#Alfie Solomons x Fem! Reader Fanfiction

[ryuzakemo128]

Four Horsemen

Chapter Seven: A house to call my own.

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Red (Female Reader) Genre: Modern, sci-fi, mystery Trigger Warnings: Graphic Scenes Mention of violence and criminal activities Cursing, Swearing Rating: MA15+

Masterlist: Link

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

[Red's Point of View]

The circular bathtub, made of exquisite black and gold marble, took pride of place in the center of the spacious bathroom. It was a drop-in style tub, seamlessly integrated into the smooth floor. Its large size provided ample room for indulgence, allowing one to sink into the depths of relaxation.

The surrounding tiles, a rich obsidian black, adorned the walls, reflecting the gleam of the candlelight that danced throughout the space. Their glossy surface added an air of sophistication to the room, while also creating a sense of depth and mystery. It was as if the tiles held secrets within their dark embrace.

A magnificent window, framed with elegant curtains, overlooked the enchanting woods beyond. Its generous proportions allowed streams of sunlight to filter into the room, casting a warm glow upon the luxurious surroundings. Nature's artwork became an ever-changing backdrop, with dappled light and swaying branches, offering a serene connection to the outside world.

Nestled near the window, on a small table, sat the silver incense burner. It took the delicate shape of a lotus flower, its petals gracefully unfurling, symbolizing purity and enlightenment. Fragrant smoke curled upward, carrying scents of sandalwood, lavender, and other calming essences, infusing the air with tranquility.

Adjacent to the bathtub, a shelf held an assortment of bathroom amenities, neatly organized. Shampoo, conditioner, and various oils awaited their turn to pamper and nourish the body. The bottles glistened in the sunlight, their labels a promise of luxurious self-care. Black towels hung on the towel warmer, I had a large de-humidifier inside the bathroom and another one just outside the bathroom to ensure air remains dry.

On the sink in a medium sized glass jewelry casket for my rings like my diamond and fire opal ring, my brass pair of cufflinks with several myriad amber stones, a gold pendant with several myriad diamonds given to her by several exes in the past.

There was an hourglass with white sand which timed how long I was in the bath for, the light red curtain for the large window and the midnight blue walls of the bathroom. I have several small velvet purses filled with coins in case I needed them, along with a small ceramic dish held my favorite blood red lipstick along with my favourite palette of neutral eyeshadow shades and jet black liquid eyeliner.

My pair of crimson silk slippers are always outside the bathroom to put on after having a bath. I kept a hairbrush with an ivory bone handle to brush my hair before I go to bed, usually keeping it in the end table drawer beside my bed. I lived far away from the hustle and bustle of the city, in a large cottage surrounded by a forest behind it.

Steam rose from the scalding hot water from inside the bathtub, the warmth embraced my body as I stepped into the tub sinking further into the water. Letting it envelope me, a sigh escaped my lips as the tension left my body, the pure bliss I felt. My friend was staying over for the night, she wanted to see the place for herself and she planned on taking me to an art auction in town the next day.

Adeline was visiting for two days and planned on staying over for two nights at the very least. She wasn't too sure about me living on my own for a while, stating she was afraid something could happen to me while I lived in a secluded area. I assured her every precaution was put into place long before I moved in.

She walked into the bathroom fifteen minutes after I started bathing to tell me what she was going to do while she was here, interrupting my moment of tranquility. Adeline was a lively and inquisitive woman, always eager to explore new adventures. Her vibrant red hair and mischievous smile were a stark contrast to my own calm demeanor.

"Red, darling, have you decided what you'd like to do tomorrow?" Adeline asked, her voice echoing in the marble bathroom.

I leaned back against the edge of the tub, allowing the warm water to support my body. "I was thinking we could start the day with a visit to the art auction in town. You know how much I adore discovering new artists and their creations." she continued.

"As much as you enjoy baking that's for sure." I replied thinking about it further, "Anything you wanted to do tomorrow? I assume the auction would be held during the night,"

Adeline replied, "Well, during the day, I thought we could take a stroll through the local market. They have a wide variety of fresh produce and unique crafts. It's always a treat to explore and support local businesses. And perhaps we could grab lunch at that charming little café we passed by last time."

A few hours later, we both went to bed, Adeline stayed in the guest room with her fiancé, James. Unlike them, I have dated around since I was 18 and never found someone who captivated my heart. It came close though, timing was never right and it was often due to them falling out of love first.

[caffeineaddictwriter]

Alfie Solomon’s with a baking obsessed wife!

Description: headcannons of Alfie with a reader who has an obsession with baking!

Warnings: bit of sexual touching, f! Reader.

•can easily get used to coming home to a kitchen table stacked with trays of baked goods.

•will always give you money to go buy baking supplies no matter the cost or time.

•will wrap his arms around your waist when your mixing something and slowly inch one of his hands up to your breasts.

•always showing off his baking wife.

•likes to rub it in tommys face whenever they have a meeting, will always have cakes that you’ve baked but won’t let Tommy touch them.

•will always be willing to be a tester for new recipes you come up with.

•once death glared Ollie for a solid week because you gave him a bit of cake first.

•scolds you when you give Cyril some of your baking but in reality he loves seeing the beast content as he eats a bit of your sweet treats.

•is so used to the smell of baking when he comes home that if he doesn’t smell it he goes into panic mode.

•will go all soft mode if you start criticising your own baking.

•if you get the need to bake in the middle of the night you bet your ass he’s joining.

•he’ll drink a cold whiskey as he helps you with whatever you need him to do.

•he gives you some of his mother and grandmothers recipe books and almost cries when you make a dish from them.

[futurefamousdeadmusician]

You Have a Deal

Author's note; Hey all, this is my first run at publishing my writing, hope someone likes it and let me know what you think! I have done some mild PB plot alterations to fit my story better.

Summary; When the Shelby family is under attack from the Changrettas the youngest sibling, Lillian, makes a deal with a distant business partner to ensure the safety of her loved ones.

Content warnings; mild spoilers.

The air of the afternoon was cold this day. Impenetrable grey covered the sky above Birmingham and pressed an awful feeling into Lillian. Her gaze down at the cobblestone, she made her way through the lively Calver Lane until she reached her destination, Solomon’s Mill. She looked up at the building and thought once again of her reasons for coming. No one had known she was here, and she liked it that way. With her family under siege and fair reasoning long gone from the Shelby family, she decided that it was her who needed to devise a plan. A way out. A way through. She moved through the final steps until she reached the door of the old brick building. Built sometime in the 1820’s she could tell Solomon’s Mill was a long standing business on the outskirts of the city. A staple of Birmingham that lasted through the most disheartening economic conditions. Owned and founded by the Solomon’s family after they immigrated to England. Nothing shook this old place; not guns, not violence, not the bloody communists. Always there and always of interest to the Peaky Blinders. They were cordial, if not cooperative at times. Now, Lillian relied on that mutual respect to hold steady when she pushed open the large barn-style doors. 

The air sweeping from the factory carried the sent of the fresh grain being processed through the large, rusted machinery. The shadows of the quick moving men bustling around danced at her feet as she walked through the threshold and made her way to a small room attached to right wood slat wall. Rapping three times on the fragile wooden frame a younger man looked up from his desk and cocked an eyebrow to Lillian. 

“Ye’,” he said quickly, barely parting his lips to speak. 

Slowly, calmly, with the utmost care to appear collected in her appearance, she spoke, “ I’m here to see Mister Solomons.” 

Eyeing her up and down, the nameless man gradually stood from his seat and addressed her more directly than before. He stood not much taller than the young Shelby. Short curls held close to his head and a tattered apron hung off his thin frame. 

“And what’s yer’ order of business?” he questioned. 

“I believe that to be a private matter.” 

He walked around his desk and Lillian did her best not to release the stern eye contact she held on him since her arrival. A lesson from Tommy she knew well, for when you look into the eyes of another man it is much harder to lie; and much harder to kill. 

“Open the purse.” He spoke flatly, unblinking. 

She dropped the small purse defiantly onto the wood-back chair in front of her. She flipped open the small titanium latch and took a small step back to allow the gaunt man his inspection uninterrupted. He drew a pencil from behind his ear and flicked through her things, like they were dirty. Like they were not worthy to be touched by the human hand. Without a word, he looked once again into the dark eyes of the woman before him and peaked over he shoulder into the doorway leading back to the vast factory floor. 

“Come with me,” he ordered in the same flat tone. 

Picking up her bag, Lillian followed him as he walked quickly out into the large room and maneuvered through the men and machines working in impeccable rhythm. She willed herself to keep pace with the small man, heels echoing through the loud space and causing men to turn their heads both in amusement and strict curiosity. Once her escort reached the back most offices of the mill he cracked open the door and spoke softly in a language Lillian did not recognize. After a few exchanges the man stepped to the motioned for Ms. Shelby to enter the small, dark closet. 

There, Mr. Solomons sat at an old oak desk, leaned far back in his seat with the amusement of a child lingering on his bearded face. 

“Ahhh Lillian,” he spoke loudly, “to what do I owe this enormous pleasure.”

“Mr. Solomons.” A brief pause as Lillian sat herself slowly on the chair paced strangely close to the overbearing desk. “There are a few matters I wish to discuss with you and I preferred them to be in person.” 

“Ah sweetheart, and what might that be. Did the new sweets parlor open up just past Harding, is that it?” He bellowed with laughter and Lillians eyes remained engrained in his skull. She always thought back to the words of her older brother in moments of this gravity. 

“Don’t look away from them - the men who wish to kill you - it only gives them time to make that decision.” 

Once the fitful bits of laughs subsided and the ringing from the old slat walls hushed away, Lillian spoke in the same calm tone she had mastered years earlier. 

“I believe I have something you want.” 

Another astonished chucked escaped the burly man. 

“And what would that be?” 

A cold breeze moved through the room. It never occurred to Lillian why men of such power chose to have a room so small to reside in. When her family had the means, they awarded themselves luxury. But Alfie, he hid away in this small closet. Maybe it made himself feel bigger in some way. 

“Brooklyn.” 

“The fuck you mean ‘Brooklyn’,” 

“Brooklyn. New York. Chicago. Shit maybe Boston by the time we are done.” 

The boss moved up farther in his seat. He readjusted his head to the side, believing that he may have heard the young girl wrong. 

“Love, what the fuck are you on about? Did you brother send you.” 

Almost too quickly she responded, “I came on my own accord.” She didn’t like always falling under the wing of her family; Tommy in particular. While the Shelby name came with certain privileges bestowed upon her at birth, she valued her identity. So long she had relied on Thomas to protect the family. Now, with the looming threat of the Italian’s hanging over like a dark cloud, she was on her final idea to pull her family through to safety. 

“Shelby company limited has taken a special interest in the American liquor market. We feel that it would be in your interest, as well as ours, if we cooperated on this matter. Together, we both have much to gain,” she continued, finally regaining her full composer. 

“Ye’ and why would I want business in America? What’s the fuckin’ catch?” Solomons pressed. 

“The Changretta family has made advances against my family. We are now using this opportunity to move into the American market while they are occupied here. This is a quite unique chance to collaborate with our American acquaintance without the influence of the Italians. With your power, as well as ours, I think that we could quite a fitting sum.” For the first time, Lillian broke her gaze away, reaching into her purse to exhume a cigarette before flashing her eyes back to Alfie. He leaned back in his chair, the creak of the old wood breaking the frigid silence. He gaze slowly moved back and forth over the ceiling while his hands rested behind his head. 

“Power,” he began. “Your power and my power,” almost as if he was explaining the concept to a child. “Where is your brother at, Lillian?” 

“He is attending to other business in Bristol.” Lillian, as a principle, didn’t like lying. But, as a Shelby, it came as naturally as breathing. 

“Where is Arthur?”

“Overseeing the tracks.” A puff of smoke escaped from her lips following her statement. 

“Then who in the fuck sent you?” His anger showed. Frustration. Questioning. He was half expecting one of Tommy’s men to appear from behind the doorframe and put a bullet between his eyes, finally revealing this to be an elaborate set up orchestrated by the young woman before him and her devilish relatives. But the bullet never flew and Lillian sat motionless in his chair waiting to respond. 

“I come as a representative of the Shelby Company Limited with a legitimate proposal for enterprise cooperation.” 

“And why should I trust the lot of you? Bunch of gypsy crooks.”

She sat once again, silent, patient, and held his gaze for just a moment to long. Leaning forward, she put the stiff out in a small crystal bowl on the corner of Mr. Solomon’s desk. She retrieved her handbag from her feet and pulled out a small, white envelope. After tossing it lightly on the desk in front of the bearded man she returned to her natural position in the chair, arms crossed, the Shelby, deadpan expression returning to her features. Alfie pulled his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose from the chair laced around his neck. He collected the envelope and carefully took out the ivory card within. A black handprint stained the cover. Mr. Solomons didn’t need to examine the paper any further and flicked up his eyes to meet Lillian’s once again. 

“Every one of us got one.” 

“I see.”

“If the Shelby family dies, your possibilities of every entering the American market get buried with us. Or burned rather…” she trailed on, looking off to the side, examining the bookshelf behind him. “You know, Gypsy things.” 

Alfie released a deeply held sigh and placed the card down back onto the desk with more care than the original owner did. Somewhere, deep down, he held grace for the young woman before him. He recognized that she was a result of her surroundings. Born into the small, violent hole that is Small Heath as a Shelby and since her birth has survived through the forces of her family and her gritty resilience. He new she wanted out. She loved her family, that was her weakness, but she longed to see the hills of the Netherlands and the cathedrals of Austria and the new bustling cities of America. To do this though, she must survive.

“I would need a more formal manner of proposal, numbers and such,” he explained still keeping that condescending tone. But Lillian already began to sit up straighter in anticipation carful not to let this emotion overtake her. “But tentatively, I believe we can work something out.”

A small smirk graced across her lips as she extended her hand. “Very well, Mr. Solomons, I’ll have my associates reach out to your tomorrow.” With that, she was on her feet, quickly remembering to pick up the dreadful letter she had pulled out moments ago. Carful in her movements she walked slowly out of office and shut the door behind her, leaving Alfie sitting in silence, wondering what he had just agreed to. He held much respect for Thomas and therefor placed some onto his younger counterpart. 

Lillian exited the factory and began down the darkening street until she was able to hail an oncoming cab. 

“Watery Lane, please,” she said quietly to the driver who nodded at her instructions. She was eager to meet with Aunt Polly and tell her of her plan of action knowing the elder Shelby would be much more receptive to this idea. Her only fear was Thomas, but that would have to wait. She just hoped that she had done the right thing. 

[thehardy-boys]

The Platform (Tommy Shelby x Reader)

Hey! Its literally been like forever but I've had some time to myself and actually written something. This was not requested or anything but I just got inspired with all the new content recently. Anyways, pls enjoy. It's a series so there will be more parts to the story.

Warnings: Sadness, negative thoughts, flirting if you squint (In the future -- smut 😏)

Part 1

(y/n) hadn’t planned on ever coming back.

“I’ll put your tea here then mum. Alright?” (y/n) spoke fairly loudly so the elderly woman could hear. She was nearing eighty and she had lost most of her sight and hearing. She was a ghost nearing on a corpse. But there was no one else to look after her. As these kinds of responsibilities usually fall on the women, the daughters, they fell on (y/n) just the same.  

“I’m heading to work. Mrs. Iona will check in on you from time to time, alright?” The bedroom door was almost closed when she heard the slight mumble coming from the shriveled woman.

“Not supposed to be here. Don’t want her here. Take her away.”

She paused only for a moment suddenly hit with a wave of the past. The tide so strong it almost pulled her into its murky depths. But with the door closed and the sight of her mother taken away (y/n) turned her back and softly made her way out of her mother’s house.

She waved to Mrs. Iona as she shut the front gate and walked back down the street towards the main road. Her shoes already collecting the terrible coal dust.

She hated it here. The heavy air that the sunlight could never quite penetrate which resulted in the town being in a constant gloom. It made her skin crawl. The unhappiness was crippling. The drunkards already stumbling around the street at eleven o’clock in the morning, the starving children running back and forth, the haggard mothers one step closer to the grave and the dark alleys that were haunted with glistening knives, illegal pistols, and razor-sharp caps.

Get me out of here. Get me out of here. (y/n) screamed internally but she only pushed open the heavy wooden door of the newspaper agency and kindly greeted Mrs. Kelley the receptionist before making her way to the back of the building and sitting down at her desk. Another day. More editing. That was her lot in life: never to be the one writing and creating but only a ghost in the machine, a minion behind the scenes.

By the end of every long day at the newspaper house the words would blur into one huge muddle. She’d pack up her small bag, wish a good night to her boss Mr. Beavers, and head home. Her eyes would be sore and her brain throbbing with a headache. But that was just Small Heath, barely living.

(y/n) felt that she had something missing. She knew she had it when she was younger because of all her memories. The vibrancy of the trees she climbed, the scent of baking in the kitchen, the damp fur of their pet dogs after a rain storm. Everything was so vivid back then and full. Her eyes open and wanting, now she was shuttered, fragile, and tired. Her knees often ached and her neck sore from hunching over papers all day. She was decaying, slowly.

“(y/n)!” Her head popped up from her desk at the sound of her name. Polly Gray was making her way towards her. She was as formidable as (y/n) remembered. She rose up to return Polly’s hug.

“Mrs. Gray, It’s so nice to see you!” Polly squeezed a bit tighter. The warmth of her body rubbing off onto (y/n). She welcomed it. It had been so long since she had received any kind of touch.

“When the hell did you get back?”

“About a year now.”

“A year!? A whole year and you didn’t bother to drop me a line?” Her outrage wore the mask of humor but (y/n) could tell there was genuine worry, genuine hurt lurking behind it.

(y/n) shook her head in apology, “I know. I know. I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting to come back here and then a lot happened and I’ve just been so busy Mrs. Gray. I’m really sorry.”

“No, I know (y/n). I heard what happened. Awful stuff. I had no idea you were here dealing with it all. You should have asked for help.”

(y/n) began to shake her head and ward off Polly’s offer when her boss’s door opened up behind her.

“Ah, Mrs. Gray and Mr. Shelby do come in.” He gestured warmly into his office.

Polly rubbed her arm before stepping inside.

A tall man had been standing behind Polly. (y/n) hadn’t noticed him in the frenzy of the greeting but she didn’t need an introduction. Nobody in Small Heath did. He was just as the ladies described him at the grocers she went to weekly: cold, inscrutable, foreboding, and dangerous.  

(y/n) had lived in Small Heath only until she had turned thirteen and then her family had moved away. Her father had been close to Polly and consequently (y/n), over the years, had played with the young Shelby brothers. (y/n)’s older brother had gotten along well with Arthur and if she concentrated hard enough, she could remember playing hide and seek with Thomas and John Shelby. But it was all so long ago, and she realized she hadn’t seen any of them in over fifteen years. And yet she knew it was Thomas. She knew.

She wondered mildly if he remembered her, “(y/n) (l/n).” That was all he said with a quick nod he passed her by not glancing back and nor did she.

Polly left first and, on her way, reminded (y/n) to drop by. An hour or so later Thomas came out, as well. (y/n) was neck deep in the upcoming Sunday issue so she barely registered the figure standing next to her desk.

“Oh, Mr. Shelby! Did Mr. Beavers ask me to get you any forms?” She pushed away her paper hurriedly and stood up.

He shook his head slowly and continued to stare at her, hands deep in his pockets.

She tilted her head as a question, and he only shrugged slightly.

“I was trying to remember why you left, all those years ago.”

(y/n) sat back down. A flicker of fear coursed through her at the reminder of their family’s departure. A broken window, her father’s bruised face, and her mother’s hands constantly trembling.

“It wasn’t my decision; it was my parents.” She didn’t look up at him and instead pulled her papers back towards her. She didn’t want to sift through all those years. She could barely make it through the present.

He must have sensed the finality because he bid her good day and left but his stare stayed with her all day and even into the night. The frostiness of the blue. The condemnation they held for humanity.

Mr. Beavers explained the next morning that they were starting a partnership with Shelby Limited. They would be expanding their sports column to include more articles on the races. Mr. Beavers excitedly described the hope for a few informative articles on the intricacies of horse racing, training, and breeding. But it wasn’t just about horses Mr. Beavers went on, being attached to Shelby Limited allowed them an easy avenue for new stories and information. It was a ready-made news source.

“All this in exchange for what?” (y/n) asked.

“We give Mr. Shelby’s races publicity and well…occasionally we would publish or not publish certain articles for the company.”

(y/n) crossed her arms, “So they can censor us? What stops them from completely taking over the paper? What if next week they decide they don’t want the Theatre column? Evan and Nate would be out of the job.”

Mr. Beavers frantically shook his head, “It’s not like that, not like that at all. I know Mrs. Gray and I trust her. The company is not interested in that kind of control. I mean we’re only a small agency, (y/n).”

And thus, the partnership began and now not just (y/n) felt the steely stare of Mr. Shelby, but the entirety of the agency did.

It started slowly but Thomas began to come by once or twice a week. It was usually on Tuesdays and Thursdays. (y/n) learned from Mr. Beavers that they were working on a contract. She would here the tell-tale sound of expensive shoes on the marble floor and know even without looking up who it was. Thomas Shelby walked with such authority in his three piece suits all the young ladies at the agency were already gossiping about him during their lunch breaks. But (y/n) kept her distance.

She had always been an outsider in Small Heath. The community never welcomed her family, something to do with their Jewish ties. And now, after returning, people were even more wary. (y/n) could tell there were whispers behind her back. She ignored the fake apologies about the missing invitation when she caught her colleagues out for a bite to eat all together. It didn’t bother her, not really.

“Mr. Shelby, Mr. Beavers will be right out. His previous meeting’s running a bit late. Please sit down if you’d like.” She gestured to the few arm chairs by the window. He only nodded and sat. He lit his cigarette and did what he always seemed to do around her, stare. And she ignored him in favor of the monumental stack of paperwork in front of her.

“How much do they pay you here?” He asked out of the blue. His deep voice easily cutting through her concentration.

She looked over, “Minimum wage.”

“For all that?” He raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

(y/n) shrugged.

“You edit, organize, design, and manage each issue and only get minimum wage?”

“I’m not in a position to be picky, Mr. Shelby.” She bristled a bit.

He took another drag and let the smoke column upwards. He did look beautiful with the sunlight streaming in behind him. It caught the contours of his angular face and she thought yeah, I think I get it now.

He cleared his throat and sat back satisfied her attention was now on him, “Don’t you remember me?”

“Yes. I mean we were just kids.” She shrugged lightly.

“We met on the platform.” He took another inhale of his smoke, “After the war.”

(y/n) blinked.

“Yes, we did.” Her throat had gone dry.

He opened his mouth to continue but “(y/n)! I need the consumer reports.” It was Evelyn from the market section. Her plump red lips perking up at the sight of Thomas. (y/n) had the feeling Evelyn already knew he would be here; the reports weren’t needed until the end of the day.

“Yes. Here they are.” (y/n) sifted through her desk and handed over the packet.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Evelyn asked. She played with a few loose strands of her hair.

“Oh. Uh-Mr. Shelby this is Ms. Lowe. Ms. Lowe, Mr. Shelby from Shelby Limited.”

“Ever so pleased to meet you, sir.” She placed a sneaky hand on her hip and shifted her weight a tad to conform her body into an elegant pose.

And she was attractive (y/n) had to admit. She was young and full of vigor. Her hair always done to perfection and makeup never smudged. She looked like a movie star. She looked like a woman all men would fall head over heels for. (y/n) inwardly cringed. She could only imagine what she must look like next to this creature of beauty.

But when (y/n) looked over to see Thomas’ reaction, he seemingly hadn’t stopped looking at her. Only when their eyes met did Thomas glance over at Evelyn and give a slight nod.

“Mr. Shelby! Please come in, come in! I do apologize about the delay!” Mr. Beavers rushed out and hurriedly greeted the businessman.

After the door closed Evelyn let out a huff. She handed back the packet to (y/n).

“I don’t even need these. I just wanted him to get a look if you know what I mean.”

(y/n) gave a small smile hoping to be rid of the superficial woman but she had one last request.

“Put in a few good words for me, will you? He always comes by your desk. Just drop in a few hints?”

(y/n) sighed and re-organized a few papers, “I’ll try my best Evelyn, but I can’t promise anything.”

A few hours later, Evelyn really did come and collect the consumer reports but lucky for her the office door opened and the two men appeared.

“And wonderful (y/n) here will get the correct form for you to sign Mr. Shelby. Let’s organize a convenient day for her to drop the upcoming issue down at your office weekly.”

Evelyn who was too quick easily swooped in without any hesitation, “I can help, Mr. Beavers. You know that I have a much more open schedule than (y/n). I’d be happy to deliver the issue.” She smiled blindingly.

(y/n) just sat there watching the whole thing unfold. In fact, she was actually grateful Evelyn was sticking her nose into it because she didn’t want to see more of Thomas than she already had these past few weeks.

“That is true, Mr. Beavers. Evelyn has a bit more time on her hands these days.”

The boss was beginning to make the face of agreement before, “I’d like Ms. (l/n) to be the one making the deliveries.”

And there was no room for argument with Mr. Shelby.

“Of course, whatever works best for Mr. Shelby. Let’s say every Thursday?” Mr. Beavers heartily clasped the man’s hand and then beckoned Evelyn into his office for a round up on the recent reports. (y/n) didn’t miss the venomous look the other woman shot her.

(y/n) opened her desk drawer and took out the mentioned form that needed the signature.

“Just here, Mr. Shelby.” She held out a pen for him without bothering to look up. This turned out to be a bad idea because she jumped in surprise as he partially leaned over her to sign the paper. He smelled of oak and whisky. He carried the scent of the past.

She remembered seeing his eyes in the sea of green uniforms on the platform. And she knew. She just knew. After all those years. She had walked towards him. He stood there waiting for her. His beautiful blue eyes. That beautiful face.

“(y/n) (l/n).” He had said her name then with such certainty like it was law. Like it had some kind of divine meaning and not just a jumble of letters.

“Is that all?” He asked setting the pen down.

She cleared her throat, “Yes.”

She expected him to be on his way, but she looked up when she never heard the retreating footsteps. He still stood next to her one hand on the back of her chair. Looking down at her.

“Did you not expect me to remember you?”

She clenched her jaw, “Why would I expect you to remember me?”

He furrowed his brow and walked away.

Part 2

[zkvry]

Head Baker | Billy Kitchen x Fem!Reader

Summary : You meet Billy Kitchen for the first time.

Warnings : cussing, alfie's use of language, brief mentions of sexual themes, sexual tension

Additional Information : > follows events from season 2 of Peaky Blinders (minor spoilers) > written in second person perspective > 379 words | 3 minutes

Author's Note :

I haven't really seen any works done for him and personally, I fancy the man. Please excuse my weak attempt to literate alfie's cockney accent. Let me know if I should do more works on mista kitchen!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Good lad. Fill it up, and fuck off," Alfie huffs as he gestures to the occupational form you were handing out to the men. As they leave, Alfie slouches into his chair sighs deeply.

"Wher' on this fuckin' earth, right? does Thomas fuckin' Shelby get a whole bunch o' blokes to do his biddin' for him?" He complains with furrowed eyebrows.

You look at him amused. Standing right next to him, you cross your arms and lift a brow. "Jealous are we, Alfie?" You tease him.

His head snaps to your direction and blinks furiously, dumbfounded. "What? Lil' 'ol me? jealous of that twink?" His childish retaliation made you burst out in laughter.

Just then, a tall, bulky man - presumably another 'baker' saunters in. Your banter with Alfie cuts short and abrupt as you directed your attention to the stranger.

"Name," Alfie demands.

"Billy Kitchen," He states with confidence. Dominance radiating off him. His stern eyes were unwavering, almost challenging as his eyes looks down at Alfie.

From your point of view, you neck strains a little to meet his gaze. He auburn hair amess hidden under his cap, rough stuble neatly trimmed. His stout built seen clear as day even under his thick coat. Your mouth waters at the thought of those big strong arms holding you down as he thrus-

"Go on then, give the basta'd his papers and apron" Alfie calls to you, proding his elbow to your hip gently.

What? Oh.

You tense up and clear your throat, embarrassed to the bone. Your clammy palms grabbed the papers and apron in a scurry.

His eyes meet yours for the first time, his face still stoic. His gaze was intense. Your arms reach out towards him, handing him the items at hand. He leans closer from the other side of the desk, he takes them from you slowly.

"Thank you, Ms" He says gruffly, nodding his head.

He walks away with his eyes still trained on you. Your lungs burn.

Gasping

You were practically gasping for air from the breath you didn't know you were holding. In the fits of coughing, you hear Alfie's voice again.

"Right, and what in the hell was that?" His eyes wide like saucers, eyebrows halfway up his hairline.

[ceirinen]

December 2023

I decided to make a list of every fic I read each month.

I would like to interact more, but life has been complicated recently and when it comes to interacting, I get very anxious which is something I'm trying to overcome.

So, here I made this to appreciate such amazing writers and stories that inspire me and others everyday. To the authors, I want to thank them for their dedication and time spent on writing to offer us fascinating stories.

I totally recommend their work.

(If you are in this list and you don't want to, please let me know so I can fix it).

@cillianmesoftlyyy

So New | Cillian Murphy x fem!reader Method Acting | young!Cillian Murphy x Reader

@runnning-outof-time

Research | Tommy Shelby x Reader Bedtime Stories | Tommy Shelby x Reader & Daughter

@zablife

teacher!Luca Changretta x Reader Funeral | Tommy Shelby x sister!reader A Visit to the Peaky Blinders Set | Cillian Murphy x wife!reader

@gypsy-girl-08

Festive Spirit | modern!Tommy Shelby x Reader All I Need... | modern!Thomas Shelby x Reader A Gentle Warning | Thomas Shelby x wife!Reader

@pacifymebby

Arthur Shelby x Reader

@fkmarrycill

Pre-Gaming | Cillian Murphy x Reader

@holacia3

Lost and Lucky | modern!Tommy Shelby x Reader Surprise visit | modern!Tommy Shelby x Reader

@beastofburdenxo

Let Me Praise You | Tommy Shelby x Reader Raising Catherine | Tommy Shelby x Reader

@look-at-the-soul

If I let you go | Cillian Murphy x Reader

@your-nanas-house

What does my princess want? | sugar daddy!Cillian Murphy x sugar baby!reader I'm pretty sure you're mine | sub!William Killick x dom!fem!Reader What are we, idiot? | Neil Lewis x best friend!Reader Thirsty | Tommy Shelby x secretary!Reader

@raincoffeeandfandoms

To the end of the world | Alfie Solomons x fem!oc Tommy, the teddy bear | Alfie Solomons x fem!oc Emergency surgery | baby!Tommy Shelby Fanfiction | Alfie Solomons x fem!oc Anon | Alfie Solomons

@lis-likes-fics

Loner | Edward Cullen x Reader At the End of the Day | Tommy Shelby x wife!Reader

@rafeology

Mentor!Finnick Odair x victor!reader

@wife-of-all-dilfs

Flower Therapy | Finnick Odair x Reader

@darlingsfandom

Cillian Murphy x Reader Tommy Shelby x artist!reader Soft sugar daddy | Robert Fischer x Reader

@pinguwrites

Home Is Where the Heart Is | William Killick x future!reader

@http-finnick

Skin to skin | Finnick Odair x fem!insomniac!reader

@acewritesfics

Lost Love | Tommy Shelby x Reader 36 Minutes | modern! Tommy Shelby x Reader

@dearshelby

Had you first | Tommy Shelby x Reader Little Tommy | Thomas Shelby x oc

@lau219

Red Carpet | Cillian Murphy x Reader

@peakyswritings

I Do Bad Things | demon!Tommy x Reader

@shelbystales

Ceramic Lessons | Cillian Murphy x Reader

@darthannie

Day eighteen: breeding kink with Lenny Miller | Lenny Miller x f!Reader

@hllywdwhre

Afterglow | Cillian Murphy x Reader

@red-write-hand

I'll be home for Christmas | Thomas Shelby x Reader

@mysaintkitten

Bad Behaviour | Mike Kiernan x fem!Reader

@notyour-valentine

The Spirits that I summoned | young!Tommy Shelby

@brummiereader

No Son Of Mine | Tommy Shelby

@youbyradiohead

Strawberry Syrup | Cillian Murphy x Reader

@cillianthinker

British accent | Cillian Murphy x Reader Young and in love | Cillian Murphy x Reader

@cillspropertea

Coming home | Cillian Murphy x Reader

@cillmequick

Operation Christmas Tree | modern!Tommy Shelby x fem!Reader

[inkwolvesandcoffee]

Ink & Rum Raisins (Alfie Solomons x Reader, Modern AU)

(Credits for the images in the moodboard go to their respective owners. The absolutely gnarly Anubis is by @/dugagau (IG))

Genre: Romance, Humour, Modern AU

Pairing: Tattoo Artist!Alfie Solomons x Dutch Fem!Reader

Word Count: 12.3K

Warnings: a lot of swearing, Alfie being a gentleman, size kink, unrequited crush/love/lust (or is it? Also, I’m sorry, but the reader, like me, has a thing for older men), allusion to smoking/vaping, allusion to past violence

Summary: Prequel to Mokum Part 1.

Alfie

There was once a little dove, yeah, who found herself in a shithole of a place called Birmingham. Little brave thing that she was, she flew over the wolves living in it, looking for the one she had business with. Now, this wolf, right, was already an older chap, greying and with a bloody bad leg. He was, no, is the King of Camden. Anyways, the little dove found him and the wolf and her agreed upon a contract, according to which he provided his services. He soon found himself rather charmed by her, perhaps because he reminded her of days gone or because she awakened something in him, a reminder of a fantasy he hadn’t dare to fancy in a long time. And that’s why he coaxed the little thing into a deal.

Because he’s a selfish, in her words, bastard.

Caught between vice and virtue, unsure which of the two she is.

Y/N

I had heard the stories about the eccentric Alfie Solomons, owner of King of Camden Ink in London. However, when he announced he’d fulfill a guestspot at Shelby Tattoo Company in Birmingham, there was no way I could pass up the rare opportunity to be tattooed by one of the biggest (though infamous) names in the industry and get myself one of his gnarly yet gorgeous pieces.

In hindsight, if I had to do anything differently, I would have picked any other spot on my body but my thigh, simply to save myself from transforming into a bumbling fool. However, I would happily relive the whole experience even though it was quite... turbulent, to say the least. And, I’ll be honest, Alfie’s a bit of a bastard. Nevertheless, I’d do it all over again.

I wonder if butterflies see the potential danger in roses. The thorns, I imagine, could rip their wings if they come too close. Fancy could be their downfall. Then again, they never live long, do they? 

Author’s Note: Oh my days, it’s at last, the first segment in the behemoth this Alfie Solomons romance has become. This particular story started out as a one-shot, but gradually grew longer and longer up to the point I now have at least enough of a story to write a novella. 

Bloody hell, anyways, I made the reader Dutch because I’ve never seen anyone do that before (mind, I’m willfully ignoring the Dutch fanfiction I’ve come across because it was... not good, and that’s putting it politely) and since I’m Dutch myself and this tale is based upon actual events and conversations, I thought, ‘‘Well, why the hell not?’’

Also, this is the first thing I’ve written and edited since my thesis, so if it sounds rather formal or even academic in places, it might be because of that. I’ve yet to get accustomed to writing fiction again.

But, without further ado, kick back, relax, and enjoy the story.

Monster Masterlist / TH Masterlist

Having jolts of electricity shooting throughout your body and making your hands a bit jittery while your stomach seems to tie itself into a permanent knot is only natural when something exciting is about to happen. And as long as there is coffee nearby, the nerves can be fairly contained. In my personal opinion, that is.

However, when getting tattooed it’s better to not drink coffee before the appointment and let your emotions run wild. Now, I can only confirm for the former it helps the tattooing process because you do not want to start bleeding more than might be the case in a non-caffeinated scenario. The latter, on the other hand, is perhaps worse than a caffeine overdose. What also does not help my current case is entrusting part of my body to a man, regardless of his talent.

Another unhelpful detail is that I am about to go to a shop where practically only men work. Although, if I’m lucky, the two resident female artists have an appointment today too. We don’t have to have a conversation, interact at all, but it would make the environment more pleasant if I’m not the sole feminine presence.

Then again, I suppose I brought this down on myself. When I saw that Alfie Solomons would have a guest spot at Shelby Tattoo Company, I knew I had to get an appointment somehow. A holiday to Birmingham and getting a tattoo by a brilliant artist? Two birds with one stone, count me in.

Alfie has become somewhat of a celebrity in the tattoo community thanks to his art, inspired by various religions around the globe, specifically focusing on its monsters, demons, and other animal symbolism. The designs are gnarly yet awe-inspiring, the blacks stark and each element easily discernible despite the dark ink. For this specific guest spot he noted he’d only do flash and wanna-dos. Fortunately for the both of us, I’m obsessed enough with ancient Egypt to dedicate a part of my skin to the god of its Underworld and the dead.

The skin of my right thigh, to be precise.

And that’s where the problem lies. 

For my other tattoos, I went to a women-run tattoo studio because I’m more comfortable with having a woman tattoo me. That is, of course, not to say all male tattoo artists aren’t to be trusted, because there are genuine sweethearts out there, and that women can’t be predators or walking red flags themselves. I, myself, have simply heard one too many tales of a woman being mistreated by a male tattoo artist to entrust them with the intimacy that comes with getting a tattoo.

Quite a contradiction, innit, considering the fact I’m about to let Alfie, a bear of a man, tattoo my thigh? Let’s call it a leap of faith, spurred on by incredible talent no one else possesses.

A sacrifice of principles in the name of art.

Sounds rather poetic when I put it like that. Better than ‘I want new ink and that Anubis looks fucking awesome. I want it. I’m gonna get it. Don’t care if I’m gonna have to travel.’

Yes, a sacrifice for art. We’ll keep it at that. 

The bus stops on Victoria Street, a small straightforward walk away from Shelby Tattoo Company in Small Heath. Red brick worker’s houses line the wide cobblestone street, the occasional old storefront among them hinting at what the edifice was used as in days past. Stone steps inlaid in a patch of grass lead up to the main street, an older couple descending them. The woman holds firmly onto her husband, her arm looped in his. He, in turn, clutches the railing for dear life. Nonetheless, it’s a sweet sight, an affirmation Love and Romance still exist.

‘‘The destination is on your right. Shelby Tattoo Company.’’

I turn off the navigation and tuck my phone into the back pocket of my jeans. For a second I remain unmoving, merely looking at the handle of the door. 

Breathe in… breathe out. It’s gonna be fine. It’s gonna be okay. Alright, let’s go!

The mental prep has done little to still the tremble in my fingers, but my racing mind becomes eerily clear when I push the front door open. 

The single step across the threshold must have been noisy or his hearing is like a bat’s because my entrance rouses the bulking figure in the corner of the shop. He’s clad in a white shirt and jeans, his long brown hair tousled and haphazardly slicked back as best as possible. 

The man spins around on his stool, the movement languid and wary. A brief silence settles in, a moment in which we look at each other quizzically. In fact, it might even be safe to say we’re trying to estimate each other, guessing at how much danger hangs in the air.

“Can I help you, miss?” he asks, a note of caution in his Cockney accent as he strokes his beard. 

“I- I have an appointment. W- With Mr Solomons,” I stammer, feeling like a child caught red-handed trying to steal a cookie.

And that immediately shows how much of an actual threat I am

“Ah, Y/N! Shalom!” Alfie rises to his feet and swaggers over, precariously balancing his weight to hide his limp as best as possible. His broad shoulders block out the light as he comes to a halt, a polite distance between us. I tilt my head to look up, mentally cursing my genes for making me a head shorter than him and myself for the flutters of a butterfly storm in my stomach, caused by the height difference. “Welcome.”

He tilts his head and huffs, strangely amused. “I see you’re wearing new pants.”

“How- How’d you know they’re new?”

This is already getting sus. Maybe I should turn tail and run.

“I follow you on Instagram,” he says matter-of-fact and shrugs. “I saw you had a new Story, one about buying pants to get tattooed in.”

“You,” I point at him and then at me, still not registering his words, “follow me? On Instagram?”

“I do,” Alfie casually confirms. “If you don’t believe it, go see for yourself.”

He gestures for me to grab my phone.  “Go on, check.”

My face pales when the follow button turns a light blue and states follow back. 

Oh God, he’s seen my Stories. Seen my cat Stories. All the bullshit I posted.

Alfie leans in, the light providing extra definition to his toned arms, crossed firmly over his chest. “I don’t think you looked like shit. Those jeans look good on you.” The glee of being proven right melts into a curious pondering. “Boyfriend jeans, was it? Yeah… They look good on you.”

What does he mean by that? Is he flirting? Or is he being himself? I mean, I’ve heard he’s a bit eccentric, but what do I do?

Apparently nothing, because my feet are rooted to the spot, my mind erupted into pure chaos with not a single coherent thought thinking of walking out the door. So I remain where I am, still like a statue.

Until Alfie claps his hands. “Right! I won’t lie and say I’m not ecstatic about you picking the Anubis design.” 

He turns around and walks to his station to grab something. After a quick search, he returns with two pieces of paper and his tablet. An expression like water has been poured over him to wake him from a dream passes over his face. A funny contrast with the warm gesture towards the worn leather sofa.“Where are my manners? Please, sit down. Tea? Coffee?”

“Ah, no, thanks. I’ve already had two cups of coffee and I don’t want to turn into a bouncy ball.”

“Water, then?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I printed the design in two sizes, the original and a smaller one. I think both will work fine, but I’ll leave the decision up to you. Also, I’d like my clients to fill in a form. It’s kind of a dossier, right, only accessible to me of course. It’s due to the new regulations on ink, you know how fond the authorities are of control and paperwork, and to document which ones I used in case you get a reaction. It’s also nice to know, in general, I have your consent to place the tattoo. All you need to do is put your signature on the line at the bottom.” He puts the pieces of paper on the coffee table and carefully hands the tablet and stylus over.

I look over the form, fill in the missing details, and sign the form. In the meanwhile, Alfie pours a glass of water, judging by the sound of an opening and closing fridge from a bottle rather than the tap. 

“Piece of lemon?”

“Pardon?”

“Lemon? Would you like a slice in your water?’’ he patiently repeats, adding playfully, ‘‘It’s wonderfully refreshing.”

“My, what luxury!” I exclaim in a terrible imitation of a posh accent.

“I only want the best for my clients,” he says, though it’s unclear whether he’s serious or playing along. All the same, with a bit of a show, he grabs a cutting board, a knife, and a lemon from the net sitting in the corner of the counter. Sonorously, he hums along with the jazz song that plays over the speaker as he slices the fruit and adds two slices of it to the glass of water.

After washing his hands, he holds out the glass like a butler would. “Here you are, madam.”

“Thank you,” I say, cheeks warm. “Let’s trade. Here’s your tablet back.”

“What’s your email?” he asks after looking over the form. “I’ll send a copy to you. It’s always good to have a backup of important documents like this, innit?”

A brief flash of confusion passes over his face when I tell him the part of my email which contains my last name. Unable to suppress a giggle, I resort to spelling it out to not subject him any further to the difficulties of the Dutch language.

“Hold on, slow down.’’ He mumbles the letters to himself, the stylus making soft tick tick tick sounds. ‘‘Alright, carry on.’’

The last bit is evidently easier to keep up with. Everything noted, he turns the screen to me for a final check. ‘‘That correct?’’

I nod in confirmation

‘‘Alright. Now let me just… there. Sent.’’ The furrow in his brow smoothes out now the paperwork is done. Alfie puts the tablet on the coffee table, sits down and leans back in the chair across from me, thick fingers entwined. ‘‘So that’s how you pronounce your last name?” 

‘‘Yep, but I do admit I anglicised it. In Dutch it sounds like this.’’ With a little mental effort, I temporarily suppress the innate tendency to use English. An effort well-spent since it earns me the joy of the look of utter befuddlement anyone who is not acquainted with my native tongue gets once they hear it.

“Okay, now, see, I did not expect such a last name after hearing you talk.”

  I tilt my head, puzzled. “How’d you mean?”

“Your accent and last name don’t add up. Unless you’re married, but you’re not, are you?”

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with the mention of marriage. “Where’d you think I’m from?”

“Either Dublin and Belfast, but now I’m leaning more towards the latter.” A mischievous though well-meaning grin tugs at the corners of his lips. “You have a tendency to go down with your intonation and your speech almost has a slight underlying growl like they have in the north. Do you have family there?”

“None. I have no ties to Ireland aside from my travels.”

“Do you mean Ireland as one country or do you make the distinction between the north and south?”

It’s the Republic and the north, but I’ll let it slide.

“Are you asking my opinion on the border?” I ask, a wary tone in my voice.

“I think I already have my answer.” Like a pleased cat, he entwines his fingers only to individually crack them a moment later. “Anyways, let’s not talk about politics. It’s all the same, toffs unable to agree on what they think is a matter of the common people like you and me but is essentially a bureaucratic quarrel that’s nothing to do with the public whatsoever. Sharks eat fish smaller than themselves to survive. Big fucks small always.”

He clears his throat and leans forward. “Have you decided yet?”

“Well…” I start, overwhelmed with thoughts of the various outcomes and permanency of the matter. 

Before I can make an attempt at a proper answer, Alfie picks up on my indecisiveness. “If you want, you can try both. We’ll tape both sizes to your leg and you can tell me which size you prefer.”

“Sounds good,’’ I say, letting out a small sigh of relief. ‘‘First, though, let me put my shorts on. Where’s the restroom?”

He points to somewhere behind me. “Behind the door with the chrysanthemums.”

I stand up, grab the pants from my backpack, and slip into the restroom. It only takes a minute or two to change, but nevertheless I find myself unable to go back out into the studio right away.

I bought these especially for today. Shit, he saw that Story too, didn’t he? And what if other men walk in, be it clients or tattoo artists? What will their first thought be?

A gentle knock on the door violently jolts me back into reality. On the other side, a familiar baritone voice calls out, concern evident in the simple question. “Y/N, you alright?”

“Yeah,” I answer, opening the door a crack and slipping through it, “I’m fine.”

Alfie takes me in, gaze unwavering and expression unreadable. His body also shows no hints eluding to his train of thought. The peculiar investigation ends with a low hum.

What was that? Does- Can he read me like an open book? Is that what he just did?

Without knowing whether he did and hesitant to ask, I let the matter rest. 

We move over to the large mirror covering the wall nearby his station. The tattoo artist makes a brief detour to his station to put on a pair of black latex gloves before sauntering over to kneel down. For a second I wonder what it would be like to cup his cheek, how his beard would feel against my palm as I’d turn his face to make him look up at me.

Part of the fantasy comes true, because he lifts his head. “May I?”

More than a second passes before I register what he means. Then I notice his hands a few centimetres from my thigh, ready to place the first design, the one with the original size. Instead of an answer, too afraid of what might come out of my mouth, I swallow and nod.

With precision, he sticks the piece of paper to my skin, smoothing it out to display its full potential. Smiling proudly, showing his slightly crooked teeth, Alfie rises to his feet and puts his hands on his hips. “What do you think? We could also mirror the design, but that would make Anubis face your…” he vaguely gestures, struggling to find the words that are polite enough. Evidently, he can’t find them, settling for “you know.”

I model the design, twisting my leg this way and that, all the while trying to ignore Alfie standing with his arms crossed in the background. However, there is only so long I can close him out so eventually I search for and meet his eyes via the mirror, furiously trying to hide my nerves under only a half-feigned expression of exhilaration. “Let’s do it.”

“Are you sure? You don’t want to try the other size?”

I turn around, forcing myself to maintain his gaze. “I’m a fairly small person, so I think the size is just right.”

“No mirroring?”

“Nah, let’s keep it classy.”

The low chuckle rising from the depths of his throat ignites a pleasant warmth that spreads throughout my body. “If the lady says so. I’ll get everything ready, so sit back with a snack or, if you want, there’s plenty of time to go outside for a smoke.”

“I don’t smoke, so I’ll go with the former,” I say as I plop down on the worn leather couch.

“That’s likely the better option of the two. Nicotine and tobacco are vices, ones I’m only too guilty of indulging in. Although, I’ve recently switched to vaping. Less stank, less laundry, better for the environment and clients.”

“I don’t mind the smell of cigarettes too much, but I do admit I prefer the smoke of vaping above that of regular smoking. Sometimes it smells quite good, actually. Kinda sweet.”

“Depends on the cartridge. See, like whiskey, yeah, the flavour is dependent on the environment, the way it is brewed. I prefer rum myself, though.”

“I’ve never tried it.”

Alfie turns away from the printer busily cranking out the stencil. “You never had rum?”

I shake my head. “I generally don’t drink, but if I do, I tend to stick to my favourites. Licor quarenta y très, amaretto, limoncello, Guinness, whiskey.”

“Irish or Scottish?”

“Generally Irish.”

“Of bloody course,” he chuckles. “My family has a rum distillery, based near London, but we sell the stuff throughout the country in shops run by family members, of course. There’s one in Birmingham, so if you tell them I sent you, I’ll make sure there’s a bottle ready for you. Free of charge, of course, because it’s the least I can do to save you from that sin.”

“The sin of not knowing the taste of rum?”

“Exactly! When are you leaving England?”

“Tomorrow. And, unfortunately, I only have hand luggage, so there is no way I could take the bottle with me.”

“Hm, that’s too short notice…”

“We can make good on this later? I mean, this isn’t the last time I’ll be in England.” I cross and uncross my legs, feeling rather self-conscious. “Or we could meet at a convention? I don’t know whether you’ll be attending one in Holland any time soon, but-’’

“I’ll be attending the Amsterdam Tattoo Festival in September,” he interrupts me, fortunately saving me from having to finish a sentence I don’t know how to continue. “We could meet then, if you’d like? Or are you planning to go to the London Tattoo Show?”

“Unfortunately, I have to skip that one since I don’t think my bank account will allow it. Especially considering I’m planning to quit my job soon and do some travelling around Scotland and Northern Ireland for about a month, which won’t be cheap.” He mumbles something under his breath in response, the words bleeding into each other to form an incoherent mess. However, the disagreeing tone is a hint that he disapproves of something, whatever it might be. “But I’m planning to go to Amsterdam too, so, could we- we could-’’

Stop being such a coward. Just ask already, for God’s sake! 

“I’d like that,” Alfie cuts in as if he’s read my mind. Stencil in hand, he turns back to me, his features soft. “Gives me plenty of time to make good on my promise.”

We return to his station, a polite distance between us. Alfie sits down on the stool and grabs a disposable razor, which he puts down again with a hint of slight surprise after inspecting my leg. “Already shaven, eh?”

I run a hand through my hair while my stomach quivers. “Yeah. I thought it would be polite. Also, I can’t stand my legs being hairy. My arms neither.”

“I wish more people had that mentality. Then again, humans tend to be selfish creatures,’’ he grumbles while pulling on a new pair of gloves.

“Are there really that many clients who don’t shave?”

“More than you think, darling, but it makes me all the more appreciative of clients like you.”

The ‘darling’ means nothing. Stop being a fucking idiot and don’t get your hopes up. He literally just confirmed you’re just a customer, a source of income.

“Right, before we start, would you like to use numbing cream? We could also use nutmeg oil, if you’d like.”

“Nutmeg oil?”

“It’s completely vegan and helps relieve the pain,’’ Alfie explains. ‘‘It has quite a strong scent, though, so I hope you’re not faint of heart. Or, rather, have a sensitive nose.”

For a moment, I contemplate the options, weighing past experiences against each other. Thus far, line work has never been a problem and blackwork hasn’t been either. “D’you know what? Let’s go without.”

“Tough as nails,” he says with a hint of awe and appreciation. “You’re full of surprises, in’t ya?”

“Am I?”

“So far, yes. A young Dutch woman with a misleading Irish accent wants a gnarly scowling Anubis on her thigh whereas her other tattoos are colourful and less gnarly. One can only speculate regarding her story.” He grabs a big pot with the image of a geisha and red lettering on it, unscrews the lid, and scoops out a dollop of the stuff within to put on the side of his gloved hand. “This is Dragon’s Blood. It helps calm the skin and closes pores. It can be used as aftercare too.”

He screws the lid on again and puts the pot back in place. “May I?”

I stare at him blankly. “What do you mean?”

“May I touch your thigh and prep the skin?” he clarifies, his slightly crooked teeth showing.

“Oh, right, right! Yes, of course,” I answer, stumbling over the words and barely refraining from breaking out into a ramble.

Alfie picks up some of the balm with his fingers and leans in to work it into the skin. At first he tries to do it without support, but quickly finds himself struggling a bit. “Is it okay if I place my hand on the back of your thigh?” he asks, looking up with sincere greyish blue eyes. “It’s easier to work it in if there’s a bit of resistance and support.”

Wow, he has really pretty eyes. But then again, even a rose has thorns.

“Y- Yeah, sure.”

“Are you agreeing because you want to or because you’re feeling intimidated?” 

The question catches me off-guard, its thoughtfulness rendering me speechless.

“Y/N,” Alfie sighs, “I have no ill intentions. I’m a man of honour, one who believes a woman should be treated with the utmost respect. So let me ask you again and I want you to look me in the eye, yeah, as you give me an honest answer. Is it okay if I place my hand on the back of your thigh?”

“Yes,” I answer, steady. “Yes, it is.”

He grunts in acknowledgment before placing the palm of his other hand on my skin too. 

Though light in touch, the supporting grip nevertheless feels sturdy and the warmth seeping through the latex of his gloves secure. I can vaguely hear myself hum at the thought of holding his hand as we walk through Amsterdam in summer, the temperature still high enough to feel hot and clammy but with the unmistakable first signs of autumn setting in. Halfway through the month, it will become colder, especially at night if you keep the windows open. Then, to have a grip like that on your body, your skin warmed by the friction as the whiskers of a coarse yet soft beard worship it, and a baritone voice in your ear that occasionally falters with pleasure…

The sensation of cold liquid on my skin snaps me out of my reverie. I snap my head down to see where it comes from, only to discover I apparently zoned out and Alfie has cracked on to the stencil stuff.

“Try to relax your leg,” he gently coaxes while trying to apply the stencil.

I take a deep breath and do as he says, forcing my muscles to lose their tension. Although it doesn’t feel like I’m loosening up, I’m apparently doing something right enough to earn myself an oddly prideful whispered “attagirl”. Fortunately, Alfie is blissfully unaware of the fact I heard him and the storm of butterflies the compliment unleashes in my stomach. Nor does he seem to catch on to how badly the pressure of his hands, finally having found the right placement, makes my mind short circuit.

“Go take a look in the mirror,” he says after meticulously peeling the stencil off.

Even the mere outline of the Egyptian god of death looks menacing. Anubis bares his fangs as sharp as daggers, viciously snarling at the viewer. ‘‘Don’t come near me. Don’t even dare to speak to me lest you want me to feed your heart to Ammit’’ he seems to warn. 

It’s absolutely, drop-dead gorgeous.

‘‘Let’s do it!’’ A skip in my step, I walk back to the massage table, which Alfie has covered with an electric blanket. It has heated to a pleasant temperature, not too low yet not high enough to break out into a sweat. Perhaps the best way to describe it is to say it makes you feel all warm and toasty.

‘‘Well, if the lady truly is ready, then who am I to deny her ink any longer?’’ Alfie says, barely able to suppress his amusement. Nevertheless, it shows in the theatrical attitude in which he continues. ‘‘Before we begin, my lady, may this old chap indeed have the ‘onour of tattooing you?’’

‘‘Yes, indeed you may, mister Solomons.’’

‘‘Marvellous.’’

The bell by the door tinkles as a long-faced, clean shaven young man, in his early to mid-twenties, walks into the studio. His casual step gives away he’s one of the resident artists, lost in thought as he hangs his jacket next to mine on the coat rack. He throws the hood of his black hoodie back to reveal muzzled short brown hair the colour of milk chocolate and runs his hand through it, tousling the locks even further. 

“Why are you so early?” Alfie throws a look over his shoulder at the newcomer. 

The question seems to catch the other man off-guard, the pensive expression on his boyish face fading into surprise. “I have an appointment, half sleeve, Japanese style. It’s going to be a koi pond.”

“Right,” Alfie scoffs. “I hate koi fish. Can’t stand drawing them, right, because it’s always the same composition, the same old story.”

“Is that really your reason?” the other asks as he approaches and comes to a halt a step away from where I’m lying. A whiff of fresh cologne hits my nose, mixed with the indescribable smell of rain.

“Nah, mate. I don’t really have a ‘reason’. Simply hate the fuckers. I prefer things that have a bit more life to them, a higher intellect that prevents them from smacking their lips like eternal gluttons. Gluttony is a sin, you know.” Alfie perks up as if he’s remembered something and shifts his attention back to me. “Right, this here is Michael, a show-off.”

So that’s Michael Gray. Strange, I thought he’d be older and more… tough, rough-looking, instead of a lad I could easily cross paths with at the bookshop. In fact, wait, didn’t I see him at Waterstones yesterday?

“Just because you don’t do Japanese-’’ Michael starts, but Alfie cuts him off.

“And a bloody pacifist.”

“I saw your work on Instagram.” To delay or, rather, hopefully stop a fight from breaking out between the two, I speak up before the two can continue catfighting. “It’s really cool. I’ve started warming up to the Japanese style because of your designs.”

Cheeks flushed, he rubs the back of his neck. “Thank you. You know, if you ever have an idea, send it my way.”

Alfie rolls his eyes, which earns him a venomous glare from Michael. “This is how you hold a proper conversation instead of being a cunt.”

“You see, the problem, right, is that so many people have said I am a cunt I don’t fucking care. Because they were all hypocrites, yeah. So, Michael, who’s the real one here, eh?”

My gaze flits from one man to the other while I tense up, ready to jump off the table and run for the hills if the situation worsens. And it’s likely it will because each man seems more than ready to lash out at the other. 

Although I don’t think he’ll notice, I shake my head at Michael. Among the two, he is the most approachable and likely to listen at the minute, so I mentally cross my heart and pray he notices my silent plea to stop fighting. Although it’s Alfie who started it, I wager Michael is mature enough to walk away. At least for now. Afterwards, both men are free to tear each other to pieces.

Fortunately, he sees me. Lips pulled into a straight line, Michael skulks off to his own station, glowering.

Thank God.

I take a couple of deep breaths to calm my racing heartbeat. That was a close call, too close.

“Bad blood?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘‘I don’t mean to pry.’’

“Ah, the boy’s just cross ‘cause Tommy and I haven’t always seen eye to eye. Chap adores him. A little too much, if you ask me, but someone’s got to be the good little soldier, right?” Alfie checks the set-up once more to ensure everything is in place. Now that the threat of imminent conflict has proven false, he, too, relaxes. The tenseness in his muscles fades, his body loosening up. His shoulders lower and he unclenches his jaw, releasing the strain on it.

The last remnant of sharp biting sarcasm has evaporated when he turns back to me, gloved hands in his lap. “Comfy?”

“Incredibly so. I could curl up and take a snooze.”

“That would make my job easier.” He picks up the wireless tattoo machine from the tray, eyes still trained on me, watching out for any withdrawal of consent. “May I?”

I nod, allowing him to touch and stretch the skin. “Okay, let’s first do a line, yeah, to see how it feels. Ready?”

“Yep.” Sheepishly, I give him a thumbs-up.

Alfie shakes his head, chuckles and murmurs something under his breath before he sets to work. 

Every time you get new ink you tend to think you can still remember the feeling of being tattooed and instantly adjust. However, the opposite is true, at least for me. At first, it’s an unpleasant nagging sensation like someone is dragging a sharp-edged though blunt object to and fro over your skin. This only lasts for a few seconds and then gradually fades to an oddly therapeutic feeling that is near impossible to describe. Yes, I’m being poked by multiple needles constantly yet it doesn’t hurt. I wouldn’t say it’s enlightening, but it is calmingly enough to stop the on-going flow of various thoughts which consist of everything at the same time. Tattooing brings order in the chaos and is the best therapy out there. 

“How’s that?” Alfie asks.

“Good. Well, I mean, it’s like my cat has its claws in my thigh and by this time, I’m used to that.” I let out a sheepish giggle, only to mentally slap myself in the face for being awkward.

“What’s its name?”

“I have two, actually. One is called Saul and the other Solomon. Not really names you’d expect for a cat, but they’re big.” I try to indicate the size of them with my hands, my heart skipping a beat as he takes a second to pay attention. “Big lads.”

“Solomon was a prophet according to the Talmud, a man of great wisdom and power. Now, Saul was the first king of Israel. Great man, too, who knew that he who lives by the sword, dies by it. I suppose Anubis knew this too, weighing hearts and deciding who gets to go on a boat trip to the underworld or eaten alive. Well, as alive as a spirit can be.”

“Unfortunately, the boys haven’t a sliver of wisdom between them, unless it concerns the knowledge of being charming enough to earn themselves a treat. However, they’re bloody powerful if the need to cuddle strikes. They’ll literally attempt to take me hostage, regardless of what I’m doing at that very moment. But on a different note, it sounds like you know a lot about religion.”

“I tried theology in university, but that didn’t get me far. Doesn’t help I had a couple fights with some Italian kids, Catholics, who saw themselves above a Jew. The last one that saw me kicked out was perhaps my most brutal.” For a second he seems to continue the story, but thinks better of it at the last minute. Instead, a low grunt rises from his throat. “Yeah, definitely the most brutal, that one was.”

Though he tries to move past the topic, I’m not quite ready to let it go. Being a curious cat isn’t particularly a good thing to be when it comes to people because it can go both ways once they realise you’re after a piece of their story. Nevertheless, my curiosity is peaked and therefore I can't help myself. “I’m glad the fights in the classroom remained at heated debates. But, um, and I don’t mean to pry, but how did that fight go? The final one, I mean.”

If I don’t get an answer, it’s fine. I won’t push. Nevertheless, I eagerly hold out hope to get the story out of the enigmatic mister Solomons.

Alfie.

Don’t blush! Take a sip of water, cool down. My God, is even his name now getting me hot under the collar?

He pauses and sits up. A tentative smile builds on his lips as his brows furrow. 

“Only if you want to, of course.”

“Do you really wanna know? Ladies should be spared the violence of the world.” The lines in his face deepen, the expression changing to a frowning grimace.

“It can’t get any worse than Jack the Ripper.” He blinks a few times, letting my comment sink in. In the meanwhile, I bite my lip, desperate to find a way to redeem myself. “What? Am I weird for being intrigued by the case? I am, aren’t I? You know what, don’t mind me. Guess I’m being rather silly.”

“No, you’re not. I’m simply surprised the little lady harbours a fascination with the obscene,” he answers, his tone devoid of any form of judgement.

“Don’t get a lot of those clients?”

“None who admit it outright.”

“Well, here I am.”

“So you are.” His eyes are fully focused as he gazes at me, which does about as little to lower my racing pulse as the comment that follows. “I wonder what else goes on in that head of yours.”

“It’s chaos, to be honest. I don’t think you actually wanna know. Anyways, the fight.”

“Right,” he murmurs, his eyes still trained on me and trying to imagine what goes on in my head. Needles cleaned and dipped in ink again, he returns to work and tells the story. “I once carried out my own personal form of stigmata on an Italian. I pushed his face up against a trench and shoved a six-inch nail up his fucking-’’ the snarl on his lips vanishes as he throws me an apologetic look. “Sorry, I shouldn’t swear in the company of a lady.”

“I don’t mind. You’re literally saying this to someone who has the mouth of a sailor.”

The remark is a small comfort to him. Alfie visibly relaxes, his posture loses most of its tension and his jaw slackens. “Right, I shoved a six-inch nail up his nose and I hammered it ‘ome with a duckboard.” The corners of his mouth curl into a sly grin. “It was fucking biblical.”

“Fucking hell, yeah, okay, now I’m really glad I only have had to deal with debates. Jesus.” I shake my head, caught between believing the story and finding it too far-fetched. “Why, though?”

“He had it coming. Little fucker was harassing girls of the nearby Jewish community. They mightn’t been part of mine, but it’s never right to mistreat a woman. So, one day, I caught him doing it again and made sure he’d be a wiser man for it.”

“Did you get caught?”

“I got arrested for ‘grievous bodily harm’, but didn’t go to jail considering I was still a young chap. And, to be honest, from a well-connected family.”

“How old were you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Dang.”

“I’m not as violent as I used to be. It’s all behind me now,” he blurts out, pausing again while the words rush to fill a non-existent gap between us. “No more fights, gangs, or firms. Starting tattooing was me turning a new leaf.”

I don’t know what to say, unable to think of anything appropriate while also trying to figure out his intentions. So I merely stare at him, blankly. 

His eyes flit from me to the ink pots and back to me, likely feeling equally as awkward. 

Neither of us initiates further conversation, me partially because I’m starting to doze off. That is, until Alfie stops and throws me a look. “I’m almost done with the linework. You’re still okay?”

“Yeah, no pain at all,” I say, a slight taper in my voice and half asleep. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Good,” he replies, a little unsteady as well. “Let’s finish it and ‘ave a little break, yeah?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“It’s good to have something to occupy yourself with outside work.” Alfie saunters over to where I’m sitting on the worn leather couch and puts a plate on the coffee table. On it, golden brown raisin buns are stacked in a charming little heap. “Want one?”

“Wait, you made these?” I put my phone away, conscious to neither cross my legs or rest my arms on my thighs as I lean in. My friends will have to wait a little longer on a tattoo update.

“I did,’’ he says, sitting down where he sat earlier today. ‘‘Learned the baking trade from me mum who learned it from her mother, my babushka.”

“You have Russian heritage?”

“I do. My mother fled to England during the Holocaust. My old man was running a distillery and was willing to take her in. In a sense, they saved each other. She got him off the drink… for a time, and kept the books. He taught her English and gave her a ‘ome.” He leans back in his chair, fingers entwined. “Yeah, funny that, how such horror can bring souls together.’’

“Did they survive the war? Like, no interference from the Nazis or fascists?” I stiffen when it hits me how intrusive the question is. Badly concealing my panic, I hastily add. ‘‘You don’t- You’ve already told me so much, so, uhm, you- you don’t have to tell me anything else.’’

“They did,” he nods sagely, ignoring my anxious outburst. “Though I’m glad they don’t have to deal with current affairs.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be. They’ve been dead for a while, died in their sleep, two months between them. Regardless of the war and England’s policy towards anyone that isn’t one of them, they’ve lived a good life. It was simply their time to go.” He rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward. “What about you?”

“How’d you mean?”

“How’s your family?”

“Not particularly close. I try to avoid father’s side of the family at all costs because they’re these posh- toffs, I think you call them in English. Though, that’s more my father’s sister. His brother is an alcoholic and divorcee with a midlife crisis that’s bigger than my father’s. On mother’s side of the family, I’m only close with my aunt and grandpa. With my mum I try to connect at times, but it’s more like friendly co-existence.”

“Any siblings?”

“A younger sister. Not particularly close with her either.” I shake my head and take a sip of water. “But I don’t mind. I’ve learned how to be a lone wolf and accepted being one. Working, studying, and travelling help with that too. They’re likely the only things preventing me from going insane.”

“Insanity is a gift only given to few. The greatest minds were lonely even in company, the greatest visionaries those that had seen the world by themselves.” Our eyes lock, the strange but tender sentiment in his adding to the sweet comfort of his conclusion. “I think we’re both mad.”

Alfie nods to the plate with buns. “The raisins have been soaked in rum, family recipe. Try one.”

“Are they poisoned, Solomons?” Michael remarks across the room. Judging by the venom in his tone, he hasn’t moved past the conflict earlier.

They’re really gonna cut each other once I’ve left, aren’t they?

“Unlike you, kid, I actually provide service. People have bonded over food for centuries and God gave me the brilliant idea, yeah, to make these buns to share.”

“You never share food. Not with me, at least.”

“That’s because I don’t want a bond of any sort with you, mate.“ He picks up the plate and holds it out to me. “But I’ll always be glad to share with a peer.’’

“Thank you,” I say, though I can’t prevent myself from saying his name, “Alfie.”

Smiling brightly, he leans back in his chair. “My pleasure. But what is it that kills the time for you?”

“Believe it or not, but I sew,” I say while nibbling on the sweet bun.

“An affinity with needles, eh?”

Unable to suppress it, I give into the uncharacteristic urge to giggle. “You could put it like that, yeah.”

“It’s rather broad, though, ‘sewing’, innit? What am I to envision?”

“I make plushies, really bloody adorable ones.” I grab my phone and look up a picture of my latest project: a whale shark made with white, very fuzzy teddy and Delft Blue-printed cotton. “Don’t tell me that isn’t cute.”

I turn the screen to Alfie. The eager confidence doesn’t last because the tingle travelling through my chest, which seems to be weighed down by a heavy stone, ends in a chill down my spine. With bated breath, I nevertheless wait for a sign of his approval.

What the fuck am I doing? He’s a grown man. What would he care for a stuffed animal?

An ache starts at the back of my throat at the thought that follows.

I did post that picture on an Insta Story. Did he see it, though? What if he did? No, he did, didn’t he? I’m repeating myself. Why am I repeating myself? He’s had enough of a look.

However, as I make to put my phone away again, Alfie speaks up. “It’s well-made, especially for an early attempt at the craft. You can see it’s made with passion.”

Fuck, he definitely saw my sewing shenanigans on Insta.

“You already saw that picture, didn’t you?” I respond, mildly sarcastic regardless of his kindness.

“Well, we already established we follow each other and I like to get to know my clients as best as possible. So, yeah… yeah, I did.”

Gaze averted to the floor, I shut the screen off and continue to stare at my shoes, feeling like a stupid lovesick teenager.

  “But it’s indeed adorable. You’ve got a knack for the trade.” His features soften when I raise my head, though there’s a hint of mischief in the raised eyebrow. “You’re no seamstress, though. Or are you?”

“If you want, I could mend your clothes,” I blurt out, the words spilling forth before I can give them a second thought. “Oh Lord, I- I didn’t mean- I’m so sorry, I should’ve-’’

 Alfie’s hearty laugh cuts through my poor attempt to try and justify my idiotic bravery. “Fucking ‘ell. I had a feeling you’re not the type to beat around the bush, but that was more forward than I thought you’d be.”

“Please ignore what I said.” I stuff the last of the bun into my mouth, lest it should blabber any more nonsense, and wave a dismissive hand.

Only to nearly choke at his response.

“Why? I like it, this honesty. Now, see, Tommy, yeah, he likes to beat around the bush and it’s absolutely doing my nut in. I’ve told him before I’ll shoot him if he doesn’t hurry up and quit his little games. Man really needs to learn how to directly make his point, saves both parties involved a lot of trouble. But not you.” His tone turns pensive, the words clear yet strange. “Curious, that. How a little dove flies over the wolves.”

I remain quiet, because no reaction I come up with seems adequate to respond to his reverie. So we let an oddly comfortable silence settle in, lined with the addicting sweetness of rum raisins.

“These are really bloody good,” I say after a while, pointing at the plate on the coffee table. ‘‘We have buns like this back home too. We call them ‘krentenbollen’, which would roughly translate to ‘currant buns’.’’

‘‘Say that again.’’

‘‘What, ‘krentebollen’?’’ Evidently I hit the nail on its head, judging by Alfie struggling to imitate my pronunciation, silently mouthing the syllables. “Kren.”

“Kren.”

“No, no, ‘ren’. A pronounced, not rolled ‘r’ and short and sharp ‘e’. Like in ‘cigarette’, the final ‘e’ sound. Kren.”

“Kren,” he echoes.

“Ten. ‘En’ is pronounced with a schwa.”

“Ten.”

“Bol. With a clear ‘l’.”

“Bol.”

“Len. Again, a clear ‘l’ and a schwa.”

“Len.’’ Having been given an example of how to pronounce each syllable, Alfie tries out the word again, brow furrowed in concentration. ‘‘Kren. Ten. Bol. Len.”

A warm fuzzy feeling spreads throughout my body while watching him sincerely make an effort to mimic the Dutch sounds despite the struggle it proves to be. However, I do have to give him credit for his attempt because, despite his slightly wonky pronunciation, it’s better than some others I’ve heard. 

‘‘Kren- Krentenbollen.’’

“‘Ey, there ya go!” I clap my hands, smiling in satisfaction. ‘‘That was really good!’’

“Dutch is a funny language. Very strange and harsh.”

“Apparently, it’s the scientifically proven hardest language to learn. I’ll be honest, even the Dutch sometimes don’t know how to speak it. The grammar is whack too, sometimes. Doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe you can teach me some more next time we meet.” His eyes go from the buns to me, beaming. “I’ll bring you some more krentenbollen.”

‘‘Nah, these are better. In fact, I think I prefer these. Much more exclusive, an English delicacy.’’

Can I get any more lame? What kind of comment was that?

“Help yourself, but be quick about it because we need to get back to work. You’ve been sitting like a rock and I don’t want your adrenaline to run out just yet.”

“I’ll leave it for later then.”

He rises from his seat, throwing an imposing shadow over me as his shoulders block the light. “Before we resume, do you want anything? You still got enough water?”

“I’m good to go, though I wouldn’t say no to another glass.”

“One round of Solomons Lemon Water, coming right up.”

As before, Alfie puts care into the simple act of cutting a lemon and adding a slice of it to plain water. And with the grace of a gentleman, he holds it out to me. “A glass of water for the little lady. It’s on the house.”

Whilst the comment is in jest, a funny thought sets my cheeks ablaze. “Th- Thanks.”

What the fuck was that stutter? By Jaysus, pull yourself together! He’s only joking, playing around. It means nothing. Nothing! Besides, he likely has a wife, good-looking and charming as he is.

Glass in hand, I follow Alfie back to the table and clamber back onto the cosy electric blanket while he completes the last preparations to continue the session.

“Comfy?” he asks once I’ve settled in.

“Extremely.”

“Good.” He restarts his tablet, the screen lighting up with Anubis’s snarling face. A new pair of gloves on, he grabs the black pot with red lettering and scoops up a blob of Dragon’s Blood with his pinky before he sets it back in place. 

“May I?” Alfie asks, hands a few centimetres from my skin.

I nod, giving him the permission to resume working. 

Except, he doesn’t.

He pushes his stool back slightly and purses his lips. “Y/N, I need you to relax, yeah. Tense muscles aren’t particularly tattoo friendly. If I start working now, it’s like tattooing a stone and needles, right, don’t do well with hard surfaces.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, inhaling and exhaling deeply in hopes of unravelling the tightness in my chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. What’s on your mind? Something funny?”

“Ah, it’s fine. No worries.”

Don’t mind me. I’m being silly, interpreting things the wrong way. Besides, I’m likely half your age. Unsuitable, undesirable for a man like you.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, it’s okay.” My breath tapers, which I hope he doesn’t pick up on. Then again, Alfie has proven to be a very perceptive man thus far. Nonetheless, a girl can hope. ‘‘I’m okay.’’

Please believe that. At least this once.

He lets out a low displeased grunt, blueish grey eyes dark with lingering worry. “If you say so.” He averts his gaze to the unfinished snarling Anubis, the sternness in his voice blurring into resignation. “Can I?”

I hum in response, giving him the sign he still has my consent.

And to keep up appearances a little longer.

Because when you’re crushing hard on someone you can’t have, it’s okay not to be okay.

It’s not unusual for other tattoo artists to pop by their colleagues to see what they’re working on. Normally I wouldn’t mind it, proud to be a canvas for someone else’s art. Nonetheless, this time, I wish it was someone else other than the resident Japanese style artist sauntering over. Anyone would do. 

Tommy, who came in around two to do a touch-up.

Finn, who’s the youngest in the team and does geometric designs. 

Even Arthur, who Alfie immediately sent away when he felt me tense, genuinely afraid of Cerberus personified, would be better.

Unfortunately, it’s Michael, which means the two might break out into a fight soon. It’s only a matter of time.

“Wow, that looks gnarly.” Maintaining a polite distance, Michael leans in to inspect the fearsome god of the afterlife.

“Oi, don’t you have your own client to look after?” Alfie asks, the first ripples of irritation already noticeable in his voice.

“She’s too busy taking pictures and whatever else she’s doing on her phone.” Michael points over his shoulder at his client and shrugs. I turn my head, doubting how bad the girl’s company can be. She is indeed absorbed in her phone, posing like most girls on Instagram and making all the familiar facial expressions. To keep things polite, let’s say that a tattoo isn’t what she came here for.

I scoff. ‘‘I see she’s one of those.’’

‘‘That’s one way to put it,’’ Michael sighs, but his expression brightens as he changes the topic. “What made you get Anubis?”

“Give the lady some space, treacle. You’re not yet drooling over her like some lovesick puppy. We’re trying to create a bloody masterpiece here, right, and art, yeah, art needs effort, focus, and attention.” A grimace treks over Alfie’s face, foreboding like a black cloud forms the prelude to a storm. “None of which I can muster with you around, mate. So off you go.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Go on, fuck off.”

“The fuck’s your problem, Alfie?” Michael raises his voice.

Oh Lord, here we go.

“My problem?” Fortunately, Alfie turns the machine off and puts it to the side because getting tattooed amidst a fight is the last thing you’d want. Unless you’re a lunatic. “My problem right now, mate, is that I have a massive disturbance in my work environment which prevents me from providing Y/N with splendid service and proper care.”

“‘Proper care?’” the other man echoes, raising an eyebrow. “Now that’s an awfully ambiguous statement, even for you. Proper care… Is that why you didn’t go on your usual vape break?”

“Don’t twist my words, kid. It should be an honour for a tattoo artist that someone is willing to wear their art on their skin. Y/N is doing me that honour so of course I wanna treat her right.”

“Alfie Solomons, the King of Camden,’’ Michael sneers. ‘‘The Jewish gentleman from Margate.” 

“It’s never a bad idea to be a gentleman, kid. Hasn’t your mother taught you how to treat women properly? Then again,” a mean gleam lights up stormy grey eyes, “she did abandon you, didn’t she?”

Michael is positively fuming by now, looking red in the face and fists shaking with an eagerness to throw the first punch.

“Lads! That’s enough!” I bark, propping myself up on my elbows. “Alfie, that’s a fucking low blow and you know it.”

“How do you know it is?”

Is he fucking serious?

“Look at him!” Lips pulled back into a snarl not unlike Anubis’s, I point at Michael. “Obviously that fucking hurt.”

“So the little dove flew down, still not afraid. Although, her wings waver ever so slightly, don’t they?”

I gaze blankly at Alfie, puzzled by the comment, but quickly return to raging. “Shouldn’t you apologise or something? Or is that something men don’t do to each other?”

“Y/N,” I hear Michael mumble next to me, a tone of surprise in his voice.

“Fucking apologise or I’m out, tattoo finished or not.” I look him up and down, barely able to suppress the urge to spit in his face. “I thought I booked a professional, not some… some fucking bastard.”

“I’m a bastard?” he scoffs.

“People who attack others by using their personal lives? Yeah, that’s one of the definitions of ‘bastard’ for me.”

Both men are quiet, startled by my interference. They exchange glances, neither of them helping the other with their confusion. However, Alfie tries to solve his by making an effort to make amends. For the time being, that is.

“Right,” he begins, struggling to sound genuine. “My sincerest apologies, kid.”

“A little more honest,” I grumble.

“I shouldn’t have brought up your mother, kid. Clearly it’s still an open wound and you don’t need salt in it.”

Wouldn’t have phrased it that way, but whatever, it’s Alfie Solomons.

I shift my attention to Michael. “Please accept his apology, at least for now. I don’t want any more fights during my therapy session. You can rip each other to shreds after I’m gone, okay?”

A careful smile tugs on the corners of Michael’s lips. “Then I will, if only to not completely ruin your ink therapy. Seriously, though, Alfie’s not the only one who should apologise. So, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for my behaviour. A client should never be put in the crossfire of a dispute which doesn’t concern them. Can you accept mine?”

“Afraid of me ripping you to shreds?”

“Uhm, maybe?’’ He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks rosy. ‘‘You do get kinda fearsome when you get angry.”

“The thick Irish accent doesn’t help, either,” Alfie chimes in. “If someone’s accent deepens, especially if it’s Irish, you better run.”

“How can you possibly be afraid of me? I’m a head shorter than you. I think you can easily have me.” I search Alfie’s expression for signs he’s lying yet end up empty-handed. The second thereafter, however, a surge of heat spreads through my body as the possible implications of my comment run through my mind. Unconsciously, I rub my wrists while trying to get comfortable again on the rather hot blanket. Or does it merely feel like that because I’m a mess? “Take me on, I mean. Have me is… ehm… It’d be easy to overpower, no, ehm, win? Win against me!”

“I’ll leave you two alone.” Michael says, hardly containing his amusement. Then he turns around and returns to his station. Along the way, he stops to explain the situation to the girl, who miraculously has managed to put her phone away for a second and show worry like a normal human being.  

“I really need to learn to shut the fuck up,” I groan as I lie down again, a bit calmer. “Please forget everything I said.”

“Including your tantrum?” Alfie asks, a lopsided smirk on his lips.

“Just remember the apology part. Maybe the bastard one too.”

“If the lady so wishes.” His hands hover over my thigh, the machine still turned off in his left. “Can I?”

I nod, unwavering in my willingness to give him my consent. Perhaps others would have left, but I choose to remain because of the shallow reason he’s at least good to me.

Even if he’s not for me.

Funny thing, innit, Love?

A silence broken up by the whirring of needles settles in. The only other noise in the studio comes from the Bluetooth speaker, continuously playing jazz tunes. It’s the first time to hear the music genre in a tattoo studio since everywhere I’ve been before they seem to prefer hard rock and soft metal. I wonder whether it has contributed to their reputation as ‘the gentlemen of the Birmingham tattoo industry’ or it is simply because the oldest of the Shelbys are at work today. 

“Y/N?” Alfie wipes off the excess ink and dips his needle in one of the little pots besides him.

“Hm?” I turn my head to face him.

“I’m sorry.” Though lacklustre compared to the apology to Michael, the words are sombre with pure remorse and don’t need reiterating.

“No more fighting, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Hey, by the way, what did he mean with you skipping your Vape-’’

“Tell me more about your cats,” Alfie suddenly demands, tone harsh and his gaze not straying from his project. 

“Wha-’’

“Your cats,’’ he repeats, losing his temper. ‘‘Tell me about them.”

What’s gotten into him? Did I do something?

“Uhm, well,” I haphazardly begin, unsure what to tell him. “They are absolute cuddle bugs. They’ll literally go to any length to make me stop whatever I’m doing and give them attention.”

Don’t panic. Don’t cry. Be brave, just like before. He won’t hurt me… I hope.

Alfie closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh, forcing himself to calm down. “Men are jealous creatures, especially when a woman is involved.’’

“Was that also the case with the Italian?”

 “No, that was a matter of common decency.”

“The situation just now?”

He lets out a sonorous noncommittal sound, holding the middle between a disagreeing grunt and acknowledging hum. There is no way to know for sure nor is there a chance to ask because he changes the topic, clearly wanting to let the matter rest. “You’re still doing fine?”

“Is there a chance I can get another glass of Solomons Lemon Water?” I ask carefully, the hairs on the back of my neck still raised.

Alfie looks up, eyes warm and a soft smile forming beneath his bushy whiskers. “Always, darling.”

Amidst a storm of butterflies is a prematurely broken heart.

The remainder of the session remains calm, the conversations between us few. In fact, the only time he speaks up is to comment on how astounding it is I’m like a rock whereas people getting tattooed in the same spot might be having a hell of a tougher time. I merely shrug in response and blame it on my high pain tolerance.

Strange, how much more one can bear physically than mentally. 

Although the fight earlier hasn’t affected the amiability between us, we both unanimously agree to settle for the comfortable silence we seem to create together. Occasionally, he sonorously hums along to a song when not glancing up to look for any signs of discomfort. Each time, I give him a drowsy lazy smile, still as tranquil as the minute before.

“Alright,” Alfie turns off the machine and claps his hands. “You’ve got Anubis looking over you from now on.”

I let out an involuntary yawn, quickly clasping my hand over my mouth to hide. “I’m so sorry. I was literally on the verge of taking a nap.”

“That’s better than fainting,” he chuckles. 

“Does that happen a lot?”

“More than you think, darling.” A piece of paper towel in one hand and a blob of foam in the other, Alfie patiently waits for me to give him the green light.

Which I, again for the same vain reason, do. However, this time it’s bittersweet because it means it’s almost time to go, to let the long moment of pure relaxation and fun come to an end.

To say goodbye to yet another man I find myself fascinated by despite better judgement.

His touch is light as he applies the foam on the tattooed skin, his movement slow as he wipes it off with the paper towel.

“Now that’s gnarly, innit?” Alfie beams while disposing of the used towel and his gloves.

“It is,” I agree, bending my leg to get a proper look at the piece. “And I fucking love it.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He gets up, walks around the table to my right side and holds out his hand. “Can we take a picture for Instagram? If the lady wants to, of course.”

“Of course, Mr Solomons.” He grows still, unmoving like a statue, while an indecipherable expression flashes over his face. I swallow hard, but my mouth remains dry. “Did- Did I say something wrong?”

He clears his throat. “No, not at all. Forgive this old soul. You get tired faster with age.”

“You still look fairly young to me.” I place my hand in his big open palm, the skin rough and calloused. His warm thick fingers easily envelop mine.

Stop dreaming.

“Just wait until you’re in your forties.”

“Hey, I’m twenty-three and already complaining about my back. My colleague and I wager we’ll be needing a walker by the time we’re thirty.”

Alfie lets out a hearty laugh. “Fucking ‘ell, lets hope not.”

We come to a halt in front of a brick wall, surrounded by tall lights. “Now, you stand there, in front of it, and I’ll make sure we get pictures nice enough to put in a frame.”

I lean against the cold bricks as he takes care of the set-up, shooing Finn and Michael out of the way and throwing a warning glance at Arthur even though he’s sitting with his back to us, immersed in designing. The only one allowed to come close is Tommy, whose beautiful icy blue eyes meet mine.

Awkwardly, I shift my weight from one leg to the other only to right myself and clasp my hands behind my back. It does nothing to help escape his scrutinising gaze. If anything, it has only worsened how self-conscious I feel.

What kind of stance is this? Fuck, I’m wearing shorts.

“That’s a nice piece of art, Alfie.” I try my best to resist the urge to flinch as the studio’s owner approaches to admire the piece up close, crouching down a polite distance away from me.

“Yeah, it is, innit?” Alfie agrees, switching on the lights. “Now, if you don’t mind, you’re in the shot, mate.”

Without another word, Tommy gets to his feet and throws me one last pondering look before setting off to his station. 

In the meanwhile, Alfie has lumbered over and crouched down in front of the lights, phone in hand. “Ready?”

“Yep.”

He takes a few shots, gives out a few instructions, and beckons me over to check them afterwards. Slowly he flicks through the images, his thumb slowly swiping over the screen. Had it been any other person, I would have paid attention and helped with deciding which picture looks the best regardless of minor differences. However, the musky scent of oud wood mixed with dark vanilla and the proximity of his large warm body, makes it hard to concentrate on anything but the man next to me.

“… one?”

“Hm? Sorry, what?” As if woken up out of a dream, I blink and look quizzically at the man next to me.

“I asked which photo you think is best,” Alfie calmly explains.

“Oh, uhm, well, the first one? I think that one was already good. Fine. You know what I mean.”

He’s in his forties, maybe twice your age. There’s no chance whatsoever. Don’t be such a bumbling idiot and pull yourself together.

“I’ll send them all to you later so you can look through them again.’’

“You really don’t have to-’’ I begin to protest, but find myself cut off by his determination.

“It’s no trouble. We created a bloody masterpiece, didn’t we?” Alfie’s face lights up. “So I’ll let you do the honours of picking the best representation of what we’ve accomplished.”

“Th- Thank you.”

Our eyes meet for a moment, a few seconds in which he takes me in for a reason I can’t fathom. Nor do I get a chance to think about what it might be since he quickly moves back to the topic of business. “Let’s wrap up your leg, eh?”

We return to his station, where he cuts off two pieces of Second Skin. He carefully layers them onto the tattoo after being granted his silent request for permission to touch me. An image of him grabbing my thigh and placing it over his hip while we’re in the sheets flashes by when he applies pressure to ensure the derma foil properly sticks to the skin.

Get your mind out of the gutter! Gods damn it, what the hell’s wrong with ye?

“Y/N, you alright? You’re looking rather red in the face, darling.”

“Yeah!’’ I blurt out, sounding annoying and loud to my own ears. ‘‘Yeah, I’m fine. Let me, ahm, let me just put my pants back on and we’ll- I’ll- yeah… be right back.”

I hasten to the sofa, grab my jeans out of my backpack and rush into the restroom. Carefully, I wriggle out of my shorts and into the loose-fitting jeans, only to recall his comment about the fit.

Was he imagining me wearing one of his jeans? Nah, he’s a professional, he wouldn’t do that.

My vivid imagination, on the other hand, thinks it’s perfectly fine to conjure up yet another intimate image of Alfie’s defined inked arms firmly wrapped around me, a slow but proud smile on his lips, nose buried in the crook of my neck, and me indeed wearing his jeans.

Snap. Out. Of it!

The mirage fades like sand blown away by the wind. I take a few deep breaths to ground myself and step back into the studio.

Alfie’s sitting in the chair opposite the sofa. As soon as I step out of the restroom, he turns in his seat, eyes futilely searching for mine. It surely isn’t the first time it’s happened he’s had a client fawning over him, considering his looks. Nonetheless, I refuse to acknowledge nor allow myself to show him how he affects me. So, still avoiding his gaze, I plop down across from him on the sofa, tuck the shorts back into my bag and fish out my wallet. 

Fully focused on the notes in it, I lean in. “So, how much do I owe you?”

As a response, thick fingers firmly wrap around my wrist. I flinch at the contact, caught between surprise and alarm since he hasn’t touched me today without asking. Certainly not as forcefully as now.

A fact he acknowledges when he explains himself, retracting his hand. “I know I haven’t asked permission, but I wanted you to look at me and ask if you’re alright. You were in there for a bit.”

“I’m okay, Alfie.”

“Something tells me you’re not, darling.” He tilts his head, brows furrowed whilst he strokes his beard. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“I don’t think it’s appropriate. This topic, at least.”

Especially since I’ve only known you for a day.

“You don’t have to if you don’t fancy it.” The deep sigh he lets out through his nose, however, betrays his disappointment.

“I’d rather not tell. But don’t worry, I’m fine. Not sick or anything. My mind’s just… I guess you could say I was gone with the fairies for a bit.”

“Fortunately, they didn’t whisk you away entirely. I don’t fancy myself a man capable of going to the Otherworld.” Although he tries to be humorous, his smile is wistful. “Doesn’t mean I can’t or won’t try.”

“It’s difficult to come back, once you’ve set foot in Tír na nÓg. Anyways, let’s crack on. What do I owe you again?”

‘‘You don’t have to pay me.’’

‘‘You’re pulling my leg.’’ His expression doesn’t change, remaining warm yet stoic. ‘‘You’re serious?’’

‘‘I am. See it as compensation for having to deal with a hot-headed bastard.’’

‘‘Thank you, but this isn’t right. Like it or not, but I’ll still pay you.’’

“Despite the fight?”

“Despite the fight. So, how much?”

He names his price and I count out the notes. ‘‘Wait, that’s not…’’

‘‘Let me give you a discount if you don’t accept a full restitution.’’

‘‘Alright, fine,’’ I sigh, knowing protest will be futile, and continue to count. “Oh, and here’s another twenty. For the splendid service and, well,” I let out a shy giggle, “proper care.”

He hums and leans forward to collect the money. “In that case, thank you very much, my fair lady.”

My fair lady… my… his.

Though my mind is a million miles away, the rest of my body stiffens in reaction to the pet name. He notices, a note of concern in his question. “Was that too much?”

I wave a frantic dismissive hand. “No! No, not at all. Don’t mind me.”

It’ll pass, this feeling. Butterflies never live long. 

Rubbing his lower lip, he mumbles something under his breath. The only words I can make out are “flustered” and “cute”, which doesn’t help with my mood whatsoever.

Neither does the mischief underlining his normally polite suggestion. “Want another round of Solomons Lemon Water before you go?”

“I’m good. Yeah, I’m- I- I should go.” 

I get up and prepare to leave. Alfie rises to his feet too, falling into pace as we move towards the door. On the way, I grab my jacket off of the coat rack, putting my arm through one sleeve, but clumsily grabbing into nothing in an effort to put my other arm through the other sleeve.

A struggle quickly ended by two sturdy palms which help me ease into it. “There you go.”

“Thanks.” I turn away towards the door, ready to go before I make an even greater fool of myself. Then again, my feet won’t move, refusing to budge the slightest inch. “Such a gentleman, aren’t you?”

“A Jewish gentleman from Margate,” he merrily quips. But the amusement doesn’t last, fading into an indecipherable expression which seems equally as hesitant to end things here alongside something hidden. “Normally, yeah, I meet up with clients for pictures once the tattoo is healed. So let’s make it a date. Appointment,” he quickly corrects himself as a grimace flashes over his face. “An appointment, yeah, right, make an appointment when your leg has healed.”

“I think it will have to be by the time you come to Amsterdam.”

His brow furrows and he purses his lips, displeased. “I don’t think the convention will provide good pictures. The lighting isn’t that great and there’s all these people walking around.’’ The deep lines in his forehead smoothen out, a devilish smile gradually forming. ‘‘But I’ve booked an extended stay so, considering I’m not familiar with the city, we could meet up and you show me around? Unless you think you won’t be able to handle two days with a bastard like me.”

Don’t squeal. Stay calm. Don’t mess up at the last second. Calm and collected.

And unusually bold, apparently. Without wavering, I make a suggestion of my own. “Will you show me around Margate if and when I’m in England again?”

He chuckles. “Fucking ‘ell, negotiating, are we? I thought Tommy was the only one fond of that.” He scrunches his nose as someone else comes to mind. “And that numpty.”

“Hey, be nice. Michael’s a good guy.”

Alfie grumbles something under his breath, not shy to let on he’s annoyed by me siding with his colleague. Then, like he did before, he forces himself to repress the dangerous mixture of irritation and anger bubbling inside. “Tell you what, yeah, you show up in Amsterdam with your leg properly taken care of and I’ll show you around Margate. I’ll even pick you up from the airport.”

“It seems we have a deal,” I extend my hand, “Mr Solomons.”

Instead of a handshake, his warm big palm envelops my fingers and he lifts them to his lips. His beard feels ticklish against my skin, the whiskers rough yet oddly soft at the same time. “So we do, Miss L/N.”

Alfie holds the door open, plush lips curled into a knowing smile, and I step out onto the street.

A king’s promise in my pocket.

Tag list: @buttercup32sstuff @liliac-dreamer @vir-tual​ @potter-solomons @ilovemanypeople @zablife​ @hecatemoon87​​ @alikaheroes

Want to be tagged in the future? Send me a message or leave a comment and I’ll make sure to add ye! 

[thehardy-boys]

The Platform Part 2 (Tommy Shelby x Reader)

Thank you all for your responses to my first part! You all are so lovely and supportive! Here's part 2 and I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Nothing...not yet.

Part 2

For the rest of the week (y/n) worried that she might have offended him. Was she supposed to think he would remember her? Was it an insult to his memory to assume he didn’t? She racked her brains for hours in the dead of night only to feel foolish for even caring. It wasn’t like they had ever been close. They played together when they were kids but then she left. And yes…after the war that moment on the platform as she sifted through all those men, all those men with death in their eyes, for her brother. But that was it.

The Thomas she remembered was a quiet, thoughtful boy. He had a wild imagination and was always coming up with new games for all of them to play. (y/n) didn’t know who this man was now. Small Heath feared him. They feared the Peaky Blinders. And (y/n) was sad to admit she was fearful of him too.

Come Thursday afternoon she gritted her teeth before knocking on his office door.

In and out. That’s all. She repeated to herself.

“Come in.”

He looked up from his paperwork when she walked in. (y/n) did exactly as she had practiced numerous times in her head: she walked over and placed the drafted issue on his desk and said, “Is there anything you would like me to tell Mr. Beavers?”

Thomas stubbed out his cigarette bud and sat back with a sigh. He watched her as she stood like a statue in front of his authoritative desk. She could feel his eyes like a physical touch. She watched as the danced all over her face, her hair, her neck but no lower.

“Have a drink with me.” He got up and turned his back to pour two glasses of whiskey.

“No, thank you. I’m still working Mr. Shelby.” She shook her head as he held out the glass.

He set it down on the edge of the table and took sip from his own.

“How’s your mother?”

(y/n) was taken aback. She stood there for a minute processing his question.

“My mother? She’s sick.”

Thomas nodded, “And you’re looking after her? That’s why you came back?”

“Yes. One of the reasons.” She felt bewildered. What was this?

“What were the others?”

“I don’t understand Mr. Shelby. My reasons for returning are entirely my own.” Was this some kind of interrogation?

She watched him down the rest of the glass and clench his jaw at the sting. Thomas remained standing but slowly walked around to the other side of the desk. But as soon as he came within an arm length of her, she took a step back. It did not go unnoticed. She watched as his eyes flickered towards the distance she had created.

“I’ve heard things, that’s all.”

“Heard things? Gossip, you mean?”

He made a noncommittal noise.

“Well, it’s no one’s business. Keep believing the gossip, I don’t care if the people here spin tales.” (y/n) knew she was being a bit to hostile, but she came in hoping to just throw him the issue and leave and now he was putting her through a round house of questions.

He raised his eyebrows at her tone, “Polly’s just worried.”

She turned her head, so she didn’t have to look at him anymore, “That’s very kind of her but I’m fine. If that’s all, Mr. Shelby?”

“How about after your work?”

“I’m sorry?” Thomas had leaned back against the desk crossing his arms.

“After your work do you drink?”

(y/n) still was unsure of where this line of questions was heading.

“Come to the Garrison to have a drink,” he cleared his throat, “with me.”

Her heart betrayed her by missing a beat, but she ignored it stubbornly. No this wasn’t going to happen.

“No, I’m sorry Mr. Shelby. You’re technically my boss now. I don’t think it’s appropriate.” Before he could argue she left. Her heart jack rabbiting all the way back to the office. She was ashamed to admit she was scared he would run after her with his razors, spin her around, and threaten her, or force her to join him. No such thing happened. The day went on. She stopped by her mother’s on her way home. Nothing changed. The old woman was just one day closer to the end.

(y/n) spent the night thinking of the broadness of Thomas’s shoulders. Silly girl. She berated herself. Silly girl.

(y/n) was a loyal worker. If she was given a job, she would do it. And that’s why every week she dutiful went down to the Shelby Limited offices and dropped off the issue. Thomas never asked for another drink. He would sometimes give her a message for Mr. Beavers but that was it. No more questions. No more interrogations.

One Thursday he had pointed out a packet of papers on the coffee table he wanted her to bring to her boss. She walked over and leaned down to flip through the contents, trying to assess how much time it would take to process. As she straightened up, she flinched at his sudden proximity; he had been leaning over to have a look, as well.

“Sorry, Mr. Shelby. I didn’t hear you.” She admitted softly trying to regain control over her heart.

(y/n) took a small step back. He took a step forward. Her eyes widened and she glanced down at his feet then up to his face. But he never gave anything away. She took another step back and he followed with his step forward. His eyes fixated almost violently on her face. One step back and one step forwards.

“Mr. Shelby…” She began with a slight tremor that she hated herself for.

“Are you afraid of me, (y/n)?”

She watched him bite the inside of his cheek subtly. He was calculating. Analyzing. Waiting.

“Yes.” She admitted softly.

His jaw clenched and his nostrils flared. He looked angry but he turned around and walked all the way back to his desk and fell into his chair.

She grabbed the packet and left. Not looking back. Never looking back.

The next Thursday she careful placed the issue on his desk and he hadn’t even bothered looking up.

She cleared her throat, “Mr. Shelby, I can give this responsibility over to someone else. Ms. Lowe would be more than willing to take over.”

His head shot up, “Are you that afraid?” His question was accusatory.

“No, no. I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Thomas snorted placing his pen down, “Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Shelby. I am. I just – over time I’ll become less afraid.” And she meant it. The truth was she wasn’t so afraid of what he had done, of his illegal dealings but more afraid of what she wanted him for. Afraid of how he haunted her mind at night and her day dreams.

“I don’t want Ms. Lowe.” He said while drowning her to death in his eyes. And that was that.

Life didn’t change much even with this new additional Shelby connection. Small Heath was still an unhappy place. (y/n) was still tired. Her mother still mumbled and hissed for her to leave and (y/n)’s head still hurt every day after leaving work.

Only because Evelyn had been pestering her non-stop did she bother to say anything.

“Ms. Lowe wanted to know when the next singing night would be at the Garrison.”

“Ms. Lowe?” Thomas furrowed his eyebrows. He always remained sitting at his desk when she dropped the issue off now, kept his distance and she was thankful. He was much less intimidating this way.

“Yes, Ms. Lowe. The woman you met before, blonde hair, red lips, single.”

He raised his eyebrows, “What about her?”

“What I just said.” (y/n) huffed a laugh at Thomas’s purposeful obtuseness. It was an annoyingly endearing trait that she remembered from when they were kids.

Thomas quirked his lips slightly and (y/n) was astonished to admit that she hadn’t seen him smile once seen she had met him all those weeks ago. Then again, the war changed everyone. He had that look in his eyes same as her brother, that all those men had. The look of absence. The missing piece. Something taken.

“You can tell her there’ll be one this Saturday.”

“Great, now she can finally leave me be.”

“She’s botherin’ you.” His cigarette case opened with a click. He offered her one, but she declined.

“She has quite the crush on you. She’s been asking me to drop hints. Although don’t tell her I point blank told you or she’d have my head.”

He took a long drag while watching her.

“A crush?”

(y/n) nodded.

“Why don’t you come with her on Saturday?”

(y/n) scrunched her nose, “I don’t really get along with her, but I’ll tell her the day. Can I tell her you’ll be there?”

He blew out the smoke, “No, no I won’t be there.”

It was the following week when (y/n) encountered another face from her past. She had entered Thomas’s office before realizing that he wasn’t alone. Another man was sitting in front of the desk.

“Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Shelby. I can come back later.”

“No need. We just finished.”

The other man had turned around upon hearing her voice, “Bloody hell! (y/n) (l/n). I can’t believe it.”

John Shelby walked over and pulled her into a tight embrace. He was all muscle now. (y/n) remembered how soft and sweet he was as a kid, round face, and chubby cheeks. Always running after her and helping her climb up the trees out in the wild. His face still carried that mischievous twist.

“John, It’s so nice to see you, again.” He put her at arm’s length to have a good look at her.

“My god. You’re an absolute stunner, (y/n). Thomas was right.”

“John, remember what I said about the meeting this evening.” Thomas’ voice was close behind his younger brother and there was an edge to it, a warning.

“Alright, alright. I’ll see you ‘round (y/n). Don’t be a stranger, now.”

“Of course not, John.” She chuckled.

Then she was left with the other brother, “Here’s the issue, Mr. Shelby.”

He took it from her and tossed it on his desk without look at her, in fact he wasn’t meeting her eyes at all. Thomas methodically went about taking out and lighting a cigarette. His silence was beginning to unnerve (y/n).

“Is there something I can report to Mr. Beavers?”  

“I want to do a few pieces on horses.” He gestured vaguely, “I want a few articles on their nature, their training, their value.”

He blew out a puff of smoke and walked over to one of the sofas. He gestured to the opposite one. (y/n) followed his suggestion.

“Is that something people are interested in reading about?”

“I’ve frequented the race tracks for several years now. The more people ‘round here who feel like they have an understanding of horses will be more likely to make a bet. It develops a market.”

(y/n) shrugged, “Alright, I’ll take your word for it. I’ll tell Mr. Beavers to assign someone.”

“I want you to write it.” He pointed to her with the same hand that held his burning cigarette finally meeting her eyes. The shocking blue of them always caught her off guard.  

“Me?” She was in disbelief, “I don’t know anything about horses! Besides, I’m a general editor not a writer.”

Thomas scoffed, “I know that you write about half the articles in that paper already. Mr. Beavers told me.”

(y/n) averted her gaze to the beautiful oil painting of a horse on one of the office walls. She sighed.

“I still don’t know anything about horses.”

“I’ll arrange a time I can take you out to the stables. I’ll show you ‘round the horses.”

(y/n) sat there just staring at him. She just couldn’t understand. What was his angle? What did he want? She rubbed her forehead. It was just another chore.

“Alright, Mr. Shelby. If that’s what you think is best. I’ll tell Mr. Beavers.”

She got up to leave but he leaned forward and snagged her wrist. She stopped moving immediately and looked over at him. His hand was gentle around her arm. It was loose enough for her to shake him off. He was surprisingly warm. She saw him looking into her eyes, waiting for her fear, a flinch, a tremor, and she was certain if he saw it, he would let go immediately.

“What do you think of John?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You treat him differently. You’re not the same as you are with me.”

“I – well, he’s younger than me and he’s not my boss. I remember practically babysitting him when we were kids.” She shrugged, “It’s just different.”

His face remained a perfect mask of indifference.

“Maybe you don’t understand how you look, Mr. Shelby.” (y/n) tried again.

“How I look?” His eyebrows raised.

“Like you’d rather be anywhere else than here. You’re very serious, Mr. Shelby. It’s hard to feel at ease around someone like that.”  

His hand slipped off her wrist, “I’ll let you know when I can take you to the stables.”

(y/n) hesitated for only a moment. It wasn’t her responsibility to make Thomas Shelby feel good about himself.

Part 1 ---- Part 3

[thehardy-boys]

The Platform Part 7 (Tommy Shelby x Reader)

Hi there! Thank you all for taking the time to read this little story. I love reading all your sweet comments! They make my day! I'm so sorry about the huge delay. I've been at uni which has sapped my entire soul and ability to have hobbies. This is the next part so I hope you all enjoy reading it. I'll try and post the next part in the next few days! Also I've tried to tag everyone who wanted to be tagged but I might have missed someone so just let me know! :)

Warnings: Bit of blood but nothing too crazy and some light smut

Part 7

(y/n) had been right; the winter was harsh. The wind was unforgiving. It cut her cheeks on her walks to work, and it froze her nose and made her bones ache when she was in bed. There were snow flurries that made her shiver and freezing rain that chilled her permanently; that not even a hot bath could solve.

In the dead of winter, her mother died. (y/n) got the call at work. She took two days off. One to organize the funeral and the other to attend it. Her mother had no friends, no remaining family. (y/n) buried her out in the marshlands alone and then it was over and done with. She felt nothing and she was ashamed. (y/n) remembered when she was younger how kind her mother was, but she had changed. The war had twisted her. The fear she had felt for both her kids had altered her. In the end, she wasn’t the same person. (y/n) didn’t even cry; instead, she went back to work.

She had handed off the Thursday deliveries to Evelyn, she was ecstatic. (y/n) had been worried that there would be some backlash, that Thomas would storm into the building and demand that she do her job, but it never came. She didn’t write anymore horse related articles. When Mr. Beavers asked about them, she just said that she assumed Mr. Shelby would contact them if he wanted anymore. But he never did.

In fact, she didn’t see him for weeks. And she was glad; she needed the distance. But there was also a part of her that was disappointed, and she hated that. She wished she was stronger, that she could just move on. But she was weak; she wanted somebody who wanted her. She wanted somebody to hold her and kiss her. But the truth was not just somebody…she was very weak because she wanted him, Thomas.

The knock came in the dead of night. It was a particularly cold one and (y/n) had carefully cocooned herself in several blankets. It took her a full five minutes to untangle herself. She wrapped her nightgown around herself and carefully walked down the hall to her front door. Her bare feet beginning to ache from the chilled wooden floors. Another knock against the door.

“Who is it?” She called out.

“Me.” And she knew who it was. She moved forward and opened the door a crack. He was leaning heavily against the door frame. His hair was skewed and something black was dripping down the side of his face.

“Is that blood?”

“Are you going to let me in, then?” But he was already pushing her aside.

“Here, sit here. Let me get something for the cut.” She pushed him into one of the kitchen chairs and ran to the bathroom for her bandages. When she came back, he was already beginning to unbutton his shirt. His jacket was discarded on one of the chairs. It looked as if he had foregone his vest for the day. (y/n) bustled over and took over unbuttoning the rest and pulling the shirt to the side to see a cut on the left of his rib cage.

She leaned forward to have a better look, “This isn’t that deep so no stitches.”

(y/n) disinfected it, ignoring the slight hiss from Thomas. Then she cleaned and patched it up. She grabbed a rag and cleaned off the blood from the rest of his torso. And she ignored the rippling muscles beneath his milky skin. Her eyes dutifully avoiding the tattoo above his heart and the smattering of hair at the base of his throat because those weren’t for her.

“You were a nurse.” His rough voice pulled (y/n) from her focus.

She didn’t respond and instead had a look at the cut on the side of his temple.

“During the war.” He continued, his voice rumbled through her empty flat, filled the gaping corners.

She replied with disinfectant and felt gratified when he jerked in the chair.

“Are you asking or telling?” She finally spoke after she finished rubbing away the blood from the side of his face.

When she looked into his eyes, she found them ready for her, welcoming her own.

“Askin’.”

“I was but I guess Mrs. Chestisen already told you.” The name soured (y/n)’s mouth and brought back the humiliation of the balcony, the anger she felt in front of the hotel.

Thomas swallowed and averted his gaze to something behind her. She carefully placed a small bandage over his cut.

“Finished.” She gathered up the supplies, but he took her wrist, turned her back to him so she was forced to look down at him and she did see the guilt, she could see the regret written in his eyes.

“(y/n), let me explain.” She pulled her arm out of his hand and turned away to put away the extra bandages leaving him in the kitchen. When she came back, he was standing, leaning against the counter, shirt open, hair tousled, and looking drained. She leaned against the opposite counter and wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling both cold and exposed in her dressing gown. Thomas looked up at her as she came in and they both stood there in silence, watching each other. The loneliness of her flat pushed in on them.

“Why did you come here?” (y/n) asked when she realized Thomas wasn’t going to break. He was too stubborn.

He sighed, his chest caving in visibly now with his shirt open and he dropped his head.

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.” He hissed at her, eyes alight and pinning her against the counter with their force.

He shook his head and carded a finger through his hair, “I was bleedin’ out. I was bleedin’, and I looked down at my chest and saw the blackness of it. I came here. I just came here.”

He threw his hands up in frustration, showing more emotion than she had ever seen from him, “And I though’ of you.” He swallowed, “I though’ of you, is all.” He whispered, eyes falling away to find some purchase on the kitchen table.

(y/n) was at a loss for what to do. She didn’t understand him. There was a part of her that was still frozen over from the incident at the party but another part of her was beginning to thaw. She wanted an explanation for that night because a small corner in her mind wanted to believe that it was a misunderstanding. That Thomas wouldn’t have done something like that, not to her.

“Explain to me,” And he turned to look at her as she spoke, jaw clenching, eyes shimmering under the dull kitchen light, “what happened that night.”

Thomas swallowed and swiped a hand over his eyes, “I knew Mrs. Chestisen might have known of you. She mentioned her son before. Your brother came up and I made the connection, same last name. I didn’t know she blamed you for what happened. I thought that you might have been happy to see her because…she might have known something about your brother.” His chest tightened as he let out another breath.

“I didn’t know that she would react like that. I didn’t know, (y/n).”  He tapered off.

(y/n) rubbed up and down her arms trying to bring some warmth to herself, “Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Alright, I believe you.”

Thomas exhaled and (y/n) subtly watched his abdomen contract, how the firm muscles rippled. He was distracting. She wished he would button up the shirt.

“I’m sorry about your mother.”

“It wasn’t much of a surprise; she had been sick for a while.”

“Will you leave?” His eyebrows raised in question, his hands gripping the counter behind him.

“Leave?”

“Small Heath.”

(y/n) tugged her robe tighter around her, “Should I?”

And there was an unspoken question there. Should she bother staying for him. But she needed some kind of sign, a signal, or a hint that she wasn’t just delusional. That there was something meaningful between them.

“Where would you go?” His voice deep from emotion.

(y/n) shrugged and walked forward slightly to tidy up her kitchen table. She collected a few stray oranges and piled them all into the fruit bowl. With her movements her gown came slightly undone revealing a brief glimpse of her soft night dress, but she quickly covered herself up and glanced over at Thomas but from the darkness that slipped into his eyes he must have seen something of her nightwear. And whatever he saw, it drew him forward. The back of her thighs hit the wooden table as he neared her.

“Anywhere.” She whispered out between them. He reached forward to tug at her dressing gown, and it slipped open more fully, and his eyes swallowed her figure. Her night dress was a warm cream, but it did nothing to hide the shape, the gesture, the detail of herself and Thomas seemed to be appreciating that, deeply.

“I could go to London.” (y/n) heard the breathiness of her own voice and Thomas’s eyes snapped up to her lips but he did the opposite of what she expected. Instead of leaning forward he dropped to his knees.

“What are you doing?” Her chest began to rise and fall rapidly. Thomas looked up at her as his hand wrapped around her ankle. Then his hand began to move. Soft, light, teasing he dragged his hand up her calf and he leaned down to place a kiss on her shin. He pulled her leg forward to place another warm kiss on the top of her knee. Then another, another until he reached the hem of her dress. He looked up at her then. He didn’t ask but he looked and drew his hand up to push her dress further up, revealing the fullness of her thigh. Another kiss, another. And she felt herself react, the wetness between her thighs making itself known. She wondered if he could see it through the sheerness of her dress. He teased his lips over her skin, drawing patterns, and swiping his tongue out and it drove her crazy, made her breathless.

She grasped the edges of the table. He made her mind melt, his continuous movements. She found it hard to form any thoughts, let alone words, “You’re hurt, Thomas.” That was the best she could come up with.

“Don’t feel hurt.” He mumbled out against her skin. He moved further up, nudging the last of her dress up with his nose as placed more open mouth kisses. He had reached the apex of her thigh and if he just turned his head and leaned forward a breath, he would be right where she needed him. And her heart felt as if it was making a run for it as he did just that. He was so close. She could feel his breath against her core, and she knew there was no way that he couldn’t tell how wet she was. She could feel it dripping past her lips. And the hitch in his breath and slight rumble from his chest hinted that he could see it. He took one lick, a deep one that teased past her folds and her hips jerked at the sudden sensation.

Suddenly she gained some sentience and realized that this wouldn’t solve anything. Did she want this? Grab his hair and pull him forwards to devour her? Yes. Yes, she did. But he was bleeding out moments ago, he had hurt her before, humiliated her even if it was a mistake, and it was the middle of the night. It was happening to fast. So, it took all her effort to push him away and drag him back up to his feet. He was caught off guard, a bit dazed, his eyes wide with surprise and his lips just glistening from her wetness.

“What’s wrong?” His hands found her waist and she realized she had missed that feeling, the weight of them around her.

She shook her head, her hands gripping his biceps, to ground herself, “This won’t help anything. It’ll just make it more complicated.”

He looked at her. That indifferent, shuttered look began to fall over his face, “No, no Thomas don’t shut down. I’m just saying that I need to think. That I need to slow down. I don’t want to just be some fantasy of a memory fulfilled.”

He pulled her too him and leaned down to place a soft, feather kiss on her lips. She could just taste the hint of herself on him and a surge of desire pulsed through her, but she needed to be strong.

“You’re not a fantasy. You’re real. I don’t want you to regret it.” Her mouth twisted at his choice of words as she remembered what she had told him after the party. How she had regrated the platform, the balcony, the kisses, the moments, all of it. She turned away from him, releasing herself from his arms.

“Button up, it’s cold outside.” She grabbed his jacket from one of the kitchen chairs and brushed it off before holding it to him. He was silent in his acceptance. She walked him to the door and watched as he walked down the front steps before turning around and looking up at her. (y/n) shivered against the winter air.

He cleared his throat, “You’re not leaving then?”

(y/n) shrugged, “I don’t know. That’s why I don’t want to…to start anything that won’t be finished.”

Thomas looked down at his feet. He looked young in this moment of vulnerability. He looked very close to the Thomas she had been with on the platform.

His mouth twitched as if trying to fight against his own words, “Will you do the deliveries again?”

“Yes.” She whispered, her breath clouding in the air.

Part 6 ---- Part 8 (Coming soon...)

Tags: @black-kitten-imagines, @illuminwtesz, @slutforcoffein, @madeinuk, @in0320, @globetrotter28, @txmxav, @christina-who, @sagemastah, @marcysbear,

[thehardy-boys]

The Platform Part 4 (Tommy Shelby x Reader)

Hey everyone! Thank you all so much for your responses and support! I'm so glad some of you are enjoying the story!

Warnings: Mild violence, references to anti-semitism

Part 4

(y/n) had become too comfortable. She should have recognized before long; something would go wrong. That was the curse of Small Heath, nothing could escape its clutches. It would spoil everything, make it rotten, and trap you.

She had been reaching over her mother’s seemingly docile form to tuck her in when the old woman suddenly grasped her forearm. The movement made (y/n) jump and her mother’s grip was vice-like. She dug her jagged fingernails in and twisted.

“Stop it! Mum, stop it!” She screamed at her and tried to pull away, but the woman only anchored herself further, drawing blood. (y/n) grabbed her mother’s arms and attempted to pry off her fingers.

“I know what you did. I know what you did.” Her mother hissed over and over. (y/n) looked up into the grey, blurry eyes and saw pure hatred. (y/n) finally unlatched herself with such force that she stumbled back into the dresser, fell to her knees, and knocked over a vase. (y/n) hadn’t never been scared of her parents but in this moment she was terrified.

“Where is he?” The old lady switched her mantra, each iteration of the question getting louder and louder. She was frothing at the mouth.

“Stop it!” (y/n) frantically yelled back, “Stop it!”

But she wouldn’t stop. (y/n) sprang up and ran out of the room, down the stairs and out the house but before she left, she heard it. The final screech before the house fell silent: “You killed him!”

(y/n) slammed the front door and didn’t look back. (y/n) was ashamed to admit that she had started to cry. Weak. The word flashed through her head.

(y/n) stopped at the end of the road for a second to try and pull herself together. She was shaking from adrenaline and fear. (y/n) cursed at her own tears and thought of all the looks she would get when she walked into work. She must have cut herself on the broken vase because she felt a twinge of pain and looked down at her right hand and found it red, wet, bleeding. She clutched it too her stomach and kept walking.

Ungrateful. She hissed to herself. The fear she had felt was morphing into anger. How dare her mother accuse her? Hurt her? She rounded the corner of the street only to find herself for the second time that morning on the ground and in pain. (y/n) didn’t bother looking up she just got herself up ignoring the outstretched hands and mumbled an apology. But the hands stopped her, wrapped around her middle and her eyes snapped up.

“(y/n),” She knew that voice, she knew those eyes, “You’re bleeding.”

He was worried, she could tell, his brows furrowed under his cap, blue eyes glistening in the early light. But she felt a surge of frustration instead of gratefulness towards him. Why was he here? Why was in her life? Why had he insisted on her writing the stupid horse articles? Why can’t she be happy and free? Soft and warm?

She turned her head the other way in an effort to hide her face.

“(y/n)?”

She felt her shoulders shake involuntarily and the hands around her waist tightened. Her non-injured hand came up to both cover and wipe her cheeks; she kept it there while she spoke.

“Sorry, Mr. Shelby. I didn’t see you there. I need to go, I need to go, I’m late for work.” She hurriedly whispered out. She made a move to disentangle herself, but he stopped her.

“You’re bleeding, alright? I’m not going to just let you run off like this.”

“I’ll handle it, really Mr. Shelby. I’m not in the mood to be around anyone.” Her voice shook and she started to back away.

“The office is empty today. Let me help you get cleaned up.” He didn’t leave any room for dissent and instead wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her in the opposite direction. At first, she dragged her feet, debating whether she could just turn around and leave him but with the security of his arms and determination of his strides she just gave in.

The first thing he did was lead her over to the couch. Then he left the room for a minute or so and came back with a box. He must have taken his cap off at some point because his hair was free and curling over his forehead. (y/n) had already pushed up her sleeve revealing the deep grooves made from her mother’s nails. She wouldn’t look up at his reaction; she wouldn’t. But he didn’t say anything; instead, he got to work. He mumbled an apology when the disinfectant stung and he careful wrapped her forearm before moving to her hand. He gently held it as he looked for glass, but it was a clean cut. The whole process made her feel even worse than before. He was being too gentle. The knowledge that this man in front of her had done terrible things and yet still had some store of kindness inside of him that he dished out for her made her feel unworthy, broken and the tears fell, and she let out a shaky desperate breath.

He stayed there, kneeling in front of her. Her hand in his. As he looked up at her she turned her head again and shielded her eyes.

“I don’t like people seeing me crying.” She sniffled, “Thank you for helping me.”

Thomas stood up and poured the both of them a drink and this time (y/n) took it. He sat opposite her.

“They say crying cleanses the soul.” He shrugged, “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

(y/n) shook her head, “I don’t want you to think I’m weak.”

Thomas leaned forward, “I don’t think you’re weak.”

She finally dropped her hand and turned to face him. (y/n) could only imagine how she looked, eyes swollen, looking like some abandoned creature.

“Tell me what happened.” There was a fire behind his eyes.

“I broke a vase this morning and cut my hand.” She took a sip of the whisky, welcomed its burning path down her throat.

“A vase with fingernails?” He challenged.  

(y/n) grimaced and shook her head. What could she tell him? The truth?

“My mother’s sick.” She swallowed around the lump in her throat. Thomas’s eyes flickered from her face to her arm and back. A look of disbelief shone through and dismantled his anger.

“My mother’s sick,” she began again, “She isn’t in a good state of mind. She doesn’t remember the past as it really was.” (y/n) sighed suddenly very tired. Bone tired.

“Your mother did that to you?”

(y/n) nodded, “She’s never done something like this before. I-she surprised me.”

The two of them sat in silence for a few minutes. (y/n) watched Thomas thinking. The cigarette he lit smoked around him. The funnels of it caressing his lips then escaping upwards.

“Why did you leave?”

And here they were back at the start. She knew he wouldn’t have let it go.

“It was my fault.” She shrugged, “I was stupid.”

She pulled her sleeve back down over her bandages, “My dad was Jewish and that always kept us on the outside of the community. I mean, you can understand what that’s like. People always whispered about ‘sorcery’ and ‘magic.’” She took her last sip of whisky and put the glass back down.

“It was so stupid of me. But these kids, the Reemsons. They were taunting me over…something, I can’t even remember but they started chasing me, calling me a witch, a Jew witch. And I was angry. So, I just leaned into it. I threw some dirt around, did some dances, said some Hebrew, and cursed them. They were terrified.”

Thomas leaned back stamping out his cigarette. The look on his face told (y/n) that he could guess what happened next.

“And then the harassment started. They threw bricks through our windows. They stopped selling groceries to my mother. She was a nervous wreck, constantly trembling, thinking she’d find out one of us got knifed and thrown in the cut. My dad got beat up outside his work and then fired the next day. I told them that night when my father came home with two black eyes. My mother was livid.” (y/n) sighed at the onslaught of memories.

“She never forgave me.” (y/n) shook her head, “I don’t blame her for that.”

“So, you moved.”

(y/n) nodded, “We had to. It was unlivable here. But she came back after the war, my mother. She always liked it here; god knows why. When we all left, and my father drunk himself to death she moved back. It was something familiar, I guess.”

“And you don’t like it here?”

“Do you?”

Thomas smirked and they both understood what the other hadn’t said. (y/n) stood up and brushed down her dress.

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby but I really need to get to work now.”

He stood up as well and followed her to the door. As she was leaving, “How do you know she won’t do it again?”

She looked back at him leaning on the door frame with one hand.

“I don’t. But she doesn’t have anyone else.”

“I can help you. If you ever need it.”

She shook her head in confusion, “Why help me?”

Thomas shrugged, “Without you that newspaper agency would be no good.”

He might have meant it as a compliment, a joke, a throw away comment but it fell flat to her ears because it reminded her. To Thomas she was an opportunity. She was a pawn. Thomas saw people as commodities, goods, and services. He looked them over with his piercing, bored expression and he decided to himself if they were worth it. What could they provide and how would he benefit? And as of right now she was a valued commodity but what happens at the end of the contract? What happens after all the horse articles? What happens when Thomas grows bored and no longer looks at her and sees something of value?

He'll leave her and there will be no more help.

Thomas must have caught something in her face that gave her away. His eyes flickered and he started forward, “I meant that—”

(y/n) smiled. The smile her mother drilled into her the day she forced her to apply to a typist course and they were all required to have interviews. A smile that glossed everything over. That laid old wounds to rest. That wasn’t important and was easily forgotten.

“I know what you meant Mr. Shelby. Good day.”

Even if (y/n) did go home that night after a long day at her desk mulling over grammatical choices and cry in the safety of her bed she was grateful for the sting of his comment. It pushed her back to the outside of life. This was her place, outside of the house, outside of the warm kitchen, outside of love, relationships, closeness, and contentment. (y/n) was ever cursed with the coldness of the winter nights. The bitterness of a lonely, empty house. Tea for one. Dinner for one. A bed for one. But she also felt humiliation that night in the darkness. Without meaning to she had been building up an expectation of Thomas. She had been hoping and hope was something for children, for the memory of her, of who she used to be before the war.

And when she arrived the next week to deliver the weekly issue for Thomas’s approval, she had herself back in check. Indifferent. Professional. Unbothered. Most importantly, hopeless.

When she walked in Thomas was already waiting for her, his eyes following her across the room.

“Anything else Mr. Shelby?” She asked after handing him the paper.

“Yes.” He cleared his throat but didn’t say anything. (y/n) watched him tap his fingers on his expensive desk. She waited a few more minutes for him to divulge his orders but they never came. So, she turned and left. As she neared the door, she heard a chair scrap and after she opened the door a hand shot out and took her upper arm. The two of them facing each other in the doorway.

(y/n) looked up at him expectantly. Thomas looked surprised at his own actions. Now he had caught her he was unsure what to do with her. Her heart hammered but she ignored it.

Hopeless. Hopeless. She reminded herself.

His thumb minutely caressed the warm skin of her arm. He cleared his throat, glanced down at his hand and then back to her face.

“Are you mad at me?”

She raised her eyebrows in disbelief.

“No, Mr. Shelby. Why would I be mad at you?” It wasn’t technically a lie. She was mad at herself more than anyone else.

He shook his head.

“(y/n)!” It was Polly. She swung her bag and coat onto some poor secretary’s desk and came over to the two of them. She placed a warm kiss on (y/n)’s cheek and (y/n) caught the scent of soft raspberries and smiled.

“Polly. You look lovely.”

Polly chuckled looking between them, “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” (y/n) answered before Thomas could get a word out, “I’m actually just leaving. Mr. Beavers has another article for me to edit. I’ll see you around.” (y/n) looked over at Thomas and then down at her arm. Thomas must have understood because he let her go, slowly letting the warmth of his hand slide off her. She gritted her teeth and left, missing the look Polly gave Thomas. It was sadness she held in her eyes. Sadness and affection. When would he learn?

Part 3 --- Part 5

Tags: @black-kitten-imagines

[thehardy-boys]

The Platform Part 6 (Tommy Shelby x Reader)

Hey there! Thank you all again for your incredible kindness and encouragement! I'm so glad you are enjoying following this little story! I've tried to tag everyone who asked but if I've missed somebody please just let me know! Thank you all again for taking the time to read this!

Warnings: Finally some smut but literally not heavy...like hot kissing basically, vague talk of mental health problems

Part 6

Accompanied by Thomas’s pronouncement came Evelyn’s constant nagging. It got to the point where (y/n) finally snapped, “I don’t know! Please Evelyn, leave me alone so I can work.”

She huffed and sullenly returned to her desk and now (y/n) had to deal with the sour stares Evelyn gave her anytime they crossed paths.

It was true that (y/n) had no idea where she stood with the holiday party. She hated the idea of being surrounded by strangers, even worse upper class London strangers. This wasn’t really her area; never mind the fact she had nothing to wear to such an event. So, (y/n) never decided. She told herself she would think about it but when Saturday night came, and she found herself without realizing it hunting through her small closet and carefully placing her makeup it looked as if she had made her mind up a long time ago.

She took the evening train alone, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders for warmth. (y/n) had brought a small book to read on the train, one that fit into her handbag. But she found herself much preferring to watch the window. The frantic blurring of the darkening landscapes. (y/n) had moved from London to Small Heath a few years ago now. She had always wanted to go back but never found the excuse. She was somewhat worried that if she ever visited, she might never come back.

The fancy hotel that the party was being held in wasn’t that far a walk from the train station. The streets were crowded with the London night life. (y/n) fit right in with her shimmering dress. With each step closer her pulse thrummed louder in her ears. Her palms started to sweat. She would stay an hour, just an hour. The butler graciously took her shawl when she entered the decorative building and she steeled herself before she walked past him into the lion’s den.

(y/n) had never seen anything like it before. The entire room was made out to be a winter wonder land. Hanging baubles, mistletoe, pine trees lining the room, fake snow resting on surfaces, and twinkling fairy lights hanging on the walls. It was overwhelming. This was how the other half lived.  She wasn’t standing alone for long before Evelyn swooped out from a mass of people to grab her arm and drag her into the swarming herds.

(y/n) found herself joining a group of chattering people and then Evelyn was nudging her pointedly. (y/n) looked around and found Thomas, already watching her, whiskey glass in hand, and cigarette already fuming. He licked his lips slowly, they glistened and (y/n)’s eyes were drawn to them like moth to flame. One could describe Thomas’s look as hungry bordering on ravenous. It tickled something inside of her, knowing that it was her that was teasing this out of him.

“Mr. Shelby,” She started, and his eyes raked over her face, body, “Ms. Lowe wanted to pick your brains about horses. She’s very interested in the races.” And with the conversation starter done she slipped away, over to the bar. She wasn’t exactly playing hard to get but something similar. The moment they shared in the field was prominent in her mind. The heat of his body. There was something unspoken between them, a tether, a rope, some kind of connection.

She ordered herself a whisky and rested against the bar. It wasn’t long before a gentleman made himself known to her. This dress was doing her wonders. He was kind and respectful. He worked for a paper importer. He was rich. His hair was brown but not the same brown as another man she knew. His eyes were brown, as well. And when she looked up into them occasionally during their chat she was always hit with a wave of disappointment. They weren’t the ocean she had grown use to. She wouldn’t have been able to find them on the platform. But she brushed it off. He was kind she reminded herself. That was already asking too much these days.

She felt his hand first, on her lower back before she caught the familiar scent of oak and smoke. Then his voice, “Do you mind if a borrow, Ms. (l/n)?”

The man in front of her, like a deer in the headlights shook his head and gave his best effort at a nonchalant smile. But he was afraid. If the devil of Small Heath asks something of you, you give him it and thank him for not taking your soul.

Thomas guided her through the crowds, the room heavy with people’s laughter and words. He opened the back door, leading them onto the balcony. (y/n) took a deep inhale of the fresh air. She hadn’t realized how starved she was indoors.

She went over to lean her forearms against the cold stone banister that overlooked lavish botanical gardens. Thomas came up to stand next to her and when she looked over, he already had a cigarette hanging between his lips. Carelessly.

“Did you need something, Mr. Shelby?”

He shook his head, “I though’ you looked bored.”

Now she shook her head, “I wasn’t. He was a nice man.” And she could see in her peripheral how he turned to look at her head on. She returned his stance, one hip leaning on the stone now.

He ran a hand roughly through his hair, disturbing the carefully styled sweep of it. He inhaled, exhaled the tar, and then threw the rest over the balcony to land in the swirling darkness below them.

“A nice man, eh?”

She nodded. He took a step forwards.

“What does that make me?”

She swallowed, eyes flickering over his form, “What does it matter what I think of you? You can be any kind of man you want.”

He clenched his jaw. And then he was suddenly all over her. Crowding her in, crowding her out. His chest meeting her own. The rough exterior of his jacket rubbing up against her. His legs on either side of her own, caging her in. His arms swallowing her torso, pulling her into him. His face inches away. He was the only thing she knew. The only thing she could feel. She gasped at his movements. Her arms coming up to his shoulders without anything else better to do. She saw his pupils blown wide, like two voids. They sucked her in. No hope of escaping. No hope.

“What kind of man do you want?” He asked her, his Birmingham accent heavy over his words. She could feel his breath ghosting over her lips.

“You want a nice man?” And he complimented his words by a gentle stroke up and down her back. The goosebumps breaking out over her skin at his movements.

“Or do you want a man who will make you feel something?” And with this he pulled her flush against him. So close she could feel his excitement for her. The heat of it. And she responded in kind, she pulsed for him. Eyes fluttering. Desire pooling heavily in her belly. It made her want to roll over and open for him. He watched her reaction, her eyes, then down to her partially opened mouth, and then down her neck to her chest. She knew her nipples were hard, and he licked his lips seeing their inviting shape through the softness of her dress.

Then he kissed her. It was different than the platform. The platform was about comfort, reassurance, something secret and unspoken. There was nothing unspoken about this. His lips enveloped her bottom one, sucking, tugging a little. Before she knew it, she had opened for him with a whimper, her hands tightening around his shoulders. His tongue swept in, warm and hot. He pushed himself further against her if that was possible. She responded by trying, in vain to move her hips a little, get some kind of friction but she was trapped between the stone and his own weight. She had to take whatever he was willing to give. And tonight, him seemed generous.

His mouth moved to her neck. Breathy kisses, biting that caused her to let out small moans before he soothed her with his tongue. He nibbled behind her ear and found a spot that drove her out of her mind.

“Mr. Shelby...” She whispered. Her hands trailing up the shaved sides of his head to anchor in his dark, dark hair.

He went further, followed her collarbone, and gently pushed the small straps of her dress down each shoulder and all at once she was exposed to both him and the cold night air. But she wasn’t cold for long. His mouth latching on to her right nipple. Licking and tasting. He molded his hand over the other. Then switched. He tweaked her other nipple, stroked it. She was out of her mind. Her body was pulsing with desire. It was raw and he was real.

“Please…” She clutched his hair, tugging.

“Please what?” He moved back up, chest, collarbone, neck, cheek, and lips. He stole her breath again with another kiss. Slotting their lips together, licking in, tasting her, savoring her.

Thomas drew back to take her in. She must look like a wreck. Lipstick smudged, cheeks flushed, and hair loosened. Not to mention her dress half way down her body. (y/n) watched him in turn. His lips were swollen and carried the hint of her own lipstick. His hair was a mess due to her pulling. But he was beautiful, still.

“Please what?” He asked again, his voice rough. His hands caressing her waist. He then carefully took each of her dress straps and dragged them back up to her shoulders, shielding her once again from the night air.

She opened her mouth to respond but the door behind them opened, “Mr. Shelby? Mrs. Chestisen would like to see you.”

Thomas made sure to adjust his body to hide her from the newcomer. He just turned his head to respond, “Alright. I’ll be there in a minute.”

He stepped back from her as the balcony door closed and the butler returned to deliver the message. Her lower back protested as she pushed away from the hard stone. (y/n) brushed down her dress and fixed her straps. She wasn’t entirely sure where she stood with Thomas. She wasn’t sure how she let it happen but what she did know is that she wanted more. More of that mouth. The hands and the warmth.

He offered her his hand, “Come with me.”

Mrs. Chestisen was the rich wife of a politician. She was curious about expanding her investments into the Shelby Limited or that’s what (y/n) gathered while sipping her drink and listening to Thomas and the lady chat. They had met in a back room, still decorated with the winter theme and still incredibly ornate with a personal bar. (y/n) wasn’t entirely sure why Thomas had bothered to invite her to the meeting. Thomas had led her through and offered her a drink. Mrs. Chestisen didn’t even bat an eyelash at her presence, in fact she hadn’t even acknowledged her before jumping into her business. She was an uptight lady, crisp white dress, shiny, pointed shoes, a dramatic Christmas brooch. Her hair looked like it had been glued in place. (y/n) didn’t like her.

“Ms. (l/n), wasn’t it?” (y/n) looked over from her position in front of a large panting on the other side of the room. Mrs. Chestisen had spoken to her. (y/n) walked over to the two of them. Thomas was leaning against the bar and the lady was sitting on one of the bar stools. Her back ram rod straight.

“Yes?” (y/n) stopped in front of her.

“Your brother, Matthew (l/n)?”

(y/n)’s blood ran cold. Matthew.

Thomas’s head looked over at her, taking in her sudden change of character.

“Yes?” Her voice soft.

Mrs. Chestisen smirked, “He served with my son. I heard what happened. I wanted to express my condolences.”

“Thank – ”

“Not that you need them.”

(y/n) blinked, “I’m sorry?”

“Yes, you should be.” Mrs. Chestisen snapped back.

Thomas looked between the two of them, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

“What are you talking about?” (y/n) responded hoarsely. She was caught off guard. Who was this woman?

The lady slipped off her chair and walked towards her, “I’m talking about what you did to him, Matthew.”

“What I did to him?”

“That you killed him.” She hissed out, “When my son found out he was beside himself. I had to send him to a sanatorium for months, months. It tore my family apart!”

(y/n) stood stock still. Her blood turning to stone. Her heart thumping in her ears. A fire burning deep within her suddenly alighted.

Matthew. Poor Matthew. He came back from the war, but he was…different. Absent. Twisted. Gaunt. Haunted. He moved back to Small Heath to be with their mother. He needed family. He needed warmth but he was unraveling. Unraveling and when (y/n) moved back to take care of him he overwhelmed her. He fell apart in her hands as she desperately tried to put him back together again.

“Killed him!? I looked after him. I took care of him. I tried to help him but he, he couldn’t be saved. He couldn’t – I couldn’t help him. I didn’t know how.” Her breath came short, her fists clenched in anger.

Mrs. Chestisen scoffed, “It’s clear you couldn’t help him.”

(y/n) stood there in utter shock, in complete anger, “I don’t have to stand her and take this. I don’t have to stay here and listen to you judge me, re-write the past. I don’t know you. I don’t owe you an explanation.” (y/n) left and she didn’t spare a glance at Thomas because she had a feeling. A terrible, terrible feeling.

She pushed through the crowds, the throngs, she ignored the heavy tones of Christmas carols and the sharp scent of nutmeg and cinnamon. She dodged Evelyn’s outstretched hands, and she broke out into the lobby. The butler placed her shawl around her shoulders and bid her a goodnight, but she couldn’t stop. The freezing winter night slapped her in the face, and she took a deep breath to steady her trembling hands. She was so angry. That lady had no right to speak to her like that. To say his name, to accuse her. (y/n) felt rubbed raw, split open.

She walked further up the street debating the options of catching a late train or just ordering a car but then she heard him call for her.

“(y/n)!” He came down the front steps of the lavish building and walked briskly over to her. His arms reaching out to her, and they just brushed her waist before she walked backwards to maintain their distance.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” (y/n) hissed at him, clutching her shawl tighter around her. Their moment on the balcony seemed miles away now. The desire she had felt for him, that had pulled her forward into his arms was iced over. She felt humiliated.

“Don’t touch me.” She repeated softer and he held up both his hands as a sign of acceptance, but he didn’t look happy about it.

“Just let me explain—”

“No, No, I don’t think I need an explanation. You knew she knew me. You knew that she knew my brother, didn’t you. You used me. All this time, then? All this fucking time? I’m sick of people taking my life apart. I’m tired of people telling me what happened. I know what happened!” Her voice broke and she trembled under the dark gaze of the winter air. Thomas made a move to walk forward but she shook her head. His face was unreadable, indifferent and it angered her.

“You’re a terrible man. To use my brother against me. I didn’t kill him.” She whispered out feebly into the street, “I didn’t kill him.”

Thomas stood there; his mouth slightly parted at her tirade. His breath came out and clouded around him.

“I regret it.” (y/n) broke the building silence between them, “I regret that moment on the platform. I regret tonight.”

She turned and walked back up the dark road to the train station. She caught the last train to Small Heath. She sat and looked out the window, but it was so dark out there that she could only see her own reflection. She had been right all along, silly girl, stupid girl.

Part 5 --- Part 7

Tags: @black-kitten-imagines, @illuminwtesz, @slutforcoffein, @madeinuk, @in0320, @globetrotter28, @txmxav, @christina-who,

[thehardy-boys]

The Platform Part 5 (Tommy Shelby x Reader)

Hey there! Thank you guys so so much for all your lovely comments!! I'm SO glad you are enjoying this little story!

Warnings: Lil bit of fluff, sorry it's kind of slow burn

Part 5

When (y/n) left her house that morning and turned around to walk down the few front steps she didn’t expect to see Thomas Shelby waiting for her, hands in his pockets, cap glinting. She jumped at his presence and clutched her bag.

“Christ!” Thomas smirked at her reaction.

“What are you doing here Mr. Shelby?”  

He huffed a laugh and gestured vaguely towards the car behind him.

“I told you I would take you out to see the horses, didn’t I?”

“Oh, but I have work.”

“I already told Mr. Beavers. Anyways, this is work.” It seemed to be the end of the discussion because he turned around and opened the passenger door for her and waited. (y/n) only debated for a second the value of just ignoring him and walking to work. But he was right, this was work. She sighed and got in, pointedly ignoring the gentle, respectful touch of his hand on her back as she climbed in.

The drive was quiet. She could feel him glance over now and again, but she was busy watching the wretchedness of Small Heath disappear and turn into wild grass, soft country air, and wide-open fields. It was like another world out here. They passed by a few estates that she grew envious of. The privilege of living out here! The beauty of it! It made her shrivel inside when she compared the milk white stone of the large houses to the crumbling rental she had in Small Heath with its dark corners, damp walls, pathetic cutlery that consisted of one fork, knife, and spoon. They must have an army of cutlery in these places. A set for each season, a set for each mood and party.

“Beautiful isn’t?” The rumble of his voice broke her inwards spiral.

“Yeah,” She whispered, “Terribly.”

They pulled off the winding roads onto a dirt path and up to a well-kept stable. She could already smell the hay of the horses. Thomas opened her door for her but this time she pretended not to see the hand he held out for her in favor of taking in the view.

Thomas cleared his throat, “This way.” He led her around the stable to a large enclosure that contained a gorgeous chestnut horse.

“This is Copper.” (y/n) looked over at Thomas who was already removing his jacket leaving him in his vest. And she ignored it, the way the vest emphasized his narrow build. And she ignored it when he rolled up both his sleeves and she glanced his forearms. She was hit with the strong desire to be in his arms. The memory of the platform teased her. The heat he had carried with him as she neared him through the crowd.

But now Thomas climbed over the gate and walked up to the horse, caressing the fur, and taking the reins. He led the horse around the ring a few times. (y/n) could see, even without knowing anything, that the horse was incredibly well-trained. Thomas looked over at her and gestured for her to come over, but she shook her head. She could see him furrow his eyebrows and he walked over, followed obediently by Copper.

“What’s wrong?”

(y/n) glanced at the horse then down at the ground, “I’m scared of horses, a little.”

Thomas was silent so she looked up at him, afraid he would be angry, “I’m sorry. I can still write the article.”

But he didn’t look angry he looked thoughtful. He held out his hand, “Let me show you.”

“Mr. Shelby, you can just tell me about the horse, and I can write it.” She tried again.

But his hand remained outstretched, waiting, like he knew that she would give in and take it. And she hated that she did. His hair tousled by the wind and his cheeks slightly rosy from the brisk morning – she couldn’t argue with that.

Copper was on his left side, and she was on his right his hand still holding her own. He led them into the middle of the enclosure. He let go of her hand and guided her, so she faced the side of Copper. She watched as the creature’s fur rippled under the soft winds. Her heart thundered at the sight of the animal’s muscular shoulders and neck.

“It’s alright.” Thomas’s voice was right next to her ear. He was standing behind her. He took her hand again and with his own he raised it up to stroke the horse. Right before her hand made contact with the rich fur she hesitated, and he could feel it, but he didn’t push or force her.

“Nothing will happen to you. I won’t let it.” She nodded and they continued on. The fur was silky smooth, welcoming, and slightly warm. Copper’s head lifted slightly up at the contact but continued on with his snuffling in the grass. Her frantic heart began to slow, and a smile found its way onto her face but then Copper made a sudden movement, his legs stamping slightly, and letting out a loud noise that startled her, and she stepped back suddenly. Her back met Thomas’s chest and his hand caught her waist.

“He’s just spooked by the crows. That’s all.” Thomas reached up and patted Copper’s long nose and soon he became docile again. With a shaking hand (y/n) held onto Thomas’s hand that was resting on her waist. She clung to it and brought it further around her middle. The weight of it grounded her. It was weak of her to do it but once again the past came in to haunt her like a ghost hovering outside her bedroom door. It hung heavy around them and as Thomas took a tiny step forward to meld his firm chest against her back the bedroom door opened and the ghost swept in, inescapable.

She had pushed through all the men, all the soldiers just to catch a glimpse of her brother. He had sent her the message that he would be traveling back to Small Heath after the war. She knew he was safe, but she needed to see it for herself. The men looked at her and she looked back. No matter how they acted: rambunctious and overly happy or the sullen ones, the quiet, tired ones – they were all empty. She remembered thinking, as she moved between them, dodging their hands and their words, that nobody on this platform made it out of the war. Each one of them was changed, broken, gone.  

Then it was the eyes. He was just standing there, unmoving. And she knew, she just fucking knew it was Thomas Shelby, the boy who she had played with in the fields and who had gently taken her palm to read her fortune. She walked towards him and when she stood in front of him, he had said her name like it was an answer, the end of the road, a life’s ambition fulfilled. She had moved without awareness until her arms were wrapped around his neck and his around her waist. (y/n) remembers how tightly he gripped her as if trying to meld the two of them together. How his face rested in the crook of her neck, and he took a deep breath.

He had leaned back, and they had looked at each other, “Tommy…” She had whispered to him. and she watched as something in him shattered completely, the dam opening, and he leant forward to answer her call.

“There you go. He likes you, he does.” (y/n) rather felt his chuckle through the vibrations of his chest. (y/n) exhaled in relief as she continued to delicately stroke Copper’s mane. As she became more confident, she was aware of how tightly she was holding onto Thomas’s arm.

“Sorry.” And she let go. Thomas hung on for a moment longer before stepping back completely and (y/n) hated that it felt wrong. How she felt like something was missing. The rest of the morning was spent with Thomas telling her about horses, the different breeds, each of their strengths. Then (y/n) spent the afternoon back at her desk writing the article. That morning with Thomas remained in the forefront of her mind. Even her visits to her mother were bearable when she had the feeling of Thomas’s warmth to hide away in. And soon enough the hopelessness that she had condemned herself to was forgotten. It was dangerous but what else did she have? She allowed herself to daydream, to imagine, and create but that was it. She drew the line at the formation of anything real. She would remain as an outsider but with the occasional foray into hope but with no expectation. No expectation.

Winter was here, cruel, unforgiving, and cold. The office was planning on having their annual holiday office party. Last year it was a small affair, a few desserts, and a few drinks. (y/n) dragged herself out to it just in order to not disappoint the boss. However, this year because of the agency’s new attachment to Shelby Limited the party had now been blow out of proportion. The party, usually held at the local ball room was now transferred all the way into London in order to compensate for the large number of London based clients of the Shelby company.

“Are you attending the holiday party, Mr. Shelby?” Evelyn batted her eyelashes as he waited for (y/n) to gather together the newest horse articles she had written. (y/n) couldn’t think of a good reason why Evelyn was over at her desk, but she had found herself there when Thomas had walked through the small halls of the agency.

He blew out some smoke, “Not sure.”

“Are you goin’?” He asked (y/n) as she straightened up from her desk to hand him the packet.

She shrugged, “Not sure yet.”

He raised an eyebrow, “It’s a business party, aren’t you required?”

She shrugged again, “I don’t think Mr. Beavers can force me to go. I might already have plans.”

He continued to stare at her.

“So, are you going Mr. Shelby?” Evelyn voiced up from her corner. Without breaking eye contact with (y/n),  “I’ll go if she does.” He gestured at her with the packet before turning and making his way out into the blistering cold.  

Part 4 --- Part 6

Tags: @black-kitten-imagines, @illuminwtesz, @slutforcoffein

[thehardy-boys]

The Platform Part 3 (Tommy Shelby x Reader)

Thank you guys again for all your responses!! Here's Part 3 so I hope you enjoy! This one's a bit shorter so sorry about that! But short and sweet...hopefully!

Warnings: Little bit of Fluff

Part 3

It was Friday and after Friday came the blessing of the weekend. That meant plans were being made for tonight. In a place like Small Heath there was only really one place for said plans to happen, The Garrison. (y/n) rarely went out. By the end of the work day, she was always so dead tired. In addition, her colleagues were never encouraging her to join them. However, this Friday Evelyn had done a complete 180. She had been pestering her to go out all day.

“(y/n), come on! It’ll be fun! It’s the Garrison on a Friday night, it’ll be amazing!”

If there was one word to describe the pub (y/n) wouldn’t use the word amazing. From what she could remember it was a dirty, gloomy place. Always full of men that couldn’t control their hands.

“(y/n), please. I need your help. I need you to re-introduce me to Thomas. I’m begging you. Begging.”

And there it was, the real reason. (y/n) didn’t have the heart to tell her that Thomas didn’t seem interested but then again (y/n) wasn’t sure if that was true. She had heard the rumors about his wild ways, the one-night stands, the exotic clubs in London. Thomas didn’t seem scared of stringing along a woman just to dip his fingers in the honey occasionally.  

In the end it was Mr. Beavers who pushed her over the edge, “Yes, I fully support this. (y/n) you’ve been working far too hard these past few weeks. I want you to go out, have a drink, have fun, and let your hair down. It’s an order.”

With that, (y/n) dropped her head in defeat.

“Meet you there at seven.” Came Evelyn’s gloating voice.

To say it was crowded would be an understatement. It was packed. The two women pushed open the thick doors and was greeted with a wave of heavy, hot air.

“Come on, let’s get some drinks first. The rest of the group will be near the back.” Evelyn had to raise her voice to be heard over the rowdy pub.

They pushed their way forwards and came upon the bartender.

“Two old fashions please.” Evelyn ordered for the both of them but (y/n) didn’t mind. She was busy surveying the crowd. It contained both the old and the young but the one thing they shared was their level of intoxication. She kept on scanning until her heart jumped straight from her chest into her throat.

It was those eyes. Ice. Ocean. River. And Sky. At the very back of the pub he was sitting at a table with a few other men. He was staring straight at her. Unmoving except to raise a glass to his lips. (y/n) felt like prey. One of those poor antelopes she read about in the library. Weak creatures who grazed quietly on the plains until they heard a noise, a twig snapping, and then they were running and running. And if they glanced behind, they would see the paralyzing image of a lion, crazed eyes, wide open jaw, the teeth glistening.

(y/n) went against her instincts and turned her back. She picked up her drink and took gulp. She was never going to make it out of this alive. Evelyn guided her through the masses until they reached the corner where (y/n) recognized a group of colleagues. Evelyn made sure to sit right next to her, “As soon as I spot him, I’ll nudge you and we’re going to re-do the introductions, understand?”

(y/n) only nodded. She didn’t really care. She could already feel a headache brewing but she made conversation with Mark from the business section all the same. After an hour (y/n) couldn’t take the humid air anymore she detached herself from Evelyn who was already tipsy and didn’t seem to notice before carefully weaving through the crowd and out the door. She walked up the street a bit and leaned against the opening of the back alley of The Garrison.

She wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to keep warm against the evening’s brisk air. Winter was around the corner, and she could tell it was going to be a brutal one. Suddenly there was a noise, a metal clang in the depths of the alley. Her head spun around to look into the darkness. (y/n) wasn’t stupid she knew what kind of people hung about at this time of night, but she also wasn’t very keen on going back into the sweat box of the pub. She pushed off the wall to get a better look down the alley; she was hoping to catch sight of a rat or racoon. As she squinted her eyes, she just began to make out the looming figure of a man. Her heart started to thrum in her ears and before she could get another clear look, she quickly took a step back only to collide with something.

(y/n) gasped and twirled around putting her hands up to push away whatever it was. But it was Thomas and before she could hit him, he clasped both of her arms and dragged her towards him, out of the darkness and into the soft lights of the Garrison’s windows. She watched him stare over her head into the open mouth of the alley, daring something or someone to show its face but when she glanced around there was nothing.  

“Not smart for a woman to be out ‘ere alone.”

“I needed some air.”

Thomas stared down at her. She didn’t even realize he was moving before a hand came up off her arm to carefully brush asway some loose hair from her forehead. He hummed quietly in acknowledgment. The way his eyes raked over her face should have been illegal. They scoured the entire plain of her face before briefly fixating on her lips.

“Just like at the platform, eh?” He squeezed her arms as emphasis.

“That was a long time ago, Mr. Shelby.” (y/n) whispered.

“Only a few years.” Accompanied by a small step forward so their chests were almost brushing.

(y/n) swallowed at the proximity. She could count his freckles. She could see the pale skin and dark, long, beautiful eyelashes. The softness he held in his eyes. It all felt so terribly familiar.

Too close. She frantically whispered to herself. Too close.

“Call me Tommy.” He caressed her arms, up and down, “Just once.”

She looked up at him, “Mr. Shelby…”

He shut his eyes and shook his head. His dark hair falling over his forehead, “Please.”

The Garrison doors burst open with a bang and the two of them jumped apart. A gaggle of very drunk looking young men stumbled out onto the street. (y/n) watched them trip over themselves as the clumsily passed them by. They called out and hooted all the way down the dark road.

Whatever moment the two of them had was gone, broken, “I should be getting back, Mr. Shelby.” She couldn’t bring herself to actually look at him. She was ashamed to say she would rather take the sweaty, roaring interior of The Garrison over being alone with Thomas.

And when next week’s Thursday came around it was all forgotten. Thomas acted no different and (y/n) moved on.

But in the night, when she was weak and tired, she would replay the moment over and over. The sight of those lips, full and soft. The delusional feeling of them brushing her own. Feather light but carrying with them the heat of desire. Then down her neck, they would turn hotter, hungrier. They would open and suck and bite and mark and…Stupid girl. She’d say. Stupid girl.

Part 2 --- Part 4

[ryuzakemo128]

Four Horsemen

Chapter Six: Don't Tell Me The Odds Part 2 Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Red (Female Reader) Genre: Modern, sci-fi, fantasy, fluff, mystery

Masterlist: Link

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Trigger Warning: Implication of smut

[Alfie Solomon's Point of View]

Red was all I could think about, I only met her once and she left an impression on me. One I couldn't shake off. Her fiery red hair, her piercing gaze, her charcoal grey eyes holding a lifetime of secrets. During my search to find more information about her, the more I looked the less I found, she was like ghost or a phantom somehow. It only fueled my desire to know more about her, to uncover the secrets and mystery around her.

Days turned to weeks, those weeks turned into months, there was no trace of her history or background anywhere. It's like no one knows anything about her, her real name or her history before she came to England. The dream I had last night was vivid, almost real. In the dream, I woke up next to her in her home. We were lying in bed, our bodies entangled, and she was smiling at me. I reached out to touch her face, but then I woke up.

This dream was almost real, by the time I sat up I was awake. She wasn't there and I was alone in my bedroom, breathing heavily, feeling a mix of both disappointment and longing. The dream was my safe way of getting to know her without the fear of being rejected, without any risk of losing her or her disappearing like ash in the wind.

I continued to think of the dream I had throughout the day, it was so intimate and tender. The warmth of the embrace still lingering as if it actually did happen that morning. In my dreams I have found solace in the dream world where Red and I were together. Unbothered by the risks and uncertainties the world had outside.

I couldn't help but wonder what her life must have been long before she came to England, what she did before and how she manages to move around so fast. As the days go by rumors of her being a spy to being an assassin started to occur.

Aleksandr her younger brother, he usually helped out when it came to work and business matters. Even he didn't know much about her and their mother is the only person that does.

"My mother knows more than I do, whenever I asked her about her past she never said much about it. Although I can tell you one thing, her real name is Oksana Volkova." Aleksandr stated one afternoon.

[ryuzakemo128]

Four Horsemen

Chapter Two: The Enigmatic Connection

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Red (Female Reader)

Genre: Modern, sci-fi, fantasy, fluff, mystery

Masterlist: Link

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Chapter Summary: Intrigued by the alluring Red, Alfie delves into the enigmatic woman's past. Her captivating presence and piercing eyes hide a depth of secrets. As whispers of her involvement with the Russian intelligence agency and connections to the criminal underworld circulate, Alfie becomes consumed by curiosity.

(Alfie's Solomons point of view)

As I observed the woman calling herself Red, I couldn't help but be intrigued by her. Her presence is mysterious and alluring. There were sharp features and piercing charcoal grey eyes that carried a sense of depth, containing a host of experiences I could only imagine. Her thick Russian accent adds exoticism to her alluring, captivating persona. 

I had only heard whispers in the underworld and in the Jewish community about her, and I was only aware of rumors about her. In this part of the world, rumors like these spread like wildfire. In my opinion, the rumors did not do her justice as she seemed to exude an aura of power and intelligence which should have been worthy of respect, despite all of the rumors. I didn't know what to say to her at the time. She was gone in a matter of moments, and I was left to wonder who she was.

It is impossible not to be curious about her, to want to know what lies beneath the facets of her and what hides beneath her personality. "Who was that?" I asked Katya in response to my question. Having both a sense of suspicion and a sense of curiosity at the same time. 

"That was Red, my friend. She's an engineer and tech expert who moved to England recently. She's been assisting me with the setup of my company's network. I've known her for quite some time now, and I have found her to be trustworthy and skilled." Katya replied, looking at me with a narrowed gaze. 

As I raised my eyebrows, my interest was piqued even further. There is something about her that intrigues me, so I would like to know more about her. What else can you tell me about her?"

The moment Katya considered the amount of information she should reveal, she hesitated for a moment. It wasn't until she had shared a bit more information that she decided to share more. There is much more to Red than just being an engineer. There is a history of Red with the Russian intelligence agency the FSB. Although her departure from the agency was a mystery, it was well known that she was a formidable operative. She is highly skilled and has a reputation for getting things done. I have heard whispers about her being connected to the criminal underworld as well."

My question to her was, "What do you mean by that?" 

[ryuzakemo128]

The Angel Of Death

Chapter Twenty Four: Third Stage Of Grief: Bargaining

<- Previous Chapter / Next Chapter ->

Chapter Summary: Red has been going through the five stages of grief.

Trigger Warning: Mention of violence and death.

A/N: The song I had in mind while writing this was "Holding Out For A Hero" by Nothing But Thieves (The one from Vikings series 2 trailer)

Alfie continued to speak to Red even long after the incident that occurred in the warehouse in Camden Town. She didn't speak about the funeral or the fact that her secretary locked her out of her own armoury. As she didn't want to argue why she didn't fire her and the argument to fire her sounds stupid no which way she looked at it.

"You are god awful mess" Alfie says to causing Red to roll her eyes. "Tell me something I don't know Alfie," Red paced around her office, looking at the windows.

"I have been busy processing her death and it's why she locked that part of this house up. It prevented me from killing myself numerous times so far." "That part of that deal, it's not something you should have included," Alfie says to her, making her confused hearing it.

"Also that gun stole from that lady is really pretty," Red says showing off the gun, "Don't worry it's not loaded, my assistant would kill me if it was at the moment."

"Galina's office is still empty," Alfie pointed out frowning, "Why haven't you decided to replace her or hire someone else to help you?"

"I haven't decided what to do with that office. It belonged to someone I knew for a incredibly long time. So I won't be able to replace that part of the business for a long time." Red explained, "Unless I hire a teacher to make sure my guys and gals can read, write and be able to fend for themselves."

"The fuck did you just say?" Alfie responded cutting her off mid explanation.

"We taught them how to read, write and fight. If they wanted to leave afterwards, we'd find them employment if they needed it. We never forced them to work for us." Red continued to explain how their business worked, "It's how it worked for us and why it had always worked that way. It's the bread and butter of the entire operation we have going."

"Galina's death really impacted you." Alfie says sighing.

"It's called grief and it's decided to move in for a while."

"You educated people as part of a business model?"

"Yeah, to a degree where they wanted to stop I suppose, If they wanted to continue their studies. They were more than a little supported on that side of things."

"Why are you in this type of business instead of being a teacher or something?"

"It's just something I want to do, I don't do it myself and it's mainly to make sure they don't fuck up"

"So this office will be empty for quite a while then?" Alfie asked curiously, despite the fact that Red didn't like the look on his face as he asked her that question.

"Yeah, It will be until I have processed everything that has happened recently. It will remain empty."

The following weeks it remained difficult to a certain degree to keep her intrusive thoughts from peering into her mind. Thoughts like "They're still out there, the ones responsible for killing her and you're sitting here doing absolutely nothing about it"

Thomas spoke to her about grief and how he thought he wasn't truly over the death of his wife. Not that it bothered Red to hear such things, but it bothered that he didn't bother to try to seek out help for himself. As much as she would have needed it too. She would rather see him better, no matter what happened to her. In weird, dark twisted manner.

So she tried bargaining, bargaining with any god that would listen to her or even try to help her. Yet none spoke to her, uttered a whisper or called out her name in response. So she hunted the few that scattered towards her location, each kill brought them into more of a panic. She never told anyone around her how she found them after each kill.

She never intended to get further than the second as she planned that they would have went back into hiding again.