My Hollywood Darling- Tommy visits Ruby at her first ever movie premiere.
All Too Well- Tommy’s daughter experiences her first heartbreak, in the person she least expected, Alfie Solomon's.
The Night Before PT 2- It’s the day of Tommy’s daughters wedding and its an adjustment for everyone.
The Western- After months of not speaking, Tommy’s daughter needs her father when she unknowingly falls into danger.
Under The Waves- When Tommy’s wife dies saving their child, their daughter is haunted by being the one who lived.
The Green Green Grass Of Home- John, after surviving the attack from the mafia moves to the country with Esme and the children, leaving the Peaky Blinders behind.
The Littlest Of Things- When Tommy’s daughter returns from New York, she goes through changes of her own.
The Bitterest Pill- Although now with Grace, Tommy can’t stop thinking about someone else.
Always Mine- After a one night stand, Tommy longs to have a relationship with the child he lost.
February 12th- The Shelby siblings grieve the death of their sister a year later.
The night we met- part 2 of February 12th
Mother of mine- A flashback to the Shelby’s mother, from her wedding to her death and time with her children.
The night before- It’s the night before Tommy’s daughters wedding and everyone is anxious.
Heart-Broken- The Shelby’s sister experiences her first heartbreak
Retributions- On Lizzie’s birthday, the night ends in tragedy for the youngest Shelby sister.
War- The youngest Shelby sister is enlisted to war.
Home Again- After going missing as a small child, the youngest Shelby comes home.
Little Things- Tommy’s daughter is moving away, and he looks back at his life with her.
Secrets (Part 1)- Ruby and Charlie Shelby have learnt to keep their secrets from everyone- especially their father.
After everything he’s done and everything he’s seen, it’s his teenage daughters love bite that brings Tommy to his knees. No warnings, just daddy Tommy, being daddy Tommy.
The grandfather clock in the hallway struck eleven sharp. Tommy was already by the door. Had been for ten minutes, hands in his pockets, pacing slow and tight, cigarette burned down to the filter, another one already waiting behind his ear. This was his life now, waiting for fucking seventeen year olds to come home from parties.
The sound of heels on stone caught his ear first. Then the front door opened, and in she came.
Beaming. Flushed. Glitter dusted in her curls, cheeks pink from cold air and excitement, lips smudged but still red. She looked radiant—like youth wrapped in rebellion, like a fire that had decided to dance instead of burn the place down.
She paused when she saw him, still grinning.
“Told you I’d be back by eleven.”
He said nothing at first. Just stared.
She took a few steps in, dropping her coat onto the banister carelessly, clutch still in hand.
That’s when he caught the faintest scent—under the perfume, the hairspray, the vanilla lip gloss.
Vodka. His jaw clenched.
She clocked it instantly. “I didn’t drink drink,” she said, quick. “Beth had a bottle. We all had a sip. It was disgusting.”
Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “How much?”
“Half a glass. Maybe.” She flashed a winning smile. “I’m not pissed. Look—I can do a straight line.” She walked along the hallway tiles like a tightrope, arms out.
Tommy ran a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You smell like a nightclub.”
“I smell like fun,” she shot back, turning on her heel with a laugh. “The nice kind.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You said eleven. You didn’t say sparkly and half-cut.”
“I’m not half-cut.”
He eyed her closely. Her pupils were clear. She was walking straight. A little high on attention, maybe. A little drunk on being seventeen and beautiful and seen.
But she wasn’t drunk. Not the way he’d feared.
She stood in front of him now, chin up, defiant but soft around the edges. “I was careful,” she said. “I heard you, earlier, your rules, I get it. I do.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then nodded, slowly.
“You had glitter in your hair when you were five,” he murmured. “Except it was Ada’s eyeshadow and you cried because it wouldn’t come out.”
She smiled faintly. “Told you I’ve always been dramatic.”
“You hungry?” he asked, already heading toward the kitchen. “Grace made cake. You missed dinner, so you don’t get to be fussy.”
She blinked. “That’s it? I don’t get grounded?”
“You’re not off the hook,” he said without turning. “But if I shout at you now, you’ll only remember the shouting. Not the fact you did what you said you would and came home on time”
Later that night, the house had gone quiet.
The kind of quiet Tommy liked. No ticking clocks, no talk of business, no doors opening and closing. Just the faint hum of the fire and the warmth of the whisky in his hand. He sat on the sofa, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to the forearm, collar undone. A paper in his lap, though he wasn’t reading it.
He heard her before he saw her—bare feet on the floorboards, soft like she didn’t want to wake anything, including the moment.
She stood in the doorway of the sitting room, her hair now tied loosely back, glitter still clinging to the ends like it didn’t want to let go. Her makeup was smudged, the dress long since swapped for one of Grace’s dressing gowns she always nicked when she thought no one was watching.
She looked younger like this. Still seventeen, but just his little girl again.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked, not looking up.
She shook her head and walked over without a word.
And then, without warning—without cheek, without a single smart remark—she curled up beside him on the sofa, legs tucked underneath her, head on his chest.
Tommy froze for half a second. Then his arm came around her instinctively, hand smoothing over her hair.
It was rare.
She hadn’t done this in over a year. Maybe two. Too grown-up now, too independent. Always arguing, always stretching her freedom further like she was testing how much slack he’d give before the rope burned.
But tonight—after the party, after the tension, after the glitter and vodka and defiance—she folded right into him like she used to.
He became soft for her instantly.
Always did.
His hand stayed in her hair, gentle, stroking slow. The paper slid to the floor. “You alright?” he asked quietly.
She nodded against him. “Mhm.”
“Too much fun?”
“Maybe a little.”
“You scared the life out of me tonight,” he murmured.
“I know.”
Another silence. Not awkward. Just full of things they didn’t need to say. “Sorry I’m hard work,” she whispered eventually.
Tommy looked down at her, eyes tired but soft.
“You’re not hard work,” he said. “You’re just mine.”
Tommy hadn’t moved in over an hour.
She was fast asleep against his side, curled into the crook of his arm like she used to do when she was small. One leg tucked under, face peaceful, breath warm against his chest. She looked younger like this—soft, defences down, no makeup, no sharp replies.
He glanced down at her, his hand still resting lightly on her back. He was just about to move—to pick her up, maybe carry her upstairs—when he noticed it.
A mark.
Just under the jawline, peeking out beneath the collar of the nightdress she wore. Faint. Small. But unmistakable.
His stomach dropped.
It wasn’t from bumping into furniture, and it wasn’t from a fall. It was the kind of mark left by someone too close. Too bold.
A kiss. A love bite.
His whole body went still.
For a moment, he just stared at it. At her. At this tiny bruise that meant so much more than it should have. His mind raced, flicking through names and faces—boys she mentioned once, ones she hadn’t. All of them now on borrowed time.
He looked at her again—peaceful, unaware—and something twisted sharp in his chest. Not anger, not fully. It was grief.
Grief for the little girl with plaits and scabby knees who used to fall asleep on him without the weight of the world on her shoulders. Grief for the version of fatherhood where he could keep her small, safe, untouched. But that version was long gone.
Still, the fury simmered beneath it. Quiet. Cold. Dangerous.
The mark was small. Barely there. Faint enough it could’ve been missed by anyone else. But not him. Not Tommy Shelby.
Because he knew exactly what it was.
And worse, what it meant.
Some boy—some smug, greasy little fucker—had put his mouth on her. Close enough to her neck to leave proof. Close enough that she hadn’t stopped him. Had let it happen.
Tommy’s breath came in slow, controlled drags through his nose, but his hands were clenched. The cigarette in his fingers burned low and long, ash crumbling onto the carpet. He didn’t notice.
Didn’t care.
The longer he sat there, the louder it got in his head.
Who was it? When? Where the fuck was she? What else happened? Did he touch her? Did he push it further? Did she say no? Did she even—
He swallowed hard.
The heat behind his eyes wasn’t just rage—it was fear. Fear that he was losing control. That the world was creeping in and touching what was his. That he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop them. That she was seventeen and smart and beautiful and a thorn in his side and heart at the same time.
He lit another cigarette before the first even finished, hand trembling slightly now.
His mind conjured images he couldn’t unsee—her at that party, laughing, glitter in her hair, eyes bright. A boy’s hand on her waist. His breath on her neck. That mark—that fucking mark—pressed into her skin like a stamp. Like a warning.
Tommy stood for a moment, then sat back down, gripping the arms of the chair now like he was bracing for a bomb blast.
He’d fought in France. Watched men die, slit throats without blinking, walked into rooms knowing he’d likely never walk out.
But this?
This was something worse.
Because there was no gun to point. No battlefield to walk across. Just a house too big and a daughter growing up too fast, slipping through his fingers while he tried to hold the world back with bloody hands.
She stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent, head still against him. And Tommy looked at her—really looked at her. His girl. His little girl. His fucking heart walking around outside his chest.
And there it was again.
The mark.
Tommy stood suddenly, pacing now.
He couldn’t fucking do this. He wasn’t made for this kind of war.
He crouched beside the sofa, resting one hand gently on her head, brushing her hair back behind her ear.
“Who was he, eh?” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Tell me who.”
She didn’t stir.
He kissed her forehead, so soft it was barely there. His hand lingered for a second and he stood.
By the time he reached his office, he was already lighting another cigarette, jaw locked, breath short. He threw his coat over the back of the chair, yanked the telephone from its cradle with one hand, and stabbed the dial with the other.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Click.
“Shelby residence,” came the sleepy voice.
“Pol,” Tommy snapped. “It’s me.”
A pause. Then her voice sharpened instantly. “What’s happened?”
“She’s got a mark on her neck.”
Silence.
Polly didn’t ask who. She knew exactly who she was.
“Describe it.”
“Faint,” Tommy muttered. “Just below her jaw. Light, but it’s there. I know what it fucking is, Pol. I know.”
Another beat of quiet. Then:
“She came back on time, didn’t she?”
“Eleven sharp.”
“Was she drunk?”
“Bit of vodka. Not much. Clear-eyed, walking straight. Said it was Beth’s bottle.” He ran a hand through his hair, shaking. “But that mark… Jesus, Pol. Someone’s been close. Someone touched her.”
Polly inhaled slow through her nose. “And now you’re losing your fucking mind.”
“I should be,” he barked. “She’s seventeen! And she let some lad close enough to do that—to put his fucking mouth on her”
“You’re not supposed to stop everything, Tom. That’s not how growing up works.”
“I don’t give a fuck how it works!” he snapped, pacing harder. “She’s mine. I can’t—” He stopped, jaw clenched, eyes glassy with fury. “I can’t lose her.”
“You’re not losing her,” Polly said firmly. “You’re just not the only one she belongs to anymore.”
Tommy closed his eyes. That stung more than anything.
He sat down hard in his chair, elbows on the desk, forehead in his hand.
“She’s still a kid, Pol. I look at her and I see curls and scraped knees and wanting to be picked up when she was tired. Now it’s lipstick and glitter and boys who think they’re fucking clever.”
Polly’s voice softened. “She’s still your little girl, love. She always will be. But if you make her feel like she’s done something wrong just for being touched—”
Tommy cut her off. “Don’t. Don’t ask me to be alright with it.”
“I’m not. I’m asking you to be careful,” she said. “Because if you go at her tomorrow like a bomb about to go off, she’ll never tell you the truth again”
He stared at the desk. Smoke rising, heart thundering. Clocking ticking nearly 4am.
“I need a name” he said quietly. “I need to know who”
“And if you get it?” Polly asks sitting up in her own bed and holding the phone to her ear
“I deal with it”
Polly didn’t argue, she knew what deal with it meant.
After a moment she sighs, lighting a cigarette. “Don’t wake her tonight. Let her sleep. Then you do the same, and tomorrow you ask her. Like a father who wants to understand, not one ready for war”
Tommy leaned back, rage simmering behind his tired eyes.
“Too late for that, Pol”
And with that he hung up. And he didn’t sleep. He sat in his office smoking cigarette after cigarette, waiting for the sun to rise.
And for his daughter to wake up and tell him exactly who the fuck left that mark
Arthur can’t have been born in 1895, that would make him 24 at the start of the series. 20, when he went to war. Making John, what like 16 with 4 kids?
It would’ve made Tommy 26 when Grace died. 28 when he had Ruby and married Lizzie.
After everything he’s done and everything he’s seen, it’s his teenage daughters love bite that brings Tommy to his knees. No warnings, just daddy Tommy, being daddy Tommy.
The grandfather clock in the hallway struck eleven sharp. Tommy was already by the door. Had been for ten minutes, hands in his pockets, pacing slow and tight, cigarette burned down to the filter, another one already waiting behind his ear. This was his life now, waiting for fucking seventeen year olds to come home from parties.
The sound of heels on stone caught his ear first. Then the front door opened, and in she came.
Beaming. Flushed. Glitter dusted in her curls, cheeks pink from cold air and excitement, lips smudged but still red. She looked radiant—like youth wrapped in rebellion, like a fire that had decided to dance instead of burn the place down.
She paused when she saw him, still grinning.
“Told you I’d be back by eleven.”
He said nothing at first. Just stared.
She took a few steps in, dropping her coat onto the banister carelessly, clutch still in hand.
That’s when he caught the faintest scent—under the perfume, the hairspray, the vanilla lip gloss.
Vodka. His jaw clenched.
She clocked it instantly. “I didn’t drink drink,” she said, quick. “Beth had a bottle. We all had a sip. It was disgusting.”
Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “How much?”
“Half a glass. Maybe.” She flashed a winning smile. “I’m not pissed. Look—I can do a straight line.” She walked along the hallway tiles like a tightrope, arms out.
Tommy ran a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You smell like a nightclub.”
“I smell like fun,” she shot back, turning on her heel with a laugh. “The nice kind.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You said eleven. You didn’t say sparkly and half-cut.”
“I’m not half-cut.”
He eyed her closely. Her pupils were clear. She was walking straight. A little high on attention, maybe. A little drunk on being seventeen and beautiful and seen.
But she wasn’t drunk. Not the way he’d feared.
She stood in front of him now, chin up, defiant but soft around the edges. “I was careful,” she said. “I heard you, earlier, your rules, I get it. I do.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then nodded, slowly.
“You had glitter in your hair when you were five,” he murmured. “Except it was Ada’s eyeshadow and you cried because it wouldn’t come out.”
She smiled faintly. “Told you I’ve always been dramatic.”
“You hungry?” he asked, already heading toward the kitchen. “Grace made cake. You missed dinner, so you don’t get to be fussy.”
She blinked. “That’s it? I don’t get grounded?”
“You’re not off the hook,” he said without turning. “But if I shout at you now, you’ll only remember the shouting. Not the fact you did what you said you would and came home on time”
Later that night, the house had gone quiet.
The kind of quiet Tommy liked. No ticking clocks, no talk of business, no doors opening and closing. Just the faint hum of the fire and the warmth of the whisky in his hand. He sat on the sofa, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to the forearm, collar undone. A paper in his lap, though he wasn’t reading it.
He heard her before he saw her—bare feet on the floorboards, soft like she didn’t want to wake anything, including the moment.
She stood in the doorway of the sitting room, her hair now tied loosely back, glitter still clinging to the ends like it didn’t want to let go. Her makeup was smudged, the dress long since swapped for one of Grace’s dressing gowns she always nicked when she thought no one was watching.
She looked younger like this. Still seventeen, but just his little girl again.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked, not looking up.
She shook her head and walked over without a word.
And then, without warning—without cheek, without a single smart remark—she curled up beside him on the sofa, legs tucked underneath her, head on his chest.
Tommy froze for half a second. Then his arm came around her instinctively, hand smoothing over her hair.
It was rare.
She hadn’t done this in over a year. Maybe two. Too grown-up now, too independent. Always arguing, always stretching her freedom further like she was testing how much slack he’d give before the rope burned.
But tonight—after the party, after the tension, after the glitter and vodka and defiance—she folded right into him like she used to.
He became soft for her instantly.
Always did.
His hand stayed in her hair, gentle, stroking slow. The paper slid to the floor. “You alright?” he asked quietly.
She nodded against him. “Mhm.”
“Too much fun?”
“Maybe a little.”
“You scared the life out of me tonight,” he murmured.
“I know.”
Another silence. Not awkward. Just full of things they didn’t need to say. “Sorry I’m hard work,” she whispered eventually.
Tommy looked down at her, eyes tired but soft.
“You’re not hard work,” he said. “You’re just mine.”
Tommy hadn’t moved in over an hour.
She was fast asleep against his side, curled into the crook of his arm like she used to do when she was small. One leg tucked under, face peaceful, breath warm against his chest. She looked younger like this—soft, defences down, no makeup, no sharp replies.
He glanced down at her, his hand still resting lightly on her back. He was just about to move—to pick her up, maybe carry her upstairs—when he noticed it.
A mark.
Just under the jawline, peeking out beneath the collar of the nightdress she wore. Faint. Small. But unmistakable.
His stomach dropped.
It wasn’t from bumping into furniture, and it wasn’t from a fall. It was the kind of mark left by someone too close. Too bold.
A kiss. A love bite.
His whole body went still.
For a moment, he just stared at it. At her. At this tiny bruise that meant so much more than it should have. His mind raced, flicking through names and faces—boys she mentioned once, ones she hadn’t. All of them now on borrowed time.
He looked at her again—peaceful, unaware—and something twisted sharp in his chest. Not anger, not fully. It was grief.
Grief for the little girl with plaits and scabby knees who used to fall asleep on him without the weight of the world on her shoulders. Grief for the version of fatherhood where he could keep her small, safe, untouched. But that version was long gone.
Still, the fury simmered beneath it. Quiet. Cold. Dangerous.
The mark was small. Barely there. Faint enough it could’ve been missed by anyone else. But not him. Not Tommy Shelby.
Because he knew exactly what it was.
And worse, what it meant.
Some boy—some smug, greasy little fucker—had put his mouth on her. Close enough to her neck to leave proof. Close enough that she hadn’t stopped him. Had let it happen.
Tommy’s breath came in slow, controlled drags through his nose, but his hands were clenched. The cigarette in his fingers burned low and long, ash crumbling onto the carpet. He didn’t notice.
Didn’t care.
The longer he sat there, the louder it got in his head.
Who was it? When? Where the fuck was she? What else happened? Did he touch her? Did he push it further? Did she say no? Did she even—
He swallowed hard.
The heat behind his eyes wasn’t just rage—it was fear. Fear that he was losing control. That the world was creeping in and touching what was his. That he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop them. That she was seventeen and smart and beautiful and a thorn in his side and heart at the same time.
He lit another cigarette before the first even finished, hand trembling slightly now.
His mind conjured images he couldn’t unsee—her at that party, laughing, glitter in her hair, eyes bright. A boy’s hand on her waist. His breath on her neck. That mark—that fucking mark—pressed into her skin like a stamp. Like a warning.
Tommy stood for a moment, then sat back down, gripping the arms of the chair now like he was bracing for a bomb blast.
He’d fought in France. Watched men die, slit throats without blinking, walked into rooms knowing he’d likely never walk out.
But this?
This was something worse.
Because there was no gun to point. No battlefield to walk across. Just a house too big and a daughter growing up too fast, slipping through his fingers while he tried to hold the world back with bloody hands.
She stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent, head still against him. And Tommy looked at her—really looked at her. His girl. His little girl. His fucking heart walking around outside his chest.
And there it was again.
The mark.
Tommy stood suddenly, pacing now.
He couldn’t fucking do this. He wasn’t made for this kind of war.
He crouched beside the sofa, resting one hand gently on her head, brushing her hair back behind her ear.
“Who was he, eh?” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Tell me who.”
She didn’t stir.
He kissed her forehead, so soft it was barely there. His hand lingered for a second and he stood.
By the time he reached his office, he was already lighting another cigarette, jaw locked, breath short. He threw his coat over the back of the chair, yanked the telephone from its cradle with one hand, and stabbed the dial with the other.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Click.
“Shelby residence,” came the sleepy voice.
“Pol,” Tommy snapped. “It’s me.”
A pause. Then her voice sharpened instantly. “What’s happened?”
“She’s got a mark on her neck.”
Silence.
Polly didn’t ask who. She knew exactly who she was.
“Describe it.”
“Faint,” Tommy muttered. “Just below her jaw. Light, but it’s there. I know what it fucking is, Pol. I know.”
Another beat of quiet. Then:
“She came back on time, didn’t she?”
“Eleven sharp.”
“Was she drunk?”
“Bit of vodka. Not much. Clear-eyed, walking straight. Said it was Beth’s bottle.” He ran a hand through his hair, shaking. “But that mark… Jesus, Pol. Someone’s been close. Someone touched her.”
Polly inhaled slow through her nose. “And now you’re losing your fucking mind.”
“I should be,” he barked. “She’s seventeen! And she let some lad close enough to do that—to put his fucking mouth on her”
“You’re not supposed to stop everything, Tom. That’s not how growing up works.”
“I don’t give a fuck how it works!” he snapped, pacing harder. “She’s mine. I can’t—” He stopped, jaw clenched, eyes glassy with fury. “I can’t lose her.”
“You’re not losing her,” Polly said firmly. “You’re just not the only one she belongs to anymore.”
Tommy closed his eyes. That stung more than anything.
He sat down hard in his chair, elbows on the desk, forehead in his hand.
“She’s still a kid, Pol. I look at her and I see curls and scraped knees and wanting to be picked up when she was tired. Now it’s lipstick and glitter and boys who think they’re fucking clever.”
Polly’s voice softened. “She’s still your little girl, love. She always will be. But if you make her feel like she’s done something wrong just for being touched—”
Tommy cut her off. “Don’t. Don’t ask me to be alright with it.”
“I’m not. I’m asking you to be careful,” she said. “Because if you go at her tomorrow like a bomb about to go off, she’ll never tell you the truth again”
He stared at the desk. Smoke rising, heart thundering. Clocking ticking nearly 4am.
“I need a name” he said quietly. “I need to know who”
“And if you get it?” Polly asks sitting up in her own bed and holding the phone to her ear
“I deal with it”
Polly didn’t argue, she knew what deal with it meant.
After a moment she sighs, lighting a cigarette. “Don’t wake her tonight. Let her sleep. Then you do the same, and tomorrow you ask her. Like a father who wants to understand, not one ready for war”
Tommy leaned back, rage simmering behind his tired eyes.
“Too late for that, Pol”
And with that he hung up. And he didn’t sleep. He sat in his office smoking cigarette after cigarette, waiting for the sun to rise.
And for his daughter to wake up and tell him exactly who the fuck left that mark
After everything he’s done and everything he’s seen, it’s his teenage daughters love bite that brings Tommy to his knees. No warnings, just daddy Tommy, being daddy Tommy.
The grandfather clock in the hallway struck eleven sharp. Tommy was already by the door. Had been for ten minutes, hands in his pockets, pacing slow and tight, cigarette burned down to the filter, another one already waiting behind his ear. This was his life now, waiting for fucking seventeen year olds to come home from parties.
The sound of heels on stone caught his ear first. Then the front door opened, and in she came.
Beaming. Flushed. Glitter dusted in her curls, cheeks pink from cold air and excitement, lips smudged but still red. She looked radiant—like youth wrapped in rebellion, like a fire that had decided to dance instead of burn the place down.
She paused when she saw him, still grinning.
“Told you I’d be back by eleven.”
He said nothing at first. Just stared.
She took a few steps in, dropping her coat onto the banister carelessly, clutch still in hand.
That’s when he caught the faintest scent—under the perfume, the hairspray, the vanilla lip gloss.
Vodka. His jaw clenched.
She clocked it instantly. “I didn’t drink drink,” she said, quick. “Beth had a bottle. We all had a sip. It was disgusting.”
Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “How much?”
“Half a glass. Maybe.” She flashed a winning smile. “I’m not pissed. Look—I can do a straight line.” She walked along the hallway tiles like a tightrope, arms out.
Tommy ran a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You smell like a nightclub.”
“I smell like fun,” she shot back, turning on her heel with a laugh. “The nice kind.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You said eleven. You didn’t say sparkly and half-cut.”
“I’m not half-cut.”
He eyed her closely. Her pupils were clear. She was walking straight. A little high on attention, maybe. A little drunk on being seventeen and beautiful and seen.
But she wasn’t drunk. Not the way he’d feared.
She stood in front of him now, chin up, defiant but soft around the edges. “I was careful,” she said. “I heard you, earlier, your rules, I get it. I do.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then nodded, slowly.
“You had glitter in your hair when you were five,” he murmured. “Except it was Ada’s eyeshadow and you cried because it wouldn’t come out.”
She smiled faintly. “Told you I’ve always been dramatic.”
“You hungry?” he asked, already heading toward the kitchen. “Grace made cake. You missed dinner, so you don’t get to be fussy.”
She blinked. “That’s it? I don’t get grounded?”
“You’re not off the hook,” he said without turning. “But if I shout at you now, you’ll only remember the shouting. Not the fact you did what you said you would and came home on time”
Later that night, the house had gone quiet.
The kind of quiet Tommy liked. No ticking clocks, no talk of business, no doors opening and closing. Just the faint hum of the fire and the warmth of the whisky in his hand. He sat on the sofa, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to the forearm, collar undone. A paper in his lap, though he wasn’t reading it.
He heard her before he saw her—bare feet on the floorboards, soft like she didn’t want to wake anything, including the moment.
She stood in the doorway of the sitting room, her hair now tied loosely back, glitter still clinging to the ends like it didn’t want to let go. Her makeup was smudged, the dress long since swapped for one of Grace’s dressing gowns she always nicked when she thought no one was watching.
She looked younger like this. Still seventeen, but just his little girl again.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked, not looking up.
She shook her head and walked over without a word.
And then, without warning—without cheek, without a single smart remark—she curled up beside him on the sofa, legs tucked underneath her, head on his chest.
Tommy froze for half a second. Then his arm came around her instinctively, hand smoothing over her hair.
It was rare.
She hadn’t done this in over a year. Maybe two. Too grown-up now, too independent. Always arguing, always stretching her freedom further like she was testing how much slack he’d give before the rope burned.
But tonight—after the party, after the tension, after the glitter and vodka and defiance—she folded right into him like she used to.
He became soft for her instantly.
Always did.
His hand stayed in her hair, gentle, stroking slow. The paper slid to the floor. “You alright?” he asked quietly.
She nodded against him. “Mhm.”
“Too much fun?”
“Maybe a little.”
“You scared the life out of me tonight,” he murmured.
“I know.”
Another silence. Not awkward. Just full of things they didn’t need to say. “Sorry I’m hard work,” she whispered eventually.
Tommy looked down at her, eyes tired but soft.
“You’re not hard work,” he said. “You’re just mine.”
Tommy hadn’t moved in over an hour.
She was fast asleep against his side, curled into the crook of his arm like she used to do when she was small. One leg tucked under, face peaceful, breath warm against his chest. She looked younger like this—soft, defences down, no makeup, no sharp replies.
He glanced down at her, his hand still resting lightly on her back. He was just about to move—to pick her up, maybe carry her upstairs—when he noticed it.
A mark.
Just under the jawline, peeking out beneath the collar of the nightdress she wore. Faint. Small. But unmistakable.
His stomach dropped.
It wasn’t from bumping into furniture, and it wasn’t from a fall. It was the kind of mark left by someone too close. Too bold.
A kiss. A love bite.
His whole body went still.
For a moment, he just stared at it. At her. At this tiny bruise that meant so much more than it should have. His mind raced, flicking through names and faces—boys she mentioned once, ones she hadn’t. All of them now on borrowed time.
He looked at her again—peaceful, unaware—and something twisted sharp in his chest. Not anger, not fully. It was grief.
Grief for the little girl with plaits and scabby knees who used to fall asleep on him without the weight of the world on her shoulders. Grief for the version of fatherhood where he could keep her small, safe, untouched. But that version was long gone.
Still, the fury simmered beneath it. Quiet. Cold. Dangerous.
The mark was small. Barely there. Faint enough it could’ve been missed by anyone else. But not him. Not Tommy Shelby.
Because he knew exactly what it was.
And worse, what it meant.
Some boy—some smug, greasy little fucker—had put his mouth on her. Close enough to her neck to leave proof. Close enough that she hadn’t stopped him. Had let it happen.
Tommy’s breath came in slow, controlled drags through his nose, but his hands were clenched. The cigarette in his fingers burned low and long, ash crumbling onto the carpet. He didn’t notice.
Didn’t care.
The longer he sat there, the louder it got in his head.
Who was it? When? Where the fuck was she? What else happened? Did he touch her? Did he push it further? Did she say no? Did she even—
He swallowed hard.
The heat behind his eyes wasn’t just rage—it was fear. Fear that he was losing control. That the world was creeping in and touching what was his. That he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop them. That she was seventeen and smart and beautiful and a thorn in his side and heart at the same time.
He lit another cigarette before the first even finished, hand trembling slightly now.
His mind conjured images he couldn’t unsee—her at that party, laughing, glitter in her hair, eyes bright. A boy’s hand on her waist. His breath on her neck. That mark—that fucking mark—pressed into her skin like a stamp. Like a warning.
Tommy stood for a moment, then sat back down, gripping the arms of the chair now like he was bracing for a bomb blast.
He’d fought in France. Watched men die, slit throats without blinking, walked into rooms knowing he’d likely never walk out.
But this?
This was something worse.
Because there was no gun to point. No battlefield to walk across. Just a house too big and a daughter growing up too fast, slipping through his fingers while he tried to hold the world back with bloody hands.
She stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent, head still against him. And Tommy looked at her—really looked at her. His girl. His little girl. His fucking heart walking around outside his chest.
And there it was again.
The mark.
Tommy stood suddenly, pacing now.
He couldn’t fucking do this. He wasn’t made for this kind of war.
He crouched beside the sofa, resting one hand gently on her head, brushing her hair back behind her ear.
“Who was he, eh?” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Tell me who.”
She didn’t stir.
He kissed her forehead, so soft it was barely there. His hand lingered for a second and he stood.
By the time he reached his office, he was already lighting another cigarette, jaw locked, breath short. He threw his coat over the back of the chair, yanked the telephone from its cradle with one hand, and stabbed the dial with the other.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Click.
“Shelby residence,” came the sleepy voice.
“Pol,” Tommy snapped. “It’s me.”
A pause. Then her voice sharpened instantly. “What’s happened?”
“She’s got a mark on her neck.”
Silence.
Polly didn’t ask who. She knew exactly who she was.
“Describe it.”
“Faint,” Tommy muttered. “Just below her jaw. Light, but it’s there. I know what it fucking is, Pol. I know.”
Another beat of quiet. Then:
“She came back on time, didn’t she?”
“Eleven sharp.”
“Was she drunk?”
“Bit of vodka. Not much. Clear-eyed, walking straight. Said it was Beth’s bottle.” He ran a hand through his hair, shaking. “But that mark… Jesus, Pol. Someone’s been close. Someone touched her.”
Polly inhaled slow through her nose. “And now you’re losing your fucking mind.”
“I should be,” he barked. “She’s seventeen! And she let some lad close enough to do that—to put his fucking mouth on her”
“You’re not supposed to stop everything, Tom. That’s not how growing up works.”
“I don’t give a fuck how it works!” he snapped, pacing harder. “She’s mine. I can’t—” He stopped, jaw clenched, eyes glassy with fury. “I can’t lose her.”
“You’re not losing her,” Polly said firmly. “You’re just not the only one she belongs to anymore.”
Tommy closed his eyes. That stung more than anything.
He sat down hard in his chair, elbows on the desk, forehead in his hand.
“She’s still a kid, Pol. I look at her and I see curls and scraped knees and wanting to be picked up when she was tired. Now it’s lipstick and glitter and boys who think they’re fucking clever.”
Polly’s voice softened. “She’s still your little girl, love. She always will be. But if you make her feel like she’s done something wrong just for being touched—”
Tommy cut her off. “Don’t. Don’t ask me to be alright with it.”
“I’m not. I’m asking you to be careful,” she said. “Because if you go at her tomorrow like a bomb about to go off, she’ll never tell you the truth again”
He stared at the desk. Smoke rising, heart thundering. Clocking ticking nearly 4am.
“I need a name” he said quietly. “I need to know who”
“And if you get it?” Polly asks sitting up in her own bed and holding the phone to her ear
“I deal with it”
Polly didn’t argue, she knew what deal with it meant.
After a moment she sighs, lighting a cigarette. “Don’t wake her tonight. Let her sleep. Then you do the same, and tomorrow you ask her. Like a father who wants to understand, not one ready for war”
Tommy leaned back, rage simmering behind his tired eyes.
“Too late for that, Pol”
And with that he hung up. And he didn’t sleep. He sat in his office smoking cigarette after cigarette, waiting for the sun to rise.
And for his daughter to wake up and tell him exactly who the fuck left that mark
Little sister Shelby gets her first Valentine’s Day card. No warnings, I wrote this and thought it was cute.
Ada chuckled, closing the front door and walking back into the sitting room, the red envelope pinched between her fingers. She held it up with a smirk.
“Well, Belle, looks like you’ve got yourself a little admirer.”
Belle, who had been curled up in the armchair with a book, looked up, her brow furrowing. “What?”
Ada waved the envelope. “Nicky Parker just dropped this off for you.”
Belle’s eyes widened, and she practically leapt out of her seat. “He did?”
Ada laughed, handing it over. “He scarpered before I could even get a word out. Looked like he might pass out from nerves.”
Belle turned the envelope over in her hands, her cheeks pink with surprise. She had never received a Valentine’s card before. Sure, there had been schoolyard crushes and boys who had tried to make her laugh, but this? This felt different. Special.
Before she could open it, Polly wandered in, eyeing the card with amusement. “What’s all this then?”
“Belle’s got a Valentine,” Ada announced, grinning. Polly’s eyebrows lifted. “From who?”
“Nicky Parker,” Ada replied, sitting back down. “Dropped it off just now. Practically ran away after.”
Polly let out a laugh. “Poor lad. Wonder if he knew what he was getting himself into.” She turned to Belle. “Well, go on then, open it.”
Belle hesitated for a second, then carefully slid her finger under the flap and opened the envelope. Inside was a simple white card with a red heart on the front. She flipped it open, and in neat but slightly wobbly handwriting, it read:
Happy Valentine’s Day. I think you’re really lovely. - Nicky
Belle stared at the words, a shy smile creeping onto her lips. Ada and Polly exchanged a knowing look.
“Oh, that’s sweet,” Polly said, tilting her head. “See? There are still some proper gentlemen left.”
Belle’s face was burning now, but she couldn’t help smiling. “He’s just a friend,” she muttered, tucking the card back into the envelope.
“Mm-hmm,” Ada hummed, clearly unconvinced.
Just then, heavy footsteps sounded in the hall, and the moment of quiet admiration was abruptly shattered.
Arthur, John, and Finn burst into the room, followed closely by Tommy, all of them looking serious and slightly tipsy from the Garrison.
“What’s all this?” Arthur asked, arms crossed as he eyed Ada’s smirked smile and Belle’s red face.
John, ever the troublemaker, snatched the card right out of Belle’s hands before she could stop him. “Oi!” she protested, but he had already opened it.
He read it out loud, voice dripping with dramatic flair:
“Happy Valentine’s Day. I think you’re really lovely. - Nicky.”
“What the fuck?” Arthur barked. John let out a cackle, while Finn burst out laughing beside him. Tommy, however, did not look amused. He slowly turned to Belle, expression unreadable.
“Who the fuck is Nicky Parker?” Arthur demanded.
Belle groaned, snatching the card back. “None of your business.”
“The hell it ain’t,” Arthur shot back. “Some lad’s got the nerve to send my sister a bloody love letter—”
“It’s not a love letter,” Belle interrupted. “It’s a Valentine’s card. Big difference.”
“Oh yeah?” John teased. “Then why’s your face so red?” Belle glared at him. “Because you lot are embarrassing.”
Arthur looked at Tommy. “Well? What are we doing about this?”
Tommy, who had been silent until now, took a slow drag of his cigarette. His blue eyes flickered to the card still clutched in Belle’s hands.
“We’re not doing anything,” Polly answered before Tommy could speak. “It’s a Valentine’s card, not a bloody marriage proposal.”
Arthur huffed. “It starts with a Valentine, Pol. Next thing you know, she’s sneakin’ off, goin’ to the canal with the little bastard—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Ada muttered, rolling her eyes. John was grinning. “I dunno, Arthur. Maybe we should find this Nicky Parker and have a little chat.”
Belle groaned, throwing herself back into the armchair. “I hate all of you.”
Tommy finally spoke. His voice was quiet but firm. “You’re fourteen, Belle”
Belle sat up, crossing her arms. “I know how old I am.” Tommy exhaled through his nose, staring at her like he was deciding how to handle this. “You’re too young for this sort of thing.”
Belle let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s just a card, Tom. I didn’t ask for it, he just gave it to me.”
Tommy looked at Polly and Ada, as if expecting them to back him up, but Polly just smirked and took a sip of her tea.
“I think it’s sweet,” she said. “A boy giving a girl a card on Valentine’s Day? Not exactly a crime.”
Ada nodded. “She’s growing up, Tommy. You can’t stop it.”
Tommy’s jaw tightened. He looked back at Belle. “This Nicky Parker. He ever tried anything with you?”
Belle’s eyes widened. “What? No!”
“Ever touched you?”
“Oh my God” Belle groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “No! He’s nice! He’s not some… creep.”
Tommy studied her for a long moment before exhaling. “Fine.” Arthur looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Fine?”
Tommy ignored him. He pointed at Belle. “But I don’t want to hear about you sneakin’ off with any boys. No meeting them alone, no walking home with them, no—”
“I get it,” Belle interrupted, exasperated.
Arthur grumbled under his breath, shaking his head. John just smirked, clearly enjoying the whole thing.
Polly leaned toward Tommy, lowering her voice. “You can’t fight it forever, you know.”
Belle still blushing furiously, stood up. “I’m going to my room.”
Finn called after her, grinning. “Gonna write Nicky a love letter back?”
She threw a cushion at him. “Piss off, Finn!”
As she stormed upstairs, the men continued muttering about “bloody Nicky Parker,” while Polly and Ada exchanged amused glances.
Just write a modern version of peaky about the day of johns death and not sure whether to post but 2025 peaky would be elite because
1. Tommy would have insiders in the Met police who would give him CCTV and copies of records because he has dirt on a head inspector. Grace would 100% be an insider cop at the Met who falls in love undercover.
2. John would be shot down by two lads on bikes from a rival gang. Probably sent over from Dubai as Tommy has dealings there gone wrong.
3. Arthur would have PTSD from being in Afghanistan in the army. Comes back swearing to change but can’t.
4. Definitely appear as a company to deal with stock investments, real estate and the odd crypto currency, but really they’d be leading a county lines drug operation across the UK and Europe.
5. Ada is definitely a lecturer in sociology but wants to know all the dealings inside.
6. Tommy would be there with an Armani suit, Rolex watch and an office that overlooked London skyline. Maserati outside the office parked on double yellows
7. Lizzie would be someone who started on an internship but then came in later and started to get more involved.
8. Polly would be the running the underworld side of the business wearing a silver dagger round her neck.
9. Their nightclub The Garrison would specialise in house and rave music cos why the fuck not
why does grace not have any coworkers? why is she always working alone at the garrison? everyone knows that as a bartender, you get paid to doss about. why's she always working and not having fun and making jokes behind the bar?
also, why does no woman in this show have any friends?
Because Stephen Knight is a terrible writer and 90% of his women are either just there to have sex with Tommy or used as a plot device to further Tommys ambition.
1. For example, Ruby dying to make Tommy a better man which he won’t become. They killed Polly off for the same reason when she could’ve left for America with Micheal.
2. Every woman apparently wants to sleep with Tommy, even Jessie Eden who supposedly despises him deep down.
3. Knight couldn’t even give Ada a happy ending, he killed off both her baby daddies so she can be on hand to be a plot device.
4. None of the women of peaky have their own storylines or focus really and that’s sad.
Little sister Shelby gets her first Valentine’s Day card. No warnings, I wrote this and thought it was cute.
Ada chuckled, closing the front door and walking back into the sitting room, the red envelope pinched between her fingers. She held it up with a smirk.
“Well, Belle, looks like you’ve got yourself a little admirer.”
Belle, who had been curled up in the armchair with a book, looked up, her brow furrowing. “What?”
Ada waved the envelope. “Nicky Parker just dropped this off for you.”
Belle’s eyes widened, and she practically leapt out of her seat. “He did?”
Ada laughed, handing it over. “He scarpered before I could even get a word out. Looked like he might pass out from nerves.”
Belle turned the envelope over in her hands, her cheeks pink with surprise. She had never received a Valentine’s card before. Sure, there had been schoolyard crushes and boys who had tried to make her laugh, but this? This felt different. Special.
Before she could open it, Polly wandered in, eyeing the card with amusement. “What’s all this then?”
“Belle’s got a Valentine,” Ada announced, grinning. Polly’s eyebrows lifted. “From who?”
“Nicky Parker,” Ada replied, sitting back down. “Dropped it off just now. Practically ran away after.”
Polly let out a laugh. “Poor lad. Wonder if he knew what he was getting himself into.” She turned to Belle. “Well, go on then, open it.”
Belle hesitated for a second, then carefully slid her finger under the flap and opened the envelope. Inside was a simple white card with a red heart on the front. She flipped it open, and in neat but slightly wobbly handwriting, it read:
Happy Valentine’s Day. I think you’re really lovely. - Nicky
Belle stared at the words, a shy smile creeping onto her lips. Ada and Polly exchanged a knowing look.
“Oh, that’s sweet,” Polly said, tilting her head. “See? There are still some proper gentlemen left.”
Belle’s face was burning now, but she couldn’t help smiling. “He’s just a friend,” she muttered, tucking the card back into the envelope.
“Mm-hmm,” Ada hummed, clearly unconvinced.
Just then, heavy footsteps sounded in the hall, and the moment of quiet admiration was abruptly shattered.
Arthur, John, and Finn burst into the room, followed closely by Tommy, all of them looking serious and slightly tipsy from the Garrison.
“What’s all this?” Arthur asked, arms crossed as he eyed Ada’s smirked smile and Belle’s red face.
John, ever the troublemaker, snatched the card right out of Belle’s hands before she could stop him. “Oi!” she protested, but he had already opened it.
He read it out loud, voice dripping with dramatic flair:
“Happy Valentine’s Day. I think you’re really lovely. - Nicky.”
“What the fuck?” Arthur barked. John let out a cackle, while Finn burst out laughing beside him. Tommy, however, did not look amused. He slowly turned to Belle, expression unreadable.
“Who the fuck is Nicky Parker?” Arthur demanded.
Belle groaned, snatching the card back. “None of your business.”
“The hell it ain’t,” Arthur shot back. “Some lad’s got the nerve to send my sister a bloody love letter—”
“It’s not a love letter,” Belle interrupted. “It’s a Valentine’s card. Big difference.”
“Oh yeah?” John teased. “Then why’s your face so red?” Belle glared at him. “Because you lot are embarrassing.”
Arthur looked at Tommy. “Well? What are we doing about this?”
Tommy, who had been silent until now, took a slow drag of his cigarette. His blue eyes flickered to the card still clutched in Belle’s hands.
“We’re not doing anything,” Polly answered before Tommy could speak. “It’s a Valentine’s card, not a bloody marriage proposal.”
Arthur huffed. “It starts with a Valentine, Pol. Next thing you know, she’s sneakin’ off, goin’ to the canal with the little bastard—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Ada muttered, rolling her eyes. John was grinning. “I dunno, Arthur. Maybe we should find this Nicky Parker and have a little chat.”
Belle groaned, throwing herself back into the armchair. “I hate all of you.”
Tommy finally spoke. His voice was quiet but firm. “You’re fourteen, Belle”
Belle sat up, crossing her arms. “I know how old I am.” Tommy exhaled through his nose, staring at her like he was deciding how to handle this. “You’re too young for this sort of thing.”
Belle let out a frustrated sigh. “It’s just a card, Tom. I didn’t ask for it, he just gave it to me.”
Tommy looked at Polly and Ada, as if expecting them to back him up, but Polly just smirked and took a sip of her tea.
“I think it’s sweet,” she said. “A boy giving a girl a card on Valentine’s Day? Not exactly a crime.”
Ada nodded. “She’s growing up, Tommy. You can’t stop it.”
Tommy’s jaw tightened. He looked back at Belle. “This Nicky Parker. He ever tried anything with you?”
Belle’s eyes widened. “What? No!”
“Ever touched you?”
“Oh my God” Belle groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “No! He’s nice! He’s not some… creep.”
Tommy studied her for a long moment before exhaling. “Fine.” Arthur looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “Fine?”
Tommy ignored him. He pointed at Belle. “But I don’t want to hear about you sneakin’ off with any boys. No meeting them alone, no walking home with them, no—”
“I get it,” Belle interrupted, exasperated.
Arthur grumbled under his breath, shaking his head. John just smirked, clearly enjoying the whole thing.
Polly leaned toward Tommy, lowering her voice. “You can’t fight it forever, you know.”
Belle still blushing furiously, stood up. “I’m going to my room.”
Finn called after her, grinning. “Gonna write Nicky a love letter back?”
She threw a cushion at him. “Piss off, Finn!”
As she stormed upstairs, the men continued muttering about “bloody Nicky Parker,” while Polly and Ada exchanged amused glances.
