#peaky blinders hc

[muneca-lemon-steppa]

HCs of Alfie with a younger wife? Like in her mid 20s 💕

Hello my darling!!! I’m sorry this took forever! But I am back!!! Please enjoy this little nugget. Also y’all HCs are so fun!!!! Maybe I should do more.

He wasn’t planning on marrying a younger woman. Let’s be honest he wasn’t planning on getting married PERIOD.

But then you blustered in…

You came in. Full of wisdom so far beyond your age. Full of confidence that came from the knowledge that you were the best you you could be. Full of light that he thought would flee from a man like him.

He immediately was drawn to you. Your soothing voice that brought down his rage, which so quickly could come full force against him when he got too brash and foolish, reminding him that there’s no need to destroy what was not yet broken.

Despite the incurable draw to you, he said he would stay away. Be respectful. Be a respectful old man.

You would have none of it. Because truthfully he wasn’t that old. He was just snippy and preferred his habits. He hadn’t been a young man ever since the war. Regardless what his birth certificate said.

In truth it didn’t take too much to get him to relent. He’s just a man in front of a beautifully infuriating woman. And after a screaming match ending with you laughing at his reddening ears and hoarse voice, he let himself finally say it, “Right then. Now only my woman gets to screech at me like you do. So I’ll see you tomorrow night? Take you to the pictures and maybe dinner?”

And soon enough he asked for your hand, rumors and shaking heads be damned. He needed you more than air, and for some reason you loved him just as much.

Alfie expected his life would change once you were moved into his home. Was only natural. But he didn’t expect to change THIS much.

Or that he would like it. That he would feel like a chasm he didn’t realize he had was finally sealed up and healed with the first morning he woke up to you next to him.

Younger yes. Unorganized you were not. And very quickly upon your arrival did you see the bachelor pad state and work your magic to rectify. To turn this dragon’s cave into an actual home. Curtains and windows finally opened to let in fresh air. Ledgers and letters were filed away. The garden in the back finally being tended to to indicate actual humans lived and loved on the premises.

Remember that Alfie has been a bachelor the majority of his life. Any pretty women which came into his life were quickly shoo’d away. So to say he was puzzled by your… womanly… tools?? Weapons??… was putting it lightly.

“My dove now what the fuck are these? They look like tiny dinner rolls.”

“They’re rollers Alfie! For my hair! Gives it the wave.”

“Right right hair wave rollers yes of course. Now what about these… powders and things?”

“My rouge and lipstick darling.”

He didn’t get it at all.

Though Alfie is partial to opera and the absolute classics, he adores the new music you bring home. His family in Boston adore you immensely and have taken to mailing you the newest records in America.

If you’re extra sweet, you can usually coax him to dance with you, spinning yourself around him in a tizzy. By the end of your evenings he’s drunk without even a single sip of rum.

He’s never been so happy. So care free. But there is this nagging feeling in his stomach. One that won’t go away. That maybe you’re not truly happy. That you’re secretly wishing to be back out with the young people. To go out dancing in pretty dresses instead of in the living room in your dressing gown. To be fawned over in illustrious restaurants instead of cooking dinner together most nights. Had he robbed you of your youth simply because he’s selfish?

He never tells you this. No being a man means keeping your feelings inside and not letting your woman see you less than perfectly confident. (His words not mine)

But you read him so easily. It’s easy when you love someone so completely. Especially if your lover gets the deepest scowl on his face when he’s troubled, staring deep into space.

When you finally coax him out of him, he merely grumbled like a shifting mountain, trying to brush it off.

But oh how he wished he told you sooner. You assure him that you never really enjoyed the clubs and high society outings. You much preferred to stay home with your friends and other loved ones. What could possibly be out there that could even come close to what you have in the house.

When you do manage to get out of the house, either to the cinema, walking Cyril, venturing out for dinner, or because you insisted that walking is good for him, he is fully aware of the stares.

Some are… disapproving. As much as they can be towards the King of Camden. But the ones he is most irritated by are the love sick stares of the young men who trail after you. Clearly covetous and stupid enough to be blind to the beast that walks close beside you.

He is shocked you don’t notice. When he brings it up to you, you merely laugh, “Why would I be noticing men staring? The only man I’m concerned with is you.”

That comment makes him smirk wickedly, grasping firmly to your waist as you laughed brightly, swatting his chest playfully when he growls in your ear.

For all your ferocity and fiery eyes, Alfie still dotes on you and frets over you. Little presents are common. He insists on you bundling at the slightest drop of temperature or precipitation. And begrudgingly “permits” you to attend to errands on your own (you and everyone else knows he would never forbid you unless it was truly dangerous. But he loves to rile you up and tease).

You’ll never want for anything being his bride. Nothing is off limits for you. Even if he does make a show of pulling out bank notes, groaning about how his bank account suffers. Even when he’s the one that insists on buying you new things.

He may be the older one, but you are some how so much more wiser and practical. Anchoring him to the present when the nightmares come. Secretly convening with his doctors to heal the deep aches and malaise. He insists you’re magic.

To some it’s unconventional. Your love doesn’t make sense. But to those who truly know, you’re a match made in heaven.

[agentidiot]

[justalonelyslytherin]

I can so see this!

Polly would be like Lady Danbury and would be bff with the Queen. Cue the scheming increasing tenfold! Or would she be Lady Whistledown?

The conflict between Tommy and Arthur if Tommy were to find a Match first. And just Tommy taking the lead in the family much to Arthur's displeasure.

I do have to say John would also be a Rake!

And the conflict of Freddie falling for Ada und being Tommy's best friend is just perfect for this setting!

Peaky Blinders but make it Bridgerton

Okay, okay.... listen... it's a crazy idea, but listen...

Lord Thomas Shelby, Duke of Northumberland

Already sounds good! He'd be a Capital R Rake!

Ada in her first season, escorted by Tommy and Polly. It's total chaos and of course there is a scandal!

Arthur too shy to ask his crush out to dance, so he gets drunk at the gentlemen's club later.

John killing it on the dancefloor, no sweat. And oh, he is loved by the young ladies, but the mamas think he has a little loose mouth.

Finn always waiting at home, until he is finally old enough to come with.

Polly scheming and plotting matched all season.

Just saying....

@justalonelyslytherin Hehehe, got this idea while chatting with you, so you get tagged!

[autumnleopard]

Tommy: I love you but what the fuck, Alfie?

[clairecrive]

What do you think/hc/, how would Alfie surprise you (in early relationship, like a couple months) on your bday? Like, I hc him making you dinner and some awesome dessert ❤️with a glass of whiskey or wine? 🥰

uhh, okay this sounds fun!

first of all, I think Alfie is the kind of man who shows love rather than tells it.

And I know, it doesn't sound like him but I feel like he has already a persona to keep up for his work that in the comfort of his house, he's actually not that talkative.

like he'll still like to tell stories and talk your ear off

but he's quieter in his demonstrations of love

maybe it has to do with his work

he is a careful listener though

so I feel like he will organize whatever it is you like doing the most

whether it's going to the movies and then dinner at a fancy place

or going away for the weekend in Margate if you love the sea

or even going dancing

he won't be doing much of it himself but he will for a little while just to please you

and of course, if you'd like to stay in he'd definitely take the day off work to cook you something absolutely delicious

he's actually a great cook and an even better baker

in the early stages of your relationship, however, I feel like he'd show off

not because he's flashy but because he'd be scared and kinda insecure that you'd want and expect certain things from him

I feel like if you'd only been together for a few months, he'd definitely lavish you with expensive gifts and dinner at a fancy place

after a while when he's more secure and comfortable, he'd definitely do something more private unless you want it

[blakeswritingimagines]

First Date

Thomas: He will take you to a nice restaurant and feed you all night. In return, he will ask you about your family, childhood, and life plans. He would also like to know what really makes you smile. He will try to learn more about you and the world you live in so that he can understand you more.

Arthur: He would want to meet at a pub, where you get to know each other, if it's going well then maybe you'd continue the night by going to a restaurant, to a play or something like that.

John: He supposes a nice stroll down to a cool place for lunch or dinner. Then maybe afterward, a walk through the park or something. He likes spending time with the people that he dates so he likes to learn about you and get to know you better. In that way, you can see if you are compatible because of your personalities and goals in life.

Ada: Her first date idea is to go for ice cream, then you can take a walk in the park, and talk about movies and stuff. It's simple but fun! And it's a chance to get to know each other better.

Finn: Go on a picnic with you, he would even make delicious sandwiches and chat while you watch the sunset, or on cloudy days he'll go to the park with you and walk hand in hand and talk.

Polly: A nice cafe over a nice cup of tea, then walk through some gardens, then you could go for dinner somewhere nice and then you could go and see a play in the theatre.

Micheal: He'd take you to the racetracks and see the horses run and maybe gamble a little bit. Who doesn't like a little excitement?.

Isaiah: He'll pick you up from your place and go have coffee and some snacks. Later he'll go for a picnic with some champagne and watch the sunrise.

Bonnie: Taking a stroll near the river and taking a picnic with delicious food while talking and learning about each other and having fun is his go-to.

Alfie: He'd wanna keep it simple. So like a nice romantic dinner, a bit of a drink, and then go out for a nice walk. Maybe go and watch a bit of comedy if that’s your thing. Then end the night off with a bit of cuddling.

[prettypeppermint]

the gift of silence (how sweet the sound).

for t. shelby. a continuation of 'amazing grace.'

You weren't speaking to him. And it was slowly driving him up the wall.

Not that you were normally a chatterbox in the face of Thomas Shelby; you rarely spoke to him unless you needed something. You were always more of a looker; your eyes bore into his from across the room whenever you overheard something you shouldn't have; you studied his slight quirks and subtle movements and stared blankly at his handwriting when verifying papers; you looked when nobody else did. In a sea full of heads, your eyes were always turned against the tide--snowy sea glass amongst pebbles in a blinding summer's ocean. He noticed your gaze when you thought no one did.

Sometimes, wisdom lies in silence rather than words. You knew that above all others.

Come to think of it, that night was the most you had ever talked to him directly since he'd known you. It was the most candid he’d ever experienced you. And he was frightfully prepared.

It wasn't the fact you weren’t talking that bothered him--more so the absence of your voice--something he never thought to irk him until he realized just how much he wanted you to spare him a whisper. He wanted to see you all worked up the way women get sometimes; he wanted to watch you unravel. But you were always so tightly bound.

It's been days since he kissed you--touched you. Thomas was a man of self-control, and he knew it was both the first and the last time he'd ever be selfish with you again. He didn’t know it, but he yearned to wade a bit longer in the satisfaction of knowing you were at least a bit frazzled by him. But you seemed as much out of place as snow in December.

He didn't like how you were added to his long list of tasks and responsibilities. He didn't like how you weighed down his shoulders.

Even with all the help you gave around these parts, you were always just a burden to his mind--the way you smelled of a place far away, the coyly cold shoulders you gave and the moles on your hips. He didn’t like it one bit.

Because now he was the one staring at the back of your neck, at the way your ringlets bounced in a manner almost comical against your serious face. Everything about you seemed to be a paradoxical phenomenon: your coquettish features that rarely spared a smile for anyone, your soft eyes that revealed hardened thoughts, your bouncy curls and the ribbons that sometimes adorned your braids and the lacy little ensembles that complimented your loveliness.

You were so ironically unapproachable. You never missed the quips and spare jokes about it: that people could sense your presence because the room gets cold, that a smile would sit prettier on your mouth than all those cigarettes.

You appeared unperturbed by the smog-capped skylines and rubble-ruined streets of Birmingham; all the sins of the city never wore wrinkles between your brows or sowed smoky wisps along your hairline. It was almost as if you were preserved in that eternal Kilkee ruralness--as if you brought a piece of the Irish coast with you to this Godless city. Farmer's daughter. Fisherman's treasure. You were outlasting and evermore. You were something of the sea.

"I said I needed fifty hand-copies of last month's inventory on my desk by this morning," Thomas breathed matter-of-factly, leaning against the door frame as you indulged in your morning smoke, an old whiskey in his hand. He liked the way your bare shoulders looked as they reflected the breaking dawn--the way the sun collected in your collarbones and made your hair shiny.

It was his turn to stand at the doorway. It was his turn to bear his weight at the threshold.

"I put them on your desk two mornings ago," you responded, matter-of-fact, “Perhaps you forgot to look under your arse, Mr. Shelby.”

Where along the line had he become Mr. Shelby?When did plain, old Thomas leave your vocabulary? He liked it when you called him that--just Thomas.

You never intended to sound so coy all the time. Aunt Pol like to say you were just a pretty girl with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind--sometimes to your own doom.

At that, Thomas tossed a hefty stack of unsorted paperwork on the coffee table you were sat at. He watched as your rosy elbows wobbled under the wood and ash flitted from your slim cigarette.

"You forgot these, Ms. l/n." he rasped blankly, trying to see through to your eyes from the back of your head.

Without looking at him or the papers, you stood up and took your time neatening them up before heaving the stack into your arms. As you passed by his figure in the doorway, you discarded your cigarette in his whiskey glass.

He was left staring blankly at the empty scene before him--one that was once fulfilled with your presence--a sense of longing boiling up in his core. It was out of character to be so subconsciously infatuated with the idea of getting a rise out of you. It was almost ridiculous.

Mr. Shelby seemed to be a master at pushing good things--good women--away.

"A bit harsh on the girl, don’t you think?" Aunt Pol piped knowingly from behind him, emerging from her watchful shadows once you had retreated to Thomas's office.

"No different than I've always been," he said, eyes still trained on the spot at the chair that was once yours.

"Don't take women for the fool that you are, Tommy. I see the way you've been eyeing her--picking her apart. I'll have you fucking another whore before you sink your claws into another girl with a bright path ahead of her."

"Her path ends here, Pol. No girl who ever got tangled up in Shelby business ever makes it to London."

Aunt Pol glared at his nape before leaving him there, sinking in his own wallows.

~~~

"Where're my copies?"

"I threw 'em out."

A moment of silence pulsated through his blood and rose to his brain. He had found you sitting and smoking in your usual spot, merely thirty minutes after his most recent orders. He slowly walked up to your lax frame, still dawned in your silky, lacy little thing of a nightgown.

"I trust that you know those were Mr. Kimber's papers, Ms. l/n," he rumbled lowly--dangerously, "Papers I won't think twice about having you dig through the trash for on the street in nothing but your slip."

"You've done worse," you responded calmly, taking another draw of your cigarette. Recently, you've been blowing through more than your daily 6, and he never failed to notice the little things.

He stepped even closer, his hands buried adamantly in his pockets so they wouldn't reach out for you. Why was loving Grace so easy, and loving you felt like a sour seed in his stomach? As if it would burrow holes in his organs and infect his blood until you did something about it?

"You're gonna get me those papers or I'll have you thrown out to the streets after happy hour."

With that, you stood abruptly from your chair and walked with brisk strides toward the wastepaper bin at the leg of the center table. You plunged your hand into it and pulled from the depths of millions of cigarette butts Thomas's precious Kimber papers. You slapped them on the table riddled with ash and peanut shells and flipped through each page for him, fully filled out and stamped with fresh ink.

Then you climbed atop the table, standing precariously on the splintering wood in your dainty, red dance heels so you could have the upper hand for once.

"You don't get to disrespect me because of your fragile, faulty, little boy of a heart. You don't get to disrespect me because I have an ounce of self-preservation in the face of a man with the power you have. And you don't get to disrespect me, because I am y/n l/n, and I don't work for men who lead with the brain in their cocks." It came out eerily steady, unlike any rage he'd ever been at the receiving end of before.

It was like a flash of soundless lightning; you were gone as soon as it happened, having stepped down from the table to retreat to your sun-spotted, smoke-stained corner. And he was left with the storm that came afterward, soaked in an alien feeling that hadn't made itself quite known to his heart yet.

But much like how most things rear their ugly heads at night--drunkards emerging from their taverns and whores from their brothels--Thomas Shelby's ugly little things were no exception.

Night changes a man; it shrouds him in regret and urges forced down throughout the day and lust unravished.

Night made Thomas hungry.

And so he found himself watching over your sleeping form folded at the waist and draped across the table you've been sitting at the entire day, where you've done nothing but stare out the window and let the smoke abuse your lungs. Your cigarette, now a measly stub, was still haphazardly pinched between your tired fingers. He found that smoking didn't suit you--it tainted your rosy face that otherwise emulated an ethereal countryside purity. The Irish foreshore was still fresh on your cheeks.

In sleep, you reverted to the girl you were born as: simple and lovely and kind as a bird.

He felt the sour seed growing.

He slipped his hand around your wrist and maneuvered your body onto his back with ease before carrying you to his room where he set you down on his sheets. His hand instinctively reached for the pipe on the nightstand, but it trembled before tightening into a fist that fell limply at his side.

What he hadn’t known was that you both experienced night terrors, but as he lay awake on the floor next to his bed with your writhing and moaning frame, it became abundantly clear.

He wondered what was haunting your conscience and digging its way into your sleep. Maybe you've been through a few wars of your own. None that men would know, anyway.

As his mind continued shifting and shuffling, he felt a warmth press into his back; you had stepped off the bed and laid down on the cool, dry planks next to him--back to back and facing away from each other. He could feel your silk stick to your sweat. Time froze, and within that time, so did the nightmares.

Seconds drawled into minutes before it all became a blur as shadows morphed into stories on the moonlit wallpaper. It stretched and stretched.

"Do you want to know what I dream of at night?" you slurred, breaking the industrial silence. Your voice was thick with an unrestful break from the world.

When Thomas didn't respond, you continued: "I dream of my home in Ireland: its salty mist and green softness all around. I'm standing there, on a plain, looking out over the ocean. I'm smiling. And each time the tide hits the rocks and recedes back into its basin, I see something emerge from the salt onto the rocks. They're people--bodies--their skin so bloated and fermented from the salt I can't even recognize them, but it feels like I should. Like I know them. And I'm stuck on this plain, trying to make out the faces of my mother and sisters and brother as they keep piling up. Over and over and over. I can't stop it. Because the tide always ebbs. It gets closer and louder, and I'm still smiling. And I pray I wake up before it gets to me and I'm the one on the rocks, rotting and unrecognizable. And I feel awful for it."

Another silence spanned, and Thomas realized he was foolish to ever wish it away. Because silence was how you both communicated. Silence was the language only the two of you were fluent in. Silence bridged the gap that words created. Silence was what he wished for when he heard the shovels chipping at the wall night after night.

"Thomas, you love me." It was a mere whisper, as if you too were scared of ending the silence--the gift of time.

"I love you," echoed Thomas. It was so low and so guttural, as if sprouting from that very sour seed that--within the span of the night--had grown into something pulpy and bittersweet instead.

With that, you both dozed off. And Thomas woke up without the sound of the shovels.

x.

[huntingingoodwill]

til' death do us part (t.s.)

masterlist

requested by: @runnning-outof-time (ilyily) + anons

prompts: menswear by the 1975 + "it scares me how fast i fell for you"

pairing: yan! tommy shelby x reader

The gravel lining the path of Tommy’s driveway crunched under his gleaming leather dress shoes as he made the long walk from Arrow House to the imposing wrought iron fence that guarded it. 

Puffing on his cigarette, he approached the car idling at the end of the road, the headlights illuminating him in their streams of light. 

“The money.” His gruff voice demanded as the lackey hopped out the driver’s seat, the young man shooting nervous glances at the men flanking Tommy. 

His quivering arm jutted out, thrusting a briefcase toward Tommy. 

Tommy nodded toward the case, prompting John to rifle through the bills neatly stacked within it. 

John’s brow furrowed. 

“Some’s missing.” He muttered. 

“Where’s the rest?” Tommy asked, his voice dangerously quiet, teetering on the line between complete calm and unbridled fury. 

The man recognised the menace in his tone, fumbling over his words as his cheeks heated up, heart thrumming in his chest. 

“Don’t look at me! I only brought what the boss gave me, I don’t know-” He blurted out, desperately trying to push the blame away from himself.

Tommy felt a presence hovering over his shoulders, eyes burning into the back of his head. He turned, looking up toward his bedroom window, the large glass panes looking over the expanse of his stately front lawn. A silhouette stood behind the glass, looking down at him. Just as quickly as he had turned around, the figure turned away, hips swaying as it sauntered further into the bedroom. 

“Fuck.” Tommy breathed. 

He inhaled sharply, a sense of crushing irritation pressing down on him. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to alleviate the ache settling behind his eyelids. 

“Deal with him.” He ordered Arthur, leaving the lackey quaking before his formidable brothers as he turned around, marching back into his manor. 

The door swung open to his bedroom, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of turning around to greet him. You rested your chin against the palm of your hand, looking uninterestedly into your vanity mirror. 

“What’re you doing up here, eh?” He asked. “They’re asking after you down there.” He swung the bedroom door shut, the chatter of the party below muffled behind the hardwood. 

“I was just waiting for my dear husband.” You spat the words out like they were poison in your mouth. “But he was busy. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that a brute like you wouldn’t let up on the criminal activity, even on his wedding night.” You sighed, tone flat as if the subject bored you. You reached for your lipstick, daubing some of the colour on. “What was it, Tommy? Tobacco? Opium? Or something more exciting?” 

“You don’t need to know.” He retorted, voice clipped as he adjusted his tie. 

“Oh, but I would like to, Tommy.” You whipped around, finally looking at him. Your voice turned venomous with sarcasm. “After all, I love a good bit of gossip. It is so dull being held captive here in this awful house.” 

“Don’t use that phrase.” He sighed. 

“What, ‘held captive’? What would you prefer: forced to marry you? Coerced, maybe? What would you like to call it, Tommy, blackmailing my family, taking me away from them, trapping me in this damn house, trapping me in this damn marriage. Enlighten me on the vocabulary you want me to use.” 

He huffed, eyes travelling toward the door already, as if he had no time for this, as if your anger was nothing more than the result of a silly spat. “Get up. My family’s waiting downstairs. They all want to meet my new wife.” 

“I hope I end up like the first one.” You spat. 

“(Y/N).” 

“What, Tommy? I bet she couldn’t stand living with you too. At least she found a way out. And got a nice fucking portrait out of it too.” You snorted. 

He reached forward, wrenching you up from your chair. His fingers locked around your arm, digging into the flesh. A part of you expected him to rebuke you, to scold you for all the things you said to him, and you embraced it. You relished in making him angry, a little payback for all the things he had done to you. 

But, instead, knowing just how to push all your buttons, he refused to sate that desire you had to piss him off. 

Tenderly, disgustingly so, he reached up his hand toward your face. He ran his knuckles gently across your cheekbone, the coldness of his wedding band an ugly reminder. 

“You know why I did all this?” 

“To make me suffer?” You responded. 

He carried on, ignoring your words. 

“I did it for us. As soon as I saw you, I knew I had to have you. I could never let you go.” He sighed, stroking the line of your jaw, your throat bobbing as you swallowed thickly, blinking away tears of rage. “It scares me, how fast I fell for you.” He whispered. 

“Funny, isn’t it?” You rasped out, your voice low and quiet. His presence felt as though it was crushing you, closing in on you. “How you’re the one who’s scared. But that’s good.” You snarled, nodding resolutely. “You should be scared of me.” You growled. “You have me now, but not for much longer.” 

“I’ll always have you.” He retorted, nodding resolutely, eyebrows furrowing as if he was explaining a simple concept to an idiot. He jerked you toward him, locking his arm around yours as he opened the bedroom door, leading you back down toward your wedding reception. “Til’ death do us part.”

[evita-shelby]

Dumb modern!peaky headcanon:

Gina and Michael had a regency themed wedding that Jack had to pay for and the marriage lasted like 72 hours

[peacexatxlast]

Hello hello! Welcome to Small Heath!

Who I write for:

The Peaky Blinders universe

Jackson Rippner

Cillian Murphy

Jonathan Crane

William Killick

Neil Lewis

Masterlist:

Thomas Shelby:

I’m here: angst, a bit of fluff and minor mentions of sex

For a Good Cause 🔞

Jackson Rippner:

Dating a Goth Gf would include~

[heavencanbeaprisontoo]

Peaky Blinders Big Three

-The Shelby Family-

Note: Finn and Polly’s big three come from their canon birth dates. All others are my personal hcs.

Polly Gray - ♏️ Sun, ♍️ Moon, ♈️ Rising

Arthur Shelby Jr.- ♈️ Sun, ♓️ Moon, ♑️ Rising

Thomas Shelby - ♑️ Sun, ♏️ Moon, ♏️ Rising

John Shelby - ♉️ Sun, ♈️ Moon, ♊️ Rising

Ada Shelby - ♎️ Sun, ♒️ Moon, ♍️ Rising

Finn Shelby - ♒️ Sun, ♉️ Moon, ♏️ Rising

Michael Gray - ♒️ Sun, ♏️ Moon, ♍️ Rising

[peakypolly]

🍹+ arthur bc he's my fav (don't judge me lol)

Random Headcanons | Arthur Shelby

A/N: Thank you so much for requesting❤️! No judgement here, Arthur's my favorite too so you've come to the right place☺️ I had so much fun coming up with these HC for our beloved Arthur! I hope you enjoy!

taglist: @shelbydelrey @raincoffeeandfandoms | If you want to be added to the taglist, just send me an ask and I'll add you!

Arthur loves to sing- especially when he’s been drinking

It’s mostly songs he used to sing in the war

When he’s sober he’s actually good, he’s got that rasp to his voice!

Arthur cares a lot about animals-  chickens are his favorite and I think overall he has a soft spot for birds

Modern! Arthur would have a parrot that he names “Patchy” and he thinks it’s hilarious to let Patchy out of his cage when theres guests over 

He doesnt tell anyone he’s letting the bird out he just does it

He also likes to say swear words infront of the parrot and hopes one day the parrot will imitate him 

One day Patchy does imitate him- Arthur comes home after a long day at work and sits on the couch, he begins to rant about his day:

Arthur: “Ah fuck Patchy, Tommy’s a bloody idiot”

Patchy: “ Aw fuck, Tommy’s an idiot”

He thinks its the funniest thing to ever happen- He keeps trying to record it to send in the family groupchat

Modern! Arthur also runs an instagram meme page with John

It’s really not that funny- it’s like early 2010 memes and the main demographic is like 35-60 year old men

They surprisingly have a lot of followers though, enough to get hate comments- the hate comments are Finn and Isiah on anonymus accounts, Esme eventually joins in too because John keeps showing her the memes before they post them and it’s a nightmare.

Arthur gets really mad about it, like he’s seething- at every family function he rants about the anon haters on his meme page. It’s really hard for Finn and Esme to hold back laughter

Arthur becomes obsessed with boxing after seeing Bonnie Gold fight

He's fought before in the ring and it does not go well as we all know- He starts to take a more passive role once he realized how out of hand he gets when he fights himself

He goes to every single fight he can- If theres two fights happening on his day off he will be at both of them in the front row cheering on his favorite fighter

[gothofgotham]

rest in peace tommy shelby you would’ve loved megan thee stallion

[the-acer-scientist]

do y’all think that Collins “The Butcher” Malevolent did his own top surgery with that piano wire

[webyspeaks]

Fun fact!: everytime a writer puts “he wears your clothes bc theyre super baggy on him” in their plus sized reader hcs 10 yers get cut off my life

[grayisblogging]

characters i hc as autistic