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[blinder-baker]

log on. sexualize the old man. log off. repeat

[blinder-baker]

i have a disease called “i believe i will have the love i have been reading about all these years one day”

[blinder-baker]

Dolorosa - John Shelby

John Shelby x reader

Warnings: Angst, grief, mentions of death

Wordcount: 1.5K

A/N: Let me know what you think, even if its just one word, anything

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[blinder-baker]

Okay so I write something and it literally gets zero notes

[blinder-baker]

Dolorosa - John Shelby

John Shelby x reader

Warnings: Angst, grief, mentions of death

Wordcount: 1.5K

A/N: Let me know what you think, even if its just one word, anything

One week, five days and two hours since you had been widowed. Since John had been shot in front of you. Since he had been murdered, butchered outside of his own house. Your throat burning screams had drowned out the sound of the ricocheting bullets, but could not shield your husband from the Italians who wished him dead. There had been no hope, no way to save him; he was gone before he hit the ground. John had not felt the cold stones beneath him, only the shards of metal piercing his body and tearing through his flesh. It felt as if one had lodged in your own heart, and there was no operation that could remove that mind numbing pain.

Everyday you thanked God that the children had been playing in the fields, far away from the house, further than they were allowed. You thanked God that they had broken the rules. And then you cursed him for bringing such cruelty onto your family. The children would grow up without the presence of their father, and John would never witness them grow and flourish. He would never hear the youngest’s first word, nor would he see Katie get married and be happy.  Yet, the world would keep turning, and life would carry on; you had no choice, you had to carry on for the children.

And so, you stood in the kitchen, watching over the hearty meal being cooked. Life carried on, and the children needed feeding; despite the sorrow that clouded your vision and exhausted your bones. On the orders of Thomas Shelby, the children had to remain inside; whilst the family dealt with the Changrettas, those that killed John. To protect them, was the only thing you could for John; they were all you had left. No longer permitted to play in the fields of wildflowers, they ruled over the house as if it was their kingdom. A game for each room, and nothing seemed to dull their spirit. They did not cry, they were not upset; because they didn’t really understand that their father was gone. No, instead, they laughed and giggled. Not a moment of silence. Not ever. Their riotous happiness filled the house at every waking moment, but did not not manage to penetrate the fortress of your heart. How could you feel so cold? So emotionless to your own children? You just wanted a minute of calm to collect your thoughts.

How could you cope without John? You rested your elbow on the wooden kitchen sides, leant down and covered your head with your hands as if protecting yourself from the deafening noise of the screaming young. Your heart literally ached. It felt as if your chest was burning in agony, with your lungs threatening to expand until they cracked your ribs, until your ribs would splinter and pierce your heart. This endless cycle that made your hands clutch at your head; made your fingers dig into your scalp as if you were about to begin pulling tufts of hair out.

The pot of boiling vegetables clattered on the stove, the water rumbling as it boiled over without your careful supervision. Steam erupted from underneath the lid, and the water gushed over the sides; extinguishing the stove and flooding the sides with scalding water. You peeked through your fingers to see the disaster take place. Your eyes sprung with tears as you gritted your teeth to stop yourself from screaming in frustration.

You reluctantly cleaned the mess up, no longer able to pretend to be the dutiful wife and mother that you needed to be. Without any sympathy for yourself, you dropped the pot into the sink; letting it crash to symbolise a meal ruined. You hadn’t gone shopping in days, there was no food left in the house apart from half a loaf of stale bread and perhaps a hock of ham. The children would have to be satisfied with that, they would have to become satisfied with a lot of things soon. When they started to ask questions about why their father wasn’t returning; you had told them of course. They had looked at each other in confusion, before moving on swiftly. Soon, the penny would drop and they would realise you hadn’t been telling tales. John was dead.

John was dead and had been put to rest. The Shelby family burnt him in a caravan, as was tradition. In the middle of an empty field, in a caravan that John had never been in; they burnt him and that was that. How could the children not realise their loss? They had been at the funeral, they had worn black suits and dresses and listened to Tommy make a speech. It was a painful day. It was painful trying to get Katie to sit still long enough to tie her hair up with a ribbon. It was painful carrying the youngest as you walked the two miles to the caravan. As a family, you had trudged through the boggy wet fields, your heeled shoes marred with dark mud; and the sky covered in grey clouds. You hadn’t seen John’s body lying in the caravan, you didn’t want to. You had seen plenty on the day he died, you had held his body and begged it not to be true. You had allowed his blood to stain your clothes, your hands, and your heart.

A stain that you were certain would never wash away, every room was stained with the existence of John Shelby. The dining room still had his seat at the dinner table, although you would let no one sit in it. The entryway had his coat hanging on the wall, and a pair of his shoes waiting for him by the door. Your bedroom… Your bedroom read like a monument to his life and yet you would not allow yourself to move anything, in case you forgot how you had lived together so happily. In case he happened to come back, and be annoyed that his belongings had been tidied away haphazardly. 

The children had eaten their bread and their ham, so you ushered them to bed promptly; so that you might get some rest yourself. You left their plates on the table, their toys strewn about the floor of every corridor and any other debris lying exactly where it had been all day. Where it would be for a while. How could you tidy away the only proof of life in the house? How could you hide the evidence of the children? Of you and John? No, you may not bear to look at them, but you could never silence the children that had brought you and your husband such happiness once. 

You retired to your bedroom, with little else reason to stay awake. Gently shutting the door behind you, your eyes wandered around the cold room. It never used to be cold. John used to light the fire as soon as he came home, to stop you complaining of shivers during the night. You hated the fireplace, the mess it made and the chore of lighting the wood; he would do it for you because he loved you and didn’t want you to suffer. Now, you would rather feel the bitter wind through the thin panes of glass. There was a routine that you had been formed over the last twelve nights. 

You opened the shared wardrobe, the one large enough to hide in, and you would choose a shirt of John’s to hold and clutch at throughout the night. It hurt. You touched each hanger gently, the back of your knuckles trailing over the fabrics, you were tempted to take them all out and dump them on the bed. To make a massive pile of clothes and bury yourself underneath them and never see the sun again. But you had to savour them, the scent of him and the feeling that he was still beside you. 

You wrapped a shirt around your shivering shoulders and collapsed onto your side of the bed. There was something forbidding you from sleeping on your husband's side, like it would ruin the vision that he was still there. Instead, you briefly closed your eyes and touched the space where he should have been. Trailing your fingers from the empty pillow to the empty mattress; feeling the void like an all-consuming nightmare. Some nights, you would light a cigar and leave it in the ashtray so that the smell would linger, other nights you just collapse into a fit of despair.

Tears rolled down your cheeks, over the bridge of your nose and pooled onto your bed, leaving the blanket and shirt damp with sadness. How could this happen to you? How did John leave so suddenly? You needed him. You needed him beside you, holding you, whispering to you, promising you adventures and kissing all the pain away. Your catatonic trembling was abruptly interrupted by the shrill calling of “Mummy!” from the nursery, and you covered your head with your hands again; and kicked at the bed in frustration like a confused and desperate child in the midst of a temper tantrum.

[blinder-baker]

Where the miles are marked in the blood and the gold...

No reposts please.

[blinder-baker]

🥵 brilliant

Wild - (Alfie Solomons One-shot)

Request: by the lovely @inkededucatednnerdy​ -  “ Got an idea for you for a one shot… I’m watching Peaky and its the scene where he knocks the guy out and it just came to me. Basically ofc is working for Alfie and sees the scene and back in the office it just dissolves into smut… I’m full of it today”.       

A/N: First of all, I’m sorry it took me this long to write something about it. Second of all, I do hope you like my take on this. Please, do enjoy this small one-shot with our wild Mr. Solomons. (sorry, if I made any misspellings!)

Soundtrack: Outside - TENDER

Warnings: smut, language, modern au, 18+

As usual the feedback is always welcome!

“He’ll wake up. Probably won’t have any teeth left but he’ll be a wiser man for it, and the last thing he’ll remember is your funny little joke.” you heard Alfie’s raspy voice outside of the office, after a few shouts and curses while he discussed things with his men.

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[blinder-baker]

No one:

Alfie Solomons: I’ve found another way to fuck Tommy Shelby over

[blinder-baker]

*goes into my imagination and plays with my ocs like i’m a four year old with a dollhouse*

[blinder-baker]

cillian murphy looks like he was designed by someone who was both very horny but also riddled with catholic guilt

[blinder-baker]

Polly 'Take No Shit' Gray

[blinder-baker]

strings of love.

for anonymous.

pairing: tommy shelby x reader

word count: 1.3k+

warning: this was written inbetween study sessions so proceed with caution

request: hii!! i have a request please :) what about tommy x reader where it’s the first time he stays alone with their toddlers and it’s just pure fluff? thank you!!!  -  the vibe kinda changed by the end cos i can’t be not cheesy, alright

a/n: it’s not relevant to the storyline but it’s important for me that everyone knows: the twins are CHONKY; thank you and enjoy.

of course their names are charlie and ruby, what, did you think i had imagination?

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[blinder-baker]

Arthur is written so brilliantly in this

If you could, a shelby!sister!reader where the reader is tired and falls asleep sitting up and Arthur picks her up and carries her to bed, tucking her in like he used to when she was little.

be still, my heart.

There’s a prolonged silence that hangs in the air, dulling the soft buzz that resonates from the porcelain refrigerator tucked into the corner of the kitchen. 

There’s a children’s book that lies unopened across the owner’s trouser-clad legs, paper pages worn and weathered from years of practice and use. The corners are torn, spine cracked and bent, cover dented, and scratched. 

“Hurry up, Arthur.” Languid irises flit down to meet the gaze of that of the seventeen-year-old, bushy eyebrows pulling in in a look mock frustration. 

“Patience, sister. Patience.” Calloused fingers delve under the cardboard of the front cover, which has softened after years of mistreatment and care. There’s an audible crack that sounds as it peels open, and it pulls a nostalgic smile to your lips. 

You’re seated below him, the rough fabric of the dilapidated rug pressing indents into the soft flesh of your crossed legs as you stare blearily up at your elder brother. “You promised!” You argue in discontent, a pout now dancing on your lips. 

“That I did.” A baritone chuckle rumbles from the depths of his chest as the first page falls open, revealing both pigmented splashes of color and the deep-set black of the words across the yellow-hued pages. 

“Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies...” The eldest Shelby brother begins, a thin pair of reading glasses laying perched on the bridge of his nose to aid in his transcription of the infamous Wizard of Oz. 

Despite his inefficiency in literature, the man had been read the first chapters of the text since he was of the mere age of thirteen. Their mother had found simple pleasure in transcribing the wonderful adventures of the brunette and her little dog Toto. 

As he grew older, however, and his family grew in size, he had begun to absorb some of the responsibilities of passing along the story to his younger siblings. 

He had soon realized that in order to soothe your sorrowful woes of your missing mother at a young age, the book would need to come out. 

There were few texts that Arthur Shelby could read without the aid of others, but the man found simplicity in reading the text to the girl in front of him. It was easy. 

Your hands are clasped in front of you, an excited white bleeding into your knuckles as you peer up in anticipation for the next words that are to slip from Arthur’s tongue. By this time, you’ve practically committed the entirety of the story to memory, but there’s no possibility of passing up on your older brother reading it to you. 

As his lips move to utter the words that he sees in front of him, and your own move in synchronization. The mustache-clad man notices but doesn’t point it out. He wishes you to be happy.

Finn, of whom has fallen victim to exhaustion, is snoring audibly in the corner of the room, lips parted as he sucks in air. His curls are tousled, peaky cap discarded in some unknown location. His freckled cheeks are painted with their usual rosy hue, even as he slumbers peacefully. 

Polly meanders into the room, bony fingers wrapped around a warm mug of tea as she spots the boy. “Wish he would just listen to me when I tell him to go to bed. His head Is shoved so far up Tommy’s ass he doesn’t know how to listen to anyone else.” She tuts, setting down the porcelain cup on a coaster by Arthur’s love seat (she’s a stickler for rings on wooden furniture), but nonetheless wraps a blanket around the boy’s lanky form. You watch, momentarily distracted from Arthur’s story-telling as your twin shifts in his spot and gets comfortable. 

Polly retrieves her heated drink before she sits down on the plush sofa beside Arthur’s. Her trained eyes fall on you. “You do know there’s a couch, hm?” She cocks an eyebrow in referral to your seated position on the rug below you. 

You nod. “S’fine here, Aunt Poll. Comfortable.” Is all you say.

Your aunt chuckles in teasing disapproval and settles in to stay. She’s always liked this story. 

You turn your attention back to your older brother. “You can continue, Artie.” You urge the brunette when he pauses to tune into your small interaction with your aunt. 

The man clears his throat to regain his voice once again before he begins again. There’s a gentle nature to the way he tells the story; something truly different from his typical manner of speaking. 

You like it. 

Minutes flash by before you can even register them, and you’re so wound up in the story that you don’t notice the exhaustion that takes over. 

Arthur’s nearly finished the first chapter of the book now, and he’s ready to finish up for the night when he finally peers over the top of the weather-worn text to peer at you. 

Your eyelids are growing heavy, weighing down with fatigue, but you’re fighting back, desperate to hear the last bits of the nostalgic story.

Arthur purses his lips temporarily to refrain from chastising your attempts to fight sleep. He knows better than anyone that good nights of sleep are few and far between in the Shelby household. 

He curls his muscled legs underneath his body, attempting to get comfortable as he reaches the end of the story. 

“...In spite of the swaying house and the wailing of the wind, Dorothy soon closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.” 

Over the noise of Finn’s incessant snoring, Arthur finishes the first chapter of the book for the 100th time out of so many more to come. There are moments where you know that the older man will be reading the same words to the children you are to bear in the future, and the thought makes you smile. 

There’s an animation that Arthur brings to story-telling that none of your other brothers can manage. Nor Aunt Polly. Sure, they’re more skilled in the art of reading and writing, but Arthur’s truly different. Even with the effects of the war altering his happiness.

The spine groans in discomfort as he smears his thumb over the crease of the corner of the page as he makes a dog ear as a bookmark and shuts the book. As he gently pushes the text onto the mahogany wood of the table between him and Polly, he finally takes note of your slumbering form on the rug in front of him. 

He’s chuckling already, rising from the comfort of the armchair and squatting down to see you. His knees crack with the strained effort, but he stays a few moments to take you in. 

You’ve transitioned from your seated position, and you’re curled up now on the ground. Your cheek is pressed into the scratchy material of the old rug, arms curled up into your chest. 

You’ve grown. A lot. Freckles that were once nonexistent dot your cheeks and nose, but not they’re not nearly as evident as your twin’s. It’s astonishing to the oldest sibling that you’ve grown so fast from the small infant that once cried in your dying mother’s embrace. 

He’s so incredibly proud of you, however. He brushes back a strand of hair from your face and gently eases his muscled forearms underneath the bend of your knees and the small of your back and pulls himself up to his full height. His knees groan in anger for such. 

You shift, and his heart drops into the depths of his chest at the prospect of waking you up. However, when you settle into his embrace, a weight drops from his shoulders and he takes his cue to bring you upstairs. 

Memories of what once were flash through his mind; reminding him of all the times he had to transport you to your bedroom almost every night. He had been readily convinced that you faked your slumber so that he would carry you up when you were a child and would read to you just like tonight. 

You confirmed such just a few years later, and surprisingly enough, the man found it hilarious. 

However, at this moment, you had really fallen victim to your exhaustion. Arthur grunts as he climbs the last step, thinking it strange that you weigh more than your 6-year-old self once did. He nudges the wooden door open with the toe of his foot and steps in. 

He’s careful as he lays you down atop of the soft covers of your bed, and he readjusts your body to maneuver some covers to warm your shivering form. 

He dips down, lips smoothing over your brow as he nestles the blanket under your chin to ensure that you’re warm over the expanse of the night. “Goodnight, bug. Sleep well. Love you lots.” 

As he departs, you sigh softly. “G’night, Artie. Love you too.” 

TAGLIST: @arseydarci

[blinder-baker]

me and @tsolomons

[blinder-baker]

This is painful. I have no words..

[blinder-baker]

Brilliant

Some Alfie doodles

[blinder-baker]

Thank you so much ❤️

Every man in Camden - Alfie Solomons

Warnings - Swearing, it’s also really short

Word count - 833

Requested by: none , oops

A/N- So I had planned for “Honeyed Words” to be an Alfie Solomons fic, but the request fit so well. Instead I changed it up a bit but its still the same concept. Also the last little bit is a quote (Idk where from) which I changed a little bit. Enjoy!

The atmosphere was sullen and stiff, with Alfie hunched over his desk with a furrowed brow. It wasn’t unusual for him to be in a bad mood but this was worse than normal. Alfie was fed up with the behaviour of his men, so he had told them so. The shouting echoed through the building and he had returned to his office like a sulking child. At least, he always knew how to keep them in line.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” His gruff voice sound apologetic.

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