୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆Lu⋆˚｡⋆୨୧

[daughter0fthewitch]

✦ ──── WHAT GRIEF WISHES FOR thomas shelby x obsessed!f!reader masterlist — taglist

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wc. 2.8 k

premise. based on this ask! Years after the war and haunted by Grace's death, Thomas crosses paths with the woman he once thought he would marry: a woman who walked away when the man she loved returned from France changed beyond recognition. When she rejects his impulsive invitation to spend the night, Thomas's grief drives him to make one desperate wish upon a silver coin gifted by an old Romani fortune teller. "I wish she'd love me... and never leave me again."

warnings. DEAD DOVE DONT EAT!!; noncon, obsession au, supernatural happenings, canon typical violence

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chapter 2 – a wish

The moment your eyes met his, the noise of the Garrison seemed to retreat somewhere into the distance.

The laughter remained.

The piano continued its weary tune.

Glasses still clinked together beneath the amber lamps.

Yet Thomas heard almost none of it.

There was only the strange pull settling somewhere deep within his chest, quiet but undeniable, urging him forward before his mind had fully decided to move. It wasn't unfamiliar. Years ago, before the war, he used to feel that same inexplicable certainty whenever he saw you standing somewhere across a crowded field or waiting beside your family's painted caravan.

It was ridiculous.

He was no longer that man.

And yet...

His feet carried him toward you all the same.

The polished wooden floor creaked softly beneath his shoes as he crossed the room, pushing between occupied tables and barmaids balancing trays of half-empty glasses. The closer he came, the more details returned to him without invitation; the faint scent of lavender that clung to your perfume, the careful stitching along the sleeves of your violet dress, the delicate silver necklace resting against your collarbone, familiar enough to awaken memories he hadn't allowed himself to touch in years.

You noticed him approaching.

Your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the glass of whiskey before relaxing again.

Thomas stopped beside you.

For a brief second...

Neither of you spoke.

“Have a drink with me,” Thomas said at last, his voice low and steady, though it carried more certainty than invitation, as though the years between you could simply be stepped across without acknowledgment.

One of your eyebrows lifted, and a small smile touched your lips.

“...Hello to you too, Thomas.” you spoke gently, almost amused, though there was something else beneath it that he couldn't quite place.

Thomas blinked once, almost as if he had forgotten that it was expected to greet someone first, then, despite himself, the corner of his mouth shifted into the faintest hint of a smile.

Without another word he reached for your hand.

His touch remained careful, and when he turned your hand gently enough to press a brief kiss against your knuckles, the gesture felt strangely old-fashioned even for him.

Your laugh came softly.

“There he is,” you hummed, shaking your head ever so slightly. “Always the charmer.”

Thomas released your hand, “I've been called worse.”

“I imagine you have.”

For a heartbeat you simply looked at him, studied him. 

Your eyes lingered over the faint lines time had etched into his face, the shadows beneath his eyes. You looked as though you were trying to find the young man you'd once known somewhere beneath the man standing before you now.

Perhaps you did.

Perhaps you didn't.

“...One drink,” you agreed finally, lifting your glass slightly before setting it back upon the bar. “I can spare one.”

Thomas inclined his head, “This way.”

The private room remained much as it always had.

Separated from the bustling public bar by a heavy wooden door, it offered a welcome silence that muffled the music outside into little more than a distant melody. 

Thomas pulled out a chair for you, you thanked him quietly before sitting.

Only once you had settled did he lower himself into the chair opposite.

The silence between you wasn't awkward.

It was...

Careful.

A barman appeared moments later, “The usual, Mr. Shelby?”

Thomas nodded once, “A bottle.”

The man disappeared without another word.

When the whiskey arrived, Thomas poured two generous glasses before reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, producing a polished silver cigarette case that had accompanied him for years.

He opened it, “Cigarette?”

You looked at them for only a moment before giving a small nod, “Thank you.”

You selected one, Thomas took another for himself before striking a match against the edge of the table.

The flame flared softly between you, he leaned forward first, allowing the end of your cigarette to catch the flame in an orange glow. Then he brought the match to his own.

For one suspended moment your faces hovered only inches apart, separated by little more than the tiny dancing flame reflected within your eyes.

Thomas caught the faint scent of lavender again.

Something inside him tightened unexpectedly.

He extinguished the match with a quiet flick of his fingers.

Both of you leaned back, smoke drifting lazily toward the ceiling.

“So…” Thomas began after taking a slow drag from his cigarette, watching the smoke curl between the two of you. “What brings you back to Birmingham?”

You wrapped both hands around your whiskey glass, your thumbs tracing absent circles against the cool crystal before answering.

“My family stopped not far from here,” you explained calmly. “We'll only be staying for the week before moving north again.”

Thomas nodded once, “A week.”

“Mm.”

Your eyes wandered briefly toward the rain-speckled window.

“I thought I'd visit a few familiar places while I had the chance.”

There was something thoughtful in the way you said it. Something that made Thomas wonder whether the Garrison had been one of those places intentionally...

Or merely happened to be along the way.

Before he could ask, you looked back at him, “And you? How has life been treating you?”

A faint smile crossed your face as you continued speaking, “I've heard plenty about Shelby business… But not much about Thomas business.”

The distinction lingered between you, for a brief moment he considered answering with the usual response.

Busy.

Fine.

Working.

Instead...

“My wife died.”

The words arrived simply, without embellishment or self-pity.

“Not long ago.” he added. 

The warmth left your expression almost immediately, your fingers stilling around the glass. 

“Oh…” you breathed the single word so quietly it was almost swallowed by the rain beyond the window.

“I'm sorry.” you spoke gently, holding his gaze, “I didn’t know”

Thomas gave a slight nod, and silence settled again. Heavy silence. 

You searched his face carefully before speaking once more “How are you holding up?”

It was such an ordinary question. Yet Thomas found he had no ordinary answer. He looked down into the amber whiskey swirling gently within his glass, watching the lamp's reflection distort across its surface.

“...I just am.” he spoke, his voice carried no bitterness, no anger, only exhaustion.

“I wake up. I work. I sleep.” Thomas explained as if it was the simplest thing in the world. 

Your expression softened almost imperceptibly, not with pity for the man sitting in front of you, you knew he wouldn’t enjoy it. It was something more difficult to name.

You looked at him for a long moment, your cigarette forgotten between elegant fingers as smoke curled lazily upward, and Thomas found himself unable to decipher what rested behind your eyes.

There was familiarity there.

Perhaps affection.

Perhaps only compassion.

Perhaps nothing more than the sadness one feels when confronted by someone they once loved...

Or someone they almost had.

The rain had strengthened outside.

The bottle of whiskey between you had lowered considerably, though neither of you had spoken enough to explain where the missing liquor had gone. Smoke hung lazily beneath the ceiling, illuminated by the warm amber glow of the oil lamp resting between your glasses, softening the sharp lines of Thomas' face until he looked almost as though he'd stepped out of another lifetime.

He watched you, not openly or with great greed, but his eyes were on you constantly. 

Every now and then your fingers would brush the rim of your glass, or you would tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and each small movement seemed to pull another memory from somewhere deep inside him. It was unfair how easily you still occupied the spaces of his mind he had spent years trying to seal shut.

You had changed.

So had he.

Yet sitting across from you now, with the rain falling beyond the windows and whiskey warming his chest, it became dangerously easy to imagine that the years between you had never existed at all.

He should have known better.

Thomas finished what remained in his glass before setting it quietly upon the table.

His blue eyes found yours once again,  “Come home with me.”

He spoke those words without hesitation, without the careful courtship most men might have attempted.

You didn't look offended. Instead, you blinked once before a small, almost disbelieving smile appeared at the corner of your lips.

“...Thomas.” you breathed his name more than you spoke it, lowering your gaze briefly toward your whiskey before looking back at him.

“You really haven't changed in that regard.”

He said nothing. He simply waited. Perhaps somewhere inside himself he had already convinced himself that you would say yes. Perhaps grief had made him reckless. Perhaps loneliness had.

You rested your cigarette between your fingers, studying the glowing ember for a long moment before speaking.

“...No.”

The answer came quietly, kindly.

Thomas remained perfectly still.

“No?” he repeated, his voice calm enough that another man might have mistaken him for indifferent.

You offered the faintest shake of your head, “No.”

Silence followed.

You searched his face for something, whether understanding, disappointment, or irritation, even you weren't entirely certain, but Thomas' expression remained frustratingly unreadable.

“I'm glad we spoke tonight,” you continued after a moment, your tone gentle enough that it almost hurt more than cruelty would have. “Truly.”

You smiled again, small this time, “But…” 

You looked down into your glass before emptying the last of it in one slow sip.

“I think it's better if I go.”

Thomas felt something tighten inside his chest, the sort of ache that settled between ribs rather than striking the heart.

He wanted to ask, 

Better for whom?

Better because tonight wasn't the night?

Or because there would never be another?

But he remained silent. The uncertainty lingered between you like the cigarette smoke drifting lazily through the warm light.

You stood slowly, smoothing invisible creases from the skirt of your violet dress before reaching for your coat draped neatly across the back of your chair.

Thomas watched every movement. You finished the last draw of your cigarette before pressing it gently into the ashtray beside the bottle, twisting it once until the ember disappeared into ash.

Then you stepped around the table.

For one brief moment you stood beside him, close enough that Thomas could once again catch the familiar scent of lavender mingling with tobacco and rain.

He looked up, seeing that soft smile of yours again. 

“It was good seeing you again.” you spoke, before he could answer, you leaned down.

Your lips brushed his cheek, the kiss lasted scarcely longer than a heartbeat.

And after the shattered second of familiar warmth, you drew away. 

“Goodnight, Thomas.”

You spoke the words quietly.

Whether they sounded like a farewell or merely the end of an evening...

Even Thomas couldn't decide.

He watched you cross the room, watched your hand settle upon the brass handle, watched you disappear through the door without looking back.

The latch clicked shut and silence returned.

For several long moments Thomas didn't move.

His fingers lifted almost unconsciously to the place upon his cheek where your lips had rested.

The warmth had already faded.

He poured himself another whiskey. Then another. The first disappeared too quickly to taste. The second burned all the way down.

He replayed the conversation again and again, searching for certainty where none existed.

You hadn't looked disgusted.

You hadn't been angry.

You hadn't told him never to ask again.

You had simply...

Said no.

But no to what?

To him?

Or only to the suddenness of the question?

He hated not knowing.

The Garrison finally emptied sometime after midnight.

One by one, the patrons spilled out into the quiet streets of Small Heath. Rain still lingered in the air, though only as a fine mist now, leaving the cobblestones slick beneath the glow of gas lamps that burned like little pools of amber against the darkness. 

Thomas adjusted the collar of his overcoat as he stepped outside. The whiskey sat pleasantly warm in his stomach, dulling the sharper edges of the evening without quite stealing his senses. He wasn't drunk enough to forget, and he doubted he ever could.

Arthur stumbled through the doorway, already laughing at something neither Thomas nor John had heard, one hand slung carelessly around his younger brother's shoulders.

“I'm tellin' you…” Arthur barked between bursts of laughter, nearly losing his balance before catching himself against the wall of the pub. “...that bloke never saw it comin'.”

John snorted loudly. “He definitely saw your fist comin'.”

Arthur erupted into another fit of laughter.

Thomas merely glanced at them before beginning the familiar walk home.

The three brothers moved through the streets together, their shoes splashing through shallow puddles left behind by the rain. Somewhere nearby, a stray dog barked before disappearing into an alleyway, while distant church bells announced the late hour with slow chimes.

Thomas walked slightly ahead, his hands buried deep inside the pockets of his coat and his thoughts elsewhere.

He hadn't stopped thinking about you, not for a single moment. He could still picture the way the lamplight had caught in your eyes, still feel the feather-light brush of your lips against his cheek, still hear the uncertainty inside your goodbye.

“Goodnight, Thomas.”

He replayed the words endlessly, searching them, dissecting them, finding meanings that changed every time he examined them. Had there been regret? Closure? Or had he imagined all of it because grief had made him desperate enough to mistake it for possibility?

“Oi!”

Arthur's voice dragged him back. Thomas looked over his shoulder. 

Arthur pointed vaguely toward a narrow side street. “I've gotta piss.”

“Me too,” John added immediately, already veering away from the main road with considerably less coordination.

Thomas sighed quietly through his nose, “I'll wait.”

The two younger brothers disappeared into the alley without another word, Arthur still muttering something incoherent while John laughed at a joke only the two of them seemed to understand.

Thomas continued another few steps before stopping in the centre of the small square.

There, illuminated by little more than the trembling glow of two gas lamps, stood the old stone well.

It had been there longer than he could remember. Thomas had never given it much thought.

He rested one hand against the weathered stone rim. Rainwater still clung to its surface, cold against his palm.

Thomas lowered his head.

He wondered where you were now, whether you'd already returned to wherever you were staying, whether you had fallen asleep, whether you'd thought about him at all after leaving the Garrison... or whether he'd simply become another familiar face encountered during your brief return to Birmingham.

“Tommy!” John's voice rang loudly through the quiet square.

Thomas didn't turn. “What?”

John leaned around the corner of the alley, still very much occupied relieving himself against the brick wall, his words carrying far louder than necessary, “Why didn't you shag her?”

Arthur burst into another drunken laugh.

“Yeah!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the surrounding buildings. “She's got great tits!”

Thomas remained facing the well, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly, “It wasn't like that.”

John laughed loudly, “Bollocks! You practically stared holes through the poor woman all night!”

“Should've just taken her home!”, Arthur chimed in with another laugh.

Thomas said nothing. There was nothing worth saying.

His fingers searched automatically through the pocket of his coat for his cigarette case. Instead, something small slipped free, and a dull metallic sound struck the cobblestones.

Thomas frowned and looked down.

The silver coin.

For a moment he simply stared at it lying there. He'd almost forgotten about it, the old woman, the fair, the strange feeling that had lingered after she'd vanished.

He bent down and picked the coin up between thumb and forefinger. It felt just as unnaturally cold as before.

Thomas turned it slowly, the unfamiliar symbols seeming almost to shimmer beneath the damp light.

He scoffed quietly. “Ridiculous…” he muttered beneath his breath.

He was Thomas Shelby. He believed in guns, money, power, and consequences, not charms, not curses, not wishing wells.

Behind him Arthur shouted something unintelligible, followed by John's booming laughter.

Thomas looked down into the darkness below.

The water rested perfectly still. He sighed, more at himself than anything else, then, with an almost embarrassed flick of his thumb, he tossed the coin.

It spun once, then twice, silver catching the light for the briefest heartbeat before disappearing into the darkness of the water below. A soft splash echoed upward, and ripples spread across the water.

Thomas watched them without knowing why.

It was foolish, childish, meaningless.

Still...

The words left him before he could stop them.

“I wish…”

His voice was barely more than a whisper, “...I wish she'd love me…”

He closed his eyes for only a second.

“...and never leave me again.”

Silence answered him.

Thomas let out a quiet, almost self-conscious breath through his nose before reaching once more for his cigarettes.

“Bloody stupid,” he muttered to himself.

He struck a match.

The cigarette caught.

Behind him, Arthur finally emerged from the alley, buttoning his trousers while John followed a moment later, still chuckling to himself.

“You comin', Tommy?” Arthur called, swaying slightly where he stood.

Thomas took one slow drag from the cigarette before turning away from the well.

“Yeah.”

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

peaky blinders taglist . . .‧˚꒰📞꒱༘‧@drunkcigarettes-jpg @lucellu @hagarsays @afw5 @ourtiger04 @tsreader @jbrownta

a/n: I'm kind of loving this series... we love a slightly pathetic Tommy and his unknowingly irreversibly horrible actions

[daughter0fthewitch]

✦ ──── WHAT GRIEF WISHES FOR thomas shelby x obsessed!f!reader masterlist — taglist

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━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

wc. 2.6 k

premise. based on this ask! Years after the war and haunted by Grace's death, Thomas crosses paths with the woman he once thought he would marry: a woman who walked away when the man she loved returned from France changed beyond recognition. When she rejects his impulsive invitation to spend the night, Thomas's grief drives him to make one desperate wish upon a silver coin gifted by an old Romani fortune teller. "I wish she'd love me... and never leave me again."

warnings. DEAD DOVE DON'T EAT; noncon, obsession au, supernatural happenings

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chapter 1 – a silver coin

The countryside beyond Birmingham stretched endlessly beneath a pale summer sky, where slow-moving clouds drifted lazily across washed-out blue and the afternoon sun cast everything in a warm amber haze. 

The fields had been transformed for the annual Romani fair, colourful caravans on the grass, their painted sides adorned with fading florals and intricate gold detailing. Bright strips of fabric fluttered overhead between wooden poles, children darted between stalls clutching candied apples with sticky hands, fiddles and tambourines carried lively melodies through the air, and the scent of roasting meat, fresh bread, woodsmoke, damp earth and horses lingered so heavily that it felt impossible to separate one from another.

Thomas Shelby noticed none of it.

The cigarette rested loosely between his fingers as he walked without direction through the sea of people, its ember glowing a dull orange every time he drew from it.

His black overcoat hung heavily from his shoulders despite the warmth of the day, making him seem almost detached from the bright world surrounding him, as though someone had cut him from a different season entirely and placed him here by mistake.

The music reminded him of another life.

One before France.

Before tunnels.

Before blood.

Before Grace.

His thoughts wandered there far more often these days than he cared to admit. Ever since Grace's death, memories had begun rising from places inside himself he had buried years ago beneath violence, business and ambition. Some belonged to France. Others belonged to Grace.

But today...

Today belonged to someone else.

To a girl with beautiful eyes and weather-worn hands.

To evenings spent sitting outside brightly painted caravans while old women sang songs in Romani that Thomas had once understood better than he did English.

To stolen kisses beneath willow trees.

To promises.

You had been his first love.

Long before Grace Burgess had entered his life.

Long before Birmingham had learned to fear the name Shelby.

He could almost remember the warmth of your fingers slipping between his own, the way you’d laughed whenever he tried to act tougher than he truly was, calling him a fool before stealing another kiss all the same.

Then France had happened.

And when he returned...

He hadn't come back alone.

The war had followed him home.

So had the nightmares.

The drinking.

The guns.

The razor blades sewn into caps.

You had looked at him one evening with tears gathering quietly in your eyes, standing beside your family's caravan while the autumn rain soaked through both of your coats, and although you had reached for his hand, you had never managed to hold onto it.

“You're still over there,” you’d whispered, your voice breaking as you looked into eyes that no longer belonged entirely to the boy you’d fallen in love with. “Every time I look at you... you're still in France.”

He hadn't argued.

Because you had been right.

The memory dissolved as quickly as it had come, replaced once again by the distant sound of fiddles and laughter.

Arthur appeared beside him carrying the unmistakable smell of whiskey, his broad grin attempting to drag life back into his brother who seemed determined to leave it behind.

“You look like someone dragged you here at gunpoint,” Arthur said with a snort, nudging Thomas' shoulder as they walked together through the crowded fairground. “Come on, Tommy. Have a drink. Talk to a girl. Do somethin' besides walk around lookin' like … that.”

Thomas inhaled slowly from his cigarette before releasing the smoke through his nose, watching it disappear into the golden afternoon without ever turning to look at Arthur. His expression barely shifted.

“I'm walkin', aren't I?” he answered quietly.

Arthur sighed, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck before shaking his head.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Walkin'. Sulkin'. Thinkin'. You're always thinkin'.”

Thomas said nothing, because there was nothing left worth saying.

Words had become difficult after Grace. The grief heavy on him, like another stone in already overfilled pockets.

John wandered over a moment later, Finn following closely behind him, already eyeing the various games and stalls spread across the field.

“Arthur,” John called, pointing toward one of the tents, “They've got ale over there.”

Arthur's face brightened immediately, “Now you're speakin' my language.”

Finn glanced toward Thomas, shifting awkwardly where he stood.

“You comin', Tommy?” the boy asked his older brother, but Thomas only barely lifted his eyes from the cigarette.

“You lot go.” he said, his voice remaining almost absent, “I'll walk.”

Arthur studied him for a long second.

Since Grace's funeral it had become almost impossible to separate Thomas’ stubbornness from the sudden emptiness. 

Arthur rested a hand briefly against Thomas' shoulder, squeezing once with quiet understanding.

“Don't wander too far.” the oldest brother spoke quietly, Thomas offered him a faint nod. 

His brothers disappeared into the crowd soon after, swallowed by painted caravans and cheerful strangers until only the distant sound of Arthur's laughter remained.

For the first time that afternoon...

Thomas Shelby was alone.

He took another drag from his cigarette and continued walking slowly through the fairgrounds.

The further Thomas wandered from the centre of the fair, the quieter it became.

Here, the grass grew longer, brushing against the polished leather of his shoes with every step, and the scent of wildflowers mingled with woodsmoke drifting lazily from nearby cooking fires. 

The sun had begun its slow descent across the sky, turning the pale blue above into warmer shades of honey and muted gold.

Thomas reached into his coat for another cigarette.

He found the packet almost empty.

Only one remained.

He rolled it thoughtfully between his fingers before placing it between his lips, striking a match. The flame flickered briefly in the wind before catching, illuminating the sharp lines of his face for the briefest moment, and then disappeared as he inhaled deeply.

Smoke filled his lungs.

But still, his mind refused to stay in the present.

It wandered instead toward another summer years ago, when he'd walked through a fair much like this one. You had insisted on dragging him to every fortune teller, every card reader and every musician you could find, despite Thomas insisting that fate was made by oneself, not predicted by old women with crystal balls.

“You're too serious,” you’d teased, tugging his hand until he'd finally smiled despite himself.

Back then...

Smiling had been easy.

Now it felt like remembering someone else's face.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden collision.

A slight weight bumped against his shoulder with surprising force, causing Thomas to instinctively step back, his brows drawing together as irritation flared almost immediately.

“For fuck’s sake–”

The complaint died on his tongue.

Standing before him was a woman so old she seemed almost folded into herself, her back curved beneath layers of embroidered shawls, each one stitched with faded reds, deep blues and golden thread. Wisps of silver-white hair escaped from beneath a dark headscarf, while countless wrinkles framed a pair of remarkably bright eyes that studied Thomas with amusement rather than apology.

“Oh,” Thomas muttered, the edge disappearing from his voice almost at once. He took half a step back, clearing the path before her. “Didn't see you.”

The old woman smiled, but something seemed off about it. 

“My mistake,” she replied, her voice carrying an unmistakable accent. “These old legs don't always remember where they're going.”

Thomas gave a short nod, “No harm done.”

He was about to step around her, but she moved with him. 

From somewhere beneath the folds of her shawl she produced a small cloth pouch, carefully opening it before extending it toward him.

“Perhaps…” she began gently, “...you'd care to buy something.”

Thomas glanced inside, seeing small carved charms, dried herbs and a few tiny polished stones.

Odds and ends that might have interested someone else entirely.

“No,” he answered simply, shaking his head once as another slow slither of cigarette smoke escaped his lips. “I'm not interested.”

The old woman did not lower the pouch.

“Protection,” she offered.

“No.”

“Luck?”

“I've never had much use for luck.”

“A blessing, then.”

Thomas let out the faintest breath through his nose, somewhere between amusement and exhaustion, before lowering the cigarette from his lips.

“You'll have better luck with someone else,” he said quietly, “Go on your way.”

For a second, she simply looked at him, then she smiled again, “As you wish.”

She reached once more beneath her shawl, Thomas expected her to pull out another trinket but instead she took his hand without asking.

Her skin was cool, impossibly light against his weathered palm, and before he had time to object she pressed something small and metallic into his hand before gently folding his fingers closed around it.

“Take this as an apology,” she said softly.

Thomas frowned, “You don't have to–”

“You'll know when to spend it.” the old lady interrupted him.

He looked down, resting against the centre of his palm lay a silver coin unlike anything he had ever seen.

It was heavier than any ordinary shilling, its surface worn smooth with age. There was no monarch's face. No number. No lettering he could read.

Just strange symbols surrounding what looked almost like a single eye carved into the centre.

Thomas turned it slowly between his fingers, watching the fading sunlight catch against its weathered edges.

“I've never seen currency like this,” he murmured, lifting his eyes again. “Where's it fr–"

His words stopped, the woman was gone. 

The narrow path before him stood empty, stretching between caravans and market stalls where people carried on with their afternoons as though nothing unusual had happened at all. A pair of children raced past chasing one another with wooden swords.

There was no sign of the woman.

Thomas slowly turned in place.

Left, right, behind him, nothing. 

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

She couldn't have disappeared that quickly.

For a brief moment an unfamiliar feeling settled low in his chest. He looked back down at the coin resting in his hand, then he just scoffed quietly. 

"Bloody hell...," he muttered beneath his breath, though there was no real irritation behind the words, only an attempt to explain away something his mind stubbornly refused to understand.

He slipped the coin into the pocket of his overcoat, where it settled with a surprisingly heavy weight against the fabric, then adjusted the cigarette between his fingers and started back toward the centre of the fair.

Arthur and John would almost certainly have found the ale by now.

If nothing else...

A drink would make the strange encounter easier to forget.

By the time the Shelby brothers returned to Small Heath, the last of the evening sunlight had begun to disappear beneath the Birmingham skyline, leaving behind streaks of burnt orange and deep violet that bled together across the horizon before surrendering entirely to the approaching night. 

The Garrison stood exactly as it always had.

Its amber windows glowed warmly against the dusky street, laughter spilling through the open doorway alongside the scent of whiskey, tobacco and polished oak. 

Men crowded around the tables, and somewhere near the back, someone had begun playing a melancholy tune on an old piano.

Thomas stepped inside first, as he always did.

The familiar warmth wrapped around him almost immediately, carrying with it the comforting haze of cigarette smoke that lingered beneath the low ceiling. 

Arthur and Finn disappeared almost immediately toward the bar, eager for another drink after spending the afternoon wandering the fairgrounds, while John lingered nearby, exchanging greetings with familiar faces.

Thomas barely noticed.

An informant had already caught his attention.

The wiry man stood tucked away near one of the darker corners of the room, hat pulled low over tired eyes, nervously rubbing his hands together before Thomas had even reached him.

“Mr. Shelby,” the man greeted quietly, dipping his head with obvious respect.

Thomas removed his gloves one finger at a time, slipping them into his coat pocket before fixing the man with the steady blue stare that had made far braver men lose their nerve.

“You've got somethin' for me?” he asked evenly.

The informant nodded quickly.

“They've been movin' more guns through Digbeth,” he explained in a hushed voice, glancing over his shoulder before continuing. “Three deliveries this week. Italians are involved.”

Thomas listened without interruption, his expression betraying nothing as he reached into his coat for a cigarette.

“When?”

“Next week… Tuesday night.”

“Where?”

The man leaned closer, lowering his voice even further, “The canal warehouse.”

Thomas lit the cigarette slowly, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp angles of his face before he extinguished the match with a practiced flick of his fingers.

“You sure?” he inquired

The informant swallowed, “I wouldn't come here if I wasn't.”

Thomas nodded once, “I'll look into it.”

The conversation might have continued had John not appeared seemingly out of nowhere, weaving through the crowded room with great excitement.

“Tommy.” John called, but Thomas didn't look away from the informant, “What?”

John glanced across the room before looking back at his brother, unable to suppress the grin spreading across his face.

“You won't believe who's here.” John mused, watching as Thomas exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

“I'm workin', John.”

“No…” John insisted, shaking his head as he reached out to lightly catch Thomas' sleeve. “Seriously.”

Something in John's tone finally drew Thomas' attention, his younger brother wasn't joking.

“What is it?” Thomas finally asked, his gaze lifting to John’s, who looked toward the bar again before lowering his voice.

“She's back.”

Thomas frowned slightly, something complex chasing over his features, “Who?”

For just a moment… Thomas didn't understand. Who could she be if not his late wife, but that was impossible. 

“The one you used to see before France,” John clarified quietly. “She's here.”

Thomas stared at him, his heartbeat seemed suddenly louder than the piano playing across the room, something that felt like starving hunger clenched his stomach and almost knocked the air out of his lungs. 

John gestured over towards the bar, “She's right over there.”

Almost without thinking, Thomas followed John's gaze, his blue eyes grazing over the many strangers, men leaning over drinks, women laughing together, then…

He saw you.

Standing quietly at the polished wooden bar with one hand resting loosely around a glass of whiskey, your attention fixed upon the amber liquid as though it held your thoughts captive. 

The light from the hanging lamps above bathed your figure in warm gold, softening every line until you almost looked like another memory instead of someone standing only a few steps away.

Thomas forgot to breathe.

Time seemed to slow with startling cruelty.

You looked older. The years had touched you just as they had touched him. Yet somehow...you were still unmistakably you. Maybe even more beautiful than the day he lost you. 

Your hair, softer than he remembered, fell effortlessly around your shoulders, and though the years had refined your features, they had stolen none of the beauty he had once known so intimately. 

There remained the same thoughtful expression he'd watched a hundred times before while you listened more than you spoke, and the same eyes...

God.

Those eyes.

He remembered them better than he remembered France.

Better than he remembered his own reflection.

The deep violet dress you wore fit you perfectly, beautiful simply because you wore it.

Over the many years, Thomas had convinced himself he no longer remembered her face. That he had begun to forget it, but he’d been wrong. He remembered it all. 

His gaze lingered, out of disbelief, as though if he looked away, you might vanish again.

Then, almost as though you had felt the weight of his eyes upon you...

You lifted your head and across the crowded Garrison, your eyes found his.

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

peaky blinders taglist . . .‧˚꒰📞꒱༘‧@drunkcigarettes-jpg @lucellu @hagarsays @afw5 @ourtiger04 @tsreader

[daughter0fthewitch]

✦ ──── WHAT GRIEF WISHES FOR thomas shelby x obsessed!f!reader masterlist — taglist

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wc. 2.6 k

premise. based on this ask! Years after the war and haunted by Grace's death, Thomas crosses paths with the woman he once thought he would marry: a woman who walked away when the man she loved returned from France changed beyond recognition. When she rejects his impulsive invitation to spend the night, Thomas's grief drives him to make one desperate wish upon a silver coin gifted by an old Romani fortune teller. "I wish she'd love me... and never leave me again."

warnings. DEAD DOVE DON'T EAT; noncon, obsession au, supernatural happenings

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chapter 1 – a silver coin

The countryside beyond Birmingham stretched endlessly beneath a pale summer sky, where slow-moving clouds drifted lazily across washed-out blue and the afternoon sun cast everything in a warm amber haze. 

The fields had been transformed for the annual Romani fair, colourful caravans on the grass, their painted sides adorned with fading florals and intricate gold detailing. Bright strips of fabric fluttered overhead between wooden poles, children darted between stalls clutching candied apples with sticky hands, fiddles and tambourines carried lively melodies through the air, and the scent of roasting meat, fresh bread, woodsmoke, damp earth and horses lingered so heavily that it felt impossible to separate one from another.

Thomas Shelby noticed none of it.

The cigarette rested loosely between his fingers as he walked without direction through the sea of people, its ember glowing a dull orange every time he drew from it.

His black overcoat hung heavily from his shoulders despite the warmth of the day, making him seem almost detached from the bright world surrounding him, as though someone had cut him from a different season entirely and placed him here by mistake.

The music reminded him of another life.

One before France.

Before tunnels.

Before blood.

Before Grace.

His thoughts wandered there far more often these days than he cared to admit. Ever since Grace's death, memories had begun rising from places inside himself he had buried years ago beneath violence, business and ambition. Some belonged to France. Others belonged to Grace.

But today...

Today belonged to someone else.

To a girl with beautiful eyes and weather-worn hands.

To evenings spent sitting outside brightly painted caravans while old women sang songs in Romani that Thomas had once understood better than he did English.

To stolen kisses beneath willow trees.

To promises.

You had been his first love.

Long before Grace Burgess had entered his life.

Long before Birmingham had learned to fear the name Shelby.

He could almost remember the warmth of your fingers slipping between his own, the way you’d laughed whenever he tried to act tougher than he truly was, calling him a fool before stealing another kiss all the same.

Then France had happened.

And when he returned...

He hadn't come back alone.

The war had followed him home.

So had the nightmares.

The drinking.

The guns.

The razor blades sewn into caps.

You had looked at him one evening with tears gathering quietly in your eyes, standing beside your family's caravan while the autumn rain soaked through both of your coats, and although you had reached for his hand, you had never managed to hold onto it.

“You're still over there,” you’d whispered, your voice breaking as you looked into eyes that no longer belonged entirely to the boy you’d fallen in love with. “Every time I look at you... you're still in France.”

He hadn't argued.

Because you had been right.

The memory dissolved as quickly as it had come, replaced once again by the distant sound of fiddles and laughter.

Arthur appeared beside him carrying the unmistakable smell of whiskey, his broad grin attempting to drag life back into his brother who seemed determined to leave it behind.

“You look like someone dragged you here at gunpoint,” Arthur said with a snort, nudging Thomas' shoulder as they walked together through the crowded fairground. “Come on, Tommy. Have a drink. Talk to a girl. Do somethin' besides walk around lookin' like … that.”

Thomas inhaled slowly from his cigarette before releasing the smoke through his nose, watching it disappear into the golden afternoon without ever turning to look at Arthur. His expression barely shifted.

“I'm walkin', aren't I?” he answered quietly.

Arthur sighed, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck before shaking his head.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Walkin'. Sulkin'. Thinkin'. You're always thinkin'.”

Thomas said nothing, because there was nothing left worth saying.

Words had become difficult after Grace. The grief heavy on him, like another stone in already overfilled pockets.

John wandered over a moment later, Finn following closely behind him, already eyeing the various games and stalls spread across the field.

“Arthur,” John called, pointing toward one of the tents, “They've got ale over there.”

Arthur's face brightened immediately, “Now you're speakin' my language.”

Finn glanced toward Thomas, shifting awkwardly where he stood.

“You comin', Tommy?” the boy asked his older brother, but Thomas only barely lifted his eyes from the cigarette.

“You lot go.” he said, his voice remaining almost absent, “I'll walk.”

Arthur studied him for a long second.

Since Grace's funeral it had become almost impossible to separate Thomas’ stubbornness from the sudden emptiness. 

Arthur rested a hand briefly against Thomas' shoulder, squeezing once with quiet understanding.

“Don't wander too far.” the oldest brother spoke quietly, Thomas offered him a faint nod. 

His brothers disappeared into the crowd soon after, swallowed by painted caravans and cheerful strangers until only the distant sound of Arthur's laughter remained.

For the first time that afternoon...

Thomas Shelby was alone.

He took another drag from his cigarette and continued walking slowly through the fairgrounds.

The further Thomas wandered from the centre of the fair, the quieter it became.

Here, the grass grew longer, brushing against the polished leather of his shoes with every step, and the scent of wildflowers mingled with woodsmoke drifting lazily from nearby cooking fires. 

The sun had begun its slow descent across the sky, turning the pale blue above into warmer shades of honey and muted gold.

Thomas reached into his coat for another cigarette.

He found the packet almost empty.

Only one remained.

He rolled it thoughtfully between his fingers before placing it between his lips, striking a match. The flame flickered briefly in the wind before catching, illuminating the sharp lines of his face for the briefest moment, and then disappeared as he inhaled deeply.

Smoke filled his lungs.

But still, his mind refused to stay in the present.

It wandered instead toward another summer years ago, when he'd walked through a fair much like this one. You had insisted on dragging him to every fortune teller, every card reader and every musician you could find, despite Thomas insisting that fate was made by oneself, not predicted by old women with crystal balls.

“You're too serious,” you’d teased, tugging his hand until he'd finally smiled despite himself.

Back then...

Smiling had been easy.

Now it felt like remembering someone else's face.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden collision.

A slight weight bumped against his shoulder with surprising force, causing Thomas to instinctively step back, his brows drawing together as irritation flared almost immediately.

“For fuck’s sake–”

The complaint died on his tongue.

Standing before him was a woman so old she seemed almost folded into herself, her back curved beneath layers of embroidered shawls, each one stitched with faded reds, deep blues and golden thread. Wisps of silver-white hair escaped from beneath a dark headscarf, while countless wrinkles framed a pair of remarkably bright eyes that studied Thomas with amusement rather than apology.

“Oh,” Thomas muttered, the edge disappearing from his voice almost at once. He took half a step back, clearing the path before her. “Didn't see you.”

The old woman smiled, but something seemed off about it. 

“My mistake,” she replied, her voice carrying an unmistakable accent. “These old legs don't always remember where they're going.”

Thomas gave a short nod, “No harm done.”

He was about to step around her, but she moved with him. 

From somewhere beneath the folds of her shawl she produced a small cloth pouch, carefully opening it before extending it toward him.

“Perhaps…” she began gently, “...you'd care to buy something.”

Thomas glanced inside, seeing small carved charms, dried herbs and a few tiny polished stones.

Odds and ends that might have interested someone else entirely.

“No,” he answered simply, shaking his head once as another slow slither of cigarette smoke escaped his lips. “I'm not interested.”

The old woman did not lower the pouch.

“Protection,” she offered.

“No.”

“Luck?”

“I've never had much use for luck.”

“A blessing, then.”

Thomas let out the faintest breath through his nose, somewhere between amusement and exhaustion, before lowering the cigarette from his lips.

“You'll have better luck with someone else,” he said quietly, “Go on your way.”

For a second, she simply looked at him, then she smiled again, “As you wish.”

She reached once more beneath her shawl, Thomas expected her to pull out another trinket but instead she took his hand without asking.

Her skin was cool, impossibly light against his weathered palm, and before he had time to object she pressed something small and metallic into his hand before gently folding his fingers closed around it.

“Take this as an apology,” she said softly.

Thomas frowned, “You don't have to–”

“You'll know when to spend it.” the old lady interrupted him.

He looked down, resting against the centre of his palm lay a silver coin unlike anything he had ever seen.

It was heavier than any ordinary shilling, its surface worn smooth with age. There was no monarch's face. No number. No lettering he could read.

Just strange symbols surrounding what looked almost like a single eye carved into the centre.

Thomas turned it slowly between his fingers, watching the fading sunlight catch against its weathered edges.

“I've never seen currency like this,” he murmured, lifting his eyes again. “Where's it fr–"

His words stopped, the woman was gone. 

The narrow path before him stood empty, stretching between caravans and market stalls where people carried on with their afternoons as though nothing unusual had happened at all. A pair of children raced past chasing one another with wooden swords.

There was no sign of the woman.

Thomas slowly turned in place.

Left, right, behind him, nothing. 

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

She couldn't have disappeared that quickly.

For a brief moment an unfamiliar feeling settled low in his chest. He looked back down at the coin resting in his hand, then he just scoffed quietly. 

"Bloody hell...," he muttered beneath his breath, though there was no real irritation behind the words, only an attempt to explain away something his mind stubbornly refused to understand.

He slipped the coin into the pocket of his overcoat, where it settled with a surprisingly heavy weight against the fabric, then adjusted the cigarette between his fingers and started back toward the centre of the fair.

Arthur and John would almost certainly have found the ale by now.

If nothing else...

A drink would make the strange encounter easier to forget.

By the time the Shelby brothers returned to Small Heath, the last of the evening sunlight had begun to disappear beneath the Birmingham skyline, leaving behind streaks of burnt orange and deep violet that bled together across the horizon before surrendering entirely to the approaching night. 

The Garrison stood exactly as it always had.

Its amber windows glowed warmly against the dusky street, laughter spilling through the open doorway alongside the scent of whiskey, tobacco and polished oak. 

Men crowded around the tables, and somewhere near the back, someone had begun playing a melancholy tune on an old piano.

Thomas stepped inside first, as he always did.

The familiar warmth wrapped around him almost immediately, carrying with it the comforting haze of cigarette smoke that lingered beneath the low ceiling. 

Arthur and Finn disappeared almost immediately toward the bar, eager for another drink after spending the afternoon wandering the fairgrounds, while John lingered nearby, exchanging greetings with familiar faces.

Thomas barely noticed.

An informant had already caught his attention.

The wiry man stood tucked away near one of the darker corners of the room, hat pulled low over tired eyes, nervously rubbing his hands together before Thomas had even reached him.

“Mr. Shelby,” the man greeted quietly, dipping his head with obvious respect.

Thomas removed his gloves one finger at a time, slipping them into his coat pocket before fixing the man with the steady blue stare that had made far braver men lose their nerve.

“You've got somethin' for me?” he asked evenly.

The informant nodded quickly.

“They've been movin' more guns through Digbeth,” he explained in a hushed voice, glancing over his shoulder before continuing. “Three deliveries this week. Italians are involved.”

Thomas listened without interruption, his expression betraying nothing as he reached into his coat for a cigarette.

“When?”

“Next week… Tuesday night.”

“Where?”

The man leaned closer, lowering his voice even further, “The canal warehouse.”

Thomas lit the cigarette slowly, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp angles of his face before he extinguished the match with a practiced flick of his fingers.

“You sure?” he inquired

The informant swallowed, “I wouldn't come here if I wasn't.”

Thomas nodded once, “I'll look into it.”

The conversation might have continued had John not appeared seemingly out of nowhere, weaving through the crowded room with great excitement.

“Tommy.” John called, but Thomas didn't look away from the informant, “What?”

John glanced across the room before looking back at his brother, unable to suppress the grin spreading across his face.

“You won't believe who's here.” John mused, watching as Thomas exhaled a thin stream of smoke.

“I'm workin', John.”

“No…” John insisted, shaking his head as he reached out to lightly catch Thomas' sleeve. “Seriously.”

Something in John's tone finally drew Thomas' attention, his younger brother wasn't joking.

“What is it?” Thomas finally asked, his gaze lifting to John’s, who looked toward the bar again before lowering his voice.

“She's back.”

Thomas frowned slightly, something complex chasing over his features, “Who?”

For just a moment… Thomas didn't understand. Who could she be if not his late wife, but that was impossible. 

“The one you used to see before France,” John clarified quietly. “She's here.”

Thomas stared at him, his heartbeat seemed suddenly louder than the piano playing across the room, something that felt like starving hunger clenched his stomach and almost knocked the air out of his lungs. 

John gestured over towards the bar, “She's right over there.”

Almost without thinking, Thomas followed John's gaze, his blue eyes grazing over the many strangers, men leaning over drinks, women laughing together, then…

He saw you.

Standing quietly at the polished wooden bar with one hand resting loosely around a glass of whiskey, your attention fixed upon the amber liquid as though it held your thoughts captive. 

The light from the hanging lamps above bathed your figure in warm gold, softening every line until you almost looked like another memory instead of someone standing only a few steps away.

Thomas forgot to breathe.

Time seemed to slow with startling cruelty.

You looked older. The years had touched you just as they had touched him. Yet somehow...you were still unmistakably you. Maybe even more beautiful than the day he lost you. 

Your hair, softer than he remembered, fell effortlessly around your shoulders, and though the years had refined your features, they had stolen none of the beauty he had once known so intimately. 

There remained the same thoughtful expression he'd watched a hundred times before while you listened more than you spoke, and the same eyes...

God.

Those eyes.

He remembered them better than he remembered France.

Better than he remembered his own reflection.

The deep violet dress you wore fit you perfectly, beautiful simply because you wore it.

Over the many years, Thomas had convinced himself he no longer remembered her face. That he had begun to forget it, but he’d been wrong. He remembered it all. 

His gaze lingered, out of disbelief, as though if he looked away, you might vanish again.

Then, almost as though you had felt the weight of his eyes upon you...

You lifted your head and across the crowded Garrison, your eyes found his.

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

peaky blinders taglist . . .‧˚꒰📞꒱༘‧@drunkcigarettes-jpg @lucellu @hagarsays @afw5 @ourtiger04 @tsreader

[daughter0fthewitch]

Hey my love I am SO back and honestly feel deprived of Thomas goddamn Shelby as nobody seems to be writing him anymore I would very very much appreciate it if you would take upon my opinion of obsession au with him. Love you lots diva!!! 💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

OH MY OH MY?? hello diva first of all i love seeing your requests!!! i was going to post a regular addition to army dreamers next week but you have intrigued me… obsession au? who is going to be obsessed with who? thomas wishes for reader to be obsessed or obsessed thomas? i need more of your juicy opinions diva

[daughter0fthewitch]

cooking something up for my divas...

[lucellu]

SHUT THE FRONT DOOR I am SO excited do not play with me right now, i have not been this is exited in a WHILE oh em gee I can’t wait

[lucellu]

Someone actually kill me. I have been deprived of alcohol and smoking for A MONTH a whole MONTH because of work??? Who am I? Who is this? Lowkey ready to quit actually and just live off the £400 in my bank for the rest of my life and fuck I need some cigarettes

[lucellu]

hey diva you havent posted in a while, I hope youre okay and living your best life!!! - @daughter0fthewitch

Hii my love! I’m so sorry for leaving on a whim, I had exams upon exams and quite frankly went through some tough things but it’s all over and I’m so happy and at a party right now smoking the best cig of my life!!!

[daughter0fthewitch]

army dreamers. . .‧˚꒰🫖꒱༘‧

a dream pairing: Thomas Shelby x f!reader genre: smut • one shot series: prequel/flashback that takes place before army dreamers! notes: just now I was rereading the first chapter of army dreamers, and realised we never addressed how Thomas foreshadowed meeting y/n with his flower shop dream! so... we should TOTALLY revisit that... :P warnings: smut, masturbation (m)! MINORS DNI!! masterlist join my taglist ─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

army dream

It was that strange dream all over again.

The one he first had when one of the tunnel's support beams collapsed, knocking him unconscious. Since that day he has had it countless times, maybe because it hasn't left his mind since that day…

He was back in Small Heath, walking down a quiet street, the sun was still out. 

A flower shop stood there, familiar, he had seen it before, but it hadn’t been open in a while.

Outside, a young woman stood, arranging flowers. 

She placed a pot of forget-me-nots onto a small wooden stool, which caused a bag of soil that was leaned against it to topple over. 

Crash.

Soil spilled over his polished leather shoes and Thomas went still. 

Slowly, he lifted his gaze, he blinked a few times.

The young woman let out a soft gasp as she turned, eyes widening when she saw the mess she’d made.

Her mouth moved but he couldn’t quite hear what she said, her voice soft and sweet but somewhere distant.

He could see how delicately the sunlight illuminated her form, caressing her silhouette. 

Thomas glanced down at the soil on his polished shoes.

He blinked again.

And then it was gone. There was still dirt on his shoes, but he wasn’t in Small Heath anymore.

Thomas laid in his dirty sheet in one of the tunnels.

He let out a shaky breath, rubbing his hand over his face. He felt his heart race in his chest.  For once he was alone, it was dark, just the simple oil lamp next to him gave off a dim light.

He tried to calm his throbbing heart and get the image of this woman out of his mind. 

But it was no use. 

She was all that was on his mind. 

The forget me nots. 

The feeling of comfort.

He could almost see her face when he closed his eyes.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shifting uncomfortably in the narrow space. 

The air was thick, with damp earth and gunpowder residue, but all he could smell was the phantom scent of those fucking forget-me-nots. 

His calloused hand moved almost involuntarily downward…

“Fuck.” He muttered the curse under his breath.

The memory lingered almost uncomfortably between the rhythmic drip-drip of groundwater seeping through the beams.

His fingers twitched again, the desire burning deeper in his veins now. 

He could still hear faint sounds through the tunnel, the scrape of metal shovels, muffled voices. 

It was dangerous, and stupid.

But, god, he couldn’t get her off his mind.

He needed the tension to ease. 

With one last look around, he reached for his waistband.

He closed his eyes, thinking of it again, of her, about the dream.

The forget-me-nots, the soil spilled on his shoes, when he looked up he saw her silhouette, her figure.

A rough exhale escaped him as he gripped himself, tight, moving in slow strokes. Her soft voice rang distantly in his mind, he couldn’t exactly hear what she was saying, but the illusion alone was intoxicating.

His teeth sank into his bottom lip to stifle any sound as pressure builds.

He could almost pretend the scent of the damp earth in the tunnel was the scent of the flower pots being filled, of her hands working to put the flowers in their new homes.

His head fell back, hitting the rough wood of the tunnel support. 

The image was vivid, but it was the imagined sound of her soft voice that made his hold tighten and stroke faster.

The dream played out in his mind again. The surprise in her eyes, the curve of her neck, the way the light seemed to caress her cheek. 

He could almost feel the smoothness of her skin, the brush of her hair against his knuckles. 

His breath choked in his throat.

Her voice rang in his ears, a faint whisper of his name. He clenched his eyes shut, his breathing ragged as the words echoed in his mind

‘Thomas... Thomas…’

on repeat. 

The rhythm of his movement picked up, the tension coiled tight within him, desperate for release.

The image burned in his mind, her laughter, her eyes sparkling, her body framed by sun and green. 

The field was filled with wildflowers, their petals soft against her skin. 

He could almost smell the sweet scent of summer grass, the warmth of her skin. 

His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. 

The image of her lips curving up into that sweet smile.

God, how he longed to feel them against his own. 

The ache in his gut grew, coiling tighter with each passing second.

He could almost hear the sound of the wind rustling through the grass, the faint buzzing of insects that filled the summer air. 

In his mind, her scent was everywhere, a sweet, flowery fragrance that seemed to draw him in. 

His hand moved faster, his breathing ragged and sharp.

His breathing stuttered as he released into his own hand, it felt like his whole world came crashing down onto him as the relief rippled through him.

He let out a ragged breath. 

It was intense, overwhelming, and he leaned his head back onto the rough wood.

With a sigh, he pulled a piece of cloth out of his pocket, carefully cleaned himself up and tucked himself back into his trousers.

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

peaky blinders taglist . . .‧˚꒰📞꒱༘‧

@drunkcigarettes-jpg @lucellu @hagarsays

a/n: please dont ask I dont even know...?

[daughter0fthewitch]

okay guys it’s official one more mini series + the immortal man au one shot and then i’ll ease us into series two (gulp!)

[daughter0fthewitch]

army dreamers. . .‧˚꒰🫖꒱༘‧

a new life pairing: Thomas Shelby x f!reader genre: angst hurt • short story series: continuation/one shot set in the au of my series 'army dreamers', I recommend reading it before coming to this but... if you're just here for the one time experience! feel free to stay! notes: on your way home you come across a disgusting scene... which leads you not only into trouble but also to more questions warnings: smut, slightly off-putting smut... we are processing some things... unprotected pinv, oral (m receiving), choking, dirty talking MINORS DNI!! masterlist join my taglist ─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

filthy, disgusting, so ugly – part 3

Thomas looked… wrong.

Not just tired.

There was something on him.

On his sleeves. His collar. His hands.

Blood.

Not yours.

“Where did you go?” you asked, your voice careful.

He didn’t answer immediately.

He just stood there, looking at you like he was searching for something.

“Took care of something that needed taking care of.” he just said, his voice made it clear that there was no room for asking.

A door closing on a conversation you didn’t want to open anyway.

You nodded.

You didn’t ask.

“Lizzie is sleeping in our living room.” you informed him, voice quiet.

“Good.” he nodded once before stepping closer.

His eyes dropped to your hand.

To the cigarette.

To the tremor you couldn’t quite stop.

“You alright, love?” he asked, voice hoarse. 

You swallowed, nothing about this night fit the definition of ‘alright’.

Your throat still felt… wrong.

“I… I don’t know.”

It was the only honest thing left.

You took another drag, slower this time.

“You should… you should go clean yourself up.” 

You nodded vaguely toward him, toward the blood, toward everything he dragged back in with him.

He looked down, like he had forgotten it was there.

“I will in a minute.” he brushed it off.

His voice was gruff, but softer underneath.

You didn’t respond.

Your leg kept bouncing on the floor.

Fast, restless, like your body was trying to run while the rest of you was stuck.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

You didn’t even realize you were doing it.

He did.

Of course he did.

Another step closer.

Then another.

Until he was right there in front of you.

“Y/N… look at me, love.” he insisted.

You didn’t, not at first.

Your eyes stayed fixed on the floor, on anything that wasn’t him.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the cigarette.

You felt… untethered.

Like you were floating just slightly outside your own body, watching yourself sit there, watching your hands, your breathing, your stillness.

Like you were waiting for someone to tell you what comes next.

He stepped closer again.

Close enough that your knee almost brushed his leg.

Close enough that there was nowhere else to look but up at him.

And still, you hesitated.

Because you didn’t know what he would see when you did.

Or worse…

What you would see in him.

“Y/N… please. Look at me, goddamn it.”

His hand came up,and settled beneath your jaw, tilting your face upward.

Your eyes snapped to his.

And suddenly you were there again.

Not in the alley. 

Not in the bathroom. 

Here.

With him.

You leaned into his touch before you even realized you were doing it.

Your breath caught as your gaze locked onto his.

“There you are…” he breathed, voice a whisper.

Your chest tightened painfully, something rising up inside you. Too many things at once. 

Fear, relief, something softer, something desperate.

Your eyes searched his.

For answers.

For something steady.

For something that made sense after everything that didn’t.

His gaze flickered over your face.

“Y/N…” His voice dropped, “I need you to promise me something.”

His grip shifted, tighter, more certain.

His eyes never left yours.

“Anything.” your voice came out soft, immediate. 

Your trust sat between you, like something exposed and fragile and absolute.

Something flickered across his face at that.

It almost looked like it hurt him.

His fingers pressed just a little deeper into your skin.

“You can’t ever tell anyone about this… ever.”

You nodded, then leaned into his hand again, seeking something solid, something grounding.

His thumb dragged once across your lip, slowly and carefully.

“And you need to promise me somethin’ else…” he added.

His voice was thicker now. Strained. His fingers trembled where they held your chin, the grip almost too tight, almost bruising. 

But it grounded you in a way.

Kept you there, kept you from drifting somewhere else entirely. 

His gaze moved over your face, something frantic and unsteady behind his eyes.

“Promise me you won’t ever leave me.” he whispered.

An odd promise.

But maybe he knew more about what you were about to go through, than you yourself did.

“No matter what happens.”

You nodded.

Slowly, you pushed yourself up onto unsteady feet and fell into an embrace with him.

You didn’t care that he was damp, that his shirt clung to him, that there was blood on him. 

His arms came around you holding you impossibly close. 

His face buried into your hair.

He smelled like smoke and sweat and iron.

It didn’t matter.

You tipped your head up just enough to press a soft kiss to his lips.

Your hand came up, brushing gently over his cheek.

“You should get cleaned up…”

“I know…” he muttered. “But I don’t want to let go of you.”

“Thomas…” you breathed, your forehead resting against the side of his neck.

You could already feel it.

Your clean skin no longer clean, his mess transferring to you. 

Like you were ‘dirty’ all over again.

“I’ll help you,” you said softly.

Your hand found his, guiding him.

He didn’t argue.

The moment the bathroom door shut behind you, he turned you back toward him.

Like he needed to see you again, properly.

His eyes searched your face.

“Y/N…” His voice was rougher now, uncertain in a way he rarely allowed. 

“You don’t have to do this. You shouldn’t have to… not after–”

“I’m helping you wash up,” you interrupted gently, “And cleaning myself again. That’s all.”

You turned from him before he could argue, reaching for a cloth, turning on the tap. 

The water ran steady.

He said nothing after that, he just unbuttoned his shirt slowly, letting it fall to the floor.

“He… didn’t… He didn’t touch you, did he?”

You shook your head, almost absent.

“Not ‘like that’…” you said, you didn’t linger on it.

Instead, you turned back to him, lifting the damp cloth to his neck.

Brushing carefully at the dark stain there. 

Thomas just nodded in response, there was nothing to say. Nothing that needed to be said now anyway.

His eyes closed for a moment as he tilted his head slightly, giving you better access.

The cloth dragged from his neck to his shoulders, over his arms, down to his hands. 

Your motions were careful.

Your gaze drifted up to his face as you worked, unfocused, distant.

You scrubbed at his knuckles, at the dried blood.

He watched you the entire time.

In the dim light of the bathroom, it almost felt… intimate.

Too intimate, considering what still clung to both of you.

Then his gaze shifted to your face.

To your eyes.

Hazy, unfixed.

“Love…” he said softly.

Your hand stilled.

You looked up at him properly then, blinking once, like you’d been pulled back into yourself.

“Yes?” you asked quietly.

His hand came up, slower this time, more careful than before, cupping your cheek. 

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked.

Obviously you weren’t, but the question was more so… about how alright one can be in this situation.

You leaned into his touch instinctively.

The contact sending a faint, strange warmth through you.

Not the usual one. It was something you couldn’t quite name.

You nodded, “Yes…”

Your hand dropped slightly, and you stepped closer without thinking.

“Are you alright?” you asked in return, your voice just as soft.

He exhaled, the sound heavy from his throat. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers settling there, holding you carefully.

“I’m fine,” he said gruffly.

But he pulled you closer anyway, until there was barely any space left between you.

His eyes searched your face again, “You look a little… distant.”

The way his hand rested at your neck made something in your stomach twist.

“I just feel… wrong,” you admitted quietly.

The word hung there, incomplete.

And before you could think it through, your lips brushed against his.

The contact made him still for half a second. 

“Wrong?” he repeated, voice rough now, his forehead coming to rest against yours.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Instead, you leaned in again.

This time the kiss was deeper. Less hesitant, more searching. 

Like you were trying to find something solid in him, something familiar to drown out everything else.

The kiss made his head spin.

He pulled you closer, a little too firm, a little too rough.

You leaned into him, the cloth slipping from your fingers and forgotten entirely. 

Your hands found his bare chest instead.

He let out a low sound against your mouth, the feeling of your hands on him sending a rush of heat through his body. 

His grip shifted, hands moving over you, restless, until they settled at your hips, guiding you back until you met the edge of the sink.

The cool porcelain pressed faintly against you as he leaned in again, deepening the kiss.

After a moment, you pulled back just enough to breathe, your chest rising unevenly, your head light, spinning.

Not just from him.

Something still felt wrong.

But this…

this dulled it.

“Thomas–” you breathed unevenly against his skin.

He stilled, just slightly, his breathing rough as he hovered close, his forehead nearly touching yours. 

His hands didn’t leave you, still firm where they held you.

You slowly let go off him, turning so he now stood against the bathroom sink. Thomas opened his mouth to speak, to ask what you were doing but the words died in his throat as you sank to your knees in front of him.

There was something off in your eyes, conflict between desire, confusion, fear, want, so full of emotion as you looked up at him. His hands instinctively moved to your hair, fingers tangling in your locks as he looked down at you.

“Christ, love…” he rasped, the sight of you on your knees made his pants uncomfortably tighter.

You dragged your tongue over his clothed crotch, “I want to feel you…” you breathed. 

You wanted to feel something. 

Him.

His fingers tightened in your hair, his hips jerking forward slightly at the feeling of your tongue through the fabric. 

"Fuck, You..." He growled, his voice thick with lust and concern. 

“You sure? After tonight–”

You interrupted his words before he could finish them, “Thomas, Please.” 

His thumb dragged over your bottom lip. 

It passed your lips into your mouth and you lapped over his digit before sucking gently on it.

The way you said his name, the way your tongue brushed over his finger, your eyes fixed on him, it was driving him insane.

“God damn it, fine..” He croaked, giving in, his fingers gently gripping your hair. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so worked up.

You undid his pants, pushing them down enough to expose his hard length to you. 

You carefully took it in one hand, lip brushing the tip as your tongue licked at it.

He swore under his breath, gripping the edge of the sink, watching you, his body tense with need. 

He wanted you, needed you.

Your mouth fell slack, letting his cock enter your mouth slowly.

His breath escaped him in a sharp hiss, his head falling back. 

You tried to push him further in, but you almost choked on his cock. 

He cursed again, louder this time, his hips jerking forward slightly before he forced himself to still. 

You pulled back gently, sucking in a breath of air before you let your tongue drag across his entire length.

His hands found your hair again, fingers tangling in the soft strands as he fought the urge to just take over and fuck your mouth.

“Easy,” he breathed, his voice rough and uneven. 

“Just take what you can, love.”

He bit back a groan as you took him deeper, your warm, wet mouth wrapping around him perfectly. His fingers tightened in your hair, just enough to guide you a bit.

You let him, your head was spinning, eyes slightly watery but looking up at him.

“Fuck…” He rasped, his voice strained, his cock twitching against your tongue. 

You moved your tongue over his tip as he pulled back a little bit, before letting your mouth slide over him again.

“You look so goddamn beautiful like this…” he groaned, his hips rocking slightly into your mouth.

Spit pooled at the corner of your mouth, a muffled sound escaping you, it only fueled the fire in him that made his self control slip further.

“You want me to take over?” He gritted out, his eyes lowering to look into yours. 

“You want me to take the lead and show you how I like it?”

You could barely nod before you felt his grip in your hair tighten.

A small, satisfied smirk curled on his lips, “That's my girl…”

He pulled your head back by your hair, separating you from his length for a moment.

“Open that pretty mouth for me,” he rasped.

You did as he asked, sucking in a few shuddering breaths, before letting your jaw fall slack.

The way he talked spurred the adrenaline and arousal on.

It made you feel good in a way.

He wasted no time, the moment you obeyed, he guided your mouth back onto him, sliding himself in slowly at first, savoring the wet warmth of you. 

But it didn’t take long for him to start moving your mouth up and down his cock at a faster pace, his hips rocking shallowly to meet your mouth.

You felt him hit the back of your throat a few times, the feeling made you almost gasp for air, but you pushed it down.

He was mesmerized by the sight of you, your eyes watering slightly, your cheeks flushed.

His thrusts grew rougher, deeper.

You let him fuck into your mouth, the lack of air had your head spin even more.

His hips stuttered, his grip on your hair tightening almost painfully as he groaned.

He didn’t give you a chance to pull away nor a warning, not that you seemed inclined to. 

You felt your head being pushed down, eyes watering, as your nose nearly touched his stomach.

With a final, deep groan, he spilled into your mouth, his body shuddering as he held you there, panting heavily.

You choked around his dick, the feeling making something twist deep in your stomach.

As he loosened his grip, you pulled back immediately, gasping for air, your face flushed and lips glistening with spit.

He took a moment to just stare at you like this, his chest heaving with his ragged breaths.

You looked wrecked, and he loved it.

“You okay, love?” he rasped, still panting, his eyes roaming over you. 

You nodded, swallowing thickly.

“Yeah–” you nodded, as he slowly pulled you up from your knees.

You pressed your legs together, almost surprised at the wetness pooling between your thighs.

“You’re trembling, sweetheart…”

You looked up at him, eyes still shiny, fixed on him as if his voice had torn you from another thought.

“I’m wet.” you said almost bluntly.

He pulled you in a bit tighter, a sly smirk on his lips.

“Oh, I’m aware, sweetheart. Believe me.” He leaned down to your ear, lowering his voice, his own breath still a bit rough. 

He had you almost pinned against the sink now, his arms on either side of you, trapping you. 

He leaned in, taking his time to admire you. 

Lips slightly swollen, cheeks flushed, hair disheveled. 

You leaned in, lips searching his again, your body tingling and burning in ways you had never felt before.

“Such a needy little thing,” He breathed against your lips. 

He had you bent over the sink in a matter of seconds, his body pressed against you from behind, caging you in. 

His gaze darkened, his eyes locked with yours in the mirror.

“Look at you…”

You looked at your reflection, at his behind you, at how his hands dragged over your body, coming down to push up your nightgown.

One hand wandered beneath the fabric, caressing your thigh. 

His palm slid higher, the skin of his fingertips skimming over your skin, rough and calloused.

You let out a shuddering breath, your body felt wrong and hot and too much all at once, your eyes fixed on his in the mirror.

His hips pressed against your backside, letting you feel just how hard you’d made him, again. 

His fingers trailed up higher, brushing against the soaked fabric between your legs, 

“You’re drenched.” he noted almost matter of factually, his fingers pressed against your clit through the fabric.

You leaned back into him, eyes falling shut for a moment. “What were you thinking about, huh? Tell me.” 

The words made your head feel both entirely clear and dipped in that thick haze again.

 You didn’t know what you were thinking about, or didn’t know how to name it.

The warmth. 

The blood.

The lack of air in your lungs. 

You let out a quick breath.

Your hand came down to take his other hand, which wasn’t resting between your thighs, brought it up to your neck. You didn’t say anything. But the implication was heavy.

He felt you guide his hand to your neck, his fingers wrapping around it almost automatically.

His thumb brushed over the column of your throat, feeling the beating pulse beneath the skin. 

He leaned in, his lips against your ear.

“Do you want me to take control, sweetheart?”

Control in a lack of control. Control in giving your control to him. 

You nodded, your body hot and cold at the same time, tingling. 

You felt his hand on your neck, not yet squeezing.

His thumb rubbed small circles into the soft skin of your neck, his eyes fixed on yours in the mirror.

“I see…” he murmured, his teeth grazing your ear, his nose brushing against your hair. 

Your breathing became more ragged, increasingly desperate as you felt the adrenaline slowly wear down. You wanted him to squeeze your throat. 

To make you feel something. 

Anything.

His grip tightened slowly, fingers pressing firmly against your throat, just enough to make you feel it.

The pressure.

The restriction.

The hint of danger. 

You felt your head immediately spin as an odd sort of fight or flight chased through your body as he choked you. 

It made your body tingle again.

Your eyes snapping open.

He could practically feel how much you were getting off on this.

The way you reacted to him. 

To his grip on your neck.

“You like that, don’t you, sweetheart?” he whispered. His fingers continued to work between your legs. 

You let out a choked moan as his fingers brushed through your wetness, your hips twitched into him. 

You needed more.

More friction.

More him. “Please…” you let out quietly, voice faltering with the lack of air. 

Your head spun. Eyes half-lidded staring at your reflection in the mirror.

In a twisted way, it made you even wetter.

His hand was tightening against your neck as he felt your press back into him. 

He knew exactly what you needed, and he was going to give it to you.

But not yet. 

He wanted to see just how far he could push you, how much he could make you beg.

“Please what, sweetheart?” 

You felt your eyes water again, the loss of air made your thoughts melt together, like you couldn‘t form a full one anymore.

“You’ll have to be a good girl for me and use your words. Tell me what you want.”

You couldn’t say another word, air not reaching you anymore.

A sharp ringing in your ears tuned out everything but your pathetic attempts at breathing.

Thomas was a patient man, but the sight of you was pushing buttons he didn’t even know he had. 

Your head spun so much you were sure you were going to pass out any minute now.

He knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer. He leaned in, his lips against your ear, his voice a low rasp.

“You want to breathe, sweetheart? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

His fingers tightened slightly around your throat.

You nodded gently, “Please.” you croaked out, small and weak, your vision of yourself in the mirror blurred.

With your words, he loosened his grip just enough to allow you to gasp in a ragged breath.

The oxygen rushing back into your system made you even more dizzy than the lack of it.

He watched your gasp for air, your body slumping over the sink, trying to catch your breath. 

He could practically feel the heat radiating off your body, his body pressed up against yours. 

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he spoke, “Feeling better, sweetheart?”

You nodded, still dragging in breath after breath. Thomas let his hips jerk forward instinctively, pressing against you harder.

You were warm, soft, the only thing between him and you now was your underwear.

His eyes locked on yours in the mirror, "Good."

His hand slid around your throat again, holding it tight, but not enough to choke yet.

Thomas pushed your underwear aside, slowly guiding himself inside of you.

He groaned at the feeling, the way you took him so effortlessly. 

His grip on your throat tightened, pulling your back onto him as he thrust in deeper, burying himself inside you fully.

You had to go onto your tiptoes to let him fully enter you, leaning back against his chest as his hips slammed into you. 

You felt... weak, 

odd, 

and it made you wet. 

He watched you in the mirror, the way you looked.

You were his, all his, and he was the one you trusted enough to let yourself let go, to take away your control.

“Look at you…”

His eyes roaming over your reflection, drinking you in as he moved within you. 

“So goddamn perfect, darling.”

You felt wetness pool between your legs as he fucked into you, so wet you felt it run down your thighs. 

You bit your lip as you looked at him.

Adrenaline and pleasure chased you on, letting soft whimpers and moans tumble from your lips.

He could see it, feel it, how aroused you were, how desperately you were trying to keep it together as his hips connected again and again with yours.

“You want to come for me, sweetheart?”

His breath was hot against your ear.

“Is that what you want? To come for me?”

You nodded, pressing your throat into his hand a bit more, a silent plea to let his hands close around it again.

His fingers curled around your throat immediately, tightening just enough to make you gasp, your breath hitching.

You felt him thrusting harder, deeper, his body pushing forward against yours. 

The cold of the sink against your front, his hot body pressing against your back, fucking into you. 

His hand on your throat.

It was all too much. 

He felt you beginning to unravel, your body clenching around him so tight he swore he saw stars.

He groaned, his hips stuttering against your, his own release crashing over him.

He fucked you through both of your highs, his grip on your throat not easing, not yet.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Just like that.”

Your knees felt weak, you barely held yourself up against the sink, moaning, gasping.

He held you up, hand around your waist keeping you from collapsing. 

He pressed a rough kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering there for a moment before he straightened slightly, helping you stand.

Slowly his hand left your throat.

“You alright?” he rasped after clearing his throat.

You nodded, unable to talk, eyes glassy and wide as you sucked in breath after breath.

You felt yourself crashing from the pleasure high, leaning into him.

He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling your back against his chest, pressing another kiss to your shoulder.

“Take your time, love…” he whispered, pressing more soft kisses against your skin.

You were almost tense as everything came down around you.

He could feel it, your breathing still uneven, and he instinctively tightened his hold on you, keeping you steady against him as he slowly pulled out. 

“Easy, sweetheart, you’re alright. Just breathe.” 

Your eyes fixed on your forms in the mirror.

How disheveled you looked.

The blood on him.

The blood smeared on you.

You felt the adrenaline pass.

The pleasure pass.

It seemed the haze in your mind finally let through what had been putting you off in the very beginning.

You swallowed, eyes unfocused.

He could see the change in you, like a switch flipping. 

“Y/N…” 

Your attention was on him in seconds. 

You nodded again, eyes searching his in the mirror.

“Let’s get you cleaned up…” he said, softer now.

He saw the exhaustion in your eyes, the way you seemed to fold in on yourself, emotionally and physically.

Carefully, he had helped you straighten yourself.

He reached for a cloth and ran it under warm water.

He wiped away the blood and other fluids, his movements gentle.

You stood there, looking down at him, your body tense, trembling.

You didn’t say anything.

You just let him do it.

When he was done, he pulled your nightdress off you, his expression unreadable. 

Then he handed you one of his wifebeaters , soft, worn, carrying his scent, something familiar.

You changed without much thought.

Not long after, you found yourself in bed.

He had pulled the blanket over you, tucking you, like that alone might fix something. 

You lay there quietly, staring ahead.

Then he left you, only for a moment, to wash himself.

You didn’t move.

Not when he stepped away. 

Not when the door shifted. 

Not when the water ran again.

By the time he returned, you still hadn’t moved.

He watched you for a moment in the dim light, then he slipped into bed with you.

“You with me?” he asked softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear.

You blinked, once, twice, like you were coming back from somewhere far away. 

Then you turned your head toward him and nodded.

“Sorry…” you said quietly, rolling onto your side to face him.

His expression softened a bit as silence settled again between you for a moment.

“Where… where did you go before?”

You didn’t need to explain what ‘before’.

He knew.

He stilled, just slightly.

“I took care of something for you,” he said, voice low, “It’s done now.”

“Are you upset with me… for what I did?”

His hand moved from where it rested in your hair to your chin, lifting it gently but firmly, making you look at him properly.

“Upset?” he repeated, thumb brushing against your jaw. 

“You did what you had to. That’s not something I’d ever hold against you, sweetheart.”

His voice dropped just slightly.

“Wouldn’t have let you keep the gun if I didn’t trust you with it.”

You nodded again.

Then you moved closer.

Your head pressed into his chest, your body folding into him like you needed something solid to hold onto.

For a moment, there was nothing but quiet.

And then, finally, a soft first sob slipped out of you.

Then another.

His arms closed around you instantly.

He pulled you in close, tighter, one hand pressing against your back while the other came up to cradle your head.

He pressed his lip to the top of your head, 

“You’re alright,... I’ve got you.”

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

peaky blinders taglist . . .‧˚꒰📞꒱༘‧

@drunkcigarettes-jpg @lucellu @hagarsays a/n: OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT? girl don't ask me I asked myself the same when I wrote this.

I bring certain angst horror vibe to the smut that is only rarely appreciated. Also I did NOT proofread this again, I feel like I get sent one level lower in hell every time I read it

[lucellu]

JUST GOT ACCEPTED INTO HOLLISTER STYLE CLUB 🤞🤞

[daughter0fthewitch]

army dreamers. . .‧˚꒰🫖꒱༘‧

a new life pairing: Thomas Shelby x f!reader genre: angst hurt • short story series: continuation/one shot set in the au of my series 'army dreamers', I recommend reading it before coming to this but... if you're just here for the one time experience! feel free to stay! notes: on your way home you come across a disgusting scene... which leads you not only into trouble but also to more questions warnings: mentions of sexual abuse, attempted rape, manslaughter, gun violence, vomiting MINORS DNI!! masterlist join my taglist ─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

filthy, disgusting, so ugly – part 2

The door creaked open far too loud for the hour.

And then you stepped inside.

You didn’t feel your feet hit the floor. 

You didn’t feel the cold. 

You didn’t feel anything properly. 

Noise. 

Breath. 

The thick, metallic smell clinging to your skin.

Blood.

Your hand slipped from Lizzie’s arm without you realizing it. 

Thomas was already there, standing in the door of the small entrance hall. For a moment he stood frozen in place.

“What the hell happened?” he said.

But in your ears his voice didn’t sound like his. 

You tried to answer.

Your mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Instead, your body did something absurdly normal.

You bent slightly. 

Slipped your shoes off. 

Set them neatly by the door.

“Y/N… love… talk to me.” Thomas stepped closer now.

Careful.

You swallowed

It hurt.

“I…” Your voice cracked, “I –”

No.

No, you couldn’t say it. 

You couldn’t think it. 

If you thought it, it became real again.

You turned instead.

You took Lizzie with you.

Your hand found hers again.

Slick and cold, and you guided her into the kitchen like this is routine. 

Like this is what people did after…

After.

You didn’t finish that thought either.

You sat her down.

She folded into the chair, shaking, her fingers clutching your coat around her.

For a moment, you just stood there.

Then you moved.

The kettle. 

Water. 

Hands. 

Routine.

If you kept moving, you wouldn’t have to think. If you kept yourself busy, you wouldn’t have to think.

If you kept the adrenaline buzzing in your body, you wouldn’t have to think.

If you didn’t think–

The images still came.

His face.

The sound.

The way your finger didn’t feel like yours when it pulled the trigger.

The kettle nearly slipped from your hands.

Thomas caught it.

“Y/N.” he said firmly, “Sit down. Let me.”

You didn’t argue.

You frankly couldn’t.

Your fingers loosened around the kettle and you let him take it. Let him take control of something, anything. It felt safe to do so.

You sat in the chair next to Lizzie.

You looked down.

Red.

So much red.

It’s in the lines of your palms. 

Under your nails. 

Smudged across your wrists like something you couldn’t scrub away.

Your stomach twisted violently.

You swallowed it back.

Again.

Again.

Thomas set the kettle down. 

You heard it. 

Distantly. 

Like it was happening in another room.

Another house, another life.

Then he was in front of you.

Crouched.

Close.

Too close…

“Y/N, love, look at me.”

You didn’t want to.

Still, your eyes lifted to his.

Slowly.

And for a second, everything else fell away.

“Where are you hurt?” he asked carefully.

You blinked.

The question didn’t make sense.

Hurt?

“I’m not hurt– ” it came out too sharp, too fast, like your voice didn’t belong to you anymore. 

Your nerves were still buzzing, skin too tight over your bones, every sound scraping against you.

You pushed yourself up before either of them could stop you.

“I need to go to the bathroom.” you abruptly spoke.

The hallway stretched longer than it should. 

The walls felt closer. 

The air thicker. 

You barely remembered the way to the hallway, only the door, then slamming it shut.

The lock clicked.

And then…

Silence?

No.

Not silence. You turned the tap on, the water rushing into the porcelain sink.

Loud, like it was trying to drown something out.

You braced your hands against the sink.

Looked up.

You didn’t recognize what was staring back.

Your face was wrong.

There was blood at your hairline. 

On your cheek. 

Dried into the curve of your lips like something you tasted. 

Your eyes were too wide, too bright, like an animal-

Your breath stuttered.

You turned the tap harder.

Water spilled over your hands, cold, relentless. 

You scrubbed. 

Too fast. 

Too hard. 

Fingernails digging into skin like you could peel it away, like whatever was on you wasn’t just on you.

It didn’t come off.

It smeared.

Red turning thinner, pinker, but still there.

Your stomach lurched again.

You leaned forward, gripping the sink as something rose up your throat. violent, burning.

You gagged

Nothing came up.

Just the feeling.

Just the memory.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

In the kitchen, Thomas was alone with Lizzy now.

His hands flexed at his sides, like he was fighting the urge to go after you.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he turned to Lizzie.

She looked like she might collapse in on herself.

He pulled a chair out slowly and sat down.

“Lizzie.” he began, his voice low and controlled.

“What the hell happened?” At first she stayed silent.

Her hands fumbled, purse, cigarette, matches. 

The flame took twice to catch. 

She inhaled too sharply when it did, smoke burning down into her lungs like punishment.

“I…” Her voice broke immediately, “I told him no.”

“That I wouldn’t… that I wouldn’t…”

Her fingers shook so badly ash spilled onto the table, onto her lap. 

She didn’t notice.

“And then he–”

She cut off.

But she didn’t need to finish it.

“Who was he?” Thomas' voice came immediately.

Lizzie shook her head immediately, “I don’t know–I don’t–I swear I don’t–”

Another drag. 

Too deep. 

Her breath stuttered around it.

“I didn’t see him before, I– he just–”

Her voice dissolved again.

Thomas’s gaze flickered to the hallway.

To the bathroom.

Water still running.

Something shifted behind his eyes.

“And Y/N?” he asked, quieter now. “What did she do?”

Lizzie’s face contorted, expression revealing nothing and everything at once.

“She– She came out of nowhere– just– just there– and she hit him and he– ”

Her breath stuttered into a sob she tried to swallow.

“And then– ”

“She killed him.”

And then she folded forward, hands covering her face as the sob finally escaped her throat.

Thomas went still.

“What.”

He shook his head once, sharp, “She couldn’t have. She wouldn’t– ”

But Lizzie interrupted him again, coming in pieces. 

Wet. 

Shaking. 

Dragged out of her like it hurt.

“She told him to let me go– he wouldn’t– and then– he hit her–It all happened so fast and then–his hands were on her throat and–then she–”

She didn’t finish it.

She didn’t need to.

Thomas stood so abruptly the chair screeched back across the floor, a violent, grating sound.

“Where is he?” he asked, quiet, urgent.

That was the worst part.

“Where’s the body?”

Lizzie swallowed hard, her throat bobbing, eyes unfocused.

“In… in some alley by the Garrison…”

He didn’t hesitate.

Coat. Door. Gone.

But he stopped just once by the door, “Stay here.” he just said. Then he was gone.

The bathroom smelled like wet iron.

Even after everything.

Even after the water had run and run and run clear. Your hands were red and sore from scrubbing.

It still smelled like it.

You stared down at your skin.

Clean.

Technically.

But it didn’t feel that way.

It felt like something seeped in. 

Beneath. 

Into the cracks of you. 

Into your nails, your pores, your throat–

You scrubbed there too.

Harder than you meant to.

You didn’t look at it.

You didn’t want to see if there were marks.

You didn’t want to remember the pressure.

The way the world narrowed.

The way your lungs screamed– 

You inhaled sharply.

Stop.

Stop thinking.

Stop.

You unlocked the door.

The kitchen was… quieter.

Too quiet.

Only Lizzie now.

You stood there for a second, looking at her.

“Do… do you want something else to wear?” you offered.

Anything to distract yourself.

Lizzie looked up.

Her eyes were swollen. Red. Hollowed out.

“Please…” she whispered.

You nodded, walking to the bedroom, the closet.

You picked out a simple blue dress, and a wool cardigan.

Your hands seemed to know what to do even if your head didn't.

You brought them back, gave them to her.

“You can change… wherever you want…”

She disappeared into the bathroom.

Time stretched.

Warped.

You didn’t know how long passed before she was lying on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that didn’t quite hide the tremor still running through her body.

Then the kitchen again.

A cigarette between your fingers.

Smoke filled your lungs easier than air.

You watched it curl upward.

Ash fell onto the table.

You didn’t brush it away.

The door opened, slowly. You turned, it was Thomas.

Thomas stepped inside, there was something different about him now.

He entered the kitchen, his eyes landing on you.

He just looked at you.

Not at your face.

At your hands.

Clean.

At your skin.

At your throat.

Lingering there.

Or maybe that was just in your head.

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

peaky blinders taglist . . .‧˚꒰📞꒱༘‧

@drunkcigarettes-jpg @lucellu @hagarsays a/n: I like how my hannibal style is kind of bleeding into this whenever we are faced with mildly horrifying images... lmao.

[daughter0fthewitch]

-army dreamers basically

[daughter0fthewitch]

thinking about writing one au!one shot of immortal man age Tommy and our equally older y/n... fluff to fight the bitter sadness in my soul....

should i...

girl do it!!!

NO dont do it please....

Voting ended onMar 24

[daughter0fthewitch]

army dreamers. . .‧˚꒰🫖꒱༘‧

a new life pairing: Thomas Shelby x f!reader genre: angst hurt • short story series: continuation/one shot set in the au of my series 'army dreamers', I recommend reading it before coming to this but... if you're just here for the one time experience! feel free to stay! notes: on your way home you come across a disgusting scene... which leads you not only into trouble but also to more questions warnings: mentions of sexual abuse, attempted rape, manslaughter, gun violence MINORS DNI!! masterlist join my taglist ─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

filthy, disgusting, so ugly – part 1

You were halfway home when the usual rain suddenly poured down on the streets of Small Heath. It was quiet and late, unusually quiet maybe.

The cigarette between your fingers burned unevenly. You didn’t notice until ash dropped onto your coat.

You shook your head, brushing it away until you were ripped out of your thoughts by a strangled and thin sound.

“Get off me–! I said–!”

It came from the alley to your left.

You stopped, the alley was almost entirely dark.

The sound of fabric scraping brick and something dull struck a wall.

You heard another voice, a lower one.

Your stomach turned.

You exhaled slowly, crushed the cigarette under your heel, and stepped into the side alley.

“Hello?” you called as two shapes came into view, two bodies pressed together where they shouldn’t be.

A man had a woman pinned against the wall, one arm braced beside her head, the other groping at her chest.

She struggled, almost weakly, like she already knew it wouldn’t matter.

“Oi,” you said, sharper now. “The hell’s going on?”

His head turned.

“Mind your business, love.” he barked back.

Behind him, the woman gasped, “Please, just–” she shoved at him.

His hand moved again. Rough and wrong.

You felt it twist in her stomach, the image was disgusting, even though there was only little to see and they were mostly cast in shadow.

“Get your hands off her.” you insisted but it was as if your words fell to deaf ears.

He laughed at it, that was all.

“You gonna make me?” he said, his voice made your skin crawl.

You stepped further into the alley, approaching him with as much courage as you could muster and..

Your fist connected with his face hard enough that you felt it up your arm.

He staggered back, grip loosening, blood already spilling from his nose.

You grabbed the woman by the wrist, pulling her sideways.

For a second, it felt like enough to leave you a moment to escape.

But it wasn’t.

He came back at you fast, faster than you expected. His fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so sharply your vision sparked white.

You gasped, hands flying up, but he was already close. Too close.

His breath was hot and wet against your cheek, blood smearing across your collar as he leaned in.

“Not so tough now, are ya?”

His fist drove into your stomach.

Air left your lungs in a broken sound.

Your body folded, but he didn’t let you fall, kept you upright by your hair, like something hooked and hanging.

Somewhere to your side, the woman’s fingers clawed at his wrist, nails scraping skin, desperate and useless.

“Let her go–!” she choked, pulling at him, trying to pry him off you.

He turned on her in an instant.

His hand left you just long enough to shove her harder into the wall, her head cracking back against brick with a dull, sickening thud.

“Shut it,” he snapped, grabbing her again, rougher this time, angrier. “You don’t get to pick and choose now.”

You stumbled back, your body folding in on itself as you finally sucked in a ragged broken gasp.

Your head rang.

Your stomach churned, hot and rising, threatening to spill.

You swallowed it back down, tasting acid.

The alley tilted.

For a moment, you weren’t here.

Just noise. Movement. Pain.

Then you heard it.

Fabric tearing.

You looked up.

“Are you coming back for seconds, whore?” he barked, voice thick with something foul and delighted. “Changed your mind, have you?”

Buttons scattered against the ground. One bounced near your shoe.

The woman cried out again, desperate, already breaking.

Your fingers tightened around your purse.

‘It’s for protection.’

Thomas' voice rang in your head. It had been so long and you had not used it yet. Had not been confronted yet with such a weight that justified using the thing that hid in your purse.

Your hand slipped inside.

Cold metal.

The world narrowed.

The alley became smaller. Quieter.

The sounds muffled like you were underwater.

Just him.

Just her.

Just you.

You stepped forward.

Your hand shook as you pulled the revolver free.

But you didn’t raise it. Not yet.

Instead, you swung.

The metal connected with the back of his skull with a dull, heavy sound.

He staggered sideways, grip loosening just enough for the woman to twist away.

Then he turned.

Fast.

His hand closed around your throat before you could move again.

“You stupid little bitch–”

His fingers tightened.

Hard.

“I’ll kill ya for that, you cunt!”

His other hand came flying harshly across your cheek.

Your breath cut off in an instant.

Your body reacted before your mind could, hand flying up, clawing at his wrist, nails digging into skin that didn’t give.

The revolver was still in your other hand.

Your vision tunneled.

Edges going dark.

His face was close, spit at the corner of his mouth, blood still smeared across his lips from where you’d hit him earlier.

Your lungs screamed.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t–

Your finger moved.

You just… did it.

The shot exploded between you.

Louder than it should have been.

Louder than anything.

For a second… nothing.

Then…

Warmth.

Sprinkles and splatters of warmth all over.

His grip faltered.

Slowly.

Like his body forgot what it was doing.

His eyes changed first.

Confusion.

Not pain.

Not yet.

Then the sound came.

It was wet, broken.

His fingers loosened from your throat, dragging as they slipped away, leaving burning marks in their wake.

He staggered back.

There was a dark bloom spreading across his chest.

Too fast, too much.

It soaked through fabric, thick and heavy.

He looked down at it.

Like he didn’t understand.

Like it wasn’t his.

Then his knees buckled and he hit the ground with a rather unspectacular thud.

Silence followed, just the rain trickling down.

You staggered back, coughing violently, your lungs dragging in the air.

Your whole body shook, tense and tingly at the same time.

The revolver hung in your grip, still warm. Still faintly smoking.

You stared at him.

At the way he wasn’t moving.

At the blood pooling beneath him.

Your throat burned.

Your skin felt wrong.

Wet.

You lifted a trembling hand to your face.

Blood.

His.

It was on you. On your cheek. Your lips. Your face. Your hands.

You swallowed hard, but it didn’t go away.

“You…” The woman’s voice cracked somewhere behind you. “You killed him…”

Killed.

You blinked.

Looked down again.

He didn’t move.

Wouldn’t.

Your chest tightened.

A strange, hollow quiet spread through you.

You weren’t screaming.

You weren’t running.

You were just… standing there.

You turned slowly toward her.

She was pressed against the wall, dress torn open, hands clutching what was left of it.

Her face was pale, eyes wide.

Something in them showed fear, something else showed…

Recognition.

You had seen her before as well. At the Garrison.

Arthur had told you about her, about her and John and everything in between.

Your voice came out quieter than you expected.

“…Lizzie?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Just stared at you. At your face. At your hands.

At what you’d done.

And for a moment, you didn’t know which of you looked more afraid..

“Y/N…?” she whispered.

Like she wasn’t sure you were real. Or any of this was.

Your fingers twitched.

Slowly, carefully, you lowered the revolver.

It felt heavier now.

Different.

You pushed it back into your purse with unsteady hands, like hiding it might undo something.

It didn’t.

Your eyes dropped.

You stared at it.

At him.

At the way his chest didn’t move.

At the way the little puddle under him grew.

“Are you… alright?” you asked, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Lizzie didn’t answer at first.

She looked…

Too pale. Her dress hung open where it had been torn, skin exposed, marked already. Her hair clung to her face in damp strands, her whole body trembling-

“I– I don’t… I don’t know.” she said.

She stumbled a bit, having to lean back against the wall. Her hands came up to her face, pressing in, like she could hold herself together if she just pushed hard enough.

Your coat was off your shoulders in seconds, shoved into her shaking hands. “Here… Cover yourself.” you said, voice trembling a bit.

Her fingers clutched the fabric tight, dragging it around herself with jerky, uneven movements.

She didn’t look at you while she did it.

She was crying.

You hadn’t noticed when it started.

Tears slipped down her cheeks silently at first, then faster, her breath hitching as something inside her finally cracked open.

You felt it then.

You swallowed.

Your eyes flicked back to him again without meaning to.

The puddle had spread.

It was reaching the edge of your shoe now.

You stepped back sharply.

“We…” Your voice faltered, “We need to leave.”

Lizzie sucked in a sharp breath, like your words had dragged her back into reality.

“Yes–” she nodded.

She pushed herself off the wall, and you reached for her immediately, seeing her legs tremble, nearly give in on themselves.

“Come on,” you said quietly, though your voice barely carried.

You tightened your grip on Lizzie’s arm, basically pulling her ahead, “Come on–!”

─── ꒰ 🪻 ꒱ ───

peaky blinders taglist . . .‧˚꒰📞꒱༘‧

@drunkcigarettes-jpg @lucellu @hagarsays a/n: DUN DUN DUNN!!!! who saw this coming?! NOBODY!!

[lucellu]

Just got told by someone..supposedly a friend. To put it loosely..that they dont ever see me getting married??? Big fat fuck off stupid hoe. As if I haven’t been dreaming of getting married since the ripe age of 7.

[lucellu]

I have an exam..suddenly I’m 16 years old again and sitting a bumfuck GCSE. Literal WAR flashback

[daughter0fthewitch]

major angst and Lizzie appearance in the next story who cheered? (dont cheer its all horrible)