Fated Rivals
Parings: John Shelby x Rival Daughter!Reader
Summary: A dangerous encounter with a certain Shelby changes everything.
Warnings: Strong Language, Mature themes, Violence.
A/N: uh oh…looks like someone’s cuaght between rival families.
The first true breath of day in Small Heath wasn't the clean snap of morning air, but a thick, acrid lungful of coal smoke and the clatter of carts on cobblestones. For you, it was a familiar symphony, the backdrop to a life lived on the fringes of legitimate society. Your family, the [Reader's Family Name]s, held their own, a formidable force carved out of the city's underbelly, a constant, simmering rival to the infamous Shelby clan.
You’d accepted it, once. Accepted the hushed conversations about 'business,' the coded threats exchanged like pleasantries, the occasional brawl that spilled into the street like spilled ale. It was simply how things were, a grim inheritance passed down through generations. You were a [Reader's Family Name] – a fact etched into your bones, visible in the careful way you navigated the bustling market, even in the way you held yourself: strong-willed, self-assured, and outwardly confident, a mask you'd perfected over years. But with each passing year, the lines blurred, the justifications thinned, and you found yourself more and more caught in the sticky web of animosity you had no part in weaving, yet were bound by blood to defend. The thought often pricked at you, a dull ache behind your eyes, that this constant state of war might one day cost you everything, everyone. Losing your family – that was the true, silent fear that coiled in your gut.
"[Your Name]! You going to stare at that bloody book all day, or are you going to help with the stalls?"
Your mom’s sharp voice cut through your reverie, a familiar summons. You sighed, bookmarking your page in Wuthering Heights – a worn, cherished edition. You were a bookworm at heart, finding solace and escape in the printed word, a stark contrast to the brutal realities of your daily life. Sometimes, you wondered if anyone in your family truly understood the quiet hunger for knowledge that gnawed at you, or if they simply tolerated it as an odd quirk.
"Coming, mom," you called back, slipping the novel into your satchel, careful not to bend the precious pages. You adjusted the plain, practical coat you wore, a deliberate choice to blend in, to avoid drawing undue attention to yourself in a territory that was, technically, contested ground. Today, your task was simple: help your cousin, James, haggle over the price of some questionable fabric down by the Rag Market.
As you threaded your way through the narrow, grimy alleys towards the market, the sounds and smells intensified. The shouts of vendors, the insistent bleating of a sheep being led to slaughter, the metallic tang of something unidentifiable in the air. You kept your gaze forward, but your eyes subtly scanned the crowd, a habit ingrained from childhood. You knew the faces of your family’s men, and just as importantly, you knew the faces of the Shelby men. They were always around, like ghosts, or vultures, depending on the day.
You saw a group of your own kin gathered outside The Black Horse, voices low and serious. Your cousin, James, spotted you. "There you are, [Your Name]! Thought you'd gotten lost in one of your bloody novels again." He grinned, but there was a tension in his eyes you recognized. "Just finished dealing with that lot from Garrison Lane. Always trying to muscle in, eh?"
"They'll always try, James," you replied, your voice more accustomed to the rough edges of their world than you cared to admit. "Doesn't mean they'll succeed."
You stood with him for a moment, making conversation about the mundane details of their 'business,' your ears subtly picking up snippets of conversation around you. It was always about territory, about the flow of illicit goods, about maintaining their fragile hold. You listened, contributed where expected, but your mind was elsewhere, already anticipating the quiet solitude of your room and the world within the pages of your book.
"Right, I'm off to the stalls," you announced, giving James a nod. "Don't get yourselves into too much trouble before supper."
"No promises," he chuckled, lighting a cigarette. "You watch yourself, too. It's a busy day."
You continued your journey, past the overflowing bins, the wary faces of shopkeepers, and the hawkers shouting their wares. Your hand instinctively went to your satchel, touching the spine of your book, a small comfort in this harsh reality. You were a few streets away from your designated stall, momentarily distracted by the vibrant colours of a fruit vendor’s display. Your internal monologue was debating the merits of a new literary criticism you'd heard about, when it happened.
A sudden, sharp jostle.
The book slipped from your grasp, landing with an audible thud on the grimy cobblestones. Your head snapped up, temper flaring. Before you stood a man, broad-shouldered and sharp-suited, a peaky cap pulled low over eyes that, even in this brief moment, held an unnerving intensity. He stooped quickly, retrieving your fallen treasure with a surprising gentleness.
"Careless, aren't you?" he drawled, his voice a low rumble, laced with the unmistakable accent of Small Heath. He held the book out, his gaze unwavering as it met yours.
You felt a flicker of annoyance, quickly overridden by a deeper, more unsettling recognition. The cut of his suit, the confident swagger even in his still posture, the way his eyes seemed to assess everything at once – he was a Shelby. No doubt about it. And not just any Shelby, but one of the brothers. John, if the whispers were to be believed. Youngest of the core three, notorious for his quick temper and even quicker fists, but with a surprising glint of something almost... thoughtful, in his eyes.
You snatched the book back, perhaps a little too forcefully. "I'd say you're the one who needs to watch where he's going," you retorted, your voice steady despite the sudden spike of adrenaline. "Or perhaps your kind just believes the world should part for you."
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. "My 'kind' knows how to handle themselves on these streets, love. Better than some book-reading lass who's got her head stuck in the clouds." He gestured vaguely at the market chaos around them. "This ain't a library, you know."
"And you, I presume, are a connoisseur of fine literature?" You raised an eyebrow, a challenge in your tone. You knew precisely who he was, and he clearly knew what you represented. The unspoken animosity hung heavy between you, a tangible thing amidst the market's noise.
He chuckled, a short, sharp sound devoid of humor. "Hardly. But I know a pretty face with a sharp tongue when I hear one." His eyes, a striking blue, lingered on yours for a moment longer than necessary, a spark of something unreadable passing between you. Not quite hostility, not quite interest, but a volatile mix of both.
"And I know a Shelby when I see one," you countered, your voice dropping to a near whisper, the family name a curse on your lips.
His smirk vanished, replaced by a hardened, almost dangerous set to his jaw. "Aye," he said, the single word a low growl. "And I know a [Reader's Family Name] when I smell one. Now, if you'll excuse me." He tipped his cap, a gesture that was more mockery than politeness, and turned to walk away, disappearing into the throng of people before you could formulate another retort.
You stood there, the weight of Wuthering Heights suddenly feeling much heavier in your hands. The encounter had lasted mere moments, yet it had shifted something within you. The casual animosity you usually felt for the Shelbys had coalesced into a sharp, uncomfortable awareness. John Shelby. He was just as crude, just as dangerous as the rumours claimed, yet there was something else, an unexpected depth in his eyes that had caught you off guard.
This was more than just a rival gang member. This was a man who had seen you, truly seen you, for a fleeting moment, beyond the family name, and in doing so, had irrevocably drawn you into the very heart of the conflict you'd tried so hard to observe from a distance. The game, it seemed, had just changed.
————
The scent of stale beer and desperation clung to the air inside the Shelby betting office. John leaned against the counter, absently tracing a pattern on the grimy wood with his finger, his mind replaying the fleeting encounter in the market. The lass with the book. A [Reader's Family Name]. He’d known it the moment her eyes, sharp and defiant, had met his. They were the enemy, pure and simple, yet there was something about her – the quick wit, the way she clutched that damned novel as if it were a shield – that had stuck in his craw.
"Everything alright, Johnny?" Arthur’s voice, a little too loud, broke through his thoughts. His eldest brother stood by the door, scanning the street with an almost manic energy.
John grunted. "Fine, Arthur. Just thinking."
"Thinking ain't for us, lad. Best leave that to Tommy," Arthur chuckled, a hollow sound. "So, did you get those new ledgers from the printer's?"
"Aye, they're here somewhere." John pushed off the counter, but his mind drifted back to her. He’d seen plenty of [Reader's Family Name]s, men and women, all with that same hard-edged look, but she was different. Not soft, not by a long shot, but… refined. A bookworm in Small Heath. It was an anomaly, like finding a delicate orchid growing in a slag heap. He dismissed the thought. She was the enemy, no matter how intriguing.
————
Meanwhile, you hurried away from the market, the encounter with John Shelby replaying in your mind like a disjointed nightmare. Your pulse still hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. He was everything you expected a Shelby to be: arrogant, dangerous, and utterly captivating in a way that made your teeth ache. And those eyes… they had seen too much, too quickly.
You found James haggling with a portly vendor, his voice already hoarse. "Took your sweet time, didn't you, [Your Name]?" he grumbled, though a faint smile touched his lips. "Thought you'd run into trouble."
"Just a minor inconvenience," you said, forcing a casualness you didn't feel. You didn't elaborate. There was no need to feed the fire, to mention a Shelby, especially not to James, who had a temper almost as volatile as Arthur Shelby's. You were already walking a tightrope, and acknowledging even a brief interaction with the enemy felt like holding a match to the rope.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of mundane tasks. You helped sort fabric, tallied figures, and listened to the endless chatter of market life. But beneath the surface, your mind gnawed at the brief exchange. His eyes. The way he had held your book. The sheer audacity of his presence. It was unsettling, the way he had chipped away at your carefully constructed indifference.
That evening, as the smoky dusk settled over Small Heath, you finally retreated to the sanctuary of your room. You lit a single candle, the flickering flame casting dancing shadows on the worn pages of Wuthering Heights. You tried to immerse yourself, to lose yourself in the wild, passionate moors of Emily Brontë’s world, but your mind kept snagging on a different kind of wildness. John Shelby.
You knew the stories, the rumours that clung to the Shelby name like soot. Violence, ruthless ambition, a disregard for anyone who stood in their way. Your family wasn't innocent, not by a long shot, but there was a raw, untamed ferocity to the Shelbys that set them apart. And John was perhaps the most unpredictable of them all.
"Bloody hell," you muttered to yourself, slamming the book shut. "Why him?"
It was more than just a chance encounter. It felt like a deliberate act of fate, pulling you further into the very rivalry you desperately wished to escape. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the fear of losing your family coiling tighter in your gut. This unexpected jolt, this spark of… something… with John Shelby, it felt like a dangerous betrayal of everything you were meant to be.
