Timeless Temptation || TF141! Peaky Blinders AU
Pairing: TF141 x Fem!Reader
Summary: When you accidentally land back in time into 1920’s Birmingham, England, all you want to do is figure out how to survive and make it back to your timeline as inconspicuously as possible, but unbeknownst to you, the most dangerous gang in all of Birmingham prowl behind the shadows, waiting to sink their teeth onto someone new.
Word Count: 2.4k+
Warnings: None at the moment.
A/N: Hello, readers! This is my first time writing something in my entire life, so I’m a bit excited and nervous posting this. I created a post a couple months ago about this idea, and no one has written about it yet, sadly, so I decided to take matters into my own hands and do it myself to satisfy my constant maladaptive daydreaming about this. I’ve only seen the first season of Peaky Blinders, so this story won’t be following any of the shows plot lines entirely. Maybe I’ll include the stolen guns plot to create some tension, maybe, okay! Not entirely sure yet! Also, English isn’t my first language so keep that in mind. I apologize for my grammar in advance. I hope you lovely people like it!
Chapter one:
You weren’t exactly sure how or why you ended up here. You also weren't entirely sure if what you were experiencing was a scarily vivid dream or the result of eating too many pot brownies, washed down with a bottle of wine while sitting on the couch watching trashy reality TV.
Thinking was impossible; your head throbbed with fog and confusion, your limbs heavy as if trapped beneath layers of dense blankets.
You couldn’t recall your last moments before waking up here. Summoning all your strength, you forced your heavy-lidded eyes open and blinked to clear the haze. It felt like waking from a deep, restless slumber—your limbs stiff and aching.
Your senses first picked up the faint smell of tobacco, and your bleary eyes adjusted to your surroundings. It was dark, incredibly so, but the faint light from the moon filtering inside through the stained-glass windows let you take in the place—well, barely, since the arrays of colors made it difficult to see clearly in your slightly disoriented state.
You stood up from the dusty wooden floor, smoothing down your way-too-short dress and slipping the thin straps back onto your shoulders. For a moment, you wondered why you were dressed like this—so tight and uncomfortable, of all times—but you shook it off. Bigger questions demanded your attention. Like where the hell you were.
You looked around the dark room, your brows furrowed, taking small, tentative steps toward what seemed to be a bar, rows and rows of alcohol bottles lining the entirety of the wall behind the old mahogany countertop.
What the hell?... How did you end up in a fucking pub after hours, of all places? It wasn’t like you were a frequent pub-goer, much less got blackout drunk, that you’d end up locked in pubs after closing time.
You were more of a homebody than anything, preferring the comfort of your home rather than the chaos of the outside world and its people.
There were booths lined up alongside the wall of the stained-glass windows, and a few tables with chairs placed in the middle of the room.
You traced a finger over the surface of the old wooden countertop, sleek and polished, devoid of any dust; someone had been here not long ago. Your gaze traveled to the mesmerizing, ornate grandfather clock at the far end of the room; you could barely make out the ticking hands and its carefully designed intricacies. You halted suddenly. What time was it? It must be really late—you had an early class the following morning.
You started to frantically check your dress pockets for your phone; there was no way you didn’t have it on you. Who doesn't have their phone on their person nowadays?...
Well, apparently you, because there was nothing on you—no phone, no purse, nothing. You couldn’t call your friends or family, not even an Uber to pick you up. You were totally screwed.
You headed to the old wooden double doors at the front entrance. You fumbled with the brass door handles, their detailed craftsmanship making it slightly tedious for your hand to properly wrap around the handle and pull hard.
You yanked on them, once and then twice, but they didn’t budge. You let out an exasperated sigh. Of course, they would be locked. No business owner would leave them unlocked at night, no matter how much you wanted this one to be forgetful enough to have done so at the moment. Couldn’t Lady Fate cut you some slack for once?
You took several steps back, poised and ready like a bull at its target, bracing yourself to ram against the heavy wooden oak doors. Just as you were about to take off, one of the double doors suddenly opened. You paused, brows raised and eyes slightly wide, almost relieved at having the doors unlocked, though you still felt tense at the appearance of a man.
In came a man, lanky and with slightly beady eyes. He froze as well, hand still clutching the key that was still connected to the door’s keyhole. He tentatively pocketed it in his old-fashioned trousers, slowly going to turn on the light of the establishment, not taking his eyes off you.
The dark pub was suddenly engulfed in warm light. He looked at you like you were an anomaly at first, and then he took in your outfit (or almost lack thereof). He must’ve come to his own conclusions about what he was witnessing after seeing the state you were in—hair a tangled mess, makeup smudged, an incredibly tight and short dress that barely reached your upper thighs, barefoot, heels strewn who knows where. You knew you must’ve still looked slightly dazed, and you could see it in his disconcerting beady eyes that he thought you must’ve been on something, alcohol or drugs.
He pursed his lips in annoyance, brows furrowing into a scowl. He muttered something under his breath you couldn’t quite catch, something about having a talk with some people in the morning and their promiscuous habits in his pub. He sighed and rubbed a hand down his face.
“Alright, lass?” he asked. He closed the door behind him and looked at you inquisitively, “You one of Price’s lot?”
Your brows furrowed, looking up at him, still slightly disoriented and even more puzzled about what he meant. “Sorry?”
He took out a cigarette, placing it between his lips, hands digging into his pockets for a lighter. “Did they just up and leave you here?”
The more he talked, the more confused you became. Were you having a stroke? You thought, “What—” you softly mumbled.
He paused, taking a short drag of his cigarette. “Listen, lovie. I don't mean to be a prick about it, but anytime they want your services, or any of the other girls at that call house of yours, please remind the boys the pub is off-limits.” He cleared his throat. “M’not particularly fond of that type of cleaning, it’s quite tedious.” It looked like he wanted to say more on the matter, but refrained.
You must’ve looked completely lost and dumbfounded, judging by the way he stopped talking and instead studied you quietly but intensely.
“Is everything alright?” he asked again, his gaze a mix of concern and weariness at your odd behavior.
You stared at him blankly, at a loss for what to say; you had absolutely no clue what he was talking about. As you were about to ask if he could call you an Uber, he suddenly took off his coat and extended it to you.
“Here, off you go. Be careful on your way to the brothel. I think I saw Robert loitering around there on my way here. M’sure you already know how he is.”
You felt your face heat up, blood rushing hot under your skin at the callous assumption. “Excuse me?!” you snapped, voice sharper than you intended. Was this his way of insulting you for being in his pub after hours? It wasn’t even your fault; you had no idea how you got here in the first place! The fucking nerve of him—what a prick. Typical, though, men loved to pull that one anytime they wanted to insult women.
Your exclamation startled him, cutting sharply into the stillness of the pub.
“Did you just call me a whore?!” Your face was incredulous but steely and sharp just the same, your features contorted in an absolute storm.
He took a step back at your lashing, eyebrows raised in bewilderment at your unexpected change in demeanor—from reserved befuddlement to sudden anger.
“Whoa, calm down, lass,” he quickly replied, hands in the air in a placating motion. “I didn’t mean any offense, m’sorry… I genuinely thought you worked at Madame Bertha’s call house.”
You clenched your teeth, biting off the urge to rain down curse words on him.
You didn’t question his choice of using antiquated words; it was definitely odd, but maybe that was just the way he was.
“Well… I don’t.” For the sake of your sanity, it was better not to ask what it was about you that made him think you did.
He nodded stiffly, awkwardly. “Yes…gathered as much now. Sorry ‘bout tha’.” His gaze subconsciously glanced over your skimpy outfit again, as if he fully didn’t believe you.
He frowned. “So… if yer not one of Price’s birds...” he murmured softly, more to himself, trying to make sense of you.
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can I just borrow your phone to call an Uber? I don’t have mine on me.” You looked at him expectantly. You knew you were being a bit rude to the equally confused man, but you were at your wits' end trying to get back home.
He looked at you blankly, brows slightly furrowed, as if you’d assembled a bunch of nonsensical words. “Can ye repeat tha’?”
You found his obtuseness aggravating. Were you speaking in tongues or something?
“I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.” He continued to watch you in befuddlement. “I sure don’ have an entire phone kiosk on me, sweetheart, would be nice wouldn’t it?” He huffed in amusement.
He reached into his pockets, pulling out a couple of bronze coins, and extended them to you. “There’s a phone kiosk not too far from here. I think this should be enough to cover a call.”
You looked at the weathered pennies in his hand, the emblem on them looked off. Huh, you’d never noticed different currency emblems circulating around. You took the change from his hand, softly murmuring a “thanks”. You paused, looking at him expectantly.
He gave you a small, genuine smile. “No worries, I can walk you there…” He pursed his lips, “You look a bit out of it, no offense."
As soon as you both walked out of the pub, you felt your skin prickle from the biting cold of the encompassing night. Your heels clacked against the uneven cobblestones as you took in your unfamiliar surroundings, walking beside— “What’s your name again, sir?” you politely asked.
He looked at you, slightly surprised. “It seems it slipped both our minds to introduce ourselves to each other, huh. Name’s Henry. What ‘bout yers, love?”
You hesitantly murmured your name back, unsure if it was really wise to do so. Well, you were already here, letting him walk you to the phone booth late at night—you were screwed either way.
The streets were mostly empty, save for the drunkards stumbling over themselves. You started to feel unsettled again; your surroundings were completely unfamiliar. Brick buildings lined the streets, smoke and fog from the nearby factories curled around the inky night sky, and the air you breathed in, the buildings and streets looked weathered, old in architecture. You were puzzled about where you seemed to have ended up; you didn’t remember anything from last night. How was it possible to have woken up in an unfamiliar place you’d never traveled to?
The oddest thing to you, peculiarly enough, was how the few people out on the streets were dressed, the sparse old-timey cars parked along the cobbled pavement, and the very low prices posted up on various business window fronts. Everything looked straight out of an old silent film. It was amusing, in a way. Maybe you drank too much at a 1920s-themed larping event and blacked out.
You both arrived at the phone booth. You stepped in, and as you took in the interior of the booth, you suddenly paused.
Henry looked confused by your bewilderment. “What is it, lass?” he rumbled out.
You gazed at the old-styled phone handle and its complex mechanisms wired in; next to the phone, there was an old newspaper clipping pinned up. The date was what caught your attention. You ripped it off the communal board and held it up real close to your eyes.
“Sad, innit? Dear old Wilson’s family decided to post his obituary all over the place as a way to honor him and his contributions to the Peaky Blinders,” Henry commented absentmindedly.
You looked back at Henry, taking in his attire again and your peculiar surroundings. “Henry, I’m feeling quite knackered. I really don’t know where I am, can you just lend me some money for an Uber, if it isn’t too much trouble? I promise to Zelle it back to you, Paypal or Venmo, whatever you use, I’ll pay you back, I promise. Do you have a pen? You can write your username on my hand.”
He stayed silent, his brows furrowed in confusion. He fiddled with his suspenders. “...what?”
Your chest felt tight as he seemed unable to comprehend you. Something felt off. Your eyes fluttered around, taking in everything again, feeling apprehensive; you looked at the clippings on the board again, the coins in your hand, and the old vehicles parked on the side of the road. You felt your skin prickle, hairs on your arm raised as you saw an old car pass by…
The face of an old man glanced out the window as it drove by; time slowed down as you saw his face clear as day. There was no way— it was impossible, it couldn’t be. But the evidence was right there in front of you, glaringly obvious. There was no mistaking the face of that man—Winston fucking Churchill.
“...H-Henry, what year is it?” you breathlessly asked, heart stuck in your throat.
“Nineteen-twenty, why?” He looked at you like you had lost a few marbles.
“You gotta be joking, man.” You brought your hands up to your face, running your fingers through your hair. “No, this has gotta be some thoroughly elaborate larping event,” you murmured under your breath.
Henry carefully approached you as you started to sway on your feet. “Hey, are ye alright?”
Your skin felt clammy and uncomfortably flushed, like the beginnings of a bad fever. You felt your heart start to pick up speed, and you feared it would suddenly stop from how fast it was beating. Despite the complete confusion and sluggishness plaguing your mind, you tried to take deep breaths—in…out…in…out—you grabbed at your chest, trying to will it to calm down.
Feeling fuzzy and heavy, you started to sway unsteadily as you crumbled to the ground surprisingly fast, your head smacking against the structure of the phone booth, knocking you out cold.
“Ah, shit!” Henry exclaimed, quickly rushing over to pick you up. That was the last thing you heard before darkness engulfed you.
A/N: It ended quite abruptly, I know, but more is to come. I wanna flesh out the beginning steadily.
