#you know what good for him i wish him heath and safety and never having to repeat what i put him thru emotionally | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

queenshelby · 3 years

Text

Neighbours

31 Days of Kink: Day 5

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warning: Smut

Words: 1,895

Note: This plays somewhere in Season 2. I am also about to update the schedule for 31 Days of Kink.

Imagine living in Small Heath with your husband and your neighbour is no other than Thomas Shelby.

One evening, when your husband was away on business and you were concerned about your safety, you knocked on Thomas’s door. He invited you inside for a drink, promising you that you will be safe living next door to him.

After having gotten to know him, you indeed felt safer when your husband was travelling. But you also couldn’t help but get curious about Thomas Shelby and the many different women who visited him.

Most of them were so loud when he fucked them that you could hear them from your bedroom. Was he really that good, you wondered? The sex you were having with your husband was average and you recently had found out about his infidelity, which is perhaps why he didn’t bother to please you in bed. He had never given you an orgasm which you were disappointed about.

Little did you know that, on your birthday, your husband had another business trip planned and that you would be spending the evening with your handsome neighbour instead and he might just give you exactly what you have ben craving.

***

‘So, how are you celebrating your birthday then, eh?’ Tommy chuckled after you met him in front of your house, telling him that your husband was in London for the week.

‘Uhm, I don’t know’ you said shyly as you dropped your keys. Your hands were tremoring nervously every time you saw Tommy.

‘I have no plans tonight. Come over to my house at 8 o’clock for a drink, eh?’ Tommy suggested and you nodded shyly.

At 8 o’clock you knocked on Tommy’s door and he was quick to let you inside.

He offered you a glass of whiskey, which you gladly accepted and, over a few drinks, you began talking about your lives and, in particular, the affair your husband was having with one of his secretaries.

The night went by and, before you knew it, you had three glasses of whiskey and it was 10 o’clock. Over the third glass of whiskey, you brought up this silly game you played in school where, on your birthday, the boy you liked would kiss you, just once, to wish you a happy birthday. But you never went out with him which is something you regretted many years later.

‘Mind if I wish you a happy birthday?’ Tommy eventually murmured, looking intently at your lips. Your little story had given him the perfect opportunity to take things further with you.

You moistened your lips with the tip of your tongue and blushed again as his eyes followed the movement avidly. ‘Yes…I mean no’ you responded. You rolled your eyes self-deprecatingly. ‘I mean that I don't mind if you…’ you said shyly but his crushing kiss cut off your words.

You had never been kissed like this before. Tommy’s lips were demanding, overpowering and yet expertly deliberate in the way they teased and suckled your lips until you couldn't help but invite him to deepen the kiss. You gasped as his tongue invaded your mouth immediately. There were too many sensations to take in: the warmth of his hand as it cradled the nape of your neck, the heat of your rapid breathing, the sound of Tommy’s shaky groan as your tongue tentatively tasted his.

Tommy then abruptly broke off the kiss and backed away as you, breathless for more, leaned in again stealing one more kiss from him.

‘You know, if I was your husband, I would fuck your mindlessly every night’ Tommy smirked and your face burned with a confusing mix of shame and raw desire. You had never heard anyone talk like that. He had rendered your utterly speechless. You only knew you wanted to hear him say your name again.

‘Well, I am here now and you can fuck me mindlessly tonight’ you purred, leaning in to press soft kisses along the line of his jaw. Your hand slid slowly, sensually up his chest, and you smiled to yourself as he groaned in response.

Tommy was hesitant at first but you begged him to fuck you, just that once.

‘Is that what you want for your birthday Love? You want me to fuck you and make you come on my cock?’ Tommy grinned, running his hands over your tender breasts and then down beneath your dress.

His words were making your stomach practically turn cartwheels and, within seconds, he pushed your legs apart widely, running his fingers over your soaking panties. His forcefulness both frightened and aroused you.

‘Yes Tommy, please’ you whimpered, grinding yourself against the soft fabric of the lounge.

‘I'm going to make you come so hard that you will be back for more Love’ he said thickly before taking your hand and guiding you upstairs to his bedroom.

The next few moments were a blur and you found yourself completely naked in on Tommy’s large bed within minutes.

Your breath caught in your throat as you could feel Tommy’s rough fingers run along your moist slit. You were mortified because you had become embarrassingly wet just by the touch of his fingers.

‘Tommy’ you whimpered, needing simply to say his name again as his fingers ran back and forwards, collecting your moisture.

‘So, fucking wet for me already, eh’ Tommy said as his middle finger slipped wetly into your pussy and began pumping gently.

You threw back your head and moaned, shame be damned. It just felt too good.

‘You want more, don't you?’ Tommy said as he inserted a second finger, wringing another breathy moan from your throat.

‘Oh god yes, Tommy…’ you moaned and it wasn’t long until Tommy pushed your legs apart wide and you watched his head disappear in between your legs.

You felt his tongue tease the top of your slit, you bit your tongue to keep yourself from squealing. His attention soon turned to your clit while he pushed his fingers back inside you, pumping in and out of you with more force this time around.

It wasn’t long until you felt the stirrings of an orgasm. God, was he actually going to make your come with his mouth? Certainly you'd brought yourself to climax plenty of times while thinking of Tommy, hearing him with these other women, but the sight of him in between your legs, the sound of his hard breathing as he licked you--these things were so much more arousing than anything you'd imagined.

‘Fuck Tom…’ you moaned as a shiver of pleasure cut off your words. But it didn't matter. Tommy instinctively redoubled his efforts, pulsing his tongue against your clit as he pumped two fingers in and out of your pussy. He clearly wanted to make you come, wanted to hear and feel you lose control. That thought alone was enough to push your over the edge. You leaned over and gripped his shoulders as the orgasm racked your body. Your moans echoed off the brick walls.

Tommy stopped pleasuring you just as your clit began to feel too tender. He was still breathing hard as he emerged from between your legs, smirking at you. He chuckled to himself as he gazed over your flushed and exhausted face while he unbuckled his belt.

You immediately stiffened. The orgasm had left your body simultaneously relaxed and aroused, but as you watched him undress, the fluttering in your stomach grew into a churning. You hoped Tommy couldn't see how nervous you looked as he casually removed his pants and undergarments. His erection was huge. Granted, it was only the second you'd ever seen, but the thought of it entering you made your breath catch in your throat.

‘Spread your legs’ Tommy said peremptorily.

‘On my knees or on my back?’ you asked nervously

‘Depends. How do you want it Love?’ Tommy grinned.

Silently you lay on your back and placed your hands submissively above her head.

You scanned his face in the dimness. His gaze was all but devouring you, his eyes bleary and inscrutable. You watched his focus travel from your spread legs up to your breasts and back down. Then, to your fascinated amazement, he began stroking his cock. You writhed and arched her back. When had you become such a wanton? And why did provoking him like this only make your pussy ache even more for him?

‘You are fucking impatient aren’t you Love? he growled, dropping to his knees and pushing two fingers in to your entrance. Even as you felt the pleasure wash over you, you found the sound of his fingers practically sloshing about in your wetness embarrassing.

‘You're fucking soaked’ Tommy chuckled. He smiled as you moaned plaintively.

‘Tommy, please’ you whimpered.

‘Please what?’ Tommy grinned.

‘Do it’ you moaned, aching to feel his cock inside you.

He wrenched your thighs wide apart and smirked as he detected the heady scent of your wet pussy. ‘Do what, eh?’ he chuckled.

‘Put your cock inside me’ you moaned impatiently as he stroked your inner thighs up and down. His fingers left little trails of your juices as they moved.

Tommy pushed your legs apart even wider before lining himself up with your entrance.

‘As you wish’ he groaned as he slowly shoved his length inside you inch by inch.

There was discomfort. His cock was bigger than anything you were used to but you immediately loved that feeling of fullness, this sensation of being possessed, used, and worshiped all at once.

Tommy was breathing raggedly as he thrusted in and out of you, slow at first and then increasing speed.

‘You are so tight, fuck’ Tommy moaned as he opened his eyes and watched your breasts jiggle with every thrust. Then he shifted his weight so he could grope you with one hand. You could practically feel your breasts flush with arousal as he lightly slapped them.

You watched him watch your body respond to him and felt deliriously happy.

‘Kiss me Tommy, please’ you breathed, and had scarcely closed your eyes before you felt his tongue invade your mouth. He was breathing hard and not so much kissing you as fucking your mouth. You moaned as you struggled to match his forcefulness. God, he was forceful.

He broke off the kiss at last and pounded you with renewed heat.

‘Fuck Tommy, oh god’ you moaned loudly as he kept thrusting into you and it wasn’t long until your walls began to clench around his cock.

‘I am coming Tommy, oh god’ you managed to announce as your legs began to shake wildly again and you held onto his arms as his movements became erratic.

‘Fuck’ Tommy moaned and you felt Tommy’s weight settle on you. He was shaking and groaning at the same time and you felt a new warmth inside you as he filled you with his warm cum.

‘When will your husband be back?’ Tommy asked as he collapsed right next to you.

‘Not until Monday’ you said as you rested your head against Tommy’s chest.

‘Good…’ Tommy smirked, running his hands through your hair. ‘Be prepared to be sore by then Love’ he grinned before, once again, trailing kisses over your body.

#Tommy Shelby #tommy shelby smut #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby #thomas shelby smut #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #peaky blinder imagine #Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders imagine

650 notes · View notes

deepdonutkid · 3 years

Text

Kismet

Requested: No

Paring: Shelby!Sister Reader x Isaiah

Words: 5624

Summary: For a year now, you had a secret relationship with Isaiah and even when he is still in the same room with you, you can’t stop feeling lonely. It’s not that you don’t love him anymore, it more about the weight of the secret you have to carry. But with Tommy as you big brother you can’t risk, telling the truth or your man might get shot.

Note:

I was in the mood for a Shelby!Sister reader x Isaiah and it turned out to be way longer than I expected it... and I even cut out dialog... So here it is!

It’s also flavored with Junior Peaky Boys fun at the beginning. And I was inspired by my homegirl’s one shot called star and my story is an addition to hers, it’s the same night, but Bonnie has some other adventures than the reader and Isaiah.

Somehow I feel like everybody is a little ooc, but I couldn’t correct it.

Requests and tag list are still open, feel free to dm me or send me an ask.

tagging: @bonniesgoldengirl @justalonelyslytherin @theshelbyclan

Warning: swear words, drinking, binge drinking, gambling, a hinted smut and a sweet ending

It was one of those nights, nothing special, just the usual fellows around the same table in the Garrison. You had fun nevertheless. All your friends were right there, you had enough to drink and you had a luck hand today. The cards seemed to work in your fortune.

Deviously smiling you revealed your hand. You just had won this round and it gave you unholy amounts of satisfactions. “Ha”, you cheered: “Suck it up.”

Your friend shrugged and shoved his coins in your direction. All he said was a very grumpy “There you go”, but it pleased you.

You took the money and peaked around the corner. Where was Michael with the drinks? He was like a brother to you, but he was just your cousin. Maybe it was because you were born just two months before his older sister, Anna. Even though, she was gone Michael came back to his real family and now you were closer than ever. You cared for him, more than your siblings did.

But that didn’t mean you wouldn’t hit him, if he just left the bar to fuck with some random girl. It was not about him having sex, more about leaving without telling anybody. Especially when he was supposed to get drinks for the table. You moaned and said: “Where is Michael?”

“Probably doing somebody”, Isaiah joked and lit a cigarette. Then he offered you one and you took it gladly. Actually, you bit your lip and gave him the side-eye, but you had to hide your smile in front of the others. Bonnie and Finny weren’t the smartest boys in Small Heath, but you wouldn’t risk it.

You had so much fun with Isaiah that you didn’t even know when it started. Months passed by, while you were completely caught up in your little game with him. Nobody knew it. That was mainly Isaiah’s fault. At first it amused you to keep your relationship with him secret, but now you were ready to tell your family about it. Your boyfriend didn’t like the idea.

Somehow you thought Michael started to notice. He gave you the glace, which said: “I know, dear”, but maybe you were just getting crazy. You just had to be more careful around others now and everything was fine.

The night was still young and you were keen to make Bonnie lose all his money today. He had won the boxing match earlier and the bruises were still visible, but unfortunately for him, he couldn’t win against you. It was just a card game, but it filled you with gleeful joy. This and the fact that Isaiah was sitting next to you. Sometimes he would brush your thigh with his fingers, which made you giggle even more.

“There he is”, yelled Finny while being so fucking drunk, like you never had seen him before. Michael arrived with messy hair and his tie was undone, but he had your drink and that was all that you care for. “Finally”, you fluted and ripped the glass of his hand: “Thank you, babe.”

And the whiskey was still cold, which meant he fucked the girl first and ordered the drinks afterwards. “How was she? Good?” you asked before you took a sip from your whiskey. You weren’t a lightweight when it came to drinking, maybe not as well as Arthur and John, but you could tolerate much more than Ada and Finny. Your little brother was so drunk, he looked like his head was all empty and yet filled with bullshit.

Michael sat down next to you and answered: “Mhh, she was okay, but she talked too much.” Then you felt the weight of a hand on your thigh again. A shiver rushed down your spine, but it was the wrong side. Your cousin had put his hand on your knee. “Everything alright, Y/N?”

You nodded. “Yeah, everything is perfect”, you blabbered hoping he wouldn’t keep asking questions, but he did. “Don’t be so worried, every time I’m with a girl. I know you’re still a virgin, but you can get some too. Tommy wouldn’t be against it.”

How wonderfully wrong he was. Neither were you a virgin nor would Tommy be okay with this. After all, you were his little sister and he wouldn’t accept the guy, you were sleeping with. Of course, Isaiah was a friend of the family, but after the whole thing with Ada and Freddie you had something to worry about.

The best snarky comeback was right on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t say it without letting something slip. ‘What gives you the idea I’m still a virgin?’ And yet you were silent as the guy who fucked you, sat right next to you. You felt trapped and decided to go straight forward. “Yes, he would. You know it and everybody in Small Heath knows it.”

“Oh whatever”, Michael mumbled: “Just drink enough and you eventually forget about it.”

You grinned and emptied your drink. “Fuck it, let’s play some cards. I’m not done with Mr. Gold over here.” Then you took the cards and dealt them to start the next round.

Much later that night when you brought Finn back home and went straight back to the pub, in front of the entrance, you stumbled into Bonnie. “Is there a reason why you’re smirking?” you asked him. He was gleaming red and smiling like an idiot.

Then you remembered. “The singer, right?” Bonnie nodded and his grin got even wider. “You talked to her?” Again he gave you a silent answer. You grabbed his arm and pulled him back inside. He was a lot heavier than you thought, but then again, you were just a girl and he was a boxer.

Sometime it was weird to only have male friends, it just happened. Maybe it was because of your brothers. Maybe that’s why you never acted like a proper girl. Of course you felt like a woman and you liked your body, but in your eyes it was so much easier to talk to guys.

“Eyy, where did you found him?” Michael slurred and helped you to put your friend on a chair again. With your hands finally free you had the chance to explain. “Found him outside. I don’t know what he did there, but he talked to the singer.”

Both, Isiah and Michael nodded. It was only logical for Bonnie to freak out after it talking to her. He was there every Friday night looking for the singer and now his brain seemed to melt, just because she said something to him. But neither of you knew, what she said exactly. Maybe this was a problem for another night. It didn’t look like Bonnie was able to answer.

So you ordered some more drinks and sat back down again. In this separate room, which was reserved for your family, it was almost too tempting to get close to your boyfriend again. Isiah looked so good that night and it hurt to be unable to touch him… or to kiss him. But you would be satisfied with just holding his hand now.

It was a curse; you knew it soon after you realized that you loved him. He was handsome, charming and a loyal friend. There was no better man for you, even though you wished you could be together in public. And again you bit your lip and moved your chair away from him.

But you couldn’t think about this anymore, it was too frustrating and luckily somebody else caught your attention. It was Bonnie who mumbled very quietly: “I think she kissed me, but it could be a dream as well. It felt so surreal.” You padded his shoulder and nodded to underline your compassion.

It was just the same with Isaiah. Whenever you two were alone, it was amazing and beautiful. He was so soft and romantic and he just made you happy. But every time you woke up and he was gone, the sweet scenery shattered. And out in public it was getting annoying to find excuses to be with him or getting away, so you could spend some time alone with him and you had to lie to your whole family about your whereabouts. Slowly it became exhausting.

There was nothing you could do about it, so you just drank your whiskey and talked with the boys about Bonnie’s singer and the girl Michael had. It was so easy for them to display their relationship in the public, but of course you didn’t have this privilege as a girl. Apparently, you needed to be protected. Or so it has been explained to you. You wasn’t concerned for your safety but for your freedom. Tommy said it was his job as your big brother to care for you, even if it felt like he was controlling you. You have always been the wild one among your siblings and everything was fine, until your mum died and your dad left. Then Tommy was in charge and sometimes his opinions would vary from yours, which led to fights. And yet you feared what he might do, if he found out about your secret.

All the sudden Bonnie fell from his chair and you groaned. Now somebody had to bring him home as well. First Finn and now him… but why they couldn’t take the whiskey today? You weren’t nearly as drunk as them, but still.

Isaiah stood up and picked his friend up. “I’m taking him home. I’ll be right back”, he said, before leaving.

Now Michael and you were alone. It wasn’t what you wanted. The only thing you could think of was smooching the sweet lips of your boyfriend. You were caught up in your little fantasy, when your cousin woke you up again. “Isaiah is acting weird lately.”

“Oh… really? I didn’t notice”, you replied: “He seemed normal to me.” Your hand grabbed the fringe of your dress. Talking about him made you nervous.

Michael moaned and fumbled for his cigarettes. He put them out, you took one and he turned his between his fingers, when he added: “I don’t know, maybe I’m getting paranoid, but I think he is hiding something from us.” Then he lit his cigarette and took a drag from it.

You inhaled sharply and stared into the void for a second, before answering: “Don’t be silly, he is just as loyal as ever.” Then you laughed and Michael joined in. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I just needed to get this off my chest.”

The rest of the conversation went just like usual. You chatted, you bickered and you had fun. While the bell already announced the new day, Isaiah came back.

In this tiny glimpse of a moment you couldn’t hide your smile and he reciprocated. Actually, you were just waiting for Michael to leave now. It was your plan all along, but patience has never been your strong suit.

It took three more rounds for Michael to say goodnight. “Take care of her, will you?” Isaiah nodded. When Michael finally grabbed his jacket and headed to the door, you felt unbelievably excited. Your fingertips slapped a melody on the table, while you watched him leaving. The door shut and now you had what you longed for all night.

You turned around and looked at him. Gosh, waiting felt like an eternity. Now you were the one smiling like an idiot. Slowly Isaiah came closer and his hand pulled you to him for a kiss. “Finally”, you whispered against his lips, before giving him what he wanted.

After you two parted you rested your head on his shoulder. Now you were getting tired as well, but you didn’t want to go to your bed. “I was waiting the whole evening for this”, he moaned and stroked your hair.

The smell of his perfume made you realized how much you missed him too, even though he was with you since you went to Garrison tonight. You moved closer to him and wrapped your arms around him to give him a tight squeeze. Then you signed: “I wish we didn’t have to hide” and buried your face in his shirt.

“Babe”, he replied: “We already had this conversation. It wouldn’t end well. Let’s just enjoy what we have as long as we can.” It hurt, but Isaiah was right. There was no chance Tommy was getting you off the hook, once he knew about it. And no matter how you explained it to him, he would still be against it. You were too young for stuff like that, as if he didn’t fucked Greta, when he was the same age.

You leaned back to see his beautiful face again. There was something in his eyes, a twinkle or something like that, but it always made you feel comfortable. A lick of your lip was enough to purpose the idea of doing something nasty. He knew you since you were children and it was like he could read your thoughts, especially the dirty ones.

Isaiah started giggling and asked: “Hey, babe, I still can cheer you up, right?”

Maybe it was time for some fun, different to the fun you had before with your friends. The word pleasure would describe it well and with his knowing look he gave you so many ideas. You laughed and nodded. “I think it might help when you do the thing with your tongue.”

“Oh”, he responded amused: “Like this?” And then grabbed you for a kiss and god, what a kiss it was. His tongue brushed your upper lip just to enter your mouth and explore it as if it was your first kiss. He even bit your lip playfully and kept going until you couldn’t breathe no more. Your knees started shaking and it was needless to say, he was the best kisser you ever had.

It took you a while to catch a breath again, but then you answered: “Yeah, just like this… But maybe we could go to your place and do a little more?”

He didn’t seem to be so sure about this suggestion. His thumb stroked your shoulder as he held you in his arm. Because he was so quiet for a second, you knew, he thought about this backwards and forwards. “But right when the sun comes up, you have to go back home”, he argued.

Again, Isaiah was right. You should take too many risks. Otherwise you might get caught and neither of you wanted that. All you could do was to shrug and agree: “Just don’t shoo me after we fucked.” There was bitterness in your voice. What wouldn’t you give to wake up next to him every morning?

The pub was almost empty, when you left. You couldn’t hold his hand on the way out. Everybody in Small Heath was Tommy’s spy. Back on the streets a cold wind blew. Now you had an excuse to go near him and he shared his coat with you. Isaiah was always so sweet and caring. You knew you wanted to spend your future with him. There was no other man and you wouldn’t get over him, not now and not in five years.

You even took off your shoes before entering the Jesus household and followed him on your tiptoes to his room. It was completely dark in the house and the silence was haunting, but good for you, you knew the way by now. The excitement made your fingers tremble.

Finally you arrived where you wanted to be the whole day, in his room. Isaiah closed the door as quietly as possible and started smiling. You walked up to him and started to unbutton his shirt. Now you didn’t want to waste any time.

And neither did Isaiah. He was ripping down your dress, which only worked because the straps were so thin. His hands were all over your body and you couldn’t stop kissing every inch of his skin. It felt like magic whenever he touched you. You moaned, when he played with your bare breasts. To silence you he put his thumb on your lips, which you took as an invitation to suck it. Maybe it was mean to tease him like that, but you were desperate for his affection.

An hour later you laid next to him, your head on his chest as he stroked your hair. “You should leave, before we both fall asleep, babe”, he whispered, which caused you to sign. Leaving now was draining, even exhausting. After this wonderful sex, you were too tired to move anywhere, not to the bathroom and certainly not back to your cold bed.

You pouted your lips and tilted your head, so you could give him your puppy eyes and a pretty please with cream and a cherry on top. “Just ten more minutes. Your bed is way comfier than mine.”

He laughed and kissed your forehead. “That’s just because I’m in this bed and you like to use me as your personal giant pillow.” Your fingers hovered about his belly. Even though his muscles weren’t tense now, you could still feel the strength lying beneath his skin.

While your index finger drew circles around his bellybutton, you whined: “Maybe… just maybe that is true, but I still want to lay here for a bit. Otherwise I start to feel like a whore, who only comes for sex and leaves silently afterwards.” It wasn’t a knock against Lizzie or her job, but you didn’t like the feeling, when you got home and had to find sleep in your own bed. Even though you had a relationship with him, you still felt lonely. Especially when the sun was rising and nobody was by your side.

“You’re not a whore and you know that”, he argued looking a little concerned.

Then you turned on your back and stared at the ceiling. “No, I’m a Shelby and that is probably worse”, you scoffed.

Now Isaiah was silent and had no witty comeback for that. Maybe, because it was true. If you weren’t part of the family, you could be with anyone, whoever you wanted. Carrying the name Shelby was the only reason, why you had to hide your relationship with Isaiah.

After a while he mumbled: “Okay, stay for a while, but you should be back before they open the shop.” By that time you were already half asleep and yet his words made you smile. He wrapped his arms around you, the little spoon and purred like a cat. Just in this position the both of you fell asleep.

Loud steps were coming near the door, but they wouldn’t wake you up. The screaming of Isaiah’s name did. It was a familiar voice and it took you a couple of minutes to notice, it was your brother Finn who shouted and ran down the hall. Suddenly you were wide awake. You startled up and looked around the room. The sun was already up and shining through the window. Then you saw Isaiah, who was just as frightened as you were.

If Finn came rushing through that door, your secret relationship was no longer secret. “I locked the door last night”, he whispered, which was relieving to you, but still no perfect solution for this problem.

Now Finn arrived at the other side of the door and was knocking on it like crazy. “Isaiah, wake up! Y/N is gone. Nobody can find her and Michael said you were the last one with her in the bar”, your brother yelled. You could hear the panic in his voice, but you couldn’t get caught. Not now.

You stumbled out of the bed and collected your clothes, when you heard Isaiah ask: “What are you going to do? You can’t go out there. He will find out.” And you knew your boyfriend wasn’t concerned about Finn, more about Tommy.

The tension in the room was immense. You had to come up with a plan or your brothers would shoot your lover in front of your eyes.

Suddenly you knew what to do. You pushed the pile of clothing to your chest and squeeze it thigh, when you explained in a lower tone: “I’m gonna hide in the wardrobe and then you open the door and go with Finn away. Afterwards I can come out and then I go to the betting shop and tell the others I have fallen asleep on a bench or something.” It was not the best plan, but yet your only option.

Isaiah nodded and you climbed into the cabinet where he stored his shirt and jackets. The second you entered the small wooden space, you knew it was all going down. Call it intuition, call it divination, call it whatever power Polly owned, but you felt it rushing through your body. He closed the door behind you and then you could hear him stumble into his pants.

Only half clothed he unlocked the door to let Finn in. Isaiah was still sleepy. He wasn’t the morning type of person and before he hadn’t had his breakfast he wasn’t really available. Finn strode up and down. You heard is nervous steps. “Everybody is freaking out right now. Polly thinks somebody kidnapped her or worse. I mean, she has always been unratable in her doings, but this time my sister is really going of the edge. It’s already past lunch and nobody has seen her”, Finn explained: “This morning her bed was empty and I thought I shouldn’t worry, but now I’m afraid I should have said something sooner.”

The cabinet was very uncomfortable and yet you tried not to move or to make a noise, which would cause Finn’s attention. However, being in Isaiah’s position didn’t seem to be pleasant as well. He had to lie to his best friend about the whereabouts of his missing sister, knowing she was sitting right here. Isaiah patted his friends shoulder and said nothing.

Finn didn’t calm down and seemed to be upset, Isaiah wasn’t panicking like him. “C’mon, get dressed. We have to look for her. She might be lying somewhere in the dirt. We shouldn’t waste even more time, standing around.” Then he walked to the closet and opened just the door where you had been hiding.

Butt-naked you fell down to the floor and looked up to your younger brother, who had the same face expression as the one time you told him where the babies were coming from. Some when later you would look back at this moment and would have a good laugh about this, but right now it felt like your world was collapsing.

He should have seen you like this and it took you a whole minute to gather the mental energy to get back up at your feet and greet him like it was the normal thing to do in a situation like this. “Hey, Finny, there I am.”

Your brother froze mid movement and stared at you as if you were the first pink elephant the world has seen or a bear riding a bike. Then he broke the silence. “What?”, he winced. There was no anger in his voice, just total confusion.

Finn looked to Isaiah and then back to you. “You screwed my sister?!”

There was no answer to this question.

“How long?” Finn asked: “How long did you hide that from me?”

You glared over to you boyfriend as if you were asking him for permission to say something. Isaiah signed and nodded. There was no point in denying this anymore. It was over.

Now you had to tell the truth. “A couple of months, maybe a year or so”, you croaked and your voice sounded strange. Like it was not your own and even though you dreamt about finally opening up, it shouldn’t have been like this.

Your brother yelled: “A year?! A whole fucking year? Damn, I should be proud because apparently you two are excellent liars with no moral issues… you two deserve each other.” You heard the disgust and disappointment, when he spoke and it broke your heart. Back then, when the whole thing started you though he might be the only one of your brothers to understand you. How wonderfully wrong you were.

“No”, you said under your breath: “Don’t fucking do this to me. I would have told you, if you wouldn’t have run straight to Tommy after you knew. Everybody knows you can’t keep a secret. So don’t act like it was my fault or my mistake, because it’s not. I would have gladly told everybody, I’m like him very much, but you and Tommy and Arthur and John made it impossible for me to even talk with a guy who is not part of the gang. You can’t turn this around and act like you are the victim in all this.”

It was time for you to stand up for yourself and your decisions… and time for you to get dressed. You didn’t seem as responsible as you were when you were still naked and in front of the closed you have been hiding in. Now you knew how wrong it was to lie and hide your relationship, because it wasn’t their concern. It was your life, your body and your choice. Nobody could take that from you and certainly not your brothers. You weren’t afraid of them. All your life you saw how your brothers treated women and you said nothing about it, but this should change right now.

So you stood there, furious and filled with rage, put on your dress and your shoes and said one last thing, before leaving: “This madness has to end.”

You stormed out of the room- not caring for Isaiah or Finn- and heading for the King of Small Heath to throw him out of his high throne. Your hair was a nest and you smelled like a bar after a dirty old night, when you entered the betting shop. Nobody was there, just the regular family members.

Everybody seemed to be relieved to see you again and then came close to hug you. Ada was right next to the door and the first to greet you. “Oh my god, you’re back, sweetie”, she muttered.

Next was Polly who examined your appearance for cuts and other injuries. Of course you had none, besides the hickeys Isaiah gave you. She tried to take a closer look of your neck, but you pulled away, which caused her to ask: “What happened? Where were you all night?”

Now Tommy was coming up to you. His steps were slow, but fierce and the glare in his eyes was pinching. “Just from the smell I would guess, she was with a guy this night”, he scoffed: “She probably had a lot of fun, but now she should say, who that guy was, so we can take actions.” You knew he was addressing you, even though he didn’t phrase it like that.

“I don’t think, this is your business”, you replied with a grin on your face. You wouldn’t back down. Not this time. “But yes, I was with a guy tonight. So you don’t need to worry. I’m completely fine.”

Your older brother led out a little laugh, pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Well, well, well, I don’t care what you think. I’m your brother and it’s my job to make sure you’re safe”, he explained: “And now you tell me who he was.” Ah, past tense, a hint of what was going to happen.

You crossed your arms and tiled your head to give him a dismissive look. “Who said it was your job?” was your comeback, but your brother wasn’t remotely impressed. Neither of you would let the other win. You were too stubborn for this gesture of insight.

Others, including Arthur and John, were somehow intimidated by Tommy’s behavior, but not you. Actually, you learned too much from him to take his shit. He taught you to help your head up high and how to outsmart your enemies. Now you could use the same strategies against him.

“Ever since our father left and mom died, you act like you are in charge, but you’re not. We are your siblings, not your pawn, waiting for your command”, you hissed: “I have my own life and I make my own decisions and who I meet shouldn’t concern you.” Slowly your anger grew. It was a boiling feeling in your gut, like you were fueled with fire.

Tommy was getting gleaming red. You had hit the right spot and you knew you would hurt him with your words, but otherwise he wouldn’t understand. The words were stuck in his throat as he killed you with his looks.

Patiently, you waited for his answer. He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction, but silencing your brother was the best thing ever, since he was the reason why you felt miserable lately. “No comeback? No arguments, dear?” You loved to poke his wounds and you did it with a huge smile on your face.

“As if you would listen to me… You even said it yourself. You wouldn’t take my advice”, he responded and bid his lip. “But I don’t need to talk to you to teach you a lesson. You’re too young to fuck around town and I’m going to find the bastard who did this and kill him.”

The door was opened behind you and soon Finn entered the room. You gave your little brother the death glare you were known for. He shouldn’t get the idea he was allowed to talk about what he found out.

You should be raging right now, but all you could do was laugh. His empty threats weren’t as daunting as he thought. With nothing but spite you whistled: “I would love to see you try. I kept this a secret for over a year now and you noticed nothing. And now I can wait another year for you to find him… or I could run away… whatever you prefer.”

Now you’re pushing your luck. Finn could ruin everything, if he just said one wrong word. The palms of your hands were sweaty. It was a dangerous game you played there, but it was not like you could back out of it now. This was road of no return.

Tommy seemed to be more surprised than fuming, when he asked: “You slept with some geezers for a year now?” He respected your talent to keep it under the radar. Everybody who could shirk his rules deserved acknowledgement for putting up with this risk. Maybe he was finally realizing how much you had grown. You weren’t his little kitten anymore.

“No, not geezers, just one guy”, you corrected him: “But yes, that is true.”

You watched Tommy as he walked around the table, heading for the whiskey, while he nodded understandingly. “Mh, so you would say it’s love?”

A sign came from your lips. You already knew the answer, but you weren’t so sure, if you should say this out loud. After all, you didn’t even have a proper talk about this with Isaiah. Silence was filling the room, while you calculated your risks. If you said, you loved him and Isaiah wasn’t as serious about the relationship, you would look like an idiot. Good for you, he didn’t come to the betting shop to witness the fight between you and your brother. Finally you decided to tell everybody: “Yes, I do.”

“Good”, Tommy mumbled while he poured his whiskey: “Then you should have my blessing. Just give us the name now.” He took a sip and seemed to be amused by your embarrassment.

Talking about Isaiah, while he wasn’t present, was weird, but you knew why he stayed in the comfort of his own room. You weren’t mad at him for not running after you. This was your fight and not his. And after all your brothers were a little scary, when it comes to stuff like this.

But you had Tommy’s word now and nothing should happen to your man. You shrugged and rolled with your eyes. The fuss they made about this was still annoying.

Ada patted your shoulder and encouraged you to speak. “Do we know him?” The answer was yes, but it was also the reason, why you struggled to say it out loud.

Even John chimed in and kept pushing: “Yeah, what’s up with this fella?” He was smiling to let you know the mood had changed. Nobody was against you anymore.

“It’s…”, you started and fumbled for the seam of your dress: “It’s Isaiah.”

At first it was dead silence, while the others processed the information, then Arthur and John burst out in laughter. Finn seemed to be relieved, because he would have hated it to keep a secret like this. Your older sister was hugging you a little too tight and even Polly was smiling.

Tommy had a smug on his face when he muttered: “If that’s the case, then you should have your happiness.”

“Isaiah is a fine fella. You will be alright”, hummed Arthur. Apparently everybody was happy with your choice. You just had to stand up for yourself.

It felt like a huge weight was lifted off your shoulders and then you could laugh about it too. But suddenly you remember that Isaiah was still waiting for his death in his room. “I should go and let him of the hook”, you fluted and already went to the door when you heard Tommy said: “Don’t get pregnant or he has to marry you.”

#peaky blinders #peaky fucking blinders #peaky #peaky blinder fanfic #isiah jesus #isaiah jesus #daryl mccormack #peaky fookin blinders #tommy shelby #shelby sister #isiah x reader #isiah x you #fanfic #peaky blinders x sister!reader #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders x you #peaky blinders x y/n

530 notes · View notes

moral-turpitudes · 3 years

Text

Burnt Toast:

Trigger Warnings: Swearing, Angst.

Word Count: 4,226

Characters: Polly Gray + The Shelby Siblings x Shelby!Sister Reader

Requested: Yes

Requested by: @atjafshelby, I hope you like it love!

Summary: After seeing her family turn to a life of crime, one incident causes Y/N to finally leave Small Heath in a desperate attempt to rid herself of the Shelby name. But when the family makes a sudden appearance after years of no contact, she soon realizes she’s not the only one with news to bear.

“Kids! Breakfast is ready!” Shouted Y/N from the kitchen, the smell of toast and crackling bacon snaking it’s way through the two story town house in the middle of suburban Manhattan. The sight of the meal reminding her of home when she’d help cook, practicing her craft until she rarely made burnt toast. The voice of her aunt telling her how long to toast it so it would be perfect, even if the family eating it was far from so.

As she prepared the table, the scurrying of little feet pattering away on the floorboards filled the room as they sprinted down the lavish hall. Giggles erupting as two bright eyed girls climbed into their seats.

“Now girls, you both have to get ready quickly today alright? I have some errands to run.” Y/N said, placing a mug of coffee in front of herself. Heavy footsteps came trotting down the stairs as her husband, a man of status in the banking industry, waltzed into the room.

“Morning love. I have to go in early today. Are you sure you and the girls are okay?” He asked, adjusting his tie.

“Yes, I’m going to take them with me. I have some...personal matters to attend to.” She said, her tone dropping slightly as the girls played with their food.

“I know plenty of children back home who’d love to eat what you’re playing with, now stop it...” She said sternly, memories of her mother swatting her hand when she’d go to eat with her fingers instead of the silverware.

“Is it your family again?” He asked, brushing a stray hair from her face as he sat down next to her.

“Yes.” She said, taking a sip of her coffee as her hands shook, the anxiety of ever seeing them again gnawing at her brain.

It seemed like only yesterday that it happened. Her younger brothers running out of the old shop in Small Heath to go on a another mission after their fathers business had been left on their shoulders after the war. The sight later that night making her swear off violence all-together.

Her younger brothers had a knack for messing with the wrong people, even before the war changed them. John was the feisty one, always rough-housing with the boys and bullies on the streets, always pestering her and Ada as they chased rats through town. “I’m trying to help you defend yourself sis! Don’t be such a baby!” He’d say after tackling her to the ground where she’d cry and hesitate to fight back, Ada always punching him in the shoulder to stop as their aunt Polly would come running out of the house with the Devil in her eyes.

“You’re too sweet for your own good, Y/N. Too sweet to be a Shelby.” Polly would say while bandaging any cuts or scrapes.

“You sure as hell didn’t get it from your father...” She’d say, looking at the oldest Shelby girl with a mixture of awe and pity. Y/N resembled her mother more often than not, her temper only shining through in certain situations. But she never thought she’d lose it like she did that night.

It was the night of her first real date, Polly helping brush her hair as she flipped through an old book she’d found in their house.

"That Tommy’s?” Polly would ask, looking at the cover to see a horse running wild in a field.

“Yeah.” She’d say, wishing she could be free like the horse.

“Where are you meeting this young man, Y/N?” Polly asked after a moment of silence.

“The pub down the road.” She said shortly. She remembered Polly’s grip on her hair tightening at the mention of it.

“Ow! What is it?” She asked yanking herself free and turning to look at her aunt.

“D-don’t go. Please don’t.” She said, a fearful look in her eyes.

“Why? Arthur, Tommy, and John get to go anywhere in town and I can’t?!” She said, angrily putting her hair up herself and adjusting her dress.

“It’s not safe...” Polly said, walking down the hall.

“Right...so you want to lecture me on what’s safe because I’m so nice aye? What do you fucking see in me anyway?” She asked loudly. She never really raised her voice to Polly, fearing her to a slight degree. But as her younger brothers went out on business more often, she was practically shoved away, only being able to see Ada and Finn even though she was the oldest.

Polly’s eyes welled up with tears as she spoke.

“I see hope for this god-forsaken family. You have more control over yourself than I care to admit and I can’t bare to see you squander it all away by becoming one of them. You should live for yourself, at least then one of us in this family would be doing something good for a change.” She said, sauntering off into the kitchen.

“Tommy’s planning something isn’t he? That’s why you don’t want me to go on the date.” She said, following her into the kitchen with tears in her eyes. Even if she was older than Arthur by two years, he and the rest of them never stopped being over-protective.

“Yes.” Was all Polly said before Y/N ran out the door. If she wanted her to live for herself then she was going to do as she pleased. She was tired of being seen as some family secret, some mystery sibling that was different. She never liked the violence she grew up in but was that such a crime? To know how to not hurt people? To be able to know when to call it quits? These were thoughts she still struggled with as she looked at her two little girls getting up from the table and racing up the stairs. Their hair wild and smiles a mile long. Carefree like she always dreamed of being, and like most of her aunts family always claimed to be.

“I want you girls ready in 10 minutes!” Y/N yelled as the girls moved about upstairs, her husbands voice breaking her from her thoughts.

“Well I’m off love. I’ll see you all at my lunch break.” He said, kissing her goodbye and heading off to his ordinary job. Despite him being successful and full of money himself, she couldn’t shake the fact that they led very different lives before they met. He’d go off to college while she stayed and helped Polly with Finn, and Ada occasionally staying to help as she was always wanting to be out and about. While he grew up with a silver spoon, she grew up with rusted broken ones. She couldn’t for the life her know why he chose her, maybe it was luck? But nevertheless they worked out together and she was grateful no matter how many times her past haunted her.

As she cleaned up the kitchen, she fell back onto the memories from years ago. Her heart still aching like it was yesterday.

Remembering herself sprinting towards the pub where her new date had agreed to meet her, seeing a rowdy group of men near the entrance. The sharp sound of bottles breaking and slurs being spewed as she warily made her way over. Her eyes landed on her date and her stomach dropped. Arthur was holding him by the neck as Tommy pulled off his cap, slashing the mans face open in one fell swoop.

Y/N’s screams soon pierced the air as she saw him fall limp to the ground, Tommy finishing him off with a harsh twist of his neck.

The blinders all looked up to see their older sister just mere feet away from their mess. Without thinking, she ran over to the man she had grown to know, his face almost unrecognizable after what they’d done to him. As she cradled him, her eyes blurred with tears as her brothers stood in silence, the rain washing the mans blood off Tommy and Arthur’s hands as they waited for her to speak.

“Tommy...” She said, seeing red as she started at the man she once knew, lying dead on the cold pavement.

Her brother walked over, a tired look in his eyes as he crouched down to her level and put his cap back on.

“We had to do it Y/N...” He said, trying to reach for her hand.

Without warning she slapped him across the face with all the strength she could muster. Her hand stinging with the impact.

Polly came running in the distance, stopping near John who’d been holding his rifle as he sat against the wall of the pub.

As she got up, she wiped the blood on her clothes as she stared down her brother. A red handprint forming on his cheek as she neared him. With one hand she took his arm and with the other she grabbed Arthur’s hand, leading them near Polly and John.

“I knew him you know. How was he so bad that you had to kill him? Why was this part of your fucking plan?!” She yelled as they all looked at her with sorry expressions.

“He was working with Kimber’s men. Remember him?” John asked.

She got closer to John as she spoke, her arms folded in frustration.

“No John. I don’t remember. I wasn’t part of the family meetings...remember that?” She asked, knowing they always kept her, Ada, and little Finn in the dark ‘for their safety.’

“He was bad Y/N...” Tommy said, sticking a cigarette in his mouth.

“Like you all are any better. You didn’t even know him!” She shouted.

“Y/N love, please calm down. We had leads on him. He was trying to get with ya in order to get to us.” Arthur said.

“No...he wouldn’t.” She said, shaking her head as her tears fell.

“He did. Not everyone has a good heart like yours alright?” Tommy said, lighting a cigarette.

“You know what? Fuck the lot of you!” She yelled, her eyes boring into Tommy’s specifically.

“I can’t even look at you all anymore. You took away my one shot at meeting someone that wasn’t associated with this family and you all ruined it. You all ruined everything I’ve ever tried to do and here I am, the oldest fucking Shelby and I can’t even leave me own house.” She said, giving a side eye to Polly. As she spoke she remembered her aunts words, her eyes tearing up as she spat out her frantic goodbyes.

“You know what? I’m listening to what you said Pol. I’m going to go live for myself and I don’t want any of you to come for me. I can’t stand to be around any of ya. Goodbye.” She said, walking through the familiar dark streets for what felt like the last time.

“Mum? We’re ready!” She heard her oldest yell from the front door, ripping her from her thoughts.

“Alright, c’mere you.” She said, swooping her youngest up in her arms and walking out the door. As she walked with her oldest hand in hand they noticed the rain falling slightly as the city life bustled around them.

“I wish daddy didn’t take the car. He’ll be at his lunch break before we get there.” The oldest girl said, her white dress flowing in the wind.

“We’re going right up to the bank. He’ll be there. I promise.” She said, her nerves getting to her as they entered the tall building.

“I got a call about a check being sent from Polly Gray?” She asked the teller.

“Ah yes! Here you are. She also left a note.” She said, handing her the envelope.

Y/N’s eyes widened at the figures on the check, having to clutch the desk for support.

“Jesus fucking christ.” She said quietly.

“Jesus fuckin cwist!” Her youngest mumbled excitedly.

“Hey! We don’t say that.” She said smirking down at the little girl.

“Darling! Didn’t expect you to be here so early!” Her husband said as he stepped out of his office.

“This was uh...one of the errands. Can we go outside for a moment?” She asked.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, looking at her with concern.

“Oh um...it seems me aunt gave us a check for...$100,000.” She said.

“My god...you’re kidding. How did they get that kind of money?” He asked, even though they were well-off in New York it was still a shock, especially since the shop back home was far from successful all those years ago.

“Oh...you don’t want to know.” She said, her eyes scanning over the letter.

“Dear Y/N,

I know you don’t want to hear from any of us especially after so long, but we wanted to let you know we’re planning a visit to New York. We have some business to take care of and Tommy saw it best to come there personally. We’d love to meet up upon our arrival if you’d like. We have some unfortunate matters we’d like to discuss. In the meantime though, I wanted to gift you this check, seeing as we’ve come into more than enough good fortune over the years.

With love,

Aunt Pol”

“I have to get to a phone. Watch the girls please? I’ll be back.” She said, running inside the bank.

“What’s mummy doing?” Their oldest asked.

“Calling her family.” He said, holding her hand.

“She has a family? Like us but somewhere else?” She asked.

“Yeah...” He said, not knowing much about them as well. She’d kept that part of her life a secret for a while, but she’d let a few things slip every now and then, and she always got a check from Polly despite her refusing her help, but they never got one for this much before.

“Shelby Company Limited.” The woman said over the phone.

“Yes, this is Y/N...Y/N Johnson-I mean...Shelby. Y/N Shelby....is Polly there?”

“I’m sorry miss. The family has left for America, they’re expected in New York at noon.” She said.

“Alright, thank you.” She said, her watch ticked towards noon at a fast pace, knowing they’d be arriving soon.

“Girls were taking a trip. We uh...have to meet some of my family.” She said rushing out of the bank, scooping their youngest up in her arms with the others following.

“We need to get to customs, now.” She said, hurrying towards her husbands car.

Within the next 30 minutes they’d scrambled to get there, seeing the passengers get off the ship in groups. Her heart sped up as she saw her family, more dressed up now than before, but still the same tired features give or take Finn growing up before her eyes.

“Stay here you three. It’s going to be a moment.” She said, taking a shaky breath as she walked towards them.

“Y/N? Is that you?” She heard Polly call out. She stood frozen as they walked to her, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Hello Polly.” She said with a small smile, her tears plummeting to the ground as she gave her a warm hug.

“Oi! Is that really you?! Look at ya!” Arthur said with a smile.

“Yeah it’s me. Same old Y/N.” She said, wiping her tears as her brother Tommy stared at her.

“Cat got your tongue brother?” She asked, he gave her a hug but it was half-hearted at best.

“Right...so what are you lot doing here aye? Why’d you send us all that money?” She asked looking at them, Tommy’s eyes were more dead than all those years ago. She couldn’t shake the feeling something had happened as Polly spoke.

“Can we talk about this somewhere private at least? We just got here love...” Polly said.

Y/N sighed as she turned to her little family, the ring on her finger glinting in the sun as she nodded.

“Of course...follow me. I uh, have some people I want you to meet.” She said.

“Y/N...” Polly said in a shocked whisper as she saw the two girls and her husband standing there looking at them with smiles on their faces.

“This is my husband. His name is Charles Johnson, he’s a banker in Manhattan. And these are our girls. Jane is 7, Polly is 3.” She said, picking the little girl up as she giggled and waved at them.

“You...you never told us you’d met someone. Never told us you’d gotten married...Never told us you had children...” Polly said, waving at the girls.

“Well the street goes both ways. Didn’t know you got married aye Tom...” She said nodding to him, he lit a cigarette as they walked ahead. The tension growing in the air as she nervously took her husbands hand.

“It’s complicated, but yes I did.” He said shortly, the smoke wafting through the air.

“No smoking...please.” She said, her girls looking curiously at the man with piercing blue eyes.

“You serious?” He asked.

“Yes, the girls don’t like it. You’re such a grump though love. You’ve turned into an old man, older than Arthur even. Jesus.” She said, none the wiser to what they’d all been through over the years. Tommy just nodded with a slight smirk, knowing his past couple years would’ve destroyed her.

As the Shelby’s made small talk with the little girls, Charles got them a ride to their house, the bustling city taking them a little bit by surprise.

“I don’t know how you live here. It’s hectic.” Polly said, sitting in a small armchair in their living room.

“Well you wanted me to live my life for me Pol. I came here and I loved it. Never saw a reason to move.” She said, pouring her a glass of wine.

“Anyone want a drink?” She asked as her worse-for-wear brothers sat around.

“Now there’s our sister. You got whiskey?” Arthur asked.

“Did you think I left all of Birmingham behind? Of course I do.” She said, pouring out a couple glasses and handing them out. Her husband taking one and giving her a small peck on the cheek, Tommy staring him down for a moment before she came to him with a glass.

“What kind?” Tommy asked before drinking it.

“Irish...what else would it be? You taught me that.” She said with a smirk.

“Right...” He said, fixing his golden glasses.

“So tell me, what’s life been like here? It seems...grand.” Polly said looking around the place as the girls ran around giggling.

“Jane! Polly! No running in the house...go out to the courtyard.” She said, taking a sip of her whiskey.

“You named the little one Polly? I’m touched.” She said, sipping her wine.

Y/N sighed before she spoke, her husband sitting near her on the large sofa, holding her hand as he knew she had some things to get off her chest.

“Look...I was....angry. I was angry at the world when I left and...I’ve held onto that for so long it’s eaten me up. I know you all don’t care for me now, hell I wasn’t invited to anything anyways, but I did the same. I did this for me. And I’m happy here. I’m happy with my children. I named her Polly because even though we wanted to rip each other’s throats out some days, you were the one that helped me realize who I wanted to be. You helped raise me and I couldn’t not name her after someone I loved dearly.” She said, the room falling silent.

“You want us to forgive you?” Tommy asked.

“No. Honestly Tommy I’m still trying to forgive you. It was because of you all that I watched you kill him. I moved here so you’d never take people away from me again, but no I’m not looking for forgiveness or anything, I just want it behind us.” She said finishing off her whiskey.

“That was for your protection, love. You can understand that now at least, since you have your own children now.” Polly said, clasping her hand over hers.

“I can. But I wouldn’t kill someone. That’s how we’re different. I’ve told Charles about it, because I’ve always been the nice one. He may think otherwise though.” She said smirking at her husband.

“But, I’ve tried to move on. I just want you all to know I’m happy and I’m honestly not that hurt by it anymore. I’m just plagued with the memories that’s all.” She said.

“What about back home? How’s Ada? I’m assuming she’s with her kid...Karl right?” She asked, trying to change the subject.

“Yes. She has another on the way as well. Different father. Deceased though.”

“That’s too bad, I know she’s probably torn up, the poor thing. Give her a hug for me will ya? God I haven’t seen her in so long.” She said and Polly nodded.

“What about John? Where’s the cheeky bastard at anyway?” She asked. Polly teared up as Tommy held her hand, which he never did unless it was something important.

“He....he got shot. One of the mafias with a vendetta against us got him...it was recent enough that we figured we’d come to tell you.” He said.

“No.” She said, getting up quickly.

“No...no I-I said the most hateful things the last time I saw him. He can’t be...” She said as tears poured down her face.

“Hey....shh it’s alright darling.” Her husband said attempting to comfort her as she clung to him, her tears staining his expensive suit as Arthur and the rest looked away, their hearts growing heavy after re-hashing the news.

“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner. We couldn’t get to you in time for the funeral though, love.” Polly said, walking over.

“I have to sit down.” She said, her face paling as she sat on the sofa.

Her hands shook as she wiped her tears away. Polly kissed her forehead as she walked outside, observing the little girls as they played in the garden to keep from breaking down as well.

As Y/N settled down, she took another shot of whiskey, wincing at the burn of it going down. Since having her kids and working, she didn’t have as much time to drink, at least not like they did back home.

“I should’ve came back sooner...I-I should’ve written you all more often.” She said.

“Y/N that wouldn’t have changed much. We’re just happy you’re happy alright love?” Arthur said, patting her on the back.

“Yeah...” She said.

“Say...I know you all are tired. Would you all care to stay? We have enough room...” Charles asked as Polly walked in with the girls.

“Mum! Who that?” Little Polly asked in her sweet voice.

“Hello! Oh you silly girls! I hope you loved meeting Polly! These are your uncles, Arthur, Tommy, and Finn.” She said wiping her tears away as they came in, letting them walk over to them. Tommy smiled at them and put on his best kind expression, knowing how impressionable kids were.

“So uhm...Tommy do you have kids?” Y/N asked, circling back to the ring on his finger and trying to lighten the conversation.

“Yeah. I have a boy name Charlie, and a girl named Ruby. Charlie’s mum was uh...shot...by the mafia, Lizzie is well, she’s working at the office and helping with little Ruby.” He said.

“Shot! Jesus fuckin cwist!” Little Polly squealed out.

Y/N’s mouth dropped as she picked her up. Arthur and eventually everyone erupted in laughter.

“We do not say that Polly! Don’t repeat bad words!” Y/N scolded her, trying to hold back her own laugh in the process.

“I’m sorry about your first wife Tom...I’m also sorry little Polly over here has the mouth of a sailor.” She said playfully eyeing her daughter and giving her brother a pat on the shoulder.

“It’s alright love. Things happen aye?” He said, his heart still hurting after the loss, but warming at the sight of his little happy and not so nicely-mouthed nieces.

“Maybe we can visit the rest of the family sometime? I’m sure we can arrange that.” She asked looking at her husband.

“Of course! We’d um...we’d like that. Very much.” Polly said a genuine smile on her face as she watched her niece with her children.

“I’m so glad you’re doing well for yourself dear. Truly. We all are, and if we haven’t said it yet, welcome to the family Charles.” Polly said, shaking his hand.

“My offer still stands though by the way...” Charles said after a moment.

“What’s that aye?” Tommy asked, finally loosening up a bit.

“You all can stay here. You all aren’t the only ones with big houses you know. You’re family after all.” Y/N said.

“Well it’s not like we have anywhere else to go. What to do you say?” Polly asked, looking at Tommy. He smirked a bit before answering, Y/N could see the conditions he’d have with their stay floating around in his head.

“Alright...As long as we get to have the toast you always made. I’ve hired many a housemaid and none of them could make it like you do, they always burn it up.” He said.

She chuckled at the memory, always making a bunch of it in the mornings before they’d all go running off in the streets.

“Deal.” She said, giving him a small smile, knowing that even after all the years and all the losses, she knew she could never fully be away from family.

#atjafshelby #peaky blinders #peaky blinders imagines #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders oneshots #thomas shelby #arthur shelby #john shelby #ada shelby #ada thorne #finn shelby #polly gray #michael gray #esme lee #esme shelby #shelby!sister #shelby!sister reader

260 notes · View notes

wouldpollyapprove · 4 years

Text

It’s Quiet Uptown: Part One

Request: Hiii, can I request a Tom Shelby x reader where they were a couple until Grace came and he broke up with her but she was pregnant and lose it and he finds about years after that????

Requested by @espacioytiempo

Tommy Shelby x Reader

Word Count:

Warnings: language, stillbirth, angst

A/N: First, I know very little about miscarriages and stillbirths, so if this isn’t accurate, I’m sorry. I did some research and tried my best. Second, this made me cry like a baby. I’m not even kidding. I teared up a little at first and that it was a full on river of tears seconds later. I’m so glad no one was home while I was writing this cause that would have been a disaster. I’d like to thank @nemesis729 for helping me with this and I love all you’re ideas, so thank you. I will also be doing a second part.

Part Two / Part Three

Masterlist

“It’s me or her,” Y/n stated, a tear rolling down her cheek. Wiping it away, she already knew it wouldn’t be her.

The decision was a simple one after she’d seen the sparkle in Tommy’s eyes when he’d glance at the new barmaid anytime she accompanied him to the Garrison all those months ago. Y/n wasn’t naive, she knew it wasn’t the reflection from the lights above. There was no scapegoat, no one to blame for what she had seen. As plain as day, it was obvious that Tommy had fallen out of love.

At first, Y/n wanted to believe that he would get over himself. Speaking to his aunt on the subject, she believed the same. Men got bored easily with what they couldn’t have and, if her lover were like any other man, he would do the same. But Thomas Shelby wasn’t any man. He was the man that set his sights on what he wanted and didn’t let up until he held it between his palms. If he wanted Grace the way Y/n believed he did, then he wouldn’t care who got hurt until he got her.

He was an animal in that way.

Tommy sighed, annoyed by the demand. One of many signs that she was already lost to him. “What?” he questioned, biting back venom as lean back in his chair.

“Pick one,” she commanded, unable to repeat the previous statement. When there was no response, she said, “I see how it is then. Enjoy your whore.”

Walking out of the Shelbys’ shared home, Y/n wouldn’t let herself cry. She hadn’t lost anything worth losing. Tommy had never been hers if he could slip through her fingers so easily. He was a man that answered to his dick, nothing more, nothing less. Not worth her time, nor her heart. She would be better off with a fucking cow than Thomas Shelby.

But he wasn’t the only one to blame for her loss.

Before the war, Tommy was a loving man. One with a moral compass that guided him through the streets of Small Heath. With his love of horses, he dreamed of training them, spending his days in the stables, between the mares, brushing their tales and taking their reins. The man that returned from the tunnels wasn’t the same, not that anyone expected him to be. But this man…this man was cruel, cutthroat, and greedy. Anything that could be taken, would be taken. He knew no bounds and drew no lines. And there was a hole in his heart that no one could fill…not even his fiancee.

And, so, it was no surprise that he turned to the Garrison’s former barmaid. She was beautiful, smart, and witty. Grace held herself with class that Y/n would never have. But the woman with class was also the same woman that did her best to throw herself on a taken man, disregarding the fact that she herself had a husband. Y/n was no fool to believe it was all Tommy’s fault. She’d seen the woman flirt with him, even having the nerve to do it in front of her on a few occasions. Grace had read Tommy like a book and knew how to pull a laugh from his throat and put a smile on his lips. Even Y/n hadn’t been able to do that since the war.

Perhaps, Grace was the only one that could mend his broken soul…. If that were true, Y/n wished them the best.

But now she was left with her own heart to mend and, walking down the empty street, there was only one thing she had to worry about.

A few days later, Y/n stepped off the train, scanning the crowds for the only person she could think of calling. “Y/n,” Ada squealed, rushing over to her. Quickly setting down her luggage, Y/n wrapped her arms around her childhood friend, happy to have escaped Small Heath. “I’m so glad you decided to come!”

“I am too,” she admitted as they broke apart. Grabbing her bag, she followed her friend through the crowded station and to the car that was waiting outside for them. In the safety of the vehicle, Y/n finally asked the question that was bothering her, “Did Tommy tell you…?”

“That the two of you broke up?” She raised a brow, lips turning up in a sad smile. “No, Polly did. Said he was a fool for letting you go.”

She nodded, moving to look out the window as the car moved through the city, Tommy was many things and a fool was certainly one of them. The people that were in and out of view in seconds were nothing compared to those in Birmingham. These people held themselves a little straighter, they wore bright colors that no one where she came from would dare to dream of. The air filling her lungs wasn’t clean, but it was fresh. It sure as hell was fresh.

Soon they were at Ada’s home and she was showing her guest to her room before asking her to join her for a cup of tea. Y/n couldn’t turn the offer down and soon the pair were sitting in the parlor.

“You know, I don’t know why I left him,” Y/n said, stirring her spoon absentmindedly in her tea.

“What do you mean?”

Sighing, she knew Ada would have to know eventually. “I’m pregnant.”

There it was, out in the open. Y/n hadn’t dared to utter the words until then. Until she felt safe. It was a cruel joke to think that she was going to tell Tommy before she discovered he’d slept with Grace. The conversation that she was hoping would be joyous and full of smiles died once she got a whiff of the perfume that was not her own.

Ada sucked in a breath, unsure how to approach the subject. “Does Tommy know?” she asked, setting her tea down. Y/n shook her head and Ada grabbed her hand, gently holding it in his own. “What do you want to do about it?

“I don’t know,” she admitted, leaning back in her chair. “I was going to tell him that night. But your bastard brother had another woman in my bed and I couldn’t.” Y/n thought back to the man Tommy used to be, the man she fell in love with. She wanted to believe she could love the man he had become, but that proved to be more difficult than she once thought. And how was she expected to love a man that clearly had fallen out of love with her. “He doesn’t want me anyway, so it doesn’t matter. And you won’t tell him or anyone else for that matter.”

Her friend nodded, knowing what it was like to deal with her brother. “It’ll stay between you and me.”

And it did.

What was meant to be a few days stay turned into a permanent residence. Ada refused to let Y/n go back to Small Heath and have to deal with raising her child on her own. She didn’t want to get rid of the baby and Y/n made it clear Tommy would never know. Going back to the place that had caused her so much pain would not only crush her, but Tommy would know the baby was his and stick his nose where it didn’t belong. So, Y/n gave in and took the room across from Karl’s. Ada still had much of the boy’s belongings from when he was an infant and told Y/n she could have them if she wished.

London then became her home. It was much more glamorous than Birmingham would ever be and it held opportunities that she never imagined. Though, with her growing bump becoming visible under her clothes, Y/n spent most of her days at home. While Ada worked at the library, Y/n would entertain Karl and discuss short stories and novels with James, Ada’s other roommate. The two were very comforting to her, a girl who had never had a proper family. They gave her the support she had always wished for and she knew they would be wonderful people to raise her child around.

It was late, almost 11 when Ada heard screams from down the hall. James was out for the night, going to the opening of a new club with his boyfriend, leaving Ada, Y/n, and Karl. Placing her book on the nightstand, she pushed off her covers and rushed out of the room.

“Y/n?” she called, hearing the woman’s voice float down the corridor. Entering the other woman’s room, she found it empty, the covers pulled back on the bed to reveal a red stain on the sheets. Sucking in a breath, Ada feared what she would find as she approached the bathroom door. Pushing it open, she fell to her knees to comfort Y/n, who was on the floor sobbing.

“I-I think… I think I lost it,” she cried, a steady stream of tears coming down her cheeks, and clung to Ada like she was her only lifeline.

“It’ll be okay, Y/n. We’ll call the midwife,” Ada told her, hoping that it would bring the woman some hope, though, she didn’t have any herself. Having only one child, she didn’t know as much about childbirth as her aunt, but she knew there was too much blood on the bedsheets and the floor of the bathroom to be good. The front door opening snapped Ada out of her thoughts, “James!”

Her shouts carried down the stairs swiftly as she could hear the man’s footsteps against the wood. “Ada?” he asked, standing in the doorway of Y/n’s room.

“In the bathroom.”

James grew pale when he discovered his roommates on the floor, blood surrounding them. Opening his mouth to say something, he was interrupted before anything could be said.

“Call the midwife, tell her to hurry,” she ordered him. He made haste to get to the phone, dialing the number of the midwife like he was asked. As he was doing that, Ada helped her friend off the floor and led her to one of the empty guest rooms.

“It’ll be alright,” she repeated over and over, both for herself and for Y/n. She had to have hope that they would get their desired outcome. She had to.

“Midwife’s on her way,” James told Ada, meeting her in the hallway. “How’s Y/n?”

Ada shook her head, dark brown curls sticking to her face. “I don’t know,” she admitted, biting the inside of her cheek. “With how close she is to her due date, I hope she doesn’t lose the baby.”

“But you think she did, don’t you?” he asked upon catching the sadness that sunk her eyes.

She nodded, eyes on the floor. “It doesn’t look good.”

There was no life in their eyes when the midwife arrived and Ada showed her to the room Y/n was in. There were no smiles as James fetched what the older woman asked for or while Ada sat by Y/n’s side.

Tears stung her eyes as Ada was forced to watch her friend deliver her child that she would never get the chance to raise. When the baby was born, Y/n collapsed against the pillows beneath her, sobs escaping her lips. Ada did her best to comfort her friend, the same one who had been there to help her with the birth of her son, but it was no use. There was no comforting a woman who’d lost a child.

“I want to see the baby,” she croaked, looking Ada in the eye. “I want to see my baby.”

Her friend nodded as the midwife brought the infant over. No cries filled the room as the baby was placed in its mother’s arms. Both women watched, hearts broken, as Y/n pulled the blanket down to see the baby’s face. When both had pictured this moment, there was meant to be a wailing baby, kicking and screaming until it was placed upon its mother’s chest. That wasn’t close to the scene they witnessed.

“It’s a girl,” the midwife told Y/n before going back to cleaning her instruments.

“She looks just like her father,” Y/n said, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Peering down at the child, Ada saw her brother in the child he would never get to meet. The child that would never know her own father, never given the chance. “That she does.”

Caressing her daughter’s pale face, she kissed the top of her head, holding her tight against her chest. “I love you, I’ll always love you,” she whispered. “My little Elena. You’re with good people now,” she told the lifeless child. “Your grandmothers are there, they’ll take care of you. They’ll play with you, braid your hair, take you for a picnic.” Sobs racked her body she continued, “And one day…one day, I’ll be there too.”

Ada had to excuse herself, telling the midwife she would bring Y/n a glass of water. The older woman knew better than to believe that, but she understood. Every stillbirth hit her like a bullet. And as much as she wished she would grow used to the pain she witnessed with her line of work, it was only human to feel sorrow and grief when mothers’ lost the children they loved unconditionally.

Escaping to the hallway, the brunette wasn’t even down the stairs before tears poured out of her eyes and she collapsed on the stairs. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. Y/n deserved to watch her child grow. She deserved to hold her baby when it cried and teach her how to walk. After everything she had been through, she deserved that. And it wasn’t fair that Grace got to carry her brother’s baby, and with the fucking luck of god, do everything that Y/n would be unable to.

It wasn’t fair.

In that moment, she wasn't angry at God for what he had taken away, she was angry at her brother. This was Tommy’s fault. He was a master at taking away everything that people cared about. It was his fault that Y/n had to deal with the loss of her daughter alone, in a place that wasn’t her home. It was his fault that Ada was the one who had to listen to Y/n’s sobs and tell her that everything would be okay when it never would be. He should have been the one to do that, but Thomas Shelby always got out of the hard work.

When Ada returned, tears wiped away but eyes still red and puffy, Y/n was asleep, exhaustion finally hitting her. “What would you like done with the baby?” the midwife asked, gesturing to the little bundle that sat in a bowl on the dresser.

Clearing her throat, Ada was at a loss for words. She didn’t know. She never expected to be asked such a thing. “Um, I believe we’ll bury her with Y/n’s family, outside of Birmingham. I think that’s what she’d want,” she nodded, voice breaking. “I’ll make the arrangements and contact you tomorrow.” The midwife nodded, grabbing her bag and the bowl off the dresser.

Moving out of the woman’s way, Ada watched as the midwife left, little Elena with her.

Three days later, Ada led Y/n, James, and Karl to Y/n’s family cemetery, where they were to bury Elena. It was a miracle they had entered the city without her brothers catching up with them, but Ada had called Polly the night before and her aunt did what was asked of her, no questions, once her niece’s cries came through the line.

Y/n stood over the small hole in the ground, fresh dirt on one side and a coffin, that should never come in such a small size, on the other. She wanted to cry, to scream, but all her energy was gone. She couldn’t feel anything, her heart lying in the coffin in front of her. Y/n had given all her love to her little girl, believing she wouldn’t end up heartbroken, only for her heart to be torn in two.

The priest’s words fell on deaf ears as the three adults zoned out. Each had been looking forward to the presence of another child in the house. Ada was excited that Y/n would get to live her life the way she wanted with her child and James was thrilled that he would get to be a stand-in uncle for Y/n’s baby. But standing at the foot of the infant’s grave, neither were full of excitement, not an ounce of joy in them since a few nights before.

Focused on the gravestone, Y/n wished that Tommy was beside her. That he had been by her side the whole time. But he wasn’t. He was fawning over Grace and her unborn child. Y/n doubted he would have done the same if she had told him about their baby the day she left him. He still would have chosen Grace. Even with that thought, she still placed his name on her daughter’s birth certificate and his last name was hers: Elena Rose Shelby. Even if the two never met, she was his daughter and Y/n wasn’t going to deny the world such knowledge.

*~~*~~* Let me know if you would like to be on any of the tag lists.

Permanent: @amirahiddleston @haphazardhufflepuff @woahitslucyylu @mzcrazy2 @lovemissyhoneybee @multi-fandom-iimagines @tarafaithe @jenepleurepasbaby @wtfdanness @chloeforde @futuristicslimemongerbanana @auds24 @lucillethings @nemesis729 @sirkekselord @princesscornbread @i-volunteer-for-finnick @iwillboilyourteeth @anyasthoughts @ellieemais

Peaky Blinders:@simonsbluee

Thomas Shelby: @captivatedbycillianmurphy

#peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders imagines #peaky blinder imagine #the peaky blinders #thomas shelby imagines #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shleby imagines #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader

1K notes · View notes

blinder-secrets · 4 years

Text

Ring Girl - Part 2

part one

ao3 link

a/n: i can’t believe after 3 years i’m finally continuing this... i genuinely feel so good about it, i hope it was worth the wait

Bonnie woke before you, as he often did. He could’ve left you sleeping, slipped away without stirring you at all, but his softness wouldn’t let him. It never did. He’d told you once that his day couldn’t go right unless you welcomed it in and, after that, you’d stopped complaining. You let him wake you when he wanted and smiled each time that he did.

‘Dove,’ he said quietly, trailing his index finger across your collarbone. ‘It’s morning.’ He drew a line and then looped it, spinning patterns on your skin until you showed signs of waking.

You were on your back, with him on his side next to you. When you’d said goodnight, you’d been tangled together, wound up like string, but he fidgeted too much; in the mornings, you were always apart again. ‘Already?’ you sighed, talking round the edges of a yawn. ‘What time?’

‘Six.’

With your eyes still closed, you turned your head, flipping your cheek onto the pillow to face him. ‘More sleep, please,’ you murmured.

He laughed, keeping it quiet and light. Soft like he might’ve startled you. ‘I need you to wish me luck, dove.’

You pulled your eyes open then, peeling the lids apart and blinking a few times to keep them so. ‘Why?’ you asked, yawning afterwards. ‘What’s today?’

The room was dim, lit with what little sun could filter in through the curtains, but he still lay there glowing. Dark eyes melting into amber. His skin fresh and pale, and drawn across his cheeks like bone china. Precious, you thought. Gold in name and value.

His hand shifted from your chest and pushed under the covers to link with yours. ‘It’s the first day training,’ he said, lips settling into a grin. ‘They’ve got me in the best gym in Birmingham.’ He pulled the word, stretched it and curled it into his accent, cherished it like it was his for the taking.

Birmingham. The city, the bricks and the smoke. It all held a weight to him that was lost on you.

‘What do you need training for?’ There wasn’t a man in England that could beat him, you’d seen enough of them try.

‘It’s important.’ He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. ‘Rules are different.’

‘Fuck rules,’ you answered lazily. ‘You’re all instinct, Bon.’

He squeezed your hand before letting go. ‘Not anymore.’ He sat up with a groan, pausing on the edge of the bed to roll his neck out, to stretch his limbs and wipe his eyes before standing.

‘Come back,’ you whined, reaching a limp arm over the bed to him. ‘Just for a bit.’

He shook his head as he bent over the chest you both kept your clothes in. ‘I can’t be late.’

‘Who says?’ You rolled onto your elbows, chin in your hands. He began to dress himself as you watched. ‘Your dad,’ you asked, ‘or the Shelbys?’

‘Both, dove.’ He ignored the comment you’d slung beneath the words, the question you couldn’t ask outright. Who are you loyal to now Bonnie? Who’s threats scare you the most? ‘I have to go,’ he said.

‘I think I preferred when you were boxing trees.’

The soft smile you knew so well fell onto his features — the one that said, you’re difficult, but you’re mine. He came back to the bed and ran a hand over your hair. ‘Trees don’t pay, y’know. This is good for us.’

It’s good for Aberama, you thought. ‘Will you be away for long?’

‘Just the day,’ he said. ‘You’ll have me again before it’s dark.’

You smiled and turned to kiss his wrist. ‘I suppose I can keep myself busy til then.’

He nodded, and leant down to return the gesture, planting his lips onto the top of your head. ‘Be good,’ he said as he stood again. ‘Don’t be gettin’ into trouble.’

‘When do I ever get myself in trouble, Bon?’

‘Almost everyday,’ he answered.

You’d only lingered in bed a little longer after Bonnie left, then you’d washed and dressed, and walked from the camp with your hair damp and frizzing. It wasn’t hot, but it wasn’t cold enough to make you regret it either. It’d be dry by the time you got to town. You had thought about getting the train from the nearest station, but why bother when you had all day to waste anyway. The walk would do you good.

When you got to Small Heath, you followed the canals, clinging to those streaks of almost wilderness. They weren’t natural, but it felt nicer to walk them than the roads. You didn’t pass another soul until it took you through the Shelby yard. The old man that owned it gave you a look as you arrived, but said nothing. Perhaps he knew who you were. Perhaps he’d made the connection on his own, from the way you dressed, the way you carried yourself. Bonnie had said their family was Romani too, and kin recognise kin no matter how long ago they settled.

‘Can I cut through here, sir?’ you asked him.

He nodded once, wiping his hands clean on a rag that was already black with coal. ‘One of the Golds, are you?’

‘Not yet.’ You smiled as you veered from the comfort of the canal path to cross the yard. ‘Won’t be long, though,’ you added as you passed him.

He ignored your comment as you thought he would. ‘Don’t make it a habit, love, walking through here. S’a working boat yard, you know.’

You waved a hand over your shoulder in acknowledgment; you never made anything habit.

Following whim had led you to the bookies on Watery Lane. Last time you were there, Finn, you think he’s called, had let you place a bet on the Blinders’ winning horse. You didn’t follow the races yourself, you just did it because you could. Because it had never been offered to you before. He’d suggested a horse and you’d agreed to it, put the few pounds you’d had into his palm and told him to go for it. Make me a winner, Peaky boy.

He wasn’t around this time. When you walked into the betting shop, all the thick-sculled men twisted their necks to look at you. They went quiet like you were a ghost. Like they’d never seen a woman before.

‘I placed a bet,’ you said, to the room, because no one offered to help you. ‘Last week.’

‘Did ya, love,’ said the closest, laughing as he turned back to his work.

You stood straighter. ‘Yes.’ You took the slip Finn had given you, and held it out to him, shoving it under his nose so he was forced to look at it. ‘See?’

The man glanced at you sideways and then took the receipt, sitting back to scrutinise it. ‘Who the bloody hell let you do that?’ he said, accent thick and rolling and itching under your skin.

‘Finn Shelby,’ you told him, knowing it was a weapon to say so. They could be as rude as they liked, but you knew they were all hares in a trap that the Shelbys’ set. You watched the smugness flush from his expression. ‘So,’ you purred, ‘did I win?’

He shook his head, then he sighed. Then he leant forward again and held the paper back out for you to take. ‘No, love,’ he said. ‘You lost like the rest of them.’

Frowning, you took the receipt and shoved it, crumpled, back into your pocket. ‘It was fixed?’ you asked. ‘He had me bet on the wrong horse?’

‘I’m not sayin’ that.’

But he wouldn’t, even if Finn had. ‘He said it would win,’ you continued, your words bitter and souring. ‘Was blessed, he said.’

The man cleared his throat. ‘Can’t be helped.’

It could, in fact, be helped.

‘Do you have a toilet?’ you asked.

You’d sweetened your voice slightly and it had worked, because he nodded and pointed to the back of the room, past the tables and the workers, without even looking up at you. You followed the direction he’d sent you in, and locked yourself into the toilet for long enough to seem convincing.

If Finn could sell you a false bet, you saw no harm in getting back what was wrongly taken from you — with some interest, of course.

When it seemed reasonable, you left the toilet and started back through the shop, eyes scanning the tables as you passed them. It mustn’t have been long since they took their last winnings; the desks were busy with notes, and pennies, and men counting as fast as their education would let them. Seeing a suitably abandoned pile, close to the edge of the nearest, you paused and crouched. No-one was taking any notice of you. You tied your lace though it had never been undone and then, with a final check for safety, you stole the money. Your hand curled over the table-edge, pushing the top inch of notes from the pile and into your waiting pocket. It was so easy you almost laughed.

In a way, you wish you had laughed. Now, you knew it wouldn’t have made a difference, because you never got away with it. If you’d have laughed at the time, you might’ve been able to flirt your way out of the trouble.

After standing, you had started to walk away, nonchalant and pleased with your actions. And then the thin-moustached man, who was previously looking for his cigarettes, had turned back and noticed. You’d been hoping he would be clueless to it. Or at least slow enough that you’d be out the door and down the road before he realised.

‘Oi,’ he barked, ‘where’s that fucking money gone?’

There wasn’t chance to plea your case. Out of everyone in the shop, it could have only ever been you that was responsible. It didn’t take them long to work that out.

You were by the campfire when Aberama found you. He knew already what’d happened, at least, he knew what Mikey had told him, who knew what you had told Allie, which really wasn’t all that much. All you’d said to her, was that you’d robbed some money from the wrong man, and he’d smacked the sense back into you. She didn’t need to know that it involved Shelby business, because Aberama didn’t need to know. The paths that gossip took were predictable enough that you’d accounted for it.

When he got to you, the kettle you’d been waiting for finally hissed and screamed into its boiling point. You reached for it, but Aberama took it off the flames and set it onto the table before you could. No tea for you, then. Just inquisition.

‘So, what am I meant to tell Bonnie this time?’ he asked, crossing his wrists over his front. ‘He’ll be back soon.’

‘I know.’ You felt inclined to keep your face hidden, choosing to stare down at the fire instead of looking at him. ‘It’s nothing serious,’ you told him. The first slap had been hard enough to split your lip, the second just enough to bruise the cushioning beneath your eye. Everything else was so minor it barely left an ache.

‘Everything is serious to him, girl.’

You nodded.

‘This will hurt him,’ he said.

‘I know,’ you agreed. He didn’t want to hear anything else from you after all. ‘I’ll deal with it.’

‘You will.’ He stepped closer, and dipped his head so you couldn’t help but look at him. You didn’t find him threatening, just chilling. Unreadable but familiar enough that you couldn’t be scared of him. ‘I won’t have you distracting him now,’ he warned. ‘I like you, but I won’t hesitate to make a choice on his behalf.’

You nodded. He lifted your chin with the tips of his fingers to get a proper look at you.

‘You’re too rough for all your sweetness,’ he said. Then, after a moment of consideration, he added, ‘I’ll tell Bonnie before he sees you, but make this the last time, dear.’

After that, you sat on the steps to your wagon, anxiety rotting in your gut, until the sun had began to set. Just before it fell enough to make the sky feel dark, Bonnie came home. He entered the camp whistling, his hands in his pockets, his steps free and bounding. He saw you from across the way, but Aberama intercepted him before he could get any closer.

Guilt bit at your ankles as the joy went from his shoulders and into the mulch, his high from the day’s training lost once he heard of your own stupidity. You watched his brows pull together. His hands left his pockets in fists. The worst part of it, was knowing that it could’ve been avoided. You could’ve taken your failed bet and left, could’ve gone home and read, and waited. Could’ve lay down and listened to him gush about the fights he’d had. Instead, you had to watch his buzz harden into anger, and sit under the weight of his gaze as he approached.

When he got to you, he was mute. His jaw set and unset.

‘Bon,’ you started, looking up at him, ‘before you say anything—‘

‘No, dove,’ he stopped you. He folded his arms and then unwound them again, fidgeting in the way he did when he tried to keep himself calm. When he tried to put words before actions. ‘I told you to be careful,’ he said. His voice was so taut it was almost a whisper.

You exhaled heavily. Not in a sigh, in deflation. You dropped your head but he lifted it again, his hand so light against your cheek that it may as well have not been there. It was the intention more than the grip that brought your eyes back to his. While he scanned your face, you sat vacant, waiting for the disapproval to load onto his features. His thumb moved to hover over the cut in your lip, his eyes dark and scrutinising.

‘Who was it?’ he asked pointedly, still talking through the catch of his teeth.

‘No one.’

‘Don’t do that.’

‘Bon,’ you pushed his hand away, ‘it’s like you said, they’re less forgiving in the city. I know that now.’

He wasn’t satisfied. He knew you too well, knew you were smarter than getting caught for pickpocketing. ‘I’ll ask you again, who was it?’

Rolling your eyes, you looked away from him. You couldn’t lie to his face as easily as you could with others. ‘I don’t know names,’ you said.

‘What happened then?’ he replied, standing limp before you. His gaze bore into the bruise on your cheek. ‘Where were you?’

If Bonnie was anything, he was stubborn. The only person you knew other than yourself, that would run a thought into the ground, let an idea posses him until he found whatever it was he wanted. You closed your eyes for a moment, knowing the next words to come out your mouth would only make things worse. And yet, there you were, preparing to say them anyway.

‘I took money,’ you said slowly, 'from the Shelby bookmakers.’

‘What?’ The word hissed out of him, piercing the quiet bubble that had previously kept you safe from curious stares. Now, they looked freely, heads turning in your direction as Bonnie continued. ‘Fucken’ what?’ he spat. ‘They did this?’

‘No, no, Bon…’ You rolled your head between your shoulders, searching for something, anything, to say to quell him. ‘It wasn’t like that exactly.’

‘Then how was it like?’ His hands curled up again, rigid and set for striking.

‘Finn gave me a dud bet,’ you explained quickly. ‘I went and he wasn’t there, and they all gave me a look as if I shouldn’t be, and I thought, well, fuck them, I’ll take my own winnings.’

‘I’ll kill ‘em.’

You groaned. ‘No, Bon, I was being stupid. I deserved it, really. I mean, it was broad daylight, in a shop full of—’

‘Those Blinder fucks,' he cursed, turning to pace away from you. He spat into the leaves and threw a hand up to grab the cap from his head. ‘I’m s’posed to be fucken’ one of ‘em.’

‘Bonnie.’ You stood, stepping wide enough to reach him. You grabbed him by the arm and forced him to still. ‘It was a Blinder who stopped it,’ you said.

‘Yeah?’ His eyes darkened. ‘Not soon enough.’

‘He wasn’t there,’ you stressed. ‘When he came, he told them who I was. It’s sorted, Bon, we sorted it.’

You’d apologised to Finn, and he’d done the same. You were both crooks after all. There was too much between them and the Golds to be lost, so you’d agreed with him to leave it there, no bad blood. No revenge needed from either side. It’d be forgotten about before sunrise if Bonnie let it.

‘What’re you gonna do, Bonnie?’ you asked, softening your voice. ‘You go there and all this is ruined. I won’t let you do it.’

His jaw set again. ‘They hurt you, dove.’

‘I know.’ You rubbed his bicep. ‘It’s not worth it, still. Not even for me.’

‘Don’t keep sayin’ things like that,’ he scolded. ‘Always puttin’ me before you.’

His brows folded, and when he pulled away from your touch you let him. He looked upwards, to the trees, then to his feet. He was working through it. Tucking away the anger to consider the repercussions. There wasn’t anything he could do without causing more problems, no punch he could land without throwing the fight. He needed to be in the Shelby’s good books, for Aberama, for his career. He may not have liked it, but it was the truth.

‘Alright,’ he said, after a forced breath. ‘If it’s sorted?’

‘It is,’ you answered. ‘It’s forgotten.’

He nodded tightly. Then, for the first time, his expression faltered, softness melting the lines between his eyebrows. ‘You are alright, aren’t you, dove?’

You smiled, ignoring the pinch as it tugged the scab on your lip. ‘It’s nothing.’

Tutting, he pulled you into his chest, arms wrapping around you tightly. ‘Leave the fightin’ to me, ey?’ He said by your ear, words light and sad all the same. ‘Dun’t suit you.’

The hug was warm, and tight, and he smelt like a football team straight off the pitch, but you couldn’t pull away. You wanted to sink into him, right between the bones, and stay there. Mine, you thought. Mine and yours.

‘I’m sorry,’ you said, the stress delayed and boiling in your chest. ‘I could’ve fucked it up for you.’ You’d acted selfishly. It was pure luck, and understanding, and wilful retreat that kept it from shattering everything he and Aberama had built.

‘Ah,’ he soothed, his palm running up your back, ‘you know we don’t worry ‘bout the past.’

He didn’t but you did. Always, and relentlessly.

‘Here,’ he said, pulling back to hold your face. He kissed you once, gently, careful ‘cause he knew how it’d hurt, and then smiled. ‘I’ve still got to tell you ‘bout me day.’

‘Yeah?’ You leant back into his arms. ‘How’d it go?’

His eyes lit up. They shone in the twilight. ‘They said I’m gonna be a star, dove. A fucken’ star.’

#bonnie x reader #Bonnie Gold #bonnie gold x reader #peaky blinders fanfic #bonnie gold imagine #OMG i literally have never felt so accomplished in my life its FINALLLY HERE!#i reaallllly really hope you like this #ive been meaning to write more bonnie for so long #omg why am i nervous to hit post.... anyway.....

279 notes · View notes

justforbooks · 3 years

Photo

The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did. But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #John le Carré #The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life

125 notes · View notes

thedarkknights · 4 years

Text

⊰ H E L L B O U N D ⊱

❥ (A/N): Hey guys, I wanted to apologize for taking so long, it’s just that I tried my best to keep the jokers in character which is rather difficult and time-consuming given that Heath is an unpredictable little fuck while Joaquin’s Joker, which I will refer to as Arthur throughout the story, is still unfamiliar territory to me. Anyways, this chapter will give a backstory in regards to how the reader met the Jokers; that being said, there won’t be much interaction between the reader and the jokers since, y’know, they’re barely meeting. Also, this is the first fic I’ve ever written so please don’t flame me too hard, although I am more than happy to receive constructive criticism! In any case, I hope y’all enjoy it :D

❥ Pairing: Heath Ledger Joker x Reader x Joaquin Phoenix Joker

❥ Summary: Don’t walk by yourself at night; you never know who or what you might come across.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀— ♡ —

Tonight was just like any other night — nothing out of the ordinary. Well, at least when it came to your daily “game plan,” which merely consisted of waking up, prepping for work, trying to maintain a straight appearance through your 12-hour shift, and coming home to attempt -and successfully fail- to get a decent amount of sleep. What kept gnawing your mind day and night, what kept you troubled throughout your workday and kept you up at night for continuous hours, was the constant reminder of how boring to life was. Devoid of any emotion that didn’t consist of the empty and dreary feeling of complete dissatisfaction. Every morning you’d wake up at 6:15, take 5 minutes to reflect if attending to your measly job as a waitress for Gotham’s oldest diner was worth it, and after accepting the fact that despite your job being utter shit you needed your weekly check to help pay for your rent and college tuition, you leave the warm comfort of your bed and head towards your closet to pick out your white long-sleeve shirt and black skirt of a uniform. Afterward, you make your way down to your restroom, and just before entering the shower; you take a good look at yourself in the mirror; you can’t help but notice how your dull eyes, once full of life and hope, reflect just how exhausted you are. The answer to your dilemma was simple, really, your life lacked inspiration. Excitement. Thrill. You didn’t have that little spark in you that everyone else seemed to have. After every completed day, when the sun would set, and darkness reigned the atmosphere, you reminded yourself that some desires are unattainable. Every night, rather than sleeping as an average person, would you’d lie awake, contemplating your day while staring at your ceiling. You fulfilled your daily requirements of serving ungrateful customers their once-canned meals because you needed to pay $442 per month for your college tuition alone; a degree in biological sciences? Yeah, right. Sure it’s what you aspired to receive, but you come home at 8 pm feeling wholly drained from energy, so you only study 4 hours, at best, per week. Life here in Gotham was fantastic, that is if you were Bruce Wayne. Maybe you should just marry Bruce Wayne and let him be your sugar daddy for the rest of your life. Sure. Besides, money can’t buy happiness. But it sure could buy you some more hours of sleep, right?

So here you are, walking towards Gotham’s subway to go to your apartment after a long day at work. Like a wish come true, the stairwell comes into view, just a block away. Just then, you distinctly heard what you made out to be a car burning rubber on these lonely streets, which was out-of-the-ordinary considering that Gotham wasn’t the criminal-infested, fast-paced and hectic place everyone claimed it to be. As you turn your head toward the source of the shrilling noise you saw what you considered to be a bomb get thrown out the front right window of a black vehicle which was now at least two blocks away; you couldn’t decipher what build or make the car was, but from the looks of it, it looked like a busted old-school Cadillac. While the classic car captivated your sights, the bomb detonated which scared the living shit out of you, to say the least; as if the reckless black Cady weren’t enough to alert you to get the fuck outta there and run towards safety, the massive explosion sure was. You start to run for the stairwell frantically, the harsh contact your black pumps makes with the concrete resonates within your eardrums; the staircase that ensured your safety was now just a crosswalk away. A step into the pitch-black street was all you were able to do before the black vehicle screeched to a stop at just an arm-length from you, blocking the entrance to your safe haven.

The driver’s door was busted open as a tall man rapidly stepped out, and suddenly all attempts to escape from this gut-wrenching situation vanished; you stayed frozen in a mixture of awe and fear, gazing at the man like a deer caught in the headlights. The street lamp provided a streak of faint light, so you weren’t able to get a clear view of what the man was wearing other than a long, dark-purple trench coat, but that wasn’t what completely hypnotized you, no, it was his face. The stranger’s face was coated in poorly applied white makeup resulting in visible creases along his forehead, black smudges of paint framed his eyes up to his eyebrows, and a smear of contrasting blood-red lipstick forming a sinister smile; it was apparent he had worn this particular makeup for days. While lost in thoughts of the man before you, you failed to notice his accomplice stepping eloquently and unwavering out of the vehicle, it was until he vigorously slammed the door that you turned your attention to him. As he made his way around the front of the Cadillac, you noticed he had a stern look in his face, one that failed to project the light-hearted vibes that were usually associated with the classical clown makeup that decorated his face. The dim-yellow lighting provided by the street lamp prevented you from pinpointing the correct tone of the tuxedo this man was sporting, but there was no mistake in the coloring, it was red. Red like the devil himself. Your eyes wandered from his green locks downwards until you reached his hand, it was then you realized he was holding a bazooka. You practically felt the intense panic born from this observation ooze from every pore of your skin, your eyes never losing sight of the firearm in trepidation of what might occur next.

“Well, hello beautiful” chirped the man before you in a playful tone, a tone that was unaccounted for, given the current circumstances. In any other situation, you would’ve welcomed the words with a warm smile, but that was an impossible task this time around; you slowly turned your head toward the source of the voice only to find the purple-clothed clown visually-inspecting you. He closed the short distance between the two of you all while lifting his hand and resting it upon your shoulder, giving him easy access to your ear; he wasted no time and whispered into your ear, “I’ll get back to you in a second, excuse me.” His hot breath made contact with your sensitive skin sending chills down your spine, your uncovered skin betraying you by exposing the goosebumps that rose all over your skin. There was something about this mysterious clown that aroused your senses, and even though you probably wouldn’t ever admit it, his brief contact left you desiring for more. Why did this menacing individual have such an effect on you? Immediately after, he spun to face his partner and pointed his index finger towards him, “y'know, for a man who loves to play with guns, you sure have terrible aim” he said teasingly only to radically change his tone into a relatively dour one within a matter of seconds, “try not to miss this time, will you?”, and just like that he began to march forward. Curiosity got the best of you as you turned in his direction, and it was then you noticed a caped-man riding a dark-colored opaque motorcycle towards the joker; the clown hunched his shoulders down as he came into an abrupt stop, clenching his fists as he daringly stared forward at the caped crusader. Then it hit you at once, the bomb previously thrown was used to create a divergence between the caped crusader and the jokers, which only meant that the bazooka was to be used for him as well. Your jaw dropped in horror, and your knees were seconds away from giving out until you heard a soft, tender voice utter, “you might wanna duck here, doll”; you flipped your head towards the formally dressed clown only to find him down on one knee, resting the bazooka on his shoulder as he tried to get an accurate hold of his target. Without a moment’s hesitation, you threw yourself onto the hard asphalt and quickly shielded your head with your arms allowing your forearms to cover your ears as you tightly shut your eyelids.

All was quiet for a couple of seconds until a loud, monstrous blast resonated within the lonely streets of Gotham; your eardrums produced an eerie ring that made your skin crawl. You gently rose onto you knees and slowly opened your eyes taking notice how your knees were scrapped due to the savage manner in which you threw yourself on the road; realization hit you like a train, and you hastily turned towards the raging flames produced from the explosion, your eyes desperately looking for the joker and the motorcyclist. You registered how the motorcycle was bursting in uncontrollable flames, and in that instant, you felt a sharp pain in your stomach, causing you to clench the bottom of your dirt-stained shirt. You then turned your head downwards in shock and defeat, taking notice of your lightly bleeding palms; as you faintly began to message them to prevent yourself from crying, you heard a fit of hysterical laughter. In alert, you frantically searched for the source of the sinister guffawing, but a particular silhouette interrupted your plans as it captured your complete attention; Just like a soldier valiantly rising to face their opponent once again after receiving a severe beat down, the masked individual arose with great exhaustion from the pavement, having to use his right knee to leverage himself upwards. Your eyes widened in sudden realization of who this masked man was; he was none other than the infamous crime-fighting vigilante known as the Batman, the dark knight willing to sacrifice just about anything to provide security and restore hope to the citizens of Gotham. You couldn’t control yourself any longer and finally permitted your eyes to release tears full of joy and relief, relief that your hero, the man capable of helping you escape this horrible situation, was still alive; the moment truly felt like a divine experience until a low, diabolical growl made itself present within the corner of your eye.

You cautiously faced the clown as he strode towards the Batman.

“Y’know, I would’ve thought that after the death of your little boy-scout buddy, Robin was it?, you would’ve learned your lesson,” he said viciously as he reached for a crowbar hidden within the inner pockets of his coat, “but no, you just have to have things your way, don’t you? Guess history really does repeat itself, huh?”

“You’re an immoral scum with no respect for anyone or anything, not even for human life”

“that makes two of us, doesn’t it? You’re no different than me, you broke your one, golden rule with Harvey. In fact, I think you and I are so similar that we deserve to share something more than just a flawed moral status, don’t we? How ‘bout some scars, huh? Here I’ll help get you started,” and with that, he grasped the crowbar and charged at Batman with full force, directly striking his forehead, which sent him crashing right into the dark asphalt.

The Joker swung at him repeatedly, his strength increasing exponentially after each impact when suddenly the Batman caught the head of the crowbar and jerked the metal backward sending the opposite end crashing down onto the Joker’s lower rib causing the clown to curse and bend in pain; he remained in that position for a fraction of a second only to straighten back and expel a wicked laughter from his throat that caused your heart to halt for a second. There was no doubt in mind that The Joker was like no other man, and you knew things were only going to take a turn for the worst; you wanted to help Batman, you truly did, but what exactly were you going to do? What could you do? Run up there and scream at the Joker to stop? Put your non-existent strength to the test and take a few jabs at the clown? As the Batman said, The Joker was a man that had no rules, that lived to put every belief into question, that took pleasure in demonstrating how any moral code was ill-founded; a man that had no real purpose in life other than to create absolute chaos. Just his mannerisms alone reflected how mentally unstable he was, the way in which he would roughly clench his fists that he would crack his knuckles, how he repeatedly licked his cherry-red lips in anticipation for havoc, how he snarled so ferally his whole body vibrated. Your head fell sideways in defeat, you felt as if you could cry once again but instead of releasing tears of joy, they’d be salty tears of incompetence.

“Oh, you…you really are a stubborn person y'know that? Let’s play for a while longer. Then we’ll be able to see just how tough your little act of courage really is,” the Joker barked bitterly.

“You can entertain yourself with me all you want Joker, just let the girl go. That’s beneath you,” Batman said in genuine fear of what a low-life criminal like the Joker could do to a defenseless woman like yourself, the pain of his previous beating evident in his strained voice. Your ears perked up at the mention of your presence, a feeling of disgrace washing over you as you cognized how willing the Batman was to save you despite his helpless state.

“Oh, you mean the little poodle? No, no, we got plans for her. But don’t worry, Arthur here will take good care of her,” the joker replied in a mischievous voice as he turned to face someone behind you, tucking his bottom lip below his upper lip.

It was then you realized that you had been so absorbed within the Batman-Joker ordeal that you completely disregarded the menacing clown behind you. And you really had failed to notice the way he observed you with lustful eyes, how he quietly took notice of every breath you exhaled, of the lock of hair you hid behind your ear, of the thin-layer of eyeliner that framed your eyes and the lip balm that moisturized your lips; he visually measured your breast size, picturing his hands softly caressing your breasts. Arthur didn’t fail to overlook how your tight, black skirt slowly rose from your knees up to your thighs, secretly worshipping your newly exposed skin.

You whipped your head to face the clown, your pupils dilating in fear as you make direct eye contact with Arthur, who sported a wide grin across his face. Like a rabbit after spotting it’s stalking predator, you desperately tried to create a distance between the two of you, your plan being to rush to the Batman for safety despite knowing his current condition. Unfortunately, Arthur caught you from behind, imprisoning your arms and waist with his left arm all while covering your nasal and oral airways with a damp cloth using his right hand.

After writhing under his unforgiving hold for what felt like hours, you fell limp under his firm clasp, feeling yourself slowly descent into a state of light-headedness due to the suffocation. As your body started to slump back onto Arthur, you were able to appreciate how comforting it felt to be under his hold, how warm his arms felt around your body. It was rather alarming, to say the least, how this man was able to put your mind in ease; it was as though something about him was able to fulfill that empty feeling in your chest. No longer in a state of panic, your muscles relaxed as you started to slip into an unconscious state, the last thing your mind was able to register was how the Joker ferociously thrashed Batman with his crowbar, which was now dripping in blood.

A wave of sorrow washed over your body, and then that was it; everything just stopped.

Everything simply got dark and quiet…

➳ Tag List: @aethersghoulette @tsukiakarinobara @lasquadrahoe @geronimosanna @clownboi24601 @justahyena @the-fanficcer @khasoa @mimas749

#heath ledger #heath ledger joker x reader #joaquin phoenix #joaquin phoenix joker x reader #arthur fleck #arthur fleck x reader #heath ledger joker x reader x joaquin phoenix joker #the dark knight #joker #joker 2019 #joker x reader #joker fanfic #joker headcanon #the dark knight joker #*mine #HellBound

166 notes · View notes

herefortheartstayforthesexy · 3 years

Text

I pulled this from an article on that off duty female firefighters account of George Floyd’s murder and alarms went off immediately - so many things are made clear in how the cops responded to her here, a woman who’s more their peer and team mate than ANY ONE:

-They don’t believe her when she says she’s a firefighter [because she’s a woman, and someone will certainly jump in and posit that a white guy saying the same thing would get the same response from the cops but .....I really don’t think so, I think we’re kidding ourselves when we pretend that equality is our cultures norm and not segregation and actual genocide and systemic racism and obvious sexism, seen in our disregarding/discrediting/cheapening everything that is feminine, like fucking feelings😤. Those cops would have recognized themselves in another guy claiming his skill set and even if they wouldn’t have let him check George’s pulse while he was dying, they would have for SURE treated him with more respect and with the assumption that he’s telling the truth if he exhibits enough “friendly qualities” aka be white, be male, not be dressed in clothes that look ‘urban’ or homeless (because a homeless white guy is just a failure which is unamerican 🙄) qualities which are literally a result of *luck* [white, man] and superficiality+privilege [money to buy clothes that make others more comfortable]

-‘you would know better’ is a totally infantilizing tone to take with this professional woman, and ultimately she DID KNOW BETTER THAN THEM and had they let her do what she knew was right to do a person would still be alive [like, piece of shit Derek Whatever should be fucking WISHING he had listened to her in that fucking moment every day for the rest of his life, it should haunt him that he let his surrounding fucked up culture of white supremacy and male-coddling move him to murder a man over a $20 bill instead of listen to a woman, or listen to a child, or listen to someone crying, or listen to someone with no money - he should be the poster child of “yo, we white men NEED everyone else around us and we should start acting like it, NOW” that’s literally what “make space” means, because too many men need to move out of the fucking way, like “let the grown ups talk” “let them work”, “let them save lives” I am so sick of LETTING cops play action hero with real guns and imagined ‘enemies’ in their real neighbors bodies - they shouldn’t ever be working with a defense mindset, it should be “support the community”, their intentions and goals should be *sooooo feminine* and rooted in love and care and family projected onto their country at large, their home🏠=their home🌎

- If/then statements become instantly threatening when someone’s life is immediately at stake, it’s an aggressor and his buddies telling you to get out of their way, to shut the fuck up

-....”you’d know not to get involved” WHAT THE FUCK she is part of the team of emergency responders in our country and she SHOULD get involved when she sees something that she can take care of - like a man with a swollen face smashed into the ground and a blocked air pipe and weakened heart rate - that is exactly her fucking job and how she knows to do it [all stories of off-duty cops running around discharging their weapons and making arrests without wearing their uniforms - we’re supposed to be fine with that, but not when the other emergency peeps try to apply their experience?? In this case where there was no threat to anyone as George was HANDCUFFED AND LOSING CONSCIOUSNESS surrounded by three cops and a crowd upset to be watching them kill him. cops constantly demand all this respect in response to their abuse and demand that citizens suspend their logic and their fucking freedom to exist so cops can “do their jobs” and we can’t complain, we can’t protest their bad job, we can’t give them *any* attitude at any time while they harass us even if they aren’t dressed as such..... but none of these special rules apply to anyone else.... like, cops fail the golden rule from the outset 🤨

The fact that a murderer who used to make money as a cop [because to be clear, being a cop isn’t a personality trait, it signifies no goodness, no heroism, nothing more than a job, a job people do to get money, it’s not heroic to get a chunk of cash after “triaging a childs gun shot wounded leg” especially considering the violence that cause that child’s injury was propagated by the violent and militant policing of their community...so cops have literally set the stage perfectly for all their “acts of heroism”and bonus! They get bonuses/pay increases when the crimes rates are “really🤑bad” like HELLO!!!]

that these spineless men can actually rest on the defense of “it was the black mans fault that he was killed, it was the counterfeit bills callers fault, it was the crowds fault for making us nervous and being threatening to us and angry at the sight of a man being slowly murdered in front of them” - the crowd was mostly people of color, young kids, and this firefighter who made a point of staying behind because she was concerned for the safety of her black neighbors *while police were around*

😑I need fucking Queen amidala in the center of the senate saying “the people have spoken and we vote no confidence” fire all cops, tell them “we set up this new protective agency, you can apply but we cannot promise you’ll get this job, you’ll have to PROVE IT that you can even do it” because I’ve never seen men spoken to like that,

I constantly hear how women and bipoc “just need to find another job” when they are in a tough spot with bad treatment, harassment, low pay, hours, etc, (these are almost always service jobs that entertain/benefit wealthy people, like waiters, like strippers, like masseuses, like fast food workers, like cheerleaders, like maids, like nannies, the rich seem to be in this cycle of consuming without resistance for as long as they possibly can, then if/when anyone brings up how it’s kind of dangerous and there should be a better way they say “well fucking fine! Just shut it down, we didn’t even NEED it, this was a pointless job anyways so now it doesn’t exist” it’s a shitty breakup - it’s the other person responding to your valid criticism and willingness to work together to improve the relationship “well I didn’t even like you and you’re ugly so” 🙄Cool!

~Whyyyyy don’t wealthy/privileged people get called out for all their daily bridge burning??? [the answer is unfortunately because they were burning bridges with people no one cared about - like the workers of a Taco Bell, or the child of a black man murdered by cops, or a teenage girl raped by an executive who invited her to his office for “an interview” - no one tells all the many people involved in letting abuse continue not to burn bridges with their victims, with all of THOSE people, because our culture doesn’t respect them. hence #blm #metoo #transrights etc, the real theme is “we’re not white straight men” white supremacy needs to die a horrible painful, ugly, honorless, despicable death~

So the wealthy creates the job, labels it from the get go “not worthy of respect”, enjoys without consequences, abuses, pretends that it’s the fault of the worker for their pay and that they receive no respect [✨gaslighting✨]...... and when that worker decides that their dignity isn’t worth 8.25 an hour, the wealthy response is to either fire the easily replacable body whose Heath is clearly of no importance to them [if it was we’d have universal heathcare] or just erase that job entirely that serves as someone’s lifeline, their survival, because abusing vulnerable people bears no weight on their own wealthy existence, with all their options. bill gates doesn’t give a shit when a subway closes, but that subway was not only the job/livelihoods of a whole team of people who *hopefully* live nearby with their families [and not three different bus rides away in a more “diverse” neighborhood 🙄], that subway also fed the community when they wanted lunch/dinner or wanted a sandwich snack or something warm, and didn’t have the time or the ingredients or the know how or *bodily ability* to do it themselves. To so many nameless/non celebrity people, that closing is catastrophic and in some cases threatening to their life.

We dismiss little lives and simple lives so ruthlessly, a man could be perfectly happy heading a subway for 35 years if he was paid respectfully by his employer and treated respectfully by everyone [if We had a subway guy like that, we’d love him! We’d know his name and he’d know ours and our faves and our goals and we could ask how his three kids are without hanging our heads in shame knowing he makes no more than $30,000 a year as a manager which is NOT AT ALL ENOUGH for either him alone or his lovely family that he loves so much - and this hypothetical is annoying already because we shouldn’t pay people a certain amount *because they are good*, people should be paid an amount that allows them to access the things that help them and enrich them, make them happier, healthier, make *choices* that lead to goodness for sure - but we can’t fucking expect people living in poverty now to prove to us that they’ll use their money “appropriately” - it starts with us helping them up

We couldn’t let restaurants/grocery stores close during the pandemic, that alone proved that we need these people who just flip burgers and stack cans - and we need them to be well paid, and healthy and happy

it is always those vulnerable individuals responsibility to find a new employer, not for structures of power to end discriminatory practices and mistreatment [uwu, too hard, thanks for making this laziness in our leaders possible white supremacy! It’s going so great😒] I’d like for white male cops to feel that vulnerability FOR ONCE [even just in conversation, even in a hypothetical] and have to consider winning a new job, and winning it based on actual merit and skill, not the fact that their fellow white dude bosses feel most comfortable with them in the locker room 🙄

if the larger portion of the community that doesn’t subscribe to white supremacy has no confidence in the men and women whose jobs it is to protect them and ‘serve justice’ then we need to adjust, not throw more money at the privileged, brainwashed fuck ups and say “here’s more money to be less monstrous” I really don’t get why anyone is surprised these tiny, insignificant, performative measures don’t result in any positive change - because we’re not tackling the actual issues and unfortunately for dipshits, *racism/sexism/classism* is the entire issue that needs to be handled - the issue is simply that some humans don’t think another group of humans deserve their respect [and I don’t want to hear that that’s how the animal kingdom works because fuck that, we’re thinking and *feeling* humans and that places us on a higher plane of existence and potential - to not know that we’re better than *this* is so fucking offensive, and we can’t keep moving as slowly as white straight ass holes, everything is on fire]

1 note · View note

gofordrakgo · 4 years

Text

Dwelling Chapter Twelve

“The moment she stepped out of her room something clicked, then whistled and she ducked just in time for something to whiz by where her head had just been. Whatever the flying object was splattered against the door frame, some sort of liquid spraying the back of her neck. She swiped at the moisture rapidly, already wondering what form of toxic poison it might have been.”

Dwelling Summary

Dwelling Chapter One

Dwelling Chapter Eleven

Dwelling Chapter Thirteen

She couldn’t possibly have been asleep for very long when Drew shook her awake, laughing, “I can’t believe you fell asleep before the judges could decide who won.”

She brushed his hands off her shoulders, more than a little flustered by the realization that she was only a small movement away from genuinely cuddling up to him. “Yeah, well,” she muttered awkwardly, going to rub at her eyes before remembering her bandaged hands and dropping them back into her lap. “Who’d they pick?”

The name he said only made her raise an eyebrow at him until he sighed out, “The one that made the steak with the garlic herb butter?”

Shea nodded at that. “Good. That looked good.”

“I know. You probably bruised my ribs from how many times you told me to make that.” He rubbed at his side, glaring at her through glasses she was tempted to steal for no other reason than to annoy him… and to make herself stop feeling awkward about having fallen asleep on his shoulder. “You should eat some more food,” he said before she could follow through with the idea. “There are at least two more servings left.”

“Not hungry.”

He practically wagged his finger in her face. “I told you earlier, you have to eat more to make up for skipping lunch.”

“I’m not hungry. I’ve already eaten more today than I do most days,” she mumbled, hating that telling him this still felt so… so much like telling him some big secret. Something she should be ashamed of. Maybe because of the way his brow furrowed or the way he shook his head slowly like he didn’t know what to say.

“Fine,” he relented sullenly. “But we’re going to have to work on building your appetite. Eating so little can’t possibly be healthy.”

Shrugging, she yawned, “Whatever,” and waved her hand to dismiss the uncomfortable subject.

He blinked at her, a frown still plastered on his face before his expression shifted and he rubbed at his shoulder awkwardly. “You should– um… You look– Well, no you just… you seem tired… You should– and I will too– but you should go to bed.”

Embarrassed, she was quick to agree and retreat into the safety of her own room, barely remembering not to lock the door behind her. She heard his door close just after she collapsed onto her bed.

Of course, once there, she couldn’t fall back to sleep. She tossed and turned, squeezing her eyes shut so tight colors danced behind her eyelids. She couldn’t decide if that was better or worse than staring around the room at the panic-inducing blank white walls. A moment later, when the mortifying wishful image of curling up against Drew flashed through her mind, she decided that staring at the walls was better, even if it did make her stomach turn.

She pulled restlessly at the blankets, all her earlier fears coming to mind at once. She knew he had already, but the temptation to go make sure the front door was locked was strong enough that she had to twist herself into the sheets to stop herself from checking. Not that it would matter if anyone on Team Go discovered where she was.

Despite her resolve not to go checking the door she stumbled out of the bed a moment later to check the small window in her room, wondering if the seal was tight enough that Mego wouldn’t be able to shrink small enough to snake his way inside if Hego hurled him up. Hell, she dismissed, even if it was tight enough to keep him out, it wouldn’t be unlike her parents to simply tear the wall down. Or the twins would clone their way inside. She had no idea if there even was an effective way to keep the little doppelgangers out.

Drew’s casual reaction to the potential of being labeled a kidnapper had her all the more worried. He really didn’t seem to understand how bad things might be for him. She blamed herself for that too. She should have just told him the whole truth the moment he told her she could stay. It was as she finally fell back to sleep, on the brink of unconsciousness, that she mentally declared she would tell him in the morning.

She woke up in a cold sweat, Wendell and Westley’s names dying on her tongue. She choked back a sob, commanding herself not to cry. She couldn’t change anything now. They survived. Before her minimal words of self-comfort could calm her, a new wave of panic flashed through her as some sort of clanking sounds drew her attention to her bedroom door.

She’d been sure Drew had gone to sleep, so she could see no reason for him to be out there. A glance toward her window showed the star-lit predawn sky, further evidence that if he wasn’t asleep he certainly should have been.

Pulling in a heaving breath, she listened intently for voices but heard nothing but a continuation of the quiet sounds. As she stood, combing her fingers through her hair and glaring at the door, she debated who she’d prefer for it to be.

If it was cops, she and Drew were both screwed. Heath would be a pain in the ass for her, and unless she could convince him, somehow, not to bother checking the other rooms, Drew would be beaten to a pulp before he could even get his glasses back on his dumb not-cute face. Heath was picky with when he played the overprotective big brother card, but she knew instinctively this would be one of those times. Merrick would be fine. As much as he drove her crazy he might be the only one who would understand why she would want to run away, and if she said to leave the other rooms alone he’d respect it - even if he did it with more than a fair share of mocking questions. The twins were unpredictable - but if they were the ones snooping around outside her room she hoped they’d be more excited to see her than they were about finding out who ‘kidnapped’ her.

She doubted her parents would bother to be the ones to show up. They never showed up to anything anymore, except for news interviews where they doted on and bragged about their children as if they didn’t treat them like magic puppets the rest of the time. She didn’t even give the question of what would happen if it was them the time of day… or night, as it were.

She looked herself over, deciding that the clothes she was wearing were sufficient enough to face whatever was happening outside and quietly opened the door. All she wanted to do was throw it open and start screaming, but if she was going to be forced to leave she figured it was better to do so without waking Drew. If she was going to leave it would probably be better for him if she simply vanished from his life altogether. That, and she couldn’t stand the idea of him… being there when she got dragged away, knowing she’d probably never get the chance to repay his kindness. She couldn’t even force herself to take the bandages off her hands, fearing momentarily that they would be the only reminder of him she’d be able to take with her.

The moment she stepped out of her room something clicked, then whistled and she ducked just in time for something to whiz by where her head had just been. Whatever the flying object was splattered against the door frame, some sort of liquid spraying the back of her neck. She swiped at the moisture rapidly, already wondering what form of toxic poison it might have been. It was cold, but it didn’t hurt, and as she whirled around to check the door frame she realized that it was… a grape?

She whipped her head back around, and realized with an almost painful relief that Drew was sitting at the small dining table, looking unharmed, if a bit panicked. He’d begun apologizing profusely before she even noticed the strange, colorful device in his hands. She relaxed as she took in the bits and pieces of… stuff spread out across the table. It was him. She’d heard him… tinkering away at whatever the device was outside her door.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, trying to hold back a hysterical laugh.

“Um… I… Uhh… I built a grape cannon,” he stammered, grinning sheepishly at her and holding the thing, that did look a bit like a gun, out for her to see.

She snorted, to hide how much her hands were shaking. “Why?”

“Well, because, you were– and I was and… You threw grapes at me and I– I had the idea and wanted to see—”

It took her a moment to realize what he was talking about. “What,” she asked incredulously, “I threw some grapes at you at the store so you decided to kill me ?”

“No,” he shouted, sounding more worried than upset. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to shoot at you! It just gave me the idea and I wanted to see if I could… build a projectile weapon to shoot… grapes.”

Peeling the bits of smushed grape off the door frame, she chuckled, “You’re a weird dude, Drew,” and flicked the mush over at him.

He stuck his tongue out at her, relaxing back into his chair. “Nyeh. Maybe I should’ve shot you.”

“Watch it,” she warned, mostly teasing.

“Do you wanna fire it?” he asked, holding it out toward her.

As she reached for it she teased, “At you? Sure,” and he pulled it back against his chest, with enough speed to surprise her, cradling it like a baby.

“Nngh! Nevermind, you’re not allowed.”

“Aw c’mon, let me see!”

“No!”

“Drew!” Shea reached forward, trying to get him to pass the dumb device over, but he pulled it away from her again. “I’m not above fighting you for that,” she warned him, already ready to throw herself across the table to get if she had to.

He gulped. “Just don’t– Just shoot it that way!”

She snatched the miniature cannon from his hands the moment he held it out to her. As per his instructions, she turned it away from him, aiming it at the door - or at least she hoped so. Superheros don’t need weaponry. Well, if she weren’t a superhero the surprising force of the kickback might have knocked her back a step or two - even if pulling the trigger in the first place was a little awkward with her hands still bandaged. The grape that shot out smacked against the door with a solid ‘thwunk!’ sound. She burst into laughter and fired again, her aim off, but just enough that she hit the hinge of the door instead. Grape bits flew through the air.

“Hey,” Drew protested, rushing around the table to snatch it from her. “It’s my turn!”

She laughed, relenting easily and letting him take his toy back. When he nudged her out of his way she caught a whiff of a vaguely familiar scent, and before she could realize she knew what it was, she was asking, “Have you been drinking?”

He fired the cannon, grape splattering just above the door, and shot her an impish grin. “Just a bit,” he confessed, holding a finger to his lips. “It’s a secret recipe. And I’m legal, so whatever.”

“Can I have some?” She was mostly kidding, but his quick, snappish reply in the negative had her crossing her arms and demanding to know why not.

He answered her with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Ask me again in five years and I’ll give you some.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion for a moment. Then she reached out and shoved his shoulder. “Come on, don’t be lame. I only want a taste.”

He shook his head, stepping away from her. “No chance. I am not abetting in underage drinking.”

“You’ve been in college since you were how old? You’re really going to try and tell me nobody slipped you a drink from time to time?”

Drew stammered at her, opening and closing his mouth as he struggled to find an argument. When she snorted he threw his hands up in frustration, dropped the grape cannon on the table, and stormed into the kitchen. He came back a moment later with a small cup of… of something, that barely filled even half the glass.

Now that she had it in her hand, she was a little nervous to actually drink it. She might be able to believe that Merrick had snuck some alcohol before, but she knew for a fact Heath had never touched the stuff. She hadn’t either - she’d tried to buy some cheap beer once, in a small act of rebellion, but had been unsuccessful and led outside the corner store by the owner who warned her she was lucky he wasn’t going to call her parents. Too bad he hadn’t realized that was exactly what she’d hoped he would do. If she hadn’t wanted to be caught she would have just pocketed the stupid drink.

“What is it?” she asked curiously, swirling it around the glass.

“Secret recipe,” Drew answered, scooping the cannon up and shooting at the door. He missed, and the grape splattered several inches to the side. A laugh burst out of her and he turned to glare in her direction. “It’s like caramel apple,” he elaborated, grumbling almost defensively. “I don’t usually make it until closer to Halloween but I wanted it so I made it now.”

Shea took a cautious sip, and couldn’t help smiling at the unexpectedly sweet taste. She took another sip, the alcohol burning a little as it ran down her throat, but not enough to discourage her from gulping down a bit more.

“Easy,” Drew practically whined, peering at her from over his own much larger drink. He pulled the glass away from her lips. “I know it’s not strong but still .”

“It’s good,” she told him, reluctantly putting the drink on the table, and holding out her hand. “I wanna shoot it again.”

He smirked, though she wasn’t sure if his smugness was from her praise of the drink or her interest in his little invention. Either way, he passed the device over to her.

“Aim for the… Aim for the door handle,” he laughed.

She leveled the device against her shoulder, and asked, “Why are you calling it a cannon when it’s more of a gun?” before shooting it. The click came, but nothing happened. She turned to look at him, and he just laughed again.

“Oh, yeah. Give it here.” As he dumped a handful of grapes into some strange looking compartment, she downed the last few sips of her drink. He snapped at her again to, “Slow down!” and ripped it from her hands. “I’m not going to give you anymore if you’re just going to chug it like that.”

“Sorry,” she offered, unapologetically. “It’s not my fault it’s delicious.”

He blushed, glancing away from her. “It’s better when I make it with homemade apple cider but I guess it’s good enough.”

She took the cannon from his outstretched hands, aiming it toward the door again. “Can I have some more?”

“Just a little,” he agreed with an overdramatic sigh, before taking her glass and retreating to the kitchen.

‘Just a little’ apparently meant double the amount he’d given her before. Glancing at his nearly drained cup she wondered how much of the stuff he’d really had before she caught him. Her suspicions were amplified ten-fold when he stumbled, smacking his hip on the table. He barely winced though she still had to snag the drink from his hand before any of it spilled.

“How much have you had?” she demanded, almost instinctively.

She’d had to walk a significant number of drunks home as part of her hero duty in the early years. Heath took over for her not long after she turned twelve. He’d run into her walking some man home, just in time to hear him offer her a beer or two in exchange for ‘an hour to do whatever the fuck I like to that perfect little body.’ She’d been near tears by the time she got home although she hadn’t even fully understood what the man was suggesting until a few months later when a similar scene played out in one of the horror films her parents forced her to watch. The situation had ended far worse for the young woman and Shea had melted one of her metal practice cubes, screaming and burning in horrified sympathy. It was the last movie she’d watched that she actually found frightening.

“Not too much,” he replied, picking up his own glass and draining the last of it.

“Uh-huh…” She trailed a step after him as he refilled his glass to the brim, sipping at it carefully as he moved back to the table. She took a sip of her own, following him back.

She barely saw him roll his eyes as he put the cup down. “Door handle?” he said hopefully, pushing his grape cannon toward her again.

She grabbed it without putting her cup down and fired. The click was followed by the newly distinctive whistle of a grape flying across the apartment. Her aim was off, but not enough. The grape hit the door handle but she’d been hoping to hit it dead center. Drew still cheered, and she couldn’t resist shooting a smile his way.

“Again!” he exclaimed, and she gulped down a sip of her drink before laughing and firing again. He was tugging the cannon away from her for his turn even before the grape splattered.

His first shot actually hit the door and she found herself cheering even before he did. His second missed and nearly knocked down a picture frame beside the door. He yelped as it wobbled, then sighed in obvious relief.

“Would you rather,” he mused suddenly, near half an hour and too many drinks later, “go live in the woods or… get to live in a mansion but never get to go outside again?”

“Woods.”

“Why?”

“Did enough of never getting to go outside already.”

“Oh yeah,” he said, almost laughing before awkwardly taking a sip of his drink.

She knocked the rest of her own drink back. “What about you, Doc? Woods or a mansion?”

“Is not getting to go out really that bad?” “Judging from how pale you are, I’d guess you don’t spend a whole lot of time outside anyway,” she teased, firing the cannon.

Drew whined in protest but didn’t actually defend himself much further. “It might be nice to live in a place that actually has heating in the winter. So, if it’s a nice mansion… I’ll take the mansion.”

“What if it’s some shabby run-down mansion? Or haunted?”

He fidgeted and snapped the cannon away from her. “Then I guess I’ll join you in the woods. Your turn.” Shea held out her hands to take it back, but he just shook his head. “No, I meant to ask a question.”

“Oh. Um… Would you rather,” she paused to think, watching as a grape exploded against the ceiling above them. “Would you rather get the chance to go back in time and change one major event but know that it will just happen later or…. Change one major event but erase yourself from existence in the process.”

“I would erase myself,” he answered the moment the words were out of her mouth.

“What would you change?” she asked curiously.

“Nothing you need to know about.” She must have looked hurt, because as soon as he said it he looked away from her, passing the gun sheepishly back over and adding, “Nothing I want to talk about.”

“I’d do the same one,” she told him. She wouldn’t mind disappearing if it saved her brothers from living the life they did. She would stop the comet and let herself fade away without anyone’s knowledge that there were ever going to be super-powered kids saving a city.

She didn’t say that, but he nodded as if he understood anyway.

“Would you rather be able to breathe underwater or breathe fire?”

“I thought we were flipping coins for this before.”

“We’re both answering, so who cares?” Shea sighed and shook her head, pouring some of his drink into her glass, earning herself a glare and a refilled cup, still not quite as full as his had been. “I’ll take underwater. I’ve done the fire breathing thing. It just hurts your throat.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t breathe fire!”

“No,” she said pointedly, “I said I’m not a dragon. And no. I’m not showing you. It’s stupid and it hurts.”

“Come on, please?”

“No.”

“Pest.” Drew’s next fire of the grape cannon finally knocked the picture frame to the ground with a strangely loud shatter. His mood shifted almost instantaneously before the picture even hit the floor. If she’d been a little more focused she would have lunged for it, but as it was they both simply stood there and watched it fall.

He groaned as it broke, putting out a hand to stop her when she stepped toward it. “Glass,” he pointed out, though his voice sounded off. It took Shea a moment too long to realize his speech was more slurred than she’d realized.

He stepped carefully over the pieces of broken glass after pushing the cannon into her arms. Despite his repeated warning, she dropped the device on the table and moved toward him. She barely caught him slip something from the back of the frame into his pocket.

“What is that?” she asked, grabbing onto his arm.

His instantaneous, “Nothing,” caught her off guard, and she was quick to let go of him when he jerked his arm away. “She’s going to be so upset,” he murmured, tugging the picture free of the frame and stumbling his way over to the couch.

“Who is?” Shea asked, scooping up the glass. She could almost appreciate the bandages, for helping her to not cut up her palms.

“My mother,” he replied, holding up the photo for her to see.

Squinting at him from the kitchen she could see a picture of a woman with a young boy. “Is that you?” she asked tossing the wrapped up glass shards into the trash can.

“Sure, when I graduated high school. I was twelve here.”

“Why’d it take so long for you to go to college?”

She watched Drew’s shoulders move in a strange little shrug. “She didn’t want me to go off to college too early, so I homeschooled for a few years. It was probably a good thing, what with my not being able to read.”

“Did you always look like a dork?” she asked.

He dropped the photo on the coffee table. “Decide for yourself.”

This, Shea declared to herself, must be what if feels like to be drunk. Granted, she didn’t think she’d had all that much - and she was fairly certain he had been watering down every drink he’d given her. But the room was spinning a little, making her dizzy as she took slow, deliberate steps in his direction watching him take another swig of his drink.

A note of terror rang through her as her fuzzy mind cleared for the briefest of moments. He could have done anything to her drinks, anything at all, and she’d never even thought to be wary of it. She just… drank them as he handed them to her. As suddenly as it came, the terror was gone. He wouldn’t do that. She knew he wouldn’t do that. She’d known him for -what?- three days, four? She had no reason to trust him, not the way she did, but she did.

“Yeah,” she said with a nod of her head towards the photo that made the spinning change directions. “You were definitely always a dork.” Twelve-year-old Drew didn’t look much different from the Drew she knew, save for the cap and gown that were both clearly too big and the innocent look of a pre-pubescent child.

“Yes, thank you for that assessment,” he grumbled.

A laugh slipped out of her as she stumbled over air and collapsed onto the couch next to Drew. No, not next to him. On top of him. She fell into his lap, and in her daze, she forgot to make herself move off him. Even if she could have, his arms snaked around her, holding her against his chest though not in any real way, it felt like. Like he only did it because of instinct.

“Come on, come on, tell me the truth.” She realized he was laughing as she tried to process his arms around her. “Do you really think that rib-eye looked better than the salmon?”

She meant to say she did, but what came out instead was a gasp as she leaned back into him and poked his cheek slurring, “You should… you should make steak. I missed food. Didn’t even know I missed food ’til I met you.”

He chuckled and fell back across the couch. She hadn’t even noticed him push her off his lap. “Can’t afford to make that,” he said, gesturing to the TV. “But sure. Can make some sort of steak. Next week.” His fingers latched around her arm. “If,” he said pointedly.

“If what?” She asked, knowing she’d agree to just about anything in the moment.

“If you show me how you can breathe fire.”

She should have said no. She knew she should’ve said no. With a quick snap of her wrist, she’d snagged Drews drink out of his hand and said instead, “You know you’re lucky I like you, right?”

His grin faltered so slightly that she almost didn’t notice it. She took a small sip of the drink, surprised to find it tasted no more like alcohol than any of hers had, and swirled it around in her mouth.

Working the flames to her hands was easy. She’d focused on that, trained to do that for years. Working it up her chest and throat burned, making her eyes water. She almost gagged the plasma back down, but she took a deep breath in through her nose and tilted her face towards the ceiling.

Her powers didn’t come out like a dragon spitting flames in some cheesy kids movie. It bubbled between her jaws for a moment, like the world’s hottest mouthwash. She let out her breath, and with it, the plasma, burning through the air in a strange arc above her, before abruptly steaming out of existence.

She coughed and swallowed the residual flames. “It’s not effective and it hurts.” She coughed again, wiping her lips with the back of her sleeve.

With a grunt, Drew sat back up and shocked her by poking at her lips. “That,” he admitted as she swatted his hand away in surprise, “was pretty cool.”

She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks. “Yeah, well. Y’better not be too drunk to remember it, cause I’m not doin’ it again.”

“You said you like me,” he teased suddenly, breaking out into a wide grin. “You don’t really think I’m a dork.”

“Do so think you’re a dork,” she argued. “But… yeah. Still like ya. You’re… I dunno, fun?”

Drew hummed and lay back against the couch, facing her. “I like you too.”

“It’s weird,” she confessed, wishing the room would start spinning again to justify why she was still talking. “I feel like… cause we only met a few days ago. But–”

“–I feel like I’ve known you forever,” he said, in unison with her.

“Jinx,” he exclaimed, pointing a finger in her face. “You owe me a soda.”

“Do you have soda?”

“I think there’s some in the fridge.”

“I’ll get you one.”

“You’re just gonna shake it up, aren’t you?” Drew whined suspiciously.

She smirked, fighting back a full-on grin and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then I don’t want one.” He yawned and pointed vaguely in the direction of the kitchen table. “I just wanna take my cannon and go to bed.”

“You’re gonna bring that thing to bed with you?”

“Nngh– no, I just don’t want you to shoot me with it!”

“You shot me!”

“I shot at you,” he corrected. “Accidentally!”

“So I should get to shoot at you.”

“No!”

“Dork.”

“Pest.”

“Crybaby!”

“You can keep insulting me,” he sang, “but I know you like me!”

Shea rolled her eyes, and before she could say anything else a strange gurgling sound filled her ears and then everything went silent. Ice cold terror burned in her veins as Drew’s mouth continued to move. No sound came out. No sound that she could hear.

#drakgo #drakken #drew lipsky #shego #shea go #fanfiction #drakgo fanfiction #shego x drakken #drakken x shego #Dwelling #chapter twelve #gofordrakgo #17 pages #4831 words

13 notes · View notes

mythologyfolklore · 4 years

Text

Ares and Athena through the years - Ch. 11

Chapter Eleven: The Trojan War, pt. 03

(A/N: The end of the Iliad with some comic relief and lots of heartbreak at the end, because that's how the Iliad works. This isn't the last chapter about the Trojan War, but the next one will be. This is just the last part of the Iliad.)

Book Nineteen:

The next morning saw Thetis giving her son a freshly forged armour of such splendour, that Akhilleus was the only one who could even look at it directly.

As he marched the camp up and down, the other leaders came to the assembly, even though Agamemnon, Diomedes and Odysseus were severely injured and could hardly walk.

Akhilleus announced the end of his strike, much to the delight of the Achaean army.

He and Agamemnon finally talked things out and buried their old grudges.

“Right!”, Akhilleus exclaimed, “Enough talking! Let's go into battle already!”

“Not so fast!”, Odysseus (the resident braincell-owner) objected. “Our troops are exhausted and many of us are wounded. We need all the energy we can get. So there is one more thing we have to do first!”

“And what would that be?”, Akhilleus snarled impatiently.

“Have breakfast”, Odysseus deadpanned.

“OH COME ON!!!”

“No.”

Book Twenty:

On Olympos Zeus had made his ex-wife Thémis gather all the gods (literally all of them – even the Naiades and Dryades¹). Tiredly they dragged themselves out of bed and into the assembly hall.

Poseidon was the first to speak.

“Sooooo”, he drawled, “What are you plotting now, Astrapaios²?”

Zeus was lounging on his throne like a boss.

“Oh, you know what I want, Ennosigaios³! I won't wish for Akhilleus to conquer the city just yet, but he will, if we're not careful. And this is why I hereby decree, that the prohibition is lifted! You may interfere with the battle as much as you please!”

Suddenly everyone was wide awake and those who had taken a side in the war went to ready themselves for a battle royal – uh, I mean battle divine.

Of the Olympians, Dionysos (one of the few gods who had refused to get involved at all) was the last to leave the room. He used the opportunity to question his father.

“Dad, if you don't mind …”

“Ask away!”

“Why exactly did you change your mind again?”

Zeus chuckled at his son's perceptiveness.

“For the reason I stated earlier of course. Well, that and because I want to amuse myself by sitting here in my neutrality and watching this divine spectacle.”

“… Can I sit with you?”

“Sure, my son! Bring wine, this is going to be good!”

The gods joined the war and wasted no time in making things more interesting … for them!

Eris was having a blast with this spectacle.

Zeus was setting the mood above with thunder and rain.

Poseidon struck the ground with his trident and the queen of earthquakes happened.

“WHAT THE FUCK???”, he heard Hades' voice shriek from below, “POSEIDON, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING??? IF THE GROUND BREAKS OPEN AND FALLS DOWN IT WILL REVEAL THE UNDERWORLD AND BURY EVERYTHING BENEATH!!!”

Poseidon laughed sheepishly and yelled back down: “SORRY, BRO!”

Maybe I overdid it with that earthquake …

Some distance away, Apollon had convinced Aineías, that fighting Akhilleus would be a brilliant idea.

Poseidon didn't notice until Hera pat his shoulder and said to him and Athena: “Uh, we have a little problem back there” - and pointed to where Aineías and Akhilleus were about to duke it out.

“Don't worry, sister”, he replied, “We're stronger than them. If any of Troy's gods comes close to Akhilleus, that's nothing we can't take care of.”

Still, the gods of the Achaeans didn't want to engage in a bloodbath, before agreeing on a strategy.

On the battlefield, Aineías and Akhilleus ran into each other and started with a verbal duel, before lunging at each other. Poseidon quickly assessed, that the son of Thetis was outclassing the son of Aphrodite.

“Alright, here I come!”, he sighed, “Apollon won't save him, but the youngster is fated to live.”

Then he threw himself into the maddening throng and momentarily blinded Akhilleus, before he could decapitate the disarmed Trojan. Grabbing the mortal by the arms, Poseidon took to flight and carried him away to safety.

“Okay!”, he snapped at him, once they were back on the ground, “First off: Are you fucking insane?! Trying to take on Akhilleus, who is favoured by the gods and far stronger than you? He will send you to Hades, before your time is up! Secondly: as long as he is alive, you stay away from battle, you dumbass son of an even more dumbass goddess!”

With that, the Lord of the Sea left Aineías behind to wonder what the heck had just happened.

Akhilleus on the other hand just shrugged it off and went back to slaughtering Trojans en masse.

Apollon had warned Hektor not to go against the deranged demigod, but when the Trojan prince saw one of his brothers get killed by that very man, he forgot the warning and attacked him.

Akhilleus immediately recognised the slayer of his dear soulmate and charged with a battle cry.

But Apollon, always having the best timing, stepped in and saved the Trojan.

Again.

This is getting old.

Book Twenty-One:

The Trojans were fleeing in panic from the deranged and bloodthirsty demigod.

But Hera conjured a thick fog, making it impossible for them to see.

Those who didn't get lost in the fog where cornered and driven into the holy waters of the river Xanthos (or Skamandros, as the mortals called him). They jumped or fell into the quick waters, struggling and screaming for help. Akhilleus in his blood rush jumped after them and slaughtered the Trojans, who were already drowning, dyeing the waters red with blood.

That pissed off the river god, because no one liked having their waters defiled with gore and corpses. Politely requesting Akhilleus to stop dumping corpses into his river didn't help, so Xanthos lost his temper and promptly left his riverbed to make the demigod stop.

Only when this colossal mass of water rose before him, was Akhilleus seized by fear and he made a run for it across the field. But the river always caught up to him, because he was still just a demigod and Xanthos a full god and gods just were stronger than mortals (unless you were Herakles).

Athena and Poseidon came to his rescue, before he could die a most unheroic death by drowning. They warned him to go back to the battlefield, kill Hektor and return to the Achaean camp, then they left to mind their own business.

But the river wasn't done yet; it joined forces with another river, both hell-bent on drowning Akhilleus.

This was seen by Hera, who turned to Hephaistos. “My son, I thought you would take care of the river god? What are you waiting for? Show him your destructive flames. I will release the winds to fuel them. Do not stop, until I ask you to.”

Hephaistos, powerful fire god that he was, raised his arms and unleashed his divine fire above the river (never mind, that it was still raining). Hera released the north and south wind.

The unearthly fire storm, hotter than the surface of the sun⁴, spread across the heath, consumed the bodies of the dead and made the rivers writhe in agony from being boiled alive.

Xanthos soon begged for mercy, but Hephaistos was only following his mother's orders, so the river turned to Hera and begged her to control her son.

Now the Queen of the Skies finally showed the mercy asked of her and told her son to stop.

Hephaistos rolled his eyes, but called his fire back.

Xanthos returned to his river bed, recovered from the torment and he stuck his head out of the water to glare at the fire god. “And here I thought you were not an arsehole!”

The divine blacksmith laughed: “Oh, you're wrong! I'm less of an arsehole than the other Olympians, but I still can be a prick!”

Hera chuckled in amusement.

On his throne on Olympos, Zeus was having the time of his life, because now the gods were charging at each other at last.

“Ohhh, now they're getting started! This is going to be priceless! Where are the wine, cookies and my camera?”

Hebe and Dionysos brought him both and then sat with him to enjoy the show.

In the meantime, Athena had finally turned to Ares.

“'Sup, arsehole”, she greeted him.

“'Sup, fellow arsehole”, he retorted. Then he had his sword out. “Don't think I have forgot how you let that fucker Diomedes pierce with a spear! Now it's time for payback!”

I thought he already had- oh, never mind.

He attacked first and they duked it out for a while, before he threw his spear at the impenetrable Aigis she was wearing on her chest. Athena leapt back, grabbed a stone and hit her opponent at the back of his neck with it.

Knocked out, he collapsed.

“Hah!”, she yelled in triumph. “I'm the one who gets the payback! That's for abandoning your mother and me in favour of supporting the Trojans! Well, that and the fucking prohibition you put into our father's head. What's that with you always forgetting what everyone has realised a long time ago: that I am stronger than you and always will be!”

“Ares!”

Athena whirled around to see the goddess of love running to her lover's aid.

Aphrodite grabbed Ares' arm and began to drag him to safety.

“Are you just letting her do that?”, Hera spat at Athena.

The goddess of wisdom rolled her eyes. “Alright, I'm on it!”

Strode up to Aphrodite, who was struggling under Ares' weight and hit her on the chest, knocking her out as well. There they lay, with the bright-eyed goddess standing above them.

“This is what happens to the allies of Troy and everyone who gets in my way!”, she snarled.

Aphrodite came to herself and glared up. “You're full of shit, Athena.”

The war goddess shrugged. “Look around, Aphrodite. Everyone here is full of shit. Especially you.”

At the same time, Poseidon was facing Apollon.

The sea god taunted his nephew: “What is stopping you, Sunny Boy, now that the others are at each other's throats?”

Apollon sighed: “Can you please not call me 'Sunny Boy'? That's Ares' shtick. Also-”

“Whatever, Sunny Boy. Where is the fun in going home without a single scratch? Let's duke it out! But first tell me: why are you supporting the Trojans? Don't you remember how they treated us? When Zeus stripped us of our immortality for a year, we had to serve Laomedon for a pittance! I built this mighty wall around Troy, while you herded his cattle. And when the year was finally over, he denied us pay and threatened to bind us, cut our ears off and sell us off as slaves! And you're helping the Trojans, after all of this? Explain!”

But Apollon remained calm.

“Does it really matter? Let's leave the mortals to their devices. I don't want to fight you over them, uncle. You're way out of my league, it would be madness.”

But Artemis grabbed him by the shoulder, outraged. “So you're chickening out?! You just give up and let him win?! If so, then don't ever let us hear you brag, that you could take on Poseidon!”

But Apollon just arched an eyebrow. “I'm not 'chickening out'. I just know, when to quit – unlike someone I know.”

As if on cue, Hera confronted Artemis: “You little brat! If you have the spine to make me or Poseidon your enemy, you're dumber than I thought! I will show you, just how outclassed you really are!”

Then she seized the goddess of the hunt by both wrists with one hand, tore her quiver and arrows off her shoulder with the other and smacked the shit out of her with it. When Hera was done with her, Artemis was running back to Olympos crying, leaving her bow and arrows on the battlefield.

Hermes saw this and let his opponent Leto take the win. The Titanis of motherhood gratefully gathered up the weapons of her daughter from the floor and returned to Olympos to console her.

Apollon blinked after them. “What the Tartaros did just happen?”

Poseidon laughed heartily: “Just because my sister is the goddess of marriage doesn't mean she can't kick arse! Or where do you think Ares got his temper from?”

The Earthshaker looked to the sky and knew that Zeus was shaking with laughter.

On the battlefield Akhilleus was still massacring Trojans left and right.

The king Priamos saw this from the top of the wall and ordered for the gates to be opened, so his people could save themselves.

Apollon came onto the field through the gates and held his hand over them, while they scrambled to the sweet safety of their city. He took the shape of a Trojan Akhilleus had been about to kill and allowed to chase him across the field, away from the gates of Troy. That bought the Trojans the time they needed to escape the wrath of Thetis' son.

All of them, except for Hektor; he didn't make it in time, before the gates closed.

The greatest warrior of the Trojans was shut outside.

Book Twenty-Two:

Apollon led Akhilleus away from Troy, before finally turning around.

“Hey, arsehole! Guess who!” And dropped his disguise.

Then he proceeded to mock the raging demigod, who was out of breath after chasing him for kilometres: “While you ran after me like a moron, thinking that you stand a chance against me, the Trojans have barricaded themselves inside their city! They are out of your reach and you will never defeat me, Apollon!”

“You … you deceived me!”, Akhilleus gasped, “So is … the most lethal of the gods … the protector of Troy … otherwise I would have killed them all! But damn you! If it was in my power, I would give you payback!”

Apollon gritted his teeth: “But you can't, mortal.”

Akhilleus screamed in fury and dashed back to Troy with swift feet.

Hektor was waiting in front of the walls of Troy to challenge vengeful Akhilleus and face his imminent demise.

On top of the walls, his aged father was weeping over the cruelty of fate: that he would have to see his sons and many of his people die, his city sacked, his daughters ravaged, his grandchildren and himself murdered, his daughters-in-law sold into slavery.

But no matter how much Priamos beseeched him, Hektor didn't yield and stayed where he was, even though he was terrified. Yet as soon as he saw Akhilleus clearly, bloodthirsty and deranged like Ares himself, his flight instinct kicked in and he ran for his life. Only Apollon's assistance prevented the son of Thetis from catching up to Hektor.

While Akhilleus chased the slayer of Patroklos around the city walls three times in a row, the gods were watching from above.

Zeus shook his head. “I don't like seeing him being chased around his own city like that. And it's really a shame, that he should die already. He always honoured us gods beyond measure. Should I save this noble man or-”

“No!”, Athena protested at once, “His time is up, he must die! We can't randomly spare mortals, just because we favour them. Do whatever you want, but none of us will approve.”

“… Do what you must, but do it quickly.”

On Olympos, in the Room of Fate, the Scales of Fate weighed the lot of Hektor against Akhilleus.

That of Hektor sank, that of Akhilleus rose up.

Apollon, as the god of prophecy, sensed the shift and reluctantly left Hektor to face his doom.

Athena on the other hand joined the angry Akhilleus.

“Today the Achaeans will gain a most glorious victory! We shall slay Hektor! He is destined to die by our hands and not even Apollon's pleas to Zeus will save him now. Now hold up and catch your breath, while I persuade him to face you in battle.”

She caught up to Hektor in the shape of one of his brothers and did exactly that.

So the Trojan prince whirled around to face the son of Peleus.

They had a short dispute. Hektor entreated his opponent to agree, that the loser be returned to his people to receive a proper burial.

But Akhilleus refused: “FUCK YOUR PROPOSAL! YOU WILL PAY FOR THE DEATH OF PATROKLOS AND ALL OF MY FRIENDS WHOM YOU KILLED!!!”

“OH SHUT UP, ARSEHOLE! YOU AND YOUR COMRADES KILLED MOST OF MY FAMILY AND FRIENDS TOO! AND ONCE YOU TAKE OVER OUR CITY, YOU WILL RAVAGE IT, MASSACRE THE CIVILIANS, VIOLATE AND ENSLAVE OUR WOMEN AND KILL OUR CHILDREN!!! I AM DOING WHATEVER I CAN TO PROTECT THEM!!! YOU DON'T GET TO JUDGE ME!!!”, Hektor roared in outrage.⁵

Then they threw their spears at each other.

Hektor dodged that of Akhilleus, but his own weapon flew far off, guided by Athena's hand. When he turned to whom he had thought to be his dear brother to ask for a new spear, but found him gone.

The Trojan prince realised, that he had been tricked by Athena and that the gods had decided his doom a long time ago.

“Well, fuck this shit”, he muttered, pulled his sword to face his last battle.

Their fight was short and brutal.

At long last, Akhilleus managed to stab him in the throat.

But he had narrowly missed the windpipe and so Hektor was able to rattle a few last words.

“If you have … an ounce of honour … return my corpse … to my parents … so I can be buried.”

“No.”

“Thought as much … but know this … you're – ugh! – angering the gods … you will die … by Apollon's and Paris' arrows …”

Then the greatest defender of Troy died.

For a while Akhilleus stood silently above him.

Then he finally replied to the dead man: “I know. And I don't care.”

And proceeded to outrage his vanquished enemy's corpse by tying it to his chariot and dragging it around his city several times.

While on the walls above, his grieving parents, his sorrow-stricken wife Andromákhe and the people of Troy were weeping to the Heavens.

Book Twenty-Three:

Akhilleus held funeral games for Patroklos and, after much more mourning, finally delivered him to the pyre.

Hektor's dishonoured corpse on the other hand he left to the dogs.

The dogs that would not go near it; the presence of the goddess Aphrodite, who guarded it night and day, kept them away. She and Apollon preserved his corpse, so that neither the scorching sun, nor being hauled around by Akhilleus could damage it.

The burned remains of Patroklos were put to rest in a golden urn – one that his ghost had asked Akhilleus to put them in and mix them with his own, once the son of Thetis would die.

Book Twenty-Four:

All the while Apollon had protected Hektor's corpse from being mutilated, while Akhilleus didn't stop treating it like that of a common criminal.

Day after day he and the other gods who were supporting Troy begged Zeus to send Hermes to steal away the body. And every time Poseidon, Hera and Athena had been against it, unyielding in their old grudges.

After a week, the god of light finally had enough.

“How much longer”, he confronted the other gods, “do you want to allow Akhilleus to abuse the body of Hektor in such a foul manner?! Does none of you have a heart?! Has he ever failed to give you the best possible sacrifices?! Instead of returned his body to his people to receive the funeral he deserves, you choose being butt-hurt about the stupidity of that wuss Paris and that's why you help that sociopath Akhilleus, who doesn't have an ounce of propriety, shame or even respect in his chest! Many others are mourning their loved ones and he acts like he's the only one! As honourable as his parents are, they failed to raise a decent human being!“

Hera jumped up and pointed a finger at him: “Stop going on about Hektor, like he has ever been Akhilleus' equal! One was only a full mortal, while the other is the son of Thetis, whom I raised and married to Peleus, who we all were fond of!”

“That doesn't change the fact, that Akhilleus is a fucking arsehole!”, Apollon snapped.

“Or that he wouldn't know honour, if it spat in his face!”, Artemis agreed.

“Or that he's a whiny mother's boy”, Ares added.

Hera flushed with rage. “How dare you!”, she exclaimed, “All of you have been at the wedding of his parents! You ate, drank, danced and made music-”

“So?”, Ares said coldly, “Akhilleus is not his parents. We are not obliged to him, nor to Thetis and Peleus and definitely not to you. Hektor respected us gods and other humans more than he does.”

Hera's eyes narrowed. “That's it! I will-”

“ENOUGH!!!”, Zeus thundered and everyone fell silent.

Angrily he turned to Hera: “I've had enough of your attitude! No one here is putting Hektor and Akhilleus on the same level! And all things considered, Hektor was beloved by us. He always knew what kind of sacrifices I and all of you wished for, never failed to honour us and only gave us the best of the best. Still, stealing the body is not an option either. Bring me Thetis. She shall persuade her son to give Hektor's body up to his father.”

After Thetis had been welcomed by the gods, Zeus cut to the chase: “Let your son know, that we're angered by his behaviour. He is to return the body of Hektor to the Trojans for ransom – this is my will. He knows what happens to mortals, who do not follow it.”

Thetis nodded and returned to her son to inform him of Zeus' decree.

Later that evening Iris descended to the earth again, this time to tell Priamos, that Zeus was doing him one last favour: the returning of his son's body.

So Priamos packed rich gifts as ransom and went, but not before making a sacrifice of Zeus and venting his bitterness about how the cruelty of Ares had robbed and would keep robbing him of his loved ones.

As Zeus saw the elderly man and his aged herald cross the bloodstained plain in the darkness, he was overcome by pity. He waved Hermes over and fondly ruffled the messenger's hair.

The second youngest Olympian endured it, as always.

“My beloved son, who holds mankind dearest, guides them and listens to them. Go and escort Priamos to the Achaean ships, but make sure that no one sees him, before he stands in front of the son of Peleus.”

Hermes put on his winged sandals and staff and landed on the coast near the ships in the guise of a young soldier from Akhilleus' troops. With his staff, he lulled the Achaeans to sleep, before going to find Priamos.

As he came into the king's field of view, he could tell that the old man was frightened.

But Hermes gently took the old man's hands and asked kindly: “Who are you, sir? What are you and your companion there doing out here in the middle of the night and with so much treasure? Don't you know how dangerous that is?”

“You're right, young man”, Priamos replied, “But one god must have at least some mercy with me. It must be a good omen, that we meet you here; I can see your wisdom as well as your beauty – you must have blessed parents.”

That I do, Hermes thought fondly, but kept his focus.

“That's true. But do answer my question. Are you trying to hide them, or are you all fleeing your city in panic, because you lost your best fighter – your son Hektor, the greatest of your warriors?”

Priamos tilted his head. “How do you know about my son? Who are you?”

“One of the soldiers of Akhilleus”, Hermes fibbed, “I often saw your son on the field of glory, even when we weren't allowed to fight, because our lord wouldn't let us.”

“Really!”, the king cried hopefully, “Tell me, what happened to my son's body? Is it still intact at the ships? Akhilleus didn't … he didn't … did he …?”

“It's still intact”, the Messenger soothed him. “Nothing of the outrage it suffered by Akhilleus could damage it – if it wasn't for the wounds, one could think he's sleeping! The gods care for him even in death.”

He couldn't help but feel horrible for the sorrow-stricken old man, who nearly burst into tears at these news and who really deserved better than all this woe.

Deciding to make it quick, before the mortal's suffering could get to him, Hermes guided Priamos to Akhilleus' tent.

Once there, he revealed himself: “Now I can tell you, that I am the god Hermes. My father sent me to guide and protect you. I must stay outside, because I don't want the trouble of being seen. But listen to me: when you go in there, clasp the knees of Peleus' son and beseech him in the name of his own dear parents, if you want him to hear you.”

Akhilleus gaped in amazement, as none other than Priamos came before him.

The long-suffering king of Troy fell onto his knees in front of his greatest enemy, clasping the knees and kissing the hands of the man, who had slain his children.

After reminding him of his father Peleus, who was waiting for his son to come home, Priamos ended his plea: “Fifty sons I had, before you Achaeans came and I got to keep none of them! Most were felled by cruel Ares. And the one son I could count on, the defender of my city and its inhabitants – oh Hektor, my child! – fell by your hand. I'm here to ransom him with rich gifts. Respect the gods and think of your father. Even more than him I have a right to your mercy, because I did what no other father in the world could ever bring himself to do: I kissed the hand of the man who murdered my son.”

The sight of this old man's infinite grief and the memory of his own father, who too would never see him again, did something to Akhilleus.

There was no more wrath in him, only sadness and grief.

That and something new.

Something he had never felt before: Compassion.

Hektor's body was ransomed and returned to his people.

Even on Olympos the gods could hear the crying of the Trojans for their prince.

The people, who mourned their greatest hero.

His parents, who lost their dearest son.

His remaining siblings, who lost the brother they had looked up to.

His widow, who hadn't been able to be at her husband's side, while he was dying.

Helena, who had been taken here against her will and was now mourning the only man besides Priamos, who had treated her with kindness, the only friend she'd had here.

The Trojans keened and bewailed Hektor for ten days.

On the eleventh day he was brought to the pyre.

The smoke rose high and with it carried prayers and weeping.

---

1) Naiades: river nymphs; Dryades: tree nymphs.

2) Astrapaios: "Lord of Lightning", one of Zeus' epithets.

3) Ennosigaios: "Shaker of the Earth", one of Poseidon's epithets.

4) The surface of the sun is appr. 5000°C hot.

5) In the Iliad Hektor doesn't actually respond to Akhilleus' refusal like that, but I thought that this was important to point out.

4 notes · View notes

thedeviltohisangel · 5 years

Text

He’s A God, He’s A Man: 7

Bring her with you too.

masterlist is my url/writing

send in your thoughts!

The Garrison was alive and bustling and had its own personality. Lydia had never been happier to be at work. Maybe had never been happier in general. Things with Tommy with good. Touches and kisses and whispering silly sweet nothings were now normal aspects of any of their encounters. It felt so right and like it was the way things always should have been.

She had convinced Tommy one night in bed to let the men sing at the pub. She didn’t participate but she knew what the folk songs did for morale. Softly, she had reminded Tommy that Birmingham was like a battlefield with the ramping up discourse between him and Billy Kimber. The Peaky Blinders were soldiers and Tommy would do good to remember that in his dealings with them.

“Lydia put the brew down and join us for a drink!” She smiled at Arthur and she placed the bucket of beer on the table and began collecting their empty pint glasses for refills.

“Someone has to keep the men in line out front.”

“Oi, fuck them! We don’t like sharing,” John piped up, his words muffled from the cigar he was puffing on. Tommy wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her down to sit on his lap, kissing her cheek. “Kiss her properly then, Tom, if you’re going to do it in front of us.” Lydia blushed but Tommy was feeling a bit lightheaded from her and the beer so he pulled her face towards his with a smile and kissed her on the lips. There was no tongue or breathless moans or whispers of how he was so happy to have her like their moments in private usually included but it was nice to claim her in public. Let his immediate circle know he was happy and more importantly that he was happy with her. That she needed to be protected by every member of the Blinders at whatever cost.

“Are you going soft on me, Thomas Shelby?” she whispered teasingly as she traced her finger over the curve of his lip.

“Only for you,” he whispered back with another gentle kiss. She was about to ask him if he could take the afternoon off from business when the entire pub went completely silent.

“Is there any man here named Shelby?” Lydia didn’t recognize the voice which meant he wasn’t native to Small Heath. Tommy’s hands stiffened on her waist and he made eye contact with each of his brothers and the two other Blinders before nodding once.

“I’m going to go out first. Lydia goes last.”

“You know that man?”

“It’s Billy Kimber and no doubt he’s come to see me. You stand behind the bar and prepare them drinks like they are any normal customer. If guns come out, you drop and-”

“I’ll get out. I know. I promise I won’t stick around and try to help.” They had had a conversation late one night about the potential dangers that came with being seen out with Tommy Shelby.

“Good,” he kissed her forehead before helping her up and moving towards the door. “You said you wanted men called Shelby.” Lydia snuck from the back of the group to stand behind the bar as she had been instructed.

“Now you’ve got three of them.” She couldn’t tell who the comment had come from as she tried to pour drinks and watch what was going on all at once.

“Which one am I talking to? Who’s the boss?”

“Well, I’m the oldest.” That was clearly Arthur. Lydia moved her hand from the bar top to underneath where Harry kept a pistol in case a fight got to be too much to handle. She knows she promised Tommy she wouldn’t try to help and she would focus on getting out safely but he should know her well enough to not trust her on that. After all this time, she wasn’t going to just simply leave him behind to die.

“You laughing at my brother?”

“If he’s the oldest then you’re the thickest,” Billy directed to John. She knew insulting the Shelby brothers wasn’t going to get him anywhere. It would only make the final enactment of their plan all the more brutal and the payoff all the more sweet. “I’m told the boss is Tommy and I’m guessing that’s you because you’re looking me up and down like a fucking tart.” Lydia bit her lip. Insulting Arthur and John was one thing but that was her Tommy. No one walked spoke to him that way.

“I want to know what you want.”

“There were suspicious betting patterns at Kempton Park. A horse called Monaghan Boy. He won by a length twice and then finished last with 3,000 bet on him.” That came from the wiry man that was sitting next to Mr. Kimber. He seemed to be the one with the brains.

“Which one am I talking to?” Tommy asked as he waved his cigarette in their direction, “which one of you is the boss?”

“I’m Mr. Kimber’s advisor and accountant.”

“And I’m the fucking boss, right okay, end of parley. You fixed the races and now I’m going to have you shot against a post. You fucking gypsy scum.” One of the men that stood behind him looked towards Lydia like he had just noticed she was there. She quickly looked down at the counter. Tommy noticed the man’s line of sight and flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette rather aggressively.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked pointing at the man. “On the house.” Lydia held her breath as the man approached the bar.

“What’s a Wilson doing without protection?” The man’s accent was American.

“I’m not without,” she said nonchalantly as she poured the man a whisky.

“I meant your daddy’s.”

“Step father,” she reminded with a tight smile.

“Him and your mother were in the London papers just last week. Shame a beautiful gal like you didn’t make the photo session. Would’ve been front page.”

“You’re at war with the Lee’s, right Mr. Kimber?” Lydia leaned closer to the man to whisper as the business conversation took the exact turn Tommy had been hoping it would all along.

“How do you know me if my picture wasn’t in the paper?”

“Saw you at a rally in Ohio last summer.” She didn’t feel threatened by this man. There was nothing he could do to her without immediate repercussions from the Blinders and harsher ones when word reached back across the pond.

“Then, on my behalf of my step father, thank you for your vote.”

“It would be an honor to work with you, Mr. Kimber. How about a drink to seal the deal?” Lydia flashed the man a tight smile before taking the tray of drinks over to the table where business was being conducted, placing it down and then standing behind Tommy.

“Nobody works with me. They work for me.” Kimber flicked a bill onto the floor. “Pick it up, pikey.” Tightly gripping the back of his chair, she watched Tommy put his hand up towards John.

“Sit. Sit down.” Lydia knew the anger he must be feeling towards the way his brother was being treated. She was feeling it too. “Thank you, Mr. Kimber. We will be at Cheltenham.”

“As will I.” He turned his attention to Lydia who was doing her best to remain stock still behind the table. “If I knew a woman like you would be at this pub, I would’ve come sooner.” Tommy took a step to the left to shield at least a part of her from Kimber’s vision, Arthur lightly gripping the pistol at his hip in preparation.

“Do you have a favorite color, Mr. Kimber?” Lydia softened her voice and looked at him with the best doe eyes she could muster.

“Red.”

“Then it will be easy for you to spot us at the races for I will be in a red dress.” He smiled the way men who see a woman alone in an alley might, tipping his hat and exiting the pub with his entourage.

“What on earth was that?” Tommy asked as he whirled around to face her.

“You got into a fight with the Lee’s on purpose. You invited me to the races on purpose. I’m just playing my part in this stupid little cock fight of a game.” Lydia grabbed the empty glasses, Arthur working his way through each of them, and moved back behind the bar.

“Tommy we can’t mess with Billy fucking Kimber,” Arthur groaned.

“Get yourself a nice haircut. We’re going to the races.”

----

Tommy was never one to drink as early as his older brother but after the miscommunication between him and Lydia the day before, she had refused to spend the night with him on Watery Lane. She had even asked if one of his men could walk her to her flat instead of him. It had ripped at his very core. All Tommy could promise her was that he would do his best to keep her safe while they were together. He couldn’t promise her a future or eternal happiness but he could at least promise her protection. Not only had her missing from his bed caused his nightmares to come back, but the unknown of her safety made them even worse. He no longer was plagued with the image of her in France but the image of her now. Of all the harm that could come to her now that she was back in his life. Tommy Shelby was not used to feeling helpless. He was used to always being a multitude of steps ahead from his opponent. But Lydia wasn’t his opponent. She wasn’t some gang member he could out maneuver into submission. She was stronger than him in terms of intellect. Had similar experiences of seeing carnage and waste in the war. Had spent the years since alone and wishing things could be different. He didn’t know how to engage with that. Just as he was learning to love again, he was learning with the most formidable partner he could think of.

“Did you sleep well last night?” He placed his cap down onto the bar and watched as she kept herself busy.

“Not really.” She placed a glass in front of him. “Irish or Scotch?”

“Irish,” he replied. She grabbed the appropriate bottle and filled his glass. “That’s not why I asked you to the races.” He figured they would have to clear the air about Kimber and his plans eventually and Tommy would rather do it now. Perhaps she would be back on Watery Lane tonight if he moved fast enough to explain and apologize.

“I know that, Tommy. In the moment, the way he was looking at me and the way he was treating you...I was just so angry.”

“I was handling it.” He was upset that she had been feeling that way. That he had put her in that situation. He should’ve sent her home with the rest of the patrons. But he had been selfish, always wanting her nearby. “What did that man who came over here to speak with you want?” He had been dying to ask her.

“He’s from America. Knows my family. Was just asking about them.” She shrugged her shoulders but noticed Tommy’s eyes grow cold. He knew nothing about her family. It bothered him that a member of his enemy’s group would know more about Lydia than he did. That she didn’t trust him with the specifics of their conversation.

“When do I get to know your family?” Tommy emptied his whiskey down his throat and took a cigarette from his inside pocket.

“You want to?” Lydia thought that seemed like such an official thing. Back in France she was going to marry him without even telling her mother. But now she was thinking more sensibly. Had a clearer view of the world.

“My brothers are already referring to you as a Shelby. Only makes sense I return the favor and get to know yours.” Lydia felt her heart blossom in her chest. It sounded so intimate and permanent. Getting to know her family.

“Well, maybe when everything is done with Billy Kimber and Campbell, we can take a trip to America.” Tommy smiled when he saw how happy the idea had made her. He thinks life would feel pretty good if he was able to make her smile like that everyday. “My mother is going to fall in love with you. Probably squeeze your cheeks and make you eat every hour of the day and then her dog, oh gosh Dolly, she jumps a bit at first but then mellows out and-” She blushed as she realized she was rambling.

“I love you, Lydia Wilson,” Tommy whispered sincerely. It felt like he could fly now that the words were off his chest. She watched her tuck her lip between her teeth in an attempt to hide the excitement the words elicited within her.

“Come around the bar and tell me properly then.” Tommy strode around it quickly and pulled her against his chest as soon as she was within reach, her squeal of delight making him grin against her lips so wide it was hard to properly kiss her. “I love you, Thomas Shelby.” He cupped her face between both of his hands and held her lips to his until he needed to take a breath. Tommy knew that he had a meeting with IRA in only a few minutes. That Campbell was still looking for the guns. That he still thought Lydia was on his side. Things were complicated and messy and they were walking on eggshells. But he knows she makes him stronger. Gives him something real to fight for. And Tommy was going to fight to the death.

@aveiangdon @odetostep @girl-w-a-quill @itsilvermorny

#tommy shelby #thomas shelby #cillian murphy #peaky blinders #tommy shelby fanfiction #thomas shelby fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfiction

38 notes · View notes

moral-turpitudes · 4 years

Note

Hi! Can I request a Thomas Shelby x reader one-shot with angst prompt list #14? :) Maybe they wouldn’t be a couple but they would be co-workers and would be doing some dangerous business together. The rest is yours! Of course, if you don’t like the idea or it doesn’t match your style, then leave it, no worries! Thanks!

Of course! xx

This gif is killing me slowly. ANYWAYS...

Trigger Warnings: Fighting, Swearing, Bombs/Explosions.

Characters: Thomas Shelby x Reader

Word Count: 1,869

Summary: Tommy, y/n, and the rest of the blinders get into some trouble with a mission, thanks to one of Tommy’s old “acquaintances.”

Requested by: @msbzowy

It was 1 in the morning and you and Tommy were riding on horseback to a remote location. He had discussed the situation briefly with you and the boys before giving them orders and pulling you along with him. As you neared the mysterious location, you felt the hair on the back of your neck stand up as the cold wind picked up. It was getting hard to see over the light snow flurries falling from the navy colored sky and you were growing weary as the night dragged on.

After a grueling cold trip, you neared what looked to be an abandoned warehouse surrounded by a couple of other decaying buildings. You couldn’t believe it at first, but they were in worse shape than some of the buildings back in Small Heath. You saw Tommy stop a good distance away from the building and hitched the horse to a nearby post. You followed suit, jumping down from the horse and quickly tying a knot.

“The rest of them will be here soon. I’m going to have a look inside and you’re going to follow and keep an eye out.” He said looking at you with a cold expression on his face, his words coming out low and quiet. You nodded and followed closely behind him, your hand ready to reach for your gun at any moment.

The mission at hand was simple. Retrieve the boxes of ammunition from his acquaintance Stewart Rollins, tie them to the horses, and pack some in the cars, then transport them to the boating dock to be sent to America. From there it was out of you and the rest of the Peaky Blinders’ hands and you all were expecting a big payout for doing so. It wasn’t easy hauling around thousands of rounds of ammo in the dead of night. For all you knew it could be going to a mafia from the states.

After picking the lock to get inside the mine-shafts entrance, you saw an old manual crank lift that led down into the mine. It was pitch black and you swallowed hard as you took a shaky step into the rusted box. Tommy grabbed you by the waist to steady you as you had stumbled a bit and then let go slowly. He cranked the wheel and it came to life with a creaky groaning sound that hurt your ears. Once you all got down, you got out and helped him crank the elevator back up so that the boys would be able to get in as well. Tommy took his lighter out of his pocket and lit a small lamp he had in a satchel he’d brought with him. Your eyes slowly adjusted as the light flickered from it, revealing 10 boxes of ammo near Tommy’s feet.

“Hold this lamp while I inspect them.” He said, and you took the lamp with shaking hands. You hated cramped places like this but you never told anyone.

While he opened the boxes, you heard a motor nearing the mine.You heard what seemed to be the boys jump out and heading for the elevator. As the gears creaked and screeched you watched warily, as you only heard a dry cough and a chuckle. Usually they would be talking up a storm despite the quiet atmosphere. You had a bad feeling in your gut and pulled out your gun, aiming for the elevator. Tommy saw you and quickly got in front of you, pulling his gun out as well. When the door opened you saw two guys, none of them fit the description of Mr. Rollins.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” One of them said, in a thick Scottish accent.

“Why not?” Tommy asked clicking the safety off and aiming for the man. You aimed at the other person just in case.

“You’re in a mine, it’s a sensitive place. Explosions.” He said smirking.

As your eyes adjusted, you quickly looked down and noticed a thin red and green wire snaking around a rock and sitting right near Tommy’s foot. Your stomach sank to the ground and you tried to think of a quick solution. You didn’t trust those men one bit, as they must’ve been sent here by Mr.Rollins as he was probably too cowardly to do the dirty work himself.

“Oh my god, look who came for you bastards!” You said pointing up towards the entrance to the mine. They both looked up and you quickly shot them both, hitting one in the heart and one in the chest. Tommy looked at you wildly, not knowing what just happened.

“Why the fuck did you just do that for eh?” He said slowly stepping forward.

“Tommy! Don’t step any closer, look at your feet. Look where that wire is.” You said loudly, your voice shaking. He looked down and his eyes grew wide.

“Fuck. God damn it.” He said, staying put as best he could. He looked around you and saw no signs of any wiring, and motioned to a big chunk of a rock near you.

“Alright, y/n I know you’re scared, but I’m going to need you to move that fucking rock over here. Walk gently towards it and push it over.” He said. You stepped carefully trying to distribute your weight evenly along the gravel. You got to the rock and pushed as hard as you could, scooting it over to him. You watched as he slid the rock near his foot and over where he was standing on the wire. Your hands shook as you heard the boys pull up finally.

“Are you lot fucking down there? It’s almost 2 in the morning come on already!” Arthur yelled down the shaft.

“Shut the fuck up Arthur! We need your help!” You yelled up at him. He cranked the lift up and gasped at the bodies of the two men.

“Who the fuck were they?” He asked.

“They were probably here in place of Mr. Rollins. There’s a bomb down here Arthur and I’m not in the mood to argue with you. Get the bodies out of there and come down and help us.” You said as Tommy carefully moved the boxes near you.

“Oh shit.” Arthur said and ran to John, Michael, and Finn.

They all ran over and looked down at the two of you, fear in their eyes no matter how well they tried to hide it.

“I’m sending you up with the ammo y/n. I saw a small watch near it, ticking down. We have 5 minutes. Go.” He said, but you shook your head.

“I know it’s not the time, but I’m lighter than you and I can move around here more freely. You go up. Now.” You said shoving his arm slightly. He stepped back and lifted the last of the cans onto the lift. Before you could say anything more he hit his head on a piece of rock hanging overhead when he stood up, causing him to loose balance slightly and almost tripping on the wire.

You didn’t think at that moment, you just acted. The boys watched as you shoved Tommy with all your might away from the rock and wires and towards the lift, as you lightly stepped on the wire that was coming undone from under the rock. You held it in place so it wouldn’t move anymore, closing your eyes and bracing for the impact.

“Pull him up! Go!” You yelled, tears welling up in your eyes as you heard them quickly pulling him up the lift along with the ammo. You glanced at the watch, it said 4 minutes.

“Y/n! Y/n! no!” Tommy yelled as he was hoisted up by his brothers. Finn and Michael grabbed the ammo cans and ran them to the car as Arthur threw Tommy on the ground and John held him back. Tommy wrestled with him as he tried to make it back to mine shaft but John wasn’t letting him. He pulled him away as Finn and Michael pulled the car back towards the horses in the distance.

“Arthur! Hurry I don’t have much time down here!” You said sobbing. You watched as the small glass clock ticked down. 2 minutes.

Arthur cranked the lift as quick as he could. His arms feeling like they were going to fall off any second.

1 minute.

You clutched the wires and closed your eyes as you heard the lift slam down. Through blurry vision you hurled yourself into the lift and you felt yourself ascending as Arthur pulled you up. You counted down in your head as you neared the opening of the shaft. 20, 19, 18, 17, 16.....

You continued counting down until you felt Arthur hoist you up into his arms carrying you off towards the car and the rest of the guys.

4, 3, 2, 1. You felt Arthur throw you on the ground and lay over you. The blast ringing in your ears as debris fell in small pieces around you.

Arthur took his hands off his head and looked down at you, his eyes filling with tears at the noise and the rush of emotions overcoming him.

“Thank you Arthur!” You yelled as he nodded and got up off of you. He helped you up and you gave him a hug.

When you could hear a bit better and had your bearings, you looked behind you in the distance and saw Tommy and the others getting up from the ground. You ran as quickly as you could towards them, tears flowing down your cheeks.

You immediately ran into Tommy’s arms and he enveloped you in a strong embrace. When you let go he looked down at you and smiled.

“You have a death wish, y/n I’m just letting you know that.” He said wiping the tears from your dirt-coated face.

“I know, I know. I-I just couldn’t let you die Tommy.” You said moving away from him a bit. You looked at his head and gently brought your hand to his temple. He flinched a bit and looked down at you.

“You hit your head pretty hard down there. Are you okay?” You asked.

“I’ve been through worse, it’s only a scratch.” He said lighting a cigarette.

“What about you aye? Jumping on a bomb for me? I should be asking if you’re okay.” He said looking out at the remnants of the mine, the flames and smoke lighting up the snowy sky.

“I’m...fine I guess. But...” You said looking down and smirking.

“But what?” He asked.

“You owe me one.” You said smirking and looking up at him.

He chuckled lightly and put the cigarette up to his lips again. The blood slowly dripping down his face.

“That’s fair. What would you like?” He asked.

“I don’t know, maybe a raise...” You said. raising an eyebrow.

“I’ll see what I can do.” He said studying your face.

“...and maybe a date?” You added, feeling your heart fly out of your chest as you realized what you’d just asked. You mentally slapped yourself in the face for it.

“Now that...that I can definitely do.” He said, a small smile playing at his lips.

#msbzowy #asks #peaky blinders #peaky blinders oneshots #peaky blinders imagines #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x y/n #tommy shelby x reader #this was one of my faves to write im cryin in the club rn #peakypromptslist

147 notes · View notes