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the back of your thighs were bruised. deep, burning pain that was caused by the slap of his strong, muscled legs against yours.
your lips were parted, but there was no sound, except for small whimpers and gasps when his tip punched your cervix.
"so fucking wet for me," he groaned, chest pressing your back further into the bed.
bruce had your hips meanly arched, the curve of your back dipped low enough that your spine threatened to crack.
it was so fucking good.
he pushed his hips as far as he could go, holding himself there. a sharp whine shot out of your lungs. you attempted to crawl away. push yourself up to get reprieve from the pressure. he was everywhere. your walls struggled to accommodate his size, even after all the time you have spent together, even after how well your body knew his.
"yeah? awe, you like that don't you, huh, sweetheart?" he cooed. you could feel the smugness in his words painting your back. he gave you another harsh trust, pressing himself impossibly deeper. "take it for me — yeahhhh — just like that, such a good girl for me."
his words were filth in your ear.
"just needed some cock, huh, baby?"
"so perfect for me, can feel you sucking me in,"
"taking it so fucking good for me, honey, god — fuck,"
your face was mushed in the pillow, fingers clenched around his silk sheets. his fingers wrapped into the back of your head, releasing your muffled cries from the fabric.
"nuh uh, wanna hear you, hear how good i'm making you feel," his chest pressed you further into the matress, lips dragging against the shell of your ear.
"come for me," he whispered, lips curving into a satisfied as you tensed and shook underneath him. he pushed himself up, hands shoving your upper body back down as he began to slam back into you and chase his own release.
because, even though bruce loved to show you how much he cared for you, he always loved to see how much he could ruin you more.
an: first attempt at practicing drabbles, sowwy to inignia for using you as my test dummy
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Thomas Shelby x fem!reader
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 18+ MDNI. smut, unprotected sex, smoking, mentions of violence, knife threat, possessive/protective behavior, stalking-ish behavior, power imbalance, angst, and Tommy Shelby being terrible at asking for what he wants. word count: 7.6k
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ───────────── ⋅ ˚₊‧☽
Time passed.
Not enough for Birmingham to change. It never did. The same smoke still sat low over the rooftops, turning the morning light grey before it ever had the chance to be gold. The same men walked home from factories with black beneath their nails and tiredness in their shoulders. The same women stood in doorways with aprons tied too tight, calling children in before the streets turned mean after dark.
But enough time passed for you to convince yourself Thomas Shelby had become nothing more than a strange, violent interruption. A man who had bled on your floor. A man you had helped because leaving someone to die was not in your nature, no matter how dangerous his name was. A man you had sent on his way.
That should have been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
The first thing came three days later. An envelope pushed beneath your door with no name written across the front. You had known who it was from before you even touched it. There were not many men in Birmingham who sent money without a word and still somehow made it feel like a command.
You opened it, counted it, then walked it straight back to one of his men standing on the corner like he had been placed there by God himself.
“Give that back to him,” you said.
The man blinked at you. “Mr. Shelby said—”
“I don’t care what Mr. Shelby said.”
His mouth closed.
You shoved the envelope against his chest hard enough to make him stumble back a step. “Tell him I’m not one of his horses. He doesn’t get to throw money at me because I was useful.”
The man looked as if he would rather have been shot than repeat that.
Good.
Then came coal.
A small delivery left near your back door, enough to keep the place warm for a while. No note. No explanation. You stared at it for a long moment, arms folded, jaw tight, before cursing under your breath because you needed it.
That annoyed you most of all.
The next week, it was medicine. Proper medicine too, not the cheap sort that tasted like poison and did very little else. The sort you would have had to count coins for. The sort you would have walked past in a shop and pretended you had no use for.
It sat on your table for half the afternoon while you glared at it, as if glaring could turn it into something less thoughtful.
As if thoughtful was not somehow worse.
Thomas Shelby did not send flowers. Not at first. You almost respected him for that. Flowers would have been too easy. Too obvious. Too insulting.
But then one morning, there they were. Dark red ones, tied with black ribbon, left in a glass jar by the door like someone had known better than to knock. You stared at them. They stared back.
You left them there until the petals curled at the edges.
By the second week, you knew what he was doing. Or maybe you didn’t, and that was the worst of it. Thomas Shelby had a way of making even silence feel deliberate. Every little thing seemed placed in your path to remind you of him. The coal. The money. The medicine. The flowers. The man who suddenly stopped bothering you outside the bakery after you had told him no three times and he had laughed each time.
He didn’t laugh after that.
You never asked what happened. You told yourself you didn’t care.
Then, one evening, walking home with your coat pulled tight and your fingers wrapped around the little knife you had started carrying in your pocket, you felt it. That horrible prickle at the back of your neck. The feeling of being watched.
You stopped.
The street was narrow, damp from earlier rain, the stones shining beneath the weak glow of the lamps. Somewhere in the distance, men shouted outside a pub, their voices slurred with drink. A horse shifted in its harness. A door shut. A woman laughed too loudly, then not at all.
You turned the corner, and there he was.
Thomas Shelby stood beneath the shadow of a brick wall, cigarette glowing between his fingers, cap low over his eyes like he had grown out of the dark itself.
You jerked back so sharply your heel slipped on the wet stone. “Jesus Christ!”
His eyes lifted to yours.
Calm.
Of course he was calm.
“You shouldn’t walk home alone.”
Your heart was still trying to beat its way out of your ribs. “Are you trying to get yourself stabbed?”
A flicker passed over his mouth, not quite a smile. “You wouldn’t stab me.”
You pulled the knife from your pocket before you could think better of it, the little blade catching the lamplight. Thomas looked at it, then at you. His expression barely changed, but something in his eyes sharpened with interest.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” you said.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Smoke curled from his cigarette, drifting between you like a warning. He looked too clean for the street and somehow still made for it. Dark coat. Sharp cheekbones. Mouth set like it had forgotten softness on purpose.
Then he took one slow step forward.
You lifted the knife.
He stopped.
That, more than anything, made your pulse jump.
Thomas Shelby stopped because you told him to without saying a word.
“Put it away,” he said quietly.
“Stop appearing out of corners like a ghost, and I might.”
“I was waiting.”
“That is worse.”
His brow shifted slightly.
“You think that makes it better?” you asked. “Standing in the dark where I can’t see you?”
“I didn’t want to frighten you.”
A laugh left you before you could stop it. Short. Sharp. Disbelieving.
“You are very bad at not frightening people, Mr. Shelby.”
Something about that seemed to land differently than you expected. Not enough to wound him. Thomas Shelby did not look like a man easily wounded. But enough to make his eyes move over your face with a quieter sort of attention.
“I had a man watching the street,” he said.
Your grip tightened around the knife.
His gaze dropped to your hand, then rose again. “For your safety.”
“My safety.”
“Yes.”
“So the man standing outside my work all afternoon was yours?”
His silence answered.
You stepped closer before fear could talk you out of it. “And the man outside my door yesterday?”
Another silence.
“Thomas.”
His name came out harder than you meant it to. His cigarette paused halfway to his mouth.
“You don’t get to frighten me and call it keeping me safe.”
For the first time, he looked away. Only briefly, but you saw it. The smallest crack in that carefully made face. Then it was gone.
“I have enemies,” he said.
“I know.”
“You helped me.”
“I know that too.”
“That makes you part of it.”
“No,” you snapped. “That makes me a person who didn’t let you bleed out on my floor. It does not make me yours to guard. It does not make my life another thing for you to manage.”
His jaw tightened.
You should have stopped there, but you didn’t. “And you don’t know how to ask for something, do you?”
That did it.
The stillness around him changed. Not much. Not enough for anyone else to notice, maybe. But you noticed. You had been noticing too much about him lately. The way his eyes went flat when he was angry. The way his voice softened before it grew dangerous. The way he watched you as if every word out of your mouth was a card he had not expected you to play.
“I ask when I need to,” he said.
“No. You order. You pay. You send men. You leave things at my door and expect me to understand whatever it is you refuse to say.”
He took a drag from his cigarette, slow enough to irritate you.
You hated that your eyes went to his mouth. Hated even more that he noticed.
“I’m making sure you’re looked after,” he said.
“No.” His gaze fixed on you. “You’re making sure I remember you.”
The street seemed to go quieter. Even the distant noise from the pub dulled, swallowed by the space between you. Thomas did not answer, and that was how you knew you were right.
You tucked the knife back into your pocket, but your hand stayed there, fingers still curled around it. “That’s what this is, isn’t it? The coal. The money. The flowers. The men.”
He watched you through the smoke.
“You wanted to stay in my life, but you couldn’t lower yourself enough to knock on the door and say it.”
His mouth twitched.
Not amusement this time.
Something darker. Something almost honest.
“You think you know me?”
“I know enough.”
“No,” he said, voice lower now. “You know what people say.”
“And you know what people say about me?”
His eyes moved over you again, slower this time. “No.”
“Then we’re even.”
For a moment, you thought he might smile. Properly, this time. He didn’t.
Instead, he dropped his cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his shoe. “I came back because I wanted to.”
The words were plain. Too plain. They struck harder because of it. No poetry. No charm. No clever turn of phrase to hide behind. Just the truth, standing there between the two of you with smoke still in its mouth.
You swallowed. “That all?”
His eyes darkened. “No.”
The air changed.
You felt it before either of you moved. A shift so small it should not have mattered. His hand flexing once at his side. Your breath catching before you could stop it. The wet street shining beneath the lamps. His gaze dropping, briefly, to your mouth.
Then back to your eyes.
“Then say what you want,” you said.
He stepped closer. Only one step. You should have stepped back. You didn’t.
For once, Thomas Shelby did not reach for you first. He stood there with his cap low in one hand now, the other hanging at his side, fingers slightly curled as if keeping them still required effort. He looked at you like he had finally understood there were some doors even he could not force open.
“You,” he said.
Your stomach tightened.
One word. That was all.
It should not have been enough to make warmth flicker beneath your ribs. It should not have made your anger stumble. It should not have made the space between you feel suddenly too small and too charged and too full of everything neither of you had said.
But it did.
You hated him a little for that too.
“You think wanting me is enough?” you asked.
“No.”
He answered too quickly for it to be a lie.
Your fingers loosened around the knife in your pocket. “Then what are you doing here?”
His gaze held yours. “Waiting for you to tell me to leave.”
There it was. The thing you had not expected. Not from him. Not from a man who entered rooms like they belonged to him before he ever crossed the threshold. Not from a man who sent money and men and medicine like the whole world was a board and everyone on it a piece he could move.
Waiting.
Thomas Shelby was waiting.
For you.
The thought should not have softened you. It didn’t, exactly. It did something worse.
It made you want.
You took a breath, but it shook on the way in.
His eyes caught it. Of course they did.
“I should,” you said.
“Yes.”
“You deserve it.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been unbearable.”
Something almost warm moved across his face. “I’ve been told.”
“Not enough, clearly.”
His gaze dropped again. Mouth. Throat. The little space where your coat had shifted open at the collar. Then back up.
“You still carrying that knife?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
That startled a laugh out of you before you could stop it.
A real one.
Small, but real.
His face changed when he heard it. Not dramatically. Thomas did nothing dramatically unless violence was involved. But something in him eased, as if the sound had reached a place in him that had been locked for a very long time.
You hated that you saw it.
Hated that it made you feel softer than you wanted to be.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you said.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve won something.”
“I haven’t.”
“No?”
“No.”
He stepped closer again.
This time, you let him.
“You’re still angry,” he said.
“I am.”
“Still afraid?”
You thought about lying. It would have been easier. It would have given you the upper hand, or at least the illusion of one. Instead, you looked at him. Really looked. At the sharpness of him. The calm danger. The pale blue eyes and the mouth that rarely gave away anything kind. The man every story in Birmingham had turned into something half human, half shadow.
“I was,” you said.
His face went still. “And now?”
Your heart beat once. Twice.
“Now I’m angry.”
That almost-smile came back. Low. Dangerous. Barely there.
“That I can work with.”
You should have told him to go then. You really should have. Instead, you stepped in close enough that the front of your coat brushed his.
The air between you disappeared.
Thomas did not touch you. He only looked down at you, his breath slow, his eyes not so controlled now. There was want there, finally stripped of strategy. Want with nowhere to hide. Want that had stopped sending parcels and men and money and had come to stand in front of you, quiet and bare and waiting to be refused.
Your fingers caught the lapel of his coat. “You break into my life again,” you said softly, “and I will stab you.”
“I believe you.”
“You should.”
“I do.”
The words settled warmly in your chest before you could defend yourself against them.
Your grip tightened on his coat. He noticed.
His voice lowered. “Y/n.”
It was unfair, the way he said your name. Like it was not just a name at all. Like it had been sitting in his mouth for weeks. Like he had thought it more times than he would ever admit, in offices filled with smoke and betting slips, in cars cutting through Birmingham fog, in rooms where men spoke and he heard none of it.
Your breath caught.
His eyes flickered.
“Tell me to go,” he said.
You should have. You had every reason to.
Instead, you pulled him down by the front of his coat and kissed him.
For half a second, Thomas did not move. Not because he didn’t want it. Because it had surprised him.
That made something hot and victorious flare in your chest.
Then his mouth answered yours.
Slow at first. Controlled. Of course it was controlled. Thomas Shelby kissed like a man still trying to keep one hand on the reins, like desire was another thing he could master if he only held himself still enough. His lips were warm, firmer than you expected, the faint taste of smoke lingering between you. He did not grab. He did not push. He let you set the pace, and somehow that made the kiss feel more dangerous than if he had taken it outright.
Because now you knew he was holding back.
You could feel it in the tension of his shoulders beneath your hands. In the slow breath he dragged in through his nose when your fingers slid higher, brushing the edge of his collar. In the way his hand lifted, hovered near your waist, and stopped.
You broke the kiss just enough to speak against his mouth. “You can touch me, Thomas.”
His eyes opened. Dark. Focused.
“Can I?”
The question was quiet. Rough. It sent heat straight through you because you knew what it cost him to ask. Not much to a decent man, maybe. But to Thomas Shelby, it was surrender in its smallest form.
Your grip softened at his collar. “Yes.”
His hand came to your waist.
Careful at first.
So careful it almost hurt.
His palm was warm through your coat, fingers steady, but you felt the restraint in them. He held you like he was memorizing the fact that he had been allowed. Like permission was a strange thing in his hands and he did not quite know what to do with it yet.
You kissed him again because if you thought about that too long, you might do something foolish. Like forgive him.
This kiss was different. Deeper. His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer, and your body went willingly before your pride could protest. The damp brick wall was behind you. Thomas was in front of you. The whole street seemed to narrow down to the pressure of his mouth, the scent of smoke and rain in his coat, the controlled hunger in the way he tilted his head and kissed you like he had been starving quietly.
When your back touched the wall, you gasped into his mouth.
He stilled immediately.
Your eyes opened.
His were already on you.
“Alright?” he asked.
There it was again. That unexpected carefulness. That little crack in the dangerous shape of him.
You nodded, but that wasn’t enough for him.
“Say it.”
Your chest rose against his. “I’m alright.”
Only then did he kiss you again.
And God, that did something to you.
Because he was still Thomas. Still smoke and blood and command. Still the man who had frightened you half to death in the dark like an idiot. But now his thumb was brushing once, lightly, against your waist like he could not help himself. Like there was some part of him, buried beneath all that cold machinery, that knew how to be gentle and hated being caught at it.
You pulled back before the kiss could swallow your sense completely.
His forehead nearly touched yours, both of you breathing harder now.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” you said.
“No.”
“You don’t own me.”
His thumb stilled. “I know.”
“Do you?”
A pause.
Then his eyes lifted to yours. “I’m learning.”
The words were so soft you almost didn’t hear them over the rain beginning again, light and steady against the stones.
You stared at him.
For once, he looked like he did not know what you would do next.
Good.
You liked him better that way.
Your fingers moved from his coat to his tie, not pulling yet. Just holding. Feeling the silk beneath your fingertips. His gaze dropped to the movement, and the look that passed through his eyes made your stomach dip.
“You are trouble,” you whispered.
“So I’ve been told.”
“By women smarter than me, probably.”
“No.”
His answer came too quickly.
You looked up.
His mouth was close enough to yours that each word felt like a touch.
“No?” you asked.
“No.”
There was something terribly serious in his face now. “You’re the smartest one so far.”
You hated the way that landed. Hated the little rush it sent through you. Hated the way your anger curled into something warmer, something softer around the edges. He should not have been able to do that with one sentence. He should not have been able to stand there in the rain and make you feel seen when all he had done for weeks was irritate you into madness.
But he did.
And he knew it.
Not smugly. Not quite. More like he had discovered a new way to touch you without using his hands.
“Thomas,” you warned.
His gaze darkened at the sound of his name. “What?”
“You’re looking at me again.”
“How?”
“Like that.”
This time, he did smile. Barely.
“Can’t help it.”
“You can.”
“I don’t want to.”
Your fingers tightened around his tie. The smile disappeared.
The air shifted again, hotter now despite the cold rain and the damp stone at your back. His hand remained at your waist, but his body had moved closer, close enough that you could feel the line of him through layers of clothing. Close enough that your anger had nowhere to stand without brushing against desire.
“You should go,” you said.
He nodded once. “Yes.”
Neither of you moved.
“You’re not going,” you said.
“No.”
“Why?”
His eyes held yours. “Because you’re still holding my tie.”
You looked down.
You were.
Worse, you had no intention of letting go.
Slowly, deliberately, you pulled him closer by it. Not much. Just enough.
Thomas’s breath changed.
So did yours.
He let you do it. Let you bring him down until his mouth hovered over yours again, until all that careful control of his looked less like power and more like restraint worn thin.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” you whispered.
“No,” he said. “Not with you.”
That was the one that ruined you.
Not the money. Not the flowers. Not the way he looked in the lamplight, all sharp lines and dangerous quiet.
That.
The honesty of it.
The admission sitting rough and low in his voice, like it had been dragged out of him against his will.
Your mouth softened before you could stop it.
He saw.
Of course he saw.
Thomas lifted his free hand slowly, giving you every chance to move away. When you didn’t, his fingers brushed the side of your face, not even fully touching at first. Just the backs of his knuckles skimming your cheek, light enough to be mistaken for rain if your whole body had not gone still beneath it.
“You don’t get to be sweet now,” you said, but it came out weaker than you wanted.
His thumb touched the corner of your mouth.
“I’m not sweet.”
“No,” you agreed, breathless despite yourself. “You’re not.”
His eyes dropped to your lips.
“But you’re trying.”
A beat.
Then, quietly, “Yes.”
Your heart did something stupid. Something dangerous. Something that felt far too much like opening a door.
You kissed him again, harder this time, because you did not want to look at him while he was being honest. It was easier when his mouth was on yours. Easier when his hand slid from your waist to your back, gathering you closer. Easier when he made that low sound in his throat, half restraint and half want, and you felt it through your own chest.
The rain picked up around you.
Neither of you cared.
Your fingers moved beneath his coat, finding the hard line of his waistcoat, the warmth of him under all that expensive fabric. He shivered once. Only once.
But you felt it.
You smiled against his mouth.
Thomas caught it.
“Something funny?”
“You.”
His brow lowered.
“You’re not as untouchable as you think.”
His hand tightened at your back. “No?”
“No.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, just because you wanted to see what he would do.
He went very still.
That pleased you more than it should have.
“Y/n,” he said again, and this time your name sounded like both warning and plea.
You leaned back enough to look at him.
The rain had gathered on the brim of his cap, darkened the shoulders of his coat. A strand of hair had fallen loose against his forehead. His eyes were fixed on you with such intensity that your throat tightened.
Not cold now. Not distant. Not the man who sent others to do what he was too proud to ask for.
Just Thomas.
Wanting.
Waiting.
Trying.
Badly, maybe.
But trying.
Your thumb brushed the knot of his tie. “I’m still angry with you.”
“I know.”
“I might be angry tomorrow.”
“I expect you will be.”
“And the day after.”
“That too.”
“You’ll deserve it.”
“Yes.”
The corner of your mouth lifted. “You’re agreeing too much. It’s unsettling.”
“I can stop.”
“Don’t.”
His eyes warmed in that quiet, almost invisible way again.
Then he leaned in, but did not kiss you. His mouth brushed your cheek instead, close to your ear, his voice low enough to make the world fall away.
“Tell me what you want, then.”
Your breath caught.
He stayed there, not touching you anywhere new, not moving until you answered.
That was the worst part. The best part. The part that made heat gather low in your stomach because he was still giving you the choice, and you were beginning to understand how badly he wanted you to make one.
You turned your face slightly, just enough that your lips brushed his.
“You first.”
His breath left him slowly. Then his hand slid up your back, firm and warm, and he kissed you with the last of his restraint breaking between you.
This time, there was nothing careful about the hunger in it.
Still, he waited for you in the places that mattered. Waited when your fingers trembled at his collar. Waited when you pulled at his tie. Waited when your back pressed harder against the wall and you made a small sound you wished he hadn’t heard.
But he had.
And the way he kissed you after told you he would remember it.
You broke apart only when the cold finally bit through your coat and made you shiver.
Thomas noticed immediately.
“Come inside,” he said.
Your eyes narrowed. “With you?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
He nodded toward the building behind you. “Yours.”
“You are not coming into my house after stalking me in an alley.”
“I wasn’t stalking you.”
“You were standing in the dark like a murderer.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Not helping.”
His mouth twitched again.
You hated that you liked it.
Then his expression sobered. “You’re cold.”
“I’ll live.”
“I know.”
The way he said it made your chest tighten. Like he had never doubted that you would. Like your toughness was not something he wanted to tame, but something he had noticed and respected, even when he was being unbearable.
You looked at him for a long moment, then sighed, angry at yourself before you even spoke.
“If you try anything I don’t like, I still have the knife.”
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
You gave him a look.
He had the sense not to smile.
You turned and walked toward your door, refusing to check whether he followed. You knew he did. You could feel him behind you, close but not crowding, his presence filling the narrow path like smoke.
When you reached your door, your hands were steadier than you felt. You unlocked it, stepped inside, and turned before he could cross the threshold.
Thomas stopped.
Waiting again.
The lamp inside threw warm light across his face, softening nothing and somehow making him more beautiful in the most irritating way. Rain clung to his lashes. His coat was dark with it. His mouth was still slightly swollen from yours.
You swallowed.
“This does not mean you get to keep appearing whenever you like.”
“No.”
“You knock.”
“Yes.”
“And no more men following me.”
His pause was too long.
“Thomas.”
His eyes flicked to yours. “No more men close enough for you to see.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
“That is not what I said.”
“No.”
“You are impossible.”
“Yes.”
You should have shut the door.
Instead, you stepped back.
Thomas entered slowly, removing his cap as he did.
The room felt smaller with him in it. Warmer too, though that might have been your own body betraying you. He looked around once, taking in the details without appearing to: the table, the chair, the fire burning low, the flowers he had sent still not inside because they had been left to die out front like a warning.
His gaze returned to you.
“You kept the medicine,” he said.
You closed the door. “I needed the medicine.”
“And the coal.”
“I needed the coal.”
“The flowers?”
“I let them die.”
“I saw.”
“Good.”
His eyes moved over your face, and this time there was no arrogance in it. Only something quieter. “I’ll do better next time.”
Your heart gave another stupid pull.
You turned away from him. “There may not be a next time.”
Behind you, his voice came low. “There will be.”
You looked back.
The confidence should have annoyed you. It did. But there was something else beneath it now. Not ownership. Not command.
Hope, maybe.
Thomas Shelby did not wear hope well. It sat strangely on him, too fragile for a man made of sharp edges.
You walked back toward him slowly.
His eyes followed every step.
“You’re very sure for a man who was nearly threatened with a kitchen knife.”
“You said nearly.”
“I can change my mind.”
“I know.”
Your hand rose before you could think better of it, fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead. It was a small thing. Too small to mean as much as it did.
Thomas went still beneath your touch. Not frozen. Not uncomfortable. Still in the way a man becomes when something gentle has caught him unprepared.
Your voice softened despite yourself. “You really don’t know how to ask, do you?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “No.”
The answer was barely louder than a breath.
Your fingers lingered near his temple. “What would you have said?”
“If I did?”
“Yes.”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then, with the kind of difficulty most men reserved for confession, he said, “I would’ve asked if I could see you again.”
Your throat tightened. “And if I said no?”
“I would’ve come back anyway.”
You rolled your eyes and stepped away. “Thomas.”
“But I would’ve knocked.”
The laugh escaped before you could stop it.
He smiled then. Not much, but enough.
Enough to make him look younger for half a second. Less like the man Birmingham feared and more like the man he might have been if the war, and the smoke, and the blood had not gotten to him first.
That little glimpse was dangerous.
You moved toward him again, slower this time. “Ask me now.”
His smile faded.
The room went quiet. Rain tapped at the window. The fire shifted in the grate. Somewhere far off, Birmingham carried on being Birmingham, cruel and loud and careless.
But inside, Thomas Shelby looked at you like the whole city had narrowed down to your answer.
“Can I see you again?” he asked.
Your chest warmed.
You tilted your head. “You’re seeing me now.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Can I see you tomorrow?”
“You’re presumptuous.”
“Yes.”
“And annoying.”
“Yes.”
“And a terrible gift giver.”
“The coal was useful.”
“That’s not the point.”
His eyes softened again. “Can I see you tomorrow, Y/n?”
There was your name again.
Quiet. Rough. Nearly tender.
You stepped close enough that your skirt brushed his coat.
“Yes,” you said.
Something in him eased. Only a little.
But you felt it.
Then your fingers caught his tie again.
“But right now, Thomas…”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
You pulled him closer.
“I don’t want to talk about tomorrow.”
His hand found your waist, no hesitation this time.
Still waiting.
Still asking, in his own silent way.
Your lips brushed his once, light enough to make him follow.
And when he did, when Thomas Shelby finally kissed you inside the quiet warmth of your little room, with rain on his coat and your hand twisted in his tie, it felt less like surrender and more like choosing the danger with your eyes open.
His mouth moved against yours, slow and deep, and the whole world outside seemed to fall away.
The coal burned low.
The rain kept coming.
And Thomas, for once in his life, did not take.
He waited for you to pull him closer.
So you did.
His mouth was still on yours when your back hit the door.
You hadn’t meant to lead him there. Hadn’t meant to let the kiss deepen until your spine pressed against the wood and his body followed, one hand braced beside your head, the other still at your waist like he needed permission to keep it there.
Thomas kissed like a man who had been thinking about it too long.
Slow, at first. Controlled. His lips moved against yours with that infuriating restraint, as if he could will himself to be patient even now, even with your fingers twisted in his tie and your breath going ragged between kisses.
You pulled back just enough to speak. “You’re still holding back.”
His eyes opened. Blue. Dark. Focused. “Yes.”
“Why?”
The hand at your waist flexed once. “Because I don’t know what you want.”
That caught you off guard. Thomas Shelby, who commanded rooms and men and whole streets of Birmingham with a look, standing in your narrow hallway admitting he did not know something.
Your grip on his tie loosened. “You could ask.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not good at asking.”
“I’ve noticed.”
The almost-smile returned, there and gone. His thumb moved against your waist, a small circle through the fabric of your dress. Even that slight pressure sent warmth spreading beneath your skin.
“Tell me,” he said quietly, “and I’ll do it.”
Your heart kicked. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
The word landed low in your stomach. Not because he meant it as submission, exactly. Thomas was not a man who submitted. But he was a man who had decided, somewhere between the alley and your door, that you were worth the effort of restraint.
You released his tie and let your hand slide up to his jaw. Stubble rough against your palm. His breath slowed. His eyes stayed on yours.
“Kiss me like you mean it,” you said.
Something shifted behind his gaze. “I’ve been meaning it since the night you stitched me up.”
Then his mouth was on yours again, and this time there was nothing careful about it.
The kiss deepened fast. His hand left the door and came to your face, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you harder, deeper, his body pressing you against the wood until there was no space left between you. The cold from outside still clung to his coat, but beneath it he was warm, solid, real in a way the rumors never captured.
Your hands found the front of his coat and pushed.
He let you.
Let the heavy wool slide from his shoulders and hit the floor. Let you work at the buttons of his waistcoat while his mouth moved to your jaw, then lower, trailing heat down the side of your throat. When his lips found the place where your pulse beat hardest, you made a sound you could not swallow back.
He stopped.
“Alright?”
You nearly laughed. Nearly. “Stop asking if I’m alright every time I make a noise.”
“No.”
“Thomas.”
His mouth brushed your collarbone. “I’ll stop asking when I’m sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“That you’re not going to change your mind.”
You pulled back enough to look at him. His waistcoat hung open now, shirt beneath it still buttoned, collar slightly askew from your fingers. His hair had fallen loose across his forehead. His mouth was red from kissing you.
He looked wrecked already.
The sight of it made your voice come out rougher than you intended. “I’m not going to change my mind.”
His eyes searched yours. Whatever he found there made his shoulders drop a fraction, some final tension leaving him.
“Good,” he said.
Then he kissed you again, and his hands began to move.
The one in your hair stayed, cradling your skull with surprising gentleness. But the other slid from your waist to your hip, then lower, gathering the fabric of your skirt in slow increments. His knuckles brushed your thigh through your stocking and you inhaled sharply.
He paused.
This time, before he could ask, you said, “Don’t stop.”
His forehead touched yours. “Tell me if you want me to.”
“I will.”
“Promise me.”
The words were quiet. Almost rough. Not a command. A request.
You looked at him, at the sharp lines of his face and the deeper thing behind his careful control, and understood that Thomas Shelby was not used to wanting things he was afraid of breaking.
“I promise,” you said.
Something in him loosened. Then his hand moved higher, pushing your skirt up past your knee, past your garter, until his fingers met bare skin above your stocking. They were callused, his fingers. Rough from reins and triggers and God knew what else. The contrast of that roughness against the soft inside of your thigh made your breath stutter.
His mouth found yours again as his hand climbed higher.
When his fingers brushed the damp fabric between your legs, you gasped into his mouth.
He went still.
Not frozen. Still in the way a man goes when he is committing something to memory. The feel of you through cotton. The heat of you. The way your hips shifted without your permission, seeking more pressure.
“Christ,” he breathed.
You might have felt embarrassed if his voice had not sounded so undone.
His fingers pressed, just barely, and your head fell back against the door. He watched you. Watched the way your mouth opened. Watched the way your chest rose and fell beneath your dress. His gaze was so intent it felt like another kind of touch.
“You’re wet,” he said.
Not a question. Not an accusation. Just a fact, spoken low and rough, like he needed to say it aloud to believe it.
Your hand tightened on his shoulder. “You sound surprised.”
“I am.” His thumb moved in a slow circle and your hips jerked. “Every time you let me touch you, I’m surprised.”
The honesty of it cut through you. You pulled him down by his open collar and kissed him hard, because if he kept talking like that you were going to do something stupid like tell him you had thought about this too. About him. About his hands and his mouth and the way he looked at you like you were a door he had never expected to open.
His fingers found the edge of your underwear and paused.
Not asking with words this time. Just waiting.
You answered by reaching between you and undoing the buttons of his trousers yourself.
His breath caught.
Your fingers brushed the hard length of him through his shorts and he made a sound low in his throat, half groan and half something softer. His forehead dropped to yours. His hips pressed forward into your hand before he could stop them.
“You’re not the only one who’s been thinking about this,” you said.
His eyes closed. “Y/n.”
“Tell me you haven’t.”
A beat of silence. Then, roughly, “I haven’t stopped.”
Your hand tightened around him through the fabric. His breath hissed out.
“Since when?”
“Since you aggressively repaired me.”
The memory surfaced between you. Him, bleeding and pale. You, stitching him up with steady hands while he watched you like you were something he had never encountered before.
“You were half-dead,” you said.
“I noticed you anyway.”
The words were simple. Too simple. They hit you in the chest and spread warmth downward, until the ache between your legs became impossible to ignore.
You pulled your hand free and pushed his down instead, guiding his fingers back to where you needed them. This time he did not pause. He pushed the damp fabric aside and touched you bare, and the sound you made was loud enough that he kissed you to swallow it.
One finger slid inside you.
Then two.
Slow. So slow. His thumb found your clit and circled once, twice, a rhythm that made your thighs tremble and your grip on his shoulders turn desperate. He was watching your face again, cataloging every flicker of pleasure, adjusting the angle of his fingers when your breath caught, pressing deeper when your nails dug into his shirt.
“Like that?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Here?”
His fingers curled and you cried out, the sound muffled against his shoulder. Your hips rolled into his hand. You were past pride now. Past anger. Past everything except the heat building low in your stomach and the man who was watching you fall apart with something like reverence in his eyes.
“Look at me,” he said.
You did.
His gaze held yours as his fingers moved faster, thumb pressing harder, and the intensity of being watched while he touched you was almost too much. Your mouth opened. No sound came out. The tension wound tighter, sharper, until—
You came with a broken sound, your body clenching around his fingers, your face pressed to his neck. He held you through it. His free arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you upright, while his other hand stayed exactly where it was, drawing out every last pulse until you were shaking against him.
The hallway was quiet except for your breathing.
Then, softly, his mouth against your hair: “Alright?”
You laughed. Weakly. Breathlessly. “If you ask me that one more time—”
“I’ll stop eventually.”
“When?”
“When I’m dead.”
You lifted your head. His expression was serious, but his eyes were warm. Warm in a way you suspected very few people had ever seen.
Your hand found the front of his trousers again. He was still hard. Still straining against the fabric.
“Take these off,” you said.
He obeyed without hesitation.
Trousers. Shorts. Shoes kicked aside. His shirt stayed on, half-unbuttoned, and something about that was worse than if he had been fully bare. The glimpse of his chest beneath the white linen. The way the sleeves clung to his arms. The dishevelment of him, Thomas Shelby undone by you.
You reached for him.
He caught your wrist.
“Wait.”
You stared at him. “For what?”
His jaw worked. “I want— I need to be inside you. But I don’t have anything. For prevention.”
The pause that followed was not reluctance. It was consideration. You saw him weighing it, turning the problem over like a bet he was calculating odds on.
You touched his face. “I have something. In the bedroom.”
His eyes met yours. “You’re sure?”
“I bought it a week ago.”
You arched against him, fingers tightening in his hair. "I don't care about that right now."
His breath hitched. "Fuck."
"Unless you—"
Thomas cut you off with a kiss, hot and desperate, his hands already moving to lift your skirt again. "Tell me you're sure."
Your teeth grazed his bottom lip. "I wouldn't have pulled you inside if I wasn't."
Something dark and possessive flashed in his eyes. Then he was turning you, pressing you back against the door, his mouth on your throat as his hands found your thighs.
"Then stop talking," he growled.
You laughed, breathless, as he hitched your leg over his hip. "Make me."
He did.
Something flickered across his face. Not quite a smile. Not quite surprise. Something closer to wonder.
“You planned for this.”
“I hoped for it,” you corrected. “There’s a difference.”
He kissed you then. Not hard. Not urgent. Just his mouth against yours, soft and certain, like gratitude translated into touch.
Then you took his hand and led him to the bedroom.
The fire in here had burned lower, casting long shadows across the bed. You found the small tin in your nightstand drawer and handed it to him. He opened it, coated his fingers, and reached down to stroke himself once, twice. You watched. His eyes stayed on you the whole time.
When he moved toward you, you stopped him with a hand on his chest.
“On the bed,” you said.
He raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve been giving orders all week,” you said. “Now you take one.”
For a moment, he looked like he might argue.
Then he lay back against your pillows, still in his half-open shirt, still watching you with those pale eyes that missed nothing.
You climbed over him, your skirt pooling around your hips, and positioned yourself above him. His hands found your thighs immediately. Not guiding. Just holding.
“Ready?” you asked.
His voice was rough. “Yes.”
You sank down onto him slowly.
The stretch of it made you gasp. He filled you completely, inch by inch, until you were seated fully against his hips and both of you were breathing hard. His hands tightened on your thighs. His head pressed back into the pillow. His throat moved as he swallowed.
“Look at me,” you said, throwing his own words back at him.
His eyes opened.
Whatever he saw in your face made his composure crack.
You began to move. Slow at first. A roll of your hips that made him groan, low and rough, his fingers digging into your skin. Then faster, finding a rhythm that made the bed frame creak and your breath come in short, sharp gasps. He met every movement, thrusting up into you with a control that was fraying at the edges. His mouth was open. His eyes never left yours.
“Y/n,” he said, and your name was a plea.
You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and the change in angle made you both moan. His hand slid from your thigh to where you were joined, his thumb finding your clit again. You were still sensitive from before. The dual sensation of him inside you and his fingers circling that tender spot made your rhythm falter.
“Don’t stop,” he said. “Come for me again. I want to feel it.”
The words tipped you over.
Your orgasm hit harder than the first, wrenching a cry from your throat as your body clenched around him. He followed a moment later, his hips driving up into you once, twice, then holding deep as he spilled inside, your name breaking apart on his lips.
You collapsed against his chest.
For a while, neither of you moved.
You stayed against his chest, listening to the rough, uneven sound of his breathing as the room slowly settled around you. The rain tapped against the window. The fire had burned low. His hand rested on your back, warm and still, like even Thomas Shelby had finally run out of ways to pretend he was unaffected.
Eventually, he reached for his cigarettes on the bedside table.
You lifted your head as he placed one between his lips and struck the lighter. The flame lit his face for half a second, catching on his cheekbones, his tired eyes, the mess you had made of his hair.
He took a drag, then looked down at you.
You took the cigarette from him anyway, letting him watch as you inhaled. Smoke burned warm in your chest before you handed it back.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Thomas glanced at you, quieter now. “Will this happen again?”
You looked at him for a beat, pretending to think it over just to watch his patience thin.
“We’ll see.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “We’ll see?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is. Just not the one you wanted.”
A soft breath left him, almost a laugh. “You enjoy making things difficult.”
“I enjoy making you ask properly.”
He held your gaze, the cigarette resting between his fingers.
Then, lower this time, “Can I come back?”
Your chest warmed despite yourself.
You reached for the cigarette again, took one slow drag, then gave it back. “You can knock.”
“And if you answer?”
You settled back against him, your cheek resting over his heart. “Then we’ll see.”
This time, he did laugh. Quietly. Barely.
His arm came around you after a moment, not pulling too hard, not trapping you there. Just holding you close enough that you could feel him breathe.
Outside, Birmingham stayed dark and wet.
Inside, Thomas Shelby stayed until the cigarette burned low between his fingers, and when he put it out, he didn’t reach for his clothes.
MARRIED TO THOMAS SHELBY is never simple, even when he tries to make it soft. The world doesn’t get quieter just because he loves you—but he does change in the spaces where it matters.
Thomas Shelby isn’t the kind of man who is openly tender in front of others. He doesn’t perform affection. But with you, it slips through in ways people only notice if they’re paying very close attention.
⸻
How he kisses you
He doesn’t kiss you casually.
Most of the time, it’s controlled at first—like he’s holding something back even as he leans in. A hand at your jaw, thumb brushing once like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re real and here.
Then he softens.
When it’s just the two of you, his kisses lose that sharp edge he gives the world. They become slower, heavier with meaning rather than urgency. He’ll pause against your lips like he’s thinking about staying there longer than he planned. Like he forgets, for a second, whatever war is happening outside the room.
Sometimes he kisses you like he’s apologising without words. Other times like he’s trying to memorise you.
And when he’s exhausted—truly worn down—he’ll press one quiet kiss to your forehead instead of your mouth. That’s when it means the most.
⸻
How he is soft for you (in his way)
He doesn’t suddenly become a different man. He just lets you see what’s underneath the armour.
He listens when you talk, even when he’s pretending to read papers or pour a drink. He remembers small things you mention once—things he acts like he didn’t store away, but did.
If you’re cold, he’ll wordlessly drape his coat over your shoulders. If you’re stressed, he won’t ask questions at first—he’ll just sit near you until you start speaking on your own.
And when he does speak gently to you, it’s almost always when no one else is around. His voice drops lower, less sharp, like he’s saving a version of himself that doesn’t exist anywhere else.
He doesn’t say “I miss you” often.
Instead, he’ll just appear in the doorway where you are.
⸻
How he spoils you (Thomas Shelby style)
He doesn’t spoil you in loud, showy ways. It’s controlled. Intentional. Almost like he’s correcting a world that has been unkind to you.
~ If you admire something once—a dress in a window, a piece of fabric, a perfume—it has a way of quietly appearing later without explanation.
~ Your home becomes warmer over time. Better heating. Better food brought in. Better protection around the house, even if you don’t ask for it.
~ He has people “look into things” for you, but never tells you unless it matters. He likes making life easier without making you feel dependent.
And if anyone treats you with disrespect?
You never even have to ask.
It’s already handled.
Not violently in front of you—he’s too controlled for that—but decisively, quietly, like removing a problem from existence.
⸻
In private moments
The real softness is in the stillness.
Late at night, when the weight of his mind won’t let him sleep, he’ll come find you. He doesn’t always talk. Sometimes he just lies beside you fully dressed, staring at the ceiling while your hand eventually finds his.
And he doesn’t pull away.
That’s the thing about Thomas Shelby—he trusts very few things in the world.
But when he’s married to you, one of them becomes your hand in his.
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Anya is LIVE right now
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summary: it was always in the talks. you both having a baby and starting a family, but you both agreed that it was not the time yet. until, he sees you holding one so lovingly.
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI!!!, flufff, established relationship, cursing, kissing, Clois and Jon cameo, talking about pregnancy/having babies, dirty filthy talk, pussy pronouns, unprotected p in v sex, rough sex, mating press, creampieee, BREEDING KINK GOES BRRR.
wc: 1.7k words.
a/n: i started this planning to make it something under 1k but here we are instead... also a longer bruce fic is currently marinating in my wip! (been having a brainfog so sorry if it's bad!!)
masterlist
It all started after you both visited Clark and Lois’ household to visit them following Jon’s birth.
You immediately cooed at the sight of the chubby bundle of joy, and Lois carefully handed him into your arms.
“He’s perfect,” you hummed as Jon babbled incoherently.
“He is, isn’t he?” Lois said softly. brushing the baby’s round cheeks.
It was apparent that the new parents were tired, yet there was a subtle glow underneath all the exhaustion—like everything was instantly gone with every smile the little Kent gave.
“And how are you?” looking up to Lois as you rocked Jon softly.
“Tired… but it’s worth it,” she sighed. “A full proper sleep doesn’t exist anymore, though everything melts away whenever this guy says ‘mama’.”
You softly smiled at her. “You did well. I’m proud of you.”
She immediately wrapped an arm around your waist, gently laying her head on your shoulder. You both watched as Jon smiled brightly towards you, and both of your hearts melted.
Bruce and Clark looked at each other then—the former patting the latter’s shoulder. a silent way of saying that he’s proud of Clark and the family he started as well.
“Thanks,” Clark muttered. nodding, before he began talking about how fatherhood has changed him.
“So… you next?” Lois suddenly quipped, grinning beside you.
Your eyes widened, body tensed just the slightest. “I do want children… been talking to Bruce as well, but not anytime soon,” you chuckled.
“Yeah?” Her brows knitted, tilting her head just the slightest to see the way Bruce was already looking at you—how you handled Jon so perfectly, how he instantly settles down in your arms.
His eyes were laced with softness, hunger, devotion—all at once, all unbeknownst to you.
“You might wanna talk to him soon,” hiding her laugh.
“What do you mean?”
She just shrugged, grinning like she knew all the secrets of the world.
You and Bruce spent more time with the other couple over dinner, even after Jon was tucked to sleep. It was mostly you and Lois speaking as usual, with Bruce opting to listen to whatever gossip you both so excitedly shared with each other, and Clark taking care of your empty plates by filling them up with more food he had cooked earlier.
“She did not say that!” Lois gasped as you told her a story from one of your coworkers.
“Oh, she totally did,” you grinned. before the four of you talked till the late at night.
all the while, you realized that Bruce was touchier than usual. His hand sprawled possessively against your thigh throughout the meal, him checking up on you every five minutes, and his eyes seemed to linger for far too long.
You didn’t know why, but the truth is, seeing you handle a baby so carefully almost made his heart burst.
It made his love for you double—tripled—as if it was any possible for him to love you even more.
He wants it. He wants to build a family, he wants the long nights Clark told about him, he wants to face the mood swings Lois was complaining about.
And yes, he was busy. He had the responsibility of at least Wayne Enterprises and Gotham on his shoulders, but he’d drop it all to take care of you.
He wants a baby. And he wants it with you.
You hugged and thanked Lois one more time before you left. “Take good care of her,” you spoke to Clark—threatened, really.
“Always, ma’am.”
You and Lois giggled, before you finally said goodbye to each other.
The drive home was quiet as usual, filled with the sound of the streets, the machine of his car rumbling softly underneath you.
And you felt softer tonight. whether it’s from meeting a friend and happily enjoying Kent’s homemade food, or maybe it’s from seeing—holding the bundle of joy in your arms, you didn’t know. It was most likely both, though.
He looked at you the moment the car stopped at your home.
“Everything okay?” you asked softly.
“Yeah… yeah. Come on, sweetheart,” he spoke just barely above a whisper. A tone he shared only with you and you alone.
You smiled, exiting the car before he took your hand as you walked up to the now quiet manor.
You held his hand tightly when you both walked up towards the master’s bedroom, letting out a still sigh the moment he closed the door with a soft click.
Humming, you began to strip out of the clothes you wore for the day out, tidying them before tossing them into the laundry basket.
And the moment you looked up, you saw his eyes were already on you and your bare form.
It felt raw, vulnerable, yet needy all the while—not the one he usually gave whenever he sees you naked. “You okay?” you asked once more.
He walked towards you then. His large hand cupping your cheek, the other holding the warm skin of your waist. His thumb brushed your face gently as he spoke. “I want it…”
“You want… what?”
He let out a shaky breath, planting his foreheads against yours. “Seeing you with him—Jon… you taking care of him so softly, so lovingly, even though he wasn’t yours,” his breath hitched then.
“I want it. a baby, a family. I want it with you.”
You felt your heart being pulled. instantly searching his face for any signs of doubt and lies, but alas—there were none.
“Are you sure?” you asked carefully.
“I am… and we’ve talked about this, right? I’ll lay off some of the hard work,” he said assuringly. The hand on your waist now shifted towards your lower stomach, making your breath catch.
“Okay…” you whispered.
And he picked you up easily in record time to carry you towards the bed. His lips found yours as if it was instinct, kissing you so softly and so deeply. he pulled, settling you down gently before he worked his way through his clothes.
You looked up to him, already feeling wet the moment he revealed his bare skin slowly. “Need you, Bruce.”
“You have me,” kissing your head, while his hand unbuckled his belt and took his pants and boxers off in one go.
And there he was. cock already hard, veins lacing and bulging around his length, tip swollen and glistening.
You gulped, before he let him scoot you over.
“Gonna be so full of my seed…” as he kissed your cheek, then down your throat and breathing your skin in. “Gonna be all glowing and swollen so prettily for me, yeah?” he rasped.
Your whole fluttered around nothing. his voice, his words—making you dizzy and turned on even more.
“Yes–” you whimpered the moment he spread your legs open to accommodate his figure. “Fill me up with your cum, Bruce…”
He groaned. watching your eyes go blown to black full of need, the way your cheeks flushed, your chest heaved.
“Please…”
And he broke. crushing you in a longing kiss, his fingers snaking down your cunt, teasing it softly as he gathered your wetness and spread it all over your clit, making you gasp against his skin.
“So wet for me… You want my baby that badly?”
You can only answer by nodding your head fervently. “Need it now– please–”
“I know…”
And he came here to serve. His other hand was already pumping his hard cock before he slid it against your slit.
You look up at him once more with those pleading eyes. Your fingers tight around his arms.
“I love you…” He whispered, before immediately pushing every inch of his cock, making you cry out his name.
Your nails dug into his skin, and he let out a deep guttural groan. from the sting, from the feeling of your wet and warm walls hugging him so perfectly.
“Fuck–! this pussy is ready for me to breed her, doesn’t it?” he growled
You felt your walls squeezing him tighter at those filthy words. “Hahh– yes!” you whimpered.
His pace was slow at first, letting you ease out around him, and the moment you nodded, it all broke loose.
His thrust became unforgiving, deep, almost punishing if it weren’t for the words he’d say in your ears.
“So pretty for me, you’re gonna be so pretty all swollen from my seed…”
“I’ll make you feel so full, sweetheart, just you wait…”
“Gonna take such good care of you. Thank you, thank you…”
You can’t help but start clawing at his back with every plunge of his delicious cock. moaning every time it hits the spot that made you see stars.
“Breed me–!” you finally cried, and oh, how it did something to him.
He almost growled. folding your legs towards your chest so you could fill him up against your cervix.
“Fuck!” you cried out. The new angle made your body feel uncontrollable, like the only thing you could think of was how he was ripping you from the inside and how good it felt.
“I’m going to breed you. again, and again—till all you could do is think about how warm my seed is spilling out of you.”
He fucked you harder, his hips working tirelessly. the sound of your moans and skin slapping echoing around the room, followed by his soft yet still vulgar words.
“I’m close, sweetheart.”
“Please–”
And you shattered the moment his fingers circled your clit swiftly. Your walls fluttering around his throbbing cock, your legs shaking as it wrapped weakly around his hips to keep him in.
He followed, his moan was broken and raw, cock buried deep—flooding your insides with hot and endless thick ropes of white. and he stayed there, fucking you through the orgasms—grinding his cum deeper inside you, as his cock kept twitching with the aftershocks.
“I love you… so much…” breaths mingling with yours, he kissed your face repeatedly to soothe out the overwhelming feeling of your orgasm.
“Thank you… for letting me do this.”
You smiled weakly before pulling him closer to plant a sweet and soft kiss on his lips.
“It’s you, me, and them now.”
He grinned, “You think that did the trick, or should we try once more for safety measures?”
You rolled your eyes, before yelping as he flipped you on your stomach.
mentions: backshots, p in v, no protection, praising, dirty talk, talks you thru it, bruce has a mean dick i can confirm, i just need to let my inner demons out
🎧 -- the best ive ever had by limi
———————————————————————-
if there was one thing to rival bruce wayne’s wallet in terms of size, it would definitely be his cock
and you would know— especially since you were in a mean arch, ass pressed on his hips and cock snuggled in your pussy. your face was lying on its side, lips fully parted and letting soft sounds escape from them
“that’s it, sweetheart” he cooed in your ear, a hand gently holding your neck and the other on your waist before rolling his hips into another deep thrust that made a whine leave your lips. “doing such a good job takin’ me” his pace was slow but the depth was what driving you insane, feeling his chest pressed on your back
“bruce—“ you breathlessly gasped, hands gripping onto the sheets till your knuckles were white. “bruce you’re so—big—” a moan left your lips when you felt his tip press mean onto all the right spots in your pussy
“i know, baby” he kissed your cheek before giving you another deep thrust that caused both you and him to let out a sound. “i know.” trust me, he knew. and this time, his words were in a groan before picking his head up from your shoulder
bruce’s hand slipped from your neck to join his hand in order to firmly grab your waist before they slid down to lay on your hips, grunts leaving him as his pace started to pick up along the intensity of his thrusts
you couldn’t even moan his name or anything, you were just drooling on the pillow from the side, dumb founded with full blown eyes and small gasps heard from you
not stopping his pace, his hand goes to brush your hair from your face and wipe your forehead, the motion gentle compared to his thrusts. “just like that” he grunted, making sure your walls were perfectly molded for his size
not like they weren’t anyway. and if they weren’t, then tonight would make sure they were
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synopsis: you’ve loved tommy since you were only a little girl. you knew that you always would. even if you’ve stumbled upon the skeletons in his closet by now.
wc: 1.3k
warnings: mentions of a corpse, a short, spicy description of sex, reader lowkey just putting on rose-colored glasses for tommy
request: no
a/n: i feel like the peaky blinders fandom is lowkey dead… at least on tumblr regarding fics. BUT cillian murphy is too fine so idgafff. him as tommy acc has me feral, so i’m posting ts knowing it’ll probably flop😞
em’s masterlist | tommy shelby masterlist
Tommy Shelby was the most feared man in all of Birmingham. Akin to something like the boogeyman, his name alone evoked horrid fear in most.
Mothers warned their children about him and his razor-capped boys. Fathers took off their hats to him as a sign of respect. And their daughters? They wondered what a dangerous man like that would be like in the privacy of his bedroom, or perhaps even his office.
But you had known Tommy before he ever stepped foot into the life of a gangster. Simpler times connected you two—before the war, when his crystal eyes hadn’t lost their spark yet.
God, how you would sneak around so that your father wouldn’t find out about your little love affair. You still held those days that Tommy would take you to the pictures close to your heart. He would walk you home afterwards under the guise of it being too late for a lady to be by herself, but in truth, he just wanted to steal a goodnight kiss from you.
Even before that, you recalled how—to your parents’ deepest displeasure—you would constantly run around the streets of Small Heath with him and his brothers as a young girl.
It was the norm for you to return home a few minutes later than agreed on. The pretty ribbons your mother would carefully place into your hair each morning would be undone from roughing around, and your knees scraped bloody every darn time. Your mother had told you then already that the Shelby boys were bad news, but you hadn’t listened to her.
She hadn’t exactly been wrong, you thought, as your gaze drifted over the drunks stumbling into the Garrison. What once had been a simple pub now looked far too lavish for a dreary, smoke-filled place like this—courtesy of the Shelby clan, of course. Taking a sip of your drink, you wondered how your life had turned so drastically.
You hadn’t ever been too well-off. Your parents were honest workers, but simple people nevertheless. Tommy shared a similar upbringing to yours in that regard. Then, he climbed the social ladder like the clever man you had always known him to be.
And once he had done so, he hadn’t forgotten you like you worried he might. No, he draped you in the finest of silks and hung the heaviest, most refined of jewels around your neck.
And life like this was nice at first, thrilling even.
But then reality came to slap you in the face.
You knew of the things Tommy did. Hell, you’d been there when the humble beginnings of the Peaky Blinders came to be. But you had always been blissfully oblivious to the darker details of his business.
And the truth is… you didn’t want to know.
You didn’t want to consider the things he did in dark alleyways or on muddy, secluded fields. You didn’t want to even wonder whose blood had stained his hands before. For those were the same hands that would always brush off your dirty knees upon falling to the ground as a child. They were the ones that held you at night now.
You’d rather focus on what’s right there, would rather remember all of Tommy’s good deeds. He was still a good man deep down. Surely, the man who had left to serve his country was still there. He had to be.
You truly believed in that with unshakable determination.
Until that night. Until you had walked in on him and his brothers carrying a fucking corpse down to the docks. The middle-aged man’s face had been sliced open repeatedly, deep cuts oozing blood. And right between his bushy eyebrows: a hole the size of a bullet.
You’d thrown up on the spot. While John and Arthur took care of the body, Tommy could barely keep you from hyperventilating any further. No, you mean while they got rid of the corpse. Shit, even in your mind, you were sweet-talking the horrible atrocities Tommy had committed.
Playing pretend and ignoring his line of work was much easier when you hadn’t witnessed it firsthand. Tommy said that with time, the memory of that night would fade away from your mind. He was wrong. The sight of that man haunted you still, though it had been months.
Tommy’s calloused hand brushed your hair out of your face as he suddenly appeared on the barstool next to you. Taking the glass out of your hand, he gulped down the rest of your drink.
“C’mon, we’re retiring for the evening, darling,” he told you. He had already stood up again before you could protest, but you weren’t going to either way. The night was becoming tiresome anyway, with Tommy leaving you by yourself to whisper back and forth with Arthur.
You pulled your fur coat closer around your form as the cool night air hit your flushed skin on your way to the car. Silence filled the Bentley on your drive to Arrow House—his hand settling on your thigh heavily.
Still lost in thought, you barely registered your arrival at the large estate you now called your home. Your husband’s hand squeezed your thigh before he asked you in a low timber, “Y’all right, sweetheart?”
Eyes meeting his icy ones, you nodded quickly. You cleared your throat, and then reassured him with a smile, “Yes. I… I’m fine.”
Tommy was too smart of a man to buy that. He was also too selfish not to accept your words. After all, he was very much aware of the reason behind why you were acting so off recently.
He, in his male pride, also thought he knew just the way to distract you from it. And so, he led you to the dim bedroom before he took off your coat for you. His fingers brushed against the smooth surface of your shoulder sensually. That was when you knew what he was planning.
If Tommy spoke a corporeal language besides violence, it was sex. And he had truly mastered it by now.
Fingers fumbled with buckles hastily, clothes flew across the room. You gave into it willingly. Giving yourself over to Tommy was second nature to you by now. You could always trust him to take good care of you.
Suddenly, you found yourself on all fours. Tommy’s hand gripped you by the nape firmly, while his hips slammed against your bum in a rough tandem. By the time of your climax, your thighs were shaking vehemently from how overwhelming the pleasure had become. And that was only the first one. Tommy Shelby was a very greedy man.
Much later that night, you were heaving while staring at the wall. Your hair was messy from having had your face pressed into the pillow, and your thighs dripping with your combined releases. You were wrecked.
But while Tommy thought a bit of time or sex—as mind-blowing as it was—could just fix this, you knew that it wasn’t quite as simple.
Tommy Shelby was yours long before he became the man he was; before the money, before the murdering, before the Peaky Blinders. You loved him then, and you loved him now.
But if loving him meant living the life of a gangster’s wife—staying quiet and keeping your head down, while blood continued to run down the family business—you knew you were damned.
Tommy stroked your back in a gentle manner he reserved only for you.
“Rest now, dove.” You didn’t sleep a wink that night.
Because right before slumber could take you away, the picture of him would flash in your mind. A vision of horror; nasty cuts across his face, wide, unblinking eyes staring right back at you, and the nauseating coppery stench of blood filling your nostrils.
Only it wasn’t a vision. It was your reality.
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