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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🛐

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐧𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age

My favorite poetry is weird

#peaky blinders #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders meme #tommy shelby #arthur shelby #john shelby #finn shelby #ada shelby #aunt polly #alfie solomons

Put your shoes on, love

Finn Shelby x Reader

Warnings: smut (choking, name calling)

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.

“Get your shoes on, love”

Don’t Flinch, Mr. Shelby || Thomas Shelby x Reader

warnings: blood, injury, tension, mild danger

note: Y/n is a nurse and Tommy is far more interested in her than she is willing to be in him.

It was late into the night when you heard the clinic door open, the little brass bell above it ringing quietly through the stillness. You couldn’t help but look up, slightly startled, seeing as no one usually came in at that hour unless there was trouble, drink, blood, or all three.

You had just finished cleaning the examination table from your last patient, a young man who had split his eyebrow open during some foolish fight outside one of the pubs. You were tired, your sleeves rolled up, your apron already marked with faint stains from a long day of work, and all you wanted was a quiet hour before morning came and brought half of Birmingham back through your door.

But then he walked in.

Thomas Shelby.

You knew who he was before he even spoke.

Everyone knew who Thomas Shelby was.

He stood near the door, his dark coat damp from the rain outside, his cap low over his eyes and one hand pressed firmly against his side. Blood had soaked through his shirt, spreading darkly beneath his waistcoat, yet he looked as composed as if he had simply come in to ask for directions.

You looked at the blood first, then at his face.

He looked back at you, waiting.

Perhaps he expected you to gasp. Perhaps he expected you to be afraid. Perhaps he was simply used to women reacting to him in some way.

You did not.

“Sit down,” you said, already turning toward the cabinet for supplies.

Thomas raised his eyebrows slightly, almost as though he was amused.

“I won’t be here long,” he said, his voice low and calm.

“You won’t be anywhere long if you keep bleeding like that,” you replied.

For a moment, he simply watched you. Then, without arguing, he walked over and sat on the edge of the examination table. His movements were careful, although he clearly tried to hide it. You noticed anyway. Men always seemed to think they were better at hiding pain than they actually were.

“Coat off,” you told him.

He looked at you again. “You always speak to patients like that?”

“When they arrive bleeding after midnight, yes,” you said.

Thomas did not smile, not fully, but something shifted at the corner of his mouth. It was small and brief, but you saw it.

He removed his coat slowly, and you took the scissors from the tray beside you before stepping closer. The scent of tobacco, rain, and blood clung to him. He was handsome, you supposed, in the same way people found storms handsome from the safety of a window. Sharp cheekbones, pale blue eyes, a tiredness about him that made him look older than he probably was. There was something dangerous in the stillness of him, something that made the room feel quieter just because he was in it.

You ignored it as best you could.

“Shirt,” you said.

He began to unbutton what he could, but the blood had made the fabric cling to his skin. You sighed quietly and cut through the ruined material instead.

“That was expensive,” he said.

“Then you should’ve avoided getting stabbed in it,” you replied.

His eyes lifted to your face again.

You could feel him watching you as you worked. Not in a vulgar way, which you were used to from men who had too much drink and not enough sense. No, Thomas Shelby looked at you like he was trying to understand something. Like he was looking for a crack in your composure.

You gave him none.

The wound was deep enough to need stitches, but it was not fatal. You cleaned away the blood with a damp cloth, pressing against the injury while he sat almost unnaturally still.

Almost.

You felt the slightest tension go through him when the cloth touched the wound.

“Don’t flinch, Mr. Shelby,” you said quietly.

His eyes snapped to yours.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then he asked, “You know my name?”

“Most people know your name.”

“And yet you tell me what to do.”

“In here, yes.”

Thomas stared at you for a second longer, and you could tell that he was not offended. If anything, he looked more interested than before, which you found rather inconvenient.

You reached for the iodine.

“This will sting,” you told him.

“I’ve had worse.”

“I didn’t ask.”

You poured it over the wound before he could say anything else. His jaw tightened, but he did not make a sound.

You noticed that, too.

“You should have gone to a doctor,” you said.

“I came here.”

“This is a clinic.”

“And you’re a nurse.”

“A tired one.”

That time, he almost smiled again.

You threaded the needle and tried not to think too much about the way his eyes remained on your face instead of your hands. It was unsettling, being looked at like that. Not admired, exactly. Studied. As if every calm breath you took only made him more curious.

“You don’t seem frightened,” he said.

“I’m not frightened of blood.”

“I wasn’t talking about blood.”

You paused only for half a second, then continued preparing the thread.

“No,” you said. “I don’t suppose you were.”

The room went quiet again. Outside, the rain had started to fall harder against the windows, soft but steady. The lamps above you gave the clinic a dull yellow glow, making the blood on your apron look darker than it was.

“You know who I am,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You know what people say about me.”

“Yes.”

“And still nothing?”

You looked at him then, meeting his eyes properly for the first time since he had walked in. They were very blue, colder in the light than you expected, though there was something tired beneath the sharpness. Something buried deep enough that most people probably never saw it.

“I know enough men with reputations, Mr. Shelby,” you said. “Most of them still bleed the same.”

He went still at that.

Not physically, because he had already been sitting quite still, but something in his expression changed. It was subtle, almost impossible to name, but you saw it. Curiosity, perhaps. Or surprise. Maybe both.

You began stitching the wound.

Thomas watched you the entire time.

It should have annoyed you. In truth, it did annoy you. He looked at you as though he expected you to eventually blush, or look away, or soften. But you had treated too many men like him to be easily impressed. Men who carried guns. Men who spoke softly because they knew they did not need to shout. Men who thought danger gave them charm.

You had seen what danger did to people.

You had cleaned it from skin and floors and trembling hands.

So you kept your voice even and your fingers steady.

“You always this calm with injured men?” he asked.

“Only when they sit still.”

“And if they don’t?”

“I make them regret it.”

He looked down at your hands, then back at your face.

“I believe you.”

“You should.”

Before you could finish the next stitch, there was a knock at the door.

You froze.

So did Thomas.

The knock came again, heavier this time, followed by the muffled voice of a man outside.

“Clinic open?”

You looked toward the door, then back at Thomas. His face had changed completely. The quiet interest was gone, replaced by something cold and immediate. His hand moved toward his coat, which you were fairly certain had a gun inside it.

“Don’t,” you said quickly.

His eyes cut to you.

“You don’t know who that is,” he said.

“No, but I know I’m halfway through closing your wound, and if you move now, you’ll bleed all over my floor again.”

He looked almost irritated by how reasonable that sounded.

Another knock came.

You set the needle down carefully and stood. “Stay there.”

Thomas said nothing, but you felt his eyes on you as you walked toward the door.

You opened it only a little, leaving the chain in place.

A man stood outside in the rain, his cap pulled low and his collar turned up. You did not recognize him, but you recognized the type. Birmingham had plenty of them. Men who came to doors after midnight and expected women to move aside simply because they were men.

“We’re closed,” you said.

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Try looking tomorrow.”

His gaze tried to move past you, but you shifted slightly, blocking his view.

“A man came through here,” he said. “Bleeding.”

You gave him a tired look. “This is a clinic.”

His mouth tightened. “This man would’ve been easy to notice.”

“Most men think that about themselves.”

Behind you, Thomas made no sound, but you knew he was listening. You could feel the tension in the room behind your back, quiet and sharp.

The man’s eyes dropped to your apron, where Thomas’s blood had stained the fabric.

“That his?”

You looked down briefly, then back at him.

“It’s blood. In a clinic. Shocking, I know.”

He stared at you for a moment, clearly unsure whether to be angry or suspicious. You held his gaze, refusing to move. Your heart was beating faster than you would have liked, but you refused to let him see that.

Finally, he stepped back.

“Tell Shelby he’s got friends looking for him.”

“I don’t take messages from strange men in the rain,” you said.

Then you shut the door in his face and locked it.

For a moment, you stood there with your hand still on the lock, listening as his footsteps moved away from the clinic. Only when the sound disappeared did you turn around.

Thomas was staring at you.

He had not moved from the table, although one hand was still close to his coat. His shirt was open where you had cut it, the wound half-stitched, his pale skin marked with blood and iodine. Yet despite all of that, he did not look weak.

He looked fascinated.

It was strange, seeing a man like him look at you that way. Not with desire exactly, or at least not only that. It was something quieter. Something more watchful. As though, in the span of a few minutes, you had become a problem he wanted to solve.

You walked back to him and picked up the needle again.

“You bring that sort of trouble everywhere you go?” you asked.

“Not everywhere.”

“Lucky me.”

“You lied for me.”

“I lied for my clinic.”

“That all?”

You glanced at him. “Yes.”

Thomas looked at you as though he did not believe you, but he did not argue.

You finished the stitches in silence. His eyes remained on you the entire time, and though you did your best not to acknowledge it, you could feel every second of it. It was not that he was making you nervous. You would not give him the satisfaction. But his attention had weight to it, and you were aware of it in a way that irritated you.

When you finished, you covered the wound with clean gauze and secured it carefully.

“You need rest,” you said.

“I have business.”

“Then your business will have to wait.”

“It won’t.”

“Then bleed on your business instead of my floor.”

Again, that almost-smile.

“You speak to everyone like this?”

“Only the ones who make my night difficult.”

“And have I?”

“You walked in bleeding, tried to smoke before I could stitch you, nearly reached for a gun while I had a needle in your side, and brought a strange man to my door.”

You tied off the bandage and stepped back.

“So yes, Mr. Shelby. You have.”

He looked down at the bandage, then back at you. His gaze moved slowly over your face, and this time, you had the uncomfortable feeling that he had seen more than you meant to show. Not interest, because you had shown none. Not fear, because you had refused him that as well. But perhaps he saw the effort. The carefulness. The way you kept yourself calm on purpose.

“You’re very controlled,” he said.

“I’m working.”

“No,” he said softly. “That’s not what I mean.”

You looked away first, reaching for a cloth to wipe your hands.

“You’re done,” you said.

Thomas did not move right away.

Most men were eager to leave once the pain had passed. Some thanked you. Some tried to flirt. Some complained about the price. Thomas Shelby simply sat there and watched you clean the tray, as though leaving had become less important than understanding you.

Finally, he stood, slowly enough that you knew the wound hurt more than he wanted to admit.

You pretended not to notice.

He reached into his pocket and placed money on the table.

Too much.

You looked at it, then at him.

“No.”

His brow lowered faintly. “No?”

“You can pay for the bandages. Not my silence.”

The room went very still.

For the first time since he had arrived, you thought you had genuinely surprised him.

His eyes stayed on yours for a moment before he removed some of the money, leaving only what was fair.

“My silence is not for sale,” you added.

“No,” he said quietly. “I can see that.”

He put on his coat carefully, then picked up his cap from the table. You thought he would leave after that, but he paused near the door, one hand resting on the handle.

“What’s your name?”

You stopped.

It should not have surprised you as much as it did.

But it did.

Men like Thomas Shelby did not usually ask for names. They found them out. They had people tell them. They used names as if they were things to own.

But he had asked.

You looked at him for a moment, unsure why the question felt more dangerous than the blood, the gun, or the man outside.

“Y/n,” you said.

Thomas repeated it softly.

Just once.

It sounded different in his voice, and you did not like that you noticed.

You lifted your chin. “Try not to make me regret telling you.”

His mouth curved slightly.

“I’ll try.”

“You’ll fail.”

This time, he did smile, though it was brief and quiet. It suited him too well, which was unfortunate.

He placed his cap on his head, the shadow falling over his eyes again.

“You always this calm around men with guns?” he asked.

You looked at him evenly.

“Only the ones stupid enough to bleed on my floor.”

For a moment, he simply looked at you.

Then he opened the door and stepped out into the rain, the bell above him ringing softly as he left.

You locked the door behind him.

The clinic was quiet again, except for the rain against the windows and the faint dripping of water from the hem of his coat where he had stood. The room still smelled of tobacco, blood, and iodine. His ruined shirt lay in pieces on the tray, and the money he had left sat neatly on the table.

Exactly enough.

Not a penny more.

You hated that he had listened.

You hated even more that you noticed.

With a tired sigh, you rolled your sleeves higher, picked up the cloth, and began cleaning Thomas Shelby’s blood from your floor.

#peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinder headcanon #peaky blinder imagine #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby #peaky blinder oc #john shelby #arthur shelby #thomas shelby imagine #tommy shelby imagine #Tommy Shelby angst #Thomas Shelby angst #byorderofana writes

JUST ANOTHER OF YOUR MISTAKES

Thomas Shelby x Reader

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.

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #tommy shelby #tommy shelby dark #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby smut #thomas shelby dark #thomas shelby smut #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinder imagine #john shelby #arthur shelby

John Shelby x f!reader

"His Wife" arranged marriage one-shot

based on this ask, hope you enjoy

summary: an arranged marriage with John Shelby becomes something a little less unwilling than you expected.

warnings: smut, explicit language, power imbalance, possessive behaviour, mdni!

The door of John Shelby’s bedroom shuts behind you with a heavy click. It makes you flinch, but you don’t turn away from the window.

You’re still in your wedding dress, barely having time to come down from the night’s celebrations. And now here he is. Your new husband. One you had no say in. The one you had been wed off to so Thomas Shelby could strengthen business ties between your family and his.

You’d seen John before, of course. Hard not to. He didn’t blend into a room. But you’d never given him a reason to think you were looking. Never given anyone a reason to believe you’d appreciate being traded off to him like stock.

John stands behind you as he looks at the curve of your white dress. He isn’t subtle about it. That signature grin already forming as his eyes drag over you.

You hadn’t spoken a single word to him throughout the marriage celebrations. Just kept your head down. Letting the day pass as fast as it could. When he had asked you for a wedding dance, you’d said you weren’t much of a dancer and he had taken it as a hint to say no more to you and let you be. Drinking whiskey and smoking cigars with Isaiah and Arthur instead.

But his eyes hadn’t left you throughout the entire wedding. Not during the ceremony. Not during the reception. Certainly not as the evening celebrations lingered until early morning. What with the Shelby’s having invited almost all of Small Heath to send their perfect boy off.

But there’s only so many ways to avoid your new husband on your wedding. And sleeping in a separate bedroom during your wedding night was not something your father or Thomas Shelby would let you get away with. That much you knew. You could count yourself lucky that the Shelby brothers weren’t listening outside the door.

Still, you refuse to turn away from the window. As just to pretend you haven’t been married off for a few more minutes.

John lets you have it. Your moment of peace. There’s a pause where he just stands behind you, finishing off his cigarette. Then he stubs it, exhales smoke and moves towards you. “Not even gonna look at me?”

Your eyes stay fixed on the dark glass, the street below long gone quiet. “I’ve seen enough.”

There’s a low huff of amusement behind you. “Have you now?”

He’s closer now. You feel it before you hear it. His body behind yours. The weight of him moving into your space like it’s already his to take.

“You stood there all day…in that pretty little white dress, yeah,” John continues.

He stops right behind you, sliding a hand up your waist. Your breath hitches, but you don’t step away.

“Actin’ too good to even spare me a glance…” he breathes into your ear. “And now you’ve seen enough of me?”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“Yeah, well I don’t ask for things. Still get ‘em.” He smirks again. “So here we are. Carryin’ my name, sweetheart.”

His grip on your waist tightens as he spins you around. You keep your eyes on the floor, refusing to meet his.

He catches your jaw with his free hand. “Eyes on me now, love. Go on—spare your husband a glance.”

You hesitate, then make yourself look at him.

His eyes are an icy blue, fixed on you in a way that makes heat crawl over your skin. Up close, you notice the freckles on his skin, the way his hair sits rough from the night. There’s hunger there, and something close to fascination just beneath it.

“Knew you could,” he mutters.

Heat blooms deep in your stomach, completely unwanted as you take him in, Boyish, unwavering, and yet seen more than people his age should.

“Wouldn’t have gone through with it, would I? Not unless you were the prettiest girl I’d ever seen.”

You try to turn your head away. His grip on your jaw only tightens. “Don’t be like that.” His head leans back slightly, taking you in. He nods, like something’s been confirmed. “Yeah.”

You frown slightly.

“You spent the whole night avoidin’ me,” he says, eyes flicking to your lips. “What, you won’t even dance with your husband?”

“You’re not my—”

“I am, though.” He pulls you flush against him. “You think I’m just gonna let that go?” He lets out an amused huff. “No, sweetheart…you owe me.”

And then he’s kissing you. There’s nothing gentle about it. Just heat and pressure stealing the breath from your lungs.

His lips are warm, softer than you expected. The way his lips press into yours…a little careless in how he presses closer, like he’s not asking, but deciding you’re already his.

You freeze for a second, and then you find yourself kissing him back. Wanting more of his touch. Of the way he tastes like whiskey, mixed with the faint lingering taste of smoke. You wrap your arms around him, deepening it.

When he pulls back, he presses his forehead to yours, his breathing uneven. “Funny that.” He brushes his knuckles along your face. “Kiss me like that… then pretend you don’t want it.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

He looks at you for a moment, like he already knows what you’re not saying.

He kisses you again, rougher now. His tongue presses at your mouth, and you let him in. Your hands sliding from his shoulders to his neck as you nip at his bottom lip.

This time when he breaks it, his grip tightens slightly as he turns you—slow at first, giving you time to stop him.

But you don’t want him to.

Your chest meets the cool glass of the window, and he’s already there. Crowding you, one hand braced beside your head, the other pulling you into him.

“Do you want me, love?” he murmurs.

His eyes flick down to your neck, and he brushes away the layer of veil, bending to leave soft kisses there.

You let out a sound as he marks your neck. You nod, unable to stop the way your body leans into him. The way you crave his touch.

He continues nipping at your neck, slower now.

His hands slide down your waist, lifting your dress just enough to get it out of the way, mouth still moving over your skin.

“John,” you whisper.

“Yeah…” he breathes against your ear.

His hand finds your jaw again, turning your head just enough. He kisses you like that. From behind. Deeper this time. He’s got you exactly where he wants you now.

His hand moves lower, over your hip, down to the back of your thighs, his fingers slipping between them, thumb pressing between your legs as he finds you already soaked for him.

“Knew it,” he says.

He slides a finger into your pussy, and you whimper. Your hips arch as he adds another, pumping them in and out. “Hmm John,” you breathe.

He pulls his fingers out, leaving you at a loss. You turn towards him. “What...? I—"

He’s already unbuckling his belt where he’s rock hard. He slides down his trousers, freeing himself. You look down, and your breath catches. He’s bigger than you expected, veiny, already leaking like he’s been hard a while.

His hand slides up your spine, pressing you into the glass as he drags himself against your slick. You gasp when his tip brushes against your clit.

“You want me to make you feel good, hm?” he asks, still teasing your entrance.

“Yeah… please.” You arch your hips further against him, chasing the contact.

“Good.” he says, pushing into you in one smooth motion. The stretch makes you gasp.

He stays still, breathing heavy against your neck, buried inside you to the hilt. “Fuck, I was right about you.”

You don’t have time to think about what he means as he slides out, and pushes back into you hard, forcing you further against the window. You moan and he takes it as a sign, gripping your hips hard enough to mark. He moves again, harder this time, setting a rhythm that knocks the breath from your lungs.

Your pussy flutters around him, chasing the movement. You see stars as he slams into your g-spot.

Suddenly he pulls out with a frustrated groan. The loss hits immediately, your pussy tightening around nothing.

“I want more,’’ you breathe.

“Patience, love,’’ he says, grabbing you roughly and flipping you onto the bed. He crawls over you, immediately working on the dress corset, undoing it as fast as he can. “Let me see you.” He finishes unlacing it, your tits spilling out and he immediately takes one into his mouth, massaging the other. Your hands find his head, pulling him closer as he sucks greedily, then switches.

His cock drags against your slick again. “I want to see my wife when I fuck her,” and with that he pushes in again. He groans, brow creased in concentration as he moves immediately, fucking you hard.

You arch and take his head into your hands, keeping him close, this time making him look at you. And there’s something deeper in his gaze than lust. Something he hasn’t admitted, even to himself. He rolls his hips into you again, pressure building deep in your core. “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

You respond by pulling him closer, squeezing him between your thighs, dress fabric everywhere.

It builds too fast to stop. Your pussy clenches around him as you cum, pulling him with you as he spills himself inside you.

“Fuck…fuck you’re so perfect,” he groans, still moving as he fucks his seed into you.

You’re both on your back, panting heavy. John turns his head towards you, and you see it in his eyes again. Satisfaction, underneath something deeper. The same thing you noticed earlier. “Wasn’t chance, this,” he says.

You blink, still too close to him, hand resting against his chest. “What?”

John’s eyes stay on you. The blue in them makes heat crawl up your neck, and you look away. He places his hand in your hair, making you look at him again. That boyish face. Those intent eyes. The soft spot he only has for you. It’s all there.

“Saw you first,” he mutters. “Garrison. Years back.”

You crease your brows—and then you understand. Years ago. When your family first moved to Small Heath and you went out for drinks with your new friends.

He had seen you. He had been watching you since.

“And when they started talkin’ about marryin’ you off…your name came up in it,” he says, like it’s nothing. “I made sure it was me.”

For a second, you just stare at him. Until it all starts to make sense. He didn’t just agree to marry you. He made it happen.

“You—” Your hand lifts before you can stop it, right towards his face. Nothing hard. Just a quick slap.

He catches it faster than you can blink.

His fingers wrap around your wrist, holding it there between you, his grip firm against your skin. He looks pleased, like he expected this.

“You serious?” you breathe, anger flashing now. “You did that?”

“Wanted you,” he says, shrugging, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Your mouth parts, you shake your head, trying to pull your hand free.

He doesn’t let you, instead, he moves closer against you, closing what little space was left, eyes dropping to your mouth like the argument’s already over in his head.

“You were gonna slap me for that, yeah?” he murmurs.

You glare at him. “I should.”

That only makes his mouth twitch.

“Mm.” His thumb presses lightly against your wrist, holding you there. “Or—”

He leans in, his forehead dropping to your temple, lips brushing just against it. “—you just want round two.”

Your heart speeds up in your chest. He sees it. The flicker of hesitation, mixed with want.

He kisses your temple, then your jaw, then your lips again. Slowly, like he’s memorising you. Then he starts working on the layers of your wedding dress, stripping you fully until you’re naked beneath him.

He kisses you again. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. And when he slides back inside you this time, it’s slower, like he’s taking his time now.

dividers: @dividers-are-us

tagging a few who might enjoy ♡ @opaliteraven @potter-solomons @tomhearty1 @maywritesromance @leereadsfanfiction @maywritesromance @sjuzn86 @theurbanmademoiselle @happy-booty

a/n: first time writing john shelby — i love this man🤭

#john shelby #john shelby x reader #john shelby x you #john shelby smut #john shelby imagine #john shelby fic #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #dark romance #arranged marriage #enemies to lovers #smut #female reader #one shot #joe cole #joe cole x reader #tommy shelby

My Girl

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.

#john shelby #peaky blinders #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fanfic #tommy shelby #arthur shelby #peaky blinders x reader #john shelby x reader

A SHELBY CHRISTMAS .ᐟ Tommy shelby x reader

(I know I’m late to this, but whatever there’s something about A Shelby Christmas that just feels so warm and comforting.)

“TOMMY, DID YOU GET the ingredients for the pie I’m making tonight?” you called out, hurrying through the vast house, your heels clicking sharply against the marble floors as maids passed you in a blur of black and white.

You reached the front door just as it swung open. Your husband stood there, breathing heavily, one hand rubbing tiredly at his face as he set the bags of groceries down. Behind him, the driver—Adam—followed, carrying three more bags with ease.

Tommy shrugged out of his coat and turned to you, his voice flat. “I got anything that resembled it.”

You groaned, the carefully rolled curls in your hair beginning to loosen as you lifted your arms to fix them again. They burned with the effort, refusing to cooperate. “Tommy, the one thing I asked you to get, and you couldn’t even manage that,” you snapped, already turning on your heel and storming toward the dining hall.