.݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. 22 write mostly for cillian murphy characters, trying to get more into writing if you have any requests send them in, i need motivation
Could you do sex pollen with reader? Something about him BEGGING to have relief 🤤 maybe a mission gone wrong? Trapped in a bank safe? Can you tell I’ve thought of this before?
[Masterlist]
18+ Only | 3.5k | Want to send your own request? | Homelander x female!supe!Reader | Sex pollen. Marathon sex. Dacryphilia? OR well tears are involved. Love confessions.
I am on a fucking roll! Follow-up to this. (spoiler alert: this mission deffo doesn't go like the cover picture)
The site was deemed too dangerous for the Vought camera crew to tag along. It’s rare to go on a planned mission without multiple cameras catching every angle of your ass in the stupidly contoured spandex suit. It's nice.
Even with your mind powers, Vought still wanted to pimp out your body. No asset left unused and unabused.
What isn't rare is going on yet another team-up with Homelander. You’re certain he’s been pulling strings—matching you both up together over and over again to create a media buzz. You’ve seen all the paparazzi photos from your missions. People couldn’t get enough of you. You knew this because Homelander made sure you saw each post—texting you daily yet another gossip magazine post about a brewing secret affair.
The message sounded similar. Always some variant of ‘we should give them something real to write about ;)’
He took great pleasure in flying you over slowly. Your body’s durability doesn’t come even close to your teammates in the Seven. Your brain has always been your selling point. While you will stop a bullet, you won’t survive Homelander’s speeds. It means, however, that he gets to keep you in the air for longer, talking your ear off about the plans he has for your relationship.
A relationship that isn’t there, mind you. Yes, you fuck on the side. Yes, you could admit to yourself that you care about him. But actually committing to a relationship? You’re not sure you can do that.
Homelander quietly lands you both on top of a shipping container in the quiet part of the New York harbour. It’s just past midnight, this place is eerily empty compared to how busy New York usually feels.
You’re on a mission to apprehend a rogue supe that Vought can’t sink their claws into. You have very little information on her besides that she has an amateurish understanding of chemistry and makes unstable concoctions and gases. This definitely feels like a Black Noir job but Homelander insisted you two take the case. You had no choice but to smile and nod at the team when it came to your agreement.
“Couldn’t you have landed us on the ground?”
“Mh no, I can see better from here.” You shake your head and roll your eyes to yourself as you properly stand up, brushing your hands down your sides to get rid of the bunched up wrinkles in the suit Homelander’s hands pinched into it during the flight.
You go to the edge of the container, jumping off as smoothly as you can but the thick heeled boots still make you stumble.
“Baby deer.” You hear a sneer from above you where Homelander has adopted his stupid little pose, condescendingly looking down at you.
“Suck my dick.” You throw him a finger and find your footing. “And be quiet. We’re meant to be discreet. You should have let Noir take this.”
“And miss my best kitty’s claws? Fat chance of that.”
You lose interest very quickly. You’re really not sure what you’re meant to do here. Your mind powers only work to a certain range. You can’t just seek out minds in the surrounding areas and affect them with the same ailments. Unlike Homelander, you’re not a fan of collateral damage.
You walk around aimlessly, taking care to not make much sound as you look through shipping containers or around corners but it all feels pointless.
Homelander is still standing where you left him, scanning the surroundings with his super-powered vision.
“Nice underwear.” He snorts behind you once he finally sets his feet down on the ground.
“You jackass, you’re meant to be scanning the area.”
“Well you kind of are in the area, babe.” He gives you a mean little smile when he tucks his hands behind his back, puffing his chest out in front of you. You don’t know why he bothers to taunt you all day long.
You walk away to create distance more than to secure more of the area. But you’re here to do a job after all. The city pays a hefty bill to have the Seven focus its efforts on supporting the forces ensuring the city’s safety.
Not much left for you to do now besides check the shipping containers. Surely Homelander hasn’t scanned them all. Some of these must be zinc-lined. Twenty minutes go by and you’re ready to call it quits so you can send the actual professionals suited for this mission in.
Opening the last container you patrol, you get hit with a pungent, eye-watering gas. You gasp and stumble, choking on red fumes that burn their way through your nostrils.
Homelander gets to you before you even have a chance to call for him. He pushes you back and away, confidently stepping into the metal crate before your wispy little “no” becomes audible.
God your head is spinning. Your heart feels like it’s gonna beat out of your fucking chest. Supporting yourself on the cold metal walls you wobble as much as your legs take you—which isn’t far.
Your forehead is so hot—are you getting a fever? You press yourself to the cold metal, grateful for the chilly air of the night. You slide down, settling down on the hard concrete ground. You can’t calm down, no matter how much you focus on your breathing to slow down your heart rate, it’s not happening. You feel wrong. Holding out your hands in front of you, you see how shaky your limbs have gotten. Your skin itches all over. It’s like the fumes have reached underneath your suit—underneath your skin—and infected every part of you.
This is not how you wanted to go. You can’t even say you’ve gone out protecting anybody. And the last thing you would’ve done would be calling Homelander a jackass.
Homelander. The thought of him alone makes your forehead break out into a sweat, veins burning with strange tingling heat from head to toe. You can’t breathe in without the fumes messing with your senses. It’s like all you can smell is the unfortunately all too familiar scent of clean musk, ozone and vanilla. Your mouth waters.
The hissing zap of lasers just about registers to your ears. Same with slamming of metal doors and creaking of metal sliding across sheets of equally heavy metal. It would’ve been grating to your ears if the thought of Homelander’s lasers didn’t make your head spin.
Now that you think about it, they’re really sexy. Ruby red eyes shining with the power nobody can hide from. Reality doesn’t feel the same anymore, you’re hazy. Has the world always looked this dreamy?
The quietest, “what the fuck,” reaches you. Homelander’s heavier, rougher groan follows right after. Has his voice always sounded this good? You tilt your head towards the empty shipping container where it all went down. You can’t see him, but the sound of his voice playing on repeat in your head has you trembling. A shiver runs all the way down your spine to the strong and sensitive nerves of your pussy.
What the fuck?!
It’s your turn to be shocked when the shameful wave of heat rolls through you again. Homelander groans again in the background and you barely manage to cover your mouth to hide the obscene moan that your body lets out. This wasn’t you doing it. You don’t act like this for him. You want to avoid playing the role of a needy slut who has to perform—regardless of how much he enjoys the thought of that.
That thought brings you back to two nights ago when you answered a booty call. Anytime Homelander has you over you refuse to fuck on his bed—it’s too intimate—so you sat on his lap, riding him through a couple orgasms.
Oh, how you want that. How you want to feel his thick cock inside you, his strength wrapping its arms around you, holding you down until he has his fill of your warm wet walls.
Your pussy aches. It throbs so painfully you push your palm against it, as if to quiet it down. Not that it fucking works. You wipe your forehead. You don’t really understand what’s going on. You feel so… wild—it’s so unlike you.
Shaking your head just makes you so dizzy so you lean ahead, bare palms biting into concrete when you catch yourself from falling onto the ground completely.
The metal creaks again and you look up just in time to see Homelander exit the now half-melted crate—thankfuckinggod he’s alive. He seems even worse off. As soon as he catches your eye he whimpers and groans, stumbling his way to you.
Oh god, he’s coming closer to you. Your heart is racing impossibly fast, your vision swims with past memories, vivid feelings and replays confusing your brain's concept of reality. You’re almost losing the control of your powers. You can’t even tell if you’re doing the same to Homelander.
“Oh fucking Christ.” Homelander finally reaches you, falling heavy onto his knees in front of you, leaning his entire weight against you when he sobs with the relief of feeling you close to him. You would do the same if you didn’t think that your sobbing wouldn’t stop right after you started.
“What the fuck is going on?” You’re barely coherent but he’s not listening. He pushes you closer to the metal wall behind your back, limbs thrown over each other as he dirtily licks into your mouth. Sucking your lips open so he can do what you can only describe as eat you alive.
“I need—” his whimper is cut short with an actual sob. His breath hitches, chest and hands shaking with each breath.
In a desperate attempt to pull his gloves off he ends up ripping them apart, the leather pulling apart as easily as he shreds metal. Once his hands—his beautiful hands, fuck, you want them on you so bad—are free he cradles your jaw with a need you haven’t seen before.
It’s sloppy kissing at best and messy rubbing of your lips at worst. Neither of you are very capable kissers at this moment. You don’t want to pull away, you don’t want him to ever pull away. So your kisses are just a messy exchange of saliva, tongues deep and wet in each other’s mouths with heavy hot breaths warming your already hot faces.
Homelander’s hand goes down your body, greedily squeezing a handful of your tits, prodding and poking at every part of your body just to feel close to you. You’re shaking with energy you don’t understand. Every nerve ending on high-alert, buzzing for the next touch.
Just as his fingers press into your clit, rubbing up and down the through pool of wetness in your suit you shriek into his mouth—biting his lip in the process. Any ordinary man would’ve bled from that.
“No! Fuck! You’re-you’re making it worse!” The desperate throbbing of your cunt is only made worse by the tease of his slender gorgeous fingers rubbing the fabric of your suit. Looking at him now you notice that his lasers are still subtly on. The flecks in his irises highlight his face in red.
Have you ever noticed how gorgeous he is? Sure, you’ve always been aware that Homelander is an objectively handsome man but have you really looked?
His eyes twitch and squeeze, desperate heavy breaths making their way out of him. His hands are equally shaky, if not more than yours.
He nods repeatedly. “Yea-yeah, okay.” He sniffles, angrily wiping a frustrated tear off his cheek. Just seeing him like this makes your cunt squeeze, oozing slick into the already drenched fabric of your underwear. He sniffles again, this time he inhales deeply. Like a predator he zeroes in on the target.
Your pants and underwear get ripped off you in one go, and before you get a chance to think about it you’re getting hoisted up. Your thighs get thrown over his shoulders, back pressed into the metal wall as he pins you against it with speed and need you’ve never seen.
“Homelander what—”
Homelander’s hot tongue immediately latches onto your pussy, groaning into the feeling of your hot flesh against his tongue. He gulps you down, noisily drinking down your pussy as if it was an ice cold water on a hot summer day.
“Do the thing,” he’s muffled by your pussy but you figure out exactly what he means.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I don’t think—I don’t know if I can control it.” It’s your voice’s turn to break. He’s holding his tongue against you in a firm position more than he’s licking you. Just like his fingers, it’s simply not enough. You try to wiggle against his tongue further to feel what your body so inexplicably craves but you can’t. His arms are holding you firmly in place.
Homelander tilts his head back. His subtle lasers illuminate his wet lashes. “Puh–please… I need—fuck—I need to come so fucking bad. I need you to help me. Please, pleaseplease help me through it.” He’s so choked up you almost feel awful for how hot that makes you feel.
You nod, unsure if he can see you particularly well through the mix of similarly hazy vision, laser distorted sight and the wet lines on his waterline.
Your powers still feel hazy, like you can’t quite grasp them in your mind. Like sand between your fingers they’re slipping through and you don’t have the fine control you usually possess. This means you don’t actually know what’s happening to Homelander’s brain when you meld your minds’ sensations together. You don’t know if it’s enough—what if it’s too much?
You’ve never experimented with what too much does to someone else’s brain.
You might be on your way to finding out because Homelander moans so obscenely as soon as he licks up your cunt you shamefully squeeze your thighs around his head. Not one to be deterred, his thick wet tongue gathers all your juices—swallowing down as much of you as he can.
Pretty blonde—now messy—hair sticks out in between your thighs as he laps at your cunt, licking up to your clit in fast bursts. He’s panting—scalding hot breath meets your already pulsating warm flesh. It’s almost too much, you’d feel like writhing away from him in any other circumstance but the fume-heavy cloud in your head urges you to push closer, urges you to dig your fingers into his hair and ride his tongue as hard as you can.
It’s no surprise that your orgasm comes quickly and explosively.
You’re not thinking about him but Homelander must come with you with the way he sobs into your cunt, sucking onto your clit in the rhythm of your orgasmic waves. He must feel every single throb of you in his own cock. You wonder how much he’s filled his cup.
He leaves your pussy red and raw, licking you furiously into two more consecutive orgasms, neither of which dull the sharp fume-enhanced nerves.
Staying in the fumes longer than you have must have dealt larger damage. The belt clicks loudly, falling on the concrete floor. He’s pulling his cock out, giving himself a couple strokes—but like his fingers on you, it’s not enough. He pulls your shaky quivering thighs off his shoulders and he sits you down on his cock.
“Don’t stop—I wanna feel you. I need to feel how you feel. Please let me feel it.” You didn’t even realise you’ve stopped broadcasting your pleasure to him, utterly focused on the stretch of his cock pushing into your orgasm-relaxed cunt.
You have no strength in you left to move, let alone perform, so you fall with your head against his shoulder and you let him fuck you—all while broadcasting each stroke of his cock inside you straight to his overstimulated brain.
He’s always been an intense lover but this is to a level you don’t think you could ever survive in normal circumstances. Though you’re not sure he could either.
He buries his head into your neck as he pushes his hips up, sharp shaky moves rattle up your spine, nerve endings slowly lighting up down your limbs as the next orgasm doesn’t afford you its usual waiting time. These orgasms have stopped feeling like a wave of pleasure after a stressful day and more like a temporary relief stopping you from losing yourself to the madness of your clouded mind.
“I love you, you know that?” He muffles into your neck. He gently nips at the flushed skin of your neck. You can’t stand it. It’s too much. It’s all too much. Your eyes prickle with tears and you shake with a sob.
“I love you so fucking much.” He breathes against you again with a heavy sob. Your neck feels wet. “You’re the only one—the only fucking one—who doesn’t-doesn’t fucking cower in fear, who doesn’t cry when I say one mean fucking word. Fffuck. I—fuck—I love you so much.”
You don’t know what to say. You’ve barely allowed yourself to come to terms with your care for him. You can’t just—
“I think I love you too.” Your own heavy tears surprise you. Your words surprise you even more. Do you? Is this honestly you speaking or is it the fumes messing with your head. Can you trust yourself now? How will you two walk away from this? How will you see this tomorrow?
None of those questions need answering now.
So you let him rock you harder, gasping into your neck as he spills his come deep inside you, warming you from the inside out.
It doesn’t end there. You both fuck your way through the whole night. He has you on all fours, pushing himself—still thick and hard—inside you from behind, leaning his chest across your back as he barely has any leverage to pull out before he stuffs you fuller.
It feels like nothing will ever be enough. You suck his cock three times, get fucked in the air twice and against the wall once. It ends with a missionary position, however uncomfortable on the hard concrete floor. Your bodies are as close as you can handle and that’s all that matters.
When the dawn breaks you both finally see things clearer. The haze is now a dull throb at the back of your mind, no longer taking over all of your senses. You’re exhausted. You need a couple of showers and a two-day-long sleep.
“Hm, get off me.” You murmur when his heavy hot body still lies on top of you after your last shared orgasm. You’re stuffed to the brim, hot, red, and overstimulated to the point that even if you had pants to put on, they’d hurt.
What was it with him and making it his mission to ruin all of your suits?
“Not what you were saying earlier.” He grumbles back but there’s no real bite to it, he’s equally exhausted. Hair messy and sticking out all over the place.
“I said many things.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you did.” He looks at you knowingly but you don’t want to get into it now.
Not that he’d ever allow that. “Did you mean it?” He does slowly pull off you and out of you, tucking his soft and equally spent cock back into his pants, belt clicking back into place.
His gloves are ripped and useless, though he still takes the scraps and tucks the fabric behind his belt so as to not leave any evidence.
“Do we have to do this now?”
“Yes.” His eyes meet yours. You avoid them.
“I guess, maybe? Yes? I don’t know. My head isn’t very clear right now.”
“Make it clear then, that’s your whole shtick.”
“Jesus, can I catch a breather please? I thought I was going to die today.”
“Fine. I just—I wasn’t kidding. I wouldn’t. Not about something like that.” You give him a sad smile. You know he’s speaking the truth. You don’t need to probe his head for it either. You just don’t know if you’re able to give him what he needs.
You don’t know if the extent of your love will ever be enough to feed the bottomless beast that resides inside him. You’ve seen glimpses of it at times. You’re scared to get formally introduced.
“I know.” You lean in to kiss his forehead. “Can we get out of here first? I don’t want anyone to find us like this.”
“Yeah, yeah we can.”
He can be a gentleman when he chooses to be. He takes his cape off and wraps it around your bottom—though it’s the least he can do after he ripped your pants into pieces a couple hours ago.
“Hey, what happened to the supe?”
“Ran away.”
“At least one of us is lucky then.”
“You’re lucky you’re cute.” And with that he sets off, taking you both home.
You’re not sure where this is going to take you. You’re not sure you’re ready for it or if you even want to be there for the ride. But after tonight you know, you won’t be able to hide from him for the rest of your life.
Taglist (you can add(or remove) yourself to be tagged when I publish a new fic):
𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐂𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 | dad's best friend!cillian murphy x reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | based on the following request: what would dilf/dad's best friend cillian do if he found your dildo?
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 5k (this was literally supposed to be a drabble...)
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | smut (18+ only), significant age gap (reader is college-aged, cillian is in his late forties), voyeurism/exhibitionism, semi-public sex, use of toys, praise kink, unprotected sex, very brief/semi sarcastic 'sir' kink, shockingly fluffy??
Not that your parents' anniversary cocktail party wasn't horribly riveting (cue dramatic eyeroll) but you were upstairs, on your bed, on your phone; you'd had enough of 'so how's college going?' and 'what's your major again?' and 'got any boyfriends yet? you must be a heartbreaker' for one evening— or a lifetime, preferably.
It wasn’t even that comfortable to be on the bed in your party dress—a cute, short sparkly one that you’d picked out for tonight—but it was better than standing around and trying to balance in those sky-high heels; those you had kicked off into the corner of the room the second you were alone.
When you heard a small rap on the door, you hummed a quick "Come in!" and didn't even look up from your phone, figuring it was your mom or dad come to find you after you disappeared.
Instead, you heard Mr. Murphy's voice as he leaned in the doorframe; "Sorry to bug you," he said, startling you slightly as you closed Instagram and set your phone down. "Just needed a Tide pen— your mom said you might have one in here?"
"O-oh, yeah," you said, sitting up, "sure— what happened?"
"Salsa fiasco," he joked softly as he shut the door behind him, showing you the dark red stain on his shirt— though the shirt itself was red, so it wasn't too egregious, but still noticeable.
"That's too bad," you chuckled, "I warned them about that salsa— if you serve salsa, there's gonna be a fiasco, that's what I said."
He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "They should listen to you more," he agreed.
"I've got a couple stain remover pens in that top drawer," you suggested as you pointed to your dresser.
"Great," he smiled, starting to unbutton the shirt; you got nervous for a second until you realized he had on a black undershirt beneath. It's hard to say why you were nervous about that, since you'd seen him shirtless plenty of times in the years you'd known him...
"Nobody's worried about me going missing, right?" you wondered as he continued working on the buttons, and he shook his head while shrugging slightly.
"Not yet," he replied, "but they're going to want to find you soon, you're sort of the star of the night."
You rolled your eyes, frowning. "It's my parents' anniversary party, I think they should be the focus."
"Maybe they should, but you're the much more interesting one," he informed you.
You pulled your legs up a bit, leaning to the side as you sat on your bed; as much as all this attention from your parents' friends was usually annoying to you, something about being interesting to Mr. Murphy didn't bother you so much. "Is it weird for you?" you asked, lowering your voice a bit; he tilted his head quickly as if to ask what you meant. "Going to an anniversary party after, you know—"
The words hung in the air, seeming to gather around his conspicuously naked ring finger: after the divorce. "Oh, no," he scoffed, taking off his cufflinks. "It's fine; but I'm sick of the questions about it."
You winced. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"Don't worry," he laughed finally shirking off the shirt; he looked a little too good in just the short-sleeved undershirt. "You can make it even by letting me ask you how college is going."
"Oh god," you groaned, rolling your eyes, and he laughed.
"If I didn't know from your parents that you were acing it, I'd worry that your aversion to talking about it meant you were struggling somehow."
"It's not that," you assured, "it's the people."
"The people?" he pressed. "Or the guys?"
You laughed nervously, looking down at your lap. "Geez, you learn to mindread while I was gone or something?"
He stepped around your bed to get to the dresser, laying his shirt down over it. "No, I just remember that time— somehow. And I remember how much of a headache I and every other young guy was."
"I guess not much has changed then," you smiled.
"What, I'm still a headache?" he grinned as he looked over his shoulder at you.
"No, I meant—"
"I know what you meant, I'm just teasing," he chuckled. "Top drawer you said?"
"Yeah," you nodded, and he opened the top drawer of the dresser; of course, only right then did you remember that you should have specifically said top left. Because the top right was—
Oh shit.
You swallowed thickly as Cillian stared down into the open drawer, and your heart pounded as you somehow hoped and prayed that what was in there had turned invisible or something; but if the look on his face was anything to go by, it was just as visible as ever.
“I—fuck, sorry, I forgot that’s—” you choked out, face burning impossibly hot. “I never meant for you to see—I’m—could you shut the fucking drawer, please, you pervert?!”
“I’m the pervert?” he laughed thinly, looking at you again finally. “You’re the one with a massive fucking dildo in here.”
“Well—you weren’t supposed to see that—”
“Yeah, but—fuck,” he choked, “I was just looking for your stain remover and I see your— you have a— are you sure that isn’t technically considered a weapon or something? How’s a guy supposed to compete with that?”
“That’s the great thing about it: he doesn’t have to compete,” you explained, “that’s sort of the whole idea.”
He looked back at it for a second and you yelped, reaching your leg off the bed to kick him in the hip. “Would you please shut the drawer?!”
“Sorry, sorry,” he laughed a bit, “but I mean, how am I supposed to react to that?
“Well, you’re not supposed to just stare at it!” you insisted.
He shut the drawer, giving you a look you couldn’t possibly decipher.
“What were you thinking?!” you said, somewhat rhetorically.
“I—well,” he hummed, looking away from you for a second, “I was thinking that I can’t imagine how you can possibly fit something like that.”
You blinked quickly, not sure what to say in response to that. “Well—I mean, it’s a little big, but… it gets the job done. Keeps me from calling the guys I shouldn’t be calling.”
He nodded. “Well, that’s good… none of those college boys could possibly deserve you…”
His eyes were running all over you, and even though you’d picked out this dress just for this party because you loved how you looked in it, you felt a little exposed by his stare.
“I just can’t believe a girl like you—”
“Come on, I’ve never been a saint,” you scoffed, glancing away.
“No, I just mean… the size of that thing…” he trailed off.
“You really can’t get over that part,” you noticed, “is this some kind of… intimidation, Freudian situation?”
You glanced quickly at his pants, and he started to deny it instantly. “No—come on, it’s not—I just can’t believe you take all that. For fun. It looks like it would break you.”
You hadn’t even had any drinks at this anniversary party, and yet you found yourself with this foggy head like you were tipsy; you blurted something out as if you were tipsy. “What, you want me to prove it?”
His chest sunk a bit, and you were about to take it back when he spoke before you. “I’d like to see you try.”
Biting your lip, you sat up on the bed, reaching around him and into the drawer. He didn’t step back or out of the way, just let you grab the toy and lean back on the bed in front of him.
You reached up under your dress, sliding your panties out of the way, finding yourself suddenly plenty wet to fit this toy.
His eyes never left you, though they certainly travelled all over your body as you pressed the toy up to your entrance; it was thick, he wasn’t wrong, and you had to slowly warm yourself up to it whenever you used it on yourself.
After pushing with enough pressure, the tip finally slipped inside and you let out a small sigh. He watched carefully, and your lips fell open into a moan as you pushed the toy deeper into yourself. When the stretch became a bit too sharp, you winced and slowed down, trying to take your time even with your heart racing and hands shaking.
You heard his own breathing picking up, watching you take the toy deeper; you found your gaze wandering over him, even lingering on his groin to see if you could catch a bulge growing there, but nothing was obvious yet. You stared for a moment at his hands, too, suddenly wishing to have them all over you—well, maybe not that suddenly, you’d sort of thought about this before. It wasn’t until somewhat recently that you noticed how sexy he was. Maybe when you were younger, you understood that he was better looking than all the other adults you knew, but only once you left for college did you start thinking about him out of nowhere, imagining what he was really like when he wasn’t just being friendly with you—you even asked your mom once on a phone call if he was dating anyone. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to get suspicious when you asked that; but she’d be more than fucking suspicious if she walked in now, saw you doing this to yourself under his watchful eye.
Oddly enough, the knowledge that someone could walk in and see this just made you even more desperate, and you gasped as you pushed the toy in deeper.
It still wasn’t all the way in, and you already felt so full… truth be told, he had a point about it maybe being too big for you—when you usually used it on yourself, you only put it in a little over halfway, since that was all you really needed. You hadn’t put the whole thing inside since you first got it—and yes, you’d ordered it online, because if you’d seen it in person you probably would’ve been as intimidated by its girth as he was.
Your decision not to wear a bra with this dress became very apparent when his gaze settled on your chest; your nipples were hard, and clearly visible under the fabric now. It was just because it was strapless that you went without, but you were thankful for it when you saw him quickly lick his lips at the sight. You dared to moan just a little louder as you pulled the toy in and out, picking up your pace carefully.
“How’s it feel?” he asked lowly, his eyes drifting back to where the toy slid into you.
“Good,” you mumbled, “really fucking good.”
“Can you really take it all?” he pressed, making your walls clench on the silicone.
Instead of answering aloud, you simply pushed it all the way in until your eyes rolled back—it was so deep, pressing heavy and fat against your deepest points until it felt like you might burst.
“Fuck,” he praised—it was just a swear, but the way he whispered it made it sound like a praise.
You sped up slightly, trying to do this the way you normally would without someone staring at you. But you were even more sensitive with him watching, your walls clenching more and more around the toy until it was almost hard to keep thrusting it in and out. Sighing, you shut your eyes and laid back on the bed to try to help yourself relax. The change in angle just seemed to make the toy go deeper, rubbing harder against the spot inside you that made your back arch.
“You’re so wet,” he breathed; you whimpered, nodding in agreement, and kept moving the dildo as deep as you could get it with every thrust.
Your free arm went back over your head to hold onto the comforter under you, your hand gripping tight for some relief for the pressure inside you. “Fuck yes,” you whispered, knitting your brows together and fucking yourself faster. “Feels so fucking good…”
He hummed a little, but you kept your eyes shut, afraid you’d lose your nerve if you looked at him again. It had been months since you used anything but this, and you had no regrets—the toy performed way better than any of the guys you’d met at college. But, truthfully, you didn’t like having to do this to yourself. It felt like you could never move it fast or hard enough, and you needed to constantly have perfect control over the toy to get yourself to come—and when you come, the last thing you want is to take control, you want to lay back and lose control. Still, it was better than the college fuckboys who smelled like beer and didn’t last more than two minutes.
Thinking about them wasn’t going to help you now, though; it was much better to think about Cillian, about those icy blue eyes running all over your body, about how his hands would hold you down while he claimed you, about how his lips would feel on your neck before he whispered in your ear that you were his…
You let out a sharp and sudden moan as the toy hit harder on that spot; your legs started to shake. “Good girl,” he mumbled, making you moan even louder because god, those words just sounded right in his accent, with that rough voice—and they sounded right being said to you.
“Fuck,” you choked, “Mr. Murphy, I—”
He laughed a little. “So polite,” he cooed. “Open your eyes and look at me.”
Though it made your heart beat even faster, you did as you were told. His stare was all-encompassing, making you feel completely trapped in a way you enjoyed more than you could’ve imagined.
“Call me Cillian,” he insisted.
You weren’t sure if he meant to literally call him that right in that moment, but it sort of came out anyway: “Cillian,” you moaned, and the grip he’d taken on the dresser behind him tightened.
“Can you come for me?” he asked lowly. “Right now? Can you come on that fake cock?”
You bit your lip and nodded, moving the toy faster and faster— more desperate to come than ever. “I—fuck, yeah, I’m close…”
“Good,” he praised again. “Let me see you come, honey.”
Your back arched harder, deeper—your hands were shaking but you kept going, holding on tight to the dildo and forcing it back and forth as your legs began to quiver.
Moans poured from your mouth faster than you could try to quiet them—everyone was downstairs, you just had to hope the music and conversation was enough to drown out your desperate, pleading noises. “Fuckin’ beautiful,” he mumbled, right as you hit the peak and melted into the mattress, a wave of ecstasy pouring over you.
You felt hot everywhere, but especially between your legs—you could swear you felt yourself leaking out around the toy, soaking it, giving away how needy you’d become and not even having the mental energy to feel any shame for it.
Cillian certainly didn’t look like he was trying to shame you for it; when you opened your eyes again, he had a stunned expression—in the best way. “You normally come that fast for a toy?”
You laughed a little, but you still couldn’t quite catch your breath. “No,” you admitted, “it normally takes… a bit longer than that…”
“What was different about tonight?” he mused, and you scoffed and rolled your eyes again.
“Shut up,” you sighed. “Now I have to figure out how to take this thing out—I’m always sore after…”
“If you can handle putting it in, taking it out shouldn’t be much trouble,” he noticed.
Which, yes, that would make sense, but after coming you always got all tight and sensitive and it could be a little intense.
“How about I help you?” he offered, and your chest tightened. He waited for you to nod before carefully wrapping his hand around your own, watching your face as he gently guided you to pull the toy out.
Your lips were slack and your eyes were probably glassy and dazed as he looked at you like that, completely enveloping you in his stare as he studied every detail of your expression. Aside from some heavy breathing you didn’t react much to him sliding the toy out of you, until the ridge of the head reached your entrance and you winced.
“Shh,” he soothed gently, “it’s okay…”
A long sigh of relief emptied your chest when the toy tapered off and you felt the last of it slip out of you; you really noticed then how soaked you were, as a draft in the room seemed to cling to the patch of wetness that had coated all between your legs somehow.
“Lemme see, baby,” he cooed under his breath as he set the toy aside, kneeling down and resting a hand on the inside of your thigh to keep your legs open.
You could barely catch your breath with him doing that; you’d never had someone… look at it like that. You felt incredibly vulnerable but impossibly sexy as you heard him sigh at the sight. “Is it all stretched out now?” you wondered.
“No,” he said, “you look… just as tight as before. Fuck. That’s incredible.”
You bit your lip, sitting up enough to try to get a look at his face past the puffiness of your dress’ skirt, and he smirked up at you with the loveliest sparkle in his eye. “Really?” you breathed, and he nodded.
Even though your hands were still shaking you suddenly felt brave; maybe it was just the afterglow, but you grabbed him by the shirt and sat up to kiss him, colliding your lips with his. He reciprocated instantly, putting his hands on your upper back that the strapless dress left bare.
The kiss was perfect—needy but not too fast, sweet but not too chaste, teasing but not too slow. The guys in college couldn’t even kiss like this… you were wondering why you ever even tried with them—or, you would’ve been if that kiss left you capable of thinking about anything but him. “Need you,” you whispered as you pulled him closer, wrapping your arms around his strong shoulders.
“Fuck,” he mumbled against your lips, a hand holding your waist while he started to kiss your neck and jaw. “Not here—your parents—”
“Don’t care,” you whimpered, “I’m so—fuck, Cillian, please—”
“You already came,” he noticed with a small laugh, “didn’t that take the edge off?”
“Not enough,” you whined, getting impatient and running a hand down over his shirt and down to his pants—and you smiled proudly as you felt the hardening bulge beneath. He choked a little when you touched him there, holding you tighter. “You want me too,” you noticed.
“Of course I do, but—” he breathed, then stopped himself as he tossed you back on the bed; you giggled as he crawled up over you, pinning you down. “But we can’t… your parents would have my head on a platter—once they’re done serving crawfish etouffee off of it downstairs.”
“Well, I wasn’t planning on telling my parents,” you smirked. “Were you?”
“No,” he agreed, kissing your neck again as you hummed happily. “But if they found out—”
“So? They wouldn’t like if they found out about what just happened, either—and they won’t.”
“But this is different,” he insisted.
“How?”
“Because this…”
He trailed off, kissing down your neck and over your shoulder, until a hand reached up to pull your dress down and expose your chest.
“Shit,” he sighed at the sight of it, and you smiled up at him.
“You were saying?” you teased.
“Right, erm,” he swallowed, “this is different because—because if we do this, you’re gonna be my girl. Not just a misguided one-time fuck because you were turned on after screwing yourself with your dildo while I watched.”
You felt a little out of breath but nodded up at him. “Okay,” you agreed.
“Okay?” he repeated, looking a little shocked. “I tell you that you have to be mine and you just say okay?”
“What was I supposed to say, yes sir?” you joked.
“I just mean—shit, if I knew it would be this easy, I would’ve said something sooner,” he chuckled. “But I’m, er, not complaining about the yes sir thing either…”
He sat up and started to unbutton his pants, making you wiggle a bit on the bed impatiently. Even though you’d just gotten filled by your big toy, you felt needier than ever for something inside you—something real.
Your throat caught when he took it out— it was pale and veiny just like the rest of him; long, uncut, a bead of precum starting to leak from the slit… it was beautiful, honestly. The artificial fleshy hue of the silicone could never compete.
“Big enough for you?” he asked with a smirk, but you had to swallow before you answered because your mouth was watering.
“Yeah,” you panted, “plenty.”
He kissed you again, laying more of his weight on top of you; your legs wrapped around his hips, keeping him close as he pressed you down into your bed.
One hand found your wrist and held it back above your head, while the other kept a tight wrap around his cock so he could guide it to your waiting entrance. When he pushed inside, you both sighed with relief like you’d been longing for this for ages—perhaps because both of you had, in your own ways. “Fuck,” you breathed, “Cillian…”
He whispered your name back to you, heavy and desperate and right by your ear, and you absolutely knew you were his, just like he said. He only stilled for a moment when he was all the way inside, already starting to rock back and forth—but he was sort of tender about it, watching you move under him as he fucked you. “So pretty,” he praised quietly, kissing you again, even harder than before. You both moaned into the kiss, and a warm, rough hand settled on your thigh under your dress.
Soon, the pleasure was too much to even focus on kissing, and your mouth just fell wide open in front of his as needy moans passed through it. He stayed close, though, watching your face go slack with ecstasy. The previous orgasm had left you sticky and sensitive inside, still totally dripping for him, everything in you begging for more. “Oh my god,” you sighed, eyes rolling back, your composure completely slipping already. He made you feel so good so easily—and fuck, the way he was looking at you, it was just too much to bear.
“Mm,” he hummed proudly, latching his lips onto your neck again until your fingers tangled in his hair. He moved down and caught a nipple in his mouth, making you whimper as he suckled at it gently.
“Fuck,” you whined, nearly pulling him along by the hair when he moved to the other one; you couldn’t stop clenching inside, squeezing him until he groaned against your skin.
“Won’t last if you keep doing that,” he warned you softly.
“What if I don’t want you to?” you teased, and he growled a little between his teeth, sitting up to look down at you. He fucked you harder, but put a hand on top of your head and pet your hair for a moment, looking at you like you hung the moon; how could he be so dirty then so adorable within the same split-second?!
“I’ll do whatever you want me to,” he decided, speaking softly, “how about that? What do you want me to do?”
That was a little too much power to give you, at least in your opinion, but you grinned as you considered it. “Then I want you to come way too quick,” you decided, “like all those annoying college boys—because you just can’t help yourself.”
He laughed a little, though he stopped to bite his lip as he fucked you even harder—and faster, too. “Okay,” he breathed, “don’t know why you want that, but—fuck— it won’t be very difficult after that little show you gave me. You look so pretty when you come…”
“Just keep going and you can see it again,” you promised, holding onto him tighter as he pressed into you and really let you have it—not really rough or anything, you couldn’t risk making any more noise than you were, but still aggressive and passionate and desperate.
He kissed your neck again, burying his face in your shoulder and finding the spot that made you gasp out his name suddenly; your fingers clutched at fistfuls of his undershirt, and your legs began to shake where they were hooked around his hips and half-pushed-down pants.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, the pleasure hitting you again—but it was better than with the toy, it was stronger, and it just kept going because he kept going. When your head fell back onto the mattress with a sigh, he realized that he’d made you come.
“Wait, fuck, I wasn’t looking,” he rushed as he popped his head up from the crook of your neck, “do it again.”
You laughed breathlessly and pushed against his shoulder a bit; “Shut up, I can’t do it on command.”
“You did it the last two times I told you to,” he reminded you, and that just made you feel even more deliciously dizzy.
Yes, you were definitely his girl now—totally addicted to him. You’d never felt like this with somebody—not just physically, but the trust and the laughter and the comfort of it all. This wasn’t a too-empty dorm room that still smelled like fresh paint, it wasn’t a mattress with no sheets in an apartment with 5 roommates nearby, it wasn’t a guy you vaguely knew from a two-hundred-student class or someone you saw on a dating app and talked with for an afternoon before meeting for ‘coffee’ (it was never just coffee). This was Mr. Murphy—and that should’ve made it weirder, but somehow, it just made it make more sense.
“So, if I tell you to come again,” he spoke lowly by your ear, a new authority to his tone, “you should come.”
You couldn’t think of anything else to say: “Yes, sir,” you breathed, hugging him close to you and pressing your face against his shoulder.
Of course, it wasn’t quite instantaneous, but just another minute of him giving you those deep, controlled thrusts right into your favorite spot sent you over the edge easily—and this time, he gently guided your face out of its hiding spot and looked at you, watched your pleasure overtake you, tenderly rubbing your cheek with his thumb. “Good girl,” he praised softly, kissing you again just as the last of it drained from you; you were so numb that you barely heard him whisper something to you—it took you a few seconds to process it.
“I’m gonna come,” he’d whispered to you, “fuck, you’re so fucking warm…”
“Come inside,” you instructed, and for all the concern he tried to perform for you after you said that, his moan was undeniable, as was the way he started to move faster.
“Fuck, really?” he nearly whined. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” you nodded, panting.
“You’re on—”
“Yes, please, just come inside me,” you begged, and he finally stopped protesting and pressed himself as deep into you as he could—you could feel the way his cock flexed, and it made your exhausted walls dig up just enough energy to flex back.
“Fuuuuck,” he groaned, holding onto you tightly.
You hummed a little at the feeling, turning your face towards his, hoping to see what he looked like in this moment—but he pulled you into another kiss before you could get a good look. Even this kiss was different from the others—a little slower, a little more tired in a wonderful, dreamy way. He was breathing heavy against you, and eventually he found the energy to push himself up with his arms on either side of your head, and you smiled up at him. He looked really fucking good like this: his face a bit flushed, which seemed to show his freckles and fine lines even more (which you adored); his hair falling down, a little wavier from the slight sweat he’d worked up; his lips swollen and slick from the kisses; and those eyes, they looked as beautiful as always, but they made you feel beautiful, too.
“Is taking this one out gonna hurt, too?” he asked you with a smirk.
“Probably a little,” you shrugged.
“For both of us,” he agreed, “I’m so fucking sensitive now… you really do have me acting like a desperate college boy—but you know, it’s been a while, so…”
“Right, sure—good excuse,” you joked, but you didn’t mind any of it either way.
He did it a little quicker, pulling back as he took a sharp breath in, and you giggled softly.
“Fuck, I can feel it, like… leaking out,” you admitted, biting your lip at the sick satisfaction of the warm gush.
“I think I need to see that,” he said, sitting up and picking your legs up from under the knee to look at you. This was apparently a habit of his—and you were starting to get used to it already.
“How’s it look?” you asked, wondering if he’d finally stretched you out after that.
He just stared at it for a moment longer, running his tongue over his teeth, before finally looking back at you and saying with a smile: “Looks like you need the Tide pen more than I do.”
you think you’re slick - you don’t think he sees the way your eyes settle on his biceps when he folds his arms, or the way you purposely stand back with your arms limp by your sides as his breath gets all heavy and he lets out those grunts of effort. he knows what you are. that’s why he does it.
🏷️: 18+, smut, oneshot, f!pov, reader is lowkey a perv, leon matches your freak, re9!leon, gentle m!dom leon, riding leon’s boot/boot riding, mutual masturbation. this one is for all the freaks who purposely leave leon on low health (me included). wc: 2.4k
Pervert. That might be the only way you can describe yourself in one word, unfortunately.
Sometimes you wish your brain wasn't wired to notice things other people don't. The little groans of frustration or tired sighs that people make; to others, they sound like sounds of pain - a reason to be concerned. But to you, you can always pick out the breathy tone in their voice that toes the line between pain and pleasure. And there's one person in particular who is overwhelmingly the one most subject to your depraved mind - your supervisor, Agent Kennedy.
Even just thinking about him makes your typing speed drop, your thighs clench, and your breath hitch in your throat. It's embarrassing how much you pay attention to every little movement and sound he makes. You don't know a whole lot about him, but you don't see a ring and there's no framed photo of a wife and kids on his desk, not even a dog in a little stand-up frame, in fact. It only leads you to thinking of him more and more, and stupidly fantasising about starting something with him.
You're not exactly sure what it is about Leon that seems to scratch that little crevice in your brain so perfectly. Maybe it's the way his biceps seem to become impossibly bigger when he folds his arms as he listens to a debrief, or the way you watch his axe literally become buoyant as he walks around when he's on the field, or perhaps the way he lets out the filthiest grunts you've ever heard when he lifts or moves something heavy.
"Hey. You listening?" Leon lowers his head just a little to stare into your eyes. His tone doesn't convey irritation, but rather concern. "You look tired, you need to go home early and call in sick?" Leon asks.
The truth is, you're not sick or unwell. Or… Perhaps you're just sick in the head. You spent hours and hours thinking about him, chasing pleasure into the early hours of the morning with his name at the very tip of your tongue. "O-oh. Um… I guess I feel a little run down. But I'll try to stick it out through the rest of the day." You respond.
"Atta girl. But don't push yourself if you're sick. It's crunch time for reports right now, we don't need half the office sick too." Leon gives you a small grin, before walking off. Something stirs within you the moment you hear him say 'atta girl' in that encouraging, gentle voice.
And so you decided that being the amazing employee you are, the dusty storage room stacked to the brim with archive files is the perfect place to shove your hand underneath the waistband of your underwear and replay that recent interaction with Leon over and over in your head. You stifle a moan as you listen out for any footsteps passing, keeping your back pressed against the cold concrete of the wall as your head lolls back. As your hand works faster beneath the layers of clothing, you just can't help but let out a soft little whimper and allow Leon's name to very quietly roll off your tongue.
"…Yeah?"
You freeze. That's Leon's voice. You're certain of it. Your hand immediately pulls out from under your waistband, an unceremonious 'thwip!' sound of the elastic snapping back and ever so slightly stinging the skin of your lower abdomen for a brief moment. You hear the echo of Leon's boots as he turns the corner of your shelf, staring right at you.
"Oh, um..." You feel the heat rise to the uppermost layer of your skin. If it rises any further, you fear your skin might just incinerate. You kind of wish it could do that right now. "Nothing." You swallow thickly, pathetically even, as Leon takes a few more steps towards you.
"I'm pretty sure I heard you say my name?" His pale blue gaze is intense, though his tone is more gentle than you expected it to be. The cold concrete beneath your skin suddenly doesn't feel so cold anymore.
"No, uh, I actually said… Neon. Like, um, I needed a neon highlighter." Your lie is baseless and nonsensical. You felt like a deflated balloon even attempting to save yourself from this. You should've known someone was already in the damn room, since when you entered the lights were already on. In your defense, you've absolutely rubbed one out to the thought of him during a quiet hour, and nobody has ever walked nearby or came in. You've done this a total of five times to be exact, actually.
"On thin papers that date back to the 70's that would turn into mush? Damn. Guess I don't train you as well as I thought I did." Leon chuckles.
"Haha, oh… Oops… Well, gotta get back to it." Your voice dies in your throat as you push yourself off the wall.
"Where you heading to?" Leon steps forward a fraction more, his heavy boots making an imposing sound. You stare at the polished leather, your eyes lingering on it for a moment before your gaze snaps back up to his.
"Uh, the… The photocopier." You give another miserable lie. Leon quirks a brow.
"That wouldn't be getting back to it."
"Huh?"
"Continue what you were doing just now." Leon instructs. Still playing dumb, you turn towards the files, pretending to sift through a bunch of folders that have no relevance to you at all. You hear him let out an amused huff, his much larger, calloused hand slowly reaching out to yours. Blinking in shock at the fact that Leon has just grabbed your hand, you're now in total disbelief that Leon's lips are wrapped around your index and middle finger, his tongue softly stroking against your fingertips for a brief moment before releasing your hand with a soft 'pop!'
"W-What…?" You blink, completely stunned.
"Wow. You're acting surprised, even though you've been getting off thinking about me between these shelves for the last ten minutes?" Leon asks, and you feel like you want to melt into a puddle right on the spot.
"…I'm sorry. I don't… Um… I'll stop. I'll stop immediately." You stammer apologetically.
"Why? I didn't ask you to stop." Leon responds. Your mouth opens and closes in surprise, your heart hammering against your chest. "You really think I didn't notice? The way you stare at me like you're going to eat me when I'm prying a warped cabinet door open? Oh. And you cross and uncross your legs repeatedly when you're staring at my arms from across the room. You're not exactly subtle. Although I guess it's my fault too, since I'm enabling all of this." Leon adds.
Your brain needs a moment to catch up - Leon isn't scolding you, nor is he appalled by your behaviour… He's challenging you. He's gauging to see if you have just as much interest in him as he has for you, and if you're willing to act on that interest just as much as he is.
"Wait, sorry, you… You're fine with this?" You ask for confirmation, his response still not quite fully baked in your brain.
"I thought that much was obvious." He lets out a short chuckle. Leon takes another step, his body now invading your personal bubble. "For such a competent agent, you sure do seem oblivious to the hints I've been dropping. But that's okay. If you don't want this, I'll turn around, walk away, and forget it ever happened. We can stay strictly as mentor and subordinate-"
"-No." You interject quickly, clearing your throat. "No, as in, I don't want to stay just as mentor and subordinate. I want this too."
"Good. For a second there I thought I was going to come off as a creep." Leon lets out a small, relieved chuckle.
"…Pretty sure I'm the creep in this situation." You awkwardly joke, briefly rubbing the back of your neck as you begin to walk behind him. Leon takes a seat at the rickety old desk, the old office chair ever so slightly squeaking under his weight as he makes himself comfortable. His legs are spread, his thigh muscles on display even through his utility trousers.
"Maybe." Leon's tone is low and the word is a little drawn out, the cadence of his voice stirring something within you. "Here's what we'll do. You're going to play, and I'm going to watch." His voice is just above a whisper, the broad expanse of his chest catching your eye as he leans his elbows back on the armrest.
"You don't want to…?" You're not exactly sure how you can outright ask your supervisor if he wants to have sex. You're perverted, but you're not shameless.
"Oh, no, believe me, I do. But I got a little banged up from the last field mission I just came back from." Leon lifts his tight quarter zip, revealing his muscular abdomen, littered with nasty contusions, a nauseating purplish and green hue. "There's a few more. Can't really do anything… Strenuous until the bruises have properly healed, at least." He explains.
"Fuck, they look like they hurt like a bitch." You let out a slow exhale, but you weren't really looking at the bruises. That exhale wasn't really one out of sympathy. You were looking at the peaks and valleys of his abdominal muscles, and the way you could see a light smattering of blonde hair travelling south. Your eyes travel back to Leon's gaze, and you already know you've been caught. He notices, but he doesn't address it. He only gives you a short knowing look.
"Yeah. We can do a little more once my body doesn't feel like an overripe peach. So… You think you can show me?" Leon's questions hangs in the air for a moment before you perch yourself at the edge of the table.
"Anything to help my supervisor recover." You joke. Leon slightly shakes his head, leaning towards you for a second.
"We're a little past titles at this point. Use my name." Leon says, echoing your own name as he leans back again.
"Alright… Anything to help you recover, Leon." You say, biting back a grin as you hitch your skirt up to your hips, pull down your panties, and spread your legs once more.
"Fuck, you were close, huh? It's dripping all down your thighs." Leon whispers, already palming his cock at the sight of you. You might combust on the spot, watching him stare at you like this. But you keep it together, as you begin to rub yourself for him slowly. Your moans are soft and stifled, mostly out of pure fear that you'll be caught with your hands between your legs in front of your supervisor.
Leon frees his cock from his pants, and you momentarily fear that you might genuinely drool all over your white and blue striped work blouse at the sight of him. He's exactly as you imagined from all that print checking and the way you watched him walk, as if it's heavy. Scratch that - he's better than what you imagined him to look like. It most certainly is heavy. With blown out pupils, you continue to rub little circles on your clit at a frantic pace - you're watching him watching you. It makes your head spin to the point where you feel a little dizzy. You want to touch him so badly, to feel him, but you have to settle for this.
…Unless.
Your gaze drops down to his polished boots. Not a speck of dirt, blood, or grime. Your hand slows, and Leon gives you a quizzical glance. "You okay?" He asks you, his hand slowing.
"I'm fine," you reply, almost feeling caught off guard by how gentle his tone is and how perceptive of a person he can truly be. "…I was just wondering how clean you keep those boots." You add.
Leon quirks a brow, letting out a short chuckle of bewilderment. "You're wondering if I keep my boots clean at a time like this? Shit, I know I'm a little old, but I didn't think I was that bad to look at."
"What? Oh, no, no. Trust me, you're… Really nice to look at. I just wish I could touch you in some way, is all." You pout.
"I'm not sure if I'm fully following. But yes, I clean these boots very regularly, and they're just for the office."
"Just… Just keep going." You tell him, your dangling feet now planted on the charcoal coloured carpet as you close the gap between you both. "I'm just going to hope you don't have a foot or ankle injury." You say, sinking down to your knees as you straddle Leon's boot. His eyes widen, as you carefully lean back, your impossibly slick pussy settling on the broad, flat part of the leather.
"God damn." Leon breathes out as you begin to grind yourself against his boot.
"Too much?" Your question is breathy as your clit rubs against the firm leather.
"No. No. Just… Haha, fuck." Leon's free hand reaches out, his fingers gently raking through your hair for a moment as he gives you a small smile. "Just a pleasant surprise." He determines.
"Good." You respond, as his hand travels from your hair to cup your jawline, his thumb stroking your bottom lip. You whimper as you fuck yourself into the surface of his boot relentlessly, picking up the pace of your hips as you watch his hand pump his cock faster and faster.
"Yeah… That's it. Keep going… That's my girl." Leon groans as he watches you desperately buck your hips, your mouth slightly agape as you chase pleasure from something as simple as his boot.
"I-I'm gonna…" You mewl, your words dying in your throat.
"You gonna cum? Good… Good girl. Show me." Leon coaxes, his words giving you that one final shove that sends you over the edge, the feeling of warmth spreading throughout your lower abdomen, as the obscene wet squelching sounds from your pussy echo throughout the room. The sight of you coming undone in front of him causes Leon to let out a deep groan of pleasure. Your eyes are fixed on the thick, white ropes of cum that he catches in his hand, his chest heaving and an unmistakable red flush creeps on the back of his neck to the tips of his ears as he finishes.
Leon reaches overhead, quickly grabbing a wad of tissues for both you and him as you clean yourselves up. "Can you stand?" He asks as he moves to get up, and you slowly rise from the floor, with Leon holding you steady by the arms as you find balance on your legs once more.
"Thanks." You give him a small smile of appreciation.
"Was about to say the same thing." Leon says, leaning you against the desk as he kisses you deeply. You were expecting something that was all tongue and teeth, but it was a remarkably tender kiss that leaves you feeling flushed in the face. Turning around to pull your underwear back on, you notice it's missing.
"Oh, that's weird, I thought my…" You turn back to Leon, and you notice his hand shoving something in his back pocket for a moment.
"You can get it back after dinner with me tonight." He says, before straightening his posture and walking out of the door. The door closes with a gentle thud. All you can do is blink for a moment as your breathing fully evens out.
Thinking abt RE2R Leon seeing his gf in lingerie for the first time I bet his eyes would pop out of his head LOL
˗ˏˋ ꒰ summary ꒱ ˎˊ˗ RE2R!Leon Kennedy coming home after a long day at the station to his girl in a pretty lingerie set ᝰ.ᐟ 18+ he’s such a cutie oml
Leon is finally home after twelve brutal hours. The familiar sound of his boots thudding against the hardwood floor echoes through the apartment, sending an excited shiver down your spine as he makes his way through the halls, beelining towards the bedroom like a man on a mission.
“Baby, you would not believe the chase Kevin had me on today.” He groans seconds away from going on a full-blown tangent, then his breath catches in his throat, and he stumbles in the doorway— his eyes widening at the sight of you.
You’re standing there in front of the mirror, dripped in the orangey afternoon glow and pretty lace, looking absolutely angelic, and Leon forgets how to breathe for a good ten seconds because god he feels like one lucky man right now.
“A chase?” You ask sweetly, and he nods dumbly, mouth suddenly very dry.
He doesn’t speak; he can’t; all he manages is a small noise caught between a moan and a ragged sigh as he walks over to you, still wearing his police vest and heavy utility belt.
“It doesn’t even matter.” He breathes out, baby blues dragging along the shape of your perfect body. “You look— I mean— holy shit, you’re gorgeous, so pretty, baby.”
“Yeah?”
You blink up at him coyly as if you weren’t fishing for that exact compliment when you slipped into the lingerie set. You give him a shy little twirl, and he leans back to check you out shamelessly with a boyish sort of grin, his cheeks all pink. Then he’s suddenly fumbling with his gun holster along with his belt, dropping them onto the dresser with a thud so he could get his hands on you without his uniform in the way.
“Yeah, yeah, baby, such an angel. Can I… please?” He trails off, hands hovering over your hips, practically vibrating with excitement.
You nod once, and he’s instantly all over you, his warm palms dragging over the swell of your hips and across the curve of your plush ass, pulling you flushed against him with a groan— the sound low, rich with appreciation and very much happy, like a puppy who's been given his favourite treat.
“Leon-” you giggle, all giddy from his affection, fingers curling lightly into his biceps as he squeezes your ass, playfully toying with the thin fabric of your panties.
“Sorry, sorry. I can’t help it, baby.” He murmurs lamely, running his fingertips up your spine to play with the lace straps of your cute little bralet that cups your breasts perfectly. “Got the prettiest girl in all of Racoon City.”
You huff in fond amusement, hands cupping his face as he leans down to kiss your exposed collarbones, each smack of his lips sloppier than the last.
“Just Racoon City?” The question comes out teasingly, and he pulls back, face all flushed.
“No, the whole wide world, baby… hell, the universe.” He corrects himself with that charming smile, eyes fixed up onto you as he slowly lowers himself down onto his knees. “Wanna kiss you everywhere,” he confesses, already kissing down your soft tummy as his hands fall to squeeze your hips. “So damn pretty n’all mine, you make me feel so damn lucky.”
Without warning, he lifts your leg over his shoulder, brushing a feather-light kiss to the cute little bow on the hem of your panties, then another over the lace that covers your pussy. You gasp, hands grasping at his shoulders to try and stabilise yourself as he darts his tongue out to taste you through the flimsy piece of lingerie.
“Leon, you can’t go down on me here, m’gonna fall.” you huff quietly, a little amused, and he simply blinks up at you with those blue eyes of his.
“You won’t fall, won’t let you.” He promises, tilting his head to press a wet kiss to your inner thigh, “Wanna taste you through these pretty panties, then again without ‘em, can I do that, baby? Please? Had such a long day at work too, please?”
And how could you say no when he’s on his knees, begging for you?
જ⁀➴ Resident Evil Masterlist જ⁀➴ General Masterlist
Summary: An anthology of your life with Tommy, from friends to strangers to lovers, and all the little moments in between.
Warnings: 18+, implied DV, substance abuse, childhood trauma, ptsd, overprotective tommy, swearing, brief smut, longfic oneshot, feminist themes (motherhood & being a wife in the 1920s).
ao3 link
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Smash!
“Pick it up!”
Your daddy was a drunk. You remembered the fact since you could walk. He stayed home while the working men left for the factories, then disappeared in the late hours of the morning until his eventual return when the slam of the front door woke the household up. Mother used to hold you at night as she curled up in your bed. She was sick a lot. Always sniffing into the back of your neck when you were asleep. Sometimes the sleeve of your nightgown would get soaked while she muffled her hiccups.
She looked sad, too. In the morning, she kept the curtains drawn and stayed away from the outside world. She told you it was to keep nosey Mrs. Gretel away from her family affairs. But Mrs. Gretel had left Birmingham two months prior.
By seven years old, you were the 'man' of the house. You had gone to sleep one night, and when you awoke, your mother had vaporized into the air like a rabbit in a hat.
“She left because of you,” your father slurred at you.
You hated him.
She left behind her long-sleeve dresses, scarves, and wicker hats that covered nearly every inch of her skin. They were far too big for you then, but when your father came home at the end of the week with a stack of cash, you ran to your mother’s closet, which had remained untouched until then, to find only cobwebs. Gone. Every single one of her dresses. You looked out at the moon in those early hours of the morning and swore to it that when you were bigger, you would get him back so much worse.
And so you were left to clean up his smashed glass bottles and scrub the alcohol out of the gritty carpet. Your little hands struggled to pluck the glass from the floorboards. In a year’s time, they were covered in little scars.
On your tenth birthday, you decided you were grown enough to take matters into your own hands. When he was passed out on the floor from whatever he managed to fill his pipe with, you grabbed the small bottles he hid under a loose floorboard and poured them into the gutter at the back of your house.
You turned to run back to the door when the contents of the bottle were empty, but a ball almost tripped you over. You gripped your tattered skirt before you could lose your footing and snapped your head around with a fierce pout.
“That’s my ball,” pointed a young Thomas Shelby.
You put your small hands on your smaller hips. “You kicked it my way on purpose!”
You weren’t entirely sure, but you suspected it.
“Maybe I thought you were pretty,” he grinned.
You noticed his two front teeth were missing.
“Ewwww! I would never go out with you!” You squawked.
At ten years old, you knew better than that.
Seemingly unaffected by your distaste, he continued. “Do you live there?” He nodded to the house whose roof was falling apart.
“What’s it to you?” You frowned stubbornly, not wanting to admit that, yes, that was your house.
“The curtains are always drawn,” he answered, walking over to pick up his ball from your feet. He was the same height as you were at the time. “My brother Arthur said it’s haunted. He saw a ghost in the window once. He said it was a woman and that she starved to death.”
Your nose scrunched up. "Well, he’s a phony!”
You ran inside said house and slammed the door shut.
He kissed you down by the docks that winter. It was your first kiss, and a clumsy one at that, so you didn’t remember much of it.
By thirteen, you had given in and sold the rest of your mother’s belongings to support yourself. You hated yourself for it, and that nagging voice inside your head told you that you were no better than your father. Oh, and your father? Your father lost vision in his left eye from a bar fight. Too bad it wasn’t both.
Sometime later, a boy two years older than you saw your wandering hand in someone’s bag at the fair and threatened to teach you some manners ‘the hard way’. You bit anxiously on your nails and pleaded with him because he was bigger than most boys his age, when Tommy’s brother Arthur (who you’d seen hanging around the Garrison) came passing by and threatened to ‘toss him about’. The other boy, not all believing in Arthur’s temper, rushed forward, and the two ended up rolling in the dirt, but by then you were gone with a stolen pocket watch in your fist. Nearly two legs and an arm deep in poverty, some quick cash, or a hero complex? You’d take the penny.
At fourteen, a lady knocked on your door. It was a lady of the night who had come to inform your father that he had fathered a son with her. You were glad it was a boy. A girl wouldn’t have stood a chance in the slums of Birmingham. Life was hard, but Birmingham was harder. Your father had refused to listen to the young woman and shooed her off. You never saw her teary-eyed face again.
At fifteen, your father attempted to wash his hands of you by marrying you off to the highest bidder. There was no real auction, but just about anyone who suggested a handsome sum of money did the trick.
“His name is William,” you exhaled, kicking your legs over the edge of the dock.
Tommy laughed. “You won’t marry him.”
“What choice do I have, Tom?”
Your finances were getting tight, and the gloomy pressure to take up working at night like many young ladies was beginning to loom closer and closer. You hated being a woman. Boys would never have to worry about selling themselves to survive.
“I’ll put a gypsy curse on him,” he decided, squinting his eyes from the bright reflection dancing across the water.
You hit his shoulder.
“No, you won't, because then you’ll be cursing me.”
The severity of your situation began to dawn on Tommy. No amount of pestering Polly for change to spare would relieve you of your burden any longer.
“That’s it, then?” He gulped, shifting his glassy eyes to the harbor.
You sighed and followed his gaze.
“Maybe it won’t be so bad. I’ll never have to see dad again, and William promised to take care of me.”
Tommy scoffed.
You frowned at him. “What?”
He shook his head.
“What! Tom—”
“Don’t marry him.”
You rolled your eyes. “Oh, here we go, why?”
“You know why.”
You were engaged to William on the eve of your seventeenth birthday. He was a very proper man and never dared to go any further than hooking an arm around yours on formal occasions. You were never attracted to his thin mustache nor the thick lenses he wore. In fact, he was incredibly awkward at social occasions, always checking his pocket watch and avoiding eye contact with whichever circle he stood in.
Tommy began to fade out of your life around that time. Margaret—a lady who had taken you on to help with the sewing of her family’s tailoring business—told you that Tommy was spotted arm in arm with another girl that week. You expected to feel jealous, but you felt nothing. You knew love would never be your right. Love was for the more fortunate.
You spent that year learning how to be a wife. Surprisingly, it wasn’t too different from what you did as a child—cooking and cleaning up like you did when your father came home, that is. It was comforting to have a routine in place. It meant finality—no one walking in and out of your life as they pleased, and certainly no more growling stomachs. Perhaps being a wife was a skill your mother never learned. You were grateful for William’s mother, who seemed to be more than enthusiastic to show you the reigns.
After a year-long engagement, you caught your fiancé, William, locked in a compromising position with another man.
“Oh,” was all you got out before leaving his house.
You lacked the special ingredient that marriages needed: love.
You sat down at the fountain across the street. William and his lover’s silhouette were visible behind the blinds he had drawn on the second floor, which peered over the sidewalk. You watched their shadows fluster their feathers around the room like headless geese, and for a moment your head surfaced above water and laughter frothed out between your sealed lips. Perhaps Birmingham made you a little mad.
You didn’t go through with the marriage. You suspected William was relieved.
That week, your father left. You never knew whether he left on his own accord or just never made it home one night. Either way, you never really cared to find out.
With nothing left to lose, you knocked on the Shelby family’s door at Watery Lane. Finn appeared around the other side of the door a moment later.
“Is Tommy home?”
Finn nodded, spinning on his heel to alert his brother. When Tommy did appear, his shoulders were tensed. Disheveled hair never looked so stylish on him. When you saw his suspenders (which were hastily thrown on), you wanted to ask who he expected to be at the door that he planned to answer dressed in such fashion but then thought better of it. He peered down at you, then checked over his shoulder before ushering you inside and up to his bedroom.
“It’s… smaller than I thought,” you landed on, taking in his room.
After all these years, you had never stepped foot into the Shelby home. You weren’t the type of person to come door-knocking.
You turned around to face Tommy after hearing him click the lock on his door.
“Are you hurt?" were the first words he had spoken to you in a year.
“No.” You pressed your lips together, eyeing everything from the bed to the view out the window.
Silence followed closely after.
“Then why are you here?” Tommy sighed.
Your vision began to blur then. “I don’t know,” you said honestly, trying to stop your bottom lip from trembling.
Desperately, you pushed your hair back and straightened up, attempting to hold yourself together. You must have looked like a puppet being held together by a string, given how poor you looked.
Tommy’s boots pad across the wooden floor. “You love me?”
Did that word truly exist? How could you answer if you never knew what it meant to love?
You don’t meet his eyes. He licked his lips, pushing your head up to meet his with his thumb. His eyebrows rose expectantly.
“I don’t know what to do, Tom,” you breathed, avoiding his question. “I’m all alone now. No William, no father…”
His lips parted, and you watched with fascination as the cogs turned in his head. “Yes… that is a problem." His breath fanned over your face.
You gagged, a reaction you yourself had not expected, before rushing to his door, only to remember that, yes, he had locked it, before turning to the nearest silver bucket in the corner to empty your guts.
The first thing you heard when you caught your breath was, “are you pregnant?”
No, but when you stand so close to me and I can smell the cigarettes you smoke and your freshly washed skin, I can imagine a future where we are married, and I see your face growing more disappointed as we age together because you married a woman who never knew how to be a mother to your children nor a wife who knew to tend to you with affection by your bedside when you’re ill.
“No,” you choked, spitting out the vile taste in your mouth. “We never did anything.”
You wanted him to know that. You wanted him to think that you never let William touch you because you never loved him, not because William wasn’t interested in girls.
A moment later, Tommy sat beside you on the floor and quietly combed your hair away from your wobbling lips.
“So, if you’re not pregnant and you don’t love me, why are you here?”
You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. How were you supposed to answer that? After letting your guts loose in his room, you thought he would surely have booted you out the door.
A knock came on the door: “Tommy?”
“A minute, Finn!” Tommy growled at the door, refusing to back away from your trembling frame.
You were so hungry. Margaret had to cut back your hours ever since her husband fell ill. She spent more time by his bedside than keeping the store open, which meant you were making less than usual. The imminent closing of the store hung over your head like a taunting crow, gouging your insides like you were Prometheus. Birmingham your chains, a woman your fate, and the bird your punishment for thinking you deserved more.
“I should go.” You shivered at the draft inching towards your skin from the open window.
Tommy’s intense gaze stuttered, falling to your lap, where you picked at the dead skin around your nails. He cleared his throat, fishing out the key from his pocket. Although it was dull and muted from the years, it gleaned brightly in your eyes as if it were the reward you came for. Flushed, you grabbed it out of his hands without sparing a glance. Electricity sparked in those precious seconds, igniting a deadly fire in your belly.
“You’re cold." Tommy flinched at your touch.
You retreated as soon as the key slid into the hole and unlocked with a click. In your haste, you left the most valuable thing you owned there in his room.
Your heart.
The months went by, and summer arrived. The stories your mother told you left you expecting a bright gleam of air that would wash over the streets and paint each tree and every patch of grass a frighteningly bright green that would even encourage grumpy Mrs. Gretel to come out to preen her stubborn roses that would just not grow. Birmingham left less to be desired. The summer days never came, and that persisting bitter bog thickened, albeit with slightly less rain. There were gray clouds, smoke from the factories, and a shivering north westerly, which pushed said clouds at breakneck speed as if they had somewhere to be. You looked to the sky one day and said a prayer for blue breezes and sweltering sun, but the sky was empty.
Sometime later, men marched the streets armed with guns in their ‘dashing’ uniforms. A war, they said, a great one. Queues lined the street for the post offices and grocers. Rain rivaled the bustle of the city. What did it feel like to love someone so much as to stand in the pouring rain next to the gutter? You wanted that kind of love. Not the love you could only give yourself because even you didn’t want your own love.
One of the soldiers decorated in medals stood on a crate at the port, yelling something supposedly inspiring that captured the attention of many young men. The words honorable and patriotic were tossed in there like a delectable salad, enticing them in the way farmers held a carrot to a pig’s snout.
You pitied their mothers. Their daughters were married off, and then their sons were swooning over the idea of dying. Birmingham was filthy, rotting, and disgusting. You needed to leave.
You kissed Margaret goodbye on the cheek one Tuesday morning. Ever since your pockets turned out empty, you had been working as a bedside nurse for her ill-stricken husband. They were good to you, and they were probably the only people you could consider family.
She patted your cheek and said, "you're doing good to serve this country.”
You hadn’t had the heart to tell her you were leaving because the city was marring your flesh, so you slipped her the sugarcoated lie of wanting to join the war effort so that you might help others who were bedridden, just like her husband.
At the train station, you stood with your suitcases held tightly in both arms. You had to set one down to hold onto your hat as a train full of men waving their caps out the window pulled into the station. Some children weaved between the crowd, wagging a newspaper above their heads, hoping to make a quick penny. To your side, women wept for their brothers, husbands, and lovers.
“Who are you wishing off?” asked an elderly woman who was clutching her cane.
“Oh, I’m not. I’m boarding the next train.”
She laughed, and you wondered how old your mother would be now. Would she have grown wrinkles and settled into a deeper laugh like this woman?
“My dear, you have a bright imagination if you think they will let a woman on any of these trains.”
A sudden anger filled your blood. “Why not?”
“These men are heading straight for London, where they will be shipped away to France to fight,” the woman explained as if it were any other day.
“I’ll catch the next train then.”
She shook her head, and her frail hand curled tighter around her cane. “They’ve stopped the trains so they can transport soldiers to London.”
You frowned. “Then how will I leave Birmingham?”
You’ll never forget her dismissive laughter.
“My dear, you won’t.”
Men boarded the train, clapping each other on the back with a wink and a laugh. When a line of men on the platform thinned, the train whistled, and you looked over just in time to see Polly, Ada, and little Finn standing with their hands crossed over their hearts as they waved to the train.
No. It wasn’t possible.
But it was because you caught the gleam of the razors sewn into their peaky caps. Tommy, Arthur, and John all stood aboard the train, sticking their heads out and waving to Polly and Ada with a grin that wrung your stomach like a wet cloth.
Those countless daydreams you spun, the intricate webs you wove, began breaking down to thin fibers. In one pathway, you stayed there in his room and told him the truth you always denied yourself. You loved him. In another, you stood next to Polly, close to tears, as you begged him to come home safely. There was a resounding click in that moment as your breath stuttered. You had been the person who wiped away those futures, thinking it was nothing but an annoying spiderweb. Oh, how wrong you were!
“Tommy!” You left your suitcases behind and stepped around the old woman as you ducked under hugs and tearful goodbyes.
“Tommy!” You cried again with the gusto of someone who certainly shouldn’t be as concerned as they were considering you left him in his room that day.
Thankfully, his eyes eventually found yours as you pushed through the last line of people. You stood there and stomached all your regrets head-on. It was funny how, up until that moment, you managed to squash every seed of doubt. Why was it that you only realized what you had when it was slipping out of reach?
He never called your name back. He just stared at you blankly as the train pulled away, unlike you, who clung to the image of his frame even as the train disappeared from sight and the crowd began to disperse. You stood there unblinking, hoping to soak up the last of him before you forgot the intensity of his eyes or the humming rumble of his voice. Because the idea of something you held dearly becoming a memory meant that it could as easily be forgotten, and that terrified you. Your eyes were watering now, against your best wishes.
You overheard Polly ushering Finn and Ada off. Finn rushed home without protest, but Ada stopped in her tracks when she saw you hunched over your knees in tears. She smiled weakly before chasing Finn home. It was then that Polly’s shadow approached your huddled frame. She didn’t say anything, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if she expected you to stand and apologize for being such a mess. That’s when a penny clattered to the ground beside you. She squeezed your shoulder once before disappearing.
You kissed that penny as if Tommy would feel the power of it across the country, then ran back to Margaret’s, having forgotten your suitcases.
“Oh…” She exclaimed, slapping her tea towel on the counter when you walked into the kitchen. “You missed your train?”
Dread made your stomach tender and your breath short.
“I’m enrolling in the Red Cross.”
-
Throughout the war, you thought of Tommy every day until your stomach lurched. Would it have worked if you had stayed? Would you both have grown old together instead of subjecting yourself to the spray of dirt when a bomb went off nearby?
A day ago, your supply rations never came. It wasn’t like hunger was anything new, but when your mind was too focused on surviving the perilous weather, it was hard to save other lives. You made work with what little supplies you had left. The morphine went stint within hours of its arrival, and the cries of pained soldiers filled the medical tent all night. You did what you could, wiped sweat from their foreheads, and wrote letters to their mothers and lovers with what supplies you could scavenge. Some were written on cardboard from shell packaging, others on torn pages from the bibles they kept over their hearts. Pens were useless—the ink ran in the rain—so you scribbled everything down in pencil.
Before you left for France, you were warned of the bullets. No one ever warned you about the shrapnel, nor the bombs or grenades. They shattered soldiers’ bones beyond repair and left bodies unrecognizable. There wasn’t much you could do when most of their flesh was missing.
Keeping faith became an impossible task. Supplies were depleted, and nurses were dejected. Sally, who had been writing home for news of her brother, recently had her letters returned with the black stamp. Death—return to sender. She spent only an hour sitting on a trunk, letting her tears fall, before she got back to work. Grief privileged those with time, something no one could afford in these conditions.
Then it came—the day Arthur Shelby was carried in on a stretcher. You were making your rounds around the beds when a truckload of yelling men pooled through the entrance of the tent.
“Nurse!” They all yelled, some limping, others setting down stretchers of men on the dirt between the filled beds.
You and two other nurses dropped everything and ran over to attend to the wounded. They were all covered head to toe in dirt, groaning and clutching limbs that were twisted the wrong way. One in particular coughed and huffed while he fought against hands, which were fruitlessly pushing him back down on the stretcher.
“Let me go!” He yelled, wrestling against an older nurse.
“It’s alright, Mary. I’ll handle this one,” you patted her shoulder as you swapped places.
You dunked a washcloth into a bucket of water to wipe away the dirt in his eyes. “Calm down; you're safe here,” you said, starting your usual script of reassurances.
When the striking blue eyes squinted up at you, your blood ran cold. You froze before taking his head in both your hands, despite his protests. “Arthur? Arthur, it’s me!”
He loosened his grip on your wrist. “Huh?”
“It’s me! Where’s Tommy and John?”
He spat blood and gritted his teeth. “Fucking hell, where’s the whiskey?”
You laughed despite the smell of blood encompassing the tent. You quickly fetched the alcohol you had been using to clean wounds and pressed it to his lips. You weren’t sure if it was whiskey or not, but you reasoned he was in too much pain to be able to tell. He drank it with a groan of pleasure. You didn’t try to snatch the bottle away as he emptied it down his palette; you just sat and grinned at the way he suckled it like a newborn baby while you cleaned away his cuts.
“I’ve never been happier to see you, Arthur.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, his lips still wrapped around the bottle.
You tried to stay by his side for as long as you could before the second wave of patients came tumbling through the flaps of the tent. One of them lost their grip on the stretcher, and the patient went sliding into the dirt headfirst.
“Fuck!” They all swore, abandoning the stretcher to drag the limp man further into the makeshift hospital.
You rushed to help when a hand gripped the back of your neck. You yelped in pain as your hair got caught in a fingernail when they turned you to face them.
And there he was: Tommy Shelby, covered in a thick layer of dirt, heaving for air.
“Nurse! Nurse!” Voices cried for you, but between the ringing in your ears and the wrath in Tommy’s blue eyes, you were frozen in place.
“The fuck are you doing here, eh?” He yelled over the anguished men.
You suddenly felt stupid standing there in your Red Cross uniform.
“I was looking for you, I—”
His dirty hands cupped your cheeks—something you were painfully aware of from the uncomfortable itch from the mud on your flushed skin—and pulled your forehead to his.
“You think this is some fantasy?” He squinted. “You think there’s any fucking moonlight to kiss under here, eh?” He spat.
His eyes held that haunted look you had seen on many soldiers that passed through the medical tent. Your eyes watered. Perhaps it was from the humidity and dirt being kicked up as nurses and patients scuffled around, not because you could hardly recognize the man in front of you. The blood smeared above his eyebrow worried you, so you reasoned that he was mad because it had been leaking into his eyes. Dutifully, you reached to wipe it with the back of your hand. He grabbed your wrist harshly, bringing it down to your side. He was in shock; you scolded yourself.
“Where’s John and Arthur?” Tommy swallowed, flexing his hands.
You led him to Arthur, who had been left in his corner while the nurses attended to more serious cases. It hurt watching the brothers reunite after their ordeal, so you left them alone no matter how much you feared them being discharged before your return. After all, everything you ever wanted sat in that corner, but it would be selfish to coddle Tommy all to yourself. Still, you couldn’t help sparing a glance when you walked up and down the tent, attending to patients.
Later that night, he came to you under the candlelight of your tent. He cleared his throat upon entry. You were lying face-up on your cot when he cleared his throat and peeled back the entrance to enter. The candlelight painted the mountain peaks of his face in a dull amber and the valleys in a frightening shadow. You sat up, pulling the thick cover over your shift.
Tommy kneeled next to you, resting on the heels of his boots. He licked his chapped lips and itched his nose. “You don’t belong here.”
Your grip on the cover loosened. “Huh?”
Nothing prepared you for when he swung his brooding stare towards you. He exhaled loudly before running a hand over his face.
“You should have stayed in Birmingham.” He said it like a warning.
“And done what?”
Vulnerability never looked good on Tommy. His head hung and his fingers itched at the back of his head—a tick you used to love; now you weren’t so sure. Because your Tommy was never afraid, but this man in front of you was alarmingly tense despite the clear efforts to mask it.
What have they done to you, Tom?
Under the dim light of your tent, you barely recognized him. A stranger’s eyes were blown wide in a frightening state of shock, something most soldiers mirrored. War washed out the sweet blue pair you knew, refitting them for a steely weapon. You hated seeing him like this, so still, so unsteady, cocooned into the corner as if afraid to take up space.
You feared you looked no better. Having worked till the point of exhaustion, you usually found yourself awakening against a wooden crate or trunk to the cries of patients who demanded your attention despite your body not having the strength to stand. Today you had been lucky and found yourself crawling distance to your private tent when your knees started wobbling and your head lulling.
The wooden reinforcing of your private tent fought in vain to shelter your bodies from the elements; it still flapped and whipped about, sometimes rocking your cot. Yet Tommy remained still like those life-size stone statues you’d find outside an important building, brooding at the dirt and locked in an internal battle. You shifted to the edge of your makeshift bed and leaned close enough that you saw how the top buttons of his dirtied uniform were missing and most of his clothes were torn.
His arm, which was breaking out in goosebumps, lay heavily across his knee so that he could rest his forehead there limply. He looked in a bad enough condition that you feared the possibility of him succumbing to the wasteland threatening him outside your tent. You wrapped your arms around the scruff of his hair and pulled his face into your stomach, where he could hide from the terrible world. On instinct, his arms wound around your waist, and you felt his warm exhale against your skin through the thin fabric of your slip.
His tin water bottle clanged against the satchel he wore, which made you wonder if he had any time to rest at all if he still had all his equipment tied to his uniform.
“I didn’t…” His voice was muffled by your slip. He cleared his throat again, shaking his head.
When he dropped the thought, you spoke up. “Have you eaten?”
He slapped your thigh haphazardly. “No, do you have a cigarette?”
You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, instead gently pushing him away so you could kneel beneath your bed and fish a cigarette from your satchel. You pinched one from its tin case, then thought better of it and tossed it on Tommy’s lap. Gratefully, he collected one from the case and lit it with a nearby candle. You watched his chest rise and fall as he took an especially deep drag. His eyes shut as the nicotine rushed to his head.
“Fuck, that’s good,” he muttered under his breath.
“How are you here, Tommy? One of the night nurses should’ve been on watch.”
“Oh,” smoke puffed out of his mouth, and he raised his eyebrows, “there is.”
“Then how—”
“I had to see you.”
The butterflies in your stomach dove. The blue in his eyes appeared translucent as they hazed over like a ghost. His shoulders were slumped dejectedly, and he had a hand pushing through his greasy, unwashed hair to relieve his neck from the weight of his thoughts.
He pointed to you then, with the cigarette nursed between his fingers. “I need to know why you changed your mind.”
“About what, Thomas?”
His voice slurred and slipped into a deeper register from the lack of sleep. "Why you came back. Why you came to France.” Tommy shook his head lazily. “You expect me to believe you had a sudden change of heart? What? You a patriot now?” An amused exhale curled out while he took another drag. “Well I don’t believe it.”
You began shivering despite the way your body flushed.
“How’s Arthur?” You tried to avert the conversation.
“Bloody drunk off his ass.”
“And you?”
Tommy held your stare and swallowed dryly. “Trying.”
“You can go join him if you wish.”
He looked at the entrance of your tent as if he were weighing his options, then shook his head and took another drag before clearing his throat. “It’s different now.”
Naïvely, you sank to the ground beside him and rested a hand on his shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be.”
He sighed.
“I wish that were true.”
-
The next time you saw Tommy, you were working a shift at the hospital. After the war, you received a medal for your efforts, which easily got you a job in Birmingham. You pleaded with them to send you to any other hospital—London, Manchester, Liverpool—you didn’t care. Anywhere but Birmingham.
“You should be honored to work for me!” Exclaimed the head nurse at Birmingham Hospital, who didn’t seem too pleased with your distaste for the city.
You thought the job would be the final nail in the coffin, but you surprisingly got along well with the head nurse once you had put your animosity aside. So much so, she offered to lease you a room upstairs from hers.
Then came that dreaded night where you were finishing the filing of some documents when a patient was being rushed in. Your ears perked up, and you looked through the blinds of the office to see a man being rushed by. Something small and round had fallen off the stretcher while the nurses paid no attention, pushing him around the corner and down towards the operating theater. Curious, you exited the office.
And there on the ground was one of those peaky caps Tommy and his brothers used to wear. You knew this because you picked it up and nearly cut yourself on the blade that was sewn into the seam. You spent the next hour gnawing on your nails. Your imagination sparked ideas about the beaten man who was lying in an operating room two doors down in surgery. Was it Tommy? Arthur? John? The shadows under your eyes darkened at the thought. No, it was probably some other Peaky Blinder. The Shelby brothers were too careful. Still, you knocked over your coffee in a mad dash to the bathroom, where you heaved up your dinner.
You volunteered to stay until the morning, but the head nurse on duty for the night refused and sent you home. You didn’t sleep at all that night.
The next morning, you arrived early and made a beeline for the emergency ward. You grabbed the admission form and scanned the patient list. There were only two emergency patients who were listed under the final hour of your shift, a woman and a man, which made it easier to narrow it down to the man who was admitted at quarter to midnight in ward four, room seven.
When you peaked through the crack in the door, you knew you had been worried for a reason. Tommy lay under the covers, battered and bruised, with a swollen eye and a nasty scar where he had reportedly received surgery for trauma to the head.
You slipped inside quietly and closed the door. Tommy’s eyes were closed, and his mouth hung open, stealing miniscule amounts of air into his lungs. He looked as good as a ghost.
“Tommy…” You clutched his peaky cap (which you meant to return) between your fingers.
He didn’t move an inch, so you set the cap down by his bedside table, carefully watching the rise and fall of his chest.
What have they done to you, Tom?
On the second week, he woke up while you were cleaning the windowsill. He coughed, and you whipped around in shock.
“Nurse?” He asked hoarsely, blinking away the blinding light.
You rushed to his side, tears bursting like the fountain you passed on your way to work.
“Don’t move,” you urged when he tried to sit up.
“I have to get to London,” he slurred, only half awake.
You weren’t upset that he didn’t recognize you. You weren’t upset that he didn’t recognize you.
“Tommy… it’s me.”
He shrugged your hand off his shoulder with a hiss. “Fucking hell.”
Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
“Please don’t move; I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” You couldn’t hide the way your voice broke.
He looked up at you, then, through bloodshot blue eyes. You wished you knew what was going through his head. Happy or sad?
“Am I dead?”
“No,” you smiled weakly as a tear fell.
“Can I have a smoke then?”
-
“I don’t know how to love, Tommy!”
“Yeah? Yeah? That’s bullshit! Why do you keep coming back then?” He pinched your chin, glaring furiously into your eyes. “Eh?”
He stood so close that he blocked the light from the chandelier, which mournfully hung from the ceiling. You shivered in his shadow.
“I shouldn’t have come tonight.”
“But you did!” He accused, pointing in your face.
“It was a mista—”
“You fucking did!”
“Tommy!”
“I’ve had it! If you want to leave, then fucking leave; otherwise, don’t stand there all righteous waving empty threats over my head because I know you won’t leave.” He shook his head with a wild look in his eye. “No… You won’t leave. You won’t leave because you love me. You keep coming back,” he pointed matter-of-factly.
Tommy’s eyebrows danced between being terribly furrowed and alarmingly raised during his passionate monologue. It was rare for him to emit so much emotion these days. The war changed men, and Tommy was no exception. A chilling stillness framed his presence, which even you weren’t excused from. No more laughter, no more dreams of working with horses, because he was above all that now, wasn’t he? It was ambition that ground his teeth together and hollowed his eyes. Still, you couldn’t forget that the anger came from vulnerability, because it took a lot for someone to get under Thomas Shelby’s skin.
You moved to grab your purse, to make good on his word, but he halted your movement by grabbing your shoulders, roughly at first, before loosening his grip. You softened at his frantic demeanor. He was scared—oh, so afraid of you walking out that door again. But how could you ever explain it to him? You were never born for love. You would never know how to love him properly the way wives were supposed to because what you felt for Tommy was sickeningly deep. So much so that the mere impression of him sealed off your ribcage and ruined any chance of your heart beating for any other soul, so much so that you carried the weight of him in your bones because you could never shake him off.
When you looked back at life, all you saw was the absence of love. You used to imagine yourself growing up and falling in love with a handsome stranger, then getting married in a proper white dress to go live in your proper house. But when you looked in the mirror, you saw a ghost. The pathway of your life was laid out before your eyes once, and what you saw didn’t match the reflection. The man you were supposed to marry couldn’t even look at you, even if you cleaned and cleaned and cleaned until your fingerprints turned white and pasty.
Because what it all came down to was simple. You never got to become the person you envisioned. Instead, you were cursed to live as a blank slate and be consistently reminded of what you were supposed to be and of who you were: no one.
Tommy exhaled in a quick huff, pressing his forehead to yours so that he saw you clearer, without all the tension and bullshit in the way.
“Here it comes, Tommy.” You took a shaky breath. “I love you, but I could never be the perfect wife to you, and I would be a terrible mother.”
There, in all its ugly colors and shades, you hung yourself with the truth.
He shook his head as if he too couldn’t believe your words.
“Fuck’s sake! Forget about all that." His eyes watered out of frustration, but he was still puffing in anger. “I need you. You. Not some whore.”
You bit your lip to muffle the god-forsaken cry ready to erupt from the volcanoes you suddenly found roaring in your stomach. An earthquake overtook your hands the more you fought the inevitable eruption. You grabbed both his hands to stop yours from shaking.
“I have to be cursed; there’s no other way!”
“No!”
“My life slips through my fingers like grains of sand—”
“You’re not cursed!”
“And I can’t stop it, Tommy!”
“You’re not fucking cursed, and I’ll tell you why." Tommy cut you off. He leaned in, licking his lips, which had turned dry from all the shouting, and squeezed your hands. “Because my ancestors charmed dogs with their magic, they didn’t scare little girls with curses,” he paused. “But you… You waved a hand over my head, and now I’m no better than a dog.”
He closed the space between you, pressing his forehead against yours, and stroked both your cheeks, wiping at your tears. You held him there in a meek attempt at reciprocation.
You wished the world were ending so then you could grab Tommy’s hand and say, ‘I’m ready, Tom. The world is ending, so let’s kiss and love each other under the flames without any fear because the world is ending.’
But you were never good at expressing yourself with words, so you sealed it with a kiss, hoping he could taste the unspoken words on your lips the same way you tasted the tears. He responded in earnest, gripping you roughly by the scruff of your neck to seal the promise laden between your lips; no more running.
-
It was just your luck that you would bump into your ex-fiancé, William, while visiting a bar in London with Ada. You were buzzing from the warmth of three sweet liquors and whatever else Ada insisted you try, and everything was starting to seem a little funny by the time he approached you.
He engaged in pleasantries, swishing his wine around the glass and sniffing it occasionally, like many pompous older men tended to do. There was only so much smiling you could afford before you caught your reflection in the freshly wiped bar and realized how poorly your acting skills were. Ada was no help, muttering something about finding a phonebooth and then slipping into the belated and boozed crowd. It was then that the supposed nectar in your glass began to taste like the cleaning products—that nose-scrunching stench. Thankfully, William was too involved in some tangent to notice you muffle a gag into your palm.
The dazzling hum in your ears muffled out all his words. In your drunken state, William appeared to be more confident than what you remembered, but you were unable to decipher whether it was from a change of heart or if he was trying to fall back in your good graces. Otherwise, you were blinded by the roaring bustle of the bar and the delicious swell of music that seemed to reverberate across your being.
Growing a little bored with William’s story, your attention wandered over his shoulder, still being sure to nod every now and then as if you were deeply pondering his words. Not far away from his side, a man seemed to linger—a man who was careful not to reach your eye. You must have laughed a little harder than usual because William turned sharply to the man at his side, gave him a quick once-over, then returned his attention to you, but by then it was too late, and you knew exactly what William’s relationship was with this man and where William’s confidence had come from.
“You’ll make a fine wife and a finer mother someday,” William quickly added.
You cursed the witch inside you, who laughed from her stomach and used his shoulder to steady herself. Once upon a time, that was all you longed to hear, but now, with a half-spilt martini in hand, you couldn’t care less. Both of you had found happiness despite your unconventional circumstances, and there was no more to it. You could close that chapter without any loose threads.
A little drunk, you thanked him, disappeared, and never thought of him again.
-
“I can’t do it, Ada,” you stressed, beginning to feel uncomfortable with the baby in your arms.
Motherhood came rumbling into your life like a rusty engine spitting out oil. ‘Instinctual’, the mothers down the lane from Arrow House had said, ‘it’s like your body has been preparing for it your whole life.’ How awful, you thought, and by the time one of them finished speaking about their experience with their first, your nose was so scrunched in disgust that you would need an iron to flatten out the wrinkles. It wasn’t until now that you longed to be in their shoes, because nothing came naturally to you.
“He’ll latch eventually; he’s just a little fussy,” Ada reassured.
“Is it supposed to hurt?”
“It’s perfectly normal.”
Then, after an hour of rubbing your sons back on the verge of tears, he finally began feeding from you. Ada soothed your back the whole time and cooed softly to calm both you and your unruly boy. Sometimes she brought Karl. He would obediently sit on her lap, playing with his wooden horse, while your little Charles fussed.
One time in the early morning, when you were up attempting to feed Charles, Tommy rushed in alert with disheveled hair and sunken eyes.
“Sorry,” you mouthed, deflated your hardworking husband had been disturbed from his sleep.
He ran his hands over his face and sighed. You mistook his action for frustration and desperately tried to hush your baby. Tommy moved over to the rocking chair where you sat, trying to feed little Charles in your arms.
“Don’t be sorry,” he whispered into the crook of your neck. “How is he?”
You flushed under the moonlight, suddenly embarrassed that your husband had caught you in this vulnerable position with the top of your slip peeled down. Your exposed skin hissed when he pressed a kiss against your pulse.
“I don’t think he likes me very much.”
Tommy inhaled sharply against your neck before resting his chin on your shoulder to peer down at Charles. Charles had settled since Tommy walked into the room, acutely aware of his father as his little hands made a grabbing motion for him. Diligently, Tommy relieved your arms of Charles and cradled him close to his chest. Within minutes, the little baby was gurgling happily and blinking in a way that suggested sleep was on the horizon after all.
Your husband didn’t dare make any sudden noise as he gently set Charles in his cradle. Once he was surely asleep, Tommy guided you up from the rocking chair and into your shared bedroom.
“See?” you hissed, still maintaining a soft voice, “he only wants you.”
Tommy wouldn’t hear any of it, pulling you into his arms as he sat on the edge of the mattress. Your slip was still pooled around your hips, so he took the opportunity to plant a kiss above your breasts, where your heart was.
“He loves you,” he drawled in that husky voice of his. “I know he does because I do.”
Your head ached, but you couldn’t help the way your body reacted to his words and touch. Tommy’s wandering hands teased the silk fabric that clung to your hips as you felt his nose trail down to your breast, where he kissed one of your aching nipples delicately. Suddenly hot, you hummed in delight, the back of his shorn scalp pleasant beneath your nails. A grunt, bathed in that musk of his devours your senses. Inhaling sharply, he took the bud between his full lips, sucking, licking, and nibbling gently while his hands explored further down. Your head lulled back from the pleasure, gasping and withering under his skilled tongue.
The next thing you knew, Tommy was tugging the rest of your silk slip off and reminding you of just how much he loved you.
-
“Charles! Come here!” Tommy called.
Your little boy loved to play in the backyard of Arrow House. Much like his father, Charles adored horses. Big ones, small ones, black ones, white ones—but most of all, he favored his Shetland pony. Tommy had brought it for Charles before he could even walk. He said something about it being important for his son to be raised around horses from a young age. And while you didn’t necessarily disagree, it still stressed you out to hold your baby so close to such a large, muscular animal. You knew the Arabian breeds spooked easily, so you steered clear of them and were able to keep Tommy and Charles happy.
But now he had grown up so fast and was able to run around on his own two legs, climb trees, and bruise his knees on the way down. The sun beat lovingly on the apples of his cheeks as he dirtied his trousers, kneeling by the fence to feed his Shetland (affectionately named Biscuit) hand-picked grass through the gaps.
“Charles! We’re leaving!” You called when he ignored his father.
Stubbornly, Charles spun around to pout his lip and cross his arms. He glared at you as threateningly as a five-year-old could. You bit your lip to hide your smile because he really did look like a little Tommy with those big blue eyes. It would only be a matter of time before he perfected his father’s stare. With a sigh, you shifted your daughter into Tommy’s arms before approaching Charles, who was picking angrily at the grass.
You reached a hand out toward him, "let's go.”
“No!”
“All right,” you said decisively, spinning around, “Ruby will have all the fun then.”
“No!” cried your little boy.
You stuck a hand up in surrender and started walking back to Tommy. “No, it’s all right.”
“No, no no no!” Came his protest, chasing behind you as the gravel crunched beneath his boots.
You paid no attention to him, keeping your eyes trained ahead, silently relieved that your ploy worked. Tommy watched on in amusement while Ruby suckled on her thumb, curiously watching her brother storm closer.
“You hear that, Ruby? We’re going to spoil you,” a short smile played on Tommy’s face as he adjusted her so that she sat comfortably on his hip.
“And me!” Charles added and gave his best pout.
“No, Charles, you said you didn’t want to go,” you reminded him, raising your eyebrows.
“I do! I do!”
“Hmm,” you thought aloud, and held a finger to your chin while looking to the sky in exaggerated contemplation. “Very well, but only if you get in daddy’s car right this instant.”
He climbed into the backseat of the Bentley without further fuss.
When all the bags were neatly packed in the back for the day’s festivities, Tommy came around your side to sit Ruby on your lap. Quickly, he leaned in to kiss you and pinch your cheek, which swelled into a glowing grin.
He smiled back and whispered low enough for only you to hear, “got him wrapped around your finger, eh?”
You laughed. “Him and a few other Shelby’s I know of.”
-
The thundering sound of music could be heard from outside the theater on the corner of Old Pauls. Inside, patrons mused between champagne, dancing, and making a display of their wealth by bidding on little trinkets. It was one of the many charity galas Tommy had to attend because of his new move into politics. Usually, you enjoyed dressing for those sorts of things, but tonight you simply weren’t feeling up to it. Maybe it was the drape of your dress not sitting right or the new leather shoes that still needed breaking in.
Your shimmering smile faded into the crowd as you snuck through the back door in your satin bordeaux dress. Old Pauls sat perched above the cemetery it was named after. Conveniently across the street from the buzz of the theater, it was airily quiet and stuck out from the rest of industrial Birmingham. Your heels clacked across the pavement as you wandered up and down the garden, glimpsing at stone angels and silver plaques. All you had to light your path were the streetlights and the moon.
Your diamond wedding ring twinkled under the stars as you stopped to trace a name. It was the same as your mother's, but with a different last name. Still, you always wondered what happened to her. Had she gotten married to another man and taken his name? You expected to shiver at the idea, but you found that thinking of her no longer unnerved you. She packed up the title of mother when she left you all alone in that cramped house.
Light spilled out onto the pavement across the street when the entrance to the theater swung open. A few men flew down the steps and split off in different directions. Thinking it odd, you remained crouched until they disappeared around their respective corners. That’s when you saw Tommy exit through the same doors, throwing a cigarette and wiping at his brow while he looked up and down the street. Quickly, you stood and waved your arm to get his attention. When he noticed, he stormed down the steps and stalked across the street and through the gates of Old Pauls over to you.
“I needed some air,” you spoke up before he could get a word in.
His eyes wildly flickered back and forth from yours in a frenzy. Under the moonlight, they looked almost translucent, and, save for a ghost of blue, his pupils were wide.
“Why the bloody hell are you out here, eh?” He demanded, gently shaking your head between his hands for emphasis while his eyebrows rose expectantly.
“It’s quieter.”
When he tilted his head to the sky and exhaled, your stomach dropped at the sight of blood. Your ears, which had been tuning out the music, flinched when a shrill cry from a woman rang out the theater doors. The music was gone, now replaced with screams as all the patrons rushed out, tripping over each other like it were a race. You turned back to Tommy, now as worried as the others.
“What the hell happened? Are you hurt?” You urged, gripping his white collar, now red, to inspect where the blood was coming from.
“Not mine,” he cleared his throat, grabbing the hand on his collar to tug you down the street.
The frame of your world stretched a little wider, like light pouring in through open shutters. Car doors slammed, and drivers honked at the agitated crowd who ran this way and that across the road.
“Where’s the fucking ambulance?” Shouted a man who took no care to avoid bumping into you.
You stumbled back, your hand slipping from Tommy’s on impact. Rage flickered across his features briefly, having noticed the man push through you, but he reconnected your hands and continued walking fast. When he reached the Bentley, he urged you inside, holding your hand the whole way until you were seated in the passenger seat.
“What the hell happened, Tommy?” You repeated as he slid into the driver’s seat.
“Someone got shot.”
Your eyes widened. “Are Polly and—”
“They’re fine.”
You sank back into your seat as the engine roared to life. Peaky Blinder’s followed the frenzied crowd, moving together like a pack of wolves onto the streets. They only parted to let Tommy’s Bentley through. Out the window, people were fighting and throwing fists as they all tried to escape the mayhem.
“Why aren’t they letting people through?” You asked after witnessing a Peaky Blinder block the road and refuse to let a car pass.
“Doesn’t matter.”
He never told you anything when it came to business. And although you suspected this was much more than the doing of the Shelby brothers, Tommy’s face never betrayed him. Simply put, if he didn’t want you to know, you wouldn’t.
“Would anyone want to follow us?”
“No.” He exhaled deeply, cleared his throat, and then reached to give your thigh a squeeze.
You knew it was a lie when his eyebrows rose. He only did that when he was worried. Your tongue remained pressed to the back of your teeth the entire ride home.
-
The howl of the wind whistled down into the valley of the gypsy camp Tommy had brought you and the children to.
“Pack your things,” he had said one night after storming through the front door of Arrow House, “we’re going on a trip.”
Charles and Ruby cheered, but you suspected something sinister beneath his intentions.
So, there you were, picking at the grass by your feet while you perched on the bottom step of the gypsy wagon Tommy parked beneath a tree for shade. He kept quiet for most of the ride, absorbed in leading the horse around loose gravel and stones, or rather, he led you to believe he was lost in concentration. Because, when it came down to it, you knew Tommy better than to assume nothing was wrong.
The past week, he had been acting different, jumpy even. He ran into the nursery during the early hours of the morning on edge, as if expecting something to be amiss. You tried interrogating him, but he brushed it off, insisting things were fine. Fine—you began detesting that word. Fine this, fine that, but if things were really fine, then why was he on edge?
Then came the bloodshot eyes and the slamming of his desk drawer when you entered the office. Only this time he couldn’t deny the unmistakable jingle of a bullet, which rattled in the wooden compartment like some sort of airy death chime.
A black hand. One for each Shelby. And since you were now one too, that meant neither you nor the children were subjected to any special treatment. A week, he said, a week for his family to clear up the business while he stayed here watching over you like a shepherd to his flock.
And watched he did, standing next to where you sat, he found peace observing Charles and Ruby as they chased each other around the overgrown field. There he remained for an hour or so, frighteningly still, the only motion being his sharp jaw chewing on a mint leaf, somewhat reminiscent of the soldier in your tent all those years ago. Next to him, tied to the tree, the black steed filled the silence with snorts and grazed favorably on the loose roots and grass patches.
“Ruby was crying this morning. She’s scared, Tom." You sighed.
Tommy hadn’t been there when you woke up that morning in the caravan. He returned shortly after, ominous as ever, just as Ruby had begun to settle.
He tossed the stalk of his mint leaf into the grass and offered you his hand. You looked up at him in question for a moment, slightly suspicious of his intentions. Nevertheless, you slid your hand into his, and he stood you up, sat down on the higher step, and pulled you between his legs to sit on the lower step. He hugged you from behind as he slouched to rest his head on your shoulder, then exhaled deeply.
“We will be home soon,” he whispered in your ear, brushing your knuckles tenderly.
“For how long? Until we get another bullet in the post?”
Tommy’s throbbing forehead found solace in the warmth of your neck.
“You’ve never been one to run,” you continued, “what’s bothering you? We took a vow that we would share everything.”
He nuzzled his nose deeper into your pulse.
Frustrated, you tried to get up, but he held you firmly against his chest.
“Italians.”
“Italians?”
“Italians sent the black hands.”
You waited in silence for more information, but more did not come.
“Speak to me, Thomas.”
“I don’t want you any more involved than you are.”
“They’ve sent death knocking on our door; how more involved could I be?”
Tommy moved methodically, licking his lips and clearing his throat. He squinted his eyes up at the glaring sun.
“It’s nothing you should be concerned about. I’ll keep us safe.”
“Nothing I should be concerned over, Thomas? Just how many people are we at war with?”
He didn’t answer, so you turned your head away from him. Charles and Ruby had since settled by a patch of flowers. Charles was crouched over, helping his sister gather all the yellow flowers for her yellow dress.
The tension broke the surface then.
“Why are you still fighting, Tom? Is this,” you nod to your children and breathe in the fresh air, “not enough?”
You pictured Arrow House and its lavish garden, one to compete with all the wealthy families down the lane. You thought of Arthur, John, Polly, Ada, and all his family that lived to see his success. Everything, from the thoroughbreds in the stable to the fancy cars. The money itself was a testimony to his drive. What more could the gangster of Birmingham want when he already had everything?
You had gone and worked yourself up now because the world seemed blurrier than before.
Tommy, still on his guard, guided your chin to your shoulder so he could kiss the tears away. “It is enough.”
“Then make it enough. You’re respectable now, so stop the fighting.” Your voice broke at the end.
He hung his forehead on your shoulder. Like a flower sheltered away from the sun, Tommy wilted when he was away from his business. Usually, you were a strong enough light to keep him going, but whatever business he had gotten himself into was poisoning him, and ever the addicted flower, he kept running out to the fields, continuing to drink in the sunlight until it was too much and turned his leaves brow. Because business was what occupied his mind day and night, he was unable to turn the cogs of the engine off and let the air out of the tires.
A hand brushes your hair away to kiss the spot beneath your ear, airing out the destructive thoughts.
God, you loved him anyway. An overpowering feeling that ruled over calculating minds like Tommy’s and faint hearts like yours. You were no better than him—both addicted to a little sunlight.
-
The framed photographs on the wall shook as your third-eldest slammed the door to her room closed.
“I hate you!” She cried from the other side.
Your husband, Tommy, sighed to the ceiling, then stalked past you to his study, no longer interested in anything your daughter had to say. They had been at it for the last ten minutes arguing over some boy she was seeing, and your ears were just about ringing having witnessed it from the sidelines. You were left there in the hallway, an unwilling participant in the unspoken feud between father and daughter, and you understood that whoever you went to console would take it that you were siding with them, even though you just wanted to keep your family together.
Going to your daughter was the instinctive answer, but you knew she needed time to cool off. Tommy was the only reasonable choice.
You knocked on the door to his office before letting yourself in.
“Come to lick my wounds, eh?” He mused while smoking a cigarette.
Your lips wormed into a thin line. “This needs to stop, Tom.”
“Yeah,” he said, tapping the ash into his tray, “it will fucking stop.” He points with his cigarette, “I’ll make it fucking stop.”
You sighed. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
The chair screeched as he stood. “I’m her father, and if I say she can’t see that boy, she can’t. It’s only a childish fling; she’ll get over it.”
He poured a whiskey and downed it by the time you walked around his desk so that you were face-to-face with him.
“They’re in love, Tommy.”
“Yeah?” He scoffed. “Well, that can be undone.”
You held his glare, a challenge lighting in your own. “So easily, you think?”
He paused mid-drag, catching onto the underlying meaning in your words. “No,” he said, setting the cigarette down in the ash tray and grabbing your shoulders. “Don’t act like that.”
“Act like what?”
“Like you’re threatening our love over some fucking boy that’s charmed our daughter. They’re too young.”
“He’s sweet.”
“Oh, sweet and nice, I’m sure. But he’ll have no place in this house.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I fucking said so!” He spat.
“Don’t yell at me.”
“Or what? You’ll leave me?” He huffed in amusement. “You won't; you love me too much.”
“You’re so certain?”
He paused for a moment and stared at you as if he couldn’t believe what you had said.
“Yeah, because we still fuck like two people who love each other, eh? And you’ve not told me no before, so if the day comes and your body no longer wants mine, then I’ll be worried. But until then, don’t test me with empty threats." His face hardened.
He knew you like the back of his hand. All bark, no bite. You loved him inexplicably, even after all these years, gray hairs and all. His face, body, and soul nourished you until you were satiated and full. And even if his eyebrows furrowed at times, you were willing to bet that it was for aesthetic, a shapely shadow gathered over the years from being the stoic leader the Peaky Blinders and Shelby family needed. How could you fault him for it?
Because, at the end of the day, you were a team. Even if he played the role of an overprotective father a bit too convincingly, he only ever wanted what was good for your daughter. Everything he worked for, ultimately, was for his family. A family man. And that came with its virtues and vices because, despite what Tommy thought, he wasn’t perfect; no one was.
Shrinking under his hands, you breathed a sigh and appeased him. “End this feud, Tom. Find peace with her. I don’t care what you do, but by the end of it, I expect to be able to sit down at the dinner table without having to beg my husband and daughter to look up from their plates.” You stroked his hands, which held your shoulders, and finally blinked up at him.
A haze of softness swept across his glare and melted the glaciers to a thin sheen of blue. The seams of exhaustion frayed one by one through his muscles. He nodded, licked his lips, and leaned down for a kiss of absolution. Not entirely prepared to surrender, you tilted your head so that he found the corner of your mouth instead.
“It will be done, love.” He brushed the apples of your cheeks tenderly. “And by tonight,” his voice lowered, “I promise you’ll forget all about it.”
Only then did you accept his kiss, eager to put the grievance to rest. Tommy, on the other hand, had other plans and stepped forward so that you were pinned between his desk and hips. He quickly began to gather your skirts above your waist, but you pulled away just as fast at the hiss of air against your exposed skin. An unsolicited gasp escaped his mouth when your knee brushed him there, and you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth, looking deep into his eyes.
“Promise me you won’t break her heart. She might not be old enough now, but I don’t want you to put her off love forever,” you caressed his jaw.
“No,” he agreed, breathier than usual, flexing the hands that were still caught up in the fabric of your skirt.
“And our Daisy may never say it, but I know she loves you dearly. So please, Tom, be gentle with her. I don’t want her to grow up despising you. Tell her you love her, kiss her forehead, hug her.”
He deflated, and you watched him swallow his pride. Cogs turned against the sweltering lust, threatening to deplete the clever thoughts in that powerful head of his in favor of your careful touch. Please, please, please, you begged without uttering a word; agree with me on this, Tom.
Tommy leaned back down to rest his forehead on yours; his face gave nothing away. You were sure he had found something to say, which would make you feel like a fool for asking. However, when you embraced those faint subtleties of emotion flickering across his face like candlelight, so miniscule you might blink and miss it, you found nothing of the sort to suggest any hostile nature. Because Tommy loved you.
“I will.”
-
A/N: Tried doing a long one shot, what does everyone think? Yay or nay? Comment to be added to the tag list!
ive got a sick feeling mosely might convert tommy to facism in late season five of peaky blinders. people who have finished the show please tell me this feeling is wrong.
“heads you can have the yard. tails, i fuck your daughter.”
upon waking up one morning, you find your house empty, save for the gangster in your kitchen, tommy shelby.
nsfw, loving in bed but kind of a jerk out of it, p in v, smut, porn with plot, lots of writing before the smut starts so slowburn?
author’s note: this is based on season 4 episode 2 when aberama tries buying charlie’s yard, except he takes tommy up on his wager instead of turning it down.
also, i’m thinking about writing a jonathan crane fic next. i just found the voice lines from cillian murphy voicing him in the batman begins video game and AGGHH i have to write for him.
———————————————————————
you got out of bed, combed your hair and brushed your teeth as if it were any other day. nothing special.
you went along down the hall, expecting to see your sisters, your father, someone. but when you got to the kitchen you had stopped in your tracks. a man sitting at the dining table reading the paper, who was indeed not your father.
he looked noticeably older than you, with sharp features and a sharper gaze. intensely blue eyes that lifted from the paper and looked at you from behind round lenses. the sunlight drifted from the window, scattering its golden hues on the tile, touching everything in its wake but him. the sunlight seemed to scream away from him, like ants to a poison trap, like oil to water. two things that just don’t mix well.
thomas shelby.
you had seen the man before at a pub, when you had been on a night out with your girls. he had been so chivalrous, quiet and intimidating, but albeit chivalrous. you had attempted to pick him up as a matter of fact.
“you busy tonight?” were the clever words you chose. to which he responded with a glance beneath his hat and a brief silence.
“ah, yes i am. with my wife, miss gold.”
you had wanted to crawl into a hole and die, ashamed you hadn’t noticed the band that adorned his left ring finger.
you hadn’t seen him since.
what was he doing here? you had heard tales of the shelby men and the peaky blinders. they were cruel, brutal. killing and taking whenever they pleased.
he noticed your entry, took off his glasses and stood. padding over to you with steps that you could practically feel thudding in your heart. your heart. god, it was racing. out of fear? maybe. but you couldn’t think. not when he leaned down to look at you.
“y/n.” he spoke in a voice smoother than any whiskey you’d ever had, slipping down your ears and burning into your mind in a much similar way to the first time you had the amber liquid, burning and stinging in its unfamiliarity. you felt your knees go weak. with all the strength you could summon you whispered to thomas, “where’s my family?”
his eyes flickered around your face, and he stood up again, crossing his arms. “they’re safe. don’t worry.” you remained quiet for another moment. “what’s happening here, mister shelby?” he turned around, padding over to a china cabinet that used to be your mother’s before her death. “call me tommy, y/n. i told you, everyone’s safe. calm down.”
“well what on earth do you want with me?”
————————————————————
tommy stood before these men at charlie’s yard, men in which he hired to take out one of the italians at his throat. aberama gold, a brilliant hitman, his crew too. but with his brilliance came an ego…
he stood, cocky and grinning, “how much for the yard?” he raised a brow. tommy and arthur remained stoic. “it’s not for sale, mister gold.” tommy replied coolly, reaching in his pocket for a smoke. “i think i’ll take it anyway. consider it a part of the deal.” tommy lit his cigarette and blew a puff of smoke, almost wanting to laugh at abbie’s words. “this yard has been in the family since we’ve settled.”
abbie paused. there was a silence. then tommy’s voice boomed out, “charlie!”
ah, charlie strong. as loyal as he was hardworking. a right ol’ geezer who ran the yard well, a man tommy had known all his life. charlie came running in past the crates, standing a few feet apart from aberama’s crew. the small heath fog hung heavy around the men as the situation developed in its silence.
“i’ll tell you what, mister gold.” tommy reached in his coat, and out came a coin between his calloused pointer and thumb. “we’ll leave this to chance. we flip for the yard.”
aberama chuckled. and tommy continued, ignoring the gesture of disinterest. “heads, you can have the yard. tails..”
“i fuck your daughter.”
aberama paused, his grin suddenly gone. “i hear you have three daughters, mr. gold. i hear y/n’s the oldest, and the prettiest. i’ll have her.” he stayed quiet, clearly mulling the options.
tommy tossed abbie the coin, and he caught it with a steady hand. “you do the tossing.” in aberama’s moment of fear and uncertainty, he sighed, placed the coin on his thumb and into the air it went.
time seemed to slow as the men watched the coin fly. up and up, spinning, and then down and down again, back onto aberama’s hand. he flipped it on the back of his other hand and looked at it, staying silent for a moment when,
“damn you, shelby.”
————————————————————
“well what on earth do you want with me?” silence. “tommy?” you added sarcastically. “watch your tone, love.” he spoke, unbothered. you sighed as he took out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a drag. “father doesn’t like people smoking in the house.”
“well your father isn’t here is he?” he raised an eyebrow, turning to face you again. he walked back over to the kitchen, sitting at the table. you remained standing at the entrance to the hallway, but found yourself walking over immediately when he gestured you to follow him.
you walked over and sat across from him at the breakfast nook, feeling exposed by his gaze. chilling blue eyes staring you down, as if they unraveled every part of you by doing nothing more than looking.
“i’m here because your father lost a bet, y/n. would you like to know about the terms of this bet?” you nodded immediately. “yes, i’d like to know why a dangerous gangster is in my house at nine in the morning.” he gave a humorless chuckle, unamused and stoic.
“he wanted charlie strong’s yard. now, you know charlie strong, eh girl?”
“yes, i do. i pass it on walks sometimes, across the bank.”
“right. so you should know that charlie’s yard is important to me. especially when your father tried to purchase it from me. and that cocky bastard, he demanded the yard be his upon me rejecting the idea. proposed it become a part of our, recent deal.” he spoke very quickly, softly and rather smooth, just like before.
after a brief silence you spoke. “that’s atrocious, i’m sure my father wouldn’t be so daring as to demand anything belonging to a shelby.” you chuckled.
he shakes his head. “you underestimate your father. even the most daring of men sometimes lack in cunning. so, to ease him, i suggested, a coin toss.” silence. “coin tossing?” you asked.
“yes, a coin toss.”
he reached in his coat and pulled out the very coin, the worn silver resting in his fingers. “heads,” he turned the coin, the side in question facing you. “he gets charlie’s yard. tails,” he turns it in his fingers again. “i fuck his daughter.”
silence. you couldn’t think. fuck, how could your father ever agree to such a thing?
“do you know what face the coin landed on, miss gold?”
a chuckle left your lips. unlike yours from before, now, more like tommy’s. stoic and stone. “i thought you were married.”
he curled his fingers around the coin, clutching it in his palm. “my wife is dead.”
and again, silence.
“i-i’m sorry… i didn’t know.”
“it’s okay, y/n. not your fault.” he hesitated. “but that night, i had a close eye on you. i wanted you safe and you got the wrong message.” he raised an eyebrow. “a young woman like you has no business in an establishment such as the garrison.”
you stayed quiet for a moment. “i know, i don’t frequent the pub very often, that was a one time event-“
“hey, it’s all right. no need to worry. but you know what’s gonna happen by the time i leave this house, don’t you?”
you paused, retreating into your own mind now. from the very start you had wanted tommy. in your mind he was already so far in the past, given how you had never again spoken to him after the garrison given his marital status.
one part of you was excited by the idea, the strange proposition he made with your father that assured you he too had wanted you in some way.
but then there was another part of you who was utterly repulsed by the idea of being thought of as a business transaction, something that was gambled over in a shipyard.
you felt that second part had logic, but it lacked something the first one didn’t.
the second one wouldn’t result in feeling tommy shelby’s hands on you, his soft breathing and his hips rocking deep against yours. a connection you both had craved with the other for so long.
you looked down at the wood of the table in front of you. as much as you hated the thought, if you said no tommy would probably do it anyway. he was a murderer, a brutal gangster.
you lifted your gaze to meet his, finding his icy gaze never left your face. you gave a nod.
“yes, i know.”
————————————————————
“t-tommy…”
you whispered against his lips as he laid you down, one of his large hands already palming your tit through the thin fabric of your nightgown.
“it’s alright, love…” his voice once again reminded you of the smoothness of whiskey, the burn now lingering in your ears pleasantly, and sinking down to pool low in your gut as his lips moved against yours.
his hand moved from your breast to your waist, tugging lightly at the nightgown you wore as he moved his other hand to the same position. his tongue traced the seam of your mouth, eliciting a moan from your own throat as your lips parted and your tongues met.
he began to bunch up the fabric of your nightgown, slowly pulling it up your body. you broke your kiss for him to pull it off over your head. he let out a low groan as his eyes landed on your bare chest, leaning in and taking you nipple in his mouth while he palmed the other one.
you sighed at his touch, followed by a whimper that embarrassed you deeply. but you could feel his flashed smirk against your tit. he lifted his head and rested his chin on your chest to look up at you as he shrugged off his coat and threw it aside. your hands lifted to unbutton his white undershirt hastily, fumbling with the fabric.
he let out a low chuckle and brought his hands to do the unbuttoning, quicker and more fluidly. you gave a sheepish laugh, cut off as his lips were back on yours, but for only a moment until you took the white shirt completely off. you traced your fingers over the sunbeam tattoo on his pec, feeling the hardness of his skin as he leaned over you again, his muscular arms taking your wrists and putting them over your head.
he looked down at your face for a moment, eyes running over your features, intently scanning. this moment felt separate. you could’ve forgotten about everything else, even the bareness of you both as your eyes gazed into his cold ones. but right now, they felt anything but.
“y/n…” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
he let go of your wrists with one hand, still keeping them pinned with the other as his now free one trailed down your body, pausing to run his thumb over your hipbone, stilling as his other hand palmed the plushness of your thigh with a low groan from him.
the hand on your hip lowered and hooked into the fabric of your underwear, and pulled them down your thighs.
you helped kick them off and he leaned back to pick them up, lifting them to his nose for a moment and letting out a low groan, but not before pocketing them.
you bit back a smile, and he returned it.
“what’s so amusing, love? hm?”
he leaned back over your body and spoke in your ear, making you laugh gently.
“oh, nothing.” you answered, turning your head so he looked at your face and not the side of your head.
he gave another one of his low smooth laughs as he pulled his trousers down, discarding them and pressing his hips flush to yours, the thin fabric of his boxers being the only thing separating you.
your eyes wandered his face as you reached out, thumb slipping beneath the waistband and pulling them down. you leaned in and kissed him softly as he kicked them off and lined his cock with your entrance.
it burned slightly as he sank in partially due to the lack of prep, making you gasp against his lips. he stilled, inside only just past the tip. he reached down to palm your tits again, hoping it could serve as some distraction to the burn of him stretching you.
he continued to sink in, breaking the kiss once he had bottomed out. your breathing was already slightly labored by now, feeling like you could just cum with him above you like this.
“agh…” he moaned out at his first slow thrust, making your breath catch in your throat. the burn had simmered out mostly by now, and began to fade into blinding pleasure even from his small thrusts.
he was so careful it made your heart ache, and your clit even more. you could tell he tried his hardest to be gentle with you but you didn’t want him to hold back. you ran a hand through his hair, sighing in ecstasy as you moved his head directly in front of you. your eyes locked and he stilled inside you.
you kissed his cheek gently, and then his lips. soft and gentle. your message must’ve gotten across because he once again began to move, his hands sliding to hold your hips.
he let out a pitchy sound against your lips that sent a wave of dizzying need through you, moaning and biting harshly on your lip as he moved faster.
he tugged on your lip with his thumb, giving a subtle shake of his head. he cursed under his breath, his head falling forward on your shoulder while he moved faster.
you gasped out, feeling the head of his cock brush against a spot in you that made you see stars. you clawed at his hair, whining shamelessly.
“please, tommy… i-i can’t… can’t take it!”
you were forced to speak in gasps between moans, barely able to hear yourself over tommy’s rhythmic grunts. “s-sure you can love… fuck, almost there sweetheart, s’ perfect…” his smoother than whiskey voice sank deep in your ears, making you whine sharply.
well, maybe it was his hand now rubbing your clit in tight circles.
but as that rumble of his voice sank down your ears it went lower, lower, suddenly very aware of the arousal in your gut getting tighter, and tighter.
and tommy felt it too. you could tell by the way he fucking whimpered over you, ramming into you with each thrust.
and then, tighter, and it snapped, the white hot orgasm crashing over you and simmering throughout your body in immeasurable pleasure. you cried his name, back arching as he groaned.
“fuck. fuck. fuck fuck fuck.” was all tommy could think, stilling his hips and removing his hand, grinding against your hips and pushing himself impossibly deeper until he whined your name, twitching as he came
you gasped as he filled you, your hands tightening their grip in his hair, whispering his name like a mantra.
he gently kissed the words off your lips, making them fade into a satisfied hum. when he broke away he cupped your face.
you two stayed like that for what felt like quite some time, you gazing into those cornflower blue eyes as if there was nothing else. but in those eyes something changed, like a switch had been instantly flipped.
he pulled out, showing no care as you winced. he then stood, and dressed himself and left you laying on the bed fucked out and confused.
as he pulled on his coat, he sighed and turned around. he saw your confusion and hurt, wanting to roll his eyes and turn, but couldn’t. he gave you a curt nod.
“well, i suppose i’ll see you around if your father ever tries buying any more of my shipyards.”
he spoke in an attempt to joke, but all you could manage in response was a distant nod. “ah, yeah… see you.” you spoke in a drone, running a hand through your hair.
if you knew any better you would think he felt bad for you, judging by that last glance he gave you as he turned on his heel, and left.
“tell your father i say hello!”
he had called from the foyer. and that, indeed did make you fall back on your bed with a giggle, kicking your feet in the air.
————————————————————————
later you showered and tidied, awaiting the return of your family from wherever tommy had sent them while you two were busy.
and upon entering the dining room, you found something on the breakfast nook.
a small card, labeled “shelby company limited”, with the business number and address scratched out, a personal one being written in hand just beneath the name “thomas shelby, CEO”, alongside a pair of circular lensed and wire rimmed glasses that sat undisturbed on the table.
a smile tugged at your lips.
(okay i have no idea what this is im really embarrassed to post it)
Summary: You're messing around with both Jason and Tim, refusing to commit. Dick corners you about it, asking you to pick him. He's sick of feeling like you love everyone but him. You're messing with his head.
TW: Cheating, fwbs, comitment issues, sex mentioned, messy relationships.
Part 2, Part 3
The logistics of dating a Wayne, or more accurately, circulating through the Wayne ecosystem required a spreadsheet that you simply did not have the organizational skills to maintain.
You hadn’t meant to. Well, that was a lie. You had absolutely meant to, but you hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. You were sitting on the edge of his desk in the Nest, the neon green light of his monitors casting shadow across your face. Tim was staring at a line of code, his eyes bloodshot, a half-empty mug of something that smelled like burnt rubber and espresso clutched in his hand.
"Timmy," you said, reaching out to twirl a strand of his wildly overgrown hair around your finger. "You're leg's bouncing pretty hard. Literally. I can feel the desk shaking."
"I'm fine," he muttered, though he didn’t pull away from your touch. In fact, he leaned into it slightly, like a plant tracking the sun. "I just need to finish this routing protocol before Bruce gets back from Berlin."
"Counter-proposal," you whispered, leaning down so your breath brushed his ear. You reached past him, your forearm pressing deliberately against his shoulder, and hit the power button on his main monitor.
The screen went black.
Tim froze. For a second, you thought he might actually code-blue right there in his chair. Then he turned his head to look at you with desperation.
"You're a demon," he argued.
"I'm a delight," you corrected, sliding off the desk and directly onto his lap. He caught you by the waist out of pure reflex, his hands digging into your hips. You reached into the collar of his shirt, your fingers tracing his collarbone, feeling his pulse leaping like a trapped bird. "And you need to sleep. Or, at least, do something that doesn't involve a keyboard..." you trailed off suggestively.
When you kissed him, it was messy. He made a ridiculously desperate sound when you pulled him closer by his belt loops. You left him twenty minutes later, all flushed, dazed, and completely incapable of remembering his own passwords. Mission accomplished.
The problem was that Jason found out by Friday.
Jason didn't do "subtle" which was ironic considering you had the worst on and off since Bruce and Selina. When Jason was pissed, the entire zip code knew about it.
You were walking back to your apartment through a particularly sketchy alley in Crime Alley (mostly because you would rather take that shortcut than get in public transport) when a heavy weight dropped from the fire escape right in front of you.
"We need to talk," Jason growled. He didn't have the helmet on, just the domino mask. He looked massive, very pissed off you wondered why, and entirely too attractive for someone who spent his nights punching people in the face.
"Jay!" you chirped, stepping right into his space. "Did you bring me those kiwi tarts from the place on 5th?" If not, you were okay with getting dicked down by Jason Todd either way.
Jason put a hand flat against your chest, stopping you in your tracks. His palm was warm, even through his glove. "Don't play cute. What the hell were you doing in Drake’s safehouse on Wednesday?"
"Helping him with his… data entry," you said innocently.
Jason’s jaw clenched so hard you heard the click. He stepped forward, forcing you back until your spine hit the brick wall of the alley. he crowded you, his chest pressing against yours, trapping you entirely within his shadow. He smelled like leather, and that expensive cologne Dick had clearly bought him for Christmas that he pretended to hate.
"Data entry," Jason echoed. He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot. "Is that what we're calling fucking my brother now? Because last week, you were in my kitchen, wearing my t-shirt, telling me nobody else knew how to handle you."
"You do know how to handle me, Jay," you murmured, reaching up to grip the lapels of his jacket, pulling him down that extra inch. "You're so… loud about it. I love it, love you" you said casually, but it meant everything to him.
He swore under his breath, and then his mouth was on yours. It wasn't nearly as gentle as Tim had been with you. Jason kissed like hell. He hooked a leg behind your knee, pulling you flush against his thigh, his hands gripping your hair so tightly it pulled you liked it too much to protest. It was angry and messy which was exactly what you wanted.
You stayed with him that night in his bed, let him think he’d won.
And then, on Sunday, you texted Tim a selfie from Jason’s bathroom, wearing nothing but one of Jason's oversized flannel shirts, with the caption 'Found your favorite coffee mug. Jay says hi.'
You knew you were pushing your luck, the Batcomputer probably had a dedicated file on your psychological warfare tactics by now. But you hadn't expected the firstborn to get involved.
You were sitting on the roof of an abandoned clock tower, eating cold Chinese food out of a cardboard container, when you felt someone behind you.
"You know, Bruce is genuinely considering putting a tracker on you," a voice said from the darkness.
You didn't even look up as Dick Grayson stepped out of the shadows. He wasn't in uniform, not completely. He had the tactical pants on, the heavy boots, but he was wearing a tight black compression shirt instead of the full Nightwing suit. His jacket was swung over one shoulder. He looked infuriatingly relaxed.
"Bruce won't put a tracker on me," you said, taking a bite of a crab rangoon. "He's too afraid I'll find a way to stick it on Clark instead."
Dick laughed a little as he walked over and stood right over you, blocking out the light from the Gotham moon. "Probably. But that doesn't mean you get a free pass for what you're doing."
"And what am I doing, Grayson?"
"You're running a demolition derby through my family," Dick said. He dropped his jacket to the gravel and knelt down in front of you, bringing himself eye-to-eye with you. Up close, the ridiculous symmetry of his face was offensive. He looked tired, but under the fatigue there was a sharp intensity that he usually kept hidden behind his golden-retriever smile. "Jason hasn't slept in three days because he's too busy pacing his floor trying to figure out if you're doing that thing with your tongue on Tim too, and Tim spent six hours yesterday trying to hack into Jason's security cameras to see if you actually enjoyed him."
"They're men, Dick. They like to compete," you said, offering him a dumpling.
Dick didn't take it. Instead, he reached out with his fingers wrapping around your wrist. His grip was surprisingly gentle but still hard. He forced you to set the container down.
"It's not a game," Dick said, his voice dropping into a serious tone that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "They're falling apart over you. And you're just sitting up here watching the fireworks."
"Are you going to tell me to stop?" you challenged, tilting your chin up. "Going to give me the big hero speech about feelings and responsibility?"
"No," Dick whispered. He leaned in closer, his blue eyes darkening in the shadows of the roof. He didn't look like the nice brother anymore. He looked like the boy who grew up in a circus, comfortable with heights and completely unafraid of a fall. "I'm not going to tell you to stop. I'm going to tell you to change targets."
You blinked, your brain momentarily stalling. "What?"
"You heard me," Dick said. He slid his hand up from your wrist, his fingers tracing the soft skin of your inner arm, his thumb pressing against the quickening pulse at your elbow. "You want to play with fire? You want someone who can actually keep up with you without crying to a therapist? Pick me."
"Dick, you're their brother," you laughed, though it sounded a little breathless. Fuck you'd bang that. "That's… incredibly messed up, even for me." It absolutely wasn't. You'd smash him anyday
"I don't care," he murmured. He leaned in until his lips were a mere fraction of an inch from yours, his breath hot and smelling faintly of mint. "I am so tired of hearing your name in the Cave. I am so tired of watching them lose their minds over you. If you want to break someone, come break me. I promise you, I'm a lot harder to shatter than they are."
He stayed there hovering in that excruciatingly tight space, his fingers tightening on your arm, his eyes locked onto yours with a terrifyingly suggestive weight.
"So," Dick whispered, his lips brushing yours as he spoke, teasing little contact that made you ache. "Are you going to keep playing in the sandbox, or are you ready for the real thing?"
A/n: Guys part 2's js straight smut so idk if I'm writing it yet 😭
