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lupineaerosol · 7 months

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traveler pt. 3 | thomas shelby x f!reader

not my gifs! dm for credit

parts one and two

pairing : thomas shelby x time traveled!reader

word count : 2431 (shorter chap but i love it sm)

summary : it's been a few days of a quickly forming schedule, and while running errands find yourself attempting to calm Danny Whizz-bang down from a panicked state. later on in the day you return to the Garrison to find a second woman attending the bar, and she was singing. a moment with thomas and a flashback!

warnings : alcohol mentioned, PTSD and panic attack, knives, blood, cigarettes(?), jumpscare(??), mention of guns

notes : this chapter came together super fast and im honestly really proud!! was a total headache trying to get the timeline all correct n shit but this came out perfect n i think yall are going to loveee it

It had been a few days of work, breaks, a quick shopping trip when you could spare the time with the money you earned from individuals at the bar, and sleep. Last night’s sleep had been filled with half remembered dreams, and the morning as foggy as your icy dawn in Inverness. You swung your feet out of bed to softly touch the floor, and you start your day. Warming water downstairs in the bar for a quick wash back up in your apartment. Brushing your hair with your fingers, and marking down a growing list of items you would need to purchase, more major things crossed out at the top. Blouses, skirts, undergarments, socks, bedsheets, lamps etc.

With the leftover clean water you were able to wash your dirty shirts and hang them to dry near the window. You tugged your sneakers onto your feet and laid your skirt over them neatly when you stood from your bed. A yellowed and previously white shirt a tad too small tucked into the green skirt, and a brown shaul you found, forgotten in the dresser of your bedroom.

Venturing out with your list in hand, you first stopped at an Italian cafe purchasing a small pastry and a tea you enjoyed sitting at a table outside. You took a long sip followed by a sigh, and a familiar face came into view: Danny Whizz-bang, and he looked distraught.

He was muttering to himself, gripping his hat from off his head and holding it to his chest as he sunk into a seat near you. A chair fell loudly next to him after he had bumped it with his hip. Rocking back and forth, nearly shivering. You had to help in some way, with the distant booms of the factories and clattering noise of the street he was only getting more wound up.

“Excuse me,” You looked over at him with gentle eyes. “Do you have the time?” A gentle distraction, one simple task to take his mind off of whatever was happening behind his eyes.

Danny slightly jumped in his seat at the sound of your voice, but he began to pat his chest for a watch. His fingers fumbled and the chain to the watch shook subtly. “It’s a quarter past eight, ma’am.” His voice trembled, but he looked slightly less wild.

“Thank you,” You paused, looking back down to your pastry briefly. “Would you like to share this? I don’t think I’ll be able to finish it.” You tried to incorporate a small smile into your words, it didn’t quite have the comfort you intended.

“That's quite alright ma’am, lovely wife at home makes all the meals I need.” His eyes darted around the street, still disturbed. A loud boom and he jumped, only to then put his face down and yell loudly at his feet. An Italian gentleman in an apron stepped out of the cafe, talking and gesturing angrily in half broken English about how Danny was scaring you. Danny muttered into his hat and stood suddenly, the stress of the situation rising once again.

“Sir, sir I am fine, please don’t worry.” You tried interjecting, but the man raised his voice and began to yell for Danny to leave, finally pulling a knife from his pocket and threatening him. Danny’s eyes glazed over with rage and fear, lunging at the smaller man and redirecting the knife into the cafe owner. You stumbled back, seeing red pour from the Italian’s stomach. Danny was pulled away from the other man, remorse and regret smearing his face like a painting. Tears welled up in both of your eyes, and you didn’t attempt to get near him again. People chattered busily from around the street, and after a pause, Danny was off and running down the street.

You returned home after your errands helped calm you down, a basket full of new clothes that finally fit you hanging on your arm as you push through the doors of the Garrison to see Harry behind the bar and a blonde woman standing on a chair singing. The Garrison was silent under the melancholic song floating from her mouth. Harry never mentioned a new hire, and there was no way this could be his wife, she stayed away from the tavern like it was cursed. The blonde was pretty, and Irish from the sound of her singing. You claimed a spot at a golden support beam near the doors, not wanting to take attention away from the community enjoying music.

The men had started to sing along, a lovely chorus rumbling through the building. It warmed the space, and you could almost hear the bricks echoing in harmony. The doors swung open and closed, and Mr. Shelby appeared to your right, his group following closely behind him. Men shuffled away and stopped singing along as the intimidating group claimed their spot to listen to the woman sing, an air of disapproval emanating from Thomas.

Thomas was so near to you the heat radiating off his jacket made its way to your skin through your shirt and it felt like he diffused pure electricity. Had your hand been at your side, his knuckles would have bumped yours. You held your breath without consideration as to why. You didn’t even notice he had taken your breath away just by standing next to you.

The blonde finished her song, and Harry approached Thomas with a smile. “We haven’t had singing in here since the war.” A long stare, cold and captivating from Thomas.

“Why do you think that is, Harry?” Thomas’ voice was crystal clear, and as he stepped away from you and into the corner room. You were immediately aware of the cold that replaced Thomas. An as he went to close the double doors, his eyes glanced back to catch yours, and for a split second you were captivated entirely by just how entrancing and menacing the man could be.

Earlier in the day

Thomas walked into the Shelby house with a bottle, his hat tossed carelessly to the side on a table. “Let me see him.” A short glance at Arthur’s face and it was obvious he was hurting. Blood spackled across his face and the first few buttons of his shirt. “Well here, have this.” Thomas handed his older brother the bottle and he took a drink.

“Give me that.” Thomas took back the bottle and doused a bit of cloth in the brown liquid, taking Arthur’s chin and pressing the alcohol into a gash in his cheek. Arthur hissed, “You’re all right.” Thomas tried comforting him, and Arthur’s right hand came to grip the younger man’s forearm.

“He said Mr. Churchill sent him to Birmingham.” A long pause between the group. “National interest he said. Something about a robbery.” Arthur’s voice had a hint of rage. Thomas stepped back, lit cigarette hanging from his lips lazily.

“He says he wants us to help him.” Arthur continued.

“”We don’t help coppers.” John piped up from his place in the doorway.

“He knew all about our war records. He said we’re patriots, like him. Wants us to be his eyes and ears.” A cold emotion gripped the room, the feeling of breaking a lamp as a child and needing to hide any other evidence of misbehavior.

“And I’ve heard rumors he’s already keeping ears on us with the new women at the Garrison.” Arthur’s voice was flat, and Thomas’ mind went to the two women he had recently met. The American (Y/H/C) with the glass of water for Danny and the Irish blonde. “People say that she was on the train with him, saw the files he was carrying.” Suspicion heightened the tension in the room.

“Fucking copper couldn’t put anyone in the Garrison to listen in on us, Harry keeps his staff straight.” John defended the familiar old establishment.

“Regardless, I told the copper we’d have a family meeting and take a vote.” Arthur guided the conversation back to the Inspector, and it almost seemed like he was suggesting they become spies for the police. Silence gripped at the throats of the family, and Thomas hesitated with an answer.

“Why not? Hmm?” Arthur turned on the offensive. “We have no truck with the Fenians or communists.” Thomas simply stared at the table.

“What’s wrong with you?” Arthur turned to face Pol. “What the fuck is wrong with him lately?”

“If I knew, I’d buy the cure from Compton’s chemists.” Aunt Pol responded, lighting a cigarette.

After the crowd had settled back into their seats in the Garrison, you ventured up to your apartment and unlocked the door, placing your things inside and turning to leave again to start helping downstairs. As you again pulled the key from the door a shadow appeared from behind you.

“Why did you visit the police station?” An unfamiliar voice rang through the empty hall, chatter from the bar filling the silence. You turned around slowly, adrenaline at the surface of your skin. You were unfamiliar with the man’s name, but you recognized his face. He was in the group of men Harry had talked to about you a few nights ago. “Now is not the time to lie, madam, and I would appreciate it if we could speak quickly, I have a beer downstairs waiting for me.”

Your stomach sunk, knowing that there was no lying your way out of the situation. “I had been traveling from Inverness to London when I met a man on the train. I didn’t know he was a policeman when I explained to him I had lost my passport, and he offered to help get me a visa. I only visited him to explain I didn’t need it anymore.” Your hands twisted the fabric of your shirt anxiously while you spoke quickly.

“Did you see what files he was carrying?” His gruff voice commanded your attention.

“Uhm..” You paused, trying desperately to recall what the hideous green folders had typed on the front of them. “Uhh, Oh! Something about a munitions robbery, and the suspects that they have.”

“Did you see any of the names?” He pressured again, leaning slightly closer.

“No, none at all.” You had backed up flush against your door, the wood creaking quietly.

The man leaned back and nodded, thin dirty-blonde hair poking out like straw from under his hat. Your words seemed to appease him to whatever capacity. He straightened his cap and muttered a quiet ‘thank you for your time’, before turning to leave.

“How did you know I visited the police station?” You asked, still shaken from the question.

“There are eyes in this town madam, you’d be wise to make your intentions clear to them.” Was all the answer you got from over his shoulder.

Boxes and crates with their lids slammed down on top of and hammered into place. Two men loading a riverboat in the dead of night, a third walking from the road with a cigarette floating lazily from his hand to his mouth.

“Uncle Charlie, a word.” His flat cap reflected the quarter moon on a razor’s edge.

“They are aboard. There’s no moon.” Charlie Strong stepped down the wooden gangway. “We can take them out to the turning point beyond Gas Street and leave them on the bank. They’ll be found by railway men first thing.”

The nephew put his cigarette to his mouth and took a long drag, smoke trailing from his nose and mouth as the dragon exhaled.

The pause was too long for Charlie Strong’s liking. “Is that an agreement?”

The young man’s face scrunched for a second and then fell. “I changed my mind.”

“You what?”

“I have an alternative strategy.” The plot unraveled in his mind, yet another calculated step navigated with ease. Everything came easy to the Shelby boys when they put their minds to it, and that was why Thomas was in charge. “Tell Curly to take her out to the old tobacco wharf. There’s a lockup mooring we used to keep cigarettes. He knows it. When the boat leaves your yard, it’s no longer your concern.” He shared his cigarette with his uncle.

He took a fast drag. “Have you lost your fucking mind? Have you not seen the streets? They’ve sent a fucking army to find these things.”

“That’s right. They’ve shown their hand.” Thomas said casually.

Charlie scoffed. “Their hand?”

“If they want them back this bad, they’ll have to pay. That’s the way of the world.” Thomas’ eyes moved to his uncle’s. “Fortune drops something valuable into your lap, you don’t just dump it on the bank of the Cut.” He pointed his chin to the river with a lift of his head.

“You’re blood Tommy, I’ve always looked out for you like a dad.” Charlie paused. “You’re going to bring holy hell down on your head. This copper takes no prisoners.”

The young man nearly scoffed out loud. “I’m told he didn’t serve.” His eyebrows raised for a split second. “Reserved occupation.”

“Is it another war you’re looking for, Tommy?”

His voice turned stern. “What did you find out from (Y/N)?”

“She’s not working with the copper, but she wasn’t telling the entire truth.” Charlie spoke of the young woman Thomas requested he talk to. “But whatever you heard was correct, she was at the police station a few days back. She'd traveled down from Inverness, met the copper on the train. All she saw was a munitions robbery suspect list.” He took another short hit from the tobacco.

“Harry said that she was honest, she talked about how she couldn’t afford the trip to London. He said he hired her because he needed to. He couldn’t turn her away. But most importantly, he trusts her.” Charlie continued.

“You have to bring her into the business. If word gets out she knows about the guns, that copper will torture her. She’s an American, she’ll stay loyal to whoever gets to her heartstrings first, Tommy.” Charlie’s voice held genuine concern for your wellbeing. It seemed the only men you met in Small Heath wanted to protect you. “Don’t let an innocent person be hurt in the crossfire, Thomas.”

“I’ll talk to her, get the full story.” Thomas sighed, frustrated, he had far better things to do than sniff out a possible rat at the Garrison. He turned to fully face his uncle emphatically. “The tobacco wharf.” He tucked a set of keys into the older gentleman’s pocket. “By order of the Peaky Blinders.”

And walked off into the night.

a.n. : TEEHEE i love this chapter sorry if its confusing as all hell at time but i tried me best,,,, im also still completely unaware as to how to make a taglist but im gonna figure it out (maybe) !!!

#tommy shelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #Thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x you #arthur shelby #john shelby #peaky fookin blinders #polly gray

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lupineaerosol · 7 months

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traveler pt. 2 | thomas shelby x f!reader

not my gif! dm for credit

pairing : thomas shelby x fem! time traveled reader

word count : 4265

summary : your first day of work at the Garrison, and a meeting with the inspector looms over your head. things may be going perfectly for you, but how quickly can that change?

warnings : alcohol mentioned, ptsd and a panic attack, broken glass(?)

a.n.: LOTS of harry fenton interactions + we finally meet thomas!!! lowkey gonna have moments of other characters x reader but trust!! the plot in my head is so good and im begging yall to just trust my crazy process <3 if anyone has any issues with the content or what i write about because it goes against anything online please let me know so i can fix it!!

not my gif! dm for credit

The sun kissed gently at your eyes through the frosted glass above your head in the booth. Your neck ached from the uncomfortable position you had slept in, the muscles screaming at you to be at a different angle. You had woken up shivering in the night, had put on your hoodie from your trunk, and to your luck, you were the only person in the bar. It would be a sticky situation trying to explain the item of clothing to Harry. Taking the thick item of clothing off to shove back into the leather case that sat in the aisle at the end of the booth, the crisp February air threw a chill into your bones and you immediately wished you were able to keep the jacket on.

No better way to warm up than to start moving. Your eyes scanned across the dusty Garrison for a broom. There has to be one somewhere here, maybe a little looking around won’t be so rude. Harry did agree to my help this morning.

Soft footsteps across the intricate marble floor were the only sound within the building, other than the distant booming of the factories down the road. You first checked the isolated corner room that waited by the front door. The door opened smoothly, the stained glass art framed beautifully by the wood. A table and a few chairs were scattered around, empty ashtrays and a few cigarette boxes in a tidy stack. The small window to the bar was open, the wood bleached in an intricate pattern of previously spilled liquors.

Turning back to the main room, the stairway beaconed an investigation. Stepping lightly through the dust and dirt that scattered the floor, and a thorough investigation left you believing the stairs had no intention of keeping secrets from you. A rattle of the two doorknobs of the rooms behind you made it clear that without lockpicking experience you wouldn’t be getting into them. A swift inspection behind the bar left you empty handed, but the room behind the bar seemed more promising for cleaning items. Your eyes scanned the boxes and shelves of liquor and cigarettes but nonetheless, there was still no sign of a simple fucking broom. How can a bar operate without a broom??

The front door of the Garrison slammed shut and the sound of keys jingling made your adrenaline spike. “‘Ello? Miss (y/n)?” Harry’s voice echoed through the building.

“Good morning,” Your bare feet padded softly out of the back room, slightly ashamed at being caught snooping around. Rounding the corner of the bartop, you greeted Harry with a curt wave. “I was just looking for a broom, I figured I could start working before you got here.” You spoke truthfully, and as gently as you could. Harry didn’t seem to be the type of man quick to anger, but you weren’t about to take any chances.

“Oh,” A smile lit his face. “Thank you! That’s quite nice of you ma’am.” He carried his coat around to the back room and hung it on a coat rack. Turning to open a thin and carefully crafted door to his right, he reached in and revealed two brooms, leaning to hand you one. The weight was moderate, but the wood was soft in your hands, easy to use. “I’ll be checking stock back here, you can start whenever you would like.”

“I’ll be out here I suppose.” You carried the broom to the darkest corner of the Garrison and started there. A quickly forming dust cloud swirled around your bare feet that had finally warmed up against the tiles. The rhythm and sway of the broom comforted you, staring at the ground with a simple task reminded you of your chores at home. Harry puttered around the bar around you, wiping down the tables and chairs, cleaning dishes and writing tally marks in a small book.

Small talk filled the time between the two of you, and you indulged trust in him to explain that you had no clue where you had come from after waking up in Inverness, but had traveled all day yesterday in an attempt to get to London. You also talked about your financial situation, to which Harry sympathized. There was no possibility of getting to London, feeding and clothing yourself, and being able to afford a boat to New York.

“Have you considered staying here, in Birmingham? Traveling to London with 10 pounds in your pocket is no way to travel. You could stay and earn some money before leaving again.” Harry asked, looking up from the section of the bar he had been scrubbing. “There are plenty of jobs around here, and a room upstairs I would let you rent.” Hope bloomed in your chest.

“You’re serious?” You turned to face him with a wide smile. “That would be phenomenal! I could open the Garrison in the mornings if I lived here, that way you wouldn’t have to be up so early in the morning to clean and fix everything up.” Your proposition of a job settled on Harry’s mind, he had been quietly looking to add an extra set of hands to the team.

He paused to chew on the idea. “I wouldn’t mind a few more hours with the wife in the morning.” He placed the dish rag in his hand down onto the bartop, tilted his head from side to side and then nodded. He lifted his hand out to yours to shake in a deal. “Rent is 10 pounds a month, pay is 2 pounds a day. You’ll work from 8 in the morning until you’d like to leave, we can tally the hours together later on.”

You swiftly wiped your hands on Isa’s gifted skirt, reaching out and shaking Harry’s hand. “You will not regret this, mister Fenton. I promise you.”

The sun had risen and the movement in the building had warmed it slightly. The bar had been open since 10, and Harry had continued to instruct you on assorted tasks, and it seemed you were no longer loitering but forging a place serving drinks at the bar. People were friendly to you, mostly men who had been out all night drinking had stumbled in to spend all morning drinking. That seemed to be the state of Small Heath, people down on their luck trying to create a life for themselves. Maybe it was fate that had dropped you here, and after suddenly gaining a job it seemed hard to debate that destiny had laid the cards for you.

You had been watching the time tick anxiously, trying to figure out what to do about your appointment with the Inspector. You had decided against trying to acquire a visa, at least for a few months to save money, but became increasingly concerned about his dedication to helping you. Would he try to track me down while I’m staying here? What if he enjoys drinking here at the Garrison? Thoughts and worries swarmed your head as you continued to serve drinks and cigarettes. Maybe stopping off to explain you don’t need the visa anymore would help. Telling him directly that you don’t need or want his help would solve it. You were sure of it. You had told him you would find him today anyways, it would be rude to stand him up, even as uncomfortable as he made you feel.

“Harry, do you mind if I leave for the hour? I met someone on the train yesterday and I arranged a meeting with him this morning.” You had tucked your carrying case behind the bar until you had a chance to see the state of the room upstairs Harry had mentioned.

“Sure, you’ve been working all morning,” Harry said, running drinks to a small group of men at a table before rushing back behind the bar. “Where are you off to?”

“The police station, there was a policeman that told me he could get me a visa home, I need to explain I don’t need it anymore.” You leaned over the bar to explain it to him quietly.

“A copper? What’s his name? I have a cousin in the force that was on the train yesterday.” Harry asked enthusiastically.

It took you a second to recall any other name than ‘Inspector’. “I believe his name was Chester Campbell, Inspector Chester Campbell.” Your head tilted slightly when Harry’s emotions stayed the same. “I assume that isn’t your cousin.” You lightly laughed.

“Never heard the name.” Harry smiled in a friendly way. “But the police station is a few blocks from here, but there’s signs that mark the way.” His directions were vaguely helpful.

“I’m off then, I’ll be back before lunch.” Your shoes padded quietly out the door and onto the gravel of Garrison street, following the signs towards the police station as quickly as possible.

“Excuse me, is Inspector Campell here?” You leaned over the receptionist’s desk, a small and stout man writing on a pad of paper grunted a response.

“Down the hall and on the right, take the stairs and his office is on the left.” His voice was gruff and his bushy beard barely moved when he spoke to you.

“Thank you.” You attempted to follow the second set of bad directions given to you today, and eventually found yourself on the second floor and face to face with the words ‘Inspector’s Offices’. You take a deep breath before knocking on the frosted glass.

“The door is open.” The all-too familiar voice of the man who made the last leg of your travel agony rattled through the door frame. A second breath and you turn the handle and push through, walking through the threshold to see a large desk, chair, and the inspector standing, hands clasped behind him, with his back to you looking out the window.

“Good morning,” The room reverberated with your words and echoed slightly. The Inspector turned over his shoulder to identify you, it seemed your voice wasn’t enough to remind him who you were. “I hope I’m not interrupting you.”

“Not at all, ma’am.” He stepped closer to the desk, neatly organized papers and books decorated it fittingly. “It’s good to see you, I expected you to arrive earlier. The train to London has already departed for the day.”

“I know, I chose not to leave.” You had barely ventured into the room, not daring to step across to the man. It was already uncomfortable enough from afar, there was no need to add to it. “And I most likely won’t be needing a visa for a while.”

“Are you staying here in Small Heath? I have to advise against it, murderers and thieves run the streets as if they own them, madam.” Campbell turned the corner on his desk, slow steps toward you.

“I am afraid I’ve already committed to staying, sir.” Your voice was filled with determination. The Inspector’s expression fell further than it had been. “And I thank you for the offer to help me get home, but I must refuse.” Before he could speak again you interrupted him.

“Have a good rest of your day Inspector.” A curt nod and you turned to exit the room swiftly, hoping and praying that the issue was resolved.

The bar had filled up since you left, and it seemed your presence in the Garrison had already been accepted by the building, a different aura had seemed to already stain the wood accents you had spent the morning polishing. Returning to your place behind the gold bar, you serve up a box of cigarettes and a few beers to a man with a middle part (that matched the red sea when Moses made his visit) and his group. Harry greeted you with a small smile and wave from across the room, finally catching that you had returned from your short task out. You began to polish some of the finer glasses when the front door squeaked open.

A man in a flat cap pushed through both sets of doors to the Garrison, the rough texture of his jacket silhouetted over his frame like a man who had influence. His eyes pulled in the low light of the Garrison and devoured it, gorgeous sky blue tumbling into his dark pupils. He carried himself with a deadly certainty, every step he took was calculated and he didn’t even seem conscious of it. His eyes traveled over to the man you had just served, and he swiftly pulled his hat off, expression unreadable, tossing it onto the bartop like he owned the place. The others at the bar swiftly left to a different seat in the building, far away from the man who walked into the building as if he could lay it to rubble with a few words. It seemed that everyone was afraid of the man, and you agreed with them, you would not want to cross this man in any way.

Harry was quick to rush over next to you, carrying a bottle of fine Irish whiskey and a glass. “On the house, Mr. Shelby.” He popped the cork off the bottle and let it settle onto the countertop, before leaving Mr. Shelby to himself. A pinstriped shirt beneath his jacket and a tight collar around his neck. He placed a few coins gently onto the metal surface of the bar, and strained around to once again look across at the group in the corner. Mr. Middle part stood and finished his beer, and spun to walk over slowly and situate himself at the bar with the largely intimidating man who had barged in seconds ago. The Middle Part ordered a mild beer from Harry, ignoring your presence with skill.

“Cheers, Thomas. Good health to you.” Thomas Shelby. The name of the powerful individual across the bar made goosebumps surge from your shoulders to your fingertips. Deeply unsettling people must just love the Birmingham aura. You made a point to busy yourself enough to tune out their conversation, catching bits and pieces of what seemed to be an important exchange of information. The most you caught of the talk was the hidden razors sewn into Mr. Shelby’s hat, a far larger warning of his habits than the way he carried himself.

Your attention had been directed at a brave pair who had sauntered up to the bar for the next round, but a far larger man bursting through the doors and almost crashing into a table became the focus. His body barreled into tables, drinks, chairs and liquid flew everywhere. The group within the bar began to go for him, grabbing at his arms and shoulders, trying to gain control of the wildly thrashing man.

“They’re going to get me!” The panic in the man’s voice was genuine, and he sounded as if he had been chased here, panting between involuntary and fear created noises. Mr. Shelby and his companion took the hysterical man to the floor, pinning him down.

“Breathe, Danny, breathe!!”

“They’re going to get me!!!” He thrashed under the weight of the two men, still able to show his strength from the bottom of the pile.

“Danny, you’re home. We’re all home in England. You are not in France.” Thomas’ voice was crystal clear, and as calm as he could seem to manage. “You’re not an artillery shell, Danny, you’re a man. You’re not a whizz-bang. You’re a human being, Danny.” A veteran, of course.

The man, Danny, had continued struggling until this point, but seemed to be calming down. You moved quietly to get a glass of cold water for the man, while the boys were finishing soothing the firecracker personified.

“I’m so sorry Mr. Shelby, I’m sorry.” Danny had begun to weep, and you chose this as the moment to approach with the cup of water.

“Water?” You drew nearer to the three slowly and tentatively, handing the glass to the extended arm of Mr. Shelby, who then handed it to Danny. All three men gave a small look of appreciation to you. He downed it in a quick chug and threw a quick ‘thank you’ your way before moseying to the front doors with the others.

“You go home to your wife now, Danny. Try and get all the smoke and mud out of your head, eh?” Mr. Shelby instructed, and ushered Danny out of the building. An unease settled over the patrons of the bar as the doors swang closed, men scattered around the room in a crescent shape around the former commotion.

Harry spoke up from where he was attempting to return a table to its previously unruined state. “Mr. Shelby, you have to do something about him.”

“You’re damn right, Harry.” The Middle part piped up, seeming to stare imaginary bullets through the back of Mr. Shelby’s head. “You pay the Peaky Blinders a lot of money for protection. You’re the law around here now, Tommy, aren’t you?”

The intense situation between the two seemed to boil over for a moment, but the rest of their conversation was too quiet to pick up on from your place nearby, cleaning up glass shards. Mr. Shelby carefully pulled his cap back over his hair, and stepped to leave the building, stopping at your side.

“Thank you for the water. Seems like you’re the only person who knows how to handle the aftermath of something like this, good job.” His words were concise, his eyes scanning your dirty skirt and off white blouse. His gaze read details you couldn’t comprehend noticing about yourself, but with a quiet air of approval. At the door he tipped his hat to you and spoke across the room to Harry, “Send the bill to the Peaky Blinders. We’ll take care of it.” before swiftly exiting the Garrison, shooting a final, trapping glance your way.

You were left with the bar in pieces, chairs and tables broken, glasses shattered. You moved to help Harry with sweeping up shards. A few minutes of silent focus was broken by Harry’s stern voice, a new experience to add to the ever growing list.

“What you did was very nice, but it’s best to leave those situations in our hands, Mr. Shelby and Mr. Thorne had the situation under control.” Harry looked up from the broom in his hands and spoke lightly but sternly. You assume his meaning of ‘our’ meant the men of mixed shapes and sizes that frequent the Garrison. Your stomach sank a bit, the small breakfast of bread and butter tumbled in your gut. All you had wanted to do was help, and a glass of water barely seemed offensive, but perhaps your modern mindset clouded your judgment.

“I’ll be more careful next time, Mr. Fenton.” Was all the response you could think of. You couldn’t promise that you wouldn’t interfere if something happened again, the image of Danny pinned to the floor flashed through your mind with a shiver.

“Have you worked with veterans before?” Harry’s intrigue about your history popped into conversation. “You seemed calmer than most of the men in here, and that’s truly saying something.”

You hesitated with a response. A college friend of yours had severe panic attacks quite frequently, and you were practically trained to handle other people’s terror in a collected way. There were many moments you had to give a similar pep talk that Mr. Shelby had drilled into Danny.

“A close friend of mine. The war tore her apart, too many cases of trench foot and a few too many close calls with hand grenades.” You improvised, while lifting the dustpan of glass shards from the floor and rose from where you had been sitting on your knees. “I usually was the one to calm her down when her family couldn’t.”

“Was she a nurse?” Harry queried, alluding to France and the war while moving to the next section of glass and spilled beer. You nodded quickly, trying your hardest to end the conversation. I have got to figure out a backstory.

Quiet chatter of patrons filled the building, distant thuds and banging from the factories. People filed into and out of the Garrison, and the place was empty enough in the afternoon before quitting time that Harry handed you a key and dismissed you to go settle into the room upstairs.

Grabbing your trunk from its hidden place behind the bar, you hurried up the stairs and unlocked the door, dust and darkness floating out of the small bedroom and attached room with a sink. It was quaint, definitely small, but certainly not a shoebox. A bed situated in the corner and slightly under what seemed to be the only window. A large dresser against the wall on your left, a full-length mirror nestled between the other wall and the dresser. It was otherwise quite plain and derelict. You crossed the room and tugged open the shades and pulled the window up with a loud squeak, and immediately the noise of Small Heath joined you in the room. You started dusting and airing out the old sheets and blankets, folding what clothes you had from Isa and tucking them into the large dresser, hiding the futuristic clothes you traveled in within the trunk and under your bed.

You took the time before the rush to change into a few of the other clothes you had, a deep burgundy skirt and a second white blouse. The puffed sleeves ended at your elbows, a small ruffle running from shoulder to shoulder aiming in a point down to your belly button. A quick swipe of a rag over the standing mirror in the corner opposing the door and you stepped back. All things considered, you didn’t look too out of place, a few changes to your hair and you looked like any other lady striding down the street. The blouse didn’t fit too strangely on your figure, and the skirt was hanging perfectly on your figure.

The ticking of a clock above the doorway became apparent to you, and with a fast glance you read ‘5:13’ on its face. The rush hour drinking would start in a few minutes, and Harry would need your help. Tidying the last bits of your new home to your taste, you strung the key on a string around your neck and tucked it down into your blouse before stepping into the hallway and down the stairs.

The chatter of the Garrison was already lively, the warm lights casting a homely feeling across the worn faces of men who had worked their day away within the factories and shops of Small Heath. Conversations of strikes at the BSA factory floated through your attention, details about a man named Thorne. I wonder if it’s the same man who helped Danny this morning?

The time ticked by, your presence collected eyes, and not all of them friendly. Your chats with random patrons were monitored, anything about you was collected to be fed to a devourer of information. Blissfully unaware, you offered a friendly chat to whoever needed one, a lone young man at the bar, a group of old men, any other man who wanted a friendly smile from the new bartender. No one had expected Harry to hire a woman, especially not one from America who talked funny and wouldn’t speak of anything from her past.

9:00, and the bar had calmed somewhat. You were wrapped up in a conversation with Harry and a group of his friends when the table next to yours had just quickly paid and left. Eager to help Harry and prove your place, you toddled to the bar to grab a rag to clean the table, and as you returned to the dirty dishes and silverware, the conversation of Harry’s group had shifted.

“Where exactly is (Y/N) from in America? I’ve never heard an accent like that.”

You craned your ears in an attempt to hear Harry’s response. “I’m not quite sure, she never said. I assume California, somewhere west.”

“And so she shows up out of the blue, tough on her money and looking for a place to stay?”

“Stop insinuating that she insisted on staying, she didn't.” Harry considered his response carefully. “I actually suggested she stayed. I’ve been looking for a pretty face behind the bar, she needed a job and a place to stay, I just happened to be able to help. She says she traveled from the north yesterday, she didn't say from where, but somewhere far, she looked wrecked last night.. She’s a sweet one, far too nice for this place.”

You were flattered, but the pressure to come up with a backstory for how you suddenly appeared in Scotland yesterday morning and managed to get to Birmingham while also acquiring a job and apartment was too good to sound true. I could always go with the amnesia plot, play that role for the rest of my time here.

Harry continued his thought. “I hope this place doesn’t trap her here like it did the rest of us.”

“But you trust her?” Harry hesitated before muttering something far quieter to his mates.

“...ut she’s been nothing but helpful since last night, christ, she slept here in the bar in the middle of February instead of begging to sleep at my home in front of a fire. But no, I don’t think there’s anything sinister about her, I’m not sure if it’s possible.” Harry’s voice grew in volume again, and for the rest of the night you’re focused on what he could have possibly said to the group of men.

a.n: i proofread but not all the way through, if the end is weird sorry i tried my best :P had a lot of fun writing this and im glad i actually updated on it instead of forgetting about it and never touching it ever again

#tommy shelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #Thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x you #thomas shelby x you #arthur shelby

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lupineaerosol · 8 months

Text

traveler | thomas shelby x f!reader

Not my image!

pairing : thomas shelby x time traveled!reader

word count : 3,831 :P

summary : a trip to scotland for a belated birthday celebration turns into a blast from the past when you find yourself in 1919 with no chance of getting home, until you meet someone on a train to London that tells you he can help your situation and get you a visa....

warnings : angsty at times, near death experience (hypothermia), inspector campbell being creepy for the plot, bad writing, i have no concept of how much money a british pound is so ??, warnings will change with each chapter so please read them carefully!

notes : reader is 23-27 but no specified age, this is kind of an Outlander A.U. where the reader travels through a stone circle (or cairn for this one lolz) and goes back in time

a.n. : this chapter is technically an intro to the rest of the plot that ties in with the canon + vvv descriptive bc thats my writing style :P + also i suck at summaries + just recently got back into writing as a hobby, so this might be absolute trash but I'm very proud. if anyone has any issues with the content or what i write about because it goes against anything online please let me know so i can fix it!!

Not my image!

The black hoodie clings to your skin, sopping wet and forcing a chill through your skin. In the split second it took to regain consciousness, you realize your clothes are soaked, and judging at how badly you're shivering and that you're face-down in the grass, you've been asleep in the rain for god knows how long. Rolling over the damp grass to sit up, you catch a glimpse at the location you find yourself, the cairn outside the small town you had been staying at in Scotland on vacation.

The sky was dim, sunrise slowly encroaching over the heavy raindrops on the hills. Sitting against one of the boulders of the cairn, a shaky breath leaves your chest, fanning out in front of your face. Through the near hypothermia that's started to quickly make you sweat, a deep uneasiness started to take root, but you were far too panicked to acknowledge it in the moment.

You jumped to your feet, realizing how little time you have alive could be without action, rubbing your hands together for as much friction they could create, dancing your legs in place to wake your body back up. Attempting a warm breath into your hands barely helped your frigid and close-to-death state. The cold was numbing, the fog in your brain was all around you, mentally and physically, keeping the hilltop the cairn sat upon as an island amidst a sea of grey. And suddenly there was a faint light approaching.

The candlelight within the squeaking lamp softened the mist, making it far more inviting than the haze the man emerged from. Your shivers halted abruptly, the uneasiness bubbled up from your stomach to your throat, a foul taste in the back of your mouth spread over your tongue.

"'ello!! 'ello is anyone out 'ere?!" The man's shoulders shook with a powerful Scottish accent, and a strong sense of safety accompanied it. Alas, the shivers returned in full force.

"Here!" Your voice broke sharply. "I-I'm over here!" Attempting to speak up through the shakes and ambiance of early dawn proved difficult, your breathing overtaken by the cold and feverish urge to survive.

And luck was on your side today, for the first time.

"Hello?" The gentleman turned to the sound of your voice, not expecting to find you curled in a ball and soaked to the bone. And in strange clothes that were quite unseemly for a woman of your age. The outer layer that draped over you and the denim that clad your legs were downright outlandish to the man in front of you. 'Damn Americans and their strange styles of dress' He thought to himself quickly, before stepping lightly over to you, helping you up, and taking his overcoat off to throw across your shoulders.

The warmth was welcomed greatly. You nearly stopped shivering for a moment as the smell of worn and slightly wet leather, cologne and fire overtook you. It was the most definitive thing you could grasp on to in the few minutes, or hours, you had been conscious of.

"Ma'am, what are you doing out here at the time of morn'? You'll catch yourself a death of a cold out in this weather for much longer." The older man took your hand and led you to his carriage and horse. What am I doing out here? The reasoning escaped you through the fog, but you caught a glimpse.

A stone in your hands, turning in your palm as you walk the grounds of a historic castle. Your phone died in your hands mid photo, with the cairn in the fading pixels.

Where are you?

Your slowly warming hand finds its way into the soaked pocket of your hoodie, and alas, no such stone was to be found. Your cell phone and wallet remained, but judging by the man assisting you, there didn't seem to be much hope in asking if he had a charger you could borrow.

He paused to let you lean against the large wooden wheel of his cart, waiting a moment before speaking. A gentler tone took his voice. "Ma'am, do you remember how you got out here?"

The fog had cleared, both in your mind, and as the first bits of sunlight rose from the eastern horizon. After a pregnant pause, you responded.

"I'm vacationing here, from America." That much was true, you were from America and you were here on vacation, the only question was when you were visiting. You had flown over in a modern plane, taken a modern train from London to Edinburgh, and then a taxi to Inverness. The man in front of you made a subtle face of surprise, as if the journey you have described could have taken over 6 months, when in it only took 2 days for you to be a quarter of the way around the globe.

"I'm sorry you've found yerself so far from home, Inverness 's not a place I would expect an American to want to travel." The man moved the lantern from his hand to a metal bar attached to the seat of the carriage. He busied himself with his gloves. "If I'm correct, you're shivering out of yer britches and startin' to sweat at the same time." You nodded quickly, sharp pins and needles erupting from the skin you moved. The man brushed his hand over his chin, considering his options.

"My daughter Isa will have coffee and a warm hearth awaitin'. Once you've warmed up we can 'elp you return to wherever ye came from." The man sounded less than enthusiastic to have an American in his home, but the desperate need of your medical situation demanded his unwilling help. No one wanted to have any connection to a dead foreigner found at a locally mysterious site known for having a frequency of people going missing when visiting.

He helped you up onto the bouncing wooden seat. The smell of horse and leather of the reigns was the second most tangible thing you could consider basing your reality off of. This was obviously not the 21st century. A young woman, possibly anywhere in the 1830's to the 1940's (judging the man's attire and horse) in a foreign country with no possible way of proving her existence via official documents. That was the reality of the matter. You had no idea when you were, and if there was a possibility of getting back to the modern day.

Focus, and compartmentalize. There will be time to deal with the larger issues later on. Don't freeze to death, and then figure out what time and day it is. Gently and slowly returning to work, your brain made its first decision of this strange crisis: Deal with it later. In the meantime, you were able to do a quick mental diagnostic ; Legs work, fingers bend and grab, your stomach growls and you understand that your guts and heart still work, you've spoken to the man, so obviously your mouth and voice still work just fine. The only outlier was what year you were inhabited by accident.

The gentleman took one last glance at the girl who had barely spoken, and urged his horse forward toward the gentle outline of a stone town a few miles away.

The fire overtook the crisp and clammy feeling that crawled over your body. Heat licked at your hair and half exposed arms. You had met the man's daughter, Isa, and she had practically thrown a warm cup of half brewed coffee out of half awake panic. Although your father walking into your kitchen with a strange young woman at barely 5 in the morning would alarm you as well.

Adding to the alarm, Isa was just as perplexed about your strange, "American" clothes. She was convinced no one was strange enough to wear those clothes willingly, and since you were of similar size with Isa, she gave you a few of her old clothes to wear as you warmed in front of the fire. A bulky, tan skirt slightly too tight at the waist and a thin, loose in the bosom white blouse. You sat at the hearth with a large blanket draped over your shoulders, reminiscent of the smell of the man's overcoat.

Your clothes draped near the fire, steam coming off of your printed socks with cats on them. Isa had commented about the craftsmanship and how expensive they must have been. You barely muttered a response that would have made sense. All that time spent taking notes in World History class, and you remember nothing about Britain and Scotland after the Revolutionary war or before WWII. The grip on your phone was tight and you quietly pondered as to how you were going to keep it hidden while you were here. There was hope to get home. At least for now.

"So you really can't remember anything?" Isa leaned over to place the back of her hand over your warm forehead.

"Nothing from before your father found me." You only partially lied, you can't directly remember how you ended up at the cairn.

"But you remember your name, right?" Isa sat back in her chair, reaching for a cup of coffee on the dining table.

"Oh, right, sorry. My name is (y/n)." Your answer was curt, unrevealing as possible.

The morning dragged on. The sun was up, the clock on the wall above the sink read 7:46. Time.

"What day is it?" You asked quietly into your coffee while attempting to cool it off.

"Wednesday." Isa had been buzzing around the kitchen, completing various tasks but while also keeping an eye on you. Her father had toddled off somewhere else in the house, his footsteps were heard, but not yet seen in daylight. "But if you would like the specifics, it's Wednesday, February 5th, in the year 1919."

"Thank you, Isa."

Hours later and lots of planning around the limited memory you spoke about having, it was decided that Isa's father would lend you a 20 pound note he had been saving (He was subtly adamant you got his address to mail money back to him) for the trains to London, and Isa gifted you a few of her mother's worn skirts and blouses.

The plan was for you to travel back to London and hopefully return to either your home country or your family, though you knew both of these things were problematic. Isa's father, Robert, had left around 8 to ask around the town about your family, or anyone who may have traveled with you. No one had a clue. You thanked both of them urgently, and with deep appreciation. A small mental note was categorized that you should repay more than just the 20 pounds, kindness as bountiful as had been shown to you was deserved of a larger reward.

A short walk with many stumbles to the train station back to Edinburgh. The heels of your company's shoes clicked against the raised wooden deck parallel to the stone station.

"Thank you both, for your generosity." You gripped at the skirt that fell to the tips of your toes barely covered your Chuck Taylor Converse. Isa smiled gently, holding a worn and broken leather carrying case out to you to take.

"I can't do enough to pay you all back." You made a note to include Isa's mother in the thanks, as she was also indirectly gifting you items.

"Goin' home safe," a large pause entered the conversation following Robert's comment. Isa had earlier explained that her father has a strange and unusual issue with Americans. Especially visiting somewhere like Inverness. "-Is all we can pray for." His voice was genuine, but with a hint of resentment. Not towards you, but aimed at something far larger than you. Robert was odd. Everything is odd. If you were only slightly more deranged, you would be acting just as cold and bitter as he was.

The train whistle was enough to make you jump out of your skin slightly, and the final call for boarding passengers was announced by the conductor.

"Again, thank you both. Your kindness is appreciated more than you can imagine." Taking the bag from Isa's hands, the heft slightly surprised you, but recovered as you walked up the steps to the train. Part of you wanted to stay, see what life you could carve here while trying to get home through the cairn. The other part of you understood that there isn't a choice in going home.

A large smile was across Isa's face when you found her among the scattered people on the raised deck, her father seemed to have already walked away and started on the walk home. A smile and wave and the train chugged into motion, steam flying behind the glass. You catch your reflection briefly. (y/e/c) eyes and an ill greenish grey colour clung to your skin, the grey skies unrelenting in their goal to forbid sunlight from reaching Scotland’s soil. It was pitiful to see yourself like this, a homesick and anxious ache bloomed in your gut. Settling into the steady chugging, the warmth of the shirt on your shoulders, and the steadiness of your seat beneath you was reality enough to coax you into a well deserved sleep.

A clamorous crash awoke you from the short nap your body allowed, the train had stopped, and with it came your carrying case from the weak storage compartment situated above your head. Calming your racing heart, you leaned over to stand and pick the dry leather handle from the floor and returned the hefty item to its previous place. A huff of breath while you fall into your seat, and your pulse finally calms down. You looked out the glass at the yellow train station sign reading the carefully painted words ‘Welcome to Manchester’ slowly.

People filed onto and off of the individual train cars, and soon enough your train car was mostly filled, all except the private aisle you suddenly shared with an older man in a bowler hat and bulky, black overcoat. Scanning him as he took the opposing corner seat in the small room. Everything about this man was understated, his tie held no colour, nor did his vest or suitcoat. The only colour to bespeckle this man was the icy blue of his eyes, weathered by age, and his salt and pepper hair and mustache.

He carried and opened a file of paperwork close to his chest, but sitting across from him it was easy to see that he had no intention of keeping the title private; ‘TOP SECRET, SPECIAL BRANCH, BSA MUNITIONS ROBBERY : PRIME’- Suspects, finishing the sentence you couldn’t read fully. With the amount of heist movies you watched before you were thrown back in time gave you a good inference that this man was police, or whatever British version of the FBI that happened to exist in 1919.

You were shocked the man didn’t seem to acknowledge your existence in the train car, until he swiftly checked to see where your eyes had been trailing and caught you staring directly at the opened folder.

“Has your family yet taught you that staring is quite rude?” A gruff and grumbled voice projected from beneath his bushy mustache. You removed your eyes quickly from the grey-green envelope. He carried the corners back towards each other, closing the file to place it on his lap.

“They did, I apologize.” You moved to turn your body away from him, crossing your left leg over your right to lean against the window, eyes dragging sleepily over the quickly passing trees. You hadn’t even been aware the train had started moving again. Your accent seemed to surprise the man.

“American?” He queried. You nodded, turning your head back to look in his direction. “If I may be so bold and ask, are you traveling to London?”

“Yes, actually. I hope to travel home once I arrive there.” You pondered quickly over the depth of information you wanted to share with the man. “I lost my passport while visiting Inverness, I need to speak to the police in London to figure out how I can get home without it.”

The man’s mustache lifted gently with a slight smile. “Well, I suppose it’s a good thing we met today, my name is Chester Campbell, I’m an Inspector with the Scotland yard. I can get you a travel visa in Birmingham tomorrow, and then the day after you can be on a boat in London sailing back to the states.” He enthusiastically put his hand to his knee, outwardly excited for the upcoming few days. Your warning alarms were blaring in your head, but you doubted this man would let you stray away from the plan he just created.

“May I see your identification?” You hoped he would be too excited to hear in your voice how deeply you distrusted him. “It’s awfully dangerous for a young woman like myself to be traveling with a stranger who can’t prove his identity.” A shy smile lit your face gently, hoping to ease your own tension. He gave off waves of steeled and attuned senses to something. What it was you couldn’t pinpoint, but you could barely manage to stay in the same car with the way your skin suddenly crawled.

“Of course m’lady,” He handed you his badge after drawing it from within his breast pocket on his overcoat. All his information seemed appropriate for a man of his age and stature, and your hackles smoothed down with the small comfort that he was in fact a police officer. “Anything for the comfort of the fairer sex.”

Ew. Forget your skin crawling, you felt violently ill. But he could get you to America sooner. Although, what the hell would be good about being a woman traveling by herself to her nonexistent home in the states? Where would you even go once you got to New York? Dangers lurk around every turn, this Inspector Campbell was proof of this. I can’t give this opportunity away, as much as I dislike him. I might not get another chance to fall into my lap like this. “Thank you, Inspector.” A response finally fell through your teeth as you handed his badge back to him, and he tucked it back into its place within his coat. A tense conversation of small talk filled the remainder of the ride to Birmingham, your trust in him was nonexistent, and the hour and 30 minute ride didn’t improve it.

Stretching your legs from the excruciatingly long train ride was a welcomed feeling, stepping off the train and onto the Birmingham station platform. The sun was setting and you needed a drink. The trunk in your hand bumped your leg as you walked with it, eager to get away from that god forsaken room the Inspector filled with conversation through the entire ride. Swiftly asking those scattered around the buildings surrounding the station, The Garrison seemed to be the only pub within walking distance and price range, and so you started your venture to find food and drink. Your legs carried you away from the station as fast as possible before the Inspector had the chance to corner and engage you in yet another drawn-out commentary on the weather.

The Inspector had also offered to take you out for dinner, but you refused politely as you were collecting your things on the train to leave swiftly. If an hour of his time was grating years off of your life like it seemed to have done, you can’t imagine dinner with him. It might kill you on the spot.

The intricate details on the glass of the front façade gave The Garrison an odd aura that felt so very welcoming and warm, and yet the building itself had a feeling of owning wary and watchful eyes. Pushing through the doors, the rubber of your shoes squealed loudly against the marble flooring, catching the eyes of many of the other patrons through the frosted glass. You paused against the second set of doors to steady yourself and grip the handle of your carrying case before walking directly to the golden bar top and shimmying up onto a stool.

It wasn’t a great bar, in fact it was barely more than four walls, a few windows, and a mountain of liquor. The lighting was dim, keeping the more unseemly stains from the eyes of the customers. The woodworking of the booths behind you was gorgeous, beautiful craftsmanship that was beer spackled and possibly pissed on. The woodwork behind the bar seemed less abused, instead worn and well loved, and before you could admire it any further, the tall bartender asked you for your order.

“What food do you have here?” You asked swiftly, running on fumes and short tempered from the train ride. You, very less than subtly, reached down your shirt to where you had stashed the 20 pounds in your bra. Luckily The Garrison paid no attention, and you were able to order the largest meal the man in front of you could provide: a few slices of sourdough bread, cheese and a small chicken breast with potatoes. Pairing it with a large stein of beer, you were barely awake by last call, nearly asleep on the bar after everyone else had cleared out, except for the strange group of men that had been in and out of the corner room over the course of the night.

“Ma’am, I hate to do this to you, but you can’t sleep at the bar tonight.” The bartender leaned against the golden surface with a rag over his shoulder. God knows what time it was, and there was no possible way of getting you to care.

“Is there anywhere nearby for less than,” You did a quick tally in your mind to count the remaining coins in your pocket. “10 pounds a night?” Lifting your head from the counter to gaze up at the barman.

He sighed above you. “Look, don’t let anyone know about it, and I’ll let you sleep at one of the booths for tonight. You seem like a good enough woman, but tomorrow morning you are done loitering here and you’ll move along.” He bargained, and your heart leapt in your chest at the grace of the cards that have been falling into place around you.

“Thank you so much, sir. I’ll help you open tomorrow morning if that would help at all, I really do mean to earn my keep for tonight.” You suggested, overexcited at the fact you had a place to stay the night. He seemed to chew on the idea in his mind for a moment.

“I don’t see why that wouldn’t work.” He nodded. “The name’s Harry Fenton, I own the Garrison.”

“I’m (y/n),” You smiled slightly. “And I think I will be going to bed now.”

notes pt2. : woooaaah holy crap that was a lot im so sorry for such a long intro chapter but trust itll make sense next chapter :P i legit worked on this chapter for a week and I will try my best to learn how to make a freakin masterlist now that im finally back into writing stuffs :> idk when pt 2 will be out but i can start a tag list if anyone wants to be added

#tommy shelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #Thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x you #thomas shelby x you

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