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cllnmurphy · 18 days ago

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ɪ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴅᴏ

Summary: Tommy learns his ex, you, is coming to Birmingham – with your fiancé. He reminds you of the fun you used to have, under the table during dinner.

Warnings: Swearing, cheating, smut(Exhibitionism, Fingering, refused orgasm), arguing, alcohol

Word count: 1.3k

“Oi. Tommy. News, your girlfriend’s coming to Birmingham.” Johnny sips his beer as Thomas turns around.

“What bloody girlfriend?” He questions. He’d had no recollection of committing to someone. Or maybe he was drunk.

“Y/N.” Another man retaliates with a laugh.

“She’s not my girlfriend.” He concludes as he walks around, his fists clenching as he changes his destination to home.

“Yeah, well, you wish she was,” Johnny bursts out laughing, the opposite of Tommy's stern reaction.

The Shelby house is never quiet. Every day but today. The boys talk, sitting in order at the table with cigarettes in hand. The kids don’t chase each other around the table. Even the kettle heating tea is whispering.

They all await his reaction to the news. Revealed as he storms through the doors, exclaiming,

“Y/N’s comin'?”

“For dinner. With her fiancé.” Polly speaks calmly as she walks from the kitchen.

“Fiancé? What’s next? Is she gonna show up with a fuckin’ baby?”

“You’d have known if you read the letters she sends.”

Oh, he read them. Over and Over.

“Go tidy up, little brother. You look like shit.” Arthur laughs as Tommy walks away.

Thomas gives himself a final look in the mirror before walking into the dining room, leaning against the wall with Arthur and John as your car pulls down the driveway.

“Fancy fuckin Ford.” John admires with a scoff as Polly answers the door.

You walk in, elbows crossed with your fiance’s who’s less memorable. You looked more beautiful than he remembered. Your red dress ended with your knees and clung to you tightly, matching your red lipstick and contrasting with your dark black hair that just crossed your shoulders, close to how it was when you left.

“At least act like you don’t want to bone her, Tom.” The brothers laugh.

As you introduce Polly to your fiancé after hugging her, you see the brothers approaching you. You maintain eye contact with Thomas until he stands before you.

He watches you as you say the name of your stupid fiancé he couldn't give a shit about, and how you expect him to show interest. He gives in, giving a grin and shaking hands with him.

“My wife has told me so much about you.” The fiancé states, letting go of his hand.

“Everything? You must hate me.” Thomas devilishly grins, no one else joining him in amusement. Your fiancé looks at you in expectation to explain. But you pull him away.

Of course. Thomas always causes chaos wherever he goes without fail.

Right before your fiancé can question you on Thomas’s “joke”, Polly yells from the kitchen.

“Dinner’s ready!”

You sit down at the table, expecting your fiancé to sit next to you. But Thomas claims the seat first, forcing your fiancé to sit across. You chip in on the small talk started by your fiancé about your life in London with him, but mainly focus on putting things on your plate.

That is, until Thomas Shelby catches your attention, his goal whenever he’s around you. Your feelings toward him were a term you’d hated but the only one suitable. Complicated. And never-ending.

He slides his hand down, rubbing your thigh slowly as it creeps up to your inner thigh. He kneads your thighs roughly, his expression controlled and nonchalant, completely different from his gestures.

“May I?” He speaks up. Talking about putting some potato on your plate, but to you, about the interaction under the table. You nod and smile, as surprised as he was by your agreement. After putting the potato on your plate, which he knew was your favorite, he resumes his work on you.

His hand snakes down before pressing against your heat. He circles your clit through your panties, already wet with anticipation. From his boldness, you cough.

“Sorry. Some chicken caught in my throat.” You explain to all the eyes that wandered to you, wiping your mouth with your napkin before smiling.

He pauses at your explanation before pressing down onto your swollen bud. His fingers latch onto the band of your panties as he slides them down to just before your knees.

With his free hand, he purposely drops your napkin on the floor as he looks at you expectantly. He calls over the maid with his hand and asks for a new napkin for you, giving you a warm smile to complete the act.

“Oops.” You giggle as you put down your fork and bend down to pick it up, slipping your panties off and around your heels while you're down. You sneakily wrap your panties inside the napkin and sit up, laughing shortly with Ada at the inconvenience before stealthily handing Thomas the napkin. He stuffs it into his pocket; at least now he doesn't have to jack off to your boring letters anymore.

As everyone begins their conversation again, his hand slips down again. Using one hand, he spreads your legs open, not using much force, as you understand what to do. This was your favourite game as teenagers.

With his pointer finger, he plays with your flaps, spinning his finger around tenderly. His middle finger slides down the middle of your cunt, reaching the hole and spreading it in tune with the pointer finger.

You chew hard on your chicken to suppress the moans as he holds it spread, letting the cold air hitting it as his thumb starts rubbing your clit. He slowly and gently slides his middle finger in, using the bottom of his palm to sensually rub your clit. You take a deep breath as you try to stay quiet.

He curls his finger, moving it inside and out as it goes deeper with each thrust. He pumps it rhythmically, hitting your good spot and watching as your body slightly jumps with each movement. As it reaches the deepest point, knuckles deep, he stops thrusting and curls it inside, using small but impactful movements to make your legs shiver.

As you feel the heat in your core edge higher, your back arches slightly, and your toes curl.

“Sir, here's your napkin.” One of the maids carrying the clean napkin he’d been waiting for approached and set it on his table, sharing a brief look at his hand placement under the cloth on the table before nervously smiling and walking away.

Just then, his fingers pull out of you, tenderly teasing your liquid arousal before lifting them. Your frustration is evident, but you suppress it as you watch his next move.

He cuts the meat on the plate before lifting his hand. His fingers glisten in the light with your liquid covering them. They then disappear into his mouth, his tongue tasting your slick, savoring each lick. His eyes stay on you as he pulls his fingers out shortly after and wipes them.

“Could you pass the salt, please, Eric?” Thomas says casually, having remembered his name from your lips in the last second, a grin on his face that says two different things. Eric quickly passes the salt to him before you interrupt.

“Thomas. Come with me to get the wine from the cellar?” You say, frustratedly, both for your lack of orgasms and his irrational thinking. You get up abruptly as he follows, his demeanor far more relaxed than yours.

As you walk downstairs into the cellar, you lean on the wall as he approaches you, looking confused as an act you’d seen one too many times before.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You say, crossing your arms.

He stands before you, smirking as he retorts, “What am I doing? You want it as well.”

You scoff as you lean in, speaking to yourself as well, “I can’t believe you. In front of my husband.”

“Fiancé.” He corrects before he pushes further, “Does he make you come like I do?”

You furrow your brows as you push him with your shoulder, walking towards the door before your hand is grabbed. You’re pulled back, close to Thomas’s chest as he whispers into your ear.

“You know it turns me on when you’re angry.”

“Get the wine.” You tug your arm out of his grasp as you walk away, back to the table.

#cillian murphy x oc #thomas shelby x reader #cillian murphy x reader #thomas shelby x oc #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #cillian murphy #cilleatandserve #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc #thomas shelby smut

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cllnmurphy · 19 days ago

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ᴏɴᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴋɪꜱꜱ

2. ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Summary: A trip to the hospital with Y/N’s brother is ruined by an unexpected visit to the infamous British soldier held captive.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: German, typos, hospitals, slow burn, language barrier, mentions of death, bad parenting.

A/N: For German sentences the English version is written after (a lot).

Glossary:

Narr- German for fool

Tommy- German for British soldier

"Let’s rule it as a trauma cause," your father declares, his voice a gravelly rumble that seems to settle the very dust in the room. A major in the Ottoman army, his authority is unquestionable, etched into the lines of his face and the set of his shoulders. His hands, aged and wrinkled from years of command and countless cigarettes, push the report across the mahogany table. The document, detailing the recent attack from the British prisoner, slides back into place with a soft thud.

"Sir, what if he’s aware he’s no longer in England?" One of the armed men ventures, his voice barely a murmur in the tense atmosphere.

Your father’s response is immediate, sharp as a whip. "Then begin an interrogation! Break the British scum! Narr," he spits, the vehemence of his words causing the men to jump to attention, scrambling to obey his order. He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight, and lights a cigarette, the sulfurous scent filling the air.

It’s in this moment that you enter, drawn by the commotion and the ever-present mystery surrounding the prisoner. Your messy hair that seemed to defy any semblance of order caught his eye immediately, drawing his attention away from the serious discussions that filled the air. Along with your crinkled skirt, which hung loosely around your knees, you stood in stark contrast to the disciplined atmosphere of the room. How unladylike were you in this moment of chaos, a whirlwind of youthful rebellion against the backdrop of military authority?

“Ja, Prinzessin, was ist es?” ("Yes, princess, what is it?") he asks, the Greek words rolling off his tongue with a familiar warmth, though the smoke he exhales carries a hint of impatience.

“Vater, warum kann ich kein Englisch lernen? Gerda kann es.” ("Father, why can't I learn English? Gerda can.") You inquire, your voice laced with a persistent curiosity that has been met with resistance time and again.

“In der Außenpolitik wird das nicht von Ihnen erwartet.” ("You’re not expected in foreign affairs," he retorts, his tone firm, dismissing your request with the same words he always uses.) The finality in his voice is meant to discourage further argument, but you stand your ground.

“Vater,” (Father,) you plead, your single word laden with a mixture of longing and frustration.

His gaze softens momentarily, but his decision remains unchanged. “Gehen Sie nach Hause oder setzen Sie Ihre Arbeit weiter fort, woanders.” ("Go home or continue your job away from here," he commands, his voice brooking no argument.

In the stark confines of his cell, Thomas lies awake, the coarse pillow doing little to ease the throbbing ache in his head. The silence is shattered as an officer abruptly enters, his presence filling the small space.

"Sorry to bother you like this," he says, his tone perfunctory, lacking genuine remorse. He's a study in contrasts: fairly tall and thin, yet possessing a shock of unruly black hair. His most distinguishing feature is his teeth, irregular and widely spaced, protruding slightly even when his mouth is closed. As he speaks, he produces a printed form and a pencil from his pocket, pulling up a rickety chair and settling in as if preparing for a long, tedious task.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, the question hanging in the air, unanswered.

"Tough luck about your wounds. I know how you feel. I hear you put up a fine show before they got you," the officer continues, attempting to establish a rapport, however insincere.

Thomas remains still, his gaze fixed on the man in the chair, his mind racing, calculating.

"Well, let's get this stuff over with. I'm afraid you'll have to answer a few questions so that I can fill in this combat report. Let me see now, first of all, what was your squadron?" The officer asks, his eyes scanning the form.

Thomas doesn’t move. He looks directly at the officer and replies, his voice steady despite the turmoil within, "My name is Peter Williamson. My number is nine seven two four five seven." The lie is a shield, a carefully constructed defense against the unknown.

As you enter the dining room, your purse makes a distinct thump against the table, your eyes immediately drawn to your little brother across from his English tutor. The tutor, sensing the end of the session, begins to pack up their materials as you arrive.

"Will," you say softly, your voice carrying a gentle warmth. He notices you instantly, his face lighting up as he rushes toward you.

"Schwester!" (Sister!) he exclaims, leaping into your arms. You stumble back slightly, steadying yourself as you wrap your arms around him, a wide smile spreading across your face. You've been the closest thing to a mother he's ever known, a role you've embraced wholeheartedly, and it seems destined to remain that way.

"Wie war die Arbeit heute?" (How was work today?) he asks, his curiosity evident. You set him down gently in front of you, your gaze softening as you reply,

"Gut. Keine neuen Patienten, ich habe auch mit Vater gesprochen." (Good. No new patients; I talked with Father as well. You reach out to brush a stray strand of hair from his face, a protective instinct rising within you. You feel the constant, almost overwhelming need to shield him from any harm.

"Vater hat morgen Arbeit für mich. Er sagt, sie ist für Erwachsene." (Father has some work for me tomorrow. He says it's for adults.) Wilhelm continues, his tone a mix of excitement and anticipation. A flicker of concern crosses your face. It's unusual for your father to take such an active interest in Wilhelm unless he needs something. However, you can't bring yourself to dampen your brother's enthusiasm for what seems like a rare opportunity to bond with your father.

"Dann geh jetzt schlafen." (Go sleep, then,) you urge, trying to keep your apprehension from showing as you watch him scurry off, his youthful energy filling the room.

The harsh morning light pierced through the tiny gap in the curtained windows, assaulting your eyes, and the rustling sounds in your room dragged you from sleep. It was supposed to be a day for sleeping in. With a groan, you pushed yourself up, only to find your little brother rummaging through your closet, surrounded by a chaotic pile of your clothes. He was attempting to dress himself in a button-up shirt and pants far too large for him.

“Was machst du?” (What are you doing?) you questioned, your voice laced with sleepiness as you approached him, instinctively picking up the scattered garments.

“Ich brauche deine Erwachsenenkleidung für den Ort der Erwachsenen.” (I need your grown-up clothes for the grown-up place.” He mumbled, a guilty expression clouding his face as he clutched a handful of blazers and more formal attire.

With a sigh, you pointed a finger at the mess and firmly instructed, “Mach das sauber.” (Clean this up...) before leaving the room to confront the real issue.

You found your father calmly absorbed in the newspaper at the dining room table. “Vater. Wohin bringst du Wilhelm?” (Father, where are you taking Wilhelm?) you asked, your tone sharp.

“Das Krankenhaus” (The hospital), he replied tersely, folding the newspaper and taking a sip of his coffee.

“Nein, Vater. Das werde ich nicht zulassen. Er ist nur ein Junge.” (No father. I will not allow it. He is just a boy.) You retorted, your voice rising with indignation.

“Ich weiß nicht mehr, woher Sie die Autorität haben.” (I don't remember when you got the authority), he muttered, barely looking.

“Autorität? Ich habe ihn großgezogen, seit ich denken kann.” (Authority?) I’ve been raising him for as long as I can remember.) You shot back, your frustration evident.

“Hören Sie auf, den Tod Ihrer Mutter für Ihre Abwesenheit verantwortlich zu machen.” (Stop blaming your absence on Mother’s death.) You continue.

“Genug! Sprich nicht von ihr.” (Enough!) Do not speak of her,) he spat, his eyes flashing with anger. As much as he seemed to dislike you, deep down, he knew it was because you were a mirror image of his beloved wife, Anneliese.

Just then, your little brother appeared, breaking the tense standoff. “Kommt Y/N zu uns?” (Is Y/N joining us?) he asked, his innocent question momentarily diffusing the never-ending conflict between you and your father.

“Wir sind unter uns, Will. Vater muss sich um die Arbeit kümmern.” (It'll just be us, Will. Father has work to attend to,) you replied, casting a pointed look at your father as you grasped Wilhelm's hand.

“Vater?” (Father?) Wilhelm questioned, his gaze shifting from you to your father.

“Ja, Sohn. Geh mit deiner Schwester.” (Yes, Son. Go with your sister,) he relented, his voice softer as he dismissed you.

As you entered the sterile environment of the hospital, Wilhelm's small hand gripped yours tightly, his nervousness palpable as he scanned your surroundings. At least the disappointment had faded from his eyes, replaced by a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.

“Bleib hier, Will. Ich muss nur kurz ein paar Papiere ausfüllen.” (Stay here, Will. I'll just go fill in some paperwork.

He nods as you turn to the woman in front of you. She was your colleague.

As she passes you a pen, she asks a question that slightly hurts your ego.

“Dein Sohn?” (Your son?)

You laugh as you fill in the provided paperwork on the desk while answering,

“Nein, Bruder.” (No, brother.)

“Entschuldigen Sie. Sie können nun gehen.” (Sorry. You're ready to go.) She guiltily says.

You smile and turn around, ready to see your impatient brother. Instead, there's no one. Only pregnant women and elderly couples.

“Wilhelm?” You say as you scatter, checking all the corners before speeding down the hallway, peering through each patient's windows.

Thomas is awoken from a very rare and not as comforting as expected sleep by someone entering his room. First in a long time. A boy. Couldn't be older than 12.

“Du siehst nicht deutsch aus.” (You don’t look German.) The boy says, now standing in front of you.

Well, that confirmed his German suspicions. Great.

“Listen, kid. Some painkillers, maybe water. Would be great.” What was he doing? This kid probably couldn't even speak English.

“I am Wilhelm,” Wilhelm states, spacing his words out to perfect his sentence. A little hope flourished through Thomas’s eyes.

“Where are your parents?” Thomas says, sitting up as someone rushes into the room.

A young woman. His room sure was popular. He couldn't lie to himself; she was attractive. His type, she looked like the woman he’d seen on the posters. Her black hair trailed down to her lower back, and her skirt wrapped around her curves.

She grabs his shoulder as she yells, “Was machst du, rennst du weg?” (What are you doing running off?”

“Es tut mir leid, Schwester.” (I’m sorry, Sister.) He exclaims,

His apology makes you let go of him. But then you turn your attention to the strange man before you, confused at his appearance and demeanor. You’re distracted by your brother’s familiar voice, in a language you do not understand.

“This is my sister, Y/N.” Wilhelm says while pointing.

“Y/N.” The man repeats, nodding his head.

The repetition of your name through different accents confuses you further as you speak up again, this time with the very few English words you know from overhearing.

“Eh..Sorry. Leaving.” You say, self-aware of your improving accent. You grab Wilhelm and storm outside of the room, pacing further.

“Wenn Vater herausfindet, dass ich dich mit einem Tommy sprechen lasse, bin ich weg.” (If Father finds out I let you speak to a Tommy, I'm gone. ) You curse under your breath, loud enough for Wilhelm to hear and grunt.

#cillian murphy x oc #thomas shelby x reader #cillian murphy x reader #thomas shelby x oc #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #cillian murphy #cilleatandserve #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc

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cllnmurphy · 24 days ago

Text

ᴏɴᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴋɪꜱꜱ

1. ꜰᴏɢ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ʙᴜʟʟᴇᴛ

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Summary: Thomas Shelby finds himself wounded and disoriented in the trenches. He awakens in a Birmingham hospital, struggling to remember the events that led him there. As his memory returns, he recalls the horrors. His unease grows as he questions the nurse, but she dismisses his concerns.

Warnings: Injury, hospital, plot twist, manipulation, smoking, realisation, language difference, violence, trauma, ptsd, fainting, war.

Word count: 3.5k

A/N: No romance ( y/n will be in the next chapter), basically just context for the story. Sorry for mistakes!!

Glossary:

Albatross B.111 - WW1 German Plane

Hard water- lots of minerals

Vorsicht vor dem Hund- “Beware of the dog”

The mud sucked at Thomas Shelby's boots as he navigated the labyrinthine trenches, the stench of cordite and decay thick in the air. Down below, there was only a vast white undulating sea of mud and mist. Above, the sun struggled to break through the heavy clouds, casting a pale light over the trenches. He was still huddled in his position, clutching his rifle tightly. It felt familiar, like an extension of himself, and he knew how to handle it.

Everything is fine, he thought. I'm holding my ground. I'm doing what I must. I know my way back to safety. When the shelling stops, I’ll crawl back to the command post and say,

“Help me out, will you?” I’ll keep my voice steady, and no one will notice the blood soaking through my uniform. Then I’ll add,

“Someone help me; I’ve been hit.” They’ll probably think I’m joking, and I’ll chuckle, saying,

“Alright, come and see.” But when they do, they’ll be met with a grim sight.

He glanced down at his shoulder, where the bullet had struck. His uniform was torn, and blood flowed freely, but there was no pain yet. It felt surreal, as if he were observing someone else's injury. But then there was a sharp stab in his hip, reminding him of the reality of war. The chaos around him faded momentarily, and all he could think was that this was just a mess that he had to survive. Suddenly, darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, his body succumbing to the trauma. He slumped to the ground, unconscious before he could even register the figures materializing from the fog. The whole world was white, and there was nothing in it. It was so white that sometimes it looked black, and after a time it was either white or black, but mostly it was white. He watched it as it turned from white to black, and then back to white again, and the white stayed for a long time, but the black lasted only for a few seconds. He got into the habit of going to sleep during the white periods, and of waking up just in time to see the world when it was black. But the black was very quick. Sometimes it was only a flash, like someone switching off the light, and switching it on again at once, and so whenever it was white, he dozed off.

When it was white, he put out a hand and he touched something. He took it between his fingers and crumpled it. For a time he lay there, idly letting the tips of his fingers play with the thing which they had touched. Then slowly he opened his eyes, looked down at his hand, and saw that he was holding something which was white. It was the edge of a sheet. He knew it was a sheet because he could see the texture of the material and the stitchings on the hem. He screwed up his eyes, and opened them again quickly. This time he saw the room. He saw the bed in which he was lying; he saw the grey walls and the door and the green curtains over the window. There were some roses on the table by his bed.

Then he saw the basin on the table near the roses. It was a white enamel basin, and beside it there was a small medicine glass.

This is a hospital, he thought. I am in a hospital. But he could remember nothing. He lay back on his pillow, looking at the ceiling and wondering what had happened. He was gazing at the smooth greyness of the ceiling which was so clean and gray, and then suddenly he saw a fly walking upon it. The sight of this fly, the suddenness of seeing this small black speck on a sea of gray, brushed the surface of his brain, and quickly, in that second, he remembered everything. He remembered the trenches. He remembered his wounds.

It seemed all right now. Just then the door opened and a nurse came in.

"Hello," she said. "So you've woken up at last."

She was not good-looking, but she was large and clean. She was between thirty and forty and she had fair hair. More than that he did not notice.

"Where am I?"

"You're a lucky fellow. You're in Birmingham. They brought you in two days ago, and now you're all fixed up. You look fine." She says, her british accent thick.

He paused, then said, "I've been shot in the shoulder and stabbed in the hip."

"That's nothing. We'll get you another one. Now you must go to sleep. The doctor will be coming to see you in about an hour." She picked up the basin and the medicine glass and went out.

But he did not sleep. He wanted to keep his eyes open because he was frightened that if he shut them again everything would go away. He lay looking at the ceiling. The fly was still there. It was very energetic. It would run forward very fast for a few inches, then it would stop. Then it would run forward again, stop, run forward, stop, and every now and then it would take off and buzz around viciously in small circles. It always landed back in the same place on the ceiling and started running and stopping all over again. He watched it for so long that after a while it was no longer a fly, but only a black speck upon a sea of gray, and he was still watching it when the nurse opened the door, and stood aside while the doctor came in. He was an Army doctor, a major, and he had some last war ribbons on his chest. He was bald and small, but he had a cheerful face and kind eyes.

"Well, well," he said. "So you've decided to wake up at last. How are you feeling?"

"I feel all right."

"That's the stuff. You'll be up and about in no time."

The doctor took his wrist to feel his pulse.

"By the way," he said, "some of the lads from your squadron were ringing up and asking about you. They wanted to come along and see you, but I said that they'd better wait a day or two. Told them you were all right, and that they could come and see you a little later on. Just lie quiet and take it easy for a bit. Got something to read?" He glanced at the table with the roses.

"No. Well, nurse will look after you. She'll get you anything you want." With that he waved his hand and went out, followed by the large clean nurse.

When they had gone, he lay back and looked at the ceiling again. The fly was still there and as he lay watching it he heard the noise of an airplane in the distance. He lay listening to the sound of its engines. It was a long way away. I wonder what it is, he thought. Let me see if I can place it. Suddenly he jerked his head sharply to one side. Anyone who has been bombed can tell the noise of a Albatros B.III. They can tell most other German bombers for that matter, but especially an Albatros B.III. The engines seem to sing a duet. There is a deep vibrating bass voice and with it there is a high pitched tenor. It is the singing of the tenor which makes the sound of an Albatros B.III something which one cannot mistake.

He lay listening to the noise, and he felt quite certain about what it was. But where were the sirens, and where the guns? That German pilot certainly had a nerve coming near Birmingham alone in daylight.

The aircraft was always far away, and soon the noise faded away into the distance. Later on there was another. This one, too, was far away, but there was the same deep undulating bass and the high singing tenor, and there was no mistaking it. He had heard that noise every day during the battle.

He was puzzled. There was a bell on the table by the bed. He reached out his hand and rang it. He heard the noise of footsteps down the corridor, and the nurse came in.

"Nurse, what were those airplanes?"

"I'm sure I don't know. I didn't hear them. I expect they were returning from France. Why, what's the matter?"

"They were Albatros B.III’s . I'm sure they were Albatros B.III’s . I know the sound of the engines. There were two of them. What were they doing over here?"

The nurse came up to the side of his bed and began to straighten out the sheets and tuck them in under the mattress.

"Gracious me, what things you imagine. You mustn't worry about a thing like that. Would you like me to get you something to read?"

"No, thank you."

She patted his pillow and brushed back the hair from his forehead with her hand.

"They never come over in daylight any longer. You know that. "

"Nurse."

"Yes."

"Could I have a cigarette?"

"Why certainly you can."

She went out and came back almost at once with a packet of Players and some matches. She handed one to him and when he had put it in his mouth, she struck a match and lit it.

"If you want me again," she said, "just ring the bell," and she went out.

Once toward evening he heard the noise of another aircraft. It was far away, but even so he knew that it was a single-engined machine. But he could not place it. It was going fast; he could tell that. He did not know what it was, and it worried him greatly. Perhaps I am very ill, he thought. Perhaps I am imagining things. Perhaps I am a little delirious. I simply do not know what to think.

That evening the nurse came in with a basin of hot water and began to wash him.

"Well," she said, "I hope you don't still think that we're being bombed."

She had taken off his pajama top and was soaping his right arm with a flannel. He did not answer.

She rinsed the flannel in the water, rubbed more soap on it, and began to wash his chest.

"You're looking fine this evening," she said. "They operated on you as soon as you came in. They did a marvelous job. You'll be all right. I've got a brother in the war," she added.

He said, "I went to school in Birmingham."

She looked up quickly. "Well, that's fine," she said. “I bet you know lots of people.”

"Yes." he said.

She had finished washing his chest and arms, and now she turned back the bedclothes. She undid the cord of his pajama trousers and took them off. She began to wash his legs and the rest of his body. This was the first time he had had a bed bath, and he was embarrassed. She laid a towel under his legs, and she was washing his foot with the flannel.

She said, "This wretched soap won't lather at all. It's the water. It's as hard as nails."

He said, "None of the soap is very good now and, of course, with hard water it's hopeless."

As he said it he remembered something. He remembered the baths which he used to take at school in Birmingham, in the long stone-floored bathroom which had four baths in a room. He remembered how the water was so soft that you had to take a shower afterwards to get all the soap off your body, and he remembered how the foam used to float on the surface of the water, so that you could not see your legs underneath. He remembered that sometimes they were given calcium tablets because the school doctor used to say that soft water was bad for the teeth.

"In Birmingham," he said, "the water isn't . . ."

He did not finish the sentence. Something had occurred to him; something so fantastic and absurd that for a moment he felt like telling the nurse about it and having a good laugh.

She looked up. "The water isn't what?" she said.

"Nothing," he answered. "I was dreaming.”

She rinsed the flannel in the basin, wiped the soap off his leg, and dried him with a towel.

"It's nice to be washed," he said. "I feel better." He was feeling his face with his hands. "I need a shave."

"We'll do that tomorrow," she said. "Perhaps you can do it yourself then."

That night he could not sleep. He lay awake thinking of the Albatros B.III's, the hardness of the water and the absence of any but two medical workers monitoring him. He could think of nothing else. They were Albatros B.III's, he said to himself. I know they were. And yet it is not possible, because they would not be flying around so low over here in broad daylight. I know that it is true, and yet I know that it is impossible. Perhaps I am ill. Perhaps I am behaving like a fool and do not know what I am doing or saying. Perhaps I am delirious. His thoughts drowned out as he slept

He woke just as the first light of day was showing through the slit in the curtains over the window. The room was still dark, but he could tell that it was already beginning to get light outside. He lay looking at the grey light which was showing through the slit in the curtain, and as he lay there he remembered the day before. He remembered the Albatros B.III’s and the hardness of the water; he remembered the large pleasant nurse and the kind doctor, and now the small grain of doubt took root in his mind and it began to grow.

He looked around the room. The nurse had taken the roses out the night before, and there was nothing except the table with a packet of cigarettes, a box of matches and an ash tray. Otherwise, it was bare. It was no longer warm or friendly. It was not even comfortable. It was cold and empty and very quiet.

Slowly the grain of doubt grew, and with it came fear, a light, dancing fear that warned but did not frighten; the kind of fear that one gets not because one is afraid, but because one feels that there is something wrong. Quickly the doubt and the fear grew so that he became restless and angry, and when he touched his forehead with his hand, he found that it was damp with sweat. He knew then that he must do something; that he must find some way of proving to himself that he was either right or wrong, and he looked up and saw again the window and the green curtains. From where he lay, that window was right in front of him, but it was fully ten yards away. Somehow he must reach it and look out. The idea became an obsession with him, and soon he could think of nothing except the window. But what about his shoulder and hip? He lifted his hand and felt the thick bandaged wound on his shoulder and the sharp pain in his hip. They seemed all right for the moment. They didn't hurt too much. But it would not be easy.

He sat up. He looked at the bandages on his shoulder and the throbbing pain in his hip. It was beginning to hurt, and he could feel it pulsing with each heartbeat. He wanted to collapse, lie down on the carpet and do nothing, but he knew that he must go on.

Each movement sent sharp jolts of pain through his body, but he pushed through, determined to reach the window and see the world outside, to prove to himself that he was still alive and fighting. His motivation was his family, he remembered his brothers, not the arguments but the laughter. Before the war.

When he got to the window he quickly pushed aside the curtains and looked out.

He saw a small house with a gray tiled roof standing alone beside a narrow lane, and immediately behind it there was a plowed field. In front of the house there was an untidy garden, and there was a green hedge separating the garden from the lane. He was looking at the hedge when he saw the sign. It was just a piece of board nailed to the top of a short pole, and because the hedge had not been trimmed for a long time, the branches had grown out around the sign so that it seemed almost as though it had been placed in the middle of the hedge.

There was something written on the board with white paint, and he pressed his head against the glass of the window, trying to read what it said. The first letter was a V, he could see that. The second was an O, and the third was an S. One after another he managed to see what the letters were. There were four words, and slowly he spelled the letters out aloud to himself as he managed to read them. Vorsicht vor dem Hund. That is what it said.

He stood there, holding tightly to the edges of the window sill with his hands, staring at the sign and at the whitewashed lettering of the words. For a moment he could think of nothing at all. He stood there looking at the sign, repeating the words over and over to himself, and then slowly he began to realize the full meaning of the thing. He looked up at the cottage and at the plowed field. He looked at the small orchard on the left of the cottage and he looked at the green countryside beyond. "So this is Germany," he said. "I am in Germany."

Now the throbbing in his right hip was very great. It felt as though someone was pounding it with a hammer, and suddenly the pain became so intense that it affected his head and for a moment he thought he was going to fall. Quickly he walked back to the bed and hoisted himself in. He pulled the bedclothes over himself and lay back on the pillow, exhausted. He could still think of nothing at all except the small sign by the hedge, and the plowed field and the orchard. It was the words on the sign that he could not forget.

It was some time before the nurse came in. She came carrying a basin of hot water and she said, "Good morning, how are you today?"

He said, "Good morning, nurse."

The pain was still great under the bandages, but he did not wish to tell this woman anything. He looked at her as she busied herself with getting the washing things ready. He looked at her more carefully now. Her hair was very fair. She was tall and big-boned, and her face seemed pleasant. But there was something a little uneasy about her eyes. They were never still. They never looked at anything for more than a moment and they moved too quickly from one place to another in the room. There was something about her movements also. They were too sharp and nervous to go well with the casual manner in which she spoke.

She set down the basin, took off his pajama top and began to wash him.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yes."

"Good," she said. She was washing his arms and his chest.

Something snapped. The years of war, the constant fear, the faces of the dead – they all coalesced into a blinding rage. He saw not a nurse, but an enemy. A symbol of the weakness and vulnerability he had fought so hard to suppress. He attacked her, wrapping his hands around her neck whilst muttering curses under his breath.

“I know what you are.”

The nurse gasped, her eyes widening in terror. She clawed at his hands, struggling to breathe. He felt a surge of dark satisfaction, a primal release of pent-up aggression.

Before he could fully succumb, two orderlies burst into the room, alerted by the commotion. They pried him off her, their faces grim. He fought them, but his weakened state was no match for their combined strength. They pinned him to the bed, his rage turning to despair as the nurse, bruised and terrified, fled the room.

The war had followed him, and now it threatened to consume him entirely.

Classic Tommy. He thought once calm. His chances of escaping Germany were decimated. But this fact got him wondering, what would the chances be?

#cillian murphy x oc #thomas shelby x reader #cillian murphy x reader #thomas shelby x oc #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #cillian murphy #cilleatandserve #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc

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cllnmurphy · 25 days ago

Text

ᴏɴᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴋɪꜱꜱ

-ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Summary: In the heart of World War I, a wounded Thomas Shelby awakens in a hospital, a world away from where he believes he should be. A German nurse becomes his caregiver, and their connection deepens into a forbidden territory of taught languages and unspoken desires. They both know their affair is dangerous, but the intimacy is too tempting to resist.

Warnings:Plot twists, slow burn, War, Death, Murder, Gore/Injury, Forbidden love, Smut, Violence, angst, miscommunication, betrayal, language, ghosting, enemies to lovers, lovers to enemies, depression, ptsd, trauma, fluff, nightmares, revenge, comfort, grieving, hospitals.

S1&2 Spoilers

A/N:Inspired by Roald Dahl’s, ‘Beware of the dog’. Didn’t want to spoil the story in the summary but it needs to look interesting. Honestly think this is my most interesting and heavy piece of work and can’t wait to write it.

1. Fog as a Bullet- 3.5k

Thomas Shelby finds himself wounded and disoriented in the trenches. He awakens in a hospital, struggling to remember the events that led him there. His unease grows as he questions the nurse, is dismissed.

2. Dreams of You & I- 2k

A trip to the hospital with Y/N’s brother is ruined by an unexpected visit to the infamous British soldier held captive.

3.Like someone in love

Main Masterlist

#cillian murphy x oc #thomas shelby x reader #cillian murphy x reader #thomas shelby x oc #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #cillian murphy #cilleatandserve #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc

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cllnmurphy · 25 days ago

Text

ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ

-ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

Summary: Y/N, known for her fiery personality, is betrothed to Thomas Shelby. Despite her initial protests, she eventually finds a defining connection within the marriage. As a newly wed, Y/N navigates the complexities of her new life, forming friendships and adapting to the protective environment that surrounds her.

Warnings: 18+, Arranged marriage, Eventual Smut, kidnapping, swearing, angst, cheating, fluff, drinking, violence

1. Romance

2. Come to me

Part 3

coming soon

#cillian murphy x oc #thomas shelby x reader #cillian murphy x reader #thomas shelby x oc #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #cillian murphy #cilleatandserve #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc

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cllnmurphy · 25 days ago

Text

ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴏᴍ��ɴᴄᴇ

2. ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Summary: Y/N is newly married and has to adjust to her new life, friendships, and protections

Warnings: Arranged marriage, groping, first kiss, slight angst, angry Tommy

A/N: Short- part 3 tomorrow with more action

Tags: @freshsublimesheep

"I, Y/N M/N L/N, take this man, Thomas Michael Shelby, to be my lawfully wedded husband, promising to honor and obey him in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, until the end of time."

Was it truly that simple? To stand here, exposed, for everyone you knew to witness your transition.

You were merely a fleeting phase in their lives, yet they had consumed your existence entirely.

Ripping you away from the life you had envisioned, as if they possessed the right to dictate your destiny.

"I, Thomas Michael Shelby, take this woman, Y/N M/N L/N, to be my lawfully wedded wife, promising to honor and care for her in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, until the end of time."

"May I kiss the bride?" he repeated, his voice a husky rasp. He glanced up at you, one brow arched in a mocking challenge. There was a glint of laughter in his eyes, as if he doubted your willingness to comply.

"You may now kiss the bride."

Your eyes widened slightly as his hand found its way into your hair, gently but firmly pulling you closer.

"Nothing I can ever give you will resemble love, Thomas," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

"Then I'll pretend," he replied, his gaze unwavering.

His mouth crashed against yours in a hungry collision, devoid of any softness or gentleness. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you unconsciously leaned into the kiss as the guests erupted in applause.

After a silent and tense car ride, he opened the door to the house. You took a deep breath, the sudden warmth from the fireplace unfamiliar and almost startling.

"Our room is the first one to the right upstairs," Thomas stated matter-of-factly as he began to remove his suit jacket, preparing for bed.

Our room. What did you expect? Boundaries? Of course not. You thought bitterly.

As you ascended the stairs, carefully holding up the train of your wedding dress, you finally reached the designated room. You paused, staring at your reflection in the mirror – a stranger stared back at you. On what was supposed to be the best day of your life, the culmination of your purpose, you felt utterly empty.

Was this another lie perpetuated by your parents?

You wondered as your hands came up to your face, wiping away the carefully applied red rouge and dark eyeliner.

The scent of old money and unspoken expectations hung heavy in the air. The room was opulent, draped in rich fabrics and adorned with antique furniture that seemed to silently judge your presence.

It was a far cry from the simple life you had always known, a stark reminder of the chasm that now separated you from your past.

With trembling hands, you began to unbutton the elaborate wedding dress, each pearl a tiny weight pulling you further into this unwanted reality. The dress, a symbol of purity and new beginnings, felt like a suffocating costume, a disguise you could no longer bear to wear. As it pooled at your feet, you were left standing in a simple slip, vulnerable and exposed in the heart of enemy territory.

A sudden knock at the door startled you, and Thomas's voice cut through the silence.

"Are you decent?" he asked, his tone devoid of warmth. You hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to respond, before finally muttering a quiet,

"Yes." The door creaked open, and he entered the room, his eyes sweeping over you with a detached curiosity.

"I trust you'll be ready for breakfast in the morning," he stated, his words clipped and formal.

"We have a guest." With that, he turned and left, leaving you alone once more in the suffocating silence of the room.

You slept in the cold, crisp sheets, unaccompanied. You guessed he took that mistress thing seriously. You knew you weren’t going to be two peas in a pod, but left alone on your wedding day? It was a new low, even for him. The silence of the room was deafening, broken only by the distant chirping of birds, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing inside you.

With brushed teeth and in fresh new clothes bought by Thomas, you sat at the grand table and ate the breakfast meticulously made by the chefs. You weren’t used to the dependency on others here; you’d always been fiercely independent, carving your own path.

After hearing some shuffling and hushed arguing at the door, you walked towards it to find Thomas standing before a young lady, probably younger than you but undeniably similar. She was beautiful, with her dark hair and eyes, a striking contrast to the bright red lipstick she wore.

"You must be y/n! I can’t believe we haven’t met yet," she exclaimed, punctuating the last line with a playful slap to Thomas’s arm.

"Hello. You must be Ada," you replied, stating the obvious. It wasn’t hard to deduce since he only had one sister.

After some small talk over coffee, while Thomas got into a sleek car and, apparently, went to sort out "business," she suggested seeing the horses outside. To whom they belonged, you were unaware. You had been an avid horse rider in your youth, but a lot had changed since then.

"I’m a bit rusty," you admitted as you patted a horse, although she urged you to hop on anyway. You smiled, which was uncommon these days, before getting onto a stunning black horse with a long, flowing mane. She clapped as she watched from afar, observing how the horse slowly walked. All was well until an engine roared from afar, probably Thomas. The horse freaked, jumping and throwing you, unharnessed, onto the unforgiving ground. You yelped as you held your ankle, already red and swelling.

"Awh! Darling! It’s just twisted," Ada exclaimed, running over and kneeling before your ankle.

"It’s fine," you reassured her as you used her help to stand up. Donna’s words repeated in your head, "Be strong. Be yourself," convincing you to hide the pain. As Ada went home, feeling very guilty, you limped your way back into the home without being caught. Or so you thought.

As you entered the living room to go up the stairs, Thomas stood in front of the fireplace, turning and looking at you expectantly.

"Had fun with Ada?" he questioned, almost as if he knew something. You straightened your posture immediately, trying not to put weight on your ankle.

"Yes. She’s fun," you confirmed, accidentally leaning on your injured ankle and exhaling to conceal the pain. He gave a brief nod before tipping his chin.

"What's wrong with your foot?" Your face drained. He knew. Still, your self-preservation was nowhere in sight.

"What? I stumbled over the rug," you retorted, trying to sound convincing.

"Walk to me." His voice was a low, dangerous murmur, and you knew you were cornered.

As you walk, a persistent limp mars your stride, but Thomas is there to effortlessly carry you. He gently lifts your injured leg, his touch careful and reassuring as he wraps it in fresh bandages, having retrieved them from the kitchen with swift purpose. His presence is a comforting shield against the world's harshness.

The following week, Ada extends an invitation for a night out. You find yourselves at a dimly lit bar on the edge of town, a place rumored to serve without prejudice.

The bar's atmosphere is thick with anticipation and freedom. The detail of the bar's location, however, remains unmentioned to Thomas. Back at home, his worry escalates as he questions the maid,

"Where is my wife?" The maid, startled by his intensity, blurts out,

"Out with Ada, sir," before nervously revealing the address, fearing his growing anger.

Inside the bar, as you hold your drink, a stranger's inappropriate touch—his hands grabbing your hips—ignites a spark of defiance. You swiftly turn, strategically using Thomas's marital claim to your advantage. You wave your hand, the prominent ring on your finger wiggling, a clear message to any onlookers that you are off-limits. Turning back to Ada, you resume dancing, trying to shake off the unease, but the unwelcome sensation of hands on your waist and a groin pressing against you elicits a visceral reaction of disgust.

Just as the situation escalates, Thomas arrives, drawn by a protective instinct. He witnesses the man's aggression and hears his accusatory words. Pushing you aside, Thomas grabs the offender by his collar, shaking him with controlled fury. The man's repulsive excuse,

"That chick asked for it," fuels Thomas's rage.

"That chick," he grits out, "happens to be my wife." The man feebly tries to defend himself.

“She didn't say she was married." Before submitting, “I’ll apologize sir.” Thomas, barely containing his fury, leans in, his voice a dangerous whisper,

"I don't want you breathing her air." The tension in the room is palpable, and the air crackles with unspoken threats.

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cllnmurphy · 26 days ago

Text

ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ

1. ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Summary: Y/N, who is characterized by her fiery personality, is betrothed to Thomas Shelby. Through meaningless protest and comfort, she finally meets the person that will define her as long as she’s married.

Warnings: Arrange Marriage, light swearing, slightly possessive comments, Thomas is already crushing.

A/N: Part 2 tomorrow. Let me know what you think! I enjoyed making this a lot but I feel like there’s too much dialogue.

Glossary:

Lichfield - City in England

Alonzo - Noble and ready

Hotsy-Totsy - Very sexually attractive

You released a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“This is for your own good, sweetheart,” your mother reasons, her voice steady but lacking warmth.

“For my own good? You might as well be leaving me for dead!” you exclaim, frustration boiling inside you. It wasn’t as if you were just being betrothed to the most dangerous man in London.

“Papa, say something,” you plead, your palms clutching the fabric of your dress in your lap, desperately seeking some form of support.

“Nothing is fair in death and romance,” your wise father replies calmly, though in that moment, he doesn’t seem wise at all in your eyes.

“Does Alonzo know about this? That you’re selling your only girl?” you raise your voice, and just then, your brother Alonzo comes down the stairs, confusion etched on his face.

“We’re not selling you—” your mother defends, but you quickly cut off her foolish excuse.

“Do not tell me that this is anything but a little transaction for you,” you say, furrowing your brows in disbelief.

“What’s all this yelling for?” Alonzo chimes in worriedly, both you and your mother turning to face him while your father’s eyes remain glued to the newspaper, which suddenly seems far more important than your opinion.

“They’re selling me to Thomas Shelby!” you exclaim, watching as your brother’s protective instincts kick in, while your mother tries to correct your statement.

“We’re marrying her off, Alonzo,” she insists, arms crossed, battling for your brother’s understanding.

“Mama, have you gone insane? She’ll get shredded to pieces in their world!” he exclaims, his eyes wide with concern.

“Well, I’ve had enough of her in mine,” she replies coldly, the words cutting deeper than you anticipated.

“Y/N,” Alonzo calls out as you run up the stairs to your room, tears welling up in your eyes. He watches your parents, how they continue with their lives, seemingly unaffected after ruining yours.

You snap awake from a long nap to a sharp knock. The icy silence from your parents makes it clear the conversation from last night hasn't been forgotten. Then, two more knocks.

"It's Donna," your cousin says quietly, twisting the door handle and stepping in. She sits on the edge of your bed.

"Donna," you repeat, sitting up to face her with puffy eyes and a red nose. She's always been the strongest person you know.

"What am I going to do?" you ask, desperation lacing your voice.

"You've never let anything bother you, let alone a man. Be strong, be yourself," she says, gripping your hand. Then, changing the subject, "So, how is he?" she asks with a grin.

"I haven't even met the bloke yet, but he's bad enough to be called the devil." You roll your eyes as she laughs.

"I'm talking about looks. Is he hotsy-totsy?" She leans in, her smile widening.

"Not funny," you say, resting your head back on the pillow.

"Well, at least he's getting to know you. Angelina met hers on her wedding day."

The days blur by, mostly spent hiding in your room. When morning finally arrives, you haven't slept a wink. Today confirms it's all happening—it's real. You stay in your room, dolling yourself up, which is weird because the last thing you crave is this man's validation. You comb your hair, sit at your vanity as your dad greets him downstairs.

"Mr. Shelby, please come in," he says sharply, his eyes fixed on the figure whose hat hides half his face.

"The pleasure is mine," he says, removing his hat.

Alonzo stands beside his father, nodding and extending his hand to Thomas. They shake hands before he enters, fixing his hair as he walks in. He inhales, looking around at the home of his future wife—that is, if she's suitable.

"Ah, Mr. Shelby, I have to ask," he leans in as Thomas sits in the nearest chair, "Are you sure you want you? She's quite infamous for her… demeanor." He leans in, unconsciously whispering.

"I'm sure, Mr. L/N," Thomas says, remaining calm. He'd be damned if he didn't choose you. You were beautiful, prettier than any woman he'd ever seen.

"I have two older daughters in Lichfield. Wonderful ladies," he blabbers on.

Thomas looks at him and gestures with his hand,

"That'll be all. Thank you."

You walk down the stairs, looking more graceful than you have in days, maintaining eye contact with Thomas. You'd have to get used to it, from the looks of things.

As you sit in the chair across from him, everyone leaves the living room, your brother with little protest.

"Can I smoke?" he asks, lighting a cigarette after your approval.

"Your name Italian?" He continues, breathing into his cigarette and sighing after no response.

"You don't want to do this, eh?"

"Is it obvious, Mr. Shelby?" You say softly, tilting your head slightly.

"Okay. Well, let's go over our boundaries then. I don't expect much."

Don't expect much, my ass, you think. You wouldn't be surprised if you had ten kids in five years.

"Just cooking and cleaning. Communication, the bare minimum, of course," he continues before leaning back, urging you to speak with his hand.

"No sex. You can get a mistress on the side. Or twelve." You were unsure if he would agree, considering the standard for wives these days. You surely would not give up your virginity to someone you just met, unwillingly, too.

"You plan on doing the same?"

"If I do?"

"No point, no one will believe that I'm unfaithful to my wife. They all know what happens when someone touches what belongs to me."

"I am not yours to own."

"Right now, you aren't. In private, you can call all the shots." He puts out his cigarette in the ashtray. "But to the rest of the world? You're fucking mine, and I don't share."

"Mr. Shelby," you stand and extend your hand, which he holds gently. Then, he plants a soft kiss on your knuckles while looking up at you.

"Ms. L/N. My pleasure."

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cllnmurphy · 28 days ago

Text

ᴄᴀᴘᴀʙʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

Masterlist

Summary: After seperated lovers are conveniently and temporarily single, the flame reignites. Although it was extinguished for a reason.

Warnings: Cheating, Smut(unprotected p in v), Death, Yearning, Rejection

A/N: Feels a bit rushed but nonetheless hope it’s interesting!

London, England.

February 20th 1914

Do you want the truth? Grief is like spilled glitter. When it first spills, it’s everywhere, an overwhelming mess. But as you clean it up, it seems less intense, though every now and then, you still find remnants, sparkling reminders. Grief is love with nowhere to go, and it has defined the last three months of your life.

Your husband passed away from influenza that December. His recovery depended on rest, but that rest was tragically short-lived. His death was anything but peaceful, a term you resist applying to it. It has debilitated you, and your income is dwindling in this unforgiving economy. Rain pours heavily as you stare out the window of the cold house he left behind. You've always hated winter, despite England's persistent chill. Your breath slows, matching the rhythm of raindrops tracing paths on the glass. For a moment, your memory pulls you back to the summer of '03, to your adolescence.

Everything comes and goes in waves. The landscape remains unchanged: the cornfields, the cows, the flies, the constant coughing. The musky air fills the rows, permeating everything, even through the ash-infested vents from distant fires. It eats away at the bark of trees, just as this grief eats away at the last vestiges of happiness clinging to your bones. The other night, wrapped in crisp sheets, you clenched your body, imagining yourself as an embryo in your mother's womb. It was the only source of warmth and comfort capable of lulling you to sleep. But now, you see sheep grazing on green pastures outside the window. You hope they have water. Sometimes, you imagine being reincarnated as one of them, jumping over the low wire fences to freedom. You wonder how far you could get before a human catches you, tames you, and brings you back to their living painting—a life to observe as they wash dishes, smeared with the mother's milk they stole from you.

But it's not all darkness and despair. There are moments of hope. You wonder if, in the future, you’ll look back and think that these miles of cornfields, these anguished breaths, these forced smiles, these fleeting moments of calm, were all worth it. You don't know exactly where you're supposed to be. A hollow thought takes control, leaving you adrift in uncertainty.

Birmingham, England

June 13th, 1899

You and Ada were thick as thieves, partners in crime with a shared love for chaos. The days were a canvas for your pranks, each one more elaborate and ridiculous than the last. You’d spend hours whispering plans, giggling over the potential mayhem you were about to unleash.

But then there was Thomas. He moved with a quiet authority that made the air around him shift. While you and Ada reveled in your youthful antics, he seemed to carry the weight of the world in his eyes. His gaze alone was enough to make you freeze, a stark reminder that there were consequences to your actions.

Despite the undercurrent of respect, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear. Thomas was a force to be reckoned with, a man who demanded order in a world that often felt like it was spiraling out of control. You knew that crossing him would be a mistake, and yet, the thrill of pushing boundaries often outweighed your better judgment.

December 2nd, 1906

The thought of Thomas still makes your heart skip a beat. It's funny, isn't it? How someone who once seemed so distant and intimidating could become your secret confidant, your stolen moments of peace. It all started so innocently, a shared glance here, a lingering touch there. Before you knew it, you were both caught in a whirlwind of unspoken desires, drawn together by an invisible force that neither of you could resist.

You smile as the memories flood back, the clandestine meetings, the hushed whispers in the dark. The beach in winter, your sanctuary, the waves crashing against the shore like a symphony of secrets. The water, crystal clear, reflecting the raw emotions that swirled within you. Thomas, his eyes softened, his touch gentle, a stark contrast to the stoic figure you once knew.

Sixteen, young, and reckless, you dove headfirst into a love that was as pure as it was forbidden. There were no labels, no expectations, just two souls connecting on a level that transcended words. You built a world of your own, a haven where you could be vulnerable, where you could be yourselves, away from the judging eyes of the world. It was a love born in the shadows, fueled by passion and secrecy, a love that would forever be etched in your heart.

London, England

April 8th, 1919

Spring flowers bloom, a sight you could easily grow accustomed to as you gaze out the same familiar window. It was once obscured by relentless rain and a disheartening absence of sun, but now, it frames a scene of renewal, painting your world in vibrant hues. You check your mailbox, a routine task that has become almost meditative, only to find a letter—an invitation to a wedding. Interesting, you think, a wry smile playing on your lips, considering how few people you've allowed into your life since your husband's passing.

Wariness creeps in as you open the letter, discovering it's an invitation to Thomas Shelby's wedding. Your heart skips a beat, momentarily ceasing its rhythm as you read the rest of the letter. The words blur, however, as your mind fixates on the sender's name, replaying old memories. You and Thomas had drifted apart naturally, a gradual fading of contact, yet you had somehow underestimated your significance in his life to warrant such an invitation.

Ignoring the letter seems like the easiest course of action, a silent declaration of your unsuitability for a wedding you're convinced will be both awkward and dull. It would be so simple to let it gather dust, to pretend it never arrived, and to continue living in the quiet solitude you've grown accustomed to.

September 28th 1919

Weeks turn into months, each day blurring into the next with a monotonous rhythm, and no letters break the silence. It's surprising, really, how a tiny, almost forgotten fragment of your life has now ballooned into a significant part of everyone else's narrative. Thomas has become quite infamous, his name whispered with a mix of awe and apprehension, but you find yourself resolutely uninterested in those affairs. Or anyone's, for that matter. Your world has shrunk, the boundaries defined by your own solitude.

Yet, even within your self-imposed isolation, news finds a way in. You didn't need to receive any formal correspondence to learn of Thomas's wife's death—Grace Burgess. A beautiful girl, she was, young and full of life, now tragically cut short. The news casts a shadow, a somber reminder of the fragility of happiness.

You can no longer ignore the situation, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on you. The right thing to do, the only thing that aligns with your sense of decency, is to send your condolences. It's a moral obligation you can't sidestep, a bridge you must cross despite the lingering discomfort. You resolve to travel as soon as possible, compelled by a sense of duty, perhaps a flicker of lingering affection, and a deep-seated need to offer solace in the face of profound loss.

Birmingham, England

October 5th, 1919

The train ride stretches on, yet the journey seems to pass in a blur, your mind teeming with a torrent of thoughts. Thomas never coped well with grief; you witnessed it firsthand with the loss of his mother and father. You can only imagine the depths of sorrow he must be navigating now. Uncertainty gnaws at you, though, as you're unsure of where you stand with him, especially considering the complexities of his love life. It's not as if you parted on bad terms, but time and distance have created a chasm between you.

Upon arriving at Birmingham station, you make your way toward his house, guided by directions from a helpful passerby and a diligent driver. You knock on the imposing wooden door, and to your surprise, Thomas answers almost immediately, as if he had been passing by. His face is etched with fatigue, a mirror of the weariness you remember seeing in your own eyes back in 1914. Though he betrays no outward surprise at your presence, he wordlessly ushers you inside.

“Thomas, I'm very sorry about your loss," you murmur, settling into a chair as he urges you to remove your coat and accept a cup of tea.

He appears to be simmering with anger, though he restrains it in your presence. First impressions after a long time, but you've aged gracefully, still retaining a youthful glow. He's not sure he can say the same for himself. A wave of guilt washes over him, a recognition of his failure to offer support during your partner's passing—a partner he never approved of. Perhaps that's why he kept his distance.

"Not your fault," he says quietly, but the words ring hollow. He knows, deep down, that it was his fault, or at least he strongly believes it to be.

“I'm here when you need me. I always have been," you reassure him, though the sincerity of your claim is undermined by your absence over the past decade.

"You came all the way down to Birmingham, huh?" he joked through the dark. You both knew he kept track of your location, though neither of you mentioned it. You looked too much like Grace for him to stay calm. Or maybe Grace looked like you. He definitely had a type: beautiful, intelligent women.

"Yes, I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the wedding. I, uh," you stammered, trying to come up with an excuse through the sudden brain fog. He spoke before you could embarrass yourself further.

"That's fine. How long are you here for?" he asked curiously, changing the topic from his grievance.

"Just the weekend," you answered as you fiddled with the handle of your mug. It had been a while since you two had talked, and he was very different. The stoic Tommy you were once afraid of was back. It was as if he had never left, just temporarily gone. You didn't expect the spark to return instantly, though you noticed he never stopped looking at you. And not in a normal way, but with an intimidating gaze. The kind of look someone uses when they want to devour you whole.

Before you could say anything else, he reached across the small space between you, his hand gently cupping your cheek. His thumb stroked your skin as he leaned in, his eyes never leaving yours. The world seemed to fade away as his lips met yours. It wasn't a gentle, tentative kiss; it was full of pent-up longing and a raw intensity that sent shivers down your spine. His lips moved against yours with a possessive hunger, and you found yourself responding in kind, your fingers tangling in his hair. The kiss deepened, a silent conversation of unspoken desires and unresolved feelings.

October 6th, 1919

The morning sun sliced through the heavy velvet curtains of Tommy's bedroom, painting stripes of gold across the unfamiliar landscape of dark wood and sharp angles. You stirred, a groan escaping your lips as you stretched, every muscle protesting the unfamiliar mattress. Your eyelids fluttered open, and the hazy memories of the night before crashed down on you like a tidal wave. Tommy's face was mere inches from yours, his dark hair a chaotic mess against the crisp white pillowcase. He looked younger in sleep, almost vulnerable, but the lines etched around his eyes hinted at the battles he fought even in his dreams.

Panic seized you, a cold fist clenching around your heart. How could you have been so reckless? The intensity of his gaze, the desperation in his touch, the way he made you feel like the only woman in the world - it had all been a carefully constructed illusion, a temporary escape from the harsh realities of your life. You had allowed yourself to be seduced by the ghost of a past that could never be resurrected, a dangerous game with a man who would always prioritize his own ambition over your happiness. The vulnerability of the moment, the allure of what once was, had clouded your judgment, leading you down a path you knew was fraught with peril.

A wave of nausea washed over you as you slipped out of bed, your movements as silent as a shadow. The opulent room, once a symbol of Tommy's power and success, now felt like a gilded cage, trapping you in a web of your own making. You gathered your clothes from the floor, your fingers fumbling with the buttons as you dressed quickly, desperate to erase any trace of your presence. Tommy stirred beside you, a low groan rumbling in his chest, but he didn't wake. You hesitated for a moment, a flicker of tenderness warring with the overwhelming sense of regret. But you knew that lingering would only prolong the inevitable, dragging you deeper into a cycle of heartache and disappointment. With a final, lingering look at the sleeping figure in the bed, you turned and fled, leaving behind the wreckage of a night you knew you would forever regret. As you walked away, a profound sense of loss settled over you, mingled with a fierce determination to reclaim your life and forge a future free from the intoxicating grip of Tommy Shelby. This wasn't the way forward, you reminded yourself. You couldn't allow yourself to be consumed by a love that was ultimately destructive. You had to prioritize your own well-being, even if it meant leaving a part of yourself behind, forever buried in the shadows of Small Heath.

London, England.

November 7th, 1919

Tom was distraught concerning your absence in his room, the emptiness echoing around him like a haunting melody. You were the one person he had ever allowed himself to be vulnerable with, and now you had left him, just like always. It was a familiar pattern, one that traced back to your teenage years when he had poured out his heart to you, only to watch you walk away time and time again. Months passed, and he tried desperately to erase the memory of you, battling his grief over Grace, who had always been a constant in his life. His love-deprived mind spiraled into a dark place, and in a moment of reckless determination, he found himself on the first train to London, propelled by a desperate need to confront the ghost of what you two once shared.

Arriving at the location scribbled on a note from one of his men, he knocked on the door, his heart pounding in his chest. When the door swung open, it revealed you, shrouded in darkness, already ready for bed. The sight of you sent a rush of emotions through him, and before he could fully grasp the gravity of the moment, he blurted out,

“Will you marry me, Y/N?” The plea hung in the air, thick with desperation. It was clear this was not the ideal cycle, and you felt a wave of indignation wash over you. It felt profoundly disrespectful to both Grace and your husband, despite the prolonged time you had spent single.

Your initial surprise quickly faded, replaced by a rising tide of anger. How could he think this was the answer? But Tom continued, his voice trembling as he almost begged,

“Please tell me not to go. We’ve been here long before. I’ll always be yours. I can feel you with me like I did before. I'll wait here tomorrow, outside your door. Like I did in December, when you held me close.” He paused between each sentence, his vulnerability laid bare before you, yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all a mirage. He would never be something serious, and deep down, you knew you wouldn’t either. Fate had decided long before you met that this was not the path for you both, and as much as it pained you to admit it, you had to let him go once more.

Birmingham, London.

August 3rd, 1921

Almost two years had passed before he found someone to take your place. And this time, she would be at the wedding. You drive to Birmingham, a place you haven't visited in what feels like forever. Your red dress is a bold splash of color, standing out against the sea of beige suits. As you walk into the event, you can't help but scan the room, amusedly counting the familiar faces from Thomas's new life. You find a quiet corner and sit there throughout the ceremony.

After it ends, you're approached by Thomas and his wife—Lizzie, you believe. "Y/N. You came," he says, then adds, "You look beautiful." The nerve of him. You can see Lizzie is barely holding it together. But you just smile and offer your congratulations to them both. You don't seem as upset as he still is, and he seems as happy as he'll allow himself to be for you.

Later, as the wedding winds down, you find yourself on the balcony. Thomas comes out to smoke a cigarette, offering you one, but you decline. You quit a long time ago. "If you're in a good place, I won't mess with that," you say. You realize you can never truly get enough of him. No matter how much you try to escape, you always crave his presence and attention. You assume he feels the same, considering your frequent meetings over the years. His silence is broken by the tears forming in your eyes. How far have you fallen, chasing after a married man who could have been yours? "I need to leave," you say, turning to walk back into the crowded room and out to a taxi waiting outside. He follows for a moment, but gives up when Lizzie places her hand on his shoulder, not even bothering to ask who you are or what you mean to him.

As the taxi pulled away, Y/N watched Thomas recede into the background, his figure framed by the warm glow of the wedding venue. The tears she had fought back on the balcony finally streamed down her face, each drop a testament to the years of unresolved feelings and unspoken words. The city lights blurred through the taxi window, mirroring the confusion and regret swirling within her. She couldn't shake the image of Lizzie's hand on Thomas's shoulder, a silent claim that echoed the life Y/N had once envisioned for herself.

The weight of her decision to leave Birmingham years ago pressed down on her. She had sought freedom and a new identity, but in doing so, she had inadvertently created a void that Thomas had filled with someone else. The red dress, once a symbol of her boldness, now felt like a costume, a desperate attempt to recapture a moment in time that was forever lost. As the taxi navigated through the city streets, Y/N realized that her craving for Thomas's presence was not just about him, but about the life she had left behind and the person she had once been.

Back at the wedding, He watched the taxi disappear into the night, a sense of finality washing over him. Lizzie's touch was a grounding force, a reminder of the life he had chosen and the commitment he had made. Yet, Y/N's unexpected appearance had stirred up dormant emotions, a bittersweet reminder of what could have been. As he turned back to rejoin the celebration, he carried with him the weight of unspoken words and the knowledge that some connections, no matter how profound, are destined to remain unresolved.

August 5th, 1921

As you settle into the flat you booked just for this wedding, the plush armchair feels like a mocking embrace. The London skyline glimmers outside the window, indifferent to the turmoil in your thoughts. You replay the wedding in your mind, the champagne flutes, the forced smiles, and then your abrupt departure. "What a waste," you mutter, the words hanging heavy in the sterile air of the temporary apartment.

Suddenly, a knock echoes through the hallway, jolting you from your reverie. You open the door to find Thomas standing there, his eyes mirroring a mix of longing and regret. Before you can speak, he pulls you into a passionate kiss, a desperate plea for something more. "I can't keep pretending, can you?" he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "Let me come in, let's talk."

Inside, the air crackles with unspoken desires and forbidden possibilities. "What are we doing, Thomas?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. He steps closer, his hand gently tracing the curve of your face. "I want us to be more than friends," he confesses, his gaze intense. And in that moment, the boundaries blur, and you both step into the dangerous territory of an affair, fully aware of the consequences that await.

You don't hesitate, grabbing Thomas by the collar of his expensive suit and pulling him into the flat. The urgency is a tangible thing, a force pulling you both forward. You stumble slightly, kicking the door shut with your heel before pushing him gently towards the bed. The mattress feels thin beneath him, the sheets crisp and cool against his back.

He looks up at you, eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and anticipation. You lean down, your lips meeting his in a kiss that's both desperate and tender. His hands begin to wander, exploring the curve of your waist, the small of your back. A thrill courses through you, a heady mix of guilt and excitement.

Breaking the kiss, you settle onto his hips, straddling him. The weight of your body presses him further into the mattress. With a practiced move, you lift your dress, the fabric sliding easily over your skin. Thank god you chose something simple, not one of those layered monstrosities that would take forever to get off. The air thickens with unspoken desires, the promise of something forbidden hanging heavy between you.

He sets your panties aside before unbuttoning and taking his cock out. With a few strokes, it hardens and is positioned below your hips. With a groan and a swift push, his cock sinks into your hole. As deep as possible as your hips meet his. After a few seconds of heavy breathing, you move your hips against his slowly before his hands help you speed up. Your hips move up and sink down, your legs spreading and feet curling with each movement. He groans and his head rests back. He remembers suddenly why he loved you so much. No one else felt like this.

What does this mean for you both? Is this a fleeting, one-time encounter, or the start of a prolonged affair? As the high begins to fade, worry creeps in, clouding your thoughts with possibilities. He had just come inside you. Had he used protection, one of those new latex condoms? The thought of a child in this economy, in your current situation, sends a shiver down your spine. Half of you is completely opposed to the idea, but the other half is strangely enamored. You imagine a child that looks just like him, with his temper, his energy, running around causing chaos. It's a cliché, isn't it? One touch, and you're already wrapped around his finger. You need to get yourself together.

Get yourself together.

#cillian murphy x oc #thomas shelby x reader #cillian murphy x reader #thomas shelby x oc #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #cillian murphy #cilleatandserve #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc

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cllnmurphy · 1 month ago

Text

ᴘʟᴀʏ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ

Masterlist

Summary: Laura is the first person to challenge Jonathan. He desires to control her in more ways than one.

Warnings: NonCon(drugging + Somno), Smut(unprotected p in v, oral (f + m)), obsession, Violence(physical + mental)

Word count: 4.1k

A/N: First Jon fic, hope I captured him.

If the devil were asleep, she’d knock him wide awake.

Although he was the closest thing.

The first time he laid eyes on her, every detail of that day was etched in his memory. Her hair flowed freely, her lashes were perfectly curled, and just enough buttons on her blouse were undone to reveal cleavage. She must've been aware of the way she looked, her desire to be restrained evident in her demeanor. If he were a typical guy, he would’ve asked her out right then and there. But he wasn’t. Two reasons held him back: her neglectful boyfriend who always seemed to be hogging her and the fear of humiliation that lingered in his mind, reminding him that she was out of his league and rejection was prone. Did he love her? Of Course not. Jonathan’s not capable of loving. He mistakes his need to domineer for love.

“In my opinion, Mr. Zsas is as much a danger to himself as to others, and prison is probably not the best environment for his rehabilitation.” He remarked nonchalantly in his seat, his voice raspy.

She sighed as she gathered her papers. Despite his repeated disregard towards her, he didn’t completely sever their connection. After the third court case, which ended with the same outcome as the prior two, she approached him afterward. This rekindled the spark between them, or more so for him, as he became convinced she reciprocated his feelings.

“Dr. Crane,” she called out, catching up to him despite her overprotective supervisor's objections. Dressed in a loose grey blouse and a pencil skirt, with her long black hair pulled into a ponytail—though he preferred it down—she approached him. Her eyebrows were dark, a contrast to the naturally pink lips he could only wish to see smile.

“Ah, Miss Reed,” he acknowledged, sensing her frustration but feeling a sense of satisfaction. He continued walking, allowing her to keep pace while they talked.

“You really think a man who butchers people for the mob doesn't belong in jail?” she asked, clutching her folder with one hand as she trails aside him.

“I would hardly have testified to that otherwise, would I? Miss Reed.” He drawled, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“This is the third of Carmine Falcone’s thugs you've declared insane and moved into your asylum.”

He paused, then snapped, “The work offered by organised crime must have an attraction to the insane.” He stared at her, a confident smirk playing on his lips, before turning to leave.

She let him think he'd won the exchange. "Or the corrupt," she countered smoothly.

His jaw tightened. Spotting an opportunity, he turned to Finch. "Mr. Finch, I think you should check with Miss Reed here regarding the implications your office has authorized her to make. If any." His eyebrows arched suggestively as he watched Carl approach. He turned and walked away, thinking about how he could treat her better. Spoil her. Protect her from the world, from other men. It was hard to tell who had good intentions these days. She was a snappy one, though. Perhaps she needed to be taught a lesson. Preferably by him.

She sighed as Mr. Finch approached – her "neglectful" boyfriend and "overprotective" boss.

"What are you doing, Lori?" he asked, gesturing towards the space where the previous scene had unfolded.

"What are *you* doing, Carl?" She frowned. Weren't they on the same side?

“Looking out for you." He guided her to a secluded corner, glancing around before continuing. "Falcone has half the city bought and paid for. Drop it."

"How can you say that?" she retorted, frustrated by his blindness to the injustice.

"Because as much as I care about getting Falcone, I care more about you."

"That's sweet. We've been through all that." She sighed, turning and walking away.

…

Jonathan adjusted himself in the leather seat, his eyes fixed on Falcone,

“No more favours. Someone is sniffing around.”

“Hey, I scratch your back, you scratch mine, doc. I’m bringing in the shipments”, Falcone said, attempting a lazy charm.

“We are paying you for that,” Jonathan replied, his tone condescending.

“Maybe money isn't as interesting to me as favours.”

“I am more than aware that you are not intimidated by me, Mr. Falcone. But you know who I’m working for, and when he gets here.” He removed his glasses, watching Falcone's reaction.

“He…He’s coming to Gotham?”

“Yes, he is.” He continues,

“And when he gets here, he’s not going to want to hear that you’ve endangered our operation just to get your thugs out of jail time.”

“Who’s bothering you?” Falcone leaned forward, his hands pressed together in his lap.

“There’s a girl at the DA’s office,” Jonathan revealed, an image of her flashing in his mind.

“We’ll buy her off.” Falcone rubbed his eyes wearily.

“Not this one,” Jonathan replied instantly.

“Idealist, huh? Well, there’s an answer to that, too.”

"Not the usual procedure. I’ll take care of her." Jonathan demanded casually. No questions asked. He'd memorized her schedule – the days she took the train and walked the poorly lit road home. Tomorrow night was one of those nights. His plan was simple: to jump her and take her to his warehouse. What followed was best left unsaid, but thoroughly imagined.

The hours flew by as he waited, growing impatient as he tapped his foot on the floor in time with the clock. As soon as it hits the time she usually gets off the train, he packs up and walks outside of his office, surprised to see her waiting, watching one of his patients. It was like fate constantly brought them together.

“Scarecrow.” Falcone mumbles, strapped to a chair with fear spread all over his face. She watches him before shifting her attention to Jonathan's arrival.

“Miss Reed, this is most irregular.” He licks his lips and approaches her, “I have nothing further to add to the report I filed with the judge.”

“I have questions about your report.” She says,

“Such as?” He tilts his head ever so slightly, curious about what more she could complain about.

“Isn’t it convenient for a 52-year-old man who has no history of mental illness to suddenly have a complete psychotic breakdown just when he's about to be indicted?”

“Well, as you can see for yourself, there is nothing convenient about his symptoms.” Looking through the glass wall before facing her. She was quite intelligent. What a waste.

“Scarecrow,” Falcone mutters again, his eyes twitching

“What's ‘scarecrow'?” She asks, her curiosity getting the best of her.

“Patients suffering delusional episodes often focus their paranoia on an external tormentor, usually one conforming to Jungian archetypes. In this case, a scarecrow.”

“He’s drugged?” She raises a brow, “Psychopharmacology is my primary field.” He reasons, “I’m a strong advocate,” he adds, “Outside, he was a giant. In here, only the mind can grant you power.”

“You enjoy the reversal.” She exposes.

“I respect the mind’s power over the body. It’s why I do what I do.” He smirks, she’d gotten too close to the truth.

“I do what I do to keep thugs like Falcone behind bars, not in therapy.” She concludes, walking away to the elevator before adding, “I want my own psychiatric consultant to have full access to Falcone, including blood work. Find out what exactly you put him on.”

“First thing tomorrow, then.” He suggests,

“Tonight. I’ve already paged Dr. Lehmann at county general,” She enters the elevator as he follows.

“As you wish,” He turns the key in the elevator, a mischievous look on his face. The plan had inevitably changed.

They enter the basement as he guides her down the dark hallway, “This way, please. There's something I think you should see.” He opens the doors to his warehouse, showcasing the production of fear gas. Her eyes widen as her mind processes what’s before her. Her heart beats loudly with each passing second, and she stands like a deer before headlights.

“This is where we make the medicine. Perhaps you should have some, clear your head.” He grins as he watches her reaction, how her survival instinct kicks in at the last second.

She runs back through the hallway, her adrenaline making her think of nothing else. As she sprints, she trips over a wire blending into the background, causing her to roll her ankle. She yelps from pain but advances, entering the elevator, whilst limping, frantically pressing any and every button, each one retaliating with a beeping noise.

He sighs before chasing after her, the scarecrow mask equipped onto his head. He stands in front of the elevator as it refuses to close and throws his gas, aiming at her as she breathes in deeply. The effects kick in almost instantly as she starts to scream, backing into the wall and crying at his presence.

She drops to the ground with her knees guarding her core before falling unconscious. Her fragile body is then carried by two of Jonathan's goons and laid in front of him. He stares at her through the holes of his mask. She was at her most vulnerable stage right now, a frantic mess.

“Who knows you’re here?” She squirms and gives no response, to which he yells, “Who knows?”, only contributing to the fear pulsing through her veins.

The lights go off, “He’s here.” He proclaims, almost excitedly, as he looks around

“Who?” one of the armed workers worriedly asks

“The Batman.” He answers,

“What do we do?” The men ask as their eyes dart to each corner, overshadowed. “What anyone does when a prowler comes around.” Jonathan whispers before continuing, “Call the police.”

“You want the cops here?” They doubt his word,

“At this point, they can’t stop us.” Jonathan exclaims, “But the Batman has a talent for disruption. Force him outside, and the police will take him down. Go.”

“What about her?” One of the men asks, pointing to Laura’s shaking, frail body on the table.

“She’ll wake up in a couple of hours. I gave her a less concentrated dose. Now go.”

He drags her shivering body into the back of the van provided by Falcone, driving them to his hideout. Once she’s set on the dusty floor in the centre of the empty basement filled with boxes of storage, he kneels and examines her. Her ankle was swollen. At least running away was out of the picture.

“I’d kill for a look inside your head.” He mutters to her before he dusts the dust off the couch and sits. He stretches his legs onto the couch, his hands behind his head. He might as well take a nap; it’d be a while before you woke up. And as much as he wanted and could take her unconscious, he preferred her experiencing it with him, and it wasn’t like the fear would be worn off. He wakes up to the sound of groaning and shifting from behind him. As he sits up, he speaks,

“Have you ever heard curiosity killed the cat, Laura?” He watches whatever colour was left on her face fade as he approaches her sprawled out body, checking his watch as he stands before her.

“You’ve been out for 4 hours. Did’ya sleep well?” Her eyes stared right at him despite their fight to rest.

“Answer me you little bitch” He says impatiently as he grabs a handful of her hair, enough force used to make her sit up. He jerks his hand forward, causing her to launch forward onto her hands.

“What happened? Just a little bit of gas and your bratty mouth is shut.” He snarks, almost laughing. Although your lack of speech made this less fun.

“Have you finally learnt your lesson?” He prods, walking over to her yet again and grinning. Didn’t take much to dominate her.

She lifts her head, her hair messed and her eyes red, as she bites her lip to suppress her tears. Her body was still shaking, her vision was distorted, and the walls were shifting. She is so irresistible when she’s scared.

“Dr. Crane.” She mumbles as she crawls toward him, finally latching onto his leg and using it to climb up. Her hands land onto his hip as she sits up, he looks down at her attempt to get up. The mind can only take so much.

“Dr. Crane isn't here right now. But if you’d like to make an appointment.” He lifts her and throws her across the room. She hits her head onto the wall and lands onto her injured foot, groaning in pain as she lies on her stomach.

“You’re driving me insane, Lori.” He faces away from her as he speaks. She recoils at the sound of him using the name that only people she’s close to use for her. As he’s distracted from his frustration of the lack of coordination from her, she crawls, lifting one leg then the other towards the first door she sees, her will to survive still thriving.

He turns to the sound of grunts and shuffling and slowly follows behind her, letting her try to escape. He pouts and kneels as he watches her approach the door,

“Come on. You’re almost there.” He watches her pathetically crawl before he pulls her back by the hair, forcing her to sit up against the wall

She grits her teeth as she stares at him warily. He looks at her before grabbing a brick from the unfinished construction and hovering it over her unharmed ankle. Her eyes widen as she squirms backward into the wall to no avail, unable to form any words but one.

“Stop! Stop.”

He musters up all his strength and lifts the brick before slamming it down onto her other ankle. She screams almost immediately, tears flooding down her cheeks, blood rushes to her cheeks as her mind starts focusing on surviving rather than escaping.

“See, bad things happen when you disobey me. Try it again, i’ll cut them off.” He warned, and she knew he was telling the truth

“My boyfriend. He’s going to-” She manages to get out before being cut off, her voice raspy from the inhalation of gas.

“Finch?” He chuckles darkly. “You’re a smart girl. You should know how useless that lump of meat is.”

He wasn’t lying about that. She watches with rage-filled eyes as he continues his rant,

“Can’t you see? I’m the only one who understands you. I thought you’d get that.”

“I’d rather die than willingly touch you.” She spits, and his eyes go motionless; his motive changes.

“Fine. I’ll show you.” He further adds before leaning in, capturing her lips roughly as he forces her to lie on her back. She squeezes her eyes close and digs her fingers into his shoulders as she squirms, trying to escape his forceful grip on her body and her life.

“Get away from me!” She yells once her mouth is free. He sits up, still looming over her as he grits his teeth, calmly reassuring.

“No one else would do this for you, Laura. I’m the only one who cares.” He explains with his sick and twisted reasoning.

Her hair was splayed out over the floor. Just like he liked it. She knew exactly how to make him happy. Was she watching him as closely as he was watching her?

“My innocent girl. You have so much to learn from me.”

He hovers over her, one hand beside her shoulder and the other roughly gripping her chin, surely bruising it. He pulls her into yet another kiss, suffocating her as her tears surround their lips. Her fragile and cold hands search the ground with closed eyes. They tighten around a rough surface. The brick, the same one used to injure her now swelling ankle. She lifts it with the last bit of energy she has left and opens her eyes, balancing her strained hands before launching the brick at Jonathan’s face. It makes contact, and he loudly groans, falling to the side of her. He clutches his jaw, his eyes no longer carrying the calm and patient look, they were full of fury, and on her. He rubs his thumb over the side of his pulsing lip to find blood spread on and staining his thumb. No words were said from either. He gets up and walks away, to her surprise. She’d disappointed him heavily. But he didn’t let himself get mad and do something he’d regret; there’s always room for improvement. Opening a suitcase, he puts on his scarecrow gas mask and releases the gas, walking over to her, to which she squirms away from the quickly moving gas, tears streaming down onto her white button up as she wails,

“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know, I know it hurts.” He coos before disabling the gas and watching as the small dose overrides her senses.

“Once you come to terms with the fact that I’m helping you, it’ll stop.” He says watching how the gas makes her unable to fight as much. “I want what's best for you. I just got you out of that awful cycle you called life.” He adds.

He opens the first three buttons of her shirt, roughly setting both sides apart and revealing her boob. They fit perfectly in his hand. Hidden from him for so long, yet longing to be touched. He gropes them roughly, looking up at her between each harsh knead. Even borderline unconscious, she kept producing tears that stopped at her eyeline. He looks down and smirks as he centres himself between her spread legs. How well behaved she is under the influence of the fear gas, although she’s now regaining consciousness. He places his blood-stained thumb onto her panties, letting it sink before he removes it abruptly, a damp spot appearing where his thumb was.

“See how badly your body wants this? Wants me?” He huffs out, out of breath from lust.

“Please..Don’t do this. Dr. Crane.” She pleads, only having enough strength to speak.

“Say my name.” He orders as he looks at her. His mouth reaches up to her neck, sucking and pulling to form marks.

“Jonathan. I won’t tell anyone. I promise. You can even drop me off on the side of the street. I’ll make my way home,” She begs, seeing her chance to play on his feelings.

“That’s absurd. You’re injured.” He says against her neck as his fingers circle her left ankle, earning soft whimpers from her.

“You don’t have to do this.” She whispers into his ear as he groans annoyingly.

“You wan’t this to end? Tell me you’ll be a good little whore and keep your mouth shut.” he says, biting her neck. She lets out a sharp cry of surprise, then starts crying, not even attempting a brave face any longer.

“I’ll be a good little..” She can’t get it out. His finger sets aside the panties before it slips inside her, and she sobs harder, closing her eyes.

“Say it,” He says sharply. Her stomach sinks as she cries,

“I’ll be a good little whore. Please stop. Please.”

“How could I stop when you’re so eager?” He says as he plunges his finger in and out, letting a second one join and stretch her out. He pumps them faster until her back arches and her toes curl, her teeth pressing and brows furrowing.

“You’re gonna come one more time for me,” He commands, pulling his finger out, wiping her slick off on his tongue. Sweet.

She shakes her head, “I can't, please.”

“That wasn’t a request. I’ll take it slowly, but you will give me one more.” His controlling eyes on hers make her shiver. He lowers his head between her legs and pushes her tight skirt up to her hips. He latches his teeth onto her panties before ripping them clean off. Wasting no time , he digs into her like a starving man. He had wanted to taste her since the moment he met her. His tongue laps between her folds with just enough pressure to make her moan with every stroke. He spreads her swollen folds with his glistening fingers and continues licking before biting her bud softly. He presses his thumb against her clit and grins whilst rubbing her fast. He licks his lips, satisfied, as he watches her unfold beneath him, orgasming yet again.

“You’re doing so well for me.” He praises, momentarily happy at the absence of disgust from her.

Her head lifts at the sound of a belt unbuckling, and she quivers, whining in gibberish and pushing him away. The two orgasms was enough to cloud her brain.

He grabs both of her hands and lifts them above her head, strictly holding them there as he single handedly takes out his cock, skinny but longer than average. He lifts both of her legs gently, not disrupting the healing of the ankles, and holds them to his hips. He lines up his cock infront of her shiny entrance, a desire he could now capture.

“Shhhh..” Jonathan paused for the merest of moments before thrusting inside of her in one swift motion. She takes a deep inhale, laced with pain as her arms tug against his grip. Her resistance would only make him cum quicker.

“Please, no.. stop, I can’t take it,” She cries out, before he kisses her as a form of silencing. His tongue forces its way inside her mouth and wrestles with hers before he pulls away. She watches as he spits her spit out onto her chest, his fingers following to rub it around her hard protruding nipple.

“You can take it. You will. I can’t stop now– I won’t.” He mutters as he rests his head backwards. He watches his cock burying itself inside of her, it fit perfectly inside her tight hole. He lets go of her hands as he wraps his bony hand around her marked neck. She looked beautiful when she was submissive. He applies pressure to her neck as he forces himself inside of her, slow and aggressive with each thrust. He didn’t want this to end quickly, for both him and her.

“Don’t close your eyes. I want you to remember everything, every thrust, every mark. I want you to think of me everytime anything touches this perfect pussy. It belongs to me.”

Everytime she strugged to breathe from the suffocating fingers wrapped around her neck like a peculiar necklace, she clenched around his cock, causing him to choke with her. He soon loses control, finally ejaculating into her, his seed overflowing with his cock inside. He pulls out slowly with a grunt and examines her hole, watching the liquid flow out and drip onto the concrete floor.

He gets up and dusts his clothes off before lifting her and placing her on the couch, watching her instantly fall asleep. He sits at his desk, typing on his laptop. She had delayed his work severely. Jonathan had priorities, and you were the first thing he’d encountered that could overpower them. As hours pass by, the clock reads 4 am, and he switches his laptop off, aiming to go to sleep on the air mattress before he sees her. He takes her in, her crinkled skirt, impractical shirt, her plump pink lips, her long lashes, the soft skin he craves to ruin. His cock strains inside his pants, but he tells himself off internally. But how could he miss this opportunity he dreamed of every waking moment? Just the tip, he concludes as a solution to the dilemma inside his head. He approaches her unaware body and unzips his pants, taking his erect cock out. It bounces onto her cheek and precum leaks out, falling to her chin. He moves his tip to her lips, bouncing it gently before watching how it disappears into her mouth. Her mouth was warm and wet, and he couldn't help but push his cock forward. Her pretty swollen lips were soon halfway down his cock, and he was supressing his potentially loud moans. He pulls out in fear of her choking and waking up. That would surely frighten her. He rests his tip onto her lips, using her saliva to rub his cock with a fast and impatient rhythm. Not long after, warm ropes of cum extend across her face and mouth. He proudly watches her face being painted white before going to sleep on the air mattress on the other side of the empty basement. He fantasised for a second, about a life with her. The empty basement being decorated to her liking. He shrugged the idea off and got under the thin cold sheets on the mattress. He would have to wake up in an hour or two for work anyway. Although a question lingered on his mind far too long, keeping him up. When would he release her from captivity? He could right now, but she’s injured. Maybe, just maybe, she would let him nurse her back to health.

#cillian murphy x oc #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy #cilleatandserve #jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane #jonathan crane x you #jonathan crane x female reader #jonathan crane x oc #scarecrow x reader

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cllnmurphy · 1 month ago

Text

ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʟᴇᴀɴ

Masterlist

Summary: After a life-altering event, Y/N has to start her life over. But she’s gotten involved with the wrong people.

A/N: requested by @lucecitasdebel, “Thomas Shelby x Enigmatic Courtesan.” Requested fluff will be in the next part, just had to get the climax done.

Timeline: Not accurate! Starts after Grace leaves for London, Thomas is fighting Kimber in this.

“What have I done?” I groan, wiping the red blotch off the now ruined painting, a portrait of the beautiful black cat, with a red patch conveniently placed as a wound. Vernon was his name, and sleeping seemed all he could do. But I appreciated his presence, provided since I was sold to this god awful household, robbed of my hobbies, although I continued in secret, desperately clinging to the fragments of my former self. I was forced into lustful interactions by the man that would be home right about... now. My heart races as I quickly tidy up my milkmaid dress, which clings to my still-growing body, a constant reminder of the life I never chose. Running up the stairs, I drop Vernon on the floor, and he quickly scatters at the intimidating man’s presence, his instincts sharper than mine.

“Where’s lunch?” The man hunches over me, his breath hot and suffocating, and I scrunch my face in disgust. If you couldn't tell, I detest men, and I would rather die than obey such a creature. But I’m only 20—trapped in a world that feels so much bigger than me. “I get it. You were fuck’n painting again, weren't you?” I stand before the basement door, blocking his path, my heart pounding in my chest as I nod my head. “Useless bitch.” His words cut deeper than any blow, and spit flies directly behind me as he raises his hand to hit me. But at the look of my watering eyes, he hesitates, instead cupping my neck with a grip that feels both possessive and tender, a confusing mix of emotions swirling inside me.

“Don’t be mad at me. I’m only acting like this because you give me no choice.” His voice drips with a twisted sense of justification, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body, a warmth I both crave and despise. With no response, he prods me more, lavishing me with the closest thing to an apology he knows how to give. He pulls out two train tickets to London, and my heart leaps at the sight. A cheap flat, yes, but it earns him a smile, as London was my dream home—a place where I could escape this nightmare. “Now, I’ve spoiled you. Go make dinner.” I nod, the flicker of hope igniting within me, but it’s quickly snuffed out by the reality of my situation.

I wake up abruptly to the sound of thrashing downstairs. Panic surges through me as I run to find years of built-up painting equipment stuffed in garbage bags, my heart sinking at the sight. “Theo!” I yell, my hands waving around in desperation. The chaos of my life feels unbearable, a whirlwind of anger and confusion, and I can’t shake the feeling that beneath all this turmoil, something deeper is stirring—a longing for connection, for understanding, for love that feels as unattainable as the stars outside my window.

“I am getting rid of this bullshit. Don't you see, honey? I’m the only thing you need.” He stands tall, revealing his 6 foot figure. I furrow my brows, my misunderstanding making him angrier. “Me! Not this stupid, unrealistic dream you have engraved inside your inexperienced little head. Not this stupid fucking cat.” He raises his voice, his fury distracting him from my hands searching for my hidden item behind my back.

“What? Are you regretting this relationship now? You don’t have a say. I control you, sweetheart—” He chuckles darkly. I pull out the small pistol, my hands trembling as I aim it in front of me. He laughs, taking casual steps forward. “Go ahead, pull the trigger. You don’t even know how to use a fucking gun.” He snatches the weapon from my grip, holding our shared suitcase as he skips down the stairs, muttering, “useless.”

“You’re the fucking useless one!” I shout, causing him to turn around, slip on the mud, and accidentally pull the trigger, shooting himself in the jaw. I freeze, shaking, then rush over, hunching over his lifeless body, clutching my ticket out of this hellhole. A single tear stains my powdered face as I cradle his head, the eyes that once threatened me now rolled back.

“What have I done?” I choked, gaping at my bloodstained hands in horror.

The meows of the cat break me out of my nightmares. As much as I felt guilty, I also felt- Happy. This was a blessing in disguise. A chance to paint, to gain respect, and to never take commands from foolish men again. A blessing that got me and Vernon on the trains almost immediately, after a good hour of dragging my ill-fated ex husband into the cut, disguised as one of the many suicidal soldiers. Although, murder is never clean.

…

London was bright and loud, a stark contrast to the country I grew up in. I stepped into the big city with just a small wad of cash and a dream—a dream of living comfortably, even if my idea of comfort is pretty basic. Basic, but definitely unrealistic. Finding a job on the street in this day and age feels impossible, and I certainly won’t resort to.. pleasing men. Eugh.

As I make my way to what’s supposed to be my flat, I pass through the richer suburbs and accidentally bump into someone—well, two people, actually. I’m momentarily stunned by the sheer beauty of the woman in front of me. Her eyes are piercing, yet her smile is bright and warm, adorned with apologies. I didn’t have many friends growing up, especially not female ones, but I knew I had to be friends with her.

“I’m Y/n,” I say, extending my hand and shaking hers, completely ignoring the man beside her.

“Grace. Grace Burgess. This is my husband.” I smile and nod my head at him in greeting.

“Are you lost?” she asks, tilting her head.

I giggle and sheepishly grin, showing her the address scribbled on a crumpled piece of paper.

…

I drag my small suitcase into the squeaky flat, still carrying the furry ball of black. Is this the best that stupid fucker could buy? I must look like a complete spazz stick. London isn’t as scary as I thought. An hour in, and I’ve already got an invite to a house party. But not like this. I pick at myself in the dirty mirror. After a quick bath, I put on my finest—well, my only—dress and comb my fine black hair. My heels clack against the littered sidewalk as I arrive at the house. It’s massive. I’m welcomed in by the woman herself, and I can’t help but admire the mansion. Fucking huge. They probably have a room just for painting.

“I’m so glad you could come. All my husband's gatherings are so male dominated.” I laugh, having been in such a situation before, not that anyone would find out.

A drink goes by, then several. I comfort Grace as she cries about some insolent dickhead, Timothee or something. Timothee Shellie? “This is why I don’t trust men. Especially ones who just… don’t value you as a fucking… person!” My words slur and rotate between volumes as she agrees. I needed to go home before I embarrassed myself. First fucking day. Pull yourself together. One more drink.

I step back into reality. God, it’s probably 1 am. I furrow my brows as I find myself hugging Grace tightly as she mumbles, “You’re welcome.” What could she have possibly said? At least I sobered up quickly, I think, as I assess the drunkards on the floor around me. I thanked Grace and her husband before leaving, heading straight for my bed.

…

I wake up to a knock on my door and the sun in my face, makeup still on and still dolled up. I stumble to the door to see Grace. God, this girl is clingy. And she’s holding… croissants? She pushes herself inside and starts happily speaking, “You got the job!!” I smile and celebrate with her before bursting her bubble. “What exactly for…” I nervously grin as she crosses her arms.

“Last night, I said I’d hook you up with my friend. She’s a courtesan.” I gasp immediately. I truly didn't mean to contribute to the stigma, but that wasn't my field. Did I have a choice though?

“Prostitution?” I yell, more surprised than angry. She quickly reassures, “No! Sex work, yes. But better pay, no strings attached. And you can choose!”

“Almost everyone in this field seems to have a disdain for men. It’s a great opportunity, though! And hey! They really appreciate women with charm and skills.” Grace's gaze falls on my few painting brushes.

I gently usher her out of my house, trying to cut through her argument, “You’re a stunning woman, they’ll-,” “I’ll think about it. Thanks, Grace.”

Sitting in silence, I nibble on a croissant. A courtesan. I’m quite the catch. But, men…

…

“I’ll do it,” I tell Grace as we sit at a café, sipping coffee. She beams and explains, “There’s an event on Friday where you’ll introduce yourself to potential clients and impress them. And voilà.”

…

What have I gotten myself into? I cross my arms in front of the mirror, wearing a red silk dress and with my hair pinned up. Just as I reach up to loosen my look, girls burst in from all sides, showering me with compliments. If only I could see the beauty they see. Well, time to stop overthinking. I gracefully enter the gala, holding a champagne glass, joining the other girls as we claim our men and gossip about them. If there’s any type, working men do it best.

Before long, a tall, snobbish man approaches me, and I find myself being coaxed into another drink, maintaining the fake smiles and small talk. “Are you from around here? I’m sure I would remember such a,” he looks me up and down, “beautiful face.” Do I really need to share how the night ended?

Soon enough, I became the temporary talk of South London, an enigma that no one could quite figure out. Some called me mysterious, while others said I was hard to get. It wasn’t as bad as expected

It wasn’t as bad as I had expected; it felt simple and clean. My personal life would remain just that—personal. My room was filled with pictures of birds, and for the first time, I felt liberated from the constraints that place had imposed on me.

…

I gasped for air as I sat up urgently under the blankets of my bed, the warmth fading as fear seeped into my mind. That was the first time the nightmares began—cold sweats and blood pooling in my thoughts.

…

Knock knock. I woke up, my hair a mess and my vision still foggy as I opened the door, having no time to react before Grace barged in.

“Pack your bags. We’re going on a trip.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing my eyes. “Where exactly?”

“Birmingham,” she replied with a bright smile. Delaying work was one thing, but Birmingham? What a specific destination.

“Is this about Timothee?” I asked nonchalantly while combing my hair in front of my smaller mirror.

“Thomas,” she corrected. “Please, I need you with me.”

“Just for the weekend, babe. Okay?”

…

It smelled familiar, but it felt like home. I lifted my head from Grace’s shoulder after sleeping majority of the bumpy trip.

“We’re here?”

My clean heels stood out against the average muddy shoes, but I didn’t mind getting them dirty compared to Grace; it reflected our different upbringings. I was similar to these people, but that didn’t mean I trusted them. I followed Grace as she glided effortlessly through the streets, finally bringing us to this “important” guy’s business place. The foggy windows pronounced the name “Shelby.” It was a name I had heard whispered along the way. How influential could this guy really be? She entered the bustling room first, and I cautiously followed.

A scruffy, middle-aged man steps in front of us, nearly blocking the big yellow lights hanging from the ceiling. I can see Grace shifting uncomfortably, so I take the lead. “We’re looking for Tim—” I’m poked in the shoulder. “Thomas Shelby.”

“You’re not welcome,” he says, his gaze fixed particularly on Grace.

Just as I’m about to lose my temper, a figure emerges from the office at the top of the stairs. “What’s all this ruckus, Arthur?” His voice echoes through the now-silent room. He looks at Grace, then at me. With a flick of his hand, everyone returns to their “productive” work.

“Thomas. I just needed to s—” Grace starts, but he cuts her off with a loud command. “Office.”

I lean against the wall beside the door, arms crossed and wary doe eyes. “What’s yer name, love?” the unremarkable man in front of me l

“I don’t have time for your meaningless confessions, Grace. I have business to do.” Tears well up in her eyes as she pleads—not for a romantic relationship, but for any connection at all.

“Talk to me, Thomas.”

“You want me to talk? Fine, I’ll fucking talk. I’ve got an angry man waiting for me at the races tomorrow, ready to shoot my brains out if I make one wrong move.”

As soon as I feel the cold hand slipping up my thigh, after countless hints. I lose it, my hand meets Arthur's, so hard it could’ve pushed his facial hairs in. My hand snakes to his ear as I pull it, scolding him like I would a kid. “Have you no decency?”

Thomas abruptly moves his head to the sound, witnessing the scene through the transparent, foggy glass.

“Who’s your friend?”

“Y/N. Courtesan. Quite the character.” She tries to make a joke, her smile fading as soon as he looks a moment too long at me.

“Introduce me, will ya?” He asks, plucking the cigarette off his mouth

“Apologise, Arthur.” He says as he walks towards me. A face to the name, at least.

I look down at both of them before grabbing Grace’s wrist as soon as it’s in reach.

“Thank you. We were just leaving.” What a first impression.

“Grace. Stay away from men like those two. Imbeciles, they are.”

“Come on, Y/N. It’s only the first day.”

“Almost the last. I mean it.”

…

Poor girl. I think as I watch Grace from afar. I remember my married days, not that they were long ago.

“I’ll go get us some breakfast,” I say before stepping out of the apartment she somehow managed to get. She recommended this café down the road; the least I could do was buy her something for all the good she’s done me.

I enter the café and place my order, settling into a seat across from the window. Just then, I notice the sunlight is blocked. I look up to see a cloud of smoke in my face before I see him—Shelby.

“Miss L/N,” he says casually as he takes a seat.

It felt strange not hearing my husband’s last name attached to mine anymore.

“Want one?” he offers, extending a cigarette.

I shake my head, maintaining my composure.

“I’d like to do business with you.”

“What does this business consist of?”

He glances around before replying, “We can discuss this—”

“Here,” I finish for him. There’s no way I’d be alone in a room with this guy.

“All i need you to do is accompany me to a gala and be a distraction.”

“That’s not my line of work.” I get up and walk past him, exiting the cafe without the food. One job y/n.

…

That night, the nightmares returned, heavier this time, something sinister lurking beneath the surface. Goosebumps prickled my skin as I rose from bed, the chill seeping through my thin night slip.

"Y/N."

The whisper brushed my ear. I whirled around—empty space. "Theo?" I murmured, careful not to wake Grace.

Downstairs, I opened the door to a biting breeze that raised the hairs on my arms. Drawn by the whispers, I found myself at the edge of an open lake. Kneeling, I gazed into the dark water, tears joining the flow. "I'm sorry."

A burst of harsh laughter made me spin around. The Shelbys. Of course. As soon as Thomas's eyes locked onto mine, I retreated into the apartment, vanishing like a phantom.

…

The next morning, I told Grace about the offer, surprisingly refreshed despite the night's disturbances.

"Just hear him out," she urged. If she trusted him, maybe I could too. That was enough.

"I'll go now, then."

"Thank you."

Leaving the house, I was more composed, more presentable. As i stroll down the street, in the far distance I see a familiar face. Tall. Brown hair. Theo? Flashes of his bloodied hair, his cheeks going cold flickered through my mind . I stumble backwards before i’m running, focusing on speed rather than location. Once i’m severely out of breath, I stop, finding myself in an alleyway, mud splattered on the back of my legs.

"Hey, missy." A voice from the shadows.

"Theo, I didn't mean to. Please." I pleaded, but the figure stepped into the light, face hard, knife glinting.

"I can be Theo," he snarled, before crumpling to the ground, pummeled by Shelby. I watched, paralyzed, as Shelby turned to me, as if this violence was routine.

"How convenient. I was looking for you." I said, clutching my purse, trying for confidence.

"Sure? Seemed like you were running for your life back there?" He gestured back to the street, but he knew—he knew about the nightmares. he had nightmares too often, just like that.

“Let’s talk. Payment.”

"50k. If it's successful." I didn't dare ask about failure.

Two hours of small talk for 50k. Easy, Y/N. A piece of cake.

"Okay. I'll do it. But," I continued, needing to set the boundaries, "no sexual interactions, unless I have notice and consent."

He agreed, then drove me home before heading to his office. I was something, alright. He walked into his office, "Arthur, get a report on that new girl."

…

The gala. Today. I slipped into the dress delivered by "T. Shelby." A touch of rouge, my hair in curls. Grace wished me luck as I descended. Why not Grace for the job? Safety? Huh. I nodded to Thomas as he held open the car door. The ride was silent, ending at a huge mansion ablaze with lights. My arm linked with his, I was swept inside, introductions coming so fast I couldn't breathe. Finally, after meeting half the city, we sat down. After a droning speech, jazz filled the room—not my taste, but bearable. Thomas looked at me expectantly.

"Do you dance?"

"Only when asked nicely," I said, a grin tugging at my lips.

"Will you dance with me, Miss L/N?" Fuck. When had I become so easy?

I took his hand, letting him lead me to the dance floor. We moved together, bodies aligned, until his steps subtly guided us toward a specific table. The music hadn't stopped when he began to speak. I turned and introduced myself. The main target, no doubt.

"Mind if I have a turn?"

I glanced at Thomas as my hand was taken by the man. He was polished, but my instincts screamed danger. Back on the dance floor, joyless this time. Once the music ends, we stop dancing. Thank God. I think everyone in the room saw that monstrosity. I watched the two men converse before being whisked away into Thomas's car.

“You’ll spend the night with ‘im.”

I turn to face him. “What? No way.” I say, as i harshly open the car door. Conveniently locked.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“Why. Why couldnt you use a fucking whore you saw on the street.” I yell, tears welling up in my eyes

“Nobody wants to fuck a diseased common whore.”

“Fuck you. I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Like you did with your husband? Theodore. Theodore DeLongi?” He reveals as he lights his cigarette.

“Get the fuck back inside.” He barks.

#thomas shelby x reader #cillian murphy x oc #thomas shelby x oc #cillian murphy x reader #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #cillian murphy #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc #cilleatandserve

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cllnmurphy · 2 months ago

Text

ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴄʜᴀɪɴꜱ

Masterlist

Pairing: Post-war! Thomas Shelby x wife!reader

Warnings: Verbal/Physical abuse, Trauma, fluff, angst

Those eyes. The ones your dull dreams could never replicate. The same ones that carried your youth, now adjusting to your face scarred with age.

Thomas Shelby stood tall on the platform, his eyes scanning the bustling train station as the sound of voices and clanking machinery filled the air. The war had etched lines into his once youthful face, and his posture bore the weight of the unseen burdens he carried. The crowd parted slightly as he walked through, the air of authority he exuded causing a ripple of space around him. He wore his uniform, tattered and stained from battles, yet still impeccably clean.

As he approached, you couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and trepidation. Your heart skipped a beat as his piercing gaze found yours. Before the war, Thomas had been the loving, gentle soul you had cherished. But now, there was something different about him, something haunted that made you question if the boy you knew had truly come home. You stepped closer, offering a tentative smile, and he took you in his arms, the warmth of his embrace momentarily soothing the ache in your chest. A temporary medicine for the sickness deteriorating your love.

Walking home together, the silence between you was heavier than the rain that had just started to fall. Each step echoed through the cobblestone streets, punctuating the quiet. Thomas had always been a man of few words, but this was a silence that went deeper than usual. His grip on your hand was tight, almost painful, as if trying to ground himself in the reality of being home. No words were spoken regarding the unrequited heartfelt letters, nor the discernible gap that time had created between them.

Once inside the safety of your house, you tried to bridge the divergence with a soft kiss, the same ones that littered Thomas’s face during youth, but Thomas flinched, pulling away, almost.. disgusted. His eyes searched yours, accusation burning in them. "You've been with someone else," he murmured, his voice a low growl. The words hit you like a slap, and you stumbled back, the color draining from your face. "What are you talking about?" you managed to choke out, but the look on his face was one of cold certainty. In the split second it took for you to process his accusation, the room seemed to tilt on its axis. Before you could respond, the tension exploded into a heated argument, your words colliding with his anger like shrapnel in a storm.

Thomas's fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white as he spoke through gritted teeth, "You've changed. You don't look at me the same way you used to. You don't love me anymore." The anguish in his voice was palpable, and it was like watching the man you loved slowly crumbling before your eyes. The room grew smaller as his accusations grew louder, the walls seeming to press in around you. “I-” You felt the sting of tears as you tried to explain, to tell him that the only thing that had changed was the horrors he had seen, the demons he now carried. “I know. It’s that fucking writer next door. Isn’t it? Being keeping you warm in my fucking house.” His voice raises as he grabs his one of many guns kept for paranoia out of his pocket. “I’ll fucking kill him for ruining you.” You run infront of the door at the last second, stopping him from leaving.

His anger grew more intense, and you felt the sting of his hand as it connected with your cheek. The sound of skin meeting skin was like a gunshot in the quiet of the night. You stumbled back, shocked, as he immediately regretted his actions. In a single action, your hopes had crashed down, by the man who swore he would never hurt you. The rage drained from his eyes, replaced by a deep, soul-wrenching sadness. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I don't know what's happening to me." He leaves the room, abandoning you once again.

With the storm outside mirroring the turmoil within, the thunder grew louder, rattling the windows. Thomas's eyes grew wide with fear, and he grabbed you, pulling you into a tight embrace. "Make it stop," he pleaded, his voice a broken whisper. "Make it all stop." As you held him, stroking his hair and whispering comforting words, you realized the true extent of his pain. The war had left him scarred, not just physically, but in ways that ran deep into his soul. Forcing you to mourn the man who sleeps beside you.

Thomas lays wide awake under the morning light, the smallest bird calls jolting him up. He’s momentarily ashamed of his outwardly actions the night before, but he’s never been the man to take accountability. Brushing your hair out of your face, comfort is provided by the smell of the signature shampoo you use.

How precious, you are. The only clean thing in his blood tainted world. A compensation for the horrors forced upon him.

#thomas shelby x reader #cillian murphy x oc #thomas shelby x oc #cillian murphy x reader #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #cillian murphy #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc #cilleatandserve

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