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sadattemptofawriter · 2 years

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Dual Nature (Tommy Shelby x Female OC)

Summery: Life in Birmingham is hard for every unfortunate soul that lives in it, but it is especially difficult for women. And if that woman has no man of her own and no family to call her own, then life is difficult in even more convoluted ways. If that woman is fair of face, then she has little choice to become a whore. Minerva knows this and, tired of constant unwanted attentions she, hatches a plan. A plan that if done right will ensure her an honorable job with decent wages, and if undone will most likely get her killed. But she is willing to try anything to avoid prostitution.

One day, Minerva Griffin made a point to show herself leaving her home, moving out and leaving it for someone else. So that her brother, Byron Griffin, can come and stay. Byron Griffin, who is a scrawny lad, but eager to work with a funny girlish way about him.

Note: this was originally meant to be a reader insert series, but I got carried away with choosing names. I chose Byron for the male persona, and then the rest just came poring down. But if you want to, you can read it as a reader insert. I didn't include much of any physical depictions.

I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Warning: Canon conforming mention of violence. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.

Chapter 1 - Muddy roads of Birmingham

"Fuck.fuck. fuck." I mutter under my breath as I try desperately to fix the broken cabinet door. "Fuck this. Fuck this."

Finally exhausted, I slide down and sit on the ground my head leaning against the one measly barley held together chair. "Why did I thought I could do this? Why did I thought I could do this?"

When I sold everything I owned and moved to Birmingham, I knew my life would have been hard, I had no doubts about the hardships of the working class. But I suppose I was still very naive and optimistic if I thought I could easily adapt to it. Knowing is one thing, but actually doing it is something entirely else.

Why I thought a young girl of previously upper middle class can survive in Birmingham is beyond me. I suppose at the time I thought it would be better than staying in London, in that empty house I could no longer afford to maintain. and much, much better than to get married just for the sake of a roof over my head. I thought my father and six brothers going off to France, leaving me and my heart broken mother had made me stronger, made a more capable woman. But I suppose I still had privileges then I didn't know how to live without.

But I don't have any of those now. I don't have a mother to help me with cooking or sewing, no. She got remarried and moved to America with her new husband. Logically I know I can't blame her, the war took away seven of her family. Her husband that she had loved, my father, and six of her sons. I just wish I was enough reason for her to stay. Hell, I just wish I was enough that she would want to take me with her. Album she had married a younger man, and he didn't want to raise another man's child. I understood that. Maybe I shouldn't have been so understanding.

I came to Birmingham, to get closer to him. To where he started at. To where he was. Then again, he had made it so very clear he didn't want me or any of my brothers here, in all the mud and soot and filth. I get it now. I didn't then.

Shaking my head I get up once more to have another go at the cabinet door. I had made a decision, I had made a choice. To give up being an upper middle class lady that's barley saving face and go down to my late father's roots.

He married up. I know that much. He and my mother had fallen in love at the races. He had been a working class stable boy, working for my grandfather and my mother had a prized purebred horse she would visit every day.

Here, without a man, without a father or a brother all I am is a pretty face. If I'm not a whore now than I am considered a soon to be whore. If only I had a family member. A mother or a brother even if younger. But a lone woman? I must be one of those then.

I pick up the tools I had borrowed and began to fiddle with the damn door again. The first few days of Birmingham's general roughness had already made my hands bleed a few times. That is not to say my hands no longer bled. As if to prove a point to me, right then my palms bled again, the tools too hard and rough for my hands. I learned to ignore them. If I wasted time over every cut I get I wouldn't be able to get anything done here.

Finally, the door is back on its rusty hinges and swinging pathetically while letting out a whine. Satisfied with myself, and I definitely am since i managed to fix a door hinge all by myself with no help, I get pack on my feet and pick up the tools to return them to my neighbor. A Mr and Mrs Harrison, an elderly couple whom I rent the room from.

Mr. Harrison worked at one of the factories, one that made car parts. He had lent me the tool box from the there and told me to return it there once I was finished. And that was exactly I planned to do.

I got dressed to leave. I missed the old clothes I had back on London, the silks and the furr and the soft cashmere. Not to mention the high quality lace works. But within days of my mother's departure I had to sell them all off to save money. Money for food and money for rent. Instead, I bought whatever the stores here were selling. Simple, modest working class.

"You are a working class woman now. It's not right to think yourself separate." I tell myself. Sometimes it's hard to remember. When you grow up in silk and fine cashmere and hand made leather, it's hard to suddenly see yourself in the shoes of the leather makers.

A simple black dress, black shawl and shoes. Mourning clothes. It may have been two years or so, but is till mourned my father and brothers. I had to, for them, for their sacrifice. I grab the heavy tool box and begin to haul it along to the factory. My hands hurt, my knuckles gone white. My once polished nailes, now chipped and dirty with oil dig intoy already red palms.

One step at a time, I tell myself. One step at a time. Keep your eyes forward to your goal. Ignore the mud that splashes on your shoes, ignore the dirt that clings to the hem of your dress. Ignore the men watching you. Ignore the lewed, filth that leaves their mouth. Ignore them. I can ignore them just as I can igore the pain I my palms and the aching I my arms.

It hadn't been long since I came to Birmingham when I learned that the men of the lower class feel no need to be gentlemanly. No societal pressure for them to be polite. If they wished to be good men, then they were because they wanted to. And if they simply wished to be crass, not even a holy Mother would stop them.

They were not bad men. This much I could admit. But it was Birmingham itself. A pretty young girl with no one in Birmingham? She must be a whore then. It's fine. I thought, I could power through it.

At the door to the factory, I expect to see some sort of guard or a doorman. Someone to keep track of who goes in and who comes out. I see no suck person so I enter the factory, looking around to find either Mr. Harrison or someone who could point me to Mr Harrison. But strangely enough I see no one. No one seems to be working at their stations. I wonder if today is a day off? I doubt Birmingham factories have day offs but who knows. That us until I hear the voice of a man giving a speech.

"...or do they sit at home? Comfortable, With a full belly. While you scrape enough to find shoes for your children's feet. And what is the reward they offer you for the sacrifices you made? They fucking cut your wages! That is your reward. Raise your hands those of you who wants l to strike." A tall man standing on a staircase yells. He's surrounded by factory workers as they cheer and shout their agreement.

"Bloody communists." I huff under my breath. Their ideals are nice, fair wages and equality of the classes. But ideals are different from reality. One shoulder abandon reality for ideals.

I think of myself. Ideally, I should be in London, in my old home. With my latest fashion dresses and my delicate feathers. Ideally, I should be able to sit at a table with my mother and my father and my brothers. All of them alive and well. But reality is different. Reality is that I am here, without family. Standing in the mudd and soot Birmingham. Reality is that I can't find a decent job, because either it's not women's business or I'm not good at the damn thing. Reality is that I'm not originally a working woman, I don't know washing or sewing. Reality is that I am one of the full bellies these men are condemning. At least I used to be. And reality is, I need to start filling my belly and earning money. Not my head with stupid Russian ideals and strikes. "They'll stop day dreaming if they know what's good for them."

"And what's a pretty little missy such as yourself doing here?" A voice calls out from behind me.

He looks at me for a bit. Chewing something in his mouth. He takes off his hat and scratches the back of his head while letting out a low rumble of a laugh.

I turn to see a middle aged man behind me. Another factory worker no doubt.

I turn ony heels and show him the tool box. "I came here to return this to Mr. Harrison who lent it to me."

"Funny." He says amused, as if I had told him a joke. "It's fine, you don't have to come up with a story to be here."

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"How much?" He bluntly asks.

"I don't understand. How much what?" I did understand. And I hated that it happened so often that I did instantly understood. But it helped to play dumb. It helped me buy some time.

"I get it, I get it. Works been hard. It's been hard for everyone. You can't just waite for the clients to come to you, you have to come here to them. Good business plan sweetheart. Now I'm here. How much? " he snickers as he steps closer to me.

"Leave her alone Mac. Eh. Leave her the fuck alone. Scurry off to yer job if ye want to keep it, eh." Comes another man, much older than the twat before me, with a leather apron and a limp.

I recognize him immediately. It's Mr. Harrison. I smile at the elder man and bow my head for him. "Hello Mr. Harrison. I came to return the tool box."

"Ai. I've got eyes lassy. I can tell." He gives a crooked smile and walked closer with his limp. "Give me that." He takes the tool box from my hands and shoves it to the other man. Mac he had been called.

"Take this." He grunted. "And I'm telling you now Mac, she's no whore. She's renting Mary's room. Alright. You leave the girl alone."

"Got it, got it." Mac says, still laughing with amusement. He shakes his head walks away. Despite the conversation that happened, I can't help but just to focus on the fact that, that man can so easily pick up the tool box I hauled pathetically behind me.

"Come on lassy. I'll walk you back home. This no place for a young woman like yourself to be walking around. Factory's are dangerous. Full of sparks. I say this 'cus you remind me of me daughter."

"Thank you Mr. Harrison but I don't want to disturb you while you're working." I try to keep my voice neutral. It won't do any good if I break down crying over a small conversation I wasn't even a part of.

But damn it. I wasn't part of that damn conversation. It was about me. And I had no say in it. This Mac person thought I was a whore and it took another man to tell him off. Dammit. I'll never get used to this. Never.

It's like being a woman has turned from beingy little blessing to my curse over night. I move from London to fucking Small Heath and suddenly my status from a young miss changes to whore. And I don't even get a say in it. Fuck.

"Nonsense.i can't let you walk home alone. The sun's setting as well. Come. Come." He ushers me to the door and we both walk out.

We walked home in relative silence. there was soot and ash in the air and my black hat had turned pale gray. I look around as we walked, bored of the silence but also resigned to my fate.

The sun is setting and the streets are dark, the men are hitting the pubs and there are already a few drunk out of their minds. And yet, still I see boys playing out and about. Children as young as five, all boys, running and shouting.

"There are kids playing outside still." I note.

"Yes.well. young boys need to be out and play. What are we going to do? Keep them inside? They'll break everything." Mr. Harrison laughed.

"I suppose." I couldn't help the resentment and annoyance I felt. Here is was, a grown ass woman of twenty-five, being walked home by my neighbor because it's too late and dark and dangerous for a woman be walking home alone but kids as young as five are fine to running around on the account of being a boy. Once again I felt like being a woman was stuck to me more like a curse than anything nowadays. Like a stain I couldn't clean or a stench I couldn't get rid off.

I wonder, if it would have been easier if I was a man? Mom would have still remarried and left. Her new husband now would have wanted me even less. My father and brothers would have still gone to France. But at least, maybe then, maybe I could have gone with them. Been with them.

At least I know one thing for certain. If I were a man, I could have carried that tool box easily, would have known how to fix things. Would have been able to find work easier. And by God know one would have thought I was a whore. I wouldn't need to be escorted home. Hell, I would have been allowed in a pub then.

I shake my head to get a clear head. To shake off the resentment and the annoyance. That's wheny eyes fall on a corner where a commotion is. It doesn't seem like men getting drunk, nor does it seem like a fight.

Trying to distract myself from all the dark thoughts circling my head, I ask. "What's going on over there?"

Mr. Harrison, who was lighting his probably tenth cigarette by know took q glance over at the commotion. "Nothing of concern lassy."

I glance at him and wait for him to continue. He clearly didn't want to but silently asked for more information. That was one of the good things of being a woman that still worked for me. The moment a man sees you as their daughter or sister figure, you can ask them anything and they can't resist it.

"That's Charlie Strong's yard. It's also where the Shelby's keep their race horses. News been around the last stable boy they had around to help, hurt one of the horses. Curly, he's the big man over there, " he gestired to a man who was frantically arguing with another older man, Charlie Strong I assumed. He was waving his hands around and shaking his head.

"Yes, that's Curly. He's in charge of the stable and is very particular about the horses. They fired the boy a month ago. But since then they haven't found anyone to take his place." Mr. Harrison said.

"Why not? Are there not many who know about horses? I doubt that." I pry in a little more. The gears in my head turning as a little plan hatches slowly.

"Like I said,he's particular about the horses. Loves them to death. No one seems to be good enough to work there. But he's trusted by the Shelby's so what he says goes."

"I see."

Mr. Harrison turns to me, eyes squinted and flicking his tongue over his dry lips. It's almost as if he can see the gears in my head turning or he can see the evil grin I'm trying to hide.

"Now you listen to me lassy, you stay away from Charlie Strong's yard. Ye hear me? It's where them Peaky devils hang and nothing good cones out of them noticing ye." He warned me, flicking his finger at me. Mr. Harrison reminds me of my father with the way he warns and wards off people from bad life choices. My father was a wise man.

My father was a wise man and if he knew what I planned to do, he would have a heart attack. I can almost hear him say it. "Nothing good comes out of you going to a stable." Or "nothing good will come out of you being so rowdy. Yer a girl. Be like one."

For a split second I close my eyes and send a prayer to my father and brothers. It was an incomplete plan, but what I had for now was good enough. The rest I will think of when I get to it.

"Oh no, Mr Harrison. Not me. You see, I received a letter from a cousin of mine. I'm going to the country to stay there." I lie through my teeth, still observing the man named Curly.

"You leaving lassy?" Mr Harrison seemed surprised. He spat his cigarette on the ground and stopped it. It was his way of giving me all of his unwavering attention.

"Yes, I'm going to the country to live there with my relatives. A cousin of mine,however will be coming to work in Birmingham. He...hes good with horses. He would love to work with them here as well." Well. Not a lie. Not entirely. I am absolutely not going to be living with relatives since both my parents had been disowned. My father's side were members of the IRA and didn't like that he went to fight for the crown and my mother, well, she was an upperiddle class lady who left a wealthy land owner at the altar to elope with an Irish horse trainer. Their love story used to be like a fairytale to me. But it is true, father may have tried his best to keepy lady hands clean and soft but... I grew up watching him train horses. It was bound for me to find the tame creatures better company.

"I see." Was all Mr. Harrison said. However his face seemed to say that he was pleased to hear that I was leaving. I suppose any man would prefer their daughters to not live in such a place. Perhaps Mr. Harrison thought the fair air of country would do me well. Let him think that.

"May I go and ask about the job?" I asked. I really didn't need to ask but somehow, the feel these men had about them didn't allow me to just casually walk up to them.

"Hen. fine. But I'll be coming with ye. I'll talk, it's men's place this yard." He grunts in his usual sour and fatherly way and limps away towards the meb and I follow suit, trying to walk in a way that us both confident and yet respectful.

Mr Harrison's steps were bigger he reached them men sooner. He took his hat off and with an air of respect and submission began talking to them. He had his head bowed and his shoulders hunched. It made me wonder the weight they carried. He was an elderly man and I know he had been to France. His sons hadn't returned, much like my brothers and his daughter had married away, moved to Glassgaw with her husband. I almost felt sorry for using him like this. In his mind he was helping me, doing a young gurl a favor. But I had made my resolve. Reality is different than fantasy, different than ideals. I need to be more cutthroat, more ruthless, more.... morally gray to be able to survive here. this small town wasn’t a place for a lady than i shouldn’t have to other being like one. I should only think of my own good first. that’s reality. the sooner I get over it, the sooer I can get to actually living.

I refuse my fate to be either marriage or prostitution. If I've got no man, than by the devil I swear I'll be my own man.

"Gentlemen." I greet them all.

"Harrison here tells me, you've got a cousin coming here for a job." Mr. Strong says as he looks me up and down. It's not a bad stare not something to make me uncomfortable but, it's just a quizzical look. Like he wants to see if I'm worth beting on.

"Yes Mr. String. I'll... I'll be leaving around tomorrow morning and if timing is right, hell be here the day after." It's risky, givingy self so little time to prep. But it's also good, I won't be able to back out of it. And they wouldn't be able to say that it's too late.

"And you expect me to give him a job when he's not here yet?" He asks, leaning on a shovel. His old pale eyes staring me down with a wisdom that only comes with age and experience.

"No sir, I simply owned him a favor and thought since he's coming here to Birmingham to work, I thought I could see if there us any work with horses around. His father is a horse trainer and he's good at it too. All I ask is to give him a chance." I say. Trying my damnedest to smile innocently and not let them know I had a terrible plan in mind.

"No. no. We can't trust them Charlie. They'll hurt the horse Charlie. No. No." Mr. Curly says frantically, as he shakes his head and arms.

"Oh, shut up Curly. You've rejected everyone who knew anything about horses in this damn town. Only other person who can, is now Tommy and you can't ask him to be a stable boy." Charlie Strong, despite being a frail old man had an authoritive voice, like a shaggy Irish Wolfhound. He snapped at Curly and the other man despite being taller and much larger, obediently quieted down. A draft horse came to mind. Big, Strong and sturdy but all gentleness and skittish attitude. I alredy like Curly and I’m sure I can get him to like my cousin as well.

"Fine then. Tell him come but I won't guarantee he will get a job." He huffed to me. "Now go, shoo. This no place for a woman. "

"Thank you. That's all I asked." I say politely as I could and gave a slight bow if my head. Then turned and walked away home with Mr. Harrison.

Tonight is going to be a hell of a night.

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hb-writes · 2 years

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Little Lady Blinder - Chapter 31

Creature Without A Heart, 1919

Also available here on ff net or here on AO3.

Chapter Content Warning: canon-typical content, Clara's scared of cars. That's about it, I think.

John left the shop huffing and banging the breakfast tray against all that was in his way. He'd nearly told Tommy to fuck off when he'd suggested John take the remnants of Clara's conference with him when he go, but then John thought better of it. He'd been chewed out by Tommy enough already for one morning. He didn't want to get chewed out again...especially not over something stupid as a bit of housekeeping.

It wasn't even about him, not really. John had convinced himself that whatever had happened in the last quarter of an hour hadn't been about him. It had been about Tommy and it had been about Clara, but they'd both taken it out on John.

Clara was stropping about like a brat over something Tommy must've done or said, but John was the one who'd caught her wrath. And even after her show and dance, it had been John who left the meeting having received Tommy's insufferable stares and his short words.

And so what if John had let Clara borrow a cap with a blade still sewn in? So what? She was smart enough to keep her hands free of that sort of trouble. Or that's what everyone always said—that their Clara was so bloody brilliant and clever. But even if it gave a viable explanation as to why Tommy was short with John, it didn't explain whatever problem it was his sister seemed to have with him.

And Tommy had been no help in figuring it out. He offered no explanation for their sister's mood or his easy dismissal of it. John supposed it was fairly typical, that. They never explained themselves. They didn't seem to think they owed it to the rest of them and John just couldn't follow it anymore—the shifts and twists of what was permitted and what wasn't, who Clara was happy with and who she wasn't.

Tommy seemed to be unhappy with most people most of the time. At least that bit was predictable.

But Clara…well, John thought he had been in a good place with his sister. She'd been happy enough when he sent her off with Finn on his little delivery errand. And Finn said they'd delivered their letter. There'd been no problems to report.

John thought Clara would be happy to help out with the kids, happy for an opportunity to get to know Lizzie a bit. He had hoped Clara's presence to wrangle his lot would help endear the kids to Lizzie. He'd thought it was a good plan, but as seemed to be the way of things now, Tommy'd somehow gotten in the middle of things. John's brother was none the wiser to his plans—he'd told no one but Clara about Lizzie—but he was still mucking things up.

John let the breakfast tray slam down on the table when he set it down, clattering the carefully placed dishes and rattling the cutlery. He picked up the remnants of Clara's jam-smothered bread and bit into it. There was no sense in wasting a perfectly good breakfast.

John washed the bread down with the leftover tea—room temperature and overly steeped. He grimaced as he swallowed it down, his gaze catching sight of Clara as he glanced up.

She was positioned on a spare chair that lived deep in the far corner of the room. Clara was surely intent on staying out of sight and she was barely breathing for fear of being spotted, but John knew she was there. And with her face hidden behind a book, which was no surprise. At least that, too, was still predictable.

John ignored her. He swiped a finger across the plate, collecting the fallen jam and carrying it to his mouth. The faintest hint of a smile crossed Clara's mouth as he did it. John went back for a second and a third swipe, making certain the plate was clean.

John looked up, locking his gaze on Clara for a moment. She quickly smoothed her face of any reaction, lifting her book so it covered most of her face again.

John scoffed, mistaking Clara's avoidance and uncertainty for a continuation of their earlier exchange. The heat of anger rushed through him, leaching into his tone as he moved toward the door.

"I'm leaving by seven. Don't be fucking late, alright?"

John paused by the front door, waiting, and then circling back to the dining room when he didn't hear Clara respond. If it had been Tommy asking, John imagined his sister would've given an answer. She wouldn't be ignoring him, acting like such a brat, and if he did, Tommy wouldn't let her get away with it.

John stalked back to the corner where she had stood in the dining room just before, ready to demand his answer, but he found the room empty. He checked the kitchen—that, too, was empty.

The book she'd been holding was now sitting on the table. It had been no more than a few seconds that had passed. John knew she couldn't have gone far.

A creaky floorboard squealed behind him, the sound he recognized as coming from the wood making up the fourth step leading up the stairs. John moved to the bottom of the staircase. Clara stood there a few steps about him with her eyes tightly closed, one foot lifted in the air while she braced herself against the wall.

It dawned on John she'd been hiding from him, a realization that stung more than he had maturity enough to admit. John was used to being the one Clara ran to for a bit of shelter. She didn't hide from him, not unless he'd threatened to tickle the life out of her. Seeing her like this, it prickled, but the sting of Clara's uneasiness with John was less sharp than the sting of everything else that morning.

"Oi!" John shouted. "Get down here."

Clara opened her eyes, startled by John's sudden presence at the bottom of the stairs. She took tentative movements until she stood just one step above him.

"I said be down to my place before seven. Did you hear me?"

Clara nodded.

"Good," he answered. He reached out and tugged his borrowed cap from her head. "And this isn't a fucking toy."

Clara's hair fell down around her as John pulled the cap free. She'd carefully stuck it all away in his cap to prevent it from getting dirty and tangled at the yard, but that effort was all wasted now. Frustration prickled at the edges of Clara's eyes. Her emotion was so near to boiling over once again, but Clara tried to hold it back, squeezing her fists and eyes closed.

John sighed before reaching out for her. Clara flinched, batting his arm away with one arm while she pushed at his middle with the other. "Enough, alright?" John caught her wrist, his hold more gentle than she was expecting. "I'm just trying to help with that mess on your head."

Clara relaxed a bit at that and John tossed the hat on the table behind him before setting both hands on Clara's shoulders to turn her about. John ran his fingers through his sister's hair, snagging on the tangles she'd made stuffing it all up into the hat. Clara flinched at the pulling, but she didn't complain, simply squeezing her eyes shut against the pain until John started weaving her long tresses, pulling the hair tight across her scalp and making her head jerk whichever way he pulled.

John was usually more gentle, but Clara accepted his rough handling as a better alternative to more shouting. And she knew better than to say something. When she complained about Polly pulling too tight, Clara could swear the woman somehow managed to pull her hair even tighter.

Clara winced at one particularly tight tug, an impulsive hiss coming through her lips as she involuntarily pulled away from her brother, doing more harm than good as the hair strained more against her scalp. John paused his braiding as Clara straightened up, softening his grip as he continued.

"Ribbon." John held out his hand.

Clara loosened the ribbon tied around her wrist and passed it up to John. She pressed the heels of her palm into her watering eyes.

"So, you'll be to the house by seven," John started as he worked to tie off her braid. "And Lizzie should be there by—"

"Lizzie Stark?" Clara turned to John, her stomach clenching at the thought of seeing the woman and the fact that she might tell John about what had happened when she and Finn delivered the letter. John was already sore with her. She imagined her brother would make no effort to keep her secret if Lizzie told him under the present circumstances.

John raised an eyebrow. "I told you yesterday she was sitting with them. What other Lizzie do you know?"

Clara ticked off a silent, involuntary list in her head—Aunt Polly was technically a Lizzie, and there was Lizzie Weston from two lanes down. At least two Lizzies went to the local school as well, but Clara didn't say so.

John had been expecting her to, but Clara just shrugged, scuffing her boot at the edge of the step narrowly missing John's leg.

"Alright, what's with you?"

Clara shrugged again and John forced her chin up so her eyes met his. John nodded to his left, toward the shop doors. He lowered his voice. "What happened in there with—?"

"Nothing," Clara mumbled, pushing his hand away.

John shook his head, looking over his shoulder once again. "Don't worry about him, alright? He—"

"He didn't do anything," Clara answered, resting against the wall and folding her arms over her chest.

"Alright," John conceded, mimicking her gesture. "What did you do, then?"

Clara shook her head. "Nothing."

John scoffed. "So all that—" he waved a hand back toward the shop. "—and all this—" he swirled the same hand in the space between them. "—was over nothing?"

Clara nodded and after a beat, John nodded, too. He pressed his lips into a considerate line for a moment and continued bobbing his head in thought, but it was just for show. He didn't believe her—not by a long shot. Clara and Tommy were always getting after each other over something. Some siblings fought over nothing. Small, insignificant things. It was never just nothing with Clara and Tommy, though. Tommy and Clara were also notoriously secretive about it. They preferred to keep their issues private, something just between the two of them. The rest of the family was rarely spared the details. They were always allowed to suffer through Clara and Tommy being difficult and insufferable though.

"And what about now?" John asked. "You still grumpy over nothing now?"

Clara glanced at him, narrowing her eyes. "I'm not grumpy."

"You sure look grumpy."

"No, I don't."

"Yes, you do," John said, pressing his finger into the skin between her eyebrows. "Right here," he said. He moved his hand, pressing his thumb and pointer finger into the corners of her mouth. "And here."

Clara pushed his hand away, knowing that John was probably right. She wasn't anywhere close to smiling and her words were short, the few she'd spared had been hissed in a sharp tone. Clara had a moment of thinking it was normal though. It was the way most adults were—grumpy and tired. A little sad. A little mean.

John was the only adult Clara knew who smiled and laughed and carried on as he did. It couldn't be a coincidence that people often called him childish and told him to grow up. John was looking at her, waiting on some sort of response and Clara was grateful for the sound of movement out in the shop.

"Tommy'll be waiting for me," Clara said.

John peddled his foot back to glance through the shop doors. Their brother wasn't even out of his office yet, but John knew he'd be calling for her soon enough, blaming him for her dalliance if she wasn't at his side within seconds.

John sighed before grabbing the cap from the table. He ripped the blade from the brim with his teeth and tossed it at his sister.

"Seven o'clock," John said. "Don't be late."

He headed for the door, stepping out onto the lane just before Tommy found his way to the foot of the stairs where his sister stood staring at John's invisible wake.

Clara stuffed her hands in her pockets to keep them from reaching out for Tommy as they walked toward Uncle Charlie's yard. She'd never thought about it before, but maybe eleven was too old to be holding her brother's hand, just like it was too old for crying and too old for looking anything but grumpy as a matter of principle.

The older girls at the school, the ones who had stayed on past the leaving age, were always been holding hands with boys in their class or the boys they met at the end of the school day to walk home with. So, it wasn't that she was too old to hold hands, but there was something different about it. Holding hands when you got older was something else, something Clara hadn't given much thought to.

Holding hands and going out on dates…having weddings, and houses, and jobs, and babies—those were things adults thought about. And unless all of that pertained to her brothers and sisters, Clara didn't think about it much, not concerning herself. But she had the thought that maybe she was meant to be thinking about those things now rather than wondering whether she should be holding her brother's hand or not.

Maybe she should be thinking about all that instead of the silly worries she couldn't seem to put aside. Tommy didn't seem worried—not about leaving her behind for the day or about the parish taking her away. He'd shown some concern about Ada, but with an almost mechanical air, he'd seemingly shut off that part of him and Clara had decided that his concern was completely eclipsed by her own. She was far more troubled by all of it than Tommy was.

She was far more troubled than all of them, it felt.

Even Finn wasn't worried and it was his backside on the line just as much as Clara's. He wasn't fazed by the prospect of getting found out about scrapping or coppers or the parish. He'd told her she was being silly.

And Clara could concede that maybe she was. Being silly, that is. Childish.

So rather than reaching out for Tommy's hand, rather than leaning into the comfort she felt certain her brother wouldn't deny her, Clara kept her hands to herself. She kept it all to herself, once again closed up and quiet as they walked through Small Heath. She wasn't even aware of Tommy watching her as she tried to sort herself.

But he was watching, tracking her out of the corner of his eye though they weren't speaking. Tommy's mind was intentionally set on the details of the day ahead. He needed to run through his plan again, make sure he wasn't missing something, but his sister's contemplative quiet—something he'd usually be grateful for on a day like today—troubled him. It distracted him.

And Tommy Shelby couldn't afford distractions. Not today.

"Don't worry about John, alright?" Tommy said around the cigarette he was lighting in his mouth. He didn't know what had passed between her and John back at the house, but he could see she'd been changed by it.

Clara focused her attention on the pebble she'd been courting, kicking it along with them since they turned onto Garrison Lane.

Truth was, all she was doing was worrying about the whole roster of Shelbys and herself. It seemed to Clara that all she did these days was worry, turning things over and over in her mind until she barely had the strength to keep on with it. And it was exhausting—mentally, physically, and emotionally, though Clara didn't recognize it for what it was. She just knew she was tired. She couldn't sleep. If she could, maybe she wouldn't be feeling this way all the time, but she didn't recognize the connection between the sleep and the troubling thoughts. She couldn't see the symbiotic way the two things fed each other, and she didn't feel like asking. She was too tired for more conversation with her brother about all of the silly, childish worries plaguing her mind.

Clara tried focusing on the rock instead, but the extra focus only served to make the pebble stray out of her reach and into her brother's path.

"Sorry—"

Tommy tapped the pebble back her way, cutting off her apology.

"I'm not worried," she offered, still trying to keep her focus on the pebble.

The truth was, Clara wasn't really too worried about John. He'd braided her hair, after all. She'd been hurt by his comment and he'd clearly been upset with her, but John never stayed mad at her for long. He rarely let her stay mad for long, either. John wasn't patient with tension like Tommy was. It made John uncomfortable. And John didn't like being uncomfortable. He couldn't keep his mouth shut about it and endure it. He never maintained long-standing grudges without taking some sort of action. He always blew things right up.

And anyway, it seemed to Clara that John was more upset with Tommy than he was with her.

Still, Tommy didn't believe Clara's assertion that she wasn't worried. And rightfully so. He didn't answer her, but Tommy had picked up the pace, moving them along toward the yard, something pulling him to be closer to the horses and the Cut. Something more than his awareness of the steady movements of the hands of his pocket watch.

Clara left the pebble behind as she tried to keep up with her brother. It was for the best that she left the distraction behind. It was difficult enough to keep up with Tommy's pace through the empty streets.

Tommy reached the gates to their uncle's yard a few paces before Clara did, pulling open the gate before she reached his side. He ran a hand over the back of Clara's head, messing with the positioning of her flat cap as he guided her through.

She quickly moved away from Tommy's touch and repositioned the cap, turning back to him as he secured the gate's lock.

"He took the blade out," Clara said. She'd heard John and Tommy arguing over it. She assumed Tommy's shouting was why John had been so rough about it with her. And it wasn't fair. Clara knew the blame wasn't all John's to hold. "And it was my fault for taking it yesterday without asking so it's me who you should've—"

"John's old enough to know better."

Tommy finished up with the lock before turning to his sister.

"And you are, too, eh?" Clara felt the heat rush to her cheeks at the admonishment. Even though his words were light, with no hint of threat…she swallowed a hard, nervous lump forming in her throat.

She was old enough to know better. Tommy and Polly had told her and Finn more than once not to be taking things without asking. She hadn't technically lied to Tommy about John giving the hat to her to borrow, but she had allowed Finn to do it on her behalf without speaking up. And lying and stealing were two things Tommy knew she knew better than to do.

Tommy was still looking at her and waiting on some sort of acknowledgment. He was grateful when Clara quickly nodded her understanding. Tommy promptly fished the pocketwatch out, glancing at the time. Their schedule was tighter than he wanted—John's nonsense and Clara's dallying with the pebble had slowed them down, but so long as Charlie had the car ready and they didn't linger too long with the horses, he'd keep his schedule for getting on the road to Cheltenham.

"No time to ride today, but you can visit for a few minutes."

Riding hadn't even been on Clara's mind. Tommy was dressed in his new suit—already being careful of the puddles and dirt as they walked. She hadn't expected that kind of indulgence, but with Tommy's mention of the ride she wouldn't be having, Clara felt disappointment settle into the pit of her stomach. A ride out with Lavender would be a welcome reprieve, a bit of healing.

Clara nodded, her disappointment short-lived when she spotted Uncle Charlie. He'd come to see who was coming through the gate, to confirm it was kin. Charlie tossed his spent cigarette away as Clara raced away from Tommy's side to hug him around the middle.

It had been at least a week since she'd been at the yard. She'd claimed some type of sickness was keeping her home, but they all knew it had more to do with the fact that Tommy had been too busy to walk her and she had been too spooked to make the walk on her own.

"Feeling better, sweetheart?"

Charlie tipped Clara's face up to his. She looked like death on two feet despite her smile—somehow flushed and pale at the same time. Exhausted and weary, that was for sure.

Clara nodded and Charlie knocked her cap over her eyes. "We'll get you to work, then. Curly's—"

"Clara's just visiting," Tommy interrupted. "John needs her to sit with the kids today."

Clara glanced between them. She could sense they were looking to say some words that neither were willing to say in front of her.

"Go and see to the horses." Tommy nodded towards the stables as he stepped closer to Clara and Charlie. "I'll be along in a minute."

Clara let Tommy guide her away with a hand on her shoulder and she continued on even after his touch slipped away. Silence held between Charlie and Tommy as Clara walked away. She didn't look back, but she paused just inside the stables, just beyond the open door where neither could see her.

"The girl looks like hell, Thomas," Charlie chided as he watched Tommy put a fresh cigarette to his lips and light it.

"She's fine," Tommy offered. His gaze followed the path Clara had just taken on her way to the stables. "A little trouble sleeping is all."

Charlie scoffed. He knew there was more to it than that. He knew there was more to his niece not coming round than a little bit of fever, too.

"And I suppose you've got it handled, eh, Thomas?" Charlie answered, an edge to his voice. "A solution all bloody planned out just like everything else."

"I have, uncle." Tommy took a long drag on his cigarette before clearing the ash into the space between them. "She's just restless. Keeps her awake at night."

Charlie nodded, sticking his hands into his pockets. "Well, you should know how to help her with that then, eh?"

Clara's heart beat faster at the sharpness in their tones, the anger that lived just below the surface. She felt her cheeks grow warm as she pressed herself against the stable wall. It was the second time this morning there'd been arguing over her.

Clara couldn't see it from where she stood listening, but her brother had a bit of heat rushing to his cheeks, too. Tommy had been a troubled sleeper even before the war—back before those particular nightmares had plagued his mind, back when he'd been small like her and his worries were constructed by the wars fought within the confines of family, within their confine of four walls or the crowded berth of a narrow boat.

Back when the only way to avoid them was to sleep out in the pasture where there were no walls, nothing to worry him.

"She's fine," Tommy answered.

Charlie knew his niece wasn't fine. He questioned if his nephew was any better. The decisions Tommy was making…well, they had Charlie questioning quite a bit. It all had him worried for both of them…concerned about the way their clever minds seemed to hurt them more than they helped sometimes.

"Fine, just like you, eh?"

Tommy didn't answer him. Clara only heard the sound of feet scuffing in the dirt and she knew the conversation was coming to a close. She could feel that Tommy was done being chastised by their uncle even though he had yet to step away.

Clara didn't wait to hear if Tommy gave their uncle an answer. She wasn't lingering by the door to hear her brother issuing a demand that Curly ready the car, his tone effortlessly shifting the meager bit of power Charlie had held out of his hands.

Clara was settled in Lavender's pen when Tommy came to find her, her face pressed to the mare's strong neck while her fingers trailed in Lavender's mane.

Tommy watched her for a moment in silence. Neither girl nor horse had noticed his presence there. She was whispering something. Tommy couldn't hear his sister's words, not distinctly, but the horse seemed to hear her, to understand her. A giggle escaped Clara's lips as Lavender turned her head and nudged Clara.

Girl and horse both turned in Tommy's direction when he knocked on the wooden beam framing the pen. The easy smile still graced his sister's face when she looked at him and it pulled him forward, reminding him of the simple, healing quality of the moment—the medicine that was a kid with their horse.

Tommy moved through the gate, marching his clean, polished shoes over the fresh straw. Lavender shifted further in his direction, displacing Clara to press her nose against Tommy's torso, searching his suit for a treat. The horse nudged him a bit hard, eliciting a renewed bit of laughter from Clara as Tommy grunted.

"Alright there, beautiful girl," Tommy said, smoothing his hand over her coat. He pulled back his jacket, exposing the carrot he'd brought all the way from Watery Lane. Clara hadn't seen him take it from the kitchen and she smiled when Tommy passed it over to the horse, whispering his own words to Lavender. Something Romani. Something Clara couldn't hear well enough to decipher, but was comforted by all the same.

"We'll take the horses out soon," Tommy said, speaking to Clara though he still focused his attention on Clara's horse. "Sleep out before it gets too cold."

He had promised her as much several months ago, back when the business with Ada and her schooling was just getting started and while Clara hadn't forgotten, she hadn't reminded him, either. She didn't quite believe it was a promise Tommy would keep considering all that had changed in their lives. She still didn't believe him now.

"Just you and me and the horses," Tommy continued, finally looking to his sister.

Clara had originally asked to have Isiah and Finn there, too, but bringing the boys along didn't seem right to Tommy just now. He hoped the night out would cure her of her restlessness. The boys wouldn't help with that.

"Would you like that?"

Clara nodded, but there was no excitement in her—no questions or protests to his alteration of their plans. No smiles were spared for him and his strategies, but he continued, hoping for some type of breakthrough, for some sort of evidence that the smile she'd shared with her horse wasn't so temporary.

"We'll set a day after I get home from Cheltenham, eh?" He set a finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. "Compare diaries and find a time?"

"Okay, Tommy."

Clara shifted away from him and started brushing out Lavender's coat. Tommy stayed quiet as he watched her, moving back to the gate. Seeing Clara with the horse was the happiest he'd seen her in a while and though Tommy hadn't succeeded in getting her to smile outright, the exchange between Tommy and Lavender had at least gotten a smirk out of his sister. It wasn't much, but it was something and part of Tommy hated to separate them.

He needed to though. The morning was getting on. Grace would be waiting on him. John would be waiting on Clara. Glancing up, he could see Charlie waiting for them at the end of the stable and told Clara as much.

She said her farewells to Lavender before slipping past Tommy to make her way down to Charlie. Clara fit herself against Charlie's side once again while Tommy made sure the latch to Lavender's pen was secured. They were already whispering and Clara giggled at something when Tommy finally caught up to them, falling in a pace or two behind them. Tommy couldn't help but be reminded of a time when it was him finding solace in their uncle's yard, finding smiles and laughter more easily with the help of their uncle and Curly.

Charlie glanced back to Tommy and spotted a bit of a sour look on his face. "He's changed the oil and greased her up," he offered, nodding toward the car.

Charlie opened the door for Clara to get in behind the steering wheel, but she didn't move toward the car, sticking close to her uncle's side instead.

"Will it get me all the way to Cheltenham, Curly?" Tommy asked.

Clara cautioned a step forward. She leaned over Curly's shoulder to look at the metal innards of the vehicle. It was all still new to her. The family car was something they'd purchased after the war, and Clara still felt uneasy about it. She preferred moving through town on her own two feet. She preferred horses.

"He's good with motors, but it pains him," Charlie answered while Curly remained immersed in the motor.

"No heart in motor cars." Curly glanced up at Tommy. "I can't talk with them."

Tommy glanced up at his sister. She was engrossed in what Curly was doing with the motor. She looked terrified though, her eyes wide.

"Well, Tommy may need to make a fast getaway." Charlie pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The words pulled Clara from her steadfast observation of Curly's work to the exchange between her brother and her uncle. Clara watched as Tommy's face hardened.

Tommy opened the door, settling himself behind the steering wheel. "Time to go, Clara."

She didn't move straightaway, allowing her eyes to shift back toward the greasy motor once again. She didn't know the time, but by Tommy's countenance, she could tell her brother was eager to move them along. There wasn't time for him to walk her back to the lane. They'd have to take the car, and they'd have to do it now. Clara knew Tommy wouldn't appreciate negotiations on the subject.

Tommy cleared his throat and Charlie opened the passenger side door. Clara took the opportunity and moved toward her uncle before Tommy decided to repeat himself. Charlie leaned over the passenger door as Clara got settled, his eyes trained on Tommy as if Clara and Curly weren't even there.

"The Lees will be all over the track, Tommy. And Kimber's men. And his coppers."

Tommy stared ahead. Clara wished she could melt into the leather of the seats. Curly clearly had had the same idea. He kept his eyes down as he stood up and walked away, leaving the car and the tension without a word. Clara longed to slip out from between Charlie and Tommy and follow after him.

"They control the law down there, Tommy."

"Give her a turn for me, Charlie," he said, swiftly changing the subject. It almost seemed as if Tommy hadn't heard their uncle, but Clara could recognize that her brother was just ignoring him.

Charlie took a frustrated breath before stepping away from Clara's side to heed Tommy's request. He moved to Tommy's door while the motor came to life.

"This car only seats four. You'll need more men than that if you're to come back alive."

Tommy smirked. "It'll be just me and a girl."

"Christ." Charlie shook his head. "Just you and a fucking girl." He leaned around Tommy to get a good look at his niece who'd gone quiet with the rumbling of the engine and all this talk of trouble at the races.

"Horses need some riding, sweetheart," he said. "Come down to mine tomorrow before seven and you can walk over with me. We'll do breakfast and you can spend the morning with me and Curly."

"I'll bring her down," Tommy answered.

Charlie glanced at Tommy. He snorted. "Yeah, we'll see," he said before moving his gaze back to Clara. "Come to me before seven, or your aunt will have you in a pew instead of the pasture, eh?"

Clara nodded, her face solemn because she doubted she'd be anywhere other than home come tomorrow morning at seven. Tommy shifted the car into gear and Clara jolted when the car jostled them on their way. She ordinarily sat as close to her brothers as she could manage, squeezed between a pair of them in the backseat since she was the smallest and because she felt safest that way, but today it was just her and Tommy. Today she sat pressed up against the passenger door with her arms pulled tight around herself simply hoping the short trip through Small Heath wouldn't make her sick.

Closing her eyes, Clara tried to ignore the unexpected jolts and sputtering of the engine. It was like the thing had a mind of its own, but no heart. Like Curly said. And Clara didn't trust that, a creature without a heart.

"Tommy?"

Clara squinted, allowing her eyes open enough to see that they were nearly to the Garrison. Their ride and their time together were both coming to an end as they moved through Small Heath. With that realization, all of the worries pushed aside by the morning's excursion and the car ride started coming back to her—worries about being left behind, worries about what Lizzie Stark might say, worries about what Uncle Charlie had said just now about the races.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "It'll be fine," he said. "Charlie's just spinning yarn."

Don't worry about Arthur.

There's nothing to be done about Ada.

Don't listen to John.

Charlie's just spinning yarn.

Tommy seemed to have a cool, easy dismissal for all of it, but his words weren't a comfort to her. She heard them, but like his promise of their sleeping out with the horses, she didn't trust them. The feeling left her feeling hollow and glad that she'd kept the most real of her worries to herself.

By holding onto her concerns about being left behind, about the inspector's threats, Clara thought she could trick herself into believing that Tommy might be able to soothe those particular worries even if he'd fallen short with the others. In not telling him, Clara held on to a bit of misguided, desperate hope.

And hope was something she needed, especially where her brother was concerned.

"But he said—?"

"Doesn't matter what he said," Tommy answered. "Today's no riskier than any other race day. I wouldn't be having Grace or Finn along if it was."

It wasn't the truth, but Clara didn't know that. She didn't know that despite the heavy blanket of coppers, the racetracks were lawless places. She didn't know that her brother's words were a deception and she didn't need to. The chances of Grace or Finn getting hurt were small. Grace would be with him. And Finn was meant to be kept out of any real action. There would be no guns. No one would be hurt.

"Just like any other race day," Tommy repeated. "Only thing different is today we'll be coming out ahead."

If it all went to plan, they'd be coming home on Billy Kimber's payroll. They'd be on their way to getting their first legal betting license. They'd come home one step closer to legitimate.

"We'll be home for dinner. And then we'll find a time for you and me and the horses. Sleep out as I said."

Clara wanted to believe Tommy. She wanted to trust him. And he seemed to want it, too. Seemed to suddenly be in an appeasing mood.

"And we can ride the horses tomorrow?" she asked.

Tommy nodded.

"Could we sleep out tomorrow?" Clara chanced the question, the words quiet and uncertain, but hopeful. Tomorrow was Sunday. There wasn't any business that needed to be done on Sunday. Nothing to do for the shop. Like Charlie had said, on Sundays, there was pew or pasture, and Clara wasn't sad at the prospect of avoiding the pew.

Tommy glanced at her, but she was absorbed in her hands which were folded in her lap. "Why not?"

"Really?" Clara's eyes flicked to him. "You promise?"

Tommy nodded, smiles tugging at both of their faces.

"Finn'll be jealous."

"He's having his fun today," Tommy offered as he pulled the car to a stop in front of the Garrison. "Unless you want Finn to come, too?"

Clara thought on it, but for no longer than was respectful before shaking her head. She wanted the outing for herself.

"It's settled then," Tommy said with a nod before breaking eye contact. Clara turned about in her seat to follow Tommy's gaze as he looked beyond her, toward the door to the Garrison. Clara's eyes locked on Grace standing there all done up in the red dress Clara had seen hanging in the woman's flat what felt like ages ago now.

She looked pretty and proper—both Grace and Tommy did—and they looked entirely out of place on the dusty streets of Small Heath. Clara glanced down at her own outfit—her old worn dress and dirty boots, Ada's sweater drawn over her arms—and she got to thinking maybe she was the one out of place sitting in Tommy's pristine car.

"Is it the three of us going to the races today?" Grace asked as she stepped up to the car.

Tommy shook his head. "Clara was just making sure everything's in working order, eh Clara?"

Clara didn't answer, silence stretching between them for a few seconds. She was so used to Grace as her tutor. She was used to Tommy and Grace interacting in the context of her schooling, inside the walls of the Garrison, as her tutor and her brother, but something felt different about them now.

"Just the two of us, then?" Grace asked when Clara made no effort to fill the quiet.

"Something like that," Tommy said.

Clara lingered there in the front seat. She had a feeling Tommy was going to shoo her out of the front seat, but she didn't want to sit in the back by herself and she wasn't ready to go, even if she was starting to feel out of place.

Tommy glanced at his sister. "Aren't you going to say hello?"

Clara nodded her head in Grace's direction. "I like your dress."

"Thank you." A quick smile came to Grace's lips and a slight blush rushed to her cheeks. "I like yours as well."

Clara was tempted to think the words were a lie. Her dress was old with time-worn holes and faded fabric, but something in her knew it was a genuine compliment. She'd certainly studied Grace long enough to know when she wasn't telling the truth.

Clara nodded.

"We should be going. John's expecting you." Tommy glanced toward the back seat. Clara could feel his request coming as Tommy leaned across the front seat to open the door for Grace.

As he leaned back, Tommy studied his sister and he rightly sensed her hesitation. He knew she didn't like the car. He knew the back seat made her sick, though at this point, he suspected Clara made herself sick getting worked up about it.

"How about you take the wheel?" he asked.

John's place wasn't far, just down the lane.

Clara shook her head. "Tommy, I—"

"You're worse than Curly," he said. "Both of you terrified of the thing. Come here."

Tommy pulled Clara across the front seat, clearing the passenger side for Grace. He settled Clara on his lap though it was a tight fit for them both behind the steering wheel.

"Tommy, I—" Clara wasn't quite sure what she was going to say, how she was going to stop him, or even if she wanted to stop him, but her nerves had her fighting him regardless.

"I'm right here, alright?" he said. "You'll be the first Shelby woman to learn to drive. Youngest Shelby, too."

"But, Tommy—"

"Finn's never even sat behind a steering wheel," Tommy interrupted, those particular words settling into her brain and prompting her to sift through all of the things Finn had bragged about over the years. Tommy was right, Finn hadn't been allowed to drive the car. He'd been sore about that fact, actually.

Clara took a deep breath and stretched her legs out toward the pedals. "I can't reach the pedals."

Tommy snorted. "I'll manage the pedals. You just keep us straight, eh? The farther ahead you look, the easier it'll be."

"But what if—"

"You'll be fine," Tommy said, settling her hands on the wheel.

Clara's heart was beating so fast she could hear her blood pumping in her ears. She jumped when Grace climbed into the seat beside them. Clara had almost forgotten the woman was there during her negotiations with Tommy.

"Alright, hands steady. Eyes ahead," Tommy said, repositioning Clara's hands.

A second later, the car crept forward. Clara let out a nervous squeak before a bout of spontaneous giggles spilled from her lips. She sat up straighter, leaning closer to the steering wheel, getting a better view of the street. They were moving slow, slow enough that Clara might've gotten to John's faster by walking, but this was better. This was more fun. And Clara's sudden glee was infectious.

It was a distraction really—Grace's laughter in the passenger seat and the shaking Clara could feel against her back. She couldn't hear Tommy's amusement, but she could feel it. Clara turned her head, instinctively trying to catch a glimpse of her brother's amusement. Tommy clasped his hands over hers as the car veered, holding the wheel steady.

"Eyes on the road," he warned though they'd barely deviated in their path and they were only a few doors down from John's.

Clara's gaze snapped forward at Tommy's words. The road was clear. No one was out on the lane except John. And he was settled well out of harm's way, leaning against the brick beside his front door with arms crossed tight over his chest.

There was nothing for Clara to worry about, not while sitting behind the steering wheel of Tommy's car with his hands ready to steady her if she faltered.

The car rolled to a stop a few moments later and Tommy wordlessly shifted Clara out of his lap. He pushed the car door open and turned back to help his sister climb out. Clara took one look at Tommy's outstretched hand and latched her arms around his neck instead.

Tommy sighed, holding her there for a moment, letting her rest her head against his chest and helplessly crushed in her skinny arms.

"Alright there, Clara girl," Tommy whispered when her hold didn't lessen, the moment feeling out of place with Grace and John there watching. "Alright." Tommy eased her back to sit, but Clara didn't release him. "We have to be going," he said. Clara ignored him, focusing not on her brother's words, but on the steady beat of his heart that sounded in the space between them. "John's waiting on you."

Clara let Tommy pull away at that. She took a deep breath and Tommy reached out to straighten her cap.

"Be good today," he said. "Don't let John's devils get too wild, eh?"

Clara nodded. She looked at her brother. She looked at his fancy suit and his well-shined shoes and his fresh haircut. "You'll be good today, too?" she asked and they both knew that Clara's request was more than asking that Tommy behave himself at Cheltenham. Clara wanted Tommy to be good. She wanted him to be smart and safe and careful. And she wanted him to come home. She wanted them all to come home as soon as they could.

Tommy caught a tear that sat threateningly at the corner of Clara's eye and brushed it away with his thumb.

"I will," Tommy said as he brought Clara out of the car, steadying her on her feet before letting her go. "I promise."

Clara wanted to trust that it was a promise he'd be able to keep.

Chapter 32

Little Lady Blinder Masterlist

Please take a moment to tell me what y'all think! Reviews and comments are always appreciated. 😌❤️

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfic #tommy shelby #john shelby #charlie strong #curly #shelby sister #shelby!sister #john shelby fanfic #tommy shelby fanfic #platonic fanfiction #family fanfiction #little lady blinder #clara shelby

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denimbex1986 · 8 months

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'Cillian Murphy is riding high on the success of Oppenheimer but before he gathered praise for portraying the titular scientist in Christopher Nolan’s WWII thriller, he was celebrated by fans for playing the Tommy Shelby, the World War I vet turned into leader of Peaky Blinders. The period crime drama created by Steven Knight had a successful six-season run and went out on a high note in 2022, but its impact on fans and pop culture lives on.

Funko is celebrating the fan-favorite show with a new line of Peaky Blinder Pops! The collection offers a figure of all the gangs’ senior members and other notable characters, taking on the likeness of their respective actors. The line includes two variations for Tommy along with figures for Arthur Shelby (Paul Anderson), John Shelby (Joe Cole), Ada Thorne (Sophie Rundle), Alfie Solomons (Tom Hardy), Michael Gray (Finn Cole), and Polly (late Helen McCrory). All the Pop! figures are available to pre-order and will arrive next month.

The Legacy of Peaky Blinders

Set in Birmingham in the post-WWI era, Peaky Blinders follows the exploits of the criminal gang, which is loosely based on a real youth gang of the same name who were active in the city between the 1880s to the 1910s. The unparalleled success of the show left an impression not only on pop culture but fans and critics alike. Throughout its run, the show won numerous awards for its direction, story, performances and production design, and also propelled Murphy to global fame. A proposed spin-off movie has been in the talks but there is currently no confirmation or production update. Both Murphy and creator Knight have shown interest in continuing the story of the Shelby family.

Along with the aforementioned cast the series also cast Annabelle Wallis as Grace Shelby, Iddo Goldberg as Freddie Thorne, Ned Dennehy as Charlie Strong, Natasha O'Keeffe as Lizzie Shelby along with Sam Neill, Charlotte Riley, Paddy Considine, Adrien Brody, Aidan Gillen, Anya Taylor-Joy, Sam Claflin, Amber Anderson, James Frecheville, and Stephen Graham across the six seasons.

All seasons of Peaky Blinders are available on Netflix...'

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mydear-corinthian · 18 days

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Protection || Thomas Shelby x reader

Synopsis: You were protecting your son, Charlie when Billy Kimber's men ambushed your shared home. Pairing: Thomas Shelby x reader Warnings: ANGST w/ comfort, reader gets injured, gun violence, mentions of blood, swearing, Grace's being mentioned once - s2 spoiler Notes: Not proofread, grammatical errors, GIF is mine Click here to find the main masterlist. Click here to find the PEAKY BLINDERS masterlist.

As another regular evening took place, a sense of peace descended over Thomas Shelby and his wife's shared home. While Tommy was busy with his business and papers, you found yourself wandering the enormous area of the estate with your young son, Charlie.

Marriage with Tommy wasn't for the faint of heart. You were highly aware of the ongoing danger that accompanied his lifestyle, the circulating threats and enemies that followed your husband's every step. Despite the obvious risks your love for him remained strong. You treasured him not as an infamous gangster, but as the man who made you feel valued, protected, and appreciated.

There was nothing but silence in the huge home; you could hear the clock ticking and the curtains flapping as the breeze shook the cloth. It was a Saturday night, so the maids weren't working, leaving you and Charlie alone. Charlie's eyelids were going drowsy as you cuddled him, softly caressing his back and humming his favorite lullaby. Looking at the clock, you realized how late it was, and Tommy hadn't returned home yet.

You heard the main entrance door open with a loud bang. Although it seemed strange, you assumed Tommy was just returning from a stressful day at work. Charlie woke up from his sleep and let out a loud cry when you heard gunfires as you were ready to leave your shared room. You were so terrified that you thought your legs were paralyzed. Without wasting any time, you grabbed Charlie and put his little body against your shoulder, giving him a tight hug.

With Charlie in one hand, you dashed to the door, locked it almost instantly, and took out the Enfield No. 2 six-bullet handgun that your husband had given you as a birthday present from the nightstand's drawer. You grab the gun and duck into the shared bedroom's bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

The room was filled with the sound of the little Shelby's piercing cries, which seemed to come from every corner. You tried so hard to soothe him, cooing softly, but all it did was make his cries louder and more echoing through the walls. As you tried to calm him, your hands trembled with fear and your fingers stuttering, a sign of your growing terror running down your face. You felt powerless in the face of Charlie's constant tears, and you started to search for a way out of the mess.

You started nervously to pray while holding a child in your arms. Tears were beginning to fall from your eyes and the prayers were mumbling on your lips.

Charlie and you were found by whoever was in your shared room as you heard the door slam. Breathless, you lowered your son onto the empty, shallow bath tub behind you and spoke to him to stop crying. and that you will return quickly. When the toilet door opened, two armed men in a hideous black suit and a top hat appeared; they were Billy Kimber workers.

One of the armed men circled around you and exclaimed, "Aye look, it's Mrs. Shelby," as you aimed your handgun at him, your hands shaking with terror. You've never been skilled with a gun. Tommy giving you a gun like that surprised you. He would not stop stating, "You'll use that in the future."

and perhaps the future was today.

"Suprised a Shelby doesn't know how to use a gun. How about we gift Thomas Shelby the lifeless body of his dear wife?" the man laughed. You raised the gun without thinking, your hand steady from the rush of adrenaline pumping through you, and took aim at the man's skull. The bullet cracked sharply and shot out of the barrel, piercing the air and hitting its target with terrifying accuracy. With a bleak proof to your determination, fortune smiled on you as the bullet hit accurate, plunging into the man's forehead with fatal force and instantly taking his life.

Attempting to fire another shot to the other man, you missed.

Suddenly, you heard a bang go off but paid no mind. Attempting to shoot again, you finally succeded; three bullets all over the now lifeless man's torso. The sight of the lifeless bodies made you feel sick but you chose to ignore it as you dropped your used gun to go and grab Charlie and ask for help. You grabbed your son right away, immediately hugging him and kissed his little forehead.

Suddenly, you heard a familiar voice calling out your name; Tommy.

His voice reaching out for you made you sigh with relief. Your husband ran toward you as your legs found their way to the stairs to return to him. You embraced him, resting your head on his chest and taking in his manly scent as you exhaled. "Oh god, Tommy.."

She took Charlie out of your arms and gave you a minute to rest in Tommy's calming presence in Polly's comforting presence. Tommy's hand gently cradled the back of your head as you leaned into him, seeking solace from the chaos of the moment in his gentle, comforting touch. His voice, a comforting whisper that passed through the chaos, whispered, "You're safe now, love."

He felt a warm wetness on his dark blue vest, making him break the hug to see what it was.

Tommy's eyes widened in fear at what he saw, and he let out a gasp. Once an image of elegance, your immaculate white evening gown now had a scarlet stain of blood creeping across it, the color standing out against the fabric. The room seemed to spin in a dizzying twister, threatening to paralyze you as the color faded from your face, your face was pale and your vision seemed to spin like a twister.

"Did you get shot?" he worriedly asked. Confused by his question, you looked down at your stomach, seeing the color red slowly colonizing your white evening gown.

"I - I um.. Tommy, I feel dizzy.." your fragile legs gave up, his strong arms catched you almost immediately.

Your eyes were starting to drop, your body was slowly getting cold, your muscles giving up.

"T - Tommy, why is so cold..?"

Fuck, he mentally cursed at the sight that met his eyes. It was as if God had judged him once more. Grace - this seemed so familiar. His fingers were shaking with fear and worry, his eyes were beginning to water, and his heart had stopped.

"We need a medic!" Polly shouted.

He tries to calm himself down by caressing the strands of your hair before tucking it behind your ear. "Please, stay." he begged.

His frustration was boiling over and his impatience was burning in the way he spoke. He gave orders for the medics with a strong edge to his voice, desperation and anger infusing each word as he demanded their immediate presence.

"Tommy.." you softly called his name before darkness took you.

Your stomach hurt and your brain throbbed when you woke up. Beside you, you noticed your husband uncomfortably sleeping on the wooden chair. You noticed that the ash tray on the table stand next to you was filled with used cigarettes, indicating that you had been out for a while. You were trying to sit up and Tommy woke up to the sound of your pained moans. His bright blue eyes met yours. Eyebags developed under his eyes as a result of struggling to sleep due to the chance that you wouldn't wake up anymore.

"Easy, love." he said.

In an attempt to prevent him from harming you, he cradled your back so you could lie down peacefully once more—as though you were a piece of glass that would shatter the moment it was touched.

He deeply blames himself for what happened to you. If only he was there that night. If only he went home early, you and Charlie wouldn't be in this situation.

"Where's Charlie?" you asked right away, your eyes looking everywhere in the room to see if your child was there or not.

"He's with Aunt Pol, (y/n). He's safe with her, don't worry."

With both of his hands clasped around yours, he sobbed out loud in front of you, unable to stop himself from crying. He felt responsible, guilty, and like a terrible partner for failing to give you protection.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry.." he cried as he apologized, kissing your hands.

You smiled softly as you placed your right hand on his face for him to look at you.

"It's not your fault, Tommy. The good thing is that me and Charlie are safe." reassuring, you gave him a weak smile.

"I thought I lost you." he exhaled in exhaustion, standing up as he kissed your head.

"I would never leave you, Tommy."

"Please don't."

#peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders x reader #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #peaky blinders angst #angst with a happy ending #x reader

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lis-likes-fics · 11 months

Text

A Deal’s a Deal

Pairings: Tommy Shelby x Gold!Reader Word Count: 11.7k words Warnings: NSFW, smut, swearing, smoking, oral (f and m!receiving), dom/sub themes, degradation, virgin!reader, gun kink, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, Tommy is mean and she wants him to be ... A/N: So this was absolutely filthy and I will not apologize. I am American, but I used to British spelling for (as many of) the words that I caught because sometimes I like it better and it also just fit more for the fic. Also, when I say “gun kink”, I mean gun kink. This is filthy shit. Who knows? I may consider writing a second... Enjoy.

Keen eyes were the first thing Tommy noticed as Aberama Gold walked onto the yard, a sly smirk set in place among blond hair and a suit likely just as expensive as his own. The way his eyes surveyed the yard, examined every inch he could without touching any of it, even stopping by Charlie for a word, made Tommy aware it was for more than just surveillance.

Aberama finally approached, his men following after with their own vigilance. "I just took a look around. I like this place," he announced. "Fire for melting silver, canal to get it away." He stopped in front of him, well out of reach but just as imposing as the growing headache Tommy felt nagging at the back of his head. "How much?"

Tommy took a long look at him, still as a statue as blue eyes pierced through blue eyes. He considered not even regarding the question, moving on to more pressing business and pretending it had never been asked, but he knew better. Arthur drank from his flask.

"Nothing you see here is for sale, Mr. Gold."

He disagreed. "Oh, everything's for sale. Everything."

Tommy pinched his cigarette between his fingers, bringing it to his lips but not quite slipping it through yet. Aberama spilled the rest of the tea in his cup into the fire, which roared with the fuel to its flames.

"You tell Mr. Strong I'm going to buy his yard." He didn't leave room for debate.

But Tommy didn't care. "This yard has been in his family since they settled." He moved the cigarette between his lips.

"But I've decided to make it a part of our deal."

There was a long pause as the men stared each other down, testing the other's strength, their tolerance of cold eyes. The sounds of metal and fire and cups on tables next to them filled the silence and fueled the suspense of a standoff.

"Charlie?" Tommy finally spoke, calling to his uncle. "Charlie, come here." He obliged with a sigh. As he stood next to him with a dirty rag to clean dirty hands, Tommy continued. "Gonna spin a coin for your yard, Charlie."

Frustration was quick to settle at his words. He dropped his hands at his sides. "You're goin' to what?"

Tommy didn't spare him a glance, never breaking contact with Aberama as he spoke. "If it's heads, Abbie here takes all of this with my blessing."

"Tommy?" Charlie warned, upset.

"And if it's tails…" he considered for a moment, gesturing to Aberama with his cigarette in hand, "I fuck your daughter, Mr. Gold."

Aberama's grin fell. Arthur laughed, a stifled laugh into his arm at the offer. Tommy's demeanour did not change.

Now, Tommy was a smart man who did his research. He knew all about Aberama Gold's family, but more specifically about his daughter—and, even more specifically, about his oldest. He knew she was a primary school teacher, how that came to be, he was sure it was with the help of her father. He knew she was Aberama's firstborn, born from another woman he'd fallen for but lost too quick to be left without love. Lastly, he knew she was without a husband, or even a suitor with the potential of wedding bells. With how beautiful you had been rumoured to be, he didn't understand it.

He was shocked he hadn't already had you yet.

"You have three daughters, I hear, and Y/N is the oldest and also the prettiest, so I'll have her. So make her part of the deal and spin against the yard." He replaced his cigarette between his lips, putting his hands in his pockets.

Arthur was still amused. The same could not be said for Charlie as he stepped closer. "Tommy, for fuck's sake."

Tommy fished for a coin in his pocket, flicking it over. "Here, you toss the coin, Mr. Gold."

He caught it easily, staring down Tommy before moving the coin in his palm to examine it thoughtfully. Then he smiled, a slow smile spreading over his lips, ready to call a bluff.

Tommy shook his head, just as serious and solemn as before as he took in his grin. "No." He shook his head, raising a finger to point at him with grim intent. "Please don't believe this is a joke, the coin to us is sacred. Yes, Arthur?"

"Sacred," Arthur agreed, his eyes as still and as menacing as his brother's.

They continued to stare. Aberama continued to think.

Tommy gave his warning. "You toss that coin, you take a bet before witnesses, and if I win…"

"Then we'll insist that the terms of this agreement…" Arthur tried again, "wager are fulfilled."

Tommy's eyes held a threat. "Toss the coin, Mr. Gold."

Aberama considered, setting the coin on the crook of his finger and propping his thumb underneath. He contemplated, debating himself and his luck silently as the sounds of metal and fire raged against the silence and pulled the tension taut. Loud, defeaning.

"Tommy Shelby, OBE," he mumbled, still considering. Tommy saw the moment of decision behind his eyes before it reached his face. The challenge, the question of "Perhaps?" warring in his mind. Aberama smiled a small smile. "I'll take your wager."

The Shelby boys tilted up their heads.

Aberama flipped the coin into the air, watching as it twirled and twirled and twirled. The coin made its descent into his hands and he sighed as he closed his palm and slapped it onto the back of his hand. The coin seared his flesh as he stared at Tommy, hoping to see the right side of the coin staring back at him when he unveiled the result.

They stared, tense. "Well?" Tommy raised a brow.

Aberama removed his hand.

And his luck drained as he stared down at the coin tails up to the world.

He lingered for a moment, feeling the eyes on him burning into his skin just as the coin did. "...Congratulations, Mr. Shelby," he breathed. He took the coin and showed the boys. "Tails."

Tommy's lip twitched, although it was hardly susceptible to the eye. "Tails," he repeated, his voice darker than before. He readjusted his stance, regarding Aberama as he spoke to the uncle at his side. "Go on back to work, Charlie. Your yard is safe."

Charlie stepped closer, asking the question as though he was whispering it just to him. "Are you actually going to fuck his daughter, Tom?"

Tommy still didn't look at Charlie, watching Aberama intensely, as if to remind him that this was all his fault.

People seemed to forget who he was. They seemed to forget that you shouldn't fuck around with Tommy fucking Shelby, OBE.

"A deal's a deal, Charlie," he said. "Isn't that right, Mr. Gold?"

He stared back with fire in his eyes. "Aye, Mr. Shelby."

The cab slowed to a stop in front of the large estate you were an expected guest in. Looking out of the window and through the dark, your stomach flipped at the prospect of the meeting you were meant to attend.

Your father had told you that the infamous Thomas Shelby was interested in meeting you. You were grading loads of papers at the time when you stopped to look at him, frozen in confusion. You asked him why and he brushed off the topic like he hadn't even brought it up, giving you a time and date and leaving it at that.

And now you're here, staring at his house and feeling the anxiety of how this evening would go as you stepped out of the car and watched him drive off. You fixed your dress, straightened your spine, and released a breath before beginning the looming evening with a walk up to the door through the dark, guided only by the lamps outside.

You clicked the knocker three times, waiting with your clutch held tightly in front of you. As the door was pulled open, you were somehow relieved to be met with an older woman. Though her blue eyes were shocking and her quirked brow was intimidating, she offered a kind smile and you were put to ease.

You really shouldn't have been as anxious as you were. You were a Gold and a gypsy—if something bad was going to happen to you, you would know and you wouldn't be there in the first place.

But this was Thomas Shelby, and you were terrified. He was rumoured to be the devil himself.

The woman opened the door wider. "Hello." She looked you up and down before stepping aside. "Come in."

You thanked her quietly, walking into the house and glancing around. It was nice. "How may I help you this late in the night?" she wondered, clasping her hands behind her as she awaited your answer.

"Um…" You smiled bashfully but not without the air of respect you've grown into and been taught to demand. "I don't actually know why I'm here. My father, Aberama Gold, sent me to see Tommy Shelby. I am to have an appointment with him?"

She hummed, "Of course. Wait here while I go fetch him." She began to walk off before correcting herself, looking back at you with a respectful smile. "Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?"

"No, thank you."

She left.

You stood in the foyer, twiddling your thumbs atop your clutch as your heart skips in your chest. With a calming breath, you steadied yourself, closing your eyes and waiting patiently.

You swung a foot out, taking a step forward as you wandered farther down the hall to see inside the main room. It was large, decorated sparsely with paintings and tiny statuettes. You didn't get a good look.

When she came back, she was not alone. Turning at the sound of shoes descending stairs, you saw him.

He still wore a suit. Although his jacket was removed, his timepiece was still in place connected to its chain. His sleeves were rolled up—you weren't sure why you noticed that so clearly.

He stared at you with a cigarette between his lips as his cold, blue eyes pierced your soul. Your heart jumped again. Anxious.

He watched you, looking you up and down and taking you in. He brought his hand up to remove his cigarette from between his lips, releasing a long, smoky breath. The look in his eyes shook you.

"Thank you, Mary." His voice was deep as it rumbled in his chest. "You can go to bed now."

Mary looked you up and down briefly. She bowed her head. "Yes, sir."

You didn't break eye contact with Tommy as she ascended the stairs. Even when she was completely gone, he didn't look away. The intensity of his gaze was hard to keep up.

You looked away.

"Come," he finally spoke, walking down the rest of the stairs and meeting you. He lingered in front of you for a moment, as if he just wanted a closer look, before continuing to move. You willed your feet to do so, following slowly behind him.

He took you to his study just off from the main room, pushing the door open to allow you inside. You entered silently, glancing along the room to take it in. He had a library, a burning fireplace, plenty of sofas, and a large wall of windows. The drapes were already drawn for the night, and the large room was illuminated by a small chandelier. You set your purse on the nearest table.

You watched Tommy walk toward his desk in front of the windows. He leaned on it, crossing one leg in front of the other. He stared at you again, and you quickly became frustrated with his gaze as you sighed gently and stood across from him, keeping plenty of distance.

Silence stretched on as he continued to stare and smoke, and you were growing impatient as you stared back. The longer he watched you, unyielding, the more you felt the need to squirm. It was only when you broke his eye contact again, like you had before on the stairs, that he decided to speak.

"Do you know why you're here, Miss Gold?" he asked.

Now that this was finally going somewhere, you sighed. "Y/N, and no," you replied.

He raised his brows. "What did your father tell you, Y/N?"

You shrugged. "That you wanted to meet me and nothing else." His vagueness was really beginning to frustrate you after enduring all of that staring. Why had he stared for so long?

Tommy hummed deep in his chest, looking you up and down with a little nod of his head. He put it bluntly as he gestured toward you with his cigarette. "Your father lied."

It was your turn to raise your brows. "I'm sorry?"

Tommy reached behind him to put his cigarette out, stifling it against the ashtray on his desk. "Your father flipped a coin for a bit of property and lost. In return," he looked at you again, speaking slowly, "he gave you to me to fuck."

Your heart was slamming into your ribcage at the knowledge. Images of such a thing flashed behind your eyes, and your throat went dry. You looked down at your shoes for a moment, blinking rapidly as you stretched your jaw. "I-I don't understand," you confessed, releasing a humourless chuckle and licking your lips. "He… he wouldn't do that."

"Wouldn't he?" he shrugged. When you didn't reply, he furrowed his brows. "Why else would you be here?"

You still didn't respond. He allowed you to process, though part of you felt like he was enjoying all of this, and you did not.

The anticipation started at your heart and spread through your body as it made a home in your chest, curling and writhing there in a bundle of anxious energy.

You swallowed thickly, "Are you going to hurt me, Mr. Shelby?"

He considered your question, mumbling quietly to himself as though he was mocking you, "Am I going to hurt you?" His eyes raked over your body, considering something silently in his head before he spoke again. "Come here."

You didn't move, otherwise frozen in place as you stared at him. Your disobedience seemed to astound him for a moment as he raised his dark brows and pointed to his shoes. "Here. Now." His voice was deeper with the command. He left no room for defiance.

Your body responded before your mind, not eager to see what would happen if you refused a second time. Your feet took you carefully toward him, slow steps treading the space between you until you were hardly a foot apart from him. His expression seemed to ease then, just enough to tell you that you were close enough now.

He took in your face from this distance. You could almost feel his breath. He spoke to you in a low voice, one that rumbled deep in his chest and resonated with you.

"I am a devil, but I'm no monster." Where you expected a crook of his finger to lift your chin, he gave you his hand to take a hold of your jaw and pull you close. "I won't force myself upon you, but if you agree to this, I will not be gentle. So, yes… I am going to hurt you."

You didn't respond—you couldn't. His words echoed in your mind and your mind warred with your body over what you would do in response and, thus, created none. You were frozen, staring at him as he held your face in a slight grip and held your attention in a much tighter one. You forget the fire burning smoke up its chimney. You forget the rows and rows of books lining the shelves of the office. You forget the clothes on your back, for his stare had stripped you bare for him to see.

He let go of your face, but you were not sure how well your brain registered that as you lingered in the same position, gripped in the same attention.

"If you want to leave," he said after a moment, "you'd better walk out of that door right now under the lie that the wager between your father and me was fulfilled. Hell, I'll even make you a cup of tea while you wait, and you can be on your way."

You considered that option. It would be like you never even came—except you did. And you knew you did. The stain of his stare, the hole he had burned into your clothes, into your skin, would never wash away. You would feel it every hour of every day as a reminder of the time you met the Tommy Shelby and lived not to tell the tale.

"But if you stay…" the corner of his lip twitched up at the idea, his pupils darkened and his voice deepened, "you're not leaving until I say you can." Even with their simplicity, his words made you shiver.

"Now, I will ask you once and one time only…" he leaned forward, his head very slightly tilted, his nose nearly brushing yours, "Are you leaving?"

As if you could say no with him this close to you. As if you could say anything with him this close to you.

Your options were idiotic.

Leave and live with the memories you gained here—the closeness, the silent obedience, the cold stare you could never wash from your soul. You would always feel it, feel him. He would never go away, plaguing your mind like a ghost of what could have been.

Or…you could stay. You could stay here and see what happened. You could let him ravage you, let him tear you apart and lick at your flesh and bone as he took you under his primal gaze. You could succumb to the ice in his eyes and let the burn of his touch mix together in some powerful, searing concoction. You would never wash his stain off, no matter how hard you scrubbed, but some part of you was alright with that.

And Tommy seemed to see that in your eyes.

He was amused as he shook his head, leaning back and away from you. He was teasing, you knew it now, heavily amused by the tiny reactions he earned from you as he pulled away to make you suffer a hint of withdrawal. It was with that distance that you realised you'd fallen in his trap, gone in too deep to turn back and be rescued from this tragic and ungodly addiction.

"No, you're not," he said—and, for a moment, you forget what he was talking about. "I can see it in your eyes, the same look your father had before he flipped that coin. You want to know what'll happen if you stay."

You seemed to snap out of it almost as you took a step back, establishing a bit more space as he revealed things you didn't want revealed. In doing so, you proved his point.

"You know exactly what happens if you leave. You go back to your regular life as a school teacher with siblings and a father to take care of." He chuckled silently, and you clenched your teeth. "No, you want to see how far this will go."

He raked his eyes over you for the hundredth time, and he knew the rumours were true. Pretty eyes, pretty lashes, pretty lips, pretty blushy cheeks. There was not a flaw on you that he could see. You were a beauty, an unconquered beauty he intended not to leave uncharted.

You looked away from him, glancing down between your feet and your hands and anywhere but his face as you processed his words, digesting them for what they were—the ugly truth you wished you could throw a blanket back over, swept back under the rug and hidden from view.

Tommy tilted his head as something dawned on him.

"Are you a virgin, Y/N?"

You kept your eyes on the ground, like you were watching his shoes—which you probably are—and shook your head. "I change my mind. You can call me Miss Gold." He could almost laugh at the idea, in fact, he almost did laugh. You brought yourself to look at him, your eyes stern with poorly hidden dismay. "And if I was?"

It made sense. No husband, no suitor, no time for one anyway. His lip lifted very slightly in the corner, and it felt like he was laughing at you. "The proper phrasing is 'and if you are?'" He leaned in, taunting you. "Because you are, Y/N."

You huffed to keep your eyes from fluttering at the effect he had on you. "How do you know?" you asked, doing your best not to sound as upset as you were. Your best was very poor.

He breathed a silent chuckle. "Because if I say the word 'sex'..."

You licked your lips and shifted your weight to your other leg, realising your mistake as soon as you made it but not showing it. You glanced away from him, and that was when you showed the realisation of your second mistake.

He pointed at you, ever amused. "You do that."

You thought for a moment over a way to say your next words without confessing anything—even if you knew it would be rendered unnecessary, as he seemed to read you like an open book.

"What if I did want to see what would happen?"

He inclined his head, lifting a brow. A small huff of a breath made up a tiny chuckle at your words. "Look at you," he said. "A good girl so bored she wants a go with a gangster."

You shrugged a shoulder. "All my family's gangsters and gypsies. It's in my blood."

He stared at you, cold and frozen like a statue. You stared back, gaze darting from eye to eye.

"In your blood," he muttered to himself.

You had no time to process what happened next. All you felt was his hand on the back of your neck and then your cheek against the cold wood of his desk. You groaned at the suddenness of it, stunning you completely—especially when his body pressed against the back of yours, crushing you against the desk and keeping you there.

Your breath was erratic, your pulse loud in your ears. Everything had happened so quickly, you were still catching up. The only thing that grounded you was the cold shock of something against the back of your head and the cock of a gun in your ears.

It was all suddenly very real—the anticipation, the suspense. You held your breath.

"Maybe I lied," he rasped in your ear, his voice just as dangerous as his gun to your head. "Maybe I want to see what's in your blood instead, eh?"

Your lips parted as shallow breaths passed between them, loud in your ears but likely nearly silent to him. You swallowed hard, frightened and exhilarated. "You're not going to kill me, Mr. Shelby."

"Oh, yeah? Why is that?" He seemed to press the gun even closer, trying to scare you some more. But you were a Gold, and guns to heads were not as effective to you as it might have been to someone else from a family that wasn't yours.

"Because you want to see what will happen."

Surprised by your answer, he scoffed. "Maybe you are a whore." He pushed his hips harder into you, thus pushing you harder against the desk. The edge of the wood cut into your thighs, aching and proving very uncomfortable. A strained breath grunted from you.

You smiled slyly, looking back at him as best you could. "Which is it?" you chuckled, "Whore or virgin?"

He took pause, shaking his head as he uncocked the gun. "No," he chuckled darkly. "Just a twisted little girl who gets off to guns at her head."

Your smirk dropped, amusement gone at his words. You furrow your brow, thoroughly upset that he would accuse you of something so crude. "I don't."

"No?" he asked before leaning in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear and making you shiver. "Then why are you so wet?"

You stilled. You hadn't realised it until he said it, the wetness between your thighs, the arousal hiding beneath your thundering pulse. That tingling sensation of simmering lust was now weighing down on you like an anvil, a terrible sentence you wanted to escape but found yourself physically incapable of. Your legs trembled, but you couldn't tell if it was from the ice or the fire rushing through your veins. God forbid it be both.

Your silence made him smirk against your ear. "You really are," he scoffed again. "That was just a guess, sweetheart."

You huffed, doing everything you could to avoid clenching your thighs. With how close he was to you, his body pressed against you so tightly, he'd surely feel it. The shame was thick enough as it was.

"Fuck you," you spat.

He was not fazed by your aggression. "I intend to."

With a sudden burst of defiance, you pushed yourself up from the desk, turning around to face him. Your faces were so close, breathing in each other's scent as the both of you refused to back down. You heard him uncock his gun, tossing it onto the table behind you without breaking eye contact.

"This isn't the first time I've had a gun to my head, nor will it be the last," you told him. "And it's definitely not the first time a man's expressed his desire to fuck me."

"But it's the first time he's been able to, eh? Because before you had Daddy's protection." His hand landed on your waist, roughly pulling you toward him so your bodies were touching. It was useless to try to hide to fluster he put you in, but you did your best anyway. His voice was nearly a growl. "Well, where is he now?"

You shook your head, breathing shallow breaths. "I don't need his protection."

His smirk was small and taunting as he stared at you, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips.

"You do from me."

His lips crashed down upon yours as he pulled you close. Your surprised gasp was cut off, silenced by his harsh kiss. The feeling was foreign but not entirely unwelcome. Even as the force of his lips had his teeth smashing yours, cutting into the top of your own lip and greeting you with the taste of blood, you welcomed it.

You kissed back, moving your lips with his and following his lead but doing no more than that. Even if you had already compromised yourself, it would help not to encourage him.

When he pulled away from you, you chased his lips and felt the shame of it hot on your cheeks. He smiled at your eagerness, even chuckled at your breathlessness as he shook his head.

"My, my," he goaded. "You really do want this, you twisted little whore."

You shivered at his words and still denied. "And if I don't?" you countered, practically staring at his pink lips and proving him right.

He shook his head. "You should've walked out that door."

He kissed you again, silencing you once more until his lips had a moan clawing up your throat. He placed a hand on your chest, pulling you forward just a slight from turning you in one arm and shoving you back.

You stumbled backward, catching your footing again as you stared at him between the long distance he had put between the both of you. It surprised you and now you were trying to put your mind back in order, as though it hadn't been scrambled enough from his kiss.

"If you want to go so badly, prove it to me." He pointed to the door, urging you to leave with dark eyes and darker words. "Run. Run away, before I catch you."

You stared at him, catching your breath and contemplating. He was giving you one last chance for an out, one last chance to turn away and forget about tonight.

But you could never forget what happened here, especially not now, and not ever. Staring back at his dangerous eyes, you made your choice, knowing there was no turning back.

So you would prove that you wanted to stay as you trudged the distance between you and closed it with your lips on his, addicted to the taste of him—the taste of danger and intrigue and all things twisted in the world.

His hand cupped the back of your head as he opted to devour you, allowing your fingers to work at the buttons of his vest to remove it. You gasped into his mouth and made your decision before your inexperience could talk you out of it, separating from his lips only to kneel down before him with your eyes locked on his.

Amazed by your initiative, he encouraged you by leaning his hips out as you worked at his belt. You fumbled for a moment too long before you finally got his trousers open, finally reaching what you were aiming for as you pulled him from his underwear.

You stared wide-eyed at him as you took in the sight of his cock, the tip flushed red and the vein along the underside pulsing with his well-disguised lust. You looked up at him, finding him staring back down at you with those cold, dark eyes.

"Well, go on then," he mumbled as you continued to stare, conflicted between different courses of action.

Your body heat seemed to rise at the realisation that you were staring like a fool. You swallowed thickly, reaching a hand up and wrapping it gently around him, gliding your thumb along his tip and feeling a little more confident when his unyielding eyes fluttered. You continued on, rubbing your thumb at the head of him before stroking your fist along the length of him, up and down in a steady rhythm as you navigated what he liked and didn't like.

One of his hands cupped the back of your neck, urging you forward as your face pressed into his hips with the warmth of his cock on your cheek. Slowly, you kissed it, your lips gliding along the length as you took in the unfamiliar sensation. You slipped your tongue through your lips, licking along the side until you reached his flushed tip. Kissing the slit at the head of his cock, the bead of pre-cum there spread over your lips as you darted your tongue out to lick it.

You opened your mouth at the taste, setting his tip on your tongue and shivering at the feeling as you closed your lips around it. You built yourself up for it as you felt his heavy stare at the top of your head, bobbing your head slowly back and forth as you took the smallest bit more with each comeback. As he reached the back of your tongue, that tickling feeling in your throat began to tease you before the threat of gagging became too much to try to pass through.

By now, his cock was glistening with your saliva. As you looked up at him with eyes beginning to tear from your efforts, he stared back, lost in the pathetically illusioned look on your face. "You can't be done already," he said, his fingers tangling in your hair.

You spoke breathlessly, "Tommy–"

"No," he shook his head. "Not Tommy. You call me 'sir' while you're sat there on your knees with my cock in your mouth. You understand?"

You took in his authority, deciding whether or not you would listen. You began to scoff, "I'm not–"

"You will," he said finally, giving you that look that demanded respect. You knew, staring at him now, that he held the key to your pleasure. If you wanted to feel good, you would have to obey. As much as that annoyed you, it thrilled you all the same as he continued to look down on you like he was.

Your jaw ached with resentment, but you knew it was a front, you fighting the submission you were not meant to have. But you wanted it. You wanted him to break you down to some common whore, to strip you of your importance as a Gold and turn you into his plaything. But it was so firmly embedded, you would just have to keep fighting against it.

But that didn't matter right now, not with you on your knees with his cock in your hand.

"I can't do it…sir," you replied.

He raised a brow. "Can't do what?"

He was taunting you, insulting you by trying to make you say something you didn't want to say. It sat on your tongue like venom. Admitting what you classified as "it" felt like a new kind of torture.

"What is it you can't do, eh?" he questioned, even smirking at you like he knew he held all the cards. Because he did.

"I can't…" you swallowed thickly, bowing your head.

"No, no," he tsked, lifting your head with his hand in your hair to force you to look at him. And he wasn't lying before—he wouldn't be gentle. "Look at me and tell me what you can't do."

You huffed, speaking in a squeak of a voice. "Can't… take it all."

"What was that?"

"I can't take it all," you repeated, not yelling but not whispering either.

He smiled at you then, an evil, nasty smile that you wanted to wipe from his face. "That's all?" he questioned, laughing when you broke his eye contact. "Well, sure you can. Let me show you."

The exchange was promptly ended as his hand in your hair guided your head back to him as you took his cock in your mouth again, and he pushed you down, inch by inch, back onto him. You felt his tip pushing into your mouth, deeper and deeper on your tongue until he brushed the back of your throat. You gagged around him, feeling the sensations of the invasion rushing down your spine, resting in your belly and tingling all over.

As your nose brushed against his pelvic bone, your eyes welled up as tears spilled over your cheeks. He shushed you as you gagged on his cock, your throat adjusting around the intrusion. His hips bucked a couple of times, pushing his cock further until he could go no deeper. When he pulled out, you took as much air into your burning lungs as possible before you were interrupted by a few coughs.

As much as you wanted to slap him for the assault on your throat, one look at the pleasure on his face calmed the fire of frustration and fed the ache of arousal between your legs.

"Don't– do that again," you huffed, still catching your breath as you leaned forward on your knees to take him into your hot mouth again. You didn't go nearly as far again as you licked along his length, suckling around his cock and laving your tongue along his tip and the vein on the underside.

"The hell I won't," he mumbled, not the biggest fan of your telling him what to do but not necessarily put off by the idea. His hand remained a tangled mess in your hair as you continued to suck and lick and kiss.

You weren't expecting it when he pushed you down the second time, but at least you knew what to expect as you shut your eyes tight and took it, accepting the twisted pleasure that blossomed in your belly until he pulled out of your mouth again, keeping you back as he groaned.

You wiped your mouth off, staring at him with wet eyes and breathing through an open mouth. A deep breath exhaled from his lungs as he hoisted you to your feet, searching out your lips to bring you into another kiss. He turned you both around and pressed your back into his desk as he continued to kiss you roughly, pushing you back until you collapsed on the dark wood.

You gasped in surprise but barely had time to process as his lips continued to attack yours. His hands grasped the neckline of your dress, encouraging shivers down your spine. When he suddenly ripped and ripped at your clothes tearing them off you like a beast, you gasped and watched him turn your dress to rags.

It wasn't long before you were bare in front of him, save for the pantyhose hiding nothing from him. Then those were gone, too. Your hands instinctively flew to your body, trying to cover yourself up. There was really no reason for modesty, not now that you had already seen his cock and had it shoved down your throat, but this was entirely new and you would have rather liked a warning beforehand.

"Don't cover yourself now," he said as he entwined his hands with your own and pulled them away, spreading you out to see every inch of you with those hungry eyes. Your body trembled with the feeling of his eyes on your bare skin. You squeezed your eyes shut, whimpering quietly at the mix of emotions ruling you.

Where some would take pity, Tommy just smiled darkly and tsked gently as he leaned forward and began kissing your neck. Your mouth fell open as your eyes fluttered to see him. A slight moan caught in your throat escaped at the sensation of lips to skin and your hands struggled where he restrained them, wanting to touch him again.

His kisses were not so patient after a moment as teeth began to scrape skin, sucking and nibbling on flesh in order to mark uncharted territory. The pleasure it gave him to know that no man had ever done this to you before was intense, driving him crazy with lust, a desire to claim you as his hips cant into your own, pushing you further into the desk and otherwise hurting you—if you had not been so preoccupied with his kiss.

You moaned into the air when his hand tightened around your thigh, squeezing roughly as he groped and kneaded the flesh. His other hand busied itself around your throat and tilted your head off to the side, sitting securely there but not quite squeezing the same. Your fingers wrapped around his wrist nonetheless, though you didn’t know whether you were trying to make him stop or keeping his hand there, wrapped around your throat and effectively putting him in charge.

The hand on your thigh travelled up, smoothing along your skin until he reached your hip. It never stayed there, moving back down as his fingers brushed over your exposed cunt. Your breath stopped in your throat when you felt his fingers ghosting over your lips and gasped when you felt his middle finger slip between them before biting down hard on your lip in an attempt to silence yourself.

His lips brushed your ear as he spoke in his low tones. “You like being touched by me? Eh?” A whimper left your throat when his finger pressed into you, pushing past your folds and into the warm, wet feeling inside of you. You clenched around it, the feeling foreign and but so good. "You're practically a whore now. I did buy ya after all—cost me a penny."

Your legs trembled as he stretched you out around his finger, a second playing at your pussy before carefully joining the other. "A penny?" you stuttered. "I personally think I'd be worth at least two."

"Well, let's see then," he said, lifting his brows as he pulled his finger out of you.

You whimpered, granting him an annoyed expression at the absence of his touch so soon. "See what?"

"If you taste good enough for two pennies."

You stared at him as his lips kissed your chest, sucking on your nipples on the way down and continuing on down to your thighs. A shocked yelp came from you when he bared his teeth around a chunk of flesh, only soothed when he kissed over it.

He gripped your thighs and pulled them over his shoulders, taking your hips in his hands and pushing himself up so your body was nearly folded in half. He didn't stall you at all as he buried his head between your thighs, licking and sucking on your folds as he shoved his tongue between them.

Your head flew backward, banging against the table. You hardly noticed, even with the full throb at the back of your head, the slight dizziness in your brain. Your hands flew to his hair, tangling in dark strands and tugging him forward. His tongue was just as skilled here, commanding your body to his every will, as it was during his speeches while he commanded armies of men to join in his cause or to intimidate against their own.

One hand left your hip to play with your cunt, toying with your clit. He pushed two fingers into your fluttering hole, swirling his tongue around your clit as you moaned for him to continue.

"Fuck," you mewled, closing your legs around his head and digging your heels into his back. He didn't seem to care, not until you messed up. "Please don't stop, Tommy."

But he did. His fingers and tongue retreated as he pulled back, straightening his back and letting one leg fall from his shoulder, though he kept the other firmly held to his chest.

You whined, looking at him with shallow breath. You watched him lick his kiss-swollen lips as he stared at you with black eyes. The emotions in your belly swirled between lust and frustration and fear and intrigue. He was so intimidating and you wanted more. You wanted him to keep kissing you, to keep dragging his tongue along your wet pussy. But you also wanted him to push you into the floor and take you from behind, his hips slapping into you, his hand planting your cheek against the cold floor, his mouth whispering filthy things in your ear.

"Please," you whimpered, too desperate to care about how pathetic you sounded.

He lifted a brow, saying nothing and staring. When you tried to sit up to reach his face, he pressed a hand into your chest and pushed you down roughly, leaning forward himself to paralyse you with his dangerous glare. Even with his hand on your chest, you tried to sit up still to kiss his pretty lips but he wouldn't let you. Your thigh ached from the position.

"Please," you whispered again, a broken moan as the lack of pleasure became too much, welling in your chest and making your body tremble.

He tilted his head.

You let out a shaky breath, moving your free leg outward to spread yourself even wider for him. "Please, sir," you concede. "Please keep going. I want it."

He didn't continue. His eyes bore into yours and you shuddered. With a gentle huff, you handed over the last of your dignity. "Please, sir, I need it."

He lingered there for a moment longer before smirking. You thought he was going to kiss you when he leaned forward, but instead he took your bottom lip between his teeth and but down before returning to his previous position between your legs.

He began again with the same intensity, devouring you as though you were his last meal. You whimpered and moaned and cried from the pleasure he forced into you. As he shoved his fingers into you, spreading them apart and thus stretching you wider, suckling on your clit and kneading it with his tongue, a coil tightened in your belly as everything seemed to follow.

Your moans built to whining breaths—too high and pitchy to be real—but genuine nonetheless. He didn't let up or slow down, drunk on the taste of you and too far gone to stop just yet, not without his reward.

The warm, wet feeling of his mouth became too much, the suckling of his lips even moreso. You squeezed your eyes tight, arching your back as a loud moan ripped from your throat. Your breath was rough and forceful as it rasped in and out of your throat, and your hands clenching in his hair tugged and tugged as his tongue continued to work. The pleasure took siege of your body, attacking every nerve ending until you were naught but a pile of flesh and blood and bone.

The high slowly descended to bring you back to Tommy Shelby's study, his tongue at your pussy a distant sensation in the back of your mind before it burnt with oversensitivity. You tugged at his hair, grunting as you pulled his head away to catch your breath.

His chin glistened and his lips were plump with blood as he stared at your recuperating body. He pulled his fingers from your fluttering pussy, taking them between his lips to taste you.

"Too much?" he asked, not in any way sensitive as he stared. "What, it feels too good, it hurts?" All you could do was nod. He breathed a laugh. "Have you ever touched yourself before, love?"

You didn't have it in you to be shy as you shook your head. He didn't take that answer this time—not humiliating enough, you supposed.

"Eh?" he urged, lightly smacking your arse to get a proper answer.

You grunted, shaking your head. "No, sir."

"That's your first time cumming then," he said more than asked, watching your dazed eyes slowly return to the dull bite of their natural rebellion—though he knew he broke you down enough for it to be too weak to matter.

He still awaited an answer. "Yes, sir," you obliged.

"Well, congratulations," he said. "Most men don't know how to please, so most women don't get to cum."

You disregarded his comment, still stuck on the aftershocks of pleasure as your eyes wandered the room. You whimpered when he licked you again, suckling around your clit and earning a jerk from your body.

He sat up, moving your legs off his shoulders like they were nothing important to him. He wrapped a hand at the base of your skull and pulled you up to sit. "Come here," he said, bringing you close to his face. "Have a taste."

He pulled you forward and crashed his lips against yours, too rough but just as amazing as all the rough ones he'd given before. The taste of you was strange but addictive as you came back for more, even as he pulled you away.

Tommy backed away from you, leaving you bare and hot on the desk. His hair was a mess, and he licked his lips again. He gestured toward you. "Stand up." You did as you were told, steadying yourself on unsteady feet. "Turn around."

As you obeyed, he came up behind you and pushed you onto the desk again, just as he'd done before. You grunted at the impact and clenched your thighs at the effect it had on you. You hated how good it made you feel, his treating you so roughly, without a care to just how rough. You hated even more how much rougher you wanted him to be.

Your prayers may have been met with extremity when you felt his gun to your head again as he spoke into your ear.

"I could kill you," he considered, pressing the gun further.

Your heart kicked up, and the adrenaline took over as his unwavering voice promised your demise. You held back your moan and responded, "But you won't."

"Why not?"

"You need me," you insisted. He laughed. "It's true. You kill me, well I'm Daddy's favourite. There'll be war. You make me go, I'll just keep coming back to finish it. You fuck me now, your wager is fulfilled and you get to fuck a virgin. What man doesn't want that, eh?"

Oh, you were good. Even if he was going to kill you, your words were enough to persuade him otherwise. He pressed the gun into your temple and the clicking sound of him clocking it reverberated in your ear. You moaned a long, deep moan as you clenched your thighs tightly together.

He smiled, laughing quietly to himself as he shook his head. "A proper whore, you are."

"Then fuck me, sir. That's the purpose of a whore, isn't it?" You gripped the edge of the table when he pushed his hips into you, aching that same spot on your thighs from before and making your lust all the worse.

He lingered, the cold barrel cocked and ready. You held your breath and awaited his decision before he removed it from your head. You sighed gently, missing his warmth when he stepped away from you.

Your hips jolted when the cold tip of his gun pressed to your pussy, spreading your lips apart to see you still wet for him. With the gun still cocked, your heart pounded against your ribcage and you felt the anxiety building deliciously in your body. He hummed, considering something in his head. You stayed as still as possible, certain your breath was loud as you wondered what he was thinking.

You heard him kneel, hyperaware of every sound he made behind you. His hand nudged the other side before he was leaning forward to taste you again.

You whimpered. "You're a dirty whore for being this wet," he said. You bit down on your lip.

He stood again and bent himself over your body. "You got my gun dirty," he tutted, shaking his head like he was scolding you as he shoved the barrel in your face. You could see your arousal gleaming off of it, shaking at the sight of it so close. "Clean it up."

You didn't move, paralyzed by fear. He didn't like that. "Clean. It. Up."

You let out a wavering breath, "Yes, sir." You leaned forward slowly, not even certain you were actually moving, and stuck your tongue out the slightest bit. You shut your eyes, making contact with the gun and a tiny whine slipped.

He watched you do as you were told, licking your slick from his gun and loving every second. A tear slipped down your cheek, slow and beautiful. He kissed it from your skin as you cleaned the gun.

When he deemed that you'd done well enough, he uncocked it and put it away. Your body relaxed, all of the pent up energy inside of you calming a slight as the threat of so much danger lifted from you.

He slipped his hand around your throat and leaned into your ear again. "Such a good girl, crying for me" he husked in your ear. "I'm gonna make you scream."

You felt the head of his cock push between your folds, coating himself in your slick, and there was plenty to go around. He straightened his spine as he took a hold of your hips, just as rough as you were expecting, before he shoved his cock into you. You moaned loudly as the harsh drag of his cock invaded your cunt, stretching you out around him.

"Fuck," you cried, gripping the desk harder. He held you steady as he fucked into your tight pussy, snapping his hips in and out of you without sparing a second for you to adjust. The slick you'd gathered would have to do.

You clenched down on him, thighs aching and trembling and becoming too much already as the tears built in your eyes.

Chants and cries of "yes" and "more" and "harder" spilled from your mouth and into the air, a loud and filthy cacophony of blasphemous praise. He held you down and he held you still, dominating your body as your new god as he ruined you for any man.

"You want more? Sure you do, so desperate for a fuck," he taunted, his harsh words accompany the harsh smacks of his hips. It was loud and continuous and it felt so good. "Such a dirty little thing, filthy and twisted. You like having a gun to your head, you like me being mean to ya. Where's all that pride gone, eh?"

The tears streamed down your face, decorating you in a way that Tommy could only describe as "beautiful".

"That's right. Cry for me, little whore," he grunted.

You did. Your thighs hurt and your throat is sore and your fingers ache from grasping the desk so hard, but you cried for him and the overwhelming pleasure, a depraved sound he fed from.

One of his hands left your hip to toy with your clit as he pressed his chest to your back. He bit the juncture between your neck and your shoulder, cruel and uncaring, before kissing the spot like an absent-minded apology. Your voice was raspy as he drew quick circles at your clit, chasing your next high as though it were unattainable.

And who knows? With Tommy, it might be.

"More," you begged, despite the loss of breath in your lungs, despite the haze of your mind. You chased the pleasure, pleading for it to swallow you whole as you took all that he gave you. "Please, sir, more." He cursed under his breath.

That crashing high from before curled in your belly again, hot and searing, like molten lava. You shuddered when it erupted, squeezing around his cock as you nearly sobbed. "Ahh, fuck!" Your head went fuzzy at the sensations as you gushed around him, sucking him in tighter.

Tommy grunted, his hips stilling before he pulled out of you. You thought he was done, but he seemed far from it as he wrapped his arm around your midsection, lifting you from the table and turning. You thought he was heading for the sofa, instead he lowered you to the ground on your hands and knees, which shook with the aftershocks of an orgasm you were still recovering from.

He pressed down on your back, pushing you onto the floor so your hips were angled up. He grasped your waist, smacking your arse once and earning a cut-off shriek.

He steadied you before burying his cock in you once more, sighing from the warmth your body provided. You whimpered at the feeling so fresh after cumming, slowly adjusting to the pleasure as he fucked into you with the insistence of a starved man.

Once you settled into it again, you moaned into the sensitivity, easing the rock of his hips rubbing you against the floor with your palms planted on the wood. It was cold and hard but the way his cock brushed in and out of you was so electric that you didn't care.

"There we are," he said, guiding your hips quickly as he pulled you in against him. "Fucked on the ground where you belong. Don't you agree?"

You struggled with nodding—though you knew he wouldn't accept it anyway. "Yes, s– Ah!– sir." He rutted into you, his thrusts almost animalistic, and he kept on.

He leaned forward, bracing one hand next to your head as you reached out to grab it. His breath was loud in your ear, full of broken moans disguised as heavy grunts.

"Good," mewled. "Feels good, sir."

"Yeah?" he asked, a particularly harsh slap making you whimper. "You want more, you pathetic whore?"

"Please, sir."

"So polite all of a sudden," he spoke breathlessly.

When he pulled out of you again, you thought you'd scream. But he eased you up to flip you onto your back, standing on his knees and staring down on you. You watched him unbutton his shirt, undoing each button one by one until he was able to shed it from his arms. You stared at the bare skin of his chest, taking in his tattoos, his muscles, the light patch of hair.

Grabbing you by your legs, he pulled you into his lap after leaning back. He set your legs over his shoulders once more, guiding himself back into you before he leaned forward. Your legs ached from being put in this position so much—but hell if you cared, because when he seated himself fully inside of you, the moan you left out was deep and guttural. He reached so much deeper than before, brushing a spot inside of you that set your body ablaze.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close as his hips snapped into yours. His thrusts were shorter in this position, grinding into you and brushing that spot over and over and over again. You whined and moaned through every moment of it, your eyes tearing up and the tension in your muscles building.

Your hand splayed out over his cheek as you tilted his head toward your face, wanting to watch him as he fucked into you. His eyes gazed at you, the intimidation from before not quite as cruel as it melted into the intimacy of the moment. His forehead pressed against yours and you breathed in each other's air as he shoved your hips together.

The sounds of his cock sliding in and out of you were intoxicating, filling the air with a filthy cadence that mixed with the carnal pleas on your tongue and the raucous groans on his.

"Look at you," he said, planting his hand next to your head once more as the other held your hips up for the right angle. "So desperate, pathetically beautiful."

You gave him a drunk smile, looking between his eyes and lips. "You think… I'm beautiful?"

He rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless, shutting you up with a rough thrust. Your head fell back and exposed your neck, which he graciously nipped between his teeth.

You yelped when the pad of his thumb pressed against your clit again, sinking into a breathy moan as you looked between your bodies to see it. You looked back up at Tommy, allowing him to do as he pleased with your body, succumbing to his touch.

"Fuck," you breathed, clenching around him at the feeling of your aching clit being stimulated again. You weren't sure you could cum again, but to hell if you weren't going to try.

Your arms wrapped around his back as your nails took root in his shoulders, scraping down his flesh to find purchase for the overwhelming passion. The sound Tommy made was nearly a moan, which he covered with a hiss as he clenched his teeth.

You kissed him, lips bruising, teeth clicking, tongues flicking as you drank the pleasure. "I'm gonna cum again, sir."

He raised his brows, though his rhythm was wearing. "Oh, you think so, do you?"

You corrected yourself, kissing him again to add in your favour. "Please, sir, can I cum again?"

His grin was almost sinister as he regarded you. You were learning, and fast. His unsteady hips rocked you back and forth on the ground, and his breath was timed with each little thrust. You could tell he was going to lose it, so close to joining you as you encouraged him by clenching and squeezing, sucking him into your cunt and getting him addicted to it.

"Fuck, yes. Go on and cum for me, sweetheart," he groaned, giving you the permission you needed as the pleasure washed over you like a wave of fire.

Your back arched, your weak moan stuttered in your throat, and you couldn't help but utter his name as the ecstasy shook you. Your cunt fluttered around him, and your moan continued until it melted to helpless little whimpers which then dissolved into each breath.

Tommy buried his face in the crook of your neck when he came after you, growling in your ear and his muscles tensed under your hands. His hips rutted into you, sinking in nice and deep and putting you in a position that would have been fairly uncomfortable, had you not been so devoured by his deep fucking that you hardly even noticed. All you could feel was the pressure of his body on yours and the feeling of his hot seed spilling into you, your cunt so tight around his cock that you milked every drop.

Slowly, his muscles loosened and his grip on your hip let up. He sighed, a long, deep sigh that released the rest of his tension as he began to straighten his back again. You stopped him, wrapping your hand around the back of his head and pulling him down for one more kiss. This one was so soft, a slow kiss that rendered your body useless. Everything was limp and lazy as the tender kiss changed the entire dynamic of the night.

It lasted longer than it properly should have as you both came in for more, treasuring it, cherishing it, until it had to come to its imminent end. He pulled away from you, staring at your face for a moment longer before he sat up, pulling out of you and making you shudder from the sudden loss and the even more sudden chill.

You stayed on the floor as he walked toward his desk and tucked himself back into his underwear. Your eyelids were heavy, drooping down as you lacked the strength to stand. As Tommy picked up his case of cigarettes, he looked at you over his shoulder, still laying there. Your legs were still spread out, your pussy dripping with both your cum on display and your arms framing your head. You'd passed out.

Tommy rubbed his cigarette between his lips before he lit it. His eyes never left you as he took the first puff before discarding the light and walking over to you. He knelt, tucking his hand under you to take you into his arms and set you on the sofa. He readjusted your body, your legs closed and one of your arms covering your chest.

He stood there a moment. You looked peaceful as you slept—absolutely debauched with your messy hair, tear-stricken cheeks, and swollen lips—but peaceful. Your face nuzzled into the cushion, and your lips twitched with whatever was going on in your head.

It took more than he would like to admit not to brush the apple of your cheek as he cleared his throat quietly. He picked up his disregarded shirt and draped it over your shoulders before choosing to walk back to his desk. He sat down and sifted through some files he pulled from a drawer to busy himself.

He didn't keep track of how long you slept or how long he sat there. He hadn't realised when he dozed off, tired out from you and from work.

You stirred from your place on the couch, opening your eyes and wondering why the floor was so soft. It took a moment to remember where you were, why you were naked, and why your thighs were so sticky.

Taking a deep breath in, a familiar scent filled your nose as you noticed the shirt over your body. You sat up slowly, pulling it to your chest and taking another deep breath. The scent made you dizzy, and you slipped it over your arms. The shirt was big on you, hanging low as you pulled it closed around your body.

Your body ached as you moved to stand, running a hand through your hair and stretching your sore limbs. Why were you so sore?

You took two steps, examining the floor and taking in all the clothes—scraps and fully intact—laying there, before you looked up and saw him. Tommy was passed out at his desk, bracing his face on his arms as he slept.

The events of that night flooded into your mind all at once and suddenly, everything made sense. You looked down at your dress of scraps again with a frown as you picked it up, rolling your eyes before using it to wipe away the cum glueing your legs together and discarding it back to the floor.

You padded over to Tommy, glancing over him and silently making your way to the window to peek behind the curtains. It was still dark out, so you hadn't slept long.

You returned to Tommy, lifting up his half-burnt cigarette and putting it out properly in the ashtray it was sitting in. You stared at him, watching him sleep.

You never thought the devil himself could ever look so peaceful.

You couldn't help yourself—you reached out and brushed some of his hair from his face. You just wanted to see him a little clearer. In doing so, he woke. It wasn't a slow waking like yours. His was fast, nearly startled as his eyes opened and his sharp inhale shocked his senses. Before he could jolt up to his feet, his blue eyes found you and his dark brows almost convinced you that he despised you as he granted you a hard stare.

But his expression shifted at the sight of you, after he'd properly taken you in and recognized you. He blinked away and sighed, sitting up slowly and leaning back in his chair. He tilted his head as he looked you up and down before reaching for his case of cigarettes again.

He picked one out, rubbed it between his lips, and lit it up in silence. And, in silence, you took it from between his lips and set it between your own. He stared at you, lips parted and amused—though, you had to look closely to notice.

"Apologise."

You stared at him with a raised brow, blowing out a billowing breath of smoke. He was surprised you smoke.

He looked you up and down before sighing and leaning back again. "Alright, I'll bite," he said. "What for?"

You took another deep breath before moving it again, blowing it out before gesturing toward him with his cigarette. "You called me pathetic."

"You are pathetic."

"And you called me a whore."

"You are a whore."

"You called me a pathetic whore."

He opened his arms, shrugging as he watched you. You raised a brow and blew out some more smoke.

"Apologise."

You weren't harsh as you said it, and you didn't look particularly hurt. In fact, you looked like a fucking angel dressed in his shirt, smoking his cigarette, and demanding he apologise for something you so obviously enjoyed.

He gave in, smiling as he rolled his eyes. "I apologise for calling you a pathetic whore…even if you are a pathetic whore."

You watched him for a moment, considering whether you'd accept his apology.

"I also want you to apologise for pointing a gun at me. Twice. And then touching my fucking cunt with it."

"No." He said it so simply, so finally. There was no way you'd get him to budge. "You liked it too much."

You thought about that and shrugged. Fair enough.

"I also–"

"Shut up and come here," he said, turning toward you with his open legs and arms.

You smiled and stepped between them, letting him take hold of your waist—even if you were still sensitive there because you didn't want to give up the affection. You guided the cigarette back between his lips, your fingers pressing against them as you did. He smoked it before taking it out and staring at you, blowing the air out as he thought.

Tommy reached into his pocket, digging around to pull out a coin. He handed it to you, and you shook your head at him. "That's not funny," you mumbled, stifling a laugh.

"Congratulations, you're worth two pennies."

"Fuck you," you laughed, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I've already done that." You laughed again, shaking your head and ignoring the warmth in your belly.

You stared at him, rubbing the coin between your fingers as you toyed with it. He watched you think to yourself, biting your lip as your eyes so obviously flicked between his eyes and lips.

"Thank you, Tommy," you told him softly. "I needed this."

His smile faltered slightly as he continued to watch you. He sighed, unaware of his thumbs stroking patterns into your sides, "I didn't do it for you… but I'm happy to have helped."

You chuckled weakly, half-hearted. Looking down at the penny, you smiled slowly and held it up. "How about a wager?" His subtle amusement encouraged you.

"If it's heads…you get me a new dress because you ripped mine to shreds."

He let out a small scoff, shaking his head gently.

"And if it's tails…" you smiled. You lifted your leg, slipping into his lap as you wrapped your arms around his shoulders. His hands found your arse, pulling you forward so your bodies were flush against each other. Your eyes fluttered as his cock brushed your pussy, already exciting you for the probable future. You focused on him again, "...you fuck me again—this time naked."

He smiled and nodded his head. "Toss the coin, Miss Gold."

You licked your lips as you readied it between your thumb and finger. Your eyes locked for a moment between moments, drinking each other like forbidden wine. You flipped the coin into the air, watching as it twirled and twirled and twirled. The coin made its descent, you caught it, and you took a moment to close your eyes and hope before you let it show.

You couldn't hide your elation as you picked up the coin and showed him. "Congratulations, Mr. Shelby," you smiled. "Tails."

"A deal's a deal." His hand wrapped around the back of your neck and he pulled you in, "I would've fucked you otherwise." He kissed you in a mix of the roughness and sweet tenderness from earlier.

Between breaks, you sighed heavily. "Thank God because I need you," you confessed, kissing him again.

You undid his pants once more, this time pushing them down his legs and finally ridding him of them. He let you wear his shirt, refraining from admitting just how much he liked seeing you wear it.

The kiss was a mess as you devoured one another. He rocked your hips in his lap and you moaned at the pressure as his cock spread your lips apart. "Fuck, this is gonna be a long night," you hummed.

"Shut up and ride my cock," he demanded, not nearly as harsh as before but just as breathless as you now.

You smiled. "Yes, sir."

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