#peakyblinder

he's holding her close. arms wound tight around her frame, pulling her so close she swears she can feel fear in his bones. the fear he won't speak of out loud, the kind that inevitably wears him down over time. unspoken and impenetrable. it's there, always there. she's attuned to it by now. although she can't help but wonder, what could've happened this time? what has shaken him so violently?

her arms wrap around him in return. they always do. she lets out the breath she'd been holding in, tension seeping out of her body with it. she needed this too. ❝ i'm here ... ❞ sometimes she has to remind him. she's here, she's real. i'm right here. i've always been right here.

she doesn't let go. she only hugs him tighter.

' i don't know where ya ' goons get off chasin a girl like that but I ain't steal nothin , hell where would I even put it! ! ' she puts on the defensive front right off the bat ( definitely not shoved in with the wiring that peeks out of her side bag. ) , weak enough for them to stay in one place , & tired of running , that didn't mean cherri was going to back off of fighting.

' guy ain't even know what day it is , and he thinks, someone like me is capable of stealin ? he's delusional , better get his head checked. '

STARTER // @peakyblinder

Beware of Thomas Shelby. Anyone with even their littlest toe in the criminal underworld of Birmingham whispered those words. And from what Mathilde had heard, they were right to tremble in fear for this man. Fear wasn't something Mathilde did, not anymore. No matter how violent or depraved, she had seen and done too much to shiver at the sight of a man.

@peakyblinder sent ... [ GUIDE ] : in the process of guiding the receiver through a crowded place, the sender’s hand protectively grazes against the small of their back

𝐈𝐓'𝐒  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐆𝐔𝐍𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓  𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒  𝐈𝐓.  That's all it takes in crowded clubs  —one good crack of metal bullet,  the scent of hot gunpowder and blood quick to follow  —and the rest is chaos,  as if the earth beneath the ballroom were on fire.  Band's gone backstage and cleared out,  and the building sound of hysteria is filling the once-revelrous joint.  Madonna is as ill-prepared as anyone else  —though,  unlike everyone else,  she weighs against the fast-growing hysteria of a crowd attempting to push and shove their way out of the club's only exit.  Madonna feels the squeeze of the crowd  —men handsome,  redfaced with panic  —doll-eyed women with lovely hats and looks of terror on their faces.  Death-chased.  They're all running away from the sound of the consequential scuffle  —the sound of smashing chairs,  men bellowing,  glass cracking bone.  

She could not account for it,  just as she could not account for Tommy right now  —black eyes fervently scanning the crowd she tries to push through,  the blur of the brawl that she can catch in bursts from amid the chaos until it abruptly stops.  Her steady heart is racing in its own swell of budding panic.  Still,  the crowd squeezes.  She pauses her swim upstream.  There is no sign of him.  That bastard,  she seethes,  agitation increasing with every push of the crowd.  He disappears,  a fight breaks out. And here I am!  That bastard.

It's then that she feels the deliberate press of a hand at the small of her back  —not a push or squeeze from the rush of people,  but a guiding touch  —and she's looking over her shoulder to catch him.  Tommy.  Blood on his white collar,  his dark hair tousled in a way that pleases her,  his pale eyes full of violent light.  Her heart quickens.  She is undeniably pleased to see him.  Relieved.  This is frustrating.  Madonna's breath catches in her throat,  full mouth parting in surprise before drawing thin  —unreadable,  as if she regretted the pleasure that burns in her dark eyes. That she should be so glad for his touch, that it should make her feel safer. What an impossibly illogical conundrum.

❛ i’m here to drink alone. ❜

"Yea, I can tell."

Considering either most simply didn't want to sit at the bar, or they were all too worried of remotely sitting near the other - something she doesn't seem to care too much for, considering she's taken the seat next to him, with just enough gap so they weren't shoulder to shoulder.

"-If you don't mind me saying, you look like you've gotten in a fight recently. . ."

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 . @peakyblinder : ❛ 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗 ' 𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚒𝚏 𝚠𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 ? ❜

𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐔𝐌𝐄 . a scent that had become familiar whenever time was shared , even years ago ( a time that seemed like a long lost dream ) . there was little affection for delving in what ifs , for fantasizing about withered opportunities . reality was rarely of a kind nature and neither was thomas shelby . what was the point in digging up old wounds , picking on poorly healed flesh ? ? a sigh leaves red lips as the younger woman wraps her coat back around her shoulders - to at least protect herself from the biting cold that would await outside their previously shared room . ❝ awful . ❞ , amelia repeats with a low voice , almost as if she was gauging the meaning behind his words .

there is always a meaning to what he says , so she thinks . calculating in each and every step , choosing every word with the mind of a chess player planning his next move . there must be more to their scandalous affair than reviving nostalgia . ❝ i was not aware that your feelings towards me were ever that deep . ❞ there is no spite in what the noble says , but rather the knowledge that this man only ever cared for one woman ( and that was , to her experience , not amelia ) .

@peakyblinder asked: no task is beneath you.

" you're right. and god knows, mr. shelby, i've enough blood on my hands to know this task is no worse than any i've done before. " yet, that's not the point. is it? not when she's the cause of many a heartache back home, and many more in this part of the world. but something shifts within her. something threatens to snap and yield no more. from where she sits in front of his desk, she feels none of the smallness she used to feel in his presence. certainly, he still frightens her. there's not a soul alive able to say anything different. but at those five words and the flood of memories they unlock, she finds the volume drowning out the urge to bow her head, apologize meekly, and shuffle away to complete this job.

she still might. most likely. almost definitely. but studying her hands reminds her of the dozen mugs of tea she poured last night, and the eleven faces grinning around the table as they enjoyed them. eleven people she'll do this task for. eleven people she'll dare to say no for.

" i suppose... i find myself questioning if there's a limit, of late. a certain line that we can't cross, but happen to be facing. how many tasks? how many before someone decides to put a stop to it? i'm not sure if i could claim myself to be a religious woman. i know for a fact that there's no task, no element that can be beneath me. but i do wonder... what sort of legacy am i really leaving behind for my kids when i keep doing these things? what message do i send? will they grow up and think these things are okay? that they're tolerable? we do things that can't be defined in terms of morality, mr. shelby, but for our children. for those that come after we go. but there is a line, i think. " her eyes close. bitten nails soften the fists that ball up in her apron pockets.