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thatfanficstuff · 2 months ago

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Family Be Damned - Alfie Solomons

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Shelby Sister!Reader

Warnings: nothing beyond canon

You loved your family. You did. But they were just so…much.

Your miscellany of siblings loved you just as you loved them in return, but they barely gave you enough room to breathe. Your twin Tommy was the worst of lot, and unfortunately for you, he was also in charge of your family, despite Arthur being the oldest. It was no surprise really that you ran off to make your own life in London not long after the boys returned from the war. You just needed peace. Needed to breathe.

One rainy morning a few months after you’d moved to the city, you were hurrying along the sidewalk, glancing over your shoulder as you went. The innate Shelby paranoia still impossible to shake no matter your distance from home.

“Oi, watch where you’re going!” The low, rich voice brought you out of your head as you snapped your attention forward.

A large man in a heavy coat, his hat casting a shadow across his features, stood before you. His eyes were sharp as they locked on yours. You sucked in a breath as his very presence filled the air around you with an intensity you hadn’t felt from anyone but Tommy. The stranger’s lips curled into a half-smirk as he took you in.

“Apologies,” you said. “Didn’t see you there.”

That smirk only grew as he tipped his hat in a gesture of mock civility. “Alfie Solomons at your service. And might I have the pleasure of your name?”

You introduced yourself and were surprised at the flicker of recognition in his eyes. Of course, the first man who piqued your interest would be familiar with your family.

After a beat, Alfie stepped to the side to allow you to pass. “Lovely to meet you, Miss Shelby.” A gentle hand on your elbow stopped you as you moved past him. “It is Miss, isn’t it?”

A genuine smile curved your lips. “Guess you’ll just have to find out, Mr. Solomons.”

You had gone months after you moved to London without ever seeing Alfie Solomons but after that morning, scarcely a week would go by without the two of you running into one another. Around the fifth random encounter, Alfie asked you to dinner. One date turned into two and so on until scarcely a day went by without you seeing one another.

One quiet afternoon, you were getting ready to go out when a heavy knock sounded on your door. You answered to find Alfie standing on the stoop. You frowned as you pulled him inside. “Are you okay? You’re early and you look exhausted.”

“Oh, Love, you have no idea. Pour me a drink, would you?” He kissed your temple before making his way to your sofa and dropping onto it. He took the glass from you and pulled you down to sit beside him. “We need to talk.”

You nodded but stayed quiet, waiting for him to speak.

“I need your help with something, love.”

“Of course, Alfie. You know I’ll help you however I can.” He’d never been this hesitant to talk with you and you couldn’t help but worry.

Before he could say another word, your front door crashed open. You shot to your feet as your three oldest brothers strode into your home. “Have you lost all the sense God gave you, Thomas Shelby?” you snapped. “Who gave you permission to burst into my home without knockin’? I know you were raised better even if you don’t act like it half the damn time.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Just calm down, alright? We were in town, thought we’d stop by to check on you. Seems like a wise decision.” His gaze moved from you to Alfie as he rose to his feet beside you.

“What are you doing here, Solomons?” Arthur asked in his usual gruff tone, his eyes darting between you and your man.

“Well, I was invited, Shelby. Which is more than I can say for you as she didn’t even know you were in town.” Alfie shifted your position so he was between you and your brothers. As if they’d ever hurt you.

“Thought we’d come to an agreement that you would stay the hell away from our sister,” Tommy said.

Alfie huffed. “I agreed to nothing of the sort.”

You scowled at your brothers, mainly Tommy. “Why do you think this is even up for discussion? It’s none of your business who I spend my time with. I thought me leaving home would have finally gotten that through your thick heads. Guess I was wrong.”

“Out of the entirety of London, you just happened to end up with Solomons? You expect us to believe that’s a coincidence?” Arthur argued, trying to make you see sense.

You put your hands on your hips. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on,” John said with a sneer. “He’s only sleeping with you to get in good with us. Even an idiot could see that.”

Alfie’s body tensed, the insult a step too far for the man that had always treated you with the utmost respect. In a blink, Alfie’s fist connected with John’s jaw. The crack of the impact echoed off the walls. Chaos erupted in its wake as the men leapt at each other, fists flying.

“Alfie!” You yelled his name, terrified the fight would cause his injuries from the war to act up. Terrified your brothers would take it too far as they were wont to do when it came to you and Ada. Terrified that the love of your life was trying to hold his own against three of your brothers who were no stranger to brawling when it suited them.

“Stop it! Enough!” But your words were lost in the noise of their battle. You pushed through the tangle of limbs, trying to pry them apart. John stumbled back, panting as he swiped blood from underneath his nose. Tommy stepped aside when he realized you were in the middle of the fray, one hand reaching to pull you to safety.

But Arthur was lost in the violence, as he often was, and Alfie was doing his best to protect himself without harming you. Arthur swung wide, his fist arcing toward Alfie when your world suddenly spun as an elbow caught your temple. A burst of pain bloomed across your vision. A cry tore from your throat as you stumbled back, warmth trickling down the side of your face.

Tommy grabbed Arthur by the back of his coat and flung him away. “Fucking Stop. Look what you did,” he demanded, gesturing toward you. “Look!” he yelled when Arthur just looked confused.

When your older brother caught sight of your injury his eyes went wide. He moved toward you and you stepped back.

“Stop.” Your voice was low, quiet, hurt evident in your tone. “Just stay away from me.”

Your brothers listened, but Alfie pushed aside his own pain to move to your side. His handkerchief was pressed tightly to your temple and you hissed in pain. You took it from him before you stepped away from him as well.

“Didn’t mean to hurt you, sweetheart. You know that,” Arthur said, a begging tone to his words. “I’d never hurt you.” His fists flexed at his sides as if he didn’t know what to do with them if he wasn’t swinging them at something.

You swayed on your feet, your head filled with pain and irritation at the men in front of you. All four of them. “Get out. All of you. Just go.”

“Come on, love. Let’s get you patched up,” Tommy said, ignoring your demand as he moved toward you. You stepped away from him.

“No. You come into my home acting like a street rat, brawling in my living room without so much as a by your leave. Alfie takes care of me. He loves me and has been nothing but a perfect gentleman the entire time we’ve been seeing each other.” You huffed a breath of irritation as tears stung your eyes. “But you don’t care about that. You didn’t even ask me about him before you’re threatening him with god knows what.”

Tommy said your name, trying to get you to calm down, to listen. He’d never been able to stand your tears, even less so when he was the cause of them.

You shook your head, wincing at the pain the motion brought with it. “Just go. Please. I can’t do this right now.”

A flicker of doubt crossed Tommy’s features before he gave you a nod. “Alright, love. We’ll go. I’m sorry for this, but I’m not sorry for protecting you. I’ll always protect you.”

You snorted in disbelief. “Knock out job you did this time, Tom.”

He pursed his lips but said nothing else before pushing his brothers toward the door as they muttered their own apologies. He stood with the door open, waiting for Alfie to come with the rest of them. Alfie’s heavy gaze moved between you and your brother for a moment before he grabbed his things.

As he passed, he paused long enough to kiss your uninjured temple. “Goodnight, Love.”

With that they were gone and hopefully this whole fiasco was over. Of course, it was just as likely they’d moved the brawl somewhere else and continued pummeling the hell out of each other. You felt like you should care more about that, but you really didn’t. You slumped onto the sofa as tears slipped from your eyes. Why couldn’t they just let you be happy for once?

***

When the knock came shortly after dawn the next morning, you were already prepared for the day. Sleep had been hard to come by as you ran every possible scenario through your head. You figured one of the men in your life would appear first thing today, attempting to make amends. The question was which one. When you opened the door to find your Alfie, relief flooded through you. You weren’t ready to deal with your brothers just yet. If you were lucky, they’d headed home and you’d be spared their presence for a while yet.

“Why are you here, Alfie?” you said in lieu of greeting the contrite looking man on your stoop.

“I had to make sure you were alright.”

You studied him in silence, wondering what he thought of you now that he’d had to deal with your brothers. The Shelbys were a fucked up family, but they were your fucked up family.

“Can I come in?” he asked when you just continued to look at him. “Please, love. Just for a moment.”

“Wasn’t sure you’d open the door,” Alfie admitted as you stepped back to let him in. His rough voice wrapped around you, comforting you as it always did.

“Almost didn’t,” you admitted.

He grasped your chin lightly and turned your head so he could inspect your temple, wincing as he saw the bruising. “I’m sorry about last night, love. I should not have done that.”

You huffed a laugh. “What? Punch my idiot brother when he ran his mouth off like usual?” You shrugged. “It wasn’t the first time John has been punched and it certainly won’t be the last.”

Alfie tsked and stepped away to pace the floor. “I’m not sorry for teaching him to watch his mouth when it comes to you, but I should not have done that in your home. Your sanctuary. I should have dragged his sorry arse outside first.”

You watched him worry for a moment then moved over to sit on the sofa. “You might as well get it over with,” you finally said.

He turned with a frown. “What do you mean, love?”

“Go ahead and tell me we’re done. That it was fun while it lasted but my brothers are just a bit much. That business comes first. That I’m not worth the hassle.” You waved a hand through the air as if it wasn’t important. As if your heart wasn’t breaking. “I’ve heard it all before or some version of it anyway.”

Alfie immediately moved to your side and took your hand in his before kissing the back of it. “Enough of that, now. I’m not going anywhere.”

“What?” The word was little more than a breath.

His smile was warm as he said your name. “I’m not going anywhere, love. Your brothers are not going to scare me off, a fact I made rather clear to them when we left here last night. I love you with every bit of me and I will stand by your side until you tell me to piss off yourself, family be damned.”

It took you a long moment of studying his features, looking for any lie before you threw your arms around his neck and pulled him to you. He immediately returned the hug as he kissed your cheek. When you pulled away, you grinned at him. “I love you, Alfie Solomons and there will be no getting rid of me, I’m afraid. Family be damned.”

#alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfiction

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mandalhoerian · 2 months ago

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the shape of grief.

as far as rafayel is concerned, pygmalion's is a horror story, not a myth. guy decides all women are beneath him, quite literally designs and builds one for himself, and somehow his narcissistic prayers for her to live are granted. what humans define as love and the stories they tell about it are always so revealing of their selfish nature. he only ever gets the appeal of it when he looks at his faceless galatea unable to take shape in his clay-sodden hands, and thinks, what wouldn't i give for you to open your eyes so that i could remember their exact color.

♯ ⸻ pure angst, sfw, 3.7k, read on ao3

note: directly inspired by this post about rafayel trying to sculpt mc/reader but not remembering her face. a bit late to this but i was hit with the procrastination fairies LMAO . i wrote this in a feverish delirium without caring for any canon at all, i apologize if rafayel is ooc !! this work assumes he has his memories of his life as the god of tides, you can think it as an AU if you believe he has no memories of it in the main timeline (yet.) This also takes place before the Addictive Pain anectode (if you like nitpicking and think why he doesn't have a photo of her and that this could have been avoided HAHA)

but without further ado, i hope you enjoy, please let me know what you thought!

The gallery Thomas had to basically bribe him to attend was cold with intention. Whitewashed walls were almost blinding beneath the overhead lights, each fixture angled to make the sculptures glow faintly at the edges like relics, a violin track playing at a volume calibrated for reverent hush with the crowd adjusting its voice accordingly. Somehow, the worst of it was that they'd scented the room with something floral and expensive, and it was clinging so offensively to the back of Rafayel’s throat and wouldn't go away no matter how much he swallowed or sipped on the drink glued to his hand.

The exhibit was titled Breathed to Life: The Divine Muse in Modern Form. He’d read the placard twice, though once would’ve been enough. Wherever he looked, Rafayel couldn't escape from the oozed hauteur for the attempts at capturing a miracle, sculptures of taxidermied epiphanies resting under glass that was tempered with more care in Rafayel's opinion, preserved with just enough light to make the delusion shine. Words like transcendence, revelation, and worship had been worked into the catalog copy, and even the bubbles of champagne he was swirling in the flute glass was more interesting as he idly moved through the space.

He passed a piece labeled Galatea No. IV — a full-bodied woman in bronze, lips parted in awakening, arms half-lifted as if to greet the man who had imagined her, the texture of her skin smoothed to impossible precision, idealized down to the the pores with not a single wrinkle or mole.

One of the critics standing nearby called it sublime. Another said, "She looks so real I almost expect her to blink."

Rafayel said nothing. He kept walking.

A curator caught him between rooms. She was in something backless, dark green, dripping with confidence. “You must feel at home here,” she said, beaming. “Mr. Rafayel, you're the Pygmalion of our time."

He looked past her to one of his own works, mounted near the final archway. A man slouched on a low stone, arms folded, spine curved with a kind of refusal, turned away from something but looking up at it at the same time in criticism, his face gaunt with a pinch of displeasure, half-shielded by a fall of hair. No awe or supplication.

His was the only Pygmalion in the entire exhibit, and no one seemed to realize it. Rafayel had heard some talk about how progressive it was to genderbend Galatea for gay representation, or that this could be the moment Galatea came to life and rejected her maker in a plot twist.

Rafayel had left it up to interpretation if his Pygmalion was looking at Galatea at all. He was staring past her — past all of them, really. Every woman he ever imagined beneath him, too dull or too much or too sharp to matter. A man convinced that the thing he made was a compromise, that he’d been forced to shape it because nothing real had measured up. Neither a lover, nor a muse. A reflection bent to fit him. And maybe resenting how much of himself had ended up in the marble anyway. Nothing of the yearning saint the myth preferred.

The gallery had tried to soften this image of human ugliness within the divine benevolence of Galateas all around, projecting wind through bare branches beside the figure, trying to frame the posture as meditative. They titled the piece Invocation. Rafayel wasn't even asked before they changed the name and he was definitely having a talk about it with Thomas after.

He offered the curator a a dismissive hand. “A flattering comparison. Though I hear his success rate depended entirely on divine intervention.”

She laughed, unsure whether it was flirtation or rebuke. “Still, what an honor. So many of us see ourselves in the myth, don’t we? The ones who love so deeply we bring our muses to life.”

He excused himself with a nod that meant nothing. Her perfume followed him down the corridor.

The flowing hallway was a blur of marble, alabaster, glass, bronze, the women luminous and soft, the men always absent — except in the titles. The Sculptor’s Prayer. In the Hands of the Maker. Love Before Breath. One artist had suspended a torso in resin, veins threaded with copper, the heart cavity open and waiting with the accompanying quote that read: “She lives because I saw her clearly enough.”

Rafayel stopped in front of it. The figure inside was beautiful and fragile, designed to be admired.

He traced the edge of the plinth with one fingertip and thought: She lives because you needed her to. Not because she wanted to.

He left the gallery floor and stepped into the auxiliary corridor lined with donor plaques and black-and-white photographs. One showed a young couple posed beside a sculpture mid-process. The woman’s face was amicable, and the man looked directly into the camera, his hand on the small of her back. The caption read: The original Galatea — forever immortalized by love.

He looked at it until the focus dissolved, and the polished surface of the frame stopped reflecting anything but his own cold expression.

Pygmalion was granted his wish. That alone was enough to make Rafayel despise him.

A man shapes greed with his hands, pulls at the skirts of heavens like a petulant child, and the gods — watching from a distance they rarely breach — clap their hands in glee and say yes.

The myth pretended that mercy could be earned by longing, that a body sculpted by a beholder who sees himself so above others is owed because he called it love. There was no weight in that kind of miracle, only cruelty dressed as grace, a prayer granted just to mock the millions that weren't.

Pygmalion was the epitome of human selfishness, the final limit where want transformed into greed for more than the world could grant. Only his statue, made by his own greedy hands and given life through someone else's breath, was beautiful, because only she embodied perfection to him, not because she was worth desiring but because he desired her. Pygmalion's love didn't reach past his self, it served only to feed himself and satiate him with the sight of his narcissism, like any other creation brought to life by humans for their own benefit; machines built to kill, guns painted gold so they look like art when killing — all just tools made to feed men's hunger for more.

But he would have never cared about Pygmalion if it wasn't for the gods.

Because Rafayel envied those gods, all too human in their vanity, for the power and might they wielded to give so easily like that. Their ability to move mountains without ever being touched by grief, to pull strings that bind worlds without fearing losing something of theirs; it was unfathomable to someone so bound in mortal tethers such as he.

It must feel so freeing, living like that, he thought. Must feel so good, pulling at other lives like they are your playthings. So easy to get lost in those dreams.

The same way he did back then.

The disdain covering Rafayel in a second skin as if he was an oil-soaked seagull was fuel enough to get back to work after that travesty of a gallery.

He’d been developing a concept for a painting — a large-scale composition of a coral-devoured, bleeding cathedral submerged in the sea, its steeples fractured and stretching toward the surface in a gesture that evoked both surrender and yearning, an image meant to convey the contradictions of loss and reverence, a symbolic convergence of decay and devotion. At least that’s what the so-called critics were about to yammer on about. It in fact was the fate of a certain buyer Rafayel was targeting, and the message was meant for his people and his people only.

The draft lived on the sketchbook propped against his raised knees, his legs crossed on the high stool, charcoal gripped tightly in one hand and smudging downwards the length of a pillar as he added textures and shadows to create depth. It was a hasty thing, but effective at illustrating what he envisioned, complete with notes scribbled around the edges, jotted reminders for little details here and there he needed to add to truly flesh out the piece later on. Rafayel was so distracted by a couple more things to add to the sketch that the canvas already prepared beneath the dome skylight felt neglected despite the brushes sitting ready and dipped in paint atop a palette of bruised violet scraped from stormclouds, diluted ultramarine, blue fog, a soft grime green of oxidized copper, rotten ivory, a sliver of warm rust, a cold pink scraped from the underbelly of spent roses, and more.

And yet, when he finally got up to start for good, his gaze drifted elsewhere.

Toward the bust armature.

Rafayel stood beside it, hands in the pockets of his black suit pants, head tilted sideways with one hand playing with it in thought. He loosened the buttons of the white dress shirt he wore after flinging off that horrid tie, sleeves pushed to mid forearms as he dragged a stool and took a seat before the armature, right elbow propped atop the round table to the side holding supplies, chin resting on knuckles, now gazing up at the base of the clay cast while chewing the inside of his cheek.

He had always told himself he would return to it when he was ready, when time had softened the raw, exposed nerve endings of loss, when he could render your likeness with a steady hand instead of a shaking one.

But then months stretched into a year, days faded into seasons which blended together into a period of numbness broken occasionally by an intrusive thought here and there while he focused on Lemuria and Lemuria only, and then — nothing. Until it was easier not to think about it at all. He became absorbed in his mission, dedicated to getting revenge, and avoided thoughts of you, for all intents and purposes, until moments like these where he simply sat in silence looking up at a form without feature to remind him why exactly he did what he did.

Galatea, huh?

He crossed the room with the same distracted focus he used to summon bruyous, hands rummaging through the storage shelves until he found the sealed bag of clay, not expecting it to be heavier than he remembered, dense with neglect. Dumping it unceremoniously beside the armature, he sliced it open, letting the block fall onto the slab table with a dull, resistant thud, finding it cold to the touch, too stiff to yield immediately, so he pressed it between his palms, wetting them, working the material slowly until the top layer lost its brittleness.

He didn't sit right away, hovering over the lump with furrowed brows, kneading it down into something usable, folding in water from the bowl on the side, rotating it as he moved, pushing and turning until the tension bled out. Once softened, he dunked the mass onto the metal plate mounted over the dented and sluggish, old man of a banding wheel. Only then did he sit, lowering himself onto a battered wooden stool, one bare foot braced against the leg of the wheel’s base while the other nudged gently to angle it.

All done. He reached for the wire loop tool without thinking or looking over, fingers already coated in the dull slip of moisture and clay.

The first lines came quick and confident. Indents for the eyes. The line of a nose. Just scaffolding, clearing a space where you might return to him, the only sound in the room the soft grind of his tools and his breathing.

He narrowed the chin, adjusted the brow. Then sat back, frowning.

Too young. This was closer to the child at the beach who had hooked pinkies with him.

He scraped the forehead flat again, thumb dragging clay down like peeling skin. The smoothed face stared up at him in blank reprieve, a temporary erasure before he tried again, less baby fat on the cheeks, sharper cheekbones this time, a more adult curve to the jaw, something more defined around the eyes, though he wasn’t sure what. A firmer mouth, perhaps. A stronger line. He reworked the nose — it ended up being too straight the first time and he chided himself for the mistake, then he decided it was too narrow, crooked it just slightly at the bridge, something he'd sworn felt right.

It wasn't long before the moment slipped from his fingers, and all the revisions felt more like mistakes than anything, tilting the whole balance of the face into something uncanny. He could pretend it was nearly familiar, but only in the way dreams pretended to be memory.

With an annoyed click of his tongue, Rafayel tilted the wheel. Leaning in with an emotion-tense strain in his spine, he angled the bust toward the overhead light until the shadows shifted and spilled away from the features he’d laid out like a confession.

He stood up for a burning stretch to contemplate, stepped back, squinted with his head tilted, and stepped forward again.

Was it just him? The angle? The lighting? The fatigue of the gallery distorting everything?

After he sat back down with more determination to get over whatever this slump was that made him get you wrong over and over again, one adjustment in the temple led to a collapse in the jawline, and the later correction to the mouth made the chin too long.

The realization that the eyes looked distant now and he couldn’t tell if it was him failing the depth or the absence of something deeper was particularly worrying. Rafayel had always trusted the process, but this didn’t feel like a detour into arriving at the same destination, the clay was actually resisting him in a non-art block way and it was starting to actually bother him.

He scraped again, set the brow differently, ignoring the thing niggling at him at the back of his head and brushing against some the internal nerve. Was it ever really that shape? Or had he once wanted it to be, and kept telling you about how doing your brows that way would compliment your features better when Algie had sat you down before the vanity in your room to try out some dresses for the ceremony and work on make-up to go along with each one of them?

The clay warped gently beneath his fingers as he tried to trust the sensation, but every stroke seemed to subtract rather than add. The frustration Rafayel hadn't sensed had made its way into his hands like fire following the path of a wick, making the cheekbone dip under the tool, and he had to sit back straighter with a huff from his nose.

His eyes flew all over the features of the bust, the whole incomplete face. Rafayel couldn't even call it yours. One mistake or two could be expected, even pictures could be unflattering. But it was worse than that — he couldn’t figure out where it had gone wrong. The structure was exactly the same, proportions were what he remembered. The surface was close to reality enough to breathe, but the person who would come to life if they did wasn’t you, and he didn't know where he had gone wrong.

Rafayel stared longer. A pressure grew behind his ribs, and it was beginning to feel like trying to hum a melody he hadn’t heard in years. The more he reached for it, the more the silence beneath it yawned open.

He reached up and pressed his palm against the clay, not to shape, just to feel if it might suddenly remember for him.

It didn’t.

This was someone else. Too much of him.

He looked down at his hands, coated in slip and streaked with fine dust, and flexed the fingers slowly as though wondering how long they’d been disobeying him.

He pressed the backs of the base knuckles of his thumbs into the inner corners of his eyes. Into the tear ducts.

Where was the scar you used to trace absently while thinking? He tried to recall the way your mouth moved when you were amused but trying not to smile. Was it one side that curled first? Or both? He had drawn it once, years ago, sketched it from memory with absolute certainty. But when he reached for it now, he found only doubt.

The chair scraped backwards and nearly toppled as he sprang to his feet, crossing to the small cabinet beside the canvas where he kept what little he dared to revisit. He almost flung the drawer halfway through the room when he yanked it open, pulled the first sketchpad he could reach, pages flipping too and frenzied to register until he paused and kept going through them slower to make sense of it.

Eyes, alone. Dozens of them. Glancing sideways, gazing directly, lowered in thought, every single one of them slightly different in expression, none of them quite right. A nose rendered in three-quarter view with a soft crease that might have been tension. The arch of a brow, mid-expression — concern, maybe? Hair texture studies in every style you wore it that he remembers. A mouth caught in a smile with no cause. Hands more frequently than anything else — folded gently, held in motion, reaching out. The gesture of a wrist mid-turn, the curve of a knuckle mid-thought. A sketch of a nape that vanished into the shadows of the page’s lower edge.

None of them carried your name. But they were you. Bits of you. Shards. And every one of them had been committed to the page when he hadn’t even meant to — absentminded, between tasks, in the margins of other projects. A fragmented archive of heartbreak he’d been too cowardly to complete. As if assembling you would demand an answer to where you had gone, as if seeing it finished would require confronting what it meant for him to have stayed, inviting something too vast and unhealed to fit back inside him without breaking something else a lie in full.

Rafayel had underestimated the sheer amount of notebooks he'd gone through for years now, like paper towels one would wipe away their tears with. The grudges he'd immortalized left to collect dust and avoided religiously.

He could only look through a draft of your eyes and hold on to the sketchbook for dear life when his vision blurred and something trickled down his cheek. One by one, the tears solidified into pearls, striking the floor and rolling away into obscurity among the chaos of his studio.

Dropped right into the throes of a realization far bigger than he could accept.

Like a dream that slipped away upon waking, your face had receded to the place where Lemuria had sunk — unable to be grasped fully or played back clearly unless he called them forth, the rest reduced to snippets and gestures instead, images that flickered through his mind like slides projected on a screen, ephemeral and fading faster the harder he fought to keep hold of them. What remained was abstraction — softness that used to be hair, the dimple of an incisor tooth, a tilt of the mouth that belonged to laughter. Those fragments still possessed color. What they lacked were definitions that would allow him to shape the clay in your image.

He went through more sketchbooks until the last of it joined the pile around him and he was left standing motionless in the wreckage of graphite and paper spilling open across the floor like overturned reliquaries, pages fluttering mockingly gentle under the breeze nudging through the half-cracked windows, reflecting back a half-you, or an almost-you. He stared at them for a long time without moving, eyes dragging from shape to shape, as if willing one to speak with your voice.

What answered was a notification pinging in his pocket, a sound so mundane amid the shambles of his misery. He pulled his phone out in a detached daze, swiping at it with no thought.

Thomas: Pygmalion and Galatea gallery photos are up on their page! Your attendance was well publicized and people are talking about your piece, so I expect requests for interviews soon. Just letting you know 😃

His knees gave out before the grief did, he caught the armrest at the very last possible second, and slid down the length of the sofa's side.

She lives because I saw her clearly enough. Those words barricaded his mind like blood rushing to fill a bruise.

Rafayel was a creature built from ripples, shaped by a lineage of memory so ancient it existed without written record, a primordial awareness of past pains and future sufferings alike, generations upon generations worth of invisible scar tissues patching him up like a rag doll. Cities had fallen and crumbled behind him, yet he could name their street corners and the songs sung during their funerals.

So why — how — had you slipped from him this way?

The thought unspooled inside him slowly, a wet thread tugged from a wound so raw that Rafayel didn’t dare touch it. He had thought, in some arrogant, buried part of him, that if he ever tried, truly allowed himself to miss you more than he mourned his people, and stopped tormenting himself by creating puzzle pieces of you out of scraps in his refusal to obtain a photo of you living your new life, he would be able to rebuild you perfectly. Even the gods who breathed life into Galatea would turn green with envy.

His gaze crawled back to the Frankenstein's monster of a bust, all unrelated bits and pieces that had looked like you when isolated but made no sense when he put them together, taking the shape of grief itself.

She lives because I saw her clearly enough.

He tossed the phone aside without giving Thomas an answer, threw his head back to lean on the lip of the couch, and covered his face with a forearm.

And at last, bitterly, he realized he was no different than Pygmalion: longing for the memory of a woman to etch itself into life.

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wastingmylifesecondatatime · 3 months ago

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Thomas Shelby Masterlist - One Shots/Drabbles

Updated: May 06th, 2025 🔞 = mature Other masterlists: mother masterlist (2019-2024), mother masterlist (2025)

NEW ADDITIONS:

A Symbol Of Love by @garrison-girl-08 (added: May 06th, 2025)

↳ "Standing in your main bathroom of the apartment, you wiped a bead of sweat from your forehead."

36 Minutes by @acewritesfics (added: Apr 4th, 2025)

↳ "Not caring that she's in one of the fanciest restaurants in London, Y/N has her elbows on the table, her chin resting on a closed first while her other hand swirls the wine in her glass around before she takes a sip."

Aces by @queers-gambit (added: Apr 4th, 2025)

↳ "During a terrible storm, you're invited to stay at your boss' house. years of tip-toeing around one another comes to an end when emotions are finally laid on the table."

After The Storm, The Sun by @call-sign-shark (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "If there was one thing you had never seen since your wedding with the infamous Thomas Shelby it was his smile."

Ain't She Sweet by @look-at-the-soul (added: March 30th, 2025)

↳ "“How was school, Charlie?” You tried to make small talk with Tommy’s son, he had been very quiet, looking out the window."

Birthdays Are Better In Bed by @runnning-outof-time (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "(Y/N) starts her birthday off in the best way possible: in bed with her family."

Don't Touch Me by @calummss (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "You are alone in the dark on your way back to your husband, when a man shows up. Tommy wouldn’t let this slide."

Gone With The Leaves by @awritesthings1 (added: Apr 4th, 2025)

↳ "Despite your happy marriage to Tommy, you feel an undeniable jealousy towards Lizzie. Perhaps a day in the forest will do you some good."

Happy Wife, Happy Life by @evita-shelby (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "Or Tommy gets drunk and assumes his wife is someone else so he sleeps on the floor instead."

I Believe You Dropped Something, Mr Shelby by @acewritesfics (added: Apr 4th, 2025)

↳ "Y/N leaves her new flat and begins the walk to a pub she overheard a few men discussing, determining she needed to go out for a few hours."

If Speaking Is Silver, Then Listening Is Gold by @queers-gambit (added: March 30th, 2025)

↳ "You require a bit of reprieve after the week you had, and Tommy's a gentleman."

Little You-s and I-s by @multific (added: March 30th, 2025)

↳ "You and Tommy deal with the changes that come with your pregnancy."

Lost And Lucky by @holacia3 (added: Apr 4th, 2025)

↳ "A sunny day at the zoo leads to an unexpected introduction with two brothers."

Me Time by @garrison-girl-08 (added: March 30th, 2025)

↳ "Flicking through your many dresses, you bit your lip."

Mr Thief Shelby by @misstress-riddle (added: Apr 4th, 2025)

↳ ""Sweetheart, are you ready?" [name]'s voice rang throughout the house as she finished placing her coat over her outfit, rummaging through her purse to see if she had enough money to do her shopping shortly after."

My Favorite Story by @runnning-outof-time (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "Tommy finds himself spending time in his office for other reasons once he finds out (Y/N)'s interest in the room."

No One But You by @runnning-outof-time (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "Tommy assures (Y/N) that she’s the only woman he wants after two women from his past reappear in his life."

No Negotiations by @fallatyourfeet (added: Apr 26th, 2025)

↳ "Tommy thought he had been very careful keeping his relationship with YN a secret, but no, his number one enemy had discovered you. And these things rarely playout well in the world of the Peaky Blinders."

🔞 Revenge by @hllywdwhre (added: Apr 19th, 2025)

↳ "Reader takes personal offense over Sabini’s attack on Tommy."

Runaway by @princessofmarvel (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "Thomas has made a deal with a man to help his business. Thomas’s only condition? To marry the man's daughter. Except she doesn’t want to marry him."

Safe And Sound by @misstress-riddle (added: Apr 4th, 2025)

↳ ""Ooh, where are you heading?" you ask Polly who places a hat on top of her head and she sends you a smile as you greet her."

Solace by @garrison-girl-08 (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "You had been in a deep sleep, your whole body relaxed."

Tailored by @peakbys (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "Your little double life starts to unravel when your husband shows up to avenge his father."

The Brother That Always Wins by @runnning-outof-time (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "(Y/N) is oblivious to the fact that three of the most powerful men in Birmingham are interested in her. When it's all said and done though, the brother that always wins, wins."

The Woman In The Painting by @little-diable (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "The reader works as Tommy's maid, she knows all about Arrow House, even about those souls that are no longer alive but still around."

Three Years by @runnning-outof-time (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "Tommy’s attempts to reconnect with (Y/N) don’t go as he hoped they would."

🔞 Treat Me Wrong by @lovelybucky1 (added: March 29th, 2025)

↳ "“I think we should break up,” you say."

#smut #angst #fluff #masterlist #fic rec #imagine #x reader #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby smut #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby x oc #thomas shelby x imagine #thomas shelby x y/n #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x y/n

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rafetopia · 1 year ago

Text

𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐨 𝐮𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭

-𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧

pairing: rafe cameron x fem!kook!reader

genre: smut & angst -> 18+!!

words: ~3k

warnings: dom!rafe & subby reader, prison sex, “public” sex in a sense you can be possibly watched and heard, (slight) daddy kink, (sexual) choking, hair pulling, blackmailing, bribery, mentions of an affair (not r & r), fingering, slight handjob, mentions of violence and tiny teeny bit of soft!rafe

summary: you visit your fiancé in jail after his arrest

note: i want to say big thank you to @rafesthroatbaby for giving me this wonderful idea (i really hope i did it justice) and to @rvfecamerons for beta reading and helping me improving this piece!!! love you guys to pieces!!

The moment you walked through the doors of the Kildare's Detention Center, you had all eyes on you. The way your cute little summer dress hugged your curves and emphasized your tits, combined with the pastel pink heels and the way you were carrying yourself, was just impossible for anyone to miss. You pulled out your phone and opened your camera, using it as a mirror to apply your lipstick. When your gaze met one of the officers, you gave him a genuine but exaggerated smile, before making your way over to him, making sure to swing your hips a little bit more than usual.

“Good afternoon, officer.” You smirked. “I’m here to see Rafe Cameron.”

“Mr. Cameron isn’t allowed any visitors. Have a nice day.” He bluntly spoke, not interested in any further interaction.

“Oh, but he sure is.” You smiled innocently, before leaning over the counter until you were really close to the man in front of you. “And you’re gonna let me see him.”

“And why is that?”

You smiled devilishly, as leaned towards the man, now only inches away from his face. “Because I’m sure you know who my family is and that I am capable of shredding every single one of you and your corrupt and very much incompetent colleagues to pieces if you don’t grant me that teeny tiny request to see my man..” You paused, “Starting with you and the little affair you have been going on with the mayor's wife.”

His expression shifted as he listened to your threads, knowing that you were indeed serious. You saw how he was fighting with his thoughts and he knew this was bad but he couldn’t risk you exposing the entire department and especially not his affair.

“Fine.” He mumbled as he looked from left to right, making sure that nobody was listening in. “Wait here.”

He came back around five minutes later and guided you towards what you assumed to be the room, where your fiancé was waiting. He was about to open the door when you stopped him.

“See, Officer Wilson, my man and I didn’t have a lot of privacy recently… so I need you to make sure that we will have that.”

“Absolutely not.”

You gave him a disappointed look before reaching into your bag once again. You pulled out a 100-dollar bill and stuffed it into his pocket, before leaning towards his ear. “See, if you would be so kind and look away…might even let you watch.” You smirked, causing him to turn bright red from embarrassment. “Keys?” You smiled, as you opened your hand. He reached onto his collar, removed one single key, and handed it to you. “See, wasn’t so hard, now was it?” You grinned.

You could tell Officer Wilson was beyond pissed that he got screwed by someone as young as you, a female to make it worse but that didn’t matter to you. You got what you wanted.

….

“Hello, baby.” You said the second he had closed the door behind you.

“(Y/N).” He chuckled softly. You were still standing next to the door, but you could see the tears building up in his eyes.

Your heart arched at the way he was looking at you, with teary eyes, tousled hair, and a bruised-up face. You were there when Officer Thomas buried his fist in your fiancé’s face, everyone was able to hear your screams and pleads for him to stop. Deputy Plumb had to physically hold you back and stop you from going full-blown crazy on her colleague, which resulted in you throwing violent threats at the whole police force that was there at that moment. Plumb even wanted to lock you into a cell until you calmed down but Shoupe warned her of the aftermath that would have been your father if she had taken action on her plan.

You took the seat in front of him and immediately held out your hands, for him to hold them. His hands were cuffed together with a light violet and blue line around his wrists, where the metal clung to his skin. You immediately went for the key in your fist and tried to open it.

“How did you convince them to let you in? Alone to give you the key?” He asked surprised but deep down he knew he shouldn’t be. He knew how convincing and resourceful you were, it was one of the many things he loved about you.

“You know I have my ways.” You smirked at the satisfying click of the cuffs. The second his hands were free, you took them into yours and softly caressed his bruised skin. They had them way too tight and you were pretty sure they knew that.

“You do.” He chuckled. “I miss you.”

“I’m here now.” You whispered softly, trying to suppress the tear that was building up in your eye.

You wanted to say that you wouldn’t leave him again but you both knew that would’ve been a lie. The way he held on to your hands was enough for you to jump up, walk around the table, and climb onto his lap, where you gently pressed his head onto your chest.

“What are you doing?” He whispered, “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble.”

“I won’t, I promise.” You smiled, “I made sure of that. Now come here.”

He leaned his head back onto your chest and buried his face into your dress. It didn’t take long until you felt his tears through the thin fabric of your dress, followed by quiet sobs leaving his mouth. It was only with you, that he would ever let himself go like that but he hated it, he hated every single second of it. He knew how much it broke you to be apart from him and he hated to be the cause of your suffering. He never wanted it to go this way, he never wanted anyone to get hurt but most of all, he never wanted for you to get hurt.

After a few minutes, he quickly got himself back together and looked into your eyes. They were soft and kind but had an evil spark in them, which was the perfect reflection of your personality. He saw how much you tried to stay strong for him, he saw how much you fought back your tears and he couldn’t have that. He needed to be the strong one, the one who protected you and was there when you needed him, not the other way around. But at this moment, he couldn’t and you knew that. His tears had dried by now, just as quickly as you were used to it with Rafe.

You leaned in for a kiss, which started out soft and gentle but the more you both realized how you had missed each other's lips, the more passionate and hungry it became. Your hand was resting on his chest, as his hands were wandering down your back to your ass until they slipped under your dress. You moaned at the feeling of his fingers digging into your skin, a feeling that you had missed so much. You felt his hardened bulge between your legs, begging for your touch. You let your hand slide into his pants, the thin material being easy to be pushed aside, and started caressing him. He moaned out quietly at the feeling of your fingers dancing around his tip, trying to not get the attention of the officers. Normally he wouldn't give a single fuck about anyone hearing the two of you, but in a setting like this, he would rather die than have you pulled away from him.

He pushed away the material of your barely existing thong, and slid inside two of his fingers, causing you to let out a loud moan. His other hand quickly flew towards your mouth, making you unable to make another sound.

“Quiet princess, you don’t want them to hear us, right?” He breathed into your ear.

You gave him a quick nod, a silent promise for you to try and stay quiet. He started moving his fingers again as you slid your hand up and down his shaft, first slowly but then faster and faster, until it became hard for him to stay quiet. He let out another moan and this time it was you, who put her hand on his lips.

“Seriously?” You whispered, one eyebrow raised.

He then pulled out his fingers and licked them clean, leaving a satisfied grin on his face. “You have no idea how much I missed your taste on my lips, baby.”

You smirked, before hopping onto the table behind you. The metal was cold on your bare skin, sending goosebumps all over your skin. “I would love to feel your tongue on me baby but…” You started, “But I need to feel you inside of me because…” You stopped, looking up into your fiancé's eyes.

“But you don’t know when we will be able to do this again.” He finished, a tone of sadness washing over his voice. “I don’t want to think about that right now, princess.” He smiled, before reaching into his pants and pulling out his dick. “I love you.” He whispered against her lips, before aligning himself with your entrance.

“Rafe?”

“Yeah?”

“I need you to promise me something.”

“Everything you want, baby.”

“I want you to know that I will do everything in my power to get you out of this. That I will never give up on you. I want you to know that we will be able to do this again, but right now, I really need you fuck me like we won’t.” You paused, “I need you to fuck me like it’s gonna be the last thing you will ever do. Can you do that for me?”

“Trust me, princess, once I’m done with you, you will barely be able to walk out of here, leaving my DNA all over the floor of this building.”

Before you could even respond, he had his hand on your neck and pushed himself into you. You wanted to moan out at the feeling but his grip around your throat tightened so much, it was hard for you to get any sounds out. He started off slow and gentle but quickly became faster, as he thrusted into you. He clashed his lips onto yours, as your fingers dug into his shoulders. you didn’t realize it, but your hands moved up to his neck where your nails dug deep into his skin. He felt so good inside of you and since you weren’t allowed to make any noise, your energy just had to go somewhere.

“Just… just like that baby.” You whispered, trying so hard to keep your voice down.

He smirked and thrust into you even harder. With every thrust, he hit that sweet spot of you and you could already sense that familiar feeling in your stomach building up. He could feel your walls tighten around his cock, so he pulled out, causing you to protest.

“Why…” You pouted, disappointment written all over your face.

“Turn around.” He demanded, without giving you any reasoning.

You did as told, jumped from the table, and turned around. With a swift motion, Rafe had buried himself in your walls once again, without any warning. Your nails dug into the cold metal of the table, and you were sure if you applied just a little bit more pressure, they’d break.

Your face was directed towards the door and windows now, making everyone who chose to look inside able to look directly into your face. The danger of being walked in by an entire police force, combined with the deep and ruthless thrusts of Rafe’s hips, was enough to almost send you over the edge. Your gaze was fixated on the window, where you could see the back of Officer Wilson’s head, who was standing guard just like you told him to.

“Harder please!” You moaned out louder than intended.

Your lack of quietness seemed to have caught the attention of the guard, who had now turned around and granted himself a peak through the glass. His eyes met yours and you couldn’t help but smirk, as you let your head fall back into Rafe’s neck. He also seemed to have noticed what was going on and he would’ve lied if he said it didn’t turn him on even more. The grin on his face was enough for the now embarrassed Officer to turn around again, desperately trying to hide the blush on his face.

“I thought, I told you to stay quiet…fucking brat…” He growled, as he took a chunk of your hair and pulled your head back, so he could reach your ear more easily. “You’re gonna be the death of both of us I swear.”

You were sure he saw how you were smirking at the officer from the reflection of the windows, but that only made it more fun. You loved doing shit like this and he knew that. But you also knew how good he was at punishing you and most definitely could not risk him leaving you dry, not tonight.

“Mh sorry.” You cried out.

“What was that?”

“Sorry, daddy.” You repeated, “Gonna be good now, promise.”.

“That’s what I thought.” He smirked, before ripping off your thong. “Just to be sure.” He added as he stuffed the piece of fabric into your mouth.

You could taste yourself on your thong and if you were being honest, you really were fucking delicious. His thrusts became harder and harder now, hitting your G-spot every time he pounded into you. But it wouldn’t be Rafe Cameron if he wouldn’t add at least one finger to the party, in order to send you completely over the edge. He placed his index finger on your clit and started massaging it, while his other hand started to taunt your ass relentlessly.

“Being such a good girl for daddy, doing such a good job.” He cooed into your ear, but you were barely able to hear his words, as your mind had drifted far, far away. “Taking me so perfectly.” He added as he thrust himself even deeper into you, with more force and less mercy.

He knew it was loud but he had long stopped caring. All his sorrows had left his body, the second he could feel your walls around him. His soul might have been broken, as he got ripped off every ounce of control he had over himself and his surroundings, but when he was inside of you, it was like you handed it all right back to him. At this moment, his hand now back on your hip and his other on your clit, he had all the control over not just your body, but also over his own, as he thrust into you deeper and deeper. The sound of his skin slapping against yours filled the room and there was no doubt that Officer Wilson heard it too.

The harder and faster he went, the harder he felt not just your walls tighten around him, but also his dick twitching beneath them. He knew the both of you were close so he sped up his pace once again, ramming himself into you with every ounce of strength he had left inside him. Your vision turned blurry as you felt tears stream down your face and your release rushing over your body like a bomb exploding inside of you. Rafe came close behind, shooting his load deep inside of you.

He stayed like that for a second, his arm wrapped around you, as he rested his head on the back of your shoulder. As the two of you tried to catch your breath, reality swamped over your mind like a hurricane. You pulled your thong out of your mouth and wiped away the black tears that had stained the table beneath you. You then set yourself up and turned around, where you found Rafe fixing up his pants. The moment his eyes met yours, you saw the pain that he had been surprising for the last seven minutes and it tore your heart apart once again.

He softly wiped away the tears that had stained your beautiful face, but he wasn’t able to get it all. He knew the tears weren’t coming from a sad place originally, but he also knew that these very much could’ve been the tears you had been suppressing since the moment you stepped foot into the room.

“Hey.” He said softly, as he wrapped his hands around your face, forcing you to look at him. “I love you.”

“I love you.” You smiled, as you took his hand in yours. “Don’t worry baby, I’m gonna get you out of here. I promise.” You added before getting interrupted by a loud knock on the door.

You rolled your eyes at the sign, making the boy in front of you laugh. “It’s okay.” He whispered, “Don’t worry about me. I’m gonna be fine.” He paused, “All I need is for you to be happy.”

“Baby hell is gonna freeze over before I’m letting you rot in this cell. Besides, how dare you, believe that I could ever be happy without you by my side.”

He smiled softly, before placing a soft kiss on your lips. He then took the handcuffs from the table and handed them over to you. “Rather have you do it than any of those assholes.”

“Kinky.” You chuckled, before placing them around his wrist. You made sure to make them loose enough, so he would still be able to move them around, without his wrists bruising up. “Here, keep this, you’re gonna need it.” You said as you got the ripped piece of fabric, that used to be your underwear and stuffed it into his pants, careful so it wouldn't be visible.” Rafe grinned at that gesture of you, knowing this, and the memory of you and the past few minutes would be the one thing keeping him sane for what was about to come.

“Till death do us part?”

“Till death do us part.”

add yourself to my tag list here

please note that i was stupid and deleted my old tag list from my old blog (dreamingwithrafe) so if you already added yourself to that one and you wanna get tagged again, please fill out my new form 🥺🤍

#jas writes ❥#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x reader #outer banks fanfiction #outer banks #outer banks smut #dom!rafe cameron x sub!reader

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mypoisonedvine · 1 year ago

Note

"I think we're on a first name basis by now." with tommy shelby

kinda went crazy with this one idk what happened lmao

warnings: dubcon smut (18+ only), dark!tommy, innocent/virgin reader, very rough sex, implied age gap, possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, touch of misogyny kink, degradation, a little spanking

100 random prompts - send me a number and a character!

You only waited tables a few nights a week, just to make ends meet. You spent more time in the kitchen, actually, than you did in the part of the pub where the rowdy men would gather and drink and start trouble.

So, it was probably just your luck that whenever you were out there among them, Thomas Shelby was, too.

His eyes were always on you-- or it felt like that, sometimes. You looked at him, too: you couldn't help it, after all you'd heard. You couldn't really believe those things were true, that he was really that dangerous... he had kind eyes, you thought, and a nice smile. He looked strong, you couldn't deny that, nor could you deny the strange feelings you felt when his eyes drifted over your body while you wiped down tables and chairs. Your thighs seemed to press together each time he did that...

You almost hoped he wouldn't come tonight. As much as you had a growing interest in him, you always had this guilty feeling inside you after you got home on the nights you saw him. Maybe because, on some level, you knew what it was you felt when he looked at you.

No, he wasn't there when you arrived to the pub-- and you sighed with relief-- but your boss appeared rather suddenly when you stepped inside.

"Need you to go to the back room tonight," he told you firmly.

"Huh? Why?" you wondered.

"Just wait back there," he said simply, giving you no explanation, before walking away to deal with something else. Unsure what he could mean but not wanting to question it further, you went back through the kitchen to the back room of the pub.

It was small, and dark-- you flipped on the lamp, but it wasn't much to look at. A small couch, and a chair and desk, with various papers and letters strewn about. This was where the owner kept track of his records, managed shipments and costs-- probably where he kept track of your hours and compensation as well. You rocked back on your heels for a second before deciding to sit in the chair as you waited.

You couldn't say how long it was, probably only a few minutes, before the door opened and you stood up instinctively; you eyes widened when you saw who was stepping in with you.

"Oh, Mr. Shelby," you greeted nervously, "er-- what are you doing here?"

"I called ahead," he explained simply, shutting the door behind himself, "I told the owner that I wanted to see you."

You chewed your lip nervously. "Oh?"

"Yes," he nodded, approaching you but staying a healthy distance-- for now.

"Well... you can see me almost any night," you noticed.

"But I wanted to see you alone," he clarified.

"Does the boss mind? He must be working all the tables by himself," you wondered aloud.

"He'll be just fine," Tommy assured, "he's being compensated for his time."

Your stomach turned a bit when you realized Tommy had paid your boss to keep you back here for him. You knew then what he wanted, but you were still in denial about what was going to happen here.

He stepped up to you, almost too close, but you didn't have the bravery to take a step back.

He kissed you. It was far too sudden, far too forward-- but his hand slipped around the back of your neck and you felt entirely trapped. You did your best to kiss him back, but you weren't entirely sure how to do it well; you got the sense that things wouldn't turn out well for you if you disappointed him somehow. As he kissed you harder, his tongue slipping into your mouth, you whimpered and pushed him back by his shoulders.

It was an automatic response, but your heart pounded with nervousness as you looked up at him for his reaction: but he seemed oddly calm, not offended by your hesitance. "I-I'm sorry," you mumbled, "you just surprised me..."

"Didn't you want me to kiss you?" he asked.

And, well, that was sort of a complicated question. You had to admit, you'd imagined it before. But something about this felt wrong, even if you found yourself craving more. You'd never felt a heat between your legs quite like this one...

"You thought about more than that, didn't you?" he presumed with a raised brow, and you bit your lip and looked away.

"E-erm, well, I--" you stammered, but that was apparently answer enough for him.

He laughed a little, moving in even closer to you. "You're such a sweet girl," he cooed gently, running his hand along your waist as you shivered. "And pretty, too-- I know all the boys are lookin' at you. But you don't look at the boys, do you?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but failed completely when his fingers nimbly began to untie your apron.

"You just look at me," he continued, his voice getting a bit deeper as he finished.

"M-Mr. Shelby, I--" you started to weakly protest.

"I think we're on a first name basis by now," he said through a smirk.

"Tommy..." you mumbled shakily. "I've... I've never, erm, known a man before..."

He smiled even wider, the sharpness of his teeth seeming predatory. "Would you like to?" he asked, making your throat a little dry.

"W-well, I always thought I'd... I'd wait until I was married."

"Not all of us have that sort of patience," he explained, suddenly pulling your body flush against his and latching his lips onto your neck. You shuddered and whined, wrapping your arms around his neck since you weren't sure what else to do with them; whenever his tongue danced along your pulse, it sent a shock through your whole body and you whimpered with need.

You barely noticed he was guiding you back, not until he broke away and tossed you down onto the sofa suddenly, making you gasp.

You thought he would lay down on top of you, set himself between your legs-- but instead he roughly turned you around, shoving your face down into the old sofa at the same time that his other hand forced your hips up towards his.

You hadn't even had a chance to think-- he was already shoving your skirts up, yanking your undergarments out of the way, leaving you bare to the drafty air of the room. "T-Tommy, wait," you mumbled weakly, but he either didn't hear you or didn't care. He only growled lowly as he examined you; you both knew, then, how wet you'd become.

"Fuckin' dripping," he observed, seemingly to himself, though you heard him loud and clear as you shut your eyes tight.

He let go of your hips a second later and you heard him taking off his suspenders, but you couldn't look back at him with that other hand still tangled in your hair.

You heard him pushing his trousers down; you heard him spit into his hand and rub it over himself. You still couldn't quite process that this was all happening to you. What happened to that kind-looking man in the pub who would make your heart flutter by brushing his hand over yours? He didn't seem to have that sense of discretion now...

You gasped just from him pressing the tip up to your opening-- you couldn't even describe how you reacted when he actually shoved it in. (Yes, it took a real shove, because you were anything but prepared to take something inside you, let alone something like that.)

"O-oh, no-- oh, it hurts," you whimpered, wincing at the burning sting, holding on tighter to the cushion under you. "Tommy! Y-you're hurting me!"

"Shh, shh," he soothed sharply, groaning as he went deeper inside you, holding on tight to your waist again-- conveniently keeping your back from arching up the wrong way.

You let out a shuddering sigh and tried to relax when he slowed down. "I-is it done?" you asked nervously.

He laughed darkly. "No, sweetie, it's not even halfway in you."

He went a bit deeper again and you choked on a sob. "P-please, don't put in anymore," you begged.

"It only hurts at first," he assured, "then it feels good. It's what it's made for, love. What'd you think was supposed to go up there?"

He was joking, but it still made you feel dumb and shy, and your face heated up even more.

"I'll put the rest in now-- no cryin' this time, be good," he warned. Sliding deeper with one long stroke, until the tip of him reached so deep your stomach started to hurt, he let out a long sigh of satisfaction. "Fuck, nice and warm."

You were thankful he didn't start to move right away, because you were breathing heavy and fast like it was the greatest physical challenge of your life... it probably was, honestly. How could anything like that fit inside you? It felt like he was creating something entirely new inside you-- he certainly made you feel things you'd never felt before.

He started to move, slow and methodical at first, sighing as he savored the feeling of you. You shivered, toes curling in your shoes, trying to stay still and not tense up inside. It was hard to relax, though, in a situation like this... with a man like him.

Each thrust was a little faster than the last; he never quite set a reliable pace, just getting used to the feeling of you.

"So fuckin' tight," he praised deeply, digging his fingers harder into your skin. "The way this cunt grips me... she never wants me to leave, I bet."

He guided you to stay partially upright again, and you put your arms out under yourself to try to stay on your hands and knees. His fingers traced up your back through the dress, before holding onto your shoulder for leverage as he began to really fuck you. Hard. Still slow, but it seemed like he was only going that slow so he could put all his energy into each deep thrust.

You yelped with every slam forward, legs shaking constantly, the sound of his skin hitting yours making you feel a bit... filthy. All of this felt filthy. You felt cheap and disgusting and used. So why in God's name was it beginning to feel good?

He noticed the change right away; he couldn't have felt the difference that you did, the way the sharp pain melted into a pleasant, numbing stretch-- but he could hear it, your moans getting deeper and more confident and needier.

"See? Fuck, knew you were just a little whore," he growled in your ear as he leaned down over you, making you shut your eyes and moan lowly. "Knew you were a cockhungry little cunt like the rest of 'em. You can act innocent all you want, sweetie, but you wanted me to ruin you so badly..."

He was fucking you faster, a little more eagerly, trying to see how hard he could push you. You dropped your head limply but he put a hand on your forehead and pulled it back up, keeping you against his shoulder as he fucked you senseless.

"It's so fuckin' deep in you now, love," he growled. "Can't believe you made it this long without somebody breakin' in this cunt. And now it's mine, huh? Property of Tommy fuckin' Shelby."

You whined, losing the last bit of strength in your arms as your face fell down into the sofa's cushions again. He didn't seem to mind this time, taking a hold of your hips and staying upright as he set a brutal place of slamming thrusts into you. You cried some, but you weren't sure if it was from the pain or pleasure or shame or joy of it all.

"Nobody else s'gonna ever touch you," he promised roughly, delivering a harsh smack to your ass for no good reason except to make you jump. "Nobody else will ever get inside this pretty cunt but me."

You whined, but the way you clenched around him gave away how you really felt about the idea.

"You want me to own you, huh?" he noticed with a dark laugh. "You want to belong to me. Be my little whore, my dumb fucktoy--"

"Oh, Tommy," you whimpered, not sure if you loved or hated him talking like that. It made you feel a little awful, but you were so wet that it was running down your thighs now...

"You'll let me come and fuck you whenever I like," he decided-- or maybe he was explaining it all to you, the new rules of your life as his belonging. "You'll give me whatever I want. And you'll fuckin' thank me when I'm done."

You whined loudly.

"Yes?"

You tried to nod, but he grabbed your hair.

"Say it, whore," he demanded.

"Yes! Yes," you sobbed, "I'll be yours, Tommy."

"Good," he purred. "Hold on tighter to the cushion now, love-- I'm not gonna be gentle with ya anymore."

You hadn't realized that everything up until now was what he considered gentle... and your heart twisted with a sickly pleasurable fear of what was in store for you from now on.

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

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dyns33 · 3 months ago

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Family's bet

ALFIE IS BACK !!! I need to post one Alfie story per month or I explode or something.

Most of the time, Y/N stayed out of the conflicts between her brothers and her husband.

They didn't happen as often as you'd think, and most of the time they were over ridiculous matters that were resolved as quickly as they arose.

Furthermore, neither the Shelbys nor Alfie had ever asked her to play referee, as if they knew perfectly well what her answer would be, guessing her silent rule of neutrality, or didn't want to put her in such an embarrassing situation.

Only in the rare case where one of the parties dared to do something very serious would Y/N feel compelled to intervene.

If asked, and after a moment of hesitation, she would have admitted that she thought that if one of them decided to make a mistake, it would probably be Alfie. The King of Camden was known for breaking certain pacts when they no longer benefited him, in favor of more interesting partners. Business, nothing personal.

At the same time, these only concerned pacts with disreputable people or those he didn't like, who themselves hadn't always followed the terms of the contract, trying to double-cross him in one way or another.

Alfie Solomons didn't necessarily like the Peaky Blinders very much, they had a complicated history, but they were family now. He'd have to have a good reason to stab them in the back again.

To a more objective observer, it was more likely that it would be a Shelby who made a mistake. Arthur, John or Finn, given their temperaments. It was hard to say for the others, who covered themselves with a supposed veil of honesty and honor.

So it was with determination and anger in her heart that Y/N went to her brother Tommy's office to have a talk when she learned what he had done.

"Can you explain this to me, Thomas ?"

"Hello, little sister," he said, remaining seated and continuing to smoke calmly.

"Can you explain to me why several of the "bread" warehouses in South London burned down, and why I'm told your men were seen in the area just before the fires when they had no business being there ? And why, shortly afterward, you signed a sale with several of Alfie's customers, adding that you were sorry that their "bread" delivery wouldn't be possible this month ?"

"I have good reasons."

"I'm going to need more than that."

"Don't you trust me ?"

"Of course, that's not the question. Answer me."

"If you trust me, knowing I have good reasons should be enough for you."

After several years of marriage, Y/N had learned to take a deep breath during a conversation that seemed to be going nowhere, knowing full well that, with the men in her circle, shouting was pointless.

This was even more true with Tommy. Unflappable, vicious as a snake, he always managed to gain the upper hand, seizing the slightest weakness to turn it against his enemies and get what he wanted.

Without any qualms, he used the same method with his family, managing to make them feel guilty or stupid if they didn't go his way. It didn't work with everyone. Especially the women. Polly, Ada, and Y/N knew him all too well.

It wouldn't work this time.

"You know people are talking, right ? They're wondering what's going on. More importantly, they're wondering if this calls Alfie's authority into question. You publicly humiliated him. I haven't seen him yet, but I imagine he was surprised by the news and will want a good explanation so he doesn't wring your neck."

"Mr. Solomons is intelligent, he'll listen to me. And he'll never resort to violence, he knows you wouldn't approve."

"Just this once, I might make an exception," Y/N growled, standing proudly before him. "Don't use me in your schemes, Tom. Don't think for a second that this will be enough to protect you. If Alfie senses the slightest possibility of getting revenge with my permission, he won't hesitate."

Still calm, Tommy stared at her for a long time, blowing out the smoke from his cigarette. There were several possible outcomes. The calm before the storm. But Y/N wouldn't tremble, not this time. Not when her husband's honor was at stake, brother or not.

Seeing her determination, Thomas nodded, before flashing a small smile. She even thought she heard him chuckle.

"Tell Alfie he'll get a nice compensation. I'll take care of the rumors."

"I don't care about your compensation, I…"

"Y/N. Trust me. He knows why I did what I did."

Alfie didn't know why Thomas had done what he had done. As furious as she had imagined, he paced around his office, screaming like a madman and threatening the entire world.

He didn't calm down much when he learned that Y/N had gone to see her brother. At least, not before she told him she'd gone to him to reprimand him, and more or less gotten what looked like an apology.

It wasn't like Thomas Shelby to apologize, admit he was wrong, and look for a way to avoid the Wandering Jew's wrath since he didn't have his little sister's protection in this matter.

"… He apologized ?" Alfie repeated suspiciously.

"In Tommy-speak, you could say that. With a nice, annoying smile."

"And he said I knew why he did it ?"

"Did you do something ?" Y/N asked, narrowing her eyes, searching for any sign of nervousness in her husband.

But no. As far as Alfie was concerned, he hadn't done anything that deserved punishment. And if he'd done something, Thomas wouldn't have mentioned compensation, he would have simply taken what was due to him and let him deal with the consequences of his actions. For once, Solomons had nothing to be ashamed of.

He seemed to suddenly have a revelation when he saw Y/N ranting at her idiot brother. He stopped breathing for a moment, his eyes wide, and froze in his seat.

"The bastard."

"What ? Alfie, what ?"

"That dirty little bastard… He thinks he's clever. I'm going to kill him."

"You're not killing anyone until you explain what's going on !"

It turned out Thomas and Alfie had made some kind of bet. Well, not really, they hadn't shaken hands after spitting, and he hadn't discussed what the winner would get or what the loser would give.

But, at a family gathering, Alfie had affirmed that if she had to choose, his wife would always side with her brothers. He wasn't offended by this fact. He understood the importance of family, he admired that loyalty, that love. It was simply an observation on his part.

To this, Tommy had retorted that he was wrong. Of course their sister loved them, and because she loved them, she would kick their asses if they did something horrible for no good reason, especially if it was against him.

Unsurprisingly, this led to an argument, quickly forgotten the next day. At least, by Alfie, Arthur, John, and most of the other players.

Not Thomas.

Clearly, he hadn't appreciated anyone questioning his sister's impartial integrity. Or maybe he just found it amusing to prove Solomons wrong.

Part of his "compensation" was a proof of love, the absolute certainty that his wife would be on his side if anyone wronged him, even her own kin. Too bad it was bound to be accompanied by Tommy's mocking smile every time he saw him from now on.

"You are idiots. I knew I should never deal with your problems."

"I didn't ask you, treacle. You were the one who went to him, instead of coming to cheer me up. That hurts me greatly, by the way. Wicked woman, leaving me alone with my despair to go see her brother."

"Be very careful, Alfred."

"… You're furious with him, not me. Remember, love."

"You two could end up tied if you push your luck. Don't ever bet on me again."

"But I didn't… He was the one who… Yes, love. Sorry, love, I'll shut up now."

Y/N called her brother to give him the same order, which made him laugh, though he accepted her request without the slightest concern, before asking if her husband was okay.

She hung up without answering. Bastard indeed.

#peaky blinders #alfie solomons #alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons imagine #alfie solomons fanfiction

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httpvomitello · 4 months ago

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Could you do a George x Reader where he gets jealous over her spending time with someone else and he gets over protective? I would love that!!

Helloooooo! We love a over protective boyfriend, don't we? Hope you like it ~ ♡

Mr. Jealous *⁠.⁠✧

Summary: George Weasley has never been the jealous type—until he sees you laughing a little too much with Dean Thomas. Convinced that he’s losing his chance with you, George goes full overprotective boyfriend (despite not technically being your boyfriend… yet).

george weasley x f!reader

George Weasley was not jealous.

At least, that’s what he kept been telling himself as he sat in the corner of the Three Broomsticks, arms crossed, jaw clenched, watching you laugh at something Dean Thomas had just said.

Dean bloody Thomas.

And you—his best friend, the girl he’d been half in love with since fourth year—were sitting there, giggling, twirling your hair around your finger, looking at Dean like he was the most interesting person in the world.

George was about to combust.

"Alright, mate, you’re staring," Fred muttered beside him, amusement clear in his voice. "You look like you’re two seconds away from cursing Dean into next week."

"I’m not staring," George grumbled, still watching you. "I’m observing."

Fred snorted. "Right. Observing. Because glaring at him like you’re about to duel for her honor is completely rational."

George ignored him. He was too busy watching Dean lean in way too close, whisper something to you that made you throw your head back in laughter.

That was it. He’d had enough.

Slamming his drink down, George shot up from his seat.

Fred sighed dramatically. "Oh, this should be good."

George marched across the pub, weaving through the crowd until he reached your table. He didn’t even hesitate before dropping into the seat next to you, throwing an arm around your shoulders in a way that was not subtle.

Dean blinked. "Uh—hey, George?"

"Hey, Dean," George said, voice a little too bright, a little too sharp. He turned to you with a grin, squeezing your shoulder. "Fancy seeing you here, love."

You frowned at him. "You knew I was here."

"Did I?" he mused. "Must’ve slipped my mind. So, what are we talking about?"

Dean hesitated, looking between you and George, clearly sensing the tension. "Uh… just telling Y/N about this guy I’m seeing."

George faltered. "Wait. What?"

Dean looked at him, unimpressed. "Yeah... Like, my boyfriend?"

George blinked. "What?"

You smacked a hand against your forehead. "Oh my God, George. He’s literally been dating Seamus for months."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Honestly, I thought everyone knew."

Fred, who had somehow appeared out of nowhere, clapped a hand on George’s shoulder, howling with laughter. "Merlin’s beard, mate. You got jealous over Dean?!"

George’s ears burned red. "I—I didn’t know!"

You sighed, shaking your head. "George Weasley, you absolute idiot."

Dean snorted. "You’re so in love with her, it’s embarrassing."

"Shut up, Dean," George muttered.

You turned to George, a smirk playing on your lips. "So… jealous, were you?"

George groaned. "Can we not talk about this?"

"Absolutely not," Fred said gleefully. "This is the best thing that’s happened all week."

"Alright, alright, laugh it up," George grumbled. Then, clearing his throat, he turned back to you, rubbing the back of his neck. "Er—so, since I made an absolute fool of myself just now… any chance you’d be willing to, uh, go on a date with me?"

You tilted your head, pretending to think. "Hmm… let me check my schedule."

"Y/N," George whined.

You laughed before leaning in and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Of course, you idiot. Took you long enough."

Fred groaned. "You mean we could’ve avoided all of this if he’d just asked sooner?"

Dean sighed, shaking his head. "Heterosexuals, man. So dramatic."

#reader #x reader #y/n #f!reader #george weasly x reader #george weasley x reader #george weasley #hogwarts #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #fred weasley #gay male #plot twist

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leashybebes · 3 months ago

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However— well, is Tommy a reliable narrator to himself? Sure, Eddie basically stopped talking to him, but what about Tommy? Did he also delay replying to the 118 so that the time between messages stretched out? Did he think they were only trying to be nice by keeping in touch with their teammates’ ex (never mind that he was Hen and Howie’s teammate first) and he’d prefer to not have their ‘pity’ and cut them off (again)? Did he cut them off preemptively and doesn’t see it that way because if he did then he’d have to also face the fact that he’s a little messed up? We probably don’t have time for them to delve into all of this on screen but it’s interesting to chew on. For reasons.

(Chim gets a pass for the post-throat slashing time of no contact because he was… let’s say preoccupied.)

oh 100% hang on let me get my coffee

okay, SO. mr unreliable narrator over here, mr enjoy it while it lasts, is never going to be the one with the full picture, because he sets it up that way - intentional or not, i feel like tommy is someone who has his view of the world and his role in it and just quietly, fatalistically makes that happen.

so i can totally see a world where no one from the 118 reaches out, full stop. but, y'know, phones work both ways, thomas. BUT. for tommy, that's buck's family. they're buck's people. (and look, my wife has a much closer relationship with her family than i do, and a much larger circle of friends, and it took me WAY longer than six months to start feeling like they were our people, not her people i got to hang out with through her.)

we know that tommy's a jealous guy, and we also get the sense that he's pretty fatalistic, so if no one reaches out, i can see that landing for him as "well, obviously. they never really wanted me around, of course i was never gonna be part of that" and just exacerbating his envy, but also his sense that that chapter of his life is Over Now. i can see the lack of contact from hen and chim actually not stinging that much (or tommy telling himself it doesn't sting that much, genuinely believing that, my king of unexamined feelings) because they're not friends, right? chim calls him when he needs a favour, but they're not close. he's not on hen's christmas card list (and that's genuinely fine, i mean zero shade to anyone involved here. they were friends by the time he left the 118 but for all we know they were mostly or entirely work friends). so i can see his internal monologue about that, his confirmed belief being 'well, hell, i wasn't enough for them to want around on my own merits before, why would i be now'. (again, this is not shade on hen or chim. phones work both ways and my special little guy is fucked in the head.)

eddie's gotta sting a little more because they were friends, right? actual friends. but if we're taking tommy at face value, then we have to assume he feels some kinda way about being friends with eddie once he and buck are together. i don't think he actually thinks anything is happening/has happened/will happen with buck and eddie, but we do get this delicious hint with that little scoff about eddie's straightness that maybe tommy has experience of that queer classic - losing years of your life being besotted with your ride or die straight bestie (sal!!!! but uh. that's a separate post.).

i lost my thought. wait. okay, so i think one of the fundamental mismatches is that for six months buck was in an x-rated rom-com and tommy was navigating something unbelievably fucking complicated because talking? communicating? who does that when you can just make up a scenario and stick to it like your life depends on it. (worth noting there's no way that scenario ends well for him, but uh, that's why i love him. go listen to settle for me from crazy ex girlfriend lol)

i can ALSO see the other part of what you said. tommy says eddie 'pretty much' or 'basically' (can't remember the wording right now and not in a position to check) stopped talking to him which does leave room for some contact. (it could also be read as a kind of deflection of the ouch of it all but ymmv.) so i can see a world where eddie sends a 'man wtf happened?' message which...tommy's not going to reply to that. he's just not. but changing the subject immediately is too obvious so he has to wait a while to say something innocuous, and it just kind of fizzles out.

whatever happens, whether it was zero contact or intermittent, declining contact, my special little guy, my world champion runner, my sad sad man was 100% thinking 'yeah, that tracks'. we definitely don't have time for the show to delve into that, and honestly it's not really that kind of show so i wouldn't expect it, but rest assured i am C H E W I N G

#bucktommy #911 spoilers #tommy kinard #blorbo of all time #leashy yaps #<- boy does she ever. girl shut up #thinking about tommy kinard hours again #aka i'm awake!

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feasibilities · 5 months ago

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Mrs. Muckraker | Thomas Shelby x Author!Reader ✍︎

✍︎ Synopsis: Your controversial writings catch the attention of local kingpin, Thomas Shelby. ✍︎ Warnings: Hatefuck, Dub-Con, Spanking, Manhandling, Period-Typical Sexism, Blackmail, Manipulation, Veiled Threats, Slurs, Shame ✍︎ Author's Note: My first full-length fic of 2025. I'm trying to tackle darker themes. Enjoy!

Your tendentious writings are causing a stir in the literary world, especially in Birmingham. You tackled hot-button topics like corruption, misogyny, crime, sexuality and more. Against the advice of your publisher, you refused to use a pen name to protect your identity. This led to a myriad of angry letters from local priests, husbands with shaky marriages, and stuffy bureaucrats like Inspector Campbell. You had also caught the attention of the Thomas Shelby, the patriarch of the family and leader of the Peaky Blinders.

Against your instincts, you decided to spend an evening at the Garrison. You were surprised to see it empty with the exception of a few drunkards. After ordering a glass of whiskey, you saw Thomas emerge from the meeting room with a stern expression. Harry wordlessly poured him a glass of gin while you rolled your eyes at his acquiescence. Taking note of your irritation, Thomas sat next to you.

“The Virginia Woolf of Birmingham, eh?” He teased.

“I’m surprised someone like you knows who she is.” You retorted, sipping your whiskey.

“Do tell, who am I?” He asked with a pompous tone.

“A witless cunt.” You criticized.

“Very creative, sweetheart.” He praised sarcastically.

“I am not your fucking sweetheart.” You shot back.

“I suppose so. I thought you would be sweeter.” He purred, touching your hand. You snatched it away. His chuckling angered you even more.

“Fuck off. I’m taking this to go, Harry.” You declared, walking to the door with the glass.

“Before you leave, I have a preposition for you.” He said. You continued out of the pub without another word.

—

The next morning, you found refuge at a local tea room. Your peace was swiftly interrupted by the crook you met the night before.

“Nice to see you again.” He spoke, lighting a cigarette and sitting at the table.

“Is this the only tea room in town?” You huffed.

“I’m a regular here, dove.” He replied, smoke ghosting in front of his mouth.

“Fucking any woman that comes through the door doesn’t make you a regular.” You sniped.

“I’ll take that as the compliment it was meant to be. I have news for you.” He said.

“What news?” You complained.

“Shelby Company Limited is willing to publish your next novel at a far better percentage than your current publisher.” He declared, handing you a copy of your contract with Orchid Publishing. You felt ill at what he could’ve done to get such a private document.

“I’m not interested in anything under the table. Your intimidation tactics won’t work on me.” You said, handing it back.

“Of course. I’m confident that you’ll sort everything out once you’re dropped due to public outcry and a ‘firm recommendation’ from Inspector Campbell.” He revealed, tapping the ash of his cigarette. You were almost impressed by his business acumen but refused to compliment him. Thomas saw the wheels turning and decided to take advantage of the opportunity.

“If you’d like to discuss this further, I’ll be hosting a dinner for the Shelby Foundation. I would hate to see talent like yours go to waste.” He stated, pulling a golden envelope from his suit pocket. He sat it on the table and stared at you intently. You kept eye contact with him as you took the envelope in your hands.

“I’ll let you know of my decision at the dinner.” You said plainly, standing up. He gave an affirmative nod as he watched you leave.

Thomas provoked your ire like no other. His need to dominate every industry that came through Birmingham was close to swallowing you whole. You feared that your writings would be diluted under the authority of Shelby Company Limited. The wrong decision could end your career as you know it.

Arriving at the foundation dinner, your dress earned concupiscent gazes from male attendees and glares from their wives. You hurriedly took a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter’s tray. Dread wore on your face as you pondered the inevitable.

“You clean up well.” A gruff voice whispered behind you. You were ready to elbow the man in the face until you realized it was Thomas. He circled you like prey while admiring your beauty.

“For me?” He said arrogantly.

“No, the invitation said formal. Don’t be so proud of yourself.” You replied, sipping from the flute.

“Sure.” He said, looking you up and down once more. You felt butterflies in your stomach. A longtime colleague of his stopping by seemed to embolden his peacocking. You became an awkward background character to their lively conversation until his colleague recognized you.

“She’s the spinster keeping up trouble in Small Heath?” He realized. You finally came to as you heard the insult.

“She is but she’ll be an ally of ours soon, eh?” He smiled, placing a patronizing hand on your shoulder. You snatched his hand away and smashed the half-full flute on the floor

“Stupid fucking Birmingham scum, the both of you! You’re nothing but a stupid gypsy bastard with nothing to speak for but the money you’ve taken out of our pockets!” You shouted, causing the party to go silent. Thomas retreated into an aggrieved, icy quiet as the humiliation soaked in. Exasperated, you tilted your head waiting for a response. The partygoers, including his colleague, grew nervous at what could happen next.

“I’ll have to excuse myself. Carry on everyone.” He announced, walking to his study. Whispers traveled like a virus through the attendees as they were stunned at his allowance of your vituperative attack. Soon after, the festivities resumed while you were smoked a cigarette outside. As much as you hated it, you worried that you might’ve bruised his ego this time. You were also worried that you signed your death warrant as he was the most feared man in town. Sneaking past nosy attendees, you found the door of his study. You knocked and waited for an answer.

“Come in.” He said. You came in and stood at his desk. Before you could speak, Thomas began reading a scathing excerpt from your latest novel.

“The Peaky Blinders can be compared to a family of plague rats. Spreading disease, death, and degeneracy wherever they end up. Thomas is the captain of a sinking ship and has no qualms about leaving his crew behind if they grow lame or impotent.” He read the excerpt as if it was a bedtime story.

“I came to apologize and-“ You started before being cut off once more.

“Thomas seems to think he can fuck and drink his way into being elected MP. This region has truly gone to shit if he is ever elected.” He read another excerpt. This time, you stayed silent to avoid any interruptions. He removed his glasses and sat back in his chair.

“You forgot to notify me of your decision.” He said with an eerily calm tone.

“I haven’t made one yet. I just came to apologize.” You said, trying to gauge his anger.

“For what? The gypsy bastard part or the degeneracy commentary?” He said, feigning confusion.

“For all of it, I suppose.” You relented, feeling deep shame.

“Oh, no. Don’t apologize for speaking the truth.” He pushed back, standing up and walking to you.

“What?” You asked.

“I’m pleased to let you know that I’m everything you said I am. A gypsy bastard. A drunk. A pest. An enjoyer of women. Now, what is your decision?” He heralded.

“I..can’t work with you. I would forego my morals.” You rejected.

“Why not? A man like me would be great print.” He implored, walking closer. With each step he took forward, you took a step back.

“The answer is no. I apologize for the outburst and I won’t write of you again.” You concluded, reaching for the doorknob. Suddenly, you were slammed against the wall with a painful grip on your face.

“The truth is that you need someone like me. Someone to keep you in line.” He threatened, eyes boring into yours. Your attempts to escape were hopeless as he relished in your panic.

“Let me show you something.” He whispered, slipping his other hand in the top of your dress. His hand stalled at your chest. Your heart jackhammered against his warm palm.

“Feel that?” He asked. You nodded as you pulled your dress off your shoulders and moved his hand to your breast. Finally, you two kissed with a burning hatred for each other. You two yanked away each other’s clothing with such disdain. You found yourself bent over the cool mahogany of Thomas’ desk. You lifted your head to insult him before your head was roughly pressed back down.

“Be a dear and stay still.” He said with condescension.

“Fuck you.” You spat, trying your best to hide your lust. He groped the soft flesh of your ass before landing a series of harsh smacks. Each slap evoked a wanton mewl from you. He went back to massage the tender flesh to vex you even more.

“Let’s make this quick…” He huffed as he plunged inside of you. Your back arched and another lecherous noise left you at the sensation. Soon after, your body began to lurch forward with his merciless thrusts. Your hands searched for purchase on the hard surface. Noise barely escaped your open mouth as the air was expelled from your lungs. Restrained groans came from Thomas while bruises formed on your hips. The stress of pleasure in your abdomen finally broke like an overextended rubber band. He watched as your body violently convulsed with rapture. When you finally came to, he kissed the back of your head.

“You should get dressed.” He said coldly, slipping on his dress shirt. With shaky legs, you haphazardly dressed yourself. His lack of affection stung but you understood that it was his intention.

“Hey, sign this before you go.” He said, handing you a pen and pointing to the empty line on the contract.

#my writing #peaky blinders #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby x reader #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #smut #dark academia #drama

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