Allie

25 and from the good ol’ US of A, in the state of Georgia🍑 Certified Dilf lover. 18+

[gettheeffoutofmytardis]

Visit Original Link

Having a bad day ? Listen to the beautiful voice of Cillian Murphy.

Pic @ The Guardian.

[cillianlovr]

literally drop to my knees at the sight of this clip 😩

[strategicone]

Turning 50 next month???? He is turning back the clock!

[allie131313]

Holy

[rylandsgrace]

#Icon

[kinkyniragi]

Tender is the Wound

Pairing: Broken Tommy Shelby x Nurse!Reader

Genre: Dark, angsty psychological themes with fluffy vibes

Word count: 4,8k

Summary: You're a nurse caring for the injured Michael when the well-known leader of the Shelbys walks in: Tommy. His cold, commanding presence makes the whole ward uncomfortable. But when he's around you, something shifts...the memories you stir in him soon become a danger – one that draws you in more than it should.

CN: Post-war trauma & intimacy, power play, traumatized Tommy overdoing his “threat or flirt”-games, self-confident female protagonist puts Tommy in his place, yet d-c vibes with choking, p in v and a and stuff, rough and kinky like always. This is a fictional story depicting consensual BDSM scenarios for mature readers. All characters are adults. Please practice kink responsibly and safely.

Author’s note: Feel free to leave comments and share my story if you enjoy it – I truly appreciate every bit of motivation to keep writing.

***

You’ve heard the story already.

The man guarding Michael Gray’s hospital room – dead, throat cut. Michael was obviously supposed to be shot in his hospital bed, but for some reason he was spared. A message from Luca Changretta, written not in words, but in actions that could undoubtedly be described as psychological terror. The Peaky Blinders are at war, and someone crossed a line that was supposed to be sacred.

An eerie silence reigns in the hospital. The staff has made efforts to quickly remove the traces of the gruesome act, but the smell of blood and disinfectants still lingers in the air.

With the tray in your hand, you push open the wooden door with the glass panels and enter the room. You've heard of the Peaky Blinders, but most of it is just rumors, a few newspaper reports here and there, but ultimately enough to give them a wide berth. But your job as a nurse requires professionalism, and Michael's wounds need tending. During the last few weeks, while you were caring for him, he was at least polite and didn't cause too much trouble. His wounds just weren't healing as they should have been because he kept picking at the scabs, probably as a stress reaction.

A man stands by the window, tense posture, one hand resting in his pocket. His black tailored suit looks out of place against the washed-out hospital walls. His hair is razor-sharp in a classic crop, the kind only the Peaky Blinders wear with pride. And he doesn’t just look important – he radiates command. What was their leader’s name again?

It must be him.

You try to remember the latest news about the infamous clan. You've never had much time for gossip about the city's so-called "celebrities."

The man turns his head at the sound of the door, just enough to glance at you. One sharp, appraising look before he faces forward again. You’re just the nurse. It seems like the boss himself has given you the unspoken permission to stay here, even if it feels like a toleration at best. You can roughly imagine what human traits it takes to become the leader of a clan: cold, arrogant, calculating. This man surely has all of those qualities. Though everything about him appears like a red flag, you feel a strange kind of attraction to him, in a way that catches you off guard.

Michael sits propped up in the bed, pale but focused, his face tight with something close to resentment. The other man speaks. His voice is clear, cut from something hard that fits perfectly with the aura that surrounds him.

“You should have seen it coming.”

Michael exhales. “So now it’s my fault.”

“You’re alive. You don’t get to be innocent.”

Michael shifts under the covers, and although he is still visibly in shock, defiance comes through in his response. "It wasn’t my job to–"

"It’s always your job! You're breathing, aren’t you?" the man answers Michael. "Then you’re responsible. Doesn’t matter if the man outside the door had a gun, a badge, or a bloody halo. If someone gets in, it’s on you."

You approach the bed without speaking. You’ve done this many times before, in worse places. The tray rattles faintly as you shift it into place. Michael glances at you, briefly. Then he stares into the emptiness of the room again and listens to his visitor, who reprimands him incessantly.

 “You had people watching you. Still, they walked in like they knew the blueprints.”

The conversation continues as you clean the wound. They don’t even bother to lower their voices. It’s not for your ears, but they don’t care if you hear. Or maybe it is, because the visitor's comments also suggest that the hospital staff might have made a mistake.

The man becomes even clearer in his accusations: “Luca doesn’t take chances. If he walked into this building, someone made it possible.”

Michael doesn’t answer. You can truly grasp how life in crime doesn’t just teach paranoia – it feeds on it.

You sincerely hope not to be drawn into this heated discussion. You blot a streak of dried blood from the edge of the stitches. Fold new gauze. Concentrate. It helps.

Just as you're about to secure the fresh bandage, you glance up.

The visitor watching you. Not openly. But your eyes meet.

And something shifts.

Is this –?

You’re not sure. Not entirely. But your body remembers a different room. A different kind of blood. Years ago. A man on a stretcher, barely conscious, your hands slick from trying to stop what couldn’t be stopped.

You hold his gaze for half a second too long.

But you see nothing but stillness in his face. No recognition. Rather, it seems that something pulled taut behind his eyes, as if your presence has hit some old, invisible wire.

He turns back without speaking. Doesn’t react.

You’re probably wrong that you know each other.

But when he turns back to Michael, his voice has changed. Softer, maybe. You can't say what it is that must have happened inside him, but obviously something is going on.

You secure the bandage without a word and leave the room.

But long after your shift is over, as you cross the threshold of the hospital, something follows you – a feeling you can’t quite name.

***

The next day, your shift is barely underway when you hear footsteps in the corridor outside the nurses' station. Certainly not your colleagues, who are rushing through the corridors. The muffled steps in hospital-typical slippers – they are familiar to you for too long. These footsteps are different. They sound heavy, almost threatening. With eerie determination they unmistakably approach the nurses' station.

You don’t look up right away. You're sorting the morning medication trays, organizing them into neat rows. The cabinet door is open, the air faintly metallic from crushed pills and antiseptic wipes.

“Excuse me.”

You turn.

It’s him.

The man from Michael's room.

He's leaning in the doorway of the nurses' station, his left hand in the pocket of his long, gray coat. It's obviously a typical posture for him, as if he has something to hide or as if he's always ready to shoot. It creeps you out to imagine him always walking around with a gun in his hand like a real gangster. Although like a real gangster isn't quite right here.

You nod. “May I help you?”

“I'm looking for hot water. Thought I could make Michael some tea.”

You blink once. A pot of hot water is always in the hallway. Every visitor passes by the small coffee and tea corner. And every family member who's visited more than twice knows it. You’re certain he knows it too.

Still, you don't let your irritation at his question show and remain polite. "Down the hall on the right. You'll find everything you need there. A herbal tea will surely do Michael good."

“Thank you,” he says.

You nod again. “Of course.”

You resume your work, slowly, humming quietly to yourself, like you often do when you focus on tasks like this.

There’s a pause. You expected him to turn around and leave. Instead, he continues to lean in the door frame. You look up, a little confused. His gaze drifts to the tray on the counter. The pills you’re arranging.

Something seems to be off. His eyes move, just slightly, as if adjusting to a brightness that isn't there. Then they settle on you.

He hesitates. Almost imperceptibly. “What song was that? Just now.”

You don’t answer right away. The question is... strange.

“An old tune,” you say. “I don’t know the name.”

He nods, like he understands. But something flickers across his expression. You see it again. This strange mixture of softness and…freezing?

He clears his throat, looking almost embarrassed. “I just thought I’ve heard it before,” he says. “Anyway. I won’t keep you.”

He steps back.

“Oh,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “Thomas Shelby.”

You look at him.

Tommy.

That was the name of this one wounded soldier in the military hospital in France, back then.

"Y/N," you answer, your head not yet able to process the information.

He gives you the ghost of a smile. Then turns and walks away down the hall.

You watch his back until he disappears through Michael's door.

***

You were right. Something is going on inside him. But he really doesn't seem to remember you. Sure, it was several years ago. Terrible things happened. Often, you couldn't do much for the soldiers; so much was lacking. Only your painkillers were plentiful, and they were strong. They granted many brave soldiers a blissful transition to the afterlife, a consolation for you, who would have liked to do more, albeit a weak one.

The soldier named Tommy was seriously injured back then, and you weren't sure if he wouldn't also walk the blessed path to the afterlife. There were so many injured that summer, the stuffy tent full of pain-filled groans. Your rounds consisted of the same routine: treating wounds, administering painkillers, moving on to the next person whose groans needed to be muffled. But it was never quiet.

It's quite possible that Tommy was so lost in his stupor that he barely noticed you. Just another face, another set of hands. But you lingered by his cot. Dabbing sweat, whispering calmly.

And humming a lulling tune.

That’s it. He doesn’t remember. But his body does. It just needs a small hint that triggers a memory…

A memory that awakens…something in him. Something you can feel stirring between you like static – curious, charged, and far from finished.

Yesterday's bandage change. That was another situation where something suddenly changed inside him. You recap the situation in your mind. The specific smell of the fresh bandages – a standard product in most medical facilities for years, one you would recognize among hundreds of other smells. Not just you – apparently Tommy's subconscious too, if your assumption is correct. At least this characteristic smell has the greatest recognition value. Sterile, clean, a smell that represents care and healing. A smell that can calm an agitated nervous system when unconsciously recalled. Maybe that's why he felt the urge to come back to the hospital – and to you in the nurses' station.

***

Michael's injuries are numerous and severe; he would certainly have to stay for a while longer, especially since his behavior wasn't exactly helping him heal. But every plea to keep his hands off the wounds fell on deaf ears.

His mother is at his side almost daily, and Thomas Shelby – Tommy –, who had been so full of accusations and who continues to seem extremely nervous about the Changretta feud, is also frequently present, often for hours. It is probably less a close connection to Michael than his urge to maintain control of the situation. Because even though there is a new bodyguard outside Michael's room door (and presumably other men around the hospital), he obviously prefers to trust only himself.

He never lets go of his hypervigilance, and whenever he comes into contact with the staff, he is bad-tempered and bossy. Your memories of your time as a nurse during the war – you would have preferred to lock them away in a dark place forever, at least the vast majority. How must the soldiers have felt?

The gang war with Luca Changretta and his men must have put Tommy in a state of constant fear. A deep-rooted fear that only allows him to function – fight or flight. A fear that Tommy Shelby would never let show. The little bit of softness he showed you seems to have vanished. You, too, repeatedly experience his condescending manner, with which he tries to belittle others.

That one time, when you move toward the window in Michael’s room to air out the place. He makes no effort to step aside, not until you politely ask him to.

“Of course. I’d never stand in your way,” he replies with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. But still, he stays just a moment too long before moving away. As if silently marking his territory, with no need to say a word.

Encounters with him feel like he’s testing boundaries…and pushing them, inch by inch.

But it’s more than that. Something in him does seem to remember you – not consciously, that’s for sure, but deeply enough to draw him in. As though he’s circling – chasing? – something familiar without knowing why.

A glance that lingers too long, taking in every inch of you.

Remarks that could be innocent, but certainly aren’t.

His request for you to stay a little longer, “to make sure Michael’s well looked after.”

There’s something almost clingy in it, though never openly affectionate. Always wrapped in a quiet arrogance that makes your skin prickle.

How badly you wish you could reveal yourself, if only to coax his softer side into the light more often. He never says it, but his presence makes one thing very clear: you must never dare speak of the first time you met.

A part of you wants to respond to the vague pull he exerts – but your mind knows better. In your role as the nurse, you're supposed to stay neutral. Anything else would be playing with fire. In general and with regard to the Shelbys in particular.

***

Your colleagues have had enough. Tommy overstays, commands the room like it’s his. So, you volunteer to end it – politely, but firmly.

You knock on Michael’s door and open it just a crack. The two men are sitting next to each other on his bed – silent, like they’ve been keeping each other company without saying a word.

“Visitor’s hour ended twenty minutes ago, Mr. Shelby,” you say, your tone calm but resolute.

“Must’ve lost track of time,” he says, voice cold, gaze still fixed ahead. “Terrible shame, eh?”

It’s clear he has no intention of leaving.

You steady yourself, trying not to let him rattle you. “Time works the same for everyone. Even you.”

He lets himself sink back into Michael’s bed like a man settling onto his couch after a long day’s work, almost casual. That deliberate calm of his, it drives you almost insane. Then, with a slow, exaggerated turn of his head, he looks at you: “I’ve learned this much, Nurse Y/N: If you stay long enough, you get what you want. It’s the same with doors – they open, if you knock long enough. Or kick.”

Is that meant to be a threat or a flirtation?

For a second, the sheer audacity of it almost robs you of speech. But you're not about to let him win this round. If he's threatening, you'll threaten back – just with a smile sharp enough to pass as flirtation.

You match his gaze, refusing to look away. “I've learned something, too. Something you might benefit from.” You pause, just long enough to make sure you have his full attention. “Some doors stay shut for a reason.”

Inwardly, you cheer at your sharp comeback, aimed to throw him off balance.

He huffs something close to a laugh. “Makes it all the more fun, eh?”

In war times, you used to wonder what he might be like when he flirts. What kind of lover hides behind that wounded soldier. He was different then, softer, maybe? You can't quite remember. But France left you broken too, dulled.

His hard, distant demeanor shows flashes of something else, a kind of playful dominance, yes. Maybe this is the only way he is able to handle that kind of risk – a risk greater than everything he risked in France – the risk of being rejected. This way, he could always claim it was never meant that way.

So, you play along – but not without returning fire in his little “threat or flirt” game. Your responses are carefully weighed, as precise as his provocations. If he wants a game, you'll play to win. “Perhaps the real question is why you never try the handle from your side.”

Only after the words have left your mouth do you realize the full weight of their double meaning. Sure, the round goes to you – there’s hardly a more elegant way to call out his overblown dominance.

But isn’t that the point?

Would he need to act this way if he were truly open to others – if he could let someone in, face his fears, process them, learn to trust again?

But you’re not naive.

You know better than to believe in hopeful illusions. His tactics have been honed over years – perfected until they cut deep without drawing blood. Like a dog that bites out of fear, long before it knows whether the hand reaching out is there to harm or to feed.

He doesn’t seem to need long to recover, slipping out of checkmate with infuriating ease. “That tone, Nurse Y/N.” He emphasizes your name in a way that makes you feel as if he's already deep beneath your skin. Or as if he could get there with ease. “Makes me want to misbehave on purpose.”

Michael, who’s been staring out the window the entire time, barely suppresses an eye-roll.

You smooth down the hem of your uniform and fix Mr. Shelby with a look as sharp as the edge of a scalpel. “Mr. Shelby, I must insist that you leave now.”

“What if I don’t?” he asks, without even pretending to play nice. “Will you report me, then?”

You offer no reply. Instead, you press the clipboard silently to your chest and walk out – leaving him to wonder just how to interpret your silence.

***

You close the door, heart hammering. You held your ground, but didn’t win. He’s still there. Still in control. Fortunately, most of your colleagues have already left for the day. One of them is probably still finishing her evening rounds. At least your failure has no audience.

You decide to focus on the weekly inventory restock, hoping the routine task will offer some distraction. When you step into the small supply room at the end of the hallway, a bead of sweat trickles down your forehead. You tell yourself it must be the heat radiating from the boiler room next door, but the excuse feels paper-thin, even as you think it.

The room is crammed with medical supplies of every kind, stacked all the way up to the ceiling. A small stepladder stands in the corner, used to reach the upper shelves. A few cobwebs drift lazily around the exposed lightbulb, which flickers uncertainly overhead.

You're sorting through a box, back turned to the door, when the light suddenly dims. You sigh in frustration, already making a mental note to request a new bulb. It's been flickering all day, and you had hoped it would last just a little longer.

Then you hear the soft click of the door falling shut.

You spin around, startled. Thomas Shelby is standing there. Not in the doorway this time, not leaning in with one foot still outside like earlier. The door is fully closed behind him.

"Mr. Shelby…" you breathe, caught between alarm and – you’re ashamed to admit it to yourself – arousal.

He studies you for a beat, then tilts his head slightly.

"Tell me? What did your supervisor say about my…little breach of protocol?" he asks, voice smooth with mock concern. "Am I about to be dragged off in chains?"

You try to hold his gaze, but your pulse is racing.

He lets a pause stretch, then adds, lower now, "Would you like to see me that way? Bound and…powerless?"

You fight to keep your face neutral, but he doesn't let up.

"Or are you the one who prefers the losing hand?" He steps forward, and the space around you shrinks.

You instinctively lean back, only to feel the edge of a shelf pressing into your spine.

"Mr. Shelby, I didn’t…" you begin, trying to sound firm, trying not to let your voice betray the flutter in your chest.

"Report me?" he finishes for you. "I know. I suppose I wasn’t quite bad enough yet."

There’s something predatory in his tone now, something playful and sharp at once. His presence is overwhelming in the cramped room, and you’re suddenly aware of how far away help would be. If anyone is even left to hear you.

You glance around, eyes searching for something, anything, you could use to create space between you.

He catches it and gives a dry, amused laugh.

"What’s this? You want to stop a Shelby from being a bad boy? After poking the beast?"

The bulb above you sputters again, this time violently, and with a low, electric hum, it dies.

Darkness falls.

Only a few narrow slivers of light slip through the ventilation grates into the small room.

Tommy gasps, the sound sharp and raw, like panic breaking the surface. He nearly stumbles into you, and in a flash, his strong hands close around your throat.

"Don’t move, got it? One sound, and it's over," he hisses in a clipped, military tone.

Darkness. Heat. Claustrophobia.

He’s not here anymore. Not in this room.

The ghosts of the past have taken hold of him.

He’s back at the Somme. Back underground.

And now? You’re not Nurse Y/N. You’re the threat.

A threat that needs to be neutralized.

Just as instinctively as he attacked, you claw at his hands, trying to pry them away from your neck. But they hardly budge. He presses down harder.

"I said keep still. Keep quiet. Makes it easier for both of us," he growls, voice sharp and hostile.

You close your eyes. Try to conserve your last energy.

Instinct.

And then, just as instinctively, you turn your head to the side. Expose the vulnerable skin of your throat to him. Like a beaten she-wolf offering her neck to the alpha, hoping he will spare her. Hoping he won’t go in for the final bite, even though he could.

His face brushes your skin. The scrape of stubble is harsh against the softness there.

He breathes in. Deep. Sudden.

"Fuck," he mutters. The grip on your throat slackens.

You gasp for air. Your lungs burn as air rushes back in, and you feel the raw imprint of his hands on your neck. Your pulse is thundering in your ears, but it is no longer only fear that drives it.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

You keep your eyes closed, just to process what happened. You stopped his fight-or-flight mode again. His nose on your neck, a deep breath...

A floral, familiar scent, laced with innocence.

Your perfume. The one you've worn for years. Even back then. At the Somme.

It hits a place in him no war ever reached. And that's what makes it even more dangerous, although it is calming on the surface. It cuts straight to the bone, bypassing logic, reaching his nervous system to unfold its effect. His instincts are still on fire, but something has shifted. They are no longer turning against you. Not now. Not entirely.

It is as if Tommy collapses into you.

You stumble back but catch yourself on the small stepladder behind you, just enough to keep from falling. Your fingers seize the fabric of his shirt, gripping hard near his chest.

"Shhh," you whisper, trying to soothe him, to calm his wolfish nervous system.

Then, almost desperately, you pull him toward you.

Your lips meet his. Searching. Finding.

The line you’ve so carefully drawn, day after day, has blurred. You have kept your distance, kept your control, held your ground behind professional words and folded hands. But now, here in the dark, with his breath on your skin and your body still trembling beneath the memory of his grip, something breaks.

You feel his chest rise and fall against you, too fast, too shallow. He is still somewhere else, not fully here, caught between past and present, you assume.

You could push him away.

Call for help.

Fight.

But instead, you tilt your face just slightly toward him, not away. Your fingers, still curled against his chest, do not fall away. You stay.

Because you recognize the ache in his touch. The same absence that hollowed out the men who came back. Hunger not just for flesh, but for grounding. For something human. Something soft.

You tell yourself this is for him. To anchor him. To calm him.

But your body, heat-slick and alert, says otherwise.

You’re not just soothing him. You’ve already cracked the door the second you played along instead of shutting him down.

His hand still rests on your neck while his thumb brushes your pulse, slow now, but firm, like he’s reminding you that his gentleness is a choice, not a guarantee. He could tighten again if you push the wrong buttons. You both know it. The game is far away from over.

You gasp at his other hand that slides lower, over fabric, under it, with an aim that leaves no question. He sets the rules, whether you like them or not.

"You remember what I said?" he murmurs.

You let out a questioning sound.

"The losing hand."

His fingers find the slick heat between your thighs.

"Seems to me," he mutters, smug, "you like playing it."

Your breath stutters. "Is that what you think? That giving myself to you makes me weak?"

Tommy growls softly. "No. It makes you mine."

You barely have time to exhale before his lips crash into yours again. The next kiss is deeper, hungrier, as if something in him has finally snapped free.

You can’t deny that you want this. Want him – this broken soldier who became an unpredictable, dangerous criminal. The craving coils low in your belly, tightening with every inch he claims. But something churns inside you at his very last word.

Mine.

Clearly not an invitation. A verdict.

He has responded to gentleness before. The scent of the bandages reminded him of care and healing, which softened his voice when he spoke to Michael. When you hummed a soothing tune, he didn’t lash out; he listened.

And now, in this small supply room, when his trauma surged, it wasn’t logic or commands that brought him back, or rather: stopped him from killing you. It was your perfume. 

You had tools, not weapons, but levers. You had ways to steer him, to anchor him. 

Now, caught in the tide of his possessive need, you ask yourself: Is there still something you can offer that turns this from coercion into something mutual? 

Not overt control; you know better than to reach for that. You want consent, or at least the shape of it. If you can reach him – not the soldier, not the animal, but the man – maybe, just maybe, he’ll meet you in that space between need and choice.

Your conflict is barely hidden, etched into every shift of your body. Your fingers press against his chest, not to push him away, not really, but just to carve out the illusion of choice. Your head tilts, as if defying the inevitability. But your body, traitorous and aching, leans into his.

He reads you, of course, senses your hesitation, and it keeps his guard up. You know that this still makes him dangerous to you. His grip around your neck is firm, not cruel, but certain. You freeze, not out of fear, but awareness. In his world, he didn’t steal control. He reached for it because fear had narrowed his world to instinct. In his heightened state, physically overpowering you is the only language he trusts. Because he never learned how to ask.

If he’s to ease his grip, he must sense that you're not offering yourself out of fear, but because, this time, you want to be touched.

You shift a little and lean into his touch. Then you lift your hand to cover his. Not to push, just to claim a part of it. To say: I see you. You don’t have to hold on so tightly.

He goes still.

His fingers no longer hold; they wait. You close your hand around his for a moment and give it a gentle stroke. Slowly, he loosens his grip.

You reach out to stroke his temples. His hair clings damply to his skin.

“I don’t want to be taken,” you whisper in your trained soothing tone, as you have done so often for your patients – and as you assume it’ll work to calm him as well. “I want to give myself. That’s not weakness, Tommy. That’s trust.”

He stills. You feel the shift in his breathing, the way his body eases just slightly beneath your touch.

“I know sweetheart, I know…,” he pants, biting and sucking the tender flesh of your neck in lustful anticipation. “you’re not weak. You’re just smart enough to know when to surrender.”

You don't answer aloud. But you don't pull away.

He senses it, your unspoken agreement: he may lead, but only for as long as you let him.

“Now be smart again,” he whispers, fingers fumbling with his belt. “Open for me.”

The words hit like an electric current and you feel the heat painfully pooling between your legs, unbearable in its immediacy. You didn’t miss the chance in his voice; it’s edged with heat now. You realize with relief that it’s more temptation than threat, like he’s playfully testing whether your earlier words were bravado or a real invitation.

The darkness sharpens everything, every noise, his intent, your desire to feel what he hasn’t even given yet. You’d never admit aloud how much you like the command laced with bittersweet praise. And how easy it is to obey.

He steps back a little and you hear the soft metallic click as his belt comes undone. He hesitates to move closer. You glimpse him in the faint slats of light slipping through the vent in the door, his fingers are paused at his waistband, his silhouette appears tense with restraint.

Your palm finds his jaw again. Damp, tense, warm. You guide him forward until his hips brush your thighs. You notice that his breath falters differently now, deeper, heavier. Lust, not vigilance. It settles you more than words could.

“Use me, Tommy. Be rough. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

His head drops for a second, forehead resting against yours. There’s heat in the contact. And something else – gratitude, maybe. You both know, you will stay if he respects your boundaries. Then his hands settle on your waist, sliding under the hem of your uniform again, rough fingertips skimming over skin still chilled from fear, pulling down your slip with practiced ease.

“Don’t worry, Y/N. I’ll break you just right.” He lifts you by the hips and pulls you forward on the ladder’s narrow rung until your legs fall open around him. “You’ll thank me for it.”

If this is how his “threat or flirt” game goes on, you’ll love to play it till the end.

His zipper goes next, silent but decisive, and then there’s nothing but his hardness against you – demanding, impossible to ignore.

You gasp as he pushes into you. Not from pain, but from the way it overwhelms: the stretch, the pressure, the sheer size of him forcing you to take more than you thought you could. He stays still, forehead resting on your shoulder, breath warm against your neck. It’s not hesitation. It’s a silent check-in.

You tighten your legs around his hips, and that’s all he needs. His mouth finds yours again, this time with no restraint. It’s not a question anymore. It’s a claim you’ve offered, one he accepts with hunger and something close to reverence. He lets gravity do the rest – his hands guiding your thighs as he tilts his hips and lets your weight slide down onto him. The sudden fullness draws a choked moan from you. It’s deep. Deeper than you imagined.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice strained and reverent all at once. “What a tight little thing you are.”

His thrusts are agonizing slow at first, grinding your spine against the ladder’s frame, like he’s savoring the permission. There’s no escape from the sensation. His body fills your vision, your core, your mind. His size borders on too much, and for a flicker of a second, you’re glad for the shadows. You don’t want to see how much of him is still left outside you.

He knows. Of course he knows. That deliberate pace, his strained breath – he’s done this many times before, and he acts as if he’s addicted to the rhythm and the depth with which he uses your body for his very own pleasure. He knows exactly how to give you too much, then back off just enough to make you beg for it again.

You hadn’t expected tenderness, though. Not from him. Not like this. But it’s there – buried in the precision, the restraint, the way he listens to your body even when you don’t speak.

You can’t suppress a muffled moan into his mouth. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a warning flickers – someone might hear. Your colleague, doing her final rounds before night shift really settles in. The one with the maddeningly squeaky shoes. Right now, you’re grateful for that noise; if she’s still walking, she’s not close.

You try not to make another sound but each thrust punches the air from your lungs, sharp and high. You kiss him deeper, try to smother the sounds in his mouth.

But he doesn’t let you hide.

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bare your throat, to make you loud.

“Let me hear you,” he growls. “Don’t hide those filthy little noises – they’re for me.”

When you finally moan his name, it wrecks him. He groans like he’s been holding back too long – and the rhythm turns sharper. Your thighs begin to tremble from the sheer overstimulation. But there’s no pulling back now. He’s too far gone, chasing a finish he won’t be denied. His grip tightens on your hips and spine, holding you in place like he owns the rhythm – and you with it. Your attempts to wriggle out of his grasp – more of a test than a real intention – he doesn’t register them. Or he deliberately ignores them.

This might be breaking the rules. But God, you want him to.

The metal creaks dangerously under you. You half-laugh, half-moan. “Tommy, careful. We’re going to break this thing.”

“You first,” he growls into your neck, pushing even harder as if it were a challenge for him. “I promised you.”

This fucking stepladder. It gives him the perfect angle – lets gravity do the work as he drives deeper, hips locking yours in place, no room to shift, no escape from the drag and stretch of him. Every thrust is calculated, relentless, each one sharper than the last. He uses your own weight to trap you where he wants you, pinning you there with force and precision – clearly chasing both your undoings.

You’re close. He must feel it.

Then he murmurs against your ear, voice hoarse and thick with something that breaks the last thread of restraint:

“So good for me, love. Letting me in like this. So fucking perfect.”

It shatters you.

Because suddenly, it isn’t just about dominance or hunger. It’s about being wanted. Trusted. Needed.

You break around him, trembling, gasping. He’s not far behind, chasing the high like it’s salvation, a curse dragged from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt, body locking against yours. His mouth finds your shoulder, your neck, like he can’t get close enough. The rhythm breaks, falters, and still, he doesn't let go – of your hips, your breath, the space between you.

After a moment, he shifts, careful now. His hands are gentle as he helps you off the stepladder, steadying your knees. You’re both quiet…the kind of quiet that lingers when something important just passed between two people.

You smooth down your uniform. He does it better, fingers brushing at your collar, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, lips ghosting your temple like a secret. When you carefully open the door, the hallway is still empty.

He gives you one last look, mischief flickering in those impossible blue eyes.

“You were right, Nurse Y/N. Visitor’s hour is long over.” He straightens his jacket, lips twitching with mischief. “Still, can’t say I regret overstaying.”

You keep your face neutral, your steps steady. But inside, you're a coil of nerves and want.

@jbrownta @mythicalcowboyatheart @shelbybabysblog @simpfortoomanymen @moonbeamott @gothic-chinadoll @weaponizedvirtue @ashibairo @darkdaydreamer @kristinecharmm @thehanes22

And as you walk in opposite directions, heart still thudding from more than just exertion, you already know you’ll be counting the hours until the next time he shows up – to break the rules again.

***

You liked that? You may also like "War Goddess"

>>>Check my Masterlist<<<

***

Taglist

[allie131313]

UGH I LOVE THIS!!!!

[fel-09]

Mark on the cheeks

Fluff

Author's note: you know that feeling when you just want to kiss someone's face because they have a perfect kissing face

He stood in front of the mirror as if he were having a silent conversation with himself,His fingers deftly fastened his cufflinks, his gaze heavy and collected. His tie was a little crooked, but he didn't seem to notice it.

Or he didn't care.

The morning went according to schedule: cigarette, shirt, thoughts of business same as always.

You approached him almost silently, the way rain approaches glass.

- Wait-you said, and he froze, head slightly bowed, as if he already knew what you were going to do.

You stood across from him, gently grasping the knot of his tie, smoothing it out. Your fingers lingered on his chest, just a second longer than necessary. He didn't look at you, but you could feel it: he was waiting.

You looked at his lips - tense, restrained, like everything about him. And suddenly, as if by accident, you touched the corner of his mouth with a kiss Because of you, bright red lipstick was imprinted on his face,It looked so appropriate that you couldn't help yourself.

You bit your lip , Something about that moment caught you, and you moved forward again :Kissed the other corner, A cheekbone, Chin, A feverish kiss covered his face, leaving behind a red mark each time. He didn't move - just smoked, silent, allowing it.

He stood like a stone statue, after a few minutes he slowly pulled the cigarette out of his mouth so that it wouldn't fall on the floor, As you continued, it became more and more difficult for him to breathe.

And he snapped. His palms rested on your thighs with unexpected strength-soft but determined. He lifted you in one motion, set you down on the nightstand. He moved closer. His forehead touched yours, his breath mingled with yours, and he kissed you himself-deeply, without words, with the same husky longing he usually hid behind his glassy gaze.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers sliding into his hair, kissing him greedily. For a second, the world disappeared. Everything dissolved-just you, and this morning, and your lipstick smeared on his cheekbones, his lips, his temples.

You pulled away abruptly, as if you remembered something.You laughed so hard that he had to stop and look at you Not happy with the fact that you stopped him .

- What?- he asked hoarsely.

You pointed your finger toward the mirror:

- Look at yourself.

He looked in the mirror for a long time. And then he came back to you with that smile , this was clearly a sign that you will not stay alive today.

— Does this lipstick at least wash off?

Your gaze sharpened, piercing him. You let the silence stretch, teasing him with the warmth of your breath against his skin.

— No… it’s waterproof.

He exhaled heavily, frustration laced with a husky tenderness in his tone.

— God damn you…

His hand closed around your neck, fingers pressing just a little harder than necessary, and you knew—his morning was ruined. Yet this was exactly the kind of morning he would remember far longer than any business deal.

[allie131313]

Again, I’m dying abt soft Tommy😭😭😭 amazing!!

[fel-09]

When he had too much whiskey

Fluff

Author's note: there is little canonicalness here, but it is Funny,This was written when I wanted to sleep, sorry for the mistakes

The next morning, Tommy was lying the bed, his cheek pressed against your thigh like it was a pillow. His breath was hot and heavy. The fireplace crackled in the corner, trying to warm the big house, but the true comfort came more from your care than from the firewood.

When you took out the thermometer and looked at the scale you sighed in disappointment 37.5 he was not particularly ill but still, you put your hand on its cheek.

“I told you, ‘Let’s go inside,’ but no — Mister Shelby had to go and kiss in the rain Drunk!”

He let out a soft purr, nuzzling into your palm, so familiar and warm.

“But you liked it…” he murmured hoarsely, without opening his eyes.His warm breath touched your skin, his fingers sometimes touched your tights, running his fingers up and down.

You narrowed your eyes, sighed, and in a warning tone replied:

"should I call Polly?"

"....No"

When he was sick he was...more tame or something?

Your fingers ran through his hair as he tightened his grip on your hips, burying his head in them like a cat.

[allie131313]

I love this so much😭😭😩😩

[xsweetcatastrophe]

Part 41

banner by @lau219 🤗

2 years later

to: David Cahill <[email protected]>

David,

Thanks for this pitch. I’m interested in the topic you presented, specifically the lasting effects of the use of AI in media today and if it is still considered a creative medium; such as if AI removes the emotion from pieces, is it still considered art?

Please provide 1,200 words on this and provide to me by the 15th for initial review.

Please provide any travel requests/invoices to finance and keep any receipts for reimbursements. Please provide an update on the 5th; i’d like to get a gauge of where you’re at with the piece and if you feel you need anything we can provide to help you finish.

Best,

Zoe

Zoe Parker

Writer, Editor

People and Culture

The New Yorker

Zoe clicked “send” on the email and checked the time - 5:58pm. She should have left already; she needed time to get ready.

Zoe looked out the windows of her office - her floor to ceiling windows that required her to work up the courage to get close to them and look down. Her corner office had a stunning view of the New York skyline, and when the sun set on these summer nights Zoe argued she had the best seat in the building; the sky turned a mix of orange and pink, signifying the end of another day.

Zoe still hadn’t gotten used to it yet.

Zoe felt like someone could come in and take this all away from her; like she didn’t really have this new job, this apartment, this life.

2 years ago, she was a different person.

2 years ago, she was a struggling writer in LA, barely making ends meet, unhappy, and just trying to get through each day.

2 years ago, she went through a rocky relationship - that didn’t start on the best of terms, and ended in lies, a miscarriage, and heartbreak.

2 years ago she chose to walk away from the man that made her feel alive, because he needed time.

For the longest time, if someone asked her “do you want to be with Cillian?” She would have said yes, with no hesitation.

However, when she faced that very question those 2 years ago on that balcony, with tears in her eyes, she said no.

She wanted Cillian to be happy and healthy. And if that meant she couldn’t be with him, then so be it.

I guess that’s what love is, doing whatever it takes to make someone hurt less, even though it hurts you.

~

“Are you wearing your hair up or down?” Zoe’s mom asked, voice sounding already critical of whatever Zoe would say.

“My friend is coming over to do it, I think i’m going to do a low bun with some pieces coming out and framing my face,” Zoe replied, bracing for her mom’s response.

Remember, her opinion is just that, her opinion, her therapist had said. Not every negative statement needs a response, silence is the best answer.

“I think that will look just lovely,” Zoe’s mom said, smiling facetime. “Do another twirl for me, I want to see the dress again”

“Lovely, you look just beautiful! How do I, ugh, hold on… how do I take a picture on this thing while on the facetime phone thing with you?” Zoe’s mom mumbled.

Zoe laughed. “I’ll send you pictures tomorrow. There will be a photographer there tonight so it’ll be professional pictures, not iphone quality.”

“But I want a picture now. I want to post it on the Facebook and show all the ladies from high school what a hot shot my daughter is!”

Zoe rolled her eyes, laughing at her mom’s capabilities of handling technology and social media, or lack fhereof. Before she could respond, she was interrupted by a knock on her door.

“Mom, that’s Eva. I gotta go. I’ll text you, okay?”

“Enjoy bunny. I love you.”

Zoe smiled. “I love you too.”

Zoe walked to the front door and let Eva into her apartment - a 2 bedroom apartment, with in-unit washer and dryer, and air conditioning that actually worked.

To say Zoe’s life changed from where she was 2 years ago is an understatement.

She left her job, her shitty apartment, her entire life in LA and lived with her mom for a couple months. I know, I know - Zoe was shocked when her mom offered, but she needed time away.

In those 2 years, she started therapy. She repaired the relationship with her mom - which is a constant work in progress. She worked on herself; her insecurities, her self esteem, doubts and fears. She was cracked open, broken down and built back up again.

She talked about her father. A lot. Her grief was a big topic, and how she never really confronted the loss and instead danced around it. She got over the fear of “If I don’t do this, I’m letting dad down,” and “This is what dad would have wanted me to do.”

Zoe, her therapist asked, If your dad could see how you’re living now, do you think he’d be happy?

And that day, while looking in the mirror, severely underweight, pale skin, sunken-in eyes, clothes hanging off of her.. she decided no, he would not be happy.

She started small, with eating 3 meals - REAL meals a day. She went for walks. Those walks turned into jogs. That first week, she hated jogs. “i’ll never be a person who goes for runs,” She thought.

Well, those jogs turned into runs. Every day she could run farther and farther. She began to look forward to her runs, making specific playlists for each day or picking out a podcast to listen to.

She volunteered at her niece's summer camp, helping the kids with their daily activities. She began to enjoy seeing how excited they got over scoring a goal, winning a race, or making a basket.

After 3 months, she decided she needed a job.

She wasn’t going back to Donna, but she reached out to her anyway. She reached out to all of her connections she made while working in LA.

Donna got back to her and said unfortunately, the Reader’s Digest was downsizing and on a hiring freeze.

However, she did know someone who knew someone at The New Yorker.

You can still make a difference at any magazine, Donna had said. Just submit some pieces and see what they say.

So, she did. She submitted her best work from her portfolio, with low expectations. The New Yorker was notoriously hard to work for, being one of the oldest magazines in publication. She continued to network and try to find any other magazine hiring…. Until The New Yorker reached out to her.

The salary was way more, more than double of what she was getting in LA, but as attractive as it seemed, the intimidation was screaming at her.

Feel the fear and do it anyway, her therapist had said.

So, she accepted.

6 months later, she was offered an editing position on top of a writing role. She saved enough for a deposit on a beautiful apartment, with an old picturesque stoop and trees standing tall outside the window that she watched blow from her 2nd bedroom, which she turned into her office.

She bought coffee every day from the small cafe on the corner of her street. She bought fresh cut flowers every week and had them on her windowsill, and filled the apartment with plants that had lush green vines cascading from the high shelves she placed them on.

A bookcase filled with old books, some from her father. A record player, that she played on sunday mornings when she enjoyed a bagel on the couch from the place down the street.

On the outside, it looked like Zoe was living every girl’s dream.

She was thankful, but there were times late at night where she thought back fondly on those times in her shitty apartment, on the too small couch, greasy pizza on the table, and a man who couldn’t care less about what she did or didn’t have.

“That dress is MADE for you!!!” Eva exclaimed, walking through the door with her bag of hair tools slung over her shoulder. “If I were you, I’d never take that dress off.”

“Stop, my nerves are already shot. Not to mention I have to make sure I don't get anything on it - it goes back tomorrow afternoon,” Zoe said, closing the door and following Eva into the living room.

“Why? it’s not yours?”

“Are you crazy?? This dress costs about 8 months worth of rent. Just borrowed, goes right back to the designer tomorrow.”

“What event is this, again?” Eva asked, setting her tools on the coffee table. Zoe slipped out of the dress and into a robe and sat on the floor with her back against the couch. Eva would sit on the couch to do her hair. Very informal, but this is how they both felt comfortable.

Zoe met Eva at a luncheon when she was doing the hair and makeup for one of the other editors. They bonded in the bathroom when the paper towel dispenser didn’t work and the air blower was so strong it almost knocked them off their feet.

Months later, they were great friends.

“100 Years Of The New Yorker,” Zoe replied, “It’s a dinner tonight with a carpet, and a festival for the rest of the weekend with panels and music performances.”

“Sounds too rich for my blood,” Eva replied, brushing a comb through her hair.

“Believe me, I’d like to be on the couch in sweats with Chinese right now,” Zoe replied.

She was immediately thrown back to her apartment in LA, with him coming through the door with bags of takeout from her favorite place. The grease had soaked through the bag and left a mark on the coffee table. They ran out of beer that night. They found a bottle of cheap wine under her sink. It was horrible. They laughed. They kissed. They touched each other -

“So what are we thinking?” Eva asked, bringing Zoe back to reality.

“Um, low bun, with pieces hanging?” Zoe said, trying to not think about the memories that kept flooding her mind as of late.

20 minutes later, Zoe was dressed with her hair and makeup done.

“Damn, girl, you look good,” Eva said, packing up her tools.

“Thank you,” Zoe said, avoiding eye contact. She still had trouble accepting compliments, but it’s a start.

“When is the car coming?”

“Should be here any minute now,” Zoe replied, grabbing her clutch and spraying perfume one last time.

“Thank you again, so much Eva. Next trivia night, dinner and drinks on me”

“Deal,” Eva said, zipping up her pack and sighed, gazing at Zoe. “In my next life Zoe,” Eva said, standing up behind Zoe as she looked in the full-length mirror, “I want to come back as you. You have the perfect life.”

Zoe didn’t respond.

Careful what you wish for, Eva.

“If you could work your way up through Conde Nast, you’ll be unstoppable. i’m telling ya,” Zack said, before shoveling a fork full of chicken into his mouth.

“I don’t know about that Zack, let me get through a couple years here first.” Zoe said, politely declining and hoping he gets the hint she didn’t want to engage in this topic.

“I’m just saying. They need fresh meat up there. Get to work so they notice you. You’re young, make a name for yourself.”

“I think I'm happy where I am right now Zack, but thank you.” Zoe said, now feeling awkward.

40 tables, and she gets seated next to this guy.

She knew Zack, a copywriter, meant well, but it’s that nagging pressure to be more than what she was that she couldn’t stand. She fought hard for where she is, she deserves to enjoy it for a bit.

Plus, Zack after a couple of martinis had his eyes wandering. She caught him twice looking at her chest or her legs, and she was starting to realize he didn’t care much if she caught him looking or not.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need the ladies room,” Zoe said, standing up. Zack smiled and nodded, returning his attention to his plate.

Zoe walked through the large room at The Plaza, filled with round tables of men and women dressed in their best. Amongst the crowd was not just employees, but poets, writers, novelists, and philanthropists. If you had an impact on the culture of the world in the last 20 years, you had a seat at a table.

The following day was filled with a panel of directors, hosted by Zoe’s coworker, Alyssa. Zoe was asked to host as she contributed the most to the culture part of the magazine, but gave it to Alyssa; she still had some anxiety about public speaking and Alyssa almost fell over when Zoe offered it to her.

Zoe had taken her under her wing, even though Zoe was still very new there herself. Alyssa fought her way into this job, and just seemed lost now that she had it. Zoe saw a lot of herself in Alyssa, and make sure to have weekly meetings with her to check in and see how she was doing with her work and articles.

Be the person you needed when you were that age, she thought.

After Alyssa’s panel was the Film Festival portion, where they will be screening 3 movies that were also selected for the Cannes Film Festival.

It was Zoe’s favorite part of the weekend, the event she looked forward to the most.

As the sound of the large room got softer, the click of her heels against the marble got louder as she searched for a bathroom. She was ushered down a hall where she could spot the ladies lounge.

She didn’t need the bathroom, she just needed a minute. A moment of silence from all the noise.

Okay, 1 more hour and i’ll call the car and leave, she told herself.

She got a couple feet before the opposite door of the men’s room opened.

She froze.

He wore a black suit, but no bow tie. His shoes were so shiny and looked so stiff, they must be brand new and uncomfortable. His shirt and pants were pressed to perfection. She swore she could smell his cologne from here. The top button of his shirt was left undone. He always hated things like this.

The haircut. That god damn haircut, styled the best it could, although grown out a decent amount. A week or two it would be full length again.

Lips a little chapped. Eyes still sky blue, staring wide at her.

He blinked.

He smiled.

He spoke first.

“Hi, Bunny.”

tags: @lau219 @shopgirl6us @cillianmurphyvevo @bleakmidwinter00 @amelyyyyy @teawonderfultea-blog1 @lavender-haze-01 @cillianinlove @supershadowymiraclestudent @allie131313 @borntodiemp3 @kikimurphys

[allie131313]

My tummy is so full of butterflies rn😭😭😭

[garrison-girl-08]

Quick To Judge

Pairing - Thomas Shelby and Reader (Modern)

One shot

"Hold the door!" a deep voice boomed, just as the doors to the lift were about to close. Balancing your coffee and leather file in one hand, you reached out to press the hold button. The doors instantly reopened as a man entered your view, holding a little boy's hand. Without a word of thanks or a glance in your direction, he walked in.

"You're welcome," you responded with a click of your tongue. You hated rude people, it was just common courtesy to say please and thank you. The man's head turned to look at you, and you swore the breath left your body. Piercing blue eyes burning into you, a deep scowl on his face.

"What was that you said, ey?" he asked, with a look you swore could turn you to stone.

Pushing your shoulders back, you glared back at him. He was not going to intimidate you. "I said... you're welcome for holding the door, you know if you had actually said thank you," Rolling your eyes, you smiled down at the little boy. The same blue eyes as his Dad staring right back at you.

"Welcome," the little boy giggled, looking up at you and waving. "Hi, lady," He appeared to be about two years old, with sandy blonde hair, unlike the man with him.

Your expression softened before you waved back to him. He was so cute. "Hi, I see you have some manners," you replied, raising your eyebrow at the man who was still staring at you.

Shaking his head, he man bent to pick up the boy. Holding him with one arm, as his suit jacket tightened around his bicep. "Let's leave the lady to drink her chai latte, or whatever the f... fudge it is." He corrected before swearing.

Who did this prick think he was? You had never met someone as rude as he was. Turning to face him, you took a long, deliberate sip of your coffee while glaring at him. How long was this lift ride?

"Judgey much?" you scoffed, "It's a double espresso, actually." Grinning, you shook the takeaway cup in front of his face. Gaining no reaction.

The man was now scrolling through his phone, with the toddler balanced on his other hip. Hmm, no wedding ring. Clearly a businessman, considering the way he was dressed. You wondered where he was going in this building, with a toddler. There were no residential units; it was all office space.

"Didn't ask," he eventually mumbled, looking up before his eyes slowly raked over your body.

Your mouth actually dropped open in shock. What was his problem?

“Me down," the boy spoke, before his Dad set him back onto the floor as the doors opened. Thank you! Now you could escape this arrogant man. Hooking your handbag onto your shoulder, you waited for him to move.

With a smirk on his face, the man held out an arm while holding the boy's hand. "Ladies first," he winked cheekily. He actually winked at you! And oh ... yes... of course he was exiting on the same floor.

"And they say chivalry is dead," you muttered, shoving past him, as you waved to the little boy. "Bye-bye, cutie."

"Bye bye, cutie," the little boy repeated, his voice filled with innocence.

Hearing the man chuckle behind you, you continued walking along the vast corridor. This floor was still empty; this was the last part of the building to be leased. Checking your watch, you placed your now empty coffee and folder onto the nearest windowsill. Your client should be here anytime now.

Touching up your lipstick, you smoothed down your dress. You heard movement behind you, and as you spun around, you found the man standing there, still holding the little boy's hand. No way.... absolutely no way....

"Miss Y/L/N, I presume?" he smirked, raising that goddamn eyebrow again. Shit... be professional, Y/n. You needed the commission from this office space.

Your head darted to the folder in your hand, then back to him.

Shelby Company Limited.

"Mr Shelby?" you questioned, chastising yourself for how meek your voice sounded. He was not going to rattle you. You were a strong, independent woman; you were good at your job.

"The one and only," he answered cockily, holding his hand out to you. Waiting for you to shake it, "This is my son, Charlie," he added, as you shook his hand. Your palms were sweating, how embarrassing! Pulling away hastily, you wiped your hands along your dress.

"Sorry, it's a hot one today," you let out a nervous chuckle. "Nice to meet you, and you Charlie," You added, bending down to his level, "Do you like Jammie Dodgers?"

He nodded eagerly, biting his lip. "If it's ok with your Dad," You looked back up at Mr Shelby, "Is he allowed one?"

"Of course, Miss Y/L/N," he answered, as you rummaged around in your bag. You always kept snacks with you. "I've never known anyone to keep biscuits in a Coach handbag," he added, now leaning against the window frame, arms folded.

"I have a sweet tooth," you giggled nervously, and handed two biscuits to Charlie.

"I bet...." he responded, tilting his head to observe the curve of your ass as you bent over. Hmm ... he thought... he could do with a fuck. It had been weeks... if Charlie wasn't here, he was sure he could charm you into dropping your panties and fucking you against this office window.

Straightening up, you cleared your throat and turned to face him. "Listen, Mr. Shelby, I apologise for the," you pointed to the lift. "It was unprofessional,"

He took a slow, intentional step towards you. "Never apologise when you are not the one in the wrong, Miss Y/L/N," his eyes burned into yours. "I was a prick, I had a ….long morning. Shall we start again?"

"Please," you answered, sounding as though you were begging.

"Yummy!" Charlie exclaimed, wiping his hands across his white T-shirt.

Taking a tissue out of his pocket, Mr Shelby bent down to wipe his son's hands. "I had no option but to bring this one." he explained, "It's just me and him, and well I had no childcare today."

A hot single Daddy?" Yes, please.... no... no... stop, Y/n... Mind on the job...

"No problem, Mr Shelby," you smiled sweetly, "Let me show you the office space."

The remainder of the meeting continued seamlessly, revealing him to be a genuinely nice guy. As he spoke, a warm smile graced his face, illuminating the room. And was that a dimple?

He shared details about his family business, naming various companies they owned. And within just five minutes, he agreed to sign the lease.

Stepping outside into the warm sunlight, you shook his hand and gave Charlie a high five. "I will email the contract over this afternoon."

"Can I get your number?" he blurted out, "Your personal number? I might need to discuss further details. Also…I get hungry around seven on a Friday night. See...I know this little Italian on South Street,"

"Ah.... I see," you smiled back, "I will let you know when I email you. Bye for now,"

With a little wave, you sashayed away, wiggling your hips as you went…..

Tags- @cloudofdisney @loveableasshole @goldensunflowe-r @captivatedbycillianmurphy

@cyphah @outlanderuniverse @kikimurphys @elleinex0x0

@weaponizedvirtue

@lauren-raines-x @katsav17 @answer-the-sirens @kathrinemelissa

@cherrycilly    @ietss    @meadowshelby   @gooonmooon @sparda1234

@dan-the-womans-blog @thehanes22 @anilovessadbooks @mrsnms @legoemma

@cljordan-imperium  @peakyscillian @newbarrel

@already-broken144 @muhahaha303 @kmc1989 @lilorphanann

@amberpanda99 @bernelflo @trixie23 @globetrotter28 @in0320

@girlwith-thepearlearring @zunin-msty @shazwan-walker @crispynutella @snowtargaryen

@neonpurplestars89-blog  @bvxygriimes @nandinik-blog1 @gentlebeari @hagarsays

@datewithgianni @geminiwolves @lyarr24 @ysmmsy

@mysticaldeanvoidhorse @dolllol2405 @nikkialex @padfootdaredmetoo @cheekybluefox

@stevie75 @cevans-winchester @shadow-hunters-lover @look-at-the-soul @kikimurphys

@livelifewondering @duckybird101 @watercolorskyy @lespendy @raychhh @brummiereader

@dressedinpoetrysblog @cillmequick @castellandiangelo @midnightmagpiemama @rnurse-kole

@elenavampire21 @angelic-kisses13

@niktwazny303 @kxnnxy @aprilsfrog05 @meadows5

@galactict3a @honeymoon8

[allie131313]

The queen is back and she is back with a smash hit!!!! Wow I love this!!! It’s so cute and funny!! Little Charlie is absolutely adorable😭😭

[mysaintkitten]

Hoping this doesn’t get taken down … but I think about this scene SOOOOO often <\3 he’s so eager to make her feel good 😵‍💫😵‍💫

[allie131313]

Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh 🥵

[kinkyniragi]

Cillian Murphy Subby Husband Headcanon

Had to get this out of my system because… look at him. Peak loyal, long-term husband material. Just had to torture myself with thoughts of the most devoted – and, let’s be honest, surely secretly the filthiest – cutiepie alive.

Bites his lip when you undress him like he’s a gift you’re unwrapping slowly

Whimpers into your neck when you wrap your legs around him

Would let you do anything if you kiss his forehead first

Eyes roll back when you grab his hair and tell him to stay right there

Begs to eat you out. Moans when he tastes you. Yes, he moans. And when you ask why, he says it’s because “you always let me have what I need.” Feels a little too dirty every time he kisses you after and lets you taste your own juices. Can’t stop though – it turns him on too much.

Would love for you to lick his balls (and lower), but would never dare ask. Nearly cries when you just do it because you want to.

Pauses to look at you during sex, as if he needs to remember the exact moment you let him have you like this. Loves resting his length along your stomach, hips pressed to your entrance, just to marvel at how much your tight little pussy can take.

Asks, every time, if he’s allowed to be rough with you (he loves it very much, but only with your very clear consent). And even when you say yes, he double-checks halfway through with a breathless, “Still okay, love?”

Loses his rhythm when you tell him you want him harder, like the words short-circuit his brain.

Will hold your hips down and make you take every inch, but apologizes after when he sees the tears in your eyes, even if they're from pleasure.

Kisses your ankle when he’s pinning your legs back, almost tender enough to distract you from how deep he’s going.

Thanks you when you let him take you from behind. Like it’s a privilege, not a given.

Asks permission to finish – “Can I? Please?” Lets out these quiet, incredibly cute whimpers when he comes – like he doesn’t want to disturb you or take up too much space. Sometimes cries when you made him cum inside you.

Presses his forehead to yours after sex and whispers, “Was that what you needed?” Like he’s desperate to get it right, not just the rhythm, but you.

Needs a moment to collect himself after making you come – it overwhelms him

Sometimes buries his face in your chest after sex because he can’t handle how much he feels

Holds you after like he’s afraid you might disappear, even when you’re both sweating and shaking. Looks wrecked when you tell him you need him, because deep down, he still can’t believe you do.

Taglist

@jbrownta @mythicalcowboyatheart @shelbybabysblog @simpfortoomanymen @moonbeamott @gothic-chinadoll @weaponizedvirtue @ashibairo @darkdaydreamer @kristinecharmm @thehanes22

[allie131313]

Bro… I NEED him😭😭😭

[cillslover]

Hey!!!!! I love ur writing! Can you please do a Tommy Shelby imagine. Where the reader and him have been a thing since forever but not official bc he doesn’t want her involved anymore in the business set in season 1 she’s super stubborn and they get into a fight about it. So to show she’s smarter then he thinks she runs away for a few days and he’s going crazy not being able to find her and she walks in like nothing happened for a family meeting about where she is. Idk if that makes sense but I’ve been thinking about it lol! Thank you!

The Ghost in His Life

Pairings: Thomas Shelby x Female Reader

Warnings: emotional conflict, mentions of trauma, emotional avoidance, abandonment, fear of loss, mental exhaustion.

Summary: Thomas Shelby keeps Y/N at arm’s length to protect her, but after an argument, she disappears to prove she’s stronger than he thinks. Her absence drives him to the edge — until she walks back in, forcing him to face what’s always been true: she’s his, and always has been.

A/N: Hiii!! Thank you so much for this I actually enjoyed writing it so much, this is so season 1 Tommy! I feel like he so would've pulled something like this! I hope you enjoy and love reading this xx

────────────────────

The betting shop reeked of stale smoke, cheap ink, and unspoken tension.

Y/N stood in the doorway of Tommy’s office, one hand gripping the frame, the other clenched at her side. The door was open, which meant she was allowed in, but the way he hadn’t so much as glanced up from his paperwork told her exactly what kind of welcome she’d get.

He sat behind his desk, head bent, a cigarette burning between his fingers, the ash long and unshed. The lamplight flickered gold against his cheekbones, his brow furrowed in concentration, but she knew that look. Knew when he was truly focused — and when he was hiding in the numbers to avoid everything else.

She stepped in slowly, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

“You’ve been sleeping here again,” she said. No greeting. Just fact.

He didn’t answer.

Her boots echoed on the wooden floor as she walked to the desk. She stopped on the other side, arms crossing tight over her chest.

“It’s been three days, Tommy.”

Still nothing. He dragged on the cigarette and finally lifted his eyes to hers. Those pale, unreadable blues.

“You keeping count now?” he asked.

She held his gaze. “No one else will.”

A beat of silence. His jaw worked as he glanced back down at the ledger.

“I’ve been busy,” he muttered.

“I’m not asking where you’ve been,” she said quietly. “I know where you’ve been. I’m asking why you won’t come home.”

He looked at her again, slower this time. There was something tired in his face, not from lack of sleep, but from the weight he always carried, pressed down hard on those sharp shoulders. He looked at her like he didn’t know what to say. Or worse — like he knew exactly what not to say.

“You’re not my wife, Y/N.”

That was it.

It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even cold. It was just… practical. Straight from the mouth of Thomas Shelby — businessman, soldier, sinner, strategist.

She blinked. A tiny breath caught in her throat, but she swallowed it.

“Right,” she said. “No, I’m not. But I’m everything else, aren’t I?”

He didn’t speak.

“I’m the one who sits beside you after a job’s gone south,” she said, voice shaking now. “The one who irons your shirts when you’ve bled on them, who lies awake at night listening to you breathe just to make sure you’re still here. I’m the one Polly calls when she can’t get through to you, and the one Ada glares at when you’re being a bastard because she knows I’ll actually say it to your face.”

Still, silence.

“I’m the one who knows how to tell when your hand starts shaking from a nightmare, even when you don’t say a word,” she added. “And I’m the one who waits for you. Always. And yet… you won’t even say it out loud.”

He leaned back in the chair, eyes flicking away. “You want me to say you’re mine?”

She stepped closer. “I want you to believe it. Enough to stop hiding behind this bullshit idea that you're protecting me.”

“You think this is bullshit?” His voice was low now, a warning.

She didn’t flinch. “I think it’s cowardice.”

Something snapped in his expression, a twitch at the corner of his jaw, a flare in his eyes.

“You think I don’t want to call you mine?” he said, slowly standing. “You think I don’t wake up every fucking morning wanting to put a ring on your finger and keep you locked away where none of this — none of them — can touch you?”

She took a step back, not from fear — never from fear — but to breathe. To let him speak.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said. “Every person I’ve ever loved, everything I’ve tried to hold on to — this world takes it from me. It rips it out of my hands.”

“You’re not holding me,” she said, voice cracking. “That’s the problem. You’re standing behind me, just close enough to catch me if I fall, but never close enough to make it clear I don’t have to walk alone.”

His chest rose and fell, quick and uneven. For the first time in weeks, he looked shaken. Vulnerable.

“I’m not everyone, Tommy,” she said. “I’m not some fantasy. I’m real. I’m flesh and blood and I know what I’m walking into. And I still choose you.”

He turned away, his hands on his hips, exhaling a long, tired breath.

“You don’t get to choose,” he muttered.

“Yes. I do.”

She moved around the desk, reached out and touched his arm. He flinched, not from her, but from himself. From the war still echoing in his bones.

“You don’t think I’m strong enough,” she whispered.

He looked at her, eyes flickering with something sharp — fear. Guilt.

“I think you're smarter than this,” he said. “I think you're clever enough to walk away before this thing chews you up like it has me.”

“And I think you're using that to push me out,” she said. “Because you think love is a weakness. But it’s not. It’s the only fucking thing keeping you human.”

The air hung heavy between them.

And then she stepped back. Her hand dropped.

“You know what, Tommy?” she said, softer now. Almost tender. “I don’t want to be the secret anymore. I don’t want to be the half-life you hold onto when the world’s quiet.”

She walked to the door. He didn’t stop her. Not this time.

“I’ll be back,” she said, turning the handle. “When you’re ready to admit I’ve always been yours.”

Then she left.

And this time, she didn’t look back.

---

Thomas hadn’t slept in four days.

Not really.

He dozed sometimes, but never long enough for the smoke in his chest to clear or the ache behind his eyes to dull. She was gone. Not dead, not missing in the way the police cared about — but vanished all the same.

And it was his fault.

No one said it. Not aloud. But he saw it in the way Ada rolled her eyes every time he opened his mouth. In the way Polly watched him with tight-lipped pity. In the way Arthur had stopped making jokes. Even Finn had gone quiet around him.

She’d been gone for six days now.

Six days since she stood in his office, told him she was tired of being a ghost, and walked away like her spine was made of steel. He kept expecting her to come back, slam the betting shop door open, toss her coat onto the nearest chair, and glare at him until he cracked a smile.

But she didn’t. And the silence was starting to rot.

The morning of the family meeting, the betting shop was unusually still. Gray light seeped through the windows. Dust hung in the air. Tommy sat at his desk again — same chair, same cigarette. Except now, the ledgers were untouched. The numbers blurred every time he looked down.

Polly entered first, her heels sharp against the wood. “You need to pull yourself together,” she said by way of greeting.

Tommy didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” She sat across from him. “You’re starting to forget where you are. I caught you calling one of the lads ‘Danny.’ Danny’s been dead nearly a year, Tommy.”

His jaw tightened. “It’s not your business.”

“It is my business when the man in charge of this family is pacing the floor like he’s lost his bloody soul.”

He said nothing.

Polly leaned forward, dropping her voice. “You miss her.”

That got a flicker of something behind his eyes. “She’s not mine to miss.”

Polly snorted. “Don’t be a coward. You’ve been hers since she was nineteen and slapped you in the middle of the Garrison for staring too long.”

“She deserved better than this,” he muttered.

Polly’s voice softened. “She chose this, love. She chose you. Don’t punish her for surviving the storm better than you thought she would.”

Tommy stood suddenly, restless, pacing toward the window.

“She said I was a coward,” he said, quiet now. “Said I was keeping her at arm’s length because I didn’t believe she was strong enough. Maybe she was right.”

Polly tilted her head. “And was she?”

He didn’t answer.

By the time Arthur, John, and Finn filed in for the meeting, Tommy was back in the chair, cigarette lit, expression carved from stone.

“What’s this about then?” John asked, dropping into a seat. “Pol said it was urgent.”

“It’s about the arms shipment,” Tommy lied. “We need to move it faster than planned.”

Arthur frowned. “Now? You’ve barely said a word all week and suddenly we’re going full tilt?”

“We don’t wait,” Tommy said. “We move.”

John raised a brow. “Right. Because rushing things always ends well.”

Tommy shot him a glare, and John leaned back with a smirk. “Touchy, are we?”

“Shut up, John,” Polly snapped. “Let’s just get on with it.”

The meeting dragged. Tommy spoke in clipped commands, eyes rarely leaving the window. His fingers tapped restlessly on the table. Finn watched him quietly, brow furrowed — the kid might’ve been young, but even he knew when his older brother was unraveling.

Midway through the meeting, Ada arrived. She didn’t bother knocking.

“Still pretending nothing’s wrong?” she said, arms crossed. “Or are we just ignoring the fact that your girlfriend’s disappeared and you’re pretending she never existed?”

Tommy didn’t move.

“She’s not my—”

“Don’t,” Polly said sharply. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

There was a heavy silence.

Then— The front door opened.

No knock. No announcement.

Just the slow, familiar sound of boots on tile.

Tommy froze.

Everyone turned as she stepped into the room.

Y/N.

Hair tied back messily. A worn trench coat hanging open. Eyes calm — almost too calm. And she carried herself like she hadn’t been gone six days, like she wasn’t the reason half the Shelby family had been tiptoeing around their broken leader all week.

She paused in the doorway, then lifted a brow. “Is this a bad time?”

The room was silent.

Then Arthur stood. “Jesus Christ—”

John exhaled, laughing under his breath. “Well, fuck me.”

Polly smiled faintly. “About time.”

But Tommy didn’t speak.

He didn’t move.

Y/N walked into the room slowly, eyes on him. “I heard there was a family meeting. Thought I’d drop in.”

“You just… stroll in?” Ada asked, stunned. “After disappearing for a bloody week?”

“I needed air,” Y/N said, shrugging. “And perspective.”

“You could’ve said something,” Finn mumbled.

She looked over at him with something like affection. “Sorry, Finn. You’re the only one I might’ve told.”

Tommy stood.

Slowly. Carefully. Like if he moved too fast, she might vanish again.

“Where were you?” he asked.

She tilted her head. “Why? You gonna punish me for running?”

“No,” he said. “I just need to know you’re alright.”

“I was fine. I still am.”

“You could’ve been hurt.”

“You’re the one who taught me how to throw a punch, Tommy. I managed.”

His jaw clenched. “You did this to prove a point.”

“I did it because you needed to know I exist outside of you.” Her voice cracked. “I’m not just the woman who waits around for Thomas Shelby to maybe decide I’m worth the risk.”

“Of course you’re worth the risk,” he snapped.

“Then say it.”

The silence that followed was louder than any explosion.

He took a step forward.

“I haven’t eaten. I haven’t slept. I’ve sent men out looking. I went to the train station every night because I thought you might’ve gone back to your sister’s in Manchester.”

Y/N blinked.

“I didn’t think you’d come back.”

She held his gaze. “I wasn’t sure I would.”

He stepped closer again. “I’ve never been more afraid in my life.”

That broke something in her.

“You’re not supposed to be afraid,” she whispered. “You’re Thomas Shelby.”

“I’m just a man,” he said. “A man who loves a woman too much to watch the world gut her because she carries his name.”

Y/N stared at him, eyes shimmering.

Polly stood up quietly and nodded at the others. “Out. All of you.”

Arthur groaned. “But—”

“Out.”

The room emptied quickly.

Leaving only them.

She stepped forward, stopping just in front of him.

“You said I could walk away,” she whispered.

“I lied.”

She swallowed. “I can’t keep waiting for you to stop being afraid.”

“Then don’t,” he said softly. “Don’t wait.”

She looked at him — really looked at him. He looked tired, like he’d aged a decade in six days. But his eyes — they were wide open now. No shadows. No lies.

Just him.

He reached for her hand, fingers cold and trembling. When she didn’t pull away, he laced their hands together and pressed her knuckles to his lips.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

“I wasn’t gone,” she whispered back. “You just couldn’t see me.”

His breath hitched. “Come home.”

“I’ll come home,” she said. “But only if you stop pretending I’m a ghost in your life.”

He nodded.

“I’ll tell everyone,” he said. “Anyone who asks. You’re mine.”

“And you’re mine,” she said. “You always were. You just didn’t know how to say it.”

He pulled her into him, his hands threading into her hair, her coat, her very being.

She buried her face in his shoulder, eyes shut tight. And for the first time in weeks — maybe months — he breathed.

[allie131313]

This is breathtaking… wow..

[iheartsophie]

WHAT YOU NEVER SAID | tommy shelby

^ྀི request: Hi!!!!! I love your writing can u do a tommy Shelby imagine where the reader has been close to the Shelby family and in the business since the war her and Tommy’s relationship is different then the rest and she gets asked on a date by someone in the garrison shes says yes bc she’s jealous of grace and he never picks her up she knows exactly why and confronts Tommy. They fight and his true feelings finally come out! Something along those lines thank u!

^ྀི pairing: Tommy Shelby x reader

^ྀི genre: angst, little bit of fluff at the end

^ྀི context: After the war, Tommy Shelby returns home colder, distant, and seemingly uninterested in the woman who’s loved him for years. As he gives his attention to Grace, the reader accepts a date out of jealousy—only to be stood up. When she confronts Tommy, everything finally boils over, and he confesses he’s loved her since before the war.

^ྀི sophie speaks!: i love angst in peaky blinder fics 💋

You’d known the Shelby boys your whole life, but you’d only ever loved one.

Thomas Michael Shelby.

Before the war, he was always around. Smirking across the betting shop floor. Sitting on the steps of Polly’s house with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Pulling you into the kitchen and handing you a cup of tea like it meant something.

And maybe it had.

Because there were glances that lingered too long. Little things—like how he always asked if you’d gotten home safe, or how he’d walk you part of the way without saying a word. He never kissed you. But he didn’t need to. You’d have waited forever if you thought he’d ask.

But then the war came.

And he left.

And when he came back… he was someone else.

At first, you gave him space. Everyone said he’d been through hell. And you understood. He wasn’t the only one who’d lost something over there.

But then months passed. He worked late. Smoked too much. He looked straight through you most days. You told yourself he was busy, that it wasn’t personal.

Until Grace Burgess arrived.

She was sweet. Blonde. Polite in that well-practiced way. But she didn’t know him. Not like you did.

And yet every time you walked into The Garrison, she was behind the bar, smiling soft at him while he leaned in just close enough to let her think she was special.

It made you sick.

But you stayed silent. Because what would it change?

He’d made his choice.

So when a man—well-dressed and a bit nervous—asked if he could take you out for a drink one night, you said yes. Just loud enough for Tommy to hear as he sat across the room with Grace. You met his eye when you said it.

He didn’t react.

Not a flicker of jealousy. Not even a grunt.

But something about the way he put out his cigarette—with a sharp twist and a final press—made a chill crawl up your spine.

⸻

The night of the “date,” you sat in your nicest dress, coat buttoned, hair pinned, standing outside your flat on the corner of Watery Lane.

You waited.

And waited.

By half-past eight, it was obvious.

He wasn’t coming.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t pace. You just stood there for a minute, heart hard in your chest, before turning on your heel and heading straight for The Garrison.

It was busy, but not loud. Familiar faces. Familiar smoke.

You saw Tommy instantly—sat at his usual booth, waistcoat crisp, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He had a whiskey in front of him and that unreadable look in his eyes.

He watched you approach. Calm. Cold.

“You’re late,” he said.

You stopped in front of him. “You’re a bastard.”

He leaned back in his chair like he’d been expecting it.

“What’d I do now?”

“You know damn well what you did,” you hissed, voice low. “You threatened him.”

Tommy’s brow ticked. “Did I?”

“Don’t play stupid. You scared him off.”

He lit a cigarette. Didn’t look at you. “Maybe he just realised who you are.”

“Oh, fuck off with that.”

He blew smoke toward the ceiling. “He was a coward. Soft hands. Wouldn’t last five minutes near this family.”

“He didn’t have to marry me,” you snapped. “It was just a drink. And he would’ve showed—if you hadn’t interfered.”

Now he looked at you. Steady. Sharp. “And if he kissed you at the end of that drink, what then?”

You froze.

“You jealous, Tommy?” you asked, but your voice was tight. Shaky.

He stood slowly. “I don’t like strangers touching what’s mine.”

That did it.

“Yours?” You laughed, incredulous. “You haven’t looked at me in months. You flirt with Grace like she hung the bloody moon. You cut me out of meetings, leave me behind on runs. But the moment someone else shows interest—suddenly I’m yours?”

He didn’t answer.

The bar had gone quiet around you.

“Jesus, Tom.” Your voice cracked. “I’ve loved you since before the war.”

His eyes flickered, but his face was stone.

“And you’ve done nothing but push me away.”

You turned, heart hammering, eyes stinging. But then his hand caught your wrist.

“Y/N,” he said.

You stopped.

“I thought I’d lost the right.”

You looked back, slowly.

“I came home… wrong. Angry. Cold. You looked at me like I was still that lad from before and I couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the way you believed in me like nothin’ had changed. Like I wasn’t different.”

His hand loosened on your arm.

“I didn’t want to ruin the picture you had of me.”

You blinked hard. “So what, Tom? You punished me for it?”

He exhaled through his nose. “I stayed away because I didn’t want you to see what I am now.”

You stepped closer, your voice softer now. “And what are you now?”

His jaw clenched. He met your eyes. “A man who wakes up every night thinking he’s in a trench. A man who drinks to forget he left bodies behind. But mostly…”

His voice dipped. Almost a whisper.

“…a man who still loves the girl he left behind.”

You swallowed thickly.

“I used to write your name on letters I never sent,” he murmured. “I’d look for you in every dream and every bloody nightmare. I never stopped.”

Your throat felt tight, burning.

“You never said anything.”

“I was scared I’d ruin it,” he admitted. “I ruin everything.”

You stared at him.

Then, quietly: “You haven’t ruined me. Not yet.”

He stepped closer.

“And you haven’t ruined your chance. Not yet.”

His lips parted slightly, and he looked at you like he was afraid to breathe.

“Tell me to stop,” he said. “And I’ll walk away.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you leaned in, your forehead against his.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle. It was five years of longing, of missed chances, of jealousy and hurt and silence all crashing at once.

He held your face like he was scared you’d disappear. Your hands fisted in the front of his coat, grounding yourself in the heat of him.

And when you finally pulled apart, breathless, he rested his forehead against yours again.

“Let me fix this,” he whispered. “Let me make up for all the months I pushed you away.”

You looked at him, eyes soft now.

“Start with a drink.”

He blinked. “Now?”

You smirked. “It is The Garrison, isn’t it?”

He let out a low chuckle, one hand still on your waist.

And for the first time in years, it felt like before the war.

Only better.

Because this time… you weren’t waiting anymore.

[allie131313]

This is absolutely amazing!!!

[cillslover]

hiii💗how are you?

i don't really know if you're accepting applications but i had a fun idea🙂‍↕️

about a modern tommy (maybe) who is married to the reader younger than him and at some business dinner introduces him as "my current husband" like that tiktok trend (hope you've seen it if this doesn't make much sense🤣)

and tommy is like "what the fuck do you mean by your current husbandಠಿ⁠_⁠ಠ" and the reader tells her something like he's older than her and he'll die soon or something like that haha, maybe it's not a business meeting, it could be a conversation between them.😂🤷🏻‍♀️

by the way, i love the not hungry series, it's fantastic and always has my emotions on edge.💗💗💗

i know I said with tommy but if you think it's better with cillian that's fine too, please only take this if you like it and it makes you feel comfortable!💗💗🫂

My Current Husband

Pairings: Thomas Shelby x Female Reader

Warnings: build up to sexual content, possessive behaviour, explicit language, just possessive jealous Thomas really and Y/N loves it when he's rough and all.

Summary: When Y/N jokingly introduces Tommy as her "current husband" during a high-stakes business meeting, she doesn’t expect the storm it brews behind his sharp blue eyes.

A/N: Hiii, thank you so much for this request, I love it so much ahah! Yes lmao I know the trend on TikTok its so funny, and having Thomas experience it is quite the ordeal. I tried to keep it more in Tommy's nature and all though and added some smut, but didn't really get into it because I didn't know if you wanted that many smutty scenes. I hope you like it!! Also, thank you so much for liking the 'not hungry' series that means so much to me 💗 and yes requests are open so everyone, please send me them I looooveeee writing y'all's ideas!

────────────────────

The room was cutthroat.

Cigarette smoke curled toward the dim ceiling lights, glasses clinked softly against the polished table surface, and money danced like a ghost between conversations. It wasn’t Small Heath, but Y/N fit in like she’d been born in the smoke and steel of it. Her red lipstick didn’t smudge even once as she led the business meeting, her voice cool, razor-edged.

This wasn’t just another legitimate front, they were merging logistics routes with a rival-turned-partner company, and the men in suits across from her weren’t used to a woman speaking with more power than them. But they listened. Because she was power.

And Thomas Shelby sat to her right, legs crossed, cigarette between his fingers, eyes on her and only her.

She was fire. He always knew it. But watching her command the table like this… watching her become what others feared he already was—it was a pride few men could hold in their chest without bursting.

But then she did it.

That sentence.

That little flick of her wrist toward him as she introduced him to the executives from London.

“This is my current husband, Thomas Shelby.”

It was said with the air of confidence only a woman who knew her husband could kill men for breathing too loud could say. A subtle smirk ghosted her lips. She moved on, like nothing had happened.

Tommy’s head slowly turned.

His cigarette paused mid-air.

There was a flicker of something behind his eyes—not rage, not yet—but that still, lethal calm that made even Arthur sit straighter. He didn't say a word. Not yet. He let the meeting play out, every so often tilting his head, lighting another cigarette, eyes burning holes into the side of her skull.

She didn’t look at him.

She knew.

By the time they were in the backseat of the black car driving them home, she could feel the tension like a noose around her neck. She sat back against the leather, legs crossed, fingers toying with the rings on her hand.

Tommy didn’t speak. Not even to tell the driver which way.

The street lamps flickered past the windows.

“I can feel you staring,” she said finally, smirking faintly, voice soft like a threat.

Tommy leaned forward, lit another cigarette, the flame highlighting the sharp line of his cheekbones. “Didn’t realise I was only current, love.”

She turned to him, feigning surprise. “Oh, so that’s what this is about?”

He said nothing.

But his jaw clenched.

A storm was building.

When they got home, the moment the front door slammed behind them, silence hung.

Y/N made a beeline for the kitchen, heels clicking. She poured herself a glass of whiskey, took a sip, and turned, casually leaning against the counter.

Tommy stood in the doorway like a shadow.

One hand in his trouser pocket, the other brushing his lips. Still silent.

“You going to speak or glare at me until I turn to stone?” she teased.

The silence snapped.

“What the fuck do you mean by your current husband?”

His voice thundered through the house like a bullet. Sharp. Cold. Deadly.

She blinked, lips twitching.

“Exactly what I said,” she said with a shrug. “You are my current husband, aren’t you?”

He stepped forward. “You think this is a fucking joke?”

“I know it’s a joke,” she quipped, laughing, unfazed. “Jesus, Tom. I said it to ruffle some feathers. Look at you—you’re completely rattled.”

He didn’t find it funny.

Not even a little.

His blue eyes glinted under the low light. He looked like a man who’d slit someone’s throat for bumping into her at a bar.

“You said it in front of five executives who know I ran guns for the King,” he growled, voice low, thick with heat. “You said it in front of men who already thought I wasn’t good enough for you. Who’ve spent the last year wondering how the hell you ended up with me.”

“You’re spiraling,” she said, sipping her whiskey with a smirk. “God, I love it.”

But he was already walking toward her, slow, lethal steps across the wooden floor. “You think being married to me is some trial run? That I’m replaceable?”

“I never said that,” she replied smoothly. “But you’re older than me, sweetheart. You’ll probably die soon anyway. Gotta start prepping for husband number two.”

The words were a joke.

But she said them just to watch what they did to him.

And it worked.

He was across the kitchen in a flash, knocking the glass out of her hand. It shattered against the floor, whiskey seeping into the cracks. His hand slammed on the counter behind her, trapping her in.

His other hand gripped her jaw gently—but firm enough to command her attention.

His voice was gravel, low and furious.

“You belong to me,” he growled. “This is not a lease, Y/N. This is forever.”

Her smile was slow, wicked. “I know.”

“You are my wife.”

“I know.”

“I’ll outlive any man who thinks he has a chance after me.”

“I’m counting on it,” she whispered, pupils wide, breath uneven.

“You think this is a fucking game,” he murmured, forehead resting against hers now. “You want me like this, don’t you?”

She smirked. “I do.”

His grip tightened just slightly on her jaw. “You want me to remind you who you married?”

“Mm-hmm.”

He kissed her then—hard, rough, hungry.

The kind of kiss that burned down the room.

The kind of kiss that said mine.

Clothes began to loosen, breaths grew louder, hotter.

Hands slipped lower.

His mouth moved down her throat, voice rasping against her skin—

“Say it again.”

“What?”

“Who the fuck you belong to.”

She gasped, laughing, “You, Tommy. I’m yours.”

The kitchen dissolved into a haze of heat and shadow, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke. Tommy’s lips were relentless, trailing fire down Y/N’s throat, his hands possessive, claiming every inch of her as if she might vanish if he let go. Her laughter, that teasing, defiant edge, only fueled him further. She’d lit the match, and now the blaze was consuming them both.

“Forever,” she said, her voice a sultry whisper, but there was a glint in her eye that said she wasn’t done playing. Not yet.

Tommy’s hand slid from her jaw to her waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, pulling her flush against him. His breath was hot against her ear, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine. “You think you can say shit like that and walk away, eh? Calling me your current husband in front of those pricks and laugh it off?”

Y/N tilted her head back, exposing more of her throat to his lips, her smirk unyielding. “I said it to see how far I could push you, Tommy. And look at you—losing it. I love it when you’re like this.”

His eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind those icy blues. “You love it, do you?” His hand tightened on her hip, the other sliding up her back, fingers tangling in her hair. He tugged her head back gently, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You love riling me up, making me want to prove you’re mine?”

She bit her lip, her breath hitching as she leaned into his grip. “Maybe I wanted you to show me. Maybe I wanted this—you, all possessive and wild. You think I don’t know what you’re capable of?”

Tommy’s lips crashed against hers again, harder this time, all teeth and hunger. The counter dug into her back as he pressed himself closer, his body a wall of heat and muscle. Her hands clawed at his shirt, tugging it open, buttons scattering across the floor like spent shells. She wanted skin, wanted the raw, unfiltered connection that only came when they tore down every barrier between them.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he rasped, his mouth moving to her collarbone, nipping at the sensitive skin. “You want me to show you? You want me to make it clear no other man could ever touch you like this?”

She gasped as his hands slid under her dress, rough calluses scraping against soft skin. “Can they, Tommy?” she teased, her voice dripping with defiance even as her body arched into his touch. “Can another man make me feel like this?”

His response was a low, guttural sound, almost a snarl. He spun her around, pressing her against the counter, her hands bracing against the edge. His lips were at her ear again, his voice dark and dangerous. “No one,” he growled, one hand sliding up her thigh, pushing the fabric of her dress higher. “No one else could make you scream like I do. No one else knows you like I do.”

Her laughter was breathless, taunting. “Prove it, then.”

And he did.

The world narrowed to the heat of his hands, the roughness of his voice, the way he claimed her with every movement. It was raw, unbridled, a collision of desire and dominance that left no room for anything else. Y/N reveled in it, her body responding to every touch, every whispered word, her own voice rising in gasps and moans that echoed through the empty house.

“Say it,” Tommy demanded, his hand gripping her hip as he pressed himself closer, his voice thick with possession. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped, her nails digging into the counter. “Only yours, Tommy.”

“Again,” he growled, his lips brushing the back of her neck, his hands relentless. “Louder.”

“I’m yours!” she cried, her voice breaking as the intensity built, her body trembling under his touch.

He turned her around again, lifting her onto the counter, the cold surface a stark contrast to the heat between them. His hands framed her face, his eyes burning into hers, fierce and unyielding. “You don’t get to play games with me, Y/N,” he said, his voice low but laced with something softer, something vulnerable beneath the fire. “You’re my wife. My everything. No one else gets to have you. Not now. Not ever.”

Her smirk softened, her hands reaching up to cup his face, her thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his cheekbones. “I don’t want anyone else,” she whispered, her voice steady now, raw with truth. “I said it to mess with you, Tommy, but you’re all I want. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

His breath hitched, just for a moment, and then he was kissing her again, slower this time, but no less intense. It was a kiss that spoke of ownership, of love, of a bond forged in fire and blood. His hands roamed her body, not just claiming but worshiping, memorizing every curve, every shudder.

“Fuck, I love you,” he murmured against her lips, his voice rough with emotion. “You drive me fucking mad, but I love you.”

She laughed softly, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. “I love you too, you possessive bastard.”

The night stretched on, the kitchen floor littered with shattered glass and discarded clothes, the air heavy with the scent of whiskey and smoke. They didn’t stop, didn’t slow, each moment a battle, a surrender, a promise. Y/N had wanted this—wanted him like this, raw and unfiltered, all fire and devotion. And Tommy gave it to her, every possessive word, every rough touch, every whispered vow that she was his, now and forever.

When they finally collapsed against each other, breathless and spent, the world felt quieter, the storm in Tommy’s eyes replaced by something softer, something only she ever got to see. He held her close, his lips brushing her temple, his voice a low murmur.

“No more games, eh?” he said, though there was a faint smile in his voice now.

She smirked, nestling closer. “No promises, Tommy. You love it too much.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Maybe I do.”

And in that moment, with the world shut out and only the two of them left, Y/N knew she’d never want anything else. Not another man, not another life. Just Tommy Shelby, flaws and fire and all.

[allie131313]

WOWWWWWWWWW!!!!!! I lovvvvveeee thisssss!!! I love a possessive Tommy😭

[soapsmoviesfootballfan]

[srryaboutallthatnoise]

@cherryjennn saw you say once that’s him in a mailbox and i can’t unsee it

[cherryjennn]

I bought him off amazon

[srryaboutallthatnoise]

SEND ME THE LINK

[cherryjennn]

Sure bestie 🥰 here is the amazon link :)

[allie131313]

Papa😭😭😭

[jodiesjamiez]

[allie131313]

My toxic trait is thinking I can make him better

[theroseses]

I'm alive.

[allie131313]

Screaming