Tommy-fucking-Shelby.
That was how one usually heard his name, those three words in conjunction.
Tommy-fucking-Shelby.
Never just Shelby. And Tommy very rarely.
His name was said like spitting venom. Like pulling teeth, and she should know. His name was said like gunfire in the night-sudden and startling, all at once and gone.
Tommy-fucking-Shelby.
His name was said like lighting a candle. Like fingertips across bare skin, and oh, didn't she know that. His name was said like slipping into bed-comfortable and relieved, drawn out and languid.
That was how it escaped her lips now:
"Tommy-fucking-Shelby."
His fingers dug into the skin of her back, his breath ghosted across her collarbone. He had been disinterested and unattainable, back before it had even crossed her mind to want to attain him. It was easy to distrust him then, cold from war, ruthless in deed. He was the worst kind of monster. And she couldn't stop wanting him.
By all accounts, it shouldn't have been so difficult. The bastard used her to bargain, thinking she was as easy to buy over as any of Birmingham's whores, slipping her money and thinking it mattered. That her head was full of nothing but pretty dresses and what she could buy with three quid.
But she knew that wasn't true. If he saw her as useful, it wasn't merely as a bargaining chip anymore. He looked into her eyes and saw that she was intelligent and tough and something else-and it was the something else that kept him thinking about her.
She felt it first in the way he kissed her in the church, informing her sternly that his business affairs were illegal, before cupping her face in his hands and pressing his lips to hers uncertainly. She felt it in the way his voice broke on "Do you resign?", expectant disappointment on his breath. Her heart hammered in her chest as she answered him defiantly:
"No."
She felt it in the way he pressed his palms, sticky with blood, to her cheeks, anguish carved into his face like a horrible caricature of the man she had come to know. His voice strained as he asked, "Why did you shoot?" But he didn't really need to know, because the warmth of her body wrapped in his arms was enough for the both of them. Something had come over both of them that night, monsters making themselves known. Her ears still rang with the shots, and her hands still shook with the knowledge that he had bludgeoned a man to death to protect her.
He was an enigma of danger and vulnerability.
His skin against hers was somehow both as his fingers explored every inch of her skin. It was a long while before they both fell still, they laid there in silence until she was sure he had fallen asleep. It was only then that she worked up enough courage to run her fingers through his dark hair, though she hadn't been nearly so timid earlier.
Something about this moment reminded her inexplicably of the night he had come in to the Garrison, worry on his face, but not enough trust in his heart yet. That night, he had asked her to sing something sad.
"Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, which I gaze on so fondly today," she sang softly, her fingers still working through his hair.
"Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms, like fairy gifts fading away. Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art, let thy loveliness fade as it will and around the dear ruin each wish of my heart would entwine itself verdantly still." Her voice carried through the candlelit room, and she heard the fondness echoing against the walls. It wasn't as terrifying to let go as she thought it would be, lying next to Tommy-fucking-Shelby naked and singing to his sleeping form.
And then suddenly he wasn't sleeping anymore. His blue eyes bored into her own and her song faltered and faded.
"Don't stop on my account," he told her, the sleep in his voice making her heart beat wildly. He continued to stare at her, waiting expectantly for her finish. Hesitantly, she picked up her song again, unable to look away from him, unable to take her hand from his hair, though she couldn't make herself move.
Finally, her song came to a close and no sooner had it finished than her lips were covered by his.
Tommy-fucking-Shelby.
"And what brought this on?" He asked as they separated.
"Before, you told me to sing and I asked, happy or sad. Last time was sad. This time it's happy." She explained.
He murmured his understanding, a small noise from the back of his throat. Pulling her closer, he placed his chin on her head and she nuzzled her face into the arch of his neck.
"Happy," he repeated, a note of disbelief in his voice. "Yes, I suppose it is."
And they stayed that way, happy, until he donned his trousers, his jacket, his shoes. They stayed that way, until Tommy-fucking-Shelby walked out her door, pausing to look back once before disappearing into the predawn light—
Tommy-fucking-Shelby, the bastard leader of the Peaky Blinders.
I'm not sure if I want to continue this or not. I already have a bit of the next part planned out, but I don't know if it will get written down, or if there's plot for it to go anywhere. I suppose I'll wait for some feedback, cause I looked at the section of FF for Peaky Blinders, and there's only about 7 things written. So please, if you like it, let me know!