#and the frogs who are into being boiled will stay and be continuously pleasantly surprised when the heat gets closer to what they like

[greetingsfromuranus]

I need to privately upload everything I draw to an account somewhere and make it public in 10 years when I leave the internet or when everyone chills out

[birminghamblinders]

trouble in paradise; john shelby

(gif credits to @bonniebirdsgifcentre )

You weren’t meant to see your husband the night before your wedding, you knew that was a rule. It was a rule that might have been a bit easier to follow if you actually knew what your husband-to-be looked like. All you had was a name; John Shelby. By the reactions to that last name which you had observed around Birmingham, you surmised he was someone important, but being the daughter of an American aristocrat didn’t afford you much opportunity to get acquainted with the gangsters running a minor British city.

Two weeks earlier, you had been dumped unceremoniously on the shores of England without your father. He was willing to marry you off to some unknown criminal without your approval for some business connections and illegal alcohol, but wasn’t inclined to attend his daughter’s wedding.

You’d been holed up in a cramped apartment in Small Heath, spending your days cooking for the old ladies across the street, figuring it’d be to your advantage to have at least some allies in this godforsaken, smoke-coated place.

On the night before you were to become Mrs. John Shelby, the girl who rented the apartment across the hall from you, Victoria, convinced you to go out for a drink at some place called The Garrison. It didn’t take much convincing to get you agreeing with a plan that centered around getting punch drunk the evening before the worst day of your life.

The only Shelby you had met so far was Ada, who’d driven you to Birmingham from the port and taken you to try on your wedding dress. As it went, you didn’t mind Ada, and were pleasantly surprised to see her as you opened the door to the pub.

She exclaimed your name happily, and took your and your friend’s arms, frog marching you over to the bar and ordering three shots of whiskey.

Your future sister-in-law drank with you for a while, before kissing you on the forehead and telling you she was going to either “Find an eligible bachelor to fuck, or pass out on the staircase. I’ll let you know!”

Laughing, you turned to Victoria and told her she could go home; she looked about ready to collapse, and accepted your offer gratefully. In any case, you wanted a little time to yourself before the inevitable mania of your wedding day.

Although you were more than willing to sit alone and drink for a little while longer, or perhaps till the sun came up, the seat next to you was quickly occupied by a young man in the cap you knew to be associated with the Peaky Blinders.

“Alright?” He asked you, giving you a full fledged grin and swinging his arm over the back of your chair.

“Fine,” you said, giving him a half smile and letting him slide you a flute of champagne.

“Not looking forward to tomorrow,” he told you absentmindedly.

“Why?”

“Gonna be a real, real bad day.” He looked forlornly into his glass for a while, as if his reflection would morph into something else and he wouldn’t have to face whatever problem would be plaguing him come morning light.

“Getting married tomorrow,” he said, and before you could realize just who he was, he continued. “And apparently she’s American, which ain’t the problem, but her daddy’s some rich asshole, so you just know she’s a whorish bitch. And I ain’t ever seen her before. Bet she’s forty and a hag.”

You felt your blood boil but forced your voice to stay level as you asked “Are you John Shelby?”

“Aye, love.”

You jumped off your stool, and he turned to face you, startled.

“Take a good look, Shelby,” you gestured to yourself with a sardonic laugh, “because this is the whorish bitch you’ll be marrying tomorrow. And I’m twenty, for your information.”

The look of alarm that flashed over John Shelby’s face would have been funny if this situation were happening to literally anyone else but you, and it had been occurring at any time but the worst possible time. His eyes nearly bugged out of his skull, and his mouth hung open like a baboon.

Narrowing your eyes, you administered your worst possible glare, before turning around and stomping out of The Garrison.

John called after you, some weak mix of apologies, excuses, and pure confusion.

Surprisingly, you slept like a baby that night. You were resigned to your fate. If John Shelby was to be your life partner, you supposed you could get through a marriage on pure spite.

You woke at half past five the next morning, and found it almost laughable that you were so furious you felt partially inclined to tell the beautiful sunrise to fuck off. Your early rise wasn’t for naught, however, as Ada burst in forty five minutes later. The morning was so packed you barely had time to think about John, as swarms of women who’s names you did not know pinned your hair and brought you within half an inch of your patience with their mascara wands and eyeliner. The dress, you had to admit, was beautiful, adhering to the fashion of the day and making you feel a bit like a princess.

At half past eleven, exactly an hour before you were due to walk down the aisle, there was a harsh knock at the door that definitely did not belong to a woman. Before Ada could tell whoever it was to go away, the unmistakable tones of John Shelby rang through the wood.

“I want to talk to my wife, alright?”

Not waiting for a response, he opened the door, ushering all of the helpers out and letting Ada flick him on the forehead before closing the door, leaving you alone with the man you really did not want to speak to.

“Listen,” he told you, already holding his hands up in surrender. “I am an absolute asshole, alright? But it’s not your bloody fault you gotta marry me, and you ain’t no hag or whore or anything, alright?” He paused, searching for words. “I don’t wanna go into my wedding day knowing my wife already hates me.”

You sighed and let him cup your cheeks and rest your forehead against his.

“You know I got about eighty kids at home?”

“I love kids.”

“Good,” John said, cracking a genuine smile that was so close to you it was nearly a kiss. “Got anything you need to air to me, you beautiful woman? I can take it.”

“I don’t like tea,” you whispered.

He laughed so hard he had to clutch his stomach and moved forward to kiss you, a cracking of teeth and smiles colliding.

“That’s alright. Let’s go get married.”