angel in the snow

Dex has a mole on the left side of his face. It's not directly below his eye, rather set high on his cheek closer to his hairline, just at the top of his prominent cheekbone. You adore it.

#BENJAMIN POINDEXTER X READER ➽──❥ OPTION TWO

synopsis stalker!Dex shows up to your restaurant after you got stood up by your date.

cw: cursing, reader is a dumbass who entertains stalkers, slight mentions of stalking

a/n: HIII ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵) this is my first post on here! I decided that instead of just reading all these amazing fics on this platform I might as well post some myself! Hope you like it⋆˙⟡

p.s! don't mind if there are any errors i'm still quite new to this lol.

You wanted to sink into that expensive velvet chair and disappear.

It was so embarrassing. After weeks of being cooped up in your apartment. You finally decided to give the guy you met on Tinder a chance. A terrible idea in hindsight-- who even goes on Tinder dates anymore?

Of course, Dex hated the idea the second you mentioned it.

You really couldn't care less what he thought.

The two of you had been talking for months-- if "talking" was even the right word. Dex would text you at odd hours asking how your day went, remind you to eat before you remembered yourself, and somehow always knew when you made it home. You'd long since stopped asking how.

Every now and then he'd even FaceTime you. Sometimes he'd show his face. Other times, he'd flip the camera around and casually point it to your apartment building from somewhere across the street.

It should've terrified you.

Instead, you'd roll your eyes, tell him he was being weird, and go back to complaining about your coworkers.

Dex, on the other hand, refused to call it a date, insisting it was just a “hang out” (he decided to call it that for his own sake) and spent the entire week trying to convince you to stay home instead.

You really should've listened.

────୨ৎ────

“Dex, I even did my fucking hair,” you whined into your phone, slumping over the table in a pathetic attempt to make yourself smaller. This was not how it was supposed to work! You were supposed to be the one ghosting him, not the other way around.

With a groan, you rubbed your temple as your eyes drifted toward the waitress making their way across the dining room.

'They're probably gonna ask me to leave'..

That thought only made your embarrassment worse.

You made a mental note to swear off dating for good.

...Okay, maybe not for good.

On the other side of the phone, Dex was furious. The thought of even leaving an angel like you waiting was something he’d never do.

“Didn't I tell you he was a piece of shit?” he replied flatly.

Balancing his phone between his shoulder and ear, he shoved his feet into his shoes and headed for the door. Within minutes, he was behind the wheel.

He already knew where you were.

Dex had your location for months. He'd even scoped out the restaurant before your reservation.

Just a few safety precautions.

By the time you reached for your purse, deciding you'd suffered enough humiliation for one night, someone slid into the empty seat across from you. Arms folded on the table, he settled in as if he'd been invited.

"Hey sweetheart." I knew that voice.

The dim lighting caught the edge of Dex's knowing smirk as though he belonged here all along. You just stared at him, blinking once.

Make me feel like I am human — Jacaerys Velaryon

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

The duties of the future heir weigh heavy on Jace’s shoulders.

The desperation to be the perfect prince, to make up for what the realm considers his deficiencies, to be the steady pillar that ought to follow his mother’s rule, all act as a constant reminder to Jace of his precarious position in life.

Jacaerys sometimes wonders if drowning would feel all too different from the heaviness he feels in his chest, the lack of air that makes him feel trapped.

The tomes of Valyrian histories, written in his mother tongue litter the wooden table before him.

The candles burns low, forcing the young prince to squint, eyes growing blurry as he fights against the heavy hold of sleep.

The words before him blur together, stories of Aegon’s conquest swimming in his mind.

The library is quiet, safe for the sound of the wind, the stained glass squeaking from the strain of keeping the cold out.

Jace is close to nodding off again, soft footsteps against the cobblestone rousing him from sleep.

The dark cloak weighs heavy against your frame, the candle in your hand lighting the way only a few steps ahead.

But you don’t need to see clearly to find Jace, having danced through this sequence many times before.

The door creaks under the pressure of your palm, as you push into the library.

Jace’s head lifts from his palm, eyes finding your figure instantly.

“You are awake.” He notes, voice tired, heavy with a pain you’re desperate to ease.

“As are you.” You smile kindly, nearing the table he’s spread his books over. “Yet again.”

Jace’s lips twitch, recognising the familiar tone of judgement you inherited from your mother.

“I have to study.” He says, fighting back a yawn.

Your laugh echoes softly through the room, bouncing off the walls until it cements itself in Jace’s memory.

“You have done enough studying for tonight, no?”

You reach for him when you’re near enough to touch, fingers threading through his dark curls, as he leans into your touch.

“There is no such thing as enough studying.” His voice is soft as he looks up at you, brown eyes painted almost black in the dim light.

“Spoken like a true prince.” You smile down at him, leaning against the edge of the wooden table. “What are you reading about tonight?”

You look back at the old book, eyes scanning over High Valyrian text.

“Aegon’s conquest.” Jace says, resting his head over the cloak, against your stomach.

“Ah.” Your tongue clicks. “And what have you learnt?”

He sighs.

“That my Valyrian is not as good as I had hoped.”

The giggle that rips from your throat rings loud and true in the quiet space and Jace cannot help the satisfaction that fills his chest at the sound.

“That simply cannot be true.” Your voice deepens as your mother tongue slips from your mouth. “You speak it so fluently.”

“I know enough to converse with you, sweet girl.” He says, looking up at you again.

“That is more than enough for me, my prince.” Your hand slips down to his neck, pulling his head back as you lower your own face, lips meeting his softly.

Jace sighs against your lips, hands slipping through the opening of your cloak and finding their rightful place over the dips of your waist.

It takes you longer than you’d anticipated to pull back, the taste of him intoxicating.

Jace barely gives you time to recover from the kiss, before he’s pulling you down, sitting you atop his lap.

Your laughter is muffled by his hair as he buries his face into the crook of your throat, nose brushing against the soft skin.

“We ought to go to bed.” You muse as your fingers slip into his hair, scratching his scalp.

“I need to read.”

“You are half asleep.” You say, pulling at his hair softly.

Jace just hums against your skin.

“Still need to read.”

Your annoyed breath tangles in his hair, his long fingers slipping down to your covered thigh, gripping you through the light fabric of your nightgown.

“You can read on the morrow, when there is light and you are not fighting sleep on every page.”

He doesn’t answer.

You try to fight the shudder the passes through you when his lips move against the sensitive skin of your throat, the action performed half-consciously by the dark haired prince.

“You smell wonderful.” His voice is rough to your ears, lips kissing up the column of your throat.

“Yes, I bathe. Unlike some people.” He huffs a laugh against you, hand slipping from your back up your spine until it tangles in your hair.

“I bathe.” He protests weakly.

“Once a moon, mayhaps.”

You swallow the sound that tries to leave your lips when he tugs at your hair lightly.

You pull back from him and try not to laugh at his whiny sound of protest.

“Come to bed.” Your palm rests against his pale cheek, thumb stroking the alabaster skin.

“Soon.” He leans into your touch without thought.

“Now.” You try to make your voice stern, exhaustion fighting with your resolve.

Jace looks down at his books, ready to protest again.

You lean down, lips brushing his softly first before kissing him properly.

He hums softly against your lips, as both your hands caress his face.

Jace’s grip on you tightens, pulling you closer until your chests are pressed tightly against one another, breathing each other’s air.

His hand in your hair slips down to your neck, angling your head so he can kiss you more comfortably, tongue lapping at your lips until your mouth parts, inviting him in.

His tongue is hot in your mouth, the dragon blood that courses through his veins evident in every part of him.

You sigh against his mouth, lips moving in tandem with his until the threat of suffocation grows too serious and you’re forced to part.

His breath is hot against your skin, the rapid rise and fall of his chest matching your own.

“Come back with me.” High Valyrian slips through your lips again. “Come to bed, my love.”

Jace looks down at his books and looks back up at your pleading gaze.

“One more kiss.” He all but whispers to you, the language heavy and ancient against his tongue. “One more kiss and I’ll come.”

You sigh in mock-exasperation and cannot help the love that spreads beneath your ribs when he smiles, eyes creasing at the action.

“One more.” You warn and Jace nods before covering your lips with his, hand slipping into your hair again.

His mouth is hot and heavy against yours, kiss filled with a passion Jace thought his exhaustion had dulled within him.

Your hands grip his face tighter, pulling him closer until all he can feel and smell and see is you, you, you.

His tongue laps at yours again, teeth scraping against the softness of your lips.

You shudder under his touch, fingers slipping into his hair to pull softly at the curls.

You swallow the quiet moan that falls from Jace’s mouth at the action, noses bumping against one another.

The stubble that grows over his jaw grazes the pads of your fingers, tickling the skin there when your grip on his face tightens.

You hadn’t realised just how much you missed the feeling of his skin against yours, as Jace’s duties doubled and responsibilities began weighing heavier.

His hand tightens over your thigh, pulling you so close, you can feel his heart beat in tandem with yours.

“I have missed you.” His voice is soft and deep, the words falling from his mouth between the kisses he peppers against the skin of your face.

“And I, you.” He hums against you, lips closing over your jaw, sucking at the skin there.

“You are right.” He says, placing a kiss to the edge of your mouth. “We ought to go to bed.”

You smile down at him, big brown eyes looking up at you.

Jace pays little mind to the books scattered across the wooden places as he blows out the candle, hand holding tightly onto yours.

The heavy doors of the library close behind him as you lead him out into the familiar halls of Dragonstone.

The walk to your chambers is short and when the doors open, the dimly lit candles drenching you in an elysian light, Jace feels, for once, free of every responsibility, his only purpose in life — keeping you content and by his side.

♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

title; want you

pairing; john shelby x fem!reader

prompt/s; "i've thought about doing this for a long time" — new intimacy prompt list

​🇵​​🇪​​🇦​​🇰​​🇾​ ​🇧​​🇱​​🇮​​🇳​​🇩​​🇪​​🇷​​🇸​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​​​ | 🇲​​🇦​​🇮​​🇳​ ​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​ | 🇳​​🇦​​🇻​​🇮​​🇬​​🇦​​🇹​​🇮​​🇴​​🇳

„If I see you again.“

What if you betrayed Alfie.

The office smelled like tobacco, rum, and rain.

You stood in the middle of it, hands trembling at your sides, while the man behind the desk looked like he’d aged ten years in ten minutes.

Alfie Solomons leaned forward slowly, both palms pressed flat against the wood as if the table itself was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Right,” he muttered, voice thick with restrained fury. “Right, here’s what we’re gonna do, love.”

You turned to face him.

That was a mistake.

Because the second your eyes met his, something ugly twisted in his chest. Not just anger. Not just betrayal.

Hurt.

God, he hated that look on your face.

That wounded, pleading look, like he’d just kicked a stray dog in the street.

Alfie scoffed and dragged a hand across his beard.

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t you start with that, alright? I ain’t got the stomach for it.”

Silence filled the room except for the distant crash of waves against the docks outside.

You swallowed. “Alfie.“

“NO.”

His fist slammed down on the desk hard enough to rattle the glasses.

The sudden shout made you flinch.

“Don’t you Alfie me,” he growled. “You had your turn speakin’, didn’t you? When you were runnin’ off to your little copper friends, yeah?”

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t..”

“Oh, spare me.”

He laughed bitterly, pacing away from the desk now, limping slightly as he moved across the room.

“You think I’m stupid, do ya?” he said, pointing at you. “You think I don’t notice a few officers suddenly knowing a bit too much about my shipments? My warehouses? My bloody schedules?”

He paused.

His voice dropped.

“And funny enough… that all started happenin’ right about the time you came into my life.”

The words landed like stones.

You shook your head quickly. “That’s not proof.”

Alfie’s jaw clenched.

“Proof?” he repeated softly.

Then he laughed again, but there was no humor in it.

“Darlin’, in my world we don’t bloody wait for proof.”

He stopped pacing.

For a moment, he just stared at you.

And for a second , just a second ,the anger in his eyes cracked.

Because he remembered the first night he saw you.

Too bright. Too kind. Too bloody perfect.

He remembered the way you laughed when he told some ridiculous story about Camden. The way you’d sit in his office chair like you owned the place. The way you’d press your forehead to his when you thought he was worrying too much.

He remembered thinking.This one’s dangerous.

Not because you were a spy.

Because he loved you.

And love made men weak.

Even men like him.

Across the city, Tommy Shelby had warned him about that very thing.

Alfie scoffed under his breath at the memory.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Tommy was right.”

Your voice trembled. “About what?”

“That I’m goin’ soft.”

His eyes hardened again.

“So here’s what’s gonna happen,” he said, pointing toward the door.

“You’re gonna leave.”

Your stomach dropped.

“And you’re not comin’ back.”

“Alfie….”

“You’re gonna go to that boss of yours,” he continued, voice growing colder with each word, “and you’re gonna tell him to fuck right off. Tell him Alfie Solomons says hello while you’re at it.”

You took a step toward him.

He stepped back immediately.

The movement cut deeper than anything he’d said.

“Because if I see you again,” he said quietly, “I hope God above stops me from stranglin’ the life outta you.”

The room fell silent.

You stared at him like you’d been shot.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he looked away.

“Now go,” he muttered.

“I’m not givin’ you another chance, love.”

Your lips parted like you wanted to argue.

To explain.

To beg.

But the look on his face stopped you.

It wasn’t just anger anymore.

It was grief.

Slowly, you turned and walked toward the door.

Each step echoed across the wooden floor.

Alfie kept his back turned.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

The door creaked open.

Cold sea air rushed in.

You hesitated for half a second.

Then you left.

The door clicked shut behind you.

And Alfie stood there, staring at the wall.

A thought crept into his mind like poison.

What if she didn’t do it?

What if someone had framed you?

What if the real spy was still out there?

His stomach twisted.

But he shoved the thought down immediately.

Too late now.

He’d already done what needed doing.

Because if he let you stay…

If you looked at him like that again…

He might forgive you.

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐬

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ― female reader. no description of features. no mentions of size, race or age

warnings: blood, injury, tension, mild danger

note: Y/n is a nurse and Tommy is far more interested in her than she is willing to be in him.

It was late into the night when you heard the clinic door open, the little brass bell above it ringing quietly through the stillness. You couldn’t help but look up, slightly startled, seeing as no one usually came in at that hour unless there was trouble, drink, blood, or all three.

You had just finished cleaning the examination table from your last patient, a young man who had split his eyebrow open during some foolish fight outside one of the pubs. You were tired, your sleeves rolled up, your apron already marked with faint stains from a long day of work, and all you wanted was a quiet hour before morning came and brought half of Birmingham back through your door.

But then he walked in.

Thomas Shelby.

You knew who he was before he even spoke.

Everyone knew who Thomas Shelby was.

He stood near the door, his dark coat damp from the rain outside, his cap low over his eyes and one hand pressed firmly against his side. Blood had soaked through his shirt, spreading darkly beneath his waistcoat, yet he looked as composed as if he had simply come in to ask for directions.

You looked at the blood first, then at his face.

He looked back at you, waiting.

Perhaps he expected you to gasp. Perhaps he expected you to be afraid. Perhaps he was simply used to women reacting to him in some way.

You did not.

“Sit down,” you said, already turning toward the cabinet for supplies.

Thomas raised his eyebrows slightly, almost as though he was amused.

“I won’t be here long,” he said, his voice low and calm.

“You won’t be anywhere long if you keep bleeding like that,” you replied.

For a moment, he simply watched you. Then, without arguing, he walked over and sat on the edge of the examination table. His movements were careful, although he clearly tried to hide it. You noticed anyway. Men always seemed to think they were better at hiding pain than they actually were.

“Coat off,” you told him.

He looked at you again. “You always speak to patients like that?”

“When they arrive bleeding after midnight, yes,” you said.

Thomas did not smile, not fully, but something shifted at the corner of his mouth. It was small and brief, but you saw it.

He removed his coat slowly, and you took the scissors from the tray beside you before stepping closer. The scent of tobacco, rain, and blood clung to him. He was handsome, you supposed, in the same way people found storms handsome from the safety of a window. Sharp cheekbones, pale blue eyes, a tiredness about him that made him look older than he probably was. There was something dangerous in the stillness of him, something that made the room feel quieter just because he was in it.

You ignored it as best you could.

“Shirt,” you said.

He began to unbutton what he could, but the blood had made the fabric cling to his skin. You sighed quietly and cut through the ruined material instead.

“That was expensive,” he said.

“Then you should’ve avoided getting stabbed in it,” you replied.

His eyes lifted to your face again.

You could feel him watching you as you worked. Not in a vulgar way, which you were used to from men who had too much drink and not enough sense. No, Thomas Shelby looked at you like he was trying to understand something. Like he was looking for a crack in your composure.

You gave him none.

The wound was deep enough to need stitches, but it was not fatal. You cleaned away the blood with a damp cloth, pressing against the injury while he sat almost unnaturally still.

Almost.

You felt the slightest tension go through him when the cloth touched the wound.

“Don’t flinch, Mr. Shelby,” you said quietly.

His eyes snapped to yours.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then he asked, “You know my name?”

“Most people know your name.”

“And yet you tell me what to do.”

“In here, yes.”

Thomas stared at you for a second longer, and you could tell that he was not offended. If anything, he looked more interested than before, which you found rather inconvenient.

You reached for the iodine.

“This will sting,” you told him.

“I’ve had worse.”

“I didn’t ask.”

You poured it over the wound before he could say anything else. His jaw tightened, but he did not make a sound.

You noticed that, too.

“You should have gone to a doctor,” you said.

“I came here.”

“This is a clinic.”

“And you’re a nurse.”

“A tired one.”

That time, he almost smiled again.

You threaded the needle and tried not to think too much about the way his eyes remained on your face instead of your hands. It was unsettling, being looked at like that. Not admired, exactly. Studied. As if every calm breath you took only made him more curious.

“You don’t seem frightened,” he said.

“I’m not frightened of blood.”

“I wasn’t talking about blood.”

You paused only for half a second, then continued preparing the thread.

“No,” you said. “I don’t suppose you were.”

The room went quiet again. Outside, the rain had started to fall harder against the windows, soft but steady. The lamps above you gave the clinic a dull yellow glow, making the blood on your apron look darker than it was.

“You know who I am,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You know what people say about me.”

“Yes.”

“And still nothing?”

You looked at him then, meeting his eyes properly for the first time since he had walked in. They were very blue, colder in the light than you expected, though there was something tired beneath the sharpness. Something buried deep enough that most people probably never saw it.

“I know enough men with reputations, Mr. Shelby,” you said. “Most of them still bleed the same.”

He went still at that.

Not physically, because he had already been sitting quite still, but something in his expression changed. It was subtle, almost impossible to name, but you saw it. Curiosity, perhaps. Or surprise. Maybe both.

You began stitching the wound.

Thomas watched you the entire time.

It should have annoyed you. In truth, it did annoy you. He looked at you as though he expected you to eventually blush, or look away, or soften. But you had treated too many men like him to be easily impressed. Men who carried guns. Men who spoke softly because they knew they did not need to shout. Men who thought danger gave them charm.

You had seen what danger did to people.

You had cleaned it from skin and floors and trembling hands.

So you kept your voice even and your fingers steady.

“You always this calm with injured men?” he asked.

“Only when they sit still.”

“And if they don’t?”

“I make them regret it.”

He looked down at your hands, then back at your face.

“I believe you.”

“You should.”

Before you could finish the next stitch, there was a knock at the door.

You froze.

So did Thomas.

The knock came again, heavier this time, followed by the muffled voice of a man outside.

“Clinic open?”

You looked toward the door, then back at Thomas. His face had changed completely. The quiet interest was gone, replaced by something cold and immediate. His hand moved toward his coat, which you were fairly certain had a gun inside it.

“Don’t,” you said quickly.

His eyes cut to you.

“You don’t know who that is,” he said.

“No, but I know I’m halfway through closing your wound, and if you move now, you’ll bleed all over my floor again.”

He looked almost irritated by how reasonable that sounded.

Another knock came.

You set the needle down carefully and stood. “Stay there.”

Thomas said nothing, but you felt his eyes on you as you walked toward the door.

You opened it only a little, leaving the chain in place.

A man stood outside in the rain, his cap pulled low and his collar turned up. You did not recognize him, but you recognized the type. Birmingham had plenty of them. Men who came to doors after midnight and expected women to move aside simply because they were men.

“We’re closed,” you said.

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Try looking tomorrow.”

His gaze tried to move past you, but you shifted slightly, blocking his view.

“A man came through here,” he said. “Bleeding.”

You gave him a tired look. “This is a clinic.”

His mouth tightened. “This man would’ve been easy to notice.”

“Most men think that about themselves.”

Behind you, Thomas made no sound, but you knew he was listening. You could feel the tension in the room behind your back, quiet and sharp.

The man’s eyes dropped to your apron, where Thomas’s blood had stained the fabric.

“That his?”

You looked down briefly, then back at him.

“It’s blood. In a clinic. Shocking, I know.”

He stared at you for a moment, clearly unsure whether to be angry or suspicious. You held his gaze, refusing to move. Your heart was beating faster than you would have liked, but you refused to let him see that.

Finally, he stepped back.

“Tell Shelby he’s got friends looking for him.”

“I don’t take messages from strange men in the rain,” you said.

Then you shut the door in his face and locked it.

For a moment, you stood there with your hand still on the lock, listening as his footsteps moved away from the clinic. Only when the sound disappeared did you turn around.

Thomas was staring at you.

He had not moved from the table, although one hand was still close to his coat. His shirt was open where you had cut it, the wound half-stitched, his pale skin marked with blood and iodine. Yet despite all of that, he did not look weak.

He looked fascinated.

It was strange, seeing a man like him look at you that way. Not with desire exactly, or at least not only that. It was something quieter. Something more watchful. As though, in the span of a few minutes, you had become a problem he wanted to solve.

You walked back to him and picked up the needle again.

“You bring that sort of trouble everywhere you go?” you asked.

“Not everywhere.”

“Lucky me.”

“You lied for me.”

“I lied for my clinic.”

“That all?”

You glanced at him. “Yes.”

Thomas looked at you as though he did not believe you, but he did not argue.

You finished the stitches in silence. His eyes remained on you the entire time, and though you did your best not to acknowledge it, you could feel every second of it. It was not that he was making you nervous. You would not give him the satisfaction. But his attention had weight to it, and you were aware of it in a way that irritated you.

When you finished, you covered the wound with clean gauze and secured it carefully.

“You need rest,” you said.

“I have business.”

“Then your business will have to wait.”

“It won’t.”

“Then bleed on your business instead of my floor.”

Again, that almost-smile.

“You speak to everyone like this?”

“Only the ones who make my night difficult.”

“And have I?”

“You walked in bleeding, tried to smoke before I could stitch you, nearly reached for a gun while I had a needle in your side, and brought a strange man to my door.”

You tied off the bandage and stepped back.

“So yes, Mr. Shelby. You have.”

He looked down at the bandage, then back at you. His gaze moved slowly over your face, and this time, you had the uncomfortable feeling that he had seen more than you meant to show. Not interest, because you had shown none. Not fear, because you had refused him that as well. But perhaps he saw the effort. The carefulness. The way you kept yourself calm on purpose.

“You’re very controlled,” he said.

“I’m working.”

“No,” he said softly. “That’s not what I mean.”

You looked away first, reaching for a cloth to wipe your hands.

“You’re done,” you said.

Thomas did not move right away.

Most men were eager to leave once the pain had passed. Some thanked you. Some tried to flirt. Some complained about the price. Thomas Shelby simply sat there and watched you clean the tray, as though leaving had become less important than understanding you.

Finally, he stood, slowly enough that you knew the wound hurt more than he wanted to admit.

You pretended not to notice.

He reached into his pocket and placed money on the table.

Too much.

You looked at it, then at him.

“No.”

His brow lowered faintly. “No?”

“You can pay for the bandages. Not my silence.”

The room went very still.

For the first time since he had arrived, you thought you had genuinely surprised him.

His eyes stayed on yours for a moment before he removed some of the money, leaving only what was fair.

“My silence is not for sale,” you added.

“No,” he said quietly. “I can see that.”

He put on his coat carefully, then picked up his cap from the table. You thought he would leave after that, but he paused near the door, one hand resting on the handle.

“What’s your name?”

You stopped.

It should not have surprised you as much as it did.

But it did.

Men like Thomas Shelby did not usually ask for names. They found them out. They had people tell them. They used names as if they were things to own.

But he had asked.

You looked at him for a moment, unsure why the question felt more dangerous than the blood, the gun, or the man outside.

“Y/n,” you said.

Thomas repeated it softly.

Just once.

It sounded different in his voice, and you did not like that you noticed.

You lifted your chin. “Try not to make me regret telling you.”

His mouth curved slightly.

“I’ll try.”

“You’ll fail.”

This time, he did smile, though it was brief and quiet. It suited him too well, which was unfortunate.

He placed his cap on his head, the shadow falling over his eyes again.

“You always this calm around men with guns?” he asked.

You looked at him evenly.

“Only the ones stupid enough to bleed on my floor.”

For a moment, he simply looked at you.

Then he opened the door and stepped out into the rain, the bell above him ringing softly as he left.

You locked the door behind him.

The clinic was quiet again, except for the rain against the windows and the faint dripping of water from the hem of his coat where he had stood. The room still smelled of tobacco, blood, and iodine. His ruined shirt lay in pieces on the tray, and the money he had left sat neatly on the table.

Exactly enough.

Not a penny more.

You hated that he had listened.

You hated even more that you noticed.

Synopsis: angst turned comfort. A argument between you and John turns into a need for dependability. Pairing: John Shelby x fem!reader Word Count: 1.5k+ Warnings: Violence (tried not to put a lot). SA! (NOTHING GRAPHIC) use of y/n. cursing. gangs. usual peaky blinder things. pretty short. idk if its actually good lol. ( A/U where John doesn't have children). Masterlist

if these things may trigger you, skip this one. your mental health is important.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Thomas Shelby x fem!reader

☾ Warnings: gang-related violence, gun violence, blood and injury mentions, threats/intimidation, forced confinement, reader being grabbed/physically restrained, Sabini being possessive and controlling, family used as leverage, power imbalance, reader feeling trapped, implied violence, smoking/alcohol, protective Tommy, dangerous attraction.

☾ Tags: @spn-reader,@itsnotthatbad-g,@unlearnthehate

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ───────────── ⋅ ˚₊‧☽

By morning, you knew Sabini knew.

He did not say it outright. Men like him rarely did when silence could do the work better. He only watched you from behind his desk with a calmness that made every ordinary movement feel like a mistake waiting to happen. When you poured his coffee, his eyes stayed on your hands. When you crossed the room to fetch a ledger, he paused mid-conversation until you returned. When one of his men entered with news from the docks, Sabini told you to stay instead of dismissing you.

That was how you knew.

He wanted you close enough to frighten.

Close enough to remind you that whatever small betrayal he suspected, he still had the room, the men, the locks, the streets outside, and every name attached to yours.

You stood beside his desk for most of the morning with a pencil in your hand and a notebook open to a blank page. No one asked you to write anything down. That was part of the punishment too. Uselessness made visible. Your body placed in the room like an object he had not yet decided what to do with.

Sabini spoke with three men about the warehouse attack as if discussing bad weather.

“Three gone,” one of them said, his voice low. “Rocco’s jaw is broken. He says they knew.”

Sabini glanced at you.

You did not move.

“Knew what?” Sabini asked.

“The route. The hour. Everything.”

Sabini leaned back in his chair, rubbing his thumb slowly against his lower lip. He looked almost amused, which was worse than anger.

“Then someone has been generous with information.”

No one in the room looked at you, but somehow all of them did.

You kept your eyes on the edge of the desk, focusing on a small scratch in the wood where the polish had worn thin. Your hands stayed folded. Your face stayed calm. Sabini had taught you that calmness was safety, and you hated him for making you so good at it.

“People talk,” one of the men said.

“Yes,” Sabini replied softly. “People do.”

His gaze moved to you again.

“Y/n.”

Your spine straightened. “Yes?”

He smiled. “You’re very quiet today.”

“I didn’t know you needed me to speak.”

“No,” he said, still smiling. “I don’t.”

The men laughed, not because it was funny, but because Sabini had made room for them to.

Your throat tightened.

He looked away from you then, dismissing you without words, and continued his conversation. But the damage had been done. He had reminded everyone in that room that your silence belonged to him too.

You thought of Thomas Shelby waiting outside the church the night before, rain on his coat, his eyes steady on yours as he told you he could move your mother and brother. You had wanted to believe him, and that was the part that frightened you most. Not the danger. Not even Sabini. You had lived with danger long enough for it to become a room you knew how to walk through.

Hope was worse.

Hope made you careless.

By noon, Sabini gave you a list of letters to post, then took them back before you reached the door.

“Actually,” he said, folding them neatly, “Marco can handle that.”

You turned back. “Of course.”

“And the afternoon meetings,” he added, looking down at his papers, “you’ll sit in.”

“I usually file during the afternoon.”

“You’ll sit in.”

The finality in his voice left no space for argument.

You nodded.

Sabini looked up again, and this time the smile was gone. “You understand why, don’t you?”

Your fingers curled once at your side. “No.”

A lie. A poor one.

He stood slowly.

The room seemed to grow smaller whenever he moved toward you. You hated that too, hated that your body understood him before your pride could refuse to.

“You have been distracted,” he said.

“I haven’t.”

“No?” He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell the cigar smoke in his jacket. “Thomas Shelby comes to London, and suddenly you become forgetful. Papers misplaced. Doors left open. Eyes wandering.”

“My work is still done.”

Sabini’s mouth twitched. “That is not the same as loyalty.”

You lifted your chin before you could stop yourself. “I never promised you loyalty.”

The room went still.

It was a foolish thing to say.

You knew it the moment it left your mouth.

Sabini stared at you for a long second, then laughed quietly through his nose. Not enough to ease the tension. Just enough to make it humiliating.

“No,” he said. “Your father promised it for you.”

Your chest tightened.

He saw that. Of course he did.

“He borrowed more than he could ever repay, and when he died, he left me with a debt and a daughter with pretty eyes.” His gaze moved over your face with a cold sort of ownership. “I gave you work. I gave your mother a roof when no one else cared if she froze. I kept your little brother from men who would have found more painful uses for him than running messages.”

You swallowed, but said nothing.

Sabini leaned closer.

“And now Birmingham looks at you once, and you think you can forget who kept you alive?”

You wanted to tell him survival was not the same as mercy. You wanted to tell him a cage with a blanket in it was still a cage. You wanted to say Thomas Shelby had not looked at you once. He had looked at you like recognition could hurt.

Instead, you said, “I haven’t forgotten anything.”

Sabini studied you.

Then his hand lifted, slow enough that you had time to flinch but not enough space to hide it. His fingers brushed your cheek, almost tenderly. The touch made your stomach turn.

“Good,” he said. “Because I would hate to remind you.”

He stepped back, returning to his desk as if nothing had happened.

You stood there for a moment, blood loud in your ears.

Then the office door opened.

Marco entered, rain on the shoulders of his coat. He glanced at you before looking at Sabini.

“It’s done,” he said.

Sabini did not look surprised. “Both?”

Marco hesitated.

Your breath caught before you knew why.

“The boy, no,” Marco said. “He was gone before we got there.”

Your whole body went cold.

Sabini’s eyes lifted slowly to yours.

“Gone?” he asked.

Marco shifted. “Rooms empty. Someone moved quick.”

Sabini looked at you for a long, silent moment.

Your brother.

Tommy had moved your brother.

The thought struck so suddenly you nearly reached for the desk to steady yourself. You had given him the address. Written it down with shaking hands after leaving him by the church. You had not truly believed anything would happen by morning. Men promised things all the time. They promised safety, protection, money, love. Most of it turned to smoke as soon as it became inconvenient.

But Tommy had moved him.

Your brother was gone.

Safe, maybe.

Sabini knew it too.

His face changed so little that anyone else might have missed it, but you had spent years learning the weather of his moods. His anger did not arrive loudly. It sharpened.

“And the mother?” Sabini asked.

Marco’s eyes flicked to you again.

Sabini’s voice dropped. “Speak.”

“Still there.”

The room tilted beneath your feet.

Sabini smiled.

It was small, but it was enough to make you understand.

Your brother was out. Your mother was not.

Tommy had only moved one piece before Sabini closed his fist around the other.

Sabini walked around the desk and stopped near you again. This time he did not touch you. He did not need to.

“See?” he said softly. “This is what happens when people become romantic.”

Your voice came out thin. “Where is she?”

“Your mother?” He tilted his head. “Where she has always been. For now.”

“For now?”

Sabini looked at Marco. “Take Miss Y/n home tonight. Not to her rooms.”

Your heart dropped.

“Where?” you asked.

Sabini turned back to you.

“To her mother.”

For a second, you could not speak.

Then you understood. Not kindness. Not reassurance.

Bait.

Sabini wanted Tommy to come.

He wanted him angry. Hurried. Personal. A man was easier to kill when he stopped thinking like one.

You shook your head once. “No.”

Sabini’s face hardened.

Marco stepped closer.

You stepped back.

It happened quickly after that. Not dramatically, not with the dignity fear sometimes deserved. Marco caught your arm. You twisted hard enough to make him curse, the notebook falling from your hand and sliding beneath the desk. Sabini did not raise his voice. He simply watched as Marco got both hands on you and dragged you toward the door.

“Stop fighting,” Sabini said.

You did not.

Your heel caught on the rug. Your shoulder struck the doorframe. Pain flashed down your arm, sharp and bright, but panic was sharper.

“Sabini,” you snapped, turning your head enough to look at him. “Please.”

You hated the word the second you said it.

His expression softened.

That was worse.

“There she is,” he murmured. “There’s the sensible girl.”

Marco pulled you into the hallway.

You fought until he bent your wrist behind your back and the pain forced the air from your lungs. After that, you went still, breathing hard through your nose while tears burned hot and useless behind your eyes.

You would not cry in Sabini’s hallway.

You would not give him that too.

Outside, London was grey and wet, the kind of afternoon that made the city feel washed in dirty water. Marco shoved you into a motorcar, climbed in after you, and kept one hand locked around your wrist the whole way.

You looked out the window and tried to count streets.

You lost track after four turns.

All you could think was: Tommy moved your brother.

Then: Sabini still has your mother.

Then, much worse: Tommy will come.

And you did not know if that meant rescue or ruin.

Across London, Thomas Shelby stood in a rented room with your mother’s address in one hand and a cigarette burning forgotten in the other.

Arthur was pacing.

John was at the window.

A man Tommy had placed near your rooms had come running twenty minutes earlier, soaked through and out of breath, with the news that Sabini’s men had taken you from the club and moved you east.

Your brother sat in the next room with Finn, terrified but alive. He was younger than Tommy expected. Seventeen, maybe. Thin, dark-eyed, too proud to ask questions even though fear kept pulling his gaze toward the door.

Your mother had not been at the second address by the time Tommy’s men arrived.

That meant Sabini had moved first.

That meant Tommy had been too slow.

Arthur stopped pacing and pointed toward the door. “We go now.”

Tommy did not look at him.

“Tom.”

“I heard you.”

“Then move.”

John turned from the window. “Could be a trap.”

“It is a trap,” Tommy said.

Arthur spread his hands. “Right. So we know. That’s good, innit?”

John gave him a look. “That’s not good.”

Arthur ignored him. “He’s got her, Tommy.”

Tommy’s eyes lifted then.

Arthur went quiet.

The room had gone very still around him. He had not shouted. He had not thrown anything. That would have been easier for his brothers to understand. Anger was familiar. This was something else, something cold and deliberate enough to make even Arthur hesitate.

“I know what he has,” Tommy said.

John stepped closer. “Then don’t walk into it stupid.”

Tommy folded the paper slowly. “I won’t.”

“You sure?” John asked, braver than most men would have been. “Because since you saw her, you’ve been acting like—”

Tommy’s eyes cut to him.

John stopped, but only for a second.

“Like she matters more than the business,” he finished.

Arthur looked between them.

Tommy slid the paper into his coat. “She does.”

Neither brother spoke.

It was the first time he had said it plainly.

Maybe the first time he had admitted it to himself.

John’s jaw tightened, but there was no mockery in his face now. Only worry. “That’s dangerous.”

“Yes.”

Arthur exhaled hard and rubbed both hands over his face. “Christ, Tommy.”

Tommy reached for his cap. “Sabini expects me to come angry. He expects Arthur to come louder. He expects John to come fast. So we don’t give him what he expects.”

Arthur looked offended despite everything. “I can be quiet.”

John snorted. “Since fucking when?”

Tommy looked at them both. “Tonight.”

The room settled around the word.

Then Tommy turned toward the door, already moving pieces in his head.

There were three addresses Sabini used when he wanted someone frightened but not dead yet. One above a betting room. One behind a closed restaurant near Camden. One old house in Stepney that belonged to a cousin who never asked questions. Tommy chose the house. Sabini would want space. Privacy. Enough men around to make it look safe.

Enough room for Tommy to turn it into a grave if he had to.

Your mother was in the front room of the old house when they brought you in.

That was the only mercy.

She sat in a chair near the fire, a shawl around her shoulders, her face pale and drawn from illness. When she saw you, she tried to stand too quickly and nearly fell.

“Mama,” you breathed.

Marco’s grip tightened before you could reach her.

Your mother’s eyes moved to your wrist, then to your face. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly. “It’s all right.”

Even as you said it, the lie broke in the room.

Your mother knew. Mothers always did, even sick ones. Especially sick ones. Her eyes filled, and the sight of it made your chest ache so badly you thought you might fold in half.

Sabini came in behind you, removing his gloves one finger at a time.

“Family reunions,” he said. “Always touching.”

You turned on him. “Let her go.”

He sighed. “Still making demands. Very disappointing.”

Your mother looked at him. “Please. She’s done nothing.”

Sabini’s attention shifted to her, mild and cruel. “She has done exactly enough.”

You moved before thinking, putting yourself between them. Marco jerked you back by the arm.

Sabini smiled again. “There it is.”

“What?” you snapped.

“That spirit.” He stepped closer. “That is what men like Shelby notice, you know. Not just a pretty face. Pretty faces are everywhere. But a woman who looks frightened and still speaks as if she has somewhere to stand…” His gaze moved over you. “Men mistake that for strength. They want to test it. They want to own it. They want to be the one it bends for.”

Your skin crawled.

“You don’t know anything about him,” you said.

Sabini laughed.

“No?” He nodded toward the window. “He is coming here right now because you gave him a reason to forget himself. I know more than enough.”

Your mother’s lips trembled. “Who is coming?”

You looked at her, unable to answer.

Sabini stepped close enough that you could feel his breath near your cheek.

“And when he does,” he said softly, “you will see what dreams cost.”

The words landed too deeply.

You looked at him then, really looked.

“How did you know?”

Sabini’s eyes narrowed slightly.

You should not have said it. You knew that too. But the damage was done.

His smile returned, slower this time. “So it is true.”

You went cold.

He had guessed.

Not the details, not exactly, but enough. He had seen the look in the office, seen Tommy go still, seen you hide recognition too late. He had pressed, and you had given him the shape of the secret without meaning to.

Sabini turned away, pleased with himself.

“Get her upstairs,” he told Marco. “Her mother stays here.”

“No,” you said.

Marco grabbed you before you could reach for her.

Your mother cried out your name.

You fought harder this time, fear making you clumsy, your shoulder clipping the banister as Marco dragged you up the stairs. You twisted and scratched at his hand, catching skin beneath your nail. He cursed and shoved you into a room at the end of the hall.

You hit the floor hard.

The door shut.

The key turned.

For a few seconds, you stayed where you were, breathing through the pain in your shoulder and wrist.

Then you pushed yourself up.

The room was small, likely a bedroom once, though most of the furniture had been stripped out. A narrow bed. A cracked mirror. Curtains nailed shut over the window.

You went to the window first. It barely moved when you tried it. Painted shut or locked from the outside. Your wrist throbbed when you pushed harder.

You stopped only when footsteps came up the stairs.

Sabini’s voice reached through the door.

“You should rest, Y/n. You’ll want to look well when he comes.”

You stared at the wood.

“I hate you,” you said.

A pause.

Then he laughed softly.

“No, you don’t,” he said. “You hate that I’m right.”

His footsteps moved away.

You stood in the middle of the room with your hands shaking now that no one could see them. Downstairs, men spoke in low voices. A floorboard creaked. Your mother coughed once, the sound muffled through the walls.

You pressed your knuckles to your mouth and tried to breathe.

Tommy would come.

That thought should have comforted you. It did not. Not fully.

Because you knew what kind of men were waiting downstairs.

And you knew, by now, what kind of man Tommy was.

He had warned you himself.

You should be afraid of me.

You were.

But not enough to want him gone.

The first gunshot came just after dark.

It cracked through the house so suddenly that you flinched away from the door, your heart leaping into your throat.

A shout followed.

Then another shot.

Then the house erupted.

Men ran beneath you, boots slamming over floorboards. Someone cursed in Italian. Glass shattered. Your mother screamed downstairs, and the sound tore through you so violently that you threw yourself at the door without thinking.

“Mama!”

You slammed your hand against the wood.

No answer.

Another gunshot.

Then a heavy thud against the wall below.

You backed away, looking around the room for anything you could use. The mirror was cracked, set into a thin frame. You grabbed it with both hands and pulled until it came loose from the wall, one side splintering. The glass bit into your palm, but you barely felt it.

You struck the mirror against the bedpost until a jagged piece broke free.

Downstairs, the fighting moved closer.

You went to the door, gripping the shard so tightly blood slid warm between your fingers.

Someone came up the stairs fast.

Not one person.

Two.

A body hit the landing outside your room. A man groaned. Then there was a sound like a fist meeting bone, and the groaning stopped.

The key scraped in the lock.

You lifted the glass.

The door opened.

Tommy stood there.

His cap was gone. His coat was wet from the rain. There was blood at the corner of his mouth and more across the knuckles of one hand. His eyes found you, then the glass in your hand, then the blood slipping down your wrist.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“Is that yours?” he asked, nodding to your hand.

Your breath came unevenly. “Some of it.”

His jaw tightened.

“My mother?”

“Alive,” he said at once. “Arthur has her.”

Relief hit so hard your knees nearly gave.

Tommy caught your elbow before you fell, his grip firm but not rough. You tried to pull yourself together, embarrassed by the shake in your body, but he only watched your face with the kind of focus that made lying useless.

“Your brother is safe,” he said. “Finn has him.”

You closed your eyes.

For one second, there was nothing but that.

Your brother safe.

Your mother alive.

The room around you seemed to tilt back into place.

When you opened your eyes, Tommy was looking at your wrist.

“Give me the glass.”

You looked down as if you had forgotten you were holding it. Your fingers had locked around the shard. Slowly, you let him take it from you.

He tossed it onto the bed.

His hand closed around yours, turning your palm toward the dim light. Blood welled from a shallow cut across the inside, not deep enough to be dangerous, but enough to make his mouth tighten.

“It’s nothing,” you said.

His eyes lifted to yours. “Don’t.”

Just that.

Don’t.

Not sharp. Not cruel.

Only tired of you pretending pain was smaller than it was.

Something in your chest twisted.

Another crash sounded downstairs.

Tommy’s hand went to his gun.

You stepped closer without meaning to.

He noticed, but said nothing.

“Stay behind me,” he said.

“I’m not helpless.”

“I know.” His eyes moved over your face. “Stay behind me anyway.”

You hated that you listened.

The hallway smelled of smoke and damp wool and blood. A man lay on the landing, groaning through a broken nose. Tommy stepped over him without looking down. You followed close, one hand gripping the back of Tommy’s coat because the stairs seemed too steep and the house too loud.

Halfway down, Sabini appeared at the bottom.

He had a gun in his hand.

Tommy stopped.

You stopped behind him.

Sabini’s face was flushed with anger now, all that polished control finally cracking at the edges. Two of his men stood behind him, one bleeding from his temple. From somewhere beyond the hall, Arthur’s voice barked an order, followed by John shouting something you couldn’t make out.

Sabini looked at Tommy, then at you.

“Well,” he said, breathing hard. “There he is.”

Tommy’s gun was already in his hand, held low. “Move.”

Sabini laughed. “You break into my house, kill my men, steal from me, and now you give orders?”

“Yes.”

Your fingers tightened in Tommy’s coat.

Sabini saw.

His eyes brightened with spite.

“Look at that,” he said. “She holds on to you already.”

Tommy did not answer.

Sabini took one step forward, gun lifting slightly. “You think you’ve won something? You think because you carried her mother out of a chair and hid her brother in some Birmingham hole, she belongs to you now?”

“She belongs to herself,” Tommy said.

The words were so plain, so immediate, that you almost stopped breathing.

Sabini’s face twisted.

“You don’t believe that.”

Tommy’s voice remained even. “No. But she does.”

Behind him, your eyes burned.

Sabini looked at you. “Y/n. Come here.”

Tommy did not move, but you felt the tension run through him.

Sabini’s gaze hardened. “Now.”

For years, that voice had been enough to move you. It had moved you from rooms, into rooms, down halls, into chairs, beside desks, beneath hands that lingered too long. It had moved you with the weight of your father’s debt, your mother’s illness, your brother’s safety. It had made obedience feel like survival until you forgot there had ever been another way to live.

You looked at Sabini over Tommy’s shoulder.

“No,” you said.

The word shook.

But it came.

Sabini went still.

Tommy did not turn around, but somehow you knew he had heard the difference in you. Not fear leaving. Fear was still there, hard and bright in your ribs. But something else had risen beside it.

Sabini’s mouth parted slightly, disbelief making him ugly.

Then his gun lifted.

Everything happened at once.

Tommy fired first.

The shot cracked through the hall. Sabini’s gun went off a fraction later, the bullet splintering the banister near your shoulder. You ducked as Tommy turned into you, shielding you with his body while John appeared from the side hall and fired twice at Sabini’s men.

Arthur came out of the front room with blood on his shirt and murder in his eyes.

“Tommy!”

Sabini staggered back, one hand clamped to his shoulder, his gun fallen somewhere near the stairs. He did not fall. Not completely. He caught himself against the wall, teeth bared in pain and fury.

Tommy moved toward him.

You reached for his coat. “Thomas.”

He stopped.

Only because it was you.

Sabini laughed through the pain, breathless and bitter. “There. There it is. She says your name and you heel.”

Arthur raised his gun. “I’ll shut him up.”

Tommy lifted one hand slightly, stopping him.

He looked down at Sabini, who was sliding slowly toward the floor, blood darkening his sleeve.

“You’re alive because killing you here causes more trouble than you’re worth,” Tommy said. “But if you go near her, her mother, or her brother again, I’ll come back without my brothers.”

Sabini’s breathing was harsh.

Tommy stepped closer.

“And there won’t be a house left standing when I’m done.”

For once, Sabini had no answer.

Tommy turned away first, not because he was weak, but because he had decided Sabini was finished in the only way that mattered. His hold was broken. His men were either dead, injured, or running. His pride was bleeding on the floor.

John moved to cover the door. Arthur came to your side, his face softening in that rough, awkward way of his when he looked at you.

“Your mum’s outside,” he said. “Bit shaken. Breathing, though.”

You nodded, but the relief made speaking difficult.

Arthur looked at your bleeding hand and frowned. “Christ.”

“It’s fine,” you whispered.

“No, it fucking ain’t,” he muttered, then glanced at Tommy. “She needs seeing to.”

Tommy’s eyes moved from Arthur to you.

Something silent passed between the brothers. For once, Arthur did not make a comment. John did not either.

Tommy held out his hand.

Not like a demand.

Not like a man claiming what he had won.

Just there, steady in the ruined hallway, waiting for you to decide.

You looked at it.

Then at Sabini, slumped against the wall with hatred burning through his pain.

Then at the front door, hanging open to the wet London night.

Your mother was beyond it.

Your brother was somewhere safe.

The life you had known was behind you, bleeding and furious and losing its grip.

You placed your hand in Tommy’s.

His fingers closed around yours carefully, mindful of the cut across your palm.

Then he led you out.

The rain had started again.

Not heavy, just a fine mist settling over everything, softening the hard edges of the street. Your mother sat in the back of a motorcar with a blanket around her shoulders, Finn beside her with a gun held awkwardly in his lap. She began crying when she saw you, and the sound nearly broke you apart.

You climbed into the motorcar and held her as carefully as you could, whispering that your brother was safe, that she was safe, that you were leaving.

Your mother kept touching your face as if making sure you were still there.

Tommy stood outside in the rain, speaking low to Arthur and John. You watched him through the window. He looked composed from a distance, but you could see the blood on his mouth, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his hand flexed once at his side as if he was still holding himself back from going into that house and finishing what he had started.

Arthur clapped him once on the shoulder.

John said something that made Tommy glance toward the car.

Then Tommy came to the door and opened it.

“Your mother goes with John,” he said. “Your brother is waiting outside London. You’ll see him before morning.”

Your mother gripped your hand.

You looked at Tommy. “And me?”

His eyes held yours.

“You choose.”

The word was so simple you almost did not understand it.

Tommy nodded toward the second car waiting behind his. “You can ride with your mother. Or with me. Either way, you leave London tonight.”

No debt.

No command.

No hand at your back forcing you forward.

Just choice.

It frightened you more than Sabini’s orders ever had.

Your mother looked at you, tired but aware. Her fingers squeezed yours weakly. “Go where you need to, my love.”

Tears blurred your vision before you could stop them.

You kissed her forehead, then stepped back into the rain.

Tommy watched you cross to his car. He did not smile. He did not look triumphant.

He opened the door and waited.

You got in.

For the first few minutes, neither of you spoke.

London moved past the windows in smears of yellow light and wet stone. Your hand throbbed beneath the handkerchief Tommy had wrapped around it. Your coat was damp. Your body felt hollowed out by fear and relief.

Tommy sat beside you, one arm resting along the back of the seat, his gaze fixed ahead. There was blood drying on his knuckles. A bruise had begun to darken near his jaw. He looked exactly like what he was: dangerous, controlled, and not nearly as untouched as he pretended to be.

You looked down at your bandaged hand.

“You killed men tonight,” you said.

“Yes.”

“For me?”

Tommy’s gaze shifted to you. “For you. For your mother. For your brother. For the men who would have killed mine if I let them.”

You nodded slowly.

That mattered.

You were grateful he did not make it prettier than it was.

“Are you frightened?” he asked.

You let out a quiet breath. “Yes.”

“Of me?”

You looked at him.

His face gave nothing away, but his eyes stayed on yours like the answer mattered more than he wanted it to.

“A little,” you said.

He nodded once, accepting it.

“But not like before,” you added.

Something in his expression shifted.

You looked back out the window, watching London thin into darker roads and quieter streets.

“I thought when this was over, I’d feel free all at once,” you said. “I don’t.”

“No.”

Your mouth curved without humor. “You could lie.”

“I could.”

“But you won’t.”

“Not about that.”

You turned back to him. “Will I ever?”

“Feel free?”

You nodded.

Tommy looked ahead again. “Yes. Not all at once.”

The answer settled more gently than comfort would have.

You believed him because he did not try to make it sound easy.

The road stretched on. At some point, the city began to loosen its grip. Buildings grew lower. Lamps stood farther apart. The noise faded into the steady hum of the motor and the soft percussion of rain against the windows.

Your exhaustion caught up with you suddenly, heavy enough to pull at your bones. You leaned your head back and closed your eyes, meaning only to rest them.

The dream came quickly.

Smoke first.

Then a doorway.

Then Tommy standing on the other side of it, not as a boy, not as a soldier, not as the feared man from Sabini’s office, but as he had been in the churchyard. Rain on his coat. Eyes tired. Waiting without asking.

You looked down at your hands in the dream and saw no blood.

When you woke, the car had stopped.

Dawn was beginning to pale the sky.

You were no longer in London.

The safe house stood at the end of a narrow lane, plain and quiet, with fields stretching beyond it and smoke rising from one chimney. Your mother’s car was already there. When you stepped out, your brother came running from the doorway.

He hit you so hard you nearly stumbled.

You held him with one arm and pressed your face into his shoulder, laughing and crying at once while he said your name over and over like he had been afraid he would never get to say it again.

Your mother stood in the doorway with John’s coat around her shoulders. Arthur lingered nearby, pretending not to watch too closely, wiping at his nose when your brother began to cry.

Tommy stayed beside the car.

He let you have that moment without stepping into it.

You noticed.

Of course you noticed.

Later, after your mother had been settled near the fire and your brother had finally stopped shaking long enough to sleep in a chair beside her, you found Tommy outside.

He stood near the edge of the lane, smoking, his coat unbuttoned despite the cold. The early morning light made him look paler than usual, and for the first time since you had known him, the tiredness in his face was not hidden quickly enough.

You walked toward him slowly.

He heard you before you reached him, but he did not turn until you stopped beside him.

“Your family will be taken north,” he said. “Different name for a while. House is arranged. Doctor too, for your mother.”

You watched his profile. “And what do I owe you?”

His eyes moved to yours.

“Nothing.”

“Men always say that before the price appears.”

“I’m not Sabini.”

“No,” you said softly. “You’re not.”

He looked away first, taking a drag from his cigarette.

You stepped closer, not enough to touch, only enough that your sleeve brushed his coat.

“What happens to me now?” you asked.

Tommy exhaled smoke slowly. “Whatever you decide.”

“And if I decide wrong?”

“Then it’s still yours.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

There it was again.

Choice.

Still frightening. Still unfamiliar. But this time, it did not feel like a trick.

“The dreams,” you said.

Tommy’s gaze lowered briefly.

“What about them?”

“Do you think they stop now?”

He looked out over the fields. “Don’t know.”

You nodded, turning the thought over.

For years, the dreams had felt like something waiting to happen. A warning, maybe. A punishment. A thread pulling you toward a man you had no reason to know and every reason to fear. But standing there in the cold morning, with your family asleep inside and London behind you, the dreams no longer felt like the story itself.

They had only led you to the door.

You were the one who had walked through it.

Tommy dropped his cigarette and crushed it beneath his shoe.

You looked down at his hand.

The knuckles were bruised and split. There was dried blood near his cuff. You reached for him slowly, giving him time to move away if he wanted.

He did not.

Your fingers touched his.

Tommy went still, but not in surprise. More like restraint. Like tenderness was something he had to stand very carefully inside.

You took his hand.

His fingers closed around yours with the same care he had used the night before, mindful of your injured palm. He looked at your joined hands, then at your face.

“You found me,” you said.

His expression shifted, almost painfully.

“I did.”

“You nearly ruined half of London doing it.”

His mouth twitched faintly. “Only half?”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. It came out tired and broken at the edges, but real.

Tommy watched you like the sound was something he wanted to remember.

Then the quiet returned.

Not empty.

Not heavy.

Just quiet.

You looked toward the house, where your mother and brother were safe because of him. Then you looked back at the road that led south, toward London, toward the office and the desk and the man who no longer held your name like a debt.

“Is this where the dream ends?” you asked.

Tommy’s eyes stayed on yours.

“No,” he said. “This is where it stops being a dream.”

The words settled between you with the pale morning light.

For years, he had known you only in pieces: smoke, shadow, the turn of a face he could never reach. You had known him the same way, in doorways and firelight, always near and never close enough. Dreams had made him feel inevitable, but they had never made him real. Not truly.

This did.

The cold. The blood. The ache in your hand. Your brother sleeping inside with his head tipped against the wall. Your mother breathing easier by the fire. Tommy standing in front of you with tired eyes and ruined knuckles, giving you the one thing no man had thought to give without asking for something first.

A choice.

You held his hand a little tighter.

Tommy looked down at the movement, then back at you.

He did not ask if you were sure. He did not make a promise too pretty to survive daylight. He simply stood there and let you choose him in the quiet.

And for the first time since you were a girl dreaming of a stranger’s face, you were not waiting to be found.

You were already gone.

Away from Sabini.

Away from London.

Not safe in the soft, easy way stories liked to pretend.

But free enough to breathe.

Free enough to choose.

And when Tommy lifted your hand carefully to his mouth, pressing a kiss just beside the bandage instead of over the wound, you did not feel owned.

You felt real.

Gif by @twobrokenwyngs

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Thomas Shelby x fem!reader

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: dreams/fate elements, obsession/fixation, dangerous attraction, gang-related tension, implied violence, threats/intimidation, Sabini being possessive/controlling, power imbalance, smoking, alcohol, Tommy being emotionally repressed

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ───────────── ⋅ ˚₊‧☽

Thomas Shelby had seen your face before.

Long before London. Long before Sabini’s office. Long before you stood behind an enemy’s desk with a folder held neatly against your chest, watching him with dark, careful eyes as if you were trying to decide whether he was exactly as dangerous as everyone said.

He had first seen you in sleep.

He must have been a boy then, though he could never remember his exact age. Young enough to wake unsettled by it, old enough to feel foolish for being unsettled at all. The dream had not been violent. There had been no warning, no blood, no voice whispering something he was meant to understand. There had only been a girl’s face, half-caught in shadow, looking at him from the far end of some room he did not recognize.

He remembered waking annoyed more than afraid, angry at his own mind for holding on to a stranger’s face with such stubborn clarity.

shelby boys x reader

thomas shelby: oh, tommy would not understand it at first. not really. he’d understand the practical side of it, of course. your things gone from the bedroom. the drawers half empty. the house quieter than it had any right to be. he’d understand that you left. what he wouldn’t understand is the part where you stopped believing he would ever change. because tommy is used to people waiting on him. waiting for answers, waiting for orders, waiting for apologies he gives too late or not at all. and you had waited longer than anyone. through the blood on his cuffs, through the midnight calls, through the lies he told because he thought protecting you and shutting you out were the same thing. so when he comes home from another reckless job and finds no angry voice waiting, no pale face in the hallway, no trembling hands reaching for his coat to check if the blood is his, it would bother him in a way he can’t put a name to. he’d stand there with his cigarette unlit, staring at the space where your coat used to hang, realizing you didn’t leave in a storm. you didn’t slam the door so he could follow. you left quietly. and that would be worse. because tommy can handle a fight. he can win a fight. what he can’t do is argue with an empty room. later, when he finds the note, he’d read it once. then again. then fold it carefully, too carefully, like if he creases it wrong he’ll have ruined the last thing you gave him. he wouldn’t cry. not where anyone could see. but he’d sit in that dead-silent house until the sun came up, finally understanding that you hadn’t stopped loving him all at once. he had just taught you, little by little, how to survive without him.

arthur shelby: arthur would break ugly over it. not in a poetic way, not in a quiet tragic way. ugly. loud at first, because loud is easier than hurt. he’d come home bruised and bleeding from something he swore he wouldn’t get involved in, already carrying the excuse in his mouth, already expecting you to be there furious and frightened and alive with worry. but instead, the house feels wrong. too still. too clean. no shawl over the chair. no cup by the sink. no you. and arthur would know before he even checks the bedroom. he’d know it in his stomach. still, he’d go looking because he has to. calling your name once, then again, rougher the second time. by the time he sees the open drawer, the missing clothes, the little spaces where you used to be, all that anger would turn on him so fast he wouldn’t know what to do with his hands. he’d curse. knock something over. maybe punch the wall because pain he can make sense of. but then it would get quiet, and that’s when it would really hit him. you were done waiting for him to become easier to love. done sitting in rooms wondering if the next body through the door would be his. done patching up the same man who kept walking back into the knife. arthur would sit on the edge of the bed with blood drying on his shirt, looking at the empty side like he expected you to appear if he stared long enough. and when you don’t, he’d put his head in his hands and just fall apart. because the worst part is, he wouldn’t blame you. not really. he’d want to. he’d want to be angry, want to say you gave up on him. but deep down, arthur would know you stayed longer than he deserved. and that would hurt worse than anything that happened to him in the street.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Tommy Shelby x fem!reader x John Shelby

☾ Warnings: love triangle/romantic tension, jealousy, possessive behavior, heated kissing, suggestive tension, smoking, alcohol, knife mention/weapon hidden in stocking, brief physical fight between brothers, blood mention, Y/n being a menace.

☾ Tags: @spn-reader

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ───────────── ⋅ ˚₊‧☽

The first time you sang at the Garrison, the room quieted like somebody had turned a key in it.

Not all at once. Men were never that obedient, not in Small Heath, not in a pub full of whiskey, smoke, and money changing hands under tables. At first, a few of them kept talking. Someone laughed too loudly near the bar. A chair scraped back. Coins clicked together in a palm.

Then your voice carried over it.

Soft at first.

Steady.

Pretty in a way that made men stop pretending they were not listening.

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john shelby x reckless!fem!reader

☾ Warnings: protective/possessive john, reckless behavior, flirting with another man as a distraction, threats and manhandling, bruising, graphic violence, blood, graphic blade violence, degrading language from an antagonist, smoking and drinking, dark romantic tension

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ ───────────── ⋅ ˚₊‧☽

John Shelby loved you in a way that made people uncomfortable.

Not because he was cruel with it. Not because he hid you away or spoke over you or treated you like something that belonged beneath his hand.

It was worse than that.

He was happy.

Loudly, stupidly, shamelessly happy.

Pairing ✢ King Jacaerys x Targtower Reader

Tags ✢ post-Dance, grief/mourning, arranged marriage/political marriage, enemies to lovers, falling in love, eventual romance, eventual smut, angst with a happy ending

Chapter count ✢ 3/10

Summary ✢ Jacaerys is crowned king as his mother perishes from her wounds shortly after retaking the Iron Throne. He makes a match with you, the last daughter of King Viserys and Alicent Hightower, to secure peace and rebuild the Targaryen dynasty.

Jacaerys Masterlist

Chapter One ✢ King of the Ashes

Chapter Two ✢ Sealed in Blood

Chapter Three ✢ We Light the Way

☾‧₊˚ ⋅ welcome to byorderofana.

here you’ll find all my peaky blinders imagines, one-shots, blurbs, and headcanons.

requests: open minors: do not interact with mature content last updated: 7/1/2026 ──────────────────── 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲 -Don’t Flinch Mr. Shelby (Imagine)

-Don't Flinch Mr. Shelby pt. 2 18+ (Smut)

-Almost Home (Req)

-Before I Knew Your Name (Req)

-Before I Knew Your Name Pt. 2 (Req)

-What Loving You Cost

-What Loving You Cost Pt .2

-Wrong Side of Time Series Part One, Two, Three, Four, Five

-The Enemy's Assistant

──────────────────── 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲 -The Pretty Menace (Imagine)

-Drag Path (imagine)

-Come Down (Imagine) ──────────────────── 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐲 -I Want You Alive x Esme (Req)

-Pretty Little Death Wish

-Prove You Wrong

-Say It Properly (18+) ────────────────────

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 + 𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬

-How The Shelby Men React When You Stop Waiting For Them (Headcanon)

-Nobody's Girl (Tommy x Y/n x John)

can you please write a preference for dating the peaky blinders

thank you 🤍

a/n: finally ready to post this one♡ i'm not posting as much as i want to at the moment, and i'm kind of pissed off at myself for that. it's not a time issue either, i'm just not feeling very well mentally at the moment... hope i can find a good rhythm again. will work my way through the requests i received♡ anyway, enjoy reading ♡♡

Tommy Shelby; John Shelby; Arthur Shelby; Michael Gray; Alfie Solomons

Tommy Shelby

°•𓆩♡𓆪dating Tommy Shelby is like loving a loaded gun that tries, every single day, not to go off in your hands. It is a war you choose to fight beside him, knowing full well that half the time he’ll be fighting the war inside his own head even more than the one outside.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he doesn’t just fall in love, he decides to. One day you’re just another face in the smoke of the Garrison, and the next he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in Birmingham that isn’t already owned by the devil. Those ice-blue eyes narrowing like he’s weighing every risk, every consequence, and still choosing you anyway. That’s Tommy. He loves the way he does everything else: deliberately, dangerously, and with the full knowledge that it might destroy him.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he's pragmatic about love. He knows his world is violent and short-lived, and he’ll tell you outright that being with him makes you a target, that one day he might not come home. He says it like a warning, but his eyes beg you to stay anyway.

°•𓆩♡𓆪nobody tells you how lonely Tommy truly is. Not alone - lonely. He's surrounded by people constantly: family, employees, enemies... entire rooms stop talking when he walks into them. Yet somehow there’s always a distance between him and everyone else, as if he's standing behind a pane of glass nobody can quite reach through. Even the people he loves most only get fragments, pieces, carefully measured portions of himself. That's why the moments where he genuinely lets you see him feel so significant. Because you don’t see the gangster, the leader, or the Shelby everyone fears. You just see your Tommy: tired, quiet, human. Everytime he lets you in even a tiny bit you almost want to hold your breath for fear of scaring him away forever.

°•𓆩♡𓆪loving him means signing up for a relationship where you will always come second to something bigger. His ambition is a jealous mistress that never sleeps; he will choose the next deal, the next vendetta, the next rung on the ladder over your feelings more times than you can count. You’ll watch him walk out the door at midnight with blood already on his mind, promising he’ll be back soon, while you sit alone wondering if “soon” means tomorrow or never. He loves you, yes - but the empire comes first, always. And he will justify every sacrifice with the same excuse: it’s for the family. It’s for the future. It’s for you.

°•𓆩♡𓆪Tommy carries the war with him everywhere, even when he’s holding you. Some nights you’ll wake to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders rigid, cigarette glowing in the dark, eyes fixed on nothing. The tunnels still live inside his head: the mud, the gas, the screaming. And he won’t always let you pull him back. He believes shielding you from that darkness is an act of love, even when it leaves you aching on the other side of the wall he’s built. He’ll disappear into the study for days, bottles emptying, maps spreading across the desk like battle plans. He thinks he’s sparing you, but he isn’t. He’s just terrified that if you see the full extent of his darkness, you’ll finally do the sensible thing and run.

°•𓆩♡𓆪but god, the way he loves you when the walls come down? It’s the rare mornings he lets himself stay in bed, sunlight cutting across the scars on his back while he traces patterns on your hip and murmurs about horses and futures and the quiet life he swears he’ll give you one day (even though you both know he’ll never fully leave the empire behind).

°•𓆩♡𓆪he is at his most dangerous when he's scared. Not angry, not vengeful - scared. There are very few things left in this world capable of frightening Thomas Shelby, vut you happen to be one of them. Because money can be replaced. Empires can be rebuilt. Enemies can be buried. But once he loves you, losing you becomes the one possibility he cannot calculate his way around, the one disaster he cannot plan for. Other people panic when they're afraid; Tommy becomes methodical. While everyone else is still reacting, he's already three moves ahead, deciding who failed, who needs to be moved, and what has to happen to make sure nobody ever gets close enough to threaten you again. The frightening thing isn't that he'd kill for you. It's how calm he'd be while doing it.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he's infuriatingly protective; you will never walk into a room without him knowing exactly who’s in it, who’s looking at you too long, and who owes him a favour if they so much as breathe in your direction. He doesn’t raise his voice when he’s dangerous; he lowers it. “They won’t touch you,” he’ll say, quiet as a razor blade slipping into a cap, and you’ll believe him because the last man who tried still hasn’t been found.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he wants a family with you, but he’s terrified of it. He’ll trace patterns on your stomach at night and whisper about sons who won’t have to fight in trenches and daughters who’ll never know fear, and then he’ll go quiet because he knows his world is too dangerous for children. If you do get pregnant, he becomes even more protective, almost suffocatingly so, but also softer than you’ve ever seen him. The great Thomas Shelby, undone by a tiny heartbeat.

°•𓆩♡𓆪Tommy hates people seeing that he's struggling. Not just because he's too proud - though he totally is - but also because somewhere deep down he still believes pain is something a man should carry alone. So he hides it: the sleepless nights, the headaches, the panic that sometimes grabs him by the throat when the room gets too quiet. He'll sit across from you with a cigarette between his fingers and tell you he's fine while looking like he's carrying the weight of the entire country on his back. Tommy has spent so long surviving that he genuinely doesn't know how to ask for help anymore, and some days loving him feels less like being his partner and more like standing outside a locked door, listening to him fall apart on the other side and praying he'll eventually let you in.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he rarely apologizes. His version of “sorry” is an expensive gift or a night of intense closeness that feels more like compensation than repair. He struggles with genuine emotional accountability because admitting fault feels like weakness - and weakness gets you killed.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he calls you “love” in that low, gravelly voice when he’s exhausted, “darling” when he’s warning you not to push him on a bad day, and “my wife” - even before you are - when he needs the world to understand that touching you means signing your own death warrant.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he will manipulate you. Not always out of malice, but because control is the only language he fully trusts. Small things at first: steering conversations away from topics he doesn’t want to discuss, using that velvet voice and those piercing blue eyes to make you doubt your own anger, framing his decisions as inevitable so resistance feels childish. He plays people like chess pieces: family, enemies, and yes, sometimes you too. When he says “trust me,” it’s as much a command as a reassurance. He needs to know every variable, including your heart, and he’ll pull strings to keep it predictable. The worst part? He does it because he’s convinced it keeps you safe. The razor blades aren’t only in his cap.

°•𓆩♡𓆪Tommy is fiercely proud of your intelligence. If you have opinions on business or politics, he listens. Sometimes he even changes plans because of something you said; you are the only person whose counsel he truly values outside the family. It's how he says "i love you" without actually saying the words out loud.

°•𓆩♡𓆪there are days when he looks at you like you're evidence in a case against fate itself. His gaze lingers just a second too long, and suddenly there's something unbearably sad in it, as though he's looking at a life he was meant to have but somehow missed. A version of himself untouched by trenches, blood, and grief. A man who came home from the war and stayed home. He never talks about it because he doesn't waste words on things he can't change; but sometimes he'll pull you closer for no reason at all, press his lips against your hair, or stay in bed an extra ten minutes on a morning when he should already be gone. And you'll realize that Tommy Shelby doesn't just love you - he mourns you a little too. He mourns the future the two of you might have had if the world had been kinder to him.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he wants to give you the world, but only on his terms. Expensive dresses, a house with gates and guards, influence that makes doors open before you even knock. He shows love through power and provision because softness was beaten out of him a long time ago. Yet every gift carries the same promise: “No one will ever give you more than i can.”

°•𓆩♡𓆪dating Tommy Shelby means loving a man who has already decided your future before you’ve even fully understood his past. He moves through the world like a strategist, and you were claimed as his the moment he let you past the sharp exterior he puts on.

°•𓆩♡𓆪it’s not sunday picnics or handwritten notes left on the pillow. It’s the low rasp of his voice in your ear at 3 am when the rest of the world is asleep and he’s wide awake, cigarette burning down to his fingers, telling you things he’s never told anyone.

°•𓆩♡𓆪he does not love lightly, and he does not love halfway. Once he’s decided you belong to him, it’s less like falling and more like a quiet, irreversible acquisition. He studies you the way he studies a rival gang - every habit, every weakness, every strength - until he knows you better than you know yourself. He’ll anticipate your needs before you voice them, clear obstacles from your path before you even see them coming, and weave you so tightly into his empire that leaving him would feel like tearing out half your soul. That’s the danger of loving Thomas Shelby: he doesn’t just take your heart. He rearranges your entire life around his.

°•𓆩♡𓆪Tommy Shelby will never be the man who gives you a white picket fence. But he will burn the whole world down to keep you warm inside the ashes. And you'll let him. Because once he decides you’re his, there is no leaving - only staying. Only loving him in the way he needs: fierce, patient, a little bit mad. Just like him.

John Shelby

°•ꨄdating John Shelby is like running full speed into a summer storm: wild, electric, a little bit reckless, and so full of life it makes your heart race. He’s laughter and gunpowder, warm hands and sudden chaos, the kind of man who makes ordinary days feel like an adventure.

°•ꨄhe’s the most affectionate Shelby by a mile. This man cannot keep his hands off you; he’s always pulling you onto his lap, kissing your neck whenever he can, sliding his hand into yours while walking down the street, or spinning you around the kitchen like you're still two teenagers hopelessly in love (and, honestly, you are). Physical affection comes as naturally to John as breathing, and half the time he doesn't even seem aware he's doing it because to him, it's instinct. Habit. Proof that you're there. Proof that you're his and he's yours. There’s something almost boyish about it, the way he lights up the second you walk into a room, the way his entire face softens when you lean into him. In a world where people disappear overnight and tomorrow is never guaranteed, he loves like every embrace might be the last one. Like if he lets go for too long, his world might finally catch up and steal you away from him.

°•ꨄJohn's loyal to the bone. If someone hurts you, he takes it personally. If you’re upset, it ruins his mood too. Your happiness becomes tangled up with his so completely that he doesn’t know how to separate the two anymore.

°•ꨄhe’s ridiculously proud of you and brags about you to anyone who’ll listen; his brothers, his mates, random people at the market. “That’s my girl. Smartest fuckin' woman in Birmingham, she is.” His chest puffs out every time you stand your ground or make his family laugh, and he shows you off like you’re the greatest prize he’s ever won. And lets face it: you totally are.

°•ꨄhe’s got a massive praise kink and nobody can convince me otherwise. Compliment him once and this man is insufferable for the rest of the day. Tell him he looks handsome? He’s smirking for hours. Tell him you’re proud of him? You’ve just unlocked the softest version of John Shelby imaginable. Underneath all the bravado, he desperately wants to feel like he’s doing something right.

°•ꨄhe would propose in the most emotionally chaotic way imaginable because this man does not know how to experience feelings normally. There’s no carefully rehearsed speech, no perfect moment planned weeks in advance. It happens the second the idea becomes unbearable to keep inside. He’ll just look at you with sudden intensity and say it like a fact: “Marry me.” Not will you? Just marry me. Like the thought of you being anything other than his wife has become completely ridiculous to him. And when you laugh in shock or ask if he’s serious, he gets almost offended by the question. “Course i’m fuckin' serious.” Because to John, marriage isn’t some formal arrangement - it’s permanence. It’s waking up beside you for the rest of his life. It’s your kids carrying his name. It’s coming home bloody and exhausted and knowing there’s still one good thing in the world waiting for him with the lights on.

°•ꨄJohn carries the fear that he’ll never be enough. He jokes about being the least clever Shelby, the one who uses his fists instead of his head, but late at night when the house finally falls silent, it slips out of him. He’ll hold you against his chest, fingers tracing your spine, and confess how scared he is of failing the kids, of not measuring up to Tommy’s ambition or Arthur’s strength. In those moments he’s not the loud, cheeky gangster - he’s just John, vulnerable and desperate to be worthy of you. And all you can do is kiss his worries away and remind him that his big, golden heart is more than enough.

°•ꨄfights with him are pure fire. He’s hot-headed and stubborn, quick to raise his voice and say things he doesn’t mean when his temper gets the best of him. You’ll scream, he’ll slam doors, and for thirty dramatic minutes it feels like the world is ending. But John can never stay away from you for too long; he’ll come back with those big, remorseful eyes, flowers in his bruised hands and a sheepish smile, mumbling “i'm a fuckin' idiot, love. Can’t do this without you.” Making-up is always intense; desperate kisses, clothes torn off, laughter breaking through the heat because even when you’re angry, you can’t stay mad at each other for too long.

°•ꨄhe is incredibly impulsive, and that impulsiveness will test you daily. He makes big decisions without talking to you first: spending money you don’t have, picking fights he shouldn’t, promising the kids things you both know you can’t deliver. You’ll often feel like you’re dating a grown man with the impulse control of a teenager, and it gets exhausting.

°•ꨄJohn has this way of making you feel like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him, because he loves with pure wonder. Sometimes you'll catch him looking at you across a crowded room with this almost boyish disbelief, like he still can't quite figure out how he got so lucky. And it never really fades, either. Years into the relationship he'll still grin when you walk into a room, still pull you onto his lap like he hasn't seen you all day, and still introduce you to people with pride in his voice. As far as John's concerned, he won something the day you chose him, and he's never stopped celebrating it.

°•ꨄhe talks about your future constantly and with zero shame. Big houses, more kids, horses, sunday dinners that never end. He paints the picture so easily, so excitedly because he can’t wait for it to happen. “You, me, little versions of us… proper family. That’s what i want with you, love.”

°•ꨄhe’s going to be the most incredible father to your children. You can already see it in the way he lights up when he talks about it: big dreams of a loud, chaotic house filled with little ones running around. He wants to fill your home with laughter, muddy boots, and the sound of kids calling you both mum and dad. The thought of getting you pregnant makes his eyes go soft and hungry at the same time; John wants a big, wild, beautiful family with you - and he wants it yesterday.

°•ꨄboy, does this man get jealous; the second another man gets too familiar with you, John changes. His smile sharpens. His posture stiffens. And suddenly he’s all over you: hand on your thigh, arm around your waist, kissing your temple mid-conversation like he needs everyone watching to understand exactly who you belong to. And god help the poor bastard flirting with you, because John gets mean when he’s jealous. Smirking insults, territorial touches, picking fights he absolutely does not need to pick just because somebody looked at you too long. The worst part is that underneath all the possessiveness is insecurity. He genuinely cannot understand why someone like you would stay with someone like him forever, so jealousy hits a nerve deeper than pride.

°•ꨄhis temper is as quick as his smile: he explodes, loud and sudden, like a grenade with the pin pulled. He yells, storms out slamming doors hard enough to shake the walls, and says cruel things in the heat of the moment that he’ll regret almost immediately after. You’ll hear words that sting for days, spoken by the same mouth that laughs with you and calls you “my love.” Dating John means learning how to stand in the fire without getting completely burned.

°•ꨄJohn can be suffocatingly overprotective. He doesn’t want you walking alone at night, doesn’t like you getting too friendly with certain people in the Garrison, and has started full-blown fights because someone “looked at you funny” or smiled for half a second too long. It comes from fear - the terror of losing you in his dangerous world. Some days it feels like you’re dating a man who wants to wrap you in cotton wool and keep you locked away from everything except him and the family. His protectiveness is loud, overwhelming, and at times makes you feel more trapped than safe.

°•ꨄhe never stops courting you, no matter how long you've been together. Years into the relationship and he's still showing up with flowers every week, still looks unbearably pleased with himself whenever he manages to make you laugh, and still kisses you like there's no tomorrow; he loves being your husband, loves being the man who gets to call himself yours. The world has made John many things, but it never managed to make him cynical about love.

°•ꨄJohn has zero filter and even less shame. He’ll tell you exactly how stunning you look while you’re still half-asleep with messy hair, or whisper the filthiest compliments in your ear while you’re trying to have a serious conversation with Polly. His mouth gets him in trouble almost as often as it makes you weak in the knees.

°•ꨄeven when he’s being an absolute idiot, his love never wavers. You’ll never have to wonder where you stand with John Shelby. He may mess up, he may be loud and reckless and stubborn, but his heart has been completely yours since the moment he decided you were the one. He’ll pull you onto the dance floor at the Garrison even when you’re tired, spin you around like you’re the only two people in the room, and kiss you like he’s trying to memorize the taste of your laughter. With him, you will always know - because he’ll shout it, show it, and prove it with every beat of his heart.

°•ꨄhe loves with his entire body and soul. He’s the kind of man who wakes you up with kisses down your spine, picks you up and spins you around when he comes home happy, and holds you like you’re the only safe thing in his violent world. There’s nothing half-hearted about him; when he’s in love, he’s all in - teasing you, adoring you, fighting for you, and building a life with you.

°•ꨄdating John means accepting that your life will never be quiet again. The house is always full: of children running through the halls, of his brothers shouting in the kitchen, of loud laughter and doors slamming and the constant chaos that follows the Shelby name. But in the middle of all that noise, John becomes your anchor; he’ll come home covered in dirt and blood, scoop you up like you weigh nothing, and kiss you so hard you forget whatever worries were weighing on your mind. With him, love is loud, physical, and so fiercely present that you feel it in your bones every single day.

Arthur Shelby

°•✿˖dating Arthur Shelby is like loving a wounded wolf who’s just as likely to tear you apart as he is to curl up at your feet. He is raw, bleeding emotion wrapped in muscle and razor blades - a man who laughs like it’s his last day on earth and cries like the war in his head will never end.

°•✿˖when he’s in a good mood, Arthur is pure sunshine. He’ll pick you up and spin you around, laugh that big booming laugh, tell terrible jokes, and dance with you in the middle of the street. These moments feel like stolen heaven because you both know how quickly they can disappear.

°•✿˖this big, violent man, all scars and muscle and barely-contained rage, becomes almost childlike with you. He’ll pull you into his lap without warning, bury his face in the crook of your neck like he’s trying to disappear into you, and stroke your hair with those large, scarred, trembling hands. He clings so tightly you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest, like he’s terrified that if he loosens his grip even a little, you’ll vanish. Touch is his language when words fail him; it’s his salvation, his proof that he’s still human, still capable of something soft.

°•✿˖Arthur’s scared of being too much for you. Some nights he’ll pull back suddenly, convinced his intensity, his moods, his need for you will eventually drive you away. He’ll sit on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands and whisper, “i'm a lot, aren't i? Too fuckin' much.” It takes a lot of time and care to make him believe that you actually want to stay.

°•✿˖he loves hearing you talk, even when the subject itself doesn't interest him in the slightest. You could spend fifteen minutes explaining something completely mundane and Arthur would still sit there listening like you're telling him the secrets of the universe. Sometimes you'll stop halfway through and ask whether he's actually paying attention, and he'll repeat the last three minutes of the conversation back to you almost word for word. Because it isn't really about what you're saying - it's about you. Arthur's entire life is noise: shouting, gunfire, arguments, business, violence. People are always demanding something from him, always pulling at him. But your voice is one of the few sounds in the world that doesn't ask anything of him. It doesn't require him to fight or lead or prove himself. He can simply exist beside you and listen. Some nights he'll deliberately ask questions he already knows the answer to just so you'll keep talking a little longer. Just so he can sit there and enjoy the feeling of peace while it lasts.

°•✿˖Arthur calls you his angel. Not as a cute nickname, but because he genuinely believes it - you’re the one good thing in his blood-soaked life. When the darkness gets too loud, he’ll whisper it against your skin like a prayer: "My angel… you're too good for this world. What are ya doin' with a man like me, eh?"

°•✿˖if anyone speaks to you disrespectfully, looks at you too long, or makes you even slightly uncomfortable, he sees red instantly. There’s no warning, no calm conversation, just pure, explosive rage. He’ll break bones and spill blood without a second thought, all because someone dared to threaten or disrespect what’s his. The same man who falls apart in your arms at night, trembling and whispering your name, will destroy anyone who tries to take you away from him; it’s born from deep, animalistic terror and the constant fear that the cruel world he lives in will try to rip away the only good, pure thing he’s ever had.

°•✿˖he's loyal to the bone. While his brothers will always come first in the business, in his heart you sit on a throne above everyone else, and he would burn the whole world down if it meant keeping you safe. He’d go against Tommy, hell, against his own name if he had to. You are the one thing he refuses to lose, even if it costs him everything.

°•✿˖Arthur genuinely believes he’s the stupid Shelby. The mad one. The disappointment. The brute who ruins everything he touches. The world sees a dangerous man with heavy fists and an even heavier temper; Arthur sees something far worse. He sees every mistake he's ever made, every person he's hurt, every moment he lost control. He carries them all around with him like stones in his pockets that weight him down step by step until he's literally drowning in self-hatred. And no matter how much love you give him, there are days when he simply cannot understand why you're still here. And late at night, it spills out between sobs: how he's scared he'll destroy you without meaning to. How he thinks you'd be safer with someone kinder, calmer, better. How sometimes he looks at you and feels guilty for loving you at all because he can't shake the belief that everything good eventually gets ruined by having his hands on it. Arthur doesn't just fight enemies; he's at war with himself every single day. The cruelest part is that the man who sees so little worth in himself would give away every last piece of his heart to make sure you never doubt your own.

°•✿˖some days, the war wins and he becomes a ghost of himself. He’ll go quiet for hours or days, eyes distant, barely speaking, lost somewhere between the past and the present. In those moments he barely lets you touch him, convinced he doesn’t deserve your comfort. But eventually he always cracks. He’ll crawl back into your arms like a broken child, shaking, clinging to you as if you’re the only thing keeping him from disappearing completely.

°•✿˖his rage is terrifying. It comes out of nowhere, like a switch flipped too fast, too violently. One moment he’s laughing with you, the next furniture is shattering, his voice is cracking the walls, and he’s saying awful, cutting things he’ll regret for weeks. Then comes the guilt - crushing, suffocating, vicious. He’ll disappear for hours or days, get blind drunk, pick fights, or hurt himself just to punish the monster he believes he is. When he finally comes back, he looks like hell: bloodshot eyes, broken voice, sometimes still shaking. He’ll drop to his knees if he has to, begging through tears, “please don’t leave me… i’m so fuckin' sorry.” Arthur expects you to walk away. Some days he almost wants you to, because he’s convinced he’ll destroy you eventually.

°•✿˖but when he’s steady? When the light breaks through? Arthur Shelby is one of the most tender, devoted, and adoring men alive. He’ll dance with you in the kitchen at 2 am, sing horribly off-key just to hear you laugh, and proudly parade you around like you’re a miracle he can’t believe is real. “This is my woman,” he’ll declare to anyone listening, chest puffed out, eyes shining with pure pride.

°•✿˖he sees you as his last remaining piece of light in a world that’s gone almost completely dark. Arthur has done terrible things - things that haunt him, things that make him sick when he looks in the mirror. You become his proof that maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t been completely damned. Loving you is the only thing that makes him want to keep breathing when everything inside him wants to stop.

°•✿˖he wants to marry you so badly it makes his hands shake when he thinks about it. He doesn’t dream of a big fancy wedding; he dreams of standing in front of you, promising forever, giving you his name like it’s the only good thing he can offer you. “Marry me, love. Let me call you my wife before i fuck it all up.” To Arthur, marriage isn’t just love - it’s safety. It’s proof that you chose him even knowing how broken he is.

°•✿˖he talks about the future with you like a man who’s never really believed he’d have one. He’ll lie in bed with you at night, painting pictures of a small house far from the noise of Birmingham, somewhere with green fields. He dreams aloud about waking up next to you without the weight of the empire on his back, about growing old together, about maybe even finding some kind of peace. But there’s always a tremble in his voice, because deep down he’s terrified he’ll never be able to give you that life. Still, he keeps dreaming. Because imagining a future with you is the closest thing he has to hope.

°•✿˖because for all the violence in him, Arthur has always secretly wanted a simple life. Not an easy life, just a simple one. The kind of life he sees in passing through train windows or while driving through the countryside. Small houses, laundry hanging outside, children playing in gardens - ordinary people with ordinary problems. But reality always catches up eventually. Tommy needs something. Business calls. Violence returns. But every now and then you catch him staring into the distance with that look in his eyes, and you realize Arthur isn't imagining a different place. He's imagining a different version of himself. One that never had to become the man he is now.

°•✿˖Arthur’s love is heavy. It’s desperate. It’s worshipful. You are his reason, his religion, his last shot at being a good man; he will never be easy, and he will never be stable. But no one will ever love you with the same broken, ferocious, all-consuming intensity as he does. Because even when he hates himself, he loves you more - and that love is the one thing that keeps pulling him back from the edge.

°•✿˖Arthur sees you as his last chance at being a good man. You’re his proof that there’s still something worth fighting for inside him, even when he feels rotten to the core. Loving you isn’t just love to him - it’s survival.

Michael Gray

°•♕✧dating Michael Gray is like falling in love with a man who has spent his entire life trying to prove himself. He's ambition wrapped in expensive suits and carefully controlled emotions; the sort of man who walks into a room already planning three moves ahead. But beneath all that confidence is someone still searching for a place where he doesn't have to earn his worth. Loving Michael means slowly becoming the one person he stops performing for.

°•♕⋆he is incredibly difficult to read when you first meet him. Michael has perfected the art of looking calm, composed, and entirely in control of himself. Even when he's furious, nervous, jealous, or heartbroken, very little shows on the surface. Then you start dating him and slowly realize he's actually feeling everything with surprising intensity; he's just far better at hiding it than most people. Loving him means learning to read the emotions he never says out loud - because they're there. They're always there. He just guards them like state secrets.

°•♕⋆he doesn't chase people. He never has. He's used to being the one pursued, the one people gravitate towards. That's why it's so obvious when he's genuinely interested in someone; suddenly he's finding reasons to see you, stretching conversations longer than necessary, and looking for excuses to keep you around.

°•♕⋆Michael likes certainty. He likes numbers that add up correctly, plans that unfold the way they're supposed to, and conversations where he already knows where the other person is heading before they've reached the end of the sentence. Then he falls in love with you and discovers that loving someone is, perhaps, the least predictable thing he has ever done. That's what unsettles him so much; not the feeling itself, but the complete lack of control that comes with it. For a man who has spent most of his life trying to secure his place in the world, there is something deeply frightening about handing another person the power to break his heart. But he does it anyway. And then one day he realizes that somewhere along the way, your happiness started influencing his own.

°•♕⋆hr likes feeling like the two of you are a team against the rest of the world. He wants partnership in the truest sense of the word; someone who stands beside him, challenges him, supports him, and understands him without needing endless explanations. He loves those moments where the two of you exchange one glance across a room and immediately know what the other is thinking. There’s something deeply intimate to him about being understood without having to perform.

°•♕⋆Michael falls hardest when he realizes he respects you. Attraction gets his attention. Intelligence keeps it. But respect? That's what ruins him. The moment he starts seeking out your opinion before making decisions, listening when you challenge him instead of dismissing it, genuinely caring what you think of the choices he's making, he's already in deeper than he intended to be. Michael admires competence. He admires people who can stand on their own two feet. And once he realizes you're someone he can learn from, someone whose judgment he trusts as much as his own, the walls come down faster than he'd ever admit. Because for Michael, love isn't just wanting someone. It's respecting them enough to let them influence the direction of your life.

°•♕⋆he hates looking weak in front of anyone. The world sees a sharp suit, a clever smile, and a young man who always seems to know exactly what he's doing. What the world doesn't see is how hard he works to maintain that image. He wants to be respected. Admired. Taken seriously. Which means dating him often involves peeling back layer after layer of carefully constructed confidence until you reach the person underneath. The man who's scared of failing, scared of being ordinary, scared that one day you'll look at him and decide he isn't enough after all.

°•♕⋆he spoils you rotten. Michael loves seeing you dressed up, loves taking you places, loves watching heads turn when you walk into a room together - there's a certain pride in it. Not because he sees you as a possession, but because he genuinely thinks you're the most beautiful person there and wants everyone else to realize it too.

°•♕⋆he has no interest in a woman who needs him to survive. What captivates him is watching you hold your own in a room full of dangerous men, voice your opinions without hesitation, or build something for yourself. The more self-sufficient you are, the more obsessed he becomes; he doesn’t want to be your saviour. He wants to be your equal - and your partner in conquest.

°•♕⋆he has an ego. A massive one, actually. Most of the time it's charming; sometimes it's absolutely insufferable. He likes being good at things, likes being right, likes impressing people. And if you're dating him, you'll quickly discover that he loves when you are impressed by him too; it's part of his identity. He'll pretend not to notice, of course. Act completely unaffected, maybe even roll his eyes if you compliment him. But the tiny smirk that creeps up on his face afterwards gives him away every single time. The truth is that for all his confidence, there’s still a part of Michael that craves recognition from the people he loves. Not because he needs constant praise, but because your admiration means more to him than anybody else's. He wants to be impressive in your eyes. Wants to be the man you look at and think, yes, that's him. That's my Michael. He'll act nonchalant about it, but internally he's preening.

°•♕⋆one of Michael's biggest flaws is that he assumes he can fix everything. Bad situation? He'll handle it. Financial problem? He'll solve it. Relationship issue? Give him a day. It comes from confidence, but also from fear. Because if he can solve the problem, then he doesn't have to sit with the possibility of losing something he loves.

°•♕⋆he loves seeing you wear his clothes. If you walk into the kitchen wearing one of his shirts half-buttoned, this composed, intelligent man forgets how conversations work. He’ll just stare for a second too long before pulling you into his lap with that smug little smile.

°•♕⋆he can be frustratingly stubborn when he thinks he's right. The kind of stubborn that turns a simple disagreement into a two-day debate because he refuses to surrender a point before he's exhausted every possible argument. He'll sit there looking infuriatingly calm while you're ready to throw something at his head, picking apart your reasoning with that smug little smile that makes you want to kiss him and strangle him simultaneously. The worst part? Half the time, he'll eventually realize you were right. But instead of admitting it, he'll quietly change his position three days later and start repeating your argument back to you as though it was his idea all along. And when you call him out on it, he'll have the audacity to look genuinely confused and ask, "didn't i say that from the beginning, darling?"

°•♕⋆Michael is one of those men who somehow always looks composed, even when he's furious. That's what makes his anger so unsettling; while other people shout, Michael gets quieter. His jaw tightens. His eyes go cold. His words become sharper. The temperature in the room drops, and suddenly you'd almost prefer yelling.

°•♕⋆he pretends he doesn't need reassurance, but he's lying. For all his confidence, there is something almost painfully vulnerable beneath it. He wants to know you'll choose him; not the Shelby name, not the money, not the future he promises you. Him. Michael spends so much of his life trying to prove he's worthy of a place in the world that being loved by you becomes the one thing he never stops hoping he's earned.

°•♕⋆Michael has a habit of shutting down emotionally the second he feels too exposed. The moment an argument stops being intellectual and starts becoming genuinely vulnerable, you can almost watch the walls go up in real time. His expression smooths out, his voice turns colder. Suddenly everything becomes about logic instead of feelings because logic is safer. Easier. Controllable. Meanwhile you’re standing there wanting honesty and getting careful restraint instead. Loving Michael means understanding that his distance is rarely indifference; it’s fear disguised as composure.

°•♕⋆he has a habit of looking at you when he thinks you aren’t paying attention: across crowded dinner tables while everyone else is talking, from the doorway when you’re busy with something and haven’t noticed him yet, late at night when you’re half-asleep beside him and the rest of the world has finally gone quiet. Michael spends so much of his life observing people, reading them, calculating them, that sometimes you catch him doing the same thing with you. But with you, there's no strategy in it - just fascination. As though he's still trying to understand how someone like you ended up becoming such an important part of his life. But the moment you catch him staring, he immediately looks away and pretends he wasn't. Though every now and then he's too slow, and for a split second you see it clearly: terrifyingly intelligent, ambitious Michael Gray, bound to stare at you like you’ve personally hung the moon just for him.

°•♕⋆he doesn't propose on impulse. By the time he asks you to marry him, he's already spent a lot of time thinking about it. He's imagined the house, the future, the life you'll build together. He's considered every detail and every possible risk because that's who he is. So when the proposal finally comes, it catches you off guard precisely because of how calm he is: no grand speech, no dramatic performance. Just Michael looking at you with complete certainty and saying, "i'm going to marry you, my love." Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like there was never going to be any other outcome. And somehow that's infinitely more romantic than any rehearsed declaration could ever be.

°•♕⋆he is deeply loyal once he commits, but that loyalty is earned, not given freely; he’s seen too much betrayal in the family to hand his heart over easily. But when he does decide you’re his person, it’s absolute. He will choose you over business if it ever truly comes down to it - though he’ll move heaven and earth to make sure it never has to come to that choice.

°•♕⋆you become the one person who makes him feel like he finally has a real place in the world - not just a seat at the table, but a home.

°•♕⋆the thing nobody tells you about loving Michael Gray is that beneath all the ambition, all the confidence, all the carefully constructed composure, he's still just a boy who spent years wondering where he belonged. That's why he loves so fiercely once he finally lets himself. Because home has never been a place to him. It's a person. And somehow, against all odds, that person became you.

Alfie Solomons

°•✵dating Alfie Solomons is like falling in love with a thunderstorm. He’s loud, unpredictable, half-mad, and strangely tender; one minute he's threatening a man over a business deal, the next he's handing a stray dog half his lunch because "look at the poor little bastard… eyes all big like that. Starvin', innit? Proper tragic."

°•✵he falls in love by accident. That's the problem. Alfie is prepared for enemies, betrayal, bullets, and god himself showing up to collect a debt. What he is not prepared for is waking up one morning and realizing he cares whether you've eaten today. Realizing he listens for your footsteps. Realizing your bad mood ruins his. Love sneaks past every defense he has because it never occurs to him that you're a threat until it's far, far too late. At first he tells himself it's temporary, a distraction, a habit he'll break when it becomes inconvenient. Then one day somebody mentions your name and his entire attention shifts before he can stop it. That's when the panic sets in; because Alfie can handle almost anything, but caring about someone means they can hurt you without ever intending to - and that's the real danger.

°•✵he trusts very few people. Not because he's incapable of loyalty, but because life has taught him exactly how expensive trust can be. That's why the first time he tells you something genuinely personal, it feels enormous. Alfie doesn't hand people pieces of himself - he buries them. If he's showing you one, it's because he's already decided you're staying.

°•✵Alfie's infuriatingly good at reading you. You can walk into a room determined to hide your mood and he'll take one look at your face before sighing dramatically. "Oi. Who's upset you then, eh? Tell me who's got you lookin' all sour." He notices every tiny shift in your voice, every nervous habit, every forced smile. You can lie to almost anyone else, but not to him.

°•✵he talks constantly, but very rarely about himself. You will know his opinions on politics, religion, dogs, whiskey, human stupidity, and approximately four thousand unrelated subjects before you learn anything truly personal about him. Every conversation is a maze, and every answer leads somewhere unexpected. And then one night, half asleep beside you, he'll casually mention something heartbreaking from his childhood like it's the weather. But before you can say anything, he'll immediately change the subject. Because that's Alfie: willing to discuss the meaning of life for three hours but allergic to genuine vulnerability.

°•✵Alfie has an entire love language built around bread, and it's ridiculous how seriously he takes it. Most people buy flowers or write apologies; Alfie starts kneading dough. Had a bad day? A fresh loaf appears on the table still warm from the oven. Feeling anxious? He somehow decides the solution is baking something complicated that takes hours to make. Got into an argument? You'll find him in the kitchen the next morning, sleeves rolled up, covered in flour, aggressively working his feelings into dough because that's apparently easier than admitting he was worried about you. To Alfie, feeding someone is practical, necessary, and one of the simplest ways to say i care about you. And whenever you sit down and eat something he's made, there's always this tiny shift in him; a quiet satisfaction, a subtle easing of tension. Like some stubborn part of his brain finally relaxes because you're here, you're fed, and for the moment, everything is alright.

°•✵he loves listening to your laugh. Not just because it sounds pretty, though it absolutely does. But because there's something about your laughter that settles him, that makes the constant noise in his head go quiet for a minute. You'll catch him deliberately saying outrageous things just to hear it, starting arguments he has no intention of winning, or telling stories that get increasingly ridiculous every time he tells them. Entirely for the selfish purpose of hearing that sound again.

°•✵Alfie is one of the only men you'll ever meet who can make an insult sound suspiciously like a compliment. "You're a nightmare, you are." Then he'll pull you closer. "Lucky for me I’ve always had terrible taste, yeah? Thank god for that." The trick is learning to hear what he's actually saying.

°•✵Cyril liking you is far more important than Alfie will ever admit. The dog is family as far as he's concerned, one of the few living creatures on earth he trusts without reservation, so the first time Cyril chooses your side of the sofa instead of his, Alfie looks genuinely betrayed,and he'll spend the next week claiming you've bribed him somehow. Yet every single time Cyril curls up beside you, Alfie gets this oddly pleased look he can't quite hide. Because as much as he'll complain about being replaced, there's something deeply comforting about seeing the two beings he loves most getting along.

°•✵he has an annoying habit of acting as though your presence doesn't affect him nearly as much as it does. You'll walk into a room and watch him continue whatever conversation he was having without missing a beat; same tone, same expression, same endless stream of commentary. And yet somehow, within thirty seconds, you've been pulled into the conversation, handed the better chair, given the last biscuit, and positioned within arm's reach. He'll spend an entire evening pretending he isn't paying special attention to you while unconsciously rearranging the world to keep you close. The worst part is that if you point it out, he'll deny it with the confidence of a man arguing before a judge. "What are you talkin' about, heh? You're sat there because that's where the bloody chair is."

°•✵he is unbelievably stubborn. Catastrophically stubborn. There are arguments where he knows you're right. You know you're right. The dog probably knows you're right. But Alfie will continue debating the point out of pure commitment to the bit. Sometimes hours later he'll suddenly agree with you in a completely different conversation and act as though he'd held that opinion from the start; it's enough to make a saint violent.

°•✵Alfie is stupidly proud when you match his madness. Not because he wants you to be reckless, but because he's spent most of his life surrounded by people who either feared him or tried to control him - then you come along and somehow manage neither. The first time you stand your ground in a room full of dangerous people, he notices. The first time you refuse to be intimidated, he notices. The first time you come up with a solution so completely unhinged that even he has to stop and stare at you for a second, he notices that too. And god, the look on his face. Pure delight. Alfie loves intelligence, loves nerve, loves people who can think on their feet, and nothing makes him happier than realizing you're every bit as formidable as he suspected. Because for all his talk, for all his confidence, nothing captivates Alfie quite like someone who can keep up with him and occasionally leave even him speechless.

°•✵he likes when you steal his things. His coat. His scarves. His books. He'll complain about it, of course; "unbelievable behaviour, this." Yet somehow he never actually asks for them back. In fact, he'll start leaving things where he knows you'll find them, entirely by accident, obviously.

°•✵he can be maddeningly dismissive of his own wellbeing. Sick? Doesn't matter. Injured? Fine. Exhausted? Irrelevant. You'll spend half your relationship trying to convince this man that bleeding is, in fact, a valid reason to sit down for five minutes.

°•✵Alfie is not a jealous man in a loud, explosive way. He doesn't immediately start fights or throw punches; no, that's far too simple. Instead he'll stand there quietly listening to some poor bastard flirt with you while slowly developing the expression of a man considering several highly illegal solutions to a minor inconvenience. The man won't even realize he's made a mistake until Alfie casually inserts himself into the conversation and starts asking increasingly uncomfortable questions. By the end of it, the poor soul will practically apologize for existing.

°•✵nobody warns you how protective he becomes once he truly loves someone: Problems disappear before they reach your doorstep. People who cause trouble suddenly decide to cause it somewhere else. Doors open. Obstacles vanish. And whenever you ask how it happened, he looks deeply offended by the question. "What d’you mean ‘how’? It sorted itself out, didn’t it? These things have a way of..." - gestures vaguely with hands - "resolvin’ themselves when you apply the right amount of pressure in the right places. Simple as, darling."

°•✵Alfie doesn't protect you the way other men might; they post guards outside your door, Alfie becomes the reason nobody wants to go near the door in the first place. You won't always know he's handled a problem because he rarely tells you. You'll just notice that the man who was bothering you suddenly crosses the street when he sees you coming. And when you ask Alfie about it, he'll blink innocently and say, "what? People move about, don’t they, sweetheart? It’s London. That’s the game, yeah?"

°•✵he isn't the sort of man who showers you with poetry. He's the sort of man who notices your favourite flowers at a market three months ago annd then somehow they keep appearing in the house just because.

°•✵there are very few people capable of making Alfie feel safe. That's the funny thing about men like him: everyone sees the danger and forgets the vulnerability underneath it. But some nights you'll find him half asleep beside you, tension finally gone from his shoulders, breathing steady and peaceful in a way he never is around anyone else. And you'll realize something that makes your chest ache: for perhaps the first time in years, he's resting because he trusts someone else to keep watch.

°•✵the thing nobody prepares you for is how startling the difference is between the Alfie the world gets and the Alfie you get. Everyone else gets the businessman, the gangster, the man who can make an entire room nervous just by walking into it. You get the version that comes out when the door closes behind him. The version that immediately loosens his tie, drops heavily into the nearest chair, and asks how your day was before he's even taken off his coat. The version that remembers tiny details nobody else would notice, that reaches for your hand without thinking about it, that occasionally falls asleep halfway through one of his own stories because he's finally relaxed enough to stop performing. It's not that he's pretending with everyone else; those versions of him are real too. But with you, he doesn't have to be on. He doesn't have to dominate the room, control the conversation, or keep one eye on the nearest exit. The rest of the world gets Alfie Solomons - you get the man underneath all the noise.

°•✵Alfie Solomons is not easy to love. He's stubborn, secretive, impossible to argue with, and entirely too clever for his own good. But if he gives you his heart, he gives it completely; piece by piece, day by day. Until one morning you wake up and realize you've become the safest place in the world for one of the most dangerous men in it.

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