── · ˚ ୨୧ 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔. ⛥ — starring ! tommy shelby x afab!reader.
ᥫ᭡ . content & warnings .ᐟ nsfw (mdni!!). swearing, tommy being tommy (i.e. suffering from ptsd), reader is an orphan (most of her family died around the war time), tommy and reader have known each other since they were kids, alcohol consumption, smut. virgin reader. fingering, oral (f!receiving), p in v, tommy lowkey has a corruption kink and he loves missionary. + wc. 6.9k (strap in folks, we're in for a long one). request .ᐟ Angsty/smut ending story of Tommy and his childhood friend where he's jealous af but he's too proud to admit his feelings for her, until he saw her with another man. Pretty please with cherry on top 🍒 xx — @mrkdvidal1989
Let it be known that it is a pain to witness two individuals pine over each other for so many years, ignorant of the way one looks at the other so fondly— adoringly, like they hung the stars up in the sky themselves... more so, when those individuals also happen to be childhood friends, thicker than thieves as some would say. The pain can, of course, be attested to by the spectators who find no qualms in voicing their suffering.
"Tommy, I swear to Christ himself if I have to watch you stare at the girl with lovesick eyes any longer I will gouge your eyes out and then me own." Polly, the lovely aunt of the Shelby family threatened one afternoon with a cigarette in hand and a good hearted glare “You know I’m good for it.” The man in question watched the woman he adores walk through the grimy streets of Small Heath with an easy smile plastered on her face, her beauty greatly contrasting with the filth of the street as she walked with her bag in hand, good naturedly greeting the people she passed by, an easy routine she followed in her every day life.
John snorted in response, his words coming out a little muffled due to the toothpick nestled between his lips "Now, Aunt Pol, we all know hell will freeze over before Tommy so much as thinks of doing anything about his boyish crush on his beloved sweetheart." He teased from his spot beside the board. With this contribution from his younger brother, Tommy finally directed his gaze away from the street (albeit quite unwillingly) to glare at his brother who revealed a thinly veiled smile.
"Well," Ada adds once she walks into the shop, leaving her place from the table in the kitchen "he better get on with it since I heard she's got a man wanting to properly pursue her."
The shelby family looked at Ada all at once and she stopped nibbling on her toast to send them a baffled expression "What?"
"Where'd you hear that from, Ada, love?" Arthur asked as he and John shared a knowing look.
"She had me over for tea yesterday, talked about this handsome man she met during work who's bought her flowers in an attempt to woo her." She says dreamily and Polly shakes her head with a smile on her face, lightly swatting her shoulder and flicking off ashes from her cigarette.
"And?" Tommy supplies impatiently when she doesn't continue, instead nibbling on another bite from her toast.
"'And’ what?" Ada retorts back, a smirk on her face at aggravating her older brother.
"Was she 'wooed'?"
Chuckles erupted in an instant at the way Tommy had phrased that, the way he mockingly emphasised the last word— and no matter how piercing his death stare was, his family remained unperturbed, laughing at him and his quite apparent jealousy. He sighs at last, the ghost of a smile hovering over his lips. He was aware he acting ridiculous (read: petty) but that mattered very little to him at the moment.
"In all honesty," Ada says after sobering up from her fit of giggles "I reckon she's bloody well warming up to him, so do with that as you wish."
“Just don't kill the poor man, Thomas." Tommy only rolled his eyes at his aunt’s unnecessary warning.
Tommy was reasonable, he wasn't going to kill him... at least not an unprecedented.
Around two days after the conversation with the Shelby family regarding Tommy’s sweetheart, Ada extended an invitation to you on behalf of them to attend a big celebration for the success of the business seen only a couple of months after it's opening. The invitation included a plus one which Ada encouraged you to use for the new man in your life.
"Come on it'll be fun, besides you'll get to see what he's like when he's drunk." Says Ada as she holds your hand in hers "It's never bad to know how a man acts when he's drunk."
"That's true," you nod, expression turned contemplative "but what about Tommy? He'll be there, no?"
Ada smirks in return "What have you got to worry about Tommy for? He's seen you with plenty of boys running after you."
"Ada!" The younger girl received a slap on her hand but she merely smiled, albeit a little mischievously.
"You've got nothing to worry about, love, Tommy's a grown man, he will be fine." She shrugged “And if he's not then that's not your problem... unless he makes it." Ada winced apologetically but then shook her head. You rolled your eyes and waved a hand in dismissal.
"It's not him I'm worried about, it's me." Ada's expression shifted into one of concern but also curiosity and she urged you to continue explaining with a nod of her head "I do like James, he's been nice and sweet but what if I go to the pub and speak Tommy again after so long and realise I'm still very enamoured by him?"
Ada let out a snort and you retracted your hand from her hold, a pout settling on your lips as you looked at the girl disapprovingly "Ada!" You chided again.
"Sorry, sorry, it's just you said James was 'sweet and nice' and Tommy is neither of those yet you might still be taken by him." She covered her mouth once more to stifle a giggle.
You pursed your lips at her "Your brother can be sweet and nice in his own way, Ada."
She shrugged her shoulders at you "Whatever you say," She surrenders before placing her forearms on the table again "this just makes going to the party all the more important, you'll either end up leaving with Tommy or James, your call."
You groaned at the implication of her words and felt yourself flush, covering your face with your hands as you mumbled "Whatever, yes, I'll go."
And that is how you found yourself in the infamous family owned pub with James by your side, smiling jovially at Ada and Polly who greeted him much better and more kindly as compared to John and Arthur who glared and sized up the poor man. You chose to ignore the two dunces (and you meant that entirely affectionately as you loved the Shelby’s).
"Congratulations!" You say with a tight-lipped smile, eager to walk off for a drink sooner than later "Where's the man in charge?"
"Oh, he'll be late," Polly supplies, already pulling out a cigarette to smoke "got caught up with some business but we'll be sure to let him find you when he's here."
You quickly raised your palm "Oh there's no need!" you smiled sheepishly and the Shelby's glance at you with concealed amusement "Just wanted to say congratulations but seeing as he's not here, I'll extend them to you once again on his behalf, congratulations..." You nodded before grabbing a hold of James’ forearm "We'll be getting some drinks, have a wonderful rest of the night!"
The Shelby family chuckled and raised their glasses in cheers when you glanced back at them as you settled onto the seats of the bar to order drinks and you returned a smile before focusing on james once more.
"They're a lovely bunch, aren't they?" James laughs and you take a sip of the alcohol that was presented to you rather quickly by the barman.
"Not the words often used to describe them," you giggle in response "they're gangsters but they are quite alright, grew up with them and all."
You watched James from the corner of your eyes in anticipation. You expected hesitancy, for his body to shift, find an excuse to leave but he just leaned slightly forward in curiosity.
"What was that like? Growing up with them?"
A smile broke through your blank expression and you grabbed his arm to lead him into a booth where you spent the rest of the night drinking and chatting away, getting to know him better than during any lunch break spent with him at work.
It must have been hours later when Tommy finally stepped into the pub, ridding himself of his cap and coat by hanging them onto the coat rack standing in the designated Shelby compartment. When he turned his head to the side he found his brothers seated "Good night, lads?" Tommy asks with a nod of his head as John and Arthur laugh over their glasses of alcohol, cigars held carelessly between their teeth.
"Bloody good night," Arthur smiles widely, handing Thomas the new bottle from the table for him to drink from, forgoing a cup. Tommy accepts it with an amused soft laugh and John cheekily smiles, and with a laugh he adds "An especially good one for our sweetheart!"
Tommy pauses mid gulp and furrows his brows at his younger brother who expands on it by sipping more whiskey "Second booth from the wall," he nods outside the room, prompting Tommy to exist with the bottle still gripped by his right hand.
Tommy's eyes flit over Ada and Polly who giggle, sipping from their glasses and he looks to where their gaze is focused to see you chuckling at something a random man said to you, a finger coming up to tuck a stray hair behind your ear as he whispers something into it, pressing soft pecks as well.
"Ladies," Tommy greets with a clearing of his throat and a serious expression, standing beside the women of his family seated at the bar.
"Tommy," Polly greets, pulling her hand away which was occupied with both a clove cigarette and a glass of gin "nice of you to finally show up..."
"Nice indeed, Pol!" Ada snorts, enjoying Thomas' expressionless face as he chugs from his bottle.
"Care to join us, Tommy?"
"Yeah, dear brother, we have an amazing view!"
Tommy takes another swig of his Irish whiskey, rolling his eyes at them he responds with a "Fuck off" but he sits beside them nonetheless. The three Shelby's sit with their eyes trained on you and your date, watching as you converse and laugh.
After a short while, Polly and Ada leave Tommy to continue his “creepy stalking” according to Ada and dance with random men instead, moving along to the jazzy tunes playing in the golden establishment.
He swirled the contents of the bottle around his tongue savouring the taste of it. For Tommy did not care for the bitter alcohol lingering on his tongue, it tasted much sweeter to him than the sight of his first love smiling brightly at a man who was not him.
He finally set the bottle down and stood up when he noticed the man accompanying you move his hand from your shoulder to your waist, pulling you closer to him so that he could press his lips against yours. Tommy’s heart dropped to his feet and he couldn’t stomach the sight anymore as the alcohol tasted almost poisonous in his mouth at this moment. He had to do something or he was going to be sick. With fluid yet commanding steps, he easily broke through the dancing crowd and stopped just by your booth. Hands in the pocket of his trousers, as he stands with his figure commanding attention and respect, per usual.
He calls your name in his typical deep, raspy, gruff tone. You instantly pull away from the man, scooting away from him as you turn to look at Tommy with an expression as though you’d been caught red-handed. He looks down at you with a blank expression but you know better than that, at least you should, his eyes betray him as he stares at you deeply, hurt flashes in them but you don’t notice it, not in your inebriated state.
"Tommy…" You breathe out, fixing your hair properly as you greet him. You tried to sober up but all the alcohol you’d been drinking during the night caused a small hiccup to escape your lips and Tommy notices your flushed cheeks from the booze and the ambiance "Congratsss…" you attempt to say but you slur the word and a giggle follows shortly after. You were clearly tipsy.
"Right, I think you've had enough celebrations for today." Tommy’s gaze travelled to the man who is most likely a light weight judging from the way he’s turned red and looking dazed as he turns his attention from you to the Shelby. The latter nods his head towards the door in an action that commands James to 'beat it' but he only scrunches his face in confusion, unable to fully comprehend what is going on. This elicits a rather sassy eye roll from Tommy who decides that it might all be easier if he takes matters into his own hands.
"Come on, love, I'll get you home."
"But I wuz—" Tommy’s hands grasp your elbows as he stands you up and steadies you when you stumble a little, feeling light headed all of sudden when his piercing blue eyes are inches away from your own. "Hullo," you whisper innocently, nose bumping into his.
Tommy, despite himself and his very serious demeanor whispers 'Hi' back in a soft tone. He pulls your coat that was hanging on the booth and fixes it onto your figure, making sure to close the buttons before grabbing your hat from off the table and placing it on top of your head "Let's go."
He notices you pout your lip when he grabs your bag, stepping further away from you in the process and Tommy fights the impulsive desire to press a kiss to them to make you feel better. He ignores James whose head has now fallen onto the table and is apparently snoozing as he leads you to the little room by the entrance to retrieve his coat and hat, his hand still holding onto your elbow.
"Leaving already?" Arthur asks, nursing his drink meanwhile John was knocked out on the couch, mouth open as he drooled.
"'e's forcin' me 'ome" You slur from your spot by the doorframe, leaning against it as Tommy gets dressed.
Arthur lets out a hearty laugh, alcohol spilling a little "You go right to bed, love!" He says, supporting his brother as he greets him goodbye.
"Alright,” Tommy appears by your side once more and wraps his arm around your shoulders, allowing your head to drop onto his collarbone “off we go now, love." you groan but let him lead you to his car regardless.
"I missed you, y’know." You mutter quietly once the cool air hits your face as he opens the car door for you, your back pressing against the freezing metal “’s like after the war, you didn’ wan’ no’in to do with me.”
Tommy paused, hand holding the car door open as he studied your serene face. You looked… fine but your slurred words sounded hurt. Tommy hated it when he made you hurt. He swallowed and with his free hand, he took a hold of your arm and helped you into the passenger’s seat “I’m sorry,” he whispered softly, so uncharacteristic of him as he tucked a stray curl behind your ear “I’m no good for you like this.”
A frown permeates your forehead, it is rather soft, like a miniscule annoyance popped before you which caused you to react. He knows you are barely conscious and that you probably will not remember this conversation tomorrow so his hand lowers to cradle your cheek, brushing his thumb gently against your flushed flesh “I’m so sorry, angel.”
You subconsciously lift your hand and hold his against your face, mumbling tiredly “I know.” Thomas almost startles, but instead he pats your cheek and releases you, watching your head softly knock against the head of the seat as you succumb to the sleep that has been fought off for a while.
He releases a sigh before buckling you in and gently closing the door, making his way to the other side to drive you home. The journey home was smooth, the so called “scary gangster” made sure to drive as slow as he could with minimal disturbances to ensure you continued to doze away while he got you home. He slowed to a stop once he arrived at the familiar house just down the street from his family home. Memories flooded his mind as he looked up, recalling all the times your mother would scold him for bringing you home with mud on your face and clothes, your brother would laugh from behind her as you glared at the little boy whilst simultaneously trying to defend Tommy (not that he needed it, your mother adored him)… It pained him to see the lights shut, the warm home being a ghost of what it was after the death of your mother a couple of years back. Tommy knew he was a bastard for leaving you alone to deal with the grief of your family but you never did blame him, despite him promising to take care of little Dani when they all got drafted—
You stirred in the seat beside him and he snapped out of his thoughts. There was no time to reminisce those gone, the war took away everything, even the living who returned. And so he turned off the engine, stuffing his keys in his pockets before he turned to you, he rummaged through your bag which he placed on the dashboard and retrieved your house keys. He exited the car, walking over to your side to unbuckle your seatbelt and carry you in his arms to your door. While still holding your sleeping figure, you nestled your face into the crook of his neck for warmth, Thomas slottled the key into its hole and turned it to the right as it clicked open for him. He ignored the warmth that seeped into his skin from your unconscious affection, choosing to instead focus on making his way to what he hoped was still your room. Luck seemed to be on his side because when he pushed open the door, he was met with the familiar sight of your cream painted walls, decorated with messy pink flowers that you insisted must be drawn on the walls when you were 5 (Tommy remembered dragging Arthur along with him to help your father out). He did not repress the small smile that bloomed at the memory, instead he tossed your bag on your chaise and carefully laid you on your bed.
Thomas stared down at you unsure of what to do now, you were still wearing your coat and heels which must be uncomfortable for you. He finally decided that he should probably strip you of them before heading back to the Garrison. With a determined knit of his brows, he got to work— Tommy sat you up gently, letting your head rest against his chest while his hands peeled off your coat. He let you rest back once more as he dealt with the buckles of your heels, smoothly unclasping the metal and popping it off her feet, setting them by your bed when he was finished. He looked at you once more, soft gaze following the soft breaths you took as you slept on your back. With a wistful sigh, he leaned down to press a kiss against the crown of your head to wish you a good night before leaving when all of a sudden you stirred in place, your hand reaching for his heavy jacket with a gentle grip.
“Stay.”
Your command was as mellow as your grip, almost imperceptible and yet Tommy felt the heavy weight of all the years of his yearning for you rooting him in place, lips parted and eyes wide as though he was his 12 year old self, blushing after you planted a kiss on his cheek before heading home. He found it extremely hard to do anything but comply and so he shook off his jacket along with his blazer and took a seat beside you on the bed, brushing your hair away from your face.
"You have no idea how much control you hold over me, angel." He whispers, watching you with adoring eyes as you snuggled into his torso. He kicked off his shoes and lied down on your large bed, adjusting so that you rested between his arms, with his arms slung around your waist and your hair wafting your shampoo into his nose allowing him the opportunity to smell the roses you were so fond off, he felt himself surprisingly drifting off to sleep.
You woke up with a fright the next morning. A screamed barrelled past your lips when you felt a body next to you in the space that was usually empty on your bed.
You had stirred awake due to the bright beams which appeared through the crack of your curtains. You stretched your arms out when all of a sudden, something solid materialised and you made contact with it. What you had failed to realise was that solid object happened to be a man you were well acquainted with. Of course, that did not register in your sleep-addled brain and so you did the only thing you could think of doing when dealing with foreign people in your bed. You screamed and pulled your pillow from behind your head and began to hit him with it.
“Get out, you pervert!”
Your scream and attacks startled Thomas out of sleep and his bleary gaze immediately found your own, his expression turned from fear (which he was accustomed to experiencing after being woken up with a fright) to exasperated amusement.
"What the actual fuck?" He grunted, grabbing the pillow from you and tossing it to the side to grab a hold of your wrists all while sitting up.
"Oh Tommy!" Your eyes lit up as you sat back on your feet “…What are you doing here?” You asked momentarily after, a little confused.
"You were drunk so I brought you back home, tucked you in and when I turned to leave, you told me to stay."
"Hmm." You hummed in response, getting off the bed “Sounds like something I would do.” You looked down at your fully clothed figure and then at Thomas and signalled between the two of you.
“We didn’t do anything, right?”
“And if we did?” Tommy asked with a hidden smirk, eyebrow cocked up in interest.
You snorted, moving around the room to gather your towel and change of clothes to take a much needed bath “I sure hope not, I’d hate for my first time to happen while I’m intoxicated.” You muttered playfully as you entered the bathroom connected to your room.
It appeared as though Tommy was still dreaming because you were gone in an instant, imparting him with the knowledge that you were still a virgin. He really does not know what is wrong with him but he needed to wake up before he headed back to the betting place, his job required a good head on his shoulders and he was quite sure that he was being delusional at the moment.
"You're still a virgin." He said the minute you stepped out of your steaming bathroom, his words almost like a declaration instead of a question. You are not too surprised to find him still seated on your bed, this time with a cigarette hanging from his lips, deep in thought.
"Hello to you too,” You humour him, the towel in your hand collecting the drops of water dripping from your freshly washed hair “Is that so surprising?” You ask in response to his statement, taking a seat in front of your vanity.
“’Suppose not.” He finally looks up from the floor to watch you through the mirror, taking a drag from his cigarette before blowing it into the air. His gaze travels from your face to your bare shoulders, drops of water clinging to them and your cleavage which he can sneak a peek of from your mirror.
“Don’t you have work, Thomas?”
He lets out a chuckle, close to a snort actually “You think I give a fuck about work right now? Besides, I’m the boss, it starts when I want it to start.”
You hum in response, applying your moisturiser to your face “That’s fair, I do however have to get dressed so—”
"What’s stopping you? I don’t mind." He leaned back, resting his weight on the palms of his hands as he watched you stand up to retrieve your articles of clothing from your cupboards and dresser.
“I wasn’t asking for your permission, Thomas.”
“No, but I’m used to giving it.”
You meet his gaze head on and purse your lips “So this is the Tommy Shelby everyone whispers about, huh?”
“Pleasure.” He drily responds, a nod of his head with his cigarette hanging from his lips looking so relaxed and in command causes you to scoff.
“Not sure if it is.” You retort and walk behind the divider that stands in the corner of your room. You throw your towel over it and pull on your underwear, tying your bra before dressing into your nightgown, stockings covering your legs.
"I’m sure it will be." The tension is palpable as his words linger in the room, settling around you like the smoke of his cigarette which he stubbed into the ground.
“What makes you think that?”
“I think,” he says, a small tug present at the corner of his lips “that’s what I’m good at.”
You bite back a smile eventually, a huff of air escaping your lips at his self-assuredness. He was right, he always was the “thinker” of the group “That did get you into fights often, you know?”
“It’s also got me a lot of what I’ve wanted.”
You cock your head to the side, arms crossing over your chest as you approach him “And what is it that you want?”
“You.” He says without pause, looking at you with a gaze so intense you almost fold “I’ve always wanted you.”
“And now?” You question, stopping in front of him to unfold your arms in order to reach a hand to his face, your finger caressing his soft yet sharp features, still your Tommy yet so changed.
“I still want you more than ever.”
Your hand holds his jaw and you lean down to press a kiss to his plump lips that look oh so inviting. It takes Thomas by surprise even though he has been craving it for so long. The feel of your mouth against his almost causes his heart to stop beating in his chest. Suddenly all white noise in the air disappears when your lips meet his. He does not even realise he stopped breathing until you pull away and he finds himself pathetically following your lips, lashes fluttering over his cerulean eyes.
“I’ve always been yours, Thomas,” You breath against his lips “It has always been you for me.”
Passion overtakes all of Tommy’s senses. He stands up and his arms immediately reach out for you, his hands hold your face and he crashes his lips against yours once more, addicted to the minty taste of your mouth. He presses you against the wall and you can’t hold back a moan.
“Say it again.” It was meant to come off as a command, however the desperation peeks through his words and it borders on a plea. He’s begging you to tell him you're his. Always have been, with nothing able to come in between you, not even a stupid war that took away your family and his light “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.”
He slips his tongue into your mouth the second the ‘s’ slides between your teeth, choosing to taste your words on his tongue instead. You grip onto the collar of his shirt, humming into his mouth as his tongue explores all the crevices of your mouth, eager to know what he’s been fantasising about for years, all within in the reach of his arm but so so far away in his mind’s eye. You taste the cigarette you became familiar with from a young age and find that it doesn’t bother you as much as you thought it would, in fact, the way it lingered on your taste buds felt delicious, probably because it came from Tommy and something you mostly associate with him.
He pulls away reluctantly to let you catch your breath, but not far enough as he indulges in pressing wet kisses along your jaw and down the bare skin uncovered by your clothes. “Tommy…” You sigh contently, head lolling against the wall as he sucks on a sweet spot right under your ear.
“Hmm?” You can tell he’s not actually listening to what you have to say, too occupied, too consumed with the essence of you, which… ultimately is good considering you have no clue what was going to come out of your mouth. You instead pressed his head deeper against your skin, holding him in place meanwhile his hands reached down to lift the hem of your slip upwards, revealing smooth skin which he so desperately wanted to mark. He wanted to leave a trace of himself on you and he was going to do it if that was the last thing he would do. His rough hands suddenly parted your legs to allow his knee to occupy the space between them, pushing you down onto his muscled thigh which in turn caused your breath to hitch.
You grasp onto the short hair at the top of his head and forcefully pull him away, looking down at his lust-filled eyes fluttering open in a daze, his pink plump lips glimmering with a coat of saliva, a mix of both your own and his, “I hope you’re not thinking you'll taking me against the wall.”
He seems to sober up a little, standing up straighter and fixing your clothes “Right,” he says with a clearing of his throat “it seems I got too excited.”
You crack a smile at that confession, tapping his cheek lightly with affection “There’s always time for that later.” You wink and his own expression turns light, a soft smile pulling at his lips. He suddenly plants both his hands on your bottom and hauls you up in his hold, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist for security.
“I’ve run out of patience, love.” He lead you straight to bed, spreading you on your mattress and resting in between the gap left “I need to feel you, all of you.” He said, no room for hesitance and you pulled his face into a kiss, the palms of your hands splayed against the clean-shaven cheeks of his face. His hands roam over your thighs, pulling you closer so that your core pressed against his own, feeling more of him than you ever have before.
“Take it off.” You ordered, biting his lower lip. His hands move in an instant, eager as he pulls off your gown. You raise your arms, assisting him with a giggle. His face moves to your chest to pepper kisses down till he reaches your abdomen before he goes back up the way to connect your lips once again. “Now it’s your turn.”
You work the buttons on his waist coat, then his shirt all the while he watches you with an amused glint in his eyes, patiently waiting for you to rid him of his white undershirt. He was surprised when you did not stop there however, “Up.” You commanded, pushing him off the bed and sitting up to watch him get rid of his trousers, leaving him only in his drawers. Your eyes trailed over his figure, landing straight on the tattoos and scars that never used to be on his pale skin dotted with freckles in the past. They were from the war you concluded.
“Come here.” You say softly, switching your position so that you were now kneeling on the bed, inviting Tommy to do the same. He complies, something he has come to find himself easily doing when it’s with you. You fingers trail over his toned body, brushing over his biceps and finding the scar on his back. You gently trace it, not asking the story behind how he got it but meeting your eyes with his. Your gaze is soft and sweet and Thomas almost finds himself choked up facing your gentleness, it seemed so foreign to him. It has been years and he does not know why he has denied himself this when he needed it so long ago. You ghost over his military tattoo, acknowledging its presence despite not liking what it represented. Loss, grief, heartache, death… but it was ironically perfect because all you could do was move "forward", on with life because it waited for no one. Finally, your fingers splay over his chest next, over the tattoo covering his left pec. You chuckle a little, recognising the lack of an important figure intended to sit in the middle of the sunrays… It was so in character for Tommy to reject God but keep the symbolism of the religion he grew up with.
“Done enough sight-seeing?” He asks with a tilt of his head, staring fondly at you.
“I suppose I have.” No sooner does that last word roll of your tongue does Tommy knock you back into the mattress.
“Good, it’s time I have my way with you.”
He undoes your bra without second-guessing, reaching for the knot below your shoulders and releasing it with a gentle tug. He takes it off, discarding it somewhere on the floor before lowering his face to latch a nipple into his mouth, a hand coming up to tug at your free one. Your breaths turn shallow at his touch, legs wrapping behind his back as you arch into his mouth, wanting more.
His unoccupied hand slides down your tummy to meet the waistband of your cotton panties, meeting the lacy material. He slips a finger and pulls the elastic, pausing the swirling of his tongue to ask “Can I?” You strain to look up him, your head content on lying on the mattress but you nod down at him regardless, a soft plea tumbling past your lips.
“Please.”
He rolls off your panties down your thighs, then down your calves till he’s ridden you of them completely leaving you bare before him, completely nude for him to feast his eyes on. He sits back, looking at you with his pupils blown, barely any of that cornflower blue you’re so fond of peeking through, too consumed by desire and admiration “Beautiful...” He says quietly, more to himself than you. Heat flushes your entire body and you beckon him over with your hand on his shoulder.
He returns to hovering over you, lowering himself to press a soft kiss to your lips to distract you as his large hands glides down your right thigh before finding the centre between your legs. A gasp slips out when you feel him slide a finger, collecting your arousal and then placing his middle and ring finger on your most sensitive area, your legs falter at the touch from where they are bent on the mattress. He only bites his lip as his fingers take on a circular motion, watching and enjoying the soft moans that resound in the room at his ministrations.
“Tommy,” you whine and he shushes you by slipping in his middle finger, feeling more slick coat the digit and he grows tenser. He gulps as you writhe in front of him with the addition of his ring finger, the palm of his heel aiding his efforts in watching you come undone before him.
Your hips alternate between bucking into his hand and pushing into your bed, too overwhelmed by the pleasure coming from his touch but you do not back down, not when you feel too good from just his hand and you tell him as much “Don’t stop—”
Except he does stop when he feels the first squeeze around his fingers, a cruel (in your opinion) smirk on his face when you open your eyes in a huff “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Making sure you finish in my mouth.” He states and you falter, looking at him with a confused expression.
“What?” You ask, trying to make sure you heard him right but Thomas is a bastard and hates repeating himself so he only lifts you by the waist, sets you on your pink pillows and settles in between your thighs with his head diving in without out warning, licking a stripe up before swirling around. Your protests die the instant you feel his tongue and you instinctively spread wider for him, hand coming to keep his head in place because you’ll be damned if you don’t take Tommy up on his pearl diving skills.
He keeps you spread with his forefinger and middle finger, tongue focused on your clit meanwhile his fingers pump in and out of you at the same time. Your sanity slowly deteriorates as your senses are just full of him, mind empty, only thinking about good he’s making you feel.
“Thomas, I swear to God if you stop I will do what France has failed to do.” Your words are intended to be a threat but Tommy doesn’t know how seriously he can take you when you stop in between your words to catch your breath and let out tiny whines. It’s adorable though, so he decides he’ll play nice because this isn’t the first time someone has threatened to kill him, at least this time he knows it’s because he’s bringing his girl to her high.
Your legs almost shut around his head and suffocate him when you first begin to feel your orgasm approaching, Tommy actually wants to let you do it but you catch yourself at the last minute and hold onto his cropped hair instead (you really ought to get him to let it grow a little—), focusing on your pleasure as your vision turns black with sprinkles of white appearing. “Tommy, I’m—” he hums into you, his tongue and fingers turning rougher and you can’t hold back the mewl as you clamp down on his fingers, your hips jerking as you finally come. He releases his fingers, pops them into his mouth to clean it off before discarding his briefs.
You open your eyes, unfocused as you try to come back to your senses as you look at him. His intense gaze meets yours , you nod at him knowing what it is he wants. He can’t help the smile that graces his face and plants a kiss on your knee before parting your legs for him to fit snugly in between, the back of your thighs touching the front of his. One hand grips his length, you lower your hips to meet him as his slips in inch by inch.
Your immediate reaction to the intrusion is knitted brows, your eyes shut as he finally bottoms out after what you felt was an unnecessarily long time. You gulp when he hugs you, settled deep in you as you both wait. Tommy’s mouth hung open the entire time as he felt you engulfing him with your wet walls, head going light from this entire experience. You felt divine. He could almost cry, feeling you wrapped around, so snug and perfect…
“Move,” he says through gritted teeth, his voice cracks right by the pulse in your neck when he adds on “please, I need to feel you move.”
You throw your arms around his broad shoulders and rock your hips, prompting him to finally meet you in the middle, helping you find a rhythm against him. It does not take long as you work on the perfect symphony together, almost as though orchestrated by a brilliant maestro the way he moves into you, hitting all the right places while he pushes your knees up to your chest, ensuring he’s hitting deeper and you’re feeling all of him.
Thomas almost feels ashamed at the quickness with which his climax approaches, and he screws his eyes shut, tensing his jaw as he wills himself to hold out for longer but damn the way you feel when you pull him closer and kiss at his cheeks and nibble on his ear. You’re the virgin here, not him, and yet he’s almost emptying his balls out to match their record time. He groans and clears his throat as he tries to collect himself to tell you “I’m not going to last much longer.”
Your response chokes him when he feels you squeeze around him, he pulls his face away from over your shoulder to look down at you with an almost offended expression which turns exasperated when he sees your lazy grin “Oh so now you’re a minx?” His hand moves from your waist to your cheeks and he squishes them “Just you wait, love.” He spills into you after a few more thrusts before stilling, still nestled deep inside you.
You attempt to sit up but his hand stops you by firmly pushing you down, splayed over your sternum “We’re not done…”
Too quiet, considering you were supposed to be home two hours ago from your girls' night out.
Tommy sat in his leather chair, whiskey untouched in his glass, cigarette burning low between his fingers. He wasn’t worried—not really. You weren’t reckless, and the bar you went to was owned by Arthur. Still, the unease in his gut didn’t ease until the front door clicked open.
“Darling, I’m home!”
Your voice rang through the hall, far louder than necessary. Tommy stood, his jaw ticking as he moved toward you.
You were leaning against the wall, trying to toe off one heel, the other already abandoned halfway across the floor. Mascara slightly smudged, lipstick kissed off, hair a little mussed. And grinning like a fool.
“There she is,” Tommy murmured, catching you just as you wobbled forward. “The ghost of gin and bad decisions.”
You giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck with more force than finesse. “Tommy, love of my life, you’ve got two heads. When’d that happen?”
“You’re fuckin' pissed.”
“Who, me?” You hiccuped. “Absolutely. Gloriously. Marvellously.”
Tommy sighed, sliding his hands to your waist to steady you. “Let’s get you upstairs.”
“Wait!” You slapped your palm to his chest dramatically. “Did you miss me?”
He raised a brow. “You were gone for four hours.”
“That’s practically forever in marriage time, Mr. Shelby.”
“You reek of whiskey and trouble.”
“And you,” you whispered, poking his nose, “reek of brooding and disappointment.”
That earned a low chuckle. “Come on.”
He scooped you up—heels, purse, and all—despite your surprised squeal.
“Tommy! I’m a grown woman!”
“A grown woman who can’t walk straight,” he replied, carrying you up the stairs like it was nothing.
You nestled your head into the crook of his neck. “You’re strong. Like, stupidly strong. It’s hot.”
Tommy let out a small huff, trying not to smile. You always got talkative when drunk—sweet, unfiltered, messy. He both loved and hated it. Loved it because he got to see the softest corners of you. Hated it because something in him always felt like he didn’t deserve it.
Once in your shared bedroom, he sat you gently on the bed and knelt to unbuckle your shoes.
You swayed forward, fingers burying in his hair. “Tommy?”
“Hm?”
“You know I love you, right? Like… stupid, stupidly in love with you. I’d punch anyone in the throat who looked at you funny.”
“I know.” He looked up, eyes softer now. “You tell me every time you drink.”
“Well, then you should really believe it,” you said seriously.
He tugged your dress off gently, replacing it with one of his shirts, letting it fall to your thighs. You flopped onto the pillows with a sigh of contentment.
Tommy turned off the lights, slid in beside you, and pulled you to his chest.
“Thanks for not being mad,” you mumbled into him.
“I’m not mad,” he whispered into your hair. “Just glad you’re home.”
A pause.
“I brought you a sausage roll,” you murmured. “It’s in my purse. It’s probably squished.”
He laughed—actually laughed—and kissed your forehead.
“My girl,” he said quietly. “Drunk, messy, but always thinking of me.”
You fell asleep with a smile on your lips, his arms around you, and the softest man in Birmingham tucking the blankets around your body like you were made of glass.
you knew something was wrong when tommy shelby refused a cigarette.
he just sat there at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense, jaw ticking like a bomb mid-countdown. sunlight slanted through the curtains all soft and gold and holy, but your husband looked like war. looked like 1914 come back to haunt the breakfast dishes. looked like he was seconds from setting something on fire just to feel warmth.
you set the kettle down. hard.
“what?” you say, sharp like the edge of his razors, voice still sticky with sleep. “what is it now, thomas?”
he doesn’t answer. just stares straight ahead at absolutely fucking nothing, like the ghost of a thought has him by the throat. which, fine. you’re married to a man whose favorite pastime is brooding, right next to murder and tax evasion.
but then he says it. and it’s so goddamn unexpected, you forget how to breathe for a second.
“i want a baby.”
you blink.
“you—what.”
his blue eyes meet yours. stormclouds. cigarette smoke. something ancient and aching. “a child. ours. i want one.”
you laugh. because it’s easier than screaming.
“jesus christ, tommy. is this another one of your near-death existential spirals? do we need to call polly again?”
he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t blink. just says, deadly serious, “you’d be a good mother.”
and it hits you in the chest like a fucking freight train.
because here’s the thing about tommy shelby: when he loves, it’s not flowers and poetry. it’s knives. it’s promises soaked in blood. it’s protection so feral you almost choke on it. and when he looks at you like that—like the world is a house on fire and you’re the only thing worth saving—you believe him. against your better judgment. against every ounce of self-preservation.
you sit down. slow. because your knees aren’t working properly anymore.
“you’ve got three siblings with kids. and a fucking horse. why do you need this?” you ask, weak.
“because none of those are you. and none of them are mine.”
and there it is. raw and selfish and soaked in possession. tommy shelby in one fucking sentence.
you run a hand through your hair. “this is so unhinged. you can’t just—just decide you want a kid out of nowhere.”
he arches an eyebrow, infuriatingly calm. “i’ve wanted one since the wedding.”
you gape. “then why didn’t you say anything?”
“because the war never ended, love. just changed shape.”
you’re gonna cry. and you hate crying. especially in front of him, because he gets all tender and tragic and you end up in bed for three days trying to fuck the pain out of each other like that ever works.
you reach across the table. lace your fingers through his. and he lets you. because when you touch him like this, it’s the only time he doesn’t flinch.
“it’s not that i don’t want one,” you whisper. “it’s just … what if you get killed, tommy? what if i’m left raising a baby on my own, telling stories about a ghost who smelled like gunpowder and good whiskey?”
he squeezes your hand.
“then name him after me.”
you laugh through a choked sob. “you arrogant bastard.”
“takes one to love one.”
and then he’s pulling you into his lap like he’s starved for you. like he needs to feel your heartbeat just to keep his own steady. he kisses you like it’s a vow, like he’s swearing something to your bones. and you kiss him back because of course you do. because you love him in spite of everything. because of everything.
his mouth trails down your neck. “let me show you,” he murmurs against your skin. “how much i want this. how much i want you.”
you bite your lip, trying to stay rational, but the way he touches you should be illegal in at least seventeen countries. and when he says, “wanna see you round, carrying my baby. mine. all mine.” you’re done. you’re just done.
somewhere between the second orgasm and the wreckage of your dignity, you realize he’s serious. he holds you like he’s memorizing the shape of your future. palms flat against your belly like he’s trying to will life into it. and for the first time, you’re not scared. not really.
because if there’s anyone who can stare down the apocalypse and still plan for tomorrow—it’s thomas shelby.
and maybe, just maybe … you’ll give him one.
but not before you punch him in the arm and mutter, “next time, lead with flowers. not fucking baby fever.”
he smirks. “thought you liked me feral.”
“unfortunately, i do.”
and he kisses you again, this time soft. like the war has ended, if only for now.
summary: you are due to be married to the leader of an enemy gang to the peaky blinders. the night before your wedding, you make thomas shelby an offer he can’t refuse.
wc: 5k
tags: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, Canon typical gang/violence talk, Tommy is Mr. Steal Your Girl, Cheating/scandal, Virginity loss, Age gap (Reader is early 20s, Tommy is late 40s), Tommy uses reader to get to his enemies, Smut (v fingering, fem receiving oral, unprotected p in v), Choking, Finger sucking, Possessive!Tommy, Dom!Tommy, Reader is a lil depraved, Reader wants that cookie so fucking bad, Spot the Twin Peaks reference, Dirty talk, Spitting, Biting, Bits of Soft!Tommy, Degradation, Overstimulation, Innocence kink? Bit of violence at the end
read on ao3
-
There wasn’t a soul in Birmingham that had not heard of Thomas Shelby.
Hearing whispers of his name throughout your mid to late teens made him seem, in your mind, like some sort of boogeyman.
Even now, you heard his name uttered through whispered breaths as though saying it too loud would summon him.
Like his name was a curse.
The first time you caught sight of him, the first time you put a face to the name, there was a momentary shift in the way you viewed the man.
In your mind, Thomas Shelby was a monster. He took, he killed, he robbed. Mercy was not something he entertained.
In reality, Thomas Shelby was just a man.
A cold, violent man.
But a man nonetheless.
He commanded the entire room as soon as he entered it. An unlit cigarette between his lips, flat cap pulled low on his head. You almost could not see his eyes. His trench coat flowed behind him as he walked, surrounded by his cronies.
Heading straight towards you.
And yet, for some reason, you did not fear him at all.
He came to a stop beside the table you sat at. His brothers loomed behind him, but he took the lead.
“May I?” Thomas asked, nodding once towards the seat opposite you.
You nodded curtly. “Please,” you welcomed.
He took the seat before you gave your answer.
“You’re Fischer’s wife.”
He posed it as a statement, not a question.
Your jaw flexed at the mention of your soon-to-be husband. “Not yet. He’s yet to tie me down in loveless matrimony, if you must know, Mr. Shelby.”
Thomas seemed impressed by your defiance, if just for a moment. His icy exterior was not broken for long.
“You seem smart enough. I’m sure you’re aware your fiancé wants me dead.”
“You want him dead too,” you reminded him.
“It’s nothing personal.”
“If only it was.”
Something changed in Thomas’ eyes. His lip twitched, like he was itching to smirk, but he resisted, remaining personal. Instead, he reached into his pocket.
In the presence of Thomas Shelby, anyone else would have flinched if he reached into his pocket, expecting to be met with the cold steel of a gun.
You did not.
And he noticed that.
You could see his eyes now.
He was nothing like the stories you’d heard as a teen.
These weren’t the eyes of a boogeyman.
Wordlessly, his piercing blue eyes never leaving yours, he extended a cigarette towards you.
You wondered if he did this often with future wives of rival gang members.
You took the cigarette regardless. Your fingers brushed against his.
You leaned forward, and with a flick of his lighter, Thomas lit your cigarette for you.
You took a long drag, exhaling deeply, as Thomas lit up his own.
“I don’t often share cigarettes with gangsters.”
He hummed in amusement, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Your fiancé lets you plan every move his little gang makes. But he won’t let you smoke.”
Again, it was not a question. Like he already knew just how cowardly your future husband was.
You exhaled another puff of smoke, holding his gaze. “Men are strange creatures, Mr. Shelby.”
He smirked. “Indeed they are.”
You raised the cigarette to your lips again. “So you know.”
Thomas continued to stare.
His gaze made you feel X-rayed.
You didn’t mind it.
“Yes. I know.”
“That why you’re here, Mr Shelby?” you queried. “Here to kill me? Teach my fiancé a lesson?”
He seemed genuinely amused at the suggestion. “Being a gangster isn’t all about killing people, love. It’s about negotiation. It’s about fear.”
You paused. “Well, I’m not afraid of you.”
Thomas did not seem fazed. Like this was all part of his plan. “I’m not asking you to be.”
“Then what are you asking, Mr Shelby?” you challenged him.
“Nothing.” He said it honestly. You believed him. “Just need it to get back to your fiancé that I was here. Talking to his woman. Make his mind spiral. Then the fear starts.”
“So we’re just… talking.”
It was absurd. If you told the teenaged you that you would be sitting in a bar, sharing a cigarette with Thomas Shelby - feared mobster and leader of the Peaky Blinders - she would have said you were fucking stupid.
“Just talking,” Thomas reaffirmed.
“I heard stories of you, growing up,” you confessed, tapping your cigarette into the ash tray before you. “You struck the fear of God into me, Thomas Shelby.”
His chest seemed to swell a little at that. As though striking the fear of God into a young woman was something to be proud of.
Or maybe it was the fact you had heard of him.
“And look at you now. You’re not afraid at all, are you?”
There was a feeling - deep within your chest, nestled in the base of your stomach. It was warm, burning like a fire. It did not feel like fear.
No. You weren’t afraid. You were intrigued.
“You’re not asking me to be afraid,” you reminded him.
“No. I’m not.”
Your cigarette fizzled out between your fingers, a symbol of your meeting coming to an end. “You’re not what I expected,” you admitted.
Thomas stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray. He stood, his chair scraping against the wood floor, echoing louder than it should have.
Everything he did left an impression.
Thomas took your hand, bent slightly, and kissed it politely.
His lips brushing against the skin of your hand sent a chill through your body.
“Neither are you,” said Thomas.
His gang began to retreat towards the doors of the pub. Their eyes raked over you as though you were something intriguing.
You did not look at them.
You just looked at Thomas.
He tipped his cap towards you, a gesture of farewell. “Good day, Miss.”
And like a beast disappearing into the night, he was gone.
-
You thought often of Thomas Shelby, even though you knew you shouldn’t. Should had never stopped you before. It was an odd word. You shouldn’t be involved in planning attacks for your fiancé’s gang.
You shouldn’t feel cold or unseen, laying next to the man you were supposed to marry.
And you shouldn’t be fantasising about your future husband’s mortal enemy. About his piercing blue eyes, the deep rumble of his voice, the calloused skin of his fingers brushing against your own.
That singular touch - one that lasted not even two seconds - ignited a fire within you that your husband never had. Never would.
The day of your wedding - your entrapment - crept up on you. One month. One week. Tomorrow.
Your groom had not been happy when word reached him that his woman had been sitting in a bar, sharing a cigarette with Thomas Shelby of the Peaky Blinders. Insults had been exchanged aplenty. Names flew out of his mouth that bounced off your skin. An opinion of a man like him did not matter to you.
“Are you Thomas Shelby’s fucking whore now?” he had demanded, spit flying from his mouth.
Your response was meant to anger him. You wanted him to feel the words burrowing underneath his skin, feel them festering there.
But your tone revealed the truth in the words.
“I’d rather be his whore than your wife.”
It was dark when you said it. The words travelled out into the moonless night, floating down the street as if leading you somewhere. Luckily, your pathetic excuse of a fiancé did not follow you out into the cold evening air.
Down the street. Towards an address you had seen scrawled on the back of threatening letters to your fiancé - inviting him to come and try his luck on the life of Thomas Shelby.
Or maybe it was an invite to you.
The knock on his door reverberated into the night.
There was that word again: should. You shouldn’t be here. You should hope that he doesn’t answer.
But you are. And you don’t.
You hope he answers - and he does.
His usual stoic expression did not soften when he saw you. Despite it being deep into the night, Thomas was still dressed to work. His vest, trousers and shoes pristine as ever, the sleeves of his white undershirt rolled up to his elbows. A part of you was expecting him to be stained with the blood of his enemies.
Preferably the blood of your husband-to-be.
“Your man know you’re here?” Thomas asked.
You laughed, the idea ridiculous to you. “He doesn’t know anything about what I do.”
Thomas smirked. Like that was the answer he wanted. “And what is it you’re here to do?”
You. No, too vulgar.
“I’d like to ask you something. If you can find the time, of course.” You added the last part almost scathingly. As though sizing him up, letting him know that you were equals. That you were not to be toyed with.
Thomas looked at you with an expression that suggested he was not used to being talked to like anything other than a leader, a boss.
But it didn’t look like he hated it. Not coming from you.
“Well,” Thomas clicked his tongue, and then he finally opened the door fully, stepping back and allowing you the space to cross the threshold into his home. “Come in and ask it in the warm, at least.”
It was almost like he cared.
Thomas lead you through his hallway into a room at the back of the house, where a fire was crackling welcomingly. The warmth of the room filled your whole body. A desk stood before the fireplace, half-written letters strewn across its surface.
Thomas did not invite you to sit. He resumed his position at his desk, the one you assumed he had been in before your knock derailed his work. You stood in front of his desk with your hands clasped in front of you, as though you were a choir singer about to serenade him, or a salesman about to con him.
“Your dear fiancé fears what I might do to you. That’s why you’re here, eh?” He did not look up from whatever important words he was writing when he spoke.
You tilted your head. “Partly,” you answered honestly. “What’s he got to fear? What might you do to me? Tommy?”
The use of his nickname made him raise his head. Those eyes met yours. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip. Tommy leaned back in his chair, placing his pen down on his papers. “What do you want me to do to you?”
You shuddered at his words. “It would be sinful of me to say it.”
He quirked an eyebrow, as if he already knew what you were about to say. He welcomed it without batting an eyelid. “I’m a killer. I know all about sin. You’re in good company to be sinful.”
Tommy looked like sin. He smelled like it. Maybe he was your sin. And this time, you weren’t looking to repent.
“So go on,” he ordered. “Ask away.”
You stared into his eyes for a moment. They were the colour of a lake you could happily drown in. Thomas Shelby was captivating.
Really, you were just another of his victims. A victim of his words.
A victim of his gaze.
A victim of your own desire.
The words left you calmly. There was no more room within you for shame.
Just for him.
“I want you to fuck me, Tommy.”
Like him, you did not ask. You demanded.
Tommy raised his eyebrows inquisitively. He leaned forward, the proposition intriguing. “You want me to fuck you?” he repeated.
He wanted to hear you say it again.
“I want you. To fuck me.”
He chuckled. “Fiancé not satisfying you?”
“He never has. And he never will. I will not let him own that part of me. I want it to be you.”
Something glinted in Tommy’s eyes.
Excitement.
Intrigue.
Desire.
Tommy stood, his eyes never leaving yours. He moved slowly around the desk, as if taunting you with the proximity between you both growing smaller and smaller. “You came here to ask me to fuck you. Pathetic, really.”
“I’m to be married tomorrow,” you informed him calmly, trying desperately to ignore the hammering of your heart against your ribcage and the growing pool of desire between your legs. “Tonight I make my own decisions.”
“And your last decision before you marry your husband is to fuck the man who wants to kill him.” Despite his degrading words, Tommy’s tone was not judgemental. It was almost impressed. Like he admired your honesty.
Like he wanted this as much as you did.
Tommy dared to touch you first. His large, manly hand caressed the side of your face, thumb running delicately along your jawline. “Why is it you’re not afraid of me?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, low and gravelly in his throat.
There were a million ways you could answer that question. But you went with the one that flipped your stomach whenever you thought it. The one that felt like a crown of thorns wrapping around your heart. The one that was being whispered into your ear by the Devil on your shoulder.
“You’re not the only one who wants my husband dead.”
A proud smirk made its way onto Tommy’s infuriatingly handsome face. His whole hand fit around your face. He could cover your mouth if he wanted to. The way you were sure your fiancé would do.
But Tommy Shelby was not him. He was everything the man you were set to marry would never be. To your future husband, he was the man he hated the most. To you, he was the object of all your desires.
Tommy did not cover your mouth. He heard you. He worked with you. Instead, he gently squeezed your soft cheeks between his hand. Gentler than you had ever thought Tommy was capable of being.
“You’re his from tomorrow. So you’re mine for tonight.”
You would never belong to your husband. But you would take being Tommy’s. So you nodded. Opened your mouth enough to whisper, “Kiss me.”
He did. His lips were rough against yours, moving with passion. The same lips that threatened and cursed, that humiliated and insulted the man who was supposed to kiss you like this.
The hand that had been cupping your jaw moved down to your throat, wrapping around with no effort. Tommy squeezed gently, eliciting a desperate gasp from your mouth. He smirked against your lips, like that was the reaction he wanted.
With his other hand, Tommy touched every part of you he could. His fingers combed through your hair. He cupped your breast. He squeezed your ass. His hand roamed as though he wanted to mark every part of you he could, taint your soft skin with the sin the two of you were about to commit.
“Get on the desk.” Tommy moaned the words into your mouth, one possessive hand still wrapped around your throat, the other grasping your lower back, pulling your body as close to his as possible.
“What for?” you gasped.
“So I can kneel.”
Tommy practically shoved you into a sitting position on a free space of his wooden desk. Even now, he was anything but gentle - and you weren’t complaining a bit.
You weren’t here to be handled gently.
You were here to get fucked by the gangster you’d grown up hearing stories about. To feel his blood-stained hands all over your body.
Tommy wasted no time, kneeling before you like a man at a confessional about to confess his deepest of sins. This definitely wasn’t his worst of discretions. It was just another addition to his growing list.
And you were happy to be that, just for tonight.
“Those letters over there are to your fiancé,” Tommy murmured into the tender skin of your thigh, nodding towards the papers beside you on the desk. With one hand, his fingertips pressed into your thigh so hard you were sure you would be bruised in a matter of minutes. With the other, he tore off your underwear like they were a hinderance, ripping them clean in two. He tossed the fabric over his shoulder like it was nothing. “Shall I put this in writing?” he asked darkly, pushing apart your legs, revealing your already dripping pussy to his hungry eyes.
You had no time to respond, because Tommy seemingly could not hold himself back any longer. He licked a long, singular stripe along your folds, the sound of your loud moan music to his ears.
“If he could fucking see this.” Tommy groaned, moving his lips from your pussy to pepper sweet, tempting kisses along your inner thigh. “His woman, spread open on my desk.”
“Not his woman,” you breathed, your hands tangling in Tommy’s hair. “Yours tonight.”
Tommy smirked at you from between your legs, moving your legs so they were draped over his shoulders. The scratchy fabric of his vest irritated the back of your thighs but you were beyond caring about discomfort at this point.
“Good fucking girl,” Tommy practically growled, before reconnecting his tongue to your aching pussy, licking and sucking and nipping from your folds to your clit.
Your head hung backwards, eyes squeezed shut. You were certain at one point you could see stars bursting across your vision as Tommy continued his relentless lapping at your pussy. One hand pulled and tugged at his dark hair with every move his tongue made on your cunt, the other gripped the edge of his desk so hard your hand was aching already.
“Fuck yes, Thomas… Keep going, please,” your whines and moans spurred him on, sucking and licking at your clit like his life depended on it. You had never felt pleasure like this before and you were certain you never would again.
You let out a strangled gasp when Tommy shoved his index finger inside of you, continuing to suck on your clit like a man starved. He slipped a second finger inside of you, his fingers working in tandem with his mouth. With his fingers pumping rhythmically and his mouth sucking determinedly, your orgasm ripped through you. Incoherent words and gasps and moans spilled from your mouth as you came all over Tommy’s tongue. He lapped up every last drop, coaxing you through it with praises and groans that sent vibrations through your entire body.
Eventually, Tommy stood, his mouth slick from your juices and his eyes almost feral for you. Your chest heaved, your entire body trembled from the force of the orgasm he had just brought you to.
But Tommy was nowhere near done with you.
And Tommy Shelby got what he wanted.
Almost towering over you now, staring down at you with lust-filled eyes, Tommy continued to pump his two fingers inside of you, curling them just right to reach that sweet spot inside of you once more. “You can handle another one, can’t you?” Tommy murmured into your skin, pressing soft kisses up your neck and across your jawline.
“Tommy,” you whined, clutching at the shoulders of his vest now, the scratchy material bunching up in your fists from the sheer force of how hard you were holding onto him. “It hurts.”
“But it feels good, doesn’t it, love?” Tommy sighed into your ear, his free hand clutching your face.
You nodded. Because fuck, it felt good. Your entire body shook and you felt like you were on fire, but that sensation building up in your lower stomach was Heavenly.
“You’re a good girl, you’re gonna take it,” Tommy shushed you, teasing a third finger at your entrance. “You look so pretty when you cum for me.”
His words, combined with his fingers and their relentless work inside of you was enough to tip you over the edge. You clutched his shirt and let out a strangled moan, feeling yourself about to fall apart once more.
Tommy had one more request to make before you did.
“Look at me,” Tommy ordered, fingers knuckles deep inside of you. You did, lips parted and eyes heavy with desire. His ocean blue eyes met yours, his expression deadly serious, like this was an art form to him.
Your second orgasm in five minutes came rushing, every inch of your body shaking as you chanted Tommy’s name like a forgotten prayer. He continued to finger you through your orgasm, eyes watching you intently, almost intrigued by you and how your body reacted to him.
When the feeling of immense pleasure subsided, Tommy smirked satisfactorily and removed his fingers from your soaked pussy. His fingers were wet with your slick. “Taste yourself,” he ordered. “Taste how fucking sweet you are.”
You took his fingers in your mouth without question, swirling your tongue around them and tasting your own juices. Tommy’s breath actually trembled as he watched you. He used it to his advantage that he had you wrapped around his finger, but in reality, you had him exactly the same way.
“Good girl,” Tommy praised you, removing his fingers from your mouth. “All sweet and innocent. Just for me, isn’t it?”
You nodded, too overwhelmed and overstimulated from his mouth and his fingers to form a coherent sentence.
“Words, sweetheart,” Tommy commanded. “Use your words or I won’t fuck you.”
“Just for you, Tommy,” you breathed, barely louder than a whisper.
“He’s never gonna make you feel like this, is he?” Tommy growled possessively, lips ghosting over yours. “Never gonna make your pretty pussy cum like I do.”
You shook your head. Completely at his mercy.
“Open your mouth,” Tommy ordered, pulling your bottom lip down with his thumb before you even processed the request. You stuck your tongue out before he even asked you to, and when he spat onto your tongue, you gladly closed your mouth. “Swallow,” he told you, still clutching your jaw in his hand. You did as he asked, opening your mouth and showing him the smooth surface of your tongue once more to show him you’d complied.
Tommy groaned. “Such a good little plaything for me, aren’t you, sweetheart? Makes me want to keep you. He doesn’t deserve to have you like this.”
“Tommy, please,” you whimpered, tugging at his shirt, bringing his body closer to yours. You wrapped your still shaking legs around his waist, grinding your naked pussy against his clothed, hard cock. “Need you to fuck me.”
Tommy raised his eyebrows, smirking as he began to undo the buttons of his vest, tossing it away and then beginning to work on his shirt. “Want me to ruin you now, hm?”
“Think you want it just as much,” you argued, eyes raking over Tommy’s now bare chest. Even the faded ink of his tattoos enthralled you.
Your index finger ran over the tattoo on his pec. He watched you admiring him, his eyes still hungry, but something else shimmered behind his blue irises now. Something almost sweet, practically affectionate.
Tommy Shelby was not sweet.
But maybe for you he was willing to be.
You leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss over his chest tattoo. Your mouth acted before your mind did, your teeth softly grazing the skin just above his nipple. You bit him.
Tommy hissed through his teeth in surprise at your action. Though when you looked up at him, he was actually smiling.
You had never seen Thomas Shelby smile before.
Smirk, yes. But never smile.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you liked me, Mr. Shelby,” you smiled sweetly back at him.
“I do like you,” Tommy murmured, resting his forehead against yours, his nose brushing against your cheek. Your hand once again came up to rest on the back of his head, bringing him closer to you. “I like how innocent you are even with all the blood on your hands. I like that you’re about to give this sweet little virgin pussy up to me.”
You heard the clinking of his belt and the rustling of the material of his trousers as Tommy freed his hard cock from his briefs. You stole a glimpse at his length, watching as his strong hand pumped his cock a few times. You were pleasantly surprised. You had no idea a dick could be so pretty.
Tommy’s lips feathered a soft kiss upon your jawline. “I’ll be gentle if you want me to.”
You shook your head. Tommy raised his head from your neck, his traditional Shelby smirk back on his face. “You don’t want me to be gentle?”
“If I wanted gentle, I wouldn’t have come to Tommy Shelby.”
You’d heard stories of the Boogeyman.
And you wanted the fucking Boogeyman.
Tommy tilted his head to the side, his hooded lust-filled eyes never leaving yours. “Whatever you like.”
One of Tommy’s hands gripped your lower back, pulling you as close to him as possible. The other rested on the smooth surface of the wooden desk so hard his knuckles were already turning white, giving himself balance as he shoved himself into you inch by inch.
Your head tilted backwards, mouth open in a breathy moan. You felt lightheaded at the length and the thickness of him, like you could fall backwards, but Tommy was supporting you and wouldn’t let that happen. Your eyes watered, a combination of the pain and the pleasure.
Tommy didn’t move for a moment, allowing you time to adjust to the new sensation of his cock buried inside of you. His eyes met yours, tone deadly serious as he asked, “Feel okay, sweetheart?”
“Feels- Feels good,” you breathed heavily. “Please move.”
Tommy tutted, giving a single shake of his head. He pressed light kisses along your tear-stained cheeks, whispering against your skin, “You’re gonna need to beg better than that.”
“Please,” you whined, pulling his lips down onto yours, moaning against his mouth. “Please fuck me, Thomas.”
Either he was satisfied with just your few seconds of begging, or he was just too impatient to wait. Tommy snapped his hips against yours, reaching an unforgiving, brutal pace, his cock hitting spots inside of you that you didn’t even know existed. His movements drew out every moan, every whimper, every guttural sound from your very soul.
Something animalistic glinted in Tommy’s eyes with every hard thrust. His arm wrapped around your back, supporting you as each roll of his hips forced you further back onto the desk until you were led on your back, splayed across Tommy’s important letters, the savvy businessman side of him overtaken by the primal beast of a man now hovering over you, pounding harder and harder with each passing second.
Your legs were still wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, pushing him as far inside of you as possible. With his now free hands, Tommy pushed your thighs back to allow himself deeper access inside of you. His cock stretched you out painfully, but the pain was delicious. He slotted inside of you perfectly, like you were made to be fucked by him.
Every moan and shriek that left your mouth spurred him on, feeling himself getting closer and closer with each pretty sound you made.
“You feel - fucking - perfect,” Tommy groaned, each word punctuated by another brutal thrust that caused tears to prick at the corners of your eyes.
Tommy’s hand curled around your neck once more, his pace never faltering. “Look at me, pretty girl,” he growled.
When you did, you saw him. Thomas Shelby - leader of the Peaky Blinders - the monster you’d heard stories about.
The monster you used to fear.
The monster stealing your innocence on the desk at which he had drafted countless death threats - smearing your lipstick all over a letter addressed to the man you were set to marry in a few hours.
He had officially fucked every ounce of fear out of you, and replaced it with an inhumane, Unholy dedication.
“Don’t take your eyes off me,” Tommy ordered in what you were sure was his gangster voice - it was hot as fuck. The muscles in his chest and arms flexed with each thrust, he bit down on his bottom lip gently, his brow furrowed with concentration, a bead of sweat running down his temple.
He was fucking gorgeous. You couldn’t even resent him for it.
Your nails scratched at Tommy’s biceps as his thrusts became more sporadic. You could tell he was close based on his movements and the desperate pants leaving his mouth, his hot breath fanning on your cheek.
“I’m close, Tommy,” you cried. “Gonna cum again.”
“Cum for me then, pretty girl. Let me feel it.”
Whatever Tommy wanted, Tommy got.
Your pussy clenched around his cock as you reached your climax. White spots burst across your vision. Your entire body felt like it was on fire and your legs shook. Your third orgasm crashed over you like the sea onto rocks, and with a string of exclcamatorys from his filthy mouth, Tommy’s orgasm followed yours, spilling his cum into your newly fucked-out pussy.
There was silence as the two of you caught your breath. Tommy helped you into a sitting position, his arm around your waist supporting your trembling body.
Tommy opened his mouth to speak.
You got there first.
“Kill him.”
Tommy froze, eyes locked on yours. “Who?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
There was that word again. Should.
You should not have just allowed the man who lusted after your future husband’s blood to lust after you.
You should not have just let Thomas Shelby fill you up with his cum.
You should not have a deadly gangster wrapped around your little finger.
But you did. And you do.
And that’s what made you decide it.
“My husband. Kill him.”
Whatever Tommy wanted, Tommy got.
What he wanted now, more than anything, was you.
And he was going to get it. With just one bullet, a bloodstain on your wedding dress and a glimpse at the merciless monster you’d heard tales of growing up.
Headcanons for how the Peaky blinders (tommy john arthur and michael and anyone else you want) react to seeing a man annoying their girlfriend? maybe even getting handsy after she told him no? i neeeed some protectiveness🛐
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐲
You're nestled in the dimly lit corner of the Garrison Pub, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the low hum of conversations. Tommy's arm is draped casually over the back of your chair, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder in that possessive yet subtle way he has. The evening has been pleasant—sipping whiskey, sharing quiet words amid the chaos of Birmingham's underbelly—until this stranger saunters over, reeking of cheap ale and overconfidence. He leans too close to you, ignoring Tommy entirely, and starts with a slurred compliment that quickly turns into persistent chatter. "Come on, love, just one dance," he insists, his eyes lingering too long on your form.
You politely decline, your voice firm but measured, not wanting to escalate things in Tommy's presence. But he doesn't take the hint. His hand reaches out, grazing your arm in a way that's far too familiar, his fingers lingering despite your clear "no" and the way you pull back. The touch sends a shiver of discomfort through you, and you glance at Tommy, whose blue eyes have already darkened like storm clouds rolling in.
Tommy doesn't react immediately. That's not his style. He takes a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke that curls lazily into the air. "Oi," he says, low and even, but with an edge that could slice glass. The man turns, finally noticing Tommy, and his bravado falters under that piercing gaze.
"You've got two choices here," Tommy continues, his Birmingham accent thick and unyielding. "You can apologize to the lady and walk away with all your teeth intact. Or you can keep pushing your luck, and I'll make sure you regret every second of it." He doesn't raise his voice; he doesn't need to. The threat hangs in the air, backed by the weight of the Shelby name and the legends that surround it. The man's hand drops from your arm as if burned, his face paling. He mumbles something incoherent—an apology, perhaps—and stumbles back, disappearing into the crowd like a rat fleeing the light.
Tommy turns back to you then, his expression softening just a fraction as he slides his hand to yours under the table, squeezing gently. "You alright?" he asks, his voice quieter now, meant only for you. You nod, and he pulls you closer, his arm wrapping around your shoulders protectively. For the rest of the night, no one else dares approach. Tommy's presence is a shield, his love a quiet fortress. Later, as you leave the pub together, he murmurs in your ear, "No one touches what's mine," and you know he means it—not just as possession, but as a vow to keep you safe in this brutal world he navigates.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫
Arthur’s laugh is booming across the pub when the creep sidles up, slurring compliments that turn sour when you brush him off. You step back, firm: “Back off.” He doesn’t. His hand grabs your arm, fingers digging in like he’s testing how far he can push.
Arthur’s on him before the man finishes his next breath. One second he’s halfway across the room, the next he’s got the bastard by the throat, slamming him into the bar so hard the bottles rattle. “You put hands on her?” Arthur’s voice is a growl, all gravel and fury. His fist cocks back, then stops—inches from the man’s face. Not because he’s calm. Because he’s deciding how much to break.
He leans in, nose to nose. “You ever touch a woman who says no again, I’ll feed you your own teeth.” Then he lets go—just long enough for the man to think it’s over—before driving a fist into his gut. The stranger doubles over, wheezing. Arthur hauls him up by the collar, dragging him toward the door. “Out. Before I decide you don’t need legs.”
He kicks the man into the street, then turns back to you, chest heaving. The rage drains from his eyes the second they land on you. He cups your face, gentle despite the blood on his knuckles. “Did he hurt you?” His voice cracks, raw. You shake your head. He pulls you into his chest, arms like iron bands, muttering into your hair, “No one touches you. No one.” Later, he’ll pace, restless, until you pull him down beside you and trace the scars on his hands. Only then does he still.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧
John’s halfway through a story, gesturing wildly with a pint in hand, when the idiot leans over you at the bar, his hand sliding down your back like he’s got a right. “Piss off,” you snap, shoving his arm away. He grins, drunk and stupid, and grabs your wrist.
John’s there in a heartbeat, pint abandoned, chair clattering. He doesn’t grab the man—he moves him. One hand on the back of the neck, the other twisting the offending arm until the man’s on his knees, face pressed to the sticky floor. “You deaf, mate?” John’s voice is light, almost cheerful, but his eyes are cold. “She said no. That’s a full sentence.”
The man whimpers. John leans down, mock-whispering, "Touch my girl again, and it'll be your last mistake," he hisses, his voice low and dangerous, the Shelby edge cutting through. He releases the man, who gasps and retreats, muttering curses as he flees.
John turns to you, his expression shifting to concern as he checks you over. "You okay, darlin'? He didn't—" You shake your head, and he pulls you into a hug, his hands rubbing your back soothingly. "Good. No one messes with you."
The playfulness returns soon after; he drags you for a dance, spinning you until you're laughing, but his grip is a tad tighter, his eyes watchful. It's John's way—protecting you with a mix of charm and ferocity, ensuring the night ends on a high note, just the two of you against the world.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐧
Finn's holding your hand as you weave through market stalls, his youthful energy infectious as he points out trinkets and steals kisses when no one's looking. He's grown into his role in the family, but with you, he's still that sweet, eager boy trying to prove himself.
You've been steady for a while now, and he treats you like you're the center of his universe. But then this older chap, clearly a few pints in even at midday, spots you browsing fabrics and decides to make his move. "Pretty thing like you shouldn't be alone," he slurs, stepping too close.
"I'm not alone," you reply coolly, gesturing to Finn who's just a few steps away haggling over apples. But the man persists, his hand brushing your shoulder as he leans in. "Just a chat, love." You pull away sharply. "No, thank you."
Finn hears the edge in your voice and turns, his face hardening as he sees the man's hand hovering near you. He's not as seasoned as his brothers, but the Shelby blood runs hot in him. "Hey! Back off," Finn shouts, pushing through the crowd to stand between you and the man. His fists clench at his sides, his stance protective despite his slighter build. The man laughs dismissively, "Run along, kid", and reaches past Finn toward you again.
That's when Finn snaps. He grabs the man's arm, twisting it back with surprising strength honed from years of family scraps. "She said no, you prick!" Finn growls, his voice deeper than usual, echoing his brothers' intimidation. The man winces, trying to pull free, but Finn holds firm, his free hand balling into a fist. "Touch her again, and I'll make you wish you hadn't." There's a fire in his eyes, a determination to protect what's his, even if it means escalating.
The man backs down, yanking his arm away and slinking off with a glare. Finn exhales shakily, turning to you with wide eyes. "Are you alright? Did he hurt you?" His hands hover over you, checking without touching until you nod. Then he pulls you into a tight embrace, his heart pounding against yours. "I won't let anyone do that to you," he promises, his voice earnest.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥
Michael’s playing cards, cool and collected, when the man leans over you at the bar, his hand sliding up your thigh under the pretence of reaching for a drink. “No,” you say, loud and clear, slapping his hand away. He smirks, persisting.
Michael doesn’t stand. He unfurls. One moment he’s dealing cards, the next he’s beside the man, hand clamped on his shoulder with a grip like a vice. “You’re done,” he says, voice silk over steel. He doesn’t raise it. He doesn’t need to. The man tries to shrug him off; Michael’s fingers dig in until the stranger winces.
He leans in, close enough to whisper. “You see that ring on her finger? That’s mine. You see the way she’s looking at you? That’s disgust. Learn the difference.” Then, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, he shoves the man back, hard enough to send him sprawling into a table. Glasses shatter but Michael doesn’t flinch.
He turns to you, expression softening. “You alright, darling?” His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your lip. He kisses you slow, deliberate, right there in front of everyone—like he’s erasing the man’s touch with his own. Later, he’ll make sure the bastard’s banned from every Shelby establishment in Birmingham. Quietly. Efficiently.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐀𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐞
The bakery in Camden Town is quieter than usual, the scent of fresh bread mingling with the faint tang of rum from Alfie's office. You're perched on a stool, watching him bark orders at his men with that gruff charm.
But one of his newer workers, bold or stupid, doesn't know the boundaries. He approaches you while Alfie's distracted, his flirtations crude. "Fancy a walk, pet?" he says, and when you refuse, his hand lands on your knee, squeezing despite your sharp rebuke.
Alfie's head whips around like a bull sensing danger. He lumbers over, his cane thumping against the floor, his beard twitching with barely contained rage. "Right, what's this then?" he rumbles, his voice a gravelly mix of Cockney and menace. The man straightens, but Alfie's already towering over him, eyes wild. "You think you can put your filthy mitts on my woman? After she told you no? Nah, mate, that ain't how it works 'round 'ere."
He doesn't touch the man at first; instead, he launches into a tirade, words tumbling out in a chaotic stream. "See, in my bakery, we got rules, yeah? Bread rises, dough kneads, and no one—no one—lays a finger on what's mine without losin' said finger. Or maybe more, dependin' on me mood."
The man backs up, stammering, but Alfie grabs his collar with one massive hand, lifting him slightly. "Apologize, yeah? Proper like, or I'll bake you into the next loaf and feed you to the ducks. Slowly."
The apology spills out, terrified, and Alfie shoves him toward the door. "Out! And don't come back unless you fancy a swim in the river." Turning to you, his ferocity melts into concern. "You alright, treacle? That wanker didn't—"
You reassure him, and he pulls you into a rough hug, his beard scratching your cheek. "Good. No one touches my girl." The afternoon shifts to him fussing over you with tea and stories, his protection a whirlwind of bluster and deep affection, ensuring you're safe in his unpredictable realm.
𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 | sneaking out for the first time led you to meet your husband whose fallen head-over-heels for you, spoiling you every chance allowed. rebellion, now, has transformed into a domestic obedience
𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 | 16k+
𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 | fem pov, age-gap (20+ yrs), forced marriage, power dynamic present, fingering, consensual p in v, missionary position, doggystyle position, descriptions of smaller chest, non-virgin reader, creampies/breeding, lots and lots of cum
𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | i was gonna write something for valentines with miller, but i’m thinking of making it into something different… enjoy tommy, he’s a little out-of-character, but we’ll just say he’s lovestruck
(!) kinda proofread.
You shouldn’t have been there.
The thought followed you from your dressing table mirror all the way down Iron Row, and it clung to you like the perfume you’d generously dabbed at your throat. You planned your first outing as a young woman with precision, to dare past what your parents expected of you, what society expected of you.
In the mirror, you studied yourself with ruthless concentration. Everything felt new, or at least updated. Your hair, your dress, your demeanor. Tilting your chin higher, shoulders kept back, bosom propped up until you made yourself blush. Your eyes had to be half-lidded, not wide; wide meant young, naïve. You attempted boredom instead, leaning against the burle walnut with your chin resting in your palm.
Refined women, the women who belonged in dimly lit rooms, were bored, you decided. Nothing tonight would surprise or frighten you. Your eighteenth birthday was celebrated recently, you took it upon yourself to make sure you’d have nights like these and stories to tell, to whom you weren’t sure. A smile spread on your face as you looked at yourself in the mirror, and you knew your parents would turn ghastly pale if they saw you.
Peeking out of your doorway, you listened for any signs of suspicion. Your father’s house hummed quietly beyond the door, grandfather clock ticking in the hall, as if counting down the seconds before ultimate misbehavior. There was the faint clink of china as the maid cleared away supper, humming to herself a bit mindlessly.
You moved carefully, lifting the lid of your vanity as if it might have cried out. Red lipstick, borrowed from a schoolmate, was wrapped in tissue and hidden beneath your fur-lined gloves. You’d drawn the line slowly, steadying your wrist. Once, then again blotted.
Then, your eye makeup, it wasn’t meant to look natural, it was meant to shape. Smoky eyes weren’t meant for girls your age, they were mature, subtle.
The woman in the mirror stared back at you, with your large eyes and someone else’s mouth.
The dress was new as well, beautiful on your skin even if it was going to be covered by a mink coat. Your father would have called the neckline “smart.” Navy silk, bias-cut, backless. It fell in a line too fluid to be modest when you moved, and it clung when you breathed in. You bit your lip as it made you more aware of your body than Sunday dresses ever had.
Turning sideways, you looked at how the lamplight traced the curve of your hip. You swallowed, you looked older, old enough. With that knowledge, you began stepping out into the hallway, your heels held by your fingers as you tip-toed.
The large door to your father’s study was closed. A green banker’s lamp cast a hard circle of light across his ledger; columns of numbers marched in obedient lines beneath his pen. The scratch of nib on paper carried down the hall like a metronome.
You paused outside the doorway, shoes in hand, silk hem lifted clear of the rug.
He didn’t look up. Your father liked things that could be totaled. Contracts. Inventories. Losses. Reputation most of all. Reputation could be measured in handshakes and church pews and who nodded first on Coppersmith Lane. He did not account for daughters.
Another clock somewhere on the mantel chimed the quarter hour. Somewhere else in the house, you heard a page turn. You moved steadily
The gravel traitorously crunched under your heels as you crossed the garden. You paused by the hedge, heart hammering, waiting for a shout from an upstairs window that never came. The house remained pristine and respectable behind you. You turned your back on it anyway.
Iron Row stretched unfamiliarly ahead in long, uneven lines of brick and soot. Your mother always warned you to stay out of trouble, to not even think of traveling to the market. Factories exhaled all day; thick smoke and smog hung low, refusing to disperse. It had rained earlier that day, cobblestone, shining like fish scales beneath the lamps.
Your almond-toed heels sounded too sharp against them. Keeping your stride lengthened, you forced your shoulder back the way you practiced in the mirror. Keep your chin lifted, you thought. Eyes ahead, don’t glance. Women who belonged out at this hour didn’t dart their gaze over their shoulders for passerbys.
Men stood in open-lit doorways smoking. Feeling their gazes find you, a small part of you wanted to remind yourself this was for your better persona. One muttered something you pretended not to hear, something that made you pull your coat a bit tighter around yourself. The silk at your thighs whispered when you walked. Coppersmith Lane came into view. So did the Garrison.
It wasn’t like other buildings, it didn’t simply stand at the corner; it seemed planted there, stubborn as a taproot. Red brick dulled to brown by years of soot, windows bleeding light yet clouded with grime and nicotine. The glass was so dark it could have reflected the street instead of revealing the interior.
You slowed without meaning to. It wasn’t hesitation, you were assessing. From inside came the low thud of boots on boards, the dull percussion of laughter, the clink of glass. Smoke seeped from the seams around the doorframe, carrying the smell of beer and something metallic beneath it.
This moment was imagined by you with a certain elegance. In your mind, you would glide in confidently. A glance or two would follow. You would order something daring and sip it slowly, unimpressed. Instead, your stomach tightened so sharply you pressed your hand there, as if to hold yourself together.
You could’ve still turned back. Your father wouldn’t have known. The house would’ve swallowed you whole again. But you reached for the handle. The wood was worn smooth where countless palms had gripped it. It yielded under your hand with a reluctant groan. Heat hit you first. Heat and smoke.
The door shut behind you with a solid thud, and the sound of the street cut off like a curtain falling. Inside, the air was thick enough to chew. Sour ale soaked into the beams overhead. Greasy men and workers clung to the walls. Old wood, scarred and dark, held the memory of spills and fights and years of men leaning hard into it.
The floorboards dipped slightly toward the center of the room. The ceiling felt low. Lamps cast yellow halos that left the corners in shadow. The bar stretched along one wall, heavy oak polished by elbows rather than cloth. Behind it, shelves of bottles glinted through the haze. A narrow staircase rose toward the back, its railing worn smooth.
A dartboard hung crooked near the fireplace, where embers glowed beneath a mantle blackened by smoke. The hearth smelled faintly of peat and spilled porter. Conversation faltered at the scent of perfume, not stopped entirely, but changed.
You felt the shift ripple outward like a stone dropped into water. So extraordinarily foreign in a place you expected to not welcome, but to blend in. A man at a table near the door paused mid-sentence. Another leaned back in his chair, boot hooked over the rung, gaze traveling slowly upward from your shoes to your mouth.
Someone snorted softly. Someone else nudged a companion with an elbow. You kept walking. Drunken chatter resumed its course, though you could feel eyes staring into your back. Each step sank slightly into boards softened by decades of damp. Your heels made a different sound here, muted, swallowed. The silk at your hips brushed your stockings with a quiet hiss. The bar loomed closer.
Up close, the wood wasn’t glossy but layered, thick varnish over stains, over scratches. The edge bore shallow cuts where knives had once bitten. A dark stain near the corner had been scrubbed but not erased; the grain there ran darker. You placed your hands on the counter. It was sticky as the mug outside.
The varnish clung faintly to your palms, resisting when you shifted. The bar came just beneath your ribs. You adjusted your stance so you would not appear to be bracing yourself. The bartender approached without hurry as you slid your coat further down your bare back.
Broad shoulders. Sleeves rolled past his forearms. A towel draped over one shoulder like afterthought. His eyes slid over you once, shoes, hem, waist, mouth. They paused at your lipstick.
“What’ll it be?” he asked. His voice was flat, Birmingham through and through.
You swallowed carefully, as though swallowing steadied your voice. “Gin.”
One brow lifted a fraction. “Gin.”
You held his gaze. “Yes.” You were aware of every breath you took.
He reached for a glass from beneath the counter. It had been wiped, not washed; a faint ring lingered at the bottom. He filled it from a tap behind the bar, the water running cloudy before clearing. You wrapped your fingers around the glass. The condensation dampened your gloves.
Your father would never step foot in a place like this. He would speak of it in numbers; losses, risks, associations. He would shake his head at the recklessness of men who conducted business where fists flew.
Your first sip was harsh, burning your throat bittersweetly. At the illicit taste, you managed to cough a small amount back into your glass before clearing your throat. You were thankful that no one was paying attention to you for the first time since you walked in. Minutes passed slowly, you felt as though the night wouldn’t end.
Then the door opened.
A man beside you, who’d been laughing with his mouth wide and gums showing, stopped mid-note. The sound died in his throat as if he choked it down. You refused to turn, believing it to be, hopefully, another young lady.
A chair leg screeched and then settled. Someone cleared his throat. Glass met wood at the bar. Curiosity, piqued. You looked back, your eyes young and wide at the sight of two Peaky Blinders.
Thomas Shelby stepped over the threshold as if the air parted for him alone. Dark overcoat falling clean from his shoulders, the wool uncreased despite the grime of the street. Flat cap angled low, brim cutting a deliberate shadow over his eyes. His brother, you assumed, followed closely.
A cigarette burned between his fingers, smoke curling upward in a pale ribbon. You hadn’t seen him strike a match, he must prefer carrying them between his teeth. The ember glowed steadily, already halfway through.
The door closed behind them, unhurried. The men nearest the entrance shifted their weight back to clear a path. They knew something you didn’t, or maybe something you were afraid of.
You heard his name spoken in drawing rooms where heavy curtains rippled against walls and the decanters, crystal. Your father had once said it over supper, fork suspended midair. “Shelby.” Now he was here in the flesh, in your line of sight.
He didn’t look at you right away. He spoke to the barman first.
The barman straightened, wiping his hands on a rag already damp. “Evenin’, Mr. Shelby.”
Thomas removed one glove, finger by finger. “Evenin’.” His voice was low. Not loud enough to command the room. It didn’t need to be.
You should have looked away, you knew that. Instead, you stared. Not because he was handsome, though he was, in a severe, cut-glass way, but because there was something wrong about how still he seemed. As if the world moved around him and not the other way round.
Gin sat barely-started in your hand. The condensation of it dampening your glove. You came there alone, no chaperone, no driver outside, you and your feminine hubris. The Garrison had felt theatrical when you stepped in earlier, upon Thomas's arrival, it shrunk to a meek pub.
He spoke to someone at the back table without raising his voice. The man stood halfway from his chair, deferential without quite bowing. Shelby’s expression didn’t change, a murmur and a nod sufficed.
By then, conversation found another way to spark. Thomas took a slow drag from his cigarette, ember flaring. That may have been when you realized what unsettled you; his stillness. Not motionless, of course. He breathed and blinked, but no motion went wasted. He wasn’t young at all, no restless shifting or scanning.
Your father filled rooms, too, but he did it with volume. A booming voice and presence forced outward. This was much different, this was gravity.
Too late you became aware that you were staring. Too poorly did you attempt to correct it and lower your gaze with the excuse of idle observance.
Too slow. His eyes found you.
Blue. The color of winter river water beneath a thin sheen of ice. You felt it strike like a fingertip pressed against your throat. Your breath caught before you could prevent it. Heat crawled up the column of your neck, beneath the silk of your dress, pooling beneath the borrowed red on your lips.
Stop looking at him. Intimidation at its finest caused you to drop your gaze, eyes no longer half-lidded but shy, embarrassed at such a situation. But it was too late.
Unknown to you, that brief exchange was an assessment recorded. He didn’t blink away as other lecherous men had, he didn’t smirk or leer. He measured you. From beneath your lowered, dark lashes, you felt him take you in again.
The dress first, perhaps. Navy silk clinging to your waist and revealing where it shouldn’t cling to a girl who still had to ask permission to dine out alone. The fabric traced the lines of you too honestly. Your waist. The gentle rise of your hips. Not fullness. Not yet. Youth sharpened into something almost dangerous by intention alone.
Your hands, gloveless around a glass of amber gin, hands perched nervously as you trace the rim out of distraction. As if you didn’t want to seem innocent in your serving choice.
Your heels, good leather, wealthy leather. Polished, not purchased from a market’s stall. Your hair, cut a bit fashionably, but still extremely soft at the edges. As if changing times didn’t phase you just yet. Your skin unlined, unweathered. Roundness lingering in your cheeks, both pairs, that no amount of lipstick or dresswear could disguise.
He knew. You did not at all look like a child, but he’d seen too many women to mistake the difference between one who had chosen the night and one who had slipped out to taste it. His gaze returned to your face.
You felt the scrutiny linger on your mouth, the precision of a deep red. Not sloppily drawn. Careful, a girl’s attempt at a woman’s armor. Knowing his gaze lingered, you lifted your chin a fraction higher, as if daring him to contradict your mystique.
The corner of his mouth moved, barely. He took a drag of his cigarette without breaking his stare, smoke leaving his lips as he made out the lines of your back.
The room resumed its murmur around you, but the space between his eyes and yours held steady, taut as wire. You became acutely aware of your pulse, of the slight tremor in your fingers where they touched the glass. You set it down carefully to still them. The base clicked faintly against the wood.
Your throat felt tight. You swallowed against it and found your voice lodged somewhere below your ribs. Look away, you ordered yourself again. Instead, you met his gaze properly. Just for a heartbeat.
The world didn’t collapse. But something in your stomach dropped as if you had stepped off a curb you had not seen. His eyes sharpened with interest. He tilted his head slightly, studying you as though you were a ledger he meant to balance. The silence stretched long enough for you to feel the weight of it pressing against your skin.
You rose from the stool. The movement felt exaggerated, though you kept it smooth. Your knees threatened to betray you, but you locked them into cooperation. You smoothed your skirt down your hips, more to give your hands purpose than from necessity.
He watched every inch of it, every inch of you. You could feel the path of his gaze as you turned toward the door. Not possessive. Not yet. The handle felt cooler beneath your palm when you reached it. The noise of the room seemed muffled now, distant behind the pounding in your ears.
You stepped back out into the comfortable evening. Dusk clung to the street in bruised shades of purple and smoke. Gas lamps flickered to life along Iron Row, their glow catching the edges of still-wet cobblestone. The air tasted cleaner than the pub but no less heavy.
You drew in a breath that trembled despite your effort.
Your gloves were in your clutch. You fumbled them, fingers clumsy, silk snagging on your nails. You forced them on, tugging each one tight over your wrists as if they could restore order to your skin. Behind you, through the half-open door, the murmur resumed its normal rhythm.
Inside, he had not moved from his place at the bar. He didn’t turn his head to follow you or the full-glass of gin you left. He didn’t need to.
He took another drag from his cigarette, eyes still fixed on the doorway where you had disappeared, and spoke to Arthur in a tone so even it barely disturbed the air.
“Who’s that?”
Now, a month into marriage, you wake before him.
The room is dim, washed in the pale grey that creeps through Birmingham before the sun even commits to rising. Heavy curtains soften the cool morning light but don't keep it out entirely. It pools along the ceiling in thin ribbons, tracing plasterwork you have yet to memorize. The air smells faintly of starch and tobacco, even here, even in silk sheets that’re changed twice a week.
Thomas'ss arm rests across your waist. Not draped carelessly out of fatigue. It lies heavy and deliberate, palm flattened against your stomach as if testing him that you remain where he left you. Even in sleep, his fingers curl slightly, the tips brushing the soft silk of your nightgown. His body is warm at your back, solid. He breathes a steady rhythm in your neck, measured and slow.
You stare at the ceiling instead of turning to look at him. Your thumb traces over his scarred one, perhaps the only pattern you’ve recognized are the ones he’s acquired.
A month.
The ring, a navette-shaped marquise, presses cool against your finger where your hand rests on his. It catches on the sheet when you flex your fingers. You roll your wrist slightly and feel its weight, a small, polished diamond that seems denser in the mornings than it did at the altar. Thomas shifts, his face coming into your neck to breathe your hair.
Outside, a car rattles over cobblestone, more likely than not, one of his brother’s stopping by as they often did without protocol. The sound travels through the window glass, muted but distinct. Somewhere further in the courtyard, a man calls out, his voice carrying the flat vowels of early trade. The house is quiet, but not peaceful.
Even now, in the grey hush, there’s always a faint tension beneath the silence, like a wire pulled too tight. The pattering footsteps of old maids can be heard, but the younger ones are the ones who like to talk the most about you amongst themselves. A faint crunch of gravel as someone shifts their stance outside. There are always men at the gate, one near the door. They’ll tip their caps to you when you pass, step aside too. They too call you Mrs. Shelby with careful respect.
Turning your head slightly, you look down to see Thomas's eyelashes resting against his aged undereyes, from this perspective, you can count his gentle freckles. Your hip shifts a fraction beneath his arm, testing the small space between his hand and your waist. You feel his fingers tighten.
“Don’t.” The word is low, roughened by sleep, but it carries an intact edge. You pause, breath stilling halfway in your chest as his eyes slowly open. He doesn’t blink against the warm light seeping in. He simply looks at you, as though he’d been aware of you long before waking.
For a moment, Thomas says nothing. His hand remains on your stomach as he takes in your appearance graciously. His gaze moves slowly over your face in the quiet, hair loose and let-down around your shoulders, the crease at your brow you’d always seem to make when he raised his voice a decibel, and the faint shadow beneath your eyes from a sleep that’s not without overthinking.
Then, he leans in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering much longer than necessary. Though, his fondness is something you find hard to deny your pleasure to. Leaning in, your hand slides up to the side of his cheek, holding him against you as you sigh tiredly.
“You’re up early,” he says. His voice settles in now, pausing with gentle kisses that trail towards your jaw.
“So are you.” Your tone comes out steady, much steadier than you feel.
A faint curve touches his mouth as he hears the softness of your tone. “I wasn’t.”
He pushes himself onto one elbow, letting your arm fall slowly back down your stomach. The sheet slides down his chest, revealing pale, muscular skin scored with faint lines that catch the light, scars you’ve traced only once, carefully. Your eyes slowly make out his Forrard tattoo against his muscle. His hand remains at your waist.
He studies your expression, the way you’re leaned back against the soft linen, how your brows still curve as if you disobey. You hold his gaze, despite how easy it would be not to. It’d be simpler to look toward the window, out into the foggy morn, to play the role expected of you in this house with its high ceilings and low voices.
“You didn’t sleep,” he says, not a question. Thomas watches the way your hand holds onto the sheet as you bring it over your chest.
You turn on your back, looking up at him, cheek pressing against his bicep. He smells good, like his cologne. “I did.”
“You moved.” He corrects gently, a hand coming up to hold your cheek as you instinctively press against his palm. You swallow as he rubs your bottom lip. “Everyone moves.”
His thumb shifts slightly against your lips, the smallest deliberate motion. His gaze flick to your mouth, then back up to your eyes. “Not that much.”
The curtains stir faintly with the draft that seeps beneath the window. The light glows marginally stronger, outlining the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow beneath his cheekbone. Mornings like this, Thomas looks less like a man just risen and more like one who’s resumed watch. He’s been like this since the wedding; attentive in affectionate ways.
He notices when your voice tightens at the sound of raised chatter downstairs, holding onto his sleeve as if you’re being the one scolded. When you pause too long at the window overlooking the garden, wondering what other views you can take in without being so domicile. When you linger near the door to the yard as if measuring the distance to the gate.
You once asked him, standing in his office with a subtle wall of paperwork between you.
“If you plan on leaving, at least take the carriage,” he’d replied without looking up from the whiskey he was pouring. You’d stood uncertain at the time, your hands fisted in your skirt under the assumed scrutiny.
Your hair was let down, just coming back from visiting the horses. “When may I?”
The amber liquid had caught the lamplight as he tilted the bottle. Thomas set it down with care, lifted the glass, and only then glanced in your direction. He looked as though he already knew where you’d end up. “Whenever you’d like.”
He took a sip, gaze already elsewhere. That had been the end of it.
You know now how quickly he moved after that first night at the Garrison. Arthur had been sent with instructions murmured too low for you to catch. Your family name gathered. Your school records and photos. Parish books, even. The value of your father’s contracts calculated as precisely as any bet placed on a horserace.
You remember the evening your parents called you into the sitting room. Both of them sitting across from one of the plush booths, maids peering in from behind open doorways. Your mother’s hands were clammy and damp where they clasped her skirt. She smoothed the fabric once, twice, then again, as if it refused to lie flat.
A letter had been opened, resting in your father’s clenching hand. He cleared his throat and refused to meet your eyes immediately. More concerned with how you met Thomas Shelby in the first place.
“He’s… an ambitious man,” your father had said, choosing the word like it might bruise if handled roughly. Ambitious. As though that accounted for the way neighbors lowered their voices when the name Shelby was spoken. As though ambition alone could empty a bookmaker’s till without argument.
You said no. First softly, the word barely rising above the ticking clock on the mantel. Then again with enough force that your father’s brows drew together, not in anger, but in something more complicated. The refusal felt unfamiliar on your tongue, as though it belonged to someone braver than you. It left a dryness behind, a faint tremor in your hands that you hid by folding them in your lap.
Your mother had crossed the room before the silence could settle properly. She took both your hands in hers and squeezed until your knuckles pressed together, her rings biting into your skin.
“He can offer security.” Her voice carried urgency beneath its gentleness. You could smell lavender water on her cuffs. You could see the faint sheen of worry along her upper lip.
Your mind had betrayed you then, conjuring the image of the Garrison door swinging inward. The way conversation thinned at the edges when he entered. The men outside who did not laugh, who did not fidget, who stood as if carved into place. You had heard, quietly and more than once, that he did not strike his wife. That he kept a clean house. That he provided.
A week later Thomas Shelby stood in your parents’ sitting room. Hat in hand, yes, but there was no bend in his spine. His overcoat was impeccably cut, dark wool falling in straight lines. The light from the window struck his profile and sharpened it further, cheekbones like something etched rather than formed.
His eyes moved across the room once, taking in the furniture, the framed certificates on the wall, the polished clock, and then settled on you. He declined the cigar your father offered with a small incline of his head. “Not just now,” he said, voice low and even.
He asked about your schooling. About the languages you’d studied. Whether you rode. Whether you enjoyed the theatre. Each question delivered as though he were assessing a ledger entry rather than conducting courtship. His tone remained polite, almost warm. He smiled at your mother at appropriate intervals, reassuring in a way that might have convinced anyone who did not know how to look beneath it. He didn’t once ask whether you wanted him. He didn’t need to.
When he rose to leave, your father walked him to the door. Their handshake lingered a fraction too long. Your father’s shoulders seemed narrower afterward, his hand remaining at his side as though it had been weighed down. Your mother’s smile trembled at the corners until she pressed it back into place.
The wedding followed before you could find another no.
The church smelled of polished wood and cold stone. White lilies lined the aisle, their sweetness heavy in the air, almost cloying. You remember the weight of your veil more than anything else. It brushed against your cheeks when you turned your head, soft but suffocating, muting the world at the edges.
He stood at the altar already, dark suit cut perfectly to his frame. The congregation parted around him without being told, a quiet radius of respect. When you stepped into view, his gaze lifted. It did not flicker. It did not widen in admiration or soften in tenderness. It held steady, blue and exacting, traveling from the crown of your head down the line of your veil, over the silk of your gown.
You felt it pause at your throat, where the pulse fluttered visibly beneath pale skin. Then lower, to the shape of you beneath lace and satin. He measured, then. You walked toward him on legs that felt both uneasy. Each step of your satin heels echoed against the stone floor. The organ hummed above you.
Eyes could be sensed from every direction, but his were the only ones that mattered. When you reached him, he took your hand gently. His grip was firm, not crushing, but decisive. His thumb settled against your knuckles as though fitting into a place already marked.
The vows moved past you in fragments. Obedience. Cherish. Honor. His voice didn’t waver, nor rush. Each word placed carefully, as if it were an agreement being signed rather than a promise offered.
When the time came, he lifted your veil himself. The lace caught briefly on your hair before falling back. His fingers brushed your cheek in the process, cool and controlled. For a moment, you were close enough to see the faint lines of his crows feet, the small scar near his temple.
He looked at you as though the room had emptied. The kiss was gentle, deep, tongue reminding itself to remain where it had been before.. His hand came to your waist, steadying you. His mouth pressed to yours with deliberate pressure, not searching but sealing. The contact lingered just long enough to establish something undeniable.
You felt the faint scrape of his teeth against your lower lip, the firm line of his jaw as he angled his head. Applause rose somewhere beyond you. He didn’t look away when he drew back.
That night, in a bedroom prepared for you by other hands, he closed the door with quiet finality. The house had hummed with voices and celebration downstairs, but up there it was contained, insulated from the world. He removed his jacket first, folding it over the back of a chair with methodical care.
His movements were unhurried, controlled, as though there were no audience left to impress. When he approached you, he didn’t seize. You were frightened, of the thought of being in private with him more dangerous. Thomas touched your face with his fingertips, tracing the curve of your cheek as if reacquainting himself with something already chosen.
His gaze searched yours for a fraction longer than usual, not asking, not apologizing, simply confirming. When he kissed you then, it was slower. Less for display. His hand slid from your jaw to your shoulder, easing you back onto the mattress without force. He moved with restraint, as though aware of the difference in years, in experience, in certainty.
There was weight to him, yes, but also precision. He didn’t want to overwhelm you, he wanted to guide you. Even if tears burned down your cheeks, he was careful. Not gentle in the way of novels whispered about by girls at school, but deliberate.
He watched your face closely, adjusting himself when your breath hitched too sharply, when your fingers tightened against his sleeve. His voice, when it came, was low and brief. “I’ve got you.”
Your gaze flicks back towards Thomas now.
He’s shifted closer without you noticing the exact moment it happened, not that you would’ve sunken back, you don’t do that anymore. His breath reaches you now, warm, faintly laced with tobacco and sleep, brushing the curve of your cheek each time he exhales.
“You’re thinkin’,” he says, fingers resting against your forehead as he plays with your hair. His voice is quiet, but there is no laziness in it. Even in this half-light, even with the imprint of the pillow still faint along his temple, he sounds alert.
“I usually am,” you murmur. The words come softer than you intend. Your throat feels tight from holding too much inside.
His eyes never leave your face. His thumb shifts where it rests against your waist. Slowly. The pad of it traces a line just beneath your ribs, not quite a caress, not quite idle movement either. He follows the rise and fall of your breathing as if he’s decided belongs to him.
“About what?” Nothing in his question is impatient, and that’s what makes your pulse stutter under his hand.
You tell yourself it’s because he’s watching you so closely. Because he’s always watched you this way, as though waiting for the smallest fraction in your composure. “Nothing worth losing sleep over,” you say softly.
Thomas's gaze sharpens at that. You feel it like a shift in pressure. As if you’ve said something worth causing aggravation. “Sleep isn’t what you’re losing, love,” he replies.
His thumb drifts again, lower this time, mapping the narrow line where silk meets skin. The touch is unhurried, testing. You feel heat gathering beneath it, blooming outwards in quiet betrayal. Your hand meets his, holding it gently as he leans in, kissing your collarbone.
“You think too much in the mornings,” he says. His hand, holding yours, slides from your waist to your hip, fingers spreading slightly as if to anchor you there. He leans in further, his forehead nearly brushing yours. The air between your mouths thins. “You wake up, already halfway gone,” he murmurs.
“Gone where?” His gaze drops to your lips. He doesn’t answer immediately. The pause stretches just long enough for your stomach to tighten.
“Somewhere I can’t see.”
You search his face for mockery finding none, just steady blue, but threaded now with something else. Not softness. Something more guarded than that. Something he doesn’t name.
“You see enough,” you say as your gaze lowers, though the admission comes out less certain than you mean it to.
He hums faintly in his throat, unconvinced. His hand leaves your hip only to cup your jaw instead. His fingers are cool at first against your skin. His thumb presses lightly just beneath your ear, tilting your face upward.
“I see what’s mine,” he says. The words settle low in your stomach, heavy and warm.
“And what’s that?” you ask, a playful lilt in your tone. You do not know why you push him. Perhaps to hear how far he’ll go.
“This,” he says simply. His mouth closes the space between you.
The kiss begins as pressure. His lips brush yours once, testing, before returning with more intent. His hand remains firm at your jaw, guiding the angle. You feel the slow exhale he releases through his nose as your mouth parts beneath his, how his tongue lathes over yours salaciously. There’s no rush in him. He takes his time, as though proving something neither of you has said aloud.
His other hand slides back to your waist, fingers curling into the silk of your nightgown, drawing you closer until your body aligns with his. Your hand finds his shoulder without thinking. The muscle beneath your palm is solid, warm. He deepens the kiss gradually, not demanding, but coaxing. The slow drag of his lower lip against yours sends a shiver down your spine.
When he pulls back, it’s only enough to look at you. To take in your flushed cheeks and swollen lips. Your breathing is uneven now. You hate that he notices. You hate more that you know he does.
“There,” he says softly. The word almost to himself. His thumb brushes your lower lip, wiping away the faint smear of color left from last night’s lipstick. “Still here.”
His gaze holds yours a moment longer, searching for something you can’t name. Then his mouth curves faintly, and he leans down again, this time without hesitation, without pause, kissing you with a depth that leaves no room for distance, only the slow, deliberate surrender of breath and thought and the fragile illusion of escape.
The morning light strengthens, cascading in pale bands across the sheets. It outlines the planes of his cheekbones and catches in his eyes, sharpening the blue to something almost metallic. His thumb lingers at your jaw before he releases you, pushing himself upright. The day begins around him quickly.
But by evening, the estate has settled into a different kind of quiet. One that’s domestic, far away from the world of business.
You’re brushing through your hair at the vanity as the fireplace snaps softly from behind the grate, sending up small bursts of amber that flicker against the walls. The curtains are drawn tight against darkened cobblestone, thick velvet muting the nighttime of the outside world to a distant hum. The air carries the faint tang of his cigarettes, woven into the starch of freshly pressed linen and the polish of old wood.
Gentle fingers rest lightly against the edge of the mahogany wood, surface gleaming beneath the lamplight, smooth enough to mirror gold and shadow in molten streaks. Your reflection hovers in the glass, bare shoulders above the neckline of your evening dress, the delicate band of your wedding ring catching the light as your hand shifts.
Your breathing is visible in the slight rise and fall at your collarbone. You tell yourself your expression is composed, that you’re more developed than the mirror shows.
Behind you, the door clicks shut. You don’t turn. You always know when Thomas enters a room. The air adjusts, tightening a fraction. The fireplace seems to steady its crackle.
Even the quiet rearranges itself. His shoes make almost no sound against the persian rug, yet you feel him cross the space between the door and your back. It is not noise that announces him. “Stay there,” Thomas says. Low, even. Not a request.
Your fingers tighten slightly on your brush, feeling the warmth of your hold against the handle. On the polished surface before you lies no velvet box tonight. No hinged lid waiting to be lifted. You swallow as he approaches, looking up at him in the reflection before he whispers under his breath. “Beautiful girl.”
Thomas's eyes linger on yours through the looking glass. He steps in close behind you, hands finding your waist without hesitation, palms settling with unerring familiarity. Heat seeps through the thin fabric of your dress. He doesn’t grip. His thumbs press lightly into the curve of your sides before sliding upwards.
Shivering as he traces up your gown, over the sides of your breasts before pulling something from his sleeve. A necklace. The soft gold catches in the lamplight deliberately. A heart-shaped locket, heavy enough that you can sense its weight even from his palm.
“Thought you’d like something a little less mature, love,” he murmurs. The words brush the shell of your reddening ear, the faint rasp of his voice vibrating through you. Less mature.
Your gaze flickers towards your own reflection. The locket gleaming as he dangles it between his thick index and middle finger. You almost smile at the phrasing; as if you’re not already his wife, as if the ring on your finger doesn’t already gleam with olden finality.
His breath drifts into your hair. Thomas inhales slowly, the scent of Lady York lingering as his chest expands against your back. He likes to do that sometimes before he leaves in the morning, too. As though carrying something of yours with him into smoke-filled rooms and threatening deals.
Thomas's right hand, the one not holding the locket slips onto your side unhurried. He rubs your hip, tracing the laced edge of your chemise slip beneath your evening gown. Slowly, Thomas traces higher until reaching your ribs, rubbing the expanse of fabric below your ample breast.
You feel your pulse quicken before you can stop it, his hand has already found your pulse at your neck. A faint breath of amusement warms your hair. “Still fast,” he says quietly.
You lift your chin, eyes focusing on his through the mirror. “You startle me.”
“I don’t.” He says it calmly, almost conversationally, and the certainty in it sends a different kind of shiver through you. The acknowledgement makes you smile.
“Let me, love,” he adds. You lower your hands without argument.
The necklace is cooler than you expect when he picks it up. The chain whispers faintly as it slips between his fingers, metal sliding against skin. He brings it around your neck, his knuckles brushing the sensitive hollow at your nape.
You instinctively tilt your chin further upward, exposing your throat.
The clasp clicks shut with a quiet, decisive sound. He doesn’t withdraw. Instead, his hands linger at the base of your neck. One thumb drifts forward, guiding the locket until it rests precisely at your collarbone. The gold warms quickly against your skin, the weight settling into place as though it has always belonged there. You look at it in the mirror.
Ornate without excess. The engraved lines catch the light in sharp, deliberate patterns; your initial and his in cursive script. Behind you, his eyes lift to meet yours in the reflection.
The bedroom holds its breath. His gaze doesn’t wander the way other men’s might. It fixes onto the way your lips curve in a gentle smile. At the knowing of his subtle claim, charming you with delicacies. There’s something almost reverent in it, and beneath that, something far more possessive.
“Perfect girl,” he murmurs, the words escaping like a thought not meant to be heard.
Your throat tightens. His hands slide from your shoulders down to your waist again, fingers spreading wide as if reacquainting themselves with territory already claimed. Thomas draws you back against him until the line of your spine aligns with his chest. The steady beat of his heart can be felt through his shirt.
You search your reflection. The locket gleams against your throat, a bright, deliberate heart resting where your pulse beats strongest. Lamplight slides across its engraved edges, catching in the hollow at the base of your neck. Your cheeks hold a faint flush that deepens when you tilt your chin. Your lips are parted slightly, softened by his earlier kiss, though you don’t remember parting them.
You don’t see the girl who stood at the Garrison bar with borrowed lipstick and a practiced stare. You see someone composed. Chosen.
His mouth brushes your cheek, then the angle of your jaw. The kisses are unhurried, measured. Each one placed with quiet precision, as though he is charting territory only he understands. His breath warms the sensitive skin beneath your ear before his lips follow, slow and deliberate.
“I’ll give you the world if you ask for it, princess,” he murmurs. The endearment lands softly, almost tender.
His hands tighten fractionally at your waist, drawing you back until your spine presses fully against him. You feel the steady beat of his heart through the layers of fabric. His thumb drifts along the curve of your hip, then stills.
“I’ll give you anything,” he continues. The words settle between you, heavy and sincere in their own way.
The fire shifts in the grate with a sharp snap, sending a scatter of sparks upward. You watch them in the mirror for a moment, their brief flare and fade. His mouth lingers at your neck, then pauses. You feel his breath change.
“And what would you ask for?” he asks quietly, his lips gently pressing against your pulse.
You consider the gold at your throat. The silk at your waist. The warmth of him behind you. You think of the house with its tall windows and guarded gates. Of shopkeepers who bow their heads and neighbors who lower their voices.
Your fingers lift slightly, brushing the locket as if to test its weight. Thomas moves up from behind you, his arms encircling your waist.
“I don’t know,” you admit.
He exhales softly, almost through his nose, and the sound brushes your hair. “That’s because you’re tryin’ to think of the right answer.”
Your gaze flicks to his in the mirror. He watches your reflection, not the jewelry. “Is there one?”
“There usually is.” His hand leaves your waist and slides upward, not possessive now but guiding. His fingertips skim your shoulder, then your collarbone, tracing the line just above the locket.
“You don’t have to stand so straight all the time,” he says after a moment, before chuckling against your scalp. “It’s like you’re imitating me.”
The remark catches you off guard. “I’m not-”
“You are.” There’s no accusation in it. Only certainty.
“You walk into a room like you’re negotiating terms.” His mouth curves faintly. “Chin up. Eyes level. Measuring.”
Thomas slowly begins massaging your shoulders as you huff, a small pout threatening to reveal itself to him as your cheeks flush with embarrassment. You feel heat rise along your throat, though his tone is mild.
“I don’t want to look foolish.”
“You don’t.”
The response is immediate. His hand slides down your arm, taking your wrist gently. He turns you toward him, not sharply, just enough that you have to meet his eyes without the mirror between you.
“You don’t have to be so grown all the time,” he says. The words are quiet.
You search his face for mockery and find none. Only that steady focus. “You think I’m pretending,” you say carefully, “like I’m some unmannered... temptress.”
He smiles with his teeth and shakes his head, lowering his stroking fingers until reaching your smaller hand. “I think,” he replies, brushing his thumb across the inside of your wrist where your pulse flutters, “that you’re trying to be someone you aren’t.”
The room feels warmer, the he fire humming behind you. You’re aware of how young your skin looks in his, the flesh smooth, the veins faint beneath it. You look down at both of your silver bands barely touching each other, the sacred covenant they entail.
“I’m your wife,” you remind him softly.
His gaze warms a fraction, not in weakness, but in consideration.
“You are,” he agrees. “That doesn’t mean you have to carry the whole world on your shoulders yet.”
Yet. The word lingers. He lifts your hand slightly, studying the ring there. His thumb circles the band once, thoughtfully.
“You’re allowed to laugh too loud,” he says. “To want things that aren’t sensible. To ask for sweets instead of diamonds.”
A faint crease appears between your brows. “You bought me a diamond bracelet last week.”
“I did.”
“And now you’re telling me to ask for sweets?”
He huffs a quiet breath that might be amusement. “I’m telling you,” he says, stepping closer, “that I don’t need you to be anything but what you are.”
Your gaze drops briefly to the space between you, to the line of his tie, the rise of his chest. “And what is that?” you ask.
He tips your chin up with two fingers, not commanding, steady. The fire has settled into a patient glow by now, embers sending up tiny sparks that die against the chimney. You can feel the locket’s weight against your throat with each shallow breath you take, a small, hot presence at the base of your neck where silk meets skin.
“You’re young,” he says simply. “Be young.”
The tone surprises you, carrying none of the ledger’s economy you’d come to expect from him. It isn’t the blunt currency of bargain; it sounds, oddly, protective. You search his face for the usual hard geometry, the absence of irony leading you to his intimate stare.
“I don’t want to seem like…” You drift, quieter now. You feel ridiculous voicing them, as if confessing a private practice of disguise.
Sometimes, you’d been careful on purpose; a lifted chin, slow smiles, and practiced indifference you’d learned from Thomas at parties. For him, it’s armor, for you, a costume.
“You won’t,” he assures you with a swift and gentle turn of your bodice to face him. His hand moves to your waist, gentler this time. His thumb brushes the edge of the locket, letting it sway slightly against your skin.
“Stop trying to look older than you are,” he murmurs. “It doesn’t suit you.”
Your breath catches.
“What does?” you ask, wanting to see whether he’ll answer with more contract talk or with something that belongs only to you. He laughs then, a sound that surprises you as it softens the line at his mouth. It’s low, private, like a thing meant for safes.
“This,” he says, and when the single word falls it comes with the light movement of his hands: not letting go, but opening enough that you can read the shape of his meaning.
He tips your chin up with the pad of his thumb, exposing the pale line of your throat, the place where the locket nestles warm. “Not all the time,” he adds quickly, as if he fears being mistaken for a fool with sentiment.
“Not that you should throw things away. But laugh louder, love.” His hands come to hold your shoulders, squeezing them together.
“Wear the color you like without counting the years. Dance in the kitchen at two in the damn morning if it pleases you. Let someone else be sure for a while, let me take care of it all.”
You feel heat, embarrassment, maybe, and something stranger like relief, rising behind your ribs. The offer of small rebellions sounds almost dangerous when it comes from Thomas; from the man whose name shapes the town and whose presence can make a room full of men hush.
How can you accept the liberty he proposes without conceding that you had, up to now, been playing a part he or anyone else could interpret at will?
“So, not always grown?” you say, testing the way the words fit in your mouth. You let your voice wobble on the last syllable deliberately, watching his reaction.
“Not always,” he agrees.
He slides his hand up through the hair at the nape of your neck and presses his forehead against yours. The motion closes the distance between thought and action; a small, private collusion.
His breath warms the hollow of your ear. “Be reckless in ways that don’t ruin you,” he whispers. “I’ll cover the rest.”
There it is again, that promise that feels like a shelter.
Your laugh comes out before you can stop it, brittle and honest, and he matches it with a smile that softens his whole face. You let your hands leave your lap and splay against his chest, feeling the steady beat there, a counterpoint to the panic you’d learned to keep at bay.
“There’s my spoiled girl.” Thomas smiles, kissing you quickly.
The words brush over you in a tone that might be teasing, but the way his hand tightens at your waist makes it something else, something indulgent, edged with ownership.
You feel the laugh fade from your mouth, though the warmth the kiss sparked still lingers in your chest.
“I don’t recall being spoiled,” you reply warmly, though your voice carries less bite than intended.
Your palms are still spread against his chest, fingers grazing the line of his waistcoat. The fabric warm beneath your hands, faintly scented with tobacco and starch. You can feel the steady thud of his heart under the layers, unhurried, certain. His eyes drop to your mouth before lifting again.
“No?” he murmurs, as though considering it. “You laugh at me. You question me. You look at me like I owe you something.” His thumb traces the seam of your bodice, slow and deliberate.
“That’s not how most people stand in front of me.” The reminder slides between you like a blade wrapped in velvet.
You tip your chin slightly higher, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Perhaps you should stop standing so close.” He huffs a quiet breath through his nose, not quite a laugh.
Instead of stepping back, he leans in, pressing the line of his body more firmly to yours. The contact steals the air from your lungs in small, controlled sips. His hand moves from your waist to the laces at your back, fingers testing the knot there without undoing it.
“Stay,” he says softly.
The request settles in your stomach. Not an order barked across a room. Just that low, even tone meant for you alone. You become acutely aware of every inch of yourself, the way your shoulders draw in, the rise and fall of your breathing, the faint tremor in your hands as they hover uncertainly at your sides.
His fingers work the laces loose with practiced patience. Each tug loosens the bodice a fraction, the fabric easing its grip on your ribs. You feel the heat of him close behind you, feel his breath ghost across the exposed skin at the nape of your neck.
“You hold yourself too tight,” he murmurs, more to the stubborn laces than you. “Even now.”
“Maybe I have reason,” you whisper, though the protest lacks force.
The gown slackens further, and you draw a deeper breath than you had all evening. It feels almost indecent, the way relief mingles with anticipation.
The dress slips from your shoulders under his guidance, careful hands catching the fabric before it can pool at your feet. He sets it aside with an attention that surprises you, smoothing it over the back of a chair as though it were something precious rather than an obstacle.
When his hands return to you, they don’t rush, they skim along your arms, down to your wrists, then back up, mapping the shape of you as if reacquainting himself with a claim he had already made.
You turn back to face him, suddenly unwilling to remain half-hidden. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the measured way his gaze moves from your face downward and back again, lingering without apology.
“You don’t look spoiled now,” he says quietly.
“What do I look like, then?” you ask, though your voice comes softer than before.
He steps closer, closing the last inches of space between you. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing lightly beneath your lower lip.
“My wife,” he answers, not as a boast, not as a threat, but as a simple fact he expects the world to accommodate.
The word sends a slow warmth down your spine, pooling low and insistent. You reach for him, fingers moving to the buttons of his waistcoat. If he notices the slight tremor in your touch, he doesn’t comment. He only watches, eyes hooded, as you work each button free.
The fabric parts under your hands, revealing the crisp linen of his shirt beneath. “You’re staring,” you murmur.
“Mm.” His hands slide to your hips, drawing you closer until the layers between you feel negligible. “I’m allowed.”
You roll your eyes, but the gesture lacks conviction. The final button comes undone, and you push the waistcoat from his shoulders. He shrugs out of it easily, letting it fall wherever it lands.
Your fingers move to his collar next, loosening it, tugging it open just enough to expose the line of his throat. His breath changes. It deepens, roughened slightly, though his hands remain steady.
“Careful,” Thomas warns, but the word carries no real restraint.
“Be foolish sometimes,” you echo softly, meeting his gaze with a challenge that makes his mouth curve.
He doesn’t answer with words. Instead he bends and captures your mouth in a kiss that carries underlying desperation. His hands slide up your back, fingers splaying wide.
You feel the shift in him, the protective promise giving way to something more immediate, more urgent. Not careless, never that, but eager in a way that makes your pulse stutter, yet again. When he pulls back, it’s only far enough to look at you, to take in the flush rising along your cheeks, the quickened rhythm of your breath.
“Bed,” he says quietly, the single word thickened by want.
You don’t argue. Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck, letting him carry you, the fire casting long shadows against the walls as the night folds in around you.
Thomas’s breath steadies against your neck, not yet ragged with desire, but measured with control. The kind of control that makes you anticipate this moment more than any demand or threat.
His fingers trace the line of your stocking where silk meets skin, following the seam with the same precision he uses when he studies ledgers. The touch is unhurried. As though confirming something he already owns.
“Relax.” It’s not a request. Your spine stiffens its arch anyway.
The mattress dips beneath his knee as he shifts closer, and his other hand slides to your lower back, broad palm spreading, anchoring you where you sit. He doesn’t force you down. He hardly needs to. The pressure is firm enough to remind you of the size of him, the certainty of him.
You become acutely aware of the difference in years, in experience. The ring on your finger feels heavier in this light. You’ve been married scarcely long enough for the housemaids to stop staring at you with curiosity.
He’s been a husband before. He knows how this goes.
His mouth brushes your neck. Not quite a kiss. The warmth lingers without claiming. He inhales, and for the first time, you catch the faint shift in him, the restraint drawing tight beneath his skin.
“Steady yourself, love.”
You swallow. “I am steady.”
His thumb slides a fraction higher along your thigh, testing the truth of that. Your breath betrays you before your pride can intervene.
“Look at me.” The command from him is soft. You turn your head, and his eyes meet yours in the dim glow of the fire. They’re not wild. As if he’s gauging not just your reaction, but his own. There’s whiskey and smoke on his breath, but there’s also hesitation, faint but real, flickering beneath the surface like something he does not allow many to see.
“You understand what this is,” he says, quieter now. Not a question. Not quite a statement. Your heart beats hard enough that you feel it in your throat.
“Marriage,” you answer carefully.
Thomas’s jaw tightens. “More than paper.”
His hand moves higher, not invasive, not abrupt, but with a certainty that leaves no room for pretending innocence. He watches your face as he does it. Every shift of your mouth. Every hitch in your breath. He doesn’t look away.
“Don’t make this something it isn’t,” he says. His forehead lowers until it rests briefly against yours. The contact is startling in its softness. “I won’t hurt you, sweetheart.” The promise is simple.
Your hands rise slowly, almost cautiously, until your fingers brush his jaw. The stubble there scratches your palm. He stills at the touch. It is the smallest pause, but you feel it.
“I know,” you whisper. Something in his expression flickers. Relief, perhaps. Or something closer to fear.
He kisses you, not with hunger, not yet. It’s slower than before. His mouth moves against yours with restraint, as if he is reminding himself that you aren’t a conquest to be taken, but a wife to be kept.
“You belong here,” he murmurs, the words almost inaudible. “With me. To me.”
His lips finally touch your neck again, this time with more intent. The kiss is soft but insistent, a brand. A promise. His grip tightens briefly in your hair, then loosens, fingers smoothing the strands back into place as though correcting himself.
“You’re my girl,” he says against your lips, the words roughened by something deeper than desire.
You hesitate only a heartbeat before answering. “I’m your girl.”
Your mouth parts beneath his, from the simple fact that you forget to guard yourself in time. He feels it. The shift is immediate, though subtle. His inhale falters as his tongue weighs onto yours. His hand tightens in your hair, not enough to hurt, but enough that you feel the decision in it. His composure does not shatter outwardly. It draws inward, condenses, like heat forced into a smaller space.
“Greedy,” he murmurs against your mouth.
There’s no mockery in it. If anything, the word lands closer to approval. He kisses you deeper, and the restraint he has been wearing all evening thins to something transparent. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, slow, testing.
When you respond, tentative at first, then with more certainty, his breath roughens. He lowers you back against the mattress without breaking the kiss, one hand braced beside your head, the other still threaded in your hair as though he needs the anchor. The weight of his body hovers, controlled. He doesn’t collapse his hips onto yours.
The firelight flickers across his face, catching the hard angles of his cheekbones, the scar at his temple. His eyes search yours with a look you have seen across boardroom tables and over betting slips.
There’s hesitation.
“You want more, love?” he asks. His voice low, stripped of the sharpness he uses with other people. Your throat feels dry. You nod anyway.
For a moment he just watches you, as if testing whether you understand the weight of that answer. Then he exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, but not amused.
“Christ,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
He shifts, settling between your thighs with care. The pressure is deliberate, his body aligning with yours in a way that makes your breath hitch. He pauses there, giving you space to push him away if you choose to. You don’t.
Your hands hover uncertainly at his shoulders before gripping the fabric of his shirt. His palm slides along your hip, thumb pressing into the curve as though steadying both of you. He moves with patience that feels heavier than urgency ever could.
When his fingers slip beneath the hem of your chemise skirt, the contact is warm, unhurried. He traces the edge of your stocking again, following it upward inch by inch, giving you time to feel every second of it.
“You’re trembling,” he says quietly.
You are. The tremor runs through your thighs and into his hand.
“Not afraid,” you manage softly. His mouth tilts slightly. It’s not the sharp, public smile. This one is smaller. Private.
“Good,” he says. “Because I won’t rush.”
There’s something in that tone that makes your chest tighten. He leans down and kisses you again, slower now. His lips move with a kind of concentration, as if memorizing the shape of your mouth.
When his hand slides higher, skimming the delicate edge of your undergarments, both of you go still. The air shifts. His breath catches audibly. His eyes lift to yours, and for the first time tonight, you see something unguarded there. Not lust alone. Something closer to uncertainty.
“Tell me you want me,” he says.
The words aren’t possessive. They’re raw.
“I do,” you whisper.
His eyes search yours one last time, as if he expects the answer to change. When it doesn’t, something inside him settles. Not completely. Thomas Shelby doesn’t surrender completely to anything. But enough.
The words settle into him like a benediction. His shoulders relax incrementally, the tension that's been coiled in them for hours finally easing. He doesn’t rush. That’s not in his nature when it comes to you, but he doesn’t hold back either.
His fingers slip beneath the delicate edge of your lacy undergarments, and the touch is as if he's afraid of breaking something precious. You’re wet, not sopping, but damp.
“Fuck,” he mutters, the curse soft against your skin.
His other hand slides down your back, fingers curling into the fabric of your chemise. He pulls you closer, aligning your bodies with a precision that speaks to years of careful planning, even this.
Even intimacy with him feels calculated in some fundamental way, as if he's mapped out every possible reaction. As his fingers trace the soft outline of your slit through the chemise, he breathes out slowly through his nose, jaw clenched as though fighting some internal war.
“Tell me again,” he says, his lips brushing your ear.
“Tell me you want me. Not the idea... Not what I could be for you.”
His other hand’s thumb presses against your throat, and you feel him take hold of your neck, pressure emitting a breathy moan from your lips. “You. All of you,” you whimper, and mean it.
His breathing hitches. For a moment, his control slips; you see it in the way his hand trembles against your cunt, the way he presses his forehead to yours.
“Sweet girl,” he breathes, the word strangled.
His fingers sink deep into your cunt, making you whine as his thick knuckles curl into your sweet depths. Thomas feels you lean into his neck, your small hands clutching at his shirt like a stretching cat. The sound you make, soft and helpless as your nails gently claw his back, it does something to him. Something he doesn't have a name for.
Thomas’s digits are fully inside you now, knuckles pressing into your tight walls, the feeling of your wetness almost overwhelming to him.
He’s seen bodies before. Used them for his own pleasure when the loneliness consumed him.
But this is different. It’s you.
He holds you tighter, the arm wrapped around you pulling you flush against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong against your ribs. The scent of him fills your senses.
“Shhh,” he murmurs against your hair, though you’re not sure what’s troubling you more. The unfamiliar fullness or the way he’s looking at you in a way you’ve never been before.
He shifts his fingers inside you, watching your face in the flickering firelight. The shadows play across his sharp cheekbones, his jaw, that scar at his temple. You look up at him, whimpering soft noises.
He looks like a man who's seen hell and survived it. You wonder if this, you, are part of his salvation or another layer of damnation.
“You're squeezing tight,” he breathes, the admission small and rare. His thumb finds your clit, stroking with a gentleness that's almost contradictory to the rough man he is in every other moment.
“Thomas,” you gasp.
He kisses the top of your head, holding you like you might break if he moves too fast. His arm slides down from your throat to encircle your waist, holding your elbows behind your back as he grips you.
“I know, sweetheart.”
He feels you tighten around his fingers, your body trying to accommodate him with small, fluttering movements that make his breath catch. He adds another finger, pushing in slowly, deliberately, giving you time to adjust.
“Christ, you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his lips against your ear. His words are rough, sincere in a way he rarely allows himself to be.
You write gently as his wrist rotates gently, the obscenity of his actions blurring into his gentle cradling of your back. It’s as if there’s a knot of fire within your core, something unfamiliar, something you didn’t allow yourself to feel the night of your wedding.
“So perfect. Taking me like you were made for it.”
His hand tangles deeper in your hair, holding your head steady as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. Not that he’d ever say it aloud, but his grip tightens, possessive and desperate in a way that has nothing to do with domination and everything to do with need. He slides his fingers in and out of you slowly, testing, preparing.
You can feel him watching your face in the firelight, studying every expression that crosses your features. There’s something raw in his eyes, a vulnerability he rarely shows, like he's checking in with you, making sure you’re still with him.
“Tell me if you need me to stop, yeah?,” he says, though his voice suggests he’s terrified of the answer being yes.
Nodding, a small whimper escapes from your throat. His thumb brushes over your clit again, and your hips buck off the mattress involuntarily. He groans at the sight, low and guttural.
“Fuck,” he breathes, and then he’s kissing you again, deep and hungry, as if he can't get enough of you. His fingers move faster now, scissoring inside you, stretching you open for what's coming next.
“You're going to take all of me, aren’t you?”
Your breath is a sweet hum in his mouth as your voice tinges with soft whining. You nod, his lips still attached to yours with a connection that borders manic.
“Mmm… Yes, Tommy,” you manage breathlessly.
Thomas hears you say his name like that, Tommy, and something in him cracks completely. “Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, his fingers sinking deeper, faster.
He watches your face, the way your eyes go hazy and unfocused, the way your lips part around his name. It's a sight he’ll burn into his memory.
His thumb presses harder against your clit now, rubbing in slow circles that make your thighs tremble. He feels you clenching around his fingers, your body getting ready to come for him. The thought makes his breath hitch. “Come for me,” he commands softly, his lips trailing down your neck.
His voice cracks on the words. “Come 'round my fingers like a good girl.”
Knowing you’re both so vastly different in age makes him feel a wave of guilt so sharp it almost hurts. You’re so young. So perfect. So good for him in a way that feels almost obscene. But looking at you, watching you trust him with this, with your body, with your pleasure, he can't find it in himself to regret it.
“You're mine,” he whispers, his free hand sliding from the grip he has on your elbow into the dip of your waist, cupping your breast through your chemise. His thumb brushes over your nipple, feeling it harden under his touch.
You arch as he roughly gropes your chest, looking away with a hot flush on your cheeks before feeling him press open-mouthed kisses to your neck, up to your soft cheek.
“My sweet girl.”
His fingers move with increasing urgency now, and you can feel him hard against your thigh, can feel the tension building in his shoulders, the way his jaw is clenched tight. He's fighting himself, trying to hold back, but you're too perfect, too willing, too his.
“Tell me you're mine,” he demands, nipping at your earlobe. “Say it while I fuck your little cunt with my fingers.”
Your cheeks flush with heat as you whimper quickly, “y-yours…”
Your orgasm is at the brink, and when Thomas slowly arches his fingers, you cum on his hand. He watches you unravel, your body shuddering and clenching around his fingers in waves that make his breath catch. The sight of you, so lost in pleasure, so utterly his, does something to him that he’ll never be able to part from.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he breathes, watching your glistening cunt gush out onto his wrist. Your knees are shaking at the edge of the bed as you huff, your stockings hanging from your ankles like soft chains.
“Tommy,” you huff, eyes brimming with overstimulated tears as he cradles you in his muscular arm, rubbing your back as you whine.
“Look at you. So perfect. So mine.”
He pulls his coarse fingers out slowly, one by one, and you feel the emptiness like a physical ache. But then he holds his hand up, showing you what you’ve done to him, his fingers sopping with your wetness, slick and shining in the firelight.
“You see this, love?” His voice is rough, filthy, as he brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you. His eyes are dark, possessive.
“This is you, sweet girl. My gorgeous wife.” The sucking noises he makes on his own digits are obscene and embarrassing, his cheeks hollowing as he watches your expression.
When he’s finished lapping up your remnants of arousal, his rough hands gently begin at the edge of your chemise. You close your eyes before feeling him pinch the edge of your shirt, lifting it over your head before watching your chest rise and fall, nipples perked from arousal.
Thomas looks down at you, watching your chest rise and fall beneath his palms. Your nipples are pinkened and swollen, your skin flushed in the firelight, and he can't help but admire you.
As an aging man, even after mere weeks of knowing your body, he can’t get enough of you. He cups your breasts with reverence, thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks and watching you shiver.
“Perfect,” he murmurs, the word like a prayer.
His touch is gentle now, almost worshipful, a stark contrast to the rough fingering before. You look up at him as his gaze remains focused on your bare chest, the movement slight beneath him as he rubs the softened, plump flesh.
“You’re small,” he says, his voice rough with emotion he won't name. A mad blush flusters your face at his comment, you look away and towards the fireplace. Thomas breathes an amused sigh.
“Still so fucking perfect... I’ve always loved these.”
His thumbs circle your nipples, and he watches your face, the way your eyes go soft and hazy again. His hands slide up to your shoulders, gripping gently, holding you like you might disappear if he let go.
Legs still suspended by air, you huff in embarrassment. “You’re lewd, Thomas.” Something in his jaw clenches imperceptibly at the breathless note. His hands remain where they are, curved possessively on your breasts whilst he presses your hips flush against his.
“Am I?” His voice is low as he leans in, hovering close above your face. He watches you from beneath his lashes, assessing the way you slightly tremble before looking away.
Precious, he thinks.
He doesn’t move his hand to touch your face or lift your chin. Instead, he lets silence stretch, just to see you become uncomfortable when he’s letting you lead, or at least offering. The kind that makes ordinary people squirm and confess.
But you remain quiet; his shying, young wife.
“You know what I think?” He leans down slowly, deliberately, until his breath ghosts across your ear. “I think you’re the one who’s been lewd. The way you waltz into my rooms. Lookin’ at me like that.”
You look up at him hazily, feeling him lean down to suck at your skin.
His thumbs trace over your nipples as they harden. “Tell me, love,” the nickname rolls off his tongue with dark familiarity. “What did you expect when you wandered into The Garrison, eh?”
“I wasn’t wandering,” you whine softly, feeling your sensitive peaks being brushed by his tongue.
“No? Who were you looking for then?”
He hums against your sensitivity as he smiles, because he knows you’ve been caught in another meandering facade. His teeth gently clench onto your chest as he suckles, squeezing the opposite breast before lifting himself off.
Thomas’s hand begins moving to his own belt, unfastening it with steady fingers, keeping his eyes locked on you before tilting your cheek to look at him.
“Eyes on me.”
He’s breathing hard now, his control fraying at the edges. You can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong as his hand slides down to fish out his heavy cock.
Thomas watches you as you part your legs for him, the gesture sending a jolt straight to his groin. He’s already half-hard, throbbing in his hand as he strokes himself, but the sight of you, spread and wet and wanting him, erects him fully in seconds.
He grips his shaft, stroking down slowly as he looks at what's on offer, your soaked cunt glistening in the firelight, your thighs trembling and spread for him, and your sweet locket glimmering with every faint breath you take. He swallows hard, his hand tightening on his cock as he leans in close.
“You remember our wedding night?” he murmurs, his mouth hovering over yours. “All the filthy noises you made when you tried to hide them?” He bites your lower lip gently.
Your chest rises and falls in anticipation, voice meek.
“What about them?”
“I heard them. Every fuckin’ sound. And I want to make you scream even louder. Make you wake the whole estate with how much you need me.” His hands slowly open your legs wider as you bite your plump lip. “I’m going to make you feel so good, love,” he promises, his voice low and guttural.
His eyes never leave your face as he positions himself at your entrance, pressing his cock against your slick folds. The sensation is almost overwhelming, the heat of you, the soft give of your folds, the way you clench around his musk even without him being fully inside.
Your eyes squeeze shut at the hot pressure, your lips have barely parted, only beginning to take his heaving tip. He watches as your mouth parts, thanking him silently for making you cum beforehand, knowing the mistake it was to attempt to fit all of him the first time you fucked on your wedding night.
Thomas breathes out in increments, trying to steady himself. He knows he should be gentle, knows he’s already too rough with you, but God, you’re so perfect. He presses in slowly, watching your face, listening to the wet slide of his cock into your cunt. You’re tight, so impossibly tight, and it makes his breath hitch.
“Thomas…” you whine, head leaning back as you murmur erotically again, “please…”
He’s always had the ability to melt the words in your mouth whenever he fucks into you, it’s never savage, but he savors the unspoken words that remain inescapably in your mouth.
“I know, love,” he nods, gently holding his hands underneath your knees as he sinks deeper, “I’ll go slow.”
He smiles as you let out another wanton sigh. You aren’t begging obscenely, yet, and that’s what makes him think you’re the sweetest thing. Your eyes squeeze shut as he buries himself inches at a time, his hands gripping your soft legs, holding you steady as you open up for his cock with every flutter of your aching pussy.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
When he’s finally seated to the hilt, he pauses, letting you feel all of him. Breathing slows as you try to relax around him; he’s always had to wait a few moments before moving, not wanting you to tear or cry from pain.
“How’s that feel?” He murmurs, seeing the utter bliss etched on your face.
“Legs up s’more, sweetheart.”
You nod weakly as his hands retreat from your knees, shakily wrapping them around his muscular back, stockings dangling on one ankle, soft cotton tickling the back of his thigh.
Thomas lowers himself now, his elbows meeting the sheets as his fingers begin toying with your hair, gently moving strands out of your face so his palms can cup your cheeks without obstacles. His cock is twitching, aching deep inside of you, but he doesn’t move just yet until you’re ready.
“No burning?” He asks softly.
The first time he fucked you, he stuttered his hips inside too quickly, deeply. When he pulled out, there was a distinct tear that bled onto his thick pubes. You had to lie in bed with a cold bottle of bourbon between your thighs for three whole nights.
You slowly blink, half-lidded eyes looking up at him as you manage a tiny breath. “No.”
He’s still getting used to having you, and only you, this way. Usually, he’d be finished by now, patting a whore’s thigh and telling her the money’s on the nightstand. Even if he treated them well, even if he used to make time for that bargain, he always knew it was a mere transaction.
But with you, he’s relearned how to take his time, how to fuck without scaring you into burying your face in his neck. His presence lingers still, even if you’re his wife. After all, he’s Thomas Shelby, you can tell when it’s him entering through any doorway.
You nod, eyes squeezed shut as you wince. “It’s…” you moan, feeling his hips arch slightly until his cock tents from inside your stomach.
“Use your words, Mrs. Shelby,” He doesn’t often call you that, especially not in bed. His hips roll slightly, just a small movement, testing. When you whimper and roll your head back against the sheets, he starts to move slowly.
Parting your lips and slowly looking up at him, you finish. “It’s big…”
Thomas grins as he holds onto the hair at your scalp, gently pressing you deeper onto his cock. The wet sounds of his hips beginning to slowly roll into you fill the room, slick and obscene.
“You knew that, didn’t you?” He roughly mutters.
The gentle rocking becomes a harder, more insistent rhythm. Thomas feels you clench around him, your cunt gripping his cock like it's the only thing keeping you together, and it makes his breath come in harsh, uneven gasps.
“Ah, ah..” you huff, it’s wanton, hot to him.
Your nails gently claw onto his shoulders as he fucks into you. Thomas watches your exasperated face, the way your eyes roll back as you try to move your head to look down.
The clasp of his hand in your hair falters before he leans into a deep kiss, his other hand sliding down to grip your hips, using you to pull himself harder inside. The wet schlop of his cock sinking into you fills the room, slick and obscene as he pistons into you.
Thomas releases your lips, the wet string falling onto your lips as he grins darkly, watching your hair sway with every thrust.
“Tom-” You wince, your back softly arching before his lips catch a hold of your dampening skin. He keeps his teeth clenched onto your neck, biting hard enough for you to wince before licking the bruising wound.
“Christ, you're so good for me,” he mutters, his breath harsh against your neck.
You wince, feeling the scars forming from the mere cuts of his sharp teeth. “That hurts…”
“You’ll take it.” He mutters, knowing how well bruises will pair with your new gold. “You’re a good girl…”
Thomas likes the way the term of endearment rolls off his tongue, his lips sucking your youthful throat, feeling each vibration your moans become the culprit of.
His movement transitions into a slow, deep rocking that grinds his thick tip against your cervix, dick curving into your sweet spot as your escaping moans lift their pitch.
His hands clench your hips before lowering his hips quickly, hands grabbing hold of your waist as he lifts your back. He feels you clench around him, your cunt pulsing and trying to milk him already, and it makes his control slip further.
“I can’t,” you pant, tears falling down your cheeks. Not from pain, far from pain. “It’s too much, I can’t!” Your whimpers are quiet, hiccuping with overstimulation, chest undulating with every deep thrust.
“You can.” He assures, hands sliding to cup your chest as he lowers his face between the valley of your breasts. “You’re being so fuckin’ good,” Thomas mutters, his voice vibrating against the side of your breast he’s kissing as he fucks you deeper.
“No, please, I c-” You cry out at the feeling of him biting your nipple, the sting making you clench around him, gushing around his cock.
“Fuck, you’re soaking,” he groans, his head buried in your breasts.
His movements are getting more desperate now, losing the careful control he's maintained since the moment he entered you. The sound of skin slapping against skin, the slick glide of his cock fucking into your tight cunt, the rough huffs of his breath, it all combines into a symphony that makes his head spin.
Your eyes have rolled back by now in lustful haze, your previous protest blending in with utter pleasure as his hips dominate against yours. His hands slide up from the sides of your soft chest, tracing your nipples before reaching to cup your face, thumbs brushing your flushed cheeks.
“Tell me who you belong to,” he commands, his thrusts growing longer, a bit deeper.
He delves his hot tongue straight onto yours, mouth sucking at yours deliciously, swallowing every petite moan you can handle, the escape of. His breath is hot in yours, lips hovering barely to mutter filthily onto your lips.
“Tell me who this sweet little cunt belongs to.”
“You… Tommy,” you whimper, he smiles against your mouth. His movements speed up slightly, still barely controlled but losing some of that careful precision. You cry out as he shifts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that makes your legs squeeze his lower back.
“Yeah, sweetheart. Mine.”
He can feel your inner walls fluttering around him, clenching and relaxing in waves that threaten to send him over the edge. The thought of you coming again so soon after he just brought you to your first orgasm makes something primal in him wake up.
“Don’t stop,” you beg weakly against his lips. Thomas cradles the back of your head now, rocking his hips into yours slowly.
“That’s it, love. My good girl,” he rumbles, dark eyes drinking in the picture of sweet submission you paint. His other hand traces the elegant column of your neck, pausing at the racing pulse he finds there.
“I've barely had to raise my voice. Not a flicker of defiance in those pretty eyes.”
You sniffle, panting against his lips as he holds you still. “I’m there…”
He slowly begins pulling out, making you whine before he shushes you with a kiss. His cock drags out of you until his tip is lodged near where your hymen used to be torn apart.
“Look up at me.” He orders, squeezing the back of your neck as you tense. You obey, tears wetting his palm as you try to move your hips against his.
“I’m not gonna pull out tonight,” he whispers. Your eyes widen, yet you aren’t entirely afraid of the idea of carrying his firstborn. A part of you wants to shake your head, but you’re frozen, all but for your hips attempting to suck him back into you.
He takes in your silence before murmuring. “You’ll be a good mother, I know you will,” he nods.
“But I’m not…” He lets you pause, slowly sinking back inside. “Not even…” You can’t finish moaning gently as his cock buries itself back inside. A method of madness he’s used on only you.
Thomas stirs his cock deep inside, brushing your hair out of your face once more. “You want me to finish inside, love?” He asks roughly, though he knows your question will be subdued by his ministrations.
His finger takes hold of your hand, trailing down until holding it against the tent in your stomach as more tears fall from your blushing cheeks.
“Right here, sweetheart.” He murmurs in your ear, feeling your hands tremble on his back. “I’ll fill you up here.”
You imagine him plotting with other members of the gang with the same precision, but never the same amount of lewdness as in this moment. Thomas pulls you flush against him as he grinds deeper into your soft pussy, feeling its walls and ridges arouse him further.
“Fuck... This is what it means to be my wife, fuckin’ adoring all of you.”
You wince as his other hand fists in your silky hair, forcing your tearful gaze up to meet his heady stare.
“Tell me, love. Tell your husband how bad you need his cum to fill up your greedy cunt.”
It's not until now that you’ve noticed the way his balls feel as they twitch against your taint, heavier than you'd wanted to acknowledge. He begins quickening his pace, not wanting to lose your orgasm. Except now, his pounding begins outside of your pussy, and it rams deep into you until your throat emits broken sobs.
His large hand comes up to pet your hair as he groans above you. “Shhh, don't cry, sweetheart...” he murmurs. “I'm going to fill you up... fill you up so fuckin’ full.” His voice rumbles lowly as he laps up the salty tears of your cheeks. Your breath hitches as you sob sweetly.
“Breathe for me,” he coaxes breathlessly, his thumb swiping across your trembling lower lip. “Let me hear you, loud as you can now.” His hips snap forward, burying his thick shaft to the hilt.
You convulse around him, a silent scream tearing from your raw throat. Thomas leans in, biting your pulse point again, snarling as he feels your tight heat beginning to throb.
“I'm gonna cum,” you sniffle, crying as he nods his head.
Chest heaving, he grips onto your wrists and dives his chest onto yours, pinning your limp form beneath his sweat-slicked muscles. He captures your mouth in a searing kiss, plundering the warm cavern with his tongue. You whimper into the invasion, tasting traces of your arousal mingled with his triumphant male musk.
Your body stiffens beneath him, spine arching as your sweet climax crashes through you with devastating intensity. You wail in his mouth, voice ragged and desperate. Tears stream down your flushed cheeks as your velvet walls clench and spasm wildly around his pistoning cock, milking him for every last drop.
Thomas deepens the kiss with a guttural groan, driving into you one final time as his cock erupts. Ropes of hot semen paint your insides a pearly white, flooding your fertile womb with his potent seed.
“Fuck, that's it, sweetheart.”
He rocks into you, grinding his pelvis against yours as spurt after heavy spurt pumps into your convulsing sex.
“Take this fuckin’ load,” he groans against your tongue as his hips roll again and again, not stopping until your stomach begins to swell subtly from the sheer volume, stuffed to capacity with his virile essence.
You keep crying, knees wobbling as he holds them against his sides, your own strength faltering as you feel yourself dripping onto the bedsheets.
“My beautiful girl,” he pants against your bruised lips. “You took your husband’s cum so well. Such a good girl.” His large hands stroke along your curves almost reverently as you both bask in the aftermath, bodies entwined and sated.
You feel his hands slowly begin turning you, and your breath becomes a forced, tiresome murmur. “Tommy, wait-“ You huff as he rolls you onto your belly, tear-stained cheek pressing into the rumpled sheets. His calloused hands roam possessively over the lush curves of your ass, kneading the plush flesh.
“Shh...” He parts your thighs wider, exposing your dripping, well-fucked cunt to his hungry gaze. Watching intently, he sees rivulets of his thick cum oozing out of your swollen, stretched hole, painting obscene streaks down your inner thighs.
“Fuckin’ hell, look at you... leakin’ everywhere.” He reaches out and catches some of the pearlescent fluid with his fingertips before bringing them to his mouth. Licking them clean, he hums in satisfaction. “Mmm, your pussy tastes sweeter.”
Turning his attention back to your glistening slit, he parts your folds with two fingers and pushes the rest of his escaping release back inside your fluttering passage.
You bite onto the bedsheets, trying to halt the twitching of your holes before whining. “Stop it...”
Thomas chuckles from behind as he plunges his digits deep into your core, curling them upwards to rub insistently against that sensitive bundle of nerves nestled within your depths.
“Don't be embarrassed,” he whispers, giving your bottom cheek a sharp spank. The sound echoes loudly in the quiet bedroom, followed swiftly by your yelp of surprise, followed by the heaving of your back as you cry. He massages the reddened skin before gripping your rear hard enough to leave imprints in your supple flesh.
Coming back up, he presses his lips against the shell of your ear. Hot breath washing over your neck sends tingles racing down your spine.
“Sweetheart...” He cooes softly, rubbing your bottom as he hardens once more without your knowledge. “You took me so beautifully,” he praises huskily as he continues pumping his fingers slowly, working his load deeper into your spasming walls.
Each thrust forces another burst of cream to ooze out and trickle down his invading knuckles.
“This sweet little quim, all fuckin’ mine,” he declares with arrogance, circling his thumb firmly against your swollen clit as his free hand drifts to squeeze the underside of your breast possessively, rolling and plucking at your nipple until it pebbles tightly against his palm.
“Don't say that,” you huff, sniffling.
Thomas pauses before shaking his head.
“Let me worship you a little longer, love.”
His lips kiss your cheek before he tilts your face with one hand, tongue lathing over your lips as he sucks some of the blood off your cut. He releases you as you huff, watching your leg slowly come up.
“And this perfect body too,” he emphasizes, giving your curved hipbone a light pinch as he nips sharply at the juncture of your shoulder blades. The sting quickly fades into pleasant pulses of pleasure radiating outward. His teeth scrape teasingly over your nape before he suckles a dark mark into the tender skin.
“You'll carry my children soon.”
He predicts smugly, knowing instinctively that his seed has found purchase in your fertility. You whimper at the plurality. His ego inflates with each inch his cum travels higher, burrowing deep into your vulnerable cervix. Soon, in the coming months, you'd swell round with his offspring.
“Stay right there,” he murmurs, pressing your hiked-up knee against the mattress. He withdraws his soaked fingers only to replace them with the broad head of his rehardened cock, nudging demandingly against your entrance.
You try to turn your head, “I thought you-”
You’re cut off by a swift flex of his hips as he sheathes himself fully inside your dripping channel once more. Bottoming out, he grinds his pelvis against your ass as he hilt his thick cock deep within your clasping cunt. Reaching new depths previously untouched by missionary.
“There we go...” He groans, squeezing your bottom as you arch.
He’s filling you impossibly fuller than before. Stretching you wide around his girth as he sets a steady rhythm, pumping languidly into your molten heat.
Thomas grips your hips tighter, lifting them higher off the mattress to force you into a lewd display. Your cries of pleasure escalate, tears flow freely down your burning cheeks as he exposes your dripping, thoroughly used sex. He’s so deep you can feel a foreign twitch in your throat. Rivulets of his thick cum dribble down your thighs as he spreads your legs wider, pushing your knees apart.
“Please, Thomas, not so hard!” you beg, voice choked with emotion.
He lines himself up once more, the bulbous head of his member nudging insistently at your puffy, sore entrance. You're incredibly sensitive, nerve endings screaming from the intense fucking you just received.
“I know, I know, I’ll be gentle,” he murmurs as he drives forward with a soft grunt, diving into your wet pussy with one deep thrust. He hilts himself completely now, balls slapping lewdly against your clit. Your pussy, slick with your combined juices, offers no resistance to his renewed virility.
“Thomas!” you whine desperately as he starts pumping into you, setting a restrained pace.
Each drive of his hips forces fresh gouts of semen to bubble out around his pistoning shaft, splattering onto the bed below. The vulgar squelches and schlicks of your coupling fill the air.
“There, sweetheart. Take your husband's cock like a good girl,” he growls, gripping your hips hard enough to leave livid marks.
One hand snakes around to find your sensitive clit, rubbing firm circles around it as he pounds mercilessly into you. He's determined to fill you, to have a legacy begin tonight.
Tears blur your vision as you arch helplessly into his dominance, impaled on his rigid, heavy flesh. Broken sobs escape your lips with each brutal impact of his pelvis against your upturned bottom. Pleasure and stinging pain intertwine, overwhelming your senses.
Your pussy, battered and abused, flutters weakly around the invading intruder. Thomas leans over your arched back, covering you with his larger frame.
He bites your earlobe before whispering hotly, “Gonna pump you so full of my seed, sweetheart... Fill this greedy cunny 'til it’s drippin' outta ya...”
You blush, feeling him grin before kissing your cheek, his hands removing themselves from your hips and moving to intertwine with your fingers from behind. Sighing into him, you unclench your heat and allow even more of him inside.
He smiles against your lips before huffing. “Deeper now, love?”
Sniffling beneath him, you manage a breath. “Yes… Please...”
Thomas nods, staring into your eyes before allowing your face to press against soft sheets. He lifts himself, looking down at your bodice beneath him, the chain of your necklace being weighed by gravity. His hand sweeps over your neck and moves thick hair to weigh past one shoulder instead of your damp back.
He groans, letting his head fall back as he lets his hips find a proper rut inside you. The bed creaks ominously beneath the force of his thrusts. His grip on your fingers tightens as he increases the tempo of his relentless thrusts.
“Ah, fuck!” He grits his teeth, his own whines gravelly and drawn-out, fighting the urge to explode prematurely.
Sweat beads on his brow and trickles down the cords of his neck as he loses himself in you. He watches the ridges of your back beneath him and curses to himself. Leaning back down, he latches onto your shoulder, sucking a vivid hickey into the delicate skin, marking you as irrevocably his.
“That’s it, take it! Fuck, your sweet cunt...” He gasps, hammering harder, chasing his rapidly approaching climax. The obscene slap of flesh against flesh fills the room, accompanied by the debauched squishing sounds of your overflowing pussy being stirred yet again.
Thomas hasn’t fucked you like this, ever, spurred on by the debased sight of you sprawled beneath him, drowning in ecstasy and desperation.
You knew he was holding back, but you shudder at the thought of him still restraining his base needs even now. His free hand finds your neglected breasts, pawing and kneading the generous mounds. He pinches and rolls the stiff peaks cruelly between his fingers until they ache deliciously.
You wince as his fingers pinch your nipples, knowing the sight of them isn't what turns him on most, although his cock is practically ripping through your back.
Humming beneath him, you feel another wave come crashing down onto your hips, and your knees buckle as he continues pounding into you. Overstimulated and needy, you cry beneath him. Thomas moans as you cum onto his cock so soon already, he quickly increases his pace.
“Gonna... pump you so fuckin’ full.” He snarls savagely against your neck, sinking his teeth into the tender junction of your collarbone and throat.
Biting down hard enough to draw a bead of crimson, marking you, claiming you utterly and completely. His rhythm turns erratic, hips jerking spastically as he nears the precipice of release.
“Fuuck!”
With one last violent surge forward, he hilt himself to the root inside your clutching pussy. His cock pulsing and throbbing uncontrollably as he unleashes a torrent of scalding seed straight into your vulnerable cunt.
Thomas collapses heavily upon you, crushing you into the mattress with his superior weight as spurt after copious spurt of potent semen pumps into your spasming core.
“Unggh… Fuck. Yes,” he groans gutturally, shuddering and twitching as the last vestiges of his release drain into you.
Finally spent, he drapes over your nubile form, heaving and panting hotly. His cock remains inside you as you breathlessly exhale, feeling him turn you around, cum seeping from the sliver of an opening your stuffed cunt allows.
His pupils relax their dilation as he stares down at you, the fireplace's embers gradually burning out as he cups your face.
“Oh, sweetheart...” He lowers himself onto you again, kissing you as you hold onto him, hands searching immediately for his support.
Pride and possession suffuse his expression as he gazes down at your ravaged beauty, drinking in the sight of you defiled and debauched, dripping with his essence.
Tenderly, he strokes the sweat-damp tendrils of hair plastered to your brow and cups your tear-streaked cheek in his broad palm.
