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sadattemptofawriter · 1 year

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Dual nature (Thomas Shelby x female! OC)

Dual nature 4 – A bed and a hard spot

Summery: Life in Birmingham is hard for every unfortunate soul that lives in it, but it is especially difficult for women. And if that woman has noan of her own and no family to call her own than life is difficult in even more convoluted ways. If that woman is fair of face than she has little choice to become a whore. Minerva knows this and tired of constant unwanted attentions she, hatches a plan. A plan that if done right will ensure her an honorable job with decent wages and if undone will most likely get her killed. But she is willing to try anything to avoid prostitution.

One day, Minerva Griffin made a point to show herself leaving her home, moving out and leaving it for someone else. So that her brother, Byron Griffin can come and stay. Byron Griffin who is a scrawny lad, but eager to work with a funny girlish way about him.

Warning: Canon conforming mention of violence. mild descriptions of exual encounted. Your media consumption is your own responsibility

“I beg your pardon?” I gasp and throw the wet rag on my shoulder.

“You are pardoned, no need to beg.” Smirks John as he yet again, puts a tooth pick in his mouth to chew.

“I said we are getting you laid.” Arthur announced proudly. His scruffy face lit up with such a childish joy that rivaled a child on Christmas Eve. He really was a master of ridiculous pranks and jokes. God save the subject of his torments whenever he got bored enough to come up with elaborate games to entertain himself.

God save me. I am now his favorite subject to tease.

“No, thank you. I have work to do.” I tried my best to courtly refuse. There was no way of tiptoeing around this one.

“No, you don’t.” john snickered. The devil, he was. “You always act busy and refuse to drink with us. I know Tommy said it. But come on…you’re a man now. You need to get laid.”

“John Shelby, don’t you have anything better to do than think about all the holes I put my cock into?” thanks to all the time I spend with these men and all the other men, I have officially grown a mouth that would give any woman a heart attack. Good. One more step away from being recognized.

Becoming foul-mouthed wasn’t as bad as I thought. Or rather, it wasn’t bad because I was now a man. When I was a young girl, I once yelled ‘shit’ after I fell off a 3-year-old filly. My mother proceeded to give me a beating with her fan. That night, I was sent to my room without dinner and was told to think about my actions. Now, dressed as Byron, not only no one bat an eye at my foul mouth, they all laughed and encouraged it. As if it all was a game.

“Do you stick your cock in anything?” he laughed.

“It better not be the horses.” John quipped, his grin hidden behind a flask.

“It is, isn’t it?” John howled with laughter this time, his followed by the laughter of all others. “You fuck the mares?”

“What’s going on in here?” came the icy cold voice of my icy cold savior. My employer. Thomas Shelby stood a few yards away from us next to Charlie Strong with eyes that could kill the devil, fuck holy Marie and challenge God. It was his neutral look, I’ve learned. That man lives in the extremities.

“Hello mister Shelby.” I bow my head.

“Tommy!” Arthur yells in delight, bringing his younger brother in on the circle and patting him on the shoulder.

He still stood cold and collected, waiting for an answer. I wanted to tell him that his dumb brothers had the idiotic idea to get me laid. They wanted to convince me to sleep with a prostitute because they believed I have been working so much that it bored them. I couldn’t do that since I don’t have the right equipment. Why, you ask mister Shelby? Because I was a woman. That would be a deadly conversation. I would take a cap to the throat. Damn it.

I remained silent.

“Well?” he prompted.

“Tommy, give Byron tomorrow afternoon off. No, this afternoon. Give him a day off.” John said, his toothpick bouncing between his lips with each word.

Tommy’s eyes turned to me, like icicles in my soul. “Why?”

“I don’t need or want a day off, sir. I will be working.” I assured him, which resulted in a perfectly arched brow.

“Is that so? Then what is John saying?” I don’t know if he knew what the boys had suggested and was merely trying to embarrass me, or he was genuinely curious.

“We want to get him laid.” Arthur said happily. This made Tommy to turn to me with an inquisitive brow raised and a humorous half smirk.

“Get him laid. Eh?”

“No need, mister Shelby, I have work.” I try even harder to get out of this situation without raising too many suspicions. The problem was I couldn’t refuse too much. Not just because they were the peaky devils and no one got to refuse the devils and live a scar free life – if they get to live at all – but also what man would go so long without a good lay? That was the problem, and I didn’t know the answer. How far do I go with my refusal? Has it already been weird? I am not actually a man; I have no desire of sex, the way men usually have. And even if I have no way out of it, and have no choice but to… do as they want me. What am I even supposed to do? I lack the right thing… I don’t thing even I can fake that. And I can’t tell them I am not interested in women… men with such perverse fancies don’t usually last long. And what would I do with the…woman? Do I tell her? No. I can’t risk it at all. Do I do things? What things? How? And can I bring myself to do so?

The sounds of cheering snap me from my thoughts and I look at John confused.

“Congratulations Byron. You're going to get laid tonight.” He whistled happily, and I turned to look at Tommy Shelby, who was already walking away with Arthur as if he had not just given my life away to be toyed with.

I consider my life as Byron, under the employment of Thomas Shelby, possibly the only good thing that has happened to me since before the war. But right now, at this moment? I wanted to pull out a gun and shoot Thomas Shelby right in the head.

The rest of the day I did my best to look for things to do, things that would take long very long to accomplish. No such luck. I had kept the stables in tip-top shape. By the time the sun began to set and the long pale shadows of the Shelby men were cast on the entryway, I had pathetically surrendered myself to a fate possibly worse than death.

They came to me, jolly and drunk. Grabbed me by the scruff of my neck like I was some young pup with pig paws they wanted to show off and dragged me all the way across small heath. They continued to tease me with their crude jokes and promises of a ‘skilled woman’. I couldn’t care less.

My mind was frozen in fear. I couldn’t keep up with the banter, I could barely focus on their jokes to begin with. I suppose I understood then why they called them the peaky devils. It didn’t have anything to do with violence. It was just that they tormented people for their own amusement.

Cruel monsters.

“Here we are, Lad. This is Sophia’s place. She’s good. She’s been waiting for ye.” John laughed. I sighed and Arthur pushed me towards the door.

I had to think quick. I had to make a decision. Was I ready to commit to whatever fate befell me beyond that door? Was I ready to do whatever it takes to survive as Byron? Or was my resolve going to break here and now.

Minerva is dead.

I am Byron.

And by God I will live as Byron.

The door opens and I am pushed inside. “Have fun mate.” I hear them laugh.

And I stand inside the small, dimly lit apartment in front of another woman who was already halfway out of her clothes. “You are Sophia.” I try my best to keep a blank face.

She nodded and a curtain of soft reddish-brown hair fell over her shoulders, I gave her a once over, this was the woman they expected me to lay with under whatever misguided kindness those two devils had. She was pretty, I’ll give her that. Her hair was down to her voluptuous hips and her hazel eyes sparkled as if she was still some innocent girl. Her lips red with a curve so teasing I could not help but think that she was some minx. Furthermore, her skin unmarred with a pink flush of spring petals.

I was no man, but in that short moment, I could admit I knew why men marveled at the soft pale flesh of women. In that small moment I knew what Adam saw in Eve to eat that apple, what Hades saw in Persephone and what Romeo saw in Juliet. I was no man, but I didn’t need to be. to marvel at beauty, one doesn’t need to have a cock to pulse.

I would not mind laying my lips on her skin, I thought to myself. I didn’t know what to make of my thoughts. I never considered myself a woman of perverse needs, but then again, I never knew I was a woman who could so easily live as a man shoveling shit for a job.

“The Shelby’s said I am yours for the afternoon.” She sounded nervous. “They paid me good to make sure you had your fill.”

“Of course, they did.” I couldn’t help the sarcasm lacing my tongue. “Their idea of a dumb gift.” I take a hand and run it across my face.

She frowned, then her face crumbled in worry. “You don’t like me? They said you would. If I am not... if you want someone else…” she looked a lot more worried than she should have about a man not wanting to sleep with her. “I don’t want the misters, Shelby cross, with me.”

Ah. There it was. The misters Shelby. I suppose I am not the only one they torment with their mere existence. She is a whore, and they bring a customer, and yet they bring about such worry that they make sex for a seasoned whore difficult. I pity her. I sympathized with her. Most importantly, I felt the need to do something.

Something that will forever close the gates of heaven for me.

“You are lovely.” I reassured and looked at her figure. Yes, truly, she was very beautiful, even a woman would admit that unless she was blind. A thought dared to bloom in my head, like a snake rearing its head from between rocks, or the shining eyes of a black cat in a dark alley. Sin bloomed in my mind.

Jesus, marry and Joseph, I entertained the thought. God save my soul, I did not shy away from it. Save my soul, I liked the idea. I was a woman. It was a fact I could hide under Byron, but I can never erase. I, more than any man she has ever had in her bed, knew about women and their pleasures.

I will confess at the church later but for now, I will indulge myself. I am in a trap, between a rock and a hard place. Between the wrath of the peaky devils and the wrath of God, I knew I should fear the later more, but I was not foolish enough to think I could withstand the former. If I was going to die and burn in hell, I might as well spare myself the pain brought about by the Peaky Blinders.

I stake a step forward and bring my hand to her hair, caressing her locks and down to her neck and shoulders. Her lips parted, so did mine.

I brought my lips to hers and enjoyed the taste of Irish whiskey. she closed her eyes and melted into me with practiced motions. her hands going towards my body, trying to strip me and please me as she has done to so many men. I hold her wrists in my hand and pull them away. “shouldn’t we be doing what I want?” I ask.

she blinks a few times in confusion as if to say what man doesn’t want this but finally settles into my whim. and by God how much it truly was a whim. I take a lungful of her scent and willingly let the reins of my intrusive thoughts go, allowing my whims to set me ablaze by the fires of hell. I make quick work of her dress, as thin as it was, it didn’t take much to tear it away then I pushed her back onto the bed and stood over her to watch the scene before me. her hair tussled and a mess around her like flames a striking contrast to her pale flesh; her body was soft and full, the kind you would want to lay your head on for days. Her breasts large and soft, they had become flushed against the open air and to my perverse eyes they begged to be held, to be kissed and bitten. The thought had come to me like a warhorse stallion, the devils’ chants in my ear. Bite her. Bite her and mark her pale moonlight skin with red bites. Bite all of her. From those pouted lips, shapely neck, her shoulders, her breasts then all the way down to her soft belly and even lower.

Curles of ginger. Same shade of red but thicker curls. That’s what covered her sweet cunt. I was surprised by my own thoughts and by the way my brain filled and described the scene before me. never in my life had I thought about other women in this way and never had I thought what I would feel about it. hers was the only other woman’s bare body I had seen and it had me salivating like a starved man at a king’s feast. It was good that I had lost the rains of my actions, because my brain could not make sense of myself. Luckily, my body had a mind of its own and pure instincts drove me to things I didn’t even knew was possible.

She moaned and sighed at every bite and my blood boiled with the realization that her moans are music to my ears and I would never want them to stop. At times he tried to stop me, take my attention to other things, try to please me in ways other men would prefer but my mind was set on its ways.

The chant in my mind getting louder and louder. Bite her. Bite her. Kiss her. Taste her skin. Taste her scent. Lap at the sweetness she hides under those ginger curls. And by god’s grace how sweet she was. I understood then, why men where the way they were. I was no longer repulsed by their needy lust; not now that I had tasted the fountain source of all their desire. Why had it not occurred to me before? Why had I not seen it before? That once you taste of this sweetness, engulfed in lovely soft thighs and mesmerized by moans then you will never want for anything else. It seemed in her taste I could find the reason for all creation and in her sound, I could find the secrets of nature.

It became abundantly clear to me why men go to war over women, why they sing songs of sweet flesh or go mad over the love of a woman or why they spend their entire lives looking for a cunt to fuck. The only thing that confused me was why men of God vow chastity and call believers towards it since it is in her sweet cunt that I found the grace of God. Knuckles deep in her, I could feel life. All of it. perhaps because it would be impossible to sway anyone with heaven if they knew it is so easily attainable. Or maybe that was just me and my perverted mind. I was already dressed as a man living in some form of sin. Might as well go all the way.

Hours had passed by the time we finished or rather by the time he was too tiered to go on and I had taken my fill of pleasure. She had remained on the bed panting and whimpering in the sweetest voice.

“you’re going to tempt me again with all those pretty noises.” I teased. Somehow my exhausted brain could form sentences still.

“Please, anymore and I might die.” She hid herself under the covers. She was really cute. Especially now with all the pretty delicious markings I left on her skin.

I laughed as I straightened my clothes in front of her mirror and fixed my hair to appear somewhat respectable and decent. Since God knows nothing else of mine was decent at all. Definitely not my mouth. “I am leaving now. You tell misters Shelby while I didn’t ask for this, I am….” How was I going to finish this sentence? I am what? I am glad? Happy? Pleased? Hoping to do it again? I am surprised by the fact that I did all that I did in the past couple of hours? “Tell them I admit I needed the break. But please don’t do it again.”

“So, you are pleased?” she asks poking her head from under her covers.

“Yes. Very much.” I say in all the honesty I could muster after that deeply illuminating experience,

“Are you sure? You didn’t fuck me.”

“Girly, you were a mess with just a few fingers and my tongue. I don’t think you can handle an actual fucking.” I bragged in the way sexually confident men do. I hopped she believed my brag and took my teasing as it was and didn’t push the matter.

She grumbled under her breath something about men and their cocks and I was grateful I was in that category now. “You better be pleased because in not than the Shelby’s are going to have my head.”

“Relax. They don’t care. They just set me up to tease me anyways.” I laughed. This time genuinely. Now that I had tasted heaven, I wasn’t so mad about the teasing anymore. Maybe a bit stressed but right then and there I was buzzed to much on sin and heresy to care. “But if it really matters to you then, yes. I did enjoy myself. Very much so.”

I left her house and began my long walk in the dark and dim streets of small heath. Hoping to get a glass of Irish whiskey before the garrison closes, I made a turn to an alleyway I knew as a shortcut.

“Fuck.” I freely said into the cold air. “Fuck.” I said it again and felt for the first time a sense of freedom I had never even thought possible.

#Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinder fanfic #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x y/n #Tommy Shelby #John Shelby #Arthur Shelby #Dual Nature #PEAKY FUCKING BLINDERS #tommy shelby x male reader #cross dressing #crossdressgirls #finn shelby #sadattemptofawriter #gay panik #Lesbian panic

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sadattemptofawriter · 1 year

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Master list

Dual Nature master list:

1. Dual Nature - 1 Muds of Birmingham

2. Dual Nature - 2 Out with the old and in with the new

3. Dual Nature - 3 be a man

4. Dual Nature - 4 A bed and a hard spot

#sadattemptofawriter #Dual Nature #masterlist

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sadattemptofawriter · 1 year

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Ooooo konig is so cute. I love my mountain sized puppy man.

Also am I the only one who noticed the potential angst with ghost? This has the potential of being the most heart wrenching gut twisting angst of all time.

How The Call Of Duty : MWII Characters Would Act With a Bimbo Girlfriend (Fem!Reader)

Characters included — Johnny “Soap” MacTavish, Simon “Ghost” Riley, Alejandro Vargas, Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra, Kyle “Gaz” Garrick, John Price, Phillip Graves, König

No descriptive NSFW — Just headcannons / imagines. NSFW implied for some characters.

NOT PROOFREAD!!!

Bimbo definition (in case you arent aware) — an attractive but unintelligent or frivolous young woman.

✭ Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

— Oh my god, would he be absolutely infatuated with you.

— You didn’t even have to do anything but stand there and he’d have hearts in his eyes.

— Maybe it was the outfits you wore, or the makeup you caked on your face, but nonetheless, everything you did was just so appealing to him.

— He’d always compliment your outfits, and he’d always notice the little things.

“Did you get new lipstick?” “Is that skirt new?”

— He made sure to take note of the things you wore aswell. Why? So he could buy you new stuff of course.

— He likes to do your makeup sometimes. Even if it looks like shit, you’ll wear it for the rest of the day anyway to let him know your appreciation.

— Colored hair isnt his thing, but you convinced him once to get blue hair with you. No regrets. You told him it made him sexier. Simon told him you two looked alike. Johnny felt weird about the way he worded that and didn’t talk to Simon for a few days after..

— You are his Facebook banner. Facebook because he’s such a dad, and you’re his banner because he likes showing you off to the 3 friends he has added. Gaz, Rudy, and Alejandro.

— As for the.. Slow part of being a bimbo, he’d have no problems attempting to explain or break down something you didnt quite understand.

— He isn’t the kind of guy to get frustrated when you dont understand something immediately either. He’ll try his best.

— You aren’t completely dumb though. You’ve taught him many things! And one of the most important things,

You taught him to love himself.

Bonus:

“Wow, babe. I love that outfit on you.” He sneaks behind you, making you jump. “Awe — Thank you, JoJo!” You clapped your hands together, the biggest smile on your face.

“I could compliment you for hours.” He says. “Could stare for hours.”

You spit your bubblegum out in the trashcan near you. “Go ahead.” You say, making his cheeks heat up.

He goes on and on with some of the weirdest — but cutest — compliments you’ve ever heard in your life. You didn’t even realize you were going to be late to your nail appointment.

No worries, though. You continued to let him compliment you. When he finally finished his rant, you smile big again.

“I wasn’t listening to a thing you were saying.” You giggle nervously. “Gimme more!” You beg. “You gonna listen this time?” He asks, smiling. “Probably not.” You admit.

“Oh, well. Thats okay. I’ve got many, many more things to say to you, love.” He continues on and on, knowing your attention span is short, but he doesn’t mind, not one bit.

What matters to him right now is that you’re so close, and he feels secure in your touch.

✭ Simon “Ghost” Riley

— He never usually thinks much about your appearance unless he catches someone eyeing you.

— “Wear whatever you want, i can fight.” Energy.

— Hes just gotten used to how you dress and present yourself. It’s not that he doesnt care, but he doesnt mind it anymore. You used to capture his attention with every move. You still do, but not because of your appearance, but because hes taken a liking (meaning, he somewhat tolerates you.) to you.

— He isnt one to feed into your presentation. He doesnt buy you clothes, but he’ll sometimes express his attraction to a certain outfit you’ve thrown together.

— Also, he gets very frustrated when you don’t understand what he’s trying to tell you. He won’t break it down for you, and wont apologize if he makes you cry out of frustration or pure sensitivity from how mad he gets.

— He isnt a yeller, but he makes it obvious that he cant keep the conversation going. He’ll ignore you and simply walk away.

— Not to mention, he doesn’t apologize. He’s never wrong in his mind. You’re just sensitive and take his words the wrong way.

— But anyway, of course he cares about you. He has a horrible way of showing it. He wouldnt be able to “love” you properly due the narcissistic way his mind works, but even then, he still wants to protect you somewhat.

— Also, he wont go out of his way to let anyone know you two are dating, either. You’ll have to spill the beans. He’ll just nod, and most likely walk away to avoid questions.

Bonus:

“What is that?” You ask, pointing to the big gun in his hand. “..A gun? Are you stupid, or something?”

You pouted at the mean words. “I know its a gun, what kind of gun? Why is it so big?”

He doesnt say anything, choosing to ignore you as he walks away. “Simonnn.” You call. Silence. Other than the heavy footsteps from his boots.

You sit there on the couch, blinking back tears to avoid your fake lashes from falling off and your mascara running down your cheeks.

Soon enough, he’s standing in front of you, holding out a pamphlet. You’re confused. “What?” You ask, looking up at him. “It’s a book.” He says, stating the obvious. “..About guns. The big ones.” He cringes saying it, feeling like a complete loser at how he needs to speak to you for you to understand.

His awkwardness quickly fades as you enthusiastically take the book from him, flipping through the pages. He sits down next to you and watches you analyze the page you were on.

“Ooh! Tell me more about this one.” He looks at you like you’re crazy, but gives in with a heavy huff and starts pointing out parts of the gun, explaining what they do and what they’re called.

You couldn’t focus on what he was saying, his deep voice thick and sultry in your ears.

“…Could you repeat that?” You ask, and his eyebrow cocks up. “What part?”

“…All of it.” You say nervously, avoiding eye contact. He sighs and gives in, repeating everything he just told you.

You weren’t focused this time either, but you felt like this was quality time, so you pretended to understand what he was saying.

You thought you had convinced him, but he knew you weren’t paying attention. He didn’t care much anymore, continuing to talk, not wanting to admit that maybe he didnt mind having you this close to him. Even if having to repeat himself alot was getting annoying.

✭ Alejandro Vargas

— He would absolutely love your style. Would eat it up every single time.

— Would show you off. Loves how you two are complete opposites. He’d brag about you to anyone willing to listen.

— When you two got the chance to be alone, he’d hold your waist and feel your body through the thin fabric.

— He was always very expressive about how much he adores the way you pamper yourself. You always giggle and tell him its just for him. He smiles.

— Once he almost broke a bone trying on a pair of your platforms. Never again.

— You also managed to get fake lashes and lipstick on him. You took so many pictures. He was very embarrassed.

— He understands that you need time to learn things. He gets frustrated of course, but we cant blame him, he’s only human.

— He tries to make you feel like the most brilliant person on earth, even if sometimes it’s a bit.. hard.

— Once you asked him, “Why do you wear so much gear?” And he replied, “Well, it’s important.” And tried to explain it to you. You couldn’t quite grasp the fact that he needed it, and kept telling him he should show off his body because he was sexy. He took the compliment ans dropped the conversation, you were too cute to argue with.

— You guys do have your arguments of course. He’s more patient than you’d think, though. He’ll give you space.

— After that, you two are all over eachother again. He loves you. Even if you don’t quite understand his job. or many things, for that matter.

Bonus:

“I tried to cook you something,” You started, “But it didn’t end very well.”

He pinched his nose at the foul smell of something burning. “I cleaned it up..” You smile awkwardly. “..For the most part.”

“For the most part?” He questions, walking into the kitchen. It became obvious what you meant. The bottom of the skillet had thick, black burnt material all over it. You tried to scrub it off but gave up. There was also some splatter on the stove.

He smiles a bit, looking back at you. “You know what?” He asks, and you hum. “I’ll clean this up.. You go do whatever else you need to do, as long as it doesnt involve household chores.” You frowned. “But.. I wanna help!”

He tried to get you to go elsewhere, but you werent budging. He sighs, accepting his fate…

He ended up letting you help. But he was standing so close you could hear his breathing, and his heart pumping, guiding you through how to properly scrub a burnt pan. You were focused on his hands the whole time.

✭ Rodolfo “Rudy” Parra

— He was very open about his attraction to you and your style. Not often open to others, but open to you for sure.

— He often made jokes, which sometimes you’d end up taking too serious, and he’d have to comfort you and reassure you that he didn’t mean it.

— He knew he didn’t mean it, but sometimes, you just didn’t quite understand…

— He’s always boasting about how beautiful you look to him when he comes home to you, or when you send him a picture of yourself.

— It became habit to show him your makeup and outfit everyday, and he’d devour you completely with his eyes.

— Sometimes, if you forget, you’ll stay up until 4 a.m. perfecting your appearance just to show him.

— Usually he’s concerned you’re up so late, but your pretty face is worth it.

— Your face is his lock screen. And wallpaper.. And everything else he could put your face on…

— He gets questions about you all the time but brushes it off. Nobody needs to know about you but him, after all.

— Occasionally, if he’s feeling talkative, he’ll talk about you and sometimes even show you off.

— Alejandro overheard a phone call between you two, and was very confused when he had to repeat himself, just word his sentences differently.

— He loves you dearly and doesnt mind explaining things to you. He likes listening to you talk, and he likes your face when a light bulb moment goes off in your head. He thinks it’s the cutest thing ever.

— Also, he’s a very attentive lover, and will make sure you’re safe and know what you’re doing. Definitely texts you every chance he gets when he knows you’re out.

Bonus:

He was driving, and Alejandro pointed out his lock screen as a notification came through.

“Who’s that?” He asks. Rudy hesitates. “..My girlfriend.”

Alejandro pretends to be stabbed in the chest. “My heart! For you have wounded me!”

Rudy chuckles nervously. Alejandro straightens up. “So.. Girlfriend, huh?” He asks. Rudy’s phone starts ringing.

Speak of the devil… He thinks. He picks up the phone, and your sweet voice comes through. “Hey babyyy!” He could tell you were smiling.

“What’s up?” He says, speaking quietly in the presence of Alejandro. “I sent you a picture of my new nails.. But i figured you were driving. Can you atleast look..?” He could tell your smile faded into a pout.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay.”

“Yay! Thank you! I love youu.” You say, before hanging up. He pulls up your messages, looking at the picture of your nails and sighing before typing, ‘Beautiful, just like you.’

“She’s got you wrapped around her finger, aye?”

Rudy quickly slams his phone down, looking through the windsheild.

“Sí”

✭ Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

— You are definitely his type. He can’t imagine himself with anyone else.

— He likes to pick you up and twirl you around, mostly because of the skirts you wear. You’ve told him it makes you feel like a ballerina.

— He definitely feeds into your perfume collection. You bring home a big bag of perfumes and body sprays and make him smell them and pick out his favorites.

— He’s also the guy to jokingly tell you to get his tip color on your nails because he saw someone else say it and thought it was the funniest thing ever, but then is surprised when you actually do it.

— It started with a, “Hey baby, like my nails?” And you gracefully wiggling your fingers in his face. Of course he says yes, but when it finally processes what exactly it’s depicting, his eyes are wide. He’s giddy.

— It’s definitely taken him time to adjust to your humor. You find some of the dumbest things funny. He doesnt quite understand, but when you laugh, he laughs aswell. You’re adorable, how could he not?

— He’s definitely very supportive of you dying your hair crazy colors. Sometimes you get bored and wanna put some pink in there! If you wear wig installs, he will buy them for you. He’s actually quite good at installing them aswell. 40 youtube tutorials later…

— If you have piercings, he’s totally into that too! He even encourages you to get new ones.

— He doesnt mind your processing speed or lack of basic knowledge either. He finds it enticing that he has to help you out. Maybe he just likes the excuse to spend more time with you.

Bonus:

You two were watching TV on the couch together, he was stuffing popcorn in his face and you were very interested in the dramatic romance going on in the film.

Suddenly, a kissing scene comes on. His first instinct is to cover your eyes, and you start laughing. “What was that for?” You ask through your giggles.

He starts to laugh with you. “Instincts kicked in. My bad, my bad. Continue on.”

He shovels the popcorn in his mouth again and you cant stop laughing at how stupid but funny the interaction was.

“What’s funny?” He asks, grin on his face as the grease from the popcorn surrounds his lips. “You. You’re funny.” He rolls his eyes at your response.

“Just continue watching those two tongue eachother and leave me be.” He says, crunching resuming. You laugh again, and he laughs with you so hard that popcorn almost came out of his nose. You shove him away when he chokes a bit, still laughing. “Ew! Stop laughing, you’re gonna barf!” He pushes you back against the couch and starts tickling your sides.

You kick at him, thrashing a bit at the sensation. Your laughter only grew. “Stop it, now i’m gonna barf!” You giggle.

“Didn’t wanna barf alone.” He says, placing a buttery kiss to your cheek. You wipe it off and wipe it on his face.

He doesnt even care, staring into your eyes with the biggest smile on his face.

✭ John Price

— Definitely an old soul. Wasn’t into the way you displayed your body, but he eased into it as he fell deep into loves trap.

— His more traditional ways slowly died down after dating you. He couldn’t help his past mindset, it’s just how he was raised.

— He’s definitely all about paying for your hair, nails, clothes, makeup, and anything else you want.

— He taught you how to cook. It was definitely tough, but he’s a decent cook and had no problem passing it down to you.

— Admittedly, however, he does get very, very frustrated with you.

— Sometimes he has to walk away to calm himself down after a particularly rough interaction. He’s talked to you about this, and you’ve gotten used to it. You don’t have many problems with it now. Just hurts your heart a bit.

— But-! He always makes sure to comfort you afterward. He’s reassuring, telling you he’s sorry and he just needed a moment. He also is sure to ask you if you’d like to continue the conversation or move on.

— Sometimes you say you’d like to continue so you could push his buttons a bit more, but only if you’re extra frustrated with him.

— He also loves when you explain stuff to him he doesn’t understand! Ramble about makeup and clothes for hours! He takes good mental notes.

— He definitely loves you. Alot. He even describes you as his soulmate to his peers. He always manages to push past the frustration, and continues loving you no matter what.

Bonus:

You were applying your lipstick, lips parted and face shoved in the mirror.

“Darlin’?” Your boyfriend says, coming up behind you and examining what you’re doing. You turn around, smile painting your face. “Ah! Hii!” You exclaim. He smiles.

“Whatcha’ doin’?” He questions, head cocking. “Just finishing up my makeup. You like?” You ask. He gives an affirming nod. “You look absolutely ravishing.” You blush at the compliment.

“What’s this do?” He asks, picking up your mascara. You beam. “Mascara! Makes my eyelashes long and full.” You bat your eyes up at him prettily.

Your reaction urkes him to press further. “Oh yeah? What’s this?” He picks up one of your favorite eyeshadow pallets.

“Eyeshadow.” Your eyes close, allowing him to examine the masterpiece that painted your eyes. “Very nice.. Whats this?” He picks up your concealer. “Concealer! Hides all my flaws.” You giggle.

He cocks his head. “Impossible.” “Hm?” He smiles. “You have no flaws. Nothing to cover.” You blush, looking away nervously before looking back up to him with a heartfelt smile. “I love you.” You muse. “I love you more.”

This quickly turned into a battle of who loves eachother more, but he ended up letting you win just to see you get really happy.

✭ Phillip Graves

— Is absolutely obsessed with you and the way you look. Always has something to say about it.

— This man can never shut up about you!! You’re too perfect. Unfortunately for the other fellas’, you’re all his, and he makes that point very clear.

— You once mentioned matching tattoos and he was beaming with excitement. Absolutely ecstatic. He said yes about a hundred times.

— He helps you with everything. Money? Clothes? Food? Makeup? Bills? All the above, baby.

— You’re so special to him. He feels like his job is to talke care of all of your needs and wants, no matter how outrageous. He doesn’t want you to lift a finger. No job for you! Live in your lush lavish provided by your dear boyfriend.

— Once you had him take a look at the Adam & Eve website, and he bought you everything you clicked on to look at, whether it was lingerie or a toy.

— Definitely one of the most surprising packages to show up on your doorstep. Did you put all of the lingerie on and take a mini photo shoot for him? Oh, without a doubt.

— He does tend to get frustrated with you sometimes, though. Your relationship is 99% happy stars and rainbows and kittens, but the remaining 1% is how crazy you drive him sometimes.

— You don’t get something? Okay, he’ll send you an article about it. Don’t wanna read all that? He’ll break it down. Don’t understand how to do something? No more questions asked, he’s already doing it for you.

— There have been a few times where he’s let a few dull insults slip past his lips during arguments, telling you he does everything because you can’t. Later though, he realizes that was definitely wrong to say and it’s his fault for doing everything for you. You’re just his spoiled princess.

— That’s how he wants it to be, though. You’ll be his pampered little lover for the rest of eternity. Whether you like it or not. He’s never letting you go.

Bonus:

You’re lugging a box full of new shoes and accessories into your house, when all of a sudden your boyfriend comes from behind you and lifts it without a struggle.

“Oh, thank you!” You bat your pretty eyes at him as he sets the box down. “Of course, pretty.” He walks over to you, engulfing you in a hug.

“You’re gonna mess up my makeupppp!” You protest. “Awe, i’m sorry baby.” He pulls away, giving a fake pout.

You hesitate. “..W-wait. Come back.” You say. “And why should i?” He interrogates. “Because you love me.”

He smiles, and you reciprocate. “Can’t argue with that, can i?” His arms make their way around your waist again. “What about your makeup, hmm? Wouldnt wanna mess all your hard work up.” He teases, hands resting on your hips.

“I’ll just fix it later. Hug me. Please?” You beg, and of course, he gives in. He squeezes you tight. “Don’t bother. I’ll just end up ruining it later too.” He says, and your eyes blow wide.

“Phillip Graves! Not until marriage!” You joke, laughing and pushing him away. He laughs aswell. “I mean, i can already consider you as my wife. Been together forever, and you aren’t going anywhere.” He promises. Your cheeks heat up. “..Yeah?” “Yeah, princess. Mine.”

He starts to place little teasing kisses on your neck, and you giggle.

✭ König

— You make him so nervous. Your appearance just adds to it.

— Truly believes he doesn’t deserve someone as beautiful as you. You’re also complete opposites. You’re very outgoing where he tends to be timid and shy.

— Very bad self esteem, but believes everyone seeing him with such a babe will make people think higher of him.

— Of course this isn’t the only reason he’s with you!! He really, really likes you. And he hopes you feel the same way, he’s quite the overthinker.

— You’re entire world may revolve around your appearance for the most part, but you’re very good at comforting him. He greatly appreciates it.

— When you two are alone, he eases up and starts to become quite the chatterbox. Complimenting you, holding you in his arms while chatting up a storm, telling you anything and everything on his mind.

— He expresses that you’re perfect in his eyes. He loves you, which also means he absolutely adores everything about you. If you’re insecure, he throws in more compliments on the specific thing you’re insecure about.

“You’re beautiful. All of you.” “I love the way your body looks in that outfit.. Frames your perfect figure so well.”

— Random thing he likes - he loves giving you piggyback rides. Seeing the world from is point of view is so flabbergasting to you, no matter what! You always point out how tall he is. Makes him blush everytime.

— He’s never gotten frustrated with you. He understands how it feels to be bullied for being slow or “stupid”. He’s sure to reassure you that you’re none of those things, and everyone learns stuff differently!

— He’s very excited everytime you ask him to help you. He’ll do whatever he can to the best of his ability! Always assures you that you can count on him.

— He loves everything about you. I’ve said this before, but he truly does. Everything. You’re perfect.

— Eventually the insecurities fade, and he opens up. He’s so happy around you. He loves you so, so much. He still refuses to believe you’re his.

Bonus:

It finally snowed! You were super excited. You threw on one of your boyfriends way too big sweaters and some thermal tights with a pretty little skirt and some boots and made your way outside.

König follows behind once he realizes where you’ve gone. He’s worried you might get cold, but you’re quick to tell him you feel fine!

You throw a snowball at him, and he picks you up, twirling you around. “Oh no you don’t.” He says, holding you close. You giggle and squirm. “Nooo! Let me throw snowballs at you!!” You smile.

“How about instead of being violent with me, we build a snowman together?” He suggests, and you nod enthusiastically. You both begin to build the snowman, and he runs inside to grab a carrot for the nose and some chocolate for the buttons and eyes. (He couldn’t find coal.)

You both quickly decorate your snowman, and then you lean against him in content. “I may not be the smartest sometimes, but i can build a damn good snowman.”

“Hey! You’re smart. Intelligent, even.” He argues, making you laugh. “Thank you, baby.” You beam. His face flushes deeper than it already was.

“I love you so much.” He instantly curls in on himself after saying that, but quickly looking down at you as you reciprocate. “I love you more.” He picks you up and carries you inside, hugging you for “extra warmth”

C.C. - peroxiddeprincess 2022. NO REPOSTS. reblogs appreciated!

#cod mwii #simon riley x you #ghost cod #ghost x reader #konig #könig x you #könig #könig x reader

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sadattemptofawriter · 1 year

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The best thing ❤

so blessed to live in a time when saying "the gay vampire show" does not immediately clarify which show you are referring to

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sadattemptofawriter · 1 year

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Bella Swan discovered the existence of vampires and then went to school the following Monday like it was nbd

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sadattemptofawriter · 2 years

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Dual nature ( Thomas Shelby x female! OC)

Chapter 3 - be a man

She, now referred to as he, did finally managed to fix the broken hoof. It was grueling work as most things are in Birmingham and she got herself injured a few times in the proses but she got the job done and that was all that mattered. It did not matter that the horse, ‘crown jewel’ they called him, stomped her foot twice and bit her trice. It absolutely did not mater that she burned her hand while working with the white hot iron of the horse shoe either. The only thing that does matter is that Thomas Shelby, the peaky devil, was pleased with her job and she now had a proper employment with them.

A job. She smiled to herself as she pulled her hair tight under her dark gray cap. A real job. Honest work, respectable work, with good pay to boot. It was more than she thought she would ever get. She was putting her skills to use and it did not involve sitting in a dimply lit room with stupid yarns and needles nor did it involve her spreading her legs.

Looking herself in the small mirror of her room she noted that, Mr. Strong was right. she did look like a scrawny boy. Her beautiful feminine curves now hidden behind tight bindings that give the illusion of firm pecks and loose purposefully ill-fitting clothes to push the ruse of the youngest boy from a working-class family wearing his older brother’s hand-me-downs. For the first time, she was thankful to the soot and dirt of Birmingham, that seemingly has covered every pore and crack of her being. Because thanks to them, her face was perpetually covered in dirt and smoke, soot and cinder simply from walking past the factories. Her girly face, covered and hidden. Her rosy cheeks, turned gray, flickers turned to black spots, lips turned dark from grime. No trace of a soft young woman.

Good. She tells herself as she picks up her pace on her way to Charlie’s yard. Remember, Minerva is no more. You are Byron. And you’ll do anything to establish yourself as such.

“Good morning, Charlie. Good morning, Curly.” She says upon seeing the two men just biggening to start up their day as well. She grinned. No mater how earlier she tried to get up, those two always beat her to it.

“Morning boy. I see you’re up earlier than even before.” Charlie says with a nod. His face may be still a cold, distant ghost but those blue eyes had warmed up to her. She reconned it was something most elder men had, a general fondness for the youth. Weather girl or boy, the elderly, seemed to care for them all. Was it that they saw us as their children? Grandchildren? Or perhaps it’s our vigor and stubbornness – stupidness – that reminds them of their younger selves. Was Charlie Strong seeing a son? Or a distant memory of himself?

Who knows.

I think even I’ll never know.

I doubt even he knows.

“what’s on the agenda today?” she asked.

“Tommy is arranged to buy a new horse. Yes, he has. We have to fix up a place for him next to Monageng boy. Nice and spacious for him to stay in. yes that’s right.” Curly went on as he led the way with tools in hand.

“Yes sir.” I said as I followed hot on his tail with my own tools in hand.

That’s how most of the day was spend. With me and Mr. Curly in the stables. After taking care of every single other horse, cleaning them, brushing their hair, cleaning their hoofs and so on. It was peaceful work. Hard work but peaceful, meditative if you will. It almost was as if my soul would leave my body. After that, we did exactly as Curly had said. We began to rebuild a section of the stables that was previously used as storage into a fine section for a horse that was coming soon.

“Well, this is as much as we ae going to finish today.” Charlie said as he came into the stables. His face sweaty and slightly grimy. The started his day always looking impeccable – as impeccable as working-class gypsies in factories can get – and by the time it was lunch time he was a walking ball of sweat and mud. Still much better than me, who has tripped on horse shir trice now.

“Noon already?” I ask as I lay aside the shovel, try to walk towards Charlie Strong and the door way out and proceed to trip on a pile hey on the ground and fall.

Charlie almost mediately laughs. Not the loud full belly laughs of Arthur, nor the mischievous mocking snorts of John, both of which I was hearing as I see their looming figures emerge behind Charlie’s. Charlie’s own laugh though is more like a scoff, as if he refuses to give me the satisfaction that I made him express anything.

“How is it that whenever I find you, you are either on yer ass or on yer face? Eh?” says Arthur.

“Hello Charlie.” John smiles. Seemingly the only man here who knows manners. Some manners. “Taking a nap Byron?”

“No!” I grumble as a I get up. “This is the fourth time. I keep falling… I think on this exact spot every time. Be honest with me, did you pull one of those gypsy curses on me? one that would make me fall? Or better yet, one that makes me embarrass myself?” this I say jokingly to John, between all the Shelby boys that I have met, he is the one most extreme with his emotions. This makes him very trigger happy, razor happy, punching happy but also a genuine jokester when he wants to be. If I read the room and the air around him well, I’ll be able to get away with a few jokes here and there. Given that Tommy Shelby does not hand me the death card.

“Nah. That’s all on yer own shit luck, little man.” He laughs as he chews his toothpick. “Come on, you been working awfully a lot lately with tommy hellbent backwards over his horse,” john points to the stallion in question who had his big heavy head in a bucket drinking. “why don’t you come with us to the Garrison and have a drink with us eh?”

It was said all-in good-natured humor, with a devilish smile and an arguably boyish dimple. But those eyes. Those eyes that were cold like ice, like cold dead frozen frost on a dead stags’ antlers. Not just frightening but also a telltale of death and all that comes with it. he would not accept no for an answer. There was never an option of no with these boys, these men. And their humors and smiles and laughs always masked it, but never concealed it.

“Of course. Let me clean up a bit then. Yes?” I try.

“No need mate. Here.” Arthur grabs a wet rag, one that I had been using to clean the horses and put a little shine on them, and proceeds to forcefully shive my face in it. momentarily panic aside I realized he is jokingly wiping my face. With a sinky, wet rag. For horses. “There you go. Now let’s go.”

I laugh it off as well. Men and their jokes. For some reason girls and later women never do such practical jokes on another. Or at least the equivalent of. With men, you push them, punch them, swear at them, say rude things about their sisters and after good minute of brawling they are best pals and all is well in heaven. But if you do this to a woman? God forbid, you nudge them in jest.

We walk out of the yard and I watch the people part a way for them – not me, them – like Moses and the Nile. Ever since I began my work for the Shelby’s that day I have been seeing this sight every time they walk and I never get used to it. women turn away not necessarily in fear, not at least the same fear they have when faced with a lecherous drunk, kids hide but peak curiously from their little hidey holes and if he is in a good mood, John would wink at them or boo them. Scare them off to their mothers. But the men, they had a reaction more visceral than anything I had seen.

The wild, rowdy, rude disgustingly vulgar men who would piss and spit on the shoe of any random person their didn’t like, these very same men would part ways, stand on the side of the walls like children when the school headmaster walks past them. They would look down and only down and their shoes as if they are the most fascinating thing in the world. They would take their hats off and bow their heads. “Hello Misters Shelby.” They would say. “Evening misters Shelby.” – “have a good day misters Shelby.” – “it’s on the house misters Shelby.”

How truly fascinating.

Is this what being a powerful man like? I think to myself often. Because I have seen men without power. And I have seen women in power. But nothing is quite like this. When a woman is in power, I think from what I’ve seen from being with my mother, there are two types of men usually.

The first, are the men who hate it. or resent it. they have some problem with a woman in power. Either they envy her, resent their own position, they want to take their woman in the kitchen or something. They ridicule the women, talk shit behind their back. Call them mean bitches, nasty shrews or moody cunts. The term moody mare was used so many times. This specific type of men, even when in a position lower, would still act like annoying little know-it-alls. We dealt with them plenty of times during the war. When dad and the boys were away and we were trying our best to keep the training business afloat. They were simple workers. New higher. And they still acted as if I – the girl who learned to ride long before I learned to walk – didn’t know the difference between a stallion and a filly. Their vulgar jokes about horses and my mother…

I’m sure no one would dare to behave like this around Tommy Shelby. Even if he is a Gypsy man of the working class.

The second type, were arguably better than the first if you feign ignorance to the look in their eyes. There were men who suck up to my mother. Pretending they respect a woman in her station. It’s fine, right until you see their gaze. Their crazed, hungry look like a feral stallion presented with the fillies of the royal family. Disgusting. Their fantasies and their needs that clouded their judgment.

Mother once said, when dealing with such man, that regardless if you are down on your knees or up on a pedestal, whether you are a queen of virtue or a loose whore, weather you are a mother or a daughter, weather you are aware of their eyes and smile to their gaze or ignorant and innocent to all their wolfish fangs, whether you are as nude as eve or as covered as holy marry herself, whether you are a friend, an enemy, a colleague or a stranger on the train. It is all the same for them. The is no escaping from the desires of men and what brews within their minds. We cannot control that. It was all fine that she had said that to me when I was fifteen and kissed for the first time.

It was not fine that she had said that was the ‘infernal agonies of being a woman’ in this world. Perhaps she had forged my world view. Perhaps it is her making that I am here. Standing between two of the most feared and respected men of Birmingham. The men accused of horrid violence and men whom I have seen relish in violence. And here, I wish nothing more in my life that I was like them.

For children to run away, for women to fear their lives and not their virtues and for men to part ways and not dare look me in the eyes with a grin of condensation.

I thank God for this opportune moment to be my own man. I promise myself to light a candle in the church tomorrow.

With a delighted shout of Arthur we entered the Garrison pub and the boys poured drinks on top of drinks enjoying themselves. They had no worries at all, the said happily that tomorrow they want to go to the fair. Enjoy themselves a bit of fresh air and get Fin – their youngest brother – an enjoyable day of fun with no worries.

How nice. I though. To have siblings that are still alive and get to take you out on a ride to the fair in a car. Then bitterly I remember. I used to have a car. I used to have a fancy beautiful car. Then I had to sell it away.

Why did I have to give away my life, all that was valuable and dear to me because I was not dear to my mother. Why. I ask myself. Then with a shake of my head, I discard all thought. I down a glass of gin with no more thoughts of lost dear things.

The day I stepped in Birmingham was the day I promised myself I would discard all nostalgic notions of memories or things that I hold dear. It is of no use to reminisce over things that are all gone and done with. The house, the car, the jewels, the fur, the lace, the horses – all 20 of them – they are all sold away and all I can do is to trust that my judgment on good respectable buyers was true and right.

Instead, I make a mental note. One day, I will have a nice car. No, I will have the nicest. And the 20 horses we had? I will have a stable with 200 horses. At that I snort into my fourth glass of gin. 200 horses, that’s a lot of shit to shovel.

I drink and I drink and I think somewhere in the middle John shoved a lunch sandwich in my mouth and I aet that. I remember them laughing and I remember them joking about a young boy turning into a man. I was good with holding my liquor, but even I –secretly a woman – could not go toe to toe with the likes of Arthur and John Shelby.

Later, when the men had their fun, they left and of course I wasn’t with them. They left the Garrison doing God knows what and I had to look at the clock on the wall to know I was almost late for work now. Honestly these men. Just because they are irresponsible idiots doesn’t mean everyone else have no obligations.

With a drunken buzz I stumble and sway down the road. Thankfully, at least to some degree I know how to nurse drunkenness and the hangover afterwards. Curtesy of family thanksgivings at grandpa’s house. As I walk pass the stores one by one, I casually look at the people and their store windows. Walking slow helped with balancing myself in hopes of not making a fifth embarrassing fall in muds and I quietly observe and occasionally give a respectful tug to my cap as I walk the people I know. The butcher, the store owner I purchased some home appliances from and the seamstress that I visited once or twice. I see that they respectfully nod or smile at me, the ones that only know me as the young boy who comes and goes and those who have seen me with the Shelby men, they still behave kind and polite but with a small apprehension of a skittish cat. Ready to run away to avoid capture.

I smile mentally at the notion. I never though of myself as a power hungry person. I always though I was a person that simply was…good. A kind, generous hard-working woman who simply lives a mostly virtuous life. I suppose everyone thinks that about themselves. That they are good and kind and even though they may not be perfect that are at least not that bad.

I am beginning to think that I am in fact that bad.

Good. I’ll be able to survive here at least.

As I walk pass the clothing store my eyes catch a beautiful albeit modest blue dress with green little vines sewn on it. I almost wish I could have bought it. wised I could have worn it. I suspect the bodice had to be adjusted to my smaller breasts but the rest would fit me like a glove. Maybe Byron should buy a dress and send it to his family. Maybe.

It is then that I see in the reflection of the glass a small green patch moving. I turn in an instant to see a woman in nice green clothes. Like really nice clothes. They seemingly looked modest but really, they were not. They looked like a city woman’s attempt at working class. I would know. I tried the same. But it never works like that. You can’t wear clothes that are simple and say you’re working class. Because the clothes aren’t what people look at. Even here these people have really nice clothes they keep for weddings and such.

Rather it’s the little things that set her apart. Her hair was one of them. Beautiful styled long blond locks that sat in perfect waves with no split ends or soot stuck on it. her face was unlike any women in these parts. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was exactly, but I knew we were cut from the same cloth. In some ways at least. Another thing was her hands, from where I was and what I could see she had delicate gentle smooth hands, tell tale of not a single day of working class daily life.

Interesting.

“Excuse me, sir?” came a sickly-sweet voice, with an Irish accent from a pair of sweet and pink lips. It took me a moment to realize that the pair of soft pink lips belonged to the lady in green and the sir in question was me.

“Yes, how can I help?” I ask looking her up and down. I had almost answered with a what do you want. Maybe that was more appropriate for the persona of a working-class stable boy but some things even I couldn’t change.

“Can you tell me the way to the Garrison pub?” she asked all polite and nice. What a classy lady.

“What business you have at a pub?” I ask as any man would while giving her an incredulous look. It was interesting to be the one handing out the look and not be the one on the receiving end of it. I do wonder if I make the same expression as hers when treated this way.

“I saw the advertisement for hiring in the papers.” She spoke. “Can you tell me where it is?”

Maybe I was wrong. She doesn’t seem all that bright if she’s explaining herself to any stranger. Or I should be careful because she’s using me for information or as an alibi.

I think I am being paranoid. But it would be safe to keep my eyes on this little lady in green.

“Alrighty miss.” I say with the smile of a young man pleasantly fooled or rather charmed by her. “You see that road? You go down there and after passing two cross roads you take a left at the second street. Go down four alleys and you’ll see the Garrison on your right. it’s a relatively big place and has a big sign. No way you’d miss it.” I say pleasantly.

Was there a more straight forward way or even a shortcut to the Garrison? Yes. Did I what her to deal with drunks and feel unsafe on purpose? Maybe. Do I feel bad? Not necessarily. I feel if little miss covert here wants a job at a pub, she should at least have a handle on things such as potentially dangerous idiots.

I reach the yard and right as I push through the gates, I am met with the unholy visage of the blue eyes devil himself. “Hello mister Shelby.”

“you are an hour late to the afternoon shift and you reek of alcohol.” He sates. That’s something I’ve noticed he does. He only states things like he’s reading facts. No emotions or depth behind his words and no indication of what he expects in response.

“My apologies mister Shelby. Misters Arthur and John invited me for drinking and I thought it would be rude to refuse.” As always honesty is better when not prompted by violence or force. If I tell the truth before he pulls a razor on me there is less chance of me getting killed. “It won’t happen again.”

“Me brothers got you drunk?” he asks as he takes a long drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke in my face.

“Well, the kept offering and I reconned it would be impolite to refuse misters Shelby.” I bow my head.

“So it would.” He agrees in a tone that seemed as if he’s mocking my submission to his brothers’ requests.

We both began to walk down the small path to the stables. I walked a step behind and kept my eyes on the road looking at his shoes as he walked leisurely.

“You never went to France did you boy?” he gave me an over the shoulder glance and nudged his chin upwards beckoning me to walk faster with him. to walk next to him instead of behind.

“No mister Shelby. A month after I turned eighteen the war ended and no matter how much I wanted to serve the crown and fight along with me older brothers and father…” I trailed off here. My brothers. My father. How I miss them. “I had no right to be disappointed that the war had finally ended.”

“I suppose not. No one should want the war to continue.” He says and lights another cigarette as he watched me begin the afternoon work and check on the hoof of the very same horse that got me my employment. “So, your brothers served. Where are they now?”

“They all died.” I snapped, glaring at him. what right did he have to pry on such private matters? Then again he was the king of peaky devils. The damned blue-eyed devil himself. He saw himself with the right to do anything.

“My condolences.” He simply says. He puts off his what I can only assume is the millionth cigarette of his day and turns on his heels and leaves me. at the door he turns around just enough for me to see one third of his face blocking in the setting sun. “You can refuse them. My brothers. Your job is more important than playing nice with John or Arthur.”

And he’s gone with the gate closed behind him and I am left in the dark with two large horses and look at me with their ears turned forward and their inquisitive eyes. As if they are asking if that is truly the life, I have planned for myself or that perhaps the awfully devilish but barely visible smirk of Thomas Shelby was truly aimed at me.

“Of course, mister Shelby.”

#sadattemptofawriter #thomas shelby x imagine #thomas shleby x oc #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders #john shelby #arthur Shelby #own character #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x own character

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sadattemptofawriter · 2 years

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God Val. I love all your writings but I've come to love and adore Arthur's more than I'd thought I could. Watching the series itself the character of Arthur never really stood out to me. He was overshadowed by Tommy, Polly and Ada. But I've come to appreciate him so much. The man is an adorable fumbling mess and I love it.

I love that he has a bit of an inferiority thing going on being in awe of Tommy.

It just makes me want to hold him and hug him and make sure he's alright. He needs some serious cuddles. And I bet you he's a little spoon.

I love that he needs someone who's calm in his life. With all their rationality, the Shelby family are all absolutely a giant mess. And loud. And arthur needs some peace and quiet. As you said a little Oasis of his own. Where no one talks down to him or makes him feel slow or stupid. A place where he can be his goofy self without anyone giving him a side eye glance.

Not to mention he loves the attentiveness. In his family tact or subtlety isn't really a thing. With how his family is, Arthur really needs someone to take time, slow down and be patient with him.

He's the most precious baby. We must protect him at all costs. And help him with numbers when he needs it.

(Now I'm Imagining a romance between Arthur and his son's school teacher. Elementary school visual aids absolutely adorable.)

Arthur Shelby x Milf!Reader ~ Headcanon

Note: Too long ago @sonichkkaaascreams snowed into my inbox with the idea of the Shelby!boys x Milf and I do still have an idea for a multi!part series in the back of my mind, I didn't want to keep her waiting so here are in addition to this one Tommy, John and Michael!

I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other. This hasn't been beta'd so I apologise for typos or mistakes. Here is my Masterlist

Warning: As I am an adult, all my writing I share is unless explicitly stated for adults (18/21+). Expect canon confirming tone, language and depiction of violence. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.

Request: @sonichkkaaascreams

Wordcount: 710

You meet Arthur in your shop

He storms in one day in an absolute frenzy because he had somehow screwed up the agreement with he supplier lists and needed almost 'everything' you had to offer that could be of any use for some kind of celebration in the pub.

At any other time you would have been intimidated by the Shelby but the desperation in his eyes and the hectic interaction made all that void- and he paid well, really well.

So after you helped him pack up and received a stack of bills on the counter which would have paid for the things thrice over, you expected it to he over

But only in the aftermath of the interaction did Arthur Shelby realise how calm you had been, how helpful.

These thoughts are what carries him back almost every day, because apparently Arthur Shelby did his own grocery shopping now, even if sometimes he came only to browse (watching you) and ended up buying nothing more than an apple.

Once he came in and saw you doing the books and stayed back so as not to disturb you, but you tell him it's no bother

That's when Arthur compliments you that you must be really smart to be able to do all that, since he always has trouble, so you offer to help him

He turns you down with red cheeks and stumbling words, but a week later he is back, hands in his pockets and mumbling about a numbers problem he had

So you ask him to bring them in and go over them together, explaining where he went wrong and what he could do to improve them

Arthur offers to pay you to help him out so that his brothers won’t find out, but it doesn’t seem right

So whenever he comes to your house after your children had their supper, with the books and paperwork, he asks if you need anything, anything at all, but you usually decline

Arthur is not a talented, but dedicated student and bit by bit you discover that when he had been young his father had opposed his schooling, claiming it was unnecessary and now he felt it was too late to learn

But he does learn. He wasn't the best at inventing his own system but once he truly understood how something worked, he could apply it perfectly.

Since you won’t accept payment, and he feels bad, he starts bringing little gifts for the children, sweets or wooden carvings he made himself, which they adore.

His grin lights up your face when he watches them even if he is too uncertain to approach them on his own.

You trust in his gentleness a long time before he does and even after weeks of coming to your house with or without paperwork, before or after supper, he still treats them like glass.

When your daughter presents him with a drawing she made of “Atta” at the kitchen table you swore you’d seen his eyes grow shiny a bit.

You realise you might be in love with him when your kitchen table is covered in thick expensive Shelby Company Ltd. letter paper with your children doodling all over them and him in the mix, not caring in the slightest that his freshly pressed shirt got stained in the process

Arthur on the other hand has known for much longer, but didn’t dare try anything. He didn’t want to lose this, lose you and the little ones, this small oasis of calm in his noisy life. So he had made his peace with staying your friend, or ‘Atta’ the funny uncle, hoping that perhaps your children would continue to stay close to him the way they were all still close to Uncle Charlie.

He was utterly flabbergasted when you decided to make the first move, his cheeks burning bright red as he froze like a deer in the headlights

But then he was beyond delighted

Seeing Arthur Shelby grinning from ear to ear as he walked down Garrison Lane was a sight Small Heath had to get used to, which got him many questions from his family, but they’d have to wait to get any answers.

For now, Arthur kept you and your children all to himself

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!

Taglist

@lilyrachelcassidy @jyessaminereads @watercolorskyy

@books-livre @chlorrox @quarterpastmidnight

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders headcanon #peaky blinders imagine #valentineswritings #valentinesheadcanons #Arthur Shelby #Arthur Shelby headcanon #Arthur Shelby imagine #Arthur Shelby x reader #sadattemptofawriter #review

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sadattemptofawriter · 2 years

Note

I’m loving dual nature I can’t wait to see where it goes and who figures out she is a woman first lol

I'm so glad to hear that. The story is long and far from finished, if all goes according to my plan it will follow the entire series.

And as to who might figure out that Minerva is a woman? Well we'll see. Whoever it will be, it will be on her terms.

#sadattemptofawriter #asks #kmhappybunny240

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sadattemptofawriter · 2 years

Text

Dual Natur (Tommy Shelby x female! OC)

Note: this was originally meant to be a reader insert series but I got carried away with choosing names. I chose Byron for the male persona and then the rest just came poring down. But if you want to, you can read it as a reader insert. I didn't include much of any physical depictions. I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Warning: Canon conforming mention of violence. Your media consumption is your own responsibility

Chapter 2: the boy, the horse and the grave he dug

Once finally alone in my small rental room, I felt a pressure I hadn't noticed lift off of me. I leaned against my door and the old damned thing whines. I slide down and sit there, my muddy dress pooling around me. I felt tired, exhausted, scared but most of all exited.

The moment I thought of the words that had earlier left my mouth my heart begins to race like a wild Dutch warmblood. I had set in motion a dangerous plan that I hadn't even completely thought through. Was it perhaps desperation? Or was it my devilish Irish blood singing to me? Who knows. My mama always said I was good as gold, then again she never saw me ride wild bucking stalions bareback. Nor did she ever see me wrestling in horseshit with my brothers. My father, who did see me do all that, and often helped me get away with it, always shook his head and would say "Minerva, you devil child, you'll drive me to an early grave. Or a bloody divorce if you keep coming home covered in mud." My brothers, bless their soul in heaven, used to laugh and say we were all seven brothers.

Won't be a bad idea. To be their seventh brother.

I sigh and gather my resolve, pushing myself off the ground and poured myself a glass of water. I sit down on the old creaky chair and try to gather my wits about me. Tonight is going to be a long and exhausting night.

"Think minerva, think. Make a list. You're good at those. Make a list of the things to do." I tell myself. I look around to find a piece of paper and a pencil to write down the list. I find an old, small pencil I had laying around but no paper. So, I resort to pick up an old book. A copy of Lord Byron's poetry that belonged to my second oldest brother, Elliot, who had always been the scholar of the family. He had been studying literature and poetry in a prominent university before the war. And now he'll never finish his degree. He'll never sing me those poetries. And I will never again hear him rant about the genius that was Jane Austen's Emma. I would never be able to throw a pillow at him and yell for him to shut up so I could take an afternoon nap.

I open the last page of the book, an empty page where I can write down my list. "First things first. What I need. Men's clothes, a hair cut, an acceptable identity. I'll probably make that based on my brothers. Then I need to throw away my feminine things, just in case anyone would come inside. The men's clothes I can purchase from...the Chinese. yes." I roll the old pencil in my hands as I rack my brain for more details. If I really want this to work than everything has to be flawless. Thanks mother, for my obsession with planning and making lists, you'll save my ass in this a great deal. "I'll have to throw away, or sell. Yes, sell away some of my belongings. Most of them. A man has no use for skirts and heels. And no hair pins."

I suddenly recall my hair. In the past two years, I've had neglected my hair that was once in the latest fashion of the time, was now longer and has lost its style. I should cut it short. In men's style? Ideally. But who would do it for me? Too risky to go to anyone with it. I'll just cut it with scissors as short as I can.

But what if I need a pass as a woman? Public baths and washrooms. I can't always pass as a man. I'll keep it short enough to hide under a hat. A peaked cap. But long enough to still pass as a woman when needed.

With the thought of playing both a woman and a man, like a double agent, excitement and thrill bubbled through me and gave me a full body shiver. I giggled, for the first time in two years. I giggled with pure joy and thrill. Like when as a young girl, me and my brothers would take the horses out without permission. Would ride young stallions that haven't been broken yet. I felt like I was scheming another prank with my brothers.

Once satisfied with all the planning, I quickly got to work. Seperating all my arguably few belongings into two piles. Those to keep and those to discard.

The pile of to keep items was small. It included two items I would never throw away. Whatever risk it may bring me.

My father's pocket watch, the only thing that reached home from France. It wasn't all that cheap but by no means something so expensive that would raise eyebrows. Inside it, there was an engraving, done sloppily and sharply by yours truly as a young girl days before my father departed. "Father, you make me completely and perfectly incandescently happy." I had taken the quote from Elliot's copy of pride and prejudice. It was all done in haste and secrecy, meant as a surprise to my father. I wish I had seen his face as he'd seen it.

Second item on the pile was my violin. That was risky to own. It was definitely expensive with intricate designs. It had my initials carved on it. I could never get rid of it. Never. A gift from my mother once my teacher deemed me proficient enough at the instrument. I used to play at family functions and tea parties. I used to play to cheer up my mother while the men were away. I hadn't played since last I played at their graves.

The rest of the pile, were little nicknaks, each from one of my brothers. A fountain pen that didn't write anymore belonging to my eldest brother Christopher who was my father's secretary and kept the books of our horse training business. and the Lord Byron's poetry book from Elliot. On the early pages I could read his hand writing where he had taken notes, third was the weirdest item I owned. A pair of riding gloves, black with silver buttons and blue ribbons around the wrists, they once belinged to Joseph, my third oldest brother, he had them decorated with ribbons so I, the girl, could wear them easily every time I missed him or wished to go riding with him.

Then came Oscar, the fourth eldest brother, the casanova, the ladies man, the socialite. The man who singlehandedly would repopulate London given the chance. I thought the slew of bastards and broken hearts would be the only thing he would leave behind for me and mother once he went to France. But no, he left something more. He left me his tie and a matching handkerchief from his most expensive suit. They were shiny and a rich Navy blue with a sort of peacock feathers patterns on it. He used to wear it with an emerald decoration that was gifted to him from on of his lady conquests. I used to call her the victory number 56 as a joke. He was the only one we had a body to bury of. We buried him in his best suit but not his best tie, I hold that to my heart and cry when I miss his improper jokes or his drunken snickers.

The gift left by Robert, my fifth brother was by far the most jarring. He had been estranged from the family. After a rather nasty fight with our mother, something about our grandfather looking down on us or something, I had been to young to remember that. Nevertheless, he had walked out on us for most of the years and only made up once war started. They came together all sons and father to live one month happily before going all to war. God knows what he had done, where he had been, with whome he had associated himself while away. I only know the night before his departure he hid a loaded gun along with a handful of bullets hidden inside a bunny doll for me. I no longer had the bunny, but the gun I kept.

There must have been a reason why he thought perhaps I may need it. And I will take his judgement to heart. Because in the last month that he came home to use, I learned he was the smartest, most perceptive man in all of London.

The final nicknak junk that was on the pile, was a flask. A men's booz flask belonging to Liam. The last brother. He had just turned eighteen when he got on the train. Just turned a man. His face still held that boyish roundness, that softness in the eyes. And they told me, he had become a tunller just like Christopher and my father. And I had wept, wept that he had not returned to me. Not even his lifeless husk for me to cry over.

Reminiscence over and done with, I placed one single green set of feminine clothes and placed the rest on the get rid of pile. "Maybe I'll add one more. A casual one too." I tell myself. And place another set, floral and colorful, on the pile as well. Everything else must be throne out. Sold off and replaced with simpler, manlyer items.

No skirts or blouses, no little jewelry that I had allowed myself, no hair pins that were The only joy I allowed myself. No little tapity shoes, with little bows on them and no feminine sheer socks. Nothing.

Minerva Griffin was gone. She had gone to the country to live with relatives. She was, is, effectively dead and done with.

Thinking of a profile for the fictional character of Byron I drank more tea. I need to be prepared. Best lies are the once as close to the truth. Byron William Griffin, age... Eighteen, or nineteen. From the country. Father and brothers dead and here to find work to send money home. Is good with horses and... That should be enough for now. Decent enough with numbers and what not.

-------------------

I left earlier than ever, the sun barely out but I was already up and leaving towards the Chinese. To both sell away and buy.

It was easier than I thought, in a place like Birmingham, with a few well woven lies I manage to change my entire life. "I need them for a relative." I said. "He's a young man, still a boy." I said.

Everything I own now lies in an old used military duffle bag I bought off of a drunk man desperate for more gin. And all that I no longer own, sits in a pawnshop traded for a total of ten pounds.

Ten pounds and seven shillings. That's a lot of money for this kind of place. I can rent a room near the factories and if I live sensibly and modestly, I won't have money troubles for quite some time.

I try to ignore the nagging voice that says there was once a time I bought a pair of shoes twice this much. But it's been over two years and those shoes were the first things I sold away. So what does it even matter.

Getting a hair cut was harder than I thought. Getting it short enough to pass as a guy with unkept hair, making sure it could be both feminine and masculine. Leading a double life would be hard. But with any and all difficulties, I took sewing scissors and in essence, brutalized my hair beyond recognition.

------------------------------------------------

It was barely noon and all unfortunate souls of Small heath factory workers were busy as any day with taxing jobs, shedding blood sweat and a slew of slurs and getting paid for it.

There was no exceptions in Charlie Strong's yard. He worked hard and he worked his men harders. Curly, fussed over every little thing in his stable and muttered furiously under his breath.

On the other side of the yard, at a dingy old table out in the shaded open sat John and Arthur Shelby, enjoying an undisturbed drink of whiskey.

They were mid laugh over some dirty joke John had said about some woman, when some fool had the audacity to open the gates to the yard and walk in.

He was a young boy, a brat of no more than eighteen. He was short and a bit lanky. Small in all accounts. Hell, even his face was distinctly unmanly. High cheeks, round jaw. He looked more like a girl or something. And he walked slowly, asured but respectful. His head held high and showed a tuft of messy hair peaking out of his dark brown peaked cap. He was new. Neither John nor Arthur had met the boy befoe. And with subtle side glancee, they confirmed it.

He didn't look threatening. He was smaller than John and they doubted a lad that looked like a dry branch would be able to do anything.

"Who're ye?" Arthur asked. Looking as menacing as ever. In fact just to make sure, he did his best to be even more intimidating than any other day.

***

"Name's Byron Griffin." I said exactly as I had rehearsed all night and all hours of early morning.

"Byron Griffin?" Hollard a voice from on the other side of the yard. And once I turned my head I saw Mr. Curly practically running at me. For a brief moment I worried he might run me over.

"So you're here." This was Mr. Charlie Strong himself. Walking slow but with long strong military like trides. Meaning business.

"Yes sir." I courtly said. Best way to earn points with old men was manners and respect. That was universal between all classes.

"Your cousin said you coming here for work." It wasn't a question. It was a statement. But one that prompted explanations and brief introduction.

"Yes sir. Minerva Griffin's my cousin. She left to stay with my mom and I came here for work."

"There no work at ye own place?" He asked.

"None that would make a nineteenth year old work." I lied. This was tricky. There no reason for them not to give me a job, there no reason why they would pass up an able bodied young man at any job.

I internally prayed to God that they would buy my blatant lie.

"You worked with horses before?" Mr Strong asked leaning against a large tool.

"Yes. Me father was a horse trainer. Me and me brothers, we... We always helped around. Learned the tricks of the trade. "

He nodded, his eyes still narrow and sharp like a hound waiting for a small sign he should rip me apart and spit out my bones. Slowly he pointed to Mr. curly and without taking his eyes off of me said "Take him to the stables Curly. See if he really does know the....tricks of the trade." He dragged the last words as if he didn't believe me. I would have been insulted if anyone treated me like this in London. And if I was Minerva Griffin. But I'm not. I'm Byron Griffin, a nineteen year old from the country. I have nothing to my name here, other than an alleged cousin.

"Of course." I courtly reply. I truly have not much to contribute to the conversation. These men here are my only chance of proper employment that could use my knowledge, without me resorting to prostitution, that by all accounts is still on the table if this goes wrong.

Mr. Curly walked fast and frantic towards the large wooden building I assume to be an attempt of the stables. It was by no means the stable of my father's business. It wasn't by no means fancy and highclass but it was still much better than what ever this is.

I don't make a comment, as it would be very impolite but I subtly make a note that if this works I would have to start some renovation plan.

"Say, lad. You said you worked with horses. What breed you like best, eh? " his question seems innocent but even his horse like skittishness, could not overshadow his subtle wisdom that seemed burried deep under stutters and nerves.

"I may say this 'cause of meself but I prefer colored ponies. mix blood. They're always stronger. " I smile a little. To witch he nodded approvingly. I suppose that ment I had said the right thing.

"You mixed lad? " he tilts his head as he opens the door to the stables that give me nightmares.

"Irish father. Originally from Glasgow. British mother from London." I answer honestly. Best lies are always closest to the truth. Easier to remember.

"How'd ye end up in the country then?"

"Me dad didn't agree with his family's ways. They were IRA and me mother, left the altar for me dad. They started from nothing in the country with one mule. Then they had twenty horses... "

"Twenty horses? " I nod and he seems to take in the thoughts of that many horses in as a wonder far out of reach. "What happened to them?"

"The war ." I said. And refused to say any more. I walk forward to check the horses kept there and do my best to pass whatever test they have in mind.

"This one's mouth seems bruised from the bit. Sometimes jokies pull to hard. I suggest putting Vaseline or olive oil to reduce friction. I'm sure you already were thinking of it."

Mr. Curly turns his entirely large body around to look at me and it's obvious he has to bend his neck quite a lot to actually be fully facing me. "Trot is a two-beat gait for the horse – true or false?"

"True." I say. Tilting my head to the side and pat the horse's body and check it's muscles and hoof. More as a show of my skill than a habit.

"And what saddle do you prefer?" He asked.

"I've worked with all saddles and each have their own use. But I prefer english saddle... To be honest, if it wasn't bad for the horse's back in the long term I would have gone bareback only." He only humms in response.

Without prompt, just to showcase my skills, I casually begin to medically examine the large black horse. Name bones and muscle, say one or two tidbits about some breeds I simply liked.

And then I picked up the foot to check the horse shoes. "That's not good."

This instantly peaks Mr. Curly's attention and he too bends to see what had shocked me.

"This is bad. Very bad. " I say again.

" what? What you see?" He demands to know.

"Look here, it's an abscess. See how soft and squishy it became? It's full of infection. full if puss. I'm surprised he can walk." I press the bottom of the hoof and watch as it goes in a bit.

"Oh no. It's bad. So bad. Very. Bad. No good. He has a race coming soon. I... I gotta tell Tommy. I have to tell Tommy. How, how did this happen? It's no good. No good at all." Mr. Curly, became frantic and panicky much like the way he was the night before. He was shaking and his arms flew around.

"My guess is that the problem started while shoe changing. Could a pebble have gone in there and made a wound?" I try to say, but he's already running out of the stable yelling for a Tommy.

Thomas Shelby I assume.

I take another look at the hoof and try to remember the process of hoof restoration, and changing horse shoes.

"The fuck yer doing?" I hear him before I see him. He grabbed me before I can let go of the hoof and he practically lifted me up and slammed me against the wall. And only then I manage to look at the eyes of Arthur Shelby.

Behind him I vaugly see the other men plus a new one huddling around the hoof. Mr. Curly fretting still like a terrified horse, Mr. Strong seemed swearing at an absent member and his shit work and a new man, Tommy Shelby I persumed was attentively checking the horse. But soon enough, my vision is blocked by the younger looking man - John Shelby - I persumed and he places his razor cap at my face.

I feel the cold sharpness of the small razor at my cheak. A small pressure, stinging and the wetbess of my blood sliding across my face. I try to move away to no avail.

"Don't fucking move laddy less you want me to blind you for good." John Shelby snarles at me.

Fear and panic clench my stomach in ways I have never felt before. I must have been a bit slow to panic, either due to shock and being unprepared or simply because I have lost the emotional depth to appropriately react. Considering I am thinking about this, I would say option two. But now that I have some time to look at my.... Assailants? Captors? In the eye, I feel the impending doom of my mutilation or murder. My stomach turns and twist and I feel my legs grow cold and limp. I pray to God I may not faint.

I do as John Shelby said, and stand as still as I can. I try to rein in my breath so not even a hitch would cost me my eyes. Seeing as how I am practically dangling midair by a very lethal veteran man who happens to be in a gang, I have no other choice to resign myself to my fate. Not like I can do anything.

Note to self, get a blade for myself if I survived this mess.

"Put him down boys." I hear the handsome Birmingham accent drawl of Mr. Tommy Shelby. He was not as tall and menacing as his first brother Arthur nor did he radiated vigor and violent vitality like his younger brother John. Yet, with each step he takes towards me I feel the blistering cold of winter seep into my bones. Like taking a bath in freezing ocean water. His face, calm and controlled resembled the brewing of storm clouds.

"Curly here, " he points towards Mr. Curly who is now being calmed down by Mr. Strong. "He tells me you came here for a job as his assistance and in once casual inspection found that my horse has a bad hoof."

I nod once. They have let me go, I am now speaking with Tommy Shelby. I am in presence of the devil himself. I very rarely get tongue tied, that is a skill learned from spending days in high society parties. But now... Now, words seem to fail me and my voice chokes in on itself.

"Come here, come here." He says. His voice calm but his Strong hand that grabbed into my collar vibrated with barely contained violence.

He pulled me and I let out a yelp of shock. "Ok. Ok. No need to pull. Jesus Christ,I'm not fighting ye." I let out in frustration. I bend by the horse and pick up the hoof again. "See here." I push again into the abscess and watch as my finger goes slightly in. "I suspect the problem comes from under the horseshoe. It was done wrong and something must've injured the hoof. A crack maybe."

"Fuck." He let's go of me and let's out a slew of slurs that will put sailors to shame. "Curly, call Reggie and tell him he's a dead man. He fucked up my horse and I'm gonna fuck him up."

"Tommy, we can't find anyone new soon enough to fix this." Arthur Shelby says from where he stands hands now holding a flask.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. " the youngest Shelby brother seems to be even more vibrantly violent now. Which is never good. No man should look that gleeful with the impending mutilation looming over.

My mama said I was good as gold. And my father said I was a devil child. And I'm sure he was more right that my mother because in one instant my devilish Irish blood sings a nasty songs in my veins.

And once again I open my mouth to dig myself a whole. "I can fix it." Fuck me and my mouth that never shuts up.

"What you say?" The icy blues of Tommy Shelby pierce my own eyes like a hail of bullets.

"I... I am young but I've worked with horses plenty. I've fixed hoofs and changed horseshoe before. There won't be any races for this one for some time and that's nothing anyone can fix but I can fix him."

"Explain." He ordered. His voice carrying such a comand you'd think it was his god given right to boss everyone around. Like he was a young arrogant god amongs mere mortals. A king with his slaves. Well, that was Tommy Shelby. He isn't the boogy man of adults for nothing.

"Well, we have to take off the horseshoe, chip away the hoof until we can find were the abscess is, empty it and then find where and what is lodged in it. I suspect a pebble or a nail. Maybe a metal share based on the state of the yard."

"State of the yard? The fuck you mean by that?" Mr. Strong snaps, but by the looks of it he doesn't seem very angry at me.

"Well this is a yard, and near factories. There are metal shards bound to be laying around. It is a possibility that one could have been lodged in there." I explain trying not to further insupt the man's working place.

Tommy Shelby regarded me with a calculating stared, smoking deep and hard as his eyes held mine in search of something I hoped he found and dreaded to find. Finally seemingly satisfied with what he did or did not find he nods once.

"Alright. Mr...? "

"Byron, Mr Shelby. I'm Byron Griffin." I introduce.

"Alright, Mr. Byron Griffin. You will fix my horse's foot. If I am satisfied with the job you've done, you'll have a permanent employment here with a payment we will discuss at the time of your employment. If you fail me, Mr. Griffin. You will die. " He says as if he's talking about what he had for dinner. His voice, despite his ominous words was soft, calculated and all business. There was a sickly pleasantness to it that made me wish for death.

This man was dangerous. And not for the same reasons as his brothers or the drunks in the streets. This man will be my undoing.

And I have dug myself a whole so deep, I may not be able to climb out of it.

"I'll start immediately, Mr. Shelby." I say with a respectful bow of my head.

I keep my head down until they leave and only dare to look up once the door is shut behind me. There I see myself alone with Mr. Curly, who is bringing out a familiar tool box out for me.

"Be gentle with him, alright. He's an energetic one. Hell get over exited." The large Duck draft in shape of a man says.

"I'll be as gentle as I can. He won't notice a thing. I promise." I comoly to the wishes of a man who's gentleness reminded me of Robert's innate tenderness for animals.

I set to work, ignoring the beginnings of hunger, anxiety of failure and the swinging swords of Damocles. Or the swinging razor of Shelby in this case.

"It's a long way out of this grave. A hell of me own making." I mutter.

#tommy shelby x y/n #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby x reader #tommy Shelby #arthur shelby #john shelby #polly gray #michael gray #finn shelby #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky fookin blinders #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders #dual nature #sadattemptofawriter

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sadattemptofawriter · 2 years

Note

Hello. I'm curious. I don't understand how people can put the "keep reading" wherever their want. I checked the app and the website and I don't find anything.

Thanks in advance.

Hi, hun. This is how you do it.

For the website:

When using the text editor, click on a spot in your text for the break. Place your cursor there and press the enter key to add a new blank line. Then you go with step 2.

The easiest way is to use a "shortcut". While in the post form, press Command + Shift + K (for Mac) or Ctrl + Shift + K (for Windows) OR when hitting enter in post form a set of icons will appear and you should click the 3 dots (…) - old editor. For the new editor it looks like the last icon on the pic I added to this post. Clicking on the symbol will produce a break.

For the app:

Simply type :readmore: and press enter. That's it.

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sadattemptofawriter · 2 years

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There must be a time difference because I'm just about to leave for the hospital 😂

And actually the idea of an actual series is more exciting. I'll be patiently waiting for the publishing te comes. And darker scenes and moments? *chef's kiss* Tommy was angst and melancholy personified so I'm not surprised of that.

How long is polite enough to wait between requests? Because I absolutely love your writing and can't physically wait to read more.

If it's not much to ask and your up for it, I had an idea. Tommy or hell all the shelby boys +Michael but mostly Tommy with the reader who is older than them. Let's say they are a friend of Polly or an old friend of their mother's or something. I'm absolutely hung up on the idea of trophy husband shelby 😂 because they are certainly pretty enough and *affectionately* dumb enough to be. And of course they gonna marry an older woman. A certified MILF if you will. 😂

First of all, I hope your surgery went well, dear, and second of all I apologise for taking so long to reply to this.

I've been busy and I needed some time to think and I've come up with an idea of (originally) pre-war!Tommy x aristocratic!reader which could turn into a Tommy! x milf! reader, where he really would be a trophy husband, but it would not be a one-shot. It would be a multi-part series and I don't like publishing a series before I have written at least 70% to make absolutely sure I will finish the whole thing. I know this isn't exactly what you had in mind, especially since the ideas I have would include some darker scenes and moments, but I have put the Shelby boys + Michael x Milf on my headcanon list...

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sadattemptofawriter · 2 years

Text

Dual Nature (Tommy Shelby x Female OC)

Summery: Life in Birmingham is hard for every unfortunate soul that lives in it, but it is especially difficult for women. And if that woman has no man of her own and no family to call her own, then life is difficult in even more convoluted ways. If that woman is fair of face, then she has little choice to become a whore. Minerva knows this and, tired of constant unwanted attentions she, hatches a plan. A plan that if done right will ensure her an honorable job with decent wages, and if undone will most likely get her killed. But she is willing to try anything to avoid prostitution.

One day, Minerva Griffin made a point to show herself leaving her home, moving out and leaving it for someone else. So that her brother, Byron Griffin, can come and stay. Byron Griffin, who is a scrawny lad, but eager to work with a funny girlish way about him.

Note: this was originally meant to be a reader insert series, but I got carried away with choosing names. I chose Byron for the male persona, and then the rest just came poring down. But if you want to, you can read it as a reader insert. I didn't include much of any physical depictions.

I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Warning: Canon conforming mention of violence. Your media consumption is your own responsibility.

Chapter 1 - Muddy roads of Birmingham

"Fuck.fuck. fuck." I mutter under my breath as I try desperately to fix the broken cabinet door. "Fuck this. Fuck this."

Finally exhausted, I slide down and sit on the ground my head leaning against the one measly barley held together chair. "Why did I thought I could do this? Why did I thought I could do this?"

When I sold everything I owned and moved to Birmingham, I knew my life would have been hard, I had no doubts about the hardships of the working class. But I suppose I was still very naive and optimistic if I thought I could easily adapt to it. Knowing is one thing, but actually doing it is something entirely else.

Why I thought a young girl of previously upper middle class can survive in Birmingham is beyond me. I suppose at the time I thought it would be better than staying in London, in that empty house I could no longer afford to maintain. and much, much better than to get married just for the sake of a roof over my head. I thought my father and six brothers going off to France, leaving me and my heart broken mother had made me stronger, made a more capable woman. But I suppose I still had privileges then I didn't know how to live without.

But I don't have any of those now. I don't have a mother to help me with cooking or sewing, no. She got remarried and moved to America with her new husband. Logically I know I can't blame her, the war took away seven of her family. Her husband that she had loved, my father, and six of her sons. I just wish I was enough reason for her to stay. Hell, I just wish I was enough that she would want to take me with her. Album she had married a younger man, and he didn't want to raise another man's child. I understood that. Maybe I shouldn't have been so understanding.

I came to Birmingham, to get closer to him. To where he started at. To where he was. Then again, he had made it so very clear he didn't want me or any of my brothers here, in all the mud and soot and filth. I get it now. I didn't then.

Shaking my head I get up once more to have another go at the cabinet door. I had made a decision, I had made a choice. To give up being an upper middle class lady that's barley saving face and go down to my late father's roots.

He married up. I know that much. He and my mother had fallen in love at the races. He had been a working class stable boy, working for my grandfather and my mother had a prized purebred horse she would visit every day.

Here, without a man, without a father or a brother all I am is a pretty face. If I'm not a whore now than I am considered a soon to be whore. If only I had a family member. A mother or a brother even if younger. But a lone woman? I must be one of those then.

I pick up the tools I had borrowed and began to fiddle with the damn door again. The first few days of Birmingham's general roughness had already made my hands bleed a few times. That is not to say my hands no longer bled. As if to prove a point to me, right then my palms bled again, the tools too hard and rough for my hands. I learned to ignore them. If I wasted time over every cut I get I wouldn't be able to get anything done here.

Finally, the door is back on its rusty hinges and swinging pathetically while letting out a whine. Satisfied with myself, and I definitely am since i managed to fix a door hinge all by myself with no help, I get pack on my feet and pick up the tools to return them to my neighbor. A Mr and Mrs Harrison, an elderly couple whom I rent the room from.

Mr. Harrison worked at one of the factories, one that made car parts. He had lent me the tool box from the there and told me to return it there once I was finished. And that was exactly I planned to do.

I got dressed to leave. I missed the old clothes I had back on London, the silks and the furr and the soft cashmere. Not to mention the high quality lace works. But within days of my mother's departure I had to sell them all off to save money. Money for food and money for rent. Instead, I bought whatever the stores here were selling. Simple, modest working class.

"You are a working class woman now. It's not right to think yourself separate." I tell myself. Sometimes it's hard to remember. When you grow up in silk and fine cashmere and hand made leather, it's hard to suddenly see yourself in the shoes of the leather makers.

A simple black dress, black shawl and shoes. Mourning clothes. It may have been two years or so, but is till mourned my father and brothers. I had to, for them, for their sacrifice. I grab the heavy tool box and begin to haul it along to the factory. My hands hurt, my knuckles gone white. My once polished nailes, now chipped and dirty with oil dig intoy already red palms.

One step at a time, I tell myself. One step at a time. Keep your eyes forward to your goal. Ignore the mud that splashes on your shoes, ignore the dirt that clings to the hem of your dress. Ignore the men watching you. Ignore the lewed, filth that leaves their mouth. Ignore them. I can ignore them just as I can igore the pain I my palms and the aching I my arms.

It hadn't been long since I came to Birmingham when I learned that the men of the lower class feel no need to be gentlemanly. No societal pressure for them to be polite. If they wished to be good men, then they were because they wanted to. And if they simply wished to be crass, not even a holy Mother would stop them.

They were not bad men. This much I could admit. But it was Birmingham itself. A pretty young girl with no one in Birmingham? She must be a whore then. It's fine. I thought, I could power through it.

At the door to the factory, I expect to see some sort of guard or a doorman. Someone to keep track of who goes in and who comes out. I see no suck person so I enter the factory, looking around to find either Mr. Harrison or someone who could point me to Mr Harrison. But strangely enough I see no one. No one seems to be working at their stations. I wonder if today is a day off? I doubt Birmingham factories have day offs but who knows. That us until I hear the voice of a man giving a speech.

"...or do they sit at home? Comfortable, With a full belly. While you scrape enough to find shoes for your children's feet. And what is the reward they offer you for the sacrifices you made? They fucking cut your wages! That is your reward. Raise your hands those of you who wants l to strike." A tall man standing on a staircase yells. He's surrounded by factory workers as they cheer and shout their agreement.

"Bloody communists." I huff under my breath. Their ideals are nice, fair wages and equality of the classes. But ideals are different from reality. One shoulder abandon reality for ideals.

I think of myself. Ideally, I should be in London, in my old home. With my latest fashion dresses and my delicate feathers. Ideally, I should be able to sit at a table with my mother and my father and my brothers. All of them alive and well. But reality is different. Reality is that I am here, without family. Standing in the mudd and soot Birmingham. Reality is that I can't find a decent job, because either it's not women's business or I'm not good at the damn thing. Reality is that I'm not originally a working woman, I don't know washing or sewing. Reality is that I am one of the full bellies these men are condemning. At least I used to be. And reality is, I need to start filling my belly and earning money. Not my head with stupid Russian ideals and strikes. "They'll stop day dreaming if they know what's good for them."

"And what's a pretty little missy such as yourself doing here?" A voice calls out from behind me.

He looks at me for a bit. Chewing something in his mouth. He takes off his hat and scratches the back of his head while letting out a low rumble of a laugh.

I turn to see a middle aged man behind me. Another factory worker no doubt.

I turn ony heels and show him the tool box. "I came here to return this to Mr. Harrison who lent it to me."

"Funny." He says amused, as if I had told him a joke. "It's fine, you don't have to come up with a story to be here."

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"How much?" He bluntly asks.

"I don't understand. How much what?" I did understand. And I hated that it happened so often that I did instantly understood. But it helped to play dumb. It helped me buy some time.

"I get it, I get it. Works been hard. It's been hard for everyone. You can't just waite for the clients to come to you, you have to come here to them. Good business plan sweetheart. Now I'm here. How much? " he snickers as he steps closer to me.

"Leave her alone Mac. Eh. Leave her the fuck alone. Scurry off to yer job if ye want to keep it, eh." Comes another man, much older than the twat before me, with a leather apron and a limp.

I recognize him immediately. It's Mr. Harrison. I smile at the elder man and bow my head for him. "Hello Mr. Harrison. I came to return the tool box."

"Ai. I've got eyes lassy. I can tell." He gives a crooked smile and walked closer with his limp. "Give me that." He takes the tool box from my hands and shoves it to the other man. Mac he had been called.

"Take this." He grunted. "And I'm telling you now Mac, she's no whore. She's renting Mary's room. Alright. You leave the girl alone."

"Got it, got it." Mac says, still laughing with amusement. He shakes his head walks away. Despite the conversation that happened, I can't help but just to focus on the fact that, that man can so easily pick up the tool box I hauled pathetically behind me.

"Come on lassy. I'll walk you back home. This no place for a young woman like yourself to be walking around. Factory's are dangerous. Full of sparks. I say this 'cus you remind me of me daughter."

"Thank you Mr. Harrison but I don't want to disturb you while you're working." I try to keep my voice neutral. It won't do any good if I break down crying over a small conversation I wasn't even a part of.

But damn it. I wasn't part of that damn conversation. It was about me. And I had no say in it. This Mac person thought I was a whore and it took another man to tell him off. Dammit. I'll never get used to this. Never.

It's like being a woman has turned from beingy little blessing to my curse over night. I move from London to fucking Small Heath and suddenly my status from a young miss changes to whore. And I don't even get a say in it. Fuck.

"Nonsense.i can't let you walk home alone. The sun's setting as well. Come. Come." He ushers me to the door and we both walk out.

We walked home in relative silence. there was soot and ash in the air and my black hat had turned pale gray. I look around as we walked, bored of the silence but also resigned to my fate.

The sun is setting and the streets are dark, the men are hitting the pubs and there are already a few drunk out of their minds. And yet, still I see boys playing out and about. Children as young as five, all boys, running and shouting.

"There are kids playing outside still." I note.

"Yes.well. young boys need to be out and play. What are we going to do? Keep them inside? They'll break everything." Mr. Harrison laughed.

"I suppose." I couldn't help the resentment and annoyance I felt. Here is was, a grown ass woman of twenty-five, being walked home by my neighbor because it's too late and dark and dangerous for a woman be walking home alone but kids as young as five are fine to running around on the account of being a boy. Once again I felt like being a woman was stuck to me more like a curse than anything nowadays. Like a stain I couldn't clean or a stench I couldn't get rid off.

I wonder, if it would have been easier if I was a man? Mom would have still remarried and left. Her new husband now would have wanted me even less. My father and brothers would have still gone to France. But at least, maybe then, maybe I could have gone with them. Been with them.

At least I know one thing for certain. If I were a man, I could have carried that tool box easily, would have known how to fix things. Would have been able to find work easier. And by God know one would have thought I was a whore. I wouldn't need to be escorted home. Hell, I would have been allowed in a pub then.

I shake my head to get a clear head. To shake off the resentment and the annoyance. That's wheny eyes fall on a corner where a commotion is. It doesn't seem like men getting drunk, nor does it seem like a fight.

Trying to distract myself from all the dark thoughts circling my head, I ask. "What's going on over there?"

Mr. Harrison, who was lighting his probably tenth cigarette by know took q glance over at the commotion. "Nothing of concern lassy."

I glance at him and wait for him to continue. He clearly didn't want to but silently asked for more information. That was one of the good things of being a woman that still worked for me. The moment a man sees you as their daughter or sister figure, you can ask them anything and they can't resist it.

"That's Charlie Strong's yard. It's also where the Shelby's keep their race horses. News been around the last stable boy they had around to help, hurt one of the horses. Curly, he's the big man over there, " he gestired to a man who was frantically arguing with another older man, Charlie Strong I assumed. He was waving his hands around and shaking his head.

"Yes, that's Curly. He's in charge of the stable and is very particular about the horses. They fired the boy a month ago. But since then they haven't found anyone to take his place." Mr. Harrison said.

"Why not? Are there not many who know about horses? I doubt that." I pry in a little more. The gears in my head turning as a little plan hatches slowly.

"Like I said,he's particular about the horses. Loves them to death. No one seems to be good enough to work there. But he's trusted by the Shelby's so what he says goes."

"I see."

Mr. Harrison turns to me, eyes squinted and flicking his tongue over his dry lips. It's almost as if he can see the gears in my head turning or he can see the evil grin I'm trying to hide.

"Now you listen to me lassy, you stay away from Charlie Strong's yard. Ye hear me? It's where them Peaky devils hang and nothing good cones out of them noticing ye." He warned me, flicking his finger at me. Mr. Harrison reminds me of my father with the way he warns and wards off people from bad life choices. My father was a wise man.

My father was a wise man and if he knew what I planned to do, he would have a heart attack. I can almost hear him say it. "Nothing good comes out of you going to a stable." Or "nothing good will come out of you being so rowdy. Yer a girl. Be like one."

For a split second I close my eyes and send a prayer to my father and brothers. It was an incomplete plan, but what I had for now was good enough. The rest I will think of when I get to it.

"Oh no, Mr Harrison. Not me. You see, I received a letter from a cousin of mine. I'm going to the country to stay there." I lie through my teeth, still observing the man named Curly.

"You leaving lassy?" Mr Harrison seemed surprised. He spat his cigarette on the ground and stopped it. It was his way of giving me all of his unwavering attention.

"Yes, I'm going to the country to live there with my relatives. A cousin of mine,however will be coming to work in Birmingham. He...hes good with horses. He would love to work with them here as well." Well. Not a lie. Not entirely. I am absolutely not going to be living with relatives since both my parents had been disowned. My father's side were members of the IRA and didn't like that he went to fight for the crown and my mother, well, she was an upperiddle class lady who left a wealthy land owner at the altar to elope with an Irish horse trainer. Their love story used to be like a fairytale to me. But it is true, father may have tried his best to keepy lady hands clean and soft but... I grew up watching him train horses. It was bound for me to find the tame creatures better company.

"I see." Was all Mr. Harrison said. However his face seemed to say that he was pleased to hear that I was leaving. I suppose any man would prefer their daughters to not live in such a place. Perhaps Mr. Harrison thought the fair air of country would do me well. Let him think that.

"May I go and ask about the job?" I asked. I really didn't need to ask but somehow, the feel these men had about them didn't allow me to just casually walk up to them.

"Hen. fine. But I'll be coming with ye. I'll talk, it's men's place this yard." He grunts in his usual sour and fatherly way and limps away towards the meb and I follow suit, trying to walk in a way that us both confident and yet respectful.

Mr Harrison's steps were bigger he reached them men sooner. He took his hat off and with an air of respect and submission began talking to them. He had his head bowed and his shoulders hunched. It made me wonder the weight they carried. He was an elderly man and I know he had been to France. His sons hadn't returned, much like my brothers and his daughter had married away, moved to Glassgaw with her husband. I almost felt sorry for using him like this. In his mind he was helping me, doing a young gurl a favor. But I had made my resolve. Reality is different than fantasy, different than ideals. I need to be more cutthroat, more ruthless, more.... morally gray to be able to survive here. this small town wasn’t a place for a lady than i shouldn’t have to other being like one. I should only think of my own good first. that’s reality. the sooner I get over it, the sooer I can get to actually living.

I refuse my fate to be either marriage or prostitution. If I've got no man, than by the devil I swear I'll be my own man.

"Gentlemen." I greet them all.

"Harrison here tells me, you've got a cousin coming here for a job." Mr. Strong says as he looks me up and down. It's not a bad stare not something to make me uncomfortable but, it's just a quizzical look. Like he wants to see if I'm worth beting on.

"Yes Mr. String. I'll... I'll be leaving around tomorrow morning and if timing is right, hell be here the day after." It's risky, givingy self so little time to prep. But it's also good, I won't be able to back out of it. And they wouldn't be able to say that it's too late.

"And you expect me to give him a job when he's not here yet?" He asks, leaning on a shovel. His old pale eyes staring me down with a wisdom that only comes with age and experience.

"No sir, I simply owned him a favor and thought since he's coming here to Birmingham to work, I thought I could see if there us any work with horses around. His father is a horse trainer and he's good at it too. All I ask is to give him a chance." I say. Trying my damnedest to smile innocently and not let them know I had a terrible plan in mind.

"No. no. We can't trust them Charlie. They'll hurt the horse Charlie. No. No." Mr. Curly says frantically, as he shakes his head and arms.

"Oh, shut up Curly. You've rejected everyone who knew anything about horses in this damn town. Only other person who can, is now Tommy and you can't ask him to be a stable boy." Charlie Strong, despite being a frail old man had an authoritive voice, like a shaggy Irish Wolfhound. He snapped at Curly and the other man despite being taller and much larger, obediently quieted down. A draft horse came to mind. Big, Strong and sturdy but all gentleness and skittish attitude. I alredy like Curly and I’m sure I can get him to like my cousin as well.

"Fine then. Tell him come but I won't guarantee he will get a job." He huffed to me. "Now go, shoo. This no place for a woman. "

"Thank you. That's all I asked." I say politely as I could and gave a slight bow if my head. Then turned and walked away home with Mr. Harrison.

Tonight is going to be a hell of a night.

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sadattemptofawriter · 2 years

Text

Dual Nature (Tomas Shelby x female OC)

New series - coming soon.

Note: this was originally meant to be a reader insert series but I got carried away with choosing names. I chose Byron for the male persona and then the rest just came poring down.

But if you want to touch can read is as a reader insert. I didn't include much of any physical depictions.

Season one of the series is in approximately 8 chapters. Planned out but haven't been written yet.

Also, I'm going to have an eye surgery soon so updates will be slow for a month or two until I get better.

Maine character:

Minerva Griffin, a 26 year old lady of mix of Irish and British blood. Once an upper middle class lady with a passion for violin now lives in a small hole in the wall room in waterly lane of Birmingham. She has sold everything she's owned before leaving London, all except an old violin and a gold pocket watch, the only thing left of her late father.

Father and six brothers passed away in France. Mother remarried and moved to America with her new husband. The new husband, refused to care for another man's child and that's how Minerva ended up, homeless in Birmingham.

Mr. Byron Griffin, about 19 years of age and of mixed blood. Irish and British. He was too young to serve in France and by the time he could, it ended. Just wants an honest job, preferably working away from communists and people in general.

Father and four brothers passed away in France. Mother remarried and moved to America with her new husband. The new husband, refused to care for another man's child and that's how he ended up, homeless in Birmingham.

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x y/n #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby x you #thomas shelby #arthur shelby #john shelby #polly gray #finn shelby #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #Dual Nature

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sadattemptofawriter · 2 years

Text

The Boy in the Window 6 ~ Tommy Shelby x Reader (Series)

Chapter Summary: Talk of strike, Charlie's questions and a scare push (Y/N) further than she would have liked.

Notes: Well, well, well, welcome back! Thank you so much for all your lovely comments on the precious parts and your continued interest. We are about at the halfway point, so let's find out how New Year's Eve has changed Tommy and (Y/N)'s relationship- I hope you enjoy! I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Here, you can find my [Masterlist] and the [Series Masterlist]

Warning: Canon conforming mention of violence. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Expect spoilers for Peaky Blinders Season 1-4.

Wordcount: 4766

Part 6

[Previously]

On New Year's Eve, a wall had come down. She hadn't heard the crash, nor had she felt the earth rumble, but in the light of the fading debris, it was hard to deny. It wasn't each and every wall they had built around themselves, not even close, but it was a wall that no longer existed.

And (Y/N) Hale found that she was no longer afraid of Tommy Shelby.

She no longer flinched when she saw his figure in the window or heard the way he knocked on the back door. She was still nervous around him, but it was a different kind of nervous. It still made her stomach flutter, but it no longer made her feel sick to her stomach and while her skin tingled, it didn't itch with the anxiety to remove herself from his reach. Not now, not when she knew just how gentle his touch could be.

He sensed it too, that change, and seemed to prefer it infinitely to what they had before, because he came around. Not just occasionally, but more frequently, so frequently in fact that she now always set the table for him too, just in case.

Unless it was lunch, he was there more often than he wasn't. Sometimes he came earlier, whenever time would allow and then he'd sit and watch Charlie. Or sometimes he would come and join her in the kitchen.

And so she found herself one afternoon sitting at her kitchen desk, cutting up carrots right next to Tommy Shelby himself, who was making sure the potato water didn’t boil over, leaning against the counter with a cigarette between his lips, listening to the distant chatter of children playing in the living room.

She soon realised that, even now, there were several different versions of Tommy Shelby, and one in particular only showed his face when the children were in bed, when the fire filled the living room with warmth and when she seemed to be the last living soul in Small Heath who had not been claimed by slumber.

He seemed younger then, and more vulnerable than she would have thought possible. Perhaps, by now, his body remembered, even if his mind did not.

Sometimes he would talk, mostly of old times before the war, and sometimes, though a lot rarer, even about what was happening now. Some nights he would just stare into the fireplace, and she would watch him- the sharpness of his jaw, the thick outline of his lips, those bright eyes with that bottomless darkness in them, but also light too, which he kept locked away from the world.

Of course, it wasn't always like this. Many evenings, he was away too late for her to be awake for his return even if she had wanted to. Some times he'd run in and out with nothing but a few words.

But overall, the greatest beneficiary from that wall coming down was Charlie, whose little face lit up every time he saw his father sitting at the kitchen table or gracing the sofa.

Even Emma had gotten used to him, and maybe even grew to like this curiosity of a man because he took his time to answer all her questions, which were many and more.

Today, they were all sitting down for dinner, the four of them, her across from Tommy and the children across from each other.

It was too early for Tommy to eat, but (Y/N) had always eaten with Emma so she ate with them now, while he sat on his chair next to the window, a cigarette between his lips and the rolled up newspaper next to his empty plate.

(Y/N) had already seen Emma throw glances at it several times before she finally reached over and picked it up with a frown.

Putting it down in front of her, she braced her hands on the table and glared at it in the way some wartime minister would study battle plans.

"What's this when it's finished?", (Y/N) wanted to know after a while.

Slowly Emma took her finger and began to trace one of the larger letters.

"That's an S.", She announced a triumphant grin on her face.

"How do you know?", Charlie wanted to know, leaning closer at once.

"Because it looks like a snake. See. Sssssnake is S."

She traced it once more.

"Here, look.", Tommy said, taking off his golden signet ring and handing it to his son.

"Another S."

"S.", Charlie repeated, his fingers brushing over the engraving.

"Why do you have an S on your ring, Dad?", He asked as he twisted it between his fingers.

"For Shelby."

"But Sh doesn't sound like s!", Emma argued at once.

"If you take an S and add a h it's sh.", He explained as he took the ring back from Charlie.

“Not S-eitsch?”

“No, Sh.”

Emma huffed in disapproval, but it didn’t last long.

"Is that sh too?", She asked and pointed at the headline of the newspaper.

"No, that's a t.", He said. "S-t-rike."

"Strike.", She repeated, diligently analysing the dark marks, while mumbling under her breath.

"S t."

"What strike? Like a lightning strike?", She asked, settling back down on her chair and picking up her fork.

"No. It's a worker's strike.", (Y/N) said and then looked to the household expert on these matters, not knowing how to explain it to the children.

With a sigh, he leaned back.

"Imagine you're the captain of the boat."

"A boat of pirates?", Charlie asked.

His father nodded.

"That way you are the boss. And you decide how much everyone gets from the treasure. But you're not alone on the boat. You've got the other pirates who help with the oars and the sail because it takes more than one man to sail one, yes?"

Both children nodded.

"Now imagine you're out at sea and one day all the other pirates aren't working the oars or raising the sail. They're just sitting on deck and doing nothing."

"Why would they do that?", Emma asked.

"Because they want more money and because they think that the Captain can't sail the ship without them. So they tell him that they will only keep sailing the ship if he gives them three more gold coins each. And because the captain can't sail the ship alone, they think he has to agree."

"Or they'll throw him overboard.", Emma laughed.

Tommy Shelby choked on his drink, coughing violently as his eyes turned teary- staring at Emma with a mixture of shock and disbelief.

(Y/N) couldn't help the snort of amusement. She quickly raised her napkin up and covered her mouth to hide her grin, but the fabric did nothing to stop the sound of her giggle, even though she tried anything in her power to hide it in a cough of her own before biting down on the inside of her lip.

From across the kitchen table, he shook his head slowly. And yet there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Unbelievable.", He muttered, drawing out the words. "Not only the factory workers and me family, now you're up against me too, eh?"

(Y/N) felt her cheeks burn but not in a bad way, not only at least.

"You started it.", She reminded him, still unable to stop her grin.

"What's so funny?", Charlie demanded to know, looking from her to his father and back.

"(Y/N)'s being naughty.", Tommy told his son, clicking his tongue as if he was scolding her. “Tsk tsk tsk.”

Charlie's wide-eyed surprise was met by Emma's breathless delight.

"Mummy!", She exclaimed, finding it even more hilarious when she couldn't hide the heat that rose to her head.

"Mummy, he said you were naughty!"

"I don't know what he's talking about.", She insisted. "After all, he brought up the boat comparison."

She quickly took a sip of water to have something to do with her face except just feeling it burn with a flush.

"Did I now?", He wanted to know, leaning back.

"Of course.", She argued.

"What would you have said?"

It was a challenge, she knew and so she turned to the children.

"You know, when people want to make things better for them and others, it's always best if they work together. Then, they can come up with a good plan and other people are more likely to listen to them. So when people aren't happy with something they have to do, they go together in a group to tell the person doing it to them that they will go on strike until they change things and because a group is always stronger than just one person, it works."

"Sometimes.", Tommy muttered.

It was another challenge, she knew, but not one voiced at her.

In a way, Jessie Eden had chosen the worst time for her activity, with all the Shelbys here, on edge and with a lot of time on their hands.

She could only hope there wouldn't be any actual throwing overboard happening.

"I'm going on strike.", Emma announced after having thought on it for a while. "and Charlie to."

"I am?", Charlie asked, as surprised as the adults were. But Emma nodded with the age-old certainty of a priest and the righteousness of a revolutionary.

"We're going on strike. We're no longer eating our vegetables until we get chocolate pudding every night."

Charlie decided to assess her reaction before either joining in or voicing his protest, glancing at her suspiciously. But it was Tommy that spoke.

"That's not how it works, Emma.", He said. "Out of all of us here, your Mum's the only one that can go on strike."

"Why?", She demanded to know.

"Well,", Tommy said, leaning back in his chair. "Imagine one morning your Mum decided just to stay in bed. She won't wake you up. She won't warm your clothes in front of the oven and she won't help you get dressed. You won't get your warm milk and who will make you breakfast? And lunch? Or dinner? Who'll buy all the food and make sure your home is nice and clean?"

(Y/N) bit the inside of her lip as she stared down at her plate.

"No food, no warm milk, no cuddles, no hugs, no songs."

"Not even good night songs?", Charlie asked, his jaw dropping.

Tommy nodded.

"So you better be good, or your Mum might decide to strike.", He told Emma, who frowned.

Then her face lit up with a wide smile and she pushed her chair back.

In a split second she had climbed into her lap, both legs dangling on either side of hers as she smothered herself into (Y/N)'s chest who barely had time to put her fork down.

"But she's not going to go on strike.", She announced as one arm snaked up to caress the side of her face.

"You sure about that?", Tommy asked.

She nodded eagerly. "Cause she's my Mummy. And she loves me. And she won't ever stop being my Mummy. So she'll always give me all the hugs and all the kisses I want!"

To prove her point she pulled (Y/N)'s face down to kiss her and get a kiss of her own.

"Right you are, Love.", She said, stroking over the top of her head.

Then she sat her down onto her two feet again.

"Now no more talk of striking while you still have some vegetables to eat."

She rolled her eyes, but (Y/N) noticed that she ate them all and without protest.

She was also particularly good and easy during bedtime, unlike Charlie, who slouched and lingered.

“Come on, Charlie, time for bed.”, she called from Emma’s room.

When he didn’t come, she went to search for him.

She found him sitting on the first steps of the stairs, already in his pyjamas.

“Did you say good night to your Dad?”, she asked.

He didn’t respond, his head leaning against the bannister.

“Charlie?”, she asked suspiciously, dropping Emma’s and his dirty clothes in the basket before she turned to him.

“What’s wrong?”

She crouched down next to him and stroked the side of his face.

Without looking at her, he shook his head.

“Charlie?”, she asked again, feeling his forehead to make sure he had the temperature. But there was nothing.

“Is it true what Emma said…at dinner?”, he asked softly, leaning his head against the bannister. “That you won’t ever stop being her mummy because you love her? That’s why you do all the things you do…”

“Yes.”, she confirmed, as she sat down on the step next to him.

“My mum doesn’t do these things.”, he whispered. “She can’t 'cause she’s dead. So she can’t love me.”

(Y/N) felt her heart drop.

And for a moment she felt lost - as if she had been pulled underwater, ripped downstream by a currant stronger than the power in her arms and legs. And she had nothing left to hold on to.

But she knew what he wanted. He was reaching out into the emptiness and the only thing he could possibly hold onto was her, so she had to make sure he could. And that she was steadfast enough to provide the comfort he sought.

So she took a deep breath to gather herself before answering.

“Just because your mum is in heaven, does not mean she doesn’t love you anymore.”

He only huffed, clearly not believing her.

“You know, Emma’s dad is in heaven too.”, she told him, using that storyteller voice of hers she knew he liked. “He’s all the way in heaven and he still loves her from up there.”

She took her sigh of relief too soon, as Charlie’s head snapped around to look at her.

“But Dad doesn’t think God’s real. And if God’s not real he can’t take people up to heaven and so my mum’s not there!”, he insisted.

This is so far above my weight class, (Y/N) thought, but she was in the ring now, and so it was too late for her to chicken out.

For his sake more than her own. He was still too young to lose faith.

She smoothed the skirts of her dress down and patted her knees.

At once, had scrambled onto her lap, burying his head in the crook of her neck as his hands coiled into the fabric of her dress, a tell-tale sign of a desperate need for security.

She leaned her head against his and allowed her arms to wrap around him, gently rocking him.

“Darling,”, she began slowly, “I don’t think your Dad doesn’t believe God is real. I just think that maybe your Dad doesn’t like him very much.”

That was a lie.

She was rather certain that Tommy Shelby didn’t believe in God at all, but it was a lie, she hoped, she’d be forgiven for. It wasn’t a lie to hurt after all, but one to cause comfort.

“Why not?”, Charlie whispered, his lips brushing against her skin.

Because he had seen war. He had seen death and slaughter without mercy. Because if there was a God he was either not all powerful, or not all knowing or he simply did not care enough to save them. But those questions were difficult, and not hers to answer. It was easier to just believe. Even if it was the cowardly thing to do.

Of course she could not say that to Charlie so instead she stroked the back of his head.

“Because God could have been kinder to your father.”

Him and many others.

“Does God mind that Dad doesn’t like him?”, Charlie wanted to know, his fingers stroking down her sides, along the pattern in the fabric.

“No.”

“Why?”

She smiled softly as she held him tighter.

“Do you remember that in church we sometimes call God Father?”, she asked.

He nodded.

“That’s because he is. In a way, God’s a Dad.”, she said. “He loves you and everyone else, even if you are angry at him, or even if he is a bit angry at you. Even if you’re hurting, frightened or upset.”

Leaning her chin on the top of his head she allowed herself to close her eyes.

Her interpretation of faith wouldn’t fly with the church, but who were those men in long robes to have more authority to speak on God than she did? She doubted they even knew any more about God than she did, spending their days looking into those Bible texts all day long. Didn’t the Bible say to appreciate and protect his work in the real world, and not just in holy places? (Y/N) was fairly sure she knew a lot more about the real world than they ever would.

And so she felt no guilt, as she continued.

“Even if you don’t believe in him. He will still love you and take care of you. Cause that’s what Dads do.”

“And mums.”, Charlie added, looking up at her.

“And mums.”

He tightened his grip on her and gave her a squeeze as if he feared she could slip away. She let him, and she held him until he was ready to let go, before taking him up to Emma’s room. By now, there were two children’s beds here - both new and both brought in by Tommy a few nights ago so that they no longer had to share.

She read and she sang and then she kissed them good night and tucked them in.

It was no longer a surprise to find Tommy Shelby awaiting her with expecting eyes, leaning back on her sofa, whisky in hand.

She offered him a small smile, but he only stared.

"Do you believe that?", He asked.

"Pardon?"

"What you told Charlie."

"Oh.", She whispered as her blood ran cold. "I…I didn't know you heard. I'm sorry."

It wasn't her place to speak on these things to another person’s child but at the same time, Charlie had asked. And she had to tell him something.

"Do you believe what you said?", He asked once more.

A slight frown appeared on her forehead.

"I think so.", She admitted.

He took another sip of whisky and shook his head.

"Why? Your father wasn't much better than mine and I like him a lot more now that he's dead."

She blinked quickly- up until now she had not known what happened to Arthur Shelby Senior. But she could not claim to mourn him, even if he had never been cruel to her. Only her judgement was not the one that mattered. His was.

"That's why I said Dad and not father.", She said. "And man can be a father. But not all can or get to be a dad."

Her eyes drifted over to the picture on the mantelpiece and the man it showed. She saw him more in Emma than she saw him in that brass frame.

"Which one am I, eh?", He asked, his voice rougher and lower than she was used to. And his eyes shone.

"Which one do you want to be?", She asked, using the same soft tone she had used with Charlie only a little while earlier.

He snorted and shook his head, his hair falling in his face.

"As if that's all it takes."

His snarl was cruel, and it didn't pass her by without cutting her. But at the same time, she knew he was only lashing out to hide his own pain, and in this case fear.

"I think it's a big part. The most important part, really. Because if you don't want it, you won't get through the sleepless nights, the messes, the frustration, the fights and the exhaustion."

Tommy stared at her for a moment, as if weighing her words against the entirety of the world. Whatever judgement he came to, he kept from her. Instead, he slowly held out his hand.

She took it and let him pull her onto the sofa next to her, but to her surprise he did not let go of it, but chose to hold on.

"You're so soft.", He remarked after a few silent minutes had passed.

"Soft as in stupid?", She asked. He couldn't mean her hand. They were far from soft, with callouses and needle work scars.

"No.", He said. "Soft like soft."

That told her little more.

"How can you still be so soft in a place like this?"

Now she understood his meaning and she sighed.

It was true, hard places breed hard people and Small Heath had its fair share of those. Perhaps she was stupid, or at least more stupid than most, more naive, maybe even weaker. But at the same time she was far from the only one in this part of the city who was like she was, at least to people they know. To outsiders, it was a different story.

Still, he wanted an answer.

"Emma I think.", She admitted. "Children have such a unique way of seeing the world, as if everything is good, or at least supposed to be good."

"But it's not, is it?", He asked. "Not even fucking close."

"That doesn't mean we get to stop trying.", She said, sharper than she had intended.

It made his head snap around and his eyes widened the same way Charlie's did when she had to scold him.

So she softened her tone, before she voiced something that had left a bitter taste in her mouth long before tonight.

"You should talk to him.", she said cautiously.

"I talk to Charlie."

She picked pieces of dust off of the fabric of her dress instead of meeting his eyes.

"About his mother, I mean."

He pulled his hand away as if he had burned himself and shifted in his seat. Despite the crackling fire, the temperature seemed to have dropped at an instance.

"I don't want to talk about her.", he snarled through clenched teeth.

"And you don't have to.", (Y/N) agreed, "Not to me and not to your siblings or your aunt, not to anyone really, except Charlie."

When she looked at him again, she was met with a face turned to stone, harsher than she had seen in a long time.

"He has a right to know her, and you owe it to her to make sure she's more to her son than a picture on the wall. He doesn't remember her and he won't know her, not unless you talk to him."

Thomas Shelby exhaled the way a bull would exhale before charging, every muscle in his back so tense she thought they might burst.

But then, to her surprise, he dropped his head into his hands and sighed, hiding his face from view.

“Mummy?”, Emma asked. “Can we go to the church green today?”

“I see no reason against it. Tommy?”

He raised his hands, resigning himself to her judgement.

Before he had time to lower them, a gunshot cut through the early morning air.

Emma flinched so hard, she dropped the cup of milk. It shattered into a thousand pieces and spilled milk all over her nightgown and the floor.

She wasn’t the only one who flinched.

For a split second they were frozen as (Y/N) desperately stared at Tommy for guidance, for help, for anything.

“Upstairs.”, he ordered as he leapt to his feet. “Down and away from the windows. Don’t let anyone in!”

With that he ran off.

“What’s happening?”, Charlie asked, sensing his father’s distress.

“A car’s got problems.”, she lied, lifting Emma up so that she wouldn’t cut her feet on the shards, and taking Charlie by the arm.

“Come on, you heard your father!”, she insisted sharply. "Go- go."

She ushered them up the stairs as quickly as she could and into Emma's bedroom. Out of all the places in her house, this was the one she considered the safest.

She drew the curtains and sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall.

"Come here, both of you!", She snapped. Both children came without argument, huddling into her.

They knew that this wasn't normal, that something had happened which frightened them- and if the adults were frightened, children weren't far behind.

Now, in the silence, she could do nothing more than to hold the children tight as the fear set in- but it wasn't just fear. It was icy cold terror. It found its way under her skin, through her veins and into the depth of her heart, freezing all of her until even breathing became a chore.

Oh God- oh God please.

She didn't even know what to pray for, or what not to pray for.

What if someone came in? What would she do then? What could she even do? She had no gun- and she couldn't fight.

But if someone entered, she couldn't just stay up here and wait to be found with the children. Or rather, have the children be found with her.

She'd have to leave them, have to go down and lie and bargain and do whatever needed to be done.

And only hope they would leave her alive and the children unnoticed.

Yes, she could get through that, through anything. She would have to and so she would.

There simply was no other option.

"Mummy?", Emma finally asked, "Mummy, it's not a car, is it?"

It snapped her out of her almost trance-like focus.

Her eyes were wide and filled with unshed tears.

Oh my darling girl.

She stroked over her head and kissed her temple, hoping the way only desperate people could hope that this wouldn't be the last time.

"Sometimes cars have problems.", She told her. "And they make bad noises and if one doesn't take care of them properly, they become very dangerous and could even explode into a thousand little pieces."

"And Dad's gone to take care of it?", Charlie asked.

She nodded, pulling him in tighter too.

They waited for what seemed like half an eternity, until Emma's stomach began to rumble, but she knew not to ask for breakfast. She probably could tell by the devilish focus (Y/N) had on the door and the way she listened for everything, for anything.

When she heard the movement in front of the door, she felt like she was falling.

"Stay here.", She told them. "Don't make a sound, and don't come. No matter what happens."

No matter what you might hear.

The children closed the gap her absence left at once, Mrs Tatters and Duffie between them.

When she reached the top of the stairs, she could hear the key being turned on the lock- leaving time for another silent prayer.

It opened slowly, and the person that had done it took the time to close it from the inside and lock it thoroughly.

Even though his silhouette was painfully recognisable she waited until she could see him in full light to be sure.

"Oh thank God.", She whispered, clutching the bannister as she no longer trusted her legs alone to hold her.

"Just me.", Tommy Shelby said, staring up at her. "Just me. It's alright. It was just Arthur shooting a fucking bottle."

In that moment, she could have laughed.

In that moment, she could have cried.

But first she had to calm the children.

"Dad, Dad, did you fix the car?", Charlie asked.

"The car?", He asked, until he caught on.

"Yeah. All fine, my boy. All as it should be."

"Does that mean we get breakfast now?", Emma asked.

"Yeah- think so.", Tommy told her.

(Y/N) felt foreign in her own body as she descended the steps carefully.

Once she stood in the kitchen door she noticed the white puddle on the floor and the shards.

She had forgotten all about it.

But the children were hungry, so she hurried to make a few sandwiches and told them that they could eat in the living room.

That excited the both of them and gave her time to clean up.

Kneeling on the floor with a bit of old newspaper in one hand, she tried to collect the shards with the other. But as she reached for the pieces, they blurred in front of her, becoming one with the white milk, slipping from her grasp.

“Oh bloody hell!”, she hissed under her breath, cursing herself for her foolishness, for her shaky hands, for the fact that she couldn’t just focus on the simple task ahead of her.

"(Y/N)?”, a distant voice asked as she tried once more.

“Hey, hey, hey- slow down!”

There was a sharpness in his tone that made her stop and look up to him as her eyes began to burn.

“Oh (Y/N).”, he sighed, as he knelt down in front of her. His hands reached out and clasped hers, and only then did she realise how violently they shook.

“I’m sorry.”, she whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m just being foolish.”

She wiped her forehead with her sleeve, as she took a shaking breath.

“It’s alright,”, he assured her. “It’s alright, eh? C'mere. C’mere!”

A large hand found the back of her head and pulled her in - and she let him.

His arms wrapped around her as she closed her eyes and buried her face in his white shirt.

He smelled of cigarettes and the scent of his shaving cream, of earth and of smoke from an open fire. And maybe it was that similarity, which brought tears to her eyes.

“I didn’t know what to do.”, she whispered. “I wouldn’t have been able to do anything. Nothing at all. If they came, I could have done nothing.”

“But they didn’t come.”, he told her, stroking the back of her neck. “They didn’t and they won’t.”

You don’t know that.

You can’t know that.

John is dead.

Mr. Gray is in the hospital.

And you can’t know that they won’t come.

“It was just Arthur being foolish - just fucking Arthur.”, he told her, swaying slightly with her in his arms.

She forced her eyes shut and leaned into him, into the warmth of his body and the strength of his arms.

“You’re safe. The children are safe. It’s alright. I promise, it’s alright.”

He told her again and again until she allowed herself to believe it.

“What’s wrong?”, she heard Charlie's voice.

(Y/N) pulled herself away from Tommy’s embrace and saw his son standing in the doorway, his now empty plate in hand.

But she didn’t know what to say to him.

“(Y/N)'s not feeling well.”, he told him. “So you’ll take her and make sure she sits down in the living room and I’ll make some tea, eh?”

“You don’t have t-”, she tried, but he shook his head.

Diligently, Charlie stepped forward, taking her hand in his, stroking over it with the other.

"Come now.", He told her, eager to fulfill the task set before him by his father.

End of Part 6

Part 7 will be out on Sunday

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