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youvebeenlivingfictional · 9 months

Text

Princess

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. Any minors interacting will be blocked.

Length: 8.5K

Notes: Well we all knew I'd wind up here, didn't we.

No beta, we die like Billy Kimber

Warnings: Enemies to lovers; Reader is physically assaulted (it's described, but not shown as its own scene); canon-typical violence; one POV change, but it's very clear (imo); explicit sexual content—public sex, oral sex, vaginal sex, rough sex

Summary: You can’t get the image of Tommy out of your head, of his pale, bare skin, the sunlike rays of his tattoo on his chest. You can feel the judging glances of the men around you, hear the whispers from John, and Arthur’s knowing call of, “Oy oy,” As Tommy comes in for the day not an hour later. He brushes past you as though you're not there, and you carry on with your work as if the temperature in the room hasn’t seemed to drop ten degrees.

“I never pegged you for the type.”

Polly’s expression is nearly flat, save for a knowing, raised brow. You don’t need to ask her what she means. You don’t need to clock the glance that she throws between you and her nephew’s retreating back. You just shift in your seat a little, hands lowering to your typewriter and eyeing the stack of work waiting for you.

“Sorry to disappoint,” You offer before you begin hammering away at the keys. Polly just gives a soft, sharp hum. You expect the click of her heels to shift and fade, but she leans down, resting a hand on the desk beside you.

“He’s going to hurt you if you’re not careful,” She warns.

“He’s certainly welcome to try.”

“How many times has this happened?”

“I’m not exactly sure what concern that is of yours.”

“Will it happen again?”

“I’m not sure that’s your concern, either.”

Polly pushes out a condescending laugh, the sound washing over you with the scents of tea and cigarette smoke.

“You’re playing with fire, child.”

Her hand drops out of view as she finally straightens and draws away. Your hands work mechanically, honing in on your work. You don’t let your mind stray to the slight prickle of sweat on the back of your neck, the lingering feeling of Tommy’s fingertips yanking and grasping and pulling at your clothes, the throbbing, slick ache between your thighs.

It’s a one-time thing, you’re certain of it. It had been the wrong place, at the wrong time. High heat, hot anger, the sticky-topped table of the pub that you’d gone to for lunch.

“You ought to be at the Garrison.”

It was the most he’d announced himself as he’d plopped himself down across from you without being invited. He’d taken a sip of your pint, lit up a cigarette, and waited for your explanation—which you didn’t owe him. You’d told him as much.

The conversation had taken a fast and sharp turn from there. It wasn’t long before Tommy ordered that the pub was emptied, before he was shoving your skirt up and pushing your underthings down with a force that had left a noticeable run in your best pair of stockings.

You draw in a deep breath, shaking your head to rid yourself of the memory, the rumbling roll of his voice in your head. You push back the phantom sensations of spilled beer and scattered dishware beneath your back, of Tommy’s breath panting hot against your cheek.

The pub had been fairly full before Tommy had told them all to get out. Its walls and windows were thick enough to mask the slapping of your skin, but you hadn’t been able to silence your whines, or yelps, or moans. When you’d left slightly disheveled, you were certain that the other patrons would’ve had little doubt of what you’d been doing.

It’s no wonder it’s gotten back to Polly so quickly.

Still, it happened. It’s over, and it’s never going to happen again. You can move on.

–

“Look at me, princess. Show me those pretty eyes.”

You force yourself to relax your face just enough to peer up at Tommy. He tuts softly, smoothing his hand along your jaw, eyeing where your lips are wrapped around his cock, and the way tears from your rough gagging and coughing cling to your lashes. Tommy’s lips curl into a cruel little smile as he gives your cheek a pat, tracing the outline of his cockhead with his finger before he rests his hand on the back of your neck, shoving you down. You can’t help but gag, spit slipping from the sides of your mouth as your fingers tighten on the fabric of his pants. He leans back against his pillows, thighs splaying as he sweeps his gaze over your face. You lift your chin, swiping your tongue along the underside of his cock.

He hisses softly before he urges, “Up, get up.”

You lean back, hand still working over his spit-slick shaft. He reaches down, curling his fingers around your jaw before sweeping his tongue across your lips. Your groan is knocked loose as Tommy springs forward, shoving you back onto the bed before grasping your hip and rolling you onto your hands and knees.

It’ll be better, you’re certain—faster. You have as little time now as you did before, and it’s no wonder. You’d been on your way to work when you’d gotten…Sidetracked.

Tommy’s arm hooks around your shoulders as he pushes your underwear aside. You get no other warning before Tommy presses into you. You whimper, fingers curling in the sheets and letting your head hang heavy as your eyes slip shut. Tommy’s hips shove tightly to yours, holding still for just a moment, one long, harrowing moment. You’re just on the second from complaining when Tommy draws his cock out, then gives his hips a harsh snap. You bite your lip, trying to quiet your whines and moans. Tommy doesn’t tease or belabor it. Hell, he helps you quiet yourself as he rests his palm on the back of your head, shoving your face into the mattress.

You can’t help your smile, even as some part of you wants to roll onto your back give his face a shove in turn. Tommy pushes his face into your neck, sucking a light kiss there—enough to feel, but not nearly enough to mark. He smooths his fingers between your thighs, teasing at where his cock stretches you wide as his palm brushes against your clit. You reach back, grasping at his hip and urging him on. Your body quivers as he rolls his wrist with every thrust. It’s just enough to tip you over, to make your cunt tighten up around him. He’s not far behind, pressing his groan into your skin as his hips stutter and slam.

He sags over you, resting his head between your shoulder blades.

“Alright,” You tip your head up from the sheets, swiping your tongue against your dry lips, “Get off of me.”

He huffs a laugh, sliding out and off of you and giving your hip a whack. You roll onto your back for a moment, peering up at the ceiling. You’re not going to stick around, you just need a moment. You hear the slide of Tommy’s match against its book before you smell cigarette smoke. You draw in a deep breath, shaking your head when he holds out his cigarette case. You push yourself up, swinging your legs over the side of the bed and scooching to the edge.

“Where are you going?”

“That’s a pretty stupid question, don’t you think?” You stand, straightening your underthings and reaching for your skirt where it was thrown.

“Pay you double for the day if you stay here.”

“Fuck you.”

“Was that a yes or a no?”

You roll your eyes, tucking your shirt into your skirt and straightening it. Your bag is in the sitting room, your jacket is around…Somewhere.

“Lie back down,” He urges.

“I’ve got somewhere to be.”

“Where you’re going, I’m in charge.”

“You think I’m afraid of you?” You ask, turning to look at him. It’s a mistake. Laid bare, a sheet thrown over his lap, cigarette in hand, with his luminous eyes fixed on you, Tommy looks like some fallen angel from an old painting. You want him again already. It's a dangerous realization, one that makes your stomach curdle.

“I’m more afraid of Polly,” You add, plucking your jacket off of the floor and dusting it off. “She’ll have my head if I’m late.”

“What are you doing after work?”

“Something else.”

“Than what?”

You button your jacket, turning away from him and heading for his front room.

“Than whatever you were about to suggest.”

Polly’s disappointment is as heavy as it was that first time. She’s already lingering by your desk when you arrive, and she watches you with those pursed lips, that arched brow. You just clear your throat and shrug your jacket off before settling in.

“Well?” She asks.

“I’m on time, Polly.”

“Considering when you left your flat, you should’ve been here nearly half an hour ago.”

You curl your nails into your palms as you turn your stunned indignation up at her.

“You’re having me watched now?”

“We keep an eye on all of our employees. There have been a lot more incidents lately, people going after the Peaky Blinders,” She reminds you.

“I’m not in the family.”

“You work for us and people know that. You have information. It puts a target on your back.”

“Maybe you ought to just chain me to the radiator here between my shifts, then, keep me out of trouble.”

“You’d bay at the moon and piss off the neighbors. Besides,” She straightens, “Thomas likes a moving target.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, shaking your head and refusing to watch her go. Polly can be a hell of a know-it-all, but as much as you hate to admit it, she’s right about this, at least. You can’t get the image of Tommy out of your head, of his pale, bare skin, the sunlike rays of his tattoo on his chest. You can feel the judging glances of the men around you, hear the whispers from John, and Arthur’s knowing call of, “Oy oy,” As Tommy comes in for the day not an hour later. He brushes past you as though you're not there, and you carry on with your work as if the temperature in the room hasn’t seemed to drop ten degrees.

“You said you wanted to talk about something.” Tommy mumbles it against your shoulder as his hand sweeps across your belly. You draw in a deep breath, eyelids heavy with fatigue as you cuddle back into his chest. It's the closest you've gotten to this being normal, though Tommy had still taken a harsher line with you than other lovers had. He'd practically had you against the door, and had only moved the two of you to the bed when your knees had buckled.

You hadn't gone there with the intention of this happening twice in one day, truly you hadn't. It had sort of just...Happened.

“Hmm?”

“You said,” Tommy lifts his chin, “When you turned up at my door,” He presses a kiss to your jaw, “That you had something you needed to discuss.”

“I did, didn’t I.”

“You see? I do listen when you speak, princess.”

You smile a little.

“Not well enough.”

“Now why do you say that?”

“If you were a better listener, I would’ve been able to state my purpose and then be on my way.”

“‘M listening now.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.” You glance down, sliding your finger over the back of Tommy’s hand. “...You know Polly’s having me followed?”

“It's not just you, and it's not just Polly. It’s a precaution.”

“It’s unnecessary.”

“What do you want?”

You roll onto your back, looking up at him. “I want you to call off the dogs. I’m not a target. I’m not a threat. I don’t know anything, I wouldn’t be helpful to anyone that’s after you.”

“They don’t know that.”

“They’d be idiots to think I could be helpful.”

“They are idiots. That’s why they’re our enemies. If they were smart, they’d join up.”

“Join up?” Your brows raise. “It’s not the army, Tommy.”

“No,” He shakes his head. “It’s the Peaky Blinders.” He raises his hand, sweeping his fingers across your forehead as he seems to consider what you've said. “I’ll talk to them about backing off the patrols.”

“Thank you.”

“Was that all?”

“...Yes.”

Tommy dips his head, lips brushing across yours.

“Are you rushing out again?” He murmurs.

“Yes.”

“Go on then.” Tommy slips his tongue between your lips before you can move or speak. You raise a hand cupping his cheek and sighing softly.

“I am,” You swear as the kiss breaks, as Tommy’s lips slip down to trail the line of your neck.

“Mm,” Tommy hums, smoothing his handover your belly to swipe at your plump, slick cunt. “You know where the door is, princess.”

You start to notice it more and more. You’re not sure if it’s because they’re more overt, or Polly’s warning has made you more conscious of it, but you start to note the usual suspects around your flat. It’s always the same one or two eyeing you as you leave your front door, drawing out their pocket watches and checking the time. Sometimes they send a boy running, surely reporting to Polly what time you’ve left. Other times, they climb into a car, or into a cart and are drawn away without offering you a ride (which, in your opinion, is fairly poor form). But after a few days, you can tell that Tommy's spoken to them, because they cease to appear.

The problem is, it’s not just men that you know from the Peaky Blinders that you see around. There are some that you see ducking away and glancing back warily, men in dark coats with a patch that you can’t quite make out on their arms.

You see the same men around the offices, too, but you figure that the Peaky Blinders are already aware. They must know—they have eyes and ears all over the city. If there was something to be done about whoever those men are, they’d surely have done it by now.

Still, you consider mentioning it to one of them.

Arthur would just make fun of you, and John would probably make a pass, offer to guard the other side of your bed. You could tell Polly, but you don’t want an I told you so, or a lecture. You could tell Ada, but she may wave your concerns off, remind you that this is plenty normal. Tommy...Well, Tommy would surely take your worry as a chance to set the patrol back on again. So you choose to keep your mouth shut.

How could you know it would prove to be such a costly mistake?

You know that you look a sight.

Any mirth or amusement that Tommy had at the fact you were on his doorstep again, any slick words about your not being able to keep away long, appear to die on his tongue. He reaches out, gripping you by the muddied sleeve and tugging you inside, pausing only to lock the door before towing you into the sitting room, and into better light. You shy away from his gaze, certain that your cheek is swelling, that your cut hand is dripping blood on his floor. Beneath your blouse, you know that there are bruises blooming, and you can’t imagine his face when he finally sees those.

Maybe he won’t see them. Maybe he’ll order you home, send a doctor—

“I tried Pol’s first,” You admit, your wavering, raw voice cracking open the tense silence, “But she wasn’t home. And then the Garrison, but there were so many p-people there.” You wince as your breath catches in your throat, and close your eyes as tears prickle at them.

“Did you go into the Garrison?”

“No. No one saw me…Look, Tommy, I’m sorry I came here, but—”

“Who did this.”

“—I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Princess.”

You open your eyes just a touch and can’t help but flinch when you see him raising his hands. He stills for just a moment before he lifts them to rest of the way, gently cupping your face by the jaw, avoiding the scrapes and swollen skin.

“Look at me.”

You do so grudgingly, afraid that you’ll see pity twisting his handsome features, but you find his gaze heavy on yours.

“We’re going to get you cleaned up,” His eyes search yours, “And you’re going to tell me who the fuck laid a hand on you, so that I can scalp that sorry piece of shit and make them wish that they’d never been born.”

He does briefly still when he sees the bruises on your thighs, side, and stomach, but he doesn’t let it slow him for long. Maybe he’s used to such a sight on his brothers and soldiers; maybe he’s aware of the wariness with which you watch him. He presses a cool wet cloth to your cheek to help with the swelling, cleans the scrapes and cuts. He takes the longest with your hand, but that’s on you, a little. You can’t help your muscle twitching, or the sharp breath of pain that you draw in as he presses your fingers flat over the basin.

“This is going to hurt,” He warns, a bottle of clear booze hovering over your hand. He doesn’t pour until you nod him on, and once he does, he gently shushes and soothes your pained whimpers, even as you try to squirm away from the near-blinding throbbing. The cut is long, but not deep enough that you’ll need stitches.

As he tends to you, he has you tell him what happened, waiting patiently as you hesitate and stumble over your explanation:

“I was just walking home my usual way. There were these men, three of them.” You swallow thickly. “They wouldn’t stop yelling at me, and then they started following me.”

“Did you mouth off to them?”

“No. I was alone, I didn’t want to…” You shake your head. “Thought I could ignore them and they'd leave me alone. A lot of good it did me. They kept up until they had me on the ground, and I pretended to be unconscious.”

“What happened to your hand?”

“The blade was coming at my face. I panicked.”

“You grabbed it?”

“I couldn’t do anything else.”

Tommy hums, nods, asks: “Did you get a good look at them?”

You shake your head, gaze lowering. “I’ve seen them around before, but I’m not sure I could pick them out again unless I was up close…But when I was trying to shove them off, I got this.” You raise your good hand, your non-dominant hand, and hold up a scrap of fabric. The fabric is dark red in the low light, with a sewn on patch—a St. George patch. Tommy takes it from your hand, eyeing it before he murmurs, “Good girl.” He sets it aside then, urging you to lift your hand from the basin and carefully wrapping it with gauze.

“You’ll stay here tonight,” He orders. You just nod. You don’t have it in you to argue, and you know you’ll feel safer at Tommy’s, anyway.

You don’t gripe as you’re taken to the bed and given one of his henleys to sleep in. You don’t even complain about getting into bed alone. You just let the terror drain from your body as you drop off.

“God, the state of her,” Polly tuts, eyeing the girls’ swollen cheek, her gauze-wrapped hand. Tommy says nothing, just waits in the doorway and watches Polly walk deeper inside to get a better look. He draws in a deep drag of his cigarette, his cheeks sinking with it.

“She’ll be alright,” He insists, chest tight with smoke and sentiment. “I want you here when she wakes up.”

“Where will you be?”

“I have to make inquiries.” He fishes into his pocket, drawing out the fabric that she’d passed him as he was fixing her up. “She managed to get this off of one of ‘em.”

Polly frowns, reaching out and taking hold of it. “I’ve seen this before.”

“Nearby?”

“There were a few around before the patrols started. And Esme's seen a few lingering around the Garrison. As soon as they get a whiff of John or Arthur, they clear off."

Tommy sighs, the smoke pushing through his nose as he shakes his head.

“I should never have let her talk me into changing around her patrol,” He mutters.

“You did what.” Polly’s tone goes sharp. Tommy’s glance drifts back to the bed.

“She asked,” He nods to the bed. “Didn't like being kept so close an eye on. I told Scud and Johnny Dogs to ease up.”

He doesn’t flinch when Polly raises her hands, shoving his shoulders harshly as she hisses, “You could’ve gotten her killed.”

Tommy looks to the floor, his jaw tensing as he absently taps the ash from his cigarette.

“It won’t happen again.”

“The next time it does, she’ll be dead—”

“It won’t. Happen. Again,” He insists, meeting Polly’s eye. She narrows her eyes slightly before turning back to the bed.

“Go on, then,” She insists, waving him off. “Handle the bastards. Send the rats scurrying back to whatever hole they crawled out of.”

“You’ll call if you need anything.”

“We’ll be fine. Something tells me I won’t have to deal with much of her lip today.”

Tommy gives a small nod, allowing himself just one more look at her before he leaves.

You’re in and out of consciousness all day. When you’re awake, you’re riddled with pain, until Polly presses the rounded lip of a bottle to your mouth and urges you to drink. Whatever it is tastes bitter, and makes your head spin.

“There you are,” She murmurs, “Take a deep breath, close your eyes…Count back from a hundred….”

When you wake again—when you resurface into consciousness, and it holds—the sky is dark. Your head swims, and you wince as you use your weaker arm to push yourself to sit up. You’ve never really gotten the chance to look at Tommy’s room before. It’s fairly barebones, but not unwelcoming. A few books, a bottle of whisky and a glass, a clean ashtray. You wince a little as your cheek throbs, and you raise your hand curiously, skimming your fingers over the swollen skin. It doesn’t feel hot, like it did yesterday. You jolt a bit as you hear the door open, and you and Tommy go still at the sight of one another. He snaps into action before you do, raising his hand to draw his cigarette out from between his lips.

“Are you hungry?” He asks. You’re certain you should be, but you shake your head.

“No.”

“Thirsty?”

“...A little.”

“Water?”

“Whiskey.”

His brows raise, but he doesn’t ask as he walks over to his bedside table.

“Still hurts, then,” He surmises as he pours two finger’s worth.

“Yes.”

“Your side?”

“A little.”

“Cheek?”

“Yes.”

“Hand?”

“...Yes.”

“Head?”

“...Not as much hurt, but…”

“Fog.”

“Yes.”

"Mm." Tommy lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed, holding the glass out to you as he says, “That’s from what Polly gave you.”

“What was it?”

“Pento-barbital from Compton’s Chemists. Drink up.”

You take it, drawing in a sip.

“...What time is it?” You ask.

“A little after midnight.”

“Where’ve you been?”

“Getting answers.”

“About what?”

Tommy tips his head toward you a touch in mocking disbelief, and you don’t need him to say a thing more. You just nod a little.

“That scrap of cloth you gave me," He says, "The red fabric with the patch.”

“Mhm?”

“Belongs to the Booth boys.”

“Out of Camden?”

“Mhm.”

Your brow furrows. “What are they doing up here?”

“Trying to kick up a fight.”

“So what happens now?”

“We give them what they asked for.”

Your stomach lurches, threatening to unseat your sip. You shake your head, looking down into your glass.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what.”

“Don’t start anything.”

“They started it, not us.”

“I’m not worth going to war over, Tommy.”

“...Look at me, princess.”

When he lifts his hand this time, you don’t jump. He tucks two curled fingers beneath your chin, tipping your head up to look at him.

“I will burn a path from here to where those bastards lay in Camden town if it means you’ll be safe. Do you hear me?” He leans back as it sinks into you, cutting through the muddle and fog in your head.

You nod a little, lowering your gaze to his hand as he rests it on your thigh. You raise your own uninjured one, gently tracing the back of it. What the hell have those hands gotten up to today that you don’t know about, that you haven’t seen? Did he fire a gun? Did he pay off a cop? Punch someone? Strangle a man? And for what? You?

“We’re upping your patrol,” Tommy warns, “And I won’t take any argument about it.”

“Alright.”

Tommy turns his hand over in yours, fingers sweeping gently over the soft of your wrist as you take another sip of your drink. You offer it to Tommy once you have, and he drains it before holding it up.

“Another one?”

“No,” You shake your head. Tommy grunts, making to stand, but stills when you tighten your grip on his hand. “Stay until I fall asleep?”

You expect him to laugh at you, but he draws his cigarette from between his lips and stubs it out. He holds the covers up, waiting for you to shuffle down and into a more comfortable position before he climbs into bed beside you, carefully curling an arm around your middle. You peer up at the ceiling in quiet, watching the shadows that the dying fire casts.

“How’s the pain?”

“...It’s been worse.”

“You want more of Polly’s medicine?” Tommy asks after a moment.

“No.” “You’re certain?”

“Mhm.”

You don’t want the muddle, even if it means the pain swells and cuts through the fog. You just want the memory of Tommy’s arm, and his steady heart and breathing, and his promise to burn the men that hurt you.

–

You get nods from Arthur and John the day you return to work. You offer them in turn on your way to your desk. You go still when you get there, brow furrowing as you spot nothing but papers. You shrug your coat off and throw it over your seat before you stride over Polly.

“Welcome back.”

“Where’s my typewriter?”

“Arguing already. I suppose that bed rest did you some good.”

“Polly.”

“Your hand is still healing. You’ll work sorting slips and counting for the next few days. Come Friday we’ll see how well you can type.”

You sigh softly, before you nod, muttering, “Alright.”

“How does your hand feel, anyway?”

“Sore. Itchy.”

“Itchy is good. Means the skin’s healing.” She holds her hand out, and you raise yours, watching as she unwraps the gauze. She tips your hand to and fro, eyeing the stretching, raised scab. “Looks better than the last time I saw it.”

“It would almost have to.”

“Not necessarily,” She gives a small shake of her head. “You’re lucky the blade wasn’t rusty.”

You give a grudging nod of concession as Polly rewraps the bandage neatly.

“Why didn’t you come to me when this happened?” She asks. “I was closer than Thomas.”

“I did. You weren’t home.”

Polly considers, lips twisting as though she’s just sucked a lemon.

“I must’ve been running an errand.”

“I don’t need an explanation, Polly,” You insist. “You’re not my keeper, and I’m not family. I wouldn’t have expected you to drop everything.”

She nods, gaze flitting to someone over your shoulder before she nods you away.

“Get to your sorting,” She orders. “We don’t pay you to stand around.”

—

That thick envelope that you receive during the following week makes you feel like they have started paying you to stand around. It’s more than you should’ve been given, at any rate. You bite the inside of your cheek, an inordinate amount of irritation welling up as you stride toward Tommy’s office.

It's been almost pleasant between the two of you these last few days, with Tommy dropping in to see how you're healing up. He hasn't touched you, wary of your still-healing body, but the bruises have faded and the cuts are nearly gone. You haven't said a word of complaint about spotting Scud and Johnny Dogs on the other side of the street when you leave your flat, or when you're making your way home.

It's a shame, you think. It's a shame Tommy's chosen to act like an ass when you've been getting on so well. You don’t knock, you just shove open his door, step in, and slam it shut again before holding up the envelope.

“What’s the meaning of this?”

He hardly glances up from his racing papers as you snap at him. He takes his damn time answering, too, turning the page before simply offering:

“Payday.”

“It’s too much.”

“I don’t hear that often.”

“You paid me in full.”

“Per our contract. Don’t like it, you can take it up with the courts.”

“Thomas.” You round the desk, shoving his paper aside. “Fucking look at me.”

His icy gaze flickers toward you boredly, a lagging pillar of ash bobbing at the end of the cigarette perched between his lips. He pointedly smooths the wrinkles that you made in his paper. You hold the envelope up again.

“I wasn’t here enough for this. I missed an entire day off and I couldn’t type again until last Friday.”

“You sorted slips. We pay you for that.”

“And the rest?”

“Injury leave.”

“There’s no such fucking thing.”

“Sure there is.” He plucks his cigarette from between his lips, tapping the ash into a dish on his desk. “Anything else?”

“Yeah.” You yank the envelope open, drawing out half of the bills and slamming them onto his desk. “I’m not fucking taking it.” You whirl away with the intention of storming out, but you hear the scrape of his chair and see the slam of his hand against the wood of the door before you can open it. The others in the office hardly glance up, though you do see Polly’s head tip a touch back toward you before she goes back to her work.

“...Step back from the door,” Tommy orders lowly. You grudgingly let go of the handle, allowing Tommy to steer you away from it and into the chair across from his desk. He steps around to the front of the desk, his arms tucked across his chest as he stares down at you.

“You were paid fairly,” He insists, “For the work that you’ve done in the last week and a half. You turned up every day, you sorted slips, you counted out cash and helped with the books.”

“I’ve slowed down the correspondence.”

“Not by much. In fact, we’ve still been moving at such a clip that I’ve considered firing you.”

Your face falls with irritation, even as Tommy’s brows raise teasingly.

“Thomas.”

He waves you off, unfolding his arms and reaching down to the stack of bills on the desk.

“You did your job, and I’m paying you for it. Alright?”

You hesitate before you nod a touch, taking the proffered cash.

“Don’t make a habit of it,” You warn as you tuck it away again.

“Understood.”

You stand, only making it a few steps away before Tommy’s fingers close around your wrist to still you.

“Will you be home tonight?” He asks.

“Yes.”

“Not heading to the Garrison for a pint on payday?”

“I still have whiskey.”

“Good. Save me some.” He reaches into his pocket, drawing out the keys to his motorcar. “Tell John to drive you home. Storm’s coming in, I don’t want you walking in the rain.”

“I don’t mind it.”

“I do. Take the keys.” When you don’t reach for them, Tommy makes a pointed sigh, stepping around you to open the door. He whistles loudly before barking, “John!”

You wince, muttering, “Christ.”

John arrived a few moments later, chirps, “Yeah, Tommy.”

“Drive her home.” Tommy tosses the keys to John before he gives your wrist a squeeze and nudges you toward John. “Go on. And mind the puddles, or you’ll be the one giving the car a wipe-down. Come right back when you’re done. Family meeting.”

“C’mon,” John nods you over his shoulder, urging you out. You sigh softly, tucking your earnings into your bag and shifting it onto your shoulder. You follow John grumpily, refusing to turn and meet Tommy’s eye as you go.

—-

You almost don’t let him in when he knocks later. When you do, you just open the door and turn away without a word of greeting. Tommy shuts the door behind himself, tucking his cigarette between his lips so that he can comfortably shrug off his coat.

“What was the meeting about?” You ask.

“That’s none of your concern.”

“I tried to get it out of John, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

“Probably because he didn’t know.”

You grunt and pluck up your bottle of whiskey from where it’s been waiting on the table, pouring some for each of you. You pick up yours, taking a drink before Tommy can reach his.

“You’re not gonna make a toast?” He asks as he picks his glass up.

“To what?”

“How about my car? A toast to my car.”

“I don’t give a damn about your car, Thomas.”

“You just haven’t spent enough time in it.”

“This afternoon was more than enough.”

“I disagree.” Tommy sips his whiskey, eyeing you closely before he says, “Tell you what. I’ll take you for a drive tomorrow.”

“...What for?”

“Some air.”

“There’s plenty of air in Birmingham.”

“I’m talking about rarefied country air. Fresh. Clean.” Tommy sets the glass aside. “You spent half of last week in my bed and I couldn’t lay a hand on you. We've a lot to make up for.”

You grimace, looking down into your glass.

“You didn’t want me that way,” You insist. He frowns.

“What d’you mean?”

“Broken.”

Tommy’s expression goes dark. He sets his glass down and reaches out, curling his hands around your hips and drawing you in. Your steps are lagged, and you keep your hands and focus on your drink.

“Those men didn’t break you, princess.”

“Feels like they did.”

Tommy doesn’t answer that. He just gives you a squeeze, pats your hip, and orders, “Drink your whiskey.”

When he doesn’t stay long, or tow you back to your bedroom—when he simply tells you to be dressed in your best and ready to go by four in the afternoon—you’re certain that he was just talking out his ass. Thomas Shelby thinks that you’re as broken as you feel, and you can’t blame him.

The day is a spectacularly pretty one, and it makes you want to curse Thomas Shelby’s name. How is the day so lovely and in his favor? First the man fixes horse races, and now he’s found a way to fix the weather? Aside from a single unexpected visitor, there’s nothing that mars your morning.

You can’t deny the way that your mood brightens as you leave the city behind, driving into the open air with the top of Tommy’s car down. You almost want to close your eyes and tip your head back, savoring the sun and the breeze.

“Where are we going?” You ask after he’s been driving a while.

“You’ll see, princess.”

You sigh softly, glancing around. You take in the tall, waving grass and the rustling of leaves in the trees for silence for a bit before speaking up again:

“Polly came to see me this morning.”

It’s a moment before Tommy replies, and when he does, he seems bored and unaffected.

“Did she.”

“Mhm.”

“She have anything interesting to say?”

“Depends on what you consider interesting, I guess.”

“You clearly do, since you considered it worth mentioning.”

You go quiet again, gaze set through the windshield. She’d demanded tea, issued you a light warning, taken a single sip, and left.

“She told me that what you did wasn’t just for me," You admit. "That if you didn’t retaliate, the Booth boys would take it as open season on the Peaky Blinders.”

“...That’s true enough. Does it upset you?”

“No.”

He sighs softly, turning off of a road and down a short dirt path before he puts the car into park and shuts it down.

“Look,” He twists to face you, resting his hand on the back of the seat. “You know who I am. You know what we do. You know how we protect our own.”

“Yes.”

“If you stay in the car, you’ll hear something you may not like, but something you’ll be able to forget. If you walk past that tree line with me, it’ll change you.”

You consider for a moment, casting a wary eye toward the treeline.

“What’s out there?” You ask, nodding toward it.

“Retribution.”

Nerves twist through your body like a hot knife. Your hands flex around the purse in your lap. When you don’t move or reply, Tommy gets out of the car, walking around to your side and opening the door. He holds his hand out and crisply orders: “Decide.”

Your gaze darts warily between his hand and the trees.

“Is it safe?” You ask.

“I wouldn’t have brought you here if I couldn’t guarantee your protection.” Tommy takes a step closer, eyes boring cooly into yours. “Do you trust me?”

You’ve been in bed with this man. You’ve gone to him for satisfaction, for comfort, for safety. You’ve trusted him to take care of you before. Why should it be any different now?

You draw in a deep breath before you reach out, taking hold of Tommy’s hand.

“Leave the bag,” He urges to the bench seat, “No one’ll take it. There's no one around here, really.”

You set the purse aside, letting Tommy lead you from the car. The grass brushes and scratches your legs through your hose. You hear voices as you grow closer, and you slow, but Tommy gives your hand a gentle squeeze, murmuring, “C’mon.” You follow him reluctantly, dragging your feet just a little. You relax as you spot John and Arthur smoking by a tree nearby. They’re both jovial, both smiling wide, even when they spot you.

“There she is,” Arthur reaches out, clapping you roughly on the shoulder. You note his scraped up knuckles as he does, the fresh cuts, the blood.

“Took you long enough,” John grumbles, turning an irritated moue toward Tommy. “Figures you’d miss out on all the hard work.”

“It was hard enough work coming out here today,” Tommy argues, “And it’s not about to get any easier.”

He nods you closer, leading the group of you deeper into the woods. You see the holes, first, and your stomach lurches as you catch sight of something within moving. You go completely still, throat tightening with panic. This time, Tommy lets you stop.

“Tommy,” You breathe.

“Come on.”

“What did you do.”

“Jack all,” John mutters, resting his hand on your lower back as he helps to steer you closer. There are three holes side by side, long, and shallow, each with a bound, blindfolded, squirming man laying in them. Your stomach threatens to heave and unseat your breakfast; your breathing becomes tight, and nervous.

“Thomas.”

He turns on you, letting go of your hand in favor of cupping your cheeks to focus you on him.

“You can still turn back,” He says firmly. “You can turn right around and wait in the car, and we can deal with this. But you need to decide now.”

It’s a way out, a last chance. Glancing between Arthur and John, you find them watching you expectantly. You swallow thickly past the growing lump in your throat, push out the sounds of the men in the ground below you, and keep your gaze fixed on Tommy’s.

“What do you want me to do.”

“Atta girl!” Arthur’s voice thunders as he slaps your arm roughly, as John gives your shoulders an encouraging shake, as Tommy’s lips curl into a wide, proud smile.

–

“It's done now.”

Tommy’s words had just managed to push through the gunshots echoing through your ears, through the feeling of him pulling the weapon from your shaking hands, and the sight of the last man in the ground going completely still from the shots that you fired.

The ride back home had been filled with the raucous chatter of Arthur and John. It was a wonder that they had any energy after digging and filling the graves. You had sat in the front with Tommy, his hand heavy and warm, tucking the fabric of your favorite dress between your thighs. Tommy had declined an invite to grab a drink at the Garrison for both of you, instead driving you home at an almost alarming speed.

He keeps close, now. It’s not like the other night, distance and carefully measured disinterest. He’s right up against you as he waits for you to open the door. He hardly lets either of you get a glass of whiskey finished before he’s nudging you back against the counter of your kitchen. He cups your cheeks, sweeping his thumbs along your cheekbones as his eyes search yours.

“How does it feel?” He murmurs.

“The whiskey?”

He huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head as he presses his chest to yours.

“Being one of us.”

You consider, lowering your gaze to his throat. His hands smooth down the side of your neck; you can see him tipping his head to the side in your periphery.

“Does it scare you?” He presses.

“No.”

“I’m gonna need you to look me in the eye when you say that, princess.”

You tip your chin up, forcing your face into a firm set, the likes of which Tommy hasn’t gotten since you’d snapped at him in his office.

“It doesn’t scare me.”

“Good.”

“It makes me happy.”

“What we did makes you happy?” Tommy presses. “Killing a man makes you happy?”

“Keeping us safe makes me happy,” You snap. Tommy dips his head, brushing his lips gently against yours. It's genle, but it doesn't quiet your worries.

“Tommy.”

“Mm?”

“What if it doesn’t stop?”

He leans away, brow furrowing as he gets a better look at you. You swipe your tongue nervously across your lips, clarifying: “What if the Booths keep coming after us?”

“They won’t.”

“But if they do—”

“I’ll handle it.”

“But if you need help—”

“That’s for the boys an’ me to handle.”

“Then why’d you have me there today?”

“That wasn’t for me, princess. That was for you.”

Your brow furrows, and Tommy tuts softly.

“I told you,” He strokes his knuckles along your previously-swollen cheek. “Retribution. You needed it.”

“And you’ll always do what’s best for me?”

Tommy pushes a soft sigh out through his nose, gripping your chin up and tipping your head toward him.

“I will do what’s best as I see fit.”

“For me?”

“For everyone.”

“For yourself.”

“What d’you want? Mm?” His grip tightens on your jaw. “You want me to fall all over you, swear my undying love and fealty? You want me to tell you that I'll only act with you in mind? You listen to me, and you listen close. You’re never going to get that from me, princess.”

You nod slightly, a lump forming in your throat as you mumble, “I know.”

“Then don’t ask it of me.”

“Then don’t,” You lean into it, your resolve hardening, “Feed me a crock of shit, that you’re going to—burn a path from here to Camden just because someone touched me.”

“The only person in the world that gets to touch you is me. You know I’m never going to hurt you.”

“Polly told me you would.”

“Polly says a lot of things.”

“She always means them.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s always right.”

“You sure about that?”

“Oh, I’d put money on it. I’m a gambling man, princess.”

Tommy’s kiss is biting and swift, and it makes your stomach flutter. You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he uses his grasp on your jaw to steer you back against your rickety kitchen table. You let him, grasping his jacket roughly and hauling him closer as you scooch back onto the table, spreading your legs for him to slot between. He lowers his hands, shoving the skirt of your dress up around your thighs. You watch as he grasps your ankle, drawing it up and deftly working off the buckle of your t-strap heel. He takes hold of the next, doing away with it with the same speed, and shifting to avoid the heels when you kick them off.

Tommy grips the neckline of your dress, giving it a harsh yank. You hear the fabric rip, and you mean to gripe, but you can’t get a word out. Tommy ducks his head, sucking harsh kisses to your neck. The ripping doesn’t stop. His biceps bulge with it as he yanks the weakening fabric roughly. It takes such force that he groans in irritation and fatigue, palms red with exertion, finally shoving the ruined garment down around your shoulders. He grins at the sight of your lacy brasserie and garter belt as the fabric drops away.

“You dressed for me, ah?”

“I thought we were going to the country for fun,” You admit, tipping your chin down as Tommy’s hands slip beneath the torn fabric of your dress, sweeping along your back. “I thought you were going to lay me down and fuck me in a field.”

He chuckles against your skin as his teeth scrape against the swell of your breast where it peeks out above the lace.

“Maybe next time,” He murmurs. “It would do you some good.”

“Your cock?”

“Country air,” He nips your skin, “And my cock.”

A giggle bubbles up in your throat, spilling over before you can stop it. You raise your hand, smoothing your fingers through his hair as he undoes your brasserie. The fabric droops, sagging around your shoulders with the ripped dress. Tommy sweeps his tongue over your pebbling nipple. You arch up against his questing lips and tongue, knees twitching around his thighs.

He draws back with a slick slurp, catching your lips as he urges you up and off of the table. You follow him back to your bedroom, wiggling your arms to shake loose the remnants of your dress, and the slipping straps of your bra. You let it fall to the ground and make to step around it, but before you can get far, Tommy hooks his arm around your middle. He presses kisses to your neck and shoulders as you reach back, working at the fastenings of his trousers. He lets go, giving you a shove toward the bed. You twist before you land, your back hitting the mattress before you slide back a bit.

Tommy raises his hands, slowly undoing the buttons on his waistcoat, then his shirt. You watch as he shrugs off the waistcoat, then pushes off his suspenders. Your gaze drifts even lower to where he’s hard in his trousers as he drifts toward you lazily. You raise your hand, stroking your fingers between your breasts. You smile widely as he watches the track of your finger, as you smooth your palm over your garter belt, then slip a finger further down, flicking at the clip holding up your stocking.

To your utter shock, Tommy kneels down in front of you. He curls his fingers around the top of the gauzy fabric, rolling it down. He turns his head, brushing his lips against your calf. He trails his kisses up and up, nipping gently at the meat of your thigh before he reaches up, teasing his fingers under the strap of the other garter.

“Undo it,” He murmurs. You reach down, undoing it. Tommy keeps his eyes on yours, nuzzling your flesh as he rolls the next stocking down.

“You’re being awfully nice,” You frown. He smiles.

“I’ve already ripped enough of your pretty things. May as well not owe you for the stockings as well as the dress.”

“And you will owe me for the dress.”

“I’ll buy you a warehouse full of dresses just for me to tear off of you, princess.”

“Make sure the seams are loose on them, will you? I thought you were going to burst, trying to rip my dress apart in the kitchen—Tommy!” You cackle as Tommy gives your thigh an honest-to-god bite before he springs up over you.

The first time is as frantic, as rushed as all the times before. The second time, Tommy lets you steer, shove him around a little, move him as you like, take what you want. The third is deliciously new. Tommy draws you onto his lap and guides you down onto his cock.

You shudder, nails digging into the pale muscle of his shoulders as you sink down onto him. Your eyes slide shut against the low light of the room, and the enduring brightness of Tommy’s eyes. You can feel him watching you, even as you tip your chin back and lean into him to just feel. Tommy’s hands smooth over your thighs as you shake around him. He presses his face into your neck, and you feel his moan as you draw yourself up before easing back down. You move slowly, your legs already burning with the rounds before. You’re sweaty, and a little boneless, but you still feel so damn needy for him. You slide your hand up over his closely-cropped hair as the two of you begin to move as one. He grunts and murmurs his own pleasure, sliding a hand down to cup your ass and urge you on:

“Just like that, princess.”

Neither of you let up until the other has cum, until Tommy is tipping you back into your mussed sheets to dot your neck with and chest with kisses. You let your thighs splay, blinking up at the dim ceiling as your heartbeat calms, and you settle.

“...Why d’you call me that?” You mumble.

“Call you what?”

“Princess,” You shift your tone to mimic him. He chuckles, nipping your shoulder.

“You used to walk around the office with your nose in the air, like we were all beneath you.”

“I did not!”

“Mm, you did.” Tommy rests his chin on your shoulder. “But it went off the boil quickly enough, once you realized that if you wanted to live, you’d have to get down on the mud with the rest of us.”

“And is that where I am now?” You slide your fingers through his hair. “In the mud?”

“Does this feel like a bed of roses?”

You smile, shrugging. “Could be worse.”

Tommy hums, reaching up and stroking his knuckles along your jaw. He seems to think for a moment before he asks, “Polly said I would hurt you?”

“Mhm.”

“What else did she say?”

“That I was playing with fire.”

“Does this feel like fire?”

“It won’t.”

“Oh no?”

“Not unless you’ve given me the clap. And if you have, Thomas Shelby,” Your smile widens as he laughs, “I’ll chop your cock off.”

“No fear of that.”

“No? Is that a promise?”

“You have my word, princess.”

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