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[garrisonsnug]

hey, just wondering how ur getting on with that shelby sister fic with the boxing ring from a while ago? no pressure, sorry if u weren't into it or something! i can totally request something more interesting!

omg first of all i’m 100% into it - don’t even say ‘something more interesting’ because it’s probably the funniest and most creative request i’ve ever gotten. i think that’s why i’m stressed about it living up to the ingenuity of your idea! as of now it’s about 3/4 finished in my drafts - i’m a bad combo of being a slow writer and very nitpicky with my own work. thank you for your patience though ♡

[garrisonsnug]

it’s 6 to 1 for option a! four messages and two replies. to the lovely person who preferred b - let’s be real, it’ll get written eventually because i’m hopeless. but hopefully a will be up in the next few days! 

help!

so i have two competing ideas for a one shot with tommy and i genuinely don’t know what i want to write, so help - 

a) tommy’s best horse is injured and - he’s convinced - cursed. polly remembers a little gypsy girl, connected to them through the boswells, who had a seemingly freakish healing ability. tommy travels to the country to meet her. said healer is no longer a little girl, but instead twenty-something, beautiful, and extremely suspicious of tom. country air and tarot cards and johnny dogs mercilessly ribbing tommy. 

b) on tommy’s trips to london he generally leaves the glitz of the nightclubs to his brothers. especially popular are the female dancers, who tommy passes over with a vague sort of disinterest. there is one, though, a little sharper, more wiry than the rest, who catches his eye. and then he starts hearing rumours that when the clubs close, you can find her in the boxing ring. champagne and bloody noses and all the smoke and sin of london.

please reply or jump in my inbox and let me know which one grabs your attention! i’m honestly torn between the ideas and i’m dying to write a romantic piece before i get back to the shelby sister ones. thank you!

[garrisonsnug]

help!

so i have two competing ideas for a one shot with tommy and i genuinely don’t know what i want to write, so help - 

a) tommy’s best horse is injured and - he’s convinced - cursed. polly remembers a little gypsy girl, connected to them through the boswells, who had a seemingly freakish healing ability. tommy travels to the country to meet her. said healer is no longer a little girl, but instead twenty-something, beautiful, and extremely suspicious of tom. country air and tarot cards and johnny dogs mercilessly ribbing tommy. 

b) on tommy’s trips to london he generally leaves the glitz of the nightclubs to his brothers. especially popular are the female dancers, who tommy passes over with a vague sort of disinterest. there is one, though, a little sharper, more wiry than the rest, who catches his eye. and then he starts hearing rumours that when the clubs close, you can find her in the boxing ring. champagne and bloody noses and all the smoke and sin of london.

please reply or jump in my inbox and let me know which one grabs your attention! i’m honestly torn between the ideas and i’m dying to write a romantic piece before i get back to the shelby sister ones. thank you!

[garrisonsnug]

Hi! if you're comfortable would it be possible to get a shelby sister imagine where she's very feisty, but her boyfriend is quite abusive and when the brothers find out everything goes to shit. i love the family dynamic you write! xx

done here! thank you for the request (sorry i didn’t really follow it to the letter!)

[garrisonsnug]

a note on this fic.

so this one was a little difficult. my main goal with my writing is to have storylines that readers can imagine taking place on the actual show - therefore i knew i wasn’t going to write a story that resembles a lot of other abuse h/c fics. a lot of those, even period pieces, give the characters very modern sensibilities, a third wave feminist understanding of domestic violence and a black-and-white moral assessment of the situation (i.e. let’s go kill your abuser, no questions asked.) often the plots of these fics sound like they’re referencing modern ‘how to help an abused family member/friend’ manuals.

obviously peaky blinders is set in post-wwi england. from this paper:

“It is possible – indeed probable, given more recent experiences analysed for elsewhere – that some men who returned to wives and children or to girlfriends had been seriously affected by war trauma ... They may also have suffered from violent verbal or physical abuse, the result of a man’s combat stress or experiences of violence and its results. But in the early twentieth century there were few institutions offering support for families in such circumstances and cultural pressures encouraged such problems to be kept within the family.”

in this context, i think it would be unreasonable for tommy to have a perception of domestic violence that would fly in 2018, especially since he doesn’t have a good track record with putting women in danger himself (handing grace to billy kimber, lizzie at the races). i don’t think he would ever hit a woman, but he certainly isn’t the most sensitive to gendered violence. add to that a sort of grief for a former friend, and you have the tommy i’ve written. he’s experiencing a slew of conflicting emotions, but the strongest one is the desire to protect his sister and anger at her partner for hurting her. still, he does not immediately take nick up on his violence, nor does he properly help his sister.

then there’s polly. i know polly would be much more sensitive to the warning signs, as would ada - simply on account of them being socialised as women. as a mix of her past experiences with abuse, the way she talks about them on the show, and again the context, i feel that polly is more ‘matter of fact’ about abuse than we would consider acceptable today. she doesn’t blame her niece in my story, but also doesn’t rush to comfort her, insist it wasn’t her fault, etc. - things we would consider standard practice now. 

ada would be the most modern/radical of the family on this issue, probably having just read a bunch of engels. i should probably write an alternate ending where she kills the bastard herself. 

anyway, i don’t expect anyone to read this - it’s mostly just me hashing out my reasons for characterisation. if you have read it, i hope you enjoyed the fic and understand the way i wrote it. feedback is always appreciated. 🖤

[garrisonsnug]

the tide of his breathing // shelby sister

warning for depictions of verbal & physical abuse within a relationship, plus troubling reactions to it. see this post for more detail (with spoilers).

'alright, fuck off. that's all in for this round. john? y'hear?'

you swallow the rest of your whiskey, laughing at john's pout, and slide your empty glass towards tommy. he raises his eyebrow but pours you another, and you can tell he wants to smile. he's gone quiet, the way he does when he drinks. if anything, the whiskey seems to sober him up nowadays.

you, john, and arthur are the polar opposite. between the drink, the poker and the two lines of snow, the smallest thing is enough for the three of you to be bent double, cackling and clinging to each other so you don't fall off your chairs.

arthur claps you on the shoulder as you push the remainder of your money into the centre of the table. 

'god, it's a laugh with you around. you never stay this late on a friday night. like you're observing a fucking holy day, usually.'

you grin and pull his cigarette from the corner of its mouth, taking a pull. 'except it's not friday, you lug. it's still thursday. i think you're on too much of the good stuff, art.'

john sputters with laughter, but tommy clears his throat as he counts coins into the pile. 'it's friday night, i'm afraid,’ he says. ‘i’m not surprised the days go quickly when you work like you do.'

the warmth of the whiskey in your belly turns to ice, and you cough around a mouthful of smoke. 'no, it's - you're fucking me around, you are.' arthur and john are too far gone, laughing at your thinly veiled panic, but tommy narrows his eyes.

you stand up from the table, chair clattering. 'i've got a fucking early morning tomorrow. i'll see you later.'

'your fucking money, mate!' john calls, but you're already turning on your heel. you wave a dismissive hand at them, barely remembering to pull your coat off the wall before stepping into the biting wind.

three in the fucking morning. fuck, fuck, fuck. as you rummage through your purse, you stop and take a deep, shaky breath. if you're going to do this, you have to be quiet. no use shaking so badly the key wakes him up as you let yourself in. if he's asleep, that is, and not sitting up waiting.

you hold your breath as you step over the threshold and climb the narrow - old, fucking old and noisy - stairs, and don't let it out until you're standing at the top. from here you can make out the shape of nick in the bed, the side of him gently rising and falling with what looks like the rhythm of sleep. in careful silence, you slip off your coat, shoes and hat, placing them over the nearest chair. deliberating, you look from the bed to the loveseat. if you climb into bed it might wake him, but sleeping on the lounge will be hard to explain in the morning. fuck's sake, this'll all be hard to explain in the morning.

'decided to show up, did you?'

your heart sinks. you close your eyes and take a long, uneven breath. 'hello, darling. sorry to wake you.'

'can smell the drink on you from here.' he still hasn't rolled over, his body a dark and anonymous shape in the bed. 'and the men.'

'haven't been with any men, nick. just my brothers. and i'm sorry for staying out so late.'

he gets out of bed then, throwing the covers aside and crossing the room to confront you in three burning strides. 'how do you think it fucking feels,' he fumes, 'to come home, and find this place cold, and empty, with no fucking food on the table?'

his face is inches from yours. your fists are hard, shaking with the tension in them, but your face threatens to crumble. 'i'm sorry.'

'that's all i ask. is it too much? is it?'

you stare determinedly at the floor, silent, trembling. the slap comes quickly from his left hand (southpaw, your brothers used to call him, used to laugh, when it was different), blood flowing to your cheek and stinging hot with pain. your hand instinctively goes to your face but he knocks it away and takes your chin between thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look him in the eye.

‘no, it isn’t, nick.’ you hate the way the words sound, watery and thin. you hate that you say them every other night. 

the bruises are never where your brothers can see them. dark, purplish fingerprints along the softest part of your upper arm. fading brown-green mottled across your ribcage. a seething red welt striped across the back of your thigh, the one that had you on your feet all day.

the betting shop in the morning. the easy distraction of the numbers, the endless chatter of the men there. esme’s sly, catlike smile when you indulge her and listen to her gossip, offering tuts and nods and input when she expects it. it’s a routine - comforting, distracting enough that you don’t dwell on the wince of pain when you bend the wrong way or move too quickly. 

nick doesn’t come around anymore, doesn’t see your brothers. he used to, before the war. now he’s at home or at work. he’s changed, is your explanation. it hurt him.  repeated so often it feels like a mantra. he’s changed, he’s changed, he’s changed. he’s different, now. like you, tom. 

they don’t ask many questions. there’s always polly’s watchful eye, the arch of one brow as you head home for the evening. 

‘never expected anyone to make a housewife out of you,’ she told you once. 

you had laughed uneasily as you pulled on your coat, paused in the doorway. ‘i don’t mind it, pol. he needs someone to look after him.’ 

she didn’t say anything, but the look on her face stayed with you for the night.

there are times when you think it’s going to unravel. the night you drop the bottle of gin and it smashes across the floor, the smell of it astringent, clinical, and without thinking he splits your lip with a crack of his left hand. the blood is hot on your chin, running between your fingers. it shocks you both, nick so badly that he apologises. it was an accident, lovely, i’m sorry, i wasn’t thinking.

and you tell everyone as much the next morning. an accident. nick and i were drinking gin and i tripped, can you believe it, the dresser has a nasty edge on it. sell it with an airy laugh, as if you can’t believe yourself. polly is gone for the week, thank christ. the woman’s a bloodhound for lies, but by the time she returns your lip will have scabbed over, ready to be painted with lipstick and ignored resolutely. 

what you don’t anticipate is ada. something strictly financial, apparently. something that tommy would normally visit london for - but london hasn’t been a safe place for tom for a while, now. she walks in looking more tired than anything else.

you go to hold her, to press your lips against her cheek and ask her how she is, but she stops you at arm’s length.

‘fucking hell, what happened to your lip?’ 

the story is so well-rehearsed, so fine tuned, that you let the room tell it for you. scud, mostly, esme chiming in to laugh about your clumsiness. you smile self-deprecatingly and shrug at ada. she shakes her head, draws you in and hugs you hello, but her face is fixed in an expression that unsettles you. 

your small mercy is that she hates being here, and wants to keep her visits short. it’s when she’s leaving tommy’s office and collecting her things that the door clatters open and arthur walks in with a cry of ‘ada!’

at the sudden, thunderous noise your heart rises into your throat and with a sharp inhale you drop the books you’re carrying. they land askew on the floor, loose papers strewn everywhere. you give a shaky laugh and apologise to no one in particular as you gather them. arthur barely seems to notice as he crosses the shop floor to greet your sister.

you look up in enough time for your stomach to drop as you see ada turn on her heel back into tommy’s office, glancing back at you fleetingly. 

‘how long?’

tommy’s eyes are his only tell. the rest of him - the line of his mouth, his shoulders - is sober and businesslike. but the eyes flare. ada stands by his desk, arms folded, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. 

‘how long what, tom?’

he glances to ada and then turns his stare back to you, meeting your eye with an unwavering steadiness. he wants you to cave, to back into denial without him ever having to say it. you stare back, feigning confusion. 

‘oh, for fuck’s sake,’ ada fumes. ‘how long has he been hitting you?’ there’s a righteous anger about her, but also a worry that splits it down the middle.

you scoff. ‘if you’re talking about my lip, i told you -’

‘out there, the way you jumped when arthur surprised you,’ ada says. ‘we are from the same family, you know. you used to be impossible to frighten.’ 

you think of being six, nine, thirteen. of your brothers - john, mostly - hiding behind doorways and in closets in their endless mission to shock you. they would have tired of it quicker if it hadn’t been for your reaction. you would turn flatly, without even a whisper of a scream, and box the offending sibling around the ear if they weren’t fast enough. it became a game, a competition, to make you lose your nerve. funny that, years later, nick finally won. 

your silence has given you away. tommy silently opens a drawer in his desk and takes from it a knife, small, pearly-handled. nearly feminine. you wonder if it’s something of polly’s. 

‘part of me wants to wait for him in his house and slice him open,’ he says simply. ada makes a slight noise of agreement. ‘but this is yours. he touches you one more time, you bury it in him.’ 

the silence in the room, tommy holding the knife by the blade, outstretched towards you - it all seems to make time waver. you wonder why he hasn’t already killed nick, on suspicion. perhaps something in him wants to believe your stories. you think of the two of them, seventeen, laughing. he was the one who introduced you to nick, who tacitly approved your engagement in lieu of your father. you sense, in tom, a difficulty in reconciling the nick that came home from war with the nick he knew. there’s an irony in that.

you sleep with the knife for a week. you touch it, sometimes, the cold handle and sharp reassurance of the blade. but, more than a comfort, it’s a reminder that you’ll never really bring yourself to use it. a reminder that the war changed the blood that runs through tommy’s veins, same as it changed nick’s, and left yours with a weakness. 

it’s polly you collapse into. you tell her when she returns. tell her everything, like a bloodletting. your ribs smarting from last night’s beating and the tender spot where the knife is tucked into your belt, pressing against them. she simply listens, silent behind her desk, raises an eyebrow when you pull your skirts up and show her a boot-sized swell of bruise on your thigh. 

‘but i can’t do it, pol. i can’t be the one,’ you tell her. your face is hot with tears, your nose running. she hasn’t seen you this way since you were eleven. ‘he’s - i think about the man he used to be, and i - he’s made me weak. he’s made me so fucking weak.’ the last syllables choked out in sobs. 

that’s when polly quiets you, drawing a deep breath. ‘weak, no. enduring this for so fucking long - it’s certainly something. but not weak.’ her voice is less terse when she speaks again. ‘i would say i don’t know why you didn’t leave him earlier, but i do.’ 

you wipe your face on your sleeve. you’re not quite sure what to say, so you thank her. she smiles grimly. 

‘i hope you know that when you leave this room, i’m making a few calls.’ 

you nod with a sniff. you didn’t expect anything less. it was part of both the fear and the desperation to tell her. as you turn to leave the room, she calls your name.

‘stay at mine for a little while, love.’

two days pass, and then thomas presses a set of keys into your hand one morning as you enter the shop. you meet his eyes. you want to ask, and you don’t. 

‘this one’s the front door,’ he says, pointing to the largest key. ‘there’s the bedroom, and that’s the pantry.’

you nod, closing your fist around the keys. he stays silent for a moment, and then places a hand on your shoulder.

‘i’m sorry.’

‘thank you, tom,’ you say, and you mean it. for what he’s done, and for the apology. for the house, which he’s pulled out of god knows where. 

he clears his throat. ‘i can drive you to the new house, if you like. show you where it is.’ 

you consider saying no, not yet. almost ask him to take you to the old house, a skeleton of a thing now, empty of the horrible pulse of your relationship that made it a comfort and a prison. but you know that this is rare for tom. that he might be feeling the same as you, confused and freed and grieving all at once. 

‘that’s a good idea, tom. cheers.’ 

you fish into his pocket to pinch a cigarette on the way out, and he elbows you gently, and you laugh. a real laugh. 

[garrisonsnug]

it's christmas morning here in australia, so i figured i'd drop a note to say merry christmas ❤️ due to some unexpected family shit going down, the past few months have been very hectic for me and i haven't had much time to write. thank you for your support, requests and compliments, and i promise you the next piece isn't far off at all! have a lovely holiday season everyone ❤️

[garrisonsnug]

no pressure or anything, just wondering if you're gonna post anything fun soon? :)

hey love, thanks for checking in! i have about half a dozen requests at the moment, some are serious but one in particular is extremely funny (centred on a shelby sister in the boxing ring). i know they’re far and few between but i promise i’m working on them! x

[garrisonsnug]

Could you do one where the boys actually really upset their sister by still treating her like a child? And then they maybe start to realise she isn't so little and innocent anymore? Much love x

filled this one here, though i did combine it with another request because it more or less follows the trajectory of all the shelby sister stuff i’ve written so far. thank you for your request and sorry it took so long!

[garrisonsnug]

here to hit you up with another Shelby sister request, because damn. They are so good. Polly gave sis permission to take point on a business meeting with Tommy along just in case. Tommy isn't having it and embarrasses her when she's trying to make a deal. So she decides to take revenge and steals his beloved car for a drive but like crashes it and they have a screaming match in the street or something outrageous like that.

filled here! thank you for the feedback and the request, and sorry this one took forever!

[garrisonsnug]

a woman soon // shelby sister

‘remember,’ tommy says. ‘don’t stay any longer than you need to. keep it direct, keep it light -’

‘tommy,’ you reply, glancing over your shoulder as you climb out of the car, ‘you’re just my driver today, remember?’ 

it had been four days ago that polly had taken the phone call from liverpool. a mrs edith shelby, apparently distantly related by marriage, politely enquiring after a representative of shelby brothers limited.

you were lucky it was polly, with her carefully guarded manners, who answered the phone. apparently, the woman had no idea of the true nature of the shelby business, and sought only to reconnect with estranged relatives. hopefully reconnect in the financial sense.

‘it has to be bullshit,’ you’d said after polly relayed the conversation. ‘dad’s side is all travellers, anyway. not old money in bloody liverpool.’

‘she never said she was old money,’ polly corrected. ‘didn’t sound it, anyway. besides, it is possible. all those cousins, it’d be a wonder if none of them married above their station. very good talkers, you shelbys.’

you laughed at the last comment as she raised an eyebrow at you. ‘fair enough. what’s the plan, then?’

tommy ashed his cigarette and cleared his throat. ‘i’ll take the car up on friday. john can come, too.’

‘nonsense. you’re forgetting your sister,’ polly replied, unimpressed. you blinked, surprised, but didn’t say anything as polly continued. ‘do you really think this woman wants a couple of men with no table manners showing up at her door?’

‘fine then, polly - you can come.’

‘you’re taking your sister,’ poll said firmly. ‘and not only that, but she’s doing the talking. this isn’t about intimidation, thomas. someone needs to sweeten this woman up, and it sure as hell won’t be you.’

‘so i’m supposed to gather dust in the fucking corner, am i?’

a smirk tugged at the corner of polly’s mouth. ‘you can say you’re the driver.’

on your way out on friday, polly had given your shoulders a squeeze. ‘don’t do anything i wouldn’t do,’ she warned, ‘and don’t let him run the show, alright?’ 

edith shelby can’t be older than forty. she perches in lilac, the pretty fixings of her sitting room drawn up around her, hands folded in her lap. 

when the maid led you through the foyer of her stately liverpool townhouse to greet her, tommy trailing behind, she had leapt from her seat and beamed a welcome. she had complimented your dress, taken a lock of your hair in her hand and mused about the colour in a surprisingly forthright, though not unwelcome, way. she barely gave tommy a second glance, briefly mentioning to you that your driver was welcome to take a seat in the corner, there, they normally wait in the car but perhaps it’s different in birmingham and besides it’s getting quite cold, isn’t it? 

now, the two of you sit quietly but amiably as the young maid pours tea. it isn’t until she’s closed the sitting room doors behind her that edith speaks.

‘i was so thrilled to hear there were shelbys down in birmingham. after my roy went to god, well... he never told me much about his family. i just knew it was big. i’ve been trying to make contact here and there, but never expected such a successful business in the family name.’

you haven’t the faintest idea who roy shelby might have been, besides a cousin somewhere far in the reaches of your family tree. you simply smile and add, ‘the most successful betting company in the city.’ 

as edith goes on, beginning to drop words like shares and invest into the conversation, you feel a growing sense of unease. there’s something a little off about the whole situation - maybe her accent, occasionally dipping out of clarity. maybe the looming, closed doors at the end of the room, the kind that keep noise out - or in. you keep up your polite nods, but squeeze your purse where it sits on your lap, and the feel of your pistol inside it is reassuring. you don’t entirely trust this woman, but you’re not about to give up on what could be a lucrative deal. 

‘- so of course, you could expect an increase in assets over time as i become more secure in the knowledge that your business practice is sound and your profits satisfactory.’

‘edith - mrs shelby - pardon me for asking,’ you begin, steeling yourself by thinking on polly’s quiet confidence in you, ‘i wonder why, exactly, you’re making such a generous offer.’

she startles at that slightly, and glances momentarily towards the closed doors. ‘because i knew what a terrible shame it would be for me to never connect with roy’s family - though it took his death for me to realise that. and i approach you through business because i know it’s a mutual expertise.’ 

‘right. well, before i can consider an offer i’d have to know more about your own experience -’ 

wood scrapes against wood behind you as tommy stands, clearing his throat. you freeze, and edith looks suitably alarmed. ‘you want to talk business,’ he says, striding over, ‘you want to talk with me. thomas shelby, owner of shelby company limited.’ 

he offers his hand and edith takes it hesitantly, looking to you as if she expects you to explain the joke. you can feel your cheeks flushing furiously, and hate yourself for it. 

‘tommy -’

‘this one here’s the baby sister,’ he says fondly. you grit your teeth against a litany of foul language that wants to come out. ‘we like to let her stretch her legs occasionally, give her a bit of experience. but it’s hardly fair to send out the amateurs to someone of your gravitas, edith.’ 

you can feel your blush raising to your temples as edith relaxes visibly and begins to almost totally ignore you. tommy talks smoothly, comfortably, and you think with a spark of annoyance that if you had conducted yourself in the same forward manner you wouldn’t hear the end of it for weeks. after what must be ten minutes, you excuse yourself to the washroom and instead head outside, waiting stubbornly in the car and shivering in the cold. 

‘i’m going to start charging interest on my wages for every time you make a fucking fool out of me, thomas,’ you say quietly. it’s the first thing that’s been said since you left edith shelby’s house, and tommy looks quietly bemused. 

‘three thousand pounds over the next nine months, since you didn’t ask,’ he says. ‘potential for expansion into liverpool, if we can feel for how comfortable she is with some underhanded deals.’

‘you don’t think i could’ve secured the same deal? something better?’

‘you were treating the thing like a fucking police interrogation. sometimes i think you’ve got it, you know, and then i realise you’re as young as you look. just playing at the real thing.’

‘because it was suspicious, thomas. polly would’ve done the exact same thing i did, and you know it. it’s not my age. it’s the way you throw yourself into these things -’ 

he takes a last drag of his cigarette and flicks it out of the car. ‘i think you’d better go back to the shop for a few months,’ he says, gently. you feel the hot sting of tears behind your eyes and will them back. 

‘- she’ll grow into the work, one day, but she’s not there yet. reminds me of those fourteen year olds in the trenches, too small for their uniforms.’ 

your older brothers are sitting around the table in the betting shop, smoking and occasionally laughing easily. you go to storm past them but john catches you with one arm around your waist and pulls you to the table, laughing. 

‘don’t take it too hard, now, our kid’ he says, and arthur chuckles into his drink. ‘there’s lots of important stuff to be done here, while you’re young. polly’s sure to give you another go after your next birthday.’

‘oh, fuck off, john,’ you spit, pulling away. ‘it’s not like your bollocks ever dropped to begin with.’ 

he tips his head back and laughs, a reaction which only makes you angrier. 

‘alright, alright,’ tommy says -  his tone steady though he can’t hide a smirk - ‘leave her be. you off to see some friends at the club, then?’ 

‘something like that,’ you mutter. you think of tommy’s beloved ford, sitting sleek and dormant down by the farrier. no harm in not mentioning it. not much damage a kid can do, anyway.

thin smoke furls around you as you peer into the slightly crumpled bonnet of the car. the headlights are smashed and they glitter in the settling dusk, throwing light off the wheels, all slick with rainwater and pushed out of alignment, skewed at funny angles. tommy keeps a box of tools under the seat, you remember. grimly, you balance your umbrella on one shoulder and fumble one-handed for anything that might help you straighten the wheels. 

‘can i help you, miss? call the repairman for you?’ 

‘no, thank you,’ you smile thinly, turning to meet the coal-smudged face of a man on his way home from work. ‘that’s very kind, but i’ll be alright.’

‘are you injured?’

‘no, not at all, though i expect my brother will see to that when i tell him.’

as you say that, a flash of recognition passes over the man’s face. he nods curtly, still wearing a charade of a smile, and quickly continues to make his way down the street. others, who you assume have recognised either you or the car, give you a wide berth. no one wants to be the one found elbow-deep in thomas shelby’s battered car, you suppose. 

speak of the devil. you hear your name called - the sound of it like a military command - from up the street. when you turn, tommy is storming towards you, the rain slicking his hair down and making his overcoat as dark and shiny as a spill of oil. he calls your name again, once, short and furious. 

‘tommy -’ 

his hand closes around your upper arm and he wrenches you away from the car, pulling you back up the street. your umbrella clatters to the ground and you’re drenched within moments. his breath comes in the quick, angry movements of a man who’s been running. 

‘thomas, the car -’

‘never mind the fucking car, someone can collect it later. are you hurt?’ the question sounds like a formality - there’s only a shade of real concern in his voice.

‘no, but -’ 

‘good. then what the fuck did you think you were playing at?’

with a burst of effort, you yank yourself out of his grip and stagger backwards. the two of you are standing in the middle of the road, his gaze burning into you. all the people on the street have ducked into buildings - a combination of the rain and his presence - but curious faces remain at the windows, eager to see if shelby family business is about to get hashed out in public. 

‘playing at - because that’s all it ever is, isn’t it, tommy? because i’m just a little girl and you never have to take me seriously, lighten up, tom -’ you can feel your voice rising, but it remains sharp, not fogged by tears like you were worried it would be. 

‘i’ll take you fucking seriously when you stop doing something like this every time your pride gets wounded!’ his voice rises too, not to match yours but just enough to be heard over the hiss of rain on cobblestone.

‘it’s always next time with this family! you’d rather send me off somewhere quiet so i can live like ada. a fucking rat in a cage, she is, and you’ve made her that way.’ 

‘sometimes i do think you’d be be better off in london, keeping her company. then i’m halfway to a fucking heart attack thinking of all the trouble you could get into down there.’ 

‘i’m sick to death of being a fucking problem for you, tommy. a problem instead of a sister.’

he swears under his breath and then closes the distance between you again. he takes your wrist and tugs you along like a scolded child. it’s then that you both realise your hand is coated in blood, a bright scarlet that replenishes as quickly as the rain can wash it away. 

‘you’re hurt,’ he says, almost accusingly. 

‘it must have been the glass on the headlights, or something. i didn’t even feel it, tommy, it’s fine -’ but he’s already shrugging off the sleeves of his coat, keeping it hanging over his shoulders, and unbuttoning his shirt. 

he slips his arms back into the overcoat quickly and pulls it across himself to stop his undershirt from soaking through. he pulls your hand towards himself, palm up, and wraps the shirt around it, tying it off around your wrist. ‘you’ll have to get under the lamp when we get home,’ he says. ‘check for glass.’ 

the silence when you step into the betting shop tells you what you already knew, which is that the two of you must look a fucking sight. both soaked to the bone, tommy with his undershirt showing, you with your hand wrapped tightly in cotton that’s shot through with blood. 

‘suppose there’s some kind of story, here,’ john says after a beat. you roll your eyes. 

tommy places a hand on your shoulder. ‘i can’t talk to you right now. go through and see polly, she’ll take care of your hand.’ 

you slip round the hallway and hear tommy settle at the table again. the others start to joke about the state he’s in, and once you’re sure they’re back into a rhythm of conversation, you press yourself still against the wall and strain to listen. your hand throbs now with a dull pain you didn’t notice before.

‘- know what polly’s going to say to her, don’t you?’

‘just like your mother,’ arthur and john say, bemused. a pause. 

‘she is. i was unfair on her, today. so were the two of you. she’s hardly a thirteen year old anymore.’ 

‘still knows how to chase a lamping like one.’ john. there’s annoyance, but you have to bite down on a laugh, too. his voice is fond. 

‘i could say the same for you.’ tommy’s chair scrapes along the wood as he stands and you hold your breath, wanting to hear the end of the conversation but not wanting to be caught. ‘i’m taking her down to london next week.’ 

‘that’s -’ 

‘not your choice to make. besides, i’ve got business for you two at home. find me in the morning.’ 

with a sudden start, you realise he’s heading towards the hall. before you can slink into polly’s office, he’s there, half in shadow. you smile at him, almost apologetically. you suspect he wants to do the same, but he just nods at you, a wry look in his eye. 

‘sorry,’ you half-whisper, but you can’t hide your grin. 

he points towards polly’s office, one corner of his mouth tugged up into a smirk. ‘london. friday week,’ he mouths, and then gestures for you to make yourself scarce. 

[garrisonsnug]

Please tell me you're continuing knavesmire!! It's so good!!!

thank you! yes, it definitely will continue :)

i also just wanted to give an update - sorry for the radio silence this past week, uni has been really busy! in terms of fic: i have two requested shelby sister fics coming up, then an arthur fic and a part three to knavesmire :)

[garrisonsnug]

I am in love with your Shelby Sister writings! Will there be anymore soon? Much love xx

thank you so much! i’ll definitely write more, especially if people have specific scenarios to suggest. they’re really fun to write! the next few immediate writings i have planned aren’t shelby sister ones, though.

[garrisonsnug]

all are there forever falling was so good!! can i request a part two maybe where sis manages to convince the boys to let her go to london with them for business but they don't let her do anything so she's bored and goes off to get drunk and get with some boy and gets caught or something crazy like that. i love that dynamic between all the shelby siblings, it's fab!

thank you so much for your feedback and request! ❤️ 

i just published this here.

[garrisonsnug]

london’s burning // shelby sister

 a/n: a little nsfw, but not too explicit. 

there’s rarely a moment of peace in this house. always money to be counted, whiskey to be drunk, errands to run. so sunday mornings are your time. the boys are never early risers - except tommy, who you know wakes with the sun and lies still, watching it crawl across the ceiling. normally they trail in the front door around eleven, polly slightly earlier once the sunday service is over. 

so that leaves you and your tea and your newspaper, content at the kitchen table, reading in the morning light. a precious few hours to yourself. 

the kitchen doors swing open and a heavy bag lands on the table in front of you. 

‘outside and dressed in half an hour,’ tommy annouces. ‘something nice. we’re going to london tonight.’ 

peaceful mornings are good, but this is a thousand times better. cooped up in the back of the car next to john, you laugh as arthur hangs out the door and enlightens all of small heath as to where the peaky blinders are headed. 

the london trip had been brewing for a while. god knows you’d heard enough arguments between tommy - who’s good at keeping quiet during arguments - and polly - who’s definitely not. you’d started dropping hints in your conversations with tommy about how good you were getting with a gun, reminding him of times you’d used your relatively innocent appearance to go unnoticed and draw out important information. he would pretend to have no idea what you were getting at, until you were forced to ask him bluntly whether or not he’d take you to london with the boys. 

‘you heard esmé at the meeting,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘london’s trouble. besides, you’ve got a job to do up here, keeping an eye on things.’

‘tommy, you know as well as i do that you’ve got enough eyes in small heath. who have you got in london who can get into pubs and cafés totally unnoticed? who the men pulling the strings aren’t afraid to talk to?’ 

he had sighed and gestured for you to leave, and you hadn’t spoken of the trip since. just like tommy, to keep you in limbo until the big day. 

by the time you’re driving down the hazy streets of london, the sun has almost set and the stones of the city are pink with dusk. tommy stops the car on a street busy with well-dressed young people, making their way in twos and threes towards a club across the road. the century club is emblazoned in blue lights above its entrance, flanked by two burly security guards. arthur climbs out of the car and opens the door.

tommy turns to look at you over the seat. ‘right. this place is no eden, but it’s still sabini’s. you are not in friendly territory. anyone asks, you’re a rich country girl down here for a bit of fun.’

‘right,’ you laugh, mind already teeming with the possibilities of the night. 

‘not too much fun,’ tommy says sternly, reading your mind. ‘you’ve a lovely fiancée waiting at your country estate. we’ve brought you here on business. the people in this club are cousins, sons, protegées of the sabini clan. your job is to find out as much as you can without raising suspicion. have a drink to fit in, but don’t lose your head. we’ll be back here at midnight. understand?’

‘yes, tommy.’

‘you’ve got the gun in your purse?’ 

‘only for emergencies.’ 

‘good lass.’ he pats your shoulder and nods towards the club, your cue to go.

arthur takes your hand and helps you climb out of the car. he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze and leans in close to your ear. ‘if the guards give you any trouble,’ he says, ‘tell them that darby sent you.’ 

the boys roar off into the night as you approach the club’s entrance. you’re wearing the violet dress you wore for your nineteenth birthday, when the boys took you out to the races. it’s perhaps a little northern - some of the girls here are showing more leg than you’ve ever seen in birmingham. still, it might add some conviction to your new country heiress identity.

‘you alone tonight, miss?’ the security guard asks around a cigarette, his accent clipped. 

‘yes, i am.’ 

‘and why might that be?’

you smile at him graciously. ‘because darby sent me, of course,’ you say. 

he raises both eyebrows in surprise and ushers you inside. you enter through a warmly lit foyer, trying not to gawk at what you see. waiters move effortlessly around tables and across the dance floor, carrying trays of drinks and silver platters of what looks like powdered sugar. couples are dancing and spinning wildly to the most fantastic music you’ve ever heard, draping over each other with their clothes hanging half off. by a fountain of champagne, you see two young women curled in a tight embrace, lips locked together. a waiter approaches you with champagne, and you take a crystal glass, deciding to savour your only drink for the night. 

don’t lose your head. right. you scan the bar quickly for men who look more important, more knowledgable than the others. sitting by the bartender and idly watching the chaos with a cigar is a young italian man in a well-fitted suit, looking like serious money. you like something about him - maybe the way you hesitate to trust him. summoning your best air of elegance, you approach the bar. 

‘mind if i have a try?’ you ask coyly, nodding at his cigar. ‘i’ve never had one before.’ 

he smirks at you, passing it over. he watches coolly as you take a few puffs and then takes it back. you see the glint of gold rings on his fingers. definitely serious money. 

‘i’ve never seen you here before. why’s that?’ 

‘well, i’ve never been. i’m from up country, darling. my father brought me here for the weekend. he’s on business.’ 

‘what kind of business?’

‘oh, you know. securing some deals with someone called sabini. i hear he’s quite well known around these parts, but i’ve never heard of him.’ 

the boy’s eyebrows raise and he lets out a low whistle. ‘your father must be a heavyweight. sabini owns this club, you know.’ 

you laugh delicately, taking a sip of your champagne. ‘well, do you know him? you must congratulate him for me on the running of such a wonderful establishment.’ 

he clears his throat and adjusts his tie. ‘well, not personally. my boss is, um - an acquaintance of his. i’ll pass the message along. where did you say you were from?’ 

you know the difference between someone who’s keeping a secret, and someone who’s bluffing. as you carry on the conversation, lying effortlessly about your family and prying gently into this boy’s life, it becomes clear that he has nothing to do whatsoever with sabini, and is only trying to impress you. you glance at the clock. half-eight. there are more important things to do than waste your time on someone like this. 

you touch his hand and cut a tall story about his exploits with a rival gang short. ‘alessandro,’ you say, ‘it was lovely to talk, but i’m going to explore for a minute. i’ll come and find you later, yes?’ 

the next hour or so you spend doing the same thing, moving easily around the room and talking to the most influential looking people there. one girl even takes a liking to you and invites you into a gated-off section, where ‘all the people worth knowing are.’ however, even in the most exclusive part of the club, it becomes quickly clear that this club is full of london’s clueless elite. young women and men who want to get drunk like everyone else, but also feel important while they do so. by drinking at the century club, they get to play gangster without having a clue what that really means. 

as you continue an idle conversation about your dress - ‘so wonderful, i adore country fashion’ - you feel anger rising at your brothers. they knew there was nothing of real influence in this club. they just wanted you to feel as if you were a part of things, stop your complaining for a while by dropping you out of the way of the real business. the men’s business. 

well. you excuse yourself from the table and pick up another champagne from a nearby waiter, finishing it in one swallow. if they don’t want you to be a businesswoman - want to drop you off at a club for naive teenagers playing fast and loose - you might as well play the part. 

alessandro is still sitting at the bar, chatting with two other italian boys. you tap his shoulder and he turns, face lighting up when he sees you. he shoos the other boys away and calls for the bartender over. 

‘what will you have?’

you lean in closer to him than strictly necessary. ‘let me try the sambuca,’ you say, and he laughs. ‘when in rome.’

‘that’s a peasant’s drink,’ he grins. 

‘should i order something different?’ 

‘no,’ he says, flagging for two shots. ‘i’d like to see if you can hold it down.’ 

two shots become four become six, and your whole body feels warm with the liquorice burn of the drink. you feel the neckline of your dress slipping down and the hemline slipping up as you drape a leg across alessandro’s lap, laughing at some story he tells you of his school days. 

‘you’re not like anyone i’ve met in london,’ he says. his cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, his brown eyes earnest and inviting. ‘care to dance?’

‘of course,’ you reply, ‘but not in front of all these people.’ 

when he catches your meaning, an infectious grin breaks out across his face. he takes you by the hand and leads you through the roped-off area of the club, to a row of folded silk partitions you didn’t notice before. behind each one is a loveseat and a bucket of ice, champagne bottle waiting. you check the ornate clock on the wall. almost ten. plenty of time. 

laughing, you let alessandro pull you down onto the loveseat to straddle his lap. ‘won’t everyone still hear us behind these things?’ 

‘why do you think they play the music so loud?’ 

he sits up and holds your face in his hands. his mouth is hot over yours, tasting of liquorice. your hands skim down the front of his body, feeling the tension coiling in his stomach as you make short work of his buttons, revealing an expanse of tanned skin and dark hair, arrowing towards his hips. he shrugs the shirt off completely and returns the favour, kissing your neck as he unbuttons your dress and slips it off your shoulders. 

‘will your father kill me?’ he asks, his breath against the shell of your ear raising goosebumps. 

‘oh, he doesn’t have to know -’ you say, cut short by a gasp as alessandro’s mouth closes over the silk of your slip. he presses up into you hungrily through his trousers, his hips arching against yours, finally pulling your slip down -

three gunshots ring out across the club, followed by panicked screams and shouts. the music comes to a halt.

‘gesù cristo,’ alessandro hisses. ‘what the fuck was that?’

you shut your eyes, sighing. you have a hunch. 

‘right,’ you hear arthur’s voice echo confidently from the floor. ‘there’s a miss shelby somewhere in this club, and we’ve come to collect her. the rest of you london brats better start paying your dues to the peaky fuckin’ blinders, cause you’ll be sure as hell seeing a lot of us soon.’ 

alessandro squints, confused, as the music starts up again uneasily. ‘who are the peaky blinders?’

‘no idea,’ you say, hurriedly pulling your slip back up over your exposed breasts and patting your hair down. ‘but i’m not staying to find out -’ 

‘right, right, pull yourselves together and get out - what the fuck?’ 

john. waving his pistol nonchalantly, one hand in his pocket. now stopped dead. 

‘who the fuck are you?’ alessandro challenges, scrambling to stand up, stance broad. 

‘i think you better tell me, mate, what the fuck you’re doing with my sister.’ 

‘john,’ you say sharply, ‘he didn’t do anything. alessandro, leave us, please.’ 

he gathers his shirt and skulks away, leaving you hurriedly buttoning your dress back up and john seething.

‘don’t tell tommy, or arthur, please,’ you say. ‘not now. we can talk about it later.’ 

‘later, like hell,’ john says. ‘i find you with some wop halfway up you, and you want to save the explanation for a fucking family meeting? we told you to keep your head on.’ 

‘you also told me i was here on business, doing good work for the family! told me i was a valuable member of the blinders, that you respected my contribution. not that you were going to dump me at some useless club and expect me to sit in the corner, bored out of my mind all fucking night.’ 

john rolls his eyes. ‘so your solution was to get your kit off for the highest bidder. jesus, i can fucking smell the drink on you.’ 

‘that’s fucking rich, isn’t it! not like when you get half a whiskey in you you don’t start feeling up every woman who looks twice, no mind what esmé thinks.’ 

you storm past him, through the elite seating - now back to its normal chatter - and across the floor, where tommy and arthur are waiting on you. 

‘have a good night?’ arthur laughs. you ignore him, heading straight into the cold night and climbing into the car where it waits. the three of them follow a minute later, tommy’s expression dark and serious as john relays what you said to him. 

they enter the car in stony silence, the tension thick as anything as you make your way out of the city. you’re well out of the city centre when you speak.

‘i suppose the eden went fucking terribly.’

‘why do you say that?’ tommy asks, sounding almost bemused.

‘because you came back two hours early, and you’re all in a foul mood.’ 

‘perhaps i’m in a foul mood because i gave my sister a distinct list of things not to do tonight, and she took it upon herself to do all of them.’ 

you pull a cigarette out of your purse and light it, pulling a long drag. ‘you also gave me a job to do, knowing full well i wouldn’t be able to do it. and you didn’t care.’ 

‘you know it’s not -’

‘not what, tommy? if you don’t think i’m good, or smart, or strong enough for the family business, you can come out and say it. but don’t you dare condescend to me like you did tonight.’ 

you hear tommy sigh. ‘it’s not about any of those things. sabini’s new ground, even for us. we didn’t want to throw you into danger without gauging it for ourselves, first.’ he slows the car and looks at you over his shoulder. ‘but you’re right. i’m sorry. it’ll be different next time.’ 

an apology from your brother. the world must be coming to an end. 

you watch small, bricked homes fly past on the streets beside you, eventually turning to countryside. as you watch fields and stone fences and horses slip by in the dark, listening to your boys talk rubbish, you can’t stop a smile from growing on your face. next time.  

[garrisonsnug]

Imagine with a Shelby reader? X like she involved in the family business

just uploaded. thank you for the request!

[garrisonsnug]

can I request something where the reader is a Shelby sister, maybe two year younger than Ada - she's in the process of trying to acquire some kind of deal with another gang which the boys don't know about but gets caught stealing money from the safe in the office by John and shit hits the fan?

just published! thanks for your request.