Thomas’ hoe 💋

Couldn’t find the fanfics I was craving so I’m writing it myself 💀😭

[cillslover]

𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽

Please don’t: use my work for edits or inspiration without credits, copy or repost my work, translate, claim it as your own, upload or share it on another site, use my work for AI training. Thank you!!

• all my stories are fictional and not based off Cillian’s real life or family. These are purely fictional stories and not meant to reflect real people. Please don’t take them as real facts.

• requests are open!! Please send me requests I loveee getting them! I might take a little bit to write them but I’ll definitely write anything you guys request!

Writings:

Tommy Shelby masterlist

Cillian Murphy masterlist

[cillslover]

Hi, are you planning to update "Not hungry"? 💕 I hope you're doing well 😘

Hii yes of course!! I’ve just been so busy with work and life I barely have anytime to write. But I’ll try my best to update everything soon! Thank you xx

[cillslover]

Let Me Hold You When It Hurts

Pairings: Thomas Shelby x Female Reader

Warnings: migraine, physical illness symptoms, emotional vulnerability, intense emotional intimacy

Summary: Y/N finds Tommy struggling alone with a severe migraine and gently brings him to bed, where he finally lets himself rest in her arms.

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Arrow House was silent except for the rain ticking against the tall windows and the low crackle of the dying fire in the study grate. The clock on the mantel had long since struck three when Y/N woke to an empty place beside her. The sheets were cool where Tommy should have been.

She didn’t call out. She simply rose, pulled her silk robe tighter against the chill, and went looking for him.

The study door stood ajar, a thin blade of gold light cutting across the carpet. Inside, Tommy sat hunched over the desk, one elbow planted among scattered ledgers, the heel of his hand pressed hard to his left temple. His shoulders rose and fell too quickly; every breath looked like it cost him. The gas lamp had burned low, throwing harsh shadows across the sharp bones of his face.

Y/N stepped inside and closed the door softly behind her.

“Tommy.”

He didn’t startle; he never did. He only let his hand drop a fraction and gave her the ghost of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’m grand, love. Go back to sleep.”

“You’re not grand,” she said quietly, crossing the room. “You’re shaking.”

He glanced down at his own hand as if surprised to find it trembling. “It’s nothing.”

Y/N stopped beside his chair and rested her fingers lightly on the back of his neck. The skin there was clammy, fever-hot and cold at once. He leaned into the touch without meaning to, the way a man leans toward warmth after too long in the dark.

“It’s the migraine again, isn’t it?” she asked.

He exhaled through his teeth. “Mhm. Started yesterday. Thought I could wait it out.”

“You waited long enough.” She brushed the hair back from his forehead; the strands were damp. “You’re in bits, Tommy.”

He closed his eyes at her touch. “Feels like someone’s driving nails through my skull. Light’s too bright. Even the sound of the rain hurts.”

Y/N’s heart twisted. She had seen him take bullets, seen him stare down death without blinking, but this, this invisible thing that laid him low, always frightened her more than any gun.

She pressed her lips to his temple, soft and lingering. “Come to bed.”

He started to protest, more reflex than fight. “The Camden Town figures—”

“Will still be there when the sun comes up. And so will you, if you let me look after you tonight.”

Tommy looked up at her then. Really looked. The usual armour was gone; in its place was raw exhaustion and something gentler, something only she ever saw.

“Alright,” he said, voice rough but steady. “Alright, Y/N.”

She smiled, small and relieved, and helped him to his feet. He swayed once, caught himself on the edge of the desk, then let her take his weight against her side. His arm slid around her waist like it belonged there.

“Easy,” she murmured, guiding him toward the door. “I’ve got you.”

Halfway up the stairs he stopped, rested his forehead against the cool wall for a moment. “Christ, I hate this.”

“I know you do.” She rubbed slow circles between his shoulder blades. “But you’re not alone with it anymore.”

When they reached the bedroom she steered him to the edge of the bed and knelt to unlace his shoes. He watched her with half-lidded eyes, the pain still etched deep but softening at the edges.

“Shirt,” she said gently.

He gave a faint, crooked smile. “If you wanted me undressed, Mrs Shelby, there’s easier ways to ask.”

“Shut up, you,” she laughed under her breath, but her hands were tender as she worked the buttons free. She pushed the braces from his shoulders, peeled the shirt away, let it drop to the floor. The scars across his chest caught the moonlight, pale rivers she knew by heart. She traced one lightly, then pressed her lips to it.

Tommy’s breath hitched. He caught her wrist, brought her hand to his mouth, kissed her knuckles like they were something holy.

Y/N fetched a cloth from the basin, wrung it out cold, and folded it. She eased him back against the pillows, laid the cloth across his eyes and the bridge of his nose. He sighed, long and shuddering, the first real release she’d heard from him all night.

“Better?” she whispered.

“Getting there.”

She drew the heavy curtains tight until only a sliver of silver light remained, then slipped out of her robe and climbed in beside him. Tommy turned toward her at once, instinctive, burying his face against her neck. His skin was chilled; she tucked the blankets around them both and wrapped her arms tight around him.

Y/N stroked his hair, slow, steady passes from crown to nape. She felt the tremor in his shoulders ease, felt his breathing begin to match hers.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled against her collarbone, words muffled and raw. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Tommy Shelby, you listen to me.” She pulled back just enough to cup his face, thumbs brushing the sharp line of his cheekbones. “There is nothing, nothing, about you that I don’t want to see. Not the blood, not the nightmares, not this. Especially not this.”

His eyes, when he opened them, were glassy with pain and something dangerously close to tears he would never shed. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” she said fiercely, then softened. “Just let me love you. Let me hold you when it hurts. That’s all I’m asking.”

He made a low sound in his throat and pulled her closer, arms locking around her like she was the only solid thing left in the world. His lips found the pulse at her neck, rested there.

“I love you,” he said, voice cracked open. “More than anything. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know.” She kissed the top of his head, kept stroking his hair. “I’ve always known.”

They lay like that for a long while, the rain a steady hush outside. Gradually the tension bled from his body; his grip loosened from desperate to simply needing. His breathing slowed, deepened.

Y/N felt the moment he slipped into real sleep, his weight heavier against her, one hand still curled possessively over her hip. She pressed one last kiss to his temple, whispered into the dark.

“I’ve got you, Tommy. Always.”

And for the first time in days, Thomas Shelby slept without dreaming of tunnels or guns or blood. He slept safe in the arms of the one person who had ever been allowed to see him break, and who loved him more for it.

[cillslover]

Heyy love👋🏻

i'm so sorry you were in the hospital :( i hope everything goes better for you, i send you so much love and so many hugs 🫂🤍

I'll leave you with a thought, but only take it when you feel better and if you feel it's worth it. If not, please ignore it completely🥹

This scenario where a modern Tommy is a friend who occasionally fucks the reader, but when the reader tells him the L word, Tommy freaks out like a coward because he knows that having a deeper connection puts the reader in danger and all that mob stuff, so he stays away from the reader and she goes on a date and when Tommy finds out he freaks out🤯

and he goes and looks for her and says something like "you won't go out with him, if you go out with him I'll kill him" and she doesn't care and goes out with him because she knows Tommy wouldn't do anything to hurt her, In the end, to get her back into his arms, he confesses his love and asks her to marry him, and she's like, "You must really love me to kneel for meᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈"

and he just laughs with that husky, sexy laugh and kisses her 🥹🥹

I'm sorry this is so long, I just love imagining Tommy and you are an ABSOLUTE goddess at what you write.😚😚💘💘

Don’t Say That Word

Pairings: Tommy Shelby x Female Reader

Warnings: some sexual content, emotional angst, mentions of war trauma / PTSD, violence (implied), heartbreak / separation.

Summary: After weeks of silence and heartbreak, Thomas Shelby returns to Y/N’s door on a rain-soaked night, torn between love and the ghosts of his past. When she challenges his fear of feeling, he’s forced to choose between control and vulnerability

A/N: Hiii I am so sorry this took so long, I've been so busy with everything going on. Thank you so much for your sweet messages I appreciate it!!! and thank you for this story idea it's so sweet, I loved writing it. I hope you enjoy it xx

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The rain came down in sheets over Small Heath, drumming on the slate roofs and turning the cobbled lanes into black mirrors. Thomas Shelby stood beneath the awning of the Garrison, coat collar turned up, cigarette glowing like a tiny coal between his fingers. The war had ended years ago, but the trenches still lived in his eyes (cold, calculating, always measuring angles and exits). He had come to y/n’s narrow house on Watery Lane because the night was too loud in his head and her bed was the only place the ghosts ever quieted.

She opened the door without surprise. She never asked why he came; she simply stepped aside and let the lamplight spill over the threshold. He smelled of gun oil and wet wool. She smelled of tea and the lavender soap she used because it reminded her of her mother. He took the coat off slowly, folding it over the chair the way a man lays down a weapon. Then he crossed the room in three strides and kissed her like a man who had forgotten how to ask permission.

Clothes fell away in silence. There was no need for words when mouths and hands already knew the map of each other. He pressed her to the wall, lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist as though she had done it a thousand times before (because she had). It was always like this: urgent, almost angry, as if the act itself could burn away whatever darkness clung to him. When it was over they lay side by side in the narrow bed, the sheet tangled at their feet, his arm heavy across her ribs.

She traced the scar that ran from his collarbone to the edge of his shoulder blade. “Tommy,” she said, soft as the rain outside, “I love you.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. He went very still. Y/n felt the shift in him the way one feels a storm coming: the sudden drop in pressure, the hush before thunder. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and reached for his cigarettes on the nightstand. The match flared, illuminating the hard line of his jaw.

“Don’t,” he said. The single word cracked like a whip.

Y/n propped herself on an elbow. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t say that.” He exhaled, smoke curling toward the ceiling. “You think you know what it means, but you don’t. Not with me.”

“I know exactly what it means.”

He turned then, eyes glittering in the half-light. “No. You know what it means with other men. Men who go to offices and come home at six. Men who don’t have blood on their boots every night. You say that word to me and you paint a target on your back. Every bastard from here to London will know the quickest way to bring Thomas Shelby to his knees is through you.”

Y/n sat up fully, clutching the sheet to her chest. “So you’ll just keep coming here, taking what you want, and leaving before dawn? That’s your grand plan?”

“That’s survival.”

“It’s cowardice.”

He flinched as though she’d struck him. For a moment the mask slipped and she saw the boy he might have been before the tunnels and the gas and the mud. Then the mask was back, harder than ever. He stood, pulled on his trousers, buttoned his shirt with quick, angry movements.

“Where are you going?” She asked.

“Somewhere you’re not.”

He left without his coat. Y/n heard his boots on the stairs, the slam of the door, the splash of his footsteps fading into the night. She did not cry. She lay in the dark and listened to the rain until it sounded like marching feet.

He stayed away for three weeks.

Three weeks of silence. No notes slipped under her door. No shadow outside her window at two in the morning. The Garrison was suddenly full of men who wouldn’t meet her eyes. Polly gave her tea and a look that said, He’ll come round or he won’t, but don’t waste your heart waiting. Ada offered to set her up with a cousin of a friend who worked in the jewellery trade and had all his own teeth. She laughed, but the laugh tasted like rust.

On the twenty-second night y/n dressed with care: a green silk dress the color of absinthe, hair pinned up with the pearl comb her grandmother left her. She met the jeweler’s cousin, Henry, at the picture house on High Street. He was polite, nervous, smelled of bay rum. He bought her popcorn and held her coat. When the lights came up he asked if she’d like supper at the Midland Hotel. Y/n said yes because the alternative was going home to an empty bed that still smelled faintly of Tommy’s cigarettes.

Tommy found out the way he found out everything: a whisper from a barmaid who owed Arthur a favor, a nod from a newsboy who feared John’s fists. He was in the betting shop, counting receipts, when the name Henry drifted across the room like a bad smell. Something inside him snapped with an audible crack.

He drove the Bentley himself, no driver, no bodyguard. The rain had stopped but the streets still steamed. He found the Midland Hotel glowing like a wedding cake. Inside, the dining room was all chandeliers and white tablecloths. Y/n was laughing at something Henry said, her hand resting lightly on his sleeve.

Tommy crossed the room as though he owned it (because in his mind, he did). Conversations died in his wake. He stopped at her table, water dripping from his cap onto the carpet.

“Up,” he said to her.

Henry half-rose. “Excuse me, sir, but—”

Tommy didn’t look at him. His eyes were locked on hers, blue and blazing. “Y/n. Up. Now.”

Y/n lifted her chin. “I’m having dinner.”

“You won’t go out with him. If you go out with him, I’ll kill him.”

Henry made a small strangled sound. Y/n stood slowly, napkin sliding from her lap. Around her, silverware paused mid-air.

“You don’t get to decide that,” she said. “Not anymore.”

Y/n walked past him, heels clicking on the marble. Henry scrambled after her, throwing a frantic glance at Tommy, who hadn’t moved. Outside, the doorman hailed a cab. She climbed in without looking back.

Tommy stood in the lobby until the maître d’ coughed politely and suggested he leave. He left. But he did not go far.

Y/n let Henry take her home. He was sweet, stammering apologies for the madman in the restaurant. At her door he asked if he could see her again. She told him she’d telephone. She wouldn’t. When the car pulled away she leaned against the door and felt the tears come at last, hot and furious.

Two nights later there was a knock. She opened it expecting Ada or Polly with more tea and sympathy. Instead Tommy stood on the step, cap in hand, coat unbuttoned despite the cold. His face was gaunt, eyes ringed with sleepless violet.

“Let me in,” he said.

She stepped aside. He entered, closed the door softly, then leaned his forehead against it as though the wood could hold him upright.

“I tried,” he said to the door. “I tried to let you go. Thought if I stayed away long enough you’d find someone who brings you flowers instead of funerals.”

Y/n said nothing.

He turned. “I stood outside that Jew’s house tonight. Watched him lock up. Thought about putting a bullet through his window just to see him jump. Then I thought about you finding out and hating me for it. And I realized I’d rather have you hate me and be alive than love me and be dead.”

He crossed the room in two strides and dropped to one knee. The movement was awkward, he was not a man built for kneeling, but he did it anyway, cap crushed in his fist.

“I love you,” he said, the words rough as gravel. “Christ, y/n, I love you so much it’s like a blade in my ribs every time I breathe. Marry me. Be my wife. Let me put a ring on your finger and a guard on your door and every bastard in Birmingham will know you’re untouchable because you’re mine.”

Y/n stared down at him, this man who commanded empires from smoky back rooms, now on his knee in her tiny parlor with raindrops still clinging to his lashes.

“You must really love me,” she whispered, “to kneel for me.”

A laugh rumbled out of him, husky and startled, the sound he made only when genuinely caught off guard. He rose, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her like a drowning man breaking the surface. She tasted salt, hers or his, she weren’t sure. His hands framed her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks.

“Say yes,” he murmured against her mouth.

“Yes,” she said. “But no more running.”

“Never again.”

Outside, the rain started up once more, soft as forgiveness. Inside, Thomas held her close enough to feel both their hearts hammering in counter-rhythm, and for the first time in years the ghosts were silent.

[cillslover]

I miss you and your stories!! Hopefully everything is ok! ☺️

Omg ur too sweet thank you sm 🥹 I miss writing on here so much as well I can’t wait to be back! I’ve just had so much going on and no time for anything but I’m gonna try and be back asap 😭

[cillslover]

rereading your works! hope your october is going well!

Aw thank you so much!! I appreciate it a lot xx

[cillslover]

"Just tired, that's all" || Part 7

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Female Reader

Warnings: illness symptoms, hurt/comfort, mild angst, mentions of pain & discomfort, Cillian being stubborn, hospital scenes, blood tests, etc hospital themes and practices.

Summary: Cillian wakes up groggy post-appendectomy, Y/n’s there to comfort him.

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The first hint of dawn crept through the glass wall, painting the room in soft grays and muted blues. The city below was stirring, early commuters threading through the streets like veins pulsing with life, but inside, time felt suspended. Y/N had dozed off in fits, her head resting awkwardly against the bed rail, one hand still entwined with Cillian’s. The monitors’ steady beep had become a lullaby of sorts, a reminder that he was holding on.

A faint groan pulled her from the haze of exhaustion. Her eyes snapped open, heart leaping into her throat. Cillian’s brow furrowed, his eyelids fluttering like he was fighting through layers of fog. His fingers twitched in hers, a weak squeeze that sent a jolt through her.

“Cillian?” she whispered, straightening up so fast the chair scraped against the floor. She leaned over him, her free hand brushing his cheek. His skin was warmer now, less clammy, but his face twisted in discomfort.

Another groan escaped him, low and ragged, as his eyes cracked open, just slits at first, hints of his blue irises, unfocused and glassy. He blinked slowly, like the light was too much, his gaze wandering the room without landing anywhere. “Wha…?” The word slurred out, barely audible, his voice rough from disuse.

“Hey, hey, it’s me,” Y/N said softly, her thumb stroking his cheekbone. Relief flooded her, sharp and sweet, but she could see the confusion etching deeper into his features. “You’re in the hospital, love. The surgery’s over. You’re okay.”

His head lolled slightly toward her voice, eyes struggling to focus on her face. “Y/N…?” It came out as a mumble, laced with a wince. He shifted under the sheets, and immediately regretted it, a sharp hiss escaped his lips, his free hand drifting vaguely toward his abdomen. “Hurts… stomach….”

“I know, baby, I know it does,” she murmured, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. She caught his wandering hand gently, guiding it back to the bed. “You had your appendix out. It ruptured, remember? But they fixed it. The pain’s from the incision—they had to open you up to clean everything out. It’ll get better, but you have to stay still.”

He blinked again, slower this time, his breathing uneven under the oxygen cannula. The monitors picked up a slight spike in his heart rate, the beep quickening for a moment before settling. “Ruptured…?” He echoed the word like it was foreign, his Irish lilt softened by the drugs. His eyes drifted down to his chest, taking in the electrodes and wires with a dazed frown. “What’s… all this?”

“It’s monitoring you,” she explained, keeping her tone calm, like she was narrating a story rather than holding back panic. “Heart rate, oxygen levels. Standard stuff after surgery. You’re on fluids and meds to help with the infection and pain.”

Cillian’s gaze shifted lower, landing on the bandages swathing his midsection. He stared at them for a long beat, as if processing the reality of what lay beneath. Then, with a sluggish movement, he lifted his arm, the one with the IV taped into the crook of his elbow. The tubing swayed slightly, catching the light. His brow creased further, and he reached for it with his other hand, fingers fumbling toward the needle site. “Don’t… want this. Itches. Get it off…”

“No, wait—don’t touch that,” Y/N said quickly, her hand darting out to intercept his. She gripped his wrist firmly but gently, pulling it away before he could tug. Her voice sharpened just a touch, the protectiveness creeping in out of necessity. “Cillian, stop. You need that IV. It’s keeping you hydrated and giving you antibiotics. Without it, the infection could come back, and we’d be right back where we started.”

He paused, his hand going limp in hers, but his eyes, still hazy with delirium, narrowed in mild protest. “Infection…?” He tried to sit up a fraction, but the motion sent a visible wave of pain through him, his face paling as he sank back with a grunt. “Feels like… like I’ve been hit by a truck. Why so many tubes? ’M not a bloody pincushion.”

Y/N couldn’t help a small, relieved laugh, it was so him, even in this state, grumbling with that dry wit. But she kept her grip on his hand, lacing their fingers to keep him from trying again. “Three IVs, actually. One for fluids to replace what you lost, one for the antibiotics to fight off the peritonitis—that’s the infection from the rupture—and the third’s your pain meds. Morphine, That’s why you’re so out of it right now. Groggy as hell, but it’s helping, isn’t it?”

He made a noncommittal hum, his eyelids drooping as if the effort of talking was draining him. But stubbornness flickered through the fog; he glanced at the IV in his hand, the one taped to the back, and flexed his fingers experimentally. “This one’s… annoying. Pulling at my skin. Just take it out for a sec? Promise I’ll behave.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Y/N shot back, her tone turning fully bossy now, though softened with affection. She leaned in closer, her face inches from his, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Listen to me, Cillian Murphy. You’ve just had major surgery. Your body’s a mess inside—fluids everywhere, infection cleared out like they were mopping up a spill. These IVs are non-negotiable. They’re what’s keeping you stable, fighting off any leftover bacteria, and making sure you don’t dehydrate while you’re too knocked out to drink. If you yank them, it’ll hurt like hell, and we’ll have to stick you again. You want that? More needles?”

He stared at her for a moment, the delirium making his expression almost comically petulant, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Bossy,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it, just a faint, lopsided smile tugging at his dry lips. His head sank deeper into the pillow, the fight ebbing out of him. “Fine… but it still itches.”

“Thank you Cill” she said lightly, releasing his wrist but keeping her hand over his to prevent any relapses. She reached for the call button with her free hand, pressing it just in case. “I’ll ask the nurse to check if they can adjust the tape. Maybe put some padding under it. But no pulling, got it? You’re not invincible, even if you play characters who think they are.”

The door opened a minute later, the same nurse from before slipping in with a knowing glance. “Heard some stirring on the monitor. How’s our patient?”

“Awake, sort of,” Y/N replied, glancing at Cillian, who was blinking up at the ceiling now, his breaths coming in shallow puffs. “Complaining about the IVs. Tried to play tug-of-war with one.”

The nurse chuckled, approaching the bed to check the lines. “Classic post-op delirium. The anaesthesia lingers, makes everything feel off.” She examined the sites quickly, then looked at Cillian. “How’s the pain, on a scale of one to ten?”

He considered it blearily, his voice slurring again. “Six… no, eight when I move. Like someone’s twisting a knife in my gut.” He winced as she gently pressed around the bandage, testing for swelling.

“That’s expected,” she said reassuringly, adjusting the morphine drip a touch. “We’ll bump this up a smidge to take the edge off. And the itching—could be a mild reaction to the tape. I’ll swap it for hypoallergenic stuff.” She worked efficiently, re-securing the IV while Y/N held his hand steady.

Cillian watched her through half-lidded eyes, then shifted his gaze back to Y/N. “You look tired,” he mumbled, as if just noticing. “Been here… all night?”

“Try all evening and night,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “Wasn’t leaving you alone in this place. Scared me half to death, you did.”

“Sorry,” he whispered, his voice fading as the fresh dose of pain meds started to hit. His eyes drifted shut, then opened again, fighting the pull. “Didn’t mean to… worry you.”

Y/N leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “Just focus on getting better. No more heroics, alright? Sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake up properly.”

He managed a faint nod, his hand going slack in hers. “Love you…”

“Love you too, you stubborn idiot,” she replied with a watery smile, watching as his breathing evened out, the delirium giving way to deeper sleep.

The nurse finished up, patting Y/N’s shoulder. “He’s through the roughest part. A few more hours like this, and he’ll be more himself. You did good keeping him from yanking those lines—patients get feisty when they’re loopy.”

Y/N nodded, settling back into her chair as the room quieted once more. The city outside was fully awake now, sunlight glinting off the buildings, but her world remained right here, anchored to him, through the pain and the haze, until he was whole again.

[cillslover]

your fics are all so good! they are all so sweet (even the sadder ones!)! i’m always happy to read new ones when you post them! much love!

Omg thank youuuu so much!! That’s so sweet of you it means so much to me!! 🥹 I appreciate it so much, so glad you enjoy them xx

[cillslover]

Fireworks

Pairings: Cillian Murphy x Female Reader

Warnings: smut!, NSFW 18+, explicit sexual content, pinv, kissing, intimate scenes.

Summary: On New Year’s Eve, Y/n and Cillian share a passionate celebration as fireworks light up the sky.

A/N: ahh I know this is low key a weird scenario but I’ve always had this scenario in my head like idk it’s so romantic in my mind 😩

━━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━━

The clock on the nightstand glowed 11:50 PM, casting a soft red hue across the expansive bedroom of their New York penthouse. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city pulsed with anticipation, skyscrapers twinkling like a sea of stars, the distant hum of Times Square celebrations filtering up through the night. Y/n and Cillian had escaped the chaos below, opting for this private perch high above it all. The view from the bed was unparalleled: the Empire State Building loomed in the distance, its spire ready to erupt in color as midnight struck.

Cillian, fresh off another grueling day on the set of Peaky Blinders Season 2, lounged beside y/n in a simple white t-shirt and gray sweatpants. His hair was cropped short, the signature Tommy Shelby cut that made him look sharper, more intense, even in these quiet moments. He’d flown in from London just yesterday, the exhaustion from filming etched faintly around his piercing blue eyes, but tonight, there was a spark in them, a rare, unguarded lightness as he sipped champagne from a flute.

y/n was propped up against the headboard in a silk slip dress, the kind that clung just enough to feel luxurious against her skin. The two of them had been talking lazily about the year behind them, his endless shoots, her own whirlwind of work, the stolen weekends they’d managed to carve out. But as the minutes ticked down, the conversation had slowed, replaced by a comfortable silence broken only by the occasional pop of distant fireworks testing the night.

He set his glass down and shifted closer, his hand brushing her thigh almost absentmindedly. “Ten minutes,” he murmured, his Irish lilt soft and low, eyes flicking to the window. “Feels like we’ve been waiting all year for this.”

Y/n smiled, turning to face him. “Yeah, but up here? Best seat in the house.” Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, feeling the faint stubble from a day without shaving. He leaned into her touch, his gaze locking onto hers with that quiet intensity that always made her pulse quicken.

Without a word, he closed the distance, his lips meeting hers in a kiss that started slow, exploratory, like rediscovering something familiar yet thrilling. His hand cupped the back of her neck, pulling her in deeper as the kiss lingered. Y/n responded instinctively, her body shifting to face him fully on the bed, the city lights blurring into a backdrop.

It was spontaneous, the way these moments often were with him, no grand buildup, just the pull of proximity and the electric charge of the night. His free hand slid to her waist, fingers gripping the silk as if anchoring himself. y/n parted her lips, inviting him in, and he took it, his tongue brushing hers in a rhythm that sent warmth pooling low in her belly.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he breathed against her mouth, pulling back just enough to look at her, his thumb stroking her cheek. “Missed you.”

Y/n didn’t reply with words, instead, she kissed him again, harder this time, her hands fisting in his t-shirt as she tugged him closer. The bed dipped under her movements, the sheets rumpling as both of them sank into it. His body pressed against hers, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric, and she felt the first stirrings of urgency.

Things escalated naturally, the kiss turning heated as his hands roamed. One slipped under the hem of her dress, tracing the curve of her thigh, higher and higher until his fingers brushed the edge of her panties. Y/n gasped into his mouth, arching slightly, and he smiled against her lips, a small, knowing curve.

“Here?” he asked, voice rough, but there was no hesitation in his touch as his hand crept further, fingers dipping beneath the lace to find her already slick. He rubbed slow circles over her clit, deliberate and teasing, watching her face as she bit your lip.

“Yeah,” she whispered, her own hand wandering down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, until she reached the waistband of his sweatpants. She slipped inside, finding him hard and straining against his boxers. Her fingers wrapped around his length, long, thick, pulsing under her touch, and she stroked him firmly, matching the rhythm he set on her.

He groaned softly, his forehead pressing to hers. “Fuck, that feels good.” His hips shifted involuntarily, pushing into her hand as his fingers quickened on her clit, sending sparks through her.

The clock hit 11:55 PM. The city outside seemed to hold its breath, but in here, the air thickened with their shared breaths. “We should stop,” he said, not meaning it, his voice laced with amusement as he nipped at her lower lip.

“Don’t you dare,” y/n shot back, squeezing him a little harder, earning another low sound from his throat.

That was it, the tipping point. His free hand yanked at the straps of her dress, pulling it down to expose her breasts, while she tugged his t-shirt over his head, revealing the lean, toned lines of his body honed from months on set. He shrugged out of it, then hooked his fingers in her panties, dragging them down her legs as she kicked them off. Y/n shoved his sweatpants and boxers down in one motion, freeing him completely.

Naked now, skin to skin, he pulled her onto his lap, her legs straddling him as both of them sat on the bed facing the window. The city sprawled out below, oblivious. His hands gripped her hips, guiding her as she positioned herself above him. “Ready?” he asked, eyes dark with want, his short hair tousled from her fingers.

Y/n nodded, sinking down slowly, feeling the stretch as his cock filled her inch by inch. He was long, hitting deep, and they both moaned at the sensation, him bottoming out inside her, while she clenched around him. “Christ,” he muttered, his hands tightening on her waist. “You feel incredible.”

The first fireworks cracked outside; midnight striking in a burst of gold and red, illuminating the room in flashes. He thrust up into her then, timed almost perfectly, his hips meeting hers in a deep, steady rhythm. y/n rocked against him, her arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss that was all tongue and heat, French kissing messy and urgent, tasting the champagne on his lips.

The fireworks built, explosions of color painting the sky, blues and purples blooming like flowers, greens streaking across the buildings. Y/n broke the kiss to gasp, her head tipping back as he drove into her harder, but he captured her mouth again, unwilling to let go. “Look at that,” he said between kisses, nodding toward the window without slowing. “All for us.”

She turned her head slightly, watching the spectacle while riding him, the sensations overwhelming, the slap of skin, the wet slide of him inside of her, the way his hands roamed her back, her ass, pulling her down onto each thrust. “It’s beautiful,” y/n managed, her voice breathy, turning back to him.

He nodded, his blue eyes reflecting the bursts of light. “So are you.” He whispered, just raw honesty in his tone as he kissed her neck, sucking lightly, then back to her lips.

The pace quickened as the fireworks intensified, rockets whistling up, cascading in shimmering waterfalls of sparks. Y/n was fully on his lap now, grinding down as he thrust up, the angle hitting that spot inside her perfectly. Moans mingled with the booms outside; his grunts low and guttural, hers higher, building.

“Happy New Year, love” he whispered against her ear, his breath hot, just as a massive finale began, fireworks overlapping in a chaotic symphony.

“Happy New Year, baby” she echoed, moaning it out as she kissed him deeply, tongues tangling, bodies moving in sync. The world outside erupted, but here it was just them two, sweat-slicked, connected, staring into each other’s eyes between glances at the sky.

He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit again, rubbing in tight circles that made her thighs tremble. “Come with me,” he urged, voice strained, thrusts growing erratic as he chased his release.

The fireworks peaked, a thunderous roar of color and sound, and y/n felt it building, the coil tightening until it snapped. y/n came first, clenching around him in waves, crying out his name as pleasure washed over her. He followed seconds later, groaning deeply as he spilled inside her, hips stuttering, holding her tight against him.

As the last sparks faded into smoke, the sky quieting, they both stilled, breaths ragged. He kissed her softly now, lingering, his hands stroking her back. “Perfect way to start the year,” he said with a quiet laugh, still buried inside her.

She smiled, resting her forehead against his. “Couldn’t agree more.” The city below cheered on, but up here, in the afterglow, it was just the two of them, wrapped in each other, the new year stretching out like the lights below.

[cillslover]

Thank you for chapter 6 🥺, that description of him looking fragile made my heart hurt. Honestly reminded me a little of the end of 28 days and he looks so sweet at the end of that movie I was definitely giggling and kicking my feet. Respectfully! Bc this is a hospital 🤭

Omg hehe I fully understand what you mean he’s so precious 🥺😭 and yes omg him at the end of 28 days he looked so sweet 🥲 thank you for loving that story!! More chapters will be coming soon !!

[cillslover]

Caught in the Fever

Pairings: Cillian Murphy x Female Reader

Warnings: illness, fever, vomiting, nausea, pain, caregiving, comfort.

Summary: Cillian is bedridden with a relentless fever from days of sickness. Y/N stays by his side, soothing him through his discomfort and reminding him he isn’t alone.

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The bedroom was still except for the faint hum of the heater and the ragged, uneven sound of Cillian’s breathing. The curtains had been drawn tight hours ago, but thin strands of evening light still pushed their way in through the cracks, spilling over the floorboards and onto the mess of crumpled blankets that lay tangled at the foot of the bed.

Y/N paused in the doorway, leaning her shoulder against the frame, her heart tightening when her eyes landed on him.

He was curled on his side, facing away from her, a bundle of exhaustion and fever. His hoodie had ridden up just above his hip, exposing a sliver of pale skin that looked almost fragile against the dark sheets. The blankets that should have been over him were instead knotted around his legs, leaving his torso bare to the cool air, and his head was buried deep into the pillows as if he were trying to disappear into them. Even from here, she could see the dampness of his hair at the nape of his neck, plastered to his skin with sweat.

She sighed softly, crossing the room and lowering herself onto the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped slightly under her weight, and she reached out, her fingers brushing against the exposed skin of his side. He flinched faintly at the touch, but didn’t stir, his body too heavy with fever.

“Cill…” she murmured, stroking him slowly, her thumb moving in soothing little circles. “Baby, wake up for me.”

His brow furrowed, and he gave a faint groan, turning his face slightly in the pillow but refusing to open his eyes. His breathing was shallow, each inhale tight, and she leaned closer, whispering again.

“Love, come on. Just need to check on you… see how you’re feeling.”

He made a low sound, a mixture of protest and weariness, before finally rolling onto his back with a sluggish motion. His eyes cracked open, heavy-lidded, unfocused at first. His skin was flushed, damp with fever, and his lips were parted as if even breathing required effort.

Y/N smoothed the hair back from his forehead, frowning at the heat radiating off him. “God, you’re still burning up.”

“Mhm…” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. He shifted against the pillows, wincing as he moved, his hand coming instinctively to rest against his ribs.

“Do you think you can try and hold something down?” she asked gently, not pushing but hopeful. “Even a few sips of water?”

He shook his head weakly, eyes falling closed again. “No… can’t. Every time…” He trailed off, swallowing hard, his jaw tightening.

“Alright,” she soothed, stroking her fingers along his temple. “We’ll wait a bit longer then.”

He let out a faint sigh, and then, with a strained little groan, whispered, “Hurts.”

Her hand stilled. “What hurts, baby?”

“My ribs…” His voice cracked, as though admitting it cost him too much.

She frowned, her palm sliding down over his chest before settling over his side. “Aww, your ribs as well?”

He groaned, nodding faintly, his eyes still shut, and she leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “It’s from all the throwing up, love. Muscles get sore when you’ve been retching that much.”

“Feels like… bruised,” he muttered, his face twisting in discomfort.

“I know,” she whispered, stroking slow lines down his chest and stomach before brushing across his side, careful not to press too firmly. “You’ve been through hell the last couple of days.”

He turned his face into her palm when she brought her hand back up to his cheek, and she felt his skin burning against her.

“You’re not alone in this, you hear me?” she said softly. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you.”

He let out a weak hum, almost a thank-you, and his hand shifted clumsily on the sheets until it found hers. His fingers were shaky, limp, but he gripped her hand with what little strength he had.

She squeezed gently, smiling faintly despite her worry. “That’s better. You hold onto me, hmm? You don’t have to do a thing.”

After a long silence filled only by his shallow breathing, he whispered, “Don’t want you sick…”

Her chest tightened, and she leaned down, pressing her forehead against his. “I’ll be alright. You just focus on getting better.”

He groaned softly when her fingers brushed down over his ribs again, but this time it was less pained, more soothed. She rubbed in slow circles, her thumb pressing just enough to ease the tension.

“There we go,” she murmured. “Easy, love. Just let me help you.”

He breathed out, the tension in his body easing fractionally, and though his fever still raged, he looked the tiniest bit calmer with her hand on him, guiding him through the discomfort.

Cillian had just begun to relax under her hand, his breathing slow and uneven, when she felt his body tense beneath her touch. His jaw clenched, his brows pinching together, and he shifted restlessly against the sheets.

“Cill?” she whispered, brushing his hair back again.

He made a low sound in his throat, then suddenly turned onto his side, one hand clutching at his stomach. His breathing grew shallow and quick, and she immediately recognized the signs.

“Oh, baby,” she murmured, already reaching for the basin she had kept by the bedside for the past two days. She slid an arm behind his shoulders, lifting him gently. “It’s alright, I’ve got you. Come on, love, sit up a little for me.”

He groaned in protest, his eyes squeezed shut, sweat shining on his temple. “Don’t— can’t—”

“You can,” she urged softly, propping the basin in front of him as she guided him upright. “I’m right here, you’re not alone.”

His body lurched forward suddenly, a harsh gag wracking through him before he finally vomited into the basin. Y/N held him steady with one hand on his back, her other stroking his hair back from his damp forehead.

“There you go, baby. Let it out,” she whispered, her heart aching at how drained he looked with every heave.

He coughed weakly, groaning as his ribs seized up with each retch. “Hurts…”

“I know, I know,” she soothed, pressing soft circles into his back while keeping him from collapsing forward. “It’s those poor muscles, love. You’re working them too hard.”

After a few miserable minutes, the episode passed, leaving him slumped against her chest, trembling and spent. She quickly set the basin aside and reached for the damp cloth waiting on the nightstand, pressing it gently against his lips and chin before dabbing at his flushed face.

“Shh… all done now. You did so well,” she murmured, kissing the top of his damp hair.

He gave a faint groan, his head falling against her shoulder, eyes closed. “No more… please…”

Her chest tightened, and she pulled him closer, holding him like he was fragile glass. “I know, love. I hate seeing you go through this. If I could take it from you, I would in a heartbeat.”

He was still trembling, every breath shallow and shaky. His hand weakly grasped her hoodie sleeve, as though he needed the anchor of her being there.

“Cill,” she whispered, brushing the back of her hand down his fevered cheek, “you need to sip some water, just a little to rinse your throat.”

He shook his head faintly, lips pressed together in refusal.

“I’ll hold it for you,” she promised softly. “Just a sip. You don’t even need to swallow much, alright? Just to soothe your throat.”

After a moment, he cracked his eyes open, glassy and tired. “Don’t leave me…”

Her heart broke. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever.” She leaned in, kissing his burning temple. “I’ll be right here the whole time.”

With that reassurance, he let her guide the cup to his lips. He took the smallest sip, grimaced, but managed to keep it down. She smiled, brushing his damp hair back again.

“There’s my strong man,” she whispered, setting the cup down. “That’s all you need to do right now.”

He collapsed back into the pillows with her help, his hoodie riding up again to reveal the soft line of his hip. She tugged the blanket carefully over his stomach this time, tucking it around him so he wouldn’t get cold. Then she lay back beside him, one hand stroking his side in soothing motions, her fingers gentle over his sore ribs.

“Rest now, love,” she whispered as his eyes fluttered shut again. “I’ll wake you if I need to, but for now… just let me take care of you.”

He gave the faintest hum of acknowledgment, already slipping back into exhausted, feverish sleep, his hand still tangled in hers.

[cillslover]

heyy! I was wondering if you’d be able to write a cute comfort fic of Cillian or reader being away from each other for a while and their homesick and the other is comforting though like a FaceTime or a call…! Thanks!!

Oh btw I love your fics, you write Cillian so cutely!

Homesick

Pairings: Cillian Murphy x Female Reader

Warnings: long distance, homesickness, emotional vulnerability, heavy comfort

Summary: While filming Peaky Blinders in London, Cillian grows homesick and struggles to hide it from Y/N during a late-night call.

A/N: thank you so much for this request it’s so sweet and comforting! I loved writing it!! So sorry it took so long I’ve been so busy with everything 😭

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The London sky was heavy with fog, city lights blurred against the glass of Cillian’s hotel window. He’d been in this same suite for almost a month now, white walls, neatly pressed sheets, tidy furniture that felt sterile, temporary. It wasn’t home. Home was quiet, warm, and full of her.

Cillian sat on the edge of the bed, his script still open on the nightstand, though he hadn’t turned a page in hours. He rubbed his hand across his face, feeling the stubble at his jaw, his eyes burning with fatigue. His body was tired from the day’s filming, but his chest felt heavier than usual, a slow ache that had nothing to do with work.

When his phone buzzed with her name on the screen, his lips curled automatically into a smile, though it was faint, forced at first. He swiped to answer, leaning back against the headboard.

“Hey, love,” he said softly, his voice carrying that husky wear of exhaustion.

Her face appeared, lit by the soft lamp on their bedside table back home. Y/N looked warm, familiar, hair down, her expression instantly softening at the sight of him.

“Hi, baby,” she said gently, her smile brighter than his. “You look tired.”

Cillian chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Long day. Just finished not too long ago.”

“Did you eat?” she asked, tilting her head, her usual way of fussing over him.

“Yeah… grabbed something from catering before I came back.” He shifted, trying not to let his sigh slip out, but it did anyway.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, noticing. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he replied quickly, shaking his head, though his gaze drifted down for a moment. “Just the usual, you know. Filming’s intense.”

But Y/N knew him. She knew the cadence of his voice when he was hiding something, the way he tried to wave it off with vague words. She stayed quiet for a moment, just studying his face through the screen.

“Cill…” her voice was lower now, gentler, coaxing. “Something’s off. Tell me.”

He swallowed, jaw tensing. “I don’t want to—” He paused, shifting again, dragging a hand over his mouth. “Don’t want to put it on you.”

“Put what on me?” she pressed softly. “You’re my husband. That’s what I’m here for.”

Her words made his chest twist. He let out a shaky breath and leaned his head back against the headboard, eyes closing briefly. When he opened them again, they looked softer, almost vulnerable.

“I just…” His voice cracked, barely audible. “I miss you.”

Her face softened immediately, her lips parting.

“I miss you so much, love,” he went on, the words tumbling out now that he’d let the first one slip. “It’s only been a month and it feels like bloody forever. I wake up in this room and it’s so damn quiet. No smell of your shampoo in the bathroom, no sound of you padding around in your slippers. Just me. Feels… empty.”

Y/N’s eyes glistened a little, though she forced a smile for him. “Oh, Cill…”

He rubbed at his temple, embarrassed at himself for letting it show. “I didn’t want to say anything ‘cause I know you’re holding things down at home, and I should be tougher than this. But tonight it just hit me. Like, all at once.”

“Hey,” she interrupted softly, her tone firm but full of love. “Don’t you dare think you’ve got to hide this from me. Missing each other doesn’t make you weak. It just means we love each other that much.”

He looked at her through the phone, his lips twitching into a sad smile. “You always know how to make sense of me.”

“That’s my job, isn’t it?” she teased lightly, though her eyes stayed soft.

He chuckled, but it faded into a sigh. “I keep thinking about coming home after a long day, just lying on the couch with you, your hand in my hair while I fall asleep. The little things. I’d give anything for that right now.”

She pressed her lips together, her chest tightening as she watched him. “And you’ll have that again soon. It won’t always feel this long. But for now… you’ve still got me, even if it’s through a screen. You’re not alone, baby.”

His throat bobbed as he nodded, eyes misty though he blinked quickly, trying not to let it show.

“Talk to me,” she said softly. “Tell me about your day, about the scene you filmed. Let me be there with you, even if it’s just through this phone.”

Cillian gave a little laugh, the heaviness in his chest easing just slightly at her words. “You always know what I need, don’t you?”

“Always,” she whispered.

He sat up straighter, his eyes fixed on her, drinking in the sight of her face. “God, I love you. More than anything.”

“I love you too, Cill. More than you’ll ever know.”

He didn’t speak for a moment, just looked at her, his hand pressing against the phone as if he could touch her through it.

Cillian leaned back against the headboard, his phone balanced in his hand, Y/N’s face glowing softly in the dim hotel light. The city outside buzzed faintly through the window, but here, in this moment, it felt like just the two of them.

She tilted her head, watching him closely. “So… tell me, what’s going on in that pretty brain of yours, hm?”

He smirked a little at the choice of words, though his shoulders sank. “Hmm.. Feels more like a scrambled one these days.”

Her lips curved into a smile. “Scrambled or not, I want to know what’s in there. Start with today. How was it, really?”

He sighed through his nose, scratching the back of his neck. “Long. We did that big market scene—loads of extras, noise, smoke everywhere. Took hours to reset between takes. I was on my feet all day, running lines in my head when I wasn’t filming.” He paused, then shook his head. “But none of it feels worth talking about without you here to come home to.”

“Cill…” her voice softened again.

He gave her a tired half-smile. “I know, I know. I sound ungrateful. It’s a dream job, and I do love it. But you know me, love. I live for the in-betweens—the quiet bits after. Sitting at the kitchen table with you, having tea, not saying much. That’s the part I miss the most.”

Her eyes softened even more, her chest tightening at the way his voice cracked just slightly. “You’re not ungrateful. You’re just… human. And a husband who misses his wife. That’s nothing to apologise for.”

Cillian swallowed, nodding, his eyes flicking away for a moment. “I keep telling myself to just tough it out. To focus on the work. But I’ll be honest—I’m not sleeping much. Can’t switch off when I’m alone here. My head just keeps going.”

Her eyebrows pulled together. “You’re not sleeping?”

He shook his head faintly. “Couple of hours here and there, but… not properly. I lie there thinking about home. Thinking about you. What you’re doing. If you’re lonely without me.”

“I am,” she admitted softly, “but not in a bad way. More like… I just miss you. Same as you miss me. But Cill, you’ve got to rest. You can’t run yourself ragged, especially with the hours you’re keeping on set.”

“I know.” He exhaled heavily, dragging a hand through his hair. “I just don’t know how to quiet my head down.”

“Then let me help,” she said, her tone firm but gentle. “Tell me what’s running through it when you’re lying there. What’s keeping you up?”

He hesitated, then gave a small, self-conscious laugh. “You really want to know? It’s not very… poetic.”

“Try me,” she teased, her voice warm.

Cillian looked down for a moment before meeting her eyes again through the screen. “I picture you in bed, on my side. I wonder if you’re using my pillow, if it still smells like me. I think about whether you’ve eaten enough, if you’ve locked the doors. Stupid things like that. But they pile up. And then I start thinking about the next day’s shoot, about whether I’ll get it right, if people will like it. And by the time I’ve wound myself up, it’s morning.”

Y/N’s expression softened into a mixture of love and sadness. “That’s not stupid. That’s you caring. About me, about your work. But baby, you don’t have to carry it all alone. Next time your brain won’t switch off, call me—even if it’s the middle of the night. I don’t care. I’d rather you wake me up than sit there with it all on your chest.”

His lips twitched, emotion flickering in his eyes. “You’d really want that?”

“Of course. That’s what we’re here for—each other. So promise me, no more lying there alone with it, okay?”

He nodded slowly. “Alright. I promise.”

“Good,” she said softly, then gave him a little smile. “Now, what about food? Are you actually eating properly or just telling me you are?”

Cillian chuckled, guilty. “Caught me, did you?”

“Always,” she grinned. “So…?”

“I’ve been skipping meals here and there,” he admitted quietly. “Schedule’s mad. I just grab coffee most mornings and hope it holds me.”

Her face fell. “Cill…”

“I know, love, I know,” he said quickly, holding up his free hand. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ll do better. I’ll make sure to eat.”

She softened again, though her voice stayed firm. “Promise me you will. No more running on coffee. I can tell when you’re not looking after yourself, and it worries me.”

“Promise,” he said, his voice earnest.

There was a beat of silence where they just looked at each other, the distance between them achingly real. He pressed his thumb gently against the edge of the phone, wishing he could touch her.

“You always know how to pull it out of me,” he murmured. “Things I don’t even want to admit to myself.”

“That’s because you’re mine,” she whispered, her smile small but full of love. “And I’ll always take care of you—even from here.”

He closed his eyes briefly, his chest loosening at her words. When he opened them again, they were glassy but warm.

“God, I can’t wait to come home to you,” he whispered.

[cillslover]

Not hungry // Part 22

PLEASE PLEASE READ WARNINGS BEFORE READING!!

Pairing: Modern day Thomas Shelby x Female Reader

Warnings: heavy mentions of an eating disorder, mentions of weight loss/body dysmorphia, emotional distancing, mental health themes, anxiety, food avoidance, internalised guilt, angst, slight hints at self-harm (non-graphic), intrusive negative thoughts. Mentions of self-hate and unhealthy coping mechanisms, Heavy hurt/comfort themes, purging, heavy drinking, serious injuries, medical trauma, hospital setting, invasive medical procedures, strong language.

Summary: After two weeks of quietness and just them together in the countryside, Cheltenham race day arrives, bringing both celebration and struggles for Thomas and Y/N.

A/N: Feeling like this is honestly the worst, it literally creeps in out of nowhere and suddenly body dysmorphia just takes over your whole life, istg things are finally going well and then it just clouds your whole mind and keeps getting worse, and your own skin feels like hell 😭

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Two weeks had slipped by like smoke through cracked fingers, slow at first, then gone before you could grasp them. The house in the countryside had become a sanctuary, its walls holding the quiet rhythm of recovery. Thomas had been relentless in his gentleness, a side of him few ever saw, woven into the fabric of their days. Mornings started with the clink of porcelain as he brought her tea in bed, black and strong the way she liked it, no questions about whether she'd drink it or not. Afternoons were spent in the garden, her sketching idly on a pad he'd fetched from some forgotten drawer, while he pretended to read the paper but really watched her, the way her pencil scratched soft against the page, the faint curve of concentration on her lips.

Evenings, when the light bled gold across the fields, they'd sit by the fire. He'd talk, low, measured words about the business, the horses, the endless churn of Birmingham's underbelly, drawing her out without pushing. And she'd talk back, halting at first, then freer, about the dreams that woke her in the night, the hospital smells that lingered in her nose like ghosts. Laughter had crept back in, too, tentative as a foal's first steps. Last night, over a simple supper of bread and cheese he'd sliced himself (a rarity, that), she'd teased him about his impeccable knife work, and he'd shot back with that dry smirk, "Learned it from worse than a kitchen, love. Keeps the hands steady." His fingers had brushed hers then, lingering, and she'd let them, the warmth seeping into her skin like sunlight after rain.

Thomas thought she was getting better. He saw it in the color returning to her cheeks, the way she'd reach for him unprompted, a hand on his arm as they walked the stables, her head on his shoulder during those firelit evenings. The shadows under her eyes had faded, her steps steadier on the uneven paths. He'd caught her eating without prompting twice this week: a slice of apple from the bowl on the table, a spoonful of porridge one dawn when insomnia had them both awake. It was progress, he told himself, stacking it like bricks into a wall against the doubt that gnawed at him in the dark hours. She was his again, whole enough for now. And today, with the races at Cheltenham looming like a promise of normalcy, he clung to that.

The day dawned crisp, the air sharp with the promise of autumn's bite. Thomas was up before the sun, pacing the study in his shirtsleeves, a cigarette burning forgotten in the ashtray. Monaghan Girl, his prize mare, sleek as a blade and twice as fierce, was running in the Gold Cup. He'd sunk a fortune into her training, her bloodlines a tangled map of Irish grit and English steel. The odds were in their favour, whispered through the bookies' dens like gospel, but Thomas Shelby didn't trust whispers. He trusted the thunder of hooves, the burn in his veins when the gates cracked open. Today wasn't just a race; it was a statement to the coppers sniffing too close, to the Italians circling like vultures, to the ghosts of France that still whispered in his ear at night. Win or lose, it would be his.

He glanced at the clock, half past eight. The drive to Cheltenham was three hours if the roads held, and he wanted to be there early, eyes on the paddock, hands on the reins of fate. "Fuckin' hell," he muttered, stubbing out the cigarette and shrugging into his waistcoat. He needed to rouse her, get them moving. But gently, always gently now. No rushing the fragile thing they'd rebuilt.

Upstairs, the bedroom door creaked open under his knock, and he stepped in, the scent of lavender from her soap hitting him like a memory. Y/N was already stirring, sat up in the rumpled sheets, her hair a wild halo in the slanted morning light. She looked… good. Better than good. The nightgown hung loose on her frame still, but there was a softness to her edges, a quiet vitality that hadn't been there weeks ago.

"Mornin'," he said, voice gravel-rough from lack of sleep, crossing to the bed in three strides. He perched on the edge, his hand finding her knee under the covers, thumb tracing idle circles. "Sleep alright?"

She nodded, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with the heel of her hand, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Better than most nights. You were out late with the horses again, weren't you?"

"Couldn't sleep," he admitted, his gaze flicking over her face, cataloging the details like a man afraid they'd vanish. "Monaghan's got fire in her today. I can feel it." He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead, lingering there to breathe her in, tobacco and wool from his borrowed shirt she'd worn to bed, mingled with her. "You ready for this? The races. It'll be mad, but… good mad. Family'll be there, Polly fussing over the bets like always."

Her smile widened, genuine now, and she leaned into him, her hand coming up to cup his jaw, fingers rough against the stubble he'd neglected. "I'm ready. Been too long since we've done something like this. Normal." She paused, her thumb brushing his lower lip. "You look like a boy on Christmas, Tommy. All wired up."

He huffed a laugh, low and rare, catching her hand and kissing the palm. "Wired's one word for it. Come on, then. Breakfast first—oatmeal, if you're feeling it. Or just tea. Whatever you fancy." He stood, pulling her up with him, his arm sliding around her waist as she found her feet. She was light still, but not brittle. He held her a beat longer than necessary, savoring the way she fit against him, solid and warm.

Down in the kitchen, the fire crackled low, casting flickering shadows on the flagstones.

"You're spoiling me," she said softly, as he set the bowl before her, steam curling up like a truce flag. "Thomas Shelby, porridge chef."

"Only the best for my wife," he replied, deadpan, but his eyes crinkled at the corners as he sat across from her, nursing his own mug of black tea. "Eat what you can. We've a long day." He didn't watch her eat, not staring, not judging, just let the silence settle companionable, broken only by the spoon's soft clink.

She managed half the bowl, pushing it away with a satisfied sigh. "That's enough for now. Don't want to feel like a stuffed turkey before the first race."

He nodded, no pressure in it, his mind already half on the track, the odds, the cut of Alfie Solomons' latest grin over a shared pint. But he reined it in, turning back to her with a hand extended. "Go on, then. Get yourself ready. I've the car packed—your hat, the tickets. Meet me down here in an hour?"

She took his hand, rising to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "An hour. Promise I won't take all day."

"See that you don't," he teased, swatting lightly at her hip as she slipped past him toward the stairs. "Wouldn't want to miss the parade ring."

The hour ticked by in a haze for him, pacing the hall, lighting a cigarette only to let it burn down to the filter, eyes on the drive where the Bentley waited like a sleek black beast. Upstairs, Y/N moved through the ritual of dressing with a care she hadn't felt in months. The room was awash in soft light, the curtains billowed by a breeze sneaking through the cracked window. Her vanity was a scatter of pots and brushes, a gift from Ada last Christmas, and she sat before it now, pinning her hair into loose waves that framed her face. A touch of rouge on her cheeks, not too much, just enough to chase the pallor, and a sweep of kohl around her eyes, smoky and sharp.

The dress hung on the wardrobe door, a deep emerald silk that Ada had insisted on sending from London. "Wear it to the races," her note had read. "Tommy'll lose his bloody mind." It was elegant, cut to skim the body without clinging, the neckline a modest V laced with cream pearls. Y/N had tried it on once before the hospital, twirling in front of the mirror with a laugh that echoed now like a half-remembered dream. Today, she slipped out of her robe, the cool air raising gooseflesh on her skin, and stepped into the dress, the fabric whispering against her legs like a secret.

She zipped it up slowly, the sound a soft rasp in the quiet room, and turned to the full-length mirror propped against the wall. For a heartbeat, it was fine. The green brought out the hazel in her eyes, the pearls gleamed like captured moonlight. She smoothed her hands down the bodice, adjusting the fit, and—

There.

In the merciless glass, the truth stared back, unblinking. The dress hugged her, not cruelly, but enough. Enough to outline the softness at her waist, the subtle curve of her hips that hadn't been there before. Fat. It bloomed like wildfire under the silk, insidious and sudden, a roll here, a pinch there where the fabric pulled taut. Her breath caught, sharp as a blade, and the room tilted. How had she not seen it? Two weeks of porridge and tea and his careful portions, and this, this betrayal of flesh, swelling like dough left too long in the heat. Her fingers pressed into her side, probing the give, the horror of it yielding under her touch. Look at you, the voice hissed, old and venomous, slithering up from the pit of her stomach. Swollen. Ugly. He sees it, you know. That flicker in his eyes when he holds you—pity, not want. Why would he? You're a fucking whale now, bursting at the seams.

Her knees buckled, just a fraction, and she gripped the vanity's edge, nails digging into the wood. The mirror loomed, mocking, her reflection warped into something grotesque: cheeks too full, arms dimpled at the elbows, the dress a shroud over ruin. Purge it, the thought intruded, slick and urgent. One finger down the throat, quick and clean. Or skip lunch, dinner—starve it out. He won't notice. He doesn't now. Guilt twisted in next, hot and familiar—Ungrateful bitch. He's killing himself to fix you, and you repay him with this? Weak. Pathetic. Her vision blurred, tears pricking hot, and she leaned closer, breath fogging the glass, as if she could erase it, will the body away.

The door swung open with a decisive click, and Thomas filled the frame, all sharp lines and tailored wool, his cap tilted just so. "Y/N, love—we've got to move. Roads'll be clogged with every bastard from here to Gloucester tryin' to get a piece of the action. Monaghan's stabled already, but I want eyes on her before the warm-up." His voice was all business, clipped with that edge of impatience he got when the world didn't bend fast enough, but his eyes softened the instant they landed on her. He stepped in, closing the door behind him with a soft thud, and froze mid-stride, taking her in. "Christ… look at you."

She startled, whipping around from the mirror, her hands dropping to her sides like guilty secrets. The thoughts recoiled, shoved down into the dark, but their echo lingered, a dull throb in her temples. "Tommy—I, it's not—"

He was on her in two strides, hands framing her face, thumbs brushing the damp at her lashline before she could blink it away. "Hey," he murmured, voice dropping low, that gravel timbre that always unraveled her. "What's this? Tears? On race day?" His gaze searched hers, fierce and tender all at once, the blue of his eyes like storm-tossed sea. He didn't pull back, didn't let her retreat into the shell she'd worn in the hospital. Instead, he tilted her chin up, forcing the connection. "Talk to me, eh? Can't have you lookin' like that when you're turnin' every head from here to the track."

She swallowed, the lump in her throat bitter, her hands coming up to clutch at his lapels, twisting the wool like an anchor. "The dress… it fits wrong. I—I look…" The words stuck, poisoned, but he waited, patient as stone, his forehead coming to rest against hers.

"Wrong? Fuck that," he said, fierce now, one hand sliding down to her waist, splaying wide over the silk, pulling her flush against him. "You look like sin wrapped in green, love. Like you could walk into that paddock and make the bookies forget their odds." He pulled back just enough to rake his eyes over her, deliberate, appreciative, the heat in them chasing the chill from her bones. "Pearls suit you. And this—" His fingers traced the neckline, light as a breath, sending a shiver through her. "This hugs you perfect. Shows me what's mine."

Her breath hitched, the intrusive hiss fading under his touch, but doubt clung like damp fog. "Tommy, I… I've put on weight. It's there, in the mirror. I see it—soft, everywhere. Like I'm… breaking."

He stilled, his hand pausing at her hip, but not in revulsion, in understanding, the kind forged in trenches and betrayals. Slowly, he turned her back toward the mirror, stepping behind her, his chest solid against her back, arms bracketing her waist like iron bands. In the glass, they stood together: him tall and shadowed, her small but steady in his hold. "Look again," he commanded softly, chin hooking over her shoulder, lips brushing her ear. "Not at the dress, or the 'soft' bollocks your head's spinnin'. Look at us."

She did, hesitant, her eyes meeting his in the reflection, unwavering, fierce with a love that bordered on possession. His hands moved then, one sliding up to cup her jaw, the other pressing flat against her stomach, over the silk, holding her there. "This?" he murmured, voice a rumble against her neck. "This is life, Y/N. You're breathin', eatin', livin' under my roof again. I look at you, and I see the woman who rode with me two weeks back, wind in her hair, smilin' like the world's hers. I see the one who makes me forget the ledgers and the lies. Not some fuckin' scale or seam."

Tears spilled then, hot and unbidden, but she didn't pull away. His words wrapped around her like the coat he'd draped over her shoulders that first day home, too big, but warm. "It doesn't feel like that," she whispered, voice cracking. "It feels like… like I'm losing control. Like if I let it stay, you'll—"

"Stop," he cut in, gentle but firm, turning her in his arms to face him proper. His hands framed her face again, thumbs swiping the tears with a tenderness that belied the calluses. "Listen to me, eh? I've lost control plenty—galloped horses into the ground, men into graves, meself into bottles I couldn't climb out of. But you? You're the one thing I fight to keep steady." He kissed her then, fierce and claiming, lips slanting over hers with the urgency of a man who'd stared down death and come back for her. It tasted of smoke and tea and promise, his hands roaming her back, pulling her closer until the mirror fogged behind them.

She melted into it, hands fisting in his shirt, the thoughts fracturing under the weight of him. When he pulled back, breathless, his forehead pressed to hers again. "You're beautiful," he said, simple and sure, like stating the weather. "And you're mine. No mirror, no hospital ghost, no bullshit voice in your head changes that. Alright?"

"Alright," she echoed, shaky but real, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the faint scar there from some long-ago brawl. A laugh bubbled up, watery but true. "You're a romantic bastard when you want to be, Thomas Shelby."

"Only for you," he shot back, smirking now, that razor-edge charm flickering to life. He stepped back, but kept one hand in hers, tugging her toward the door. "Now come on—before Arthur rings me hoarse about the bets. Monaghan's waitin', and I've half a mind to name her foal after you if she pulls it off."

She let him lead her down the stairs, the dress swishing soft against her legs, the mirror's curse left behind in the haze.

The drive to Cheltenham was a blur of hedgerows and winding lanes, the Bentley's engine purring like a contented cat. Thomas drove one-handed, the other resting on her thigh, thumb tracing lazy patterns through the silk. Glancing at her every mile or so. "You warm enough?" he'd ask, or "Fancy a stop for tea in the next village?"—small anchors, tethering her to the now.

By the time they pulled into the course's sprawling grounds, the air thrummed with anticipation: the sharp tang of horseflesh and polished leather, the roar of crowds swelling like a tide, top hats and pearls mingling with flat caps and cigarette haze. Thomas parked with the precision of a man used to claiming space, then rounded the car to help her out, his hand steady at her elbow. The family was already there, Arthur barking orders at a cluster of Peaky lads, Polly with a ledger in hand, Ada and the kids trailing like ducklings. But Thomas ignored them all at first, turning to her with a low, "You good?" His eyes searched hers again, that quiet intensity cutting through the din.

"yeah" she said, squeezing his arm, the dress feeling less like a cage now, more like armor under his gaze. "Go on—your horse is waiting. I'll find Polly."

He nodded, but didn't let go right away, pulling her into a quick, fierce embrace amid the bustle, his lips at her temple. "Stay close, eh? After the race—win or no—we'll slip away. Find a quiet corner, crack a bottle. Just you and me."

"Promise?" she murmured, nuzzling into his neck, breathing him in.

"Promise," he echoed, voice rough with unspoken vows. Then, with a final kiss, soft, lingering, he released her, tipping his cap as he strode toward the paddock, the king reclaiming his throne.

She watched him go, the crowd parting like water.

---

The crowd surged around her like a living thing, all flat caps and fevered whispers, the air thick with the reek of wet wool, cheap gin, and the earthy musk of horses being led to the starting gate. Y/N stood there a moment longer, watching Thomas cut through it all, his stride long and unhurried, shoulders squared under the grey wool of his overcoat, cap pulled low against the spitting drizzle. He didn't look back, not once, but she knew he felt her eyes on him, that invisible tether pulling taut between them. The boys fell in around him like shadows: Arthur clapping a meaty hand on his shoulder with a bark of laughter that carried over the din, John sauntering up with a grin and a flask already glinting in his fist, Finn trailing like a pup eager for scraps. They swallowed him up, voices rising in a rumble of bets and boasts, and just like that, he was gone, off to the paddock where the real blood would spill, hooves instead of blades.

She exhaled slowly, wrapping her arms around her middle under the drape of her coat, the silk of the dress shifting against her skin like an accusation. Go on, then, she told herself, turning toward the stands where the women held court. Smile. Act normal. It's just a day out. But the words felt hollow even in her head, brittle as dry leaves underfoot. The thoughts had been simmering all morning, banked low by Tommy's touch and his fierce, steady gaze, but now, alone in the crush, they flared up hot and insistent, licking at the edges of her mind like flames chasing dry tinder.

Polly spotted her first, a cigarette pinched between her lips, perched on the edge of a splintered wooden bench amid the flutter of skirts and children's shouts. Ada sat beside her, Karl balanced on her knee, tugging at the brim of her hat with sticky fingers while she murmured corrections in that soft, exasperated tone only a mother could manage. A few of the Shelby cousins milled about, Lizzie nursing a gin in a tin cup, her eyes sharp as she scanned the crowd for familiar faces. They were a knot of resilience there in the stands, the women who kept the empire stitched together when the men went mad with it.

"Y/N, love!" Polly called, voice cutting through the babble like a knife through silk, beckoning her over with a flick of her free hand. "Over here, before these bloody bookies trample you. Come sit—save your feet for dancin' later, if Tommy's nag pulls it off."

Y/N forced her steps steady, weaving through a gaggle of punters haggling over slips, her smile pinned in place like a brooch. "Wouldn't miss it," she said, sliding onto the bench beside Ada, the wood groaning under the shift of weight. Weight. The word landed like a stone in her gut, and there it was, the first twist, sharp and familiar. She crossed her legs, the silk whispering up her thigh, and caught her reflection in the polished buckle of Ada's shoe: a flash of green fabric, the curve of her knee pressing against it. Too much. The flesh there dimpled softly, spilling just a fraction over the edge of her stocking top. Christ, look at that. Bloated already, and it's not even noon. How does it happen so fast? One bowl of oats, one touch of butter on bread, and it's like your body's turned traitor overnight.

Ada leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, her perfume, jasmine and something sharper, like ink, cutting through the tobacco haze. "You look a vision, you do. That dress—it's criminal. Tommy's eyes nearly popped when I saw you two earlier. Said something filthy about it, I bet."

Y/N laughed, the sound light and practiced, but it caught in her throat like gravel. "He did. Wouldn't shut up about the pearls." She smoothed her hand down the bodice again, a reflex now, chasing flatness that wasn't there. The fabric clung, molding to the swell of her belly, the subtle pooch that hadn't been so pronounced last spring. It pulls tight here, see? Like it's strangling the truth out. You're spilling over, love. Fat folding into fat, layer on greasy layer. He felt it this morning, didn't he? That hesitation in his palm—pity disguised as tenderness. Her skin prickled, hot and clammy, as if the imagined grease were seeping through, slick and vile, dripping down her sides in invisible rivulets. She could almost feel it, the weight of it sloshing inside her, heavy as mercury, pooling at her hips, her thighs, making every shift on the bench a slither of shame.

Polly snorted, exhaling smoke in a long plume that curled toward the track. "Pearls on a Shelby woman? That's just Tommy marking his territory. But you wear it well, love. Suits the green in your eyes." She reached over, patting Y/N's knee with that firm, no-nonsense grip, affection wrapped in authority, the kind that said I've buried worse than this and come out swinging. "How are you feeling today? Been too long since we've had you out proper."

"Better," Y/N said, the lie slipping out easy as breath. She met Polly's gaze, those dark eyes that saw too much, and held it just long enough to sell it. "Really. The air here's doing wonders. And Tommy, well, he's been…" She trailed off, a fond smile tugging at her lips because that part, at least, was true. His hands on her waist that morning, the rumble of his voice calling her beautiful like it was fact, not flattery. But even that twisted now, the memory curdling: He says it because he has to. Because he remembers the old you, the one who didn't jiggle when she walked. Now? You're a ghost haunting your own skin, all this padding hiding the bones he used to trace.

Karl chose that moment to lunge across Ada's lap, grabbing for Y/N's hat with a gleeful squeal. "Pretty bird!" he crowed, fingers snatching at the feathers.

Ada hauled him back, chuckling low. "Oi, you little terror, let Aunt Y/N keep her feathers, or she'll look like one of the racehorses." She bounced him gently, planting a kiss on his crown. "Sorry, love. He's all energy today. Takes after his uncle, God help us."

Y/N caught his chubby hand, tickling his palm until he dissolved into giggles, the sound pulling a real thread of warmth through her. "No apologies needed. He's perfect." She let the boy cling to her fingers, his grip sticky and trusting, a small anchor against the tide rising in her chest. But as she leaned forward to boop his nose, her arm brushed the side of the bench, and there, another glimpse, this time in the shine of a distant brass railing across the stands. Her profile, etched sharp: jawline softened, chin doubling just a touch in the angle. There it is. The second one. Fat neck, swelling like rising dough. You can feel it wobbling when you swallow, can't you? All that blubber quivering under the skin, waiting to burst free. Revulsion hit like bile, sour and sudden, her stomach churning as if the imagined fat were melting right there, trickling warm down her collarbone, soaking into the silk like oil on water. She straightened too quickly, the motion sending a jiggle through her body—too full, too heavy, and she crossed her arms tight over her chest, hiding, compressing it, as if pressure could purge the excess.

"You alright, Y/N?" Ada's voice pulled her back, brow furrowed just a fraction, concern flickering behind the amusement. "Looks like you've seen a ghost. Or one of Tommy's ledgers, same difference."

Y/N blinked, forcing another laugh, lighter this time, deflecting with the ease of long practice. "Just the crowd. Feels like half of Birmingham's here, doesn't it? Think I'll nip for a smoke, clear my head before the off." She stood, smoothing her skirt with hands that trembled only a little, the fabric bunching under her palms like it resented the touch. Resents you, more like. Clinging to the rolls, outlining every flaw.

Polly eyed her, cigarette paused mid-drag, but nodded once, sharp. "Go on, then. But don't let those bookies fleece you on the way back. I've got a tip on Monaghan, straight as a die, that one. Twenty to one she'll smoke 'em."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Y/N replied, flashing a grin over her shoulder as she slipped away, threading through the throng toward the periphery where the air might thin out. The loos were her excuse, a shadowed brick outhouse at the edge of the enclosures, but she veered toward a quieter stretch behind the stands instead, leaning against the damp wood of a betting tent, fishing a cigarette from her clutch with fingers that felt numb and thick. Thick like sausages. Can't even roll a proper fag without the meat of your thumbs getting in the way. She lit it, inhaling deep, the burn in her lungs a welcome distraction from the slick horror coating her insides. Every breath seemed to amplify it, the way her ribs strained under the layer of padding, the give of her belly when she exhaled, soft and shameful. She caught her reflection again, this time in a puddle at her feet, warped by ripples but no less damning: the dress's hem riding up her thighs, exposing skin that dimpled and creased. Dripping. It's dripping off you, pooling at your feet like the lard you are. Wash it away—sweat it out, starve it down. He won't kiss you tonight if he feels it sloshing between you.

The race bell clanged distant, pulling her back too soon. She stubbed the cigarette under her heel, the ember hissing out like a silenced scream, and wove back to the stands, pasting on that mask again, easy smile, steady gait, as if her mind weren't a cage rattling with loathing.

By the time she resettled beside Ada, the field was lining up, the horses stamping and snorting under the sharp crack of jockey whips. The crowd hushed, a collective inhale, and Polly leaned forward, ledger forgotten on her lap. "There she is—Monaghan, number seven. Look at that stride. Tommy's blood in her veins, alright."

Y/N nodded, gripping the bench edge till her knuckles paled, willing the focus outward. But the murmurs around her dragged her in, the rustle of skirts as women shifted, a girl adjusting her bodice with a satisfied tug. Satisfied. Because she fits hers. No muffin-top spilling over the lace, no arms waving like pale flags when she claps. Another glimpse: in the glass panel of a vendor's cart nearby, her face framed amid the crush, cheeks flushed not from excitement but from the heat of her own disgust, lips pressed thin over teeth she imagined yellowed under the strain. Fat face, moon-round and puffy. Eyes swallowed by the swell. No wonder he looks away sometimes, it's like bedding a pillow, all give and no edge.

"You missed the parade," Ada murmured, nudging her shoulder with affection, warm and sisterly. "Karl here's been asking for you. Said Aunt Y/N's hat has magic feathers that'll make Uncle Tommy win."

Karl beamed up at her from Ada's arms, oblivious, and Y/N ruffled his hair, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. "Magic feathers, eh? Well, they're workin' overtime today, little man. Watch, see that black one there? That's your Uncle's. She's gonna fly."

The pistol cracked, and the field exploded forward, a thunder of muscle and mud. The stands erupted, shouts, stomps, the frantic flutter of betting slips, and Y/N rose with them, caught in the swell, her body moving on instinct. But under it all, the tide inside her raged unchecked: Jump higher, burn it off. Feel that jiggle in your thighs? That's the enemy, quaking with every step. It's everywhere, under your arms, behind your knees, a secret shame slicking your skin like sweat you can't wipe clean. She excused herself again midway through, mumbling something about fetching a program, ducking into the press where she could breathe unseen, hands pressed to her sides as if to hold the imagined deluge in check.

Back for the final furlong, the roar built to a fever, Monaghan pulling ahead, neck and neck with a bay from the Italians, her jockey urging her on with a lean that bordered on savage. Polly was on her feet, fists clenched, barking, "Come on, you beauty—give 'em hell!" Ada clutched Y/N's arm, nails digging in with shared thrill. "She's got it—look, she's got it!"

And she did. Monaghan surged, crossing the line a length clear, the crowd detonating in a wave of caps tossed skyward, cheers ragged and raw. And Polly whooped, hauling Ada into a fierce hug, the two of them laughing like girls who'd just nicked the crown jewels.

Y/N clapped with them, the motion mechanical, her smile wide but her mind a distant storm. He won. Good for him. But you'll ruin it later, pressing against him in the car, all this doughy weight pinning him down. He'll smile, kiss your forehead, but inside? Repulsed. Drowning in it. The thought dripped cold, viscous, tracing icy paths down her spine.

The family converged then, a whirlwind of backslaps and gin toasts, Arthur barreling up with a bottle already uncorked, John hollering for glasses, Finn wide-eyed and trailing victory cigars. But Tommy emerged last, parting the chaos like a blade, his face alight with that rare, unguarded triumph, eyes sharp blue under the cap, a flush high on his cheekbones from the win's pure adrenaline. He found her first, always, striding straight to where she stood with the women, ignoring Arthur's bellowed "Brother! You fuckin' won, that was—"

"Later," Tommy cut him off, voice low but carrying, his hand finding Y/N's waist without pause, pulling her into his side. The touch grounded her, his palm warm through the silk, fingers splaying possessively over the curve he'd called beautiful that morning. Up close, he smelled of horse and smoke, cologne and victory sweat, his breath ragged as he bent to her ear. "Told you. Fire in her."

She tilted her head back, meeting his gaze, the intensity there stripping her bare, but not in disgust, not from him. "Knew she would. You're a hard man to bet against, Thomas Shelby." Her hand came up, cupping the back of his neck, thumb tracing the short hairs there, a quiet claim amid the uproar.

He grinned, feral and fleeting, leaning in to capture her lips in a kiss that tasted of sweetness and certainty, brief but deep, his free hand tipping her chin just so. "Come on," he murmured against her mouth, pulling back only enough to speak. "Polly's got the winnings sorted. We'll slip out soon—find that quiet corner I promised. Crack the champagne in the car, let the world spin without us."

Ada caught it, smirking over Karl's head as she passed with a wink. "Don't think you're scarperin' off just yet, Tommy. Family celebrations after—winner's treat."

Tommy shot her a look, dry as dust. "Ada. One night. That's all I'm askin'."

Polly chuckled from her perch, already counting out slips with Lizzie. "Let 'em go, Ada. Man's earned a breath. Y/N looks half-dead on her feet anyway—needs her Tommy to carry her home."

Y/N flushed, the words landing too close, but Tommy's arm tightened around her, a silent fuck them, as he pressed another kiss to her temple, lingering there. "Ignore 'em. You alright? Looked peaky in the stands—thought I saw you duck off twice."

"Just the crowd," she said, echoing her earlier lie, but softer now, her fingers twisting in his lapel. "Too much noise. But this—" She nodded toward the track, the horse being led in amid flashes and cheers. "This makes up for it."

He studied her a beat longer, that piercing blue holding hers, seeing the cracks she couldn't hide from him. Then, with a nod, he turned her toward the edge of the fray, his hand sliding down to lace with hers. "Good. Because I've got plans for the drive back. Startin' with you tellin' me exactly what that dress is hidin' underneath." His voice dropped, teasing gravel, but the affection laced through it, raw, unyielding, chased the drip of doubt just a fraction further into the shadows.

She squeezed his hand, letting him lead her through the thinning crowd, the roar fading to a hum behind them. The fat still whispered, slick and insistent, but for now, in the cage of his grip, it was drowned out by the beat of his pulse against her skin. One win at a time.

[cillslover]

Hi, could you make a smut about either Tommy Shelby or William Killick x reader. The reader is 6 or 7 month pregnant and she feeling fat and ugly but Tommy/William make her feel all better and sexy.

Pregnant and Perfect

Pairings: Thomas Shelby x Female Reader

Warnings: smut, 18+, explicit sexual content, erotica, pregnancy and sexual activity, body image insecurity, self-esteem issues, descriptive sexual acts (oral, vaginal intercourse, foreplay), power dynamics in intimate context, emotional vulnerability, intense romantic intimacy.

Summary: Y/N, six months pregnant, struggles with insecurities about her changing body, feeling disconnected from the woman Tommy fell in love with. Thomas notices her doubt and tenderly reassures her, showing her that she is still beautiful and desired.

A/N: Hi thank you for this idea its so sweet and caring I love writing soft Tommy!! Hope you like and enjoy this xx

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The dim light of the Shelby family home in Arrow House filtered through the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across the bedroom. It was late evening, the kind of hour where the world outside seemed to hush itself in deference to Thomas Shelby's domain. The air carried the faint scent of cigar smoke and the earthy remnants of the day's rain, mingling with the lavender from the fresh linens Ada had insisted on sending over. Y/N stood before the full-length mirror in their shared bedroom, her hands resting on the swell of her belly, six months along now, the baby kicking faintly as if to remind her of the life growing inside. But tonight, that reminder felt more like a burden.

She tugged at the loose nightgown, frowning at her reflection. Her breasts were fuller, heavier, straining against the fabric in a way that once might have felt alluring but now just seemed cumbersome. Her hips had widened, her skin stretched taut over curves that felt foreign, bloated. "Fat and ugly," she muttered under her breath, turning sideways to inspect the profile that no longer resembled the lithe woman Tommy had married. The pregnancy had been a blessing, they'd both wanted this child fiercely, a symbol of the fragile peace they'd carved out amid the chaos of gang wars and betrayals, but the toll on her body gnawed at her confidence. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, unworthy of the sharp, commanding man who shared her bed.

The door creaked open behind her, and she didn't need to turn to know it was him. Thomas Shelby moved like a shadow, his presence filling the room before his voice did. He was still in his waistcoat and trousers, the crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the ink of his tattoos. His cap was off, tossed onto the dresser as he entered, but the razor blades were never far from reach. He paused, blue eyes narrowing as he took her in, reading her like he read ledgers or enemies, swiftly, thoroughly.

"What's this, then?" His voice was low, gravelly, laced with that Birmingham drawl that could command armies or soothe storms. He stepped closer, his boots soft on the Persian rug. "Standing there like you've got the weight of the world on you, eh? And not just the little one."

Y/N glanced at him in the mirror, forcing a small smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Nothing, Tommy. Just… looking." She smoothed her hands over her belly again, but the gesture was self-conscious, almost apologetic.

He wasn't fooled. Tommy never was. He came up behind her, his hands sliding around her waist, or what was left of it, resting gently over hers on the curve of her stomach. His chin brushed her shoulder, his breath warm against her neck. "Looking at what? Yourself? And not liking what you see?" His tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a tenderness beneath it, reserved for her alone. In the world outside, he was Tommy Shelby, OBE, leader of the Peaky Blinders, a man who dealt in blood and business. Here, he was just hers.

She sighed, leaning back into him despite herself. His solid frame grounded her, the faint scent of whiskey and tobacco wrapping around her like a familiar embrace. "I feel… different. Not me. This body—it's not the one you fell in love with. I'm all swollen and stretched. Fat. Ugly." The words tumbled out, raw and vulnerable, tears pricking at her eyes.

Tommy's grip tightened just a fraction, not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor her. He turned her gently to face him, his piercing gaze locking onto hers. "Ugly? You?" He let out a low chuckle, not mocking, but disbelieving. "Y/N, love, you've got no idea, do you? This—" He placed one hand on her belly, his thumb stroking the fabric over her skin. "This is you carrying our child. Our future. And you think that makes you less? Eh? Makes you anything but the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on?"

She shook her head, doubt clouding her features. "You say that, but I see myself. I don't feel sexy anymore. Not like before."

His expression softened, a rare vulnerability flickering in those ice-blue eyes. Tommy wasn't one for flowery words, he preferred action, precision, but for her, he'd find them. He cupped her face in his hands, callused from years of fighting and scheming, yet gentle as they traced her jaw. "Listen to me, sweetheart. You're not just my wife. You're the woman who stands by me through hell. The one who brings light to this bloody darkness we live in. And now? Carrying our baby? You're a goddess, Y/N. Every curve, every change—it's all part of you. Makes me want you more, not less."

He kissed her then, slow and deliberate, his lips claiming hers with the quiet intensity that defined him. It wasn't rushed; Tommy Shelby didn't rush what mattered. His hands roamed down her sides, mapping the new contours of her body as if committing them to memory. When he pulled back, his voice was a husky whisper. "Let me show you. Let me remind you how fucking stunning you are."

Y/N hesitated, but the heat in his eyes, the raw desire mixed with protectiveness, melted her resistance. She nodded, and he led her to the bed, the four-poster monstrosity that dominated the room, its sheets crisp and inviting. He helped her sit, then knelt before her like a supplicant, his hands sliding up her thighs to push the nightgown higher. "Lie back, love. Let me take care of you."

She did as he asked, propping herself on pillows to accommodate her belly, her heart racing. Tommy's fingers hooked into the edges of her undergarments, pulling them down with care, exposing her to the cool air. He paused, his gaze reverent as he took in the sight of her, swollen, sensitive, changed by the life they’d created. "Look at you," he murmured, his breath ghosting over her skin. "So full, so ripe. Perfect."

"Tommy…" she whispered, a mix of embarrassment and anticipation.

"Shh, darling. No more doubts." He leaned in, his lips brushing her inner thigh first, trailing kisses upward. His hands parted her legs gently, thumbs stroking the soft skin. When his mouth finally found her center, he was unhurried, his tongue flicking out to taste her with a low groan of appreciation. "Sweet as honey, you are. My beautiful girl."

Y/N gasped, her fingers threading into his dark hair as he worked her with expert precision. Tommy was a man who knew control, in business, in bed, and he wielded it now to worship her. His tongue circled her clit, slow and teasing, before delving lower, lapping at her folds. "This pussy of yours," he growled against her, the vibration sending shivers through her. "So wet for me already. So responsive. You've no idea how much I crave it, how it's even better now, all swollen and sensitive. You're a miracle, Y/N. My miracle."

He praised her relentlessly, his words interspersed with licks and sucks that built the tension coil-tight in her core. "That's it, love. Let go. You're so fucking sexy like this—moaning for me, your body all curves and life." His fingers joined his mouth, one slipping inside her carefully, curling to find that spot that made her arch. "Feel that? How your body's made for this? For me? You're not fat, sweetheart—you're lush. Voluptuous. Every inch of you drives me mad."

Her breaths came in pants, the pleasure mounting as he alternated between gentle sucks on her clit and deep, probing strokes of his tongue. "Tommy… please… I feel so…"

"Beautiful," he finished for her, lifting his head just enough to meet her eyes, his lips glistening. "Say it, Y/N. You're beautiful."

"I'm… beautiful," she echoed, the words shaky but gaining strength as he dove back in, his free hand caressing her belly tenderly.

"Good girl," he murmured, the praise rumbling against her. "My good, gorgeous girl. Come for me now. Let me taste how sweet you are when you shatter."

The orgasm hit her like a wave, crashing over her in ripples that left her trembling, her cries muffled by the pillow she clutched. Tommy didn't stop until she was spent, lapping up every drop with reverent care, his hands soothing her thighs as she came down.

When she finally caught her breath, he rose, shedding his clothes with efficient grace, waistcoat folded neatly, shirt unbuttoned to reveal the scars and tattoos that told his story. He was hard, achingly so, but his touch remained gentle as he joined her on the bed, positioning himself carefully beside her.

"See what you do to me?" he said, guiding her hand to his length, letting her feel the evidence of his desire. "This is because of you, Y/N. All of you."

She stroked him tentatively, but he shook his head, kissing her forehead. "Tonight's about you, love. About making you feel like the queen you are." He maneuvered them so she was on her side, her back to his chest, a position that accommodated her belly without pressure. His arm wrapped around her, hand splaying over the swell as he entered her from behind, inch by slow inch.

They both groaned at the connection, Tommy burying his face in her neck. "Fuck, you feel incredible. So tight, so warm. My perfect wife." He moved with deliberate gentleness, thrusts shallow and rhythmic, mindful of her comfort. His free hand roamed, cupping her breast, thumbing the sensitive nipple until she whimpered. "These tits of yours—fuller now, eh? Begging for my touch. You're a vision, Y/N. My everything."

"Tommy… deeper," she pleaded, pushing back against him.

He obliged, but kept the pace soft, his hips rolling in a steady cadence that built pleasure without strain. "That's my girl. Taking me so well. You're so sexy like this, pregnant with my child, letting me love you proper." His lips found her ear, whispering endearments that contrasted his usual stoicism. "Sweetheart… darling… my love. You've no idea the power you hold over me. I'd burn the world for you."

Dialogue flowed between them, intimate and raw. "Tell me you feel it," he urged, his voice strained with restraint. "How beautiful you are."

"I feel it," she gasped, turning her head to kiss him sloppily. "With you… I do."

"Good. Because you are." His hand slipped between her legs again, fingers circling her clit in time with his thrusts. "Come again for me, love. Let me feel you clench around me."

The second climax built slower, sweeter, cresting as he followed her over the edge with a guttural moan, spilling inside her. They lay tangled afterward, his arms enveloping her protectively, hand still on her belly where the baby stirred faintly.

"Never doubt yourself again, eh?" Tommy murmured, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. "You're beautiful, Y/N. And I'll remind you every damn day if I have to."

She smiled, finally at peace, nestled in the arms of the man who saw her—truly saw her—and loved her all the more for it. In the quiet of Arrow House, amid the echoes of their world, they found solace in each other.

[cillslover]

How would Tom’s wife react to him getting dressed/undressed?

I know I’d be feral.

Thanks so much!!

When the Suit Comes Off

Pairings: Thomas Shelby x Female Reader

Warnings: smut, 18+, explicit sexual content, rough sex, unprotected sex, oral sex, fingering, praise kink, possessiveness, p in v.

Summary: Y/N waits for Thomas Shelby to come home, and as he undresses before her, she becomes feral with desire, consumed by lust and anticipation. Their attraction explodes into a heated, passionate encounter, full of teasing, dominance, and raw intimacy.

A/N: Hii omg I'd literally go so feral if I could watch him dress every morning then undress every night!! I wouldn't be able to stop myself from being all over him ahaha Thank you so much for this I loved writing it!! I hope you love it xx

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The dim light of the gas lamps flickered across the walls of the master bedroom, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts from Tommy's past. It was late evening, the kind where the weight of the day clung to him like cigar smoke, meetings with shady politicians, deals sealed in blood and ink, the ever-present hum of the Peaky Blinders' empire. Y/N Shelby, his wife of three years, sat on the edge of their four-poster bed, her silk robe loosely tied, revealing the curve of her collarbone and the soft swell of her breasts. She'd been waiting for him, as she often did, her eyes tracing the door with anticipation. Marriage to Thomas Shelby wasn't easy; it was a whirlwind of danger and passion, but moments like this, when he came home to her, made it all worthwhile.

The door creaked open, and there he was: Tommy, still in his impeccably tailored three-piece suit, the wool vest hugging his broad chest, the flat cap perched on his head like a crown. His blue eyes, sharp as shattered glass, softened just a fraction when they met hers. "Evenin', love," he murmured, his Birmingham accent thick and low, like gravel underfoot. He tossed his cap onto the dresser, running a hand through his dark, slicked-back hair.

Y/N's breath hitched. She knew what was coming, the ritual of him shedding the armor of the day. It never failed to ignite something primal in her, a feral hunger that made her pulse race and her core ache. "Tommy," she whispered, her voice already laced with need. "You look… exhausted. Let me help you."

He chuckled softly, a rare sound that rumbled from his chest like distant thunder. "Help me? Or watch me, eh?" He knew her too well; knew how her eyes devoured him in these moments. With deliberate slowness, he shrugged off his overcoat, folding it neatly over the back of a chair. His hands, those strong, calloused hands that had fired guns, signed treaties, and brought her to ecstasy, worked the buttons of his vest. Veins stood out on his forearms as he flexed slightly, the muscles shifting under his skin like coiled ropes.

Y/N bit her lip, shifting on the bed. "God, Tommy, the way you do that… it's sinful." She stood, unable to stay put, her robe slipping open a bit more as she approached him. Her fingers itched to touch, but she held back, wanting to savor the show.

He unbuttoned the vest fully, peeling it off to reveal his crisp white shirt beneath. The fabric strained against his shoulders, broad and powerful from years of hard labor and harder fights. As he tugged at his tie, loosening the knot with one hand, the other hand flexed, veins popping along his wrist and up his arm. "Sinful, is it?" he teased, his eyes locking onto hers with that intense gaze that made her knees weak. "And what about you, standin' there lookin' at me like I'm your next meal?"

She laughed breathlessly, stepping closer. "You are. Keep going. Please." Her voice turned pleading, the feral edge creeping in as heat pooled between her thighs.

Tommy obliged, pulling the tie free and letting it drop to the floor, a rare carelessness for him. Then came the shirt buttons, one by one, his fingers deft and precise. The first few revealed the hollow of his throat, dusted with dark hair. Lower, and she could see the start of his chest, firm pectorals that rose and fell with his steady breaths. He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, the fabric sliding down his arms like a lover's caress. His biceps bulged as he flexed to free himself, the veins in his arms standing out in stark relief, mapping a path of strength and survival. Scars from the war dotted his skin, faint lines across his ribs, a puckered mark on his shoulder, but they only added to his allure, making him look like a warrior king.

Y/N's mouth went dry. "Tommy… your arms. Those veins… I could trace them all night." She reached out, her fingers brushing along one prominent vein from his wrist up to his elbow, feeling the warmth and pulse beneath. He didn't stop her; instead, he watched with a smirk, his eyes darkening with desire.

"Patience, love," he murmured, but there was a huskiness to his voice now. The shirt hit the floor, and there it was, his torso in all its glory. His six-pack abs rippled as he moved, each muscle defined from the rigorous life he led: boxing in the ring, riding horses across the fields, wielding power like a weapon. His chest was broad, tapering to a narrow waist, the V-lines disappearing into his trousers like an invitation. Dark hair trailed from his navel downward, a teasing path she knew all too well.

She couldn't hold back anymore. "Fuck, Tommy, you're so… perfect. Those abs, your muscles—it's not fair. You make me feral, you know that?" Her hands roamed his chest, palms flat against the hard planes, feeling the heat of his skin. She leaned in, pressing kisses along his collarbone, nipping lightly at the muscle there.

He groaned softly, his hands coming to her waist, pulling her flush against him. "Feral, eh? Show me." But he wasn't done undressing yet. With her pressed close, he reached down to unbuckle his belt, the leather whispering as he pulled it free. His trousers came next, the button popping open under his strong fingers. He shoved them down, stepping out of them along with his shoes and socks, leaving him in just his boxers.

Y/N pulled back to admire, her breath coming in short gasps. His thighs were thick and powerful, muscles flexing as he shifted his weight. But it was the bulge in his boxers that made her whimper, already straining against the fabric, promising everything she craved. "Tommy, please… I need you. The way you take it all off, so slow, so controlled—it's driving me mad. Your body… God, I want to feel every inch of you."

He cupped her face, his thumb tracing her lower lip. "Beggin' already? Thought you were feral, not tame." His voice was low, teasing, but his eyes burned with the same hunger. He hooked his thumbs into his boxers and slid them down, freeing his cock, thick and veined, the head already glistening with pre-cum. It sprang free, hard and ready, curving slightly upward toward his abs.

Y/N dropped to her knees almost instinctively, her hands gripping his thighs. "Tommy, fuck me. Please, real good—like only you can. I need it rough, deep… make me scream your name." She looked up at him through her lashes, her voice a desperate plea.

He tangled his fingers in her hair, pulling her up gently but firmly. "Not yet, love. You want me feral? I'll make you wait for it." He guided her to the bed, pushing her down onto the soft sheets. His body hovered over hers, all muscle and heat, as he untied her robe fully, exposing her naked form. "Beautiful," he whispered, his hands—those veined, powerful hands—trailing down her sides, cupping her breasts.

She arched into his touch, moaning. "Tommy… touch me. Your hands feel so good." He obliged, pinching her nipples between his fingers, rolling them until they hardened into peaks. His mouth followed, sucking one into the wet heat, his tongue flicking mercilessly.

"Yes, like that… oh God." Her hands roamed his back, feeling the flex of his muscles as he moved. She traced the ridges of his abs with her fingertips, dipping lower to wrap around his cock, stroking slowly. It throbbed in her hand, the veins pulsing under her grip. "So hard for me… I love feeling you like this."

He growled against her skin, moving down her body with kisses, along her ribs, her stomach, teasing the inside of her thighs. "Spread for me," he commanded, and she did, her legs parting wide. His fingers found her core, slick and ready, rubbing circles around her clit. "Wet already? Just from watchin' me undress?"

She nodded frantically, hips bucking. "Yes… couldn't help it. Your body does this to me. Please, Tommy, fingers inside—"

He slid two fingers in, curling them against that spot that made her see stars. "Like this?" he asked, his voice rough as he pumped them slowly, his thumb on her clit.

"Fuck, yes! Faster… oh, Tommy, you're so good at this." She clawed at his shoulders, pulling him up for a kiss. Their tongues tangled, hot and desperate, as he continued his assault below. Foreplay stretched on—him alternating between fingers and mouth, bringing her to the edge twice before pulling back, making her beg louder each time.

"Tommy, I can't take it anymore! Fuck me, please—real good, hard. I need your cock inside me now." Her voice was feral, raw with need.

Finally, he positioned himself between her legs, his abs contracting as he held himself up. "You want it rough?" he asked, the head of his cock teasing her entrance.

"Yes! Pound into me, make me yours."

With a thrust, he buried himself deep, filling her completely. She cried out, muffled by his kiss. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against hers, muscles rippling with each movement, abs clenching, arms veined and straining as he held her legs over his shoulders.

"Feel that, love? Every inch?" he grunted, his voice strained.

"Yes… so deep, Tommy. Harder—fuck me like you mean it!"

He did, slamming into her, the bed creaking under them. His hands gripped her hips, veins bulging, as he drove them both toward release. Sweat glistened on his six-pack, his body a masterpiece of power and control.

She came first, clenching around him with a muffled scream. "Tommy!"

He followed, spilling inside her with a groan, collapsing atop her, their bodies entwined.

They lay there, breaths mingling, his fingers tracing her skin affectionately. "You always get like this," he murmured, kissing her forehead.

"And you love it," she replied, smiling.

"that I do."

[cillslover]

Hello, maybe you could write one where the reader is friends with Ada and she's been flirting with Tommy for a while, but on this particular day she teases him in a more direct way, kneeling in front of him, calling him Tommy when no one is around... And that night Ada invites her to have a girls' night, but in the middle of the night she sneaks into Thomas's room, who is already waiting for her and has spent the day thinking about how to make her pay for all the teasing: oral (mreceiving), rubbing, the reader on top(at least for a while), pinv, face slapping, creamp, and everything good that a rough Tommy can do. And he needs to make her be quiet. The next day Ada makes fun of her, but she can't get mad because she covers up Ada's relationship with Freddy.

His Sister’s Best Friend

Pairings: Thomas Shelby x Female Reader

Warnings: smut, 18+, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving + m receiving), praise kink, light slapping (face/thigh), choking (light), rough sex, dirty talk, power dynamics, secrecy/forbidden romance (his sister’s best friend), unprotected sex, slight degradation, possessiveness.

Summary: Temptation wins out when Y/N, Ada’s best friend, crosses the line with Thomas Shelby, sparking a dangerous secret neither of them can resist. 

A/N: Hii thank you so much for this request, I love writing things with y/n teasing Thomas its so sexy, hope you enjoy this xx

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The air in Small Heath was thick with the usual haze of coal smoke and the distant clang of factory hammers, but inside the Shelby family betting shop, the tension was of a different sort. Y/N had been circling Thomas Shelby like a cat around a particularly intriguing mouse for months now. As Ada's closest friend, she'd been pulled into the orbit of the Peaky Blinders through shared secrets and late-night confidences. Ada, ever the firebrand, had introduced her to the family with a wink and a warning: "Stay away from Tommy; he's trouble wrapped in a suit." But Y/N had never been one for warnings. She saw the way Thomas—Tommy, as she dared to call him in her mind, watched her with those piercing blue eyes, like he was calculating the odds of every glance she threw his way.

Their flirting had been subtle at first: a brush of fingers when passing a cigarette, a lingering look across the crowded Garrison pub, her laughter ringing a bit too brightly when he made one of his dry, cutting remarks. But today, something shifted. Ada had dragged her along to the shop to discuss some "women's business," as she called it, really just an excuse to vent about her clandestine romance with Freddie Thorne, the communist agitator who had her sneaking around like a schoolgirl. Y/N had promised to cover for her, as always; it was their pact, sealed in gin and sisterly loyalty.

While Ada chatted with Arthur in the back room, Y/N found herself alone in Thomas's office. He was at his desk, poring over ledgers, his flat cap tilted back, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The door clicked shut behind her, and she leaned against it, her heart pounding with a mix of nerves and excitement.

"Tommy," she purred, drawing out the nickname in a way that no one else dared. His family called him that, sure, but from her lips, it was a tease, a challenge. She sauntered over, her hips swaying in the modest dress that hugged her curves just enough to draw his eye.

He looked up slowly, those eyes narrowing like a predator sizing up prey. "It's Thomas to you, love," he said, his voice low and gravelly, laced with that Birmingham accent that sent shivers down her spine. But there was a flicker in his gaze, amusement? Desire? It was hard to tell with him.

She ignored the correction, kneeling down in front of his desk with exaggerated grace, her hands resting on the edge as she peered up at him through her lashes. "Oh, Tommy, always so serious. Don't you ever let loose?" Her fingers trailed along the wood, inching closer to his knee under the desk. She could see the tension in his jaw, the way his hand tightened around his pen.

"What are you playing at, eh?" he murmured, not moving away, but not inviting her closer either. His voice was a warning, but she pressed on, her hand brushing his thigh lightly, teasingly.

"Just wondering what it would take to make the great Thomas Shelby crack a smile. Or maybe… something else." She bit her lip, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I've seen the way you look at me when no one's watching. Like you want to devour me whole."

He set the pen down with a deliberate click, leaning back in his chair. "Careful, Y/N. Teasing a man like me… it has consequences." His tone was even, but there was heat beneath it, a promise of retribution.

She laughed softly, standing up but not before letting her hand graze higher up his thigh, feeling the muscle tense under her touch. "Promises, promises, Tommy." With that, she turned and sauntered out, leaving him staring after her, his mind already churning with thoughts of how to turn the tables.

That evening, Ada invited her for a "girls' night" at the Shelby house on Watery Lane. "Just you, me, and a bottle of whiskey," Ada said with a grin, her eyes sparkling with mischief. They spent hours gossiping in Ada's room, laughing about the men in their lives, Ada venting about Freddie's latest rally, Y/N nodding along while carefully steering the conversation away from her own flirtations. "You know I'd never tell a soul about you and Freddie," Y/N assured her friend, squeezing her hand. "Your secret's safe with me."

As the clock struck midnight, Ada dozed off, the empty glasses scattered around them. Y/N waited until her breathing evened out, then slipped from the bed, her bare feet padding silently across the creaky floorboards. Her heart raced as she crept down the hall to Thomas's room. She'd half-expected him to forget her teasing, but deep down, she knew better. Thomas Shelby forgot nothing.

The door was unlocked, and as she pushed it open, there he was, sitting in an armchair by the window, a glass of whiskey in hand, the moonlight casting shadows across his sharp features. He was still in his shirt and trousers, sleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos from his war days. His eyes locked on hers immediately, dark and intense.

"Couldn't stay away, eh?" he said, his voice a low rumble that filled the room. He set the glass down and stood, crossing to her in two strides. "Been thinking about you all day, love. All that teasing… you think you can play with fire and not get burned?"

She closed the door behind her, her back against it, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Maybe I like the burn, Tommy."

He was on her in an instant, his hand cupping her jaw firmly, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. "Quiet now," he whispered, his thumb brushing her lower lip. "Ada's just down the hall. Wouldn't want her waking up and finding her best friend in my bed, would we?"

She nodded, her breath catching as he leaned in, his lips crashing against hers in a kiss that was all possession and pent-up frustration. It wasn't gentle; Thomas Shelby didn't do gentle. His mouth claimed hers, tongue delving deep, tasting of whiskey and smoke. His free hand roamed down her side, gripping her hip hard enough to leave marks.

"Strip," he commanded, pulling back just enough to watch her. His voice was rough, laced with that authority that made men tremble in the streets.

Y/N's hands trembled slightly as she obeyed, peeling off her nightdress, letting it pool at her feet. She stood bare before him, the cool night air raising goosebumps on her skin. His eyes raked over her, hungry, appreciative. "Beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself, before pulling her toward the bed.

He sat on the edge, guiding her down to her knees between his legs, just as she'd knelt earlier that day. "You teased me like this, didn't you? Time to make good on it." His fingers threaded through her hair, not pulling yet, but firm.

She looked up at him, her hands working on his belt, unbuttoning his trousers with deliberate slowness. "What if I tease you more?" she whispered, but he shook his head.

"No more games, love. Open up." He freed himself, his cock springing out—thick and veined, already hard from the day's anticipation. It was imposing, the head flushed and glistening slightly with pre-cum, curving slightly upward in a way that promised to hit all the right spots.

Y/N leaned in, her tongue flicking out to taste him, swirling around the tip before taking him into her mouth. He groaned softly, his head falling back as she worked him, her lips stretching around his girth. She took him deeper, her hand stroking what she couldn't fit, the salty taste of him filling her senses. "That's it," he breathed, his voice husky. "Good girl. Suck me like you mean it."

She hollowed her cheeks, bobbing her head, her free hand rubbing his thigh. He guided her rhythm with his hand in her hair, not forcing but encouraging, his breaths coming faster. "Fuck, your mouth… been dreaming of this." Affection laced his roughness, his thumb stroking her cheek even as he thrust shallowly into her warmth.

But he wasn't done punishing her. After a few minutes, he pulled her off with a wet pop, his cock throbbing. "Up here," he ordered, lying back on the bed and pulling her atop him. She straddled him, her slick folds rubbing against his length, teasing them both. He gripped her hips, grinding her down onto him. "Feel that? That's what your teasing did to me all day."

She moaned softly, rocking against him, the friction sending sparks through her body. "Tommy… please…"

"Shh," he warned, his hand clamping over her mouth gently but firmly. "Quiet, remember?" With his other hand, he positioned himself at her entrance, the thick head nudging her open. She sank down slowly, inch by inch, gasping into his palm as he filled her completely, stretching her walls, the veins dragging deliciously inside her.

"Fuck, you're tight," he growled, his eyes locked on hers. "Ride me, love. Show me how sorry you are for teasing."

She did, her hips rolling, taking him deep with each movement. Her breasts bounced with the rhythm, and he reached up to palm one, pinching her nipple hard enough to make her whimper against his hand. "That's my girl," he murmured, affection softening his commands. "So fucking perfect."

She rode him like that for what felt like eternity, her clit rubbing against his pelvis with every grind, building her toward the edge. But Thomas wasn't one to relinquish control. In a swift move, he flipped them, pinning her beneath him. "My turn," he said, his voice dark with promise.

He thrust into her hard, the bed creaking softly under them. Each stroke was deep, punishing, his cock pistoning in and out with relentless force. She clawed at his back, her moans muffled by his hand. "You like that, eh? Being fucked like this?" he whispered against her ear, nipping the lobe.

"Yes… Tommy, yes," she gasped, her words barely audible.

He slapped her face lightly, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to sting, sending a thrill through her. "Quiet," he reminded, but his eyes were full of heat, not anger. Another slap, this one on her thigh, making her clench around him. "Fuck, you squeeze me so good when I do that."

He pounded into her, his hand moving from her mouth to her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her head spin. "Come for me, love," he urged, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing circles. "But quietly. That's it… good girl."

She shattered around him, her body convulsing, walls fluttering around his cock. He followed soon after, burying himself deep and spilling inside her with a low groan, the warmth of his release filling her completely, a creampie that marked her as his. "Mine," he whispered, collapsing beside her, pulling her into his arms.

They lay there, breaths mingling, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her back. "You drive me mad, you know that?" he said softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."

She smiled, nuzzling his chest. "Good. Because I'm not done teasing you yet."

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the curtains as Y/N slipped back into Ada's room before she woke. But Ada was already stirring, her sharp eyes catching the flush on Y/N's cheeks, the slight limp in her step.

"Well, well," Ada teased, sitting up with a smirk. "Look at you, sneaking back in like a thief in the night. Don't tell me you were off with one of my brothers? Tommy, perhaps? I heard some… noises."

Y/N's face heated, but she couldn't get mad, not when she held Ada's secret like a shield. "Oh, please," she shot back lightly, climbing back into bed. "As if you're one to talk. How's Freddie these days? Still planning the revolution from your bed?"

Ada's eyes widened, then she laughed, pulling Y/N into a hug. "Touché, love. Your secret's safe with me, then. Just like mine with you."

They dissolved into giggles, the bond between them unbreakable, even as the Shelby world spun on around them.

[cillslover]

The Coffee Shop // part 6

Pairings: Cillian Murphy x Female Reader

Warnings: fluff, romance, emotional confession, slight angst, kissing/intimacy, not really anything else tbh.

Summary: A quiet drive turns into something far more intimate when Cillian leads Y/N to a place he’s never shared with anyone before.

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Cillian’s hand was warm, steady, as he curled his fingers lightly around hers. Not demanding, not rushed, just enough to guide her. She rose from her chair, heart fluttering at the way his grip lingered, the faint brush of his thumb against her knuckles as if even that smallest touch meant something.

“Trust me?” he asked, voice low, eyes glinting with that mix of mischief and sincerity that had been teasing her all evening.

Her lips curved. “I don’t know… should I?”

He smirked faintly, tightening his hand just slightly around hers. “You should.”

She followed as he led her down the hall, past the polished woods and subtle art, their footsteps muffled on the thick rug beneath them. Every detail of the house whispered wealth and elegance, yet the intimacy of his hand in hers kept her anchored, reminded her that this wasn’t about grandeur. This was him, sharing something personal.

They reached a door at the end of the hall, darker and more industrial than the others. Cillian let go of her hand just long enough to flip a switch, and lights hummed to life on the other side. Then he pushed the door open.

The sight hit her all at once.

An expanse of gleaming chrome and polished paint. A garage, but not any ordinary one. It stretched wide, ceilings high, walls lined with cabinets and framed posters of old racing icons. And the cars, rows of them, immaculate, each one glinting under the bright lights. Sleek Italian curves, muscular classics, modern beasts of engineering. It was like stepping into a private museum, a cathedral for speed and design.

Y/N froze, her lips parting, her hand instinctively pressed against her chest. “Cillian…” she breathed. “This is…”

He glanced at her, watching the awe in her eyes, the way she turned slowly as if to take it all in. That faint smile tugged at his lips again, quiet but satisfied. “I thought you might like it.”

“Like it?” She let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, walking further inside. Her heels clicked lightly on the polished concrete as her eyes trailed over each curve, each reflection of light on paint. “This is—this is insane. I mean… how many are there?”

“Too many,” he said, following behind her, his hands tucked casually in his pockets. “Some I drive. Some I don’t. But I couldn’t help myself.”

She turned to him, still reeling. “And you just… keep them here? Like this?”

He shrugged lightly, as if it were nothing, though the glimmer in his eyes betrayed the passion beneath his calm exterior. “Better here than forgotten in some storage facility. At least here I can come down and look at them when I want to.”

Y/N tilted her head, narrowing her eyes with a small smile. “You sound almost sentimental.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Maybe I am.” Then he stepped closer, his voice softening. “You know… the first time you got into my car, I saw the way you looked at it.”

Her brows lifted slightly, warmth rushing to her cheeks. “You noticed that?”

“I notice everything,” he said simply, holding her gaze. “And then, when I saw your car—” his lips curved faintly, almost teasing—“I knew you were into them too. Maybe not like this, but… enough that I thought you’d understand.”

Y/N glanced back at the glittering collection, then returned her gaze to him. There was something about the way he said it, not as a boast, but as though he was offering her a piece of himself.

“You’re right,” she admitted softly. “I do love them. The lines, the sound, the way they feel when you’re driving…” She smiled faintly, looking at the cars with fresh admiration. “But I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Cillian’s eyes lingered on her, watching the way she glowed with excitement, how her wonder made the room itself feel alive. “I thought maybe tonight, instead of just dinner, I could share this with you. And… take you somewhere.”

Her brows arched. “Somewhere?”

He nodded. “There’s a place I go when I want to be alone. When I need to think, or just… disappear for a while. It’s quiet. Hidden. And I’ve never taken anyone there before.” His voice dropped lower, more intimate. “But I want to take you.”

The weight of his words made her chest tighten, warmth flooding her cheeks. He wasn’t just offering a drive; he was offering trust, a secret.

Her voice softened. “And we take… one of these?”

His lips curved into that quiet, knowing smile, and he gestured toward the row of cars. “Any one you want.”

She blinked, staring at him, almost laughing at the audacity. “Any one?”

“Any one,” he repeated. “You choose. Tonight, it’s yours.”

Her breath caught as she turned back to the cars. She moved slowly along the row, fingertips hovering just above the gleaming paint but never touching, her heart racing with the sheer luxury of the choice. There was a vintage Aston Martin, elegant and timeless. A Ferrari, sharp and scarlet. A Porsche, sleek and predatory. Each one seemed to whisper a different story, a different kind of night.

She felt him beside her, his presence close but patient, letting her take her time. His hand brushed the small of her back lightly, not rushing, just there, a tether to remind her she wasn’t dreaming.

Finally, she stopped. Her eyes locked on one car in particular, a deep burgundy La Ferrari, curves smooth and endless, the kind of beauty that was more than mechanical, it was art. The paint gleamed under the lights like liquid sapphire.

“This one,” she whispered, her voice almost reverent. “She’s… perfect.”

Cillian glanced at the car, then back at her, his lips curling into a soft, approving smile. “Good choice,” he said, voice low, admiring. “She’s one of my favorites.”

Her eyes lingered on the Ferrari, her pulse quickening as she imagined it roaring down a quiet road, the city lights fading into distance. She glanced back at him, her lips tugging into a smile. “Then what are we waiting for?”

He held her gaze for a moment, his own eyes glinting in the garage light, before he reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He tossed them lightly in the air before catching them in his palm. “Nothing,” he said softly, walking to the passenger side and opening the door for her.

Y/N slid into the seat, the leather cool beneath her, her hands brushing over the polished interior as her breath caught in her throat. She watched as Cillian circled to the driver’s side, slipping into the seat beside her with an ease that made the car feel like an extension of him.

He turned the key. The engine roared to life, low and throaty, reverberating through her chest. She shivered, exhilarated.

Cillian glanced at her, the corners of his lips tilting upward. “Ready?”

She met his gaze, her heart racing, excitement buzzing in her veins. “Always.”

The garage door began to lift, revealing the night outside.

The engine's growl softened to a purr as Cillian eased the Ferrari out of the garage, the tires whispering against the smooth driveway. The night air rushed in through the cracked windows, cool and laced with the faint scent of rain-kissed earth from earlier in the evening. London unfolded around them in a blur of streetlights and shadowed buildings, but inside the car, it felt like a world apart. Y/N sank deeper into the leather seat, her fingers tracing the stitching on the door panel, stealing glances at Cillian's profile, his jaw set in quiet concentration, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift.

He drove with effortless confidence, navigating the winding roads out of the city center without a word at first, letting the hum of the engine fill the space between them. The radio stayed off; instead, the rhythm of the road became their soundtrack, punctuated by the occasional shift of gears that sent a thrill through her. She watched the city lights recede in the side mirror, the urban sprawl giving way to darker stretches of countryside, where the stars began to peek through the thinning clouds.

"You handle her well," Y/N said after a while, breaking the comfortable silence. She nodded toward the dashboard, her voice light but genuine. "Like you've known this car forever."

Cillian glanced at her, his blue eyes catching the glow from the instrument panel. "We've had our moments," he replied, a hint of that Irish lilt warming his words. "She's temperamental sometimes—likes to remind me who's really in charge. But tonight, she's behaving." He paused, his gaze flicking back to the road. "Probably because she likes you."

Y/N laughed softly, shaking her head. "Flattery for the car now? You're full of surprises."

He smirked, but there was something deeper in his expression, a softness that hadn't been there during dinner. "Not flattery. Just truth." He accelerated slightly as they hit a straightaway, the Ferrari responding with a surge that pressed her back into the seat. "Besides, I think she knows this is special."

The words hung in the air, unspoken implications weaving through them. Y/N felt a warmth bloom in her chest, not just from the heater vents, but from the way he said it, like this night, this drive, was a turning point. She turned her head to watch the passing landscape, the occasional farmhouse or hedgerow blurring by. "Where exactly are we going? Or is it still a secret?"

"Not much longer," he said, his voice steady. "You'll see."

They drove for what felt like both an eternity and no time at all, maybe thirty minutes, though the anticipation stretched it out. The road narrowed, climbing gently at first, then more steeply, winding through clusters of trees that shielded them from the world below. Finally, Cillian slowed, turning onto a gravel path that crunched under the tires. He killed the headlights as they crested the hill, plunging them into a velvety darkness broken only by the distant glow ahead.

He parked at the edge of what Y/N realised was a cliffside overlook, the Ferrari's nose pointed toward the void. "Here we are," he murmured, turning off the engine. The sudden quiet was profound, broken only by the faint tick of cooling metal.

Y/N stepped out first, the cool night breeze tugging at her hair as she walked to the front of the car. And then she saw it, the view. Below them, London sprawled like a living tapestry of light, the skyline a jagged silhouette against the horizon. The Thames snaked through it like a ribbon of silver, dotted with the twinkling reflections of bridges and buildings. Skyscrapers pierced the night sky, their windows aglow in hues of gold and blue, while the distant hum of the city carried faintly on the wind, a reminder that life pulsed on down there, oblivious to this hidden perch.

"Oh my God," she whispered, her hand rising to her mouth. The air up here was crisp, carrying the faint scent of wild grass and dew. Stars dotted the sky above, unobscured by the city's haze, and the moon hung low, casting a silvery sheen over everything. It was breathtaking, almost otherworldly, like they'd stepped out of reality into a dream. "Cillian, this is… I didn't even know a place like this existed. Right outside London? It's like the whole city's right there, but we're a million miles away."

He came around the car to stand beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. "Most people don't," he said quietly, his eyes on the horizon rather than her, as if giving her space to absorb it. "I found it years ago, during a shoot when I needed to get away from the noise. No signs, no paths marked on maps. Just this." He shoved his hands into his pockets, the wind ruffling his hair. "It's my escape. When everything gets too loud—fans, cameras, the whole bloody circus—I come here. Sit on the hood, stare at the lights, and remember there's more to life than the spotlight."

Y/N turned to him, her heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice. The teasing banter from earlier had faded, replaced by something raw and real. She could see it in the way his posture shifted, less guarded, more open. "Thank you for bringing me," she said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. "For sharing this. It means… a lot."

He met her eyes then, and for a moment, the city lights reflected in his gaze, making them shimmer. He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and stepped closer. "Y/N…" His voice was lower now, laced with emotion that he usually kept locked away. "There's a reason I wanted to bring you here tonight. It's not just about the view or the drive. It's… you."

She felt her pulse quicken, the air between them thickening with unspoken words. "What do you mean?"

He hesitated, running a hand through his hair, his usual composure cracking just a fraction. "Ever since that day in the coffee shop—God, it feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago—I walked in, tired from filming, not expecting anything but a quick caffeine hit. And there you were. Sitting there with your book, looking so… alive. Not posing, not performing. Just you." He paused, his eyes searching hers. "I didn't know it then, but that moment changed everything. My life's been… lonely, you know? Even with the crowds and the accolades, it's empty. Scripts, sets, interviews—they fill the days, but not the nights. Not the quiet moments when you realize you're just going through the motions."

Y/N's throat tightened, her own emotions rising to mirror his. She nodded slowly, encouraging him to continue.

"But you," he went on, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, "you brought something real into it. Your laugh, the way you challenge me without even trying, those silences where we don't need words… You've made me feel seen. Not as the actor, not as the face on the screen, but as me. Cillian. The one who's a bit of a mess sometimes, who collects cars to fill the voids." He let out a shaky breath, stepping even closer, his hand reaching out to take hers. "I love you, Y/N. I think I have from that first conversation. You've changed my world—filled the loneliness with warmth, with meaning. And I don't want to go back to how it was before."

Tears pricked at her eyes, hot and unexpected, as his words washed over her. Her heart felt like it might burst, a mix of joy and overwhelming tenderness flooding through her. She squeezed his hand, her voice trembling when she spoke. "Cillian… I feel the same. God, I do. Meeting you that day—it was like the universe decided to throw something extraordinary my way when I least expected it. My life was busy, sure—modeling gigs, hospital shifts—but it was routine. Safe, but not alive. Not like this." She blinked back the tears, one slipping down her cheek despite her efforts. "You've made me laugh in ways I haven't in years, made me feel cherished without saying a word. You're kind, and thoughtful, and underneath all that quiet intensity, there's this heart that's so big it scares me a little. I love you too. More than I thought possible in such a short time."

He searched her face, his own expression softening with relief and something deeper, adoration. "Then… will you be mine? Properly? My girlfriend, my partner in all this madness?"

"Yes," she whispered, the word breaking on a sob of happiness. More tears followed, streaming down her cheeks as she laughed through them, the emotion too much to contain. "Yes, a thousand times. I'm so happy, Cillian. You've made me so incredibly happy."

His eyes glistened in the moonlight, and without another word, he reached for her. His hands slid to her waist, strong and gentle, lifting her effortlessly as if she weighed nothing. She gasped softly, her arms wrapping around his neck for balance as he set her down on the warm hood of the Ferrari, the metal still radiating heat from the drive. She sat there, legs dangling slightly, their faces now level, the city lights framing them like a halo.

He stepped between her knees, his hands lingering on her hips, thumbs tracing slow circles through the fabric of her dress. "No more tears," he murmured, though his voice was thick with emotion. One hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear with infinite tenderness.

"Happy tears," she assured him, her own hands moving to his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. She could feel the steady beat of his heart under her palm, matching the frantic rhythm of her own.

He leaned in slowly, giving her time to close the distance if she wanted, but she met him halfway. Their lips brushed at first, a tentative touch, soft and exploratory, like testing the waters of a long-awaited promise. Then, as if a dam broke, the kiss deepened. It was slow, unhurried, each movement deliberate and full of the pent-up longing they'd both carried. His lips were warm against hers, he tilted his head slightly to fit them together perfectly.

Her hands slid up, one tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, the other resting against his jaw, feeling the subtle stubble under her fingertips. His free hand moved from her hip to her back, pulling her closer, fingers splaying wide to hold her steady against him. The kiss built in layers—gentle presses giving way to a deeper rhythm, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she parted them with a sigh, inviting him in. It was sensational, a spark that ignited every nerve, sending warmth pooling in her core. Not rushed or frantic, but profound, like they were pouring all the unspoken words into this one moment.

The world around them faded, the distant city hum, the whisper of the wind, even the stars above. There was only them, wrapped in each other, the hood of the Ferrari a makeshift altar for their beginning. When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling in the cool air, Y/N opened her eyes to find him watching her with a look of pure wonder.

"Wow," she breathed, a small, breathless laugh escaping her.

He smiled, that quiet, genuine one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Yeah," he agreed, his voice husky. "Wow."

They stayed like that for a while, her perched on the hood, him standing close, hands still intertwined. The city glittered below, oblivious, but up here, everything had shifted. This was their spot now, their moment, the start of something that felt as vast and enduring as the skyline itself.