#memories of polly gray

[call-sign-shark]

Of Bending and Breaking || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Always being the one who cares for others comes with a price: you break down, but the most unexpected person is here for you: Tommy, the man you were forced to marry.

Words: 2,3k

TW: Hurt/Comfort, very tiny mention of past sexual assault, no proofreading 'cause it comes from clearing my drafts.

Notes: Aunt Isabella's is a tribute to my own aunt Isabelle who, unfortunately, died because of cancer a few years ago.

It all started with Polly shaking Tommy like a tree, her thin hands firmly grabbing his nephew’s broad shoulders: “You can’t keep sabotaging yourself like this, Tom.” These were the words that left her quivering lips as she dragged his staggering frame to the bathroom and pushed his face into the bathtub right under the tap. When the freezing water splashed all over his neck, Tommy opened his blank eyes wide and inhaled sharply, as if he had suddenly come back to life. Since Grace’s awful death, the gangster was the shadow of his former self. When he wasn’t waging a senseless war with Father Hughes and the Italian, or when he wasn’t keeping his buzzing mind busy with work, Tommy usually numbed himself with a deadly combination of whisky and opium until his deep-seated pain became bearable. It was the night he almost overdosed that Polly decided to take charge of his nephew and found him a new wife, in the hope of soothing his nephew’s mind and finding a mother figure for poor little Charlie. The idea had obviously sent Tommy in a fit of anger but Polly Gray couldn’t care less.

Regarding your own situation, it was not the opium nor the loss of a dear lover that had led you to Birmingham’s most dangerous man but rather the bump in your belly. Aunt Isabella had understood what you were suffering from the moment you had stormed out of the vardo to throw up your breakfast in the nearest bush. The tall and lean woman, whose light brown and curly mane danced in the cold autumn wind, had looked at you right in the eyes and raised one of her thin eyebrows. If there was something pleasant with her, it was that words weren’t necessary.

Yet, later she encountered Polly, with whom she had been a great friend since childhood, and explained that a powerful American man had forced his seeds in you during his stay in England. Not willing to go through the traumatic experience of aborting, Isabella only saw one solution to your problem: you needed a husband who could protect you and your future baby from the evil man with his scarred lip. A wedding would be your salvation. At the realization of what Aunt Isabella had planned for you, you tried to run away from the camp in the middle of the night but she knew you too well and soon caught you, her sly hand firmly grabbing your wrist: “Y/N! It’s for your sake! He’s rich, he needs a wife and he is feared! You’ll be safe with him, don’t you understand?” She explained, cupping your face with her long fingers adorned with claws painted in red and far too many rings. “I don’t need a man to protect me! I don’t need anyone. He’s older and he’s a criminal! Who’s going to protect me from him eh? Have you think ‘bout that?” You cried, the soft light of the sunrise turning your tears into liquid gold.

But still, you wedded him and what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life turned out to be a dull event during which you dissociated the whole time. The only memories you had in mind were two piercing and frightening turquoise eyes staring right at your soul and soft whiskey-tasting lips stealing a quick peck from your cherry lips. A kiss devoid of any form of affection. And then, the groom left.

From what Aunt Isabella told you, your husband had spent most of the celebrations with his brothers, drinking and taking bets outside of Arrow House. Months had passed and still, you felt estranged to this place and its staff. The only moments your heart lightened were when Aunt Isabella visited you, or when Charlie spent time with you, otherwise you remained emotionally closed, trapped in your own mind. Overall you could not complain: You had a house far too big for you with plenty of workers willing to exhaust every one of your wishes. Charlie was a sweet boy, who loved you with all his heart even if you were well aware that you’ll never replace his mother. As for the Shelby clan, they were cordial with you without being really friendly either. And there was Tommy…

Cold and distant Tommy, who you only saw late at night when he discretely slipped under the bedsheet and turned his back to you without uttering a single word. Busy Tommy, whose replies remained concise and spoken with a quiet husky voice each time you asked him something — at least he talked to you a little bit. Trapped in a loveless marriage, that was what you were: Tommy was more a stranger, a mere gust of wind in your life, than the love of your life.

Still, the gangster stayed true to his words and he provided for everything, never refusing to give you money when you asked, and protecting you from the man who had taken your innocence. He even gifted you a wonderful stallion because he knew how much you missed riding. In exchange for his protection and riches, all you had to do was take care of Charlie and do your best to be there for your husband when his darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

You found out about the nightmares shortly after your wedding and quickly decided to do something about it. When he woke up screaming and drenched in sweat after tasting the tunnels’ dirt and Grace’s crimson blood in his troubled sleep, you always cradle him, your fingers losing themselves in his wet dark hair to pet his head gently. At first, you feared his reaction, expecting the infamous Tommy Shelby to push you and not-so-kindly ask you to keep your distance but, to your greatest surprise, he never did. Instead, he would bury his face in your cleavage, panting and trembling, and let you reassure him. Just like he let you bring dinner to him each time he drowned himself in paperwork and forgot to eat. He never commented on your cooking skills though, even if he always handed back empty plates.

The blood on his skin? You cleaned it.

The wounds of his flesh? You never failed to patched them up.

The hole in his heart? You tried to seal it off with caresses, soft kisses, and shoulder massages. Maybe one day he would slowly turn his iciness into affection. Little did you know that he needed it. And by it he needed you. Just like the whole family. How many times did you walk the streets of Birmingham at night, seeking for Arthur and then bringing him home to take care of a wasted and high him? Far too many to keep track. Similarly, you had spent countless evenings helping Ada when she felt overwhelmed, either nursing Karl or cleaning her house when, just like her brother, she overworked herself. And finally, Polly could never thank you enough for everything you did to soothe her mind after the gallows, still haunted by the bite of the hanging rope on her throat.

“Thanks Poppy.” Arthur muttered, the gravel in his voice coated with shame now that you were down clearing and disinfecting his split knuckles. The oldest brother had started to affectionately call you so for the sole reason that, according to him, you must probably grow better when blood was considering how much you had seen when patching the Shelby siblings. “Sorry for errr… For the mess.” He went on, his steel blue eyes fleeing yours.

“That’s okay.” You replied in Romani, “You, sweet idiot.” Endeared by how surprisingly soft Arthur’s harsh complexions could turn, you couldn’t help but gently put your hand on one of his cheeks. And during this tender display of affection, Arthur was convinced he had caught sight of a smile — a scarce event barely happening on your beautiful but resigned face. Comforted by the warmth of your palm, he leaned into your touch and looked at you through dark lashes, his lids half-closed.

“Tommy’s one lucky bastard to have ya for himself, eh."

"Let's both flee together then." You teased, the familiar tone of Romani language rendered even more melodious by your siren-like voice.

"Don't tempt me, little one." Arthur replied, softer than intended and probably only half-joking.

The oldest Shelby brother had barely closed the door when your smile disappeared and tears flooded your eyes. Admittedly, spending months of repressing your own anguish didn’t do any good to you despite thinking that focusing on others would have helped. Quite the contrary, all those negative emotions you had left on the back burner turned into a silent and deadly parasite that was eating you up. Dragging your tired frame to the cold and empty marital bedroom, you curled up in a ball in a corner of the room, your bruised knees pressed against your chest, “Positive. You gotta stay positive and push forwards y’see Y/N? Do the right things for the family…” You whispered to yourself as your breath started to quicken for the ball of sorrow in your throat was growing more and more. Yes, you had to smile and say that all was just fine because you knew you were lucky to be here and that you hadn’t any real reason to complain now according to the rest of the world. And yet, the truth was you were tired. So tired and overwhelmed by everything around you. With your wild soul trapped here in the mighty walls of Arrow House, you could not help but drown in an excruciating feeling of worthlessness.

You were lost in a world too difficult for you to understand. Lost and unprepared for a life that asked for too much. When you were living in the vardo with Aunt Isabella life seemed so much easier despite the lack of money and, sometimes, food. Prior to your wedding, she used to tell you that everything would become clear once you’d be a wife and a mother. You’d be an adult adult, you see? But she lied. They all lied. Even with a husband and kids, you still felt like a scared and confused child, who wanted to hide under the blanket of her warm bed and never face the world ever again. These concerns of yours? You never shared because you wanted the Shelby to keep seeing you as a reassuring presence— moreover, God knew how much their broken hearts needed your silent care.

Bringing your trembling fingers to your mouth, you muffled a first sob, convinced it would be enough to keep you from crying. What you didn’t expect was to burst into tears, uncontrollably weeping. After all this time forcing yourself to be strong, your mind had enough. As your heart-wrenching cries echoed in the room they muffled Tommy’s footsteps that were coming closer and closer. When the door flung open, you did not even move, lost in a spiral of pain and psychological exhaustion.

“Y/N?!” Tommy called you, his usual coldness swept away by a surge of panic. He closed the distance between you and him with hastened steps, and put one of his knees on the floor to be at your level, “What’s wrong, ay?” His husky voice asked, worries thickening his Brummie accent even more. You hiccuped and raised your flooded eyes towards him, parting your lips to answer. Yet, as soon as your gaze met his turquoise iris you started weeping again, louder this time. Words were at a loss by dint of never having the chance to express what you felt throughout your life. “Bloody Hell, Y/N! Speak!” Tommy hissed, his heart now drumming in his chest at the sight of his young and always-so-strong wife crumbling in bits in front of him. Never in his life, he had felt so powerless, not even in the tunnels… And, God, he hated it.

“N-nothing. I don’t… I don’t even know it’s just that— I’m so fucking tired, and lost, and confused, and afraid!” You spoke with a very fast pace, spitting years and years of repressed emotions flowing from you all the while feeling deeply ashamed of your mental breakdown. When you were done venting, you simply turned your head and waved off the topic, tears still rolling down your reddened cheeks “Anyway! You’ve got — more important things to do.”

“Stop it, Y/N,” He scolded, low voice rumbling in his chest. His strong and calloused hands, damaged by the war and hard work, cupped your face with a softness you didn’t know he possessed. For the first time in your life, his grip felt utterly reassuring as if you knew these scarred palms were not going to let you fall apart. Never. “You’re what’s important right now.” With that being said, Tommy leaned his forehead against yours and his enchanting eyes soon met yours to force you to focus on nothing else but the vast blue oceans which composed them. “I want you to calm down.”

“I can’t, I can’t—“ You tried to speak but you couldn’t, struggling to breathe under the crushing weight of your panic attack. Your mouth gaped, looking for the oxygen it couldn’t find.

“Oi!” Tommy said louder. So loud that his voice managed to overcome the cacophony of your beating heart and the buzzing sound of your anxiety that filled your head, “I want you to breathe with me, Y/N. Alright? You can do that for me, ay?” He asked, his eyebrows slightly frowned and charming crowfeet appearing at the corner of his eyes — how odd it was to see Tommy’s face veiled with something else than unsettling placidity. Caught off guard by the sudden realization of how close he was, you quieted down a little bit and soon followed the pattern of his breathing.

One long inhale through the nose, one longer exhale through the mouth, and a short pose.

Do it again.

Your shaky hands slowly grabbed his wrists in a desperate attempt to anchor you to reality. This, as well as the focus you had on his mesmerizing complexions.

His long dark lashes — you inhaled slowly.

His cat-like turquoise iris — you exhaled.

His salient cheekbones — You stopped breathing for a very short while.

The myriad of freckles — “Breathe with me, Y/N.”

The soft, hoarse lilt guided you through the dark and thick fog of your own brain, just like a lighthouse. Coming back to clearer waters, your body finally relaxed and fell almost limp in his arms. And once again he caught you, keeping you all safe against his chest. Tommy’s voice, low and steady, resonated one last time in the bedroom with a reassuring warmth as he uttered the simple yet powerful phrase, "I'm here." Each word carefully enunciated, carrying a quiet strength that soothed and reassured, like a comforting anchor in a stormy sea.

Keep your writers motivated: Reblog and/or comment if you liked it, you filthy animal! o/ English is not my first language btw.

Taglist: @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @raincoffeeandfandoms @kishie8 @zablife @alexandra-001 @dearshelby @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996 @vanhelsingsbigtoe @red-riding-wood

#Tommy Shelby #Tommy Shelby x reader #Tommy Shelby imagine #Peaky blinders imagine #Peaky blinders x reader #Peaky blinders #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby x y/n #Tommy Shelby smut #Thomas Shelby #Thomas Shelby x reader #Cillian Murphy #peaky blinders x y/n

[thehardy-boys]

The Platform (Tommy Shelby x Reader)

Hey! Its literally been like forever but I've had some time to myself and actually written something. This was not requested or anything but I just got inspired with all the new content recently. Anyways, pls enjoy. It's a series so there will be more parts to the story.

Warnings: Sadness, negative thoughts, flirting if you squint (In the future -- smut 😏)

Part 1

(y/n) hadn’t planned on ever coming back.

“I’ll put your tea here then mum. Alright?” (y/n) spoke fairly loudly so the elderly woman could hear. She was nearing eighty and she had lost most of her sight and hearing. She was a ghost nearing on a corpse. But there was no one else to look after her. As these kinds of responsibilities usually fall on the women, the daughters, they fell on (y/n) just the same.  

“I’m heading to work. Mrs. Iona will check in on you from time to time, alright?” The bedroom door was almost closed when she heard the slight mumble coming from the shriveled woman.

“Not supposed to be here. Don’t want her here. Take her away.”

She paused only for a moment suddenly hit with a wave of the past. The tide so strong it almost pulled her into its murky depths. But with the door closed and the sight of her mother taken away (y/n) turned her back and softly made her way out of her mother’s house.

She waved to Mrs. Iona as she shut the front gate and walked back down the street towards the main road. Her shoes already collecting the terrible coal dust.

She hated it here. The heavy air that the sunlight could never quite penetrate which resulted in the town being in a constant gloom. It made her skin crawl. The unhappiness was crippling. The drunkards already stumbling around the street at eleven o’clock in the morning, the starving children running back and forth, the haggard mothers one step closer to the grave and the dark alleys that were haunted with glistening knives, illegal pistols, and razor-sharp caps.

Get me out of here. Get me out of here. (y/n) screamed internally but she only pushed open the heavy wooden door of the newspaper agency and kindly greeted Mrs. Kelley the receptionist before making her way to the back of the building and sitting down at her desk. Another day. More editing. That was her lot in life: never to be the one writing and creating but only a ghost in the machine, a minion behind the scenes.

By the end of every long day at the newspaper house the words would blur into one huge muddle. She’d pack up her small bag, wish a good night to her boss Mr. Beavers, and head home. Her eyes would be sore and her brain throbbing with a headache. But that was just Small Heath, barely living.

(y/n) felt that she had something missing. She knew she had it when she was younger because of all her memories. The vibrancy of the trees she climbed, the scent of baking in the kitchen, the damp fur of their pet dogs after a rain storm. Everything was so vivid back then and full. Her eyes open and wanting, now she was shuttered, fragile, and tired. Her knees often ached and her neck sore from hunching over papers all day. She was decaying, slowly.

“(y/n)!” Her head popped up from her desk at the sound of her name. Polly Gray was making her way towards her. She was as formidable as (y/n) remembered. She rose up to return Polly’s hug.

“Mrs. Gray, It’s so nice to see you!” Polly squeezed a bit tighter. The warmth of her body rubbing off onto (y/n). She welcomed it. It had been so long since she had received any kind of touch.

“When the hell did you get back?”

“About a year now.”

“A year!? A whole year and you didn’t bother to drop me a line?” Her outrage wore the mask of humor but (y/n) could tell there was genuine worry, genuine hurt lurking behind it.

(y/n) shook her head in apology, “I know. I know. I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting to come back here and then a lot happened and I’ve just been so busy Mrs. Gray. I’m really sorry.”

“No, I know (y/n). I heard what happened. Awful stuff. I had no idea you were here dealing with it all. You should have asked for help.”

(y/n) began to shake her head and ward off Polly’s offer when her boss’s door opened up behind her.

“Ah, Mrs. Gray and Mr. Shelby do come in.” He gestured warmly into his office.

Polly rubbed her arm before stepping inside.

A tall man had been standing behind Polly. (y/n) hadn’t noticed him in the frenzy of the greeting but she didn’t need an introduction. Nobody in Small Heath did. He was just as the ladies described him at the grocers she went to weekly: cold, inscrutable, foreboding, and dangerous.  

(y/n) had lived in Small Heath only until she had turned thirteen and then her family had moved away. Her father had been close to Polly and consequently (y/n), over the years, had played with the young Shelby brothers. (y/n)’s older brother had gotten along well with Arthur and if she concentrated hard enough, she could remember playing hide and seek with Thomas and John Shelby. But it was all so long ago, and she realized she hadn’t seen any of them in over fifteen years. And yet she knew it was Thomas. She knew.

She wondered mildly if he remembered her, “(y/n) (l/n).” That was all he said with a quick nod he passed her by not glancing back and nor did she.

Polly left first and, on her way, reminded (y/n) to drop by. An hour or so later Thomas came out, as well. (y/n) was neck deep in the upcoming Sunday issue so she barely registered the figure standing next to her desk.

“Oh, Mr. Shelby! Did Mr. Beavers ask me to get you any forms?” She pushed away her paper hurriedly and stood up.

He shook his head slowly and continued to stare at her, hands deep in his pockets.

She tilted her head as a question, and he only shrugged slightly.

“I was trying to remember why you left, all those years ago.”

(y/n) sat back down. A flicker of fear coursed through her at the reminder of their family’s departure. A broken window, her father’s bruised face, and her mother’s hands constantly trembling.

“It wasn’t my decision; it was my parents.” She didn’t look up at him and instead pulled her papers back towards her. She didn’t want to sift through all those years. She could barely make it through the present.

He must have sensed the finality because he bid her good day and left but his stare stayed with her all day and even into the night. The frostiness of the blue. The condemnation they held for humanity.

Mr. Beavers explained the next morning that they were starting a partnership with Shelby Limited. They would be expanding their sports column to include more articles on the races. Mr. Beavers excitedly described the hope for a few informative articles on the intricacies of horse racing, training, and breeding. But it wasn’t just about horses Mr. Beavers went on, being attached to Shelby Limited allowed them an easy avenue for new stories and information. It was a ready-made news source.

“All this in exchange for what?” (y/n) asked.

“We give Mr. Shelby’s races publicity and well…occasionally we would publish or not publish certain articles for the company.”

(y/n) crossed her arms, “So they can censor us? What stops them from completely taking over the paper? What if next week they decide they don’t want the Theatre column? Evan and Nate would be out of the job.”

Mr. Beavers frantically shook his head, “It’s not like that, not like that at all. I know Mrs. Gray and I trust her. The company is not interested in that kind of control. I mean we’re only a small agency, (y/n).”

And thus, the partnership began and now not just (y/n) felt the steely stare of Mr. Shelby, but the entirety of the agency did.

It started slowly but Thomas began to come by once or twice a week. It was usually on Tuesdays and Thursdays. (y/n) learned from Mr. Beavers that they were working on a contract. She would here the tell-tale sound of expensive shoes on the marble floor and know even without looking up who it was. Thomas Shelby walked with such authority in his three piece suits all the young ladies at the agency were already gossiping about him during their lunch breaks. But (y/n) kept her distance.

She had always been an outsider in Small Heath. The community never welcomed her family, something to do with their Jewish ties. And now, after returning, people were even more wary. (y/n) could tell there were whispers behind her back. She ignored the fake apologies about the missing invitation when she caught her colleagues out for a bite to eat all together. It didn’t bother her, not really.

“Mr. Shelby, Mr. Beavers will be right out. His previous meeting’s running a bit late. Please sit down if you’d like.” She gestured to the few arm chairs by the window. He only nodded and sat. He lit his cigarette and did what he always seemed to do around her, stare. And she ignored him in favor of the monumental stack of paperwork in front of her.

“How much do they pay you here?” He asked out of the blue. His deep voice easily cutting through her concentration.

She looked over, “Minimum wage.”

“For all that?” He raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

(y/n) shrugged.

“You edit, organize, design, and manage each issue and only get minimum wage?”

“I’m not in a position to be picky, Mr. Shelby.” She bristled a bit.

He took another drag and let the smoke column upwards. He did look beautiful with the sunlight streaming in behind him. It caught the contours of his angular face and she thought yeah, I think I get it now.

He cleared his throat and sat back satisfied her attention was now on him, “Don’t you remember me?”

“Yes. I mean we were just kids.” She shrugged lightly.

“We met on the platform.” He took another inhale of his smoke, “After the war.”

(y/n) blinked.

“Yes, we did.” Her throat had gone dry.

He opened his mouth to continue but “(y/n)! I need the consumer reports.” It was Evelyn from the market section. Her plump red lips perking up at the sight of Thomas. (y/n) had the feeling Evelyn already knew he would be here; the reports weren’t needed until the end of the day.

“Yes. Here they are.” (y/n) sifted through her desk and handed over the packet.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Evelyn asked. She played with a few loose strands of her hair.

“Oh. Uh-Mr. Shelby this is Ms. Lowe. Ms. Lowe, Mr. Shelby from Shelby Limited.”

“Ever so pleased to meet you, sir.” She placed a sneaky hand on her hip and shifted her weight a tad to conform her body into an elegant pose.

And she was attractive (y/n) had to admit. She was young and full of vigor. Her hair always done to perfection and makeup never smudged. She looked like a movie star. She looked like a woman all men would fall head over heels for. (y/n) inwardly cringed. She could only imagine what she must look like next to this creature of beauty.

But when (y/n) looked over to see Thomas’ reaction, he seemingly hadn’t stopped looking at her. Only when their eyes met did Thomas glance over at Evelyn and give a slight nod.

“Mr. Shelby! Please come in, come in! I do apologize about the delay!” Mr. Beavers rushed out and hurriedly greeted the businessman.

After the door closed Evelyn let out a huff. She handed back the packet to (y/n).

“I don’t even need these. I just wanted him to get a look if you know what I mean.”

(y/n) gave a small smile hoping to be rid of the superficial woman but she had one last request.

“Put in a few good words for me, will you? He always comes by your desk. Just drop in a few hints?”

(y/n) sighed and re-organized a few papers, “I’ll try my best Evelyn, but I can’t promise anything.”

A few hours later, Evelyn really did come and collect the consumer reports but lucky for her the office door opened and the two men appeared.

“And wonderful (y/n) here will get the correct form for you to sign Mr. Shelby. Let’s organize a convenient day for her to drop the upcoming issue down at your office weekly.”

Evelyn who was too quick easily swooped in without any hesitation, “I can help, Mr. Beavers. You know that I have a much more open schedule than (y/n). I’d be happy to deliver the issue.” She smiled blindingly.

(y/n) just sat there watching the whole thing unfold. In fact, she was actually grateful Evelyn was sticking her nose into it because she didn’t want to see more of Thomas than she already had these past few weeks.

“That is true, Mr. Beavers. Evelyn has a bit more time on her hands these days.”

The boss was beginning to make the face of agreement before, “I’d like Ms. (l/n) to be the one making the deliveries.”

And there was no room for argument with Mr. Shelby.

“Of course, whatever works best for Mr. Shelby. Let’s say every Thursday?” Mr. Beavers heartily clasped the man’s hand and then beckoned Evelyn into his office for a round up on the recent reports. (y/n) didn’t miss the venomous look the other woman shot her.

(y/n) opened her desk drawer and took out the mentioned form that needed the signature.

“Just here, Mr. Shelby.” She held out a pen for him without bothering to look up. This turned out to be a bad idea because she jumped in surprise as he partially leaned over her to sign the paper. He smelled of oak and whisky. He carried the scent of the past.

She remembered seeing his eyes in the sea of green uniforms on the platform. And she knew. She just knew. After all those years. She had walked towards him. He stood there waiting for her. His beautiful blue eyes. That beautiful face.

“(y/n) (l/n).” He had said her name then with such certainty like it was law. Like it had some kind of divine meaning and not just a jumble of letters.

“Is that all?” He asked setting the pen down.

She cleared her throat, “Yes.”

She expected him to be on his way, but she looked up when she never heard the retreating footsteps. He still stood next to her one hand on the back of her chair. Looking down at her.

“Did you not expect me to remember you?”

She clenched her jaw, “Why would I expect you to remember me?”

He furrowed his brow and walked away.

Part 2

#cillian murphy thomas shelby #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #film #peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagine #oppenheimer #cillian x fem!reader #thomasshelbyedit #thomas shelby #thomas shelby imagine #tommy shelby fic #tommy shelby fanfiction #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby smut #peaky blinders smut #tommy shelby x y/n #tommy shelby x you #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x reader

[mindful-of-ideas]

A/N: Finn and Polly aren’t in the gif, but they’re there, I promise!

You couldn’t remember the last time you were here. It felt like years since you last saw Birmingham, and even longer since you set foot in the betting shop. You would’ve gone home first, but you knew you had better chances of finding your family here. As you walked down the street, the shop in sight, memories flooded in.

Ever since you were little, you knew you wouldn’t stay here. You were too different, too clever and too kind to ever be a real Peaky Blinder. And well, you were a girl. But that never stopped you from trying your best… and getting up to no good. Growing up, you and Finn, your twin brother, were ruling the neighbourhood. You would do anything to annoy people. Parents were often mad at the both of you, but you still kept doing it. But as you grew up, you started getting a lot of praise from teachers and adults for doing good at school. The only way to get further was to stay in line though. So you kept your mouth shut. Slowly, you drifted away from your family destiny, focusing on your study. With help from your aunt Polly, you managed to get into a college in London and find a safe place to stay. And you had been there ever since. You found a job working as a secretary for one of the researchers to pay for school, which meant working even when the semester was over. But the researcher had fallen ill and you had enough money on the side to allow yourself a visit to your family.

You stepped into the betting shop. And it was empty.

“Well…” you said quietly.

You were about to turn around when you heard muffled voices. That ought to be them. They were probably having a meeting in the parlour. You looked around the room, trying to find a place to sit when someone cleared their throat.

“Who are you?” asked a man, stepping out of the shadow.

“Who are you?” you asked in return.

“I’m not telling you my name until you tell me yours.”

“And I’m not telling you my name until you tell me yours.”

“You think this is funny?”

“You think this is funny?”

This was definitely funny.

“I’m not here to play games with little girls.”

“And you think I am? I was about to step out when a little girl asked me my name,” you replied, looking the man up and down.

Man was a strong word. He was more of a boy pretending to be a man. You hated that type of guys, always thinking they were above everyone when they actually knew nothing about anything.

“No one talks to me like that, you understand!” he said, suddenly walking towards you.

“And who would you be?” you asked, hoping to trick him while he was angry.

“Michael Gray”

Oh shit, was that Polly’s…

“Well, Michael, unlike what you might believe, I am not here to start a fight. So you can just take a step back and a deep breath.”

“The shop is off limits today, what kind of idiot doesn’t know that,” he said, taking a step forward.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” you said, also taking a step forward.

“Are you calling me an idiot?”

Another step.

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

Another step.

“What even is your name?”

Another step.

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

Another step.

“Not this again! You better shut up before things get bad,” he said.

He was close, too close now. Yes, you were a Shelby but if this man was Polly’s son, then chances are he could match you in a fight. He looked you straight in the eyes and with a single finger lifted your chin.

“Are you scared yet, little girl?”

You smiled. The voices in the other room had stopped.

“Are you scared yet, little girl?” you finally replied.

“That’s it!”

He pulled back his fist, ready to punch you and the face. Before he could even reconsider, Tommy grabbed his arm from behind. You dashed between the two and jumped into Finn’s arms.

“Finny!” you said, hugging him tightly.

“Y/N, how did you… when did you…” he tried to ask, hugging you back.

“Well, if it isn’t the child wonder,” said Arthur, putting his hand on your head.

You flashed him a smile before hugging him too.

“Hi,” you mumbled, your face buried in his shoulder.

“What, how… who is that?” asked Michael, his expression a mix of disbelief and disgust.

“Michael, meet Y/N Shelby,” Tommy said, as you made your way over to John.

You hugged him too, but he quickly pushed you back. You and John had always gotten along well, sometimes even more than you and Finn. You knew he was worried that seeing you here meant you had to quit college.

“I’m on break and my boss is ill,” you whispered to him.

“That’s amazing then,” he said, pulling you in for a second hug.

Your aunt then made her way to you hugging you and kissing the top of your head. She knew you were coming, so this wasn’t really a surprise for her.

“How was your trip?” she asked.

“Great, it was him that was the worst part,” you said, pointing at Michael, “No offence.”

“None taken,” she said, smiling at you, “In the future, Michael, don’t hit people.”

“She started it,” he replied.

“He started it,” you said back.

“Alright, stop it!” said Tommy.

All you wanted to do was walk up to him and hug him. It was his turn after all. But his eyes were so cold. He didn’t even smile when he saw you. It’s been so long since you last saw him, how much could he have changed?

“Where’s Ada?” you asked.

“Home,” Tommy replied, looking straight at you.

“Oh…”

“I’m glad to see you Y/N.”

“Are you? You should tell it to your face.”

You gasped, putting both hands on your mouth. You had fucked up. Michael had gotten you all riled up. Being on a break surely didn’t help either. You had fallen back into old habits of pushing people’s buttons until they snapped. But this wasn’t someone you wanted to snap.

“Sorry…” you said, lowering your hands.

Tommy didn’t say anything then suddenly started laughing.

“It’s good to see you Y/N. Seems like things don’t really change, um?” he said, opening his arms to you.

You went in for the hug, still shocked by his reaction.

“It’s good to be home,” you finally said.

#mindful-of-ideas #peaky blinders imagine #shelby!sister #shelby!reader #peaky blinders #tommy shelby #john shelby #arthur shelby #finn shelby #polly gray #aunt polly #micheal gray #fem!reader

[geekwritersworld]

Where the daisies grow

Pairing : Tommy Shelby x You

Warnings: Angst, description of injuries(mention of blood and cuts)

Summary: as stated in the request below. @luvlyencanto

I wanted to ask a story about: "having Polly Gray as the only mother figure". The reader would be a girl who was abandoned at an Orphanage (hell on earth) she only has bad memories of there. However, Polly and the Shelbys came as a light in her life, the reader is be between 8-9 years old when she's brought to them. And even though she was "adopted", she was always loved, raised and welcomed like a Shelby. Polly kind of adopted her as her daughter, making sure she was always dressed and having what she wanted, and she even bestowed the name Shelby on her. She was a Shelby, because if anyone tried to disrespect or harm her, they would have to deal with the wrath of them all. Ada, Arthur, John and Finn treat her like a sister and Tommy... well, maybe he could have some romantic interest in her??

A/n: let me know what you think :)

He was 16 when the 9 year old child was left in his aunt's care one day. He hadn't even known until he walked in to his aunt's house one evening to see a young girl in his aunt's kitchen.

Tommy had become protective of his siblings during the time that his mother had further grown unstable and his father had become an abusive alcoholic, which made him cautious of the child that had showed up in his aunt's house with no warning.

It was later that Aunt Pol told her leery nephew who was staring at the girl hunched in her chair "Edith dropped her here from the orphanage"

"why?" Tommy shot back, not allowing his gaze to falter from you.

"Because the orphanage treated her horribly knowing who her father was, Thomas" Pol said frustrated," I tried fighting her father to let me care for her after her mother died but he wouldn't let me, let the orphanage drag her away before he left for the country side"

"Why'd the orphanage take her when her father was alive?"

Pol grew more and more impatient at her nephews incessant questions "Because he paid them off to do so"

"makes no sense" Tommy turned away leaving his aunt in the hallway.

You remembered the orphanage in all its unforgiving transparency. The harsh words uttered to you by the caregivers still echoed in your head on dark snowy days. You were 13 now. Having lived with Pol for almost 4 years you'd become one of the Shelby's and were treated as such.

The Shelby siblings came around occasionally, and then more frequently until one day they moved in with Polly. Which you soon learned was because Martha Shelby had drowned in the cut.

Tommy was quiet; dealing with her death and the baby she left behind. Arthur would sometimes snap out of anger, Ada would spend her time doing generally anything to occupy her mind and John wasn't home often.

Then they began to recover to a certain extent; they laughed a little more than before. Tommy laughed, a lot. And often it was because of John.

On your 13th birthday Tommy got you flowers- daisies, you learned they were, not knowing what else to get you that he could afford. The rest of the family did their best to make your birthday special with the little money they could afford to spend at their leisure and you cherished every single moment.

Tommy and Ada occasionally spoke of their mother, and never of their father, which you realized was one of the common grounds you had with them- your very strong hatred for your fathers.

You'd been accepted completely as one of them by each of the siblings. Finn seemed like a little brother to you and you'd grown protective of the little boy.

Pol taught you to sew and Arthur would teach you new games, though you felt he was trying to busy his mind in doing so. John took you on walks and Tommy accompanied you to book shops and sat while you read since you couldn't afford to buy a book. He'd grumble a lot of course about how boring you were for reading. Ada was the older sister you never had. The one you talked to about everything.

At 17 you sobbed, chest heaving and hiccups erupting from your mouth, you clung to Tommy last of all, not wanting to let go. You'd refused to let go of John and Arthur- hoping maybe if you held on to them tight enough they wouldn't go.

But Aunt Pol, shedding tears herself, softly asked you to hug Tommy as well and bid them goodbye.

So you did. And Tommy held your shaking body as you cried into his coat and begged him to stay.

"It'll be alright" he had a few tears rolling down his cheeks as well.

You tearfully watched the Shelby boys except Finn board the train bound to take them, to what you were sure, was their ultimate demise.

Ada busied herself with Finn, Pol was trying to make enough money for the four of you and you- you spent your time sobbing, staring at walls, and watching the door, hoping any of the 3 boys would come barging in, telling you the war was over and they were home for good.

But the war wasn't over, no it had been 2 long years, and you heard enough women wailing in the streets, in their homes, in the shops and flower fields, for their husbands, brothers, sons, uncles and fathers who had become casualties, to know better.

Everyone knew that the families of the dead soldiers received letters, informing them their loved ones were 'killed in action'. And you dreaded those 3 words.

2 years turned in to 3 and then 4, and you feared if maybe they were never coming home at all, maybe the letters were on their way to inform you of it.

And then you heard it one day.

Cheers on the streets outside Pol's door. Cheers of the war being over.

And you froze. Your heart, you were sure had stopped. Turning to look at Ada who'd been sitting next to you was looking right back at you, eyes wide.

"D-"Pol threw open the door, making Finn drop Arthur's hat he'd given his baby brother the day he left.

Ada rushed to the door with you following closely

"The war- its bloody over" Pol sobbed, thick tears streaming down her face. Finn immediately rushed into his aunts arms, and Ada hugged you, crying.

You stood there in shock and wrapped your arms around Ada, wondering when the boys would be home.

"Pol" you finally rasped out " do you suppose they'll be back soon then? the 3 of them?"

Polly looked up, Finn still clinging to her "we haven't got a letter like so many, I suppose they should be home soon then" She let out a sob and then "all 3 of them" she smiled.

So you waited. And on your 22nd birthday, you wished yourself a happy birthday in the dark of the house and downed your glass of liquor before blowing out the candle.

But you didn't fall asleep.

It had been 4 months since the war was over, neither of the boys were home and there wasn't a letter either.

Maybe, you swallowed the lump in your throat, maybe there were so many casualties that the boys were just lost among them. Too many bodies to identify maybe, they were just laying somewhere-gone buried under the rest of the hundreds of dead soldiers.

letting out a shaky breath you turned over, covered your ears and willed yourself to sleep.

"We come home from war and she fuckin sleeps"

Shooting up from your cot, you turned around.

You leapt into John's arms sending him stumbling slightly as you latched on to him like you did when they were leaving. And you cried. And cried harder still when you saw Arthur behind John and nearly fell over your own feet in a hurry to hug him.

You were afraid, that you'd wake up and this would all be a dream. John chuckled behind you, you didn't have to see him to know it was forced.

Arthur hugged you tighter as well. John slipped out to where Pol and Ada were, whom he'd already seen.

"Arthur" your voice wavered " Where's Tommy?" you legs felt shaky at the thought of the fact that he probably never returned.

"He's outside, with Pol and Ada" Arthur led you out to where Tom stood, bickering with a sobbing Finn.

Looking up at the sound of your footsteps he asked Finn to give him a minute and hurried over to you.

"Tommy" you whispered hugging him tighter than ever. You'd convinced yourself he was going to tell you he had to go back, so you gripped him tightly.

Pol ushered everyone into the house, wiping her face. She placed down cups for tea and lit a cigarette between her lips.

Finn was now in John's arms and Ada poked his side telling him he was too big to be carried around now.

Sipping on their tea, everyone was sat around the old, wobbly wooden table.

You constantly kept placing your hand on Arthur or Tommy, who were sat on either side of you. They both knew you were trying to assure yourself that they were really there. Sipping his tea, Tommy watched you quietly, as a shell of a man he once was, at the woman you had become.

Tommy's horse trotted next to him quietly. The streets hadn't changed all that much since they'd left, Tommy noted.

Moreover the betting shop was doing well. It cost him a lot of nights and early mornings but he was only grateful for the nights he had something to occupy his mind.

He tucked the flowers in his coat and tightened his grip on the horse's leash.

You didn't see him home often. Occasionally he'd come home for a cup of tea, but otherwise he remained busy at the shop or the Garrison.

You knew the war had changed all 3 men. You knew they'd seen unspeakable things and it made your heart ache that you couldn't do much to help them.

It didn't go unnoticed by you that Tommy had changed the most by far. He didn't laugh- rarely even smiled. Arthur and John tried to use humor to cope where Tommy used silence. He hardly ever spoke to anyone anymore. When he did though, he spoke only of the business he'd indulged in weeks after returning.

He'd grown more observant, careful and on edge. He would watch you converse with Finn from the doorway and then quietly slip away. He came home late most nights, you knew this.

But the boys were trying. There were parts of them that died at the war, that was buried under the dirt and blood in the trenches. And here all the way back at small heath, they were barely surviving with whatever they had left in them.

Still as time went on, the business grew more chaotic and dangerous. Pol had now begun working in the betting shop and Ada would disappear for hours each day and you didn't bother asking where.

You, like Ada, weren't allowed to work with the rest of the Shelby's in the shop, so you occupied yourself at home with the little that you could. You took to teaching Finn and looking after him, occasionally you'd walk to the book shop and wander, until one day the owner offered you a job there. Having consulted Polly, the two of you agreed it would be good for you, so you'd begun spending most of your days working at the book shop.

Though not too many people bought anything you didn't care since it gave you time to read.

Closing the door, you walked past the kitchen table to pour yourself a glass of water. You weren't expecting anyone to be home soon since it was still evening and everyone usually returned towards the night. And Finn was with Pol so you had the house to yourself.

Before you could sit though, you heard the front door open. Looking up you leaned a little to get a better view of the door way "how are you home so early Tommy?"

Slipping his coat off and hanging it, he turned to face you pulling the flowers out of the coat he just hung "came to give you this"

Walking over to where you were seated he handed you the bouquet of flowers.

White Gerbera daisies. The ones you knew grew at the edge of small heath. The same ones he gave you when you turned 13.

You let out a breath and smiled slightly "I'd forgot I was turning 23 today" you chair scraped the hardwood floor when you got up to place the flowers in water.

"How come?" He leaned against the kitchen top, watching you.

"Don't know, Doesn't mean as much as it did when I was younger" Tommy hummed but said nothing " I suppose it was a exciting getting to grow older when I was young, now it's just a another year wasted and gone"

"wasted"

"yeah" you sighed "wasted. I haven't done anything with myself or helped anyone or changed anything. So wasted it is."

He wouldn't tell you. Not yet. Maybe not ever. It wouldn't be appropriate would it? He was almost 9 years older to you. He couldn't tell you.

In the following months he would linger around at home more often. When Ada had Carl and Freddie died, you helped Ada. You were the only one she spoke to every now and then and the only one she would meet with, because you weren't a Shelby by blood. Tommy would ask you how she was doing, and you'd tell him knowing he probably already knew.

You and Tommy spent time together more frequently, after he hired you as his assistant because he no longer felt you were safe working at the book shop, after what had transpired between the peaky blinders and their enemies.

Of course in the process of convincing you Tommy lost the leisure of getting to spend time alone though he didn't mind spending time with you, since you agreed to work with him if he swore to spend time with you more often.

You feared that you'd made your feelings too obvious to him with your 'non-negotiable precondition' but luckily he never caught on.

Polly did however, and rolled her eyes "And I thought you were too smart to fall for him" she said once Tommy had left the house.

Your face grew hot but you feigned ignorance " Don't know what your talking about" mumbling you got up and put your cup away.

"it would do you good next time to be more careful" you were walking home after having worked with Tommy the entire day. But you weren't sure if you were even moving at all leave alone walking.

The ground was rough underneath your sore palm. The dirt and water of the ground seeped into your cut palm as you tried to stable yourself. All you felt was pain. Everywhere. So much pain.

Your left eye was swollen shut, your nose, you think, was bleeding. You weren't sure but you felt something wet dripping down your lip and you assumed it was blood because you didn't have the strength to lift either of your hands to check.

You couldn't breathe, it hurt and you had to take shallow breaths to avoid the pain shooting across your chest. And when you thought it was finally over, your jaw was gripped. Tightly, roughly, straining your wounded lip.

"Tell Tommy it's not over" you couldn't see who it was. Your right eye was blurry and you sure as hell couldn't open your left eye. Your jaw was let go off and your already pounding head thud against the wall.

Letting out a small whimper you let your arm fall from your lap and slouched even further against the wall behind you.

"John, have you seen Y/n?" Tommy had come in sometime back and looked for you wanting to ask you about the letters he'd had you send out that afternoon.

"No, thought she was with you or Pol?" John put down the cigarette to look at this older brother.

Shaking his head, Tommy didn't say a word instead he grabbed his gun off of the table where he placed it only a second ago and slammed the door shut behind him meaning to go to the betting shop to see if you'd gone back for some reason.

You'd left almost an hour before him, Pol was still at the shop with Arthur and he hoped you were there too. He hated the idea of you out this late at night, but you threatened to snip his coats if he persisted on the idea of you being accompanied home.

His heart pounded and his fingers were turning numb from the cold. He hadn't taken his overcoat when he left in a hurry to find you. All he had was the suit coat he had on which didn't help much against the harsh cold and the rain that was beginning to pour.

"Pol?" he called from the door way of the shop not bothering to go in if you weren't there.

"What is it Tommy?" Pol asked, a pile of papers in hand

"Is Y/n here?" His eyes took in the surrounding hastily hoping to spot you.

"She's not here, didn't she leave an hour ago?"

"Yeah, she's not home either- ARTHUR" upon hearing his younger brother practically bellowing his name, Arthur almost choked on his liquor before quickly swallowing and rushing over to Tommy.

"Come with me" Tommy spoke quickly "Pol, send John out to look for her at the cut" Arthur followed Tommy and Pol rushed to close the betting shop.

It shouldn't have taken you more than 15 minutes to cross over two streets and get home, Tommy worried. He was breathing heavy and he walked frantically across the two streets and came into view of there home.

Arthur kept squinting, walking into alleyways to see if you were there, and every time he did, Tommy grew more and more uneasy. If you were spotted in any alleyway it would involve you being hurt in some way, and Tommy could barely cope with just the thought of you slightly bruised he didn't want to think of anything worse than that.

It was only when they were at the last damp and dark alleyway right before their home, that Tommy heard it; a small thud. Barely audible over the pouring rain Tommy heard it loud and clear. There were a couple of people walking past who paid it no attention.

Arthur and Tommy immediately ran over into the alley and Arthur watched his younger brother fall to his knees in front of your body.

Arthur couldn't tell if you were even alive or not. You white shirt was drenched in blood, your eye swollen shut, your arms had cuts all over. Your lip was cut deep and looked swollen and your ear was split from the impact of someone hitting your head on the ground. You weren't moving.

Tommy was kneeling next to you desperately feeling for a pulse, the water and blood off the floor seeped into his pants where he kneeled and he wanted to throw up.

He'd seen a lot, but nothing made him shiver the way the sight of you limp, bleeding, cut up, beaten and bruised against the wall in the dark cold alleyway did.

His hands shaking, Tommy slipped off the coat and wrapped it around your shoulders then took his hat and put it on your damp hair to shield you from the rain.

"Arthur" Tommy shivered " bring the car around- now"

Arthur took off immediately towards the house to get the car parked in front.

"Come on love, please" he whispered slipping one arm around your shoulder and the other under your knees, picking you up he walked towards where Arthur was bringing the car.

It took everything in Tommy to not give in to the quivering in his legs. He carefully sat you in the back of the car and then slipped in beside you himself. And Arthur sped to the hospital the moment the door was shut.

Tommy kept caressing your hair. Arthur watched him do so, his breath shaking as well. He knew his younger brother was doing so because if you weren't going to make it and you were in fact slipping away in his arms as it seemed, then Tommy wanted you to know you weren't alone in the ghastly cold alleyway anymore, and were now in his arms; safe. He wanted you to know you weren't dying alone. He wanted you to know it would be alright.

#tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagines #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby angst #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby request #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders angst #peaky blinders x y/n #peaky blinders #peaky blinder imagine #tommy shelby #thomas shelby imagine #where the daisies grow #Tommy shelby x reader

[emotionalcadaver]

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Succubus!OC

Summary: At the party, some horrific truths come to light regarding Tommy, and the monster he has become entangled with.

Word Count: 2,640

Notes: Warnings for depictions of smut, infidelity, and demons.

Masterlists: Main • Fic

Previous Part • Next Part

Chapter 6: The Party

She spent the whole party avoiding Tommy.

Most of his family was nice enough, Ada chatted with her the most, and she got warm receptions from many of the other family members.

Well, warm on the outside; all bright smiles, welcoming handshakes, and hugs, but she could see the justified distrust in their eyes as they all looked at her.

She had never been so tired. And she was constantly questioning if anything that was going on around her was even real, or if she was still trapped within a dream of some kind. It made her head hurt to think about it. 

Not to mention that stress around if Tommy knew her secret; if he’d been playing her this entire time. 

Mumbling a quick excuse, she stepped away to get another drink and steady herself before another round of conversation. Slipping hastily through the door leading to a small sitting room, she froze at the realization that it was already occupied. 

“Mrs. Gray,” she cleared her throat. “I didn’t–I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you–”

“It’s alright, dear,” Polly beckoned her to come closer, seated in a plush red armchair, black cigarette smoking between her fingers. Mrs. Shelby sank tentatively in the seat across from her, whiskey glass cupped between her hands. Polly raised an eyebrow. “You like the whiskey?”

Something told her if she lied to Polly, even about such a little thing, the consequences would be dire. “Actually…no, not really,” she set aside the glass on a nearby table. Polly chuckled, taking a drag from her cigarette, and looking up at the portrait hanging above the fireplace.

Mrs. Shelby followed her gaze, throat growing dry at the sight of the redhead who’d spent nearly the entire week tormenting her. 

“I never really liked her,” Polly said after a moment. “But I do admit, she was useful. Invaluable, even,” she sighed. “We all learned that part the hard way.”

“Who…” she stuttered, realizing that as soon as she asked the question, there would be no taking it back. “Who is she?”

“Was she, dear,” Polly corrected. “She’s dead.”

Mrs. Shelby couldn’t say that she was entirely surprised. It explained a lot.

“Her name was Lucy Winters,” Polly continued. “She was Tommy’s assistant.”

Her fingers, clasped around each other, tightened in recognition at the name he’d whispered so reverently into her neck just the night prior. “Did he love her?”

Polly shot her a look. “Yes. Very much. After she died…” she frowned, glancing into the fire crackling in the fireplace. “He went mad with grief. Locked himself away in this house, alone, for months. None of us saw him. The company almost collapsed without him around to run things… “ she shook her head. “And then one day he showed back up at the office and announced he was running for parliament.”

“He won’t talk about her,” she followed Polly’s gaze to the embers in the fire, worrying at her lower lip. “I didn’t even know her name,” she could feel Polly’s eyes boring into her, but she couldn’t offer anything in acknowledgement, too lost in thought about the nightmares that had plagued her the last few nights: opening to her eyes only to be greeted with the sight of Tommy fucking the dead love of his life right there next to her in their bed. 

She did not actually believe that they were just dreams anymore. They felt too real, the memories of them lingering too long. And the bruises on her wrists from her last encounter with the monster–Lucy, she supposed she ought to refer to her as–were still dark purple and aching under the sleeves of her dress. 

“Dear,” Polly sat up, tapping the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray on the table beside her. “Do you know what a succubus is?” 

The question caught her completely off guard. “I…I think I remember them being briefly mentioned in church, but I don’t really remember…”

“A succubus is a female demon. Typically they appear either in dreams or while a man is asleep with the intent to seduce him.”

A chill went down Mrs. Shelby’s spine. “Don’t they kill their victims by draining their souls through…through repeated sexual activity?”

Polly hummed. “More modern interpretations indicate that by repeatedly having sex with a succubus, a bond is formed between her and the man. Once that happens she can’t–or won’t–hurt him. Makes more sense, don’t you think?” Polly shot her a grin, though there was no humor in her eyes. “Succubi need semen to survive. Why kill off a steady supply of the stuff when you could just come back every night for a fresh helping?”

Mrs. Shelby felt herself go stiff.

“I gave you that whole week in Paris to yourselves during your honeymoon. Just about starved myself, actually.” 

Oh. Oh, Christ, no…

She thought about the dreams. About the demonic characteristics that had manifested on Lucy’s body over the course of the week: horns and claws and fangs, even a pointed tail…

She thought about the books of necromancy and summoning demons in Tommy’s office, and had to suppress another shiver. 

Was…was Tommy trapped in some sort of bond with the demonic manifestation of his deceased lover? Had she tempted him with promises that they could still be together, at least in some way, only to ensnare him in a trap to provide herself with the nourishment she required? 

Mrs. Shelby thought she might be sick. He was her husband. Hers. This demon couldn’t have him. Not anymore. 

Glancing back at Polly, she felt a rush of hope. Clearly she knew about the demon and the hold that she had on Tommy. She probably had an idea of how she’d been tormenting Mrs. Shelby too. And that meant that maybe she could help her.

“How do you kill one?” she asked. 

Polly shot her a mockingly innocent look. “What do you mean?”

The hope in Mrs. Shelby’s chest seized. “Well, you know…”

Polly’s all knowing eyes hardened just a fraction. “In all honesty, I’m not entirely sure. I would imagine it’s incredibly difficult. Nearly impossible, probably, if the man involved with her is a willing and enthusiastic participant in their trysts. He won’t let you.”

There was no question who exactly the ‘he’ was that Polly was referring to. 

“But…” she still clung to the tiny sliver of hope, even as it started to shrivel away. “But what if she hurts him?” Mrs. Shelby murmured, shocked at his aunt’s lack of concern over the possibility–no, reality–that her nephew had bonded himself to a monster.

Polly chuckled. “She won’t. Like I said, succubi need their men alive,” she paused to take a long drag from her cigarette, blowing the smoke up towards the ceiling. “And they share a bond.”

There was something that told Mrs. Shelby that last statement was referring to something far more than just the connection forged between a succubus and its mate through intercourse. Something deeper. Something that had already been there long before Lucy had died and transformed into a demon of lust.  

Staring at Polly, she waited for her to offer some other type of solution to the problem, but she gave none, just remained sitting there smoking her black cigarette and smiling at her wickedly.

“Why are you telling me all of this?” she whispered. Polly shrugged.

“Just thought it would make interesting conversation, dear.”

Her heart sank, mind feeling like it was going to burst with trying to process so much information at once. 

Polly stood, the movement so sudden it made the nerve-wracked Mrs. Shelby jump, shrinking back into her chair. Plucking up the untouched glass of whiskey Mrs. Shelby had left on the table, she held it out to her.

“Come. You should get back to the party. Before you’re missed,” the way she smiled seemed to Mrs. Shelby to be more like the way a tiger bared its teeth before jumping on its prey, and she was struck by the feeling that, no matter how much Polly had disliked Lucy, if she knew anything about her spying business with her father, she probably hated her more. 

Polly was probably just trying to scare her. She knew about her spying on Tommy for her father, and she was angry with her. That was all.  

It was what she told herself as she took her whiskey glass from her, trying in vain not to let her hands tremble.

The bruises on her wrists throbbed in disagreement. 

But if everything Polly said was true…

She shook her head. It was too terrible to consider. Even if it made everything that had transpired these past couple of days make a whole hell of a lot more sense. 

She passed through the rest of the party in a daze, her head swimming with everything Polly had told her.

What the fuck was she going to do? What could she do? She didn’t even know what was the truth and what was a lie. What was real and what wasn’t. Dream or reality.

If Tommy really was carrying out an affair with a sex demon that also happened to be his deceased lover…there were so many things to consider. She couldn’t possibly just up and leave, could she? Tommy was still her husband…

“Did you really think that he was actually yours at all?”

She flinched at the memory of the words. 

Staring at Tommy from across the long dining room as he conversed with Arthur, smiling politely to his older brother with a glass of whiskey clutched in his hand, she felt her heart tighten in her chest.  

Could that man, the man she’d started to fall in love with, really have tethered his soul to a demon for all eternity?

She was struck by the fact that she did not know the answer. The best she could come up with was a solid maybe.

She did know him at all. He hadn’t even been willing to tell her the name of the woman he had loved. 

Loves, she corrected herself. At least if it was all true; Lucy was far from gone. 

Jealousy, hot and nearly blinding, ignited in her veins. It wasn’t fucking fair. The woman was dead. Why did she still get to stake a claim over him? Tommy was her husband, not Lucy’s. 

Going to get herself another drink, she tilted her chin up pridefully at the portrait of the redhead that looked down at her from where it was hanging over the shelf of alcohol. 

Lucy couldn’t have actually been that important to him. He’d never even married her.

Straightening her back, she set her jaw. Demon or no demon, Tommy had made vows to her. He had married her. Not that whore of hell. Lucy could go fuck herself. Find someone else’s semen to gorge herself on. Tonight, if she came, Mrs. Shelby would tell her. Put her foot down. Enough was enough. 

And then she and Tommy would talk, honestly, about the business that transpired regarding her father. Come to some kind of understanding and agreement. She would apologize, of course, just like she would expect him to. And then they could move on from it and forward. Together. 

This marriage would be a success. She would make sure of it.

With that decision made, she felt better, able to actually relax and somewhat enjoy the remaining hours of the party. By the time everyone had left to go home, she was so tired all she wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep for the next week. 

Stretching out beneath the covers, she closed her eyes, sleep claiming her almost instantly. A new surge of confidence had encompassed her, and for the first time in nearly a week she was not fearful of what she would be faced with as she drifted off.

Who knows, maybe it would all finally be over, without the stress of the party weighing heavily over her head. 

For a while, she slept a dreamless sleep. 

And then she was roused, slowly, by the steady rocking of the bed.

Rolling over onto her side, she opened her eyes lazily. Even though she was ready for it, her heart still flew up into her throat at the sight that met her on the other side of the bed.

Tommy was sitting up, Lucy on his lap, straddling him. Her red hair was mussed around her horns, wings half unfurled at her back, dark red tail coiled on the pristine white sheets behind her. She was gripping his shoulders for stability as she rode him, bouncing up and down on his cock at a steady pace, red lips parted and eyes closed in pleasure.

Tommy was groaning, his arms around her, palm splaying across her back in the space between her wings, face dropping into her neck, pressing soft kisses there.

“Lucy,” he whispered, in the same worshiping, tender voice he’d mumbled it with the night before. His voice stuttered with a sound of pleasure when Lucy grinded down on him, raising his head to kiss her sloppily, hips bucking up to meet hers, bed rocking with their combined movements. When they broke the kiss, he dropped his face back into her shoulder.

“I love you more than anything,” he said, running his nose up and down her skin in a tender nuzzle. 

Lucy made a small whining noise, head resting on Tommy’s shoulder, lips tracing along the shell of his ear. 

“I love you too,” she said, and Mrs. Shelby could tell that she meant it. They both did. There was something entangled and twisted between them that would never be able to be broken.

Lucy turned her head, resting it more firmly and affectionately on Tommy’s shoulder, still riding him steadily. Her face pointed towards Mrs. Shelby, and then her eyes opened. 

She was met with not the dark green eyes from the portrait, but instead two crimson orbs, the black pupils slitted like those of a cat. The succubus didn’t say a word, just making eye contact with her while she continued to make love to her husband. 

Any conviction within Mrs. Shelby died. There was nothing she could do. If she tried to tell the succubus to leave, she would probably just laugh in her face.

And if she told Tommy he had to choose between the two of them, there was no question as to which one of them he was going to pick. 

Feeling tears prick at her eyes, she tore her gaze away from the demon’s. Perhaps this was what she deserved. After all, she had betrayed him too, with her spying and the letters she’d sent to her father, even if Tommy had been playing her the entire time. 

She slid quietly from the bed, moving about to pack a bag of her necessities. Tommy and Lucy did not cease their movements, not even when she looked over her shoulder at them once and found them sitting with their foreheads pressed together, staring into each other’s eyes. She wondered how Tommy could look into those crimson irises without balking. 

They turned both their gazes onto hers, and she hastily looked away, continuing to shove clothes into her bag even as she felt them still watching her. 

Maybe they would come after her. Or maybe not. Either way, she couldn’t stay here any longer, watching her husband love another woman.

Walking to Tommy’s bedside table, she forced herself to meet his unapologetic icy eyes, Lucy still in his lap, his hips thrusting up, fucking her shamelessly as he stared at her. Stealing what little remained of her resolve, Mrs. Shelby wriggled her wedding bands free from her left hand. 

They dropped with a resounding, final clink onto the bedside table. 

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

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Masterlists: Main • Fic

#not an update #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc #peaky blinders #lucy winters #lucy winters x tommy shelby #my ocs #my fanfiction #nocturnal me

[hb-writes]

Easier to Bear

Summary: 1916 in the Little Lady Blinderverse. It was an accident, Clara and Finn didn't mean to knock over Aunt Polly's picture. They didn't mean to shatter the picture frame on the hardwood, but accidents happen. And they happen at inopportune times. Left to sort her feelings on her own, Clara decides she's disappointed her aunt too much and it's almost too much for the little girl to bear.

Characters: Finn Shelby, Polly Gray, Clara Shelby, mentions of the other Shelby brothers, mentions of Michael and Anna.

Content Warning: General Angst, Guilt, Grief/Loss, Child Welfare System Trauma, Lack of proofreading. 

Request (by anon): A18 polly with Clara and Finn? Maybe they knock something over when playing before the war and Clara gets upset by it x

Here’s the AO3 link if you prefer to read over there.

Peaky Blinders (Little Lady Blinder) Masterlist

Angst Celebration Masterlist

Please take a moment to tell me what y'all think! Reviews and comments are always appreciated. 😌❤️

Clara stopped the pursuit of her brother, pausing on the cushion of the settee she wasn’t meant to be standing on in the first place. The throw pillow in her hand fell heavily to her side though she’d been poised to whop Finn’s head with it just a short moment before. 

It would have been a good bit of revenge since Finn had just finished doing the same to her, but Clara stopped herself before she could accomplish the task. Suddenly, the wrongness of the whole thing settled within her, a wave of fear and guilt rushing through her. A wave of admonishment ran through her too though she didn’t direct her blame at the brother who started it. She directed it only on herself because despite only being a child, Clara Shelby had always had the sense after doing something wrong that she should have known better. She should have done better, done as expected. 

Finn’s attack hadn’t set the pictures on the side table to a precarious wobble. No, that had been entirely Clara’s doing, her chosen weapon hitting the lot of them as she climbed over the arm of the chair and grabbed hold of Finn’s ankle, sending him face-first into the cushions they’d been told over and over again were meant for sitting in—not climbing over and jumping on. 

And even if it had been Finn who started it…if the situation was different…if it was Finn’s hand that inspired ruin and destruction in the front parlor rather than Clara’s, that sort of behavior would have been expected from him in a way it wasn’t from his twin sister. It wasn’t any matter of the twins being treated differently in the wake of misbehavior as it was Clara picking up on some sort of nuance people always assume kids don’t pick up on. 

Clara was so often praised for being good and clever and sweet, and there was some part of her terrified of what would happen if she were to turn out something else. They already had Finn to be silly and loud and rough. And Clara was meant to be a help to Aunt Polly, especially with the boys gone. 

Clara watched the frames fall from the ledge. She caught just a short glimpse of them mid-air before a few of the framed portraits shattered against the hardwood, the sound of it making Finn freeze and fall silent, his head turning back towards Clara though he’d been giggling wildly and keen to get away from her. 

Clara still had ahold of her brother’s ankle. Rather than letting him go, Clara gripped Finn’s ankle tighter still, her little knuckles growing white as silence blanketed the room, suspending them all there, prolonging the moment’s temporary serenity, and safety. The twins waited to see if the whole thing would simply pass, becoming the sort of memory they’d laugh about one day, or more likely, forget entirely. They waited to learn if they would get through the moment unscathed, their misbehavior hidden away before they were ever found out.

It was Clara’s fault, but it was both of them who would be paying for the sin if someone came to check on the noise. When the twins played together, their fates were tied, and whatever the repercussions, Clara and Finn faced them together. It was rarely a matter of blame being placed on one child or the other, but that didn’t mean either one of them was above trying to get out of it or trying to save themselves, so they both straightened up and sat facing forward on the settee at the sound of the approaching footsteps breaking through the self-imposed quiet. 

It was Polly who had come to find out about the commotion. Clara peeked over the back of the couch. She had been hoping for Ada and her eyes were already growing damp even though her aunt hadn’t acknowledged them. 

Polly’s gaze was trained on the bits of broken glass and the metal frame which had come apart in two. The twins rose slowly to their knees, leaning over the back of the couch to observe their aunt as she lowered herself to the floor, brushing aside the broken glass before smoothing out the edges of a particularly well-loved photograph.

Clara knew the picture by heart. She knew them all well enough to imagine each subject in her mind’s eye—this one, a photograph of Aunt Polly, a few years younger with a toddler and a baby settled in her arms—Michael and Anna—the cousins Clara knew of but had never known. 

“Aunt Polly,” Clara started, unable to keep quiet any longer, the need to explain and apologize practically spilling out of her, “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to—”

Polly glanced at Clara then, finally pulling her gaze from the photo as she clutched it to her chest. Polly didn’t have it in her to respond to the girl, though the look on her face communicated more than enough to the child, making Clara swallow down the rest of her words and the lump in her throat. 

“Really, Aunt Polly, we...”

Finn’s attempt fizzled out as Polly stood without offering a response. It was more she could bear at the moment, dealing with the twins, dealing with their excuses or their hurt. Polly wasn’t even quite aware of it, some sort of all-consuming link formed between her and the ravaged photograph, between Polly and the children who were now irretrievable. Even if she were to ever again find them, Michael and Anna wouldn’t be the children in the photograph, not any longer. Polly gripped the photograph with tight fingers, afraid that by being exposed to the smoke and grit of Small Heath, the image would be stolen from her—dissolved into the ether just as her children had done. She walked out onto the lane, the door to number six banging shut in her wake. 

Finn heaved a sigh when Polly took her leave. He seemed pleased enough with the outcome, but Clara took little comfort in the fact that they’d not received a smack or an assignment to the nearest corner for their behavior. Some part of Clara felt she almost might have preferred that. Somehow that seemed less cruel than leaving her to her own condemning mind. 

Finn let himself off the hook once the glass and metal bits were collected. He readily went back to playing pretend as if the whole thing hadn’t happened, scurrying off to cavort out on the lane with whoever was nearby when Clara proved to be a less than eager playmate. 

—

Less than an hour later, Clara sat on Tommy’s bed with her box of treasures and a pile of other special things she’d collected from her own bedroom, the trinkets she liked to have on display or to use with a certain regularity or the ones too big for her little box—a scruffy, well-loved teddy that had been Polly’s when she was young. Ribbons that had once been tied in a younger Polly’s hair, and then Ada’s and Anna’s. Seeing it all in one place, Clara was almost surprised by the size of the pile of little trinkets her aunt had gifted her over the years, all of it steeped in history and love, the weight of her guilt when she considered all Polly had given her nearly too much to bear.

With great care, Clara organized the items on the bed along with the frame she’d emptied of her own photo. Her brothers had been away for nearly two years now, but she spoke to their picture daily. She studied their faces more often than she studied her own. Clara usually kept the framed photograph of the boys in their uniforms on the table beside her bed, allowing her to say good morning and good night to the boys every day, to feel close to them when they were so far, but she didn’t need to keep them in a frame. Not when she’d wrecked Polly’s.  

Clara sifted through the contents of her treasure box searching for her aunt’s locket. It was stashed safely beside the items her brothers had left behind nearly two years before—John’s deck of playing cards, Arthur’s folded sketches, and Tommy’s silver pocket watch—some of her most precious possessions lent from her favorite people. She was meant to look over their things, to keep them safe until their return. Clara wished for her brothers now. She longed for their hugs and their smiles. She wished for something more than Tommy’s empty bedroom which was steadily filling up with Clara’s guilt, some part of her certain she deserved to feel this way, deserved to be alone and drowning in it. Clara felt no doubt that she deserved her aunt’s disappointment. 

She certainly didn’t deserve to keep these special treasures. Not if she couldn’t behave herself and be good. Not if she couldn’t stop herself from breaking things…her Aunt Polly’s special treasures. 

Clara’s lip wobbled as she plucked the locket out of the box, holding it in her small palm. She took it out only on Sundays and very special days, wearing it to church with her aunt and then putting it back away in the box directly after to keep it safe, but it was a responsibility she didn’t deserve. It was a responsibility she couldn’t handle. A hot tear burned a stripe down Clara’s cheek as she set the necklace with the other things. 

“And what’s this, then?” Polly’s voice came sharp and quick, the same tone Clara had been expecting when Polly first came across the broken photograph. And despite the jolt of surprise that ran through her at the sudden interruption, Clara was grateful for her aunt’s tone, some part of her relieved by the confirmation of her own thoughts, her own guilt. She was right to collect her things. She was right to plan to give them back. She didn’t deserve them.

Clara had fancied herself alone in the house aside from her sister. Ada was napping down the hall, silent and oblivious. Clara had meant to have the treasures packed up before encountering anyone else. She had intended to leave them out for Polly with a note explaining herself. An apology. And then, she intended to be gone to Uncle Charlie’s, gone to the horses who wouldn’t ask questions and would only be happy she’d come to brush them and bring them grain, though some part of Clara wondered if she deserved tenderness as unconditional as that.

The thoughts were nearly clear in her mind, all-consuming and screaming at her, but Clara hadn’t wanted to talk about it. Writing it out would be easier. And Clara didn’t imagine Polly wanted to talk with her anyway, not when she couldn’t even stand to yell at her for doing wrong. Polly had walked away without even a glance, as if Clara and Finn were nothing, invisible. And Clara had to fulfill her aunt’s wishes. She had intended to make herself that way.

Polly remained at the threshold thinking about how routine the moment felt. Clara was always getting herself worked up. She was always turning too many thoughts in her too clever mind and running to her Tommy’s side to fix it, even now. Even with him gone to France, the girl was in his room, trying to absorb his wisdom and care from the walls and the linens and the furniture. It was all so familiar, with the house so full of memories and wishes and the echo of their boys everywhere even though they were nowhere to be found. The reality of their absence hurt all the more. It hurt Clara more.

Polly knew the feeling well. It hurt her, too. Her own house had felt empty far before the war took Tommy, Arthur, and John away from Watery Lane. It had been empty since her Anna and her Michael had gone, since their father met his end. It seemed to Polly that homes were always emptying around her, people leaving or being taken. She idly wondered if it was inherited. In the blood like the Shelby good looks. Maybe it was. 

Polly was no stranger to feeling alone in a place filled with memories, feeling alone in a place surrounded by other people. Polly hadn’t had a day to herself in only God knew how long. She’d been a mother for thirteen years, but an aunt for much longer. It had been years…decades, perhaps, but looking at her solemn little niece who had gotten herself this worked up with only an hour’s worth of solitude, Polly wondered if her lack of alone time wasn’t for the best. 

Clara started piling up the meager collection, squeezing the items tight to her chest as she carried them across the room to where Polly stood. Clara held out the pile, her lip still quivering and her face covered with tear streaks as she waited for Polly to snatch them away. 

“What is all this?” Polly asked again as she accepted the pile before it spilled from Clara’s arms and onto the floor. 

Polly thumbed through the items as Clara turned away without a word. She left her aunt’s side and moved across the room, diving onto Tommy’s long-marooned mattress. As the storm took her over, Clara pulled the blanket up from the foot of the bed. She covered her head and body as she began to shake with the full force of her tears.  

“Clara,” Polly prompted. She settled beside the girl and dropped the items in her arms onto the bed.

“Take them back,” Clara mumbled. “I don’t…I don’t…”

“These are your special things, love.”

Clara shook her head from under the covers. “They’re yours,” she mumbled. Clara struggled to find the breath for her words. She struggled to get beyond the hard press of tears in her burning throat. The pain of it all was nearly too much to bear, too much to hold. “I don’t…I don’t deserve them. I…I disappointed you.”

Polly took a breath, letting her hand fall on Clara’s trembling shoulder before moving to rub gentle circles on the girl’s back. Polly had been upset about the photo. She had been wounded by it, caught off guard, but Polly hadn’t overreacted, not really. Considering the emotions Polly had running through her, she could’ve handled it worse. She hadn’t been thinking about the twins or what they’d done, not really. 

She had been thinking of herself, and her babies—her Anna and her Michael. Even before she’d heard the crash in the sitting room, she’d been thinking about her babies, distracted with thoughts of them for the whole morning. And it was unfortunate timing. That the twins, who had mostly grown out of the business of crawling about on the furniture, had chosen today of all days to fool around and knock the treasured photo to the ground…It was just upsetting. And though Polly hadn’t done anything—she hadn’t shouted or smacked, she realized Clara had gone ahead and done it for her. The oversensitive little girl had created a story in her head, giving Polly the role of disappointed aunt and making herself out to be a little villain. Clara had filled the void created by Polly’s lack of response and she’d done so incorrectly, assuming Polly was upset with her. 

But she wasn’t. Polly could see now that it was just an unfortunate moment, one of those times when life wasn’t meant to clash, but the conditions mixed up just right, or just wrong, and it happened anyhow.

“I’m not disappointed in you, love,” Polly said, uncovering Clara’s head and encouraging her to lay back on the pillow. Clara followed Polly’s maneuvering until she was lying on Tommy’s pillow looking up at her aunt. 

Polly took a deep breath, picking up the teddy bear. “I was disappointed in what happened.” Polly held the bear to her chest, glancing up toward the ceiling as she collected herself. “I reacted as I did because my heart’s a little tender today.” 

They weren’t words Polly would often share, not emotions she bore to many. She more often preferred to keep them inside, but Polly found the words couldn’t be stopped now that she’d started. And somehow, Polly felt that Clara understood.

“Today, my son…your cousin…my…” Polly took a steadying breath. “Michael’s thirteenth birthday is today.

Polly let another breath come over her, the power of it allowing her to push forward.

“And this bear…” 

Polly ran her fingers over the buttons and stitching, smiling at the teddy and then at Clara while tears pricked in her eyes. 

“This bear was his before it was yours.”

Clara nodded. She’d always known it was Polly’s, then Michael’s, then hers. Clara had always liked that.

“It was actually Michael who gave it to you,” Polly laughed softly as she remembered, sniffling through her tears “He insisted you’d need something special, being the youngest Shelby and all.”

Polly handed the bear over to Clara, tucking them both under the covers when Clara hugged the bear to her chest. She’d always assumed the bear would make its way back to Michael someday, that Clara would find it in her heart to gift it to her grandchild child when Michael one day had children, but that hope was distant now, unlikely. Impossible, Polly imagined.

Polly began collecting Clara’s treasures from the bed and she piled them gently on the floor. Polly could already see the girl being drawn toward sleep, exhaustion taking over now that her aunt had soothed some of the hurt. Polly brushed the hair from Clara’s eyes, tucking the wayward strands behind an ear. 

“Sleep now, love,” Polly said. She pressed a kiss to Clara’s hair and cupped her cheek, wiping away the tear marks. “It’ll all be easier to bear after you’re rested.”

Clara grasped Polly’s hand when she made to move away. “Aunt Polly?” 

“What is it, love?” 

“Will you stay?” 

Polly considered Clara, and she considered what was needed to put her niece and the feelings and this whole incident to rest. “Only for a few minutes,” Polly said, gesturing for Clara to scoot over on the small bed. Polly laid down beside her niece, and Clara cuddled into Polly’s side, setting the teddy bear between them. 

It was silent in the room, both of them tied up in their own thoughts, their own pains—still a little alone in it, but together nonetheless, their clasped hands allowing their hearts to do the same. Polly fell into a peaceful rest before Clara did, her gentle snores sounding off while Clara was still perfectly alert and staring at her brother’s ceiling. Clara tugged the blanket up over her aunt’s body, pressing a kiss on Polly’s head before settling back down beside her.

“Sleep, Aunt Polly," Clara whispered. "It’ll be easier to bear after you’re rested.” Clara hoped it would be true for both of them. 

—

Peaky Blinders (Little Lady Blinder) Masterlist

Angst Celebration Masterlist

#peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinder fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfiction #polly gray #polly gray fanfiction #aunt polly #finn shelby #shelby sister #shelby!sister #clara shelby #little lady blinder #hb.writes angst #500 follower celebration

[peakywitch]

Wish I could - Michael Gray

asked! "Hey hope your day’s going well :) “I wish I could marry you…” & Michael Gray? Thanks so much love 💕" SPOILER FREE! pure fluff, too!

500 words!

masterlist

check out my prompt list! you can send an ask, because i'll be updating A LOT! And also, please let me know what type of thingy you want, fluff, angst, blah blah blah, so i won't dissappoint anyone and everyone will get what they want!

“I wish I could marry you…” he whispered in her ear, while holding her from behind.

The fire was burning softly, and the dog that they found one night a few years ago in the darkness of the alley was now the most loyal guard dog for baby Eliza. Everywhere she went, so did Porridge. And her curious nose was always trying to tuck her safely under the blue blanket. Polly had been wrong, for once in her life. It wasn’t a boy, like everyone predicted, it was a girl. A giggly and calm girl, one that didn’t give them too much trouble.

“You wish you could marry me?” she muttered back, her fingers going up and down his forearm.

“Yes, I wish I could marry you. Again, you know?”

When Y/N met Michael, she thought he was a tough one, a man like Tommy. One that would only keep her warm in the lonely hours of the night, and that she wouldn’t feel seen, admired, obscenely loved. But Michael had that in himself, he was open, yet so private. All, all of his love was just for the two women in his life: Eliza and Y/N. His daughter and his wife.

His family.

His dreams had come true, his truest, deepest and realest dream was now his reality. A family to come home to, a wife that had his back and would stick through thick and thin and a daughter that he would do anything for. He didn’t like to navigate too much into that thought, because the mere idea of having to go to the inhuman levels of brutality to just be sure that her future would be promised, gave him goosebumps and a sense of anxiety. Not because he didn’t want to do those things, but because he wanted Eliza to grow up away from that life. Away from what he once was. What he told himself he wasn’t anymore.

But, was he ever something before her? He could barely remember who he was before her. A man whose heart only had a beat to keep him alive, and now that same heart was full with love, pride and so many other emotions that made Michael realize he wasn’t alive before.

Whoever the person before him was, he was long gone. The feeling of the sticky and warm blood dripping from his hands was now even barely there, since it was replaced by that first feeling of hugging his daughter. So small, so soft, so light and ever so fragile. If there’s anything more precious than his memory of holding her for the first time… he didn’t want to know.

“Tomorrow is our anniversary, you can write some vows if you want. You know I love it when you just tell me over and over again how amazing I am.” Michael laughed a bit louder than he would have wanted, and Liz mumbled something from her crib. They both froze in their place. “If you wake her up, Michael Gray, you’re taking over. I’m too tired.”

He was tired, too. He was a working man and one of the few men in the city that actually did something in the house. But he would put through the baby fuzz if that meant spending one or two more hours with her.

#michael gray blurb #michael gray #michael i love you #michael gray fanfiction #michael gray angst #michael gray fluff #michael gray x reader #michael gray x y/n #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #thomas shelby #john shelby #the peaky blinders #finn shelby #arthur shelby

[notyour-valentine]

One Thousand Follower Celebration ~ Masterlist

[Celebration] [Overall Masterlist]

This is the Masterlist for my One Thousand Follower Celebration of both my works and the incredibly contributions of others:

👠Ask me to Dance👠 (Blurb/One Shot)

"They are all looking" - Tommy Shelby x Reader

"People are always more honest at night" - Tommy Shelby x Reader

"I live, which is the main point" - Tommy Shelby x Reader

"I want to understand you." - Dad!Tommy Shelby

"Money is the God of our time" - Tommy Shelby x Reader

"Never kiss a fool" - Tommy Shelby x Reader

"There is only one thing on earth worse than English Music and that is English Painting" - Tommy Shelby & Reader

"You are haunted by your dreams" ~ Tommy Shelby x Reader (Fluff/Angst)

"My child, I fear it will end horribly" ~ Tommy Shelby

"To speak and to speak well are two different things " ~ Tommy Shelby x Reader

"Champagne - it's like a mistress: sparkling, flighty, vivacious, wayward - and not to be trusted" ~ Tommy Shelby & daughter!Reader

"It is a common phenomenon that just the prettiest girls find it so difficult to get a man" - modern!Tommy x Reader

"The question remains: how?" - modern! Tommy x Reader

"God will forgive me. It is his job" ~ Alfie Solomons x Reader

"I was born for a peaceful life" - Arthur Shelby & Reader

"Never let a fool kiss you" ~ John Shelby & Reader

"The more I get to know people, the more I like dogs" - Polly Gray x fem!Reader

"No Talent, yet a character" ~ Polly Gray x fem!reader

"A woman is at once the apple and serpent" ~ Lizzie Stark & fem!Reader

"They drink wine and preach water" ~ Lizzie Stark & fem!reader

A moment's peace ~ Gif Blurb: Tommy x Reader

🍷Join me for a Drink 🍷(Headcanon)

Modern!Tommy Shelby

John x aristocratic!Reader

Ada x female lover

Lizzie x female lover

Arthur's happy life in the country

TBITW: PDA

TBITW: What the family thinks

TBITW: Horse riding lessons

TBITW: Tommy comforting Emma

TBITW: Calling them Mummy/Daddy

TBITW: Marriage

TBITW: Another child

TBITW: Grown Emma and Charlie

WTDMS: Wildcard Headcanon Charlotte

✨Be the Belle of the Ball✨ (Submission)

Moonboard Submissions

The Boy in the Window ~ by @polishcrazyone

Story Submissions

A reveal ~ "As good a place as any" (Tommy Shelby x Reader) by @runnning-outof-time

A forever memory ~ "Ain't she sweet" (Tommy Shelby x Reader ft. Charlie) by @look-at-the-soul / @thats-what-cill-said

A place one is not supposed to be ~ "An unexpected guest" (Tommy Shelby x Solomons!Reader) by @cillmequick

A promise ~ "Hide 'n' seek" (Alfie Solomons x Shelby!Reader) by @raincoffeeandfandoms

An admission ~ "Tip of my Tongue" (Tommy Shelby x Reader) by @gypsy-girl-08

A creepy portrait/ a rumour ~ "The Portrait" (Tommy Shelby) by @zablife

A risk ~ "Risk Taker" (Tommy Shelby x Reader) by @noforkingclue

An inappropriate giggle ~ "The Funny Girl" (Tommy Shelby x OC) by @thebathatter

A place one is not supposed to be ~ "An unholy Alliance" (Tommy Shelby x OC by @evita-shelby

~

Thank you so much for participating in my celebration - I hope you enjoyed!

#valentines1k #valentines1kmasterlist #peaky blinders #peaky blinders blurbs #peaky blinders headcanon #tommy shelby headcanon #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby x reader

[berrypockets]

Something About the Night

Chapter 10: The Man Who Stayed Young and a Hundred Years Later

"Aren't you tired?" She asks him. "I could burry you here beside your family. Plant a tree, make it grow over your bones."

He just laughs at her statement. After a hundred years it was the first time he went back to Small Heath, to visit his family's grave. Even till death family is still all you've got.

"I see you," he says to her. She was kneeling in front of the gravestone tracing the names with her touch. "I have seen your truest form. You cannot scare me now."

"And what is my truest form?" She asks.

"Beautiful." Even after a hundred years, it was only her to knew Tommy Shelby could be poetic.

They walk hand in hand through the streets of Small Heath. It still the same little town Tommy Shelby grew up on, but it was less smoke and much greener. The Garrison still stands still owned the Shelby's. The factories were gone, and Charlie's yard was still Charlie's Yard now a small shipping port.

Being back in Small Heath brings back many memories, from the game of chase in Watery Lane to the fights at The Garrison - back then everything seemed to be all in black and white and now colors were splattered everywhere one would look.

"I don't understand. Why end their lives when they're reaching their peak?"

He knows what she do, but after all these years it's still a mystery to him why she does it.

She looks at him, "They made their deal. They knew the cost.”

“Why would anyone trade a lifetime of talent for a few years of glory?"

"Because time is cruel to all. Vision weakens, and voices wither, and talent fades." She stops and looks at him. "Because happiness is brief, and history is lasting, and in the end, everyone wants to be remembered."

Her words are a knife, cutting swift and deep. But he didn’t want to be remembered, his name still lives on, his family made sure of that. But even still, he only wanted her.

They continue their walk, "What’s the strangest deal you’ve done?"

"A young boy from France," she says. "A soul so new and young and innocent in exchange for a soul so rotten."

Tommy frowns. "What happened?"

"He asked for his father to be taken. They were being beaten and if not, slaves to their own kin. He prayed and prayed and prayed the night they could have died in their father's hands. I could hear his pain in his unspoken words and tears, so I answered him.

"Who you sacrifice to matters less than what you sacrifice for. I fed his father's soul to the crow's and planted his on the village where his little brother then made a house beside his."

"What about me?"

"You were the best prayer that I answered."

Who you sacrifice to matters less than what you sacrifice for.

It was true.

Give and take.

Family comes first.

He was tired of his family being looked down upon, to be walked over by those who are above, to think on where to get the money they need or where to get their next meal.

He wanted her, but can't have her.

Give and take. To be hers he offered himself in exchange for power and money for his family. Because family comes first.

"Let Arrow House stand." It was Polly Gray's last will. And the house did stand.

Polly took in the vacant position and Finn was given a seat. The company grew and expanded, it stive amidst the problems the world was facing and was now the largest in the world. It stayed Limited as a reminder to those who knew of the prayer that was answered and what was offered.

Not long after the Second World War, Polly received an enveloped and inside of it was a picture of Tommy Shelby and the lady who wore white. It a little blurry but still visible to see the subject, Tommy Shelby never aged a day, and it seemed that the laws of time didn't apply to him. That picture was his way of telling that that he was alright.

Ada moved in to Arrow House, and by then a certain amount of the company's yearly income was put into a separate account dedicated only to the maintenance and repairs of Arrow House. Everything will be left as it is and it was signed by the Shelby siblings who believed that one day their brother would return.

On one peaceful evening of the year 2022, there was a knock on the door of Arrow House. Julia opens it and immediately recognizes the man, it was the same man in the paintings at the office and the dinning hall.

The man introduces himself as Thomas Michael Shelby the Third, Tommy Shelby's grandson and his wife YN Shelby. They came from abroad, he tells that his grandfather told him that if he ever wanted to go to Birmingham a house will opens its doors to him.

Julia's was Frances' great granddaughter and their family were appointed as the trusted caretakers of Arrow House. There was only one rule to follow and was to be passed down to each generation: Never close the doors to the man on the painting.

Everything was indeed as how he left it, from the books on his office to the clothes in his room. He didn't even had a hard time finding the wine and glasses that he needs. Despite the modern age, Arrow House was like him, unchanging.

Tommy enters the drawing room and finds YN on the couch looking at fire. He sets the bottle and glasses by the table and took the space besides her. His arms fold around her shoulders, and she leans back against his chest. They do fit together.

He looks at the cracking fire then proceeds to ask, "You don't burn in the sun like those vampires, so why do you like the night so much?"

She was a lady of night. Sleeping in the day, awake in the night.

"Because it is the time when people get vulnerable." She says. "After the sun has sets and the moon rises, humans take off the mask they put on. All the walls put down, worries flows, desires crashing. They show the world who they really are, who they want to be, in a way they don't want the world to know."

"The courageous gets scared, the weak hopes, the happy cries, and the sad laughs. There are others who wanted more, and others who wanted less. Some uncontented by what they have, then there are the ones taking what they can't have. All of these happen during the night, and its amusing to sometimes just watch and listen. And when you come across a prayer so loud you cannot ignore, you answer, but sometimes you just listen."

He holds her tighter, kissing the nape of her neck, and he murmurs, "They can pray all they want, so long as I have you."

She twists in his arms to look at him.

"Happy Anniversary, my YN."

"Happy Anniversary, my Tommy."

And they shared a kiss. A kiss like the ones before, but different from the ones that still yet to come.

Everything changes. It was the nature of the world. Nothing stays the same. But he knows something that is constant and will be everlasting.

His love for her.

End.

[ Masterlist ] [ Previous Chapter ]

Note: Thank you peaky humans for the support. I hope y'all enjoy this story. There'll be a bonus chapter set after the wedding and somewhere between chapter 9, I'll post it in a day or two. If you have any questions feel free to message me or leave a comment, don't forget to reblog. Once again, thank you peaky humans. ♡♡♡

Taglist: @heidimoreton @akiisbae @iamsassys-blog @woofgocows @owishiiimeeeowww97 @nanamin-pointo @rockerchick05 @comfortzonequeen @watercolorskyy @theshelbyslimited @ebonynextdoor @evita-shelby @star017 @katiebvb2003

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders imagine #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagines #jyessaminereads

[red-riding-wood]

OC: Charlotte Griffin

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Summary: Charlotte Griffin, on a quest to emerge from her family's dark shadow, becomes a spy in a gang war that puts her loyalties and desires into question as she grows closer to the man who is meant to be her enemy.

WARNINGS for whole story: eventual explicit sexual content and references, explicit violence and gore, mentions of physical abuse, language, ethnic slurs (mainly because of Alfie)

A.N. Been sitting on this chapter for a while because I honestly hated the second scene but I think I've finally come to peace with it!

Blood painted the shattered windows of the old greenhouse and soaked deep into the mosses and weeds that sprouted from the remnants of the floor. Though the bodies had been taken away by police the night of the vicious occurrence, their viscera must have fed the greenery that grew in something that once only gave life, that never took.

Investigators roamed about, though Polly had granted us both access to the crime scene from her name and association with the Blinders. I still had yet to understand what exactly she had taken me here to see and why, but I could’ve gotten lost in examining the carnage.

The Blinders, I realised now, were violent out of necessity. People like Arthur, people like Thomas. I’d seen it in the grave look Thomas had worn ever since. He looked as if he’d come home from the war yesterday rather than a near decade ago.

Men like Arthur and Thomas, they fought like animals because they had to survive. Because it was in their blood. Etched into their hearts.

Luca, on the other hand, he claimed to only wish to settle a vendetta, but something darker brewed beneath his flesh. I could practically sense it. But he did not fight like an animal. He thought himself above them. Everything that had happened here was meticulously orchestrated, planned to the most finite detail.

There were no men I’d met like Luca.

“Have you gotten a nice, long look, yet?” Polly asked, rousing me from my thoughts. I found them drifting to the serpent-gazed man far too often than what was comfortable to admit. Even when faced with the calamity of his devilish mind and my reckless actions.

“I don’t know what I’m meant to be looking at, Miss Gray,” I told her. My arms had been clutching the buttons of my coat, trying to hold the fabric in place so that the cold wouldn’t consume me.

“You’re looking at Tommy’s doing. And yours.” Her dark gaze turned to me sharply, an iciness in its depths that pierced my heart.

“Arthur and Thomas lived,” I told her, unsure as to why she concerned herself with such morality all of a sudden. She didn’t strike me as the sort to lose sleep over a few fallen soldiers.

“For now,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “But their time will come.”

I turned to her now, my arms falling as the wind buffeted the side of my face.

“Why did you bring me here? To guilt me?” I cocked my head slightly, and said, “Or stop me?”

Dark optics settled on me as she blew a gout of smoke. It was carried away by the wind. “I have a son,” she said. “His name is Michael.”

“So I’ve heard. He was with John when he was shot.”

Though I tried not to think of the body I had seen in the casket that day, his name could not be avoided. I hadn’t even known him, yet his likeness to my brother was forever etched into my memory. My mind used to have a much harder time picturing what Alexander’s corpse would have looked like, before I’d stepped foot in Small Heath.

“He’s still in the hospital,” Polly said. “Bedridden. Utterly defenseless. I know that Changretta will come for him. Perhaps you will even lead him straight there.” Her brows cocked in a silent challenge.

My flesh crawled, and my gut clenched, though I didn’t entirely know why. I hadn’t defied a single order of Thomas’ or gone behind his back. I had proven my loyalty.

“Are you insinuating that I might be working with the enemy, Miss Gray?”

Polly shrugged, but trapped me in an intense stare. “I wasn’t, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen a spy show her dark side.”

This was not the woman who had invited me into her home and had given me advice on how to deal with Luca. This was a woman who was lashing out, like an animal, because she was scared. I could see it gleam in the dark pearls of her eyes.

“Miss Gray…” I took a step forward, invading her space as Luca often did to mine. “With all due respect, you have not seen my dark side."

As it seemed, not even I had properly glimpsed my dark side.

She regarded me from an unwavering gaze, cigarette held elegantly by one cocked wrist.

“I did not decide to work for the Devil himself so that I could play games,” I continued. “I came here because I have ambitions. And I do not wish to squander those ambitions by betraying the very man that can grant me what I seek.” I straightened, and said, “So, I repeat: why did you bring me here today?”                  

Polly took a long drag of her cigarette, and blew its smoke into the wind. Her gaze darted only briefly to the greenhouse before settling on me with that familiar crease of stress in her brow.

“Michael is my only child,” she told me. “I will not see him slaughtered like these men here today.” She blew another quick puff, and added, as her gaze darted away again, “Or John.

“And I want you to get something straight, Charlotte. You do not work for Thomas. You work for me. He may be the face of the Blinders, but I’m the only one with a lick of sense around here.

“So what I’m about to tell you is an order. Not a request. And if you tell Thomas, I’ll cut your tongue out myself. I’ve never liked spies. They talk too much.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, but listened.

“I want you to make a deal with Luca. Offer Thomas, for Michael’s life to be spared. I can set up the date and the time. You only have to do what you spies do best. Talk.”

I eyed her with an increasing wariness now. A betrayal, from his very own aunt? I wasn’t sure if I could be surprised, after he had left her to hang in prison. And I couldn’t be surprised, I suppose, for her to value the life of her sole son over her nephew’s.

But she was mad if she thought I would turn against Thomas Shelby.

“If this is another test of character, Miss Gray, I can say that I have had quite enough of those,” I said, though I knew she was dead serious by the fear in that dark gaze of hers. And so I told her, “But this isn’t a test, is it? You wouldn’t have brought me here if it were.” I leaned in just a tad, just enough so that she knew she was not speaking to someone who would bow so easily. She did not frighten me in the way Luca did.

“You wanted to guilt me. Appeal to my humanity,” I said. “But when that doesn’t work for you, what then?”

Cigarette smoke blew in a puff, each tendril seeming to have a life of its own as it weaved through the air.

“The others don’t know that you set up the funeral ambush,” she said. “They wouldn’t be very happy if they found out.”

“And I can’t imagine they would be very happy finding out you chose to only spare Michael.”

“And just who do they think they’re going to believe?” Polly countered. “Like I said, I run this operation. I hold it together. I’m family.”

Something about her last words pierced my heart again, fractured it straight through to my soul.

Family.

Family, Luca had said, was the most important thing.

And it was the one thing I would not find here. Not with the Blinders. They thought me no more than a lowly spy.

But if this was all I would ever be to them, I was determined to do my job well. And I would not cave over petty blackmail.

“I will take my chances, Miss Gray,” I told her, before stepping away, the edges of my coat swishing against her legs as I made my departure.

Family, I thought the word again, nearly parting my lips to utter it. Ruminating on it. And I brought my fingers to brush the tail of my ribbon.

What was family, really, if you could not trust one another?

---

Polly Gray was not an easy woman to shadow.

She had left her house in the late evening and since then had been elusive, never taking a predictable route. On top of that, she was keen, and had her wits about her; her gaze swept across each corner of the street as if she owned the ground on which she walked, and those within her vicinity were only there by the grace of her good will.  I had needed to keep a ways back, and I wore black, indistinguishable clothing and my hair tied into a bun beneath the hat I wore that tipped downwards just enough to veil my gaze.

I was much more at ease when she entered the pub, when I was swallowed by the throng of bustling drunkards. They made much more commotion than I did, and I was able to blend seamlessly with the well-dressed ladies whom they courted.

What caused my state of alarm was the overwhelming amount of Italians that I quickly found myself surrounded by. Déjà vu hit me like a train as my eyes roved across the bar stools, searching for a black hat and a toothpick.

Polly sat at one of the stools, a mink fur wrapped elegantly around her shoulders and her earrings glinting in the glow of the chandeliers.

“Signorina.”

Startled by the word, I spun on my heel, my heart lifting in my chest as I recalled when a green eyed man had woven the same syllables with his silver tongue.

And though I knew that it wasn’t him, I couldn’t help but deflate when I glimpsed his chocolate gaze. Dressed in black, he was one of the Italian mobsters, and perhaps it was this that sparked the familiarity as I studied his clothing and his features.

“May I have a dance?” he asked me, extending a hand.

I eyed his hand cautiously, but with another glance cast to Polly, I decided to take him up on the offer. He brought me in close, but not as close as Luca, and his touch did not send shivers through me, nor did the heat of his breath flutter my heart.

And it was then that I realised I had never once compared a man to another, never wished for a stranger’s touch to be someone else’s so intimately. 

“What brings you to Birmingham?” he asked me, accent more lilted than the soothing New York tones of Luca’s. “This city, it does not suit you.”

“Is that so?” I said absently, only half-intrigued by the man’s statement. As we danced, I tried to sneak glances through the converging crowd, but he had led me into too many people.

“These streets are filthy,” he said. “Not like my hometown.”

“And your hometown would be better suited for me, would it?” I said, tipping my head back to look him in the eye.

He chuckled, and said, “A woman such as yourself, yes, I can picture you much better walking down the streets of…” His brow furrowed at me, eyes squinted, and his tonality changed on a dime. “You look familiar.”

My spine stiffened, and I downcast my gaze almost immediately. I had been too absorbed thinking of all the ways he wasn’t Luca that I hadn’t taken the time to uncover why I knew him.

He was one of Luca’s guards.

“Well, then I suppose I’m not all that special,” I purred out over his shoulder, so that he would not be able to glimpse my face.

As we turned, Polly’s earrings winked in the glow of the chandeliers. Next to the gold rings of slender fingers that placed a felt hat on the bar before her. Next to the inked black hand that poked from his sleeve.

“I must disagree, amore. Perhaps I know you from the silver screen. Let me take a look at your face.”

My heart could’ve stopped. From the man’s words, or from his boss’ arrival, I couldn’t tell.

“Maybe I prefer not to be recognised,” I told him. “There is an allure to mystery, is there not?”

We turned, and Luca and Polly disappeared from my gaze. I tried to speed up, tried to guide him into quicker, longer strides.

“Let me look at you,” he said, more pressingly, his finger prodding at my jaw.

Every instinct in me screamed to pull away, though I tugged him close, my lips grazing his neck as I brought him around to see Luca chuckling around a toothpick and Polly smiling as she wrapped her fur tighter around her shoulders.

My gut clenched with something wicked.                             

Suddenly, I hated her smile.

“Careful,” I whispered into the man’s ear as Luca and Polly disappeared from view. I dropped my voice into a purr again and said, “I have been known to bite.”

“All the more reason to have a look, then,” he murmured against my scalp, and my stomach knotted.

And yet, I cared more about coming around our next turn than I did convincing him otherwise.

Luca was close to Polly. Too close. His arm brushed hers as he reached for his drink. I couldn’t read either of their faces anymore, but I could only imagine her wearing that smile for him.

“Show me that pretty face,” the man said, his fingers cupping my chin once more.

“It’s not yours,” I snapped, jerking my head away in one quick motion. His thumb unhooked a blonde lock from my bun.

I could do nothing but stare into eyes that widened with recognition as he fully took in my face, and the world seemed to undulate in my peripheral and morph into lurid streaks of colour.

“I have to go,” I breathed, my stomach churning, and I shoved my way through the crowd as I left the Italian stunned.

Fresh air was both a welcomed luxury and a frigid curse as it filled my gasping lungs. I twisted and wove my way around the brick walls of the alleyways, the cars on the streets, never running but always casting a glance over my shoulder. I must’ve wound my way through an entire borough before I gauged that there was enough distance between me and the pub, and I slipped into the nearest telephone booth.

The transfer didn’t take long, but I still cast a wary gaze around as my heart began to calm and my breaths came more steady in my chest. The adrenaline was waning, leaving my shoulders and calves tense with ache.

“Matteo? Yes, hello, this is Charlotte. I would like to speak to Luca, please.”

“What is this regarding?” Matteo asked me over the line.

I rubbed my temples, nursing a burgeoning headache, and said, “I just need to speak with him. It’s urgent.”

“Luca is out on business.”

Business.

My stomach clenched again.

Was Polly making the same deal she tried to make with me?

Would Luca no longer have a use for me in this war?

Why had she been smiling?

“Charlotte?” Matteo spoke after what must’ve been a long silence, but for me, had been a frantic tide of cruel thoughts.

“Yes. Thank you. Tell him I need to speak with him as soon as possible.”

I hung up halfway through Matteo’s farewell, and I sank to the floor of the booth, the poorly constructed glass groaning against my weight and the metalwork biting into my spine. I dug a cigarette from my pocket and, with shaking fingers, held a lighter to the end.

I nudged open the door with my shoe for ventilation, and took a deep drag. I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining the notes of citrus and jasmine entwining with the smoke.

And when I opened them, I stared into my faint reflection in the glass, and the eyes that stared back at me were a pale, ice blue, and their frigidness warmed my aching heart, tugged at the bright of my soul.

And I watched, slowly, as they morphed to a green past the gout of smoke I blew, and a dark hat swept across the reflection’s forehead and the bright of citrus turned to the dark of ambrette.

And I stared into the reflection until the beating of my heart had finally lulled, and the smoke had swallowed the serpent gaze.

NEXT CHAPTER

SERIES MASTERLIST / FULL MASTERLIST

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Taglist:

#luca changretta #luca changretta x oc #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #my writing #alfie solomons #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #polly gray #arthur shelby #peaky blinders fanfic

[desertpersephone]

Writing Patterns

tagged by no one, I just wanted to do it.

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

blue swallow motel, room 14, 7pm. hope to see you there, secret agent.

M, 3k, marmalade | bathing/washing, conversations

“So what was real?” Steam swirled around the tiny bathroom, and Otis’ toes curled into the fuzzy bath mat thrown down on tile that maybe at one point was white. Now the grout was gray and the tiles were tan and the bathmat was that old kind. The kind grannies have, the itchy kind, and he figured whoever had picked it must have thought it made the bathroom look homey.

He Peels An Orange And I Eat The Fruit On My Knees

E, 7.3k, steddie | valentines exchange, baker steve

There was something special about the early morning. It was quiet, but not quiet in the way that the evening was quiet, not quiet in the way an empty house was quiet. It was its very own kind of quiet. Almost peaceful, hazy and glowing with pre-dawn light. It had some kind of liminal feeling, both day and night or sleep and wakefulness. It was special. Except that waking up early also sucked absolute balls.

syrup sweet and lonesome

E, 17k, steddie | christmas exchange, subspace

The distant sound of cars echoed into the alley, and the frigid air of Indianapolis in the winter started to soak into his bones like cheap brandy. Steve kind of wished he had some cheap brandy to chase it away, to stoke the dying heat in his chest. With brick of questionable cleanness and graffiti against his back, Steve puffed out a lungful of smoke and stared at the phone in his hand again.

I had a feeling that I belonged. I had a feeling I could be someone.

E, 3k, 9-1-1 | eddie diaz character study, fatherhood

The day she tells him feels like the worst day of his life. Something forms in his chest. Tight. Maybe it's the worst day of their lives. She's supposed to go to college, got in at UT in Austin, and the fall semester starts in just a few weeks, and Eddie was going to put some hours in at his dad's company, and then he was going to move to Austin to be with her in a year, and they were going to start their lives — and now Shannon was telling him she was pregnant.

add salt to taste

T, 1.5k, 1/?, steddie | personal chef steve, rockstar eddie

The kitchen was so much quieter than the ones Steve had worked in before. There was no yelling, no work chatter, no fryer, no vents, no water boiling over. The only sizzling came from the one pan he had on the front burner, hot oil welcoming as he lay a nice fillet of catfish skin side down. He could feel eyes on his back, monitoring his process, making sure he actually knew what the fuck he was doing.

we're here tonight, and that's enough

G, 3.5k, steddie | christmas exchange, hard of hearing steve, steddie as dads

Snow fell outside, dimly visible as it reflected the streetlights, the heavy blanket of quiet already starting to enrapture the neighborhood. Eddie always swore he could hear it, when it was landing thick and soft on Steve’s rose bushes under the front window, or on the steps he would shovel for his husband in the morning, or on the plastic slide of the backyard play structure. But right now all he could hear was the quiet Christmas music coming from the living room stereo, echoing gently through the warm house.

Becoming. . .

G, 1.3k, stranger things | spiderman orgin story, spider!steve

Steve Harrington had never liked spiders. Of all the bugs in the world, they were the worst. He didn't really like any bugs — maybe rolly pollies or butterflies, but most of the rest? Awful. And spiders gave him the heebeejeebees.

THESE HANDS ARE GROWING COLD THEY'RE RUNNING OUT OF THINGS TO HOLD

G, 1.8k, stranger things | steve harrington character study, crochet, grief

Steve was intimately familiar with the emergency room at Hawkins Memorial by now. Even more familiar with the long, quiet halls of the nuero wing, with its big, private rooms. The rest of the hospital he knew from growing up there, being relegated to the doctors' lounge or the surgical waiting room when his parents couldn't find a babysitter, or when his mom was supposed to be off work and instead came to loiter around the hospital in hopes of snagging a new case.

rotting like a wreck on the ocean floor

T, 2.7k, 2/7, steddie | merman steve harrington, modern au

The beach after a storm was the best place in the world. There was a strange quiet to the sand and the mystery of what had been blown ashore; logs and ropes, chunks of debris lost at sea, shells and bottles and moon jellies. Eddie had developed quite a fondness for the beach after a storm, to the point that he would get up while his uncle was still sleeping to walk down the short trek to the beach and poke around. Sometimes he would find treasures -- and sometimes he would find trash.

i have never known peace like the damp grass that yields to me

M, 3.3k, the witcher | original character backstory, wounds and amputation

Oberyn hated taking monster contracts. He had always found that there was never enough coin on the other side, and more often than not they were either far too easy — and thusly boring — or too much effort for that little bit of coin. Humans just wanted him to be an exterminator, to come in and clean up their pests, with no understanding of the training that went in to being a witcher.

God I really like to Set the Scene don't I? I like people to Feel where we're meeting our characters before actually being introduced to the plot. Even in my smutty oneshots am taking you on a visual journey. Or I try at least.

#my fics #writing patterns #fanfiction #fic #steddie #marmalade 2024 #9 1 1 #the witcher

[paper-collective]

[Ray📝:] to make this whole system thing work a little better we made a blog. we would love to talk to other systems, we know the value in feeling seen

[Gray 📝:] under the cut we have alter list, practical info and discourse stances.

[Annie & Rob📝:] use he/him if not otherwise implied. most alters use he/him and all the fem alters are comfortable with he/him. (I won't speak for the xenogender alters though)

she/her is used by: Annie (primary), Angel (casually), Polly (probably), Rega (in addition to he/him), Minian (only)

alter blogs: @annie-flying (Annie & Angel +?) (not accessible, full of undescribed images)

[📝Ray & Lee:] an attempt at an alter list. Some inaccuracies may exist. Not all alters are listed.

comment: [Cal📝:] this section is under reconstruction because well, this is grossly inaccurate

alters: Ink (he/him), Lee (he/him, admin), Forga (he/him), Marc (he/him) (symptom holder), Max (he/him) (strong dissociative barrier), Mint (he/him + any green neos), Ray (he/him), Lilly(she/they/he), Blue (blue/blueself / he/him), Luke/k (he/they) ,Rain (he/they), Roy (he/him), Rowan (he/him) (fictive?), Ore, Gold, Reya (trauma/memory holder), hidden name (1 & 2), Orange, Reya, Regal, Viola, gch1 (group chat host), gch2

alter count: ca 80-90 (known). [source: gray]

simplyplural alter count: 50-60. [source: QL] [outdated -Mint🌱]

[Blue & Ray📝:] system terms: traumagenic, questioning DID, has subsystems/groups (not sure if there's a difference). [Annie & Lee📝:] We have some issues with speech that we don't know the reason for.

[Rain 📝:] we're comfortable with most if not all language for alters/parts/headmates/sections and system.

[QL📝] We have very few fictives, but a lot of protectors and comfort seekers and quite a few without any named role.

[Marc & unnamed 📝:] we usually tag posts with [alter name].txt, but not all alters do it. overall formatting mostly depends on alter. "unnamed.txt" is for alters without a name who don't use alter/tag format. [ink📝:] similar names may indicate similar alters. Sometimes we use a series of concepts or letters to indicate alters (tagged: alter/tag) which usually means an alter doesn't have a name or is a blur between a couple different ones.

[gray📝:]Because some alters don't want us to we do not publicly display our (body) age, but we will give it to you if you ask. We try to follow age-based DNIs as best we can. We are ok with people of basically any age interacting, but preferably at least old enough to use this app. [Mint🌱:] regardless of age only interact platonically/socially/parasocially, no fl*rting or anything like that.

syscourse: we're anti-harrasment and anti-fakeclaiming. we're endo neutral/unaligned, though some alters are pro or anti so you might see some posts about it (see here for more info). [Lee 📝:] no member believes you can accidentally make an endogenic system, but some think you can intentionally make one. [not verified by multiple alters yet]. [forcibly unnamed 📝:] Some alters are pro and some are anti, and therefore we may want to interact with users who share these opinions. I hope this is ok. We don't really start any syscourse on here. we are currently considering moving all syscourse to a sideblog.

[Gray📝:] other discourse: we're pro-queer, the term and people (unnamed 📝: we don't support radqueer to be clear). [Gray 📝:] We don't have a stance on most labels. We are a bit uncomfortable with people with strong shipcourse opinions, but you can interact.

We are not at all caught up on shipcourse, but any and all shipping is a trigger so ship-centric blogs DNI. We are anti-war and believe in rehabilitation not punishment for crime and prisons. We believe in religious freedom.

We support the term transandrophobia and understand that men can face discrimination for not being the "right kind" of man (see also: toxic masculinity). We are against slut-shaming and virgin-shaming and believe in sex positivity.

We are against the term "narsissistic abuse" because we believe it's better described as "emotional abuse", "verbal abuse", "gaslighting", "manipulation" and/or "psychological abuse", and don't wish to stigmatize traumatized people's disorders even further.

[Blue & Lee📝:] We are in a lot of ways very dependent on boundaries, especially in friendships. So if we're chatting or even just mutuals PLEASE tell us if we ever overstep your boundaries or do anything with you you don't want, and any other boundaries. Also, applies to anyone, but tell us if you need anything tagged, we are willing to tag anything.

#pinned post #paper collective speaks

[christinasyellowflowers]

Sunrise | Polly Gray

Polly Gray x reader (platonic)

Prompt: #14 Sunrise

Requested by: @solomons-finest-rum

Warnings: none

Note: English is not my native language so beware there may be grammar or spelling mistakes.

Apologies because that wasn't very sunrise...ish. Like at all. It gets mentioned though. I was so eager to write this that I didn't even try to fit this in. Oops.

Do not repost please!

Feedback is appreciated!

It was Mother's Day.

And it was the first time Polly would get to spend away from Michael every since they reunited. It was a creative day for you both.

Michael would get her the flowers and you would cook dinner and desert. Even though you weren't related to the Shelby's or the Gray's she was still considered family.

The three of you would stay awake all night, until sunrise, drinking tea and hearing all kinds of stories from the gypsy queen.

Polly and your deceased parents were family friends. Gypsy blood ran through your veins as well, and ever since they passed, it was just you and Polly, along with her chaotic nephews and Ada.

"Did I hear the phone ring?" Polly pulled you out of your memory lane, entering the room in hurry, glass of whiskey in one hand.

"No. He's gonna call soon. Stop stressing about." you assured her, whilst praying on the inside that Michael hadn't forgotten.

"Why don't you go for a stroll? You have an hour Ada arrives for tea." You suggested.

"No, I'll miss his call." she protested, and you sighed.

"Do you mind if I go?" You asked. "I need to return the book I borrowed from the bookshop two days ago ."

"Mmm, since when does bookshop owners lend books instead of selling them?" Polly smirked, giving you a knowing look.

"He was just being polite to a regular customer." you shrugged, attempting to look cool.

"The young lad fancies you, Y/N." Polly pointed out, and you blushed.

"Not as much as Mr Gold fancies you I'm afraid." you returned. "The way he looks at you when you don't look at him is..." You trailed off, not finding the right word.

"We should go out on a double date some time. When he finally asks you out." She teased, and you snorted out a laughter.

"If he asks me out mean, Pol." you corrected. "Right, I'm off." you announced after a small pause.

"Have fun!"

You were almost out of the room when you halted and twirled around again.

"I just realized I didn't say it."

"Say what?" Polly wondered

"Happy Mother's Day... Mum!"

#chrissyscelebrationblurb #peaky blinders #polly gray x reader #christinasyellowflowerswork #my*fanfic

[acertainmoshke]

Character Intro: Cassandra Zoawin

Age 10 (now and forever)

Pronouns: she/her

Sexuality: look, I know kids get crushes but I didn't so can't really imagine it so she just has better things to think about

Abilities: actually, she's a completely non-magical human except for the aging thing. She does have some cool skateboard tricks and is quite an artist.

Physical description: small white girl with long blonde curls and gray eyes. Eternally scraped knees and her hair is always falling in her face if some nearby adult doesn’t braid it.

Clothes: likes to wear cute clothes, often princess-themed and almost exclusively in pastel shades. She begged Lily to paint her shoes, too. Has a charm bracelet. Generally stuffs her pockets with polly pocket, littlest pet shop, and other tiny toys that she is free to play with any time.

Basic backstory: born in 1916 but stolen at only 8 months old by a Fae in want of a human child, replaced by a being that at the time was glamoured to look like her. While Shaka's hair darkened by 5, Cassie's stayed blonde. The timeline is a little fuzzy in her memory, but she was at one point a toddler and a tiny girl, and at that point she was doted on like a puppy by the Fae around her, given fancy desserts and toys and it was nice. At some point though she got older and was expected to dress in fancy gowns and act less like a puppy to be petted and more like a decoration or entertainment. She doesn't know when she stopped aging, but she lived with several other kids who also never grew up. Things changed after a few decades when Shaka arrived to fight for her. After that, every 5 years she got a month to go spend in the human world with Shaka and Kris and she lived for these adventures when she got to just have fun and run around screaming with no fear or humiliation. So when one day, with no explanation, Shaka arrived and said she had to decide then whether to run away or stay forever, she went with them. It was a harder adjustment to regular life than she expected, and the way her friends outgrow her and she never gets older is really hard on her. But she does like cartoons and dolls and her bike and getting to talk back or throw fits without being hurt for it.

Basic inciting incident: in the first book, she has very little say. But the ultimate decision on where to live for the rest of her life was hers, and she wanted the world of colors and pigtails and whining to stay up too late instead of the one full of gowns and balls and learning new dances every month.

#moshke writes #writeblr #cold iron #character intro

[amidst-wonderland]

{random nora + michael (ft. george + rosie) headcanons}

[part one] + [part two]

nora calls her english friends "hen" even if they're a few years older than her. like, esme, ada & gina but she wouldn't dare dream of doing it to her scottish friends who are older than her.

people in a past have assumed that nora was jack's wife when they moved to the us. what didn't help was michael and nora's son being called "jack" (named after john shelby) which resulted in nora wanting to call him ian instead. it didn't catch-on.

nora has a tattoo. it's a small rose at the bottom of her back. it was given to her by one of sabini's bartenders that eilidh swore fancied nora.

nora's got a few different nicknames:

michael calls her nonie the mcleod's call her nory esme calls her red john calls her trouble (alec is also partial to that)

nora calls michael ‘gray’ (she’d started it before they got married) and it seemed to just stick.

not having any cultural traditions really bothered nora now looking back on her wedding day and as someone who has a passion for colours, clothes and patterns she hated how bloody bland her wedding was.

     “never liked these ‘hings.” nora idly gestured picking at the leftover chicken george didn’t want to eat. “didnae even like ma ain.”      esme softly winces at the memory of nora’s rather disastrous wedding day. a pregnant nippy eighteen-year-old, johnny dogs mediating and polly's vulture-like dotting on the scottish girl making sure her future daughter-in-law couldn’t do a runner, did not make for an easy morning of.      “at least am no up the spout at this one but gray’s naewhere to be seen as-fucking-usual.”      “hardly an ideal situation – mine wasn’t any better. john ended it sleeping in the allotment.”      “alec’s wis nice. hid the auld traditional shite ah felt lit ah needed tae hiv – faither ae the bride, ceilidh and haundfasting ‘though didnae shed a tear over nae blackening. jane fucking stunk fir days, apparently.”

gina removed the ruby from nora's lighter (nora assumed it fell out due to its age) and years later gave her it back in a necklace for her birthday.

nora didn't end up selling john's rings to move out of the pub. she just stashed them away for emergencies.

[this] is modern!nora's wedding dress, just a little bit of a more fluffy, whimsical skirt

when they move into a bigger house in glasgow the kids, rosie more-so struggle to sleep in their own beds, let alone their own room as they've been sharing a bed with nora for the past five-years.

when rosie was born, colin bought his granddaughter a copy of 'winnie-the-pooh' and the sequel every subsequent birthday they released.

when the kids were a little older they'd play pretend and preform small plays from their books for a highly amused drunk crowd of their parents. rosie's favourite is always peter pan, and the seven-year-old likes making it clear to her cousins that, "my mum did the play so i get to be tinkerbell and katie has to be mrs. darling because she's ginger, like mum." (it helped that she was the youngest and the easiest to lift, so nobody really objected to their little cousin bossing them around.) the boys were just happy to smack each-other with wooden swords in the 'pirate fights'.

i have literally nowhere else to put this so here's modern!nora and teen rosie after she gets in trouble at school. (george's gone to uni to do an english degree and michael's in the us so she's acting out a bit):

     “oi, ah heard aff mrs morrison in the landin’ you gave that chantelle lassie a right thumpin’ oan yer lunch.” nora pulled her daughter off to the side by the wrist, “why?”      “wrong place, wrong time.”      “y’know i’d believe that pish fae yer uncle, yer faither and mebbe yer brother, but no you; no ma rosie.”      the teen scoffed, “that’s not very forward thinking of you mum, it’s the twenty-first century, lassie-“      “-rosie,” nora laughs, “don’t take this the wrang way hen, but you’re a lazy wee shite at the best ah times. you don’t dae nuthin’ fir nuthin’.”      “i’m a big girl now, puberty changes-”      “-wrap it hen, whit she say?”      “mum, its fine.”      “rosalin.”

polly and rosie are inherently alike and share a lot of similar traits but polly also has quite the soft-spot for george (although esme's convinced it's just unresolved projection).

nora still feels like george's protector in comparison to rosie. he won't take nonsense from the boys in school but he's pretty quiet compared to his peers and prefers his own company and she knows the type of trouble boys in the area get into, especially mcleods.

#peaky blinders #michael gray #michael gray imagine #oc: nora gray #polly gray #john shelby #esme shelby

[sixty-silver-wishes]

Original short story- The Button

In a small town- well, I’m not sure you would call it a small town, as it may not be quite as small as you’d believe, depending on what your idea of a small town is- after all, there’s a sizeable population, and despite what you usually hear about small towns, not everybody knows each other. You always hear that people in small towns are always nice and wonderful and make you feel welcome- well, not everyone in this town is like that, especially Tommy Hopkins. God, I hate Tommy Hopkins. 

Wait; where was I? I was telling a story. Okay; let me start over. Sorry. 

In a small town, there was a house made of crooked slats of cypress wood all smushed together and, well, I’m not sure what color the house was- it’s been a long time since I’ve seen it, but I think it was some shade of ash gray- this house was on the very edge of town, right on the water. There’s something sort of funny about the water in Florida, where you look out at a big stretch of pond and all you can see is the duckweed overtop the surface, which makes you think it’s a lot more shallow than it is, but if you stick your foot into the water expecting to be able to wade across from one bank to the other, you find yourself waist-deep in muck. One of these big duckweed ponds was right behind this house, and in that house was a tiny little room, filled with all sorts of globes and maps, and in the room with the globes and maps lived an old man with at least three or four teeth and long, spindly fingers with warts right under the nails. 

When we were kids, Polly Brown said he came over with the Spanish way back in the old days, looking for the Fountain of Youth. At least, that’s the story she told visitors and passers-by, because it was so much more believable than the real story. You’ve never seen a girl like Polly Brown- real nice teeth and yellow galoshes on her feet and a crooked sort of smile. Only thing imperfect about her is the missing thumb on her left hand, which she lost when she stuck it in an anthill when she was five. I’ve been meaning to ask Polly Brown out- I’ve been in love with her since school days, you see- but I’ve never quite gotten the courage. But I hope Tommy Hopkins isn’t going to come along and pop the question first- after all, Polly Brown is one in a million, and you just don’t see girls every day with missing left thumbs that they lost to a colony of fire ants at the age of five. Tommy Hopkins is a real ass, he is, and if anyone deserves to lose a body part in an anthill, I’d say it’s him, although those ants had better take a part a bit more important to a man than his thumb, if you know what I mean.

 I don’t quite remember what I was trying to say now- something about Tommy Brown and Polly Hopkins- no, no- mustn’t call her Polly Hopkins; Polly Brown’s her name, although my last name would suit her just as well- but I was saying something about them, and before that- right. The old man.

The real story as to what he was looking for, at least the story everyone else in town knows, is that with all his globes and maps, he spent his time planning for a journey to search the whole world over for a button that had fallen off his trouser-pockets when he was just a boy. He’d never once stepped outside his house, because he found planning the search to be of the utmost importance. 

There was a clear memory of his head of a time when he was at the beach with his mother and father when he was just a little boy- certainly, he had been a little boy at some point, although with the wrinkles pruning up his face, it was very very hard to believe, but certainly, he had been a little boy at some point- and they were strolling along the shore, and when they came across an ice cream parlor, he reached into his pocket to see if he had any change for ice cream, but at some point the button on his pants had disappeared, and when he stuck his hand in his pocket, his pants slipped down his legs and fell into the sand, right in front of all the beachgoers and the sable palms and the fiddler crabs digging their burrows while the tide was in and even the seagulls, who were flocking around the ice cream parlor, as seagulls always do, and they all laughed at him. Even his parents, who, I am told, were very lovely people who would never in their lives laugh at their child, but the incident seemed so amusing that they just couldn’t help themselves. And of course, the boy felt quite mortified, especially since even the seagulls were laughing at him, although seagulls always sound like they’re laughing anyway, so perhaps he shouldn’t have taken that so seriously. But that day forward, he vowed he would find his missing button, but because he lost it in the ocean, there was a chance it could be just about anywhere. 

He wanted to set out at once for the button, but was suddenly seized by a terrible fear of the notion that, perhaps, while he was searching, someone would ask him what he was looking for, and out of obligation, or perhaps because he was never a very good liar, even as a child, he would end up telling the entire terrible story of the day he found he had lost his button to them. So he figured the best thing to do was to sit at home with all his globes and maps, tracing the currents of the oceans and considering every possible location until he found one he thought would be just right- clearly, when he stumbled across the right possibility, he would just know- and would go straight there and retrieve his button. And so he holed up in his house and, day after day, he pondered every possible location on earth, but would never get the feeling that any of them was quite right. And so it went, until he was a very old man.

One of these days, probably a Thursday or so, although other people will tell you it may have been a Friday, and Polly Brown swears up and down that it was a Monday, the old man finally decided to leave his house. He found a spot on his map- the only spot that wasn’t crossed out by a red X- and said to himself, “this is it. This is where my button is.” 

So he stood up out of his chair- real slow, so his brittle old bones wouldn’t break, you know, because he was very old and he’d been sitting in that chair for so long, so when he did sit up, the legs in his bones made this awful creaking noise- and started walking, all wobbly like, towards the door. I don’t know the last time that door had been open, but finally, it was swinging slowly forward on its hinges, creaking even louder than his leg-bones had. 

The people of the town looked to see the door swinging open and the old man coming out, his map in one hand and an enormous backpack on his shoulders. None of them had ever seen his door open, not even the oldest people there, and all gathered around to look inside his house, or at him, or at the enormous pack of supplies he was carrying. With all these people surrounding him, the old man grew very nervous, more nervous than I was when Tommy Hopkins asked Polly Brown to the dance back in high school and she said yes, and wanted to turn right back around and hole himself up right back in his house. But he couldn’t- not when he finally determined he would go and set out for his button.

 As they surrounded him, some people cheered. Others, especially the small children, stared in horror and surprise, as to them it was very likely they were witnessing the manifestation of a phantom. And it was true- with his warty hands and beard that trailed along the ground, he certainly looked the part. The townsfolk declared a local holiday- a parade and a feast to commemorate the day the old man, whom few had seen, if they looked through his window at just the right time at just the right angle, had at last left the rickety old house and set off down the road in search of his missing button. In fact, we celebrate Button Day, as it’s known around these parts, every year. Tommy Hopkins invited Polly Brown to the Button Day parade last year, but she said no. I was very thrilled about this and thought it meant she would ask me instead, but as it turned out, she’d refused because she was out of town for the week to attend her grandmother’s funeral. 

So, the old man left town in his faded old boots and set off down the path, all his pots and pans clanking on his pack behind him. You could hear him from miles away, I’m sure, with all his clanking pots and pans and the creaking of his bones and the swishing of his beard as it dragged along the ground. 

When people from up north come to Florida, they come for the theme parks and the beaches. They might come for the orange juice or the nice weather that they’re promised, before they learn what hurricane season is. Or they might be old and retired and come here to have somewhere pleasant to die. People come for all sorts of reasons. But nobody comes for the swamps, although they’re everywhere. Reason being, Florida swamps can be some of the nastiest, boggiest, muggiest, mosquito-iest spots in the state, maybe even the country. And that’s not even mentioning the alligators. I’ve seen five, ten, fifteen-footers in my day. Sure, most of the time they’re lazing in the water and not doing much, but when they’re hungry, they become enormous, scaly bullets with snapping teeth and jaws of death. Every kid in Florida learns three things in elementary school- who Ponce de Leon was, how to identify different types of mangrove trees, and how to outrun an alligator. Don’t run in zig-zags, like you do to escape most predatory animals, even though some may tell you to. And don’t even think about trying to climb a tree. Run as fast as you can for at least fifteen feet and hope you lose it. If it catches you, go for its nostrils. Maybe it’ll let you go. 

All that being said, the old man was now traversing through the dark, dripping bowels of the Florida swampland. He wasn’t seeing any gators, at least, of course, for the time being, but the pots and pans on his back were clinking and clanking and his beard was swishing through the mud and his bones were creaking, creaking, creaking. If any gators were asleep in the water, it was possible they could hear him. In the air, mosquitoes, gnats, no-see-ums, and other unpleasant insects buzzed in clouds, biting at any uncovered skin they could find, even the old man’s warts. He could have easily turned back, but he wanted that button, and had been wanting it for years, and wouldn’t stop until it was his. The ground squelched under his feet, water seeping muckishly into his worn-out boots. And the sun was hot overhead. 

The Florida sun is very rarely pleasant. It may be the Sunshine State, but as anyone who lives in Florida knows, even Tommy Hopkins, who failed the first grade twice, the sun can be dangerous. Many people consider sunscreen essential, as the sun is known to cause skin cancer. Or it can easily dehydrate you, sucking all the moisture out of your skin until you’re nothing more than a crumpled-up paper bag, or at least that’s how you look and feel. And as of now, the sun was high in the sky. Sweat was dripping out of every pore on the old man’s face, into his beard and soaking into his clothing. And, you know, the insects loved it. They swarmed to him all the more, guzzling themselves drunk on the sweat that gathered on his wrinkled old forehead, under his nose, and around his eyes and everywhere they could land their bristling legs.

As he clanked and creaked through the swamp, the old man wondered if he’d be better off returning home. After all, what was so special about a button? He wasn’t even sure if he remembered what the button looked like- the shape and size, what color it was, even whether it was a plastic button, a metal button, a felt button, or a button of some other material. What if he found a button, but it wasn’t the button? Would he even recognize it when he saw it?

“Of course I would,” he attempted to convince himself. He would recognize that button in the same way a mother would recognize her lost children, even after they had grown up. He was sure his map was leading him in the right direction, or at least, it felt right, for some reason he couldn’t explain, and at this point, he’d gone too far to turn back. And besides, if he returned to town without his button, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to show his face to anyone, ever again. Yes, he needed to find his button, especially as he had hardly done anything but ponder over its whereabouts for the past several decades, and now that he was actively on the search for it, it was of utmost importance that he find it at last.

He checked the map. He was getting closer to the space that he had left uncovered- where he knew his button must be. Ahead of him stretched a flooded expanse of water- he had no choice but to cross. The old man removed the pack from his back and began rifling through it, until he came across a roll of rubber yellow material. He promptly unrolled it, and an inflatable river raft stretched out before him. With his gnarled hands, he searched for the plastic tube he could breathe through in order to inflate it. 

As he blew as hard as he could into the inflatable raft, his breath whistled through his few teeth, very high and very sharp. Three pairs of black eyes rose out of the water. 

If you grow up in Florida, you’ll know that alligators have a filmy third eyelid, called the nictitating membrane, which allows them to see underwater. “Like built-in swimming goggles,” your kindergarten teacher may have said. It was now that these nictitating membranes were flashing over the black eyes, like shadows over a new moon, as they sank into the water, where alligators are much faster than on land. You may have a chance at outrunning an alligator. Outswimming one, however, is much harder. The old man, unsuspecting, climbed into the raft as soon as he was done blowing it up. 

The raft wobbled with his weight, and the weight of his pack, but it managed to stay afloat. Birds called through the trees, and the insects continued to buzz, hot and suffocating and sweat-drunk as ever. Behind the raft, three trails cut slowly, lazily, but stealthily, through the water.

You may be thinking, “Here are three alligators, pursuing the old man. Here are three terrifying beasts, waiting to snap their jaws over his pruny old face. And that will be the end of that. And then I can go home and have my toaster strudel and think about how the narrator of the story will end up with Polly Brown and Tommy Hopkins will not, because Tommy Hopkins is boring and has knees like a cow’s and can’t even grow a proper goatee.” And you would be right, at least about that last part. But the old man did not get eaten by alligators, because the story has just begun. 

The old man was aware of the alligators, you know. It was very hard for him not to be. After all, when three alligators are following very closely behind your raft, you can’t not be aware of their tails swishing through the water. But he was questioning something, something I’m sure you may have questioned at some point in your life, and that I definitely have. What truly was the point of living? He’d spent all his life pondering the whereabouts of a button, which had fallen off of his pants when he was just a child, and the laughter of everyone around him had never left his mind, although I do not know if anyone in the town was aware. They all regarded him as an oddity, an outcast. He was nearing the end of his life. To live in wait, to die unfulfilled, and if to be fulfilled, for what? Say he had found the button- then he would have his life’s goal achieved, but then what next? He’d spent his teenage, middle, elderly years, all ruminating over a button. Not taking action, only thinking, thinking, thinking of something he wanted, until the time was just right- but so much time had been wasted in the process. You may think, “what a strange old man,” but, you know, there are many, many people in this world, who spend all their time thinking about how they’ll shoot their shot, so to say, and but never do, or otherwise wait to try until it’s too late. 

Man, I’m glad I’m not like that.

In any case, here was the old man, sitting there on his raft, contemplating his life and being pursued by alligators. I’m sure we’ve all been in that position. As he sat there wondering whether it would be worth it to continue his journey at all, a branch from an overhead cypress tree creaked, falling onto the nearest gator’s head.

 This, of course, only made the alligator angry. It thrashed its tail about, propelling itself even faster through the water. It opened its jaws as it neared the raft, revealing all of its teeth. If you grow up in Florida, you learn how to tell an alligator from a crocodile. One of the easiest ways is to look at the teeth- alligator teeth do not protrude from their closed mouths, while a crocodile’s do. But now that its teeth were on full display, wickedly sharp and glinting in the blazing sunlight, the old man suddenly realized that this was not how he wanted to die. He had spent quite a bit of time before pondering all the best possible ways to die, and being eaten by an alligator certainly wasn’t one of them. 

He picked up the oars and began to paddle the raft as fast as he could, although his arms were weak and the weeds in the water slowed him down. Still, pure adrenaline caused him to put at least some distance between himself and the gator, although it glided ever closer. One alligator swam under his raft, throwing it forward. The old man hung on for dear life as the raft was hurled through the mucky water, and he only barely managed to stay onboard. As he paddled, the shore began to grow closer and closer in sight. If he could make it, perhaps he could have a chance. He neared the shore and leapt out of the raft, just as one of the alligators grabbed his long beard in its mouth. He was pulled backwards, but managed to escape. “Perhaps we will find something easier to hunt,” the alligator said to itself as it slid back into the water with a mouth full of beard-hair.

The old man watched the alligators give up the chase with triumph, and watched his raft drift away with considerably less triumph. Yes, his supplies were still on that raft, which was being carried away with the current. There was no way he’d be able to make his way to where he was sure the button was without his pack. Furthermore, the raft was leaking, and it was beginning to sink. The old man panicked, biting his barely-there fingernails (he had a habit of biting them when he was nervous, I believe, which was presumably very often) until they were worn down to less than stubs. His creaky leg-bones burned from all the energy it took to escape the alligators, but he couldn’t let his supplies go down, lest he be stranded in the middle of the swamp with nowhere to go and no way to survive. 

And so, despite having just escaped it seconds ago, he waded back into the water, hoping to drag out his raft onto the shore. Mud oozed into that spot between his overgrown toenails and his toes, making every slow step squelch and pop. While there was no longer any sight of the alligators, as they had gone and swam away elsewhere, small fish darted around him, picking at his skin- perhaps sampling to make sure they would like the taste of him if he were to drop dead and sink into the water. The old man reached the raft, dragging it laboriously through the water and back to shore, where he lay, exhausted, drying out the contents of his pack. The mosquitoes had returned and began to buzz around his emaciated, heaving body. He was so hungry he caught some out of the air and ate them. The old man did not much like the taste of mosquitoes, a sentiment I’m sure is probably shared by most people, except for maybe Tommy Hopkins, but after escaping three hungry alligators and dragging his supplies out of the water, he felt like a stronger, braver version of himself- someone who was willing to be adventurous and take risks. And if taking risks meant eating swarms of mosquitoes out of the air, then so be it. 

When he had eaten his fill, the old man dragged his supplies deeper and deeper into the swamp. The sun was beginning to set, so he pitched a tent right under a gnarled old tree and went to sleep, right there, snoring very loudly, so loudly he woke the roosting birds and they all started to squawk in unison and he woke up all over again. And so the cycle would continue.

 It was a very peaceful arrangement, sleeping under an old tree under the stars- much different than falling asleep at his desk after staring at books and maps all day. He was closer to his button than he had ever been, he knew, and tomorrow, he would wake up and go searching for it once again. He had brought all sorts of gadgets- a metal detector and a fishing rod and a butterfly net and even an old French rapier. I don’t remember when or where he got this, but as the story goes, it was right there in his pack, alongside all his other supplies. He didn’t use it against the alligators, as alligators do not know the rules of fencing, and it’s terribly rude to challenge an alligator to a fencing duel when the alligator does not know how to fence. Certainly all people know this.

The old man woke up the next morning to find his tent completely destroyed. A rainstorm had brewed up overnight, and the swamp flooded, leaving him quite soaked. He hurriedly gathered his things as they floated about him, although many of his food supplies had been carried off, stolen, or otherwise devoured by the surrounding birds, opossums, raccoons, fish, bugs, turtles- anything nearby. So much for all his labor recovering his things from the swamp! He shook his head miserably and sighed.

Still, as I always say whenever Tommy Hopkins tells me he gets an e-mail from what’s obviously a multi-level marketing scam, there was nothing to do but press forward. And so the old man gathered what was left of his supplies, creaked until he was standing all the way up, and took down the shreds of his tent. He must have looked a monstrous sight- all skin and bones and mosquito bites, walking about with his gator-torn beard. His shoes had come off in the mud when he went to recover his raft, and the dirt clung to his long, gnarled toes, so his feet were covered in clogs of clods that plodded over the soggy bog. 

And so, the old man headed ever deeper into the swamp, onto higher ground, where the water did not rise up to his ankles. Here, he could see that the land had a sort of beauty to it- a sort of beauty that every Floridian knows, and that every tourist in Florida often misses because they’re too busy looking for things like sandy beaches and El Castillo de San Marcos and how to pay as little money as possible to take a picture with a man in an oversized rodent suit. This was the sort of beauty that can only be found in the swamps, with the orange and white mushrooms climbing over the mossy logs and the great blue herons stalking through the swaying reeds and the sun filtering down through the trees, onto the ground where it makes the most unique dappled shapes that shift and change with the wind. The old man was looking at all of these things and sighing to himself and thinking of how he had missed out on them- missed out on all this natural beauty, you know, of course, because he had been sitting in his house all those years, looking at his books and maps and pondering over what-ifs and perhapses and maybes. I’ll never understand people like that. Such fools, working themselves into a tizzy and not bothering to take action and do something with their lives.

But now that the dawn was scintillating in all its glory over the grove, and the birds were singing, and even the raccoons were on their most charming behavior, the old man began to cry- great tears as big as tarantulas, weeping snottily for all he had lost. It was really quite a touching scene, I’d imagine- him in the grove there, thinking about all the time he would never get back, all for a button and his damaged pride. He sat there sniveling for a good long time, all through the day and into the next, and into the next day after that, until all his tears had dried. And then, with a loud noise like a vacuum cleaner, he blew his nose and continued on his way.

And so it was, as he continued through the swamp, which soon gave way to a forest, that he made his way to a bubbling stream. He went to wash his feet, which, of course, were caked in mud, and stepped eagerly into the water, letting it wash over and under his old toenails, sweeping away the sediment and dust and grime that had been lodged there for who knows how long. 

As the old man was washing his feet, he began to sing an old nonsense song from his childhood. He’d forgotten all the words, and I don’t think there’s anyone alive who still remembers them, but nonetheless, there he was, half-singing-half-humming a tune that he must have been the only one around to know. It brought back some happy memories, and some sad ones, and memories he wasn’t even sure he knew how to feel about. 

He scrubbed the dirt from his feet, dirt from his floorboards that had been there for ages, perhaps even before Florida became one of the United States of America, and as he did so, the sand in the bottom of the stream began to shift, creating clouds and miniature underwater dust-storms. When it settled, he saw that something was sticking out of the water.

It was a stick.

But next to the stick was something round and faded- maybe metal, maybe plastic, maybe even fabric. It was worn and weathered and old, old, old, so it was impossible to tell anyway. Not that the material it was made of mattered, of course. As for what color it was, this was not easily discernible, as when the water rippled over it one way, it appeared gray, and when the clouds passed over it, it seemed black, and when the sun hit it on a very specific angle it seemed as if it could easily be almost red, and perhaps even brown or blue or yellow or a very odd and not at all fetching combination of indigo and chartreuse. The old man knew what it was immediately, and began to weep his tarantula-tears all over again, falling to his knees in the water and breathing very heavily and clutching his heart, which pounded so hard it threatened to burst from his chest and take off slipping and sliding down the stream.

 It was the button- his button, there in this stream all this time after having fallen from his pants all those years ago, when he was just a child, and it had at last come to him, when he wasn’t even searching for it, but instead simply washing away the dirt from his feet in the stream. He would take it home with him, and burn all his old books and maps, and maybe even his house, and find somewhere else to live, and display the button on a silver mount on his wall, where all who wanted to could come round and admire it and ooh and ahh in hushed, astonished whispers. Certainly nobody would ever laugh at him again- it was his, finally his, and he would live out the rest of his days absolved and content and happy, happy to finally be reunited with the one thing he had spent his life dreaming about searching for.

And that would have happened, that is, if a catfish hadn’t come along and, with its great big mouth, swallowed the button up. The old man reached for the catfish with his warty old fingers, but it thrashed its great tail and wiggled its whiskers most threateningly- whiskers, that, as everyone knows, could cause great harm should they come into contact with human skin. But the old man was desperate. He fumbled about for the catfish, hoping and praying that it would at last cough up the button, but the catfish would not. At last, it wriggled and writhed away, breathing through its great old gills, and took off speeding down the stream. And it was there, at the banks of the stream, that the old man’s heart gave out from the exhaustion of his journey, and he promptly snuffed it.

The catfish, meanwhile, kept swimming, until it was snatched up in the talons of an osprey. The osprey carried it away from the stream, higher and higher, to its nest, where its screaming chicks awaited. And when the great bird fed the catfish to its chicks, they tore into it, but when they came upon the button, they found it inedible, and so tossed it into the air and down the tree, where it hit every branch on the way down, before it was picked up by a gust of wind and blown across the ground, until it was pawed by a panther, which sent it rolling along the ground for a very long time, until it landed right back in the town the old man had come from. And the fact that it happened was so miraculous that even today, we still celebrate Button Day.

If only that old man had not been such a fool! If only he had started his journey when he was much younger, and stronger, and unafraid to take risks! Then, who knows what may have happened.

 Perhaps things would have gone far better for him- perhaps far better than things had gone for me this morning, when Polly Brown had texted me and asked if I wanted to go to the Button Day parade. I didn’t know how I could respond to such a smart, beautiful, funny, attractive girl like Polly Brown, and so just didn’t. And she said she would ask someone else instead, since I wasn’t responding, and because I didn’t know what to say, I still didn’t answer.

And so it was at the Button Day parade this afternoon, I saw Polly Brown and Tommy Hopkins holding hands as they waved at the rows of dancers in catfish suits and the mayor, who sat atop a giant alligator float and tossed out buttons to the crowd. Tommy Hopkins went to pick up a button off the ground, and his own pants slipped down as he did so. The people around him laughed, and Polly Brown looked away, although I swear I saw a bemused smile on her face.

What a laugh Tommy Hopkins was! What an idiot! Losing his pants, just as the old man did! What a joke he made of himself, right in front of everyone! What a spectacle he was, as the crowd clapped and cheered for him, he gave them a blushing smile and a wave as he pulled up his pants, and Polly Brown gave him a kiss on the cheek!

 Some people, you know, never learn from the past. 

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