#Pollyanna gray

[cissyenthusiast010155]

~𝓟𝓸𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓖𝓻𝓪𝔂 𝓷𝓮𝓮. 𝓢𝓱𝓮𝓵𝓫𝔂 (𝓟𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 𝓑𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼)

[prettygreenpills]

KINKTOBER day 13: spanking kink w/ polly gray but sub! polly surely 🧑‍🦽🧑‍🦽🧑‍🦽

sub Polly? Oh my god I can’t- I can’t- no she’s such a dom🥺😭

KINKTOBER day 13 | spanking kink - Polly Gray

Count for me

warnings: smut!, spanking kink, sub!polly, dom!reader, fingering, oral sex, orgasm control, etc.

“Don’t you dare cum,” you growled to the woman as you lifted your head from between her legs in her office. From the face expression she was making, you knew that the woman wouldn’t be able to hold it anymore. Smiling for yourself and taking it as another reason to come up with a punishment for her, you were still eating her out.

“Fuck fuck fuck! Y/n!” Polly was already screaming for you. You were edging her what felt for you like a good hour, but you were sure it felt like a lot longer time for Polly. Smiling for yourself, when you felt Polly clench, you pulled away, not giving her the satisfying release she needed so much. “Fuck you Y/n, now really,” Polly whined and you raised your eyebrows.

“Oh this is how do we talk now? Fuck me?” You asked her back and when you saw in her eyes that she had regretted it immediately, you smirked.

You sat down onto the armchair and tapped your thigh. Polly just looked at you, scared. A second later she shook her head ‘no’ and you peacefully waited. When she knew there was no way out of her punishment, she walked over to you and bent over your legs.

“Five for swearing, five for disobedience,” you commented so the woman knew what to expect from you. She just nodded her head and kept laying on your thighs with her ass high up in the air.

You smacked her ass for the first time with what you earned a help from the woman.

“Count for me.”

“One- thank you.” You smiled over that and smacked her again. “Oh- two… thank you,” Polly moaned and you smirked. God how you loved smacking her ass. “Mhm! Three!”

“And?”

“Thank you,” Polly thanked you again. You looked down between her ass cheeks and saw how excited she got from the spanking. You changed your hands and smacked her again, while with the other hand you were caressing her upper thighs from the back. “Four! T-thank you-“ Polly moaned softly and you looked between her ass cheeks again.

“We like this pretty much, don’t we?” You chuckled when you saw her arousal and Polly whined.

“Please-“

“Just six more darling,” you smirked and smacked her ass again. Polly kept counting for you and yelping. And you knew why. Her ass was blood red.

“Fuck! Five-“

“Shh, that’s a good girl. You’re taking your punishment so well,” you whispered and two fingers of your hand started playing with her entrance. You softly entered your fingers and when a moan was already on Polly’s lips, you smacked her.

“S-six- oh Y/n-“ Polly moaned as you started finger-fucking her. Listening to her wetness you felt your clit throb. She looked amazing like this. Bent over your thighs, with her ass as red as pepper and with your fingers inside of her warmth. “Seven!”

“Just three more darling, you can take it, can’t you?”

“Y-Yes-“

“That’s an amazing girl,” you said and took a break from smacking her ass. You turned her on yourself, so her legs were by your thighs and her naked core was presented to you. Polly grabbed the edge of the desk and climbed up so she was leaning on it with her chest. “Oh baby,” you moaned at the sight and added another finger, stretching Polly out.

“Oh yes!”

You were stretching her out while fingering. Seeing that she was taking deep breaths, you smirked at you success and kept playing the woman.

“Oh my god- fuck-“ Polly was moaning on the table and oh that pretty red ass of hers. Knowing that she probably wouldn’t take any more snacks, you were satisfied by that your spanking made her wet so easily.

Slipping your fingers in and out of her, you were making her squirm on the table. When you hit that special spot, or when you decided to tease her clit a little bit.

“Hush Pol. Be a good girl for me…”

“I’m close Y/n! I’m closer,” she whined out and you noted it to yourself. Decided to fuck her until her body was responding, you kept your fingers in the place.

Polly was clenching around you so hard it was difficult to pull your fingers out almost. When Polly squeezed your hand with her thighs… oh the view you had. And then you pulled your fingers out.

“Fuck no! No, no, no, no! Please!” Polly cried and you, honestly, enjoyed it. Her body was still spasming and you were watching her wet core. When you realized the breath of exhaustion the woman let out, you sat into the armchair more comfortably than before and cleared your throat.

“Over my knees. Again,” you spoke with your voice deep as Polly’s chocolate brown eyes. Polly obeyed you and she laid over your thighs again. You teased her ass a little and then, you leant down. “Another ten for you okay? And then you’re free to go.”

“Y-Yes-“

Polly bent over your thighs, her body shaking from the feelings. When she was laying, you caressed her asscheeks which got a pretty red color and leant down to kiss her. And then another smack came.

“Eight! Holy fuck,” Polly screamed and you continued to make this as fast as you could. “Nine!” And then you brought your hand down to her ass for the last time. Polly moaned softly and you smiled, caressing her cheeks which were blood red now.

“Didn’t you forget something?”

“Ten- t-thank you,” Polly breathed out and then you brushed her lower back.

“You did so well,” you whispered to her and caressed her cheek again. Polly whined softly and then you helped her with getting up. She decided to sit on your thighs and she cuddled you. She needed comfort.

“Do you need anything now?” You asked her and Polly looked up.

“I-“ she started shyly and looked down. You lifted her shin up and then you stroked her thighs.

“Yes?”

“Can we cuddle please?” She asked you and went red in her cheeks. You just cuddled her and didn’t give her a verbal answer. Polly hummed softly and closed her eyes. She was exhausted. You softly smiled at the woman and kissed her into her hair. God she was beautiful.

[peakyltd]

Elizabeth Pollyanna “Polly” Gray

[dogmetaph0r]

SIC ‘EM

Chapter 3: Sit...

A/N: FIIIINALLY it's Fia time!!! Emetophobia warning in this one, sorryyyy they are so frail like baby birds 2 me....this one kinda sucked to write, not because of the content but because I had to get so many timelines straight (side note, the individual sections of these chapters kinda jump around a bit timeline-wise since we're in multiple different POVs). Apologies if there are inconsistencies because I (hopefully) won't force that kind of lore accuracy on myself ever again yayyy <3 this one has more Shelby brother humor and hijinks, so enjoy a lot of sass and questionable medical practices. Fun fact, the use of De Selby pt 1 and 2 actually provided most of the inspiration for Sam's backstory. Of course listen however you please, but for the best author-endorsed experience, I recommend listening to De Selby Pt. 1 during the beginning of the second part of the chapter.

Pairings: M!OC x F!OC, M!OC x Tommy Shelby

Warnings: descriptions of violence, PTSD episode (and poor handling thereof), hospitalization, blood and injury, vomiting, mild suicidality, narcotic misuse

Soundtrack: De Selby (Part 1) - Hozier // Army Dreamers - Kate Bush

Summary: With Sam injured, Fia journeys alone to Birmingham General Hospital with the help of a few friendly faces along the way. Meanwhile, Sam struggles with long-buried memories and Tommy grapples with the idea that he might've been had. Reunions and truces abound, some less expected than others.

It took two long days by horse and caravan to reach the stain on the map known as Birmingham. The skin of Fia’s lips and fingers were bitten raw in that time, dotted with pinprick-small scabs. What she’d heard on Saturday was so vague– Sam was injured, he fell unconscious on the way back, and they had rushed him to the hospital in Birmingham –that her rabbit-quick thoughts had no choice but to conjure new scenarios, each more horrific than the last. She couldn’t sleep. She could hardly even sit still long enough for it to be a possibility. Better this than overworking the horses, she told herself until the words hardly meant anything. Despite the sourness of guilt that sat in her mouth at the thought, she cursed the fact that Fleet Ypres and Queen Bathsheba couldn’t just go faster, trot on longer, need less.

But Fia was kind, and Ypres and Queenie were good girls. Every break took exactly as long as it needed to take, and every step was chosen for comfort over speed. Queenie had been hers as a child, bottle raised and babied through her clumsy, long-legged filly years. As such, she was more than happy to share the weight where Fia needed her, be it hitched to the head of the vardo or trailing alongside with a light pack of provisions. It soothed her fears to know that no matter what, Ypres would be taken care of in her rider’s absence.

Word had spread like lightning from one Pollyanna Gray to Fia’s employer through the telephone lines (bless the telephone for such a service), and Mrs. Davies had kindly allowed her to leave the mending until she returned. After losing her husband to the war, the old woman had grown a soft spot for Fia and her man that, in her own words, would be the absolute death of her. With only just enough breath left to thank her as she dashed out the door, Fia bundled up her and Sam’s few belongings and bid Fleet Ypres onward as quickly as she could manage that very afternoon.

After miles and miles of fresh spring air and fragrant grass, Birmingham’s stench of coal, garbage water, and drunkards was an assault on her already sensitive nose. She was glad for the fact that Danny had returned for Meska just days before, as she was sure that the grating industrial noise alone would have spooked him and his delicate sensibilities, never mind the sound of her dry heaving by the side of the canal. The horses stood idly by, shifting their weight as they grumbled nervously at the barrage of new stimuli. Now and then, she felt Queenie’s broad head nudge between her shoulder blades between shuddering breaths and uncontrolled cramps of her stomach. A small comfort, but a noble and appreciated attempt nonetheless.

A shuffling noise from a few yards away startled Fia from nitpicking her reflection in the oil-slick canal. Her heart dropped as she spun, expecting trouble, but her fears were quickly quelled when she was met with a quartet of dirt-smudged children. They clustered together around the tallest, a boy who couldn’t have been older than seven holding a tattered ball in his hands. The tiniest, a little girl, was beaming with all her might.

“That’s pretty,” she said, pointing a pudgy little finger at her vardo.

Now that the girl mentioned it, the vardo was probably the brightest splash of color Fia had seen since she’d arrived. It seemed that the very walls of the city were blanketed with grime and soot, long obscuring any indication of art and life that once belonged to the working people of Small Heath.

“Thank you,” Fia said, kneeling in front of the girl. “Have you ever seen one of these? It’s called a vardo.”

The girl shook her head, blonde braids whipping about her shoulders, and a skinny, freckled boy grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her back to the safety of their little group.

“Who’re you?” The boy asked, nose screwed up in suspicion.

“Are you a princess?” An older girl stepped forward. “With a carriage?”

“Your hair is big.”

“May I pat the dark horsie?”

“Are you gonna have a baby?”

Fia blinked at the bombardment of questions, unable to contain the laugh that sneaked out of her. Sweet Mary, if her little one was even half as curious, she had her work cut out for her. “You can pat her, if you’re gentle,” she told the girl already stretching her hand out to press her palm against Ypres’s curious nose. “And yes,” she turned to the boy with the ball, who was pointing at her belly, “I am having a baby, in a few months’ time.”

“Well– well I saw a vaw-dy one time,” the freckled boy shouted over the delighted squeals of his friends as Ypres took deep, inquisitive huffs of the tops of their heads. “In Mr. Charlie’s yard.”

Mr. Charlie, she thought. As in Charlie Strong? His stables were the ideal place to leave her horses and the vardo where she knew they would be safe from thieves and vandals. Perhaps Charlie would even be able to give her more information on what the hell was going on. She smiled at the little one, standing and smoothing her hands over her skirt.  “Would you take me to see Mr. Charlie?”

It didn’t take long to find the scrapyard belonging to John Shelby’s uncle after that. The children ran alongside and in front of the vardo (thank god for Ypres being so well-broken, with the number of times she had to remind them to be careful), beckoning her along with excited hoots and hollers. Their five-person crusade stopped just at the perimeter of the yard, the children falling quiet and shy as Charlie Strong squinted through the glare of scrap metal in the sun. He was an unassuming man, skinny and wiry with the lean muscles of hard labor. The edge of his peaky cap, however, glinted silver in the sun, and she could see the long-healed trophies of past fights littering his bare forearms.

“I know you,” Charlie called out as she hopped down to lead her horses forward. “You’re one of the Lee girls.” He unlatched the front gate, pulling it aside and beckoning her through. “Must be. You look like your pop. Got your mother’s nose, though.”

Fia smiled, unhitching the horses when they were far enough into the yard. “Does that get me a discount on stabling?”

Charlie laughed. “Good try. Nah, I’ll be reimbursed by Tom, I’m sure. Here for your sister?”

“Actually,” she said, assisting Charlie in untacking the horses and putting them in stalls fragrant with fresh barley straw, “I’m looking for Sam Lovell. Henry Lovell’s son? He was brought to the hospital a few days ago.”

Charlie frowned, grunting. “Haven’t seen him here. But the hospital is too far into the city to walk. You’d be better off finding your sister and waiting with her.”

Fia deflated, anxiety prickling her brow. She certainly would not be better off waiting. Esme had, presumably, no clue that she was even here. While she was sure Esme would never turn her away, it had been so long… who’s to say she wasn’t cross with her for running off? For turning her back on the Lees over a boy? “He’s hurt, Mr. Strong. Badly.” Charlie tracked the motion of her hand to her lower belly, eyes widening minutely.

The older man huffed a labored sigh, rubbing his chin as his eyes drifted over an incomprehensible mess of scrap metals and old, rotting wood. His eyes settled over a tarp on the gray water. “Tell you what, lass,” he strode over and yanked the canvas from the top of an engine-powered longboat, hopping aboard in a well-practiced motion. “I can get you as far as Digbeth through The Cut.”

Relief flooded her as she stepped onto the boat, Charlie’s hand firm on her arm to keep her steady on the rocking boat. She’d never been on a longboat, though in her life she had seen quite a few being led by canalside horses up through the waterways of England. It was smaller than she remembered as a child, though it could’ve been that the engine took up far more space and she had been far smaller many years ago. The whole of it was sooty despite having been covered, but Charlie laid out the clean side of the canvas tarp for her to sit on a sagging bag of horse feed.

“Right, if we’re all situated…” A clank came from the engine somewhere behind her, and the boat jolted to a start in the water. She looked back to see Charlie standing as tall and proud as a captain next to the smoke stack as it began to spit up clumps of charred black soot. “If you tend to get boatsick… just try and aim away from the deck.”

Fia cringed.

Whistle-whine roar of rockets. Shrieks like dying animals. Skull-rattling impact. Rain of dirt, shower of rocks.

Bomb after bomb, mud, blood, gunpowder in his nose. Mud, blood gunpowder. There were hands at his back, foreheads pressed to his shoulders, fingers gripping and pulling and scrabbling at his drabs. Get down, Lovell! Get the fuck down, you fucking idiot!

But for what? There was nothing to fear, nothing at all. How different was this from the blaze of fireworks? How much colder could the cold of a grave be, compared to the cold of the trench? How much darker could the dark get, when night already smothered the smoke-choked skies of Belgium? Who would miss him that didn’t already?

The skies settled to silence, a violent quiet ringing in the ears and vibrating the skin. Had it ended already? The war? The fight? Or just his fight? Sizzling earth like the scorched soils of hell, glittering-glistening-glowing fragments of mortar metal, hunks of meat shining in the light of the moon. Pieces of soldiers who once were. In a deep dark like this, which way was up and which was down? Were these gleaming surfaces the remains of metal and flesh, or were they stars? Was that inky black above the open air, or was it the bile-piss-gore-soaked earth? Who could say that these weren’t angels of death surrounding him, opposing him, pulling him up to heaven or down to hell. Whichever fucking way they were dragging him.

Lance Corporal, stand down!

It was so peaceful. Trembling-soft was his fellow-in-arms, clinging like hope to the leg of his pants.

Don’t, Sam, don’t. Stay here, Sam.

Sit down. Sit down, Sam, we’ve got you, that’s it.

How different could it be to climb out of the trench?

Oh my god! Oh my god!

Not so different. But here, away from the heat of a dozen hot mouths panting like dogs, he could feel the snow. Oh, the snow. It kissed the bridge of his nose, ran down the sides of his cheeks, dusted his eyelashes. Was that death, embracing him there? Did it reach out with ice-cold fingers, melt against the heat of his skin only to pool again in the hollow of his throat? Did it not caress him like a lover? Did it not whisper promises of peace, of freedom, of numbness?

Thud. Crushing, collapsing. Fire. Fire. Burning, sticky ribs, fingers grasping at frayed flesh and shredded wool. Some raw new cavity in his side blooming open like a flower, wet boiling globs of something flowing like rivers down his shirt, down his fingers.

Enemy fire! Oh god, oh fuck! Fuck, he’s down!

Down, down, down. Slower than snowfall, hotter than flame. Can’t breathe, can’t breathe. Thud. Mud, blood, gunpowder. Can’t breathe.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t breathe.

CAN’T BREATHE–

Sam! Sam!

Wake the–

“ –fuck up!” John batted open-handed at the side of his face, Sam’s forehead damp with nightmare sweat and tense with fear.

“Fuck!” Arthur shouted, fumbling with something to the sides of him, and before long his hands were tied fast to the rickety metal frame of the cot.

“Hold ‘is head, he’s thrashing.”

“Someone get his legs! Sam, breathe! Breathe!”

“Can’t,” Sam gasped, ribs pressing and pulling, rising and falling with no relief, a fish on a line dragged to dry land. He coughed, body wracked by pain. “Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.”

“You’re breathing.” Tommy’s hands were on either side of his face, thumbs at the tender hinges of his jaw. “Shh. You can breathe if you pull it together. You hear me? Calm down. Good, see? You’re doing it.”

“Do something, mate, he’s going to go full Barney any second!”

“He’s already gone, listen to him!”

Sam was shouting something between burning wheezes, the words bursting from him like steam through the cracks in his armor. Arthur and John shared a look, shock and realization steeling their faces.

“Lance Corporal, you need to breathe. Now!”

Like someone had snapped their fingers and lifted a spell, Sam’s lungs could expand and draw gulps of blessed cold air along the roof of his mouth, the back of his dry throat. It hurt like hell. It burned like fire. But fuck, he could breathe. He tried to sit up.

“Who–”

Tommy hushed him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his forehead, ice-cold and steady. “That was just Arthur, Sam. The war’s over. Rein it in, eh? You don’t need to report to anyone. We’re in Birmingham, in the hospital. It’s Sunday. Do you remember?”

Sam shook his head instinctively within the limited space offered by Tommy’s broad hands. Too many words. His head felt like wet wool and his stomach like a bag of acid, roiling and frothing and threatening to spill over. His mouth flooded with saliva, the room spun, and–

Sam gagged and shuddered as rust-colored bile spilled from his mouth, just barely making it to the floor beside his bed. God, it hurt. His body cramped from the bottom of his stomach up to the top of his chest, white-hot needles pricking the twist of his abdomen as he leaned precariously over the side of the cot with one arm pulled uncomfortably back by the leather cuff around his wrist. Tommy’s right hand didn’t leave his forehead, pushing his greasy hair out of his eyes as Arthur patted his back hesitantly.

Rolling back into place was its own agony, bandages tight around his empty stomach and head still swimming. “The fuck–?”

“John, get the doctor?” Tommy replaced his hand with a cool, damp cloth, rising to draw the curtains away from the warped window panes. Pale beams of morning sunlight struck the wooden floorboards and clean tiled walls, illuminating spartan rows of empty hospital beds and a side table with piles of blood-dotted rags. The metallic, chemical smell of antiseptic singed his nostrils, but it was preferable to what was before. Mud, blood, gunpowder.

“We’re going to let your wrists out of the restraints. Will you sit still? If you can sit still, we won’t need any medicine because it won’t hurt. Got it?” Tommy’s voice was gentle and light as he knelt at the side of his bed, like Sam was a landmine he feared would go off if he stepped too heavily. The leather manacles fell away, and Sam’s hands came up slowly to rub the raw, red lines marking the bones of his wrists.

Tommy nearly smiled. Nearly. Relief softened his gaze, even as Arthur cringed at his other side and threw a small hand rag down onto the splatter of acidic bile. “Very good, Sam,” Tommy hushed. “That’s much better.”

Sam blamed his ears pinking on the disgruntled expression on the doctor’s face as he entered, taking in the poor attempt at mopping up the contents of Sam’s empty stomach.

“Concussion,” the bearded man proclaimed as he set a large leather bag on the bedside table, “has a tendency of upsetting the stomach. As does your medication, but there’s little to be done about that.” He threw a knowing glance at the leather cuffs dangling from the sides of the bed. Sam had the distinct impression that this wasn’t the first time he needed to be restrained.

The doctor withdrew several tools one by one– stethoscope, hypodermic needle, medicine vial, magnifying glass. Tommy and Arthur were employed in propping Sam upright, setting thin pillows behind his back. After a quick check of his lungs (Sam scowled at the diagnosis that his earlier inability to breathe was, essentially, all in his head), the doctor took the microscope to his pupils, scrutinizing the way he flinched and blinked at the bright bedside lamp thrust in his face. 

“All looks well,” the doctor announced, speaking more to the Shelbys than to Sam as they adjusted him to a lying position once more. “If we can go a day without coughing anything up, I believe the rest of the recovery may be done at home.”

Arthur frowned. “But the, ah… the vomming, Doc?” He gestured crudely to the now-soaked rag on the floor, the unmopped fluid now tinged a light brown.

“Likely an aftereffect of last night’s fit,” the old man dismissed. “In his panic, he may have tried to swallow it down with the remains of the nosebleed.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “S-swallowed what?”

All three of the men turned to look at him as though they forgot the subject of the exam was still lying there.

Tommy stood by his bedside, leaning down with a warning look at Arthur. “You’ve coughed up some blood,” he elaborated. “From your lungs.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. “Pardon the fuck–” he coughed (blissfully dry this time, though something in his chest grated uncomfortably) “–the fuck out of me?”

“Only a little!” Arthur said, hands out as though Sam were ready to lunge at him. “Only a little. Just a few times last night, just after you got in.”

“Nothing too terrible,” the doctor said, demeanor blasé as he drew a portion of the liquid medicine into a syringe. “It’s not uncommon with the type of injury you sustained.” Memories trickled in through the spaces between words. There had been a fight at the race. Aintree? Yes, Aintree, where he’d been hired as a spy for the Peaky Blinders. The fight wasn’t real, until… oh, yes, it became real. Real enough to be thrown against a tentpole, slammed to the ground, socked in the face. But who…?

John Shelby sauntered into the room with a pack of cigarettes in hand and a scabby split down his lower lip, but when he caught the fury boiling in Sam’s eyes, he turned heel and sauntered right back out.

That bastard. “I’ll fucking beat your ugly face in! Again!” Sam pointed at John’s back as he left.

Tommy sighed, putting his hands in his pockets as Arthur closed the door behind the doctor. “I’d rather you didn’t,” Tommy said. “Wouldn’t fix anything.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “Alright, this is just a little painkiller. Something to help you sleep a few more hours without incident.” The tip of a needle was pressed into a vein in his arm, pinching as it entered. Sam’s face screwed up in discomfort at the warmth under his skin.

“See, we could’ve gone with an intravenous drip and saved the trouble, but you were… resistant to that option last night.” He looked meaningfully at the bruises on Sam’s arm, standing out in stark contrast to the pale skin of his inner elbow and the circumference of his wrists.

Sam pouted, the aches of the previous day throbbing in his bones and muscles before they began to melt away. This was something he did remember a portion of, when he concentrated: wriggling out of his restraints and ripping the needle-tipped tube out of his arm in an attempt to escape before being cuffed again. The doctor packed his belongings into a neat leather bag, taking the bribe Tommy passed him on his way out the door.

“When’s Florence getting here?”

Arthur sat on the windowsill on his left. “Soon, mate. Real soon.”

“Tomorrow, hopefully,” Tommy added.

Sam was quiet, picking at the lint on his blanket as his eyelids grew leaden and low. He’d never been to Birmingham. Never even been in a hospital, a real one, the provisional war hospital notwithstanding. How would Fia know where to look? If something went wrong, how would he find her? The patrin signs would come down from Haydock; he’d have to retrace their steps all the way up north to find her trail. It all frightened him so badly, the idea of her traveling unprotected out in the West Midlands where muggings and murders abounded. Where gangs just like the Peaky Blinders vied for control over every square inch like mutts fighting over bones in the street.

“It’s… Sunday, right?” His voice was just a quiet mutter, pensive and somber. “Can I… can I have a Bible? Just to have it. I’d… I think I need it.”

Tommy and Arthur looked at each other, both men shifting uncomfortably. “We can do that, yes,” Tommy said. “Arthur?”

Arthur nodded and took it as his cue to leave, mentioning something about tracking John down to guard the door.

Tommy leaned against the windowsill within Sam’s periphery. “I want to apologize.”

Sam frowned. “For what?” There could have been a billion reasons, he knew, but none that came to mind as immediately relevant. Everything that could’ve been said already had been, he thought drowsily.

“I couldn’t find whoever had lamed the horse.”

If it weren’t for the subject matter, Sam would’ve laughed. It felt like so long ago, seeing to Little Tsarina’s hoof and feeling the pain of what had been done to her. “Oh my,” Sam said instead, the corner of his mouth twitching as he resisted a smile. Everything felt honey-slow, thoughts trickling through his mind too fleetingly to follow. “What made you think of that?”

Tommy couldn’t meet his eyes. Instead he rubbed a cigarette around his lips, cracking the window behind him for the smoke to dissipate as he lit the end. “No reason. Never mind.”

Sam wanted to demand more information, but the bed was so comfortable, and the pillow so soft, that he had no choice but to sink into a blissful, dreamless sleep.

After twenty minutes on the water (and only one retch over the side of the longboat), Charlie docked at Digbeth Branch Canal and pointed her in the direction of the red bricked and gray spired building in the distance. The cobbled roads were slick with a mess of garbage and petrol, and the sidewalks weren’t much better. Her riding boots were a poor match for the smooth stonework, and by the time she slid around the corner to Birmingham General Hospital, she was panting and overwhelmed, hands on her knees as her stomach flipped unpleasantly. She idly wondered, curls thrown around her neck and face haphazardly, whether or not the hospital staff would mistake her for a patient with the way she stumbled through the door. Fia didn’t have much time to ponder her concerns when her march through the sterile hallways of the hospital was abruptly stopped by something solid and suit-clad, gripping her upper arms and gentling her–

“Florence, hey, it’s alright,” John said. He looked a bit ridiculous once Fia had the wherewithal to take him in, lower lip scabbed and swollen and cheek bruised plum purple.

“John Shelby?” She backed up, brows furrowed. “What happened? Is…”

“Sam’s alright,” John reassured her, hands on her shoulders. “It was… there were some mistakes made.” He averted his eyes, embarrassed. Fia made a mental note to interrogate him about that, but she had no time to waste on arguing with him. She had to see Sam.

Pushing through John’s half-hearted attempt at slowing her down, Fia kept moving until she reached the large oak door– Room 26, John had shouted to her as she left –and, hands trembling, turned the handle to let herself in.

Dust motes floated gently through the golden beams of sunlight cutting in from the windows, an unnerving peace disturbed by the door slamming against the wall. Sam sat propped upright in the hospital bed, looking thoroughly displeased and uncomfortable as a spectacled doctor pressed a stethoscope to the right side of his chest. His glazed eyes lit up when he saw her, and only the quick reflexes of the man standing guard by him– Arthur, judging by the mustache and peaky hat –kept him from jolting up from the bed.

“Fi,” he gasped, interrupted by a rattling cough that doubled him over in pain.

“Sam,” she sighed, the fight draining from her body when she saw him– alive and in roughly one piece, thank God.

“Florence-Maria? Hang on, are you p–? ”

“Arthur, relax. Good afternoon, Florence.”

“Hello, Tommy. Arthur.”

“Tom, she’s–”

“I am, Arthur. He knows.”

“But Tom, is–?”

“Arthur, relax or go outside.”

“How about we all relax,” the doctor shot an accusatory look around the room, hand on Sam’s shoulder to guide him back into a reclined position against the pillow bolstering his back. Sam obeyed, sweet gray eyes never leaving Fia’s.

She approached his bedside carefully, heart still pounding from her mad dash. This wasn’t in the plan Sam had told her. He said that they would keep him away from the fighting, offering plausible deniability when the raid started. As things always had when the Shelbys were involved, things had evidently not gone to plan. The everpresent dark rings under Sam’s eyes were somehow even darker with mottled purple-green bruising, shades of shadow flooding across the bridge of his nose where a splint obscured the apex of the damage. Fia’s eyes followed as the doctor brought the stethoscope back in place, shaking his head in frustration at the commotion. Sam was bandaged around the ribs, more of the same colorful bruising peeking out from the edges in watercolor splotches.

“Hi, love,” she said, sitting in the seat that Arthur had left behind as Tommy told him off in the background.

“Hi,” he responded, smiling, voice quiet and clipped from the limited breath he was able to draw between the bandages and the pain.

“No talking, please,” the doctor grumbled.

Sam put a finger in front of his lips and playfully shushed her, which made her laugh in spite of herself. The doctor packed up his kit, explaining that his lungs were fine, ribs in the same state as the day before (and what the hell could that have meant? Fia’s jaw tightened with anger) and that after today, Sam just needed a few weeks’ rest at home with a very short daily walk to prevent pneumonic buildup. No ‘dirty money jobs’, he emphasized, darting a sharp look between both Sam and Tommy. Presumptuous, she thought. Sam’s scared of dirty money jobs and Tommy’s scared of me. No lifting, no running, and no strenuous exercise. The doctor drew a small amount of clear liquid from a little bottle into a syringe, pressing the tip of the needle into Sam’s vein as he winced. No smoking (not an issue), no drinking (somewhat an issue, if Sam’s expression was anything to go by), and absolutely no fighting (doubly not an issue, if she had anything to do with it). Sam took these orders gladly, nodding along with the doctor’s words even as his eyelids started to droop.

“Right, I’ll let Mr. Lovell rest. I suggest everyone do the same, if he’s to be discharged.” The doctor gathered his kit, shaking hands with Tommy on his way out as the gangster slipped what appeared to be a wad of cash into his palm.

Fia let the latch click shut on the door before casting a fierce glare at the men remaining in the room. “What happened?”

Sam snapped back into consciousness with a sharp inhale and gave her a wide, sleepy grin while the brothers did their best to avoid making eye contact. Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets as though the temperature in the room had dropped, and Tommy coughed awkwardly before scratching his nose with his thumb.

“There was… a disagreement,” Tommy started, choosing his words carefully, “between Samuel and John.”

Arthur nodded, staring at his shoes. “And the plan was for there to be a fight– not a real one, just makin’ a show of it –and they. Well.”

“I coughed blood out me lungs,” Sam slurred, still smiling as the scouse accent grew thicker than she’d ever heard it. The other two men shot an admonishing look at him.

Fia’s brows arched up towards her hairline at that. She blinked, casting a knife-sharp sidelong glare at the Shelbys as they did their best impressions of invisible men. “You what, love?”

“Only a little,” Arthur added quickly before Sam could elaborate, which Tommy echoed. Sam laughed, which, for lack of a better word, sounded crunchy before a spike of pain forced him to trail off into a hiccuping grunt.

She had to clench her eyes tight and count to ten before the impulse to wallop them each about the head subsided. Sam whined in pain, throwing a hand out to the side to grope at the side table. Tommy quickly intercepted him before he could get at the tiny vial of liquid medicine, tucking the bottle into a drawer and keeping the man’s hand restrained. Sam settled for holding onto his thumb as the first dose took effect, leaving Tommy standing awkwardly half-bent at the waist as Sam quickly forgot what, exactly, he was doing in favor of watching the dust dance circles above his head.

“The doctor says he’s got a concussion and a cracked rib,” Tommy explained, trying and failing to reclaim his hand. “Pleurisy and a small contusion. Meaning he’s–”

“I know what a contusion is, thank you,” she interrupted, voice even and assertive despite the rage boiling in her veins. “Do I even want to know what he’s on right now?”

Tommy muttered a quick “probably not” under his breath, taking Sam’s answering giggle as an opportunity to slip away. Fia gave Arthur a look instead, raising one eyebrow in a bid for him to elaborate.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably and toyed with the vines of a choked little philodendron sitting in the window, wincing when a leaf broke off and crumbled between his clumsy fingers. “Only a little morphine,” he said, voice tight and hesitant. “Morphine,” Fia huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“...Only a little.”

“A little,” Sam confirmed sloppily, pinching his fingers close together as if to demonstrate how little. Without the coordination granted by a clear and sober mind, he seemed unable to focus enough to make his fingers cooperate fully, frowning as he flexed his hand before letting it drop heavily to the bed. Fia stewed at the added context and held his hand as he sank into drug-saturated unconsciousness once again.

Tommy paced aimlessly around the room, lost in his head as Fia’d grown to know was common for him. He didn’t speak until it was clear that Sam had fallen asleep, halting little gasps of breath evening into a more gentle rise and fall of his chest within the bounds of the tight bandaging. “He didn’t want it, but it became necessary overnight.”

For any other person, she would’ve taken it as confirmation of the agonizing pain a rib fracture could induce. But this was Sam, her Sam, and he was a stubborn git. He didn’t like to show weakness– something to do with the early childhood he hardly spoke of. Fia remembered the time when he had been bitten by a client’s horse and had neglected to tell her until he undressed that night, the skin around his shoulder blade grazed raw and bleeding around a perfect ring of bruise-mottled tooth marks. Even when she’d fussed over him, he refused anything stronger than whiskey to dull the pain. It was his fault, he’d claimed, that he lost focus. If it didn’t get infected, it wasn’t worth spending the money on. Something like a broken rib, while excruciating, wouldn’t be fixed by expensive pain medication. So if it wasn’t pain that forced the doctor’s hand first…

“He was reporting for duty again, wasn’t he?” Fia’s shoulders drooped as the realization set in. “Wasn’t himself. Is that it?”

Tommy’s face went still and contemplative as he paused at the foot of Sam’s bed. “He was terrified,” he said, one hand tracing the tarnished metal bars of the footboard. “When the blood came up, he just screamed and screamed. It was hurting him to do it, but he just kept screaming.” Tommy’s expression was drawn, the angles of his face gaunt in the dramatic shadows of the sun-soaked room.

“They had to dope him up,” Arthur added somberly. “Said he’d puncture a lung the way he was struggling. The nurses tied him down when he came to, and from there… well, it was just easier to keep him calm.”

“Fought us all like a cornered animal.” Tommy rubbed the back of his hand, the movement catching Fia’s eye long enough for her to notice the tender-looking scratches gouged into the thin top layer of his skin, red and stark against the paleness of his wrist. Had Sam done that to him? Fia had never seen him get violent. Frightened, sure, when the phantom bullet between his ribs flooded his lungs with fire and kept him sunken in a dream. Confused when he woke up with the illusion of cold mud between his fingers, and frustrated when his attempt at smoking a cigarette ended in him lurching up the contents of his stomach into the wild grass at the side of the road. But violent? It was difficult to picture. Impossible, even, with the lengths he went to shield Fia from the horrors of the Great War. It wasn’t in his nature.

Then again, she had never seen Sam injured in such a way before. They hadn’t sent him home to recover from being shot, the bullet having avoided vital organs on its way out of his body and the battlefield of Ypres in dire need of every soldier they could keep. His fate stalled and uncertain in the base hospital, Fia hadn’t even heard of this injury until he came home freshly discharged and stitched together again when the bloodshed ended. Sam never liked the feeling of his breathing constricted after the war, always tugging the collars of his shirts open after too long buttoned up. His ribs were a particularly tender point, something he always shielded when Fia’s hand brushed a little too close to the shining scar of his bullet wound. It hurt her heart to think of how Sam must’ve been suffering before someone had made the executive decision to flood him with morphine.

“Wasn’t like that until the blood came up,” Arthur explained, wiping the shreds of dry plant from his hands and coming over to stand by her side. “He was in good spirits that first day, all things considered. Woke up a little confused but he was alright. Even cracked some jokes when we were tryin’ to carry him in.”

“Must’ve had a nightmare,” Fia said. She brushed the back of her hand over his sweaty temple.

Tommy hummed. “You said he’d been out of sorts when we were introduced.”

Fia nodded. The peace of early mornings, more often than not, was shattered with strangled cries of fear as Sam awoke from yet another nightmare, shouting for mercy, shouting for backup, shouting military nonsense. She would never be allowed to hear the details, but Sam would at least let her hold him and bring him down from the terror. Those were the nights that Sam could find rest in the first place. She figured he thought he was clever in trying to hide how little he slept, but the dark weariness of deprivation had long sunken into the lines and hollows of his face.

“So he leaves tomorrow?” She asked, voice smaller than she’d wanted it to be. Sam’s breathing was still shallower than was comfortable, the whispery puffs from the slight part in his lips the only indication that he was breathing at all.

“Hopefully,” replied Tommy. “So long as there’s no blood tomorrow, he can rest at home.”

Fia nodded, unable to look away from the slow rise and fall of Sam’s chest. When the sun began to sink in the sky, Tommy offered her a place to stay at Watery Lane. Fia wasn’t quite sure what she’d answered, but Tommy seemed to be satisfied with it as he ushered Arthur out, speaking in low tones with him about guards for the door and eyes on the doctors and nurses. It unnerved her, the seriousness with which they spoke. Of course she didn’t want any of their enemies to catch word of their arrival at the hospital, but Sam wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t a target for their enemies. Not even a regular associate of their gang. A guard outside the door made sense for just about anyone else, and she wasn’t about to talk them out of it, but it was frightening to think that Tommy found it necessary in his own city.

Once the sky had darkened, casting a deep inky blue over the otherwise-empty hospital room, the gangster at the door escorted in a kind-eyed older nurse.

“You ought to go home and get some rest, love.” She puttered around the room, checking Sam’s vitals and restocking all manner of bottles and boxes. “He’ll be alright overnight with so many eyes on him.”

A yawn threatened to escape her at the idea of putting her head down on a pillow of any sort, regardless of how lumpy or Birmingham-scented. The offer Tommy had made her was tempting; a lock on the door, wood in the fireplace, a tub to wash up in, a room that didn’t reek of antiseptic and sickness. She nodded drowsily, leaving Sam with a kiss on the forehead and a vice around her heart. The excitement and nerves of the day subsiding had left her weary to the bone. No sooner had the heavy double doors of the hospital shut behind her than a meek whimper reached her ears. Fia’s head whipped to the side.

Those were her eyes. Her nose. Those curls were the ones she’d learned how to braid before she learned to navigate her own, those hands the ones that had wiped the dirt from her skinned knees and the tears from her eyes. That expression on her face was the one she’d carried after their last argument, when Fia had lashed out because John Shelby was tearing her world in half and taking the portion he’d claimed miles away to Birmingham. That was the very same quiver in the very same chin.

“Flossie,” the woman breathed, voice cracking.

Fia’s throat clicked. “Esme.”

“Fuck,” Arthur hissed. “Fuck! What do we tell ‘em?” Arthur paced back and forth, fingers brushing over his mustache.

Tommy took a drag of his cigarette, the cherry glowing in the brisk night air. At the rate he was going at, he would run out shortly. The two of them watched as John drove Florence and Esme to Small Heath, the sisters pressed shoulder to shoulder. “We don’t tell them anything,” Tommy said, smoke trailing from his nostrils. “Not until we have all the details. It doesn’t leave us.”

Arthur paused. “Not even to John?”

“Especially not John. You know who he’ll point fingers at. I wouldn’t want it to drive a wedge between Esme and Florence.”

Arthur scoffed. “Since when did you care so much about things like that?”

It was a fair question, but Tommy bristled nonetheless. He cared about what he wanted to care about, and that was it. “I don’t. I care about the fallout.”

Arthur nodded, kicking a cigarette butt. “I don’t know that Florence would sabotage us.”

There was a beat. “I wouldn’t rule it out. For all we know, she’s already seen the paper.”

The night wind swept over the spires of the hospital with a ghostly howl. Arthur shivered, drawing his coat more tightly around him. “Do you want another man with eyes on the door?”

Tommy dropped the smoldering cigarette butt to the ground, making his way to the car. “Make it two.”

It was blissfully quiet in Esme and John’s house– if it could be called theirs, seeing as it shared space with an expansion of the betting shop. John had gone up to bed and to check on the kids, letting them have the parlor to themselves. Quiet was something that Esme had assured her was rarer than gold. Six beautiful little terrors, Esme had huffed, though the corner of her lip had twitched up as she said it. Four of John’s by his late first wife, two of both of them: Katie, John Jr., Annie, Albert, Daniel, and—

“Florence is two months old now,” Esme said, taking a sip of her tea as the two of them sat together in the parlor around midnight. “We’re thinking of calling her Flora around the family, to differentiate and all.”

Fia bit her lip as she smiled. She might’ve been surprised if she didn’t know her sister so well. Since they were little, a toddler and an infant, Esme would walk around with Fia on her hip despite just being barely tall enough to lift her. To everyone she’d meet, Esme would proclaim “Flossie is my baby”, and would mind her so carefully that their mother hardly even had the opportunity to do it herself. Even as a teenager, Fia had been the only one to call Esme’s bluff when she rebelliously declared that she didn’t like children. “You don’t like other families’ children,” she’d giggled. “That’s not the same thing.”

The house, while a modest size for a family as big as theirs, was lavishly decorated. It felt a bit like home, all these silks and paints and jewel-toned tiles. With everyone asleep, though, it lacked the warmth of a tiny caravan packed full with Lee children all trying to play in the same space. It was like a large, pricey decoration without the vibrancy of daylight. An addition onto the Shelby empire.

Esme shared the sentiment. “I keep wishing for that house in the country,” she said, pouring another cup for Fia– no milk, two sugars. “I need space. I feel cramped in this dingy city.”

Fia snorted. “I know what you mean. Been here for less than a day and the novelty’s worn off already.” She sighed deeply, settling into the brocade couch. “What’s it like?”

Esme swallowed her mouthful of tea, silently requesting elaboration.

“Being out here. Living…” like a Shelby.

“...Like a Shelby?” Esme smiled behind her teacup. Her older sister wasn’t the only one who was easy to read, it seemed. Fia rolled her eyes, but nodded. Esme thought for a moment. “It’s sort of like learning a new language. The more you speak it…”

“The easier it is to fit in?” Fia tried optimistically.

Esme sighed, less enthusiastic than she had been before. She collected their cups and saucers, loading them onto a tray with the teapot and carrying it to the kitchen. Despite Esme insisting that she stay off her feet for once, Fia trailed behind her, hands behind her back like a child in a shop instructed not to touch anything.

“The easier it is to forget what you’ve spoken your whole life.” She twisted the handle on the ceramic sink, allowing sputtering water to soak the dishware. “I don’t think you’d want it for you and your kid, if I know you. There are some things I like, though. It’s very comfortable to have everything we need, and then some. Nice to not have police breathing down my neck when I enter the shops. On top of that, I help out with the bookkeeping when needed, so I know they don’t think I’m stupid.”

There was always a caveat when her sister spoke in that tone. “But…?”

Esme whipped her head around, eyes desperate. “But it’s so bloody boring!”

The two of them giggled like little girls, doubling over into each other until their laughter gave way into silent shaking, then heaving gasps for breath.

“Christ,” Fia said, wiping her eyes. “Is it really that bad?”

“Worse,” Esme said. “I’m not joking, Flossie, I literally don’t know what I’ll do when the kids are all in school. Do I need– do I need to knit? Is that what wives do, knit scarves for the kids or whatever? Can’t bloody well have a garden in this smog. Forget chickens, they’ll go missing as soon as you hatch ‘em in this fucking neighborhood.”

“No,” Fia groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “I swear, Esme, if I ever move to the city and start knitting scarves, you’ll need to put me out of my misery.”

Their fit subsiding, they worked in companionable silence at washing and drying the dishes. Esme bumped her hip against Fia’s, jostling her as she dried the lid of the teapot.

“What’s your problem? Madwoman,” Fia laughed.

Esme just looked at her for a moment, warmth in her brown eyes. Their mother’s eyes. “I dunno. I missed you.”

Fia’s throat tightened. “I missed you too.”

Their goodbye, though temporary, was no less tearful. Fia was sent off with a little container of peppermint tea for the nausea and back pains, and Esme made sure Finn let her into the Shelby house next door, watching until the lock clicked. Three seconds later, Fia saw the beam of light from her sister’s parlor wane as she closed her own door behind her. Her heart ached something fierce the rest of the night.

“Samuel.”

Sam blinked awake, skull leaden and eyes heavy. Had he slept through the entire day? What time was it? The sky was watery blue, not yet light enough to give him much visibility through the thin slits in the curtains. He could make out the silhouette of a figure at the foot of his bed. For half a second he debated the possibility of it being some weird morphine-induced twist on his usual nightmares, but the click-snap of a lighter igniting revealed some details: broad hands, clean-shaven face, cigarette dangling from his lips. The smell of tobacco, not mud-blood-gunpowder. He relaxed a touch.

“Tommy,” he grumbled, drawing a hand up to rub at his dry eyes. “It’s early as all hell.”

“Get up.”

He froze. There was something about his voice that signaled danger, but if he moved on instinct now, he wouldn’t make it far. Between the state of him and the fact that Tommy was undoubtedly armed, he made the smart decision to stay in place.

“Dunno if I can. Tom, is everything alr–”

“What the fuck,” Tommy hissed, “do you think this is? Huh?”

The barrel of his pistol glowed blue in the dim light. Oh, hell.

“Tom, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think I can–”

“Get up and explain this!” A stack of paper landed on his lap. The lamp on his nightstand flicked on, and Sam’s heart nearly lept out through his throat when he saw that Arthur Shelby had been looming in the corner the whole time. The shadows cast on his face from below were something he didn’t think he would forget anytime soon, nor was the scowl he wore that twisted them into a wicked mask of fury. Sam swallowed, dry throat clicking as he turned his attention to whatever it was that Tommy had thrown at him.

From the way it had been folded, it appeared to be a newspaper, wrinkled and frayed at the corners as though it had been passed through many hands. The grayscale images were difficult to parse at first, but he recognized the shapes of the largest ones: Aintree racecourse. A gun.

“And this.” Arthur dropped another, newer one on top of it, the pages still smelling like ink. This time the main image was of an older woman’s smiling face. The sketch adjacent to it looked worryingly familiar.

Sam blinked, gritting his teeth as he pulled himself fully upright in the hospital bed. “You two are scaring me real bad now.”

“Psalms 94:1,” Tommy spat. “Sound familiar, Sam of God?”

“No, it doesn’t!” Sam huffed, exasperated. “Tommy, come on. Enough with the riddles.”

“The Lord is a God who avenges,” Arthur recited, the Bible they’d procured for Sam on Sunday open on the side table, “O God who avenges, shine forth.”

Tommy placed his hands on the footboard, looming over it to where Sam was caught in that piercing glare, no opportunity to look away. “We’ve got you found out, Samuel.”

That made Sam’s heart stop. What the fuck could they have found out? None of his silent guesses comforted him, leading him down darker and stranger paths. Did they know what the war was like for him, beyond what he’d divulged? Is that why they were reading the Bible to him? Did they know? A cold sweat broke out over his skin.

“I- I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Sam stammered, one placating hand up in front of him, “but I never… I wouldn’t. I’m not like that.” Who the fuck had snitched? Was it someone laying in the rat-infested, sodden trenches with him? A superior officer? Fuck, was it the American?

Tommy forcefully expelled a sigh, hovering the muzzle of the gun on top of the newest newspaper, right over the sketch. Right over my right kneecap, Sam thought, shuddering. “Tell me who that is.”

Black hair, sunken eyes, long nose… “That’s me.” Sam’s shoulders sagged a bit. Alright, so it’s probably not about that event. But Tommy was still glaring at him, vivid blue meeting dull gray.

“And what,” he tapped the headline sharply with the gun, “does this say?”

“Come on, Tommy, we don’t need to–”

“Read it.”

Sam was silent.

“Alright,” he snapped, ripping the newspaper away and pointing at the other one. “Let’s backtrack. Fucking tell me what this is about, then.”

Sam stayed silent, looking at Arthur for support and finding none behind hardened eyes. “I can’t.”

Tommy pushed himself back upright, holstering his gun and placing his hands on his hips as he paced towards the window. “Sam, you can’t play clueless all day, alright? This is the kind way, what we’re doing here. We don’t have to be kind.”

“I am clueless!” Sam shouted, even as the effort squeezed at his already-aching ribcage. “Tommy, really, I don’t know what you want from me right now.”

“Read the fucking headline! Tell me what you’ve done!”

“I can’t!” he said, hardly choking the words out. “I can’t.”

Tommy took a step toward Sam with coldness in his eyes, but Arthur put his hand out to intercept him.

“I can’t fucking read.”

Both brothers blinked before Tommy pointed the gun at his head. “You’re a fucking liar.”

“I’m not,” Sam panted. “I can’t read, mate. I– I never learned.”

“You slipped a note into Arthur’s pocket back at Aintree,” Tommy hissed. “Psalms 94:1. That’s what it said. Couldn’t help but make this about your guilty fucking conscience, could you? Did you pray about it? You were the one standing right next to him before we left. You were the one who told us to bet on that horse, and you were the last one to see her before she was taken out of the race.” Tommy cocked the gun as he stepped closer. “You asked for a Bible on Sunday, and now you’re telling me you can’t read?”

“I just hold onto it,” Sam pleaded. “I don’t read it, it’s just– it protects me, s’all. Just a comfort.”

The cold muzzle pressed against his forehead, and Sam went still. Of course it would end like this. All this time he had between Belgium and now was borrowed, anyway. It only made sense that someone would find that out eventually. He closed his eyes and expelled a shallow breath before staring Tommy down. If Tommy was going to take his life, he wouldn’t get the comfort of fear and submission.

A rattling noise across the room caught everyone’s attention just before the heavy door swung open. “You can’t go locking doors like that,” John said as he entered, slipping a lock pick back into his pocket. “That’s a fire hazard. And an… everything hazard, if you want to– hey, hang on.” The man pointed around in a triangle at Tommy, Arthur, and the gun.

Tommy didn’t look away, but he did tilt his head a bit as John announced his entrance. “John, lock the door behind you.”

“No,” he said, crossing his arms. Sam had a vision of John as a stubborn child, refusing to leave until his older brothers included him in their game. “You’re gonna have to explain this here. You two have been acting strange since last night.”

Arthur strode over to pat John on the chest. “We found our rat, Johnny-boy. Aintree’s ours once again.”

John looked confused, attention darting back and forth between Arthur and Sam. “But… how? You mean Sam?” He wrinkled his nose. “No way. Sam can’t have done it.”

“And why is that?” Tommy only pressed the muzzle harder into Sam’s head, forcing it to tip back slightly. Now his heart was racing. The chance of survival was an intoxicating feeling, now that it was a possibility. He peered down his nose at Tommy’s face, no longer cold and empty but pinched in confusion.

“Because,” John said. “Sam can’t read, and the ink on that note was fresh. Right, Arthur? It had to have been written right before you found it in your coat.”

Arthur grumbled, but nodded. He fell quiet, looking to Tommy for guidance.

Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “He can read, John. He asked for a Bible.”

John scoffed. “And Finn keeps those ratty old boxing gloves in his room. Doesn’t make him good at boxing.” John sidestepped Arthur, coming over to tug at Tommy’s shoulder. “Don’t you remember? It was big talk when his dad went insane. Sam hadn’t learned it yet, so he never did. The Lees gave me the whole story.”

“He’s not insane,” Sam said, flushing. “He was kicked by a horse.”

John shot him a look. “Hey, stupid. Don’t fight me on semantics when I’m defending you, alright?”

Sam shut his mouth with a click. Tommy took a few steps back with John’s persuasion, but he kept the gun trained on the space between Sam’s eyes. “There was chaos in that tent,” Tommy said. “How do you know it wasn’t him who pulled the trigger? He’d have every reason to shoot that woman and try to blame you.”

John barked out a laugh at that, chest puffed up with pride. “His sorry arse was too busy being dragged out of harm’s way by yours truly. And besides, I would’ve felt a gun somewhere on him while I was beating him black and blue, if he had one.”

Tommy seemed to accept this, at least temporarily. He holstered his gun, patting John on the shoulder before he paced a nervous lap around the room. Arthur stared down at his feet, embarrassment coloring his ears red.

“So,” Arthur said, clearing his throat, “if it weren’t Sam… who did it?”

“Hello,” Sam tried, voice creaky and dry. “Hi. Can someone tell me what just happened?”

All three brothers looked at him as though he were a ghost. Had he not spoken up, would they have just continued like this? It was a marvel that any of them had women in their lives, all stuck in their own bubble as they were.

Tommy picked up that morning’s newspaper he’d thrown to the ground, dusting it off and handing it to John. At the sight of it, John’s eyebrows raised. He looked at Tommy, who nodded, and then back at the headline.

“Sam, mate,” he said, voice wavering. “Forget snitching. Forget murder. Someone’s framing you for a fucking assassination.”

[evita-shelby]

Hello you two! (Evvie and July 😅❤️)

Ok. I was thinking while writing the reblog and an idea crossed my mind. Three words: "cemetery at midnight" people: Luca, Eva and Tommy 👀. Choose the ship, if there's a ship, or just let Eva do the magic 😌❤️.

No pressure!! And thanks in advance!!

No one even looked at the corpse

Some Tommy x Eva, Eva x Luca and Polly x Luca

The witch smiles shyly when Luca placed his coat over her shoulders and is as interested in him as he is with her.

They’d make a handsome couple with him being tall enough for her wear heels without causing ridicule.

Sure the stupid mustache makes Luca look a little queer, but Eva doesn’t seem to care.

“If you like her, you should talk to her.” Polly whispers as they pretend to listen to the priests eulogy.

He’s at Danny Owen’s real funeral and he can’t even be bothered to pay attention for the man who died for him.

No, Tommy’s to busy pretending it doesn’t hurt him to watch another man woo the witch who won’t leave his mind since he saw her.

Last night he’d dreamt of her again. Instead of letting her kiss him on the cheek and keep things proper. He had taken her face in his hands and kissed like he has been dying to since that day in the rain.

“I will, on my own time.” He reminds Polly to mind her business. After the mess with Grace he wanted to take things slow, something Eva seemed to want as she kept him at bay.

“Hurry up, then. Luca had me in his bed before my husband’s body was cold, something about him gets young ladies forgetting the word no.” his aunt says and he sighed at her lack of boundaries. “Might be the eyes or those pianist hands of his.”

“Elizabeth Pollyanna Gray, there are children present,” Tommy chided her, shocked she’d say that so close to Finn and John’s horde of brats near them.

When he dreams that night, he dreams Luca fucking Eva in that same cemetery at midnight.

The next morning, Tommy goes to call on his witch for an important matter: her plans for Friday night.

A/n i imagine 1920 Luca had the look he has in Grand Budapest Hotel

Looks like this:

[nostalgicamerica]

After that incredible Boy Scout story, I’m lobbying for a weekly installment of tales from your childhood.

While I am flattered, it is doubtful that what you suggest will be happening anytime soon.

Besides my short stint in the BSA – easily the happiest time of my childhood – the rest of my childhood years were a constant, gray drudgery that wouldn't make for happy reading.

I spent years 6 – 8 in the hard-rock coal mines of the western part of Michigan's Upper Peninsula. Black Lung disease forced me into what was then called squalor (We didn't have Workman's Comp or, welfare, or any sort of worker protections like we do today. Buncha softies, today, I tell you.)

At 9 I tried a short stint as a pickpocket, but the undercover cop who was my first mark arrested me. I was subsequently hauled in front of a hard-nosed judge who didn't know what to do when I started crying like a little school girl. Instead of sending me to the big house like he planned he sent me to Newberry State Mental Hospital for an evaluation.

It was there at NSMH my limited vocabulary expanded to include new words like 'buggery,' 'sodomy,' and 'forced oral copulation.' At least they were kinder to me than my brothers and sisters had been.

I managed to abscond by promising I'd let the guard 'bugger' me without the usual accompanying screams. For all I know, he's still waiting for me behind the laundry where I was supposed to meet him.

Ages 11 to 14 are a bit of a blur due to the job I got at the bakery. Actually, mostly they are a blur because the bakery was next to a bar and the bakery's storeroom was next to the bar's and the bar's storeroom lock was easy to jimmy.

My job was to shove wood chips into the bakery ovens. I'd pitch in a shovelful of birch and drink a warm Pabst Blue Ribbon and eat a bear claw or something of the sort. Rinse and repeat. By the time quitting-time rolled around, I was three sheets to the wind and feeling good.

Some time later, (I'm not sure exactly how or when) the bakery burned down. I vaguely recall the baker screaming at me as he chased me down the street throwing cans of lukewarm PBR at me.

A few blocks from where the bakery was going up in an inferno, I dodged a can of beer and stumbled into the basement of a church and decided to give the Boys Scouts a try and see what they knew. They didn't seem to care that I was half-potted. I was a boy. Apparently that was the only qualification needed.

After the BSA, with my head swimming with knowledge of females of the species, I set out to find my one true love, Sonja Henie, who I knew was out there and wouldn't try to bugger me.

-

So, as you can see, my childhood makes 'Oliver Twist' seem like 'Pollyanna.' The bleakness that permeated my formative years still haunts my dreams. My wife, to this day, can't understand why I fall asleep with my butt planted firmly against the wall.

She promises not to sodomize me.

[giftsightarc]

@proofwhisky gets a plotted starter

FOR ALL THE YEARS PAMELA BARNES HAD DREMT OF THOMAS SHELBY she'd never once been given the slightest inkling of how or where to find him. She'd witnessed him at war where he'd lost comrades and brethren. She'd been given glimpses of his family: a litter of brothers and a single aunt-- of whom she recognized. Elizabeth, known to others as Polly : a short form Pamela was never quite fond of-- she was never really keen on referring to others by disrespecting their proper name. To Pamela, you were named what you were named for a reason and to shorten such a thing was a bastardisation of it's full beauty. She might settle for Pollyanna, but never Polly : it just didn't seem right.

Pollyanna and Pamela had spent a few seasons together when the Barnes girl had been small. She'd liked the former Gray then : she taught her things of boys and books, told her about her own adventures the world over and explained to Pamela in vivid detail the beauty of the night sky. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed the twinkling lights over head : but as Pollyanna spoke Pamela felt an ache in her chest : one she wouldn't soon forget.

It seemed then, as Gray transitioned to Shelby a nephew had been born : and it was this man who would plague Pamela Barnes' dreams for the foreseeable future. Finally she had been given a location more specific than 'England'. She'd heard whisper in dreams of a town called 'Birmingham' : not too far from her own dwelling, perhaps this was why the dreams were increasing in frequency. And just last night she'd seen it : the grand dark pub with it's mouth agape, flashes of people coming and going, laughing and wailing. Joy spliced with terror as flames lapped at the buildings insides : clawing and tearing away anything it could. The grand yellow gold words seeming to drip from their place above the doorway : The Garrison.

She'd left without a second thought and arrived in town by afternoon. One might be frightened, stripped of sight and navigating a foreign place : but her connection to the other side left Pamela with a sense of things and while she could not see streets and obstacles clearly she had a certain knowing about her. She'd asked a passer by or two : no doubt aghast as they gazed upon pale white iris, which direction she might find said pub, all the while hoping she wouldn't be too late. Kind souls were quick to assist leaving a smile gracing delicate features.

Brass handle feels cool in hand and Pamela doesn't hesitate in pushing past the thresh hold. She walks with confidence, skirts brushing past leg as she strides. Iron hunting knife feels heavy against thigh : she knows what to do should danger strike. Unseeing gaze shifts over pub entirely, it reeks of whiskey and beer, stout and gin : it's homey, almost. A single aura sits at table closest bar top and as she hones Pamela can smell a hint of tobacco whispering past. "Thomas Shelby." To speak the name to it's owner feels like a magnificent weight lifted from Barnes' chest. Eyes lock against aura : red flecked with gold-- it's beautiful and so very vivid. "FORGIVE THE INTRUSION, BUT WE HAVE MUCH TO DISCUSS."

[earnmysong]

the tremendous, terrific, and talented t [ @jjskiaras​] hit me up elaborate on the following. merci, lovely! if @somethingaboutsewing​, @simmerandcry​, @beth-is-rainpaint​, @semperlitluv​, @goddesspharo​, @empressearwig​, @megalong​, @cashewdani​, @effie214​, @amillcitygirl​, @firstaudrina​, @firstdegreefangirl​, @andrea-lyn​, or anyone else would like, please feel free to partake! 

nickname | e; ears [a family hold-over from an eavesdrop-heavy childhood]

height | 4’11”

last google search | matilda ending; matilda and ms. honey painting || which did in fact yield this

song stuck in my head | 'still holding my hand’ - lashana lynch + alisha weir | i’m still mid-emotional moment; please refer to the fact that i actually wrote words and check back in three days

number of followers | 288

amount of sleep | 7 hours || which is honestly such an improvement over the pre-medicated me of twoish years ago

dream job | theater critic or entertainment journalist or novel editor; i do love teaching, though

wearing | still in my work clothes: a flatiron building/nyc graphic tee from j crew, an olive old navy cardigan, gray and black checked pants, black boots 

book(s)/movie that describes you | the perks of being a wallflower, a tree grows in brooklyn/pollyanna

aesthetic | realistic, sometime cynic, wrapped in bubblegum and sunshine | sweaters, graphic tees, floral blouses and dresses, vans/converse

favorite author(s) | kate quinn

favorite song | top five?

you and i: ingrid michaelson

let the rain: sara bareilles

mrs. potters lullaby: counting crows

walking on broken glass: annie lennox

hand in my pocket: alanis morrisette

random fact | i took AP spanish and french I my senior year of high school, simultaneously

[warriors-rewritten-chaos]

More Plot Changes From My Rewrite

These are small plot changes that didn't make it into my big Arc Plot Rewrite Summary posts that I still wanted to make note of here.

About the Forest Elders

In canon, the Elders that stay behind starve to death. Not so here- they deserve better! Firestar recruits Princess and her friends Xena and Pollyanna to take the Elders to their homes so they can live the rest of their lives in kittypet luxury. Also, Dapplelight reunites with someone she thought she’d only see again in StarClan: her thought-dead deaf child Plumekit, now a kittypet named Petey. When he wandered out of camp, he was discovered by a group of hikers, who took him home and adopted him. They take Dapplelight in too and she spends the rest of her life happy with her son. The few that decide not to live with Twolegs shack up in Barley and Ravenpaw’s barn. The prevalence of cats with Clan knowledge around is what eventually leads to the founding of WarriorClan in the far future by Princess’ granddaughter Monkeystar.

SkyClan vs the Abusive Twoleg

So in canon, SkyClan doesn't actually harm Shrewtooth's abusive former owner, they just scare him pretty bad. Let’s change that (because screw that guy)! While they still go about their plan to get revenge as far as distracting his dog and tying him up, they also beat the ever-loving tar out of him. There’s a large group of them and only one of him, which means things do not go in his favor and none of the cats get hurt. When they leave, he’s passed out covered in claw-marks. He never bothers another cat again. I read a post saying rewrites need to have cool moments that would look awesome in an animatic, and this is one of those for me.

The Matter of Millie and Graystripe (Specifically Millie’s Kits)

I didn't even consider this discrepancy before reading more of @bonefall’s posts, but they brought up a big one: pet cats are almost always spayed or neutered. If Graystripe had been actually adopted as a kittypet, or was even just fostered before he escaped, he would very likely have been neutered before he left. And Millie, having been a housecat for presumably her whole life and being around Graystripe’s age, would also have been spayed. I wanted to rectify this (even though Gray isn't the bio father of Millie’s kits in this universe). So in my rewrite, Graystripe manages to escape the shelter before he can be neutered. As he attempts to find the Clans, he encounters an escaped kittypet by the name of Millie. Millie is a purebred show-cat (specifically a Scottish Fold) that her owners planned on breeding, which explains why she isn't spayed. She ran away from her housefolk after she got pregnant from her former mate, who was a stray. She knew that her owners wouldn't be happy that her kits weren't purebreds and would take them away like they had her first litter (she is a second-time mom here).

[windowalker]

Hi, it’s 4.00 am and I can’t sleep.

I’m new at tumblr, I saw people make posts were they basically just introduce themselves and stuff and I thought I could do that too

Ok so… I’m Laeira, I’m almost 21 (fuck)

she/her | infp …but I generally don’t like lables

what this blog will be about: I guess poetry, art, music, and the inner connections between them and everyday life, everything I can found in my desperate quest to make the world a bit more bearable

there will be the occasional joke too, don’t worry, I have a very random sense of humor

about me: I like writing ✨🐚 (mostly songs, poetry, I’m currently working on a “novel”, pff feels so weird to say it). I like reading📖, though I’m slower than shit, cinema 🎥 and photography📸. Nature🌲🌿, I have a totally not creepy obsession with human anatomy🫁 purely scientific/artistic, and a totally platonic relationship with science 🔭⚗️ I guess I also love anthropology 🗿and philosophy 🩻 (but I don’t philosophize, just make fun of plato)

music I love (maximum restraint to minimize the otherwise infinite list): Björk, Jeff Buckey, Nirvana, Kate Bush, Pink Floyd, The Guess Who (not the Who), Radiohead, Cocteau Twins, Mecano, Heather Nova, Fiona Apple, Tori Amos, Donovan, Teresa Teng, the Beatles, Faye Wong, The Zombies, David Bowie, Mitski, Slowdive, King Crimson… fuk, and I’m not gonna get too much into classical, atonal, avant gard music… but you get the idea

fav movies: FUCK. I can’t do this. Let’s see… Mirror (Tarkovskij), Billy Elliot, Adaptation, the Incredibles, The Trial (Wells), Amadeus, Donnie Darko, Rear Window, Trainspotting, Polar Express (shut up), Coraline, Anastasia, the Shining, Whispers of the heart, the Graduate, Pollyanna, Naked Lunch, Ameliè, Black Swan, Lust for Life, Heathers, Lilo and Stitch, Mulan, Cry Baby…(just kidding, I almost imploded)

fav series: Neon Genesis Evangelion, Heidi (yes, I said it), Star Trek tos (so funny I exploded several times, best chairs, best fashion), Steven Universe, Phineas and Ferb, Arcane (of course), Adventure Time, The Owl House, Over the Garden Wall, Bewitched, The Nanny (best 90s show, fight me), Gilmore Girls (I still keep watching it but I HATE how they massacred most characters)

books I somehow managed to read: my favorite books are the ones I find the hardest to read. Metamorphosis, The Neverending Story, 1984, The Picture of Drodrian Gray, The Golden Compass, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, The sorrows of young Werther, Memories from the Underground…fuk I actually read so little books it’s embarrassing, I’m trying hard to improve, I swear!

things I wish wouldn’t exist in this world: arrogance, misogyny, racism, homophobia, and any other bad type “phobia”; inequality, any kind of abuse, especially the one inflicted by “parents”, mental illness, inefficient systems, condescendence and general unkindness

other things that I wish wouldn’t exist in this world: OLAF, I hate you OLAF, Cry Baby, because it destroyed my soul, Howard the duck, because it destroyed my sanity, the gargoyles from Hunchback of Notre Dame, movie remakes, vinegar, and Olaf again, because he’s an insult to life itself

Hope you enjoyed this unnecessarily long post, and if you wanna talk about something feel free to message me :)

It would be nice if I could manage to make some friends too! :D 🦑

[cissyenthusiast010155]

Ask and you shall receive :)

2,5,6 + "you like my name? Ok, then moan it." With Polly Gray

Thank you ❤️

Snowed In, Let Me Show you How it’s Done ~Polly Gray xFem Younger(20s)!Reader ~Holiday Bingo

Summary— Polly, the Shelby’s, and Reader, Esme’s cousin, are all stuck in the Shelby Birmingham home due to a show storm. Sparks fly between you and Polly. Anon Response— Hi hi anon!! Thanks for the request. I can absolutely write this! Hope you Enjoy ♥️

Previous Day <—found here!

Holiday Bingo <—Here!!

Mommy… Master List

Requests & Prompt-List

Prompt— Snowed In/Blizzard & “You like my name? Ok, then moan it.”

#2. “Be a good girl and tie yourself to the bed posts”

#5. “Shut up and kiss me already”

#6. “My eyes are up here”

Warnings: NSFW, 18+!!, smut, age gap (all legal), grinding, eating out, fingering, restraint use, gagging, ball gagging use, teasing, kissing, semi-public teasing, flustering, praise, implied praise kink, implied gagging kink, etc.

Enjoy (;

All the Shelby’s and associates pent up in the Birmingham house was bound for chaos. It was a blizzard. The worst of its kind to ever cross over all of England. And it was hitting Birmingham hard.

The kids were running all around the house, until eventually Arthur shut them up inside the living room, so that the adults could discuss in peace in the betting room.

Aunt Pol sat in her chair in the middle of the big centerpiece table, smoking and chuckling to herself as she watched the hectic dysfunction. Being snowed in was certainly free entertainment for the older woman.

You stood uncomfortably in the corner of the room, unsure of what to do. You were Esme’s cousin, and Esme had invited you over, as she often did. Now you were stuck in the house, with the Shelby’s.

Polly scanned the room and each person her gaze met, before landing on you. She smoked some more and puffed the smoke up in the air, her gaze still on you. Her free hand on the table indicated for you to join her at the table, along with a slight nod of her head.

You timidly came forward, sitting and angling yourself next to the woman with crossed legs. You blushed lightly under the woman’s eyes. The room was anything but silent, but Polly’s silence made all the over sound drown out.

“Your Esme’s cousin, Y/N… right?” She spoke, in a low and inquisitive tone and taking another puff.

“Yes” you said quietly, your head low as you nodded.

“We’ve never officially met…” Aunt Pol hummed, “I’m Polly. Family calls me Aunt Pol.”

Her free hand was now out underneath her table, offering to shake yours. You took a breath, extending your hand and taking hers to shake it. Her grasp was direct and firm, but not overbearing like most of the hands you’d shook. And her hands were silky to the touch, yet still thoroughly worked and rough. The contrast made your head spin.

Hell, her entire demeanor alone just made you dizzy in the head…

Once you let her hand, you immediately missed her touch. But you didn’t have to wait long for more, as Polly’s hand then landed on the knee of your crossed leg. Your breath hitched lightly and you blushed even harder. Polly leaned in closer, and her tone went lower and quieter.

“Tell me about yourself, Darling.”

You gulped and your eyes widened slightly.

How could you refuse this woman..?

“Um…. Well I…” you stammered, your attention and eyes diverted to the woman’s hand slowly creeping up your leg, closer and closer to your inner thigh.

“My eyes are up here…” Polly hums teasingly.

Your eyes shot back up to Polly’s gaze, as they widened even more.

“Sorry Polly…” you whimper, “I… I was married, b-but he died… in the war.”

Polly’s eyes softened, and her hand on your thigh started to rub and caress you caringly.

“Oh Love, I’m sorry… I understand some, my husband died as well.” She cooed softly.

You took a deep breath.

“It’s alright, actually a pretty good thing… he wasn’t… the best…” you quietly admitted.

You tried to convey your certain sense of dislike for your husband, which Polly immediately picked up on.

“Never did the trick, huh…?” She bluntly said, with a teasing edge to her tone.

Your blush tenfolded at her words, and her hand had continued its teasing once more. You shook your head lightly in embarrassment.

“No need to be embarrassed, Love…” Polly immediately cooed, “When’s the last time?”

Her fingers tipped against your closed thighs. You immediately uncrossed your legs, opening them up to the other woman’s access. Polly hummed in satisfaction of your immediate obedience.

“With him. Years ago…” you whispered.

Polly’s eyes widened and her mouth threatened to drop in light shock, instead she took another puff of smoke before smushing the cigarette against the table, effectively putting it out.

Her fingers had crept in your dress and were running light circles over your clothed clit. You sucked in a breath and resisted the urge to roll her eyes back and let out a breathy moan.

“We’ll probably be in this mess for a while… Want help…?” Polly suggestively cooed.

“Ah—I…” you breathily stammered in a groan., “Y-yes please…”

Suddenly her touch was gone, her hand back in her own lap. Polly’s hand on the table reached over and clasped your wrist, tight but not one but painful.

“Upstairs, last room to the right. Left side drawer…” Polly purred in your ear, “Be a good girl and tie yourself to the bed posts.”

Your breath hitched and you nodded slowly.

“Yes Polly…” you whimpered.

You left the betting room first to go up the stairs, and entering into Polly’s room. You look around, finding the bed and immediately stripping down to your undergarments. You got on the bed, reaching into the left side drawer and pulling out some ribbon ties.

Polly left to join you a couple minutes later. She walked into her room, closing and locking the door behind her. Her eyes landed on the sight of you, with one hand tied to the metal head of the bed while struggling to tie your other hand to the opposite end of the metal. Polly smirked.

She had you all to herself. And none in the house, adult or child, was the wiser…

Polly came up to the side of the bed that you couldn’t quite tie your hand to, taking the tie from you.

“Let me.” She said, helping you tie it. She took that moment to allow her gaze to sweep up and down your undressed body. She bit her lip in satisfaction.

Polly then backed away to the edge of the bed to fully examine you. You wiggled against your ties, squirming underneath the woman’s gaze.

“Please Polly…” you whimpered. Polly chuckled. Her gaze made it feel like she was about to pounce on you. And oh how you wanted that so badly…

But instead, the older woman stayed standing before the edge of the bed, as she began stripping. She took off every last piece of clothing, slowly and tantalizingly. You bit your lip, yet still unsuccessful as the whimpers and groans still left your lips.

Polly loved all the sounds she was drawing from you. Finally, she was completely out of clothes to disrobe out of. And the woman finally got on the bed, and crawled up to you.

You immediately opened your legs wide for the woman to crawl in between. Polly did so happily. She hovered over you, her gaze going once more up and down your figure, looking like she was ready to eat you up.

“Do you care about your undergarments…?” Polly inquisitively and lustfully cooed, her eyes darkening as she gazed down at the little clothing you still had on.

“Mmmm not really, cost a bit…” you groaned, arching up into the woman, desperate for any touch. You already knew that her touch made you dizzy. The she made your mind go fuzzy. You wanted more. You wanted her to make you silly, to go dumb from her touch.

“Hmmmm, you’ll have to be quiet…” Polly purred, “Can’t have the family catching on…”

“Mhmmmm just shut up and kiss me already Polly please—!” You groaned, tugging against your restraints again.

Polly only chuckled and pulled away, making you lose hope of any and all touch in the near future. She sat herself at the back of the bed, barely in between your feet.

“Tsk tsk tsk, that’s no way to ask for something, Darling… Use your manners.” Polly cooed wickedly.

“I—no I’m sorry…! Sorry please come back Polly— Need you close please” you stuttered out, your face going deep red as the older woman watched you intently.

She quirked an eyebrow at you. Polly then got on all fours and stalked back up to you, hovering above you once more. She had undone her pinned curls when she had stripped, so as she lowered herself to you, her haired angel’s angelically around her face.

Then Polly’s lips were on yours. It was no question that she was in charge, and that she was dominating the kiss. Your heart was racing at the feeling of her again. You moaned lightly into the kiss, happily letting the older woman take the lead. But she pulled away too fast, making you only want more or her even more so.

“You like my name, Darling…? Alright, then moan it.” Polly purred wickedly.

Your eyes widened and you gulped.

Polly then began kissing and sucking marks on your skin, along your neck and shoulders. She hit the sensitive spot on your collar bone, making you squirm against her and the ties.

“Ahhhhh P-polly…!!” You moaned out.

“Hmmmmm, good girl…” the older woman hummed, continuing her markings along your skin.

Without warning, the woman tore your bra right off you with a quick tug and snap. It was thrown aside with ease. You gasped and were pretty sure that the clasp had broken from it. But before you could voice your complaint, Polly’s hot mouth was latched around your left nipple.

“Ahhh..Mmmm—! Pol…!!” You squeaked out in light shock but even greater pleasure.

“I’ll buy you a new one…” Polly cooed, as she switched to your other perked bud.

As she focused her attention and her tongue on your right nipple, one of her hands slipped down your frame and to your knickers. She bit down on your bud, while ripping your knickers with ease. You yelped and arched your back up into Polly in response.

Arching your hips, Polly was able to remove your knickers and throw those to the aside as well.

“I’ll buy you a new set…” Polly purred, moving off your tits with her tongue, and starting her journey further down south, where you so desperately needed the woman.

Finally, her tongue reached your lower patch of curls. Polly hummed in delight as she dipped her tongue into your folds. You arched your back and bucked your hips up to the woman’s face, pulling again against your restraints.

“Yes yes yes Polly please don’t sttopp—!!” You cried out, so happy to have the feeling of a woman’s touch once again.

“Shhhhh, don’t make me gag you, Love…” Polly hummed through your folds.

You bit your lip and whimpered, “Sorry Polly…”

“Hmmmm, it’s alright…” Polly cooed, now latching her lips on your clit and sucking.

Your eyes rolled back and your hips jerked up.

“Ohhhhhh GOD Pol—!!!” You practically screamed.

Polly pulled away slightly with a chuckle, reaching for her drawer. You gasped and gulped, realizing how loud you had just been.

“I—I’m sorry fuck sorry sorry Polly—” you rambled.

Polly chuckled darkly, pulling out a ball gag from the drawer.

“Know what this is…?”

Your eyes widened and you nodded.

“I’m not afraid to put it on you if you can’t be quiet, understand Darling…?” Polly purred in your ear.

You gulped and nodded vigorously.

“I understand Polly…” you whimpered.

“Good girl.” Polly hummed, placing the ball gag right next to your head as a reminder.

She lowered herself back down to your core, immediately dipping her tongue into your sex, making you arch your back once more and whimper out in pleasure.

Polly now began eating you out a ruthless pace. Her tongue sloshed in and out of your cunt, and while one hand held your thighs firmly from crushing her head, her other hand was in between your legs, her thumb working your clit.

Your legs shook and you bit your lip to muffle the cry that tore through you as you came for the first time that snowed in day. Your eyes rolled back and you lost your composure, groaning too loudly for how thin the walls were.

But Polly was swift. While her tongue fucked you through your first orgasm, the finger on your clit quickly got stuffed into your mouth, effectively muffling your cries as you came down from your high. Once Polly was sure your high had teetered out, she removed her fingers from your mouth and brought herself back up to your upper body.

She chuckled and grabbed the ball gag. You whimpered and begged the woman with your eyes. But the way your legs were rubbing together in need of friction and the way your body arched upward to the woman told Polly that you didn’t mind the gag one bit. She positioned the ball gag around your head so that the ball was placed perfectly in your mouth.

Your eyes pled Polly for more.

“Now we can actually begin…” Polly teased you, “And I can make you drool much easier…” she added with a wink.

You groaned, which easily got muffled by the ball gag, so instead you ground your hips up against Polly’s legs.

“Alright alright…” Polly chuckled, positioning her legs entangled with yours so that her cunt could easily grind against yours.

Polly rolled her hips, creating a delicious friction in between your cunts, making your pull harshly against your ties as your eyes rolled back. You immediately and wildly bucked your own hips back.

Polly smirked and kept a strong yet slow tempo of grinding her sex against yours. It was slowly corroding your sense of competency and self. Meanwhile, her hand wandered up your figure and pinched your nipples without warning, sending jolts of hot pleasure coursing through your veins, along with the slowly building pleasure of the grinding.

You yelped, whimpered, and moaned out loudly, but it was all muffled by the gag. And this only seemed to spur Polly on even more. Polly’s grindings began to speed up and to become more sloppy. Before you knew it, you were crashing over the edge once more. And Polly was right behind you.

She collapsed on top of you, your legs still entangled. You loved the feeling of the woman skin on skin with you. It made you terribly needy and your body sparked with pleasure.

Polly was quick to sit back up, this time straddling your stomache. Her breathing was labored and she looked angelic in her post-orgasmic sheen of sweat. Her pupils were big and dark, starring down at you.

She continued to met your gaze, as her hand slithered behind her and in between your legs. Her fingers met your slick and sensitive sex, and you immediately bucked and jerked your hips in response, still sensitive from the last two orgasms.

“Want more, Love…?” Polly breathlessly and lustfully cooed.

You nodded vigorously, your whole body still on edge from your last high. Polly wasted no time in plunging two fingers into your core. Your eyes rolled back as you adjusted to her manicured digits. She began to pump and curl her fingers inside you. Your hips eagerly met her hand with similar rhythmic thrusts.

You closed your eyes from how overstimulating it was all starting to be. Polly slid a third finger inside you.

“Nuh uh… Eyes open. Look at me.” Polly tutted, punctuating her sentences with a pointed curl each time.

Your toes curled in delight with each thrust, and your legs started to shake again. You pulled against your ties, and you moaned desperately as you got dangerously close to your next orgasm. Polly could tell.

“Cum for me, Love.” She cooed.

That was all you needed to topple over the edge and scream your way through your high. All of which was gagged of course. But it didn’t make it any less of entertainment for Polly.

She grinned wickedly, as she swiped touting your folds afterwards, making you nearly start to cry at how raw and sensitive you were. If you could have begged for her to stop, you would have, but at the same time, you wanted to bed for more.

Polly decided for you, getting off of you, and going to undo your ties. She kissed your wrists as she undid them from their ribbon restraints. She took off the gag, then Polly went to grab a washcloth, so that she could clean you up. After she had payed the power attention to you, she lit a cigarette and sat next to you in the bed.

She smoked the cigarette with a long puff, sighing in satisfaction. Your heart was still racing and you were still electrified with pleasure. Polly pulled you into her lap.

“You did really good.” She hummed, then offering you a smoke, which you politely declined.

“Thanks…” you bashfully murmured, your red face returning to you.

“Such a good girl…” Polly cooed, making you go beet red in the face, making the older woman giggle.

~~~

Next Holiday Bingo <—Here!!

Polly Gray Masterlist

Holiday Bingo 2023 Masterlist

Tag List: @storiesofsvu @willowshadenox @vexed-jade @lunala-rose23 @aemilia19 @sapphixwriter

[prettygreenpills]

Coming home - P.G

characters: Polly Gray x daughter!reader

rundown: after Tommy brought Michael home to Polly, he went to find you as well. Once you return home, you spend a wonderful day with your mother, immediately trusting her

warnings: anxiety attack, you might need tissues

word count: 1,7k+

request status: closed

A/n: I know Polly’s daughter was called Anna, but i still decided to make it Pol x reader

“What if she won’t recognize me?” You asked from Tommy Shelby who you met just few days ago. He was a man who came to find you with a really crazy plan. With a plan which was working at the moment.

“Y/n,” Tommy looked at you and you sucked in a sharp breath. “Believe me she will. And what do you think why else would we need your birth certificate?” He asked you back and since you had no good answer to his question, you stayed quiet.

Walking right next to Thomas Shelby you let him lead you to the house you were the most scared of at the moment. Staying quiet you didn’t know what to think about. What should you say when you arrive? Would you recognize the woman? Would she recognize you? You had no idea.

Thomas turned to one of the houses and he looked at you. Searching for something in his coat, he took out one cigarette and then held them all out for you. You shook your head no and looked at the house in front of which you were standing. It looked…. somewhat pretty.

Thomas lit up his cigarette and didn’t say a word. He started smoking, letting you watch the house where the woman who was supposed to be your mother lived.

Once he was finished with the cigarette, he just threw it away without stepping onto it and moved his hand forward.

“After you.”

You kept standing at the same spot as if you had melted there. Without giving Tommy a look, he understood and with a quiet sigh he got in front of you and you followed him up to the doors of the house, where your mother was supposed to live.

Taking a deep breath you closed your eyes. You could feel that something was about to happen. You could feel that something wasn’t really okay.

“Are you coming?” Thomas asked from the doors and you made few quick steps towards him even if you weren’t rushing. Your chest was lifting quickly and heavily and you couldn’t really help it.

Your mother was standing behind those doors. You were sure about that. You took a deep breath to push away the feeling of running away and you really slowly walked over to Thomas.

“One more time- what’s her name?” You asked from Tommg and tried to stop him from entering the house.

“Her name is Pollyanna Shelby Gray,” Thomas answered your question and you didn’t know what else to ask. You gulped loudly and realized that your hands were shaking.

Honestly, you were happy about that Thomas found your mother but something inside of you was worrying. What if she didn’t want you back? What if all of those things you were told when you were little really happened? What if she left you in a middle of the forest and people who you thought were your mother and father found you?

“Y/n?” Thomas asked you and you wiped your sweaty hands in your clothes.

“We can go,” you nodded to him and tried to quietly count to ten. Thomas opened the doors of the house and stepped back a little, letting you walk in as the first.

You stepped inside of her home and smelled candles. Trying not to pay attention to the details, you were searching for the woman. Thomas entered the house right after you and you took a deep breath.

“Pol?” He called for the woman loudly. One time was enough. The answer came.

“In the kitchen Thomas. You should know where it is,” woman’s voice filled the house and you got goosebumps. It was your mother talking. The woman you just heard was your mother.

“Come with me,” Thomas told you and you didn’t even move. Thomas was watching you and when he realized how scared did you look, he put his hand onto your shoulder and squeezed it a little. “Can we?”

“Y-yeah,” you answered and Thomas started walking towards the kitchen. After few steps, you were entering the kitchen and that was when you saw her.

A woman with longer brown hair was standing with her back turned to you. She was cooking something. And it smelled amazing.

“Pol?”

“Yes?” The woman turned around and looked at him. As you saw her eyes, you immediately knew that you were hers and she was yours. Her eyes slowly moved from Thomas onto you and her eyes widened. “Thomas-“

“I would like to introduce you someone,” Thomas said quietly and your heart was beating that fast at the moment you were scared of that it would jump out of your chest.

The woman backed away a little and leant onto the kitchen counter. She covered her mouth with her hands and with teary eyes she kept watching you.

“I would like to introduce you Y/n Anna Gray,” Thomas said and stepped a little away from you. You shook from the adrenaline and you were afraid of that you couldn’t keep standing in your feet.

The woman was still in shock. She had tears in her eyes and let few of them roll down onto her cheeks. She looked over at Thomas and when he nodded to her, she took a careful step to you.

“Y/n?” The woman asked quietly and you started hyperventilating. Thomas immediately stepped to you and took you by your shoulders.

“It’s alright,” he whispered and he kept standing behind you. The woman looked at you and you nodded to her so she knew that she could step even closer to you. She did so and you tried to keep your breathing calm.

“Yes that should be me,” you whispered quietly and the woman laughed a little. She had tears running down on her cheeks and she softly lifted her hand what made you flinch.

“Pol, slowly,” Thomas reminded her and you closed your eyes. The woman pulled her hand away what you could feel and then you opened your eyes again.

“I am sorry-“

“It’s alright,” you said quietly and Polly gasped. That was the first time she heard you talking. You swallowed the ball which had been created in your throat and then you took a deep breath.

Polly looked at Thomas and he pulled out a chair for himself. He sat down and kept watching you and your mother. Both of you were standing at the same spot as before and you gulped.

“Would you like to sit down Y/n?” Polly asked you and you nodded your head. Sitting down right next to Thomas, you put your hands into your lap and you started bonucing your leg. Knowing that you wouldn´t get hurt with Thomas, you tried to calm yourself down, but it didn´t work at all.

“Y/n,” Thomas said your name and you couldn´t look at him. You just bowed your head a little and closed your eyes. When you felt his hand on your thigh, he tried to stop the shaking of your leg. You looked up and took a deep breath. “Pol can I ask for a glass of water for her?”

“Sure,” the woman jumped up and filled you a glass with fresh water. She got back as fast as she could and put it down right in front of you on the table.

“Thank you,” Thomas only said and he took the glass of water and held it out for you. “Take a sip.”

You looked up at Thomas shaking a little and you took the water from him. Trying not to spill it all over the place, you took one sip of the water and then you gave the glass back to Thomas.

“What´s wrong?”

“A-anxiety,” you answered the woman and then you took a deep breath. And then another one. You calmed yourself down slowly and when your breathing was okay, but your stomach was still a little ball of nerves, you tried to ignore it. You needed to look okay from outside and you hoped you did. “I am sorry,” you whispered and didn´t look up at any of them.

“It´s alright,” Thomas said and a question was following.

“You deal with anxiety?” The woman asked you and you looked up at her.

“Since I can remember,” telling her honestly, you watched her face become sadder than it was before and then you decided to finish the glass of water.

“Better?”

“Yes, thank you,” you answered and then took a deeper breath. And then another one.

“So...” Polly started really carefully and you looked up at her. She was- shocked? Scared? Worried? You couldn´t tell. “You are Y/n Anna Gray... my...”

“Daughter,” you finished for her and Polly let out a breath what she seemed to be holding in for seventeen years or so. She relieved and covered her mouth.

“Where- where have you been? Where did they take you?” She asked and asked and you gave her all of the answers she needed.

“I was... All I remember is that I was in Australia. Growing up in a house with kind people I tought were my mother and father. And then Thomas-” you looked up at him and he nodded, “then we got a letter from Thomas. Saying that he wanted to talk to us. So he came, we met him. He explained everything to my mother and father and since then we stayed in touch,” you explained and didn´t even feel guilty for calling those people your parents.

“Thomas you were in touch with my daughter and you didn´t tell me a word,” the woman freezed as she turend to Thomas. He was giving her the same kind of poker face he was giving you when you were asking questions about your family.

“She is here now,” Thomas said only and you looked up at your mother. She was watching him, giving him a stare which had a sign of that if she could she would’ve killed him. Instead of fighting him, she turned to look at you and… the woman changed.

Her eyes shone again. She smiled a little. Her soul returned back into her body when she looked at you and all you could do was let your tear fall.

“Oh don’t cry,” Polly approached you really slowly and knelt down in front of you. You looked at your mother with your eyes and you somehow felt like at home finally. “Don’t cry Anna,” Polly whispered and she took your hands into hers. You heard Thomas leave the room and you stayed there alone with your mother, knowing that everything was about to turn to better.

[schnellonline]

oh to be with that gal in her hastily assembled homestuck cosplay in the dining room of a cheap in-hotel restaurant. enjoying a breakfast the moment before a big con. you are both excited and so are your friends, but the two of you feel a different air than that of your peers. it hangs down around you and makes you both shift uncomfortably in your chairs. it makes you not want to eat. it makes you focus on each other. you both notice things with your feverish and shy glances at one another. it is there and you both know it.

the previous night you drove with her and her friends in your shitty 2007 chrysler sebring to the nearest marriot to attend a midwest con in the big city. its a bit of a drive and you're all nervous to be travelling this far from home, but its okay because you have your friends and your all in high-spirits for the upcoming con. she puts on some Kesha and you all do horrible but ironic karaoke while jamming and grooving down the interstate. the world passing by you is gray concrete littered with various corporate americana. a dennys there. a mcdonalds here. theyre all in different configurations from the ones from your town, but they do give you a sense of familiarity while you and your pals careen towards the unknown. its a chilly fall night and the heater is blasting full force on your face. in the light of the dash board you can see her gentle face underneath her tomboyish hair. her bangs cascade in neat, but rough locks down her forehead. her face is one of small town pollyanna and a young lady on the cusp of adulthood. the heater is on too high and she is visibly sweating. she notices you looking at her and turns and smiles. her faces comforts you as you turn your attention back towards the road. the rest of the trip is shitty singing and talking about the newest update of your favorite webcomic. the conversation twists and turns and eventually coalesces into background noise for you.

the night in the hotel room was one filled with a light miasma of hormones, illegally pilfered alcohol (that your older sister got for you of course!), and greasy fast food slop that you all hastily picked up while passing thru the town. it was to be 3 days of pure entertainment, self-fulfillment and youthful splendor. all of you would spend your next 3 days discovering parts of you that seemed so obscure and so nebulous to you in the past, but this convention would shine a light on those shrouded feelings. through the magic of homestuck of course.

[mxfortune-teller]

Tagged by @therealhieronymous - neat!🦇🦇🦇

Nickname: uuuuhh I don't really have any besides my Work Name™️ OH WAIT "Little bastard rat boy"

Sign: Gemini♊

Height: 5' 😔

Last google search: Tumbeast

Number of followers: 318😔

Amount of sleep: 5 or 6ish usually; 7 or 8 ideally.

Lucky number: Hmmmm, 4 or 7?

Favorite color: Greeeeeeeen and gray

Dream job: I just wanna be a writer🥺

Movies/book that summarizes me: Uuuuuhhh... This one is hard. The Pillow Thoughts series of poetry books, Contradictions in the Design, The Outsiders, and maybe the Warrior Cats series? Depends on what "summarize" means in this context.

Favorite song: "Favorite" is such a mean thing to ask. Mathematically, it would be "Yes, to Err is Human, So Don't Be One" by Will Wood. Otherwise--maybe "Falling Up" by Will Wood or "Pollyanna" by Green Day.

Favorite instrument: I was never good at playing anything, but for nostalgia reasons--either the ukulele or saxophone.

Aesthetic: Forestcore, mushrooms, woodlands, and like dark witchy punk stuff.

Favorite author: Again with the "favorite"😔 This one is a lot harder for me. My go-to answer when I was younger was always Dean Koontz, but I'm not sure. Matthew Olzmann is probably my favorite contemporary poet, so let's go with that.

Favorite animal noise: Cicada calls, owl sounds (barred owl specifically), cricket chirps, and crow caws. OH and little cat mews🥺

Wearing: A sweatshirt from my favorite cafe and my owl jammie pants

Song stuck in my head: "Use Me Up (Angel's Order)" By PARANOiD DJ

I’ll tag @sanguine-thoughts, @bandgirl365, @aaallliiieee, @night--hawk, @heavywaterorange, @cranboo-rrynuts but don't feel pressured to play if you don't want!! Also if I didn't tag you but we're mutuals and you wanna play, act like I did tag you!

[septembersghost]

Now I realize which songs had subtle musical elements that linked the music in my head- folklore’s The Lakes & Annie - Maybe. As for Rep album - there were a few - but I can’t remember which, maybe the strings? Annie was dramatic- but Pollyanna-ish (lol, funny play, fairytale HEA ending kinda).

you connecting the lakes and maybe has me 🥺 it's a very similar hope of being safe and loved, and away from the harder, meaner parts of the world. the way it's a precious dream. i want to watch wisteria grow right over my bare feet, 'cause i haven't moved in years, and i want you right here. / maybe far away, or maybe real nearby, he may be pouring her coffee, she may be straightening his tie, maybe in a house, all hidden by a hill...

it's two quite different forms of love in context, but thinking about ciwyw and i don't need anything but you, and finally feeling held and loved and accepted. all the drama queens taking swings, all the jokers dressin' up as kings, they fade to nothing when I look at him. / together at last, together forever, we're tying a knot, they never can sever! i don't need sunshine now to turn my skies to blue, i don't need anything but you!...you've made life a song, you've made me the singer...yesterday was plain awful, but that's not now, that's then. (there's an element of tiwwchnt too, here's to my real friends! here's to my baby!) also the theme of tomorrow is all over rep in a way. just thinkin' about tomorrow clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow, 'til there's none. when i'm stuck with a day that's gray and lonely, i just stick out my chin and grin, and say, tomorrow, tomorrow, i love ya, tomorrow, you're only a day away. it's like completely the part of rep where she's just trying to survive and make it through, and keep believing that it's going to get better, and falling in love and finding such clarity and happiness away from the rest of the noise. you must like me for me!!!

[best-character-named-x-poll]

Hi ! I can suggest a few characters :

Pollyanna Whittier (Pollyanna]

Polly Gray (Peaky Blinders)

Polly Plantar (Amphibia)

Polly Pocket (Polly Pocket)

Bran Stark (Game of Thrones / ASOIAF)

Brandon Fayette (Fringe)

Princess Selenia (Arthur and the Invisibles)

Selina (Winx Club)

Lena (Annihilation)

Lena Duchannes (Beautiful Creatures)

Thank you for the suggestions!