#cillian fluff

[cillslover]

Migraines // part 1

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Female Reader

Warnings: hurt/comfort dynamic, migraine symptoms, mentions of vomiting, history of migraines.

Summary: After a long day on set, Cillian comes home feeling utterly unwell, barely able to speak as a brutal migraine is starting to take hold of him. He collapses onto the bed in y/n's lap, seeking comfort in her touch.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊

The house was quiet when Cillian walked in, quiet in the way only a home shared with someone you love can be, where the silence is soft, not empty. He closed the door behind him, blinking against the evening light that filtered in through the windows. His shoulders were hunched, jaw tight, and every step he took felt heavier than the last. The black Peaky Blinders suit he still wore felt like armor now, too stiff, too hot, too heavy.

His head was pounding. No, pounding didn’t quite describe it. It felt like someone had pushed a screwdriver behind both of his eyes and was slowly twisting, sending flashes of white-hot pain through his skull. His temples throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat, and the nausea curling in his stomach was a familiar, cruel companion. The world tilted slightly as he walked toward the bedroom, and he had to brace himself on the wall for a second, steadying his breath.

The soft hum of a movie met his ears as he approached. Their bedroom was warm and dim, lit only by the glow of the TV. y/n was curled up in bed, hair messy, dressed in one of his old shirts, the duvet tucked around her as she absentmindedly munched on popcorn. She looked up the moment she heard the door creak open.

“Hey, love,” she said, smiling, setting the bowl aside. “You’re back early. Everything okay?”

Cillian didn’t answer right away. He didn’t have the strength to pretend. His eyes were already half-lidded, body trembling slightly from the effort it had taken to get home. He shuffled to her side of the bed without taking off his shoes or his overcoat. He crawled onto the mattress, letting out a low, exhausted breath, then slowly collapsed across the bed, resting his head sideways on her thigh, his face buried in her stomach.

“Oh, baby…” y/n whispered, her voice full of concern as she ran her fingers gently through his hair.

“I don’t feel good at all, y/n,” he mumbled. His voice was low and hoarse, like speaking cost him more energy than he had. “It’s bad. Migraine. Started hours ago. Got worse with the lights. Can’t think…”

y/n stroked his temple carefully, fingertips barely grazing his skin. He flinched ever so slightly at the contact.

“Your head’s hurting that bad?” She asked, leaning over to switch off the TV, plunging the room into a soft, dark quiet. “Why didn’t you call me?”

He shook his head slowly against her thigh. “Didn’t want to… bother you. Just wanted to get home. Couldn’t even change…”

y/n looked down at the stiff wool of the suit jacket against her legs. “You don’t have to move. Just lie still, okay?” She murmured, and slowly started unbuttoning the top of his shirt with her free hand, careful not to jostle him. “Let’s get you more comfortable at least…”

Cillian didn’t respond. He was breathing through his mouth, shallow, ragged breaths. y/n felt his stomach tighten beneath her hands as she reached to undo the vest buttons.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” he whispered suddenly.

Y/n froze. “Okay, okay-hang on.” She shifted him gently, slipping a hand under his arm to help him sit up. She guided him to lean forward just slightly in case, reaching over the edge of the bed to grab the small bin she kept nearby, just in case. y/n always kept it there ever since his migraines had started getting worse.

He didn’t throw up, not right away. Just gagged softly, clutching his stomach, sweat starting to bead at his hairline. “God, it hurts so fucking bad,” he muttered, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple. “I can’t see right. Lights feel like they’re drilling into my skull. I just-I just need it to stop.”

Y/n’s heart ached seeing him like this. Cillian, was so strong, a composed man, but now he was brought to his knees by this horrible, invisible pain. She cupped his face gently with both hands, guiding him to lie back down.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “Don’t worry about anything. Just close your eyes, love.”

He lay on his back for a second, but the light still seeping in through the curtains made him wince. He groaned and turned onto his side again, curling toward her lap. She grabbed one of her softest sleep shirts and draped it gently over his face to shield his eyes.

“That better?” She asked.

He gave the faintest nod. “Little bit.”

She smiled sadly and ran her fingers through his hair again.

“I like that,” he mumbled, nuzzling slightly more into her leg.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, her hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on his back. His breathing was still shaky, and every few minutes she felt the tense flinch of a new wave of nausea or pressure in his skull.

“You should take your meds, baby. Do you think you can swallow anything right now?”

He was silent for a moment, then gave a weak shake of his head. “Scared I’ll throw up.”

“Alright. We’ll wait, okay?” She adjusted her legs so he could lie more comfortably. “Just rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

He let out a weak sigh, and slowly his body began to relax, inch by inch. He kept one hand fisted gently in the fabric of her sleep shirt, as if he needed to anchor himself to something solid, something warm, something like her.

“Thank you,” he whispered so faintly she barely heard him.

Y/n didn’t answer with words. She just kept stroking his hair, brushing it back from his damp forehead, whispering soft little nothings to him: that she was there, that he was safe, that the worst would pass.

And eventually, as the night deepened and the house fell into that hush only night brings, Cillian’s breath evened out, and he slipped into the first bit of uneasy sleep he’d had in hours, head still on her thigh, his whole body curved protectively against her like he’d found his haven in the storm.

—————————-

Part 2

[cillslover]

"Just tired, that's all" || Part 2

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Female Reader

Warnings: illness symptoms, hurt/comfort, mild angst, mentions of pain & discomfort, Cillian being stubborn.

Summary: Cillian wakes the next morning still insisting he’s fine, despite the lingering stomach pain, fever, and exhaustion. Y/n sees right through him and gently pushes him to open up.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊

The next morning broke it was Saturday, their only day off, outside it was slow and grey, filtered through the sheer curtains in their bedroom. Rain tapped softly against the windows, a lazy drizzle that matched the heavy stillness in the house. Cillian had barely stirred when Y/N got up, his face pressed into the pillow, his brow furrowed faintly in his sleep like something was chasing him even in dreams.

When he finally emerged close to noon, it was with slow, uneven steps. He’d showered, thrown on grey sweatpants and a hoodie, but his skin had a washed-out pallor to it, and there were shadows under his eyes deeper than yesterday’s.

Y/N, perched on the couch with a book in her lap and a warm mug between her hands, looked up immediately. “You slept in,” she said gently, watching him move.

“Didn’t hear my alarm,” he muttered, walking straight past her into the kitchen. “What time is it?”

“Eleven forty”

He grunted in response, opening the fridge like he had any real interest in food. She heard the door shut again almost instantly, followed by him filling a glass with water. He took two slow sips before leaning back against the counter and closing his eyes.

“You’re still not feeling better, are you?” she asked quietly, setting the mug down and standing.

“I told you last night, it’s just a stomach thing,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse now. “Probably something I picked up on set.”

“You don’t look like someone who’s probably got a bug, Cill. You look like someone who’s in pain.”

“I’m not in pain,” he said, but the words were clipped—defensive. Then, after a pause, “Just sore.”

Her eyes scanned his body, how his arms were folded tightly over his stomach, the way he was subtly shifting weight from one foot to the other, like standing too long in one position was uncomfortable.

“You’re holding your stomach.”

“I’m not—” he stopped himself, catching the way her eyes narrowed.

Cillian sighed and dropped his hands. “Alright, yeah. I’ve got a bit of a cramp. It’s nothin’. I’ve had worse hangovers.”

“You don’t get fevers with hangovers.”

He let out a soft laugh—dry, tired. “Jesus, you’re on a mission, huh?”

“I’m on your side,” she reminded him, stepping closer and resting a hand lightly against his chest. “Can you at least be honest with me? What does it feel like?”

He finally met her eyes, though his were heavy-lidded, like it took effort to hold them open. “I don’t know. Like… pressure. Low in my stomach. Like I’ve been bloated for hours but nothing’s happening. I’m hot and cold. My head still aches. It’s not fun, but it’s not serious.”

Y/N stared at him for a beat, then gently slipped her hand down to his abdomen, just resting it there. His muscles tensed beneath her fingers instantly.

“Here?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Does it come and go?”

“It’s been kinda constant since last night,” he admitted, eyes flickering away.

Her thumb grazed the hem of his hoodie. “You didn’t sleep well either. I could hear you tossing.”

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against her shoulder, letting out a long breath. “I hate feeling sick. I hate being slowed down.”

“I know,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around him. “But slowing down now means you recover faster.”

Cillian was silent for a moment, his breath warm against her skin. “I’ve got scenes next week that can’t be moved. Big ones. Arthur’s breakdown in the ring, the warehouse confrontation—”

“Cillian,” she cut in, firm but quiet, “none of that matters if you collapse in the middle of it.”

He didn’t reply. Just stayed there, head heavy on her shoulder.

Eventually, she pulled back slightly and touched his cheek. “Come sit. You haven’t even eaten.”

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered, already letting her lead him to the couch.

“I figured. I made dry toast and plain rice just in case. Try a bite.”

He groaned but sat, slumping sideways into the cushions while she disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned, she had a tray, toast, a small bowl of rice, and a fresh cup of peppermint tea.

“You’re too good to me,” he mumbled, reluctantly taking the toast.

She sat down beside him, curling up so her knee bumped against his thigh. “Yeah, well. Someone’s got to make sure you don’t fall apart.”

He managed a small smile, chewing slowly. “I’ll be alright by tomorrow.”

Y/N looked at him, her expression unreadable.

“You keep saying that,” she said softly. “But I’m starting to think you don’t believe it either.”

Cillian didn’t answer. He set the toast down after two bites, closed his eyes, and leaned his head against the back of the couch, one hand resting protectively over his lower abdomen again.

Rain still drizzled outside, and the house was quiet, save for the occasional deep breath from him, like even that was something he had to work for today.

She didn’t say anything else. Just reached for the blanket on the back of the couch and pulled it over his legs, gently stroking his arm as he slowly drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep.

[cillslover]

"Just tired, that's all" || Part 1

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Female Reader

Warnings: illness symptoms, hurt/comfort, mild angst, mentions of pain & discomfort, Cillian being stubborn

Summary: Cillian's been feeling off all day on set, a weird ache in his stomach. But he brushes it off as nothing. When he gets home, y/n knows somethings not right. He insists he's fine.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊

It was late afternoon on set, somewhere between the first signs of dusk and the golden hour that often painted the London skyline over the sets of Peaky Blinders. Cillian sat in Tommy Shelby’s iconic long wool coat, collar turned up, cigarette stub hanging loosely from his fingers. The scene had wrapped, but he lingered at the edge of the set, staring at nothing in particular.

He’d felt strange all day. Not quite sick, just… off. A sort of unsettling churn in his lower stomach, like he hadn’t eaten, though he had. He’d woken up with that bloated, sour feeling right in the pit of his belly, but figured maybe the eggs at breakfast hadn’t sat right. The usual aches from filming, cold weather, stiff suits, running lines through gritted teeth, running lines through gritted teeth, were all there. But now there was something new building behind his eyes: a headache. Subtle but growing. His skin prickled hot under his costume one minute and cold the next.

“Alright, Cill?” one of the crew asked, adjusting a light just off frame.

“Yeah,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Just tired.”

By the time he walked through the door that night, the exhaustion felt like it had sunk deep into his bones. He dropped his bag at the foot of the hallway, barely bothering to untie his boots before shoving them off. The house was warm, softly lit, the way it always was when Y/N was home first. He smelled something faintly floral, her shampoo maybe, cutting through the vague nausea in his gut.

She appeared from the kitchen, a dish towel in her hands and her brows drawn the second she laid eyes on him.

“Hey… you okay?” she asked carefully, drying her hands and walking over. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine,” he said a little too quickly, leaning in to kiss her soft lips but keeping it brief. “Probably just a stomach bug. Long day.”

Y/N frowned, standing in place as he moved past her and into the living room, shrugging off his coat. He dropped down onto the sofa with a sigh, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“You sure? You’re really warm,” she said gently, stepping over and pressing the back of her hand to his forehead.

He flinched slightly but didn’t pull away. “Burning up one second, freezing the next. Think I’m coming down with something.”

She studied him. “You’ve been off for days, though. Yesterday too.”

He gave a small shake of his head. “It’s nothin’, Y/N. Just need to sleep it off. You know how this time of year is.”

Y/N didn’t argue. She knew him, knew when to push and when not to. He hated fuss, especially when he didn’t understand what his body was doing. She just nodded slowly.

“Alright,” she murmured. “I was about to make tea. Want some?”

He leaned his head back against the couch, eyes shut. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

She disappeared into the kitchen and he rubbed at his lower stomach absently, eyes still closed. The feeling was there again, that odd discomfort, like he’d been punched just under his belly button but softly, and the ache was spreading low and wide. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, but it didn’t help much.

Y/N returned with two mugs of tea, placing his on the table. “Here. Careful, it’s hot.”

He sat up and took a cautious sip. The warmth helped his throat a little, though the nausea flared again the moment he swallowed.

She sat down next to him, legs folded beneath her. “Did you eat today?”

“Barely,” he mumbled. “Didn’t really have the appetite.”

“You still don’t?”

He hesitated. “No. My stomach’s just… weird.”

Y/N turned slightly and looked at him more closely. “Headache too?”

“Mm.” He winced as if the word alone had made it worse. “Started this afternoon.”

She reached over and threaded her fingers into his hair, gently massaging the nape of his neck and up toward his temples. He exhaled slowly, eyes fluttering shut again under her touch.

“That’s good,” he murmured, nearly whispering.

“You’ve definitely got something,” she said softly. “Might be a virus. You should eat a little something, even if it’s just toast.”

He shook his head. “Don’t think I can keep it down right now.”

She didn’t press him. Just sat there, gently combing her fingers through his hair, tracing over the soft pulse behind his ear, watching as he sagged further into her side. The house was quiet except for the gentle ticking of the wall clock.

“Think I might shower,” he muttered eventually, voice rough. “Then I’ll sleep it off.”

“Alright. Do you want me to lay out your sweats?”

He nodded faintly. “Yeah… thanks, love.”

She got up to do just that, glancing back once at him as he slowly rose to his feet, moving like every joint ached a little more than it should. He pressed one hand to his lower stomach again, almost subconsciously, then let it fall as he headed toward the bathroom.

Y/N watched the door close behind him, chewing at her bottom lip.

She didn’t know what it was. He didn’t either.

But something wasn’t right.

———

Part 2

[cillianmesoftlyyy]

The Castaway Pt. 1 | Matthew Joy x fem!reader

requested by @tkappi 🖤

Summary: You're running away from Mr. Daws, your adoptive father on Nantucket Island and happen to be saved by a curious sailor. You seek refuge on a whaling vessel in your hopes of making it to the mainland of Massachusetts. The man promises to help you, even if it costs him his job.

Warnings: Hints at possible sexual assault attempts from adoptive father, old-fashioned perspectives on prostitutes, 10-year age gap, mutual trauma.

word count: 4040k

Seventeen- Sjowgren 🎶

“Stop her!” Mr. Daws shouts from the doorway of his store in the overcrowded market. You duck between two men carrying a large basket of oysters, your feet nearly slipping in the deep layer of mud that has only gotten worse in the snowy winter months. Mr. Daws chases you but his rotund belly and smallish legs hinder his pursuit and you manage to put some distance between yourself and the angry fish-marketer. 

“Thief! Grab her, by God!” You can hear the anger rising in his voice and notice that more people turn to inspect the scene. Thankfully, no one tries to intervene, they’re too confused by the scene to do anything. To the people of Nantucket, all they see is a young woman, probably 18 or so, in a printed blue dress holding onto her bonnet as she runs down the market lanes. They look for a thief or a criminal and see none, just a girl. You look like the well-off daughter of a merchant or clergyman in your colorful frock and braided blonde hair stuffed into the brown bonnet. 

“For thee love of God, grab tha’ girl!” The man tries again to rally the bystanders as he lumbers after you, slipping and sliding in the mud. The passing of a cart cuts him off momentarily but you can still hear his voice calling from a too-close-for-comfort distance. You can’t help but smile as you race down to the docks, clutching a cloth duffle of bread, preserves, and personal belongings- some of which you did sorta steal but from your own home. Mud splatters up the back of your legs, staining your cotton pantletts and underclothes but you daren’t stop and incur the wrath of the fishman. 

Your feet scramble in the mud, your boots losing traction. A frightened squeal escapes your throat as you keep running, praying that you make it to the docks and catch a sailboat before the man reaches you. This is not how it was supposed to go. Mr. Daws was not supposed to see you as you snuck out of the fish stall in the market, but he had. Mr. Daws is the man that wishes to marry you, and most shockingly, the man that adopted you a year before from the Nantucket Island Orphanage. He’d treated you well, buying you new frocks, and showering you with kindness until you turned 18… then his true intentions were revealed. He’d only shown you kindness in exchange for your trust. A marriage proposal from the man who by your understanding was your legal father was enough to shatter any trust or affection you held for him. And the things he’d tried to do… you couldn’t stay there any longer. Your only choice is to pay for passage to mainland Massachusetts on one of the many sailboats docked in the harbor. 

 “Thief!” He screams again and you nearly feel like sobbing because you can’t seem to outrun him in the horrible mud. 

“Umph!” The sound of surprise leaves your mouth as you’re jerked to the side by a strong hand. You fall between someone’s arms in the cutaway of an alley and immediately struggle to remove yourself. 

“A thief eh?” 

You look up. A sailor smiles down at you, his hands still holding your shoulders in place. You look over at the busy market and the man follows your gaze, registering the look of fear in your eyes. Without a word, he pushes you into the shadow of a stall and covers any view of you from the street with his body. 

“I hope whatever you stole is worth it,” the man mutters over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the busy market lane. 

“I didn’t steal anything… well not really,” you whisper back, your voice dipping as you added the last part. 

“I paid for ye!” Is the last thing you hear Mr. Daws scream as he limps right past you and the sailor. The sailor turns and cocks his eyebrow. 

“He paid for you?” His tone is quizzical as he looks you up and down. You don’t look like a prostitute. “Aren’t you a little young?” 

You look at the man for a moment, still in shock and totally unfazed by the man’s intervention on your behalf. You narrow your eyes, trying to understand what the man means and open your mouth slowly to respond but the sailor shakes his hand dismissively.

“No, no it's alright. That’s not important. Are you alright?” He glances over at the market again, checking to ensure the angry man wasn’t on his way back. You release the breath you were still holding and bury your face in your hands with a groan of relief but it’s still too soon to celebrate. Mr. Daws could be on his way back any minute now and see you. He could realize that you didn’t go down to the docks once the crowds of the market faded before the harbor. Your eyes snap open again and you grab the sailor’s forearms desperately. 

“Please, can you help me?” You manage to ask, your heart still racing. The sailor’s brow furrows and he nods with visible concern. 

“I can try, what’s happened? If you are a thief I won’t report you…” 

Your knees buckle randomly and you collapse. You would have landed in the mud if not for the sailor grabbing beneath your arms and holding you up. He looks around for a place to set you but there is mud all around, so he exhales tightly and supports your body weight. 

“I’m sorry,” you squeak in embarrassment and try to stand on your own. 

“Never mind that, are you in trouble?” 

You nod emphatically and glance over again at the market lane. 

“Was that man chasing you?” 

You nod emphatically again and nearly begin to sob for a second time. Your gasps of breathlessness make you feel lightheaded and weak. You lick your lips and try to take a steady breath so that you can speak.

“I- I’m running away. I have to get away from Nantucket. I was going to buy passage to the mainland but I’m worried he will see me and make me go back.” 

“Go back… where?” The sailor tries to follow but you shake your head. 

“I just need to get off this island. I need to get on a ship and go, go anywhere. Can you help me? I have money for the fare.” You reach into your pocket with a shaking hand to withdraw the roll of banknotes you’d stolen from Mr. Daws to pay for a ticket, either legally or under the table. 

“Put it away,” the man nods towards your pocket and looks down at his feet as he thinks. You shove the money back into the safe pocket of your skirt and wipe a tear from your eye. Finally the sailor looks back up and nods. 

“Can you walk?” 

He lets you go for a moment so you can try to stand without assistance. Your legs are weak but the moment of helplessness has passed. You nod. 

“Ok, follow me closely and take my coat.” The stranger pulls off his navy blue peacoat and helps you pull it on over your dress. He takes the duffle from you and when you start to protest, he shushes you with a finger to his lips. “Now take off your bonnet and put it in the pocket of your dress. Put on my hat.” 

The sailor removes his cap and hands it to you. You tuck your hair beneath the lip.

“Good, now come on,” he grabs your hand and pulls you through the edges of the market towards the dock. His grip is tight and reassuring as you both walk quickly towards the dock. 

At the harbor, the air is thick and gray. You can barely see the mass of shipmen working on the docks as they confer with other men. In your strange disguise, you look like a sailor’s wife wishing your husband farewell and indeed, you see wives doing just that as their husbands set off for whaling expeditions or fishing trips. 

“There’s a ship here leaving for the mainland…” His sentence is cut off as you both approach the sailing boat. You squeeze his hand and duck behind a wall of water barrels. Quickly, he realizes what you’re doing and joins you. 

“He must be telling the captain. Wait here.” The man tells you and steps back onto the busy path of the dock. He approaches Mr. Daws and the captain of the sailboat with a casual jaunt in his step. Mr. Daws turns toward the man and waves his hands about his head in his usual animated fashion. The sailor rubs his chin as he pretends to look interested. He pats Mr. Daws on the back and bows to the captain before walking back down the dock. The men don’t notice as he ducks behind the barrels beside you once again. 

“Whoever that man is that you’re running from, he’s forcing the captain to postpone all his trips to the mainland for the next few days. You won’t be able to get on the vessel without being turned in.”

“Oh God!” You exclaim softly and sink down against the barrels, tears spilling down your pink cheeks. The sailor jumps at your tears and holds his hands out helplessly, unsure what to do. 

“Oh please don’t cry! Look, I’ll take you aboard my ship. I stay docked for a few days and in that time, you may be able to board the sailing boat. If not, maybe we can drop you off at our next stop.” The man spoke quickly, his ideas coming to him on the spot. You pause your crying to look at him. You don’t even know who this man is, much less trust him to keep you safe aboard a random ship. But this is what you wanted. You wanted to get away from Nantucket in any way that you could. 

“What’s your name?” You ask softly, wary to follow the man now that your shock has subsided slightly. The sailor chuckles at your question, his smile lopsided. 

“Matthew, but we can introduce ourselves formally on the boat.” 

You nod and wait for the sailor named Matthew to give you a sign that it was safe to move. He glances around the wall of barrels and after a few moments, his hand gropes blindly for your back. Pushing you along by your back, Matthew leads you down a dock and to the right where the larger vessels are docked. A ramp has already been set up and when no one is looking, Matthew scoops you up. You gasp, startled and very uncomfortable as he hurries up the ramp. 

“Pretend you're a sack of potatoes or something…” Matthew mutters between his teeth and you dejectedly comply. He throws you over his shoulder and beelines for the passage leading below deck. You can tell immediately when Matthew passes through the threshold because the air is stuffy and humid. It smells like stale food and mildew but thankfully, it isn’t unbearable.

“We’re almost there,” he whispers as he turns a corner or two. The hallways are dark, only lit every few feet with a lantern. When he finally stops, he opens a door and steps inside quickly. He sets you down gently on your feet and steps back to give you room. You exhale slowly and look around. It’s a closet of some kind, full of extra rope and canvas for sails. 

“You should stay here for a little while, at least until we know if you can catch the sailing boat. Just don’t wander about. This side of the boat isn’t as busy because we use it for storage and for our workshops but it wouldn’t be good to have you walking about…” He clears his throat pointedly and you realize suddenly, that you haven’t really gotten a chance to look at him since he pulled you to safety. His face had completely slipped from your notice all day, as desperate as you were to get away from Mr. Daws. 

Matthew has a grayish face in the pale light below deck, and attractive hollow cheeks below prominent cheekbones. He has an impressive scar above his top lip, splitting his pallet down the middle at a diagonal. He is clean shaven but his hair is unkempt and about as long as you would assume for a sailor. His hair is a chestnut color, lightened from months spent beneath the sun at sea. And his eyes! You draw your eyes up to his. You’d never seen eyes quite like his, so dark blue they championed the color of the sea. 

“Well,” Matthew clears his throat, trying to fill the period of silence that you didn’t notice, “now that you know my name, I think it’s only fair that I should know yours.” He keeps his back against the door, creating a respectful distance between you. You look down at your hands, for no reason really, though the blush spreading across your face may be one. 

“Y/N,” you answer, looking up again. Matthew nods and trails his fingers absent-mindedly down the strap of your duffle bag still slung over his shoulder. He realizes the bag is yours and sets it down. Seeing him do this, you remember that you’re wearing his peacoat and cap. You remove them and hand them back to Matthew with a shy smile. Your body begins to drain of its initial adrenaline as you watch Matthew put his belongings on once again. 

“I’ll be back in an hour or two, and when I come back, I’ll bring you some supper. If another man happens to open this door and see you…” Matthew trails off, his eyebrows pulling together. He looks just above your head on the opposite wall, thinking. 

“What?” You prompt him, apprehension clear in your small voice. 

“I’m trying to think,” he mutters and sighs gravely. “Tell them you’re my sister, blame it on me. It’s better for both of us that way if you’re caught. Besides, you’ll only be hiding here for a few nights at the longest.” 

“Just until I can get safe passage on another ship,” you add with a tense exhale. You try to convince yourself that everything will be ok, despite the extremely strange circumstances. 

As if he read your mind, Matthew promises you, “Everything will be fine.” You nod thankfully and watch as he ducks out of the room. When the door is closed, you hear keys jingling against the door which tells you the door is being locked. A rush of anxiety takes you and you rush to the door. The door to the closet is locked by the time you turn the doorknob. Your breath catches in your throat and you panic. 

Oh God, I’ve been locked in a closet on a ship by a man I don’t know at all. No one knows I’m here besides him and if I draw any attention to myself and someone else comes… Damn it all! 

You think and slide down to your knees behind the door. Matthew seemed so kind and trustworthy… but to be fair, so had Mr. Daws after he adopted you. Your stomach turns. 

The closet has only one window, a dirty porthole, but no lanterns so save the aura of sunlight streaming in underneath the door, the room was dark. You stare at the face of your watch by resting your wrist beside the gap beneath the door. You’d decided to give Matthew the two hours he said he would need to return before screaming as loud as you can. You’d already watched one hour go by, fearful tears falling from your eyes. You have stopped brushing them away because it was straining a muscle in your neck. You’re fairly convinced that you have just left one horrible situation for another when you hear footsteps approach the door. 

You scramble back in time to see the door swing open. The direct light behind Matthew is too aggressive for your eyes, so you blink and shield your face with your palm. You can’t tell if you’re relieved or not to see him. 

“You locked me in,” you tell him flatly. 

“Yes…” Matthew starts cautiously, hearing the tone in your voice. “My belief was that you would be safest if you were locked in.”

“Don’t please…” you ask softly and Matthew finally sees the tears on your face. 

“Oh, child. Don’t cry again! I shouldn’t have locked you in. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m one of the only men on this ship with keys, so I believed this would be the safest arrangement.” Matthew closes the door quickly and crouches down to your level. “Are you alright?” He asks softly and sets down a canteen by your knees.  

You wipe your stale tears and wipe your nose on your sleeve. When you nod, Matthew sighs in relief and pushes the canteen closer to you. 

“Supper,” he opens the lid. You take the warm receptacle and drink the watery broth. “Now that we know each other’s names, will you tell me why you’re running away?” Matthew tries, his eyes watching your carefully for more tears.

“It’s a long story,” you murmur after you swallow some of the broth. Matthew twists his mouth to the side and sits down on a pile of coiled rope, exhaling loudly. 

“We have a few days,” he shrugs and clasps his hands together. 

“Right…” you concede and regard the man carefully, still wary. 

“Why are you running away from home?” Matthew asks again, not harshly, but his tone is strained with fading patience. He’s risking a lot to hide you aboard, a young girl (and probable prostitute) he doesn’t even know. “If you don’t tell me, I’m likely to remove you from this ship.” 

You shake your head wildly and stop him from continuing with an outstretched hand. 

“No, please… I’m just not sure where to begin.” 

Matthew nods and leans back against the wall, listening intently. 

“Um well the man that I was running from is my father, though only legally. He adopted me a year ago.” 

Matthew raises a quizzical brow but doesn’t interrupt. 

“When I turned 18, just a few months ago, he tried to change the um nature of our relationship.” 

“To what?” He leans forward.

“He wanted to marry me.”

“Oh…” Matthew grimaces and scrunches up his nose in disgust. 

“When I refused his first offer, he kept asking but more and more forcibly…” You wring your hands uncomfortably. 

“Did he try to take you?” Matthew asks without thinking of his audience. You narrow your eyes, confused again by his choice of language for everything.

I’m not sure…” you try to answer, not having understood his question to begin with.

“You’re not sure?” Matthew looks pointedly puzzled for a moment before exclaiming and rubbing his hand over his face. “So, I assume that means you aren’t a prostitute?” Matthew crosses his arms across his chest and cocks his head to the side. 

“What?” You gasp in surprise, knowing what that word means. 

“I just assumed when your, eh, father said he ‘paid’ for you,” Matthew shrugs apologetically.

“No!” you lower your voice, “I am not a bad woman. Mr. Daws had to pay the orphanage a certain amount to adopt me. He feels like he owns me now because of it.” 

“I didn’t mean to offend you. Sailors happen to have a lot of respect for prostitutes.” When Matthew sees your mortified face he sighs again and shifts uncomfortably on the coil of rope. “Forgive me, I’m not used to speaking with young women. We don’t interact with many of you,” Matthew chuckles beside himself and gestures to you. 

“But tell me,” he turns serious again, “what do you plan to do when you get to the mainland?” 

You shrug honestly, “I’m not sure. I was going to find a family to take me in and work as a maid.”

“You’d do better as a prostitute,” he mutters beneath his breath, then at a normal volume, “Boston would be the place to go. They have wealthier families there. I don’t know how easy it will be to find a job as a maid, especially without references which I assume you don’t have.” 

“I’ll do whatever work I can find,” you assure him quickly but then pause and add, “within reason.” 

“Ah,” Matthew chuckles at you softly and crosses his arms over his chest again. 

“And who are you?” You drink from your canteen as Matthew looks up at the ceiling. 

“Well, I’m a whaler. I’m First-Mate on this ship, The Essex,” he turns his gaze to the side, leaning forward, as he tries to recall anything else to say. 

“How long have you been a whaler?”  

Matthew chuckles again and shakes his head, “A long time.” He meets your gaze with a sheepish smile, “Probably for longer than you’ve been alive.” 

“I’m 18,” you say though Matthew had already gathered that from your last story. The truth still shocks him.

“You’re no more than a child,” he shakes his head in disbelief and runs a hand through his messy hair. As you watch him, you realize how old he could possibly be. He must be at least 30, you decide. 

“Did you go to school?” You change the subject after a period of silence. Matthew raises an intrigued eyebrow at you and nods. 

“Yeah, yeah I did. How could you tell?” 

“The way you talk… and your grammar,” you stammer, not realizing how intrusive the observation had been.

“Hmmm,” he nods thoughtfully and scratches his chin. Did you go to school?” 

“Some, the orphanage had a good schoolmaster. He was from Boston.” 

“Must have been a pretty fancy orphanage,” Matthew laughs softly and clears his throat. 

“Are you married?” You break the silence again and Matthew’s eyes shoot up to yours. He swallows tightly and you can tell you’ve stumbled upon a sensitive topic.

“I was,” he answers simply. You look down at the canteen in your hands, ashamed that you asked such a personal question of someone you don’t know. 

“Smallpox,” Matthew whispers and you look up in shock. 

“My parents too.” 

You stare at each other in silence, save the muffled sound of waves hitting the side of the boat facing the harbor. 

“Horrible disease. I hear that you go fairly quickly… I wasn’t there.” He moves as he tells you, hiding his emotion with his hands. 

“I was there when my parents died but I have no memory of them, not even their faces.” 

“How did you know how they died?” Matthew runs his hand over his mouth. You bite the inside of your cheek, an image of the communal grave on Nantucket Island springing into your mind. 

“The island kept track of everyone who died from the Pox. My parents’ names are on the list.” 

“How old were you?” He continues to ask. You furrow your brow, trying to remember.

“Just a baby, no more than three years old.” You sigh and look back up at Matthew. “What was your wife’s name?” 

Matthew frowns when the conversation is turned back onto him. His face darkens and he exhales, not liking to talk about her. 

“Abigail.”

You can hear the change in his tone and finish the broth instead of asking anymore questions. Matthew watches you drink the broth silently. When you finish, he takes the canteen and stands. 

“I’ll go now, and I won’t lock the door this time.” 

“Thank you for- for everything that you’ve done for me today. I owe you.” You stand as he had and clasp your hands together against your apron shyly. 

“You're welcome child,” Matthew smiles with closed, full lips. “I’ll come back in the morning after I see about any ships sailing to the mainland. Goodnight.” 

He leaves quickly, before you can say goodnight back. Once behind a closed door by yourself, you realize how dark the room had become. The sun is setting and you can just barely see it through the dirty porthole.

xxx

[corrupte3d-mindz]

Lies She Told

Possessive! Thomas Shelby x Cheating Wife! Reader

Summary: Thomas finds out his wife has been unfaithful.

Wordcount: 4.1k

Warnings: Barely Proof-Read

possessive! Thomas, cheating, angst, yelling.

Inspiration: Darlin’ - Chase Matthew

The Arrow House was alive with the hum of voices, the clinking of glasses, and the subtle, yet unmistakable undertone of power. Thomas Shelby stood in the midst of it all, his sharp blue eyes surveying the room with a practiced indifference.

The event was a display of wealth, a gathering of influential people whose lives intersected with his in the labyrinthine world of business. The house, his fortress, was filled with guests, all eager to curry favor, to be seen, to be acknowledged by the man who held the reins of so many fates. Yet, amidst the sea of faces, his mind was elsewhere. A businessman, flushed with alcohol and self-importance, was rambling on about the portrait that hung on the wall—a painting of Thomas on horseback. The man’s admiration was laced with sycophancy, but Thomas barely registered the words. He offered a perfunctory smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes, before dismissing the man with a curt nod. The urge to find his wife was gnawing at him, a strange sense of unease settling in his chest. She was always near him at these events, her presence a constant, a subtle reminder of his power and control. But tonight, she was conspicuously absent.

He had noticed things lately, small things that gnawed at him. The scent of another man’s cologne lingering on his wife’s clothes, the way she seemed distant, her mind always somewhere else. He’d dismissed it at first, chalking it up to the pressures of his business, the strain it placed on their marriage. But the doubts had grown, festering like an untreated wound. 

Thomas’s steps were measured, deliberate, as he moved through the throngs of people. He navigated the crowd with a practiced ease, his mere presence parting the guests like the tide. He wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries, his mind too focused on the task at hand. The more he looked, the more his concern grew. He knew every corner of this house, every nook and cranny, and yet she was nowhere to be found. It was unlike her, and that worried him. The farther he went from the main gathering, the quieter the house became. The laughter and chatter faded into a dull murmur as he moved deeper into the shadows of the grand estate. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridors, the polished floors reflecting the dim light of the wall sconces. It was in these quiet moments that Thomas felt most at ease, away from the watchful eyes, away from the noise. But tonight, even the silence did little to calm the unease that was building within him.

Then he heard it—soft, almost imperceptible, but enough to make him stop in his tracks. A voice, faint and foreign, carried through the air. “Darlin’... please don’t tempt me...” The accent was Southern, American, and entirely out of place in his home. It was the tone that caught his attention more than the words, the intimate, almost pleading quality that made his blood run cold.

Thomas’s head snapped in the direction of the voice, his eyes narrowing as he honed in on the source. His heart began to pound, a slow, steady rhythm that echoed in his ears as he moved forward, his pace quickening. The voice was a thread, pulling him toward something he wasn’t sure he wanted to see, but something he needed to confirm. His thoughts were a whirlwind of suspicion and disbelief, each step bringing him closer to a truth he feared. His footsteps were almost silent on the floor beneath him as he made his way towards the back of the house. There was something pulling him in that direction, an instinct honed by years of surviving on the streets, by being one step ahead of danger. He reached the corridor that led to the servants' quarters, a place he rarely ventured. But tonight, something drew him there. As he approached, he noticed the door to the maid’s room slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling out into the darkened hallway.

Thomas stopped, his heart thudding in his chest, the sound loud in his ears. He could hear voices, low and muffled, coming from inside. One voice was his wife’s, unmistakable in its softness, in the way it had once brought him comfort. But now it sent a chill down his spine. The other voice was unfamiliar, a man’s voice, rough with a country accent. “Darlin’... you’re too good for him... too sweet,” the words echoed in his mind, each one a dagger twisting in his gut. Anger surged through him, a hot, violent rage that he hadn’t felt in years. His hand clenched into a fist at his side, the muscles in his jaw tightening. He felt a red mist descending, clouding his vision, filling his mind with thoughts of violence, of retribution. Without thinking, he reached for the door handle, yanking it back with a force that made the wood groan in protest. The door flew open, slamming against the wall, and the room was suddenly bathed in harsh, overhead light as he flicked the switch.

The scene before him was like something out of a nightmare. His wife, the woman he had trusted above all others, and there she was—his wife, standing far too close to a man Thomas had never seen before. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with a rough, rugged look that spoke of a life far removed from the polished circles of Birmingham society. They froze, their eyes locking with his, the shock evident on their faces. His hand rested on the small of her back, his body angled toward hers in a way that made Thomas’s stomach turn; it was too familiar, too intimate. Thomas’s heart pounded in his chest, each beat a drum of impending violence. His eyes flicked to his wife, then to the man, and back again. The silence in the room was deafening, the air thick with tension. Thomas took a slow, deliberate breath, trying to rein in the fury that threatened to explode. His hand came up to the bridge of his nose, pinching it slightly as he closed his eyes, a hiss of frustration escaping his lips. He needed to control himself, to think clearly. But the betrayal was like a knife in his back, twisting deeper with every passing second. His mind raced, a thousand thoughts colliding at once. He wanted to hurt them both, to make them pay for what they had done. But more than that, he wanted answers. He needed to understand how this had happened, how he had been blindsided in his own home.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, dangerous, dripping with barely contained rage. “What the fuck is goin’ on ‘ere?” His words were slow, deliberate, each one a bullet aimed at the two people standing before him. He wanted to see them squirm, to see the fear in their eyes as they realized the gravity of what they had done. His wife flinched at the sound of his voice, her eyes wide with fear and guilt. The man beside her paled, his bravado crumbling in the face of Thomas’s cold fury.

“Tommy, I... I can explain,” his wife stammered, her voice shaking. But Thomas wasn’t interested in her explanations, not yet. He stepped into the room, his presence dominating the space, making it feel smaller, more claustrophobic.

“Don’t.” His voice was low, dangerous, the kind of tone that made even the bravest men think twice. He stepped into the room, his gaze fixed on the man, who was now standing tall, as if trying to assert his dominance. But Thomas Shelby was not a man to be challenged, especially not in his own home.

His eyes bore into the man who still had the audacity to stand so close to his wife. “Who even the fuck are yeh?” Thomas growled, his voice low and deadly, the kind of voice that made men confess their sins.

“You’ve got some nerve, eh?” Thomas’s voice was laced with venom, his accent thickening as his anger grew. He took another step closer, his eyes never leaving the man’s face. “Comin’ into my house, touchin’ my wife... Yeh must be either brave or stupid. Or both.”

His gaze was locked on the man, a pitiful excuse for a human being who now stood trembling before him. The man was trying to speak, but his words were garbled, caught in his throat as if the very act of forming a sentence in Thomas’s presence was too much for him to bear. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his hands shook at his sides, like a cornered animal ready to bolt at the first sign of mercy—or danger. Thomas’s jaw tightened, the muscle twitching beneath his skin as he held back the surge of violence that clawed at his insides.

The room was painfully silent, save for the man’s ragged breathing and the soft rustle of fabric as Thomas’s wife shifted uncomfortably behind him. But even without looking at her, Thomas could feel her presence—could sense the guilt radiating off her in waves, mingling with the stench of fear and betrayal that hung heavy in the air. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his polished shoes. The man flinched, his eyes wide with terror, darting from Thomas to his wife and back again. Thomas could see the thoughts racing through the man’s mind, the desperate scramble to find a way out, a way to explain himself, to justify the unforgivable. But there was no justification—not for this.

“Answer me,” Thomas growled, his voice low and dangerous, the kind of tone that made men think twice before crossing him. It was a command, not a request, and the man knew it. But still, he hesitated, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, words failing him in the face of Thomas’s cold, unyielding stare.

Thomas’s eyes flicked back to his wife, catching the brief, pleading glance she sent the man’s way, a silent cry for help that went unanswered. The sight of it—of her still trying to protect this man, this nobody—made something inside him snap. His anger, already a simmering storm, flared hot and uncontrollable, flooding his veins with a heat that burned away any remnants of restraint. The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, until the man finally found his voice, though it wavered with fear. “I-I didn’t mean... I never wanted to... I’m sorry, Mr. Shelby... Please, I didn’t know—”

“Didn’t know what?” Thomas interrupted, his voice a sharp, cutting blade. He took another step forward, closing the distance between them until he was towering over the man, his presence overwhelming. “Didn’t know she was married? Didn’t know who I was?” He sneered, his lip curling with disgust. “Or didn’t care?”

The man’s breath hitched, and he glanced desperately at Thomas’s wife, as if hoping she might intervene, might save him from the wrath that was surely coming. But Thomas wasn’t having it. He reached out, his hand like a vice as he grabbed the man by the collar, yanking him forward until they were nose to nose. The man’s feet barely touched the ground, and his breath came in short, panicked gasps as he struggled in Thomas’s grip.

“Yeh think I don’t know men like yeh?” Thomas hissed, his voice low but filled with venom. “Yeh think I haven’t dealt with worse scum than you in the streets of Birmingham? Yer nothing. Less than nothing. And yeh had the audacity to touch what’s mine?”

He shoved the man back, releasing him with a force that sent him stumbling into the wall behind him. The man crumpled, his legs giving out beneath him as he slid to the floor, his back against the faded wallpaper. Thomas loomed over him, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had turned white, the urge to beat the life out of this pitiful creature nearly overpowering. But he held back—barely—his mind still whirring, still calculating. Violence wasn’t the answer—not yet. He needed to know more. Needed to understand the full extent of this betrayal before he could decide how to deal with it. He turned his attention to his wife, who was now openly weeping, her face buried in her hands. The sound of her sobs grated on his nerves, a reminder of the pain she had caused, the trust she had shattered. But there was something else too, something in the way she cried that made him pause. It wasn’t just guilt or fear that drove her tears—there was something deeper, a sadness that he hadn’t expected, hadn’t seen before.

“Tommy, please...” she whispered, her voice muffled by her hands. “I didn’t mean for it to happen... I swear, it was a mistake... I’ve been so lonely...”

At the word lonely, Thomas felt a fresh wave of anger crash over him. He could hardly believe the audacity of it, the sheer gall of her to use such an excuse. Lonely? Lonely? As if that justified anything. As if that gave her the right to betray him, to throw away everything they had built together over the past four years. His teeth ground together, the sound nearly audible in the tense silence of the room.

“Lonely,” he repeated, his voice dripping with contempt. “Yeh think that’s a fuckin’ excuse? Yeh think that makes it alright?” His words were sharp, each one hitting her like a physical blow, and she flinched as if she had been struck. But he didn’t stop—couldn’t stop. The floodgates had opened, and all the bitterness, the hurt, the betrayal he had been holding back came pouring out, each word laced with venom.

“Yeh think I don’t know what lonely is? Yeh think I don’t feel it too? Every time I’m away, every time I have to leave this house to keep us safe, to keep yeh safe, yeh think I don’t feel it? But I didn’t stray, did I? I didn’t go lookin’ for comfort in someone else’s arms, did I? And yet here yeh are, beggin’ for forgiveness, tryin’ to make me understand.”

His fists were still clenched at his sides, the knuckles white and trembling with the effort it took not to lash out, not to give in to the primal urge to break something—anything. But he couldn’t let that happen. He needed to stay in control, needed to keep his head clear, even as his heart ached and his blood boiled with the realization of what she had done. He turned back to the man, who was still cowering on the floor, eyes wide with terror as he looked up at Thomas, knowing that his fate lay in the hands of the man who stood above him. Thomas took a deep breath, forcing himself to think, to plan, to strategize. This man wasn’t worth his anger, wasn’t worth the blood that would be spilled if he gave in to his rage. But he couldn’t let him off easy—not after this.

“Yeh better run while yeh still can,” Thomas said, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. “Maybe yeh’ll be far enough away before my men get to yeh. But don’t count on it.”

The man hesitated for only a moment, and then, with a choked sob of relief, he scrambled to his feet and bolted for the door. Thomas didn’t move as the man brushed past him, didn’t flinch as the double doors slammed shut behind him, leaving the room in an oppressive, suffocating silence. Finally, when the sound of the man’s footsteps had faded into the distance, Thomas turned back to his wife. She was still crying, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs, and for a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—he felt a pang of something like pity. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by the cold, hard reality of what she had done.

He took a step closer to her, his shoes thudding softly against the wooden floor. His hand reached out, almost hesitantly, before wrapping around her wrists in a firm, possessive grip. There was no anger in the touch, not yet. It was more a need to connect, to hold onto something that felt real in a moment when everything else seemed to be slipping away. His other hand found its way to her waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of her dress, pulling her closer. The familiar scent of her perfume filled his nostrils, a scent that once brought him comfort but now only reminded him of what might be lost.

“Why would yeh throw what we have away… why?” His voice was low, gritty, carrying the weight of the unspoken accusations that lingered between them. It wasn’t just a question; it was a plea, a desperate attempt to understand how the woman he loved could betray him. His breath was warm against her ear, and he could feel the slight tremor in her body as he spoke. But whether that tremor was from fear, guilt, or something else entirely, he couldn’t tell.

The silence that followed his question was deafening. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his chest, a dull thud that seemed to echo in the small room. His grip on her wrists tightened ever so slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her that he was there, that he wasn’t letting go until he got the answers he needed. His mind raced, thoughts tumbling over one another as he tried to piece together the puzzle of their relationship. Where had it all gone wrong? Was it something he did? Or was it something she had been planning all along? Thomas was a man who prided himself on control, on being able to manage every aspect of his life with a precision that few could match. But here, now, with his wife in his grasp and the specter of infidelity hanging over them, he felt that control slipping. And it terrified him. He had been faithful to her, had given her everything she could ever want, and yet here they were, standing on the precipice of something that could destroy them both.

His eyes searched hers, looking for the truth, for any sign that she might deny the accusations, that she might reassure him, tell him he was wrong. But instead, he saw something else—something that made his stomach churn. Was it guilt? Or was it defiance? He couldn’t tell, and that only made his grip tighten further, his knuckles whitening as he held onto her as if she were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“Eh?” he pressed, his voice a low growl now, the frustration evident in every syllable. 

Thomas's left her waist and darted roughly to her hand that bared her wedding ring he had custom made just for her. He gripped her hand with a force that teetered on the edge of violence, his fingers digging into her soft skin. The silver wedding ring gleamed ominously in the dim light, a symbol of their union now turned into a weapon. He shoved her hand roughly in front of her face, forcing her to confront the reality of what that ring meant. “Yeh see this fuckin’ rock on yer’ finger…” he hissed, his voice low and gravelly, each word laced with venom. “That means yer fuckin’ mine!”

His wife’s eyes, wide with a mix of fear and defiance, flickered between his own and the ring, her lips trembling as she tried to form a response. But before she could even utter a word, Thomas yanked her closer, their faces now inches apart. His breath was hot against her cheek, the scent of whiskey still clinging to him from the earlier hours. His jaw clenched as he spoke again, slower this time, his voice dropping even lower, the words grinding out like stones against each other. “D’ya understand? Mine.” There was no room for doubt in his tone, no space for negotiation. This was not a man who tolerated disobedience or betrayal. This was a man who had built an empire from nothing, a man who had clawed his way out of the mud and blood of Small Heath to stand at the top. And now, the very idea that the woman he had chosen to stand beside him, the woman he had protected and loved in his own cold, twisted way, could be betraying him? It was an affront he could barely comprehend, let alone tolerate.

He cupped her face, his fingers curling against her skin with a force that bordered on roughness, a desperate need to feel her, to remind himself that she was still his, despite the cracks that had formed in the foundation of their marriage. His thumb brushed over her cheek, a gesture that was almost tender if not for the underlying tension that coiled in his muscles, a barely restrained violence that simmered just below the surface. He pulled her towards him, their lips colliding in a kiss that was more a battle than an embrace. It wasn’t the gentle, loving kiss of a husband to his wife; it was a claiming, a demand, a statement of ownership wrapped in the guise of affection. The kiss was harsh, driven by a mix of need and anger, of love and betrayal. His lips pressed against hers with a bruising intensity, as if he could kiss the doubt away, as if he could force her to be faithful through sheer willpower. His other hand tangled in her hair, the softness of the strands a stark contrast to the roughness of his grip. He held her there, anchored in place, as if letting go would mean losing her entirely. He could feel the resistance in her, the hesitation, and it only spurred him on, deepening the kiss, trying to pull something from her, a confession, a reassurance, anything that would give him peace.

Time seemed to stretch, the kiss consuming them both, blocking out the world beyond the four walls of the room. It was just them now, two people locked in a struggle as old as time itself—love and trust, suspicion and betrayal. Thomas knew what he was fighting for, but he wasn’t sure if she did. He wasn’t sure if she felt the same desperation, the same need to make this work, to keep what they had from crumbling into dust. When he finally pulled back, his chest heaving from the intensity of the kiss, he didn’t move far. His forehead rested against hers, his breath hot and heavy against her lips as he searched her eyes for something—anything—that would tell him he wasn’t making a mistake. His eyes bore into hers, seeking the truth, pleading with her to give him some sign that she was still the woman he married, the woman he had been faithful to for four long years. There was a flicker there, a glimmer of something that might have been hope, or perhaps it was just a reflection of his own desperate need to believe. But whatever it was, it wasn’t enough. Not yet.

“We made that promise,” he said, his voice a low growl, thick with the accent of Birmingham, every word carrying the weight of their past, their vows, their life together. “Four years, we’ve been through hell and back, and I’ve stood by you every step of the way. But now...” He trailed off, his grip on her face tightening slightly, a flash of anger, of pain, flickering across his features. “Now I don’t know what to believe.”

Author's Notes:

Ahhhhhhh! where have I been? School started for me and I've also been in a writers block lolz. But yeah, hopefully this story doesn't suck.. anyways toodles!!

[dilf-issues]

Fuck or Die | Jonathan Crane & Jackson Rippner

Synopsis; You’re stuck in a locked cell with the twins, a mysterious gas emerged

Warnings; Sex pollen, non-con/dubcon. Smut, threesome. PWP. LIKE NO PLOT AT ALL, DOUBLE PENETRATION, breeding kink, anal

A/N; Sorry for being M.I.Im so busy OML but here is a gift <3

.

A loud hiss can be heard in the air as the three of them snap their heads up to see what is going on. The confusion was written all over their face, they could only hear the sounds but they couldn’t exactly see what was occurring. Jonathan was the first one to realize it as the panic struck across his face, walking towards the door they once entered he tried opening it but to no avail, it was locked shut. He cursed to himself not wanting anyone to panic, especially Y/N who’s most anxious when things like this happen. Jackson caught on, as he walked towards his brother, trying to pull open the steel door but it was still latched shut.

They were trapped.

“Wait, what’s going on?” Y/N questioned, trying to see what the fuss was with the two as they stared at each other hesitantly and then back at her, “What?”

“We’re trapped” Jonathan stated as he could see the color of the girl’s face pale as she took a step back. “Calm down, Y/N. We’ll find a way out. We always do, alright?”

“That’s the thing. You found a way out. I’ve never been in a situation like this before…” Y/N could feel her heart pounding violently in her ribcage as her lungs started to constrict, limiting the air as her breathing started to pick up. Jackson walks towards the girl, carefully placing a hand on her back, trying his best to calm her down. The last thing they need was her freaking out. She needs to be as calm as possible so that she can think straight and find a way out.

Jonathan motioned Jackson to look up and pay attention to the noise and mist coming from above them, Jackson nodded as he caught on to what Jonathan was trying to say. “Do you know what it is?” Jackson asked as Jonathan speculated a few answers in his head.

“It can be a few things, non-lethal… doesn’t kill it’s subject until they were tested” Jonathan answered as Jackson received the information while looking around the room. Y/N was in the corner, trying hard to calm herself down and not be a burden to them. She barely heard what they were saying, she was too focused on healing herself.

They monitored this facility for months and months and nobody was here. They came here to collect more information on the organization. This room was probably automated.

The hissing in the air lasted for about three hours and they still had no idea what it was. It wasn’t making them feel dizzy or pain or sleepy, at least it hadn’t kicked in just yet.

Jonathan’s best bet was that the door would open by tomorrow, it’s what they always did with prisoners. It’s automated so a door towards their observing room would probably open up, it explains why there was a big ass mirror staring right back at them. They didn’t stop looking for an escape whatsoever, for all they know this gas could carry diseases—if it was that, they were in big big trouble.

But oh boy, were they wrong.

Jackson was the one to feel the symptoms first. The room was cold but he was excreting a crazy amount of sweat that made him take off his jacket and toss it to the floor as he shags his hair, feeling it growing damper and damper by the second. It felt like his blood was boiling, his skin was burning. Jonathan eyed him carefully, studying his manners to see if it was anything he was familiar with. “Hot?”

Jackson nodded, wiping the sweat on his forehead as he took a seat right next to Y/N, checking up on her once again. She was calmer now, at least now that Jackson explained what Jonathan told him they should be fine.

Jonathan starts to get what Jackson is saying. The room was hot. It was getting hotter and hotter for both of them, they were sitting in a goddamn oven.

“Hey, is it just me or it’s literally burning?” Jackson asked as Y/N shook her head, furrowing her brows in confusion as she stared at both men back and forth. “It’s fucking boiling in here” Jackson unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt, he wanted to take off all of his clothes but he didn’t want to make Y/N feel uncomfortable.

The second symptom came in when both of their throats suddenly went dry, their mouth was dry but it wasn’t producing any saliva to lubricate their throat. Jonathan’s eyes widened when he starts to realize what was going on.

“Jackson, we gotta get out!” He shouted suddenly, startling Jackson and Y/N as they stood up quickly. They wanted to walk towards him but Jonathan pointed at Y/N to stay where she was. “Don’t fucking come near me!”

“Jonathan, what’s going on?” Jackson implored as he told Y/N to stand down. “You’re acting weird…”

“It’s not fucking safe, Jackson! We gotta get out of here, right now!” Jonathan saw this one too many times. He was so sure it was what he thought it was. Hell, he even managed to create this himself once.

The thing they were inhaling wasn’t gas. It was pollen. It is a stimulating pollen that made humans turn into sick monsters. These people used the pollen for breeding purposes. They wanted to make an enhanced being without needing any serum. They wanted someone gifted to exist biologically. Jonathan had experienced this himself but he had never seen what it did to other people. He was lucky enough he had an antidote before he went completely feral.

It was terrifying.

“Y/N… Y/N’s not safe” Jonathan swallowed the nonexistent liquid as he took shallow breaths for himself. Jackson started to feel the same thing Jonathan was feeling and it made him frantic. Jackson forced Jonathan to tell him what was going on or he was going crazy. Their stomach churned and they felt hungry.

Only this time it wasn’t for food.

“J-Jackson… We need t-to… Get o-out… Y/N’s not safe” It was getting harder for him to talk now. He was starting to feel it. They were starting to feel it. It was coiling in their bellies, growing hot and heavy. They were goners now.

“Jonathan, you’re freaking me out. Stop talking about me like I’m not here! At least let me help…” All she did was stood closer to him and touched his back but Jonathan’s response was beyond feral. He grunted, taking her wrist with his arm as he gripped on it, not wanting to let her go. Jonathan pushed her against the wall as she whimpered, feeling the wall colliding with her back as she whined in pain. “J-Jonathan?”

His other hand took her free wrist. Pinning both of them beside her head as he buried his face in her neck. He took a long whiff her scent—fear. It fueled him to the brim with the desire to absolutely destroy her, break her into tiny little pieces.

“J-Jackson, help… It h-hurts…” She pleaded but Jackson did nothing. He stood there, watching Jonathan feel her up and he liked it. He liked seeing his brother grope her, feeling up her perky breasts, rubbing her pussy through her pants.

God, he loves it.

Y/N felt the lump in her throat growing as the tears start forming in the corner of her eyes. Y/N stands no chance against Jonathan, she couldn’t do anything. All that is going through her mind was that maybe Jonathan was triggered but she had no idea why Jackson just stood there, watching her and did absolutely nothing.

“Why are you d-doing this, Jonathan?… Jackson!” She exclaimed, wanting him to do something, anything. Jonathan’s hand traveled down to her pants as he eyed them down. With a swift motion Jonathan effortlessly tore her pants off as he immediately kneeled in front of her, letting go of her wrists because he was positive she wasn’t going to go anywhere. He stared at the sheer cotton covering the most prized possession and out of nowhere he went and darted his tongue out, licking the nub of her clit as she whimpered to herself. Jackson stood there, his cock was dripping and heavy in his pants. He took them off, palming himself through his boxers as he watched his brother licks Y/N’s pussy softly, wetting the garment as her knees starts to become weak.

Jackson then steps forward, tearing her suit off of her torso and so does her bra. She cried when Jackson groped her breasts, leaning down to lick her pebbled nipples that had hardened from the cold air. Jonathan took off her panties, and his fingers attacked her swollen and puffy clit, rubbing it harshly as she thrashed against the wall, not having the power to even help herself up. She fell down to the ground, naked and afraid as Jonathan spreads her legs and starts entering his fingers inside her tight little cunt.

“Jonathan, Jackson... Please... Stop!” The stretch was excruciating and Jonathan didn’t show her mercy, he pumped his fingers in and out of her hole at a rapid pace, earning a scream of agony that had only made them even more feral. When she looked to her right, she can see Jackson, stroking his big and hard cock to the sound of her crying and being molested on the floor. Y/N was ashamed, there was nothing more than humiliation, fear, and disappointment running through her mind. She was drenched, leaking onto Jonathan’s fingers as she kept looking at Jackson’s cock that was dripping with pre-cum. She was ashamed that her body was enjoying what was happening to her.

Jonathan curled his fingers inside her pussy as she felt the pit growing inside her tummy, her pussy was tingling and she knew what was going to happen.

She was going to cum.

“J-Jonathan…!” She shouted as she let it all out, her thighs shaking and her body quivering as she moaned out loudly. Despite him being emotionless, the subtle smirk on the corner of his lips can be seen and there’s nothing more sinister than that. “Please… S-stop… Jonathan… Jackson… This is not like you…”

Both of them completely ignored the words that were coming out of her mouth. Jonathan stripped off of his clothes and pants, showing him and all of his glory. His cock was hard, deep purple veins were poking out as the tip leaked with clear pre-cum. They both hovered over her body like predators as Jonathan picked her up. Y/N didn’t fight, she didn’t say anything because nothing she said can change anything. She doesn’t know why this was happening to her.

Jonathan lined up his cock on her dripping entrance as Jackson came behind her, and what he did next made her scream the loudest she had ever scream.

Both of them impaled her holes at the same time, thrusting together at the same time, and she can feel herself psychically break. Their huge cocks filled her up to the point where they can see the curve of their bulges in her belly, moving up and down. Y/N hides her face into Jonathan’s neck, whimpering and pleading, hoping that the real Jonathan was still there to stop all of this.

Both of the men groaned and grunted loudly, loving the way how tight and warm her holes were. Their mission was still clear in their mind.

They wanted to fill all of her holes full of their cum. So full until it leaked onto the floor.

Jackson held her neck lightly choking her as she strained from her breath. They were both having the time of their lives, having their cocks stuffed into a pretty little cum rag all for them to use.

The noise they made was a mix of pleasure and pain, Y/N couldn’t form words out of her mouth anymore, she only screamed and screamed as she felt every inch of their dicks thrusting inside her.

Y/N could feel them twitching inside of her and she knew this was finally going to end.

Jackson and Jonathan grunted at the same time as the warm liquid was released inside her, painting her walls white as she could feel them filling her up. The small bloat in her tummy can be seen, she was so full of their cum.

When they were done, hey laid her onto the floor as the tears start pouring down her face. The cum inside her pussy seeped out onto the floor, pooling underneath her.

Jackson and Jonathan watched their seed escape her pussy and her ass as they felt themselves hardened again. They both stood up, picking her back up to repeat what they were doing.

Y/N was going to spend the next twenty-four hours with all of her holes filled with Jackson’s and Jonathan’s cum and there’s nothing she can do about it.

[dilf-issues]

Vanilla | C.M

Requested by Anon: hey dunno you take requests but since your writing is so hot , I'm willing to ask if you consider writing about roleplaying with Cillian and his wife or gf to break the dull routine they were stuck into , the way he suggested that to her being embarrassed and the sweet moments they ditch the characters in bed. He could bring his characters *cough cough * Tommy shelby. Thank you x

Synopsis: In which your boyfriend, Cillian, finds out you’ve been reading erotic fiction about his character in the Peaky Blinders, Tommy Shelby. Cillian shows you how much of a great actor he is.

Warnings: Age gap, the reader is in her 20s and Cillian is in his 40s. Roleplaying, extremely rough sex, dumbification, degradation, face slapping, spitting, pussy spanking, oral sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, and a little cnc. THIS IS KIND OF DARK SO BE WARNED. Everything is consented it’s just that... Cillian’s gonna be rough, like ROUGH

.

Cillian had been busy. He had an upcoming new season this year and his schedule was packed. You haven’t spent time with him in quite some time now. He constantly apologized for not giving you enough attention and promised to make it up to you.

He decided to fulfill this promise.

Since he was the main character in his series ‘Peaky Blinders’, he did have massive privilege in the production. He had never done it before since he had been such a dedicated person to work with, however, he felt like he should sacrifice his work just for you. He wanted to spend the time with you, maybe have some dinner together at a nice restaurant. Just the usual things the both of you would do. Every time he had some free time he would do some nice things for you, treat you like a princess.

He came home from work that day, he got permission to take the week off and he even got back early from set. He wanted to surprise you, he had a flower in his hands a box of your favorite soft cookies. It was all so perfect.

When he came home, he saw that the first floor was empty and there were no signs of you anywhere. He went upstairs since he reckoned you were in the bedroom, probably taking a nap or reading a book.

Cillian was so happy. He was a man who barely showed any emotions in public but with you, it was different. He had a wide smile on his face, ready to surprise you but when he opened the door, he didn’t see you on the bed.

Instead, he heard the shower running and so he hummed to himself, setting the gifts down as he sat on the bed to wait for you.

As he patiently waited, he noticed your phone was still on. You were the type of person to let the screen go on forever instead of turning it off every 3 minutes like him. He glanced absentmindedly as he saw you were reading some sort of story on your phone. His actions were harmless, he just wanted to see what you were reading.

His eyes skimmed through the words as his blood runs cold.

‘Tommy had me bent over his desk, ass red and swollen from all the beatings. My pussy was leaking down onto the expensive wood, desperate for his cock to ram inside me.

“Please, Mr. Shelby, I need your cock!” I plead like a good whore as he growled.

“You are nothing but a filthy cocksleeve”

Tommy? Shelby? His Tommy Shelby? The character that he played?

It seemed like all of the blood started circulating to his face as he flushed at the filthy thing he had just read. Y/N? His sweet Y/N was reading something like that?

Cillian couldn’t believe it because someone as young and pure as he would never be this dirty. Because of their age gap, he saw her as someone that he needed to protect, shield from the rest of the goddamned world. His fragile little princess that he wouldn’t dare to inflict even a slight force in fear that she might break and shatter into pieces.

The sound of the shower became silent and it interrupted his thoughts, he quickly placed her phone where it belonged as he stood up and smoothened the spot on the bed where he sat to make it seem like he just came in.

When you had walked out, it took you a moment to notice Cillian standing there with your gifts but when you did, you gave him a small scream as you ran towards him, your figure wearing nothing but a small towel.

“Cillian?! You’re back? You brought me gifts!” You exclaimed as her wet body embraced him in a hug. Cillian was somewhat still blank from what he was reading earlier.

‘If she had liked that kinda stuff so much he could push her on the bed and beat her ass right now’

His eyes widened at his own thoughts as he tried to push them away, “Yes princess, I thought maybe I haven’t been paying attention to you now have I? I’m all yours for the week, baby”

You pouted as you nodded at him, and then he realized how submissive-looking you were. You had always had a demeanor of what he would expect someone much younger than him to have, however, Cillian was starting to look at it in a new light.

It doesn't help the fact that he still has his Thomas Shelby haircut for the filming.

It also doesn’t help she was almost naked in front of him, he hadn’t fucked her in weeks. It’s almost fitting.

Maybe doing something about it wouldn’t hurt now would it?

Oh... But it’s definitely gonna hurt you...

Cillian watched closely as the girl before him admired his gifts for her in awe. His eyes became more and more lusted as he figured out a way to approach you.

“Love, can I ask you a question?”

You hummed at him innocently as she raised her brows at him, “Anything, Cill...”

“What have you been reading on your phone, hmm?” Her eyes widened slightly as her heart started to pound in her chest. Cillian was looking at her so intensely that it was slightly scary. She didn’t know if she should lie, or if she should tell him the truth. However, since he had asked... It was obvious he knew the truth.

“Cillian I can explain” You sputtered, panicking on the inside as Cillian started closing whatever gap that both of you had, he was looking down on you in a way he had never done before. You felt the chill run down your spine as you felt the back of your knees hitting the bed.

“Explain” He commanded.

“It’s just... You know I love you and you know I should be honest to you no matter what. But... I just... We haven’t been together in a long time lately and even when we do... It’s always the same...” You felt guilty saying this to him, it’s not like he was bad at sex. He was great. However, you were getting bored with the same soft and loving sex you two always had. “I just... I hope you can be a little rougher, that’s all. You’ve always been... So soft”

“Soft... Hm?” He tilted his head to the side as he stared at you almost mockingly, “Be careful of what you wish for, love”

You had felt your heart stop when Cillian’s smooth Irish accent suddenly turned into the dark Brummie accent you had always heard about on the TV. The one you had always touched yourself to when he wasn’t around.

Then out of nowhere, Cillian had roughly pushed you on the bed as you fell down and whimpered softly. He pulled off the towel on your body as you were left naked, “C-Cillian!”

“Who the fuck is Cillian, eh? Have you been fucking whoring yourself out to another man?” Cillian cursed at you as he quickly took his clothes off, “You’re my whore. You’re mine to fuck, you got it?”

Then you can physically feel your gears shifting in your brain, “T-Tommy?”

Your body shivered as you felt yourself getting wet, you were all naked and you were ready for him. You felt your legs spread instinctively as you heard him laugh, “You really are such a desperate fucking cunt, eh?”

‘Tommy’ had bent down as he gripped your face by the cheeks and roughly shook your head, “Who do you belong to? Who do you fucking belong to?”

“Y-You Cill-Tommy! I belong to you!” Tommy smirked, as his hands traveled down to your navel, teasing you as he drew figures on the skin, making you whine, “Open your fucking mouth you dirty whore”

You wasted no time opening your mouth for him, wide with your tongue out. Suddenly, he did the unexpected when he spat in your mouth, “Fucking swallow it, princess”

You swallowed his spit like a good girl as you held out your tongue to show to him, suddenly seeking his praise and validation however it never came. Tommy just hummed as he let go of your face harshly, almost slamming your head onto the plush bedding.

Characters aside, Cillian was never like this. Throughout the year of your relationship, he had always been gentle and kind, treating you like a soft feather and taking care of you. Maybe because it was because he was much older he had felt like he needed to treat you gently. You never realized Cillian had this side to him. He had always had this side, you just never awaken it.

“Spread your legs wider” He commanded, his voice dark as his character, you listened to him, eager to show him you were his good girl as he hummed looking down at the glistening flesh in between your legs. You were so wet it had dripped down and leaked onto the bedsheet. Without a warning, Tommy gives a hard slap to your cunt and you screamed out. You thought he was doing it once but it seems like it came over and over again, beating your swollen pussy and clit until it was throbbing and red. You cried out of pleasure and pain, as you begged him. You didn’t know what you were begging for but it was sure not for him to stop.

“You fucking like this don’t you? Fucking hell, look at you. You’re fucking wet, you like getting fucking beaten and bruised huh? What a fucking whore. You are nothing. You are only good for fucking, you are only here to fuck. Remember that, you fucking cunt”

Tears were flowing down and you were desperate you were so desperate for his cock. After each word, Tommy spat on your body, leaving you all wet and filthy combined with your own sweat and arousal.

“P-Please! P-Please, fuck me, Tommy! Please I need your cock. Please I want your cum. I need it inside me!” You pleaded like a whore as he slapped your face. You moaned out as his hand traveled down your neck and choked it just enough to make you feel the air around you restricting. “Tommy, I can’t, I need your cock”

He scoffed, pulling down his pants as whipped out his cock. It was so hard to the point where it became purplish-red, the veins covering the base as the head leaked with pre-cum.

“You want my cock?” He lined up his tip on your vagina, “You fucking get it you cocksleeve”

Without giving you a warning and time to adjust, Tommy slammed his cock inside your cunt and he wasted no time ramming into you roughly. Not like you needed time to adjust since you were sopping wet. All you can do is choke out his name and moans as he grunts with each slam.

His pace was rough and deep and for someone like hin with his age, he had the stamina to go on and on fucking you so rough till you can feel him ramming in your stomach.

No words could even cum out of your mouth as your eyes rolled back as he fucks you braindead.

Spit drooling at the side of your mouth as you babble like a cock hungry whore underneath him.

“I’m gonna fucking cum and you’re gonna take it. You’re gonna fucking carry my babies, and even then it is not gonna stop me from fucking you stupid”

You could feel him twitching as his thrusts were getting sloppier and sloppier, you could also feel your orgasm coiling in your tummy as you cried out once you let it all go, the liquid splashing all over the both of you as you squirt on his dick.

You were heavily overstimulated and you screamed as Tommy fucked the cum out of him.

The warm seed spilled inside your walls as he grunted in pleasure, leaning down as he bit your neck and drew blood to the surface.

Tommy looked at you all fucked out, eyes still rolling at the back of your head as you continue to babble nonsense to nothing.

He breathes heavily as he lays down beside you, carefully moving your body to cuddle up to him.

“Like I said, my love... Be careful of what you wished for”

[dilf-issues]

Your Eyes Tell: The Series Masterlist | T.S

Synopsis: Tommy could never accept a whore to love. But he did anyways, however his ego and pride might be the death of him.

Warnings: Angst, fluff, smut. Additional tags are to be stated in each chapter.

STATUS: ONGOING

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CHAPTER 1 - Does the face of death was all it took for Tommy to finally love her?

CHAPTER 2 - To love and to be loved, Tommy was too late.

CHAPTER 3 - Tommy can change, however, Y/N could possibly never forgive him. Especially, when she met another man with pretty blue eyes.

CHAPTER 4 - Tommy found out about the blue-eyed monster and for the second time in his life he was terrified of losing something.

CHAPTER 5 - Y/N was convinced she had found the love of her life, however, who was she to deny her heart stopping whenever she looked at Tommy?

CHAPTER 6 - Y/N had to leave but she holds a secret no one knows.

CHAPTER 7 - Will this be a happy ending for Tommy?