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living-in-a-box · 10 days ago

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Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 22

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 22

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: Chaos unfolds during you and Tommy's reception, in the aftermath, you find some comfort in Small Heath.

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language, mention of torture and vague, nonconsensual sexualization and touch, emetophobia warning

You didn’t even register the direction the gunshots came from– just the chaos that followed. Screams erupted. Glass shattered. Someone dropped a tray with a crash that echoed beneath the chandelier’s sudden sway. The music stopped abruptly, a needle skidding off vinyl, and for a split second, everything stood still.

Then, another shot.

You grabbed Finn without thinking, your instincts moving faster than your mind. He’d been standing just beside the refreshment table, laughing, a slice of cake still in his hand. You yanked him down with you, ducking beneath the table just as chairs clattered and guests scattered.

His eyes were wide, panicked, and you could feel him shaking.

“We’re okay,” you said quickly, your arms around him, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s alright, stay low, don’t move.”

The tablecloth hung around you like a makeshift curtain, dimming the chaos outside.

Finn clutched your arm tightly. “What’s happening?” he whispered, voice cracking.

Above you, another loud bang– a third shot fired, but this one hit the ceiling, plaster raining down. You flinched, shielding Finn instinctively.

And then, through the noise, a voice bellowed across the room:

“A gift from Luca Changretta. Tell Tommy Shelby that his empire bleeds like any other.”

Finn clutched your arm tighter, his breathing shallow and fast. You pulled him in closer beneath the table, your body curled protectively over his, your hand cradling the back of his head to shield him from the falling plaster.

Around you, everything had gone still.

Not silent, there were still gasps and muffled screams, overturned chairs scraping against the floor, glass shattering somewhere across the room, but still in the way that fear locks a room in place, holding everyone in suspended disbelief.

You barely dared to breathe.

Footsteps thundered toward the exit, fast, heavy, purposeful. Then the sharp slam of the doors as the gunmen fled.

Gone, just like that.

No more shots. No more words. Just a trail of fear and smoke left behind in their wake.

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears as you slowly looked out from beneath the table, your arm still curled tightly around Finn.

Polly’s voice rang out from somewhere across the room, sharp and panicked. Arthur was shouting orders. John’s voice followed, rough and urgent..

You pushed yourself up from the floor slowly, your limbs still shaky with adrenaline. Your hands found Finn first, gently helping him upright. He was pale, eyes wide, shoulders hunched in a way that made him look even younger than he was.

“Finn,” you said softly, brushing plaster dust from his jacket. “Are you alright?”

He nodded too quickly to be convincing. His breath hitched, and you reached for his face, cradling it gently between your palms. His skin was clammy, his cheeks flushed. You wiped a smear of dust from his cheek with your thumb, eyes scanning him for any sign of blood, any wound you might’ve missed in the panic.

“Look at me,” you said, steady but kind. “You’re not hurt?”

“No,” he rasped, shaking his head. “Just… hell– what was that?”

“Just breathe,” you murmured, still holding his face. “You’re alright. You’re alright.”

Your fingers lingered for a second longer, brushing through his hair before pulling him into a quick, fierce hug. He held onto you like a lifeline, his body trembling just slightly.

You heard Tommy before you saw him, the shift in the air, the magnetic pull. His voice was heavy. “Move– move!”

Before you knew it, Tommy was there, storming toward you, eyes scanning wildly– jaw clenched, breathing hard.

His eyes found yours and stopped.

“Fuck–” he breathed, his expression cracking, just for a second. “Are you okay?” His voice was low and sharp, breathless as he reached you, hands already skimming over your arms, your ribs, your waist.

You couldn’t speak. You just nodded your head, slowly.

But he didn’t accept that. One hand cupped the back of your neck, grounding you firmly in place. His touch wasn’t gentle now– it was firm. Urgent.

“Look at me,” he said, voice fierce. “Are you okay?”

Your lips parted, breath shaky. “Yes,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”

He closed his eyes for half a second, like the air had been knocked from him. When they opened again, they were darker, stormier. Rage and relief tangled behind them.

“I told you,” he said, voice hoarse and cracking as his forehead dropped briefly to yours. “I told you to stay put.”

Before you could even respond, he pulled away, his hands falling from your face, jaw clenching as he turned slightly, already scanning the chaos again. You stood there, stunned, the weight of his anger settling heavy in your chest.

You hadn’t meant to anger him. But the shame still twisted in your stomach like a blade.

Suddenly, you felt small fingers clutching at your arm.

Finn had latched onto you without a word, his arms winding around your waist. His face was pressed into your side, his entire body shaking with adrenaline and fear.

You blinked back the sting in your eyes and immediately wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close, cradling the back of his head. “It’s alright,” you whispered, holding him tightly. “You’re alright.”

He didn’t speak, just shook, buried against you, trying to hide the fact that he’d been terrified. You swayed gently with him, murmuring something soft, your hand brushing through his hair, grounding him in the only way you could.

Tommy, meanwhile, had already shifted gears.

His eyes were scanning the room, sharp and calculating, jaw rigid with fury. “John! Arthur!” he barked. A bitter breath hissed from between Tommy’s teeth. “Find out how they got in. Who let them through the doors. Someone knew. Someone fucking knew!”

John nodded tightly, already heading toward the front.

Tommy’s jaw flexed again as he turned back toward Arthur. “And I want names! Every single fucking guest who wasn’t on the list, where they came from, who they came with. Someone vouched for those bastards.”

Arthur’s mouth tightened. “You got it, Tom.”

Tommy ran a hand through his hair, pacing for a second before muttering, “They didn’t want blood… not tonight. They wanted fear.”

His eyes flicked toward you then, still holding Finn, still trying to slow your breathing, your expression dazed and unreadable.

And in that instant, his fury turned razor-sharp again.

“They came into my fucking wedding,” he yelled. “That’s their warning shot? They’re going to regret not pulling the fucking trigger.”

He paced in a tight line, hands clenched into fists at his sides, his breathing sharp and ragged. You’d seen him angry before– cold, calculating, precise. But this… this was something else. This was pure fury. Unfiltered. Barely contained.

“They walked through those doors,” he snapped, whirling around to face Arthur and John as they returned to his side. “They fired shots over our fucking heads– at my family, at my wife!”

His voice cracked on the last word, jaw tightening hard enough to make his cheek twitch. His hand went instinctively to his hip like he needed to reach for something– his gun, maybe, or just a way to release the rage bottled beneath his ribs.

“They wanted to humiliate us,” he growled, eyes dark and wild. “To prove they could get in and out without a scratch. That they could touch us without drawing blood.”

Arthur stepped forward, voice low. “Tom, we’ll find ‘em. You know we will.”

Tommy’s glare cut through the room like a blade. “Not good enough,” he snapped. “I don’t want their names. I want their fucking heads.”

You flinched slightly at the venom in his tone, but Finn still clung to your side, and your instinct to protect him kept you grounded.

“They made a spectacle,” Tommy continued, turning toward the ruined tables, the chandelier still swaying faintly overhead. “A statement. They want war? Fine.”

His voice dropped to a growl– cold, merciless. “Then we’ll give them war.”

Arthur nodded grimly, but John exchanged a glance with him, uneasy. Polly hovered nearby, watching Tommy with that sharp, calculating stare of hers, as if measuring how far gone he really was.

And then beside you, Finn let out a soft sound– not quite a whimper, but close. His hands were still clutching the edge of your dress where he’d held on during the gunfire, his knuckles white. He was staring at the floor now, eyes unfocused, jaw tight, like he was trying to swallow whatever panic was still clawing its way through his chest.

“Finn?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer at first. Just kept shaking his head like he was trying to make the memory disappear. His breathing had gone shallow again.

“Hey.” You crouched a little, meeting his eyes, brushing his fringe back gently. “You’re alright, Finn. It’s over now.”

He nodded, too quickly, too forcefully, and then abruptly turned to the side and vomited into the corner.

Polly immediately stepped toward him, but you raised a hand gently. “I’ve got him.”

The sound of Tommy’s voice barking another order behind you made Finn flinch visibly. That was it. Your chest clenched, protective instinct kicking in fully now.

“Come on, love,” you said, steady and soft, already slipping an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s get some air.”

But before you could take a full step, a firm hand caught your arm.

“You can’t go outside,” Tommy said sharply, eyes flashing.

You blinked at him, stunned. “He needs air, Tommy. He’s shaking.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched. “It’s not safe out there. Not yet.”

“He’s going to pass out if he stays in here,” you snapped.

Without missing a beat, Tommy waved two of his men forward with a curt gesture. “Go with them,” he barked. Then his eyes flicked back to you, sharp and unreadable. “Don’t go past the gate. And this time, do what you’re fucking told, please.”

You stared at him, nostrils flaring, heat rising behind your eyes. It wasn’t just the words, it was the tone, the way he said it like you were one of the men under his command instead of his wife, who’d just been dragged through chaos on her own wedding day.

Your lips parted, ready to spit something back, but instead you just wrenched your arm from his grip, your jaw tight.

You turned your back on him and led Finn away, your hand steady at his back. The weight of Tommy’s stare burned between your shoulder blades, but you didn’t look back.

Finn didn’t protest. He let you guide him away, his legs a bit unsteady beneath him. You led him down the corridor and out through the side door into the cool night air, the chaos muffled now behind stone walls and heavy doors. The moment you stepped outside, you felt him exhale, just a shaky breath, but a little steadier than before.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just sat with him on the edge of the steps, rubbing slow circles on his back.

“I thought they were going to kill us,” Finn said quietly after a long pause.

You swallowed the knot in your throat. “I know.”

You sat in silence for a long moment– just the two of you under the stars, the distant pulse of music and shouting still echoing faintly behind you. But out here, for just a little while, you could breathe.

The night air was sharp against your skin, cutting through the lingering adrenaline still humming in your veins. Your heart hadn’t fully settled yet, and Finn was still tense beneath your arm, shoulders hunched forward like he was trying to make himself smaller.

You rubbed a slow, steady hand across his back, letting the silence stretch between you like a blanket. You didn’t need to fill it. Not yet.

“I’m sorry I threw up,” Finn said after a while, voice barely above a whisper.

Your hand stilled for a second, then resumed its rhythm. “It’s okay, Finn. You don’t need to apologize for that.”

A few more minutes passed in stillness, broken only by the distant crack of glass, another door swinging open somewhere inside, a voice shouting orders. The tension of the evening hadn’t fully lifted, not even out here.

You weren’t sure how long you sat like that, just holding him steady, when the door creaked open again behind you.

You turned.

Polly stepped into the dim light of the courtyard, her silhouette sharp against the warm glow from the reception hall. Her heels clicked softly on the stone, but there was no urgency in her steps, just the same quiet gravity she always carried like a second skin.

She stopped a few paces away, her eyes scanning you both. Her gaze softened when it landed on Finn. She crouched down beside him then, resting a hand lightly on his knee. “You alright, love?”

“I’m okay,” he lied.

Polly nodded once, glancing between you and Finn again. “Arthur’s still inside trying to calm people down. Tommy’s… doing what Tommy does.”

You swallowed and gave her a faint nod of thanks.

There was a long pause before you spoke again, your voice low, tired. “When can we go home?”

Polly looked at you for a moment, really looked. Not just at your face, but the slump in your shoulders, the way your hand still gripped Finn’s sleeve like you couldn’t quite let go of the fear yet.

“Soon,” she said gently. “They need to be sure it’s safe first.”

You nodded, but it didn’t ease the restlessness curling in your chest. You were still in your wedding dress. Your hands still smelled faintly of gunpowder and champagne. And your heart hadn’t stopped racing since the first shot rang out.

You could feel the pressure building behind your eyes, that familiar sting threatening to break through. You blinked hard, jaw clenched tight, willing the tears not to come.

Polly stepped closer, brushing a bit of hair from your face in a rare, tender gesture. “You’re alright, sweetheart. You’re alright. You just need to breathe.”

You tried, but it caught in your throat.

“I didn’t even see it coming,” you whispered. “It was supposed to be– just for one day–”

“I know.” Her voice softened again, more mother than matriarch now.

You didn’t have the energy to say anything else. You just glanced down at Finn, who was quiet now, staring out at the street like it might tell him something the rest of you couldn’t.

Polly’s hand touched your arm again, firmer this time. “You’re safe now. We’ll get you home soon.”

You nodded once more, but the weight of the evening settled heavy in your bones. You didn’t feel safe. Not yet. Not really.

Polly returned inside, but you stayed there in silence, shoulders tense beneath the weight of your dress, heart still pounding against your ribs like it hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that the threat was over. You kept your eyes on the door, waiting for it to open again. Hoping it would be him this time.

Finn sat quietly beside you, hands clasped in his lap, gaze fixed on the darkened garden path ahead. He hadn’t said anything else, but he leaned into your side slightly, like your presence was the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

Minutes passed. Then, finally, the door creaked open behind you. Footsteps on the gravel.

Tommy’s figure cut through the dim light like a shadow cast from something solid and unshakable, but there was a new heaviness in his expression, tighter around the eyes, jaw still clenched hard. His tie was crooked now, shirt undone at the collar, blood still flecked faintly at his temple. But his gaze was on you.

“Come on,” he murmured, one hand in his pocket, the other beckoning you gently. “Let’s go.”

You nodded and turned to Finn, brushing your hand gently against his shoulder. “Come on, love,” you said quietly. “Let’s get up.”

He nodded, a little dazed, letting you help him to his feet. He leaned on you more than he probably realized, but you didn’t mind. Your arm stayed steady beneath his.

Tommy reached for him then, his hand landing firm on Finn’s other shoulder, steadying him silently. His other hand reached for yours without a word, fingers curling around yours with quiet purpose.

You glanced down at your joined hands, his fingers warm and certain around yours. The earlier anger– the sting of him snapping at you, the way he’d barked and shut you out, had dissolved somewhere in the chaos. You couldn’t even pinpoint the moment it left you, only that now, standing here beside him, all you could feel was the dull throb of exhaustion and the steady comfort of his touch.

Because whatever his temper had been, whatever sharpness had cut through his voice… you knew it had come from fear.

And now, there was only this, his hand in yours, grounding you again. The way it always did.

Tommy gave your hand a small, silent squeeze, his eyes flicking to yours for a brief second, just long enough to say everything he hadn’t said earlier.

Then, together, the three of you moved toward the car. Slowly, quietly. Away from the wreckage. Toward whatever peace the night could still offer.

The car ride home was quiet.

No one said it out loud, but there was a silent agreement between all of you, not to scatter off into separate homes, not to retreat behind closed doors where the silence could swallow you whole. Instead, everyone returned to the Small Heath house. It felt safer that way. Closer. Warmer, somehow, even beneath the weight of what had just happened.

You weren’t sure if it was instinct or desperation that led to it, but no one argued. No one left.

Polly took up residence in her usual armchair, a cigarette already between her fingers. Ada curled up on the couch, shoes kicked off, eyes tired but still sharp. Arthur poured drinks, heavily, and John paced the hallway like a restless dog while Esme tried to convince him to sit down. The house was buzzing beneath the quiet, like everyone was trying to act normal, but every small noise made someone flinch. Every knock, every footstep.

You glanced at Finn, he hadn’t said much since the ride. He hadn’t let go of your hand either. Now, he sat slumped in the corner of the settee, shoulders curled in, eyes wide and unfocused. His plate of untouched food sat cooling beside him, forgotten.

Your heart cracked a little at the sight of him.

You moved toward him quietly and lowered yourself beside him. “You alright?” you asked gently, though you already knew the answer.

He nodded quickly, but it was automatic, hollow. His lip trembled.

“Why don’t you head to bed, love? Get some rest?”

He shook his head before you even finished the sentence.

“I don’t wanna be alone,” Finn mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart clenched. You reached out, brushing your hand through his hair.

“Alright,” you said softly. “Then stay here with me a while.”

His shoulders eased just a little at that, like the weight pressing into him had lifted, only slightly, but enough.

Minutes passed, slow and heavy. You could hear Arthur and John’s low voices from the kitchen, the clink of glass, the occasional muttered curse. Somewhere down the hall, Tommy’s voice rumbled, low, clipped, issuing orders through the telephone. Polly’s lighter flicked in rhythm from her seat across the room, a steady little flame to match the storm still flickering behind her eyes.

Eventually, you felt Finn’s breathing slow. His body slackened slightly against yours, the last of his adrenaline fading into exhaustion. He was asleep– finally.

You stayed with him anyway, stroking his hair gently, letting your own head rest back against the cushion behind you.

Your eyes drifted closed for a moment, but your mind didn’t quiet. It circled endlessly around the night, around the chaos, around the gunfire echoing behind your ribs. The blood. The fear.

You exhaled slowly through your nose.

The door creaked open, and you turned slightly at the sound.

John stepped into the room, his gaze landing on Finn curled up beside you. He let out a low sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Poor kid,” he muttered.

You nodded quietly, brushing your hand once more through Finn’s hair before glancing up at John. “He finally fell asleep.”

John stepped closer, his voice softer now. “I’ll take him upstairs.”

You hesitated, just for a second– some part of you reluctant to let Finn go. But John’s expression was kind, steady. And maybe you needed a moment to breathe.

“Alright,” you said gently, carefully easing yourself away from Finn.

John nodded. “I’ve got him.”

You watched as he crouched down and scooped Finn up in his arms with practiced ease. The younger boy stirred only faintly, murmuring something incoherent before settling again against John’s shoulder.

You followed behind them to the doorway, pausing just at the threshold. Your eyes drifted toward the sitting room, where the low hum of voices carried down the hallway– Tommy, Arthur, and Polly, deep in discussion.

You could see them through the doorway: Polly pacing slowly, a cigarette burning between her fingers; Arthur slouched forward, elbows on his knees, face tense; and Tommy, standing tall, arms folded tightly across his chest as he spoke in that low, unreadable tone he always used when trying to mask the storm brewing beneath the surface.

You watched him for a moment longer, his words indistinct but his posture unmistakably rigid. Earlier, at the reception, he'd mentioned revenge. War. Against whoever it was that had caused all of this.

A message from Luca Changretta.

You didn’t know who that was, not really. Only that whoever it was, was bound to cause you all a world of trouble.

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides. You thought, for a moment, about walking in, about catching Tommy’s eye, about pulling him away just for a moment. But he didn’t look up. He didn’t even seem to notice you standing there.

The weight of it settled in your chest again. You were too tired to find out more. Too drained to dig into the shadows gathering around the edges of your wedding night.

So instead, you turned quietly and followed behind John and Finn up the stairs, your footsteps soft on the floorboards.

Whatever that conversation was, whatever came next, it could wait. Tonight had taken enough from you already.

You followed John into Finn’s room, the quiet creak of the door barely audible over the sound of Finn’s soft breathing. The room was dim, only the low flicker of a lamp casting a warm glow across the walls. John moved carefully, easing Finn down onto the bed with practiced gentleness, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders as he settled.

You lingered by the doorway for a moment, then stepped in fully, moving to the chair in the corner. It was old, the cushion a little worn, but it cradled your tired body easily as you sank into it with a quiet exhale.

John glanced over at you, his brow furrowed slightly. “You alright?” he asked, his voice low.

You nodded once, giving him a small, tired smile. “Yeah. I just… want to stay with him for a bit.”

He studied you for a moment, then gave a single, quiet nod. “Alright,” he said simply. “Shout if you need anything.”

You nodded again, watching as he turned and stepped out, pulling the door mostly closed behind him.

The room fell into stillness again. Just you and Finn.

You leaned back into the chair, gaze drifting toward him. His face looked softer in sleep– no longer clouded with fear or tension, just the slow, steady rhythm of rest. You swallowed against the lump forming in your throat and folded your arms across your chest, letting the quiet settle around you.

Your eyelids drifted lower.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But your body had finally reached its limit, and before you realized it, the blur of candlelight and the soft rhythm of Finn’s breathing had lulled you into a quiet, dreamless sleep.

It was the quiet sound of your name that stirred you first, soft, low, spoken like a secret. Then the gentle sweep of fingers through your hair, brushing lightly behind your ear.

Your lashes fluttered, the warmth of his voice coaxing you back to the surface. You blinked up at him, disoriented for a moment, the dim room coming slowly back into focus.

He crouched beside you, one hand still lingering at your hairline, the other settling softly on your knee. “You’ll be sore if you stay like that all night,” he said, voice quiet and full of something softer than usual.

You sat up slowly, blinking away the heaviness from your eyes. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” you mumbled.

“It’s alright.” His voice was gentle. “Let’s get to bed.”

Your gaze flicked toward the bed, Finn was still curled beneath the blanket, breathing steady and slow. Safe. Asleep.

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were still holding.

Tommy’s hand slipped down to yours, curling around your fingers. “Come on,” he said again, quieter now.

You nodded and stood slowly, glancing one last time at Finn before letting Tommy guide you out of the room. The hallway was dim, the house quieter now, tension still lingering in the air like smoke, but dulled beneath the weight of exhaustion.

You followed him down the corridor to the same spare room you’d taken care of Tommy in– the one you’d stepped inside a hundred times before, back when things were simpler. The sheets were clean but creased, the window cracked just enough to let the cool night air in. It wasn’t your house on the hill– but it was Small Heath. Familiar. Steady. Home.

Tommy shut the door softly behind you, then moved to pull the blanket back. “You alright?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at you.

You nodded, stepping toward the bed. “I just… didn’t want to leave him alone.”

“I know,” he said.

You slid beneath the covers, the sheets cool against your skin. Tommy followed a beat later, lying beside you with a quiet sigh. His arm found its way around you, pulling you in until your head rested against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat grounding you like nothing else could.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Just the sound of your breathing, the faint creak of the old house settling around you.

Then his voice, rumbled, low and rough against the top of your head. “I shouldn’t’ve snapped at you.”

You blinked, shifting just enough to glance up at him. His eyes were on the ceiling, jaw tight.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “I should’ve listened.”

He shook his head slightly. “You didn’t deserve that. Not tonight.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly along his chest. “You were just trying to protect me. On our wedding night.”

His hand covered yours, warm and steady. “Didn’t exactly turn out how I pictured it,” he murmured with a rueful half-smile.

“How did you picture it?”

Tommy thought for a moment. “I suppose more champagne and dancing. Less… bullets and threats.”

You gave a soft, tired chuckle, resting your forehead against his collarbone. “Well, I am a Shelby now,” you said. “I can’t think of a warmer welcome.”

His chest rumbled faintly with a laugh. “I suppose,” he said, tilting his head down and brushing a kiss into your hair. "Mrs. Shelby."

You didn’t reply, just curled in closer, fingers curling loosely into his shirt. The storm outside might still rage, but here, in this small stretch of warmth and safety, it was just the two of you.

Mr. and Mrs. Shelby.

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living-in-a-box · 10 days ago

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Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 21

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 21

Chapter summary: You and Tommy finally tie the knot in a whirlwind of nerves, love, and celebration, an unforgettable day filled with warmth, laughter, and the joy of becoming a family. But you should’ve known peace never lasts long when you marry a Shelby.

Word count: 5.3k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language, mention of torture and vague, nonconsensual sexualization and touch.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Not badly, just a subtle tremble at your fingertips, barely visible unless you looked for it. But you could feel it. A nervous energy pulsing beneath your skin, fluttering low in your stomach like wings beating against your ribs.

The room smelled like rosewater and perfume, the faint scent of pressed flowers from the bouquet resting on the vanity, the soft rustle of fabric filling the quiet between voices. Polly stood behind you, steady hands fastening the last delicate button at the nape of your neck. Ada was perched on the windowsill with a cigarette in one hand and a half-finished glass of champagne in the other, while Esme paced with restless energy, occasionally plucking stray threads off her own dress.

“You look like you’re about to pass out,” Ada said, flicking ash into a tray.

“Or take off runnin’,” Esme smirked, leaning in to adjust the fall of your veil. “That’s just adrenaline. Perfectly normal before marrying a Shelby, if you ask me.”

“That’s not exactly comforting.”

Polly gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “It’s just nerves, love,” she said simply.

You nodded slowly, swallowing the knot in your throat. The dress was perfect, simple, elegant, the fabric hugging your frame like it had been stitched just for you. But beneath the silk and lace, your heart was hammering like a war drum.

You gave a small, unsteady smile, eyes still on the mirror. “I just… I don’t want to mess it up.”

Ada snorted. “If anyone should be worried about messing things up, it’s Tommy.”

That made Esme laugh, and even Polly cracked a faint smile.

But still, the nerves pulsed in your chest like a second heartbeat. You weren’t afraid of marrying him, not truly. You were afraid of what came with it. The weight of his name. The eyes on you. The risks that followed a life tethered to a Shelby.

And yet… beneath it all, deeper than the nerves and the fluttering uncertainty, was something steadier. Something sure.

You loved him.

And you’d walk through fire for him if you had to.

Suddenly, there was a quiet knock at the door. One of the younger Blinders poked his head in, cap in hand, eyes flicking briefly to you before leaning in toward Polly.

She bent slightly, listening as he murmured something low.

You couldn’t hear everything. But you heard enough.

“... still not back yet… tried to reach him… nothing yet…”

Polly’s expression didn’t shift, not visibly. But you saw the subtle tightening of her mouth. The brief flicker in her eyes.

“What is it?” you asked immediately, turning in your chair before Polly could wave him away.

“Nothing,” Polly said smoothly, straightening again. “Just a small delay. Nothing for you to worry about.”

You stared at her. “Where is he?”

Polly hesitated for a beat too long. “He’ll be here.”

“He’s not here?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, sharp with panic.

“Sweetheart,” Ada said gently from the windowsill, “he probably just got caught up with some last-minute business. You know how Tommy is.”

But the unease had already taken root, coiling in your chest.

It was your wedding day. And he was missing.

You tried to breathe, tried to tell yourself it was fine– that he’d walk through the door any minute with some muttered excuse and a cigarette dangling from his fingers like nothing was wrong.

Your mind spun, tumbling through a hundred scenarios before you could stop it. What if something had gone wrong– another attack, another message, another quiet war unfolding behind the scenes that no one had told you about? What if this was the price of marrying into his world, and you were only just beginning to see it?

Or worse– what if it wasn’t danger at all?

What if he’d changed his mind?

The thought struck harder than you expected, sharp and cold and mean. You swallowed hard, eyes fixed on your reflection again. You looked calm on the outside, polished, elegant, composed. But beneath the satin, your pulse thundered, your heart twisting itself into anxious knots.

What if he’d gotten too close to the edge of it all, too close to this life, this weight, this love, and decided it wasn’t worth it?

What if he’d realized you were the one weak point in his armor?

Behind you, Polly was murmuring something to Ada, trying to distract the room, trying to keep the mood light. Esme was laughing at a story you couldn’t even hear anymore. The world moved on around you, dresses and flowers and champagne flutes glinting in the light… and still, he wasn’t there.

You pressed your palm to your stomach, willing the nerves to settle. Willing your heart to stop spiraling.

“What if he doesn’t come?” you said quietly, so quietly you weren’t sure anyone heard it. “What if he’s left me– before he even married me?”

But Ada turned instantly, her smile faltering. “Hey. No. Don’t do that,” she said, crossing the room in a heartbeat. She knelt slightly beside your chair, her hands warm as they reached for yours. “He loves you. You know that, right? You’ve seen it– you feel it. Don’t let your head start lying to you now.”

You blinked quickly, trying to keep your expression steady, but something in your throat tightened anyway.

“I just–” Your voice cracked. “Why isn’t he here? What if I imagined this whole thing?”

Ada squeezed your hands harder. “You didn’t. You didn’t imagine a bloody thing. That man would tear down the whole world for you if you asked him to.”

You tried to nod, but it was shaky at best.

“You’re going to ruin your makeup if you keep going like this.”

From the doorway, Polly’s voice rang out, clipped and commanding.

“Go find him. Now,” she said sharply to the Blinder still lingering there, eyes wide like he hadn’t meant to be caught listening. “I don’t care where the hell he is– get him here. Tell him I said if he’s not standing in front of her in ten minutes, I’ll put a bullet through him myself.”

The young man nodded quickly, disappearing down the corridor without another word.

Ada glanced over her shoulder, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth despite everything. “Well. Who needs the Blinders when you’ve got your own army of women now.”

You exhaled a shaky breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“He’ll be here, love,” Ada said gently.

You sat stiffly in the chair, hands folded tightly in your lap as Polly began weaving the final pins into your hair. Esme and Ada flitted around the room, chatting, teasing, laughing louder than usual, but their smiles didn’t quite reach their eyes.

They were trying. You knew that.

Ada held up a ridiculous feathered hat at one point, balancing it dramatically on her head. “What do you think?” she said in a mock-posh accent. “Good enough to be in the wedding?”

Esme snorted. “Careful, you’ll scare everyone away before the ceremony even starts.”

“I’m serious,” Ada added, tossing the veil toward you with a crooked grin. “If he doesn’t come, we’ll throw a party anyway. I’ll marry you. Polly can officiate.”

Polly rolled her eyes without looking up from your hair. “You’ll do no such thing.”

You tried to smile, tried so hard, but it didn’t quite make it past the tight ache in your chest.

Your eyes kept drifting toward the door. Toward the clock. Toward the empty space where Tommy should’ve been.

The laughter in the room felt distant now, muffled, like it was happening underwater. Your chest tightened with every beat of your heart, and you tried to breathe through it, to blink back the heat behind your eyes.

“Still no word?” Ada asked Polly under her breath, trying to make it sound like a casual aside.

Polly didn’t answer at first. She just twisted the final pin into place and patted your shoulder gently. “He’ll come.”

Just as Polly’s hand withdrew from your shoulder, the door burst open with a sudden, loud thud.

Arthur strode in like a storm, all wide grins and uncontainable energy. “Alright, alright, where’s our bloody bride?” he shouted, arms thrown wide like he expected cheers to greet him.

You startled slightly in your seat, the sudden volume jarring against the quiet thrum of nerves in your chest.

“There she is!” Arthur boomed, spotting you immediately and offering a lopsided grin. “Christ, look at you! You look like a bloody angel.”

Arthur barely registered her as he stepped further into the room, still beaming. But his excitement faltered slightly when he looked around and saw the way everyone else had gone still.

His brow furrowed. “What’s with all the long faces, eh?” His eyes flicked to Ada, then Polly. “You lot look like someone died.”

Polly gave him a sharp look, but Ada was the one who spoke first, voice flat. “Tommy’s not back yet.”

Arthur blinked, confusion flashing across his face. “Bloody hell, that’s what’s got ya lot all sour. Why didn’t you say so?”

You sat up straighter, heart thudding, eyes fixed on Arthur.

“He’s been out all morning,” Arthur went on, waving a hand like it was obvious. “Ran off first thing to get some last-minute thing for you. Wouldn’t tell anyone what it was– said it had to be perfect.” He scoffed, then shook his head with a crooked grin. “Bloody romantic, that one.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“He’s here now,” Arthur added, stepping to the side as if on cue.

And there he was– Tommy, stepping through the doorway with that quiet, commanding presence only he ever had. His tie slightly loosened, hair a little windswept from the breeze outside, but his eyes… his eyes went straight to you.

The moment he saw your face, his expression shifted. The flicker of relief in his features was quickly swallowed by something deeper, heavier. He saw the worry in your eyes, the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers gripped the fabric of your dress just to keep them from shaking.

“Everyone out,” Polly said quietly, but firmly, already standing. “Give them a minute.”

Ada opened her mouth to protest, but one look from Polly silenced her. Esme gave you a knowing glance as she rose, smoothing her skirt with a little smirk before nudging Ada toward the door.

And then it was just the two of you.

The door clicked softly shut behind them, but neither of you moved.

“What’s wrong, love?” Tommy asked, his voice low, softer than usual. He stepped forward slowly, cautious like you might shatter if he got too close.

You shook your head quickly, forcing a tight smile as your hands fussed with the edge of your dress. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Just nerves.”

But his eyes didn’t leave your face. He saw the way your fingers trembled slightly, the flicker of something behind your smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. He stepped closer, one hand reaching out gently to brush his knuckles along your cheek.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

“Do what?” you asked, trying again to laugh it off, but your voice cracked at the edges.

“Pretend with me.”

You dropped your gaze to the floor, teeth catching your bottom lip, trying to will the emotion away before it spilled over. But then he was right in front of you, easing down to sit on the small bench beside you, one hand still at your cheek, thumb stroking gently across your skin like he was trying to soothe it out of you.

“Tell me,” he murmured.

You exhaled slowly, the words catching in your throat before you finally said them, barely above a whisper. “I thought… It’s stupid. But I thought maybe you weren’t coming.”

His hand stilled, just for a second. A flicker of realization crossed his face, followed by something heavier, something that looked like regret.

“I thought maybe you’d changed your mind,” you added, eyes still focused on your hands. “That maybe it was just… too much. Maybe I was too much.”

Tommy’s jaw tightened, but not with anger, just pain. Quiet, gutting pain.

“Christ,” he said softly, exhaling a slow breath. “Is that what you thought?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

His hand slid to your jaw, guiding your face gently toward his until your eyes met his again. There was no fire in them now, no tension, just that steady, anchored blue that had always made you feel like you were on solid ground again.

“I was running around like an idiot trying to get a surprise delivered before the ceremony,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Wasn’t thinking. Should’ve told someone. Should’ve told you.”

You blinked, your throat still tight, heart still aching from the spiral you’d fallen into.

“Love,” he said again, softer this time. “If I could be anywhere in the world right now, it’d still be right here. With you. Always you.”

You swallowed hard, finally letting your body lean toward him, your forehead resting against his. His hands stayed at your face, holding you steady.

“I’m here,” he whispered again. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You nodded, the motion small and shaky. Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment as you breathed him in– his scent, the warmth of his hands, the steady rhythm of his breath against yours. That awful knot of fear in your chest slowly began to unravel, thread by thread, just from being close to him again.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, slow and grounding, and you let your eyes close again as his lips lingered there.

When he finally pulled back, his hand still cradling your cheek, he looked at you with a softness that made your heart catch in your throat.

“You didn’t even give me a chance to tell you how beautiful you look,” he said quietly, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I walked in, and you just about broke my heart before I got the words out.”

You let out a shaky laugh, tears still clinging to your lashes, but lighter now. “Sorry,” you murmured, brushing your thumb against his wrist. “I panicked first.”

“Well,” he said, eyes still steady on you, “just so we’re clear, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your cheeks flushed, and the knot in your chest finally, fully unwound.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked gently, his voice low and warm. Then, with the faintest twitch of a smirk, he added, “Keep an eye on me until it’s time to walk– make sure I don’t bolt out the back door?”

You laughed, the sound surprising even yourself with how natural it felt. “No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “It’s okay.”

His grin widened slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Good. Wasn’t planning on going anywhere anyway.”

“Better not,” you murmured, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “I’d hate to have to hunt you down in full lace and heels.”

He chuckled at that, brushing his thumb against your bottom lip. “You’d look terrifying.”

You grinned.

A soft knock interrupted the moment as Polly reappeared at the door. “Alright,” she said with a warm, knowing smile. “It’s time.”

You looked at Tommy one last time, really looked, and this time, there was no panic. No dread. Just that same steady warmth he always gave you, the quiet strength of someone who wasn’t just standing beside you for today, but for all the days after.

“I’ll see you out there,” he said, voice low and sure, fingers giving yours one final squeeze.

You nodded.

…

The ceremony passed in a blur of warmth and golden light, of whispered vows and stolen glances, of the weight of Tommy’s steady hand wrapped around yours, grounding you through every breath.

The air was thick with the scent of fresh flowers– roses, lilacs, and gardenias twined together in elegant arrangements, their petals swaying softly in the breeze. Candles flickered in the late afternoon glow, casting golden halos along the wooden pews, where familiar faces watched with quiet reverence. Ada and Polly sat near the front, side by side, the former smirking through misty eyes, the latter composed but proud, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Arthur, standing just beside Tommy, looked unusually solemn, the weight of the moment settling in his features. Even John, forever cheeky, forever irreverent, had kept his usual quips at bay, though you caught the glint of mischief in his eyes when he’d winked at you just before the ceremony began.

But all of it, the setting, the guests, the whispered murmur of the wind through the trees, faded into something distant when you looked up and met Tommy’s eyes.

He was watching you like you were the only person in the room. Like the rest of the world had fallen away completely.

There was something unguarded about him in that moment, something raw and reverent, as though even he couldn’t quite believe this was real. As though he was memorizing every inch of you, committing it all to memory in case it slipped away.

He squeezed your fingers gently, reassuring, a silent I’m here. Your thumb brushed over his knuckles in answer.

And then the words came. Soft, steady, unshaken.

The vows.

The moment you promised yourself to him, and he to you.

The moment you became his wife.

It was beautiful.

More beautiful than you could’ve imagined.

The kind of moment that would live in your bones long after the petals wilted and the candles burned out. The kind that settled into your chest like something sacred, something quiet and precious and entirely yours.

The music was soft, a gentle thread weaving between the rows of guests, and the sun had broken through the clouds just enough to cast a warm glow through the stained glass, bathing the room in soft color. You weren’t sure if anyone else noticed, but when you looked up and saw it, it felt like a blessing. A quiet little sign that maybe, just maybe, the world had given you this one good thing.

Tommy’s hands never left yours, not through the vows, not through the exchange of rings, not even when your voice shook slightly and you had to take a breath before continuing. He held you steady with nothing but a look. A small squeeze of your fingers. A breath shared between two hearts beating just a little too fast.

You saw it clearly– how his jaw tensed and softened all at once when he looked at you. The way his mouth trembled just slightly as you recited your vows. The way his eyes shimmered, not quite tearing, but enough that you knew. Enough that your heart twisted in your chest with a love so sharp it almost hurt.

You’d never seen him look at anything the way he looked at you in that moment.

The ceremony had been soft and warm and full of heart– but the reception?

The reception was loud, chaotic, overflowing with whiskey and laughter and the kind of rowdy joy that could only be described as Shelby traditional.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the quiet elegance of the ceremony had given way to a full-blown celebration. Music blared from the record player in the corner, the kind that made boots thump against the floor and voices rise above the din. Someone, probably Arthur, had already knocked over one of the floral centerpieces trying to demonstrate an impromptu boxing move, and John had stolen a bottle of champagne off the dessert table, waving it triumphantly like a trophy.

You’d barely made it ten steps into the room before Polly had pressed a glass of whiskey into your hand and Ada was dragging you toward the dance floor.

“Come on,” she’d said, grinning like the devil. “You’re a Shelby now. Time to dance like one.”

You laughed until your cheeks ached, spun in circles beneath strings of soft light as Esme shouted out the words to a pub song off-key, and Finn nearly tripped over a tray trying to pass around more drinks. Even Polly had cracked a smile when Arthur picked her up and twirled her, only to immediately apologize when he nearly knocked over a table.

It was mayhem. Beautiful, noisy, messy mayhem.

And through it all, Tommy’s eyes never strayed far from you.

“Dance with me,” he said quietly, like it was a secret meant only for you.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your hand slid into his, and he pulled you gently toward the center of the room. The chaos around you dulled to a low hum as his arms wrapped around your waist, your hands finding their familiar place against his chest.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

The alcohol was finally starting to catch up with you, warmth pooling in your limbs, making everything just a little hazier at the edges. Your head felt light, your body loose, a gentle buzz pulsing beneath your skin. You leaned into him more than usual, swaying a little softer, clinging a little tighter, not just because of the gin curling through your veins, but because being in his arms still made everything else fall away.

His hand was steady on your back, his thumb brushing soft circles into the fabric of your dress, grounding you with every breath.

Your cheek rested against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as you let yourself sink into the warmth of him. Into the safety he carried in the quiet way he held you. The rest of the room could’ve vanished, and you wouldn’t have noticed. Not when his heartbeat was beneath your ear. Not when his scent– smoke and spice and something inherently Tommy, wrapped around you like home.

And for just a moment, it didn’t matter who you were, or what had come before. You weren’t a girl recovering from bruises and broken ribs. You weren’t a survivor still flinching at shadows. You were just… his.

You breathed him in, your fingers tightening slightly in the fabric of his shirt. He dipped his head closer, his lips brushing your temple in a soft kiss, and you felt yourself exhale fully—like your body finally remembered what it meant to feel at peace.

“I can’t believe I get to keep you,” you murmured against his shoulder, your voice soft and just a little slurred from the champagne.

“Keep me?” Tommy huffed a quiet laugh, his lips curving against your hair. “Are you drunk, Mrs. Shelby?”

You smiled, half-tipsy and wholly content. “Maybe a little.”

His arms tightened just a little around you, like he was never letting go.

Eventually, the music shifted again, drawing more bodies to the dance floor. A few relatives waved Tommy over, gesturing toward a corner of the room where a handful of older guests had gathered– distant family who’d made the trip just for the occasion. He leaned in, brushing one last kiss to your cheek.

“I should say hello. I’ll only be a minute,” he murmured, thumb brushing gently across your jaw.

You gave a soft, amused hum, letting him go reluctantly as he slipped into the crowd, his frame quickly swallowed by the flurry of movement and conversation.

Left in the warm afterglow of your dance, you wandered to the edge of the room, letting your eyes drift lazily over the crowd. There was laughter, clinking glasses, someone shouting across the room for more champagne. You watched Esme dancing with John, dramatically spinning her in circles while Polly rolled her eyes from the corner. Ada was holding court near the drinks table, gesturing wildly as she recounted some story that had half the group in stitches.

It was perfect.

You continued scanning faces, watching the way everyone mingled, laughed, danced.

That’s when you noticed them.

Two men near the far wall. Not dancing. Not drinking. Not laughing like the others. Just standing there, still, quiet, their expressions unreadable.

You tilted your head slightly, squinting toward them in your haze. Their suits were sharp, their posture too stiff, too formal. One of them held a drink he hadn’t touched. The other smoked, eyes trailing across the room– and landing briefly, unmistakably, on you.

You blinked. You didn’t recognize them. And they certainly didn’t carry the same easy familiarity as the rest of the guests.

One of them leaned toward the other, murmuring something you couldn’t hear. The second man glanced briefly toward the exit, then returned his attention to the crowd.

You weren’t alarmed exactly– just curious. Curious enough to want an answer. So you turned, weaving through the crowd without urgency, politely excusing yourself between conversations and shifting dancers.

You found Tommy at the far end of the room, standing among a few of his distant relatives, laughing quietly at some half-funny story being told by an uncle you barely remembered. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, jacket loosened, a half-drunk glass of whiskey in his hand. His smile was easy, eyes soft.

You didn’t even think twice, you just made your way toward him.

Tommy’s eyes landed on you the moment you approached, his grin tugging higher as he stepped away from the group. “Couldn’t wait for me to come back, eh?” he teased, slipping an arm around your waist.

“Love, there’s a couple of men over there I don’t recognize. Thought maybe they were from your side,” you said with a half-smile, glancing over your shoulder toward the bar.

Tommy’s brow furrowed slightly. “You didn’t invite them?”

You blinked. “No. I don’t think I’ve ever seen them before. Maybe Polly knows them?”

His expression didn’t change much, just a faint twitch in his jaw. He nodded slowly, eyes flicking over your face. “Probably,” he said with a small smile, brushing a thumb over your arm.

Tommy leaned in, brushing a quick kiss to your temple. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

And just like that, he disappeared into the crowd, already making his way toward Arthur and John with that quiet focus you knew all too well.

You didn’t think much of it. Just sipped your champagne, watching the party swirl on around you as you watched happily.

A few minutes passed, the music picking up again, laughter echoing from the far side of the room. One of Tommy’s cousins– Nellie, maybe? Or Noreen– sidled up beside you, also tipsy, her voice loud over the music as she complimented your dress and asked what it was like planning a wedding with a Shelby.

You offered polite responses, even managed a soft laugh, letting yourself lean into the lightness of it all.

Before you knew it, Tommy reappeared from the crowd with that same deliberate pace, but his eyes were sharper now, his jaw tight. He didn’t smile this time. He didn’t say a word either, just reached for your arm and gently, but firmly, started guiding you away.

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. Just kept moving, his grip secure around your wrist, weaving through the crowd with you in tow. His silence made your heart thump a little harder.

“Tommy, what’s going on?”

Still nothing. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone.

He led you into one of the adjoining rooms off the reception hall– a small sitting room with soft light and a door that muffled the noise behind it. Your heels wobbled slightly on the floor as you stepped inside, the lingering champagne making your head feel a little floaty, a little slow. You stumbled just slightly, catching yourself on the edge of a side table as Tommy turned to face you.

“Stay here,” he said lowly, his tone clipped, serious.

You blinked at him, unsteady, brows pulling together. “What? Tommy– what’s happening?” you asked, trying to shake off the fuzziness clouding your thoughts.

But his expression didn’t soften. If anything, it only grew more tense.

“Tommy,” you said again, stepping toward him.

“Just stay here,” was all he said, then he turned and walked out, leaving you standing there, stunned and alone.

You stood there for a beat, jaw tight, hands clenched at your sides as heat rose in your chest. That old, gnawing frustration surged up fast– sharp and hot, made worse by the dizzy hum of alcohol still lingering in your veins. He was doing it again. Tucking you away like something fragile. On your own bloody wedding day.

You paced the room, heels clicking sharply against the floor, trying to calm your breath, but it only made you angrier. Outside, you could hear the music still going strong, laughter spilling from the reception hall like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t being shoved behind a door and told to sit still like a child while the rest of the world moved on.

Your stomach twisted with indignation. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. You weren’t a porcelain doll to be placed neatly on a shelf whenever danger sniffed too close.

You sat down for a moment, gripping the edge of the seat with white-knuckled fingers, trying to tell yourself to wait. To trust him. To just breathe.

But the minutes dragged, and your blood only simmered hotter with each one.

Finally, you stood again, cheeks flushed, heart pounding with more than just nerves. Enough.

You stormed across the room and yanked the door open.

It was your damn wedding day.

The music met you first, louder now, full of laughter and clinking glasses, the hum of conversation and the occasional roar of someone retelling a story too loud over the music. Everything was exactly how it had been when you left.

You stepped back into the reception hall, scanning the crowd.

No sign of Tommy. No sign of Arthur. No sign of John.

What a surprise.

Still, you forced yourself forward, weaving through the crowd again, your dress brushing against the edge of a chair, your smile faint and automatic when someone congratulated you in passing. You didn’t stop. Not until you spotted a familiar face near the refreshment table.

“Finn,” you breathed, crossing the space quickly.

He looked up from where he was piling cake onto a plate, a fork already in his mouth. His eyes lit up when he saw you.

“Hello!” he grinned.

You managed a small laugh, trying to seem casual. “You’ve got frosting on your nose.”

“What?” He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, missing it completely. You reached out and gently swiped it away with your thumb.

“There. Crisis averted.”

“Thank God,” he said dramatically. “This is a big day for me, afterall.”

You grinned widely at him. “You’ve got quite a reputation to protect.”

Finn chuckled, nudging a second slice of cake toward you. “It’s a wedding. You’re obligated to eat cake with me now. Tommy would agree.”

But before you could reply, something caught in the corner of your eye.

Movement.

Quick. Deliberate. Wrong.

Your gaze flicked toward the far side of the room toward the two unfamiliar men you’d noticed earlier.

One of them reached into his coat.

The breath caught in your throat.

But before you could react, before anyone could, the first shot rang out.

A deafening crack split through the music and laughter like a lightning strike.

You barely had time to register it before everything turned to chaos.

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living-in-a-box · 10 days ago

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Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 20

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 20

Chapter summary: You spend the day surrounded by laughter, chaos, and the warmth of the women closest to you, swept up in the whirlwind of wedding preparations. But beneath the celebration, a quiet undercurrent reminds you that marrying into the Shelby family means bracing for more than just lace and flowers.

Word count: 6.4k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language, mention of torture and vague, nonconsensual sexualization and touch.

The sitting room had been transformed into a flurry of fabrics and lace, bolts of satin draped across armchairs, ribbons strewn along tabletops, and the faint scent of tea and perfume lingering in the air.

You stood before the mirror in one of the dresses Polly had picked out– simple but elegant, ivory with delicate embroidery along the hem. Esme was curled in one of the chairs, one leg crossed over the other as she sipped from a teacup, offering the occasional blunt commentary that made Ada snort with laughter.

Ada, meanwhile, was holding up a dress of her own, turning it this way and that with a scrunched nose. “This one makes me look like a bloody doily,” she muttered.

“It’s lace,” Esme said dryly. “That’s the whole point.”

Polly, standing just behind you, adjusted the shoulders of the gown before smoothing the fabric along your back. Her eyes met yours in the mirror, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“You look beautiful, love,” she said, quiet and certain.

Your throat tightened a little, the weight of it suddenly real. You nodded faintly, gaze still fixed on your reflection.

“Marriage can be such a lovely thing,” she said, smoothing the fabric along your arm with care. “A joining of lives, not just names. The comfort of having someone to come home to. Someone who knows your breath before you speak, someone who reaches for your hand before you even realize you need it.”

You met her eyes in the mirror, heart fluttering at the gentle cadence of her words. For a moment, you let yourself imagine it in full. Tommy’s coat draped over the hook by the door, the sound of his voice in the next room, quiet laughter over shared cups of tea in the early hours of the morning.

“But,” Polly added, her voice dipping slightly, almost imperceptibly, “it’s not always peace and quiet mornings.”

Her hands drifted away, settling at her hips. Her gaze didn’t waver.

“Especially not when you’re marrying a Shelby.”

The weight of her words settled heavily in the room, unspoken truths threading through the warmth like a quiet wind shifting the curtains.

You didn’t say anything at first, and neither did Polly. She didn’t need to explain it further, you could feel it. You’d lived it already, in whispers and scars and the quiet worry that never fully left Tommy’s eyes.

Ada tried to brush it off with a scoff. “Bloody hell, Pol, you sound like you’re giving a eulogy.”

Esme chimed in from the corner, “She’s not wrong though. Loving a Shelby’s a bit like dancing in a minefield. Full of bloody surprises."

Polly arched a brow but said nothing more.

You turned back to the mirror again, eyes falling on your reflection– on the soft ivory dress, the delicate stitching at the sleeves, the slight curve of your shoulders beneath the fabric. You looked like a bride.

But you knew, beneath the pretty silk and the dainty lace, you’d need to be tough too.

Polly stepped forward again, smoothing your veil gently over your shoulder. “You’ll be alright,” she said, more softly now. “You’ve already been through worse. And you came out of it with your head still screwed on straight.”

“I don't know about that,” you murmured, catching her eyes in the mirror again. “Is it a bad sign that I'm a little worried about everything that comes with this? With him?”

“No,” Polly said, matter-of-fact. “It means you’ve got some sense. And you’re not walking into it blind.”

Ada rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Pol. Can’t you just say she looks beautiful like a normal person?”

“She does,” Polly said without missing a beat. “Beautiful and brave. The best combination a woman can be in this life of ours.”

You turned toward her, lips parting to thank her, but she caught your hand before you could say anything else. “But listen to me, there’ll be days when you feel like this family will swallow you whole. Like you’re drowning in the weight of his name. On those days, you come to me. You understand?”

You nodded slowly, your throat thick.

“I mean it,” she added, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

Ada clapped her hands together, breaking the quiet. “Alright, if we keep going down this road, I’m going to need a drink. Or five.”

Esme grinned. “I want in on that, too.”

Polly smirked faintly but said nothing, turning back to the rack of dresses.

You glanced at yourself one more time in the mirror, and despite the nerves curled in your stomach, you let yourself smile.

“Alright,” you said quietly, lifting your chin. “Let’s go celebrate.”

…

Later that evening, the Garrison was alive– raucous music blasting from the old record player someone had dragged into the back room, heels tapping against the floor, glasses clinking, and laughter echoing off the walls. Half-empty bottles of champagne and gin littered every table, a trail of discarded gloves, shawls, and jewelry scattered like breadcrumbs from the front bar to the back lounge.

Someone, probably Esme, had jumped up on one of the tables to dance not five minutes after arriving, kicking over a tray of drinks in the process. Ada had nearly fallen out of her chair from laughing, and Polly had only rolled her eyes, sipping her whiskey with an unimpressed sigh.

“Tell me again how this is supposed to be a classy evening,” Polly muttered dryly, lifting her glass.

“This is classy,” Ada said, slurring just a little, grinning like a madwoman. “It’s just Garrison-classy.”

“You’re all bloody animals,” Polly said, but there was a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

You were perched near the bar, clutching your drink and trying not to choke on your own laughter. Your stomach ached from it– actual, deep, belly laughs that left your eyes watering and your head light. You hadn’t felt that kind of lightness in months.

Ada flopped beside you, catching her breath. “You still sure you wanna marry into this chaos?”

“I’m starting to think this whole thing has just been an elaborate warning,” you said, still laughing.

“Oh, it absolutely is,” Esme chimed in, lifting her glass. “But too late now, we've already claimed you as one of ours.”

“Poor girl,” Polly deadpanned, sipping her whiskey. “You’ll need thicker skin.”

“We should get her a survival kit,” Ada said. “You know, whiskey, earplugs, a helmet-”

“A list of insults translated from Arthur.,” Esme added, nodding solemnly.

You couldn’t even respond, you were laughing too hard.

“To the bride,” Esme shouted suddenly, raising her glass so fast she nearly knocked it over.

“To surviving the Shelbys,” Ada added.

You raised your own drink with a wide, flushed smile, cheeks warm from gin and laughter and something softer you couldn’t quite name.

You were breathless with laughter, leaning against the bar for support. Your cheeks hurt from smiling, your ribs sore from laughing too hard, and your stomach ached from too much champagne and not enough food.

Finn had poked his head in earlier to check on things and promptly turned around again when Esme shouted something wildly inappropriate about needing more gin and fewer men.

There were women singing loudly, off-key, of course, Ada tossing her shoe at Esme for stealing her drink, and Polly holding court at the corner table like a queen with her cigarette perched delicately between her fingers, completely unbothered by the chaos unraveling around her.

"I'm just saying," Ada declared, climbing onto the bar stool and sloshing her drink slightly, "if Tommy doesn’t cry at the altar, I think I'll throw my shoe at him. But if Arthur does cry, I'll also throw my shoe at him..."

"That’ll give him something to cry about," Esme wheezed with laughter. "But then you'll be barefoot before dessert."

"You’re all bloody mad," you gasped, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from the chaos and giddiness of it all.

"And you’re marrying into it," Polly said, raising her glass with a knowing smirk. “Poor girl.”

The night didn’t slow down– it only got rowdier. And you were well past tipsy by the time the next round of drinks landed on the table.

Your cheeks were flushed, your laughter louder than usual, and you’d somehow ended up slouched sideways in your chair with one arm flung dramatically over Ada’s shoulder, giggling uncontrollably at a story Esme was trying to tell, but kept interrupting herself by laughing too hard.

“I swear– he had no idea the horse was behind him!” Esme gasped, wheezing between words. “Poor bastard turned around and bam! Hoof right to the arse!”

You practically wheezed.

“He flew! I swear, I saw it! Like a bloody rag doll!” Esme said.

Ada clutched her drink and buried her face in your shoulder, laughing so hard she nearly spilled it. Even Polly had cracked a grin, though she sipped her gin with practiced composure and simply shook her head.

You tried to sit upright and failed, nearly toppling into Esme’s lap instead. “Easy!” Esme said.

“I’m fine,” you replied, waving a hand vaguely. “I’m totally, completely, absolutely–”

“Pissed,” Polly cut in, arching a brow.

“Yes,” you confirmed cheerfully. “That’s the word!”

The doors banged open then, and you nearly toppled off your seat at the sound.

Arthur’s voice thundered before he was even through the doorway. “Oi! What the fuck’s goin’ on in here?! Sounds like a goddamn circus!”

John followed close behind, eyes scanning the chaos before landing on Esme, and then you in your slouched, flushed, smiling state. He smirked instantly. “Well, well, well. Look who’s halfway to dancing on the bar.”

“Halfway?” you slurred, blinking blearily at him. “Excuse you, I’m a very graceful bar dancer.”

Arthur chuckled as he poured himself a drink. “Jesus Christ, someone cut her off.”

“No,” you protested, clinging to your glass and shielding it like a precious relic. “I’m celebrating life, Arthur.”

John dropped into the seat between you and his wife, nudging your shoulder. “You’re off your face.”

“I am elegantly tipsy, thank you.”

The room erupted into more laughter just as the door opened again, this time quieter, steadier.

The moment Tommy walked in, the room seemed to shift just a little, like the volume dimmed, the chaos softened, everything settling into place around his presence. His eyes scanned the room quickly, then locked on you.

You blinked at him, smile still half-stuck on your lips, and tried to straighten up in your chair. “Tommy!” you greeted far too enthusiastically.

His brows lifted slightly, lips twitching at the corners as he took in your flushed face, the flushed mess you were sitting in.

Ada raised her glass. “Welcome to the circus.”

Tommy exhaled through his nose, almost smiling now. “So I see.”

He crossed the room, slipping behind your chair, and rested a warm hand on your shoulder. You leaned into the touch immediately, more out of instinct than balance.

“Hi,” you whispered up at him, eyes a little too wide, a little too fond.

“Hi,” he said, low and amused. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m celebrating,” you corrected, lifting your glass in a wobbly little toast.

He shook his head, brushing a hand along the back of your neck. “You’ll regret this in the morning.”

“Sounds like future me’s problem,” you chirped.

You leaned into Tommy’s hand a little more, your cheek brushing his knuckles. The noise around you was still roaring, Arthur’s booming laugh, John trying to retell a joke he’d already butchered twice, Ada teasing Polly about guest lists, but Tommy stayed quiet, eyes still steady on you.

Then, softly, low enough that only you could hear it, he asked, “Should you really be drinking with your head still healing?”

You turned just enough to look up at him, brows lifting in exaggerated innocence. “I stopped taking tablets days ago. You worry too much.”

Tommy’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, but not quite.

“What about tomorrow?” he added, voice low and steady, fingers brushing absently at the base of your neck. “We’ve got cake tastings and flower arrangements to deal with, remember?”

You blinked, lips parting slightly. “That’s tomorrow?”

“That’s tomorrow,” he confirmed, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You groaned dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “Well… if I’m hungover, you’ll just have to make all the decisions for me.”

“Oh, no,” he murmured dryly. “You’re not sticking me with flower colors and cake tiers on my own.”

“I promise I’ll go,” you muttered, already half-melting into him. You reached for your glass again– slow, wobbly, determined. “C’mon, it’s one drink.”

"Pol, how many drinks has my lovely bride-to-be had tonight?" he asked above the noise.

"Three," Polly said back.

"Four!" Esme chimed in, correcting her.

Your jaw dropped. "Traitors," you muttered under your breath.

Tommy arched a brow.

“I meant it’s one night,” you said cheekily, raising the glass and giving him your most disarming smile.

Tommy sighed, but it was the kind of sigh that came from affection, not frustration. His hand slid from your shoulder to the back of your neck, thumb rubbing softly at the base of your hairline in a way that made your eyes flutter for a second.

“Just don’t overdo it,” he murmured. “Let me know when you’re ready to head home.”

Just when you were about to lean further into him, you felt the shift in his stance. His hand slid from your neck, fingers brushing your shoulder gently as he stood.

You blinked up at him, momentarily startled. “You’re leaving?”

He gave a small, half-smirk. “Don't want to interrupt. You lot looked like you were planning to take over the world just a minute ago.”

“We were,” Ada called from across the table. “Still are.”

You reached out and caught his wrist before he could move away completely. “Stay,” you said softly, eyes searching his.

Tommy hesitated. “Thought you’d want a night without me hovering.”

“I don’t mind hovering,” you said quickly, your hand still around his wrist. “I like it better when you’re here. Besides, Arthur and John have already ruined our girl time.”

Tommy’s mouth twitched, just slightly. “Fair point,” he muttered, casting a glance toward Arthur and John, who were now loudly bickering over whether Arthur could simultaneously arm-wrestle two men at once.

“See?” you said, gesturing toward the chaos. “You might as well stay.”

He looked at you for a long second, his eyes softening, the sharp lines of his face easing with something quieter– something just for you. Then, finally, he let out a low breath and pulled the chair back beside yours.

“Alright,” he said, settling beside you again.

You smiled, shifting slightly so your shoulder brushed his. His arm draped over the back of your chair again, fingers grazing your shoulder in that familiar way that always seemed to calm the noise in your head.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked softly, voice low enough only you could hear.

You nodded, leaning into him just a little. “I’m sure.”

The rest of the evening carried on in a blur of laughter and noise– Ada and Esme trying to convince Polly to dance, Arthur insisting on singing a half-forgotten pub song, Finn nearly dropping a tray of pints and earning a round of cheers when he somehow caught it.

But through it all, Tommy stayed beside you, steady and quiet. Every so often, his hand would find yours beneath the table, a quiet squeeze, a grounding touch.

At one point, Polly’s voice rang out from near the bar, clear and commanding as she lifted her glass. “One more toast,” she declared, her eyes twinkling with fondness. “To the bride and groom. May your love be fierce and your years be long.”

A chorus of cheers echoed through the room as everyone raised their glasses high, voices overlapping in celebration. You caught Tommy’s gaze through the crowd, and he smiled, small, private, but full of something steady and certain that warmed you straight through.

Later that night, the Garrison had begun to thin out, though the buzz of music and laughter still pulsed behind you as Tommy guided you gently toward the car, his hand firm around your waist.

You were giggling about something that had made perfect sense in your head, but came out in an incoherent stream of slurred words that even you weren’t sure you understood.

“I’m telling you,” you insisted, stumbling slightly as your boot caught the edge of the pavement. “If Polly would just let Esme stand on the stool, the whole thing would’ve– it would’ve worked out.”

Tommy exhaled a laugh through his nose, shaking his head as he caught you before you could tilt too far sideways. “Christ,” he muttered, “you’ve had too much.”

“I’ve had just enough,” you countered proudly, poking his chest with your index finger. “You… you worry too much. All tight shoulders and serious face. You should try giggling more.”

He chuckled, low and fond, steering you toward the car with one arm snug around your waist.

"That would be something, wouldn't it?" you sighed. "I don't think the world would know what to do with itself if Thomas Shelby giggled."

"I’ll add it to the list," he said unseriously.

You paused at the car door and turned to him with exaggerated seriousness. “You’re very handsome, you know? Too handsome, now that I really think about it. It’s quite distracting.”

He gave you a look– half amused, half exasperated. “Right. In you go.”

“No, wait,” you said, holding up a wobbly hand. “One more thing– very important. I think… I think the ground might be moving.”

Tommy opened the door, helping you in carefully, hands gentle as he guided you down into the seat. “That’s your head spinning, sweetheart.”

“Ah. Right. That makes more sense.”

As he climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, you slumped against the window with a content sigh, your eyelids already fluttering.

“You’re very good at this, by the way,” you mumbled, voice drowsy.

"You mean corralling my very drunk, soon-to-be wife?"

You hummed, as if contemplating it. “Yes," you said eventually. "You’re grumpy, but you’re a gentleman. A grumpy gentleman.”

Tommy glanced sideways, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re going to feel this in the morning.”

“Worth it,” you said, then squinted at him with mock seriousness. “You’ll take care of me… right?”

His hand slid from the gearshift to rest briefly on your knee. “Course I will.”

You smiled at that, eyes slipping closed for a second as the rhythm of the car lulled you. “Good. ’Cause I don’t think I ever told you this, but I don’t handle my liquor well. I’m pretty sure I’ll be dying. Might need you to preemptively write my will.”

Tommy chuckled low under his breath. “Not sure there’s much to write. You’ve got half a bottle of gin and a hairpin in your coat pocket.”

“I was saving that hairpin for you,” you said dramatically, cracking one eye open. “It’s sentimental.”

“Right,” he said, amusement curling at the edge of his voice. “I’ll make sure it’s passed down through generations.”

“Make sure our children give it to their children,” you said, before you could filter the thought.

The air in the car suddenly felt heavier, thick with something unspoken. The laughter from moments before faded into a silence that stretched just a little too long.

You swallowed, glancing out the window like the answer might be waiting in the dark streets passing by. Maybe if you hadn’t been drunk, maybe if the words hadn’t tumbled out so easily, you would’ve had a better response.

But Tommy spoke first.

“You’re drunker than I thought,” he said, voice light. Like he was offering you a way out. A way to pretend you hadn’t said it.

You exhaled slowly, willing your heart to settle. “Maybe,” you murmured, shifting slightly in your seat. “Or maybe I just like the idea of hoarding hairpins for future generations.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, but his fingers tapped against the steering wheel– once, then twice. He didn’t say anything else.

Another silence settled between you, not uncomfortable, but thick with meaning neither of you dared touch. You could still feel your words lingering in the air, like smoke curling between you. Maybe he was waiting for you to say something more. Maybe you were waiting for him to do the same.

But he didn’t. And neither did you.

Instead, Tommy’s hand shifted, brushing against your knee for only a moment before returning to the gearshift. The warmth of it lingered.

Your eyelids grew heavier with every mile. The warmth of the car, the gentle hum of the engine, and the quiet that had settled between you made it easy to drift. You weren’t sure exactly when your head tilted against the window or when your thoughts turned into the soft fog of sleep, but the next thing you felt was a hand brushing lightly against your arm.

“Hey,” Tommy’s voice was low, gentle. “Come on, love. We’re home.”

You stirred, groggy and slow, blinking at the dim streetlamp outside the house.

“I can walk,” you mumbled, already fumbling for the door handle.

Tommy opened your door first, offering his hand, but you waved it off stubbornly. “I said I can walk.”

He hesitated, but stepped back with a sigh, watching you with that skeptical half-smirk that never quite reached his eyes when he was worried.

You swung your legs out and stood, only to feel the ground shift beneath your feet, your balance tipping just enough for your knees to wobble.

“Shit–” you muttered, reaching out blindly.

But you didn’t fall.

Tommy’s arm was already around your waist, strong and sure, catching you just before you could stumble. His other hand braced your elbow, steadying you with practiced ease.

“Told you,” he muttered, pulling you gently against him. “Drunker than you thought.”

You didn’t argue this time. You just leaned into him for a second, letting the dizziness pass, your cheek resting briefly against his chest before you grumbled, “I think the ground’s just got it out for me.”

That earned a short, low laugh from him, the kind that rumbled faintly through his chest as he steadied you again. “Right,” he repeated with a smirk. “Let’s get you inside before you go face-first into the pavement.”

“It’s a vendetta. I’m sure of it.”

“Yeah, well I’ll have a word with it in the morning,” he said dryly, guiding you up the steps with patient ease. “Sort it out properly.”

You reached the door, and he helped you inside without another stumble, his hand steady at your back. The moment the warmth of the house wrapped around you, a wave of exhaustion hit again. You sagged slightly in his arms, and he steadied you without a word, already reaching to take off your coat.

“You’re going to feel like hell in the morning,” he murmured, voice low against your temple as he slipped your shoes off one by one.

“M’fine,” you mumbled, swaying slightly as you tried, and failed, to toe off the second shoe yourself. “Just need… a nap. A long one. That lasts all night.”

Tommy chuckled under his breath, catching your elbow before you could lose your balance again. “That’s called going to sleep, sweetheart.”

“Semantics,” you muttered, eyes barely open now.

His arm slid beneath your knees before you could protest, and in one fluid motion, he lifted you off the ground.

You let out a small noise of protest, but your head was already leaning against his shoulder. “I could’ve walked.”

“You would’ve ended up in the flower garden,” he said, carrying you through the quiet hallway with practiced ease.

“I don’t even like flowers that much,” you mumbled, your words slurring into the fabric of his shirt.

“I’ll remember that for the wedding,” he teased softly, his lips brushing the top of your head.

Your only reply was a sleepy little huff as he nudged open the bedroom door with his foot.

He eased you down onto the mattress with gentle hands, pulling the blanket up over your legs. You were already halfway gone, your head turning toward the pillow with a sigh, eyes fluttering shut.

Tommy paused, standing beside the bed for a moment, watching you settle. His expression softened, the hard edges of him easing just slightly.

Then he leaned down, brushing your hair back from your forehead, pressing another kiss there.

But before he could pull away, you reached up and caught the front of his shirt, fingers curling loosely into the fabric. “No,” you mumbled, tugging him down a little further. “Stay.”

“I am,” he said gently, but you shook your head, pulling harder until his face was inches from yours.

“That’s not what I meant,” you whispered, lips brushing close to his. “Come to bed, Tommy.”

He let out a low breath, but didn’t move. “You’re drunk.”

You smirked, eyelids heavy but gaze steady. “I’m drunk and still know exactly what I want.”

Tommy tried to hold his composure, but your fingers were already slipping beneath his collar, warm against the base of his neck. He caught your wrist gently, stilling your hand, but you only used the other to curl into his shirt, holding him tighter.

“Don’t walk away,” you murmured, your cheek brushing his jaw, your voice barely a breath now. “Just… stay here. With me.”

Your arms wrapped around him fully then, clinging with soft insistence, pulling him down toward you. Your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his vest, splaying across his back like you needed to feel every inch of him, to keep him tethered to the bed.

He sighed, and you could feel the tension in his frame, the way his muscles coiled beneath your hands, the way his restraint flickered under the weight of your touch.

“You’re making this very difficult,” he muttered, voice low and strained, one hand bracing on the mattress beside you.

“You make everything difficult,” you whispered with a crooked grin, curling closer to him, burying your face into the crook of his neck. “But I love you anyway.”

Tommy’s breath caught at that, just slightly, but enough for you to feel it. His hand moved again, this time smoothing down your back, pausing at the curve of your waist.

“You won’t even remember saying any of this tomorrow,” he murmured, but the words lacked bite. He said it more to convince himself than you.

You tightened your grip, pressing your nose to his collarbone. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“Sweetheart…” His voice was raw now, more vulnerable than he meant it to be. He buried his face in your hair for the briefest moment, just breathing you in.

And still, somehow, he found the will to gently ease you back onto the pillow.

“I love you, but you’re drunk,” he said quietly, brushing his fingers along your cheek. “Even if you’re bloody irresistible when you’re like this.”

You clung to his wrist, eyelids fluttering. “Fine, but you owe me,” you mumbled again, voice slurring slightly with sleep. “Can you at least stay?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised. “I’ll be right here.”

Your grip loosened slowly, sleep tugging at you until the weight of your eyelids was too much to fight. Tommy stayed there beside you until your breathing evened out, until your fingers slipped from his wrist and your body went slack beneath the blankets. Only then did he ease himself down beside you, propped against the headboard, one arm draped protectively across your waist, just like he promised.

You slept soundly, curled into him like you belonged nowhere else.

...

It was the pounding in your skull that woke you first– a steady, pulsing ache behind your eyes, sharp and relentless. You groaned, rolling over into the pillow and immediately regretting the movement. The world spun just slightly, and your stomach gave a slow, warning churn.

You pressed your hand to your forehead, wincing. “Oh, God…”

“You alive, over there?”

Tommy’s voice came from the doorway– dry, amused, and just a bit too loud for your current condition.

You cracked one eye open, glaring weakly at him. “Barely.”

He smirked, already crossing the room with a glass of water in one hand and something in the other. “Told you you’d feel it in the morning.”

“Please don’t be smug. It’s painful,” you groaned, sitting up slowly and clutching your temples.

Tommy handed you the water and some tablets, sinking down on the edge of the bed beside you as you gulped them down with a wince. He reached out, brushing your hair back from your clammy forehead with careful fingers.

“You look like hell.”

“You know how to charm a girl.”

He grinned and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Think I’m well passed charming you after what you said last night,” he murmured, tone light and teasing now.

You froze slightly, eyes narrowing. “What… what did I say?”

“Nothing too brash. Something about hairpins and passing them down through generations,” he said casually, stretching back a bit. “Something about our children.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I want to die.”

“Then there was the part where you tried to seduce me,” he added with a smirk, clearly enjoying himself now.

“I really want to die.”

Tommy chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and gently pulling you into his side. “You were charming,” he said. “Clingy. And ridiculous, of course. But charming.”

You groaned again, letting your head rest on his shoulder. “I can’t believe I said all that.”

“Well…” he said, glancing down at you. “You meant it, didn’t you?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just nodded slowly, letting the silence stretch between you again.

“Good,” he said softly, brushing his lips against your hair. Then, Tommy stood up to grab the cup of tea he’d left on the nightstand. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

You squinted at it suspiciously. “Is it tea or some secret Shelby hangover cure?”

“Bit of both,” he said, handing it over. “Polly swears by it. Kept Arthur alive for nearly half of his twenties.”

You took a sip, grimacing slightly. “Tastes like dirt.”

“Aye. That it does.”

You glared at him over the rim of the mug, but he just grinned and disappeared briefly into the wardrobe. When he returned, he was tossing one of your sweaters toward the bed.

“Get dressed.”

“What?” Your brow furrowed. “Where are we going?”

Tommy shrugged, too casual to be trusted. “Got a few things to take care of.”

“Define a few things.’”

“Wedding festivities, remember? Flowers. Cake tasting. Something about centerpieces.” He waved a hand in vague circles. “Apparently, Polly said there’s a schedule now.”

You blinked at him. “You’re dragging me to do wedding planning while I’m half-dead?”

“I tried to get you home last night, but you insisted on that last drink,” he said with a shrug. “You brought this on yourself.”

You flopped back onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. “This has to be some sort of punishment.”

“Come on,” he said, tugging the blanket back. “You’ll live.”

“Debatable.”

“C’mon then. Get up. I’ll bring a bucket just in case. Don't need you getting sick in my car.”

That earned him a glare, but you forced yourself up, groaning the whole way. The ache in your head still pulsed behind your eyes, but at least now it felt manageable. You shuffled into your clothes slowly, every movement exaggerated by your hangover-induced misery.

Outside, the air was sharp and cool, and it helped clear the fog just a little. Tommy kept a hand on your back as you walked, steady and quiet, and you leaned into him gratefully, your headache slowly loosening its grip. It still throbbed faintly at your temples, but this time it wasn’t from what you'd been through, it was your own doing. Self-inflicted, ordinary, even a little stupid, and strangely, that made it easier to bear. There was something almost comforting about it, something that reminded you you were healing. That pain like this, a hangover from too much laughter and champagne, was yours. Not his.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of floral arrangements and fabric swatches, of bakers offering samples and women with notebooks chattering about linens. You could hardly keep up, your head still tender and your brain moving at half-speed, but every time you felt yourself drifting, Tommy’s hand would find yours under the table or brush against your back in that grounding, comforting way of his.

When you finally sat down at the last stop– a bakery full of the smell of sugar and vanilla, you looked at him across the table with bleary eyes.

“You owe me a full day of doing absolutely nothing after this.”

Tommy smirked. “Whatever you’d like, love.”

You rolled your eyes, but a faint smile tugged at your lips.

Even with the pounding in your skull, even with the ache in your ribs and the exhaustion dragging through your limbs– there was something soft about it all. Something grounding. Something that made the thought of becoming his wife feel a little less like a dream and more like the most real thing in the world.

By the time you finally stepped through the front door, your entire body felt like it had been wrung out. You’d spent the day shoulder to shoulder with Tommy, sampling cakes until your teeth ached, listening to a florist go on about arrangements you barely understood, getting fitted for shoes you’d probably kick off halfway through the reception. Somewhere in between, you’d picked linens, reviewed seating charts, and argued about how many tiers a cake really needed to be.

You’d lost count of how many times you’d sighed, muttered that you were over it, and threatened to elope. But every time you looked at him, every time he’d leaned in with a subtle smirk or slipped his hand into yours, you forgot how tired you were.

But later, back at home, you had one thing on your mind: the couch and silence.

You were curled across it in your favorite robe, hair a little messy, feet tucked under a blanket, a book resting half-forgotten in your lap. Your eyes were heavy, your limbs slack, your head finally free from that dull ache that had lingered since the morning. You’d earned this.

You heard him before you saw him, the quiet creak of floorboards. And then, Tommy appeared in the doorway.

He paused, taking in the sight of you completely relaxed for the first time all day. A slow, amused smile curled at his mouth.

“You look comfortable,” he said, his voice low, tired in that way that made it even deeper.

“I am comfortable,” you said smugly. “And I intend to stay that way. You, on the other hand, owe me foot rubs, hot tea, and an apology for making me choose between peonies and gardenias.”

Tommy stepped forward with a glint in his eye, loosening his tie. “I don’t remember signing that agreement.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but then he was suddenly climbing onto the couch, half kneeling, half crawling, until his weight settled gently on top of you, arms bracketing your head, his face inches from yours.

Your breath caught.

“I did the noble thing last night,” he murmured, lips brushing just above your cheekbone. “Had to say no, despite my beautiful fiance throwing herself at me.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “I did not throw myself–”

“Practically begged,” he teased, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nearly dragged me to the bed.”

“That was clearly the gin talking.”

“And tonight,” he continued, pressing a kiss to your jaw, “You’re sober.”

Your heart thudded as his mouth found the hollow beneath your ear, slow and purposeful. One of his hands slid beneath the robe, fingers brushing lightly along your hip.

“Tommy–”

“You said I owed you,” he murmured. “I’m just here to deliver.”

You tilted your head back slightly, meeting his eyes– warm, intent, absolutely, devastatingly yours.

“Then you better not keep me waiting,” you said.

Tommy’s lips curved faintly at your words, but there was nothing teasing in the way his eyes flickered over your face now, just a slow, simmering heat that made your breath catch all over again.

“Is that so?” he echoed softly, voice rough at the edges.

You nodded, but it was the kind of small, breathless movement that barely made it past the nerves gathering in your chest. His mouth brushed yours before you could even respond again, just a featherlight kiss, a taste, more a question than a claim. But when you leaned up into it, the answer was loud and clear.

His next kiss was deeper– firm, deliberate, his hand sliding up along your side, fingers parting the fabric of your robe with careful ease. His body pressed gently but fully against yours, warmth sinking into your skin like something you’d been aching for all day.

You gasped softly against his mouth, feeling his other hand slide beneath you to cradle your back, keeping you pressed flush to him.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he rasped against your jaw, lips trailing kisses down the side of your neck. “Coming home, seeing you like that– curled up, like you’re already mine.”

You were dizzy in the best way, every inch of your skin awake under his touch. His fingers brushed against your thigh, slow and patient, making you shiver beneath him.

“I am yours,” you murmured, barely able to get the words out.

His head dipped lower, lips grazing the hollow of your collarbone. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

He hummed low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin like a promise. His hand slid further up your leg beneath the robe, his thumb brushing in slow circles along the inside of your thigh.

You arched into him instinctively, your body already answering before your mind could form another thought. He kissed you again, slower this time, like he meant to memorize the shape of you, the taste of you, the way you sighed into him when his hand finally found the soft, sensitive skin just below your hip.

And through all of it– his hands, his mouth, his body warm and firm against yours, there was a tenderness beneath the heat. A kind of reverence in every kiss, every movement, like he wasn’t just claiming you, he was grounding you, reminding you again and again that you were safe. Wanted. Loved.

His mouth found yours again, slower now, softer, like he couldn’t get enough of just holding you close. You tangled your fingers in his shirt, pulling him closer, feeling your breath hitch as his thumb traced delicate circles against your waist.

“Still want that quiet night in?” he whispered against your lips, his voice a little hoarse now, full of heat and affection all at once.

You smiled, breathless, your heart full and fluttering. “I want this. You."

And you could feel him smile against your skin– soft, knowing, completely undone by you.

“Good,” he murmured.

His arms curled around you more securely, pulling you flush against him as if he couldn’t bear to let you go. You melted into his warmth, into the solid strength of him, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

Outside, the world kept spinning, chaotic and loud and unforgiving, but in that quiet space, wrapped in his arms, it all faded away.

For now, there was only this.

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living-in-a-box · 11 days ago

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Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 19

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 19

Chapter summary: As you slowly heal, you begin to feel at home again, surrounded by family and laughter. All the while, Tommy knows your future together is just beginning.

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language, mention of torture and vague, nonconsensual sexualization and touch.

A/N: Ayyy, no gallbladder, new me! Thanks for the kind messages, those were so nice to read once the anesthesia got out of my system. And thanks for being patient for this next chapter, enjoy!

Tommy made space for your pain like it was something sacred. He didn’t flinch away from it. He didn’t try to fix it with rushed words or smother it with false promises. He just stayed close– quiet, constant, steady in a way you hadn’t even known how much you needed until he gave it to you without asking.

He noticed things before you even said them. The way your hand drifted toward your temple just seconds before the ache began to pulse behind your eyes. The way your fingers curled against your ribs on the bad days, subtly, protectively. The way your breaths would catch, shallow and uneven, whenever the room got too loud or when a door slammed too hard, dragging you back to places you didn’t want to be.

Sometimes you didn’t even realize it yourself– how your posture stiffened, how your eyes unfocused, how your hand trembled slightly at your side. But Tommy always did. And somehow, he never made it feel like weakness.

You were growing dependent on the way he moved through a room now– quieter, softer, like the very air around him had adjusted to make space for you. He never hovered, never made you feel suffocated. But he was always there, just close enough for you to lean into if you needed it. His touch came gently, never rushed, fingers brushing lightly over your back, his hand coming to rest against your shoulder, thumb grazing slow circles into your skin until your breathing slowed.

He didn’t ask questions when you winced. Didn’t press when your hand drifted to your temple in quiet discomfort. He simply adjusted, dimmed the lamps, turned down the radio, sat beside you in silence until the pain passed. Or he’d get up, fingers brushing your forehead, muttering, “Sit down, I’ll get your tablets.”

And you found, over time, that it wasn’t just the medicine or the rest that soothed you– it was him. It was the way he kept showing up, again and again, without needing to be asked.

Without ever once making you feel like a burden.

You stopped trying to hide your pain, your fatigue, and your bad days from him. You didn’t pretend you were fine just to avoid the flicker of worry in his eyes. Because the truth was, you’d come to crave that tenderness, the way he tucked you under his arm at night, pressed kisses to your shoulder in the dark, murmured things into your hair like “You’re alright now,” and “I’ve got you.”

And he did.

Slowly, you’d started easing your way back into work. Not full shifts– just a few hours at a time, usually when the Garrison was quiet. Harry never pushed. Polly had all but sworn she'd throttle you herself if you overdid it again. But it was Tommy who was always there, without fail.

Even when he had other business to tend to, he found a reason to be nearby. Sitting at the end of the bar with a paper in one hand and a whiskey glass he barely touched. Sometimes he stayed behind the scenes, speaking to Harry about stock or deliveries. Sometimes he just stood quietly near the doorway, arms folded across his chest, eyes on you like a sentinel.

He never said it outright, never hovered too close, but you always knew he was watching. And somehow, that made all the difference.

Because there were still moments when the noise in the pub grew too loud, when laughter and clinking glasses blurred into one hollow sound, echoing in your ears like the roar of a tunnel. There were moments when someone’s voice snapped too sharply, when a glass dropped, when a door slammed too hard. There were moments when your vision blurred and the world went distant– when your hands froze mid-motion and your breath hitched in your throat.

But Tommy always saw it.

He didn’t need words or confessions. He knew the signs now, the way your shoulders stiffened, the way your fingers clenched too tightly around a glass, the way your eyes lost their focus for just a second too long.

He’d appear beside you before you could even try to brush it off.

Sometimes it was just a hand brushing the small of your back. A low voice in your ear: “Let's get some air, love.”

Sometimes it was the press of a glass of water into your palm, the grounding weight of his fingers over yours.

And sometimes, on the harder days, he’d take the tray from your hands without a word and simply say, “Time to go home.”

You never argued anymore.

Because you knew better now– he wasn’t taking something from you. He was giving you a place to rest. A home amidst the chaos.

Your bad days didn’t vanish overnight. Instead, they faded, slowly, soft around the edges like an old bruise, tender but no longer sharp. The kind of healing that didn’t announce itself, but made itself known in the quiet, everyday ways. A morning without nausea. A shift without a headache. A night without waking from a scream caught in your throat.

It had been a little over two weeks since the attack when you got your stitches out at home.

You’d refused to go back to the hospital. You’d been adamant, stubborn, insisting you could handle it yourself. Tommy had argued, of course. Said it wasn’t safe, that it should be a doctor. But you’d seen the way his jaw clenched when the word hospital left your mouth, the flicker of something haunted behind his eyes. Maybe he hated the thought of going back there just as much as you did. Maybe that’s why, after a long stare and a muttered curse, he finally relented.

You sat in front of the fireplace with a clean towel laid across your lap, the small surgical scissors set neatly beside it. Tommy hovered behind you, tense, arms crossed, while Finn fidgeted nervously beside you with a bottle of antiseptic and trembling hands.

“You sure about this?” Tommy asked for the fifth time, the tension in his voice betraying his calm exterior. He stood stiff behind you, arms crossed, brow furrowed with that ever-present concern he tried so hard to keep tucked behind his sharp edges.

“Positive,” you said firmly, though your voice came quieter now. You reached back to pull your hair aside, fingertips brushing over the row of delicate stitches near your scalp. The skin was still tender there, faintly bruised, the area around it pink and healing.

“Do it like I showed you,” you said gently to Finn, trying to inject some reassurance into your tone– for his sake more than yours.

Finn nodded, eyes wide with concentration as he held the small scissors in trembling fingers. His brows were drawn tight in focus, lips moving in a near-whisper as he muttered each step to himself like a prayer. “Just one snip… then the next… hold steady…”

His hands were gentle, careful, each movement slow and deliberate as he leaned in. The first snip made your jaw clench, a sharp tug of discomfort rippling through your scalp– but you didn’t flinch.

Tommy’s hand found your shoulder. It was solid and grounding. Not pushing, not pulling, just there. A quiet presence, steady as stone. His thumb brushed once against the fabric of your shirt, a silent question wrapped in the gentlest of touches: Are you alright? Do I need to stop this?

But you didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You were holding steady, and so was he.

Still, he didn’t move far. He hovered behind Finn like a sentry, sharp and still, his eyes locked on every movement with unrelenting focus. Watching every cut with hawk-eyed precision, his jaw clenched tight, shoulders taut with barely contained tension. His fingers twitched at his sides, like it was physically painful not to take the scissors himself. Like he was counting every heartbeat between snips, each one a test of his patience, his trust, his control.

Every breath you took, he tracked it. Every flinch, every wince, every flicker of discomfort in your face– he saw it all. And though he didn’t say a word, the protectiveness rolled off him like smoke from a slow burn. Fierce. Quiet. Unshakable.

The ordeal wasn’t painless. Some stings still made your eyes water, sharp and sudden, biting deeper than you expected. You clenched your jaw through them, fingers gripping the edge of the table until your knuckles ached. One stitch tugged too much and you cursed under your breath, a quiet hiss of pain slipping out before you could stop it.

Tommy’s hand tensed instinctively on your shoulder, his thumb brushing a soothing arc into your skin, like he wanted to absorb the sting himself. Finn froze for a second, eyes darting to Tommy’s, and you caught the flicker of panic in his face.

But you nodded, gave him a small, tight smile. “It’s alright, keep going.”

So he continued– slower this time, steadier.

It was bearable. But more than that, it was yours. Your threshold. Your moment. A quiet reclamation of something that had been taken from you, torn from you in the dark. You hadn’t had control over much lately, but this… this was something you got to choose. To do on your terms.

When the final stitch fell into Finn’s palm, he let out a breath like he’d been holding it for days. “That’s all of them,” he said quietly, pride and relief tangled in his voice.

You nodded, swallowing the thick lump in your throat. A faint sheen of sweat clung to your brow, your pulse thrumming in your ears. And for just a moment, your spine softened, your body leaning instinctively back against Tommy’s chest.

He caught you without hesitation, like he’d been waiting for it. His hand slid to your upper back, warm and solid, anchoring you in place. His other arm came around you gently, cradling you in a loose but protective hold, steadying you before you even realized you’d needed it. You let your head rest there for just a breath, just long enough to feel safe again.

…

Later that evening, the house felt warmer than it had in weeks– not just from the fire crackling in the hearth, but from something else. Something lighter. Something whole.

You were curled on the sofa with a cup of tea in your hands, the ache in your head a dull hum rather than a sharp throb. The tension that had clung to your shoulders for so long seemed to have loosened just a little, the heaviness in your ribs easing with each passing hour.

Across the room, Finn was in the middle of animatedly retelling the story to Arthur and John, hands gesturing wildly as he reenacted every snip of the scissors.

“And I held the scissors just like she showed me, right? And I made sure not to cut too close–.”

John leaned back, raising a brow. “And you’re proud of this, are you?”

Arthur barked out a laugh. “Jesus Christ. You really let an eleven-year-old near your head with a pair of scissors?”

You lifted a brow over the rim of your tea. “He’s nearly twelve.”

“Oh, well then,” Arthur deadpanned. “That makes it so much better.”

John nearly choked on his drink, grinning over the rim of his glass. “Thought you had more sense than that, Doc,” he teased. “We pegged you for the clever one.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your smile betrayed you.

“Next time,” John added, “just hand him a bone saw and tell him to take out your appendix out while he’s at it. Our Finn’s like a proper surgeon now.”

Tommy, leaning in the doorway with a cigarette between his fingers, exhaled slowly. “She insisted,” he said, his voice dry but laced with a quiet fondness.

Arthur gave a mock sigh, shaking his head. “Stubborn and reckless. She really does belong in this family.”

You chuckled softly, the sound settling in your chest like a balm. There was something comforting in the noise, in the way they bickered and teased and filled the room with something that almost felt like peace.

And God, how badly you wanted to belong to it. To all of it.

To the way Ada rolled her eyes fondly when Arthur got too loud, to Polly’s sharp glances that said more than most people could with words, to the way John always seemed to carry a joke on the tip of his tongue, even when the world was heavy. To the way Finn beamed under their praise, soaking in every bit of it like sunlight.

You wanted to be part of that rhythm, that mess, that strange, beautiful chaos that somehow still managed to feel like home.

A family bound not just by blood, but by something deeper. Something forged in the fire and hardened by loss. Something you’d never had before, not really.

And when you looked across the room– when your eyes met Tommy’s, still watching you through the curl of cigarette smoke, you knew he saw it, too. That want. That ache to belong.

His mouth curled slightly, barely-there, but just enough.

You didn’t need him to say anything. You felt it in the way his eyes softened. In the way his fingers twitched like they wanted to reach for you. In the way he always had a place ready beside him, whether it was at the table, in a quiet room, or in the heart of everything that mattered.

Dinner was easy. Warm. Polly dished out stew and bread, filling everyone’s bowls with that same stern affection that made you feel more like a family than a gang. The table was cluttered with mismatched cutlery, chipped mugs, and laughter that carried through the cracks in the walls. It was the kind of evening that warmed the walls from the inside out. The fire had been stoked again, wine poured freely, and Polly had even allowed herself to lean back in her chair, half-smiling as Ada recounted something sharp and clever that had happened at work.

Now, everyone had settled into the living room, plates cleared, laughter lingering in the air like smoke.

Tommy stood near the mantle, a glass of whiskey in his hand, letting the quiet hum of conversation wash over him. He wasn’t speaking much. He didn’t need to.

His eyes were fixed across the room– on you.

You were curled on the couch, legs tucked up beneath you, a blanket draped across your lap. Arthur and John were telling some god awful story about a pub brawl years ago– half of it likely embellished, the other half completely fabricated, and you were laughing. Fully, properly laughing. Head tilted back slightly, eyes squinting, a hand pressing gently to your ribs from the lingering soreness, but laughing all the same.

And just like that, a knot inside his chest loosened.

He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it there for so long, weeks now, maybe longer. The weight of watching you fight through the pain, through the nightmares, through the quiet moments when you thought no one saw you falter. He’d been bracing for the worst, living half on edge since the day he carried you out of that basement.

But now, watching you smile like that– he felt something soften inside him.

It wasn’t just relief. It was gratitude. Fierce and quiet and overwhelming.

His fingers tightened slightly around his glass, anchoring himself to the present moment. To the sound of your voice mingling with his brothers’. To the way your eyes lit up when you leaned toward Finn to nudge him with some teasing remark. To the way you fit here, like you always had, like you always would.

Polly caught his gaze from across the room. Didn’t say anything. Just raised her glass slightly and gave him a knowing look.

Tommy finally wandered into the room, quiet and unassuming as ever, settling beside you on the arm of the couch. He didn’t say much, just let his hand brush gently over your shoulder before placing a light kiss to the top of your head. You leaned into him instinctively, your body curling closer beneath the weight of his touch. That small contact settled something in you again, like a thread stitching itself back in place.

Later, after everyone had gone home, and the house had settled into a quieter hum, you stood in the doorway of the kitchen, looking out into the now-empty living room. The fire was a soft glow now, flickering low. Tommy was there, leaning back in his armchair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his shirt a little rumpled from the evening.

You walked toward him, barefoot and tired, but lighter than you had been in weeks. He looked up when you approached, reaching out a hand without saying a word.

You took it. He pulled you into his lap, arms curling around your waist, your legs folding into the side of the chair as you rested your head against his shoulder. His fingers found your ribs, just above where the bruises used to be, his touch featherlight, reverent.

“No headache tonight?” he murmured, voice low against your temple.

You shook your head, your fingers playing gently with the buttons of his shirt. “No. Not tonight.”

“Good,” he said, and you felt the tension slip from his body, just a little. “That’s good.”

You sat like that for a while, wrapped in the kind of silence that didn’t need filling. No ghosts. No shadows. Just warmth and breath and the slow, steady rhythm of healing.

When he finally carried you to bed, you didn’t flinch. You just let yourself lean into him, safe and at ease in his arms.

The room was dark except for the glow from the hallway, and he didn’t bother switching on a light. He set you down gently on the edge of the bed, his hands lingering at your waist as you slid beneath the covers. He climbed in behind you, settling in close, wrapping an arm around your middle like it was second nature now.

You melted into the warmth of him, your head resting against his chest, your fingers idly toying with the fabric of his shirt. You were already slipping into sleep, eyelids heavy, breath steady, when you thought you heard it– something quiet, barely above a whisper.

“Marry me.”

You didn’t move, didn’t respond. Maybe he hadn’t even said it at all. Maybe it was just the echo of some distant dream, a thread of longing spun into the quiet.

But the words lingered in your mind, warm and weightless, curling beneath your ribs.

Marry me.

Your heart fluttered, soft and full. You imagined it– what it might feel like to be his wife. To belong to him in every way. To wear his name like a promise, to wake up every day and fall asleep every night beside him, knowing you were his, and he was yours.

The thought settled gently around you, a hazy comfort.

And as sleep pulled you under, you let yourself believe it– just for tonight.

…

You woke the next morning to a soft, hazy light creeping in through the curtains. You were still curled against him, his hand resting over your stomach, breath slow and even beside you.

That dream– you remembered it now, vague and hazy around the edges. You’d dreamt of him holding you close, whispering something warm against your ear, something that made your chest ache even now. God, you’d dreamt that he asked you to marry him. It had felt so real. So impossibly soft. You’d drifted off with that wish pressed into your bones, aching in your chest long after sleep took you.

For a moment, you just watched him.

The early morning light filtered faintly through the curtains, casting a soft glow over his features. His lashes rested against his cheeks, long and dark, the faintest shadow of stubble dusting his jaw. That familiar crease between his brows lingered, even in sleep– a quiet reminder of the weight he always carried, even when the world was silent.

You let your eyes trace him, every line, every detail etched into your memory. The curve of his mouth, the slight parting of his lips, the way one hand still rested possessively at your waist beneath the blanket, fingers curled as if he feared you might disappear in the night.

Your heart ached with something quiet and full– something that swelled in your chest, too tender to name. And then, gently, without thinking, you leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Soft. Careful. Reverent.

His lips twitched beneath yours, just slightly.

You smiled faintly to yourself and kissed him again, just a whisper against the edge of his jaw, where his stubble grazed your skin. Then a third, slower kiss to the hollow just below his cheekbone. You could smell the faint trace of smoke still clinging to him, the warmth of his skin beneath your lips.

Another kiss, featherlight and lingering at the corner of his mouth again, and this time you felt his breath catch, subtle, but there.

His hand shifted at your waist, fingers flexing lightly. His brow twitched. Then his eyes opened, just barely.

“Morning,” you whispered.

Tommy blinked slowly, still pulling himself into wakefulness. “Morning.”

You hesitated, then gave a small, sleepy smile.

Tommy shifted beside you, then, groaning softly as he wrapped both arms around your waist and pulled you gently into his chest, burying his face against your neck. You laughed under your breath as your hands found his shoulders.

Then his voice came, low and gruff from sleep, brushing against your skin.

“You know,” he murmured, “how you mentioned not being part of this family last week.”

You stilled slightly, eyes lifting as your heart kicked in your chest. His arms tightened around you just a little, and he leaned back enough to look at you properly, his hair tousled, eyes heavy-lidded but clear now. Focused. Sure.

“I want you to be,” he said simply, earnestly. “I want you to marry me.”

You stared at him, lips parting, breath catching in your throat.

And then, after a long beat, you whispered, “Wait… did you ask me that last night?”

Tommy let out a quiet, sheepish chuckle, brushing his fingers through your hair.

“I did,” he said. “You were half-asleep, barely conscious.”

Your heart thudded, full to the brim.

“I thought I’d dreamt it,” you murmured, eyes searching his. “I thought I just wanted it so badly it bled into my dreams.”

Tommy’s hand cradled your jaw gently, thumb brushing your cheek.

“Well,” he said softly, lips curling faintly, “lucky for you, you’re the one person I don’t mind repeating myself for.”

Your breath hitched softly at his words, a small laugh catching in your throat– half disbelief, half emotion.

His thumb traced the edge of your cheekbone again, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the feel of you in this exact moment.

Then he shifted, just slightly, just enough to sit up a little straighter, one hand still cupping your face while the other slid to rest over your heart, grounding and steady.

“I want you with me,” he said quietly, the weight of his words filling the soft hush of the room. “Not just in this house. Not just in my bed. I want you beside me in everything. Always.”

You swallowed, lips parting– but no words came. Your eyes burned again, but this time it wasn’t fear or shame or pain. It was warmth. Fierce, aching love.

“Marry me,” he murmured.

You stared at him, heart pounding so hard it was all you could hear.

“I don’t have a ring yet,” he added, a flicker of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. “But I’ll get one. Hell, I’ll get ten if you want.”

You let out a tearful laugh, your hand sliding up to rest over his where it still cupped your cheek. “Tommy…”

“I mean it,” he said, voice lower now, steady as stone. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever been sure of.”

There wasn’t a question anymore– there didn’t need to be. You leaned forward slowly, resting your forehead to his.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

His eyes slipped closed for a moment, his jaw flexing slightly like he was anchoring himself in the sound of it. Then he pulled you in, into a kiss that wasn’t urgent or rushed, just full. Full of everything he didn’t have the words for.

When he pulled back, his smile was small but real. “I still think you’ll be the death of me,” he said quietly, voice rough with affection. “But at least I’ll die happy.”

…

The rest of the morning passed in a dreamlike haze, full of quiet smiles and lingering touches, kisses that never quite felt long enough, and soft murmurs exchanged between warm sheets. You couldn’t stop catching his gaze, couldn’t stop replaying his words in your mind. It didn’t even feel real yet.

By evening, the house was humming with life again.

Tommy had insisted on hosting everyone for dinner– “just a quiet night,” he’d said. But the long table in the dining room was anything but quiet now.

The scent of roasted meat, garlic, and freshly baked bread filled the air, wafting from the kitchen where a special meal had been prepared, “proper food,” as Arthur had called it with a grin when he’d first walked in. Every detail was taken care of, cloth napkins, polished silverware, flickering candlelight softening the room. It was simple, but elegant in that unspoken Shelby way, comfort laced with pride.

Laughter bounced off the walls before dinner even hit the table. John and Arthur had already started in with their usual antics, arguing over which one of them could drink more before the food came out, while Finn, still with a boyish grin, tried to referee and ended up getting teased by both.

Ada lounged with a glass of wine in hand, her legs tucked up beneath her as she rolled her eyes at her brothers but smiled all the same. Esme had made herself comfortable near Polly, the two women deep in conversation about something that made Polly raise a brow and shake her head in mock disapproval.

Tommy had kept a steady eye on everything all evening, but not in the usual watchful way. Tonight, there was something softer about him– something looser in his shoulders, more content in the set of his jaw. His hand never strayed far from yours, brushing your back as he passed behind you, pulling your chair out, filling your glass. His touch lingered. Like he couldn’t quite believe it either.

The food was passed around the table– platters heaped with roasted vegetables, bowls of buttery potatoes, glistening meats carved and served with care. Everyone talked over each other, laughing between bites, telling stories from the week. You couldn’t remember the last time the house had felt so full, so light, so alive.

And then, just as plates began to empty and the noise reached its comfortable peak, Tommy stood.

The room quieted almost instinctively– half out of habit, half out of curiosity.

He held his glass in one hand, his gaze sweeping across the table, but his eyes landed last, and longest, on you.

“Thank you all for being here,” he said, his voice even, but there was a note of warmth there that wasn’t always present when he addressed a room.

There were a few murmured 'of course' and 'always' in return, but Tommy raised his glass slightly higher.

“I wanted to host a proper celebration,” he added, his voice steady now, but touched with something unspoken. His gaze locked with yours. “In honor of my soon-to-be wife.”

A stunned hush passed over the table for only a moment– then it erupted.

John let out a loud whoop, raising his glass in the air so quickly he nearly sloshed it onto Esme. Arthur stood up halfway just to reach across and thump Tommy on the back.

“’Bout bloody time!” he grinned.

Polly gave you the kind of look that said I knew before either of you did, and raised her glass elegantly with a soft smile. Ada’s grin was wide, genuine, her eyes flicking between you both with open warmth. Finn, cheeks flushed and grinning ear to ear, looked like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to clap or not– but did anyway.

The table echoed with toasts and laughter, glasses clinking, voices overlapping with well-wishes and teasing jabs, but all you could do was look at Tommy. At the way he looked at you like you were the only one in the room.

Somewhere down the table, Ada leaned toward Polly, her voice low but not nearly quiet enough to go unheard.

“Well, I suppose we’ve got a wedding to plan now.”

Polly gave a small, approving nod, sipping from her glass. “Not suppose, Ada, we do. And if it’s going to be done, it’ll be done properly.”

Ada grinned, eyes glinting. “Properly, meaning you’ll take over and boss everyone around.”

Polly didn’t even blink. “Exactly.”

You caught the exchange, a laugh slipping out before you could help it. Polly glanced at you knowingly, lifting her glass again with a subtle wink that only made you smile wider.

Tommy’s hand slipped beneath the table, finding yours again, lacing your fingers together like he’d done it a thousand times before.

And as the table buzzed with talk of dates and dresses and where the hell they were going to seat this person and that one, you leaned in just a little closer to him, the sound of his quiet laugh brushing your ear.

It was chaos. Loud and unfiltered and so beautifully full.

“Cheers,” he said softly, just for you.

You didn’t speak, just smiled, eyes shining, and squeezed his hand back.

And for the rest of the night, even as laughter carried on and stories were told and another bottle of wine was passed around, that moment stayed etched between you.

A quiet promise in the middle of the noise.

A beginning wrapped in warmth.

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living-in-a-box · 11 days ago

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Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 18

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 18

Chapter summary: You struggle under the weight of guilt, convinced you've become a burden in Tommy’s life.

Word count: 6.6k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language, mention of torture and vague, nonconsensual sexualization and touch.

A/N: Hey y'alllll, thank you again for reading this far. I'm getting my gallbladder taken out tomorrow (wish me luck) so I won't be able to update for a little while. In the meantime, please feel free to send me suggestions / feedback for if you want this story to continue or if I should start something new :)

The scent of fresh bread and strong tea hung in the air as you moved around Tommy’s kitchen, the morning light filtering through the windows in hazy streaks. Your head still ached faintly, but the worst of the pain had dulled since the night before.

You poured tea, keeping your movements steady, deliberate. It felt good to be upright, to be functioning, to be contributing in some small way, even if your body still moved slower than it used to.

Tommy sat at the table, cigarette in one hand, the morning paper in the other, half-read and already smudged with ash. He glanced at you once over the rim of his cup, eyes lingering a second longer than necessary, like he was still waiting for you to collapse.

The front door creaked open a few minutes later, and you heard the familiar shuffle of boots and low voices. Arthur’s laugh carried in first, followed by John’s unmistakable muttering and the lighter tap of Ada’s shoes across the floor.

“Morning,” Ada called, walking into the kitchen and pausing when she saw you. “Oh good, you’re up. How’s the head?”

You offered a small smile. “Better. Sorry I missed the dinner you lot had planned last night.”

“No need to apologize,” Polly said as she appeared behind Finn and Esme, her voice gentle but resolute. “You rest when you need to.”

You nodded, but that gnawing guilt nestled just a little deeper beneath your ribs.

Everyone filtered into the kitchen, plates pulled down, chairs scraped along the floor, casual conversation building between bites and sips. For a moment, it almost felt normal.

Then Finn, already halfway through a slice of toast, leaned towards you and frowned. “John said someone knocked your head around pretty bad. Are you alright now?”

You managed a soft smile, trying to keep your tone light. “I’ve had better weeks, Finn.”

Finn gave a small, sheepish grin. “Yeah… well, you still look better than Arthur after the bar fight he had last spring.”

Arthur, mid-sip of tea, snorted. “Oi! What’re you sayin’ about me over there?”

Finn chuckled, shaking his head before muttering, “It’s true. You looked like a mucky boot. Plus he ended up puking in Polly’s roses.”

“That was one time–” Arthur grumbled.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Polly interrupted, though the corner of her mouth twitched with the faintest amusement. She turned her attention back to you. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation for taking time to heal. Especially not us.”

You nodded again, but the guilt didn’t ease. Not fully. You could feel it growing roots beneath your ribs.

As the noise returned, mugs clinking, light teasing continuing, Tommy quietly set a plate down in front of you, his hand brushing your shoulder for the briefest moment before he took a seat across from you.

You looked up, catching the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his posture carried more tension than usual.

John leaned forward. “Tom, you set to still head to London tomorrow?”

Tommy didn’t even look up from his tea. “No.”

John blinked. “Thought you said you needed to meet with the solicitor about that deal.”

“I’m not going,” Tommy said flatly, final.

There was a small beat of silence around the table.

Arthur glanced at him. “Tommy…”

“I said I’m not going,” he repeated, voice quieter now, but firmer. “It can wait. Or one of you can go in my place.”

The guilt tightened around your chest like a vice. He hadn’t said it, but you knew. He wasn’t going because of you. You dropped your gaze back to your plate, appetite slipping away entirely.

Across the table, John frowned. “Tommy, we’ve been working on that deal for weeks. If you’re not there–”

Tommy cut in, sharper this time. “You and Arthur can handle it.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “It’s not about whether we can handle it. You’ve been lead on this since the start. They’ll want to see you.”

Tommy leaned back slightly in his chair, his jaw tight, eyes cold and unreadable. “Then they’ll have to learn to deal without me.”

John scoffed under his breath. “Right. And what happens when you keep pushin’ things off? You think that’s not going to cost us?”

Tommy set his tea down with a heavy clink. “What happens when I’m not around someday, aye?” His voice was low but firm, edged with something that cut deeper than the surface tension in the room. “You two need to stop acting like I’m going to hold your hand through every meeting.”

Arthur and John both stilled at that, exchanging a quick glance.

You kept your eyes down, fingers curling slightly around the edge of your plate.

Arthur leaned forward, his forearms braced against the table. “This deal… it’s not just numbers on a bloody page, Tom.”

John nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s the shipping route. That new line through the South docks– if we lock it down now, we control half the imports before anyone else even knows it’s on offer. Weapons, whiskey, opium, whatever the hell we want moved.”

Arthur exhaled sharply. “And if Sabini or Solomons get wind of it first, it’s gone. Slips right out from under us.”

You looked up slowly, watching the tension settle deeper into Tommy’s frame. He didn’t move, but his jaw worked, tight and deliberate.

John added, more quietly now, “It’s not just money. It’s positioning. Power. This deal puts us ahead of every other crew this side of Camden.”

Arthur nodded, tapping his fingers once against the table. “Could make the Blinders untouchable for a long time– if it goes through.”

There was a long silence. You could feel Tommy’s gaze drift your way, just for a second, and the guilt in your chest twisted tighter.

“You lot always balk about having more responsibility. You want to run the business like we talked about,” Tommy added after a beat. “Then run it.”

Ada's gaze flicked between the three of them but she didn’t speak. Even Finn had gone quiet. The clatter of cutlery and soft rustle of chairs filled the silence, but the unease lingered just beneath the surface, along with the guilt still blooming in your chest.

The tension still lingered, heavy in the air like smoke, but Polly, ever the one to smooth sharp edges, lifted her teacup with a pointed glance around the table. “No more talk of business over breakfast. Not today.”

She didn’t raise her voice, but it was final. The kind of tone that settled everyone without question.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Since when do we have rules at breakfast?”

“Since now,” Polly said sharply. “Some of us would like to finish our eggs without hearing about bloody ledgers.”

Ada chuckled. “Amen to that.”

John muttered something under his breath, earning a swat on the arm from Esme.

Then Finn piped up, voice light but earnest, “This is the first time we’ve all had breakfast together in weeks. That’s something, innit?”

Ada grinned and ruffled his hair. “Look at you, getting all sentimental.”

Finn shrugged. “Just sayin’. It’s nice, that’s all.”

That earned a few smiles, a little warmth returning to the room as conversation shifted to less business, and more stories and teasing.

Eventually, the clatter of cutlery slowed, plates emptied, and conversation mellowed into quiet chuckles and soft sighs of contentment. Esme stood to pour more tea. Ada started teasing Arthur about his terrible handwriting. Finn tried to sneak another piece of toast before Polly swatted his hand away with a muttered, “You’ve had four already, love.”

But you stayed mostly quiet, your fork absently nudging crumbs around your plate.

Tommy hadn’t looked at you since the London conversation. Not directly, anyway. But you felt his presence beside you, steady and close, the way you always did.

Eventually, the table cleared, and the others filtered out of the house after saying their goodbyes, leaving only the two of you behind. You stood at the sink, rinsing plates in slow circles, your movements more for something to do than out of necessity. The ache in your head was growing now, along with the heaviness in your chest.

Tommy was still seated at the table, cigarette between his fingers, eyes following the lazy curl of smoke drifting upward.

“You didn’t eat much,” he said softly.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

A beat passed. The only sound was the soft clink of porcelain and the faint hiss of his cigarette. You wiped your hands on a towel, lingering at the sink a moment longer before finally turning back toward him.

“Tommy, why aren’t you going to London?” you asked quietly.

His eyes didn’t move from the smoke curling toward the ceiling. He took another slow drag before replying, “John or Arthur can go for me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His gaze dropped to you then, steady and unreadable. “It’s not urgent.”

You studied him, arms folding across your chest like a shield. “But John said it was. That it was a deal that needed to be handled in person.”

“It can wait,” he said again, the edge of finality creeping into his voice.

You hesitated, the words sitting sharp behind your teeth. “Is it because of me?”

He didn’t answer right away, but he didn't deny it either. Instead, he just sat there, smoke curling from his fingers, jaw tightening slightly.

You stepped closer, your voice softer now. “Tommy, you don’t have to stay here with me all the time.”

His eyes finally lifted to yours, sharp and unreadable. “I know.”

“Then why are you?” The question came out thinner than you’d meant, wrapped in guilt you hadn’t quite managed to bury. “I’m not asking you to babysit me. I’m not asking you to put everything on hold.”

“You’re not asking,” he agreed, voice quiet. “I’m choosing."

The finality in his voice left no room for argument, no space for guilt to take root again.

So you just nodded, small, almost imperceptible.

“Okay,” you murmured softly.

Tommy held your gaze a moment longer, then slowly stood. The chair scraped gently against the floor as he moved, shoulders rolling back with a quiet exhale. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and struck a match with one fluid motion. The flame flickered briefly before catching, and he inhaled deeply, the smoke curling through the air in soft ribbons.

Then, without a word, he picked up the folded paper from the table, eyes scanning over the print like nothing had just happened.

You watched him move, watched the shift of his shoulders, the way his fingers curled around the edge of the paper, the quiet steadiness in him that always seemed just out of reach but somehow comforting.

After a moment, your voice broke the silence again. “Can I at least make myself useful and go back to the Garrison soon?”

Tommy’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, unreadable. You pushed on, quieter now. “I can work the bar. Just a few hours to help Harry out.”

His mouth twitched, not in amusement, but something closer to disbelief. Tommy stood slowly, cigarette still between his fingers. The chair scraped quietly against the floor as he stepped toward you, eyes fixed on your face.

“When you can make it through an entire day without going blind or vomiting,” he said dryly, “we’ll talk about it.”

You looked down, lips pressing into a tight line. You nodded again, biting back the sting in your chest. His hand found your shoulder, warm and steady. A moment later, you felt the press of his lips at your temple, soft, grounding, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch.

He didn’t say anything else. Just let his hand drift down your arm briefly before stepping away, footsteps soft as he walked toward the door.

When it clicked shut behind him, the silence wrapped around you again.

…

Three days passed.

You could feel it– the distance growing between you and Tommy. Not because he had changed, but because you had.

It was Campbell’s shadow that lingered, not Tommy’s. But it didn’t matter. Every time Tommy reached for you, every time his hand grazed your waist or his lips found your temple, your body flinched before your mind could catch up. And it wasn’t fair, because he wasn’t the one who hurt you. But the memory lived under your skin like poison, curling in your muscles, coiling behind your ribs.

There were moments when you reached for him first. When you pressed into his arms and, for just a breath, the world stopped spinning. Because somehow, in his arms, you didn’t feel fragmented. Only when he held you did you feel put back together, like your pieces might actually belong somewhere again. Like you weren’t entirely broken.

But only when it was on your terms. Only when your body didn’t feel like a battleground, when your skin didn’t feel like it still belonged to someone else.

And then came the shame, the quiet, creeping shame that made you want to crawl out of your own skin. That made you feel like none of it should be this hard. Like you should’ve healed faster. Like it was your fault that every soft, loving touch still carried a ghost.

That night, back at the house, the fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room. Tommy sat in his armchair, legs stretched out slightly, a stack of papers in his lap, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His eyes skimmed over the documents, brow occasionally furrowing in thought, the silence between you filled only by the scratch of the fire and the rustle of turning pages.

You watched him for a while from your spot on the couch– watched the way his jaw flexed as he read, the way his fingers shifted the pages with that same quiet control he carried in everything he did. The ache behind your ribs hadn’t lessened, not really.

But your body moved before your mind could talk you out of it. Quietly, without a word, you rose from the couch and padded across the rug toward him.

Tommy looked up, eyes flicking to you, but he didn’t speak, just set his papers aside slightly, already shifting in the chair to make room.

You climbed into his lap carefully, your knees folding on either side of his hips as you settled into him, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

Still, he didn’t ask. Didn’t question it. He just opened his arms and let you in.

One arm curled around your back, anchoring you gently against his chest. The other reached for the papers again, as if this was nothing unusual, as if holding you there, close and steady, was just as natural as reading through business ledgers.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as his warmth wrapped around you. His heartbeat thudded softly beneath your ear, and for the first time all day, your chest eased just enough to breathe.

Tommy’s fingers absently ran along the curve of your spine, slow and comforting, like he didn’t even know he was doing it. Then his hand drifted upward, tracing lightly over your shoulder blades before settling at the base of your skull.

His fingers moved gently there, slow circles worked into the tense muscles at the nape of your neck, easing the tightness you hadn’t even realized you were holding.

After a moment, his voice came low, near your temple. “How’s your head tonight?”

You didn’t answer right away, just let yourself lean a little heavier into him, eyes still closed, letting the rhythm of his touch lull some of the ache from your bones.

“It’s okay,” you murmured eventually.

His thumb brushed tenderly along the edge of your hairline. “You’re a horrible liar.”

You sighed. “So you’ve said.”

Tommy’s hand stilled for a moment, then resumed that slow, grounding motion at the base of your skull.

The fire had burned low by the time you drifted off in Tommy’s arms, but at some point during the night, you vaguely remembered the feeling of being lifted– strong arms curling beneath you, the warmth of his chest against yours, the soft rasp of his voice murmuring something you were too far gone to understand. A door creaked open. Sheets shifted. A blanket tucked carefully around your shoulders.

Now, you stirred again to quiet stillness. The bed beside you was empty, the space where he’d been still faintly warm. You sat up slowly, your head heavy but clear. You rubbed your eyes and glanced toward the door, catching the faintest trace of light beneath it. Voices followed, low, hushed, but tense.

You stood, careful not to make the floorboards creak, and padded silently toward the hallway. Down the stairs, flickering firelight spilled from the open door of Tommy’s study.

And then, the voices grew clearer.

“I told you they were skittish,” Arthur was saying, his voice low and tense.

“They didn’t just get skittish,” John shot back. “They pulled out, full stop.”

A pause.

Then Tommy’s voice, sharper, more clipped. “Just tell me what happened.”

“The deal is shot, Tom. The whole fuckin’ thing,” John muttered. “Said they didn’t like that you weren’t there yourself. Didn’t trust it.”

“Thought you were hiding something,” Arthur added darkly.

You stayed frozen at the bottom of the stairs, barely breathing.

“Word is they’re talking to Sabini,” John said. “Maybe already signed with him.”

A beat of silence. You could picture Tommy now, leaning back in his chair, jaw clenched, that familiar flicker of calculation in his eyes.

And then you heard it, the thing that made your throat tighten and your chest ache.

“Because you weren’t in London,” John muttered. “Because you stayed here.”

You stepped back instinctively, the words hitting like a blow to the chest. It wasn’t said with malice, not really, John’s voice hadn’t carried blame. But the implication rang louder than anything else in the room. The guilt crawled up your spine like something cold and living.

You turned quietly, retreating up the stairs before your presence could be noticed. Each step felt heavier than the last, your head buzzing, chest tightening with the weight of everything unsaid.

By the time you reached the bedroom again, the silence felt different. Not comforting this time, but thick and echoing, like it was pressing in around you.

You sat on the edge of the bed, fingers curling in the bedsheets, eyes unfocused.

You had to get it together.

You couldn’t keep falling apart every time the air got too still, every time your head ached or your heart clenched with a memory. You couldn’t keep leaning on Tommy like he was the only thing holding you upright, not when it was starting to cost him.

He’d already sacrificed too much. And if things kept slipping, if the business continued to suffer, you’d be the reason. You couldn’t stomach that. Not after everything.

Even if your chest still tightened at night. Even if there were moments when the world tilted sideways and it felt like your ribs might crack from the weight of it all.

Even if it meant smiling when your head was pounding. Even if it meant pretending your hands weren’t trembling the moment Campbell’s face flashed behind your eyes.

You’d just have to hide it better. Be steadier. Stronger. More convincing.

…

The next morning, you woke before the sun had fully risen.

The dull ache in your head had returned– not blinding, but ever-present, pulsing quietly behind your temples like a reminder that your body was still catching up to your bravado. You sat up slowly, blinking away the haze, willing the room to stop its slow tilt. It didn’t. Not entirely. But you braced your palms against the mattress and breathed through it until it passed.

When you made your way downstairs, the scent of tea drifted from the kitchen. Tommy stood at the stove, sleeves rolled, cigarette hanging loosely from his lips as he stirred something in a pan.

You straightened your posture and forced your steps to stay steady.

“Morning,” you said lightly, grabbing a mug from the counter like your limbs didn’t still tremble faintly.

Tommy glanced over his shoulder. “You’re up early.”

You shrugged, taking a sip of coffee, trying not to wince at the way the bitterness sparked behind your eyes. “Figured I’d get a head start. Thought I might stop by the Garrison.”

Tommy’s brow lifted, his stirring slowing just slightly. “You thought you might?”

You nodded, pretending not to notice the weight behind his gaze. “Just for a few hours. Nothing too much. I’ll help Harry with the stockroom or polishing glasses– whatever he needs.”

He said nothing at first. Just turned back to the pan, jaw tight, the silence dragging.

“I feel fine,” you added, softer now, trying to meet his eyes.

Tommy didn’t turn around right away.

“Do you now?” he said finally, low and clipped.

You held your ground, trying not to shift under the weight of his voice. “I do.”

He turned slowly, setting the spoon down, his eyes narrowing just slightly as they met yours. “You’re still flinching when you stand up too fast. You get quiet when the light’s too bright. And you think I haven’t noticed how your hands shake when you think no one’s looking?”

You swallowed hard, jaw tightening. “I’m not saying I’m at a hundred percent. But good enough to go back."

Tommy studied you, arms folding across his chest now, brow furrowed in that unreadable way that always made your chest tighten. “You pushing yourself to prove something to me isn’t going to help you heal faster.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything to you,” you said, voice steadier now. “I’m just trying to be useful.”

He stared at you for a long beat, cigarette burning low between his fingers. Then finally, he sighed, slow and reluctant.

“One shift,” he said, pointing toward you slightly with the hand holding the cigarette. “A short one. And if you so much as wince or wobble, you come straight home. You don’t argue.”

You nodded quickly, almost too quickly. “Fine.”

Tommy’s mouth twitched, barely a smile. He stepped forward, pressed a kiss to your temple, and muttered against your skin, “You’re bloody stubborn, you know that?”

“Must be catching,” you murmured back, just under your breath.

He gave a faint scoff and turned back to the pan.

...

Your shift had started slow– organizing glasses, taking light orders, helping Harry restock the shelves in the back. At first, it felt manageable. Easy, even. The motions were familiar, your body moving on instinct, muscle memory guiding you through the steps. For a while, you almost felt like yourself again. Like things could go back to normal, if only you tried hard enough.

But somewhere along the way, the hours had slipped by unnoticed. You’d told yourself it was fine. Just one more hour. Then another. And another after that. You hadn’t even realized how long you’d been standing, how much you’d been pushing, until the dull throb behind your eyes started to build into something sharper.

Now your head was pounding– a slow, pulsing ache that bloomed beneath your skull like a storm brewing just out of reach. The lights above the bar felt too bright, the low chatter of the patrons far too loud. Every clatter of glass, every burst of laughter sent a fresh spike of pain radiating through your temples.

Still, you kept moving.

You couldn’t fall apart here. Not in front of everyone. Not when you were trying so damn hard to prove you could handle it.

You smiled politely at the next patron, even though it felt like your skin was stretched too tight across your face. You wiped down the countertop with a damp cloth, even though your fingers trembled slightly against the rag. Your vision blurred at the edges, just enough to make you blink hard and press your lips together to keep from swaying.

Harry glanced over from the end of the bar, eyes narrowing slightly. He’d been watching you more closely than usual all day, though he hadn’t said much. Until now.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asked, tone low but gentle, concern evident in his lined features as he approached.

You straightened a little, forcing a breath through your nose and nodding too quickly. “Fine,” you said, a little too brightly. “Just a bit warm in here.”

But even as the words left your mouth, you felt the ache pulsing again– like a warning just beneath your skin.

Harry didn’t look convinced.

In fact, his brow furrowed deeper as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Thought Tommy said you were only meant to do a few hours,” he said, wiping his hands on a bar towel. “You’ve been on your feet half the bloody day.”

You gave another faint smile, trying to keep it casual. “He worries too much.”

Harry huffed. “Aye, well… in his shoes, I might too. You look pale, love.”

“I’m fine,” you said again– quieter now, more like a prayer than a statement.

But before Harry could push further, the front door creaked open. A rush of cool air filtered in with it.

And there he was.

Tommy's eyes scanned the Garrison with calculated ease before locking onto you behind the bar. His jaw tensed instantly, just a flicker, but you saw it. It felt it like a punch to the ribs.

You stood a little straighter, tried to summon a smile, pretended like everything was fine. You even picked up another glass to polish, just to look busy.

But Tommy didn’t move right away. He just stood there in the doorway, watching you with that unreadable look– like he already knew everything he needed to know before you’d even said a word.

Harry muttered under his breath, almost to himself, “Shit.”

You turned to face Tommy fully, heart thudding as if the pounding in your skull wasn’t already loud enough.

“Hey,” you said, feigning lightness. “Didn’t think you’d come by tonight.”

His eyes flicked to the rag in your hand, then back to your face. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

His voice wasn’t loud. Wasn’t sharp. But it cut through the room like a blade.

You straightened your spine a little more, holding that polite smile like a shield. “Just lost track of time,” you said softly, setting the glass down. “It’s not a big deal.”

Tommy stepped forward now, slow and measured, his eyes never leaving yours. “You were supposed to be here for a few hours.”

“I know.”

“And how long’s it been?”

You hesitated, your eyes darting toward the clock. The answer hung in the air between you. Too long. Long enough for him to be right. Long enough to feel it in every throbbing pulse behind your eyes.

“I’m fine, Tommy,” you said again, quieter this time.

“I’m not asking how you feel,” he said, voice lower now as he came around the bar, closer to you. “I’m telling you your hands are shaking.”

You instinctively curled your fingers tighter around the rag, hiding the tremor. But it was too late, he’d already seen it. He always saw everything.

“I said I’m fine. Let me finish wiping down–”

“No.”

You stiffened. The word landed heavy between you, sharp and final.

You blinked up at him, your jaw tightening. “You don’t get to tell me when I’m done.”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his voice stayed calm. “We’re not doing this here. Let’s go.”

You shook your head, the frustration swelling in your chest like a rising tide. “Christ, Tommy. I’m not made of glass. You can’t keep dragging me out of rooms like I’m going to fucking collapse every time I breathe too hard.”

Tommy sighed, like this whole thing was a massive inconvenience. “I’m not dragging you anywhere. I’m telling you you’ve done enough for one day.”

“Enough for your standards, you mean.” You stepped back, trying to shove past the heat crawling up your throat.

"Yeah, my standards. Last time I checked, I was the one employing you."

Your jaw flexed. Fuck, you thought. He was right. You hated that he was right. You hated that your body was still betraying you. That every time you tried to prove you could keep going, you ended up like this, shaking, dizzy, broken glass at your feet and tears you couldn’t swallow down fast enough.

"I'm not something fragile that needed protecting all the time."

“Then stop acting like it,” he snapped.

Your eyes widened, breath catching hard in your chest.

The words cut deeper than they should have, sharp and unrelenting, worse than the sting of the glass or the pounding in your head.

You turned on your heel before he could say anything else, pushing your way into the back room and slamming the door shut behind you. You needed space– just a second to breathe, to collect yourself, to stop the way your chest was tightening.

You reached for a glass on the shelf, anything to keep your hands busy. Anything to keep from feeling the sting in your eyes.

But your fingers trembled. The ache in your head flared sharp again. And before you could even react, the glass slipped from your grasp.

Crash.

It shattered against the floor, loud and jarring. And that was it.

The tears came before you could stop them– hot, angry, humiliated tears. Not from the glass, not from the pain, but from the frustration, the helplessness, the exhaustion of pretending everything was fine when your body was still screaming otherwise.

You clenched your fists at your sides, trying to blink it all away, trying to hold yourself upright even though your legs suddenly felt too weak.

But then you heard footsteps behind you.

“Are you done proving your point–”

Tommy stopped mid-sentence.

You didn’t have to look at him to feel the shift in his presence, or the way his entire demeanor softened the moment he saw your shoulders shaking, the tears on your cheeks.

“Hey,” he said, voice gentler now, quiet. “Hey.”

You turned away, trying to wipe your face, but he was already there, stepping over the broken glass, reaching for you carefully like he was afraid you’d break just like the pieces on the floor.

“Come here,” he murmured, arms outstretched, steady and warm.

You turned, eyes wet, throat tight, just in time to see his arms start to reach for you.

But you stepped back sharply, shaking your head. “Don’t.”

Tommy stilled.

“I’m so sick of this,” you snapped, voice cracking. “Sick of being treated like I’m some fragile thing that can’t take a deep breath without falling apart.”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t speak. Just stood there, steady, watching you with that infuriating calm.

“I’m trying,” you said, voice rising. “I’m trying to feel normal again, to be normal again. But you don’t get it,” you said, bitter now. “You don’t know what it’s like to wake up and not even recognize your own body anymore. To be afraid of your own mind and what it can do to me.”

Your breath hitched, another tear slipping down your cheek before you could stop it. “I don’t want to be a burden, Tommy.”

He stepped closer again, slower this time. “You’re not.”

You shook your head, hands curling into fists at your sides. “You can say I’m not all you want, but I am, Tommy. You’re giving everything up just to babysit me, and I–” Your voice cracked, raw and exposed. “I heard you.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Heard what?”

You swallowed hard, chest tightening. “The other night. You were talking to Arthur and John… about the London deal.”

Tommy went still.

“I wasn’t trying to listen,” you rushed to add, voice shaking. “I’d woken up, and you weren’t there, and I came downstairs and… I heard John say it. That they pulled out because you weren’t there. Because you stayed here with me.”

Tommy’s expression didn’t change much, just a subtle flicker in his jaw, the smallest shift in his eyes.

You blinked through another wave of tears. “And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. That I cost you something important. That the whole reason it’s falling apart is because I couldn’t keep it together.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting the sting behind your eyes. “What happens when you fall behind on business? When things start slipping? What happens then?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “Since when are you up for giving me business advice?”

You straightened slightly, heart pounding, the tension curling tighter beneath your ribs.

“I’m not giving you business advice,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m just saying… you don’t have to stay with me all the time, Tommy. I’m not expecting you to.”

He looked at you then, and there was something unreadable behind his eyes.

“You think I’m here out of obligation?” His voice was low, steady, but there was a clipped edge beneath it. “You think I stayed because I felt I had to?”

You didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched.

“I think you’ve got a business to run. A family to look after. And you’re putting that on hold.”

His jaw flexed.

“And I’m just saying maybe you shouldn’t.”

He let out a humorless breath, more a scoff than a laugh, and turned away.

You pushed a little further, the guilt pressing harder. “You stayed in the hospital with me for a week– you must have missed other meetings, other deals.”

He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see the profile of his face, his clenched jaw, the flicker in his eyes. “What’s your point?”

You stepped closer. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re falling behind. Christ, I’m not completely helpless– I can take care of myself.”

You held his gaze for a moment longer, your voice quieter now, but no less firm. “I heard the way Arthur and John talked to you.”

You swallowed, eyes dropping briefly to the floor. “I don’t want to be the reason things start to unravel.” You hesitated, your throat tightening. “They think I’m holding you back. And maybe they’re right.”

His expression hardened slightly, not with anger, but something quieter. Something wounded.

“I’m not trying to cause a rift between you and them,” you added. “They’re your family. Your blood. I’m not even–” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “I’m not part of that. Not really.”

You crossed your arms tightly, the tension in your shoulders finally catching up to you, dragging you down with it. Your hands came together in your lap, twisting over one another, trying to wring the nerves from your fingertips.

There was a beat of silence. Tommy’s jaw ticked, his shoulders squaring as he studied you. The muscles in his throat moved as he swallowed, slow and deliberate.

“You think that’s how I see you?” he asked finally, low and quiet, but laced with something that stung more than shouting ever could.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

After a moment, Tommy’s mouth tugged into a crooked, humorless half-smile. “I’ve had lots of women in my bed before,” he said, voice low.

Your eyes stung before you could stop it, a sharp pressure building behind them as your chest tightened. That ache, deep, quiet, relentless, spread beneath your ribs, heavy and hollow all at once.

“Pretty ones. Clever ones. Ones who only wanted to ride the high while it lasted.” His gaze flicked over you.

You blinked hard, a tear slipping free despite your best efforts. Your hands curled tightly in your lap as you tried to imagine where the hell he was going with any of this.

“I’ve had lots of women in my bed before,” Tommy said again, quieter now, like he regretted saying it the first time at all. “But none of them ever made me give a fuck about anything but myself. They were good for a night. That’s it. Never once made me want to change a thing. They were just noise. Something to fill the time.”

His voice lingered in the air, quiet but weighted, hanging between you like smoke.

You didn’t look up, not yet. You couldn’t. Not with your eyes burning and your throat thick with the ache of it. But you felt him move closer.

The scent of him, smoke and cologne and something warmer, something familiar, wrapped around you like a balm. His shoes stopped in front of yours, and slowly, carefully, he reached out to tilt your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“But you…” he said. “You’re not just noise.”

You met his gaze, finally, and there it was, laid bare in the blue of his eyes. Not just guilt or tenderness. But need. Affection. Something deeper than all of it.

“You’re not just in my life,” he said, voice nearly a whisper. “You’re the only part I give a damn about.”

Your eyes met his again, full of something fragile and raw. “I’m scared that you’ll look at me and regret these choices– because you were too busy worrying about me and my mess.”

Tommy’s expression didn’t waver. His eyes met yours, steady and unreadable. “I thought you were dead, you know?”

The words stopped you cold. He didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t need to. It was low. Heavy. Final. “I’ve seen a lot of things. Done worse. But that…” His jaw locked, throat shifting with the effort to keep it together.

“That’s not something I can just walk away from.” He finally looked at you again, eyes shadowed and tired. “So if I’m skipping meetings, taking time… it’s not because I think you need me. It’s because I don’t want to be away from you right now. Because I need to remind myself that you didn’t die because of me.”

You didn’t know what to say. The heat in your throat burned, your chest tight with emotion you couldn’t quite name.

Tommy held your gaze, his jaw set now, voice steady and resolute. “John and Arthur can handle the business. That’s what we’ve been building toward. And if they can’t–” he shrugged once, slow and deliberate, “then I’ll deal with it later. Business comes and goes. Deals fall through. We build new ones.”

He stroked the softness of your cheek, enough to make sure you were looking at him. “But I lost you for two whole fucking days. I nearly lost you for good– and I refuse to lose you now,” he added, jaw clenched. “Not because you wanted to prove something. Not because you wanted to work a bloody shift at the Garrison when you should’ve been in bed.”

Tommy’s eyes softened, the edge in his voice giving way to something more fragile, something far more human.

“So, will you please stop arguing and just come home with me?” he asked quietly.

You blinked up at him, breath catching.

“So that I can remind myself that you’re still here. That I didn’t lose you.”

His words settled into your ribs, aching and tender.

You hesitated, eyes flickering toward the shattered glass on the floor behind you. “But… what about the glass? I can't leave that for Harry..”

Tommy let out a rough breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head as he closed the distance between you.

His arms wrapped around your frame, firm and grounding, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other anchoring you against his chest.

“You’re going to be the fucking death of me,” he murmured into your hair, voice rough with affection. “Bloody hell.”

You sank into him, fingers clutching the front of his coat, letting yourself breathe for the first time all day.

“Come on,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Let’s go home.”

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living-in-a-box · 11 days ago

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Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 17

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 17

Chapter summary: You return home from the hospital, still reeling from more than just your physical wounds. As the weight of your trauma threatens to pull you under, Tommy stays close.

Word count: 7.3k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language, mention of torture and vague, nonconsensual sexualization and touch.

You spent just over a week in the hospital.

Eight days of white walls, antiseptic air, and a pounding ache in your head that never fully faded. The bruises on your face, jaw, and neck had started to yellow, the swelling around your ribs had gone down, but the headaches still came in waves– sharp, blinding reminders of everything that had happened.

The nurses gave their final instructions in gentle tones; avoid bright lights, rest often, expect dizziness, and don’t ignore the headaches.

You nodded through all of it, but it was hard to focus. Your body still felt foreign, like you were trying to live inside something cracked and stitched back together.

Tommy didn’t speak much as he guided you into the car. He didn’t have to. He just held your hand. From the hospital doors to the car. From the parking lot to the driver’s seat. The entire drive, his fingers wrapped around yours like he couldn’t bear to let go.

You stared out the window, watching the buildings blur past. Familiar roads. Familiar turns. And then, he missed one.

You frowned, blinking slowly, head still fogged with exhaustion. “Tommy… you missed the turn. That was my street.”

He didn’t look at you. His jaw ticked slightly. “You’re not going there.”

You turned toward him more fully, surprised. “What do you mean?”

His grip on the steering wheel tightened just slightly. “You’re staying with me.”

You blinked at him, head still heavy, unsure if you heard him right.

“Tommy…” your voice was soft, uncertain. “I don’t need–”

“You do.” He cut in gently, but firmly. His eyes stayed on the road, but his hand never left yours.

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words never came. You didn’t have the strength. Not to fight him. Not to pretend you weren’t still rattling apart inside. But, you didn’t want to be a burden. Not to him. Not to anyone.

You hated the thought of needing help, hated the way your body still trembled when you stood, the way your chest seized when the memories crept in.

You didn’t want him to feel like he had to carry you.

“Your place is too far away,” he added after a moment, quieter now. “I want you close, in case you need anything.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just let the words hang in the air, let the silence settle between you.

Then, quietly, you said, “Alright.”

Tommy glanced at you, but didn’t press. He just gave your hand the faintest squeeze and kept driving.

Still, a tightness curled in your stomach. And by the time Tommy pulled the car into the drive, your heart was thudding a little too fast.

He stepped out first, circling around to your side. The moment the door opened, the cool air hit your skin, and you realized just how weak you felt. Tommy reached for you without hesitation, one hand outstretched.

You took it slowly, cautiously, and let him help you ease your legs out of the car. But the second your feet hit the ground, your vision tilted.

A wave of dizziness crashed over you– sharp and disorienting. You sucked in a breath and squeezed your eyes shut, swaying.

“Hey–” Tommy’s voice was instantly at your ear, low and grounding. “Hey, I’ve got you.”

Both his hands closed around yours, steadying you, anchoring you in place.

“Don’t rush. Just breathe.”

You did. In through your nose, out through your mouth.

“I’m okay,” you mumbled. But your knees still felt weak, and your head still pulsed with a warning ache.

Without a word, Tommy slipped an arm around your waist, the other hand bracing your shoulder. His touch was firm but careful, guiding you forward one slow step at a time.

“Lean on me,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

You did. You had to. Because your legs didn’t feel like they fully belonged to you yet.

Each step toward the front door felt like a small mountain, and even with Tommy beside you, you felt unsteady, vulnerable, like your body might betray you at any moment. As you and Tommy stepped through the door, the warmth of the house rushed in to meet you, the scent of food, the faint flicker of the fire in the sitting room, the hum of too many voices all in one space.

And then–

“Welcome home!”

The words rang out all at once, overlapping voices, a burst of warmth and noise that should’ve been comforting… but hit you like a gust of wind.

Arthur was the first to grin and raise a glass, John behind him with a crooked smile, Esme offering a nod from the side. Polly stood quietly near the hearth, arms crossed but eyes soft, and Ada looked over from the kitchen, where the clatter of plates hinted at a meal they’d pulled together just for this.

And then– Finn. He darted toward you with a bright smile, holding something behind his back.

“I made you something,” he said, eyes shining, practically bouncing with excitement.

Before you could ask what, he pulled a small wooden carving from behind his back– a little horse, roughly shaped, clearly made with love and effort.

Your chest tightened. A real smile broke through, soft and genuine.

“Thank you,” you smiled, touched beyond words.

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around your middle, careful but eager, and you leaned into it, one hand coming up to gently tousle his hair.

“I missed you,” he mumbled against your shoulder.

“I missed you too,” you said back.

John stepped in next, giving you a one-armed hug, careful but warm. “Good to see you back, love.”

Arthur followed, his hug a little tighter, but just as thoughtful. “Bout time you came home, Doc,” he said, gruff but kind. “We’ve missed you.”

You smiled through it all, meant it, too, but each movement, each word, made your head throb a little harder.

The dizziness returned, subtle but creeping, the ache behind your eyes pulsing harder now with the noise, the light, the movement.

Still, you didn’t say anything, you didn’t want to ruin it. Not after everything they’d done to welcome you home.

You swayed slightly, just enough for Tommy to feel it beneath his arm. Immediately, his grip tightened at your waist.

The house buzzed around you, that familiar Shelby brand of chaos and comfort all tangled together as they caught you up on the last week of events.

John was already making some joke at Arthur’s expense– something about him burning dinner last week when he tried to help Esme in the kitchen.

“Nearly set the whole bloody kitchen on fire,” John snorted, elbowing Arthur, who shoved him back half-heartedly.

“It was one fuckin’ pan!” Arthur barked, but the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Esme rolled her eyes. “One pan, one curtain, and half the rug, you mean.”

Laughter echoed around you.

Finn snickered and puffed his chest out like he’d been in charge the whole time. “I put it out, didn’t I?”

“You threw a cup of tea on it, Finn,” John muttered, shaking his head.

You tried to laugh, tried to keep your smile warm, but your temples were throbbing now, each sound digging a little deeper behind your eyes.

The light overhead was just a little too bright, the voices a little too loud, and the noise a little too much. But you held your ground, smiled softly when Finn leaned against you again, nodded along when Esme asked how the food smelled from the front door, even murmured a soft “smells amazing” though your stomach was already churning slightly from the ache.

Your vision blurred for a split second as another sharp wave of pressure bloomed behind your eyes. You squeezed your hands together, knuckles whitening slightly, trying to breathe through it.

They were laughing again– Polly saying something about Arthur trying to fix a window with the wrong tools, and you tried so hard to focus on it, to stay present, to just be part of the moment.

But your head was screaming now.

It felt like something was pressing down behind your eyes, behind your skull, like every sound was echoing inside your bones. You blinked again, slower this time, heart pounding a little harder.

Eventually, everyone began to shuffle toward the kitchen, pulled by the scent of stew and the comfort of a familiar meal. Chairs scraped against the floor, glasses clinked, and voices rose in warm, overlapping conversation.

Ada appeared at your side, gently brushing your arm. “Come on, sit down before John eats everything.”

Tommy’s hand was still steady at your waist, grounding you with every step. But when Ada gave you a light nudge forward, he finally let go, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary before falling away.

He didn’t say anything, just followed quietly behind you, taking a seat across the table once you were settled between Ada and Esme.

The table filled quickly– Polly making sure everyone had what they needed, Arthur poured drinks, Finn and John argued over who got the bigger spoonful of stew. There was warmth, laughter, comfort in the air.

You tried to keep up. You smiled where it felt appropriate, nodded when someone spoke to you. But the pressure in your skull was growing heavier by the second, every sound sharp and grating, every flicker of candlelight like a spike behind your eyes.

You could feel it building– the kind of ache that would split you open if you let it go much further. So you leaned slightly toward Ada and murmured, “I’ll be right back.”

She gave you a soft nod, unconcerned.

You pushed gently away from the table, doing your best to move casually– like nothing was wrong, like you weren’t unraveling again with every step.

And the moment you were out of view, your hand braced against the hallway wall for balance, the world tilted slightly beneath your feet.

You ducked into the bathroom, closed the door behind you, and gripped the sink with both hands, knuckles white as the pain surged. Your vision blurred. Your head pulsed like it was splitting open, like something pressing outward from the inside of your skull. Every beat of your heart throbbed in your temples, in your jaw, in your teeth. Your breathing came in shallow gasps, your vision swimming with spots even though your eyes were closed tight.

You just needed it to pass. Just a moment– just a breath without pain, without pressure, without the echo of footsteps in dark corridors and Campbell’s voice twisting in your head.

But it didn’t pass.

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, willing the pain to recede. Willing your body to stop trembling, your stomach to stop churning, your skull to stop splitting open. You wanted to be strong. You wanted to go back out there and smile again and pretend that you were fine.

But you weren’t fine.

Not even close.

You lowered your head further toward the sink, swallowing hard as nausea crept up from your stomach again. A cold sweat broke out across your back, and your arms trembled from the effort of holding yourself up.

A faint knock echoed against the bathroom door, barely registering through the pounding in your skull.

“You alright?”

Tommy’s voice. The low hum of nausea threatened to rise again.

“I’m fine,” you managed to rasp, but the words came out slurred and weak, and not at all convincing, even to your own ears.

There was a pause. Then a sigh. “I’m coming in.”

You didn’t have the strength to protest.

Your eyes were too blurred to see him walk in, your body too wracked with pain to even straighten up. You stayed hunched over the sink, gripping it like a lifeline, head bowed and trembling.

And then you felt his hands– warm, steady, grounding. One came to your back, the other gently curling around your upper arm.

“I’m fine,” you said through clenched teeth, though the words barely made it past your lips.

Tommy didn’t answer right away. He just stood behind you, fingers tightening slightly where they held you, his thumb brushing a slow, deliberate stroke over your arm.

“You’re not.”

His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the sharp edge beneath it– a quiet desperation in the way he clung to calm.

You felt his hand move to your forehead, checking your temperature, then carefully brushing hair back from your damp skin. His palm rested there for a second, as if trying to absorb the pain from your body into his own.

You felt him shift closer, the press of his body behind you a solid barrier against the chaos unraveling inside your head.

“Tell me where it hurts,” he said, his voice low and urgent now. “Tell me what you need.”

But you couldn’t answer.

The pain was climbing higher, sharper, suffocating. A whimper escaped your throat before you could stop it, your fingers slipping on the edge of the sink.

“My head. I can’t–” you gasped, shaking your head weakly. “Tommy, I can’t see–”

Your knees buckled slightly, and he caught you immediately, arms coming around your waist as he held you upright.

“Okay, okay, okay. Let me help you,” Tommy murmured, his voice tight with concern but softer now, coaxing.

You couldn’t argue.

Gently, he shifted one arm beneath your legs, the other steady at your back, and lifted you with ease, holding you close to his chest. Your head dropped against his shoulder, your hands trembling slightly against his coat as he carried you out of the bathroom and up the stairs.

Each step made your head throb, but his grip never faltered– solid, protective, unshakable.

He pushed the bedroom door open with his shoulder and crossed the room in a few strides. He set you down carefully on the edge of bed. You immediately dropped your head to your hands, trying to breathe through the pain, trying not to cry again. Your vision pulsed with every heartbeat, the nausea still coiled tight in your stomach.

Without a word, Tommy turned and moved across the room, pulling the blinds with quiet efficiency. The light vanished in seconds, replaced by a soft, comforting dimness that settled over the room like a blanket.

“Stay here,” he said gently. “I’ll be right back.”

You nodded faintly, but didn’t lift your head.

As soon as the door closed behind him, your composure cracked further. Tears stung at your eyes again, hot and unwelcome, but you blinked them back, forcing them down your throat, swallowing past the lump you didn’t want to feel.

You hated feeling like this. Fragile. Useless. Weak.

The door creaked open a few minutes later. Tommy returned with a glass of water in one hand and a small bottle of pills in the other. He moved without saying a word, sitting gently beside you on the bed, one hand brushing your back before handing you the glass and meds.

“Here.” His voice was soft. “Take these. They’ll help.”

You did, your fingers clumsy and slow as you swallowed them down, your hands still trembling slightly. You didn’t say anything– not because you didn’t want to, but because if you tried, the tears would spill over.

Tommy must’ve seen it– the way your jaw clenched, the way your throat worked around the ache.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. He just moved closer.

Then, without a word, he shifted, toeing off his shoes before easing against the headboard. His arm slid behind your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest, the weight of him beside you grounding something fragile inside you. You didn’t resist. You couldn’t. You let yourself fall into the warmth of him, your head resting just beneath his collarbone.

His free arm curled around you, protective and unshakable, holding you like he could will the pain away just by being near. You could feel the soft rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, his heartbeat a steady rhythm you could anchor yourself to.

One hand began to move, gentle, soothing, stroking slow circles along your scalp, easing the tension in your skull. He tucked his chin against your forehead.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

The pain was still there, a dull throb behind your eyes, a heavy ache woven through your body, but it was quieter now. Less sharp. Muted beneath the warmth of his embrace, the steady beat of his heart, the way his fingers never stopped moving, grounding you with every touch.

You breathed in the scent of him, smoke, earth, linen, and let your body relax, inch by inch, into the shape of his.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, voice rough with something soft and aching. “You’re alright.”

And finally, slowly, your breathing began to even out. The weight behind your eyes grew heavier, the edges of the room fading into shadows.

The last thing you felt before sleep pulled you under was the slow press of his lips to your temple.

…

You woke with a gasp.

For a moment, you weren’t in Tommy’s bed– you were back there.

Campbell’s weight pressing you down. His breath against your ear. His hands on your skin. The darkness closing in around you, suffocating.

Your body jolted upright, a strangled sound caught in your throat as your chest heaved. Your hands scrambled for something, anything, to hold onto, to ground yourself. The sheets tangled in your legs, the shadows in the room unfamiliar in your haze of panic.

Your heart pounded so violently it hurt. You could still feel him– still smell him. Your fingers flew to your throat, like you could wipe the memory off your skin.

But then reality settled in.

You blinked a few times, letting your eyes adjust to the low light. Tommy’s bedroom was dark now, lit only by the faint glow of the moon slipping through a crack in the curtains. The spot beside you was empty. Cold.

Tommy was gone. You sat up carefully, testing your balance. The dizziness and pain had faded. It was still there– a faint pressure, a dull hum at the base of your skull, but it was nothing like before. Manageable. Bearable.

Your legs ached as you stood, your body moving slow and cautious, but you were steady. Padding toward the door, you noticed the soft flicker of light spilling from downstairs, the low sound of papers shifting, something faint and familiar.

You followed it. Step by step down the hallway, fingers trailing the banister, until you reached the study. Tommy sat at his desk, bathed in the soft amber glow of a desk lamp, sleeves rolled up, a half-burnt cigarette between his fingers. Papers were scattered in front of him, some kind of ledger open, though he didn’t seem to be reading it, just staring, lost in thought.

He heard you before he saw you, the subtle creak of the floorboards, the softness of your footsteps.

His head lifted instantly. “You alright?” he asked, his voice low.

You gave a small, quick nod. “I’m okay.”

He studied you for a moment, eyes scanning your face like he didn’t quite believe it until he saw it himself.

Then, he nodded once, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Good.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him, cigarette still burning between his fingers. His eyes didn’t leave you, as if he needed to keep checking, keep confirming you were really standing there– upright, breathing, whole.

You hovered in the doorway for a second longer, unsure why your heart was beating so fast. Maybe it was the silence. Or the way his gaze softened just slightly when he looked at you.

Then, slowly, you crossed the room.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. Your bare feet padded quietly over the rug, and you made your way to him like you always had, drawn to the place where he was, even when it felt unfamiliar.

Tommy moved his chair back just a little, enough to make room as you neared.

Without asking, without a word exchanged, you settled down on the edge of the desk beside him, knees brushing his thigh.

His eyes flicked down to your legs, then back up to your face– searching, still cautious, like he wasn’t entirely sure if you were okay.

“Pain’s better?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You nodded. “Yes.”

He nodded slowly in return. His hand drifted lazily toward your knee, fingers curling there gently, not gripping, just holding. Something in the weight of his touch made your breath catch in your chest.

Neither of you spoke for a moment. Just the low crackle of the cigarette. The soft rustle of the pages on the desk.

You glanced down at his hand on your knee, and then back to his face. “When did everyone go home?” you asked softly, your voice still a little hoarse.

Tommy’s eyes softened slightly. “A bit after you went upstairs.”

You hesitated, chewing lightly on the inside of your cheek. “Were they upset? That I… left early?”

He shook his head. “Not upset. Just concerned.” He gave your knee a gentle squeeze. “I told them not to bombard you. Said we should do dinner next week. Shows how much they bloody listen to me.”

You smiled faintly, though a flicker of guilt still sat behind your ribs.

“Why didn’t you stay in bed?” you asked softly, your voice still rough around the edges but steady enough.

Tommy’s thumb brushed lightly across your skin before he replied, eyes flicking away toward the desk for a moment. “Had a few things to handle,” he said simply. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Tommy leaned back slightly in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “Figured I’d get a few things sorted before everything caught up with me.”

You studied him for a moment, the faint creases in his brow, the weariness beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders still hadn’t fully relaxed.

“Like what?” you asked softly.

His gaze returned to yours, and for a moment, he hesitated, like he wasn’t sure how much of it you actually wanted to hear. “Letters from Jarvis,” he said eventually. “He’s been pushing back on some of the territory deals. Thought I’d sort it before it became a mess.” His mouth twitched faintly in distaste. “Also had to make sure Moss got paid what he’s owed. Last thing I need is another rat turning on us because he didn’t get his bloody bribe.”

You sat quietly with the weight of his words for a moment, then glanced back toward the desk, toward the scattered papers he clearly hadn’t touched in a while.

“Why did you owe Moss?” you asked gently.

Tommy’s fingers paused against your knee. He didn’t look at you right away, his jaw ticked slightly, his eyes flicking instead toward the cigarette burning between his fingers.

You watched him hesitate, that familiar shift in his expression when he was choosing his words carefully, when there was something he didn’t want to say but knew he couldn’t avoid.

Then your heart sank just a little.

“He knew where I was,” you said.

Tommy’s eyes finally lifted to yours. He didn’t answer at first, but he didn’t need to. The flicker in his gaze said everything.

You swallowed hard, the pieces clicking into place.

Tommy exhaled through his nose, low and slow. “He overheard Campbell running his fucking mouth. He didn’t come forward until the second night. Said he needed a deal before he gave me anything.”

“And you agreed to that?”

“I did.” His voice was flat, controlled.

You forced a shallow breath into your lungs, tucked the feeling deeper, and managed a faint, fleeting smile.

“Well,” you murmured, trying to keep your voice steady, “you can always dock it from my wages once I’m back behind the bar.”

It was meant to be a joke– something light and easy, a way to lift the weight just a little. But Tommy didn’t smile. His expression didn’t shift or soften.

“I’d have given him more,” he said simply, his voice low and firm. “Ten thousand. Twenty. I’d have given everything I had if it meant getting to you faster.”

Your smile faltered. You looked down again, throat tightening, your eyes drifting back down to your hands in your lap. That same heaviness returned, the kind that had crept in and settled beneath your ribs since the moment you woke up in that hospital bed.

You pressed your palms together, knuckles tight, eyes blinking a little too fast against the sting behind them.

Tommy was watching, of course he was. He saw the shift in your expression, the way your shoulders tensed, the way your mouth pressed into a thin, quiet line.

You forced a shallow breath into your lungs, tucked the feeling deeper, and managed a faint, fleeting smile.

“I should let you get back to work,” you said quietly, rising slowly before he could respond.

Tommy’s eyes flicked up to you, concern tightening his brow. “You don’t have to go.”

“I know.” You smoothed your hands over your arms, suddenly cold. “I just… I think I’m tired.”

You weren’t sure what to do with the weight in your chest. Or with the mix of shame, of guilt, of how much he’d sacrificed, and how helpless you’d felt in return. But worse than that was the part of you that still ached with the memory of believing Campbell’s words, even for a moment, that Tommy didn’t care, that you’d been nothing more than a pawn in his game. You hated that you’d let it in. That you’d doubted him. You weren’t sure how to sit in that feeling and not drown in it.

And maybe a part of you was afraid that if you stayed in the room with him a second longer, it would show. That he’d see all of it: the cracks, the doubt, the way Campbell’s voice still lived in the corners of your mind.

Tommy didn’t stop you as you turned to leave.

But as you reached the doorway, he spoke, low, steady. “I’ll be up in a bit.”

You paused, just briefly, and nodded without turning back.

Then you slipped out of the room, the sound of papers rustling and a match striking behind you as he returned to his work.

Upstairs, the quiet felt heavier. And as you sat down on the edge of the bed, your hands still trembling faintly, you wondered if he could see right through you– If he could tell that no matter how normal you tried to act, how composed your voice sounded downstairs, everything inside you still felt frayed at the edges.

You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms flat against your thighs. But even then– even with clean clothes, a warm bed, and Tommy’s hands having held you so gently earlier– you could still feel it.

The ghost of Campbell’s touch.

The way his fingers had bruised your skin. The way his breath had curled against your ear. The weight of his body, the press of him, the scent of sweat and whiskey still clinging to your memory like smoke that wouldn’t wash out.

You swallowed hard, your throat thick. Your stomach churned.

You pushed up from the bed slowly, your limbs still unsteady, and padded toward the bathroom. The door creaked softly on its hinges as you stepped inside, flicking on the low light above the mirror.

And that’s when you saw it– the version of you that had survived. Barely, by the looks of it. Your reflection stared back, pale and fragile and hollow-eyed, a stranger wearing your face.

You reached for the basin, gripping the edge of the sink as your eyes moved higher, over your collarbone, your throat–

There it was. The bruising. Faint, but still there. The smudged shadows of fingers that had wrapped around your throat and squeezed. Campbell’s hands.

The air thickened in your lungs, your stomach turned over violently, and a wave of nausea curled through you so fast it knocked your knees loose. You gripped the sink tighter, gasping, the room tilting for a moment.

Your skin remembered. You could still feel it– like phantom fingerprints scorched into your skin. The bruises might fade. The wounds might close. But your body remembered, even in stillness. Especially in stillness. Your eyes slipped closed, and for a moment, you clenched your hands into fists, digging your nails into your palms just to feel something real. Something that belonged to you.

You weren’t in that basement. You weren’t on the floor. He wasn’t here.

But it didn’t matter. The echo of it lived in your body, even now.

You raised your hand slowly, fingers brushing the bruising along your throat, then dragging lower, tracing the line of your collarbones, the way your skin looked frail and unfamiliar beneath the low bathroom light. Your bones felt sharper than they used to.

The circles beneath your eyes were dark and heavy, like bruises born of sleepless nights and too many tears. You looked hollow. Sunken. Like someone who had been lost for a very long time and only just now crawled her way back to the surface.

You didn’t look like yourself.

And maybe that’s what hurt most of all, that even after surviving him, he’d still managed to take pieces of you. He’d still left his mark, not just in bruises but in the way you saw yourself now, in the way you barely recognized the person staring back at you.

Eventually, you turned off the faucet, took one last glance at your reflection, eyes tired, throat still aching, and shut off the light.

The bedroom was quiet when you stepped back in, dim and still, the weight of the day pressing heavy in the air.

You crawled back into bed, pulling the blanket up and curling toward the side closest to the wall. Your body was exhausted, but your mind refused to settle, thoughts drifting in circles, chasing the shape of shadows that still clung to your skin.

You weren’t sure how much time passed before you heard the door creak open again.

Tommy’s footsteps padded across the floor.

He didn’t speak at first, just moved about quietly, the rustle of fabric, the faint clink of metal as he set something on the bedside table. You could feel his presence behind you, the way the air shifted when he stood by the bed.

Then the mattress dipped gently beneath his weight as he climbed in beside you.

“You awake?” he asked, his voice low, barely more than a whisper.

You didn’t turn, just hummed faintly in response, eyes still half-lidded against the soft darkness.

A moment later, you felt his hand slide across the bed, finding your waist, palm warm and grounding through the blanket. He pulled you close, careful, slow, until your back was pressed to his chest and his arm wrapped firmly around you. His hand shifted, planting itself over your stomach, firm and steady, like he needed to feel you there, solid and breathing beneath his palm.

And then, gently, he pressed a kiss to the side of your neck– soft and reverent, lips brushing just below your ear, where the bruises had once bloomed.

He held you like you weren't completely broken.

You closed your eyes, breathing in the warmth of him– the press of his chest against your back, the solid weight of his arm across your stomach, the soft heat of his mouth against your neck.

For a moment, you let yourself feel it. Let yourself believe in his safety.

But it didn’t last.

In the dark behind your closed lids, Campbell’s face surged forward like a wave. The weight of his body. The smell of him. His breath against your ear. His fingers bruising your skin.

You flinched.

The memory cut like a blade through the calm, and your body tensed before you could stop it– shoulders going rigid, a wince tightening across your face as your breath hitched in your throat.

Tommy felt it immediately.

His hand on your stomach stilled. His chest pressed a little closer. “Hey,” he murmured gently, his voice quiet, warm against your skin. “What is it?”

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. You just kept your eyes closed, willing the memory to pass, trying to breathe through it.

Your jaw stayed tight, eyes still closed, and your body remained stiff beneath the weight of his arm.

Tommy’s sigh was soft, not frustrated, not impatient, just heart-worn and knowing. His hand moved slowly, brushing lightly along your neck, fingers ghosting over the spot where the bruises had once bloomed. The spot where Campbell had left a mark that went far deeper than skin.

His touch was featherlight, reverent, but it still sent a fresh wave of emotion swelling in your chest.

And then, quietly, almost like he hated himself for even asking, he spoke. “What did he do to you?”

The question hung between you, heavy and aching. There was no pressure in his voice, no demand. Just quiet devastation. Like he already knew, but needed to hear it, needed to make himself face it.

Your hands curled tighter into the blanket, breath hitching as your shoulders began to tremble.

Tommy felt it instantly. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arm around you more securely, pulling you close against him, anchoring you with the full weight of his embrace.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, voice low and certain.

Still, you didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight, your heart beating too fast. All you could do was curl into him and breathe through the storm behind your eyes.

For a long moment, he was quiet too. And then, softly, in that low, measured voice of his, the one you’d come to recognize as his way of trying to carry the weight for someone else, he began to speak.

“You know… whenever we have a big family dinner like we were gonna have tonight, Polly likes to tell stories.” He paused. “Embarrassing ones, of course. Her favorite is the one where Arthur thought he could jump the canal with a shopping cart.”

You didn’t speak, but he felt you go still. Listening.

“We were maybe thirteen. Arthur got it in his head that if he ran fast enough and hit the hill by the foundry just right, the cart would clear the canal.” A faint scoff of amusement escaped him. “Didn’t even bother with a test run. Just shoved John in it and said, ‘Hold on tight.’”

You gave a small, broken sound.

“The cart had one wheel bent, the other half-rotted through. But off they went– Arthur sprinting beside it like a madman, John screamin’ bloody murder. They hit the hill, alright.” Tommy chuckled softly. “Cart went airborne for half a second– just long enough for John to think Arthur might’ve actually done it. Then the whole thing tilted, collapsed sideways midair, and dumped him straight into the canal.”

Despite everything– despite the ache, the fear still clawing at your chest, you smiled.

“I had to haul John out of the water with a rope,” Tommy added, shaking his head. “Soaked, bruised, covered in muck– and Arthur, standing on the bank, swearing it had almost worked.”

You leaned a little more into him, the sound of his voice washing over you like comfort, like something soft and safe and far away from everything else.

You couldn’t help the breath of laughter that escaped you.

“Pol made us all eat dinner in silence,” Tommy went on, “Said we had to think about what we’d done.”

You let yourself relax a little more against him, leaning into his chest, letting the story settle into the quiet space between you like a warm blanket. The pain hadn’t gone. The memories hadn’t vanished. But for just a moment, you could breathe.

Tommy’s fingers drifted lazily along your arm, and he kept talking, quiet, low, and steady. “Then there was the time Arthur thought he could make money racing chickens behind the betting shop.”

You blinked, the absurdity of it catching you off guard.

“We didn’t have proper chickens, mind you– just two scrawny ones from next door’s coop. Painted numbers on their backs and everything.” A faint chuckle escaped him. “Didn’t get a single bet before one of them ran into traffic. It spooked one of the horses and nearly caused a cart crash.”

You gave a weak sound, half a breath, half a laugh. Tommy’s arm curled around you tighter.

“Another time, John bet Arthur he could knock the apples off the tree in the back garden by throwing a hammer.”

You blinked slowly against his chest.

“He missed. Hit Arthur square in the forehead. Swelled up like a bloody melon. Ada nearly fainted when she saw all the blood.”

You laughed again. Then, after a moment, you murmured, “You know… I can’t help but notice all these stories involve Arthur and John doing something reckless or stupid.” You shifted slightly against him, your voice softer now. “But never you.”

Tommy’s chest rose slowly behind you. “That’s because I was the one watching the mess unfold,” he said eventually, voice low and wry. “Someone had to pull them out of it.”

You huffed another faint breath of a laugh. “You mean you were the one smart enough not to get caught.”

He gave a small, amused hum, fingers brushing lightly along your arm again. “Yeah, alright. Maybe.”

Then he went quiet for a second. “Though there was that time I got stuck in a chimney.”

You blinked. “You what?”

“Mm. When I was maybe ten,” he said, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice now. “Arthur dared me to climb down the old bakery chimney near the canal. Said there was a stash of old coin tins from when it used to be a betting shop hidden at the bottom.”

You turned your head slightly toward him, incredulous. “And you believed him?”

“Didn’t believe him,” he muttered. “Just didn’t want him calling me a coward. So I climbed in. Got halfway down and couldn’t move. Covered in soot, couldn’t breathe right, legs wedged.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. “How’d you get out?”

“Arthur tied a rope around a sack of flour and dropped it down to knock me loose. It worked, but nearly knocked me out cold. Cut up my arm on a bit of rusted grate, and thought I’d broken my ankle, too.” He shifted a little behind you, arm tightening.

You were laughing now, properly laughing, your shoulders shaking. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Tommy’s smile pressed against your shoulder. “That’s what Polly said, too. She nearly had a stroke when she saw me. Covered in flour and soot, limping, bleeding everywhere. Said I looked like a chimney ghost snorting snow. Made me sleep in the barn for two nights ‘til I stopped coughing black.”

You gave a soft laugh, shaking your head faintly. “She deserves a bloody medal for keeping all of you alive.”

Tommy chuckled low against your skin, then added, lower now, just for you. “Suppose it makes sense… with all that chaos, I was bound to fall in love with someone who could patch us all up again.”

Something in your chest cracked open– soft and aching and full.

Your hand slid over his, fingers threading between his where it rested over your stomach. The silence that followed was different now. Not heavy, not awkward. Just full of everything unsaid.

And somehow… it felt easier now. Easier to let your guard slip. Easier to breathe through the fear, to name it, to admit it, because of him. Because of the way his voice had softened, the way he held you like you were something worth protecting. Because he’d broken the tension with those ridiculous stories, disarmed the storm in your chest without even trying.

You swallowed hard. “I keep thinking it’ll go away,” you said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “That it’ll stop.”

Tommy’s fingers stopped moving. He didn’t speak. He waited.

“But I can still feel it,” you continued, your throat tightening with every word. “His hands… where he touched me. I can still feel it, like it’s burned into my skin.”

His grip around you shifted, like he could hold it for you if you couldn’t.

You blinked hard, eyes stinging again. “He hit me– hard. Again and again. And he kicked me, and choked me until I couldn’t breathe.” Your throat burned. “And he just– he didn’t care. He laughed. He…” You paused, swallowing hard. “He said you wouldn’t come. That you didn’t care.”

Tommy’s fingers curled into yours, not rough, but firm– anchoring you to something solid.

“I wanted to believe he was lying,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “At first I did. But after a while, I didn’t know what was real anymore.”

There was a beat of silence– heavy, pulsing. Then Tommy’s hand moved from your stomach, sliding slowly upward until it rested along your arm, then your shoulder, then your neck.

His fingers brushed softly over your jaw, his touch light and grounding. He couldn’t see your face fully from behind, but he could feel the way your body trembled, could hear the tears in your voice even if you didn’t let them fall.

“He tried to–” You stopped, jaw clenched tight. “If John hadn’t shot him– if you hadn’t gotten there when you did… Campbell would have–”

The words stuck in your throat, sharp and burning. Just saying his name made your skin crawl. Your entire body tensed beneath Tommy’s arm, your breath shuddering in your chest.

“I just… I keep feeling him,” you whispered. “Even now. Like I can’t get him off me.”

Tommy’s breath hitched, just barely, but his hand moved gently, smoothing down your arm, then back again in a slow, calming rhythm.

His voice came low, rasped close to your ear. “He’s dead. He’ll never fucking touch you again.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes squeezing shut. “I know,” you said, but the tremor in your voice betrayed the truth. That knowing it and believing it weren’t the same. “I’m scared to close my eyes. Everytime I do, I see him.”

Tommy pressed a kiss to the side of your head. “I’ll stay right here, every bloody night if I have to… until you don’t feel him anymore. Until you only feel me.”

Your throat tightened again, but this time not from fear– just the sheer weight of how safe you felt in that moment, how desperately you wanted to believe him.

You nodded slowly, your hand slipping over his where it still rested on your stomach. Your fingers threaded through his, squeezing softly.

You let your eyes fall closed, focusing on the steady warmth of his body pressed to yours, the weight of his arm keeping you grounded. The ache inside you hadn’t gone. The shadows hadn’t vanished. But here, in his arms, they didn’t feel quite so loud.

And as the quiet settled over the room, and the world outside slipped further away, you let yourself believe that maybe healing was possible.

Maybe you weren’t broken beyond repair.

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living-in-a-box · 11 days ago

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Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 16

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 16

Chapter summary: Tommy waits by your bedside in the hospital, wracked with guilt, blaming himself for every bruise, every wound, haunted by the possibility that he almost lost you. When you finally wake, the damage is done, and though you're alive, the injuries you’ve suffered may not fade so easily.

Word count: 5k

A/N: Thank you all for sticking with me this long. I'm actually going to be so sad when I finish up this story, this has been such a good escape for me lately. All your messages and replies have seriously been making my entire day, so it's all very much appreciated. Enjoy chapter 16 & all it's angst and fluff :)

(Also, a few people have asked to be added to a tag list, I don't really do a tag list when I post, but maybe that's something I can look to do at some point!)

The car skidded to a stop, the tires screeching against the wet pavement outside the hospital.

Tommy was out of the car before it had even fully stopped, his arms locked around you, unwilling to let go for even a second.

Your body was limp in his arms, your head lolling against his chest, skin burning with fever, clothes soaked with blood and filth. You had passed out on the way here, your body slumping against his chest, your breath shallow, uneven.

He’d said your name, shaken you gently, but you never stirred. Not when he spoke softly against your ear. Not when he tucked your face against his neck and told you he was getting you out of this. And now– now, you weren’t moving at all.

Arthur was already out of the car and shouting for help, his voice carrying over the storm of Tommy’s thoughts.

Within moments, nurses and orderlies rushed out, their expressions shifting from concern to alarm the second they saw you.

“She needs a doctor.” Tommy’s voice was low, sharp, commanding, but there was something wavering beneath it, something teetering on the edge of breaking.

A nurse stepped forward. “Sir,” she reached out carefully, gesturing towards the stretcher.

Tommy didn’t move. He didn’t loosen his grip– couldn’t. His heart pounded in his chest. They wanted him to let you go. To give you up. To trust them– when he had no trust left to give.

“Sir, please. Step back.” The voice was firm, urgent. But the words barely registered.

All Tommy could see was your face– drained of color, bruised, unconscious in his arms. And when the nurses moved in, hands reaching for you, he jerked his shoulder and knocked one away, his elbow nudging another aside as he twisted, keeping you tight against his chest.

The nurses stumbled back, startled. One of them raised their hands cautiously.

“Sir, if you want her to live, you have to let us do our jobs.”

Tommy grimaced. Because if he let go– if he let them take you, then he had nothing left but hope. And hope wasn’t enough.

Suddenly, someone grabbed his shoulder, hard.

“Tom–” Arthur’s voice was firm, but not unkind. “Let ‘em take her. They’re the only ones who can help her.”

Tommy’s breath hitched, his grip unwavering.

“I left her before– she needs me,” he muttered, his voice barely more than a rasp.

Arthur exhaled sharply, his hands digging into Tommy’s arms. “Right now, she needs a doctor, Tom. You’ll be waitin’ for her soon as they’re done. We all will.”

Tommy’s jaw locked, his chest rising and falling too fast.

“Christ sake– look at her,” Arthur pressed, his own voice cracking slightly. “You can’t fix this, Tom.”

The words cut deep. But they weren’t wrong. And Tommy knew it.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. Then, slowly, he loosened his grip. The second his arms unraveled from around you, the nurses took you, and the moment your body left his hands, it felt like something inside him ripped apart. The air vanished from his lungs. A sharp, visceral pain tore through him. Something he couldn’t name. Something he couldn’t stop. He staggered forward– instinct, refusal.

But Arthur was there in an instant, shoving him back. “Tommy, let her go. Let her go.” His brother’s voice was low, urgent.

Just then, another car pulled up. The familiar sound of tires skidded against the pavement. Tommy barely registered it, his mind still fixated on your disappearing form. The car door swung open, and John climbed out, his coat still damp from the rain. He took one look at Tommy, his shirt covered in dirt and blood. Then he looked at Arthur and the scene unfolding in front of them. “Jesus Christ.” His breath came sharp. “Is she– ?”

Arthur turned, exhaling hard through his nose. “They’ve got her. She’s inside.”

John’s jaw ticked, his eyes darkening.

And just like that, the waiting began.

…

Hours passed. Tommy wasn’t sure how many. Time felt irrelevant.

The hands of the clock on the hospital wall moved, but the world outside didn’t exist beyond the walls of the waiting room.

He sat unmoving, elbows on his knees, jaw ticked, staring at the floor. His cigarette burned low between his fingers, the smoke curling toward the ceiling, forgotten.

John and Arthur were still there, though their restless pacing had slowed. Polly had arrived not long after, her face like stone, her presence heavy with unspoken concern. Ada sat beside her, arms crossed, her leg bouncing restlessly.

Esme had shown up at some point, hovering near the back with John, arms folded tightly, expression unreadable. Conversations flickered between the others, low murmurs filling the space, though none of them spoke directly to Tommy.

“Doctors are taking too fucking long,” John muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

Arthur exhaled sharply, restless, agitated. “Shoulda’ found our own doctor.”

“She was our bloody doctor,” Esme scoffed, arms still folded tightly, expression unreadable.

The words hung in the air, sharp and cutting. John’s jaw tightened, his shoulders tense. He didn’t look at Esme, but she wasn’t wrong.

Polly, sitting rigidly in her chair, pressed her fingers to her temple. “We wait. That’s all we can do.”

A beat of silence. Then Arthur let out a harsh exhale, pacing again, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck’s sake.”

Esme leaned forward. “Where was she?”

Arthur exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Old textile mill. Near the canal.” His voice was still raw, like saying it out loud made it real all over again.

Polly frowned, crossing one leg over the other. “It’s a fucking miracle we found her at all.”

Arthur nodded slowly. “Stuffed in a basement. No light. No heat. No way out.” He huffed.

Esme shook her head. “Jesus. And Campbell?”

Arthur shrugged. “Where we left him.”

“Six feet under.” John rolled his neck, exhaling. “I’m glad that fucker’s dead. I hope he suffered.”

Arthur scoffed. “It wasn’t nearly enough.”

Esme arched her brow. “Not enough? What more do you want?’”

Arthur shook his head, but his lips twitched. “You didn’t see her, Esme,” he muttered, voice tight. His pacing slowed, and for the first time since they arrived, his anger dimmed, just slightly, not gone, just simmering beneath the surface. “You didn’t see what that bastard did to her.”

Esme’s arms were still folded tightly, but something shifted in her expression. She had seen plenty of violence. Plenty of cruelty. But there was something in Arthur’s tone, in the way his jaw clenched like he was grinding his teeth to dust, that made her pause.

John exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. “Well, at least it’s done. Campbell’s gone.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Still gotta deal with Moss, though.”

Arthur grunted. “Fuckin’ right, we do.”

Esme’s brow lifted. “Moss?”

John nodded. “He was the one who tipped Tommy off.”

Esme scoffed. “And what does he want for that favor?”

John smirked, but there was no real amusement behind it. “Just a nice bag of cash and protection from Campbell’s ghost.”

Arthur huffed, crossing his arms. “Like we needed another bloody deal on our hands.”

Polly, who had been silent, finally spoke. “We’ll deal with it,” she said, her tone flat.

John leaned back slightly, rubbing his jaw. “Doesn’t change the fact we owe the bastard.” He exhaled sharply.

Arthur grunted. “Right. And what we really need right now is another fucking problem.”

“That’s not what’s important right now,” Polly replied.

The conversation continued, their voices flickering between grumbling and reluctant acceptance.

But Tommy still hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t even moved. His elbows were still braced against his knees, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white.

Ada noticed before the others. Quietly, she stood and moved to sit beside him– close, but not intrusive. His suit was stiff with dried blood, his hair unruly. His hands looked like they had been clenched into fists for hours.

Ada sighed softly. After a moment, her voice came soft, measured. “Tommy.”

He didn’t look at her– didn’t even acknowledge her.

Ada pressed her lips together, watching him carefully. “You need to eat,” she said quietly. “Change your clothes.”

Nothing.

Ada studied him for a long moment, her voice even softer now. “It’s been eight hours, Tommy.”

Still, he didn’t move. She swallowed, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled against his knees like he was holding himself together with sheer force of will.

“You need rest,” she murmured. “Even if it’s just for a little while.”

For a moment, it seemed like he wouldn’t react at all. But then, he inhaled sharply and held it. Just for a second. Just long enough for her to see it. She saw the way his jaw tensed harder, how the muscles in his throat tightened, and the smallest tremor rippled through his fingers.

And then, without a word, he put his head in his hands, not before Ada caught the faintest glisten in his eyes– gone before anyone else could notice. But she saw it. And she didn’t say anything. She just reached out, placed a gentle, steadying hand on his back, pretending she didn’t feel the way he silently trembled beneath her touch.

The hours stretched on, slow and suffocating.

Outside, the night bled into morning, the city stirring with the first signs of life, but inside the hospital, time felt frozen.

Tommy hadn’t moved. Ada stayed beside him.

Arthur and John had shifted between pacing and sitting, muttering under their breaths, then falling silent again. Polly had remained still as stone, unreadable, though her fingers occasionally twitched against her knee, betraying her tension. Esme had eventually left, tasked with checking in on Carl and Finn, who’d both been left with the maids.

The not knowing was unbearable.

Until finally, a nurse appeared in the doorway, her uniform crisp, her expression calm but focused. Every head in the room snapped up. Tommy was on his feet before she spoke.

“She’s stable.”

A breath, a collective exhale of tension, relief, fear still tangled within it.

“But,” the nurse continued, her gaze flicking between them, “her injuries are severe.”

Tommy’s jaw locked. “How bad?”

The nurse inhaled slowly, glancing at the clipboard in her hands.

“Several broken ribs, extensive bruising, and lacerations across her body.” She paused, looking up. “What we’re really worried about is the head injury. It’s significant, looks like blunt force trauma. There’s swelling. She regained consciousness briefly but was disoriented.”

Tommy’s fingers curled into fists.

“She’ll likely experience lots of confusion, dizziness, headaches, probably some nausea,” the nurse went on. “We’re monitoring her closely for any signs of further complications.”

John exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face.

Arthur rubbed his knuckles together, muttering, “Fucking bastard.”

Polly nodded once, her voice even. “And what now?”

The nurse adjusted her clipboard. “She needs rest. No sudden movement. Limited stress. We’ll keep her under observation for the next twenty-four hours before making any further assessments. But as of right now, I’d say she needs to stay here for at least the next few days.”

Tommy swallowed. “Can we see her?”

The nurse hesitated. “One at a time.”

Ada exhaled through her nose, glancing at Tommy. “Go on, then.”

John nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ll wait.”

Tommy didn’t need to be told twice. Without another word, he moved, his strides purposeful, sharp, following the nurse down the corridor. The hospital smelled of antiseptic and old floors, the harsh fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Each step felt too slow– too far– too much distance between him and you.

Finally, the nurse stopped outside a door, her expression careful as she turned to him.

“She’s resting,” she said, lowering her voice. “She’s in and out, disoriented from the head trauma. But she’s stable.”

Tommy gave a curt nod, his jaw tight.

She held his gaze for a moment, as if considering whether to say something more. Then, finally, she stepped aside, pushing open the door.

And then, he saw you. Laid against white sheets, looking smaller than you should have been, bruised and broken but breathing.

The breath left his chest.

A heavy wrap covered the side of your head, darkened slightly from where the wound had bled through. The rise and fall of your chest was shallow but steady.

You were alive.

He barely registered the nurse slipping out of the room, leaving you alone with him.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. He just stood there, staring, as if trying to grasp the reality of how close it had been. How close you had been to never waking up.

And how, if that had happened, it would have been his fucking fault.

The thought slammed into him with the force of a bullet, knocking the breath from his lungs. Because this, all of this– The blood. The pain. The bruises staining your skin. Every last bit of it was on him. Because he had been the one to drag you into his world. To put you in Campbell’s line of fire. To make you a pawn in a game that should have never involved you.

And if you had died in that basement, if you had taken your last breath alone, in the dark– Tommy wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to live with it.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, his whole body tensed, burning.

Then, slowly, carefully, he took a step forward. The chair beside your bed scraped against the floor as he pulled it closer, the sound sharp in the otherwise silent room. He sat down heavily, his body tired but too wound up to feel it.

For a moment, he just watched you– took you in. He studied the way your face, usually so full of life, was still and sunken, marred by bruising along your cheekbone– deep and dark from where Campbell and his men had struck you.

Your lips were cracked, dried blood at the corner of your mouth. There was discoloration along your throat, faint but there– a reminder that someone had pressed their hands where they never fucking should have been.

His jaw tightened. Slowly, carefully, Tommy reached for your hand and gathered it in his. Your fingers were cold, your knuckles scraped raw, bruising curling along your wrists from the cuffs.

The weight in his chest pressed harder.

He had done this. He had let this happen.

And now, all he could do was sit there, watching you, waiting, praying to whatever cruel God had spared you that you’d wake up.

…

The world swam in and out of darkness.

Shadows bled into light. Light bled into pain.

There was a throbbing sensation, searing pain that split your skull in two. Your head pounded so violently it felt like the walls were closing in– like something inside you was breaking apart.

You tried to breathe, tried to move, but everything was too much. Your body was too heavy. Your skin was too cold. Your stomach lurched.

A strangled gasp tore from your throat as your fingers searched blindly, reaching for something– anything– but all you found was air.

Suddenly, your hand flew to your head, clutching at it, desperate, trying to hold it together. Because it felt like it was splitting open. Like something inside your skull was cracking apart, splitting down the middle, a fault line giving way beneath unbearable pressure.

It was blinding, searing, suffocating. A hammer pounding behind your eyes. A blade carving through the base of your skull, dragging fire down the back of your neck. Every pulse of blood felt wrong, like it was trying to push through shattered bone, through bruised, swollen tissue.

The pressure built with every ragged breath, the world around you spinning so violently it felt like you were being dragged under, drowning in your own body.

A strangled whimper escaped before you could stop it. You squeezed your fingers tighter against your scalp, as if somehow, somehow, you could stop the way it felt like it was caving in.

It just kept building, climbing, twisting into something unbearable. And then, a wave of nausea crashed into you.

Violent. Overpowering.

Your stomach lurched so suddenly you barely had time to turn before your body gave in. Before you could even try to take a breath, you heaved and vomited, your body convulsing with the force of it, the sharp motion sending a fresh surge of agony tearing through your skull.

A deep, radiating pain that made you gasp, made your chest seize, made the world tilt even more.

It felt like you were falling.

Until suddenly, you felt a pair of cool hands.

Soft, firm, grounding. They found your temples first, brushing along the edges of your face, soothing, steadying.

And then, a hand cradled the back of your head– like it was holding your skull together for you. The touch was firm but careful, supporting your weight as you felt a forehead press against yours.

The smell of whiskey and smoke, of earth and something distinct filled your senses.

“I’m right here, love.” A rough, warm murmur, pulling you back from the edge. “I’ve got you. You’re alright.”

Your breath hitched– your chest rising too fast, too sharp, but his grip stayed firm.

In the distance, other voices flickered in and out.

“She needs something for the pain.”

“Someone get the doctor–”

The words were just background noise, muffled and far away.

But the sound of his voice was close, it was here. And the warm weight of his presence, settled the worst of the panic clawing at your ribs.

The pain was still there, it was fucking unbearable, but the fear? The fear lessened.

His forehead still pressed against yours, his grip firm, anchoring you.

You whimpered, your fingers weakly gripping at his shirt. You could hear him, but you couldn’t see him.

“Breathe, love.” His voice was warm, grounding. “Just breathe. That’s it.”

Your body trembled violently beneath his touch, but his hold didn’t waver.

“I know it hurts, sweetheart. I know.” He pulled you closer, just slightly, just enough. “You’re safe, yeah? I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

His breath was warm against your cheek, his words soft but firm.

You latched onto it all– let his presence consume you. So when the darkness came again, pulling you under yet again–

All you could hear was Tommy.

All you could smell was Tommy.

All you could feel was Tommy.

And what a wonderful thing to know.

…

They kept you asleep for two days.

The doctors said the head injury was worse than they thought– that you had swelling in your brain. You’d woken up days before, screaming. Thrashing. Vomiting. Sobbing.

The moment your eyes had snapped open, panic had ripped through you, wild and uncontrollable.

All he could do was hold you down– cup your face, and murmur that everything would be alright. He had no idea if that was true, or if he was lying through his teeth just to comfort you. But he had never felt more helpless in his entire fucking life.

He couldn’t take away the pain, couldn’t erase what had been done, couldn’t change a fucking thing. And for a man like him– that was worse than anything.

So, he did the only thing he could do: he stayed.

Because if you woke up again– if you woke up screaming, or crying, or terrified– He’d be there.

After a while, the nurses allowed more than one visitor. Tommy thought it was more for his own sanity than anything else, but he didn’t question it.

Polly was the first to visit. She entered quietly, her movements soft, deliberate.

She moved to your bedside, her keen eyes scanning over you, taking in every bruise, every bandage, every sign of the suffering you had endured.

A deep, quiet sigh left her lips. “My poor girl.”

Then, she reached out and took your hand.

Tommy watched from his chair in the corner as Polly held it gently, her thumb brushing over your knuckles, slow and steady. She murmured something, soft words, barely audible. A quiet prayer, maybe. She stayed like that for a while, her other hand patting yours lightly, a mother’s touch, something firm and grounding, even as you remained unconscious.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she released your hand. And then, she turned and walked over to Tommy.

“I know what you’re thinking. I know you’ve been sitting in this room, stewing for the last twenty-four hours. I understand you’re angry, I know you’re hurting. But this was not your fault, Thomas."

Tommy’s jaw tensed immediately. His fingers curled into his palms, but he didn’t say anything.

Polly waited. She wasn’t asking for a response. She was just stating the truth as she saw it. When the silence stretched too long, she sighed.

“Sometimes I think you forget I raised you. I know how you think.” Her gaze flickered toward you. “And I know what’s going through your head without you having to say it.”

Tommy exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head, but Polly wasn’t finished.

“This happened because of Campbell. Because he was a sick, twisted bastard, not because of you.”

Tommy’s stare was dark, glassy with something unreadable.

“You can sit here and blame yourself, waste away in this chair, punish yourself for something that was never in your hands, or you can move on and focus on how you’ll help her when she wakes up.”

His throat tightened.

“Because she’s going to need you, Thomas,” Polly said, her voice softer now.

A beat of silence. Then, Tommy finally spoke.

“I should’ve stopped it.” His voice was hoarse, heavy with exhaustion and something deeper.

Polly shook her head. “You did. You stopped him from killing her.”

Tommy swallowed hard, his fingers twitching against his knees. “I shouldn’t have let her work for me in the first place. I should’ve kept her away.”

Polly sighed. “I hate that she ended up caught in the middle of this mess. I hate that she ended up hurt. But you and I both know you couldn’t have kept her away, even if you tried.”

She reached over, squeezing his hand once before letting go.

“She loves you. Just as much as you love her. And she was meant to come into your life, and you were meant for hers.”

Tommy didn’t move.

Polly tilted her head as she studied him carefully, watching the war raging behind his eyes.. “You need to sleep, Thomas.”

He let out a short breath through his nose. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” she murmured. Polly stood, smoothing down her skirt. “But you can’t keep going forever.”

She let her gaze drift to you one last time before giving Tommy’s shoulder a firm pat.

“I’ll be outside,” she said. “If you need anything.”

And then, she left. The door clicked shut, the quiet settling in around him like a heavy weight.

Tommy inhaled, slow, deep. He dragged a hand down his face before leaning back into the chair, exhaling.

The hours blurred.

Tommy wasn’t sure how long he sat there, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest, waiting for some sign that you were coming back to him.

At some point, John and Arthur had come in. Neither of them stayed long. John had hovered at the door at first, arms crossed over his chest, before stepping closer, muttering something like, “You’re tougher than all of us put together, love. You’ll pull through.”

Arthur had been quieter. He’d stood at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets, looking at you for a long moment. Then, with a sharp exhale, he muttered, “We’ll take care of everything, Tom. You just focus on her, yeah?”

Tommy barely responded.

A nod. Maybe. A grunt at best.

Then they left him to it.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when Ada came in next. He only realized she was there when the chair beside him scraped against the floor as she sat down.

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to. She was quiet at first, just like Polly had been. Then, finally, “Tommy.”

Nothing.

She sighed. “You know she wouldn’t want this.”

His fingers curled against his knees. “Want what?”

Ada arched her brow. “You, sitting here, wasting away, waiting for her to wake up like that’ll somehow change things. They’re keeping her asleep on purpose. You can afford to slip home for an evening.”

His jaw ticked. “She might not wake up.”

Ada’s gaze softened. “She will.”

Tommy exhaled slowly through his nose, shaking his head.

“I know you, Tommy,” she continued. “And I know you’re blaming yourself.”

His throat felt tight.

“You think if you’d done something different, this wouldn’t have happened.”

He didn’t respond.

“But it did happen,” she said softly. “And you being here, tearing yourself apart over it, isn’t gonna change that.”

Tommy let his head dip, pressing his fingers to his temples, his exhaustion creeping into every inch of his body. Ada watched him carefully, her brows furrowed just slightly.

Then, she sighed. “Tommy, you need to go home.”

His fingers twitched, but he didn’t lift his head.

“Not forever, you stubborn bastard,” she continued. “Just long enough to change your clothes, maybe sleep for an hour– hell, take a fucking bath.”

Tommy exhaled slowly through his nose, shaking his head.

Ada tilted hers. “You think she wants to wake up to you sitting here looking like a ghost? Smelling like a walking ashtray?”

Still, nothing.

She leaned in, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “Tom, if she wakes up and the first thing she smells is you right now, she’s gonna leave you.”

A small, tired huff of air left Tommy’s nose. It wasn’t quite a laugh. But it was close enough.

Ada caught it. Her lips twitched. “There it is. That’s the first reaction I’ve gotten out of you in two bloody days.”

Tommy finally lifted his head, rubbing his jaw, shaking his head.

At last, he sighed. “Fine.”

Ada looked surprised for half a second before she masked it with a smug grin.

“Me and Polly will stay with her the whole time.”

Tommy grumbled something under his breath as he pushed up from the chair.

“She’ll be fine, Tom. Go home.”

He hesitated, casting one last glance at you.

Then, without another word, he turned and left.

…

Consciousness came in slow waves.

It wasn’t violent like before, or a drowning, suffocating pull into agony.

Just… slow.

Your head still ached, a dull, steady throb behind your skull, but it wasn’t blinding, or even unbearable.

And when you blinked against the dim light of the room– you realized that you could see again.

A slow, shaky breath filled your lungs.

The blurry haze that had suffocated you before was gone.

Your vision wasn’t perfect– a little hazy at the edges, the room slightly too bright, but it was there. You exhaled softly, letting your gaze wander, taking in your surroundings.

You weren’t in the basement.

You were somewhere safe.

A hospital, maybe.

The sheets beneath your fingers were soft, clean. The air was cool, crisp, tinged faintly with antiseptic.

A sharp contrast to the damp, suffocating stench of blood and stone that had clung to you for days.

Your gaze shifted slightly. A figure sat in the chair beside your bed, her legs crossed, fingers idly fidgeting with a loose thread at the hem of her sleeve.

Ada’s dark hair was pulled into a loose, messy knot, her brows slightly furrowed in concentration as she twirled the thread between her fingers.

You swallowed, your throat dry, hoarse. The movement caught her attention.

Her head snapped up, eyes locking onto yours. “Holy shit.”

She was on her feet in an instant, moving closer, eyes scanning your face.

Her voice softened. “You’re awake.”

You swallowed again, voice rough when you finally rasped out, “I think so.”

A small, shaky exhale left Ada’s lips. Then, her expression shifted, softer, but still firm. “How are you feeling?”

Ada’s voice was softer now, steady but careful, as if she was trying not to startle you. You swallowed against the dryness in your throat, grimacing slightly.

“Like I got hit by a train.”

Ada huffed out a short breath. “Yeah,” she muttered. “You look it, too.”

You gave a weak, tired smirk. Your body still felt heavy, weak, sore all over. Your ribs ached, deep bruises throbbing beneath the bandages. The dull throb in your head was still there, lingering behind your skull like an echo of something much worse.

Ada shifted beside you, reaching toward the bedside table.

“Here.” She grabbed a glass of water, guiding it toward you.

You tried to lift your arm, but the effort was exhausting. Your muscles trembled, too weak to hold the weight, and before you could drop it, Ada sighed and leaned in, pressing the glass lightly to your lips.

“Alright, alright. Just sip.”

Cool water touched your tongue, soothing the rawness in your throat. You sighed in relief. Ada pulled the glass away, setting it back on the table before looking at you again.

Her arms folded, her brow furrowed slightly. And then, her expression softened.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” she said quietly. “Everyone’s been so worried.”

Your chest tightened. There was something about hearing it– knowing that they had been waiting, that she had been waiting. That you had been missed.

You cleared your throat, voice quiet. “How long?”

She exhaled, leaning back in her chair. “Two days.”

Your stomach dropped as the weight of it settled in.

“Where’s Tommy?”

Ada scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Home, finally. Only because I convinced him that if you woke up to him smelling the way he did, you might leave him.”

Something small, warm flickered in your chest. For the first time in a long time, you managed a weak, tired smile.

Ada grinned. “He should be back soon. You alright if I go get Polly? She’s been waiting, too. Think she might kill me if I don’t go tell her you’re awake.”

You gave a small nod, but the movement made your head swim. Ada noticed immediately, her expression flickering with warning.

“Oi,” she leaned in, eyes narrowing. “Don’t go passing out on us again before I’m back, yeah?”

You huffed a breath, half amused, half exhausted. “I’ll do my best.”

Ada rolled her eyes, shaking her head, but there was relief in the gesture, in the teasing, in the fact that she could even joke with you at all.

She pushed up from the chair. “Alright. I’ll be right back.”

You murmured something incoherent in response, exhaustion tugging at you again, but Ada was already moving toward the door.

As she slipped out, the room fell quiet again.

Your body still ached, your head still throbbed, but you hoped the worst of it had passed.

You were here.

You were safe.

And before you could dwell too much on any of it, the door opened again. And the second Polly’s eyes landed on you, her whole expression softened.

Relief. Pure, unfiltered relief. “Oh, love.”

She hurried to your side, brushing your hair back, resting a hand against your cheek, checking you over like only Polly Gray could.

The second her fingers grazed against your cheek, something inside you uncoiled. Polly had that effect. She didn’t rush, didn’t overwhelm. Just watched you carefully, studying every inch of your face, her eyes sharp, assessing.

“You gave us all a fucking scare, love.”

You swallowed. “Sorry.”

Polly huffed, shaking her head. “Don’t be stupid.” She pulled the chair closer, settling into it like she’d done it a hundred times already.

And knowing Polly, she probably had.

Her fingers lingered against your temple, just barely ghosting over the bandages before she pulled away. “How’s your head?”

You shifted slightly, but the movement made your stomach churn. “It’s alright,” you lied.

Polly raised a suspicious and knowing brow.

You sighed. “Hurts like hell.”

Polly nodded like she’d already known the answer before she asked.

“They’re keeping a close eye on you,” she murmured. “You were out for a long time.”

You exhaled softly, closing your eyes for a moment.

“He wouldn’t leave,” she continued. “We had to force him to go home, just for a few hours.”

You swallowed hard. Something thick settled in your chest, pressing against your ribs. Polly must’ve seen it, because her expression softened.

“Won’t be long now,” she murmured. “He’ll be back soon.”

You nodded again, slower this time, realizing just how much you craved Tommy’s comfort.

Polly watched you carefully. She could see it, the way your shoulders tensed, the way you blinked a little too fast, the way your fingers curled weakly into the blanket.

She sighed, leaning forward slightly. “He just about tore the whole fucking town apart looking for you, love.”

Polly’s voice was soft, but there was weight behind it.

“Campbell was dead the second Tommy realized you were missing. He just didn’t know it yet.”

You swallowed, your throat tight.

Polly tilted her head, studying your face. “I know he doesn’t always show it,” she murmured. “Not the way you might want him to. But Thomas Shelby doesn’t tear the city apart for just anyone.”

Your fingers twitched. Polly reached over, patting your arm gently.

“He cares for you. More than you know.”

Your chest tightened as the guilt settled deep. Because for two days in that basement– you had let yourself wonder if Tommy had cared at all. You had let Campbell’s words sink their claws into you.

Before you could respond, the door was swinging open.

Polly glanced over her shoulder. Then, she turned back to you, her expression unreadable.

“I’ll give you two a minute.”

And with that, she stood, stepping aside for Tommy to step into the room.

Polly gave him a small nod as she passed.

Then, she was gone.

Your fingers curled into the blanket, grip weak but trembling. You wanted to say something. But before you could, Tommy moved.

Slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

Then, all at once, like he couldn’t stop himself. He pulled the chair up right beside your bed. He sat down, leaned forward, his elbows bracing against his knees, and finally his eyes met yours.

And you saw everything: the rage. The exhaustion. The guilt. The relief.

Tommy’s eyes didn’t leave yours. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, his hand absently rubbing at the edge of his jaw as he studied you.

Then, finally– his voice low, careful, steady. “How’s the pain?”

You swallowed, throat raw. “I’m fine.” Your voice came out hoarse, weak, unconvincing.

Tommy’s eyes didn’t move from yours. “Don’t lie.”

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t sharp. It was quiet. Steady. A simple truth.

Your breath caught, fingers curling into the blanket. “It hurts.”

Tommy nodded once. “Where?”

You hesitated, your chest feeling like it was caving in. “Everywhere.”

A slow, sharp exhale pushed through his nose. His jaw ticked, just slightly, his fingers tapping against his knee. “Your head?”

You gave a weak nod, trying to fight the tears burning behind your eyes. Tommy’s gaze flickered up toward the wrap along your temple, his expression darkening. His hand twitched, like he wanted to touch, to check, to fix it. But he didn’t.

“Your ribs?”

Another nod.

“They’ll keep you here another night. Maybe longer.” His voice was still calm, but there was something tighter underneath it now. “You need to rest. Let the doctors–”

You never heard the rest of his sentence. Because somewhere, deep in your chest, something cracked. Your ribs ached with the effort to breathe through it, to stay in control, to keep from falling apart. But the walls were crumbling.

The pressure, the exhaustion, the sheer weight of everything you had endured– it all caved in at once. Your shoulders tensed, then slowly, slowly, they collapsed altogether. Your spine curled, your body folding in on itself, like you could somehow physically contain everything building inside you. But you couldn’t.

A sharp breath hitched in your throat, and then, the first tear spilled over. Once it started, you couldn’t stop it.

The dam broke.

A shudder wracked through you, and then another. You clenched your jaw, tried to hold back the sob, but it clawed its way free, raw and broken. Your hands shook violently, curling into the fabric of the blanket, clinging to something, anything.

Before you could even process it– before you could think, before you could be embarrassed, before you could try to pull yourself together– his hand was on your face. Warm, steady, thumb brushing away a tear as fast as it fell. His other hand wrapped gently around yours, his fingers curling tight, grounding you. You squeezed your eyes shut, but that didn’t stop the tears.

Every emotion you had buried, every moment of fear, every second spent in the dark, waiting for death– it all tore out of you at once.

You barely registered Tommy sliding onto the bed beside you, his shoes still on the ground, his arm slipping around your waist.

But when he pulled you close, when he tucked you against his chest, holding you tight, you moved without thinking. Your body curled into him, seeking warmth, seeking comfort, seeking the only thing that had ever made you feel safe.

His arms wrapped around you fully now, one hand cradling the back of your head, his fingers stroking slow, steady circles along your hip.

Tommy never moved– never loosened his grip. Not once.

He just held you.

And when the cries finally faded into weak, hiccuping breaths, when the exhaustion became heavier than the grief, you finally spoke.

Voice trembling, barely above a breath. “I was scared, Tommy.”

Tommy’s fingers froze. His grip on you tightened, just slightly. Then, he let out a quiet exhale. “I know, love. I know.”

You could still feel the ache in your ribs, the pulsing throb in your skull, the lingering, invisible grip of Campbell’s hands on your skin– But you also felt the warmth of Tommy’s body against yours. You felt the weight of his arms, solid, steady, unmoving and the soft, rhythmic push and pull of his breath against your temple.

You exhaled, slow and shaky, the last remnants of tension uncoiling from your muscles.

And finally, you let your eyes flutter shut.

…

Darkness.

Heavy, suffocating, endless.

You couldn’t move.

Couldn’t scream.

The weight of him was crushing, smothering, pinning you down.

Campbell’s breath was hot against your ear.

His voice– low, taunting, cruel. "I like it when you struggle."

You fought, thrashing, clawing, screaming–

You woke up screaming.

Your body jerked upright, ribs screaming in protest, lungs gasping for air. The room around you was dark. Too dark. Panic seized your chest.

No. No, no, no–

Blackness.

A sob ripped through you, shaking, broken.

Your breathing grew sharp, too quick, too shallow, and then, the pain hit.

White-hot, blinding.

Your head pounded, unbearable, relentless, splitting open like a hammer against bone.

You let out a strangled gasp, hands flying to your head, gripping, clutching, desperate to hold yourself together.

Everything spun.

Your stomach lurched violently.

You thought you might vomit, your chest heaving, body trembling, and then–

Hands.

Warm, firm hands gripping your wrists.

“Hey, hey, hey–” a familiar voice rang out. You kept your eyes shut, clenched tight.

“It’s not real,” you cried.

But his grip was steady, strong. It felt real.

He was pulling your hands away from your head, prying your fingers loose.

“Look at me.” His voice was low, urgent.

You shook your head, whimpering.

“Open your eyes, love.”

A firm hand cradled your face. Thumbs skimming over your cheeks, grounding you.

Your breath hitched.

“You’re safe. Open your eyes.”

Finally, you did–

And there he was. Tommy.

His stormy, blue eyes were edged with worry and rimmed with exhaustion.

You let out a weak, shuddering sob. Your body trembled. “Tommy–”

Your voice broke. More tears streamed down your face.

“It hurts–”

Your hands weakly grasped at his arms, grounding yourself in the solid weight of him. He nodded quickly, his hands never leaving your skin.

“I know.” His voice was softer now, urgent but gentle. “I know, love. You’re alright. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

The room was spinning. The pounding in your head grew worse.

More voices– somewhere distant.

A nurse, maybe. “She needs more pain medication,” she said.

You barely registered the pinch of the needle above the pulsating sensation in your skull.

Suddenly, Tommy was climbing into the bed beside you. He pulled you against his chest again, the same way you’d been laying when you first fell asleep. You cradled your head against him.

His fingers threaded into your hair, slow, gentle, rubbing soothing circles at your temple.

“Shh,” he cooed. “The meds will kick in soon. Breathe.”

Your body melted into him, trembling, exhausted.

“Don’t leave,” you whispered weakly, voice barely above a whisper. “Please– stay.”

Tommy’s hand never stopped moving, never stopped grounding you. His grip on you tightened, firm and unshakable.

“I’m right here, love,” he murmured. “Not going anywhere. I got you.”

His voice was low, steady, certain. It wasn’t a promise, nor a reassurance.

It was a fact.

Your breath hitched, but the sobs had faded. The pounding in your head was still there, but his touch softened the edges of it, dulled it into something manageable.

The warmth of him, the unwavering, solid presence of him, was enough to pull you back from the edge. Your fingers curled weakly into his shirt, gripping it like an anchor.

His lips pressed against your hair, just briefly, just enough. And slowly, finally, the tension in your body began to ease.

You exhaled.

And when your body began to surrender to exhaustion, when your eyes fluttered shut again, there was no more doubt.

You weren’t in the basement anymore.

You weren’t alone.

You weren’t lost.

Tommy was holding you. And he wasn’t letting go.

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living-in-a-box · 11 days ago

Text

Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 15

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 15

Chapter summary: Campbell's final plans for you take a brutal turn, pushing you past the edge of suffering and pain, but a last-ditch effort from Tommy leads them closer to finding you before it's too late.

Word count: 5k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language, mention of torture and vague, nonconsensual sexualization and touch.

The darkness was thick, heavy, and suffocating all at once.

Time had blurred. Minutes had turned into hours, which turned into days. You had no idea how many.

All you knew was the ache deep in your bones, the fire in your ribs every time you breathed too deep.

The cold from the stone floor had seeped into your skin, into your veins, leaving you shaking despite the fever you were fairly sure was burning beneath your skin.

Your wrists throbbed from the cuffs, your head pounded relentlessly, and every inch of you ached, bruised and raw.

Your body ached. Your head pounded. Your resolve was slipping.

But worse than the pain was the waiting.

The silence.

The moments in between when Campbell wasn’t there– when you were left alone with your own thoughts.

What if Tommy wasn’t coming at all?

You tried to push the thought away– tried to hold onto something, anything. But the longer you sat in the dark, the more your grip began to slip.

The exhaustion was too deep now, sinking into your bones. Your head lulled slightly to the side, the weight of it too much to hold up.

The bruises, the cuts, the ache deep in your ribs– it all blended together. Pain had been a constant companion for days now, so much so that it felt like a part of you. Like breathing. Like blinking.

You could barely tell where one wound ended and another began.

Your thoughts blurred. Memories twisted. The shadows in the corners of the room moved if you looked at them too long. The cold stone beneath you began to feel softer, warmer. Your lashes fluttered, too heavy.

If you just closed your eyes for a moment…

Just a moment.

The dark wasn’t so bad.

It was quiet here. It pressed down on you, seeping into your skin, curling around your ribs like a vice. The air was thick– too thick. Damp. Heavy with something bitter, metallic.

Smoke?

Your vision was swimming, the blurred edges of the room warping into something else entirely. Dirt. Packed thick beneath your fingernails. Filling your nose, your mouth. The damp walls of the cellar blurred, shifted– it became stone. Then it became the earth.

Somewhere, in the distance, you heard the muffled crack of an explosion. The ground beneath you shuddered, and for a moment, your breath hitched as panic clawed up your throat.

No, not here. Not again.

Your fingers twitched against your restraints, but the movement only sent a sharp, splintering pain up your arms. You barely registered it. Your mind was already slipping further, dragging you back.

Back to the war.

Back to the moment everything collapsed.

The tunnel shook violently, a deep, shuddering roar of earth breaking apart. Someone screamed, sharp, panicked, before it was swallowed by the dust.

You were thrown against the dirt wall, your ears ringing so loud the world became muffled. Your lungs burned, choking on the thick air, dust coating the inside of your throat.

Move. Get up. Get to them.

Your body responded before your mind caught up, your hands blindly searching through the darkness, the only source of light now a dim, flickering lantern hanging from a bent nail in the wooden beams overhead.

Men were buried.

Buried alive.

You could hear the groans, the coughing, the desperate scraping of fingers against dirt. But one voice cut through it all.

Sharp. Ragged.

“Get the fuck off me–”

Your stomach lurched as you stumbled toward the sound.

And then you saw him.

You didn’t know it at the time, but Thomas Shelby laid, pinned beneath a collapsed beam, his face half-covered in blood and dirt. His breaths were ragged, sharp, labored.

A different kind of panic surged through you.

You dropped to your knees, hands immediately pressing against his shoulder, assessing the damage. “You’re alright,” you murmured, voice hoarse. “Just hold still.”

Tommy let out a rough, breathless laugh. “Not sure I’d call this alright, love,” he had said.

Your fingers trembled as they ghosted over his side, pressing against the warmth of blood soaking through his uniform. You forced yourself to focus.

The tunnel was still shifting, the wooden supports creaking under the pressure, dirt spilling from the cracks above. You didn’t have time.

A sharp snap jolted through the air– another support beam groaning, giving way.

You grabbed the front of Tommy’s uniform and shook him. “We have to move. Now.”

He gritted his teeth, trying to push himself up, but the pain hit him fast. His body tensed, his jaw locking, his breath coming too sharp.

Your hands pressed against his ribs, trying to still him. "You're bleeding."

He let out a low huff, the ghost of a smirk curling at the edge of his lips despite the blood smeared there. “Well, you’re the nurse.”

The tunnel groaned again.

Your heart hammered. You didn’t think. You just moved. Hooking your hands under his arm, you heaved, ignoring the burning in your muscles, the way the earth beneath you shook as more dirt rained down.

Tommy let out a strangled groan, his body half-collapsing against you as you pulled him free.

And then, a deafening crack. The lantern snapped from its post, shattering against the ground. The sounds of earth groaning, collapsing. The shouts of men, frantic and panicked. The crushing weight of dirt swallowing everything whole. And the tunnel went dark.

Suddenly, you felt a sharp, stinging slap across your cheek.

Your breath hitched, your body tensing on instinct, but your limbs were too weak to react. The pain in your ribs burned, sharp and unrelenting, as your vision swam back into the dimly lit room. Not in France.

Campbell loomed above you, his lips curling into something cold. “Still with me?” he murmured, tilting his head.

You blinked slowly, your mind still half-stuck somewhere else, the sound of collapsing dirt still echoing in your ears.

Campbell hummed, brushing his fingers against his coat. “Thought I lost you there for a moment.”

Your stomach churned. Because for a brief second, you wished he had.

Your body felt like it was failing. Not just from the beatings, not just from the bruises blooming beneath your skin like storm clouds. Something deeper. Hot. Burning.

Every breath hurt. A dull, twisting agony settled in your ribs, making it harder and harder to fill your lungs. Campbell was still speaking, still taunting, but his voice was distant, warped like sound traveling through water.

Your head lolled slightly against the back of the chair, your vision flickering at the edges.

A fever. Possibly an infection.

Campbell sighed, stepping closer, his shadow stretching across the dimly lit room. “Oh, dear,” he murmured, feigning concern. “You don’t look well.”

You forced yourself to swallow, but even that made your throat ache.

He crouched slightly, examining you like an animal on display. “You can feel it, can’t you?” His voice dipped lower. “The way your body is starting to shut down?”

Your stomach twisted, nausea rolling in sharp waves. You clenched your jaw. You wouldn’t answer him.

Campbell hummed, as if your silence only amused him further. “I have to say, you lasted longer than I expected. I’ll give you that.” He straightened, adjusting his coat.

Campbell let out a soft tsk. “And here I thought we had more time together.” He leaned down, his voice dropping into something mockingly gentle.

A sharp wave of dizziness crashed over you. The room tilted. Your ribs screamed in protest as your body lurched, a strangled sound escaping your throat as you gasped for air.

Campbell smirked. “Oh, my dear,” he sighed, shaking his head. “That doesn’t sound good at all.”

He tapped two fingers against your bruised cheek, his touch mocking, cruel. “What do you think? A few more hours? Another day? What will give out first?” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with delight. “Your body or your mind?”

Campbell sighed, as if bored. “Not much left in you now, is there?” His fingers drifted to your pulse point, pressing just enough to feel the weak, rapid flutter beneath your skin. “I wonder how much longer this little heart of yours will keep going before it just–”

Suddenly, a sharp thud echoed from outside the door, causing Campbell to still.

His head tilted slightly toward the sound. Another noise. A shuffle of boots. A low murmur.

Campbell exhaled through his nose, straightening his coat as he stepped away from you. His eyes flickered toward his men– two of them, positioned near the walls.

One of them, a burly man with a scar splitting his lip, turned toward the door, brows furrowing. “You expecting someone, sir?”

Campbell shook his head. “No. Go look.”

The two men near the wall exchanged a look before nodding, moving toward the door with practiced caution.

The cold air rushed in as one of them cracked the door open, peering into the dimly lit corridor beyond. You could hear the faint shuffle of movement outside, something just out of reach, something not quite right. They slipped through the door, their shadows stretching long against the floor.

A long, tense silence followed. But it was quickly interrupted by a gunshot– sharp, violent, deafening.

Your sluggish, fevered mind barely processed it before another one followed.

Then another. Closer this time. Shouts erupted from the corridor– panicked, frantic, then cut short.

Campbell’s entire posture stiffened. His gaze flicked toward the door, then to you, calculation spinning behind his eyes.

Then, he moved.

Before you could react, before your battered body could even try to resist, his hand fisted in the collar of your shirt and yanked you forward.

A sharp, searing pain exploded in your ribs, your legs buckling under the weight of your own body as Campbell hauled you out of the chair.

A sharp, metallic click rang in your ears, the sound of a revolver being cocked. And then, the cold, unmistakable press of steel against your ribs.

He barely let you find your footing before dragging you toward the back entrance.

“Change of plans,” he muttered, voice tight with something dark. “Walk,” he ordered, his grip tightening, the barrel of the gun digging harder into your side.

Your boots scraped against the floor, legs barely cooperating as he kept moving, his grip unyielding, brutal.

Your vision swam, the fever weighing you down like molten iron, but you understood.

He wasn’t going to let you be found.

He was taking you with him.

The hallway was long and dimly lit, the flickering light from an overhead bulb casting warped shadows against the damp, crumbling walls.

Campbell dragged you forward, his grip iron-tight, fingers digging painfully into your upper arm as he pulled you through the corridor. Your legs barely cooperated, heavy and sluggish beneath you, the fever turning your body into something unresponsive, something weak.

You stumbled, your boots scuffing against the floor again. He let out a sharp snarl of frustration.

“Keep up,” he snapped, jerking you forward so hard your vision blurred.

You tried– tried to force your feet to move faster, tried to keep pace, but your body wasn’t working the way it should, your ribs screaming with every step.

You tripped again, your knees nearly buckling. Campbell let out a curse and yanked you forward.

“Useless,” he hissed. “Absolutely fucking useless.”

Before you could brace for it, he shoved open the back door, the damp night air crashing into you like a wave of ice.

The alley beyond the mill was narrow and dark, the air thick with the smell of wet brick and sewage. The second your boots hit the pavement, your legs gave out. Your body collapsed to the ground, hitting the cold stone with a dull thud. You barely had time to breathe before Campbell’s rage erupted.

“Get up!” he bellowed, his voice sharp, enraged, echoing off the alley walls.

You tried to push yourself up, but your arms trembled violently beneath you, the fever and exhaustion dragging you down.

A shadow loomed over you. Then, a hand fisting in the back of your shirt. He yanked you up with brutal force, your body jerking limply in his grip. The sudden motion sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you, the fever making your vision swim.

And then– a blinding, shattering pain as Campbell slammed your entire body against the back alley wall. Before you could brace yourself, your head snapped whipped to the side, colliding with stone.

A sharp crack echoed in the side of your skull, white-hot agony splintering through your mind. Your body seized, the impact sending a violent shockwave through you. For a moment, everything flickered. The world blurred, warped, then tilted sideways.

Your ears rang. The taste of copper flooded your mouth. Somewhere in the distance, Campbell was saying something. Laughing. Mocking. But you couldn’t focus. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even tell if you were still upright or if you’d already started to collapse.

A slow, creeping warmth trickled down your temple, thick and wet– blood.

Campbell was on top of you before you could even react, his weight pressing you down into the pavement. The fear was worse than the pain.

“Ah,” Campbell murmured, his breath hot against your face, his hand pinning your shoulder down hard. “So this is how you want to play it?”

Your chest rose and fell too fast, panic clawing at your throat. And your head– God, there was a brutal, relentless pounding throbbed at the base of your skull, each pulse like a hammer driving nails into your brain.

The nausea curled hot and sour in your stomach, your vision tilting, shifting, like the ground itself was unstable beneath you.

He let out a low, breathy chuckle, shifting his weight deliberately against you.

“You always were stubborn,” he murmured, voice mockingly soft as he pressed you further into the ground.

Then, his other hand moved. Lower. Fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt.

And then– a sharp, violent tear. The sound ripped through the night, a shock of cold air hitting your skin as the fabric split beneath his grasp. You struggled, grasping at the ground, your body desperately trying to fight back, but he was too strong.

His knees caged you in, his weight an immovable force. The smell of whiskey and sweat and gunpowder filled your nose.

And then– you felt him. Hard. Pressing against you.

Your lungs seized. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

No.

A wave of sickening nausea rolled through you, worse than the fever, worse than the pain. It was raw, visceral, a deep, twisting horror in your gut. Panic exploded in your chest, clawing at your ribs, making your breath come in short, desperate gasps.

You thrashed– screamed. But exhaustion and sickness kept you pinned.

Campbell just laughed. His weight shifted, his hips pressing harder against you, grinding down just enough for you to feel the shape of him through his trousers.

Your stomach turned.

“Oh, love,” he murmured, his fingers dragging slowly, deliberately over exposed skin. “You should’ve learned by now, I like it when you struggle.”

A choked sob caught in your throat. “Get off of me!” you screamed, with everything you had left.

Campbell leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Fight all you want,” he murmured, grinding his hips against yours again, pressing you further into the ground. “No one is coming for you.”

Your body betrayed you, freezing, seizing up. Your heartbeat hammered against your ribs, a wild, erratic drumbeat of terror and helplessness, but you couldn't move. Your vision blurred, spots of darkness creeping into the edges.

You wished for it.

For death.

For an end.

Because this– this was worse. Because this was the moment that would break you.

And if Tommy really wasn’t coming, if no one was coming–

You didn’t want to survive it.

As Campbell’s hands pressed harder, as his hot breath ghosted against your throat, as he ground his body against yours– for the first time since the war, you prayed.

Not for rescue.

Not for mercy.

For the darkness to take you before he could.

But fate had other plans.

Because the gunshot rang out before the darkness could take you– A brutal, deafening crack ripped through the night.

Campbell’s entire body jerked violently.

Blood splattered warm across your face.

The force of the bullet sent him reeling, his body twisting as he collapsed onto the ground beside you, his weight finally off you.

You sucked in a ragged breath, chest heaving, trying to scramble away, but your body barely cooperated. Your ribs screamed in protest, your vision swam, and you barely managed to drag yourself back a few inches, your torn clothes hanging off your trembling frame.

Your breath was still coming too fast, too shallow, panic coiling tight in your gut.

John Shelby stood at the edge of the alley, gun still raised, his chest rising and falling sharply.

“I got him!” he yelled back toward the street, voice urgent, shaken. “I fucking got him!”

Then, John’s eyes landed on you, and his expression shifted into a look of pure horror.

Before you could react, Campbell let out a wet, guttural wheeze. He was still alive. He lay on his back beside you, blood pooling beneath him, his lips parting as he sputtered, a faint, broken chuckle escaping through the pain.

Your body shook, too weak to move further, too weak to do anything but stare. Your head throbbed violently, the relentless pounding deep in your skull making it hard to think, hard to breathe. Warmth trickled down your face, sticky and thick, pooling at your brow, slipping into your lashes. Blood.

Yours. His.

You couldn’t tell whose was whose at this point. But it blurred your vision, staining everything red, the world twisting in and out of focus.

Campbell gurgled beside you, sputtering, his own life spilling out onto the ground.

And then– you vaguely heard another pair of footsteps. Your vision swam as you tried to process what was happening.

But Tommy moved past you without a word, his boots splashing through Campbell’s blood. And then– he was on him. Tommy dropped to his knees, straddling Campbell’s chest, and the first punch landed hard.

A sickening crack. Then another. And another.

Campbell’s head jerked violently with every hit, his body already too weak to resist, but Tommy didn’t stop.

His knuckles split, blood smearing across his skin, but the pain didn’t register. Only rage. Only vengeance.

Punch after brutal punch, his body moving with sheer force, years of fury and hatred pouring into every single blow. Campbell coughed, his chest rattling, but the laughter was gone now.

Tommy didn’t stop– he didn’t hear the voices shouting behind him.

Just like you didn’t hear John moving toward you. Not until you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder.

The instant his touch met your skin, you flinched violently, every nerve in your body igniting with panic.

“Get off me!”

Your voice was wrecked, hoarse, barely more than a raw, desperate gasp.

Instinct overruled recognition. It didn’t matter who it was. Didn’t matter that the danger was gone.

All your body knew was fear.

John immediately pulled back, his hands up, his face twisted with something between concern and horror.

“Hey, hey, it’s just me,” he said quickly, voice low, soothing. “It’s just me, yeah?”

But your body wouldn’t stop trembling. “J-John?” you whispered.

He nodded slowly, causing your breath to hitch. It was a sharp, ragged sound. John stared at you– helpless. Because even though he was right there, even though you were safe now, you sure as hell didn’t feel safe.

Before you could apologize for shouting at him, Arthur was rushing over, breath coming heavy, taking in the scene before him in one sharp glance.

Tommy was still on top of Campbell, still swinging, his knuckles covered in blood, Campbell’s and his own.

Arthur didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the back of Tommy’s coat and hauled him off.

“Enough, Tom. He’s gone!” Arthur barked, his grip tight, unyielding. “It’s done! It’s fucking done!”

Tommy struggled, still burning with rage, his body coiled so tight he was shaking.

And then, through the chaos, he heard you just as you let out a choked, broken sob.

The sound cut through him like a blade. His body stilled. And for the first time since he entered the alley, he turned.

The second Tommy saw you, bleeding, trembling, gasping for breath, everything else ceased to exist.

He rushed to you, dropping to his knees so fast the gravel scraped against his boots.

You were barely sitting up, your arms shaking under your own weight, your ripped clothes hanging loose. Your chest heaved, every breath sounding like a struggle, your eyes wide, unfocused. And your head– a relentless, pounding ache throbbed behind your eyes, radiating from the gash at your temple, the warmth of fresh blood slipping down the side of your face.

The pain was blinding, suffocating, like your skull was splitting open with every ragged breath you took.

The world tilted, the edges blurring, but then– Tommy’s hands found your face, cradling it gently, his thumbs skimming over your bruised, bloodied skin, his own fingers shaking.

“Hey, hey, hey,” his voice was low, urgent, breaking at the edges. “Where are you hurt?”

You just stared at him. Mouth parted. Silent. You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t form words. Couldn’t breathe through the wreckage of everything that had just happened.

Your body shook violently.

Tommy’s brows furrowed, panicked.

His hands swept lower, skimming down your arms, across your ribs. His eyes scanned you, sharp, assessing, taking in every injury, every wound, every fucking thing Campbell had done.

And then– his gaze caught on the blood trailing down the side of your face.

His jaw tightened. Gently, carefully, he reached up, his fingers threading into your hair. You barely reacted, too exhausted, too lost in the haze of pain and fever.

Tommy’s fingers found the gash hidden beneath your hairline, and when he brushed against it, you winced.

His breath came sharp, uneven. “Shit,” he murmured, his thumb ghosting over the wound, careful not to press too hard.

The blood was still fresh, still warm, mixing with the dried streaks smeared across your skin– his blood, your blood, Campbell’s blood.

He swallowed hard, his grip gentler now, soothing.

His voice softened, just slightly. “Love,” he murmured, so quiet, like he was afraid you’d break apart completely. “I need you to tell me where it hurts.”

Your lips trembled. You tried, tried so hard, but the words wouldn’t come. A choked, ragged croak escaped your lips instead. And then, you sobbed. Not loud. Not even fully. Just a small, broken sound, barely more than a breath.

And Tommy felt something inside him snap. Your sob barely left your lips before he was moving again. Carefully and deliberately, his arms slid beneath you, one under your knees, the other around your back, securing you against his chest. The second he lifted you, a sharp, searing pain tore through your ribs, and you let out a broken cry.

Tommy’s hold tightened instinctively. “I know,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair, his breath shaky, uneven. “I know. I’ve got you.”

You barely registered anything else– not the cold night air, not the distant sound of voices, not the way your torn clothes left you far too exposed.

Only him and his warmth, his heartbeat against your ear– the scent of gunpowder and whiskey and home. He tucked you closer, pressing your cheek to his collarbone, his jaw resting lightly against your temple. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice low, steady, even as his own hands trembled. “Let’s get you out of here.”

His grip never wavered as he turned toward his brothers. “Arthur, get the car around.”

Arthur nodded without hesitation, already moving, disappearing down the alley.

Tommy’s gaze snapped to John. “Get rid of the body.”

John’s face was still stricken, pale, but he gave a curt nod. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

And just like that, it was done.

Tommy didn’t wait. Didn’t look back. Didn’t hesitate. He just walked. Carrying you out of the alley, away from the wreckage, away from everything Campbell had done to you.

For the first time in two days, you were leaving hell behind.

The car skidded to a stop in the road, the tires grinding against the wet cobblestone as Arthur threw it into park.

Tommy shifted your weight in his arms and carefully maneuvered you inside the cab, one hand bracing the back of your head as he lowered you onto the seat. The second your back hit the worn leather, a sharp burn tore through your ribs.

You let out a weak, pained whimper, your fingers gripping at nothing.

Tommy grimaced. “I know, love,” he murmured, tucking his coat around you, his hands gentle despite the war still raging behind his eyes. “I know it hurts.”

His voice was soft, quiet, but his hands were steady as he pulled the car door shut beside you and settled in.

Arthur didn’t ask questions. He just pressed his foot to the gas, and the car lurched forward, pulling you both away from the alley, away from the blood, away from Campbell.

The city lights blurred past the window, but you could barely focus.

Everything hurt.

A relentless, burning pain curling under your ribs, along your bruised skin, up into your aching skull. Tommy’s hand found yours, his fingers wrapping around your weak grip.

His voice was low, firm. “I need you to stay awake, yeah?”

You blinked slowly, sluggishly. The fever was still there, your body aching, and the familiar pull of unconsciousness was beckoning, dragging you under.

Your head throbbed. The relentless pounding pulsated behind your eyes, radiating from the gash hidden beneath your hair. Everything felt heavy.

Your skull, your limbs, your chest, it was all too much.

The world tilted, the sounds around you muffled, distant, like you were already slipping away.

But then– Tommy’s fingers tightened. “Stay with me,” he said again, his voice rough with something he wasn’t ready to name.

You swallowed, tried to focus on him and breathe through the pain. But every inhale set your ribs on fire. Every bump in the road made your skull feel like it would explode.

Tommy’s jaw clenched. “Tell me what’s hurting.”

Your lips parted, but it took a moment to force the words out.

“Head,” you murmured.

His grip on your hand tightened slightly. You took another shallow breath.

“Ribs,” you rasped.

Tommy’s expression darkened. His throat worked as he swallowed. “What else?”

You were slipping, exhaustion weighing you down.

“Can’t–” Your breath hitched. “Can’t breathe deep.”

Tommy’s stomach twisted. He exhaled sharply through his nose, trying to steady himself. Trying to stay in control.

You blinked sluggishly, the movement slow, wrong. The world was fading at the edges. Shapes weren’t holding. Shadows bled into one another.

And then, the realization hit.

A choked, panicked breath left your lips, your fingers grasping weakly at his coat.

“Tommy–” your voice was small, fractured.

His hand tightened around yours. “I’m right here.”

You swallowed, struggling to get the words out.

“I–” Your voice shook. “I can’t see.”

Tommy stilled.

The words hung between you, heavy, suffocating. Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, your breath quicker now, uneven.

“I–” your fingers curled into his shirt, desperate. “It’s– it’s dark, I can’t–”

“Shh.” His hands framed your face, his thumbs brushing over your temples. “It’s alright, love. You’re alright.”

But he was shaken. You could feel it in the way his hands trembled just slightly against your skin.

Tommy’s grip on you tightened. Not hard. Not painful. Anchoring.

But it didn’t matter– because you were slipping.

Your chest tightened, panic crawling up your throat like ivy.

“Tommy,” you whispered, voice fragile, breaking. “I’m scared–”

Tommy reacted instantly. His hands left your face and slammed against the front seat.

“Arthur. Drive faster.”

Arthur, still gripping the wheel, snapped his head toward the rear view mirror.

“Tom–”

“Drive the fucking car, Arthur!”

The urgency in Tommy’s voice was razor-sharp, slicing through whatever hesitation lingered in the air.

Arthur gritted his teeth, pressing his foot down hard.

The car lurched forward, tires grinding against wet cobblestone as they sped through the streets of Birmingham.

“Where the fuck am I going?” he asked.

Tommy barely looked at him.

His gaze was locked on you, on your pale face, on the blood that hadn’t stopped dripping from your temple.

His jaw clenched. “The bloody hospital.”

“Tom–” He hesitated, throwing a quick glance his way before shifting his focus back to the road. “You just killed a bloody police officer… You really think that’s a good idea?”

Tommy’s head snapped up.

His eyes were burning.

“I don’t give a fuck if it’s a good idea.” His voice was low, dangerous, barely contained. “She needs a hospital.”

Arthur muttered a curse under his breath, but he didn’t argue.

He just drove.

Tommy held you tighter, his grip firm but careful, like he thought you might slip through his fingers if he wasn’t careful enough.

His touch was the only thing grounding you. His voice, low and steady, was just a murmur at the edge of your consciousness. You couldn’t make out the words anymore.

The pounding in your skull was pulling you under. The world was tilting, slipping.

Your eyes fluttered, your breath hitching as a deep, creeping tiredness settled into your bones.

And then– his touch. Tommy’s thumb brushed against your temple, rubbing soft, soothing circles into your skin.

A quiet comfort. A silent promise.

You focused on it– on the rhythmic motion, on the warmth of his touch, until the darkness swallowed you whole.

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living-in-a-box · 11 days ago

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Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 14

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 14

Chapter summary: As Campbell continues his torment, time is running out and Tommy is left grasping for answers. Just as his fury reaches a breaking point, an unexpected visitor arrives with some information.

Word count: 4.4k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, gore, and open wounds, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language, mention of torture and vague, nonconsensual sexualization.

A/N: I didn't imagine I'd be 14 chapters in... yet, here we are. I feel like I could write this forever, but I'm thinking maybe 4-5 more chapters? Idk?? Anyway, thank you all so much for continuing to read, thoughts, comments, and whatever else is always appreciated :)

The air in the office was thick with cigarette smoke, frustration, and the weight of time slipping through their fingers.

Tommy stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, jaw locked so tight it ached. Across from him, Arthur leaned against the desk, tapping his knuckles against the wood, restless. John sat in the chair, his knee bouncing, the urge to do something burning through him. And Polly– Polly was standing by the window, arms folded, her face unreadable, but her silence was its own kind of pressure.

Two days.

Two fucking days since Campbell took you.

Forty-eight hours of searching, questioning, threatening– getting nowhere.

The only sound was the low hum of tension until the door creaked open, and Johnny Dogs stepped inside.

“I got somethin’,” he announced, shaking off his coat, water dripping from the ends of it. The rain outside had picked up, turning the streets into a slick, black river.

Tommy’s head snapped up. “Go on.”

Johnny took a moment, rolling his shoulders like he was getting comfortable before he spoke. “That lead from Patrick Jarvis? Someone else confirmed it.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Word’s spreadin’ round the right circles. Campbell’s got a place somewhere near the old factories. A few men have seen movement– coppers that don’t look like coppers, comin’ and goin’ from one of the buildings late at night.”

Arthur pushed off the desk, his body already itching to move. “That’s it, then. We go.”

Johnny shook his head. “Not yet. We don’t know exactly which place it is. There’s a few in that area, and if we charge into the wrong one, we’ll lose our shot.” He exhaled sharply, glancing at Tommy. “But we’re close. Tommy. Real close.”

A fresh wave of tension rolled through the room.

Tommy inhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against his temple. Not close enough.

John ran a hand over his face. “We don’t have fucking time, Tom.”

“I know,” Tommy snapped, the frustration bleeding into his voice before he could stop it.

Polly, still by the window, sighed through her nose, measured and calm in a way that only made Tommy’s skin crawl. “Then use your fucking head,” she said sharply. “Charging in blind is exactly what Campbell wants.”

Arthur scoffed. “We’re supposed to just sit here, then? Have a drink while we wait for the bastard to put a bullet in her head?”

Polly’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp as a blade. “If Campbell wanted her dead, she’d already be dead.”

Arthur clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring. “So what, Pol? We just hope for the best?”

John, still fidgeting, exhaled sharply. “We’ll keep eyes on it, Tommy.”

Tommy stayed silent, his fingers twitching near the desk, eyes unfocused as he thought.

Polly’s gaze didn’t waver. “If he finds out we’re close, Campbell will move her.”

A muscle in Tommy’s jaw ticked.

Arthur swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “So what the fuck are we supposed to do, then?”

Tommy lifted his cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. Thinking. Calculating.

Then, suddenly, the phone rang.

The shrill sound cut through the silence like a blade.

Everyone froze.

Tommy’s stomach turned.

He already knew who it was.

Polly’s gaze snapped to him, her expression sharp. “Don’t answer it.”

Tommy ignored her.

He strode toward the desk, snatched up the receiver, and pressed it to his ear.

A pause.

Then, “Ah,” came the smooth, smug voice on the other end. “Mr. Shelby.”

Campbell. Tommy’s fingers tightened around the receiver, knuckles white. For a second, he didn’t speak, his breath slow, controlled. Waiting.

Then, Campbell chuckled. “Not even a hello? Where are your manners?”

Tommy’s voice was low, lethal. “Say what you’re going to say.”

Campbell hummed, as if enjoying himself. “You know, I wasn’t sure how long she’d last.”

The words curled in Tommy’s gut like a slow-burning flame, spreading, filling his lungs with heat and rage.

Campbell sighed, almost amused. “But I have to say, she’s tougher than I expected. Even when she cried for you.”

Tommy stilled.

Campbell hummed. “Not out loud, of course. Not at first. But oh, Thomas–” He chuckled. “There’s something about breaking someone piece by piece, isn’t there? The way they try so hard to be brave. The way they tell themselves someone’s coming to save them, when you know it’s not true.”

Something inside Tommy snapped.

His grip on the phone turned iron-tight, his entire body rigid as a sickening, seething kind of rage spread through his veins.

Campbell was bragging.

Fucking bragging.

“She’s bruised. Bleeding, too, of course,” Campbell continued, tone light, as if discussing the weather. “And her breathing, well, it’s a little uneven– probably from the broken ribs. But she’s holding on. For now.”

Tommy inhaled slowly, deeply, forcing the fire down.

Campbell continued deliberately. “She doesn’t say much anymore. Can barely hold her head up. Though,” he clicked his tongue. “I must admit, I expected more screaming.” A beat. “Maybe I’ll just have to push harder.”

Tommy finally spoke. His voice was cold. Deadly. “I greatly look forward to the moment I put a bullet in your fucking skull,” he murmured.

Campbell laughed.

“Oh, Thomas,” he sighed. “How I enjoy our chats.”

Then, the line went dead.

Tommy slammed the receiver down so hard the desk rattled. His breath came sharp, his rage barely contained, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “We have to fucking go–”

John pushed off the wall. “Right fucking now, Tommy.”

Polly’s voice was steady, cutting through the heat. “Go where? We still don’t know where she is!”

Tommy was breathing hard, his mind working through the haze of anger, past the urge to grab a gun and just start burning through the city until he found you.

Arthur stopped pacing, turning back toward Tommy. “Then we find out– now. He’s gonna fuckin’ kill her, Tom.” His voice was sharp, barely contained, a mirror of Tommy’s own fury.

John crossed his arms, jaw clenched. “We get more men out there, we’ve got a fucking lead. We can’t sit on this.”

Tommy’s fingers twitched at his sides, jaw locked tight. He wanted to move. Wanted to run, burn through every fucking building in Birmingham until he found you.

But Polly was right. If he went in blind, he’d be doing exactly what Campbell wanted.

“Campbell wants me to suffer,” Tommy reminded them. “He’s not going to kill her yet. Because then his fun would be over.”

The words tasted like poison in his mouth, but he forced them out, forced himself to stay level.

Arthur muttered a curse under his breath, fists clenching at his sides. “So what? We just sit around here, waiting til Campbell decides to grow a fuckin’ heart and let her go?”

Tommy exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “No.” His gaze snapped to Johnny Dogs. “I want more men on the ground. Quietly.”

Johnny’s brows furrowed, but he nodded. “How many?”

Tommy thought fast. “Enough to cover every road leading out of the quarter. If Campbell gets even the slightest sense we’re coming, he’ll move her. And if that happens, we won’t get another fucking chance.” His eyes darkened. “Make sure no one’s seen. We go in clean.”

Johnny held his gaze for a moment, then gave a firm nod. “I’ll make it happen.”

Arthur cracked his knuckles. “So, we gonna rock-paper-scissors for who gets to kill the fucker?”

“No.” Tommy’s voice was quieter now, but deadly. He turned to Johnny. “If they see anything– anything– they do not engage. They don’t move. They report back to me. This fucker is mine. Understood?”

Johnny’s expression tightened. “Yeah, I got it.”

With that, he slipped out the door, disappearing into the night.

…

Pain blurred the edges of everything.

Your body felt like one solid ache, a deep, pulsing agony that ran beneath your skin, through your ribs, down to the very marrow of your bones. Your wrists burned where the cuffs bit into your skin, your head heavy, every breath shallow and sharp.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed– hours, days? It didn’t matter.

You barely registered the sound of the door creaking open. You didn’t register the heavy footsteps crossing the room.

But the sharp, stinging slap across your cheek tore you from the haze.

Your head snapped to the side, white-hot pain exploding across your face. A strangled gasp ripped from your throat, your vision blurring before swimming back into focus.

Campbell’s smug, self-satisfied face loomed in front of you.

“There she is,” he mused, mocking delight dripping from his voice. “Thought I’d lost you there for a moment.”

You swallowed thickly, your lip splitting further from the impact, fresh blood warm against your tongue. You refused to give him a reaction.

Campbell sighed, pacing a slow circle around the chair. “I thought you’d want to know… I’ve just had a lovely chat with your little boyfriend.”

Your fingers twitched.

He grinned at your silence. “It’s such a shame,” he mused. “He really didn’t seem all that concerned with your whereabouts.”

The words slithered into your skull, venomous and deliberate.

“He didn’t bargain,” Campbell continued, voice light, casual, as if sharing idle gossip. “Didn’t try to make a deal with me.” He let out a soft chuckle. “No concern. No desperation.” He tilted his head.

A sharp pulse of nausea rolled through your gut.

Campbell crouched in front of you, dropping to your eye level, watching. Your hands curled into fists, fingernails biting into your palms.

“Uh oh,” Campbell’s brows lifted, his smirk deepening. “Did I strike a nerve?”

You kept your breathing steady, forcing your expression blank.

Campbell clicked his tongue. “He’s spent his whole life crawling out of the mud, stepping over anyone in his way. And you?” He exhaled, his breath warm against your bloodied skin. “You’re just another casualty.”

Your stomach twisted. Because you knew what Campbell was doing. He was planting doubt. He wanted you to feel alone.

Isolated.

Forgotten.

He wanted you to break.

Your breath came slow and steady, even as your ribs screamed in protest.

Suddenly, Campbell reached out, his fingers ghosted over your cheek, tracing the raw, swollen skin where he’d struck you moments before.

A sickening wave of revulsion crawled up your spine, but you stayed still. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.

His touch was light, deliberate, mocking– like he was savoring the moment, like he was testing just how much he could make your skin crawl before you broke. His thumb dragged across your cheekbone, slow and uninvited, his breath too close, too warm, too fucking smug as he leaned in, voice low and cruel.

“Tell me, darling,” he murmured. “When he’s standing over your grave, how long do you think he’ll grieve before moving on?”

The words slid beneath your skin like a blade, cold and cruel. You had sworn that you wouldn’t let him get to you. But you were exhausted. In pain. Alone. And despite every effort to hold it back, a single tear slipped down your cheek.

Campbell saw it immediately. His lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile, his thumb swiping across your cheek to catch the tear, as if savoring it.

“You poor thing,” he murmured, like a man offering pity rather than punishment.

His thumb trailed lower, lingering at the corner of your mouth, where blood had dried, cracked, and split again from his slap. “Perhaps he’ll send a man to lay flowers,” Campbell mused, his voice coated in false sympathy. “Or perhaps, by then, he’ll have found someone new to warm his bed.”

You clenched your jaw, hating yourself for the crack in your composure, hating that he’d seen it– that he was winning.

Campbell sighed dramatically, pulling back just enough to tilt his head, examining you like a man admiring his handiwork.

You swallowed, forcing down the lump in your throat, blinking rapidly to keep any more tears from falling.

But Campbell just smirked. “I must admit,” he mused, stepping back slightly, just enough to give you space to breathe– but not enough to let you feel safe. “I expected more fight.”

His gaze flickered over you, slow and deliberate. “But here you are, crying already. Over Thomas Shelby, nonetheless.”

Campbell watched you, his smirk widening, as if he were enjoying this– watching you swallow back the anger, the revulsion, the fear. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hand again.

You braced yourself, but he didn’t strike.

Instead, his fingers brushed softly against your cheek a second time, barely a whisper of contact, the touch mockingly gentle.

Your stomach twisted.

“You always were such a pretty little thing,” he mused, almost to himself.

His fingers trailed lower, down the curve of your jaw, his nails grazing your skin.

Don’t react. Don’t flinch.

But your body betrayed you– your breath hitched, your shoulders tensing just slightly.

Campbell noticed again. His smirk deepened, his fingers dragging lower, down the column of your throat. A slow, lazy path. Like he had all the time in the world. You forced yourself to stay still, forced yourself to breathe evenly, even as every inch of your skin screamed to shrink away from his touch.

Campbell hummed, tilting his head as if he were studying you, testing, seeing how far he could push before you broke.

His fingers dipped just below your collarbone.

Your chest tightened.

You focused on keeping still, not giving him what he wanted, but the nausea clawing up your throat made it harder with every passing second.

You could feel his gaze on you, watching, waiting for you to crack– for you to shrink away.

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Uncomfortable, are we?”

You forced your expression to stay blank, biting down on your tongue so hard you tasted blood.

Your skin burned where his touch had been, not from pain, but from the sickening weight of it.

“I have to say I thought about it," he continued, drawing out the words slowly, as if savoring them. "I thought about how it might be, if I took you for myself back then. Before I knew Thomas Shelby had ruined you.”

A wave of nausea rolled through you so violently you almost gagged.

He smiled like he had already won. “Pity,” he murmured, “wasting all that loyalty on someone who’ll never return it.”

Campbell let the silence stretch between you, his smirk widening as if he could feel the unease settling into your bones.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” he eventually continued, adjusting his coat as if nothing had happened. “By the time Tommy finds you, if he even bothers to look, there won’t be much left worth saving.”

He gave you one last, lingering look, and then, finally, turned toward the door.

“Get some rest, darling,” he called over his shoulder. “You’ll need it.”

Then the door clicked shut behind him.

The moment his presence was gone, the weight of everything crashed into you all at once.

Your body trembled. Your chest caved.

And before you could stop it, before you could swallow it down and force yourself to be strong, a ragged, broken sob tore free from your throat.

It hurt.

Everything hurt.

Your ribs, your face, your wrists, your lungs, every part of you ached, burned, screamed. But it wasn’t just the pain. It was everything else– the violation. The helplessness. The way Campbell had touched you like you were his to break, his to ruin, like you were nothing more than a pawn in his sick little game.

You gasped out another sob, sharp and ugly, your whole body curling in on itself as much as the cuffs would allow.

Tears streamed down your face, hot and relentless, soaking the raw, stinging skin where he had struck you.

No matter how hard you tried, the sobs kept coming, wrecking you, tearing through your chest like a wound that refused to close.

For the first time since he had taken you, the sheer weight of it all settled like iron chains around your throat.

What if Campbell was telling the truth? What if Tommy wasn’t looking for you? What if you never left this fucking room?

The thoughts came like a flood, drowning you, pulling you under. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to shut them out, trying to force them away. But it wasn’t working. Your breath came in sharp, shaking gasps, your ribs burning with the effort.

You bit down hard on your lip, trying to silence yourself, trying to hold yourself together, but the sobs kept ripping through you. The room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in, the darkness closing around you.

You had never felt so alone.

…

The office was silent, but inside Tommy’s head, it was fucking chaos.

He stood behind his desk, hands braced against the wood, his head hanging low. His fingers dug into the edge, as if that could somehow crush the thoughts in his own head before they consumed him completely.

He exhaled slowly, shaking.

This was his fault.

Every part of this was his fucking fault.

He should have kept you out of it– should have never offered you a job at the Garrison. He should have never let you get this deep in his world– should have sent you far away from Birmingham the second he realized Campbell had set his sights on you.

Instead, he’d let himself believe, for just a moment, that he could have something. That you could be safe. That he could protect you.

And now…

Now you were alone with that fucking bastard, enduring God only knows what.

Tommy growled under his breath, fingers tightening. The pressure in his chest was unbearable, a weight so suffocating it felt like it might crack his ribs open from the inside.

His foot nudged the waste basket in front of his desk, and before he could stop himself, he kicked it.

Hard.

The bin went flying across the room, its contents scattering across the floor before toppling over, crashing against the side of the wall.

The sound barely registered.

He was already pacing.

His pulse thundered in his ears, his movements sharp, restless, fucking useless.

He should be out there, hunting Campbell down, burning his entire fucking operation to the ground, tearing apart every building in the city until he found you.

But instead, he was here.

Waiting. Thinking. Doing absolutely fucking nothing.

And he hated it.

Tommy ran a hand down his face, his breath coming sharp, uneven. He stopped pacing long enough to brace his hands against the desk again, his knuckles white from the force.

Campbell had called him for a reason.

To get inside his fucking head.

To make him feel helpless.

To remind him that no matter how many moves he made, no matter how careful he was, no matter how much control he thought he had–

He could still lose.

Tommy’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

Hours passed with no word.

Tommy sat at his desk, head still in his hands, the weight of his own thoughts pressing harder than anything else. He had paced until his legs ached, smoked until the room was thick with it, but nothing, nothing, had dulled the relentless pressure in his ribs.

The sudden knock on the door was sharp, urgent.

Tommy’s head snapped up just as John pushed inside, still damp from the rain, his face set in something tense. Serious.

“Someone’s outside,” John said, voice clipped. “Says he wants to talk to you.”

Tommy sat back, rubbing his fingers over his jaw, his thoughts snapping into sharp focus. “Who?”

John shook his head. “No idea. Bloke spoke to me through the cracked window like he was a fuckin’ spy, I couldn’t see him. He wouldn’t say who he was.”

That made something in Tommy’s gut tighten.

“Could be a setup,” John muttered, watching Tommy carefully.

Tommy exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. “Or it could be the fucking lead we need.”

John shifted on his feet, restless. “What d’you wanna do?”

Tommy stood, grabbing his coat. “Bring him in.”

John hesitated for half a second. “I tried that. Said he wants to speak outside. In private.”

That made Tommy pause.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

A meeting outside, in private– it didn’t sit right.

If this was a setup, if this was Campbell pulling the strings again, he wasn’t about to walk into it blindly.

John let out a slow breath. “You want me and Arthur to follow?”

Tommy thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No.” His voice was low, measured. “Stay inside. Keep your eyes on the place. If I don’t come back, you’ll know where to start looking.”

John let out a humorless chuckle. “Not funny, Tom.”

Tommy ignored him.

With one last glance between his brothers, he turned and strode toward the door.

The cold air hit him instantly, sharp and damp from the lingering rain. The black motor idled near the curb, its engine humming low beneath the drizzle.

Tommy didn’t hesitate.

He strode toward it, yanked open the back door, and slid inside.

The door shut with a heavy click.

Inside, the air was thick with tobacco smoke and the scent of damp wool.

Tommy didn’t look at the driver. Didn’t look at the man sitting beside him.

He already knew.

Moss.

The corrupt bastard was hunched slightly, his face barely illuminated by the dim glow of a streetlamp filtering through the window. His fingers tapped lightly against his knee, his cigarette smoldering between them.

Tommy leaned back, his voice flat, cold. “What do you know?”

Moss exhaled, the smoke curling from his lips. “I know where she is.”

Tommy stilled. The words hit like a hammer.

He forced his expression to remain blank. “Where.”

Moss chuckled under his breath. “You know better than that, Shelby.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched. “What do you want?”

“Two things.” Moss flicked his cigarette ash out the cracked window before turning to face Tommy properly. “Cash. And assurance.”

Tommy inhaled slowly through his nose. “Assurance for what?”

Moss gave him a look. “Campbell.”

Tommy didn’t blink.

Moss sighed. “He’s had me under his boot for months– made my life a livin’ hell. I want him gone. And if I tell you what I know, I want your word that you’ll make sure that happens.”

Moss shifted in his seat, the dim glow of a street lamp flickering through the car window, highlighting the tired lines of his face. He tilted his head slightly. "He’s got it out for both of us." He let out a quiet chuckle. "But you always find a way to wriggle out, don’t you?"

Tommy finally spoke, his voice flat, unreadable. “So, let me get this straight.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearm against his knee. “You want me to put a bullet in him… so you can walk away clean.”

Moss shrugged again, but there was tension in it now. “Call it whatever you want.”

Tommy let the words settle, rolling them over in his mind.

The bastard was desperate. That much was obvious. But it wasn’t just about desperation– it was fear.

Moss knew Campbell was getting reckless.

Tommy’s jaw flexed. “You think I need any motivation to kill the bastard?”

Moss smirked, just slightly. “No.” He inhaled slowly through his nose. “I just want to make sure you do it first.”

Tommy exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face before resting his forearm on his knee, his sharp gaze locked onto Moss.

“How much?”

Moss tilted his head. “What?”

Tommy’s fingers twitched. “The fucking money. How much do you want?”

Moss hummed, pretending to think, but Tommy could see it– the greed flickering beneath the fear. He wasn’t just a desperate man trying to survive; he was a man trying to get whatever he could before running.

“Five thousand,” Moss said finally.

Tommy scoffed, shaking his head. “You must think I’m a fucking idiot.”

Moss’s smirk faltered slightly, but he held his ground. “It’s a fair price.”

Tommy’s eyes darkened. “Two.”

Moss let out a humorless chuckle. “You really think you’re in much of a position to be negotiating here? I’m not taking two, Shelby.”

Tommy hummed, dragging a cigarette from his coat pocket, rolling it between his fingers before striking a match. “What I think,” he muttered, lighting the end, letting the smoke curl slow through the cramped air, “is that you’re just another rat trying to climb out of a sinking ship.”

Moss exhaled sharply, shifting in his seat. “Three, then.”

Tommy took a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke

A beat passed.

Then another.

Finally, he gave a sharp nod. “Three.”

Moss relaxed slightly, but only just.

Tommy tapped the ash off his cigarette, his eyes unreadable. “You’ll get your fucking money. Now tell me where she is.”

Moss didn’t hesitate. He pulled a folded slip of paper from his coat pocket and handed it over.

“Basement of an old textile mill,” he muttered. “Near the canal. Off the books. No station. No records.”

Tommy took it, fingers tight around it.

Moss exhaled. “Better go quick, Shelby. I overheard Campbell talking today. I don’t think he’s been very kind to her, if you know what I mean.”

The air in the car shifted.

Tommy inhaled slowly through his nose, the only outward sign that he’d registered the words.

Inside, though, the fire was raging. He knew what Campbell was like. Knew how he worked. Every second he was here, every second he let this sniveling rat talk, was another second you were alone with that bastard.

Moss must have noticed the change in his expression because his amusement faltered.

Tommy leaned in, his voice quiet, lethal.

“If I find out you’ve fucked me on this, Moss,” he murmured, “I’ll carve out that smug fucking tongue and nail it to my desk. Do you understand?”

Moss swallowed hard, nodding quickly.

Tommy held his gaze a second longer, then pushed the car door open, stepping out into the cold. The rain hit his skin, slicing through his coat, but he barely felt it. His mind was already moving. Already calculating.

He strode back toward the betting shop, his breath sharp, controlled.

For the first time in days, Tommy felt a semblance of peace. Because by the end of the night, Campbell wouldn’t live to see the fucking sunrise.

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