𝑬𝒔𝒕𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆

Christmas in Gotham was no joke. This year was no different, as the invitation found its way to your door,

"Christmas at the Dent's: 7:00 pm - late 25052nd Street"

Ah. The usual, then. You roll your eyes and sigh, pains shooting through your heels at just the thought of having to stand around making awkward conversation all night. Still - no one does Christmas quite like Harvey Dent these days, and you weren't about to ruffle feathers by refusing his invitation.

As you walk along the corridor into your penthouse, your doorbell rings. Strange - 8:07 pm wasn't exactly the time for visitors, and you weren't exactly expecting anyone. As you peek through the small window at the top of your door, you see no one out there.

Perhaps a package?

Opening the door, you find your guess validated as a neatly tied box sits in front of your door. Along the sides of the box, the 'Wayne Enterprises' logo sits embellished. Glaring back at you.

What the Hell would Gotham's very own prince - the billionaire playboy himself - want with you?

Naturally, you're wary as you take the package inside, carefully pulling apart each ribbon, one by one. Inside, a small letter addressed to you,

"See you at Dent's Christmas Gala~ P.S. I do hope you'll wear the dress."

The utter nerve! First of all - how on Earth did he know you'd been invited? Second of all - who was he to instruct you to be there? You had half a mind not to attend at all now, as your eyebrows drew together, anger coursing through your veins. Who the Hell was he to be so pushy?

Your eyes now find the cloth, neatly folded into the box. As your hands lift it up, the wine red of the dress rappels down. And despite the anger that had just flooded your soul, you can't help but think just how pretty the dress would look on you.

Gods damn you, Mr Wayne.

On the other side of Gotham, in an awfully comfy (but lonely) bed, Bruce Wayne sat - twiddling his thumbs as he lay there. Thinking. Overthinking.

"I'm sure she'll like the dress, Master Wayne."

"Huh? Oh. Erm. Who, Alfred?"

"Do you think me so dense?"

"Dense? No.."

"I know you better than that."

"..I know, Alfred."

"Now. Dinner?"

Bruce sighed, nodding and groaning as he pushed himself up from his bed, muscles screaming as they ached. Each movement was torture as he pulled over a shirt, trudging down the stairs. Alfred followed behind with a small smile, rolling his eyes as he collected an old mug from the room. Downstairs, the table had already been set. As always, Bruce sat alone, with a beautiful plate of food sat in front of him.

Why did it feel so cold, then?

Cold and lonely?

Time flew by as you tried to ignore both the gala, and the dress that now sat in the corner of your room, still in the Wayne Enterprises box. Everytime you walked into your penthouse, there it was. Taunting you, mocking you and practically begging you to wear it.

So when the day itself came along, you found yourself groaning as you did finally try the dress on.

Dear Gods - how was it that it fit just right? Just perfectly? First of all - how did the Gotham's playboy know your measurements like that? There was no way he had the chance to ever know, considering that you had only really had two conversations together.

Both of which were unfortunately failed conversations, mind you.

In the first, he had accidentally spilled his drink over you - after someone bumped into him. Of course, he wasn't rude about it - but you loved that dress, so very much. You couldn't help the glare you shot at him, before rushing off to the bathroom as you tried you damndest to remove champagne stains from your dress. You had missed the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, or the way they couldn't help but to trail on after you as you rushed away.

And in the second, the two of you found yourselves at the same cafe. What began as a sweet, nice moment quickly became a huge issue, as he had taken your coffee, and you his. So when he ended up at your office, soaked in the rain and very much… unhappy, you were sure that Bruce Wayne hated you.

So why did he have such an interest in you of all people?

With every step in your "getting ready for a silly gala where you'll only stand around looking… well, silly" routine, you couldn't help but smooth your hands over the dress as you stare back at yourself in the mirror.

Despite your initial thoughts, you look hot. Incredibly hot. Your hair falls just right, your make up so perfect and your dres…

How on earth Mr Wayne had gotten such a perfect dress for you - without ever having a proper conversation with you? It must be a trap, you think. Yes, a trap! For what - you have no idea, nor do you have the time to try to understand what it could be, as your doorbell rings. You furrow your eyebrows as you approach the door, carefully opening it to…

"Hey sweetheart. Well aren't you lookin' pretty f'me tonight?"

…well, Bruce Wayne himself - who else would it be?

Your mouth drops for a moment as you try to collect yourself - to no avail. He looked… well, he looked fine as all hell, stood in your doorway. Your last meeting at the cafe must've left quite an impression on him, given how he styles his hair tonight. Gone is the neatly stuck together, slicked back hair that everyone expects of Bruce Wayne. Instead, here he stands. Hair still put together, but not quite as… corporate as usual. It's really nice, actually. And his suit and tie - they're not the usual, horribly business-like suit Mr Wayne often possesses. It's classy, black blazer, white shirt and a deep red tie - matching your dress.

You miss how he practically mirrors your expression, his eyes trailing around your hair. How it falls across your shoulders (how he barely keeps himself from brushing it aside, peppering kisses across your collarbone). The way the dress fits you just perfectly, hugging your curves as he cannot stop himself from imagining just how gorgeous you look underneath. The way your lips fall apart, separating as he imagines just how pretty they'd taste, under his own.

Killer Croc himself could come tumbling through your apartment, and neither you nor him would be any the wiser.

"You look.."

"Wow…"

"…human."

"Human? I look human? Gee, sweetheart, I'd hope so-"

"You know what I meant! You wanna explain what all this is about? I can get to Dent's on my own, you know."

"I know."

"So…?"

"Come on… where's the fun in us showin' up alone, huh? We're both gonna be bored there anyway.. Plus, Harvey'll finally stop tryna shove his weird friend on you.."

"I gue- Wait, what? How did you-?"

"I'm literally Bruce Wayne, sweetheart."

"There it is."

"Come on! I wanna be there before they roll out the appetizers! They're no fun all cold, y'know…"

Which is how you found yourself, decked out in your finest, sat in Bruce's finest. As impressive as the Rolls Royce was on the outside, it was even better on the inside. Smooth, arctic white leather cushioning you as Bruce helps you inside (you note how carefully he tucks your dress in). It's not cold, like other cars usually are. It's weirdly… nice. Yeah, nice. Warm and comfortable as the heating doesn't blast at you, but snakes around you. Welcoming you. He waits patiently for you to adjust yourself, flashing that perfect grin back at you as he closes the door. And once he does, you're given a moment to look up at the roof of the car above you. A beautiful sky of stars sits right above and you can't help but reach a hand out, gently tracing your nails over it. It's a car truly befitting of its owner.

The ride there is smooth. No unnecessary rushing, no joyriding. Bruce drives slow and smooth, letting you enjoy the ride as you find yourself fixed on how pretty Gotham looks at night. The Christmas decorations are already out, glimmering back at you as you both make your way to Harvey Dent's god awful Christmas gala. You don't notice how Bruce steals looks as he drives, using the regular mirror checks as an excuse to drink in the look in your eyes as you stare out of the windows. Nor do you notice the smile creeping onto his face, or how he takes the longer, scenic route to Harvey's gala.

Anything to keep you there just a little longer, huh? But a drive can only go on for so long, and the two of you find yourselves outside Dent's place sooner than later.

"Well.. someone's gone all out this year, huh?"

"He does this every year, Bruce."

"First name basis now?"

"In your dreams, Wayne."

He only chuckles and shakes his head, following you along the red carpet laid out in front of you, within a man made "Winter Wonderland". It seemed Dent really had gone above and beyond this time, somehow even replicating the rosy, warming cold that only snow created. Bruce found himself trailing after you with ease - not even stopping for the cameras and their judgemental flashes, as journalists screamed their questions.

Yet the only thing he could care about was you.

You, and how you commanded their attention with such ease and confidence, as though they were loyal soldiers and you their queen. You and how your giggles tickled his ears, bouncing around in his brain as he attempted to collect himself once more (because how bad would it look - Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, down bad at the annual Dent Christmas Gala?). You and how you turned to him, playfully blowing him a kiss as you sauntered inside, leaving him to shake his head and follow behind you.

He could already imagine the morning's headlines.

The gala was… well, like any other gala. Busy, stifling and awfully boring. Initially, Bruce and you had managed to stick through three conversations together. Easily evading awkward topics, and munching through appetizers as you finally thought you'd be able to actually enjoy a gala, for once.

Until you had been tugged away by one person, and Bruce by another. It was almost poetic, how the two of you searched for one another across the large - shockingly large - building. Unbeknownst to the two of you, there was a moment where you were searching for him (and he for you), stuck on either side of a very large Christmas tree.

Which is how you now find yourself up above. On an old balcony, abandoned and quiet. Where others would probably turn back and rejoin the festivities - busying themselves in conversations and gossips - you much preferred the slight chill in the air for company. Plus, there was something nice about just being alone in the quiet.

Well, actually.

It sure would have been nice to have a… certain playboy up here with you. But who am I kidding, it's not like Bruce Wayne is about to appear out of nowh-

"Well, ain't that a nice surprise, huh?"

My God. Bruce Wayne has appeared out of nowhere. And next they'll be saying he's Batman! Yeahhhh right!

Bruce walks up to you, a hand quickly finding the small of your back - warm, but not uncomfortable - and pulling you slightly closer to him. You let him, resting a hand on his shoulder as you peer back over the balcony. He follows your gaze, looking over the view with you. There's truly something beautiful about how the city lights up at night - especially during Christmas time, as the warm bright golden light only radiates around the streets.

"For all its flaws… Gotham has its own beauty, does it not?"

He can only hum in response, as his eyes break away to find you again. There's something he can't quite put a finger on, a feeling. An emotion. A need for you. When he finally realises it, he's practically kicking himself in the balls in disappointment. How could he not have realised sooner? As his mind races, another idea swims through his brain. Sure, he could just ask you. But where's the fun in that?

"Bored, sweetheart?"

"I suppose… Why? Does the great Bruce Wayne have any suggestions? Cure my boredom f'me?"

Your hand moves up from the balcony railing, as you now position yourself in front of him, your back against the balcony. Your fingers dance up his arm, finding his face as they slowly trace down, and he finally sees That Look in your eyes. Hunger, need and perhaps a secret, third thing. One that he can't quite put his finger on yet,

"There is one idea…"

"Go on..?"

He leans in, and his lips barely brush your ear as his hands begin to move along your body - securing you against him, and against the railing behind you. You let out a soft gasp at his touch, only to snake your own arms around his head - tugging him closer.

"Tell me to stop, sweet girl. Tell me to stop."

Something about the thrill of it all sent an exciting shiver down your spine as you found yourself grinning back at him,

"…I don't think so, Mr Way-"

"No, no. Bruce. None of that Mr Wayne bullshit."

"My, my- first name basis, huh?"

"Somethin' like that."

His lips trail down your neck as his hands slowly pull your dress up higher and higher. One hand hikes your leg up around his waist as his fingers massage the flesh underneath (almost begging for forgiveness from the harsh cold that hits you first). All as his lips dance across your body - warming the flesh they touch and leaving the slightest reddening mark as he builds in confidence, sucking along your skin. When he's pleased, he finally lets go of your leg, unbuckling his pants with a practiced ease as he opens himself up to the harsh airs of the night.

"Do you do this often, then? Find girls on balconies and fuck 'em over Gotham? What will people say...?"

"Only the one's I really like. And you? You seduce billionaires on the balconies of Gotham often?"

"As a noble scholar once said, 'Only the one's I really like,' Bruce.."

That earns a laugh out of him, and a giggle out of you, as he pulls you closer to him. He mutters a soft apology and presses a kiss to your neck as he slowly enters you - the two of you savouring each inch that fills you as you arch your body into his. Soft strings of curses leave your mouth, and he only kisses them away, tutting as he does,

"Tsk, tsk… and you call yourself a Lady, hmm?"

"Oh, you piece of-! Bruce! F-fuck, that's… oh, that's perf-ect-!"

He only chuckles back, shaking his head as he speaks back into your skin,

"Need ya to keep it down f'me, gorgeous... wouldn't wanna be caught so soon, hmm?"

Each and anytime you attempt a retort back at him, he only snaps his hips up into you, thrusting harder (somehow). You learn pretty quick, letting your body fall into his arms as your moans echo around him. His head falls into your neck, peppering kisses along it again as you find your hands tangled in the back of his hair - easily scuffing up the once somewhat neatened hair he had put together.

When he looks back up at you, eyes softened as the warmed Christmas lights reflect back at you, you can't help how your heart tugs for him. Nor can you help the words that tumble out of your mouth, trickling around him as he continues to thrust in and out of you - slowing ever so slightly (just enough to be able to enjoy the moment the two of you share. For if this is your one and only encounter together, he'd much sooner remember it all, than hold on to mere flickers of memories),

"B-Bruce… Fuck, Bruce, I love yo-"

You stop just short of finishing the word, as Bruce slows to a stop, looking back up at you again. It's only then that you realise exactly what it is that you've said out loud, to the cold Gotham (K)night around you, and your eyes widen, your mouth dropping open.

What do you say? You usually don't really fall in love with people after… getting fucked on a balcony?

"Say it again."

"Say what?"

So we play dumb now, do we?

"You know what, sweetheart."

"I don't know what you're on about, Bruc-! Oh, fu-ck! That's just mean-!"

Each thrust is punctuated by your sharp gasps and moans, and for a moment you think he's let you off. Surely he understands it was just a slip of the tongue, right? Except he slows down again, sighing as his hands find your face, angling it to look up at him.

Dear Gods is he a sight to take in. Hair tossed about, suit crumpled and a look of determination scrawled across his face as he collects himself, small pants huffing out into the air,

"Need ya to say it, gorgeous."

"You cannot be serious, Bruce."

"Oh, I am."

"Really?"

"Really. You think I buy dresses for anyone? Drive slow for anyone? Sweetheart…"

And the pieces slowly put themselves together, a jigsaw puzzle coming together in your mind as your eyes widen again. He can't help the smile on his face as you splutter over your words, only to sigh and smile back at him,

"So what - you were gonna ask me out midway through fu-"

"No, no. Not at all. I.. fuck, it sounds stupid as all hell, now. But I was.. I was gonna ask you out quietly. Didn't wanna make a huge deal of it, y'know?"

"Who even are you? Billionaire Bruce Wayne would never!"

"Right. Except I'm just Bruce Wayne here, with you. No fancy titles, no stupid shit. Just Bruce Wayne."

You think it over for a moment - because what do you actually say? Sure, you can't deny the feelings that have risen in your heart, stirring and begging for him, nor can you ignore how you need him - so very much. But you are still at Dent's stupid gala, and you-

Oh, fuck it all! You pull him closer, mouths finally meeting as he melts into your kiss. Tongues swiping against each other as his hands settle around your hips again. Only this time, there's real, recognised emotion behind it all. Behind each and every movement, touch and breath is another sweet confession to one another. When you finally pull away from each other, he only grins back at you, slowly moving himself out of you and redressing the two of you. When you give him a puzzled look in response, he pulls you in for another kiss, before whispering,

"Wanna get back to mine? Much more.. comfortable, I can assure you that."

"Only if I'm not just another one of your flings, Wayne."

"Never, baby. Never just a fling."

He pulls you back through the gala, sneaking through the backdoor of the function and swiftly back into his car. Only this time, the two of you can't hide the giddying excitement between you - grins and chuckles and giggles flying around you as Bruce drives the two of you back to the Manor.

He's never driven this fast, nor with such purpose.

This time, he carries you in his arms, ignoring your giggly protests as he throws you onto his bed. His oh, so soft bed, with the silks and fluffiness that you can only have dreamed of. You kick off your heels, only for him to catch them in his hands, tossing them behind him as he undresses himself once more for you. This time, you get to see all of him, gulping as your eyes drag lazily across his skin. You can't help but to drink it all in under the soft, amber candle light that barely surrounds the room. It's warm and intimate, and has you reaching up to him.

He takes the opportunity to remove your own dress from your body, zipper lowering slowly as his lips find your skin once more. As he undresses you, peeling each layer off you with a reverence rarely found in this corner of the world, you can't help but attempt to cover yourself.

Only for him to hold your arms away from your body, before cradling you up in his own arms,

"No more hiding from me, c'mere.."

He pulls you in, kisses trailing down your neck once more. Except this time, they quickly become bites and nips, tugging and sucking at your skin as he finds your breasts. Each bite accompanied with a soothing kiss, until he wraps his tongue around one bud, with two fingers working on the other.

And as his mouth and hand work on your breasts, teasing each nipple and moving left to right, his other hand presses your thighs open - giving himself space to thrust his cock back into you. Given your risqué rendezvous earlier in the night, you're already soaking wet when he enters - your walls welcoming him back in as they mould themselves around him once more. Each inch that moves within you already has you seeing stars, let alone when he finally speeds up, thrusting faster and harder as your moans tangle with his groans.

The sounds of your skin meeting his, as your walls wrap around him with each thrust and your head falls back onto the pillow, only have you blushing under his body. It's a good thing it's only the two of you around, as you struggle to hold back your cries.

You can feel yourself edging closer and closer to release, as your stomach tightens in on itself, and your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders. He only gasps back in response, before somehow pulling your legs out wider - letting him in deeper. Angles that you had never even felt before suddenly find themselves full with him. Hell's, neither you nor he can pull together a coherent sentence - both drunken on one another as you chase each other's release,

"F-fuck! Bruce, oh, Bru-!"

"Perfect! Fuck, you're so perf-ect f'me, baby, m'gonna cu-!"

And what a release it is. The two of you come crashing together, crying out at the same time as you gush out on him, and he cums over your gummy walls, that only seem to suck him in more. You can feel him everywhere, even as he slows his pace and looks back down at you, lowering his head to press a kiss to your cheek before slowly pulling out. As you whine and protest him leaving you so empty, he moves the two of you around, before lifting your body and lowering you back onto his cock, kisses pressed along your shoulder. He doesn't move this time, letting you come down from your release.

Instead, he lowers the two of you into his bed, wrapping his arms around you, securing you as you fall asleep,

"I've got ya.. get some sleep now, yeah?"

You barely feel a soft kiss pressed to your forehead as you finally drift off.

The morning comes much sooner than you'd want it to. You can barely make out the glimmerings of Gotham's first snow of the year, as birds twitter and tweet their sweet morning song. The Winter Sun's harsh light basks over the room, and you blink away your sleepy haziness as Bruce stirs with you, once again pressing kisses along your skin, before whispering into your ear,

"Mornin' gorgeous."

You can't quite manage a full response back, humming in return as you let your eyes close again. He finally pulls himself out of you, hissing as you whine in return. You take the opportunity to finally turn around, burying your face into his chest and letting yourself fall asleep again,

"Sweetheart.."

"M'sure breakfast can wait.. right, B?"

"For you? The whole world can wait, sweet girl.."

And so as journalists furiously tapped away their headlines ("Billionaire Playboy Bruce Wayne Caught With CEO! Read more on Page 5", "Bruce Wayne Finally Spotted With New Lover!" "Batman: Fact, or Fiction?") in the usual speedy fashion that Gotham is so very used to, the two of you lie lazily, savouring and basking in a slowed warmth rarely found in such a corner of the world.

merry roe-mas ❅.ೃ࿔

“Fuuuuck, girl, why did you keep them hidden from me?” Roy comments, pulling back to stare at them, taking one on each hand like he’s inspecting them. 

You giggle, everything feels so warm and silly right now. “I was saving the best for you,” you tease, pressing a finger to his chest and tugging at his shirt until he tanks it off over his head. His skin is hot under your palms, feeling the muscles from all his training sessions. “C’mon, Roy, I wanna see you too.”

He grins and kisses you again, all sloppy and eager. His hands are everywhere, squeezing your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers until you're arching into him. He laughs against your mouth. “So bossy,” he mumbles, nipping at your bottom lip. “But fine, you win.”

You slide off the counter, a little wobbly from all the drinks, and push him back toward the couch. He flops down easy, pulling you on top of him so you’re straddling his lap. The kissing turns hotter, your hips grinding down on him while his fingers dig into your ass. You wait to feel his cock harden against your hot cunt. And you wait a little longer, getting bored of all the kissing. 

You tug his pants open, slipping your hand inside his boxers and wrap your fingers around him. But nothing, he’s soft, not even twitching no matter how you stroke him. You try again, twisting your wrist the way you know guys like, but nope. You can’t help but burst out laughing. 

“Roy,” you say, pulling back to look at his face. His gaze is lost in your bare tits and you have to grab his cheeks with your free hand to make him look at you. “You’re not getting hard, bitch.”

His cheeks flush bright red, even in the dim light from the kitchen, and he groans, covering his face with one arm. “What the fuck?” He was so lost in his drunkenness and in you that he hadn’t realized about the lack of business between his legs. “Shit, I think I hah drank too much.”

“Yeah, no shit.” You laugh again, leaning forward to press your forehead against his shoulder, your boobs squishing against his chest

“Stop! Don’t fucking laugh, this is embarrassing!” He peeks out from under his arm, eyes sparkling with that mix of embarrassment and amusement.

But your laugh doesn’t cease, you stopped pumping his dick because it’s completely pointless and you wiped your hand in his pants before coming back to leave a kiss in his face. “My poor baby can’t even get it hard, you’re going to miss your first chance to get laid in six months.”

You’re hugging him now by the neck, pressing your bare tits to his face as you scratch his head with a fake pout. He audibly groans and rolls his eyes, grabbing you by the waist and trying to peel you off him. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he groans, turning his head away from your boobs even though he’s clearly fighting the urge to stare. He pushes at your hips, but not hard enough to actually move you. “You’re the worst. This is your fault for dragging me to that last round of shots.”

You laugh right in his ear, loud and obnoxious and wiggle your hips against his soft cock just to be extra annoying. “Buddy, you’re the one who kept buying them. Now look at you, all limp and useless. It’s so tragic, do you think it will ever work again?”

Roy makes this frustrated noise in the back of his throat and finally shoves you off his lap, but you just tumble onto the couch next to him, still cracking up. He sits there with his pants open, dick just chilling soft in his boxers and runs a hand through his messy hair. “You’re being unnecessarily mean. I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” you sing-song, poking his side. “You love me. That’s why you’re here trying to fuck me and failing so hard. Come on, big guy, maybe if I call you a pathetic little bitch it’ll wake him up?” You reach over and give his soft dick a couple lazy taps with your fingers

He swats your hand away instantly, cheeks burning even redder. “Don’t touch it if you’re just gonna bully it! Jesus Christ.” But he’s laughing too now. “

You grin as you crawl back into his space and straddle one of his thighs instead. You grind down slowly against the firm muscle there, letting out an exaggerated moan just to mess with him. “Mmm, at least your leg still works. Guess I’ll just ride your thigh while your dick takes a nap. Poor thing must be exhausted from all that... not performing.”

Roy rolls his eyes so hard you think they might get stuck. “You’re such a brat. I should kick your ass out of your own apartment.” He grabs your hips again, guiding you to rock against him a little harder, even while he’s muttering, “This is so fucking stupid. I’m never drinking with you again.”

“Yeah right,” you tease, leaning in to bite his neck. “You’d miss me too much, it’s not like we have any more friends.”

He groans again, turned on by how ridiculous it all is and pulls you in for another sloppy kiss just to shut you up. But you can feel him smiling against your mouth, already plotting how he’s gonna get you back once the alcohol wears off.

a/n: type shit your unemployed friends are doing on a tuesday night

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.

He only pulled you a little closer.