Vervainandspritz - KEEP QUIET

Timmy Shelly - the local waiter in your hometown

That was INTENSE! Good job on this one

dear, dark child | thomas shelby x reader

summary | tommy wakes up from a nightmare and you help him through it. rating | (explicit) tags/warnings | 18+, pre-established relationship, unprotected sex, nightmares, mention of drugs, mention of suicide, mention of childbirth, cigarette smoking, mentions of prejudice against romani people, angst, pinv, creampie, dirty talk, rough sex, doggy style. word count | 2.2k+ a/n | this is the first thing i've ever written for tommy, so i think it's safe to say i'm a little nervous to be posting this. in my mind, this is more geared towards season 1 tommy. also, i wrote this all in one afternoon so go easy on me.

Thomas Shelby is the most handsome augury of death you have ever seen. He has finely carved cheekbones, a glow in his crystalline eyes, lips full and pink and kissed with freckles. His mother walked herself into the cut, and they say there is a madness embedded in them all—his sister, his brothers, the aunt. You stand at the end of his bed, lips parted, looking at him in all of his haunted beauty, as if to say something, but you decide against it. 

In the black of night, he is not as he is in the daylight. There’s a fresh sheen of sweat on his skin, and a look of fear in his eyes. As you stand at the end of his bed, cold, unsure, you mouth out the words: “All is well, Thomas, all is fine.”

He is the Romani boy they say speaks in spells, in curses, who has been othered because they think he is half devil. As a child, he clung to the skirts of his beautiful mother, loved her to the point of anguish. She dreamt of him when he was in her stomach, pictured a raven haired boy who spoke her words, who had her eyes. Tommy learned her language far better than the rest of her children did. His mother knew the world would give itself to this child of her. He would be beautiful, he would be ambitious. He would be cunning, too, and devious. She knew that many times in his life, he would have to figure out how far things could bend before they snapped completely. When she had pushed him out in the dark of a tunnel, she feared nothing. She did not need light to know this child of hers, because he had come to her in dreams. “He’s a boy,” she had told his father, “and his name is Thomas.” He had cried louder than his brother before him, and she knew that in darkness he was born, and that in darkness he would stay. But she laid him upon her bare breast, and promised herself that she would tell him of the light in the world, and she knew that the good in his soul would weed out the bad. This son of hers was not cursed; he was only a child of the night. She would spend the rest of her short life telling him this, and he would never learn it. 

You reach out and touch his trembling hand. Beneath your touch, he is clammy. You feel his present emotions pulsate beneath your fingertips. He is ashamed, afraid, and angry. Before he can speak, utter something he does not mean but won’t take back, you crawl into his bed, onto his lap.

Your mother was like his in many ways, and in your veins you carry on the tradition of knowing. It is for the same reasons he tells people he can charm animals that you pretend you know nothing: to survive.

You know you will love him, and you know he will betray you. When you press your body into his, wrapping your arms around his sweat drenched skin, you do it because you know in this foreboding future of yours that he never meant to, that he is sorry, that he loves you, too. Some things are fated, prewritten, unavoidable and inevitable; the failure to comfort him won’t change the shape of your lives. 

He clings to you, perhaps to his own confusion, and a little to your own. You feel beneath you a mass of frustration, of anger, of fear. You expected something dangerous, something explosive, not this. Though you lurched at him to tame it, you weren’t sure it was going to work; now that he sits beneath you, holding you in the same manner you hold him, you let out a quiet, relieved sigh. 

“It’s okay,” you assure him once more, with more conviction. Your voice is less meek, more your own, the fear of his anger ebbing each second he holds his face to your chest.  

“I’m sorry.” He chokes out, though there’s no tears that wet the cloth of your gown. His fingers clench around your sides, gripping at the fabric, before he pulls back to look up at you. “The things in my fuckin’ head—“

“It’s alright.” Your fingers thread through his damp hair, pushing back the strands that have fallen over his forehead. This is no devil beneath you. Just a man. Just a boy. “You don’t have to explain to me.”

He swallows roughly, falling back onto the pillows behind him. Tommy rubs his hand over his face and sighs. As the frustration coils more tightly in his stomach, you feel anxious—too aware of the emotions in his frame. Your hand touches the skin of his stomach. It is scorching beneath your cool touch, alight with fury, with fear. He hardly knows the difference between the two. 

“Take off your gown,” he says, deep voice still gravelly from sleep. You do, gathering the ends of the fabric up by your waist, then lifting it above your head. 

He has seen you like this many times before. You’re no whore–don’t have the emotional bandwidth to handle it–but you’re certainly no prude. The first time you locked eyes on Thomas Shelby, something more palpable than the spirits told you what he wanted with you. The light in his eye. The tweak of his lips into a smirk. The attraction you felt, passingly, then fully, as he approached you in the pub. You had known this was him, the boy they said was the devil, could see it in his eyes, but did not mind. 

He does not fuck as roughly as others, but he also does not fuck as kindly as you know he has the craving for. He explores your goose pimpled flesh, still in the midst of regaining his composure. His fingers tremble, but he pretends they don’t. Tommy dances them across your bare chest with calculated ease, tweaking an already pert nipple, cupping the tissue into his too warm palm. 

Desire grows inside of him, takes the place of anger. You kiss, hard and fast, because his body is hungry for a fix—stronger than tobacco, better than whiskey, safer than illicit drugs. He grows hard beneath you, and it begins to leak out, gone in moments, the things that made him hot to the touch. He takes your head between his hands, and brushes too affectionately over your jaw. Somethings are too instinctual to stop; this is the good his mother saw, her dream manifested. His body molds into your own, craves a thing he can’t comprehend just yet, because he is too tired, too young, to know what love might begin as. 

Tommy asks you to lay flat on your stomach, but he has a way of requesting things that make them seem like callous demands. The gruff of his voice. The anger that wraps around all of his words, that has done since he got back from war, changed. You might be the only person who does not flinch or take offense. You lie on your stomach, hands tucked beneath his pillow, eyes pressed closed. Sometimes, he puts his mouth on you. To ready you, he explained, and you like that. Tonight he doesn’t seem to be in the mood. He positions himself between your legs, kisses along the arch of your spine, and whispers against your ear, “Ass up, then.” 

There’s nothing to separate you two: no blankets, no articles of clothing, not even the frigid air of his bedroom, the fire long gone out. You feel the head of his cock at your entrance mere seconds before he plunges inside of you. 

You muffle your groan in the pillow beneath you, fingers tightening around the cloth of the sheets, holding on. At first the intrusion of him is too much, a burning chafe, but he slows, holding himself mid thrust inside of you. You feel the hair on his stomach prickle against you as he leans over your body, curling around you, lips touching your shoulder. The tenuous string of connection you have with him grows stronger, less blurred around the edges, more in focus. Inside of you, he feels safe. It’s inexplicable, but you feel it too; comfort even in his roughest touches, knowing he doesn’t mean harm, that he thinks of you, that he wants you. Your body catches up, slick gathering between your legs as he slides himself in again, more slowly. 

His fingers wrap around your neck, cradling your neck more than pressing into your skin. Tommy’s thrusts begin to pick up, and they become more punishing, driving your hips down into the bed. You moan, toes curling, desire pooling in your stomach as your clit rubs passively against the sheets. It’s not enough friction to do anything but drive you insane. 

He moves back up, sitting on his knees, the fingers on his free hand finding the curves at your side. He holds you there, pushing himself in, emitting soft grunts into the still of night as he buries himself inside of you. The bed begins to creak beneath you both. Old as it is, it is never quite prepared for the violence of his movements. He doesn’t care. Let the whole house hear; God knows they’ve done it to him many times before. He needs to bury himself deeply inside of you, to feel the way you clench around him when he guides your head back to look you in the eye. 

Your lips part, wrapping around a quiet moan. Tommy drives his hips against your backside in a determined rhythm, trying to find the part of you that cries out obscenely. He likes you best in positions where you arch, submit, take what he gives happily. His cock hits the top of your walls, and he nods when you finally audibly moan for him, smug. It isn’t enough that you’ve gone slick between your thighs, that his cock is coated in it. More, more, more—for he still is the boy who has not quite learned how far things can bend before they break. 

He rubs his thumb against your bottom lip, and you wrap your warm mouth around it. “You like that?” he grits out, fucking into you roughly, quickly, determined. There’s a new sheen of sweat on his body, mingling with your own in the places you meet. It is better, less acrid than the stuff he was coated in before. 

“I do,” you pant. You reach out and wrap your hand around the metakl frame of the bed. He laughs, though you’re not sure he finds anything funny.

“I know,” he answers, taking his hand from your face, your neck, gripping instead on your shoulder. He pushes you back onto his cock. “Always do like it. Always take everything I give you.”

“Yes.” Your fingers tighten around the bars. Words escape you, thoughts diminishing into emotion, into sensations. His fingers on your skin. His cock in your cunt, hitting the top of you. The entirety of him behind you, up on bended knees, a supposed half devil. A child of the night. The fury of his passion. The swirl of anger he has pushed away. The fear he doesn’t want to come back. He buries it inside of you, these things he cannot say. 

His hips sputter against yours, and it is over: the warmth of his cum fills you, and he wraps an arm around your stomach, pulling you close to him, kissing along your shoulder. 

Tommy isn’t forgetful; his other hand reaches around and finds your neglected clit. His teeth scrape against your flesh as he circles it with his fingers, drawing out more delicious sounds from you. His cum begins to drip down your legs, but he does not mind. You twitch, jut, fight out of his embrace, but he holds tighter, humming in delight because he knows only he can touch you like this. 

“Show me,” he demands, voice rough, “Show me how much you like my cum in you.” 

You reach behind, grip onto his hip. “Tommy,” is all you manage. 

“Show me.” He rubs your clit faster, pressing down harder. His face tucks into your neck. “You’re grateful, aren’t you? That I fuck you so good?” The desire builds in your stomach. He kisses the side of your mouth. “Fuckin’ show me!”

You cum, and it lasts for what feels like an eternity. You register the sensation of his prideful, earnest laughter against your skin, a familiar timbre, an echo that your bones know well. At one moment it’s too much. Then it’s nothing: his hands, his fingers, his cock abandoning you. 

With all of his troubles still leaking onto your thighs, Tommy reaches over to the nightstand to grab a cigarette. “Do you want one?” he asks. There’s no disinterest in his tone—only the monotonous, somber sound of his voice piercing the air. You lay on your stomach, face pressed against the now cool pillow. “Guess that’s a no.” 

The room smells of sex. Not bad, per se, but potent. His smell and yours, sweet and acidic, and something indistinguishable. His hand rests on your back. “Alright?” he asks. 

You turn your head in his direction. “Alright,” you confirm. “And you?”

The cigarette burns orange, the crackle of his inhale filling the space between you. “All is well,” he says, repeating the words you gave him. 

You hum in agreement. Yes, for now, in this moment, in this place, all is well. The darkness cloaks you both, shields you from the future, and nothing can bring you any harm. 

How fortunate it is to know this much.

its cruel to tell us you are going to update in 24 hours to get lost for weeks😭 where are u dear? It would have been fine but u made us expect it 😭

I KNOW! I'm the worst for that, and I do sincerely apologize. A lot is happening right now, I've decided to move apartments and have been working on a bigger project in the meantime. Life gets in the way heavily and it's hard to keep the mood whatsoever steady, especially with BPD.

Today one part will drop. I'm staying up late and will be drinking so hopefully another one will follow. Thank you guys for being around and I wish you a happy new years.

All the love🤘

A page from the diary

Of Thomas Shelby before he became someone

UPCOMING SERIES

Warnings (!): child abuse, trauma, poverty

September 2nd, 1926, Birmingham

I sat with my anger long enough until it told me its real name was grief. I'm not a whole person and I don't think I'll ever be. Parts of me died in the house I grew up in and i visit them in my dreams. When you're not fed love with a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives.

Perhaps it's okay to grieve the child I could have been,

You Broke Me First

part 31

Zoe opened the front door and let Scout trot in first, breathing a sigh of relief as the cool air from the house hit her hot sweaty skin.

She thought it was a good idea to take scout on a run. she didn’t check the weather prior; it was NOT a good idea.

it was 2pm and she hadn’t heard from Cillian all day, besides the text she woke up to from him saying he was awake and on his way go set. She also checked her email religiously, hoping to see the schedule from Hannah, but nothing yet.

She hopped in the shower and changed into leggings and a t-shirt she stole from Cillian's drawer. She had big plans of sitting in the kitchen and finishing up some articles, as well as attempting to eat something. She was nauseous again the better half of the morning, plus her eating schedule had been all off due to living between two different places and scheduling furniture deliveries. Plus, stress at her job and deadlines looming and not being anywhere close to where she needed to be with her assignments and articles wasn't helping. However, the furniture has all been delivered and placed, 99% of the boxes have been unpacked, internet has been hooked up and the house was now feeling like a home.

She sat at the kitchen counter with her laptop in front of her. She grabbed an apple and a jar of peanut butter and a knife and placed it beside her. She fired up her laptop and checked her emails, perking up when she saw one from Hannah.

Hey Zoey, see attached schedule for this week. TY - Hannah Woods VP, PR Strategist / Executive Assistant to Cillian Murphy Elite Talent & Public Relations cell: (213) 555-0808 HWoods@elite.com

Okay, cool. I'm going to ignore how she spelled my name, it's a common typo, Zoe thought.

But... did she really have to add "Assistant to Cillian Murphy" to her email signature? Is this permanent? What's a VP doing as a personal-excuse me, executive assistant? She wondered.

She opened the attachment and it was... not what she was expecting. it was a simple word doc, with days bolded and shooting times next to it. For some reason, Zoe thought there would be something more... professional?

Is this how Tarantino does his shooting schedules? Zoe thought.

She looked at the assigned day and saw that he was shooting from 7am - 8pm.

Zoe did the math in her head and concluded it was 10pm where he was. Was it too late for a call?

Weird, why wouldn't he text or call me when he was done? She thought.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Scout barking, wanting to go out in the yard. Zoe stood up, stretched her legs and opened the sliding glass door outside to the backyard. She followed Scout onto the deck where the plopped down on a deck chair and reclined back, letting the sun hit her face, thinking about if she should call him or not. She sighed and pushed the paranoid thoughts to the back of her mind and opened her phone.

~

"Let's wrap it up here, guys" Cillian heard once they finished a scene. Cillian relaxed his shoulders and unclenched his jaw. relaxing as much as he could back into himself.

The first couple days back were always the toughest, he spent so long as himself it took him a couple days to snap back into Tommy. Tommy and Cillian were two completely different people, with Tommy being an extremely violent person, the complete opposite of Cillian. It was hard sometimes, but in a way, so rewarding. He truly loved his job.

Cillian made his way back to his trailer, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked up the steps, pushing open the door.

"Hello!" Hannah said, standing up from the kitchen booth. Cillian jumped, not expecting to see her there.

"Oh, hey Hannah," Cillian said, smiling. All he wanted to do was get a shower, call Zoe and sleep.

"I have some stuff to go over with you once you're done in the shower," Hannah said, looking down at her notepad. "But, you have a cast dinner scheduled this evening. In an hour, actually. So..."Hannah said, motioning to the bathroom door, insinuating to get to it.

"Is the dinner necessary? I'm beat," Cillian said.

"Yes, Stephen requested it. He wants them more often actually, to strengthen the bond of the cast."

"Strengthen the bond...? We're in season six, i think we're all bonded," Cillian mumbled. He sighed and stretched his back, hearing a few pops and wincing at the sound. He was truly beat. "Alright. I'll shower, but do me a favor will ya?" He said, walking towards the bathroom. "you still have my phone, yea? Text Zoe for me and tell her i'll text her later when I'm home."

Hannah smiled. "Of course Cillian."

Hannah waited until Cillian got into the shower to look at his phone. As she expected, there was a text from Zoe.

Zoe: Hey babe - how was today? We miss you.

Hannah rolled her eyes. Gross. She thought for a couple minutes then responded:

Cillian: Hey. working late - i'll talk to u when i can.

Hannah hit send then deleted the entire message thread. As soon as she swiped out of the messages, She heard the shower turn off.

Cillian emerged shortly after, in sweatpants and a t-shirt.

"Wardrobe sent over some jeans and a white button down shirt for the dinner," Hannah said, pointing to the clothes laid out for him.

"Thanks," he replied, "did you get a chance to text Zoe for me?"

"Sure did!" Hannah said, smiling. "She said she'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Cillian said, furrowing his eyebrows. "We wrapped at 5 today. I'll get to her when I get out of the dinner I guess, Thanks H," He said, walking over to the clothes on the counter.

"No problem," Hannah said, standing up. "Oh and Cill?" She said, turning to facing him. "It's not my place, but you should really consider deleting all your texts in your phone. It's not just a privacy issue, obviously if you lose your phone and someone breaks in they can read all your messages, but it's also taking up a lot of memory.... it makes your phone run slow," She said, struggling to end that sentence. She wasn't sure if it made the phone run slow or not, but she just needed an excuse to keep deleting messages.

"Really? I figured phones nowadays have no memory limit... but what do I know, I'm horrible with technology," Cillian replied.

"Yea!!" Hannah said, almost laughing. She couldn't believer how dumb men are.

"Yea I'm horrible with technology?? you're fired," Cillian joked.

"No no! I'm agreeing with you that phones nowadays.. should be limitless when it comes to memory," Hannah scrounged up. "Unfortunately we're not there yet.... it's all in the little booklet that comes with the phone."

"Cillian raised an eyebrow, pulling the shirt over his head. "People read those?"

Hannah blinked. "I read those... But you know me. I love a contract!"

"Oh" Cillian said somberly. "Well, you're in charge. Delete it then. And just hold onto my phone for me until the dinner will ya? I'm still so off from the flight and I'm still jet lagged and it's a miracle i can remember my lines. I'll come grab it after dinner."

"Sure thing, Cill! Francisco is waiting for you in hair, I gave him a heads up about you going to the dinner and asked if he could do your hair, so he's ready when you are," Hannah smiled sweetly.

"Thanks, I don't know what the hell to do with this," Cillian sighed, running his fingers through the haircut he hated so badly. He grabbed his boots and made his way out the door.

Hannah waited until Cillian was out of sight before pulling up her laptop. She spent all afternoon drafting up a fake schedule to send to Zoe in Microsoft Word. She wanted to get a jump start on the one for next week.

Shooting tomorrow didn't start until 10am tomorrow, which would be 2am Zoe's time. Shooting was supposed to end at 8pm tomorrow, but Zoe doesn't have to know that...

And now that she has control of Cillian's phone and can delete messages, this will be easier than she thought it would be.

First things first, she pulled out her cell and dialed her contact at DailyMail.

"Hey Tara, it's Hannah over at Elite... I have a tip for you. Tonight the Peaky Blinders cast is going out for dinner and drinks to celebrate the start of shooting the new season..." She said, smiling to herself.

"Heard it's gonna get a little wild. Cillian Murphy has to let off some steam and he plans on going full Tommy tonight. Think it can make tomorrow's press?"

tags:

@lau219 @cillianinlove @vervainandspritz @supershadowymiraclestudent @borntodiemp3 @cillianmurphyvevo @shopgirl6us

I love taste of shame!! Genuinely a bit sinister and very suspenseful ... i have no idea what Thomas wants but the road to get there and figure it out has been and will continue to be so good im sure!! Thank u for writing

Thank you so much! Means a lot! Working on it😊

We missed you 💋

Lol thanks

Absolutely him