#mentioned tommy shelby

[saintsir4n]

HOLD ON

where tommy cannot believe he has a daughter after returning from the war.

WARNINGS: mentions of the war, ptsd

——

1919

TOMMY stared down at the little girl who lay asleep in bed.

His little girl.

His blue gaze was unwavering in the depth of night. He hadn’t slept. He didn’t sleep. Even when the moonlight poured into his small room and smothered his daughter. Since returning from the war he studied her. Little Inara Shelby. The child whom he could not hold when she was born, or care for in her early years.

She was four years old.

Bloody four and only now he was around her, raising her as he promised Eden before the war. The war they all thought would not last. Just until Christmas, we’ll be back then. But they weren't and he could not forgive himself for the years that passed.

“Tom?” Eden’s voice crept into the room with the opening door. Tommy let out a hum of acknowledgement. The Shelby woman smiled fondly after shutting the door behind her. She wore her house coat as she took in the lovely sight. Father and daughter. “I used to do this. I still do,” she whispered. “She twitches in her sleep y’know? Like you do.”

Like I did, he wanted to say, as did she.

When he slept, he dreamt and there were never the nicest of dreams. He woke up yelling, shouting for the vivid visions to stop. It scared Eden.

And so he tried not to sleep, he poured his energy into anything else.

His daughter was one of those things.

“I never got to hold her,” he uttered as the silence passed.

Eden shuffled closer, “What?”

“When… as a baby. Was she heavy?” He didn’t look up to his wife when he asked. Instead, his mind tossed around various weights whilst he studied his daughter.

She was not a small child, but she wasn’t big either.

A fond smile tugged at Eden’s lips, before she spoke, “The heaviest, almost broke my arms off.”

“Ada was a heavy baby,” Tommy recalled, inhaling when he felt her nimble hand settle on his shoulder.

“Guess that made you strong,” she gently rubbed at his exposed skin.

“No. I didn’t know what strong was until I fought.”

“There are different types of strong love. You had to endure a type that no one should.” She trod carefully with her words. “Now you’re back.” Not all of you. “Now you get to hold your daughter.”

Tommy swallowed harshly, “I won’t stop.”

“I know.”

“No, Edie.” Tommy finally turned his head, adjusting his gaze to meet his wife’s worrisome one. Her soft grasp left his shoulder and reached to link with his callous hands. “I’ll make sure we make it out of here. Be the bright light through this fuckin’ bleakness eh?”

“I know Tommy. Shining through the fog of this murky city right?” Eden thoughtfully recalled the kind words her best friend once wrote. She carried them always. “With your razor blades and all.”

Still speaking quietly he replied with purpose, “If they protect who I love, then that’s all that matters.”

That’s all that will ever matter.

——

[graveyard---dolly]

If you participated in the mrkdvidal1989-led mob harrasment against Grace fans/Grace x Tommy fans, you are awful and I hope you never forget what you did. I know how many of you were participants.

Incredible how many of you, his loyal fans and asslickers, ran away like cowards as soon as he was exposed for his shit, washing your hands of it and currently going about your lives as normal and pretending that nothing happened. His hatred against Grace, Annabelle Wallis and their fans was not normal and you know it. His way of referring to her and the actress was extremely frightening and denigrating, bordering on a fine line between criticism and pure misogyny. But hey, you all have the audacity to complain about the show's misogyny against the female characters, no?

No matter how blinded or manipulated you have been, the moment you get involved in something that already affects others makes you part of the problem. Hell, he even sent harassing messages to them.

Harrasment will never be a "small issue." It's because of individuals like you and that bastard that many innocent people have committed suicide.

Grace fans and Tommy x Grace fans, you are valid and I am very sorry that you have had a horrible time at the hands of these specimens.

[thomashelbyswife]

Hey M, I adored your little imagine about Tommy being relaxed by Mrs. Shelby's scent. Now I'm curious to know what Mrs. Shelby thinks of Tommy's aroma? What do you reckon he smells like? Does she encourage him to wear cologne, etc? I've always struggled to describe this bit of his appearance in my fics so I'd love to hear all your thoughts!!

Hello, Lee! I’m glad that you adored it, such a wonderful question! I’m a huge sucker for scents and aromas & it’s kinda my love language too! 🤭 So here we go. Well a little backstory i believe that Tommy would already have a good hygiene out of all the brothers to begin with even though the times would’ve been rough on him but he’d try his best. I think he’d fancy smelling posh & be clean.

I, imagine Mrs. Shelby would find Tommy's scent to be a spicy rugged with the mix of intense smoke, whiskey, and a hint of leather, wood, ambery & perhaps a subtle hint of bay rum or sandalwood from his aftershave along with a subtle tang of metal from his guns & gunpowder — the faint scent that may linger on his coat with the whiskey soaked aroma in the essence of his skin that would make her drown deeper in love with him.

His scent to her is comforting and endearing which makes her feel safe and to think she’d be very fond for the smell of smoke on his clothes and throughout the years the smell of smoke on Tommy's clothes has become a sensory trigger that evokes a deep emotional and physical response in Mrs. Shelby. Whenever she catches a whiff of that familiar scent, it instantly transports her back to moments of passion, intimacy, and connection with Tommy. (I died while writing this omg)

When it comes to her recommending or encouraging a cologne to him, he doesn’t needs it that much cause he smells extravagant all the time even though Tommy might not be the type to use it often, but when he does, a small amount makes a big impact, trust me. Once Tommy puts on his cologne, the scent spreads everywhere and lingers without fading quickly. It's that kind of effortless charm that doesn't need to shout for attention.

However, on special occasions or when the need arises, Mrs. Shelby might suggest a subtle, sophisticated cologne to enhance his presence without compromising his essence. This way, he can maintain his signature scent while adding a touch of refinement. I reckon she’d also for god’s sake sneakily rub in a nice cream on him — his hands and even his face, And I think he won’t complain and love it cause it would smell like her. Overall she’d be all captivated by his raw scent & those masculine undertones! With a hint of his subtle cologne everywhere! 🥴

[aneurinallday]

The Grey Man

Chapter 1: Lock and Key

It only took a second. He caught Holford in mid-stride from behind, clapping a leather-gloved hand over the doctor’s mouth, silencing him instantly. There was no struggle - as soon as Holford felt the hand, and the muzzle of a gun press against his temple, he became perfectly silent and still. His right hand was still clutching his coat and hat (which he hadn’t donned due to the mild weather) but his left hand (which had been reaching for his car’s door) wavered in the air, fingers open in surrender, palm up to show that he was unarmed.

Their two bodies pressed together, Holford’s head pinned against Tommy’s shoulder, trapping him on the spot. He could feel Tommy’s breath on his cheek.

After a pause, during which he determined that Holford wasn’t going to struggle or scream, Tommy began to speak softly in the doctor’s ear.

“How was the wedding in Berlin? I hear Chancellor Hitler himself was the best man.”

He glanced down at Holford’s face - or what he could see of it from this angle - to check his expression. The fear in his green eyes as he recognised the voice and realised whose hand held the gun.

“You’ve been my doctor now for three years,” Tommy continued, scanning the courtyard vigilantly. “Never knew you were so well-connected. Oh, and the doctor at St Thomas’s who you sent me to for the second opinion, second set of X-rays? A maid of honour at the same wedding. All so very well-fսcking-connected.”

His voice was a low whisper, deceptively calm, yet hiding a deep well of seething fury underneath. The doctor didn’t dare move or make a sound, but his breathing - muffled by Tommy’s black leather glove - had become shaky.

“On your knees, Holford.”

Tommy removed his hand from over Holford’s mouth, and pushed the muzzle of his gun down on the doctor’s shoulder, forcing him to his knees. Holford turned as he descended, dropping his coat and hat on the ground at his side, until he was kneeling at Tommy’s feet. He found himself staring up the barrel of a handgun, and above it, Tommy’s cold gaze shaded by the low brim of his flat-cap.

“I'm guessing you people all decided that the only person who could ever kill Thomas Shelby is Thomas Shelby himself. You made me believe death was coming. Let my nature do the rest, eh?”

The doctor was pale and trembling, his eyes wide. His tongue ventured out to moisten his lips, which felt suddenly dry. He was trying his best to maintain his composure, his gentlemanly comportment.

“You may not have tuberculoma, Mister Shelby,” he said quietly, “but you are sick. I know you. You are sick with guilt. Sick of death at your own hand. Sick of who you were. You are no longer the kind of man who would kill another man in cold blood.”

Tommy listened, waiting patiently while Holford babbled - perhaps willing to give him a chance to explain himself, or perhaps merely curious to see what excuses he would come up with. Holford licked his lips again, and tried a different tact.

“T-Tommy,” he said, hoping that by using his nickname, he would stir any kind of empathy, any glimmer of connection. The attempt wasn’t lost on Tommy, who remained unmoved, his face betraying nothing. “You have been on a journey, from the back-streets to the corridors of power. You can’t go back.” The faintest ghost of a smile warmed his face - a hopeful smile. “You are a different man. The gun no longer belongs in your hand.”

Tommy turned off the safety on his gun. Amusement curled his lips.

“Oh, but I am back,” he said, “Back from under the ground.”

Tears started to well in Holford’s eyes and roll down his cheeks, as he stared desperately up at the man holding him at gunpoint. Realising that all his words had failed. Realising that he was going to die here, kneeling on the hard cobblestones.

Then the clock struck the eleventh hour, and Tommy changed his mind.

“Give me your neck-tie.”

Holford hesitated for a second, confused. Then he obeyed, his cold fingers fumbling at his neck. He removed the chequered grey tie, and wordlessly handed it over. Tommy pulled a cloth bag from his pocket, unfurled it with a shake, and put it over Holford’s head.

“Don’t fucking move, now,” Tommy warned as he tucked his gun back inside his jacket. That was Holford’s only chance to fight back, but he didn’t take it, blinded as he was by the fabric. Using the neck-tie, Tommy bound Holford’s wrists together behind his back, then pulled him to his feet. He bundled Holford into the passenger’s side of the car, then got into the driver’s seat. The key was already in the ignition. Tommy started the car and began to drive.

He glanced at the doctor in the passenger’s seat. Even though his face was hidden beneath the bag, Holford was visibly petrified - shaking, his knees pressed together to sub-consciously shield himself, his feet tucked away under the car-seat. With every shaky exhalation, the cloth covering his face fluttered slightly.

Doctor Michael Holford. The handsome, elegant physician with the impeccable manners and the soothing bedside manner. With his fashionably slicked hair, neat three-piece suits, and refined bearing, he was every inch a respectable gentleman. Even Tommy couldn’t help but notice his charms. Sometimes, when the doctor leaned in close to check his pulse or listen to his lungs, Tommy was caught by his large eyes. They were a beautiful, soft green with a subtle, almost imperceptible touch of hazel. They made Tommy think of sun-dappled foliage and peaceful summers.

But the charm was all a façade. In private, he was an irritable and foul-mouthed bully who snapped at his servants because they were beneath him. It all seemed so obvious, in hindsight. His condescending tone, his rehearsed platitudes, his hollow expressions of fake sympathy. Tommy wondered why he hadn’t noticed it sooner. His black leather gloves creaked as he gripped the steering-wheel tightly.

“Whose idea was it?” Tommy asked, “The false diagnosis. The tuberculoma. My suicide. Was it your idea or Mosley’s?”

There was a pause as Holford considered lying.

“Mine,” he admitted. “Other methods hadn’t worked, and Mosley asked me for an alternative. Being your doctor, I was in a position to…”

“To do Mosley’s dirty work? It makes sense he wouldn’t stain his own hands. He was willing to endanger your life and reputation, but not his own.”

Holford didn’t answer.

“And his entire plan - his grand scheme to drive me to despair, to shut down my operations, to trick me into blowing my brains out for fear of some phantom tumour - it all hinged on you. He couldn’t have done it without you, without your medical knowledge, without your doctor’s license. And you were happy to be of service.”

“I did what I thought was necessary, at the time.”

“Well, I appreciate your honesty.”

He stopped Holford’s car at the foot of a hill, parking it among trees where it was less likely to be spotted, and turned off the ignition. The engine died, leaving the two men sitting in silence. Tommy stared up at the grassy hill, the green ridge beyond which he’d made camp. Only a little further to go.

“Let me go, Mister Shelby,” Holford pleaded, his voice muffled behind the cloth. “It’s not too late. I can still make it to my next appointment. I can tell them I had car trouble - apologise for being late. Nobody needs to know anything. It would be as if nothing had ever happened.”

“And after your little appointment, you’ll run straight to Mosley, aye? Tell him that Thomas Shelby survived, and that he’s coming for all of you?”

“I won’t tell anybody. I’ll cause no further trouble. You have my word.”

“The word of a man who lied to my face and told me I was dying,” Tommy scoffed.

He got out of the car, and strode around to the other side. Opening the passenger door, he yanked Holford out by the arm. Holford must’ve assumed the worst - that he was about to be shot and dumped in a ditch - because he panicked and abruptly blurted out:

“Don’t kill me.”

“Start walking,” Tommy ordered.

Abandoning the car, he half-led half-dragged Holford up the hill - gripping the doctor’s arm with one hand, while his other hand held the gun ready. Unable to see, and off-balance because of his bound arms, Holford stumbled through the grass.

They reached the high field overlooking Holford’s estate, atop which the black wagon stood and the white horse grazed. The wagon where Tommy had spent the past month living in isolation, waiting for his non-existent tumour to do its work, waiting for death to come.

Unbeknownst to him, Tommy was just in time. If he’d returned to the wagon the same way he’d left it - on foot - he would’ve been too late. Holford’s obedient workman would’ve already doused the wagon with petrol and set it ablaze. But Holford’s car had given Tommy a headstart; the workman wouldn’t be here for another ten or fifteen minutes.

“Where are we?” Holford demanded.

Tommy didn’t answer. He led Holford up the five wooden steps, and shoved him into the back of the wagon, pushing him down onto the cushioned bunk.

“You’re about to see the consequences of your actions, Doctor Holford.”

Without waiting for a reply, Tommy exited the black wagon. He shut and locked the double-doors behind him, and put the key in his pocket. He glanced down at the trees, the little lake, the garden, the manor-house. He could even see the gravel driveway and the cobbled courtyard, the guest-houses and the servants’ quarters. The trappings of a wealthy and privileged life. Holford deserved none of it.

Tommy approached his horse and stroked her white head, murmuring softly. She followed him obediently back to the wagon, to which he hitched her.

And then onwards he drove, with the treacherous doctor in his custody. To any eyes that might happen to fall upon them, he was simply another insignificant Romani, one of many who roamed the British countryside. Nobody would guess that he was the famous crime lord Thomas Shelby, OBE and MP, and that he had just kidnapped a man for revenge.

Chapter 2: Black Wagon

[slutforsilverfoxes]

You know it was today I realized Aaron Hottie Hotchner is played by THOMAS Gibson and Leroy Jethro Gibbs is played by THOMAS Mark Harmon… I may have a slight Thomas problem….

I SAY THIS ALL THE TIME !! If my future hubby isn’t named Thomas I simply don’t want him 😤

[mxpseudonym]

I always write Tommy very romantically, I think. I noticed this as I was reading some of my old published and unpublished fics. But I do that because I genuinely think Tommy is a romantic person. Even his ideas for the Peaky Blinders and the things he desires is romantic imo.

But especially with his romantic partners, I think if he feels understood to some degree or if he gets broken in like a horse (hence why I love a good contract marriage trope for him), then he'll have the space to be romantic. He just also happens to also have a multitude of other sins. lmao.

[divinekangaroo]

I'd love a Mrs Shelby Lives AU. She just shows up one day at Charlie's yard. It was her twin sister that no one knew about that they pulled from the canal, come to visit, and Mrs Shelby ran away because she was the one who pushed her sister in there.

[shelbysdevil]

[brokenstarrylights]

*Peaky Blinders in the middle of a dangerous vendetta scheme*

Tommy Shelby to literally anyone: Try my gin =)

Everybody else: ???

[dr-george-ordell]

You know that feeling of wanting to write a Peaky Blinder's and SCP Foundation crossover fic? That's what i'm feeling right now

[elskiee]

oh so you're a gang leader who is married to a woman and is also a member of the parliament? right right here's the lingerie you need to wear and here are the pearls and oh don't forget the heels too. aww you're so gorjus my little bashful doll <3

the best thing about stanning an actor like cillian murphy is subjecting his most hardened characters to bimboification. like oh you’re a decorated war veteran? here comes the skimpy maid outfit i’m making you wear.

[call-sign-shark]

Of Bending and Breaking || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Always being the one who cares for others comes with a price: you break down, but the most unexpected person is here for you: Tommy, the man you were forced to marry.

Words: 2,3k

TW: Hurt/Comfort, very tiny mention of past sexual assault, no proofreading 'cause it comes from clearing my drafts.

Notes: Aunt Isabella's is a tribute to my own aunt Isabelle who, unfortunately, died because of cancer a few years ago.

It all started with Polly shaking Tommy like a tree, her thin hands firmly grabbing his nephew’s broad shoulders: “You can’t keep sabotaging yourself like this, Tom.” These were the words that left her quivering lips as she dragged his staggering frame to the bathroom and pushed his face into the bathtub right under the tap. When the freezing water splashed all over his neck, Tommy opened his blank eyes wide and inhaled sharply, as if he had suddenly come back to life. Since Grace’s awful death, the gangster was the shadow of his former self. When he wasn’t waging a senseless war with Father Hughes and the Italian, or when he wasn’t keeping his buzzing mind busy with work, Tommy usually numbed himself with a deadly combination of whisky and opium until his deep-seated pain became bearable. It was the night he almost overdosed that Polly decided to take charge of his nephew and found him a new wife, in the hope of soothing his nephew’s mind and finding a mother figure for poor little Charlie. The idea had obviously sent Tommy in a fit of anger but Polly Gray couldn’t care less.

Regarding your own situation, it was not the opium nor the loss of a dear lover that had led you to Birmingham’s most dangerous man but rather the bump in your belly. Aunt Isabella had understood what you were suffering from the moment you had stormed out of the vardo to throw up your breakfast in the nearest bush. The tall and lean woman, whose light brown and curly mane danced in the cold autumn wind, had looked at you right in the eyes and raised one of her thin eyebrows. If there was something pleasant with her, it was that words weren’t necessary.

Yet, later she encountered Polly, with whom she had been a great friend since childhood, and explained that a powerful American man had forced his seeds in you during his stay in England. Not willing to go through the traumatic experience of aborting, Isabella only saw one solution to your problem: you needed a husband who could protect you and your future baby from the evil man with his scarred lip. A wedding would be your salvation. At the realization of what Aunt Isabella had planned for you, you tried to run away from the camp in the middle of the night but she knew you too well and soon caught you, her sly hand firmly grabbing your wrist: “Y/N! It’s for your sake! He’s rich, he needs a wife and he is feared! You’ll be safe with him, don’t you understand?” She explained, cupping your face with her long fingers adorned with claws painted in red and far too many rings. “I don’t need a man to protect me! I don’t need anyone. He’s older and he’s a criminal! Who’s going to protect me from him eh? Have you think ‘bout that?” You cried, the soft light of the sunrise turning your tears into liquid gold.

But still, you wedded him and what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life turned out to be a dull event during which you dissociated the whole time. The only memories you had in mind were two piercing and frightening turquoise eyes staring right at your soul and soft whiskey-tasting lips stealing a quick peck from your cherry lips. A kiss devoid of any form of affection. And then, the groom left.

From what Aunt Isabella told you, your husband had spent most of the celebrations with his brothers, drinking and taking bets outside of Arrow House. Months had passed and still, you felt estranged to this place and its staff. The only moments your heart lightened were when Aunt Isabella visited you, or when Charlie spent time with you, otherwise you remained emotionally closed, trapped in your own mind. Overall you could not complain: You had a house far too big for you with plenty of workers willing to exhaust every one of your wishes. Charlie was a sweet boy, who loved you with all his heart even if you were well aware that you’ll never replace his mother. As for the Shelby clan, they were cordial with you without being really friendly either. And there was Tommy…

Cold and distant Tommy, who you only saw late at night when he discretely slipped under the bedsheet and turned his back to you without uttering a single word. Busy Tommy, whose replies remained concise and spoken with a quiet husky voice each time you asked him something — at least he talked to you a little bit. Trapped in a loveless marriage, that was what you were: Tommy was more a stranger, a mere gust of wind in your life, than the love of your life.

Still, the gangster stayed true to his words and he provided for everything, never refusing to give you money when you asked, and protecting you from the man who had taken your innocence. He even gifted you a wonderful stallion because he knew how much you missed riding. In exchange for his protection and riches, all you had to do was take care of Charlie and do your best to be there for your husband when his darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

You found out about the nightmares shortly after your wedding and quickly decided to do something about it. When he woke up screaming and drenched in sweat after tasting the tunnels’ dirt and Grace’s crimson blood in his troubled sleep, you always cradle him, your fingers losing themselves in his wet dark hair to pet his head gently. At first, you feared his reaction, expecting the infamous Tommy Shelby to push you and not-so-kindly ask you to keep your distance but, to your greatest surprise, he never did. Instead, he would bury his face in your cleavage, panting and trembling, and let you reassure him. Just like he let you bring dinner to him each time he drowned himself in paperwork and forgot to eat. He never commented on your cooking skills though, even if he always handed back empty plates.

The blood on his skin? You cleaned it.

The wounds of his flesh? You never failed to patched them up.

The hole in his heart? You tried to seal it off with caresses, soft kisses, and shoulder massages. Maybe one day he would slowly turn his iciness into affection. Little did you know that he needed it. And by it he needed you. Just like the whole family. How many times did you walk the streets of Birmingham at night, seeking for Arthur and then bringing him home to take care of a wasted and high him? Far too many to keep track. Similarly, you had spent countless evenings helping Ada when she felt overwhelmed, either nursing Karl or cleaning her house when, just like her brother, she overworked herself. And finally, Polly could never thank you enough for everything you did to soothe her mind after the gallows, still haunted by the bite of the hanging rope on her throat.

“Thanks Poppy.” Arthur muttered, the gravel in his voice coated with shame now that you were down clearing and disinfecting his split knuckles. The oldest brother had started to affectionately call you so for the sole reason that, according to him, you must probably grow better when blood was considering how much you had seen when patching the Shelby siblings. “Sorry for errr… For the mess.” He went on, his steel blue eyes fleeing yours.

“That’s okay.” You replied in Romani, “You, sweet idiot.” Endeared by how surprisingly soft Arthur’s harsh complexions could turn, you couldn’t help but gently put your hand on one of his cheeks. And during this tender display of affection, Arthur was convinced he had caught sight of a smile — a scarce event barely happening on your beautiful but resigned face. Comforted by the warmth of your palm, he leaned into your touch and looked at you through dark lashes, his lids half-closed.

“Tommy’s one lucky bastard to have ya for himself, eh."

"Let's both flee together then." You teased, the familiar tone of Romani language rendered even more melodious by your siren-like voice.

"Don't tempt me, little one." Arthur replied, softer than intended and probably only half-joking.

The oldest Shelby brother had barely closed the door when your smile disappeared and tears flooded your eyes. Admittedly, spending months of repressing your own anguish didn’t do any good to you despite thinking that focusing on others would have helped. Quite the contrary, all those negative emotions you had left on the back burner turned into a silent and deadly parasite that was eating you up. Dragging your tired frame to the cold and empty marital bedroom, you curled up in a ball in a corner of the room, your bruised knees pressed against your chest, “Positive. You gotta stay positive and push forwards y’see Y/N? Do the right things for the family…” You whispered to yourself as your breath started to quicken for the ball of sorrow in your throat was growing more and more. Yes, you had to smile and say that all was just fine because you knew you were lucky to be here and that you hadn’t any real reason to complain now according to the rest of the world. And yet, the truth was you were tired. So tired and overwhelmed by everything around you. With your wild soul trapped here in the mighty walls of Arrow House, you could not help but drown in an excruciating feeling of worthlessness.

You were lost in a world too difficult for you to understand. Lost and unprepared for a life that asked for too much. When you were living in the vardo with Aunt Isabella life seemed so much easier despite the lack of money and, sometimes, food. Prior to your wedding, she used to tell you that everything would become clear once you’d be a wife and a mother. You’d be an adult adult, you see? But she lied. They all lied. Even with a husband and kids, you still felt like a scared and confused child, who wanted to hide under the blanket of her warm bed and never face the world ever again. These concerns of yours? You never shared because you wanted the Shelby to keep seeing you as a reassuring presence— moreover, God knew how much their broken hearts needed your silent care.

Bringing your trembling fingers to your mouth, you muffled a first sob, convinced it would be enough to keep you from crying. What you didn’t expect was to burst into tears, uncontrollably weeping. After all this time forcing yourself to be strong, your mind had enough. As your heart-wrenching cries echoed in the room they muffled Tommy’s footsteps that were coming closer and closer. When the door flung open, you did not even move, lost in a spiral of pain and psychological exhaustion.

“Y/N?!” Tommy called you, his usual coldness swept away by a surge of panic. He closed the distance between you and him with hastened steps, and put one of his knees on the floor to be at your level, “What’s wrong, ay?” His husky voice asked, worries thickening his Brummie accent even more. You hiccuped and raised your flooded eyes towards him, parting your lips to answer. Yet, as soon as your gaze met his turquoise iris you started weeping again, louder this time. Words were at a loss by dint of never having the chance to express what you felt throughout your life. “Bloody Hell, Y/N! Speak!” Tommy hissed, his heart now drumming in his chest at the sight of his young and always-so-strong wife crumbling in bits in front of him. Never in his life, he had felt so powerless, not even in the tunnels… And, God, he hated it.

“N-nothing. I don’t… I don’t even know it’s just that— I’m so fucking tired, and lost, and confused, and afraid!” You spoke with a very fast pace, spitting years and years of repressed emotions flowing from you all the while feeling deeply ashamed of your mental breakdown. When you were done venting, you simply turned your head and waved off the topic, tears still rolling down your reddened cheeks “Anyway! You’ve got — more important things to do.”

“Stop it, Y/N,” He scolded, low voice rumbling in his chest. His strong and calloused hands, damaged by the war and hard work, cupped your face with a softness you didn’t know he possessed. For the first time in your life, his grip felt utterly reassuring as if you knew these scarred palms were not going to let you fall apart. Never. “You’re what’s important right now.” With that being said, Tommy leaned his forehead against yours and his enchanting eyes soon met yours to force you to focus on nothing else but the vast blue oceans which composed them. “I want you to calm down.”

“I can’t, I can’t—“ You tried to speak but you couldn’t, struggling to breathe under the crushing weight of your panic attack. Your mouth gaped, looking for the oxygen it couldn’t find.

“Oi!” Tommy said louder. So loud that his voice managed to overcome the cacophony of your beating heart and the buzzing sound of your anxiety that filled your head, “I want you to breathe with me, Y/N. Alright? You can do that for me, ay?” He asked, his eyebrows slightly frowned and charming crowfeet appearing at the corner of his eyes — how odd it was to see Tommy’s face veiled with something else than unsettling placidity. Caught off guard by the sudden realization of how close he was, you quieted down a little bit and soon followed the pattern of his breathing.

One long inhale through the nose, one longer exhale through the mouth, and a short pose.

Do it again.

Your shaky hands slowly grabbed his wrists in a desperate attempt to anchor you to reality. This, as well as the focus you had on his mesmerizing complexions.

His long dark lashes — you inhaled slowly.

His cat-like turquoise iris — you exhaled.

His salient cheekbones — You stopped breathing for a very short while.

The myriad of freckles — “Breathe with me, Y/N.”

The soft, hoarse lilt guided you through the dark and thick fog of your own brain, just like a lighthouse. Coming back to clearer waters, your body finally relaxed and fell almost limp in his arms. And once again he caught you, keeping you all safe against his chest. Tommy’s voice, low and steady, resonated one last time in the bedroom with a reassuring warmth as he uttered the simple yet powerful phrase, "I'm here." Each word carefully enunciated, carrying a quiet strength that soothed and reassured, like a comforting anchor in a stormy sea.

Keep your writers motivated: Reblog and/or comment if you liked it, you filthy animal! o/ English is not my first language btw.

Taglist: @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @raincoffeeandfandoms @kishie8 @zablife @alexandra-001 @dearshelby @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996 @vanhelsingsbigtoe @red-riding-wood

[aneurinallday]

The Grey Man

Chapter 9: The Way Home

Sunlight was streaming through cracks in the wagon’s curtains, dust motes slow-dancing in the air, when Tommy awoke. He found himself still sitting in the bunk, leaning against the wall, his neck aching from the unnatural angle. The doctor was fast asleep at his side. In the light of day, the bruises from Arthur’s knuckles had almost faded, leaving behind only a subtle yellow-brown tint; but his face looked pale and fragile.

It was impossible not to pity him. But he was still the enemy, and Tommy had still fallen asleep beside him.

Fuck, Tommy thought. He wasn’t irritated at the doctor, but at himself. Yesterday’s escape attempt had taught him the consequences of lowering his guard, yet he’d done it again. Just because Holford was weak didn’t mean he could be trusted.

Tommy rose, trying not to disturb Holford, and got dressed. As he straightened his cuffs in front of the mirror, he saw the red mark on his head from the candlestick, and the welt on his neck from the curtain-cord. He sighed. What the fuck are you doing here, Tom?

The fire had burned out. He lit the hearth again, tidied up last night’s mess, and took stock of what supplies he had. With water and canned milk and rolled oats, he started to make porridge in the iron pot.

He felt eyes on him, and turned to see that Holford was awake; the smell of cooking and the clatter of the ladle against the sides of the pot had drawn him from his sleep.

“Morning,” said Tommy.

The doctor didn’t reply. His green eyes followed Tommy nervously - no longer dazed and unfocused, but clear and apprehensive. In the cold light of day, now that he’d had a good night’s sleep, a horrible clarity had set it, and the events of the previous day seemed so much worse.

He’d attacked Tommy, almost killed him, escaped, discovered that his own people wanted him silenced, barely survived their brutal torture, and now he was back in Tommy’s hands. He’d gone out of the frying pan, into the fire, and then back into the frying pan. And to top it all off, he’d cried and pissed himself in front of Tommy, as if he hadn’t been humiliated enough already.

“It’s alright,” said Tommy, as if reading his thoughts. Setting the ladle aside and leaving the porridge to gently simmer, he picked up his medical kit. “Those bandages will need changing by now.”

Wincing, Holford slowly sat up. He started to push the blanket away, then realised he was naked and pulled it back up.

“My clothes?” he asked hoarsely.

“Ruined. I got rid of them. You can have something of mine.” Tommy sat beside him. “Let’s take a look at that arm.”

In a way that Holford couldn’t quite put his finger on, Tommy’s tone was different. Still cold and reserved, but the ever-present sardonic edge was gone. Seeing Holford reduced to such a state had disarmed him.

Tommy started to unwind the bandages around the doctor’s left arm, a little blood leaking out as he did so. Holford watched anxiously. As the gauze peeled away layer by layer, he remembered the feel of the rough asphalt underneath him, the knife’s edge, the invasive touch violating his dignity. Then he remembered shadows cast by firelight, and the taste of whiskey, and - fuck. He’d offered himself to Tommy.

Holford squeezed his eyes shut, took deep breath after deep breath, trying to suppress the memories. Tommy noticed his reaction, but said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” said the doctor, “About yesterday and about…last night…”

“It’s done. Pointless dwelling on it.” Tommy changed the dressings, then washed his hands and returned to his cooking. The porridge was done; he ladled some into a bowl, and handed it to Holford along with a spoon. “Eat it while it’s hot.”

“Thank you.”

As the steam rose from the bowl to greet him, Holford’s forgotten appetite came flooding back and he realised just how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten a hot meal in a fortnight. His sore mouth curled painfully around the spoon, conscious of re-opening the old cut in his lip. There was something sweet mixed into it - honey? Each spoonful soothed his throat, which was still raw from screaming.

“You know how to cook?” he remarked.

“You don’t?”

“...I suppose not.”

“Growing up, I spent a lot of time on boats and in caravans. Eating what I caught or gathered. When I wasn’t, I lived in a little flat in Small Heath. I cooked my own breakfast and my own supper. I didn’t always live in a grand house with servants, like you.”

Tommy put on his holster and coat. His cap had fallen on the floor during yesterday’s struggle; he picked it up.

“I’m going to take a look around. See if I can bring back some game for supper.”

“The lock’s broken,” Holford said quietly. “What’s to stop me from running away?”

“Well, Mosley, for a start. And those rain-clouds, if you don’t want to get soaked.”

Without waiting for a reply, Tommy left, glad to be out in the open fields and away from Holford’s presence - from the thought of Holford kissing his hand, and of the doctor’s naked skin. As he went, he removed the razor blade from the brim of his cap, threw it away into the grass where he would never find it again, and put the cap on.

The wagon doors were open, but he didn’t care. They both knew Holford wasn’t going anywhere.

And so it was the next day, and the next, and for more days than they cared to count. They fell into a routine: check the injuries, wash the arm, change the gauze. Breakfast, tea, supper. Tommy fetched water at dawn and hunted at dusk. Washed clothes in the stream and hung them up to dry.

The missing skin on Holford’s arm was growing back one fraction of a layer at a time, starting at the edges and working its way towards the centre, the raw red turning to deep pink. Tommy never brought up what had happened - forcing Holford to relive it would’ve been cruel - but inwardly he gave thanks for Pascoe’s precision. The bastard’s skill with a knife had ensured a shallow and even cut, with no damage to the muscles or fat underneath.

The days turned into each other. Every now and then, they would move to a different camp, a different field, a different forest…It didn’t matter. They were all the same to Holford. He didn’t ask where they were headed, nor did he particularly care. Sometimes Tommy blindfolded him, but he didn’t care about that either - he had no intention of trying to escape again.

His body was healing, but something inside the doctor remained broken. Before, he’d used to explore the wagon, pacing restlessly to and fro. He’d read Richard III cover-to-cover until he'd practically memorised it. He’d tried to engage Tommy in conversation, desperate to create a connection. Now he just lay silent, facing the wall.

He no longer pleaded for release, because there was no point. Even if he escaped Thomas Shelby, where would he go? Mosley wanted him silenced by any means possible. Going to the police would only reveal his own role in the conspiracy. Even if he was spared prison, he would lose his license and his reputation. There was no life for him outside this wagon any more. He’d given up.

If Tommy was troubled by his change in mood, he didn’t remark upon it. Perhaps he didn’t want to re-open wounds that were still so fresh, knowing that Holford already spent every waking moment thinking of Pascoe’s assault and Mosley’s abuse. Or perhaps he just didn’t care.

Chapter 10: Wild Mint

[thomashelbyswife]

This gifset is so pretty I love how you enhanced the colouring of it all making these scene look even more so comforting I can fill pages writing about how beautiful this is. I'm in love 🥹🤍🤍

TOMMY SHELBY ▸ Peaky Blinders, 4.3

[mydear-corinthian]

Protection || Thomas Shelby x reader

Synopsis: You were protecting your son, Charlie when Billy Kimber's men ambushed your shared home. Pairing: Thomas Shelby x reader Warnings: ANGST w/ comfort, reader gets injured, gun violence, mentions of blood, swearing, Grace's being mentioned once - s2 spoiler Notes: Not proofread, grammatical errors, GIF is mine Click here to find the main masterlist. Click here to find the PEAKY BLINDERS masterlist.

As another regular evening took place, a sense of peace descended over Thomas Shelby and his wife's shared home. While Tommy was busy with his business and papers, you found yourself wandering the enormous area of the estate with your young son, Charlie.

Marriage with Tommy wasn't for the faint of heart. You were highly aware of the ongoing danger that accompanied his lifestyle, the circulating threats and enemies that followed your husband's every step. Despite the obvious risks your love for him remained strong. You treasured him not as an infamous gangster, but as the man who made you feel valued, protected, and appreciated.

There was nothing but silence in the huge home; you could hear the clock ticking and the curtains flapping as the breeze shook the cloth. It was a Saturday night, so the maids weren't working, leaving you and Charlie alone. Charlie's eyelids were going drowsy as you cuddled him, softly caressing his back and humming his favorite lullaby. Looking at the clock, you realized how late it was, and Tommy hadn't returned home yet.

You heard the main entrance door open with a loud bang. Although it seemed strange, you assumed Tommy was just returning from a stressful day at work. Charlie woke up from his sleep and let out a loud cry when you heard gunfires as you were ready to leave your shared room. You were so terrified that you thought your legs were paralyzed. Without wasting any time, you grabbed Charlie and put his little body against your shoulder, giving him a tight hug.

With Charlie in one hand, you dashed to the door, locked it almost instantly, and took out the Enfield No. 2 six-bullet handgun that your husband had given you as a birthday present from the nightstand's drawer. You grab the gun and duck into the shared bedroom's bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

The room was filled with the sound of the little Shelby's piercing cries, which seemed to come from every corner. You tried so hard to soothe him, cooing softly, but all it did was make his cries louder and more echoing through the walls. As you tried to calm him, your hands trembled with fear and your fingers stuttering, a sign of your growing terror running down your face. You felt powerless in the face of Charlie's constant tears, and you started to search for a way out of the mess.

You started nervously to pray while holding a child in your arms. Tears were beginning to fall from your eyes and the prayers were mumbling on your lips.

Charlie and you were found by whoever was in your shared room as you heard the door slam. Breathless, you lowered your son onto the empty, shallow bath tub behind you and spoke to him to stop crying. and that you will return quickly. When the toilet door opened, two armed men in a hideous black suit and a top hat appeared; they were Billy Kimber workers.

One of the armed men circled around you and exclaimed, "Aye look, it's Mrs. Shelby," as you aimed your handgun at him, your hands shaking with terror. You've never been skilled with a gun. Tommy giving you a gun like that surprised you. He would not stop stating, "You'll use that in the future."

and perhaps the future was today.

"Suprised a Shelby doesn't know how to use a gun. How about we gift Thomas Shelby the lifeless body of his dear wife?" the man laughed. You raised the gun without thinking, your hand steady from the rush of adrenaline pumping through you, and took aim at the man's skull. The bullet cracked sharply and shot out of the barrel, piercing the air and hitting its target with terrifying accuracy. With a bleak proof to your determination, fortune smiled on you as the bullet hit accurate, plunging into the man's forehead with fatal force and instantly taking his life.

Attempting to fire another shot to the other man, you missed.

Suddenly, you heard a bang go off but paid no mind. Attempting to shoot again, you finally succeded; three bullets all over the now lifeless man's torso. The sight of the lifeless bodies made you feel sick but you chose to ignore it as you dropped your used gun to go and grab Charlie and ask for help. You grabbed your son right away, immediately hugging him and kissed his little forehead.

Suddenly, you heard a familiar voice calling out your name; Tommy.

His voice reaching out for you made you sigh with relief. Your husband ran toward you as your legs found their way to the stairs to return to him. You embraced him, resting your head on his chest and taking in his manly scent as you exhaled. "Oh god, Tommy.."

She took Charlie out of your arms and gave you a minute to rest in Tommy's calming presence in Polly's comforting presence. Tommy's hand gently cradled the back of your head as you leaned into him, seeking solace from the chaos of the moment in his gentle, comforting touch. His voice, a comforting whisper that passed through the chaos, whispered, "You're safe now, love."

He felt a warm wetness on his dark blue vest, making him break the hug to see what it was.

Tommy's eyes widened in fear at what he saw, and he let out a gasp. Once an image of elegance, your immaculate white evening gown now had a scarlet stain of blood creeping across it, the color standing out against the fabric. The room seemed to spin in a dizzying twister, threatening to paralyze you as the color faded from your face, your face was pale and your vision seemed to spin like a twister.

"Did you get shot?" he worriedly asked. Confused by his question, you looked down at your stomach, seeing the color red slowly colonizing your white evening gown.

"I - I um.. Tommy, I feel dizzy.." your fragile legs gave up, his strong arms catched you almost immediately.

Your eyes were starting to drop, your body was slowly getting cold, your muscles giving up.

"T - Tommy, why is so cold..?"

Fuck, he mentally cursed at the sight that met his eyes. It was as if God had judged him once more. Grace - this seemed so familiar. His fingers were shaking with fear and worry, his eyes were beginning to water, and his heart had stopped.

"We need a medic!" Polly shouted.

He tries to calm himself down by caressing the strands of your hair before tucking it behind your ear. "Please, stay." he begged.

His frustration was boiling over and his impatience was burning in the way he spoke. He gave orders for the medics with a strong edge to his voice, desperation and anger infusing each word as he demanded their immediate presence.

"Tommy.." you softly called his name before darkness took you.

Your stomach hurt and your brain throbbed when you woke up. Beside you, you noticed your husband uncomfortably sleeping on the wooden chair. You noticed that the ash tray on the table stand next to you was filled with used cigarettes, indicating that you had been out for a while. You were trying to sit up and Tommy woke up to the sound of your pained moans. His bright blue eyes met yours. Eyebags developed under his eyes as a result of struggling to sleep due to the chance that you wouldn't wake up anymore.

"Easy, love." he said.

In an attempt to prevent him from harming you, he cradled your back so you could lie down peacefully once more—as though you were a piece of glass that would shatter the moment it was touched.

He deeply blames himself for what happened to you. If only he was there that night. If only he went home early, you and Charlie wouldn't be in this situation.

"Where's Charlie?" you asked right away, your eyes looking everywhere in the room to see if your child was there or not.

"He's with Aunt Pol, (y/n). He's safe with her, don't worry."

With both of his hands clasped around yours, he sobbed out loud in front of you, unable to stop himself from crying. He felt responsible, guilty, and like a terrible partner for failing to give you protection.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry.." he cried as he apologized, kissing your hands.

You smiled softly as you placed your right hand on his face for him to look at you.

"It's not your fault, Tommy. The good thing is that me and Charlie are safe." reassuring, you gave him a weak smile.

"I thought I lost you." he exhaled in exhaustion, standing up as he kissed your head.

"I would never leave you, Tommy."

"Please don't."