed her phone where it belonged as he stood up and smoothened the spot on the bed where he sat to make it seem like he just came in.

When you had walked out, it took you a moment to notice Cillian standing there with your gifts but when you did, you gave him a small scream as you ran towards him, your figure wearing nothing but a small towel.

“Cillian?! You’re back? You brought me gifts!” You exclaimed as her wet body embraced him in a hug. Cillian was somewhat still blank from what he was reading earlier.

‘If she had liked that kinda stuff so much he could push her on the bed and beat her ass right now’

His eyes widened at his own thoughts as he tried to push them away, “Yes princess, I thought maybe I haven’t been paying attention to you now have I? I’m all yours for the week, baby”

You pouted as you nodded at him, and then he realized how submissive-looking you were. You had always had a demeanor of what he would expect someone much younger than him to have, however, Cillian was starting to look at it in a new light.

It doesn't help the fact that he still has his Thomas Shelby haircut for the filming.

It also doesn’t help she was almost naked in front of him, he hadn’t fucked her in weeks. It’s almost fitting.

Maybe doing something about it wouldn’t hurt now would it?

Oh... But it’s definitely gonna hurt you...

Cillian watched closely as the girl before him admired his gifts for her in awe. His eyes became more and more lusted as he figured out a way to approach you.

“Love, can I ask you a question?”

You hummed at him innocently as she raised her brows at him, “Anything, Cill...”

“What have you been reading on your phone, hmm?” Her eyes widened slightly as her heart started to pound in her chest. Cillian was looking at her so intensely that it was slightly scary. She didn’t know if she should lie, or if she should tell him the truth. However, since he had asked... It was obvious he knew the truth.

“Cillian I can explain” You sputtered, panicking on the inside as Cillian started closing whatever gap that both of you had, he was looking down on you in a way he had never done before. You felt the chill run down your spine as you felt the back of your knees hitting the bed.

“Explain” He commanded.

“It’s just... You know I love you and you know I should be honest to you no matter what. But... I just... We haven’t been together in a long time lately and even when we do... It’s always the same...” You felt guilty saying this to him, it’s not like he was bad at sex. He was great. However, you were getting bored with the same soft and loving sex you two always had. “I just... I hope you can be a little rougher, that’s all. You’ve always been... So soft”

“Soft... Hm?” He tilted his head to the side as he stared at you almost mockingly, “Be careful of what you wish for, love”

You had felt your heart stop when Cillian’s smooth Irish accent suddenly turned into the dark Brummie accent you had always heard about on the TV. The one you had always touched yourself to when he wasn’t around.

Then out of nowhere, Cillian had roughly pushed you on the bed as you fell down and whimpered softly. He pulled off the towel on your body as you were left naked, “C-Cillian!”

“Who the fuck is Cillian, eh? Have you been fucking whoring yourself out to another man?” Cillian cursed at you as he quickly took his clothes off, “You’re my whore. You’re mine to fuck, you got it?”

Then you can physically feel your gears shifting in your brain, “T-Tommy?”

Your body shivered as you felt yourself getting wet, you were all naked and you were ready for him. You felt your legs spread instinctively as you heard him laugh, “You really are such a desperate fucking cunt, eh?”

‘Tommy’ had bent down as he gripped your face by the cheeks and roughly shook your head, “Who do you belong to? Who do you fucking belong to?”

“Y-You Cill-Tommy! I belong to you!” Tommy smirked, as his hands traveled down to your navel, teasing you as he drew figures on the skin, making you whine, “Open your fucking mouth you dirty whore”

You wasted no time opening your mouth for him, wide with your tongue out. Suddenly, he did the unexpected when he spat in your mouth, “Fucking swallow it, princess”

You swallowed his spit like a good girl as you held out your tongue to show to him, suddenly seeking his praise and validation however it never came. Tommy just hummed as he let go of your face harshly, almost slamming your head onto the plush bedding.

Characters aside, Cillian was never like this. Throughout the year of your relationship, he had always been gentle and kind, treating you like a soft feather and taking care of you. Maybe because it was because he was much older he had felt like he needed to treat you gently. You never realized Cillian had this side to him. He had always had this side, you just never awaken it.

“Spread your legs wider” He commanded, his voice dark as his character, you listened to him, eager to show him you were his good girl as he hummed looking down at the glistening flesh in between your legs. You were so wet it had dripped down and leaked onto the bedsheet. Without a warning, Tommy gives a hard slap to your cunt and you screamed out. You thought he was doing it once but it seems like it came over and over again, beating your swollen pussy and clit until it was throbbing and red. You cried out of pleasure and pain, as you begged him. You didn’t know what you were begging for but it was sure not for him to stop.

“You fucking like this don’t you? Fucking hell, look at you. You’re fucking wet, you like getting fucking beaten and bruised huh? What a fucking whore. You are nothing. You are only good for fucking, you are only here to fuck. Remember that, you fucking cunt”

Tears were flowing down and you were desperate you were so desperate for his cock. After each word, Tommy spat on your body, leaving you all wet and filthy combined with your own sweat and arousal.

“P-Please! P-Please, fuck me, Tommy! Please I need your cock. Please I want your cum. I need it inside me!” You pleaded like a whore as he slapped your face. You moaned out as his hand traveled down your neck and choked it just enough to make you feel the air around you restricting. “Tommy, I can’t, I need your cock”

He scoffed, pulling down his pants as whipped out his cock. It was so hard to the point where it became purplish-red, the veins covering the base as the head leaked with pre-cum.

“You want my cock?” He lined up his tip on your vagina, “You fucking get it you cocksleeve”

Without giving you a warning and time to adjust, Tommy slammed his cock inside your cunt and he wasted no time ramming into you roughly. Not like you needed time to adjust since you were sopping wet. All you can do is choke out his name and moans as he grunts with each slam.

His pace was rough and deep and for someone like hin with his age, he had the stamina to go on and on fucking you so rough till you can feel him ramming in your stomach.

No words could even cum out of your mouth as your eyes rolled back as he fucks you braindead.

Spit drooling at the side of your mouth as you babble like a cock hungry whore underneath him.

“I’m gonna fucking cum and you’re gonna take it. You’re gonna fucking carry my babies, and even then it is not gonna stop me from fucking you stupid”

You could feel him twitching as his thrusts were getting sloppier and sloppier, you could also feel your orgasm coiling in your tummy as you cried out once you let it all go, the liquid splashing all over the both of you as you squirt on his dick.

You were heavily overstimulated and you screamed as Tommy fucked the cum out of him.

The warm seed spilled inside your walls as he grunted in pleasure, leaning down as he bit your neck and drew blood to the surface.

Tommy looked at you all fucked out, eyes still rolling at the back of your head as you continue to babble nonsense to nothing.

He breathes heavily as he lays down beside you, carefully moving your body to cuddle up to him.

“Like I said, my love... Be careful of what you wished for”

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fel-09 · 24 days ago

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You are his problem

Tommy Shelby x reader

Author's notes: Caring Thomas Shelby This is my own separate Roman empire

Plot : You are his problem, one continuous headache, an irresponsible woman whom he loves madly.

Words :1.3к

The night in Birmingham covers the streets with a thick, lingering gloom, and only the light in Thomas Shelby's house is on. Dim, amber, staining the old wallpaper, it barely breaks the twilight in his room. His desk is littered with papers: contracts, invoices, unresolved issues, each line weighing on him more than the bronze storm lantern next to it.

And on his bed, stretched out in lazy tenderness like a cat, lies she.

Her light breathing almost merges with the rustle of paper, her arms spread out in carelessness, and on her face an expression of serenity he can never reach. The perpetual chaos she carries with her is strangely peaceful to him.

Her clothes are lying somewhere in the corner of the room, and if anyone had said she had even a shadow of neatness, he would have only laughed. Stockings-one on the back of a chair, the other must have gotten lost in the folds of a blanket. The garter, the one he'd fastened on her pale skin himself, was gone without a trace, as was the earring she'd bemoaned last week.

She doesn't care about order, doesn't bother with things, hardly remembers where she puts them. He's used to picking up her brooches off the floor, picking up forgotten gloves from the dresser, and searching for her hairbrush, which invariably gets lost between the pillows. He's used to the fact that every morning begins with her searching for missing items and ends with her wearing the first thing that comes to hand anyway.

Thomas runs his hand over his face tiredly, bringing himself back to reality. Long fingers transfer the ink stain from the paper to his temple, but he doesn't care. He needs to finish his work so he can drift off to sleep as easily as she does - as if she doesn't have to think about anything, as if this world requires nothing more than the lazy movement of her hand to once again take possession of everything she desires.

He looks at her and feels a slight weariness, but there is a strange, quiet pleasure in that weariness. He shouldn't be babysitting, shouldn't be taking care of a man who can't even find his own stockings. But apparently that's what he had become.

She rarely did anything on her own. Not because she was lazy (though she was lazy too), but because whenever she did, it turned out to be a disaster. Inept was the word that best described her. If she tried to fix something, the result was always something completely different, most often for the worse.

She could sleep half the day, forgetting all her chores, she could lose her things without leaving one room, or she could try to help, and in doing so she could drive the situation to the point of absurdity.

Like that morning when she had suddenly thought of helping Thomas tie his tie.

He was standing in front of the mirror, frowning at his shirt and the carelessly thrown on piece of cloth. She stretched lazily, yawned, and, seeing his hesitation, suddenly suggested:

- Let me do it.

He only raised an eyebrow, but apparently he was too tired to argue.

So the tie was in her hands.

She took hold of the knot confidently, trying to pull it tight, the way respectable people do. The problem was, she'd never had a talent for this sort of thing. With each new movement, the fabric twisted into something unimaginable, and the harder she tried, the worse the result became.

By the time Thomas suddenly began coughing, she realized she was literally choking him.

His hands immediately flew to her neck, trying to loosen the deadly noose she had so diligently tied.

- God, I'm sorry! - she released the tie so sharply that it tightened even more, and now Thomas was looking at her as if deciding whether to let her live.

He loosened the noose abruptly, took a deep breath, and turned around slowly, very slowly.

- Don't move," he said, burning her with his gaze.

She did the only thing she could do in a situation like this - she put her hands up, feigning complete innocence.

- I'm sorry. I just wanted to help.

He looked at her, then shifted his gaze to his tie, which now looked like it had been used in a fight, and back at her again.

- Did you really want to help or were you trying to kill me?

She laughed nervously.

- If I wanted to kill you, I would have found a more subtle way.

He rubbed his temples and seemed to mutter something quietly to himself.

She concluded that helping was not her forte. Better to lie on the bed, entertain herself with harmless thoughts, and let Thomas deal with things on his own.

At least it was safer for his life.

And for some reason it doesn't annoy him at all.

Thomas had never said it out loud, but he seemed to have accepted that he wasn't just her lover-he was her guardian, her nurse, her controller, the only person who could keep her safe from herself.

She couldn't even take care of her own clothes.

Once he had left her alone for five minutes, and that had been enough for her stockings to disappear into the abyss of the room and her corset to somehow end up tightened on the wrong side. No one could explain how it happened, but the fact remained that if left unattended she inevitably turned herself into a mess.

So he dressed her himself.

At first he just helped - adjusting the straps, pulling up the stockings, buttoning the buttons. But then he realized that if he wanted to leave the house in the next hour, he'd have to take

he'd have to take matters into his own hands.

She sat on the bed, yawning and stretching as he carefully arranged her underwear in front of her as if he were dressing a porcelain doll.

- Lift your leg," he said briefly.

She lazily complied, and he confidently pulled the thin silk stocking over her.

- The other.

She smirked, but complied.

When he was done with it, she ran her finger along the edge of the lace.

- You tie them better than I do.

- Because I don't turn simple things into disasters.

She grinned wider.

- 'You don't trust me too much.

He looked at her, assessing her disheveled hair, the pillow mark on her cheek, and the chaos around her. His gaze dropped to her hands, which were carelessly going through the folds of her skirt.

- And have you given me any reason to trust you on this?

She shrugged her shoulders.

- Probably not. But it's still nice to have you take care of me.

He silently pulled his shirt over her and buttoned it, not even bothering to comment. He was used to it.

Used to the fact that she could go through the day without realizing she'd put her dress on backwards. Used to the fact that every morning started with him looking for clothes for her while she sat lazily on the bed, legs dangling.

And he knew he'd keep doing it.

Because she couldn't survive otherwise.

You couldn't say he was looking for trouble. They found him on their own, as if there was an invisible sign on his shoulders: "You get in trouble, you don't get out."

But then, that day, on the narrow street with the smell of fresh baked goods, he hadn't realized he was in trouble yet.

That day she accidentally forgot her wallet, and he, out of the kindness of his heart, without understanding why, bought a bun for the stranger.

Thomas hadn't realized what a mistake he'd made. He hadn't realized that the girl's parents would just as easily sell her to him, and she would be like an ownerless cat, cautious at first, and then just stay.

And he wouldn't be able to kick her out, of course.

Thomas wasn't sorry. Wasn't angry. Wasn't really angry.

To be honest, he encouraged her behavior himself.

Sure, he scolded her, spoke sternly, arched his eyebrows and gritted his teeth that she'd managed to lose her hairpin again, knocked over the inkwell again, stepped on her hemline again, and nearly tumbled down the stairs.

But as soon as he left the room, he froze outside the door.

And listened.

How she grumbled to herself, how she mocked him, how she tried (unsuccessfully, of course) to cope with another disaster on her own.

Sometimes he peeked out.

Standing in the doorway, watching her try to button the buttons of her dress and then give up and sit on the bed, frowning frustratedly. How she climbed under the bed for her lost earring but got stuck there, and only her muffled exclamation told him that the operation had failed.

And at times like this, he found it hard to hold back a smile.

But as soon as she turned around, his face became stern again, his voice steady, his steps confident.

- Why did you go under the bed? - he asked calmly.

- I lost my earring.

He nodded, walked over, bent down, and after a few seconds pulled out her find.

She looked up at him with slight indignation.

- You mean you found her right away?!

- I did.

She rolled her eyes and looked away, and he smiled imperceptibly again as he walked away.

She was a disaster. But somehow a disaster for him.

He loves her.

Not just loves her - madly, desperately, to the very edge where love becomes obsession.

He loves dressing her. Smoothing the hem of her dress, buttoning the tiny buttons, pulling her stockings over her soft skin. He loves tying ribbons in her hair because he knows that if she tries to do it herself, the knot will be so tight that the devil himself can't untie it.

She's his problem.

A cheeky, cunning, lazy cat who always loses her things, stumbles over things, and can't tie his tie without trying to strangle him. The cat he scolds and then eavesdrops outside the door, listening to her mumble something to herself.

And when her parents came back to get her...

He didn't even let them finish their sentence.

No.

They'd left her when she'd been a helpless girl at the doughnut counter. They abandoned her like she was worthless. And now that she was his, now that he was used to buttoning her dress, stroking her hair, sorting out her morning mishaps with her and watching her throw her stuff all over the house, they decided to remember they had a daughter?

Too late.

- She's staying.

A simple phrase, said without too much emotion.

She lives with him now. She is now his concern. His disaster. His curse.

And damn it, he loves her

her like he's never loved anyone before.

#reader #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy x reader #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x you #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian fanfic #x reader #fem reader

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awritesthings1 · 1 year ago

Text

All The Things We Don't Say

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Female Reader

Summary: An anthology of your life with Tommy, from friends to strangers to lovers, and all the little moments in between.

Warnings: 18+, implied DV, substance abuse, childhood trauma, ptsd, overprotective tommy, swearing, brief smut, longfic oneshot, feminist themes (motherhood & being a wife in the 1920s).

ao3 link

Smash!

“Pick it up!”

Your daddy was a drunk. You remembered the fact since you could walk. He stayed home while the working men left for the factories, then disappeared in the late hours of the morning until his eventual return when the slam of the front door woke the household up. Mother used to hold you at night as she curled up in your bed. She was sick a lot. Always sniffing into the back of your neck when you were asleep. Sometimes the sleeve of your nightgown would get soaked while she muffled her hiccups.

She looked sad, too. In the morning, she kept the curtains drawn and stayed away from the outside world. She told you it was to keep nosey Mrs. Gretel away from her family affairs. But Mrs. Gretel had left Birmingham two months prior.

By seven years old, you were the 'man' of the house. You had gone to sleep one night, and when you awoke, your mother had vaporized into the air like a rabbit in a hat.

“She left because of you,” your father slurred at you.

You hated him.

She left behind her long-sleeve dresses, scarves, and wicker hats that covered nearly every inch of her skin. They were far too big for you then, but when your father came home at the end of the week with a stack of cash, you ran to your mother’s closet, which had remained untouched until then, to find only cobwebs. Gone. Every single one of her dresses. You looked out at the moon in those early hours of the morning and swore to it that when you were bigger, you would get him back so much worse.

And so you were left to clean up his smashed glass bottles and scrub the alcohol out of the gritty carpet. Your little hands struggled to pluck the glass from the floorboards. In a year’s time, they were covered in little scars.

On your tenth birthday, you decided you were grown enough to take matters into your own hands. When he was passed out on the floor from whatever he managed to fill his pipe with, you grabbed the small bottles he hid under a loose floorboard and poured them into the gutter at the back of your house.

You turned to run back to the door when the contents of the bottle were empty, but a ball almost tripped you over. You gripped your tattered skirt before you could lose your footing and snapped your head around with a fierce pout.

“That’s my ball,” pointed a young Thomas Shelby.

You put your small hands on your smaller hips. “You kicked it my way on purpose!”

You weren’t entirely sure, but you suspected it.

“Maybe I thought you were pretty,” he grinned.

You noticed his two front teeth were missing.

“Ewwww! I would never go out with you!” You squawked.

At ten years old, you knew better than that.

Seemingly unaffected by your distaste, he continued. “Do you live there?” He nodded to the house whose roof was falling apart.

“What’s it to you?” You frowned stubbornly, not wanting to admit that, yes, that was your house.

“The curtains are always drawn,” he answered, walking over to pick up his ball from your feet. He was the same height as you were at the time. “My brother Arthur said it’s haunted. He saw a ghost in the window once. He said it was a woman and that she starved to death.”

Your nose scrunched up. "Well, he’s a phony!”

You ran inside said house and slammed the door shut.

He kissed you down by the docks that winter. It was your first kiss, and a clumsy one at that, so you didn’t remember much of it.

By thirteen, you had given in and sold the rest of your mother’s belongings to support yourself. You hated yourself for it, and that nagging voice inside your head told you that you were no better than your father. Oh, and your father? Your father lost vision in his left eye from a bar fight. Too bad it wasn’t both.

Sometime later, a boy two years older than you saw your wandering hand in someone’s bag at the fair and threatened to teach you some manners ‘the hard way’. You bit anxiously on your nails and pleaded with him because he was bigger than most boys his age, when Tommy’s brother Arthur (who you’d seen hanging around the Garrison) came passing by and threatened to ‘toss him about’. The other boy, not all believing in Arthur’s temper, rushed forward, and the two ended up rolling in the dirt, but by then you were gone with a stolen pocket watch in your fist. Nearly two legs and an arm deep in poverty, some quick cash, or a hero complex? You’d take the penny.

At fourteen, a lady knocked on your door. It was a lady of the night who had come to inform your father that he had fathered a son with her. You were glad it was a boy. A girl wouldn’t have stood a chance in the slums of Birmingham. Life was hard, but Birmingham was harder. Your father had refused to listen to the young woman and shooed her off. You never saw her teary-eyed face again.

At fifteen, your father attempted to wash his hands of you by marrying you off to the highest bidder. There was no real auction, but just about anyone who suggested a handsome sum of money did the trick.

“His name is William,” you exhaled, kicking your legs over the edge of the dock.

Tommy laughed. “You won’t marry him.”

“What choice do I have, Tom?”

Your finances were getting tight, and the gloomy pressure to take up working at night like many young ladies was beginning to loom closer and closer. You hated being a woman. Boys would never have to worry about selling themselves to survive.

“I’ll put a gypsy curse on him,” he decided, squinting his eyes from the bright reflection dancing across the water.

You hit his shoulder.

“No, you won't, because then you’ll be cursing me.”

The severity of your situation began to dawn on Tommy. No amount of pestering Polly for change to spare would relieve you of your burden any longer.

“That’s it, then?” He gulped, shifting his glassy eyes to the harbor.

You sighed and followed his gaze.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad. I’ll never have to see dad again, and William promised to take care of me.”

Tommy scoffed.

You frowned at him. “What?”

He shook his head.

“What! Tom—”

“Don’t marry him.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, here we go, why?”

“You know why.”

You were engaged to William on the eve of your seventeenth birthday. He was a very proper man and never dared to go any further than hooking an arm around yours on formal occasions. You were never attracted to his thin mustache nor the thick lenses he wore. In fact, he was incredibly awkward at social occasions, always checking his pocket watch and avoiding eye contact with whichever circle he stood in.

Tommy began to fade out of your life around that time. Margaret—a lady who had taken you on to help with the sewing of her family’s tailoring business—told you that Tommy was spotted arm in arm with another girl that week. You expected to feel jealous, but you felt nothing. You knew love would never be your right. Love was for the more fortunate.

You spent that year learning how to be a wife. Surprisingly, it wasn’t too different from what you did as a child—cooking and cleaning up like you did when your father came home, that is. It was comforting to have a routine in place. It meant finality—no one walking in and out of your life as they pleased, and certainly no more growling stomachs. Perhaps being a wife was a skill your mother never learned. You were grateful for William’s mother, who seemed to be more than enthusiastic to show you the reigns.

After a year-long engagement, you caught your fiancé, William, locked in a compromising position with another man.

“Oh,” was all you got out before leaving his house.

You lacked the special ingredient that marriages needed: love.

You sat down at the fountain across the street. William and his lover’s silhouette were visible behind the blinds he had drawn on the second floor, which peered over the sidewalk. You watched their shadows fluster their feathers around the room like headless geese, and for a moment your head surfaced above water and laughter frothed out between your sealed lips. Perhaps Birmingham made you a little mad.

You didn’t go through with the marriage. You suspected William was relieved.

That week, your father left. You never knew whether he left on his own accord or just never made it home one night. Either way, you never really cared to find out.

With nothing left to lose, you knocked on the Shelby family’s door at Watery Lane. Finn appeared around the other side of the door a moment later.

“Is Tommy home?”

Finn nodded, spinning on his heel to alert his brother. When Tommy did appear, his shoulders were tensed. Disheveled hair never looked so stylish on him. When you saw his suspenders (which were hastily thrown on), you wanted to ask who he expected to be at the door that he planned to answer dressed in such fashion but then thought better of it. He peered down at you, then checked over his shoulder before ushering you inside and up to his bedroom.

“It’s… smaller than I thought,” you landed on, taking in his room.

After all these years, you had never stepped foot into the Shelby home. You weren’t the type of person to come door-knocking.

You turned around to face Tommy after hearing him click the lock on his door.

“Are you hurt?" were the first words he had spoken to you in a year.

“No.” You pressed your lips together, eyeing everything from the bed to the view out the window.

Silence followed closely after.

“Then why are you here?” Tommy sighed.

Your vision began to blur then. “I don’t know,” you said honestly, trying to stop your bottom lip from trembling.

Desperately, you pushed your hair back and straightened up, attempting to hold yourself together. You must have looked like a puppet being held together by a string, given how poor you looked.

Tommy’s boots pad across the wooden floor. “You love me?”

Did that word truly exist? How could you answer if you never knew what it meant to love?

You don’t meet his eyes. He licked his lips, pushing your head up to meet his with his thumb. His eyebrows rose expectantly.

“I don’t know what to do, Tom,” you breathed, avoiding his question. “I’m all alone now. No William, no father…”

His lips parted, and you watched with fascination as the cogs turned in his head. “Yes… that is a problem." His breath fanned over your face.

You gagged, a reaction you yourself had not expected, before rushing to his door, only to remember that, yes, he had locked it, before turning to the nearest silver bucket in the corner to empty your guts.

The first thing you heard when you caught your breath was, “are you pregnant?”

No, but when you stand so close to me and I can smell the cigarettes you smoke and your freshly washed skin, I can imagine a future where we are married, and I see your face growing more disappointed as we age together because you married a woman who never knew how to be a mother to your children nor a wife who knew to tend to you with affection by your bedside when you’re ill.

“No,” you choked, spitting out the vile taste in your mouth. “We never did anything.”

You wanted him to know that. You wanted him to think that you never let William touch you because you never loved him, not because William wasn’t interested in girls.

A moment later, Tommy sat beside you on the floor and quietly combed your hair away from your wobbling lips.

“So, if you’re not pregnant and you don’t love me, why are you here?”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. How were you supposed to answer that? After letting your guts loose in his room, you thought he would surely have booted you out the door.

A knock came on the door: “Tommy?”

“A minute, Finn!” Tommy growled at the door, refusing to back away from your trembling frame.

You were so hungry. Margaret had to cut back your hours ever since her husband fell ill. She spent more time by his bedside than keeping the store open, which meant you were making less than usual. The imminent closing of the store hung over your head like a taunting crow, gouging your insides like you were Prometheus. Birmingham your chains, a woman your fate, and the bird your punishment for thinking you deserved more.

“I should go.” You shivered at the draft inching towards your skin from the open window.

Tommy’s intense gaze stuttered, falling to your lap, where you picked at the dead skin around your nails. He cleared his throat, fishing out the key from his pocket. Although it was dull and muted from the years, it gleaned brightly in your eyes as if it were the reward you came for. Flushed, you grabbed it out of his hands without sparing a glance. Electricity sparked in those precious seconds, igniting a deadly fire in your belly.

“You’re cold." Tommy flinched at your touch.

You retreated as soon as the key slid into the hole and unlocked with a click. In your haste, you left the most valuable thing you owned there in his room.

Your heart.

The months went by, and summer arrived. The stories your mother told you left you expecting a bright gleam of air that would wash over the streets and paint each tree and every patch of grass a frighteningly bright green that would even encourage grumpy Mrs. Gretel to come out to preen her stubborn roses that would just not grow. Birmingham left less to be desired. The summer days never came, and that persisting bitter bog thickened, albeit with slightly less rain. There were gray clouds, smoke from the factories, and a shivering north westerly, which pushed said clouds at breakneck speed as if they had somewhere to be. You looked to the sky one day and said a prayer for blue breezes and sweltering sun, but the sky was empty.

Sometime later, men marched the streets armed with guns in their ‘dashing’ uniforms. A war, they said, a great one. Queues lined the street for the post offices and grocers. Rain rivaled the bustle of the city. What did it feel like to love someone so much as to stand in the pouring rain next to the gutter? You wanted that kind of love. Not the love you could only give yourself because even you didn’t want your own love.

One of the soldiers decorated in medals stood on a crate at the port, yelling something supposedly inspiring that captured the attention of many young men. The words honorable and patriotic were tossed in there like a delectable salad, enticing them in the way farmers held a carrot to a pig’s snout.

You pitied their mothers. Their daughters were married off, and then their sons were swooning over the idea of dying. Birmingham was filthy, rotting, and disgusting. You needed to leave.

You kissed Margaret goodbye on the cheek one Tuesday morning. Ever since your pockets turned out empty, you had been working as a bedside nurse for her ill-stricken husband. They were good to you, and they were probably the only people you could consider family.

She patted your cheek and said, "you're doing good to serve this country.”

You hadn’t had the heart to tell her you were leaving because the city was marring your flesh, so you slipped her the sugarcoated lie of wanting to join the war effort so that you might help others who were bedridden, just like her husband.

At the train station, you stood with your suitcases held tightly in both arms. You had to set one down to hold onto your hat as a train full of men waving their caps out the window pulled into the station. Some children weaved between the crowd, wagging a newspaper above their heads, hoping to make a quick penny. To your side, women wept for their brothers, husbands, and lovers.

“Who are you wishing off?” asked an elderly woman who was clutching her cane.

“Oh, I’m not. I’m boarding the next train.”

She laughed, and you wondered how old your mother would be now. Would she have grown wrinkles and settled into a deeper laugh like this woman?

“My dear, you have a bright imagination if you think they will let a woman on any of these trains.”

A sudden anger filled your blood. “Why not?”

“These men are heading straight for London, where they will be shipped away to France to fight,” the woman explained as if it were any other day.

“I’ll catch the next train then.”

She shook her head, and her frail hand curled tighter around her cane. “They’ve stopped the trains so they can transport soldiers to London.”

You frowned. “Then how will I leave Birmingham?”

You’ll never forget her dismissive laughter.

“My dear, you won’t.”

Men boarded the train, clapping each other on the back with a wink and a laugh. When a line of men on the platform thinned, the train whistled, and you looked over just in time to see Polly, Ada, and little Finn standing with their hands crossed over their hearts as they waved to the train.

No. It wasn’t possible.

But it was because you caught the gleam of the razors sewn into their peaky caps. Tommy, Arthur, and John all stood aboard the train, sticking their heads out and waving to Polly and Ada with a grin that wrung your stomach like a wet cloth.

Those countless daydreams you spun, the intricate webs you wove, began breaking down to thin fibers. In one pathway, you stayed there in his room and told him the truth you always denied yourself. You loved him. In another, you stood next to Polly, close to tears, as you begged him to come home safely. There was a resounding click in that moment as your breath stuttered. You had been the person who wiped away those futures, thinking it was nothing but an annoying spiderweb. Oh, how wrong you were!

“Tommy!” You left your suitcases behind and stepped around the old woman as you ducked under hugs and tearful goodbyes.

“Tommy!” You cried again with the gusto of someone who certainly shouldn’t be as concerned as they were considering you left him in his room that day.

Thankfully, his eyes eventually found yours as you pushed through the last line of people. You stood there and stomached all your regrets head-on. It was funny how, up until that moment, you managed to squash every seed of doubt. Why was it that you only realized what you had when it was slipping out of reach?

He never called your name back. He just stared at you blankly as the train pulled away, unlike you, who clung to the image of his frame even as the train disappeared from sight and the crowd began to disperse. You stood there unblinking, hoping to soak up the last of him before you forgot the intensity of his eyes or the humming rumble of his voice. Because the idea of something you held dearly becoming a memory meant that it could as easily be forgotten, and that terrified you. Your eyes were watering now, against your best wishes.

You overheard Polly ushering Finn and Ada off. Finn rushed home without protest, but Ada stopped in her tracks when she saw you hunched over your knees in tears. She smiled weakly before chasing Finn home. It was then that Polly’s shadow approached your huddled frame. She didn’t say anything, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if she expected you to stand and apologize for being such a mess. That’s when a penny clattered to the ground beside you. She squeezed your shoulder once before disappearing.

You kissed that penny as if Tommy would feel the power of it across the country, then ran back to Margaret’s, having forgotten your suitcases.

“Oh…” She exclaimed, slapping her tea towel on the counter when you walked into the kitchen. “You missed your train?”

Dread made your stomach tender and your breath short.

“I’m enrolling in the Red Cross.”

Throughout the war, you thought of Tommy every day until your stomach lurched. Would it have worked if you had stayed? Would you both have grown old together instead of subjecting yourself to the spray of dirt when a bomb went off nearby?

A day ago, your supply rations never came. It wasn’t like hunger was anything new, but when your mind was too focused on surviving the perilous weather, it was hard to save other lives. You made work with what little supplies you had left. The morphine went stint within hours of its arrival, and the cries of pained soldiers filled the medical tent all night. You did what you could, wiped sweat from their foreheads, and wrote letters to their mothers and lovers with what supplies you could scavenge. Some were written on cardboard from shell packaging, others on torn pages from the bibles they kept over their hearts. Pens were useless—the ink ran in the rain—so you scribbled everything down in pencil.

Before you left for France, you were warned of the bullets. No one ever warned you about the shrapnel, nor the bombs or grenades. They shattered soldiers’ bones beyond repair and left bodies unrecognizable. There wasn’t much you could do when most of their flesh was missing.

Keeping faith became an impossible task. Supplies were depleted, and nurses were dejected. Sally, who had been writing home for news of her brother, recently had her letters returned with the black stamp. Death—return to sender. She spent only an hour sitting on a trunk, letting her tears fall, before she got back to work. Grief privileged those with time, something no one could afford in these conditions.

Then it came—the day Arthur Shelby was carried in on a stretcher. You were making your rounds around the beds when a truckload of yelling men pooled through the entrance of the tent.

“Nurse!” They all yelled, some limping, others setting down stretchers of men on the dirt between the filled beds.

You and two other nurses dropped everything and ran over to attend to the wounded. They were all covered head to toe in dirt, groaning and clutching limbs that were twisted the wrong way. One in particular coughed and huffed while he fought against hands, which were fruitlessly pushing him back down on the stretcher.

“Let me go!” He yelled, wrestling against an older nurse.

“It’s alright, Mary. I’ll handle this one,” you patted her shoulder as you swapped places.

You dunked a washcloth into a bucket of water to wipe away the dirt in his eyes. “Calm down; you're safe here,” you said, starting your usual script of reassurances.

When the striking blue eyes squinted up at you, your blood ran cold. You froze before taking his head in both your hands, despite his protests. “Arthur? Arthur, it’s me!”

He loosened his grip on your wrist. “Huh?”

“It’s me! Where’s Tommy and John?”

He spat blood and gritted his teeth. “Fucking hell, where’s the whiskey?”

You laughed despite the smell of blood encompassing the tent. You quickly fetched the alcohol you had been using to clean wounds and pressed it to his lips. You weren’t sure if it was whiskey or not, but you reasoned he was in too much pain to be able to tell. He drank it with a groan of pleasure. You didn’t try to snatch the bottle away as he emptied it down his palette; you just sat and grinned at the way he suckled it like a newborn baby while you cleaned away his cuts.

“I’ve never been happier to see you, Arthur.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, his lips still wrapped around the bottle.

You tried to stay by his side for as long as you could before the second wave of patients came tumbling through the flaps of the tent. One of them lost their grip on the stretcher, and the patient went sliding into the dirt headfirst.

“Fuck!” They all swore, abandoning the stretcher to drag the limp man further into the makeshift hospital.

You rushed to help when a hand gripped the back of your neck. You yelped in pain as your hair got caught in a fingernail when they turned you to face them.

And there he was: Tommy Shelby, covered in a thick layer of dirt, heaving for air.

“Nurse! Nurse!” Voices cried for you, but between the ringing in your ears and the wrath in Tommy’s blue eyes, you were frozen in place.

“The fuck are you doing here, eh?” He yelled over the anguished men.

You suddenly felt stupid standing there in your Red Cross uniform.

“I was looking for you, I—”

His dirty hands cupped your cheeks—something you were painfully aware of from the uncomfortable itch from the mud on your flushed skin—and pulled your forehead to his.

“You think this is some fantasy?” He squinted. “You think there’s any fucking moonlight to kiss under here, eh?” He spat.

His eyes held that haunted look you had seen on many soldiers that passed through the medical tent. Your eyes watered. Perhaps it was from the humidity and dirt being kicked up as nurses and patients scuffled around, not because you could hardly recognize the man in front of you. The blood smeared above his eyebrow worried you, so you reasoned that he was mad because it had been leaking into his eyes. Dutifully, you reached to wipe it with the back of your hand. He grabbed your wrist harshly, bringing it down to your side. He was in shock; you scolded yourself.

“Where’s John and Arthur?” Tommy swallowed, flexing his hands.

You led him to Arthur, who had been left in his corner while the nurses attended to more serious cases. It hurt watching the brothers reunite after their ordeal, so you left them alone no matter how much you feared them being discharged before your return. After all, everything you ever wanted sat in that corner, but it would be selfish to coddle Tommy all to yourself. Still, you couldn’t help sparing a glance when you walked up and down the tent, attending to patients.

Later that night, he came to you under the candlelight of your tent. He cleared his throat upon entry. You were lying face-up on your cot when he cleared his throat and peeled back the entrance to enter. The candlelight painted the mountain peaks of his face in a dull amber and the valleys in a frightening shadow. You sat up, pulling the thick cover over your shift.

Tommy kneeled next to you, resting on the heels of his boots. He licked his chapped lips and itched his nose. “You don’t belong here.”

Your grip on the cover loosened. “Huh?”

Nothing prepared you for when he swung his brooding stare towards you. He exhaled loudly before running a hand over his face.

“You should have stayed in Birmingham.” He said it like a warning.

“And done what?”

Vulnerability never looked good on Tommy. His head hung and his fingers itched at the back of his head—a tick you used to love; now you weren’t so sure. Because your Tommy was never afraid, but this man in front of you was alarmingly tense despite the clear efforts to mask it.

What have they done to you, Tom?

Under the dim light of your tent, you barely recognized him. A stranger’s eyes were blown wide in a frightening state of shock, something most soldiers mirrored. War washed out the sweet blue pair you knew, refitting them for a steely weapon. You hated seeing him like this, so still, so unsteady, cocooned into the corner as if afraid to take up space.

You feared you looked no better. Having worked till the point of exhaustion, you usually found yourself awakening against a wooden crate or trunk to the cries of patients who demanded your attention despite your body not having the strength to stand. Today you had been lucky and found yourself crawling distance to your private tent when your knees started wobbling and your head lulling.

The wooden reinforcing of your private tent fought in vain to shelter your bodies from the elements; it still flapped and whipped about, sometimes rocking your cot. Yet Tommy remained still like those life-size stone statues you’d find outside an important building, brooding at the dirt and locked in an internal battle. You shifted to the edge of your makeshift bed and leaned close enough that you saw how the top buttons of his dirtied uniform were missing and most of his clothes were torn.

His arm, which was breaking out in goosebumps, lay heavily across his knee so that he could rest his forehead there limply. He looked in a bad enough condition that you feared the possibility of him succumbing to the wasteland threatening him outside your tent. You wrapped your arms around the scruff of his hair and pulled his face into your stomach, where he could hide from the terrible world. On instinct, his arms wound around your waist, and you felt his warm exhale against your skin through the thin fabric of your slip.

His tin water bottle clanged against the satchel he wore, which made you wonder if he had any time to rest at all if he still had all his equipment tied to his uniform.

“I didn’t…” His voice was muffled by your slip. He cleared his throat again, shaking his head.

When he dropped the thought, you spoke up. “Have you eaten?”

He slapped your thigh haphazardly. “No, do you have a cigarette?”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, instead gently pushing him away so you could kneel beneath your bed and fish a cigarette from your satchel. You pinched one from its tin case, then thought better of it and tossed it on Tommy’s lap. Gratefully, he collected one from the case and lit it with a nearby candle. You watched his chest rise and fall as he took an especially deep drag. His eyes shut as the nicotine rushed to his head.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he muttered under his breath.

“How are you here, Tommy? One of the night nurses should’ve been on watch.”

“Oh,” smoke puffed out of his mouth, and he raised his eyebrows, “there is.”

“Then how—”

“I had to see you.”

The butterflies in your stomach dove. The blue in his eyes appeared translucent as they hazed over like a ghost. His shoulders were slumped dejectedly, and he had a hand pushing through his greasy, unwashed hair to relieve his neck from the weight of his thoughts.

He pointed to you then, with the cigarette nursed between his fingers. “I need to know why you changed your mind.”

“About what, Thomas?”

His voice slurred and slipped into a deeper register from the lack of sleep. "Why you came back. Why you came to France.” Tommy shook his head lazily. “You expect me to believe you had a sudden change of heart? What? You a patriot now?” An amused exhale curled out while he took another drag. “Well I don’t believe it.”

You began shivering despite the way your body flushed.

“How’s Arthur?” You tried to avert the conversation.

“Bloody drunk off his ass.”

“And you?”

Tommy held your stare and swallowed dryly. “Trying.”

“You can go join him if you wish.”

He looked at the entrance of your tent as if he were weighing his options, then shook his head and took another drag before clearing his throat. “It’s different now.”

Naïvely, you sank to the ground beside him and rested a hand on his shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be.”

He sighed.

“I wish that were true.”

The next time you saw Tommy, you were working a shift at the hospital. After the war, you received a medal for your efforts, which easily got you a job in Birmingham. You pleaded with them to send you to any other hospital—London, Manchester, Liverpool—you didn’t care. Anywhere but Birmingham.

“You should be honored to work for me!” Exclaimed the head nurse at Birmingham Hospital, who didn’t seem too pleased with your distaste for the city.

You thought the job would be the final nail in the coffin, but you surprisingly got along well with the head nurse once you had put your animosity aside. So much so, she offered to lease you a room upstairs from hers.

Then came that dreaded night where you were finishing the filing of some documents when a patient was being rushed in. Your ears perked up, and you looked through the blinds of the office to see a man being rushed by. Something small and round had fallen off the stretcher while the nurses paid no attention, pushing him around the corner and down towards the operating theater. Curious, you exited the office.

And there on the ground was one of those peaky caps Tommy and his brothers used to wear. You knew this because you picked it up and nearly cut yourself on the blade that was sewn into the seam. You spent the next hour gnawing on your nails. Your imagination sparked ideas about the beaten man who was lying in an operating room two doors down in surgery. Was it Tommy? Arthur? John? The shadows under your eyes darkened at the thought. No, it was probably some other Peaky Blinder. The Shelby brothers were too careful. Still, you knocked over your coffee in a mad dash to the bathroom, where you heaved up your dinner.

You volunteered to stay until the morning, but the head nurse on duty for the night refused and sent you home. You didn’t sleep at all that night.

The next morning, you arrived early and made a beeline for the emergency ward. You grabbed the admission form and scanned the patient list. There were only two emergency patients who were listed under the final hour of your shift, a woman and a man, which made it easier to narrow it down to the man who was admitted at quarter to midnight in ward four, room seven.

When you peaked through the crack in the door, you knew you had been worried for a reason. Tommy lay under the covers, battered and bruised, with a swollen eye and a nasty scar where he had reportedly received surgery for trauma to the head.

You slipped inside quietly and closed the door. Tommy’s eyes were closed, and his mouth hung open, stealing miniscule amounts of air into his lungs. He looked as good as a ghost.

“Tommy…” You clutched his peaky cap (which you meant to return) between your fingers.

He didn’t move an inch, so you set the cap down by his bedside table, carefully watching the rise and fall of his chest.

What have they done to you, Tom?

On the second week, he woke up while you were cleaning the windowsill. He coughed, and you whipped around in shock.

“Nurse?” He asked hoarsely, blinking away the blinding light.

You rushed to his side, tears bursting like the fountain you passed on your way to work.

“Don’t move,” you urged when he tried to sit up.

“I have to get to London,” he slurred, only half awake.

You weren’t upset that he didn’t recognize you. You weren’t upset that he didn’t recognize you.

“Tommy… it’s me.”

He shrugged your hand off his shoulder with a hiss. “Fucking hell.”

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“Please don’t move; I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” You couldn’t hide the way your voice broke.

He looked up at you, then, through bloodshot blue eyes. You wished you knew what was going through his head. Happy or sad?

“Am I dead?”

“No,” you smiled weakly as a tear fell.

“Can I have a smoke then?”

“I don’t know how to love, Tommy!”

“Yeah? Yeah? That’s bullshit! Why do you keep coming back then?” He pinched your chin, glaring furiously into your eyes. “Eh?”

He stood so close that he blocked the light from the chandelier, which mournfully hung from the ceiling. You shivered in his shadow.

“I shouldn’t have come tonight.”

“But you did!” He accused, pointing in your face.

“It was a mista—”

“You fucking did!”

“Tommy!”

“I’ve had it! If you want to leave, then fucking leave; otherwise, don’t stand there all righteous waving empty threats over my head because I know you won’t leave.” He shook his head with a wild look in his eye. “No… You won’t leave. You won’t leave because you love me. You keep coming back,” he pointed matter-of-factly.

Tommy’s eyebrows danced between being terribly furrowed and alarmingly raised during his passionate monologue. It was rare for him to emit so much emotion these days. The war changed men, and Tommy was no exception. A chilling stillness framed his presence, which even you weren’t excused from. No more laughter, no more dreams of working with horses, because he was above all that now, wasn’t he? It was ambition that ground his teeth together and hollowed his eyes. Still, you couldn’t forget that the anger came from vulnerability, because it took a lot for someone to get under Thomas Shelby’s skin.

You moved to grab your purse, to make good on his word, but he halted your movement by grabbing your shoulders, roughly at first, before loosening his grip. You softened at his frantic demeanor. He was scared—oh, so afraid of you walking out that door again. But how could you ever explain it to him? You were never born for love. You would never know how to love him properly the way wives were supposed to because what you felt for Tommy was sickeningly deep. So much so that the mere impression of him sealed off your ribcage and ruined any chance of your heart beating for any other soul, so much so that you carried the weight of him in your bones because you could never shake him off.

When you looked back at life, all you saw was the absence of love. You used to imagine yourself growing up and falling in love with a handsome stranger, then getting married in a proper white dress to go live in your proper house. But when you looked in the mirror, you saw a ghost. The pathway of your life was laid out before your eyes once, and what you saw didn’t match the reflection. The man you were supposed to marry couldn’t even look at you, even if you cleaned and cleaned and cleaned until your fingerprints turned white and pasty.

Because what it all came down to was simple. You never got to become the person you envisioned. Instead, you were cursed to live as a blank slate and be consistently reminded of what you were supposed to be and of who you were: no one.

Tommy exhaled in a quick huff, pressing his forehead to yours so that he saw you clearer, without all the tension and bullshit in the way.

“Here it comes, Tommy.” You took a shaky breath. “I love you, but I could never be the perfect wife to you, and I would be a terrible mother.”

There, in all its ugly colors and shades, you hung yourself with the truth.

He shook his head as if he too couldn’t believe your words.

“Fuck’s sake! Forget about all that." His eyes watered out of frustration, but he was still puffing in anger. “I need you. You. Not some whore.”

You bit your lip to muffle the god-forsaken cry ready to erupt from the volcanoes you suddenly found roaring in your stomach. An earthquake overtook your hands the more you fought the inevitable eruption. You grabbed both his hands to stop yours from shaking.

“I have to be cursed; there’s no other way!”

“No!”

“My life slips through my fingers like grains of sand—”

“You’re not cursed!”

“And I can’t stop it, Tommy!”

“You’re not fucking cursed, and I’ll tell you why." Tommy cut you off. He leaned in, licking his lips, which had turned dry from all the shouting, and squeezed your hands. “Because my ancestors charmed dogs with their magic, they didn’t scare little girls with curses,” he paused. “But you… You waved a hand over my head, and now I’m no better than a dog.”

He closed the space between you, pressing his forehead against yours, and stroked both your cheeks, wiping at your tears. You held him there in a meek attempt at reciprocation.

You wished the world were ending so then you could grab Tommy’s hand and say, ‘I’m ready, Tom. The world is ending, so let’s kiss and love each other under the flames without any fear because the world is ending.’

But you were never good at expressing yourself with words, so you sealed it with a kiss, hoping he could taste the unspoken words on your lips the same way you tasted the tears. He responded in earnest, gripping you roughly by the scruff of your neck to seal the promise laden between your lips; no more running.

It was just your luck that you would bump into your ex-fiancé, William, while visiting a bar in London with Ada. You were buzzing from the warmth of three sweet liquors and whatever else Ada insisted you try, and everything was starting to seem a little funny by the time he approached you.

He engaged in pleasantries, swishing his wine around the glass and sniffing it occasionally, like many pompous older men tended to do. There was only so much smiling you could afford before you caught your reflection in the freshly wiped bar and realized how poorly your acting skills were. Ada was no help, muttering something about finding a phonebooth and then slipping into the belated and boozed crowd. It was then that the supposed nectar in your glass began to taste like the cleaning products—that nose-scrunching stench. Thankfully, William was too involved in some tangent to notice you muffle a gag into your palm.

The dazzling hum in your ears muffled out all his words. In your drunken state, William appeared to be more confident than what you remembered, but you were unable to decipher whether it was from a change of heart or if he was trying to fall back in your good graces. Otherwise, you were blinded by the roaring bustle of the bar and the delicious swell of music that seemed to reverberate across your being.

Growing a little bored with William’s story, your attention wandered over his shoulder, still being sure to nod every now and then as if you were deeply pondering his words. Not far away from his side, a man seemed to linger—a man who was careful not to reach your eye. You must have laughed a little harder than usual because William turned sharply to the man at his side, gave him a quick once-over, then returned his attention to you, but by then it was too late, and you knew exactly what William’s relationship was with this man and where William’s confidence had come from.

“You’ll make a fine wife and a finer mother someday,” William quickly added.

You cursed the witch inside you, who laughed from her stomach and used his shoulder to steady herself. Once upon a time, that was all you longed to hear, but now, with a half-spilt martini in hand, you couldn’t care less. Both of you had found happiness despite your unconventional circumstances, and there was no more to it. You could close that chapter without any loose threads.

A little drunk, you thanked him, disappeared, and never thought of him again.

“I can’t do it, Ada,” you stressed, beginning to feel uncomfortable with the baby in your arms.

Motherhood came rumbling into your life like a rusty engine spitting out oil. ‘Instinctual’, the mothers down the lane from Arrow House had said, ‘it’s like your body has been preparing for it your whole life.’ How awful, you thought, and by the time one of them finished speaking about their experience with their first, your nose was so scrunched in disgust that you would need an iron to flatten out the wrinkles. It wasn’t until now that you longed to be in their shoes, because nothing came naturally to you.

“He’ll latch eventually; he’s just a little fussy,” Ada reassured.

“Is it supposed to hurt?”

“It’s perfectly normal.”

Then, after an hour of rubbing your sons back on the verge of tears, he finally began feeding from you. Ada soothed your back the whole time and cooed softly to calm both you and your unruly boy. Sometimes she brought Karl. He would obediently sit on her lap, playing with his wooden horse, while your little Charles fussed.

One time in the early morning, when you were up attempting to feed Charles, Tommy rushed in alert with disheveled hair and sunken eyes.

“Sorry,” you mouthed, deflated your hardworking husband had been disturbed from his sleep.

He ran his hands over his face and sighed. You mistook his action for frustration and desperately tried to hush your baby. Tommy moved over to the rocking chair where you sat, trying to feed little Charles in your arms.

“Don’t be sorry,” he whispered into the crook of your neck. “How is he?”

You flushed under the moonlight, suddenly embarrassed that your husband had caught you in this vulnerable position with the top of your slip peeled down. Your exposed skin hissed when he pressed a kiss against your pulse.

“I don’t think he likes me very much.”

Tommy inhaled sharply against your neck before resting his chin on your shoulder to peer down at Charles. Charles had settled since Tommy walked into the room, acutely aware of his father as his little hands made a grabbing motion for him. Diligently, Tommy relieved your arms of Charles and cradled him close to his chest. Within minutes, the little baby was gurgling happily and blinking in a way that suggested sleep was on the horizon after all.

Your husband didn’t dare make any sudden noise as he gently set Charles in his cradle. Once he was surely asleep, Tommy guided you up from the rocking chair and into your shared bedroom.

“See?” you hissed, still maintaining a soft voice, “he only wants you.”

Tommy wouldn’t hear any of it, pulling you into his arms as he sat on the edge of the mattress. Your slip was still pooled around your hips, so he took the opportunity to plant a kiss above your breasts, where your heart was.

“He loves you,” he drawled in that husky voice of his. “I know he does because I do.”

Your head ached, but you couldn’t help the way your body reacted to his words and touch. Tommy’s wandering hands teased the silk fabric that clung to your hips as you felt his nose trail down to your breast, where he kissed one of your aching nipples delicately. Suddenly hot, you hummed in delight, the back of his shorn scalp pleasant beneath your nails. A grunt, bathed in that musk of his devours your senses. Inhaling sharply, he took the bud between his full lips, sucking, licking, and nibbling gently while his hands explored further down. Your head lulled back from the pleasure, gasping and withering under his skilled tongue.

The next thing you knew, Tommy was tugging the rest of your silk slip off and reminding you of just how much he loved you.

“Charles! Come here!” Tommy called.

Your little boy loved to play in the backyard of Arrow House. Much like his father, Charles adored horses. Big ones, small ones, black ones, white ones—but most of all, he favored his Shetland pony. Tommy had brought it for Charles before he could even walk. He said something about it being important for his son to be raised around horses from a young age. And while you didn’t necessarily disagree, it still stressed you out to hold your baby so close to such a large, muscular animal. You knew the Arabian breeds spooked easily, so you steered clear of them and were able to keep Tommy and Charles happy.

But now he had grown up so fast and was able to run around on his own two legs, climb trees, and bruise his knees on the way down. The sun beat lovingly on the apples of his cheeks as he dirtied his trousers, kneeling by the fence to feed his Shetland (affectionately named Biscuit) hand-picked grass through the gaps.

“Charles! We’re leaving!” You called when he ignored his father.

Stubbornly, Charles spun around to pout his lip and cross his arms. He glared at you as threateningly as a five-year-old could. You bit your lip to hide your smile because he really did look like a little Tommy with those big blue eyes. It would only be a matter of time before he perfected his father’s stare. With a sigh, you shifted your daughter into Tommy’s arms before approaching Charles, who was picking angrily at the grass.

You reached a hand out toward him, "let's go.”

“No!”

“All right,” you said decisively, spinning around, “Ruby will have all the fun then.”

“No!” cried your little boy.

You stuck a hand up in surrender and started walking back to Tommy. “No, it’s all right.”

“No, no no no!” Came his protest, chasing behind you as the gravel crunched beneath his boots.

You paid no attention to him, keeping your eyes trained ahead, silently relieved that your ploy worked. Tommy watched on in amusement while Ruby suckled on her thumb, curiously watching her brother storm closer.

“You hear that, Ruby? We’re going to spoil you,” a short smile played on Tommy’s face as he adjusted her so that she sat comfortably on his hip.

“And me!” Charles added and gave his best pout.

“No, Charles, you said you didn’t want to go,” you reminded him, raising your eyebrows.

“I do! I do!”

“Hmm,” you thought aloud, and held a finger to your chin while looking to the sky in exaggerated contemplation. “Very well, but only if you get in daddy’s car right this instant.”

He climbed into the backseat of the Bentley without further fuss.

When all the bags were neatly packed in the back for the day’s festivities, Tommy came around your side to sit Ruby on your lap. Quickly, he leaned in to kiss you and pinch your cheek, which swelled into a glowing grin.

He smiled back and whispered low enough for only you to hear, “got him wrapped around your finger, eh?”

You laughed. “Him and a few other Shelby’s I know of.”

The thundering sound of music could be heard from outside the theater on the corner of Old Pauls. Inside, patrons mused between champagne, dancing, and making a display of their wealth by bidding on little trinkets. It was one of the many charity galas Tommy had to attend because of his new move into politics. Usually, you enjoyed dressing for those sorts of things, but tonight you simply weren’t feeling up to it. Maybe it was the drape of your dress not sitting right or the new leather shoes that still needed breaking in.

Your shimmering smile faded into the crowd as you snuck through the back door in your satin bordeaux dress. Old Pauls sat perched above the cemetery it was named after. Conveniently across the street from the buzz of the theater, it was airily quiet and stuck out from the rest of industrial Birmingham. Your heels clacked across the pavement as you wandered up and down the garden, glimpsing at stone angels and silver plaques. All you had to light your path were the streetlights and the moon.

Your diamond wedding ring twinkled under the stars as you stopped to trace a name. It was the same as your mother's, but with a different last name. Still, you always wondered what happened to her. Had she gotten married to another man and taken his name? You expected to shiver at the idea, but you found that thinking of her no longer unnerved you. She packed up the title of mother when she left you all alone in that cramped house.

Light spilled out onto the pavement across the street when the entrance to the theater swung open. A few men flew down the steps and split off in different directions. Thinking it odd, you remained crouched until they disappeared around their respective corners. That’s when you saw Tommy exit through the same doors, throwing a cigarette and wiping at his brow while he looked up and down the street. Quickly, you stood and waved your arm to get his attention. When he noticed, he stormed down the steps and stalked across the street and through the gates of Old Pauls over to you.

“I needed some air,” you spoke up before he could get a word in.

His eyes wildly flickered back and forth from yours in a frenzy. Under the moonlight, they looked almost translucent, and, save for a ghost of blue, his pupils were wide.

“Why the bloody hell are you out here, eh?” He demanded, gently shaking your head between his hands for emphasis while his eyebrows rose expectantly.

“It’s quieter.”

When he tilted his head to the sky and exhaled, your stomach dropped at the sight of blood. Your ears, which had been tuning out the music, flinched when a shrill cry from a woman rang out the theater doors. The music was gone, now replaced with screams as all the patrons rushed out, tripping over each other like it were a race. You turned back to Tommy, now as worried as the others.

“What the hell happened? Are you hurt?” You urged, gripping his white collar, now red, to inspect where the blood was coming from.

“Not mine,” he cleared his throat, grabbing the hand on his collar to tug you down the street.

The frame of your world stretched a little wider, like light pouring in through open shutters. Car doors slammed, and drivers honked at the agitated crowd who ran this way and that across the road.

“Where’s the fucking ambulance?” Shouted a man who took no care to avoid bumping into you.

You stumbled back, your hand slipping from Tommy’s on impact. Rage flickered across his features briefly, having noticed the man push through you, but he reconnected your hands and continued walking fast. When he reached the Bentley, he urged you inside, holding your hand the whole way until you were seated in the passenger seat.

“What the hell happened, Tommy?” You repeated as he slid into the driver’s seat.

“Someone got shot.”

Your eyes widened. “Are Polly and—”

“They’re fine.”

You sank back into your seat as the engine roared to life. Peaky Blinder’s followed the frenzied crowd, moving together like a pack of wolves onto the streets. They only parted to let Tommy’s Bentley through. Out the window, people were fighting and throwing fists as they all tried to escape the mayhem.

“Why aren’t they letting people through?” You asked after witnessing a Peaky Blinder block the road and refuse to let a car pass.

“Doesn’t matter.”

He never told you anything when it came to business. And although you suspected this was much more than the doing of the Shelby brothers, Tommy’s face never betrayed him. Simply put, if he didn’t want you to know, you wouldn’t.

“Would anyone want to follow us?”

“No.” He exhaled deeply, cleared his throat, and then reached to give your thigh a squeeze.

You knew it was a lie when his eyebrows rose. He only did that when he was worried. Your tongue remained pressed to the back of your teeth the entire ride home.

The howl of the wind whistled down into the valley of the gypsy camp Tommy had brought you and the children to.

“Pack your things,” he had said one night after storming through the front door of Arrow House, “we’re going on a trip.”

Charles and Ruby cheered, but you suspected something sinister beneath his intentions.

So, there you were, picking at the grass by your feet while you perched on the bottom step of the gypsy wagon Tommy parked beneath a tree for shade. He kept quiet for most of the ride, absorbed in leading the horse around loose gravel and stones, or rather, he led you to believe he was lost in concentration. Because, when it came down to it, you knew Tommy better than to assume nothing was wrong.

The past week, he had been acting different, jumpy even. He ran into the nursery during the early hours of the morning on edge, as if expecting something to be amiss. You tried interrogating him, but he brushed it off, insisting things were fine. Fine—you began detesting that word. Fine this, fine that, but if things were really fine, then why was he on edge?

Then came the bloodshot eyes and the slamming of his desk drawer when you entered the office. Only this time he couldn’t deny the unmistakable jingle of a bullet, which rattled in the wooden compartment like some sort of airy death chime.

A black hand. One for each Shelby. And since you were now one too, that meant neither you nor the children were subjected to any special treatment. A week, he said, a week for his family to clear up the business while he stayed here watching over you like a shepherd to his flock.

And watched he did, standing next to where you sat, he found peace observing Charles and Ruby as they chased each other around the overgrown field. There he remained for an hour or so, frighteningly still, the only motion being his sharp jaw chewing on a mint leaf, somewhat reminiscent of the soldier in your tent all those years ago. Next to him, tied to the tree, the black steed filled the silence with snorts and grazed favorably on the loose roots and grass patches.

“Ruby was crying this morning. She’s scared, Tom." You sighed.

Tommy hadn’t been there when you woke up that morning in the caravan. He returned shortly after, ominous as ever, just as Ruby had begun to settle.

He tossed the stalk of his mint leaf into the grass and offered you his hand. You looked up at him in question for a moment, slightly suspicious of his intentions. Nevertheless, you slid your hand into his, and he stood you up, sat down on the higher step, and pulled you between his legs to sit on the lower step. He hugged you from behind as he slouched to rest his head on your shoulder, then exhaled deeply.

“We will be home soon,” he whispered in your ear, brushing your knuckles tenderly.

“For how long? Until we get another bullet in the post?”

Tommy’s throbbing forehead found solace in the warmth of your neck.

“You’ve never been one to run,” you continued, “what’s bothering you? We took a vow that we would share everything.”

He nuzzled his nose deeper into your pulse.

Frustrated, you tried to get up, but he held you firmly against his chest.

“Italians.”

“Italians?”

“Italians sent the black hands.”

You waited in silence for more information, but more did not come.

“Speak to me, Thomas.”

“I don’t want you any more involved than you are.”

“They’ve sent death knocking on our door; how more involved could I be?”

Tommy moved methodically, licking his lips and clearing his throat. He squinted his eyes up at the glaring sun.

“It’s nothing you should be concerned about. I’ll keep us safe.”

“Nothing I should be concerned over, Thomas? Just how many people are we at war with?”

He didn’t answer, so you turned your head away from him. Charles and Ruby had since settled by a patch of flowers. Charles was crouched over, helping his sister gather all the yellow flowers for her yellow dress.

The tension broke the surface then.

“Why are you still fighting, Tom? Is this,” you nod to your children and breathe in the fresh air, “not enough?”

You pictured Arrow House and its lavish garden, one to compete with all the wealthy families down the lane. You thought of Arthur, John, Polly, Ada, and all his family that lived to see his success. Everything, from the thoroughbreds in the stable to the fancy cars. The money itself was a testimony to his drive. What more could the gangster of Birmingham want when he already had everything?

You had gone and worked yourself up now because the world seemed blurrier than before.

Tommy, still on his guard, guided your chin to your shoulder so he could kiss the tears away. “It is enough.”

“Then make it enough. You’re respectable now, so stop the fighting.” Your voice broke at the end.

He hung his forehead on your shoulder. Like a flower sheltered away from the sun, Tommy wilted when he was away from his business. Usually, you were a strong enough light to keep him going, but whatever business he had gotten himself into was poisoning him, and ever the addicted flower, he kept running out to the fields, continuing to drink in the sunlight until it was too much and turned his leaves brow. Because business was what occupied his mind day and night, he was unable to turn the cogs of the engine off and let the air out of the tires.

A hand brushes your hair away to kiss the spot beneath your ear, airing out the destructive thoughts.

God, you loved him anyway. An overpowering feeling that ruled over calculating minds like Tommy’s and faint hearts like yours. You were no better than him—both addicted to a little sunlight.

The framed photographs on the wall shook as your third-eldest slammed the door to her room closed.

“I hate you!” She cried from the other side.

Your husband, Tommy, sighed to the ceiling, then stalked past you to his study, no longer interested in anything your daughter had to say. They had been at it for the last ten minutes arguing over some boy she was seeing, and your ears were just about ringing having witnessed it from the sidelines. You were left there in the hallway, an unwilling participant in the unspoken feud between father and daughter, and you understood that whoever you went to console would take it that you were siding with them, even though you just wanted to keep your family together.

Going to your daughter was the instinctive answer, but you knew she needed time to cool off. Tommy was the only reasonable choice.

You knocked on the door to his office before letting yourself in.

“Come to lick my wounds, eh?” He mused while smoking a cigarette.

Your lips wormed into a thin line. “This needs to stop, Tom.”

“Yeah,” he said, tapping the ash into his tray, “it will fucking stop.” He points with his cigarette, “I’ll make it fucking stop.”

You sighed. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

The chair screeched as he stood. “I’m her father, and if I say she can’t see that boy, she can’t. It’s only a childish fling; she’ll get over it.”

He poured a whiskey and downed it by the time you walked around his desk so that you were face-to-face with him.

“They’re in love, Tommy.”

“Yeah?” He scoffed. “Well, that can be undone.”

You held his glare, a challenge lighting in your own. “So easily, you think?”

He paused mid-drag, catching onto the underlying meaning in your words. “No,” he said, setting the cigarette down in the ash tray and grabbing your shoulders. “Don’t act like that.”

“Act like what?”

“Like you’re threatening our love over some fucking boy that’s charmed our daughter. They’re too young.”

“He’s sweet.”

“Oh, sweet and nice, I’m sure. But he’ll have no place in this house.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I fucking said so!” He spat.

“Don’t yell at me.”

“Or what? You’ll leave me?” He huffed in amusement. “You won't; you love me too much.”

“You’re so certain?”

He paused for a moment and stared at you as if he couldn’t believe what you had said.

“Yeah, because we still fuck like two people who love each other, eh? And you’ve not told me no before, so if the day comes and your body no longer wants mine, then I’ll be worried. But until then, don’t test me with empty threats." His face hardened.

He knew you like the back of his hand. All bark, no bite. You loved him inexplicably, even after all these years, gray hairs and all. His face, body, and soul nourished you until you were satiated and full. And even if his eyebrows furrowed at times, you were willing to bet that it was for aesthetic, a shapely shadow gathered over the years from being the stoic leader the Peaky Blinders and Shelby family needed. How could you fault him for it?

Because, at the end of the day, you were a team. Even if he played the role of an overprotective father a bit too convincingly, he only ever wanted what was good for your daughter. Everything he worked for, ultimately, was for his family. A family man. And that came with its virtues and vices because, despite what Tommy thought, he wasn’t perfect; no one was.

Shrinking under his hands, you breathed a sigh and appeased him. “End this feud, Tom. Find peace with her. I don’t care what you do, but by the end of it, I expect to be able to sit down at the dinner table without having to beg my husband and daughter to look up from their plates.” You stroked his hands, which held your shoulders, and finally blinked up at him.

A haze of softness swept across his glare and melted the glaciers to a thin sheen of blue. The seams of exhaustion frayed one by one through his muscles. He nodded, licked his lips, and leaned down for a kiss of absolution. Not entirely prepared to surrender, you tilted your head so that he found the corner of your mouth instead.

“It will be done, love.” He brushed the apples of your cheeks tenderly. “And by tonight,” his voice lowered, “I promise you’ll forget all about it.”

Only then did you accept his kiss, eager to put the grievance to rest. Tommy, on the other hand, had other plans and stepped forward so that you were pinned between his desk and hips. He quickly began to gather your skirts above your waist, but you pulled away just as fast at the hiss of air against your exposed skin. An unsolicited gasp escaped his mouth when your knee brushed him there, and you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, looking deep into his eyes.

“Promise me you won’t break her heart. She might not be old enough now, but I don’t want you to put her off love forever,” you caressed his jaw.

“No,” he agreed, breathier than usual, flexing the hands that were still caught up in the fabric of your skirt.

“And our Daisy may never say it, but I know she loves you dearly. So please, Tom, be gentle with her. I don’t want her to grow up despising you. Tell her you love her, kiss her forehead, hug her.”

He deflated, and you watched him swallow his pride. Cogs turned against the sweltering lust, threatening to deplete the clever thoughts in that powerful head of his in favor of your careful touch. Please, please, please, you begged without uttering a word; agree with me on this, Tom.

Tommy leaned back down to rest his forehead on yours; his face gave nothing away. You were sure he had found something to say, which would make you feel like a fool for asking. However, when you embraced those faint subtleties of emotion flickering across his face like candlelight, so miniscule you might blink and miss it, you found nothing of the sort to suggest any hostile nature. Because Tommy loved you.

“I will.”

A/N: Tried doing a long one shot, what does everyone think? Yay or nay? Comment to be added to the tag list!

Taglist: @maliceofwonderland , @fairytale07 , @goblinjnr , @ilovepeoplesdads , @multidimensionalslut

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briefinquiries · 7 days ago

Text

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 26

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 26

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

Chapter summary: Tommy leaves the hospital to handle business tied to the growing threat, you remain behind to watch over Finn. In the quiet hours that follow, the weight of everything they've endured begins to settle in. .

Word count: 5.5k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, physical assault, PTSD and war flashbacks, language, and emotional distress

Finn had been in the hospital for five days before he finally woke up enough to have a full conversation.

The first few days had been touch and go. His eyes would flicker open, he’d offer a few slurred words, maybe a weak squeeze of the hand, before drifting off again. But that morning, when you walked into the room with a fresh cup of tea for yourself and a glass of water for him, he was already awake. Propped slightly on a pillow. Eyes open while he talked to Tommy.

You paused in the doorway, just for a second.

Tommy sat beside the bed, his posture relaxed in the way only exhaustion could bring. One arm rested on the chair, the other lightly gripping the edge of Finn’s blanket. His coat was off and sleeves rolled.

Finn looked small but alert. His skin was still pale, and the dark circles under his eyes hadn’t faded, but he was awake and speaking clearly. His voice was soft and hoarse, but steady enough to hold a conversation. He said something low to Tommy. It was something you couldn’t quite catch, but it made Tommy let out a short, quiet laugh. It was quick, almost under his breath, but you hadn’t heard him laugh like that in days.

The tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.

You stepped fully into the room, and the sound of the teacup tapping against the water glass in your hand drew their attention.

Tommy turned to look at you. His eyes flicked down briefly to what you were holding before lifting back to yours.

“He’s asking for sweets,” he said, nodding toward Finn. “Says the food here’s terrible.”

You walked to the side of the bed and raised an eyebrow at Finn. “Glad to hear you’re feeling better.”

Finn gave you a tired smile. “They just brought me by some toast. There was no jam. Not even butter.”

You set the tea down and moved to help him sit up a little straighter. “God forbid.”

“I mean, I’m already suffering, I might as well do it with some jam,” he said.

Tommy gave a small shake of his head. “You’ll get jam once you can stand without falling over.”

Finn groaned. “How long will that be?”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “You’ll heal faster if you do what you’re told.”

Finn looked at him, unimpressed. “You never did what you were told when you got hurt.”

You blinked and turned to Tommy. “Is that so?”

Tommy gave a slight shrug, clearly not interested in revisiting that particular memory. “That was a completely different situation.”

You and Finn exchanged a look.

“Shelby logic,” you muttered, shaking your head.

Finn smiled again, smaller this time. His eyelids were already starting to droop again.

You reached for his cup and set it aside, letting him settle back against the pillows.

“You can rest, love,” you said softly. “We’ll be right here.”

He didn’t argue. Within moments, his breathing slowed again, deeper now, steadier. His face relaxed as he drifted off.

You let out a long breath as soon as his eyes closed. It was a quiet exhale you hadn’t even realized you were holding. Not until the fear loosened its grip.

Tommy reached for your hand. His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.

“He’s alright,” he said.

You curled your fingers around his before leaning back in your chair. You glanced at Finn, then at Tommy. “Tommy, what are we going to do?” you asked. “The men who did this– they’re still out there. They could come back.”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze was steady on Finn, but you could see the shift in his posture, the way his jaw tensed, the way his thumb stopped moving against your hand.

“They won’t,” he said eventually.

You studied his face. “You don’t know that.”

“No,” he admitted. “But I’ll make sure of it.”

You hesitated, then asked, “How?”

Tommy looked at you for a long moment, weighing how much to say.

“I’ve had someone watching every point of contact since the night Finn was taken,” he said finally. “Every alley, every shipment, every man who’s ever shaken hands with the Italians in this city.”

You frowned slightly. “Since when?”

“Since the wedding,” he said. “I knew Luca wouldn’t stop.”

“And?” you asked. “What’ve they found?”

Tommy leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, voice low so as not to wake Finn.

“He’s got people doing the work for him. Not just the Italians. Locals, too. Some of our own.”

Your stomach turned. “What?”

Tommy nodded once. “That’s how they got to Finn. Whoever let them through knew when and where to hit.”

He sat back slightly, his eyes narrowing like he could see it all playing out again in his head.

“Luca doesn’t kick down the door himself,” Tommy said. “He bribes the man who’s meant to be watching it. Men like him don’t come to finish the job unless they know they’ve already won,” he continued.

You glanced at Finn, your hand still curled lightly around Tommy’s.

Tommy followed your gaze. “He could’ve come after me. After Arthur. After any of the men who’ve had a hand in this war. But he chose Finn.” He paused, eyes fixed on the boy in the bed. “A child. A boy who had no part in any of this.”

His hand clenched once in yours, then loosened.

“If Luca Changretta wants a war, I’ll fucking show him one.”

Tommy’s eyes were still locked on Finn, his jaw set, his shoulders coiled tight like a man already halfway out the door. The shift in him was subtle, but you knew it well by now. You saw the way he straightened his spine, the way his expression flattened into focus. It was the version of him that didn’t hesitate. The one who made decisions with blood on the line.

He looked down at your joined hands for a beat, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

Then he stood slowly, his fingers lingering in yours until the last second.

“I need to check in with Johnny Dogs,” he said, his voice clipped, already shifting back into motion. “We’ve got movement near the rail yard.”

Your stomach tightened.

Of course he had to go. Of course this couldn’t wait. But that didn’t stop the sharp prickle of unease crawling up your spine.

“You’re going now?” you asked, trying to keep your tone even.

He nodded.

You glanced at Finn, then back at Tommy. “I just…” you paused, trying to find the words without making it harder than it already was.

Tommy let out a quiet sigh. “You just what?”

You shook your head. “Never mind.”

There was something in his expression. An understanding, maybe, or guilt, or just the same exhaustion you felt. Like he knew what you were trying not to say: that you were tired of him walking out the door and not knowing what kind of version of him would come back. Or if he would come back at all.

“Go on. Just say it,” he said.

“I know we’ve been cooped up in this hospital for days, worried about Finn and eating shitty hospital food. But we finally got a minute. Just us. Without the next fire already waiting.”

Tommy didn’t move, didn’t interrupt.

“I knew it wouldn’t last forever. I know you have a job to do” you added. “But that minute was nice, that’s all.”

He looked down for a second, jaw working slightly, then back at you.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice was quieter now. It wasn’t fragile. Tommy Shelby was never fragile. But it was honest in a way he rarely let himself be.

You nodded, arms folding across your chest. “It’s alright. I just wish it could’ve lasted a little longer.”

He stepped forward then, gently, like he was approaching something delicate. He reached for your hand again, his fingers closing around yours.

“We’ll have more minutes,” he said. “Once this is done.”

You searched his face for a lie, but there wasn’t one. Just the same tired man who kept doing what he had to do because he didn’t know how to stop.

“Go,” you said finally, voice low. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

Tommy gave a single nod. He leaned in, kissed the side of your head, and let his hand fall away as he turned for the door.

You watched him go. Again.

You sat back down beside Finn’s bed, the chair groaning slightly under your weight as you settled into it like someone bracing for another long stretch of waiting.

…

The wind off the canal carried the stink of coal smoke and stagnant water. Tommy stepped out of the car without a word, shoulders stiff against the cold. Gravel shifted beneath his boots, sharp and loud in the stillness. He paused, glancing around the loading yard.

Tommy hadn’t been entirely honest with you earlier. He’d said it was a check-in with Johnny Dogs, nothing more. No point in making you worry about another possible setup, not when you’d just started to breathe again with Finn stable.

But the message that came two nights ago had been too precise to ignore. Someone claiming to speak for Luca. A neutral party. Promising terms. A place to talk.

Tommy didn’t believe in clean negotiations. Not with a man like Changretta. But if there was even a slim chance he could end this before another bullet flew, he had to see it through.

Arthur climbed out after Tommy, scanning the dark edges of the yard with sharp eyes. He sniffed once, wiped his nose on the back of his glove, and muttered, “Place looks like it’s been dead a week.”

Tommy didn’t answer. His eyes were already tracking the shadows, the dim pools of light cast by a few failing lamps.

Arthur stayed close, scanning every movement in the distance, but Tommy stood still. His gaze lingered on the far end of the lot. A delivery van passed in the street behind them. No one got out. No one pulled up. Nothing.

Johnny Dogs waited near the edge of the loading yard, half-hidden behind a stack of old crates. He didn’t wave. Just watched Arthur and Tommy approach with that taut, wary look he wore when something didn’t sit right.

Tommy lit a cigarette as he came up alongside him.

“Well?” he asked.

“No one’s shown,” he said without waiting for a greeting. “Nothing all day. Lads been posted since morning. Not a single fucker.”

Tommy nodded once, but his mind was already turning.

“Sure this is the right spot?” Arthur asked, stepping beside him.

Tommy didn’t answer right away. He looked at the crates again. The open space. The clear exits. Too convenient.

“I’m sure,” he said.

Arthur frowned. “You think they backed out?”

“No,” Tommy said. Even as he said it, the weight of the realization settled in his chest, cold and sharp. He took a slow drag from his cigarette and exhaled through his nose. “They were never going to show,” he muttered. “They wanted to know where I’d be.”

He’d known the message felt too clean. He’d known Luca didn’t send warnings. So why had he let himself believe it might be different this time? Because he was tired? Because he wanted to end it without more loss?

He swallowed hard, jaw tight.

Arthur said something beside him, but it barely registered. A thin ringing had started in his ears, the kind he hadn’t felt since France, right before the shelling would start.

He turned slowly, his breath coming faster now, though he didn’t show it. Not on the surface.

“They wanted me away from the hospital.”

Arthur went still.

And now Tommy slowly turned, looking over his shoulder like he could already feel how far away he'd let himself get.

“They’re going after Finn,” he said.

“Fuck,” Arthur spat, already running back toward the car.

Tommy dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his heel, then he turned and followed, fast.

…

You sat beside Finn’s hospital bed, your body folded into the chair like you hadn’t moved in hours. Your head rested lightly against the edge of the mattress, one hand still holding his. His fingers twitched now and then in his sleep, weak but warm, a small reassurance that he was still fighting.

The room was dim. Just the overhead monitor lights cast a soft green glow around. It had been quiet since Tommy left about an hour ago.

You didn’t sleep, not really. Just let your eyes close every so often, tuning in to Finn’s breathing, the soft beep of the machines.

Then, the door creaked open.

You lifted your head slowly, groggy but alert.

A doctor stepped inside.

He froze just past the threshold, like he hadn’t expected anyone to be there.

“Oh,” he said. “You’re… still here.”

Five days in the hospital meant you’d seen just about every doctor and nurse on this floor. Even the overnight staff. But you didn’t recognize this one.

“We’ve been staying with him. Didn’t want him waking up alone,” you said quietly, forcing a small smile as you rested your hand back over Finn’s.

The man gave a tight smile of his own, stepping inside a little farther now. “Of course,” he said. “That’s… that’s good of you.”

He glanced briefly at the monitors, then down at Finn. Not in a way that seemed particularly concerned, more like he was checking the room.

You leaned back a little farther in your seat, watching him.

“I thought I’d seen the entire staff rotation these last few days, but I haven’t seen you before yet,” you offered lightly. “You just come on shift?”

There was the briefest pause before he answered.

“Yes. Just filling in.”

He stepped a little closer to the bed, flipping open the clipboard in his hands without really looking at it.

“I’ve got some pain medication,” he said casually. “Just to help him rest a bit easier. Should take the edge off.”

You frowned.

Finn had been given pain meds less than an hour ago. You remembered the nurse coming in gently. She’d even explained the dosage aloud while logging it in the chart.

You straightened slightly in your chair. “They already gave him something,” you said, voice still even but firmer now. “About forty minutes ago.”

The man didn’t look at you right away. Just stared at the clipboard like he was reading something.

“Oh,” he said after a beat. “Well, this is a different dosage. Coordinated by a different team.”

You tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Which team?”

Another beat.

Then he smiled again, too quickly. “Pediatrics. Just an adjustment.”

You glanced toward Finn, then back at the man.

“I’d like to check with the nurse on duty first.”

The smile faded. Just a flicker.

“There’s no need,” he said, a little too quickly. “Really. It’s all logged—”

“I said I’d like to check,” you repeated, louder now, rising slowly from your chair.

The man’s posture shifted, almost imperceptibly, but you saw it. Then, the man’s hand dipped into his coat. When it came out, he was holding a syringe.

Time seemed to stutter. For a split second, you couldn’t move. Your mind tried to catch up to what your eyes were seeing.

Then he lunged.

You stumbled backward, the chair screeching across the tile as it tipped over behind you. The man came at you fast, expression flat and focused, the needle clutched tightly in his fist.

You barely caught his wrist mid-swing, and shoved back with everything you had, your forearm slamming into his chest. The syringe dropped to the floor with a soft clatter, but his other hand grabbed your shoulder, shoving you hard into the wall.

You kicked out, caught him in the shin. He cursed, accent thick and definitely not local, and stumbled, but recovered fast. You barely had time to breathe before he slammed into you, tackling you hard onto the tile.

You hit the ground flat, the air knocked from your lungs, your head bouncing off the floor with a dull crack that made your vision blur.

Then he was on top of you.

Heavy. Hands everywhere. One clamped hard around your wrist, the other scrambling down toward your side—your coat, your pockets, something he was trying to get to. The syringe. Or worse.

You fought blindly.

Your knee came up hard, catching him in the ribs. He grunted but didn’t move. His other hand grabbed a fistful of your hair and slammed your head back into the floor.

The lights above spun.

“What’s going on?” Finn’s voice cut through the haze.

It was thin. Fragile. The sound of a boy barely awake and already afraid. But you couldn’t turn to look. Couldn’t reassure him.

All you could see was the man straddling your hips, his face inches from yours, sweat beading at his brow, nostrils flaring, breath hot and sour on your cheek. His jaw clenched tight, lips pulled back just enough to show his teeth. There was a smear of blood on his neck now. Yours, maybe, you couldn’t tell.

His eyes never blinked.

You saw the spit gathered at the corners of his mouth. Saw the twitch of his fingers as his hand moved toward your throat, slow but certain, like he wanted to feel the life leaving you.

You twisted beneath him, arms pinned, the back of your head slick with blood against the tile.

His fingers closed around your neck, squeezing hard.

Your breath cut off instantly, a strangled gasp catching in your throat as pressure surged against your windpipe. Your back arched instinctively, heels kicking against the slick tile as you clawed at his wrist, nails digging into skin that didn’t give.

The weight of him crushed down on your chest. Your lungs screamed for air.

Your vision blurred at the edges, black creeping in like spilled ink. You heard your own pulse thudding in your ears, heavy and distant.

One arm was still trapped beneath his knee, useless. The other scraped blindly along the floor, your fingers twitching and skittering across smooth tile, desperately searching, grabbing at nothing.

The panic was animal now. Pure survival.

And then, your fingertips hit something. Cold. Flat. Metal. The trauma shears.

You wrapped your hand around them and wrenched upward, muscles screaming, body twisting.

The next second, you were swinging.

You swung upward first, the blunt-edged blades catching him across the ribs. He snarled through gritted teeth, fingers still crushing your windpipe, his face inches from yours, breath hot and sour. Black was creeping in around the edges of your vision now, your body screaming for air—

You swung again, harder.

This time, the shears connected with the side of his neck.

Not deep, but enough.

He shouted, voice guttural and animal, recoiling with a sharp jerk. The pressure on your throat loosened just enough for you to drag in a desperate, choking breath.

You coughed, wheezed, and drove your shoulder into him, pushing him off balance. He staggered back, clutching the side of his neck where blood was already welling between his fingers.

You lunged after him.

Not because he was still a threat. Not because he was getting back up. But because he might. Because he would, if you gave him the chance.

You straddled his chest, one knee digging into his ribs, your hand still clenched around the trauma shears. His eyes widened, but he reached for you again.

You didn’t let him.

You brought the shears down, once, through his chest.

Then again.

And again.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t careful. There was no technique to it, just the weight of adrenaline and terror crashing through your limbs like a storm.

He tried to yell, but it came out a gurgle. You didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

Your hands were soaked now, his blood warm and slick on your fingers, your arms, your clothes. Your breathing came in gasps, ragged and animal. You couldn’t stop shaking.

You raised the shears again.

The man beneath you wasn’t moving. His arms were slack, his face unrecognizable through the mess. But your body didn’t understand that yet. Your mind was still caught in the moment, in the fear, in the fury.

Your hand tightened around the handle.

One more.

The door slammed open behind you.

“Jesus Christ—”

You froze.

Your chest was still heaving. Your knees still dug into the man’s ribs. But you didn’t move. Didn’t lower your arm. Just slowly turned your head toward the doorway.

Tommy stood there. Arthur right beside him, wide-eyed, a half-drawn pistol hanging forgotten in his hand.

The room was silent now, except for your breathing and the soft beeping of Finn’s monitor, still alive, still steady.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just knelt there, frozen, blood smeared up your arms, drying in streaks across your hands and mouth. Your chest rose and fell too fast, each breath shallow and ragged. The trauma shears were still clenched in your fist, white-knuckled and rigid, as if some part of you believed he might get back up.

The room felt like it was underwater.

Then, Tommy's voice broke the silence. "Are you alright, Finn?"

“He was trying to kill me. But she stopped him.” His voice was thin and scared. "I'm alright."

You didn’t turn to look at him.

You just stared forward, eyes unfocused, fixed on the blood pooling beneath the man’s body, the red streaked across your skin, the shears lying motionless by your knee.

You couldn’t feel your hands. Or your legs. You weren’t even sure if you were breathing.

Tommy stepped forward slowly, like you were a wounded animal, still caught in the middle of the fight.

He didn’t speak.

His eyes dropped to your hand. The shears still gripped tight in your fist, the blades slick with blood, trembling slightly as they hovered in the space between you and the man on the floor.

“You can let go of them now,” he said softly, his voice low but steady. “It’s over. He's gone.”

Tommy took another step forward, slow and deliberate.

You didn’t respond. Your eyes didn’t leave the body. You looked like you couldn’t hear him, like your brain was still caught in the moment, waiting for the fight to start again.

“Give them to me, darling,” he said gently, reaching out but not touching you yet.

Tommy crouched down in front of you, just far enough to meet your eye line.

Your grip didn’t change.

Not at first.

But then slowly, your gaze lifted. It met his. Your eyes were wide, glassy, hollow. He saw the exact second you came back to yourself.

“Give them to me,” he repeated, softer this time.

Your fingers finally loosened. The shears fell into his open palm with a faint, wet clack.

Without taking his eyes off you, Tommy reached back and handed them to Arthur, who stepped forward silently and took them without a word.

And then your body collapsed.

You pitched forward into his chest, sobs breaking loose from your throat in jagged waves. You didn’t hold back. Your arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, your fingers fisting in the back of his coat as you clung to him like gravity itself had given out.

Tommy caught you instantly, one arm strong around your back, the other at the back of your head, pulling you in close.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

Your entire body shook in his arms. Sobs tore through you with no rhythm or control. The weight of it all came crashing down at once: the fear, the blood, the way it could’ve gone so much worse.

Tommy’s hand moved gently, sliding up the back of your head to cradle it. He leaned in, forehead pressing against the side of yours.

You clenched your fists tighter in his coat, fingers aching, nails pressing into wool. The scent of him was thick in your nose.

“He—” you choked. “I thought he was going to—”

Tommy pulled you closer, as if he could shield you from the memory itself.

“I know,” he said.

During the war, you’d grown accustomed to death. You’d seen bullet wounds tear through men, grenades blow off limbs, and life slip away more times than you could count.

But you’d never been the one to take it. Until now.

And even though it had been his life or Finn’s, it still clung to you. In your clothes. In your hair. Under your nails. You could feel it in your bones, humming like something you couldn’t scrub off.

Tommy held you for another moment, then slowly shifted, rising to his feet and taking you with him. His arm stayed locked around your waist, steadying you as your knees threatened to buckle.

“Arthur,” he said, voice suddenly cold and clear. “Call John, he can help get the body out of here quietly. Have Polly come stay with Finn. I don’t want him alone.”

Arthur blinked, then gave a sharp nod. “Right.”

He moved fast, stepping around the blood, grabbing a sheet from the cabinet and crouching by the still form on the floor. You couldn’t even look at what you’d done.

Tommy’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head again, guiding you gently to his chest. “There we go,” he murmured.

You didn’t argue.

You just let him hold you while the weight of what you’d done sank in, and the mess of it all began to be swept away.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you out of here.”

You didn’t resist.

Your feet moved clumsily beneath you, barely aware of the sticky warmth of blood drying on your skin, or the dull ache in your knees and shoulders. You just followed the pressure of his hand at your back, leaning into him like he was the only thing keeping you upright.

Behind you, Arthur was already moving. The sound of fabric dragging across tile echoed faintly behind you as Tommy opened the door and guided you out into the hallway.

You blinked against the overhead lights, everything feeling too sharp, too clinical after the chaos of the room.

There were no footsteps. No voices. No nurses with clipboards, no doctors making their rounds. The station at the end of the corridor sat empty. Even the usual low hum of activity had vanished.

You slowed, just slightly, scanning the space.

Nothing.

Just white tile. Pale walls. Abandoned chairs pushed crooked beneath tables. Machines left idle. A silence that stretched too long.

You didn’t ask.

Tommy said nothing either. Just adjusted his grip on you and kept walking. His pace was steady, purposeful. Like he already knew this floor was clear. Like it had been expected.

Like this, too, was part of the war.

He guided you through the back stairwell, down the side corridor, and out into the night. The cold hit your skin instantly, sobering and sharp. Tommy’s car waited at the curb.

Tommy helped you in gently. But you didn’t remember buckling in, and you barely even noticed the drive.

When you pulled up in front of the house, you didn’t move right away. You stared out the window at the familiar shape of the doorway, the stone steps, the light flickering just inside the hall.

Tommy came around and opened your door. He didn’t speak. Just reached for your hand.

You let him help you out of the car, your body still trembling. Inside, the house was quiet. Warmer than the hospital. But even that couldn’t touch the chill that had settled into your skin.

Tommy gently guided you up the stairs, his hand steady at your back, and down the hall to your shared bedroom. The room was dim, untouched. He walked you straight to the adjoining bathroom.

He turned on the tap, warm water rushing into the basin. Steam rose, fogging the mirror slightly. He found a clean towel on the shelf, poured warm water into a bowl like it was second nature, and soaked the cloth.

You stood by the door, unmoving. Watching.

“Come here,” he said quietly, holding the towel in one hand, his other extended.

You stepped toward him slowly.

He dipped the towel again, then reached for your wrist.

You flinched—not because it hurt, just because your skin still felt on fire with urgency.

His fingers were warm. The towel was even warmer. He moved slowly, wiping in steady, careful motions.

He started with your wrists. The insides, where blood had dried into fine lines like cracked paint. Then the backs of your hands, where bruises were already forming across your knuckles. He worked methodically, rinsing the towel, wringing it out, coming back again.

When he reached your forearms, you caught yourself holding your breath.

He moved to your jaw next. The cloth brushed away a faint smear there, the pressure just enough to remind you flinch.

When he got to the streak along your cheekbone, he paused.

Just a beat.

Then he lifted the towel again and wiped gently, following with his thumb, soft and deliberate, like he wanted to wipe the memory of it.

“I killed him,” you said suddenly.

The words barely left your mouth. They didn’t sound like yours.

Tommy stilled. His hand hovered just beneath your jaw, not pulling away, not pressing closer. Just there.

“I know,” he said quietly.

You looked down, your vision narrowing to the floor tile between you. There was a smear of blood on your shirt sleeve, nearly dry now, the edges gone dark.

You swallowed hard, your throat raw. “I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. He was already down and I just– I couldn’t stop.”

He lowered the towel, letting it rest on the edge of the basin. Then he reached up and gently tilted your chin, just enough to meet your eyes.

“You did what had to be done,” he said, low. “That’s it.”

You shook your head, the weight of it all pushing back up through your chest, but Tommy was already shaking his.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t start second-guessing it now. It was him or you and Finn. And you did what you had to do.”

His voice wasn’t cold, but it was certain. Solid.

You didn’t respond. Just stood there, still trembling faintly, still feeling like you were trapped inside your own skin.

Tommy watched you for a moment longer, then set the towel down beside the sink and stepped past you.

You turned your head slightly, following his movement with your eyes as he crossed to the tub. He turned the taps, adjusted the temperature, let the water begin to fill the basin.

It was so ordinary a thing, so domestic, it made something ache behind your ribs.

Steam began to rise, curling around the edges of the porcelain. He tested the water with his hand absentmindedly.

You hesitated for a second. The thought of peeling off your bloodied clothes made your stomach twist, but the weight of them was worse, the way they clung, stiff and damp, heavy with what had happened.

Your fingers moved slowly. First the buttons of your blouse, then the skirt. You peeled each layer away with care, as if the fabric might tear you open if you weren’t gentle.

Tommy didn’t watch. He turned slightly, giving you just enough space to move without feeling exposed, but still staying close.

When you were down to your skin, you stepped into the tub. The water was hot, almost too hot, but the sting felt grounding. You sank slowly, easing your body beneath the surface until the warmth wrapped around your chest and shoulders like a weighted blanket.

Your hands hovered for a moment over your knees, trembling faintly. You weren’t sure if the shaking would stop, even here.

You heard the soft shift of fabric behind you. Tommy’s coat, his boots, his shirt hitting the floor one piece at a time.

The tub creaked as he climbed in behind you.

You didn’t turn to look, but you leaned back the second his arms opened. He pulled you against his chest, one arm looped gently around your waist, the other resting on the edge of the tub.

The water lapped gently around you both. His breath was slow against your shoulder, and his skin was warm and solid behind you.

“You shouldn’t have had to do that,” he said. Regretful in the way only he could be.

Your fingers, resting just above the surface of the water, twitched slightly. You swallowed, but still didn’t speak as you laid your head back against him.

“But I’m glad that you did,” he said finally.

You felt the shift in his chest as he spoke, the rhythm of his breath syncing with yours. The weight of the day pressed into the room like fog. Tommy tightened his arm around your waist, anchoring you against him.

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#tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders #peaky blinders x reader #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby x y/n #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders fanfic #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x you #thomas shelby x reader

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runnning-outof-time · 18 days ago

Text

A Little Thank You | Tommy Shelby x Reader

Request: yes by @darlingsfandom - sent as a blurb request

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x fem!Reader

Summary: In which (Y/N) (Y/L/N) repays her employer in a way he wasn’t expecting.

Warnings: language, an almost bar fight (series typical violence)

Word Count: 1856

A/N: I wasn’t expecting this to turn into a full on story, but it did - thanks so much for giving me the inspiration to write this, Em! I’m sorry it took so long for me to share it. The prompts sent in are bolded in the story. Enjoy! :)

COMMENTS & REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED — I’d love to know what you think of the story!

Comment/Message me if you’d like to be tagged!

"I put me order in first!" one drunken man yelled at the man standing next to him.

"Mate this isn't even what you ordered!" the other man replied. Both men's hands reached for the pint glass at the same time.

"How the fuck do you know what I ordered?!" the first man questioned, his now brows deeply furrowed.

"Because I was here when I heard ya say it!" the second man responded.

(Y/N) stopped the order she was working on when she heard the squabble start. "What's happening here?" she asked the men, hoping to get some insight on why they were screaming at each other.

"That's bullshit!" The first man was not backing down. The screaming matched continued without acknowledgement of (Y/N)'s question.

"I'll tell you what bullshit is...bullshit is when someone claims a drink is theirs without checking what it is!"

"I'll show you bullshit..." the first man growled through gritted teeth before lifting the glass and slamming it down on the bar top, making the glass shatter and liquid spread across the wooden surface. He then lifted the handle, that was so conveniently still in his hands, in a threatening motion at the second man.

Nothing good was going to come out of this.

"Enough!" (Y/N) exclaimed, trying to get their attention by slamming her hand down on the counter.

A sharp pain surged through her hand the second it hit the surface, but she was too caught up in breaking up the bar fight to check and see what the cause of it was. "You both need to stop acting the way you are or you'll be thrown out."

"You need to start pouring the right fucking drinks in the right fucking order!" the first man yelled right back at the barmaid. He quickly turned to face her, the sharp handle of the glass now being waved in her direction.

"You might want to think about what you're doing right now," (Y/N) said to him, speaking in a low, leveled voice to try and get him to see sense in that moment.

She had no idea how this was going to go down.

"Oi! What the fuck is going out here?!" a booming voice came from the right-hand side of the altercation. (Y/N) turned her head to see a glaring Tommy Shelby looking through the small window that separated the private snug from the rest of the establishment.

"It's getting handled, Mr. Shelby," (Y/N) said in a quiet, but assured, tone. She hoped he could see that she could handle these sorts of situations by herself without having him stop he was doing to step in.

Tommy looked at (Y/N) for a moment, processing what she said before surveying the situation. In a matter of seconds he was out of the snug and approaching the bar. Anger was starkly apparent in his features. "I want both of you out of this fucking pub right now. Continue this if you want, but it won't be in front of me." He spoke in an almost growl-like tone. (Y/N) had never seen his this angry before.

The men didn't try and argue with him. They responded to his demand with a quick 'yes, Mr. Shelby' before they hung their heads and exited the establishment.

Tommy turned his attention to (Y/N) once they were out of sight.

"Mr. Shelby I was going to..."

"Let me have a look at your hand, (Y/N)," Tommy cut her off, his eyes zeroed in on the hand of hers that was still resting on the bar.

"It's fine, it just...oh, shit," she stopped what she was saying when she actually saw her hand. The sharp pain that she felt was caused by what looked to be a shard from the broken glass becoming stuck in the side of her hand. "Fuck," she breathed out a sigh, looking around for a rag to try and stop the bleeding.

"Let me look at it, love," Tommy cut in on her search, hoping to stop it before she could cover the injury up.

"I'll go to the washroom and sort it out," she insisted, continuing to look for a rag, "and then I'll make sure to clean the counter."

"It looks like there's a piece stuck in it," he pointed out, disregarding the action plan she'd just laid out.

"Let me see it."

"It's fine, Mr. Shelby," she insisted.

"Let me help you, (Y/N).” He wasn't taking no for an answer.

"Ok," she answered with a breath, finally relenting and holding her hand out for him to inspect.

He looked at it for a moment before taking it into his hold and stepping ever so slightly closer to her.

The breath go caught in (Y/N)'s throat at their close proximity. One challenge of working for the Shelbys that proved hardest to her after all of this time was keeping herself composed around Tommy. There was just something about him that she couldn't quite shake from her mind. She had a crush on her employer.

As he took hold of her hand, he brought her forearm to rest between his torso on his own forearm, hoping that it would stabilize her injured hand more for him to have a better look at it. It did the trick...but it also got (Y/N)'s heart racing.

"Hold still, love. This might sting a little," he said to her as he readied himself to pull the shard out of the side of her hand. (Y/N) gritted her teeth and sucked in a breath in preparation, then let that same breath out as a hiss as Tommy pulled the glass from her hand.

"There…it's out," he announced, gently letting go of her hand so that he could throw the glass in the bin under the counter.

"Thank you," she smiled at him, appreciation clear in her expression.

"You're welcome," he answered, nodding once as his lips slightly curved upwards. "If anything like that happens again please come and find me. I'll handle it."

"I will," (Y/N) nodded, not even trying to fight him on it. She had no problem sticking up for herself, but she also wasn't going to argue with him wanting to handle any future altercations.

Tommy nodded again after hearing her response. He then watched her as she grabbed one of the clean rags to hold on the cut she'd gotten. "There's some bandages in me office...go and get one to stop the bleeding."

"I will. Thank you, Mr. Shelby," she smiled at him in appreciation before turning and walking to the part of the pub his office was located in.

(Y/N)'s smile was spread from ear to ear as she entered the Garrison on her next shift day. She did a quick search around the pub's main room before concluding that the person she was looking for was - hopefully - in the private snug.

She found him upon opening the door. He was sitting in his usual spot: the head of the table with his back to the bar. A quick glance around the room made her realize that his brothers, John and Arthur, were also present.

"Good morning, (Y/N). What can we do for ya?" Arthur was the one to greet her first.

"Good morning," she returned the greeting, smiling at the two men sitting in the booth before looking back at Tommy, "I, uh...I wanted to give these to you, Mr. Shelby," she said as she held her hand out in the space between her and her employer.

Tommy took a moment to look down at what she was offering him. There was no glaring emotion present on his face as his eyes returned to hers, and (Y/N)'d be lying if she said that seeing this didn't make her clam up a little bit. She was also able to feel Arthur and John's eyes watching the interaction, their gaze’s weight adding an extra intensity to the situation.

"You got me flowers?" Tommy finally asked her, his eyes falling down to the small bouquet that was grasped in her still outstretched hand once more.

"I...yeah, I picked them on my walk to work today. I wanted to offer a little thank you for your help the other day," she explained the reason behind her sudden gift offering.

"You didn't need to thank me, (Y/N). It was..."

"I wanted to thank you, Tommy-" (Y/N) rushed to insist, her words coming out before she could realize she was calling her employer by his first name, "I, er...I meant Mr. Shelby, I'm sorry..." she stammered out, trailing off as she felt herself heat up at the mishap.

Tommy kept his eyes trained on her, which only made her want to sink into herself more, a somewhat of an amused expression forming on his face. If anything, he found her actions at this moment endearing.

He let a few more beats pass before he spoke again (Y/N) was getting closer and closer to dropping the flowers and running out with each one. John and Arthur were watching on intently, like one would with a close sports match.

"I appreciate the gesture, (Y/N)," Tommy finally spoke, taking the flowers from her - still - outstretched hand. He took another moment to look at them...no one had repaid him for doing a deed in a thoughtful way such as this before. A part of him truthfully preferred the sentiment to any lumpsome of money he could have received.

(Y/N)'s nerves were becoming increasingly frazzled with each moment that passed. Is he going to comment on my mishap? Was he upset by it? Is he going to reprimand me for it? Maybe I should get out of here. Her trail of thoughts finally pushed her to act, and she finally broke eye contact with Tommy to look at the two other Shelby men in the room, hoping to let them know that she was addressing everyone now. "I'll be going to my position at the counter now," she informed them, turning on her heel to walk the short distance back to the door.

"(Y/N)," Tommy's voice stopped her before she could open said door. She sucked in a breath as she turned back to face him. "Call me Tommy from now on, eh?"

The way he said it made it sound like a question, but anyone would have been able to tell that he was not asking her if she could do so. A weird feeling coursed through her body as she heard his statement. She couldn't explain it, or put a name to the feeling, but it put a smile on her face.

"I will," she gave him an answer even though he wasn't expecting one, nodding her head slightly before she continued with the motion of opening the door and exiting the snug.

MASTERLIST

Tagged: @mystcldydrms @succubaby @cloudofdisney @look-at-the-soul @elenavampire21

@mrsalwayswrite @julkaamazing @evita-shelby @theshelbyslimited @peakyswritings

@just-a-blackhole @watercolorskyy @strayrockette @peakyduchesss @alexxavicry

@captivatedbycillianmurphy @yummycastiel @dark-academia-slut @mischievouslittlecreature @stevie75

@lyarr24 @signorellisantichrist @zablife @anotherblinder @cillmequick

@dandelionprints @garrison-girl-08 @insanitybyanothername @depxiety @justrainandcoffee

@dragons-are-my-favorite @mrs-bond @cljordan-imperium @brummiereader @everythingelseisextra

@little-diable @thomashelbyswife @shaddixlife @ryecosse @padfootdaredmetoo

@novashelby @wonderlanddreamer

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queenshelby · 1 month ago

Text

His Property (Part One)

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 limousine purrs to a stop in front of Arrow House, and your heart pounds against your ribcage like a trapped creature yearning to escape. You gaze up at the imposing mansion, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and curiosity. You find yourself gazing at the towering structure that looms as a sentinel over the sweeping lawns and manicured gardens, its cold stone walls as forbidding as the ice-blue eyes of its owner.

Your father sits beside you, his grip on your arm firm and unrelenting.

His face is a mask of grim determination, eyes fixed on the mansion as if it were a monster he's about to feed.

"This is it," he says, his voice as harsh as gravel. "Your new home."

Home. The word sends a shiver down your spine. You have no choice but to follow him out of the car, your heels sinking into the dewy grass. As you approach the grand entrance, the heavy oak door creaks open, revealing a man in a crisp black suit. His sharp features and piercing blue eyes leave no doubt who he is. Thomas Shelby.

The mere mention of his name sends a shiver down your spine. He stands in the doorway, his eyes raking over you like a physical touch. You feel your cheeks flush under his scrutiny.

"Y/N," he says, your name rolling off his tongue like a dark promise. He steps aside, allowing you to enter the grand foyer. The air is thick with the scent of expensive cigars and something darker, more primal.

Your father clears his throat, his eyes darting nervously between you and Thomas. "Y/N, this is Mr. Shelby. He's...

taken care of our debt." His words hang heavy in the air, a finality that makes your stomach churn. Thomas nods, his eyes never leaving yours as he assesses you, from top to bottom, as if you were prey.

"Yes, your father and I have come to an arrangement," he says, his voice as smooth as velvet but with an underlying edge that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your father shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flickering between you and Thomas before he nods, a grimace on his face. "I trust you'll take good care of her," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Thomas merely smiles, a slow, predatory curl of his lips that sends a jolt of fear coursing through you. "Oh, I intend to," he says, his eyes locked onto yours.

He turns to your father, his voice cold and dismissive. "You may go. I'll send for you when our business is concluded."

Your father nods, his eyes flickering between you and Thomas before he turns and walks away, leaving you alone with the man who now owns you.

Thomas closes the door, his footsteps echoing in the grand foyer as he approaches you. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, the power he exudes like a palpable force. He stops in front of you, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear.

His touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you can't help but flinch at the contact. He chuckles low, a sound that rumbles like thunder in his chest.

"You're frightened," he observes, his voice a low growl.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest. You know what's expected of you, what your father has sold you for. But the reality of it is unlike anything you've ever imagined.

"Will...will you hurt me?" The words escape your lips before you can stop them, a mixture of fear and defiance in your voice.

Thomas's eyes flash with amusement, and he leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"Only if you want me to," he whispers, his voice a low, seductive growl.

He steps back, his eyes scanning your body again, lingering on your breasts, your hips, your thighs.

"I don't want you to, sir," you reply, your voice barely a whisper, but it's enough for him.

A slow smile spreads across his face, and he reaches out, tracing the line of your jaw with his thumb. "We will see," he says softly.

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, confused and slightly relieved but, before you know it, one of his maids appears, her eyes cast downwards as she speaks.

"Let's get you settled in dear. I understand you have had a long

journey," the maid says, her voice soft and soothing like warm honey. She guides you through the grand house, your footsteps echoing on the polished marble floors. The opulence of Arrow House is starkly apparent; crystal chandeliers drip from the high ceilings, casting prisms of light that dance on the walls, and paintings of landscapes and still lives adorn the walls, each one more expensive looking than the last.

You are led down a long corridor, the air growing colder as you move further away from the main entrance. The maid stops in front of a heavy wooden door, her hand on the brass handle.

"This will be your room," she says, pushing the door open. You step inside, your eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the heavy curtains. The room is large, with a four-poster bed draped in velvet curtains, a fireplace with a roaring fire, and a chaise lounge positioned in front of the window. It's luxurious, but the air is thick with an undercurrent of darkness, a subtle reminder of Thomas's presence.

"Is there anything you need, dear?" the maid asks, her eyes scanning your face. You shake your head, your mind racing with a million thoughts but your mouth unable to form the words.

The maid smiles softly, her eyes kind. "You'll be alright, dear," she then says as she turns to leave, but you call out to her.

"Wait," you say, and she pauses, turning back to face you.

"What exactly does he... want from me?" The question tumbles out of your mouth before you can stop it, a heavy weight settling in your stomach as you await her response.

The maid's expression softens, and she steps back into the room, closing the door behind her.

She walks over to the chaise lounge and sits down, patting the space next to her. "Come, sit," she says gently. You hesitate for a moment before moving to sit next to her.

"Mr. Shelby, he's... complex," she begins, her voice low and careful. "He likes things to be... just so. And he likes to be in control." She pauses, choosing her words with care. "He'll expect you to be obedient, to meet his needs, and to do so without question."

You swallow hard, the reality of your situation settling like a weight in the pit of your stomach. Your older sister had only just explained the concept of intimacy to you after you had been brought up strictly catholic, and the thought of experiencing it so suddenly and with such a man was terrifying.

"But what if I don't want to do the things he asks?" your voice barely a whisper, but your heart pounded in your chest like a drum, afraid of the answer.

The maid's eyes were kind, and she reached out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "I am afraid you do not have a choice, dear. Not now. But in time, you may find that you want to please him. Many have before you."

"But if I do not like what he does to me?" you ask, your voice quivering slightly, the reality of your new life crashing down on you like a wave.

The maid's expression turns softer, and she squeezes your shoulder gently again. 'You will learn to like it, dear, or at least to tolerate it. Mr. Shelby has a way of... making people see things his way.'

Your heart sinks, and you feel a lump form in your throat. You want to ask more, to understand what exactly he expects from you, but the maid's shoulders tense, and she glances at the door.

'I should go,' she says, standing up. 'We'll meet again though, and I'll help you as much as I can, but for now, you should wash up and get some rest. Tomorrow is a new day.'

You nod, a sense of resignation washing over you as she leaves. Alone in the room, you let the weight of your situation sink in. Your breath hitches as you think about what lies ahead, your mind racing with questions and fears.

An hour later, a soft knock at the door startles you. You hesitate for a moment before calling out, 'Come in.'

The door creaks open, revealing a young man, around your age, with shaggy brown hair and kind brown eyes. He's dressed in a simple but well-made suit, his demeanour friendly and unassuming.

He smiles at you, and you can't help but feel a small shiver of relief at the sight of someone close to your own age.

"Hey, I'm Lucas," he says, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. "I'm one of the housekeeper's son and I help out around here sometimes."

You offer him a small smile, your shoulders relaxing slightly. "I'm Y/N," you say, standing up from the chaise lounge. "Nice to meet you."

Finn nods, his eyes scanning the room before settling on you. "I heard you were coming," he says, his voice casual.

"Thought I'd come say hi, make you feel a bit more at home."

You appreciate the gesture, even if the words 'at home' still feel foreign on your tongue. "Thanks," you say, offering him a small smile. "I could use a friendly face around here."

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yeah, Arrow House can be a bit... intimidating at first. But don't worry, you'll get used to it."

You sit back down on the chaise lounge, and he takes a seat on the armchair across from you.

The room feels less daunting with his presence, and you find yourself relaxing slightly.

"So, what's it like here? I mean, living in Arrow House," you ask, trying to keep your voice casual.

Lucas leans back in his chair, his eyes thoughtful. "It's different, that's for sure. It's like living in a castle, you know? But I know it will be different for you. I mean, I know why you are here and I am... I am not in the same situation as you," Lucas says before he pauses, his eyes searching yours, as if trying to gauge how much to say.

A shiver runs down your spine at the mention of your situation. "I don't want to be here," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lucas's expression softens, and he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "I know," he says. "But try to make the best of it," he tells you.

You nod, a lump forming in your throat at his kindness.

"I'll try," you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lucas smiles warmly; his eyes filled with genuine concern. "Good," he said simply, resting his hand on yours in a friendly manner.

His words are comforting, but the weight of your new life is a constant reminder, pressing down on you like a heavy shroud. You force a smile, grateful for his presence.

"Thank you, Lucas," you say, and he grins, standing up and holding out his hand.

"Come on, let's go for a walk in the gardens.

Fresh air might do you some good," Lucas suggests, his hand still outstretched. You take it, grateful for the offer of escape, no matter how temporary.

As you walk through the grand house, you can't help but feel like a prisoner in a gilded cage. The opulence is overwhelming, a stark contrast to the simplicity of your childhood home. Lucas guides you through the sprawling gardens, the scents of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass filling the air. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart.

"So, what's your story, Lucas?

How long have you been here?" You ask, trying to focus on anything but the heavy weight of your new reality.

Lucas shrugs, his hands tucked into his pockets as he walks beside you. "Not long. A few months. My mom got a job here, and I help out around the place. It's not so bad, really. The people are nice enough."

You nod, your eyes scanning the gardens. "What about you? Where are you from?" He asks, his voice casual.

You hesitate, unsure of how much to reveal. "Small town. Nowhere special," you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. "I grew up catholic. My father had a big gambling debt, and now I'm here," you say, your voice tight. Lucas glances at you, his expression sympathetic.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. That really sucks," he says, his voice genuine. "But listen, you're young, you're smart, and you're tough. You'll figure this out."

You scoff, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. "Tough? I'm terrified, Lucas. I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know what he expects from me."

Lucas's expression softens, and he reaches out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"Hey, it's okay. Just know that you are not alone. I'll be here to help, alright? And I'm sure some of the other staff will be too. We're not all bad here, you know."

You nod, appreciating his words even if they don't completely ease your fears. "Thanks, Lucas. I appreciate it."

He smiles, his hand dropping to his side as he looked up, noticing Thomas Shelby 's silhouette in one of the grand windows.

You follow his gaze, your heart skipping a beat at the sight of Thomas's imposing figure. He stares back at you, his expression unreadable, before he turns and walks away.

"I should go," Lucas says, his voice barely above a whisper. "He doesn't like me talking to the... new acquisitions."

You frown, a chill running down your spine at his choice of words. "Why?"

Lucas shrugs, his expression grim.

"He just doesn't. Trust me, it's better if I go. I'll see you around, alright?" he says, squeezing your arm once more before turning and walking away, leaving you alone in the garden.

You watch him go, a sense of unease washing over you as Thomas's shadow looms large again in the window.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what's to come. You can't run, and you can't hide. You have to face this head-on.

You make your way back to Arrow House, your footsteps echoing in the grand foyer as you enter.

The house is quiet, the staff moving silently through the halls, their eyes cast downwards as they pass you. The air is thick with an undercurrent of tension, a subtle reminder of Thomas Shelby's presence.

As you climb the grand staircase, you can't help but feel like a mouse in a maze, each step bringing you closer to the lion's den. You reach your room, the heavy wooden door looming in front of you like a barrier between you and the reality of your situation.

You take a deep breath, your hand trembling slightly as you reach for the handle of the door leading to your bedroom just as one of the maids approached you from behind.

"Here you are," she says softly. "Mr. Shelby wants to see you, in his study," the maid says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart pounds in your chest, your breath hitches as you nod, your fingers fumbling with the door handle.

"Come, dear. We don't want to keep him waiting," the maid says, her voice a soft nudge, but there's an undercurrent of impatience that brooks no argument.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest as you follow her down the wide, marble-floored hallway. The air grows colder, the scent of expensive cigars and something darker, more primal, clinging to the air.

The maid stops in front of a heavy oak door, her hand reaching out to knock softly. "Sir, she's here," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

The door creaks open, revealing Thomas Shelby standing by the fireplace, his back to you. He's dressed in a dark suit, the material moulding to his frame.

He turns to face you, his piercing blue eyes scanning your body, missing no detail.

He nods at the maid, dismissing her with a minimal wave of his hand. She scurries away, leaving you alone with him.

The room is illuminated by the flickering fire, the shadows dancing on the walls, creating a stark contrast with the opulence of the study. Your heart hammers in your chest like a drum, the air thick with fear.

Thomas stands before you, his eyes locked onto yours, a dark promise written across his sharp features. He takes a step closer, the smell of expensive cologne enveloping you.

"You look nervous, Sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his touch causing you to flinch away.

His eyes darken at your reaction, and he takes a step closer, crowding your space.

"You're going to have to get used to my touch, Love," he says, the words a low growl that sends a shiver down your spine.

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest as you take a step back, only to find yourself pressed up against the wall. You can feel the cold stone against your back, the rough texture a stark contrast to the smoothness of his skin.

Thomas takes advantage of your lack of space, his hand coming up to cup your chin, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.

"Open for me. Let me taste you." His voice is a command, his eyes burning into yours as he waits for your response.

You hesitate, your breathing coming in short gasps, the fear warring within you. Thomas's grip tightens slightly, his thumb pressing harder against your lip. "Now," he growls, the warning clear in his voice.

With trembling fingers, you part your lips, allowing him access. His eyes darken as he leans in, his mouth capturing yours in a brutal, demanding kiss. His tongue plunges in, exploring, dominating, leaving no part of your mouth untouched.

You gasp, your body stiffening at the sudden invasion, but Thomas doesn't miss a beat. He pins you to the wall as his mouth ravages yours. He tastes like whiskey and sin, and the fear in your chest begins to raise.

Thomas tears his mouth away, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His eyes are wild, hungry, as they rake over your body. "You taste like innocence, like a fucking virgin," he growls, his voice a low and primal.

"Please," you whisper, your voice shaking. "I don't want to do this."

Thomas smirks, his eyes burning with hunger, and presses his body flush against yours. "You don't have a choice. You're mine now and I paid good fucking money for you."

He captures your mouth again, swallowing your whimpers as his hands roam over your body.

You feel like a deer caught in headlights, unable to escape or fight as his hands trail down your waist. He slips his fingers under your skirt, hooking them into the waistband of your panties and you tremble as he pulls them down.

They pool at your feet and a tear slips down your cheek.

Thomas smirks, his lips brushing against yours. "Sshh, it's alright Love," he whispers as his fingers first made contact with your most intimate part. "I am just getting to know what's mine."

His voice is like velvet over iron as he lets his fingers run over your still dry and untouched folds.

You can't bring yourself to respond, your mind a whirlwind of fear and uncertainty. Thomas doesn't seem to mind, his fingers exploring you, sliding against your opening, making you gasp at the unfamiliar sensation.

He then pushes a finger inside you, the intrusion causing you to cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Oh Sweetheart," he growls against your neck, "You're so fucking tight."

He begins to pump his finger in and out of you, the motion rough and urgent, causing you to gasp and whimper.

"Sshh, Love," he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. "I know it hurts, but I need you to relax and take it. You'll feel better once you get used to it."

You try to do as he says, but the sensation is overwhelming and foreign. You can feel your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps.

You try to press your legs together, to close yourself off from him, but Thomas's free hand pushes your thighs apart, his fingers digging into your soft skin.

"Open up for me, Love," he snarls, the command in his voice leaving no room for argument as, suddenly, you felt something else when he used his thumb to rub your clit, slowly circling it with the pressure of his rough thumb.

The sensation is both foreign and slightly pleasurable, sending a jolt of confusion through you.

Thomas notices your reaction, a dark smile spreading across his face.

"No, please," you plead, your voice trembling as you try to push his hand away, but this time for different reasons. The sensation was too overwhelming for you.

You can't help but let out a small moan as Thomas's thumb continues to circle your clit. He watches you closely, his eyes dark with lust and pleasure at your reaction.

"That's it, Love," he murmurs, his voice a low growl. "Let me hear you. I want to hear you scream for me."

His finger inside you continues to move, pumping in and out, painfully, but the pressure on your clit made you feel pleasure at the same time, confusing you as you tried to wiggle away from him.

"Please stop,” you whimper, but he just chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends shivers down your spine.

"Shh, just let go for me," he growls, his thrusts becoming faster, more urgent. You can feel the wetness building between your legs, a mixture of pain and pleasure. Your breath comes in short gasps, your body tensing as he pushes you closer to the edge.

"I... I can't," you stammer, your body shaking with the effort of holding back. Thomas leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot and moist.

"Come on, Love, you're almost there. Let go. Give in to it," he says as he increases the pressure on your clit, his thumb circling faster, sending electric jolts through your body.

"Please. No. I need to...you need to stop!" you cry out as you can't hold back anymore and your body convulses, and you let out a scream that echoes through the study.

"That's a good girl," Thomas grins, his eyes locked onto yours, watching you come undone under his touch. He continues to pump his finger in and out of you, drawing out your pleasure until you're a panting mess against the wall.

He finally slows down, his finger sliding out of you, leaving you feeling empty and exposed.

You're panting, your body still shaking from the aftershocks of your unexpected orgasm.

Thomas grins, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and lust as he smeared his blood-streaked finger over your cleavage, leaving a trail of your own wetness across your skin.

"There you go Sweetheart," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked but you couldn't help but feel a chill run down your spine at his words.

His fingers were still paint streaked from your wetness and virginity and he brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan of satisfaction. You felt a mixture of revulsion and shame at the sight, but also a strange kind of arousal you couldn't quite understand.

"Now, why don't you drop down to your knees for me, eh?" Thomas's voice is a low rumble, like distant thunder, as he steps back and begins to unbuckle his belt.

You hesitate for a moment, your body still shaking from the aftershocks of the orgasm he forced from you. But his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, burn into yours, and you know better than to disobey.

Slowly, you sink to your knees, your heart pounding in your chest like a trapped bird.

Thomas smirks, a slow, wicked curl of his lips as he pushes his pants down, his cock springing free.

He's long and thick, the head already damp with precum. He wraps his fist around the base, giving it a slow stroke.

"Open that pretty little mouth of yours, Sweetheart," he commands, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver down your spine.

You hesitate, your breath coming in short gasps, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. You've never done this before, never even thought about it. But Thomas doesn't wait for your consent. He grabs a fistful of your hair, his grip tight and painful as he steps closer.

"Open, now," he growls, his cockhead prodding at your lips.

You hesitate, your lips pressed tightly together, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest as he waits

for you to comply which, hesitantly, you did, slowly parting your lips, just enough to let the tip inside.

"That's a good girl," he praises, his voice thick with lust and satisfaction. "Now take more."

He pushes his hips forward, forcing more of his cock into your mouth, the salty

taste of him filling your senses. You gag, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as he hits the back of your throat. You try to pull back, but his grip on your hair tightens, holding you in place as half of his cock disappears in your mouth, stretching your lips.

"Take it all, Sweetheart," he commands, his voice a low growl. "

You whimper, your tears falling freely now as he begins to move his hips, fucking your mouth in slow, steady thrusts. He grunts with each push forward, his cock growing harder, thicker with each passing moment.

You can feel the saliva pooling in your mouth, dripping down your chin, and you try to swallow around the intrusion, but it's no use. Your gag reflex kicks in again, and you pull back, gasping for air.

Thomas chuckles, a dark and dangerous sound that sends shivers down your spine. "You're not very good at this, are you, Love?" he says, his voice thick with lust. He grips your hair tighter, forcing you to look up at him.

His blue eyes are dark with desire, his jaw set in a harsh line. "You're going to take it all, understand?" His voice is a harsh command, leaving no room for argument as he thrusts his hips forward, his cockhead slipping past your lips and forcing its way into your mouth.

You gag again, your eyes watering as he hits the back of your throat.

You try to relax, to open up, but it's hard. His cock is so fucking big, and the taste of him, the smell of him, it's all so overwhelming.

Thomas growls, his grip on your hair tightening even further. "You feel so fucking good Love," he says through gritted teeth, his hips moving faster, fucking your face with more force.

You gag again, your mouth filled with his cock, your eyes watering as you try to breathe through your nose. Your hands grip his thighs, your nails digging into his flesh as you try to pull back, but Thomas holds you firmly in place.

You can feel it throbbing in your mouth, the veins pulsing with his heartbeat. The taste of him is salty and bitter, the scent of his sweat and arousal filling your nostrils. Both nauseating and arousing at the same time. You can't breathe, can't think, as he fucks your face with efficiency.

"Open that throat for me, Love," he groans, his voice ragged with desire. "Take it all, like a good girl."

His words send a jolt of humiliation and arousal through you which, again, was strange and confusing to you. Despite yourself, you feel a twinge of desire, a heat building between your legs.

Thomas groans, a low, animal sound that vibrates through his chest. "Almost there, Love," he says, and you have no idea what he means by that

. You're dizzy, lightheaded from being on your knees for so long with his cock in your mouth. You feel like your jaw is going to dislocate as he thrusts in and out, his cock filling your mouth completely.

He pushes in deeper, his cockhead hitting the back of your throat, forcing you to take him in even further. You try to keep your teeth from grazing him, but it's hard to control anything when you can barely breathe.

Thomas's hips stutter, his cockhead pulsing in your throat, and you are unsure what is going on until he announces his impending climax.

"I am going to cum in your sweet little mouth now and I want you to swallow every last drop of it, eh" he rasps out, his voice thick with lust and excitement.

You panic, your body tensing, still unsure what to expect, but there's no escape as he grips your hair, holding you in place as he thrusts into your mouth one last time, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he releases his load.

You gag in surprise as the hot, salty taste of him fills your mouth, coating your tongue and throat. He groans, his body shuddering as he empties himself into you, his hips jerking with each spurt.

"Swallow it, Love" he growls, his grip on your hair tightening painfully. "Every fucking drop."

You try to pull back, the taste of him overwhelming, but his grip is unyielding. You gag again, his cum and saliva splattering around your lips as you struggle to swallow his release. It is simply too much.

"Good girl," Thomas praises you anyway, his voice still thick with lust.

He pulls out, his cock gleaming with your saliva and his cum. He runs a hand through your hair, tucking a strand behind your ear. His cum was running down your chin, dripping onto your chest and even on to his shoe, and you can taste the bitter, salty tang of him on your tongue.

Using his finger, he scoops up the cum that had dripped out of your mouth and on to your chin and feeds it to you, forcing you to swallow every last drop. You whimper, your stomach churning at the taste, but you obey, knowing better than to displease him.

"That's it," Thomas praises again, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and lust. He tucks himself back into his pants, his cock only semi-hard now.

You look down at your chest, at his release on your skin, and then at his shiny dress shoes, now with cum splattered on them too. You feel a wave of shame wash over you, your cheeks burning with humiliation.

"I... I’m sorry," you stammer, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't be Love. You did well," he says as you still sat on the plush carpet, your knees aching from the hard floor, your mouth still tasting like him. "But I do need you to clean up the mess you made, eh," he then ads, as if you had been careless, rather than struggling to perform a task you had never done before.

"Yes, sir," you whisper, your voice trembling as you reached up to wipe off the cum from your chest first with your bare hand and Thomas watches you, his expression unreadable.

"Lick it off your hand, go on," he commands, and you hesitate for a moment before bringing your hand to your mouth and licking off his cum, your stomach again.

"That's a good girl,” he says, his voice a low purr. "Now, clean my shoe with your tongue."

You look down at the shiny leather and a wave of humiliation washes over you. But you know better than to disobey, so you lean forward, extending your tongue, and begin to lick the cum off his shoe.

Thomas watches you, his eyes dark with satisfaction. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. "Lick every last drop."

You continue, your cheeks burning with shame, your mouth tasting like him, feeling like you are nothing more than a slave to his desires.

The taste of him is bitter and salty, a stark reminder of what you are to him, of the role you must play in his life.

As you finish cleaning his shoe, you sit back on your heels, your body shaking with exhaustion and humiliation. Thomas watches you, his eyes roaming your body, assessing you like a piece of art.

Thomas looks down at you, his expression softening. "Good girl," he murmurs, his voice gentle. "Now, go clean yourself up and get some rest, eh?" he says, his voice suddenly softer, as he helps you to your feet.

You nod, your body still shaking slightly from the ordeal. He strokes your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle, almost comforting.

"You did well tonight, Love. Very well," he praises you once more and, somehow, this made you proud.

You make your way back to your room, your body aching and your mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. You strip off your clothes, your body still sticky from his seed, and step into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over you.

You scrub yourself clean, trying to wash away the taste and smell of him, but it lingers, a constant reminder of what just happened.

Your body aches, and your knees are bruised from the hard floor.

You step out of the shower, wrapping yourself in a thick, plush robe that hangs on the back of the door but, even despite the humiliation you feel, there is something else that lingers, something that you can't quite put your finger on. A sense of accomplishment perhaps, or maybe it's just the exhaustion that weighs heavily on your body.

You collapse onto the bed, the cool sheets a welcome relief to your tender skin. You pull the covers up, burying yourself in the softness, trying to block out the memories of the night. But sleep eludes you, your mind racing with thoughts of Thomas and the things he made you do.

You toss and turn, the events of the night replaying in your head like a gruesome movie. The way he touched you, the way he tasted, the way he smelled. The way he made you feel. A mix of fear, humiliation, and whatever else this was. Desire or arousal perhaps?

You were confused and conflicted by the mix of emotions swirling within you but, after a little while, you finally managed to fall into a fitful sleep, your dreams haunted by the events of the night.

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