vervainandspritz

[vervainandspritz]

hmmmmm

Lovely thanks

[vervainandspritz]

You’re so not active……… fix that

Don't know what to tell you, mate. Interaction is dead and contrary to how I was writing in 2023, I'm not a machine. Hardly any motivation

No interaction, no drive, no stories, I'm afraid!

K x

[vervainandspritz]

TASTE OF SHAME: Until It Takes

Dark!Thomas Shelby x Reader

Warnings: violence, dubious consent, swearing, coercion, manipulation, obsessive behaviour, somnophilia

Word count: 5.5k+

A/N: This is a little addition to my ongoing story named Taste Of Shame. This isn't 'canon' in this series.

Do you read? Leave a comment.

MASTERLIST TASTE OF SHAME

They had told her it would be temporary. Three months, maybe four, just until her father settled his debts with the Shelbys, that was the arrangement. Winter had long since passed, and so had spring. Now the trees were losing their leaves again, and she was still here. In the big, empty house.

They never said she couldn’t leave. But no one told her how she could.

Thomas Shelby never offered much information when she cautiously asked only every few months to not anger him. He gave her answers that sounded reasonable enough on the surface. There was unrest, he said. Trouble brewing. An ambush on one of the supply lines. Her father had sent word, yes, but then silence again. Best not to risk sending her out alone and besides, the black mare had taken to her so they needed her in the stables.

It was said like fact, not request. In a matter-of-fact voice he used whenever she asked stupid questions. So she stayed, clenching her teeth in frustration and hopelessness.

Y/n worked. She learned to keep to the edges of the room when the men came in loud and laughing from the Garrison. She stopped asking many questions, learning to appreciate the small gestures coming from the Shelby family. Getting along so well with Ada she'd sometimes leave, spend the night in her house, forgetting about the whole world.

But in Arrow House? She took up her own space in the building with quiet acceptance. Her room was bigger than necessary with several windows, a wooden chest and table that Mr. Shelby had ordered for her. The bed was soft, but it was his.

Like everything around. Everything in her world always belonged to Thomas Shelby.

She ate dinner with them sometimes, when it was expected. Finn would chatter at her, Ada would smile in that distracted way she had. On a good day John and Arthur would argue about something absurd until Polly cut them both off. Polly watched her differently lately. Not unkindly, but like she was trying to solve a puzzle and didn’t yet have all the pieces. Polly grew concerned about Y/n's wellbeing as the time went on. She noticed the way she fit herself into the background of their life.

Tommy barely spoke to her in front of them. Sometimes she wondered why he kept her under his roof? With the clear dislike in his stone cold face expression that made her doubt herself every other day. Made her feel guilty even though he was the one enforcing her daily visits to his office.

So she kept going, everyday after he came back home Frances would come knocking on her door and she knew it was time.

He was brisk, formal, uninterested. If she entered a room, he kept working. If she lingered, his gaze passed right over her. He never sat near or spoke her name more than necessary.

It hadn’t always been like that, once she thought, watching him work when the silence stretched thinner than usual.

The lingering memory of his behaviour early on, that one time she got a glimpse of the devil hiding under his skin. Forced eye to eye with him, his hand wrapped around her throat as she gazed up with her teary eyes, lips wrapped tightly around him.

One time it happened, and then it passed. He never mentioned it. Never touched her again or spoke a word to keep her from unravelling and doubting her own sanity.

Sometimes she wondered if she’d imagined it. The ice in his eyes that turned almost black under the filthy emotions he would never let anyone close to him witness.

If she’d made it up out of nerves or loneliness or some warped version of gratitude. Because he had taken her in. He had kept her safe.

Be grateful, he once said, taking notice in how pale her eyes became.

There were days she barely saw him. And then there were others when she caught him watching her from a distance, always briefly, always blank-faced, like he wasn’t really seeing her at all.

Polly had noticed. She never said it outright, but it was there. In the way her eyes narrowed when Tommy left the room just after Y/N entered it. In the tightness of her mouth when she said, “You’re still here, then?” like she was waiting for someone else to admit why.

But no one ever did, forcing her to smile weakly with a shrug before swiftly steering the conversation elsewhere. She didn't want to anger any of them.

So Y/N kept doing what was expected. She fed the horses before dawn, helped Finn with the ledgers on rainy days, stitched up Charlie's torn shirt sleeves when no one else had time. She kept herself useful and quiet.

That one day she felt even more haunted than usual. Lack of structure and uneasiness, constant anxiety making her feel ill. So she spent the whole day in the stables, accompanied by the creatures that made her feel at least a little bit alive. Crossing the yard she noticed the lack of light in his office window. He wasn't home.

Sighing with relief, she wordlessly climbed the stairs to her own room, taking a bath and lying back in bed. Darkness seemed heavier than ever, making it hard to breathe.

The house was still, the fire long burned down in the sitting room. Wind pressed against the old panes, sighing through the eaves and her candle had guttered out sometime after midnight, but she hadn’t noticed. She’d fallen asleep with the book still open beside her, breath soft and even, one arm curled beneath her pillow.

She didn’t hear the door. Didn’t stir when it opened slowly, silently, on hinges that barely dared to creak.

The figure that stood there did not speak, nor move for several long seconds. Just watched. Standing in the doorway Thomas watched her relaxed face, cheek pressed into her pillow.

The room was dim, only the silvered edges of the moon outlining the frame of her body beneath the blankets. Her hair had fallen across her cheek. One foot stuck out from the covers, twitching faintly in sleep.

She didn't come, disobeying him once more, Thomas thought, letting out a silent chuckle. His eyes felt heavy, but not heavy enough to fight off the sounds. Death, explosions and gunpowder lingering in the air he breathed in. Tommy Shelby could afford anything but peace, seemed like. Tilting his head, breathing in the smoke he watched her. Thousands of thoughts brewing in his mind, making it harder to make any sense out. He drank too much, once again.

He stepped in. Maids had already gone to bed, that much he knew. He subconsciously paid attention, working along his own schedule that nobody had access too. Just him.

Carefully. Like a man crossing into a church after hours, knowing he shouldn’t be there. He didn't belong, even though he owned everything in this house. This city.

The floor didn’t groan beneath his weight, because he was practiced at this. Stealth was a second skin now, after France, after everything. His hand lingered at the edge of the dresser. Not touching. Not quite.

Something in the way she slept had made him jealous, envy of the peace she was so good at finding in her sleep. Something he couldn't do, no matter how hard he tried.

Something in his eyes moved — not desire, not tenderness, but something quieter and slower. Heavier. As if looking at her undid a thread that he hadn’t realized was fraying.

She turned slightly in her sleep, murmuring something he couldn’t make out, unaware he was here again.

In the previous couple times he lingered, it felt wrong. Like his secret, one of many.

He'd stepped back, retreating like smoke, and closed the door behind him with the same silence he had entered and she never woke. In the morning, she would notice nothing out of place. No hint of anything altered. No missing time. She would go down to the stables like always, and he would be by the table again, sleeves rolled, jaw set, speaking to her like she was a stranger again.

But not today. They were coming for him, he could feel it. Someone wanted to take his crown. His place and the life he created. Grinding his teeth hard enough to cause some pain, he closed his eyes feeling numb.

Y/n moved in her sleep lightly, feeling heavy mass caressing her face. Hot breathe bounced against her face, a couple of top buttons coming undone. The other hand pulled the material down, baring her shoulder and collarbone to the darkness of the room. His breath deepened, nose pressing against her skin as he inhaled deeply. Only then did she start waking up, realizing something was wrong.

”What..–” She began asking but got cut off. A firm hand slowly pressed against her windpipe, not enough to actually choke or violate, just as an instruction.

His lips pressed against her temple, pulling her harder against his material covered chest.

”Be quiet, Y/N” He breathed out, pressing his lips against her skin again. Unknowingly to her, Tommy was squeezing his eyes shut so hard it was almost painful. His drunk mind could barely cope with her scent so strong around him, making him dizzy in the worst way possible. ”Just be quiet for me, eh?”

She let out a choked breath, feeling one hand pressing onto one side of her neck, keeping her against him firmly. The other hand grazing over her covered stomach.

He was breathing hard, that one she was sure of.

His breath stuttered against her temple, hands trembling even as they wandered. He didn’t know where to put them, on her waist, neck, tangled in the hem of her nightgown.. so he touched everything. Everything he’d told himself he wouldn’t.

Everything he’d stayed away from like fire. She flinched when his hand slid under the thin fabric and caught on her hip. His thumb rubbed a slow, possessive circles there. His lips ghosted across her hairline.

“You never fucking listen”

His voice was low, ragged.

She tried to speak, but all she managed was, “Mr. Shelby—”

“Don’t,” he breathed sharply. “Don’t call me that. Not now. Not when I—”

He pressed his face into the curve of her neck, inhaling like he could swallow her whole. His fingers gripped harder at her hip, keeping her still.

“You were supposed to come. I told you to come. Every day.” Another breath left his lips, hot and shaky. “But you didn’t.”

He leaned more of his weight into her, forehead pressed to her jaw. She was trembling, whether from cold or fear or something stranger, she couldn’t say. His hand stayed at her hip, rubbing slow, aching circles with his thumb, like trying to soothe a wound that wouldn’t close.

“You're hurting me, Y/N,” he whispered like a secret. “Never listening” Under the influence his voice was more raw, not as detached as most days. Filled with frustration and hurt. Y/n was.. scared. He was breathing hard like a wild animal, almost crushing her with his weight.

“Please, just—” Y/n tried to reason but he shook his head, clenching his jaw.

“No,” he muttered. “No. You owe me this.”

She inhaled sharply when his hand slid from her hip to her stomach, fingertips grazing the edge of her ribs. Still under the nightgown, still shaking.

“I need it,” he added in a broken whisper. “Be good to me, eh?”

She turned her head, trying to put space between them, but he followed. Tommy's lips brushing against her cheek, her ear, her throat like he didn’t care where as long as it was her.

”Apologize” he said, voice trembling. “Tell me you’re sorry for hurting me.”

Her mouth parted, unsure if she was breathing or choking. It was so unlike him, he felt like a ticking bomb.

“Tell me you didn’t mean to disobey me. Tell me you’re sorry for making me wait.” She heard his words, letting out a shaky breath of her own. His words made sense, she figured he was angry at her for not showing up to his office tonight. Yet the words echoed in her head with a double meaning... One she probably made up herself.

He kissed her jaw, hard and needy.

“Say it, Dove. Say you’re sorry and I’ll stop.”

But he didn’t stop touching her. Couldn’t. His hands were everywhere now, still under the gown, roaming like they had a mind of their own. Every time she shifted, his grip tightened.

“I waited all evening,” he mumbled into her skin, again and again. “All bloody evening. Thought you’d come. Thought maybe you finally understood, but you didn’t.” His breath hitched. His hand slid over her lower back, fingers digging into her spine like he was holding on for dear life.

She gasped when his hand shifted, fingers dragging low under the soft cotton of her nightgown until he cupped her fully, possessively, intimately.

Her breath stilled, just like the whole room. Y/n couldn’t even think.

The heat of his palm over her mound pulsed through her like a curse. Not moving, just heavy and claiming. She instinctively squirmed, a pathetic shift of her hips under him, but it only pressed her harder into his hand. He groaned at the sensation, like her resistance pleased him even more.

“That’s it,” he murmured against her jaw, voice low, frayed. “Go on then. Squirm for me.”

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes. Her lips parted and the apology slipped out, hoarse and instinctive.

“I’m sorry...”

A shaky exhale left his chest. He didn’t speak for a moment, just pressed a kiss just beneath her eye, where the first tear slid hot across her cheek. Then another, closer to her mouth.

“Don’t cry,” he said roughly, through his teeth. “Don’t fucking cry.”

He was almost on top of her now, his thigh pressing between hers, his weight unmistakable. She could feel the tension in his body, the restraint he was clinging to by threads. His hand still hadn’t moved, still held her, warm and firm, thumb brushing the edge of delicate skin with maddening slowness. Like he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m trying,” he growled, lips grazing her cheekbone. “Fuck, Y/N… I’m trying so hard to do the right thing, but you’re making it so fucking difficult.”

She tried to speak, tried to move again, but the sensation was too much. Too intimate and real. One she never felt before.

“You’re driving me mad,” he whispered, continuing, almost to himself now. Tommy's nose nudged against her temple. His hand finally moved just a fraction, but the barest pressure of his palm pushing against the heat of her, and her whole body jerked in response.

He didn’t stop. He couldn't stop.

“Tell me again,” he rasped. “Tell me you’re sorry.” Making her heart beat faster. Y/n never understood why he was doing this. Why he kept making her apologize like this ever since she started living here.

Her tears kept falling slow at first, then faster, soaking into the pillow beside her head. She couldn’t stop them any more than she could stop the heat that curled low in her stomach, making everything worse.

“You’re drunk,” she whispered. “Please, Mr. Shelby—”

His hand snapped up, covering her mouth in an instant.

“Don’t call me that,” he hissed into her skin, his voice low and desperate. Thomas pressed his lips to her throat. Just breath and pressure, like he needed to feel her pulse against his mouth to stay grounded.

“Say my name,” he whispered against her skin. “Say it.”

Y/n shook her head under his hand, wide-eyed, tears still falling freely. Feeling it, he groaned– a sound from deep in his chest, heavy with frustration and something darker and just then his hand moved.

Still between her legs, still cupping her… but now he was touching.

His palm ground softly, deliberately, over the bundle of nerves through the thin fabric. A lazy, maddening circle.

“You’re not listening,” he breathed, the tip of his nose dragging along her collarbone. “And that’s what gets us here every fucking time.”

She wanted to ask him what the fuck he meant every time, but she couldn't force a sound out. Just a weak whimper beneath his palm.

His other hand, the one still over her mouth flexed slightly, holding her still and possessive. Like he needed her quiet so he could justify this to himself.

“Stop crying,” he murmured. “Stop fucking crying, Y/n. I’m just… touching.” The circles didn’t stop, soft and slow. The kind of touch that persuaded and made her body react without permission.

“I’m showing you affection,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “Trying to be good to you.”

Another tear slipped down her cheek and he leaned in and kissed it, just beside the corner of her mouth.

“You keep acting like I’m a monster,” he whispered. “But I’m the only one who’s ever seen you, Y/N.” His breath was ragged and the wetness of her cheek smeared against his lips.

“I’m the only one who cares. And you—you just keep pushing me away.”

The hand between her legs moved more deliberately now. Still slow, still gentle and almost reverent, but this time, it meant something.

The pressure of his palm grew — slow, hypnotic circles that tightened her stomach and made her thighs twitch without her consent. The tension spiraled, unbearable and thick, like something coiled tight inside her chest and hips all at once.

She didn’t want it. She didn’t want him, but her body didn’t care.

“That’s it,” he whispered, lips grazing her neck. “Just let go.”

Y/n was trembling beneath him, her mouth still covered, eyes wide and wet as the heat bloomed and twisted. His voice was low, hoarse, possessive and curled through her like smoke. His breath shuddered against her cheek. His hand didn’t stop.

Then.. as she broke and the first wave of release hit her with blinding heat, his teeth sank into her neck. Sharp and hard.

“Fuck,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut as she tensed and whimpered into his palm, body jerking in his grip. “That’s it. Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

She shattered under him, completely helpless, silent except for the choked sound in her throat. Her tears kept falling, even as her thighs trembled and her hips rocked faintly against his hand.

Thomas didn’t speak or move. Just breathed.

When her orgasm finally faded into aftershocks, his hand stilled. Slowly, he pulled it from her underwear. Slick with the evidence of everything he’d done, of what she’d felt. Of what he made her feel.

He pressed that wet hand to her hip, smearing the warmth across her skin like a brand.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured again, quieter this time. Almost gentle.

His breathing was ragged when he buried his face in the crook of her neck for a moment, inhaling like he was trying to memorize her from the inside out. Her pulse and scent.

When he finally steadied, Tommy pulled back just enough to press a soft kiss to her damp forehead. Then touched his own to hers.

“Go to sleep,” he whispered.

Y/n blinked up at him, tears still tracking silently down her face. In the darkness she couldn't see his expression, only the outline of his face.

He stood without another word, hand dragging through his hair like he was trying to shake something off. He crossed the room in a few steps, paused in the doorway with his hand braced against the frame, and didn’t look back.

If he did, Thomas knew he wouldn’t leave.

The sheets stuck to her thighs when she woke. That was the first thing Y/n registered before her eyes even opened, before the pale morning light filtered in through the window. Her skin was damp, uncomfortable. Sticky between her legs.

Y/N blinked slowly, chest rising in a shallow breath as she looked around the room. Nothing was out of place. Her nightgown was still on, rumpled and slightly twisted around her hips. The air was quiet, thick with the scent of Tommy’s cologne from the night before as a subtle, lingering trace on the pillow beside her.

Slowly she sat up, and her thighs clenched involuntarily at the slick ache there. It wasn’t a dream.bThe realization hit her like a stone dropped in her stomach.

Dragging herself out of bed, she moved to the bathroom and flicked on the light. For a moment, she stared blankly at her reflection. Face pale, tired, lips parted. The corners of her eyes were puffy from dried tears. Her hair hung messily around her shoulders.

Then she tilted her head and her breath caught.

On her neck, above the collarbone, deep and unmistakably real bruise. Not just any bruise... Teeth marks. Faint purple spreading beneath the skin in a crescent shape.

She stared at it for a long time. Pressed her fingers gently to the skin, wincing. Tried to wipe it off with a wet cloth as if it were dirt, something temporary, something that could be erased, but it didn’t fade.

When she came down to the dining room, the long oak table was empty.

One of the maids — Anna, glanced up from her sweeping. “Oh,” she said, surprised. “Good morning, Y/n. Mr. Shelby left very early. Said he wouldn’t be back until late.”

Y/N gave a tight nod. Her voice didn’t come.

Anna hesitated, brow furrowing. “You alright, darling?”

In response she just forced a smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes, nodded and slipped past her without answering.

Even though she was used to him being gone most of the day, Arrow House still felt too quiet.

By late afternoon, Y/N had tucked herself into a corner of the sitting room with a book trying to read, though she hadn’t turned a page in over an hour. She kept glancing at the clock and thinking she’d hear the engine of his car outside.

Why was she waiting for him? Was it anxiety, fear or a weird... Excitement? She couldn't tell, maybe a mix of all three. Kept wondering what she’d say if he walked in.

If he’d say anything at all.

She didn’t hear Polly until the older woman cleared her throat softly by the doorway making Y/N jump slightly.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Polly said, holding a thin envelope in one hand. “Thomas asked me to drop these papers in his office.”

Y/N nodded slowly, setting the book down on her lap. Polly didn’t move right away, her sharp eyes swept over the room, then landed on Y/N’s face. She moved across the living room swiftly before her eyes caught on her neck and exposed collarbone.

Her gaze froze, just like her step.

Y/N realized too late that her nightgown neckline had shifted again and that the bruise was fully visible now, unhidden and damning in the light of day. Polly’s lips parted and eyes widened, then darkened in slow understanding.

Unable to hold up the heavy gaze, Y/n looked away and that was the only confirmation Polly needed.

She stepped forward not fast, but deliberate but her movements were stiff and controlled. Her hand tightened around the envelope.

“You’re leaving,” Polly said.

Y/N’s head snapped up, eyes widening in surprise and the suddenness. “What?”

“You’ll pack your things,” she said, voice harder now. “You’ll be gone before nightfall.”

“I—I don’t understand—”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Polly snapped, her composure slipping just for a second. Her voice wasn’t cruel it was furious in a quiet, protective way. “You think I don’t know what happened? You think I haven’t seen this before?”

Y/N’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Polly strode across the room, opened the drawer of a desk, and pulled out a thick wad of notes, mostly tens and twenties, folded neatly into a leather pouch. She shoved it into Y/N’s hand.

“That’s a hundred pounds. That’ll get you out of Birmingham. Keep your head down. Don’t look back.” Y/N stared at her, wide-eyed, numb.

“But I didn’t—” she started to say, but Polly’s look silenced her. I know, her eyes showed. She sighed deeply, putting a hand over Y/n's shoulder with concern.

“I told him not to bring you here. I told him he wasn’t ready, but he never listens. And now look.”

Y/N’s fingers clenched around the pouch. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“I know it wasn’t,” Polly said, softer this time. “Which is why I’m giving you the chance to walk out of this with your soul intact.”

Silence was almost deafening. Y/N’s throat tightened and her vision blurred again. Polly looked at her for one long second. Her gaze wasn’t cold, it was sad. There was something like guilt flickering behind her eyes.

“This family breaks everything it touches,” Polly whispered. “Go now, before he finishes breaking you.”

When Thomas Shelby walked through the front door, the house was quiet. Not unusually so, just quiet enough to make him pause in the hallway for a second longer than usual. He took off his coat, hung it neatly, and headed toward the sitting room where a faint rustling could be heard.

Polly was there. Reading a newspaper she hadn’t looked at for more than ten seconds.

“Pol,” he greeted her In a smooth, tired voice, giving her a nod while lighting another cigarette. It was a long day.

She nodded. “Tommy.”

He glanced at the clock, then toward the hallway. “Has Y/N been up?” Thomas wanted to know, being aware of her difficulties with following instructions.

“She was,” Polly said without looking up. He blinked with another nod. Inhaling the smoke for a longer moment before letting it out.

“Tell one of the girls to send her to my office. It's time.”

One of the maids started to move from the kitchen, but Polly raised her hand. “No need.” Tommy turned slowly toward her with his eyebrow cocked. Polly folded the newspaper deliberately and set it on the armrest. “She’s gone.”

Silence.

His jaw shifted once. “Gone where?” Tommy's voice sounded a little different suddenly, a little lower and more gravelly.

“I sent her away. Back to her father.” Her voice was flat, purposeful. “Where she belongs.” You knew. He saw it in her eyes. Saw the truth snap into place between them like glass breaking under foot.

His nostrils flared, his facial expression neutral besides the tension. “Without asking me?”

“I didn’t need to ask.” She responded, her voice harsh as she tilted her head up. Meeting his gaze. ”She had to go. She doesn't belong here, Thomas.”

Followed by a pause, and then something sharp passed behind his eyes. Picking the cigarette from between his lips he tossed it into the ashtray a little harder than necessary. He nodded once and walked out of the room without another word.

Fifteen minutes later, every Shelby still breathing was gathered in the dining room. John. Arthur. Ada. Finn. And Michael, who looked more confused than the rest. Tommy entered last, sleeves rolled up, waistcoat perfect.

He stood at the head of the table, straightened his back and then... sighed.

“Right,” he said, checking the time on his gold watch.

Everyone felt the tension radiating off of him, the atmosphere shifting but then... then he smiled.

That smile that stretched on his face was the last thing anyone would associate with happiness. The empty, black stare etched into his features was horrifying.

The kind of smile that meant someone was going to bleed.

With one smooth motion, Tommy drew the revolver from his coat and without warning pressed it against the side of Michael’s head. Everyone froze, eyes turning into saucers.

Michael’s body went stiff. “What the fuck—?!”

Seeing the scene unfold, Arthur stood up. “Tommy—” But he cut him off with a hand in the air.

“Don’t,” Tommy said quietly. “Don’t fucking move.”

Ada’s voice cracked as she remained unmoving in her seat. Looking up at him with her eyes wide open in shock. “Tommy, Jesus Christ, what is this?”

But his eyes didn’t leave Polly’s, locked in a stare.

“You have about ten seconds,” Tommy said calmly, almost conversationally, “to tell me where she is before I blow the back of this little fucker’s head all over the wall.” His voice wasn't tense or angry, it was... Something else. Like the rest of sanity in his head broke with a snap. A voice of a man who spent four years digging tunnels and killing men with his own hands. Of a cold hearted murderer who sent hundreds of people to the cut.

Michael’s breath hitched. “Are you fucking mental?!”

Tommy didn’t blink, not once.

“One.”

“Tommy—” Polly started.

“Two.”

“Put the gun down, you bastard!” She screamed in fear and frustration, trying to judge whether he was bluffing.

“Three.”

Polly stepped forward, voice shaking now. “You wouldn’t.” she said with confidence but then.. Tommy’s grin widened.

“Four.”

“Tommy!” Arthur barked, not daring to move. John was completely silent the whole time.

“Five.”

“She’s gone!” Polly shouted, eyes locked to the barrel. “She’s gone and you’re never seeing her again!”

“Six.”

Tommy’s hand didn’t tremble. Michael was sweating, teeth clenched, jaw tight with fear.

“Seven.”

“Tommy, he’s your family—”

“Eight.”

He shifted the gun slightly, his eyes remaining locked on Polly's as he pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked through the room like thunder, plaster and dust exploded from the wall just inches from Michael’s head. A clean hole, sharp-edged and smoking.

Michael gasped, jerking violently in his seat, face pale, eyes blown wide with fear but Tommy didn’t flinch. He simply moved the gun back to Michael’s head, pressing it against his temple.

“Nine.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Ada screamed and only then Polly lost it, hearing the fucking click.

“You fucking madman!” she roared, lunging forward. “You fucking psycho! Get away from him! That’s my son!” She shoved at his chest, hands trembling with rage. “You sick bastard! She’s in Surrey! She’s with her father! She’s gone, Tommy!” Her voice cracked as she pointed at him, hands shaking and her eyes narrowing in contempt. “And it’s your own goddamn fault.”

Silence fell again, heavy and sickening as Tommy stared at her, blank-faced. Breathing through his nose like he was still counting.

The barrel of the gun dropped. His arm went limp at his side. He turned toward the others, sweeping the room with one cold, empty glance.

“Meeting’s over,” he said.

The rhythmic clatter of the wheels was the only sound Y/N could focus on.

She stared out the window, hands tight in her lap, knuckles white against the fabric of her coat. Fields blurred past, but her reflection in the glass remained crystal clear: pale face, wide eyes, and a bruise on her neck she tried to cover with a silk scarf that didn’t match anything she owned.

She hadn’t eaten or slept.

All she could think was he’ll move on.

But still—

her stomach twisted in fear every time the train slowed.. and then it stopped. Too hard.

The passengers jolted, suitcases tumbled, a baby cried somewhere down the aisle. There were murmurs, concerned faces, people glancing around for announcements.

Then the conductor’s voice crackled overhead.

��Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the sudden stop. There’s been an… issue on the tracks ahead. An obstruction, possibly an explosion. No injuries reported, but we’re required to stop the train. For safety.”

Y/N’s breath caught. The murmuring grew louder. Obstruction? Explosion? Her fingers gripped the seat.

The cars were being evacuated. Staff moved fast, ushering people out onto the gravel and field beside the line. They said it was precaution, just a delay.

But her body said otherwise and her instincts screamed.

She hauled her suitcase behind her, pushing through the crowd of elderly passengers, children clinging to mothers, people muttering about lost schedules. Something was wrong. She felt it in her spine. In her lungs.

The air was too thick, almost suffocating and she tried to push her way through the right crowd.

Y/n moved faster, chest tight, eyes darting scanning the crowd for what she didn’t want to see. Run, she thought, and then someone shoved her.

Not hard but just enough to knock her off balance. She tripped forward with a startled gasp and fell straight into someone’s arms.

She opened her mouth to apologize, panic already rising.. and froze.

That moustache. Those rough hands. The unmistakable grip on her shoulders, grounding her like a steel trap.

“Arthur,” she whispered, breathless. Terrified.

He didn’t smile or say hello. Just stared at her with grim eyes and pulled her up like she weighed nothing.

“We need to go,” he said, already tugging her toward the edge of the crowd. “There’s no time to lose.”

She stumbled behind him, the gravel tearing at her shoes. Her suitcase rolled, half-dragged. Her chest was tight, and the tears came again, sudden, hot and furious.

“No,” she said. “I can’t—what are you—”

“Don’t fight me,” Arthur said. “Not here.”

She didn’t even know if she was fighting. Her body wasn’t hers anymore. Just a blur of panic and shock and... something worse.

Something she didn’t want to admit.

The... relief.

Somewhere in that horror, that chaos — knowing he’d come for her, again, her gut clenched not only in fear, but in something close to recognition. She hated herself for it. Hated her chest for loosening. Hated that deep down she knew.. He never would’ve let her go.

Arthur shoved open the back door of the black car parked just off the path.

“He’s waiting,” Arthur said, as if that explained everything. “You’ve got five minutes before he gets tired of being nice.”

Y/N blinked up at him, rain starting to hit her face.

“Nice?” she echoed, her voice cracking. “You blew up a train track.”

Arthur just looked at her. “You don’t know what he’d blow up.”

The rain hadn’t stopped.

Y/N sat silently in the backseat, hands clenched around the wet scarf in her lap, the bruise on her neck still pulsing under her skin. Arthur didn’t say anything for the first few minutes. Just drove.

Then, finally, his voice broke the silence.

“You’re lucky, y’know.” He mused. She didn’t respond.

He glanced at her through the rearview mirror. “If I’d been five minutes later… they’d be scraping what’s left of that train off the trees.”

Y/n's eyes snapped to meet his, and her stomach turned.

“The steering car,” he said flatly. “That’s what he rigged. Front of the fuckin’ line. Driver wouldn’t’ve known a thing.”

Tears spilled again. Quiet, steady. Shame and fear tangled in her throat.

”Why?” She asked quietly, her throat tightening.

Arthur sighed and rubbed his face. “He hasn’t slept since you left. Put a gun to Michael's head.”

Y/N wrapped her arms around herself in a small hug, fearful and concerned as she whispered, “He’s not well.”

Arthur gave a bitter laugh. “He hasn’t been well since France.”

The silence stretched into a couple moments. Then he added a little softer:

“But this? This is new” He murmured. ”I don't know what happened, but.. it's Tommy. There's no changing his mind. ”

He looked at her again, eyes dark.

“There’s no line he won’t cross, I'm afraid.”

Frances nearly yanked the bedroom door open before Y/N could knock.

“Oh, thank God,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest. “Come in, quickly now.”

She moved like a woman on the edge of breaking protocol. Still composed, still proper, but trembling just enough to show she knew what Tommy had become in Y/N’s absence.

Y/N stepped inside, soaked and stiff. Her luggage was already there. Frances moved fast, unzipping, sorting, folding. She laid things out neatly on the bed, working with mechanical precision.

“He wants to see you,” Frances said, eyes fixed on the drawer she was filling. “In his office. Immediately.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “I just got here—”

“He’s been waiting.” Frances finally looked at her. “You should go now.”

She paused for a moment, looking at her with worry and.. pity. Then added quietly:

“I’ll finish this.”

Y/N nodded, feeling numb. She turned toward the door, hands trembling again.

Walking down the stairs felt like an eternity. Her legs burned from the run with her heavy luggage and from the uncomfortable position she sat in the car.

She didn’t knock.

Her feet were bare, soaked against the hardwood. Her dress clung to her like a second skin, rain dripping down her arms, hair tangled and half-plastered to her face. She looked small, already crying before the door even closed behind her.

Tommy stood behind the bar cart near the window, a crystal decanter in his hand. He didn’t turn around, just poured the amber liquid into two glasses. One for him. One for her.

“Why are you crying?”

His voice was calm and tired. Like he hadn’t spoken in hours and didn’t want to waste words now.

She tried to answer, but the sob in her chest caught on her throat. Her lips pressed together tightly, as if silence could undo everything.

“Because i'm scared,” she finally whispered.

He turned then to look at her. His eyes were ruthless in how exhausted they looked, deep shadows under them, lids heavy, bloodshot, and yet still burning into her.

“You should be,” he said.

He took a slow sip of whiskey, then walked toward his chair. Sat. He didn’t offer her the guest seat. Didn’t ask her to sit.

He didn’t have to, this time.

She stayed standing with arms wrapped around herself, shivering.

“A year ago,” Tommy said, watching the fire flicker across the glass in his hand, “you asked me to trust you.”

She bit her lip, fresh tears falling.

“I did,” she whispered. He raised his eyes to her again.

“And now that trust is broken.”

His voice wasn’t angry. It was quiet, Matter-of-fact and that made it worse.

“Come here.” She hesitated. “Closer.”

She stepped forward, each movement stiff like she was walking into something sharp. She stopped just in front of him, unsure where to place her hands. He set the glass down, then reached for her wrist.

“Look at me.”

She did, and what she saw unraveled something inside her — he was frayed. Hollowed. His pupils too wide. His breath too slow. He hasn’t slept, not a minute.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking into his eyes. Thomas didn't respond, he just pulled her gently, but firmly, into his lap and her breath caught.

His hand cupped her cheek. Rough thumb brushing away a tear.

“You never fucking listen,” he murmured. His tone was almost loving and that made it unbearable. He pressed her head against his chest, fingers in her wet hair, breathing in the scent of her like a dying man who’d found air.

“You disappointed Mr. Shelby, Y/N.” He said quietly, lips pressed into her hairline.

“I know,” she whispered.

Then the room fell silent before minutes later his fingers tightened in her hair.

She gasped softly as he tilted her head back exposing the delicate line of her throat. Her hands pressed to his chest but she didn’t push. His nose grazed her skin, and Tommy inhaled deeply, slow and possessive.

His face pressed to the crook of her neck, lips barely touching.

“Did you run because I touched you, Dove?” he asked in a low tone, warning her to be truthful.

The answer clawed at her throat. She wanted to say yes. Wanted to scream, scratch and escape, but she couldn’t lie. Not to him.

“No,” she whispered.

Hearing it, Tommy hummed softly against her skin. Something low. Dark. Like satisfaction wrapped in velvet. His hands slid to her hips, anchoring her.

“I lied,” he said, so quiet it barely reached her ears. “Saying it was temporary. Saying you’d go home one day. I lied, Y/N.” The honey-like tone of his voice was contrary to his cruel words. His lips brushed her skin as he added. “You’re not going anywhere.”

His voice coiled around her like a noose, and she just sat there, breath trembling, his scent overwhelming her, her whole body held still by the gentle cage of his hands.

Y/n was absolutely frightened, both by her reaction to his touch and the words leaving his mouth. She expected everything, violence, screaming or cruel words. She knew how explosive his anger was, but this... This was different. She didn't expect his lips on her neck and gentle tone. No matter how horrifying the content of his words was, her mind wasn't functioning properly.

”I'm sorry, Mr. Shelby” She repeated the one thing she could barely remember. His breathing was heavier, and the memory of her last night in the Arrow House hit her once again. The way his bodyweight felt on top of her, his hands greedily touching every inch he could get to. Desperation hidden between each letter and something so... Human, so utterly contradictory to how he carried himself on daily.

Maybe he wasn’t the devil, she thought at the moment.

Her eyes fluttered shut under the heavy sensation, and that's when he suddenly got up. Hands holding her hips tightly as he moved across the room. One of his hands moved onto her throat, holding it firmly but not squeezing. His eyes locked onto hers.

”Tommy” He whispers, his lips brushing against hers. ”You're a big girl, Y/n. Call me by my name” Thomas demanded, pressing her against him.

He knew he should have pulled away, stop before everything unravels. He couldn't force himself to listen. ”I want to fucking hear you say it.” He said in a low tone through his teeth, the fury in him growing. How could you fucking run away?

Y/n shook her head, trying to get some distance but he didn't let her. He kept her pressed against his chest, teeth grazing her skin.

”Don't make me repeat myself” He said quietly and she squirmed in fear.

”Tommy” She breathed out, wanting to appease him. Pushing through the doorway to his bedroom, Tommy groaned hearing it, leaning forward and pushing her onto the bed.

”Good girl” He said lowly, his eyes darkening with a raw need. He pawed at her wet clothes, peeling the layers away with impatience. ”Good fucking girl”

Y/n's eyes fell shut at the praise. She let him take and take, and take. His hands were everywhere and Y/n heard his belt buckle hitting the floor. Panic grew inside her making her hands shake.

”Wait, I–” She tried to tell him but Thomas didn't let her.

”Quiet, Y/N.” He hissed, pressing his forehead against hers. ”I can't wait, I'm sorry, I can't fucking wait anymore.” He gritted through his teeth, as his fingers rubbed small circles into her pussy, making her gasp.

Y/n wanted to regain some deniability. To tell him to stop, push at his chest or... Or just stop clutching onto his shoulders, but she couldn't. The filthy wetness was echoing loudly throughout the room as he slid his fingers into her untouched pussy. How ready and willing for him.

”You're not leaving ever again.” He groaned into her lips, pulling his fingers out as he freed himself from his tight trousers. Using the wetness to pump his length as he looked her in the eyes. Pure sin shining in his eyes, luring Y/n in. Without waiting another moment he notched his tip against her entrance, his hand catching her wrists and holding them above her head. His eyes were almost black as he couldn't tear the gaze away from her lips.

She squeezed her eyes tightly, holding her breath for the upcoming pain. Her body trembled with fear as she anticipated the feeling of violent agony. Of being used till he'd lose interest and she'd be left to bleed for days, like her mum.

Thomas watches her pained expression, one of his hands cupping her cheek. Baring his teeth in the extreme effort to stay still and not move while she adjusted to the stretch.

”Breathe,” He whispered, holding her hips tightly. After several moments she sighed quietly, her tight walls pulsing around him with pleasure. Feeling it, he finally moved pulling back before pushing deep into her.

She didn’t know where her pain ended and her desire began. He blurred every line and rewrote every rule. His thumb wiped her cheek lightly, his lips pressing against her temple. ”Don't cry, Y/N. He whispered, before his fingers found her clit again, rubbing her towards the edge.

Y/n's back arched off the bed, her eyes were squeezed shut at the sensations. She wasn’t sure who she’d be after this, only that she wasn’t going to be untouched ever again.

”Please–” She whined weakly, unable to stay quiet. She didn't know what she was begging for, her body was like dough in his hands. Hearing it, Tommy groaned again as his hips began bucking into her harder and faster. With each thrust he was going a little too deep, making her moan weakly at the top of each movement. His hips smacked against her own, taking her with desperation bordering on obsession.

He roughly wrapped his hand around her neck, pulling her off of the bed.

”If you ever try to leave again...” His voice sounded almost inhuman with the intensity behind his words. ”I'll tie you to this bed and set this house on fire”

The threat hung in the air between them, but Y/n couldn't think of a single word to respond. He wants me to stay, echoed in her head as he pressed his lips against hers. He wasn't just kissing her, Tommy was devouring every inch of her being.

She felt herself hanging on the edge again as he licked into her mouth and biting her bottom lip, causing her to taste copper. His sounds became louder, cursing under his breath in a language she didn't know.

Suddenly it all made sense when he pulsed and swelled, stretching her further. His face twisted in animalistic pleasure.

”N–not inside–” She tried to tell him but he pushed even deeper, making her wince as he hissed. His wet lips pressed against her jaw again, whispering.

”I'm sorry, love. I can't... Can't stop–” He bit down on the already bruised skin, breaking it as his hips pressed against her own, bottoming out.

Y/n whimpered, feeling the warmth filling her up, deeper with each movement of his hips. He soothed the blood with his tongue, bringing immediate relief.

She felt sore and stretched around him, her muscles still tensing in the aftermath of her strong climax.

He didn’t move, didn’t pull out. Just stayed there, buried so deep she could barely breathe, his hand splayed low on her belly like he already owned what might grow inside.

“We’ll keep going,” he murmured against her throat, voice rough with spent need. “Again and again. Until it takes.”

Her breath caught. Tommy sighed, a smile growing on his face, soft, reverent and unhinged.

“You’re going to carry my child, Y/N. My name. My blood. My fucking legacy.”

He kissed her temple, almost tenderly, caressing her cheek.

”i'm sorry, love. You will never be free of me” He whispered. ”Maybe I am the devil after all.”

[vervainandspritz]

I want to explore a little bit of a deeper dynamic between two people who have been together for a long time and it seems to them that the love has completely faded.

What happens when they actually split and move on with their lives separately?

Comment which of CM characters you'd like to see in that plot!

[vervainandspritz]

Do u have a girlfriend?

I'm too old to have girlfriends but I'm not single

[vervainandspritz]

Spicy! Absolutely love it!

Truth or Dare

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader Genre: Smut 18+ Word count: 3,6k Summary: You're at one of Tommy's legendary parties with his sister Ada. A little drunk and caught up in the thrill of the night, you let her talk you into a game of Truth or Dare. You confess that your secret fantasy is to be fucked dumb by her brother. Too bad you didn’t realize he was listening the whole time… CN: Dirty talk, vaginal and oral penetration, rough sex, domination/power imbalance, dubious consent. Please note that this is all just fantasy. Things that happen in my stories should always be consensual. Take care. Author’s note: I asked you, you voted for this. Now live with it LOL

***

Masterlist

Cheerful music, played by a live band, thrums through Arrow House, loud and bass-heavy, making the walls vibrate with each pulsing beat. The air is warm, charged with laughter, smoke  and the scent of expensive whiskey. People dance exuberantly, bodies pressed close, heads tipped back in carefree abandon. Fragments of lighthearted conversations reach your ears. It’s a hell of a party—one only Tommy Shelby could throw.

You and Ada have been friends since school—years of shared secrets, bad decisions, and late-night confessions binding you together in a way that never really faded. She’s always been the wild one, the kind of girl who drags you into trouble with a wicked grin and a promise that it’ll be worth it. And, more often than not, it is.

You’ve heard plenty about Tommy over the years. His name comes up in stories about dangerous deals and legendary parties, whispered like a warning and an invitation all at once. But until tonight, you’d never been part of it. Never seen the infamous Arrow House in all its debauched glory.

And Tommy himself? You’ve only ever known him in passing—glimpses at Ada’s family gatherings, half-formed impressions from the way people talk about him, fleeting small talk. He’s always been a mystery to you, a presence looming just outside your world. You never knew exactly what to make of him, but his mysterious, attractive appearance always turned you on.

But now, standing in the middle of his party, surrounded by drunken lightness and swirling smoke, you wonder if you’re about to find out more.

Somewhere in the middle of the dance floor, you and Ada are twirling, flushed with drink and mischief, your fingers laced briefly before you spin apart again. You giggle excitedly as your dance speeds up, making you dizzy.

After what feels like hours of dancing and shameless flirting with every attractive stranger in arm’s reach, Ada suddenly grabs your wrist, tugging you toward a quieter corner.

"Stay put," she grins, disappearing only to return moments later with two more drinks. She hands you one and lifts her own in a mock toast. "To bad decisions."

You clink glasses and drink deep.

"We should play a game," Ada announces suddenly, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. Her lips shine with whiskey. Gosh, Ada and her so-called games. You know what is about to come up.

"Truth or Dare."

You laugh, but there’s a challenge in her eyes. "Alright. You go first."

It starts off harmless—favorite childhood memory, worst kiss, a dare to take a shot without using your hands. But then—you chose “Truth” again—Ada tilts her head, eyes sparkling with curiosity, and asks, "What’s your dirtiest desire?"

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the way the room spins just slightly, making everything feel deliciously unreal. Or maybe it’s the way Ada leans in, close enough that her perfume mixes with the smoke and spirits in the air. You've simply known each other for too long and have talked too often about your experiences with men. Whatever it is, the words slip from your lips before you can stop them.

"There is a certain person…I can’t get out of my head. I wanna be…be fucked dumb by him. No control, no mercy—just taken, used, ruined until there’s nothing left in my head but the way it feels."

Ada’s eyes widen before she bursts into delighted laughter. "You little slut," she teases. "Tell me more."

Heat creeps up your neck, but there’s no taking it back now. You lick your lips, voice dropping. "Just filthy words and rough hands until I forget my own name, until all I can do is moan and beg for more."

Ada hums, sipping her drink as if she’s considering something very important. "And who, exactly, do you want to do that to you?"

You shake your head quickly, smirking. "That’s the next question. Your turn first."

Your heart is hammering, but you keep your expression playful. If you drag this out long enough, maybe she’ll get distracted, maybe someone else will butt in, maybe—hell, maybe the house will catch fire and save you from this mess. Anything to avoid saying his name out loud.

Because once it’s out there, you can’t take it back.

What if she gets weird about it? What if she’s offended? Ada is bold and reckless, but this is her brother. There’s a fine line between teasing and crossing into something uncomfortable, and you have no idea which side she’ll land on.

You force yourself to take a slow sip of your drink, feigning nonchalance. Just play it cool. Don’t let her see you sweat.

Ada narrows her eyes at you, sensing the deflection, but she lets it slide—for now. She swirls the last of her drink, considering.

"Alright, my turn," she muses. "Hit me."

You think for a moment, then grin. "Truth or dare?"

Ada stretches her legs out dramatically, pretending to be deep in thought. "Hmm. I do love a good dare."

You smirk. "Then I dare you to go up to—" You scan the party, searching for the most ridiculous target. "—that guy over there in the red suspenders, grab his ass, and tell him he’s the love of your life."

Ada barks out a laugh, shaking her head. "Nope, too easy." She leans in conspiratorially, eyes gleaming. "I’ll take ‘Truth.’"

You raise an eyebrow, surprised. "Oh? Feeling sentimental?"

She winks. "Just feeling nosy. Go on, ask me something juicy."

You drum your fingers against your glass, pretending to think, though you already know exactly what you want to ask. “Alright, Ada,” you say slowly, drawing out the suspense. “Since we’re already on the topic—who’s the best fuck you’ve ever had?”

Ada throws her head back with a cackle, clearly unbothered by the question. “Oh, babe, you’re going to have to be more specific than that.” She grins wickedly. “Best in what way?”

You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean. The one you still think about when you’re alone.”

Ada hums, pretending to be deep in thought. Then she leans in, lowering her voice just enough to make you do the same. “Alright,” she whispers, eyes gleaming. “There was this one time, in a car—”

What follows is a shamelessly detailed story that has you laughing and cringing in equal measure. Ada tells it with the kind of confidence only she can pull off, completely unapologetic, feeding off your reactions. By the time she’s done, your face is warm from both the alcohol and the secondhand embarrassment.

“Jesus,” you mutter, shaking your head. “I don’t know if I’m impressed or horrified.”

Ada smirks. “Little bit of both, I hope.”

She leans back, looking way too pleased with herself. “Alright, your turn again. Truth or dare?”

You hesitate. She can sense it. You could pick "Dare" again, but Ada is relentless—if you try to avoid the question, she’ll only come up with something even worse. Something you’d never, ever do.

"I swear, if you don’t pick ‘Truth’ right now, I’m making you streak through this party wearing nothing but a bow."

Your stomach drops.

"Truth," you blurt out, before she can make good on that threat.

Ada grins triumphantly. "Good girl!" Ada’s grin turns downright devious as she places a hand on your thigh, giving it a squeeze. “Alright, babe. Spill. Who’s the mystery man?”

And the alcohol has loosened your tongue enough that it almost feels like a game.

So you lean in and whisper, "Tommy."

Ada freezes. Then she snorts so loudly that a few heads turn. Covering her mouth, she shakes with laughter, eyes dancing with amusement. "You dirty little thing," she wheezes, wiping at her eyes. "My brother? Really?"

You groan, smacking her arm, but she just keeps giggling. The moment is too ridiculous not to laugh along, and before long, you’re both breathless with mirth, stumbling back toward the music.

You lose yourself in the rhythm again, Ada’s fingers briefly twining with yours before she’s pulled into another dance. Then, suddenly, a shadow looms in the periphery.

Tommy.

He steps in smoothly, effortlessly claiming your space as if it’s always been his to take. One hand settles low on your waist, the other taking your fingers, guiding you into the sway of the music.

Then, his lips brush against your ear.

"So," he murmurs, "you wanna be fucked dumb, eh?"

The seconds in which you cannot answer seem like an eternity.

“By me.” His tone makes it clear that it’s less of a question and more of a cold statement—one that is becoming increasingly impossible to deny.

Blood rushes hot beneath your skin. You go stiff, but Tommy’s grip is firm, keeping you flush against him. You know you should say something, laugh it off, anything—but the words have turned to ash on your tongue.

Tommy chuckles, a low, knowing sound. "Cat got your tongue?"

You shake your head, but it only makes him press closer.

"Makes you wet, doesn’t it?" His voice is barely audible over the music, but it slides down your spine like a caress. "Dancing like this. Feeling me against you. Bet you’ve thought about it before. Wondered how I look naked. How my cock feels. How I fuck."

A shiver rolls through you. Your nails dig into his shoulder.

"Tell me I’m wrong."

You can’t.

Tommy makes a satisfied sound, his fingers tightening just slightly on your hip. Then he leans in again, his lips brushing your temple, as he continues to lead the dance skillfully. "How about we continue our little…dance…in a darker place?"

Your breath is shallow, your pulse wild, but you don’t protest when he takes your hand and leads you off the dance floor. Ada catches your eye as you pass, grinning like the devil himself, raising her glass in silent approval.

You barely register the walk through the house before you’re inside his office, the heavy door clicking shut behind you. Tommy discreetly turns the key in the lock.

He turns to you, expression unreadable.

"Now," he says, as if it were a serious matter, "why don’t you explain to me exactly what you mean by ‘fucked dumb’?"

Your mouth falls open, but you feel incapable of answering. Even though you're noticeably drunk, the shame of your vulgar language hits you full force. If only you'd held back...or maybe not? You're confused, ashamed, aroused. It hits you all at once—how perfectly suited Tommy is to the role of the experienced, dominant man. How effortlessly he plays with it, nudging you into the part of the naïve little thing, so easily led by him. Ada warned you for a reason—getting involved with her brother is like playing with fire. A game you already love as much as you hate.

Tommy doesn’t break eye contact as he unbuttons his vest, shrugging it off with practiced ease. "Or maybe…" He tilts his head, studying you like he’s considering an alternative, one that’s just as inevitable. "You had plenty to say just a moment ago. Now you’ve gone all quiet. Too bad." His fingers brush over your jaw, coaxing your gaze back to his. "Maybe you’re better at showing than telling."

Your gaze drops—and heat flares in your core as you take in the very prominent bulge in his trousers.

Your reaction obviously doesn't go unnoticed by him. "That’s what I thought," Tommy says with a self-satisfied nod. “You want my cock so badly, naughty little thing, eh?”

His fingers move to his shirt next, working the buttons loose with infuriating patience. One by one. Like he’s giving you time to stop him. Like he knows you won’t. You're transfixed, watching as he strips off the fabric, baring his chest to you.

"From the way you’re looking at me…" He lets the words linger, his lips curving slightly. "I’d say I’m already heading in the right direction."

He takes your hand, pressing it against his skin, guiding you over the hard planes of muscle before leading you lower. You swallow, nodding hesitantly. His grip tightens around your wrist, his ice-blue eyes fix on you and his breathing betrays his arousal. With deliberate force, he presses your palm against the bulge in his trousers.

He’s so fucking hard. So hot and full beneath the fabric that you bite your lip at the thought of what’s waiting underneath.

"Come on," he urges teasingly with playful dominance. "Don’t be shy. Take him out."

You obey without thinking, your fingers fumbling at his belt before pulling him free. He springs into your palm, warm and thick.

"Now," he murmurs, "where do you want it?" He leans in, his lips ghosting over your ear. " I can be anywhere inside you, wherever you want.”

This man is going to ruin you.

Your fingers tighten around him instinctively, and he hisses, full of approval and desire. "Good girl," he mutters. "Get a feel for it." His own hand slides up your thigh, pushing your dress higher, teasing at the bare skin beneath. As if by chance, his fingers brush over your soaked panties. "Holy fuck, you’re a mess down here, baby. So fucking wet, so needy—just waiting for me to stretch you open." His fingers flex against your hip, pulling you closer, letting you feel the solid weight of him against your stomach. "Bet I could slide right in without any resistance." You long for nothing more than for him to do just that as his fingers tease your entrance.

He watches your reaction, drinking in every tiny flicker of arousal, every unsteady breath. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reaches down, wrapping his fingers over yours, guiding your hand to stroke him. His grip forces you to move exactly the way he wants—no hesitations, no teasing, just smooth, firm strokes.

"Feels good, eh?" His voice is thick with satisfaction. "You can admit it. No one’s here to judge you, sweetheart."

You nod, but he clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Uh, uh. That’s not enough. I know you need more." His fingers circle around where you desperately crave him, without giving you the relief of plunging inside you.

"You know," he drawls, "when I said you could show me, I lied." His eyes glint with playful cruelty. "I don’t like it when a woman goes silent on me. Makes it awfully hard to figure out what she needs." He leans in closer. "So, speak up, young lady. How exactly do you want me to fuck you?"

You swallow hard, pulse hammering.

Tommy’s patience drives you insane. With how fucking hard he is, he must have a ridiculous amount of self-control. He waits, amusement dancing in his ice blue eyes, like he’s enjoying watching you struggle to say it. His fingers ghost over your damp panties, teasing, barely there. "Come on. I know you’re not shy."

Your breathing stutters as you shift against him. "I…"

His grin widens. "Go on. Say it."

You bite your lip, heat coiling low in your stomach. He leans in, his hand grabs your hair. He whispers, "Or do you want me to make you beg for it?"

A desperate whimper escapes you, and his answering chuckle is dark and triumphant.

"Not that I don’t love hearing a woman beg to be fucked senseless," he continues. "But my cock would much rather be inside you right now than waiting for you to find your words." His smirk turns sharp. "So don’t test me more than necessary."

Before you can process it, he grips your hips and lifts you onto his dark, wooden desk in the middle of the room, pushing your dress up, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties. A single sharp tug, and the fabric is shoved aside.

You barely have time to breathe before he steps between your thighs, hands gripping your legs, pulling you against him.

"That’s better," he mutters, his cock heavy and hot against you. "Now, last chance. Tell me how badly you need it."

Your fingers dig into his shoulders as you wrap your legs around him, yanking him closer, hips arching against him in pure frustration. "Please," you gasp. "Fill me up, I can’t stand this anymore."

He groans, the sound almost pained. "Fuck, yes…this is a start."

You feel him pushing inside, stretching you open with the tip of his cock, followed by an agonizing break.

“What did you just say, can you explain this to me in more detail,” he teases you. In response, you try to pull him closer to you - into you - with your legs.

“Uh, uh,” he backs away. “Tell me more!”

"Fuck me until I can’t think straight…wreck me…use me…make me yours…,” you grit out every raw desire that comes to your mind, not giving up on pulling him into you.

His grip tightens on your hips as he thrusts forward, visibly satisfied with the words he elicited from you, fully sinking into you with a sharp groan. The stretch, the sheer size of him, knocks the breath from your lungs. His pace is brutal—every movement deliberate, every stroke calculated to drag a desperate sound from your lips.

"I’m gonna make you feel me for days," he grinds out. His hands move with purpose—pushing up your dress, freeing your breasts from their confinement, fingertips digging into your skin as if to mark you.

After what felt like an eternity, Tommy pulls you up against his chest, one hand fisting in your hair as he drives into you harder. His mouth finds the curve of your neck, biting, sucking, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. Your fingers scramble for purchase, nails digging into his forearm, but it only seems to spur him on.

Then, suddenly, he withdraws. Before you can whimper at the loss, he pulls you to the velvet chaise longue next to the massive bookshelf and drags you up onto your knees. His hand slides down your spine, his palm pressing between your shoulder blades to press your upper body into the cushion.

"Stay just like that," he orders, lining himself up before slamming back inside.

The angle has you gasping, fingers curling into the dark red velvet. Every thrust is rough, punishing, and exactly what you need. Your moans grow desperate, pleasure coiling unbearably tight inside you.

“Don't you dare come unless I tell you,” he hisses with a strained voice.

Each thrust sends shockwaves through you, scattering your thoughts until nothing remains but the dizzying, all-consuming need to obey. Your vision blurs, the rows of bookshelves before you warping as your knees weaken beneath the force of his movements.

Tommy’s hands roam over your body with unrestrained possession, squeezing your ass roughly before delivering a few playful, stinging smacks. His fingers dig into your back, anchoring himself to you as if claiming every inch of your skin. By now, you must be covered in his marks, each one a silent testament to his dominance.

Suddenly, he grabs your hair, yanking you upright with effortless control. Before you can catch your breath, he grips your shoulders, spinning you to face him. His fingers clamp around your jaw, prying your lips apart as he crashes his mouth onto yours, devouring you in a searing, breath-stealing kiss. When he finally pulls away, his eyes glint with satisfaction, a slow, knowing smirk curling his lips.

"Look at you," he murmurs, tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his. "Already too dumb to think straight, eh?"

As if in a trance, you nod weakly. His fingers disappear into the heat of your crotch. You whimper softly.

“So fucking wet for my cock, so beautifully fucked open,” he praises you, before he drives his fingers, slick with your juices, into your mouth. Instinctively, you start to suck them clean.

“Good girl!” His grip shifts to your throat, tilting your head back just enough for his voice to curl into your ear.

Without a warning, he shoves you down onto his desk again, this time facing forward, your torso landing harshly against the cold wood. Before you can steady yourself, he grabs your wrists, pinning both arms behind your back with an unyielding grip. Then, without hesitation, he thrusts into you again—deeper, harder—pulling a broken gasp from your lips.

"Come for me, my little fuck doll" he demands. "Now."

And you do—helplessly, violently, your body shuddering around him as he fucks you through it.

“Oh, how I love the way your tight pussy twitches around me,” Tommy gasps.

With a groan, he pulls out, dragging you off the desk and onto your knees before him. His fingers tangle in your hair as he strokes himself, gaze locked onto yours.

"Open up," he commands.

You barely get your lips parted before he spills across your tongue and cheek with a deep, satisfied growl. His thumb swipes over your chin, smearing it across your skin as he exhales shakily.

“We both know this is exactly what you deserved, eh,” he lectures you. “And if you set foot in Arrow House again, don’t expect me to wait for an invitation."

Then, with a smirk, he tilts your face up to his.

"Don’t wipe it off," he instructs, amusement laced in his tone. "I want you to go back to the party just like that.”

His grin sharpens. "Let’s see if you can manage that without anyone noticing."

Without giving you a chance to react, he tugs your dress back into place and swiftly readjusts his own clothes. Then, without hesitation, he opens the door and pulls you back into the lively chaos of the party night.

***

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[vervainandspritz]

A LITTLE BIT HAPPY

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Warnings: hurt no comfort, swearing

Summary: It stopped working a long time ago, but it's so hard to let go when it's all you know.

A/N: Let me know your thoughts. K x

Clock ticking was the only sound in her apartment. Y/n was sitting by the table in a dim light, hand wrapped around a cup of tea long gone cold when the knock came just after midnight.

Her breathing stopped for a moment, heart pounding in her ears. Where should be fear hearing someone at the door this late, there's only anxiety.

Because somehow.. she knew it’s him.

She didn't move at first. Just sat on a chair in the quiet dark, arms wrapped around her knees, listening. The rain against the window, wind, the too-long silence that follows the first knock almost like he’s unsure if he wanted to try again.

Then another.

She opened the door.

Tommy stood there, soaked to the skin, swaying slightly like he’s unsure how he got there. His coat hanging crookedly off one shoulder, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, collarbone slick with rain, sweat and regret. He looked.. miserable.

His eyes, red-rimmed and tired, flicked up to meet hers for a split second before dropping them to her bare feet. Even through the alcohol, his mind burned with shame because he failed. Again.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” He murmured, his hands clammy as her presence deepens the ache, simultaneously silencing the thunder in his heart.

Her eyes lingered on his face for a longer moment, taking in the sight, the familiar lines and imperfections decorating his skin. Each scar making him, him.

Not trusting her own voice at the moment, Y/n nodded as she stepped aside without a word.

He stumbled in, slow and quiet, following her inside but keeping the distance. At least trying to.

The apartment was dim, smelling faintly of lavender and something uniquely her. Something he'd recognise in a heartbeat even though it’s been four months since he left.. or she left. They never really figured out who ended it, only that it had to end.

Tommy didn't sit, just standing in the middle of the room, water dripping from his hair onto the rug, eyes not quite able to meet hers for long.

“You look tired,” Y/n said softly, only now seeing more details. How sunken his eyes were, his cheekbones more prominent than before.

He huffed something like a laugh, desperately clinging onto the last shreds of dignity. Pretending again.

“Didn’t come here to sleep.” He responded in a low, gravely voice to which she nodded again.

“Then why?” As soon as the words left her lips she silently cursed herself, because he was drunk and she... Only made it harder.

A pause followed as he let his eyes wander before meeting her own. He was ashamed of his state, of the fact he came here after all the promises he wouldn't.

“It's been one hundred and sixteen days since we did.. this” He raised his hand, drawing a circle in the air as he couldn't find a word to properly describe it.

But she knew exactly what he meant, which made her clench her jaw in helplessness. It felt like her heart was swelling with pain, all over again.

”I know” She responded, looking at him with that sad expression. The same one she wore all these months before when they agreed to part ways. After several years of trying to bring back the spark between them. The connection that used to warm their hearts in the coldest nights spent separately.

Fighting so hard, unable to let go even when they both already knew. Knew that trying to bring back the flame was like.. trying to light a match in the rain.

His expression was a picture of bad choices and ever present noise separating him from her. The noise in his head that pushed him so far, far out of her reach where she couldn't catch him anymore. Behind the pain and distance he was still the boy she grew up with, under all the ruin. Still the one who kissed her behind the bakery, still the one who promised to write every week from France and tried to keep that promise until the dirt swallowed him whole. Until war carved something out of him and left a hollow in its place.

I know she said, because of course she knew. She’d been counting too.

Not out loud, of course. She would never let herself live it down, but in the way she noticed time. How each morning felt a little hollower, how each night stretched a little longer. How food lost taste and silence gained weight.

How lavender stopped comforting her because it reminded her too much of him... Of them.

The way they used to be when there had been a time when his voice was the first sound she heard in the morning. When he’d pull her into his chest half-asleep and mumble something incoherent into her neck. When his fingers would trace lazy circles on her thigh just because he needed to touch her. Not sexually, just to know she was there.

His fingers finding hers in public when he sensed she got anxious before either of them could even process it. Before she knew what those twisting feelings were.

Y/n was there with everything she had. Through every argument, every week of silence that stretched into months in his worse times that seemed to be never ending at times.

She had known his every version. The golden boy with the lazy grin. The quiet one reading letters from France with ink-stained hands. The broken man who came home from war with haunted eyes and trembling fists, only turning colder and more distanced with each passing day.

...and she loved them all, but loving him hadn’t been enough.

“We can’t keep doing this, Tommy,” she said finally, voice low, eyes locked on the floor between them. “It hurts more every time.”

Her voice carried the weariness and hurt. Thomas didn't answer for a longer moment, his eyes flickering to her form, taking in the sight of her sleepy self. Every inch of his body hurt with longing.

The floor creaked slightly when he stepped forward, moving barely couple inches to give her time to react. Knowing how damaging his next move would be to both of them, but he couldn't stop himself. Reaching out, his arms curled around her shoulders in a way he knew by heart, one so familiar he'd recognize the shape of her against him anywhere any anytime.

He held her like silence could be an apology. Tommy rarely could offer more than silence.

Like maybe, if he held her close enough, it might undo the last four months or the years before that.

She pressed her forehead against his chest again. It was damp, his shirt still clinging to him from the rain, but it didn’t matter. Her body remembered the shape of him. The feel of his heart against her cheek and that’s what made it worse.

Because the comfort was familiar and safe but it didn’t fix anything.

His breath was shaky against the crown of her head, chest rising and falling unevenly as though each inhale physically hurt as neither of them spoke.

And then, suddenly —he stumbled. Just a small shift, his knees giving slightly under him.

She caught him without hesitation. Arms moving around his waist to keep him upright, but the motion turned into something else. Her body against his, not in want but in ache.

A hug born from instinct, from the raw need of survival. Pain pressed into the shape of an embrace.

She didn’t mean to hold him like that, but she did and he didn’t let go.

One of his hands lingered on her back, the other curled weakly around the edge of her sweater, like his fingers couldn’t stand the idea of empty space between them.

After a longer moment of heavy breaths and silence that seemed to accompany them for years, he asked.

“Is it easier now?”

Her stomach twisted. It was so soft, so broken, and she hated him for asking it. Not because it was cruel, but because it was so soft, scared and full of all the things he couldn’t say. Full of the man she lost in the trenches and never managed to find him again.

He didn’t mean life without him.

Not exactly.

He meant: is it easier to breathe without all this weight? Easier to sleep, to eat, to be? Easier to stop hoping I’d show up at your door?

She wanted to lie, wanted to say yes. But even the thought made her chest ache as she felt his form trembling like a blade of grass.

“Don’t do this,” she said, voice tight, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder. “Please, Tommy.”

Her arms were still around his waist. His chin was close to resting on her shoulder now. He wasn’t holding himself up so much as letting her hold him.

And she did.

Because despite everything, despite how shattered they were she still couldn’t let him fall.

“I didn’t want to come,” he said after a long moment. “I told myself I wouldn’t. That I’d finally leave you alone.” His words were a little blurry, a little slower than he'd usually speak.

She closed her eyes.

“You came” Y/n said, unsure how he meant it. Whether she was angry at him for doing so, or so relieved she could cry.

”I did,” He confirmed with a dark chuckle, pressing his lips against her hair for a second. “Because the thought of not seeing you again made me sick. Like, physically sick.” His voice cracked on the last word.

She couldn’t look at him or speak. Her heart was too loud in her ears, her breath stuck somewhere behind her ribs.

“I know it’s over,” he whispered. “I know we can’t fix it. But I didn’t know where else to go with this… with all this fucking weight.”

The softness in the way he stood in her bloody living room, in his soaked clothes after one too many glasses of whiskey was the most she got of him in the last... A year or two. The realisation made her jaw clench, fingers tightening on his waist.

Why now? Why not before?

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her, his hands still gently resting on her waist.

“Tell me you don’t miss me.” He mumbled, leaning down and for a moment she was scared that he'd try and kiss her. She knew she'd let him. But he pressed his wet forehead against hers instead, shaky fingers brushing against her cheek. ”Even a little.” Added in a whisper.

Her mouth didn't open for a while, not finding the words to lie to him. Not feeling strong enough to make him leave and never come back.

Because the fact that she was still holding him said everything.. But also nothing at all.

”Tommy” She whispered, noticing how heavy he suddenly felt against her. ”Come to bed, we need to sleep,” Her voice was gentle, soothing like she was trying to calm a wild animal.

His breathing slowed almost immediately, body softening at the sweet tone. One that used to be pulling him out of the mud every night when he'd wake up soaked in sweat, reliving the nightmares of France.

Tommy nodded lightly and she pulled them to her bed.

She let herself fall asleep with his arm draped around her waist —heavy, warm and familiar. Not in the way it used to be, no, back then it was possessive. Safe. Full of unspoken promises.

Now it just felt borrowed, fragile and temporary, like it might vanish if she breathed too deeply.

But still…

She breathed.

For the first time in months, she breathed.

His chest at her back rose and fell in time with hers, and for that one quiet stretch of night, the world stopped hurting.

There were no words between them. No promises made.

Just warmth, silence and the gravity of him —like he still belonged there.

~~~

When she woke, the space behind her was cold.

She reached back blindly, hand brushing over rumpled sheets and nothing else. No warmth or weight.

Her eyes opened slowly, already knowing, because the room was too still and his sleep never was peaceful.

She didn’t need to look to understand what morning had taken.

He was gone.

No note, no sound of the door, no last glance from the hallway. Just… absence.

She sat up in bed, her fingers still resting on the place where he’d lain. Where his heartbeat had soothed something raw inside her just for a while. It felt like a trick now.

Like the night had been a dream that morning had laughed at.

The sun leaked through the blinds in fractured lines, dust dancing in the air, and just like that, everything they’d smoothed out in the dark was raw again in the light.

She drew her knees to her chest, pressing her forehead to them, trying to catch her breath.

Was she relieved?

Maybe. Maybe because now she wouldn’t have to unravel all over again. Wouldn’t have to say goodbye. Wouldn’t have to beg him to stay, or worse—ask him to leave.

Then why did it feel like.. she was dying?

Because it had been him. Because even just a few hours of peace in his arms felt more like home than anything had in months.

Because now that he was gone, it felt final. Different.

Like something in her had closed quietly in the dark and locked itself up. She couldn’t tell. Her body was too still, her mind too loud.

There was only the silence and her breath.

And that unbearable emptiness where he’d been

[vervainandspritz]

A LITTLE BIT HAPPY

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Warnings: hurt no comfort, swearing

Summary: It stopped working a long time ago, but it's so hard to let go when it's all you know.

A/N: Let me know your thoughts. K x

Clock ticking was the only sound in her apartment. Y/n was sitting by the table in a dim light, hand wrapped around a cup of tea long gone cold when the knock came just after midnight.

Her breathing stopped for a moment, heart pounding in her ears. Where should be fear hearing someone at the door this late, there's only anxiety.

Because somehow.. she knew it’s him.

She didn't move at first. Just sat on a chair in the quiet dark, arms wrapped around her knees, listening. The rain against the window, wind, the too-long silence that follows the first knock almost like he’s unsure if he wanted to try again.

Then another.

She opened the door.

Tommy stood there, soaked to the skin, swaying slightly like he’s unsure how he got there. His coat hanging crookedly off one shoulder, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, collarbone slick with rain, sweat and regret. He looked.. miserable.

His eyes, red-rimmed and tired, flicked up to meet hers for a split second before dropping them to her bare feet. Even through the alcohol, his mind burned with shame because he failed. Again.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” He murmured, his hands clammy as her presence deepens the ache, simultaneously silencing the thunder in his heart.

Her eyes lingered on his face for a longer moment, taking in the sight, the familiar lines and imperfections decorating his skin. Each scar making him, him.

Not trusting her own voice at the moment, Y/n nodded as she stepped aside without a word.

He stumbled in, slow and quiet, following her inside but keeping the distance. At least trying to.

The apartment was dim, smelling faintly of lavender and something uniquely her. Something he'd recognise in a heartbeat even though it’s been four months since he left.. or she left. They never really figured out who ended it, only that it had to end.

Tommy didn't sit, just standing in the middle of the room, water dripping from his hair onto the rug, eyes not quite able to meet hers for long.

“You look tired,” Y/n said softly, only now seeing more details. How sunken his eyes were, his cheekbones more prominent than before.

He huffed something like a laugh, desperately clinging onto the last shreds of dignity. Pretending again.

“Didn’t come here to sleep.” He responded in a low, gravely voice to which she nodded again.

“Then why?” As soon as the words left her lips she silently cursed herself, because he was drunk and she... Only made it harder.

A pause followed as he let his eyes wander before meeting her own. He was ashamed of his state, of the fact he came here after all the promises he wouldn't.

“It's been one hundred and sixteen days since we did.. this” He raised his hand, drawing a circle in the air as he couldn't find a word to properly describe it.

But she knew exactly what he meant, which made her clench her jaw in helplessness. It felt like her heart was swelling with pain, all over again.

”I know” She responded, looking at him with that sad expression. The same one she wore all these months before when they agreed to part ways. After several years of trying to bring back the spark between them. The connection that used to warm their hearts in the coldest nights spent separately.

Fighting so hard, unable to let go even when they both already knew. Knew that trying to bring back the flame was like.. trying to light a match in the rain.

His expression was a picture of bad choices and ever present noise separating him from her. The noise in his head that pushed him so far, far out of her reach where she couldn't catch him anymore. Behind the pain and distance he was still the boy she grew up with, under all the ruin. Still the one who kissed her behind the bakery, still the one who promised to write every week from France and tried to keep that promise until the dirt swallowed him whole. Until war carved something out of him and left a hollow in its place.

I know she said, because of course she knew. She’d been counting too.

Not out loud, of course. She would never let herself live it down, but in the way she noticed time. How each morning felt a little hollower, how each night stretched a little longer. How food lost taste and silence gained weight.

How lavender stopped comforting her because it reminded her too much of him... Of them.

The way they used to be when there had been a time when his voice was the first sound she heard in the morning. When he’d pull her into his chest half-asleep and mumble something incoherent into her neck. When his fingers would trace lazy circles on her thigh just because he needed to touch her. Not sexually, just to know she was there.

His fingers finding hers in public when he sensed she got anxious before either of them could even process it. Before she knew what those twisting feelings were.

Y/n was there with everything she had. Through every argument, every week of silence that stretched into months in his worse times that seemed to be never ending at times.

She had known his every version. The golden boy with the lazy grin. The quiet one reading letters from France with ink-stained hands. The broken man who came home from war with haunted eyes and trembling fists, only turning colder and more distanced with each passing day.

...and she loved them all, but loving him hadn’t been enough.

“We can’t keep doing this, Tommy,” she said finally, voice low, eyes locked on the floor between them. “It hurts more every time.”

Her voice carried the weariness and hurt. Thomas didn't answer for a longer moment, his eyes flickering to her form, taking in the sight of her sleepy self. Every inch of his body hurt with longing.

The floor creaked slightly when he stepped forward, moving barely couple inches to give her time to react. Knowing how damaging his next move would be to both of them, but he couldn't stop himself. Reaching out, his arms curled around her shoulders in a way he knew by heart, one so familiar he'd recognize the shape of her against him anywhere any anytime.

He held her like silence could be an apology. Tommy rarely could offer more than silence.

Like maybe, if he held her close enough, it might undo the last four months or the years before that.

She pressed her forehead against his chest again. It was damp, his shirt still clinging to him from the rain, but it didn’t matter. Her body remembered the shape of him. The feel of his heart against her cheek and that’s what made it worse.

Because the comfort was familiar and safe but it didn’t fix anything.

His breath was shaky against the crown of her head, chest rising and falling unevenly as though each inhale physically hurt as neither of them spoke.

And then, suddenly —he stumbled. Just a small shift, his knees giving slightly under him.

She caught him without hesitation. Arms moving around his waist to keep him upright, but the motion turned into something else. Her body against his, not in want but in ache.

A hug born from instinct, from the raw need of survival. Pain pressed into the shape of an embrace.

She didn’t mean to hold him like that, but she did and he didn’t let go.

One of his hands lingered on her back, the other curled weakly around the edge of her sweater, like his fingers couldn’t stand the idea of empty space between them.

After a longer moment of heavy breaths and silence that seemed to accompany them for years, he asked.

“Is it easier now?”

Her stomach twisted. It was so soft, so broken, and she hated him for asking it. Not because it was cruel, but because it was so soft, scared and full of all the things he couldn’t say. Full of the man she lost in the trenches and never managed to find him again.

He didn’t mean life without him.

Not exactly.

He meant: is it easier to breathe without all this weight? Easier to sleep, to eat, to be? Easier to stop hoping I’d show up at your door?

She wanted to lie, wanted to say yes. But even the thought made her chest ache as she felt his form trembling like a blade of grass.

“Don’t do this,” she said, voice tight, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder. “Please, Tommy.”

Her arms were still around his waist. His chin was close to resting on her shoulder now. He wasn’t holding himself up so much as letting her hold him.

And she did.

Because despite everything, despite how shattered they were she still couldn’t let him fall.

“I didn’t want to come,” he said after a long moment. “I told myself I wouldn’t. That I’d finally leave you alone.” His words were a little blurry, a little slower than he'd usually speak.

She closed her eyes.

“You came” Y/n said, unsure how he meant it. Whether she was angry at him for doing so, or so relieved she could cry.

”I did,” He confirmed with a dark chuckle, pressing his lips against her hair for a second. “Because the thought of not seeing you again made me sick. Like, physically sick.” His voice cracked on the last word.

She couldn’t look at him or speak. Her heart was too loud in her ears, her breath stuck somewhere behind her ribs.

“I know it’s over,” he whispered. “I know we can’t fix it. But I didn’t know where else to go with this… with all this fucking weight.”

The softness in the way he stood in her bloody living room, in his soaked clothes after one too many glasses of whiskey was the most she got of him in the last... A year or two. The realisation made her jaw clench, fingers tightening on his waist.

Why now? Why not before?

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her, his hands still gently resting on her waist.

“Tell me you don’t miss me.” He mumbled, leaning down and for a moment she was scared that he'd try and kiss her. She knew she'd let him. But he pressed his wet forehead against hers instead, shaky fingers brushing against her cheek. ”Even a little.” Added in a whisper.

Her mouth didn't open for a while, not finding the words to lie to him. Not feeling strong enough to make him leave and never come back.

Because the fact that she was still holding him said everything.. But also nothing at all.

”Tommy” She whispered, noticing how heavy he suddenly felt against her. ”Come to bed, we need to sleep,” Her voice was gentle, soothing like she was trying to calm a wild animal.

His breathing slowed almost immediately, body softening at the sweet tone. One that used to be pulling him out of the mud every night when he'd wake up soaked in sweat, reliving the nightmares of France.

Tommy nodded lightly and she pulled them to her bed.

She let herself fall asleep with his arm draped around her waist —heavy, warm and familiar. Not in the way it used to be, no, back then it was possessive. Safe. Full of unspoken promises.

Now it just felt borrowed, fragile and temporary, like it might vanish if she breathed too deeply.

But still…

She breathed.

For the first time in months, she breathed.

His chest at her back rose and fell in time with hers, and for that one quiet stretch of night, the world stopped hurting.

There were no words between them. No promises made.

Just warmth, silence and the gravity of him —like he still belonged there.

~~~

When she woke, the space behind her was cold.

She reached back blindly, hand brushing over rumpled sheets and nothing else. No warmth or weight.

Her eyes opened slowly, already knowing, because the room was too still and his sleep never was peaceful.

She didn’t need to look to understand what morning had taken.

He was gone.

No note, no sound of the door, no last glance from the hallway. Just… absence.

She sat up in bed, her fingers still resting on the place where he’d lain. Where his heartbeat had soothed something raw inside her just for a while. It felt like a trick now.

Like the night had been a dream that morning had laughed at.

The sun leaked through the blinds in fractured lines, dust dancing in the air, and just like that, everything they’d smoothed out in the dark was raw again in the light.

She drew her knees to her chest, pressing her forehead to them, trying to catch her breath.

Was she relieved?

Maybe. Maybe because now she wouldn’t have to unravel all over again. Wouldn’t have to say goodbye. Wouldn’t have to beg him to stay, or worse—ask him to leave.

Then why did it feel like.. she was dying?

Because it had been him. Because even just a few hours of peace in his arms felt more like home than anything had in months.

Because now that he was gone, it felt final. Different.

Like something in her had closed quietly in the dark and locked itself up. She couldn’t tell. Her body was too still, her mind too loud.

There was only the silence and her breath.

And that unbearable emptiness where he’d been

[vervainandspritz]

TASTE OF SHAME: Until It Takes

Dark!Thomas Shelby x Reader

Warnings: violence, dubious consent, swearing, coercion, manipulation, obsessive behaviour, somnophilia

Word count: 5.5k+

A/N: This is a little addition to my ongoing story named Taste Of Shame. This isn't 'canon' in this series.

Do you read? Leave a comment.

MASTERLIST TASTE OF SHAME

They had told her it would be temporary. Three months, maybe four, just until her father settled his debts with the Shelbys, that was the arrangement. Winter had long since passed, and so had spring. Now the trees were losing their leaves again, and she was still here. In the big, empty house.

They never said she couldn’t leave. But no one told her how she could.

Thomas Shelby never offered much information when she cautiously asked only every few months to not anger him. He gave her answers that sounded reasonable enough on the surface. There was unrest, he said. Trouble brewing. An ambush on one of the supply lines. Her father had sent word, yes, but then silence again. Best not to risk sending her out alone and besides, the black mare had taken to her so they needed her in the stables.

It was said like fact, not request. In a matter-of-fact voice he used whenever she asked stupid questions. So she stayed, clenching her teeth in frustration and hopelessness.

Y/n worked. She learned to keep to the edges of the room when the men came in loud and laughing from the Garrison. She stopped asking many questions, learning to appreciate the small gestures coming from the Shelby family. Getting along so well with Ada she'd sometimes leave, spend the night in her house, forgetting about the whole world.

But in Arrow House? She took up her own space in the building with quiet acceptance. Her room was bigger than necessary with several windows, a wooden chest and table that Mr. Shelby had ordered for her. The bed was soft, but it was his.

Like everything around. Everything in her world always belonged to Thomas Shelby.

She ate dinner with them sometimes, when it was expected. Finn would chatter at her, Ada would smile in that distracted way she had. On a good day John and Arthur would argue about something absurd until Polly cut them both off. Polly watched her differently lately. Not unkindly, but like she was trying to solve a puzzle and didn’t yet have all the pieces. Polly grew concerned about Y/n's wellbeing as the time went on. She noticed the way she fit herself into the background of their life.

Tommy barely spoke to her in front of them. Sometimes she wondered why he kept her under his roof? With the clear dislike in his stone cold face expression that made her doubt herself every other day. Made her feel guilty even though he was the one enforcing her daily visits to his office.

So she kept going, everyday after he came back home Frances would come knocking on her door and she knew it was time.

He was brisk, formal, uninterested. If she entered a room, he kept working. If she lingered, his gaze passed right over her. He never sat near or spoke her name more than necessary.

It hadn’t always been like that, once she thought, watching him work when the silence stretched thinner than usual.

The lingering memory of his behaviour early on, that one time she got a glimpse of the devil hiding under his skin. Forced eye to eye with him, his hand wrapped around her throat as she gazed up with her teary eyes, lips wrapped tightly around him.

One time it happened, and then it passed. He never mentioned it. Never touched her again or spoke a word to keep her from unravelling and doubting her own sanity.

Sometimes she wondered if she’d imagined it. The ice in his eyes that turned almost black under the filthy emotions he would never let anyone close to him witness.

If she’d made it up out of nerves or loneliness or some warped version of gratitude. Because he had taken her in. He had kept her safe.

Be grateful, he once said, taking notice in how pale her eyes became.

There were days she barely saw him. And then there were others when she caught him watching her from a distance, always briefly, always blank-faced, like he wasn’t really seeing her at all.

Polly had noticed. She never said it outright, but it was there. In the way her eyes narrowed when Tommy left the room just after Y/N entered it. In the tightness of her mouth when she said, “You’re still here, then?” like she was waiting for someone else to admit why.

But no one ever did, forcing her to smile weakly with a shrug before swiftly steering the conversation elsewhere. She didn't want to anger any of them.

So Y/N kept doing what was expected. She fed the horses before dawn, helped Finn with the ledgers on rainy days, stitched up Charlie's torn shirt sleeves when no one else had time. She kept herself useful and quiet.

That one day she felt even more haunted than usual. Lack of structure and uneasiness, constant anxiety making her feel ill. So she spent the whole day in the stables, accompanied by the creatures that made her feel at least a little bit alive. Crossing the yard she noticed the lack of light in his office window. He wasn't home.

Sighing with relief, she wordlessly climbed the stairs to her own room, taking a bath and lying back in bed. Darkness seemed heavier than ever, making it hard to breathe.

The house was still, the fire long burned down in the sitting room. Wind pressed against the old panes, sighing through the eaves and her candle had guttered out sometime after midnight, but she hadn’t noticed. She’d fallen asleep with the book still open beside her, breath soft and even, one arm curled beneath her pillow.

She didn’t hear the door. Didn’t stir when it opened slowly, silently, on hinges that barely dared to creak.

The figure that stood there did not speak, nor move for several long seconds. Just watched. Standing in the doorway Thomas watched her relaxed face, cheek pressed into her pillow.

The room was dim, only the silvered edges of the moon outlining the frame of her body beneath the blankets. Her hair had fallen across her cheek. One foot stuck out from the covers, twitching faintly in sleep.

She didn't come, disobeying him once more, Thomas thought, letting out a silent chuckle. His eyes felt heavy, but not heavy enough to fight off the sounds. Death, explosions and gunpowder lingering in the air he breathed in. Tommy Shelby could afford anything but peace, seemed like. Tilting his head, breathing in the smoke he watched her. Thousands of thoughts brewing in his mind, making it harder to make any sense out. He drank too much, once again.

He stepped in. Maids had already gone to bed, that much he knew. He subconsciously paid attention, working along his own schedule that nobody had access too. Just him.

Carefully. Like a man crossing into a church after hours, knowing he shouldn’t be there. He didn't belong, even though he owned everything in this house. This city.

The floor didn’t groan beneath his weight, because he was practiced at this. Stealth was a second skin now, after France, after everything. His hand lingered at the edge of the dresser. Not touching. Not quite.

Something in the way she slept had made him jealous, envy of the peace she was so good at finding in her sleep. Something he couldn't do, no matter how hard he tried.

Something in his eyes moved — not desire, not tenderness, but something quieter and slower. Heavier. As if looking at her undid a thread that he hadn’t realized was fraying.

She turned slightly in her sleep, murmuring something he couldn’t make out, unaware he was here again.

In the previous couple times he lingered, it felt wrong. Like his secret, one of many.

He'd stepped back, retreating like smoke, and closed the door behind him with the same silence he had entered and she never woke. In the morning, she would notice nothing out of place. No hint of anything altered. No missing time. She would go down to the stables like always, and he would be by the table again, sleeves rolled, jaw set, speaking to her like she was a stranger again.

But not today. They were coming for him, he could feel it. Someone wanted to take his crown. His place and the life he created. Grinding his teeth hard enough to cause some pain, he closed his eyes feeling numb.

Y/n moved in her sleep lightly, feeling heavy mass caressing her face. Hot breathe bounced against her face, a couple of top buttons coming undone. The other hand pulled the material down, baring her shoulder and collarbone to the darkness of the room. His breath deepened, nose pressing against her skin as he inhaled deeply. Only then did she start waking up, realizing something was wrong.

”What..–” She began asking but got cut off. A firm hand slowly pressed against her windpipe, not enough to actually choke or violate, just as an instruction.

His lips pressed against her temple, pulling her harder against his material covered chest.

”Be quiet, Y/N” He breathed out, pressing his lips against her skin again. Unknowingly to her, Tommy was squeezing his eyes shut so hard it was almost painful. His drunk mind could barely cope with her scent so strong around him, making him dizzy in the worst way possible. ”Just be quiet for me, eh?”

She let out a choked breath, feeling one hand pressing onto one side of her neck, keeping her against him firmly. The other hand grazing over her covered stomach.

He was breathing hard, that one she was sure of.

His breath stuttered against her temple, hands trembling even as they wandered. He didn’t know where to put them, on her waist, neck, tangled in the hem of her nightgown.. so he touched everything. Everything he’d told himself he wouldn’t.

Everything he’d stayed away from like fire. She flinched when his hand slid under the thin fabric and caught on her hip. His thumb rubbed a slow, possessive circles there. His lips ghosted across her hairline.

“You never fucking listen”

His voice was low, ragged.

She tried to speak, but all she managed was, “Mr. Shelby—”

“Don’t,” he breathed sharply. “Don’t call me that. Not now. Not when I—”

He pressed his face into the curve of her neck, inhaling like he could swallow her whole. His fingers gripped harder at her hip, keeping her still.

“You were supposed to come. I told you to come. Every day.” Another breath left his lips, hot and shaky. “But you didn’t.”

He leaned more of his weight into her, forehead pressed to her jaw. She was trembling, whether from cold or fear or something stranger, she couldn’t say. His hand stayed at her hip, rubbing slow, aching circles with his thumb, like trying to soothe a wound that wouldn’t close.

“You're hurting me, Y/N,” he whispered like a secret. “Never listening” Under the influence his voice was more raw, not as detached as most days. Filled with frustration and hurt. Y/n was.. scared. He was breathing hard like a wild animal, almost crushing her with his weight.

“Please, just—” Y/n tried to reason but he shook his head, clenching his jaw.

“No,” he muttered. “No. You owe me this.”

She inhaled sharply when his hand slid from her hip to her stomach, fingertips grazing the edge of her ribs. Still under the nightgown, still shaking.

“I need it,” he added in a broken whisper. “Be good to me, eh?”

She turned her head, trying to put space between them, but he followed. Tommy's lips brushing against her cheek, her ear, her throat like he didn’t care where as long as it was her.

”Apologize” he said, voice trembling. “Tell me you’re sorry for hurting me.”

Her mouth parted, unsure if she was breathing or choking. It was so unlike him, he felt like a ticking bomb.

“Tell me you didn’t mean to disobey me. Tell me you’re sorry for making me wait.” She heard his words, letting out a shaky breath of her own. His words made sense, she figured he was angry at her for not showing up to his office tonight. Yet the words echoed in her head with a double meaning... One she probably made up herself.

He kissed her jaw, hard and needy.

“Say it, Dove. Say you’re sorry and I’ll stop.”

But he didn’t stop touching her. Couldn’t. His hands were everywhere now, still under the gown, roaming like they had a mind of their own. Every time she shifted, his grip tightened.

“I waited all evening,” he mumbled into her skin, again and again. “All bloody evening. Thought you’d come. Thought maybe you finally understood, but you didn’t.” His breath hitched. His hand slid over her lower back, fingers digging into her spine like he was holding on for dear life.

She gasped when his hand shifted, fingers dragging low under the soft cotton of her nightgown until he cupped her fully, possessively, intimately.

Her breath stilled, just like the whole room. Y/n couldn’t even think.

The heat of his palm over her mound pulsed through her like a curse. Not moving, just heavy and claiming. She instinctively squirmed, a pathetic shift of her hips under him, but it only pressed her harder into his hand. He groaned at the sensation, like her resistance pleased him even more.

“That’s it,” he murmured against her jaw, voice low, frayed. “Go on then. Squirm for me.”

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes. Her lips parted and the apology slipped out, hoarse and instinctive.

“I’m sorry...”

A shaky exhale left his chest. He didn’t speak for a moment, just pressed a kiss just beneath her eye, where the first tear slid hot across her cheek. Then another, closer to her mouth.

“Don’t cry,” he said roughly, through his teeth. “Don’t fucking cry.”

He was almost on top of her now, his thigh pressing between hers, his weight unmistakable. She could feel the tension in his body, the restraint he was clinging to by threads. His hand still hadn’t moved, still held her, warm and firm, thumb brushing the edge of delicate skin with maddening slowness. Like he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m trying,” he growled, lips grazing her cheekbone. “Fuck, Y/N… I’m trying so hard to do the right thing, but you’re making it so fucking difficult.”

She tried to speak, tried to move again, but the sensation was too much. Too intimate and real. One she never felt before.

“You’re driving me mad,” he whispered, continuing, almost to himself now. Tommy's nose nudged against her temple. His hand finally moved just a fraction, but the barest pressure of his palm pushing against the heat of her, and her whole body jerked in response.

He didn’t stop. He couldn't stop.

“Tell me again,” he rasped. “Tell me you’re sorry.” Making her heart beat faster. Y/n never understood why he was doing this. Why he kept making her apologize like this ever since she started living here.

Her tears kept falling slow at first, then faster, soaking into the pillow beside her head. She couldn’t stop them any more than she could stop the heat that curled low in her stomach, making everything worse.

“You’re drunk,” she whispered. “Please, Mr. Shelby—”

His hand snapped up, covering her mouth in an instant.

“Don’t call me that,” he hissed into her skin, his voice low and desperate. Thomas pressed his lips to her throat. Just breath and pressure, like he needed to feel her pulse against his mouth to stay grounded.

“Say my name,” he whispered against her skin. “Say it.”

Y/n shook her head under his hand, wide-eyed, tears still falling freely. Feeling it, he groaned– a sound from deep in his chest, heavy with frustration and something darker and just then his hand moved.

Still between her legs, still cupping her… but now he was touching.

His palm ground softly, deliberately, over the bundle of nerves through the thin fabric. A lazy, maddening circle.

“You’re not listening,” he breathed, the tip of his nose dragging along her collarbone. “And that’s what gets us here every fucking time.”

She wanted to ask him what the fuck he meant every time, but she couldn't force a sound out. Just a weak whimper beneath his palm.

His other hand, the one still over her mouth flexed slightly, holding her still and possessive. Like he needed her quiet so he could justify this to himself.

“Stop crying,” he murmured. “Stop fucking crying, Y/n. I’m just… touching.” The circles didn’t stop, soft and slow. The kind of touch that persuaded and made her body react without permission.

“I’m showing you affection,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “Trying to be good to you.”

Another tear slipped down her cheek and he leaned in and kissed it, just beside the corner of her mouth.

“You keep acting like I’m a monster,” he whispered. “But I’m the only one who’s ever seen you, Y/N.” His breath was ragged and the wetness of her cheek smeared against his lips.

“I’m the only one who cares. And you—you just keep pushing me away.”

The hand between her legs moved more deliberately now. Still slow, still gentle and almost reverent, but this time, it meant something.

The pressure of his palm grew — slow, hypnotic circles that tightened her stomach and made her thighs twitch without her consent. The tension spiraled, unbearable and thick, like something coiled tight inside her chest and hips all at once.

She didn’t want it. She didn’t want him, but her body didn’t care.

“That’s it,” he whispered, lips grazing her neck. “Just let go.”

Y/n was trembling beneath him, her mouth still covered, eyes wide and wet as the heat bloomed and twisted. His voice was low, hoarse, possessive and curled through her like smoke. His breath shuddered against her cheek. His hand didn’t stop.

Then.. as she broke and the first wave of release hit her with blinding heat, his teeth sank into her neck. Sharp and hard.

“Fuck,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut as she tensed and whimpered into his palm, body jerking in his grip. “That’s it. Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

She shattered under him, completely helpless, silent except for the choked sound in her throat. Her tears kept falling, even as her thighs trembled and her hips rocked faintly against his hand.

Thomas didn’t speak or move. Just breathed.

When her orgasm finally faded into aftershocks, his hand stilled. Slowly, he pulled it from her underwear. Slick with the evidence of everything he’d done, of what she’d felt. Of what he made her feel.

He pressed that wet hand to her hip, smearing the warmth across her skin like a brand.

“Don’t cry,” he murmured again, quieter this time. Almost gentle.

His breathing was ragged when he buried his face in the crook of her neck for a moment, inhaling like he was trying to memorize her from the inside out. Her pulse and scent.

When he finally steadied, Tommy pulled back just enough to press a soft kiss to her damp forehead. Then touched his own to hers.

“Go to sleep,” he whispered.

Y/n blinked up at him, tears still tracking silently down her face. In the darkness she couldn't see his expression, only the outline of his face.

He stood without another word, hand dragging through his hair like he was trying to shake something off. He crossed the room in a few steps, paused in the doorway with his hand braced against the frame, and didn’t look back.

If he did, Thomas knew he wouldn’t leave.

The sheets stuck to her thighs when she woke. That was the first thing Y/n registered before her eyes even opened, before the pale morning light filtered in through the window. Her skin was damp, uncomfortable. Sticky between her legs.

Y/N blinked slowly, chest rising in a shallow breath as she looked around the room. Nothing was out of place. Her nightgown was still on, rumpled and slightly twisted around her hips. The air was quiet, thick with the scent of Tommy’s cologne from the night before as a subtle, lingering trace on the pillow beside her.

Slowly she sat up, and her thighs clenched involuntarily at the slick ache there. It wasn’t a dream.bThe realization hit her like a stone dropped in her stomach.

Dragging herself out of bed, she moved to the bathroom and flicked on the light. For a moment, she stared blankly at her reflection. Face pale, tired, lips parted. The corners of her eyes were puffy from dried tears. Her hair hung messily around her shoulders.

Then she tilted her head and her breath caught.

On her neck, above the collarbone, deep and unmistakably real bruise. Not just any bruise... Teeth marks. Faint purple spreading beneath the skin in a crescent shape.

She stared at it for a long time. Pressed her fingers gently to the skin, wincing. Tried to wipe it off with a wet cloth as if it were dirt, something temporary, something that could be erased, but it didn’t fade.

When she came down to the dining room, the long oak table was empty.

One of the maids — Anna, glanced up from her sweeping. “Oh,” she said, surprised. “Good morning, Y/n. Mr. Shelby left very early. Said he wouldn’t be back until late.”

Y/N gave a tight nod. Her voice didn’t come.

Anna hesitated, brow furrowing. “You alright, darling?”

In response she just forced a smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes, nodded and slipped past her without answering.

Even though she was used to him being gone most of the day, Arrow House still felt too quiet.

By late afternoon, Y/N had tucked herself into a corner of the sitting room with a book trying to read, though she hadn’t turned a page in over an hour. She kept glancing at the clock and thinking she’d hear the engine of his car outside.

Why was she waiting for him? Was it anxiety, fear or a weird... Excitement? She couldn't tell, maybe a mix of all three. Kept wondering what she’d say if he walked in.

If he’d say anything at all.

She didn’t hear Polly until the older woman cleared her throat softly by the doorway making Y/N jump slightly.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Polly said, holding a thin envelope in one hand. “Thomas asked me to drop these papers in his office.”

Y/N nodded slowly, setting the book down on her lap. Polly didn’t move right away, her sharp eyes swept over the room, then landed on Y/N’s face. She moved across the living room swiftly before her eyes caught on her neck and exposed collarbone.

Her gaze froze, just like her step.

Y/N realized too late that her nightgown neckline had shifted again and that the bruise was fully visible now, unhidden and damning in the light of day. Polly’s lips parted and eyes widened, then darkened in slow understanding.

Unable to hold up the heavy gaze, Y/n looked away and that was the only confirmation Polly needed.

She stepped forward not fast, but deliberate but her movements were stiff and controlled. Her hand tightened around the envelope.

“You’re leaving,” Polly said.

Y/N’s head snapped up, eyes widening in surprise and the suddenness. “What?”

“You’ll pack your things,” she said, voice harder now. “You’ll be gone before nightfall.”

“I—I don’t understand—”

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Polly snapped, her composure slipping just for a second. Her voice wasn’t cruel it was furious in a quiet, protective way. “You think I don’t know what happened? You think I haven’t seen this before?”

Y/N’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Polly strode across the room, opened the drawer of a desk, and pulled out a thick wad of notes, mostly tens and twenties, folded neatly into a leather pouch. She shoved it into Y/N’s hand.

“That’s a hundred pounds. That’ll get you out of Birmingham. Keep your head down. Don’t look back.” Y/N stared at her, wide-eyed, numb.

“But I didn’t—” she started to say, but Polly’s look silenced her. I know, her eyes showed. She sighed deeply, putting a hand over Y/n's shoulder with concern.

“I told him not to bring you here. I told him he wasn’t ready, but he never listens. And now look.”

Y/N’s fingers clenched around the pouch. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“I know it wasn’t,” Polly said, softer this time. “Which is why I’m giving you the chance to walk out of this with your soul intact.”

Silence was almost deafening. Y/N’s throat tightened and her vision blurred again. Polly looked at her for one long second. Her gaze wasn’t cold, it was sad. There was something like guilt flickering behind her eyes.

“This family breaks everything it touches,” Polly whispered. “Go now, before he finishes breaking you.”

When Thomas Shelby walked through the front door, the house was quiet. Not unusually so, just quiet enough to make him pause in the hallway for a second longer than usual. He took off his coat, hung it neatly, and headed toward the sitting room where a faint rustling could be heard.

Polly was there. Reading a newspaper she hadn’t looked at for more than ten seconds.

“Pol,” he greeted her In a smooth, tired voice, giving her a nod while lighting another cigarette. It was a long day.

She nodded. “Tommy.”

He glanced at the clock, then toward the hallway. “Has Y/N been up?” Thomas wanted to know, being aware of her difficulties with following instructions.

“She was,” Polly said without looking up. He blinked with another nod. Inhaling the smoke for a longer moment before letting it out.

“Tell one of the girls to send her to my office. It's time.”

One of the maids started to move from the kitchen, but Polly raised her hand. “No need.” Tommy turned slowly toward her with his eyebrow cocked. Polly folded the newspaper deliberately and set it on the armrest. “She’s gone.”

Silence.

His jaw shifted once. “Gone where?” Tommy's voice sounded a little different suddenly, a little lower and more gravelly.

“I sent her away. Back to her father.” Her voice was flat, purposeful. “Where she belongs.” You knew. He saw it in her eyes. Saw the truth snap into place between them like glass breaking under foot.

His nostrils flared, his facial expression neutral besides the tension. “Without asking me?”

“I didn’t need to ask.” She responded, her voice harsh as she tilted her head up. Meeting his gaze. ”She had to go. She doesn't belong here, Thomas.”

Followed by a pause, and then something sharp passed behind his eyes. Picking the cigarette from between his lips he tossed it into the ashtray a little harder than necessary. He nodded once and walked out of the room without another word.

Fifteen minutes later, every Shelby still breathing was gathered in the dining room. John. Arthur. Ada. Finn. And Michael, who looked more confused than the rest. Tommy entered last, sleeves rolled up, waistcoat perfect.

He stood at the head of the table, straightened his back and then... sighed.

“Right,” he said, checking the time on his gold watch.

Everyone felt the tension radiating off of him, the atmosphere shifting but then... then he smiled.

That smile that stretched on his face was the last thing anyone would associate with happiness. The empty, black stare etched into his features was horrifying.

The kind of smile that meant someone was going to bleed.

With one smooth motion, Tommy drew the revolver from his coat and without warning pressed it against the side of Michael’s head. Everyone froze, eyes turning into saucers.

Michael’s body went stiff. “What the fuck—?!”

Seeing the scene unfold, Arthur stood up. “Tommy—” But he cut him off with a hand in the air.

“Don’t,” Tommy said quietly. “Don’t fucking move.”

Ada’s voice cracked as she remained unmoving in her seat. Looking up at him with her eyes wide open in shock. “Tommy, Jesus Christ, what is this?”

But his eyes didn’t leave Polly’s, locked in a stare.

“You have about ten seconds,” Tommy said calmly, almost conversationally, “to tell me where she is before I blow the back of this little fucker’s head all over the wall.” His voice wasn't tense or angry, it was... Something else. Like the rest of sanity in his head broke with a snap. A voice of a man who spent four years digging tunnels and killing men with his own hands. Of a cold hearted murderer who sent hundreds of people to the cut.

Michael’s breath hitched. “Are you fucking mental?!”

Tommy didn’t blink, not once.

“One.”

“Tommy—” Polly started.

“Two.”

“Put the gun down, you bastard!” She screamed in fear and frustration, trying to judge whether he was bluffing.

“Three.”

Polly stepped forward, voice shaking now. “You wouldn’t.” she said with confidence but then.. Tommy’s grin widened.

“Four.”

“Tommy!” Arthur barked, not daring to move. John was completely silent the whole time.

“Five.”

“She’s gone!” Polly shouted, eyes locked to the barrel. “She’s gone and you’re never seeing her again!”

“Six.”

Tommy’s hand didn’t tremble. Michael was sweating, teeth clenched, jaw tight with fear.

“Seven.”

“Tommy, he’s your family—”

“Eight.”

He shifted the gun slightly, his eyes remaining locked on Polly's as he pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked through the room like thunder, plaster and dust exploded from the wall just inches from Michael’s head. A clean hole, sharp-edged and smoking.

Michael gasped, jerking violently in his seat, face pale, eyes blown wide with fear but Tommy didn’t flinch. He simply moved the gun back to Michael’s head, pressing it against his temple.

“Nine.”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Ada screamed and only then Polly lost it, hearing the fucking click.

“You fucking madman!” she roared, lunging forward. “You fucking psycho! Get away from him! That’s my son!” She shoved at his chest, hands trembling with rage. “You sick bastard! She’s in Surrey! She’s with her father! She’s gone, Tommy!” Her voice cracked as she pointed at him, hands shaking and her eyes narrowing in contempt. “And it’s your own goddamn fault.”

Silence fell again, heavy and sickening as Tommy stared at her, blank-faced. Breathing through his nose like he was still counting.

The barrel of the gun dropped. His arm went limp at his side. He turned toward the others, sweeping the room with one cold, empty glance.

“Meeting’s over,” he said.

The rhythmic clatter of the wheels was the only sound Y/N could focus on.

She stared out the window, hands tight in her lap, knuckles white against the fabric of her coat. Fields blurred past, but her reflection in the glass remained crystal clear: pale face, wide eyes, and a bruise on her neck she tried to cover with a silk scarf that didn’t match anything she owned.

She hadn’t eaten or slept.

All she could think was he’ll move on.

But still—

her stomach twisted in fear every time the train slowed.. and then it stopped. Too hard.

The passengers jolted, suitcases tumbled, a baby cried somewhere down the aisle. There were murmurs, concerned faces, people glancing around for announcements.

Then the conductor’s voice crackled overhead.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the sudden stop. There’s been an… issue on the tracks ahead. An obstruction, possibly an explosion. No injuries reported, but we’re required to stop the train. For safety.”

Y/N’s breath caught. The murmuring grew louder. Obstruction? Explosion? Her fingers gripped the seat.

The cars were being evacuated. Staff moved fast, ushering people out onto the gravel and field beside the line. They said it was precaution, just a delay.

But her body said otherwise and her instincts screamed.

She hauled her suitcase behind her, pushing through the crowd of elderly passengers, children clinging to mothers, people muttering about lost schedules. Something was wrong. She felt it in her spine. In her lungs.

The air was too thick, almost suffocating and she tried to push her way through the right crowd.

Y/n moved faster, chest tight, eyes darting scanning the crowd for what she didn’t want to see. Run, she thought, and then someone shoved her.

Not hard but just enough to knock her off balance. She tripped forward with a startled gasp and fell straight into someone’s arms.

She opened her mouth to apologize, panic already rising.. and froze.

That moustache. Those rough hands. The unmistakable grip on her shoulders, grounding her like a steel trap.

“Arthur,” she whispered, breathless. Terrified.

He didn’t smile or say hello. Just stared at her with grim eyes and pulled her up like she weighed nothing.

“We need to go,” he said, already tugging her toward the edge of the crowd. “There’s no time to lose.”

She stumbled behind him, the gravel tearing at her shoes. Her suitcase rolled, half-dragged. Her chest was tight, and the tears came again, sudden, hot and furious.

“No,” she said. “I can’t—what are you—”

“Don’t fight me,” Arthur said. “Not here.”

She didn’t even know if she was fighting. Her body wasn’t hers anymore. Just a blur of panic and shock and... something worse.

Something she didn’t want to admit.

The... relief.

Somewhere in that horror, that chaos — knowing he’d come for her, again, her gut clenched not only in fear, but in something close to recognition. She hated herself for it. Hated her chest for loosening. Hated that deep down she knew.. He never would’ve let her go.

Arthur shoved open the back door of the black car parked just off the path.

“He’s waiting,” Arthur said, as if that explained everything. “You’ve got five minutes before he gets tired of being nice.”

Y/N blinked up at him, rain starting to hit her face.

“Nice?” she echoed, her voice cracking. “You blew up a train track.”

Arthur just looked at her. “You don’t know what he’d blow up.”

The rain hadn’t stopped.

Y/N sat silently in the backseat, hands clenched around the wet scarf in her lap, the bruise on her neck still pulsing under her skin. Arthur didn’t say anything for the first few minutes. Just drove.

Then, finally, his voice broke the silence.

“You’re lucky, y’know.” He mused. She didn’t respond.

He glanced at her through the rearview mirror. “If I’d been five minutes later… they’d be scraping what’s left of that train off the trees.”

Y/n's eyes snapped to meet his, and her stomach turned.

“The steering car,” he said flatly. “That’s what he rigged. Front of the fuckin’ line. Driver wouldn’t’ve known a thing.”

Tears spilled again. Quiet, steady. Shame and fear tangled in her throat.

”Why?” She asked quietly, her throat tightening.

Arthur sighed and rubbed his face. “He hasn’t slept since you left. Put a gun to Michael's head.”

Y/N wrapped her arms around herself in a small hug, fearful and concerned as she whispered, “He’s not well.”

Arthur gave a bitter laugh. “He hasn’t been well since France.”

The silence stretched into a couple moments. Then he added a little softer:

“But this? This is new” He murmured. ”I don't know what happened, but.. it's Tommy. There's no changing his mind. ”

He looked at her again, eyes dark.

“There’s no line he won’t cross, I'm afraid.”

Frances nearly yanked the bedroom door open before Y/N could knock.

“Oh, thank God,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her chest. “Come in, quickly now.”

She moved like a woman on the edge of breaking protocol. Still composed, still proper, but trembling just enough to show she knew what Tommy had become in Y/N’s absence.

Y/N stepped inside, soaked and stiff. Her luggage was already there. Frances moved fast, unzipping, sorting, folding. She laid things out neatly on the bed, working with mechanical precision.

“He wants to see you,” Frances said, eyes fixed on the drawer she was filling. “In his office. Immediately.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “I just got here—”

“He’s been waiting.” Frances finally looked at her. “You should go now.”

She paused for a moment, looking at her with worry and.. pity. Then added quietly:

“I’ll finish this.”

Y/N nodded, feeling numb. She turned toward the door, hands trembling again.

Walking down the stairs felt like an eternity. Her legs burned from the run with her heavy luggage and from the uncomfortable position she sat in the car.

She didn’t knock.

Her feet were bare, soaked against the hardwood. Her dress clung to her like a second skin, rain dripping down her arms, hair tangled and half-plastered to her face. She looked small, already crying before the door even closed behind her.

Tommy stood behind the bar cart near the window, a crystal decanter in his hand. He didn’t turn around, just poured the amber liquid into two glasses. One for him. One for her.

“Why are you crying?”

His voice was calm and tired. Like he hadn’t spoken in hours and didn’t want to waste words now.

She tried to answer, but the sob in her chest caught on her throat. Her lips pressed together tightly, as if silence could undo everything.

“Because i'm scared,” she finally whispered.

He turned then to look at her. His eyes were ruthless in how exhausted they looked, deep shadows under them, lids heavy, bloodshot, and yet still burning into her.

“You should be,” he said.

He took a slow sip of whiskey, then walked toward his chair. Sat. He didn’t offer her the guest seat. Didn’t ask her to sit.

He didn’t have to, this time.

She stayed standing with arms wrapped around herself, shivering.

“A year ago,” Tommy said, watching the fire flicker across the glass in his hand, “you asked me to trust you.”

She bit her lip, fresh tears falling.

“I did,” she whispered. He raised his eyes to her again.

“And now that trust is broken.”

His voice wasn’t angry. It was quiet, Matter-of-fact and that made it worse.

“Come here.” She hesitated. “Closer.”

She stepped forward, each movement stiff like she was walking into something sharp. She stopped just in front of him, unsure where to place her hands. He set the glass down, then reached for her wrist.

“Look at me.”

She did, and what she saw unraveled something inside her — he was frayed. Hollowed. His pupils too wide. His breath too slow. He hasn’t slept, not a minute.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, looking into his eyes. Thomas didn't respond, he just pulled her gently, but firmly, into his lap and her breath caught.

His hand cupped her cheek. Rough thumb brushing away a tear.

“You never fucking listen,” he murmured. His tone was almost loving and that made it unbearable. He pressed her head against his chest, fingers in her wet hair, breathing in the scent of her like a dying man who’d found air.

“You disappointed Mr. Shelby, Y/N.” He said quietly, lips pressed into her hairline.

“I know,” she whispered.

Then the room fell silent before minutes later his fingers tightened in her hair.

She gasped softly as he tilted her head back exposing the delicate line of her throat. Her hands pressed to his chest but she didn’t push. His nose grazed her skin, and Tommy inhaled deeply, slow and possessive.

His face pressed to the crook of her neck, lips barely touching.

“Did you run because I touched you, Dove?” he asked in a low tone, warning her to be truthful.

The answer clawed at her throat. She wanted to say yes. Wanted to scream, scratch and escape, but she couldn’t lie. Not to him.

“No,” she whispered.

Hearing it, Tommy hummed softly against her skin. Something low. Dark. Like satisfaction wrapped in velvet. His hands slid to her hips, anchoring her.

“I lied,” he said, so quiet it barely reached her ears. “Saying it was temporary. Saying you’d go home one day. I lied, Y/N.” The honey-like tone of his voice was contrary to his cruel words. His lips brushed her skin as he added. “You’re not going anywhere.”

His voice coiled around her like a noose, and she just sat there, breath trembling, his scent overwhelming her, her whole body held still by the gentle cage of his hands.

Y/n was absolutely frightened, both by her reaction to his touch and the words leaving his mouth. She expected everything, violence, screaming or cruel words. She knew how explosive his anger was, but this... This was different. She didn't expect his lips on her neck and gentle tone. No matter how horrifying the content of his words was, her mind wasn't functioning properly.

”I'm sorry, Mr. Shelby” She repeated the one thing she could barely remember. His breathing was heavier, and the memory of her last night in the Arrow House hit her once again. The way his bodyweight felt on top of her, his hands greedily touching every inch he could get to. Desperation hidden between each letter and something so... Human, so utterly contradictory to how he carried himself on daily.

Maybe he wasn’t the devil, she thought at the moment.

Her eyes fluttered shut under the heavy sensation, and that's when he suddenly got up. Hands holding her hips tightly as he moved across the room. One of his hands moved onto her throat, holding it firmly but not squeezing. His eyes locked onto hers.

”Tommy” He whispers, his lips brushing against hers. ”You're a big girl, Y/n. Call me by my name” Thomas demanded, pressing her against him.

He knew he should have pulled away, stop before everything unravels. He couldn't force himself to listen. ”I want to fucking hear you say it.” He said in a low tone through his teeth, the fury in him growing. How could you fucking run away?

Y/n shook her head, trying to get some distance but he didn't let her. He kept her pressed against his chest, teeth grazing her skin.

”Don't make me repeat myself” He said quietly and she squirmed in fear.

”Tommy” She breathed out, wanting to appease him. Pushing through the doorway to his bedroom, Tommy groaned hearing it, leaning forward and pushing her onto the bed.

”Good girl” He said lowly, his eyes darkening with a raw need. He pawed at her wet clothes, peeling the layers away with impatience. ”Good fucking girl”

Y/n's eyes fell shut at the praise. She let him take and take, and take. His hands were everywhere and Y/n heard his belt buckle hitting the floor. Panic grew inside her making her hands shake.

”Wait, I–” She tried to tell him but Thomas didn't let her.

”Quiet, Y/N.” He hissed, pressing his forehead against hers. ”I can't wait, I'm sorry, I can't fucking wait anymore.” He gritted through his teeth, as his fingers rubbed small circles into her pussy, making her gasp.

Y/n wanted to regain some deniability. To tell him to stop, push at his chest or... Or just stop clutching onto his shoulders, but she couldn't. The filthy wetness was echoing loudly throughout the room as he slid his fingers into her untouched pussy. How ready and willing for him.

”You're not leaving ever again.” He groaned into her lips, pulling his fingers out as he freed himself from his tight trousers. Using the wetness to pump his length as he looked her in the eyes. Pure sin shining in his eyes, luring Y/n in. Without waiting another moment he notched his tip against her entrance, his hand catching her wrists and holding them above her head. His eyes were almost black as he couldn't tear the gaze away from her lips.

She squeezed her eyes tightly, holding her breath for the upcoming pain. Her body trembled with fear as she anticipated the feeling of violent agony. Of being used till he'd lose interest and she'd be left to bleed for days, like her mum.

Thomas watches her pained expression, one of his hands cupping her cheek. Baring his teeth in the extreme effort to stay still and not move while she adjusted to the stretch.

”Breathe,” He whispered, holding her hips tightly. After several moments she sighed quietly, her tight walls pulsing around him with pleasure. Feeling it, he finally moved pulling back before pushing deep into her.

She didn’t know where her pain ended and her desire began. He blurred every line and rewrote every rule. His thumb wiped her cheek lightly, his lips pressing against her temple. ”Don't cry, Y/N. He whispered, before his fingers found her clit again, rubbing her towards the edge.

Y/n's back arched off the bed, her eyes were squeezed shut at the sensations. She wasn’t sure who she’d be after this, only that she wasn’t going to be untouched ever again.

”Please–” She whined weakly, unable to stay quiet. She didn't know what she was begging for, her body was like dough in his hands. Hearing it, Tommy groaned again as his hips began bucking into her harder and faster. With each thrust he was going a little too deep, making her moan weakly at the top of each movement. His hips smacked against her own, taking her with desperation bordering on obsession.

He roughly wrapped his hand around her neck, pulling her off of the bed.

”If you ever try to leave again...” His voice sounded almost inhuman with the intensity behind his words. ”I'll tie you to this bed and set this house on fire”

The threat hung in the air between them, but Y/n couldn't think of a single word to respond. He wants me to stay, echoed in her head as he pressed his lips against hers. He wasn't just kissing her, Tommy was devouring every inch of her being.

She felt herself hanging on the edge again as he licked into her mouth and biting her bottom lip, causing her to taste copper. His sounds became louder, cursing under his breath in a language she didn't know.

Suddenly it all made sense when he pulsed and swelled, stretching her further. His face twisted in animalistic pleasure.

”N–not inside–” She tried to tell him but he pushed even deeper, making her wince as he hissed. His wet lips pressed against her jaw again, whispering.

”I'm sorry, love. I can't... Can't stop–” He bit down on the already bruised skin, breaking it as his hips pressed against her own, bottoming out.

Y/n whimpered, feeling the warmth filling her up, deeper with each movement of his hips. He soothed the blood with his tongue, bringing immediate relief.

She felt sore and stretched around him, her muscles still tensing in the aftermath of her strong climax.

He didn’t move, didn’t pull out. Just stayed there, buried so deep she could barely breathe, his hand splayed low on her belly like he already owned what might grow inside.

“We’ll keep going,” he murmured against her throat, voice rough with spent need. “Again and again. Until it takes.”

Her breath caught. Tommy sighed, a smile growing on his face, soft, reverent and unhinged.

“You’re going to carry my child, Y/N. My name. My blood. My fucking legacy.”

He kissed her temple, almost tenderly, caressing her cheek.

”i'm sorry, love. You will never be free of me” He whispered. ”Maybe I am the devil after all.”

[vervainandspritz]

Do you write CNC??? Or non con?? What are the hard no's when it comes to requests???

Yeah I do.

I won't write anything scat related and explicit homosexual sex. Besides that I'm pretty open, in the past I have written plenty of kinks.

Blood, knife play, watersports, non-con, dub-con, violent sex and stuff all around.

I'm a kinky bastard so feel free to send in.

[vervainandspritz]

Hi! Didn’t get the chance to vote in your last poll, but the dark smut thriller would’ve been my vote :)

Have you seen Sunshine (2007)? I feel like his character, Robert Capa, would be a perfect fit for that theme or in general a dark themed story.

also wanted to lyk saw someone asked about another of his characters and you mentioned your main focus right now is for stories with Thomas Shelby, which is totally okay, you write his character so eloquently!

been a fan of your blog for almost a year now, and I get so excited whenever I see a notification that you posted a new piece. thank you for sharing your work with us💗

Hi, thank you for a lovely ask!

I have seen Sunshine and I really liked it! Back in 2023/4 i wrote multiple one shots for Capa so I'd be happy to write one again sometime soon. If you have any particular plot on your mind, feel free to send in!

It means a lot truly, thanks for sticking around! ❤️

Kill x

[vervainandspritz]

are you going to interact with us like back then??

also do you know when TOS will be out?? thankyou

- 🌞

I am interacting! Just not to that extent. My health is better so I'm back to being a gym freak which takes a lot of time on top of daily tasks.

I write, pretty actively I'd say. There are people I interact with on here as well, but 'like back then'? Probably not. Learned the hard way Tumblr is not the way it was in 2015, most stuff should remain private.

Thanks

K x

[vervainandspritz]

Look, I do understand.

The one thing is, it's not that serious. I know it can be depressing or difficult to come to terms with when people get in your space like that, but that's the truth.

Take a deep breath and put the phone down. It doesn't affect you directly, it's purely online, just pixels on your phone. They don't know you and you don't know them, so don't let it bother you too much.

I'm blurring out usernames because I'm too old for petty behaviour like that.

Take care anon🫂

K x

[vervainandspritz]

can you write neil Lewis fic??? I didn't find any on your profile

I'm on my peaky wave once again so most of the stuff I write at the moment is purely Tommy Shelby, but I'm not opposed to the idea of different characters. Feel free to send in and ask and we'll see how it goes.

K x

[vervainandspritz]

Can you post the old fics on here? I miss them sm

Unfortunately most of them are gone. I had them saved on my laptop in 2023 but it broke down.

I'll write new ones though, no worries.

[vervainandspritz]

Send in!

Anonymously tell me your assumpmtions about me and I'll confirm or deny them.

!!!

[vervainandspritz]