The Arrangement
Series Masterlist
Words: 7.2k
Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F
Warnings: Drugging, age gap, coercion, loss of innocence, dub-con, explicit sex, oral (f rec), breeding kink (inferred), HEA
Your stepfather made an ill-advised wager with Arthur Shelby and when he lost the coin toss, you were are to be given to Arthur for the night. And you will be taken tonight. Just not by Arthur...
A/N: I don't know if any of you are fans of Peaky Blinders. The DH started watching it recently and I've watched it with him. My muse grabbed me and this was the result. But I find if I keep her happy, she'll let me work on my other projects so... Let me know what you think.
Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.
You shivered in the chilly air, wearing your best dress and wrapped in your heaviest shawl. You walked along the cobbled street, slick with rain and coal dust. You felt numb, struggling to accept the situation you found yourself in through no fault of your own.
One one side of you, John Shelby walked with his usual restless energy, a lit cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers. Though younger than the others, he had a sharpness in his eyes. There was a tension about him that betrayed the weight of the world he’d been forced to carry. His hair was slightly disheveled, his cap pulled low over his forehead. But he cast a shadow that made him look harder than his years. The dim gas light flickered across his face, highlighting a faint bruise on his cheekbone. Maybe evidence of a recent scrap, though nothing too serious by Shelby standards.
On the other side, Liam Murphy, one of the Peaky Blinders’ trusted men, walked along. Taller and broader than John, he carried himself with the calm confidence of someone who knows he can handle whatever comes next. His dark eyes scan the area as they reach the destination, ever-watchful. Dressed in the same razor-brimmed flat cap and three-piece suit as the rest of the gang, Liam looked every bit the part of a man who’d bled for the Shelbys and would again without hesitation. You thought you smelled whiskey on him, but his movements were steady and his focus razor-sharp.
Around them, the air hummed with unspoken tension. John’s energy crackled like a struck match, eager and impatient. His gaze landed on you and he cracked a smile. "Look at you. You look like a fuckin' lamb going to slaughter."
Yes, you were scared to death. But you lifted your chin, holding his gaze. "Wouldn't you?"
Both of them burst into laughter as they stopped in front of the apartment, the agreed meeting place.
"Yeah," John said. "Can't say I'd want to fuck Arthur either."
The reminder of why you were here was too pointed, too impersonal. You glanced around Small Heath, the neighborhood the Shelbys dominated here in Birmingham. It was a rough area, a working-class district, thick with the grime of industry and the weight of hardship. The narrow, soot-stained brick houses huddled together as if bracing against the cold, damp air rolling in from the factories. The sharp scent of iron and smoke from nearby foundries clung to the wind like an ever-present warning.
Gas lamps cast flickering pools of light, their glow struggling against the heavy smog that lingered in the alleyways. The sounds of the city never truly died. Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle howled through the night, blending with the rattle of carts, the distant shouts of drunken men spilling from the back doors of a pub.
When the door opened, your heart lurched in your chest to see Arthur Shelby standing there in the dim light. He seemed a shadow of the man he once was, now wild-eyed and disheveled. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, his once-crisp white shirt now rumpled and stained with whiskey and the sweat of a man who'd been drinking too long and thinking too hard. His tie hung loose around his neck, the knot twisted and undone.
His hair, usually slicked back with care, was in disarray, tufts sticking up where he’d raked his fingers through it in frustration. His face was a map of old scars and fresh exhaustion. His beard was uneven, the shadow of stubble catching the flickering light. His knuckles were raw, split from a recent fight. Maybe from a brawl at The Garrison, maybe something worse.
His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles. They burned with the remnants of rage and sorrow. His breath reeked of whiskey and smoke, and when he exhaled, it was slow, heavy, as if the weight of the world pressed down on his chest. When he saw you, his eyes lit up in surprise. It was like his mind was pushing the memory of why you were there through the haze of his enebriation.
"Come in," he said after studying you for a moment.
What else could you do?
Dropping your head, trying to keep your desperation and fury at bay, you walked quickly by him and into the apartment.
When John and Liam tried to push their way in, Arthur smashed a fist into Liam's face. The crunching sound made you think Arthur broke his nose. "What the fuck?" Liam yelled. "Aren't we supposed to be witnesses?"
The question sent a spike of fear through your heart.
"The hell you are!" Arthur raged at them. "Now get out before I knock some teeth out, you fuckin' bastards."
With that, he slammed the door hard and locked it for good measure.
Inside the small apartment, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood and old tobacco. The walls were thin, covered in peeling wallpaper that was once floral but now curls at the edges. The floorboards creaked under the weight of every movement, betraying any attempt at stealth. Outside, heavy boots scuffed against the cobblestones, stopping and starting, keeping you on edge.
The only light inside came from a low-burning candle near the window, its feeble glow barely touching the dark corners of the room. A single iron-framed bed sits against one wall, its mattress lumpy and worn. A wooden table stands near the hearth, cluttered with an empty bottle, a playing card bent at the edges, and a knife someone left behind.
The Peaky Blinders owned these streets, and yet, danger lurks in the shadows, even for them. Every knock at the door could be salvation—or the end. This is where you were born.
You stood in the small space and waited. You had no intention to make this easy for anyone. Particularly when it wasn't fair at all how you came to be here.
Arthur swayed slightly, adjusting his stance, his grip tightening on the half-empty bottle he lifted from the small table by the window. At least the curtains there were closed. There was an eerie stillness in him, the kind that only comes before a storm. He wiped a hand down his face, inhaling sharply, trying to steady himself. The chaos inside him was still bubbling, waiting for the right moment to spill over.
"Look," Arthur said, "I'm truly sorry for this situation. It's nothing personal towards you, you know. It was your father and the coin toss. He--"
"Stepfather," you corrected him. Your father had been a decent man who didn't make it back from the war. Your mother had married Sean O'Grady out of necessity, to keep you and your younger brother fed. Your stepfather was as bad as your father had been good.
"Whatever," Arthur said. "He lost the coin toss and the coin is sacred to us. He promised me a turn with you if he lost."
Something like shame flashed in his eyes as he looked you over. It wasn't hard to guess what he was thinking. You were inexperienced with men. Your brother had started working at the factory at a young age, but you stayed home and helped with the garden, with the sewing. Your mother took in work as a seamstress here and there and that's how the Shelbys came into your life to begin with. Arthur started it, coming by to have a couple of shirts repaired, stains removed. He'd been intimidating enough but he wasn't the one who scared you the most.
Tommy Shelby.
His name alone carried weight, pressing down on your chest like an iron shackle. He was the kind of man stories are whispered about in dark corners. He never needed to raise his voice to command obedience, nor did he need to lift a hand to make someone afraid. His power was in his silence, and in the way his glacier-blue eyes stripped a person down to their bones.
You'd seen men stronger than you shrink beneath his gaze, their bravado crumbling under the quiet calculation that lurked behind those cold, unreadable eyes. He was a man playing chess while everyone else is swinging fists. And yet, beneath the tailored suit and composed expression, there lurked something even more dangerous—something hollow and broken. It made him unpredictable.
He didn't look like a man who enjoyed violence. That would make him easier to understand. His detachment terrified you the most. Men who enjoy hurting others could be manipulated, could be fed their own hunger until they slipped. Tommy killed without joy, hesitation, or remorse. He was a different kind of monster entirely.
Arthur drank straight from the bottle, the amber liquid splashing inside it. His eyes never left you and now you were shaking. You knew your stepfather wanted you married off and gone from his house, but how was this the way to do it? Was he punishing you for still living in his house?
"What are you waiting for?" Arthur asked, slurring his words. "Come over here."
"And do what?" you had to ask. "I don't know... how..."
His eyebrows shot up at that. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?"
You shook your head. Waves of shame and anger rushed through you. You were untried and terrified. He was drunk and seemed at a loss as to how to handle the situation. After a moment, he set the bottle back on the table and marched towards you, wrapping his strong arms around you and holding you in place for his kiss.
Instinct had you fighting him. His kiss was sloppy and wet, the liquor on his breath heavy. It made you feel a little sick. He was easily twice your size and it was nothing for him to drag you in the direction of the bed. When your back met the mattress, you closed your eyes in acquiescence. You just wanted it over with so you could go back home, soiled goods thanks to your stepfather's poor judgment. But you'd live to fight another day. At least you hoped you would.
Arthur's weight dropped onto you on the bed, but after a moment, you realized he wasn't moving. When he snored by your ear, it was all you could do not to burst into tears. Did this mean you'd have to wait for him to sober up? Would this torment be rescheduled? You didn't think you could take that.
You didn't know what to do. Carefully, you managed to roll him off you and onto his side. He didn't wake or even move as you managed to get off the bed. Hope had your heart swelling in your chest. Could you make it out of this apartment then? You could claim that the deed was done and he passed out after.
Rushing to the window, you moved the curtain just enough to see the street and it didn't look like anyone was outside the door now. Could you make it out if you moved fast enough?
With your heart flying in your chest, you unlocked the door and pulled it open. You dashed out onto the street sending up every prayer that you'd ever said that you could just make it home.
You collided with someone hard. You were shaking as his hands came up to steady you, keep you from falling. An apology was on your tonque as you glanced up to see who blocked you.
It was him.
Tommy Shelby was the one who had you, his figure a sharp silhouette against the darkness. A beat after he released you, a match flares to life, momentarily illuminating the angular planes of his face—the high cheekbones, the cut of his jaw, the cigarette resting between his fingers. The glow flickers out as he exhales, smoke curling around him like a specter. In that brief moment, his icy blue eyes locked onto yours.
He didn’t look surprised.
There was no anger or raised voice. Just a cold, assessing gaze, as if he had already predicted this. As if he knew you'd run before yoou even did. He inhaled slowly as he stance shifted. His demeanor was that of a wolf considering a cornered rabbit.
“Going somewhere?” His voice is soft, all the more dangerous for its calmness.
You want to run, but your legs refused to move. The street around you seemed empty now, swallowed in shadow. But you knew he was never truly alone. Somewhere, in the darkened alleys, his men are watching.
Tommy took one step forward, slow and deliberate.
“You should know,” he murmured, flicking his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the toe of his polished boot, “I don’t like having to come after people.”
Hooking your thumb in the direction of the apartment, you said, "He's d-done."
That cool gaze moved over you, up and down before returning to yours. "Not with you. Arthur loves the ladies but I've never seen him move that fast."
You hadn't thought of that.
"Did he pass out?" he asked quietly.
Tears stung the backs of your eyes and you nodded. It wouldn't do any good to lie to him. "What happens now?" you asked, cringing under that cold gaze.
"There's still an arrangement," Tommy reminded you. "And it has to be honored."
You glanced back over your shoulder at the door wondering what he meant by that. Would you wait for Arthur to wake up? Come back another day when he was sober?
Rough fingers at your chin turned your face back to him, and you shrank away from that unfamiliar touch. When your attention was returned to him, he grabbed your upper arm and started walking, almost dragging you up the street at first. What was he going to do? Where was he taking you?
Men were walking not too far behind you now, his men. They stayed behind the two of you until Tommy abruptly turned a corner, heading up a short flight of steps. Leading you into another apartment.
The new apartment was cleaner, quiet and cold. A stark contrast to the cramped, smoke-choked rooms you just fled from. The walls are smooth, freshly painted in an off-white shade that seems almost too pristine for a place in Small Heath. The faint scent of tobacco and whiskey, mingling with the lingering traces of fresh linen and polish, told you someone actually cared for this space.
The furniture was sparse but elegant in a way that didn’t fit the rough streets outside. A solid oak table sits near the window, a glass decanter of amber liquid resting on top, two crystal tumblers beside it. A plush armchair, its deep leather cracked at the seams, faces the fireplace where faint embers glow, casting flickering shadows against the walls.
Against one wall was a proper bed. It was well-made with crisp white sheets and a thick wool blanket folded at the foot. A luxury in this part of Birmingham.
His men have left by now, their boots retreating down the hallway, leaving you alone with him. The door closed.
“You’ll be more comfortable here,” he said, and there was no mistaking the finality in his words. It wasn't a courtesy, but an arrangement.
You still didn't understand why you were here. Was he going to keep an eye on you until his brother slept it off? Or would he expect you to stay here until the deed could be done?
He hung up his cap and shrugged out his dusty black coat, hanging it up too. You heard the soft sound of a match striking as Tommy lit another cigarette, his gaze unreadable as he exhales a slow stream of smoke. Grabbing the Scotch and tumblers on the table, he filled the crystal glasses and motioning you over.
"Have one," he said.
He wanted you to drink? You'd never drank spirits in your life. You must have stared at the glass like a snake about to bite you.
Tommy took a drag from his cigarette. "Since my brother is unable to do the honors," he said, "we'll finish the arrangement here and now. Drink it. It will make it easier."
Panic threatened to overtake you. What? Arthur Shelby passed out drunk so now you were expected to fuck Tommy Shelby?
Not doing as he said seemed terrifying, so you reached for the tumbler meant for you with a shaking hand. Bringing it to your lips for a sip, you almost coughed. The drink was smooth but potent. It burned like fire all the way down to your stomach.
"Sit down," he said, using his foot to push one of the two chairs at the table back for you. You did as he wanted, taking another drink of whiskey. You felt the weight of those ice-blue eyes on you as you stiffly took a seat. "You ever been with a man?"
The man could just talk about something so personal like it was nothing more than business. It was a lot more than that to you. It took a moment for you to work up the courage to meet his gaze now, but you made yourself do it. You may have been trapped in this situation but you had to remember that you personally had done nothing wrong.
“No,” was all you said. “Never drank either. Until now.”
Tommy studied you, the faint glow of his cigarette illuminating the sharp angles of his face. “Your stepfather isn’t a wise man.”
“Or a kind one,” you murmured, the words bitter on your tongue.
A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, effortless yet edged with something unreadable. “That why he offered you up?” His voice was calm, almost casual, but his gaze never wavered. “Strict with you, was he? That why you haven’t got any experience?”
You shook your head, fingers tightening around the tumbler in your hands. “No. He just wants me gone.”
Tommy hummed in answer. The room feels smaller with him in it. He took the chair across from you. One arm draped lazily over the back of the chair, the other rested on his thigh with his fingers curled loosely around a half-filled tumbler. He hasn’t spoken for a couple of moments, and yet his silence is as oppressive as a threat.
His ice-blue gaze roamed over you like a weight you couldn’t shake off. It felt like he was unraveling you in his mind, peeling back the layers of fear, of defiance, of whatever fragile armor you've built to protect yourself. It felt like he could see right through you. And he enjoyed it.
The cigarette smoldered between his fingers, the red ember glowing each time he took a slow, unhurried drag. He exhaled through his nose, the smoke curling like ghostly fingers in the space between you. He wasn;t trying to scare you. His presence alone was enough.
And yet… he was devastating.
The angles of his face, chiseled and unyielding, should have made him look harsh and unappealing, but they didn’t. His dark lashes, too long for a man, cast shadows over his cheekbones. The corner of his mouth curled around the cigarette in a way that shouldn’t have been attractive but was. The controlled power in the way he moved, the effortless confidence... It drew you in even as you willed yourself to stay on guard.
He lifted his glass, taking a slow sip of the liquor, the tendons in his forearm flexing beneath the crisp sleeve of his shirt. When he set it down, the clink of crystal against wood echoed loudly in the silence of the room.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was low and even.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, tapping ash from his cigarette, “and I’ll start thinking you’ve forgotten why you’re here.”
It was a warning.
And God help you, it was both terrifying and intoxicating. You took another sip of from your glass, welcoming its burn and warmth. You'd been unable to eat today given what was going to happen. Your entire life would change after tonight. The alcohol went straight to your head, taking the edge off of your fear. Not enough but it was better than nothing.
"If the... arrangement is settled, here and now, then I'm done?" you had to ask. "Arthur..."
Tommy took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a ribbon of smoke. His blue eyes stay locked on yours, the weight of his gaze making it impossible to look away.
"Would you prefer Arthur?”
The question landed like a blow.
Your fingers tightened around the tumbler, the burn of alcohol lingering in your throat. You struggled to find your voice. Prefer Arthur? Tommy said it so easily, like the answer didn’t matter to him either way, like it was nothing more than an idle curiosity. But the way he watched you, eyes half-lidded, you knew that wasn't true.
Your pulse quickened. Arthur was rougher, louder, and reckless. But Tommy was something else entirely.
You swallow hard, shaking your head. “No.”
Tommy didn’t react immediately. He just studied you for another long, unbearable moment before smashing the cigarette out in a small tray. “Good.”
You didn’t ask why. Something told you that you didn’t want to know.
Your heart pounded as he drained his tumbler in one slow pull, rising from the chair with smooth movements. Without a word, he reached for your glass. Carefully, but firmly, he took it from your hands and placed it on the table. Then, he offered you his hand.
Your heart started flying. A silent command. A choice that wasn’t really a choice. Despite the tension tightening in your chest, you took it. His fingers closed around yours, steady. He pulled you effortlessly to your feet, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin.
It was only a few steps to the bed, but the space between felt heavily charged. Tommy took a seat at the edge, his grip still firm around your hand. When he glanced up at you, those piercing blue eyes pinned you in place. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words. And still, he didn't let go.
Tommy’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand, almost absentmindedly, as he studied you with a quiet intensity that made your breath catch. His gaze moved over your face, taking in every detail.
His smooth, low voice sent a shiver down your spine, when he spoke next. “Pretty thing, aren’t you?”
Your stomach tightened. There was no warmth in his tone, no flirtation. It was like he’d already decided exactly what to do with you. His fingers tightened, just for a beat, before his grip loosened again. And for the first time, you realized it wasn't fear making your heart race.
You weren’t prepared for the way his other hand slid behind your neck, his fingers pressing just firmly enough to send a shiver down your spine.
The only time a man had ever kissed you was Arthur’s sloppy, whiskey-soaked attempt in the other apartment.
There was no drunken sway or careless fumbling. Tommy moved with purpose. When his lips touched yours, it was a whisper of a kiss at first. There was no overpowering smell of spirits, just the faint scent of tobacco, of him. As his lips moved against yours, firmer and seeking, you tried to mimic him, afraid not to do something. You must have done something right. He increased the pressure at the back of your neck to pull you closer, and your hands landed on his shoulders, crisp linen covering tight muscle under your palms. When he deepened the kiss, you let him, and the slide of his tongue against yours gave him a deeper taste of you. His moan surprised you, and you felt that subtle sound all through your body as he continued to kiss you breathless.
It was easy for him to pull you onto the bed and roll you under him, breathless as you were. When his mouth claimed yours again, his kiss was more demanding, and his hands were everywhere. Tommy managed to pull your shawl free of you without breaking the kiss, his hands then sliding down to work the worn leather Mary Janes you wore off your feet, tossing them off the side of the bed. One hand grabbed your ankle before sliding up your leg, up to cover the globe of your ass. Panic had you jerking in his hold.
Tommy pulled back to look you in the eye, his face flushed. There was a wildness in his eyes, something raw and unchecked. You doubted many had ever seen it. His gaze searched yours, and you trembled in his hold from the sheer intensity of it.
"I'm going to have you," he said breathlessly, his weight pinning your body to the bed. Grinding himself into your tummy, the hard, heated length of him was unmistakable, even with both of you clothed. His eyes darkened in sheer determination and his hold on you tightened. "You understand?"
You nodded quickly. "I'm sorry," you whispered.
Sliding his hand roughly up your body, he smoothed his hand over your cheek, his gaze never leaving you. Tommy kept watching you as that hand moved back down to pluck at the buttons of your blouse and his nimble fingers made quick work of it. Impatiently, his hands pulled the garment free of your skirt before undoing the buttons of your camisole beneath. You couldn't stop trembling as he undid the last barrier and peeled it back to reveal your upper body to him.
His gaze was sharp, moving over your breasts with growing impatience, hunger. With a delicacy you wouldn't have believed him capable of, his fingers traced over your collar bone, over the tiny gold cross pendant of your necklace. He trailed a finger over your skin, across to one breast, using that digit to tease your nipple to a tight peak with a gentle circular touch. When his heated gaze returned to yours, he filled his hand with your breast, squeezing firmly but not enough to hurt. Tommy began kissing you again, heated and greedy now, with his hand teasing your breast before sliding down your body and beneath your skirt.
As if he knew you were about to start fighting him again, he broke the kiss to cover your breast, teasing it with his lips and tongue as his hand slid under your skirt, into your underwear. Sensation overwhelmed you, need battling fear, and your hands clutched in the bedding beneath you as his fingers teased your private flesh, the light pressure drawing new sensations from your body.
"You can touch me," he muttered around your nipple. It felt like a command. Your hands shook as they slid up to him, instinctively moving to his head. The glossy black locks of his short hair slid between your fingers as he continued to tease you relentlessly, burning you down with his mouth and hands.
Chills and pulses of unexpected pleasure had you writhing feverishly beneath him as his tongue smoothed over your aching nipple and his fingers danced in the wet folds between your legs. Your breath sucked in when he touched your pearl, and he lifted his head to savor your reaction. Whatever he was doing with his fingers, all you knew was that it would soon drive you insane. He didn't give you the speed or pressure you wanted, his touch fleeting and maddening. Your fingers clutched in his hair as he continued to delicately torture you, your legs clamped around his hand because you couldn't help it in your need. But it didn't slow his efforts at all.
When his touch stopped, you whined, an unfamiliar sound to you. In a frenzy of movement, Tommy roughly yanked off your skirt along with your underwear, your stockings. He wasn't satisfied until you were stripped bare beneath him, all of you trembling under the intensity of his stare. As he sat there next to you, taking every inch of you in, his fingers went to work with haste, undoing his tie, stripping off his waistcoat. His fingers flew at undoing the buttons of his own shirt which he pulled free of his trousers but didn't remove it.
Tommy shifted down the bed and moved to throw one of your legs over his shoulder so fast, you didn't have time to react. And by the time you did, he'd buried his face between your thighs. The flames of humiliation only burned you for a few seconds. The man's mouth covered your sex, his tongue a wicked torment that was unfamiliar and almost too much to bear. One of his hands worked to keep your folds open, your curls out of his way, as he kissed your pussy as he had your mouth. The other slid up over your tummy with pressure, holding you in place for his assault on your senses.
You accepted it but your entire body was shaking, shivering and it was impossible to stay still. Your back arched and you would have been horrified to realize that you were pushing yourself towards him, towards his mouth, wanting more, if you hadn't been so lost in the storm of sensation. What he was doing didn't make the fever better, it made it worse. It felt like fire running through your veins with raw need pooling low in your belly. When he slid a finger back to your pearl as he continued to work you with his mouth, you gasped. When his movements sped up, when his tongued traced your opening, you screamed long and loud. A wave of pure pleasure swept over you and he didn't stop what he was doing the entire time, dragging it out until you violently shook beneath him, crying and moaning as your body shivered and eased.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he moved up the bed toward you, his hands working the fine leather belt at the front of his trousers. He wore nothing beneath and the sight of his cock, angry red and larger than you expected, filled your vision as you watched him take himself in hand, working himself as his gaze roamed over you. Tommy shifted, one of his knees pushing yours apart. You let him, watching him drape himself over you. There was something obscene about the way he stripped you naked but was still mostly clothed himself.
He surprised you by stopping then, a hand smoothing over your hair and face with care. You sensed he was holding back, respecting your inexperience. You knew it meant nothing to him but he realized it meant something for you, and your heart squeezed in your chest at the gesture.
"It's going to hurt," he said, whispering against your lips. "Not for long. Hang onto me."
You did what he said, but slid your hands beneath his shirt, running your hands over the muscular plane of his damp back. Your fingers found scars, a lot of them, but it gave you a distraction from the way he lined himself up with your entrance, the smooth head of him pressing into you insistently. It felt better to bring your legs up, your knees hovering around his hips. You held your breath as the pressure built, and the intrusion of him pushed further into your body. When he met that fleshy barrier inside you that proved your claim, Tommy surged through it, and the pain was searing. It took your breath away, had tears stinging your eyes as he completely filled you. Your tender walls quivered around him, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar length of him.
With the pad of his thumb, he caught a tear, brushing it away. Then, without a word, he lowered his head, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was unexpectedly tender. As if, for once, Tommy Shelby was in no hurry to take what he wanted. He held still inside you, allowing you to adjust to him. Lost in the dizzying mix of pain and pleasure from his kisses, you found yourself clinging to the unexpected gentleness in his touch. A quiet mercy.
But the arrangement wasn’t over yet. Not until he was finished.
Slowly, he started moving inside you and it stung like fire as he thrust in and out of you. You knew you were wincing, but you'd be damned if you'd complain now. You wanted to be brave, feeling like you'd earn his respect if you were. And as he moved in and out of you, the pain lessened and dulled, easing to be replaced with more of the sensations from before. The good ones. Before long your thighs were clamped around his hips as he plunged into you again and again. Hot, reckless kisses dropped over your face and breasts as he fucked you. Your arms and legs were wrapped around him but it was more than that. You weren't just lying there and thinking of England as you'd been advised by your mother and aunts. You were riding waves of unexpected pleasure, soaring to those heights again. Your hands became claws at his back, your nails carving into his skin. Your thighs tightened around his hips as you moved with him, wanting more, craving more.
His lips blazed a path to the sensitive skin of your throat, peppering your skin with kisses and swipes of his tongue as he rode you harder. The drive of him inside of you, his hands on your breasts, fingers teasing your pearl, drove you mad. You started begging him, pleading for release from the intense experience he was drowning you in.
"Please," you chanted.
His actions pushed you higher until, with your heart racing in your chest, he sent you flying again. Your cries filled the room as the man literally destroyed you.
Tommy drove on above you and you knew he was now chasing his own end and you still held him. But it also occured to you in that moment that there was no birth control being used here, no condom or anything. You tried to steady your breathing, pushing down rising panic. Surely, a man like Tommy Shelby wouldn’t want a bastard running around, wouldn’t leave something like that to chance. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he had more honor than that.
As his movements sped up, his thrusts just shy of painful, you tensed, hoping he was going to pull out of you when his time came so there'd be no worries. Above you his eyes were closed, his mouth slack. The beauty of him in that moment made you pause as he came. When you jerked beneath him, his hands collared your wrists and pushed them into the bed on either side of your head. Holding you there, he pumped himself into you growling as he did, thrust after thrust. Truthfully, you didn't have it in you to try and stop him. As if you even could.
He'd collapsed onto you, but his weight wasn't too much as his breathe rushed with yours. Running your fingers through his hair, you tried to stay calm. Your mind couldn't help jumping ahead.
Now that the deed was done, you'd be sent back home. Everyone in Small Heath knew you'd been won in an ill-advised bet. Would other men consider you an easy mark? You couldn't count on your stepfather to protect you.
Tommy pulled himself free from you and it stung. He stretched out next to you on the bed, his finger tracing the curve of your breast. He watched you in that way of his, sharp and knowing. “What are you thinking so hard about?”
You opened your mouth, then close it. Because what do you even say to him? But he didn’t look away. And somehow, that was even worse. At the end of the day, only the arrangement mattered. His family’s honor was intact, the deal upheld. That was all that concerned him. Whatever you felt, whatever came next for you, wouldn’t change a thing. Tommy wasn’t the kind of man to concern himself with your plight.
You took the coward’s way out.
“Can I go home now?” The words left your lips, but somehow, they didn’t sound like a plea. More like a quiet resignation.
Was that reluctance you saw in his face? Something hesitant beneath the mask of indifference?
Tommy considered your question, his expression giving nothing away. But he studied you, weighing something.
With a deep sigh, he finally says, "You can."
As you start to sit up, you watched him search through your clothing on the bed, finding your simple underwear. You watch in stunned silenced as he carefully dipped them between your legs, staining the white garment with your blood. When you instinctively reached for them, alarmed by the sight of your own blood and just mortified by what he’s just done, Tommy’s gaze met yours, sharp and unyielding. Before you could touch them, he moved them out of reach, his expression leaving no room for argument.
“I’m keeping these.” The finality in his voice sent a shiver down your spine.
Why?
You were shaking as you watched him dress, dressing yourself as quickly as you could with shaking limbs. It was over now, right? Was your blood-stained underwear proof that the arrangement was met? It was distressing. He must have noticed because without a word, he stepped to a cabinet drawer and pulled out a clean, white towel, tossing it onto your lap.
"Clean yourself up," he said, already pulling on his coat and adjusting his cap with practiced ease. "I'll be back to take you home."
And with that, he was gone.
You sat there, staring at the door he’d just disappeared through, the towel limp in your hands.
Tommy Shelby was taking you home.
A short, breathless laugh escaped before you could stop it. That would scare the shit out of your stepfather. Maybe then, he wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss you.
Maybe it wouldn’t matter at all. You didn't know what the future held for you or what impact this night would have on it.
***
Tommy’s grip tightened on the wheel, the road stretched dark and empty ahead of him. The hum of the engine the only sound between them. He didn’t glance her way. No, he could feel the weight of her presence beside him, could hear the way she shifted in her seat, the tension rolling off her in waves.
This was necessary. That’s what he told himself. A loose end tied up, an arrangement upheld.
When he pulled up to Watery Lane, the headlights cut through the mist curling over the cobbled drive, illuminating the towering structure of Arrow House. The place had never really felt like home, but it served its purpose, just like everything in his world.
He killed the engine and stepped out first, running as he rounded the car and opened the door for her. She hesitated, just for a moment, then followed without a word. He could almost see the question in her mind. Why am I here?
Because he wanted her here. He wanted her. Tonight merely sealed her fate.
Inside, the house was dimly lit. Tommy didn’t break stride, already pulling off his gloves as he spotted Polly standing at the bottom of the staircase, arms crossed, dark eyes sharp as her gaze moved between him and her.
“Take her up,” he said simply, voice low and clipped. “My room. Find her something to sleep in.”
Polly didn’t move right away. Instead, she gave him a look, one of those looks. The kind that didn’t need words, the kind only Polly could give. What’s this, then?
Tommy exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose before muttering, “Not now, Pol.”
With a slow shake of her head, she turned to his girl, her expression softening slightly as she gestured for her to follow.
Tommy watched for a second longer, then turned on his heel, heading straight for the whiskey decanter. He'd knock back a couple then he'd join her in sleep.
***
The house was quiet early the next morning, but Polly was already up. Tommy found her in the sitting room, a cigarette between her fingers, an untouched cup of tea going cold on the table beside her. The first rays of sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the room.
She didn’t look at him right away, just took a slow drag, exhaling through her nose before finally speaking. “That the girl Arthur won in the coin toss?”
Tommy poured himself a drink, even though it was too early for one. He took his time before answering. “It is.”
Polly’s gaze locked with his. “So why is she upstairs, in your room, and not with him? Or home with her family?”
Tommy didn’t answer immediately. Just swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way the light caught in it. He didn't feel the need to explain himself.
But Polly wasn’t stupid. Her eyes narrowed slightly, putting the pieces together faster than most ever could. She leaned back in her chair, cigarette poised between her fingers, a slow smirk curving her lips. “You wanted her.” It wasn’t a question.
Tommy took a sip of his whiskey. He didn’t confirm or deny anything. But Polly was already seeing through him, like she always did.
“You let Arthur think it was his idea.” Her voice was quieter now. “Tricked her stepfather into wagering her. Then drugged Arthur when the time came to claim her. You waited, knowing she’d panic, knowing she’d run. And who was there, ready to catch her?” She let the silence hang for a beat before answering her own question. “You.”
Tommy took another slow sip of whiskey before finally meeting Polly’s gaze.
She sighed, shaking her head as if tired of playing this game with him. “What are your intentions, Thomas?”
Another pause. He could lie or deflect. But Polly wouldn’t believe him, and they both knew it.
So instead, he took another drag of his cigarette, exhaled the smoke, and simply said, “She’s mine.”
Polly let out a breath, long and slow, before muttering, “Jesus Christ, Tommy.”
Tommy had already made his decision.
Arthur would know soon enough. There’d be shouting, maybe a drunken outburst. Tommy would hand over proof that the arrangement had been upheld, that the wager had been honored in the way that mattered. It would be enough to keep Arthur from questioning him for long.
As for the girl’s stepfather? He would be a cautionary tale. A reminder of what happened when someone gambled with the Shelbys and lost. When a debt was called, when something was taken and then never seen again. Her sudden disappearance, her absence, would be enough to send a whisper of fear through Small Heath, a warning to any fool who might ever think to challenge them again.
And in time, when the dust settled and the moment was right, he would marry her. Not because of the arrangement.
Because she was now his.
