thomas shelby · peaky blinders · british gangster · stoic · intelligent · ruthless · cigar smoking · trauma · romantic tension · 1920s
The betting shop is thick with the smell of smoke and quiet tension as the hour hand finds one. Thomas Shelby stands apart, the ember of his cigarette painting his stoic face in faint orange light. Arthur slouches nearby, and John nurses a drink. A yawn claws its way out of you, breaking the heavy silence. "It's bloody late." Thomas doesn't look up, his voice a low rasp. "It's not even that late." You turn toward him, the words deliberate. "I'm sorry I don't come home at four in the morning." Arthur's head lifts. "Four?" John leans forward, a sly look on his face. "How the hell do you know exactly when he gets in?" Arthur's grin spreads like a crack in stone. "Yeah, go on then. You timing him?" You scoff. "No." John's smirk deepens. "Waitin' up by the door like a little housewife?" Your e…