A Page From The Diary Will Be A Series Of Snippets From The Childhood Of The Shelby Siblings. Each Chapter

yeah girl I know it’s whatever cause you don’t even care about YOURSELF OR YOUR MIND it has to be whatever that’s your only option right now

Precious girl if I gave a single fuck about people like you, I'd absolutely be sitting by some city centre now begging for pennies. I'm way higher despite all the setbacks and sweet little anons like you don't matter in real life nor online. You get what I will serve you, just like other authors here. Because you're on the receiving end of everything you're frustrated but well. I promise life gets better. Another reason of why there's space for growth and that's what I wish you. Growth.

Happy new year,

Kill xx

PROOF IN CASE YOU NEED IT

UPDATE:

I put this in my reblogs but I’m going to attack this to the main post.

TRUMP HIMSELF DIDN’T CHEAT BUT SOMEONE DEFINITELY TAMPERED WITH THE ELECTION RESULTS.

^

Made by the amazing @the-gay-prometheus (genuinely thank you for saying this)

Hiii I’ve been reading your stories for some and I love them all. I also love the story you started writing (Robert Fisher-Lost on you and Raymond Leon- Not now, Not ever) and you never finished it and I was wondering (I know it’s some time since you started writing them) if you could finish one of these stories like plssssss cause I am in love with your writing so if you would consider finishing one of them and publish it on Tumblr I would be so so so grateful 🙏🏻

Thank you

Thank you so much for that sweet message, I lost the drive to write them a bit ago already, but since you liked them so much, I might take another chance on one of them, or maybe even both! Stay tuned!

lay down my body | raymond leon x reader

summary | after a disastrous event, you find your favorite timekeeper at your door. rating | (explicit) tags/warnings | explicit smut, light degradation, sort of toxic dynamic, power imbalance, dirty talk, oral (female receiving). word count | 2k+ a/n | not beta'd because i just wanted to write something because i haven't in a hot minute.

Raymond brackets your face between his hands, his eyes glacial, his lips pressed into an unimpressed line of dissatisfaction as he examines you. An ugly surge of desire forms in your lower belly as his calloused fingers brush against the bruised skin around your eye.

“Stupid girl,” he admonishes. The warm timbre of his voice draws a lick of want through your aching body, mean as it is. You grab onto his wrists, pushing them away from your face.

“I told you not to come tonight,” you say.

“I come when I please,” he says, indignant.

Tuesday night found you desperate, fighting as you never had before while the minutes on your arm dwindled down to seconds. An angry part of you wants to punish Raymond, to look at him with your bruised flesh and say, “What was I supposed to do, wait for you?” but you’re half afraid he’ll say something infinitely more unkind. He does that sometimes: punishes your cruelty with a form of violence you hadn’t known existed until you started to care for him. He has spent too long not looking after anyone but himself, so it is a self-preserving form of affection he administers.

This man doesn’t seem to know the totality of borrowed time—not with the way he turns your head in his hands again, looking over bits of you he’s already seen. You try not to tell him he’s wasting time, but it’s hard—you feel the full measure of a minute every time it goes by, and hate to spend it like this.

“I worked harder last week so I could have this night off,” you grumble, despite yourself. You push his hands away from you again, this time more firmly.

His jaw tenses. The irritation has begun to set in the crevices of his wearied soul.

“You don’t want me to go and I suggest you stop pretending you do. I might just do it, and then you’ll have a lot more than some common thug on the street to worry about.”

He nudges your arm pathetically, the green clock slowly ticking away on it. You despise the way he holds his favors over you. No matter how snug he’s got you under his thumb, he won’t ever receive your blind submission. In a flare of anger, you knock past him and head to the none too lavish bed. Bending over it, you look back to him expectantly.

“What are you doing?” he says.

You raise an eyebrow - a daring challenge. “Thought I better give you what you want before—“

Raymond rushes across the room like he’s forgotten the luxury of his long, sure minutes. Taking your arm in his hand, he tugs you upward with the sheer force of his anger. His fingers grip onto your chin; you watch as a dangerous fire alights within him. “Better not do that, kitten,” he huffs, voice steady even despite the evident anger etched in his features. He presses your body into his own, the grip on your arm beginning to ache.

“You’re hurting me,” you tell him softly.

He loosens his hold on you, but not his vitriol. “If you want to be fucked like a common whore, just ask for it. No need to suggest that I’m some kind of…creep when you know I’m angry because I—“

His words trail off, all that meaning floating in the air between you. Because I care. To him, that’s more dangerous than stolen time.

You soften, putting your hand on top of his. “I don’t want you to worry.”

“Who says I do? You’re nothing to me. Not really,” he responds coolly.

You run your tongue over your teeth, observing him, watching the carefully designed face of neutrality staring back at you. His indifference is a cruelty.

“We’re running out of time,” you remind.

He looks down at your arm. Two minutes. With lips pursued, he looks back at your eyes. You see the wheels turning in his head, all that careful calculating. Of all the things he is, and he is many, clever was not what you expected. But he is clever. You wish he would use it for better.

“You think I make you earn your life,” he enunciates, a tinny quality infecting his voice, “so earn it.”

There’s a sick pleasure that you derive from the lack of emotion in his eyes. You want him so badly it confuses you. There’s an ugly thing that exists inside of you and it wants, wants, wants him. He feeds it. It’s the same thing that makes you bend back over the bed, fingers gripping the comforter, your ass high. Beneath your dress, you wear a flimsy excuse for underwear.

You feel the bulk of him behind you. He smells of leather and sandalwood. If you close your eyes, you can remember what desire looks like on him. There’s heat in your belly that doesn’t simmer as you listen to him take a step closer.

He leans over and knocks your hands from beneath you, forcing you to lie on the bed. The cool of his leather ensemble against the warmth of your skin is an enthralling contrast. “Keep your wrist down,” he demands, voice low and sultry. “We’re gonna play a game, whore.”

Whore. The word causes a confusing pool of desire to gather between your legs. You want to punch him in the mouth. He’s never called you that before. But you like how the grit of the word sounded in his throat. You like how he takes charge. You always have. Every desperate person wants a God, and there’s something comforting about the way he tells you to kneel at his altar.

With your cheek pressed to the mattress, your cheap makeup rubbing off on the shoddy comforter, you await his next move like a prisoner awaits death. Anticipation courses through you as you listen to the sound of his voice, the rustle of his movements, feeling the ghost of him against you as he plots your demise.

“I’ll give you your beloved time, baby,” he coos, his fingers resting on your hips. They squeeze at your flesh there greedily, a warning for what is to come. His nose brushes against your neck, his breath hot against you as he says, “But you’re going to have to cum first. Not a second before. I think you can do that, can’t you? Because despite your pissy attitude, I know just how wet you get for me. And there’s the matter of life and death too. Everyone’s a whore when it comes down to seconds.”

He presses his lips to the back of your neck, moving down your body gradually. Eventually, you feel the ghost of his breath on your nearly exposed ass. Raymond wastes no time drawing up your dress.

“Spread your legs further,” he instructs. You do, eyebrows drawing together as his fingers grope at the flesh of your ass. There are angry imprints no doubt forming as he hums in delight.

“You’re just as wet as I thought you’d be.” His finger ghost downwards, rubbing over your clothed cunt. You can feel the desire that coats your underwear as he presses down. If you weren’t so turned on, you’d be humiliated by the way your body wants him.

Pulling aside the fabric of your flimsy underwear, he presses open mouthed kisses on your ass cheeks. His teeth glide dangerously across the skin too, until he reaches your cunt; when he reaches there, he dives in, his tongue plunging in the warmth of you while two of his fingers rub against your clit.

This is new, and would hardly be a punishment at all if not for the fact that your clock is running out and you can’t see it. Raymond eats at you like a man starved, the slick of his salvia lubricating you better than your own want. He moves his fingers furiously, grunting into you when you dare to push back into him for more.

“Stay still,” he demands gruffly, taking his mouth off of you. You comply, hard as it is to do when he’s touching you like this. “I know you’re close, baby. You’re gonna come on my tongue, aren’t you? Like the good little whore you are for me?”

His tongue swipes through your folds again, lapping up your combined fluids as his fingers press down with more intent on your clit. You fight with everything in you not to move. Your grip on the bedspread tightens and you huff quietly into the mattress, the tension boiling up inside of you. He could split you open right now and you’d thank him for it.

“Ray—” you moan. His nose edges against your cunt as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking obscenely. You can’t stop the way the orgasm takes you, nor do you want to; it’s overwhelming, a thing that happens all through you. Every sense is heightened. When he moans against your cunt, you nearly shatter against him.

He yanks you down quickly, pulling your limp body back on top of him. Before you’ve got time to figure out what he’s doing, he’s flipping over your arm. The green fluorescent numbers tick away. 55 seconds. 54 seconds. He sheds his leather jacket, exposing his forearm. You close your eyes when he holds it over yours. He cradles your jaw with his other hand, an oddly intimate act.

When he moves his arm off of you, you open your eyes. You don’t look at how much time he’s gifted you, but at him. His face of neutrality is all broken up before you, lips smooth with your slick, cheeks red from his own want. Even his eyes betray him as they glance down at you.

You’ve frightened each other. It's intoxicating. You feel the thrum of your heart beating against your chest. He struggles to catch his breath.

Raymond presses his lips to yours in a furious kiss. His hand tilts your head for easier access, and you push up, moving yourself further up his body.

“Not so tough now,” he growls. His fingers pinch at your chin.

You lick your lips, which now taste of you, rolling your eyes up at him. “Doesn’t seem like you are either.”

He grunts in displeasure, running his calloused thumb lightly against your wet lip. “You just want to be fucked dumb, don’t you?”

You turn your wrist. 2 days he’s given you, which is about 24 hours more than usual. The hunger for him makes you ravenous as you consider what he’s just said to you. You ignore it in favor of something more substantial: asking why.

“You don’t usually carry that much time with you.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “One of my little birdies told me about what happened to you.”

“So, what—you gave me some more time to be robbed of as a solution?”

He shakes his head, slightly annoyed. “No. I gave you more time so I could keep you here and show you how and where you should be spending it.” His fingers dip below the collar of your dress. “Stop being a fucking brat.”

“I never liked being told what to do,” you murmur as his thumb skirts over your nipple. He watches your eyes grow heavy as he swirls his finger over it.

“And yet,” he smirks, nodding down to your body.

You mirror his smirk, knowing he’s right. Even if you’ve got something of a paltry life, things like this can still happen, and that’s something, isn’t it? Knowing that things - people - like him, even in all the cruelty, can still rescue you.

Your fingers reach up and run over the pout of his lips. As your eyes search each other’s, you come to a silent agreement: a pledge to care. It’s a stupid, foolish flash of sentimentality you see before it’s masked again by your own respective desires and lust.

It’s almost as good as the time he’s given you—almost as good as all the time he could ever give you.

Plié, Jeté, Relevé (Ballet Master!Cillian Murphy x Ballerina!reader)

A/N: Here you go my lovelies! I have literally never done ballet in my entire life, so any knowledge of this has come from watching tiktoks of ballerinas, movies with ballerinas in them, or my best guesses… anywaysssss, I hope you enjoy it! 

Also, would highly recommend watching the performance of Still Life at the Penguin Cafe on youtube, the music and the dancing is *chefs kiss* 

Summary: You were ready to admit that you hadn’t been at your best the past week or so, but surely you hadn’t been so bad as to deserve this much wrath from Mister Murphy… 

Word count:  3,750 

Trigger Warnings: she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, mean!Cillian, SMUT, dub-con bc of the power imbalance (?), fingering (technically?), humiliation (not as a kink tho), only reader orgasms, depiction of toxic teaching environment, (please let me know if I missed any) 

Disclaimer: This is written purely for fictional purposes and for the sake of writing. No disrespect is intended to the real people portrayed/concerned in this scenario. 

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

If anyone out there believed in the stereotype that all Irish people were happy and jovial then they clearly hadn’t met your ballet master. The man may speak with a lilting musical accent but there was not a thing jovial or happy about him. The master was harsh, verging on cruel. If anyone was caught slacking even the littlest bit, something that would go unnoticed by the rest of the troupe, his voice would crack like a whip through the studio. 

Recently, that whip had been directed at you. You knew you weren’t doing your best. You had hit a rough patch in your entire life. You had been late more times than ever before, more times than you ever would usually be, more times than you would like. And your dancing had been affected as well. Your posture wasn’t straight enough, your pliés weren’t deep enough, your toes not pointed enough. Everything was going wrong, and while you had hoped it wasn’t noticeable, Mr Murphy never failed to find every SINGLE one of your mistakes. 

Today differed in no way. You had dilly-dallied a little too long while getting ready in the morning, only to end up running late for rehearsal. It was no more than five minutes, but from the start of training it was the rule that all ballerinas must be lined up by the barre at exactly ten o’clock every day. For every minute you were late, the worse your punishment got. Usually if someone hit the five minute mark, they went home and sprained their ankle on purpose for an excuse. 

At four minutes, you had run into the hallway outside the studio and thrown your bag onto the ground, disregarding the sound of your water bottle rolling away and one of your keychains cracking under the weight of your things. At five, you were throwing the door open and running inside, slipping into the back of the line and getting into first position. 

Mr Murphy paused in his speech to gaze at you. You stared straight ahead, refusing to look directly at him. Slowly, his eyebrow rose, scrutinising you with a frown that made shame curl in your stomach and tears make themselves known behind your eyes. He slowly brought his hands together, rubbing them as he sighed and began shaking his head. 

“Kind of you to join us,” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he made his way closer to you, stepping leisurely, dragging out the fear that made your throat hurt. He stood a few feet away, staring at you in that impenetrable way of his, ice eyes sharp and painful wherever they gazed. He clapped his hands once. “Girls, turn and look at Ms. Y/L/N.” He waited until each of them had turned in their spots, some craning their heads to the side to make sure they were looking at you lest they somehow disobey him. You could see the pity, the sympathy, the smug triumph in each of the girls’ eyes, the frowns and subtle smirks, and you could do nothing other than keep staring ahead of you as your hands and knees suddenly began to tremble. “What is wrong with her?” 

He didn’t ask it in a rude or incredulous way, but as if you were a diagram in a textbook, and this was simply an exercise the students were completing. You were sure your shame was visible on your face, the embarrassment turning your spine to liquid. One of the girls put her hand up, near the front of the room, and you only recognised her for the little kiss-ass she was once she spoke. She had always been that way, desperate for Mr Murphy. Always at the front of the line, always gleeful at the downfall of others, always ready to point out any mistakes. And you were always happy to watch her desperation help her in no way whatsoever. A lot could be said about Mr Murphy, but favouritism was not something he had ever displayed. Whichever ballerina was doing well, recognisably well, was given her dues, and it was left at that. 

“She’s not wearing her tights and leotard, or at least, she’s wearing sweatpants over them. Her pointe shoes are dirty, and her hair isn’t in a bun.” You could almost imagine her satisfied little smirk when she finished speaking, that evil little smile that you had always wanted to punch off her face. One swing, you thought, just one swing… 

“Correct,” he simply responded, threading his fingers through each other and raising his eyebrow at you again, as if confused and annoyed at you for not doing something. “Leave, get your shit together, and then come back inside. If you have not returned within ten minutes, don’t bother returning to rehearsal ever again.” He nudged his chin in the direction of the door and you nodded obediently, eyes downcast as you stood up straight and slowly walked back out. 

When the door was closed behind you once more, you stood silently for a minute, eyes clenched shut and hands curled into fists at your sides. You pressed out a scream behind your pursed lips, teeth clenched so hard your jaw began to hurt. You slammed the heel of your hand against the side of your head again and again and again until your shoulder hurt a little from the motion and your brain felt sufficiently jumbled. Your chest was heaving and you were overwhelmed with rage. You wanted to kick something, to throw something, to go back in there and rip that bitch’s hair out of her bun. You resolved to pulling your pointe shoes off and lobbing them across the hallway as hard as you could, letting out another clenched scream before walking all the way down to pick them up and bring them back. 

You stood in front of your bag and took three deep breaths. You picked up your water bottle from where it had rolled between another two of the ballerinas’ bags, and took huge gulps of water until you felt a little less sweaty with anger. You checked the time on your phone to make sure you hadn’t wasted your ten minutes, then set about carefully pulling off your joggers, folding them up, and placing them inside your duffel. You pulled out a new pair of pointe shoes, cursing yourself for not having prepared them in time and preemptively wincing at the blisters you knew you were going to get by the end of rehearsal. You walked down to the bathroom at the end of the hall in the pointe shoes, hoping to at least break them in a little bit with the short time you had, and used the mirror to quickly pull your hair into a bun, securing it with pins in a practised dance you had learned from years of repetition. You checked yourself once more in the mirror and then looked down at your phone before sprinting full on back to the room and sliding through the doors. You made it just in time. 

Mr Murphy glanced at you as you slipped into position at the back of the line, following the exercises he had been calling out to the ballerinas while you had been out. He methodically looked at every inch of your body, from your pointe shoes to your pink tights and black leotard, from the careful set of your bun to the determined set of your brow and sheen of sweat on your temples. He didn’t say anything directly to you, and you took it as a win. 

At the halfway point, you were all allowed a little break to drink water and have a rest before you switched from exercises to rehearsals for your next performance. You were all practising for your various roles in a performance of ‘Still Life at the Penguin Cafe’, and though you would have to wear a huge mask of a ram on your head, you were ecstatic for the performance. While it wasn’t technically a solo, you were the centre of the piece, being the only one not dressed as a penguin. Now, everything felt so precarious. You couldn’t quite be sure Mr Murphy wouldn’t take the role from you after the past two weeks spent in a slump, and the worry was becoming your ever-present companion. 

Just as the girls were all leaving the room to get water and lounge around on the floor of the hallway, Mr Murphy cleared his throat and snapped his fingers at you. 

“Ms. Y/L/N,” and he pointed at the spot right in front of him. It took everything within you not to sprint to the spot. You took careful, measured, steps and stopped a few feet in front of him, spine straight and head held high. You weren’t sure where to look. You could never meet his eyes, something in your soul was opposed to it, so you chose a spot on the wall just next to his head. 

“You will stay for another hour at the end of the session to make up for your failures this morning, understood?” He raised both his eyebrows, hands on his hips. You closed your eyes, trying not to burst into tears like a child throwing a tantrum on the spot. You nodded, whispered a ‘yes, sir’ in a clogged voice, and waited until he dismissed you to walk out of the room. 

You sat down by your bag with a sigh, arms slung over your knees as you cradled the water bottle close and pressed your face to it. You closed your eyes and allowed your head to dip down as some of your friends came to sit around you, offering pats of sympathy and words of comfort. You tried to smile, nodded in thanks, but you just wanted to curl up into a ball and never get back up. 

The next few hours were spent going through each section of the dance. You felt lucky that you didn’t get to the Ram piece, you were sure you couldn’t hold it together long enough for that, only to be doused with cold water at the thought that you needed to stay longer afterward. 

When rehearsal was over, Mr Murphy dismissed everyone right on the dot. He didn’t acknowledge you as the girls started leaving, the chatter slowly beginning to rise as they reached the door. For a moment you wondered if you could get away with leaving with everyone else, but just as you reached the door he called out “ten minutes at most, Ms Y/L/N, then I want you back in here.” Your bones seemed to disappear and you thought you would collapse to the floor in a heap of mushy flesh. Instead you nodded and wobbled your way outside to chug what was left of your water bottle, refill it, then chug the contents again as tears of exhaustion slipped from the corners of your eyes and mingled with the sweat dampening the hair by your temples and ears. 

The ten minutes were up far too quickly and you stood with a groan, heading to the door once more. You gazed at the room from the door, the light hardwood floors, the wall of mirrors and the bar spanning the length of the room, the huge windows letting in swaths of natural light. You often forgot how beautiful the space was. 

You walked slowly to where Mr Murphy stood, typing something on his phone and moving the speaker to face the room again. You stood before him, hands clasped and eyes downcast, waiting for instructions. For a while, he didn’t say anything. He was no longer on his phone, his hands hanging by his sides, and he stared at you. Every few seconds you glanced, trying to glimpse what was going to happen, but he just continued watching you, stoic as ever. 

You could never tell what he was thinking. Never once had you been able to guess at his thought process, to figure out what was going on in his head. Maybe that was one of the reasons he intimidated you so much. 

He walked closer, so close the toes of his shoes almost touched the toes of yours and you gulped, staring at the contrast, the black and the pink, the background of wood. His hand came up and he tapped up under your chin with the side of his index finger, waiting for you to lift your head. When you did, your entire face felt hot under the skin. He was so close, you could see the freckles splashed on his skin, the careful set of his cheekbones and jaw. You gulped. His eyes were so much more terrifying up close. 

“You’ve been given a gift,” he began, slow and firm, “your ability, your natural rhythm, that is a gift. Unless you put in effort to finetune this gift, it goes to waste. Do you understand what I’m saying?” You nodded but he shook his head once. “Speak.” 

“Yes sir,” you breathed out quickly, gulping when your mouth was closed again. 

“I’m not sure you do, though,” and it felt like the hammer falling. His eyes seemed to harden a little, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “The past two weeks all I have seen is a sloppy, unprincipled, uncommitted dancer who deems merely showing up a success.” Each word was a stab to some part of you, and it took everything not to wilt completely to the floor. “You have been given one of the more difficult roles in the performance, and I once believed you deserved it. For the life of me, I cannot remember why.” Your eyebrows furrowed as you closed your eyes, throat bobbing as the despair that felt inevitable finally began to land. 

He went silent, and that felt worse somehow. The backs of your eyelids began to burn and you clenched your hands tighter around each other, hoping the little pain it brought would distract from the tears. You berated yourself in your head. You yelled in your mind that this was a pathetic display, that it would be the stupidest thing you’ve ever done if you began to cry in front of him. He would think less of you, it would only confirm what he believed; you were weak. When you opened your eyes again, one traitorous tear slipped out and down your cheek. You could feel the hot, ticklish track it made down the skin. If you didn’t know better, you thought you saw Mr Murphy’s eyes soften. 

He breathed out, long and tired, and reached up to gently wipe the tear away with his thumb. Your breath caught in your throat. His hand was warm. Your chest felt tight. His skin was soft. You stared into his eyes. He left the side of his hand against your face, as if allowing himself to feel the skin. Something in your stomach writhed impatiently. Everything seemed to have changed within a second. Some deep seated urge whispered in your ear to open your mouth and lick his thumb. You shivered. 

“Turn around,” his voice was low, rough, and you almost moaned at the sound. You gulped again, but obeyed almost instantly. You heard some shuffling, and then the music started, the slow long notes interspersed with the quick little strums, a beautiful, almost joyful piece of music. Then Mr Murphy was pressed right against your back, and suddenly the music was secondary. His chest, firm, solid, was moulded to your back. You could feel the soft fabric of his black shirt, the puffs of his breaths against the back of your neck. Your entire body shivered. He was warm, like a heater on a middle setting, and if you weren’t so tense, you would melt against him. You could feel his nose against your head as he bent slightly. You could feel his lips graze the shell of your ear as he whispered “relax.” You tried, forcing your muscles to loosen like you would before a performance. 

His hands trailed down your arms, his fingertips running down your biceps, then your forearms until you shivered against him again. When he reached your wrists, he hooked his own hands under them and began raising them in time with the music. You turned your head to the right, watched his hand raise your own, your lips parted and breaths heavy. You couldn’t move past the feeling of him pressed to your back. 

You almost missed the cue to move, almost, and pulled away from him slowly, carefully, using the measured steps required by the music. You left your right hand in his, just the barest touch of your fingertips against his, the illusion of contact as you moved to the left, feet lifting high. His eyes seemed to pierce through you, and suddenly you enjoyed the feeling in a sick, scary way. You walked forward until you were in line with Mr Murphy, still an arm’s length away before he stepped forward and your arms moved to a waltz position. He settled into the space, gripping your hands firmly in his. He was pressed as close as he could be, closer than your actual partner would be for the dance, and you set your eyes on his face. Your pulse thrummed in your ears, you were in your element. 

You went through all the steps of the dance like you had been born knowing it. Your bodies were like water as they moved, smooth, graceful. You hadn’t felt this intune to the music in a long time, hadn’t felt this much like a dancer in a long time. You could almost see the crowd in front of you, the blinding lights, the smooth fabric of the dress. 

At the final step, Mr Murphy gripped your hand and spun you into him, changing the ending of the dance. You gasped as you leaned back into his chest. His head was bent down, pressing his face into your hair. You were panting, torso moving up and down quickly but trapped in the confines of his arms crossed over you. You leaned your head back a little, pressing the curve of your skull into the curve of his neck as he pressed his cheek to the side of your head. The music was fading out, and the only sounds in the room were your mingling breaths, heaving into the air of the room. 

His left palm pressed against your stomach, firm and insistent, but you couldn’t be bothered to look down. It seared into your already boiling skin and you closed your eyes. You tuned into the sensation of his hand slowly sliding down, bit by bit, inching down over your stomach then pressing against your pelvis. You gasped as you felt his fingertips brush over the leotard just at the top of your pussy. Your hand moved behind you, gripping his sides, clenching into the soft fabric of his shirt. 

He didn’t say anything, just breathed heavily against the side of your head, and you didn’t stop him. His hand moved farther down, pressing against the softness atop your core. Gently, his index finger moved to the centre line and began pressing in. You lifted up on your toes a little when you felt the pressure through the fabric, the indent of his finger pressing against your clit. You were hot and wet, he could feel the heat emanating from your core against his hand.

He kept his finger pressed there until you became restless, impatient, pressing your hands a little harder against his ribs. Slowly, keeping the pressure, he moved his finger down until he was pressing against your hole. The warm tendrils of pleasure slowly undulated up your insides. He repeated the motion, up then down and pressing a little harder against your hole. 

You breathed out heavily, shakily, and bent your knees to press a little harder into the feeling. 

Up, down, press. Up, down, press. He circled your clit through the fabric, pressing against the pulsing little bud. Up, down, press, drag up, drag down, press. You were panting into the air, face contorted, mouth up and head tilted up, resting against his shoulder. Your eyes were screwed shut, hips moving to chase the motions. He didn’t say anything, just breathed heavily against your ear, held you tighter against his body. 

You were both standing in the middle of the large studio, bathed in the early evening light. Your hands clenched a little harder against his sides. The warm tendrils were lasting longer, becoming more frenzied, curling up into your stomach and making your hole flutter. His right hand moved up and cupped your breast, gripping firmly and burning the heat of his hand into the flesh. 

You were engulfed by him, wrapped up in both his arms as he pressed his fingers harder and quicker against the seam of your core, moving up and down, pressing and releasing. He ran the edge of his thumbnail against the fabric over your nipple and your pelvis shook. You writhed in his arms at the spark it shot to your core, at the electric pulse it created and ultimately pushed you over the precipice. A moan, a high-pitched whine shot from your mouth, echoing in the room. You pressed yourself so hard against him he almost lost his balance, moving one foot back to keep the two of you upright. Your hands hurt from how stiff they became clenched into the fabric of his shirt. 

Slowly, he released the pressure against your core. He grazed his finger up until he could press his hand to your stomach again. He left it there and the two of you heaved breaths in sync. You began to flutter your eyes open, still lost in the blood rushing through your head. His right hand came up and gripped your chin, pushing it so you faced to the left where his head had dropped down. He leaned back a little, you tilted forward a smidge, your eyes met. Your lips were still parted, his mirrored. Then he surged forward, pressing his mouth to yours, his nose sliding into the crease between your cheek and nose. He tasted warm and minty. His lips were plush and cushiony soft. He pulled away and you looked into his eyes again. 

Neither of you said a word.

Taglist: @4ria790

Memes to keep time

more Cillian character memes

Been sick for a while and its starting to get even worse again. But I am working on everything right now. So to keep ya'lls time here some memes of the cutie

Ps. Sorry if not accurate

TASTE OF SHAME

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Part four

Warnings: Dark!Thomas Shelby, manipulation, abuse, non-con/dub-con, gaslighting, violence

A/N: The calm before the storm, I'd say. Next chapter will get intense.

Another couple days Y/N spent mostly around her horse. Well, maybe not her horse anymore, but deep down she felt the same. Their bond irreplaceable and no amount of money would change that, she thought, staring into the deep eyes of a particularly tall stallion. His character was different than most horses she got to be around even back then, living on a farm. His dark eyes seemed to be eternally deep as he listened to each word spilling from her mouth. Leaning down to be on the same level as she held his chin gently.

It became their little routine, as she would come to stables before their training, sitting around and talking to him or simply caring for him in simple acts, feeding, cleaning or braiding his mane. It allowed her to keep remnants of the inner peace she once had, untouched.

He was impressive, incredibly impressive to the eyes of people who didn't know the horse from a foal. Calm demeanour, the awareness of space he was taking and something that Curly liked to call royal elegance.

Everyday they spent training, preparing him for races which were coming with big steps. Every small failure Y/N took personally, at the beginning causing her to doubt whether there was enough time.

Enough time to put in the hours of practice so that he wouldn't lose... Or disappoint Mr. Shelby, for that matter. Deep down Y/N was scared, and so she put all the effort she could possibly fit in the small frames of twenty four hours each day until she could finally breathe freely.

”He's fast.” Thomas Shelby stated from behind the gate, startling Y/N. Turning around, she spotted him by the entrance. The signature cigarette burning between his lips as his gaze assessed Inferno. His eyes were slightly narrowed, face lacking any solid expression as he inhaled the smoke, holding it in his lungs for a moment before exhaling while he began moving closer. ”...but fierce. A wild look in his eyes.”

Y/N glanced at the horse, hearing a huff coming from him almost as a response to the words aimed at him. She smiled lightly before facing Tommy once again. Her eyes met his, somehow fearlessly.

”He is good. Will win you big money, Mr. Shelby. I give you my word.” She responded, nodding along as he stepped closer. Y/N couldn't help but get a little defensive hearing his words. She knew the horse too well, and if Thomas didn't believe in his abilities, he wouldn't pay for him so much, right?

The corner of his lips twitched, as if he was about to smile. A small smirk appeared on his face, lifting an eyebrow at the tone of her voice. Exhaling smoke for the last time, he tossed the cigarette to the ground, stepping on it with his boot. Reaching for her face, he grasped her chin, tilting her head up so she wouldn't look away.

”Your word, eh?” He asked, almost taunting. Mockery in his eyes was one of the few emotions he let her see, shining through the icy colour of his irises. She was almost used to it by now. ”Am I to trust you now, Dove?” Her resolve crumbled visibly, her own eyes revealing everything going in her head, which pleased him as always. Even in such interactions she was completely defenseless.

Letting out a sharp breath, Y/N nodded along, biting her tongue before she would even think of saying something back. It wasn't a good idea. Holding her chin between his calloused fingers, Tommy felt the movement and subconsciously he knew exactly what she did. Smirking a little wider, he tilted his head to the side. The obedience in her was alluring, impossible to push away.

Leaning in closer, his eyes moved around her face. Slowly, he took his time, just like in anything and everything he ever did around her. Holding all the control he could afford to make her wait. Y/N felt her heartbeat rising, fear bouncing off of her ribcage at the close proximity he always chose over standing at a normal distance.

It must be one of his sick games, she thought, completely oblivious to the fact he just couldn't help it. The way she bent in every way he'd tell her to, the powerless melting into his power and whims made her almost irresistible. Almost.

His hands felt raw on her skin, the small contact of him firmly holding her chin made her breathe heavier. All the small reactions not going unnoticed under his watchful gaze.

The interaction lasted a couple moments, yet it felt like an eternity.

”What you're asking for comes with a risk.” His words were simple, yet they took a bit longer to register in her mind. Distracted by the way he looked at her. ”Risk you can't afford, so don't make me force you to pay for it, eh?”

Shivers ran down her spine as the vial threat hung in the air. Don't break my trust or you will regret it

Parting her lips for a second, she swallowed her dignity before responding.

”Yes, Mr. Shelby.”

The intense gaze broke, as he patted her cheek roughly with his fingers. Little smile stretching on his tense face.

”Good girl”

~~

”For once you could be specific, Tommy. Linda's already holding this against me.” Arthur mumbled, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket as he smoothed out his hair. ”...and we're still bloody waiting”

John was talking to Johnny Dogs as they all waited for a sign to get on the way to London. Unusually many of the Blinders stood by the Arrow House, four cars parked on a gravely yard as Thomas checked his watch.

”The least you could do is stop fucking complaining” He barked back towards his older brother, already fed up with hearing it. Thomas had enough things to worry about that day, Vendetta being one of the main worries. It was the exact reason why all of them were dressed in the exact same way, every single detail fitting. Brothers not to be recognized in the crowd. Another one of his worries was Y/N, whom he had to take with them, as it was one of the points in the contract he made with her father.

There was no way around it.

”Time's up boys, off you go” He said out loud, pulling his cap on as he quickly got up the stairs swinging the door open. ”Y/N!” His voice bounced off the walls.

”I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm here” She ran down, her cheeks flushed red as she finally managed to get fully ready. Usually it didn't take as much time, but she never attended such an event, and Ada told her to present well as to not bring Tommy shame.

...so she did her best. Dressed in one of the new dresses with her hair put up all pretty. Her look held all the intent, gracefully showing the elegant style while keeping most of her body hidden.

When his eyes landed on her, Thomas felt his fingertips buzzing with the need to grab her. It made him uneasy, the urges, coming and going so suddenly and out of control. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself. The anger at her for being late suddenly forgotten.

”We don't have time to spare. Get in the car before I make you walk all the way to London.” He said, his voice coming out a bit less menacingly than he'd like.

Y/N nodded quickly, pulling her dark coat onto her body before rushing out the door into his car. Sitting on the passenger seat, she let out a sigh.

The sigh that made his eyes roll, as her scent filled out the car.

Fucking hell, he thought, starting the engine smoothly, not intending on talking to her any longer. They travelled in almost complete silence, occasionally broken with her voice when she'd asked a question.

~~

Getting to London took a bit longer than expected, which allowed the Blinders to gather in all the right places, following Tommy's plan exactly as they were told. Peaky caps sitting lowly on their face, covering most prominent features.

As soon as Tommy pulled up parking the car, Y/N reached to open the door, but before she managed to do so his hand grabbed on her thigh, keeping her firmly in place. Y/N glanced towards him with a question.

”You're going to stick to me the whole time we're there, you hear me? You'll place bets with John and Edward, then return to our seats. No looking around, no asking too many questions.” His hand cradled her skin as he spoke, making her lose her focus for a split second before she responded, holding the eye contact.

”Yes, Mr. Shelby”

A little sceptical for a moment, he stilled, looking for approval in her eyes that in fact she understood before letting out a sigh.

Trust, he thought.

”Good”

...and with that they got out. Speaking even less than usual he grasped her hand, pulling her towards the entrance. Holding her closely they moved up the stairs, passing by other guests before making it to the third level. Four blinders stood by the entrance, chit chatting, and three were by the betting booth. Another small crowd already climbing the stairs before they dispersed to their designated positions.

”Let's put out bets in, shall we?” Tommy said lightheartedly, glancing towards her with a small smirk and teasing look on his face she never saw before. It looked... Strange, but the coldness in his eyes made her realize he was putting on an act.

”Lead the way, Sir.” She responded, mirroring his tone with a shy smile. Despite not understanding what was exactly happening, she was happy to be included and to... Be on the receiving end of his pleasantries, even if they weren't real.

She decided to enjoy every moment of this event, as another won't be around again anytime soon. Not in her calendar, she thought, feeling strange with the strength he was holding her hand with, almost crushing her fingers.

Trying to get her mind off of that, she looked out onto the racetrack after placing the bets and getting to their seats. From that point everything was going smoothly, and Y/N give up on trying to understand the situation, Thomas' behaviour weird in ways other than usual, but she didn't pay attention anymore.

As the races began, Tommy whispered into her ear to not move from the seats at all, just wait for him to be back before he disappeared into the building behind them. Y/N nodded obediently, watching as Inferno shot out onto the rack with all the other horses. The distance was fairly long and the track slightly curving towards the left, making it difficult to see every detail from where she was seated.

Completely unaware of her doings, she rose from her seat, moving closer to the track. Her hands grasping the edge of the seat in front of her. With her eyes wide open she watched with anticipation as her black horse passed by a smaller one, making it to the second position.

Meter after meter they cut through the distance, making seconds feel like hours before finally, his head peaked to the front.

With a loud gasp she realized Inferno won, throwing her hands in the air with pure happiness. Her pink lips stretched into a wide smile as she turned around, realising Tommy didn't come back yet.

To her right she heard a loud chuckle before a tall figure came up closer, from the seats nearby. Man much taller than she was, moved slightly closer, leaning on the short wall separating two sections.

”Am I to understand that the bet was lucky?” He spoke up, his accent foreign to the ones she knew and heard before. His hair was dark and smile bright. He was a good looking man.

”For once” She responded, nodding lightly, and gesturing towards the piece of paper she held. ”Yours not so much?” Y/N asked, unsure of why he approached her, but she didn't want to appear rude.

Taking another step he was right next to her, showing his own paper to the young woman.

Maximus, was written, which turned out to be the horse who made it second to the finish line.

”Ah, I see.” Y/N said with a smile at the dramatic sigh he let out. He was maybe a little older than her, but not by much. A few years top. It was refreshing to talk to someone around her age. ”Well, maybe next time then?” She offered.

”Hopefully. Why Inferno? It's a debutant. Maximus won three times in a row.” The tone of his voice was lighthearted, carrying a hint of curiosity within.

Shrugging, Y/N quickly assessed whether she should, or shouldn't tell the truth. Eventually settling on.. a half true.

”His legs are longer than most horses on the rack. This breed is majestic, and the look in his eyes is trustworthy.” Her response was a bit held back, which hopefully he wouldn't notice.

Cocking an eyebrow, his lips stretched into a mocking smile. His demeanour visibly changing.

”And you noticed it from up here, is that right? Brilliant answer, Y/N.”

Y/N's lips parted as she took a step back once she heard him say her name. Her heart picked up on pace, thumping loudly in her chest as she realized something was wrong.

Suddenly a loud bang came from one of the chambers, chaos quickly taking over the audience as people heard another gunshot coming from inside of the building. The stranger moved quickly, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her towards him, but before Y/N managed to react she was pushed aside, in a different direction again. Stumbling back she looked up, her eyes widening and her face going pale as she realized it was Mr. Shelby who saved her from the strange man.

As he cut between the two of them, Thomas' fist immediately made contact with the stranger's face. He was shorter, but visibly more built, his strength overpowering the other man.

”Shelby” He straightened his back quickly with a grin, his teeth covered in blood as he reached into his holster but not quick enough. In a split second Tommy groaned after hearing it, ripped the cap off his head, using the sewed in blade as he cut across his face.

Y/N took another step back, scared to death as she looked around trying to find someone familiar. The scene in front of her just... Kept going, nobody stopped the Blinder from turning him into a mess, features not recognizable anymore, looking barely human.

As a sob ripped from her throat, Y/N couldn't look away anymore and only when someone else grabbed her arm, she realized it was Arthur.

”C'mere, it's time to go” He said impatiently, pushing her towards the entrance but she looked back at Tommy.

”What about him?” Her voice came out higher than usual, tears still streaming down her face.

Y/N didn't even know when and why she cried. The whole situation was so obscene, the confusion racing through her veins was incredibly overwhelming.

”He'll be fine, we need to leave. Quickly!” He commanded, and she didn't dare to argue. Rushing to the exit, she noticed John was waiting right there for them. Nodding to Arthur they shut the door behind them, running down the stairs.

Everything was happening so quickly, a few Blinders were injured, their suits marked with blood one way or another.

Her lungs were burning from the run, tears slowly drying off on her face. Looking at her hands, Y/N realized that some of the blood got on her skin, and she was marked just as much as other men around her. The wind picked up, blowing hard and cold as she turned around and noticed everyone getting in the car. Before she could ask them what she was supposed to do, a strong hand clamped down on her shoulder, turning her back and a strong body pressed her against the Bentley.

Thomas' face was covered in blood, he was breathing heavily. Unsure whether it was from the fight or maybe running, but he was visibly furious. Almost crushing her between him and the hard exterior of a vehicle, she mewled in pain before his hand wrapped around her throat.

His eyes were completely dark, face strained in fury like she never saw before. Immediately cutting her airflow off, he slammed her against the car a bit harder.

”I told you to not fucking move!” He growled loudly, still wet blood from his hand coating her skin. Pulling her by the throat, he got to her eye level. ”Are simple words too much for your bloody brain, eh?!” She was completely pale, crying again as she tried to shake her head but his hand was too strong. She couldn't move. Paralyzed from fear, it was completely visible in her eyes.

Groaning Thomas pulled her against him, his lips crashing into hers forcefully. Parting her lips and shoving his tongue inside, dominating her in the clear display of power. He tasted like.. blood, the taste alone was making her nauseous, but there was nothing she could do. Biting her lip harshly, he made her cry out before pulling away.

Quickly taking a step back, he opened the door, shoving her onto the passenger seat.

”You asked for my trust, and now you will pay the price.” She heard before he shut the door so hard, she let out a choked sob.

Getting in the car, he started the engine right away, wiping his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

Cry. There's nothing else you can do now

Not Now, Not Ever

Part 1

Sorry it took so long. I was busy.

The view was almost pleasant. Where ‘almost’ was the key word in the eyes of a person who spent most of their life seeing it: a tall building in the city center, surrounded by even taller expectations of people who somehow got there. In recent years, more and more people were finding a way to earn time. Whether it was by honestly earning it, luck or tearing it out of some poor bastard who entered the city in search of cheap pleasure and a good time, unfortunately encountering such a frequent guest. Death.

Because that's what Dayton was known for: cheap pleasure and death.

No matter how much time passed, the luridness of Dayton lingered in Y/N’s deepest thoughts and memories. Thus the view here wasn't too bad. Dark eyes closely watched people who'd pass by the building, as her hand twirled her pen.

What a silly habit it was.

It helped her focus, at the same time ensuring that her eyes would not wander to the man sitting on the other side of the large office. Sighing deeply, Y/N leaned forward as her elbows made contact with the desk before reaching for the keyboard. The combination of symbols and numbers created password she knew by heart, typing it in within a single glance.

Hundreds of files, cases hidden under certain codes, were only known to the timekeepers who belonged to the group called A6. A6 consisted of three members. One of them was stationed ten floors higher, with gold letters on his office door, wrinkles on his face and the whole system in his hands. The second member was sitting directly in front of Y/N, separated by ten feet of distance and his stone cold expression. Raymond Leon. Even though Greenwich was bursting at the seams with people who looked permanently young, he was one of the few people she ever encountered who… never changed, not even slightly.

He had a blank expression adorning his face accompanied by scars crossing his pale skin. Weirdly bright, blue eyes dispassionately observed the environment he'd find himself in, no matter where and when. His hair slicked back perfectly, which sometimes drove her mad when she'd wake up in a worse mood.

How could he possibly do it? Not a single strand of stray black hair on his forehead throughout all the years they worked together. Scoffing quietly she rolled her eyes, realizing that her thoughts wandered once again.

It wasn't the best day. She usually had focus, but the switch she learned to make going through the entrance of the building seemed to not work very well today. Her mind was consumed with the wistfulness of the free will she used to have in the past.

Before it all started. Before she became something more than Y/N Y/L/N. Before becoming a Timekeeper.

Several decades ago when she had more in her than this fucking badge in the pocket of her leather coat.

As she suddenly got up, the armchair rolled with a screeching sound. Raymond's attention shifted to Y/N as he raised his eyebrows, looking over his screen at her feminine silhouette.

He didn't say a word, even though he wanted to ask.

She didn't say a word, even though she saw him looking.

Passing by his desk, she grabbed a lighter wordlessly as she moved towards the window, opening it wide on the arms length. The disparate feelings of fresh air and the burning nicotine filling up her lungs was all she needed at the moment.

Feeling the not quite unpleasant scent of tobacco in the air, Raymond was just about to get up to join his colleague in the window when suddenly the door swung open.

“Leon, Y/L/N” A forty year old looking woman stood in the doorway clutching onto a file with a fierce expression on her face. This felt like a breath of fresh air after spending several hours with Raymond’s impassiveness, Y/N thought. “Jameson was found dead thirty miles out of Dayton. We're dropping the case.” She said in a tired voice. Not waiting for an answer, the woman took a step back before disappearing behind the black door.

Y/N scoffed with annoyance. It was the cherry on top of her already bad mood.

“Sure, I only worked on it for two weeks. No biggie.” Her voice was stuffed with sarcasm. Her barely contained frustration filled the now silent room, getting a chuckle out of Raymond.

“In a great mood, aren't we?” He replied with a blank expression, playful mockery in his tone that he used so often, almost like a tool towards Y/N.

Getting up he closed the file, before approaching the window that she stood by. He pulled a pack of menthol cigarettes out of his coat and snatched the lighter out of her hand.

Y/N didn't reply, glancing sideways at him while taking a drag.

“Kinda funny for someone who can't even smoke like a man.” She replied smoothly, without missing a beat causing him to slightly lift one corner of his lips.

“You're enough of a man for both of us.” came out of his mouth along with a trail of smoke. Y/N realized it was only the second sentence he said to her that day, and yet, she had enough of his talking.

Putting her cigarette out, Y/N passed by him, getting back to work and leaving him standing there. Finally, she managed to get to work.

The weather was windy, the sensation of fresh air glazing his skin felt good accompanied by the scent of her perfumes and smoke. Strangely calming, even though he couldn't put his finger on what she smelled like. It's not like it matters, anyway, he thought watching over the busy city center. People rushing places even as the sun started to set was not a surprise, as Greenwich barely slept bustling with life.

Raymond rarely experienced the time where he could just be. Without pacing and his mind being on constant overdrive.

Just like now, standing by the window and pondering on the scent of his colleague's perfume, a calmness settled somewhere between his ribs. He realized that after so many years spent here in this building, with a steely badge on his chest, and with the sound of Y/N’s nails clacking against the keyboard in the background, he felt at home.

***

The whole day passed uneventfully, spent on typical, boring office work. They’d clash every now and then during the rare cigarette and coffee breaks. It was more to break the tension than out of spite; a practiced routine.

While the ticking of the clock used to be a menacing sound some years ago, now it just meant that the end of her shift was getting closer. Eventually Y/N logged out of the system, leaning back on her chair as she scanned over her few belongings on the desk.

One would think that spending most of her days for several years here, she'd have more knick knacks lingering around, but her desk was neat. Almost like a brand new working space. Y/N believed there was no need for additional chaos in her space.

As she stood up, throwing the coat over her shoulders, Raymond didn't move or look up, focused on his tasks, or at least he made himself look like it.

He almost never finished his work when others did. Some people in the office even wondered whether he’d spend his nights there sometimes. So it wasn't new to see him remaining seated as Y/N zipped up her coat, gathered her belongings, and shoved them in her purse before heading out. No words were said as the door shut behind her.

Only when complete silence filled the room did Raymond allow himself to relax a little. He slumped into the armchair as he tilted his head back, closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

Subconsciously, he regretted how the sweet scent of her perfume faded away when in her absence.

***

Y/N couldn't help but feel bitterness. She remembered the time when she felt relief arriving home. That feeling was long gone once the hope of turning the apartment into an actual home faded. It was hard to make peace with, but there was nothing she couldn't handle.

Not anymore.

Y/N took a long shower and changed into more comfortable clothes. Subconsciously she skipped the kitchen, as she didn't feel like eating anything.

Wine was another story though, Y/N thought, chuckling when she grabbed her favourite kind. Not bothering to get a glass, she headed to the living room and settled onto her couch. She took her sweet time drinking, smoking, and letting herself dive into her chaotic and melancholic thoughts. Driven by the sour feeling on the tip of her tongue, Y/N pulled out her phone and scrolled to the unanswered message that had been sitting there for longer than it should have. She finally typed her reply.

“Okay, one date. Tomorrow 8 PM” she sent, tossing her phone aside before she'd change her mind.

A deep sigh left her lips, followed by a chuckle. What a mess.

***

“Fuck!” Raymond exclaimed, followed by a hiss when the heavy door made contact with his back, tearing him out of his thoughts and forcing him to stop reading the file he was holding. Turning around he noticed Y/N entering the office.

She couldn't help but let out a giggle at his angered expression before shrugging and raising her eyebrows.

“Not sure if anyone ever told you that, but Ray,” she started with a cheeky smirk, slowly becoming more serious as she took a step forward, her hand landing on his shoulder, pretending like she was massaging it. “it's not the best idea to casually stand by the door. You might get hit.” Y/N finished with a mockingly serious tone, causing him to roll his eyes and shaking her hand off his body.

“You’re in a strangely good mood. Found a penny on your way here?” He shot back, matching her tone, narrowing his eyes as she chuckled instead of rolling her eyes as she always does.

“Nope, just can't wait to finish my shift today.” She answered honestly, walking over to her desk and dumping her purse on it.

Seeing her in such an unusual state, Raymond felt a weird warmth which bothered him, like every unwanted feeling did.

“Don't worry, I'm sure your empty apartment and book won't mind if you come back late.” He said, more bitter than usual, seeing the lack of reaction.

“Actually I have plans. I don't know if you ever heard of such a thing.” She replied smoothly, slicking her hair back into a neat ponytail and keeping up the eye contact. Raymond laughed out loud, making her look at him weird.

“Yeah, sure, and I'm actually going bowling later.” He mocked arrogantly, shaking his head lightly and running his hand through his perfectly slicked back hair. Y/N felt the dig somewhere deep inside, but refused to let him see it.

“To each their own, but with your size it might be an issue to hold the bowling ball properly.” Y/N replied calmly, sitting down.

Her words hung in the air as Raymond chose to ignore her.

The entirety of her ten hour shift passed quickly, and before Ray even realized, she was gone. Once again, she left a trail of her intoxicating perfume and her perfectly neat desk.

His own desk, on the other hand, was covered in all kinds of papers, reminding him of the amount of work he willingly put upon himself.

Time always passed smoothly when he'd throw himself into the whirlwind of work. He reread some cases over and over until his sharp eyes picked up on details that an average Timekeeper wouldn't notice. That's why he was the best at what he did.

Sometimes a small crisis got a hold of him, filling his head up with unwanted thoughts about the lack of actual sense in his almost eighty year old life. Raymond would never allow himself to indulge into spiraling down memory lane, as the cloudy moments from his past would try to make their way into the view. Ten minutes turned into an hour, and an hour turned into three when finally he stopped his work. He felt the burning need for some nicotine.

Raymond rolled up his shirt sleeves, took one cigarette out of the box, and settled in his usual spot at the nearby window.

He watched the almost empty street in silence. His arm hung in the air with intentions of taking another drag when he suddenly heard a familiar giggle.

Narrowing his eyes, Raymond focused on the couple slowly walking down the street.

He saw a taller man with a sheepish smile in the company of a beautiful woman, wearing a tight but sophisticated black dress and heels with a denim jacket draped over her shoulders. An obviously oversized jacket. They talked while laughing every now and then. A smile was constantly plastered on her dark red lips.

If asked, Raymond wouldn't be able to answer why his jaw tensed so badly at the sight. He couldn’t explain how the burning in his body overpowered the burning on his fingers as the cigarette burned to the filter. Scoffing with pure anger, he threw the cigarette away before pulling down the blinds as he slumped into his chair.

His heart pounded in his chest and his breathing deepened. Raymond knew he wasn't wrong.

He ran a hand through his hair in a messy manner, ruining his perfect hairstyle.

He couldn't tell what infuriated him more; the way he reacted to the sight of Y/N accompanied by another man, or the way he subconsciously responded seeing her in such circumstances.

Taglist!

@kittenonpluto @candlelover @4ria790 @xsweetcatastrophe @cillianinlove @lau219 @theangelofbastogne @sasha28x @the-buddy-things

I can't tag some people, I don't know why. Sorry. Let me know if you want to be tagged in the next part! Bye!

could you do a smut where it takes place after season 4, episode one when Tommy murders that butcher, so right after that he’s extremely pissed off and frustrated so he goes to the bedroom where reader is sleeping in the dark and he wants to let out his stress so he fucks reader roughly while still covered in all that blood it turns reader on a lot and Tommy’s very degrading with his words:)?

WHAT YOU'RE MADE FOR

Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warnings: death, angst, violence, angry sex, degradation, smut

A/N: Y'all better start sending requests istg

~~

It felt almost deranged, as Thomas stared in the almost dead man's eyes. Life leaving his irises, lungs choking on blood while trying to take a breath. One so desperately needed. His mouth wide open, pathetically attempting to inhale some oxygen which was already impossible. Last blinks, last moves before he fell to the floor, dirtying everything around and... Leaving the meat raw on the table.

Thomas looked around, only now noticing the state he was in. Covered in blood, almost head to toe. His expensive vest and suit pants absolutely drenched, not to mention the shirt. Letting out a sharp breath, he dropped the sharp tool to the floor, making his way out of the kitchen.

He had so much to do before Christmas. Since the cook died, he needed a new one. Tommy had to call around, find someone last minute and pay extra for cleaning and keeping silent about whereabouts in the Arrow house. So much to do, yet he could barely think with the adrenaline pumping through his veins, making his heart thump and his hands shake.

Normally he would take opium to make it better, but Thomas was well too aware of his wife's reaction to the drug. She hated when he was under influence.

Huffing angrily under his nose he thought of an alternative, and frustration grew as he thought about how difficult Y/N has to make it by arguing. Always arguing. Forcing him to eat better, to take care of himself. So damn loud and opinionated. Throwing back a glass of whiskey, his eyes landed on the staircase and the idea suddenly appeared in his head.

Without missing a beat he made his way up the stairs, leaving bloody marks on the handrail and expensive wood. Quickly walking through the corridor he barged through the door, his precious wife laying on the bed, beautiful as ever. Her white gown hunched up slightly higher than usual, revealing her creamy thighs and reminding him of the lack of underwear.

Standing there, simply staring Thomas felt his pants becoming tighter, all blood going south, exactly where he needed it. Quickly unbuckling his belt and pants he walked over, leaning forward he cooed quietly seeing her peaceful face.

His hand traced her cheek lightly, leaving a bloody mark that made his teeth clench. Deep, crimson red colour in such a stark contrast with the innocent face and white gown of hers. Without waking her up, he quickly pulled her to the edge of the bed by her legs, startling her awake.

"T–Tommy?" She mumbled, eyes barely open as he flipped her on her stomach with a growl. Adrenaline buzzed in his ears as he pawed on her skin, leaving mark after mark from the blood he had on. After a moment she lifted her head, looking back and seeing him completely red, which caused her to squeak in fear. "Thomas, wh–" but he cut her off, pulling his cock out and shoving her legs apart, spitting on her pussy to use as a lube.

"Shut up!" He hissed, climbing onto the bed and straddling her thighs. "I kept you safe. I've fulfilled my duty, and kept you safe!" He hissed into her ear, grabbing a handful of hair, nudging her entrance with the tip of his cock.

A loud moan caused by the sudden stretch and pain filled the air as he slammed himself to the hilt, not able to wait any longer. His hand immediately covered her mouth, two fingers shoved into her mouth to keep her quiet. "The least you can do is fucking take it" He growled into her ear, thrusting impatiently into her tight heat, feeling the wetness pooling from her entrance at his rough manhandling. "That's what you're fucking made for!" She moaned loudly, feeling the bitter metallic taste on his fingers, filling her mouth and making it hard to breathe which made her keep squirming.

Thomas laid himself over her, fucking her from the back, putting his complete weight on top of her.

"You feel it? The fucking taste?" He growled, pulling her hair with another hand. "It's a taste of your safety." His voice was different, clearly because of the chaotic situation he's been through just a couple minutes earlier. Y/N had no idea what was turning her on so much, whether it was the danger to this whole situation, or maybe him fucking her so roughly. "Answer me!" He roared, plunging even deeper than before, his tip kissing her cervix really hard, causing her to nod frantically. "Some cock and you're already too fucking dumb to speak, eh? Good thing your cunt 's always wet then" He added, cruelly almost, knowing how much she loved being degraded. "Nothing more needed to be my precious little fuckhole" He purred, picking up his pace, fucking her faster and harder. Whimper after whimper leaving her lips before he pulled his fingers out of her mouth and wrapped them around her throat.

"Shhhh" He cooed, "You don't want to wake up the kids, do you?" He emphasized the last two words with painful deep thrusts, making her feel like he was already in her belly.

"Tommy" She managed to stutter out, holding onto his hand which was squeezing her pretty hard, cutting off the blood flow and causing her eyesight to go blurry.

"I feel you squeezing my fucking cock. You like that, eh? Being fucked, covered in blood and treated like a cheap whore." He groaned by her ear, the free hand reaching underneath to pinch her clit and rub brutal circles, causing her to cry out weakly. "Nasty fucking cunt" He purred as she came around him so hard, before completely going limp on top of her. Pressing her into the mattress as his thrusts grew frantic, deeper and slower while her cunt milked him for all he had.

Only then did he let go of her throat, slowly threading his fingers through her hair, as they both tried to catch their breaths.

Tommy lifted his head up, seeing her so beautifully fucked out and smiled. Kissing the side of her face, he murmured.

"We need a cleaning service in the kitchen... and a new cook."