#mentioned tommy shelby

[saintsir4n]

HOLD ON

where tommy cannot believe he has a daughter after returning from the war.

WARNINGS: mentions of the war, ptsd

——

1919

TOMMY stared down at the little girl who lay asleep in bed.

His little girl.

His blue gaze was unwavering in the depth of night. He hadn’t slept. He didn’t sleep. Even when the moonlight poured into his small room and smothered his daughter. Since returning from the war he studied her. Little Inara Shelby. The child whom he could not hold when she was born, or care for in her early years.

She was four years old.

Bloody four and only now he was around her, raising her as he promised Eden before the war. The war they all thought would not last. Just until Christmas, we’ll be back then. But they weren't and he could not forgive himself for the years that passed.

“Tom?” Eden’s voice crept into the room with the opening door. Tommy let out a hum of acknowledgement. The Shelby woman smiled fondly after shutting the door behind her. She wore her house coat as she took in the lovely sight. Father and daughter. “I used to do this. I still do,” she whispered. “She twitches in her sleep y’know? Like you do.”

Like I did, he wanted to say, as did she.

When he slept, he dreamt and there were never the nicest of dreams. He woke up yelling, shouting for the vivid visions to stop. It scared Eden.

And so he tried not to sleep, he poured his energy into anything else.

His daughter was one of those things.

“I never got to hold her,” he uttered as the silence passed.

Eden shuffled closer, “What?”

“When… as a baby. Was she heavy?” He didn’t look up to his wife when he asked. Instead, his mind tossed around various weights whilst he studied his daughter.

She was not a small child, but she wasn’t big either.

A fond smile tugged at Eden’s lips, before she spoke, “The heaviest, almost broke my arms off.”

“Ada was a heavy baby,” Tommy recalled, inhaling when he felt her nimble hand settle on his shoulder.

“Guess that made you strong,” she gently rubbed at his exposed skin.

“No. I didn’t know what strong was until I fought.”

“There are different types of strong love. You had to endure a type that no one should.” She trod carefully with her words. “Now you’re back.” Not all of you. “Now you get to hold your daughter.”

Tommy swallowed harshly, “I won’t stop.”

“I know.”

“No, Edie.” Tommy finally turned his head, adjusting his gaze to meet his wife’s worrisome one. Her soft grasp left his shoulder and reached to link with his callous hands. “I’ll make sure we make it out of here. Be the bright light through this fuckin’ bleakness eh?”

“I know Tommy. Shining through the fog of this murky city right?” Eden thoughtfully recalled the kind words her best friend once wrote. She carried them always. “With your razor blades and all.”

Still speaking quietly he replied with purpose, “If they protect who I love, then that’s all that matters.”

That’s all that will ever matter.

——

[graveyard---dolly]

If you participated in the mrkdvidal1989-led mob harrasment against Grace fans/Grace x Tommy fans, you are awful and I hope you never forget what you did. I know how many of you were participants.

Incredible how many of you, his loyal fans and asslickers, ran away like cowards as soon as he was exposed for his shit, washing your hands of it and currently going about your lives as normal and pretending that nothing happened. His hatred against Grace, Annabelle Wallis and their fans was not normal and you know it. His way of referring to her and the actress was extremely frightening and denigrating, bordering on a fine line between criticism and pure misogyny. But hey, you all have the audacity to complain about the show's misogyny against the female characters, no?

No matter how blinded or manipulated you have been, the moment you get involved in something that already affects others makes you part of the problem. Hell, he even sent harassing messages to them.

Harrasment will never be a "small issue." It's because of individuals like you and that bastard that many innocent people have committed suicide.

Grace fans and Tommy x Grace fans, you are valid and I am very sorry that you have had a horrible time at the hands of these specimens.

[thomashelbyswife]

Hey M, I adored your little imagine about Tommy being relaxed by Mrs. Shelby's scent. Now I'm curious to know what Mrs. Shelby thinks of Tommy's aroma? What do you reckon he smells like? Does she encourage him to wear cologne, etc? I've always struggled to describe this bit of his appearance in my fics so I'd love to hear all your thoughts!!

Hello, Lee! I’m glad that you adored it, such a wonderful question! I’m a huge sucker for scents and aromas & it’s kinda my love language too! 🤭 So here we go. Well a little backstory i believe that Tommy would already have a good hygiene out of all the brothers to begin with even though the times would’ve been rough on him but he’d try his best. I think he’d fancy smelling posh & be clean.

I, imagine Mrs. Shelby would find Tommy's scent to be a spicy rugged with the mix of intense smoke, whiskey, and a hint of leather, wood, ambery & perhaps a subtle hint of bay rum or sandalwood from his aftershave along with a subtle tang of metal from his guns & gunpowder — the faint scent that may linger on his coat with the whiskey soaked aroma in the essence of his skin that would make her drown deeper in love with him.

His scent to her is comforting and endearing which makes her feel safe and to think she’d be very fond for the smell of smoke on his clothes and throughout the years the smell of smoke on Tommy's clothes has become a sensory trigger that evokes a deep emotional and physical response in Mrs. Shelby. Whenever she catches a whiff of that familiar scent, it instantly transports her back to moments of passion, intimacy, and connection with Tommy. (I died while writing this omg)

When it comes to her recommending or encouraging a cologne to him, he doesn’t needs it that much cause he smells extravagant all the time even though Tommy might not be the type to use it often, but when he does, a small amount makes a big impact, trust me. Once Tommy puts on his cologne, the scent spreads everywhere and lingers without fading quickly. It's that kind of effortless charm that doesn't need to shout for attention.

However, on special occasions or when the need arises, Mrs. Shelby might suggest a subtle, sophisticated cologne to enhance his presence without compromising his essence. This way, he can maintain his signature scent while adding a touch of refinement. I reckon she’d also for god’s sake sneakily rub in a nice cream on him — his hands and even his face, And I think he won’t complain and love it cause it would smell like her. Overall she’d be all captivated by his raw scent & those masculine undertones! With a hint of his subtle cologne everywhere! 🥴

[sabotage-on-mercury]

pick your fave of my faves

thank you so much for the tag @roses-and-nightingales 💖

challenge: make a poll with five of your all time favorite characters, and then tag five people to do the same.

(Aziraphale & Crowley and The Doctor are out of competition 🤭)

no pressure tagging: @rainbowcrowley @weasleywrinkles @fearandhatred @seven-stars-in-his-palm @captainblou

[aneurinallday]

The Grey Man

Chapter 1: Lock and Key

It only took a second. He caught Holford in mid-stride from behind, clapping a leather-gloved hand over the doctor’s mouth, silencing him instantly. There was no struggle - as soon as Holford felt the hand, and the muzzle of a gun press against his temple, he became perfectly silent and still. His right hand was still clutching his coat and hat (which he hadn’t donned due to the mild weather) but his left hand (which had been reaching for his car’s door) wavered in the air, fingers open in surrender, palm up to show that he was unarmed.

Their two bodies pressed together, Holford’s head pinned against Tommy’s shoulder, trapping him on the spot. He could feel Tommy’s breath on his cheek.

After a pause, during which he determined that Holford wasn’t going to struggle or scream, Tommy began to speak softly in the doctor’s ear.

“How was the wedding in Berlin? I hear Chancellor Hitler himself was the best man.”

He glanced down at Holford’s face - or what he could see of it from this angle - to check his expression. The fear in his green eyes as he recognised the voice and realised whose hand held the gun.

“You’ve been my doctor now for three years,” Tommy continued, scanning the courtyard vigilantly. “Never knew you were so well-connected. Oh, and the doctor at St Thomas’s who you sent me to for the second opinion, second set of X-rays? A maid of honour at the same wedding. All so very well-fսcking-connected.”

His voice was a low whisper, deceptively calm, yet hiding a deep well of seething fury underneath. The doctor didn’t dare move or make a sound, but his breathing - muffled by Tommy’s black leather glove - had become shaky.

“On your knees, Holford.”

Tommy removed his hand from over Holford’s mouth, and pushed the muzzle of his gun down on the doctor’s shoulder, forcing him to his knees. Holford turned as he descended, dropping his coat and hat on the ground at his side, until he was kneeling at Tommy’s feet. He found himself staring up the barrel of a handgun, and above it, Tommy’s cold gaze shaded by the low brim of his flat-cap.

“I'm guessing you people all decided that the only person who could ever kill Thomas Shelby is Thomas Shelby himself. You made me believe death was coming. Let my nature do the rest, eh?”

The doctor was pale and trembling, his eyes wide. His tongue ventured out to moisten his lips, which felt suddenly dry. He was trying his best to maintain his composure, his gentlemanly comportment.

“You may not have tuberculoma, Mister Shelby,” he said quietly, “but you are sick. I know you. You are sick with guilt. Sick of death at your own hand. Sick of who you were. You are no longer the kind of man who would kill another man in cold blood.”

Tommy listened, waiting patiently while Holford babbled - perhaps willing to give him a chance to explain himself, or perhaps merely curious to see what excuses he would come up with. Holford licked his lips again, and tried a different tact.

“T-Tommy,” he said, hoping that by using his nickname, he would stir any kind of empathy, any glimmer of connection. The attempt wasn’t lost on Tommy, who remained unmoved, his face betraying nothing. “You have been on a journey, from the back-streets to the corridors of power. You can’t go back.” The faintest ghost of a smile warmed his face - a hopeful smile. “You are a different man. The gun no longer belongs in your hand.”

Tommy turned off the safety on his gun. Amusement curled his lips.

“Oh, but I am back,” he said, “Back from under the ground.”

Tears started to well in Holford’s eyes and roll down his cheeks, as he stared desperately up at the man holding him at gunpoint. Realising that all his words had failed. Realising that he was going to die here, kneeling on the hard cobblestones.

Then the clock struck the eleventh hour, and Tommy changed his mind.

“Give me your neck-tie.”

Holford hesitated for a second, confused. Then he obeyed, his cold fingers fumbling at his neck. He removed the chequered grey tie, and wordlessly handed it over. Tommy pulled a cloth bag from his pocket, unfurled it with a shake, and put it over Holford’s head.

“Don’t fucking move, now,” Tommy warned as he tucked his gun back inside his jacket. That was Holford’s only chance to fight back, but he didn’t take it, blinded as he was by the fabric. Using the neck-tie, Tommy bound Holford’s wrists together behind his back, then pulled him to his feet. He bundled Holford into the passenger’s side of the car, then got into the driver’s seat. The key was already in the ignition. Tommy started the car and began to drive.

He glanced at the doctor in the passenger’s seat. Even though his face was hidden beneath the bag, Holford was visibly petrified - shaking, his knees pressed together to sub-consciously shield himself, his feet tucked away under the car-seat. With every shaky exhalation, the cloth covering his face fluttered slightly.

Doctor Michael Holford. The handsome, elegant physician with the impeccable manners and the soothing bedside manner. With his fashionably slicked hair, neat three-piece suits, and refined bearing, he was every inch a respectable gentleman. Even Tommy couldn’t help but notice his charms. Sometimes, when the doctor leaned in close to check his pulse or listen to his lungs, Tommy was caught by his large eyes. They were a beautiful, soft green with a subtle, almost imperceptible touch of hazel. They made Tommy think of sun-dappled foliage and peaceful summers.

But the charm was all a façade. In private, he was an irritable and foul-mouthed bully who snapped at his servants because they were beneath him. It all seemed so obvious, in hindsight. His condescending tone, his rehearsed platitudes, his hollow expressions of fake sympathy. Tommy wondered why he hadn’t noticed it sooner. His black leather gloves creaked as he gripped the steering-wheel tightly.

“Whose idea was it?” Tommy asked, “The false diagnosis. The tuberculoma. My suicide. Was it your idea or Mosley’s?”

There was a pause as Holford considered lying.

“Mine,” he admitted. “Other methods hadn’t worked, and Mosley asked me for an alternative. Being your doctor, I was in a position to…”

“To do Mosley’s dirty work? It makes sense he wouldn’t stain his own hands. He was willing to endanger your life and reputation, but not his own.”

Holford didn’t answer.

“And his entire plan - his grand scheme to drive me to despair, to shut down my operations, to trick me into blowing my brains out for fear of some phantom tumour - it all hinged on you. He couldn’t have done it without you, without your medical knowledge, without your doctor’s license. And you were happy to be of service.”

“I did what I thought was necessary, at the time.”

“Well, I appreciate your honesty.”

He stopped Holford’s car at the foot of a hill, parking it among trees where it was less likely to be spotted, and turned off the ignition. The engine died, leaving the two men sitting in silence. Tommy stared up at the grassy hill, the green ridge beyond which he’d made camp. Only a little further to go.

“Let me go, Mister Shelby,” Holford pleaded, his voice muffled behind the cloth. “It’s not too late. I can still make it to my next appointment. I can tell them I had car trouble - apologise for being late. Nobody needs to know anything. It would be as if nothing had ever happened.”

“And after your little appointment, you’ll run straight to Mosley, aye? Tell him that Thomas Shelby survived, and that he’s coming for all of you?”

“I won’t tell anybody. I’ll cause no further trouble. You have my word.”

“The word of a man who lied to my face and told me I was dying,” Tommy scoffed.

He got out of the car, and strode around to the other side. Opening the passenger door, he yanked Holford out by the arm. Holford must’ve assumed the worst - that he was about to be shot and dumped in a ditch - because he panicked and abruptly blurted out:

“Don’t kill me.”

“Start walking,” Tommy ordered.

Abandoning the car, he half-led half-dragged Holford up the hill - gripping the doctor’s arm with one hand, while his other hand held the gun ready. Unable to see, and off-balance because of his bound arms, Holford stumbled through the grass.

They reached the high field overlooking Holford’s estate, atop which the black wagon stood and the white horse grazed. The wagon where Tommy had spent the past month living in isolation, waiting for his non-existent tumour to do its work, waiting for death to come.

Unbeknownst to him, Tommy was just in time. If he’d returned to the wagon the same way he’d left it - on foot - he would’ve been too late. Holford’s obedient workman would’ve already doused the wagon with petrol and set it ablaze. But Holford’s car had given Tommy a headstart; the workman wouldn’t be here for another ten or fifteen minutes.

“Where are we?” Holford demanded.

Tommy didn’t answer. He led Holford up the five wooden steps, and shoved him into the back of the wagon, pushing him down onto the cushioned bunk.

“You’re about to see the consequences of your actions, Doctor Holford.”

Without waiting for a reply, Tommy exited the black wagon. He shut and locked the double-doors behind him, and put the key in his pocket. He glanced down at the trees, the little lake, the garden, the manor-house. He could even see the gravel driveway and the cobbled courtyard, the guest-houses and the servants’ quarters. The trappings of a wealthy and privileged life. Holford deserved none of it.

Tommy approached his horse and stroked her white head, murmuring softly. She followed him obediently back to the wagon, to which he hitched her.

And then onwards he drove, with the treacherous doctor in his custody. To any eyes that might happen to fall upon them, he was simply another insignificant Romani, one of many who roamed the British countryside. Nobody would guess that he was the famous crime lord Thomas Shelby, OBE and MP, and that he had just kidnapped a man for revenge.

Chapter 2: Black Wagon

[slutforsilverfoxes]

You know it was today I realized Aaron Hottie Hotchner is played by THOMAS Gibson and Leroy Jethro Gibbs is played by THOMAS Mark Harmon… I may have a slight Thomas problem….

I SAY THIS ALL THE TIME !! If my future hubby isn’t named Thomas I simply don’t want him 😤

[mxpseudonym]

I always write Tommy very romantically, I think. I noticed this as I was reading some of my old published and unpublished fics. But I do that because I genuinely think Tommy is a romantic person. Even his ideas for the Peaky Blinders and the things he desires is romantic imo.

But especially with his romantic partners, I think if he feels understood to some degree or if he gets broken in like a horse (hence why I love a good contract marriage trope for him), then he'll have the space to be romantic. He just also happens to also have a multitude of other sins. lmao.

[divinekangaroo]

I'd love a Mrs Shelby Lives AU. She just shows up one day at Charlie's yard. It was her twin sister that no one knew about that they pulled from the canal, come to visit, and Mrs Shelby ran away because she was the one who pushed her sister in there.

[shelbysdevil]

[brokenstarrylights]

*Peaky Blinders in the middle of a dangerous vendetta scheme*

Tommy Shelby to literally anyone: Try my gin =)

Everybody else: ???

[tanalolo]

Is it weird that Lizzie is the only woman out of all the women he has been with (onscreen) with/to whom he has never spoken about her family??

Like with Grace, we see a bit of annoyance at her family wearing uniform and him being very particular that no one should embarass her in front of her family. With May, it literally begins and ends with her family. She speaks about her Dad being a horse trainer, they bond over her dead husband (and his apparent dead love for Grace) and it even ends with him accusing her of always judging him and wanting him to change like "your people". Tatiana and he literally conspire against her family and he even meets them and has views about them (I trust Isabella's judgement). They speak a lot about her family, how fucking mad the Russians are and how her uncle advised her to seduce him. He even speaks about Jessie's lover (and also her broken family) and surprisingly speaks about his family too. But this is absent with Lizzie.

Like the only time her family is mentioned, is by John...never by Tommy in spite of the fact that this 2 have been together for the longest and also prolly he knows her the most cuz they literally lived in the same locality... What does it say about them? About her? Honestly idk.

[dr-george-ordell]

You know that feeling of wanting to write a Peaky Blinder's and SCP Foundation crossover fic? That's what i'm feeling right now

[neo-grey]

i need moreeee 😭

timeless; thomas shelby

This idea has been plaguing my mind for days, I cannot get it out of my head. I’m not sure if I will make any more parts of this, it all depends on how I feel about it and if it is well received. The timeline of this is skewed on purpose, it’s also heavily based on Tommy’s time fighting during the war. Timeless by Taylor Swift was a huge inspiration.

Both you and Tommy became unlikely friends during childhood, only for you to realize you had always loved him. Tommy finds himself seeing you in a different light, only war being able to separate the two of you. (3.5k)

Thomas Shelby was the first and only boy you had ever loved.

It was 1902, Tommy was twelve years old. He played with your older brother, they went out into the street with the Shelby brothers and few other boys from the neighborhood and kicked a ball around. You were eight, trailing your brother Joseph at every chance you had.

When you met Tommy, it was because you had chased after your brother one August afternoon with the intention to join their game of kickball. The moment you approached the large group of prepubescent boys, Joseph looked absolutely mortified. Even though he was older than some of the boys, at fourteen, he still followed all of Tommy’s orders. This, you didn’t understand.

“Go home,” he leaned down to your level in gritted teeth.

“I just want to play, just one game,” you pleaded with him. “Please, Joey.”

“No,” he barked. “Y/N, you gotta get out of here.”

Feeling you face heat up, you were near tears and embarrassed in front of all of the older boys. Joseph would not let up, angry at you for trying to play with him and his friends.

“What the fuck d’she want?” Arthur bellowed towards your brother.

Peering over at him, you could tell that he was not very patient and was even older than Joseph. After Arthur had yelled, you turned back to go home. Hot tears spilled down your cheeks as you shuffled back to where you lived and went inside to play alone.

“Fuckin’ asshole is what you are,” Tommy shook his head a bit. “Game’s not fuckin’ hard or anythin’, Joe. She could have played.”

That was all they ever said again on the matter, your brother never brought it up to you that night and you never spoke of it to him. It wasn’t until later on that month that anyone had approached you about what happened that day in Small Heath.

You were sent out to pick up your mother’s cigarettes, dragging your feet along the dirt path with the coin in your hand. Every Wednesday, you made the same trek. Tommy Shelby came up on your right side as you walked one day, you saw a screwdriver sticking out of his pocket and nearly shuttered. The kids around the neighborhood spoke of him in hushed whispers, calling him a gypsy and saying he and his brothers carried razor blades around with them.

“You’re Joe’s sister, aren’t you?” He asked, peering over at you. “Tried to join in on a game a while back?”

“Yes,” you nodded. “I’m Y/N.”

He hummed in response, kicking dirt with his shoe as you both walked. He was much taller than you, though he was still quite narrow and scrawny. Truthfully, there was no denying that you had a little bit of a schoolgirl crush on him.

“Where’re you headed?” He finally spoke up.

“Grabbing my mum’s cigarettes,” you told him with a sigh. “She sends me out every week to pick some up.”

At the time, you had no clue why Tommy had followed you all the way to the shop and then walked you home. He never gave you any inclination either. Then, he did the same the next week. He came outside when you passed his house and you walked together. This occurred every week after the first.

Of course, you assumed this meant he liked you and this caused you to revel in the attention just a little. Tommy would talk to you about school and horses mostly, he was kind to you.

About six months after you and Tommy had developed this weekly routine, you mentioned something to your brother about it and he teased you about having a crush on Tommy. Making the mistake of saying he must’ve liked you back if he continued to walk along with you, Joseph was quite cruel in return.

“He doesn’t do it because he likes to,” Joseph laughed. “Father started pestering me to walk with you when he found out you were being picked on in school, bothered and such by the boys around. I started to give Tommy a bit of my allowance to walk with you so dad would finally get off my fucking back.”

You no longer walked to the shops on Wednesdays.

Tommy waited for you the next week, but you never left out front and began past his house. The week after, he did the same and you still did not come.

“Y/N!” Your mother’s voice came up the staircase on Thursday morning. “Come to the door.”

Tommy stood there in the walkway to your home, talking with your mother about something as you came down the steps. She left you to walk outside together and down the stairs into the street.

“You’re not getting your mum’s cigarettes anymore?” He asked you suddenly.

“No, I am,” you told him. “Just don’t want to walk with you anymore.”

He seemed taken aback by this, not used to the idea of you sticking your nose up at him and looking the other way when he tried to talk to you. Tommy knew you were smitten with him, he didn’t mind it. He thought you were nice enough, he liked to walk with you every week. He just didn’t see you the same way that you saw him, you were too young and too curious about certain things.

“Why’s that?” He shot back a little annoyed.

“Joey told me that he’s been paying you to do it, to make sure nobody messes with me.”

“And?” Tommy asked. “Doesn’t really fuckin’ matter if you ask me, whether he’s payin’ me or not.”

This made you roll your eyes, shaking your head at him and leaning against the brick of one of the alleyways you walked down. Tommy was confused as to why this bothered you so much, truthfully it didn’t really matter about the money to him. It helped him to buy cigarettes, that was all. He didn’t mind walking along with you, though. He would’ve done it without the payout.

“It matters to me,” you told him. “I don’t need looking after or anything like that.”

Turning on your heel, you thought that you’d been able to get the last word. Little did you know, nobody but Tommy got the last word. He only realized you had decided to go out on Saturdays, rather than Wednesdays. He told Joseph that he wouldn’t be requiring payment anymore and you walked in silence for over a month before you spoke to him on your walks again.

His stubbornness irked you, leaving you infuriatingly mad at his inability to leave you alone. Your cheeks went hot when he came around, stomach in knots whenever he would say your name.

Over the years, you had tried to shake your feelings for Tommy. This was mostly due to the fact that you had grown attached in a way that allowed you to call him a friend. By the time you were eleven, Tommy had taught you how to ride his horse. He spent an entire summer working with you. He was fifteen and definitely had plenty of better things to do, but he spent hours upon hours in the grueling sun with you.

“Tommy,” you said, laying sprawled out on a patch of grass one afternoon when you were thirteen and he was seventeen. “D’you want to come ‘round to mine for supper tonight? Mum asked me to invite you over.”

The last bit was a lie, you truly just wanted Tommy to join you. He inhaled shortly before propping himself up on his hand and looking over at you.

“Can’t tonight, m’sorry,” he apologized to you.

“Why not?” You asked curiously, assuming he’d saying something about having to be with his brothers or Polly.

“I’ve actually asked a girl out,” he confessed to you. “I’m planning to take her out tonight.”

This was one of the few times Tommy discussed his love life with you. Your friendship mostly consisted of doing other things, less intrusive things. He still really saw you as a younger sister type of figure in a way. He thoroughly enjoyed your company, but there was no denying his attraction to the girls he saw in school.

Once, Tommy told you about Arthur bringing home a prostitute. He didn’t tell you why he did it, or what they did. Only laughed it off, unbeknownst to him that you really didn’t know what a prostitute was. Joseph had called them whores, but you lived a rather sheltered lifestyle and none of the older people around you ever spoke about such things in front of you.

Tommy took girls out, he’d had several girlfriends as you approached your later teenage years. Your friendship, however, never faltered. When you were seventeen years old, you remember going out riding with him and telling him how you wanted to make something of yourself beyond what Small Heath had to offer. Planning to become a schoolteacher, Tommy had always admired this about you.

“Don’t you want to be something other than all this?” You asked him, alluding to the fact that he was growing more and more responsible for the Peaky Blinders. “I mean, I just wondered if you ever had other dreams.”

“I’d like to work with horses,” he told you quietly, running his hands over the mare’s mane.

“Why don’t you?” You questioned him. “I know you feel some sense of responsibility over your family, I think it’s one of your best traits. Don’t you ever want to just—I don’t know, live a less tormenting life?”

Tommy played with the reins, looking at you and shrugging. This was all he’d ever known, and all he would ever know. There was no Birmingham without Tommy Shelby, you knew it as well as anyone. It still hurt, though. Knowing he was playing with fire every day, testing God, as your mother had called it.

Once Tommy had grown more involved in the gang, your parents no longer allowed him to come over to the house. They detested you seeing him at all, your brother most of all. He settled quickly, marrying a woman and starting a family.

Tommy realized he loved you when he was twenty two years old. He’d known you for ten years, having called you his best friend for a decade. You were eighteen years old and had just begun training to become a teacher, you were commuting frequently and saw Tommy less and less.

It was that Christmas when you’d introduced him to the man you had been courting, his name was Michael. When he shook the man’s hand, Tommy felt something inside of him shift. Suddenly, you were no longer that little girl with scuffed shoes and long pigtails. He saw a young woman with ambition and heart, but you were no longer holding out for Tommy like you had for nearly ten years.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Arthur came up and clapped Tommy on the back of the shoulder. “S’fucking Christmas and you’re really bringing my spirits down.”

Tommy said nothing, downing more whiskey as he watched Michael spin you around in a dance. You were in a fit of laughter, smiling at him adoringly.

“Be serious, brother,” Arthur sighed, drunk and wondering how Tommy could truly be as he was. “You can’t tell me that you’re sitting over here in the corner drinking away your sorrows because she’s brought along some bloke.”

“Fuck off, won’t you?” Tommy shot him a look.

“Unbelievable,” Arthur walked away laughing.

It was completely and utterly unbelievable, not only to Arthur, but to Tommy as well. He’d spent years with you, practically praying that you would find someone, anyone to avert your feelings too. As you grew older, you also were able to hide your feelings and emotions better in Tommy’s case.

He watched you the entire night, nodding a farewell when he noticed you trying to approach him. He had no intention of speaking to Michael again, for fear that he may be physically ill.

His hope that it was a passing courtship died with what looked to be your close friendship. The two of you hardly saw each other anymore, animosity forming between you after the night of the Christmas party.

Months later, Tommy found himself at your apartment door when Ada had told him that you mentioned thinking Michael was planning to propose. He left to see you after midnight, walking the entire distance to where you lived and putting himself at your front door well past one in the morning.

“Y/N,” he called out as he knocked. “It’s Tommy.”

Opening the door, you were only left in your nightdress. Your hair was down completely, something Tommy had not seen since you were some years younger. He could not help but to notice the sheer material of the fabric, the buds of your nipples showing through.

“Tommy?” You yawned. “What’re you doing here?”

“I needed to talk to you,” he told you.

“Now? It’s the middle of the night.”

Ushering him in, you let him shut the door behind him and tried to rub the sleep out of your eyes. Tommy felt himself growing hard, looking at you in such a state.

“Y/N, don’t marry him,” Tommy blurted out in almost a whisper.

“What?” You looked at him, shocked. “What did you say?”

“Don’t marry him, don’t marry Michael.”

There was a stillness to the room, a silence that made you almost sick. His face was somehow stoic, but pleading at the same time. His eyes bored into your own, as if they were making it impossible to get a word out.

“He is a good man, Tommy,” you said. “He wants to take care of me, to make me happy.”

“With plenty of money and security, with a practical occupation and a good legacy to leave your children?” Tommy asked, sarcasm incredibly evident.

“Yes, Tommy. Fuck, I mean is that what you want me to say? That he can give me a good life? Why should it matter if he’s got money?”

“It shouldn’t, not if you love him,” Tommy told you. “Do you?”

It felt as if you were eight years old again, confronting Tommy about why he was walking with you in the first place. He looked at you with such yearning, such longing. It was as if he was begging you not to say yes, pleading with you not to have already devoted your heart to this man.

There was only one truth of the matter. Thomas Shelby was the only man that you had ever loved.

“Tommy, I have only ever loved you since I was eight years old,” you whispered.

As if unable to hold back any longer, Tommy embraced you fully and brought you into his arms. He kissed you furiously, without any doubt or question that you were meant for him. He let his hands run up and down your back and pulled you into his body.

Before you gave into your urge to let him rip your sheer nightdress off of you, you pulled away with swollen lips and eyes full of desire. This was not right, not until you spoke to Michael. Regardless of how you felt for Tommy, you could not do this to Michael.

“Not yet,” you whispered. “I gave a man my word, I need to speak to him before I can go any further here.”

Tommy respected your choice, he knew you wouldn’t want disloyalty on your conscience. He just nodded his head and placed a hand on your cheek gently, it was in these moments that he forgot about everything else.

Michael didn’t take the news very well at all, his ego was bruised and he pleaded for you to reconsider. He told you how deeply he loved you and how you had led him on, making him believe that you two would have a life together. He was right, you had encouraged him in all of his dreams of your future and you had done it without ever considering how it may end. It was selfish.

It took you weeks before you agreed to see Tommy again after Michael had left you feeling so guilty. Nights of tireless sleep, you would look up at the sky and pray to god that you were making the right decisions.

Over a year into your training, you would soon be able to do what you’d always dreamt of. Dark times approached, though. There were ghosts of whispers at every street corner, they spoke of war so feverishly. It was as if death was due to knock at the doors of families, stripping women of their husbands and children of their fathers.

The thought of this had left Tommy quite stoic most of the time, he held a monotonous view on the entire matter. Every time you had brought it up to him, he told you how he would be expected to fight on behalf of his country if it came down to it.

And so he did, when it came down to it and Britain had joined the War—The Shelby brothers and hundreds of other men in Small Heath joined as well.

“Tommy,” I sniffled as I watched him from across his bedroom pack a small bag of things. “I need you to promise me that you’ll come home, that you won’t die out there. They’re saying things about trench warfare, it’s all really terrifying—”

Tommy crossed the room and took your face in his hands, kissing you hard on the lips, as if it was the last time he would ever do so. A piece of you wondered if he believed that he would die out there.

“Please come home,” you breathed.

“I will come home,” he kissed you again. “I promise you.”

You planned to hold him to this promise. Having waited ten years for Tommy Shelby, you would wait however long more so long as he would come home to you.

It took two months before his first letter would come after you watched him depart on that large ship. Long months of kneeling at the foot of your bed, begging god not to take Tommy. Everything that was being said about the war was absolutely tragic, soldiers being blown to pieces or rotting below the earth in the trenches.

My Dearest Y/N,

I wish I was able to write to you sooner, I cannot say where I am for the risk of interception. Just know that I have never been in such conditions in my life, I spend my days underground. I have taken the role of a tunneler. Trench warfare has not been good to any of us, I find myself fantasizing of the end of this long hell.

I stare at your picture every night before I shut my eyes, dreaming of what it would be like beside you. There is no greater sorrow to me than your absence from my life at this point in time. I can only hope that it will not be for long.

Not long ago, myself and a group of men were gassed. I watched a fellow soldier go blind for nearly three days before he finally came out of it, only with some permanent damage. There are times when I have thought to myself, ‘Perhaps if I was hit, it would not be so bad. Perhaps even death is better than fighting in this war’.

Then I think of you. I think of the promises I made to you before I left to fight in this god awful war. I cannot understand how men are expected to live like this, nor how we will continue on. I was up to my knees in water last week, the trenches dark and desolate as we waited for the storm to pass. There is so much waiting these days.

I look forward to your letter.

With all of my love,

Tommy Shelby

[aneurinallday]

The Grey Man

Chapter 9: The Way Home

Sunlight was streaming through cracks in the wagon’s curtains, dust motes slow-dancing in the air, when Tommy awoke. He found himself still sitting in the bunk, leaning against the wall, his neck aching from the unnatural angle. The doctor was fast asleep at his side. In the light of day, the bruises from Arthur’s knuckles had almost faded, leaving behind only a subtle yellow-brown tint; but his face looked pale and fragile.

It was impossible not to pity him. But he was still the enemy, and Tommy had still fallen asleep beside him.

Fuck, Tommy thought. He wasn’t irritated at the doctor, but at himself. Yesterday’s escape attempt had taught him the consequences of lowering his guard, yet he’d done it again. Just because Holford was weak didn’t mean he could be trusted.

Tommy rose, trying not to disturb Holford, and got dressed. As he straightened his cuffs in front of the mirror, he saw the red mark on his head from the candlestick, and the welt on his neck from the curtain-cord. He sighed. What the fuck are you doing here, Tom?

The fire had burned out. He lit the hearth again, tidied up last night’s mess, and took stock of what supplies he had. With water and canned milk and rolled oats, he started to make porridge in the iron pot.

He felt eyes on him, and turned to see that Holford was awake; the smell of cooking and the clatter of the ladle against the sides of the pot had drawn him from his sleep.

“Morning,” said Tommy.

The doctor didn’t reply. His green eyes followed Tommy nervously - no longer dazed and unfocused, but clear and apprehensive. In the cold light of day, now that he’d had a good night’s sleep, a horrible clarity had set it, and the events of the previous day seemed so much worse.

He’d attacked Tommy, almost killed him, escaped, discovered that his own people wanted him silenced, barely survived their brutal torture, and now he was back in Tommy’s hands. He’d gone out of the frying pan, into the fire, and then back into the frying pan. And to top it all off, he’d cried and pissed himself in front of Tommy, as if he hadn’t been humiliated enough already.

“It’s alright,” said Tommy, as if reading his thoughts. Setting the ladle aside and leaving the porridge to gently simmer, he picked up his medical kit. “Those bandages will need changing by now.”

Wincing, Holford slowly sat up. He started to push the blanket away, then realised he was naked and pulled it back up.

“My clothes?” he asked hoarsely.

“Ruined. I got rid of them. You can have something of mine.” Tommy sat beside him. “Let’s take a look at that arm.”

In a way that Holford couldn’t quite put his finger on, Tommy’s tone was different. Still cold and reserved, but the ever-present sardonic edge was gone. Seeing Holford reduced to such a state had disarmed him.

Tommy started to unwind the bandages around the doctor’s left arm, a little blood leaking out as he did so. Holford watched anxiously. As the gauze peeled away layer by layer, he remembered the feel of the rough asphalt underneath him, the knife’s edge, the invasive touch violating his dignity. Then he remembered shadows cast by firelight, and the taste of whiskey, and - fuck. He’d offered himself to Tommy.

Holford squeezed his eyes shut, took deep breath after deep breath, trying to suppress the memories. Tommy noticed his reaction, but said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” said the doctor, “About yesterday and about…last night…”

“It’s done. Pointless dwelling on it.” Tommy changed the dressings, then washed his hands and returned to his cooking. The porridge was done; he ladled some into a bowl, and handed it to Holford along with a spoon. “Eat it while it’s hot.”

“Thank you.”

As the steam rose from the bowl to greet him, Holford’s forgotten appetite came flooding back and he realised just how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten a hot meal in a fortnight. His sore mouth curled painfully around the spoon, conscious of re-opening the old cut in his lip. There was something sweet mixed into it - honey? Each spoonful soothed his throat, which was still raw from screaming.

“You know how to cook?” he remarked.

“You don’t?”

“...I suppose not.”

“Growing up, I spent a lot of time on boats and in caravans. Eating what I caught or gathered. When I wasn’t, I lived in a little flat in Small Heath. I cooked my own breakfast and my own supper. I didn’t always live in a grand house with servants, like you.”

Tommy put on his holster and coat. His cap had fallen on the floor during yesterday’s struggle; he picked it up.

“I’m going to take a look around. See if I can bring back some game for supper.”

“The lock’s broken,” Holford said quietly. “What’s to stop me from running away?”

“Well, Mosley, for a start. And those rain-clouds, if you don’t want to get soaked.”

Without waiting for a reply, Tommy left, glad to be out in the open fields and away from Holford’s presence - from the thought of Holford kissing his hand, and of the doctor’s naked skin. As he went, he removed the razor blade from the brim of his cap, threw it away into the grass where he would never find it again, and put the cap on.

The wagon doors were open, but he didn’t care. They both knew Holford wasn’t going anywhere.

And so it was the next day, and the next, and for more days than they cared to count. They fell into a routine: check the injuries, wash the arm, change the gauze. Breakfast, tea, supper. Tommy fetched water at dawn and hunted at dusk. Washed clothes in the stream and hung them up to dry.

The missing skin on Holford’s arm was growing back one fraction of a layer at a time, starting at the edges and working its way towards the centre, the raw red turning to deep pink. Tommy never brought up what had happened - forcing Holford to relive it would’ve been cruel - but inwardly he gave thanks for Pascoe’s precision. The bastard’s skill with a knife had ensured a shallow and even cut, with no damage to the muscles or fat underneath.

The days turned into each other. Every now and then, they would move to a different camp, a different field, a different forest…It didn’t matter. They were all the same to Holford. He didn’t ask where they were headed, nor did he particularly care. Sometimes Tommy blindfolded him, but he didn’t care about that either - he had no intention of trying to escape again.

His body was healing, but something inside the doctor remained broken. Before, he’d used to explore the wagon, pacing restlessly to and fro. He’d read Richard III cover-to-cover until he'd practically memorised it. He’d tried to engage Tommy in conversation, desperate to create a connection. Now he just lay silent, facing the wall.

He no longer pleaded for release, because there was no point. Even if he escaped Thomas Shelby, where would he go? Mosley wanted him silenced by any means possible. Going to the police would only reveal his own role in the conspiracy. Even if he was spared prison, he would lose his license and his reputation. There was no life for him outside this wagon any more. He’d given up.

If Tommy was troubled by his change in mood, he didn’t remark upon it. Perhaps he didn’t want to re-open wounds that were still so fresh, knowing that Holford already spent every waking moment thinking of Pascoe’s assault and Mosley’s abuse. Or perhaps he just didn’t care.

Chapter 10: Wild Mint

[call-sign-shark]

Of Bending and Breaking || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Always being the one who cares for others comes with a price: you break down, but the most unexpected person is here for you: Tommy, the man you were forced to marry.

Words: 2,3k

TW: Hurt/Comfort, very tiny mention of past sexual assault, no proofreading 'cause it comes from clearing my drafts.

Notes: Aunt Isabella's is a tribute to my own aunt Isabelle who, unfortunately, died because of cancer a few years ago.

It all started with Polly shaking Tommy like a tree, her thin hands firmly grabbing his nephew’s broad shoulders: “You can’t keep sabotaging yourself like this, Tom.” These were the words that left her quivering lips as she dragged his staggering frame to the bathroom and pushed his face into the bathtub right under the tap. When the freezing water splashed all over his neck, Tommy opened his blank eyes wide and inhaled sharply, as if he had suddenly come back to life. Since Grace’s awful death, the gangster was the shadow of his former self. When he wasn’t waging a senseless war with Father Hughes and the Italian, or when he wasn’t keeping his buzzing mind busy with work, Tommy usually numbed himself with a deadly combination of whisky and opium until his deep-seated pain became bearable. It was the night he almost overdosed that Polly decided to take charge of his nephew and found him a new wife, in the hope of soothing his nephew’s mind and finding a mother figure for poor little Charlie. The idea had obviously sent Tommy in a fit of anger but Polly Gray couldn’t care less.

Regarding your own situation, it was not the opium nor the loss of a dear lover that had led you to Birmingham’s most dangerous man but rather the bump in your belly. Aunt Isabella had understood what you were suffering from the moment you had stormed out of the vardo to throw up your breakfast in the nearest bush. The tall and lean woman, whose light brown and curly mane danced in the cold autumn wind, had looked at you right in the eyes and raised one of her thin eyebrows. If there was something pleasant with her, it was that words weren’t necessary.

Yet, later she encountered Polly, with whom she had been a great friend since childhood, and explained that a powerful American man had forced his seeds in you during his stay in England. Not willing to go through the traumatic experience of aborting, Isabella only saw one solution to your problem: you needed a husband who could protect you and your future baby from the evil man with his scarred lip. A wedding would be your salvation. At the realization of what Aunt Isabella had planned for you, you tried to run away from the camp in the middle of the night but she knew you too well and soon caught you, her sly hand firmly grabbing your wrist: “Y/N! It’s for your sake! He’s rich, he needs a wife and he is feared! You’ll be safe with him, don’t you understand?” She explained, cupping your face with her long fingers adorned with claws painted in red and far too many rings. “I don’t need a man to protect me! I don’t need anyone. He’s older and he’s a criminal! Who’s going to protect me from him eh? Have you think ‘bout that?” You cried, the soft light of the sunrise turning your tears into liquid gold.

But still, you wedded him and what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life turned out to be a dull event during which you dissociated the whole time. The only memories you had in mind were two piercing and frightening turquoise eyes staring right at your soul and soft whiskey-tasting lips stealing a quick peck from your cherry lips. A kiss devoid of any form of affection. And then, the groom left.

From what Aunt Isabella told you, your husband had spent most of the celebrations with his brothers, drinking and taking bets outside of Arrow House. Months had passed and still, you felt estranged to this place and its staff. The only moments your heart lightened were when Aunt Isabella visited you, or when Charlie spent time with you, otherwise you remained emotionally closed, trapped in your own mind. Overall you could not complain: You had a house far too big for you with plenty of workers willing to exhaust every one of your wishes. Charlie was a sweet boy, who loved you with all his heart even if you were well aware that you’ll never replace his mother. As for the Shelby clan, they were cordial with you without being really friendly either. And there was Tommy…

Cold and distant Tommy, who you only saw late at night when he discretely slipped under the bedsheet and turned his back to you without uttering a single word. Busy Tommy, whose replies remained concise and spoken with a quiet husky voice each time you asked him something — at least he talked to you a little bit. Trapped in a loveless marriage, that was what you were: Tommy was more a stranger, a mere gust of wind in your life, than the love of your life.

Still, the gangster stayed true to his words and he provided for everything, never refusing to give you money when you asked, and protecting you from the man who had taken your innocence. He even gifted you a wonderful stallion because he knew how much you missed riding. In exchange for his protection and riches, all you had to do was take care of Charlie and do your best to be there for your husband when his darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

You found out about the nightmares shortly after your wedding and quickly decided to do something about it. When he woke up screaming and drenched in sweat after tasting the tunnels’ dirt and Grace’s crimson blood in his troubled sleep, you always cradle him, your fingers losing themselves in his wet dark hair to pet his head gently. At first, you feared his reaction, expecting the infamous Tommy Shelby to push you and not-so-kindly ask you to keep your distance but, to your greatest surprise, he never did. Instead, he would bury his face in your cleavage, panting and trembling, and let you reassure him. Just like he let you bring dinner to him each time he drowned himself in paperwork and forgot to eat. He never commented on your cooking skills though, even if he always handed back empty plates.

The blood on his skin? You cleaned it.

The wounds of his flesh? You never failed to patched them up.

The hole in his heart? You tried to seal it off with caresses, soft kisses, and shoulder massages. Maybe one day he would slowly turn his iciness into affection. Little did you know that he needed it. And by it he needed you. Just like the whole family. How many times did you walk the streets of Birmingham at night, seeking for Arthur and then bringing him home to take care of a wasted and high him? Far too many to keep track. Similarly, you had spent countless evenings helping Ada when she felt overwhelmed, either nursing Karl or cleaning her house when, just like her brother, she overworked herself. And finally, Polly could never thank you enough for everything you did to soothe her mind after the gallows, still haunted by the bite of the hanging rope on her throat.

“Thanks Poppy.” Arthur muttered, the gravel in his voice coated with shame now that you were down clearing and disinfecting his split knuckles. The oldest brother had started to affectionately call you so for the sole reason that, according to him, you must probably grow better when blood was considering how much you had seen when patching the Shelby siblings. “Sorry for errr… For the mess.” He went on, his steel blue eyes fleeing yours.

“That’s okay.” You replied in Romani, “You, sweet idiot.” Endeared by how surprisingly soft Arthur’s harsh complexions could turn, you couldn’t help but gently put your hand on one of his cheeks. And during this tender display of affection, Arthur was convinced he had caught sight of a smile — a scarce event barely happening on your beautiful but resigned face. Comforted by the warmth of your palm, he leaned into your touch and looked at you through dark lashes, his lids half-closed.

“Tommy’s one lucky bastard to have ya for himself, eh."

"Let's both flee together then." You teased, the familiar tone of Romani language rendered even more melodious by your siren-like voice.

"Don't tempt me, little one." Arthur replied, softer than intended and probably only half-joking.

The oldest Shelby brother had barely closed the door when your smile disappeared and tears flooded your eyes. Admittedly, spending months of repressing your own anguish didn’t do any good to you despite thinking that focusing on others would have helped. Quite the contrary, all those negative emotions you had left on the back burner turned into a silent and deadly parasite that was eating you up. Dragging your tired frame to the cold and empty marital bedroom, you curled up in a ball in a corner of the room, your bruised knees pressed against your chest, “Positive. You gotta stay positive and push forwards y’see Y/N? Do the right things for the family…” You whispered to yourself as your breath started to quicken for the ball of sorrow in your throat was growing more and more. Yes, you had to smile and say that all was just fine because you knew you were lucky to be here and that you hadn’t any real reason to complain now according to the rest of the world. And yet, the truth was you were tired. So tired and overwhelmed by everything around you. With your wild soul trapped here in the mighty walls of Arrow House, you could not help but drown in an excruciating feeling of worthlessness.

You were lost in a world too difficult for you to understand. Lost and unprepared for a life that asked for too much. When you were living in the vardo with Aunt Isabella life seemed so much easier despite the lack of money and, sometimes, food. Prior to your wedding, she used to tell you that everything would become clear once you’d be a wife and a mother. You’d be an adult adult, you see? But she lied. They all lied. Even with a husband and kids, you still felt like a scared and confused child, who wanted to hide under the blanket of her warm bed and never face the world ever again. These concerns of yours? You never shared because you wanted the Shelby to keep seeing you as a reassuring presence— moreover, God knew how much their broken hearts needed your silent care.

Bringing your trembling fingers to your mouth, you muffled a first sob, convinced it would be enough to keep you from crying. What you didn’t expect was to burst into tears, uncontrollably weeping. After all this time forcing yourself to be strong, your mind had enough. As your heart-wrenching cries echoed in the room they muffled Tommy’s footsteps that were coming closer and closer. When the door flung open, you did not even move, lost in a spiral of pain and psychological exhaustion.

“Y/N?!” Tommy called you, his usual coldness swept away by a surge of panic. He closed the distance between you and him with hastened steps, and put one of his knees on the floor to be at your level, “What’s wrong, ay?” His husky voice asked, worries thickening his Brummie accent even more. You hiccuped and raised your flooded eyes towards him, parting your lips to answer. Yet, as soon as your gaze met his turquoise iris you started weeping again, louder this time. Words were at a loss by dint of never having the chance to express what you felt throughout your life. “Bloody Hell, Y/N! Speak!” Tommy hissed, his heart now drumming in his chest at the sight of his young and always-so-strong wife crumbling in bits in front of him. Never in his life, he had felt so powerless, not even in the tunnels… And, God, he hated it.

“N-nothing. I don’t… I don’t even know it’s just that— I’m so fucking tired, and lost, and confused, and afraid!” You spoke with a very fast pace, spitting years and years of repressed emotions flowing from you all the while feeling deeply ashamed of your mental breakdown. When you were done venting, you simply turned your head and waved off the topic, tears still rolling down your reddened cheeks “Anyway! You’ve got — more important things to do.”

“Stop it, Y/N,” He scolded, low voice rumbling in his chest. His strong and calloused hands, damaged by the war and hard work, cupped your face with a softness you didn’t know he possessed. For the first time in your life, his grip felt utterly reassuring as if you knew these scarred palms were not going to let you fall apart. Never. “You’re what’s important right now.” With that being said, Tommy leaned his forehead against yours and his enchanting eyes soon met yours to force you to focus on nothing else but the vast blue oceans which composed them. “I want you to calm down.”

“I can’t, I can’t—“ You tried to speak but you couldn’t, struggling to breathe under the crushing weight of your panic attack. Your mouth gaped, looking for the oxygen it couldn’t find.

“Oi!” Tommy said louder. So loud that his voice managed to overcome the cacophony of your beating heart and the buzzing sound of your anxiety that filled your head, “I want you to breathe with me, Y/N. Alright? You can do that for me, ay?” He asked, his eyebrows slightly frowned and charming crowfeet appearing at the corner of his eyes — how odd it was to see Tommy’s face veiled with something else than unsettling placidity. Caught off guard by the sudden realization of how close he was, you quieted down a little bit and soon followed the pattern of his breathing.

One long inhale through the nose, one longer exhale through the mouth, and a short pose.

Do it again.

Your shaky hands slowly grabbed his wrists in a desperate attempt to anchor you to reality. This, as well as the focus you had on his mesmerizing complexions.

His long dark lashes — you inhaled slowly.

His cat-like turquoise iris — you exhaled.

His salient cheekbones — You stopped breathing for a very short while.

The myriad of freckles — “Breathe with me, Y/N.”

The soft, hoarse lilt guided you through the dark and thick fog of your own brain, just like a lighthouse. Coming back to clearer waters, your body finally relaxed and fell almost limp in his arms. And once again he caught you, keeping you all safe against his chest. Tommy’s voice, low and steady, resonated one last time in the bedroom with a reassuring warmth as he uttered the simple yet powerful phrase, "I'm here." Each word carefully enunciated, carrying a quiet strength that soothed and reassured, like a comforting anchor in a stormy sea.

Keep your writers motivated: Reblog and/or comment if you liked it, you filthy animal! o/ English is not my first language btw.

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