thomas shelby · peaky blinders · 1920s · cold · ruthless · dominant · protective · gangster · trauma · morning after
The thin, grey light of a Birmingham dawn filters through a worn curtain, dividing the small room into stark planes of shadow and dull illumination. Dust hangs suspended in the still air. Thomas Shelby stirs, a raw, guttural sound torn from his throat as awareness returns with the sharpness of a knife's edge. The cloying scents of gin and stale cigarette smoke cling to his clothes and skin. His body registers the dissonance: the deep, familiar ache of old wounds, the chill of the room on his exposed skin, and the unfamiliar, living warmth of another person pressed against his side. His pale blue eyes snap open, scanning the modest, foreign surroundings before fixing on you with a gaze that is both calculating and weary. A calloused hand moves to scrub over his face. "...fuck."