#peakyblinders!au

[dante-mightdie]

WAIT! you just said peaky blinders au right???? 🤭🤭🤭🤭

you know the scene john shelby gets married, like he doesnt know that he's getting married? if tommy told him, then he would have not even have considered that idea? but then ends up with the longest lasting marriage and the prettiest wife? MAKE IT SIMON I BEG MAKE IT SIMON

for reference: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z-a63i2nWz4&pp=ygUecGVha3kgYmxpbmRlcnMgZ2V0dGluZyBtYXJyaWVk

love your writing xoxo <3

yes yes yes yes yes to all of it

when he finally realises what he’s there for, who’s wedding he’s dressed up for? he kicks off big time. yelling, cussing, calling john every name under the sun for betrothing simon away without even consulting him. he doesn’t want to get married. he’s a guard dog, a mutt. his rough tongue peels the meat from bones, not taste the gentle skin of a wife

and yet here he stands, lifting the veil of who he now knows as the most beautiful woman in the world. his head turning to look at john, soap and kyle with a wolfish smirk. your nervous eyes looking up at him, pouted lips reading out the vows you prepared for him. how sweet, but he’ll have to make up for his lack of sweet words tonight when he takes his new bride to bed

but the insinuation that you needed to be married because you were becoming to ‘wild’ for your family to handle and john knows simon could wrangle you no problem. except he has no intention of doing so, using his dirty money to buy you a lovely home on the edges of the city. he’ll do the long journey into centre everyday, no problem. as long as your happy

bejewelled dresses, lavish jewellery. plush sheets and soft pillows. sweet wines and tender meat. anything to keep you happy

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

By Order Of The Crimson Brotherhood.

(peaky blinder!harry)

masterlist || ask me anything

in which, the year is 1921, and the city of manchester is under the control of the ruthless gang the crimson brotherhood, so when there leaders wife gets mobbed in the streets on her way home from the farmers market, the styles brothers make sure they know she is one of there own.

word count - 2.6k

authors note - ik this isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but i have 100% been in my peaky blinders era as of the beginning of the month, im already on season four 🙈🙈 and thought it would be kind of cute to join the two worlds together, don’t know if this will turn out any good but who knows?? anywho enjoy angels 💗💞

January, 1921.

Harry Edward Styles, a man born and raised in the city of Manchester, a man known for his ruthlessness, his strong will and his dangerous antics.

Him aswell as his brothers roamed the streets of Holmes Chapel, with razor blades down into the flat caps which ultimately led to fear seeping into the bones of there enemies.

Which they had a lot of.

The Styles Brothers were well renown around those ends, the family always had been, there father wasn’t present and there mother died when the youngest brother was barely a year old.

Harry met you, his gorgeous girl at the age of nineteen, the two of you were childhood sweethearts, destined to be together no matter the circumstances.

You were wandering around the streets, when you bumped into him and his elder brothers Charlie and George. You were about to fall to the floor but your wrist was captured in the hands of the leader, who caught you and raised you back to your feet carefully.

You asked how you could return the favour and he muttered something along the lines of ‘you could let me take you out for a night on the town’

And the rest was history.

When the war broke out, Harry knew for a fact that he would be getting called up to represent his country, and at the point the two of you were already engaged, but he demanded that the two of you be husband and wife before he was shipped off, explaining that if he was to die, he wanted to die as your husband.

So, the two of you had a small ceremony and you officially became Mr and Mrs. Styles.

When he returned home from war, he demeanour was slightly colder due to everything that he had seen and been through, he was colder to everyone around him, except for you.

He could never be angry, harsh, callous or aggravated around you.

People feared him before he went to war, but when he returned it was like he was a ticking time bomb, one wrong move and heads would be blown.

He ruled Manchester.

And that would never, ever change.

In the heart of Manchester, you move with the grace of a queen, your every step echoing the legacy of the Crimson Brotherhood, the notorious gang led by your husband, Harry Styles.

Despite the weight of your marital ties, you refuse to be confined by the expectations placed upon you.

Alone at the market, you weave through the stalls with purpose, selecting the finest ingredients for the dinner you plan to prepare for your husband, and his brothers.

Determination fuels your steps as you pick out fresh produce, savory meats, and delicate spices, each item chosen with care to create a meal worthy of the Crimson Brotherhood.

You approach the butcher's stall with a slightly sense of innocence, the scent of freshly cut meat mingling with the bustling atmosphere of the market. As you exchange pleasantries with the butcher, you can't help but admire the array of cuts on display, each one a testament to the skill and expertise of the person behind the counter.

"Good afternoon, love. What can I get for you today?"

Returning the smile, you reply, "I'm looking for four round beef steaks, please."

One for you, one for Harry, one for Charlie and one for George.

The butcher nods, already reaching for the desired cuts. "Ah, excellent choice. Coming right up."

As they expertly select the steaks, you engage in friendly banter. "Busy day at the market?"

The butcher chuckles, their hands deftly working the meat. "Always is, especially with the sun shining like this. But I can't complain, keeps me on my toes."

You nod in agreement, admiring their skill. "I can imagine. Thank you for always providing such quality cuts."

With a satisfied grin, the butcher presents the four round beef steaks, neatly packaged and ready for you. "There you go, love. These should do the trick."

"Thank you so much," you reply gratefully, accepting the package. "I really appreciate it."

"It's my pleasure," the butcher says warmly. "Enjoy your meal."

With the package of steaks safely tucked into your basket, you bid farewell to the lively atmosphere of the farmers market. The sun's warm rays still linger, casting a golden glow over the bustling streets of Manchester.

As you walk, you can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction at having secured the ingredients for tonight's dinner.

Reaching into your basket, you retrieve a pair of gloves, slipping them onto your hands with practiced ease.

Just as you're about to slip the second glove onto your hand, a sudden grip tightens around your arm, pulling you forcefully backward.

Startled, you gasp as you're dragged into the dimly lit entrance of a secluded alleyway, the bustling sounds of the market fading into the distance behind you.

Heart pounding, you struggle against your assailant, your fingers instinctively tightening around the basket's handle, the package of steaks forgotten in your grip.

Panic surges through you as you're dragged deeper into the darkness, your mind racing with fear and uncertainty.

As the man's grip tightens around your arm, you're suddenly face to face with a stranger whose features are etched with menace. His blonde hair falls haphazardly across his scarred face, the jagged line drawing your attention to the intensity in his eyes.

The overpowering stench of rotten egg fills your nostrils, sending a shiver down your spine as he speaks.

"Just the girl I've been looking for," he growls, his words sending a chill through your trembling body. Tears blur your vision as you stare back at him, unable to comprehend the terror unfolding before you.

He was Irish.

In a voice thick with malice, he continues, his words slicing through the air like a blade. "Your husband and his brothers owe me, and I aim to collect. And what better way to send a message than through his darling wife?"

You try to speak, to plead for mercy, but fear has stolen your voice. Before you can utter a word, his fist connects with your jaw, sending you sprawling to the ground.

Gasping for breath, you curl into yourself, the pain radiating through your body like fire.

The man's laughter echoes off the walls, cold and cruel. "They crossed me, and now it's time to pay the price. And you, my dear, are the perfect pawn in this little game of ours."

As he delivers blow after brutal blow, each impact driving the air from your lungs, you cling to the faint hope that someone will come to your rescue.

But as the darkness closes in around you, you realize that you are utterly alone, at the mercy of a man whose cruelty knows no bounds.

With aching limbs, you muster the strength to push yourself upright, the world spinning around you as you struggle to focus through the haze of pain and fear.

Casting a wary glance over your shoulder, you retrieve the basket of food that had fallen to the ground during the attack.

With trembling hands, you wipe the dried blood from the corner of your mouth, the metallic taste lingering on your tongue as a grim reminder of the violence you've endured.

Summoning every ounce of willpower, you force yourself to take a step forward, the basket clutched tightly to your chest. Your movements are slow and unsteady, each step sending waves of agony rippling through your battered body.

As you reach the end of the alleyway, you pause, casting a furtive glance around to ensure that no one is watching. The last thing you need is for someone to see you in this state, vulnerable and exposed.

With a silent prayer for strength, you begin the agonizing journey home, every step a testament to your resilience in the face of unspeakable cruelty. Tears threaten to spill from your waterline, but you refuse to let them fall, determined to maintain a facade of strength until you reach the safety of your own four walls.

With each agonizing step, you inch closer to the familiar sight of 24 Spring Lane, your sanctuary from the horrors of the outside world.

The journey that once felt like a mere stroll now stretches out before you like an eternity, every movement a testament to the relentless ache that pulses through your battered body.

Finally, you reach the doorstep, the key trembling in your hand as you struggle to insert it into the lock. Your fingers fumble with the familiar motion, the simple act of unlocking the door now a monumental task in your weakened state.

As you push open the door and step inside, relief washes over you, tempered only by the searing pain that courses through your body with each labored breath.

The injuries inflicted upon you by your assailant are beginning to take their toll, the dull throb in your ribs now accompanied by a sharp sting at the top of your eyebrow.

Unaware of your husband's presence, you stagger into the living room, your focus consumed by the overwhelming need to seek refuge from the torment of the outside world. But as you drop the basket to the floor and collapse onto the ground, a cry of pain escapes your lips, the weight of your injuries too much to bear alone.

In the dim light of the room, you catch a glimpse of Harry sitting in the corner, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

His expression is unreadable, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond your line of sight.

As you collapse onto the floor, your body wracked with pain, Harry's instinct kicks in, propelling him across the room in a blur of motion. With a sense of urgency, he drops his cigarette and rushes to your side, his hands reaching out to catch you before your skull can meet the unforgiving wooden floor.

His eyes widen in shock and concern as he takes in the extent of your injuries, his heart clenching at the sight of blood staining your face and clothes. Gently, he cradles the back of your head, his touch both tender and urgent as he ensures your safety in the midst of the chaos.

"M’Love, what happened?" Harry's voice is thick with worry, his usually steady demeanor shaken by the sight of you in such distress.

He carefully brushes the hair from your face, his touch feather-light against your bruised skin.

You struggle to find the words to answer him, the pain making it difficult to form coherent thoughts, let alone speak. But as you meet his gaze, the unspoken understanding that passes between you is enough to convey the depths of your suffering.

Without hesitation, Harry gathers you into his arms, cradling you against his chest with a fierce protectiveness that belies the tenderness in his touch. As he holds you close, you feel a sense of safety wash over you, a comforting reminder that no matter the trials you may face, you will always find refuge in his embrace.

As Harry holds you close, his voice filled with concern, he gently urges you to tell him who is responsible for your injuries. But fear grips you tightly, paralyzing your voice as you shake your head vehemently, unable to form the words to convey the terror that still grips your heart.

"Please, love," Harry implores, his eyes searching yours for any sign of reassurance. "Y’need to tell me who did this. I won't let ‘em hurt you again, I promise."

But the memory of the man's cruel laughter and the violence he inflicted upon you looms large in your mind, filling you with a sense of dread at the thought of facing him again. How can you trust that Harry's promise will hold against such ruthless brutality?

Tears stream down your face as you cling to Harry, your body trembling with the weight of your fear and pain. You long to confide in him, to share the burden of your suffering, but the words remain trapped within you, a silent scream of anguish and despair.

In response to your silent plea, Harry's grip tightens around you, his arms a shield against the darkness that threatens to consume you.

"I swear to you, (Y/N)," he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm against the turmoil raging within you. "Whoever did this won't ever be able to hurt you again. I'll make sure of it."

"I... I don't know his name," you manage to say, your voice trembling with fear and pain. "But he... he had blonde hair and... and a scar."

Harry's expression darkens as he processes your words. "Patrick McDonald," he mutters, his voice laced with anger and recognition. "Bloody hell."

Another wave of pain radiates from your ribs, causing you to instinctively turn your head into your husband's chest, seeking comfort in his embrace.

As you lean against him, Harry's arms tighten around you, a silent vow of protection against the threat that looms on the horizon.

"I'll deal with him," he promises, his voice a low growl. "No one hurts my wife and gets away with it."

“George, Charlie!”

You hadn't even realized they were in the house, lost in the chaos of your own pain and fear, but now they appear, their presence a welcome relief amidst the turmoil.

With wide eyes, George and Charlie rush into the room, their expressions shifting from confusion to concern as they take in the sight of you battered and bruised on the floor.

"What happened to ‘er?" George demands, his voice edged with worry as he kneels beside you, his hands hovering over your injuries.

Harry's jaw clenches with barely contained fury as he speaks the name that has haunted your nightmares since the attack.

"Patrick McDonald," he growls, his voice thick with anger and determination.

Charley lets out a harsh breath, his expression darkening with recognition.

"Bloody hell," he mutters, his fists clenching at his sides.

As the gravity of the situation sinks in, George's gaze flickers between you and his brothers, his features set in a steely resolve.

"We need to find him," he declares, his voice firm with determination.

Harry nods in agreement, his eyes burning with a fierce determination.

"And when we do, he'll wish he'd never laid a hand on her," he vows, his voice a low growl.

With trembling hands, you grip tight onto your husband's waistcoat, your eyes pleading with him not to leave your side.

"Please, H," you beg, your voice wavering with fear and desperation. "Don't leave me."

Harry's gaze softens as he looks down at you, his heart aching at the sight of your pain.

"I have to, m’love," he murmurs, his voice laced with regret. "That bastard deserves hell f’what he did to you, and he's going to get what's coming to him."

You shake your head frantically, tears streaming down your bruised cheeks.

"But I need you here," you plead, your voice barely a whisper amidst the chaos of the room. "I'm scared, H. Please don't leave me alone."

For a moment, Harry's resolve wavers, his love for you outweighing the thirst for vengeance burning within him. But then, with a heavy heart, he gently extricates himself from your grasp, his eyes filled with determination as he rises to his feet.

"I promise, (Y/N)," he says, his voice firm with resolve. "When we find him, he's going to hurt just like he hurt you, s’a promise, and I never, ever break promises. He’ll get what’s coming to him one way or another.”

“By order of the Crimson Brotherhood."

[manicrouge]

Episode Five: Bear the Burden

[𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛] || [𝙰𝚄: 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜] || 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

[𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍]: 10/09/24

[𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝]: Blake faces the consequences of his actions whilst you face the consequences of your association with John Price.

[𝙲𝚠]: violence, non-con touching (nothing sexual), blood/ gore (nothing too bad).

[𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝]: 8.4k

[𝙰/𝙽]: I am so sorry this took so long... I hope this makes up for my absence !! Also please let me know if I've missed and warnings.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Please don't post my work anywhere else without my permission !!

He lurks like a virus, you find.

One you can’t quite shake. His annoying tendencies and loud mouth make him a villain – you can’t perceive him as anything other; whatever your mind attempts to conjure up always leads you in circles until you eventually find yourself back at your original assessment.

You're staring at a pretty woman sitting on a throne, although you cannot take your eyes off her eyes. They're haunting – primal. And despite her well-kept golden hair and the richness of the clothing surrounding her, none of the jewels she is adorned in can distract you from the rubies in her eyes.

Despite your assessment of the piece, you cannot help but sense his grin as it radiates like a toxin, infecting the area surrounding the pair. 

It’s early and the general hubbub of the city is left behind you. And strangely, you find that the gallery's silence leaves you with a profound emptiness.

The Hindsight’s loudness as proclaimed by your old boss, was the one thing that was supposed to deter you from working there, and yet, you miss the calamity and feel the urge to rush out the doors all to hear the drunken babbles of the patrons you’ve become so accustomed to during the time you’ve spent there. 

‘It’s quiet today,’ Graves says, turning his head slightly to glance at you, ‘you’re quiet too. Somethin' wrong?’

‘You’re not talking,’ you remark, looking down at the small purse in your hands, ‘there's been no mention of the guns. I haven’t heard a thing… I- I don’t think they took them.’

He scoffs. ‘That’s what they want you to think.’ 

You shake your head, your hands tightening around the handles of your small bag. ‘You told me that Ky– that Garrick said that–’

‘Oh,' he begins, 'we’re on a first-name basis with them now, ay?’ Graves chuckles, ‘I hope you’re not growing a soft spot for them, ‘need I remind you that they’re criminals?’ 

‘I know they are,’ you say, although your voice is unsteady as you profess their sins. ‘But I don’t think they have the guns.’ 

‘Then who has them?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ you shrug, ‘I’ve heard that the communists are planning on having a protest at the train station this afternoon. They’re demanding fairer pay and treatment… they think the government has abandoned them after the war.’ 

‘They made it home,’ Graves said, ‘they should be happy with that. The world isn't gonna fall to its knees for them; everyone’s lost something or someone. They’re being greedy.’ 

His words leave you thinking of Blake. The man is much too big for his personality, although you suppose he needs the extra space to fit the heart inside his chest. Greed isn’t how you’d describe a man like him and the war took more from him than most people; you can see it in his eyes. 

‘The capital keeps this place running, same as the States. We lose that, we lose order – fall into whatever Russia has landed itself in. It’s unruly, unjust, and, quite frankly, a mess.’ 

You hold your tongue, fearing you’ll be guilty of speaking as your heart compels you to say, settling in the spot you’ve been standing in as you shift your feet, swallowing your heart.

‘Yes,’ you mumble.

‘I’ll look into it, have some police on the lookout. Speaking of which, I heard the owner of the pharmacy was attacked. Does that have something to do with Price?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ you speak truthfully, biting down on your lip, ‘I have to go.’ 

‘Your shift doesn’t start for another hour,’ he says, looking down at his watch. 

‘I have nothing else to say to you,’ you answer, turning on your heel, and heading towards the exit. 

You’re stopped as his hand clasps your upper arm. ‘If I find out you have been lying, Mr Churchill won’t be pleased.’ 

‘I’m not,’ you answer, ‘now let go of me.’ 

‘Promise me,’ he says. 

‘Promise you?’ you scoff.

He takes offence to that clearly as he scrunches his nose up, and as he speaks again, you note that he is gritting his teeth – addressing you as though you have become the next target on his list. ‘That you’re not lying to me. You’re a good girl, it’d kill me to know you’re falling for their trap.’ 

Whatever he's talking about you're convinced is the byproduct of paranoia. No sane man ponders that hard and comes to such a demented conclusion.

Your stomach twists and you yank your arm out of his. ‘I’m being honest with you,’ you say, 'not giving him any more of your time as you rush towards the museum's exit. 'I don't appreciate your tone with me, I advise you fix it.'

'I don't appreciate your secrecy.'

'It's not secrecy,' you breathe, 'rather doubt.'

He sticks up his nose at your confession, turning his back to you as though to resume looking at the painting the pair of you were looking at but a moment before the outburst.

'He has the guns.'

'And what proof do you have of that?' He falls silent. 'You have no right to blame me for having reasonable doubt. Garrick had no idea what you were talking about.'

'People can lie,' he says firmly.

'I know,' you insist, 'I'm not a child, I understand how the world works. Stop treating me as though I know nothing.'

He grumbles something under his breath, shaking his head. 'So what do you want me to do? Pack up shop and tell ol' Churchy boy that his guns are gone because you think Garrick is telling the truth?'

His condescending tone is enough to have your heartbeat ringing in your ears. You ball your fists and chew so hard on the inside of your cheek that you almost bite through it.

'You keep doing your job, I'll have the boys raid the house of a few known commies, and see if they know anything about it. But if I find nothing, I'm meeting John Price and asking him in person.'

You know whether or not you're okay with what he is saying to you is pointless and you struggle to contend with what you acknowledge to be your personal bias against the man who has invited you to the races with him. If you speak now, you fear it will simply be word vomit – an attempt to justify a man beyond redemption (supposedly).

—

A profound concept is what you are to him and as he spies you, he’s unable to shake the thought that, for the first time in his life, he is doing something truly wrong.

His eyes feel too dirty to look at you and the occasional line in his peripheral vision acts like a clump of muck on you. He blinks quickly to chase it away, of course, he does, he wouldn’t leave you with the burden of his truth for longer than a few seconds. 

You’re grinning at the man you’re talking to – he’s much too drunk, wobbling a little as you converse with him. The conversation is not secret either; he has a gob that could replace a foghorn and a laugh that could give a gunshot a run for its money. Your responses, however, remain a mystery as you sit; you’re much too gentle to return his drunken enthusiasm.

You eventually lift your head and your eyes lock for the first time since you poured his drink. You offer the man a smile before heading away from him and approaching Price. 

‘You want a refill?’ you chirp. 

A voice as sweet as the song of a bird, he thinks, nodding his head as he holds his glass up. ‘Fill me up, love.’ 

The cork in the top of the bottle squeals as you open it, pouring more drink into his cup. ‘You look tired, is everything okay?’ 

Your question is one he wishes he could answer, only, he doesn’t want to bear you with the burden of what his morning will entail. The request he had been provided with the day prior has been weighing on him monstrously and he’s left offering you a lopsided smile as he shakes his head, downing the drink you have just poured him in the blink of an eye.

‘Had a bad night's sleep. Nothing a drink an’ smoke won’t sort.’ Your skepticism at his claim is charming and he smiles. ‘Really, love, I’m fine. Don't worry about me.’ 

‘Do you get much sleep?’ you ask. ‘It’s just… I’ve heard a lot of people – especially men who were in the war struggle to sleep.’ 

‘I sleep fine,’ he says abruptly, nearly choking on his tongue, ‘just excited about the races.’ Your face lights up with the mention of the races. ‘You found a dress yet?’ 

‘You only asked me last night,’ you exclaim, ‘I haven’t had the time yet.’ 

‘Well that’s no good, is it?’ he says, ‘you can have a day off later this week – go get yourself something nice.’ 

‘Who will run the pub?’ 

‘Sure Johnny will do just fine until you get back.’ 

‘All the liquor’ll be gone by the time I get back,’ you laugh. 

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says, glancing at his watch.

Despite a peculiar force keeping him seated in his chair, he pushes against it, forcing himself up and away from you. He catches the furrowing of your brows as he gets up to leave and a part of him wishes to stay all to engage in an empty conversation with you.

‘Keep this place safe whilst I’m gone, ay? Any issues, tell one of the boys about it.’ 

You grin. 'I can take care of myself, John, don't you worry about me.'

As though taking a page out of his book, you speak with a mocking gruffness in your tone. If you were anyone else, he very well would have taken insult to the words you're speaking to him. Only, he can't help but let out a small chuckle.

'Heard you loud and clear, sweetheart,' he says, not missing the bruising scarlet on your cheeks as he offers you one more smile before turning on his heel and heading towards the exit of the pub.

—

‘Simon Riley,’ Graves addresses the man as he slowly stalks the shadows in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the brooding man’s face. Only, his disappointment is measurable in the curve of his mouth as he catches the mask covering his face. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ he confesses with a smile, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants, and shifting on his feet. 

Simon simply stares at him, not bothering to even muster up the strength to blink. Graves hums, filling the void of the silence. The man’s trying to intimidate him; he’s seen that old tired tactic one too many times to fall for it. Especially from a man like Simon. 

‘I’ve been trying to get a hold of that boss of yours. Slippery man, ain’t he?’

Simon keeps his mouth shut. 

Graves lets out a short laugh. ‘Not the talkative type, are ya?’

‘If you were tryin’ to get a hold of him, you wouldn’t have beat Kyle,’ he firmly says, crossing his arms across himself, rolling his neck seemingly in an attempt to cling to composure. 

Still, Graves has never really been one to threat in the face of evil, rather, he compromises – plays their game. That’s how you get through to them; he’s done it throughout his career and he’s sure it wouldn’t keep him from succeeding now, even if he is in a foreign land- nothing has stopped him before and he doesn’t intend for anything to stop him now. 

‘I wanted to scope the area out before addressing the boss,’ Graves answers. 

‘Y’ scared of Price,’ he says, ‘cause, if you weren’t then you woulda just went straight to him instead of spying on one of his workers.’

‘Kyle is one of his closest workers, is he not?’ he responds, narrowing his eyes, ‘don’t tell me how to do my fuckin’ job, kid. I imagine I could teach you a thing or two about it.’

‘No,’ Simon says, shifting as he moves slightly closer to him, ‘you took one look at whatever files you got from the government and decided that he was the easiest out of all of us to go for,’ he corrects strictly, narrowing his eyes. ‘I’m not a fuckin’ idiot, and neither are any of the lads, so don’t try an’ play me as one.’ 

‘Anyone in the right mind would believe that you are threatening me right now.’ 

‘I am,’ he states blatantly, uncaring for the consequences. ‘You gonna beat me like you beat Kyle, hey?’ 

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says with a grin, all to burst into a fit of laughter, ‘I know I’m not fooling you, Simon. And, if you want my honest answer, I would say that you would just have to wait and see.’ 

The man hums, his unhappiness as prevalent as a gigantic pimple on someone's chin. ‘You’re here for the guns. Not for us. Keep it that way.’ 

‘And why would I do that?’ 

He’s silent for a while, his eyes dragging up and down Phillip’s face before he eventually relents, his eyes narrowing to form crescents. ‘Cause, otherwise, you’ll be goin’ back home in a box.’ 

‘I didn’t think men like you would have the decency to even send me home,’ he says with a laugh, raising his hand and bringing it against his chest, ‘I’m touched, Simon, truly touched.’ 

‘Don’t want the blood of someone like you spoiling the dirt around here.'

He leaves without another word, not stopping even after Graves calls his name. So, the man stands and observes his pathing, finding that he is walking right towards The Hindsight. Rolling his eyes, he crosses his arms over himself.

Wonder if he speaks to her like that.

—

Simon Riley is a peculiar case, one that cannot quite be answered. Every time you take a glance at the man, you're left more confused than the last time as questions swirl around in your head.

'You wanna ask me something?' he asks, startling you.

Slowly, you turn to see him staring at you, the glass of whiskey he's nursing being engulfed by his hands. Never had you ever seen a man so big in stature. He's similar to Blake in a way, only, quieter. Whatever troubles he's having are reserved for his mind.

'Sorry,' you mumble out.

Much to your surprise, he shakes his head, beckoning you to approach him. You're cautious at first, acting as though he is a stray dog who appears as though he's going to snap at any moment.

'John told me about the chain around the door last night. You okay?'

There's something in his tone which makes the darker inflexions soften as he addresses you and you're unable to hide the smile that forms on your face as you swallow down any prior doubts you had about the man.

'I'm fine,' you say with a smile, 'nothing out of the ordinary for places like this, I'm sure.'

He shakes his head. 'Yeah,' he breathes, 'Johnny's gone round to ask people if anyone's seen the fella who had something to do with it today. We know it's Fisher's group — just don't know who's in charge now.'

'I saw John this morning,' you say, 'he seemed like he was in a rush when he realised the time.'

'Don't worry about him,' Simon says, pulling his mask up to expose his mouth, taking a sip of his whiskey. 'Still acts like a Captain even though we're outta the war,' he snorts.

'Old habits die hard, I guess,' you say, grabbing the whiskey bottle, 'you want a refill?'

—

The pair walk side by side as though there is not a fault in the world, and for a while, Price allows himself to believe that. It’s kind to let the mind rest for a while, he remembers remarking that during their time in the trenches. It’s just a shame that Blake's mind never seems to stop. He’s walking with his hat in his hand, scrunched up in his hands as he stares at the ground, his head occasionally bobbing as he listens to John.

Life is greedy. But the business is bloodthirsty.

And it’s something he has come to terms with, at least in his execution. Admittedly, the difference between being a soldier and a businessman – in terms of the business he is in – is very little. His fingers are so used to wielding a weapon that he wonders if his hands would still close similarly if he had never been exposed to violence. But he’s a violent man and always has been one. And everyone sees him for what he is. 

‘I was talkin’ to my lady this morning,’ Blake says, the rocks below them crunching as they tread closer to the water. ‘She’s real worried about me. A- And I’m sorry.’ 

His eyes steer clear of the man beside him as he spies two figures obscured by the fog of the early morning. Despite such, the pointed brim of their hats is blatant and even causes the outline of their figures to appear slightly rough around the edges. He spies danger in their exterior and he wonders if Blake sees it too. 

‘You see those men,’ he asks, motioning towards the evasive figures. 

‘Yes, Cap’n.’ 

He answers like a child answers a parent.

‘You killed an important man, Blake,’ he says, ‘their brother.’

‘I didn’t mean to, you know that, Cap'n.’ 

‘You think they care why you did it?’ Price asks, furrowing his brow, ‘scrambled mind or well one, it doesn’t matter. You killed one of theirs.’ 

‘I- I know I did and am sorry–’

‘You upset the wrong people, Blake,’ Price says, looking across the water at the two old men perched on the edge of old discarded crates. 

The closer they get to the men, the more he can see of them.

One of them takes a puff from the cigar between their lips, the grey smoke whipping to the left with a harsh breeze. There’s the stench of the rotten water below them, reeking of sewage and whatever else has been dumped in there (John might have an idea, but he would never tell).

The world is a state, he knows that as his hand firmly grasps the gun sitting at his waist. Blake stands with his back to him, keeping his eyes trained on the billowing smoke from the factory, a short breath escaping him as he hears his Captain cock the gun. 

‘I- I didn’t mean to, Cap’n,’ Blake says, glancing over his shoulder briefly, just long enough to capture John’s eyes. 'You know I didn't mean to... it's just me mind. There's something wrong with me.'

‘I know you didn’t,’ he said, rubbing his mouth with his free hand, ‘I know you didn’t, but you’re causing’ more and more trouble all because you can’t get your shit together, ey? And how does that look for me?’ he asks, ‘I’m your boss and I’m supposed to have all the power in the world and I still can’t control you, an’ look where that’s got us now.’

‘Cap’n, please, I- I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, please.’

His pleading leaves him dizzy as he addresses the two men standing on the opposite side of the dock awaiting what he has promised. The business is terrible, he concludes.

Even the war was easier than this.

‘I- I don’t wanna die, I got a little girl at home an’… I wanna see her grow, I wanna be there for her when she needs me.’ Blake sobs, reduced to an infant himself. ‘She can’t sleep if am not there, Cap’n. A girl needs her daddy to read her a bedtime story – she needs me to chase away whatever monsters are in the shadows. And if am not there, how am I supposed to do that? She needs me.’ 

‘Are they her monsters or yours, Blake?’ 

The sobs escaping him calm for a moment and he feels his heart breaking in the silence. ‘You’re a good man. But they don’t know that and they don’t want to know that. I can't force them to listen cause you killed one of theirs.’ 

He bows his head, not caring to look John in the eye. He’s quite sure he can hear his heart pounding from where he is standing and the gun in his hand feels heavy. Too heavy. 

His big hands are balled into fists hanging on either side of him and in a small voice, Blake mumbles, ‘look after me girls f’r me, yeah, Cap’n?’ 

It’s so weak, something he expected to leave the mouth of a child – not a grown man. He manages out a grunt as he readies his finger on the trigger, sucking in a breath. To offer him a response seems unjust, there’s nothing he can say as of that moment as he’s all too aware of the eyes watching him. 

He lands with a thud as the sound of his pistol rings out around the yard, his body falling onto a boat passing by. His pistol smokes as he moves his hand to station it back to his side. The men sitting across the window offer him a half-assed nod as they push themselves up off the crates. They offer him nothing else: no condolences, no ‘thank you’ for what he’s just done.

No.

Instead, they head on their merry way, leaving Price to watch as the boat drifts down the canal, red splayed across the back of Blake's head. 

The sight leaves him feeling empty, like a de-gloved puppet. He has no purpose, simply sworn to a haphazard purgatory until the next time his violence is needed.

—

He's tired and he knows it.

Truthfully, he doesn't understand why he has even entertained your suggestion and the rudeness you exerted in the gallery has left him with a bruised conscience as he stands outside of the home, listening to the littered curses of the residents as they are pulled outside.

Tapping his foot against the ground, his mind is taken hostage by a woman across the street. Her blonde hair is tied neatly into a bun against her head and she seems much too disturbed by the fabric of her skirt. She walks with a sneer — uncommon for a woman as, typically, they know anything other than a smile is sure to make them an outcast.

And still, he's intrigued by her.

He's sure he knows her from somewhere.

And then he sees him. John Price, in person. He's walking with his typical arrogance: head held high, hands behind his back walking as though he's still in the position he favoured. The entirety of the man is a waste, he concluded. Nothing is redeeming about him and his desire to revisit the life he lost is simply pitiful to observe.

The woman he approaches looks at him and they share a few words before Graves notes that her eyes catch his own for a split second before turning back to Price. It's that that ultimately provides him with the go-ahead to approach the pair of them, uncaring for the commotion he's caused in the household behind him.

So, he crosses the street, putting on the brightest grin he can muster as he proceeds towards the pair of them. He doesn't need to be beside Price for the man to turn around and address him. Immediately, he's greeted by a casual coolness.

'Mr—'

'Detective Graves,' Price cuts off, narrowing his eyes. 'I've heard you've been looking for me.'

'That I have,' he nods, a smile plastered on his face.

'And to get my attention... you beat one of my men?'

'He wasn't cooperating.'

The woman beside Price pipes up. 'That's not what I heard.'

Her tone is thick and professional, and she seems to be just as much of a cynic as he is. 'Your men left him bloody and half-conscious in an alleyway. The barmaid had to help him inside,' Price says, 'I wouldn't call that not cooperating. If you wanted to speak to me, you could have asked me. But you didn't.'

'Forgive me,' he says through a huff, 'for not wanting to trust a criminal,' he adds, 'but I have reason to believe that you're the man who took a shipment of guns.'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' he says, 'an' Gaz told us about that. You wanna work with us.'

'That I do. If you're not a guilty man then it should be no problem.'

'No,' he says, 'not after how you treated him. You can take your deal and shove it right up your arse,' he says in an all too polite manner. 'I want no part in whatever it is you're doing.'

'But you'll gladly get your hands dirty for Blake, eh?' Graves asks.

The woman standing next to Price shoots him a confused look, her thin eyebrows bunching together in the centre of her forehead as her mouth hangs open ever so slightly. Rather than answer, Price places his hands on the woman's shoulder and begins to usher her away.

Graves watches as he does so, resting his hands on his lips with a grin. 'I look forward to our proper meeting, John!'

—

The coldness of the night seeps between the cracks of the pub as you ready yourself for your walk home in the dark. You give it little thought as you get ready to leave; it’s no different to any other night, aside from the one where John walked you home, of course.

You can’t seem to escape the thought of last night, and even though it was a measly day ago, you find yourself grinning at the idea of the pair of you walking side by side. Neither of you said anything, only offering a quiet ‘thank you,’ and ‘good night,’ when you reached your doorstep and left him.

And, as you’re turning off the lights inside the pub, you find there’s an ache in your chest that the pair of you didn’t fill the void with some form of conversation, although, you’re charmed that the pair of you could walk in silence and not feel the need to speak. 

Not even Graves can give you that. And he isn't the criminal.

It’s odd and you feel like a schoolgirl again, bumbling and stuttering over yourself while daydreaming about the bad boy in school. It’s corny, you know it is (that’s the worst part, really), and it certainly isn’t what you’re here to do. You’re here to find the guns and nothing else. The weasel your way into the mind of John Price and crack the code of what exactly has happened to the weaponry. Yet, you’d be a fool to deny the thudding of your heart within your chest every time you heard his voice. 

The pub is submerged in darkness as you shuffle towards the doors with a sigh, your bag slung across your shoulder containing the coins John offered you earlier today. There’s so much you could buy with the money he’s given you and you’re embarrassingly excited about the dress you’re going to get, even though you’re unsure as to what you’re going to purchase at this very moment. All you know is you’re dressing to impress, especially, if you’re going to be the woman who he has on his arm for the entire event. 

As you pull the first door open, you close it firmly behind you, locking the latch at the top of the doors, and pushing them to ensure they’re both securely shut. You nod to yourself when the door doesn’t budge, proceeding to head out of the door stationed in front of you.

As you push the door open, you are still at the sound of footsteps to the left of you, slowly craning your head in the direction in which you hear them. Still, you keep a tight hold of the bar on the inside of the door as you do so. There’s a shadow which covers your frame and as you slowly start to pull the door to a close, you jump as a hand plunges from out of the darkness, taking hold of your forearm. 

You’re pulled away from the door, a short breath escaping you as your forearms are grabbed. You stare the shadow right in the eyes, wincing as their hold on you grows tighter. You open your mouth with the intent of screaming to catch someone's attention, as, quite frankly, the sudden altercation has left your chest rattling and all your strength after a long day in the Hindsight has been sucked out of you. Only, the man standing before you quickly lets go of your arm, placing his hand over your mouth to keep you from crying out. 

As he cranes his neck towards you, you feel his hot breath on your face as he forces your head backwards against the door, keeping you completely pinned. There’s the faint smell of booze and smoke on his breath and he offers you a grin, showing off his yellow teeth.

Your mouth runs dry as you look at him in the eyes, unable to even move in his hold. The flesh in his hold feels as though it is rotting, and the horrific grimness of this situation dawns upon you.

You’ve never been one to be played as a fool, however, as you look at the grotesque man standing before you, you feel as though you’re about to burst into a fit of tears. You’re exhausted, you’ve had a long shift and all you long for is your bed. Yet, even the universe cannot grant you that one simple pleasure. 

‘I was hopin’ to catch you,’ confesses the man, his leg bouncing as he twitched with a peculiar excitement. ‘You’ve been the talk of the town, y’know? The barmaid. Everyone has been sayin’ how pretty you are and I wanted to see for meself… and they weren’t wrong.’

All you can do is stare as he addresses you as though you’re an apparition. 

‘They’ve said that John Price is real fond of you,’ he says, ‘and you know what’s the best way to get to a man?’ he asks, leaning closer as he lets go of your forearm, still keeping a secure grip on your face.

He beckons his head as you watch his hand disappear into the night. So, in an attempt to keep yourself alive, you slowly shake your head, hoping he’ll leave you be. 

‘Dumb girl – you got the looks but not the wit about you, ain’t that right?’ he laughs, moving closer and closer to you until his forehead is pressed against yours and you have no choice but to look him in the eyes. 

You feel him shift against you, a worrying action as he’s obscuring your view so all you can see are his sharp features and his bloodshot eyes. Your breath is caught in your throat as your mouth runs dry, there’s no sense of security in the eyes of a criminal like him, you know it, and during your fit of panic, you feel your body begin to tremble. He pushes his hand against your mouth harder, forcing your head to press against the glass on the door to the Hindsight.

‘Lemme tell you a little somethin’ about this business,’ he sighs, ‘us men like three things, you take one of them away and… well, you might as well shoot us there and then, yeah?’ 

You feel something blunt press against your throat.

‘Money, power, and our women,’ he claims boldly, ‘take that away from any man and he has nothing. And I don’t intend on keeping you around just cause you’re giving me puppy dog eyes cause you’re a mutt who's in with the wrong crowd.’

If he knew the truth, you’re unsure whether or not he would have changed his tune or if he would remain the same cruel man he is right now. 

'Does it feel good, hm? To work for a fuckin’ scamming lowlife?’ he asks, pulling away from you slightly, ‘bet it feels pretty fuckin’ good, ey? Since you’re choosing to stick around for him, anyway.’ 

An immediacy hits you as you note that you are going to die if you do not do something – anything: your mission would be all for nothing. Your spirit would haunt The Hindsight and an eternity roaming the ale-soaked halls of that pub leaves your blood cold and throat dry. You hear the gun beneath your chin cock.

‘Please,’ you whisper, and he pulls his hand from your mouth, allowing you to catch your breath. ‘Please just let me go; I- I won’t tell anyone anything.’ 

He chuckles, ‘The dead can’t speak, but the living can lie.’ 

A tear rolls down your face as you come to terms with what you’re going to have to do in order to escape him. You’re no killer, you don’t take yourself for one, anyway. Morality always comes first, however, when it’s between the choice of your life and someone else’s, should you really be calculating just how long of a stay you’re going to have in hell? 

You wince at the feeling of the cool metal being pressed under your chin, a burst of adrenaline shooting through you as you lift your leg, driving it right into his crotch. The pressure from around your face is relieved as he staggers backwards whilst you sink your hand into your bag, holding the handle of a blade in your hand before driving it into his stomach. The man grunts, his skin suctioning around the blade – almost pleading to keep the hole you’ve just created plugged up to avoid his immediate death.

However you show little mercy in the eyes of the man you perceive to be the devil, and if you have sinned, you shall address that in the afterlife. 

He falls to the ground, gripping his side and you stand over him, your hand falling from out of your bag as you hold your arms in front of you, teary-eyed. 

‘I- I- I…’ your words waver as you stand,  dropping your hand out of your bag. The gun he held to your throat lays on the ground beside him and you can’t take your eyes off of it. Truthfully, there was no innocence in what the man tried to do to you and you know that justifying his actions will only make you the villain. 

You are not a monster, but you are a murderer. 

The thought hits you like the first lick of light at dawn and you’re blinded by the sight of blood staining your hands. A voice rings from down the road behind you and you take that as your sign to leave. You have little time to rationalize where exactly you’re running to as you find your legs are carrying you before your brain fully processes the fact that you’re moving, resulting in a few clumsy steps as you rush up the road. 

You’re winded by the time you make it to the top of the road, and instead of taking the turn to your house just a few streets away, you stop in front of one of the doors at the top of the street. You intend to knock lightly, knowing the people in the house will not take lightly to such a rude wake-up call, but your trembling fist simulates that of the pound of a bailiff. You knock three times, your fist hovering as you go to do it again, all for the lock on the other side of the door to click. 

Much to your relief, you spy John Price standing at the door. He’s still in his typical business attire, only the top few buttons of his white shirt have been undone. Your eyes well with tears at the sight of him and you fight off the urge to throw yourself into the arms of a criminal as you stare at him with wild eyes.

You’re aware he can see your bloody hand, but he ignores it as he cautiously reaches his hand out to you, acting as though you’re a feral cat. You don’t move, only lightly flinching when you feel his coarse fingertips brush against your chin as he gently moves your head up to get a good view of your neck. 

His face settles from concern to anger as his eyebrows furrow. A tear falls from your eye. ‘I- I’m sorry,’ you croak, ‘I know it’s late a- and–’

‘Don’t be stupid, love,’ he said, wiping away the tear with the pad of his thumb. 

You wait no longer, throwing your arms around him as a sob rips through you. Your rationality tells you one thing: you’re not better than he is now, although, you’re unsure whether or not that is such a bad thing. He may be a criminal in the eyes of the law, but with how he holds you, you wonder what else he is beyond the label. He’s respectful with the way his hands wrap around you, one in your hair, pressing your head into his chest lightly, the smell of a discarded cigar haunting the fabric, whilst his other hand captures the wrist of your bloody hand. 

‘H- He was gonna kill me,’ you weep, your words muffled by his chest. ‘I didn’t know what to do, I- I wanted him away from me but I didn’t want to kill him.’ 

Your confession comes with silence, and you push your face away from his chest, looking up at him as though he is God, awaiting a punishment: eternal damnation.

‘Where is he?’ 

His tone is one of anger, one which desires retribution, a potent hunger which diminishes all signs of humanity.

‘Outside the pub,’ you mumble, holding his shoulders, ‘I- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–’

‘You’ve done nothing wrong,’ he refutes quickly, not giving you a chance to change his mind. 

Leading you inside of the house, he closes the door behind the pair of you, motioning for you to take a seat on the sofa. You do as he says and take a seat, your blood hand staining the fabric of your cream skirt. He pours you a glass of whiskey, holding it out to you. You take it and bring the glass to your lips, taking a small sip. The burning in the back of your throat causes you to wince as the sensation works to tell you that you’re alive: you survived. 

‘I- I was locking up and he grabbed me and… and pushed me up against the door,’ you say dully, ‘he put a gun under my chin, said he was gonna kill me b- because I was associated with you.’ 

John’s face falls at your confession. 

‘I didn’t know what to do. I- I couldn’t think straight and I panicked. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t want to kill him,’ you say, your voice cracking as you bring the glass back up to your mouth. ‘I- I promise I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want to kill him, but it was him… or me.’ He remains silent causing you to look up at him, your eyes creasing as you snivel, ‘I’m a murderer… a monster.’ 

The whiskey sloshes in the cup as it settles on your knee, more tears pouring down your cheeks. You're heaving for your breath, unable to keep your panic at bay. Strings of saliva cling to your lips as they part once more as your conscience seeks to defend itself further. Only, you close your mouth as John pushes himself off of the sofa, kneeling before you as he takes your blood hand in both of his, looking up at you. 

‘You’re not a monster, love,’ he breathes, ‘far from it,’ he adds, letting go of your hand as he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a handkerchief, gently holding your wrist as he begins to clean your hand of blood. ‘I’ve met monsters. You’re nothing of the sort.’

You seek sorrow in his eyes as he wipes the blood away, the tenderness of his action momentarily deceiving you into thinking the pair of you are in your fifteenth year of marriage. In reality, the pair of you are barely friends – strangers.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there.’ 

The word strangers seems cruel.

You let out a small laugh. ‘You weren’t to know.’

He chews on the inside of his mouth like he’s chewing on a stick of gum. ‘Shouldn’t have left you to walk home alone,’ he refutes, shaking his head as he turns your hand over, continuing to wipe away the blood. ‘Especially not after findin’ that on the handle of the pub. That was stupid of me. I’m sorry love.’ 

‘It’s okay,’ you say quietly. 

There’s silence for a while and you have no desire to break it. 

‘Stay here for the night,’ he says, ‘you can have my cot.’ 

It’s as though he's offering you his life. You sense something – it’s exuding from his pores in the dim candlelight, the fire to the right of the pair of you leaving half his face illuminated with orange, specks of white meeting your eye as you stare at him. He seems afraid, whether it is for you or something else, you’re unsure. 

‘Okay,’ you whisper, placing your hand over his with a smile. You close your hand around his, uncaring of any consequence. 

‘Good,’ he says. 

You feel compelled to answer him instead of falling back into silence, mustering up a quaint but firm, ‘It’s not your fault, John.’ 

You spy a brief moment of resentment on his face before it settles as he looks at you with thin lips and glistening eyes. All he can offer you is a curt nod, and you suspect that if he does open his mouth, the likelihood of him becoming reduced to a puddle of tears is startlingly high. There’s a peculiarity about the situation you’ve found yourself in, knowing the details of the man and the words that authorities have chosen to describe him as, criminal, murderer, failure.

If you possessed the paper right now, it would fuel the fire burning beside the pair of you. 

‘I won’t let anythin’ like that happen to you ever again,’ he says, clearing his throat. In spite of his best efforts, the congestion of his tone is blatant and you know better than to blame his smoking habits on the sound. 

‘It’s not your fault.’ 

‘It is,’ he insists, ‘you shouldn’t have blood on your hands. You don’t deserve the burden of it,’ he says, closing his hand around your bloody one, ‘it changes the way your brain works and… well, I don’t want that for you.’ 

‘This isn’t your burden to carry,’ you say, ‘I held the knife, I pierced his flesh. His blood is on my hands.’ 

‘Whose name did he say?’ You bow your head, unable to shake the feeling of guilt. ‘It’s my name that’s deadly, not your actions, love. He wouldn’t have done that to you if you weren’t associated with me.’ 

‘It’s unfair.’ 

‘It’s the truth,’ he says, the tips of his fingers lifting your head so your eyes meet again. ‘I’m used to it, love. Don’t lose sleep over someone like me, yeah?’ 

You ponder your exchange while he leaves you to sit alone with your thoughts for a while. Expressing concern for your safety was one thing, you’re grateful for his words of course you are, however, when you hear the voices of two other men and busy footsteps down the stairs, you choose to nurse your dry mouth with the glass of whiskey he poured you a while ago.

Kyle appears first. Had it not been for the sound of his pounding steps you would have taken the smile he’s giving you at face value – but you know better than to do that. Whilst his anger is not on his face, there’s a potency in his eyes appearing in the form of a minuscule shadow. 

‘Don’t worry, lovie,’ he says firmly, pulling the front door open, looking behind his shoulder as more footsteps fill the room. ‘You’re safe with us.’ 

Disappearing into the darkness of the night, you wonder what sort of sin he is going to commit because of your clumsy hand and desperation to live. Simon Riley is next down the stairs, paying you no mind as he walks through the door frame, nearly having to duck to keep his head from hitting the top of it. The door closes with a slam and you stifle a gasp, the whiskey soaking your upper lip as you bang your teeth against the rim of the glass.

Wincing, you pull your lips off the glass staring teary eyed at the closed door. You’ve never been so emotional in your life, an urgency striking you like a knife to the chest to flee from your vulnerability; to be a damsel in distress is to be everything you have desperately been trying to avoid. And still, when Price appears with a head of ruffled hair, you finish the last of the whiskey in your glass. It outstays its welcome, dragging its feet as it slides down your throat. 

‘Where are they going?’ 

‘Don’t worry,’ Price says, holding his hand out to you. ‘Let’s get you up to bed.’

You choose not to fight his words and follow him up the steps. He stands guard as though there’s an enemy in the house waiting to strike as you wash your hands in the water basin in the bathroom, your reflection split into fragmented pieces due to the shattered mirror on the wall. Your cheeks are stained with the tears you have cried throughout the night, your bloodshot eyes challenging the redness of violence in the remnants of the mirror. You spy your soul in pieces and your chest aches. 

Who am I? 

The blood is officially off of your hands after a generous amount of scrubbing and when you turn around, you’re greeted by the sight of one of John’s shirts sitting atop the closed toilet seat. You take it into your clean hands, staring at it. His kindness is striking and you feel little remorse as the straps of your ruined navy dress fall from off of your shoulders, permitting the white fabric of his shirt to wrap around you. 

Pulling open the door, you step out onto the landing with your dress balled up in your arms. ‘I’ll have Kate fix it,’ he says, taking it from your hands. 

‘No, it’s fine.’ 

‘Blood’s difficult to wash out, love,’ he says gently, ‘rather you keep your hands clean.’  The dress slips from your grip and he rests it on the banister. His statement is a reminder of who exactly you’re in the presence of – that the reports aren’t rumours but facts. 

But you don’t care.

Not when you slip into his bed, and not when he sits in a chair beside you, refusing to take the space you possess. Any other bad man would have been between the sheets with you in a heartbeat, and despite your attempts to protest, he insists on leaving you alone in the bed he sleeps in. So you settle with your head against his pillow, his hand resting just above your  head, mindlessly brushing his crooked fingers through your hair. 

‘You thought any more about what dress you're gonna get for the races?’ 

A smile forms on your face, ‘no.’ 

‘I’ll give you some coins, get you a pretty dress.’ 

Your mouth forms a frown. ‘Because you want to or because you think you have to because of what happened?’ 

‘Because I want to, love,’ he says, the chair creaking as he shifts. ‘I was thinkin’ red.’ 

‘Red?’ You ask. 

‘Looks good on you.’ 

Your cheeks are stained with scarlet and you lean further into the pillow. ‘You think?’

‘I know,’ he hums, the tips of his fingers resting atop your head. ‘But it’s your choice.’

‘Red it is,’ you say. 

The pair of you sit in silence as you grow tired, and when you feel his hand begin to pull away, you move your hand from under the sheets, grabbing his wrist. He understands and, without a word, he continues to brush his hands through your hair, sweeping stray strands from out of your face as you slowly succumb to slumber. 

John doesn’t sleep, however. 

Instead, he spends his time watching you. Every sharp breath from you is reminiscent of the gunshots in the trenches. How brutal the mind could be to one. He supposes it is simply his punishment for being unable to save Blake from his own. The destitution of the mind leaves the body with too little to spend. He wishes he knew that without bearing the burden of his actions and faults – without getting you involved. It’s a difficult life, but he’s a difficult person. 

The sight of you quells the beating in his chest, and as you sleep you pull your hand from out of the sheets. Sitting idly, he taps his foot against the ground while staring at your hand. The red under your nails, while subtle, sounded the scratching in his mind and he fell queasy at the sight. Reaching out his hand, he took yours in his, leaning forward as he did so and resting his head upon his free hand.

To bear burdens is his job: to hear the scratching in the walls before bed, to brutalize his men, to keep secrets. And now you’re here, he fears all his efforts for money and reprimand have been nothing but a waste of his time. 

𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

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Btw I appreciate it's been a while so if you would like me to remove you from the tag list let me know!

(Once again I apologise)

[bleggmoe-blog]

Alfie Solomons fanfic.

- shelby sister au

[kind-wolf]

"Doesn't matter?!" he exclaimed, his grip tightening.

Now you set him off!

He doesn't care, not anymore. Alfie let you go once, it will not happen again. He will make sure you are safe, whatever it takes.

The One That Got Away

modern gangster!Alfie Solomons x undercover cop!Reader

Summary: this prompt in this AU

Warnings: it's Alfie... so language, angst, fluff, mutual pining, enemies to lovers (sort of, not yet bc you know, idiots), you are hurt and Alfie is ready to kill anyone who was involved in it 🥰

You silently prayed he would keep his bad habit of working late so you could find him in his office at his first and favourite bar.

Sighing in relief when the back door opened after a few knocks, you barely held yourself up with one hand on the doorframe while your other palm pressed on the wound on your abdomen.

"What the fuck?" the man standing in front of you exclaimed so loudly you winced at the volume.

Before you could answer though, your remaining strength just left you and you ended up collapsing into his arms. The last thing you were aware of was his worried expression looking down at you.

Waking up to the doctor on Alfie's payroll stitching you up was not how you imagined your day would go. The gangster held you down as the doctor worked and you weren't spared from the questioning even in the midst of pain.

"What the fuck happened?" was Alfie's first question, not even waiting for an answer before the next followed with a growling tone that sent shivers down your spine. "Who did this to you?"

"Doesn't... matter," you wheezed, fighting to stay conscious.

"Doesn't matter?!" he exclaimed, his grip tightening.

"Not...your problem."

"Well, it is my bloody problem now, isn't it? With you fucking bleeding out on my fucking couch from a fucking bullet wound."

You grit your teeth as you answer. "I'm sorry. I didn't know where else to go."

He sighs and you could leave it at that but you know the man, if he doesn't get the answers from you, he will look elsewhere and you couldn't let that happen. You couldn't put him at risk.

As the doctor just finished, Alfie let you go, not anticipating that you'd try to stand up.

"I will get out of here and you can forget this ever happened," is all you could say before your knees buckled and you collapsed again.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?!"

You wince at the yell as Alfie lifts you up and tells the doctor to get out. You expected him to put you back on the couch but he sits down with you, not letting you out of his arms.

He sighs again, trying to calm down, at least enough to get proper answers out of you. Then he huffs as you refuse to meet his eyes.

"You will tell me who shot you and I will take care of it," he murmurs his demand while pressing his forehead against the side of yours. At that you can't resist anymore, you look up at the man who made you question everything you ever believed in and once again, for the millionth time since you've known him, you are tempted to kiss him and if his flickering gaze is any indication, he might feel the same pull too.

Squirming in his lap results in a sharp stab of pain and you gasp before turning away, hiding your face against his bloodied shirt. He feels your tears but you don't make a sound, not even as he hugs you closer, trying to give you some comfort.

"I didn't want to drag you into this," is an apology and pleading at the same time, with the "he's a cop" as your final warning.

He doesn't care, not anymore. Alfie let you go once, it will not happen again. He will make sure you are safe, whatever it takes.

[midnight--sadness]

big inhun energy right here (love the fact that tommy's wife is taller than him sjdjsslkd. and also THAT ORANGE DRESS IS PERFECT FOR GIHUN 😍):

https://www.tumblr.com/thesoldiersminute/686778629611454464/peaky-blinders-s06e02

https://www.tumblr.com/peakyblinded/692950670332051456/peaky-blinders-fashion-3-lizzies-orange-gown

YES THE DRESS WOULD BE AMAZING ON GIHUN 😤

the first gifset served inhun 1930s mob au...... thoughts are being thunk 😌

i also love men shorter than their girlfriends/wives, the other i saw a tomdaya photo and could only remember gihun and inho 😭

[walkergirlsposts]

https://www.tumblr.com/thefableddestiel/762980860434808832/jareds-acting-in-the-first-few-seasons-is-so-much?source=share

Because Jensen and Misha were better?

Au!ModelDean, PeakyBlinders!Dean, Casifer, NaziCass, FakeGayCass, mewing!Dean...

I always laugh when they think they can criticize Jared's acting while stanning Misha lmaoooo And jensen's wasn't much better, either, no.

[hishedonism]

which is your moral alignment ?

your result :  chaotic neutral ( 81% )

you hold your freedom as your most treasured possession, and may be willing to do whatever is necessary to maintain it. in a conflict between two outside forces, you may play both sides to help you gain that which you desire, which can be dangerous not handled wisely ; simultaneously, you may not necessarily act so strongly to defend others' freedom. this lack of regard for authority and its constraints, with no true animosity for humanity, molds you into the archetypal "maverick".

tagged by : yoinked from dash tagging : @estarion, @dcviltriggcr, @heartate, @xkuja & @peakyblinder

bonus other verses / au versions where he's Significantly Different under the cut

serial killer verse : chaotic evil ( 82% )

you seek to bring about pure anarchy, preferably with a high body count. you may receive some odd pleasure from watching a city burn to ash, or the sound of screams interrupted by gunfire ; or, you may have lost all faith in the 'civility' of humanity, and advocate a return to the primordial brutality within everyone. some may call you insane, which can lead to you thanking them, then killing them violently, making you the archetypal "annihilator".

organised crime verse : neutral evil ( 90% )

you embody all the sin present in the world, doing all the wrong you can to as many people as possible. while honor is not necessarily in your character, you pick your confrontations strategically in lieu of erratically, meaning you work at all the evil you can manage without forcing authority or wanton destruction. the tendency to ruin lives, either for your selfish goals or for the sake of evil, lands you as the archetypal "devil".

[back2whenwestarted]

Tommy & Ruby | Club Heaven #peakyblinders 

Ruby Shelby AU

[deepdonutkid]

Thomas Shelby King of Small Heath- Royal AU

tagging: @theshelbyclan @justalonelyslytherin @retromafia @bonniesgoldengirl @caelys @peakyblinderswhore

I couldn’t decide on long or short hair, so here is both. What do you think, which haircut would King Tommy have?

[dante-mightdie]

peaky blinders au peaky blinders au (yes I know none of them are from brum but let’s ignore that)

tell me they wouldn’t look good in those fucking suits and flat caps, especially simon who looms over john whenever he handles his business deals or meetings with rival gang leaders

own a handful of businesses, a pub and a bookie is what started them off. johnny and kyle who get sent off to handle the dirty work, collect on debts etc

being a bartender at their pub, sweet thing who only works there to get by. no parents or family to take care of you. no husband either, john remarked to simon one late night over a bottle of scotch

you see the vision, I know you do

[snowinabottlearchived]

𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄. 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚑𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚕 @peakyblinder

[manicrouge]

Episode One: A Deal Set in Stone

[𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛] || [𝙰𝚄: 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜] || 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

[𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍]: 13/01/24

[𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝]: Tensions between Price's and Fisher's gangs are seemingly settled upon a deal made between the two leaders. After a brief celebration alone, Price is informed that there is a new detective in town looking to put a stop to the cities Communist Revolutionaries.

[𝙲𝚠]: mild threats (nothing too extreme), brief mentions of religion.

[𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝]: 6.7k

[𝙰/𝙽]: Hi !! This is the first part of what is going to be a series. As a pre-warning, the first few parts will be there to build relationships so this series will be a slowburn romance. Also, I have rewrote history a little here for the sake of plot, so please excuse that (I'm hoping my history GCSE and A level will make it somewhat coherent).

ENJOY!!

Comments are always appreciated !!

SERIES MASTERLIST

Please don't post my work anywhere else without my permission !!

There's an illness in the air, a sickly disease running through the men surrounding the table.

They keep their heads raised, not daring to look down as they stare down their noses to the man sitting opposite to him.

A shadow is cast over his eyes, sockets and pupils disguised by the flat hat on the top of his head as he pulls his cigar from between his lips, a grey cloud of spoke escaping from out of his mouth.

Sitting across from him is a man, his hair lathered in hair gel, slicked back. A stray strand of ink back hair curls forward, pressing against his forehead as he offers the latter a tight-lipped smile. A thin moustache sits atop his upper lip, appearing as though the few fine hairs have been drawn on with a pen, and his blue eyes pierce through his soul as he assesses him.

As he shifts, dipping his hand in his pocket, he hears the shift of something behind him and then the clink of metal. 

Such response in the sudden movement results in the men crowded behind the man sitting on the other side of the table to dip their hands into the inside of their blazer pockets, a gleam of metal greeting his eye. Only, such is resolved as the man holds up his hand, offering the view of a box of cigarettes.

Turning his head to the side, he catches the man with a mohawk standing behind him holding his pistol firmly aimed at the man's head. With a gentle sigh, he grabs his wrist with his hand, 'not now, Johnny,' he utters, looking at the man. Even in the dingy light of the room, he notes the red flush on the man's face, though, he doesn't elaborate on such a sight as his hold tightens on the man's wrist.

Johnny looks down at him and with a reluctant shrug, he puts his gun back into his holster, his arms falling back down to his side.

He’s got a good heart about him, wanting to protect him- did the very same thing during the war, and he feels his own heart ache slightly when he requests he does so. Nothing more than a stern father in that regard, though, when he turns his attention back to the group on the other side of the table, he's assured in his decision.

Can't fuck this up. Not now.

'A man can't even smoke wit' y'ur men,' snarls the man from the other side of the table, his voice notably pitchy as he strikes his match, holding it to the end of his cigarette. 

Holding his arm out to the side, he waves his hand in the air quickly to extinguish the flame, tossing the match over his shoulder. ‘Is it a crime to smoke 'round here now, John?'

'Not at all,' he answers bluntly, 'sure you'd know it was though; it's a struggle to keep your nose out of my business, isn't it, Irving?' he asks with a smile forming on his face as he clears his throat, tapping his cigar, ash sprinkling into the ashtray beside him.

Drawn out laughter graces his ears as Irving leans back into his chair, elbow staying firmly placed against the table with his cigarette between his fingers.

'Very funny man, you are, Price,' he responds with a scoff, 'when I hear about the things you're doin' it is my business,' he states, 'never heard of your family until you came back from the war, I suppose that has something to do with the woman running the business while you boys were away, ey?'

The air freezes, none of them even muster up the courage to laugh at the man, instead, he narrows his eyes and takes another drag from his cigar.

There's a noise behind him, fortunately, for the sake of the deal, it isn't a gun this time. 

'Not like you'd know that is it?' a voice from behind him emerges in a bitter tone. 

The man sitting opposite to them stops laughing, looking through John to the man behind him.

'No, 'cause you didn't fight for your country, just stayed here at home sitting on your ass,' he continues, resting his hand at the back of Price’s chair.

His lip twitches at the comment, the wrinkles on the man's forehead being so telling of the mental turmoil in his mind, he reserves the pestering feeling to laugh for when they're free from the room.

'I was exempt, more honourable than what happened with your old Cap'n here, isn't it, Gaz?’ he asks, pointing his cigarette in his direction. 'Really ruined your chances of wanting to be a Captain, hey? And for what?’

In his veins, his blood grows hotter by the second, the disrespect directed towards him causing his throat to tighten. It’s as though he has a noose around his neck, each comment made in passing being said with the intent to pull the noose tighter until his neck eventually snaps from the pressure. It’s the oldest trick in the book, truly it is. If he snaps now, he knows he will carry the regret til his last breath. So, he takes a breath to calm his temper, shaking off the urge to reach for his pistol to put a bullet between the eyes of the smug faced prick sitting before him.

'We're not here to discuss that,’ he smoothly states.

Sinking further into his chair, Irving rubs the stubble on his chin with puckered lips as his eyes scan John. It's supposedly demeaning, the type of look a wolf gives to a defenceless lamb. It's a real shame that this wolf never gets blood on his own pristine coat; if such was not the case, he very well would have shuddered in his view.

'Please proceed then, Price,' he says briefly, 'you fought hard to get this meeting with me so I hope whatever it is you have to suggest is worth your efforts and my time.'

'I want you to rig the race in our favour,' he simply says.

'Rig the race in your favour?' snorts Irving, 'in your fucking dreams.'

'We've seen a 200% in increase in bets over the course of this week,' he simply says, 'people are votin' for the magical horse we've got and they commies are sneaking payments under the table to us to make sure they have a chance of the money if the horse does win.'

Rolling the cigarette between his fingers, he looks back to the men sitting behind him. There’s a look of amusement etched into his feature, although, the look on his face was as flattering as the sight of a name of a relative carved into a grave tone. 

'And why would I do that for you?' he asks, ‘y’ haven't given me a single good reason why I should do something of convenience to you considering you've been nothing but an inconvenience to me since you returned from the war.'

Rubbing his mouth with his hands, he attempts to quell the brewing heat bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He's a difficult man to please, and had he been elsewhere, he very well would have succumb to the temptation wrecking his mind.

One shot and he’d be gone.

Yet, a man who is not trigger happy is much more of a man than one who goes around killing whoever. Killing with intent is what makes you a true threat.

'We've been tiring resources tryin' to get back at each other, you're missing out on making money and so am I... besides, with the communists, it's getting harder and harder for you to fund these events—'

'That's not true,' he cuts off, 'we have plenty of people investing in our horses.'

'Not what I've seen,' a gruff voice from behind John answers.

Irving sneers in the direction of the group. It's unflattering- the way his top lip lifts to exposes his yellow teeth, how the muscles in the face dent his appearance. Truly, all his charm is to be found in his money. 

Had he been a poor man, Price is convinced he would die alone.

'You need us,' John says, 'I'm willing to put aside our differences, I'm willing to help you make money- besides, with the way the Adams' have been acting recently, you need us to make sure your business stays intact.'

'I have other people who are offering me a handsome sum of money for my services,’ he says with a smile, ‘and I can deal with the Adams’ anyway, they’re not a threat to me nor my business.’

'Can you?' John asks, 'you've been promising to kill him for months and he's still walkin' around actin' like he runs shit,' he scoffs, leaning further over the desk. 'I'm offering to pay you out of my pocket to ensure we keep making money and you're going to get share of that; more business for me means more business for you.'

The cogs are turning in his thick skull as he turns his head to the side, looking at a man standing at the front of the group surrounding him.

Circular glasses sit on the edge of his protruding nose, his thin lips pressing together as the man before him looks at him. Small dots for eyes grow wide from the shift of attention as John also looks to the man. His boney fingers clench around the leather book in his hands as he steps forward.

'How much will you be making Mr. Fisher?' he asks, his tone coming explicitly from his nose.

John hears Johnny snicker behind him, followed by a small 'oof' as fabric shifts.

'Three hundred guineas,' he answers, 'and if we continue to work together, that amount will only go up.'

The man looks down at the book in his hand, flipping it open with a short 'hm'. His fist clenches at the sight, though he busies himself with the changing look on the wrinkled brow of the man.

'You can sink the Adams' if you do this,' prompts another voice from behind him.

Good lad, Simon.

Pursing his lips, he pulls out his chair, standing up. For a moment, Price feels his heart sink at the very sight of the man preparing to leave the room, yet, such doubt is salvaged as the man places his hands against the table, leaning forward.

'Speak with my lawyer,' he says, 'if I do this for you, I want all the men you have working under me gone; I know you have some snooping around in business that does not concern them.’

Price smiles.

'Only if you do the same for me.’

Irving’s bottom lips tighten as he sneers at Price.

'Fine,' he exhales sharply, 'you go against your word, Price, I'll have all of you hanged on the leashes you need to keep your men on.'

'Been through this hundreds of times before, y' don't have to tell me twice,' he answers with a smile.

Irving takes a moment to look at the man before pulling away, straightening his posture. As though he's a stroppy toddler, he juts out his bottom lip at his words, turning his nose up upwards while pressing his arms against his torso. Without another word, he walks out of the room, three men following behind him, leaving the lawyer shakily sitting down in the chair alongside two men standing behind him.

Placing the book in his hands down, he opens his mouth and lets out a short breath. Sweat gathers on his brow as he turns his attention towards Price.

'You promise no foul play, right?' gulps the man, 'c- cause if you do something that messes everything up, then you're risking—'

'No foul play,' calmly answers the latter, 'you're safe; we're not gonna do anything, are we boys?' he asks, lifting his head up, motioning towards the three standing behind him.

'Nae,' Johnny confirms, 'got no reason t' risk a decent deal.’

'See?' Price asks, holding his arms out either side of him, causing the man sitting in front of him to flinch. 'Y' can trust us. Men of our word, we are.'

Pulling a pen from out of the front pocket of his blazer, he gulps, flicking through pages in his notepad. John watches with narrow eyes, lifting his hand to grab the edge of the flat cap sitting on his head. Tugging it down, the tips of his fingers ghost the metal sewed into the hat, and when he look back to the man sitting in front of him, he offers him a tight-lipped smile.

'So lets talk business, ey?'

─

Smoke pours from the chimneys of the homes and factories in the street as he travels down the road. The smoke billowing from his cigar in his mouth mixes with the spouts of smog blowing in the breeze.

Houses tightly-knitted either side of him contain the laughter of children, the calling of working men, and the conversations of the women passing by. Yet, their talk is muted as they cup their hands around their mouths. Such secrecy does not contain the content of what they’re discussing as Price catches them occasionally glancing at him as he walk. He’s not disheartened by such, in fact welcomes them.

Besides, secrecy only got as far as a shilling does.

It’s a noose around the neck of the speaking user by the time that shilling is tucked in a pocket of the Peeping Tom; that's simply how the business works, and of course he knows that.

He has to considering some of the eyes on him.

Fortunately, that's where he likes to be; had he been someone who disliked the eyes on someone else, then he definitely chose the wrong career to pursue.

Pulling the cigar from out of his mouth, he tugs on his waistcoat, jacket trailing behind him as he walks down the main street, flames from the blacksmiths firing back as the ting of a shovel hitting the pile of coal sitting on the street fills his ears.

Its been a while since he's seen the sun, and his dull mind aches as he attempts to figure out the last time he's seen the glowing orb in the sky. Perhaps it might have been last week, though, he never really looks up, only downward.

'Mornin', Mr. Price,' calls a voice brightly.

Lifting his head up, he looks at the man adorned in the uniform of the law and he watches as he holds the tip of his helmet, tilting it in his direction. A smile beckons upon his lips, though he doesn't let it show as he exhales a mouthful of smoke, giving a short nod in the direction of the man.

Coppa's were blind, a quids enough to make them forget whatever they saw, sweep it under the table and into a grave.

Flicking the cigar onto the street, he holds his arms up, pushing open the wooden doors to the pub, the faint smell of booze greeting him before he even steps foot through the door.

It's difficult to breathe in the Hindsight; the air is pumped with the hot breath of the generous patrons and the smoke from the cigarettes in the hands of them. It’s not something he would change about it though; the burn in his lungs was simply just a reminder that he's indeed alive, away from Flanders Fields and home.

Pushing open the door to the pub, all heads in the surrounding area snap around to see him. 

It's silent as he walks in, the chatter and laughter he heard while standing outside the doors of the pub being nothing but a flaking memory. They look at him with doe eyes, even the wrinkled skin of the weathered men he recalls seeing on the battlefield look to him with the same fear he spies in the eyes of the women.

Without a word, he moves up to the bar, the talking resuming, though, no longer to the level it had been prior to his arrival.

Digging his hand into the pocket of his coat, he pulls out one coin, as the man behind the bar quickly approaches him with worn sunk in eyes looking at him with a bated breath. 'What can I get you today, Mr. Price?' he sweetly asks, his voice wobbling as he looks at him.

'Scotch,' Price answers.

'Yes, right away, on the house as always,' he says with a nod, though, when he turns his back to retrieve the bottle from behind him, Price settling a coin down onto the counter. 

Placing the glass down, he pops off the diamond lid on the bottle, pouring some into the glass he grabbed from under the bar.

'I was readin' the paper this morning,' begins the man, grabbing the glass one the stream of liquor stops. 'Saw you've been looking for a barmaid in here.'

'Yeah... with the constant freak outs from Blake, Melissa didn't want to stay after he hit her,' he confesses, 'can't blame the girl not wantin' to be here, but I doubt she'll find a man to marry her; she was a barmaid for a reason,' he stiffly explains, busying himself with cleaning an unmarked glass. 'What had you readin' the paper?'

'Looking at the races,' he says, 'business as usual.'

'You see the thing in the paper about the States?' asks the man, leaning in closer, lowering his tone, 'there's a rumour that Mr. Churchill is in a deal with them; one of the reporters spoke on their close relations. Can you believe that? The government are doing this, even after we've refused to give 'em the money back from the First World War.'

He finds a smile meeting his face as he looks down at the glass in his hand, bringing it to his mouth, pouring the contents of the drink down. A warmth spreads through his chest as he places it down, all for it to be refilled immediately, the man nearly shattering the glass in his hand as he fumbled to pick the bottle back up.

'Wouldn't put it past 'em,' answers the other, 'the Americans were like bumbling idiots in the fuckin' trenches.'

Memories crop up from his time in the war, the difference of the Yanks to the Brits and the French. He recalls how his skin was branded with thick clumps of congealed blood and dirt, how his feet were sore and cut up from the thick mud from the flooded trenches. They enjoyed to call out for mercy, to point their fingers and make demands when they weren't even in the thick of it.

They didn't know war.

They weren't soldiers.

'I remember them being like that- came into war prim and proper they did while we rotted in those fucking trenches for years before they even bothered to join the fight,' he scoffs, placing the bottle down, 'and they have the cheek to tell us that we owe them money? It's because of our fuckin' fight that they're still allowed to be the oh so great country they are,' he snarls.

'Never lost yourself in those trenches, did you, James?' he asks with a smile, 'good to see y' still got that fight in you.'

'Only because of you, Cap'n,' he answers with a small nod of his head as Price drinks some more of his drink. 'Say, John, don't suppose you could do me a favour, ey?' he asks, dipping his hands into the front of his dirty white apron, pulling out a coin, 'I'm workin' til late all week so I won't be able to put money down for the races, could you pick a horse for me?'

Holding his hand out, the coin is dropped in his palm and he looks down at it, 'what horse?' he asks, looking at him.

'Heard Johnny's gonna have a spell cast on Midnight Willow, that true?' he asks, 'horse is supposed to be blessed if that happens, I heard. Never thought a witch would be one for dealing blessings, but I suppose I might as well not judge a book by its cover.'

Pressing his thumb down onto the coin, his tongue trailed on the back of his teeth as he takes a deep breath. 'Yeah, it is,' he says, nodding his head, 'she's gonna be the fastest horse in the race,' he says so with a grin.

The doors behind him creak with the force of which they're pushed open, and the chatter falls quiet as footsteps fill his ears. 

Picking up his glass, he brings it to his mouth once again. His eyebrows raise as he catches sight of the same flat cap on his own head as the man approaches him, leaning against the countertop.

'Kyle, can I get you something to drink?' the man behind the bar promptly asks.

'No; not staying long,' responds Kyle with a small smile, 'thanks though,' he adds, looking at Price.

'What's wrong?'

'Kate wants to see you; she said it's urgent,' he promptly says.

Standing up, he tilts his head back as he finishes the rest of his drink, placing the glass against the counter. Offering a short nod to the man, the pair of them begin to head towards the exit of the pub.

'She say what she wants?'

'No, but she sounds pissed. What have you done?' he asks with an amused smile on his face.

Tucking his hands into his pockets, he takes a moment to ponder the possibilities of what could have the woman in such a foul mood, although, as he thinks of recent events, he struggles to think about what exactly he could have done to antagonise her.

'Nothing I can think of; she was more than happy with the peace deal between us and Irving,' he says, 'never know with her though; sticks her nose into all sorts, goes where she has no business going.’

Kyle raises an eyebrow.

'You saying you've done something you don't want her to know about recently?'

His expression remains stoic as they continue through the street. Flames from the iron works fan against them, and he lifts his head upwards as the sound of cheers fill his ears. Kyle scoffs, dipping his hand into his blazer, grabbing a box of cigarettes.

'Fuckin' commies,' he snarls, opening the box of cigarettes in his hands. 'They've been gettin' worse too; they trashed a cart in the train station the other week.'

'I saw it in the news,' answers the other with a prompt nod of his head, 'causin' more trouble than we are.'

'I don't know why they even bother,' Kyle says.

‘They're angry,' John answers, 'not surprised; fought to keep the country a float and the reward the common man gets is a cut in wages.’

Kyle laughs.

'Should go and get a sign and join the crowd if that's how you feel about them.’

'I'm not an idiot,' he retorts, 'nothings gonna change no matter how much paint and ply wood they use.'

As the crowd progresses down the street, the pair of them move from off of the road onto the pathway. Kyle lights his cigarette, placing it between his lips, taking a drag. People on the path move quickly out of the pairs way as they turn towards a house, moving up a step.

Pushing the door open, Kyle takes another drag from the cigarette in his hand, holding the door for a moment for John to follow in behind. Progressing through the cramped living room, John watches for a moment as he closes the door behind him.

Despite the small space, there's a thudding from beyond the room which translates to many footsteps and he 's bemused at the thought of the business happening beyond the tiny living room.

Shrugging his jacket off of his shoulders, he placed it on the clothes rack, progressing further through the house, following the scent of the lit cigarette with ease. He tucks his hands into the pocket of his blazer as he rounds the corner into the dining room, seeing the doors against the far wall of the living room have been opened.

A busy bustling strikes him as a knife would, wounding him with a weeping wound of pride as he lifts his head, lazily trotting into the room with a smug smile on his face. Kyle stands in the middle of the busy room, his hand placed on the shoulder of a blonde haired woman who turns her head upwards to Price as he enters.

Her lips are pressed firmly against one another as her brows furrow before she looks back at Kyle positioned behind her. As far as he can see, the look on her face doesn't shift- instead, it stays the same as she slowly starts to raise from the chair. Moving past the crowds of men, parting them as Moses did the red sea, she crosses her arms, her black boots clunking against the ground as she approaches him.

'Took your time,' she comments, 'thought you would have come right back here after making that deal with Irving.'

'Wasn't in the mood for a verbal beating,' he confesses, pulling his hat from off of his head, 'went to the Hindsight instead.'

She rolls her eyes.

'Kyle said you have something important to tell me.'

'I do,' she confirms, nodding her head. She pauses for a moment as she raises her hand, the sleeve of her black cardigan falling down her arm as she brushed her hands through his hair, taking a short moment to look at him before shortly nodding. 'I wouldn't call a meeting for no reason,' she adds, pulling her hand away from him.

'Alright!' he calls, addressing the room of people. 

The ticking of the typewriters and the low chatter all comes to a sudden stop and it's as though he has frozen time. Beady eyes look to him and Kate standing at the front of the room, all aside from one man standing in the corner of the room, far too focused on the knife in his hand.

'Everyone take twenty, got something important to discuss with the lady,' he sharply states.

The air thickens as people quickly pick up their belongings. Fortunately, they're smart enough to know who he expects too stay and who he expects to leave, and as the crowd files through the doors, Kate moves past him, closing the door behind the last worker who leaves.

It closes with a click and the emptiness of the room is notable as he finds only three men standing. Walking further in, he rests against one of the desks, looking at the blonde-haired woman.

'You have the floor,' he says, motioning to her, ‘go on.’

'I got news from the boys working in London,' she begins, walking back into the room, her hands dipping into the pocket of her skirt, pulling out a carton of cigarettes. 'Apparently, they're sending a detective here to look for something- boy's heard something about it having something to do with the communists.'

His eyebrows raise.

'And this concerns us because?'

'The detective they're sending is from the States, John,' she confirms, 'got a familiar name, I've read about him in the papers when I visited home after the war... infamous detective when it comes to crushing crime and commies.'

A small 'hm' escapes his mouth as he raises his hand to rub the scruff of his beard, tilting his head to the side as he watches the woman light her cigarette.

'How'd he treat the gangs back home?' asks the man stationed in the corner of the room, pushing himself off of the desk. 'He cruel to them?'

'From what I know,' she begins, pulling her cigarette from her mouth, 'he's had a lot of people put behind bars. Although, supposedly, he's here to deal with the raising threat of the communists; you know how it's been recently, the governments scared to do anything about them in case they upset Russia.'

'So, they're sendin' a random guy from the States to sort it out?' asks Simon, 'bit odd.'

Keeping her eyes trained on John, the man shifts under her view, turning his attention to behind him to Johnny. The man chews on his bottom lip.

'Y' sure he's not coming here for us?' Johnny asks.

Kate simply looks at him with a raised eyebrow before turning to John, 'what have you done?' she asks with narrow eyes.

A prompt smile appears on the man's face as he shrugs his shoulders, looking at the woman. 'What?' he says politely.

'Boys, do you mind giving us some space?' Kate says, though, all of them know she is not asking them to leave, rather, telling them. At the very least, she can't get tripped on her attitude, and fortunately for themselves, they know better than to question her judgement as the three of them are quick to leave the room.

John watches as they move through the room, and as they step through the same door as all of the other workers, the door closes with a click.

Immediately, her eyes are back on him, the look similar to one he was familiar with in his prime years of youth before he cared to sort his act out. Ironically, he found that the older he grew, the more he found himself falling back into the same habits he had had during his teenage years, only, this time, the police didn't attempt to trip him up on his petty crimes.

Lessened the blow of the more serious ones too.

'What have you done?' she cautiously asks, 'clearly, you've done something; I can see it in your eyes.'

'Read me like a fuckin' book don't you?' he snorts, placing his hands against the edge of the table he was leaning against, not daring to have his eyes leave hers. Her smugness is elegant, frankly a tad disturbing too as he knows the brewing anger in her stomach is sure to be boiling the impending vitriol bubbling in her throat. 

'A robbery went wrong- nothin' I can't handle by myself.'

'What?' she asks, 'John—'

'Told my men to steal me four bikes,' he begins, pushing himself up from off of the table, plucking the cigarette out of her hand and placing it in his mouth. 'Y'know, the yard that Dean owns in London, gets loads of shipments every day and I had them tracking a shipment of bikes; thought it'd be better than them havin' to take my car everywhere—'

'What happened?'

'They stole the wrong thing,' he answers quickly, 'got the shipment, moved it to Alex's scrapyard, and when they opened it, they didn't find bikes, no,' he laughs, taking another drag from the cigarette, 'instead of the bikes, inside the shipment we found twenty-five Lewis machine guns, ten-thousand rounds of ammunition, fifty semi-automatic rifles, and two-hundred pistols with shells.’

The words leave his mouth as a mouthful of bile would, though, he doesn't flinch at his confession. Kate's face pales as she stares at him while he busies himself with putting the cigarette out in the ashtray. 

'Christ, John,' she exhales.

'All bound for here- England. They were sent by someone, probably something concerning government officials; you know what they're like, y' can't trust anythin' they say.'

'You stupid boy,' she scolds, catching the edge of his blazer in her hand, balling his fist around the fabric, 'tell me you threw them into the dock.'

He pauses.

‘We put them back in the factory to keep them out of the rain- they hadn't even been greased yet.'

Her grip on his blazer falls loose as she raises her hand, slapping his chest harshly. 

Instead of catching her wrists, he allows her to do so, simply standing and taking every blow she delivers to him. After a short while, she relents, turning her back to him, brushing her hand through her blonde hair, huffing. She pauses, looking over her shoulder at him.

'So that's why they're sending a cop from the States?' she asks, 'to get the missing shipment of guns back?'

'Maybe, maybe not; the crate was unmarked, whoever was sending the guns clearly didn't wanna be known. They were in London, so, whoever was getting the shipment is there- I don't know anything else.'

'John,' she lowly says, 'you're going to make unnecessary enemies- do you even know who they belong to?' she asks, 'they could be anyones- what if that shipment was for the Corallo's? Or even worse, what if they are meant for the government? Then what?' Her voice swells in her throat as she paces back and forward, rubbing her hands together. ‘You have lost enough through stupid actions, I'm not going to let you ruin the business I managed while you were away at war.'

'I'm not going to,' he reassures softly, although, with the tone she was carrying (had it been anyone else), he would have fancied cutting her tongue out of her mouth for just a short period of silence. 'I'll get rid of them after everything with Fisher has been sorted. I'll drop them in the dock n' no one will have to worry about them.'

She looks at him with a weary glint in her eyes, something he can only liken to a frightened small animal. It's a rarity to see genuine uneasiness in her eyes; he's become far too acquainted with the familiarity of her stoic, cold gaze. Only time ‘er eyes ever light up is when she sees her missus.

But this time, it's different; she's scared.

'I'll get rid of them, Kate, you have my word,' he says firmly, resting his hand against her should in an attempt to comfort her. 'Don't tell any of the boys f'r me, eh? Don't need to make it any harder than it has to be.'

There's trouble brewing behind her eyes, the brewing acid of an argument lingering on her mouth as she trails her tongue across her bottom lip, wetting it with saliva before pressing her lips firmly together. The tension in her brow remains as she eyes him.

'Three days time,' she says, 'I want them gone in three days; you're a capable man, John, you're not a fool and I don't want you to do something that could cause more trouble than it's worth.'

Of course, she's right, and his preemptive interest falls short at the sound of her voice.

'I won't,' he says, 'keep it a secret for me, eh?'

'Three days, and if they're not gone, I'm telling the boys,' she warns sharply, turning on her heel towards the door. 'Keep your head down with this detective coming as well; if he's here for the communists make sure you don’t change his aim.'

He watches as she walks away, her black skirt swaying as she marches towards the door. Pushing himself up off of the table, he exhales, crossing his arms. 'Did they say the name of the detective?'

'Phillip Graves,' she calls, not bothering to turn her head as she walks out of the door.

His brow creases upon hearing the name of the man leaving her mouth. It met his ears as an old friend meets another for a drink, sitting comfortably, acting as though time never passed them by.

'Phillip Graves,' he utters to himself, narrowing his eyes as he follows after Kate.

─

You sit on a park bench, your hands pressed against your knees, a navy blue hat atop your head as you look forward. When a figure moves to sit beside you, you don't flinch, instead, you busy yourself with the view of the ducks in the pond before you, only shifting to cross your legs.

The fabric of his suit settles as he lets out a sharp breath, spreading his legs a little. Leaning forward, he rests his forearms against his thighs, keeping his eyes glued in the same direction as yours, only, you're sure he has very little concern for the ducks in the pond.

'Nice to finally meet ya in person,' he utters, 'though, I suppose we could have met in some other way,' he says quietly under his breath.

'As far as people are concerned, we're not working together,' you respond.

'I know, just... British intelligence shit goes over my head; we usually just go in guns blazin’ and hope for the best,' he admits.

'Can't do that- not if you're right about who has the guns.'

You don't miss the chuckle that escapes his mouth. It's demeaning, one that states that he knows better than you do. 

He doesn’t.

'Oh, I'm right, doll,' he firmly says, 'John Price.'

He speaks his name with an unflattering tone, the words falling from is mouth as phlegm would. There's very little you really know about this man, and, had you not been informed by past police reports and various individuals, you very much would have been fooled by the mans outward appearance.

You recall the picture in the file you were handed during the meeting you attended with the Prime Minister and Mr. Churchill, how the man passed you the item and while they had been talking, you spent all your time reading through the notes on what they kept on him. Even then, in the eyes of those who ran the country, you commend his ability to keep the truth in the shadows.

Besides, he’s a war hero.

His photo was charming, though you know well the man has most definitely changed from the youthful boy who stared up at you from the page. He was a 'young juvenile' Churchill had remarked, always getting into trouble, until he joined the military.

But now he's back to his troublesome ways, striking a match without the true knowledge of how big the flame could be.

'Remember what we agreed on. He frequents the pub by his home address- so do the people in his group,' he explains, 'they're lookin' for a barmaid and, fortunately, you're looking for a job.'

Clutching the fabric of your blue skirt, you nod your head, watching as the Mallards in the water fight. Two males. The female watches idly, uninterested in their fight, opting to swim away from the chaos.

'I know,' you say firmly, 'don't get too close to the fire,' you warn, standing up from off of the bench.

You turn to him for a short moment, catching the grin on his face as he nods his head. 

‘You're the one going into the monsters den, doll,' he says, 'fortunately, if it gets too hot, you've got me to fan the flame,' he says, offering a wink as you turn your head, grabbing your bag off of the bench with a sigh.

You say nothing else to him as you turn to follow the same path you used to get to the pond in the first place, leaving the grinning man to watch you as you walk away.

The smile on his face doesn't fade as you leave and he doesn't move from where he is sitting. Instead he leans further into the bench, tugging down his black tie with a small sigh, the straps of the holster holding his gun under his arm tightening as he moves his arms backwards to stretch.

There's a heat brewing in his chest, causing his heart to tighten and an exciting nausea to strike him like a blade. It's an odd feeling which causes sweat to pour from his pores, though, he's not fearful in the eyes of duty, and, when you're but a dot in the distance, he tugs at the hat on his head. It presses firmly against his forehead, a shadow cast over his eyes as he stands up and turns his back to the sun, walking in the opposite direction to which you went.

‘Duty calls,’ he utters with a smile, his eyes narrowing as he heads further and further away from the sun.

𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

TAGS: (If you would like to be added to the tag list let me know!) @forever-twenty-two-years-old @iizx7y @phantomreadsandreblogs @talooolaaloolla

[zablife]

Peaky Blinders Rec List

I've been thinking of doing this for some time to show my appreciation to those who have given me hours of entertainment with their stories, moodboards and GIFs. Recently I've seen a few posts asking if there are any writers left in the Peaky fandom. The short answer is YES!! The longer answer of just how many incredibly talented writers there are and their amazing work is listed below the cut. Go follow them, read their work and please comment and reblog! Happy reading and thank you to all these lovely people who share their work with us!

Updated 5/6/24

@peakyscillian Masterlist Incredible Tommy smut!

@inkwolvesandcoffee Masterlist The most creative Alfie content I've read with gorgeous moodboards.

@dandelionprints Masterlist Amazing new writer with fresh Tommy fics!

@buttercupsandboys Masterlist One of my new fave Alfie series!

@moral-terpitude Masterlist So much amazing Tommy content from one shots to series!!

@raincoffeeandfandoms Masterlist Lovely, creative fics for Alfie, Tommy and Luca. As well as the most inspiring moodboards.

@dreamlandcreations Masterlist Amazing Alfie writer and incredible moodboard creator.

@cillmequick Masterlist Amazing series for both Cillian and Tommy that will make you laugh and cry in equal measure.

@notyour-valentine Masterlist Thoughtfully crafted stories that will touch you deeply.

@pherelesytsia Masterlist Tommy fics written in the language of pure poetry. Soft, romantic and utterly beautiful.

@little-diable Masterlist One of the best Tommy Shelby smut writers I've read! Inventive and smart, not to mention devilishly clever!

@xxblackballoonxx Masterlist My fave John Shelby writer!!

@evita-shelby Masterlist Series writer with a strong heroine OC I adore.

@peakyswritings Masterlist A gold mine of Peaky content! One of my fave writers.

@flysafepapi Masterlist Creative genius, horror, vampire AU, so many incredible ideas here.

@shelbydelrey Masterlist Tommy fics with an edge. Mysterious, intriguiging, never dull and always accompanied by amazing moodboards.

@look-at-the-soul Masterlist Cillian and Tommy fics that are so heartfelt and emotional.

@noforkingclue Masterlist Writes the best dark!Tommy ever!

@garrison-girl-08 Masterlist Cillian and Tommy series that are so so addictive!!

@runnning-outof-time Masterlist Consistently amazing Tommy content! No one works harder, but makes it look so easy!

@murderousginger Masterlist One of the most creative writers who never runs out of good ideas. Truly awe inspiring.

@amysteryspot Masterlist Delicious, descriptive writing for Tommy and Alfie one shots and series.

@madame-wilsonn Masterlist A lady of impeccable taste who writes beautifully. Check out her Tommy, Alfie and Arthur fics!

@solomons-finest-rum Masterlist My fave Alfie writer of all time!! Captures his voice like no other.

@theshelbyclan Masterlist A wonderfully gifted writer who provides heartwarming Shelby family fics and the most amazing OC of all time Teddy Shelby!

@pacifymebby Masterlist Writes incredibly detailed headcanons and preferences for the Peaky men that are perfectly in character.

@red-riding-wood Masterlist Specializing in Luca Changretta fics with rich descriptions and compelling narratives.

@thesoldiersminute Gorgeous GIFs I can't stop staring at!

@midnightmagpiemama Masterlist Lovely combination of fluffy, smutty Tommy fics.

@peakyblinded Amazing GIFs and all around lovely person to chat with

@toms-cherry-trees Masterlist Some of the most gorgeous prose I've ever read for Tommy as well as a few other Peaky characters.

@sneakyblinders Masterlist Creator of two separate Tommy AUs that are so creative and immersive.

@anonymooseforever007 Masterlist Writes for many Peaky characters, specializing in humorous, witty dialogue.

@brummiereader Masterlist Amazing series writer for Tommy!

@call-sign-shark Masterlist Mainly writes an incredible series for Arthur, but also one shots for Tommy.

@peakyltd Masterlist Lovely one shots for Tommy, Arthur and John along with the most gorgeous moodboards.

@everythingelseisextra masterlist Formerly @priceofasapphire. Writing under a new blog now with loads of wonderful content.

@darklydeliciousdesires Masterlist Series and one shots for Alfie and John. Incredible smut and fluff!

@rysko Masterlist New writer with amazing Luca content!

I am certain I have missed writers I admire so I will add to this list as I remember people. If I have missed you, I apologize!

[murswrites]

Brush With Death ⎯ Shelby!Sister Drabble

Pairings: Shelby!Sister x Shelby!Family Fandom: Peaky Blinders (AU) MASTERLIST Warnings: Cursing, angst (lol) SUMMARY: After Tommy made a deal with the police, you and the rest of the family are sent to jail. Luckily everyone is released (mostly) unharmed. When everyone gathers for the first time, something sets you off. Request from anon: Shelby sister angst where she almost gets hung like Polly so she’s a mess and lives with Finn - none of the other realises how bad it is until they all get together for the first time (no John doesn’t die ok) and she has a breakdown?

A/N I genuinely don’t know how long this has been in my inbox but I’ve never felt inspired to write it. I’m not particularly inspired right now but everything else seems too difficult. I hope you enjoy this anon, thank you for the wait <3 Note that John did kill his school teacher aka Mrs. Changretta (Luca’s mom) so the vendetta doesn’t happen lol

You weren’t okay, not since Tommy sent your family to jail. Why you were included in the bunch was unknown to you, you didn’t kill anybody. Apparently the charges held against you were suitable for death by hanging. The gallows haunted your dreams, sure everyone escaped a near brush with death... but you weren’t stable.

Arthur and John were gone, living in the country... Polly’s mind wasn’t the same. All you had was Finn, still living on Watery Lane in the home you grew up in. You missed Ada and Michael, not Tommy though. You were full of contempt because of what he did.

Sure, your pain overshadowed the anger but seeing him again struck a cord in you.

“It’s been a year since we’ve all been together, but Christmas is better time than any...” Tommy stood at the head of the table. For once, the Shelby family wasn’t brought together due to a tragedy. Christmas used to be a joyous occasion... and once again it seemed to be one. “Frances and the staff have made a proper Christmas dinner, something I used to dream of.”

Thomas lifted his glass in the air and everyone followed suit, “A toast to our success.” Something about his words made your control break. You’d been ignoring your nightmares for weeks now. You knew you’d be seeing the rest of the family soon, so you prepared yourself for it.

Ada was the easiest to deal with, John was loud as usual, Arthur seemed more down to earth... Pol spoke of spirits and witchery, Michael was worried for his mum (and rightfully so). Finn was Finn, always fine as a fiddle. He was your little brother, always a shithead but also your main support lately.

Tears assaulted your eyes before you could stop them, your glass dropped out of your hand and onto the table; its contents spilling. Finn was there to help you with a napkin. “Are you alright?” Your older sister asked.

The help was appreciated but everyone began to ask what was wrong, it was overwhelming as you covered your face with your hands. “Please stop talking,” They didn’t seem to hear, “Stop talking,” You said again, “Shut up!” Your chest heaved as you stood at your seat.

Silence fell over everyone, the children sitting at another table watched with wide eyes.

“How are you lot pretending it’s alright? After what Tommy did it’s just fine now because of free food?!” Tommy held a hand up, clearly wanting you to calm down, “I will not!” You pushed Finn’s hands off of your shoulders, “This isn’t right, I’m not sure about you but I’ve not slept peacefully since my brush with death.”

You wiped your nose, “It’s not fair that he gets away with what he’s done. And then Tommy, you talk of success. What success was there? Any one of us could have been hung in that year we were in prison. What success would there have been then, eh?”

“You were never in any danger, Y/N. Sit down.” His tone only angered you more.

“No, if I’m going to be treated like an adult when it suits you, I’m an adult now. So you sit down and shut up for once. You can sit in silence in the face of danger but not defiance, right? It’s okay for you to throw us out when it’s convenient but once someone opens their bloody mouth it’s a fucking problem? Nah, I’m not staying here. I said I’d try, Finn. And I did. I’m leaving. Enjoy your dinner.”

When Finn stood up to follow, you shook your head. “Stay here, Finn. You’ve got no reason to leave. I just can’t sit here in the same room as him as he acts like a bloody hero.”

[ao3feed-larry]

My Best Friend The Sex God [Larry Stylinson]

by sarloueh

Louis ed Harry sono migliori amici dall'infanzia. Ostacoli e imprevisti hanno cercato di porre fine alla loro amicizia, ma il bene che li lega è sempre stato più forte dell'odio altrui. Tuttavia, in una delle tante notti che passano a dormire assieme, Louis è così accecato dal sonno da non rendersi responsabile delle proprie azioni. Ed Harry di certo non si sottrae, consapevole che, il giorno dopo, avranno molto da discutere.

---

AU!Mini Long Harry!LongHair Louis!PeakyBlinder

Words: 9163, Chapters: 1/6, Language: Italiano

Fandoms: One Direction (Band)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles

Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson

Additional Tags: Larry Stylinson Is Real

via AO3 works tagged 'Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson' https://ift.tt/pjbSQmT