#and it's an excuse to avoid responsibility | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

divaofmads · 3 days ago

Text

Venus in Exile | Part I

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Female Reader (OC)

Summary: You tried to avoid writing him, but Thomas Shelby is determined to pull you into his own story. With every sentence, you unravel a little more. This love isn’t a narrative, it’s a revolution.

!!Warnings!!: Angst, Non-canon, Fluff, +18, Slow-burning, Intense psychological themes, Gender identity conflict, Soft!Thomas, Trauma & healing themes, Melancholy & existential reflection, Dominant energy in subtle intimacy, Protective but controlling tendencies, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: 15k

Dividers by @cafekitsune @saradika-graphics

A/N: This story is not just fiction, it's the echo of my inner conflict. A battle between forgotten femininity and a voice longing to be remembered.

That day, the Shelby family had gathered around the table. The air in the room was thick as always; a mix of tobacco smoke, the soot smell from the coal stove, and the distant sound of Polly brewing tea.

Thomas stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of a file. John was impatient, Arthur was twisting his glass of whiskey in his hands. Polly frowned, waiting for a response to Thomas’s long, motionless gaze.

“If we’re going to do this, let’s do it, Thomas. Or I’ll send someone else,” Polly said, her voice sharp and clear.

At that moment, Ada was sitting on the couch. She had a newspaper in her hand, her legs crossed, keeping a silent rhythm. At the peak of the Peaky Blinders’ tense meeting, they all flinched at the sound of her delicate, graceful voice.

Her fingers were smudged with ink. Her eyes were gleaming. “Wait a minute... You need to see this,” she said, cutting Polly off.

John grunted. “Is it another one of those ridiculous writers again?”

“No,” Ada replied, locking eyes with Tommy. “This one’s different.”

She opened the newspaper and pointed to a section with her finger. “Y.S. ...They’ve written again.”

Polly sighed and shook her head. “Ada, you’re not going to get anywhere reading the writings of some pseudonymous philosopher kid.”

Ada didn’t care. The admiration in her voice was unmistakable. “Listen. Just this one sentence...”

“Every man who tips his hat, wears his glasses, and drinks his whiskey straight is a kind of god to you.”

The silence in the room became suffocating. Only the crackle of the stove and the slight tilt of Thomas’s head could be heard.

Arthur raised his moustache and laughed. “Who the hell wrote that? Bloody hell... What kind of talk is that? As if we invented god ourselves…”

“Let her go on,” Tommy said quietly, his eyes still on the paper.

John raised his head. “What’s the matter, Tommy, you like it?”

“It’s rare to find someone so sharp and intelligent. The language is cutting. Whoever wrote this either saw the war... or came very close to dying.”

Polly pursed her lips. “If it’s a woman, it’s just false courage. Doesn’t impress me.”

Ada stood up, walked toward them, and waved the newspaper in the air with a faint smile. “It doesn’t mention a gender anyway. Just the initials: Y.S.”

Thomas took the paper from Ada’s hand. He scanned the piece from beginning to end. His eyes locked on the lines, echoing in his mind:

“Every criminal is the tragic rider of childhood traumas, cast in the leading role of a novel.

The hand that holds the gun gets its story told, but the silence of the one shot is never spoken of.”

He frowned. “I want to meet this person.”

Arthur laughed. “Mate, you’re going to meet a writer who hides their name? Could be an old geezer with a beard.”

Tommy lifted his eyes from the paper and looked at Arthur with a cold expression. “The person who wrote this... uses the pen like a blade. They’ve either seen hell... or grew up in it.”

Thomas folded the newspaper. His fingers ran along the edge. As if his eyes were still scanning the lines. “Someone who writes with such power and precision… if they speak for us, we stand to gain a lot.”

Ada raised her voice in surprise. “You want to work with them? You want them to write for Shelby Company Limited?”

Thomas shrugged lightly. “Media is more dangerous than the streets now. This writer uses words as weapons. But also, as an opportunity.”

Polly raised her eyebrows, looking at Thomas with some suspicion. “So, you’re saying it’s a threat… but you still want to chase it. Is it your heart talking again, or your mind, Thomas?”

Thomas turned his gaze to Polly, paused briefly, then said, “I don’t know yet.”

Arthur grumbled, “Well I know. I won’t sit at the same table with whoever wrote that!”

“Then you won’t sit at the table. But I will meet them.”

In the silence of the room, only the ticking of the clock could be heard.

...

The atmosphere in the office was heavy. The red curtains had suffocated the dim light even more, casting an ashen gray shadow inside. Thomas Shelby sat at his desk; in front of him was an open notebook, beside it a half-finished glass of whiskey. He had just dipped his pen in ink but hadn’t moved for several minutes. His eyes were fixed on a single point, weighing words in his mind. This wasn’t a letter; it was a move. And Thomas Shelby made every move with the last square of the chessboard in mind.

The corner of the newspaper article was still folded. The signature “Y.N. Y.” seemed etched into Thomas’s mind. The language of the piece was harsh, almost combative. But poetic too... As if the words were dancing on a battlefield.

Y.S.,

I’ve read your piece. I could be proud just for being the only man who didn’t slam his fist on the desk after reading it.

Your words are striking. As graceful as they are sharp, and as sharp as they are honest. These aren’t writings to be read from a distance. They are writings that need to be spoken of.

I’m not inviting you for a drink. Not to a bar, not to a table, not to a club.

I’m offering you a table; a place where you can speak your thoughts, and where not only men, but truths will be heard.

If you accept, the date and place of the meeting will be provided.

If you refuse... you’ll probably keep writing anyway.

This is an offer. But you know as well as I do, some offers never remain just offers.

—Thomas Shelby

After signing the letter, Thomas paused for a few seconds. Then he turned his eyes to Ada, who was watching both the newspaper on the wall and her brother’s expression.

Ada crossed her arms. “I doubt it. That writer doesn’t seem like the type who’d accept such an invitation, Tommy. And I don’t think they’d like men like you either.”

Thomas narrowed his eyes and placed the letter into an envelope. “I don’t care what attention-seeking men like, Ada. I care about what they can’t stand.”

Ada raised an eyebrow. “And are you what they can’t stand?”

Thomas didn’t answer. He slowly sealed the envelope. Then he called for Curly and gave a brief order:

“Drop this letter off at the publishing house. Say it’s meant for ‘Y. S.’ It doesn’t matter who you give it to, but after you do, look them in the eye and say... ‘Thomas Shelby is waiting. Patiently.’”

Curly nodded and left. As the door closed, Thomas leaned back in his chair. He picked up the glass of whiskey and brought it to his lips. After taking a sip, his eyes drifted to the window, as if searching the darkness for a face.

When Polly entered, Thomas was still staring at the window.

Polly asked, “What are you doing?”

With a calm but cunning smile, Thomas replied, “Waiting for the first line of tomorrow’s headlines.”

That grey intoxication that seeped in just minutes before settling over Birmingham had begun to slip quietly into the office. The dim light filtering through the wide window painted the whiskey bottle on Polly’s desk in amber hues, turning the stacks of documents on the shelves into golden-gilded memories. Everything was slow, restrained, wrapped in a deep silence. Only the ticking sounds resembling a clock, the soft crackling of ash forming at the tip of Thomas Shelby’s cigarette...

Thomas was seated at his desk. As always. The first three buttons of his shirt undone, his vest resting on his shoulders like a burden. His eyes were not on the newspaper before him — but his fingertips were still occupied, smoothing out a crumpled corner at the edge of the writer’s new article. As if this new piece carried meanings deeper than the last.

Arthur Shelby was pacing back and forth in the room. His anger, his impatience — they were never hidden. His loosely tied tie, the shirt untucked from his belt, the collar of his jacket missing a button, each told of his mood.

Spreading his arms, Arthur said, “How many days has it been? Three? Four? What do you think this silence means, Tommy? That writer might be an intellectual, but if he’s a man at all, shouldn’t he be afraid of us?”

Thomas didn’t respond. And that only made Arthur more irritated.

Arthur continued, his tone laced with sarcasm, “Maybe the writer is just a whore, what do you think? Or a child who’s never seen war. Thinks he’s something because he’s got a pen...”

Polly, sitting in the corner, looked up from her knitting. “If you don’t know, be quiet, Arthur. You’re speaking without thinking.”

“I’m the one speaking without thinking? There’s a writer out there insulting us. Doesn’t even give a name. Tommy writes a letter, knocks on their door, but still not a word back. I should keep quiet but when they do, it’s holy?”

John Shelby wasn’t around, but had he been, he probably would’ve laughed. Ada hadn’t shown up either, choosing to keep some distance from Thomas’s obsessive interest.

Silence settled over the office. Only the smoke from Thomas’s cigarette rose slowly. The stub, nearly burned to the end, was still between his fingers. Even as the smoke reached his eyes, he didn’t move.

Then… there was a knock at the door.

Polly sat up slightly. Thomas’s gaze didn’t shift. When the door opened, Curly walked in. He held a small, pale white envelope.

He seemed almost reluctant to hold it. Entering, he avoided Thomas’s eyes.

With a timid whisper, Curly said, “This… this just came from the paper, Mr. Shelby. They asked it be given directly to you.”

Arthur jumped to his feet. Polly stopped him with a gesture. Curly approached slowly and placed the envelope on Thomas’s desk.

Thomas stared at it for a few seconds. His fingers stubbed out the cigarette, then slowly took the envelope. On it was written:

“To Mr. T. Shelby, to be delivered personally”

Arthur snorted. “See what I said? Writing is easy. Facing someone, that’s hard. Finally worked up the nerve to reply.”

Polly murmured, “Or perhaps they’re starting another game.”

Thomas didn’t blink as he opened the envelope. The paper inside was thick and smooth. Not feminine, but meticulous. Neither expensive nor cheap. It had been chosen with intention.

After reading the letter, Thomas took a sip from his whiskey. He closed his eyes for a brief moment. There was a curl at the corner of his lips, but it wasn’t from pleasure.

Quite the opposite…

It was the unease of something dangerous.

Arthur asked impatiently, “Well? What does it say? Is it a man? Or have we been reading the ramblings of a nun?!”

Thomas placed the letter on the table. Then slowly brought his hand to his chin, touched his lips with his fingers. Took a deep breath. “They said your offer was no different than the promises made under street lamps.”

A pause followed. Arthur blinked. Polly’s lips curled into a faint smile.

Arthur furrowed his brow, confused. “What?!”

Thomas began reading the letter aloud:

“Though your offer was sent in a graceful envelope and on fine paper, to me it seemed no different than promises made beneath street lamps: bright, but insufficient.

My pen does not exist to sit at any table, but to question those who sit at them.

I have sharpened my pen not to flatter, but to cut.

So I must respectfully state that I have no intention of meeting with you.

There are boundaries in this world, Mr. Shelby.

And there are words meant to be read only from a distance.

I am one of them.”

Arthur paused. Slowly turned his head. “So they rejected you. That’s what all those pretty words mean: ‘You’re not worth knowing.’”

Polly narrowed her eyes. Thomas was still staring at the letter. His silence was what Arthur didn’t understand. Because the shadow at the corner of Thomas’s mouth wasn’t one of anger from being rejected…

It was the appetite of someone provoked.

Polly warned gently,

“Don’t fall into their game, Tommy. Behind every pen is a face. And that face might not be as masculine as you think.”

Thomas didn’t respond. He slowly folded the letter and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he rose from his desk. Took his cigarette case, put on his coat.

Arthur:

“Where are you going?”

Thomas:

“To search for light in dark places.”

Arthur, mocking: “You’ve become a poet now…”

Thomas turned, looked into his eyes. “No. I’ve become a hunter.”

And he closed the door behind him, silently.

Once Thomas Shelby set his sights on someone, no writing or word — not even nothingness — could save them.

The sky was as clouded as Birmingham’s infamous grey curtains. Footsteps echoed on the sidewalks, someone was selling newspapers, someone else was arguing, but the real noise was yet to rise, from within.

The three-story brick building on Gray Lane looked ordinary from the outside. But inside, it was a sanctuary where words were written in blood. The office of the magazine "The Midland Examiner" resembled a rebellion headquarters more than a place of journalism. Posters pinned to the walls, piles of files, the sound of typewriters... And now the editor-in-chief was drenched in sweat. Because Thomas Shelby had arrived. Not only had he arrived, he had stationed his men at the door. He lit a cigarette, spoke softly, but was heard loud and clear.

“If you don’t arrange a meeting with the writer,” Thomas said in a soft yet threatening tone, “your next article will be an obituary.”

Those in the office looked at each other. Nobody seemed to know the writer. Or at least, they acted that way. Because Y/N was known more for her silence than her pen. No one ever really saw her leave her office.

But she had heard them. The voices. The footsteps. They echoed like a threat in her veins. And so she had prepared.

Amidst all the intellectual chaos, one room in the corner was always quieter than the others. That was the room of Y.S. There was no name on the door, no title, just two letters: Y.S.

Inside, a desk lamp was lit. A figure sat at the typewriter. A grey vest, pressed trousers, a tie, and a 1920s flat cap. Their back was turned to the door. Broad shoulders, accentuated by the jacket's padding. The posture was upright, decisive. No fingers moved across the keys; they were still. Waiting.

And finally, the footsteps reached the room. First, the position of two men behind the door. Then, the sound of Thomas opening it...

As the door opened, he stepped inside. The room smelled of tobacco and ink.

“So you’re the man who sharpens his pen,” Thomas said in a calm, cold tone. “How many tongues did you cut to write those words?”

The figure at the typewriter didn’t move. Fingers slowly pressed against the table. A deep, velvet silence filled the air. Thomas took another step. Slow, confident.

“You like challenging me, huh? The arrogance of poets... Still, I wanted to see you. To find out if your face is as sharp as your words.”

Then... the cap tilted back. The shoulders tensed.

And the figure turned around.

Time stopped.

First, the curve of the neck.

Then, the outline of the eyes.

And finally, all the darkness, all the words, all the fury… echoed in a single pair of eyes.

When Y/N turned, Thomas’s eyes locked onto her face. The cap was still on, but there was no longer any doubt about what she was.

A graceful yet defiant face. A woman’s face. But one with the stare of a warrior.

For the first time, Thomas Shelby couldn’t speak for a few seconds. When he reached for the inside of his coat, Y/N spoke.

“So you’re the famous Thomas Shelby,” she said in a calm, mocking tone. “Took you longer than I expected. I guess you’re not much of a postman.”

That slow, sly half-smile appeared on Thomas’s face. But his eyes… his eyes were still frozen. The bullet-like gaze pierced through her face and into her throat.

“If I had known you were a woman,” he said through narrowed eyes, “I’d have delivered the letter myself.”

You crossed one leg over the other. Not like a woman, but with a relaxed, masculine confidence. You rested your elbow on the back of the chair. You were speaking like a prizefighter in a writer’s office, not like an academic. “That’s why I didn’t sign my name. I knew the meaning would change once you found out I was a woman.”

There was a moment of silence. As if two sharp blades clashed in mid-air.

Thomas took a step forward. “Still, I came.”

“It’s not where you came, it’s how you came. Those who come with threats often act tough not because they’re right, but because they’re desperate.”

Now there were only a few steps between you. Just a corner of the desk remained between you.

He leaned on that corner. Took out a cigarette case. Opened it. But you didn’t offer even a single match.

Staring at you, Thomas said, “I asked you to use your pen for us. I still want that. But the reason has changed now.”

Without standing up, you asked, “What reason?”

“I’m no longer interested in what you write, but how you write it. And someone who does something this well… either stands beside us… or against us.”

You tilted your head. And for the first time, a woman’s smile appeared on your lips.

But it was full, mocking, defiant.

“Are you used to women who stand in front of you, Mr. Shelby? Or only the ones who kneel?”

In that moment, the heat in the room changed. The words were loaded with gunpowder.

Thomas Shelby said nothing. But he took out a match. Lit his cigarette. Took a drag.

And as he left, he said only one thing:

“Wait for tomorrow.”

When he closed the door, the silence left behind was still trembling, just like he left it.

But this was only the beginning.

The Birmingham sun left a pale orange hue in the sky, as if the city had curled up for a long winter sleep. Outside, street kids quietly fled at the sight of men with bullets in their pockets, and the windows of the Garrison Pub were fogged up with tobacco smoke and the haze of whiskey. In the back room of the pub, the one reserved especially for the Shelbys, time was moving slowly.

In the dim light, the dark walnut table in the center of the room looked like a post-war strategy desk, scattered with half-filled glasses and slowly burning cigarettes in an ashtray. John had leaned his head back, escaping the world through the bottom of a glass. Arthur was tapping his fingers on the table, unable to sit still like an impatient soldier.

But Thomas Shelby…

He had adjusted the collar of his coat, his hands clasped as he sat at the corner of the table. Standing a step behind him was Ada Shelby, her eyes carrying an unusual intensity.

Arthur shifted, mockingly, “What’s the matter, Tommy? Still thinking about that writer? Tell me, is it a man or a woman? Still can’t figure it out, can we?”

Thomas lit a cigarette. The weak spark from the lighter briefly lit the room. He drew in the smoke, then exhaled it slowly. His voice, like the smoke, was calm, but a volcano rumbled beneath it.

Thomas, thoughtful, said, “A woman.”

“What?!”

“I said a woman. But a different kind. Not the sort who sells herself with skirts and lipstick.”

A silence followed. John briefly raised his eyes, then returned to his glass. Arthur laughed through pursed lips.

Taking a sip of his drink, he said, “A woman who writes against us, then writes you letters the moment she sees you... How romantic!”

Thomas gave a cold smile. “This isn’t romance. It’s tactics. She hides herself, Arthur. So well, in fact... Her shirt hides a woman, but her shoulders carry a warrior.”

Ada stepped forward, placing the notebook in her hand gently on the table. Her eyes locked with Thomas’s — curious, silently admiring. “This is the first time I’ve seen a woman affect a man like you this much.”

Without looking away, Thomas picked up his whiskey and sipped it slowly. Then he silently took something from his pocket: another article by the author.

“There were people like her during the war too. Those who waited silently in ambush. But give them a rifle, and they’d kill more for you than anyone else... This woman kills with her words. Harsh. Dirty. Sharp. With every sentence she writes, she can tear down a man’s dignity. And we…”

He leaned forward, placed the article on the table. With his fingertips, he traced the lines of the writing.

Thomas, in a clear tone, said, “…for men like us, this pen is either a curse or a blessing.”

Arthur snorted, then grew serious. “Or a bloody problem. A woman, huh... So what now? Peaky Blinders working with lady writers?”

Thomas squinted, a dark grin playing on his lips.

“If we can win over a woman with a pen that powerful, we become the wall the press leans on. And in this city, if you have a voice, you don’t disappear like a shadow.”

Ada sat down slowly, sparks dancing in her eyes.

“If you hadn’t known she was a woman, would you still be this interested, Tommy?”

Thomas turned to look at her. He didn’t answer for a long moment. Then he struck a match and lit a new cigarette.

Quietly, he said, “It’s not her face that got to me, Ada. It’s the voice of her pen. And that voice… even if she dresses like a man, it moans like a woman. But this isn’t love.”

Ada asked, “Then what is it?”

Thomas Shelby stubbed out his cigarette on the table. As the smoke left his nostrils, a steadfast fire lit in his eyes.

“A danger. But maybe one we can use.”

The door creaked open. Polly entered. Thomas fell silent again. His thoughts still lingered in your eyes, your cap, the restrained traces of undeniable femininity beneath your shirt.

You were a woman. But a mind that had abandoned womanhood. And for the first time, Thomas Shelby was struggling to decipher a woman. That’s why, instead of pulling away, he drew closer. Because Tommy always drew closer to the things he couldn’t understand. And this... was a declaration of war.

As the last light of the day slid along the coal-dusted sidewalks of Birmingham, a grey Bentley slowly turned the corner. When the engine stopped, the silence was so complete that even the crunch of the tires on the stones echoed like a threat. The door opened. Footsteps were heard. A cigarette was lit before the coat buttons were fastened. The glowing tip of the cigarette shone like a lone star in the evening sky.

Thomas Shelby was walking.

Short but firm steps. The stones beneath his feet seemed to recognize him—he walked on them with a stride no one else would dare. He stopped in front of the house. His gaze lifted to the narrow window on the third floor.

Your sentence at the typewriter had been left unfinished.

A single key struck but not yet forming a word, hanging in midair.

The light filtering through the streetlamp fell inside the room, giving even the dust on the books a touch of grandeur. Yet within that grandeur, there was a strange unease.

You stubbed out your cigarette. Turned to the window. Took a deep breath, feeling a tightness in your chest.

The typewriter had been silent for a while. Outside, it wasn’t just the sound of footsteps… it was the sound of a presence. Something—or someone.

It wasn’t the usual curses of drunkards hitting the stones, but something clearer, heavier.

So deliberate it didn’t even frighten—it was beyond fear. A threat, once recognized, stops being fear.

Then the door knocked. Twice.

No voice shouting, no introduction. Just a deep knock. If you opened it, Shelby would have arrived. If you didn’t… Shelby would’ve come in anyway.

After a moment’s hesitation, you pushed your chair back with the backs of your knees. The sharp scrape of wood on the floor echoed through the room. Then you walked to the door.

Your steps weren’t hesitant—they were measured.

The door opened slightly. The chain was still in place.

A single sentence hung in the air. “Shelby.”

He recognized your voice. The sentence was short, but heavy. Even the way you said his name sounded like a command.

The chain slid off. The door opened without a creak.

Thomas Shelby, wearing his cap, clad in a sharp black coat that fit like a blade… stepped out of the darkness and into the house. Dim light, cigarette smoke, and the scent of old books greeted him.

His hands were in his pockets, but his eyes had already scanned the room in detail. His face held the usual coldness, but in his gaze there was a different spark: He hadn’t come to see you. He had come to solve you.

“Sorry for showing up at your home,” he said, though his voice carried no apology. “But if you run this much, someone’s bound to follow. Lucky for you, it’s me this time.”

You closed the door. “If a man scared of my pen shows up at my door... I suppose my words found their mark.”

You stood in the middle of the room. A loose, white shirt hung from your frame, its fabric worn thin with time. Below, a pair of tan trousers, held up by a leather suspender strap slung over your shoulder.

Without looking at Thomas, you gestured with your arm. “If you’re going to sit, don’t judge standing up. There’s no defense here.”

Thomas laughed, but silently—it was more of a smirk laced with contempt flickering at the corners of his lips. He lit his cigarette. Inhaled. Didn't respond.

Nor did he sit. “I came to offer you a job,” he said. “No envelope this time, no gold-embossed paper. Now you’re here, in front of me. And yes... I know now. You’re a woman. And not just any woman. The kind that brings men to their knees with her words.”

You locked eyes with him. It wasn’t a confrontation—more like a battle for balance. Who would lose control first? Who would need to think about the next sentence?

“Did your opinion change when you found out I was a woman?” you asked. “Or does this version of me bother you a little, Thomas Shelby?”

When he heard you say his name, something shifted inside him. Maybe, for the first time, a name hadn’t landed on him… it had sunk into him.

“You didn’t bother me,” he said. “But your refusal to write still annoys me.”

You stepped closer.

“I can’t lend my pen to a mafia fairytale. I don’t use my words to interview powerful men… I use them to question why those men are so powerful.”

Thomas stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. Then he leaned in. His face was now level with yours.

“Then write about me,” he said. “But be honest. As honest as the bullets on the table. Write so everyone sees who I am. And remember... if you don’t write, I’ll find another way to show you who I am.”

The words ended.

You didn’t look away. But for just a moment, just one fleeting beat… your heart aligned with the rhythm of Thomas Shelby’s footsteps.

When the door creaked open, you slipped inside like a ghost. Your masculine suit was the deepest, most matte shade of black. As you slightly removed your hat, your eyes scanned the room—glancing at Thomas Shelby as if noting every detail, yet not a flicker stirred in your gaze.

Thomas hadn’t turned around. As always, he was leaning back in the tall leather chair by the window, one hand holding a glass of whiskey, the other resting on the scattered files atop the desk. His eyes weren’t on the horizon, but seemed fixed on a battle that wasn’t there. Smoke drifted lazily into the air, and the faint light sneaking through the thick curtains cast a familiar shadow on his face.

“I don’t think you owe me anything,” Thomas said, without turning his head. “But there are debts that get paid without being acknowledged.”

The corner of your mouth curved slightly. Your steps were steady, but where you stopped was deliberate: neither too close, nor unnecessarily distant. Your eyes lingered on the clock on the desk, the bottle of whiskey, the blue ceramic tiles on the wall—yet it was all habit. Because looking directly at Thomas Shelby meant, inadvertently, placing the rope in his hands.

“A week has passed. That’s enough time.”

Thomas turned slowly. When his eyes met yours for the first time, something cracked in the air. There was no smile, no welcome… only a sharp, timeless, and dangerous recognition.

“I wonder what you wrote about me,” he said.

Each word in his voice was as heavy as cigarette smoke.

But the real threat wasn’t in the sound, it was in the curiosity lodged between the silences.

You didn’t bow your head. You adjusted the buttons on your shirt and slipped your hands into your pockets. Daring enough to catch Thomas Shelby’s attention, but careful not to step on a line.

“You should’ve guessed,” you said, your voice low but steady. “I wrote nothing.”

Thomas leaned back. He twirled the whiskey in his glass for a while, then set it down on the table.

His fingertips tapped the wood. There was no rhythm. He wasn’t impatient, he was measuring.

“Writing nothing about a man like me… can be more dangerous than writing some things.”

You looked at him without blinking. “Because the story of a real gangster can only be written as long as he likes it.”

“Wrong,” said Thomas. “A real gangster lives with his eyes fixed on the ones smart enough to write his story.”

A brief silence.

Thomas rose from his seat. Slowly, carefully, he moved to the edge of the table. Standing, he lit a cigarette.

With the smoke, the air in the room thickened. Nothing was being said, yet so much was.

“When I first read your work, I thought about how sharp your pen was. Like someone who knows how to loosen a man’s tongue before killing him.”

“My pen may be sharp,” you said, “but writing about you would be the same as breaking my own pen.”

Thomas lowered his head. He smiled slightly. But it wasn’t satisfaction, it was the first move of a strategy.

“Maybe you… don’t want to write because you’ve started to understand me.”

You fell silent, with the tiniest flinch. That was being seen. Too bare. Too exposed.

“Maybe,” Thomas went on, “…you’ve become too much of me to write me anymore.”

Everything in the room seemed to shift in density after those words. There were no longer any words, only two souls, each wandering through the thoughts of the other like shadows.

You were silent. Your gaze finally drifted away. But it wasn’t out of fear. It was the middle move of a mental chess game.

Thomas Shelby tilted his head slightly to the side.

“If you won’t write,” he said softly,

“then at least watch.

Maybe then… you’ll see how the story ends.”

The air in the room had grown heavier. Thomas was turning his half-finished cigarette between two fingers at the corner of the desk. His eyes were on you.

You were still standing. Elbows relaxed at your sides, hands in your trouser pockets, as if being in this room wasn’t your choice. But you knew. Anyone who stepped into the darkness of Thomas Shelby could never return. And you were close to that threshold now. You could feel it.

“What is it you want me to watch?” you asked calmly. “The slow disappearance of a man?”

Thomas let out a faint laugh, but there was no mockery in it. That laugh was like a ghost from his past.

“No,” he said, his voice deepening. “I want you to watch how a man governs his own hell.”

He took a step toward you. The distance between you two was now as thin as a lie. But you didn’t retreat, and he didn’t stop approaching.

“My hell is orderly, Miss Y/S/N.”

He didn’t say your name. Because he hadn’t figured out who you were yet. But that complicated mind of yours...

That was the only thing that truly intoxicated him.

“Your hell has glass walls,” you said. “No one gets in. But you watch everyone.”

There was a moment of silence. That moment was the breath right before a war begins. Thomas let his eyes roam over your face. He noticed a loose curl that had fallen from under your hat. It was feminine. But in your expression, in the steel of your gaze, there was nothing soft.

“What is it that keeps you here?” he asked, voice soft, but sly.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t look away, but you said nothing. Because that question was the only one that left you defenseless.

“You write because words are the only thing you trust. Because everyone who ever loved you first tried to shape you, then forgot you. Isn’t that right?”

Your eyes froze. A few seconds of silence hung between you like lead. It was as if cold water had been poured down your spine. But you gathered yourself. Straightened your shoulders. Locked eyes with him once more.

“If you think you can figure me out,” you said, “then you’re not as clever as you think.”

Thomas crushed the cigarette into the ashtray. There was no sound, but something cracked between you.

Your walls trembled under the weight of his pride.

“I don’t want to figure you out,” he said. “I just want to know you.”

It was the most dangerous sentence he could say to you. Because to be known was to be exposed. And being exposed was like bleeding. And you were tired of bleeding long ago.

“I’m not someone to be known, Mr. Shelby. I’m just a story meant to be written and forgotten.”

In that moment, Thomas saw your loneliness more clearly than ever. The darkness behind your eyes was as deep as his own. But that didn’t make him want you less—on the contrary, it made him want to possess you even more.

“In that case,” he said quietly, “let me be the only one who reads you, so no one forgets.”

Once again, the air in the room cracked. This time it wasn’t words, it was the collision of glances.

A match had been struck, but the flame hadn’t yet touched. And even though you knew how much it would burn, you didn’t move.

He looked at you, but it wasn’t the way a man looks at a woman. It was the way a warrior assesses potential, like holding a weapon for the first time and sensing the value hidden inside. He was trying to understand what lived within you, but at the same time, he wanted you to step into that foggy darkness on your own. There was no pressure. But the game? It was always there.

He moved closer to the edge of the desk. Rolled the cigarette pack between his fingers. He spoke without needing fire:

“There’s a night.” His voice fell into the room like raindrops, slow and deep. “Three men will sit at a table. One of the rival gangs. Silver in their mouths, mud in their eyes. They can’t be trusted. They’ll sit with us because they have no other choice. But their true faces will only appear in silence.”

He kept speaking without breaking eye contact. “You’ll be there that night. You won’t speak. You’ll just watch. You’ll see what makes them rise, what makes them bow their heads. And... who they tremble for with a single look.”

He turned the words slowly in his mouth. Because this wasn’t a proposal... this was a calling. You stood at the edge of the path he was offering. And in the wind blowing from the other side, his scent lingered... danger, power, and a kind of poisonous allure.

But what stirred inside you wasn’t just fear. Speaking to Thomas Shelby, standing this close to him, shook something in you that nothing else had in years.

You swallowed. Even that echoed in the silence. “And me?” you asked. “What will I be at that table? A piece of decoration? A distraction?”

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. It was a smile that burned like coal... slow and scarring.

“No. You’re a writer,” he said. “I won’t put you in that filth. I just... want to see where you look, what you notice.”

He took another step toward you. Now, there was only breath between you. He lowered his voice.

“And I want to force you to know me. Because only then will I truly believe you won’t write about me.”

He leaned in, but didn’t touch. The softness in his voice was like a trap scattered across the night.

“I don’t want to trust you. Trusting you… opens doors to other things. But I want to know you’re there. Watching me. That night, at the table, you’ll see me. The real me. And maybe...”

He was close enough now that his breath touched your skin.

“…you’ll see yourself, too.”

Your eyes narrowed, almost as if trying to shield themselves behind your lids. Because this closeness hit you deeper than any word ever could.

But you didn’t back away. His darkness was familiar to the void inside you.

“I don’t want to be a mirror to your darkness,” you said. “I’m only here to look at myself.”

Thomas tilted his head slightly. Never looking away from you, he whispered,

“Then be ready to look into that mirror. Because I’ll be the one to bring you there.”

The wind howled through the beams of the warehouse with a broken roof. The night had settled like a sooty veil over everything, not cold, but oppressive. It didn’t touch your skin; it seeped into you. Hidden among whiskey barrels, you watched from behind a rusty door. The space was dark and narrow; the smell of iron, rotting wood, and dampness clung to your lungs. But you held your breath, eyes unblinking.

Thomas Shelby was there.

With confident steps, he walked straight to the table. He wore a dark, pinstriped suit, elegant as always, yet carrying a sinister grace. His fingers were bare this time, a visible message about the danger hidden at his wrists. Behind him, Arthur stood, his eyes bloodshot, his jaw tense. Finn waited silently in the corner, young but unflinching.

At the table were three men: Billy Owen, Chris Dawson, and a third unknown figure, a bearded man with a threatening glare. Sitting at the same table as the Peaky Blinders was a sign of desperation, yet their arrogance still clung to them like rising steam.

You saw everything through the crack in the wood. Most of all, you watched Thomas.

He didn’t see you. But he knew you were there. This was one of those invisible games between you.

Thomas moved to the head of the table. He didn’t sit. He lit a cigarette. His first words, rising with the smoke, were cold and sharp:

“We’re not here to talk. We’re here to listen.”

Owen grunted.

“Since when do Shelbys listen?”

Arthur stepped forward, but Thomas raised a hand to stop him. Smoke curled around his face, grey, thick, menacing.

“Since the moment, Billy,” Thomas said, “we started carrying more bullets than words in our pockets.”

Owen’s face tightened. The others exchanged wary glances. You held your breath. But this wasn’t the kind of meeting you were used to covering. Here, words weren’t headlines, they were triggers.

For a while, no one spoke. Only the rain tapping on tin roofs and the sound of Thomas breathing echoed in the warehouse.

Then Thomas spoke again, slower this time, more dangerous.

“I have an offer. Accept it, you live. Refuse, and… well.”

Billy grunted.

“Is that a threat, Thomas?”

Without even looking at Arthur, Thomas said something... softly. But you heard it.

“Arthur.”

Arthur stepped forward, calmly pulled a knife from his pocket, and drove it into the table. The rusty blade split the wood. Chris flinched. The third man instinctively reached for his waistband. Thomas stopped him with just a glance. That’s when you realized, there were no guns on this table. But fear... fear was drawn faster than any weapon.

Your fingers pressed against the cracked wood. Your breath was uneven, but you stayed quiet. Curiosity had brought you here. Staying, though… was becoming something else entirely.

Thomas spoke again. But this time, his words weren’t for the men at the table. They were for you. You knew it, his voice dropped, but his gaze cut through.

“Some people can only be understood in the dark. You can’t show them the light, it blinds them. But if you see those who glow in the night… then you know who they really are.”

He meant it for you. The others didn’t catch it. But you did. This was the moment he tested you. And you were still there.

Billy Owen smiled, more like bared his teeth.

“I’m not the silent type, Thomas. Everyone knows that. I’ve got nothing unsaid.”

He leaned back, arms spread.

“But I’d love to hear what you’re hiding.”

Thomas didn’t even raise an eyebrow. He lit another cigarette. Then he placed an envelope on the table. Inside—you couldn’t see, but you knew—there were documents, names, dates. A few seconds passed in silence. Chris leaned forward slightly.

Chris:

“This... this isn’t our deal, Thomas.”

His lips trembled with fear.

“Did you... find out something we don’t know?”

Arthur's hand hit the table with a creak of wood.

Arthur:

“Thomas doesn’t talk from what he doesn’t know. Haven’t you learned that yet, eh?”

Thomas took a step back. There was no threat in his posture, but every muscle in him pulsed with potential.

Thomas:

“Everything that happens in Birmingham comes to me. Not on the wind, but in blood. And you’ve forgotten the blood.”

In the silence that followed, you watched him. You realized: It wasn’t voice or weapons that commanded respect. It was gaze. And fear... came from footsteps that echoed without sound.

Owen stood up abruptly.

“I don’t fall for Shelby’s bedtime stories. Are you threatening me, huh?!”

Your first thought: Someone’s going to die. But Thomas didn’t even flinch.

“If you’re looking for a threat, watch the one who doesn’t speak. Sit down.

Otherwise, Arthur won’t carry your chair, he’ll start digging your grave.”

Billy’s eyes narrowed for a moment. Then slowly, he sat back down. Rage burned in his eyes, but his instinct to survive was stronger. Cormac moved his hand away from his weapon. Chris cleared his throat.

You... you realized what you were witnessing. No article could describe this moment. This wasn’t charisma, it was the instinctive rule of a system. And that system was called “Thomas Shelby.”

But for you, one thing had finally become clear:

No one could raise their voice against him.

He was the man who changed the air in the room with a glance.

And everyone… feared his silence most of all.

The door slammed shut. The metallic echo shattered the night’s silence. The rival gang members scattered as if they’d left their will in Thomas’s hands. Arthur’s footsteps were heavy and menacing, like the tremor that follows a storm.

And you were still there. As your eyes adjusted from the shadows, you slipped out, a ghost beneath the moonlight. Your breath was unsteady, but slowly regaining rhythm. The cold didn’t sting your skin, it chilled your mind. What echoed in your head wasn’t the click of a gun or Owen’s fear, it was the space where Thomas Shelby had said nothing.

That was when you felt him without needing to turn.

His steps were silent. But close.

And suddenly, the scent of rain-soaked earth, old metal, and dark tobacco pierced right through you.

Thomas:

“Did you see enough?”

His voice came low, nearly hoarse. Not a whisper more like a man speaking to the night.

“Or do you need more… to stop yourself from writing?”

You didn’t turn. You knew, if your eyes met, something would ignite in that collision. Still, you answered, half a smirk playing on your lips.

“If I dared to write this... it wouldn’t be my paper that burns. It’d be me.”

You didn’t laugh. But your voice was lined with tense irony.

“You really are as dangerous as I thought, Thomas Shelby.”

He stepped beside you. When his feet aligned with yours, the steam rising from the rain-soaked ground formed a thin veil between you. Almost invisible.

“You’re trying to understand me. I saw that tonight.”

Without turning to you, he looked up at the sky.

In his eyes: echoes of war, the weight of lost brothers in London, the memory of men who never came back from France.

“Sometimes people become more attached to the things they don’t write. Writing creates distance. But watching… pulls you in.”

As he said it, something cracked in his voice. Something unseen. A hidden fracture… the part left behind after war, but never healed. And you heard it.

“I’m not trying to know you.”

You stepped back, not to flee, but to stand straighter.

You rolled up your sleeves slightly, adjusted your posture. Your voice was firm, but something in you trembled.

“I’m trying to understand. How much you show is up to you.”

That was the moment your eyes met.

In his gaze, for the first time, there was not gunpowder, but ash.

And in yours, not just the look of a woman, but of a solitude masked by masculinity.

But Thomas… he recognized that solitude in you.

“You’re not afraid. But there’s a fear you even hide from yourself. Like a silence that screams… something writhing beneath your shell.”

He turned to you, fully.

“I was the same. For a long time. Until I got used to the dark.”

You paused. Then you said, never breaking eye contact:

“Maybe… I just wanted to describe the night to someone who’s already used to the dark.”

Your breath caught for a moment. But you didn’t stop.

“If you still know how to speak… maybe we talk a bit more tonight?”

It wasn’t just an invitation. It was a hand extended from the shadows.

But even as you offered it, you kept your guard.

You raised the collar of your coat.

Your posture proud, gaze defiant.

“And how about doing it at the Shelby house?

There’s a fan waiting for you at home.”

The pavements of Watery Lane were quieter than usual that night. The moon peered down with a thin, soapy whiteness as you stood at the door of Thomas Shelby’s house. The door was heavy as a log, but when it opened, the warmth spilling inside created such a sharp contrast that you forgot the grey cold of the outside.

As you stepped in, a slight unease from seeing the house for the first time weighed on your shoulders. Polished dark walnut furniture, military medals on the shelves, well-worn leather chairs by the coal fireplace, echoes of lived memory.

In the dim light, golden cigarette ashtrays gleamed atop the suede chairs. A soft scent of whisky, tobacco, and old books filled the air. Thomas had not yet removed his coat. His eyes never left you.

“If you can still speak…” you had said.

He answered with a sip from his glass:

“Someone who comes to the Shelby house to talk is either an enemy… or a friend. We’ll see which you are.”

There was no threat in his voice. But each word drew a boundary, and you were being pulled into its center. Inside the walls, but outside the glass.

As Ada Shelby came down the stairs, her eyes lit up when she saw you.

“You must be Y/N. I know your essays by heart, the one titled Blood and Roses… It was beautiful.”

She smiled, and her warm, gentle tone briefly lightened the seriousness of the room. Thomas lit a cigarette. Turning to you, he raised one eyebrow with a hint of mockery:

“Men try to demolish the walls built by women’s pens with dynamite. Isn't that right?”

You hadn’t answered yet when the parlor door swung open sharply. Arthur Shelby entered with heavy steps, a half-empty whiskey bottle in hand and that familiar, mocking arrogance in his eyes. He sized you up from head to toe. A comment was inevitable.

“So you’re that wise one writing about us… the man himself, huh?” He squinted and laughed. “Well… excuse me. A man… are you still?”

The mood in the room flipped. Arthur’s voice cut through the air like a lamp swinging from the ceiling rafters. But before you could respond, Thomas spoke first.

“Arthur,” Thomas said quietly but sharply. Just his name, yet his icy tone was enough to silence Arthur. Thomas didn’t even turn. His eyes stayed on your face.

“You don’t speak that way to someone I invited here. Especially when she’s my guest.”

Arthur paused, nodded, and forced a smile.

“Alright, Tommy. She’s your guest. Then I’ll take my whiskey and… shut up.”

The whiskey was drunk in short time, a few sentences exchanged. But Thomas Shelby never broke eye contact with you. Then he directed you toward the old Chesterfield armchair opposite the fireplace.

“Come,” he said. “Let’s talk there.”

As the fire crackled and whiskey glasses clinked, the air in the room grew heavier—not with threatening silence, but with an intimacy that hinted at opening old files, at words kneeling before truth. Thomas sipped his whisky slowly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. It was like an old calculator processing your sentences, the operators his gaze, the result still uncertain.

You had seated yourself in the Chesterfield, but you weren’t lounging—you looked like someone entering the ring. Your masculine clothes, the crisp lines, the high-collared shirt—all gave a sense of a past buried like a button pressed deep. And you never broke your posture. Your legs spread, elbows resting on your knees, your gaze spoke for itself.

Arthur half-sat on the arm of the chair, cigarette dangling from his mouth, grinning at you.

“Alright… so they say you have fans who love your writing. Those ‘living in the shadows of love’ type essays.”

“But why… why do you enjoy taking potshots at guys like us?” —His gaze flicked to Thomas and back to himself— “…you didn’t write about the Peaky Blinders, but if you had, what would you have said? Come on.”

His tone was mocking, but with that typical Arthur warmth woven in, not cruelty, but a love for wordplay. Part of his heart was still the street kid who grew up kicking around the streets of Birmingham.

You wet your lips, about to answer when Ada intervened first. She tapped Arthur on the shoulder.

“Enough now, don’t bother her!” she said. Then she turned to you, leaning in with a soft smile.

“But I am really curious,” she said. “Some of your essays talk about love, passionately, complicatedly. As if you’re not afraid of pain. But looking at how you dress…”—she looked over your masculine attire— “…it’s like your heart is tied with a belt. You live like a man but feel like a woman. Is that a contradiction… or something else?”

Something clicked inside you. Behind that question was compassion, and a woman asking for an honest answer. Then Thomas stepped in. This time his voice was slow, low, but intensely focused. He spoke with the patience of someone flicking the ashes from his cigarette.

“My brother provokes, Ada understands. But I will ask something else. As a woman, you tear into the male world so easily with your writing. So… why did you choose to live like a man? War? Fear? Or protecting someone?”

He was looking right into your eyes. At that moment, Thomas Shelby wasn’t just asking you, he was staring into your history.

You opened your mouth, but before a single word could be spoken, the door inside opened gently. Polly appeared like a ghost, her heels pressing into the rug. She carried a glass of whiskey and walked slowly toward you. Her eyes, different from the others’, saw only you, and one look was enough to hear the silence that came from you. Perhaps in that instant, a woman understood another woman without words.

Polly paused, not sitting. She simply studied you. Then she looked at Arthur, then Thomas, then back at you.

“If you ask me,” she said, voice slightly trembling but sharp, “there’s something in this young woman’s past. Behind those clothes is a wound. And that wound may have masculinized her pen, her voice, her body. But the woman inside… speaks through your eyes.”

Then she moved closer, took your hands in hers.

“Welcome. To our circle.”

Her voice had the warmth of the one you’d forgotten, perhaps for the first time, someone welcomed you not just for being a woman, but for being you.

Polly’s words spread across the room like a velvet cloth dropped into the center.

"She carries a wound behind her clothes. And that wound might have turned her pen, her voice, her body… into something more masculine."

The sentence felt like it cut something out from within you. There was a moment of silence. Everyone forgot their drinks. No sound overtook the crackling fire. In that moment, the footsteps of the past were returning, and unlike always, you didn’t bow your head—you held it high. But your lips trembled. Polly’s eyes were still locked on yours, but now Ada had leaned forward, her voice soft, almost timid.

“Is it true?” she asked. “Is there… a reason for this? The thing that made you so strong… is it also your loneliness?”

There was no pity in her words, only curiosity. And a kind of compassion mixed with a woman’s intuition. But for you, putting it into words meant turning years of silent turmoil into spoken truth. Still, the topic was now too close to avoid.

You cleared your throat. Your eyes turned to the fire. But Thomas Shelby… was watching you. A cigarette rested between his lips, unlit. He simply held it. As if it were a question in his mouth, waiting for your answer to give it meaning.

“I was born in France,” you said at last, your voice soft but fractured. “Near Paris, in a big family with vineyards. The story always starts the same way: an old aristocratic name, heavy meals, empty words, and lives trapped inside them.”

Your eyes stayed on the fire, but the crack in your voice sharpened Thomas’s gaze. The line between his brows deepened. You went on: “They wanted to shape me into a mold. One that was narrow, silent, and always smiling for men. But each day, I tried to break it. Not with my hands… with my words. With my questions. Some tied their love for me to my submission. Every refusal… left me more alone.”

You swallowed. The man watching you now saw another fracture within you. But you were still in control. Or so you thought.

“One day… I took some money from my mother’s jewelry box. Packed only my books and my typewriter. Got on a train. And came here.”

Ada hadn’t taken her eyes off you, but she lowered her head. Arthur had stretched his feet toward the fireplace, saying nothing this time. There was surprise in his eyes, and maybe a bit of respect. Polly tilted her head slightly as she listened, her whiskey forgotten in her hand.

And Thomas… He wasn’t hearing you anymore. He was seeing you.

He imagined a woman walking among crowds leaning on her own shadow, biting her lips at night while writing just to keep from screaming, staring at her reflection in the morning trying to feel nothing. He saw that vision as he watched you.

“And now you’re here,” he said quietly. “In the house of the Shelbys. Someone who escaped with her pen, now sitting in a room with the Peaky Blinders. There are molds everywhere in the world. But you… you look like someone who could burn them.”

What he didn’t say was this: He was curious about your broken pieces. The dark corners of you. And for the first time, Thomas Shelby didn’t want to touch a woman… he wanted to understand her.

There was a pause. Polly’s eyes stayed on you. But her voice was gentle this time. “You’ve walked a hard road. But you’re not alone anymore. I know what it costs to write those words.”

You tried to hide what passed through you. You didn’t answer. Just smiled faintly. But your hands were trembling. And Thomas noticed.

As your gaze dropped to the floor, his lingered on your lips. He wasn’t trying to figure you out anymore. He was engraving you into memory.

You were talking. Telling Ada something. Polly had smiled slightly. Arthur raised his glass. But Thomas was watching you like you belonged to another time.

A woman once broken, once escaped, reshaped, then rebuilt by her own hands. And to him, that set you apart from everyone else. Because you had survived something. And Thomas Shelby loved survivors. Not the weak, but those who had bled and endured. Yet this time, it wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t instinct. It was desire.

And throughout the night, one thought anchored itself in the back of his mind: What was it like… to be with you?

Truly. Not to own. Not to consume. But to share a night with you. How would you surrender to a man, if ever?

As he watched you hold your cigarette, Thomas thought about your hands. How many doors had they closed? How many slaps had they taken? How many touches had they pulled away from, how many gazes had they escaped? And now those hands weren’t even safe holding a glass. Because in his mind, those fingers were already tracing his chest, his throat, his hips. But the fantasy wasn’t dirty. It was hungry. Yes. It was passion. Of course. But above all, it was longing.

He imagined the sweat sliding down your back, the tremble in the corner of your lip, the whispers rising from you when your eyes closed. But what he truly craved wasn’t just skin. It was the storm beneath it.

For Thomas Shelby, to make love to you wouldn’t be just union, it would be redemption. Because he couldn’t make love to his past. But maybe… he could forget it with you. And the last thought that echoed inside him was this: “When I touch that woman, it won’t just be a body… It will be my way out of hell.”

He didn’t take his eyes off you. Arthur was saying something, but he didn’t hear. Ada had asked a question, he nodded without knowing what.

But Thomas Shelby… He spent the entire night thinking only of you.

After you were handed your last drink and farewelled with laughter, the door of the house closed behind you slowly. As your footsteps faded along the cobbled path, the air inside didn't change—it merely became more bare. The presence you left behind seemed etched into the room.

Ada leaned back on the couch, holding her glass between her palms, eyes fixed on the fire in the hearth. There was a half-genuine, half-contemplative smile on her lips.

“That woman… she's different,” she said softly, not as a statement but almost in awe. “I read her writings, yes, her pen is powerful, no doubt. But tonight… it was something else. As if even words fall short compared to what she carries inside.”

Arthur shrugged, taking a sip. “Too posh. Talks too much. But beautiful. No denying that.”

Ada shot him a mocking look but didn’t engage further. Then her gaze shifted to Thomas.

“What about you, Tom? For someone who barely speaks… you were rather talkative with her tonight.”

Thomas didn’t answer. A faint tension flickered at the corner of his lips. He kept puffing his cigarette. His eyes remained on the fire’s glow, but his thoughts were somewhere else. Or maybe… very close.

Just as silence was about to settle, Polly entered the room. Black veils, footsteps soft like velvet. She poured herself a drink, then sat down. Her gaze wasn’t on Ada; it was locked directly on Thomas.

In the quiet pause, Polly parted her lips.

“That girl became a man because in this world, staying a woman is like dying.”

The room contracted with all the unspoken words it held.

The amusement on Arthur’s face vanished.

Ada went silent, as if she’d just heard something from her mother, or a saint.

Thomas… Thomas lifted his eyes to Polly for the first time. He didn’t pretend he hadn’t heard. He had. And it sank deep.

Polly went on, eyes still fixed on him:

“To be a woman, where she came from, meant kneeling. Staying. Enduring. Remaining silent. So she stood up. But as she rose, she left her womanhood behind. Hid it. As if someone might steal it. She dresses like a man because that’s her armor. Her tongue is sharp because she was silenced long ago. And her words, they're her weapons.”

Ada whispered, “How do you know that?”

Polly tilted her head slightly, smiling with pain.

“Because I once lived in armor too. But I kept my womanhood. Hers though, it’s buried.”

She lifted her glass. “And yet she still shines. Despite all her suppression… she’s still a woman. She just doesn’t let anyone see it.”

Thomas turned his eyes back to the fire, as if something deep within him had been touched. Polly’s words had struck like bullets, into his past, and into you.

Because that’s why he wanted you.

You weren’t a woman who lacked femininity. You were a woman who gave it up to survive.

And for the first time, something flickered inside Thomas Shelby:

“I want to give her womanhood back. Not by making her weak. But by letting her be herself, strong, unbroken, vulnerable without fear.”

Polly lowered her head and sipped her drink.

“She’ll fight for you, Thomas,” she said. “Because she’s trying to understand you. But you’ll have to fight for her too. If you can’t figure her out… she’ll figure you out. And then she might leave.”

Arthur stood up, trying to lighten the tense mood, raising his glass.

“Come on, Polly. A girl shows up and suddenly everyone’s all dramatic?”

But no one laughed. Because by the end of that night, everyone knew one thing:

You had met the Shelby house.

But more than anything… you had met the darkness inside Thomas Shelby.

And for the first time, that darkness was afraid of losing something.

Of losing you.

Time moved forward like a wound. It had been two weeks since you last saw each other. No message, no greeting, not even a shadow of Thomas Shelby’s smoky eyes searching for you at a street corner… He was nowhere to be seen. But this absence wasn’t a disappearance. On the contrary, the pull between you had begun to take a visible form. A silence growing larger each day now carried two people who had no courage left for words.

You were busy finishing your columns. You tried returning to your old topics: the cruelty of war, the rights of workers in industrial Birmingham, the invisible face of social inequality… But every sentence felt foreign. Each paragraph was dull and cold without the shadow of Thomas Shelby in it.

You sat at your writing desk. Your hands lay still over the page. The ink of your pen was drying, but your mind was still burning. Every piece you tried to write scattered in a different direction. For the first time, the pen didn’t feel like yours.

None of them made it past a paragraph. Because all your words revolved around one man.

Thomas Shelby.

As you sipped your coffee, his presence—bodiless but tactile, came to mind. When your finger brushed against the paper, you saw him lifting a cigarette to his lips. In your mind, you were already talking to him.

Thomas Michael Shelby. A man. A leader. A shadow. A crime. And maybe… the most honest confession of a woman writer. Read under abandoned streetlamps at night, echoing in a woman’s mind like a manifesto.

And for the first time, your pen moved to write about him.

You were going to write now. About him.

But this wouldn’t be an exposé; it would be a recognition, a cry, a surrender. Because Thomas Shelby hadn’t just made you think, he had left you without yourself.

At the same hour, in another street…

With the collar of his grey coat turned up, Thomas was walking through the foggy streets of Birmingham. Brief conversations, clipped commands… business meetings… cold whiskeys… None of it could fill the emptiness inside him. Without you, no victory meant anything. A man, even if a king, could find a city to be his grave if he was alone.

Thomas Shelby, collar raised, stood in front of a clothing shop window. His steps seemed premeditated, but his gaze was entirely detached from all plans. Behind the glass, a deep midnight-blue fabric flowed like silk… A delicate cut falling from slender shoulders… A sash at the waist… A tasteful slit at the knee… The moment he saw the dress, he thought of you.

You, in that dress… But not just the dress. You, at peace with yourself. Not fighting, not hiding… not needing to prove your womanhood to anyone.

He narrowed his eyes. Dropped his cigarette. Crushed it with the tip of his shoe. And for a moment, he closed his eyes.

He imagined draping that dress over your back. Watched you letting your hair fall over your shoulder. In the darkened frame of a doorway, he saw you walking toward him in that dress. And then, he imagined you undressing. But not hastily. Slowly. Gently. With reverence. Because to desire you didn’t mean to possess you. To see you, to understand you, to unravel with you that was what he wanted.

He wanted to put that dress on you because… he wanted to show you that being a woman wasn’t death, it was survival. And he didn’t want to own you. He wanted to belong to you.

He didn’t want to protect you. He wanted to burn with you. Maybe he would bury all the silence he had carried for years into your skin in a single night. And he wanted to let your darkness meet his darkness, and from that, let something be born.

A scream. A name. A story. A destiny written with you.

You both missed each other.

But Thomas Shelby never spoke of longing. He spoke through the dress you never wore. You shouted through the lines you never wrote about him. You were both silent.

But the city was now too full of this silence to carry you any longer.

And the decision was made.

You started to write.

He bought the dress.

You wiped your tears.

He lit the last cigarette he would smoke before reaching for you.

And one night, one of you would complete the words. The other, touch between the lines.

Paper did not only carry ink. That morning, the newspapers distributed throughout Birmingham carried the contents of a heart. It was the moment when a writer, after struggling to define love, finally poured her tangled words onto the page with courage. And those words, like bullets, had found their target.

A woman waiting at the station read the lines on the fourth page again and again.

A mother who had given birth to a child and then lost her own identity while raising it.

Another woman, lighting her morning cigarette, read the article aloud to her prostitute friends.

One who had never cried over a man fell silent, clutching her throat at a single sentence.

A young tailor’s apprentice abandoned his breakfast and took refuge in the corner of the paper.

Because that piece wasn’t just about love—it spoke of the punishment love could bring, and of a rebellion echoing within silence.

The writer’s name was not listed; not even initials had been printed this time. But everyone knew who had written it.

You.

You were the author of those lines. And now, the streets were speaking your name. Even if it didn’t appear on the page, the article was the voice of your heart. For the first time, your words weren’t about war—but about a man.

…

The city’s hum remained outside. In Thomas Shelby’s office, the air was as heavy as ever with smoke, with thought. On the dark walnut desk, the morning’s newspaper lay open. No one had handed it to him. He had picked it up himself. He had seen the headline with his own eyes: “For Those Who Pass Through Love and End in Silence”

His gaze slowly scanned the lines. Behind the letters, a silhouette began to form. That man… The one who had once drowned in his own darkness and later searched for light in a woman’s eyes that man was Thomas Shelby himself.

“Some men don’t get caught in love. They see it as a trap. But one day, a woman comes along… and turns that trap into gold. Because true love is not a surrender; it is a challenge, a rebirth. That man tore down the walls he had built from thorns inside me. And behind those walls, I found a boy. Silent, wounded, but still worthy of being loved…”

His fingers slowly closed over the paper. He adjusted the collar of his jacket. Leaned back in his chair, but his face was tilted downward. His eyes were fixed on one spot: a gift box in deep burgundy satin sitting at the edge of his desk.

Inside was the dress. The one from that shop he had gone back to after pausing for a moment, thinking of you. At the time, he had never felt you so close.

Now… You had written him. Not by name, but by heart.

For the first time, a piece of writing had disarmed Thomas Shelby—not like an enemy, but like a man. His mind wasn’t filled with war strategies, but with your words. He remembered the way you looked at him. Thought of the times you fell silent. And now, he understood the reason for that silence.

You had loved him. Despite all his darkness, his past, his curses.

At first, Thomas Shelby had wanted to use you for prestige. He wanted you to write about him. But if you had written back then, none of it would have felt this way. None of it would have stung the chest and warmed the heart with such honesty. Now, someone had finally told him: “You are worthy of being loved as you are.”

That’s why he walked toward the gift box. Opened the lid slowly. Touched the dress. As his fingers moved over the fabric, what passed through him was too close to hide any longer:

“I want you to be my woman, Y/N… I want to be with you.”

That day, Thomas Shelby made his decision. Yes, he had built an empire.

But for the first time, he had been defeated by words by a woman.

And for the first time, he had found himself in a writer’s heart.

He would confess his love to you. But he would do it as a man. Not with a weapon, but with his heart. Not inviting you to a bed, but to a life.

The streets of Birmingham always turned the same shade of grey in the evening; if the cobblestones didn’t shine with rain, footsteps would seem to vanish between the cracks. Your steps echoed, but even that echo wasn’t enough to bring you back to yourself.

With a brown coat over your shoulders, you walked against the wind, your boots pressing over the cracked pavement. The corner of the magazine bag in your hand was folded, and between the pages peeked the headline of that much-discussed article: “For Those Who Pass Through Love and End in Silence.” You had left the office late. Congratulations, praise, hands patting your shoulder… all because of that article. You had touched something inside everyone, torn them open, then gently stitched them back together. How strange… Among the hearts you had touched with your writing, yours was not one of them.

Your heart was still a battlefield.

As you turned a corner, you held your breath. You tried to suppress the thing rising inside you. A strange warmth…

No, this feeling, it wasn’t yours.

It belonged to love.

To a woman.

And you… you had long ago torn that piece out of yourself.

“You lost the right to feel like a woman.”

You’d told yourself that years ago.

At the edge of a bed, behind a closed door, maybe suffocating in a smile...

In the eyes of the men who looked at you, there had been no love, only ownership.

And you had pulled yourself away from those stares.

You had changed your skin, your hair, your tone of voice.

You had ripped away everything feminine within you and replaced it with sharp edges.

But now...

That damned feeling was sprouting from within again.

Not in the words Thomas Shelby whispered beneath his breath as he looked at you, It was growing in all the things he never said.

While walking down the street, you noticed your hands were trembling.

Not from the cold. From remembering. From longing.

How long had it been since you forgot what it meant to be a woman?

Your steps quickened. As if trying to outrun a thought…

But where could you go?

The woman inside you had already run far away.

You had let her go.

But now…

That woman was coming back.

And it scared you.

Because that woman wanted love. She craved tenderness. She wanted to be touched, to be heard, to be felt.

And Thomas Shelby -that damned gangster- seemed to offer all of it. Without a single word. Just by looking. Just by being.

You stopped against a wall. Took a deep breath.

When your eyes began to water, you looked straight at the sky.

You wouldn’t cry. No… you’d drown this feeling.

“Women like you can’t carry love. Because love won’t carry you.”

But another voice inside you whispered.

From a different language,

From a different possibility:

“But what if Thomas can carry you?”

As you turned the corner, your steps slowed.

The wind blew your coat.

No, not a coat… for a moment, you imagined it was that favorite dress in your room in France.

You imagined the satin brushing your legs,

Thomas’s gaze kissing your neck...

You parted your lips slightly, held your breath.

You were afraid of yourself.

Not because you wanted Thomas Shelby...

But because you wanted to be yourself with him.

Your steps grew heavier as you reached the corner of your building. Until that moment, you'd been wrestling with your thoughts, fighting yourself, avoiding a confrontation with the woman inside you, but now, now you were getting close to home. Your safe space. The cellar of your pen, your solitude, your cold coffee cups, and the emotions you kept tightly under control. Nothing ever changed there. No one ever came close.

But even from the end of the street, you noticed it.

Something was wrong.

Your gaze instinctively lifted to your apartment window. The light was on.

You stopped walking instantly. Your pulse quickened in your chest. For several seconds, you just stared at the light, not thinking... just feeling. Your mind pushed you toward your most vulnerable place. And your heart, for a fleeting second, chose joy.

“Is it him?”

For a moment -yes, for a moment- Thomas Shelby could’ve been there.

Maybe he was waiting for you.

Maybe he had realized he missed you, just as you missed him.

Just as you’d imagined…

But that feeling only left a warm flicker in your chest before slipping away.

Because you were… smart. And in this city, an apartment with a light on meant only one thing:

Someone had entered. Without your permission.

And for the first time, when you said Thomas Shelby’s name in your mind, it wasn’t with affection...

It was with fury.

“How dare you?”

Your fists clenched.

That woman you’d been running from all day, you tore her out of yourself now.

Everything feminine, everything soft, you cast it to the edge of your heart.

And with the wind whipping your hair, you marched toward the building with sharp, unwavering steps.

When you pushed open the cold iron door and climbed the old stairs, your rage only grew with every step.

That rage kept you upright.

It cleared your head.

It erased your fear, your longing, your weakness.

“If you’re in there… if you’re really in there…”

“…I’ll show you.”

You paused at your door. Your hands were sweaty, but you ignored it. You took out your key. And turned it in the lock. A soft click. A shifting sound. The door opened.

And you, you saw him.

Thomas Shelby.

You stepped inside. Thomas was at the desk near the far wall, the one where you wrote at night, accompanied by the solemn silence of your typewriter.

His legs were crossed, his body leaned back in the chair, his head turned toward you. Like a shadow. Like a ghost. But more real than you.

He was still wearing his dark navy coat. A white shirt underneath, but the collar was loose. No tie this time. Instead of a tie, he wore that inward silence rising to his throat.

His face held nothing, as always.

But his eyes spoke like the night.

“Welcome home,” he said, his voice low but firm. As if this wasn’t your house. As if he had been summoned here by you.

But you stood there, caught in a few seconds of stunned stillness.

Your gaze fell on the large box on the desk. Wrapped in velvety fabric. Tied with a ribbon. The kind of box sent to women. To selected women. To women you never thought you’d be.

But your anger reminded you who you were.

Right before your emotions could surface.

You clenched your jaw, pressed your feet harder into the floor, and your voice came out like a blade, cold and sharp:

“You people make a habit of breaking into places, but not here. Not in my home.”

Thomas didn’t speak for a moment. As if he wasn’t arranging his words, but listening to the crack behind your voice. He looked at you without blinking. This time, with every mask stripped away.

He stood up from behind the typewriter, slowly. As if he’d sat there ready to write, but couldn’t.

He didn’t button his coat. Didn’t shove his hands in his pockets. He simply took a step toward you.

“You didn’t write about me. Not about Peaky Blinders. Not about Thomas Shelby,” he said. “But you wrote about someone I didn’t expect. I read that piece.”

The sentence echoed through the walls. Just like the echo you'd heard inside yourself. Silent but shattering.

You didn’t respond. Because any word you gave would let him in further.

“There’s a woman inside you, Y/N. A quiet, bleeding woman. Hiding. And you… you’re trying to kill her.”

The way he said your name was different. It wasn’t soft. It was firm. Because he was a man who read your wounds, not with pity, but with truth.

He reached slowly toward the box on the desk.

His fingers held the ribbon but didn’t untie it.

Just held it.

“Everyone in this city knows you like this now. Tough. Cold. Masculine. Like a predator who doesn’t show her teeth.

But I... I saw you from the beginning.

Not just the way you talked. The way you walked. The way your breath paused. The way your eyes recoiled at a single look…

You used to belong to yourself. But then someone took you.”

He took another step. Only a few feet stood between you now. But your breaths were on the same rhythm.

Breaking the air in the same pattern.

Your eyes were fixed on him, but he could see right through them.

“I don’t want to put you in a mold. I want to put you in a dress. A dress that belongs to you. And when you look in the mirror wearing it, you’ll see that woman again. The one you’ve been trying to kill, but the one I still hear. I want to bring her back to life.”

Your answer didn’t come quickly. Because any word that left your mouth would be a declaration of war. And you realized, suddenly, you were tired of fighting.

Still, your face showed nothing. But your heart betrayed you. And then Thomas Shelby said his final words, not like a criminal, but like a man. Locking his gaze with yours:

“If you don’t want this... I’ll leave. But if I stay, I won’t leave until I bring that woman back.”

The voice inside you said, “Tell him to leave.” But the shadow falling across your face whispered, “Tell him everything.”

And yet, once again, you betrayed your heart and chose the fight.

Your gaze drifted from Thomas’s hand resting on the box to his eyes once more. You had learned that, to truly understand someone, you had to start with hatred. And the man standing before you was strong enough to be hated… but worse, broken enough to be understood.

Your chin was high, your shoulders tense. And deep in your chest, as always, you carried a curiosity hidden beneath anger.

Your voice hit the walls like cold steel.

“Why? Why do you care? To you, I’m just a writer who won’t bend her pen for the Peaky Blinders. What about me are you so curious about? What connects me to you?”

This was a challenge. But also an invitation. A door opened, demanding the truth. And Thomas Shelby, as always, responded first with silence.

Out of all that noise, he arrived with nothing but his quiet gaze.

He didn’t light a cigarette. Didn’t rush into words. Didn’t use any unnecessary gesture.

He only dipped his head slightly. Then lifted it again.

And then he spoke.

“When I look at you, I see my own exhaustion. I replaced something inside me years ago… something that died. But you… you just buried yours. It’s still alive. Still there. The woman in you.”

He stepped closer. You weren’t supposed to touch him, but in your mind, you were the one closing the distance.

The heat in your veins wasn’t only anger now. It had become something else. And Thomas kept going, never breaking eye contact.

“I’m not trying to save you. I’m not trying to fix you. I’m not God. I’m not a hero. But I want to watch you. I want to see the moment those masks start to fall. I want to be there when you start living in your own skin again. And… I want to be with you when it happens.”

It was the shell of a confession. But to you, the shell was already visible enough.

You said nothing. Because you were afraid your words would betray you.

You didn’t want to surrender to a man’s sentences after all you’d fought.

But your face had changed.

In your eyes, there was a glimmer of the woman Thomas hadn’t yet known. And he saw it.

For a while, silence filled the space. Eye to eye. Breaths unspoken. Time unbroken.

Then Thomas Shelby stepped back. A stillness like polar cold surrounded him. He didn’t turn away, but his gaze had already gone beyond your heart.

He reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out a small white envelope. Placed it gently on the table. As he drew his hand back, he left behind one sentence.

“Tomorrow night. Charity Gala. Seven o’clock. You won’t need an invitation. I’ll bring you.”

When he looked at you again, he wasn’t watching you anymore, he was watching who you could become.

“You can come wearing what you have on. But if you wear what’s in the box… You’ll be walking toward yourself. Not me.”

And then he turned toward the door. It opened. The wind came in.

“You don’t have to come. But if you don’t, I’ll still be someone who wants your words. If you do.... Then I’ll be the one writing you.”

The door creaked open. Silence entered. And Thomas Shelby left without leaving a single footstep behind.

You were alone. But this time, loneliness didn’t feel familiar.

It felt like something inside you was finally… coming back.

#cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy fandom #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian x fem!reader #cillian x reader #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby x oc #thomas shelby x imagine #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction

21 notes · View notes