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iniquitousyearning · 7 months ago

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quiet reckoning. chapter two

summary: its winter. you begin to accept the solace, until on a random night in january; you dream.

warnings: 18+, smut MDNI, mind manipulation, tom riddle is a fucking god (sorry), oral f!rec, PIV, so much angstttt, tom riddle is broken and he’s tired of fighting, outdoor sex, ooc tom for some but remember there are decades of history between these two.

masterlist and other chapters.

It's winter. The first of the season is a soft, unassuming thing, nothing like the hard decay of fall. Snow blankets life and covers old memories of summer fading to fallen leaves—and you've always marvelled at it, the way frost clings to the pines—how the crystals dance in sunlight like they're celebrating.

Warmth lies dormant, hidden under the cold, yet nature still finds a way to make the quiet beautiful.

This, you think, reminds you of Tom.

In the early days of winter you spend as much time outside as you can manage, but the cold seeps in eventually—a bitter thing with the edges of frozen steel—so you give yourself grace for the rest. There's a satisfaction in the easy routine you fall into—no garden, no yard work, just stoking the fire and chopping wood, eating and reading and going down to the market when you decide an apple pie sounds nice.

Sometimes, late at night, you sit by the fire and think about all the things that have changed—sometimes, you sit by the fire and think about the things that haven't.

You try not to hate yourself for how small the latter list seems to be.

Mattheo doesn't come in December. He writes only twice—once to tell you about his wedding, and again to say he won't be able to visit after all. You try to ignore the hollow feeling in your gut as you read that last letter, but when he sends you your favourite sweets for Christmas, you decide to forgive him.

You begin to accept the solace. The kind of quiet that fills the cracks of a life left behind.

Until, on a random night in January, you dream.

It's one of those dreams that feels hyper-real—you're outside, somewhere that feels both unfamiliar and inescapably known. It's dark and snowing, your breath leaving plumes in the air, and everything—the scenery, the chill, the silence—washes over you like something you feel more than witness.

You turn slowly, looking around—your senses stretching to the stillness of the trees, the soft fall of snowflakes, the ring of silence pressing in on your ears. Then you start walking, guided by something you can't name but instinctively trust. It doesn't take long before you hear it—the steady flow of water—so you push through a stand of snow-covered trees and find a narrow creek, its edges crusted with ice that glints under the moonlight.

The feeling of familiarity hits harder, and when you look up, that's when you see it—like a ghost that is your memories—the orphanage, sitting in the distance, rising from the shadows of the night.

This is your childhood. And for a strange, suffocating moment—you feel like you're home.

But there's hardly any time to process any of this before you're moving again and find yourself kneeling at the waters edge—snow sticking to your jeans, peering down through the frozen surface into its depths. You think of Tom. You think of Mattheo. You think of the memories rippling past.

And then, as if summoned by the sheer magnitude of your longing, Tom is beside you.

"Cold, isn't it?" His voice is soft, low, as if the silence around you demands reverence.

You don't startle; you know this is a dream. You're half-aware of it even as he settles by your side, his knees brushing snow like yours, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. Instead, you exhale slowly, your breath turning to mist in the night.

Dreams don't need logic, and this one would never work if it made sense. So you give in to it, the way you'd always given in to his whims when you were children.

"It always is." Your voice echoes like a memory.

He hums in acknowledgment.

You don't look at him, not yet, but you feel him lean back—palms pressed into the snow, long legs stretched out in front of him and his head tilted up towards the sky. For a moment, you're both quiet, watching the frost turn the trees around you into statues of silver and ice.

It's then that you realize you're not cold. You're not anything, in fact. There's no ache, no heaviness, only the soft stillness of a moment suspended outside of time.

That's how you know it's a dream—because if it were real, you'd feel everything.

"You always loved the cold." He tells you quietly. You don't take your eyes off the trees. "I've yet to decipher why that is."

"It's the constant that life has never been." There's a quiet honesty in the words, the kind you'd never have dared to say when awake. But here, like this, you think you're allowed to speak the truths you bury. "Winter has never been anything but what it promised to be."

You hear him make another sound of agreement. You want to look at him, to see what might rest in the hollow of his cheek and the curve of his jaw, but something stops you.

Some instinct warns that if you do, you'll lose him.

"Winter reminds me of you." He whispers. You close your eyes at the need the words stir. "You've always been my constant."

In the silence following that, a part of you whispers; I wish you'd never said that. But this is a dream, and for a time you give in to the part of you that says; I wish you said that more.

"You've always been mine."

It feels like a memory that was never real. Like a lie. He's never been yours in the way you wished he was, but he has definitely been a constant.

Either way, you don't elaborate, regardless of how much you want to—this just makes sense to you in ways you're sure he already knows. Tom has always been your winter—soft like snow but not quite as pure. Cold like frost, the type that burns. He's the still in the chill that wraps around you, that sticks to your skin long after the warmth has crept back in. He's the devastation, the beauty. He's always been your winter.

He doesn't respond to that, and for a time, silence is the companion of the night. You wonder, faintly, if this is all dreams ever are—fragments of memory, shards of longing, the reflection of your heart's deepest corners.

You wonder, faintly, why you're dreaming of him now.

"Are you really here, Tom?" You ask without thinking, without knowing. It’s the part of you that knows he’s capable of anything. “Is this your way of visiting me without the commitment?"

From the corner of your eye, you see him smile. It's sad without being entirely tragic, somehow. "Have you dreamt of me before?"

What a question, you think. When haven't I?

"In pieces, in fragments. I dream of youth. Of memory. I feel you in every dream." You answer, thinking of the times you'd wake and feel him from your childhood. But you haven't felt him like this. Alive and real and lucid. "Never like this."

He's silent for a long time. You know without looking that his eyes are still turned to the sky. That's when you realize the truth of it: you've answered your own question.

If this were only a dream, if this were merely a version of him conjured by your mind, he wouldn't be so quiet. He'd be saying all the things you've always wanted him to say. This is a visitation.

After a moment, you feel him look at you, and that's when you cave—something desperate in you seeking his eyes, those onyx fucking eyes you've missed so much—and once you find them, you see the stars and snow reflected in the glass of them and your breath catches somewhere between your lungs and your heart.

He's beautiful like this—older, aged, weathered—he's so fucking beautiful it hurts.

"This might be the most transparent you've ever been with me," you choke out, attempting to lighten the moment, to push down the ache that's rising in your chest. But your voice wavers, betraying you. You've loved this man for so long, you've forgotten how to pretend you don't. "You look like you've seen all the things I've been too afraid to say."

He studies you then, his face bathed in moonlight that paints his skin in shades of frost and shadow. He looks like something out of a dream, like an angel of winter under the guise of a devil.

He's always been both, you think, in a way only Tom could accomplish.

"You make a habit of not saying the things you want to," he says quietly, as soft as the falling snow. You look back at the creek, trying not to get lost in this feeling that's almost like the first time he'd kissed you. "I thought coming to you like this would help you break it."

You know this isn't real, not in the way you wish it was. This is manipulation—a spell, a trick of his mind and yours, something he's managed to do through magic that's lost on you and a dream you can't control. But your mind isn't the master here, not in this realm—so when Tom puts a hand on your cheek that is as warm as summer in the dead of winter itself and turns your face to look at him, all you can think—all you can want—is to lean into the touch.

You try to pretend it doesn't make you want everything. "Tom—"

His knuckles brush your cheek and you lose your tongue. The feeling of it, real and fucking steady, makes your skin burn where he's touching you, clawing its way back into your chest like it never left.

He says, softly, "say the things you've been afraid to say."

You exhale slowly, like the words stuck in your throat are too hot to hold. Your mind is racing, a million moments in memory where you wished you would have said what you felt. His eyes are searching yours, and you're half-terrified of what he'll find in them—

"I'm in love with you." You whisper, before you have the sense to stop yourself. "I've been in love with you, for as long as I can remember."

You watch his eyes and the way his jaw works when he hesitates. You'll remember this moment forever, you think, even if the things before and after it are lost to time.

"Keep going," he finally says, running the pad of his thumb across your cheekbone. "I'm not going anywhere."

You close your eyes against his touch, trying to hold onto the sound of his voice. You've fought so fucking hard, for years, to ignore it but fuck—you've missed him—you've missed the way he makes you feel. You've missed this, even the ache it makes between your heart and your throat.

"I think of you all the time," you say, timidly, opening your eyes again. "There hasn't been a moment since I left where I wasn't missing you. I dream of you—of us—I dream of your voice and your hands and the things you've done to me." You see him breathe out, very slightly, and it makes you feel braver. "I dream of the way you used to kiss me. I dream of who you were, who you could have been. I dream of the way you looked at me in final year before you broke my heart. I hate you for it still."

He's still watching you, and his eyes seem even darker and more intense in the shadow. His hand drops from your face, landing on your knee because you're practically in his lap—you hadn't realized you'd been leaning into him, seeking out the warmth of his skin like you'd been starved for it.

The ache in your chest is so strong it makes you dizzy and you're half-terrified that he won't say anything to that.

Until finally, he murmurs, "I'm sorry."

There’s a pause. It's perplexing that somehow he looks both like the eighteen-year-old you've loved all your life, and the twenty-five-year-old stranger he's become in that time. You think, faintly, that it's not fair.

You exhale, and the sound of it hurts. "You say that like you don't exactly know what you did wrong."

You can feel the heat from his skin through your jeans—he's too close yet too far away, and the part of you that loves him and the part of you that hates him seem to be tangled tightly in the space between.

"I never knew how to love you," it’s an admission, and his voice is soft and broken enough to make the pain in your chest subside. "I never gave you the chance to teach me."

There's a million things you could say to that, a million ways you could react to those words. You don't really have the strength to say all of it, and you certainly don't have the mental to service all the grief that comes along with it.

"You did." You whisper, trying to hide the crack in your voice. "You've known."

You shift, angling your body closer to him. He's still watching you, and for the first time since that final night at his manor, you sense that familiar trace of softness in his eyes—that part of him that's been gentle for you since you were children.

"Not the way you deserved."

You take his hand, trying to ignore the way your fingers fit against his like they were carved from the same tree; his skin is rough, scarred and calloused, but it still feels like it always had, despite the years.

Safe.

"You've seen my life now." You look at his fingers as you say it, "do you think that is what I deserve?"

There's a moment of stillness between you—in which you wonder if this is the part where he wakes up out of guilt—but then you feel his fingers press harder against yours, like confirmation.

"You deserve to be happy." He says.

You're so hot you're not sure how the snow isn't melting beneath you. You're sure that's something in his control.

"And what do you know about being happy?" You say, looking up.

The moonlight is catching in his eyes and they're soft in the corners just as they were when you were young. So much has changed and so much hasn't. Part of you feels like crying, but instead you shiver when his hand runs up your arm, following the shape of your shoulder and the side of your neck, and you feel all the nerve endings in your body light up like a matchstick against the friction.

You think, faintly, that you'd forgotten this—how he could touch you without ever really touching you.

He exhales. "Only what I learned from you."

There's a part of you that wants to scream at that, at the way he can say those things and look at you and make you believe it, even if just for a moment.

"I haven't been happy in years, Tom," you say quietly. "Have you?"

His eyes flick to yours, and for a long while, the only sound you can hear is the cracking of the ice filled creek, and both of your exhales.

"No," he finally whispers, and you feel his thumb brush against the skin of your cheek. "I haven't."

You turn, angling your face into his palm. There's something heartbreakingly honest in his voice—something in the way he says it that makes you question the years you've spent wondering if he'd felt anything about you leaving, about the way he made you go.

Your eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat. It's easier to imagine it's real like this, like everything else.

And then, when you decide to open them again, the scenery around you has changed—it's bright, it's summer—there's fireflies and warmth and whitetails running through the field past the creek toward the orphanage. Tom's hand falls to rest in the grass, and you turn to look at him—

He's watching the fireflies with a look on his face, soft and wistful like he's never quite managed to be before in his life. You watch the insects hover around his hair and for just a second, you think he looks more alive than any version of him you've seen before.

"Tom." You whisper, your own voice scaring you.

He turns to look at you when you say his name, and the expression in his eyes is something completely foreign to you. You've seen him hungry, and arrogant, selfish and even angry—but here, awake in a summer childhood memory dreamworld of his own making—he looks fucking vulnerable.

"Hm?" He raises an eyebrow.

Your breath catches before you can answer, like the feeling of seeing him like this—unguarded and unburdened—is catching up to you. He's beautiful under the moon and snow and he's beautiful under the sun and summer grass. It's unfair, you think, just how fucking beautiful he is.

"Will you ever come see me?" You force the words out before you choke on them. "For real, I mean."

He's silent, but you feel the air around you go incredibly still when you say it—like those few syllables had just caused the whole world to go quiet. Tom blinks, and for a moment you're afraid he'll say no.

Actually, a part of you is praying he'll say no—while the other part of you is praying he'll say yes.

Finally, he shakes his head. "If I did, I'd never leave."

You suppose he might not have realized what he's said, that it's just something that had come out of his mouth without thought. But somehow, it sounds more like the truth than anything he's ever said to you in a very long time. You're lost, suddenly, in the fantasy of him staying with you, of having him by your side to watch the summer nights and the winter mornings and anything and everything in between.

A part of you wants to break down at the thought. A part of you wants to yell at him, to make him see how selfish it is to offer you that.

You open your mouth to say something, but before you can find words for anything, you feel his hand on your cheek again, and your brain suddenly goes incredibly blank. He's leaning in closer to you—close enough that you can feel the heat from his lips and you're aware of how your own heart is racing—

"The next time I come to you," he murmurs, eyes on your mouth. "I'm never leaving you again."

The words make you almost dizzy, but before you can react to them, his mouth is on yours, and fireworks go off behind your eyes. He fits against you like he always has, like the two of you had been built to always have your bodies slot into eachother. You bring your arms up, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and pulling him selfishly closer.

He inhales against your mouth and his fingers grip harder, his teeth catching your bottom lip with a bite that makes your whole body shudder. He kisses you like he's afraid you're going to disappear, his tongue hot against yours, his hand twisting into the hair at the base of your neck, pulling your head back until he can kiss your throat in the way he used to when he was aiming to leave you mindless.

His touch makes you feel like you're burning. You're so fucking disarmed from his lips on your neck and his skin on yours that you can't think—can't speak when he urges you back in the grass and moves between your thighs—one warm hand snaking up under your shirt, leaning slightly to watch the way your chest heaves with each ragged breath; and when his fingers skim your breasts you let out an involuntary gasp, arching into his touch.

"God, you're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he murmurs drawing down to drag his mouth over your collarbone. "Time has been so good to you."

He keeps your body trapped against the grass beneath you, the sky going dark overhead. He's taking his time, you realize, with his lips on the hollow of your collarbone and his fingers tracing the curve of your hip, taking his time to worship you in the way he'd done hundreds of other nights before all this time between.

"Tom," you manage when he moves to run his tongue along your lower stomach. "You—" you can't even say it, not like this, not with his lips warm against your flesh. "This isn't real—"

He looks up from where he's working to mark a bruise at the edge of your jeans—something dangerous and dark lighting up his eyes in the moonlight.

"Does it feel real?" He rasps. "Can you feel this?" His tongue skims your belly again before he sinks his teeth in, and you gasp. "Can you feel me, sweetheart?"

Your mind can't find any words. You'd forgotten how he'd reduced you like this, how he makes it feel like you can't fucking think.

"Yes," you gasp, but the word is mostly air. "Fuck—god, Tom—"

You can't say more than that, not with his mouth where it is, so close to where you're aching for him. He huffs against your skin, not mocking, but low and satisfied and smug like it's always been.

You're going to die like this—you think faintly, when his fingers finally undo the buttons of your jeans and the summer air hits the skin of your thighs.

"Do you want me to stop?"

What a terrible, devastating question.

"I—" you gasp, arching off the grass as he tugs your jeans off your legs. "No. Please—"

He laughs, and when he does it makes your whole body shiver.

"That's my girl," the words muttered into your inner thigh. "I've missed you like this."

His tongue skims over the edge of your underwear and you're lost at the feel of it—vaguely aware of the fact that you're making far too many noises and you think you look obscene—half-undone and writhing beneath his touch, but you don’t fucking care, not even slightly.

"Please," you gasp again when his tongue dips further down, a word you're half-sure you've been saying for ages. "Please, please—"

He's torturously slow with every single little movement, kissing over your pelvis and between the creases of your thighs, taking his time to taste every inch of you like he's savouring it. You're shivering and shuddering and begging for him, you're so out of your mind you're half-sure you're going to cry.

Until finally—finally, he brings his mouth to the place where you'd wanted it to be, tugging your panties to the side and lapping up your slit—and you let out a sound that's barely even human.

"I've missed you like this," he repeats against your swollen clit. "Fuck, how I missed this."

You're half-aware that you're probably pulling his hair and making noises that aren't fit to be spoken, but god fucking dammit—you're burning up with every touch, and every movement of his tongue sends sparks to your eyes. You think you're delirious, half-sure that you've been reduced to gasps and whimpers and "please, please, please—" but it's all you can do to keep his name in your mouth, the way you're sure he'd always wanted it.

"Tom," you gasp, as he laps up your slit until his tongue swirls over your clit again, as he seals his lips around it. "Fuck! Oh—"

A part of you thinks that you would like to stay like this forever—half-undone and out of your mind in some weird dream-like state of his creation with him between your thighs and his hands holding you as his, surrounded by the fireflies and the summer in the grass where you first kissed as kids.

"You taste so good," he growls against you. "I never stopped wanting this—"

You're close now. So close you think you'll burn up in a fire and engulf the grass and the trees and the fucking air itself—but Tom seems to be able to sense that, too. He presses a hand on your pelvis, holding you steady, reminding you that he's catching you as you fall.

"So good—so, so good—" he murmurs, lapping up your slick. "Let go for me.”

You think you would have, either way—but when he tells you in that voice, when he's looking at you like that in this state of his making—you let go for him without a shred of hesitation, because you'd always known, if nothing else, that you don't own this.

The summer, the grass on the hill, the pleasure coursing through you—it's all his. It's always all been his.

You come back to yourself in pieces—first, the sound of his voice, dangerously rough, then the feeling of him pulling away and shifting until he's hovering above you again—your vision clears enough to take him in, and you think he's impossibly holy like this—with the fireflies lighting up behind his hair, with the look in his eyes and the taste of your need for him on his mouth.

"I love you," he murmurs, running a hand over your jaw. "More than what's in this heart."

He leans down, kissing you again, and you have never been so out of breath in your life. You don't have air in you to kiss him back, nor have you even the strength to try—you can't believe what he just said—this can't be—

"I love you." He repeats it, as if he heard your doubts. You know he did. "Hand to a god you know I don't believe in. I'll die trying to prove it to you."

Something breaks apart in your chest. You raise a trembling hand to his face, trying to take him in— his eyes, his jaw and his mouth, his body tense between your thighs. You want very badly to be sure this is real—that he means what he's saying, even if it's only for tonight, even if he'll forget it as soon as it's over.

"You'll remember this when you wake up?" You don’t know what to say first. "You'll still—"

The look in his eyes goes sharper, his own hand coming up to take yours and press it against his chest—right above where his heart is. You can feel it beating, impossibly fast, like he'd just run a whole marathon.

"Does it feel like I'd forget?" He asks. "Does it feel like this is not real?"

God, it's so close to real—him on top of you and his heart beating against your hand and the feel of his skin against yours and even the taste of yourself on his mouth—it's so fucking real—real enough to make you half-sure you're going to burst into tears.

"Tell me you mean it," you whisper, voice broken into fractions. "Please, please—just say—"

"I'll remember it when I wake up," he cuts you off, leaning down to kiss the skin below your ear. "There are very few things in this world I forget." He drags his mouth down to your neck, his teeth leaving a bruise you're sure will be there in the light of morning, his hands finding the sides of your hips again. "I forget even fewer of the things involving you."

You gasp out a sound that's half a sob, half a whimper because you cannot believe him and you want to believe him so badly you don't know what to do with yourself.

"Why now?" You manage when you've found your voice again. "Why now—why couldn't you have said this before—"

He lets out a dry, broken laugh against your skin, and you can feel it when his chest shudders against you.

That's when you realize he's afraid, too.

"I was a coward with all the wrong aspirations," he admits, pressing the words into your collarbone, your jaw, as if he's trying to get as close to you as humanly possible. You're still acutely aware of the fact your lower half is bare against his. "And every time I've come to realize that I'm still in love with you, I've always run away from it."

You're still trying to remember how to breathe when he moves, shifting his weight and rolling over so that you're on top of him, straddling his hips. It takes you a moment to process it—you're suddenly so dizzy again now that you can feel him, hard and solid beneath you.

Every inch of your body suddenly feels like it's aching for more of him.

"Tom—" you gasp, the words sticking somewhere in your throat. "I—"

"You're too good for me," he murmurs, his long fingers skirting over the hollow of your spine, making your whole body tremble. "You've never been anything but the only good thing in my life." He rolls his hips up against yours, his eyes fluttering when you moan. "I'm tired of fighting. I'm yours if you'll have me. I'm yours if you won't."

You think this is the most he's ever spoken. You think back to when he told you to say all the things you've always been afraid of saying.

You wonder if he's doing that now.

"You're an idiot," you manage to say, finding your voice again, the breathless words coming out as a half-sob. "You really are an idiot—"

You gasp when he jerks his hips up against you again, and you can feel how much he wants you in the grunt that slips out of his mouth.

"I know I am," he says through grit teeth. "I'm cowardly and foolish and idiotic all because I'm in love with you." Another jerk of his hips, harder this time, pulling you closer. "And I cannot, for the love of god, figure out why you don't hate me more for it."

You gasp out a broken sound that's half a laugh, half a whimper, arching involuntarily against his touch in a way that makes you sound unhinged.

"Does it ever occur to you," you manage through the aching need for him, "that I fucking love you despite it all?"

He makes a sound against your skin that's so rough and broken and aching that you'd think you're killing him—

"Perhaps I did," he grunts, shifting as you finally decide you've had enough of this and move to undo his trousers, tugging them down and freeing him. You fucking sob at how real he is—how real he feels in your hand. "I just—mmf—assumed you'd realize better one day."

Your brain feels very much like it's short-circuiting now as you wrap your fingers around his dick and give him a light squeeze, trying to get used to the feeling of him again and the way he twitches against your palm. He lets out a strangled sound as you do, one hand coming up to bite his knuckles to drown it out, and you can't believe you have that kind of power over him.

It's a thought you'll need to consider later.

"Looks like we're both idiots, then," you murmur, and you're not sure you have the strength to form any other words as crawl back up, guiding him to your greedy aching cunt, and sink down.

You think he'd probably let you drown him right here and now without even blinking, with the way he lets out a sound that's almost animal, his breath coming out in shuddering gasps against your shoulder as you take him in. It takes you a moment to adjust to him, his ego made flesh—and as you start to slowly ride you realize you'd half forgotten that anything in this world could feel so fucking good.

"Fuck—" he gasps, and you think he's never sounded like that before. "That's it. That's good—"

You've never seen him look this way—not like a man hiding oceans behind his eyes or a god about to smite his creation—but an entirely mortal man falling to pieces beneath you. Everything about the way he touches you screams I need this, I need you—and he's always been the better one at speaking through his body.

You find your pace after a moment, slow and steady, trying to give yourself time to adjust to him while also trying to find that angle that makes you go just a little out of your mind.

"Tom—" you moan, head falling back as you bounce—looking up at the night sky. "Fuck—make it winter—"

You've forgotten how it feels to be so full. Your eyes are half-open to the night sky, where Tom's magic had crafted the summer around you—and you're not sure where the words came from, but they're half-sobbed and a thought you're not sure you should've said out loud—you wonder for a moment if he'd even heard you over his own moans and the feeling of you around him—

But then you feel it.

The first snow. A light fluttering of white snowflakes, falling from some place you can't see or find. The fireflies fade out with the falling flakes that cover the sky and you can see your breath but you don't feel the cold. You just see the beauty of it. You'd be stunned if you weren't so sure that this looks like what you've always known him to be—winter made flesh.

"You'll have everything," he grits out, jutting his hips up to slam into you deeper. "Anything you want—"

You're not sure you can put together the words to say anything in return to that—everything and anything, he'd give you, and you'd like to know when exactly he broke that carefully crafted part of himself that's supposed to not love—or when you broke that part of yourself that tried to stop loving too much.

You're not quite sure how you can say this will be enough when you're already so sure you'll never get enough of this, of the way it feels when he's this deep.

But amidst all of this, your brain has gone blissfully, blissfully silent—the only thing that's going through your head is his name. Every thought you've ever had, you're sure, is just a synonym of his name—every letter that's ever been made, somehow leading back to his name—every word and every story and every language and every poem somehow all trying to say; Tom, Tom, Tom. I am fucking in love with him.

"Harder," you gasp, and he complies like he'd die if he didn't—flipping you over so you're on your back beneath him.

You're a broken, moaning mess in the snow as his dick splits you open—half-dazed by the way he's looking at you now, as if he's still somehow in disbelief that you're in this position—that you're under him and you can still love him, that you've seen every side of him and you want more.

"This—fuck," he moans, his snow covered lashes flutter. "This never left my mind. You—never—"

You think you're drowning in him. You're certain you're drowning. He’s everywhere—the snowfall and the trees and the sky—surrounding you in an a world carved out of himself and you're met by the thought of how much it doesn't surprise you.

"Tom, oh, god, I don't—I need—"

"I know," he gasps. "I know, I know, I know—"

You moan and clench and think again how he's never sounded this broken. He's never sound this desperate. He's always been so stoic in every single god damn way and you think now, as he's buried in you and over you and all around you within the winter dreamland of his fucking creation—you think you finally understand that he knows he's broken.

"You have me." He says.

You think it's a promise, and you think it's a declaration. One he's never made with as much conviction behind his eyes as he had right then. You think you've never been this certain of anything in your entire life—that there's snowflakes on your lashes and clinging to your hair and he's never looked this beautiful and you've never been this sure of it when he says he's yours.

"I love you," your words broken on a moan as he slams deep, teeth digging into your shoulder. "I need to cum—Tom—fuck—"

"Say it again," he gasps, his voice rough and raw and guttural as he slips his hand down to your clit, fingers swirling over it. "Say it again, I need to hear you say it—"

Your hands grab at the snow and at his shoulders—you're not sure you're ever going to remember how to say anything else ever again—

"Tom—Tom, I love you, I love you, I love you—"

You can see the moment you say it that he breaks, and you love it—you love being the reason why, having some of the power over him for this one single second, seeing the look in his eyes that tells you he'll give you anything you ask for, no matter how much he's ever tried to deny it before, how much he's ever tried to be anything else to you but someone to love you back.

You say it again—I love you, I love you—and it's the only spell that's ever broken him.

He cums with your name in his mouth and you marvel at it because fucking hell he's different—like a man falling apart, like a man who's been holding back for so long it aches—you think this is the only piece of him that no one else in the whole world has ever seen or gotten to touch, and it's yours, all yours—so with that, you're cumming too, climax shattering the both of you at the same time, and it's a long moment before either of you move or breathe or blink. You just lay there connected until the clarity starts creeping in, and you realize this place is crafted by his subconscious.

"You can control your dreams," you finally whisper, after a long moment of nothing but the distant sound of snowfall and the occasional night creature. You're still breathless, still dizzy, your eyes still half-opened and unseeing as he's still buried inside of you, his hair tousled and still sticking with snowflakes.

He makes a sound that's half a laugh and half a gasp at that. Probably because he can’t believe, after everything that just happened, that that is the first thing you choose to say.

"I can." He says, slowly pulling out of you.

Now it's your turn to laugh. "And do you always lure girls to your dreams to have sex with them?"

"No," he murmurs, and you think it's a simple enough answer, before it's followed by a pause. "Just you, I suppose," he adds a beat later, and you can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

You try and shove him off of you, but it's half-hearted—you've forgotten how to move your arms.

"Prat," you murmur, no real venom behind it, because you like his smirk, and you like the way he laughs. "So this is all...a product of your subconscious, then? You conjured me into it?”

"Yes and no." He says, and you feel him pull you closer to him, your body half draped over his as he stares up at the sky above you. "I'll explain when I come to you."

"And when will that be?" You ask, your head dropping against his shoulder, your eyes already fluttering in exhaustion.

"Soon," his lips find the top of your head. "As soon as I can."

You're drifting to sleep—you can feel it in the edges of your mind, but everything is blissfully quiet there, and you like the feel of his fingers in your hair.

"When you come, bring me a plant.”

He makes another sound that's half a laugh and half a chuckle at that, as if he's more fascinated by your request than anything.

"Any plant will do?" He asks.

"Preferably a flower." You manage to murmur as your eyes slip closed. "Something that can withstand winter. That will revive come spring."

You can hear the smile in his voice before you completely surrender to the sleep that overtakes you.

"You'll have it."

And you know, in between the edges of consciousness and sleep—that no one else has ever seen him this way, and no one else ever will. And that's the thought that you wake with, even when you find yourself alone, in your cabin, snow falling outside your window.

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spider-stark · 1 year ago

Text

INFINITELY YOU

part two // crullers & constants

SUMMARY - In every universe, Peter Parker seems destined to fall in love with you. And, in every universe, he realizes it too late. When universes collide and two of them are granted a second chance at rectifying their biggest mistake, neither of them are willing to let the opportunity go to waste–even if you end up not being the person they thought you were.

WARNINGS - 18+, story will contain mentions of blood, broken bones, weapons, suggestive language, and more. I will try to update warnings accordingly for each chapter, but please read at your own discretion

WORD COUNT - 4.2k

// masterlist // series masterlist // send me your thoughts // no way home fan fiction // rewrite

name key: tom!peter = peter // andrew!peter = parker

Peter Pan Donuts is a sacred place.

Or, rather, it was a sacred place—and walking back into the shop now felt awfully strange.

Back when you and Peter first started high school, it had become a tradition to end every Friday with one of the renowned pastry shop’s legendary frosted crullers. You considered it a well-deserved reward for surviving another week of more drama than either of you could stomach, thankful that the weekend was finally upon you and that you could finally breathe without inhaling the reek of the unwashed teenage boys that lined the halls of Midtown.

Peter Pan’s quickly became a haven. A safe place where the two of you could tuck yourselves away at the end of the bar, talking for hours about the teachers you hated and the bullies you hoped would fall from the face of the Earth. There was nothing that you couldn’t talk about, no secrets kept between you and Peter.

Or, at least, none that mattered.

But things changed as time passed, as they so often do.

It started with the inclusion of Ned. You didn’t particularly mind his presence, even if the conversations had begun to shift towards less intimate topics, focusing instead on movies that you all wanted to see or upcoming video games that you would all try to play.

Then came the inclusion of Mj a few months later, after she landed a job at the shop. That was when everything truly changed—when it was no longer you and Peter tucked away at the bar, but you and Ned, left to pick at your food and watch as Peter leaned across the front counter and talked to Mj over her shift.

After a few months of testing every donut on the menu with Ned, you stopped going altogether.

And Peter never even asked why.

“I was surprised to see you texted me,” you quip as you slid onto the free barstool, “what happened to not wanting me to get involved?”

Peter exhales sharply through his nose, and even though his eyes are glued to his phone, you can tell that he was already regretting asking you to meet him here. “I already told you that what I want doesn’t matter.”

And how true that must have been.

There had been nothing kind about his text to you this morning, although there was nothing inherently rude about it either, you supposed. It was simple—meet me at Peter Pan’s asap, need 2 talk—but you could almost sense the begrudging nature with which he had typed it. And, sitting next to him now, you could almost feel it, too.

He didn’t want you here, even if he had been the one to invite you, and you couldn’t help but wonder why he had decided to involve you at all—especially so soon. What had changed in a single night?

Sitting on the barstool to your left, Parker pops his lips. “Well this is fun. I’m not at all uncomfortable right now.”

You turned towards him, acknowledging just how different he looked in the civilian clothes that he donned in place of his suit—black jeans that certainly looked worse for wear and an old Ramone’s t-shirt that you immediately recognized as yours. Oversized on you, the short sleeves clung rather tightly to his well-muscled arms. Did he seriously go through your stuff?!

“Why are you even here?” You ask, perhaps a little sharper than necessary. You weren’t angry that he had gone sifting through the armoire in the spare bedroom, especially since he couldn’t just parade around as Spider-Man all of the time. But he could’ve at least asked. “Shouldn’t one of you be busy patrolling?”

It was hard to tell if the offense on his face was real or feigned, but you didn’t care much either way. “Peter wanted answers about my world, I wanted food,” he shrugs, gesturing at the crème-filled donut in front of him. “And Peter 2’s handling patrol.”

Peter 2—you had almost forgotten about him, the version of Peter that hadn’t wanted to come with Ned and Mj to your apartment last night. As far as you could tell when you woke up this morning, he hadn’t shown up in the middle of the night, either—no trace of Parker or anyone else when you had finally stumbled out of your room to get ready after reading the text from Peter.

You didn’t figure it was really your business where the mystery Peter was, but you were a little surprised to hear that he was still out patrolling. Was he not exhausted?

“Ametaur move getting crème-filled,” you tell him, ignoring everything he said. “Should’ve gone with the frosted vanilla cruller, it’s way better.”

“No way,” he gapes, grabbing the half-eaten pastry and shaking it for emphasis as he said, “this is god-tier, alright? No way anything’s topping it.”

The expression on his face was actually hilarious, his brown doe eyes alight with pure euphoria as he took another bite of the donut. An exaggerated moan slipped his lips, coated with bits of sugar and crème. It was hard not to laugh at him, especially when you knew that was probably his goal—to combat the evident tension between you and Peter.

Chuckling, you lift your hands in mock defense. “Suit yourself, Parker. But if you ever wanna experience true pleasure, then you know what to order.”

Parker looks as if he's about to continue his borderline-lustful tangent about the donut, but Peter spoke up instead, his attention snagging on the name you used.

“Parker?” He echoes in disbelief, letting his phone clatter against the bar.

Peter’s sudden resurgence to the real world left Parker silent, sinking back against his stool and taking another bite.

“What?” Your brow arches, your voice laced with incredulity. “Did you really think I’d keep calling him Peter 2? No offense to Ned, but everything about that feels stupid.”

Peter’s eyes narrow, coupled with a subtle shake of his head that indicates he doesn't care nearly enough to have this conversation right now.

You didn’t care much either, and so you steered the conversation in a more productive direction. “So what is this grand plan of yours?” You ask with a somewhat sarcastic lilt. “And where do I fit into it?”

Another huff of breath escaped his nostrils. “We don’t even have a plan. Not yet,” he reluctantly admits. “But I tried talking to Doctor Strange last night, to see if he had some sort of magical spell or something that would let us go back and fix all of this.”

Your lips press together, nibbling on the skin and pretending you didn’t notice the hidden meaning behind his words. He hadn’t just gone to Doctor Strange to find a way to get rid of the villains now lurking in your world, because if he had, then he wouldn’t have gone specifically seeking out a spell that would let him go back—not just to stop the villains from ever coming here, but to save May, too.

“Did he?”

Peter reached for his cup of iced coffee, if only to occupy his now-fidgeting fingers. “No,” he murmurs, the sound of sloshing ice nearly overpowering him as he swirled the cup. “He didn’t.”

You frown at the tinge of disappointment that snuck through his otherwise even tone, your chest aching. You had to fight against the urge to say I’m sorry, remembering what he had said to you last night—he didn’t want your apologies, nor did he seem to want anyone else's.

In truth, you weren’t sure what Peter wanted; or what you could do to help him.

“Well did he have anything useful?”

He shook his head, lifting the cup to his mouth. “Define useful,” he scoffed, sounding uncharacteristically sharp. He took a sip of his drink, his nose scrunching as soon as the coffee hit his tongue—too bitter.

Despite the coffee’s pale color that indicated it was more cream than coffee, you weren’t surprised that it was still too strong for him. Peter had never truly developed a taste for coffee, only pursuing a caffeine addiction for the sake of combating the exhaustion that came with being Spider-Man. That didn’t mean he had ever grown to like it though, masking the taste with copious amounts of sugar and syrups.

“Something that will keep multiversal villains from tearing our world apart?” You venture half-heartedly, guided by pure instinct and muscle memory as you reached over to take his cup from him, snagging a few packs of sugar from the plastic canister on the bar to0.

“He has a theory,” Peter gives you a tight-lipped smile, born of pure frustration.

“A theory? And he expects us to save the world with this theory?” You ask, a bit more derisive than you would have been if Doctor Strange were around to hear.

Peter scoots closer to you, his voice purposefully low. “Do you remember when I told you about him using the Time Stone before Mr. Stark died? To look through all the different outcomes with Thanos?”

Ripping open the sugar packets and dumping them in his cup, you managed to mask a wince at the mention of Peter’s dead mentor. You only nodded, not trusting your voice to stay steady if you tried for any sort of verbal affirmation.

“Well… when he did that, he thinks that he might have actually seen through the multiverse—he just didn’t know for sure at the time.”

Your forehead creased as you popped the lid back onto his cup, sliding it back towards him. Given his advantage of Spidey-sense, he easily caught it before it could slide too far and end up on the floor—which is what would have definitely happened pre-Spider bite.

“And you don’t consider that to be useful to our current situation?”

“No. I don’t.” Peter answers firmly. “Because at the center of it all—in every universe the Stone showed him—all he saw was you.”

You nearly laugh, your lips curving as you rose a brow at him. “Me?”

Peter gave a nod as he took another sip of his drink. This time, his nose didn’t scrunch.

“But it’s been almost a year since the Avengers took down Thanos,” you reminded him, your stunned amusement beginning to fade into confusion. “If he saw.. Me, when he used the Stone, then why didn’t he say anything until now?”

By no means would you consider yourself to be close with New York’s resident Sorcerer, and so you wouldn’t have expected him to come to you with this knowledge. But Peter—he knew Peter, and he knew that you were Peter’s best friend, and so it didn’t make any sense to you why Doctor Strange chose to wait until now to mention what the Stone had shown him.

Given the aggravated expression Peter wore, it was clear that he was thinking the same. “I don’t know, and trying to get answers out of Doctor Strange that he clearly doesn’t want to give is like pulling teeth.”

“But what does that mean?” You couldn’t stop yourself from pressing further, concern starting to bubble up inside of you. Regardless of his answer—if he had one—you had a feeling you wouldn’t like it. “I don’t get how I’m at the center of every universe.”

Peter blew out a breath, his fingers going back to tapping against the sides of his plastic cup. “Alright, so there are probably well-over a hundred thousand different parallel universes, okay? Some of them are probably super similar to ours, and then there are others that are the complete opposite.”

“O-kay,” you drone, your brows drawing together. You felt the start of a headache coming on as you prepared yourself for the confusing science-talk that was surely about to start pouring out of his mouth.

Perhaps noticing your pained expression, Peter tries to find a way to simplify whatever explanation he was about to use. “Try and look at it like this,” he started, “think of the multiverse as some giant, cosmic loom, alright? Now imagine that each thread on the loom signifies a person. As the loom weaves all of these different threads together, different decisions get made and different actions are taken—and with every choice, a new thread is spun, branching off and creating a variation of the original tapestry.”

“So it’s like you and Parker, right?” You interrupt him, rubbing at your temples. “Same thread, different reality?”

“Exactly! And, technically speaking, that’s how it’s supposed to be. As the loom weaves and alters reality, each thread continuously evolves into something different.” He paused, his fingers finally falling still. “But now imagine that—in the center of all of these branching tapestries—there exists one thread, entirely unbroken and unaltered by this ever-weaving tapestry of existence, okay? A glitch in the cosmic fabric, a constant that’s woven into infinite realities and yet, somehow, remains fundamentally unchanged. How does that work?”

You couldn’t ignore the sense of dread creeping up your spine, nor could you escape the slight wobble in your voice as you said, “It doesn’t sound like it should.”

“You’re right, it shouldn’t work.” Peter confirmed, his expression nearly impossible to read. “But according to Doctor Strange, you are that thread. A constant anomaly that defies every potential law of the multiverse.”

Nausea bubbled in your gut. God, you did not want to deal with this right now!

“And let me guess,” a bitter laugh follows your words, “that’s as much information as he was willing to give, wasn’t it?”

“Yep,” Peter pops his lips, leaning back into his stool. His brows raise slightly in a silent I told you so before he says, “Hey, you’re the one that wanted to be involved, right? Now you’re at the center of everything-”

“I said I wanted to help you,” you correct him sharply. “Not that I wanted to be at the center of Doctor Strange’s weird Time Stones fantasies!”

He only shrugs, barely acknowledging the dirty look you gave him as he plucks his phone off of the counter, clicking on a notification. “Same thing, isn’t it? Either way, you get what you want.”

“What I want?” You echoed, your mouth hung open in disbelief.

“Doctor Strange seems to think that whatever is wrong with you might help us solve all of this. That you might be connected to the multiverse somehow, or that you’re at least immune to it. So yeah, you get what you want. You get to help,” he spat the word out like an insult, too focused on typing something to even notice how rude he sounded.

If it weren’t for the feeling that stomach acid was about to come crawling up your throat, then you might have taken some time to unpack the bitterness in his tone or be hurt by the claim that something was wrong with you—but you didn’t. Even if you had, you weren’t sure that it would have gotten you anywhere.

You weren’t stupid. Peter was wielding his insolence like a shield, purposefully trying to hurt you as an effort to keep you at arms length—and, if you had to guess, Mj and Ned were probably receiving the same treatment right now.

“Well this isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted to help,” you admitted, one hand going to rest against your cramping stomach. At least the throbbing in your temples had died down…

Peter only shrugged at you, shoving his phone in his back pocket and rising to his feet. “Too bad,” he told you, offering a smile that most definitely wasn’t genuine. “I’ve gotta go, but make him walk you home, alright? I’ll text you if I hear anything else from Doctor Strange.”

Parker frowned beside you, and whether it was because Peter was speaking about him like he wasn’t here or because of his attitude in general, you couldn’t tell.

“Whoa, hold up! You didn’t even tell me what your plan is until you hear from him!” You argue, reaching for his wrist to keep him from walking past you until he answered.

He pulls his hand back from your grip, but not before your stare snags on the reddish hue that stains his nails—blood. Noticing it only served to make you feel sicker, and to make your concern for Peter grow larger. Was he really still walking around with May’s blood caked under his nails? Has he rested at all since last night?

“Same plan as always,” he told you, your eyes snapping up to meet his, suddenly noticing how rimmed with exhaustion they were. “Stop the bad guys.”

He didn’t leave any time for protests or further questions before turning his back to you and heading straight for the exit. When the little bell on the door chimed as he shoved his way back out onto the streets, you couldn’t stop the worried sigh that escaped your lips.

Peter was an Avenger by every right. He had battled alongside a Norse God and helped take down a literal Titan, and so knew that you shouldn’t have any reason to doubt his capability when it came to taking down whatever villains had crossed into your world.

But it wasn’t that you doubted his ability to survive against them, or even his ability to stop them—you were worried about whether he could handle the weight of it all.

The weight of him placing yet another thing on his shoulders. Another villain, another fight, another burden, another chance to lose someone.

Thinking of that, it suddenly dawned on you that maybe Mj and Ned weren’t getting the same treatment as you. Maybe you were getting the worst of it, if only because now whatever connection you had to the multiverse was just another weight he thought he had to bear, another person he had to worry about protecting.

Guilt flooded your veins, and even as you tried to remind yourself that you hadn’t caused this, you still couldn’t shake the anxious feeling that it was somehow your fault anyway.

“Y’know, I get that this probably isn’t the right time for this,” Parker starts. When you look at him, your attention immediately snags on the dozen donuts that he had ordered while you were talking to Peter. “But I think it’s so cool that you guys have magic in your world!”

He takes another bite of the donut in his hand, powdered sugar falling from his lips as he says, “And these donuts! It’s a tough call, but they might be even better than magic!”

You didn’t know him well enough to be able to tell if he was intentionally trying to lighten the mood or if it was just incidental, but it worked all the same. Laughter poured from your mouth, and it wasn’t until it died down that he said anything else.

“Sooo… That was tense, wasn’t it? Like, it wasn’t just me, right?”

You groan, propping your elbows against the counter and placing your cheeks in your palms. “Was it that noticeable?”

Parker snorts a laugh, stretching an arm past you to reach for Peter’s abandoned coffee. “Oh, yeah. It’s actually painful to be in a room with you two.”

His playful tone made it clear that it was just a joke, but it still made you feel bad. You already didn’t like how hostile things felt between you and Peter, even if it was only one-sided, and to know that others felt it too just made it that much worse.

“Things are just.. Difficult, right now.” You tell him, choosing your words carefully.

“So it hasn’t always been like that with you guys?” He asks, and the delicate arch of his brow made it seem as though he were shocked by the possibility that things had ever been civil between you and Peter.

There was a chance that you had misread his expression though, as it was very quickly wiped away once he took a sip of Peter’s half-drank coffee, gagging as soon as it hit his tongue. “Holy shi-” he started coughing, cutting off the vulgarities that threatened to spill out. “How does he drink this?!” Parker yelped as soon as he could take a full breath, looking utterly disgusted as he shoved the cup back across the bar. “It’s literally just liquid sugar!”

You found it hard to stifle your amusement at his suffering, even as he shot you a teasing scowl for it. “No,” you answer his previous question, trying to ignore his melodramatic display, “believe it or not, things between us actually used to be really… I don’t know—easy, I guess.”

Parker was still smacking his lips to try and rid himself of the cloying aftertaste. “What changed?”

In retrospect, you realized that it probably would have been smarter for you to bite your tongue. To offer him some cheap, cop-out excuse rather than tell him the truth. After all, you already had experience in hiding from the truth and it wasn’t like you really knew Parker, and so lying to him shouldn’t have been a hard task.

Yet, for some reason, you told him the truth anyway.

“Mj happened.”

Parker’s brows furrows. “The girl from last night, right?”

“Yep. That’s the one.”

“Y’know, I don’t really like her all that much,” his words were spoken like a balm, seeking to ease the dejected look etched upon your face, but tinged with enough playful sarcasm for you to know he didn’t actually mean them. “She threw a bread roll at me. A few of them, actually.”

It was hard not to laugh at the thought considering that it was such an Mj thing to do. “Sounds about right,” you crack a smile, although you don't feel particularly happy. “She’s always been slow to trust, especially complete strangers.”

In an odd sort of way, the statement felt like a lie. Not because it actually wasn’t true—because Mj was wary of strangers—but because Parker didn’t quite feel like a stranger in your mind. While last night had been a bit awkward, you now felt like talking to him was effortless, each sentence rolling off your tongue with unnatural ease.

“But she trusts you?” Parker asks, picking a crumb off another one of the pastries and popping it into his mouth.

You sucked in a breath.

“I don’t know,” you answer him, with a bit more honesty than you're comfortable with. “I mean, I know that she used to trust me. But now… I’m not even sure if she likes me anymore.”

His brow snapped up. “What changed?”

Suddenly the truth no longer felt so easy, and you found yourself wishing that you could change the subject altogether. You didn’t want to talk about this—especially not with him, some boy that you had known for less than twenty-four hours.

But you had backed yourself into a corner, and so in an effort to try and satiate whatever interest he had developed in the story you had told, you settled on offering a vague half-truth.

“She started dating Peter,” you tell him simply, putting effort into looking disinterested. “They got together a few months ago and things just… It just got weird, y’know? It’s always awkward when two of your friends get together, I guess. Creates too much drama.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Parker hums, agreeing with you. “Especially when you have feelings for him, right?”

An incomprehensible noise escaped your throat, best categorized as something between a laugh and a cough. Your mouth fell open to try and defend yourself, to try and deny his claim—but he didn’t even give you a chance.

“Oh c’mon!” Parker groans, grinning when he notices the now rosy complexion of your cheeks. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? I mean, let’s be real here, alright? That whole sugar thing earlier?” He jutted a finger towards Peter’s abandoned iced coffee, “Was a dead giveaway.”

“You’re insane,” You declare, shaking your head and masking your embarrassment with uncomfortable laughter. “I don’t have feelings for Peter—and even if I did, it wouldn’t matter! Regardless of what it’s done to our friendship, Mj is literally perfect for him and-”

“I think it’s cute,” he interrupts, a delicate smile gracing his lips. Noticing the way your brows furrow, he elaborated, “How much you care about him. And how much you care about her, too, since you’re so willing to pretend like you don’t like him.”

“I’m not pretending-”

Parker jokingly cut his eyes. “Yeah, sureee.”

Blowing a frustrated breath, you push yourself up from the barstool. “Alright, I think it’s time to go home.” You tell him, far too flustered to try and come up with a good defense to his teasing. “You can take the rest of your donuts to go, Bug-boy.”

There was a subtle shift in his demeanor as the taunting nickname fell from your lips, and he almost felt as though his heart had stopped dead in his chest.

“Fine,” Parker yields, rising to his feet and snagging the box of donuts from the bar. “But I really hope that you have your wallet—cause I definitely don’t have a way to pay for these.” He flashed a crooked smile before continuing, “Or we can just run really fast and hope they don’t call the police on us for stealing pastries.”

“I can’t imagine that robbery would be very good for your reputation as a hero,” you chide sarcastically, your own lips curling into a half-smile, “so I’ll pay—but only if you give me every cruller in that box. Deal?”

Parker spares a quick glance down at the dozen box of donuts in his hands. Half of them were already gone, but through the small cellophane window he could see that there were three frosted crullers left. “Deal.”

series masterlist

a/n - for those who read IY before the rewrite, you may already be able to note some rather major changes going on lmao. i genuinely can't describe how much i actually enjoy rewriting this story, as i'm finally able to collect my thoughts enough to write the plot the way i originally wanted to.

as always, please leave any feedback, opinions, etc.! any and all comments/reblogs definitely encourage me to write/edit faster! and, if you'd like to be added to the tag list, just let me know!

part three, titled "spitfire", to be released april 15th

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jtargaryen18 · 3 months ago

Text

The Arrangement ~ Chapter 4

Series Masterlist

Words: 8k (Because apparently I lack self control)

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: References to disappearances, kidnapping, threats, and emotional angst. Explicit sex (reader is taught a couple of things). The calm before the storm.

Your stepfather is spreading rumors like wildfire, pushing Tommy to consider his options. Polly tries to prepare Tommy for what's coming soon. You're still awake when Tommy gets home late after a long day of business. You surprise him.

Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

The dull roar of conversation and the sound of clinking glasses filled the Garrison’s packed front room. Music from the old upright piano came from somewhere in the background, a few drunken voices rose in song, and boots scuffled against the floorboards. It was Friday night, and Small Heath drank like it needed to forget its many troubles for one night.

But behind the frosted glass of the Shelbys’ private booth, the mood was anything but festive. Here, the air was filled with cigarette smoke, tension, and quiet calculation. Tommy Shelby’s eyes scanned the manifest in front of him—half reading, half somewhere else entirely. Because truthfully, he wanted this meeting over with. The logistics, the dock delays, the endless talk of cargo and contacts and who needed reminding of which alliance—he could recite it all in his sleep.

He wanted to get through it quickly—to get back to the quiet of his house, to the girl sleeping upstairs in his bed right now. Each day, she seemed to feel a little better, refusing the laudanum after the third night. In the last week, he'd managed to take a couple of his meals there with her, enjoying the fragile bond that was forming between them.

It was more than that. She’d been calmer in his presence. There was trust in her eyes, in the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. Each night she fell asleep on her side of the bed, and he woke up with her sprawled across him and his side of the bed early the next morning. Fortunately, she never woke when he did before dawn. It spared her from seeing the state their newfound intimacy left him in every morning.

Everything was still going according to his plan and he reminded himself of that in those moments when impatience got the best of him. Soon, Small Heath would learn the lesson he wanted to teach them. He'd have himself a nice young bride, all that was left were the formalities the way he saw it. Maybe he'd have her brother too as an addition to his crew.

All he knew was that it made him want to leave the ledgers behind, push the folders across the table, and walk out the door without a word. But for now, he focused on the task at hand —because business came first, and nothing could look out of place.

"Tom?" John's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

The three brothers and Liam were seated around their private table. The door was closed, the whiskey untouched, and the air held the kind of tension that meant money was moving, and so were men. The ledgers were open, papers spread across the table—manifest lists, customs logs, coded letters from France. Tommy scanned a page in silence, a cigarette between his fingers, while the others waited.

“Imports from Marseille docked two days behind,” he said finally. “Customs was paid off, but someone held the cargo. You and Liam’ll see who’s sniffing around the docks,” he told John without looking up.

John nodded. “We talking bribes or trouble?”

“Could be both,” Tommy said flatly. “But we find out before they do.”

Arthur was still nursing a hangover from last night. He wasn’t talking much—just watching, brooding, his eyes red and tired. Liam took notes quietly, nodding when assigned to shadow the dockmaster, handle payouts, and verify the goods hadn’t been tampered with. It was business that had to be dealt with. The kind that kept the guns loaded and the books nice and clean.

At least, it was—until John mentioned the whispers from the street. “You hear what they’re saying about us down by the canal?”

Tommy didn’t look up. “They're always saying something.”

“No,” John said, a little firmer, leaning in now. “This is different.”

That caught Arthur’s attention and he tensed.

John continued in a low voice. “Sean O’Grady’s running his mouth about the coin toss he had with Arthur. He's complaining that the Shelbys took more than they were owed. Says the girl’s gone—vanished.” He glanced sideways at Arthur. “People are saying he took her and didn’t return her.”

The words hung thick in the air like smoke that wouldn’t clear. Arthur’s jaw locked. That old, familiar twitch started just below his eye—the one that usually came right before something got broken. No one spoke in that moment. Even John, who’d just delivered the news, went still. He watched carefully, knowing he just lit a fuse.

Arthur abruptly rose, color flooding his face. “Fuckin’ bastard,” Arthur muttered, fists already curling. “Talkin’ like I’m the one who crossed the line.” He was breathing harder now, pacing like a caged dog trying to burn off the anger in his blood. “I didn’t even touch her. I passed out cold, just like he planned it. And now my name’s getting dragged through the muck while he—” Arthur gestured to Tommy without finishing the sentence.

The tension was thick. John looked between them, like he was waiting for someone to throw the first punch—or stop the second. Tommy stayed in his seat. He pinned Athur him a stare. This wasn’t just about Sean O’Grady’s lies. It was also about Arthur’s pride.

And the Shelby's control in Small Heath.

“Arthur,” Tommy said.

But Arthur was already marching for the door. He didn’t slam it, but the click behind him was louder than any shout.

John leaned back as he watched him go, whistling low. “That’s not gonna be the last time we hear about it.”

Tommy stubbed out his cigarette, lit another one.

John swirled his drink in its glass. “Apparently no one’s seen O’Grady’s wife in days.”

That got Tommy's attention. “What’s that?”

John shrugged. “Could be nothing. Could be she’s embarrassed. But Polly heard the mother’s beside herself. Grieving, crying. Not taking jobs.” He paused. "No one's really seen her."

Tommy exhaled slowly through his nose, smoke curling upward in a lazy spiral that drifted toward the low ceiling. Their room fell silent again, just the din of the rest of the bar in the background. John and Liam sat still, watching him. They knew what had happened. They’d been part of it. John had helped move the girl. Liam had been there that night too—a silent shadow keeping things tidy while the rest played out.

It wasn’t a secret. Not between them. Tommy didn’t lie to his own—not about business. Not when it mattered. And did he care that they knew? Not really. They were family. They understood the difference between personal and strategic—how sometimes the lines blurred when power was on the table. Besides, he hadn’t asked for approval. He didn’t need it. They might whisper when he left the room, might wonder if this one girl would shift something deeper inside their brother—but they’d still follow orders. Still fall in line. Because Tommy Shelby didn’t ask for permission. He moved pieces. And they knew better than to question the hand that moved the board.

Tommy hated rumors. Not because they were lies—he could handle lies. Lies were useful. Lies could be shaped, steered, crushed under a boot or fed back to the streets with a smile and a drink. But rumors… rumors had teeth. They spread without control. They bred in silence, passed from one mouth to the next until truth didn’t matter anymore—only perception. And perception was power.

The Shelbys thrived on it—on the fear, the respect, the sharp silence that followed their name down every alley. But now the whispers said Arthur Shelby couldn’t finish what he started. That the girl had vanished. That the Shelbys were hiding something—or someone. He could feel it coming. There would be glances that lasted a little too long. Men would lower their voices when he passed. They were watching. Waiting. And Tommy knew—that couldn't stand. Not because his pride demanded it. Because power demanded it. And if Small Heath thought for even a second that the Shelbys could be questioned, that a drunk like Sean O’Grady could take a swing at their name and walk away unbloodied—then everything he was building would begin to rot from the inside out.

And it was more than just the bloody rumors. It was about damage control. Arthur’s pride, dented and dangling in front of the wolves like bloody bait, was a match in a powder keg. His girl’s safety, and the fragile hold Tommy had on the peace she was beginning to settle into, was at risk. It was about the next move in a game Sean O’Grady didn’t realize he’d already lost.

Tommy leaned back slowly in his seat, tipping his head back as thoughts layered one over another. He considered her mother who no one had seen in days. Was she truly ill? Or had Sean raised his hands, punishing her for his shame? Polly described the woman was delicate, quiet. The type who would break easily in silence.

Then there was Rory. The lad had steel in him—enough to walk into a Shelby-owned betting shop with a weapon tucked in his coat and a question in his heart. If he’d seen his mother bruised, broken… would he act on it? Would he go for the knife this time instead of turning it over in his palm? Tommy’s fingers tapped against the edge of the table. If Rory made a move now, it could really throw a wrench in his well-laid plans.

And then, his thoughts shifted to her. She was still unsure, but inching closer to trusting him. She didn't know about the rumors nor her stepfather's public slander. She didn't know about her mother. He had to keep it that way. She’d bolt if she found out and run straight back into danger.

Stubbing out his cigarette, Tommy regarded each of them slowly—John, then Liam. Arthur was gone, and letting him stew wasn’t the worst thing. He needed to burn some of that fury off before Tommy could use it properly. But these two—they were still here. Still waiting. Time to make a move. Before someone else did.

“We don’t let this drag,” he said finally, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the silence.

John sat up straighter, already keyed in. “You want him silenced?”

Tommy shook his head once. “Not yet. Silenced men can’t suffer. We make it slow.”

Liam raised an eyebrow, but didn’t speak.

Tommy continued, eyes narrowing. “Find out where he drinks, who he’s talking to. Find the wife. I want eyes on her, too.”

John nodded. “You think he’s laid hands on her?”

Tommy didn’t answer right away. “We make him nervous,” Tommy went on. “Not dead. Not yet. Let him feel the breath on his neck. Then we remind him what it means to put the Shelby name in his mouth.”

He sat back again, lighting another cigarette with quiet finality.

“And if he sends anyone near the house…” John didn't finish the sentence.

Smoke curled from Tommy’s lips as his gaze met John's. “We send them back in pieces.” His kept his tone casual. It wasn't a threat. It was a fact.

John didn’t smile. Didn’t joke. He just gave a single sharp nod.

Let them whisper about wagers. Let them question Arthur’s name, the girl’s disappearance. But if anyone came near that house, near her, if Sean O’Grady so much as looked in that direction—the response would be surgical. No negotiation. No second chances.

Tommy tapped ash into the tray, slow and steady. “If they test us,” he said, eyes still on John, “I want the answer to be so clear they never ask again.”

Then he looked away, finally, his attention shifting to the window and the distorted shapes of the Garrison beyond the glass. Because the game had changed. Now it was personal. And that meant it had to be handled… perfectly.

Tommy took a long drag from the cigarette between his fingers, as the others absorbed what he'd said. But even as he laid out the next steps—another name edged back into his thoughts.

Rory.

The lad had held it together the first time. Had come to Tommy instead of spilling blood. That had earned him a measure of respect—and, more importantly, a stay of consequences. But this was different. Sean’s name was in everyone’s mouth now. The girl’s absence wasn’t just whispered about—it was noticed. The mother had disappeared, and if Rory had seen what Tommy suspected he’d seen, his temper would be at a rolling boil. And Rory Flynn, for all his quiet strength and good intentions, was still young, desperate, and dangerous.

Tommy sighed, the thought twisting in his chest like a nail worked loose. He couldn’t risk Rory doing something stupid. Not just for the boy’s sake. Not just for hers. But because if Rory acted out of emotion now—if he laid a hand on Sean—he’d throw the whole balance off. It would disolve into chaos.

Tommy turned to Liam. “Find Rory Flynn. Tonight.”

Liam straightened. “Want me to bring him in?”

“No,” Tommy said. “Just watch him. Make sure he doesn’t do anything... irreparable.” He tapped ash into the tray. “If he starts sharpening a blade, I want to know before the first drop spills.”

John leaned in slightly. “Think he’ll go for O’Grady?”

Tommy stared at the swirling smoke in front of him. “He wants to... But he won’t. Not yet. He’s smart. Smarter than people give him credit for.”

John leaned back in his chair, one arm slung casually over the backrest, but there was a flicker of something sharper in his eyes—curiosity, maybe. Or caution. He took a sip of his drink, then asked, “So… are you givin’ her back?” John didn’t say her name.

The question hung in the air—blunt, bold, and only something one of his brothers could get away with. Liam looked down quickly, pretending to reread the papers in front of him.

Give her back? As if she were borrowed. As if she were something he’d taken on a whim and could now return like a misplaced coat. No. That wasn’t how this worked.

Now, when the meetings dragged too long or the nights stretched thin, he thought of her. Not as leverage. Not as property. As someone. He thought of the way she looked at him—guarded but watching. Waiting to see if he was a man or just another monster in a sharper suit. He thought of her voice when it softened. She'd stopped flinching when he entered the room now.

Tommy wasn’t used to being someone people trusted. Feared, yes. Respected, when it counted. But not trusted. She made him want to be that man. Even if he didn’t believe he could be.

So no—he wouldn’t give her back. Not to Sean O’Grady. Not to anyone.

Tommy turned his head slowly, met John’s eyes with a cool, unwavering look. “No,” he said simply.

John nodded, like he expected that answer. “Didn’t think so.”

***

The house was quiet and still when Tommy returned. It was well after midnight. Only the soft tick of the grandfather clock echoed as he hung his coat and cap, running a hand through his hair, weariness clinging to him like smoke.

Everyone was in bed—except Polly. She waited in the archway to the sitting room with her arms crossed. The dim lamplight cast deep shadows across her face. “We need a word,” she said, not asking.

Tommy didn’t argue, just followed her inside. She poured a splash of whiskey into a glass—just one—and handed it to him before sitting.

“Arthur’s melting down.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes were sharp. “Everything coming from O’Grady’s camp is eating at him. He’s not just angry, Tom. He feels betrayed. By you.”

Tommy didn’t drink, just stared down into the glass for a moment. “I know.”

“What do you plan to do?”

The answer wasn’t simple. Arthur was fire and glass—burning and breakable all at once. You couldn’t just scold him into sense or soothe him with empty reassurances. He didn’t respond to softness, not when the damage ran deep. The weight of what had happened—the lie, the shift of control, the humiliation of having his name whispered through pubs like he’d lost his edge—that didn’t sit quietly in Arthur’s chest. It twisted, boiled, curdled into something worse. He’d trusted Tommy and followed his lead, even when it meant swallowing his pride and taking a step back. And now he was being painted as the weak one, the fool who’d made a deal he couldn’t finish.

It was the sort of thing that festered in Arthur. He’d take it in for a while, laugh it off, drink it down. Until something snapped—and then, it would come out in a burst of fists or a broken bottle or a body left in the wrong alley.

And Tommy couldn’t afford that.

Arthur needed to be managed—not with orders, but with truth. And maybe, this time, Tommy would have to give him more than he usually did. A glimpse behind the curtain. A reason not to burn everything down. Because if Arthur went off the rails now, they’d all feel it.

And Tommy was already holding the line tighter than anyone realized.

“I’ll talk to him,” Tommy said at last. “Soon.”

She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “We also need to talk about what I’ve been hearing from O’Grady.”

Tommy’s gaze lifted, sharp and immediate. There was a different edge to Polly’s tone—one that meant it wasn’t gossip.

Polly nodded grimly. “His wife hasn’t been seen in days. Word is, she’s taken to her bed, worried. I doubt that. O'Grady's a brute. Always has been. He used to beat his first wife black and blue. She died with the child she tried to birth. After that, many of us hoped he wouldn't marry again, but...”

She trailed off, lips pursed in quiet contempt.

What a bloody waste. That Malachy Flynn’s family had fallen into the clutches of a bastard like Sean O’Grady. He'd died a war hero. And what was the fate of his family? His daughter, bartered like livestock. His wife, left to rot under the bruising hands of a man who never should’ve been allowed to lay claim to them. And he’d left behind a good son, too. He’d walked in ready to take on the Shelbys, not because he was stupid, but because he was desperate. Because he loved his sister. Because someone had to protect what was left of their family. His were the actions of a man. Malachy would’ve been proud of that. Would’ve wanted better for his boy. Better than the factory lines. Better than a household soaked in silence and bruises. Better than being forced to carry the weight of a man like Sean O’Grady.

It sat wrong in Tommy’s gut. Not just as strategy—as a man.

He downed the rest of the whiskey and set the glass down hard enough to rattle. “He should’ve been buried with his first wife.”

Polly just nodded, grim and silent. “It’s getting out,” she continued, folding her arms. “People are talking. They’re saying the girl disappeared after the wager, and that her mother’s sick with grief. And O’Grady?” She gave a humorless laugh. “He’s unraveling, but still loud enough to make it sound like we’re the villains.”

Tommy didn’t speak. He moved instead—slow, deliberate—rising from the chair and walking to the sideboard. He poured himself another measure of whiskey, let the bottle clink softly back into place. Then he turned, lifting the glass, taking a slow sip as if he were thinking it over—but he wasn’t. He already knew.

O’Grady was shifting public sympathy. Playing the wounded father. Painting himself as the man whose household was ripped apart by Shelby greed. And worse—people were beginning to listen.

“The pity changes things,” Polly said quietly, reading the same map Tommy was. “When they start feeling sorry for the girl, for the mother… the pressure builds. They’ll want answers. And they’ll come looking. Eventually, someone’s going to try and find her.”

Tommy stared into his glass. “Then they won’t like what they find.”

It was going the way he’d planned—for the most part. The girl was safe. Hidden. The message was building. The streets were talking. Good. Let them wonder. Let them whisper. Let every man in Small Heath who’d ever tossed a coin and wagered a woman’s dignity feel the cold edge of consequence tightening around their throats.

But what he hadn’t counted on… Was O’Grady attacking Arthur. Not with fists—but with whispers. Spinning the story. Playing the victim. Rewriting the wager as a betrayal. Painting Arthur as the man who couldn’t keep his end, stealing more than was owed. And worse—people were starting to believe it.

Because Arthur, loud and volatile, always wore his shame on the outside. And Sean O’Grady? He knew how to bleed in front of the right crowd. A drunken brute turned grieving stepfather. It was clever. Cowardly, but clever.

And now Arthur was fraying at the edges, his temper boiling just beneath the surface, and if he broke—if he snapped in public— everything Tommy had set in motion would come undone.

He'd put men around the house, unseen but there, until everything was done. To keep his family safe and to protect her.

“She can’t hear it,” he said flatly. “Any of it. Especially not about her mother. Not until I know the truth.”

Polly nodded, lips pursed. “So you do care what she thinks of you.”

Tommy didn’t take the bait.

“She’s feeling better,” Polly said, shifting gears. “Restless. Getting underfoot a bit. She reminded me that she worked as a seamstress and can do sewing or mending if we have any.”

Tommy looked up at that. He remembered. That's how he met her, taking his coat for mending. But she hadn’t said anything to him about sewing. Not a word. He thought back—how she’d been quiet, polite, cautious, always watching for signs of what he expected from her. How she’d never asked for anything more than what was given. And even then, only what she thought she could return in silence. A bitter taste rose in his mouth at the thought of it—how little she must expect from the people around her. How small she still made herself, even now.

He could see it clearly in his mind—the old Singer sewing machine tucked in the corner of one of the guest bedrooms, covered with a cloth no one had moved in years. It had belonged to his grandmother.

And those dresses she now wore. Ada’s old clothes—well enough for a temporary fix, but they weren’t hers. They didn’t fit her right. They didn’t move like they belonged to the woman who now walked his halls. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like that she was walking around in someone else’s shape, like she didn’t deserve her own.

“If she wants to sew,” he said at last, voice low, “let her. Make sure she sees the machine.”

Polly tilted her head, watching him. “We're in agreement then. Good. She’s not asking for much, Tommy. She's barely asked for anything since she got here.”

“Then give her what she needs.” Because if she was going to stay—and she was—he didn’t want her patching together the pieces of someone else’s life. He wanted her building something new. Something that was hers.

Polly watched him, reading more than he gave. “She’s not just sewing, Tommy. She’s looking for something to do. Somewhere to belong.”

He downed the rest of the whiskey in one drink. “Then she’ll have it.”

And he meant it. Whatever came next—Arthur’s temper, Sean’s trap, the girl’s questions—it would all be dealt with. Because keeping her safe wasn’t just about the outside world anymore. It was about keeping her whole, even if he wasn’t.

Tommy just stared into the fire, thumb slowly circling the rim of his glass.

Polly sighed. “You do realize that she doesn’t know.”

His gaze shifted, but he didn’t interrupt.

“Not really. Not the truth of it. She thinks she was caught in a bad deal between men.” Her eyes narrowed, voice low but cutting. “She doesn’t know you were the one who steered Arthur into making that wager. You had her delivered. That you drugged him just to keep her untouched until you could step in.”

He didn’t flinch. But he knew she saw it anyway.

“You created the entire bloody scenario, Tommy. Don’t pretend it was all about sending a message to Small Heath. You used that to justify your reasons.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, voice softer but sharper now. “You did it because your eye fell on her. And you decided, in all your brilliant, broken logic, that you were going to have her.” She let that sink in. “What happens when she finds out?”

He looked away, only for a second. When his gaze returned returned to hers, it was steady. Polly wasn’t accusing. She was warning.

“You think she won’t? That someone won’t slip up? That she won’t put the pieces together herself?”

Tommy’s grip tightened on his glass in his hand. Polly was right. She would find out. And when she did, he’d have to face more than her fury. He’d have to face the possibility that she’d never look at him the same way again. And that, more than anything, unnerved him the most.

Polly watched him closely, her tone softening slightly. “I can usually hear you at night, you know,” she said. “From across the hall. When the nightmares come.”

Tommy didn’t look at her.

Polly continued, her voice low, matter-of-fact. “You thrash. You shout. Sometimes you cry out names you don’t remember in the morning. Sometimes you don’t sleep at all.”

The darkest visions from the war visited him often at night. The nightmares didn't come from the bullets or the blood, but from the silence between the shell blasts—the moments when he had time to realize he was still alive while better men were not. Now that Polly mentioned it, he hadn't had a single one since he'd moved her into his house, his bed.

Polly waited, but he said nothing.

“But since you moved her into your room…” She paused. “Well, I've heard some things... But not your nightmares.”

The truth settled between them like smoke.

“She calms something in you,” Polly said, quieter now. “And maybe you don’t want to admit that, maybe you can’t… but it doesn’t make it any less true.” She straightened, blowing out an exhale as she studied him. “So the question isn’t if she’ll find out what you did to get her. The question is what you’ll do when she does. Because if she walks out that door, Thomas…” Her gaze was sharp, but not cruel. Just honest. “You won’t sleep again.”

And with that, Polly turned and left the room, leaving him alone with the fire and the weight of everything he hadn't yet said.

***

The moonlight spilled across the floor in soft pools of light, casting long shadows across the floorboards. You sat in the window seat, knees drawn up, arms wrapped loosely around them, chin resting on the crook of your elbow. The night was quiet and still. But your mind wasn’t. Your eyes followed the curve of the moon as it rose over Small Heath, pale and full in a sky smeared with clouds. You hadn’t meant to stay awake this long—had tried to will yourself to sleep—but your thoughts wouldn't quiet.

When the door opened, your fatigue evaporated.

Tommy. He looked tired tonight—shoulders tense, tie loosened—but he smiled when he saw you.

“You should be asleep by now,” he said, voice low and warm as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

“I tried,” you admitted. “But it’s hard… It's like my mind won’t stop when it gets quiet.”

He said nothing at first, just watched you for a moment—like he understood more than he was saying.

But you had another reason for staying awake. You wanted something. You lowered your knees until you were sitting normally at the window, fingers twisting gently in your lap. It was worth a try. The endless days of being confined to Tommy's house with nothing to do were wearing on you. You were prepared for his answer no matter what it was. But a needle and some thread to do any mending they needed wasn't a lot to ask for.

And if he wanted something in return?

Tommy had been so kind to you for the last week during your monthly. To your surprise, he hadn't demanded anything at all. Your mother had once explained that keeping men happy in a marriage was one of the few cards women had to play. Granted, you weren't married to Tommy, didn't know if you'd ever be married to anyone now. But you'd already been intimate with him. It was only a matter of time before he turned his attention back to that, right? Someone as powerful as him wasn't doing any of this out of the kindness of his heart.

But sometimes... it felt like he was.

No, you had to stop thinking like that. As soon as Tommy got what he wanted from this situation, you had some plans to make. You'd need to go somewhere else and pray this scandal didn't follow you.

But first, you had to get through tonight. If he wanted something... Honestly, it wasn't too unpleasant, especially the second time. You'd even enjoyed some of it. But what kind of woman did it make you to be thinking like that? Shaking your head at yourself, you sighed, battling your anxiety.

“I actually stayed up because… I wanted to ask you for something,” you admitted, wilting under his steady gaze.

He raised a brow, moving closer now. “Go on.”

You glanced back out at the moon for a breath, gathering yourself. "You probably remember that I help my mum with sewing for people. Mending and repairs. I can even make clothing. Nothing fancy, but… if there’s anything in the house that needs stitching or patching, I’d like to help. If you'll allow it." Your gaze met his. “You told me to ask you. So… I am.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Just stood there, painted by the soft gold of the lamp by the bed. His eyes stayed on you—unblinking, unreadable. It made your breath hitch, the way he could go so still. You looked down again, already regretting it. Maybe it had been the wrong time. Maybe he thought it was foolish. Maybe—

“Alright,” he said, simply.

You blinked, glancing back up. His expression had softened, just a little. Enough to make your chest tighten.

“You’ll have what you need,” he added. “Thread, fabric… whatever Polly hasn’t already set aside.”

You could only nod, the relief flooding through you too quickly to find words. He stepped closer, slow, and crouched a little to meet your eye level.

“That wasn't so hard. I'm hiding you from Small Heath right now.” His voice was quiet but firm. “But in this house, you're not invisible. You're allowed to ask for what you need."

You swallowed hard, trying not to look too moved by the kindness in that—because it wasn’t just approval. It felt like permission to exist. Your lips parted. A quiet, shaky, “Thank you.”

He stood again.

Then, without quite thinking, you added, “I think about my mother, and Rory, every day. This will help keep my mind busy.”

His shoulders stilled, just slightly. Tommy looked at you with something close to understanding—and something else, too. Something fierce and quiet. "I’ll see to them,” he said. “When the time is right, you’ll know everything. You'll get to see them.”

And strangely, you believed him. Not because he said it gently. Because he said it like a vow. You thought him saying you'd "get to see them" was a little odd. Once everything was over, you'd be going back home, right?

You watched him in silence as he moved about the room—shedding the weight of the day one layer at a time. Jacket off. Waistcoat next. He rolled his sleeves up with practiced ease, every movement smooth and unhurried. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this—quiet, tired, thoughtful—but there was something different about tonight. Maybe it was the way he paused slightly, glancing over his shoulder at you as he unbuttoned his cuffs. Maybe it was the way his brow lifted just a little—curious.

“You got your answer,” he said casually, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Was there something else?”

You shifted your weight slightly, embarrassed to be caught lingering. "I'm sorry," you muttered, rising from the window seat and moving to the bed.

He didn’t say anything as you crossed the room—just followed you with his eyes. You climbed onto the bed, keeping close to your side, careful not to take up more space than necessary. The sheets were cool, the pillow soft, but your skin tingled with awareness. You turned to your side, back to the wall, knees drawn slightly up. It was habit by now—putting a little distance between yourself and him, even if he’d never asked for it.

Still, you couldn’t help it. You watched him. Tried not to, but you did.

He finished unfastening his shirt, pulling it off with a fluid motion before draping it neatly over the back of a chair. The soft lamplight caught the lines of his back—strong, lean muscle shifting beneath skin marked by old scars. Pale against the shadows, silent testaments to a life that had never been gentle. He moved with a kind of quiet confidence, not trying to impress or intimidate—just existing in the way only a man who'd seen too much could.

"If you're going to keep looking at me like that," he said, "I might start wondering about your intentions."

Your breath caught. You were caught. Still, your gaze lingered just a second longer before you turned your eyes away—but it was too late. He'd seen it.

And when he crossed the room to join you, it was with a quiet, self-assured ease. He stretched out on his back beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting loosely across his abdomen. A small smile played at the corners of his lips—not smug, but amused.

“Something else you wanted?” he murmured, tone casual, teasing.

The hint of amusement in his voice was unmistakable, and it made your stomach flip. You looked over at him, just briefly, then back toward the ceiling.

What were you doing? He'd given you the answer you were hoping for and he wasn't asking for anything in return. Maybe he was just being kind and not wanting to bother you during your time. Men had no idea how any of that worked. Or maybe... You didn't like the small voice whispering in the back of your mind that maybe he didn't want you anymore. Maybe once his business was settled with your stepfather, he wouldn't need you anymore and you'd be on your own. Maybe he already had what he wanted from you.

Those worries lingered but didn't feel quite right.

"Someone's thinking very hard over there," he mused, still with that note of teasing in his tone.

Just sleep. Tell him goodnight and go to sleep.

No, you couldn't. Because you wanted an answer to that question. You needed to know if you were reading too much into things.

He was the most powerful man in Birmingham. If he hadn't been trying to use your stepfather to get his point across, would he have even looked at you twice? Was it just the wager? You'd never seen him with anyone but if he ever had a woman on his arm, you'd expect her to be beautiful, sophisticated. You were neither of those things.

Still, it was the random moments when you were alone together that made you wonder if there was more to it. The way he could be caring. Those rare smiles he'd flash. Was it only in your head?

With no idea what you were doing, you sat up in bed. His gaze stayed on you, the look in his pale-blue eyes pure intensity. You moved closer to him, your hand trembled as you raised it, sliding it along his cheek. Tommy held completely still for you as you held his face in your hand but his expression shifted. The amusement faded, replaced by challenge and desire. How easily the man could burn you down with a single look.

You leaned in close, feeling like you couldn't breathe but unable to turn back now. You just brushed your lips against his at first, soft and seeking. Tommy wasn't stopping you. He held still and you took it as permission to continue. You kissed him again, more insistently. You weren't sure what to do with your tongue so you shyly ran it along his bottom lip as you went. From there you weren't sure what to do next, and started questioning yourself on what you were doing to start with.

The moment you hesitated, his arms closed around you tightly, hauling you against him. He claimed your mouth with a kiss that sent your heart flying. One hand clutched the back of your gown, the other clutched in your hair. Your hands landed on his bare chest, your fingertips smoothing over muscle and warm flesh. He smelled of sandalwood and whiskey. His warm breath pelted against your face as he pulled back, his gaze searching yours.

Apparently he found no lie, no duplicity. He smiled, it was just so gorgeous, so genuine that it had your heart shifting in your chest. "Is this what you were after, love?"

You didn't know what to say. You just wanted him to keep smiling at you like that. You nodded. And for good measure, you slid your arms around his neck and kissed him again. You were learning. The deep moan you pulled from him with that kiss made your entire body tingle. Your lips danced together feverishly as his hands yanked up your gown with haste. He only broke the kiss to pull it over your head, to reveal you to him, leaving you only in your drawers. Yes, you were exposed and didn't like the vulnerability it brought, but the heat in those pale blue-colored eyes as his gaze moved over you, froze you to the spot.

"I called you pretty before," he whispered, "but I changed my mind... You're fucking beautiful."

He left you no time to react to that. His rough hands skimmed all over your body as he tantalized you with his kisses, seeking out the places that would make you tremble. Your nipples were so tight they hurt under his palms. Tommy pulled you onto his lap as he kissed you but arranged you so that you straddled his body, the center of you just above his muscular thighs. He left you panting when he broke the kiss, his hands going to the front of his trousers, pulling them open and pushing them down his slim hips. Tommy laid back then, taking himself in hand. You watched how his hand moved, the carnality of the act fascinating you.

"Touch me," he whispered, his voice rough. Impatiently, he grabbed your hand and guided you to wrap your fingers around him. He felt like warm velvet under your fingers as his hand closed over yours, showing you what he liked in gentle, easy movements. Once you picked up the rhythm he wanted, his own hand fell away, landing on your bare thigh. You must have done something right because his eyes slid closed, his jaw slack like the only thing he wanted in the entire world was your hand on his cock.

"I've thought about this for days," he whispered. "Could barely focus on my meeting earlier, thinking about you."

You knew he was only talking about sex but you couldn't help the way your heart skipped a beat, hearing that he thought about you at all. You kept your hand moving on him, trying to be careful. When you squeezed him just a little, his breath huffed out. He hardened in your hand. You made your grip a little firmer and he moaned, a deep sound that you felt everywhere. It had your own body clenching in need, weeping for him.

"You're a fast learner," he muttered, his eyes slitting open to watch you. "Now, put your mouth on me."

While you had no experience with men before Tommy, you had heard of what he was asking for before. Your mum's best friend had a daughter named Anne who was only a couple of years younger than you. Once when your families visited each other, she told you about what she got up to with the local boys. How she drove them wild. She hadn't been instructing you per se but she told you enough about her exploits that you had an idea of how it went.

You pressed a kiss to the head of him, shiny and smooth. Then another. You jerked a little at first, to feel his hand on your head, not moving you but there. When you swiped at him with your tongue, he sucked in a breath. You froze. Was that a good thing or had you hurt him? A quick glance at his face showed you that amazing eyes were on you, watching you as you teased him with your mouth.

When your lips spread around him to pull the head into your mouth, you tasted him. Slowly, you kept going, wrapping a hand around him at the base while your mouth teased the top. You got braver, working more of him into your mouth as he watched. You kept your tongue moving around him, kept your teeth away. Tommy's hips moved with you now, a silent demand for more. All the while he watched, color flooding his face, that blue-eyed gaze on you so intently. Now the hand on your head did guide your movements, urging you to continue.

"Such a good girl." Tommy was breathless. "Feels fucking amazing."

You carried on but within seconds, both of his hands were on your head, urging you to stop. Tommy was panting above you and when your gaze met his, you were so confused. Had you done something wrong? Had you hurt him?

It was like he could see the question in your mind, his expression softened. "That's good. Too good... Not the way I want to end though."

You weren't sure what that meant and you didn't get a chance to think about it. His hands darted between your thighs, fingers sliding into the drawers you wore, sliding easily on all the wetness he found there. He groaned, grabbing your hips and moving you up his body, positioning you over his cock. You didn't understand what he wanted until he pulled your drawers to one side, creating a path for himself at your entrance and you were shaking. Him pushing into you while your drawers were still on was indecent, had your heart pounding in your chest.

He was inside you but this time you were on top and you weren't sure what to do. Tommy realized that, holding onto your hips and pushing up into you. It felt different, hitting new pleasure points inside you. His movements had you leaning forward, your hands on his chest. He started rolling his hips up into you, using his hands to pull you down on him at the same time.

"Ride me," he whispered as he kept moving you on his cock, his thrusts speeding up until it felt like he was punching the air from your lungs.

Changing the position of your legs, you found a way to move on him, helping him along. Your walls clenched around him and you tried circling your hips on him as you moved.

"Fuck, yes." The heat in his gaze letting you know you were onto something.

You kept going, moving in ways that you hoped made him feel good. It definitely made you feel good. Your nails raked over Tommy's chest as those sensations built in your lower body. Your gaze locked with his as you were joined as one, both chasing relief from the heat and the lust rushing through your veins. When you leaned closer to him, each thrust hit your most sensitive point. You were shaking as all that sensation came for you, and when it hit, it took your breath away. Beneath you, Tommy went faster, his grip on you almost painful as he came.

Your arms trembled and gave way, leaving you to collapse over him, both of you struggling to breathe as if you'd run a mile. His heartbeat was so loud as you lay sprawled over him and his arms wrapped around you. You liked the way his fingers drew lines over your back, the way his damp skin felt against your cheek.

He pressed a kiss into your hair. "Ever used a sewing machine?"

"No," you replied. "Always wanted to. Mum and I once thought about trying to put some money back each week from what we made to try and save up for one. There was always something more important that came up, that we needed the money for."

You didn't mention that your stepfather with his drinking and gambling was the reason you could never save money, why you struggled to put food on the table.

"We have one," Tommy said. "Polly will get it for you tomorrow, along with any sewing notions we have for you to use."

You lifted your head in excitement, your gaze meeting his. "Really?"

"Really," he said, the corners of his mouth curving up. "Tomorrow. It's after midnight right now. Get some sleep."

You were sleepy, and happy to have something to do tomorrow to keep from worrying about your Mum and Rory every waking moment. And your future.

You fell asleep in his arms, unaware he stayed awake for a while, just watching over you. Polly's words ran through his mind, haunting him.

@outlanderuniverse

@alyssajunelle

@gothic-chinadoll

@sparda1234

#The Arrangement #Peaky Blinders #Thomas Shelby #Tommy Shelby #Cillian Murphy #Polly Gray #John Shelby #Arthur Shelby #Ada Shelby

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shitsndgiggs · 6 months ago

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Can you please make Kenan x reader where they're doing the Hear Me Out Cake trend

HEAR ME OUT - KENAN YILDIZ

Doing the hear me out cake trend

Kenan Yildiz x fem! reader

︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿

The camera was set up, phone propped against a candle on the dining table, and Kenan was already cracking up before we even started.

“This is gonna be so stupid,” he said, shaking his head as he shuffled through his stack of photo picks.

“Exactly why it’s going to be hilarious,” I shot back, grinning. I adjusted the cake in the center of the table so it was perfectly in view of the camera. “Ready?”

Kenan gave me a mock-serious look. “Born ready.”

I hit record and took a seat next to him. “Alright, guys,” I began, addressing the imaginary audience, “we’re doing the ‘Hear Me Out’ cake trend, where we stick photos of people—or things—we think are attractive into this cake.” I motioned dramatically to the pristine, frosting-covered cake before us.

Kenan leaned toward the camera. “Don’t judge us... too harshly.”

I started off tame, holding up my first pick: Chris Evans as Captain America.

“Hear me out,” I said, sticking his photo into the cake.

Kenan rolled his eyes. “Typical. Safe. Boring.” He grabbed his first pick and revealed it to the camera: Megan Fox in Transformers.

“Predictable,” I teased, shoving his shoulder lightly.

“She’s literally perfect,” he shot back, planting her photo firmly in the frosting.

The first few rounds were normal enough. I added Zendaya, Henry Cavill as Geralt of Rivia, and Blake Lively.

Kenan countered with Rihanna, Tom Hardy, and Gal Gadot as Wonder Woman.

“Respectable choices,” I said, nodding.

“Same to you,” he replied, grinning.

And then things started to spiral.

I held up Shrek in a tuxedo.

Kenan’s jaw dropped, and he looked at me like I’d just betrayed him. “Are you serious right now?”

I shrugged innocently. “Hear me out—he cleans up nice.”

He burst out laughing, leaning back in his chair. “Okay, okay. You’ve officially lost it.”

I dramatically stabbed Shrek into the cake.

Not to be outdone, Kenan revealed his next pick: the Geico gecko.

“KENAN!” I yelled, nearly knocking the table over from laughing so hard. “That’s not even a person!”

He smirked, sticking the gecko into the cake. “But you can’t deny he’s got charisma.”

It only got worse from there.

I added Danny DeVito, specifically from Matilda.

Kenan countered with the Kool-Aid Man.

“HOW IS THAT ATTRACTIVE?!” I cried, tears forming in my eyes from laughing so hard.

Kenan pointed at the camera. “Big. Strong. Energetic.”

“You need help,” I managed to say, clutching my stomach.

By the end, the cake was a war zone of chaos. Scarlett Johansson and Timothée Chalamet were surrounded by Tony the Tiger, an old Nokia brick phone, and a rotisserie chicken.

For the final round, I pulled out my wildcard: Larry the Lobster from SpongeBob.

Kenan paused, nodding in respect. “Valid.”

“And you?” I asked, curious what monstrosity he’d end on.

Kenan smirked, holding up Mr. Clean.

“KENAN!” I screamed, doubling over in laughter. “What is WRONG with you?!”

“He’s got personality!” Kenan shouted back, sticking him into the cake with pride. “That’s more than Larry the Lobster can say!”

When we stopped recording, we both stared at the cake for a long moment.

“This is a crime against humanity,” I said finally.

Kenan wrapped an arm around my shoulders, grinning. “And yet... it’s perfect.”

#football imagine #football x reader #turkiye #kenan yildiz x reader #kenan yildiz

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helloitstsyu · 1 month ago

Text

All I Want | Tom Cruise

Fantasize Series Chapter 7 | Previous Part | Fantasize Masterlist

You’ve been sitting in this SUV for far too long. The heat makes it feel like you’re inside a microwave. The frosting on the cake in your lap has started to melt.

You’re not supposed to be here. Not really.

You told yourself you came for your father’s birthday. You told yourself he deserved a surprise—a rare gesture from a daughter who’s always busy, always too far away. You even brought a cake, even though the frosting smeared inside the box thanks to the jolting road.

Your father’s filming again. He’s been away from L.A., deep in the Utah mountains. The place is isolated, far from anywhere, and way too dangerous. There’s talk of risky stunts planned to be shot here. You found out by accident—an assistant mentioned the location during a call you weren’t supposed to hear.

And when you heard it, something in you cracked. Because you just needed to see him one more time. Maybe then you’d be healed, you thought. Because you’ve been dying a little inside ever since he said he didn’t want to see you anymore.

No. You’re not just here for your father’s birthday.

The truth is simpler.

You miss Tom.

And you hate yourself for missing him. Because even after three months of silence, it still stings like hell.

The second you step out of the rental SUV, the heat slaps your cheeks—and so does the memories. Dust clings to your boots as you make your way across the makeshift lot, gripping the bakery box like it’s your lifeline.

You see them before they see you—crew members scattered, rigging cables and prepping camera drones. Your father stands near a monitor, razor-focused, wearing that serious look you know too well. Then he laughs, grinning, nodding at something on the screen.

And then—

Him.

Tom.

Standing just behind your father. Dressed in black. Aviators hiding those green eyes. He’s looking down at his phone before laughing at something your dad says.

Until he notices you.

Tom takes off his sunglasses, like he’s uncertain he’s really looking at you or a fantasy in his mind.

The moment his gaze lifts, the world slows. Your steps grow heavy. Yet you still walk. Walk toward them under the tent.

The tension hits like whiplash—his smile vanishes, his posture stiffens. Like he’s seen a ghost from his past.

You want to look away, but you can’t.

Your dad finally turns. “Cupcake?” A beat. “What the hell are you doing here?”

You force a smile. Lift the box of melting cake. “Surprise... Happy birthday, old man.”

He’s stunned—but only for a second. Then he strides over and pulls you into a hug so tight you nearly drop the cake.

“I can’t believe you remembered,” he murmurs, voice gruff.

“Yeah, I remembered,” you whisper. Smiling. Pretending. “I brought you a cake—though it’s melting because you picked a literal hell-field as your set.”

Your dad laughs. “Thanks for the surprise!” he says, hand resting on your shoulder. “Guys—meet my daughter!” he calls out, introducing you to the crew.

You feel Tom’s stare like the heat of the sun.

He steps out of the shade now, and you can see his green eyes. The same eyes that appear in your dreams almost every night. He looks... haunted. Frozen by your unexpected arrival.

The agony in his eyes feels familiar. Like yours.

For a while, it feels okay. Your dad lights up in a way that reminds you of your childhood. Crew members come and go, shaking your hand, asking if you’re staying long.

And Tom?

He keeps his distance. But never too far.

Always in your periphery. Always watching.

Though—you can’t bear to meet his eyes.

Until you accidentally do.

And when you do, it’s like being hit by a memory.

That look.

The look that says ‘you’re the only thing that matters.’

The same one he gave you when he found you in that janitor’s closet. When you had a panic attack. Before everything broke.

You swallow hard and look away.

---

The hours crawl. You hover near your father, pretending to care about blockings and camera angles, trying not to glance into those emerald eyes.

But every time Tom walks past you, your lungs seize.

It’s unbearable.

Because he looks like he wants to speak—but can’t.

And you look like you don’t care—but do.

As they prep for the shot, you realize he’s going to perform the stunt himself. A dangerous one. You don’t want to watch. You won’t be able to keep a straight face while he dangles off the side of a cliff. So you walk away.

You stand perfectly still for a while, watching the sun dip low into the horizon. That’s when Tom approaches.

Carefully. Hesitantly. Like you’re a skittish deer he doesn’t want to scare.

“Hey.” The wind nearly swallows his voice.

You don’t answer.

He tries again. “I didn’t know you were coming.” He steps closer.

You glance over, voice flat. “Clearly.”

“You haven’t answered my calls.”

Yes. He did try to reach you. You knew it was him when you saw an unknown number calling you for several times few consecutive nights. But your pride stood tall. You forbade yourself from pressing that accept button. You believe if he wanted you, he’d come to you. But he didn’t. Just some missed calls. Midnight ones, the one you bet was driven by longing and regret.

“Because I didn’t want to talk,” you lie.

“Why?”

You finally turn to him—exhausted. Offended. “Seriously?” How dare he asks such stupid question.

“I just... I thought maybe—”

“You thought what?” Your voice sharpens. “That we could pretend none of it happened? That you could leave me and I’d just move on quietly?”

He flinches.

“So no—I didn’t want to call. I didn’t want to talk.”

He still looks at you. With that look.

“Then why are you here?” he asks.

He has the nerve to ask that. After everything.

“I...” Your anger simmers. “I’m here for my father. For his birthday.” Your tone already rising

He shakes his head like he sees right through you. Like he knows you too well. “Is that all?”

Your mouth literally fall open. You don’t understand this man. One moment he tells you he didn’t want to see you anymore the next moment he’s questioning you as if he knows you all too well.

“What do you mean ‘is that all’?” you snap.

And he can’t answer.

Just keep staring at you with that unwavering soft gaze.

“I should ask you that. Why are you here? I remember you saying, ‘I don’t want to see you anymore, Y/N.’ So why are you here, Tom?”

Another question he can’t answer.

But the look in his eyes says everything. Like the gaze almost had you believe he wanted to scream he wants you right there at the edge of the cliff.

“Nothing to say now?!” Rage builds in your chest.

Still, silence.

Still gazing at you.

“Then leave!” you tell.

But he doesn’t. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just look at you.

“Argh!” You groan in frustration and turn. Walk away. From those eyes. Because you know better. If you stay even one second longer in front of that gaze, you’ll lose it all.

“Y/N!” He calls. You don’t care. You walk faster.

And he follows.

“Y/N, Wait—come back!”

You keep walking.

“You’re not safe out here!” He protests.

You ignore him. You need to get away from him. From that soft -deep-loving gaze. You want him to suffer. You want him to beg. You want to hate him... but it’s so heavy to carry that hate.

“Y/N, please!”

“Leave me alone, Tom!” you snap.

And then suddenly—

He’s beside you.

Grabbing your arm. “Just come back!”

His emerald eyes meet yours again. Still the same. Still soft, caring—like you mean something to him.

You yank your arm away. “Why?! So you can leave me again?!”Your voice cracks, your tone bitter.

“Don’t do this.” His face is pale with fear—months of guilt written all over it.

“Ugh! You're so— I hate you, Tom!” you choke out. The words fall without control.

His face falls. “Y/N...” he whispers, almost a cry.

You feel the hot tears forming in your eyes nearly spilling out, even though it hurts to say it but still you repeat:

“I HATE YOU!” you scream, as if saying it once hadn’t broken him enough.

Your tears blinds you, you don’t want him to see you vulnerable, so you turn, wanting to walk away again but you take a wrong step—

And the ground gives way.

It all fades to black before you can even scream.

---

The ringing in your ears sounds like the end of the world. The room smells like sanitizer. Your eyelids flutter. Your mouth tastes like blood and something bitter—dirt perhaps.

Pain blooms in every limb. Your head throbs like a truck hit you.

Your eyes open slowly and a strong white light shoot right at your eyes. Then—a face. Your father.

Tears line his eyes. His wrinkles are deeper than you remember.

He whispers your name like a prayer. “Y/N... Oh thank God.”

You feel the oxygen tube in your nose. Itchy. Uncomfortable.

“Shh. Don’t move,” he says, stopping you before you can lift your hand. “You’re okay now. They got you out. You hit your head—but you’ll be fine.”

“Where...” you croak, trying to look around but your head spins.

You wince at the stinging pain.

“It hurts,” you mutter.

“I’ll get the doctor—” he jumps up and rushes out.

You blink again, eyes adjusting.

And then—you see him.

Tom.

Pressed against the wall like a shadow. Pale. Wrecked. Dirt still on his jeans.

The memory slams into you.

You walked away. He followed. You yelled. You fell.

He looks like he pulled you out and never left your side.

He steps forward.

His shoulders sag. He breathes like he hasn’t in hours.

“Tom...?” you whisper.

His eyes are red like he’s been crying. He takes a small step forward, close but you can’t reach him. His lips tremble.

“This is because of me,” he says, voice breaking.

You shake your head. Your heart cracks at the sight of him.

“You should stay away from me. I’m–i’m no good for you—”

“Stop!” you cut him off. “Stop with the bullshit. Stop pretending you know what’s best for me!”

“Look at you!” he snaps. “I made you like this!” He covers his mouth, grief bleeding into his voice. He shuts his eyes and takes a long deep breath before he looks at you again. “Look, Y/N... it’s because I care for you i have—”

“If you cared, you’d stay, Tom!” Your voice breaks.

Tears finally stream down your cheeks. “You stay...”

He exhales hard. “I thought I lost you,” he whispers, tears dropping from his eyes.

“I can live with you hating me, Y/N,” his voice trembling. Body trembling.

“But I can’t live in a world without you in it.”

Silence.

Only the steady beep of your heart monitor fills the room.

Your eyes blur again—not entirely from pain this time.

Because even broken—you still love him.

And now you know.

He loves you.

Truly. Madly. Terrifyingly.

——

Taglist

@katluke23-blog

@anima-patronos

@tom-cruiseisalegend

@sdrose93

@kujolin12-official

@ashdyh321

#tom cruise #tom cruise x reader #tom cruise fanfiction #tom cruise smut #pete maverick mitchell #tom cruise fic #tom cruise x female reader #ethan hunt #fantasize series #spotify #Spotify

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tomkaulitzssgirl · 24 days ago

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helirrr! can you make a tom x fem!reader where her, tom and a couple of mutual friends all go camping together and they go into the lake, the river etc etc and then at night when it’s like raining and it’s cold (tom and the reader have a separate tent from their friends but are still close to their tent) and the reader is like literally on the VERGE of getting frost bite (I’m being dramatic lol) and tom like holds her and stuff but then he’s like “I know a better way we can get HEATEDD” Idk how to word it but then they legit do IT in the tent???

HORROR MOVIE RULES | TOM KAULITZ

i loved writing this <3

tom drove, one hand on the wheel and the other holding yours loosely in his lap. his rings were cold against your fingers, but it felt comforting. familiar. the windows were cracked enough to let in the warm breeze, and the sky was already dimming when you pulled up to pick up bill.

“you ready to be one with nature, hippie boy?” tom called as bill tossed his duffel in the trunk.

“only if the forest has weed and beer,” bill smirked, climbing in the back. gustav, georg and clara (his girlfriend) followed a few minutes later, both carrying way too much gear. then your best friend melissa joined. the car got loud fast — music, jokes, someone passing snacks around — but tom’s hand never left your thigh.

by the time you reached the campsite, the sun had dipped low, setting the trees on fire with orange light. it looked peaceful… but almost too quiet. like something was watching.

“spooky already.” georg muttered as a crow flew overhead.

tom’s old suv rumbled over the last gravel stretch of the forest road, tires crunching over fallen pine needles and twigs. the air smelled like smoke and moss.

“this is the spot,” gustav said from the backseat, pointing to a clearing just ahead, “flat, close to the water. not too close to the woods.”

“too bad,” bill muttered, “i wanted a haunted campsite.”

tom rolled his eyes and cut the engine. “you’ll cry the second a squirrel looks at you weird.”

everyone climbed out, stretching, groaning, the sound of car doors slamming and zippers being yanked on backpacks echoing through the trees. tom rounded the back and opened the trunk, already pulling out the gear.

“yo, where’s the other tent bag?” georg asked, digging through the pile.

“it’s under the cooler,” tom said, and then he looked over at you with a little smirk, “you’re not lifting anything. you’re on chill duty, baby.”

you raised an eyebrow, letting him know you were already planning on chilling anyway.

“i’ll chill so hard you won’t even know i’m here.” you said, walking over to where one of the other girls had already flopped down on a picnic blanket.

the guys immediately got into it. tom and georg argued over tent pole sizes while gustav actually read the instructions. bill was mostly pointing at things, claiming “he knew how to do this in theory.” the sound of metal clinking, canvas flapping, and low cursing filled the clearing.

you and the girls sat cross-legged nearby, passing around a bottle of soda and giggling about how dramatic the whole process was.

“it’s like cavemen discovering fire.” clara whispered.

you watched tom from a distance, his arms flexing under his loose white tee as he hammered a stake into the ground. his brows were furrowed in concentration, lip caught between his teeth. he looked good like this—focused, competent, in his element. the kind of man who could build a shelter and break your back in it later.

he caught you staring and smirked.

“you good over there, princess?” he called out, holding up a half-finished tent pole like a sword.

“better than you,” you said, “yours looks like it’s about to fall over.”

“give me five minutes and it’ll be the sexiest tent you’ve ever seen.”

“yeah, because it’ll have me in it.”

that shut him up. gustav actually dropped a pole laughing.

by the time both tents were up—one for the guys, one for you and tom—the sky had gone from gold to dark blue, the forest thick with shadows and the buzz of insects. someone got a fire going in the pit, and the flames turned everything flickering and warm.

tom laid out your sleeping bags side by side, stuffing an old hoodie under one as a pillow. he looked over at you, soft-eyed for a second.

“cozy enough?”

you nodded, standing beside him, listening to the fire crackle a few yards away. “it’s perfect.”

but deep in the woods, something rustled.

you turned slowly.

“did you hear that?”

tom looked up too, sharp now. “yeah.”

“it’s scary here.” you whined, hugging him by his waist as he chuckled and wrapped his arms around you.

“don’t worry, i’ll fight anything that tries to snatch you off.

——

by the time the tents were up, the sun had sunk fully behind the trees and left the clearing soaked in soft darkness. gustav had gotten the fire going with some dried pinecones and old newspaper, and it was already spitting sparks into the air like tiny fireflies.

you were curled into tom’s side on one of the foldout camp chairs, his hoodie swallowing your frame and your legs tucked up under you. the fire made his features glow — sharp cheekbones, gleaming lip ring, the way his dreadlocks fell into his face every time he leaned forward to grab something.

someone popped open a cooler. beer cans hissed. bill held up a joint like it was the holy grail.

“now it’s a party.” he said.

everyone passed the bottle and the joint around in lazy rotation. you skipped both, deciding that at least one of you guys should be sober, leaning into tom’s chest while he exhaled a cloud of smoke into the firelight. his fingers traced light patterns on your thigh, slow and possessive.

“okay,” georg said, cracking a second beer, “campfire tradition: ghost stories.”

“yes,” bill said immediately, “finally. i’ve been waiting for this moment.”

“you’re always waiting to traumatize people.” you muttered.

he grinned. “and i always deliver.”

gustav rolled his eyes, but everyone shifted closer to the fire. tom tossed another log on, and the flames jumped higher, throwing long shadows out into the woods.

bill started first. his voice got all low and theatrical.

“this actually happened to someone i knew,” he said, of course, “like not far from here. they were camping up by the river and started hearing footsteps at night. not animals — like, heavy footsteps. bipedal. and they saw these… lights. not flashlights. not fireflies. just these weird floating lights, out in the trees. always the same distance away, no matter how far they walked.”

you pulled the hoodie tighter around yourself.

“so what happened?” clara asked.

bill took a long drag from the joint and exhaled slowly. “they stopped hearing the footsteps. stopped seeing the lights. and then one night… they woke up and their tent door was open. and there were muddy footprints all around it. just circling.”

everyone got quiet. the fire cracked loudly and a branch snapped somewhere in the forest.

you flinched.

tom held you closer, his other hand finding yours and threading his fingers through yours, steady and warm.

“bill, you’re a dick,” your best friend melissa said, “i’m literally not gonna sleep tonight.”

“that’s the goal.” he grinned.

“i got a better one,” tom cut in, voice low, “true story. happened to a sound tech on one of our tours in the mountains.”

you blinked, surprised.

he glanced at you, smirking. “you’ve heard me tell it.”

you shook your head. “not this one.”

he shifted in his seat, the firelight catching on his rings.

“dude was driving home through a forest road at like two in the morning. no other cars. he’s listening to music, right? and suddenly it stops. just cuts out. and there’s this voice through the speakers. real soft. just whispering, like… ‘turn around.’”

“nope,” gustav said immediately, “fuck that.”

“he slams on the brakes, right?” tom continued, “and he swears to god he sees someone in the rearview mirror. but when he looks over his shoulder—nothing. empty road.”

a gust of wind tore through the trees then, whistling.

you all froze.

“…was that part of the story?” georg asked.

“uh, no.” tom said, brow furrowing.

you turned and looked behind you — just trees, rustling. but you could feel it again. that prickle on your skin. like something was watching.

“okay,” gustav said, “new plan: we swim before the demons eat us.”

⸻

everyone laughed, tension breaking, and started grabbing towels and slipping off shoes. you stood and stretched, and tom helped you pull his hoodie off, folding it gently before grabbing your hand.

“lake’s warmer than the air,” he said, “trust me.”

“you sure?” you asked.

“you’ll feel it,” he said, eyes glittering, “plus i’ll keep you warm.”

you followed him down the dirt path, past the trees and the damp moss, until the lake opened up in front of you — black glass under the stars. the surface rippled, reflecting moonlight. your breath fogged slightly, but the water itself looked strangely inviting.

everyone dove in one after the other, shouting and laughing. the splash echoed across the trees.

you stepped in carefully and immediately gasped — it was warmer than you expected. like bathwater left out in the sun.

tom was already waist-deep, dreadlocks slicked back, water dripping off his shoulders. he looked like something wild and beautiful.

he held out a hand to you. “come here.”

you waded in and slipped into his arms. his hands gripped your thighs under the surface, and you wrapped around him instinctively.

“mmm,” he hummed, brushing his lips against your ear, “not scared of lake monsters?”

“not the sexy kind.” you said with a smirk, making him chuckle. the world going silent around you as he began to kiss you slowly.

then thunder cracked in the distance.

rain hit the surface of the lake in sudden, heavy drops.

“shit!” bill yelled, “go go go!”

you all scrambled out of the water, slipping and shrieking as the cold air hit. the rain came fast, ice-cold needles from the sky.

tom grabbed your hand and ran while laughing.

——

you and tom ran through the trees, feet slapping against the damp earth as rain hammered down like a warning. the fire was already drowned, steam rising from the ashes. behind you, the others were yelling and laughing, stumbling into their tents.

your tent glowed faintly in the dark, lit by the battery lantern you’d set up earlier. tom yanked open the zipper and pulled you inside, both of you soaked to the bone, gasping for breath.

tom’s hair was soaked, beads of water rolling down his jaw and onto his collarbone as he dropped to his knees on the sleeping bag, breathless from running.

“oh god, it’s cold.” you whispered, teeth chattering.

he tugged his drenched shirt over his head and flinging it into the corner. it landed with a wet slap.

his chest gleamed in the lantern light — defined, inked, glistening. you watched a drop of water trail from his neck down the center of his sternum and disappear into the waistband of his boxers.

he noticed.

“eyes up, baby.” he teased, smirking as he reached for the drawstring of his pants.

he pulled them down, slow, watching your face the whole time. the fabric clung to his hips before sliding down his thighs. he was already half-hard, the outline of it heavy in his briefs, and your breath hitched in your throat.

“you’re staring.” he said.

“you undressed like a stripper.” you shot back.

“i undressed like a man who’s about to warm up his freezing girlfriend.”

he stepped out of his clothes and knelt in front of you, gently tugging at the waistband of your soaked leggings. “let me.”

and of course you let him.

he peeled them down carefully, eyes dragging over every inch of your skin like he was seeing you for the first time. his hands were warm even in the cold, calloused palms brushing your thighs, your knees, your calves.

once you were in just your underwear and bra, he kissed your stomach softly, then looked up.

“lay down.”

you did, easing onto the sleeping bag. tom grabbed a blanket from the corner and threw it over the top, zipping the sleeping bag halfway to trap the heat in. the tent glowed dimly, flickering shadows from the lantern. you were already warmer with just his body near yours.

but not warm enough.

he crawled over you, hovering on his elbows.

“you still cold?” he asked softly, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your neck.

you nodded. “a little.”

“wanna know something?” tom murmured, his voice lower now, darker.

“what?”

he shifted, pressing his lips to your ear. “i know a better way to get warm.”

you swallowed hard. “yeah?”

his hands slid to your hips. “mhmm.”

and then he kissed you.

deep. slow. warm. the kind of kiss that made the cold disappear. his lips moved like he had all night.

“relax,” he murmured, “gonna make you feel real good, baby.”

he dipped down and kissed the valley between your breasts, hands sliding behind you to unclip your bra. it slid off easily, and he tossed it aside, eyes locked on yours the whole time.

“you’re so fucking beautiful.” he murmured.

his lips wrapped around your nipple, tongue flicking, sucking gently. your body arched into him automatically, heat blooming under your skin.

he took his time — slow kisses, wet trails down your ribs, down your stomach. his hands pushed your panties down and off, and his fingers ghosted over your thighs, spreading them.

“look at you,” he whispered, running two fingers through your slick heat, “already wet.”

you whimpered. he leaned down and licked a slow stripe over your clit, tongue flat and deliberate.

“fuck—tom—”

“shhh,” he said, glancing up, “don’t wanna give them a show, do we?”

but then he licked you again, tongue flicking faster, and your hand flew to your mouth.

you were squirming under him within seconds. his grip on your thighs tightened, holding you open and not letting you close your legs when you squirmed from the pleasure as he sucked and circled your clit, humming low in his throat like he liked the way you tasted.

your thighs were shaking when he pulled his mouth away from your soaked center — right as your thighs had started to lock, your stomach tightening with the rush of an orgasm he’d been building forever.

but he stopped. he stopped.

“tom—what the fuck—” you gasped, voice cracking.

he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking like he hadn’t just ruined your whole life in one motion. your legs twitched, still spread wide, slick and aching for him.

“you were close, huh?” he said, voice low and cocky.

“i was about to come.” you snapped.

he raised an eyebrow, eyes dragging down your body. “yeah, i know. you think i didn’t feel you start to clench?”

you reached for him — frustrated, dazed — but he caught your wrist midair and pinned it gently above your head.

“nah,” he said, hovering over you, his breath warm on your lips, “not yet.”

“tom…”

he kissed your jaw, your neck, the soft part of your shoulder. then leaned close, lips brushing your ear “beg.”

your heart stuttered. “w-what?”

“beg for it,” he said, biting your earlobe, “like you need it. like you’re fucking starving for it. or i’ll just sit here and enjoy how wet you are for me.”

you squirmed under him, breathless, your hips rolling up instinctively. but he didn’t move — just let you struggle, one hand holding yours down, the other stroking so slowly between your legs it was torture.

“fuck you.” you whispered, panting.

he chuckled. “that’s the idea.”

then his fingers dipped just a little lower — barely ghosting over your clit — and your whole body jolted.

“please—” you gasped.

he tilted his head. “please what?”

you swallowed. pride dying. “please let me come.”

“nah,” he said, smug, “you can do better than that.”

his fingers circled you again, featherlight. never enough. your thighs were trembling now, heat coiling so tight in your belly it almost hurt.

“tom, please,” you whimpered, “i’ll do anything. please, i need it—i need you—”

“yeah?” he murmured, voice dropping as his cock pressed hard and heavy against your thigh, “you want this dick so bad you’ll cry for it?”

you nodded frantically.

“say it.”

your face burned. but your body was on fire, undone under him, and if he didn’t give it to you soon you were going to break in half.

“i want your cock,” you whispered, “please, tom. i need you to fuck me.”

he growled. “that’s more like it.”

he let go of your wrist, grabbed your hips, and slid inside in one hard, deep thrust — all the way in. your back arched off the sleeping bag, a shocked moan tearing from your throat.

he didn’t stop.

just kept pounding into you with slow, brutal control — hips slamming into yours, hands gripping your thighs wide open, chest heaving over you.

you were soaked. throbbing. ruined.

“that what you wanted?” he panted, fucking you harder now, “that what you were begging for?”

you couldn’t even speak.

you nodded wildly, clawing at his back, tears in your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure.

he was already deep inside you — hips flush to yours, the sleeping bag creaking under every hard thrust, his mouth hot against your neck as he fucked you with slow, rough power. your legs were wrapped around his waist, your hands tangled in his hair, and you were so close it hurt.

“you gonna come?” he breathed against your ear.

you nodded frantically. “yes—yes, tom, please—”

but then he pulled out.

completely.

you choked on a gasp. “wha—tom? not again!”

he flipped you onto your side with one strong arm and grabbed your top leg, bending it up and over his hip while staying behind you — a twisted, tight, deeper angle you’d never even thought to try.

“shut up and trust me.” he whispered.

and then he slid back in — slow, thick, perfect — but deeper. way, way deeper.

“oh my god—” your whole body spasmed. it was insane. like he was hitting something he wasn’t supposed to reach.

you buried your face in the blanket, screaming.

“yeah?” tom grunted behind you, fucking into you now with short, precise thrusts. his hand slid around your front and started rubbing your clit again — rough and fast.

your moans turned to straight-up whimpers. your body was twitching. your leg was shaking in his grip.

“open your mouth.” he commanded, voice low and rough.

you didn’t hesitate. you parted your lips, heart pounding.

he grabbed your jaw, holding it tight as he spit into your mouth — warm and slick.

you swallowed instinctively, the taste rough and raw.

“good girl.” he growled, his hand tangled in your hair, holding your head steady.

he didn’t stop. didn’t let up for a second. just kept railing into you from behind, hand working you harder, your pussy clenching so tight it felt like your soul was leaving your body.

“holy—fuck, tom, oh my god—” you couldn’t form a complete sentence.

“fuck, you’re losing it, huh?” he panted, voice smug and wrecked, you’re such a slut.”

you couldn’t speak. your mouth was open but nothing came out — you were just stuck in a loop of shaking and gasping and trying to survive it.

he knew what he was doing to you. that angle? criminal. his dick dragging against your front wall, his hand never letting your clit breathe, his breath hot on your neck as he ruined you in that twisted, intimate lock.

and then you broke.

your whole body seized up, the orgasm crashing through you so hard your vision blacked out for a second. legs shaking. sobbing. ruined.

tom kept going, gritting his teeth, holding your leg tight as he chased his own release. “fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me—”

and then he came with a broken groan, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, his body shaking as he spilled deep inside you.

the tent was silent except for rain.

and the sound of your breath coming in wrecked, high-pitched gasps.

you flopped back onto your back, staring at the ceiling like you just died and came back.

“…what just happened?” you said, dazed, voice barely a whisper.

he grinned, still breathless, brushing hair off your face.

“new favorite position?”

you blinked. “top five of my life.”

he kissed you, soft and slow.

“good,” he whispered, “because i’m doing it again next time.”

you blushed, shifting a little. he didn’t let you move far — just pulled you tighter, one big hand trailing over your thigh like he didn’t want to let go yet.

“m’sorry if i was too much,” he added quietly, brushing a strand of hair off your cheek, “you okay?”

you nodded, heart clenching at how gentle he sounded now. “yeah. more than okay.”

he kissed you — slower this time, softer. lips warm and lazy and safe. like he was saying thank you without using the words.

after a few minutes, he helped you clean up as best as you could — a pack of baby wipes, a hoodie thrown under your hips, little touches that made you feel taken care of. he made sure you were dry, warm, curled up on top of him like a blanket.

then it hit you.

you blinked. “…tom?”

“hm?”

“we weren’t exactly quiet.”

there was a long pause. then—he snorted. laughed. like, shook with it.

“oh, baby. we were so fucking loud.”

you covered your face with both hands. “no. no no no.”

“you were screaming.”

“YOU made me scream!”

“yeah, and they heard every second of it.”

you groaned, burying your face in his chest. “i’m gonna die. i’m literally going to dissolve into the forest floor.”

he grinned into your hair. “i hope they heard the part where you begged me.”