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everythingelseisextra · 9 months

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Work

Part Eleven: You're Like Me

Description: After a miscommunication, Tommy apologizes in the only way he knows how. Warnings: Language, self-hatred, Thomas being inept at communication Word Count: 2439 Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @ttaechi @weaponizedvirtue @majesticcmey @optimisticsandwichgladiator @zablife @princesssterek @mm0thie @callsignvenus @ay0nha @mgdixon @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @look-at-the-soul @globetrotter28

You are brave. You insist on this in the cab, and you insist on this when you walk up the driveway, and you insist on this when you knock on the door. You have courage. You think this as you settle in the dining room, at the edge of the long wooden table, the high ceiling and portraits and pale yellow lamps and grandfather clock making you small, insignificant. You speak with strength. You tell yourself this as Tommy walks in, checks on you, and all you can do is nod when he asks if you’re ready. You are worthy of him. This one is the hardest for you to master, the hardest for you to hold onto. You remind yourself this as you hear him greet her, hear their footsteps in the hallway.

When she appears in the doorway, all drawn back shoulders, piercing eyes and impeccable fashion, you lose all sense of yourself. You stand and bow your head, as if a queen has appeared in Arrow House, which in a way, she has. Like Tommy’s, her eyes flick over you like a cat watching a bird, that intensity and deep rooted sense of predatory analysis. She walks right up to you, and you resist the urge to step back, to remove yourself from her aura.

“Polly Gray.” A cigarette dangles from her lips and her outstretched hand is steady, stable, while the one you reach out to shake with shakes slightly. When you don’t respond with your name, her thin smile widens slightly and she tilts her head. “And you are?”

You open your mouth to speak, to give her something, anything, and nothing comes out. Frustrated and embarrassed, you look to Tommy for help, but he gives the slight shake of his head, barely moving it. You’re on your own.

Polly glances back at him, amusement in her sharp brown eyes. “Does she talk?”

“When she wants to.” His answer is immediate. His gaze flickers between the two of you, so neutral that you can’t read what he thinks, whether there’s shame in those deep blue eyes. Whether he regrets choosing you, out of all the women in Birmingham and England and Warwickshire.

“Now would certainly be the time.” She looks back at you, expectant. “Have you not got anything to say for yourself?”

You bite your lip, gaze still on the ground beneath you, desperately wanting to speak, to be strong, to be the person you want to become. You know you can, know you’re capable, but your voice gets stuck and your heart freezes and your lungs stop working and suddenly you’re frozen in a panic you feel in your body but not in your mind.

“I think speaking is a base-level necessity, Thomas.” She turns and starts the long walk out of the room, slowing as she passes him. “You could do better.”

“You don’t even know me.” You step forward, dragging your gaze off the ground to stare at the back of her head. She’s paused, listening as your cracked and clenched voice reaches her. “You have no idea what my life has looked like, and you decide that I’m not good enough just because I can’t always get the words out?”

She chuckles and turns to face you, that reserved smile back on her lips. “That’s more like it.”

Your brow furrows. “Forgive me if I’m not as thrilled as you are.”

“Tommy told me you’d take some convincing. Worth the work, he said.” She moves back towards you, slow, languid, a panther pacing.

“Did he, now?” You shoot a look at him, and find his eyes away from you. “You planned this, did you?”

He takes a drag from his cigarette, gaze still pointedly elsewhere. “Had to. Only way to get you talking.”

“I see.” Your voice grows tight. “Was I all you expected, then, Mrs. Gray? Do I meet your expectations?”

“It’s Polly.” Her smile stays, almost threatening in its own right, proof that no matter what you say, you will not shake the ground she stands on. “You don’t need to be like that. Tommy’s been needing a good woman on his arm. Glad to see he’s found one, after how the last one worked out.”

You laugh humorlessly. It’s supposed to be a compliment, you know this, but Polly also must know that any intelligent woman wants to be more than an ornament on a man’s arm, a trophy for him to parade. She underestimates you, views you as another pretty face, and you don’t know how to prove her otherwise. She’s not to be taken at face value, either. The Shelby’s, the whole lot of them, hide beneath a facade. Arthur’s is brute strength, John’s is humor, Tommy’s is intensity, and Polly’s is charm. Ada seems to be the only exception.

“I think I do need to be like that, actually.” You cross your arms, fingers playing at the shirt you wear. “I’m stepping from one dangerous world to another. I’d rather keep my guard up, thanks.”

“Danger comes from wanting more than what you have.” She glances at Tommy, quick and sweeping. “I doubt you’ll do that.”

You’re at a loss for words. How do you explain to her that you never had the privilege of wanting more? How do you explain that you’re stuck as a child learning to crawl, and you can’t lift your head to see that others can walk? Her words point towards Tommy but squash you at the same time, making you simple and lesser.

“This is wanting more.” You look down. “This is more than I’ve ever had.”

Your vulnerability earns you silence. You think that, in their world, no one wants to admit that they’ve been hurt, that they’ve been on the ground looking up at the sky, wishing they could fly like the birds. No one wants to admit that they’re human. And you just did exactly that. After a moment, you look up at them, afraid of what you’ll see but even more afraid of what you might miss.

Polly’s eyes lock onto Thomas’. Quiet communication flows between them, something so quick that you can’t follow. Within a couple seconds, Tommy gives her a subtle nod, and she sighs. Her eyes shift back to you, searching your face for something. You swallow hard. Keep your head up, your shoulders back. Meet her eyes and let her peer into you.

“I hope you know what you’re getting into,” she says to you, her tone softer than before, more welcoming.

“I do.” You think it might be a lie. You think you’re stepping into a storm that you’ve never weathered before, thinking that you can save yourself while battling the wind.

“And you.” She turns to face Tom again. “I hope you tell her what you’re doing.”

“I do.” His eyes flick to yours, and you immediately look away. You don’t feel warm towards him at the moment, don’t feel like allowing him the privilege of silent connection.

“Alright.” She smiles faintly at you, then turns to start her walk out of the room. “Then my job here is done. See you at the meeting, Tom.”

You watch her go, your heart in your throat. You close your eyes and fall into a brief fantasy where everything is simple and everything is good. In this world you aren’t battered or bruised, aren’t scarred or scared, and you’re brave enough to speak without being manipulated to do so. In this world you know that his ‘I do’ was not a lie like yours. In this dream you hold a knife and your hand does not shake when you lift it.

Tommy clears his throat and you open your eyes and the world of your creation disappears, and you’re left with the coldness of the dining room, the emptiness of the fifty seats, all but one unoccupied. You sit back down and place your head in your hands, your elbows on your knees.

“Thomas,” you say, a little hesitant, a little scared. Now that Polly is gone, now that your own mask has dropped, there’s hollowness to your chest and a strange pulling sensation on your eyes, like you haven’t slept in days. “Am I just… work to you?”

He stays where he is, leaning against the wall to your right, his suit jacket in one hand and his cigarette in the other. As usual, he seems to be searching for something in your expression, eyes observing the subtle changes in your face like one would study a newly-discovered animal. His jaw works slightly and he looks away. “Sometimes you are. Sometimes you aren’t.”

You look down at your hands in your lap, your fingers pulling at each other until they hurt, then relaxing. “Oh.”

“Everything’s fucking work.” He gestures vaguely, voice too tense to be calm but too casual to be conflict.

“I’m not supposed to be work,” you say quietly. “I’m not supposed to be part of that.”

He pauses, dropping his arm with the cigarette to his side and furrowing his brow slightly. He opens his mouth to speak, but you stand and speak before he can.

“I need to get to the horses. I better go.” You start for the door, half hoping he’ll follow you, try to convince you to stay, but he doesn’t. He stays where he is, watching you go in silence, his brow still furrowed in that strange, almost confused expression.

You work in the orange hour of the evening, sweating and thirsty and hungry and ignoring all of it. Work, work, work, all of it a reminder that you yourself take up too much energy, that you’re a burden on those around you. You squint in the falling light and convince yourself that the extra liquid in your eyes comes from the dryness of the coming cold.

You thought that, maybe, he’d tolerate you. That his lying and stealing and cheating and all the crime that creep through his bones would balance you out. That all the pent-up anger and vulnerability and broken promises and the gentleness of your touch would make up for the fact that it was you he was looking at, you he was pursuing. You didn’t want to be saved, you wanted to feel worthy of being saved.

You’re a chore. You’re work.

You retire to your house long after the sun has set, wiping the sweat from your brow and skipping the bath to crawl into bed. You don’t close your eyes. Staring out at the stars in the sky, wondering whether you’ll ever be small enough to fit into someone’s life. You’re a broken thing, and yet, you stare out at the sky like you did when you were a child, wanting to touch the stars even if they burned you.

A few hours later, the clattering of machinery and the steady pound of horse hooves outside your house disturbs your stupor. You sit up in bed, trying to see through the haze of night. Squinting, the shape of a horse-drawn carriage comes vaguely into view. You catapult out of bed, pulling clothes on haphazardly, and your bare feet patter down on the cold wooden floor as you make your way to the kitchen. You unlock a drawer, open it, and pull out a gun, ready to defend yourself, unwilling to be a victim in your own home.

You rush out into the night, and freezing air hits your face. You’re not dressed for the cold, wearing a simple short-sleeved shirt and pants. You hold the gun up, aiming carefully at the carriage from the doorstep, waiting for someone to draw a bead on.

“Put the gun down.” Tommy’s voice calls from the carriage. You do as he says, stepping back into your house to place it back in its drawer. When you come back out, your eyes fall on a gleaming white horse, elegant and seemingly glowing in the night.

“What the fuck?” You step down onto the driveway, slowly approaching Tommy, who holds the horse’s lead rope loosely, allowing him to hold his head up high, staring out into the darkness.

“You didn’t get a horse from the track.” His quiet, irritatingly calm voice answers your question smoothly. “Figured you could use someone helping you.”

“Tommy.” Conflicting thoughts bounce through your skull. You don’t want to see him, not after what he said, but he’s brought you a horse all the way from the racetrack, something that usually costs you a few months worth of savings. You open your mouth, then close it and shake your head, not knowing what to say.

“His track name is ‘Watch Me Forever.’” He reaches out a hand to stroke the stallion’s neck. “Needs a barn name.”

“This is the gray you liked. The one with the broken leg.”

“Paid to have it fixed. A few months of recovery and he’ll be ready.”

“Tommy.” You resist the urge to punch his chest. “You can’t just do that!”

“Why not?”

“Now I’m— I’m in debt to you.” You shake your head. “You can’t do this.”

The stallion’s neck arches and he reaches down his soft pink nose to sniff at you, ears forward, eyes soft. Tommy is quiet for a moment, and all that’s heard between you is the warm breath of the horse.

When he speaks, it’s not the usual, well thought out, precisely planned phrasing. It’s awkward and rambling and, you have to admit, endearing. “Gentling a horse is work. It’s not easy. Teaches you more about yourself than it does about the damn horse. Makes you a better person; more patient, kinder. It’s— It’s work, but if I could choose between that and anything else, I’d choose the horse every fucking time. Does this make any sense?”

You stare at him, and a weight lifts off of you. “Yes. I think it does.”

His eyes search your face, soft and beseeching. “You understand me?”

“Thank you for explaining what you meant, Tom. I forgive you. I—” You hold back the cliches bubbling in your throat, trying to push you to say something too soon, too recklessly. “I understand you.”

He nods, looking as relieved as you feel. His eyes turn back to the stallion, his posture straightening, his expression moving back to something harsher, more businessman-like. “What will you call him, then?”

“I think… I think Iris is good.” You stroke his soft nose, looking at his eyes, one blue, one brown

“That’s a woman’s name.”

“It’s a fucking flower, Tom. Flowers don’t have gender.”

He shrugs. “Iris it is, then. Iris it is.”

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby #peaky blinders x reader #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders imagine #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinder imagine #tommy shelby imagine #peaker blinders fandom #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #polly gray #polly shelby

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everythingelseisextra · 10 months

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Commit to the Bit

Part One: Everything Is Fine

Part Three: Treasure The Memory

Description: Your first real meeting with Thomas Shelby does not go quite as planned. Warnings: Language Word Count: 1751 Author's Note: Each chapter will be progressively longer. PLEASE let me know what you think. Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @look-at-the-soul

You wake up a little before dawn.

The night air surrounds you, the windows open, as you sit and eat your pitiful breakfast in your pitiful kitchen, the cabinets stopping your chair from going too far back, the sink a little too close to the table. You wear the same clothes as the day before. Your body aches and your head rings from a faint hangover, and exhaustion ripples through you like chills. Through the windows, you can still see the moon, hovering above the horizon, faint in the gray light.

You leave your house before the sun is fully up. Pale light filters into the hayloft windows, giving you some sight as you open the barn doors. The horses nicker to you, expecting their grain, weaving back and forth in their stalls or bobbing their elegant heads. You mindlessly fill their buckets with each individual’s specialized diet, mind elsewhere.

Expect me tomorrow morning.

When? How would he find the barn? You gave vague directions, hoping it would deter him. And, most importantly, what would he want once he got here? You couldn’t give him anything. You barely had enough to keep yourself going, to keep the days going. You worry that, although you have nothing to give, he’ll still decide to take. He’ll come with that bold intensity you saw the night before, and you’ll find yourself trapped, invisible walls closing in, with no strength to stand up.

Horses fed, you move on to saddling and riding your first horse. A stallion, with a sweeping, arched neck and muscles filled out to perfection, chestnut coat shining. He’s your stud, and you make some money off of selling his coverings. His registered name is Speed of Fire, ironic considering he was never fast enough to race, even before his injury, but you affectionately call him Draco.

Dressage saddle girthed up, you swing your leg over his back and start your ride in the arena. You work through his warm up, making sure he stretches his body in the proper ways, then start asking for more intricate movements; canter pirouettes, passage, piaffe. Your breath comes short, your muscles tense and relax, your hips move with the motion of the horse, swinging. The sun rises. Faded warmth washes over you. It’s during these moments of synchrony when you forget who you are, forget your worries and the unsteady nature of your identity, and you get to focus solely on connection with another creature, communication so subtle it’s as though you’re reading each other’s minds.

Halfway through your ride, you stop to give Draco a walking break and catch your breath. Your eyes scan the horizon above the hills, where deep pink and purple and bright, unending orange blend together as the sun makes its way up the sky. You glance towards the barn, where some of the horses watch you ride, having finished their hay, waiting for their turn. You look away, gathering your reins, preparing for another workout. The hair on the back of your neck stands up, and you halt your horse, head on a swivel to check around you. There, at the side of the arena, leaned up against the dusty metal railing, Thomas Shelby watches you quietly, his head tilted slightly, eyes tracking Draco’s movement. Your eyes meet, you on the towering stallion, but him taking up just as much presence with his expression alone. Air thins out around you, and you suck in a slow breath, not breaking contact with the stranger on your property.

Then, as if possessed, your outside leg shifts back, and Draco steps quickly into a canter. Without thought, without planning, you find yourself doing what can only be described as showing off. Extended canter, collected canter. Tempi changes, canter pirouettes. You’re a finely tuned machine, each tiny movement a conversation with the horse, each silent shift eliciting a full response from him.

By the time you’re done, Draco has sweat dripping down his neck, breathing hard, and lightheadedness swirls around you, making you take in slow breaths to steady yourself. You can feel his eyes on you, pointed, judgemental, and there’s a faint tremble in your hands gripping the reins. Staying on the horse gives you some protection; there’s not much someone can do to you while on horseback, unless he decides to shoot you, in which case, there’s nothing you can do. You trust Draco. He has a habit of pinning his ears and showing his teeth to strangers, snaking his neck towards them, though you’ve tried to train it out of him. Some stallions always have an edge to them.

You walk Draco to the arena gate, reaching out to push it open, but Thomas is already there, pulling it back to allow you out. You nod your head to him, voice once again stuck in your throat, branding you with the poetry of all the words you couldn’t speak. This time, though, your heart doesn’t jolt, your mind doesn’t go blank. He’s on your turf now.

“Beautiful animal.” He nods to Draco curtly as you walk by, as if unimpressed by your show of talent. His words defy him. “Beautiful ride.”

You nod again. Thanking him feels like handing him your power, like bowing your head and allowing him to judge. This is a game of reading silence, and you know how to win it. After a moment of hesitation, you dismount. You bring your horse over to the cross ties and tie him, giving him a treat from your pocket once the bit is out of his mouth. Thomas’ footsteps follow you, but you refuse to look at him, focusing on undoing the girth and pulling the saddle off. In your periphery, he stands, a dark figure surrounded by the grandeur of a sunrise in full force, undeserving of the golden outline it gives him. His hands in his coat pockets, his gaze on Draco, his cap pulled low over his eyes. Again, you catch a glint of metal along the rim.

“Is he for sale?” He walks up to Draco’s neck, running a hand along the sweaty length of his neck.

“No.” You turn and carry the saddle to the tack room, hefting it onto a rack and placing the pads on the rail underneath it to dry. You return to find Thomas by the horse’s head. You pause, watching them, hoping to go unnoticed. As usual, the stallion’s ears go back, his nose wrinkles, his neck arches. Thomas nods, continuing to stroke his neck, and says something you don’t understand. Another language, perhaps, one that sounds smooth, lyrical. Draco quiets, his liquid eye softening, though his ears stay pinned. Protective, not aggressive.

“He doesn’t trust you.” You walk over to grab a hose, waiting for Thomas to move so you can rinse the sweat off Draco.

He doesn’t. “Name a price. I’ll meet it.”

“No.” You step forward, raising the hose, trying to make your intent clear.

“Horse like him could get you out of a little house like that.” His fingers toy with Draco’s mane, still gentle, still looking into the horse’s eye. “Got no reason not to sell him.”

“He’s not for sale,” you insist, taking another step forward.

His eyes shift to you, clear, icy blue and unreadable. “You don’t know who I am.”

“No. I don’t.” You point the hose towards him, a clear threat. “Move, please.”

“I’ll take you into town, then. Help you recon—”

You turn on the hose. A deluge of water sprays onto him, square in the chest, and he skitters out of the way, spooking Draco into a prance. You stand there, shocked by what you just did, then, in a spark of bravery you didn’t know you had, decide to commit to the bit.

“You don’t get to intimidate me into selling my horse. You don’t get to decide that I’m going into town with you. Those are both my choices.” One hand on the still-running hose, the other preparing to kink it, you shift your shoulders to stand square in the soaked face of Thomas. “I don’t care who you are. Someone who doesn’t treat me with basic respect doesn’t deserve my time. Are we clear?”

Your heart pounds in your chest as his furious eyes turn to you. Holding his arms away from his dripping body, the layers of the suit completely wet, his hand slowly reaches up towards his cap.

You step back, readying your hose, your only weapon. Blood pulses in your temples, all air seems to leave your lungs, and your hand begins to tremble as you wait for him to lunge.

Instead, he wipes his face with it, then nods. “Really fucking clear.”

“Good.” You kink the hose and shakily walk to turn it off. Back turned to him, you hold out your hands, watching them shudder with the spike of adrenaline. Then, slowly, you walk back, catching a moment of hilarity as Thomas attempts to squeeze water out of his suit and fails. You don’t quite feel safe enough to smile, but, at least, you feel a little better.

“We can turn him out,” you say, nodding to Draco. “And I’ll get you a towel.”

“Turn him out,” he repeats, tense brow furrowing.

“Put him in the arena and let him be a horse for a bit. No expectations.”

“Never heard of that.”

“Apparently you haven’t heard of much,” you snap.

His eyes flick to you, almost brooding. You’ve never seen light eyes hold so much darkness. “Don’t bother with the towel. I’ll go.”

“Fine.” You turn back to Draco. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Shelby.”

He scoffs, and starts off towards his car, parked in the dusty valley your property sits in. In your mind, a dialectic is born. You feel relieved, glad that you’ll never see him again. And, deep down, you’re disappointed. Maybe this could’ve been something more. Maybe you could’ve won a friend out of it.

No. Stupid of you to have expected that. You are constantly looking for hope, expecting it to be soft and gentle, when in reality, hope is something with sharp teeth and a bloody, battered body. Hope is something that’s born of isolation. Hope is something man-made, purposeful, something you keep in a jar like a butterfly, and catch more once it dies.

Hope is a man speaking gently to a fearful, aggressive horse, instead of punishing him.

You shake your head. Stupid.

But you can’t help but watch as the car drives off, hoping it will turn back.

#peaky blinders #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #peaky fucking blinders #peaker blinders fandom #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders x reader #peaky fookin blinders #thomas shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby x y/n #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #Only the wild ones

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everythingelseisextra · 10 months

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Treasure The Memory

Part One: Everything Is Fine

Part Two: Commit To The Bit

Part Four: Petty Criminal

Description: A couple days after the hose incident, you find yourself feeling empty, and set off to find Thomas and apologize. Warnings: Language, alcohol Word Count: 2292 Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @globetrotter28 @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey Please let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list!

Twelve horses. From six in the morning to six at night, you work without stopping. It’s your purpose, your drive, the only reason you have for getting up in the morning. The only reason you eat or drink. There’s an aching kind of emptiness that begins after the car drives away, that makes the time go by slowly while you work through the horses. Heaviness that pushes your muscles to work harder than usual, an odd sense of carrying something. But, still, you put your head down. You have work to do. You don’t have time to fantasize a life beyond what you trudge through. You don’t have time to imagine things had gone differently.

You don’t.

But on the second day after, the weight is the same. You wake before sunrise and find yourself expecting to see him watching you ride in silence again, observing. You fill buckets and clean stalls and turn out and all the while, the back of your mind stumbles off somewhere, looking for the dawn to break like it did two days ago, like some groundhog day. You were given a splash of color in the long span of gray, and now you can’t forget what it was like. Now you can’t stop yearning for the boldness, the attention.

That night, you lay in the twin bed shoved into the corner of a tiny room, and you stare at the night sky through the cracked window. Cool air caresses your face, and you sit up to look out. You see only the shadows of the barn and the void of the countryside, all-consuming darkness. Here, you think, is where everyone else’s ghosts come to haunt. Here is where the forgotten come to waste the rest of their lives. Here is where I will live, and here is where I will die.

No.

You stand up and walk the two steps to your wardrobe, pulling your clothes out and scrambling to put them on. Whatever you plan, whatever strange scheme, will present itself to you as you move. You can’t be like this forever. You can’t keep being fine, fine, fine, until you’re ready to go and all you can look back on is mediocrity. You can’t keep going out and waiting for someone to ask you who you are, what you’re about, whether you’re okay.

You need to be the one to ask.

You rush out to the barn. This late at night, no cabs will come to you, not when you’re so far out. Wired, almost manic with desperation, you halter your quickest horse, a mare named Secret, and forgo the saddle to ride bareback. The night is still young, and if you get there soon enough, get there fast enough, then maybe, maybe you’ll find him. Gripping your mare with your thighs, you cluck and urge her forward, loosening your reins and pushing your calves into her sides. She shoots off, and suddenly, you’re coursing through the night, the wind whipping your hair, the sound of hooves pounding the only thing you can hear.

The first few minutes, exhilaration runs through you, and you breathe in the wild rush of the darkness. Then you feel the cold, and the dryness waters your eyes, and your skin grows red and chapped from the constant battering of the wind. And still, Secret gallops, and you cling to her back and duck your head and clutch her mane in your shaking hands.

City lights blink softly at you through the mist of early night. You sit back and talk quietly to the mare, bringing her from a gallop to a canter, then to a trot, then, finally, to a heaving, breathless walk. Her sweat seeps into your pants, her fur covers the inside of your thighs, and your own sweat drips down your forehead. Still, you walk on, her hooves clattering on the stone streets. Eyes glint at you from alleyways. The city murmurs its quiet song. And, you, an interloper walking boldly into an unknown territory, hoping.

You remind yourself: hope is a thing with teeth.

The Garrison stands solemn in the darkness. The lights inside silhouette figures moving, dancing, banging their hands on tables and chairs. Tonight is Saturday night. Closing your eyes, you steady your breathing. Cold penetrates your bones and you find yourself trembling, coming and going in waves. You run your fingers through your hair, like it could be tamed, and slowly slip off the horse. You find an old hitching rail a few blocks away and tie her, offering her a bucket of water. You leave her there, in the dark side of the alleyway. You won’t be long.

When you open the double doors to the Garrison, you’re flooded with golden light and feral singing and warmth. You still tremble, but less so. The chills are chased away by the faultless sense of revelry in the air. You push through the crowded sitting area as though fighting your way down an overgrown path. Limbs swing into your way, people stamp their feet, and a rousing chorus starts up.

You stumble through to the bar and lean on it, facing towards the seating area. Men on tables, men dancing, men drunk and throwing up in buckets. Men howling like wolves, men grabbing their women, men cheering each other on. No sign of the man you came here looking for. Your heart sinks.

The barmaid laughs from behind the bar while she walks towards you. She leans over, smiling faintly. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m—” Your voice doesn’t carry; she leans closer to listen. “I’m looking for Thomas Shelby.”

She points immediately to a slim door, closed, but that opens into a small, octagonal room. “I wouldn’t interrupt.”

You hesitate. “Who’s he with?”

“His brothers.”

“Thank you.” You nod to her, then push through the drunken party to stand in front of the door. You breathe in whiskey and cigarette smoke and body odor, and breathe out. Then, cautiously, you knock.

If there’s a response, you don’t hear it. Throwing caution to the wind, you place your hand on the handle, take another breath, and push it open.

Three pairs of eyes stick to you; two angry, one surprised. You step inside and close the door behind you. Silence, so thick it seems to buzz with the energy of their gazes. From their seats behind the table, they look you up and down, and you’re suddenly in a spotlight, caught in the blindness. No one speaks.

The man on Thomas’ left breaks it. “Who the fuck are you?”

Your eyes drop and you mouth the words; no one.

“I said,” The man stands awkwardly, scooting out from behind their table and approaching you. He’s considerably taller than you, leaning down to loom over, speaking far too close to your face. You catch the smell of whiskey and beer on his breath, and your eyes lock onto bits of food stuck in his mustache. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Enough, Arthur.” Thomas leans back in his seat, arms loosely crossed, a cigarette in one hand.

“I thought you hadn’t taken a woman since—”

“I haven’t.”

“Is this the one that sprayed you with the hose?” The man on his right grins at you. “My kind of girl.”

“Wouldn’t let someone spray me with a hose.” Arthur steps back, though you keep yourself shrunken away, a little too overwhelmed by what you’ve stepped into to unravel yet. “I’d knock ‘em out and spray ‘em meself.”

“That’s enough.” Thomas stands and walks out from behind the table, brushing past you to open the doors. The riotous sound of the bar fills the small space again, and you step away from the door, trying to get away from it. “John, Arthur, go join them.”

“No, I want to hear what hose-girl has to say.” The man still sitting, presumably John, stays sitting, eyes going straight to Thomas’. “I’m staying.”

“John.” Thomas’ head tilts slightly, his eyes flicking to you, then back. “Get out.”

John looks at him a moment longer, smile fading, then shrugs, stands, and walks out. Arthur follows. Thomas closes the door after them, and you close your eyes, relieved by the quiet.

“Sit down,” Thomas says. You hear his footsteps move past you, then the sound of him sitting back down. After a moment, he adds; “Please.”

You open your eyes. His hands lay on the table in front of him, his cigarette between his ring and pinkie finger. His dark hair sits as though he styled it, and you become suddenly aware of your appearance, the wildness of your hair, the goose pimples still on your skin, the slight shiver of your body, the sweat dried on your temple. His eyes are on you, expectant, and so you nod and sit on the other side of the table as he asks. Your gaze remains downcast.

In silence, he pours you a small glass from the bottle of amber whiskey, and you take it, slowly sipping the smooth liquid. Once you place it back down, and settle into your seat, he speaks.

“If you came to ask for forgiveness, it’s already given.” His voice rolls off his tongue, a plodding sort of sentence that you can’t help but get wrapped into. “Past in the past. We can go our separate ways.”

You look up at him, head still tilted down, and you toy with the rim of the glass, running your fingers along it. Your voice is quiet, not quite even enough. “Who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

“No. When you said I didn’t know who you were, what did you mean?” You look back down, unable to hold your gaze steady with his for long.

He rolls his shoulders and sits back, hands still laid across the table. “I’m the lead of the Peaky Blinders.”

“The razor blades.”

“Aye.” He inclines his head to you.

“And you guys do… what?”

“What needs to be done.”

“That’s very vague.”

“We’re a group of well-intended people who do very bad things to achieve our goals.”

You smile faintly. “I’m supposed to be scared of you.”

“Most people are.” His eyes search your face. “You’re not.”

You shrug. “Truth is, I’m scared of everyone. I’m so used to it that it doesn’t make you special.”

He brings his cigarette to his lips, takes a slow drag, and exhales a plume of smoke. “So you are scared of me.”

You take another sip of the whiskey, hoping to avoid answering. Your body shivers, despite the warmth of the drink inside of you, burning as it goes down.

“Smart thing to do now is go home, feed those horses of yours, and forget you pointed that bloody hose at me.” He sits up, leaning towards you. The space between you shrinks with the intensity of his gaze, and you sit back, meeting his eyes. “No need to get mixed up in the shit I live with.”

“I don’t want to forget it.” Something about him sparks some bravery in you, helps your voice come smoothly, helps your mind connect with your body. Or maybe that’s the whiskey. “It might’ve been… unfortunate, but it was the most fun I’ve had in— well, in years.”

“Treasure the memory, and get out while you can.”

You look down. This conversation is not going the way you’d hoped. You play the last cards you have. “I won’t sell you Draco, but I’ll let you ride him.”

Silence. Your gaze shifts upwards. One of his eyebrows is slightly raised, his cigarette paused halfway to his lips.

“What do you want?” He gestures at you, still holding the cigarette. “Why do you want this so badly?”

“I don’t know. I guess I want something different. I don’t want… to die in a house I feel trapped in. I don’t want to—”

“I’m not here to play games.” He stands, starts for the door. He stops, looks over his shoulder at you. “I’m not here to listen to girls who don’t know what they want.”

He opens the door and begins out. Sound rushes in, a deluge that almost catches you off guard and drowns you. Instead, you stand and project your voice. “Thomas.”

He pauses, looks back at you, slowly closes the door. His eyes are cold, calculating, a glint in them that tells you he’s teetering on a line between anger and amusement.

“I want freedom,” you say, finding some strength to your voice. “I want to feel like I’m more than my past, and more than the money I have. I want to have people care about me. I want to not be alone anymore.”

I want you.

“And,” you let out a short breath. “I want a do-over. I want you to come ride with me. Without spraying you with a hose.”

“A do-over,” he repeats, one hand still on the doorknob.

“Yes.”

He considers you, blue eyes sharp, but not as cold as before. “Tomorrow morning, then.”

“Okay.”

His gaze falls to the door beside him, and, almost imperceptibly, he takes a breath. “You ready?”

You nod and walk forward, moving towards the door.

“Wait.” He steps in front of you, blocking your way. You stop short, a foot away, and your eyes trail over him, marking his positioning, ready to dart away if needed.

He takes off his coat jacket and holds it out to you. “Wear it on your way back. Don’t need you getting sick.”

You take it, and offer him a small smile. “Not so scary.”

“Don’t decide yet.” He opens the door and the world floods back to you. As you walk out, you hear him say, “Goodbye, No One.”

#peaky blinders #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders x reader #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders imagine #peaky fucking blinders #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #tommy shelby fanfic #peaker blinders fandom #peaky blinders fanfic #only the wild ones

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everythingelseisextra · 9 months

Text

Give Yourself A Reason

Part Four: Petty Criminal

Part Six: My Body Is Here

Description: A late night call from Tommy comes after days without hearing from him. Warnings: Suicidal Ideation, talk of guns, language Word Count: 2723 Tag List: @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul @theshelbyslimited @ttaechi @weaponizedvirtue @majesticcmey @optimisticsandwichgladiator @zablife @princesssterek

As suddenly as it started, it seems to end. No word from him, no reaching out from you. No effort placed into a relationship from either of you. The bridge between you begins to rot. Your life goes back to gray. The lack of color is worse because you had the chance to add some into your life and failed to take it. It was within your grasp, but your fingers fell short. You insist to yourself the same few words you’ve been saying to yourself since you were young; adapt. Change. Accept. You will not let this loss, this small, meaningless loss, shake you. You’re strong.

But you’re alone. And the more the days pass, the less you sleep. Shadows crawl under your eyes, puffing them, glazing them over, and your body grows heavy once again. You spend the night hours reaching into your chest, trying to find something to hold onto, some identity that you can use to keep yourself going, and fail to find it. Hollowed out, made of cobwebs and ancient wishes, you’re a ghost more than anything. More haunted than the coat sitting on your kitchen chair, the one you stare at while you eat, the one he gave you. You thought, maybe, he’d come to take it back. You know better, now.

Sometimes, you wonder if you let him get too close. If when you pushed back against him or when you finally gave in, maybe you revealed something he didn’t like. Other times, though, you think it was him. You think he let you see, if only for a few minutes, the bits of fear that every human has. And you think that maybe, maybe he shies away from letting others know that part of himself, letting others know he’s human.

And, sometimes, when you think of him, all you get in return is a void and a strange, strangled yearning for closeness that you don’t understand. Like some old, wiser part of you saw him as equal to yourself, and now cannot let go of the idea of him being near you.

You sell one of your horses. His training finished, his manners perfect, it’s time for you to let go of him. It’s part of the job; saying goodbye. Letting go of a creature that mirrors your soul so perfectly, that reacts fluidly to you, that forgives and forgives and forgives all the stupid mistakes you make. You smile and nod at his new owners, and, once he’s gone away in the trailer, you clean the empty stall. The sun sets, sending liquid gold to paint the interior of the barn, and you drag your weary body back to the house for another night of desperately wanting to rest but finding yourself unable to.

You stay in the kitchen that night. There’s no point in lying down. You stare blearily at the coat hanging on the chair across from you, listening to the ticking of the clock. Counting the seconds. Counting the minutes. Counting the hours. A dull headache spreads between your temples, and you hang your head, closing your eyes. Maybe you can drift off. Maybe you can trick yourself, insist that you’re not trying to sleep and then manage to sleep anyway. You don’t want to think anymore. You want to rest.

Time slips away from you. Swirls into colored patterns in front of your eyes. You lean your head back and sigh. This, you think. This again. This, maybe always.

Your phone rings and you jump so aggressively you almost fall out of your chair. You stand and stumble over to where it sits on the kitchen counter. It rings. Rings and rings. You stare at it, then, slowly, pick up.

“Hello?” Who the fuck is calling you at half past midnight?

Silence on the other end. You wait a few seconds, then go to put down the handset, irritated that your stupor was interrupted.

Someone speaks on the other end, halfway down to the receiver.

You lift it back to your ear. “Who is this?”

“Tommy.” His voice comes even more gravelly over the phone than in person, low and dull, as if he is just as exhausted as you are.

“Hi,” you say slowly. “Is… is everything okay?”

More silence.

“Why are you calling me?”

No response.

“Alright. It’s late. I’m… I’m putting the phone down.”

“I’m looking at a gun.” His words are slow, quieter than usual, without confidence. “I’m looking at a gun and I’ve called everyone. Only one to pick up is you.”

You suck in a breath. “Where are you?”

“Sitting at my desk.” There’s a click and your blood goes cold.

“Put the gun down, Thomas.” Your voice pitches. “Put the fucking gun down.”

A pause, then a small clunk as he does as you told him.

“Thank you.” You bite your lip. “Do you want— do you want to come stay with me? Just for tonight?”

When you listen, really listen, you can hear his breathing, slow and shallow. You can’t feel your hands, and without realizing it, you’re floating, outside of your own body, a kind of quiet panic you haven’t felt for years.

He doesn’t answer you. You speak quietly, quickly, softly, leaning on the counter. “I can’t say I know exactly how you’re feeling. But I’ve had some run-ins with myself before. All the guilt and the shame and the self-hatred just becomes too much and you numb out. Until you can’t feel anything at all. And, since you’re already free-falling, why not go all the way? Why not go to sleep and not wake up? It’s exhausting to fight every day. ” Your voice grows slightly choked, the phantom feelings of the past creeping up on you, long-dead but still haunting. “I’ll tell you why. Every day that you wake up and face the same fucking fight that you did the day before is a triumph. I don’t know what you spend your days doing, but I want to, and I don’t doubt that it’s more work than most people do. And it matters. Every little thing you do ripples out, and suddenly, you’re connected to a whole web of people. They didn’t not pick up because they don’t care about you. It’s the middle of the night.

“And here’s the thing; the sun will come up, or maybe it won’t. This will change or maybe it won’t. But you, Thomas Shelby, are a fighter, and you’ll adapt. As exhausting as it sounds, that fight to exist is the most honorable thing you can do. I don’t think you get the credit you deserve for that.” You look down.”No one does.”

He’s quiet. You hear him take a deep breath. “I’m tired.”

“Yeah.” You nod to yourself. “How long have you been looking at that gun?”

“Few months.”

“This is the first time you’ve told someone.” It’s a statement, not a question. You don’t need to ask. You can hear it in his voice, the desperate quality of needing someone to respond to him, to listen, even, or just be there. You’ve heard it in your own voice before. That innate need to be with another person, no matter how estranged they are to you, when something like a crisis strikes. Self-protective, because sometimes it’s easier to die than to change your life alone.

“First time I’ve considered pulling the trigger.”

“Do you mind if I ask what happened a few months ago?” It’s a risky question. You ask it tentatively, aware that this could lead to something worse.

“My wife took a fucking bullet for me.”

Your chest tightens. “I’m sorry.”

“Yep.”

“Do you want me to come to you, or do you want to come to me?” You’re not giving him the choice to wait out the rest of the night alone.

“No need.” He lets out a tight breath.

“Yes need.” You glance down at yourself, clothed in a light t-shirt and sweats. “So, I’m coming to you, then.”

“No. If you insist on—”

“I do.”

“Fine.” His lifeless voice drags on the words as he speaks. “I’ll come. Expect me.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“Don’t bring weapons.” You manage a weak smile to yourself. “You’ll be safe with me. You don’t need them.”

A deep breath, then; “Okay.”

He hangs up. Your hand drops the handset without your permission, letting it crash down wildly to the counter. Fingers closing into a fist, you close your eyes, trying to breathe, trying to hold yourself together. You think about the spiral, the urge to dive off into the deep end and never resurface. The desolate need for silence and the hatred once you get it. The repulsion of other people but the all-consuming loneliness. The strange lightness forming at the thought of letting it all go.

Yes, you’ve been there before. You’ve let the darkness fool you once.

You won’t let it take him. Not tonight. Whether he tried everyone else before, he called you. He told you what was happening. He was scared enough to ask for help.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been staring at his coat in the kitchen before his headlights are in your unpaved driveway. You open the door to your house and wait for him there.

His eyes flick sullenly to you, then fall, shameful. Your heart jolts and you shake your head. “Tommy. Look at me.”

He releases a breath, a few feet away from you. You’ve never seen him like this, without the suit, without the mask of intensity he always seems to wear. In front of you now is someone completely devoid of defenses, horrifically vulnerable. He looks up, meets your eyes.

“You’re no less of a man because of this. You’re no less of a gangster, or a fighter, or a businessman, or whatever you want to call yourself. Okay?”

“Yes.” His eyes stay even with yours this time, though hollow and empty. “Okay.”

You step back to let him in. Your single-floor house includes a kitchen and sitting room, a bedroom and tiny bathroom, and a small living room. You lead him to the latter and sit down in an old armchair in silence. He stands in the entrance, looking around for a moment, then wanders over to the worn-out couch, sitting without a word.

There’s silence that hovers, proving the emptiness of the night to be thorough, even in the safety of your house. Moonlight filters in through the small window, and faint rays of it catch in his eyes, lighting the broken look in them.

You speak first. “I assume you don’t plan on sleeping?”

He shakes his head, a tiny movement, barely noticeable. His eyes are planted on the small coffee table between you, staring without seeing.

“I haven’t been sleeping lately. Don’t worry about keeping me up. I’d be awake either way.”

No response but a slow blink, eyelashes glistening faintly.

You watch him for a moment, then, cautiously, you explain a little. “I… went through a lot. And there was a long time where I didn’t think life was worth it anymore. You know what I used to do?”

His eyes flick to you, steadying on yours.

“I’d give myself a reason. Something little. Maybe I’d make plans with friends for the next day, so I felt obligated to make it there. Maybe I’d let myself spend some money at the end of the week. Maybe there’d be some new animal I needed to care for. Anything. Anything to get me through the rough patch.” You shrug. “I’ve been where you are, and that’s what helped me. Do you have anything you can think of that would do that for you?”

“No. It’s all work. All fucking work.”

“I… I think I can give you a reason.” You lean back in your chair, looking up at the dark wood ceiling, wanting to give him some sense of privacy. You don’t need to be staring into his soul.

“Yeah? I’d love to fucking hear it.” He grows bitter. You ignore it. It’s easier to be mad than scared.

“I have an open stall. I sold a horse a few days ago.” You close your eyes. “I’m going to the racetrack to pick out a new horse at the end of the week. You could come with me, if you want. You can… you can have partial ownership. Help me train it.”

“Give myself a reason, eh?” You hear him give a dead chuckle. “Buy a horse.”

“Well, no.” You smile a little. “I’m paying for it. You just get it for free.”

“Why would you do that for me?” He sounds too tired to grow defensive, too exhausted to put up a real fight, but still, he doesn’t trust you, not completely. “What do you want?”

“Honestly?” You fold your arms into your lap, opening your eyes to meet his. “I want you. I want you to stay alive so you can be in my life. I don’t know why. I don’t know what it is. I just get this sense about people and I have one about you. You’re not scary to me. I want you to stay here, on this earth, so that I can know who you are. And if that means letting you have one of my horses, well, fuck, I guess that’s what we’re doing.”

He’s quiet for a moment, thoughtful. There’s a little more than emptiness in his eyes, now; a flicker of curiosity. Then, seconds later, it’s gone, and he’s looking back at the coffee table. “You don’t want to know me.”

“Pretty sure I do.” You cross your arms. “And you don’t get to tell me otherwise.”

“There’s something rotting in me. Came from my mom. Don’t have the words to describe it. It’s— it’s bad. Once you see it, you won’t want to know me.”

You shake your head, looking away and smiling. “God… That’s exactly what I think about you, Tommy. Exactly what I think when it comes to you knowing me.”

You feel his gaze on you, feel the faint warmth of his attention wash over you.

“What about we agree, before we start this… thing, that we forgive each other’s rottenness. That whatever comes up, we’ll deal with it and move on. Since we both think the other will see something they don’t like. It’s not our fault, anyway.”

He scoffs. “You say that now.”

“Yeah. I do. And I’ve seen a lot of shit. I think you’d be surprised at what won’t phase me.”

He nods, small movements of his head, and his eyes flick over you.

“What do I have to do to prove I’m tough enough for you?”

“You don’t.” There’s a hint of something stronger in his voice, though still weary. “We don’t need to start this off by proving something to each other.”

“Well, we really started this off with me spraying you with a—”

“Yes.” He waves his hand, as if physically swatting away the thought of it. “I know. The only one to put me in my place.”

You smile. “I’d do it again, too.”

He nods again, slower, this time, and his eyes slide closed. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

You lower your voice, even it out, try not to shake him from this calmer state. “Friday, then. We’ll go to the track on Friday.”

“Friday.” He repeats. He sits back on the couch, head falling back onto the arch of its highest point.

“And we’ll keep figuring things out there.” You close your eyes, too, mimicking his movement of leaning his head back. “Give you a reason outside of work.”

Silence from him. The faint sound of his breathing, slow, steady, reaches you. You curl your legs up onto the couch, folding your arms in, so you lie in an upright fetal position, head resting on your knees. And, like that, sharing the space of your living room, you slip into a fitful, but deep sleep.

When you wake up, he’s gone. Light filters in from the window, rays stretching out to land on the coffee table. You blink in the early light, and sit up to find a note, sitting resolutely in the ray of sunlight.

Friday. I’ll come pick you up.

Thank you for giving me a reason.

-Tom

#peaky blinders #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #peaky blinders x reader #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders imagine #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #peaker blinders fandom #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders fanfic

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everythingelseisextra · 10 months

Text

Casual

Request: No Description: A panic attack sends you and Tommy into surprising vulnerability. Hurt/comfort with some fluff at the end. Warnings: Brief mention of self harm, panic attack, language Word Count: 1250 Author's Note: I'd like to make it clear that I don't believe having panic attacks makes you broken. That's Tommy's belief, not mine. Just saying. Tag List: @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul

Your blood is too thin for your veins. Your lungs are too weak for your heart. Your body is too big for this room. Your eyes are too blurry for you to see. And you gasp, folded into the corner of the bathroom, arms wrapped around yourself and mind chasing itself in circles. Every muscle in your body contracts, and you collapse in on yourself trying to breathe, trying to take one, just one, breath. Stars swirl and your vision goes dark at the edges and suddenly you think you’ll pass out. You sob. Wracking your chest, shaking your entire body, forcing you to clutch at your shirt, the toilet next to you, anything that might anchor you, give you something to hold on to. You’re deep, deep under the earth with the weight of the world pressing down on your chest, and you’re panting, pleading with whatever God will listen to let you breathe, let your panic subside.

The door to the bathroom opens and you let out a frenzied yelp, pushing yourself back, trying to hide yourself. You can’t be seen like this. Your limbs tingle with breathlessness and you can’t feel your feet or your legs or your fingers. Your legs curl up to your chest and you clutch at your knees, hiding your face on them.

Footsteps come towards you, and a shadow falls. You’re on the precipice of passing out, your head spinning, your body going numb, your vision inexplicably flashing from white to black and back to white again. You can’t be seen like this, can’t let anyone know you fall victim to these kinds of terrors, these irrational spells of panic. These attacks.

The footsteps walk away again, and you uncurl from yourself, letting your legs lengthen on the ground, letting your arms fall to your sides, letting your body tremble fully. Tears run down your cheeks, and you feel pathetic, broken. You cry out as pain rushes through your chest, spiking into your heart, because your breath is gone and won’t come back. Because you’re hidden in a corner, unable to pull yourself out of this horrific monstrosity of an enemy. Because this is a nightmare you can’t wake up from, even when you scratch at your own skin, even when you pinch so hard you bleed. Still asleep, still stuck. You just have to ride it out, wait the thirty minutes, hour, two hours, until it fades away.

The footsteps return, and along with it, a voice. “This is going to be very cold. I promise it’ll help.”

And then, before you register what was said, you’re drenched. Head to toe, drenched, and the water is freezing cold. You screech and scuttle back into your corner, and suddenly, there’s breath back in your lungs. You take a heaving breath, then another, then another, violently shivering. Freezing cold and deeply embarrassed, but breathing. You look up at the only person who could’ve done this, the only person with the balls to pour ice water on your head during a panic attack, the only person you wouldn’t murder for doing so.

“What the fuck was that?” You look up at Tommy, who stands in front of you, staring down with a furrowed brow and sharp eye.

“Worked in the tunnels. Shocks you, makes you breathe.” He crouches down, holding the empty metal bucket in front of him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” You know exactly what he’s asking, you just don’t want to explain it, don’t want to have to spell out your inner demons, even to him.

“You should’ve told me.” His words grow slightly tense. “Should’ve fucking told me.”

“Why? Why should I have told you?”

“Why do you think?” His voice reaches a new level of sarcastic, almost deliriously so. “Why do you think you should’ve told your husband that your mind plays tricks on you?”

You look down. “I’m sorry.”

“No. No, I don’t want ‘sorry.’” He shifts forward to kneel, sitting back on his feet. “I want you to tell me why.”

You duck your head, wrapping your sodden arms around yourself. “It’s stupid.”

“I don’t care. It’s you.”

You take another breath, still shocked that you can, that your lungs allow for expansion again. Shivering ripples through you. “I thought you wouldn’t want someone who was scared. I thought you would only want to be with someone who can face the world like you do. And… I can’t. That’s the truth of it. There are things that scare me that will always scare me, and I can try to help myself, but sometimes, I end up here.” You gesture to yourself.

He gives you a searching look, a hint of confusion in his eyes. “What happens to me every night, love?”

“...You have nightmares.” You look away.

“What happens when I have to go underground?”

“You… You can do it, but you need help after.”

“That’s right.” He reaches out and places a hand on your knee. He’s warm, and you close your eyes, wanting to soak in his touch, feel him all the way through you to save you from the chills. “I need help.”

“Yeah, but… that’s different. You fought in a war. I didn’t. I just am like this for no reason.” You look back at him. “Tommy, I don’t know why I’m like this.”

“I don’t have an answer.” His grip tightens on your leg and he drags you towards him, bringing you out of your corner, out of hiding. This coaxes a small smile from you, and you lean forward to rest your head on his shoulder, sighing, trying to stop your body from shivering. “There’s something broken about us both.”

You nod. Your throat closes, and your eyes squeeze shut. “I’m sorry.”

“Happens to me. Happens to Arthur. Happened to John. Fuck, happens to Polly these days, and she never fought. Shelby family curse. Maybe we should make it official.”

You pull away to look at him. “Did you just— did you just casually propose?”

He smiles, boyish. “Might’ve. Might not have.”

“Thomas Shelby, I can’t let you get away with that.” You lunge forward to hug him, knocking him down with your soaked and freezing body. His arms wrap around you and he rolls you so he lies on top of you, his legs between yours, body pressed against you, holding himself up on either side.

“Too casual.” His hair shadows his eyes, but you can see the glint in them, the spark you fell in love with. “I’ll try again. Since we’re both broken, and we know each other’s brokenness, will you agree to live with my brokenness for the rest of your life?”

You laugh, lifting yourself to kiss him. “Yes. That wasn’t much better, but yes. I’ll be your spouse.”

He sits up, a small grin spreading across his face. Your heart flutters. You haven’t seen him like this in months.

“Need to tell Ada.” He stands and reaches down to help you up. “Been bothering about it for weeks.”

“It’s the middle of the night!” You shove him, pushing him against the bathroom wall and pinning him there with both arms on his chest. “You menace! Don’t go waking her up.”

Betraying all the trust you ever had in him, he reaches out and tickles you. You screech with laughter, pulling away from him and twisting to get away.

“You’re worth waking up for.” He starts for the door. “Let’s make our announcement.”

#peaky blinders #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders x reader #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders imagine #peaky fucking blinders #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #peaker blinders fandom

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everythingelseisextra · 9 months

Text

David and Goliath

Part Sixteen: Cain (Tommy's POV)

Description: Tommy fucks up. :) Warnings: references to rape, references to suicide, language, minor self harm Word Count: 3490 Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @ttaechi @weaponizedvirtue @Majesticcmey @Optimisticsandwichgladiator @zablife @princesssterek @mm0thie @callsignvenus @ay0nha @mgdixon @fairytale07 @dreamy-caramel @ce1iat @algae-tm @dragonsondragons @trentknd @nothingofsimplicity @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul @notalxx @chaengist

Arrow House sits in silence, only half sane. The ghosts of the Shelby family haunt the entrance, their shouts echoing in your ears. The commotion in the entryway reached you, even as you sat in the master bedroom, and Polly’s cries and Arthur’s yells and John’s indignant roars fill the quiet room. You close your eyes, and you can imagine the police, Moss in their midst, forcing them into the darkened, freezing cells that you yourself sat in only a few days ago. And Tommy at the edge of it, watching his family taken from him as a consequence of his own actions, an unforgivable choice he made.

You expect him to join you when he’s ready. It tugs on you, the sense that you need to protect him from himself, but you have to trust that his ability to fight his own mind will hold out. You trust that your presence in the house is reason enough for him to keep the gun in its drawer.

You think that this will be another thing he buries so deep that he forgets there’s anything underground. This will be too painful for him to keep in his hands, and it will trickle out between the cracks of his fingers until there is nothing to hold. His family is his core, the glowing ember of warmth that lives next to the heart he likes to pretend is stone. Now, he’s lost them. Now, all he has is you.

It’s some time before he enters the room. He doesn’t look at you, just sweeps past, heading into the bathroom. He closes the door behind him and water runs softly from behind it. You wait in silence, leaning back in your chair and closing your eyes, listening to the impure silence. The water stops, the door creaks open, and his footsteps slowly walk across the room. You open your eyes to find him heading towards the door, eyes set on the wooden floor in front of him. Your eyes narrow. There’s a hesitation to each step he takes, a slight pause, a tilt of his head. You’re waiting for him. He’s waiting for you.

“Tommy.” You stand and walk over to him, your bare feet cold on the wood. Part of you wants to inject some playfulness into your words, but the rest of you knows that, after something like this, that might be his breaking point. “Hey, come sit. Take a second to talk to me.”

His gaze stays on the floor, but, almost imperceptibly, he nods. You step back and lead him over to the chair you’d been sitting in, in front of a small desk that you’d claimed as yours the past few days. You sit on the bed, facing him, hands on either side of you. Soft light flows from the window next to you, and the sunrays seem to gentle your gazes on each other, creating a sort of barrier. It’s warm on your face and reflects in his eyes, which refuse to look at you.

“I would give you a pep-talk,” you start, nervousness slowing your words. “I would tell you that you’ve had high highs and low lows, and that the pendulum will swing back up again, but I won’t. I respect you too much for that. You and I both know that life tends to kick you while you’re down. We know that there’s no such thing as rock bottom, it’s always possible to go lower. So, all I’ll say is this; I’m here. I’m not leaving. As complicated as I’m learning your life is, I’d like to try to be simple together. If you want to be alone, that’s okay. If you don’t, I can be with you.”

He leans back in his chair, sighing. Exhaustion tightens his skin over his bones, his face drawn, his eyes a little glassy. “You’re not leaving.”

“No.” You furrow your brow, confused. “Why would I?”

“My family is gone. My boy is back. I’m a new man.” He slides a small metal container from his pocket, opens it, and pulls out a cigarette. “I have no room in my life for a woman who sets no store for a man’s needs.”

You nod slowly, almost incredulous. “You’re telling me that, after all this, you want me to leave because I won’t fuck you.”

He inclines his head, reaching out to offer you a cigarette. Your jaw clenches and you ignore his hand. Your next words are clipped. “My horses are literally in your stables. I’m not sure what kind of crisis move you’re making here, but it feels like one that’ll be… how should I say this in a way you’ll understand? Bad for business.”

He lights his cigarette and takes a long drag. He speaks on the exhale. “Bad for business is a woman I can’t explain living in my house. You’re not a whore, you’re not my wife, you’re not the mother of my son.”

You chuckle. “So you’re telling me I either become your whore, marry you, or become a nanny for Charles.”

“I’m telling you to leave.”

“And then, months later, hear that you’ve blown your brains out, because no one, including me, would pick up the phone.”

“Curly will start moving your horses in the morning. I’ve covered the cost of transportation.”

“How kind of you.”

“In the meantime, you’ll pack. You’ll prepare yourself to leave.” He wiggles his cigarette at you, eyes dull.

“And what if I say no?” You lean forward, almost mocking.

“If you say no, then, unfortunately, I may have to get the authorities involved.”

“‘Yes, hello, I’d like to report that a woman who I said I’d protect and invited to live with me is living in my house. Has she committed a crime? Yes, she won’t fuck me when I want, because I’m a teenaged boy who needs to get off every thirty minutes.” You let anger slide into your voice, let it bite. “Jesus Christ, listen to yourself.”

He blinks blankly at you, then rises with a soft groan. “There’s work to be done. Please collect your things.”

“Thomas.” You stand, hands curling into fists, then relaxing. “You send me away now, you’re sending me back to the life I used to live. If you understand that, you’re as bad as the men who sold and raped me.”

His eyebrows raise in an infuriatingly bewildered expression, then he shakes his head. “I am. I apologize if that wasn’t clear from the start.”

—

Night falls. Fog fills the air around you, rises from the warm bodies of the horses. Unlike your own barn, Tommy’s is lit, and you can see the confused, wide, liquid eyes staring at you from within the stalls. Draco nickers quietly, throwing his head. He’s been your rock, your shoulder to cry on, the only comfort to you on nights where your body felt as battered and broken and abused as it had during those awful years of horror.

It’s not him you stand with, though. It’s not his mane you bury your tears in, not his warm body you lean against to carry your shivering weight. Iris had one more month of recovery before he would be able to be ridden again, and now, you have to apologize to him. You have to apologize to all of them, in time, for being unable to care for them. For forfeiting the safety you thought you had. For failing.

You would be brought back to your own property in an hour. Your horses would trickle in after you. You’d feed them, slip back into the routine of caring for them, and the timer on your life would start to count down. You could fight. You would fight. You’d fight tooth and nail, use every bit of strength built up over years of manual labor, shoot straight and fast and confident, and still, you know you’ll lose.

Iris turns his head to blink at you as you stand by his side, leaning your weight on his shoulder. You wipe your face of tears and draw yourself up, pulling your shoulders back and squaring your legs to your hips like a soldier. You stand strong. Right now, you’re a survivor. Your quiet claim to life is that you fought for it. Like David with Goliath, you stood against a gargantuan opponent and managed to live to tell the tale. And, here you are, with your bags packed, ready to walk yourself back to that Goliath and allow him to smash your skull. You have no slingshot. You have no rock. There is no God on your side.

Your fingers gently pull through the knots in Iris’ mane. You should be angry. There should be a burning anger in you that threatens to overwhelm. You should feel it in your bones, in your heart and veins, and you should act in some sort of way on it. You should set fire to his garden, release his horses to the wild.

Truth is, you don’t know how to be angry with someone. All your life, you’ve been taught to stand down, to take whatever comes without question, and to continue despite it all. You’ve been trained to cower, to take each hit without protest. A cornered animal will always bite, but an abused pet will flinch away, fearful, all the teeth beaten out of it. You weren’t meant to fight as hard as you do.

You close your eyes, and like Tommy said for you to do, you prepare to leave.

Your body has a master and it is not you, and it is not God. Caged by a twisted form of humanity, you will be an animal at a zoo. You will gawked and stared at, poked and prodded, and, behind the scenes, you will be used for all your worth. This body you were born in ripples with scars from the years of prostitution and mental torture, and it’s a cold sort of hell. So much touch and so little care. You are only worth so much. You know the literal price of your life. You know how much this body of yours sells for.

When you open your eyes, the world is in black and white. You will not see the blood they rip from your veins. You will not see the color of their bare skin. Your hand moves from Iris’ mane to your upper arm, and you press down on it, your fingernails biting into your skin. There’s an echo of pain somewhere in you, but your skin is so thick that it’s separate, a step away from your consciousness. You will not feel the penetration. You will not feel the hands grabbing at your flesh, you will not feel their bodies pressed against you. A horse calls and the sound bounces away from you, not quite touching you, and you take a deep breath. You will not hear their moans or the heated lies they tell you in the dark.

This body that is all you have will no longer be yours. It is only a matter of time.

The rest of the night crawls past you as a blur. You know you are steady. You know that you step with purpose, your head held high, with no connection with what you feel or how you will survive this. You lift your suitcase and walk down the elegant, well-lit stairs, the portraits of Tommy’s late wife staring down at you with a gaze that tells you that you are lesser. You haven’t seen him since he left the master bedroom. There’s a murmur of emotion in you when you think of him, but you brush past it in your mind. There is no room for you in his life.

A car waits out front for you. You take a deep breath and look up at the stars. When you were younger, before the world turned against you, you thought you would reach out and touch them even if it burned. Now, you know you could, and the fire would eat away at you, and you would feel nothing. You thought you’d been as close to death as you could be without dying, but this emptiness in you, this blurred vision, this hollow chest is proof that you can stand hand in hand and not die. Maybe, you think, maybe you would rather die than become a commodity once again. There is a gun in the kitchen drawer.

You slip into the back seat of the car, and, at least, it is warm. The driver glances back at you in the mirror. He says something that washes over you and away, and you turn to look out the window, then twist to look back at Arrow House. A single light shines from the drawing room, the curtain pulled back, and you know he is watching. Despicable and traitorous, he watches you crawl back to a life you said you would never live again.

You turn back as the car begins to move out of the driveway. You close your eyes and a tear rolls out. You sit in the darkness and shrink into your mind, sitting in the back of it, watching through as your body breathes and shifts and lives apart from you, without you. You wipe the tear and, eyes still closed, you melt into the atmosphere and become nothing.

The car jerks to a stop and you open your eyes. The driver lets out a slow breath and glances back at you, then looks back through the windshield.

Lit by the headlights in sharp relief, Tommy stands, breathing hard as if he’d run to stop you. You watch him, expectation in his eyes, and you see a spoiled little boy who enjoys playing games.

“Keep driving,” you say, voice hoarse.

“Ma’am, I can’t. He’s—”

“Go around.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hesitantly, the driver inches the car forward, turning to move around Tommy, who’s eyes widen slightly.

He reaches underneath his coat and pulls out his gun, pointing it at the driver.

“Ma’am, I—” Panic fills the driver’s voice. “I’m sorry, this isn’t—”

“It’s okay. Stop the car.”

He does as you say, and, slowly, you open the door and step out into the night.

You stay where you are in the darkness, letting Tommy stay in the light. You wait for him to speak first.

“You forgot something.” His voice carries over the sound of the engine.

You cross your arms, trying to warm yourself from the cold. “Oh, did I? Please, enlighten me.”

“Come into the light, and I’ll show you.”

“No.”

He looks up at the black sky, then steps out into the darkness, coming within a few feet of you. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small square box, rounded corners, velvet wrapped. Your heart goes cold. He opens it and holds it out. A sleek, silver ring glints in the light from the headlights, golden highlights sparking. You shiver and look up at him.

“Not a whore, not a mother.” He smiles faintly. “Yet.”

You slap him. Not hard, but enough to make your point. Then, without a word, you turn and walk down the long driveway back to the house. In your periphery, you watch him reach up and touch his cheek where you hit him, then slowly close the box and place it back in his pocket.

—

He waits an hour before he seeks you out. You’re curled in the fetal position, lying in one of the spare bedrooms. You stare blankly at the wall across from you. There’s no color to your vision. The pillow has long since dried from your tears.

He knocks on the door, waits a full minute for a response. When he doesn’t get one, he quietly lets himself in. His footsteps are bare and light. He sits on the opposite side of the bed, sighing, and you close your eyes again. You’re not sure you want to hear what he has to say.

“I’m not a good man.” His voice is quiet, almost shameful, and he speaks to the ground, faint to you. “I’ve made that clear tonight. You never heard about me cause you were never in Birmingham. If you had, you’d know, I’m not a good man.”

You clench your jaw and stay quiet, wait for him to say what he thinks will make up for the pain and terror he’s caused.

He clicks his tongue, almost wincing. “Lost my family today. Decided that meant I needed a fresh start. Needed to move away from all this— this Peaky Blinders shit and focus on more gentlemanly matters. I felt possessed to get away from it all. From any reminder of it. That included you.” He takes a slow breath, sighing it out. “You reminded me, as you should have, that a better man would never send you away. I would be sending you and your horses to death or worse. It took me far too long to remember that, and for that, I am sorry.”

You open your eyes, blinking hard, trying to stop tears from rolling out once more.

“You saved my life. I can’t return the favor, not in the same way, but I can preserve yours. That I will do. I won’t try to send you away again. I understand now how misguided that was.” You feel his gaze on your back and you try to smooth out your breathing, steady yourself so he can’t see that you’re human, that you’re affected by him.

He’s quiet for a moment, then, voice weak and childish, he manages two words you never truly expected him to say. “I’m sorry.”

You sniffle and croak out a short, shaky sentence. “Am I worth anything to you?”

“Yes.” His response comes immediately. “You are.”

“Then why don’t you act like it?”

“I told you that first night. Something in me has been broken since the war. Maybe since my mum. I don’t have the words for it. You’ve seen it, now. You’ve seen it.”

You nod shakily. “You were ready to watch me drive off to my death.”

“I would never have let you leave the driveway.”

“But you let me think you would.” A tear leaks out and you angrily wipe it away. “You let me think that you cared so little about me that you would watch me go back to a life I couldn’t survive.”

“You know what I think?” He shifts towards you, turning his body so he faces your back.. “I think that you’re the first person to see the fucking rotten part of me and still stay in this house.”

“I have nowhere else to go, Tom.” Your voice breaks. “You realize that. I have nowhere else to go, and you can’t decide whether you want me or not, and I’m worthless unless I sleep with you or marry you.”

His voice drops to a mere murmur. “I want you.”

“You didn’t an hour ago.”

“I told you I was sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t enough!” You sit up, fully crying now, and face him. “You fucked up, and I don’t know where there is to go from here.”

“I do. I know where to go.” He reaches back into his pocket and pulls out the ring box. “I—”

“Stop! Stop with the fucking ring! I don’t want to belong to you, I don’t want—”

“Listen. You can say no. Just fucking listen.” His hand shakes slightly as he holds it in his lap. “I’m not a good man. I try to be, but I’m not. But you— you make me think I can be if I try. That’s a rare fucking thing. You will never belong to me. You will never belong to anyone. It’s a shot in the fucking dark, and things like this come and go as they please, but if I can, if I could, I’d like to be that shot in the dark. If it’s up to me, it’ll be us in the end. I’m not a good man, but I promise, I will be good to you and for you. Love is far, far away, but it gets closer when I’m with you. So, I’m asking you, because I need you with me, to look past the way I hurt you and see that I do care for you. I do think you’re worth something.” He reaches out and gently wipes a tear from your cheek, hand trembling. “I’m asking for a selfish thing. I’m asking for you to see the blood on my hands and love me anyway. I’m asking you to marry me.”

He is broken promises and shaking fists, and you know, he did not mean to be cruel, but that doesn’t mean he was kind to you. So, you take a breath, trying to stay steady, and you open your mouth to reply.

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everythingelseisextra · 9 months

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Stand Your Ground

Part Eleven: Work

Description: You are found. Warnings: Discussion and description of self harm scars, language, canon-typical violence Word Count: 2593 Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @ttaechii @weaponizedvirtue @Majesticcmey @Optimisticsandwichgladiator @zablife @princesssterek @mm0thie @callsignvenus @babayaga67 @globetrotter28 @shelbydelrey @look-at-the-soul

You’re not yourself. You’re floating above your body like a ghost, the sensations you could be experiencing numbed out by fear and necessity. You watch yourself waver and wonder if you’ll stay standing, or if the terror will be too much and you’ll fall to your knees. Your grip on Tommy’s arm loosens as he opens his mouth to speak. You shake your head, let go, and make a beeline towards the nearest exit. Each step you take reverberates through you, pounding through your skull, but still, you’re disconnected, unattached to yourself. Footsteps follow you, and you can’t tell who they belong to, so panic pushes you into a jog. A white horse prances out of the corner of your eye. Voices speak and you can’t understand them and it doesn’t matter anyway, all you need to do is get out, get away, save yourself.

The footsteps following you speed up and your vision starts to blur, the edges darkening, specks of light shining through. You gasp for breath, trying to keep yourself moving while the ground beneath your feet sways. Shoulders caved in, arms wrapped around you, trying to keep yourself from falling entirely apart.

Someone grabs your arm and yanks you to the side. You blink up to find hazel eyes, a face with skin pulled so tight and pale that it looks like a skull. You go limp in his grip, leaning back against the wall behind you, because it’s easier this way. At this point, it’s easier to just let it happen. You can’t feel his hand on your arm, can’t feel his breath on your face, can’t register that he’s moving closer, trying to get a good look at your face.

“It is you.” His lips twitch up. “What a coincidence. Liszt will be thrilled.”

You watch his hand tighten on your arm, watch his other one gently touch your hip, trying to draw you closer. You comply. Your eyes are trapped on the ground, you can’t move, can’t feel, can barely see. You need to fight, you know it, but you can’t, because you no longer belong to yourself, no longer live in your own body. For the next few minutes, or for however long it takes, you belong to him, and you’ll be numb, unfeeling, because that way, it won’t hurt.

Fight. Comply. Fight. Comply. Opposite orders clash in your mind and you remain frozen. Your eyes slide closed and you’re asleep, dreaming while his hand travels down your side, pressing you to him.

My body is here and I am inside.

Gunshot. Hot blood splatters. The man slumps onto you and you’re drenched in liquid carmine. You take in a sharp breath, and, suddenly, you’re crying, sobbing. His dead weight pushes you down to your knees and you shake violently, forced back into your body. Heaving breath shudders through your chest and you shove his body off of you, watch as it limply falls away. For a moment, all you have is the warm blood covering and the image of the side of his head blown open, skull shattered and brain matter leaking through. And you’re crying and pathetic, brought to your knees by nothing more than a light touch on your hip and a familiar face.

And then you look up and find unaffected blue eyes staring down at you. You look away. You’re meant to be brave, to be a fighter, to take shit from no one and defend yourself with a ferocity that rivals the gangster you’ve found yourself side by side with. And he saw you freeze up, saw you allow it to happen, no sign of fighting back or self-preservation. What’s worse is that none of it matters. You can’t stay here. You can’t keep the horses, can’t settle down, can’t make a life here. Four months was all you got on the outskirts of Birmingham, and it’s over. They found you.

Tommy reaches out a hand for you, his voice quiet. “On your feet, soldier.”

You can’t. You can’t unwrap your arms from around yourself. You can’t move. Somewhere in history, someone stole the teeth out of your fight.

“I said, on your feet.” He’s insistent. You look at his hand and try to convince yourself that it will not hurt you. Slowly, you reach up and take it, and he pulls you to your feet.

Your white shirt and beige jodhpurs are patterned with blood, and your body trembles. You try to hold yourself still, try to pull yourself together, but your body keeps the score, and it’s so used to losing.

“Now, we’re leaving him here. We’re going to Arrow and we’re cleaning you up.” He kicks the body out of the way and starts to walk, still holding your hand, bringing you stumbling after him.

You open your mouth to speak but find your voice, once again, trapped in your throat. There’s a lifetime’s worth of words burnt inside of you, never to be spoken, never to heal. And you swallow hard and look away, another tear dripping slowly down your cheek.

You’re waiting for the silence in you to break, afraid of what you might say when it does but more scared of how he might react when you tell him. Once you’re in the car, and the quiet washes over you, your shaking stops and the blood on your body cools.

As he drives, his eyes stay on the road, his hands on the wheel. Your feet are on the seat, your knees up to your chest, and your eyes are wide open, scared.

You’re traveling down a rich neighborhood when he breaks the silence. Your eyes quietly take in the grandeur you will never have. His voice is steady and soft, speaking to you like he would to a frightened horse. “You want to hide. Run off somewhere and forget all this shit again. You go off somewhere where no one knows who you are and you’re not living anymore. You’re waiting. Waiting to die.”

Your lip quivers. You try to speak, try to force some words out, and find you can’t. So you shake your head, looking down at the floor.

“There’s no outrunning this. You have to know that by now. Fifteen years you��ve been running.” His eyes move to you, a quick, soft glance, checking in. “Time to stand your ground and fight.”

“I can’t.” Your voice croaks and you clear your throat, looking over at him to repeat yourself clearer. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not a fighter. I’m not like you, I try to be brave and strong and then, when I’m in actual danger, I freeze up. I think I tried to fight when I was younger and they trained me to just give in, because it would be worse if I didn’t.”

“Did you ever have someone to fight for you?”

You pause, releasing a slow breath, trying to keep yourself calm while your heart clenches in your chest. “No.”

He nods, looking back at the road. “So it’s different.”

“What, you and I against them?” You squeeze your legs to your chest, looking over at him. “I know you’re capable, but I think even you can’t win this one.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then glances at you. “I have friends. Family.”

“And it’s not fair to ask them to fight for some girl.” You shake your head. “I have to go. I have to leave.”

“They’ll fight for you if I ask them to.”

“I said no.”

“You’re worth fighting for.”

“I’m telling you, I’m not.” You close your eyes. “I matter to one person, and that’s you. I don’t exist to anyone else.”

“Yes. You matter to me.” He pulls the car in front of a manor that you consider unnecessarily large and stops it, turning to look at you. “I don’t give a shit if the rest of the world doesn’t care; you matter to me. I protect my own.”

You open your eyes to blink over at him. “You’re not gonna let up on this, are you?”

“No.” He shakes his head

“I don’t want to start a war.”

“You’re not. They did.”

“I’m not a fighter, Tom, I can’t— I can’t just sit by and watch you do this for me.”

“Don’t say that.” His jaw tightens and he looks over at you, an ember of anger in his eyes. “‘I’m not a fighter.’ What is it you told me? Every day that you wake up and face the same fight that you did the day before is a triumph. That’s what you do.”

You chuckle humorlessly. “That’s a metaphor.”

“Not for me.” His words grow hard. “Not for you.”

You sigh. “Tom, I—”

“You’re staying.” He starts the car and pulls into the manor’s massive driveway, circling around a fountain.

“That’s my choice, actually.”

“No. Not this time. I will make you stay if you don’t choose to do so.”

“So I’m going from one warden to another?” Your voice matches his, firmness to it, some fight in your words. “You’re going to keep me prisoner if I decide I want to leave? Is that what you’re saying?”

He stops the car and turns it off, then turns to consider you. “I have reasons to want to keep you here.”

Your blood freezes over, your eyes widen. “What the fuck does that mean?”

He reaches out, tenderly cupping your cheek in his hand, drawing you towards him. You’re too shocked, too out of your element, to realize what’s about to happen until it’s happening. His lips on yours, soft but slightly chapped, gentle and chaste, almost shy. You tense up, and his thumb gently strokes your cheek, coaxing you into relaxation. It’s only a moment, and then he pulls away, but your cheeks are flushed and you’re breathless, slightly dizzy.

“Oh,” you say.

He chuckles, a low, precious sound, and you immediately want to hear it again and again and again. Your mind swirls.

“Are we clear?” His voice is back to softness.

“Crystal.”

Arrow House boasts a kind of splendor you can only describe as ghostly. Each room settles into a kind of haunted organization, echoing each other in a maze-like standardization. The bedrooms stand with perfectly made beds and almost hospital-level cleanliness. There’s a lack of clutter that you personally find makes the home seem cold, untouchable, like it hovers elsewhere, not fully existing in our universe. Still, Tommy leads you to one of the spare bedrooms, and leaves you there to undress. You close the curtains to the window and sit in the semi-light, a bluish tint to the room as sunrays try to make their way through the blinds. The bedsheets are dark brown, matching the beige walls, and it feels stagnant, empty. You suddenly understand his constant need for work.

You fold the bloody clothes and toss them on the tile floor in the bathroom, so they can be cleaned later. You’re mostly undressed, your shirt and jodhpurs off, when he knocks on the door.

“You decent?”

“No,” you answer, quiet enough so only he can hear. “But you can come in.”

There’s a pause before he opens the door and steps inside. His arms carry a folded pile of clean clothes belonging to Ada that you’ll be borrowing. His eyes flick over you and he closes the door behind him, stepping back to lean against it, as if trying to stay as far from you as possible.

“It’s okay,” you say. “I don’t mind you seeing.”

You’ve grown to have a certain carelessness with your body, at least in circumstances like these. So many people have seen you, have looked at your shape and judged it, that it no longer feels private to you. You have no shame in the way you appear, and you know, somewhere in the days you’ve spent with him, that he would never break the shape you take.

He looks back at you, and you stand from where you sit on the bed, allowing him to see you. You’re a collection of scars and memories, blood and bone and thin, wiry muscle, and across your body, there are patterns. On your stomach there are deep scars from men who needed to hurt you to feel they were in control. On your back, shallow and faint marks tell where you were scratched by clients clutching at you. And, on your thighs, there are symmetrical, straight lined scars, almost pearlescent, some larger than others.

He approaches you slowly, meeting your eyes before he reaches out to gently trace the scar tissue on your stomach. Your skin quivers beneath his touch, like a horse trying to shake a fly, but you face him unwaveringly. His fingers travel lightly down to your thighs, brushing against the raised, parallel scars.

“Who did this to you?” He sounds almost in awe, respectful, but behind his words is an anger that you can feel in your chest. His touch sparks through you, warm and shivering faintly, a dialectic.

“Oh, Tom,” You shake your head, a wavering smile on your lips. “I did.”

You look away, swallowing hard, smile falling. You repeat yourself with a choked voice. “I did.”

He takes your chin in his hand and turns your head so you meet his eyes. “This is why. This is why you’re staying with me.”

“I can’t.” You lean into his touch. “You know I can’t.”

“Aren’t you tired of being alone?” He traces your lips, gentle. “Is it not worth staying so you have a family? Am I not worth staying for?”

You pull away from him. “That’s unfair and you know it.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “No, not unfair. Honest. You promised me you’d linger.”

You take in a sharp breath, sitting back down on the bed so you don’t have to hold your own weight, don’t have to hold your head up so high. “I don’t want to get you hurt.”

“You underestimate the Peaky Blinders.” He kneels down in front of you, taking your hands in his and looking up at you, blue eyes a frozen ocean during a storm. “You underestimate me.”

“Maybe.” You bite your lip, curling your hands into fists inside of his. “Maybe I do.”

“Stay. Stay, and maybe— maybe I can have a do-over.” He rests his head against your bare knees. “Maybe I can have a second chance.”

You look down at him, at this man literally on his knees for you, and your heart goes out to him. Something in you lets go of the fear, and you realize that he’s let you waltz right into his life, let you see parts of him he shows no one else. He saved your life and took you home and got you fresh clothes and you didn’t thank him, and he asked for nothing in return but your presence in his life. He asked for nothing but for you to stay.

Some people are so desperate for softness that they forget that even the gentlest creatures still have teeth. But he promised he wouldn’t hurt you, and now, you realize you’re indebted to him. You owe him. He forced himself into your life and saw your loneliness and told you that you were enough for him, even if indirectly.

And so, quietly, you answer him. “Okay. I won’t run away this time. I’ll let you show me how to live.”

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby #peaky blinders x reader #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders imagine #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinder imagine #peaker blinders fandom #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic

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everythingelseisextra · 9 months

Text

Lingering In Doorways

Part Nine: First Time

Description: After a week of recovering from your confession, you return to see Tommy. Warnings: References to rape and trafficking, language, brief mention of self harm Word Count: 2565 Tag List: @babayaga67 @theshelbyslimited @ttaechi @weaponizedvirtue @majesticcmey @optimisticsandwichgladiator @zablife @princesssterek @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul

Talking about it awakens something in you, something that had been hibernating for years. A stagnate, deep-rooted fear raises its ancient head in you, and, for once, you don’t know what to do to quiet it. You push it away, shove it into the corner of your mind, and it creeps back within minutes. You’re feeding the horses and there are hands on your body, running down your hips, touching your breasts, feeling you. You’re trying to sleep and you’re back in those grimey hotel rooms, lying in bed while a client drips out of you, tears in your bleary eyes. You’re getting up in the morning to face the gray on your own, and the horses look at you with their empathic, liquid eyes, and you know that they know. They’re particularly gentle with you these days. Even the newer ones don’t bolt wildly the way they used to.

The part of you that’s hurt is young, and so you want comfort, want to be held and coddled and told it was all just a bad dream. You want to be told why it happened, that there’s some larger meaning to it all. There isn’t. Nothing bad comes with a greater meaning, you have to make it yourself. And, for you, your meaning is the horses, those half-feral freaks of nature you so adore.

Some nights, when it’s particularly bad and you’re shaking in the darkness of the cold kitchen, tears squeezed from your eyes and fingernails tearing into your own skin, you wrap his coat around you. It’s warm, and it smells of whiskey and cigarettes and some other scent that’s unique to him, clean and vaguely sweet. And you stare at the phone and remember the night he called you for help, and you wonder what he’d do if you did the same, looking for a reason.

You get to know your own heartbeat these days. You learn how it skips a beat before you fall into the chasm of your own mind. You learn how to slow it down, burying your face in a horse’s mane and breathing deeply, the scent grounding, bringing you out of the world that lives in your memories, grungy and shadowed. Hands shaking, eyes a little puffier than before, you relearn to master your own fear, to coax it back to softness like you do with the horses.

A week later, when you’re ready, you go to see him again. There’s no guilt in you as you make your drive. You didn’t abandon him. You needed to rest, to withdraw back into the quiet nothing that keeps you safe, and then you could face the world again. A knife sits heavy in your pocket, your assurance that you will fight back, that you will not lie there and let it happen like you used to. Your body is worth fighting for.

You walk down the hallway of the hospital alone, watching the doors until you come to his. One of your hands stays in your pocket around the hilt of your knife, the other is wrapped around your abdomen. Cold air washes over you. You sigh, and feel the familiar jolt of your heart, a precursor. You stand in front of his door and breathe, leaning your head against the chilled door, the hand that rests on your belly feeling the rise and fall. Chasing off your demons with even breathing seems too simple to you, but, inevitably and with patience, it works.

You lift your head and knock on the door. A muffled call to come in responds, and with a trembling hand, you push it open and step inside, closing the door behind you. .

His cool, clear eyes flick over you and he stands from his bed, his expression unreadable. Arms crossed against his chest, head tilted slightly, he appears defensive, as if ready for an attack. You stare back, unwilling to remove your hand from your pocket. You are armed, and you want him to know it, just in case. You stand in silence for a moment, considering each other, mirror images distorted.

He breaks first. “You decided to come back.”

“I said I would.” You refuse to wrench your eyes from him, refuse to be the one to shatter the contact between you.

“And it took you a week.”

“Yes. I needed time.”

“While you took your time, I relearned how to walk and sat in this room while my fucking family went on without me.” His voice threatens to boil over from the usual even, steady tone.

“I couldn’t have come. I wanted to, I did, but I couldn’t. I don’t always have the easiest time, Thomas.” Your hand tightens over the grip of the knife.

“No.” His voice softens slightly, though his shoulders remain drawn back, his eyes unbroken from yours. “You don’t.”

You release a slow breath, trying to relax yourself. Your grip stays taught. “The horses are done. I can stay as long as you like tonight.”

His brow furrows and he says nothing, his eyes moving over your face, trying to read you as you are him. Something about his expression, the way his head tilts, maybe, or how he looks at you with such a light touch that you’ve never seen before, makes your jaw tighten.

“What?” You step forward. “Talk, Shelby.”

“You’re brave, coming back here.”

You scoff. “Is that a threat?”

“No.” He straightens, eyes narrowing a moment.

“Stop looking at me like that.” Your voice hardens. You take another step towards him, trying to balance out the amount of space you take up, the scales shifting in his direction even with him standing still.

“How am I looking at you?”

“Like I’m some kind of tragedy. Like you’ll break me if you look too hard.” You drop the arm you have wrapped around yourself to gesture meaninglessly. “You can’t break me and you promised not to treat me different. You promised.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he speaks. “You told me, and it took a week away.”

“What’re you, worried we’re gonna run out of time?” Your demeanor softens slightly, dismay replaced with a kind of saddened curiosity.

“I had the rest of my life with Grace.” For the first time, your eyes break away from each other, and he looks up at the ceiling, fighting with something. “Until I didn’t.”

“I can’t make you any promises, but—”

“You can.” It’s the first time he’s interrupted you, the first time he’s butted in on your thoughts halfway through. He huffs out a breath. “You can promise me to linger in the doorways and keep— keep my coat in your house so I have an excuse.”

You’re at a loss for words. He’s earnest. Asking you for something small that means something much, much larger. Something long-dead in you flickers back to life.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “I promise to hesitate when we say goodbye, and I promise I’ll use what you’ve given me to fight off the cold.”

He nods once, and the earnestness is gone, his eyes back on you, bold and bright and challenging. “You’ll stay the night here, then?”

“Yes.” Your words come slightly hoarse. “Yes, I’ll stay.”

“Good.” He sits back down on his bed, and you wander over to the wooden chair. “How’s Draco?”

“He’s good.”

The night dissolves into quiet conversation, small-talk and faint laughter. You’re calm, for the first time in a week. Having someone like him by your side, knowing that he wants you there, that he worries about losing you, gives you a sense of protection, like only around him can you let your guard down completely. He has your back. He has your back in a way that no one has since you were a kid, and this time, your bond has been built not out of fear and necessity, but out of mutual respect, and, to be honest, out of loneliness. He knows who you are and has not looked away, has not faltered in his treatment of you.

You look at him and you see the part of yourself you always wished you could be; brazzen and bold, strong and solid, a fighter. And, undoubtedly, you see an echo of the trauma you’ve endured, buried somewhere in him. Like yours, his mind wanders on the edge, on a precipice of sand and insane, a sublime image of self-destruction and anxious megalomania combined. You don’t know him the way he knows you. You won’t force it out of him. But you meet his eyes while you talk, and you catch bits and pieces of who he is.

Freezing night air fills the room. The moon is high in the sky, and you’re still talking about nothing, still trying to burn the darkness away. You discuss methods of training horses, the complexities of their psychology, the fear that runs through every racehorse that they’ll be forced yet again to be pushed beyond what their bodies are capable of. You talk about his son, about how raising a child really isn’t all that different from horses, how Charlie has his father’s intelligence but his late mother’s reserve. You gently breach the subject of Grace, asking who she was, and you get a short but informative response.

“She was a spy who forgot which side she was on.”

You don’t ask about her again.

As the night settles over you and exhaustion hits, you begin to shiver, your body on the wooden chair unable to keep itself warm. You pull your knees up to your chest and wrap your arms around them, trying to bundle into yourself. Tommy, laying back in his bed, turns his head to raise an eyebrow at you.

“I’ll have them bring you a cot.” He starts to sit up, but you stop him.

“Used to sleep on a hard wooden floor, this isn’t bad.” You roll your sore shoulders. “Just… kind of cold.”

“It is.” He glances down at the bed he lays in, then starts to remove the only blanket. “Here.”

“I don’t need…” You sigh and take it. “Now you’ll be cold. All you’ve got is a sheet.”

“I’ll ask for more.”

“No, it’s the middle of the night.”

“Nurses work nights.”

“I know. I just—” You shake your head and hand him back the blanket. “Take it. I’ll survive.”

His eyes flick over you, that discerning look that’s trying to measure his chances. “I can take the chair.”

“Shut up, you have a fractured skull.”

His lips twitch up. “You could have a cot and blankets, and you insist on the wooden chair.”

“I’m a masochist. It’s in my nature,” you deadpan, staring him dead in the eye. Betraying you, your lips echo his, twitching into a small smile, then a big one. “I just would hate to take their attention away from people who really need it.”

His eyes travel away from you to the bed he lays on.It’s not large, but it’s not small, either, made to have space for someone to maneuver a broken body on. He stares at it, then looks back at you.

“No.” You follow his thought process.

“Why not?”

“Because.” You look away, your heart jolting.

“Not a good answer.”

“Because what if I wake up and you’re—” You swallow hard. “I don’t trust you for that.”

He blinks, and out of the edge of your vision, you see him sit up to look at you. The hair on the back of your neck stands up and chills run down your spine, making you clutch the edge of the seat you sit on, looking for balance and security and grounding. He’s waiting for you to look back at him, and you can’t, so he speaks.

“I can’t convince you, can I?”

You don’t respond, closing your eyes, head still turned away from him. You shiver, half from cold, half from the flooding of old memories cascading back into your mind. Men rutting on you, fingers gripping your hair and holding you back, your young body pushed to the furthest extent.

“You know what I used to do with Grace?”

You shake your head, eyes still closed.

“I’d keep my foot on her through the night. If she moved, I’d feel it. So I always knew if she got up, if she needed something.”

You take a deep breath. “I don’t know. I haven’t been touched by someone in… years. Not even in the sexual sense, just in general. It always leads to something I don’t want. Always.”

His voice is gentle. “I will do you no harm, love.”

You look back at him, trying to keep your words steady. “I have a knife in my pocket. If… if you move towards me, if you do anything, I will fucking use it. I spent too long not defending myself.”

He nods thoughtfully, sitting up and moving back in the bed, allowing you space. You stand up and sit on the edge, looking over at him, thinking.

“I want you facing away from me.”

He complies.

You hesitate, then, slowly, lower yourself onto the bed. There’s less than a foot of space between you. You lie with your knife in your hand, held out loosely in the middle of you and him, facing him. Your breath shudders in your chest and you can’t find a way to close your eyes, can’t steady yourself, can’t stop your heart from pounding.

“Would it help if I gave you my gun?”

“Do you… do you sleep with a loaded gun?”

“Under the pillow.”

“Jesus.”

“He has nothing to do with it.”

You manage a weak smile. “Yes. That would make me feel better.”

He sits up and lifts his pillow, revealing a sleek black weapon underneath. He twists to slide it over to you.

You let out a slow breath. The last time you had a gun was when you were young, terrified, trying desperately to protect yourself.

“Don’t fucking shoot it. Put it under your pillow.”

“I won’t kill you on accident, I promise.” You move it under your pillow as he asks and lay back down. “I know how to use a gun. The safety is on?”

“Yes.”

You nod, closing your eyes only to have your heart jump into your throat. You open them. Tommy still faces away from you. You can feel the warmth of him, see the outline of his skin underneath the pale white shirt he wears. Breathe, you think to yourself. Be brave.

It takes you several hours to fall asleep. Tommy stays silent and still, and you can’t tell whether he’s awake or not. But, eventually, you can’t help but slip off. The night air is cool on your body, but you’re warmed by his closeness, soothed by the steadiness of his breathing.

It’s a fight to trust. You have to choose with every moment that passes not to flinch away, but stay steady in the face of your past, refusing to allow it to hold you back. You have to choose to believe him when he says he will not harm you. You have to choose to step forward, to tell the stories that hurt you, even if you have to get drunk to do so. And, inevitably, you have to choose to let go of the knife.

It has been a beautiful fight.

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby #peaky blinders x reader #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders imagine #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinder imagine #peaker blinders fandom #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders fanfic

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everythingelseisextra · 9 months

Text

My Body Is Here

Part Five: Give Yourself A Reason

Part Seven: Lingering in Doorways

Description: A brutal accident leads to a revealing conversation. Warnings: Mention of trafficking, mention of guns and shooting, references to being drugged and withdrawal, skull being cracked (like in canon), references to sexual assault, panic attack, language, use of the word Gypsy for Roma people Word Count: ~3000 Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @zablife @weaponizedvirtue @ttaechi @majesticcmey @optimisticsandwichgladiator @princesssterek @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul Author's Note: This is unedited. I have a headache and don't have the energy to go through and fix it. Hope it's not terrible.

You walk out of your house at two in the morning on Friday. You try to separate your thoughts, move through your work as though nothing unusual is happening. In the dark, you exercise the horses, and in the dawn, you return to eat and dress and make yourself presentable. Dressed to impress, with clean jodhpurs and a white collared shirt, you sit to wait for Tommy to appear.

The horses eat their hay, silent in the warm morning air, and birds sing faintly in the few trees that dot this barren countryside. Time trudges past, and you glance at the clock, brow furrowing. He’s usually early like you, greeting the day before it even fully awakens. At eight, you stand and start to pace, worry rushing through you. You haven’t heard from him since the call, and your mind jumps to the worst. You know how pain can feel like pleasure when the blade is sharp enough, and you know how exhilarating the finger on the trigger can be. You pause, take a breath, and try to convince yourself that you’re catastrophizing.

At nine, you pick up the phone and call him. The line rings, and you stand in trepidation, heart in your throat. Just when you think no one will pick up, the ringing stops, and a female voice speaks.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” You release a breath. “Is this— who is this?”

“This is Ada Shelby.”

A spike of relief jolts through you and you speak a little too fast. “Tommy was supposed to meet me this morning. Is everything okay?”

“Who is this?” Ada grows suspicious, her voice losing the warmth it had when she first picked up. “One of Tommy’s women?”

“No— I mean— I guess, technically— but it’s not— we’re not—” You sigh, frustrated. “I’m a friend. That’s all. We were going to go look at horses.”

“You’re the one who sprayed him with a hose.” She softens, and you hear a weak smile in her words. “Right, okay. Well, he was certainly looking forward to it.”

“What happened?”

“He got in a fight and his skull got cracked.” She sighs. “Poor Tom. Used cocaine to get him through the day.”

“What?” Your blood goes cold, your eyes widen, and you feel yourself step back from yourself, an observer of your own reactions. Numbness flows, and you sigh, closing your eyes and tensing your muscles for a moment, working yourself back into your body. Something like panic shoots through you, simultaneously hot like fire and frozen like ice. You wrap your arm around yourself and take a shaky breath.

“Scared the shit out of me. He could barely keep his head up.”

“Is he okay?” Your voice shakes. Your hand clenches around the handset.

“Any longer and he would’ve died, but the doctors say he’ll make it through. Just had surgery on him yesterday. I’m taking care of Charles at the moment.”

“Who’s Charles?” Your mind latches onto the least awful thing, trying to sort through all the information you’ve just been given.

“He’s Tommy’s son.”

“He has a son?” You shake your head. “Sorry. Sorry, but— Jesus Christ, he cracked his skull and made it through a day after?”

“Yeah, well, you know Tom. If he’s made his mind…”

“Fuck.” You exhale the word, trying to remind yourself how to breathe, how to make yourself calm. “Fuck. Okay. Will they let people visit him?”

“No, not until later. He wouldn’t even know who you were if you came now.”

You run a hand through your hair, trying to sort out the next step, some way to move forward knowing this. You can’t go to the track without him. You can’t.

“Okay. Okay, I— I don’t live in town. I need— how can I get to him? What hospital? I can’t ride there, not to a hospital, not now.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I don’t have a car.”

“And you’re… his friend.” She says the word like she’s never heard it in this context before, like it’s completely new to her. “Just his friend.”

“Yes. Just his friend.”

“You can take a cab into Warwickshire and I’ll meet you there with Arthur and John.”

“I don’t have…” To Warwickshire is several hours of driving, and you don’t have the money to pay for it.

“What? What don’t you have?”

Shame bubbles up in your throat, but you swallow it down and speak up. “I don’t have the money for that.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure Tom won’t mind if we cover it.”

“I don’t want to be indebted to you.” You shake your head. “I guess I can—”

“No, you won’t be. To be honest, love, I don’t think he cares about that amount.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

She’s quiet for a second, then, quietly; “His house has a name, if that gives you any idea.”

“You’re kidding.” You rub your forehead, completely nonplussed.

“Come to Warwickshire. He’ll need a friendly face when he comes out of it, and he’s not too keen on us at the moment.”

“Um— okay.” You nod to yourself. “Okay. If he wakes before I get there, tell him I’m coming. Please.”

“I will.” She clears her throat. “See you in a bit.”

“See you.”

The hospital is a cold, concrete building, built more like a prison than anything else. Cave-like hallways flicker with uneven light, and your footsteps echo through them with each step. Around you, the sobs of patients and the creaking of cots consume the frigid air. The faint smell of rubbing alcohol burns your nostrils, and you close your eyes as the nurse leads you down the hall of thick, unforgiving doors.

John and Arthur and Ada had all gone in before you. They came out thin-lipped and quiet, heads bowed as if at church, like something holy had sent them off. Ada murmured to you not to expect much, and you nodded, sharp anxiety pressing into your chest. Now, the nurse knocks sharply on the door, then opens it.

Her voice echoes around the square, freezing room. “Here she is, Mr. Shelby.”

She nods to you, then turns and walks off, hard-soled shoes clattering on the stone floor. You stand in the doorway, heart in your throat. He’s lying on a cot, and, at the angle, you can see the stitched wound in his skull from the surgery. His head turns slowly, and hazy blue eyes stare over at you, then look away again.

He speaks to the rest of the room, apparently unable to shift his head for too long, letting his words echo over to you. “Don’t stare.”

“Sorry.” You blink out of your horrified spell and step inside, closing the door behind you. As quietly as you can, you walk over to sit down on a wooden chair next to him. His eyes are surrounded by pale purple, his skin pale and pallid.

Inexplicably, you want to reach out and touch him, give him some sort of comfort in this cold, all consuming room. He’s talented at communicating in silence, and, right now, you simply don’t have the words to put your thoughts into, don’t have the ability to explain everything you’re feeling. When you were younger, when everything was twisted and terrible, you never knew if you were real unless you were touched. You never knew if you existed to other people until they put their hands on you.

So, in silence, you reach out and place your hand on his. His skin is cold, calloused in places but fragile in others, and, for a moment, you’re not sure if he’ll respond in kind. His fingers twitch under yours, and then, slowly, he turns his hand and laces his fingers into yours.

You stay like that, two specks of warmth in a cold, dark place, and you watch his bare chest rise and fall, watch his eyes close. There’s a half-full bottle of morphine on the bedside table, a spoon laying next to it. In this moment, neither of you are whole. You do not complete each other. You are separate, but syncopated, two notes that harmonize. And, for the first time today, you feel calm.

“Will you come back?” His voice is gravelly as always, but slightly slurred, no longer sharp and commanding.

“I’ll try. I have the horses, but… I’ll try.” You gently squeeze his hand. “Don’t need you going crazy in this jail cell.”

He squeezes back, weak, his only response. You lean back and close your eyes. Your mind swirls absently, flickering with memories you can’t place your finger on. Moments of intimacy with other people that you never knew the names of. The touch of another that you trust, gentle, loving, a comfort against the world’s atrocities. His hand warms in yours, the touch of skin against skin battling against the frigidity.

“Thought I would die,” he says quietly. “Thought I would die and the last thing I’d see is that priest’s fucking face.”

“I’m sure your siblings have said this to you, but, if I could, I would kill him myself.”

“No. Don’t get mixed up in all this.” His eyes remain closed. “Fucks with your head.”

“You think it’d be the first time?” You smile faintly.

This gets his attention. His eyes open and flick over to you, waiting for an explanation.

“It wouldn’t. I know what it does to a person.”

“If you’re smart, you’ll stay away from me.”

“Tommy, you just asked me to come back and see you.” You shift forward in your chair to meet his eyes. “I’m not staying away from you. We’re past that.”

He blinks, and when his eyes open, he’s looking away from you. “I want you to stay.”

It must be hard for him to admit that, when he desperately wants to keep you at arm’s length. When his instincts say to separate and protect and avoid, but he truly needs something else, something different.

“I can’t. The horses need feeding. I can come back, though. I can probably even stay the night and leave in the morning, if you want.”

He pulls his hand away from yours and nods. “Go take care of your horses, then.”

You stand, the echo of his hand in yours tingling faintly. “I’ll see you, okay? And, once you’ve recovered, we’ll go get that racehorse.”

His eyes slide closed and he nods faintly. You turn and leave the room, stepping lightly to avoid announcing yourself to every patient in the entire building, and walk back down the long hallway.

“You have a son.”

At night, the hospital room seems to freeze over. You curl into yourself on your wooden chair, trying to preserve your warmth and keep yourself from shivering. Pale moonlight shines in from the high windows, impossible to open but insistent on allowing in the cold air.

“Yes. I have a son.”

“You never mentioned him.”

He shrugs. He sits up in bed, arms crossed over his bare chest, and he looks down at the blankets covering his lower half, not at you.

“You also didn’t mention that you have more money than most people know how to do with. You came and looked at my little house and thought— what? What did you think?”

“I thought nothing. Your money is spent elsewhere.”

“How could you think nothing? Is that why you wanted to buy Draco? I’m not a charity case, Tommy.”

He’s quiet.

Irritation heats up in your chest. “I asked you a question.”

“I grew up a gypsy boy with too many brothers and not enough to care for them.” His words are quiet, more refined than a few days ago. “Saw a man beating a horse and went after him with a stick. That man had friends. So, they said, ‘Go away to the war and come back with something.’ Came back with nothing. Built my way up from there. I don’t give a fuck about your earnings.”

It’s the most he’s spoken in days. You cross your arms, mirroring him, brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me, then? Not about the money, I get that, but about your son?”

He glances at you, then looks back down. His skin has more color in it before, the almost-invisible freckles across it showing in the moonlight. “I wanted you to give me a chance.”

“A chance at what, exactly?”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes shift to you, those careful, bright eyes flicking over you, as if begging you to read his mind. You can’t.

“Always the mysterious one, aren’t you?” You shake your head, gently pushing his shoulder. His face remains stoic.

“I looked into you. Asked everyone I knew in France about a girl at a boarding school from America. No one knew you, no one had heard of you. I need to know.” He speaks softly. “I need to know.”

You look away. “Why, Tom? Why do you need to know? It’s not who I am anymore. I don’t want to be that person anymore.”

“I need to know who you are.” His head tilts, his eyes still fastened resolutely to his legs. “I’ve told you who I am.”

“It’s different.”

“Tell me how it’s different.”

You bite down on your lip, looking up at the ceiling. “Please, can’t you just trust me?”

“I need to know.”

“Okay.” A lump forms in your throat, and you don’t even try to swallow it down. “Okay. I’ll tell you. You have to promise me something first.”

He nods.

“Promise me you won’t treat me different. Promise me you won’t treat me like a bomb about to go off.”

“I promise.”

“Okay.” You close your eyes, a faint burning sensation behind them. “I guess… It starts with my mom and the man who got her pregnant. I don’t really know what happened. I just know he kept women, rented them out to other men, sent them to other parts of the world.” You glance at him, waiting for a reaction and not getting one. “After I was old enough, which, to him, was when it wouldn’t cause permanent damage, he sent me off to France, where I was kept as… well, I was kept there to be used. There were other girls. One of them taught me how to shoot. I fell in love with her.” Your throat closes and your words grow choked. “When I was fifteen, one of the men that kept control of us beat her to death. I shot him, and I ran. I made it to the streets, hid in alleyways and basements, spent my time half lucid. They kept us drugged, and the withdrawal almost killed me.”

Your lip quivers. Memories drip slowly through your mind. Darkened hotel rooms, the taste of alcohol on your lips, the feeling of your body being broken over and over again, the fogginess that kept you alive, kept you able to do your work. You remember her icing and dressing your wounds. You remember her brushing through your knotted, wild hair. You remember her touch, so gentle compared to a man’s, saving you from your own mind.

“I ended up working at a racetrack. They barely paid me, and it was hard work, but I was good at it. That’s how I ended up where I am now.”

“Why did you leave France?” His voice stays quiet and even, but not quite unfeeling. There’s a respect to the way he speaks to you now.

“They found me.” A silent tear drips down your cheek. “They found me, and I had to run again. You can’t find any information about me because there is none. I existed in underworlds and living nightmares, and then I was nobody. I’m no one. I’ve never been myself, I’ve just been the things other people want me to be. You can’t find out who I am because not even I know who I am.”

“You’re not.”

“What?”

“You’re not no one.” He turns to look at you, blue eyes clearer and softer than you’ve seen them in the last few days, or maybe even since you met him. “You’re someone to me.”

You scoff, wiping another rogue tear from your face. “You barely know me.”

He swings his legs off the side of the bed, one of his knees between yours, and leans forward to meet your eyes. You grow still, the intensity of his attention freezing you.

“I don’t waste time, do I?” His eyes flick over your face, trying to read you. “Don’t waste time on nobodies, do I? You’re not nobody. Don’t give a shit what happened to you, or who you think you are, or whether you have fucking money or not. You don’t have to hold your head up so high that you forget who the fuck you really are.”

You sniffle. It’s too much. Your heart pounds in your chest and you find yourself unable to breathe. You shake your head, pushing your chair back from him and standing. “I need to go.”

“No, you don’t. You can—”

“Thomas!” You gasp for breath, tears spilling from your eyes. “If I say I need to go, I need to go.”

Before he can speak, you’re gone. Head bowed, body trembling, throat closing and lungs on overdrive, you try to silence your panting as you walk down the hallway. You’re fading in and out, failing to pull yourself out of your own head. There are hands on you, gripping at your flesh, trying to hold you. Pandora's Box has opened, and you’re caught in the stream of terror coming from it, stuck, light in the head. You leave the hospital, closing your eyes and repeating to yourself, over and over again.

My body is here and I am inside.

My body is here and I am inside,

My body is here and I am inside.

#thomas shelby #peaky blinders #tommy shelby #peaky blinders x reader #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders imagine #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinder imagine #peaker blinders fandom #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby fanfic #thomas shelby imagine #peaky fucking blinders

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everythingelseisextra · 9 months

Text

Petty Criminal

Part 3: Treasure the Memory

Part 5: Give Yourself A Reason

Description: A peaceful trail ride deteriorates into an interrogation. Warnings: Language, Brief mention of sexual assault Word Count: 2755 Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @ttaechi @weaponizedvirtue @majesticcmey @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul

“You alright?”

“Fine.”

Dark-shadowed, glassy blue eyes stare into yours. Dawn air blows between you, light and cool, but something about the way he looks at you, the way he stands, the way his head is bowed slightly and he stares up at you through his eyelashes, tells you that the morning breeze isn’t refreshing to him. Your jaw tightens. This is a mistake. You’ve invited someone you barely know to ride with you, without acknowledging that maybe he doesn’t want to do this. There’s a small seed of doubt growing in your stomach, branching up towards your throat, and, if this goes badly, it’ll strangle you.

You gesture to the barn. “Draco and the horse I’ll be riding are tacked up already. We’ll just grab them and go. I’m assuming you have experience riding…”

He nods and starts for the barn, leaving you to trail after him. Before you’re fully prepared for it, you’re both on horseback, heading out the other side of the barn into the countryside. For miles, all you can see is gray-green, an ocean of hills and valleys and harshly-cut paths that crawl through the small mountains like snakes. You glance over at Thomas, the way he sits on the horse, the way he holds the reins. His hips move softly with the movement, his hands give and take gently. Draco’s neck is arched, but his head isn’t pulled to his chest.

“You have soft hands,” you say quietly.

“He’s sensitive.” He nods to Draco. “Don’t need hard hands on him.”

You nod. Thomas has been riding your horse for mere minutes, and has already picked up on his personality, his needs, and is adjusting himself accordingly. You’re impressed, and, honestly, relieved. Draco needs a quiet rider, and you weren’t sure Thomas would be one.

You walk in silence for a while, the wind blowing between you. Your horse, a paint thoroughbred you call Nifty, chews on the bit. Goose pimples raise on your arms as you start to climb a hill, twisting and turning up the trail, horses breathing hard.

“Used to do this as a kid,” Thomas says, breaking the slow silence. “Race up the hills. Explore bloody dangerous paths.”

“We can do some of that, if you like.” You smile faintly. “Just let them get warmed up first.”

He shakes his head. “Won’t be the same.”

“Of course it won’t.” You squeeze your horse’s sides with your legs, cueing him into a faster walk. “But it’s still worth it if you can— I don’t know— maybe have some fun? Why else would we have horses? Draco’s fast. Powerful.”

Thomas stays quiet, head inclined, cap low over his eyes.

“Come on. It couldn’t hurt.”

“Guess not.”

Grass and bits of dried grain whistle and rattle together around you. The ears of your horses flick forward, then back to you, then to the sides, always watchful, almost paranoid. Metal shoes on their hooves hit rocks on the path and clang. A salty, fresh scent travels along on the wind, and you breathe deep.

“There’s a left turn up here.” You hold your reins in one hand and point with the other, your fingers tracing a ridge up ahead. “And then it’s straight up the side of the mountain.”

His tired eyes follow your hand to the brown pathway ahead of you, and when he speaks, there’s a hint of life to the words, like the sunlight and wind has brought him, at least a little, out of that fatigued state. “That’s where we race, eh?”

“Yep.” You smile. “I’ll win.”

“Don’t be so sure.” His low voice barely carries over the wind. You find yourself focusing on his lips to read his words.

“If you fall off, I’m not liable.”

This coaxes a chuckle from him. “I won’t fall.”

You reach the bottom of the hill. You turn your head to start a countdown, but before you open your mouth, Thomas’ heels are on Draco’s sides, and they’re shooting off at a full sprint.

A racehorse at full speed is a thing to behold. Muscles flexing, blood pumping, legs a blur of movement. The clatter of clashing hooves and the flash of mane and tail. Thoroughbreds are freaks of nature, so athletic they have a habit of severing their own bones from the motion. Draco’s fiery body blazes in front of you, Thomas up and out of his seat, heels down and hands forward, giving the horse his head. Hot on his tail, Nifty’s body pushed to its limits in speed, you grab mane and take a moment to admire.

Thomas moves naturally with the animal, as if born in the saddle, his cheeks flushed with the cold air, hair pushed back out of his face. And, you can barely believe it, a smile is on his lips. Because he’s winning.

And you’re letting him, because you want more of that smile, more of those flushed cheeks, more of the exhilaration on his face.

You reach the precipice of the hill, and you sit back to slow your horse, giving him silent cues with your reins and body. Thomas does the same, but his hands grip at the reins, yanking back to his hips, and Draco prances, glistening red coat gleaming. Nifty comes quietly to a walk, but Thomas doesn’t let go. He gives no release when the horse listens to him.

Before you have the time to say something, Draco is rearing, front legs lifting into the air, head tossing wildly to try to relieve himself of the pressure in his mouth.

“Your hands!” You call, trying to get through to Thomas. It’s hard to listen to someone when an animal five times your size is reacting in a way you don’t understand. “Put your hands forward!”

Instead, Thomas pulls on one side of the horse’s mouth, forcing him back to the ground, but the next second, he’s back up, rearing so high that terror hits you hard. Horses can flip over on themselves when rearing, crushing the rider underneath them.

“Thomas!” You yell. “Let go!”

This time he hears you. His hands go forward, his fingers lace themselves in Draco’s mane, and he clings there in midair, waiting. Draco takes two steps forward on his hind legs, then comes crashing back down to the ground, head thrown forward. He prances, snorting, moving back and forth in place.

“Relax.” You soften your voice, moving Nifty closer to the panicking horse and rider. “I know it seems counter-intuitive, but you’ve gotta let go. Relax, Tommy. Relax.”

“Can’t fucking relax when he’s—”

“Your legs are on his sides, Thomas. He’s reacting to you.” All you can do is explain, try to teach. “Relax your legs and loosen your reins.”

His jaw tightens, then, slowly, you watch his legs release from Draco’s sides, watch his hands move forward once more. Draco’s wild eyes soften and his constant movement hesitantly comes to an end.

“He’s claustrophobic.” You find that your breath, as well as Tommy’s, is short, as though you just rode an intense bout of rearing, instead of him. “He gets scared when he feels trapped. Jockeys will yank a horse’s face until they slow down, he’s used to being hurt. He just got scared. I’m so sorry, he just got scared.”

“Fuck.” Tommy’s voice comes surprisingly weak, his head bowed, chest heaving. “Fuck.”

“Jesus. Are you okay?” You move Nifty closer, trying to get a decent look at his face.

“Don’t.” He turns his head away from you, hiding. There is shame in being seen, in any form, in any moment, but especially when you’re hurting. Especially when a stranger doesn’t know how to help, and those you know don’t know how to help, and you don’t know how to help yourself.

Your heart jumps to your throat and you swallow hard. Before you realize what you’re doing, you’ve slipped off the back of your horse, and you approach him, on the opposite side of where he’s facing. He deserves privacy, or what little you can give him.

You reach up and gently unravel his fingers from the reins. Holding Draco in one hand and Nifty in the other, you lead both horses towards softer ground. You’re now on the smallest hill, surrounded by larger ones. Above you, the sky is deliriously blue, and a cold wind whistles around you.

“I’m going to lay Draco down.” You let go of Nifty’s reins and allow him to ground-tie. “You’re going to get off, and we’re going to walk.”

Silence in response. You glance up and catch a glimpse of hazy blue eyes, looking off towards the shadow of the mountains around you.

With some trepidation, you tap on Draco’s belly, and the horse lowers himself to the ground, folding his long, sweaty legs underneath him. Tommy steps off immediately, and Draco, as if knowing instinctively, reaches his nose out to gently nuzzle his arm.

“He’s sorry,” you murmur. “Let’s walk.”

It can help, you think, to move. To literally move away from fear, head towards the horizon, give yourself something to do other than sit in the terror. You start off, and anxiety pulses through you, inflating your lungs like a balloon so no more breath can seem to fit inside of them. You breathe anyway. Only one person can panic at a time. It was Draco’s turn, now it’s Tommy’s, not yours

Out of instinct, or maybe even out of fear, you start to speak. “I’m sorry, Thomas. I’m sorry he freaked out on you. He should be over that by now. Some things just stick with us, I think. I’m… sort of impressed, though. Most men I know would punish a horse who acted up like that. Most men I know would beat a horse just for stepping out of line.”

Tommy stays quiet. His head tilts towards you, his lips part slightly, like he wants to speak, then close, like he thought better of it. The two horses follow placidly behind you, and you walk along the ridge of the hill, a cliff dropping off into the rising sun on one side of you. Silhouetted by the burning light, he looks more delicate, as if made of porcelain and blue zircon.

“I still say you’re not scary,” you say quietly. “I still say so.”

“Did some asking around.” His voice comes hoarse, as if he’d spent hours in silence, not just minutes. “You came from Paris; you were born in America. Word is, you didn’t leave either by choice.”

Your turn to stay silent, to look away. One of the horses snorts behind you and you flinch. Your muscles tense and you reach up to rub your eye, the motion an attempt to brush off the anxiety.

“You don’t know my name. How did you ask around?” The leather reins gathered in your hand grow slippery with your palms sweating. “No one knows who I am in Birmingham.”

Thomas glances at you, then returns to staring ahead, eyes brooding. “I have friends outside of Birmingham. I have friends in the police force. You have a record.”

You stop short. “You saw my record?”

“You’re a fucking petty criminal.” He nods vaguely, a faint smile on his lips. “My guess is, you—”

“No. I don’t want to hear the story you’ve assumed explains my past.” You shake your head. Your heart pounds, your arms wrap around yourself. You want to drop the horses, turn, and run, get away from this man who knows too much, who has concocted some wild tale to explain a past you want nothing more than to forget.

“Tell me, then.” He crosses his arms, turns towards you. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re alone in the middle of nowhere with a man who claims to do very bad things. You’re suddenly very aware that, as strong as you are, as wiry as your muscles, you’re at a disadvantage to someone who’s a fighter and knows it. One of his eyebrows raises.

“Why do I owe you an explanation?” You step back, and Nifty’s muzzle touches your shoulder, nibbling at your shirt. You reach back absently to stroke his nose. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t deserve this shit from you. What, because my horse scared you, you have to get back at me?”

“Because,” he says slowly. “Nothing goes on in this city without me knowing about it.”

“I don’t live in your city!” Draco steps forward, responding to your raised voice, tail swishing. “Whatever deal you have going on with Birmingham, I want no part of. I’m just— fuck, Thomas, this was supposed to be relaxing!”

“No. You’re not part of that.” His eyes stay steady on you, cool and collected and infuriatingly blue. “I need to know who it is I’m chasing after.”

“Who it is you’re—” You take a gasping breath, leaning your head back to look up at the gray-blue sky. “So, you need to know because you have trust issues.”

“I need to know, because the business I run is important, and I can’t have someone—” He steps forward, inclining his head to look you in the eyes. “I can’t have someone get caught up in the wrong side of things.”

“What are you talking about?” You move towards him, leaving just a few inches between the two of you. “Do you think I can’t see for myself what’s going on?”

His lips part. You can see every detail of his face, every tiny freckle, every scar, every kaleidoscope pattern of his eyes. There’s a moment of silence, your eyes locked together. You can feel his breath on your face, feel the warmth coming from him. His eyes flick down.

You look away. “Fine. I’ll tell you some.”

He releases a breath and steps away.

“My mother was assaulted and got pregnant with me through that. As soon as I was old enough, she sent me away to boarding school in France. I never went back. All the ‘petty crimes’ you saw were me trying not to starve or freeze or die of dehydration or exposure. So, you happy? Do you feel better now?” Your lip quivers and you clench your jaw, trying to chase away the lump in your throat. There’s more to it than that. There’s so much more to it.

But, if he gets too close, and he sees the story you run from, sees all the versions of yourself that you murdered to become who you are, then you’ll never get another do-over. You’ll never get another chance. You will never be who he hopes you are.

“How did you—”

“Get the horses?” You complete his sentence for him, too wired to wait for him to finish. “Draco was my first. Given to me by someone who couldn’t handle rehabbing him. I was supposed to sell him and never did. People realized I was good at it and started giving me their rejects to rehab. I realized I could make some money off of it. Never looked back.”

He nods slowly. “I was wrong.”

“Yeah. People usually are about me.” You glance back at the horses. “Should’ve just let you tell me who I am and agreed to it.”

“You’re not that kind of girl.” He smiles faintly, reaches out for Draco’s reins. “If you’re lying, I’ll know.”

“Alright, Thomas.” You sigh. “Alright.”

“You have horses.” He pulls Draco over to him with the reins, flips them over the horse’s head, and walks over to tighten the girth and ground-mount. “I have work.”

“Yeah,” you say, heart sinking slightly. You walk over to Nifty and climb back onto his back. Thomas does the same with Draco.

Part of you, the part that keeps you up at night with dreams of grandeur and friendship and love, wants to tell him. Wants to split your skull open and let him look into the crack, ask if he, like you, hates what he sees. You want someone to tell you, for once in your life, that you’re okay, that they accept you, that it’s alright to be who you are.

After you get back, Tommy dismounts, leaving you with both horses to untack and wash. He gives you a polite goodbye, his eyes lingering on you a little longer than typical, and you watch him drive away. Once again, you wish he’d turn back. And, once again, all that’s left of him is dust.

It isn’t until hours later that you realize you still have his coat.

#thomas shelby #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #peaky blinders x reader #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby x reader #peaker blinders fandom #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders imagine #peaky fucking blinders #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinders fanfic #only the wild ones

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everythingelseisextra · 9 months

Text

Horse To Water

Part Fourteen: Come Home (Tommy's POV)

I'm too lazy to write a description, have fun. Warnings: Kind of torture, kind of police brutality, talk of war, PTSD, language Word Count: 4535 Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @ttaechi @weaponizedvirtue @majesticcmey @optimisticsandwichgladiator @zablife @princesssterek @mm0thie @callsignvenus @ay0nha @mgdixon @fairytale07 @dreamy-caramel @ce1iat @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul

You find yourself in handcuffs, sitting in an empty cement cell. Water drips slowly from the ceiling. A bucket in the corner fills the room with the rotten scent of excrement. The bar you sit on permeates cold through your jodhpurs and you shiver. When you exhale, your breath fogs in the frigid air.

You’re unsure of the details of how you got here. What you do recall is a blur of hands pressing you down or pushing you forwards, shouts of men discovering the bodies scattered through your property. The one who lasted longer must’ve called the police between the first man’s death and his. Confusion steeped through the officers, and you remember questions yelled at you, your voice failing you as usual, and your consequent incarceration.

They’ve asked you your name. They’ve asked you your birthday, your address, your affiliation, and you can give them nothing. All the words in your mind fail to move past your lips. And so you sit alone in an empty cell and every time you close your eyes you see blood. Every time you take a breath you feel the weight of life in your lungs and you wonder when it got so heavy.

There’s an ache left over from being young in you. This world isn’t quite what your soul expected. You went through childhood with a kind of awful surprise, like each repeated pain you felt was a new betrayal from God. Now, you’re trapped, hands tied, with nothing but your clothes between you and the world. The hair on the back of your neck rises, and you look up to see a policeman peering through the hatch, hazel eyes cold. You suck in a breath and pull your body as far from him as possible, pressing your back against the wall.

After a moment, he enters, closing the door behind him. “So, you’re the mute.”

You stare up at him, halfway between defiant and fearful, your blood trying to boil and freeze at the same time.

“You killed two men. One was particularly brutal. Lure him into a trap and use blunt force trauma from a height? You’re fucked in the head.” He steps towards you, slowly taking a thick, heavy baton from his side and holding it up, eyes on the black metal. “I’ve been sent in here to make you talk. I’m known for my skills, right? I make people talk. I’m good at it. I’m good at making sure people don’t get knocked out when I hit them.”

There’s a smile on his lips. You straighten in your seat, jaw tightening, and smooth out your expression. You blink slowly at him. No way in hell you’re talking, not after a challenge like that.

“I start out gentle.” He holds the baton out, the end right below your chin. “Who are you?”

You close your eyes and breathe. When you were younger, you used to play a game with yourself, when men were particularly rough with your little body. You’d pretend that you were someone else, standing outside of your own body, watching from afar. You’d sink into the role of this person. You’d make up their story; their name, their age, why they were there. And you’d sit in their head and watch yourself be abused. It made the pain lessen. It made it go faster.

Now, as the baton cracks into your chin, you’re standing outside of yourself to the left of the man, considering him. You imagine yourself with a strong, large body, without the aches you always seem to have, and you slip into that form.

“I asked you who you are!” The policeman pulls the baton to the side, resting it above your ear. “I expect an answer!”

The baton hits hard into the side of your head. You fall to the side, but you don’t feel the pain. Your mind is elsewhere, hovering beside the policeman, watching his arm move the baton again, preparing for another strike. There’s hot blood rolling down the side of your head, and you’re aware of it, but you don’t feel it. You don’t feel anything.

You will win this game.

“Who are you?” He waits a few seconds before drawing back and striking you again with the baton. Something flickers in your off-centered mind, and your eyes slowly slide open.

He shouts something again, but you don’t hear it. You’re focused, existing inside and outside yourself, and you’re waiting for him to draw back. He winds up, aiming for your shoulder, and you know if he were to hit, it would break your bone. Seemingly in slow motion, the baton comes crashing down, and you lift your hands, and—

The baton lands on the chain between your cuffs and breaks the metal cleanly in half. Before he registers what has just happened, you’re on your feet. You kick him hard in the groin and make for the door as he falls to his knees, whimpering. You open it, knowing full well you’re about to be caught and put right back into your cell, and shoot out, thinking somehow, maybe, you’ll get past them.

You slam straight into someone, almost falling with the force of it, and back away, looking around wildly for some way to escape. You heave, not even trying to fend off the panic as your body trembles and your eyes search desperately for a way out.

“Easy now, love.” Tommy’s voice. You look up to see his clear blue eyes, a faint smile on his lips. “You didn’t need my help at all, did you?”

Your wide eyes blink to try to clear your vision, give yourself some kind of groundedness in the familiar shape of his face, but the world spins around you and a burning sensation rises in your chest as you lose your breath time and time again.

A hand reaches out for you and you jerk away, trying to catch the breath that runs chaotically away. You continue to back away, frantically seeking freedom.

“You’re not back there. You’re not trapped. Look around, you’re free as I am.”

There are eyes on you, pinning you to the ground, scorching your skin with their seeping gazes. You shake your head, brow furrowing, wishing you could get out from this cold, dark hallway, away from the eyes on you, away from the clattering of other prisoners.

“Look around. You’re alright. You’re alright.” He steps towards you and you try not to cower. “Come on, let’s go, eh? Hold your head up and let’s go.”

You take a gasping breath, then another, trying to get ahold of yourself. He reaches out a hand to you, letting it hover softly in the space between. After a moment, you look up, meeting his eyes with a kind of feral recognition that you’ve only ever seen in spooking horses being calmed. Slowly, you reach out a trembling hand to take his.

“You’re okay.” He gives your hand a slight tug and starts to walk. Your body, pumped with adrenaline, stumbles to move by his side, falling into step with him.

Down a cold cement hallway, with eyes seeking somewhere to land through the bars of cell doors, you walk with him. Behind you, officers watch in silence, your silhouettes slowly getting smaller in their vision. He knows his way through the maze-like building, knows how to navigate through the frigidity, and before you realize it, you’re out into fresh, equally cold night air. You stop and tilt your head up, searching the sky for stars and finding only the polluted gray of Birmingham. You continue to tremble, half from cold, half from the residual fear that skewers you, a slow, painful death.

Once you’re in his car, tires rumbling down the streets, he speaks again. “Fucking coppers wouldn’t tell me anything. Said they brought in a girl from a barn on the outskirts for double homicide. Even Moss kept his mouth shut.”

You close your eyes, pressing them together, then open them again. Your voice comes out as barely more than a whisper. “That’s because they didn’t know anything.”

“They tried telling me that. Told them they needed to find out, then changed my mind.” He reaches out to gently brush the bloody side of your head and you flinch. He drops his hand, jaw tightening slightly. His voice raises. “Does anyone ever fucking listen to me?”

You hold back tears, voice breaking and pathetically small. “They were scared that you’d hurt them if they couldn’t tell you more.”

“What were you thinking, running off and killing two men?” His tone remains harsh and you suddenly realize you’re trapped, alone in a car with a very dangerous man.

“I obviously didn’t do it for fun, Tom.” You wrap your arms around yourself, a silent tear dripping down your cheek. “They found me. I don’t know how, but they did. One of them was an old client, the other… I don’t know. It was self defense. They would’ve taken me back.”

He’s quiet for a moment, blue eyes reflecting the lanterns lighting the streets, little embers in the iciness. “One man with a crushed skull, the other with his brains blown out the side of his head.”

“I had to protect myself.” Your words grow louder, hoarse. “What did you want me to do, just go with them? Is that what you think of me? Just some poor haunted girl, helpless? Is that who you want me to be?”

“No,” he says, and the word is final. “No. Everything you did, every choice you made, is exactly what I would’ve done. I don’t want you to follow down the path I did.”

You let out a half-laugh, half-sob. “I’m not following any path, I’m just trying to survive.”

“In the morning, we’ll go to your house and pack your things. You’ll stay with me.”

Suddenly, the lump in your throat is gone, replaced with a kind of surprised rage that can’t fully be described. “You’re expecting me to put my life on hold, lose my independence, and move in with you, without even asking me first?”

He blinks, glancing over at you as if he hadn’t realized it might not be what you wanted. “You’ll be sa—”

“Safer? I protected myself just fine, Thomas.”

“Next time, there’ll be more men, more guns, and you’ll be alone.”

“Oh, yeah? Well then, why don’t you move in with me? Why don’t you upend your life and leave everything behind?” You turn your head to look at him, glaring. “How does that sound to you?”

“It’s not the same.”

“What, because you have money and I don’t? Because I have less to lose?”

“You won’t be losing anything.” His hands tighten around the wheel and he straightens. “We’ll bring your horses to my stables.”

Your jaw almost drops. “Tommy, do you have any idea what it means for a woman to move in with a man? Do you realize that I’d be losing my financial and physical independence? You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” He glances over at you. “There are no rules that say you must give up your independence. Doesn’t matter what everyone else does. We can do it differently.”

You look away, refusing to meet his eyes. “I can’t rely on you for everything.”

“You can rely on me for protection.” He nods.

“I’m not— I hope you realize, Tom, that I will never belong to you. I will never be owned by anyone. I need space. I can’t be so close to you that there’s no room to breathe. If you want another possession, another trophy, you need to find someone else.” Your voice grows steady, strong. “I’m tired of belonging to a man. I’m tired of being told that I can’t exist without being attached to someone. I can. I exist, despite it all, and I refuse to do it again.”

“I’m not asking you to belong to me.” He sighs, a subtle sign of frustration. “I’m asking you to keep yourself safe. Let me help you. Even just for until this is over.”

“I can protect myself.”

“You can. But even you can’t be so strong.” His eyes flick down to his hands on the wheel, then back up to the street. “Even you can’t do it alone.”

You let his words fade into the cool night air. You try to siphon through the conflicting thoughts that flit through your mind like hummingbirds. You want to be yourself, separate from everything around you. You want to be where he is, wherever that may be, a constant yearning for the companionship he brings. You want to learn who you are without being caught in someone else’s orbit, without being owned. You want to teach yourself how to love without the constant fear of loss, and there he is, asking for nothing in return. There he is, and he has never done anything to you that was not good, and he has never tried to lead you astray.

You lean your head back against the rest and stare out into the now clear night, the stars showing now that you’ve moved from the city. “You would take in all twelve of my horses… let me live with you… for nothing?”

A faint smile appears on his lips. “It’s a big house. Needs someone else to fill all the empty space.”

You manage a small, watery smile in return. “Thank you.”

“No need.” He turns into the driveway of Arrow House and slowly pulls up. He stops the car but doesn’t get out, simply stares down at his hands and lets them slowly fall from the wheel.

“What?” You shift hesitantly closer to him, trying to read his expression, trying to peer into those blue eyes and decipher the depths inside of them.

“I know you take care of yourself,” he says slowly. “I know you always will. I want you to let me help. With everything. I want us to take care of each other.”

You take in a small breath. This, you think, this is when I hurt him. This is when it ends, all the softness and care, all the pieces of each other shared back and forth.

“I don’t know how,” you say. “It’s always been me. I’ve never learned how to help and be helped.”

“You do know.” He looks over at you, eyes flicking over your face. “I’ve seen you do it. Care for the horses every day.”

“Then I don’t know how to let someone help me.” You reach up and touch the side of your head; you can feel it now, the throbbing, swollen pain pressing through your skull. “I don’t know how to give up that kind of control.”

He considers you, expression soft and quiet. “I know I’m not the man you imagined, but I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait for you to be ready, and I’ll wait for you to learn.”

You smile a little. “I didn’t imagine any man. You’re quite the plot twist, you know that?”

“Will you try?” His head tilts slightly, a faint, wordless acknowledgement to your statement. “Will you take the time to learn how to be helped?”

“Yes,” you murmur. “Yes. I’ll try.”

“Good.” He lucks up at the house, tone accomplished, as though he’s checked off another task on his to-do list. He slips out of the car and into the night, and you follow him. The cool wind batters at you, burns the broken skin at the side of your head, and you stop for a moment to watch him walk, head down, hands in his pockets, silhouetted in the grand light of Arrow House.

When you were younger, you made a promise to yourself that you’d live long enough to have your own place. You’d survive until you could create a home, where you weren’t alone but weren’t taken advantage of. Where no one yelled and threw things, where there was no such thing as saying something wrong, a sanctuary of warmth and light and quiet appreciation.

It was a child’s dream of paradise, and now, as an adult, you know that nothing is that simple. But, as he stops and turns, waiting for you to join him at the doorstep, you think that, maybe, you’re taking a step towards keeping that promise. Maybe you’re reaching out a hand to that young, desperate self, and showing her that there is kindness, and there is warmth, and there’s somewhere out there for her.

And that younger self smiles, knowing that though there are battles ahead, she has made it home.

Your eyes are closed as Tommy gently uses a washcloth to remove the blood from the side of your head. The pain throbs dully with each touch, but you somehow don’t mind it. There’s a raw, open gash underneath your hair that he drenched in alcohol a few minutes before. He’s quiet. You’re quiet. The bathroom you sit in is cool and the light is soft on your eyelids.

You’ve seen him dream at night. His closed eyes move with nightmares, his jaw clenches, his body tenses, trembles, sometimes jolts as though in pain. All this time, and you haven’t been brave enough to ask. All this time, and you haven’t known how to ask him to talk about that wound without reopening it. Now, though, as he cleans the blood from your neck, you think, maybe the air is stable enough. Maybe the softness is steady enough.

“You have nightmares,” you say quietly. “You never talk about them.”

“No. I don’t.” He doesn’t seem to want further questions, asking you to allow the conversation to end there.

“Sometimes you talk in your sleep. Did you know that?” You keep your eyes closed.

“Grace never told me.”

“You do. It’s always indistinct. I catch names, sometimes. Someone called Danny, or Freddie. Sometimes you count. You’re quiet, but I can hear it in your voice. You’re scared. I’m never sure if waking you up would help or not, so I stay quiet, let you ride it out.”

He doesn’t respond. You open your eyes to find his face a little paler than usual, his eyes covered in a momentary, hazy film that slowly melts away like ice. He blinks, and gives you a small nod.

“I’m not proud. It’s no treat to relive it.” He goes back to cleaning your blood, his hand steady, his voice the same. “I get stuck in the mud again.”

“I can help,” you say quietly. “I’m not going to let you get trapped in your own head because of me. I will never let you fall apart.”

His jaw tightens, then relaxes. “I’ll tell you. Only if you promise not to ask about it again.”

“Okay.” You close your eyes again, waiting, giving him the space to take his time.

“I was the sergeant major of the 179th Tunneling Brigade. I spent most of my time fighting underground. Won medals for surviving what others couldn’t.” His voice flattens out, low and even, emotionless. “What else do you want to know?”

“You were… underground?”

There’s a pause before he responds. “Yes. It was small. The cold bit our feet because shoes weren’t allowed and we couldn’t drain the water. The light came from candles that wouldn’t stay lit. Sometimes the air got thin. Sometimes the canaries and rats died before us.”

You stay as still as you can, as quiet as you can, unwilling to break the sacred silence around you as his words settle around you. “And the nightmares?”

“A cave-in. We could hear the Germans digging above us. They sent word to get underneath them and set up enough charge to stop them getting to our trenches. Maybe it was an accident or maybe they heard us. All I know is their mines went off before ours did. I felt it before I heard it and—” He pauses and clears his throat, then continues, tone a little softer, a little more worried. “Then the ground shook and fell to bury us in a grave we’d dug for ourselves. It scared me more to realize I was alive than thinking I was dead. I remember trying to get air, get some of the weight off me and thinking: Fuck. Alive. I have to keep going. I have to get out. Five of us found a space large enough to get some air. I never heard about the rest of them”

It seems he had holds it in, grappling with the memories that swirl around his mind, intoxicating and bewitching, and, once you ask, it’s all he can do to stop it from spilling out. There’s a weight on his shoulders that never lets up, and he stays quiet about it, never complaining, never even mentioning it. You squeeze your eyes, kaleidoscope patterns of color sparking on your eyelids, and think you should’ve asked him sooner.

“How did you get out?” You match his tone with a steady, quiet voice.

“We dug up for a day and a half till the fixed air took our consciousness. Even before then the five of us accepted we would never see the sun. Some men dug down and got three of us out. There was another still alive underneath. His legs had broken and tangled in the apparatus for clay kicking. One of my comrades stayed down with him. The roof collapsed. Their corpses will never be recovered.”

He sounds tired. The words he speaks seem to barely leave his throat, as though the low growl of them remains confined to his vocal cords. Finality rings from his voice like an order, or perhaps a plea. He seems to beg you, in his own silent way, not to ask for more. You can only be so selfish, so brazen in how much you push him to fake steadiness. Any further now and his façade would melt fully away. Thomas Shelby came home from war to test how many times he could ignore the broken parts of him till they shattered, and this conversation has forced him to see the cracks.

“That’s what you dream about. The cave in. The ones you left behind.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes the tunnel gets broken through and we have to fight and kill and leave the bodies to rot. Sometimes all it is is the sound of picks and shovels at the other end of the tunnel, coming towards us, and the only thing to do is wait.” His voice grows emptier, hollowed out, and you open your eyes to look up at him.

“Tommy,” you say quietly. “Look at me.”

He does as you ask, haunted blue eyes searching for something in you that you’re not sure you have.

“You don’t have to pretend like it doesn’t hurt you.” You watch his hand as it shifts from steadiness to trembling, then back to steadiness again. “I can hear in your voice that you’re faking it to protect me. It’s okay. I’m not going to leave you if you’re hurt. I am, too. Remember our promise?”

He nods blankly. “Yes. I do.”

Like a horse to water, you try to coax him to step out of the darkness and bring the parts of him he hides into the light. You know he’ll refuse. You know he’ll consider it, over and over, and then back away. Or, maybe, you’ll get lucky, and some trust will glow like an ember, and you’ll see him lay himself down in front of you and show you who he is.

“You still feel like a soldier, don’t you?” Your tone is slightly sad.

He nods again, curtly, but his eyes are almost sleepy, exhausted by the task of remembering and acknowledging.

“Have you been trying to forget?”

Another nod. He looks like a boy, spooked late at night by some horror story spoken by his friend, eyes glassy and tired but, underneath, so, so afraid. The hand that holds the bloody cloth lifts and presses against his chest, over his heart, protective.

“You wanna know what I do? With the memories that are too big for my body?”

His eyes flick down to you, acknowledging, giving permission.

“I sort of… sit with them. I do it alone, and I give myself time. Sometimes I panic and can’t breathe, and sometimes I fall out of myself, like I’m not quite me, but not anyone else, either. But, always, after I think about it, after I let it take me over, I can call it back without having such a strong reaction.” Slowly, you stand from your seat and turn to face him. “It hurts. I’ll be the first to admit it. It’s the most painful thing I’ve ever done, worse than when it happened the first time. But after… It's catharsis. It’s being reborn. And you’re exhausted, but you survived it, and you can do it again.”

His eyes latch onto yours, helpless, and you reach up to caress his cheek. Slowly, he caves to you, his eyes closing.

“And you just did it. You called back a ghost, faced it, and now, here you are.” You bring him closer to you, pressing your forehead against his. “You survived, Tommy. You survived, and I survived, and there’s something to that. There’s something to the fact that we never deserved what happened, and yet, we’re still alone, together. And now I know that I need to wake you when you have nightmares.”

He releases a slow breath. You close your eyes, your thumb tracing over his cheekbone.

“We’re gonna be okay. I think you’re right. I think we’re meant to take care of each other. You’ll teach me how to let you help me. I’ll teach you how to love again.”

He swallows hard, and you feel a faint tremble run through him, subtle, barely there. You reach up with your other hand and take the cloth from him, setting it down on the counter, and then take his hand. You feel your heart settle into your body, and you feel something you haven’t felt in a long, long time.

Hello love, your invincible, hopeful friend. For a moment, you forget where you are, and you squeeze his hand and start timing your breathing to his. You have so many words to speak, so much bubbling up in you, but you hold your cliches and just stand with him, waiting out the memories, holding him quietly. He squeezes back, and you smile faintly.

“There you are.” You drop your hand from his cheek, open your eyes, and step back.

He watches you, eyes soft, then looks away. “You were right.”

“I was?” You blink, surprised. “About what?”

“It’s better, after, if you… sit with it, like you said.” He lets go of your hand, picks up the cloth, and walks casually to the door. “Won’t be doing it alone. I need you with me.”

“Apparently I’ll be here.” You follow him. “I live here now.”

He shakes his head, and you catch a small smile on his lips. “Not yet. That could change.”

You chuckle. “You would never.”

“I would never,” he agrees.

#only the wild ones #peaky blinders #tommy shelby #peaky blinders x reader #thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders imagine #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinder imagine #peaker blinders fandom #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders fanfic

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everythingelseisextra · 9 months

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Come Home (Tommy's Perspective)

Part Fifteen: David and Goliath

Description: Tommy doesn't tell you everything. So much gets stuck in his mouth, including his business. Warnings: PTSD, language, Tommy being angsty I guess Word Count: 4796 (sorry) Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @ttaechi @weaponizedvirtue @Majesticcmey @Optimisticsandwichgladiator @zablife @princesssterek @mm0thie @callsignvenus @ay0nha @mgdixon @fairytale07 @dreamy-caramel @ce1iat @algae-tm @dragonsondragons @trentknd @nothingofsimplicity @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul

12 Hours before the attack on the barn

When she leaves, my mind clears. I think differently when she’s here. Softer, like a spell cast to make what I’ve learned and what I’ve made myself less important. She leaves out the front door, and I walk back through the house. Footsteps echoing through the halls like a heartbeat. It’s easy to slip back into a routine, to abide by the list that creates itself somewhere in my head. I find the phone and dial the number without thinking about it. Pick it up, hold it to my ear, wait.

“Hello, Tommy.” Arthur, the usual rashness to his words drowned out by the phone’s crackling. His drawl is recognizable to me like I’d know my own hand, and it’s something of a comfort after the talk I’d had with her. “Why’re you calling me at this hour?”

I forget he’s not awake nearly as early as I am. My day, and her day, too, starts before the sun. I don’t give it any pause. He doesn’t care about the real reason I’m calling him. Wants his orders from his sergeant major and to put his head down and do it. “I need you to start what we talked about, Arthur. With the girls. Talk to ‘em, get what you can out of them, see if you can find any of the men who hold their leashes.”

“On it, Tom.” A rustling of movement tells me he’s just finishing getting dressed. “That all?”

“Tell John to do the same. Stay on the outside, don’t stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong.” I can smell breakfast in the air. All I want is a drink and a cigarette. Too early for that. Need to eat. “Tell me what you find.”

“All this for that woman who sprayed you with the hose, eh?” There’s amusement in his tone that I don’t like. Like he’s caught me on some trick I took, like he has something on me. Maybe he does.

“Yep,” I say shortly, not inviting more questions.

“I hope you know what you’re doing. Just looking out for you, Tom, that’s all.”

“I know what I’m doing.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, then drop my hand. “Goodbye.”

“We’re worried about you here. Seems a bit soon, doesn’t it? After Grace and all that—”

“Goodbye, Arthur.” I put the phone down and huff out a breath.

Seems a bit soon. Maybe it is. Maybe I’m all up in my head, afraid to be alone at night, so I attached to the first kind face I saw. Maybe our meeting was some mistake made by me to draw her into the dark.

No. She carries the same burden as I do, in a different form. If our meeting was anything, it was mercy. If some cosmic mistake is what brought us together then it will take another one to tear us apart.

—

Alfie Solomons leaves after the briefing on the Russians. The door remains open. My brothers stay. Their eyes flick down to the ground and stay there, and I slowly sit back down onto my chair. None of them want to be the first to talk. I look to Arthur, let him feel my gaze. If I feel something at their reluctance to leave, it’s too deep for me to be aware of it. I shy away from feeling too deeply. Nothing set in stone, and yet, everything a dirt road. Tread the same path too long and it will become the only path there is. I refuse to be limited by my own emotion.

“So, Russians, hey?” Arthur tries at skirting away from whatever shames him. I stare up at him, unamused. “We— we uh— we fucked up, Tom.” Arthur stumbles over the confession and John shoots him a look of venom. “I fucked up.”

I raise an eyebrow, waiting.

“One of the girls— well, you know how they are— I had some drink in me and she— she asked some questions. Shouldn’t have answered them, Tom. Should’ve kept my bloody mouth shut. It doesn’t matter now, they know. I told it to ‘em, and now they know. Nothing to do but—”

“What do they know, Arthur?” I keep my voice even. My head throbs where the stitches were taken out months ago, another sign of my dawning insanity.

“You know how it is, they act all nice to ya and—”

“He told them about hose-girl.” John cuts in. “He told them that he knows about the one that got away.”

My eyes lock onto the drawer in the desk where my gun sits, hidden. “How much did you tell them?”

“Ah, well, it was all very— I mean, I told them—”

“Get to the fucking point.” Inside that drawer is a weapon I’ve held to the temples of many a man, myself included. Inside that drawer is the hope I have of protecting my own. Including her.

“I told them she has horses. That’s all. That she has horses and doesn’t live in town. All I said, I swear it.” His voice carries bravado, covering up for the anxiety I know he has. He doesn’t like displeasing me, and he certainly has.

My words come short and quiet. “You gave them definitive information about a woman they’ve been trying to find for years.”

His silence resonates.

“Answer me, Arthur.” I tear my eyes from the drawer to pin him down, trying to lock onto his shifty eyes.

“Yes, sir, I did.” He looks to John for support, pleading with him for backup. He finds nothing but a stony face.

“And you didn’t think to inform me of this before I planned to meet with the fucking Russians?” My voice threatens to raise and his eyes grow furtive.

“I thought—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you thought!” I stand, slamming a hand down on the desk in front of me. Arthur flinches. “Her blood is on your hands, and you’re standing there telling me what you thought?”

“It was my mistake, Tom, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you’re fucking sorry. We’re all fucking sorry.” I grit my teeth, grind them, and walk out from behind the desk. They turn on instinct, soldiers at attention, their eyes on my back. “We go to the Russians, and we go to save what’s left of her. Understood?”

“Yes.” John’s voice.

“Arthur?” His name is rancid on my tongue. I grow antsy, a green horse on its first ride, flinching and preparing to bolt. I should be by her side, getting her out of there. I should be hunting down the man who thought he could own someone like her.

But I have business. The world slowly lowers down on my shoulders, and I am not Atlas. I cannot shrug.

—

I leave the Russians with the scent of cigarettes, whiskey, and Tatiana’s perfume lingering on me, and the thought of Grace stuck in my head. I was careless, and now I’m hungover, disorganized. The night is still young, and we reach home before the moon is bright in the sky. First thing I do is pick up the phone and call Moss. I ask him about a woman in a barn outside of Birmingham, and he tells me they found two dead bodies with her.

“She’s safe?”

“She is for now. She won’t talk and she has no record, Mr. Shelby, we gotta take her in.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Keep her. See if she’ll talk. I’ll come get her.”

I need an ally. I need help, with everything, not just the quiet things. I need someone who can stare down the barrel of a gun and keep their mouths shut. I need someone who ignores the urge to run, who knows that they’re a monster, too. Two dead bodies found at the barn. One smashed, one shot. When I close my eyes, I can see myself pulling the trigger, smashing the skull. When I think about it, I can feel her fear and determination. My brow furrows, my lips part. She sits alone in a cell while men she doesn’t know interrogate her.

“Is that all, Mr. Shelby?”

“Don’t.” I shake my head, a headache stretching between my temples. “Don’t make her talk. Let her wait. I’ll be there.”

“Yessir, Mr. Shelby.”

“That’s all, Moss. Goodnight.”

I put the phone down and make my way to the bathroom to clean myself off, to rid myself of the smell of other women and spirits and the taste of Grace on my lips. So that she doesn’t smell it, yes, and so that I can forget it ever happened. So that I can wash off the shame and fear and overwhelming sense of loneliness. So that the path I tread doesn’t become beaten.

—

After I’ve cleaned the wounds on her head, after the blood has been washed off, after the sins of my war have been confessed, she sleeps in the bed next to me. I’m on my back, but my head is tilted. Her eyes flutter beneath her eyelids. Her lips part slightly. Moonlight shines on her skin. A swollen bump grows underneath her chin, skin broken.

If I could love her, it would be heavy. Something to carry with me. My love, I’ve learned since Grace, has teeth. Maybe it isn’t love. Maybe possession, maybe control. I can grip with clenched, white knuckles. I can force someone to come back to me, not because they want to, because they have to. I want to love her but I doubt that I can. When I try, something hurts, and I cannot tell her where, only that it does.

A desperate part of me that I do not visit often wants to know what it’s like to be consumed. I am always the possessor, not the possessed. I want to be claimed. I want her love to have teeth, like mine, that can show me that my armor is only skin. If she was the one to cut me, I would bleed forever. That desperation believes that, even with Grace’s death, there is a person out there made exactly for me. That desperation believes that the war I fought in might be echoed in someone else’s. That desperation believes that I have found her and I am ruining it.

I get up from the bed and my body aches. Faint bruises form on my trachea, where Tatiana pressed down. I look at myself in the mirror and empty eyes stare back. There is fear behind them. I want to lay back down with her and forget about last night and tonight and all the regrettable nights I will undoubtedly have until she is brave enough to touch me.

In three days time I crawl back into a tunnel, deep underneath the earth, with the pressure of the world lying over me, precarious. I brave the underground for the sake of a robbery that could make or break my career. I promised Grace to stay legal. She’s dead. And the company runs.

—

“We have your son. Get in the car.”

Rain patters on the outside of the car. I’m in a tinfoil box, and my son is out there. “First. Is he safe?”

“Of course he’s safe. All children are dear to me.”

Michael’s voice, his confession, speaks to me from memory. My son, in the hands of men who have little respect for physical boundaries. Who have little respect for children themselves.

“You have all the cards. Tell me what you want me to do, and I will certainly do it.” My words are choked at the ends, not broken, but holding anger and panic.

“You ever drive one of these beasts?”

“I’m asking you to conduct business.”

“I borrowed it. Lent it. By a lord. For the duration of this business.”

My head bowed, my eyes unblinking, staring forward, waiting for the order that will save my son. I breathe heavily. I have no choice. I have to comply. “I will certainly do what you need me to do with no complaints.”

“We were forced into doing this awful thing. We did warn you that your son would be in danger if you deviated from the plan.” The priest speaks to me like I’m thick, words slow and gentle and pretentious. “It was you who made a mistake, you understand that?”

“Yes.” Anything. Anything to get him back.

“What mistake did you make? Do you even know?”

Now it’s a game. A show of power. I have no choice. I must comply. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

“You made a deal with our enemies.”

“I will do what needs to be done.” “You went behind our backs to stop the Soviets from blowing up the train. But it’s alright. It’s alright. We’ve rectified your mistake. You ask me ‘what do I need to do?’ Well, here’s what you need to do, you fucking mongrel, you.” He hands me an envelope. I take it with shaking hands. “But since the Bolsheviks will not be blowing up the train, you’ll blow up the train yourself. It’s always been about the explosion. From the beginning. The bang. The outrage. Understand?”

I nod, unable to do anything else. A mechanical movement, trained into me, comply, comply, comply.

“Those are notes and fragments for you to scatter in the wreckage. Implicating named officials from the Soviet embassy.”

“I will scatter them. It will be done.”

“Good. Our friends at the Time and the Daily Mail will do the rest. And once the British government cuts diplomatic relations with the Soviet Union, that will be our mission accomplished. You’ll have been part of a fine adventure.” His eyes land on me. I can feel his gaze, despicably soft brown eyes, a red herring. “To help with the outrage, we need people to die in the explosion.”

I feel nothing. I am an empty shell of a man, puppeteered by a God that despises me. “How many?”

“Let’s say; six? Rail workers, perhaps. Men from the factory.”

I nod. That's all I can do. “And I want my son returned to me within an hour of the explosion.”

“Oh, it’s conditions now, is it?” The amusement in his words sends chills down my back. I shift forward.

“We need to fix the handover in advance.” Firmness. Clinging to what little power I have.

“I haven’t finished with you yet, Mr. Shelby. We also hear you’re digging a tunnel. Mining for precious stones under Wilderness House. I’m told they have a faberge in the strong room. The Lilies Of The Valley Egg, made in 1898. One of the Odd Fellows has a wife who’s obsessed with faberge. He wants to give her the egg for her birthday…”

“He will have it.” Comply.

“And the economic league will take all the jewels that you steal, to cover our considerable expenses. The fight against communism isn’t cheap, you know? So if you want to see your—”

“I will bring you all the jewels.”

“A bang first. Then bring everything you’ve stolen to your office at dawn.”

I shake my head. “No. No. I’ll not be able to get the jewels to you by dawn. The tunnel has hit clay.”

“If the Saint Andrews clock strikes 5:00 am on the night of the robbery, and we don’t have everything that we’ve asked for, the bell will be tolling for your boy.”

Thunder rumbles. I nod, closing my eyes. My son. The last piece of Grace I have.

“Now get out of my fucking car.”

—

A day has passed since I’ve seen her. She has her horses. She’ll think of me when she has the time, wonder where I’ve gone off to. I have no doubt she’ll worry tonight. She’ll pace the room we share and think she’s made a mistake, some blunder that’s chased me away. I think as I drive that this might be the end. My disappearance, my lack of communication, my lies, might be the final straw for her. She knows nothing of the Russians or the Soviets, knows only little of the priest. I’m sure she expects me back when the sun starts to go down. I’m sure her sleep will be fitful or impossible without knowing where I am.

I won’t be going home tonight. She will rise before dawn, when I crawl out of a tunnel, and she will wonder where I am. Perhaps she’ll call Ada, who’ll tell her nothing. I am Midas. When I touch her, she turns cold, so I don’t. I don’t tell her of the business I conduct because she doesn’t deserve to be part of this bloody fucked up world I’ve created. So, she’ll wake up, and I’ll be gone. No explanation, no contact. And I’ll come home when the sun has risen and I’ll explain nothing. I protect my own.

I protect my own, but I’ve chosen Charlie over her, and of that I am guilty.

There’s gray in the sky when I arrive at the tunnel. Johnny Dogs shouts at me, seeking an explanation for my sudden appearance. I shout back something about my boy and the priest and midnight, and before he can stop me, I climb down into the tunnel.

I don’t feel. I try to chase away the ebb and flow of my head during daylight, above ground, when the danger separates itself from the soldier I used to be. I’ve built a dam between myself and whatever wave of emotion comes crashing in. I can see it come, but I am never drowned by it. Not when I’m on top of the world instead of underneath it.

I am trapped in a birth canal of mud and the sound of picks against clay. I cannot move in any direction without being pressed against some wall. I watch the only way out disappear behind me. There’s no escape except to complete my mission and pierce through the earth. Some nightmare shakes the earth around me. My heart pounds in my chest. I’m covered by dirt and it staunches the blood from the abrasions; from the axes, from the rough stones, from myself, that mark my shaking body.

The single lantern flashes shadows and I can hear the Germans against the barrier in front of us. A race against time begins. No apparatus supports us, all we have are pickaxes to eat away at the earth in front of us. Tunnel warfare springs to life, and my head pounds, and the dam is broken. My hands shake and my eyes are wide and there’s no doubt that I am terrified. Doesn’t matter. I can be scared and still work, still function, still complete the business I’ve forced myself into. There are men by my side that inch forward with every second, who I trust, who know the tunnels as damn well as I do.

I am ripped into being alive. Sensations, doubts, fears, absolute terror, things I have not felt since the war. On hands and knees, chipping away at impossibility, the earth rumbling with soldier’s feet and mines exploding on the no-man’s-land I tunnel beneath. Strangely, there is fear, and next to it a sense of belonging. This is my grave that I dig, and I am meant to die here, underground. This is my home, the first place I learned to run from, the first place I promised myself I would never return.

One of the men seizes and I do nothing to help him but send him out. On the edge of the shakes myself, I am wired to do nothing but dig. Forcing the wet clay apart, blood and sweat dripping from my forehead, inching forward bit by bit with the other men.

I remember rot. I remember bodies buried in the clay. I remember the sun being a dream. I remember each shake of the earth a bad omen, each sound of picks on the other side a forewarning to our deaths. God watched idly as I buried myself and other men in a grave I dug myself. We told each other not to listen when we screamed, when we convulsed at night, when we broke from the pressure of the world on our shoulders.

I can feel sludge beneath me, slipping, and I know I’m going too fast. My men build supports with timber to hold up the earth on weak substructures. Condensation drips onto me. The ground around us shivers, rocks tumble from around the supports, and we pause, waiting, expecting to be buried. Nothing.

Gasping for breath. Body bruised and battered. Swimming in the suffocating pressure of the earth surrounding us. Trying desperately to dig upwards, to save our own lives. To survive. None of it real, just the sound my picks and the men building supports.

I reach the end and plant an explosive. Backing away. Blinking the blood and sweat out of my eyes. It goes off, and I expect to be buried but have no time to fear it. Before the smoke clears, I’ve escaped the tunnel, and I can breathe, if only for a moment. My shaking hands scoop jewels into a canvas bag, giving no thought to what I grab, where I grab from. I take and take and take.

There’s a shout that I don’t have much time. I suck in a breath, snatch blindly at the last few jewels. Crawl back into the tunnel, throwing the bag of jewels in front of me, following the men as they begin the creep back up.

I’m the last out. The other men have gone to clean themselves up. Panting, I lie in the dirt where I belong, and roll onto my back to stare up at the black sky. My breath fogs the air. Bits of my body stings where the skin was scraped off. And I pant.

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

—

Somehow, I manage to drive. I don’t see the trees around me, don’t see the grass or the hills, just look straight ahead as my destination grows on the horizon. A single phone booth on the side of the road, resolute. I don’t turn off the car, stepping out and walking unsteadily over to it. I place a coin in, turn the handle, and wait.

“Let me speak to him,” I say.

My son’s babbling fills the phone and I smile. “Hello, Charlie.”

He’s unharmed. He’s safe. The nightmare, for now, is over. A lump forms in my throat and I don’t understand it. I’m smiling. I’m relieved. My hand shakes. There’s extra liquid in my eyes.

“Hello, Charlie,” I say again. He responds with a quiet dadda and nothing else.

“Can you hear me?” I sniffle and fend off the rising pressure in my chest, holding it off until I’m done, until I know he’s safe.

He mumbles something about being tired and I smile again, heart simultaneously filling and being stabbed with something cold. “Yeah. You go to bed. Good boy.”

The call ends and I put the phone down. Something in me bends and bends and bends and then, finally, snaps. My brow furrows and I squeeze my eyes shut and a small sob wracks my body.

It was a success. My son is safe. The jewels are ready. I should be fucking grateful that I survived this. That we survived this.

There’s a sense in me that there was no success, only what appears to be one. There’s a sense in me that tells me I’ve pushed those I want close further and further from me. There’s a sense that I will never be the man I hope to be because it’s hard when I’m always fucking unwanted. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel unless I blow it up. There’s no joy to be had unless I force it.

And I sob, because I feel everything. There’s an ache in my chest and a hole in my heart. There’s pain through my body and a horrible loneliness in my head. There’s relief, pure and unadulterated, and there’s terror lingering from the tunnel, images flashing through my mind of what burned itself into my mind in France. Claustrophobia burns through me. I sob over what I’ve destroyed like I want to stop and worship it, and soon, I’ll be back with a pick in my hand and explosives waiting.

My son has grown up barely knowing me because I’m consumed by business. My heart has been broken too many times and I fear that it will never be made whole. I am a soldier with only the cause of ambition to guide me. And I feel everything, even though I try to hide it.

I take a breath, pressing my eyes closed, then pull myself together and straighten. I call her. I suspect she won’t pick up, but I try anyway.

There’s a click and her voice, distorted by the distance, says my name in a tone I can only describe as fearful. “Tommy?”

“Yes,” I say, words still choked.

“Where have you been?” Not steady, not brave, not the tone I know from her.

“Business.” It’s the only explanation I can give.

“Business? For two days straight?”

“Yes. For two days straight. You need to know who I am.” I squeeze the earpiece, stopping my voice from wavering. “You need to know that I can’t give you what you want.”

There’s quiet on the other end of the phone. My hand continues to shake.

“What happened?” The fear is gone, in its place, worry.

“Nothing happened,” I lie. “Do you understand me? I can’t be the one you need. You think I’m going to change but those fuckers out there are worse than I am.”

“I’ve never wanted you to change. I’ve never asked for that. And no one can be everything to someone. I’m not expecting that from you. I just want you to tell me when you’re going to be gone like this.”

“They’ve issued an arrest for my family and I have to let it happen.”

“What?”

“For my brothers, for Pol, for Esme and Linda. I made the wrong enemies.” Please, forget about me, choose to leave. “You should go before it all goes to shit.”

“Tommy. I’m not going. I’m staying with you. You’ve made a mistake, that doesn’t mean I’m going to abandon you. I told you I would forgive your rottenness and I plan to keep that promise.” Her voice is strained. “Tom, just come home, we can talk—”

“I’ve gotten mixed up in something too big for me.” I close my eyes, a small tear dripping out. “I won’t have a family after this.”

“Thomas Shelby, I swear to God, if you don’t come home, I’m tracking you down and dragging you here myself. Okay? So get back in your car and drive your ass home. You’re gonna be fine, you’re not gonna end up without a family. You’re going to be fine.” Her voice softens towards the end and I feel myself drawn towards her, despite everything. “You won’t be alone.”

“I fucked another woman.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. Quit trying to make excuses for me to leave you. Come home, we’ll calm you down, and we’ll talk about it.”

“My brothers told them where you were. The attack was my fault.”

“I get what’s happening here. Something scared you, and you think you’re hurting everyone around you, so you’re self-sabotaging. Come home. That’s all I want. Don’t you want to give me what I want?”

I do. I always want to give her what she wants. There are better men out there who could love her. There are better people who could protect her without making the mistakes I did.

They’ll have to get through me, though.

“I’ll come home.” I open my eyes and blink hard, ridding them of their bleariness. “I’m not the man you want, love.”

“So you keep saying.” Her words grow wry. “You forget that you don’t get to tell me what I want. And I want you. I don’t know how to make that any clearer to you.”

I nod and give in to the words she speaks. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you soon, Tom. Yes?”

“Yes. Goodbye.”

I put the phone down. This shallow world, this twisted and broken body I live in, this mind that I cannot control, somehow she is a master of all of it. Somehow she puts me at ease. Love, I think, is two people inspiring each other to live. And she gives me a reason, and she stays by my side.

Dawn breaks, and I walk back to my car in silence.

#only the wild ones #tommys pov #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby #peaky blinders x reader #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders imagine #tommy shelby imagine #peaky blinder imagine #peaker blinders fandom #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders fanfic

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everythingelseisextra · 9 months

Text

First Time

Part Ten: Stand Your Ground

Description: After being discharged from the hospital, you and Tommy visit the racetrack. Warnings: Language, brief mention of rape/trafficking Word Count: 2506 Tag List: @ttaechi @theshelbyslimited @weaponizedvirtue @majesticcmey @optimisticsandwichgladiator @zablife @princesssterek @mm0thie @callsignvenus @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul

Days turn into weeks turn into a month. As always, you wake before dawn and start your work up in that subliminal time between night and day, simultaneously both and neither. Your work drives you through the day. Eleven horses, each with different needs, different sensitivities, different opinions, and you, the center of their lives. You care for them accordingly. You don’t get days off or breaks, don’t get the chance to catch your breath, to relax, until dusk, when the cab rolls into your driveway to pick you up. You climb in, smelling of horse and sweat and hay, and rest your head back, eyes on the road ahead of you.

The darkening city flows past you, fluid in the falling night, and something like nostalgia washes over you. You remember the girl you loved, her pale green eyes like the hills that surround your home, her naked body trembling next to you, your exhausted bones leaning against each other for support. It was a broken sense of togetherness that came from a godless place, from being surrounded by cruelty and twisted minds. You found each other, and you helped each other, but in the end, you couldn’t save her. Only avenge her. You remember, before you could define the feelings that boiled inside of you, a sense of home, of feeling exactly in place with her, even though your circumstances were unnatural.

Love, you think, is like most other predators. It tries to warn you before it bites.

Before you’ve pieced the ragged bits of yourself back together, you’re walking into the hospital and nodding to the woman at the front desk. She knows you now, knows your alliance, knows the only person you ever visit, so she doesn’t have to ask. You reach his room and knock, receiving the answer to come in.This is his last day in the hospital, and the routine you’ve made is about to end, and neither of you will allow the elephant in the room to speak. And you sit and talk, mostly you, with his quiet eyes watching you with a glint inside of them, tracing the outline of your face, memorizing you. There are some days where he talks, and you listen, and you learn about his war in France, and the battles he endured, and how no one wins war, they just survive it. You learn more about Grace, about Campbell, about the guns and the horses. Tommy tells stories as though you’re sitting by fireside, with the flickering gold and orange light on your faces, an aura fending off the darkness, and evokes a life to his words that you’re not used to. You find yourself hanging on each phrase, completely under his spell.

Sometimes, there’s a holiness to your conversations, your words quiet and respectful, as if so precious that even the air could damage them. Other times, you’re revelrous, and laughter echoes up through the stone walls and bounces around off the slanted ceiling. Days like this lead to nights full of half-reluctant, half-exuberant movement; tossing and turning, standing up to pace, toying with the knife that lies between you, belonging to both of you and neither of you, now. You spend your days working and spend your nights with a comrade against the battle of loneliness, and for the first time in your life, you feel balanced.

But, days like today, where you’re quiet and reserved, lead to careful, quiet nights. You lay in bed and stare at his bare back across from you. Even though your fear has diminished, he still insists on starting off facing away from you, out of some form of respect, giving you something like privacy. The night curls in around you, chilly and peaceful, and your eyes trace the graceful curve of his back. You allow time to pass, and, when you’re brave enough, you speak.

“Tommy?”

“Yeah?” He responds still facing away from you, but his head tilts upwards, glancing over his shoulder at you.

“I’ve been thinking about how things change.” You start out slow, then your words cascade out of you, speeding up as you go. “I’ve been thinking about how I used to think I was a terrible person. For loving another girl and for being a victim and for killing a man. I used to think that I had no reason to go on, because I had nothing but skin and bones and muscle and even that didn’t always belong to me. Now I know I was never terrible, I was just fifteen and terrified. Now I think I’m terrible for other reasons.

“I have this body that doesn’t love me and has never saved me. I have this body that was used against me for years. And I am sorry I was born with it. But I didn’t used to be. When I had her, I used to want to be a body for her. I used to want to give her my shoulder to cry on, used to want to hold her hand as she walked me to the next hotel room or alleyway or basement, used to want to cradle her in the dark. I was thinking about her and it made me realize my body isn’t just for sex, or being abused. But, these days, all I do with it is work. And that made me think of you. Because what’s the point if it’s just work? What’s the point if you’re still being pushed to the brink, even when you’re not supposed to be?”

He’s quiet for a moment before he speaks. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t want to keep autopsying the body of who I used to be. I want to take this new shape and run with it. I— I want to be, unapologetically, without being held back by the fear of scarring myself again.” You take a deep, shuddering breath. “And I want— I want to do this.”

Slowly, with the awkward tenderness of someone who’s forgotten what it’s like to touch another person, you move towards him, hesitant, and lightly drape your arm over his side, so nervous that you barely touch him.

He takes a short breath, then his hand reaches up to take yours and gently pulls you closer. Your lungs seize and you fight the urge to pull away. Instead, with a streak of bravery you didn’t know you had in you, you bury your face in his back and tighten your hold, almost clinging to him. His bare skin is warm against you, soft and unburdened, not like yours. His hand stays resolutely over yours.

You stay like that, fighting with yourself, talking back to the fear in your mind that tells you he’ll take it too far. You know he won’t. You trust that he won’t. You will break the habit of being afraid. You will face the gargantuan monster of your past and insist that you will not become it.

A lump forms in your throat. Your heart beats hard against your chest, and you think he can probably feel it against his back. He’s warm. He’s holding you and asking you for nothing else. His hand tightens around yours, then relaxes, a silent communication; I am here. It’s been years. Only the sun has been this close to you. Only the sun. You close your eyes and a tear rolls out, and you don’t understand it but you think it’s relief.

“Don’t need to force your—”

“I’ve been thinking,” you say, voice slightly choked. “About what you said. About not having enough time.”

“And what have you been thinking?” His words are soft, gentle.

“I think that that makes this more valuable. We’ll never be here again. We’re just a moment, and then we’re gone.” You press your forehead against his back, closing your eyes. “And that’s comforting, isn’t it? We matter so much that we don’t matter at all.”

“I don’t want to be a moment. I don’t want to be limited.”

You smile faintly. “Thomas Shelby will live forever, won’t he?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe I will, too. The horses and you and I. Maybe there’s some kind of forever there.”

There’s a smile in his voice. “You’re dreaming.”

“Yeah, well, I never got to before.” Your breathing evens out, the lump in your throat begins to dissipate. “This is my first time.”

A few days later, you stare at the open stall in your barn, the weak morning light seeping slowly through the rafters. You cross your arms, then turn and head to your house, pushing the door open and going straight to the phone.

He picks up almost right away and you smile to yourself. “Hey, you up for an outing?”

“Where?”

“I still need to keep my promise to you, and I have an open stall.” In your mind, you’re begging him to say yes. You got used to seeing him daily, to spending your nights with him, and you’re starved of his attention.

“You want to do that today?”

“Are you doing anything else?”

He sighs. “Charlie asked for me this morning. Not Grace. For the first time.”

You nod. “Spend time with your son. There’s always tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow morning, then.”

“I’ll see you then. Bye, Tom.”

“Goodbye.”

The rest of the day passes agonizingly slowly, and you sleep badly that night, finding yourself in the hazy half-dream state of sticky thoughts and flashing images. You’re grateful when the morning comes, when you can rise and head out in the brisk air to feed your horses. They’ll get the day off from work, a rare treat for them. You’re almost done with their grain when Tommy’s car rumbles towards you. You nod at him, then continue your work. He steps out of the car and comes towards you, head slightly bowed to avoid the fresh brightness of the morning. You look him over once, noting that he’s back to being constantly impeccably dressed, back to the mask of professionalism.

“You need help?”

“No,” you chuckle. “I’ve got it. Thanks, though.”

He watches you as you walk from stall to stall, dumping the grain into the corner bins, the horses calling to you as you approach.

When you return, his eyes flick over your face, shadowed by his cap. “You spoil them.”

“I do.” You walk past him, heading towards the car. “They’re the only thing between me and the world, of course I spoil them.”

He tsks, following you. “Not the only thing.”

“No?” You glance back at him as you open the passenger door and slip inside.

“No.”

You nod vaguely, something like pride welling up in you. “Good to know.”

He sits down beside you and starts the car, deftly maneuvering out of the craggy driveway. “Pol wants to meet you.”

You let out a short breath. “How fucked am I?”

A small smile appears on his lips. “Depends on the kind of mood she’s in.”

“I can handle a thousand pound animal, but I assure you, I won’t be able to get a word out when she talks to me.” You shake your head. “At least she’s not a man.”

“It would be a tragedy for you to meet a man.”

You grin and look over at him. “Devastating.”

The rest of the car ride continues in the same manner. You reach the racetrack with a smile on your lips. You’re closer to the city, and the air leaves a residue on your skin, faint smog in every breeze. After you park, you lead the way inside, keeping your head down and on a swivel, and your attention on everything around you. Tommy follows close behind you, his hands in his coat pockets, shoulders back and head held high. You feel safer with him around, braver, more willing to glance up and acknowledge the people around you.

Under the arching gates, you walk into the general area of the racetrack. On either side of you, standards sit sentinel, completely empty, almost ghostlike in the overcast gray. Tommy pauses for a moment, and you notice him take a deep breath, his hands moving slightly in his pockets, flexing and clenching.

“What?” You stop, turning to look at him.

He shakes his head, a small movement. “Last time I was here…”

“You don’t have to tell me.” You step back to stand by his side. “There’s barely anyone here. We’ll be alright. I’m keeping an eye out, too. You’re not on your own.”

He glances at you, then inclines his head, suggesting you move on. You start walking, and this time, he falls into step with you, side by side.

You reach the stables. You pull one of the workers aside, and, as quietly as you can, explain who you are. She nods, says she’s heard of you, and goes to retrieve her supervisor to bring some horses out.

There’s a lull. You glance at Tommy. His eyes wander around the track, catching on the wooden standards, the makeshift bathrooms not far off, then to the entrance of the stables.

You nudge him with your elbow. “Where’s your mind going?”

“Nowhere good.” He looks down at you, blue eyes searching. “Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why?’” You chuckle. “It matters to me where you’re at. I can tell you’re drifting off somewhere.”

“I am.” His eyes flick to a few horses, tucked-up waists and gleaming coats, being led towards you.

“Just… try to be here. With me. Don’t go running off to play with the dead while you still have living to do.”

He nods, then gestures at the horses. “Let’s take a look.”

There’s a sleek black gelding with a star and four socks, flashy and brave, according to his handlers. He has a bone chip and would require surgery, which you can afford. There’s a bay mare with kind eyes and a blaze, with a deep tissue wound in her stifle, with a daisy-cutter trot and swift, clean legs. You see Tommy’s eyes narrow slightly when a small gray stallion is brought out, pink nose and pale body glistening. He stands with his head and tail up, alert and watchful. He broke his leg, they say, but stayed standing, not so severe as to shoot him on the spot.

“That one has spirit,” Tommy murmurs as they walk him past.

“Stallions tend to.” You look up at him, trying to read his expression. “The gelding would be the safer choice. Bone chips are easy.”

“They’ll shoot him if you don’t take him.”

You nod vaguely, eyes traveling over the compact white horse, getting an idea of conformation, of sturdiness. Then, your eyes fall on a man at the entrance of the racetrack, and your blood goes cold. You waver on your feet and Tommy looks down at you, confused. You grab his arm to steady yourself.

“We have to go.” Your breath hitches in your throat, your lungs contract, and you pant like a dog. “Please, Tom, we have to go now.”

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby #peaky blinders x reader #thomas shelby #peaky blinders imagine #peaker blinders fandom #peaky blinder imagine #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders fanfic

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