Imagines Smut

𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲

Thomas Shelby is many things- ever intelligent, inexplicably cunning, unfathomably brave, sinfully wicked, and the luckiest son of a bitch in the Peaky Blinders to walk around with a spitfire of a woman on his arm every day and take her to bed every night.

"That's enough outta you now!" Your sharp reprimand carries over the din of the tavern, piquing Tommy's interest. Casually enjoying his first love, aged Irish whiskey, as the hopeful business associate before him prattles on about his prize-winning horse, Tommy subtly knocks twice on the wooden doors to the window hiding the private room from the remainder of the Garrison.

One of the barmaids eases the doors open so Tommy can get a view of what's going on, ducking her head in deference when he waves her away, his use for her satisfied. A sleazy looking man with an even sleazier-looking shock of hair above his upper lip trails his fingers along your arm as you place a pint in front of him, and your raven-haired lover's mouth sets into a hard line as he watches the scene unfold. You deflect yet another advance with a swipe of your hand and exaggerated eye roll, and Tommy returns his attention to the man before him, secure in the knowledge that you can handle yourself against the likes of that scum.

Until he hears lousy fuck and useless whore.

Excusing himself from his meeting, Tommy drains the remainder of his tumbler with an eerie calm and rises from the table, opening the door to the main room of the Garrison with the full intention of sending this man to meet his maker.

Your lover watches with rapt fascination as you emit a playful, two-toned whistle before a glint of metal flies from your hand, landing between two of the man's splayed fingers on the bar top, a trickle of red oozing down the side of his middle finger where the knife Tommy gifted you for your anniversary has just grazed skin. "There's only one man in this world who talks to me like that and you sure ain't him, eh?"

He lewdly sucks on the bleeding finger before firing back, "Oh yeah? And who's that, lovey?"

Leaning against the doorframe, Tommy loudly clears his throat to announce his presence as he lazily strikes a match, lighting the cigarette dangling between his lips and cocking his head in a silent challenge. His icy eyes are trained on the nuisance who won't take no for an answer and you smirk to yourself, relishing in the power that radiates off of his lithe body. "Why, that would be one Mister Shelby," you simper, "and he once killed a man for looking at his horse the wrong way. Imagine what he'd do to the likes of you."

"Shelby? As in Thomas?"

"Ay, lovey," you spit the term back in his face. "Don't tell me you don't know whose pub you're in." He swallows audibly and you carry on with a wicked grin. "If you want to walk out of here on your own two legs, I'd suggest leaving right about now." As the alcohol-induced rose of his cheeks fades into a pallor of fear, you lean in and drop your voice. Tommy can't hear your final comment, but his lips quirk into a smile at the sound of your warm laugh ringing out across the Garrison as the man topples off his stool in his haste to escape from your presence.

Flicking the match he was playing with to the floor, Tommy makes his way over to right the fallen seat before taking up the vacated spot, easing the knife out of the wood and tucking it back into your skirt pocket. "You enjoyed that a bit too much."

"It would seem I've got a little Shelby in me now, eh?" You place two fingers of amber liquor before him, leaning against the bar top on your elbows and coyly glancing down at his lap. "I suppose little isn't quite the right word, though."

Tommy swipes a thumb over your bottom lip turned up in a wolfish smile, icy blue eyes crackling to life. "Careful, pet, or you'll bring Arthur's temper out."

Leaning closer and letting your eyes drift closed as the heady scent of Tommy mixed with his signature smoke and whiskey envelops you, you ask, "How so?"