I’m a 16 year old who loves writing about my favorite characters that live in my head rent free. I’m currently ending my sophomore year and moving to junior year; I found out that I’ll be 17 as a senior which is kinda weird. I speak English as a first language but I have a bit of dyslexia so I tend to add a word that didn’t need to be there or I forgot a word. If you notice it and I haven’t just hit me up and I’ll fix it along with that kind gesture I’ll also ask for you to give me a prompt/idea that you may want me to write, I love hearing other’s ideas and helping them to put it to paper. I tend to be very step by step writer because I like to give a very good visual representation of what’s going down but I tend to do it badly but it’s in the process of becoming more refined and better.
MASTERLIST BELOW
Warnings:
Some of these series have very sensitive topics like rape, drug abuse, gore, and death. If you do not like those topics then please stay away from them, I don’t want to deal with complaining. Half of my stuff will be dark, depraved, and depressing. Reading this and choosing to go further is all up to you. If you need to step away from one of my posts because you are struggling to make it through then drop it entirely, it will only get worse from there.
Any dark and depraved depictions of certain characters who are not like that normally will most likely happen in my blog , but for the ones that do have it, it’ll be worse. The ones that don’t normally have it I do not see them in that light. I just write them in that light.
For the depraved people like myself, you may continue on and please enjoy my work that I love to do. Thank you and have a wonderful day/night.
Codes:
𑁍 — Fluff
𖥻 — Humor
𖤐 — Angst
☹︎ — Dark
♧ — Smut
♔ — Headcanons
〇 — One-Shots
⧉ — Potential Series
꩜ — Series
Color Codes:
Red: Extreme non-con elements or just extremely dark themes
Orange: Some dark elements mentioned or conveyed.
Blue: Barely any dark themes at all; probably just the mention of alcohol, drugs, or blood. It’s the bare fucking bones.
Pink: Either it’s mainly smut or a shitty plot with smut..
Green: Nothing bad at all, it’s just fluff and kind things happening around here.
White: Either I haven’t written it yet, in the process or just have no clue what I want to put it under as yet.
Who I write for:
Celebrities
Cillian Murphy
Series:
Cost of Fame Part 2 ꩜,♧,𖤐,𑁍
One-shots:
On My Dime 〇,𑁍
Lavish Love 〇,♧,𑁍
My fucking baby! 〇,𑁍
Red Carpet Rush 〇,♧,𑁍
Ageless Beauty 〇,♧,𖥻,𑁍
Falling on deaf ears 〇,𑁍
BTS of Peaky Blinders 〇,𑁍
Lights, Camera, Cillian 〇,𑁍
Behind Closed Doors 〇,☹︎,𖤐,♧
Headcanons:
Tom Hardy
Series:
One-shots:
Headcanons:
Venom
Eddie Brock
Serious:
One-shots:
Headcanons:
Peaky Blinders
Thomas Shelby
Series:
Wild & Free ꩜,♧,𖤐,𑁍
Bloodlines ꩜,♧,𖤐,𑁍
Nocturnal Allies ꩜,♧,𖤐,𑁍
A Deal with the Devil ꩜,☹︎,𖤐,♧,𑁍
One-Shots:
His Angel 〇,𑁍
Silent Vows 〇,𑁍,♧
Blood Brothers 〇,☹︎,𖤐
Sleepless Nights 〇,𑁍
Burning Embers 〇,𖤐,𑁍
Little White Lies 〇,𖤐
Needle & Thread 〇,⧉,𑁍
Forever a Shelby 〇,𑁍,𖥻
The Ghost of You 〇,𖤐,𑁍
Uncharted Territory ⧉,𑁍
Veil of Deception 〇,𑁍,♧
Shadows of Ambition
Tangled Memories
Headcanons:
John Shelby
Series:
The Crimson Crown ꩜,♧,𖤐,𑁍
One-Shots:
Blood and Whiskey
Headcanons:
Finn Shelby
Series:
One-Shots:
To The Bone 〇
Headcanons:
Micheal Gray
Series:
One-Shots:
The Unseen Enemy 〇
Blood and Business 〇
The Cost of Loyalty 〇
Whiskey and Secrets 〇
Whispers in the Night 〇
Gray Days & Dark Nights 〇
Headcanons:
Luka Changretta
Series:
Sins in the Shadows ꩜,♧,𖤐,𑁍
One-shots:
Silent Threat 〇,𖤐,♧
Headcanons:
Alfie Solomons
Series:
Old Wounds ꩜,♧,𖤐,𑁍
One-Shots:
The Last Toast ⧉,𖤐,♧,𑁍
A King Among Men 〇,𖤐,♧,𑁍
A Pint and a Promise 〇,𖤐,♧,𑁍
Headcanons:
Sir Oswald Mosley
Series:
The Enemy Within ꩜,𖤐,♧,𑁍
One-Shots:
Daddy’s Girl 〇,𖤐,♧,𑁍
Pillow Princess 〇,𖤐,♧,𑁍
Echoes in the Alley ⧉,𖤐,♧,𑁍
Tempting the Tyrant ⧉,𖤐,♧,☹︎,𑁍
Headcanons:
The Dark Knight Trilogy or The Batman Trilogy
Dr. Jonathan Crane
Series:
Nightmare in Gotham ꩜,☹︎,𖤐,♧,𑁍
In Your Shadow part 2 ꩜,☹︎,𖤐,♧,𑁍
One-Shots:
Headcanons:
A Quiet Place Part ||
Emmett Abbott
Series:
One-Shots:
Headcanons:
Watching the Detectives
Neil Lewis
Series:
One-Shots:
Headcanons:
Inception
Robert Fischer
Series:
The Siren Files 2 ꩜,𖤐,♧,𑁍
One-Shots:
Hell on Wheels 〇,𖥻,𑁍
Actually Burning 〇,𖥻,𑁍
The Illusion of Control 〇,𖤐,♧,𑁍
Headcanons:
Red Eye
Jackson Rippner
Series:
Unmasked ꩜,☹︎,𖤐,♧,𑁍
One-Shots:
Headcanons:
This master-list will be updated once I have a couple of stories out to the public then this message will disappear.
Summary: Thomas finds out his wife has been unfaithful.
Wordcount: 4.1k
Warnings: Barely Proof-Read
possessive! Thomas, cheating, angst, yelling.
Inspiration: Darlin’ - Chase Matthew
The Arrow House was alive with the hum of voices, the clinking of glasses, and the subtle, yet unmistakable undertone of power. Thomas Shelby stood in the midst of it all, his sharp blue eyes surveying the room with a practiced indifference.
The event was a display of wealth, a gathering of influential people whose lives intersected with his in the labyrinthine world of business. The house, his fortress, was filled with guests, all eager to curry favor, to be seen, to be acknowledged by the man who held the reins of so many fates. Yet, amidst the sea of faces, his mind was elsewhere. A businessman, flushed with alcohol and self-importance, was rambling on about the portrait that hung on the wall—a painting of Thomas on horseback. The man’s admiration was laced with sycophancy, but Thomas barely registered the words. He offered a perfunctory smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes, before dismissing the man with a curt nod. The urge to find his wife was gnawing at him, a strange sense of unease settling in his chest. She was always near him at these events, her presence a constant, a subtle reminder of his power and control. But tonight, she was conspicuously absent.
He had noticed things lately, small things that gnawed at him. The scent of another man’s cologne lingering on his wife’s clothes, the way she seemed distant, her mind always somewhere else. He’d dismissed it at first, chalking it up to the pressures of his business, the strain it placed on their marriage. But the doubts had grown, festering like an untreated wound.
Thomas’s steps were measured, deliberate, as he moved through the throngs of people. He navigated the crowd with a practiced ease, his mere presence parting the guests like the tide. He wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries, his mind too focused on the task at hand. The more he looked, the more his concern grew. He knew every corner of this house, every nook and cranny, and yet she was nowhere to be found. It was unlike her, and that worried him. The farther he went from the main gathering, the quieter the house became. The laughter and chatter faded into a dull murmur as he moved deeper into the shadows of the grand estate. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridors, the polished floors reflecting the dim light of the wall sconces. It was in these quiet moments that Thomas felt most at ease, away from the watchful eyes, away from the noise. But tonight, even the silence did little to calm the unease that was building within him.
Then he heard it—soft, almost imperceptible, but enough to make him stop in his tracks. A voice, faint and foreign, carried through the air. “Darlin’... please don’t tempt me...” The accent was Southern, American, and entirely out of place in his home. It was the tone that caught his attention more than the words, the intimate, almost pleading quality that made his blood run cold.
Thomas’s head snapped in the direction of the voice, his eyes narrowing as he honed in on the source. His heart began to pound, a slow, steady rhythm that echoed in his ears as he moved forward, his pace quickening. The voice was a thread, pulling him toward something he wasn’t sure he wanted to see, but something he needed to confirm. His thoughts were a whirlwind of suspicion and disbelief, each step bringing him closer to a truth he feared. His footsteps were almost silent on the floor beneath him as he made his way towards the back of the house. There was something pulling him in that direction, an instinct honed by years of surviving on the streets, by being one step ahead of danger. He reached the corridor that led to the servants' quarters, a place he rarely ventured. But tonight, something drew him there. As he approached, he noticed the door to the maid’s room slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling out into the darkened hallway.
Thomas stopped, his heart thudding in his chest, the sound loud in his ears. He could hear voices, low and muffled, coming from inside. One voice was his wife’s, unmistakable in its softness, in the way it had once brought him comfort. But now it sent a chill down his spine. The other voice was unfamiliar, a man’s voice, rough with a country accent. “Darlin’... you’re too good for him... too sweet,” the words echoed in his mind, each one a dagger twisting in his gut. Anger surged through him, a hot, violent rage that he hadn’t felt in years. His hand clenched into a fist at his side, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He felt a red mist descending, clouding his vision, filling his mind with thoughts of violence, of retribution. Without thinking, he reached for the door handle, yanking it back with a force that made the wood groan in protest. The door flew open, slamming against the wall, and the room was suddenly bathed in harsh, overhead light as he flicked the switch.
The scene before him was like something out of a nightmare. His wife, the woman he had trusted above all others, and there she was—his wife, standing far too close to a man Thomas had never seen before. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with a rough, rugged look that spoke of a life far removed from the polished circles of Birmingham society. They froze, their eyes locking with his, the shock evident on their faces. His hand rested on the small of her back, his body angled toward hers in a way that made Thomas’s stomach turn; it was too familiar, too intimate. Thomas’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat a drum of impending violence. His eyes flicked to his wife, then to the man, and back again. The silence in the room was deafening, the air thick with tension. Thomas took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to rein in the fury that threatened to explode. His hand came up to the bridge of his nose, pinching it slightly as he closed his eyes, a hiss of frustration escaping his lips. He needed to control himself, to think clearly. But the betrayal was like a knife in his back, twisting deeper with every passing second. His mind raced, a thousand thoughts colliding at once. He wanted to hurt them both, to make them pay for what they had done. But more than that, he wanted answers. He needed to understand how this had happened, how he had been blindsided in his own home.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, dangerous, dripping with barely contained rage. “What the fuck is goin’ on ‘ere?” His words were slow, deliberate, each one a bullet aimed at the two people standing before him. He wanted to see them squirm, to see the fear in their eyes as they realized the gravity of what they had done. His wife flinched at the sound of his voice, her eyes wide with fear and guilt. The man beside her paled, his bravado crumbling in the face of Thomas’s cold fury.
“Tommy, I... I can explain,” his wife stammered, her voice shaking. But Thomas wasn’t interested in her explanations, not yet. He stepped into the room, his presence dominating the space, making it feel smaller, more claustrophobic.
“Don’t.” His voice was low, dangerous, the kind of tone that made even the bravest men think twice. He stepped into the room, his gaze fixed on the man, who was now standing tall, as if trying to assert his dominance. But Thomas Shelby was not a man to be challenged, especially not in his own home.
His eyes bore into the man who still had the audacity to stand so close to his wife. “Who even the fuck are yeh?” Thomas growled, his voice low and deadly, the kind of voice that made men confess their sins.
“You’ve got some nerve, eh?” Thomas’s voice was laced with venom, his accent thickening as his anger grew. He took another step closer, his eyes never leaving the man’s face. “Comin’ into my house, touchin’ my wife... Yeh must be either brave or stupid. Or both.”
His gaze was locked on the man, a pitiful excuse for a human being who now stood trembling before him. The man was trying to speak, but his words were garbled, caught in his throat as if the very act of forming a sentence in Thomas’s presence was too much for him to bear. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his hands shook at his sides, like a cornered animal ready to bolt at the first sign of mercy—or danger. Thomas’s jaw tightened, the muscle twitching beneath his skin as he held back the surge of violence that clawed at his insides.
The room was painfully silent, save for the man’s ragged breathing and the soft rustle of fabric as Thomas’s wife shifted uncomfortably behind him. But even without looking at her, Thomas could feel her presence—could sense the guilt radiating off her in waves, mingling with the stench of fear and betrayal that hung heavy in the air. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his polished shoes. The man flinched, his eyes wide with terror, darting from Thomas to his wife and back again. Thomas could see the thoughts racing through the man’s mind, the desperate scramble to find a way out, a way to explain himself, to justify the unforgivable. But there was no justification—not for this.
“Answer me,” Thomas growled, his voice low and dangerous, the kind of tone that made men think twice before crossing him. It was a command, not a request, and the man knew it. But still, he hesitated, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, words failing him in the face of Thomas’s cold, unyielding stare.
Thomas’s eyes flicked back to his wife, catching the brief, pleading glance she sent the man’s way, a silent cry for help that went unanswered. The sight of it—of her still trying to protect this man, this nobody—made something inside him snap. His anger, already a simmering storm, flared hot and uncontrollable, flooding his veins with a heat that burned away any remnants of restraint. The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, until the man finally found his voice, though it wavered with fear. “I-I didn’t mean... I never wanted to... I’m sorry, Mr. Shelby... Please, I didn’t know—”
“Didn’t know what?” Thomas interrupted, his voice a sharp, cutting blade. He took another step forward, closing the distance between them until he was towering over the man, his presence overwhelming. “Didn’t know she was married? Didn’t know who I was?” He sneered, his lip curling with disgust. “Or didn’t care?”
The man’s breath hitched, and he glanced desperately at Thomas’s wife, as if hoping she might intervene, might save him from the wrath that was surely coming. But Thomas wasn’t having it. He reached out, his hand like a vice as he grabbed the man by the collar, yanking him forward until they were nose to nose. The man’s feet barely touched the ground, and his breath came in short, panicked gasps as he struggled in Thomas’s grip.
“Yeh think I don’t know men like yeh?” Thomas hissed, his voice low but filled with venom. “Yeh think I haven’t dealt with worse scum than you in the streets of Birmingham? Yer nothing. Less than nothing. And yeh had the audacity to touch what’s mine?”
He shoved the man back, releasing him with a force that sent him stumbling into the wall behind him. The man crumpled, his legs giving out beneath him as he slid to the floor, his back against the faded wallpaper. Thomas loomed over him, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white, the urge to beat the life out of this pitiful creature nearly overpowering. But he held back—barely—his mind still whirring, still calculating. Violence wasn’t the answer—not yet. He needed to know more. Needed to understand the full extent of this betrayal before he could decide how to deal with it. He turned his attention to his wife, who was now openly weeping, her face buried in her hands. The sound of her sobs grated on his nerves, a reminder of the pain she had caused, the trust she had shattered. But there was something else too, something in the way she cried that made him pause. It wasn’t just guilt or fear that drove her tears—there was something deeper, a sadness that he hadn’t expected, hadn’t seen before.
“Tommy, please...” she whispered, her voice muffled by her hands. “I didn’t mean for it to happen... I swear, it was a mistake... I’ve been so lonely...”
At the word lonely, Thomas felt a fresh wave of anger crash over him. He could hardly believe the audacity of it, the sheer gall of her to use such an excuse. Lonely? Lonely? As if that justified anything. As if that gave her the right to betray him, to throw away everything they had built together over the past four years. His teeth ground together, the sound nearly audible in the tense silence of the room.
“Lonely,” he repeated, his voice dripping with contempt. “Yeh think that’s a fuckin’ excuse? Yeh think that makes it alright?” His words were sharp, each one hitting her like a physical blow, and she flinched as if she had been struck. But he didn’t stop—couldn’t stop. The floodgates had opened, and all the bitterness, the hurt, the betrayal he had been holding back came pouring out, each word laced with venom.
“Yeh think I don’t know what lonely is? Yeh think I don’t feel it too? Every time I’m away, every time I have to leave this house to keep us safe, to keep yeh safe, yeh think I don’t feel it? But I didn’t stray, did I? I didn’t go lookin’ for comfort in someone else’s arms, did I? And yet here yeh are, beggin’ for forgiveness, tryin’ to make me understand.”
His fists were still clenched at his sides, the knuckles white and trembling with the effort it took not to lash out, not to give in to the primal urge to break something—anything. But he couldn’t let that happen. He needed to stay in control, needed to keep his head clear, even as his heart ached and his blood boiled with the realization of what she had done. He turned back to the man, who was still cowering on the floor, eyes wide with terror as he looked up at Thomas, knowing that his fate lay in the hands of the man who stood above him. Thomas took a deep breath, forcing himself to think, to plan, to strategize. This man wasn’t worth his anger, wasn’t worth the blood that would be spilled if he gave in to his rage. But he couldn’t let him off easy—not after this.
“Yeh better run while yeh still can,” Thomas said, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. “Maybe yeh’ll be far enough away before my men get to yeh. But don’t count on it.”
The man hesitated for only a moment, and then, with a choked sob of relief, he scrambled to his feet and bolted for the door. Thomas didn’t move as the man brushed past him, didn’t flinch as the double doors slammed shut behind him, leaving the room in an oppressive, suffocating silence. Finally, when the sound of the man’s footsteps had faded into the distance, Thomas turned back to his wife. She was still crying, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs, and for a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—he felt a pang of something like pity. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by the cold, hard reality of what she had done.
He took a step closer to her, his shoes thudding softly against the wooden floor. His hand reached out, almost hesitantly, before wrapping around her wrists in a firm, possessive grip. There was no anger in the touch, not yet. It was more a need to connect, to hold onto something that felt real in a moment when everything else seemed to be slipping away. His other hand found its way to her waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of her dress, pulling her closer. The familiar scent of her perfume filled his nostrils, a scent that once brought him comfort but now only reminded him of what might be lost.
“Why would yeh throw what we have away… why?” His voice was low, gritty, carrying the weight of the unspoken accusations that lingered between them. It wasn’t just a question; it was a plea, a desperate attempt to understand how the woman he loved could betray him. His breath was warm against her ear, and he could feel the slight tremor in her body as he spoke. But whether that tremor was from fear, guilt, or something else entirely, he couldn’t tell.
The silence that followed his question was deafening. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his chest, a dull thud that seemed to echo in the small room. His grip on her wrists tightened ever so slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her that he was there, that he wasn’t letting go until he got the answers he needed. His mind raced, thoughts tumbling over one another as he tried to piece together the puzzle of their relationship. Where had it all gone wrong? Was it something he did? Or was it something she had been planning all along? Thomas was a man who prided himself on control, on being able to manage every aspect of his life with a precision that few could match. But here, now, with his wife in his grasp and the specter of infidelity hanging over them, he felt that control slipping. And it terrified him. He had been faithful to her, had given her everything she could ever want, and yet here they were, standing on the precipice of something that could destroy them both.
His eyes searched hers, looking for the truth, for any sign that she might deny the accusations, that she might reassure him, tell him he was wrong. But instead, he saw something else—something that made his stomach churn. Was it guilt? Or was it defiance? He couldn’t tell, and that only made his grip tighten further, his knuckles whitening as he held onto her as if she were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
“Eh?” he pressed, his voice a low growl now, the frustration evident in every syllable.
Thomas's left her waist and darted roughly to her hand that bared her wedding ring he had custom made just for her. He gripped her hand with a force that teetered on the edge of violence, his fingers digging into her soft skin. The silver wedding ring gleamed ominously in the dim light, a symbol of their union now turned into a weapon. He shoved her hand roughly in front of her face, forcing her to confront the reality of what that ring meant. “Yeh see this fuckin’ rock on yer’ finger…” he hissed, his voice low and gravelly, each word laced with venom. “That means yer fuckin’ mine!”
His wife’s eyes, wide with a mix of fear and defiance, flickered between his own and the ring, her lips trembling as she tried to form a response. But before she could even utter a word, Thomas yanked her closer, their faces now inches apart. His breath was hot against her cheek, the scent of whiskey still clinging to him from the earlier hours. His jaw clenched as he spoke again, slower this time, his voice dropping even lower, the words grinding out like stones against each other. “D’ya understand? Mine.” There was no room for doubt in his tone, no space for negotiation. This was not a man who tolerated disobedience or betrayal. This was a man who had built an empire from nothing, a man who had clawed his way out of the mud and blood of Small Heath to stand at the top. And now, the very idea that the woman he had chosen to stand beside him, the woman he had protected and loved in his own cold, twisted way, could be betraying him? It was an affront he could barely comprehend, let alone tolerate.
He cupped her face, his fingers curling against her skin with a force that bordered on roughness, a desperate need to feel her, to remind himself that she was still his, despite the cracks that had formed in the foundation of their marriage. His thumb brushed over her cheek, a gesture that was almost tender if not for the underlying tension that coiled in his muscles, a barely restrained violence that simmered just below the surface. He pulled her towards him, their lips colliding in a kiss that was more a battle than an embrace. It wasn’t the gentle, loving kiss of a husband to his wife; it was a claiming, a demand, a statement of ownership wrapped in the guise of affection. The kiss was harsh, driven by a mix of need and anger, of love and betrayal. His lips pressed against hers with a bruising intensity, as if he could kiss the doubt away, as if he could force her to be faithful through sheer willpower. His other hand tangled in her hair, the softness of the strands a stark contrast to the roughness of his grip. He held her there, anchored in place, as if letting go would mean losing her entirely. He could feel the resistance in her, the hesitation, and it only spurred him on, deepening the kiss, trying to pull something from her, a confession, a reassurance, anything that would give him peace.
Time seemed to stretch, the kiss consuming them both, blocking out the world beyond the four walls of the room. It was just them now, two people locked in a struggle as old as time itself—love and trust, suspicion and betrayal. Thomas knew what he was fighting for, but he wasn’t sure if she did. He wasn’t sure if she felt the same desperation, the same need to make this work, to keep what they had from crumbling into dust. When he finally pulled back, his chest heaving from the intensity of the kiss, he didn’t move far. His forehead rested against hers, his breath hot and heavy against her lips as he searched her eyes for something—anything—that would tell him he wasn’t making a mistake. His eyes bore into hers, seeking the truth, pleading with her to give him some sign that she was still the woman he married, the woman he had been faithful to for four long years. There was a flicker there, a glimmer of something that might have been hope, or perhaps it was just a reflection of his own desperate need to believe. But whatever it was, it wasn’t enough. Not yet.
“We made that promise,” he said, his voice a low growl, thick with the accent of Birmingham, every word carrying the weight of their past, their vows, their life together. “Four years, we’ve been through hell and back, and I’ve stood by you every step of the way. But now...” He trailed off, his grip on her face tightening slightly, a flash of anger, of pain, flickering across his features. “Now I don’t know what to believe.”
Author's Notes:
Ahhhhhhh! where have I been? School started for me and I've also been in a writers block lolz. But yeah, hopefully this story doesn't suck.. anyways toodles!!
Smut with a plot! but the plot sucks?, unsafe sex, switch! Cillian, extremely perverted! Cillian, virgin! reader, cherry-popping, peer pressure, threatening, gaslighting, manipulating, whimpering, whining, begging, crying sort of, m! oral receiving, f! overstimulating, fingering, semi-cockwarming, forced swallowing, forced kissing, face-fucking, spitting, breeding, choking, degrading, belittling, slapping, and no aftercare!
Cillian sat in his trailer on the bustling movie set, the faint hum of activity outside seeping through the walls. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, a habit he often indulged in when lost in thought. Today's scenes were relatively straightforward, nothing too demanding, but he knew the importance of being fully prepared. The makeup artist would be arriving soon, and he wanted to tidy up his space before she arrived.
The trailer was a small, cozy haven amidst the chaos of the film set. It was sparsely decorated, with a few personal touches here and there—a framed photograph of his family, a well-worn book on the table, and the faint scent of his favorite cologne lingering in the air. Cillian moved about the space with a quiet efficiency, straightening up the few items that were out of place. As he worked, he hummed a tune under his breath, a habit that helped him relax and focus his mind. The melody was soft and soothing, a stark contrast to the bustling energy outside. He glanced at the clock, noting that he had a bit of time before the makeup artist was due to arrive.
As he sat there, lost in thought, memories of his early days as an actor flooded his mind. The struggles, the rejections, the moments of doubt—they had all shaped him into the actor he was today. He had fought hard for his place in the industry, and he was grateful for every role, every opportunity that had come his way.
Cillian patiently sits in the make-up chair waiting, twiddling his thumbs, and kicking his feet which are just a bit off the ground. His presence in the room commands attention, his posture relaxed yet poised, exuding an air of quiet confidence. The soft glow of the vanity lights highlights his chiseled features, casting subtle shadows that accentuate his sharp cheekbones and intense blue eyes. As the door opens, Cillian's smile widens, a genuine warmth lighting up his face as he sees her enter the room. He stands up slowly, a graceful movement that speaks of both strength and elegance, and walks over to her. Setting aside her belongings, he opens his arms wide, inviting her into a warm embrace. His embrace is comforting, his body language conveying a sense of familiarity and affection.
Their hug is long and meaningful, a silent exchange of emotions that transcends words. Cillian holds her close, his arms wrapped around her in a protective embrace. He can feel the tension melt away from her body, replaced by a sense of peace and comfort in his presence. As they finally pull apart, Cillian looks into her eyes, his gaze intense yet gentle.
His gaze lands on her, and he can't help but look her up and down, his eyes lingering on her figure clad in a provocative outfit that leaves little to the imagination. She stands before him, unaware of his scrutiny, adjusting her attire with a casual nonchalance that belies the effect she has on him. She exudes confidence, a sense of knowing that draws him in despite his best efforts to resist. Cillian's thoughts drift, his mind replaying their interactions, each moment etched vividly in his memory. He knows he shouldn't be looking at her like this, shouldn't be feeling this pull towards her, but he can't help himself. She's a temptation he can't resist, a forbidden fruit that beckons to him with every glance, every smile.
Cillian settled back into his makeup chair, the cushion sighing softly beneath his weight. He ran his fingers through his hair, the strands slipping effortlessly through his long, dexterous fingers. The action was habitual, a subconscious attempt to smooth out the day’s dishevelment. His hair, a striking shade of dark brown, shone under the soft, warm lights of the vanity mirror. He glanced at his reflection, his piercing blue eyes momentarily locking onto the mirror’s surface, analyzing the man looking back at him. His trailer was a sanctuary of sorts, now becoming where the magic of transformation happened daily. The air was tinged with the scent of various cosmetics, an olfactory mix of powders, creams, and the faint hint of hairspray, she always smelled like that but he never cared about it. The lighting, strategically placed around the mirror, cast a soft, flattering glow on his features, emphasizing the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the chiseled contours of his jaw. It was a far cry from the harsh, unyielding lighting on set, which often required these moments of touch-up and refinement.
The makeup artist, a petite woman with a keen eye for detail and a steady hand, stood behind him. Her presence was a familiar comfort, a silent partner in the daily ritual of transformation. She was unlocking her makeup case, the metallic clicks punctuating the quiet hum of the room. She paused, glancing at him through the mirror with a soft, inquisitive expression.
"So how did you sleep?" she asked, her voice gentle yet curious.
Cillian chuckled lightly, the sound rich and warm, echoing softly in the intimate space. He flashed a soft smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and brought a touch of warmth to his otherwise cool demeanor. "Oh, I slept pretty well," he replied, his Irish accent infusing his words with a melodic cadence. His voice was calm, reassuring, a testament to the restful night he had enjoyed. As she began her work, her hands moving with practiced precision, Cillian closed his eyes momentarily, savoring the sensation. The soft brush of the makeup sponge against his skin was almost therapeutic, a soothing counterpoint to the often chaotic world of film production. He could feel the gentle pressure as she applied the foundation, blending it seamlessly to create the flawless canvas that the camera demanded.
His mind drifted, thoughts meandering through the events of the previous day. It had been a long shoot, the kind that left him both physically and mentally drained. Yet, the exhaustion was tempered by the satisfaction of a job well done. He thought about the scenes they had captured, the nuances of his performance, the subtle shifts in emotion that he had strived to convey. Acting, for him, was a dance of precision and passion, a delicate balance of technical skill and raw, unfiltered emotion. The makeup artist’s touch brought him back to the present. She was meticulously blending the makeup around his eyes, her fingers feather-light yet purposeful. He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze in the mirror. There was a silent communication between them, a mutual understanding forged through countless hours spent together in this very chair.
"Any dreams?" she asked, her tone light and conversational. It was a question she often posed, a way to fill the silence and perhaps, glean a bit more insight into the enigmatic man before her.
Cillian tilted his head slightly, considering her question. "Nothing too memorable," he said after a moment, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Just the usual mix of nonsense and fleeting moments." He rarely remembered his dreams, and when he did, they were often abstract and fragmented, a tapestry of images and emotions that made little sense in the waking world.
She nodded, her focus shifting back to her work. The next phase involved the subtle enhancement of his natural features, a process that required both skill and artistry. She applied a touch of concealer here, a dab of highlighter there, each stroke designed to enhance his already striking visage. Cillian watched her work, admiring her dedication and expertise. His thoughts wandered once more, this time to his family. The demands of his career often kept him away from home for extended periods, a sacrifice that was both necessary and bittersweet. He cherished the moments he could spend with his wife and children, the rare pockets of normalcy amidst the whirlwind of his professional life. They were his anchor, the steadying force that kept him grounded even as he navigated the turbulent waters of fame and success.
The makeup artist moved on to his hair, her fingers deftly arranging the strands into the desired style. Cillian felt the gentle tug and pull as she worked, her touch both firm and gentle. His hair had always been a defining feature, a canvas for transformation that allowed him to slip seamlessly into his various roles. Today, it was being styled for his latest character, a man as complex and layered as the roles he often gravitated towards.
"Looking good," she said softly, stepping back to admire her handiwork. There was a note of pride in her voice, a reflection of the care and attention she put into her craft.
Cillian opened his eyes fully, taking in the final result. His reflection was a blend of the familiar and the transformed, a testament to the collaborative effort that brought his characters to life. He smiled appreciatively, meeting her gaze through the mirror. "Thank you, my darlin'" he said simply, his voice carrying a note of genuine gratitude. She nodded, her own smile warm and satisfied. "Ready to go?" she asked, knowing full well that the transformation was only part of the journey. The real work, the true magic, happened in front of the camera, where Cillian would once again bring his character to life with a depth and authenticity that was uniquely his own. He nodded, rising from the chair with a fluid grace. "Let’s do it," he said, his tone imbued with quiet determination. The day ahead was sure to be demanding, but he was ready. He always was.
After a slow day on set, Cillian felt the fatigue of the day seeping into his bones as he made his way back to his trailer. The air was thick with the remnants of the scenes they had shot, the weight of his character's emotions still lingering. He shrugged off his jacket, feeling the fabric slide from his shoulders and crumple into a heap on the small couch by the door. The quiet of the trailer enveloped him, a stark contrast to the bustling energy of the set. Cillian took a moment to stand still, absorbing the silence. His eyes flitted around the small space, eventually landing on the book he'd borrowed from his co-star. It was an old, worn copy of J.P. Donleavy's 'The Ginger Man' and he had found himself lost in its pages during the few breaks they'd had. He picked it up from the bed, flipping to the page where he'd left off. The words flowed easily, and for a while, he was no longer himself but a mere observer in J.P. Donleavy's.
He found a stopping point, a natural pause in the narrative, and sighed as he set the book down on the bedside table. He pulled himself off the bed, stretching out the stiffness that had settled in his muscles. Moving to the makeshift kitchen, he leaned against the countertop, feeling the cool surface press into his palms. He reached for the knob of the small cabinet above, opening it to reveal a solitary whiskey glass. Cillian didn't usually drink after working on set. The lines between his roles and reality blurred enough without the haze of alcohol, but tonight felt different. He'd had a couple of tough days, the weight of his character's struggles bleeding into his own thoughts. He set the glass on the countertop with a soft clink, bending down to open the bottom cabinet. The familiar shape of the semi-filled Irish whiskey bottle greeted him, and he pulled it out, setting it beside the glass.
As he poured the amber liquid, he let his thoughts drift. The day had been long, the scenes emotionally taxing. He turned around, leaning his back against the edge of the countertop, the glass cradled in his hand. He took a slow sip, savoring the warmth as it spread through him, mulling over the complexities of his character and the nuances he tried to bring to life. His free hand ran through his hair, a habitual gesture of frustration and contemplation. The weariness was etched into his features, the fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes more pronounced under the harsh lighting of the trailer. Pushing himself off the counter, he made his way back to the bed, placing the whiskey glass on the small bedside table next to a framed family photo. His fingertip traced the edges of the frame, a brief touchstone to the world outside the roles he inhabited.
Just as he was beginning to relax, a sudden knock at the trailer door pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced at the alarm clock; it read 11:42. Rolling his eyes, he muttered to himself, 'Who needs me at basically twelve o'clock at night?' With a resigned sigh, he picked up his whiskey glass and made his way to the door. When he opened it, he was met with the sight of the makeup artist, her expression a mix of nervousness and determination. She smiled tentatively, "Hey, Cill... Sorry to bother you, but I think I forgot one of my brushes at your vanity. Can I take a look around?"
Cillian offered a tired smile in return, stepping aside to let her in. As she passed by, he couldn't help but notice the subtle grace in her movements, the way she carried herself with an air of quiet confidence. He shut the door behind her, the click of the latch echoing in the small space. She moved with purpose, her footsteps light but determined. Her voice was soft, almost apologetic, "I've gone to everyone else and they don't have it, so you're the only one that might have it..." Cillian watched her as she spoke, noting the slight flush in her cheeks, the way her eyes darted around the trailer, searching. "Sure, take a look. I know how important those brushes are to you lot," he said, his Irish accent softening the edges of his words. He took another sip of his whiskey, the warmth a comforting presence as he leaned against the edge of the kitchenette.
His eyes never left her as she moved around the room, searching for her brush. The late hour brought a stillness to the room, broken only by the occasional clink of glass and the soft rustle of her movements. He admired her dedication, the way she methodically lifted items, peering beneath them, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her body moved with a fluid grace, every motion purposeful and precise. She was barefoot, her toes curling slightly against the hardwood floor as she knelt, her dress riding up just enough to tease him with a glimpse of smooth skin. She was completely absorbed in her task, unaware—or perhaps all too aware—of the effect she was having on him. He took another sip of his whiskey, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat, a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through his chest at the sight of her.
The silence between them was a comfortable one, the kind that spoke of familiarity and a deep, unspoken understanding. He appreciated these moments, the rare times when words were unnecessary and their presence alone was enough. But tonight, there was an undercurrent of tension, a barely-there edge to his thoughts as he watched her. She was teasing him, he was sure of it, the way she moved, the way she lingered just a little too long on the floor, presenting herself to him in a manner that was both innocent and provocative. He could feel the stirrings of desire, a slow burn that started in his gut and spread outward, his gaze darkening as he watched her. She had to be doing this on purpose. He downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, the sharp taste a jarring counterpoint to the softness of her presence. Setting the glass down on the vanity counter with a decisive clink, he huffed slightly, the sound low and rough in the quiet trailer. His fingers moved almost unconsciously to his wedding ring, the metal cool against his skin. He slipped it off and let it drop into the whiskey glass with a muted clink, a symbolic gesture that seemed to echo in the silence.
His eyes never left her as he moved towards her, his footsteps soft but deliberate on the floor. There was something predatory in his movements, a barely restrained intensity that spoke of his desire. She was still on her knees, her back to him, her hands busy with her search. He stood behind her for a moment, taking in the sight of her, the curve of her spine, the way her hair fell around her face in a messy halo.
Slowly, he knelt down behind her, his breath warm against the back of her neck as he leaned in close. "You have no idea what yeh doin' to me do yeh'?" His voice was a low murmur, his Irish accent curling around the words in a way that sent a shiver down her spine. She paused in her search, her body going still as she registered his presence. He reached out, his hand brushing lightly against her back, fingers trailing down her spine. She turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at him over her shoulder. "Cillian.." She said softly, her voice almost a whisper in the quiet room. There was a flicker of something in her eyes, a mix of defiance and anticipation that sent a thrill through him. His hand moved to her waist, fingers curling around the fabric of her of her skin tight sleep shorts. "Yeah, say my name just like that.." he asked, his voice a low rumble. There was a challenge in his tone, a dark edge that hinted at the depths of his desire. She didn't answer, her eyes meeting his in a silent battle of wills.
The floorboards of the trailer cool against his knees, a stark contrast to the heat radiating between them. His breath came in shallow, measured puffs, mingling with the faint scent of her perfume—something floral and intoxicating that made his head swim. His hands, those deft, talented hands known for their meticulous craft on set, now played a different role. They rested on her waist, fingers tracing the waistband of her skin-tight shorts, feeling the soft material stretch over her curves. His touch was light, almost teasing, as if testing the boundaries of how much he could push her before she reacted. The proximity of their bodies was electrifying. He could feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric, and each subtle shift she made sent a jolt of arousal through him. His crotch, already straining against the confines of his jeans, brushed against her ass, and he couldn't suppress a low, throaty groan. The friction was exquisite, a tantalizing preview of what he craved.
"I know yeh want me," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly whisper tinged with his Irish lilt. The words were laced with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, yet there was an undeniable truth in them. He had seen the way she looked at him, the hunger in her eyes that mirrored his own. "I see it in your eyes..."
As he spoke, his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of her shorts, his touch deliberate and exploratory. The pads of his fingers brushed against the hem of her panties, the silky material a stark contrast to the roughness of his skin. He took his time, savoring the moment, feeling the tension coil tighter between them. The whiskey coursing through his veins only amplified his desire, blurring the edges of his self-control. His eyes, usually so clear and piercing, now glinted with a dark, simmering lust. He could feel the alcohol's warmth spreading through his body, making his movements bolder, more assertive. He was a man driven by instinct, his usual restraint slipping away with each passing second.
"Did you really lose a brush?" he teased, his voice dripping with mock disbelief. There was a playful edge to his tone, but underneath it lay a challenge. He pulled at the hem of her panties, the elastic stretching under his grip, and he could feel her body tense in response. "I bet you really didn't."
Her silence spoke volumes, a tacit admission of her game. He smirked, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he continued to toy with the fabric, enjoying the way it clung to her skin. His fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns along the edge, each touch a calculated move to draw out her anticipation. With a swift, practiced motion, he tugged the shorts down just enough to expose the curve of her ass. The sight was mesmerizing, and he couldn't resist the urge to run his hands over the smooth expanse of skin, feeling the way her muscles tightened beneath his touch. His thumbs hooked under the waistband of her panties, pulling them taut before letting them snap back into place, the sound a sharp punctuation in the quiet room. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. "You're a tease, yeh know that?" His voice was a low, rumbling growl, filled with a mix of admiration and frustration. "But two can play that game."
As his crotch pressed against her ass, the hard outline of his erection unmistakable through the thin material of his trousers. It throbbed with a palpable urgency, each pulse matching the erratic beat of her heart. The heat of his body seeped through the layers of clothing, a suffocating reminder of how close he was, how trapped she was. She was rigid, every muscle tense as if bracing for impact, her mind racing to make sense of the situation.
"I've got kids and a wife at home," Cillian's voice was low, almost a growl, filled with a rough edge that made her stomach twist. His Irish accent gave his words a lilt that contrasted sharply with their crude content, making the vulgarity of his statement even more jarring. "But it's so hard to fuckin' keep my hands to myself if yeh look like this~"
His breath was hot against the back of her neck, sending a fresh wave of chills down her spine. She could feel the weight of his desire, an oppressive force that seemed to seep into her skin and paralyze her. His hands moved from her panties back to her waist, sliding up her sides, the touch both possessive and exploratory. The tips of his fingers dug into her flesh, not hard enough to bruise but firm enough to convey his dominance. Her thoughts spun in chaotic circles, trying to pinpoint the moment when everything had gone wrong. She had come here for something as innocuous as finding her brush, a simple task that now seemed laughably distant. What had she done to give him the impression that she wanted this? That she wanted him? The internal questioning was a desperate attempt to find some semblance of control, but it felt like grasping at straws.
Cillian's voice broke through her spiraling thoughts, snapping her back to the grim reality she was in. "Yeh just want an older man to fuck yeh nice and good, eh?" His words were a taunt, laced with a dark amusement that made her skin crawl. He leaned closer, his lips brushing against her ear, his breath warm and invasive. "Is that it, love? Yeh lookin' for a man who knows how to take care of yeh?" She could feel his cock twitch against her, the pressure intensifying as he shifted his weight. His hands roamed lower, slipping under the waistband of her shorts again, his fingers tracing the line of her panties. The intimate touch made her flinch, a reflexive jerk that only seemed to amuse him further. He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating against her back. Cillian's piercing blue eyes glinted with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. His breath was hot against her neck, mingling with the faint scent of cologne that clung to his skin. Every inch of his body radiated a primal need, a hunger that was both terrifying and compelling.
"Cillian, please—sir, don't do this..." Her voice trembled, each word a desperate plea. The reality of her situation crashed over her, a suffocating wave of helplessness. She had seen him on the screen, admired his talent from a distance, worked with him personally but this man before her was a stranger, a predator cloaked in charm and sophistication. She couldn't understand how things had escalated to this point, how she had become ensnared in his twisted desires.
He leaned closer, his lips brushing against her earlobe as he spoke. "Yeah, but the fing is all'yeh bitchin'....isn't goin' help yeh, is it?" His voice was a silky whisper, each syllable dripping with dark amusement. "I love when yeh call me sir, luv." The words were like a physical caress, sending a shiver down her spine. His accent, rich and lilting, wrapped around her like a vice, making her feel even more trapped. Her heart pounded in her chest as he continued to explore her body, his touch both possessive and tender. She hated the way her body responded to him, the way her skin tingled where his fingers roamed. It was a betrayal, a sickening reminder of the power he held over her. She could feel the heat of his arousal pressing against her, a silent promise of what was to come.
Cillian's lips trailed down her neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake. His teeth grazed her collarbone, eliciting a gasp from her lips. He chuckled softly, the sound filled with satisfaction. "Such a pretty little thing," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Don't fight it, luv. You'll only make it harder for yerself." His words were both a threat and a promise, the dark undertones sending a thrill of fear through her. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the sensations, the reality of what was happening. But he was relentless, his hands and mouth exploring every inch of her, breaking down her defenses one by one. She could feel his breath against her skin, his lips pressing kisses that were both tender and demanding. It was a dizzying contradiction, the way he could be both gentle and forceful, making her body betray her mind.
"Open yer eyes, luv," he commanded, his voice soft but firm. She obeyed, her eyes meeting his piercing blue gaze. There was a darkness there, a hunger that frightened her.
His breath was warm and whiskey-scented against her skin, the closeness of his body both a comfort and a torment. “Yeh’ve got no idea what yeh do to me,” he murmured, his Irish accent wrapping around the words like a caress. His lips brushed against her ear, sending another shiver down her spine. His hands moved lower, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties. His touch was firm and confident, his fingers gliding over her skin with a surety that made her breathe catch in her throat. Her body betrayed her, hips arching slightly to meet his touch, a soft moan escaping despite her best efforts to hold it back. Cillian’s grin widened, a predatory gleam in his blue eyes as he watched her reaction. “That’s it, lass,” he said, his voice a husky whisper. “Don’t fight it. Let me see how much yeh can take.”
His fingers found the slick heat of her arousal, and he groaned softly, the sound vibrating through her body. His thumb brushed against her throbbing clit, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her veins. She bit her lip to stifle another moan, hating how easily he could unravel her with just a touch. But there was no denying the effect he had on her, the way her body responded to him even as her mind screamed for her to resist. Cillian’s movements were slow and deliberate, each touch calculated to drive her wild. He slid a finger into her dripping cunt, feeling it grip him tightly, the sensation drawing a guttural groan from his throat. “Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, his voice rough with desire. “Just imagine my cock inside yeh…”
She whimpered at his words, the vivid image making her pulse quicken; she didn't want that to happen. His breath was hot against the back of her neck, the scent of whiskey haunting her senses. “Fuck,” he groaned again, his voice thick with conflicted emotion. “I love my wife, but… yer makin’ it so hard…” His confession was a knife to her heart, but his touch was even worse, the pleasure he gave her a cruel contradiction to the pain of his words. He grinned heavily, his lips brushing against her ear as he spoke. “Yeh like that, don’t yeh? The thought of me, wantin’ yeh like this…”
She was denying it, but her body’s response betraying her even as her mind screamed for her to pull away. His fingers moved inside her, curling and stroking in a way that made her toes curl inside her shoes. Her nails digging into the trailer floorboards as she fought to keep herself grounded, the sensations overwhelming her. His fingers were slick with her juices, moving with a calculated rhythm that drove her to the brink of madness. Each thrust, each curl of his digits inside her sloppy cunt, elicited a desperate whimper from her parted lips. He could feel her inner muscles tightening around his fingers, a clear sign that she was teetering on the edge of ecstasy. His other hand, strong and commanding, encircled her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp for air, her pulse fluttering wildly beneath his grip. The power he held over her in this moment was exhilarating, a heady mix of dominance and desire that sent a shiver down his spine.
“Look at yeh,” he murmured, his accent thickening with the whiskey-fueled haze. His voice was a low, seductive growl, dripping with lust and control. “So fuckin’ wet for me… Yeh want this, don’t yeh? Want me inside yeh, fillin’ yeh up…” His words were a taunting promise, each syllable rolling off his tongue with a tantalizing slowness that made her body tremble with anticipation.
His thumb found her clit again, rubbing it with precise, circular motions that had her arching her back, pushing her hips towards him in a silent plea for more, why was her body doing this to her?! He added another finger, plunging deeper into her cunt, the slick sounds of his fingers moving inside her mixing with her breathy moans. Her walls contracted around him, a testament to her impending climax, and he relished the control he had over her pleasure. Her hands clutched at his arms, nails digging into his skin as she tried to find something to anchor herself to in the storm of a horrible sensation he was creating. Cillian’s lips curled into a smirk, his eyes never leaving her face as he watched the myriad of expressions play across it—pleasure and desperation; Cillian wrapped his hand around her pretty throat.
“Fuck, yeh look so beautiful like this,” he breathed, his voice rough with desire. His fingers continued their relentless assault, his thumb working her clit with a practiced ease that spoke of experience and an intimate knowledge. “Beg for it,” he demanded, his grip on her throat tightening just enough to make her gasp. “Beg for me to let yeh come.” He wanted her to bed like the dog she was to him.
Her voice was nowhere to be heard, being choked by the hand around her throat and the overwhelming yet disgusting pleasure coursing through her. He chuckled darkly, the sound reverberating through his chest. “Fuckin' whore..but don't worry I'll fix that mouth of yers’,” he purred, his fingers moving faster, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. He smiled darkly when he felt her walls squeeze his fingers tighter. “Good girl… come for me. Come all over my fingers.” Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her entire body convulsing as she screamed his name, her cunt clenching tightly around his fingers. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, riding out her orgasm with a relentless pace that left her gasping for breath, her body trembling from the intensity of it all.
As she came down from the high, her body still trembling with aftershocks, he finally withdrew his fingers, his touch gentle and reverent. He brought his hand up to his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers as he licked her arousal from his fingers, a look of pure sick and twisted satisfaction on his face. “Yeh taste even better than I imagined,” he said, his voice a low purr. He pulled the back of her hair roughly, making her look at him; leaving no room for argument, before capturing her lips in a rough-searing kiss, the taste of whiskey and her own fluids mingling on his and her tongue. She was forced to kiss him back, her hands pushing and clawing at his upper chest.
He broke the kiss and pushed off of he and quickly stood up, ee looked down at her, his eyes a mixture of lust and fury, clouded by the alcohol coursing through his veins. The flickering light bulb above cast eerie shadows on his face, accentuating his chiseled features and the intensity in his icy blue eyes. He pushed off her body, his breath ragged, and quickly stood up, his hands shaking as they fumbled with the buckle of his belt. His movements were frantic, driven by a primal need that bordered on the edge of violence. His belt clattered to the floor, followed swiftly by his pants, pooling around his ankles. He stood there for a moment, towering over her, his chest heaving with each breath. She lay on the trailer floor, the cold seeping into her bones, her body trembling not just from the chill but from the fear that had taken root deep within her. She could barely see through the blur of tears, her sobs muffled as she tried to stifle them, afraid of provoking him further.
"Get on yer knees for me..." His voice was low and guttural, carrying a hint of his Irish lilt, the words slurring together slightly from the whiskey. When she didn't move, he let out a frustrated huff, his patience wearing thin. Bending down, he grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her up with a roughness that made her gasp. The sudden pain was sharp, cutting through the fog of her fear and disorientation.
He dragged her to her knees, his grip on her hair unrelenting. His other hand moved to his boxers, pulling them down to reveal his throbbing erection, the tip glistening with pre-cum. His need was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to fill the cramped space of the trailer. He looked down at her, a twisted grin spreading across his face as he took in her disheveled appearance.
"Suck...my fuckin' cock..." The command was harsh, almost a growl, but she didn't respond, her lips pressed tightly together in a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of control. His grin widened, a cruel glint in his eyes as he moved his hand from her hair to her nose, pinching it shut. She tried to pull back, to escape his grasp, but he was too strong, his grip like iron.
As her air supply dwindled, panic set in, and she was forced to open her mouth to breathe. In that moment of vulnerability, he seized the opportunity, thrusting his cock deep into her mouth, the sudden invasion causing her to choke violently. Her gag reflex kicked in, her throat constricting around him, but he didn't relent, his hips driving forward with brutal force. Cillian's breath hitched, a guttural sound escaping his throat as he felt her struggle around him. He relished the power he held over her, the way she was utterly at his mercy. He tightened his grip on her hair, forcing her to look up at him, his eyes locking onto hers. The sight of her tear-streaked face, mascara running in dark rivulets down her cheeks, only seemed to fuel his desire.
"Look at yeh," he muttered, his voice dripping with disdain and lust. "Yer such a fuckin' mess... but yeh look so fuckin' pretty like this, don' yeh?" His words were punctuated by the relentless rhythm of his thrusts, each one causing her to gag and sputter, her tears falling more freely now. Her body shook with each brutal invasion, her hands instinctively coming up to push against his thighs, trying to create some space, some relief from the suffocating pressure. But he was immovable, his strength amplified by the alcohol and the dark urges driving him. He felt her nails dig into his skin, but it only spurred him on, the pain a twisted complement to the pleasure he was taking.
"Yeh, you fuckin' want it, don' yeh? Yeh fuckin' need it; don' yeh? Eh...?" His voice was a mocking whisper, each word laced with cruelty. He could feel himself getting closer, the pressure building as his grip on her hair tightened even further. She was trying to pull away, her body convulsing with the effort, but he held her firmly in place, his hips moving faster, more erratically. The sound of her choking filled the trailer, mingling with his ragged breathing and the wet, obscene noises of his cock driving into her throat. Her eyes were wide, filled with a mixture of pain and desperation, snot running down her nose and mixing with her tears. It was a sight that seemed to intoxicate him even more, his pace quickening as he neared his climax. "Yeh fuckin' like that, don' yeh? Yeh love it when I use yeh like this," he panted, his words barely coherent through the haze of alcohol and arousal. He could feel the edge approaching, the tension coiling in his abdomen, ready to snap. He didn't let up, his hips slamming forward with a brutal finality, holding her head in place as he spilled himself into her mouth.
She gagged violently, her body writhing as she tried to breathe around the thick, bitter fluid filling her throat. He kept her there, forcing her to take every drop, his fingers tangled in her hair, pulling it painfully tight. When he finally released her, she fell back, gasping and coughing, her chest heaving as she struggled to draw in air. She looked like. a fucking fish out of water. Cillian looked down at her, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He reached down, his fingers brushing against her tear-streaked cheek, smearing the makeup further. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice softening slightly, though the underlying menace remained. "Yeh did good..." She lay there, her body trembling, the cold of the trailer floor a stark contrast to the heat of his touch. Her mind was a whirl of conflicting emotions, the violation she had just endured clashing with the strange, unwanted sense of relief that it was over. But she knew, deep down, that it wasn't truly over, that this was just a momentary reprieve in a night that was far from finished.
His smirk was cold, a predator toying with its prey. "Yeh think I'm done with yeh… yer fuckin' wrong if yeh think that," he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. He advanced towards her, the sound of his boots echoing ominously against the hardwood floor. She was cornered, her back pressed against the wall, eyes wide with fear. Tears streamed down her face like a waterfall, her cheeks glistening in the faint light. "Cill, plea-please… Don't… no, no, no… don't… I'm begging you don't…" Her voice was a broken symphony of desperation and fear. Cillian's response was immediate and brutal. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back and forcing her to meet his icy gaze. He leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear. "Keep whining, keeps my cock hard… slut," he hissed, his words laced with venom. He released her hair, his hands moving with lightning speed to pin her wrists above her head.
With one hand holding her wrists in a vise-like grip, his other hand snaked its way down to her shorts. He practically ripped them off, pulling them down with such force that the seams tore. Her panties followed, yanked down to her ankles, exposing her vulnerability. The sight of her wetness made him smirk, a dark chuckle escaping his lips. "Yer fuckin' soaked… didn't think yeh'd be this ready for me," he mocked, his voice a low growl. She sobbed, her pleas becoming more frantic. "Please, Cill… stop… don't do this… I'm begging you…" Her voice was shrill, filled with terror. Suddenly, his hand struck her across the face, the sound of the impact echoing in the room. She cried out in pain, her cheek stinging from the blow. He pointed a finger in her face, his eyes blazing with anger. "Yer making me go soft… either yeh shut up or beg like yeh did before," he snapped.
His hand found its way down to her dripping cunt, his fingers barely grazing her wet folds. Her body trembled, and her cries grew louder. "Please… don't… I'm a virgin…" she pleaded, her voice breaking. Cillian froze for a moment, processing her words. "Fuck… luv… looks like I'll be poppin' yer cherry," he said, a cruel smile spreading across his face. Without warning, he removed his hand and positioned himself. In one swift motion, he shoved his cock into her cunt, bottoming out completely. She let out a loud, pained cry, her body convulsing with the force of his intrusion. Tears streamed down her face, her expression one of agony. Cillian grunted, the tightness of her virgin cunt taking him by surprise. He paused, adjusting to her snug fit, the scent of iron filling the air. He looked down to see blood dripping from her cunt. "Looks like I popped it, real good," he muttered, almost to himself.
He began to thrust, deep and hard, his movements rough and unrelenting. Her cries of pain spurred him on, each thrust more forceful than the last. He watched her face contort with each plunge, her tears falling in a steady stream. His hand moved to grab her thigh, pulling her leg up to allow him to fill her even deeper. Her body jerked with each thrust, the pain evident in her every movement. "Fuckin' tight… yer squeezin' me so good," he groaned, his voice husky with arousal. He could feel her walls clenching around him, her cries music to his ears. She whimpered, her voice barely audible. "Please… Cill… stop…" But he was beyond reason, his desire consuming him. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "Shut up, slut… this is what yeh deserve," he whispered harshly.
Each thrust was a brutal reminder of his dominance, his control over her. Her sobs grew louder, her pleas more desperate, but he paid them no mind. He was lost in the sensation, the intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure. "Yer mine… yeh understand? Mine to fuck, mine to use," he growled, his voice a possessive snarl. He gripped her thigh tighter, his fingers digging into her flesh. Her leg trembled, her body barely able to withstand his relentless assault. The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, her cries mingling with his grunts of pleasure. "Look at yeh… such a pretty little whore," he taunted, his eyes gleaming with sadistic delight. She tried to turn her head away, but he grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Don't look away… I want yeh to see what I'm doin' to yeh," he demanded, his voice cold and commanding.
Her eyes were wide with fear, her body trembling under his touch. "Please… Cill… it hurts…" she whimpered, her voice barely a whisper. He chuckled darkly, his grip tightening. "Good… I want it to hurt," he said, his tone devoid of any compassion. He thrust harder, his pace increasing, each movement more brutal than the last. Her body jerked violently with each thrust, her cries of pain echoing in the room. "Fuck… yer so tight… so fuckin' tight," he groaned, his voice a mix of pleasure and frustration. He could feel himself getting closer, the tightness of her cunt driving him wild.
The pain she was in seemed to only fuel his dark desire, his need to dominate and break her completely. He leaned over her, his breath hot and reeking of alcohol against her tear-streaked face. His fingers dug into her wrists, holding her in place as he thrust into her with brutal force. "Shut up… yeh can take it… yeh will take it," he snarled, his voice a guttural growl that echoed in the small space. His accent was thicker than usual, slurred slightly by the whiskey, giving his words an even more menacing edge.
Her pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. Each thrust was more desperate, more erratic, as he chased his own release. He watched her through hooded eyes, her pain and fear a twisted aphrodisiac that spurred him on. He felt the tight grip of her body around him, the way she clenched and shuddered with each violent movement, and it drove him wild. The edge of release was so close, a tantalizing promise just within reach. Finally, with a guttural moan, he bottomed out one last time, his hips slamming into hers as he found his release. His hot, sticky cum pumped into her, filling her completely. His eyes locked onto hers, a dark, predatory gleam in his gaze as he leaned in close, his lips brushing her ear. "Probably goin' get yeh pregnant...but yeh deserve it...because yer just a cocksleeve for me to use.." His voice was a low, dangerous whisper, each word dripping with venom.
He stayed inside her, his cock still twitching as he emptied every last drop into her womb. He reveled in the feeling, the way her body seemed to milk him dry, her tightness squeezing every bit of his release from him. Only when he was sure he had given her everything did he finally pull out, a satisfied smirk on his face. He let go of her wrists, and she fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, her body too weak to support her any longer. Cillian stood over her, watching as she lay there, broken and defeated. The sight brought a twisted sense of satisfaction, a dark pleasure that seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach. He took a moment to collect himself, to let the last waves of pleasure ebb away, before straightening up and pulling up his boxers and pants. His eyes never left her, a silent command in their depths.
"Clean yerself up...and go," he said, his voice cold and detached. He watched as she struggled to move, her body trembling with the effort. There was no sympathy in his gaze, no hint of remorse for what he had done. To him, she was nothing more than a means to an end, a vessel for his darkest desires. As she finally managed to stand, her legs wobbling beneath her, Cillian took a step back, giving her space to gather herself. His eyes followed her every movement, a predator watching its prey. The room was silent except for her labored breathing and the occasional hiccup of a sob. He felt a twisted sense of power, knowing he had broken her, had pushed her to her limits and beyond.
She stumbled towards the door, her movements slow and unsteady. Her clothes were in disarray, her body marked with the evidence of his brutality. She paused at the door, casting one last, broken look over her shoulder. Cillian met her gaze, his expression unyielding. There was no comfort to be found there, no hint of the man he could have been. Only the cold, ruthless persona he had become. She turned away quickly, her hand fumbling with the doorknob as she hurried to escape. The door closed behind her with a soft click, leaving Cillian alone in the silence. He stood there for a moment, letting the reality of what had just happened sink in. The adrenaline was still coursing through him, a heady mix of power and satisfaction. He could still feel the ghost of her touch, the way her body had responded to him, had yielded to his every command. It was a high like no other, a dark thrill that he craved more than anything.
Cillian walked over to the vanity and picked up the whiskey glass; picking his wedding ring out of the empty glass and putting it back on. He moved quickly so he could pour himself another glass of whiskey. He downed it in one gulp, the burn a welcome distraction from the chaotic thoughts swirling in his mind. He knew he should feel something—guilt, shame, regret—but all he felt was a hollow emptiness, a void that seemed to grow with each passing moment. He poured himself another drink, the amber liquid swirling in the glass as he lifted it to his lips. His hands were steady, his movements precise, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside him. He took a slow sip, savoring the taste, the way it burned down his throat and settled in his stomach. It was a familiar comfort, a numbing balm to his fractured soul.
Author's Notes:
Wow, this was very hard to write, not only because I'm afraid of the way you will react to it but also because I really suck at writing him in a dom light unless it's in this setup. It's really hard to write things like this because I always have to take breaks because it's such a dark topic.
Summary: Thomas can’t help himself when it comes to her, she gets everything she wants from him.
Wordcount: 3.4k
Warnings:
possessive! Thomas, head-over-heels! Thomas, lap sitting, kissing, soft talking, praise, lovey dovey things from Thomas.
Inspiration: Too Sweet - Hozier
The Garrison snug was thick with the familiar haze of smoke, the air heavy with the scent of whiskey and sweat. Thomas sat at the head of the table, his posture rigid yet relaxed, an oxymoron that only he could embody so effortlessly.
Arthur was mid-sentence, his gruff voice detailing the latest shipment, but Thomas’s mind was already elsewhere, drifting into the echo of his brother’s words. John, Finn, Isaiah, and Michael murmured amongst themselves, the background noise a symphony of camaraderie and business. The soft knock at the door silenced the room instantly. It was a knock they all recognized, a signal that brought an immediate hush over the group. Thomas’s eyes flicked to the door, and his entire demeanor shifted. The sharpness in his gaze softened, the hard lines of his face easing into something almost tender. He took a long and deliberate drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing bright in the dim light, before turning in his chair to face the door.
As the knob turned and the door creaked open, time seemed to slow. There she stood, framed in the doorway like a vision from a dream. Her off-white fur coat draped elegantly over her shoulders, contrasting beautifully with the dark, rich red of her dress. The dress hugged her figure perfectly, accentuating every curve with a grace that seemed almost unreal. The bottom hem brushed just past her ankles, revealing her black heels with their signature red bottoms—a custom pair made just for her by Thomas and his connections. Thomas felt a swell of emotion as he took her in. Her makeup was flawless, enhancing her natural beauty without overpowering it. The deep crimson of her lips matched the ruby drop earrings that dangled delicately from her ears, the diamonds in her dog collar necklace catching the light and adding an extra sparkle to her already radiant presence. Her hair was styled in a poodle bob, a classic look that gave her an air of timeless elegance.
He rose from his seat and stamped out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table; the movement drawing the attention of the room, but he paid no mind to the eyes on his back. His focus was entirely on her. With a few long strides, he closed the distance between them, his hand reaching out to pull her gently by the waist. As the door closed behind her, sealing them off from the world, he leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear.
"What did I ever do.." he sighed softly again, "...to get so lucky with someone like you?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion and the smell of cigarettes, whiskey as well as his natural musk he has. He tilted his head slightly, inhaling the scent of her hair—a delicate fragrance that sent a shiver down her spine. The sensation of his breath and the intimacy of the moment made her heart flutter.
She smiled up at him, her eyes full of warmth and adoration. "Maybe it’s not about luck, Tommy. Maybe it's just meant to be," she whispered back, her voice soft and melodic.
Oh, how she spoke to him; he loved it so, it always melted his cold and dark heart; tugging at his vulnerable little heart strings, oh he would do anything she ever asked him. The quiet laughter from the table behind them went ignored. Thomas was lost in her presence, the rest of the world fading into the background. He traced his fingers lightly over her waist, feeling the delicate fabric of her dress under his touch. Her skin was warm, even through the material, and he could feel her heartbeat quicken under his fingertips. He pulled back slightly to look into her eyes, his own filled with a mix of awe and affection. "You’re too sweet for a man like me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a rough edge to his words, a hint of the darkness that always seemed to linger just beneath the surface.
She reached up, cupping his face in her gloved hand. "But you’re just right for me," she replied, her smile never wavering.
The sincerity in her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them; his eyes filled with love as he spoke softly just so she could hear. "ingerul meu," he said, his voice breaking slightly; as he spoke his romani language. It was a rare moment of vulnerability; but it was more rare for him to speak his language and say such caring words, it something that he only ever allowed himself in her presence.
For a few precious moments, they stood there, wrapped up in each other, oblivious to the world outside their small bubble. Her presence was a balm to his troubled soul, a touch of sweetness in his otherwise bitter existence. The noise of the pub, the business, the danger—they all melted away, leaving just the two of them. Thomas buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent, holding her as if she might disappear if he let go. Her hair smelled like wildflowers, a scent that clashed so wonderfully with the leather and smoke that clung to him. Eventually, the world intruded once more. Thomas pulled back, but kept one arm wrapped around her waist. "Come, sit wit' me," he said, his voice a low rumble, guiding her to the table. He pulled out his chair and sat down, before tapping his lap slightly, the gesture almost gentlemanly despite the roughness of his exterior. She blushed slightly before taking off her off-white fur coat and hanging it on the small coat rack next to him.
She moved to sit down in his lap, her movements graceful and cautious. Thomas helped her get comfortable; his hands gripping her waist to steady her. Each touch was possessive yet tender, as if he were afraid to break her. He occasionally let out a soft grunt, groan, hiss, or a very, very quiet and still moan that only she would hear. These sounds were uncharacteristic of the man known for his stoicism, but with her, he allowed himself to be vulnerable. He eventually let go of her waist and rested his hands in the softness of her lap. Her presence grounded him, her warmth a stark contrast to the cold steel he often felt in his chest. The conversation Thomas once had with Arthur resumed, it was about a shipment of theirs, the details gritty and grim, but necessary. Time passed slowly as they talked about things she didn't need to worry about. She would occasionally feel uncomfortable in his lap, and moved slightly to sit differently. Each time she moved, he let out a soft grunt, groan, hiss, or a very, very quiet and still moan that only she would hear; his reactions a testament to how much he loved and needed her.
Soon, everyone had said what they needed to say, and they called the little meeting to a close. Arthur, John, Finn, Isaiah, and Michael started to get up and leave the snug, their goodbyes curt and businesslike. Thomas watched and waited as they filtered out, his focus shifting back to her as the room emptied. It was just them now, them and the air around them, them and the world only. Thomas sighed, the weight of the world momentarily lifting as he leaned forward to rest his chin on her head, his arms wrapping around her waist to hold her closer. He occasionally sniffed her hair; oh, how he loved how she smelled. The sweet scent was intoxicating, a reminder of the softness and sweetness she brought into his life. His arm now slightly wrapping around her waist; an action that held her more against him. His other hand found its way to her hands; cupping them both in his large, calloused hand, feeling the contrast between his roughness and her softness.
"I heard y' had problems when visitin' Polly the other day... why didn't y'-tell me? Eh'.." His voice was a low whisper as he leaned into her ear, his lips brushing against the soft flesh of her earlobe. The sensation sent shivers down her spine, a mix of his tenderness and the latent danger that always seemed to simmer just beneath the surface with him. "I had 'em handle it, they won' give ye' problems anymore—" His voice filled with a mixture of slow-burning rage for the men who gave her problems she shouldn't have to deal with and a deep, abiding love for her.
His words were a promise, a declaration of the lengths he would go to protect her. His hand tightened around hers, his grip firm but gentle. She was the light in his darkness, the sweetness in his bitterness, and he would do anything to keep her safe. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with gratitude and love, and he felt a warmth spread through his chest, a rare feeling for a man so accustomed to the cold. Her voice was soft when she replied, "I didn't want to worry you, Tommy. You've got so much on your plate already." Her words were filled with the kind of understanding and compassion that only she could offer. She was too kind, too sweet, too loving, and he was acutely aware of how undeserving he felt of her love. He shook his head slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. "You never worry me, love. Yer the only good thing in this bloody world. An' if anyone tries to take that away, I'll deal with 'em myself." There was a fierce protectiveness in his voice, a promise of retribution for anyone who dared to threaten her peace. She leaned into him, her head resting against his chest, and for a moment, everything else faded away. The pub, the business, the danger—they all became background noise to the rhythm of their shared breath. Thomas stroked her hair, his touch gentle, his heart full.
Her presence was like a soothing balm to his tumultuous soul, and in these stolen moments, he allowed himself to savor the peace she brought him. His entire being radiated a dangerous intensity, a brooding darkness that was barely contained beneath the surface. The sharp planes of his face were etched with a perpetual look of determination, his eyes glinting with a mix of love and ferocity. There was a rage simmering within him, a fury that was always ready to explode at the slightest provocation. But with her, that anger was tempered by a tenderness he rarely showed to anyone else. As he sat there, holding her close, his thoughts were a chaotic whirlwind of emotions. He was a man used to control, accustomed to bending the world to his will. Yet, when it came to her, he found himself at a loss. She was everything he had never known he needed: kind, sweet, understanding, and loving. She was the light to his darkness, the softness to his hardness, and he was utterly captivated by her. His tone was dark, his words dripping with unspoken promises; he stopped petting her soft hair. He could feel the tension in her body as he spoke, her confusion evident in the way she shifted slightly on his lap. He picked her up slightly, turning her around to face him. His arm tightened around her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. His other hand left her hands and moved to cup her face roughly, his touch firm yet somehow gentle.
"If people ever fuckin' knew..." he began, his voice low and menacing. His eyes bore into hers, searching for any sign of understanding. But she looked back at him with wide, innocent eyes, not comprehending the depths of his words. "The thin's I'd be willin' t'do for yeh," he continued, his touch becoming more possessive, his fingers digging into her soft skin. There was a darkness in his gaze, a promise of violence that he would unleash upon anyone who dared to harm her. "They woul' realize t'one they should b' scared of is not me..." he said, his nose scrunching in a gesture that was both menacing and almost tender. "It's you, love."
She still didn't understand, and that only fueled his frustration. How could she not see that she held more power over him than anyone else ever had? How could she not realize that she was the one thing in this world that could bring him to his knees? He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her skin as he spoke.
"They don't know what it's like, lovin' someone like yeh. They don't know what I'd do, what I'd sacrifice, to keep yeh safe," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I'd tear the world apart for yeh, I'd burn it all down if it meant keepin' yeh by my side."
His words were a vow, a promise of the lengths he would go to protect her. He could feel her trembling in his grasp, whether from fear or something else, he wasn't sure. But he needed her to understand, needed her to see that she was the most important thing in his life.
"You make me better, love. You make me want to be better," he confessed, his voice softening for a moment. "But that don't mean I won't do what's necessary. That don't mean I won't become a monster if it means keepin' yeh safe." He could see the thoughts piling up in her brain, in her eyes; he could tell by the way her lips quivered, he brushed a thumb across her cheek. His touch was gentler now, a stark contrast to the roughness of moments before. "I love yeh," he whispered, the words carrying a weight that was almost tangible. "More than anythin' in this world. An' I'll do whatever it takes to make sure nothin' ever hurts yeh."
Her skin was soft and smooth, a delicate canvas beneath his rough fingers. He traced the curve of her cheekbone, his touch feather-light, almost reverent. His thumb brushed against her lips, and he felt the warmth of her breath against his skin. The crimson stain of her lipstick left a faint mark on his thumb, a vivid reminder of her presence.
"I've been thinkin' 'bout..." His voice trailed off, rough and gravelly, each word carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid thoughts. He paused, his thumb resting against her lips, feeling the soft, pliant flesh beneath his touch. The struggle to find the right words was evident in the furrow of his brow, the tension in his jaw. "I just wish I could've met yeh before all this." The words finally came, a rough whisper in the quiet of the snug. His thumb traced her lower lip, the sensation sending a shiver down her spine. There was a vulnerability in his voice that she rarely heard, a glimpse of the man beneath the hardened exterior.
He gazed into her eyes, those windows of softness and light that calmed the storm within him.
"Ești prea dulce pentru mine," he murmured, his voice a low rumble, rough and full of the gravel of his Birmingham accent. His Romani roots slipped into his words, a tender whisper of his heritage that only she was privy to. She smiled softly, her eyes reflecting the understanding and love she held for him. Her hand covered his, her fingers curling around his, feeling the strength and callouses of a man who had fought many battles. Before she could respond, he claimed her mouth in a kiss that was more battle than embrace. His lips crashed against hers with a force that spoke of desperation and need, a raw intensity that was both exhilarating and terrifying.
The kiss was a tempest of emotions—passion, anger, pain, and a lingering sadness that he could never quite shake. His arm tightened around her back, pulling her impossibly closer, as if he feared she might vanish if he let go. His other hand cupped her face, thumb brushing against her cheek in a gesture that was almost tender. She clung to him, her arms finally moving to encircle his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat as if anchoring herself to him. The kiss deepened, his tongue slipping into her mouth, exploring and claiming in a way that was both possessive and reverent. He tasted the sweetness of her, a stark contrast to the bitter whiskey and smoke that lingered on his own tongue. Her taste was intoxicating, a heady blend of innocence and warmth that he couldn't get enough of. He gripped her face more firmly, his need for her bordering on frantic.
Time seemed to stand still as they kissed, the world outside the snug fading into oblivion. It was as if they were the only two people in existence, bound together by a connection that defied explanation. The kiss went on, a relentless exploration that left them both breathless. When they finally pulled apart, a thin string of saliva still connected their lips, a physical reminder of the bond they shared. Thomas's chest heaved as he caught his breath, his gaze never leaving her face. Her lipstick was smeared, a vibrant red that now adorned his own lips and around his mouth. She looked equally disheveled, her eyes bright with the same mix of emotions that churned within him. He watched as she leaned back against the table, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Without a word, he pulled her against him once more, her face finding its place in the crook of his neck, her breath warm against his skin. His hand moved to the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair as he held her close. The silence between them was thick with unspoken words, a quiet that was both comforting and fraught with tension.
"îngerul meu dulce și dulce," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against her skin. My sweet, sweet angel. The words were a confession, an admission of a vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to feel. In her arms, he found a sanctuary from the darkness that constantly threatened to consume him.
Her hand moved to his chest, resting over his heart as if to soothe the turmoil that raged within. She didn't need to say anything; her presence was enough, her touch a silent promise that she wasn't going anywhere. He tightened his grip on her, drawing strength from her unwavering support. Thomas's thoughts were a chaotic swirl of emotions, memories of a past marred by violence and loss clashing with the hope that she represented. She was everything he needed but didn't deserve, a beacon of light in his dark, dangerous world. He knew he should push her away, should protect her from the storm that was his life, but he couldn't. She was his, and he would do whatever it took to keep her by his side. As he held her, he couldn't help but marvel at the way she fit so perfectly against him, as if she were made to be there. Her kindness, her sweetness, her unwavering love—they were the antithesis of everything he had known, and yet they were exactly what he needed. She balanced him in a way nothing else could, her softness soothing the jagged edges of his soul.
Author's Notes:
This song is actually so fucking perfect, like it matches Thomas so well. God I can't believe I let this one shot sit on the back burner for this long!!! The reader is literally too sweet for Thomas; because she's too sweet like wine....ahhhhh!!! Please check out these articles to understand it more!!: What does it mean? 'Too Sweet' by Hozier.
The person who asked for an older and dom! Cillian paired w a younger reader; I must tell you that's its being worked on it's just I've had weird problems with it, like it's cursed. I've spent a couple hours on writing for it; then saved it only for it to not save. I've had text formatting problems; the whole 9 yards; everything and the damn kitchen sink.
However it is in the works and should be one of my next uploads; if I don't have problems with it.
To just a simple passer by; I hope you enjoyed this one shot as I did writing it.
Summary: Thomas has told you he doesn’t like being tied down; in a relationship.
Wordcount: 5.3k
Warnings: Important poll at the bottom!
angst?, gaslighting, yelling, screaming, crying, hitting, blowing smoke, smoking, Thomas is a hypocritical little bitch.
The room was dim, the only light filtering through the thin curtains, casting a soft, muted glow over the scene. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, mingled with the sharp tang of cigarette smoke. Thomas lay on his back, the bed sheets a tangled mess beneath them. His chest rose and fell steadily, a silent testament to the intimacy they'd just shared.
Her head rested on his chest, the warmth of her cheek pressing against his skin, grounding him in a way he hadn't anticipated. He took another drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing briefly in the dim light before he exhaled, the smoke swirling lazily towards the ceiling. Her fingers traced the outline of his sunray tattoo, a habit she’d developed without realizing it. The sensation was soothing, almost hypnotic, and he found himself focusing on the gentle pressure of her touch. It was supposed to be simple—just sex, nothing more. But as the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, the lines had blurred. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, hadn’t wanted it to, but there she was, a permanent fixture in his life. Her presence was a comfort, a distraction from the chaos that constantly surrounded him.
He took another drag, the smoke curling from his lips as he breathed out a silent sigh. He was naked, as was she, their bodies still humming with the remnants of their passion. He looked down at her, his gaze lingering on the soft curve of her cheek, the way her lashes fanned out against her skin. She was beautiful, no doubt about it, but it was more than that. She had a way of seeing him, the real him, beneath the hardened exterior he showed the world. “Just sex,” he had told himself. That was all it was supposed to be. But it had become so much more. It had become late-night conversations, stolen moments in the streets, shared meals, subtle touches, and lingering glances. It had become comforting each other after rough days at work, worrying when the other was late, missing them when they were gone. It had become something more, something he hadn't been prepared for, but now couldn't imagine living without.
She shifted slightly, her head tilting up to look at him. “What are you thinking about?” she asked, her voice soft, barely above a whisper. He took another drag from his cigarette, the silence stretching between them. He wasn’t sure how to put it into words, wasn’t sure he even wanted to. “Us,” he finally said, his voice rough, laced with the thick Birmingham accent she had come to love. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Us?” she repeated, as if the concept was foreign to her. He nodded, his thumb caressing her shoulder absentmindedly. “Mhm,” he confirmed. “Us.”
She fell silent, her mind processing his words. She knew what he meant, even if he didn’t say it outright. They were more than just lovers. They were partners, in every sense of the word. She had seen the darkness in him, the ruthlessness, the cold, calculated mind that ran the Peaky Blinders. But she had also seen the softness, the vulnerability he hid from everyone else. And somehow, she had become the one person he trusted enough to let his guard down with. She turned her head, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over his tattoo. The gesture was small, but it spoke volumes. He felt a warmth spread through him, a feeling he wasn’t used to, but one he was starting to crave. He took another drag from his cigarette, savoring the way the smoke burned his lungs, grounding him in the moment.
“What about us?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
He looked down at her, his blue eyes piercing in the dim light. “Everything,” he said simply. “I think about everything.”
She nodded, understanding washing over her. They were in this together, whatever this was. And for the first time in a long time, he felt a sense of peace. He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray beside the bed, the smoke curling up one last time before dissipating. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer, his hand resting on the small of her back. They lay there in silence, the weight of his words hanging in the air. He closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of her breathing lull him into a state of calm. She was his anchor, his safe haven, and he would do anything to protect her. He had never been good with words, but in that moment, he didn’t need them. His actions spoke louder, the way he held her, the way he looked at her, the way he let her see the parts of him he kept hidden from the world. She nuzzled closer, her fingers still tracing his tattoo. He smiled faintly, a rare, genuine smile that she had the power to coax out of him.
“I don’t do relationships,” he says, a hint of defensiveness in his voice.
“I know that,” she murmured against his skin. It’s not the first time he had discussed this with her and she doubted it will be the last.
“… but I don’t want you seeing anyone else,” he continues, a slight edge to his deep voice. He sounds almost possessive.
Her brow furrowed as she looked up at him, a question forming in her eyes before she gave voice to it. "Is that an order?" she asked, her tone teasing, yet there was a seriousness underlying her words. Her chin rested lightly on his chest, her eyes searching his, trying to decipher the enigma that was Thomas Shelby. He turned his head to look down at her, reaching for his cigarettes and lighting it once more; a faint smirk playing on his lips. He took a drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing brighter for a moment before dimming again. The smoke curled lazily upward, creating a hazy veil around them. "You could call it that," he responded quietly, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. The sound of his thick Birmingham accent, rich and rough around the edges, added an intimate weight to his words.
As he looked down at her, he couldn’t help but think about how cute she was. Her eyes, wide and inquisitive, peered up at him with a mix of curiosity and something deeper, something more profound. Her fingers continued their gentle exploration of his chest, the touch both soothing and tantalizing. Her body, still naked and warm from their recent intimacy, pressed against his, creating a comforting closeness that he found himself oddly reluctant to break. His mind wandered, thoughts flitting between the present and the future. Thomas was a man known for his detached demeanor, for keeping people at arm's length, especially women. He was not one to settle, not one to commit. Yet, here he was, in the quiet aftermath of passion, feeling an unfamiliar sense of contentment. He didn’t want her to be with anyone else, and though he had never been one for monogamy, the thought of her with another man sparked an unexpected surge of possessiveness within him.
She watched him closely, her eyes not missing the flicker of emotions that crossed his usually stoic features. She knew his reputation, knew that Thomas Shelby was a man who didn't do relationships, who didn't settle for just one woman. But something about the way he was with her, the way he looked at her, made her question that perception. She could see the conflict in his eyes, the war between his nature and whatever it was that he felt for her. He took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, the smoke swirling above them. His hand, rough and calloused from years of hard living, came to rest on her back, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine. He felt her shiver slightly under his touch, a reaction that sent a jolt of satisfaction through him. "I don't like sharin'," he said finally, his voice low and gravelly. "Never have." Her eyes searched his, looking for the meaning behind his words. "And what does that mean for us?" she asked softly, her fingers pausing their movements on his chest. There was a vulnerability in her voice, a tentative hope that he would give her something more than just a fleeting moment of passion. Thomas considered her question, the weight of it pressing down on him. He was not a man who spoke of feelings easily, not a man who let his guard down.
Her voice, soft yet tinged with sorrow, broke the silence. “Thomas... what are we truly?” she asked, her words hanging in the air between them like a delicate thread, vulnerable to the slightest tension. Thomas’s eyes, icy blue and penetrating, met hers. For a moment, he was silent, his expression shifting as he processed her question. The guarded walls he had meticulously built around himself seemed to tighten, as if preparing for an assault. “What do you mean?” he responded, his tone edged with caution. The question had caught him off guard, and he wasn’t accustomed to feeling unsure.
She sighed, a sound full of unspoken fears and desires. “It’s just, I know you said you don’t want to be tied down in a relationship, but it’s hard for me to be told to stick to one man when that man is not even truly mine...” Thomas’s gaze intensified, his features hardening as he absorbed her words. The implications of what she was saying were clear, and it stirred a complex mix of emotions within him. On one hand, he was fiercely independent, a man who valued his freedom above all else. On the other, he couldn’t ignore the bond they had formed, the undeniable connection that went beyond mere physical attraction. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her expectations pressing down on him. “You knew what this was from the start,” he began, his voice low and steady, though not unkind. “I never made any promises, and I never lied to you about who I am or what I want.”
She nodded, but her eyes were still searching his, looking for something more, something deeper. “I know, Thomas. But it doesn’t change how I feel. I need to know if there’s any chance for us to be more than what we are now.” Thomas felt a pang of frustration mingled with a deep-seated fear of vulnerability. He had always been a man of action, not words, and these kinds of conversations were foreign territory for him. “Relationships, commitments... they complicate things,” he said, his voice growing rougher. “In my line of work, they can be dangerous. Her expression softened, but the sadness remained. “I understand that, Thomas. But can’t we find a way to make it work? Can’t we at least try?” He looked away, his jaw tightening as he grappled with his own emotions.
She spoke, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "Honestly, I’m just like a free prostitute to you."
Her words struck him with the force of a blow, his jaw clenching so tightly it ached. His eyes narrowed, and his hands instinctively balled into fists. The accusation hung in the air between them, sharp and unforgiving. He turned his head to look at her, his blue eyes darkening with a mix of anger and hurt.
“Don’t say things like that,” he growled, his voice a guttural whisper. It carried the weight of his inner turmoil, a mix of anger and desperation. His expression hardened, the lines on his face deepening as he struggled to maintain control. He wanted to argue, to deny the truth in her words, but he couldn’t. He knew she was right. The realization stung, a bitter pill to swallow. He desperately wanted her to be wrong, to see things from his perspective, but the truth was undeniable. His heart ached with the weight of it.
With a sudden, forceful movement, he pushed her off him. She caught herself on the edge of the bed, grabbing the sheets to cover her naked form; the shock evident in her eyes. He swung his legs over the side and stood up, his body tense and rigid. His fingers pointed at her, trembling with suppressed rage; he stood there in all his glory.
“You’re fuckin’ insane!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the room. “I fuck other women because you always wonder what the fuck we are. But with actual prostitutes, they do their job and fuck right off afterwards; but you always get your fucking panties in a wad.”
His words were harsh, each one a dagger aimed at her heart. He could see the pain in her eyes, but he couldn’t stop himself. The anger coursed through him, uncontrollable and consuming. He paced back and forth, his mind a storm of conflicting emotions.
“I can’t continue this nonsense without you saying you’re mine and that I’m yours,” she replied, her voice trembling but determined. “I’m tired of you being with so many women, and say that I just need to stay strong for you and you only.”
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. He lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his features before the smoke curled around him, shrouding him in a haze.
Her bare back is to him, the curve of her spine illuminated by the dim light, and he feels a pang of possessiveness mixed with irritation as she starts to gather her clothes. The moment is fragile, teetering on the edge of something unsaid. He doesn’t speak at first, his eyes following her every movement, taking in the way her hands tremble slightly as she buttons her blouse. His mind races with conflicting emotions: the desire to keep her here, the fear of what that might mean, and the anger at her apparent readiness to leave him so soon. The silence between them stretches taut, like a wire ready to snap.
“What are you doing?” His voice is rough, the words coming out more harshly than he intended. “You’re not leaving.” There's an edge of possessiveness, a hint of desperation that he can’t quite mask. His eyes burn into her back, willing her to turn around, to stay. She freezes for a moment, her shoulders tense before she slowly turns to face him. Her eyes are fierce, her jaw set. “I’m definitely leaving; I can’t be tied down to a man who doesn’t want to be tied down himself. That won’t fucking work, Thomas!” Her voice is strong, but he can hear the hurt beneath her anger.
His jaw tightens, the muscles working as he fights to keep his composure. The pain in her eyes cuts him deeper than he cares to admit. He feels a familiar war within himself, torn between the desire to push her away and the desperate need to pull her close. “You can’t go,” he murmurs, his voice almost pleading. “You can’t just leave. We have something.” The words feel inadequate, but they’re all he can manage as he struggles to contain the storm of emotions inside him. She scoffs, the sound harsh and brittle. “Something? What do we have, Thomas? A few nights of fucking? That’s not something. That’s nothing.” He moves suddenly, almost violently, grabbing her arms and pulling her towards him. His grip is firm, bordering on painful, as he holds her close, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that borders on madness. “We have something here, god damnit,” he growls. “I can’t let you go. I can’t lose you.” His breath is hot against her skin, his words a desperate plea masked as a command.
“Thomas- I can’t. I fucking can’t!” She tries to pull away, but his grip only tightens, his fingers digging into her flesh. “You’re just gonna give up and walk out?” he snaps, his voice rising. “You’re gonna leave me just like that?” There’s anger in his eyes now, but also a raw, naked vulnerability that he can’t hide. She snaps back, her voice breaking as she lets out the words she’s been holding back. “Just like you do to me every time we fuck?!”
His brow furrows, and for a moment, he looks almost guilty. His jaw clenches, and he shakes his head, trying to defend himself. “It’s not the same,” he growls defensively. “I told you I can’t give you a relationship. You knew that going in.” She laughs bitterly, the sound sharp and cold. “I’m allowed to have fucking hope, Thomas! I’m allowed to have hope. But I clearly can’t when I’m with you! But don’t worry, your pretty little face. I’ll find somebody. I’ll find somebody that loves me who won’t go to whores when I'm not in the mood; maybe your brothers have some opportunities for me!”
His expression twists into one of outrage. The idea of her being with Arthur, John, or Finn makes his blood boil, even though he’s the one pushing her away. “Bloody hell, you’re not being fair,” he growls, his grip on her arms getting even tighter. “You’re gonna walk away from me and go to someone else? You’re gonna let another man have you?” There’s a sudden explosion of rage in her, and before he can react, she pulls her arms from his grasp and strikes him across the face with the back of her hand. The sound of skin upon skin echoes through the room, the force of the blow making his head snap to the side. “NO! NO! NO! SO YOU DO UNDERSTAND HOW IT FUCKING FEELS EVERY TIME YOU GO OFF AND FUCK SOMEONE ELSE!”
He grabs at his cheek where she struck him, his eyes narrowing as he looks away briefly. He feels trapped, caught in a web of his own making, and there’s no easy way out. His frustration and anger boil over, his emotions getting the best of him. “It’s not the same,” he repeats firmly, his voice gruff. “I’m not your boyfriend. I don’t have to be loyal to you.” She gives him a wicked smile, her eyes glittering with a mix of anger and triumph. “And I’m not your girlfriend, so I don’t have to be loyal to you.” The words hang in the air between them, a stark reminder of the precarious nature of their relationship. He feels a sharp pain in his chest, a mix of anger, hurt, and something he can’t quite name. He knows he’s losing her, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, leaving him feeling hollow and empty.
For a moment, he’s silent, his eyes locked on hers. He searches for the right words, something to make her stay, but nothing comes. The silence is deafening, the weight of their unspoken emotions pressing down on them. He can see the resolve in her eyes, the determination to walk away, and it terrifies him. He lets out a ragged breath, his grip on her arms loosening. “I don’t want you to go,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. The admission feels like a defeat, but he’s too tired to fight anymore. Thomas takes out a cigarette and lights it; letting the smoke simmer on his tongue.
He exhaled a cloud of smoke, the bitterness of his words matching the acrid taste in his mouth. He looked at her, his eyes reflecting the turmoil inside him. He didn’t like how the conversation was going, didn’t like being forced to confront something he had been avoiding for so long. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. He felt trapped, cornered by his own actions and the raw honesty of her words. He wanted to escape, to run from the confrontation, but he knew he couldn’t. Not this time.
“Every time we’re together, I see the doubt in your eyes,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible. “You make me question myself, question everything. And I hate it.” He took a deep drag of his cigarette, the smoke filling his lungs and momentarily dulling the pain. “I’ve tried to numb it, to drown it out with other women, but it doesn’t work. It never fucking works.” She looked at him, her eyes filled with a mix of sadness and determination. “Then why do you keep doing it, Thomas? Why can’t you just be honest with me?” He laughed bitterly, a harsh sound that grated on his own ears. “Honest? You want honesty?! The truth is, I’m scared. Scared of what it means to be with you, scared of what I might lose.”
He ran a hand through his hair, the frustration evident in every movement. “I’ve lost too much already. And the thought of losing you… it terrifies me.” She reached out, her hand gently touching his arm. “Then stop pushing me away. Stop hiding behind these walls you’ve built.” He looked down at her hand, the warmth of her touch seeping into his skin. He wanted to believe her, wanted to let down his guard, but the fear was too ingrained. “It’s not that simple,” he said, his voice breaking. “I don’t know if I can.”
The idea of letting someone in, of allowing himself to be vulnerable, was something he had always avoided. It was easier to keep people at arm’s length, to maintain control over his life and his heart. But now, lying next to her, he couldn’t deny the pull he felt, the desire to protect her, to be with her. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.” She reached out, her fingers gently touching his cheek, drawing his gaze back to hers. “I’m not asking for promises, Thomas. I’m just asking for a chance. A chance to see if we can be more, if we can be something real.” Her touch, so soft and tender, made his heart ache. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself. When he opened them again, his gaze was more vulnerable, more open than she had ever seen it before.
His chest rose and fell with the rhythmic cadence of his breath, each inhale and exhale a whisper of the storm that had finally settled within him. His usually steely blue eyes were softened, glistening with unshed tears that caught the light in tiny, shimmering pools. It was a sight so rare, so intimate, that it seemed almost otherworldly. The hard edges of his face, chiseled by years of hardship and violence, were softened in this moment of vulnerability, revealing the boy he once was, hidden beneath the veneer of the man he had become. Her presence in front of him was a soothing balm, her warmth a cocoon that held him in a fragile embrace. She stand before him; her other hand tenderly caressing his cheek. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, a delicate touch that spoke of a depth of feeling words could never fully capture. She had seen him in many states—cold, calculating, fierce—but this was different. This was Thomas Shelby stripped bare, his defenses down, his soul laid bare for her to see.
The silence between them was heavy with unspoken words, a tangible thing that pressed down on them both. It was she who finally broke it, her voice a soft murmur in the quiet of the room. "Thomas," she began, her words tentative, as if she feared they might shatter the fragile peace they had found. "I see you. The real you. Not just the leader of your gang, not just the man everyone fears. But you, Thomas; Thomas Shelby. Her words were like a salve to his weary soul, each one soothing the wounds that had been inflicted by years of betrayal, loss, and heartache. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be enveloped by the sound of her voice, the sincerity in her tone a lifeline he clung to desperately. The tears that had threatened to fall finally broke free, trailing down his cheeks in silent testimony to the emotions he could no longer contain.
She continued, her voice steady, unwavering. "I like the way you laugh, even though it's rare. I like the way you look at me, as if I'm the only thing that matters. I like the way you fight for those you love, even if it means sacrificing yourself. But there are things I don't like, Thomas. I don't like the way you shut me out, the way you push everyone away when you're hurting. I don't like the way you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, as if you have to bear it all alone.” Her words pierced through the armor he had built around himself, each one a dagger that cut deep, but in a way that was necessary, a way that would heal rather than harm. He reached up, his hand finding hers, his fingers wrapping around her wrist in a grip that was both firm and gentle. He held her there, as if afraid she might slip away, as if the very act of touching her could tether him to the present, to this moment of raw, unfiltered emotion.
"Please don't leave me," he whispered, his voice thick with the weight of his tears, his accent a rough, familiar drawl that carried the pain of a thousand battles fought and lost. The words were simple, but they held a world of meaning, a plea that came from the deepest part of him, the part that feared losing the one person who had seen through his façade, who had touched the core of who he was. She didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in closer, her forehead resting against his, her breath mingling with his in the space between them. "I'm not going anywhere, Thomas," she replied softly, her words a vow, a promise that she intended to keep. "I'm here. And I'm not leaving."
Without a word, Thomas shifted, his strong hands finding her waist with an ease born of familiarity. He lifted her effortlessly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he felt her fingers trace the planes of his chest. Bringing her to the bed, the mattress beneath them seemed to sigh in response as he laid her back gently, the plush fabric molding to her form. He could see the reflection of their passion in her eyes, a mix of contentment, love, and a flicker of hope that made his heart clench. Those eyes, deep and expressive, had a way of cutting through the hardened exterior he presented to the world, leaving him feeling vulnerable yet fiercely protective. As he leaned over her, his gaze locked onto hers, a silent understanding passing between them. He lowered himself slowly, savoring the anticipation that crackled in the air. When their lips finally met, it was a collision of raw need and unspoken promises. The kiss was intense, his mouth moving against hers with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He could feel her responding in kind, her hands sliding up to cradle his face, pulling him closer as if to merge their very beings. There was a possessiveness in his kiss, a declaration that she was his, and his alone.
Their tongues danced together, a fervent, unrestrained exchange that left no room for doubt about his desire for her. He tasted the sweetness of her, mingled with the remnants of their shared breath, a heady mix that made his pulse quicken. The kiss deepened, became almost frenzied, as if they were both trying to imprint the moment onto their souls. Their breaths mingled, harsh and ragged, creating a symphony of desire that filled the room. When he finally pulled back, it was only because the need for air became undeniable. He lingered close, their foreheads touching, the warmth of their breaths mingling in the scant space between them. A thin string of saliva still connected their lips, a tangible reminder of their connection. His eyes, dark and intense, bore into hers, conveying a depth of emotion that words could scarcely capture. “I fuckin’ love you,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, each word imbued with a sincerity that left no room for doubt.
He watched as her expression softened further, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears of happiness. She reached up, her fingers brushing the damp hair from his forehead, a tender gesture that made his heart swell. He captured her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm, lingering there for a moment as if drawing strength from her touch. He knew he needed her, not just in the physical sense, but in a way that went beyond mere words. She was his anchor, his solace amidst the chaos of his life. He lay back down beside her, pulling her into his embrace, her head resting on his chest. He could feel the steady beat of her heart, a comforting rhythm that grounded him. His fingers traced idle patterns on her back, a silent reaffirmation of his devotion. The world outside their room seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them cocooned in their shared warmth. He reveled in the quiet intimacy, the sense of peace that only she could bring him.
Author’s Notes:
I actually got this ideas from a c.ai character and that character is Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley from COD Modern Warfare..y’all I’m so tempted to do a whole other blog for the task force 141, Graves, Makarov, and König; like they have such a big grasp on my right now…ahhhh!
Mind you some won’t make sense entirely because I’ve only just started to get into them. Anyways the character is Ghost - More. Hopefully the link has worked out for you!
At some point, it doesn’t make sense like when he’s crying sure, he might be butt ass naked and she might be fully dressed. I don’t care. I would have written smut but…nah I really should have; I’ll probably go in and redo it!
Also we hit 100 followers! So vote it the poll below for a small reward!
Oooh! Absolutely love the older!reader story! It got me thinking, what about sugarmommy!reader?
On My Dime
(28) Cillian Murphy x (47) SugarMommy! Reader
Summary: Just a cute little fic!
Wordcount: 5.6k
Warnings: You’re 6’1 btw
tall! reader!, sugar mommy! reader, dom! reader?!, lovey dovey things from Cillian, passenger princess! Cillian, kissing, teasing, spoiling.
Cillian leaned back in the plush leather chair of the study, his fingers drumming a steady rhythm on the armrest. The walls, lined with an extensive collection of books, seemed to close in slightly, their spines whispering stories of past intellects.
The dim lighting cast a warm glow over the room, creating an almost ethereal ambiance. His piercing blue eyes, framed by a hint of crow's feet, flicked towards the door every few seconds, listening for any sound that might indicate the end of her phone call. He could hear her laughter echoing through the grand hallway, her voice a melodic contrast to the serious tone he was trying to maintain for the interview. He shifted in his seat, the crisp fabric of his tailored dress shirt; that she had gotten made for him, began rustling softly. His mind, though focused on the questions posed by the interviewer on the computer but he couldn't help but wander back to her. She was an enigma to him – a powerful woman who exuded confidence and grace, her success evident in every facet of her life. The way she moved, the way she spoke, even the way she handled her phone calls with a mix of charm and assertiveness, it all fascinated him.
"Cillian, can you tell us more about the women your dating?" the interviewer’s voice brought him back to the present.
Cillian cleared his throat, his Irish accent thickening as he began to speak. "Ah, well; she's very reserved and I rather not talk about her and I's relationship."
He glanced towards the door again, imagining her standing there, listening in, a playful smile on her lips. He could picture her perfectly – tall, statuesque, with a commanding presence that made even the grandest of rooms seem small. Her dark hair, always impeccably styled, and those striking eyes that held a wealth of secrets. He loved watching her work, the way she twirled a lock of hair around her finger as she spoke, a gesture that was both casual and intimate. Outside, she paced the length of the living room, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. The vast space of her home, with its modern decor and expansive views, served as the perfect backdrop for her high-powered conversations. She held her phone close to her ear, her tone a mix of frustration and amusement.
"And he can't be mad at me – I told him to pull his money out of the market and he didn't, so it's not my fault. But he's saying it is because I didn't personally do it myself," she said, her voice carrying a hint of exasperation.
Her friend on the other end of the line must have said something funny because she let out a soft, genuine laugh. "Don't make me laugh, Cillian's in an interview in the study," she added, her tone affectionate when she mentioned him. Back in the study, Cillian's lips curved into a small smile. He loved hearing her laugh, a sound that always managed to brighten his day. The interviewer, oblivious to the source of his distraction, continued with another question, but Cillian's mind was still half-focused on her. This one, though, was particularly grating. The interviewer, a persistent man with a grating voice, had a penchant for prying into his personal life. Cillian’s patience was wearing thin, the desire to end the conversation gnawing at him.
"But the people want to know about her, come on just-"
Cillian's sigh was heavy, laden with irritation. "I've said no," he interrupted, his tone firm and unyielding. "She doesn't like being in the public eye. Let her be." His voice carried a subtle threat, a warning that this line of questioning was unwelcome and would not be entertained further. The interviewer, sensing the unspoken menace in Cillian's voice, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Any other questions about my projects? About me, anything at all?" Cillian's gaze was intense, his piercing blue eyes locked onto the interviewer's through the computer screen, as if daring him to cross the line again.
The interviewer, cowed by the actor's palpable displeasure, quickly wrapped up the session. "No, that will be all. I appreciate you talking with me today." The screen went dark, and Cillian let out a long, relieved sigh, leaning back in his chair. The silence of the room was a welcome reprieve from the barrage of intrusive questions. He glanced toward the living room, where she was pacing in her heels, the sound of her steps a rhythmic click against the marble floor. She was on the phone, her voice carrying a note of exasperation as she spoke to a friend. "He's just a large cunt, a large one..." She felt Cillian staring at her, her body whipped around and her eyes met Cillian's, and she raised her hand in a questioning gesture, her eyebrows arched in curiosity.
Cillian waved her over, signaling that he was finally free from the interview's clutches. She smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. "Well, I've got to let you go. Cillian needs to talk with me... Call you back--okay--bye bye." She ended the call, her voice trailing off as she made her way to the study. The sound of her heels against the marble floor was almost hypnotic, each step deliberate and measured, the click-clack echoing through the quiet house. Her presence was magnetic, drawing his eyes to her every movement. She stopped in front of him, her smile widening as she took in the sight of him slouched in the chair, the tension of the interview still lingering in his posture. She was a striking figure, her tall frame accentuated by the fitted black suit she wore, the fabric clinging to her curves in all the right places. Her hair was perfectly styled, cascading down her shoulders in soft waves, and her makeup was impeccable, highlighting her sharp cheekbones and full lips. There was an air of confidence about her, a commanding presence that filled the room.
As she stood before him, her hand extended, and he took it without hesitation, feeling the warmth and strength in her grip. As she pulled him to his feet and into her embrace, he sank into her, letting the comfort of her body envelop him. She was a full head taller than him, her frame imposing yet gentle as she held him close. Her hand moved to his face, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear, her touch light and affectionate. She smiled down at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a way that spoke of genuine care.
"Mind fried?" she asked, her voice soft but knowing. He merely nodded, the weariness of the day weighing heavily on him. With a sigh, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his face into her chest. The scent of her – a mix of expensive perfume and something uniquely her own – was intoxicating, a balm to his frayed nerves.
"Yeah..." he murmured, his voice muffled against her. He could feel her fingers threading through his hair, the gentle motion soothing. She rested her chin on the top of his head, her humming creating a vibration that resonated through his body. It was a simple gesture, but it made the silence between them comfortable, even comforting.
After a few moments, she lifted her chin and gently took his face in her hands, tilting it up so their eyes met. Her gaze was steady and warm, filled with an understanding that required no words. Her thumb brushed his cheek, and he closed his eyes briefly, savoring the tenderness of the moment.
"I've got to pick a couple of things up from the store. Do you want to stay or come with me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Before he could respond, she leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, the touch brief but sweet. He opened his eyes, meeting hers with a small, grateful smile. "I'll come with you," he said, his voice low and earnest. There was something about her presence that made even the most mundane tasks feel like an adventure, a respite from the chaos of his own thoughts.
Cillian watched her move through the space with an air of effortless grace and confidence, each step she took purposeful and deliberate. The way she gathered her essentials – wallet, sunshades, and the keys to her Aston Martin DB11 – spoke volumes about her meticulous nature. His eyes followed her every motion, appreciating the poise she exuded in even the simplest of tasks. She was a woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it, and Cillian found that incredibly attractive. As she moved towards the door, he hurried over, ready to open it for her. The gesture was small, but it was a testament to the respect and admiration he held for her. He stood at the door that led to the garage, waiting as she turned off the lights in the house. The silence of the moment was comfortable, filled with an unspoken understanding between them. When she approached, he opened the door, allowing her to step through first.
"Thank you, Cill," she said, her voice a soft, appreciative murmur. She pressed the button for the garage door opener, and as it slowly rose, Cillian stepped inside with her.
"Anything for you," he replied, his voice carrying the familiar lilt of his Irish accent, a warm smile playing on his lips. The afternoon sun began to filter into the garage, casting a golden glow over the array of cars parked within.
She unlocked the Aston Martin and started the engine, the soft purr of the machine a soothing sound. Cillian moved quickly to her side, getting ahead to open the door for her, a gentlemanly act that made her chuckle softly. As he shut the door behind her, he couldn't suppress a small sigh, the sound of leather against leather as he slid into the passenger seat, buckling up. She caught his eye, her hands already gripping the steering wheel with a practiced ease that made his mind wander briefly to less innocent thoughts. He quickly pushed those aside, focusing instead on the moment at hand.
"Hopefully your crazy fans aren't looking for you today," she remarked with a playful grin, as she carefully navigated the car out of the garage. The way she maneuvered the vehicle, creeping slowly to avoid any potential damage to her other prized possessions, was a testament to her attention to detail.
The remote in her hand closed the garage door behind them, and they started their journey out of the fenced perimeter of her massive manor. The slow drive through her property was another ritual, a careful inspection to ensure everything was in place, nothing amiss. She took her time, ensuring no stone was unturned. Reaching the gate house, she rolled down the window and punched in the gate code, the mechanism whirring as the gates parted to allow them passage. She always waited, watching the gates close behind them before moving on. It was a small but significant habit, one that spoke of her need for control and security. Turning to him with a smile, she noticed he was lost in thought, his gaze fixed out the window. She reached out, tapping his thigh gently before gripping it slightly. The touch brought him back to the present, and he sighed softly, placing his hand over hers, relishing the simple contact. As they drove through the streets and the bustling city, Cillian allowed himself to relax, enjoying the role of passenger princess. The city life buzzed around them, a stark contrast to the quiet opulence of her manor. Her hand remained on his thigh, a grounding presence as they navigated through the urban landscape.
The drive was filled with an easy silence, punctuated by the occasional comment or shared glance. Cillian found himself stealing glances at her, admiring the way she handled the car with confidence. The city seemed to bend to her will, just like everything else in her life. He appreciated these moments of simplicity, where it was just the two of them against the backdrop of a bustling world. Her wealth and status were impressive, but it was her grounded nature and genuine affection that truly captivated him. As they merged onto the highway, the Aston Martin's engine roared to life, its deep, throaty growl reverberating through the luxurious cabin. It was a reminder of the power she wielded, not just in the car but in life. She handled the car with the ease of someone used to commanding attention and respect. The sleek, leather interior cocooned them, a stark contrast to the chaotic world outside. Cillian sat in the passenger seat, his lean frame relaxed but alert, his sharp blue eyes glancing at her with a mixture of admiration and amusement.
He glanced over as she signaled and merged left; smoothly overtaking slower vehicles, her movements precise and confident. Cillian watched as she turned her head; Cillian turned his head and his and her gaze narrowed at the drivers they were passing. "How the fuck can you be on your phone and on the highway?!" she exclaimed, her tone a blend of exasperation and disbelief. Cillian smirked, shaking his head slightly. "People are mad," he muttered, his Irish accent adding a melodic lilt to his words. He felt the rush of acceleration then he sighed, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes for a moment as she accelerated, the speedometer creeping past ninety. The world outside became a blur of colors and shapes, the cars they overtook transforming into indistinct streaks.
She expertly maneuvered through traffic, the Aston Martin responding to her every command with an agility that matched her own. He trusted her implicitly, her skill behind the wheel a testament to her competence in all areas of her life. Eventually, the high-speed pursuit eased as they approached their destination: Erewhon. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where they could indulge in the finer things without the constant harassment of paparazzi or fans; it was a fancy ass supermarket. He recalled when he heard about a particularly chaotic incident with another celebrity that had cemented Erewhon's reputation as a safe haven for the famous. Cillian recalled past incidents during their outings to Erewhon had saved them from being disrupted by unwanted attention, he was grateful for a place to uphold such a high set of rules.
She navigated the parking lot, opting for a secluded spot far from the other vehicles. "No one can fucking drive where we live," she muttered, her tone a mix of exasperation and amusement. Cillian smiled slightly, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards in silent agreement. "There's a pair of sunglasses in the glovebox if you want them," she remarked, her fingers deftly unbuckling her seatbelt and beginning the meticulous process of shutting down the car. Cillian reached into the glovebox, retrieving the sunglasses and slipping them on. The world darkened through the tinted lenses, but it provided a shield against prying eyes. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he stepped out of the car with a fluid motion, the door closing behind him with a satisfying click. He rounded the front of the Aston Martin, each step purposeful yet unhurried. Reaching her side, he opened the door with a gallant gesture, extending a hand to assist her out of the low-slung vehicle. She accepted, her smile warm and appreciative, a silent exchange of gratitude in the brief wink she sent his way.
He closed the door behind her, the action as natural as breathing, and they stood momentarily in the parking lot, a picture of poised elegance. She locked the car, the soft beep of the alarm engaging as they made their way towards the entrance of Erewhon. Cillian's hand found its place at the small of her back, a subtle yet protective gesture as they navigated the sparse crowd. Inside, the atmosphere was a blend of exclusivity and tranquility, the kind of place where wealth and discretion mingled seamlessly. Cillian walked beside her, his presence understated yet unmistakable. He observed the surroundings with a practiced eye, noting the occasional glance of recognition from fellow patrons, yet they were largely left undisturbed.
Their shopping was a well-orchestrated routine, each selection a testament to her refined taste and his willingness to indulge her preferences. He offered quiet commentary on various items, his voice a low murmur tinged with his Irish accent, a comforting sound in the hushed environment of the upscale market. As they moved through the aisles, their dynamic was evident in the small, unspoken gestures: the way he reached for an item just as she looked at it, the subtle nod of approval she gave when he made a particularly insightful observation. They operated in a rhythm that spoke of deep understanding and mutual respect, a partnership that extended beyond the superficial.
She moved with the grace of someone accustomed to commanding attention, her height and poise setting her apart. Cillian followed closely, his presence quietly supportive, his eyes attentively tracking her movements. "Honestly, prices have gone up a lot," she remarked, her voice tinged with mild frustration as she gazed at a display of fine wines in the next aisle over. Cillian watched her, noting the furrow in her brow and the way her eyes flickered with a mixture of exasperation and contemplation. She sighed softly, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand responsibilities, before her gaze returned to him. A sudden realization sparked in her eyes, and she turned on her heel, striding purposefully towards him. Her presence was magnetic, drawing him in as she closed the distance. When she cupped his face, her touch was both commanding and tender, a juxtaposition that sent a thrill through him. She gently pushed him against the shelf, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that left him breathless.
"Cill- I've got to pick up some files at my office..." Her voice was low, almost a whisper, yet it resonated with authority. He nodded slightly, his mind already racing with the implications of her words. She moved closer, her breath warm against his skin, and the world around them seemed to blur into insignificance. "Do you want me to drop you off at home or do you want to come with me?" she asked, her gaze unwavering, searching his eyes for his answer. In that moment, the choice was simple. He could never resist the allure of being by her side, no matter the destination. "I'll go with you," he replied, his Irish accent adding a melodic lilt to the words. The decision was not just about accompanying her; it was about sharing every aspect of their lives, standing beside her through mundane tasks and extraordinary moments alike.
"......Good boy......," Her smile was a radiant confirmation of his choice, and she leaned in, her lips meeting his in a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, exploring with a possessiveness that made his heart race. He responded in kind, their tongues dancing together in a rhythm that was both familiar and electrifying. Her body pressed more firmly against his, pinning him against the shelf with a dominance that left no room for ambiguity.
When she finally pulled away, a long, thick line of saliva connected their lips, a tangible testament to their passion. She wiped it away with her thumb, her eyes never leaving his. He blushed deeply, the warmth spreading across his cheeks as he tried to steady his breathing. Her hand remained cupping his face, a lingering touch that grounded him even as his mind spun with desire. As she stepped back, her attention shifted back to their shopping cart, the moment of intensity giving way to the practicalities of their outing. Cillian took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. The taste of her still lingered on his lips, a reminder of the connection that burned brightly between them. He moved to stand beside her, his hand lightly brushing against hers as they resumed their shopping. The mundane act of selecting groceries felt charged with the undercurrent of their earlier exchange. Each item placed in the cart was a silent testament to their shared life, a series of choices that bound them together in a dance of mutual understanding.
Cillian's mind wandered as they continued through the aisles, reflecting on the complexity of their relationship. She was a force of nature, a woman of immense wealth and influence, yet with him, she revealed a vulnerability that few ever saw. He cherished those glimpses, the moments when she let her guard down and allowed him to see the softer side beneath her commanding exterior. Their bond was a delicate balance of power and intimacy, a dance they navigated with care and respect. Cillian admired her for her strength and intelligence, qualities that had propelled her to the pinnacle of her career. At the same time, he valued the quiet moments they shared, the simple joys of being together without the trappings of their public lives.
As they approached the checkout, Cillian could feel the weight of the day easing. The prospect of accompanying her to her office added a layer of excitement to their routine. It was another facet of her world he was eager to explore, another opportunity to stand beside her and witness the brilliance that defined her professional life. He packed their purchases with a meticulous attention to detail, each item placed with care. She watched him, her eyes reflecting a blend of amusement and affection. There was an unspoken language between them, a series of gestures and glances that conveyed more than words ever could. When they finally left the store, the sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the parking lot. Cillian opened the car door for her, a small act of chivalry that felt natural and right. She settled into the driver's seat with a satisfied sigh, the engine purring to life as she prepared to drive them to her office.
When they arrived at her office, the building loomed tall and imposing, a symbol of her success and determination. Cillian followed her inside, his eyes taking in the sleek, modern design that spoke of efficiency and power. She led him to her office, a space that was both elegant and functional, a reflection of her personality. As she gathered the files she needed, Cillian wandered around, admiring the artwork on the walls and the carefully curated decor. Everything in this space was a testament to her meticulous nature, her drive for perfection. He felt a surge of pride, knowing that he was part of her world, a trusted confidant and partner. When she was ready, they left the office together, the files securely in her bag. The drive home was quiet, a comfortable silence that spoke of their deep understanding.
As they pulled into the driveway, the Aston Martin DB11's engine purred to a halt. She deftly shifted the car into park, pressing the button to open the trunk with an elegance that spoke to her familiarity with such a high-end machine. Cillian unbuckled his seatbelt, the click of the mechanism punctuating the tranquil silence that had settled over them. He stepped out, the sun casting long shadows across the pristine pavement, and moved to her side, opening the door with a smooth, practiced motion. She emerged from the car, her movements fluid and confident. "Thank you," she murmured, her smile warm and appreciative. Cillian returned the gesture with a nod, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners, a subtle acknowledgment of their unspoken routine. She gathered her keys, wallet, sunglasses, and a stack of legal files, her arms laden with the tools of her trade.
He watched as she made her way inside, setting everything down with a purposeful efficiency before returning to assist with the groceries. They moved in tandem, a well-rehearsed dance of domesticity, each trip to and from the car marked by a silent rhythm. Cillian carried the bags with ease, his lean frame belying a quiet strength, while she matched his pace, her height and grace lending an air of effortless command. Inside the kitchen, they began unloading the bags, the clink of glass jars and rustle of paper bags filling the space. Cillian meticulously arranged the items, his movements deliberate and precise, reflecting his penchant for order. He glanced at her occasionally, appreciating the focused determination etched on her face as she worked.
"Feels like we’ve bought half the store," he remarked with a faint smile, his Irish accent adding a melodic lilt to his words. She laughed softly, a sound that resonated warmly in the sunlit kitchen. "Well, we do like our luxuries," she replied, her tone light yet tinged with genuine contentment.
After several trips, they finally emptied the trunk, the last of the bags deposited on the kitchen counter. She thanked him again, her eyes meeting his with a sincerity that transcended words. Taking her keys, she headed back out to pull the car into the garage. Cillian watched her go, a sense of admiration settling over him as she maneuvered the sleek vehicle with ease, the garage door closing behind her with a quiet hum. He began unpacking the bags, methodically placing items in their designated spots. She soon joined him, their movements synchronized in a silent symphony of familiarity and mutual respect. Together, they transformed the chaos of groceries into a well-organized array, each item finding its place in the pantry and refrigerator.
The task took time, but they worked efficiently, their partnership evident in the seamless flow of their actions. Cillian enjoyed these moments of mundane intimacy, where the outside world receded, leaving only the comforting presence of each other. He appreciated the simplicity of the task, a stark contrast to the often chaotic nature of his public life. As they finished, Cillian turned to her, a soft smile playing on his lips. "All set," he said, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. She moved closer, her silhouette framed by the setting sun that filtered through the expansive windows. Her presence was commanding, a reminder of the power she wielded, not just in her career but in every aspect of her life. Her arms encircled his waist, drawing him into a gentle embrace. Cillian's own arms responded instinctively, wrapping around her, pulling her closer. He felt the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against his chest, a comforting reminder of the life they shared. They lingered in this embrace, the silence between them filled with unspoken words and shared memories. Cillian's mind drifted, reflecting on the unlikely circumstances that had brought them together. He, an actor still finding his footing in the world of cinema, and she, a seasoned lawyer and investor, her name a fixture in the corridors of power and influence. Yet, in moments like these, their worlds melded seamlessly.
She pulled away slightly, her hands coming up to cup his face. Her eyes searched his, filled with a tenderness that made his heart ache. "You're everything I could ask for and more, Cillian, y'know that?" she murmured, her voice a soft caress. He lost himself in her gaze, the depth of her affection evident in every line of her face. Her hands were warm against his skin, grounding him in the reality of their connection. She let go of his face only to lift him effortlessly by the waist, placing him on the cool marble countertop. He watched her, a small smile playing on his lips, his feet dangling as she stood before him, her height accentuated by the difference in their positions. "Pretty boy, you know that?" she teased, her voice light yet laced with sincerity. Cillian chuckled softly, his hands resting on her shoulders. "Aye, I reckon I've heard that a few times," he replied, his Irish accent adding a melodic lilt to his words. His eyes twinkled with amusement, but beneath it was a deep-seated gratitude for the way she saw him, not just as an actor or a public figure, but as the man he was in these quiet, intimate moments.
As she stepped closer to him, the cool air of the spacious room contrasted with the heat building between them. Her hand cupped his face with a tenderness that belied her powerful exterior, her fingers tracing the contours of his jaw as if memorizing every detail. Cillian's eyes met hers, the intensity of her gaze filled with love and desire. Her proximity was intoxicating, her presence a heady mix of authority and warmth. As their lips met, the world around them seemed to fade away. The kiss was fervent, a collision of passion and longing. His hands found their way to shoulders, fingers pressing into the fabric of her suit, feeling the strength and softness beneath. Their tongues danced, exploring and tasting with an urgency that bordered on desperation. Cillian moved forward, his legs wrapping around her waist, drawing her closer. The movement was instinctual, a physical manifestation of his need to be as close to her as possible. She responded seamlessly, her other arm encircling his waist, lifting him effortlessly off the countertop.
He felt weightless, suspended between the cool marble and the warmth of her body. Her strength was astonishing, a stark reminder of the disparity in their physical power. Yet, it was also comforting, a symbol of the security and stability she provided. As she carried him, their lips remained locked, their kiss deepening with each passing second. The pantry doors provided a new backdrop to their fervent embrace. Cillian felt the wood against his back, a solid counterpoint to the softness of her lips and the firmness of her grip. Her movements were deliberate, each step a testament to her control and determination. She pressed against him, her body a seamless extension of her will, holding him in place as their kiss intensified. He broke the kiss momentarily, his breath mingling with hers in the small space between them. "You’ve got a way of makin' me feel like I'm flyin'," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper tinged with his Irish accent, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. Her eyes sparkled with amusement and affection. "That's because you are," she replied softly, her voice filled with a blend of love and confidence that only made his heart race faster. She leaned in again, capturing his lips with renewed fervor, the heat of their kiss contrasting with the cool air of the kitchen.
Cillian’s hands roamed her back, feeling the muscles beneath the fabric, a tactile reminder of her strength and resilience. He marveled at how effortlessly she held him, her power tempered with a gentleness that made him feel cherished and protected. Her kiss was a blend of passion and possession, a declaration of her feelings that left him breathless and yearning for more. As she pressed him against the pantry doors, the kiss deepened, their tongues exploring with an insatiable hunger. Cillian’s fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, their bodies moving in a rhythm that spoke of deep-seated desire and mutual understanding. Her hand on his face guided the kiss, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw, grounding him in the intensity of the moment.
Their breaths came in ragged gasps between kisses, the heat of their bodies mingling in the cool air of the kitchen. Every touch, every kiss was a reaffirmation of their connection, a silent promise of the depth of their feelings for each other. Cillian’s world narrowed to the sensation of her lips, her hands, and the solid presence of her body against his. The intensity of their embrace was almost overwhelming, a physical manifestation of the love and desire that bound them together. She held him effortlessly, her strength a constant reminder of the power dynamics that played out between them. Yet, in this moment, it was not about power but about connection, about the raw, unfiltered emotions that flowed between them.
As she finally pulled back, her breathing heavy, Cillian looked into her eyes, seeing the same depth of emotion reflected back at him. "You make me feel invincible," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. Her smile was radiant, her hand still cradling his face. "That’s because you are to me," she replied, her voice soft and sincere. She leaned in for one last kiss, a gentle brush of lips that was both a promise and a reassurance, sealing the bond between them.
In the quiet aftermath, they remained entwined, their foreheads resting together, breaths mingling as they shared a moment of profound intimacy. The world outside might demand their attention, but here, in the sanctuary of her kitchen, it was just the two of them, lost in the depths of their love and desire.
Author's Notes:
I meant to post this yesterday but I got sidetracked; and had things come up. So here it is but idk about it. Do I like it? yesn't
Don't know really, lately I've just been burned out; but I feel like I owe everyone something every time I write..also does this count as a size kink? I don't think it does?....
however I've been working on the last ask but I'm just having I hard time with it because I can't see Cillian as a Dom; like he's a bottom in my eyes unless he's being a dick and not asking before doing it; you get what I'm putting down? I have one of those ones on the backlogs ready to go but it's fucking dark and I don't know about it.
Stalker! Jonathan Crane x F! Reader
Summary: He just wants you to love him the way he loves you!
Wordcount: 5.1k
Warnings: Part 1
Dom! Jonathan when he needs to be, extremely perverted! Jonathan, extremely possessive! Jonathan, sexual harassment, sexual assault, harassment, heavy stalking, RAPE, fingering, threatening, manipulating, gaslighting, belittling, degrading, slapping, spitting, breaking your mind, forced kissing, whining, whimpering, begging.
Jonathan stirred in his bed, the sunlight filtering through the partially open blinds, piercing his eyes with an unwelcome intensity. He groaned softly, detesting the intrusion of morning light, but a small, satisfied smile crept across his face as he turned his head to gaze at the woman lying next to him. His princess, his obsession, his captive.
She was still unconscious, her body limp and unmoving, a consequence of the potent mixture of fear toxin and sedatives he had administered. But soon, she would awaken, and he would be there to greet her, to reassure her, to remind her that she was his. Slowly, he began to sit up, feeling the uncomfortable dampness of sweat that clung to his skin, a result of their shared warmth throughout the night. Despite the discomfort, he relished the sensation, a tangible reminder of their proximity, of her presence in his life. He pulled her closer, her body soft and pliant against his, and rested his head on top of hers, closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply. The scent of her sweat, mingled with the faint aroma of fear and the lingering fragrance of her shampoo, filled his nostrils, intoxicating him.
"Ah, my sweet," he murmured, his voice a low whisper, barely audible in the quiet room. "You have no idea how long I've waited for this."
As he held her, his mind wandered, replaying the events that had led to this moment. The countless hours, days; months he had spent watching her, learning her routines, understanding her fears. The meticulous planning, the careful execution. Every detail had been considered, every eventuality anticipated. And now, she was here, in his bed, in his arms. He had won. Jonathan's thoughts drifted to the future, to the life they would share. He imagined her waking up, the confusion and fear in her eyes, and how he would comfort her, reassure her, guide her. He would be her protector, her savior, the only one who truly understood her. And in time, she would come to see that, to appreciate him, to love him as he loved her.
"I know you're scared," he whispered, his lips brushing against her hair. "But you'll see, my love. You'll see that this is for the best. We're meant to be together."
He shifted slightly, adjusting their position so that he could look at her face, peaceful in its drug-induced slumber. He traced a finger along her cheek, marveling at the softness of her skin. She was perfect, every inch of her, and she was his. The minutes ticked by, the sunlight growing stronger, casting long shadows across the bedroom. Jonathan's thoughts grew darker, more possessive. He knew that she would resist at first, that she would fight against the reality of their situation. But he was prepared for that. He had the tools, the knowledge, the patience. He would break her down, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but acceptance, submission, love.
"You'll come to love me," he said, his voice firm with conviction. "You have to; because there's no other choice."
As the drugs in her system began to wear off, he could see the faintest flicker of movement in her eyelids, the smallest sign of consciousness returning. Her eyelids fluttered with the faintest signs of life returning, each tiny movement sending a thrill through him. Jonathan's icy blue eyes, normally so detached and clinical, now brimmed with a possessive fervor. His heart pounded in his chest, a wild and erratic beat that matched the excitement thrumming through his veins. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the beginning of their new life together. Jonathan tightened his grip on her, his fingers digging into her flesh with a possessive intensity. He would be gentle, at first. He would give her time to adjust, to understand. But he would not be deterred. She was his, and nothing would change that.
"Fuck, you look so perfect like this..." he murmured, his voice a low, husky whisper that filled the quiet room. He brought her face closer to his, their lips mere centimeters apart. His breath was warm, tinged with a cold, calculated attitude that betrayed his true nature. "Can I have a kiss, princess? Please?"
He didn't wait for her to answer. Why should he? She was his, bound to him in every way that mattered. Her consent was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. With a single, fluid motion, he closed the distance between them, pressing his lips to hers in a one-sided, passionate frenzy. The kiss was hard, almost punishing, as if he could imprint his desire and ownership onto her very soul through sheer force of will. Jonathan reveled in the sensation, the taste of her lips, the warmth of her breath mingling with his own. It was everything he'd dreamed of, everything he'd obsessed over in the long, lonely nights leading up to this moment. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes as they fluttered open, their expression a mixture of confusion, fear, and a dawning realization of her situation. He could see the questions forming in her mind, the panic rising as she took in her surroundings. But he wouldn't let her spiral into fear. Not yet. He needed her to understand, to accept her new reality. With a gentleness that belied the intensity of his actions, he stroked her cheek, his fingers tracing the delicate lines of her face.
"Shh, it's okay," he whispered, his voice soothing, almost tender. "You're safe here with me. I know this is all new and scary, but you'll see. This is where you belong. With me. Forever."
Jonathan leaned over the edge of his bed, his movements careful and deliberate, as to not let her go. His fingers found the slim frames of his glasses resting on the nightstand, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, he opened them and slid them onto the bridge of his nose; the familiar weight of the glasses brought a semblance of clarity to his thoughts. He felt her body jerk away from him as she began to take in even more of her surroundings, the first signs of actual consciousness bringing with it a futile attempt to pull away from him. His grip tightened instinctively, a low groan of annoyance escaping his lips. Why would she resist him? The thought was both infuriating and perplexing. He had done everything for her, brought her into his world, his life. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the sound echoing in the quiet room, a noise laced with disappointment. "Tsk...Tsk...Tsk..."
"Now why would you do that?" he muttered under his breath, his voice a soft growl of frustration. He could feel her pulse quicken beneath his fingertips as she registered his presence, the reality of her situation dawning upon her. His hand moved with swift precision, wrapping around her neck with a firm, but not constricting, grip. The action was meant to establish control, a reminder of the power he held over her.
Her eyes fluttering open more, meeting his gaze with a mixture of more fear and confusion. Jonathan's face was inches from hers once more, his breath mingling with hers in the scant space between them. His eyes, cold and unyielding behind the thin frames of his glasses, bored into hers with an intensity that left no room for doubt.
"Don't you ever do that again," he hissed, his voice low and menacing. The words were a command, not a request, and he made sure she understood the gravity of his threat. "Do I make myself clear?"
Her eyes widened, a flicker of recognition passing through them as his words registered. He watched her intently, his hand remaining firmly in place around her neck, waiting for any sign of defiance. The silence stretched between them, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the sound of their heavy breathing. Jonathan's mind raced, a torrent of thoughts and emotions battling for dominance. He had spent countless nights fantasizing about this moment, about having her here, in his bed, in his life. The reality of it was almost too much to bear, the fulfillment of his darkest desires a heady mix of elation and fear. He had taken every precaution, ensured that she was safe, that she couldn't escape. But the fear remained, a nagging doubt that whispered insidiously in the back of his mind.
The disappointment, sadness, and a flicker of anger warred within him, each emotion vying for dominance as he watched her struggle against the mental and physical bonds that held her; the ones that were for her own good. His blue eyes, usually so cold and calculating, now held a hint of something more—something raw and unrestrained.
"You see," he began, his voice eerily calm and devoid of emotion, "all you have to do to get the nice guy...is be good." His words were measured, each one dripping with a chilling detachment that sent shivers down her spine. "But if you want to be a brat about this, after I've done everything for your own good, then I'll fix you my own fucking way."
Jonathan's gaze never wavered as he spoke, his eyes boring into hers with an intensity that was both captivating and terrifying. He wanted her to understand, to see the logic behind his actions. In his mind, this was all for her benefit—for their benefit. She was his, and he would mold her into the perfect partner, no matter what it took. The bedroom was silent save for the faint hum of electricity and her ragged breathing. Jonathan's mind raced with thoughts of control and dominance, his desires and fears intertwining in a dark, intricate dance. He longed for her submission, for her to bend to his will and acknowledge the twisted affection he harbored for her. And yet, he was acutely aware of the line he walked—the thin, precarious boundary between obsession and madness; but it's a mix of both because she deserves every part of him in every manner. She was slowly coming to terms with her situation but she couldn’t give up that easily, the fog of confusion lifting to reveal the harsh reality of her captivity. Her eyes, wide with fear and defiance, met his, and he felt a surge of frustration.
"You know," he began, his voice low and menacing, "I had such high hopes for you." His tone was almost tender, a cruel mockery of genuine affection. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his touch deceptively gentle.
She jerked away from his touch, a spark of rebellion igniting in her eyes. It was this stubbornness that both infuriated and fascinated him. She was not the pliable, submissive creature he had hoped to mold; she resisted him at every turn, a constant reminder of his failure. His grip tightened involuntarily, his knuckles whitening as he fought to maintain control.
"I thought you would understand and that you would see the world the way I do. But you're just like the rest of these woman out in the world. Blind. Ungrateful and Ignorant...None of you ever come to terms with us men; who would do anything for you. You fucking brat!" He said before his hand free hand was raised and struck her across the face with a loud slap, the sound of the back of a hand meeting the soft skin of a cheek.
In a sudden, violent movement, he pushed her down onto her back, his body pinning hers to the mattress. His hand clamped around her neck, the pressure building as he leaned in, his face inches from hers. The flicker of anger in his eyes flared into a burning rage, the mask of civility slipping away to reveal the monster beneath. "You're such a fucking little brat," he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "Such a brat... a brat that needs to be fixed… and made into an angel."
Her eyes widened in terror, her hands clawing at his arm as she struggled for breath. He watched her with a twisted sense of satisfaction, the sight of her helplessness fueling his dark desires. There was a sickening beauty in her desperation, a fragile vulnerability that he found intoxicating. He loosened his grip slightly, just enough to allow her a gasp of air, before tightening it again, savoring the way her body arched beneath him.
"Do you understand now?" he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear. "Do you see what you’ve made me do?" His voice was a haunting blend of anger and sorrow, a reflection of the turmoil within him. He wanted to break her, to bend her will to his own, but each act of violence only seemed to strengthen her resolve. It was a maddening paradox, a vicious cycle of control and resistance that neither could escape."Please don't say, oh you can't be an angel; because I know you fucking can," he hissed, his voice a chilling blend of menace and mockery. His hand, wrapped around her delicate neck, applied just enough pressure to remind her of his control. The sensation of her pulse quickening under his grip sent a thrill through him. He released his hold momentarily, allowing her a gasp of air, before tightening his fingers once more, his grip like a vice.
"I know every. single. fucking. thing... about you," he continued, his voice dropping to a sinister whisper. His smile was devoid of warmth, a cruel twist of his lips that sent shivers down her spine. As her hands clawed desperately at his arm, her nails digging into his skin, he felt a dark satisfaction. Her tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with her choked sobs, each one a testament to her futile resistance. "Let's try and fix that, shall we?" he murmured, almost tenderly, his free hand beginning its descent. His fingers traced a path down her trembling body, lingering just long enough to make her dread the inevitable. The only barriers between him and his goal were the flimsy fabric of her shorts and panties, but he savored the anticipation. His touch was light, teasing, as if savoring the moment before he would shatter her last defenses.
His left hand played with the hem of her shorts, teasingly slipping beneath the fabric before pulling back, savoring the anticipation that radiated from her trembling form. His right hand maintained its relentless hold on her throat, her breaths coming in short, desperate gasps as she struggled against his grip. The sheer futility of her resistance only seemed to amuse him, a dark chuckle escaping his lips as he finally let his fingers slip under her shorts, then under the lace panties.
"Angel... fuck, I love it when you wear lace..." His smile was sinister, a predatory grin that revealed his satisfaction at the feel of the textured lace beneath his fingertips. His thumb quickly found her clit, tracing sloppy, uneven circles that elicited a mix of involuntary shudders and futile attempts to pull away. Her nails clawed at his hand on her throat, her body arching and twisting in a desperate bid for freedom. He leaned in closer, his breath hot and ragged against her ear. "Fuck, I know you want me so bad, you want my cock bottoming out in you... you dirty brat," he hissed, his words laced with a cruel, mocking edge. Her body betrayed her, responding to his touch despite the terror and revulsion that churned within her. He reveled in her conflicting reactions, the way her skin flushed and her breathing quickened, a testament to the twisted pleasure he derived from her suffering.
He watched with a twisted fascination as she writhed beneath him, her body betraying her defiance with every grimace of pain and reluctant gasp of pleasure. His own arousal was unmistakable, pressing insistently against her thigh, a constant reminder of his dominance and her helplessness.
“Ah, look at you,” he murmured, his voice a low, mocking drawl. “Such a stubborn little thing, aren’t you? You think you can hold out forever, but we both know that’s not true. I will break you, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but submission.”
As he spoke, his hand moved with calculated precision, his thumb continuing its torturous rhythm against her skin. Her pulse fluttered wildly beneath his grip, a testament to her body's struggle for oxygen and her futile resistance. He savored the power he held over her, the way her life literally lay in his hands. It was intoxicating, a heady rush that fueled his sadistic desires. Jonathan shifted slightly, his hips grinding against her thighs with deliberate force, eliciting a choked gasp from her lips. The sound was music to his ears, a sweet symphony of despair and reluctant pleasure. He could feel the heat of her body, the way she trembled beneath him, and it only spurred him on further. With a slow, deliberate motion, he slipped a finger inside her, feeling the way her slick walls clenched around him. Her gasp turned to a strangled cry, her breath catching in her throat as she struggled against the dual assault on her senses.
“You like that, don’t you?” he taunted, his voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. “Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind is too stubborn to admit it. You’re so wet for me, so eager, despite everything.”
Her eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and defiance, tears glistening on her cheeks as she tried to suppress the moan that threatened to escape her lips. Jonathan's gaze never left hers, his eyes darkening with a predatory hunger as he added another finger, stretching her further. His thumb continuing its assault on her needy and bratty clit, circling it with a relentless, teasing pressure that had her hips bucking involuntarily.
“Such a perfect little cunt,” he whispered, his voice a husky murmur that sent shivers down her spine. “So needy, so desperate. You can’t resist me, no matter how hard you try.”
Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her body a battleground of conflicting sensations. The pleasure was a cruel counterpoint to the pain, a tantalizing torment that left her teetering on the edge of despair and ecstasy. Jonathan’s fingers moved with a ruthless precision, curling and twisting inside her, his thumb never ceasing its relentless assault on her clit.
“I could keep you like this forever,” he mused, his tone almost conversational despite the sadistic undertone. “Pinned beneath me, helpless and pleading, your body my plaything to use as I please.”
His words were a cruel promise, a reminder of the power he held over her. He reveled in her helplessness, the way she trembled beneath his touch, her defiance crumbling with every passing moment. Her sobs were muffled by the lack of air, her tears a silent testament to her suffering. Yet, amidst the pain, there was a spark of reluctant pleasure, a betrayal of her body that only fueled Jonathan's sadistic satisfaction.
He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered, “You’re mine. Every gasp, every moan, every drop of pleasure and pain. They all belong to me. And I won’t stop until you’re begging for mercy.”
Her body arched beneath him, her back bowing as she fought against the sensations overwhelming her. Jonathan’s grip on her neck tightened momentarily, a silent warning that any attempt to resist would be met with even harsher consequences. His fingers delved deeper, his thumb pressing harder against her clit, driving her closer to the edge.
“You can try to resist,” he said softly, his voice a velvet caress laced with menace. “But we both know how this ends. You will break, and when you do, you will be mine in every way that matters.”
Her cries were a broken symphony, a blend of pain and pleasure that echoed through the room. Jonathan’s lips curved into a sadistic smile as he watched her, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction. He had her exactly where he wanted her, and he had no intention of letting her go.
“Beg,” he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper. “Beg for release, for mercy, for anything. Show me how much you need me.”
Her lips parted, a strangled sound escaping her throat as she fought to find the words. The combination of his fingers inside her and the relentless pressure on her clit was too much, her body betraying her with each passing second. Jonathan’s grip tightened, his eyes never leaving hers as he watched her struggle.
“Please,” she finally gasped, her voice barely a whisper. “Please, Jonathan...” He chuckled darkly, his thumb easing its relentless assault for a moment, giving her a brief respite. “That’s it, my sweet, sweet angel. Beg for me. Show me how much you need this, need me.”
Her body trembled with a mixture of relief and anticipation, the brief pause in his torment a cruel tease that left her wanting more. Jonathan’s fingers resumed their relentless rhythm, his thumb circling her clit with a renewed intensity that had her writhing beneath him. Her eyes met his, a flicker of defiance still burning within them despite her surrender. Jonathan’s smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he watched her. She was his, in every way that mattered, and he reveled in the knowledge that he had broken her spirit and claimed her body.
“I’ll give you what you need,” he promised, his voice a dark caress. “But only when I’m ready. And until then, you will endure every moment of this torment, knowing that your release depends entirely on my whim.”
Her sobs were a symphony to his ears, a sweet melody of despair and reluctant pleasure. Jonathan's fingers moved with a relentless precision, his thumb never ceasing its cruel dance against her clit. He watched her with a twisted fascination, drinking in every moment of her suffering and submission. His eyes, icy blue and devoid of mercy, bore into her as she lay beneath him, trembling. His hand, still poised around her delicate throat, pulsed with the remnants of the grip he had just released. Her pleas had been garbled, pitiful sounds, lost in the choking sobs that shook her slender frame.
"You gonna cum on my fingers?" His voice was a low, velvety purr, dripping with condescension and control. The accent, a soft, chilling cadence, made his words even more sinister. "You gonna cum for your man, your man who's gonna take care of you?" The question hung in the air, a twisted promise of what was to come.
His fingers plunged into her again and again, each thrust precise, each movement calculated to push her closer to the edge. Her body betrayed her, hips lifting slightly, seeking more of the torment that he offered. The wet sounds of her arousal filled the room, a stark contrast to the otherwise quiet surroundings. Jonathan watched her with a mixture of disappointment and amusement, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. How dare she resist him? How dare she deny him the satisfaction of seeing her completely broken?His grip on her neck tightened slightly, just enough to remind her of his dominance."Cum on my fingers, you bratty slut," he snarled, his tone hardening. The words were a command, not a request, and he wasn't going to take no for an answer. His thumb pressed harder against her clit, the pressure intensifying as his fingers continued their relentless assault. Her body tensed, her muscles clenching around him as she fought against the inevitable.
Jonathan leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. "I know you want to," he whispered, his voice a dangerous caress. "I can feel it. Just let go. Give in to me." There was a dark promise in his words, a vow that he would take what he wanted, one way or another. He watched as her resolve wavered, her body trembling on the brink of release. The struggle within her was palpable, a battle between her stubborn mind and her traitorous flesh. Her back arched, a strangled cry escaping her lips as she finally succumbed to the relentless pleasure. Her orgasm crashed over her, her body convulsing around his fingers, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Jonathan's smile widened, satisfaction mingling with a darker, more possessive hunger. He didn't stop, his fingers continuing their merciless rhythm, drawing out every last shuddering wave of her release.
"Good girl," he murmured, his tone softening but no less commanding. "That's it. Give it all to me." He watched her closely, his eyes never leaving her face as he milked every drop of pleasure from her. His hand on her neck remained firm, a constant reminder of who was in control. The room seemed to close in around them, the intensity of the moment creating a world that consisted only of him and her, predator and prey. As her orgasm subsided, he slowly withdrew his fingers, his gaze never wavering. He brought his hand to his mouth, his eyes locked on hers as he licked her essence from his skin, savoring the taste of her submission. "Delicious," he said, his voice a dark, seductive purr. "You taste so sweet when you're obedient."
He moved off her, standing at the edge of the bed to survey his handiwork. His princess, he mused, was a picture of pathetic defiance, her body racked with shudders, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and defiance. He felt a pang of something akin to regret, but it was fleeting. His mind was a labyrinth of twisted logic and dark desires, convinced that what he was doing was necessary, that she needed to understand the extent of his power over her. His voice, when it came, was a low, velvety purr, tinged with the menace of his intentions. “You need to understand, darling,” he said, his tone almost gentle, a mockery of comfort. “I could do anything to you. Everything. And there's nothing you can do to stop me.”
He reached out, his fingers tracing the outline of her jaw, a tender gesture at odds with the brutality he had just inflicted. Her skin was soft, warm, a stark contrast to the coldness of his touch. Her breath hitched, her chest heaving as she tried to pull away from him, but there was nowhere to go. She was his, in every sense of the word, and he intended to break her completely. Jonathan’s mind raced with possibilities. He could see the fight still burning in her eyes, the stubborn spark that refused to be extinguished. It both infuriated and excited him. He wanted to see that light snuffed out, to watch her spirit crumble beneath the weight of his dominance. He would push her to the brink, break her down piece by piece until there was nothing left but a hollow shell of the woman she had once been.
His movements were deliberate, calculated. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his breath hot against her skin. “You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice a serpent’s hiss. “Every part of you. And I will do whatever it takes to make you see that.” She whimpered, a soft, broken sound that sent a thrill through him. His hand moved again, this time sliding down her body, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thigh. He reveled in the way she tensed, the way her muscles quivered under his touch. He was in control, and it was intoxicating.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured, his tone mocking. “You shouldn't be crying..."
He straightened, stepping back to look at her once more. Her face was a mask of despair, her eyes red and swollen from crying. He could see the marks of his hands on her neck, dark bruises that would serve as a reminder of his power. It was a beautiful sight, a testament to his ability to dominate and control. Jonathan turned away, moving to the dresser to retrieve a glass of water. He took a slow sip, savoring the cool liquid as it slid down his throat. He needed to think, to plan his next move. Breaking her would take time, patience. But he was willing to wait. He would savor every moment of her descent into submission. He returned to the bed, placing the glass on the nightstand. “Drink,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. She hesitated, her eyes flicking to his face in search of mercy. There was none to be found.
“Now,” he barked, his voice sharp. She flinched, her hands shaking as she reached for the glass. She drank slowly, each swallow a struggle, her throat raw from his earlier assault.
As she finished, he took the glass from her, placing it back on the nightstand. He settled next to her, his hand once again finding its place around her neck, a constant reminder of his control. He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear.
“You will learn to obey,” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. “One way or another.”
Her response was a choked sob, a sound that only fueled his resolve. He tightened his grip, just enough to make her gasp, to remind her of his power. He would break her, no matter how long it took. She was his, and he would make sure she understood that completely. For now, he would let her rest, let her think that there was some reprieve. It was all part of the game, the slow unraveling of her resistance. He stood, watching as she curled into herself, her body a picture of defeat. But he knew better. The real battle was just beginning, and he was ready for it.
Author's Notes:
I do like how it turn out?; yes and no but its fine really...idk its okay maybe its just me; probably is lolz. Idc there's spelling or grammar mistakes idc, I haven't slept in two days. byeeeeee
Love ur cillian fics!! Especially the singer ones!! Could you do cillian x younger singer reader inspired by Barry appearing in Sabrina’s please please music video!! Or just Barry and Sabrina in general…
Or
Cillian x younger singer reader inspired by how Taylor changes the lyric to “the guy on the chiefs…” when travis is watching
🌸🌸🌸
Lights, Camera, Cillian
(41)Cillian Murphy x (25)F! Singer Reader
Summary: Cillian gets to be apart of a music video.
Wordcount: 2.7k
Warnings: you're 4'11
soft! Cillian, cocky! Cillian, lovey dovey Cillian, kissing, lap sitting, age gap by 16 years.
The set was alive with the hum of activity, a symphony of controlled chaos, a hive of activity as crew members darted about, adjusting lights and setting up equipment. A controlled chaos that always came with the territory of shooting a music video.
The lights cast a warm glow, creating an ambiance that matched the mood of the song they were filming for: 'Please Please Please.' Crew members moved with purpose, adjusting cameras, perfecting lighting, and setting up props. The director's voice cut through the noise, orchestrating the myriad tasks with the precision of a maestro conducting an orchestra. The air was filled with a mixture of anticipation and the faint scent of coffee, the lifeblood of early morning shoots.
She stood inside the makeup trailer next to the love of her life; Cillian sat in the makeup chair, his posture relaxed yet his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. He had always thrived in front of the camera, but this was different. A music video required a different kind of performance, one that was more abstract and emotive. The makeup artist's brush moved expertly across his skin, adding subtle touches to enhance his natural features. The bright, overhead lights cast a soft glow on his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the deep blue of his eyes.
He glanced her way, who was standing a few feet away, talking animatedly with one of the crew members. She was a vision of grace and beauty, her petite yet chubby frame exuding an aura of confidence and poise. Her chubby cheeks, which he found irresistibly cute, were flushed with excitement, and her eyes sparkled with creative fervor. She turned to look at him and her eyes met his, and she smiled, a gesture that always had a calming effect on him. He returned the smile, though it was tinged with a hint of nervousness.
He couldn't help but smile as he watched her, the corners of his lips twitching upward. Turning his attention back to the mirror in front of him, he quipped, "Haven't been in handcuffs in a while..." His witty remark was accompanied by a playful glint in his eye. Her response was immediate, her expression shifting to one of mock annoyance mixed with embarrassment. "Cill-...hush ..before I duck-tape your mouth shut." Cillian chuckled softly, the sound a deep, rich timbre that resonated in his chest. He met her gaze in the mirror, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe...I'll hush if you give me a kiss, eh'?"
Her reaction was swift, the playful banter eliciting a smile that lit up her face. She crossed the short distance between them, her movements graceful and assured. The makeup artist, sensing the intimate moment, finished her work and discreetly moved to the other side of the room, leaving them in a bubble of privacy amidst the chaos. She reached out, her fingers gently lifting his chin, forcing him to look at her. The touch was soft, yet it held a firmness that brooked no argument. As she leaned in, her lips parting slightly, Cillian felt his heartbeat quicken, the anticipation building between them. He cupped her face with one hand, his thumb brushing over her cheek in a tender caress.
When their lips met, the world around them seemed to blur, fading into insignificance. The kiss was slow and deliberate, a melding of mouths that spoke volumes in its simplicity. Her lips were soft and warm, moving against his with a sweetness that belied the fiery passion lurking just beneath the surface. He deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping into her mouth, seeking hers in a dance as old as time. Their tongues met, tentatively at first, then with increasing boldness. The kiss grew more intense, more fervent, as they lost themselves in the moment. Cillian's hand slid to the back of her neck, holding her close, while her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him deeper into the embrace. The connection between them was palpable, a living, breathing thing that seemed to pulse with its own rhythm.
As they kissed, Cillian's mind wandered to the many moments they'd shared, the highs and lows of their relationship. This was just one more layer to their ever-evolving story, a testament to the love and trust that bound them together. The sound of the director's voice calling out that it's time barely registered with the both of them, their focus entirely on each other. Finally, they pulled away, breathless and flushed, their eyes locked in a shared moment of understanding. Cillian smiled, a soft, affectionate curve of his lips that spoke volumes. "That was some kiss," he murmured, his Irish lilt adding a melodic quality to his words.
She laughed, a light, musical sound that sent a shiver down his spine. "Well, I had to shut you up somehow," she teased, her eyes dancing with mirth.
He grinned, his heart swelling with love for the woman before him. "I'm not complaining, love. Not one bit."
The whole crew and everyone else involved were taking a lunch break. She sat comfortably in his lap, her petite frame fitting perfectly against him, her presence a soothing balm to the frenzy of the day. Cillian's phone was resting on her lap, allowing her to read along as he typed. It was a simple gesture of inclusion, a silent communication that spoke volumes about their closeness. Its screen lighting up occasionally with messages. He was responding to texts, but his attention was divided, his focus constantly drifting back to her. Her hand moved gracefully, picking up a plump, red strawberry from a bowl that was on a table next to them and brought it to her lips. She took a delicate bite, the juice staining her lips a deep crimson. The sight was mesmerizing, a small, intimate moment that felt like it was just for them.
She shifted slightly, her gaze catching his. A playful smile curved her lips as she picked up a strawberry from the bowl beside them. "Strawberry?" she asked, her voice a soft murmur as she held the ripe fruit up, turning her head to look at him fully.
Cillian's eyes crinkled at the corners as he returned her smile, a subtle warmth in his expression. He reached up, his fingers brushing against hers as he took the strawberry. The contact was brief but intimate, a silent acknowledgment of their bond. He brought the fruit to his lips, taking a delicate bite. The sweetness exploded on his tongue, a delightful contrast to the faint tang of the earlier scene still lingering in his mind.
"Delicious," he murmured, his accent giving the word a soft, lilting quality. His fingertips lingered against her hand for a moment longer, tracing the delicate lines of her skin. There was something profoundly grounding about these small touches, a reminder of the simple pleasures that made life meaningful.
She giggled, a sound that seemed to lift the weight from his shoulders. "I'm glad you like it," she replied, her tone light and teasing. She leaned back against him, her head resting comfortably against his chest. He could feel the steady rhythm of her breathing, a soothing counterpoint to the frenetic energy around them. He continued to text, his thumb moving deftly over the screen, but his focus was divided. The warmth of her body pressed against his, the scent of her hair mingling with the strawberries, created a cocoon of intimacy that made it hard to concentrate fully. He didn't mind; these moments were precious, a respite from the relentless demands of his career.
"Who are you texting?" she asked, her curiosity evident as she glanced down at the screen.
"Just checking in with my agent," he replied, his voice a low murmur against her ear. "Making sure everything's set for next week's shoot."
She nodded, her fingers idly playing with the hem of his shirt. "You work so hard, Cill." He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. "And you don't? Look at you, running this whole show," he gestured around the set with a tilt of his head, his admiration clear in his voice. She blushed, her cheeks tinged with a delicate pink. "It's different. This is just one video. You do this all the time." He turned his head slightly, his lips brushing against her temple in a tender kiss. "Doesn't make it any less impressive. I'm proud of you."
Her eyes softened, and she shifted to look at him more directly. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the background noise. There was a vulnerability in her gaze that tugged at his heartstrings, a reminder of how much she valued his support. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the only sounds their breathing and the distant clatter of dishes as the crew finished their lunch. Cillian continued to text, his free hand resting on her thigh, the simple contact grounding him in the moment.
"_______! _______! Over here!" A voice suddenly called out, breaking their serene bubble. Both of them turned toward the source of the voice, their expressions curious. It was one of the directors of her music video, a broad grin on his face as he waved enthusiastically. He held up his phone, capturing a quick photo before turning back to his work.
She wasn't upset by the intrusion; she merely shrugged, a resigned smile on her lips. Their relationship hadn't been officially confirmed to the public yet, and moments like these, while slightly invasive, were to be expected. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of amusement and affection.
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Guess our secret is gonna be out," he murmured, his Irish accent adding a musical lilt to his words.
She giggled, popping another strawberry into her mouth. "Oh well, it's not like we were hiding it very well," she replied, her voice light and teasing. "After all you are in this music video..."
Cillian sat in a cold, metal chair, his body tense with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. He was clad in dark jeans and a simple white tank top; that contrasted sharply with the white dress she wore. She lay languidly on the worn couch, the white dress clinging to her curves, the slit in the stomach teasing a glimpse of her soft skin. Her eyes, full of intent and unspoken emotions, locked onto Cillian's. He mirrored her gaze, his hands resting on his head, fingers threading through his hair. His blue eyes held a mix of intensity and seduction, and as he bit his bottom lip, he projected an air of smoldering confidence.
The director called for silence, and the set fell into a hushed anticipation. The music began to play, its melancholic melody filling the air. She started to sing, her voice a sultry, captivating whisper. "If you wanna go and be stupid," she sang, her eyes never leaving Cillian's. The words dripped with a mix of challenge and allure, drawing him in. As she stood up and began to walk toward him, her movements were deliberate, each step echoing with purpose. She held up a pair of handcuffs, the metal glinting in the light, and dangled them in front of his face as she sang, "Don't do it in front of me." There was a playful defiance in her tone, a daring edge that sent a shiver down his spine.
Cillian’s mind raced, thoughts intertwining with the rhythm of the music. He knew his role, every action and reaction meticulously rehearsed, yet the raw energy of the moment made it feel new, almost dangerous. He kept his eyes on her, his breath shallow as she moved behind him, continuing her song. "If you don't wanna cry to my music," she sang, her voice wrapping around him like a silk rope. He dropped his arms as rehearsed, feeling the cold steel of the handcuffs snap around his wrists. Her touch was both gentle and firm, and he exhaled sharply, memories of more intimate settings flashing through his mind. There was a vulnerability in his position, a surrender that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.
She picked up a roll of duct tape, and began to walk back to the front of him; her eyes flicking up to meet his as she bent down to meet his eye level. The air between them was electric, charged with the tension of the scene. She tore off a piece of tape; the proximity making his heart race. The world seemed to narrow to just the two of them, the intensity of her gaze, the sound of her voice, the feel of her hands. As she placed the tape over his mouth, he could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin. She cupped his face gently, pressing a kiss to the tape, a gesture that was both tender and taunting. His eyes closed for a brief moment, savoring the sensation, the softness of her touch contrasting sharply with the roughness of the scene. She pulled away from his face leaving a big red kiss mark in the center of the tape.
She walked off camera, her figure disappearing into the shadows, leaving him alone in the frame. The director’s voice broke the silence, "...AND THAT'S A WRAP!" The declaration echoed through the garage, and the crew erupted into applause, the tension of the shoot dissolving into relief and satisfaction. Cillian remained seated, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. The handcuffs were quickly removed, and he rubbed his wrists, feeling the slight indentations left by the metal. She rushed back to him, her eyes sparkling with excitement and pride. The both of them went to hug each other. The crew bustled around, dismantling equipment and discussing the day's shoot, but for Cillian everything else seemed to blur into insignificance. All he could focus on was the woman in his arms, her petite frame fitting perfectly against him, her warmth and presence a soothing balm to his earlier nerves. He cupped her face gently, his fingers grazing the soft, delicate skin of her cheeks. His thumbs traced the gentle curve of her jaw, his touch tender and reverent. Her eyes, wide and filled with emotion, locked onto his, a mixture of relief, pride, and love shining within their depths. She was beautiful, radiating a glow that seemed to light up the entire room.
"Baby, I'm so proud of you," he murmured, his Irish accent giving his words a lyrical, intimate quality. The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, each word imbued with the depth of his feelings. His eyes, a striking blue, bore into hers, holding her gaze with an intensity that made her breathe catch in her throat.
As he leaned in, time seemed to slow. The noise and movement around them faded into a distant hum, the world narrowing down to just the two of them. His lips met hers with a slow, deliberate tenderness that quickly blossomed into something more powerful, more urgent. The kiss was intense, a mingling of breath and emotion that spoke of their deep connection, their shared passion. In that moment, it was as if nothing else existed. The warmth of her body against his, the taste of her lips, the soft sigh that escaped her as they kissed—all of it combined to create a cocoon of intimacy that shut out the rest of the world. He could feel her heartbeat, quick and steady, mirroring his own, a rhythmic reminder of their bond. When he finally broke the kiss, they remained close, their foreheads touching, breathing in sync. Silence enveloped them, a comfortable, shared silence that spoke volumes. He brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. His eyes never left hers, filled with a mixture of admiration and adoration.
"You were incredible out there," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You have no idea how proud I am of you."
She smiled, a shy, almost bashful smile that made his heart swell with affection. "I couldn't have done it without you, Cillian. You being here means everything to me."
Author's Notes:
I think I’m getting burnt out guys..ahhh; please forgive me if this is ass.
The other asks are being worked on, I just need to recoup.
I hope I did this right, either I'm dumb which is a really good option; which...yeah that's probably it. But yeah its like a behind the scenes of the music video lolz, I'd had to watch; but I do like the song; 100% helps is she has a behind the scenes video for it so yeahhhh.
Grieving! Thomas Shelby x F! Ghost Reader???
Summary: Thomas is still grieving your death, he blames himself.
Wordcount: 4.3k
Warnings: Messy plot, idk nor do I care
Thomas sits alone in his office, a sanctuary from the chaos of his life, the dim light of a few lamps casting long shadows across the room.
He's seated behind a large oak desk, strewn with papers and the occasional empty whiskey glass. The air is heavy with the scent of smoke and old regrets, the only sound the occasional crackle of burning embers in the fireplace. In front of him, on the desk, rests a framed photograph. The glass catches the flickering light, causing her image to momentarily come alive. It's her smile that draws his gaze every time—a smile that once lit up his world with a warmth he hadn't known he craved until it was gone. The photograph captures her essence, frozen in time, a stark contrast to the darkness that now envelops Thomas's life. He reaches for the whiskey bottle, his fingers tracing the smooth glass neck as he pours another measure into his glass. The amber liquid swirls hypnotically, mirroring the turmoil in his mind. Each sip burns, not just his throat but his soul, a bitter reminder of all that he's lost. He doesn't drink to forget; he drinks to remember, to feel something other than the crushing weight of guilt and grief.
The weight of her absence presses down on him like a physical force. It's been a year since she left this world, yet her presence lingers in every corner of his existence. He blames himself, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. She wasn't just a casualty of his world; she was the unintended victim of his choices, caught in the crossfire of a life steeped in violence and power struggles. As he stares at her photograph, his eyes trace the contours of her face, memorizing every detail as if afraid he might forget. Her eyes, once bright with laughter and love, now stare back at him from behind the glass, haunting him in their stillness. He lifts the frame gently, running his calloused fingers over the smooth surface, feeling the coldness of the glass against his skin.
"Y'know," he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, thick with the unmistakable Birmingham accent that defines him. "Every fuckin' day, I wake up and expect t'see you here, like you never left. But your gone, ain't yah? An' it's all my bloody fault."
He takes another sip of whiskey, the bitterness mingling with regret on his tongue. The wedding ring on his finger catches the light as he touches it absentmindedly, a token of a promise made and broken by fate. When they buried her, he couldn't bear to part with the ring that symbolized their forever. It belonged on her finger, just as she belonged by his side.
"You were my light," he continues, his voice thick with emotion. "An' now, all I got left are these memories. Sometimes I wonder if your still out there somewhere, watchin' over me, or if you've moved on, free from all this bloody mess."
He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight. The room feels suffocatingly quiet, save for the distant sounds of the city outside, oblivious to the torment within these walls. Memories flood his mind—of quiet moments shared, of whispered promises and dreams for a future that now exists only in fragments. Closing his eyes briefly, he allows himself to drift back to a time when her laughter filled the room, when her touch could chase away the darkest of his demons. The pain of her loss is a constant ache, a reminder of the fragility of life and the inevitability of death in his world.
He remembers the way she looked at him with those piercing eyes, full of love and concern, as she tended to his wounds after yet another violent altercation. The pain of her loss is a sharp ache in his chest, an ache that refuses to dull with time. The memory of her voice echoes in his mind, teasing and caring all at once.
"Sometimes I wonder if you've got a brain up there, Thomas," she had teased, her voice a gentle chide as she carefully cleaned the blood from his face, delicate fingers picking out tiny shards of glass embedded in his skin.
"I've got one up here, love," he had replied with a faint smirk, though a wince betrayed the pain as she deftly removed a larger piece of glass from his cheek. She wiped away the blood with a tenderness that belied her strength, leaning in to press a quick kiss to the small wound before pulling back slightly.
"Does that make it feel better?" she asked, her smile warm and reassuring as she dipped a small rag into a bucket of stinging alcohol, preparing to disinfect his injuries.
"It does, love," Thomas admitted quietly, his gaze lingering on her face with a mixture of gratitude and affection. He reached for a cigarette, the tremor in his hand barely noticeable as he brought it to his lips to light it. But she stopped him with a gentle reprimand, her concern evident in the furrow of her brow. "You really don't have a brain sometimes, Tommy..."
"It's just one, settle down," he retorted with a hint of amusement, his voice low and tinged with the rough edge of his Birmingham accent. "Yes and...this is flammable, Tommy," she reminded him softly, her tone teasing yet filled with genuine worry about his brain. "Then let me have this one, and then you can finish," he countered, a small smile playing on his lips despite the ache in his heart.
The room around them fades as the memory takes hold, enveloping Thomas in a cocoon of bittersweet nostalgia. He remembers the warmth of her touch, the scent of her hair mingling with the sharp tang of alcohol in the air. The office, usually a bastion of business and strategy, becomes a sanctuary of shared moments and unspoken understanding. Her presence, even in memory, soothes the jagged edges of his soul, momentarily easing the weight of his responsibilities and the darkness that often clouds his mind. Each detail of that moment is etched into his consciousness—the flicker of candlelight casting shadows across her face, the softness of her lips against his skin, the way her laughter could turn his world on its axis.
But reality intrudes, as it always does. The memory fades, leaving Thomas alone in his office once more, surrounded by the trappings of power and ambition. The pain of her absence returns with renewed intensity, a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the fleeting nature of happiness in his world. He lights another cigarette, the flame casting a brief, flickering light over his face as he exhales a plume of smoke. The scent of nicotine mingles with the ghosts of memories, intertwining with the ache in his chest. In the silence that follows, he finds himself longing for her presence once more, yearning for the comfort of her touch and the warmth of her smile.
Thomas Shelby, hardened by years of brutality and loss, carries the weight of his memories like armor. Each scar, physical and emotional, tells a story of a life lived on the razor's edge of danger and desire. And yet, amid the shadows and the chaos, he holds onto the memory of her—the light and angel in his cold and dark life—like a lifeline in the storm. As he leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling where shadows dance, he whispers her name into the quiet of the night. "_______..." The sound lingers in the air, a whispered prayer for forgiveness, for understanding, for a peace that may never come.
"You were my angel," he whispers, as if confessing to the empty room. "An' now, I'm left here, drownin' in me own regrets, with nothin' but your photograph and this bottle for company."
He places the photograph back on the desk, its presence a silent testament to a love that transcended the chaos of their lives. The room feels colder now, the fire's warmth unable to thaw the ice around his heart. He knows he can't change the past, can't bring her back. All he can do is carry her memory forward, a burden and a blessing intertwined. With a sigh, he picks up the glass once more, its contents dwindling with each swallow. The night stretches out before him, endless and unforgiving. Outside, the city sleeps, unaware of the man who sits alone in his office, wrestling with ghosts and shadows, haunted by a love that refuses to fade.
"And every night," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the dying fire, "Your here, in my dreams, like you never left. But you did. An' I'm left 'ere, wonderin' if I'll ever find peace."
The photograph catches his eye again, her smile mocking him with its eternal happiness. He raises his glass in a silent toast, a gesture of defiance against the cruel hand fate has dealt him. For tonight, like every night, he will drink to her memory, hoping against hope that somewhere, somehow, she knows he still carries her with him, in every beat of his broken heart.
Every morning was a struggle, waking up to a world without her. He threw himself into his work with a ferocity that bordered on manic. The Shelby Company Limited had never been more efficient, yet the cost was steep. His family watched him with wary eyes, sensing the storm brewing beneath his composed exterior. Polly, especially, noted the subtle tremors in his hands, the glassy, distant look in his eyes. But every attempt to reach out, to bridge the chasm of his grief, was met with a wall of steel. Thomas had fortified his heart, locking away the pain where no one could touch it, not even him. The Garrison was bustling, filled with the laughter and chatter of patrons, but to Thomas, it was all a dull roar. He scanned the crowd, his eyes always searching, always hoping. And then, just for a fleeting moment, he would see her. A glimpse of golden hair, a familiar silhouette. His heart would leap, pounding against his ribs like a caged bird, only to crash back into desolation as reality set in. It was never her. It couldn't be her. She was gone, and no amount of wishful thinking could bring her back.
Walking the streets of Small Heath, he heard her voice in the wind, a soft whisper that sent shivers down his spine. "Tommy," it called, tender and loving. He'd turn sharply, eyes wild, but there was no one there. Only the ghosts of his past, haunting him with relentless cruelty. Nights were the worst. Alone in his grand but empty house, he could feel her presence. The scent of her perfume lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of what he had lost. He'd lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, her name a silent prayer on his lips. His dreams were a tapestry of memories, vivid and heartbreaking. He'd see her smile, feel the softness of her touch. They'd walk hand in hand through fields of lavender, her laughter ringing like a sweet melody. But then, the dream would shift, and he'd be back in the grim reality of her final moments. Her lifeless body, the blood, the horror. He'd wake up drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, the image seared into his mind. Work offered a brief reprieve, a distraction from the relentless torment. He was ruthless, driven, a man possessed. Deals were made, enemies crushed, all in the name of the Shelby empire. But beneath the surface, he was unraveling. Meetings blurred together, the faces of associates merging into a faceless mass. He'd catch himself drifting, staring out the window, lost in thoughts of her.
The family dinners were the hardest. He'd sit at the head of the table, trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy, but the empty chair beside him was a stark reminder of her absence. Polly would watch him with those sharp, knowing eyes, seeing the cracks in his façade. Arthur's attempts to draw him into conversation were met with monosyllabic responses. Ada's concerned glances went unnoticed. The laughter and banter around him felt hollow, a cruel mockery of the happiness he once knew. One evening, after a particularly grueling day, Thomas found himself in her old studio. The room was untouched, her paintings still adorning the walls. He traced a finger over the canvas, feeling the texture of her brushstrokes. Each piece was a fragment of her soul, a glimpse into the woman who had captured his heart. He picked up a half-finished portrait of himself, her final work. The eyes were hauntingly lifelike, a mirror to his tormented soul. "_______," he whispered, voice cracking. "Why'd you leave me, love?"
The nights grew longer, the days more insufferable. He found solace in the bottom of a whiskey bottle, the burn of the alcohol a temporary relief from the ache in his chest. But even in his drunken stupor, she was there. He'd see her reflection in the glass, her eyes filled with sorrow. "Tommy, you have to let go," she'd say, her voice echoing in his mind. But he couldn't. Letting go meant admitting she was truly gone, and he wasn't ready for that. His sleep became more erratic, plagued by nightmares that bled into reality. He'd wake in the dead of night, convinced she was there beside him. Reaching out, he'd grasp at empty air, the coldness of the sheets a stark contrast to the warmth he craved. Her laughter would echo through the halls, a ghostly serenade that kept him on edge. He'd pace the floors, her name a desperate chant. The weight of his grief began to affect his decisions. He became more reckless, taking risks that left his family on edge. A botched deal with a rival gang nearly cost them everything. "Tommy, you're not thinkin' straight," Arthur had yelled, grabbing his brother by the collar. But Thomas had merely shoved him away, his eyes burning with a fierce determination. "I know what I'm doin', Arthur. Don't question me."
Some more time had passed and it was getting worse. Across the table, Polly watched him with a knowing gaze. She had seen the cracks in his facade grow wider, the moments when his control slipped and the anguish bled through. She knew he was breaking, and she knew he wouldn't come to her willingly. But tonight, something had shifted. He had asked her to stay after the family meeting, his voice a low, strained whisper that betrayed his desperation.
"Polly," he began, his voice barely more than a rasp. "I need to talk to ya."
Polly leaned forward, her expression softening. "Alright, Thomas. What's on your mind?"
He took a deep breath, the weight of his grief pressing down on him like a vice. "It's her, Pol. I can't... I can't stop thinkin' about her. Every night, she's there. It's like she's still 'ere, but... she's gone."
Polly's eyes softened with understanding. "She's been gone a year, Tommy. It's no wonder she's still in your thoughts. She was special to you."
"She was more than special," he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. "She was... she was the light in my life. An angel in all this darkness. And now... now it's all just cold and dark." Polly reached out and placed a hand on his arm, her touch gentle yet firm. "You've been carryin' this alone, Thomas. You can't keep doin' this to yourself. You need to find a way to let go, to find some closure."
Thomas shook his head, his jaw clenching. "How? How do I do that, Pol? She's gone. Nothin' can bring her back."
"Go to her grave," Polly suggested softly. "Talk to her, one last time. Tell her everything you never got to say. Maybe then, you can start to heal." He looked up at her, his eyes filled with a mix of pain and hope. "You really think that'll help?"
"I do," Polly replied, her voice unwavering. "You've got to face it, Tommy. Face the pain, the loss. Only then can you begin to move forward."
Thomas rose before dawn, the weight of another sleepless night pressing heavily on his shoulders. The morning air was cold, crisp, a stark contrast to the warmth he once knew in her embrace. He dressed in silence, the routine mechanical, each movement a reminder of her absence. His eyes, hollow and tired, mirrored the emptiness that had taken residence in his heart since the day she was taken from him. The streets of Birmingham were eerily quiet as he walked, the city still wrapped in the blanket of early morning fog. rose before dawn, the weight of another sleepless night pressing heavily on his shoulders. The morning air was cold, crisp, a stark contrast to the warmth he once knew in her embrace. He dressed in silence, the routine mechanical, each movement a reminder of her absence. His eyes, hollow and tired, mirrored the emptiness that had taken residence in his heart since the day she was taken from him. The streets of Birmingham were eerily quiet as he walked, the city still wrapped in the blanket of early morning fog. He sat down on the grass of her grave, leaning against her headstone.
"_______," he began, his voice raw, trembling with the weight of unspoken words. "It's been a year, love. A year without you, and it feels like yesterday. Every day I wake, I hope it’s all a bad dream, that I'll find you beside me, smiling like you used to. But you're gone. And I'm here, alone."
His hands trembled as he reached for the flask in his coat pocket, taking a long, burning sip of whiskey. It did little to dull the pain but gave him the courage to continue. "Life's... life’s been hell without you, _______. The business, the family... none of it matters like it used to. Not without you. You were the light in this dark world of mine, the one thing that made it all bearable. Now, it's all just... cold. Empty." He could feel the tears welling up, the grief threatening to spill over. He fought it, biting down on his lip, but his voice wavered. "I regret so much, _______. Not telling you enough how much I loved you, not protecting you better. You trusted me, and I failed you. If I could trade places with you, I would. In a heartbeat."
His gaze dropped to the ground, his fingers tracing the letters of her name on the headstone. "Do you remember that night at the Garrison, when you told me you'd always be by my side? I believed you. And you were, in every way that mattered. Now, I come here, and I talk to you, hoping you can hear me, hoping you’re watching over me. I tell you about my day, about the struggles, about the times I almost broke down but didn't, because I knew you'd want me to be strong. But it’s so hard, love. So damn hard."
The sky began to lighten, the first rays of dawn breaking through the fog. Thomas’s tears fell freely now, unchecked. "The family’s falling apart, _______. Arthur and John are lost without you, Polly’s trying to hold us together, but we all feel your absence. Ada’s strong, but even she’s struggling. And me? I’m barely holding on. Every deal, every plan, it all feels pointless without you to share it with. The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of making you proud, of not letting your memory down."
His voice cracked, the emotions overwhelming him. "I miss your laugh, your touch, the way you’d look at me and make everything right. I miss waking up next to you, knowing I could face anything because you were there. Now I wake up to silence, to the cold reality that you’re not coming back." Thomas wiped his face with a trembling hand, his breath hitching. "I see you in my dreams, you know. Every n light. You’re there, smiling, just out of reach. And then I wake up, and it’s like losing you all over again. It’s torture, _______. Pure torture."
He leaned his head back against the headstone, closing his eyes. "But I can’t keep living like this. I know that’s not what you’d want for me. I need to find a way to move forward, to honor your memory without being consumed by it. I need to let you go, even though it feels like it’ll break me." The dawn light grew stronger, casting a soft glow over the grave. Thomas took another sip from the flask, his mind a tumult of memories and pain. "I’ll always love you, _______. That’ll never change. You were my light, my angel, and I’ll carry you with me every day. But I need to find a way to live again, to find some semblance of peace. For you. For me." His voice was barely a whisper now, the grief ebbing, leaving a hollow ache. "I’m so sorry, _______. For everything. I hope you can forgive me. I hope you can rest easy, knowing I’ll do my best to make you proud. To live a life that honors the love we shared."
Thomas stood slowly, placing his cap back on his head. He looked down at the grave, a final tear slipping down his cheek. "Goodbye, my love. Until we meet again." He turned and walked away, the weight of his sorrow still heavy but slightly eased. As he left the cemetery, the first light of day breaking over the horizon, Thomas felt a glimmer of hope. It was faint, fragile, but it was there. A sign that maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to move forward, carrying her memory with him, but no longer letting it consume him.
Thomas sat in his office once more, just staring at her photo on his desk. The door creaked open, and Arthur stepped in, his presence a stark contrast to the ghostly memories that had filled the room. Arthur's eyes, always sharp and perceptive, softened as he took in the scene. "Tommy," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You alright?"
Thomas nodded, a slight movement that spoke volumes. "Yeah, Arthur. Just... thinkin'."
Arthur moved to the desk, his gaze falling on the photograph. "It's time to let her go, Tommy. She wouldn't want ya stuck like this."
Thomas looked at his brother, the truth of his words sinking in. He knew Arthur was right. She had been the light in his life, but she wouldn't want him to dwell in darkness. He reached for the photograph, holding it gently as if it were a precious relic. "I know," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "But it's hard, Arthur. She was everything." Arthur placed a hand on Thomas's shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort. "Aye, she was. But you got us, Tommy. And we need ya."
Thomas nodded again, feeling the weight of his brother's words. The Shelby family had always been his anchor, and now, more than ever, he needed them. He placed the photograph in the drawer, closing it slowly. It was a symbolic gesture, a step towards healing. Her memory would always be a part of him, but he couldn't let it consume him any longer. He stood up, the chair scraping against the floor. The light in the room seemed brighter, a reflection of the new path he was determined to take. He looked at Arthur, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Let's get to work, then."
Arthur grinned, a rare sight that brought a sense of normalcy back to the moment. "That's the Tommy I know."
Together, they left the office, the door closing behind them with a sense of finality. Thomas felt a weight lift from his shoulders, the burden of the past easing just a bit. He knew it wouldn't be easy, but he was ready to face the future. Her memory would always be with him, a guiding light in the darkest of times, but he wouldn't let it drag him down anymore.
Outside, the streets of Birmingham were bustling with life, the noise and chaos a stark contrast to the quiet reflection he had just left behind. He walked with purpose, each step a testament to his resolve. The Shelby family needed him, and he would not let them down. He would honor her memory by living, truly living, not just existing in a haze of regret and sorrow. As he made his way through the familiar streets, he felt a sense of peace settling over him. It was a new beginning, a chance to rebuild and move forward. He knew there would be challenges, moments of doubt and pain, but he was ready. For her, for his family, and for himself. Thomas stopped at a street corner, looking back towards the company he built. The building stood tall and imposing, a symbol of the empire he had built. It was a reminder of all he had achieved, and all he still had to fight for. With a final glance, he turned and walked away, the light of the morning sun casting long shadows behind him. He knew the journey ahead would not be easy, but for the first time in a long while, he felt a glimmer of hope. He would carry her memory with him, but he would not let it define him. He was Thomas Shelby, leader of the Peaky Blinders, and he was ready to face whatever the future held.
Author's Notes:
To be real with you, don't know think its a good fit but I like it kinda... idk tbh. But here it is and hopefully someone likes it, also I finshed this at like 5 in the morning soooo if its sloppy oh well, jk.
AND the people who asked for fics, are being worked on don't worry I SWEAR THEY WILL BE OUT I PROMISE!
Summary: Thomas would burn the world down then not be able to hear you call his name again.
Wordcount: 5.8k
Warnings:
Possessive! Thomas, arson, gunshots, death, kissing, then lovey dovey stuff from Thomas.
Inspiration: Let the world burn - Chris Grey
The Garrison was a cacophony of noise, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. The dim light of the gas lamps cast a warm, golden glow over the worn wooden surfaces, creating an almost intimate atmosphere despite the throng of patrons.
Thomas sat in a corner booth, his back against the wall, eyes scanning the room with a calculated indifference. His suit, impeccably tailored, clung to his frame with an air of authority. He had just finished a conversation with a couple of local businessmen, deals and threats interwoven with the ease of a man who knew his power. Arthur burst through the doors, his presence a stark contrast to the quiet control that Thomas exuded. The pub fell silent for a moment as everyone turned to look. Arthur’s face was a mask of urgency, his eyes wild. John, Finn, Michael, Isaiah, and their father followed closely behind, their expressions grim. Johnny Dogs lingered at the rear, his sharp eyes taking in every detail.
"EVERYONE! CLEAR OUT! BY ORDER OF THE PEAKY FUCKING BLINDERS!" Arthur’s voice cut through the air, leaving no room for argument. The patrons scrambled to leave, their conversations halting abruptly. Chairs scraped against the floor, and the sound of hurried footsteps filled the pub as it emptied out, leaving only the Shelby clan and their close associates.
Thomas’s eyes narrowed as he took in the scene, a sense of foreboding settling over him like a dark cloud. He rose slowly, the weight of his gaze heavy on Arthur. "What's goin' on, Arthur?" His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, a warning of the storm brewing beneath the surface. John stepped forward, it would be better if he said it; his face pale and his eyes wide with dread. "Thomas...Sabini, they found Polly's home. And you remember your wife sayin' she was goin' to talk to Polly about somethin'? Well, they fuckin' took her."
Thomas froze, the words hitting him like a physical blow. His eyes darkened, filling with a cold, murderous rage. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, a slow, steady drumbeat of fury. His jaw clenched tightly, the muscles in his face twitching with barely restrained violence. He didn't speak for a moment, the silence heavy with the weight of his anger. Arthur exchanged glances with the rest of the men, seeking their silent agreement. They nodded, their faces set with determination. Arthur took a deep breath, steeling himself. "Thomas... she went to Polly because... she's havin' your kid. She's pregnant."
The room seemed to spin for a moment as Thomas processed the information. His wife, his angel in this cold, dark world, was pregnant. And now she was in the hands of his enemies. A growl escaped his throat, low and dangerous. "Those bastards..."
He turned abruptly, his mind already working through the logistics of what needed to be done. His anger sharpened his focus, turning it into a deadly precision. He barked orders to the men, his voice cold and authoritative. "Finn, get the car ready. Isaiah , gather the weapons and petrol; John, Michael, Arthur, you're comin' with me. Johnny, find out where they took her."
The men sprang into action, their movements quick and efficient. Thomas paced the room, his mind racing. He thought of his wife, her gentle smile, the way her eyes lit up when she saw him. She was the light in his life, the warmth that kept the darkness at bay. And now she was carrying his child, their future, and he would move heaven and earth to bring her back safely. He pictured her at Polly’s house, the way she would have sat at the kitchen table, her small frame dwarfed by the large wooden furniture. He imagined her talking to Polly, her voice soft and filled with excitement about the baby. And then the fear she must have felt when Sabini’s men burst in. The thought of her being scared, of her being hurt, made his blood boil. Thomas grabbed his cap, the razor blades sewn into the brim glinting ominously in the dim light. He slid it on, the familiar weight grounding him. He was Thomas Shelby, leader of the Peaky Blinders, and no one threatened his family without paying the price. He glanced around at his men, their faces set with the same determination he felt. They were ready, and so was he.
As they piled into the car, Thomas’s mind was a whirlwind of plans and contingencies. He ran through every possible scenario, every potential outcome. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake, not when so much was at stake. He clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking under the pressure. His wife’s face floated in front of him, her eyes filled with love and trust. He wouldn’t let her down. The drive to Polly’s house was tense, the silence in the car broken only by the occasional muttered curse. Thomas stared out the window, his mind a storm of thoughts. He had always been a man of action, but this time it was different. This time it was personal. He could feel the weight of the responsibility pressing down on him, but it only made him more determined.
The Shelby family had always been a force to be reckoned with, a tight-knit unit bound by blood and an unbreakable code of loyalty. Today, that bond was tested as they stood in Polly's ransacked house, the air thick with tension and unspoken fears. Thomas, surveyed the wreckage with a cold, calculating gaze, his heart a tight knot in his chest. The familiar surroundings, now torn apart, mirrored the turmoil inside him. The signs of a struggle were everywhere. Furniture overturned, shattered glass glittering like cruel stars on the floor, and papers scattered in a chaotic swirl. Thomas’s sharp eyes took in every detail, his mind racing through the possible scenarios. His wife, the angel in his dark and brutal world, was taken. She was pregnant, carrying their future, and now she was in danger. He felt a surge of anger, a visceral, consuming rage that threatened to break his carefully maintained composure.
John and Arthur stood nearby, their faces etched with concern and barely restrained fury. Michael, younger but no less determined, clenched his fists at his sides, his eyes darting nervously around the room. Polly, ever the matriarch, sat in the corner, a bruise darkening her cheek but her spirit unbroken. Her presence was a grounding force, a reminder of the resilience that ran through their veins. Thomas approached Polly, his footsteps deliberate and measured. The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the heavy breathing of the men and the creak of the floorboards under his boots. He knelt beside her, his eyes searching her face for answers. The sight of her injury ignited another flash of anger, but he pushed it down, focusing on the task at hand.
“Polly… how far along is she?” His voice was low, a rumble that seemed to echo in the shattered room. His accent, thick and unmistakable, lent a weight to his words that demanded attention and respect.
Polly sighed, a sound filled with fatigue and frustration. She cleared her throat, her gaze steady as she met his eyes. “Thomas, she said she thinks she’s about a month along.”
Thomas felt a tightening in his chest, a mix of fear and determination. A month. It was so early, so precarious. He couldn’t let anything happen to her, to their child. His mind raced with plans and contingencies, each more ruthless than the last. There would be a reckoning, but first, he had to find her, to bring her back safely. Thomas sat at the head of the table, his piercing blue eyes fixed on a map spread out before him. His mind was a whirlwind of strategies and contingencies, every possible outcome calculated and re-calculated. John, Arthur, and Michael flanked him, their faces set in grim determination. Polly stood nearby, her presence a steadying force amidst the chaos. The house was a sanctuary, a place where plans were hatched and lives were decided, and tonight was no different. Hours had slipped by unnoticed, consumed by the relentless pace of their search. Thomas's people had been a constant lifeline, connecting him to a web of contacts and informants. His fingers tapped impatiently against the table, a rhythm that matched the frenetic pace of his thoughts. Each call, each lead, was a thread he pulled at, trying to unravel the mystery of his wife's kidnapping. She was his anchor, his beacon in the darkness, and the thought of her in danger was a knife twisting in his gut.
John paced the length of the room, his restlessness a stark contrast to Thomas's stillness. Arthur leaned against the wall, his hands clenching and unclenching as he fought to contain his frustration. Michael sat quietly, his eyes flicking between the others, absorbing their tension like a sponge. Polly moved about with purpose, her sharp eyes missing nothing, her presence a reminder of the strength and resilience that ran through their blood. The ring of the phone cut through the heavy silence, and all eyes turned to Thomas as he strode over to pick it up. The moment hung in the air, a heartbeat of expectation before Johnny Dogs' voice crackled through the receiver. Thomas's grip tightened, his knuckles white against the black of the phone. His breathing hitched for a moment, a flash of vulnerability that he quickly buried beneath a mask of steel resolve.
"Tom, I think we've found where she's at..." Johnny's voice was a lifeline, a thread of hope in the darkness.
Thomas exhaled sharply, his mind racing. "Where are they keeping her, eh?" His voice was a low growl, every syllable dripping with barely restrained fury.
"Epsom...his race track," Johnny replied, the words sending a jolt through Thomas. Epsom, the place was familiar, a playground for the rich and powerful, now a prison for his beloved.
A smile, cold and dangerous, curved Thomas's lips. "Get as much petrol as you can get your hands on..." he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. The plan was taking shape in his mind, a path of fire and blood that would lead him to her. He could already see the flames, smell the smoke, hear the screams of those who had dared to cross him.
As he hung up the phone, the room seemed to pulse with renewed energy. John stopped pacing, his eyes lighting up with a fierce determination. Arthur pushed off the wall, his muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. Michael's expression hardened, his youthful face a mask of resolve. Polly nodded, her approval unspoken but clear in the set of her jaw.
"Right," Thomas began, his voice commanding the room's attention. "We move tonight. Get everything ready. We’re bringing 'er home." His eyes met each of theirs in turn, a silent vow that he would stop at nothing to rescue his wife.
The preparations began in earnest, the room a flurry of activity. Weapons were checked and rechecked, ammunition counted and distributed. Maps were consulted, routes planned with military precision. Thomas oversaw it all, his mind a whirlwind of logistics and strategy. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, sharpening his senses, fueling his resolve. His thoughts drifted to her, the image of her face a constant presence in his mind. She was only a month along, carrying their future within her, and the thought of her in danger made his blood boil. He remembered the way she smiled, the light in her eyes, the softness of her touch. Thomas's jaw clenched as he thought of the men who had taken her, his mind filled with visions of retribution. They had made a fatal mistake, one they would not live to regret. His reputation was built on ruthlessness, a legacy of violence and power that had shaped him into the man he was.
They would learn the hard way that no one touched what was his and lived to tell the tale. As the last preparations were made, Thomas took a moment to himself, stepping out into the cool night air. The stars were hidden behind a blanket of clouds, the moon a faint glow in the distance. He lit a cigarette, the familiar burn of the smoke a brief comfort. He thought of her again, his heart aching with the need to hold her, to see her safe and sound. The sound of footsteps drew his attention, and he turned to see Arthur approaching. His brother's face was a mirror of his own determination, a fierce loyalty burning in his eyes. They stood together in silence for a moment, the bond between them unspoken but unbreakable.
"We'll get 'er back, Tom," Arthur said, his voice a low rumble. "No matter what it takes."
The journey to Epsom was a blur of headlights and dark roads, the landscape rushing past in a haze of motion. Thomas sat in the driver's seat, his focus razor-sharp, his thoughts a relentless march of strategy and determination. His mind was a steel trap, allowing no room for doubt or fear. Beside him, his brothers John and Arthur, along with Michael, sat in silence, their shared resolve a palpable force. Each one of them was a cog in the well-oiled machine that Thomas had engineered for this night, their roles clear, their purpose unwavering. The moon cast an eerie glow over the countryside, the night cloaking the world in a shroud of darkness. The Epsom race track loomed in the distance, a shadowy fortress that held his world captive. Thomas's grip on the wheel tightened, his jaw set in a hard line. This was it, the moment of reckoning, the culmination of their relentless search. His heart pounded with a cold fury, the thought of his pregnant wife in the hands of their enemies fueling his every action.
As they neared their destination, the nighttime made the race track look more unforgiving, its skeletal structures silhouetted against the night sky. The vehicles rolled to a stop, engines cutting off in a symphony of finality. Thomas stepped out, the cool night air biting at his skin, the scent of petrol and determination thick in the air. He glanced at his brothers, their faces set in grim resolve, and nodded. It was time. Finn, Isaiah and his father, Johnny Dogs, and five families of the Lee's were already there, waiting in the shadows. The air was thick with anticipation, the tension a living, breathing entity. Thomas’s eyes swept over the assembled group, his expression hard, his blue eyes like shards of ice in the darkness. Each man here was ready to lay down his life for the cause, for the family, and Thomas felt the weight of that loyalty pressing down on him.
Thomas spoke, his voice a low, commanding growl that cut through the night. "You all will round up his men, find the ones that laid their hands on her and separate them from the rest; I'll deal with those personally." His words were met with nods of agreement, the resolve of the group solidifying around him like a fortress.
He turned to Johnny Dogs, who stood ready, a small, feral smile on his face. "How many cans of petrol did you get?" Thomas asked, his voice edged with a darkness that mirrored the night around them.
Johnny’s smile widened. "Enough to burn the whole world down, Tom."
Thomas nodded, satisfaction mingling with the cold rage that simmered just beneath his surface. He looked around at the men, their faces hard and determined. This was not just a rescue mission; it was a statement, a declaration of war. They would not leave this place without making it clear that no one touched a Shelby and lived to tell the tale. The night was alive with the sound of footsteps against the dirt, hushed voices, and the metallic click of weapons being checked and readied. Thomas moved among his men, his presence a steadying force, his commands clear and concise. He was the eye of the storm, the calm center around which the chaos would swirl. Every detail had been planned, every possibility accounted for. Now, it was just a matter of execution.
As they approached the entrance to the race track, Thomas's mind flashed back to the moment he had discovered his wife was missing. The rage he had felt then was nothing compared to what he felt now, standing on the brink of action. His love for her was a fierce, consuming fire, and the thought of her in danger had kindled a fury that would only be quenched by the blood of those who had dared to harm her. He signaled for his men to move into position, his movements precise and controlled. They spread out, slipping into the shadows, their figures blending seamlessly with the darkness. Thomas's eyes never stopped moving, scanning the area, assessing every potential threat. He felt the weight of the gun in his hand, the cold metal a comforting presence.
Inside the race track, the enemy was unaware of the storm about to descend upon them. Thomas knew they had the element of surprise, and he intended to use it to its fullest advantage. He glanced at John, who was crouched beside him, his face a mask of focused intensity. Arthur, John, Finn, Micheal and Isaiah were on other sides of the track; their positions strategically chosen to cover all exits. The first shots rang out, shattering the silence of the night. Thomas moved with a lethal grace, his every action deliberate and deadly. He saw his men engage the enemy, the flash of gunfire illuminating the darkness in brief, violent bursts. He pressed forward, his focus unerring, his goal clear. He would find her, and he would make them pay.
He caught sight of a group of men near the stables, their panicked movements betraying their fear. Thomas felt a grim satisfaction as he raised his gun, his shots precise and fatal. He moved through the chaos, his path cutting a swath of destruction, his mind a singular focus: get her back. His brothers fought alongside him, their loyalty and ferocity a testament to the bond they shared. Thomas reached the main building, kicking the door open with a force that splintered the wood. Inside, the dim light revealed a scene of chaos, men scrambling to defend themselves against the onslaught. He didn't hesitate, his movements a blur of calculated violence. He shot each of the men with ruthless efficiency, in the knees, making it nearly impossible for the to run. Thomas moved to one of the men on the floor whose moaning in pain, he grabbed him by his neck and forced him to look at him in his eyes, making him look his grim reaper in the eyes.
"I'm not done with y' yet'.." Thomas said his voice cold and calculated, he let go of his neck making him fall back against the floor on his back; the man let out another pained cry. His men would be back for them, to moved them to the front of the race track; to burn them.
The night air was thick with tension as Thomas Shelby navigated through the dimly lit stable area, his boots echoing against the cold, hard ground. The moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow that seeped through the cracks in the old wooden walls. His heart pounded with a fierce determination, each step bringing him closer to the back room where he hoped to find his wife. The sound of distant shouts and scuffles filtered through the air, but his focus remained unwavering. He was a man on a mission, a predator hunting in the dead of night, driven by the primal instinct to protect his own. As he approached the back room, a chilling sight greeted him. Blood stained the floor in dark, ominous patches, and drag marks indicated a struggle. A wave of cold fury washed over him. His hand clenched around the cold metal doorknob, twisting it with a deliberate force. The door swung open with a creak, and he swiftly stepped inside, his eyes scanning the room, clearing it with practiced precision. Moonlight streamed in, revealing a sight that made his heart clench: there she was, tied to a chair, her small frame illuminated by the pale glow. His wife looked up, her eyes wide with a mix of relief and fear. The sight of her, his angel, ignited a fire within him. He crossed the room in two long strides, his gun slipping back into his belt as he reached her. With deft fingers, he untied the ropes that bound her, and as soon as she was free, he pulled her into his arms. The embrace was fierce, protective, his hold on her unyielding. For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just them, their hearts beating in sync, a brief respite from the chaos.
"My angel, my sweet angel..." His voice was a gravelly whisper as he buried his face in her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume. It was a scent he had missed, one that grounded him in moments of turmoil. He pulled back slightly, cupping her face in his hands, his eyes scanning for any sign of injury. Small cuts marred her delicate skin, but they were minor, nothing that would cause lasting harm.
"Still as beautiful as when I last saw you," he murmured, a soft smile tugging at his lips before their mouths met in a desperate kiss. It was a kiss born of pain and longing, their lips moving with a frantic intensity. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, their tongues intertwining in a dance of raw emotion. When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead rested against hers, their breaths mingling. "I'm really going to be a father, eh?"
"You are..." Her smile was shy, yet filled with a warmth that soothed his soul.
Thomas brushed his thumb gently across her cheek, his touch tender. "Come on, let's get y' out of here, eh?" With ease, he lifted her into his arms, carrying her bridal style as he made his way back through the stables. The smell of blood and fear lingered in the air, but he paid it no mind. His focus was solely on her, his angel, safe in his arms.
As they emerged from the stables, the scene that greeted them was one of controlled chaos. John, Arthur, Michael, Finn, Isaiah, and his father, along with Johnny Dogs and the Lee families, were scattered around, unloading petrol cans. Blood stained their clothes, but it wasn’t their own. Thomas’s eyes flickered to the ground where the five men who had dared to touch his wife lay, their bodies broken and bleeding. He smirked, a dark satisfaction curling in his chest, before continuing to the car. He opened the passenger door and gently placed her inside, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead. "Stay here, love," he whispered, his voice soft but commanding. He closed the door with a firm click, turning to face the others.
The moon was obscured by thick clouds that mirrored the murky deeds about to unfold below. The racetrack lay eerily silent, the stillness broken only by the faint rustling of leaves in the wind. Thomas stood at the center of this storm, his sharp eyes surveying the scene. His mind was a whirlwind of anger and resolve, a tempest brewing behind his cold, piercing gaze. The scent of petrol hung heavily in the air, a harbinger of the destruction to come. John and Arthur flanked him, their faces set in grim determination. Michael, Finn, Isaiah, Johnny Dogs, and the Lee family members were scattered around, ready for the signal. The air was thick with tension, a tangible force that made every breath feel heavy. Thomas’s thoughts flickered to his wife, his angel and the way they tried to use her against him; that backfired on them horribly. A fire burned in his chest, fueled by the memory of her soft voice, her gentle touch. She was his sanctuary, and they had dared to violate it.
He strode over to the five men who were the source of his ire, their bodies already bruised and battered. His presence alone seemed to make them cower. “John, Arthur,” he called, his voice a low growl. The two brothers stepped forward, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. “I want you to move them to the front, lean them against the walls, and soak em' in petrol.” His smile was a chilling contrast to the rage in his eyes. “If you don’t, you’ll join them as well.”
Arthur nodded, a savage grin spreading across his face. “We were going to burn em' anyway, no need to tell us.”
“Good,” Thomas replied, his tone curt. He cast a glance back at the car where his wife sat, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and understanding. She knew what was coming. She knew Thomas would not let their transgression go unpunished.
The men moved swiftly, dragging the nearly lifeless bodies to the designated spot. Petrol cans were upended, the liquid splashing onto the walls, seeping into the ground. The acrid smell grew stronger, mingling with the scent of fear emanating from the men. They were too weak to struggle, too broken to plead for mercy. Their fate was sealed the moment they had laid hands on Thomas Shelby’s wife.
It took almost an hour for the entire place to be doused in petrol, every room, every corner soaked in the flammable liquid. The task would have taken much longer if not for the combined efforts of the Shelby brothers and their allies. Thomas watched, his expression unreadable, as the preparations were completed. The fire within him mirrored the impending inferno, both consuming everything in their path. Thomas reached into his coat and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a practiced flick of his lighter. The flame briefly illuminated his face, casting shadows that danced across his features. Around him, the others followed suit, those who smoked taking a moment to savor the calm before the storm. They stood in a loose semicircle, the flickering embers of their cigarettes the only light in the encroaching darkness.
The men who had dared to harm his wife were propped against the walls, their eyes darting around in a futile search for escape. Thomas stepped forward, his gaze boring into them. “Let the world burn,” he said, his voice carrying a finality that sent a shiver down the spines of everyone present.
As one, they stepped back and threw their lit cigarettes into the building. The effect was immediate and devastating. Flames erupted, racing along the trails of petrol with a voracious hunger. The night was transformed into a hellscape of red, orange, and yellow, the heat searing the air. Screams of agony pierced the night as Sabini’s men were consumed by the fire, their bodies writhing in a futile attempt to escape the flames. Thomas watched with a detached satisfaction, his face bathed in the glow of the inferno. Each scream was a note in a symphony of retribution, each flicker of flame a testament to his resolve. The men’s knees had been blown out earlier, ensuring they could not flee. Now, they were prisoners of their own fate, their arms dislocated to prevent even the slightest chance of escape. The fire roared, its fury unchecked, devouring the building and everything within. The sounds of collapsing timbers and shattering glass added to the cacophony, a fitting accompaniment to the demise of those who had crossed Thomas Shelby. He turned away, his mind already moving to the next step, the next plan. There was always another move to make, another battle to fight.
Walking briskly yet purposefully, Thomas made his way back to the car. His footsteps were steady on the gravel, the sound swallowed by the roar of the fire behind him. He opened the door, the heat from the blaze momentarily flooding the car before he slid in beside her. The interior was a haven of calm, a stark contrast to the inferno outside. His wife’s eyes, wide and searching, locked onto his, seeking the reassurance only he could provide.
“It’s done,” he said, his voice low and steady, a soft rumble in the confined space. He took her small hand in his, his grip firm yet comforting. “They won’t ever hurt you again.”
She exhaled, a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, and a flicker of relief crossed her delicate features. Thomas watched her, his heart a fortress against the world’s cruelty but a haven for her. He released her hand, his own moving to cup her face. His thumb brushed against her cheek, the simple touch conveying a world of unspoken promises. He leaned in, their lips meeting in a kiss that was both a balm and a blaze, a mixture of passion and unspoken love. His kiss deepened, his tongue seeking hers with a fervor that spoke of his desperation to connect, to reaffirm their bond in the midst of chaos. She responded in kind, her own need mirroring his. Their tongues danced, entwining in a symphony of shared breath and mutual desire. The kiss stretched on, each second a testament to their unbreakable connection. When he finally broke away, it was only to gaze into her eyes, his blue piercing eyes and intense, meeting her soft, doe-like gaze.
“I'd let the world burn, let the world burn for you,” he whispered, the words a vow etched in the air between them.
The fire outside continued to rage, a testament to the violence and power that defined Thomas. But here, in the car with his wife, he was just a man, deeply in love and fiercely protective. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her skin. The night outside was a battlefield, but inside this car, it was a sanctuary of their own making.
“Y’alright, love?” he asked softly, his accent thick, the concern in his voice palpable. She nodded, placing her hand over his, their fingers intertwining over the life they had created. It was a silent affirmation, a shared resolve to face whatever came next together.
The drive back to their home was quiet, the night around them a shroud of darkness punctuated by the distant glow of the fire. Thomas drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding hers. The road ahead was uncertain, filled with dangers and challenges, but as long as they were together, he felt invincible. His mind raced with plans and contingencies, each one centered around ensuring their safety. His wife rested her head against his shoulder, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing a soothing rhythm. Thomas glanced at her, his heart swelling with a love so profound it bordered on pain. He had built an empire, forged a legacy in blood and fire, but she was his greatest treasure. The thought of losing her, of anything happening to her or their child, was a fear that gnawed at the edges of his mind. He pushed it aside, focusing instead on the warmth of her presence, the steady beat of her heart against his arm.
As they neared their home, the familiar sights of Small Heath came into view, but they weren't home yet; they drove till they were on the outskirts. It was quiet, the sun was starting to come up; Thomas parked the car and turned to her, his expression softening. “We’re home,” he said, the words a balm to the tension that still lingered. She smiled, a small, tired smile that spoke of her own relief.
Inside their home, the world outside seemed a distant memory. Thomas helped her out of the car, his arm around her waist as they made their way to the door. The night had been long and exhausting, but the sight of their home brought a sense of peace. He closed the door behind them, shutting out the chaos and danger, if only for a while. They moved through the house in silence, the weight of the night’s events pressing down on them. Thomas led her to their bedroom, helping her undress and settle into bed. He watched her as she drifted off to sleep, her face serene and untroubled. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply be, to let go of the burdens that constantly weighed on him.
But sleep would not come easily. Thomas stood by the window, staring out into the darkness, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and plans. He knew the road ahead would be fraught with danger, that the enemies they had made would not rest until they were destroyed. But as long as he had her, as long as he had their child, he would fight with everything he had. He turned back to the bed, his eyes softening as he looked at her. She was his anchor, his reason for everything. Thomas undressed quietly, slipping into bed beside her. He pulled her close, the warmth of her body a comfort against the cold reality of their world. He kissed her forehead, a silent vow to protect and cherish her, no matter the cost.
As he lay there, his mind finally began to quiet. The night’s events would leave scars, but they would also strengthen the resolve he had to keep his family safe. He closed his eyes, the sound of her breathing lulling him into a fitful sleep. The fire outside might rage, but here, in their bed, there was peace, if only for a moment. Thomas knew that the battles would continue, that the fight for their survival was far from over. But with her by his side, he felt a glimmer of hope, a spark of light in the darkness. He tightened his hold on her, his heart a silent promise to never let go. In the midst of chaos, she was his sanctuary, his angel in a world of shadows. And as sleep finally claimed him, Thomas dreamed not of fires and battles, but of a future where they could find peace, a future where their child could grow up safe and loved. It was a dream worth fighting for, a dream worth burning the world down to protect.
Authors Notes:
Don't worry the three asks are being worked on, I just wanted to get this one out because I haven't seen anyone do this song yet or they have and I haven't seen it. But I wanted to do a Jonathan one, because he's fucking mental about his lover but idk it wouldn't click.
Have any idea's please hit me up!!! Love you all xoxo
Heyy I absolutely love your writings! I wanted to ask if you’d be willing to write something with young Cillian and older, more experienced fem reader.
Ageless Beauty
(27) Cillian Murphy x (40) F! Past Model Reader
Summary: Cillian just has a really amazing girlfriend, who loves him so~
Wordcount: 5.3k
Warnings: She’s like 6’2 btw
The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a warm, golden glow over the cozy living room. Cillian lay sprawled on the couch, his long limbs comfortably stretched out as he held a book in his hands.
It was one she had recommended to him a week ago, a captivating novel that had quickly drawn him in. His dark hair fell across his forehead, and his blue eyes moved swiftly across the pages, absorbed in the story. In the kitchen, the sounds of breakfast being prepared filled the air. The sizzle of bacon, the gentle clatter of pans, and the aromatic scent of freshly brewed coffee created a comforting symphony that blended perfectly with the quiet morning. She moved gracefully around the kitchen, her tall, statuesque figure a testament to her past as a runaway model. Despite her glamorous history, she was down-to-earth and sweet, qualities that Cillian adored about her.
"Honey~..." Her voice was a melodic call from the kitchen, cutting through the tranquil silence.
"Hm-?" Cillian peeped his head over the back of the couch, his curiosity piqued. He saw her in the kitchen, now plating their breakfast with a practiced ease. She turned her head to look at him, her high sitting-bun bobbing with each movement, and a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
She gestured toward the dining table, where she had already set out the plates. "Breakfast is ready, come on over."
Cillian smiled, dog-eared the page of his book, and placed it carefully on the couch. He quickly walked around the couch, his movements fluid and eager. As he approached the table, he took a moment to appreciate the sight of her already sitting down and taking a bite of her breakfast. She looked stunning, almost ethereal, her natural beauty enhanced by the simplicity of the morning.
"God, you look so pretty," he thought to himself, marveling at how she could look like a model even in such a casual setting. Well, after all she was one some years ago. Her hair, tied up in a high ponytail, swung gently with every little motion she made, adding an element of playfulness to her elegance.
He took his seat across from her, his eyes still drinking in the sight of her. She had made an impressive spread – homemade pancakes, crispy bacon, perfectly cooked eggs, toast, and of course, the freshly brewed coffee that now filled the room with its rich aroma. The sight and smell of the breakfast made his stomach growl in anticipation. She suddenly remembered something. "Crap- the coffee..." She got up swiftly, her movements graceful despite the urgency. She poured two cups of coffee, making each to their own liking – his with just a splash of milk and a touch of sugar, hers black and strong. She walked back to the table, balancing the cups with ease.
Cillian reached out for his cup, his fingers brushing against hers as he took it from her. "Thank you, love," he said, his Irish accent giving the words a soft, musical quality.
She smiled softly, her eyes warm with affection. "Sorry for forgetting it, truly," she said, her voice filled with genuine contrition.
He took a sip of the coffee, savoring the perfect balance of flavors. "No need to apologize, it's perfect," he assured her, his eyes meeting hers with a look of gratitude. "You always make the best coffee."
She chuckled, a light, airy sound that filled the room. "I try my best," she said, taking a sip of her own coffee. She watched him as he began to eat, noting the way he seemed to relish every bite. It made her happy to see him enjoying the meal she had prepared. As they ate, they chatted about the book he was reading, about how the characters and plot had gripped him. He animatedly described a particular scene, his hands gesturing as he spoke, his blue eyes bright with enthusiasm. She listened intently, a smile playing on her lips, loving how passionate he got about things that interested him.
He paused for a moment, his eyes softening as he looked at her. "I love mornings like this," he said, his voice low and sincere. "Just you and me, a good book, and an amazing breakfast."
She reached across the table, placing her hand over his. "Me too, Cill," she said softly. "It's the little things that make life special."
He nodded, squeezing her hand gently. "Absolutely," he agreed. "It's these moments that I treasure the most."
They continued to eat in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the clinking of cutlery and the occasional sip of coffee. The comfortable quiet was a testament to their deep connection, a bond that didn't always need words to be felt. After finishing their breakfast, she leaned back in her chair, a contented sigh escaping her lips. "That was delicious," she said, a satisfied smile on her face. "I think I might have outdone myself this time."
Cillian laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled the room. "You always outdo yourself," he said, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "Every meal you make is a masterpiece."
She blushed slightly at the compliment, her cheeks tinged with a delicate pink. "You're too kind," she said, her voice soft.
Cillian lay comfortably on the couch, the soft blanket enveloping him and his girlfriend as they watched a show together. Her long arms wrapped around him, making her the big spoon—a role reversal he found endearing and comforting. He nestled closer, feeling the warmth of her body against his back. The flicker of the TV screen cast a gentle glow over the living room, but his thoughts began to drift away from the show.
"Hey... uhh, do you still have those modeling photos of you?" he asked, his voice low and casual, with a hint of curiosity.
She looked at him with a playful smile. "Yeah, Cill...? Where are we going with this?"
"I just wanted to look at them again... is that okay?" he replied, his Irish accent softening the edges of his words.
"Oh, it's okay most definitely," she said, her smile widening as she gazed into his eyes.
He smiled back, a dreamy expression on his face as he found himself lost in her beautiful brown eyes. She always had that effect on him, pulling him into a trance with just a glance.
"Cill—hello..." she called out, breaking his reverie.
He snapped back to reality, blinking a few times. "Yeah, sorry for that, kinda got lost in your eyes again..."
She blushed heavily, her cheeks turning a rosy shade. It was easy to make her blush, but with him, it was like she melted in his hands whenever he complimented her, even with the corniest lines.
"Well, scoot over so I can get up to go get the photos you wanted to look at," she said, nudging him gently.
"Oh, yeah, sorry," he murmured, shifting to give her space.
She stood up gracefully, her height and poise evident as she walked away from the living room and into the hallway. She headed to the closet where she stored the photos, in a big old shoebox. Opening the door, she didn't even have to stand on her tiptoes like he did; she simply reached up and grabbed the box with ease. Closing the door, she turned and sauntered back to him, her model's walk still as seductive as ever. Cillian watched her with a mixture of admiration and longing, his eyes tracing the graceful lines of her body. She sat down on the couch, crossing her legs in a crisscross applesauce position, and he quickly moved to sit in her lap. She rested her head on his shoulder, her breath warm against his neck as she opened the shoebox; Sending shivers down his spine.
Inside were polaroids and glossy photo cards, some signed by other models she admired at the time. Cillian picked up a photo, his fingers brushing lightly over the image. "Drop dead gorgeous... truly," he said, his voice tinged with awe.
He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, a nervous habit he had whenever he felt overwhelmed by his emotions. She noticed his unease but couldn't immediately tell why. She stroked his arm soothingly, her touch gentle and reassuring.
"You okay, love?" she asked softly, her concern evident in her tone.
"Yeah, just... it's incredible, y'know? Seeing these photos, how beautiful you are... it's a bit overwhelming," he admitted, his eyes still fixed on the picture in his hand.
She smiled, her heart swelling with affection. "Well, I’m right here, Cill. You don’t need to look at photos to see me."
"I know, but... it's like seeing a different side of you. The confident, glamorous model. It's mesmerizing," he said, finally tearing his gaze away from the photo to look at her.
She chuckled, a soft, melodious sound. "You’re sweet, you know that?"
"Only for you…" he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.
They spent the next few minutes going through the photos, each one sparking a memory or a story. He listened intently as she recounted the moments behind the images, her voice a soothing background to the vivid memories. His fingers traced the edges of the photos, feeling the texture of the glossy paper, each touch grounding him in the reality of the moment. As they delved deeper into the box, Cillian came across a particularly striking photo. It was a black-and-white shot of her in a high-fashion pose, her eyes fierce and captivating. He held it up, showing it to her. "This one... this one's my favorite."
She looked at it and nodded, a hint of nostalgia in her eyes. "That was one of my first big shoots. I remember being so nervous."
"Didn't look it. You look like you own the world," he said, his admiration clear.
"Thanks, Cill," she said softly, leaning in to kiss his cheek.
He turned his head slightly, catching her lips with his. The kiss was tender and slow, a gentle reaffirmation of their love. When they finally pulled apart, they both smiled, the connection between them stronger than ever.
Cillian's head leaned back against her chest, the cool touch of the glossy photos lingering in his mind, each image a stark reminder of her breathtaking beauty. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a soft sigh, trying to calm the stir of emotions and the physical reaction her presence provoked. The photos, scattered and half-organized in the box, told a story of a time when she was the center of every room, every catwalk, every camera’s eye. The allure of her long legs, the confidence in her eyes, the elegance in every pose – it was almost too much to take in all at once. She reached out with her long, graceful arms, gathering the remaining photos, her movements fluid and almost hypnotic. Her fingers delicately traced the edges of the glossy prints, her touch gentle yet decisive, a testament to the control and poise she’d mastered over the years. As she slid the box across the couch, the subtle rustle of the photos inside was the only sound breaking the silence between them. Her presence, her scent, the warmth of her body enveloping him – it was overwhelming in the most intoxicating way.
Cillian shifted slightly, trying to adjust his position on her lap without drawing attention to the growing discomfort. He clenched his jaw, his breath hitching as he felt a flush of heat rise to his face. "Fuck... fuck..." he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible, a desperate attempt to release some of the tension.
She tilted her head, her eyes softening with concern as she looked down at him. "What’s the matter, baby?" Her voice was soothing, a gentle caress that only intensified the turmoil within him.
"Nothing—" he started, his voice faltering as he tried to brush off her question, the lie hanging heavy between them.
"Don’t lie to me because it doesn’t sound like nothing," she insisted, her tone firm yet tender, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder, grounding him with her touch.
He turned his head away, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. His hand instinctively moved to cover his crotch, a futile attempt to hide the evidence of his arousal. "I didn’t think it would have this bad effect on me," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Last time it wasn’t as bad; but you get the idea..."
Her eyes widened slightly in understanding, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Ohhhhh—sorry...?" she offered, a mix of amusement and empathy in her voice.
He couldn’t help but chuckle softly, despite his discomfort. "Yeah, well, you’re not exactly making it easy, love," he replied, his Irish accent thickening with the hint of a smile.
She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, her breath warm against his skin. "You’re too sweet, you know that?" she murmured, her lips brushing against his ear. "But you don’t need to be embarrassed. It’s just us."
Cillian felt a wave of relief wash over him at her words. She had a way of making everything seem less daunting, her presence a calming balm to his frayed nerves. He shifted again, trying to find a more comfortable position, but the heat between them was undeniable.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked gently, her fingers tracing soothing patterns on his arm.
He shook his head, letting out a sigh. "Not much to talk about, really. Just... you’re stunning, and it’s a bit overwhelming sometimes."
She smiled softly, her fingers gently brushing a lock of his dark hair behind his ear. The intimacy of the gesture sent a shiver down his spine. Her eyes, filled with tenderness and a hint of nostalgia, met his. He could see the memories playing out behind those eyes, the life she had lived and the stories those photos told. She took a deep breath, the rise and fall of her chest a soothing rhythm against his back.
"Do you want me to help get rid of it?" she asked, her voice soft but steady.
Her question hung in the air, the implications of it settling heavily on his mind. His breathing quickened, heart pounding in his chest like a drum. It was as if a bomb had been set off inside his mind, the sudden rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He had been grappling with his own dirty demons, the weight of his thoughts becoming just too much to bear. Her offer was both a lifeline and a challenge, a way to confront the painful arousal that had been gnawing at him.
"Pl-please..it hurts..like a lot," he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper. His beautiful blue eyes, usually so calm and composed, were now filled with a painful arousal. The vulnerability in his gaze was a stark contrast to the confident man the world knew him to be.
Her gentle chuckle broke the silence, a melodic sound that reverberated through his chest as she leaned back, pulling him with her. Cillian’s head came to rest against her collarbone, his eyes closing as he savored the comfort of their closeness. Her fingers traced idle patterns along his arm, a tender touch that sent shivers down his spine. He felt her lips, soft and warm, press against the crook of his neck. The sensation was electric, a sweet torment that made his breath hitch. She started slow, her kisses light and delicate as they traveled from his neck to his collarbone. Each touch of her lips was a promise, a silent declaration of her affection. Cillian’s body responded instinctively, a low, throaty sound escaping his lips. She loved these moments, the intimacy of their connection, and the way he surrendered so completely to her touch. His reactions were always genuine, unfiltered, and today was no different.
“A-ah… d-don’t tease me like that…” he murmured, his voice a blend of plea and desire. His Irish accent thickened by the urgency of his words. He fumbled with the strings of his sweatpants, the double knot proving to be a stubborn obstacle. His fingers, usually so deft and capable, now felt clumsy and ineffectual.
She watched him with a mix of amusement and affection, her kisses never ceasing even as he struggled. Her breath was warm against his skin, each exhale a caress that left him trembling. The sound of his frustration, tinged with longing, was a melody to her ears. She reached down, her fingers brushing against his, and gently pushed his hands away.
“Let me help you,” she whispered against his skin, her voice low and soothing. She took the strings in her hands, deftly untying the knot with practiced ease. His eyes fluttered open, a soft smile playing on his lips as he looked up at her. There was gratitude in his gaze, but also something deeper, a reflection of the bond they shared.
Cillian's breath hitched as he felt her delicate fingers curl around his throbbing cock, the thin barrier of his boxers doing little to diminish the intensity of her touch. His head leaned back against her shoulder, exposing the sharp line of his jaw and the column of his throat. Each breath he took was ragged, labored, as if she were stealing the very air from his lungs with every deliberate stroke. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the warmth of her body enveloping him as he sat nestled in her lap. Her soft chuckle vibrated through his back, sending shivers down his spine. Her fingers danced over the vein running the length of his shaft, the touch maddeningly light, yet electrifying. His body reacted instinctively, a guttural moan escaping his parted lips as he grunted, the sound echoing through the quiet room. His right hand clung to her thigh, nails digging into her flesh as a means of anchoring himself to the reality of the moment. The sensation was almost too much to bear, an intoxicating blend of pleasure and pain. He bit down on his lower lip, the sharp sting grounding him momentarily. But it wasn't long before he was lost again, drowning in the sensation of her hand teasing him through his thin boxers.
"Jesus Christ, love," he muttered, his voice a gravelly whisper, thick with his Irish accent. "You're gonna be the death of me."
Her laugh was a melodic counterpoint to his rough voice, a sweet sound that only heightened his arousal. She leaned in closer, her breath hot against his ear as she whispered, "Would that be such a bad way to go, Cillian?"
He couldn't help but chuckle at her teasing, his hand tightening its grip on her thigh. "No, darlin', it wouldn't be a bad way at all." His words were barely coherent, each syllable strained with the effort to maintain some semblance of control.
Cillian’s chest rose and fell rapidly, his breathing quickened with anticipation. His usually composed demeanor was replaced by a raw vulnerability, a stark contrast to the confident, enigmatic persona he often displayed. He tilted his head back slightly, feeling the gentle yet firm pressure of her thumb as it brushed against the damp spot that was from the tip of his cock, it had been enough pre-cum to soak through the boxers fabric. The sensation sent a shiver down his spine, causing his breath to hitch momentarily. His eyes fluttered closed, the intensity of the moment overwhelming his senses.
She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. The faint brush of her lips against his skin made his heart race even faster. “Come on, pretty boy, let mommy hear that pretty voice you have~” Her words were a soft murmur, a blend of teasing and command that sent a jolt of desire through him. Her voice, smooth and sweet, carried a hint of an accent, a reminder of her past, exotic and alluring.
A low, involuntary moan escaped his lips, his body responding to her touch and words in a way that he couldn’t control. He felt her smile against his ear, a satisfied hum of approval vibrating through her chest. She loved drawing these reactions from him, reveling in the power she held over him in these intimate moments. Her thumb continued its slow, deliberate movements, each stroke eliciting a new wave of pleasure that coursed through his body. Cillian’s hands clutched both of her thighs, his nail’s digging into her soft flesh, as he tried to anchor himself. His mind was a whirlwind of sensations and emotions, the line between pleasure and torment blurring with each passing second. He let out another soft moan, his voice cracking slightly. “Ah… please…” His accent thickened, the desperation clear in his voice. He wasn’t sure what he was pleading for – release, more, or perhaps a moment to catch his breath – but he knew he needed something from her, something only she could provide.
Cillian's breathing was ragged, each exhale a shaky sigh as he felt her fingers tugging at the waistband of his boxers. The anticipation was electric, his body buzzing with a mixture of nerves and desire. He tilted his head back, his dark hair falling over his eyes as he closed them, trying to steady his racing heart. His usually composed facade was stripped away, leaving him vulnerable and exposed under her gaze. She pulled his boxers down, then gently but painfully slowly, pulling down his sweatpants; the cool air hitting his throbbing cock and causing it to twitch in response. A low groan escaped his lips, the sound raw and unfiltered. He opened his eyes, the intensity of the moment reflected in his stormy blue gaze. She wrapped her hand around his cock, her touch light and teasing, sending a jolt of pleasure through him. His breath hitched, his body tensing with anticipation. His breath stuttered, a soft gasp escaping his lips as he glanced down at himself. His cock, rigid and throbbing, was a testament to his arousal, the tip glistening with pre-cum. The sight was almost embarrassing, yet intensely arousing. Her soft, amused hum reverberated through him, a sound that both comforted and tantalized.
"Look at you," she murmured, her voice a sultry purr that sent shivers down his spine. "Such a mess, my sweet boy." Her fingers wrapped around his length, her grip firm but not tight, just enough to make him keenly aware of every inch of his arousal. She wrapped her slender fingers around his length, her touch light and teasing at first. The initial contact sent a jolt of electricity through him, his hips instinctively bucking towards her hand. She began to stroke him slowly, agonizingly slowly, her movements deliberate and controlled. Each stroke was a tantalizing mix of pleasure and frustration, the pace just enough to keep him on edge but not enough to push him over it. He bit his lip, trying to stifle the whimpers that threatened to escape his throat, his body trembling with the effort.
Cillian's head fell back against her shoulder, his eyes fluttering closed as he tried to steady his breathing. Each stroke was a maddening tease, a promise of more that was always just out of reach. He could feel his body responding to her touch, his hips bucking involuntarily in an attempt to increase the friction. A low, desperate moan escaped his lips, his voice thick with need. "Please... please, faster..." His accent, thick with desperation, added an extra layer of rawness to his plea.
"Shh... mommy knows what she's doing, baby," she murmured, her voice a soft, soothing purr in his ear. The words sent a shiver down his spine, his mind spinning at the mixture of affection and dominance in her tone. He could feel the corners of her lips curve into a smile against his neck, her breath warm and tantalizing.
Her thumb brushed over the sensitive tip of his cock, eliciting a sharp gasp from his lips. "Patience, pretty boy," she cooed, her tone a blend of affection and command. "You'll get what you need, but in my time." Her words were a balm and a torment, a reminder of the power she held over him in this intimate exchange. His hands gripped her thighs, fingers digging into the softness of her skin. The sensation of her skin beneath his touch grounded him, a tether in the storm of his arousal. Her strokes continued, each one a deliberate, calculated move to bring him closer to the edge without letting him tip over. The pleasure was intense, a slow burn that spread through his entire body, leaving him trembling with need.
"Please..." he whispered again, his voice cracking with desperation. "Please, I need you..."
He felt a mix of frustration and exhilaration, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and sensations. The need for release was a constant, throbbing ache, yet there was a thrill in surrendering to her control, in knowing that she held the power to give or withhold pleasure at her whim. His breathing grew ragged, each inhale a struggle as he fought to keep from begging outright. His hands clutched at her thighs, fingers digging into her flesh as if seeking an anchor.
"God, you're beautiful like this," she whispered, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear. "So desperate, so needy... my perfect little slut." The words sent a jolt of arousal through him, his cock twitching in her hand. He let out a whimper, a sound that was part plea, part surrender. He could feel himself teetering on the edge, the precipice of release looming ever closer, yet she kept him suspended in that exquisite agony, her touch never faltering.
Her free hand trailed up his shirt and his chest, fingers dancing lightly over his skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. She pinched his nipple, the sudden spike of pain mingling with the pleasure, intensifying the sensations coursing through him. "Such a good boy," she murmured, her voice a soothing balm even as her actions drove him to the brink of insanity. "Just let go, Cill~ Let mommy take care of you." He was trembling now, his body a live wire of sensation. Each stroke of her hand, each whisper in his ear, was a step closer to the edge, a step further into the abyss of pleasure and surrender. He could feel his muscles tensing, the heat pooling in his core, building to a crescendo. His moans grew louder, each one a desperate plea for release. "Please... I can't... I need..."
"Not yet," she chided gently, her pace slowing even further, if that were possible. The denial was exquisite torture, his entire body screaming for the release she denied him. He could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, the intensity of the need overwhelming. "Trust me, love. Trust that I know exactly what you need."
He did trust her, implicitly. Even in the throes of this agonizing pleasure, he knew she had his best interests at heart, knew that she would take him to heights he couldn't reach on his own. Her strokes became a fraction faster, a fraction firmer, each movement a promise of the release that still eluded him. "That's it, baby," she murmured, her voice soft and sultry. “You're doing so well. Just a little longer." He could hear the affection in her tone, the pride in his submission, and it spurred him on, gave him the strength to endure. Time seemed to stretch, each second an eternity as she continued her slow, torturous rhythm. His body was a live wire, every nerve ending alight with sensation. His moans were a constant stream now, a symphony of need and surrender. He could feel himself teetering on the edge, the precipice of release looming ever closer, yet still just out of reach.
"Please... I need... please, just a little faster," he begged, his voice cracking with desperation. " I can't... I need to cum... please, let me cum..." His words tumbled out in a frantic stream, each plea more urgent than the last. He was beyond pride, beyond any sense of dignity, reduced to a quivering, needy mess in her hands.
She smiled, a slow, predatory smile that he could feel more than see. "Not yet, love. Just a bit longer. I want to see you break for me."
His eyes squeezed shut, his mind a haze of need and desire. He could feel the pressure building, a relentless force that threatened to consume him. Every fiber of his being ached for release, his body trembling with the effort to hold back. "Please..." he whispered again, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I need it... I can't take it anymore... please..."
"Shh, just a bit longer," she murmured, her voice a soothing balm. "You're doing so well, my love. Just hold on for me." Her words were a mix of praise and command, the authority in her tone making his cock twitch in her hand. He could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles coiled and strained under her touch. It was a beautiful sight, a testament to the power she held over him.
"God, please... I need to cum... I need it so bad," he moaned, his voice breaking with desperation. "Please, I'm begging you... let me cum.." His accent was thick, the desperation clear in his tone. He was on the brink, the edge so close he could almost taste it. His body ached for release, every muscle straining with the effort to hold back.
She smiled, her hand finally quickening its pace. "That's it, baby. Let go for me." Her words were a command, a promise, a lifeline. He could feel the tension in his body snap, the coil of desire unraveling as his orgasm crashed over him. His moans filled the living room, a symphony of pleasure and relief as he spilled into her hand.
With a final, forceful thrust in her hand; Cillian cried out, his voice a mix overstimulation and pleasure. His body convulsed, the release hitting him like a tidal wave, washing over him with a near blinding intensity. Ropes upon ropes of hot, sticky cum spilled out from his twitching cock, coating her pretty hand, his stomach, his boxers & sweatpants and I bit of the couch. The once well put together Cillian Murphy was now a panting and groaning mess, a stark contrast to his own otherwise calmness an hour before. His hands and nails had practically dug all the way through her thighs; He probably broke skin as well, he couldn’t help it the way she had a hold on him; was a death sentence but he didn’t mind dying a couple of times.
"Are you okay, Cillian?" Her voice, soft and caring, broke the peaceful silence that just blanketed them after the very intimate moment, they just had. Her fingers gently stroked his hair, a gesture of reassurance that grounded him in reality.
He tilted his head back and he looked up at her with a faint smile, his gaze meeting hers with a mixture of gratitude and awe. "I think I just died and came back," he admitted in a hushed tone, his Irish accent coloring his words with a touch of poetic charm. His thumb trembled slightly as he raised it in a shaky thumbs-up gesture, a playful attempt to lighten the mood.
Author's Notes:
We love same day delivery! Also yay, I love getting requests! TYSM I LOVE YOU POOKIE!! 27 is like young right? but hey he’s 48 and looks 38; idk man
But the funniest thing is, is I dead ass had a dream that somebody was gonna ask for a request! I guess I have intuition.
BTW I CANNOT REALLY SEE HIM AS A DOM UNLESS ITS IN CERTAIN SITUATIONS..HE’S EITHER A SWITCH! OR A WHINY SUB!!
Summary: Cillian loves supporting his girlfriend during her live performances
Wordcount: 3.7k
Warnings: Part 1
super supportive! Cillian, slightly perverted! Cillian, Cillian being a great boyfriend, lovey dovey things, kissing, m! overstimulating; but he’s autisticly coded-headphones, younger reader; by like 14 years-so she’s 23
The hum of anticipation vibrated through the walls of the backstage area. Cillian stood just out of sight, leaning against a metal railing, the coolness of the steel pressing against his back a sharp contrast to the electric energy pulsating around him.
The stage lights cast long shadows, and the distant roar of the crowd filled the space, a muffled thunder that echoed in his chest. He adjusted the headphones over his ears, a necessary buffer against the overwhelming decibels that would soon erupt from the speakers. The anticipation was palpable, a living entity that coursed through his veins, making his heart pound with a rhythm that matched the distant beat of the bass drum. His fingers tapped against his thigh, an unconscious mimicry of the music that played only in his mind for now. He wore a simple outfit—black jeans, a fitted t-shirt, and a leather jacket that hung loosely from his shoulders. His hair, a tousled mess of dark curls, framed his face in a way that made him look both boyish and intensely focused. His eyes, the color of stormy seas, flicked towards the stage every few seconds, as if he could will her into view just by staring hard enough.
Cillian's thoughts drifted, despite his efforts to stay grounded in the present moment. He loved her so much that it hurt sometimes, a deep ache in his chest that he couldn't quite shake. She was out there, in the spotlight, her voice ready to pour out her soul in melodies and lyrics that were as much a part of her as her heartbeat. He felt a swell of pride, an almost paternal protectiveness mingled with the fierce passion of a lover. His heart swelled with every note, every syllable she would sing tonight. He was utterly and completely devoted, and utterly helpless in the face of her talent.
He watched the crew bustling around, their movements a choreographed dance of cables and equipment. The stage manager called out instructions, her voice authoritative and clear above the din. Cillian caught snippets of conversation, fragments of technical jargon that made little sense to him but painted a picture of the precision and care that went into making a performance seamless. Cillian’s fingers brushed against the leather of his jacket, a small, grounding gesture. He thought about the first time he had heard her sing, the way her voice had cut through the noise of the world and settled deep within him. It was as if she had reached inside his chest and plucked at the strings of his heart, making it vibrate with a resonance that was entirely new and entirely hers. He had been captivated, drawn in by the power of her music and the softness of her presence.
The lights dimmed suddenly, signaling the imminent start of the show. Cillian felt a rush of adrenaline, a heady mix of excitement and nerves. He wished he could be out there with her, not in the spotlight but close enough to feel her energy, to be a part of the magic she created. He knew, though, that this was her moment, her space to command and he was content to support her from the shadows, the place where he felt most at home. He glanced at the setlist taped to the wall beside him, his eyes scanning the titles of the songs she would perform tonight. Each one held a story, a piece of her soul laid bare for the world to see. He knew them all by heart, had heard them in their rawest forms, in moments of quiet intimacy when she had shared her creative process with him. The thought of those private moments brought a soft smile to his lips, a small, secret joy that he cherished deeply.
The roar of the crowd grew louder, a wave of sound that washed over him even through the protection of his headphones. He could imagine her out there, the way she held the microphone with a confidence that belied her gentle nature, the way her eyes sparkled under the stage lights. She was a force of nature, a hurricane wrapped in a songbird’s body, and he loved her all the more for it. Cillian's mind wandered to the nights they had spent together, talking late into the night about everything and nothing. They would sit on the couch, her head on his shoulder, her fingers entwined with his, and the world outside would cease to exist. Those were the moments he lived for, the quiet, unassuming pockets of time where they could just be. He found himself longing for that simplicity now, even as he stood on the brink of one of her biggest performances yet.
He took a deep breath, the air backstage thick with the scent of sweat and anticipation. He knew she was ready, had seen the fire in her eyes as she had prepared, the way she had thrown herself into rehearsals with a single-minded determination. She was unstoppable, a powerhouse of talent and drive, and he was in awe of her. The first notes of the intro music began to play, a low hum that built slowly, teasing the audience with the promise of what was to come. Cillian felt his pulse quicken, his body attuned to the rhythm as if he were a part of the band himself. He could almost see her now, standing just behind the curtain, her heart pounding in time with his. He imagined the way she would step out onto the stage, her presence filling the space with a warmth and light that was uniquely hers. The crowd would go wild, their cheers a tidal wave of love and admiration that would crash over her, and she would soak it in, let it fuel her performance. He knew she thrived on that energy, drew strength from the connection she felt with her audience.
As the music swelled, Cillian found himself mouthing the words to the first song, a reflex born of countless hours spent listening to her practice. He could feel the emotion in every line, the way her voice would rise and fall, carrying the weight of her stories. He was transported, lost in the music even before the first note had been sung. The curtain rose, and there she was, bathed in the glow of the stage lights, her silhouette a perfect contrast against the darkness behind her. She was ethereal, a vision of grace and power, and Cillian felt his breath catch in his throat. He watched as she took her place, her movements fluid and confident, and he knew without a doubt that she was exactly where she was meant to be. Her voice rang out, clear and pure, cutting through the noise and reaching straight into his soul. Cillian closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sound wash over him, feeling the emotion in every note. He could picture her perfectly, the way her face would light up with passion, the way her body moved in time with the music.
He opened his eyes and saw her smile, a small, knowing curve of her lips that was meant just for him. It was their secret communication, a way of saying "I see you, I feel you" even in the midst of the chaos. Cillian felt a surge of love, a deep, unshakable connection that bound them together no matter where they were. As the performance continued, Cillian found himself caught in a whirlwind of emotions. He was proud, so incredibly proud of her, and he knew that this was only the beginning. She had a gift, a rare and precious talent that the world needed to hear, and he would be there every step of the way, supporting her, loving her, being her anchor in the storm.
He watched as she poured her heart into every song, her voice soaring and dipping, weaving a tapestry of sound that left the audience spellbound. He could see the impact she had on them, the way their faces lit up, the way they were drawn into her world. It was a powerful thing, to be able to touch people so deeply, and Cillian was humbled by it. When the final notes of the last song faded away, there was a moment of silence, a brief pause before the crowd erupted into applause. Cillian felt a rush of relief and joy, a sense of completion that was almost overwhelming. He watched as she took her bow, her face radiant with happiness, and he knew that this was only the beginning of her journey.
As she made her way offstage, their eyes met, and Cillian saw the love and gratitude shining in her gaze. He stepped forward, ready to envelop her in his arms, to hold her close and let her know how proud he was. She reached for him, and in that moment, the rest of the world faded away, leaving just the two of them, together in their shared triumph.
"Y'were amazin' out there," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Absolutely amazin'." He said while taking off his headphones.
The stage lights had done little to hide the effort she had put into her performance. Beads of sweat dotted her forehead, tracing paths down her temples and cheeks, glistening under the dim backstage lighting. Her hair, slightly damp, clung to her neck and forehead in tendrils that framed her face in a way that was both wild and mesmerizing. Cillian moved towards her with purpose, his steps measured but eager. His eyes, those a stormy blue, locked onto hers, and in that moment, everything else fell away. The noise, the bustle, the distant roar of the crowd—it all faded into a distant hum. All he could see was her, the woman he adored, looking at him with an exhaustion mingled with exhilaration.
Without a word, he reached out, his fingers brushing against her cheeks with a gentleness that belied the intensity of his emotions. Her skin was warm and damp under his touch, the sweat a testament to the energy and passion she had poured into her performance. He cupped her face, his hands steady and tender, his thumbs brushing away the stray droplets of sweat. Her eyes, bright and sparkling, searched his, and he could see the question there, the silent inquiry if she had done well. She opened her mouth to respond, but he didn't give her the chance. Instead, he closed the distance between them, capturing her lips in a kiss that was as fierce as it was intimate. The world around them ceased to exist, reduced to the shared space between their bodies, the mingling of their breaths. His kiss was hungry yet gentle, a paradox of passion and tenderness. He tasted the salt of her sweat, mingled with the sweetness of her lips, and it only fueled the fire within him.
His tongue traced the seam of her lips, coaxing them open, seeking entrance. She responded eagerly, her mouth parting to welcome him. Their tongues met, a slow, deliberate dance that spoke of familiarity and longing. He savored the feel of her, the way she tasted, the way she moved against him. Every stroke, every caress, was a reaffirmation of their connection, a silent promise that he was here, with her, for her. He pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around her waist, holding her against him. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart, echoing his own, a syncopated rhythm that spoke of shared adrenaline and unspoken words. She melted into him, her body pliant and trusting, and he deepened the kiss, pouring everything he couldn't say into the movement of his lips and tongue. When they finally broke apart, both breathless and slightly dazed, he kept his forehead pressed against hers. Their breaths mingled, the air between them charged with the remnants of their kiss. He looked into her eyes, searching for any sign of doubt or uncertainty, but all he saw was the same overwhelming love and gratitude that mirrored his own.
"Y'know," he said softly, his voice a husky whisper, "I don't care if you're sweaty or tired or anything else. To me, you're perfect, just like this."
She smiled, a soft, radiant smile that lit up her entire face. "Thank you, Cillian," she whispered, her voice just as thick with emotion as his. "I couldn't have done it without you."
He shook his head, his hands still cradling her face. "No, love, this was all you. You're amazin', and I'm so damn proud of you."
He kissed her again, a gentle, lingering kiss that was more about comfort and connection than passion. It was a promise, a reassurance that he was here, that he would always be here, no matter what. When they pulled apart, he finally let his hands fall, but he kept one arm around her waist, unwilling to break the physical connection completely.
“Cill, there’s a fan signing I’ve got to do,” she said, her voice a soft melody that he never tired of hearing. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his arm in a familiar, comforting gesture. “If you want to come you can, or you can stay in my trailer until I’m back.”
He nodded, considering her words. He understood the offer was made with his comfort in mind. The idea of facing the inevitable swarm of fans, the flash of cameras, the barrage of questions – it wasn’t appealing. Not tonight, when he simply wanted to be with her, to bask in the afterglow of her performance. But he also knew why she made the offer. She knew he hated not knowing where she was, not being by her side.
“Ah, I’ll come with ya,” he said, his Irish lilt soft but resolute. “Can’t have ya facin’ all that on your own, can I? Besides, I like watchin’ you with your fans. It’s good to see how much they love you.”
The crew greeted them with nods and smiles, used to seeing them together, a power couple in every sense. As they approached the fan signing area, the noise level rose, a cacophony of excitement that made his ears ring. He tightened his hand on her back, a subtle squeeze of reassurance, and she glanced up at him, her eyes full of gratitude. They stepped into the room together, and the fans erupted into cheers and applause. Cameras flashed, capturing their every move, but he focused solely on her, on the way she lit up under the adoration of her fans.
One fan, a young girl with wide eyes and trembling hands, approached the table. She looked at Cillian with a mix of awe and shyness, her voice barely a whisper as she asked for his autograph as well. He smiled, a warm, encouraging smile, and took the photo she offered, signing it with a flourish. “Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes shining with tears. “You’re both amazing.”
He nodded, a soft, “Thank you,” escaping his lips. He watched as the girl moved away, clutching her signed photo like a treasure. He glanced at her, seeing the pride in her eyes as she watched him. They were in this together, sharing the highs and the lows, supporting each other through it all. The signing went on for what felt like hours, but he didn’t mind. He watched her with a sense of awe, her energy seemingly endless as she engaged with each fan. He admired the way she handled the crowd, her patience and kindness shining through. He saw the way the fans responded to her, their faces lighting up with joy and excitement. It was clear how much she meant to them, and he felt a swell of pride knowing she was his.
Finally, the last fan left, and the room quieted. She turned to him, exhaustion and satisfaction mingling in her eyes. “Ready to head back?” she asked, her voice soft.
He nodded, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they made their way back to her trailer. The walk was quiet, the night air cool and refreshing after the heat of the signing room. They didn’t need to speak, the silence comfortable and familiar. He could feel her leaning into him, her body relaxing against his. He admired the way she moved, the grace and confidence that seemed to come so naturally to her. She caught his gaze and smiled, a soft, intimate smile that made his heart ache with love.
“Thanks for comin’ with me, Cill,” she said, her voice gentle. “It means a lot.”
“Always,” he replied, his voice a low murmur. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
The trailer was a haven of calm, a stark contrast to the frenetic energy that had filled the concert hall only hours before. The dim lighting created a warm, intimate atmosphere, casting gentle shadows that danced across the walls. Outside, the night was quiet, the distant hum of city life a soothing backdrop to their solitude. Cillian and she were entwined on the small couch, their bodies fitting together with the ease of long familiarity. The air was thick with the lingering scent of her performance – a heady mix of perfume, sweat, and adrenaline. Cillian nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. He inhaled deeply, savoring the unique blend of her fading perfume and the remnants of her exertion. It was a scent he had come to associate with her, a comforting reminder of her presence. He pressed a gentle kiss to her neck, feeling the soft pulse of her heartbeat under his lips. "You still smell nice, love," he murmured, his voice a low, affectionate rumble.
She chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through her body and into his. "You always say that," she replied, her voice tinged with amusement and affection. She shifted slightly, turning her head to look at him. Her eyes were soft, the fatigue from her performance mingling with the contentment of the moment. He smiled, a slow, lazy smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "That's because it's always true," he said, his Irish accent wrapping around the words like a familiar melody. He traced a finger down her arm, marveling at the softness of her skin. She was still in her stage clothes, even after doing the fan signing. the fabric crinkled and slightly damp from her exertions, but to him, she looked perfect.
Cillian gently trailed his lips down her neck, planting soft, lingering kisses along her warm skin. He could feel the gentle thrum of her pulse beneath his lips, a steady, comforting rhythm that matched the beat of his own heart. Her skin was smooth and slightly damp, a testament to the energy and effort she had poured into her performance just hours before. He savored the taste of her, the saltiness mingling with the faint floral notes of her fading perfume. As his kisses reached her collarbone, she sighed softly, a sound that sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. He paused, his lips hovering just above her skin, and smiled against her collarbone. "I like that voice of yours, darling," he murmured, his Irish accent wrapping around the words like a warm embrace. The endearment rolled off his tongue with ease, a term of affection that had become second nature between them.
She responded with a soft, breathy laugh, the sound vibrating through her body and into his. "You always know how to make me feel special, Cill," she said, her voice a gentle caress. She turned her head slightly, her eyes meeting his with a look of pure adoration. In the dim light, her eyes sparkled, a mix of fatigue and contentment that made his heart swell with love.
He continued his exploration, his lips trailing a path down to her shoulder. Each kiss was a tender declaration, a silent promise of his unwavering devotion. He loved these quiet moments, the intimacy of their closeness, the way they could communicate without words. His hands roamed over her body, tracing the contours of her curves through the fabric of her stage clothes. To him, she was a work of art, every inch of her a testament to her strength and beauty. She shifted slightly, arching her back to give him better access. He took the opportunity to kiss a particularly sensitive spot just above her shoulder blade, eliciting another soft moan from her lips. The sound was music to his ears, a symphony of pleasure that resonated deep within him. He could feel her body responding to his touch, the subtle shift of her hips, the way her fingers tightened their grip on his arm.
"You know," she whispered, her voice husky with desire, "you're pretty good at this."
He chuckled softly, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "Well, I've had a bit of practice," he teased, his lips curving into a playful smile. "But it's easy when I've got such a beautiful muse."
She laughed again, a soft, melodic sound that filled the small space with warmth. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Murphy," she said, her tone light and teasing.
He grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Oh, I know," he replied, his voice a low purr. He shifted slightly, his body pressing more firmly against hers. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the soft rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. It was moments like this that he cherished, the quiet intimacy that came from truly knowing and loving someone. As he continued to pepper her skin with kisses, his mind wandered back to her performance. He had watched her from backstage, his heart swelling with pride as she commanded the stage. She had been a vision of confidence and grace, her voice soaring through the hall with a power that left the audience spellbound. He admired her dedication, her passion, and he felt a deep sense of gratitude that she had chosen to share her life with him.
Author’s Notes:
It’s like a better version of Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce, who the fuck am I kidding? This is so much better!!
Summary: He's a bit deranged, but he loves you in his own sick and twisted way.
Wordcount: 7.8k
Warnings:
extremely perverted! Jonathan, extremely possessive! Jonathan, sexual harassment, sexual assault, harassment, heavy stalking, stealing personal belongings, threatening, manipulating, gaslighting, belittling, degrading, kidnapping for a second, cumming in panties, jerking off, forced kissing, whining, whimpering, begging, all around subby things from Jonathan.
Jonathan’s apartment is a study in organized chaos. Papers and books are strewn across every available surface, creating a labyrinthine maze that only he understands.
The flickering light from the computer screen casts a ghostly pallor over the room, accentuating the shadows that dance along the walls. Jonathan sits at his desk, a place of both work and obsession. His hair is a disheveled mess, beads of sweat dotting his forehead and trickling down the nape of his neck. His suit, once pristinely pressed, is now rumpled; the top button of his shirt undone, and his tie hanging loosely, as if discarded mid-thought.
His fingers glide over the mouse, the soft clicks echoing in the otherwise silent room. Each photo that appears on the screen brings a new wave of emotion, a blend of longing and possessiveness that tightens his chest and quickens his breath. He leans forward, eyes narrowing as he studies each image with meticulous care. These aren't just pictures to him—they are glimpses into her life where he has painstakingly inserted himself into, moments he has captured either through his own lens or extracted from the depths of the internet. Jonathan exhales softly, his lips curving into a faint, almost predatory smile as he reaches the more revealing photos; not really. These are the ones he treasures most, the ones that reveal her in states of vulnerability and intimacy. Whether he found them online or took them himself, each image is a testament to his unyielding obsession.
He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, pushing it back from his face, only for it to fall back into disarray moments later. His eyes, a piercing blueish green, scan over the images with a clinical yet possessive gaze. He imagines her in those moments, unaware of his presence, blissfully ignorant of the shadow that watches over her. His breathing grows heavier, more labored, as his mind conjures scenes of their intertwined fates. Jonathan’s glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, the silver frames glinting under the dim lamp light; He clicked his mouse one more time, the sound echoing in the silence. He knew what came next. He had been through these photos countless times, scrutinizing each one with the devotion of a scholar studying sacred texts. They were his Bible, each image a verse he had memorized.
There it was, his favorite photo of her. It was a candid shot taken at a coffee shop where she worked. The image was slightly blurred, capturing the movement of her hands as she passed a cup to a customer, her smile bright and genuine. Jonathan stared at the photo, his heart aching with a twisted blend of love and possessiveness. He remembered the day he took it, how he had positioned himself discreetly at the back, pretending to read a newspaper while his camera did the real work. God, her smile, he thought, his breath hitching slightly. That smile was the beacon that guided him through the darkness of his existence. He would do anything and everything for her, just to see her smile. His mind wandered back to the first time he saw her. She was a new barista at the small coffee shop he frequented near the Arkham Asylum. He had noticed her immediately—her grace, her kindness, the way she interacted with customers. It was as if a light had entered his life, one that he desperately needed.
His fingers traced the outline of her face on the screen, a reverent, almost worshipful gesture. The apartment around him was forgotten; the only reality that mattered was her image on the screen. He could almost hear her laughter, the way it would ring out softly over the hum of conversation and the clinking of coffee cups. He imagined what it would be like to be the cause of that laughter, to be the one who brought joy to her life. His obsession had started innocently enough—small, frequent visits to the coffee shop, watching her from a distance. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned to months; his fascination grew. He began to take photos, each click of the camera shutter a way to capture a piece of her to keep with him always. He knew it was wrong, knew it crossed boundaries, but he couldn’t stop himself. It was as if she had cast a spell on him, one he had no desire to break.
He leaned back in his leather chair, a sigh escaping his lips as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair. It had been another grueling day at Arkham Asylum dealing with the disturbed minds that mirrored his own in many ways. The monotony of his daily routine was a necessary facade, a mask that concealed the darkness within. But now, as the evening crept in, he was on the verge of something far more exhilarating. His piercing blueish eyes flickered with anticipation as he glanced at his work bag under his desk. Thinking about how he had been waiting for that moment, meticulously planning, and now he finally had a tangible piece of her. Jonathan Crane, master of fear, had been reduced to a lovesick stalker, but he didn't care. His obsession with her was all-consuming, a fire that burned brighter with each passing day. He remembered the moment like it was yesterday, but it actually was just a couple of hours before; it went a little like this.
Once he had discovered her routine, learning that she did her laundry at the same laundromat every week. She trusted the place enough to leave her clothes unattended while she went to work. It was a small window of opportunity, but Jonathan was nothing if not patient. He had bided his time, waiting for the perfect moment to act. Today was the day. Her clothes had finished drying just before she had taken her lunch to come retrieve them. Jonathan had slipped into the laundromat, on his way to his apartment, blending in with the other patrons. His heart pounded in his chest as he approached the dryer, his hands trembling slightly. He was always calm in the face of fear, but this was different. This was personal. He reached into the dryer, sifting through the warm, freshly cleaned clothes until his fingers brushed against something delicate. He pulled out a pair of black panties, adorned with lace trim. They were hers, a piece of her most intimate apparel. The thrill of possession surged through him, a dark, twisted satisfaction that made his pulse quicken. Jonathan slipped the panties into his coat pocket, acting nonchalant as he left the laundromat. Once he was out he moved them to his work bag. The walk back to his apartment was a blur, his mind racing with thoughts of her. She was so close, yet so unattainable. But now he had a piece of her, something tangible to hold onto. Fuck, he couldn’t even believe it; he couldn’t believe that he managed to do that.
He leaned over while in his chair, his slender fingers curling around the strap of his work bag, pulling it into his lap with a sense of purpose. However, in a fleeting moment, his mind wandered, envisioning her, the object of his relentless fixation, as the weight on his lap, a subconscious desire momentarily surfacing before he regained control. With a sharp exhale, he unzipped one of the pockets of his bag, his movements precise and deliberate. His fingers emerged, clutching a pair of black panties with delicate lace trim, a stark contrast to the cold, calculated demeanor he often exuded. He held them up, the fabric soft against his skin, his mind drifting into a realm of thoughts, some gentle and longing, others tinged with a more primal desire.
Jonathan's thoughts were a whirlwind, a mix of conflicting emotions and desires. He imagined her scent lingering on the fabric, the softness of her skin, the curve of her body. His breath hitched, the image vivid in his mind, yet unattainable in reality. As he sat there, lost in his thoughts, his gaze lingered on the panties, a symbol of his unspoken obsession. He felt a pang of guilt, a twinge of shame at the intensity of his desires. Yet, he couldn't deny the exhilaration, the rush that came with the forbidden. His fingers traced the lace trim, a ghost of a touch, his mind filled with fantasies that bordered on obsession
He carefully placed the black panties with lace trim on the desk, his fingers tracing the delicate fabric as if it were a precious treasure. Setting his bag back down on the floor, his eyes lingered on them for a moment, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. Turning his attention to the computer, closing the folder he had opened and moving his mouse to a different folder; he opened it, it was filled with photos of her in more intimate settings. They were snapshots of her daily routine, mundane yet intimate moments captured without her knowledge. He clicked through them slowly, savoring each image of her getting undressed, her naked form, and even pictures from her shower.
As he gazed at her photos, a soft sigh escaped his lips. "My beautiful baby," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. To him, she was perfection, a vision of purity and innocence that he felt compelled to protect and possess.
His piercing blueish eyes fixated on the object before him, the black panties with a delicate lace trim, a relic of his relentless obsession. As he reached out to touch them, his fingers trembled with a mixture of desire and restraint, a testament to the tumultuous emotions raging within him.
"Fuck... if only you knew what you do to me..." His voice, a low whisper, barely audible in the quietude of the room, carried the weight of his longing. Each syllable dripped with fervor, a confession uttered to the silent darkness, a futile attempt to convey the depth of his obsession.
His hand hovered over the panties, trembling with anticipation, as if drawn by an invisible force. With a hesitant touch, he traced the delicate lace, his fingertips grazing the fabric with a reverence reserved for sacred relics. The mere sight of them ignited a fire within him, stroking the flames of desire that threatened to consume him whole. The room seemed to close in around him as he struggled to contain the rising tide of arousal coursing through his veins. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each inhalation laden with the heady scent of lust and longing. With a shaky exhale, he leaned closer, his senses overwhelmed by the intoxicating allure of the panties before him.
His hand moved instinctively to his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle as he sought to free himself from the constraints of reality. The leather yielded under his touch, releasing him from its grasp with a soft click that echoed in the silence of the room. With trembling hands, he unbuttoned his pants, the fabric yielding to his touch with a reluctant sigh. As he slid the zipper down, the cool rush of air against his skin sent shivers down his spine, a stark reminder of the vulnerability that lay beneath his stoic facade. With each movement, he felt himself unraveling, the barriers he had erected against his desires crumbling in the face of overwhelming temptation. A sharp intake of breath escaped his lips as he freed himself from his pants, the weight of his arousal pressing against the fabric of his boxers.
Slipping his hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, Jonathan closed his eyes, lost in a world of pleasure. The intimate touch of his hand against his skin sent waves of ecstasy coursing through his body, mingling with the sharp sting of desire that burned within him. He couldn't help but let out a soft whimper, a sound that was both desperate and exhilarating in its intensity.
"H-ha..." His voice was barely a whisper, choked with emotion as he struggled to contain the overwhelming sensations that threatened to overwhelm him. In that moment, he felt more alive than he ever had before, his senses heightened to a fever pitch as he surrendered himself completely to the ecstasy of the moment. He hadn’t even started yet…
With a sense of urgency bordering on desperation, he freed himself from the confines of his clothing, exposing himself to the cool air of the room. His cock throbbed with anticipation, aching for the touch that would bring him release. With trembling hands, Jonathan wrapped his hands around his length, relishing in the sensation of his own touch. His thumb traced the length of his shaft, then the oh so sensitive slit of his that was dripping with pre-cum; this eliciting a low moan of pleasure that escaped his lips unbidden. Removing his glasses with practiced ease, Jonathan set them aside on his desk, allowing his vision to blur as he surrendered himself to the darkness that surrounded him, He closed his eyes, and occasionally opening them, but mainly he liked surrendering himself to the exquisite torment of his own desires. The only light being from his computer screen with her nude photos.
With a sense of urgency bordering on desperation, Jonathan brought his hand to his face, covering his mouth in a feeble attempt to stifle the sounds that threatened to escape. He knew he was loud when it came to this, his pleasure echoing off the walls of his apartment like a symphony of depravity. But when it came to her, the noise was deafening. With practiced ease, Jonathan's hand moved up and down his twitching shaft, each stroke driving him closer to the brink of ecstasy. He knew what he liked when he was in this position, his movements precise and calculated, fueled by a hunger that knew no bounds. And as he lost himself in the rhythm of his own pleasure, he felt a sense of liberation wash over him, freeing him from the constraints of his own guilt and shame.
"F-fuck... I love you so fuckin’ much, baby..." Jonathan murmured, it seemed quieter since he was covering his mouth, but nevertheless his voice was hoarse with desire. The words tumbled from his lips like a prayer, a desperate plea for the woman who haunted his every dream. In that moment, she was all he could think of, her image seared into his mind's eye with a clarity that bordered on obsession.
With a mixture of desire and apprehension, Jonathan reached out, his hand no longer covering his mouth; fuck he sounded so pathetic when he jerked off to her, his hand trembling slightly as it made contact with the fabric. He brought the panties to his face, inhaling deeply, savoring the scent that lingered upon them. His breath caught in his throat as he closed his eyes, lost in the intoxicating aroma. He moaned softly, the sound muffled by the fabric pressed against his mouth, a crude testament to the depths of his depravity. And in that moment, Jonathan knew only one thing: he would do whatever it took to make her his, forever and always.
His eyes, dark and intense, were fixed on the black panties with delicate lace trim pressed against his mouth. The fabric muffled his moans, but the intensity of his desire was palpable. Each breath he took was filled with the intoxicating scent of the woman who occupied his every thought, driving him to the brink of madness. His hand moved with a practiced rhythm, stroking his throbbing cock with increasing fervor. The sensation of the lace against his lips sent shivers down his spine, heightening his arousal to an almost unbearable level. His movements, once slow and controlled, began to grow erratic and desperate. He could never last long when he thought of her, but his stamina was the last thing on his mind.
“A-ah~..ngh..fuckin’ hell,” Jonathan gasped, his voice a strained whisper against the fabric. His eyes fluttered shut, rolling back into his head as he felt the familiar build-up of release. His body trembled with anticipation, every muscle tense as he edged closer and closer to the brink.
With a sudden, fevered motion, Jonathan tore the panties from his face, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The cool air hit his flushed skin, a stark contrast to the heat coursing through his veins. He wrapped the delicate fabric around his twitching cock, his hips bucking wildly as he surrendered to the overwhelming waves of pleasure. His grip tightened, the lace digging into his flesh as he pumped faster, each stroke bringing him closer to the inevitable. His mind was a whirlwind of desire and obsession, each thought consumed by her image. He could see her in his mind’s eye, the way she moved, the way she looked at him with a mixture of fear and something unspoken. It drove him wild, pushing him further into the depths of his dark cravings.
As his movements became more frantic, Jonathan's breath hitched, his body tensing as he reached the precipice. “Fuck... I’m so close,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice rough and strained. His hips bucked erratically, each thrust sending jolts of pleasure through his entire being.
The sensation of the lace against his skin was almost too much to bear, the friction heightening his arousal to a fever pitch. His hand moved with a desperate urgency, each stroke pushing him closer to the edge. He could feel the pressure building, a tight coil of heat in his core ready to snap. With a final, forceful thrust, Jonathan cried out, his voice a mix of pleasure and anguish. His body convulsed, the release hitting him like a tidal wave, washing over him with a blinding intensity. Ropes upon ropes of hot, sticky cum spilled out from his twitching cock, coating the pretty fabric of the black panties with an almost obscene abundance. The once pristine lace was now sullied, a stark contrast to its delicate beauty. His free hand's nails dug into the wood of his desk, leaving deep, angry marks as he rode out the waves of his climax. Enough of his release filled the fabric that it began to seep through, dripping slowly onto the floor below his desk in thick, viscous droplets.
"F-fuck... f-fuck..." Jonathan muttered, his voice barely more than a strained whisper. The words were laced with a raw, guttural intensity, each syllable a reflection of his spent state. His eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, he was lost in the afterglow, his mind adrift in a sea of hazy satisfaction. He clutched the panties tightly, the fabric now damp with his release, a tangible symbol of his unrelenting desire.
As the waves of pleasure subsided, Jonathan slumped back in his chair, his body spent and trembling. His breath came in shallow gasps, his mind slowly returning to reality. The room seemed to close in around him, the shadows deepening as he lay in the aftermath of his desire. He glanced down at the panties still wrapped around his softening cock, a pang of guilt cutting through the haze of his satisfaction. The reality of his actions hit him with a cold clarity, the weight of his obsession pressing down on him like a heavy shroud. But even in the depths of his guilt, he knew he could not stop. The allure of her presence, the thought of making her his, was too powerful to resist. Jonathan’s fingers trembled as he carefully unwound the panties from his semi-soft cock, his touch almost reverent. His eyes closed, a mixture of longing and despair etched across his features.
“Why do you haunt me so?” he whispered into the silence, his voice barely audible. The question hung in the air, unanswered, a testament to his torment. He knew that his desire for her was twisted, his actions unforgivable, yet he could not bring himself to stop. The darkness within him was too deep, too consuming.
In the months that had passed since the incident with her panties, Jonathan’s obsession had only deepened, festering like an untreated wound. His thoughts, once rational and calculated, had become a chaotic jumble of desire and fixation, driven by a love so twisted that it consumed every waking moment. He was a man possessed, his mind a labyrinth of dark fantasies and delusions, each one more depraved than the last. He would sit for hours at his desk after he had just spent hours at his office; the glow of his computer screen casting eerie shadows across his gaunt features as he pored over new and old images and now videos of her, all collected from the hidden cameras he had so meticulously placed. The sight of her, even in the most mundane of moments, was enough to send a shiver of pleasure down his spine. He would watch her laugh, cry, sleep, and live her life, all while he remained an invisible presence, a ghost haunting her every move.
Jonathan's apartment had become a shrine to her, every surface covered with photographs, notes, and mementos that he had painstakingly gathered. He had memorized every detail of her face, the curve of her smile, the sound of her voice. It was an obsession that knew no bounds, a hunger that could never be sated. And as his infatuation grew, so too did his desperation.
He knew she was aware of him, she’d most definitely had found the cameras he somehow put in her apartment so many months ago. It was the way she had suddenly moved apartments, but only to unknowingly end up in the same complex as him, she didn’t know where he lived but he had his proof that she knew enough to just up and move. The discovery of the cameras had been a setback, because he wouldn’t get those back but, it all uploaded to his computer at the end of every day, so he didn’t lose anything really, but it had only fueled his determination. He had to become more careful, more cunning in his efforts to watch her, to protect her from the dangers that she might encounter from being so perfect. However it was her fault, really, for not being thorough enough in her search for his eyes, she deserved it in his eyes.
"You're mine," Jonathan would whisper to himself, his voice a low, dangerous murmur as he watched her on his screen. "You just don't know it yet."
His need for attention, for acknowledgment of his existence, had driven him to new lengths. He had begun buying her gifts, leaving them at her door or in her mailbox with meticulously crafted notes. The thrill of seeing her take them inside, even if she never opened them, was intoxicating. It was a game, a dance of shadows and secrets, and he was determined to win. Each gift was chosen with care, a testament to his knowledge of her likes and desires. Clothes, jewelry, food, and even more intimate items like sex toys found their way to her doorstep. He knew her better than anyone, better than she knew herself. It was a twisted form of courtship, a display of his devotion, his love. And yet, there was always the risk of discovery. He had to be careful, precise in his placement of new cameras. He couldn't afford another mistake. The thought of her finding out, of her rejecting him outright, was too much to bear. He needed her, craved her in a way that defied logic and reason.
He would spend hours planning his next move, his next gift, each one a symbol of his undying love. He imagined her finding the packages, her expression unreadable as she carried them inside. Did she ever wonder who they were from? Did she ever think of him, even for a moment? The thought was enough to send a thrill of excitement through him, his heart pounding in his chest.
"One day, you'll understand," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "One day, you'll see how much I love you."
But for now, he remained in the shadows, his presence a constant, unseen force in her life. He would protect her, watch over her, even if she didn't realize it. He would do anything, everything, to make her his. And as he sat at his desk, surrounded by the trappings of his obsession, Jonathan knew that he would never stop. He couldn't. She was his, in every way that mattered. And so, the little game continued, a dance of shadows and secrets, a twisted love story that only he could understand. With each passing day, his obsession grew, feeding on the darkness within him, driving him to new heights of desperation and desire. He was a man on the edge, teetering on the brink of madness, but he didn't care. As long as she was his, nothing else mattered. In the end, it was her fault. She should have been more careful. She should have seen the signs, noticed the cameras, understood the depth of his love. But she hadn't, and now she was his, whether she knew it or not. And Jonathan Crane, the man who loved her more than life itself, would do whatever it took to keep it that way. Forever.
Tonight, as she closed up the café where she worked, Jonathan knew it was the perfect time to finally confront her. Him knowing her work schedule was so helpful. He had waited long enough, his patience fraying at the edges. He watched from the shadows as she bid farewell to her coworker, her smile a beacon of light in his otherwise dark world. She locked the door behind them, turning her attention to the kitchen, methodically checking inventory and ensuring everything was in its place. Making sure that everything that needs to be locked, is locked. Jonathan's breath quickened as he moved silently into the café, lock picking is easier than most people would imagine; with his heart pounding in his chest. He felt a rush of adrenaline, a heady mix of fear and excitement. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the moment he would finally see her face in real time and not just through the lens of his hidden cameras. He sat down in the dimly lit corner of the cafe, his eyes fixed on the doorway through which she would soon emerge. It was the doorway that was open with no door and you could enter by being behind the counter.
She appeared, her expression serene as she finished her tasks, unaware of the danger lurking nearby. Jonathan's eyes drank in the sight of her, his breath hitching in his throat. She was even more beautiful in person, her presence intoxicating. He took a step forward, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Her head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise and fear.
"Who... who are you?" she stammered, her voice trembling.
Jonathan took another step closer, his gaze intense. "I think you know who I am," he said, his voice low and menacing. "I've watched you for so long, admired you from afar. You were always so close, yet so far away."
So that’s what he looked like, she thought he would look worse, but back to the task at hand there is a deranged stalker in her presence. Her eyes darted around the café, searching for an escape. He’s practically in the way of it; "Stay away from me," she warned, her voice gaining strength. "I don't want anything to do with you."
Jonathan's expression hardened, his jaw clenching. "You don't understand," he said, his tone desperate. "I love you. I've always loved you. You belong to me."
"No, I don't," she shot back, her fear turning to anger. "You don't know anything about me. You're sick and twisted."
He flinched at her words, but his resolve remained unshaken. "I know everything about you," he insisted. "I've seen you at your most vulnerable, your most intimate. I know you better than anyone else. I love you…”
"That's not love," she said, shaking her head. "That's obsession. It's not the same thing." She gritted her teeth; “You look pretty smart so it’s depressing that you don’t know the difference” Attitude, he would not like that.
Jonathan's eyes darkened, his hands curling into fists. "You don't get to decide what this is," he growled. "You don't get to push me away. I've done everything for you, watched over you, protected you. And this is how you repay me?"
She stared him down, her breath slowly starting to come in shallow gasps. "No," she whispered. "I won't be a prisoner to your fuckin’ delusions."
Jonathan started walking over in her direction, his presence imposing. "You already are," he murmured, his eyes locked onto hers. "And there's no escaping it."
Her eyes flashed with defiance, her body tense with resolve. "Watch me," she said, her voice steady. What was she gonna do, scream; The fuck was that supposed to do?
For a moment, neither spoke, the silence between them a palpable force. Jonathan's mind raced, torn between his overwhelming desire to possess her and the dawning realization that his actions were driving her further away. His hands trembled at his sides, the barely contained energy threatening to spill over. He watched her every move, the subtle shift of her weight, the way her eyes darted towards the small doorway. She was looking for an escape, and he knew it was now or never. In a fluid motion that belied the severity of his intentions, Jonathan sprang into action. Despite the constraining suit, his movements were swift and precise, a testament to his unyielding determination. He darted behind the counter, his heart pounding in his chest as he made it just in time to cut off her path. With a practiced ease, he hopped over the small swinging saloon door that separated them, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Baby, I can do this all night,” he said, his voice a low, seductive drawl, tinged with a hint of madness. His breath came in ragged gasps, the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he closed the distance between them. The endearment rolled off his tongue with a twisted sense of affection, a stark contrast to the cold, calculating glint in his eyes.
She stood frozen, her body tensed with the urge to flee, but he was already too close. Jonathan's presence was overwhelming, a dark, looming shadow that seemed to consume the very air around them. He could see the conflict in her eyes, the struggle between fear and defiance. She wanted to leave, to escape the web he had so meticulously woven around her, but he was in her way, a living, breathing barrier that she could not overcome.
"Don't be afraid," Jonathan murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I only want what's best for you. Can't you see that?" He reached out, his fingers brushing against her arm, a touch that was both tender and possessive. His gaze softened, but the underlying intensity remained, a stark reminder of the darkness that lay beneath his calm exterior.
She flinched at his touch, but there was nowhere to go, no escape from the prison he had created. Jonathan's heart ached at her reaction, the realization that his love – was the very thing that repelled her. But he couldn't stop, wouldn't stop. His obsession had taken root, a dark, twisted seed that had grown beyond his control.
"You don't have to fight me," he continued, his tone soothing yet insistent. "We can be together, just like I've always dreamed. You and me, forever." His words hung in the air, a chilling promise of a future she wanted no part of.
As he stepped closer, Jonathan's eyes roamed over her face, drinking in every detail. The way her lips parted in silent protest, the flicker of fear in her eyes, the defiant set of her jaw. She was beautiful, even in her defiance, and it only fueled his desire to possess her completely.
"Don't you see?" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "You belong with me. I've waited so long for this moment, planned every detail. You can't leave me now." His words were a plea, a desperate attempt to make her understand the depth of his feelings, the lengths he was willing to go to keep her by his side.
She took a step back, her back pressing against the counter, trapped between him and the unyielding surface. Jonathan's heart raced, the thrill of the chase mingling with the dread of losing her. He reached out again, his hand cupping her cheek with a gentleness that belied the madness in his eyes.
"I promise, I'll take care of you," he said, his voice filled with a twisted sincerity. "No one will ever hurt you, you'll be safe with me, always." The words were meant to comfort, but they only served to deepen the chasm between them.
Her eyes filled with tears, a silent testament to the hopelessness of her situation. Jonathan's heart clenched at the sight, a painful reminder of the cost of his obsession. But he couldn't let her go, not now, not ever.
"You don't have to cry," he murmured, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. "I'll make it all better, I promise. Just give me a chance." His voice cracked with emotion, the façade of control slipping as he confronted the reality of his actions.
She shook her head, a silent refusal that cut through him like a knife. Jonathan's jaw tightened, the anger simmering beneath the surface threatening to boil over. He had done everything for her, sacrificed so much, and yet she still resisted. It was maddening, infuriating, and it only fueled his determination to make her see the truth.
"Why can't you understand?" he demanded, his voice rising in frustration. "Everything I've done, I've done for you. To protect you, to keep you safe. And I’ve provided gifts for you..Why can't you see that?" His words echoed through the empty room, a desperate plea for understanding that would never come.
She stood her ground, her eyes locked onto his with a mixture of defiance and fear. Jonathan's heart ached at the sight, torn between his love for her and the realization that his actions were driving her further away. But he couldn't stop, couldn't let her go. She was his, and he would do whatever it took to keep her by his side.
With a final, desperate plea, Jonathan stepped closer, his hand reaching out to take hers. "Please," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Just give me a chance. I can make you happy, I promise. Just stay with me." His words hung in the air, a fragile hope that threatened to shatter with her next breath.
But as she looked into his eyes, Jonathan saw the truth. She would never be his, not in the way he wanted. And yet, he couldn't let her go, couldn't relinquish the hold she had on his heart. With a sense of resignation, he realized that he would do whatever it took to keep her, even if it meant losing himself in the process. In that moment, as the weight of his obsession threatened to crush him, Jonathan made a silent vow. He would protect her, keep her safe, no matter the cost. And if that meant holding her against her will, then so be it. She was his, and he would never let her go. His hand reached out, cupping her cheek with a gentleness that seemed almost out of place given the madness flickering in his eyes. He leaned in slightly and gave her a kiss on the lips, practically forcing her to kiss back with how rough it actually was compared to how he thought he was doing it; soft and calm. Yeah my ass.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not going to let you leave me,” he whispered, his voice low and soothing. The words were both an apology and a vow, laced with an unspoken promise of what was to come. He let go of her face and sighed;
Before she could react, Jonathan's grip tightened, his fingers wrapping around her delicate wrists with surprising strength. He raised her arms above her head, pinning them against the cold, unforgiving wall. His body pressed against hers, trapping her in place as his knee insinuated itself between her legs, applying just enough pressure to elicit a gasp. His heart pounded with a mix of arousal and anticipation, each beat echoing the inevitable conclusion of his carefully laid plans. With his free hand, Jonathan reached into the inner pocket of his suit, extracting a small syringe. His lips curled into a smile as he brought it to his mouth, removing the cap with his teeth before spitting it onto the ground. The sound was almost insignificant, but it marked the point of no return.
“Shhh... it’s okay... just don’t move around too much,” he murmured, his voice a soothing caress. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her skin as he searched for a suitable vein in her neck. The syringe hovered for a moment, a silent promise of what was to come.
As the needle punctured her skin, Jonathan’s eyes never left her face. He watched the mixture of fear toxin and a sedative flow into her bloodstream, his expression one of clinical detachment and twisted satisfaction. He withdrew the syringe slowly, almost reverently, before slipping it back into his pocket.
“Hey, it’s okay... just go to sleep,” he cooed, his voice softening as he cupped her face once more. He gazed into her eyes, watching as they began to glaze over, her resistance waning. She looked like a ghost, her complexion pale and her movements sluggish as the concoction took hold.
Jonathan supported her weight as she slumped against him, his arms encircling her in a twisted embrace. He could feel her body relax, the tension draining away as the drugs did their work. A part of him felt a pang of regret for having to subdue her in such a manner, but his obsession with her outweighed any moral qualms.
In the dim light of his apartment, Jonathan meticulously straightened the cluttered space, each object a testament to his dark obsession. His heart raced with a mixture of anticipation and dread as he glanced over at the woman lying unconscious on his bed. The fear toxin and a sedative mixture he had administered ensured she would remain in a deep, dreamless slumber for hours yet. This gave him time to prepare, to transform his chaotic haven into something that might, at first glance, seem less threatening. His hands moved swiftly, arranging and rearranging, removing any overt signs of his fixation. He knew he had to be careful—he couldn’t afford to frighten her any more than his actions already had. The apartment was filled with photos, trinkets, and personal effects of hers that he had collected over time, but he placed them in less conspicuous places, out of her immediate line of sight.
Jonathan took a deep breath, feeling the familiar tension knotting in his chest. His thoughts were a whirl of conflicting emotions. He needed her to understand, to see beyond the fear and recognize his love. He wasn’t a monster, not in his own eyes. He was a man driven by a consuming passion, a need to protect and possess her. He turned his attention back to her, lying so peacefully despite the circumstances. Her wrist was cuffed to the headboard, a necessary precaution. The chain allowed her some movement, but escape was impossible. He had made sure of that. His gaze softened as he watched her breathe, each rise and fall of her chest drawing him in deeper.
“Knew it’d come to this, didn’t you, Jonathan?” he murmured to himself, his voice a low rasp. The accent that clung to his words was faint, a vestige of his past. “You always knew.”
He moved closer, seating himself beside her on the bed. The urge to touch her was overwhelming, but he restrained himself. Not like this. It had to be right. She had to be awake, aware, and, in time, willing. His fingers itched to trace the lines of her face, to feel the warmth of her skin, but he resisted. He wouldn’t get anything out of it if she wasn’t there with him, truly there. Turning away from the bed, Jonathan walked quietly to the bathroom. The light flickered on with a soft click, casting a warm glow across the tiled floor. He leaned against the sink, gazing at his reflection in the mirror. His sharp features softened in the gentle light, the lines of stress easing from his brow. His mind wandered briefly, contemplating the events of the day and the challenges that lay ahead. The day had been long and arduous, filled with the tension of his illicit activities and the meticulous cleaning up afterward. But now, as he moved through the familiar ritual of preparing for bed, a strange tranquility settled over him.
After shedding his clothes, Jonathan stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over his tense muscles. The steam rose around him, enveloping him in a cocoon of warmth and silence. He closed his eyes, allowing his mind to wander. Thoughts of her flitted through his consciousness, a mix of longing and satisfaction. She was here, in his apartment, subdued by the fear toxin and sedative mixture. The thrill of having her so close, so vulnerable, sent a shiver of excitement through him. Finishing his shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and moved to the sink to brush his teeth. The minty freshness of the toothpaste was a sharp contrast to the dark thoughts swirling in his mind. He looked at his reflection, his piercing blue eyes staring back at him with a mix of determination and desire. Jonathan was a man driven by his obsessions, and tonight, those obsessions were within arm’s reach.
He made his way back to his room, the soft sound of his footsteps the only noise in the otherwise silent apartment. She lay on his bed, her breathing steady and deep, still under the influence of the sedative. The sight of her, so peaceful and unguarded, stirred something deep within him. He turned off the lights, plunging the room into darkness, save for the soft glow of the moonlight filtering through the curtains. Jonathan took off his glasses and set them on the table next to the bed, a small gesture that felt strangely intimate. He climbed into bed beside her, the sheets cool against his skin. He pulled the covers over both of them and gently maneuvered her so that she was straddling him, her body fitting perfectly against his. His arms wrapped around her back, the chain of the handcuffs clinking softly as he did so.
He buried his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent deeply. It was intoxicating, a heady mix of her natural fragrance and the faint remnants of her perfume. The sensation overwhelmed him, filling him with a deep sense of satisfaction. This was what he had dreamed of, the culmination of his darkest desires.
“Fuck, this is everything I dreamed of,” he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly murmur against her skin. He could feel the steady beat of her heart against his chest, a rhythmic reminder of her presence.
As he lay there, holding her close, his mind raced with thoughts and emotions. He reveled in the feeling of her weight on top of him, the warmth of her body against his. There was a possessiveness to his touch, a silent declaration that she was his and his alone. Despite the restraints of the handcuffs, he felt a sense of closeness that he had never experienced before. He wondered what she would think when she woke up, how she would react to finding herself in his bed, in his embrace. There was a part of him that relished the thought of her fear, the way her eyes would widen with realization. But there was also a part of him that yearned for her acceptance, for her to understand the depth of his feelings.
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered softly, as if she could hear him in her unconscious state. “I’ll take care of you.”
Jonathan’s mind wandered back to the moment he had first seen her, the instant attraction that had sparked his obsession. He had watched her from afar, studying her movements, learning her habits. It had started innocently enough, a mere curiosity. But it had quickly grown into something much more intense, a need that consumed him. Now, as he lay with her in his arms, he felt a sense of fulfillment that he had never known before. It was as if all the pieces of his life had fallen into place, and he was exactly where he was meant to be. The darkness that had always lingered at the edges of his mind seemed to recede, replaced by a profound sense of contentment.
He tightened his hold on her slightly, feeling the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips. He could feel her breath against his neck, a gentle reminder of her presence. The connection between them was palpable, a tangible thread that bound them together. Jonathan knew that this moment was fleeting, that the reality of their situation would come crashing down eventually. But for now, he allowed himself to bask in the illusion of intimacy, to indulge in the fantasy that she was his in every sense of the word.
“I’ll protect you,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “No one will ever hurt you while you’re with me.”
As the night wore on, Jonathan remained awake, content to simply hold her and listen to the sound of her breathing. There was a peace in the silence, a solace in the stillness. He had spent so much of his life in turmoil, driven by his fears and anxieties. But here, with her in his arms, he felt a sense of calm that he had never known before. The darkness outside began to give way to the soft light of dawn, casting a gentle glow over the room. Jonathan could see the faint outlines of her features in the early morning light, the curve of her cheek, the softness of her lips. She looked so serene, so untouched by the horrors of the world. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, a silent promise that he would keep her safe. No matter what happened, he would always be there for her, a constant presence in her life. And as he closed his eyes, finally succumbing to the pull of sleep, he knew that he would never let her go.
Author’s Notes:
I genuinely believe he would cum in his pants if she even breathed, spoke, smiled, pointed, or barely touching him; touching him like rubbing shoulders with a stranger in an elevator type of touch.
Also he would definitely paint one of his hands in the nail polish she used. Helps submerge himself in the reality he so desperately wants to be real.
Also also, this was delayed a bit because I have this opened on my computer as well as on my phone and I saved it on one end and then it didn’t transpire on the other so I closed it out and…it just put me back pretty far.
Should I make this a series?
Yes, because we love Jonathan when he’s a deranged stalker that loves us.
protective! Thomas, cocky! Thomas if you squint, kissing, lap sitting,
Thomas Shelby stood at the altar, the weight of his suit jacket pressing down on his broad shoulders. The church was grand, decorated with white lilies and gold ribbons, a stark contrast to the gritty streets of Birmingham that he knew so well.
Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the stone floor. The pews were filled with both Shelbys and Changrettas, two families whose histories were steeped in blood and rivalry. Today, however, was meant to be a day of unity, a truce symbolized by the marriage of Thomas Shelby and the daughter of his fiercest enemy, Luca Changretta. Arthur stood beside him, a rare softness in his eyes as he glanced back at the congregation. He reached out, patting Thomas on the shoulder, his grip firm but comforting. "Nervous, Tommy?"
Thomas turned his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching in what could almost be considered a smile. "No, Arthur," he replied, his voice low and steady. "Nervous ain't in my nature." His accent, thick and rich, rolled off his tongue, a constant reminder of his roots.
Polly Gray sat in the front row, her dark eyes fixed on her nephew. There was a mixture of pride and apprehension in her gaze, a silent prayer for the future. Beside her, Michael leaned back, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips as he observed the gathering. Arthur's wife, Linda, looked on with a serene expression, her hand resting in her lap. John sat a few rows behind, bouncing his baby on his knee, his wife Esme smiling warmly at the scene. Ada, dressed in a striking blue dress, chatted animatedly with Finn, while Johnny Dogs and Isaiah exchanged hushed whispers, their eyes darting around the room. The tension in the air was palpable, a heady mix of anticipation and unease. Thomas felt it in his bones, the weight of expectations and the ghosts of the past pressing down on him. Marrying into the Changretta family was a strategic move, but it wasn’t a strategic move on his part, it was love. Yes, Thomas Shelby had fallen in love with a Changretta but the same could be said for her.
“Now, hush Arthur. She’ll be walking down that aisle any minute now,” Thomas murmured, his voice a low growl that carried an edge of authority. He straightened his posture, his gaze fixed on the ornate doors at the end of the aisle
Arthur looked at him again; “You sure you’re not nervous?” Thomas could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on him, waiting for his reaction. He turned his head slightly, his gaze locking onto Arthur’s for a moment before he replied.
“I said I’m not fucking nervous, Arthur,” he said, his voice low and steady, laced with a thick Birmingham accent that carried an edge of impatience. To emphasize his point, he kicked Arthur in the back of his left knee, causing his brother to stumble briefly. Thomas chuckled, a rare, genuine sound that broke the tension momentarily. He could always count on Arthur to lighten the mood, even if unintentionally.
The sound of the organ began to fill the room, a deep, resonant melody that signaled the start of the ceremony. The guests fell silent, their attention shifting to the doors that were slowly opening. Thomas took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. This was it, the moment that would seal their fate, for better or worse; who was he kidding? It was for better! As the doors opened fully, revealing her figure, Thomas felt a rush of emotions. She stood there, framed by the golden light that spilled in from the hallway, her silhouette ethereal and almost otherworldly. Her dress, a delicate creation of black lace and satin, hugged her form gracefully, the long train trailing behind her like a whisper. A veil covered her face, but even through the sheer fabric, Thomas could see the outline of her features, delicate and serene.
Her father, Luka Changretta, stood beside her, his expression a mask of pride and caution. The tension between the two men was palpable, a silent reminder of the bloody history that lay between their families. Thomas’s eyes never left her as she began her slow walk down the aisle. Each step she took seemed to echo in his mind, a steady rhythm that matched the beating of his heart. He could see the slight tremble in her hands, the way she clutched her bouquet of white roses a little too tightly. Despite the nerves, she moved with a grace and determination that he found both admirable and endearing.
Arthur leaned in slightly, his voice a whisper in Thomas’s ear. “She looks beautiful, Tommy.”
Thomas nodded, unable to tear his eyes away from her. “Aye, she does,” he replied, his voice softer now, filled with an emotion he rarely allowed himself to feel. In that moment, he felt a connection to her that went beyond their shared history, beyond the political and familial implications of their marriage. It was something deeper, a bond that he hoped would grow stronger with time. The sound of the organ began to fill the room, a deep, resonant melody that signaled the start of the ceremony. The guests fell silent, their attention shifting to the doors that were slowly opening. Thomas took a deep breath, his heart pounding in his chest. This was it, the moment that would seal their fate, for better or worse. But it was never worse, it saw always for better. As she reached the front of the aisle, Luka placed her hand in Thomas’s, a gesture heavy with significance. Their eyes met, while under the veil; a silent understanding passing between them, He lifted the delicate veil that covered her face, their eyes meeting in a silent understanding. This was not just a marriage of convenience or strategy; it was a commitment to each other, to the future they would build together.
Jeremiah stood before them, the priest's presence both comforting and solemn. His voice, deep and resonant, filled the chapel, echoing off the ancient walls. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join together in holy matrimony Thomas Michael Shelby and _______ LaPaglia Changretta." His words carried the weight of history and expectation, binding not just two people, but two families with a fraught past.
Thomas's eyes flickered to the woman beside him. _______ LaPaglia Changretta. She was beautiful, her dark hair cascading in soft waves over her shoulders, her eyes a deep, enigmatic brown. Her dress was elegant, simple yet stunning, the black fabric contrasting sharply with her olive skin. She stood with a quiet grace, her expression serene, yet there was a fire in her eyes that spoke of strength and determination.
Jeremiah's voice cut through the silence. "Do you, Thomas Michael Shelby, take _______ LaPaglia Changretta to be your lawful wedded wife?" Thomas felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him. Every decision, every move he made was calculated, and this was no different. "I do," he said, his voice steady, firm. It was a commitment not just to her, but to the path he had chosen, the alliances he was forging.
He turned to her. "Do you, _______ LaPaglia Changretta, solemnly swear to love, honor, and obey till death do you part?" Her response was immediate, her voice clear and unwavering. "I do." There was a finality in those words, a binding promise that echoed through the chapel, sealing their fates together.
Jeremiah's proclamation was met with a collective breath, as if the entire room had been holding it in anticipation. "I now pronounce you husband and wife." The words hung in the air, a declaration that felt both momentous and surreal. Thomas turned to his new wife, his expression unreadable. He leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a kiss that sealed their union. It was a kiss that spoke of duty and obligation, but beneath it all, there was a spark, a glimmer of something more. As they turned to face their families, the applause was polite, restrained. This was no ordinary wedding, and the people gathered here understood the gravity of the situation. Arthur left the alter and walk to the pew to join his family. Their expression a mix of approval and caution. Polly Gray, ever the matriarch, watched with a keen eye, her sharp mind assessing every nuance, every subtle shift in the room.
The Changrettas were less expressive, their faces a mask of formality. Luca Changretta's presence was a dark cloud, a reminder of the delicate balance they were trying to achieve. His eyes bore into Thomas, a silent challenge that promised future confrontation. Thomas took her hand as they walked down the aisle, the weight of expectation heavy on his shoulders. Every step was a reminder of the path he had chosen, he wouldn’t ever regret it; the future he was forging. The guests rose as they passed, their eyes following the couple, whispers of speculation and curiosity filling the air. This was a union that would be talked about for years to come, a merging of two powerful families with a history of bloodshed and betrayal.
Outside the chapel, the sun shone brightly, a stark contrast to the somber atmosphere within. The reception awaited, a lavish affair that promised to be both a celebration and a test of the new alliance. As they stepped into the sunlight, Thomas felt the warmth on his face, a brief respite from the shadows that seemed to follow him wherever he went. He glanced at her, her smile a beacon of hope in the uncertainty that lay ahead.
"Welcome to the family," Thomas said, his voice low, the Birmingham accent thick and unmistakable.
The kitchen was a stark contrast to the rest of Arrow House, filled with the smell of freshly baked bread and the earthy scent of the wood burning in the hearth. Thomas stood at the head of the room, his piercing blue eyes scanning the room, ensuring he had the attention of every man present. The weight of the day was palpable; this was his wedding day, a day that marked a significant turning point in his life and the Shelby family. His dark suit was meticulously tailored, each stitch a testament to his attention to detail, and his peaked cap sat jauntily on his head, casting a shadow over his face that made his intense expression even more formidable.
"Right, boys, you're all here," he began, his voice carrying the authoritative edge that had come to define him. The men around the kitchen, his brothers Arthur, John, and Finn, along with Michael and a few trusted others, like Charlie and Johnny Dogs turned their attention to him. Each face was a study in respect and a touch of fear, for they knew Thomas was not a man to be crossed, especially not today.
"Today, this is my fucking wedding day," Thomas continued, his tone brooking no argument. His words hung in the air, heavy with the unspoken understanding that this day was sacred, not just for him, but for the entire Shelby clan. It was a rare occasion of vulnerability, where the hard-edged leader allowed a glimpse of the man beneath the armor.
John, ever the irreverent one, couldn't help but interject. "Yeah, and you said there'd be no bloody uniforms," he said, his voice tinged with a mixture of defiance and humor. The tension in the room crackled for a moment, a testament to the volatile nature of their relationships. Thomas fixed John with a steely gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Nevertheless... Nevertheless, John..." he began, his voice a low growl that seemed to reverberate off the walls. He took a step closer, his presence dominating the room. "Despite the bad blood, I'll have none of it on my carpet." His words were a command, not a request, and the message was clear: today was about unity, not division.
His gaze swept around the circle, making eye contact with each man, ensuring they understood the gravity of his words. "Now for my wife's sake, nothing will go wrong," he declared, his voice firm and unyielding. His love for his bride was a rare softness in his otherwise hardened demeanor, and he was determined to protect her from the chaos that often surrounded the Shelbys. Thomas pointed outside the kitchen, towards the bustling preparations for the wedding. "Those bastards out there are her family," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of disdain. He had little patience for those who might threaten the harmony of his wedding day, and he would go to great lengths to ensure everything went smoothly.
His hand traveled around the circle, pointing at each man in turn as he spoke. "And if you fuckers do anything to embarrass her, your kin, your cousins, your horses, your fucking kids, you do anything..." His voice trailed off as he fixed his gaze on Arthur, the eldest and most unpredictable of the brothers. There was a pause, a moment where the weight of his words seemed to settle over the room like a heavy fog.
Isaiah, leaning casually against the counter, broke the uneasy silence. "Tom..?" Thomas's gaze snapped to Isaiah, a flicker of impatience crossing his features. "To... WHAT!?" he barked, his voice low but commanding.
He hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "What about snow," he ventured, his tone cautious. John eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "Yeah, their women are sports, I’ll say that.."
"No. No. No." Thomas cut him off sharply, striding towards Isaiah with purpose. He stopped inches from his face, his breath hot and laced with the smell of tobacco. "No cocaine," he said, jabbing a finger towards Isaiah's face for emphasis. "No cocaine."
The room fell silent, the tension palpable as Thomas turned his attention to John, who stood to Isaiah's right. "No sport," Thomas said, waving his hand dismissively. "No telling fortunes."
He began to pace, the soles of his polished shoes tapping rhythmically against the tiled floor. Each step seemed to echo with unspoken threats, a reminder of the consequences of disobedience. He approached Arthur, his oldest and most volatile brother, stopping just short of him. "No racing," Thomas ordered, his voice a low growl. Arthur met his gaze with a slight nod, the fire in his eyes dimmed by his brother's authority. Breaking from the circle, Thomas crossed to Finn, the youngest of the Shelby brothers. Grabbing Finn's face with his left hand, he forced him to look into his eyes. "No fucking sucking petrol," he snarled, his grip tightening. He delivered a light slap to Finn's cheek, a reminder of the discipline he expected. "Out of their fucking cars."
Satisfied, Thomas released Finn and turned to Charlie, who had been lingering on the edge of the group. "And, you, Charlie," he said, his voice softer but no less intense. "Stop spinning yards about me, eh?" Charlie, taken aback, spoke up as Thomas turned his back. "I'm just trying to sell you to them, Tom," he defended.
Thomas took a deep drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his face as he exhaled. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, a rare sign of the stress he carried. Returning to the center of the circle, he spun slowly, addressing them all. "But the main thing is, you bunch of fuckers," he began, his voice rising with intensity. "Despite the provocation from her family, no fighting."
He turned his head slightly, locking eyes with Isaiah. The room seemed to hold its breath as Thomas slowly made his way toward him, the echo of his footsteps on the wooden floor punctuating the silence. As he reached Isaiah, Thomas lifted his chin with a firm but controlled hand, forcing Isaiah to meet his gaze. His eyes were cold, yet there was a flicker of something deeper—an unspoken understanding, perhaps. “Oi,” Thomas began, his voice a low growl that resonated with authority. He pointed a finger at Isaiah, his expression unwavering. “No fighting.”
With a swift, deliberate movement, Thomas shifted to his right, positioning himself in front of John. He didn’t waste a moment, his finger darting out to point at John with the same intensity. “No fucking fighting,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. John's smirk faltered under Thomas's glare, replaced by a nod of compliance.
Thomas moved again, this time to Arthur. Their eyes met, and an unspoken tension filled the air. Arthur, ever the wild card, was the one Thomas needed to keep in check the most. Pointing at his older brother, Thomas's voice was a commandment. “No fighting.” Arthur, his usual bravado momentarily subdued, nodded with a grunt, understanding the gravity of the order. Next, Thomas’s eyes fell on Michael, who was leaning against the wall with a nonchalant air. Without a word, Thomas pointed at him. Michael straightened up, his casual demeanor replaced by a look of acknowledgement. The silent exchange spoke volumes—Michael knew exactly what was expected of him.
Finally, Thomas turned towards Finn’s direction, his youngest brother, “No,” he said, his voice slicing through the tension. He then swung his gaze back to Arthur’s direction. “Fucking.” And finally, his eyes landed on Charlie's direction. “Fighting.”
The room fell silent once more, the weight of Thomas’s words hanging heavily in the air. Each man understood the simplicity of the command. In this room, defying Thomas Shelby was not an option. Thomas took a drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing brightly in the dim light, and exhaled a plume of smoke. He walked towards his coat, which was draped over a chair between Michael and Arthur. “Good,” he muttered, his satisfaction evident in the single word. With his back turned slightly, Thomas didn’t see the butler approaching. The man, new to the household and unfamiliar with the Shelby way, hesitated for a moment too long. The collision was inevitable. The impact was sudden, and Thomas spun around, his face a mask of fury. “Get the fuck off me!” he snarled, shoving the butler to the ground. The bottle of wine the butler had been holding shattered on the floor, red liquid spreading like blood across the wood.
Arthur, ever the enforcer, hurled his glass at the butler, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the room. The butler scrambled to his feet, fear written all over his face as he hurried out of the kitchen, leaving behind a mess of broken glass and spilled wine. Thomas exhaled one last plume of smoke before stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray. He adjusted his coat, smoothing out the fabric as he straightened up. “Right,” he said, his voice breaking the silence. “Let’s get this done.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the kitchen, his family and comrades falling into step behind him. The sound of their footsteps echoed through the hallway as they made their way towards the main event. Thomas’s mind was already racing ahead, planning, strategizing, ensuring that everything would go smoothly. But the words he had spoken in the kitchen lingered in the air, a solemn vow that no matter what happened, there would be no fighting. Not today.
As Thomas Shelby sat at the head of the table during his wedding dinner, the room was alive with the clinking of cutlery and the murmur of conversation. He raised the crystal glass to his lips, savoring the last drops of whiskey that burned pleasantly down his throat. Setting the glass down with a soft clink, his eyes swept across the room, taking in the faces of his family and the guests. His gaze lingered for a moment on his wife her beauty striking even in the dim candlelight. She was radiant, her smile lighting up the room. But as his eyes drifted to her father, he noticed the man's steely gaze fixed upon him. Thomas arched an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
"You look absolutely stunning today, luv," Thomas remarked, his voice low and tinged with admiration. "Hard to keep me eyes off of you." He reached out to gently squeeze her hand, a small, affectionate gesture amidst the formality of the occasion.
"I can say the same for you, Mr. Shelby," she replied, her smile radiant as she returned his gaze, her eyes sparkling with happiness.
Thomas smiled, a rare, genuine expression that softened his features. His attention then shifted to her father, a man of stature and presence, seated a bit farther down to her. "Well, you're not the only one whose eyes are on me, eh?" he quipped, a hint of playful charm in his voice.
"Luv," he murmured, leaning towards his wife, "would you mind telling your father to stop staring me down, eh?" His tone was light, teasing, but there was a hint of challenge in his eyes.
His bride glanced nervously at her father, then back at Thomas. "Tommy, I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice tinged with apprehension, "but that's just how he is."
Thomas nodded slowly, his gaze unwavering. "I see," he replied, his voice low and measured. He leaned back in his chair, his mind working quickly. He was used to dealing with difficult situations, but this was his wedding day, a day that should have been free of such tensions.
There was a moment of hesitation, a flicker of doubt in Thomas's eyes as he considered the weight of his actions. But then, with a determined glint in his eye, he reached out and gently cupped her face in his hand. She looked at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears, and he knew that this was where he belonged. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that was both tender and passionate, a silent declaration of his love and commitment. The room erupted into applause and cheers, the sound echoing off the walls as Thomas and Luka's families celebrated their union.
Hours had slipped by like fleeting ghosts since Thomas had exchanged vows, and now, in the quiet intimacy of their bedroom, he sat with his new wife perched gently on his lap. The flickering light from the bedside lamp cast a warm glow, accentuating the soft features of her face and the delicate curves of her figure. He gazed at her, his eyes tracing every line, every contour, as if committing her beauty to memory.
"You're absolutely gorgeous, Mrs. Shelby," he murmured, his voice a low, husky rasp that betrayed a hint of awe. His hands, calloused yet gentle, cradled her waist, fingers tracing idle patterns on the fabric of her dress. The weight of her presence on his lap was a comfort, grounding him in the reality of this new chapter of his life.
"I like when you call me Mrs. Shelby," she said softly, her voice a soothing melody in the quiet room. Her words were like a balm to his weary soul, a reminder of the new life they were beginning together.
Thomas wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer to him. He rested his chin on her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her hair. It was a moment of peace amidst the chaos that always seemed to follow him.
"I like it too," he replied, his voice low and gravelly. "It suits you, Mrs. Shelby."
"You're fuckin' perfect for me... y'know that?" Thomas's voice was low, almost a whisper, but filled with sincerity. His hand reached up to cup her face, his thumb brushing gently against her cheek. There was a gentleness in his touch, a rare vulnerability that he showed only to her.
Their lips met in a tender kiss, a silent affirmation of their love and commitment to each other. It was a moment of pure intimacy, a shared connection that transcended words. Her hands roamed freely, exploring his body with a familiarity that spoke of countless nights spent together. Thomas pulled her closer, his other hand wrapping around her waist, holding her as if afraid she might slip away. Their kiss deepened, a silent communication of their love and desire for each other. It was a dance they knew well, a rhythm that was uniquely theirs. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss even further. His hair, usually so meticulously styled, was now a tousled mess, a testament to the passion between them. She loved the way his hair felt between her fingers, the way it seemed to have a life of its own.
They broke the kiss, but remained intertwined, her head resting against his chest, his chin on her shoulder. They sat in comfortable silence, the weight of the day's events slowly settling on their shoulders. The gravity of their new union was not lost on Thomas; he knew the responsibilities that came with it, the need to protect and provide for his new family. His mind drifted to the future, a future now entwined with hers. He thought of the challenges they would face, the dangers that lurked in the shadows of their world. But he also thought of the moments of joy, the simple pleasures they would share.
Author’s Notes:
Y’all, I fucking love this oneshot..it’s so cute I finally did my own rendition of the wedding scene..ahhhhhhhh I feel like I got it just right y’all..ahh it’s fucking cute!!!
Deadass I should have written smut but nah, I don’t feel like it
Summary: She had always been able to read anyone she wanted, but Thomas Shelby was different...
Wordcount: 12.2k
Warnings: Plot is all over? Maybe idk
Semi-proof read, messy plot lolz, there’s smut at the bottom lolz, it’s respectful smut, unsafe sex, dom! Thomas, sloppy kissing, lap sitting, grinding, praise, lovey dovey sex, slow burn sex, slow and romantic, aftercare.
The evening had cast a dusky, melancholic veil over Small Heath as she walked into the Garrison, a sanctuary of sorts amid the swirling chaos of her life.
The heavy wooden doors creaked open, revealing the dimly lit interior, where the scent of stale beer and cigar smoke hung thick in the air. The low murmur of conversations, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter, created a familiar, comforting hum that wrapped around her like a well-worn blanket. She made her way to the bar top, each step echoing slightly against the wooden floorboards. Her mind, battered by the day's relentless demands, felt like a tangled mess, barely holding together. She reached the bar and tapped it lightly, a subtle signal that nonetheless carried the weight of her exhaustion. The barmaid, a sturdy woman with an air of no-nonsense efficiency, looked up from polishing glasses and approached her.
“What can a get ya’?” the barmaid asked, her voice a blend of curiosity and concern
“Whiskey…” she replied, her voice flat, the words escaping her lips like a sigh of defeat.
As the barmaid turned to fulfill her request, she leaned against the bar, her fingers tracing the grain of the wood absentmindedly. Her eyes roamed over the room, taking in the familiar faces of the regulars, their animated discussions a backdrop to her own solitude. The Garrison was a place where time seemed to stand still, a refuge where she could momentarily escape the relentless march of her thoughts.
The barmaid returned with a glass of whisky, the amber liquid catching the dim light and glinting invitingly. She took it with a grateful nod, feeling the cool glass against her palm, and brought it to her lips. The first sip was a burn, a searing warmth that spread through her chest and settled in her stomach, dulling the edges of her fatigue.
“I'm here a lot, but I'm guessing you just applied for the job?” Her voice cut through the low murmur of the pub, directed at the bar maid. The woman looked up, startled for a moment before offering a tentative smile.
“Aye, just started today,” she replied, her voice tinged with a slight tremor.
She takes another sip, the whiskey burning another familiar path down her throat, grounding her in the present moment. The taste is sharp, a reminder of why she chose this drink tonight. It keeps her senses alert, her mind sharp. She places the glass back on the polished wooden surface with a gentle thud, her fingers tracing the rim absentmindedly.
“Why choose being a barmaid? There’s a lot more of safer jobs,” she asks, her voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity.
The barmaid’s smile widens slightly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Because I thought it would be better and I like talking to people,” she replies, her tone light, almost rehearsed.
But the woman at the bar sees beyond the surface. There is a flicker in the barmaid’s eyes, a momentary lapse in the façade. Her eyes lit up just a bit when the barmaid said that, she’s lying. Something else is going on but she doesn’t push it. She sees a black shadow appearing and forming a decent-sized shadow monster came out of her head. The shadow creature looms behind the barmaid, its form shifting and writhing as it’s made of smoke and darkness. It’s not hurting her.
The barmaid, oblivious to the specter, smiles and walks away, her steps brisk and purposeful. The shadow lingers for a moment, its eyeless gaze fixed on the woman at the bar, before dissipating into the dimness of the room. She watches it go, a familiar unease settling in her chest. Her mind is a storm of questions and possibilities. What secrets does the barmaid hide behind that cheerful exterior? What has drawn such a malevolent presence to her? She takes another sip of her whiskey, the warmth spreading through her, anchoring her thoughts. Her eyes linger on the barmaid, now serving another customer with the same practiced smile.
She watched intently, noting the subtle shifts in the barmaid’s demeanor as she interacted with different customers. Her eyes, though bright and seemingly cheerful, held a depth of knowledge and weariness that spoke of a life lived beyond her years. She could the better barmaid’s thoughts, a constant stream of calculations and observations as she navigated her way through each interaction. She was a master of her craft, no doubt, but there was something else, something darker, lurking beneath the surface. The barmaid glanced around the bar, her gaze briefly meeting hers before flicking away. A flicker of recognition, perhaps, or just a momentary lapse in her otherwise controlled composure. The woman smiled to herself, a small, knowing smile. She could see the cracks, the tiny fissures in the barmaid’s carefully constructed facade. It wouldn’t be long before they widened, revealing the truth.
“Wanted to be a barmaid, did you?” The barmaid thought, her mind dripping with sarcasm. It was a clever ruse, she had to admit. The perfect cover for someone with a hidden agenda. But she wasn’t fooled. She had seen too many lies, heard too many falsehoods, to be taken in by such a transparent act.
A couple of days had passed and yet The Garrison was calling her name, she stepped inside, the worn floorboards creaking beneath her feet, and took in the familiar scene. The barmaid, was there as usual, her hands busy wiping down the counter with a rag that had seen better days. But today, something was different. The barmaid, who was normally reserved and cool, was smiling and laughing, her eyes flicking up from her work to meet those of the man sitting at the bar. Thomas Shelby. The name alone was enough to send shivers down the spine of anyone who heard it. He was the leader of the Peaky Blinders, a man whose reputation for ruthlessness was matched only by his cunning. He ruled Birmingham with an iron fist, his word law, his will unbreakable. And yet, here he was, leaning against the bar with an air of casual authority, the barmaid hanging on his every word. It was odd, she thought, to see the barmaid so friendly with him.
Thomas was dressed impeccably, as always. His tailored suit hugged his frame, the dark fabric contrasting sharply with the white of his shirt. His peaked cap sat on the bar beside him, the gleam of the razor blades sewn into the brim catching the light. His eyes, a piercing blue, were focused intently on the barmaid as he spoke, his voice low and commanding, tinged with that unmistakable Birmingham accent.
"Y'see, it's all about control," he was saying, his fingers drumming lightly on the bar. "You control the fear, you control the people. Simple as that."
The barmaid nodded, her expression one of rapt attention. "Aye, Mr. Shelby, I see what y'mean," she replied, her tone almost deferential.
The shadow appeared from the barmaid again..lying once more. She watched this interaction from a distance, her curiosity piqued. What was it about her that made Thomas Shelby seem normal when talking to her.. But seeing him here, in this setting, was different. It was like watching a wolf among sheep, the predator among the prey.
Thomas glanced her way, his eyes locking onto hers for a brief moment. There was a flicker of recognition there, a hint of something unreadable. He raised his glass in a silent salute before turning back to the barmaid. "Thing is," he continued, "once they know you're not afraid to do what needs to be done, they start to respect you. Respect is everything in this business."
The barmaid leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And what about those who don't respect yeh, Mr. Shelby? What happens to them?"
Thomas's smile was a cold, calculating thing. "They learn. One way or another, they learn."
She felt a chill run down her spine at his words. There was no doubt in her mind that he meant every word. Thomas Shelby was not a man to be trifled with. His power was absolute, his influence far-reaching. He was a man who got what he wanted, and woe to anyone who stood in his way.
The bar grew quieter as the evening wore on, the usual patrons giving Thomas a wide berth. It was clear that his presence commanded a level of respect and fear that few could match. She found herself a seat at a corner table, her eyes never straying far from where he sat. She couldn't help but be fascinated by him, by the way he moved, the way he spoke. There was a magnetism about him, an aura of danger that was impossible to ignore. She couldn’t quite read him..
At one point, Thomas stood up, stretching his legs and casting a casual glance around the room. His gaze settled on her again, and this time he made his way over, his steps unhurried, his demeanor relaxed. He pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Mind if I join yeh?" he asked, though it was clear from his tone that he wasn't really asking.
She shook her head, her heart pounding in her chest. "No, go ahead."
He leaned back in his chair, his hands resting on the table. "You've been watchin' me," he stated matter-of-factly. "Why's that?"
He leans back in his chair, fingers drumming a steady rhythm on the armrest, the only sign of his impatience. His expression remains unreadable, a mask of stoic calm, but his eyes betray a flicker of curiosity and suspicion. He pulls out his lighter and cigarettes, before lighting a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face, casting a fleeting glimpse of the turmoil that lies beneath his composed exterior. The silence between them stretches, heavy with unspoken words, until she breaks it with her cryptic statement.
"I have my reasons on why I am, but it’s not you who I’m entirely looking at.."
Thomas’s lips curl into a slight, sardonic smile. He takes a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, the smoke escaping through his nostrils like a dragon preparing to breathe fire. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his piercing gaze never leaving her face.
“The barmaid, eh’?” he repeats, his voice a low, gravelly murmur, tinged with his thick Birmingham accent. His tone is laced with both curiosity and a hint of mockery, as if he finds the idea amusing yet intriguing.
"Well, Grace... she seems fine," he began, his voice low and gravelly, each word soaked in the thick Birmingham accent. His gaze was steady, unyielding, as he studied her reaction, searching for any hint of deception or hidden motives.
She shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, her fingers nervously twisting the fabric of her dress. "She’s... not trustworthy. I can tell you that," she replied, her voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking the words aloud made them more real, more dangerous. Thomas leaned back, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So can I," he said, his tone laced with a mix of amusement and skepticism. "We’re alike, in a sense" he added, his eyes never leaving her face, gauging her every reaction, every flicker of emotion.
Her eyes widened, a flicker of surprise and confusion crossing her features. "That’s not what I meant," she insisted, her voice gaining strength. "She’s here for a different motive. I just don’t know..if she’s really going to go through with it”
Thomas's smile faded, replaced by a look of intense focus. He extinguished his cigarette in a crystal ashtray with deliberate precision, the smoldering end hissing as it met the glass. "Then find out for me, can you do that” he ordered, his voice cold and commanding.
The Garrison felt different after so many months, like a place steeped in shadows and secrets. The dim lighting cast long, eerie shadows on the wooden walls, making the pub appear as a stage set for some unspoken drama. Patrons, engrossed in their drinks and hushed conversations, hardly noticed your hurried entrance. The smell of whiskey and stale smoke hung heavily in the air, intertwining with the faint scent of Thomas’s preferred cigarettes. The atmosphere was thick, almost tangible, like you could cut through it with a knife.
Her eyes scanned the bar seeking out Thomas’s familiar figure. There he was, in his usual spot, a corner booth that offered a clear view of the entire pub. He sat with a whiskey glass in hand, the amber liquid reflecting the light in an almost mesmerizing way. His face was a mask of calm, but she knew him well enough to see the tension in his jaw, the storm brewing behind those piercing blue eyes. As she moved to Thomas all she could think about was Grace. Grace was not the sweet barmaid she pretended to be, but a spy sent to retrieve the stolen government guns.
She approached him, her heart pounding in her chest. Thomas looked up as you neared, his gaze locking onto hers There was an intensity in his eyes, a mixture of curiosity and concern. “Shelby, we need to talk,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper but filled with urgency
He motioned for you to sit, his eyes never leaving her face. “What’s this about then?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, carrying that unmistakable Birmingham accent. She could hear the weariness in his tone, the weight of leadership pressing heavily on his shoulders.
Taking a deep breath, she began to speak. “It’s about Grace. I found out who she really is, what she’s planning. She’s not who she says she is, Tommy. She’s working for the government, sent here to get the guns back.”
Thomas eyes glinted with a mixture of surprise and suspicion as he stood up, his frame towering over her. His hand shot out, gripping her arm firmly but not roughly, and he swiftly led her into the small, dimly lit room that served as the Peaky Blinders' meeting place. The room smelled of stale smoke and whiskey, with a faint hint of gun oil lingering in the air. His voice was low and controlled, but there was an undeniable edge to it. "What fooking guns... how do you know about the fooking guns?!" His accent was thick, his words clipped and precise, betraying the intensity of his emotions. His gaze bore into hers, searching for any sign of deception. Thomas released her arm, but his posture remained tense, ready for any answer she might give. His mind raced, trying to piece together how she could have come across such sensitive information. Was she a spy? A rival gang member? Or something else entirely?
He studied her face, looking for any flicker of guilt or fear. His own expression was unreadable, a mask of controlled intensity. He had learned long ago to keep his emotions in check, especially in situations like this. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he spoke again, his voice softer this time, but no less intense. "You need to tell me everything... now." His eyes bored into hers, demanding the truth. He was used to being in control, to knowing everything that went on in his world. This unexpected revelation had thrown him off balance, and he was determined to regain his footing.
As she began to explain, Thomas listened intently, his mind working overtime to process the information. He asked probing questions, his tone calm but insistent. He needed to understand how she had come to possess such dangerous knowledge, and what her intentions were. Despite his initial anger and suspicion, Thomas couldn't help but be impressed by her boldness and resourcefulness. It was clear that she was no ordinary woman, and he found himself intrigued by her.
As she finished speaking, Thomas remained silent for a moment, deep in thought. Then, with a nod, he made a decision. "You're coming with me," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I need to make sure you're telling me the truth... and if you're not, well... let's just say you don't want to find out what happens if you lie to me." His tone was chilling, a reminder of the power he wielded. With that, Thomas turned and strode out of the room, leaving her to follow in his wake. She had entered his world, and now she would have to navigate its dangers alongside him.
The front-room was cloaked in a heavy silence, broken only by the muffled sound of voices seeping through the walls from the adjacent room where Thomas and the rest of the Shelby family were gathered. In the room across from them, she sat, a lone figure, her presence almost ethereal amidst the shadows. Her legs were elegantly crossed, an air of calm confidence surrounding her despite the gravity of the situation. Aunt Polly stood nearby, her eyes fixed on the woman, assessing her with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. The woman's ability to discern truth from lies had stirred a sense of unease within the family, especially given their line of work and the secrets they harbored.
As the rest of the family filed back into the room, Thomas's piercing gaze locked onto her. His expression was unreadable, a mask of stoicism that barely concealed the keen intelligence behind his eyes. Polly Gray, ever the matriarch, sat to Thomas’s right. Her discerning gaze was fixed on the woman, eyes narrowing as if trying to peel back the layers of her soul. Arthur, twitchy and restless, leaned back in his chair, his eyes flitting between the woman and Thomas, awaiting his brother’s lead. Ada, the youngest, crossed her arms, skepticism etched on her features, while John, ever the silent observer, leaned forward, elbows on the table, his stare unblinking.
"So... you can tell when people are lying?" Thomas’s voice cut through the silence, his tone measured but laced with a hint of intrigue. He studied her intently, trying to gauge her reaction, but her face betrayed nothing, a testament to her ability to keep her own secrets hidden.
"Yes... but their thoughts... secrets... everything I want to know... I know," she declared, her gaze unwavering as she pointed directly at him. Thomas remained stoic, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of curiosity danced in his eyes.
Aunt Polly, ever the voice of reason, arched an eyebrow. "Then what is Thomas thinking of?" she inquired, her tone sharp and skeptical. She hesitated, sensing the weight of the question.
"That's the problem... I can't read him," she admitted, her voice tinged with frustration. "I've never encountered anybody I can't read but him." She gestured towards Thomas, who remained silent, his jaw set in a firm line.
The room fell into a tense silence as the implications of her words hung in the air. Half the family rolled their eyes at her claims, seemingly dismissing them as nonsense. Thomas, however, remained impassive, his mind undoubtedly at work, processing the situation. His silence spoke volumes, a testament to his enigmatic nature. Despite the chaos that often surrounded him, Thomas Shelby was a man of few words, his thoughts and intentions carefully guarded. His family knew this all too well, understanding that there was always more to Thomas than met the eye.
The room was hushed, tension thick enough to cut with a knife as Thomas stood up and walked over to her, his piercing gaze fixed on her. She sat there, composed, legs crossed, her posture a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing inside the Shelby family. Aunt Polly stood up to stand nearby her, watching over her like a hawk, her expression a mix of suspicion and curiosity. Thomas took a step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. He was a man accustomed to control, but in this moment, uncertainty flickered across his features. He was facing something he couldn't quite comprehend, a challenge to his families authority that struck at the very core of his being.
"Think of something… just something so I can prove it to yah.." her voice broke the silence, her eyes pleading for them to believe her. Thomas observed her closely, his mind calculating, trying to decipher her motives.
A soft smile tugged at Thomas's lips as he exchanged a knowing glance with Polly, his ever-reliable aunt, who stepped forward, her eyes fixed on hers. Polly was a woman of resilience, her past marked by pain and loss. She focused her thoughts, recalling the agony of losing her children, wrongfully taken and placed in foster care. Determination flickered in her eyes as she sought an answer, a validation of her claim.
"I’ve got it.." Polly's voice was steady, her tone revealing a mix of curiosity and skepticism. She delved into her memories, reliving the anguish of separation, hoping for a revelation that would lay her doubts to rest.
"Michael is safe.. but he was too young to even remember... and Anna..she’s dead." Her voice trailed off, a mixture of sorrow and determination lacing her words.
Thomas watched, his eyes never leaving the woman's face. He saw the flicker of doubt in her eyes, the slight tremor in her hand. He knew she was searching for the truth, seeking out the shadows that lurked within the depths of their hearts. He admired her tenacity, her unwillingness to back down in the face of uncertainty. She was a worthy adversary, one he could not afford to underestimate. Polly, broke the uneasy silence. Her voice was firm, yet tinged with a hint of apprehension. "Did anyone tell her about them?..at all?" Her words hung in the air, a question loaded with implications.
Thomas glanced at Polly, his expression unreadable. He knew what she was referring to, the secrets that lurked in the shadows of their family's past. He shook his head subtly, a silent signal to his brothers. "No pol.." Their response was unanimous, a chorus of denials, each voice laced with a hint of unease. The room fell silent again, the tension palpable. Thomas's mind raced, trying to anticipate the woman's next move. She was an enigma, a stranger with a mysterious power that had the potential to unravel their carefully guarded secrets.
“I couldn’t have possibly known that... but somehow I do... does anyone believe me now?” Her words hung in the air, a challenge and a plea. For a moment, the room was still, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth.
Thomas’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. He leaned forward slightly, the movement drawing all eyes to him. “Believe you, do we?” Thomas’s voice, a low, gravelly murmur, cut through the silence. Thomas looked around the room taking in everyone’s gaze and body language. The thick Birmingham accent gave his words a weight that was impossible to ignore. “That’s a matter yet to be settled, love. We’ve had our fair share of tricksters and liars. Convince me.”
The woman’s gaze didn’t falter, even under Thomas’s piercing scrutiny. She stepped closer to the table, her presence commanding attention. She began to recount details, intimate and precise, about each member of the Shelby family—details that no outsider could have known. Her words were laced with an eerie accuracy, each revelation a hammer blow against the wall of skepticism surrounding her. Arthur’s restless energy shifted, his brows furrowing deeper with each revelation. “How the bloody hell does she know all that, Tom?” he muttered, his voice a rough whisper filled with confusion and a hint of fear.
“Quiet, Arthur,” Polly interjected, her voice a sharp reprimand. Her eyes never left hers, searching for any sign of deceit.
A murmur rippled through the family, the revelation adding another layer of mystery to Thomas’s already enigmatic persona. Thomas leaned back, a small, almost imperceptible smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Interesting. So, you can’t see what I’m thinking, but you can see everyone else, Why should we trust you?” Thomas lit a cigarette.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself against the scrutiny. “Because I have no reason to lie. My gift, it’s both a blessing and a curse. I don’t want to use it to harm anyone. I just want to understand why I can’t read you, Thomas.”
Thomas tapped the ash from his cigarette, his eyes never leaving hers. “Maybe some things are better left unseen, eh?” His voice was low, almost a whisper, yet it carried the weight of an unspoken warning.
Polly interjected, her curiosity piqued. “If you can’t read him, then what’s the point of you being here? We need someone who can give us more advantages, not a mystery to solve”
Her expression hardened, her resolve firming. “Just because I can’t read Thomas doesn’t mean I can’t be useful. There are things I know, things that could help you. Secrets of your enemies, plans that are being laid against you. I can be your ally.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed, the calculating mind behind them whirring like a well-oiled machine. “And what do you want in return? Everyone has a price.”
Her gaze softened, the vulnerability in her eyes stark against her determined demeanor. “I want answers. I need to know why I can’t read you, Thomas. It’s like a part of my gift is broken, and you’re the key to fixing it.”
Thomas took a final drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray. He rose from his chair, his imposing figure towering over her. “We’ll see, won’t we? You’ll stay here, under our protection. But if you betray us, you’ll wish you’d never set foot in Birmingham. Understood?”
She nodded, the gravity of his words sinking in. “Understood.”
He turned to his family, his voice firm. “She stays. We’ll see if she’s worth the trouble. Keep an eye on her.”
As the family slowly dispersed, she was left standing in the flickering firelight, the enormity of her situation settling over her. Thomas lingered for a moment, his eyes meeting hers one last time before he walked away, his mind already plotting the next move in the intricate game of power and deception that was his life.
The sun's early light filtered through the heavy curtains, casting a warm glow across her face. The gentle intrusion of morning eventually pulled her from the depths of sleep. She stirred, blinking against the brightness, her senses gradually coming alive. The room around her, dominated by its masculine furnishings and pervasive scent of tobacco and leather, reminded her of where she was. The previous day's family meeting, with its tense atmosphere and undercurrents of unspoken plans, played back in her mind. She pushed herself up, feeling the crisp linen sheets against her skin, and noticed the empty desk chair across the room where Thomas had spent the night.
Downstairs, Thomas had been up long before the sun. His mind never truly rested, always planning, always calculating. The scent of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air as he paced the floor, cigarette smoke curling around him like a ghostly companion. The weight of leadership bore heavily on his shoulders, yet it was a mantle he wore with ease. He knew she was awake now, could sense it as keenly as he sensed the shifting tides of his own thoughts. He stubbed out his cigarette, the glowing ember dying with a soft hiss, and made his way back up the stairs.
The old wood groaned under his weight, each step announcing his ascent. At the door to his room, he paused, his hand resting on the worn brass knob. The sight of her sleeping so peacefully had been a stark contrast to the chaos that usually reigned in his world. He knocked lightly, a sound that was more a courtesy than a request for permission.
“Ada’s going to give you some of her clothes for today, because I need you to come with me.” His voice was low, gravelly, the thick Birmingham accent rolling off his tongue. There was a command in his tone, softened by the necessity of the situation.
She sat up fully now, the bed's slight creak joining the morning's quiet symphony. Her eyes met his, a mix of curiosity and wariness. Thomas stepped into the room, his presence filling the space. He moved with a predatory grace, the kind honed by years of navigating the treacherous waters of both war and business. He watched her, his sharp blue eyes taking in every detail—the way her hair fell across her shoulders, the slight tension in her frame. He could see the questions forming in her mind, but there was no time for answers now. The world outside this room was dangerous, and every second counted.
As she nodded, acceptance in her gaze, he turned and left the room, his footsteps retreating down the hall. He found Ada in the kitchen, her back to him as she poured a cup of tea. “She’s awake,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. Ada turned, her expression a mixture of concern and curiosity.
“Do you really think it’s wise to bring her along, Tommy?” she asked while handing a cup of tea to Thomas, Thomas took it and sat it down on the table behind him. Ada hoped she’d like tea.
“She needs to see what we’re dealing with. It’s the only way she’ll understand.” His voice was firm, brooking no argument. Ada sighed, nodding in reluctant agreement. She knew better than to challenge her brother when he was set on a course of action.
Ada turned on her foot and headed upstairs to Thomas’s room. Ada’s eyes flickered over to the woman seated on the edge of the bed, her expression a mix of curiosity and caution. Ada laid out a couple of dresses. She reached for a simple dress, its fabric soft and worn from frequent use. As she approached, she handed the dress to her and began to help her out of her nightclothes, fingers deftly undoing buttons and tying laces. The intimacy of the act seemed to break the ice, leading to the start of a conversation.
Ada’s voice was gentle but probing. “It’s nice to have someone else to talk to,” she began, her eyes meeting hers in the mirror.
She, though initially hesitant, felt the warmth in Ada’s tone. “I can tell, you are very… eager to help,” she responded, her voice soft but with an edge of guardedness.
Ada chuckled, a dry humor lacing her words. “You try and grow up in the Shelby family,” she said, her hands never pausing in their task. There was a brief silence, the weight of Ada’s words hanging in the air, hinting at the complexities and burdens of being a Shelby.
She shifted uncomfortably, her fingers playing with the hem of the dress. “I’d rather not—” she began, but Ada cut her off, her tone sharper now, curiosity piqued.
“How long have you had this… power?” Ada asked, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied the her reflection. There was an intensity in her gaze, a need to understand this stranger who had been thrust into their lives.
She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. She could feel Ada’s eyes boring into her, demanding answers. “Since I was a child,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “At first, it was just a feeling, an intuition. But as I got older, it became more defined, more precise.” Her eyes were calm, “Sometimes I’ll look at someone and see what their looking at through their perspective”
Ada nodded, absorbing the information. She could see the toll it had taken on her, the weight of knowing everyone’s truths, their lies, their secrets. “Must’ve been a right burden,” she said softly, more to herself than to her.
She nodded, her eyes downcast. “It’s not something I asked for. It’s a curse as much as it is a gift,” she admitted, her voice tinged with bitterness. “People don’t like it when you can see through them.”
Ada’s hands paused for a moment, resting on her shoulders. “I can imagine,” she said quietly. “But it’s a useful gift, especially for us.” There was a hint of steel in her voice, a recognition of the potential advantages such a power could bring to the Shelby family.
She looked up, meeting Ada’s gaze in the mirror. “Useful, yes. But, people don’t like their secrets exposed,” she said, her eyes dark with memories of past encounters.
Ada’s grip tightened slightly on her shoulders. “In this family, we live with danger every day. It’s part of who we are. But if you’re with us, you’ll be protected,” she promised, her voice firm and reassuring.
She smiled faintly, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “Thank you, Ada. It means a lot to hear that,” she said, her voice softening.
Ada nodded, returning the smile. “We take care of our own. Just remember that,” she said, resuming her task of helping her dress. The room fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the rustling of fabric and the occasional murmur of reassurance from Ada.
As the dress was finally secured, Ada stepped back, surveying her work. “There, you look much better,” she said with a satisfied smile. She turned to face her, gratitude evident in her eyes.
“Thank you, Ada. For everything,” she said, her voice filled with sincerity. Ada nodded, a warm smile on her lips.
“Come on, let’s go downstairs. The others will be waiting,” Ada said, leading the way out of the room. As they descended the stairs, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of belonging, a rare feeling in her life.
Ada’s hand was warm and firm as she guided her down the narrow staircase, each step creaking underfoot in the dimly lit hallway of the Shelby residence. The scent of stale smoke and aged wood filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of tea that wafted from the kitchen. As you reached the bottom, Thomas was standing near the table, the end of his cigarette glowing like a tiny ember in the shadows. His presence was magnetic, the kind that demanded attention without uttering a word.
As she entered the kitchen, Thomas turned his head slightly, his sharp blue eyes fixing on her with an intensity that could cut through steel. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the end glowing brightly for a moment before he exhaled, the smoke trailing from his lips in a languid stream. His gaze never wavered, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, a mix of amusement and something far deeper, more inscrutable.
"Sit," he finally said, his voice low and gravelly, the Birmingham accent wrapping around the word like a command rather than a suggestion. He gestured to the chair opposite him, his eyes never leaving hers. She moved to the chair, feeling the weight of his gaze following her every step. As she sat, she couldn't help but notice how the room seemed to shrink around him, his presence filling every corner.
Thomas leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed yet coiled, like a predator at rest but ready to strike at any moment. "Ada's made tea," he continued, a hint of a smirk on his lips. "Not that I fancy it much, but she says it calms the nerves." He took another drag from his cigarette, the end flaring briefly. "Though I reckon you've got a bit more on your mind than a cup of tea, eh?"
“Where are we going..for me to be dressed..like this?” Her voice wavered slightly, betraying a mixture of curiosity and unease.
"You're dressed like that 'cause I told you to be," he replied, his voice low and gravelly, each word coated with his unmistakable Birmingham accent. His gaze traveled from her face to her attire, a dress that clung to her curves in all the right places, its elegance undeniable. "We're goin' somewhere... important."
Thomas stood up, his piercing blue eyes narrowing slightly as he offered her his hand. She hesitated for a moment, her eyes flickering to his outstretched hand before finally accepting it. His grip was firm yet gentle as he pulled her up from the chair. The faint scent of his cologne, a mix of tobacco and something distinctly masculine, enveloped her as she rose to her feet.
“You can finish the tea when you get back, come with me,” he said, his voice a low rumble that carried an unspoken command.
She glanced back at the steaming cup of tea on the table, then back at him, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Where are we going?”
“I’ve got a business deal, you and your little powers are coming as well,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The meeting spot was an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Birmingham, its crumbling facade a stark contrast to the industrial strength of the city. The air was thick with the lingering smell of coal and metal, a testament to the area's relentless labor. Thomas stood by the entrance, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings with a calculating intensity. His tailored suit, impeccably clean and pressed, stood out against the dilapidation, a symbol of his power and control amidst chaos. The cigarette between his lips glowed softly as he took a drag, exhaling slowly, the smoke curling around him like a shroud.
"If you know anything already, say it now," Thomas demanded, his voice low and commanding, the thick Birmingham accent adding a layer of grit to his words. His gaze was fixed on her, unyielding and piercing, searching for any sign of deception.
She rolled her eyes, a gesture of impatience that did not go unnoticed by him. "It doesn’t work like that. I need to see them," she replied, her tone defiant yet resigned.
Thomas's jaw tightened, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he suppressed his irritation. He had little patience for the supernatural, for things he could not control or predict. But she had proven useful before, her abilities to discern truth from lies invaluable in the murky world of crime and betrayal he navigated daily.
Entering the warehouse and walking a bit, Thomas and her found themselves face to face with a group of men, their expressions guarded yet curious. One of them, a burly figure with a gruff demeanor, spoke up, his tone tinged with suspicion. "You said you were comin' alone, Mr. Shelby."
Thomas raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Well," he said, his voice smooth and measured, "it's not like you're afraid of a woman, eh?" With a flick of his wrist, he lit a cigarette, the flame casting a fleeting glow on his features.
The men exchanged wary glances, clearly unsettled by Thomas's casual defiance. But he remained unruffled, his gaze steady as he assessed the situation. He knew the importance of projecting strength in such encounters, of asserting his dominance without resorting to overt displays of aggression. Turning to her at his side, Thomas gestured for her to take a seat, his manner solicitous yet authoritative. He knew she was more than capable of holding her own, but he also wanted to ensure her safety. As she settled into the chair, he took up a position beside her, his posture relaxed yet alert.
Her gaze lingered on each man in turn, sizing them up with a practiced eye. But Thomas noticed something else in her expression, a flicker of unease that she tried to conceal. He followed her gaze, his own eyes narrowing as he tried to discern what had caught her attention. She shifted in her seat, her hand moving stealthily under the table. Thomas felt her touch on his thigh, a subtle warning that set his senses on high alert. He remained outwardly composed, but inside, he was ready for anything.
His hand moved, casually resting on his thigh, where her hand lay. The touch was light, almost fleeting, but she felt the coolness of his pinky ring against her skin. It was a stark contrast to the warmth of his palm, a reminder of the world he inhabited, where even the smallest details spoke volumes. The group of men across from them stated their terms, demanding an unreasonable 50% stake in the deal. Thomas's response was a soft, almost amused chuckle, his hand rising to cover his mouth as if to hide a smile. He leaned forward, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and determination.
"30% is as high as I'll go," he stated firmly, his voice carrying the weight of authority. There was a steely resolve in his tone, a hint of a challenge, daring them to push further.
As the negotiations continued, Thomas's demeanor remained unchanged, his expressions carefully controlled yet revealing glimpses of his true thoughts. His eyes, sharp and calculating, never wavered from her, silently communicating a sense of trust and mutual understanding. Despite the tension in the air, there was a sense of mutual respect between them, a silent acknowledgment of each other's skills and prowess. Thomas's words were measured, his sentences calculated for maximum impact, each word carrying the weight of his authority.
The atmosphere in the warehouse shifted, the air thick with anticipation as the negotiations reached a critical point. Thomas remained calm, his demeanor unflappable, a testament to his years of experience and cunning. Finally, a deal was struck, the terms agreed upon. Thomas leaned back, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. He extended his hand, a silent gesture of respect and acknowledgment of their successful negotiation.
Thomas lay in bed, the weight of recent events pressing heavily upon him. Grace's betrayal lingered in his mind, a bitter reminder of the risks he faced in his line of work. Yet, despite the sting of her deception, Thomas couldn't deny that he had achieved a significant coup by securing those guns. It was a bold move, one that elevated the Shelby family's status and solidified his own position in the world. In that moment, he realized that he no longer needed Grace; he had someone else now, someone better. As he lay there, lost in his thoughts, a soft knock at the door interrupted his reverie. It was her—the woman with the gift, the one who could see through lies and secrets, the one who intrigued him like no other. She had become a part of the Shelby family, but their relationship remained at an impasse, a silent dance of unspoken desires and unfulfilled expectations.
"Thomas, are you decent?" Her voice was tentative, respectful of his privacy yet tinged with a hint of curiosity.
"Polly told me to come up here, said you wanted to talk." Her words hung in the air, laden with unspoken questions, a reminder of the complexities that defined their relationship.
With a sigh, he pushed himself upright, the sheets slipping off his form as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of resignation, before finally speaking. "Come in, luv," he said, his voice low and tinged with weariness.
The door creaked open, revealing her silhouette in the doorway. She entered the room, her presence a calming balm to his troubled mind. She approached the bed, her movements graceful yet purposeful, and sat down beside him. For a while, they sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Thomas studied her face, the way the dim light played across her features, highlighting the determination in her eyes and the softness of her expression. She was a puzzle to him, a mystery waiting to be unraveled. Thomas sat on the edge of his bed, his posture rigid yet composed, betraying little of the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. The woman beside him mirrored his stillness, her gaze fixed on him expectantly. Silence enveloped them, thick and heavy, pregnant with unspoken words.
Finally, she broke the quietude with a soft sigh, her voice a gentle breeze in the room's stillness. "What did you want to talk about?"
He didn't answer immediately, instead taking a moment to collect his thoughts. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions and memories, a tumultuous sea he navigated with practiced ease. She was a reminder of his vulnerabilities, of the parts of himself he preferred to keep hidden. But there was something about her that drew him in, a magnetic pull he couldn't resist.
He spoke, his voice low and measured, carrying the unmistakable cadence of a man born and bred in Birmingham. "I wanted to talk about us," he began, his eyes never leaving hers. "About what this is, what it could be."
His words hung between them, deep with meaning. Thomas was not one to speak without purpose, and every word was carefully chosen, weighed for its impact. He watched as she processed his words, her expression unreadable. He knew she was guarded, that she kept her true feelings hidden behind a mask of indifference.
"I know I'm not an easy man to understand," he continued, his tone softening slightly. "But I want you to know that I care about you, more than I care to admit. And I know I've made mistakes, done things I'm not proud of.
"Are you... are you asking me on a date?" she asked, her words hesitant, as if unsure of what his response might be. Thomas considered her question carefully. He was not a man known for his romantic gestures, but there was something about her that intrigued him, something he couldn't quite put into words.
He leaned back slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. "A date?" he repeated, the words sounding foreign on his tongue. "I suppose you could call it that, if you like." His voice was calm, almost indifferent, but there was a glint in his eyes that betrayed his true feelings.
He reached out, his hand brushing against hers. "I must admit, I find myself quite taken with you," he confessed, his voice low and husky. "I've never been one for small talk or idle chatter, but with you... well, it's different."
“I... don’t know what to say,” she finally managed, her voice barely above a whisper. The words hung in the air, fragile and uncertain, like a leaf caught in a gust of wind. Thomas’s gaze remained fixed on her, unwavering, his expression inscrutable.
His hand trails up her body, starting from her waist and moving slowly upwards. His touch is firm yet gentle, calloused fingers grazing over the fabric of her dress. The sensation sends a shiver down her spine, and she can feel her pulse quicken. Thomas's eyes follow the path of his hand, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He cups her cheek, his thumb brushing over her skin in a tender caress. As he leans in, the world seems to narrow down to the space between them. The scent of his cologne, a mix of tobacco and musk, fills her senses. His breath, warm and tinged with whiskey, mingles with hers as their lips draw closer. There's a moment of stillness, a brief pause where time seems to hold its breath. Then, their lips meet, a slow and deliberate connection that speaks of longing and restraint. Thomas's kiss is both commanding and gentle, a contradiction that reflects his complex nature. His lips move against hers with a practiced ease, but there's an underlying hunger, a desperation that betrays his usually composed demeanor. His other arm wraps around her body, pulling her closer, lifting her effortlessly onto his lap. She can feel the strength in his embrace, the raw power that he wields with such control.
As she settles on his lap, the intimacy of the position becomes undeniable. Her legs drape over his thighs, and she can feel the hardness of his muscles beneath her. His hand, which had been cupping her cheek, moves to tangle in her hair, pulling her head back slightly to deepen the kiss. There's a sense of urgency now, a need that has been held back for too long. Thomas's kisses trail from her lips to her jaw, then down to the delicate curve of her neck. Each touch of his lips sends a jolt of electricity through her body, and she can't help but arch into him. His breath is hot against her skin, and she can hear the faintest hint of a growl in his throat, a sound that sends a thrill of anticipation through her.
"Y’ drive me mad, y’ know that?" he murmurs against her skin, his voice low and rough, the accent thickening his words. "Bloody hell, I can't get y’ outta me mind."
His hands roam her body with increasing boldness, tracing the contours of her curves, memorizing the feel of her beneath his touch. She responds in kind, her hands exploring the broad expanse of his back, feeling the tension in his muscles. There's a sense of urgency in their movements, a frantic need to be closer, to feel more. Thomas's fingers find the hem of her dress, and he begins to lift it slowly, his knuckles grazing her thighs. He pauses, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. There's a question there, an unspoken plea for permission, for confirmation that this is what she wants. His blue eyes search hers, and she can see the vulnerability there, the fear of rejection hidden behind the mask of confidence.
She nods, and the relief in his eyes is palpable. He resumes his exploration, his touch growing bolder as he slides the dress higher. The fabric bunches around her waist, and his hands move to caress the bare skin of her thighs. There's a reverence in his touch, a worshipful quality that makes her feel cherished and desired. Thomas's kisses grow more fervent, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply, as if trying to imprint her scent into his memory. She can feel the rapid beat of his heart against her chest, a mirror of her own racing pulse.
"I've wanted this for so long," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "Wanted y’ for so long."
Thomas’s hands are deliberate and steady as they glide up to the zipper of her dress. Each movement is a study in restraint, his fingers brushing against her skin with a tantalizing slowness that speaks volumes of his self-control. He is a man who commands a room with a glance, yet here, in the privacy of his bedroom, he exercises a different kind of power. His breath is warm against the back of her neck as he gathers her hair, pulling it gently away from the zipper. The intimacy of the gesture, the way his calloused fingers entwine with her soft strands, sends a shiver down her spine. He exhales, the sound deep and husky, a mix of anticipation and longing. His eyes, cold and calculating in the boardroom, now burn with a different fire as he slowly pulls the zipper down. The sound is almost imperceptible, a quiet whisper in the charged silence of the room. The dress, now freed from its constraints, slips down her shoulders, cascading like a waterfall to pool around her waist. The jumbled fabric, a mixture of silk and lace, sits in her lap, an unspoken testament to the unraveling moment.
Thomas’s gaze leaves the crook of her neck, traveling down to rest on her bralette. The lace is delicate, a stark contrast to his roughened hands. He pauses, taking in the sight before him, his eyes darkening with desire. His breath hitches, a sharp intake that betrays his otherwise composed exterior. He is a man used to getting what he wants, but in this moment, he allows himself to savor the anticipation. He leans in, his lips brushing against her shoulder, leaving a trail of kisses that burn with intensity. His hands, no longer content to remain idle, trace the lines of her bralette, feeling the texture beneath his fingertips. The sensation is electric, each touch igniting a fire that threatens to consume them both.
He pauses, his lips lingering just above her collarbone, and he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, “You’ve no idea what you do to me, love.”
Her response is a soft sigh, her body arching towards him as if drawn by an invisible force. Thomas’s hands slide down her sides, feeling the curve of her waist beneath his palms. He savors the moment, his touch firm yet gentle, a study in contrasts. He pulls back slightly, his eyes meeting hers, and in that moment, the world outside ceases to exist. It’s just them, two souls entwined in a dance as old as time. He shifts, positioning himself so that he can pull the dress completely away, letting it fall to the floor in a rustle of fabric. The sight of her, now exposed save for the delicate lace of her bralette and her stockings along with the garters sends a jolt of desire through him. His eyes rake over her form, taking in every detail, committing it to memory. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the edge of the lace, his touch feather-light. “Beautiful,” he whispers, the word a reverent prayer on his lips.
Thomas’s hands find her waist again, pulling her closer until their bodies are flush against each other. He can feel the rapid beat of her heart, mirroring his own. The intimacy of the moment, the raw vulnerability, is a stark contrast to the hardened exterior he presents to the world. Here, with her, he can let his guard down, even if just for a moment. His lips find hers, a slow, deliberate kiss that speaks of promises and desires unspoken. He tastes her, the sweetness mingling with the lingering bitterness of whiskey. The kiss deepens, becoming a battle of wills, each of them fighting for control while surrendering to the inevitable pull of their attraction. He pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against hers, his breath ragged. “I need you,” he confesses, the words raw and honest.
Thomas's breath is warm against her neck, each exhale a reminder of his presence. He leans in, lips brushing against her ear. "Tell me what yeh want," he whispers, the words a command wrapped in velvet. His voice is thick with an accent that makes her shiver, each word a promise and a challenge.
Her response is a whisper, barely audible, but he catches every word. His reaction is immediate, a sharp intake of breath followed by a low growl of approval. He shifts, moving to face her fully, his hands framing her face. "Yeh're sure 'bout this?" he asks, the question hanging in the air between them. His eyes search hers, looking for any hint of hesitation. She nods, and that's all the confirmation he needs. His hands move with purpose now, sliding the straps of her bralette off her shoulders, the fabric slipping away to reveal more of her. He exhales sharply, his eyes drinking in the sight of her beautiful breasts. He leans in, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, then another, trailing a path downwards. Each kiss is a promise, a mark of his desire and intention.
Thomas's movements are controlled, each touch precise and deliberate. His fingers trace patterns on her skin, exploring the curves and contours of her body. He pauses at her waist, thumb brushing against the smooth skin just above her hipbone. His gaze lifts to meet hers, and there's a question in his eyes, a silent query for permission. She nods again, and his hand moves lower, tracing the edge of her underwear, her lace stockings and those lovely garters of hers. With a sudden, decisive movement, Thomas pulls her up and off his lap, gently laying her down on her back. He moves over her, his body a protective shield, the weight of his presence grounding her. His eyes never leave hers, even as his hands move to cradle her face, his thumbs brushing lightly over her cheeks. He leans in, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that is both tender and demanding. The taste of him is intoxicating, a blend of whiskey and smoke that she finds herself craving more of. His tongue brushes against hers, a dance of heat and desire that leaves her breathless.
His hand continued its descent, fingers curling around the delicate lace of her underwear. He tugged slightly, the fabric stretching under the pressure, a reminder of the thin barrier between them and the heat of their desire. His other hand cupped her face, holding her in place as he kissed her harder, more desperately. She responded with a soft, involuntary moan, her body arching toward him, seeking more of his touch. As their kiss deepened, his hand slipped beneath the lace, fingers exploring the softness of her cunt. Her sharp inhale filled the space between them, a sound that was both a gasp and a plea. His touch was slow, deliberate, the rough pads of his fingers contrasting with the delicate fabric of her underwear. He moved with a controlled intensity, his every action filled with purpose and intent. He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes, his breath hot against her lips.
"Y'like that, don't ya?" His voice was a low, rough whisper, the thick Birmingham accent adding a gritty edge to his words. He watched her intently, his thumb beginning to move in slow, sloppy circles against her aching clit.
She could only nod, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The pleasure was overwhelming, building with each agonizingly slow movement of his thumb. Her hips bucked instinctively, seeking more of his touch, but he held her steady, controlling the pace, the intensity.
"Fuckin' beautiful," he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers. His thumb pressed a little harder, the circles growing tighter, more focused. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, filling the room with the sound of her pleasure. He seemed to drink it in, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
His fingers teased her entrance, the slight pressure a promise of what was to come. She whimpered, her body trembling with need. Thomas leaned in again, his lips brushing against her ear. "Tell me what y'want," he demanded softly, his breath warm against her skin.
"Please, Tommy," she managed to gasp out, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I need you."
"Need me, do ya?" His tone was teasing, almost mocking, but there was a softness in his eyes, a hint of the tenderness he tried so hard to hide. He kissed her again, his thumb never stopping its relentless assault on her clit. "Say it again."
"I need you," she repeated, her voice stronger this time, filled with urgency. "Please, Tommy."
He growled low in his throat, a sound of approval. His fingers slid inside her, and she cried out, her head falling back against the pillows. The sensation was intense, almost too much, but she couldn't get enough. He moved slowly at first, his fingers curling inside her, hitting just the right spot.
"That's it, love," he murmured, his voice a rough whisper. "Take what y'need."
She writhed beneath him, her body arching into his touch. The pleasure was almost unbearable, every nerve ending on fire. Thomas watched her, his eyes dark with desire, his thumb still working her clit in those slow, sloppy circles. He added another finger, stretching her, filling her, and she moaned louder, her hands clutching at the sheets.
"You're so fuckin' tight," he breathed, his voice filled with awe. "So wet for me."
She could barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words. All she could do was feel, her body responding to him in ways she didn't think possible. He continued to move his fingers inside her, his thumb never missing a beat. The pleasure was building, a tight coil of heat in her belly, ready to snap.
"Come for me," he commanded, his voice rough with need. "Come on my fingers."
It was too much. With a strangled cry, she came, her body convulsing around his fingers. The pleasure was blinding, a white-hot wave that crashed over her, leaving her breathless and trembling. Thomas didn't stop, his fingers and thumb working her through her orgasm, prolonging the bliss until she was a boneless heap on the bed. He slowly withdrew his hand, his fingers glistening with her arousal. He brought them to his lips, his eyes locked onto hers as he licked them clean. "Fuckin' delicious," he murmured, a satisfied smile on his face. Thomas sat up, his eyes locked on hers with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. His lips curved into a knowing smile as his hand moved to his belt, the buckle coming undone with a soft click. With a practiced ease, he slid the leather strap out of the loops, letting it fall to the floor with a muted thud.
"See what you do to me, eh?" His voice was low, with a rough edge that hinted at the desire burning within him. He pushed his suit pants down just enough to reveal the outline of his arousal straining against the fabric of his briefs. The sight made her pulse quicken, a flush creeping up her neck. With a slow, deliberate motion, Thomas freed himself from his underwear, his throbbing cock springing free, eager for the contact that was to come. Crawling back towards her, he positioned himself above her, his cock pressing against her, aching for the warmth and wetness he knew awaited him
He positioned himself between her legs, the head of his cock brushing against her dripping slit, teasing her with the promise of what was to come. With a low growl, Thomas slid his cock up and down her slick folds, relishing in the sensation of her wetness coating him. He savored the feeling of her heat against him, the friction sending a jolt of pleasure through his body. Each pass made him ache with need, the desire to be buried deep inside her consuming him. He lowered himself onto her, his body pressing against hers as he continued to tease her with his cock, sliding it along her slit with agonizing slowness. He could feel her hips rising to meet his, her own need mirroring his own. The anticipation was almost unbearable, each moment stretching out into eternity as they danced on the edge of pleasure.
With a final, torturous glide, Thomas positioned himself at her entrance, the tip of his cock poised to enter her. He locked eyes with her, a silent question passing between them, a question to which the answer was inevitable. And then, with a single, powerful thrust, he was inside her, burying himself; bottoming out in her. The feeling of her tightness enveloping him was almost overwhelming, a sensation that threatened to consume him. He began to move, slow and deliberate at first, savoring the feeling of her around him. But the need for more, began to slowly creep up his spine. He began to thrust harder, deeper, driving into her with an urgency born of his desire. She met his thrusts with equal fervor, her nails digging into his back, her hips rising to meet his with each powerful stroke. They moved together, a symphony of desire and need, lost in the heat of the moment. The sounds of their passion filled the room, mingling with their ragged breaths and the creak of the bed beneath them.
With a gentle yet firm grasp, he pulled her up, pressing her chest against his chest, his arms wrapping around her in a possessive embrace. His body moved with a controlled yet primal rhythm, each thrust sending a wave of pleasure coursing through them both.
"You take me so well, eh'.. like you were made for me.." His words were a low, husky murmur, the accent of his voice adding a sensual edge to the intimate moment. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, planting soft kisses along the curve of her shoulder, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate as he chased his own release.
Thomas's hands roamed over her body, tracing the curves and contours with a familiarity that spoke of countless shared moments. His touch was electric, igniting a fire within her that threatened to consume her whole. She arched against him, meeting his every thrust with a passion that matched his own, their bodies moving together in a symphony of desire. He could feel her responding to him, her body arching and writhing beneath him, her nails digging into his back in a silent plea for more. He drove into her with a relentless intensity, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate as he neared the edge of his control.
His body moved with a controlled urgency, his hips driving forward in a steady rhythm as he hovered over her. Sweat glistened on his brow, his muscles tense with the effort of holding back, of prolonging the exquisite torture of their joining. His eyes, dark with desire, bore into hers, a silent promise of the pleasure yet to come. With each thrust, he buried himself deeper inside her, a low grunt escaping his lips as he felt her tightness enveloping him. His movements were measured, purposeful, as if he were savoring every moment, every sensation. But beneath the surface, a primal hunger simmered, driving him ever onward, ever deeper. Thomas's control began to slip, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. He groaned, a guttural sound of pleasure and need, as he felt himself teetering on the edge of release. But he held back, unwilling to let go, unwilling to relinquish the control he so fiercely guarded.The air was thick with the heady scent of their desire, a potent mixture of sweat and sex that fueled their passion. Thomas's body glistened with exertion, his muscles straining with the effort of holding himself back, of prolonging the inevitable. But even as he fought against his own desires, he knew that he was powerless to resist.
With a final, desperate thrust, Thomas surrendered to the inevitable, his body tensing as he spilled himself inside her with a guttural cry of release. He collapsed against her, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath, his body spent and sated. They lay there together, entwined in the aftermath of their passion, their bodies still humming with the aftershocks of their lovemaking. Thomas pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, his voice low and husky as he whispered words of love and adoration, his Birmingham accent lending a melodic cadence to his words.
Thomas pulls back slightly, looking at her eyes. He studies them for a moment, as if trying to memorize every detail. “Yer too good for this life,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Too good for me.”
She shakes her head slightly, her lips parting to protest, but he silences her with a look. “Don’t,” he says firmly, his voice a mix of frustration and affection. “Don’t say it. Just... let me have this moment.” There’s a vulnerability in his eyes, a rare glimpse of the man beneath the armor, and it takes her breath away.
The kitchen was thick with tension, the kind that hung in the air like smoke after a heavy night of drinking. Polly, Arthur, John, Finn, Ada, and Michael sat around the table, their eyes flicking towards the staircase with an unspoken understanding. They had heard everything—every moan, every cry, every whispered name—echoing down the stairs, carrying the weight of Thomas's passion.
John leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips as he glanced at Polly. "Well..." he drawled, breaking the heavy silence. "You think he’ll marry her if she gets pregnant?"
Polly's eyes narrowed, her gaze shifting from John to the others around the table. Her face was a mask of contemplation, lines etched deep from years of worry and hard living. "Thomas is a complicated man," she finally said, her voice low and measured. "Marriage ain't something he takes lightly."
Arthur, nursing a glass of whiskey, let out a snort. "Complicated, yeah. But he's got a soft spot for her, always has." His voice was rough, tinged with the raspy edge of too many cigarettes and too much alcohol. He glanced at John, his eyes shadowed with a mixture of amusement and something darker. "But a baby changes things. Makes a man think different."
Finn, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was still finding his place in the family, still trying to prove himself. "Thomas... he's always been about control, right? Wouldn't a baby make things... unpredictable?"
Ada, who had been silently observing, finally spoke up. "Thomas isn't the same man he was before the war. He's seen too much, done too much. But love... love can change a man." Her voice was softer, almost wistful, as she looked towards the staircase, imagining her brother with the woman who had captured his heart.
Polly nodded, her sharp eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. "Thomas knows that better than anyone. But if she’s pregnant, if there’s a child... he’ll do what he thinks is right. For the family, and for himself."
The kitchen fell into a momentary silence, the only sound being the faint ticking of a clock on the wall. It was John who broke the stillness, his voice carrying a note of amusement as he leaned forward. "Remember that time that bloke yelled at her in the Garrison?" His eyes sparkled with mischief as he recounted the memory. "Fuck, I thought he would have blown his face off right then and there."
The room erupted in a chorus of chuckles and knowing nods, the memory of that night vivid in their minds. Finn, always eager to join in on the banter, grinned broadly. "Well, it didn’t matter... Tommy gutted him like a pig that night. We all were there."
Arthur, his eyes wide with a mix of amusement and caution, leaned forward, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "He’s definitely become more soft, but do not tell him I said that."
The room fell silent again, each of them lost in their thoughts. The sound of footsteps on the stairs drew their attention, and they looked up as Thomas appeared, his expression inscrutable. He moved with the quiet confidence of a man used to command, his presence filling the room.
"Talking about me, are we?" His voice was low, the Birmingham accent thick and familiar. He glanced at each of them, reading their faces with the same keen insight he applied to business deals and battlefields.
John, unable to hide the smirk that tugged at the corners of his mouth, was the first to speak. “Never expected you so... you get the point, Tom.” His tone was teasing, but there was an underlying respect, a recognition of the man who led them, both in the streets and in their personal lives.
Thomas's eyes narrowed slightly, a glimmer of amusement mixed with warning. "And what exactly did you expect, John?" He moved to the table, pulling out a chair with a scrape that seemed louder than it should have been, the sound filling the room as he settled himself with deliberate ease.
Polly, ever the matriarch, leaned back in her chair, her sharp eyes watching Thomas with a mixture of amusement and concern. "We heard everything, Thomas," she said, her tone even but tinged with a hint of reproach. "Walls are thin in this house."
Thomas shrugged, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "I wasn't exactly trying to be quiet, was I?" He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him, exuding a relaxed confidence that belied the tension simmering beneath the surface.
Arthur, always the blunt one, grunted in agreement. "Bloody hell, Tom. Thought the house was gonna come down with all that noise." There was a twinkle in his eye, a hint of the old camaraderie they shared in the trenches.
Finn, younger and still finding his place within the family dynamics, looked between them, unsure whether to join in or keep his mouth shut. He opted for the latter, focusing on the patterns in the wood grain of the table.
Ada, her expression a mix of exasperation and amusement, shook her head. "You could at least have some consideration for the rest of us, Thomas." Her tone was light, but there was a serious undertone, a reminder that their lives were intertwined in ways that went beyond blood and business.
Thomas met her gaze, unflinching. "Consideration, Ada? When have we ever lived lives that allowed for such luxuries?"
Author’s Notes:
This power that she has is HEAVILY BASED OFF: Nyoomian
Yes, Grace lolz. And yeah so what if I make the plot messy, I had an idea and ran with it but like it’s there it’s just the lore..please please please don’t hate this. Uhhh reblog if you enjoyed it and like it please it boosts my ego lolz.. I’m just a girl..
And yeah he makes bank through those months you get to know the family. Let me have lore that’s messy, it’s LORE FOR A REASON!!
