Apr 18, 2024
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Smash.
Sleepless Nights
Thomas Shelby x Pregnant Wife Reader
Summary: Thomas cares for his wife.
Wordcount: 2.3k
Warnings:
soft Thomas!, kissing, soft talk, lovely husband things.
Thomas prowls the grand corridors of Arrow House with a mixture of determination and unease. The mansion is a labyrinth of opulence, each corner dripping with the wealth he’s fought tooth and nail to secure. Yet, tonight, none of that matters. His mind is solely focused on one thing—finding his pregnant wife.
THE GIRL WITH PETAL SOFT HANDS | peaky blinders x reader
This is an imagine, I had it on wattpad but instead I’m going to post it here, so enjoy! I’m mostly going to write more like this.
ROBIN HART WAS BORN on a rainy night in a room that smelled of damp stone and boiled laundry. Her mother, Marianne, delivered her with no one but the midwife from the next street and a bottle of gin for courage. The windows rattled with wind; the ceiling leaked in two places; the kettle hissed as if angry at being ignored. Robin's first breath entered a world already tired of itself.
Marianne held her only once that night. She looked down at the tiny, red-faced bundle wrapped in a blanket someone had loaned her, and something unreadable flickered in her eyes—something between wonder and dread, like she was staring at a future she hadn't asked for. Then she handed the baby back to the midwife and exhaled shakily, muttering that the room felt too small.
From that moment, Robin learned life not through words or tenderness, but through the things her mother didn't say and didn't do.
As an infant, she slept in a drawer because there was no crib. As a toddler, she followed her mother to the laundry house, sitting quietly in the corner while women shouted over the steam. When she cried, Marianne didn't hold her—she simply bounced her knee rapidly, impatiently, saying "Shh, shh, stop it now," as if quiet could be commanded from a child who didn't understand why the world felt so cold.
Robin didn't learn to speak early, but she learned to observe. Eyes wide. Ears sharp. She watched the way people walked, how their shoulders told their stories, how hands twitched when angry, how voices tightened when lying. She learned the warning signs of danger long before she understood letters or numbers.
Her mother wasn't always cruel. There were mornings when Marianne braided her hair with careful fingers, humming tunes from her own childhood. There were days when she let Robin sit close while she sewed buttons onto shirts for extra coins. Sometimes, when she was very tired, she'd pull Robin onto her lap and rest her cheek in her daughter's hair, whispering, "Just tired... that's all... just tired."
But those days were rare.
More often, Marianne woke with shadows under her eyes and a temper sharp enough to slice through the air. She blamed the world for everything—men who lied, landlords who raised rent, factories that didn't pay on time, clothes that never dried fast enough, hunger that gnawed every night. And Robin, small and quiet, became another part of that heavy world.
When Robin was five, she found her first flower. A daisy near the canal, stubborn and bright in the mud. She plucked it with care and carried it home, holding it like something sacred. She placed it on the table beside her mother's cup, hoping—childishly, foolishly—that beauty might soften something.
Marianne glanced at the flower, then flicked it off the table with a tired hand, muttering, "What am I supposed to do with weeds?"
Robin retrieved it from the floor, dirt smudging her fingers. She didn't cry. She never cried. Instead, she tucked the daisy behind her ear and sat quietly on the floor, turning the stem between her fingers until petals fell like snow.
From then on, flowers became her secret.
They didn't yell.
They didn't grab.
They didn't abandon.
They simply bloomed.
By seven, Robin was wandering further from home, slipping through alleys and side streets, plucking any stubborn flower she could find pushing through cracks in stone. She learned the names from overhearing gardeners—daisy, heather, cornflower, buttercup. She whispered them under her breath like prayers.
Home became harder. Rent went up. Money went down. Marianne worked longer hours. Some nights, she didn't come home until Robin was already asleep; other nights, she came home too early—furious, shaking, exhausted to the bone. On those nights, the house felt like it was made of thin, cracking glass.
Robin learned to stay invisible.
If Marianne slammed the door, Robin slipped into the corner. If Marianne's hands shook, Robin stayed silent. If Marianne was too tired to cook, Robin went to bed hungry, curling up around the ache in her stomach like it was a blanket.
Sometimes, Robin woke to the sound of her mother crying into her hands. That sound scared her more than yelling ever did. She knew yelling. She knew anger. But sadness—raw, choking, endless sadness—felt like watching someone drown on dry land.
When Robin was ten, the first real breaking happened. She knocked over a cup, a small porcelain thing with a crack down its center. It shattered on the floor. Marianne spun around so fast Robin couldn't prepare. Her mother's fingers clamped around her arm and yanked, shaking her once, sharply, as if trying to rattle the mistake out of her.
Robin hit the wall.Her breath caught. Her arm throbbed for days. Marianne didn't apologize. She simply turned away, muttering, "Don't get in my way."
After that, Robin learned hunger better than she learned arithmetic. Her mother tried, in her own way, to keep them afloat. But the world swallowed them faster than she could claw her way up. There were days Robin ate nothing. Days she stole crusts from the back of the market. Days she scavenged rotten apples and cut away the bad parts, eating the rest in secret behind the coal house.
By twelve, she had grown into a thin branch of a girl—quiet, watchful, never complaining. She had stopped laughing years earlier. Her eyes held the emptiness of someone who had witnessed too much and understood too much for her age.
Her mother noticed the change sometimes, in moments of accidental softness.
"You're too quiet," she said once.
Robin just blinked.
"You used to smile more."
Robin couldn't remember that.
The night Marianne left was the quietest night of Robin's life. There was no argument. No explosion. Just a whisper of final exhaustion. Marianne sank onto the bed, face in her hands, and said, "I can't do this anymore. I can't raise someone I never meant to have."
Robin felt something inside her tilt—slow, painful, irreversible. She went to sleep with that sentence lodged in her chest like a shard of glass. When she woke at dawn, Marianne was gone.
No note. No explanation. Just an empty room and silence that rang like a hollow bell.
Robin waited four days, clutching the shawl her mother left behind. On the fifth, the landlady dragged her out, shoved her into the street, and locked the door.
Robin didn't cry.She simply walked away.
She found her patch of wild flowers behind the market—the only place she had ever known peace—and she sat among them until the sun went down, threading stems together with trembling fingers.
When night fell, she curled up beside crates, listening to the sounds of Birmingham closing its eyes, and whispered into the dark:
"You made it another day.
So will I."
That became her prayer. Her promise. Her survival.
Over the next year, she learned to move like smoke—quiet, unnoticed, slipping through alleys with her basket. She learned the markets, the garbage piles, the kind shopkeepers, the cruel ones, the shortcuts, the places where she could sleep without being kicked awake.
She learned speed—how to braid three crowns in the time it took Eliza Sharp to make one. Eliza, with her clean dresses and proper shoes, jeered at her from the safety of her uncle's stall. "Rag Girl," she'd call. "Your weeds won't sell."
Robin never answered.
She didn't need to.
Every crown she made was a piece of her—stubborn, fragile, beautiful in spite of everything.
And so she became the quiet flower girl of Birmingham. Emotionless on the outside. Bruised but unbroken on the inside. Carrying flowers like they were the last soft thing left in the world.
And on the day she wandered into the meadow and saw the Shelby family eating together in a rare pocket of sunlight, her basket half-full, her pockets empty, her stomach aching—
she didn't know that the life she'd been surviving alone was about to shift. She didn't know that Thomas Shelby would look at her the way no one ever had. She didn't know the world was about to change.
She only knew hunger. And flowers, And the silence she wore like skin. So she walked toward them. Toward the laughter. Toward the warmth. Toward a future she had no name for yet.
Barefoot. Steady. Unafraid. A ghost of Birmingham approaching the family who would one day rewrite her fate.
The Shelby family had chosen the far corner of Small Heath Park, where the grass grew longer and softer and the sounds of the city seemed to dissolve into the warm afternoon. The picnic blanket sprawled beneath them in a patch of weak sunshine, and for once, the world looked peaceful. Arthur lay on his back smoking, eyes half-closed as if daring the sky to bother him. John was wrestling little James into sitting still long enough to eat a sandwich. Katie sat cross-legged beside her father, plucking at her dress with bored fingers. Ada bounced baby Karl gently on her lap, whispering to him as Polly poured tea into enamel cups. Michael lounged, pretending to be disinterested while watching everything, and Finn tossed crumbs at birds half his size.
It was one of those rare moments when the Shelbys looked almost like an ordinary family.
And that was the moment Robin walked into.
She had been drifting through the park the way she always moved—quiet and unnoticed unless she wished otherwise. Her bare feet made no sound on the grass, her dress hanging loosely over her thin shoulders, her basket nearly empty except for the last of the flower crowns she'd managed to braid that morning. She wasn't looking for the Shelbys. She wasn't looking for anyone. Hunger led her more than thought did.
She spotted the picnic by accident. Or perhaps fate nudged her head slightly in that direction. They were the brightest spot of color on the field—laughter, warmth, food, family. A picture she'd seen only in windows and daydreams.
She hesitated. Her fingers tightened around the basket's handle. Sellers were meant to keep moving. To hover near crowds but never intrude. To accept rejection before a word was spoken.
But something inside her—something hollow and desperate and stubborn—pushed her forward.
She approached them silently. No one noticed her at first, not really. Arthur glanced past her like she was nothing more than wind. Polly, busy slicing bread, didn't lift her head. Tommy was leaning back on one arm, eyes narrowed against the sunlight, talking quietly to Ada about something that made her roll her eyes. They saw her like they saw every seller—by not seeing her at all.
Robin didn't speak. She never started with words.
She stopped beside Katie, John's eldest girl, who was roughly her age but worlds cleaner and heavier with full meals. Katie looked up, startled. Before anyone could react, Robin reached into her basket and, with a gentle precision, placed a crown of white wildflowers onto the girl's head.
Katie blinked. Her small hands flew up to touch the petals.
John exhaled sharply, already bracing himself. "Love, don't—"
But Robin was already moving.
She crossed the blanket with soft, unhurried steps toward Ada, who stiffened instinctively as Robin came closer with the second crown. Ada didn't want to frighten the girl away—didn't want to be cruel—but she also didn't want Karl grabbed at. Her voice wavered embarrassingly when she said, "Sweetheart... don't, we—Karl doesn't—"
Robin didn't even seem to hear her.
She reached out with careful fingers, lifted the crown, and set it on baby Karl's head. Karl squealed in delight and slapped his hands together, sending a petal tumbling into Ada's lap.
For a moment—just a moment—Ada's expression softened into something painfully tender.
Then Polly saw.
"Oh no," Polly said, under her breath but sharp enough to cut. She stood, her lips pressed into a hard line. "No, no, love. Not today." She plucked both crowns—the one from Katie, the one from Karl—and shoved them back into Robin's arms, firm, final, dismissive. "We don't want anything. Off you go."
The action was brisk, practiced. Sellers were dealt with quickly, cleanly. It was the way of things.
Katie frowned. Finn froze mid-crumb toss, his small mouth falling open. He looked from Robin to Polly, back to Robin, like he was watching a bird get struck out of the sky.
John sighed, a rough, irritated sound directed not at Robin but at his aunt's coldness. "Pol," he muttered, rubbing his face. "Jesus... you didn't have to—she's only a kid."
Robin stood still, the flower crowns now pressed limply against her chest. For a second, her fingers twitched as if gripping something sharp. She didn't blink. She didn't flinch. Her face remained smooth, flat, unreadable—emptiness carved into a young girl's skin.
She didn't look at Polly. She didn't look at John. She didn't look at Katie, who whispered a faint "sorry" under her breath.
She simply stepped back. Her bare feet made no sound. The crowns drooped in her arms. The wind lifted the hair around her face like it was trying, futilely, to comfort her.
She turned and walked away, slow, quiet, as if leaving didn't matter.
As if nothing had happened.
As if her heart weren't bruising under her ribs.
She did not see Finn wipe his eyes with the back of his hand and pretend it was the sun.
She did not see Arthur sit up properly, guilt wrinkling his forehead. She did not hear Katie whisper, "She didn't even ask for money..."
And she did not feel Tommy Shelby's gaze follow her.
He watched her retreat across the long stretch of green—the thin girl with the flower crowns clutched to her chest, shoulders drawn inward, hair drifting behind her like a torn ribbon. Something in the silence around her unsettled him. Something in the way she moved—too quiet, too knowing, too accustomed to being unseen—lodged into him like a splinter.
He watched long after the others had looked away. Long after Robin disappeared between the trees. Long after the sun dipped slightly behind the clouds. He watched because someone had to. And because something in him told him she had not come from a life where people watched over her at all.
Robin had learned to sleep without dreaming.
In the hollow of the coal chute behind the abandoned factory, there was no room for dreams. She curled in on herself like a bird hiding from the cold, knees tucked to her chest, breath fogging in the damp air. Black dust stained her hair, her arms, her dress. Soot buried itself in the weave of the fabric, in the lines of her palms, in the space beneath her fingernails.
She did not mind the darkness.
Darkness had never hurt her.
It was people who hurt.
When the dawn broke — barely a pale smear of light through the cracked wooden panels above her — Robin uncurled, stiff and slow, waking with the quiet ache of a child who had slept on stone. She pushed against the splintered boards, crawling out from the chute until her small body emerged, dusty and ghost-pale in the morning light.
The world was waking.
She had crowns to make.
She had to make them fast.
Her fingers, despite the grime, were gentle as she wove wilted stems into small circles. She scanned the ground for flowers that had survived the night — a stubborn daisy here, a shy cluster of bluebells there, the occasional bit of greenery she could braid into something resembling beauty.
Her hands worked with the memory of sunlight. Her heart worked with the memory of her mother's voice.
"Para. Money. You go. Sell."
She pressed her lips together — thin, pale, tight — and picked up the pace. The morning mattered. People were kinder in morning light. She filled the basket with uneven crowns. Some were crooked. Some were too small. Some were perfect, delicate things that made her chest warm for a fleeting second before the feeling dissolved again.
When the basket was as full as it could be, she stood, dust falling from her dress in little clouds, and walked toward the city streets.
She did not know that today Birmingham was not the same Birmingham she had known yesterday.
It started subtly — the shift in air, the tension, the far-off sounds of barking dogs. Then came the shouting. Boots pounding. Metal clinking. Carriage wheels grinding over dirt.
Robin paused, clutching her basket, blinking into the morning haze.
A crowd had gathered near the row of worn brick houses. A woman holding laundry rushed her children inside. A man muttered curses under his breath. Two drunks scattered like frightened animals.
And then Robin saw them.
Police. Hundreds of them. Marching in lines, rifles slung over their shoulders, batons ready. And at the front — a face she didn't recognize but instinctively feared. A man with a stiff jaw, severe eyes, a posture too rigid to suggest mercy.
Inspector Campbell. Robin didn't know his name, but she felt what he was.
Authority. Coldness. A man who would not soften for a child. The police shouted orders she didn't understand — words she could not shape in her mind. Homes were torn open. Doors smashed. People dragged out into the street. Women begged. Men shouted. Children cried.
Robin stood there frozen, confused. She took a slow step forward, thinking maybe— maybe it was a festival, like in Turkey when drums and dancing filled the streets. She remembered the clatter of plates, the music that spilled from homes, the joyful chaos.
This wasn't that.
A policeman grabbed a man by the collar, shoving him into a wall. Another overturned a cart of vegetables. Soldiers rifled through houses like wolves tearing apart meat.
Robin's brows knit. Her fingers tightened around the basket. She whispered softly, "Festival...?" The word sounded wrong in the air.
A policeman swung around, staring at her.
And in that second, Robin understood danger without understanding language.
She backed up. Slowly. Quietly, But the policeman barked something sharp, something angry, and stepped toward her.
She ran.
She darted between legs, weaving through the chaos like a shadow. Her breath was sharp, quick. Her feet slapped the ground, bare and stinging. Someone yelled behind her. Someone else grabbed for her arm but missed.
One step. Then two.
Then a hand — rough, hard — closed around her wrist. Robin gasped, dropping her basket. It hit the street with a soft thud.
Petals scattered.
Crowns fell apart, collapsing into ruined circles on the filthy ground, crushed beneath boots.
A policeman hauled her toward him. "Oi! Where d'you think you're running, eh?"
She didn't understand. All she knew was the fear of being held too tight.
Her eyes went wide. Tears blurred her vision — the first she had shed in months. Her voice broke as she tried, desperately, to explain in broken English.
"No— no! Not— not me. Just... flowers... I— I sell..."
He didn't care.
He shook her once, rough, her shoulder jolting painfully. His grip bruised her thin arm. Robin whimpered, breath trembling, tears finally spilling down her cheeks as she stared at her destroyed crowns — her morning's work, her food, her hope — stomped into mud.
She choked out a soft, broken Turkish plea.
"Lütfen... bırak..."
Please... let go...
He jerked her again, not understanding, not listening Just another street rat to him.
Robin felt something inside her crack. Something tender. Something she thought she had buried too deep to break again. Suddenly, another raid erupted behind them — shouts, noise, a loud crash — and the policeman released her to join the chaos.
Robin stumbled back, clutching her throbbing arm, chest heaving.
Her flowers lay in smeared, wilted piles. She let out a single, quiet sob — the kind that sounds like breath breaking.
Then she ran.
The streets blurred beneath her as she fled, darting through alleys where the smoke was thick and the air metallic. She looked for somewhere — anywhere — without police, without shouting, without the frightening hands.
The only place she found was the Garrison.
Men crowded inside, drinking away the morning raids, laughing too loudly, cursing too freely. But the door was open. The lights warm. No policemen inside.
Robin slipped through the doorway like a frightened kitten.
Inside, behind the bar, was someone she hadn't seen before.
Golden hair, soft curls pinned neatly. Clear blue eyes. A mouth shaped like kindness. A posture too graceful for this place.
Grace Burgess.
When she saw Robin — small, soot-streaked, trembling, clutching her bruised arm — she stilled instantly.
"Oh," Grace breathed. "Love... what happened to you?"
Robin pressed her back against the door slowly, shoulders shaking. She didn't try to speak. She just breathed shallowly, trying not to cry again. Grace came around the bar, kneeling slowly so she wouldn't startle her. Her voice was gentle as a lullaby.
"It's alright, sweetheart. You're safe here."
Safe.
Robin didn't know the English word, but she understood the tone. She relaxed just a little. Just enough for Grace to get closer. Grace reached up, slowly, carefully, and touched Robin's cheek with her thumb, wiping away soot and dried tears. Robin blinked hard, not used to softness. Then Grace noticed her hair — light brunette, knotted, matted from the coal chute.
"Let me fix this," Grace murmured.
She took an old comb from behind the bar, sat on a stool, and patted her knee. Robin hesitated... then stepped forward, climbing up carefully. Grace began re-braiding her hair, fingers gentle, patient.
"You're a brave little thing, aren't you?" she whispered.
Robin closed her eyes.
No one had touched her gently in a long time.
When Grace finished, she wiped Robin's face with a damp cloth, humming softly. Robin felt a warmth spread in her chest, strange and unfamiliar.
Grace stood and offered her hand. "Come home with me tonight, love. You can sleep somewhere warm."
Robin tilted her head, not understanding all the words — only "home," and "sleep," and "warm."
Warm sounded like something she wanted.
Grace touched her arm lightly to lead her.
Robin's breath stopped.
Her eyes widened — memories of rough hands, of being grabbed, of pain. Panic surged. Instinct took over.
She clawed at her arm, scratching hard, trying to break free.
Grace flinched back, shocked. "Oh! Oh honey, I won't hurt you— I didn't mean—"
Robin yanked her arm away and ran out the door, her heartbeat a frantic drum in her ears. Grace watched helplessly as she disappeared into the street.
The city quieted after the raids. Smoke settled. Dogs barked in far-off alleys. The moon hung low over Birmingham, pale and watchful.
Grace stepped out of the Garrison, locking the door behind her.
And there — at the end of the cobbled street — stood Robin.
Her basket hung limp in her hands. Her eyes were tired. Her dress was torn from running. She watched Grace like someone watching a candle in the dark — unsure if touching it would burn or warm.
Grace's heart ached.
"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered
Robin stepped closer, Not touching. Not speaking.Just close enough to ask without words: Can I come?
Grace didn't offer her hand this time. She simply turned slightly and nodded toward the path.
"Come on then," she said softly. "You can stay with me tonight." Robin hesitated for two breaths. Then followed her quietly, like a stray bird finally choosing a place to rest. And for the first time in a long while, the night didn't feel so cold.
The morning light crept softly through the small window of Grace's rented room, spilling over the wooden floorboards in a gentle wash of gold. Robin stirred first, curled tightly under the thin blanket Grace had given her, green eyes blinking against the brightness. The warmth was unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. She felt the hard edges of the night's fears soften just a little, though she still clutched the remnants of her basket close, as if it could shield her from the world.
Grace had already been awake, moving quietly about the room, lighting the small stove, preparing something simple and warm. The smell of porridge drifted through the air, mingling with the faint smoke from the kettle. Robin's stomach rumbled softly, and she pressed a hand against it instinctively, cheeks pink with both hunger and shame.
Grace knelt on the floor, setting a small bowl in front of Robin. "Here," she said softly, Irish accent curling gently around the word. "Eat a bit, love. It'll warm you up." She kept her tone light, patient, careful not to startle the girl.
Robin glanced up briefly, green eyes wary. She didn't say anything. Instead, she bent over the bowl, spooning porridge slowly into her mouth, savoring the warmth and the taste, the comfort of something simple. Her fingers trembled slightly, not from cold, but from tension—old habits of being afraid, of expecting hands to grab her, voices to shout.
Grace stayed seated nearby, her hands folded over her knees. She said nothing for a moment, simply watching, letting Robin take the lead. After a few bites, she spoke softly again, careful to keep her voice gentle. "Do you... go to school, Robin?"
Robin froze mid-bite, the spoon hovering near her lips. She hadn't expected a question, and the words felt heavy, foreign. She shook her head quickly, and then took another small bite, letting her eyes flick toward Grace for the briefest instant before returning to her bowl.
Grace smiled faintly, nodding as though she understood without needing more. She didn't press, not yet. Instead, she continued, quietly, like a gentle stream. "When I was your age, I loved school. Reading. Writing. Drawing. Did you like it?"
Robin chewed slowly, glancing at her from time to time. There was something in Grace's face—kind, patient, soft—that made her want to trust, but she wasn't ready yet. She only stared not understanding the words, Her fingers wrapped around the spoon as if holding on to a small lifeline.
Grace leaned forward a little, her voice dropping even softer, careful not to rush her. "You know, it's alright if you're not ready to talk. But I'd like to know you... if you want to tell me. I promise I won't make you do anything you don't want to."
Robin paused, spoon hovering in the air. The words were strange, and yet they carried no threat. She blinked, studying Grace's face in the soft morning light, then lowered her gaze back to the porridge. A small, almost imperceptible exhale escaped her, as if she had been holding it in for years.
Grace watched her carefully, giving her the space to decide. She didn't move closer, didn't reach out. She just smiled softly, letting Robin set the pace. The room was quiet except for the sound of Robin's small spoon scraping the bowl and the distant hum of the city beyond the walls.
Minutes passed in this slow rhythm, the silence growing comfortable. Robin ate steadily now, no longer trembling as much, though her glances toward Grace were cautious and measured, careful to see without inviting intrusion. She didn't speak, and Grace didn't push. They existed in that quiet space together, two unlikely companions, building a fragile trust with each spoonful of porridge.
Finally, Robin finished, placing the bowl down carefully. She looked at Grace again, a fleeting curiosity in her green eyes, and Grace met it with a soft smile. No words were needed. The morning was theirs, fragile but real, and for the first time in a long while, Robin allowed herself to feel something warmer than fear.
"I thought... maybe we could go out today. Just a little. You need some proper shoes, and that dress of yours... well, it's seen better days." She held the bundle up, letting Robin catch a glimpse of soft, neatly folded fabric and a small pair of leather shoes.
Robin's brow furrowed. She understood the meaning but not the intention behind the gesture. No one had ever offered her things without wanting something in return. She glanced down at the bundle, then at Grace, suspicion flickering across her face.
Grace crouched slightly, keeping her voice soft. "I won't make you wear it if you don't want to, promise. I just... thought you might like it."
Robin's fingers twitched around the blanket.
After a long pause, she reached out and lightly brushed the fabric, testing its texture. It was smooth and clean, unlike the rags she had worn for so long. Her lips pressed together in silent consideration. Finally, she nodded. Not much, just enough to signal agreement.
Grace's smile softened, and she held out her hand. Robin didn't take it. Instead, she picked up her basket of ruined flower crowns and followed Grace quietly through the streets, keeping a small distance, eyes darting to every passerby, every shadow. The warmth of the sun on her face felt strange, unfamiliar, and yet, comforting.
They walked in silence for a few blocks until they reached a small shop tucked into a corner, its windows fogged slightly with morning breath and the smell of fresh leather and cotton. Grace opened the door, holding it wide. "You first," she said softly, letting Robin step inside.
Robin hesitated, glancing around the warm, cozy interior. Shelves lined with folded fabrics, shoes polished to a gentle shine, and the soft murmur of the shopkeeper checking a ledger. She clutched her basket closer, scanning for any danger. Grace stayed back, giving her space, smiling reassuringly.
"Come on," Grace said gently. "Pick whatever you like. Just... something to wear."
Robin's eyes lingered on a simple cotton dress, pale blue with tiny embroidered flowers along the hem. She reached for it cautiously, fingers brushing the fabric. Grace nodded softly. "Perfect. And these," she added, lifting a small pair of sturdy leather shoes, "will keep your feet warm and dry."
Robin didn't respond. She only examined the shoes carefully, turning them over in her small hands, listening to the quiet shuffle of the shop. Grace watched silently, letting her take her time. Finally, Robin placed both the dress and shoes on the counter.
The shopkeeper gave a small nod, and Grace quietly handed over some coins. Robin's green eyes flicked up to Grace once, an almost imperceptible acknowledgment. Grace smiled. "See? Not so bad, huh?"
Robin didn't answer, but she allowed Grace to guide her to a small back corner where she could change. She slipped out of her ragged dress slowly, keeping her head down, the shoes already in hand. Grace knelt beside her, speaking softly. "No rush, love. Take your time."
When Robin finally emerged, the dress hanging gently around her small frame, the shoes snug on her feet, she paused. She looked down at herself, then up at Grace, who was beaming softly. There was no word for the warmth that filled Robin's chest, but it made her feel... less alone, less exposed.
Grace extended a hand, not touching, but offering a gesture of connection. Robin hesitated, then, slowly, allowed herself to walk alongside her, basket tucked under one arm. Together, they left the shop, stepping back into the sunlight. Robin's steps were cautious, her glances flicking at Grace, at the street, at the people. But she didn't run. Not yet.
The morning stretched gently before them. Birds chirped faintly, and the city's harsh noises seemed softer now, distant. Robin's green eyes occasionally lifted to meet Grace's, and in those brief moments, the girl allowed herself a flicker of trust. It was small, fragile, but it was there.
Grace whispered softly, Irish accent lilting in the quiet air, "You know, Robin... you don't have to be afraid of every person you meet. Some of us... some of us just want to help."
Robin glanced at her again, eyes sharp but less wary. She didn't answer, not yet, but she didn't look away either. And for the first time that morning, the warmth in her chest did not come from the porridge, nor from the soft cotton of her new dress—it came from the quiet, steady presence of someone who refused to let her face the world alone.
Together, they walked back toward the Garrison, the city alive around them, but the world for a moment narrowed to just the two of them, the cautious girl from Turkey, and the Irish woman who had offered her a small measure of safety, a new morning, and perhaps, slowly, a home.
Robin had spent the morning weaving through the streets, basket in hand, petals arranged neatly. The market had grown louder than usual; merchants shouted over each other, children ran past in dirty dresses, and the scent of fresh bread mingled with coal smoke. She crouched slightly behind a stall, timidly holding out a rose crown to a passerby, her broken English faltering with each attempt: "Flower... buy... pretty..."
Across the street, she saw Grace standing quietly near the Garrison, her posture alert as always, eyes flicking to the passersby. Robin's small chest tightened. She knew she was supposed to stay close, to watch and learn, not draw attention—but instinct, stubborn and untrained, pulled her forward.
And then, across the cobblestones, Thomas Shelby appeared. He stopped Grace, his coat dark against the morning light, a shadow that seemed to consume the space around him. Robin froze in place, tiny hands clutching her basket, watching. Grace's head tilted slightly, lips pressed together, alert and wary. Tommy's words were sharp, low, commanding, and though Robin didn't understand all of them, she understood enough to know that this was serious. Her green eyes widened.
For the rest of the morning, Robin trailed Grace, helping her run errands—fetching groceries from the market, carrying small parcels, tidying the shop, sweeping the floor, and even quietly arranging the tables and chairs at the Garrison when no one was looking. Grace had started to let her handle small responsibilities, and Robin had quickly discovered a pride in helping, a purpose outside of selling flowers. Yet, when Tommy entered the room or stood nearby, a strange tension coiled in Robin's stomach. His shadow, his presence, his rejection the other week—they had left her feeling small, unwanted, as if the world itself had already decided she didn't belong.
But today, something in her shifted. She couldn't explain it, only that the urge to assert herself, to prove she had value, surged inside her. She spotted Tommy standing a little distance from Grace, speaking quietly to someone else, and something daring, desperate, and reckless took hold.
Robin approached slowly, holding the rose crown out to him. She pointed at Grace, wide green eyes searching, a silent plea in her small stance. Grace's soft gasp barely escaped her lips as she froze, realizing what Robin intended. She opened her mouth, likely to stop her, but the girl was too quick, too determined.
Tommy cocked an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. Robin held the crown toward him, hope and defiance tangled in her small fingers. Grace's lips pressed into a thin line, a mix of frustration and fear. Robin didn't understand the words that would come next; she only watched the tones, the pauses, the weight in each gesture.
Tommy's expression softened just slightly, and he handed her a pound. Robin's face lit up with quiet triumph. Grace's eyes narrowed, frustration clear, but before she could speak, Tommy handed her four more pounds, crisp in his palm, the weight of the coins heavy in Robin's tiny hands. "For a dress," he said simply, and left, his shadow moving away across the street.
Robin clutched the money, cheeks flushed with pride and excitement. She had succeeded today. She had gotten something for herself, for her little life. But she didn't notice the glare Grace was giving her until later, when they walked back to the small house.
The tension inside the house was immediate. Robin set her basket down gently, her green eyes flicking at Grace nervously. Grace sat quietly by the table, drinking tea, a faint crease in her brow. She didn't know Robin's life before—she only assumed she was a poor girl whose family had abandoned her. To see Robin selling flowers, boldly and openly, even to a man like Tommy Shelby, startled her.
Grace's lips pressed together as she roughly set the soup and bread in front of Robin. "Never sell those again if you're going to live here," she said, voice firm and sharp. Robin's small green eyes widened, unsure, confused. She stared at her, not understanding the words, only sensing the sternness, the weight behind them.
Grace reached for the basket and shook it, shaking her head emphatically. Robin's heart sank. She looked back at the food, then at Grace, and finally at the basket filled with the coins Tommy had given her. Confusion, frustration, and a strange sense of betrayal rose up, curling tight in her chest. Why did Grace want her to stop doing the only thing that gave her money? Did she want her all to herself? Did she want her to earn more? What did she want from her?
The room felt smaller suddenly, the warmth of tea and the comfort of soup meaningless in the face of the rigid wall Grace had put between them. Robin's chest tightened. She slowly stood, snatching the basket from Grace's hand, clutching it to her chest. The coins rattled softly as she backed toward the door.
Without another word, Robin bolted, shoes striking the cobblestones hard and fast. Grace called after her, voice strained and urgent, but Robin didn't stop. Her little body ran until the Garrison was far behind, until the streets were unfamiliar and empty, until she reached the quiet of her small place behind the abandoned factory.
Robin dropped to the cold ground, the basket clattering beside her. Tears pricked her green eyes, and she buried her face in the petals, their scent and softness mingling with her sobs. The weight of the week, the confusion of Grace's anger, and the small triumphs of the day collided all at once. She cried until her chest ached, until the petals of the roses and daisies around her seemed to cradle her small, exhausted body.
The cool night air hit Robin like a slap as she ran, basket clutched tightly against her chest. Coins jostled inside, clinking softly, the only sound accompanying the rapid beat of her small feet against the cobblestones. She didn't look back, didn't listen for Grace's calls. Every step carried the sting of confusion, frustration, and a sharp, gnawing hurt.
She ran until the streets narrowed, until the familiar hum of the city dulled to a whisper. Her lungs burned, her legs ached, but she didn't stop. She needed somewhere quiet, somewhere safe. Somewhere away from the sharp tones of Grace's voice and the weight of her disapproval.
Her feet led her, almost instinctively, to the shadowed ruins of the old factory she had once claimed as a refuge. It sat hidden behind crumbling brick walls, a silent skeleton of a building where the wind whispered through broken windows and the scent of dust and decay lingered. Robin slipped inside, dropping to the cold, hard ground. She set her basket beside her and buried her face in the soft petals of the roses she had saved, letting them press against her tear-streaked cheeks.
She wept quietly, muffled sobs mixing with the rustle of petals. Her chest ached with a mixture of pride and despair. She had done something brave today—she had gotten Tommy Shelby himself to hand her a coin—but her reward had been Grace's anger. She couldn't understand it. She only knew that something about the words, the stern shake of the basket, had wounded her small heart deeply.
Hours passed. The moon rose high, painting the factory in pale silver light. Robin stayed crouched among the petals, her small frame shaking occasionally, exhausted from crying and running. Her green eyes, rimmed with red, stared at the shadows, imagining shapes and figures, as if someone might appear to comfort her. But the factory remained silent, indifferent.
Eventually, hunger pushed her to sit up. She opened her basket carefully, inspecting the coins Tommy had given her. One pound still jingled softly inside. She clutched it, unsure what to do with it, unsure whether it was hers or meant for Grace. Conflicted and small, she decided to save it. Perhaps tomorrow, she could try again. Perhaps tomorrow, the world would make sense.
Sleep came slowly, curled into herself among the petals. She dreamed of the market, of Grace's warm hands, of Tommy's shadowed eyes, of streets that had been hers and now felt strangely unfamiliar. Even in sleep, she felt the ache of loneliness, the longing for approval, and the faint spark of determination that had driven her to reach for the coin in the first place.
When morning broke, she woke to the faint light filtering through broken windows. The city had not stopped, even though she felt small and unseen. Robin knew she could not remain here forever. Hunger and the need for warmth pulled her toward the familiar—the streets, the smell of coal, the chatter of merchants. But she also thought of Grace, sitting somewhere quietly, likely worried, her sharp eyes scanning for Robin's small form.
Robin's fingers lingered on the petals as she stood, brushing dust and dirt from her dress. She set the basket on her arm, determined to keep it safe. Slowly, carefully, she began weaving through the streets again. She tried to stay low, keeping to shadowed alleys and narrow paths. Every footstep was cautious, every glance wary of anyone who might shout at her or push her aside.
By mid-morning, she found herself back near the Garrison. The sounds of the city were louder now, bustling with life, but the shadow of the pub felt like a small beacon. Robin paused outside, her small chest heaving. She didn't yet step inside. She wasn't sure she was welcome. She wasn't sure she belonged.
Then, she spotted Grace. The woman was carrying parcels, her posture upright, alert, graceful even in the mundane task of errands. Robin's small chest tightened. She wanted to stay hidden, but something—a pull, a tether she didn't fully understand—urged her forward. She approached slowly, keeping her distance, eyes on Grace's back.
Grace turned, her eyes sweeping the street, and for a brief moment, Robin froze. Would she scold her? Would she push her away again? Robin's hands tightened around the basket, petals brushing her palms.
But Grace only paused, tilting her head slightly, not calling out, not scolding—just waiting. Robin blinked, uncertain. The pull in her chest grew stronger, and for the first time since fleeing, she stepped closer, small feet shuffling, quiet but determined.
Her broken voice, barely above a whisper, escaped in Turkish: "Grace... I... sorry... I... no... no break... I just... I... need..." She trailed off, unsure, searching the woman's eyes for understanding.
Grace looked at her, lips pressed together, then softened slightly. There was no harshness in her tone now, only a cautious patience. Robin didn't understand all the words that Grace spoke in response, but she caught the warmth, the invitation to come closer, to be safe.
Robin exhaled, relief and nervousness warring in her chest. She stepped forward, basket clutched to her side, and followed Grace silently as they moved back toward Arrow House. Each step felt heavier than the last, not from fear but from the weight of her emotions—the confusion, the pride, the shame, and the flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, she had a place here after all.
The streets of Birmingham felt like a memory, a shadow that lingered in Robin's mind even as she wandered the polished halls of Arrow House. Fifteen now, taller than she remembered but still small for her age, Robin had learned to carry herself with the quiet confidence instilled by Grace and Tommy. She had not always been like this.
She had been the little girl weaving through the dirt streets of Turkey, then later the cobblestoned markets of Birmingham, basket in hand, petals carefully arranged, whispering broken English to strangers who often ignored her, pushed her aside, or laughed.
Her life had shifted dramatically the moment Grace had taken her in. Years before, Grace had lived in New York with her late husband Clive Macmillan, a gentle man whose kindness had shielded Robin, at least a little, from the harshness of the world. Robin had been small, timid, wary of voices and touches, but she had clung to Grace, the only adult who had treated her like more than a street child. After Clive's sudden death, Robin had followed Grace back to England, unsure what awaited her, carrying a small suitcase and a heart full of memories and caution.
And then came the news, Grace was carrying Tommy's child. It had been a whirlwind of confusion, fear, and hope. Tommy, already a formidable man in Birmingham, had asked Grace to marry him. The decision had been immediate and quiet, practical yet tender, and Arrow House had been purchased—a grand, sprawling house meant for a family, a statement of both their love and Tommy's growing empire.
The house was still unfamiliar to Robin, despite the months spent here. She had her room, her routines, and a place at the table, but the fear of being small, invisible, or unwanted never fully left her.
Her mornings were now structured yet comforting. She helped Grace in the kitchen, played with Charlie's toys, fetched items for Tommy, and sometimes ran errands through the market, though she no longer sold flowers. Charlie adored her, reaching for her whenever she entered a room, tiny hands clinging to her sleeves. Robin had learned to feed him, soothe him, and laugh quietly at his small discoveries. She loved him fiercely, though she often caught herself stealing glances at Tommy and Grace when they doted on him, feeling a flutter of jealousy quickly replaced by affection.
On this particular morning, the air inside Arrow House was heavy with excitement. Grace was hosting a dinner party to celebrate Tommy's rising status as a businessman and their engagement. Robin had been warned that tonight would be formal, full of guests and important faces. She sat on the edge of her bed, the silk folds of her light yellow dress pooled around her feet, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her mousy hair was tied in a ponytail, the top pinned with a neat bow, but the nerves gnawed at her.
Mary, the head maid, bustled about with practiced efficiency, brushing away stray strands of hair, adjusting collars, and whispering gentle reassurances. "Little lady, you look perfect," she said, straightening Robin's sleeves. "Head high, chest out. These people won't know what to do with your charm."
Grace appeared behind her, hand resting lightly on Robin's shoulder. "You've been through so much, Robin," she said softly. "Tonight, just breathe. Walk down the stairs like you belong... because you do."
Robin nodded, though her stomach twisted in knots. Even with months in Arrow House, she still wasn't used to these gatherings. In New York, Grace had taken her to balls and dinners, but those had felt distant, formal, almost untouchable. Here, it was different—the family felt real, the stakes tangible. And she wanted to do everything right.
Tommy appeared at the top of the staircase, his long coat dark against the warm glow of the chandelier. His gaze swept the room, then softened when it landed on Robin. She froze, small hands pressed together, heart hammering.
"You look... bright," he said, his low voice meant only for her. "Like the morning sun."
Robin blinked, nerves tangling with delight. "I did good?" she whispered, words halting, English tangled with Turkish accent.
"You did," Tommy said firmly. "Walk down, slowly. Head high. Don't let anyone make you small."
Her chest swelled slightly at the compliment. Carefully, Robin began her descent down the polished staircase. Each step felt monumental, her dress brushing softly against the railing. Guests paused mid-conversation to look, curious, polite, and Robin felt the familiar fear of being seen—and judged. But Tommy's nod, the quiet warmth in Grace's eyes, gave her courage.
At the bottom, she allowed herself a small smile. Grace whispered, "Well done, little miss." Robin's lips curved shyly, a small nickname she had given her through their time in New York.
The evening flowed in a blur of conversation, laughter, and polite clinking of glasses. Robin floated quietly between tasks—helping Grace serve small plates, arranging napkins, fetching items for Charlie—while keeping a watchful eye on the other guests. She was still unaccustomed to these luxuries, still shy among strangers, but she felt safe in the rhythm of the house.
It was then she met him, Isiah Jesus, one of Tommy's younger men. He was taller, older than her by a few years, and carried himself with the careless charm of someone used to command, yet his eyes softened when they landed on Robin. She froze slightly, cheeks flushing. Her broken English faltered, halting in bursts. "H-hello."
Then, in a moment of desperate clarity, she switched to Turkish, whispering softly, "Merhaba... ben Robin..." Her green eyes wide, nerves and excitement tangled together.
Isiah tilted his head, a faint smile spreading across his face. Somehow, he understood her tone, the emotion behind the words, if not the exact meaning. He crouched slightly to meet her gaze, amusement and admiration in his eyes. "Ah, you're... Robin," he said softly, warmth in his voice that made Robin's heart leap.
For the rest of the night, Robin felt herself slowly relax. She spoke occasionally in Turkish, gesturing, smiling, and Isiah followed along, teasing gently, laughing warmly. For the first time, Robin felt a connection with someone her age outside of Finn or Michael. Her chest lifted, nerves eased, and laughter—soft, sincere—escaped her lips.
Tommy watched quietly from across the room, observing his daughter-figure, his future bride, and the household he was building. Later, as Robin was making her way up to her room, he approached her quietly. "You're brave, Robin," he said lowly, voice only for her. "And clever. Don't let anyone forget that. Not here, not on the streets, not anywhere."
Robin's cheeks warmed, and she whispered a small, "Thank you Tommy." She felt the truth of his words sink into her chest. By the end of the evening, as the last guests departed and the house settled into the quiet hum of contentment, Robin sat in the nursery with Charlie in her lap, stroking his tiny hands, listening to his soft breathing. She thought of the streets she had once wandered, of the cold floors and hard baskets, of the loneliness and struggle. Now, the warmth of the house, the gentle hands of Grace, the watchful eyes of Tommy, and the laughter of a boy who thought she was delightful—this was her life.
Why is my timeline not filled with the news ?
This is groundbreaking
Life's warmth and deaths cold embrace
Rotten
˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ RED LIPSTICK ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
━━ you feel flattered when charlie shelby asks to marry you while your husband feels like he could strangle his nephew
word count: 2014
pairing: fem!reader x john shelby
warnings: none
The Shelby's were always your family.
From a young age, you had been a Shelby. Even though you weren't blood-related, they were more of a family than your actual family could ever be.
While you and Ada were nearest in age, you had always been closest with John.
It didn't matter whether you were two youthful teenagers messing around or two passionate lovers who tried to find their place in the world.
You and John had always been each other's priority.
So, it came as no surprise when you turned out being pregnant by John at the age of sixteen.
You and John happily married each other as Arthur walked you down the aisle.
The day that your first daughter had been born was the day that John vowed to you that he would grant you more children if that was what made you happy.
So, you had five more kids after Katie.
Even though your life was far from ideal, you still loved it with every fiber in your body.
John was an incredible husband. He was always faithful to you and constantly made an effort to spend as much time as he could with you and the kids.
A particular thing that he loved to do was to spoil you. Anytime you even merely glimpsed at a dress, the following day it would be hanging in your wardrobe.
You had frequently told John that he didn't have to purchase you expensive items, but he constantly said that he loved to do it.
Tonight, you were wearing a black dress that John had bought you for a gala that would be hosted by one of Tommy's business partners.
You were seated on the bench that stood in front of your bed as you slipped on your heels. A giggle escaped your mouth as you felt John's wet kisses on the side of your neck as he crept onto you from behind.
“John, we can't do this right now,” you said while your husband wrapped his arms around you.
“We can do whatever the fuck we want,” he muttered against the base of your throat as his hands roamed over your body.
You tilted your head back onto his shoulder, which gave him more access to your neck.
“Fucking hell, love,” John mumbled as a grin appeared on his chiseled face.
Just before he could get any further, you heard the door to your shared bedroom open, revealing your third-born son.
“Mummy! Tell Katie to stop putting makeup on me!” He cried out, entirely ignoring John who looked like he was done with his life.
John loved your kids, he really did. But he can't stop questioning why they won't ever leave the two of you alone for more than five minutes.
Fred ran over to you before leaping onto your lap as he buried his face into your neck, which John had been harassing a few moments prior.
“Bloody hell, Fred. What'd Katie do to your face?” John asked his son as he caught a glimpse of red lipstick smeared all over his face and a deep green eye shadow covering the lids of his eye.
“She put it all over my face!” He hissed while he attempted to conceal his face into your neck as deep as he could.
“That's not true, mum! He asked me to do it for him!” You heard Katie yell from her room while Fred settled down in your arms.
John let out a groan before getting off the bed to get a damp cloth to get the cosmetics off his son's face.
While he went to the bathroom, you caressed Fred's back soothingly which lulled him to sleep along with your consoling flower perfume which you had applied earlier that evening.
When John returned, you carefully turned your son in your arms before softly wiping the makeup from his face.
After having made sure that his face was spotless you stood up to carry him to his chamber while John watched you quietly.
You put Fred to bed before making sure that all of your other children were all safe and sound in their beds.
You kissed them all on their forehead as they told you a 'goodnight mum' before you switched off the light and made your way back to your shared room.
When you entered your room, you noticed John slumping against the headboard while he stared at the wall opposite of him.
“John?” You leaned against the door frame as he glanced at you before he clambered off the bed and made his way towards you.
Your husband tugged you into his taller frame while kissing you gently. He kissed the corner of your mouth before he lowered his lips to your jaw. When he reached your neck, he instantly pulled back as a disgusted look was present on his handsome features.
You furrowed your brows curiously as he stormed off towards the bathroom that was attached to your bedroom.
A few moments later you followed him only to see him holding his tongue under the water.
When he looked up at the mirror where he saw your figure, he gestured to his neck as the water got all over him.
“Gret hot uhin mahuh aw awe joh ek,” he mumbled as you frowned with a perplexed look on your face.
“What now?” John rolled his eyes before repeating the same sentence. When he noticed that you weren’t going to comprehend what he said, he turned off the water before turning to you.
“Fred got fucking makeup all over your neck,” he snarled, which made you look in the mirror where you glimpsed red and green lipstick stained on your neck.
“Oh,” you simply said before grabbing a damp towel to get it off your neck while John went to change his clothes so that he would look appropriate tonight.
After having scrubbed your neck, you made your way downstairs. John was already waiting at the front door with an adoring smile on his face as you put on your coat.
“You ready love?” You nodded at your husband, taking his outstretched arm before making your way to his car.
During the car ride to the Arrow house, you chatted John's ear off, which he didn't mind even if he whined about it.
Briefly afterward, you reached your destination before you made your way inside where the rest of the Shelby's stood.
“You're finally here! I was beginning to think that you two got lost,” Arthur exclaimed as he caught sight of you.
“Nah, the kids were being pissy,” John wrapped his arm around your waist, catching the lingering stares of the men who surrounded you.
You greeted all of your in-laws before going to stand next to Tommy, who was supervising Charlie.
“How's Charlie?” Tommy turned to you, allowing his eyes to leave Charlie for the first time that night, which provided him the opportunity to take off.
“He's alright. How're the kids?”
“They're alright,” you echoed, which made his lips turn upwards slightly.
“I-” Tommy was rapidly cut off as he noticed Charlie nearing the two of you with a cheeky smile on his child like features.
You scrunched up your face in disarray at Tommy's interruption before you followed his sight line and noticed Charlie.
The young boy had slicked his hair back with water and had requested Polly to make sure that he looked decent.
The two of you silently stared at Charlie as he cleared his throat before extending his arm out towards you.
“Dear Miss. Y/l/n allow me this dance,” you noticed that he resorted to using your maiden name and that he addressed you with Miss instead of Mrs.
You and Tommy shared an amused glance before you accepted his offer.
“Of course Mr. Shelby,” you took his arm, having to bent down slightly because he was five.
He chose a spot in the middle of the room before he turned back to you and made you pick him up so that you were in the same eye line.
“You look extremely beautiful. As usual, of course,” he rambled nervously with negligibly flush cheeks while you danced softly from side to side.
“Thank you sir. You look very handsome if you ask me,” you remarked with a kind smile on your face, which made him giggle giddily.
John had been searching for you for the past ten minutes after having closed an agreement with one of their business partners.
He had felt exceptionally pleased with himself and was thrilled to tell his wife about his triumph.
When he asked Polly about your whereabouts, but she told him that she saw you last with Tommy.
So now he was making his way to his older brother who was staring off somewhere with a fond smile on his face while Arthur was cracking up beside to him.
“Tommy, have you seen Y/n? Can’t find her anywhere,” Tommy and Arthur turned towards their younger brother before they swapped an amused look.
“Careful there John-boy little Charlie is planning to steal your wife,” Arthur laughed loudly which drew in some unwanted attention.
John furrowed his brows as he followed Arthur’s finger which was pointing at Charlie, who had enveloped his legs around his wife’s waist while she swayed from side to side with a smile on her face.
“That little fucker,” John mumbled under his breath as Arthur laughed even harder if that was achievable, and a small grin arose on Tommy’s face.
Polly and Micheal drew near the brothers, having noticed them by Arthur's loud laughing.
“What’s going on?” Tommy grinned at his aunt and cousin as Arthur was practically rolling on the floor, while John didn’t keep his eyes off his nephew who had caught his stare and smiled mischievously at him which only aggravated him more.
“My nephew is a real lady’s man,” Both Polly and Micheal glanced at Charlie who was kissing your cheek while maintaining eye contact with his furious uncle.
Micheal grinned slightly as the corner of Polly’s lips turned upwards in amusement.
“I swear if he doesn’t get his fucking hands off my wife, I will,” John declared angrily before you caught them all watching you.
You smiled sweetly at your family, which made your husband smile back at you while Arthur was trying to retain his giggles.
When the song ended, you put Charlie down before he led you back towards the Shelby's who were watching you with amusement shimmering in their eyes.
John quickly took you back from Charlie, which made the small boy frown before he turned to his father.
“I want to marry Y/n,” he simply spoke.
Your eyes enlarged while you gaped at him, Arthur got into another fit of laughter while your husband looked ready to annihilate his nephew.
“No. Absolutely fucking not,” John stated, which made Charlie roll his eyes at his uncle.
“And why not?” He questioned sassy.
“She’s already married to me,” John replied, Charlie, walked over to you and held your hand while the rest of the family silently watched the scene unfold.
“So? She can divorce you,”
“She’s too old for you. She could be your mother. Besides, she’s your aunt,” Your husband looked ready to pulverize him.
“But if you two divorce, then she won’t be my aunt anymore. And any woman older than eighteen could be my mother. Didn’t you get her pregnant when she was sixteen?”
Micheal choked on his drink, and you stared at Charlie with a perplexed look on your face. Polly was full-on grinning, while Arthur was turning red from the lack of air.
“Get here you little shit,” Tommy held John back as his son backed into you, looking for your protection from your husband.
“I think you should run before your uncle catches you,” you whispered to Charlie, who nodded before taking off into the crowd.
“Well, that was fucking amazing,” Arthur spoke before downing his drink at once.
©cupidsheqrt , 2022.
Michael Gray- Cryptic Pregnancy
This was requested! Hope you enjoy
"Do I have to?" I whine entering holding onto my husbands arm
"Yes. Your part of the family and this is a family meeting" Michael tells me
"I know, it's just I'm not feeling good today. I've been having cramps. I think my monthly is on its way" I sigh
"We won't be long" Michael tells me as we enter the betting shop where the rest of the family are waiting