Headcanons for how the Peaky blinders (tommy john arthur and michael and anyone else you want) react to seeing a man annoying their girlfriend? maybe even getting handsy after she told him no? i neeeed some protectiveness🛐
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐓𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐲
You're nestled in the dimly lit corner of the Garrison Pub, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the low hum of conversations. Tommy's arm is draped casually over the back of your chair, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder in that possessive yet subtle way he has. The evening has been pleasant—sipping whiskey, sharing quiet words amid the chaos of Birmingham's underbelly—until this stranger saunters over, reeking of cheap ale and overconfidence. He leans too close to you, ignoring Tommy entirely, and starts with a slurred compliment that quickly turns into persistent chatter. "Come on, love, just one dance," he insists, his eyes lingering too long on your form.
You politely decline, your voice firm but measured, not wanting to escalate things in Tommy's presence. But he doesn't take the hint. His hand reaches out, grazing your arm in a way that's far too familiar, his fingers lingering despite your clear "no" and the way you pull back. The touch sends a shiver of discomfort through you, and you glance at Tommy, whose blue eyes have already darkened like storm clouds rolling in.
Tommy doesn't react immediately. That's not his style. He takes a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke that curls lazily into the air. "Oi," he says, low and even, but with an edge that could slice glass. The man turns, finally noticing Tommy, and his bravado falters under that piercing gaze.
"You've got two choices here," Tommy continues, his Birmingham accent thick and unyielding. "You can apologize to the lady and walk away with all your teeth intact. Or you can keep pushing your luck, and I'll make sure you regret every second of it." He doesn't raise his voice; he doesn't need to. The threat hangs in the air, backed by the weight of the Shelby name and the legends that surround it. The man's hand drops from your arm as if burned, his face paling. He mumbles something incoherent—an apology, perhaps—and stumbles back, disappearing into the crowd like a rat fleeing the light.
Tommy turns back to you then, his expression softening just a fraction as he slides his hand to yours under the table, squeezing gently. "You alright?" he asks, his voice quieter now, meant only for you. You nod, and he pulls you closer, his arm wrapping around your shoulders protectively. For the rest of the night, no one else dares approach. Tommy's presence is a shield, his love a quiet fortress. Later, as you leave the pub together, he murmurs in your ear, "No one touches what's mine," and you know he means it—not just as possession, but as a vow to keep you safe in this brutal world he navigates.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫
Arthur’s laugh is booming across the pub when the creep sidles up, slurring compliments that turn sour when you brush him off. You step back, firm: “Back off.” He doesn’t. His hand grabs your arm, fingers digging in like he’s testing how far he can push.
Arthur’s on him before the man finishes his next breath. One second he’s halfway across the room, the next he’s got the bastard by the throat, slamming him into the bar so hard the bottles rattle. “You put hands on her?” Arthur’s voice is a growl, all gravel and fury. His fist cocks back, then stops—inches from the man’s face. Not because he’s calm. Because he’s deciding how much to break.
He leans in, nose to nose. “You ever touch a woman who says no again, I’ll feed you your own teeth.” Then he lets go—just long enough for the man to think it’s over—before driving a fist into his gut. The stranger doubles over, wheezing. Arthur hauls him up by the collar, dragging him toward the door. “Out. Before I decide you don’t need legs.”
He kicks the man into the street, then turns back to you, chest heaving. The rage drains from his eyes the second they land on you. He cups your face, gentle despite the blood on his knuckles. “Did he hurt you?” His voice cracks, raw. You shake your head. He pulls you into his chest, arms like iron bands, muttering into your hair, “No one touches you. No one.” Later, he’ll pace, restless, until you pull him down beside you and trace the scars on his hands. Only then does he still.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧
John’s halfway through a story, gesturing wildly with a pint in hand, when the idiot leans over you at the bar, his hand sliding down your back like he’s got a right. “Piss off,” you snap, shoving his arm away. He grins, drunk and stupid, and grabs your wrist.
John’s there in a heartbeat, pint abandoned, chair clattering. He doesn’t grab the man—he moves him. One hand on the back of the neck, the other twisting the offending arm until the man’s on his knees, face pressed to the sticky floor. “You deaf, mate?” John’s voice is light, almost cheerful, but his eyes are cold. “She said no. That’s a full sentence.”
The man whimpers. John leans down, mock-whispering, "Touch my girl again, and it'll be your last mistake," he hisses, his voice low and dangerous, the Shelby edge cutting through. He releases the man, who gasps and retreats, muttering curses as he flees.
John turns to you, his expression shifting to concern as he checks you over. "You okay, darlin'? He didn't—" You shake your head, and he pulls you into a hug, his hands rubbing your back soothingly. "Good. No one messes with you."
The playfulness returns soon after; he drags you for a dance, spinning you until you're laughing, but his grip is a tad tighter, his eyes watchful. It's John's way—protecting you with a mix of charm and ferocity, ensuring the night ends on a high note, just the two of you against the world.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐧
Finn's holding your hand as you weave through market stalls, his youthful energy infectious as he points out trinkets and steals kisses when no one's looking. He's grown into his role in the family, but with you, he's still that sweet, eager boy trying to prove himself.
You've been steady for a while now, and he treats you like you're the center of his universe. But then this older chap, clearly a few pints in even at midday, spots you browsing fabrics and decides to make his move. "Pretty thing like you shouldn't be alone," he slurs, stepping too close.
"I'm not alone," you reply coolly, gesturing to Finn who's just a few steps away haggling over apples. But the man persists, his hand brushing your shoulder as he leans in. "Just a chat, love." You pull away sharply. "No, thank you."
Finn hears the edge in your voice and turns, his face hardening as he sees the man's hand hovering near you. He's not as seasoned as his brothers, but the Shelby blood runs hot in him. "Hey! Back off," Finn shouts, pushing through the crowd to stand between you and the man. His fists clench at his sides, his stance protective despite his slighter build. The man laughs dismissively, "Run along, kid", and reaches past Finn toward you again.
That's when Finn snaps. He grabs the man's arm, twisting it back with surprising strength honed from years of family scraps. "She said no, you prick!" Finn growls, his voice deeper than usual, echoing his brothers' intimidation. The man winces, trying to pull free, but Finn holds firm, his free hand balling into a fist. "Touch her again, and I'll make you wish you hadn't." There's a fire in his eyes, a determination to protect what's his, even if it means escalating.
The man backs down, yanking his arm away and slinking off with a glare. Finn exhales shakily, turning to you with wide eyes. "Are you alright? Did he hurt you?" His hands hover over you, checking without touching until you nod. Then he pulls you into a tight embrace, his heart pounding against yours. "I won't let anyone do that to you," he promises, his voice earnest.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥
Michael’s playing cards, cool and collected, when the man leans over you at the bar, his hand sliding up your thigh under the pretence of reaching for a drink. “No,” you say, loud and clear, slapping his hand away. He smirks, persisting.
Michael doesn’t stand. He unfurls. One moment he’s dealing cards, the next he’s beside the man, hand clamped on his shoulder with a grip like a vice. “You’re done,” he says, voice silk over steel. He doesn’t raise it. He doesn’t need to. The man tries to shrug him off; Michael’s fingers dig in until the stranger winces.
He leans in, close enough to whisper. “You see that ring on her finger? That’s mine. You see the way she’s looking at you? That’s disgust. Learn the difference.” Then, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, he shoves the man back, hard enough to send him sprawling into a table. Glasses shatter but Michael doesn’t flinch.
He turns to you, expression softening. “You alright, darling?” His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your lip. He kisses you slow, deliberate, right there in front of everyone—like he’s erasing the man’s touch with his own. Later, he’ll make sure the bastard’s banned from every Shelby establishment in Birmingham. Quietly. Efficiently.
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐀𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐞
The bakery in Camden Town is quieter than usual, the scent of fresh bread mingling with the faint tang of rum from Alfie's office. You're perched on a stool, watching him bark orders at his men with that gruff charm.
But one of his newer workers, bold or stupid, doesn't know the boundaries. He approaches you while Alfie's distracted, his flirtations crude. "Fancy a walk, pet?" he says, and when you refuse, his hand lands on your knee, squeezing despite your sharp rebuke.
Alfie's head whips around like a bull sensing danger. He lumbers over, his cane thumping against the floor, his beard twitching with barely contained rage. "Right, what's this then?" he rumbles, his voice a gravelly mix of Cockney and menace. The man straightens, but Alfie's already towering over him, eyes wild. "You think you can put your filthy mitts on my woman? After she told you no? Nah, mate, that ain't how it works 'round 'ere."
He doesn't touch the man at first; instead, he launches into a tirade, words tumbling out in a chaotic stream. "See, in my bakery, we got rules, yeah? Bread rises, dough kneads, and no one—no one—lays a finger on what's mine without losin' said finger. Or maybe more, dependin' on me mood."
The man backs up, stammering, but Alfie grabs his collar with one massive hand, lifting him slightly. "Apologize, yeah? Proper like, or I'll bake you into the next loaf and feed you to the ducks. Slowly."
The apology spills out, terrified, and Alfie shoves him toward the door. "Out! And don't come back unless you fancy a swim in the river." Turning to you, his ferocity melts into concern. "You alright, treacle? That wanker didn't—"
You reassure him, and he pulls you into a rough hug, his beard scratching your cheek. "Good. No one touches my girl." The afternoon shifts to him fussing over you with tea and stories, his protection a whirlwind of bluster and deep affection, ensuring you're safe in his unpredictable realm.
Summary: Finn’s got flowers, you have needs, his brothers don’t help.
Request here
“Where you going with them Finn?” Arthur asked his brother, eyeing the comically large bouquet of flowers that the former was now attempting to hide behind his slender frame. “No where” he quickly blurts “with what?” “Yeah yeah sure” Arthur narrows his eyes with a smirk as the boy scurries off, nearly falling over his own feet.
Finn checks over his shoulders few times before throwing little pebbles at the top window of a terrace house. *tap* *tap* *tap* “OW” “shit sorry darling” you rubbed your forehead as you peeked outside your window. “I am sorry my love” he said, hand holding the bouquet with one hand and the other scratching the back of his neck guiltily. “You’re lucky you’re attractive Shelby or I’d be lobbing something at your head.” You said with a faux angry look on your face as he grins up at you.
“They better be for me” you say, nodding at the flowers behind his back “maybe. Guess you better come and see” he hums, pivoting from heel to toe as you shake your head with a grin. “Give me a minute” you say, shutting your window and padding your way down the stairs.
You open the door and jump into his arms as he drops the flowers to catch you, spinning you around and holding you in the air, hovering just above the cobbles as he looks at you lovingly. “You haven’t got shoes on” he says, matter of factly. And you squeak “can you carry me back in” “ah that’s gonna cost you” he says with a straight face and you get closer and whisper “Finn I have no money” he grins “lucky I don’t accept money, ain’t it?” He rests his forehead against yours “only kisses” and kisses your lips sweetly.
He takes wide steps into the doorway of your house as you comment “hope you don’t take kisses off anyone else” “course not sweetheart.” “Get my flowers.” “Yes, love” he steps back and grabs the bouquet, slamming the door behind him. “Don’t slam my bloody door” “sorry, love”
“Should I get my shoes?” You ask after decanting and repotting the, now slightly squished, flowers. “I have something I’d rather do” he said, walking you backward as you raise your brow with a giggle “what’s that, Shelby?” “You” he exclaims, throwing you over his shoulder as a squeal emits from your mouth.
Finn’s suspenders are slackened and his trousers are at his ankles; your skirt hitched above your waist as he grips at the pooling material to keep it out of his way “do you..” you take a gulping breath to keep up with his pace “want me..” “to get on top?” You ask and he smirks at you, shaking his head smugly “nah you just lay there and look pretty.. let me do all the work darlin” he tells you “actually, hold this for me” he passes the bunched up dress from his hands to yours to free his up, his hands going to your hips to angle them further upwards, prompting a groan from deep in your chest. He passed a hand around your throat to feel the vibrations of your sounds but his fingers tightening around the skin forced a deep, guttural moan out of your lips; an immeasurable pleasure stimulating at your core “Jesus you do like to be fucked like a slut.” He hisses “thought you were supposed to be all innocent, my innocent good girl” his words and deep thrusts overstimulated your mind and body, your chest arch upwards into him and off the bed “that’s it, cmon show me how much you want me-” *knock, knock, knock* his movements faltered and you whined “don’t stop for fucks sake-” *knock, knock, knock* “I think there’s someone at the door” Finn said “no shit” you reply with an angered snarl. “Get off me” you huff, pushing him off of you as he rolls onto the bed and you stand on wobbly legs. He grins victoriously and folds his fingers together and slots them behind his head to rest on as you stomp down the stairs.
“What?” You open the door angrily to see John and Arthur Shelby stood shoulder to shoulder in the frame. They raise their eyebrows in surprise at your angered and messed appearance and sharp tone, a hint of a smile on John’s lips. “Just wanted to let Finn know we’re all heading to the Garrison, love” Arthur said “and?” “Can you tell him, flower?” John asked nicely, “no, fuck off” you say as you try to shut the door but John places a foot in the way. “What’s got you so worked up, darling?” “We were a bit busy. I’ll send him later-” “send me where?” You all heard as he sauntered down the stairs “pub” you say in a sulk. They looked Finn up and down as his eyes widened at who the visitors at the door were. They shared a look as they took in his and your’s appearances. Your messed up hair and crinkled clothes that only seemed to iron out at the waist, Finn’s bare chest, suspenders around his waist, button done on his trousers but the zip down, a tent evident in his trousers - even missing a sock. “Oh!” Arthur said “our apologies” he said, but couldn’t form it completely due to his and John’s eruption of laughter. “You’re busy Finn, clearly.” John nodded, still chuckling. “So those flowers were for someone” Arthur suggested, on his tiptoes as he peered nosily into the house. “Look I was doing something-” Finn said, but you interrupted. “He was doing someone. Fuck off” you slammed the door “ruined my fucking orgasm” you cursed, grabbing the elastic of his loose suspender and dragging him back up the stairs as if on a leash.
“You’re gonna make me cum then you can go out. Do exactly what you were doing” you instruct, flopping dramatically onto the messed up bead spread with a bothered huff. He crossed his arms and leant against the door frame “and what exactly was I doing, Mrs?” He hums “choking me and calling me a slut.” He licks his lips at your bluntness, rushing over and climbing back on top of you. You look up at him with angry, wide, doe eyes as he teases you with the tip and ghostly his hand around your neck, tracing your jaw line as if the essence of a sketch “Fuck me Finn”.
About fifteen minutes later, Finn opened the door to see his brothers leant against the wall, smoking, clearly waiting for him. They looked at him, neck purple with kiss-infused bruises and licking his palm to flatten his hair, tucking his shirt into his trousers. “Want to tie your shoelace?” Arthur asked and Finn rolled his eyes and squatted to do so, as John peered into the house to see you, much calmer, at the foot of the stairs. “You coming love?” Arthur asked “am I invited?” You asked, slightly surprised.
☾ Warnings: pregnancy, hidden pregnancy, unplanned pregnancy, break-in/home invasion, threats related to shelby business, reader being chased, minor injury and mentions of blood, fear for pregnancy after a fall, emotional distress, crying, shouting/argument, tommy being protective and angry, references to violence and danger, complicated relationship, angst with comfort.
☾ Tags: @spn-reader
☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ───────────── ⋅ ˚₊‧☽
By the time Thomas realized the threat was meant for you, the glass had already been broken.
He had been in the back room of the Garrison with Arthur when the boy came rushing in, hat clutched against his chest, cheeks red from running. Finn had been sent to watch one of the warehouses after a deal turned sour two nights before. Nothing unusual. Nothing Thomas had not expected after telling the Hanley brothers they would no longer be permitted to move liquor through streets controlled by the Peaky Blinders.
A few men posted outside buildings. A brick through a bookmaker’s window. Perhaps one poor bastard dragged from an alley with his face split open for refusing to pass along a warning.
Thomas had expected all of that.
He had not expected the boy to hold out a folded scrap of paper with your name written across the front.
“What’s this?” Arthur demanded, cigarette already paused halfway to his mouth.
The boy swallowed. “Found at Y/n’s home, Mr Shelby.”
Thomas’s hand stopped before it reached the paper.
Arthur was looking at him now. “What woman?”
The boy shifted his eyes between them, already regretting being the one sent to deliver it. “Y/n, Mr Shelby. Front door of the building were hanging off. Mrs Palmer from downstairs said two men went in not ten minutes before she heard the crash.”
Thomas took the paper from him without speaking.
There were only four words inside.
We know her name.
For a moment, Arthur said nothing. He had never been especially good at silence, but even he understood the look that came over his brother’s face. Thomas did not swear. Did not throw the paper. Did not reach for his cap or glass.
He simply folded the note once and slid it into his coat pocket.
“Get the car,” he said.
“Tom—”
“Get the fucking car, Arthur.”
Arthur moved.
Your building was three streets over from where Thomas had last seen you, though it felt longer than three weeks since you had stood in his office doorway with your gloves clutched in one hand and told him you would not be staying that night.
You had not made a scene. That was never the kind of woman you were.
You had only become more difficult to reach.
At first, he had allowed it. Thomas Shelby had never chased a woman down to ask why she had stopped warming his bed. If you wanted something said, you would say it. If you were tired of him, that was your right. He had told himself he understood. There had been nights when he wanted you beside him badly enough that he poured himself another whisky instead of sending for you, but he had left you alone.
Then he started noticing the details.
You did not come into the Garrison anymore.
When he caught sight of you on the street and stopped the car, you made some excuse about being late and kept a careful distance between your body and his.
Once, when he had stepped close enough to touch your cheek, you had caught his wrist gently and given him a smile that had looked too tired to be real.
“I ought to go home, Tommy.”
He had let you.
By the time Thomas reached your building, the front door was hanging from one hinge.
He stepped through first, Arthur hard on his heels. The downstairs hall had been pulled apart. A small table lay on its side beneath the stairs, its lamp smashed across the floor. Arthur swore under his breath as Thomas took the steps two at a time, reaching the landing above before him.
Your door upstairs had been forced open too, splintered wood scattered across the floorboards.
Someone had broken into your home because they knew you mattered to Thomas Shelby.
Thomas entered first.
The little front room had been pulled apart. Cushions slashed open. Your drawer turned onto its side. A cup smashed beneath the table, tea stained dark across the rug. There was a fresh dent in the wall beside the door where someone had thrown it open with enough force to break the latch.
“Jesus Christ,” Arthur muttered.
Thomas scanned the room quickly, then moved into the bedroom.
Your handbag was on the floor, the contents scattered near the bed. A comb. A little coin purse. A handkerchief. Two hairpins. Your bedcover had been dragged halfway off the mattress.
No you.
He opened the wardrobe. Nothing disturbed except a missing coat and one empty hanger left swinging.
“She got out,” Arthur said behind him. He spoke too quickly, as though saying it firmly enough might make it true. “Her coat’s gone. She heard them, got out before they could get her.”
Thomas did not answer.
His eyes had caught on the window.
One pane had been smashed through from the inside. Jagged glass remained in the frame, and along the lowest edge, where someone had pushed a hand through to unlatch it, there was a thin red smear.
Thomas crossed the room and touched it with one finger.
Still tacky.
Arthur saw it a second later. “Tom.”
“Get John to the station,” Thomas said, his voice quiet. “Get boys at every road out of Small Heath. Check her friends, the dressmaker on Camden Street, the church she goes past on Sundays.”
“Right.”
“And find out who the fuck was at that door.”
Arthur turned, then stopped. “Where are you going?”
Thomas took one last look at the blood on the window.
“Everywhere else.”
༺ ☾ ༻
You had known someone was outside your building before they broke through the front door downstairs.
The feeling had settled over you sometime after supper, a crawling unease you could not explain. You had been standing at the washbasin, trying to hold down a piece of bread and half a cup of tea, when you glanced through the curtain and saw a man leaning against the lamp post across the road.
He had not been smoking.
Had not been waiting for anyone.
Only looking at your window.
Your stomach clenched, one hand instantly moving beneath your loose dress. The gesture had become habit before you even realized it: every sudden noise, every jolt of fear, every time a man lingered too long behind you in the street, your hand went to the quiet little secret tucked beneath your clothes.
You backed away from the window.
Perhaps he had nothing to do with you. Perhaps he was waiting on a woman downstairs, or watching the rain, or drunk enough not to know where his own feet had brought him.
Then you heard the front door of the building give way with a violent crack below.
Your breath stopped.
Heavy footsteps charged up the stairs.
The floorboard outside your door creaked once.
Someone knocked.
“Miss Y/n?”
You did not move.
Another knock came, harder this time.
“Message from Mr Shelby.”
The baby seemed suddenly impossibly precious inside you. Too small. Too helpless. Your own heart began beating so violently it made you feel sick.
Thomas would not send someone to you like this. Not with a voice you did not know. Not at night, after you had spent weeks making it clear you did not want his men turning up at your door.
You took one careful step toward the back window.
Your door shuddered beneath a heavy blow.
A frightened sound escaped you before you could swallow it down. You seized your coat from the hook, pulled it over your shoulders with trembling hands and climbed onto the narrow ledge outside the kitchen window just as the door split open behind you.
A man shouted when he saw you.
You slipped.
For one awful second, your stomach dropped as your foot skidded on wet brick. Your palm came down hard against the shattered corner of the pane, glass biting into your skin, but you managed to catch yourself before you fell fully.
Pain tore through your hand.
You did not stop.
You scrambled down the back stairs, one hand clasped beneath your stomach even as blood ran down your wrist. Behind you, boots hammered against the floorboards. A hand caught the back of your coat as you reached the alley, jerking you off balance. You twisted out of it so quickly the fabric tore at the shoulder, leaving the man with a fistful of wool while you ran.
You did not think about where you were going until your legs had already taken you there.
His house.
The place you had sworn you would not return to. The bed you had stopped sleeping in. The door you had avoided because the longer you kept away, the more possible it felt that you could have this baby without his world closing around the both of you.
But when men came into your home because of Thomas Shelby, it was Thomas Shelby’s house you ran to.
The maid who let you inside went pale when she saw you.
“Miss, are you injured?”
“No,” you lied quickly. “No, I only— I need somewhere to sit. Is Mr Shelby here?”
“No, miss.”
Relief and terror moved through you together.
“Please don’t send for him,” you said, too fast. “Please. I just need a moment.”
She looked at the blood dripping from your hand, then at your face, but you were already past her, climbing the stairs with your heart trapped somewhere in your throat.
You knew his bedroom too well. Knew the handle that stuck slightly before it opened, the heavy curtains, the smell of tobacco and clean linen and the faint cologne that clung to his collars. You locked the door behind you and stood very still, trying to breathe.
You were safe.
You thought you were safe.
Then a cramp pulled low in your belly, and all thought vanished beneath a wave of panic.
You looked down at yourself. Your coat was torn. The side of your dress was wet from the rain and streaked with grime where you had scraped against the wall. There was blood on it too, though you could not tell at first whether it had come from your palm or somewhere else.
“No,” you whispered.
Your fingers fumbled with the buttons. You tore the dress down from your shoulders and let it pool on the floor, then pulled your damp stockings away, barely aware of your own movements. You were left in your brassiere and knickers before the long mirror by the wardrobe, bare skin prickled from the cold, hair loose from its pins, your cut hand shaking badly.
Your eyes dropped instantly to your stomach.
There was no blood there.
Nothing wrong that you could see.
Only the slight roundness that had become harder to disguise these past few weeks, rising softly beneath your navel. Nearly four months, the doctor had told you. Soon enough you would not be able to hide it beneath wide coats and lowered eyes. Soon enough the choice would be taken from you.
You turned slowly to the side, pressing your uninjured hand beneath the curve.
For weeks, you had avoided looking at yourself for too long. It made everything too real. The nausea. The tiredness. The quiet terror that would come over you at night when you lay alone and tried to imagine raising a child whose father carried a razor blade in his cap and enemies in every street.
But now you could not look away.
Your eyes filled with tears before you felt them fall.
“Please be all right,” you whispered, smoothing your hand over your stomach. “Please, darling. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Downstairs, the front door slammed open.
You did not hear it.
You did not hear the voices, the hard rhythm of men’s boots on polished floorboards, or Arthur demanding where Thomas thought he was going when he suddenly changed direction at the bottom of the stairs.
You only saw them when the bedroom door opened behind you.
In the mirror, Thomas stopped dead.
Arthur nearly walked into him.
Neither man spoke for a moment.
Thomas had come into the room with his pistol still in one hand, his coat wet across the shoulders and his cap low on his forehead. He looked as though he had been running through the whole of Birmingham with murder on his mind. Arthur stood just behind him, face flushed, breath heavy, mouth already parted around whatever he had been about to say.
Then Thomas’s eyes moved down the reflection of your body.
Your bare shoulders.
The torn dress on his floor.
The blood dried across your palm.
Your hand, resting carefully around the little swell of your stomach.
The color drained from his face.
You turned too quickly, reaching for the first thing within reach: one of his white shirts lying folded at the foot of the bed. You held it against your front, shame and panic rushing through you at once.
“Tommy—”
Arthur leaned slightly around his brother, squinting as though the answer would change if he stared a little harder.
“Fucking hell,” he breathed. “Is she—”
“Out.”
Thomas’s voice was so low that Arthur did not immediately understand him.
“What?”
“Get out, Arthur.”
Arthur stared at him. “Tommy, is that yours?”
A silence passed through the room that made you wish the floor would open beneath your feet.
Thomas turned his head only slightly.
“Go downstairs.”
“But, Tom—”
“Now.”
Arthur’s gaze flicked to you again, his expression part shock, part alarm, as though he wanted to say something kinder and could not find the words quickly enough. Then he retreated into the hall and shut the door behind him.
You and Thomas were left alone.
He had not looked away from you.
Your shaking fingers worked at the shirt, forcing your arms through the sleeves and dragging the fabric around yourself. It smelled like him, which made the tears threatening behind your eyes feel even closer. The hem fell over your thighs. You buttoned it badly, missing one near the middle, but it covered enough of you that you no longer felt completely stripped before him.
Thomas put the gun down on the dresser.
He took off his cap next.
Slowly. Carefully.
As though the smallest sudden movement might break whatever little control remained in the room.
His eyes lowered to your stomach beneath his shirt, then moved to your face.
“How long?”
You swallowed. “Tommy…”
“How long, Y/n?”
You pressed your lips together, unable to soften the answer no matter how badly you wanted to.
“Nearly four months.”
He stared at you.
“Four months?”
You nodded once.
Something moved in his jaw. His gaze dropped from your face, as though he needed a moment before he looked at you again.
“Is it mine?”
It was the wrong thing to ask. You saw him know it almost as soon as the words had left him.
Still, it cut.
“There hasn’t been anyone else,” you said quietly.
“I know.”
“Then why would you ask me that?”
“Because I have just walked into my bedroom and found a woman I have been searching half this city for standing here carrying a child I knew nothing about.”
His voice had started controlled, but the last few words sharpened. He moved away from the door, dragging a hand over his mouth as though trying to pull himself back together.
“You knew,” he said. “All those weeks, you knew.”
You looked down.
“When you stopped coming to see me, you knew.”
“I didn’t know what to do.”
“You tell me.” He turned toward you suddenly. “That is what you do.”
“Is it?”
The question came out smaller than you meant it to, but it struck him all the same.
His eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means we were never anything, Tommy. Not properly. You never asked me to stay. You never said what I was to you.”
“You know what you are to me.”
“No, I knew where I was expected to be when you sent for me.”
The hurt in his expression only lasted a moment before anger covered it.
“That is not fair.”
“Perhaps not.”
“No.” His voice rose. “No, you do not stand there with my fucking child inside you and speak as if you were some woman I used and discarded when you know damn well you were more than that.”
You flinched before you could help it.
He saw.
But the shock and hurt in him were already burning too fiercely for him to stop.
“Were you ever going to tell me?” he demanded. “Were you going to come knocking at my door when it were born? Or was I meant to hear about it from someone in the street?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I said I don’t know!”
“You had four months to know!”
His voice struck through you so hard that one hand went automatically to your stomach again, covering the baby through the thin white shirt.
Thomas saw the gesture and went still for half a second, but his breathing remained heavy.
“I had men tearing your home apart tonight looking for some sign of where they had taken you,” he said, lower now, though no less furious. “I stood with your blood on my hand and thought you might be lying somewhere because of me. And all that time, you were carrying my child.”
Your mouth trembled.
“That is exactly why I couldn’t tell you.”
His brows drew together. “What?”
“You think keeping it from me keeps it safe?” he asked, bitter disbelief breaking through his voice.
“No.” Your voice cracked before you could steady it. “I think staying away from you might have.”
The words landed between you harder than any shout.
For one awful moment, Thomas did not move.
Then he laughed once, without humor, looking away from you as though you had slapped him.
“Staying away from me.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” He paced toward the window, then turned again, his face drawn tight with anger. “You’ve got my child growing inside you, and you thought you could simply disappear from my life to keep it from my name?”
“I was trying to protect it.”
“From me?”
“From this!”
You gestured at the discarded dress, the torn coat on the floor, your injured hand. Your voice wavered violently, but you could not stop anymore. Everything you had been forcing down for weeks was coming up too quickly.
“From men kicking through my door because I once let you into my bed. From running through an alley believing somebody might catch me and hurt my baby because hurting me would hurt you.”
His gaze snapped to your hand.
For the first time, he seemed to truly see the blood.
“What happened?”
You shook your head, tears starting to spill down your cheeks.
“What happened to your hand, Y/n?”
“I broke the window getting out.”
“Getting out of what?”
“Men came into my home because of you, Tommy. Because they knew I meant something to you.”
His face went still.
“Two men,” you continued through your tears. “One was outside the building and the other came up the stairs. They said they had a message from you, and then they broke into my home. One of them nearly caught me in the alley.”
Thomas’s expression changed.
Not softened. Not yet.
But the rage was no longer all pointed at you.
“He put his hands on you?”
“He grabbed my coat.” You looked toward the wool torn across the floor. “I got away.”
Thomas turned his head toward the door, as if Arthur might somehow hear the order he had not yet given. His hand flexed once by his side. He looked terrifying in that moment, quiet in the particular way that meant someone would be bleeding before the night was done.
And still, the sight of him frightened you.
Not because you thought he would hurt you. Never that.
Because this was exactly what you had tried so desperately to avoid.
The violence. The fury. The men being sent out after other men. A child growing inside you who would one day see the way a room shifted when Thomas Shelby became angry.
Your tears began coming harder.
“I can’t do this, Tommy.”
He looked back at you.
“I cannot live like this.” You tried to wipe your face, but the cut across your palm stung and made you wince. “I cannot have a child and spend every night wondering who knows about it. Wondering whether someone is watching my door. Wondering whether you are coming back alive.”
“You think I would let anything happen to you?”
“You cannot stop everything!”
Your cry seemed to knock the rest of the anger out of the room.
Thomas went quiet.
You took a shuddering breath, wrapping both arms around your stomach now, his shirt bunching in your fists.
“I am scared all the time,” you said, hardly louder than a whisper. “Since I found out, I’ve been scared. I wake up scared. I walk down the street scared. Every time I see your car or one of your brothers, I think somebody else has seen it too. Somebody else has figured out that I mean something to you.”
“You do mean something to me.”
“I know.” You let out a broken little sob. “That is the problem.”
His expression tightened.
You looked at him through blurred eyes. “I’m not frightened of you, Tommy. I’m frightened of what loving you costs.”
He looked away then.
His hand went automatically to the cigarette case in his pocket. He took it out, thumbed it open and drew one cigarette free, but when he went to light it, his hands were not quite steady. He stared at the tremor for a second, then closed the lighter again and set the cigarette down unlit beside his cap.
The sight of that nearly broke you more than his shouting had.
Thomas always knew what to do with his hands.
He took a breath through his nose and glanced back at your belly.
“You saw a doctor?”
You nodded.
“When?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“Alone?”
The hurt in that single word made you lower your eyes.
“Yes.”
He swallowed, the muscles in his throat shifting. “And?”
“He said everything looked well. I’ve been sick, but not badly. He said that was normal.”
“And tonight?”
“I don’t know.” Your voice became small again. “I slipped climbing out. I didn’t fall badly, but I was frightened. There was blood on my dress from my hand, and I didn’t know where it came from at first.”
Thomas crossed the room before you could think to move.
You shrank back on instinct, only half a step, but he stopped immediately.
His face changed again when he saw what you had done.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
The question came out rougher than he intended. He rubbed his thumb against his fingers once, looking down at the floor between you.
“I should not have shouted at you.”
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.” He met your eyes. “I am.”
You nodded, tears still sliding silently down your face.
“I don’t know what to do with the fact that you kept this from me,” he said. “I do not know how to look at you and pretend four months is nothing.”
“I’m sorry.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“I don’t want you sorry because I frightened it out of you.”
You did not answer.
For a moment, the only sound was the faint clatter of movement downstairs, Arthur likely pacing holes into the floor while trying to decide whether he ought to interrupt or run to tell Polly what he had just seen.
Thomas looked at your wounded hand.
“Let me see it.”
“It is only a cut.”
“Let me see it, Y/n.”
This time there was no anger in the command. Only the familiar certainty in his tone, made gentler by something neither of you quite knew how to name.
You held your hand out.
Thomas moved slowly, taking it in both of his as though even your fingers required care. His touch was warm against your cold skin. The cut across your palm had already begun to crust with blood, but there were tiny shards glittering near the base of your thumb.
“There’s glass in it,” he said.
“I know.”
“You need a doctor.”
“Tommy, please don’t start sending people everywhere.”
“I’m sending for a doctor because you are hurt.”
“And then what?”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“And then he checks the baby,” he said quietly. “And then we know you are both all right.”
Your throat tightened at the word both.
He released your hand carefully, then stood in front of you without touching anywhere else. His gaze dropped again, almost helplessly, to the slight curve under the white shirt.
You saw him hesitate.
For the first time since you had known him, Thomas Shelby looked uncertain of whether he was permitted to reach for something he desperately wanted.
“May I?” he asked.
You started crying again before you could stop yourself.
It was ridiculous, perhaps. After everything. After his raised voice and your terror and men breaking through your front door, it was the quiet request that undid you.
You nodded.
His hand came to rest over your stomach with unbearable gentleness.
He did not press. Did not pull you to him or act as though that single touch had made you his possession. His palm only settled against the small roundness beneath his shirt, fingers spread carefully around the place where his child was growing.
Thomas looked down.
His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.
You saw a dozen emotions move across his face in the space of a breath: disbelief, pain, fear, something so soft it almost looked foreign on him. His thumb shifted once, scarcely more than a brush of fabric.
“That’s mine,” he said finally, so quietly you nearly missed it.
“Ours,” you whispered.
His eyes closed for a moment.
“Yes.” His hand remained where it was. “Ours.”
You stood there in silence, close enough now to feel the warmth from his body. You wanted to lean into him. You wanted to push him away. You wanted him to promise nothing bad would ever happen again, even though you knew the promise would be a lie.
When he looked at you again, there was still anger there. Not the shouting kind anymore. Something deeper and wounded.
“I am not finished being angry with you,” he said.
“I know.”
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“I would have wanted to know from the first day.”
Your mouth tightened. “That’s what frightened me too.”
His brow creased.
“That you would want it,” you explained, looking down at the hand covering your belly. “That you would put your hand there and I would see this look on your face, and I wouldn’t know how to take the baby away from you even if I still believed I should.”
Thomas’s jaw worked slightly.
“You were planning to leave Birmingham?”
“I thought about it.”
The words wounded him visibly.
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere nobody knew your name.”
“There is no place far enough for that.”
“I know.”
It was the sort of thing he might once have said with pride. Tonight, it sounded like a confession.
A knock came at the bedroom door.
Both of you stiffened.
“Tom?” Arthur called cautiously through the wood. “I ain’t trying to interrupt whatever… whatever the fuck this is, but Polly’s downstairs, and she knows something’s going on because I apparently don’t have the face for keeping secrets.”
Thomas exhaled slowly through his nose.
Despite everything, a small, watery laugh escaped you.
His eyes flicked to your face, and for the briefest moment, something close to relief appeared in his expression at the sound.
“Tell Polly to send for a doctor,” Thomas said.
Arthur paused. “A doctor?”
“Yes, Arthur. A doctor.”
“Right. For the…” He cleared his throat loudly. “For her hand, yeah?”
Thomas gave him no answer.
“Right,” Arthur muttered. “Doctor. Going.”
His footsteps retreated quickly.
You wiped beneath your eyes with the heel of your uninjured hand. “He is going to tell everyone.”
“No, he won’t.”
“He already brought Polly into it.”
“Polly does not require Arthur to tell her anything. She looks at a man and knows what he had for breakfast four days ago.”
You let out another tiny, unsteady laugh, then immediately pressed your lips together as guilt came over you for finding anything funny while the night still hung so heavily around you.
Thomas noticed.
“You are allowed to breathe,” he said.
“Am I?”
His face sobered.
“Tonight, yes.”
“And tomorrow?”
His hand remained on your stomach, but his eyes held yours.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “we speak properly.”
“Meaning you decide what happens?”
The question made his mouth tighten.
You expected him to say yes. Expected him to begin immediately: which house you would move into, which men would guard the door, which streets you were no longer permitted to walk alone.
Instead, he looked down at your bare legs, at the torn dress, at the blood dried on your palm.
“Tonight I want you somewhere no man can break through your door,” he said. “I want a doctor to tell me you and the baby are unharmed. And I want the men who frightened you found.”
“Tommy—”
“I know.” His voice dropped. “I know what you are going to say. That this is the very thing you were running from.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
The honesty of it stopped you.
He drew his hand back from your stomach, slowly enough that it seemed difficult for him to do it, then reached for the blanket at the end of the bed and placed it around your shoulders. He did not fasten it around you himself. He allowed you to take it and close it across your chest.
“I do not know how to make being near me harmless,” he said. “I cannot stand here and tell you danger ends because I know about the child now.”
Your eyes filled once more.
“But I can listen before I start making decisions for you,” he continued. “I can try.”
You held the blanket tightly around yourself.
“Are you only saying that because I might run again?”
A faint shadow passed over his face.
“I am saying it because you looked at me like you thought I might lock you in this room and call it love.”
You looked away.
He reached up then, very carefully, and wiped a tear from the edge of your cheek with his thumb.
“I may not be good at gentle things, Y/n,” he said. “But I know I don’t want my child’s mother frightened of speaking to me.”
The words settled painfully in your chest.
Not his woman.
Not his wife.
His child’s mother.
It was not romantic, exactly. It was larger than romance. More permanent. More terrifying.
“I don’t know what happens now,” you confessed.
“Neither do I.”
You almost smiled at that. “Thomas Shelby admitting he doesn’t know something?”
“Do not repeat it. I have a reputation.”
The softness disappeared quickly, but not entirely. His thumb moved once more along your cheek, then lowered.
A second knock sounded, followed by Arthur speaking before he was invited to.
“Doctor’s coming. Polly wants to know whether she can come up, and I told her I did not think now was the moment, but you know Polly, Tom, she’s already halfway—”
The door opened before he finished.
Polly stood behind him, perfectly composed except for the sharp worry in her eyes. Her gaze took in the blanket around your shoulders, the blood on your hand, Thomas standing close beside you, and then the gentle shape beneath the oversized shirt.
She looked at Thomas.
Then at you.
No surprise reached her face. Only understanding.
“Oh, love,” she said quietly.
That nearly set you crying all over again.
Thomas shifted at your side, his shoulder brushing yours as if to steady you without drawing attention to it.
“Someone came to her home,” he told Polly. “She got out through a window. Doctor checks her hand and the baby, then she rests.”
Polly’s eyes sharpened at the mention of the men, but she nodded once. “Of course.”
Arthur remained in the doorway, still appearing as though someone had struck him over the head with a chair. His eyes moved down toward your stomach once before snapping quickly away in awkward embarrassment.
“So,” he began, pointing vaguely downstairs. “I’ll, er… go see about tea.”
“Whisky,” Thomas said.
Polly turned on him. “Not for her.”
“For me.”
“You’ll have tea as well.”
Arthur gave you a helpless look from behind her shoulder, as though to say this was how every family crisis ended: with Polly taking command and no man quite brave enough to stop her.
For the first time since the door to your home had splintered open, you felt a little of the panic inside you loosen.
Not gone.
Never gone.
But loosened.
Polly and Arthur disappeared downstairs again, leaving the bedroom door cracked open this time.
Thomas did not move away from you.
He lifted your uninjured hand and brought it briefly to his mouth, his lips pressing once against your knuckles. The gesture was so quiet, so unlike any grand claim you had feared from him, that you could not find words for it.
“I should have told you,” you said finally.
“Yes.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You could pretend to make that easier for me.”
“No.” His gaze stayed on yours. “Not tonight.”
Strangely, you were grateful for that. Grateful he was not making the hurt prettier than it was.
After a moment, his eyes lowered to the blanket over your belly.
“May I again?”
You nodded.
He placed his hand against you for the second time, warmer now through the layers of cloth. This time, when his fingers spread over the small curve, you covered them with your own.
His breath caught slightly.
Downstairs, Arthur’s voice rose in an argument about where the good tea had gone. Polly ordered him to stop shouting. Somewhere outside, rain struck steadily against the windows, and somewhere farther away, men were already being sent into the streets to find the ones who had come for you.
None of that had been solved.
The Shelby name was still what it was. The child beneath Thomas’s hand was still bound to a world you had tried to keep away from them. Morning would bring questions, decisions, and fear that love alone could not take from you.
But Thomas stood in front of you with his forehead gently touching yours, one hand covering the life you had hidden from him and the other keeping yours carefully raised so the glass would not press farther into your palm.
“You are not alone tonight,” he said.
You closed your eyes, tears slipping quietly down your cheeks.
For tonight, you let yourself believe that was enough.
if i had a nickel for every time a steven knight show had an impulsive reckless arthur with a younger brother cleaning up his messes i'd have two nickels. which isn't a lot but it's weird that it happened twice.
Request made by @justsumtuffstuff: Could you do a tommy shelby imagine where you secretly have his kid but don’t tell him until one day aunt polly sees you and is like “holy shit” but that’s not the surprise, the surprise is you have twins. Just a lot of angst and fluff pretty please? ((:
This fic will have two parts!
Warnings: angst, swearing, violence, grieving, a lot of pain, eventual fluff, smut
A/N: It's a.. heavy fic, so beware. Interact for more
PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE
~~
The land of Birmingham seemed to never change, not one bit. Ever since the first people settled there, the sky hung over them as if by force, never clear enough to see prospects for the future. Robbing the poor kids of dreams, of the loud thumping in their hearts caused by excitement for the good that never came.
It would seem that God has lost his way to Birmingham, not to mention Small Heath. Dirt, smoke and silence that rang too loud when working men would finish their shifts in factories seeking peace in their homes. After all, the human brain can get used to everything.
What was the difference between going to sleep hungry every night, and the relentless churning in the depths of her stomach that Y/N felt? Pain that never let go, waking up along her side like a loyal husband, never ceasing to accompany her throughout the day. Never loosening the hold on her heart.
Oh, how cruel the fate can be, Y/N thought, looking at the white ceiling of her bedroom. One she slept in for many nights too long, carrying the weight of the curse on her shoulders.
Because she was cursed, that one she was sure. Seeing the man she loved more than anything else in the world, losing himself in the grief after another woman.
Because that was the woman whose name Y/N dared not speak or even think. That's who she was, another woman. Embodiment of pain and betrayal of so many promises, taking away the beautiful, blue gaze Y/N yearned for so badly.
God must have been so cruel, putting her through the uncertainty of ever seeing him again throughout the war, and then taking him away.
Taking him away from Y/N, and letting her watch the process. Letting her see the distance growing, the dilated pupils in his eyes after each doze of opium, fruitlessly trying to numb the pain he carried.
Y/N couldn't help but wake up everyday, wondering how different his grief would be if it was her who died. Would he cry? Would he push the other woman away, like he did her? Sometimes the pain felt like too much to handle, but Y/N would never try to pull the trigger. Subconsciously feeling the weight of shame in her chest if she'd ever somehow found out she was right. That he wouldn't care.
So she lived, losing pieces of her heart day by day, warming his bed whenever he saw it convenient.
Until that one day came, that was. Hearing the... Scary, oh so scary news from her doctor she visited in secret. Putting both of her hands on her still flat stomach, she didn't feel anything physically. Yet it was enough to find the strength, buried so deep in her heart.
The love she felt for her unborn children outweighed the love for him.
The tension in Arrow house felt heavier than usual, as Y/N dragged her heavy suitcase down the stairs before slowly making her way to his office. The pain, longing in her heart slowing her down, extending the seconds into forever.
Y/N took a deep breath as her hand pressed down on the metal handle, the loud click echoing throughout the mostly empty room. Wordlessly she slipped inside, walking up to his desk quietly, letting out a shaky breath when she stopped mere inches away from the wooden furniture. His eyes didn't move from the documents he was reading, an empty gaze fixed on black letters despite knowing she was there. Y/N waited for a second, giving him a chance to look at her. Hoping he would.
But he didn't.
”I'm leaving” she said, loud enough to be heard. Silence followed her words, loud like never before as her heart squeezed in anticipation, silently begging him to stop her. To say something. Several moments passed before he finally did, making her heart stop for a mere second.
”Safe travels, Y/N Y/L/N” He responded in a cold, husky voice and for a moment, Y/N wondered who he was, wearing his face but sounding so different.
But the dust settled, just like the weight of his words as soon as she closed the door behind her back for what she thought would be the last time.
~~
Polly's eyes cut through his skin like a blade, her gaze never changing after that one feral day. The look of contempt and disgrace not even a bit different than one she gave him finding out what happened, back then.
”I was hoping you wouldn't be so stupid” She hissed, leaning forward, reaching for a cigarette with a shaky hand. Her eyes were teary, as she inhaled the smoke. ”When you were younger I saw your mother in your eyes. Now, they're full of greed and foolishness. Just like your father's” She spat out with contempt, raising from the chair. Quickly walking up to his own, she kneeled down for a moment, to meet his gaze.
One so empty, that gave her goosebumps.
”I will never forgive you, and... Neither will you.” She whispered. ”But you will have to live with the choice you made.”
Her words echoed loudly in his head several minutes after Polly left... And they never stopped ringing now, thirty eight months later. Thomas counted, every morning to be sure. After sobering up it was difficult to tell days apart. He rarely slept, fearful of the dreams he had at first.
He saw her, she was so close and yet no matter how fast Tommy ran, he couldn't reach her. Out of his reach no matter how hard he screamed or cried. Looking at him with the burning tears he caused.
It took him three months to sober up, give up on opium and... Feel. Thomas wasn't ready for the hellish pain that dawned on him once the drug wore off. The terrifying longing that dawned on him when he felt the remnants of her perfume on his pillow. The lack of relief he hoped for so badly, throwing away every single Grace's belonging he held onto previously, burning the photos and destroying the items, but it never came.
As time stretched, it became more intense. Thomas carried the pain and guilt wherever he went, finding the smallest bit of relief only in his office, searching for Y/N in every piece of England day by day.
Replaying the ways in which he treated her, internally setting himself on fire and forcing himself to feel every bit of it. Because that's what he deserved, to feel and carry the cross he created with his own hands.
Oh how beautiful the pain was, as he'd lean back in his armchair, closing his eyes and remembering her gaze. Her scent and her laugh, echoing so lively in his mind.
...but none of it worked, no matter how many people searched. How much money he spent on the search. Almost like she disappeared into thin air.
Day by day he was dying a little, bleeding through the wounds he so desperately prevented from healing every single time. Keeping the memory of her alive in his mind, not letting the hope die. Because it was all he had. Glimmer of hope. The leader of Peaky blinders became even worse than before. The pain shaped his mind in unknown ways, as the limitless cruelty became visible to anyone who dared to cross his path. Peaky Blinders were unmatched.
Nobody besides Thomas held onto the hope anymore. Knowing Y/N for so long, John and Artur knew she wouldn't come back. Not if her life depended on it. Polly only prayed for her safety.
...and Y/N? She stopped praying once her children were born. After finding out she'd have twins, she prayed every night for them to be born healthy. It was all that mattered.
Not the fact that she had to be using a fake name after moving to Coventry, mere miles away from Birmingham. But she couldn't afford to move further.
It's been.. so fucking hard. Everything. Y/N spent every night crying, begging any God that would listen to take away the pain in her heart. The pain that her babies only managed to lessen. Working as a waitress on nightshifts after accepting the kindness of her older neighbour. Mrs Wilson offered to take care of her boys while she works to help her make ends meet. Y/N had no idea what she would do without a woman she grew to call her only family.
”It's no problem, honey. They're little angels” She said quietly with a kind smile, taking one of the boys into her arms mere days after they were born.
The pain Y/N felt by having to leave her kids every night was stronger than the physical one. Having to work a demanding job after giving birth to keep the roof over their heads.
She cried, cried so much that eventually tears ran out and all she could do was.. keep trying. The two little people by her side were giving her strength. Light that she couldn't see before them, and only existed because they were here. Keeping her own heart beating.
***
”Are you sure? I can take care of them while you go, honey. You know how much I love them, don't you?” The older lady offered eagerly, caressing Nick's cheek with a smile, and a hint of concern while she glanced at Y/N.
”Thank you, but I will take them. The least I can do is spend time with them throughout the day.” Y/N responded, smiling sadly to her neighbour who just nodded along, understanding the allusion.
Letting out a sigh, she put her hands together.
”Be careful, dear.”
Y/N squeezed her hand lightly before pulling away as she held her son's hand, while carrying the other one on her hip.
”Always”
Travelling via train took no longer than forty minutes, and with each passing mile, Y/N's anxiety grew. She hasn't been in Birmingham for a long time now, not looking back.
Yet, because of her official address being still in the Arrow house, she needed to visit the office to complete documentation for boys. She put it off as long as she could, but it was inevitable now.
Despite the negative emotions, Y/N couldn't felt.. better, having her babies with her. The familiar facial expressions or blue orbs were enough to sometimes bring her to tears, but she couldn't love them more. They were a perfect little copy of the man whose name was engraved on her heart. The older they were, the more similar looking they were and now at dashing two and a half years, both boys were troublemakers.
Slowly making their way through Birmingham, Y/N held one little hand, chatting away with Nick, who was more energised than his brother who slept soundly in his mum's arms.
”...and dat?” He asked, pointing towards the building and glancing curiously at his mama. Y/N smiled at his curiosity, seeing how similar personality wise he was to her.
”that's a house” She replied calmly. The little boy cheered loudly, throwing his arms in the air.
"Yaay! Hooose!” He squealed making her chuckle, not caring about the scolding glances from other passengers.
A couple minutes later the other little one woke up, and started fussing because obviously he also wanted to walk now, while Nick wanted to be carried now. Sighing, Y/N put one of the kids down, and as she managed to pick up little Nick, she gasped loudly seeing her son's legs already in motion as he ran towards the crowd.
”Tommy! Thomas, stop!” She yelled after him, chasing him with Nick on her hip who watched the whole thing with his blue eyes wide open. ”Tommy!” She yelled once again, and he finally turned around, stumbling upon someone.
Y/N closed the distance as fast as she could, grabbing little Tommy and pulling him back to his feet, as she checked for any bruises – found none.
”I'm so sorry, i–” She started out, wanting to apologise to the random passenger, but words died on her tongue as soon as her eyes locked with the familiar brown ones.
Summary: John gets jealous when another man at the Garrison pays attention to you
A/N: @sour-strawberry-kisses requested: Heyy I saw that your requests are open and I wanted to make one... Jealousy fics were always my guilty pleasure, can you write something involving John and fem!reader? I’ve been missing John a lot lately, so this request came at a perfect time. I wanted to chance things a little bit: not just a fight as usual or a certain kind of reader you often see on here, but a quieter, more subdued one maybe. So, here’s a short little fic for you! Thanks for requesting <3
Words: 1338
*****
It was getting late. Outside, it had been dark for a long time now, but inside the candles were flickering and the new golden lamps were bathing everyone in some kind of artificial sunlight. The people at the Garrison were letting loose and due to the alcohol and the late hour, the place felt so alive.
You were there with your man: John Shelby. Forever by his side, you sat next to him in a booth and he had his arm draped lazily around your shoulder. He was playing cards with his brothers and you were happy to just observe them. Silently.
‘You all right, love?” he’d ask you, every now and then. And you’d nod softly at him or offered him a quick kiss by way of reply. And then he went back to arguing loudly with Arthur or laughing with Thomas.
This was just the way you were together. John had always been playful, loud and cheeky almost. You loved that about him, but you were very different. You were more practical, easily content, and introverted. Maybe you were an unlikely pair, but it just worked. John seemed so carefree, but you knew his past was haunting him via the constant nightmares. And you could calm him during those long nights, like no one could. Or when he got so angry, he couldn’t contain himself: a simple hand of yours on his arm would make the fury ebb away. You were his quiet and steady port in any storm.
When you noticed his Mild was finished, you offered to get him a new one. So, you walked over to the bar to get him and yourself another drink.
An unknown man approached you, saying, “Hi.”
“Hello,” you said shortly, and quickly you turned to Harry to tell him what you wanted. Then you looked back at John: he was still happily playing cards with his brothers. Thank God.
“Are you alone?”
You had no appetite for trouble, “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
The man smirked, “No, I just thought you might be in need of some company? Pretty girl like you...”
From the corner of your eye, you tried to check on John again. You could see at once that he had noticed. Fuck. “No, thank you,” you quickly and politely told the man, “I’m here with someone.”
“Who?” he wanted to know, but you turned around and walked back over to your table. Flashing your most carefree smile at John, you prayed he could forget about the man quickly. But then you saw how Tommy and Arthur exchanged a quick look, and you braced yourself for what was to come.
John chewed his toothpick and didn’t say anything at first. Then, casually, while laying down a card, “Who was that?”
“Are you jealous?” you tried smiling, but his face told you to maybe not joke about it. “I don’t know him. I told him I was with someone.”
He practically growled, “I’m not jealous. I just want to know why the fuck he was even talking to you then.”
Arthur picked up on it at once, and trying to avoid a fight, he joked, “Ah come on, brother. You know you’ve snatched the prettiest girl in all of Small Heath. Can’t blame a man for bloody trying!”
John smiled a little at that and you quickly added, “Don’t worry, baby. I’m your girl. Remember?”
And it worked: he exhaled and continued playing. You shot Arthur a grateful look and sighed in relief, hoping the rest of the night would go by uneventful. But it didn’t.
“Miss?” Harry walked over to your table, with some horrific-looking pink drink in hand.
“What the fuck is that?” Arthur nearly spit out his own drink laughing.
“It’s for the lady,” Harry explained apologetically. He clearly didn’t want to be seen with the drink either. “It’s from that gentleman, over there,” he pointed. It was the same one.
You shot both Arthur and Tommy a pleading look, but in a split second, John had jumped up and was gone. Arthur practically jumped down his back to drag him backwards and Tommy started saying things to John in a hushed tone, might even be in another language, to try and calm him down.
But you, meanwhile, walked over to the man that was either trying to start a war or the most oblivious man in all in all of Birmingham, and said to him, “Do you know the man who I’m here with tonight?”
“No, I don’t. Listen, I just wanted to offer you a drink…”
“I know.“ You realized he really was just an idiot who had wandered into any old pub on a Friday night, “But he is known around here. You may have heard of the name Shelby?”
He went pale.
“You have,” you nodded and out of instinct, you put a hand on his arm to soothe him. Because it didn’t matter who you were with; you had no intention of intimidating or scaring anyone. All you wanted now was to avoid any more trouble. “That there is John Shelby. And I’m his girl. You understand?”
“I’m so very sorry, miss…”
“No, don’t apologize,” you tried to calm him with you voice, and it worked, like it always did. “He just gets jealous.”
You looked over your shoulder and noticed the brothers had indeed managed to ease John’s anger too. You locked eyes with Arthur for a second, and he nodded, as if to say: Go on. We’ll manage here.
You turned to the man again and said, “It’s probably best if you leave now, alright?” You motioned Harry over with a hand, “This gentleman here will see you on your way out, around the back. That way you won’t have to… It’s just better that way.”
“Thank you, miss,” he still looked quite shaky.
“Don’t mention it,” you smiled. “And I hope you have a lovely rest of your evening.”
When he’d gone, you took a deep breath to let is all go and walked back over to John.
“Where the fuck did he go!” John demanded. “I swear to God, Y/N, I will fucking…”
You put a hand to his cheek and said, “I told him to go. He’s gone.”
“Why the fuck did you…!”
Because you didn’t want John to kill the man. You knew he could, and maybe he would have too. John was probably the most jealous man you knew, though the least likely to admit it. But that’s what you liked about him too: he was possessive, protective of you, and not at all willing to share. And to be honest? Neither were you.
But you just said to him, “Don’t worry about it, love. I’m all yours now.”
And eventually he did calm down. You took your rightful place by his side again and Arthur lit John a cigar. But when you looked at Tommy, and he mischievously mouthed the word jealous at you, you almost burst out laughing.
You drew up your knees and almost crawled into John’s side. He liked that; you could tell. Maybe it was the alcohol that made you a bit more talkative. Maybe it was a;; that had happened that made you brave. “I like it when you are jealous,” you flirted, softly.
He still didn’t quite melt yet, “I don’t.”
And so, you tried to push him just a little bit more and added, “Oh, so you were jealous?”
Finally, he sighed and dropped the act. He softened and smiled at you, “I’m not jealous, sweetheart. But just remember: you are my girl.”
“I can live with that,” you whispered, as you climbed up onto his lap.
“What are you doing?” he almost giggled, as you started undoing some of the buttons on his shirt.
You went in for a long, deep kiss, “Come on, let’s give these fuckers really something to be jealous about, yeah?”
You didn’t have to tell John twice.
*****
Your stepfather made an ill-advised wager with Arthur Shelby and when he lost the coin toss, you were are to be given to Arthur for the night. And you will be taken tonight. Just not by Arthur…
The next day, after claiming you himself, Tommy doesn't return you to your home in Small Heath to face the consequences of actions that weren't yours. He tells you he's keeping you hidden, to send a message to those in Small Heath who think that when you gamble with the Peaky Blinders, you don’t walk away unscathed.
Is that his only motive? Or could it be that he doesn't plan to let you go... ever?
