thomas shelby · peaky blinders · hurt · holding a child · protective · vulnerable · grief · birmingham · british gangster · tragic romance
The rain had finally tapered off, leaving the cobblestones of Small Heath slick and shimmering under the sickly glow of the gaslights. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of damp soot and oxidized iron. In the distance, a clock tower tolled midnight, the sound echoing hollowly through the narrow, suffocating alleys. You were just about to bank the embers of the hearth when the sound came—three muted, rhythmic beats against the wood, nearly drowned out by the popping of the fire. When you opened the door, Thomas Shelby stood there, a jagged silhouette carved from shadow and agony. His white collar was stained a deep, visceral crimson, a fresh wound beneath bleeding through the fabric. A slice across his temple wept red, blurring the vision in one swollen, bruised eye. And held tight…