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hllywdwhre · 1 year ago

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Revenge - Tommy Shelby

Summary: Reader takes personal offense over Sabini’s attack on Tommy

Warnings: arranged marriage, graphic depictions of violence, reader leaves a message written in blood, smut, creampie, light degrading, oral smut (f receiving), overstim, p in v, let me know if I missed any

Notes: I made this text post about protective reader and decided to write it lmfao. I want Tommy with a feral woman. Thank you to @slut4thebroken for proof reading, encouragement, and suggestions💖

MDNI, 18+ only

You weren’t quite sure how it had happened.

Scratch that.

You knew exactly how it had happened.

Your father and Tommy had worked out a deal when Sabini had first started trying to intimidate your father. A bride in exchange for protection and both of them walked away with extra allies when the inevitable war against Sabini broke out. You’d protested the marriage at first, screaming that you were more than just a political pawn for your father to sell when he needed help, but it went through anyway.

You had to admit, it wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened. Sure, Tommy was distant and seemed obsessed with work, but you knew you could’ve ended up in a much worse situation. He treated you with respect, never let you open a door on your own if he was around, always had a protective hand rested in the small of your back, and… the sex was great.

Perhaps the thing you appreciated the most, was that he didn’t expect you to become the housewife you had feared you would be reduced to. You were your father’s only child, meaning when he died, you would become leader of his gang. You were a gangster the same way Tommy was and he seemed to realize that and respect it. You helped out with the daily runnings of the Peaky Blinders and helped with the daily runnings of your father’s gang at the same time. They both recognized your potential and weren’t afraid to use it.

It wasn’t until you were sitting in a family meeting about a year after your marriage that you realized you had grown to feel more than just okay with the marriage.

Tommy was a closed off individual and through the entire year you had been married, you felt like you were just starting to finally get to know the real him. You never pried because he never pried in your life. If you had general questions, neither of you were afraid to ask them, but anything more was left up for the person to tell. You had more questions than answers still, specifically about the matching scars on his cheeks, but you didn’t dare ask. He hadn’t asked about the scar that ran from your right shoulder blade down to your spine, so you didn’t ask about his scars.

It was a common occurrence for Esme, Ada, and Polly to sit with you at one of the desks in the betting shop, whispering things to you during family meetings to fill in any gaps and answer any questions you may have had.

“Alfie has informed me that the Sicilians are being provided aid by Sabini, in the form of cars and housing,” Tommy started, causing Arthur to let out a loud groan of frustration.

Before you could get dragged into hearing any more of it, you turned your head to Esme who was sitting next to you.

“Sabini’s a prick, I know that, but what has he done to us?” You asked quietly, your eyes still flickering back-and-forth between Tommy and the rest of his family as they spoke about what to do next.

Esme began explaining exactly what Sabini had done. How he and five other men came after Tommy in the dark of night, how he’d ripped out a tooth, sliced his cheeks, and beat him to an inch of his life.

The rage that settled inside of you was your first hint that you had grown to genuinely care for Tommy as more than just a friend and (amazing) fuck buddy. Your jaw remained clenched and set for the rest of the meeting, but as soon as the meeting was called to end, you wiped the look from your face and forced a calm expression to take over.

You stood up and walked over to Tommy, forcing a small smile to your lips,

“I’m not really feeling all that well. You go with your brothers for a drink, I’m just going to head back home, okay?” You said, meeting his eyes so he wouldn’t have a reason to not believe you.

Tommy’s eyebrows furrowed together as he tried to look for any sign you were lying. You had been fine that morning and fine two hours prior when you sat down for the meeting, but he had no reason to believe you were lying so he simply nodded, placed a hand on the small of your back to pull you closer to him, and kissed your forehead.

“I won’t be out long. Ask Frances for anything you need, okay, love?”

You nodded and the forced smile turned to a genuine one,

“I will, promise,” you told him before stepping away from him and waving goodbye to the rest of the family.

Yes. You had truly gotten lucky when it came to who you had been forced to marry.

The entire ride back to the Arrow House, you were silent and going over your plan in your head. You knew you’d have to earn Tommy’s trust back after this, but you didn’t particularly care. You were a force of nature on your best day. You were lethal when you were angry.

Once you arrived back, you immediately headed upstairs to yours and Tommy’s shared room. The marriage may have started off with the two of you in separate rooms, “I’m called the devil, but that doesn’t mean I’m some sort of monster. You can sleep in your own room until you’re comfortable sharing a bed,” but it didn’t take more than a couple weeks for you to eventually join him in bed.

Damn those blue eyes, full lips, and that jawline.

You grabbed a small bag and threw the first set of clothes you laid hands on into it, then, much more carefully, a dress. You grabbed everything else you needed and headed to Tommy’s office next.

I’ll be back soon. I’m sorry for lying, but I’ll be back.

You signed the note and left it in the center of his desk where you knew he would see it, held down by his ashtray.

As quickly as you had entered the house, you left it, getting right back into the car with the driver Tommy had employed for you. You told him the name of a hotel in London that you knew was just outside of anyone’s territory.

The drive seemed to pass by too quickly and soon you were saying goodbye to the driver and sending him home for the night. It was barely 7 in the evening when you got up to your room.

“If there is a God, please let me get through this. I’ll make it up to you… somehow,” you said quietly.

The beading on the dress swayed loudly around your body as you pulled the dress on. The pins in your hair seemed to be extra noticeable against your scalp. The straps on your shoes pressed into your skin more than usual. The blade held against your thigh and hidden by your dress seemed to refuse to warm up. Your left hand felt entirely too light with your ring missing.

You knew it was only your mind playing tricks on you. You’d worn this outfit before and it had always turned heads, which is exactly what you wanted.

You needed Sabini to notice you.

You greeted the cab driver politely as you stepped in and ignored the way his eyes seemed to follow you a bit too closely.

The doors of the club were held open for you and you made your way to the bar and took a seat, knowing you were just playing a waiting game now.

You could feel eyes on you. The wife of Thomas Shelby in Sabini’s club, hours away from Birmingham, far out of Peaky Blinders territory or her father’s territory. You stuck out like a sore thumb, even if you would have blended in during any other scenario.

It felt like an eternity passed before you finally saw the man that made your blood boil, but one glance at the clock above the bar told you it hadn’t even been an hour.

“You seem lost. I thought we had made it clear that your kind weren’t welcomed here,” Sabini said once he was in front of you.

A charming smile graced your lips and you looked up at him,

“My kind?” You questioned, playing innocent.

“Yes. Your kind. You’re the wife of Thomas Shelby and I don’t appreciate him ignoring the last warning I gave him and sending you-“

“I wasn’t sent here,” you stopped him, lifting your left hand and pushing a piece of hair that hadn’t fallen back behind your ear, “and I’m not really a Shelby or a Blinder, am I?”

His eyes were drawn to your hand and noticed the lack of a ring you wore and he quirked an eyebrow at you.

“Is that so? I was under the impression the two of you were lovebirds.”

You pulled your bottom lip between your lips and looked away, trying to come off as shy. When you looked back up to him, you hoped the look on his face meant he was intrigued and believing you.

“Perhaps we could talk about it somewhere else… somewhere private?” You asked him, batting your eyelashes as you did so.

Gods help you. The smirk he gave you made your stomach twist and you wanted nothing more than to wipe it off his face, but patience was something you’d adopted a lot of.

“Allow me to show you to my office then,” he said, offering you a hand which you forced yourself to take.

He guided you through the club and towards the back. Some amount of luck seemed to be on your side as his office was behind the stage and provided some cover for any noise you might make. Even more so as you noticed a window just large enough for you to be able to crawl out of.

Once the door was shut behind you, he sat down behind his desk and motioned for you to take a seat in one of the chairs on the opposite side.

“Trouble in paradise, I take it,” Sabini said as he poured you both a drink.

“It was never paradise to begin with,” you replied, thanking him for the drink and taking a sip.

You had grown used to Tommy’s Irish whiskey and the bourbon he gave you wasn’t nearly as smooth going down.

“Was it not? From what I’ve heard, you two have quite the fairytale. Gang leader’s daughter married off to another gang leader, uniting two empires.”

“That’s not the way I see it,” you lied.

“And how do you see it?”

“A desperate father sold off his daughter to a desperate gang leader in an attempt for the both of them to gain more power and disregarded the woman’s wishes,” you replied simply, shrugging your shoulders.

“And so you’ve come to London for what?” Sabini questioned, wanting to hear you say it.

“Because I think we can help each other, Mr. Sabini,” you said, downing the rest of the bourbon and standing up.

His eyes followed your movements, his eyes trailing up your body before resting on your legs again.

“And how do you think we could help each other?” He asked.

You moved to stand in front of him, placing one leg over the side of his and straddled him, placing your arms around his neck.

“They trust me, Mr. Sabini. They don’t suspect me of anything,” you started. The shiver of disgust that rolled up your spine due to his hands trailing up the back of your thighs was one he apparently took as excitement as he gripped slightly at the backs of them, “I can tell you everything and, in return, I get out of my marriage once they’re all gone.”

“They don’t even realize the ticking time bomb they’ve got in their fingertips, do they?” He asked and a chuckle left your lips as a genuine smirk took over.

“They don’t…” you said, trailing your hands down his chest and then up your thigh, trying to make the move appear seductive. Your fingers wrapped around the hilt of your knife, “and neither do you, apparently.”

His eyes widened and he realized the trap he had walked into at the same time as you pressed the blade of the knife to his neck.

“I’d say that if you ever threaten my husband or our family again, you’ll regret it, but you won’t be,” you told him, unable to resist pausing for a touch of dramatic effect before adding on, “Never fuck with a Shelby.”

In the next second, you were quickly slicing the knife across his neck and flinching back as his blood coated you.

You knew your next move was morbid, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. It had been morbid for him and five other men to attack your husband when he was alone. It was morbid for him to rip out his tooth. It had been morbid for him to slice his cheeks. It was just as morbid for you to quickly and quietly clear off his desk, dip your fingers into his blood, and leave a bloodied message across his desk.

Revenge is a scorned Shelby

As soon as the message was written, you grabbed one of the coats from the coat rack and slipped it on, then crawled out of the window. The coat was long enough to cover all of the bloodied mess that was now your dress.

Sabini is dead.

That seemed to be the only thing you could think of as you were driven back to the Arrow House. It wasn’t the first time you had killed a man and you knew it wouldn’t be last.

But you hadn’t told anyone about this time. You hadn’t told anyone your plan, where you were going, or why you were doing it. You had also just started a war.

You weren’t surprised to see almost every light in the house still on when you arrived, and you made sure to slip the cab driver a little extra for the long drive.

You hadn’t risked staying in London longer than you needed to. You had gone into your hotel room, grabbed your bag, and promptly left, only taking the time to slip your wedding ring back on when you were in the cab.

When you stepped into the house, Tommy was in the hallway. All he saw as you stepped in the door was you, in another man’s coat, your wedding ring still on your finger, but your hair and makeup done much differently than it had been you had left.

You stayed silent as you stared at him with nervousness written on your face.

He put out his cigarette and quirked an eyebrow at you, a silent prompt for you to explain yourself.

Your silent explanation was to undo the tie on the coat and let it fall to the floor, revealing your blood stained dress.

“I need a fucking drink for this one,” Tommy grumbled, motioning for you to follow him. He guided you to his office and poured both of you a drink, handed you your glass, then sat down in his office chair. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Do you want the short version or the long version?” You asked, a smirk on your face as he looked up at where you still stood across the room.

Despite himself, he couldn’t help but chuckle and shrug his shoulders,

“Humor me. Short version first,” he told you.

“About a year ago I got married, and tonight I started a war.”

Tommy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and running a hand over his face, “Long version.”

“About a year ago, I got married. Over the past year my husband has been nothing but a respectful gentleman, making it nearly impossible for me not to fall for him when you combine it with his fucking blue eyes that could bring the devil to his knees,” you started, feeling the hint of a blush creep into your cheeks, which you knew he noticed by the way his eyes flicked to your cheeks and then back to your eyes, “then today we had a meeting with his family where he mentioned Sabini. When I asked, his sister-in-law told me about what Sabini had done to him. About how my husband had been beaten to an inch of his life and brutalized, leaving him permanently scarred, and I knew I had to make the bastard pay.

“So, I lied to my husband and said I didn’t feel well. I went home, packed a bag, left him a note saying I’d be back, and went to London. I rented a hotel room where I changed into a fancy dress and did my hair and makeup, then I wrapped a knife to my thigh and slid my wedding ring into my bag and went to The Eden Club. News of a Shelby woman spread quickly and Sabini showed up to question me within an hour. I lied to Sabini, told him that I didn’t want to be a Shelby and that I had never wanted to be one. He took me back to his office and I sat on his lap and made him think I was about to cheat on my husband when I slit his throat and made sure he knew it was because of what he’d done to my husband. I left a message on his desk, went back to the hotel, grabbed my bag, and then headed back to our house.”

Silence filled the room for a long moment as Tommy stared at you. His eyes were unreadable as he watched you.

“What did the message say?” He suddenly asked.

“Revenge is a scorned Shelby.”

“Nothing about the Peaky Blinders?” He asked curiously, tilting his head slightly.

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It wasn’t Peaky business,” you answered confidently, watching him just as closely as he watched you as he stood from his chair and came to stand in front of you.

“Was it not?” He questioned, taking the untouched glass of whiskey from your hand and setting it on the desk before turning back to stare you down.

“No. It was Shelby business, but not Peaky business.”

“Explain.”

“He didn’t just harm a Peaky Blinder. He harmed a Shelby, my Shelby.” Your gaze was unwavering as you held eye contact with him. You wanted him to know you meant your words. He was yours, and the protective touches on your back when you were in public and the way he intimidated and glared at any man who tried approaching you was all the proof you needed to know that you were his.

“So I’m your Shelby?” He asked as he took a step towards you and continued to do so until you pressed against the office door.

“Yes.”

“And that means you’re mine?” He questioned, his hands now pressed against the wall on either side of your head.

You could feel that you were walking into some sort of trap, but you didn’t have a way out of it right now. All you could do was be honest.

“Yes.”

“Then you should know something about what it means to be mine.”

“What’s that?” You asked, your breathing getting shorter as he lowered his face so it was level with yours.

In a second his hands were on your waist and he had you picked up against the wall with legs instinctively wrapping around his hips.

“My Shelby is to never come home wearing another man’s coat again,” he said, pressing his lips to yours in a rough kiss.

You don’t know what reaction you had expected from him, but being pinned to his office door and him kissing you hadn’t been one you had thought of. Your shock wore off after half a second and you returned the kiss as your arms wrapped around his neck to keep him close.

“You’re not mad?” You asked against his lips.

“At you starting a war?” He questioned, leaning down and beginning to trail kisses hastily down your neck.

“Yes,” you replied, leaning your head back to give him more access.

“Livid,” he said with no hint of joking in his voice.

“This is quite the punishment,” you replied sarcastically. A moan fell from your lips as he nipped at your pulse point.

“Oh, I’m livid,” he said, looking up at you, “but also extremely turned on at the thought of my wife slicing a man’s throat over me and coming home still covered in his blood.”

You weren’t given a chance to respond before he was kissing you again. Your hands came down to his tie, pulling it loose before starting to work at the buttons of his waistcoat.

He didn’t bother setting you down, only turned the two of you around and walked you over to the couch in the office. He laid you down on it and then pulled the waistcoat off before leaning back down between your legs and kissing you again once. His lips started trailing down your neck again while your hands went to undo the buttons of his shirt.

“Someone’s impatient tonight,” he teased as nipped at your skin again.

“You’re the one who pinned me to the door after I revealed I killed a man for you,” you replied in the same teasing tone as him. You undid the last button of his shirt and pushed the fabric off his shoulders, his undershirt following a second later.

He reached his hand to the side of your dress and unzipped it, pulling the fabric down your body while his hands grabbed hold of your underwear, stockings, and garters in the same move and pulled them off, leaving you completely naked underneath him.

He stared and looked over your body a moment longer before running his hands up your thighs and giving a gentle tap to your thigh,

“Up,” he said, causing your eyebrows to furrow in confusion.

You did as told though and sat up, leaving him enough room to lay on his back and pull you up to straddle him,

“Was killing a man not enough work?” You teased, not actually minding if he was going to have you ride him. At least it meant you wouldn’t be subjected to him teasing you when all you really wanted was for him to fuck you.

“That’s cute,” he said sarcastically, gripping your thighs and attempting to pull you further up his torso, “that’s not where you’re sitting tonight.”

The man was no stranger at using his mouth to make you see stars, but you’d never ridden his face before. You looked at him, the question obvious on your face.

“Seriously?” You asked even though you knew by his face that he was.

“Seriously. You were enough of a leader to go after Sabini, you’re enough of a leader to sit on my face. Up,” he repeated again while his grip on your thighs tried pulling you forward.

You did as you were told this time, shuffling forward until you were straddling his face. You weren’t given a choice of when to sit as his hands came to your hips and pulled you down, forcing your full weight onto his waiting mouth.

If there was one thing you were grateful for, it was Thomas’ ability to use his tongue and lips in more than just outsmarting his enemies.

His tongue trailed through your lips, his hands keeping your hips in place, while his tongue slowly explored you at first.

It had only taken a couple weeks for you to crack and make the first move on Tommy, joining him in bed one night when you’d decided you could trust him, and you’d been insatiable and addicted to him ever since, though he never complained. He’d spent the first couple times figuring out every move that made you tick and every name that made your cheeks flush and used them to his advantage at every turn.

His tongue was a gift with the way he knew exactly how to use it. He dragged it up and down between your folds, drinking in every bit of your arousal before focusing on your clit, alternating between quick flicks and long drags.

Tommy’s hands on your hips began guiding them, silently instructing you to take control. You didn’t hesitate in going along with what he wanted you to do and began rocking your hips. One of your hands trailed to his hair while your other went to lay on top of one his that gripped your hip. You hadn’t realized the volume of your moans until you felt the vibration of his moan against your clit.

Your hips jerked at the added stimulation and he hummed against you purposefully, his eyes never leaving you as your hips sped up, chasing your own high. Within moments you could feel it approaching and your grip on his hair and hand tightened, moans of his name falling from your mouth like a prayer.

“Please, fuck,” you cried, whimpers falling from your lips, “Tommy, Tommy…”

Your high crashed over you a moment later and you felt Tommy’s movements begin to slow down as you rode out your high, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you caught your breath.

You went to move off of him, but his grip on your hips tightened at the same time that his tongue started speeding up again.

Your moans of pleasure turned to whimpers of over stimulation and you squirmed against him, but he didn’t let up. Your hips jerked as you tried moving away from him, but all it did was add to the stimulation.

You could practically feel him smirking underneath you as he continued on, watching as your eyes clenched shut and you relented yourself to letting him torture you so beautifully.

If it wasn’t for the way your body was on edge from not being given any type of break after your first orgasm, you might have felt slightly ashamed at the way he was able to bring you to your second orgasm so quickly.

And then your third.

Tears were freely falling from your face when he finally slowed his movements to a stop and helped you to lay down on your back.

He trailed soft and slow kisses along your thighs and stomach to help bring you back down to earth. When his lips reconnected with yours, you returned the kiss, letting your eyes fall shut at the surprisingly tender moment.

“Next time you want to start a war, at least let me know your plans,” he said, causing you to open your eyes and be met with a smirk dancing across his lips, “and don’t doubt my punishments.”

You could’ve smacked the smirk off his face if it wasn’t for the fact he had turned your entire body into mush.

“Think you can be a good girl and handle one more?” He asked.

Your cheeks flushed at the praise and his hands moved to his belt and pants, pulling them off after you nodded your confirmation.

Once the rest of his clothes had been removed, he gently lifted your legs and positioned himself between them. He was gentle as he pushed inside you, but the smirk on his face from the way your voice cracked when you moaned was obvious.

The stretch was familiar at this point, but it didn’t mean you didn’t need the moment he gave you to adjust. When you nodded your head, he started moving.

Tommy knew your body like he knew his own after your time together. His hips immediately changed position as he started thrusting, making sure to hit the spot inside you that added to the ways your legs shook underneath him.

He leaned down and placed his elbows on either side of your head, capturing your lips in a kiss right as a moan parted through them. One of his hands came back to cradle the back of your head and his fingers tangled into your hair to keep you close to him.

His other hand went to one of your legs and pulled it up so it rested in the crook of his elbow, causing him to hit even deeper inside you.

The action caused you to let out a high pitched moan and you wrapped your arms around him. Your next moan broke the passionate kiss the two of you had shared while your nails raked down his back.

“Who do you belong to?” He asked, beginning to speed up the movements of his hips.

“Y-you,” you moaned out, your back arching underneath him.

“Say my name. Who do you belong to?” He repeated.

“Thomas Shelby,” you answered and dropped your head back.

“Good girl. You’re my fucking wife,” he moaned out. He sat up, using one hand to keep your leg up in the same position while his other hand went to your already over sensitive clit, “all mine. No other man gets to touch you, look at you, or even fucking think of you. It’s my cock that you’re whimpering over right now, and it’s the only cock you’ll ever be whimpering over again.”

“I’m yours, Tommy,” you repeated, your voice breaking as moan after moan fell from your lips.

“Then cum for me. Be a good Shelby wife and make a fucking mess on my cock just like how you made a mess of this war tonight,” he commanded.

You didn’t need any more encouragement from him as your fourth orgasm hit you, causing your back to arch again and your nails to run down his arms.

His moves start to become more sloppy and his pace sped up as he began to chase his own high, the feeling of your cunt squeezing around his cock only driving him closer to the edge.

“Want to feel you Tommy, please,” you moaned underneath him, “please, cum inside me.”

“Fuck,” he swore out. His hips pushing against yours as his high hit him and his arms came down to either side of your head again while he shoved his face into your neck, completely claiming you as his own while his cum filled you.

His hips slowed as he rode out both of your highs and your arms came to wrap around him, placing a gentle kiss on the side of his head you could reach.

Once the two of your breathing had slowed down to a normal pace, he moved to push himself up and your legs around his waist tightened along with your arms.

“Don’t. Not yet,” you said in a quiet voice.

“I’m going to crush you, love.” He placed soft kisses along your shoulders between his words as he tried warning you.

“I’m a grown woman. I’ll tell you if it’s too much,” you replied and began running your nails softly along the shaved part of his head, knowing the motion worked on him every time.

“Stubborn,” he falsely chided, but relented and relaxed back into your hold.

“Little late to the party if you’ve just worked that out.” Your reply causing both of you to chuckle. “Remind me to start more wars if it means you fuck me like that every time.”

His hand came down and gently slapped your thigh in response while a burst of quiet giggles left your lips.

“Stubborn and a brat,” he teased, sitting up again and carefully sliding out of you.

“Too bad you’re stuck with me,” you responded with a smirk.

“I don’t think of it that way,” he said as he stood up and wrapped his arms under your waist and legs before pulling you up into his arms.

“How do you think of it?” You asked him as he carried you across the hall and into your shared room.

“I think I’m lucky enough to be married to a woman who killed for me over a years-old attack even though we’d never even said that we loved each other.” He set you down in the middle of the bed before crawling in next to you and pulling you into his chest.

A bright blush rose to your face as he pointed out that you had never even said you loved each other, even though you had admitted to him earlier that you had fallen for him. You didn’t know how to reply immediately and you turned in his arms to look up at him, his arms staying locked around your waist.

He didn’t seem to expect you to reply though, because he leaned in to you, pressing his lips against yours. The kiss was tender and sweet, as if he was trying to communicate what your actions had meant to him without having the words to say it.

“I fell for you, too,” he finally admitted, “I don’t know when it happened, but I know that I realized it tonight. The panic I felt to see your note and to see you come home covered in blood. The anger I felt over seeing you another man’s jacket. The way I felt when you revealed what you had done and why…” He trailed off, looking down at you and seeming to try and memorize every part of your face, “You’re mine.”

“I’m yours and you’re mine,” you replied, leaning up to kiss him.

“I’m yours and you’re mine.”

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jtargaryen18 · 2 months ago

Text

The Arrangement

Series Masterlist

Words: 8k

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: Drugging, age gap, coercion, loss of innocence, dub-con, explicit sex, oral (f rec), breeding kink (inferred), HEA

Your stepfather made an ill-advised wager with Arthur Shelby and when he lost the coin toss, you were are to be given to Arthur for the night. And you will be taken tonight. Just not by Arthur...

A/N: I don't know if any of you are fans of Peaky Blinders. The DH started watching it recently and I've watched it with him. My muse grabbed me and this was the result. But I find if I keep her happy, she'll let me work on my other projects so... Let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

You shivered in the chilly air, wearing your best dress and wrapped in your heaviest shawl, as you walked along the cobbled street, slick with rain and coal dust. You felt numb, struggling to accept the situation you found yourself in through no fault of your own.

One one side of you John Shelby walked with his usual restless energy, a lit cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers. Though younger than the others, he had a sharpness in his eyes, a tension in his jaw that betrayed the weight of the world he’d been forced to carry. His hair was slightly disheveled, his cap pulled low over his forehead, casting a shadow that makes him look harder than his years. The dim gas light flickered across his face, highlighting a faint bruise on his cheekbone—evidence of a recent scrap, though nothing too serious by Shelby standards.

On the other side, Liam Murphy, one of the Peaky Blinders’ trusted men, walked along. Taller and broader than John, he carried himself with the calm confidence of someone who knows he can handle whatever comes next. His dark eyes scan the area as they reach the destination, ever-watchful. His fingers tapping idly against the handle of the revolver holstered beneath his coat. Dressed in the same razor-brimmed flat cap and three-piece suit as the rest of the gang, Liam looked every bit the part of a man who’s bled for the Shelbys and would do so again without hesitation. The faint trace of whiskey lingers on his breath, but his movements are steady, his focus razor-sharp.

Around them, the air hums with unspoken tension. John’s energy crackles like a struck match, eager, impatient. His gaze landed on you and he cracked a smile. "Look at you. You look like a fuckin' lamb going to slaughter."

Yes, were scared to death. But you lifted your chin, holding his gaze. "Wouldn't you?"

Both of them burst into laughter at that as they stopped in front of the apartment, the agreed meeting place.

"Yeah," John said. "Can't say I'd want to fuck Arthur either."

The reminder of why you were here was too pointed, too impersonal. You glanced around Small Heath, the neighborhood the Shelbys dominated here in Birmingham. It was a rough area, a working-class district, thick with the grime of industry and the weight of hardship. The narrow, soot-stained brick houses huddled together as if bracing against the cold, damp air rolling in from the factories. The sharp scent of iron and smoke from nearby foundries clung to the wind like an ever-present warning.

Gas lamps cast flickering pools of light, their glow struggling against the heavy smog that lingered in the alleyways. The sounds of the city never truly died—somewhere in the distance, a train whistle howls through the night, blending with the rattle of carts, the distant shouts of drunken men spilling from the back doors of a pub, and the occasional bark of a stray dog scavenging for scraps.

When the door opened, your heart lurched in your chest to see Arthur Shelby standing there in the dim light, a shadow of the man he once was—wild-eyed, disheveled, and teetering on the edge of something dangerous. His waistcoat is unbuttoned, his once-crisp white shirt now rumpled and stained with whiskey and the sweat of a man who'd been drinking too long and thinking too hard. His tie hung loose around his neck, the knot twisted and undone, as if he tried and failed to make himself presentable before giving up entirely.

His hair, usually slicked back with care, was in disarray, tufts sticking up where he’d raked his fingers through it in frustration. His face was a map of old scars and fresh exhaustion, his beard uneven, the shadow of stubble catching the flickering light. His knuckles were raw, split from a recent fight—maybe a brawl at The Garrison, maybe something worse.

His eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles, burned with the remnants of rage and sorrow, that familiar fire barely held at bay. His breath reeked of whiskey and smoke, and when he exhaled, it was slow, heavy, as if the weight of the world pressed down on his chest. When he saw you, his eyes lit up in surprise as if his mind just pushed the memory of why you were there through the haze of his enebriation.

"Come in," he said after studying you for a moment.

What else could you do?

Dropping your head, trying to keep your desperation and fury at bay, you walked quickly by him and into the apartment.

When John and Liam tried to push their way in, Arthur smashed a fist into Liam's face. The crunching sound made you think Arthur broke his nose. "What the fuck?" Liam yelled. "Aren't we supposed to be witnesses?"

The question sent a spike of fear through your heart.

"The hell you are!" Arthur raged at them. "Now get out before I knock some teeth out, you fuckin' bastards."

With that, he slammed the door hard and locked it for good measure.

Inside the small apartment, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood, old tobacco, and the faint traces of stew long gone cold. The walls were thin, covered in peeling wallpaper that was once floral but now curls at the edges, stained by years of cigarette smoke and candlelight. The floorboards creaked under the weight of every movement, betraying any attempt at stealth. Outside, heavy boots scuff against the cobblestones, stopping and starting, keeping you on edge.

The only light inside came from a low-burning candle near the window, its feeble glow barely touching the dark corners of the room. A single iron-framed bed sits against one wall, its mattress lumpy and worn. A wooden table stands near the hearth, cluttered with an empty bottle, a playing card bent at the edges, and a knife someone left behind—perhaps a warning, perhaps a promise.

The Peaky Blinders owned these streets, and yet, danger lurks in the shadows, even for them. Every knock at the door could be salvation—or the end. This is where you were born.

You stood in the small space and waited. You had no intention to make this easy for anyone. Particularly when it wasn't fair at all how you came to be here.

Arthur swayed slightly, adjusting his stance, his grip tightening on the half-empty bottle he lifted from the small table by the window. At least the curtains there were closed. There was an eerie stillness in him, the kind that only comes before a storm. He wiped a hand down his face, inhaling sharply, trying to steady himself, but the chaos inside him is still bubbling, waiting for the right moment to spill over.

"Look," Arthur said, "I'm truly sorry for this situation. It's nothing personal towards you, you know. It was your father and the coin toss. He--"

"Stepfather," you corrected him. Your father had been a decent man who didn't make it back from the war. Your mother had married Sean O'Grady out of necessity, to keep you and your younger brother fed. Your stepfather was as bad as your father had apparently been good.

"Whatever," Arthur said. "He lost the coin toss and the coin is sacred to us. He promised me a turn with you if he lost."

Something like shame flashed in his eyes as he looked you over. It wasn't hard to guess what he was thinking. You were inexperienced with men. Your brother had started working at the factory at a young age but you stayed home and helped with the garden, with the sewing. Your mother took in work as a seamstress here and there and that's how the Shelbys came into your life to begin with. Arthur started it, coming by to have a couple of shirts repaired, stains removed. He'd been intimidating enough but he wasn't the one who scared you the most.

Tommy Shelby.

His name alone carried weight, pressing down on your chest like an iron shackle. He was the kind of man stories are whispered about in dark corners, the kind of man who steps into a room and bends the air around him. He never needed to raise his voice to command obedience, nor did he need to lift a hand to make someone afraid. His power was in the silence, in the way his glacier-blue eyes stripped a person down to their bones, exposing every weakness, every lie, every desperate plea before it ever leaves their lips.

You'd seen men stronger than you shrink beneath his gaze, their bravado crumbling under the quiet calculation that lurks behind those cold, unreadable eyes. There was no excess in his movements, no wasted gestures. He was precise, measured, a man who played chess while everyone else is swinging fists. And yet, beneath the tailored suit and composed expression, there lurked something even more dangerous—something hollow and broken, something that made him unpredictable.

He didn't look like a man who enjoyed violence. That would make him easier to understand. No, Tommy Shelby wore it like a necessary burden, a tool in his arsenal, wielding it with the same detached efficiency as he did his words. That detachment terrified you the most. Because men who enjoy hurting others can be manipulated, can be fed their own hunger until they slip. But a man like Tommy—one who kills without joy, without hesitation, without remorse—he was a different kind of monster entirely.

Arthur drank straight from the bottle, the amber liquid splashing inside it. His eyes never left you and now you were shaking. You knew your stepfather wanted you married off and gone from his house, but he felt like this was the way to do it? Or was this punishment because you hadn't made that happen?

"What are you waiting for?" he asked, slurring his words. "Come over here."

"And do what?" you had to ask. "I don't know... how..."

His eyebrows shot up at that. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?"

You shook your head. Waves of shame and anger rushed through you to be in this situation. You were untried and terrified. He was drunk and seemed at a loss as to how to handle this situation. After a moment, he set the bottle back on the table and marched towards you, wrapping his strong arms around you and holding you in place for his kiss. Just like that.

Instinct had you fighting him. His kiss was sloppy and wet, the liquor on his breath heavy, making you feel a little sick. He was easily twice your size and it was nothing for him to drag you in the direction of the bed. When your back met the mattress, you closed your eyes in acquiescence. You just wanted it over with so you could go back home, soiled goods thanks to your stepfather's poor judgment. But you'd live to fight another day. At least you hoped you would.

Arthur's weight dropped onto you on the bed, but after a moment, you realized he wasn't moving. When he snored by your ear, it was all you could do not to burst into tears. Did this mean you'd have to wait for him to sober up? Would this torment be rescheduled? You didn't think you could take that.

You didn't know what to do. Carefully, you managed to roll him off you and onto his side. He didn't wake or even move as you managed to get off the bed. Hope had your heart swelling in your chest. Could you make it out of this apartment then? You could claim that the deed was done and he passed out after. You could declare it done, right?

Rushing to the window, you moved the curtain just enough to see the street and it didn't look like anyone was outside the door now. Could you make it out? If you moved fast enough?

With your heart flying in your chest, you unlocked the door and pulled it open, dashing out onto the street and sending up every prayer that you'd ever said that you could just make it home.

You collided with someone hard. You were shaking as his hands came up to steady you, keep you from falling. An apology was on your tonque as you glanced up to see who blocked you.

It was him.

Tommy Shelby was the one who had you, his figure a sharp silhouette against the darkness. A beat after he released you, a match flares to life, momentarily illuminating the angular planes of his face—the high cheekbones, the cut of his jaw, the cigarette resting between his fingers. The glow flickers out as he exhales, smoke curling around him like a specter, and in that brief moment, his icy blue eyes locked onto yours.

He didn’t look surprised.

No anger. No raised voice. Just that cold, assessing gaze—as if he had already predicted this, as if he knew you would run before even you did. A slow inhale. A subtle shift of his stance. The barest tilt of his head, like a wolf considering a cornered rabbit.

You expect fury, maybe even threats, but what terrifies you most is the patience in his expression. Calculated. Absolute. Unshaken.

“Going somewhere?” His voice is soft, measured, all the more dangerous for its calmness.

You want to run, but your legs refuse to move. The street around you seemed empty, swallowed in shadow. But you know—he's never truly alone. Somewhere, in the darkened alleys, his men are watching. Waiting.

Tommy takes one step forward, slow and deliberate.

“You should know,” he murmured, flicking his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the toe of his polished boot, “I don’t like having to come after people.” The weight of his words coiled around you, squeezing the air from your lungs.

Hooking your thumb in the direction of the apartment, and it was trembling, you said, "He's d-done."

That cool gaze moved over you, up and down, and his gaze returned to yours. "Not with you. Arthur loves the ladies but I've never seen him move that fast."

You hadn't thought of that.

"Did he pass out?" he asked quietly.

Tears stung the backs of your eyes and you nodded. It wouldn't do any good to lie to him. "What happens now?" you asked, cringing under that cold gaze.

"There's still an arrangement," Tommy reminded you. "And it has to be honored."

You glanced back over your shoulder at the door wondering what he meant by that. Would you wait for Arthur to wake up? Come back another day when he was sober?

Rough fingers at your chin turned your face back to him, and you shrank away from that unfamiliar touch. When your attention was returned to him, he grabbed your upper arm and started walking, almost dragging you up the street at first. What was he going to do? Where was he taking you?

Men were walking not too far behind you now, his men. They stayed behind the two of you until Tommy abruptly turned a corner, heading up a short flight of steps. Leading you into another apartment.

The new apartment was different—cleaner, quiet and cold. A stark contrast to the cramped, smoke-choked rooms you just fled from. The walls are smooth, freshly painted in an off-white shade that seems almost too pristine for a place in Small Heath. There’s no peeling wallpaper, no damp smell clinging to the wooden floorboards. Instead, there’s the faint scent of tobacco and whiskey, mingling with the lingering traces of fresh linen and polish—evidence that someone actually cares for this space.

The furniture is sparse but elegant in a way that doesn’t fit the rough streets outside. A solid oak table sits near the window, a glass decanter of amber liquid resting on top, two crystal tumblers beside it. A plush armchair, its deep leather cracked at the seams, faces the fireplace where faint embers glow, casting flickering shadows against the walls. A bottle of Scotch, half-empty, stands on the mantel as if waiting for its owner’s return.

Against one wall, a proper bed. Not a cot, not a lumpy mattress stuffed into the corner, but a well-made bed with crisp white sheets and a thick wool blanket folded at the foot. A luxury in this part of Birmingham. A reminder that this isn’t a prison. But it’s still his space. His territory. And now, you're trapped inside it.

The gas lamps flickered, their glow reflecting off the dark glass of the window. Outside, Small Heath moved on—voices drifting through the night, a horse’s hooves clattering in the distance, the faint murmur of a pub emptying out. But in here, the world feels still, heavy with unspoken rules and the weight of Tommy Shelby’s presence.

His men have left by now, their boots retreating down the hallway, leaving you alone with him. The door clicks shut.

A moment of silence.

“You’ll be more comfortable here,” he says, his voice as controlled as ever, but there’s no mistaking the finality in his words. This isn’t a courtesy. It’s an arrangement.

You didn't understand why you were here. Was he going to keep an eye on you until his brother slept it off? Or would he expect you to stay here until the deed could be done?

With practiced ease, he hung up his cap and shrugged out his dusty black coat, hanging it up. Then, the soft sound of a match striking as Tommy lights another cigarette, his gaze unreadable as he exhales a slow stream of smoke. Grabbing the Scotch and tumblers from his mantel, he moving to the table at the window, filling the crystal glasses and motioning you over.

"Have one," he said.

He wanted you to drink? You'd never drank spirits in your life. You must have stared at the glass like a snake about to bite you.

Tommy took a drag from his cigarette. "Since my brother is unable to do the honors," he said, "we'll finish the arrangement here and now. Drink it. It will make it easier."

Panic threatened to overtake you. What? Arthur Shelby passed out drunk so now you were expected to fuck Tommy Shelby?

Not doing as he said seemed terrifying, so you reached for the tumbler meant for you with a shaking hand. Bringing it to your lips for a sip, you almost coughed. The drink was smooth but potent. It burned like fire all the way down to your stomach.

"Sit down," he said, using his foot to push one of the two chairs at the table back for you. You did as he wanted, taking another drink of whiskey. You felt the weight of those ice-blue eyes on you as you stiffly took a seat. "You ever been with a man?"

The man could just talk about something so personal like it was nothing more than business. It was a lot more than that to you. It took a moment for you to work up the courage to meet his gaze now, but you made yourself do it. You may have been trapped in this situation but you had to remember that you personally had done nothing wrong.

“No,” was all you said. “Never drank either. Until now.”

Tommy tilted his head slightly, still studying you, the faint glow of his cigarette illuminating the sharp angles of his face. “Your stepfather isn’t a smart man.”

“Or a kind one,” you murmured, the words bitter on your tongue.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, effortless yet edged with something unreadable. “That why he offered you up?” His voice was calm, almost casual, but his gaze never wavered. “Strict with you, was he? That why you haven’t got any experience?”

You shook your head, fingers tightening around the tumbler in your hands. “No. He just wants me gone.”

Tommy hummed in answer. The room feels smaller with him in it. The air is thick with the smoky bite of liquor and tobacco, the soft glow of the gas lamp casting shadows across his sharp features. Tommy took the chair across from you, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair, the other resting on his thigh, fingers curled loosely around a half-filled tumbler. He hasn’t spoken for a couple of moments, and yet his silence is as oppressive as a threat.

He studies you, slow and deliberate, his ice-blue gaze dragging over you like a weight you can’t shake off. Not leering. Not curious. Calculating. Like he’s unraveling you in his mind, peeling back the layers of fear, of defiance, of whatever fragile armor you've built to protect yourself. He sees through you. And he enjoys it.

The cigarette smolders between his fingers, the red ember glowing each time he takes a slow, unhurried drag. He exhales through his nose, the smoke curling like ghostly fingers in the space between them, thick, intimate, suffocating. He’s not trying to scare you. He doesn’t have to. His presence alone is enough.

And yet… he is devastating.

The angles of his face, chiseled and unyielding, should make him look harsh, unappealing, but they don’t. His dark lashes, too long for a man, cast shadows over his cheekbones as he watches you, the corner of his mouth curling around the cigarette in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but is. The controlled power in the way he moves, the effortless confidence—it draws you in even as you will yourself to stay afraid.

He lifts his glass, taking a slow sip of Scotch, the tendons in his forearm flexing beneath the crisp sleeve of his shirt. When he sets it down, the clink of crystal against wood echoes too loud in the quiet.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low, even, dangerous.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, tapping ash from his cigarette, “and I’ll start thinking you’ve forgotten why you’re here.”

It’s a warning, a challenge.

And God help you, it’s both terrifying and intoxicating. You take another sip of from your glass, welcoming the burn and the warmth. You'd been unable to really eat today given what was going to happen. Your entire life would change after tonight. The alcohol went straight to your head, taking the edge off of your fear. Not enough but it was better than nothing.

"If the... arrangement is settled, here and now, then I'm done?" you had to ask. "Arthur..."

Tommy takes a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a ribbon of smoke that curls lazily between you. His blue eyes stay locked on yours, sharp and unreadable, the weight of his gaze making it impossible to look away. He lifts his glass, takes a sip, then sets it down with an almost deliberate slowness.

Then, in that same calm, cutting voice, he asks, “Would you prefer Arthur?”

The question lands like a blow.

Your fingers tightened around the tumbler, the burn of alcohol lingering in your throat, but you can’t find your voice. Prefer Arthur? Tommy says it so easily, like the answer doesn’t matter to him either way, like it’s nothing more than an idle curiosity. But the way he watches you now—eyes half-lidded, cigarette balanced between his fingers—you know it’s not.

Your pulse quickens. Arthur is rougher. Louder. More reckless. But Tommy… Tommy is something else entirely. Colder. Calculating. Inevitable.

You swallow hard, shaking your head. “No.”

Tommy doesn’t react, not right away. He just studies you for another long, unbearable moment before flicking the ash from his cigarette and smashing out in a small tray. “Good.”

You don’t ask why. Something tells you you don’t want to know.

Your heart pounds as he drains his tumbler in one slow pull, then rises from the chair with a grace that feels almost too controlled. His movements are smooth, deliberate—never hurried, never uncertain. Without a word, he reaches for your glass. Carefully, but firmly, he takes it from your hands and sets it on the table. Then, he offers his hand.

Your pulse spikes. A silent command. A choice that isn’t really a choice. Despite the tension tightening in your chest, you take it. His fingers closed around yours—not rough, not gentle, just steady. He pulls you effortlessly to your feet, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin, grounding you even as your nerves coil tighter.

It’s only a few steps to the bed, but the space between felt heavily charged. Tommy sits at the edge, his grip still firm around your hand. Then, he glances up at you, those piercing blue eyes pinning you in place. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words, the weight of the moment pressing down on your skin. And still—he doesn't let go.

Tommy’s thumb brushes over the back of your hand, almost absentmindedly, as he studied you with that same quiet intensity that makes your breath catch. His gaze flickers over your face, slow and deliberate, taking in every detail—the way your lips part slightly, the way your pulse jumped at your throat.

Then, in that smooth, low voice that sends a shiver down your spine, he murmurs, “Pretty thing, aren’t you?”

It isn’t a question. It’s an observation. A fact.

Your stomach tightens. There’s no warmth in his tone, no flirtation, just a simple acknowledgment, spoken like he’s already decided exactly what to do with you. Like he owns the moment, owns you. His fingers tighten, just for a beat, before his grip loosens again. And for the first time, you realize—it’s not just fear that’s making your heart race.

You weren’t prepared for the way his other hand slips behind your neck, his fingers pressing just firmly enough to send a shiver down your spine. No hesitation. No uncertainty. He pulls you toward him with quiet intent, as if he’s already decided how this will go—as if there was never a question.

The only time a man had ever kissed you was Arthur’s sloppy, whiskey-soaked attempt in the other apartment. But this—this is something else entirely.

There’s no drunken sway, no careless fumbling. Tommy moves with purpose, with the same measured control he applies to everything he does. And that’s what makes it dangerous. When his lips touched yours, it was a whisper of a kiss at first. There was no overpowering smell of spirits, just the faint scent of tobacco, of him. As his lips moved against yours, firmer and seeking, you tried to mimic him, afraid not to do something. You must have done something right. He increased the pressure at the back of your neck to pull you closer, and your hands landed on his shoulders, crisp linen covering tight muscle under your palms. When he deepened the kiss, you let him, and the slide of his tongue against yours gave him a deep taste of you. His deep moan surprised you, and you felt that subtle sound all through your body as he continued to kiss you breathless.

It was easy for him to pull you onto the bed and roll you under him, breathless as you were. When his mouth claimed yours again, his kiss was more demanding, and his hands were everywhere. Tommy managed to pull the shawl free of you without breaking the kiss, his hands then sliding down to work the worn leather Mary Janes you wore off your feet, tossing them off the side of the bed. One hand grabbed your ankle before sliding up your leg, up to cover the globe of your ass and panic had you jerking in his hold.

Tommy pulled back to look you in the eye, his face flushed in his excitement and quiet intent. There was a wildness in his eyes—untamed, dangerous, something raw and unchecked. You doubted many had ever seen it, and for good reason. It wasn’t meant to be witnessed. His gaze searched yours, piercing, relentless, and you trembled in his arms, not from the cold, but from the sheer intensity of it.

"I'm going to have you," he said breathlessly, his weight pinning your body to the bed. Grinding himself into your tummy, the hard, heated length of him was unmistakable, even with both of you clothed. His eyes darkened in sheer determination and his hold on you tightened. "You understand?"

You nodded quickly. "I'm sorry," you whispered.

Sliding his hand roughly up your body, he smoothed his hand over you cheek, his gaze never leaving you. Tommy kept watching you as that hand moved back down to pluck at the buttons of your blouse and his nimble fingers made quick work of it. Impatiently, his hands pulled the garment free of your skirt before undoing the buttons of your camisole beneath. You couldn't stop trembling as he undid the last barrier and peeled it back to reveal your upper body to him.

His gaze was sharp, moving over your breasts with growing impatience, hunger. With a delicacy you wouldn't have believed him capable of, his fingers traced over your collar bone, over the tiny gold cross pendant of your necklace. He trailed a finger over your skin, across to one breast, using that digit to tease your nipple to a tight peak with a gentle circular touch. When his heated gaze returned to yours, he filled his hand with your breast, squeezing firmly but not enough to hurt. Tommy began kissing you again, heated and greedy now, with his hand teasing your breast before sliding down your body and beneath your skirt. As if he knew you were about to start fighting him again, he broke the kiss to cover your breast, teasing it with his lips and tongue as his hand slid under your skirt, into your underwear. Sensation overwhelmed you, need battling fear, and your hands clutched in the bedding beneath you as his fingers teased your private flesh, the light pressure drawing sensations from your body that you'd never experienced.

"You can touch me," he muttered around your nipple. It felt like a command. Your hands shook as they slid up to him, instinctively moving to his head. The glossy black locks of his short hair slid between your fingers as he continued to tease you relentlessly, burning you down with his mouth and hands.

Chills and pulses of unexpected pleasure had you writhing feverishly beneath him as his tongue smoothed over your aching nipple and his fingers danced in the wet folds between your legs. Your breath sucked in when he touched your pearl, and he lifted his head to savor your reaction. Whatever he was doing with his fingers, all you knew was that it would soon drive you insane, continued, but he didn't give you the speed or pressure you wanted. The touch was fleeting, maddening. Your fingers clutched in his hair as he continued to delicately torture you, your legs clamped around his hand because you couldn't help it in your need. And it didn't slow his efforts at all.

When his touch stopped, you whined, an unfamiliar sound to you. In a frenzy of movement, Tommy unzipped your skirt and roughly yanked it off along with your underwear, your stockings. He wasn't satisfied until you were stripped bare beneath him, all of you trembling under the intensity of his stare. As he sat there next to you, taking every inch of you in, his fingers went to work with haste, undoing his tie, stripping off his waistcoat. His fingers flew at undoing the buttons of his own shirt which he pulled free of his trousers but didn't remove it.

Tommy shifted down the bed and moved to throw one of your legs over his shoulder so fast, you didn't have time to react. And by the time you did, he'd buried his face between your thighs. The flames of humiliation only burned you for a few seconds. The man's mouth covered your sex, his tongue a wicked torment that was unfamiliar and almost too much to bear. One of his hands worked to keep your folds open, your curls out of his way, as he kissed your pussy as he had your mouth. The other slid up over your tummy with pressure, holding you in place for his assault on your senses.

You accepted it but your entire body was shaking, shivering and it was impossible to stay still. Your back arched and you would have been horrified to realize that you were pushing yourself towards him, towards his mouth, wanting more, if you hadn't been so lost in the storm of sensation. What he was doing didn't make the fever better, it made it worse. It felt like fire running through your veins with raw need pooling low in your belly. When he slid a finger back to your pearl as he continued to work you with his mouth, you gasped. When his movements sped up, when his tongued traced your opening, you screamed long and loud. A wave of pure pleasure swept over you and he didn't stop what he was doing the entire time, dragging it out until you violently shook beneath him, crying and moaning as your body shivered and eased.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he moved up the bed toward you, his hands working the fine leather belt at the front of his trousers. He wore nothing beneath and the sight of his cock, angry red and larger than you expected, filled your vision as you watched him take himself in hand, working himself as his gaze roamed over you. Tommy shifted, one of his knees pushing yours apart. You let him, watching him drape himself over you. There was something obscene about the way he stripped you naked but was still mostly clothed himself.

He surprised you by stopping then, a hand smoothing over your hair and face with care. You sensed he was holding back, respecting your inexperience. You knew it meant nothing to him but he realized it meant something for you, and your heart squeezed in your chest at the gesture.

"It's going to hurt," he said, whispering against your lips. "Not for long. Hang onto me."

You did what he said, but slid your hands beneath his shirt, running your hands over the muscular plane of his damp back. Your fingers found scars, a lot of them, but it gave you a distraction from the way he lined himself up with your entrance, the smooth head of him pressing into you insistently. It felt better to bring your legs up, your knees hovering around his hips. You held your breath as the pressure built, and the intrusion of him pushed further into your body. When he met that fleshy barrier inside you that proved your claim, Tommy surged through it, and the pain was searing. It took your breath away, had tears stinging your eyes as he completely filled you. Your tender walls quivered around him, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar length of him.

With the pad of his thumb, he caught a tear, brushing it away with a touch that was almost too careful for a man like him. Then, without a word, he lowered his head, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was soft, deliberate—unexpectedly tender. No force. No urgency. Just a slow, measured touch, as if, for once, Tommy Shelby was in no hurry to take what he wanted. He held still inside you, allowing you to adjust. Lost in the dizzying mix of pain and pleasure from his kisses, you found yourself clinging to the unexpected gentleness in his touch. A contradiction. A quiet mercy. Something you never would have expected from a man like him.

But the arrangement wasn’t over. Not until he decided it was. Not until he was finished.

Slowly, he started moving inside you and it stung like fire as he thrust in and out of you. You knew you were wincing, but you'd be damned if you'd complain now. You wanted to be brave, feeling like you'd earn his respect if you were. And as he pushed in and out of you, the pain lessened and dulled, easing to be replaced with more of the sensations from before. The good ones. Before long your thighs were clamped around his hips as he plunged into you again and again. Hot, reckless kisses dropped over your face and breasts as he fucked you. Your arms and legs were wrapped around him but it was more than that. You weren't just lying there and thinking of England as you'd been advised by your mother and aunts. You were riding waves of unexpected pleasure, soaring to those heights again. Your hands became claws at his back, your nails carving into his skin. Your thighs tightened around his hips as you moved with him, wanting more, craving more.

His lips blazed a path to the sensitive skin of your throat, peppering your skin with kisses and swipes of his tongue as he rode you harder. The drive of him inside of you, his hands on your breasts, fingers teasing your pearl, drove you mad. You started begging him, pleading for release from the intense experience he was drowning you in.

"Please," you chanted.

His actions pushed you higher until, with your heart racing in your chest, until he sent you flying again. Your cries and screams filled the room as the man literally destroyed you.

Tommy drove on above you and you knew he was now chasing his own end and you still held him. But it also occured to you in that moment that there was no birth control being used here, no condom or anything. You tried to steady your breathing, pushing down the rising panic. Surely, a man like Tommy Shelby wouldn’t want a bastard running around—wouldn’t leave something like that to chance. Tommy was many things—ruthless, dangerous, unreadable. But somehow, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he had more honor than that.

As his movements sped up, his thrusts just shy of painful, you tensed, hoping he was going to pull out of you when his time came so there'd be no worry about a baby. Above you his eyes were closed, his mouth slack. The beauty of him in that moment made you pause as he came. When you jerked beneath him, his hands collared your wrists and pushed them into the bed on either side of your head. Holding you there, he pumped himself into you growling as he did, thrust after thrust. Truthfully, you didn't have it in you to try and stop him. As if you even could.

Maybe it wouldn't take. You tried to shove that worry to the back of your mind, not even wanting to think about that right now.

He'd collapsed onto you, but his weight wasn't too much as his breathing rushed with yours. Running your fingers through his hair, you tried to stay calm. Your mind couldn't help jumping ahead.

Now that the deed was done, you'd be sent back home. Everyone in Small Heath knew you'd been won in an ill-advised bet. Would other men consider you an easy mark? You couldn't count on your stepfather to protect you.

Tommy pulled himself free from you and it stung. He stretched out next to you on the bed, his finger tracing the curve of your breast. He watched you in that way of his—sharp and knowing. His gaze settled on you, unreadable yet unrelenting. Then, in that low, measured voice, he asks, “What are you thinking so hard about?”

It’s not just a question. It’s a test. Like he can already see the storm rising behind your eyes, the panic tightening in your chest as you grapple with the future he’s tangled you in.

You open your mouth, then close it. Because what do you even say to him? But he doesn’t look away. He waits. And somehow, that’s even worse. At the end of the day, only the arrangement mattered. His family’s honor was intact, the deal upheld—that was all that concerned him. Whatever you felt, whatever came next for you, wouldn’t change a thing. Tommy wasn’t the kind of man to concern himself with your plight. You knew that. It was better not to mention it at all.

So instead, you took the coward’s way out.

“Can I go home now?” The words left your lips, but somehow, they didn’t sound like a plea. More like a quiet resignation.

Was that reluctance you saw in his face? Just for a flicker of a moment—something unreadable, something hesitant beneath the mask of indifference.

Tommy considers your question, his expression giving nothing away. But he studies you, weighing something. You can’t tell what. And that’s the most unsettling part.

With a deep sigh, he finally says, "You can."

As you start to sit up, you watch him search through your clothing on the bed, finding your simple underwear. You watch in stunned silenced as he carefully takes them and dips them between your legs, staining the white garment with your blood. When you instinctively reach for them—alarmed by the sight of your own blood, mortified by what he’s just done—Tommy’s eyes snap to yours, sharp and unyielding. Before you can touch them, he moves them out of reach, his grip firm, his expression leaving no room for argument.

“I’m keeping these.” The finality in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. Like a claim. Like a promise.

Why?

You were shaking as you watched him dress, dressing yourself as quickly as you could with shaking limbs. It was over now, right? Was your underwear stained with your blood proof that the arrangement was met? You were bleeding and he was keeping your undergarment. It was distressing. He must have noticed. Without a word, he stepped to a cabinet drawer and pulled out a clean, white towel, tossing it onto your lap.

"Clean yourself up," he said, already pulling on his coat and adjusting his cap with practiced ease. Then, just as effortlessly, "I'll be back to take you home."

And with that, he was gone.

You sat there, staring at the door he’d just disappeared through, the towel limp in your hands.

Tommy Shelby was taking you home.

A short, breathless laugh escaped before you could stop it. That would scare the shit out of your stepfather. Maybe then, he wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss you.

Or maybe—it wouldn’t matter at all. You didn't know what the future held for you or what impact this night would have on it.

***

Tommy’s grip tightened on the wheel, his jaw set in that familiar, unreadable line. The road stretched dark and empty ahead of him, the hum of the engine the only sound between them. He didn’t glance her way—didn’t need to. He could feel the weight of her presence beside him, could hear the way she shifted slightly in her seat, the tension rolling off her in waves.

This was necessary. That’s what he told himself. A loose end tied up, an arrangement upheld.

When he pulled up to Watery Lane, the headlights cut through the mist curling over the cobbled drive, illuminating the towering structure of Arrow House. The place had never really felt like home, but it served its purpose—just like everything in his world.

He killed the engine and stepped out first, running as he rounded the car and opened the door for her. She hesitated, just for a moment, then followed without a word. He could almost see the question in her mind. Why am I here?

Because he wanted her here. He wanted her. Tonight merely sealed her fate.

Inside, the house was dimly lit, the scent of wood smoke and aged whiskey lingering in the air. Tommy didn’t break stride, already pulling off his gloves as he spotted Polly standing at the bottom of the staircase, arms crossed, dark eyes sharp as they flicked between him and her.

“Take her up,” he said simply, voice low and clipped. “My room. Find her something to sleep in.”

Polly didn’t move right away. Instead, she gave him a look—one of those looks. The kind that didn’t need words, the kind only Polly could give.

It was half question, half judgment. What’s this, then?

Tommy exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose before muttering, “Not now, Pol.”

With a slow shake of her head, she turned to his girl, her expression softening slightly as she gestured for her to follow.

Tommy watched for a second longer, then turned on his heel, heading straight for the whiskey decanter. He'd knock back a couple then he'd join her in sleep.

***

The house was quiet early the next morning, but Polly was already up. Tommy found her in the sitting room, a cigarette between her fingers, an untouched cup of tea going cold on the table beside her. The morning light filtered weakly through the windows, casting a dull glow over the room.

She didn’t look at him right away, just took a slow drag, exhaling through her nose before finally speaking. “That the girl Arthur won in the coin toss?”

Tommy poured himself a drink, even though it was too early for one. He took his time before answering. “It is.”

Polly’s gaze flicked up, sharp and knowing. “So why is she upstairs, in your room, and not with him? Or home with her family?”

Tommy didn’t answer immediately. Just swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way the light caught in it. He didn't feel the need to explain himself.

But Polly wasn’t stupid. Her eyes narrowed slightly, putting the pieces together faster than most ever could. She leaned back in her chair, cigarette poised between her fingers, a slow smirk curving her lips. “You wanted her.” It wasn’t a question.

Tommy took a sip of his whiskey. Didn’t confirm. Didn’t deny. But Polly was already seeing through him, like she always did.

“You let Arthur think it was his idea.” Her voice was quieter now. “Tricked her stepfather into wagering her. Then drugged Arthur when the time came to claim her. You waited, knowing she’d panic, knowing she’d run. And who was there, ready to catch her?” She let the silence hang for a beat before answering her own question. “You.”

Tommy tilted his head, nonchalant, unreadable. He took another slow sip of whiskey before finally meeting Polly’s gaze.

She sighed, shaking her head as if tired of playing this game with him. “What are your intentions, Thomas?”

Another pause. He could lie. He could deflect. But Polly wouldn’t believe him, and they both knew it.

So instead, he took another drag of his cigarette, exhaled the smoke, and simply said—“She’s mine.”

Polly let out a breath, long and slow, before muttering, “Jesus Christ, Tommy.”

Tommy had already made his decision.

Arthur would know soon enough. There’d be no shouting, no drunken outburst—just the facts, laid out cleanly, irrefutably. Tommy would hand over proof that the arrangement had been upheld, that the wager had been honored in the way that mattered. It would be enough to keep Arthur from questioning him, enough to silence any complaints before they started.

As for the girl’s stepfather? He would be a cautionary tale. A reminder of what happened when someone gambled with the Shelbys and lost. When a debt was called, when something was taken and then never seen again. Her sudden disappearance—her absence—would be enough to send a whisper of fear through Small Heath, a warning to any fool who might ever think to challenge them again.

And in time, when the dust settled, when the moment was right—he would marry her. Not because of obligation. Not because of the arrangement.

Because she was now his.

#Peaky Blinders #Tommy Shelby #Cillian Murphy #Tommy Shelby x Reader #Tommy Shelby x you #The coin is sacred #Dub-con #Small Heath

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