I am a fan of anime, horror, and all things fanfiction. I take requests of stories. I write fanfiction from the world created by Dick Wolf, particularly Chicago PD, Law and Order: SVU, Law and Order: OC. I will write gentle smut if you ask me to.
The afternoon had bled into a bruised purple evening, and the office was once again settling into its nocturnal hush. The gold fern brooch was pinned to your lapel, a small, glittering weight that felt like a brand.
Thomas hadn't emerged from his office since the brothers left. The only sign of life was the occasional scratching of a nib against parchment and the clink of a crystal decanter. You were clearing your desk, preparing to lock the ledger in the safe, when the heavy street door didn't just open—it hit the wall with a violent crack.
The Intruder
A man stumbled in, his breath hitching in wet, ragged gasps. He was dressed in a suit that had once been expensive but was now stained with soot and sweat. This was Silas Vane, a factory owner whose gambling debts had recently seen his deed transferred into the ledger you had just closed.
"Where is he?" Vane roared, his eyes bloodshot and wild. "Where’s the devil who took my livelihood?"
You stood up, your movements calm despite the spike of adrenaline. "Mr. Vane, the office is closed. You’ll need to make an appointment through the proper channels."
"Proper channels?" Vane laughed, a jagged, hysterical sound. He lunged toward your desk, slamming a heavy, grease-stained hand down near your typewriter. "He took my father’s mill on a card game! I have workers to pay! I have a name!"
"You have a debt, Mr. Vane," you said, your voice dropping an octave, steady and cold. "And Mr. Shelby does not appreciate unannounced guests."
The Shadow in the Doorway
Vane didn't listen. He reached out, grabbing your shoulder with a bruising grip, his face inches from yours. "You’re just his little bookkeeper, aren’t you? Tell him to come out, or I’ll start breaking things he actually cares about."
The click of a pistol hammer being cocked back was the only warning.
"Let go of her."
The voice was quiet—frighteningly quiet. Thomas was standing in his doorway, the shadows cutting across his face so only one crystalline blue eye was visible. He held his Webley revolver with a casual, practiced ease, the barrel pointed directly at Vane’s throat.
Vane froze, his hand trembling on your shoulder. "Shelby... you can’t just—"
"I said," Thomas stepped into the light, his expression a mask of murderous indifference, "let go of her. Now."
The Aftermath
Vane recoiled as if burned, stumbling back toward the door. The sight of Thomas Shelby in the flesh, unbothered and armed, was enough to break what little courage the man had left.
"Get out," Thomas commanded. "If I see you on this street again, I won't use the gun. I’ll let my brother Arthur handle the conversation. And he isn't nearly as patient as I am."
Vane scrambled out the door, the sound of his frantic footsteps fading into the Birmingham mist.
Silence rushed back into the room, heavier than before. Thomas lowered the gun but didn't holster it. He looked at you, his chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm. He walked toward you, his eyes fixed on your shoulder where Vane had grabbed you.
"Are you hurt?" he asked. It wasn't a boss asking a secretary; it was a man asking a woman.
"I'm fine, Mr. Shelby. Just a bit of rumpled wool." You tried to smooth your sleeve, but your hands were finally starting to shake.
Thomas saw the tremor. He reached out, his gloved hand steadying your wrist. He didn't let go. His gaze dropped to the gold brooch on your lapel, then back to your eyes.
"I told you the streets weren't safe," he murmured, his thumb brushing the underside of your pulse point. For a second, the office, the debts, and the war seemed a thousand miles away. "Perhaps you should move your desk into my office. From now on."
He didn't wait for an answer. He gently pulled you toward the inner office, as if the outer room had suddenly become too dangerous for you to occupy alone.
The morning arrived with the typical Birmingham gloom—a thick, grey mist that smelled of coal smoke and damp stone. You arrived at the office at 7:30 AM, your coat still damp from the walk, but your head was spinning. The memory of his hand brushing yours and the low, gravelly admission that he didn't know what he’d do without you felt like a secret fever. Thomas was already in his office, a small light illuminating through the cracks in the door.
You had just set a fresh pot of tea to brew when the front doors swung open. It wasn't the usual quiet entry.
The Storm Before the Calm
Arthur and John Shelby burst in, their voices echoing off the high ceilings. They were arguing about a shipment of hijacked whiskey, their energy chaotic and jagged—a stark contrast to the heavy, intimate silence you had shared with Thomas only hours before.
"Where is he?" Arthur barked, slamming a fist onto your desk, rattling your pens. "Thomas! We’ve got a problem in Small Heath!"
"Mr. Shelby is in a meeting with himself," you said, your voice steady and cool as you stood up. You didn't flinch. You’d dealt with the Shelby brothers' tempers for two years; you were the only person in the building they couldn't intimidate. "And until he rings his bell, he is not to be disturbed. He was here until nearly one in the morning."
John smirked, leaning against the doorframe. "Listen to her, Arthur. The little general’s protector. She probably knows his mind better than we do."
Before Arthur could snap back, the bell on your desk chimed once. Sharp. Decisive.
The Morning After
"He’ll see you now," you said, though your heart hammered against your ribs.
The brothers piled into the inner office, leaving the door ajar. You went back to your filing, trying to focus, but you could hear the low rumble of Thomas’s voice cutting through his brothers' shouting. He sounded different—crisper, colder, wearing the mask of the Peaky Blinder leader once again.
Twenty minutes later, Arthur and John stormed out, looking chastened but redirected. Silence fell over the office again. You waited for the door to click shut, but it didn't.
"Tea," a voice called out.
You poured a cup, balanced it on a saucer, and walked into his office. Thomas was standing by the window, his back to you, watching the street below. He had changed into a fresh suit—charcoal grey—but the tension in his shoulders was the same.
"Your tea, Mr. Shelby. And the police reports from the Night Watch are on the corner of your desk."
The Unspoken Shift
He didn't turn around immediately. "Did Johnny get you home safe?"
"He did. Thank you."
Thomas finally turned. He looked at the tea, then up at you. The dark circles under his eyes were prominent in the morning light, but his gaze was piercing. He looked like he wanted to say something—perhaps apologize for the moment of vulnerability, or perhaps double down on it.
Instead, he walked over to the desk and picked up a small, velvet box that hadn't been there the night before. He slid it across the mahogany toward you.
"What is this?" you asked, hesitant to touch it.
"A bonus," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, yet he didn't look away. "For the late hours. For the... housing estate ledger."
You opened the box. Inside was a delicate gold brooch in the shape of a fern—intricate, expensive, and far too personal for a standard secretarial "bonus."
"Mr. Shelby, I can't—"
"I don't pay for incompetence, and I don't reward mediocrity," he interrupted, stepping closer until you could smell the peppermint he used to mask the whiskey. "You are neither. Wear it. Or sell it. I don't care. But don't tell me what you can’t do."
He sat down, immediately pulling a fresh stack of papers toward him, effectively dismissing you. But as you reached the door, his voice stopped you one last time.
"And buy yourself a heavier coat. It’s going to be a cold winter."
You walked back to your desk, the gold pin heavy in your hand. He still wouldn't look you in the eye for more than a second, but the "ghost" in the office had officially been haunting him.
If you think it’d be your taste please do check it out - I thrive on criticism and I really want to find other people who enjoy eerie and slightly unsettling atmospheres :,)
Summary: the one where Jack Abbot doesn't play about helping his girl get to sleep.
Masterlist
Warnings: porn without plot (what can i say, im just a girl) v sleepy (but consenting!!) reader, light subspace vibes, vaginal fingering, clit play/pussy rubbing, jack talks you through, sprinkle of praise, clothed play. I think that is allll for today's blasphemy
Tbh i cant say anything more than i got myself in a headspace and locked the fuck in, i need those fat finger inside me SO BAD im going insane
Intensely locked in on the thought of lazy fingering/pussy rubs w Abbot
The kind when it starts innocent after a long day, the pair of you cuddled up beneath a blanket on the bed.
You rest practically on top of him, Jacks strong arms looped around you , letting your head tuck into the crook of his neck, keeping close. Its warm, comfortable, safe as the TV play's some show you'd lost focus on a while ago, too wrapped up in the heat of jacks body beneath yours.
One of his large hands drifts from rubbing over your back when you shift against his chest, a soft whine passing pouty lips half conscious. Mind struggling to drift off all the way despite the overtired exhaustion in your bones.
You dont notice that shift, too preoccupied in between dream and drift off. Not when the pads of his fingertips span your belly beneath your top, thumb soothing carefully, nor do you make a peep when they tuck just beneath the band of your sweats. Infact, if anything, you seem to press into the warmth of him like a kitten it's mother.
Still, he waits until you grumble again, scratchy stubble on his jaw rubbing your hair when you nuzzle in, before he lets them dip any further.
They creep down, slow and gentle, until he's cupping you over the cotton of your panties, pressure light to keep you drifting. You feel hot, even with the fabric barrier keeping your pussy from full contact.
Jacks fingers move back up the gusset, two chubby pads offering just a little more pressure, rubbing lazily. His chin dipping to plant a soft kiss to your temple.
The combination stirs you, makes your hand grip into the center of his shirt just a little tighter, sleepy eyes blinking up oh so blearily.
"Jack? What- mmph- what're you?-"You mumble, hips unconsciously tilting into the fingers that are still working your covered cunt.
Jack just smiles against you, cooing quietly, a freckled arm squeezing you a little tighter to him. "Shhh S'okay, Jus wanna feel my baby f' a bit, s'that alright? Jus' my fingers, Help you get all sleepy"
You must think about it for a single moment, a fleeting millisecond of coherence in that fuzzy little brain, before your head tucks back in and your leg drapes over his middle to allow more access.
Every whine, every whimper, you let bubble out holding a fragility that makes Jack's chest (and cock) ache.
And that, for a while, is how it goes. You, mewling into his neck, while Jack rubs your pussy over your panties. Just enough to keep you calm, to let you doze gently without drifting too far.
That is, until he finally slides the now drenched cotton to the side, his fingers making complete contact with the puffy, sticky lips of your vulva. Your head peaks out to moan, a sound that goes straight to Jack's cock.
"Ohh, s'that feel better? Hm?" he breathes, meeting your lips in a sloppy press that just about resembles a kiss.
Every brush, every lick of pressure to your clit has your hole drooling out arousal, pulsing as it tries to pull the digits that tease the outer edges in.
"Whats the matter, you need somethin inside?" your hips only tilt down, letting the tip of his middle dip just a little into where you need him. "Yeah.. Yeah you do, Alright, Nice n easy.. Big breaths, Jus feel it"
You take that breath against his mouth, shakey and tapering off into a soft cry, the thickness of his middle finger snug as it pushes inside your walls to the knuckle. He relishes in the moment, driving the single digit in and out, letting your wetness libricate the move before he begins to curl it with expert ease.
Jack can feel the heat radiating off of you, feel it pushed against his chest, every puff of your breath fanning hot. Even when you begin to squirm, rocking your hips in time as he presses against that spot that makes you keen, you remain devastatingly close- practically on top of him.
"S' Right there isn't it, thats the spot.." he murmers knowly, drawing out to circle your clit wetly. "Gonna give you another 'kay, big breaths good girl"
And If the first finger felt good, the stretch of two is like heaven, his middle and ring finger slipping in with little resistance. The rough pads curling up and pushing so perfectly against you that its obscene. Especially how, with every full plunge into your weepy cunt, you can feel the cool band of his wedding ring grow warmer- wetter.
And then, palm flush against your core once more, you hear it. The Filthy, muffled squelches that only make the lewdness of the situation worse.
Torn between nuzzling in deep to hide and the need to feel Jacks lips devour yours, You end up somewhere between the two when you mewl next, Cheek dragging open mouthed along the stubble of his jaw. Nimble fingers scrabbling to grip onto his forearm as the warmth in your belly burns hotter. "A-ah m' so- s'close Jack"
"Oh i know, i know.. S'right there isn't it" he shushes, squeezing your arm again, a faux kind of sympathy on his tongue. The heel of his palm plap, plap, plaping against your sticky, puffy clit as he curls his fingers perfectly deep. "cmon, cum it out sweetheart. Haven't gotta do nothin but let go, you can do it"
And truly, it doesn't take much more encouragement than that to make you shatter. His rough voice in your ear, fingers deep inside your rippling pussy as it squeezes him tight. The intensity has you shaking, lips dragging along his neck as you cry out. Each breath wracking your lungs as you heave it in. Heartbeat so loud in your ears you just about catch the gravelly drawl of jacks praise in your hair.
"That's my girl, yeaaahhh, there we go, makin me proud"
And jack, nothing if not totally content in your pleasure, doesn't stop, not until your squirming anyway. Struggling in his hold, hips writhing from the sensitivity, his fingers making sure to draw out the final sparks of heaven from your cunt before he snakes them free from you entirely.
Sticky, soaked and covered in the creamy mess of your release as they slide out of your panties and waistband up to his mouth.
You more so feel the guteral grumble at the taste, what with the way sleep finally seems to flood your system, fuzzy little head just about coherent enough to catch his final hum.
She tells him everything is fine and essentially to fuck off, yet doesn't take her eyes off him for a second as he's walking away. She wanted him to stay so bad, and he did, in the moment she was slipping and needed someone most. The moment he sticks around, she allows herself a second of vulnerability in such a stressful shift. He affirms and comforts her, something she hasn't been able to get a lot of today. Their dynamic is genuinely so everything to me I can't :'(((
I hate to say it but I don’t think Bobby ever even considered Buddie being together like that….
Like I LOVE when fanfics pull a Bobby had already written up the relationship disclosure forms!!! It’s way more fun to think that way (especially because we can’t see his reaction when Buddie happens)
Bobby knowing Eddie would come back is such a sweet moment in 9x12 and pairing him up with Buck again for the games made me cryyyy and I do see that as a beautiful blessing from Bobby in a way…BUT I also think that says more about Bobby’s relationship with Buck and Eddie individually rather than his opinion on them as a COUPLE
That to me shows his faith in the 118 as a family that always sticks together and his confidence in Buck and Eddie as capable, mature firefighters!!! Like they used to be his probies!!!! :(((((
Ultimately, I think Bobby sees Eddie as a mirror to himself. A man who makes mistakes, is a father who tries and sometimes fails, and is deeply grieving his late wife. I don’t think Bobby sees Eddies terrible relationship with women as a signal for his queerness but rather a side effect of his grief…it is Bobby who (with the best intentions) pushed Eddie to date women in s6…like obviously he is an incredible ally in the show but he is still a middle aged man from the Midwest like he isn’t Captain Gaydar…
Is Bobby still the captain of the Buddie ship to me??? Ofc!! Would he be thrilled and the best wedding officiant ever??? Off!! That’s not question in my mind!!!
Ultimately he did pair Buddie up together deliberately as work partners KNOWING HOW PERFECTLY THEY FIT TOGETHER, but I just don’t think anything in the canon suggests he truly clocked their shit…
Realistically I can see the show having Athena tell Buck and Eddie that Bobby would have been really happy for them…but in that bittersweet, hypothetical way one does when something new happens that the dead can’t react to…
HOWEVER…if the show makes any comment from Athena that Bobby SAID they’d be good together or rips off ao3 and pulls out those rewritten relationship disclosure forms you will not see me complaining…I don’t think that’s realistic but bro I’d be weeping and screaming and taking all of this back
lowkey heard this song in my head while writing ok bye
(content : f recieving oral, andrew is a pathetic munch and a CRIER, reader passes out, dacryphilia, slight somnophilia if u squint, reader got a puss)
“‘m sorry, ‘m sorry..” andrew sobs, voice muffled between your puffy folds.
he’d really done it this time. literally will not pull away from you. you would’ve thought his palms were glued to your thighs if his fingers weren’t digging into the flesh. the endless wetness seeping from your pussy was mixing with andrew’s salty tears falling from his eyes.
“‘can’t stop,” he whines, tongue flattening over your hole to try and trap any of your juices from escaping him. “ohmygod i really can’t stop.”
“popey,” you cried out, back arching from the vibrations of his voice. “baby, pleaseeee ‘ts enough! too much!!”
andrew’s head shakes, a choked sob leaving his mouth. he felt horrible. not really. but seriously. it was pathetic. the taste of you was addicting. like some perfect drug that not even craig could find. nobody has ever had him like this.
suuuuuucking your clit into his mouth, he tightens his grip around your legs so you’re unable to move. he knows you. he knows when you squirm. just can’t help it.
“i know, i know it..” he says quickly when he pulls away, pressing his nose against your pussy and huffing. a guttural groan left him and you could see through the tears that his eyes rolled back. “fuck, fuck fuck.. oh god- i’m so fucking sorry.. you taste sooooo good.. my perfect fuckin’ pussy..”
“i feel like ‘m gonna- ah!- pass out, pleaseee!” you shimmy your hips, trying to run away from him.
it was all too much. your eyesight was growing spotty and every inch of your skin was prickly. it was like modern torture. torture that felt unbelievably good.
god knows where he learned this from. but, truly, you don’t think he even knows what hes doing. no thoughts in those pretty wet eyes.
you can’t bring yourself to be mad at him. he doesn’t mean to torture you. maybe it’s in his nature. or maybe he’s just so in loooooooove.
“‘t’s okay, baby,” he whispers, voice shuddering. “‘ll take care of you.. mhmmm.. omigod- yeah- yeah.. i’ll take care of you..”
and just like that, one flick of his tongue against your swollen clit and you were out cold, body convulsing as you came unconsciously. his tongue lapped up every bit he could get from you.
sniffling, he wiped his nose and his eyes with the back of his hand. his eyes flicked between your passed out face and your glistening pussy. his bottom lip wobbled.
you didn’t say he had to stop.. right??
a/n : lowkey horny and as fat as a house someone kill me. couldnt get this out of my head
The clock on the wall of the Shelby Company Limited office didn't just tick; it echoed. It was 11:42 PM, and the thick scent of whiskey and expensive tobacco had long since settled into the mahogany grain of the furniture.
You sat at your desk in the outer office, the rhythmic clack of your typewriter the only thing tethering the room to the waking world. You were finishing the ledger for the Garrison Lane properties—work that wasn’t due until Monday, but you knew Tommy would ask for it by dawn.
Inside the private office, a sliver of amber light spilled from beneath the door. Thomas Shelby was still there. He was always still there.
You knew his habits better than he knew your last name. You knew he took his tea with two sugars but usually let it go cold. You knew which files made his jaw tighten and which ones made him reach for the opium pipe he thought he hid so well.
To him, you were a ghost in a floral blouse. You were the "efficient one." The one who ensured his world didn't collapse into the Birmingham mud while he was busy fighting wars on three different fronts. You found him devastatingly handsome—the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the way his steady, sapphire eyes seemed to look through people—but you weren't delusional. Men like Thomas Shelby didn't fall for secretaries; they used them as structural support.
The heavy door creaked open. Thomas emerged, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up, revealing the faded ink of tattoos on his forearms. He looked exhausted, the kind of bone-deep weariness that a night's sleep couldn't fix.
He stopped at your desk, surprised to see you still there.
"The ledger for the housing estates," you said softly, sliding a perfectly organized folder toward the edge of your desk before he could even ask. "And I've rescheduled the meeting with the Italians for Tuesday. You’ll be in a better frame of mind by then."
Thomas stared at the folder, then at you. For the first time in months, his gaze didn't slide past you. It lingered.
"You’re still here," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
"Someone has to be, Mr. Shelby. The world doesn't stop turning just because the sun goes down."
He leaned against your desk, the smell of smoke and rain clinging to his heavy overcoat. He picked up the folder, flipping through the pages. His thumb brushed a note you’d made in the margin—a small correction to a math error he’d made earlier that afternoon.
"I made a mistake," he noted, his eyes tracking the ink.
"A minor one," you replied, keeping your voice professional despite the way your heart was drumming against your ribs. "Easily fixed."
"You fix a lot of things, don't you?" He looked up, his expression unreadable. "My schedules. My books. My brothers' messes." He paused, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. "I don't think I’ve ever seen you leave before I do."
"I prefer to see the job finished."
Thomas sighed, a sound of genuine defeat that he never allowed the world to hear. He reached out, his hand hovering near yours on the desk for a fraction of a second before he pulled back to rub his face.
"Go home," he said, though the command lacked its usual bite. It sounded almost like a plea for quiet. "The streets aren't safe at this hour. I'll have Johnny drive you."
"I can walk, sir. I'm used to the dark."
"I'm not asking," he said, regaining a flicker of that Shelby steel. He stepped closer, reaching down to close your typewriter case for you. As he did, his hand brushed yours—a brief, electric contact of skin against skin. He froze for a heartbeat, his eyes searching yours, realizing perhaps for the first time that the woman who kept his life together was more than just a ghost in the office.
"You're too good for this place," he whispered, so low you almost missed it. "But God help me, I don't know what I’d do if you left."
He didn't say anything else. He simply turned, grabbed his cap, and waited by the door to escort you out. The distance was back, the professional wall rebuilt, but as you walked past him, you caught the slight softening of his mouth—a silent acknowledgement that he finally saw you.
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