The Eden Club

[birdofdoom]

Hey! Are u going to do a 4th part to cinderella?

Hey, I've been inactive for a long time because of health concerns, but I'll be back soon. Keep a look out for Cinderella part 4 soon. :)

[birdofdoom]

[birdofdoom]

Partners pt.2

Hey, everyone, it’s finally here! I’m so sorry for the delay. As always, I am really trying to improve and would be incredibly grateful for feedback and criticism. Also, I hope it fulfills expectations. Requests are open. I’ll be posting two more completed requests this weekend.

To give a quick synopsis, the reader and Tommy are married however at the reader’s birthday party Tatiana flirts with Tommy. A huge fight ensues causing the reader to ask for a divorce. This picks up as soon as the last one lets off.

Her feet were sore. The thrum of the party and the laughter and joyous music fell flat. She was angry and repulsed and tired. The stale smell of smoke was suffocating. Her body was hot from yelling; tears and sweat staining her gown. The warm breezes in the spring night made her hair stick to the back of her neck. Her makeup was smeared. All she had wanted was one night to be her own; one night of frivolity and happiness. She wanted a night where she could silence the screams of bad memories and assuage the guilt of future sins she knew would be committed in her husband’s name. She needed to distance herself from Tommy. The small balcony was stifling and she couldn’t bare the sight of him. 

His entitlement and vindictively withholding nature had taken its toll. She found him repugnant. His stare was vacant, still reeling from the bombshell she had dropped moments before. With an exasperated sigh, [Y/N] opened the glass French doors into their home. She felt compelled to flee; disgusted by the people she called her family. She wanted out. She found an opened bottle of gin and took it under her arm as an old friend. She kicked off her imported Italian heels, no longer taken with their beauty and relieved to be free of their bite. As they clamored against the parquet floor, she made her way to the stables. [Y/N] was comfortable disappearing into the night. She had enough of fighting. She was tired of trying and found relief in her loneliness. Even as the guest of honor, she wasn’t really missed. No one had noticed she wasn’t there, save Tommy. She was certain that if her disappearance were prolonged indefinitely, no one would care, not even him. She figured that he saw her as a thing to be possessed. An object subject to his avarice and sexual wants, and like all objects she was replaceable. She was almost certain he was incapable of love; just greed and consumption. He was a pit; an empty abyss that took and took and took. And in turn, she gave and gave and gave, but she had nothing left to give. Her trust was spent, her patience gone, and her forgiveness bone bare. She was worn out. However, in spite of his all-consuming nature, she couldn’t quash her love for him. She couldn’t erase the years of friendship and otherworldly bond that she felt connected the two of them. She couldn’t stymie the way he made her feel. He kissed like the autumn wind and smiled the way toffee apples tasted.  But recently, that shine and sweetness had faded.   

The piney taste of gin bit at her throat and kissed a deeper flush into her chest and ears. She knew that she could find camaraderie and solace in the eyes of the horses. The stables smelled of shit and fresh hay but made her feel at peace all the same. It was comforting and familiar. There was something lovingly nostalgic about the scent. She tried to push the thought of Thomas from her mind. She found her way to the furthest stall to the left. Leaning against a thick wood post, [Y/N] stared at her favorite horse. She was a beautiful mahogany bay; a Chickasaw pony. Fast and wily by nature, [Y/N] saw the horse as a kindred spirit. She ran her fingers through the horse’s tousled mane, pressing her forehead against the mare’s. Time passed. [Y/N] drank more gin. Tears stung the corners of her eyes, a fresh batch rolling down her cheeks. She nervously bit and picked at a hangnail that her manicurist had neglected earlier in the week. Her mind wandered, fixating on anxious whimsy. The night slogged on. [Y/N] smoked a tin full of cigarettes. She drank more gin. An eternity was resting in this single night. She sighed. As [Y/N] fell ever deeper into a chasm of self-pity, she felt an unspoken conversation unfold between her and the cosmos. She drank more gin. 

The bottle was three-quarters spent. Car engines roared in the distance and the faint hum of music had died down ages ago. The party, her party, was over. [Y/N] was emotionally raw and tired. The hay poked through her silk stockings and itched. The horses slept, unbothered by her presence. She was cold and sore. Alone. She wanted to be in bed. She wanted to be warm and bundled in their soft sheets, held tightly by the man she loved. Regret was gnawing at her stomach. She knew her outburst was rash and juvenile, but her pain was sincere. [Y/N] still held firm in her belief that she was entitled to business dealings as an equal partner. Moreover, she needed trust from Tommy, especially as his wife. With time and gin, [Y/N] found a sense of clarity. She knew that Tommy wasn’t cheating, but it didn’t erase the fact that he was keeping things from her. In a moment of weakness and self-loathing, she lashed out. She felt that faith in each other was foundational to their relationship, and if he didn’t trust her with the business, he didn’t trust her as his wife. The thought cut.

She stumbled, slowly gaining her bearings as she rose from the hay. She made her way clumsily from the stables to the grounds. The grass was plush and cool under her stocking feet. Slipping in through the service entrance, she tried unsuccessfully to go unnoticed. Within seconds she was spotted by a rosy-faced Arthur, eyebrows knitted in obvious concern. 

“Where in the hell have you been? Tommy’s got the lot of us out looking for you! He’s worried.” His tone was angry but laced with genuine concern. It was reminiscent of a scolding father or doting older brother. 

“Well congratulations, lucky contestant, you’re the fucking winner of the night!” Her sarcasm was biting, but involuntary in her drunken stupor. 

“You know how he is.”

“No, not anymore. He’s changed. Keeps things.”

“Well, not everything’s his to give.” She looked up at the eldest of the Shelby brothers, with surprise. She wasn’t used to Arthur being a voice of reason or wisdom. “He carries the world for us. Makes him sore. Makes him mean. But it’s for us. Some secrets aren’t his to tell. Some business isn’t right for others to know about. Let us carry this burden. It isn’t for you to know.” He lifted his cap, running his fingers through his slicked back hair.

“Wait a tick, so you fucking know? Christ’s sake! Fucking Arthur!”

“What’s that ‘sposed to mean? I’m his fucking brother! You’re not even blood! Blood’s thicker than water, eh!”

“I’m his wife. I’ve sacrificed more than you can ever know for him and for this business. Hell, if it’s blood you want, I’ve spilled more than my share for this family.” Her voice was chilling and flat, resolute in its violence. Arthur felt a strange kinship in their mutual shame. 

“Then you already know that you’re in too deep. Those were choices you made. You make peace with that. That’s not on us.”

“Jesus, nothing ever is, is it? Not a single person in this family understands culpability. You all just fucking point the finger like a load of nine-year-olds. I take full responsibility for the evil that I’ve done. I just want you to acknowledge that I did those things for this family as a member of this family, regardless of blood. If I can be an adult so can all of you. Own up to your goddamn sins. That’s all I want.”

“If it’s a confession you want, Thomas is not the one to give it. Bullheaded, that one.”

“Which one of you isn’t?” He snorted through his cigar, the pulp and paper singeing.

“Finn?”

“Give him time.” She took a deep swig from the gin.

“Look, you’d better come with me. He wants to see you and the sooner the better. I don’t want him losing it.”

“Did you just try to tell me what to do in my own home? The fucking nerve. I’m not following you. I’m going to bed. Fuck Tommy. Fuck the business. Fuck this family and frankly, Arthur, fuck you too for good measure.” [Y/N] was feeling quite smug and proud of her rebellious diatribe. However, her small victory was short lived. She had no sooner finished her rant then she promptly vomited.

“Right, let’s get you to bed.”

“That was awful, I’m so sorry… I-”

“Let’s just let one of the maids worry about it. That’s what there here for. Right, up we get,” Arthur looped her arm over his shoulders, serving as a walking crutch. They made their way up the service staircase and into her bedroom. Arthur left her to her own devices, making his way to meet Tommy in the mahogany-encased office.

Arthur entered the study with apprehension. He didn’t want Tommy to be cross but knew he was likely to lash out after being snubbed by the woman he loved. Thomas was pensively staring off into space, absentmindedly swirling whiskey in its tumbler. 

“She’s up in your room. Been nursing a bottle of gin for a better part of the night. She’s pretty out of it.”

“Is she alright?” Thomas tried in vain to mask the pained waver in his voice.

“She’s just drunk. Let her sleep it off, Tom. You know how women are, jealous. Everything will be right in the morning.” Tommy downed the rest of the whiskey and shook his head. 

“No, I don’t think it will. I need to set things right.” He made his way up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time and lighting a cigarette with ease. He opened the door expecting her to be asleep in bed and was confused to find the room empty. He was gripped with the fear that she had left again, but was quickly reassured by the sound of the faucet in the en suite. 

“We need to talk. I’m sorry.” He barely whispered. She wiped a cool wet washcloth across her face in an attempt to center herself in the spinning room.

“If you were sorry, you’d be honest.” He shook his head, tendrils of smoke framing his face. He ran his free hand against his forehead in annoyance.

“I never lied.”

“You don’t have to lie to be dishonest.” The words hung in her throat, bile clinging to each consonant.

“Why do you get to make the rules? So fucking high and mighty. You’re entitled, and expect me to deliver the world. The world isn’t yours for the taking.” He sneered, rolling the smoke between his lips.

“I make the rules for myself. The rules stipulate if I leave or stay. If you can’t be honest with me, I leave. You owe me that.”

“I don’t owe you a damn thing!” he hissed at her condescension. 

“Fine, then I’ll be gone in the morning. I can’t keep fighting you, Thomas. I’m tired. I’ve been patient for as long as I can but I’m bushed… I just can’t.” She frowned, her regret plain as day. Tommy fought the fresh burn of tears. “You have a choice, Tommy. Regardless, know that I love you, always.” She draped the wet towel on the sink with a sense of finality. Her bare feet padded across the cool tile toward the door. 

“It’s the Russians,” he blurted, stopping her mid-step before she could cross both the literal and metaphorical threshold. 

“We’ll I could fucking tell that.” She turned to meet his face. He huffed out spires of smoke, irritated with her impatience. 

“We have a deal. One of the stipulations of that deal is a need-to-know standing. As in, only people they deem fit get to know. That wasn’t my call.”

“They’re okay with fucking Arthur? Seriously?”

“This is heavy shit. It isn’t safe to involve you. I want you to stick to legitimate business from here on in. You can’t handle this.”

“Oh, and our other ventures have been strictly upstanding?”

“It’s war business.” His voice was hushed, shrouded with shame.

“What are you on about?”

“I mean guns and tanks and outfitting soldiers for a revolution.”

“Christ Thomas.” She clasped her hands to her mouth. “I thought you promised. No, I know that you promised. We were leaving the war in the mud. You can play gangster as long as you tell the government to right fuck off, but you’ve brought the bloody front to our home. You’re a fucking cog in the military machine.”

“It isn’t like that. I -”

“No, it fucking is. You swore to me that when you threw your medals into the cut it was to spite the notion of the whole useless war, to say ‘fuck you’ to the king.”

“This wasn’t my choice.”

“What the hell does that mean? There’s always a choice. You have agency!”

“When the Home Office comes knocking, you can’t say no. They would have hurt us, hurt the family. I’d rather have a war going on over there, than have some state-led vendetta against us here. We can’t run away from them.” She fell silent, struggling in her gin drowned lethargy to understand.

“So you’re helping the Whites in Georgia?”

“Yes, although I’m not actually at liberty to say.” She smirked at his playful tone, in spite of herself.

“That doesn’t mean that I forgive you.”

“Christ, what is there to forgive? I’m not sleeping with the Russian. It’s part of the plan I just told you about, and you know I’ve been shanghaied into doing it. What possibly could I need to apologize for?”

“Well for one, you’ve been dishonest. Secondly, you haven’t thought of a plan out of this mess with the Russians. Thirdly, I’m the best fucking thing to ever happen to you Thomas Shelby, and I think you’ve forgotten that because you haven’t been treating me right.” He smirked at the slight slur in her words and deep flush in her cheeks. She was strong and defiant even as a drunken idiot and he found it earnestly endearing. 

“You’re right, Mrs. Shelby. I’m very sorry.” He walked toward her, his oxfords making a rounded clack against the bathroom tile. He cupped her cheek, and drew in close, hovering at her lips and waiting for approval. She stood, lifting up on her bare tiptoes, kissing him with an omnipotent intimacy. “If you still want a divorce, I’ll respect that, but I quite love you as Mrs. Shelby.”

“I love being Mrs. Shelby too, just promise me, Thomas, that you won’t shut me out again.”

“Of course. After all, we’re partners.”    

[littleweasley]

MANCHESTER ARENA EXPLOSION - PLEASE SIGNAL BOOST

If you or anyone you know might be stranded in Manchester after tonight’s explosion, taxies in the centre of the city are offering free rides home

The Holiday Inn are currently looking after dozens of stranded children unable to contact their parents, please call 0161 836 9600

Anyone in need of a room or a lift home, please check the #roomformanchester tag on twitter and other social medias. Various other people are offering rooms online. x x

PLEASE ONLY CONTACT THE AMBULANCE SERVICE IF YOU ARE IN A LIFE THREATENING SITUATION

Central Manchester is apparently on lockdown so please do not visit the city centre, remain on the outskirts and at a distance from the Arena

PLEASE DO NOT POST/SHARE IMAGES OR VIDEOS OF THE INJURED OR DECEASED VICTIMS OF THE EXPLOSION

[birdofdoom]

I’m not dead; just very ill

Hi everyone, I just wanted to say thank you for being so awesome and patient with me. I know that I haven’t posted in quite a while, but I haven’t been well at all. I’ve been really struggling with my health. Balancing doctor’s appointments with work/school has been really difficult, as of late and as a result, I’ve had to put writing on hold. Partners pt. 2 will be out on Tuesday and I have a Tommy and a John request that I’m wrapping up. I’m really sorry for people who have put in requests. I really hope that I’ve turned a corner and am on the mend, but I’ll keep you posted. Cheers! 

[birdofdoom]

[birdofdoom]

Persephone

The poster asked for a fic in which Anna actually lived. They wanted to know what the interaction between Anna, Michael, and Polly would look like. In this chapter, Michael and Anna meet for the first time. They’ll meet Polly in Chapter 2. I had a lot of ideas so it was hard to do a one shot. I’m sorry I have so many ongoing projects. I hope it meets expectations if not just send some feedback and I’d be happy to rewrite it.

PS I am so so so sorry that I’ve taken so long to post. I’ve been pretty ill for the past couple of weeks and it all came to a head last week so I’ve been working on recovering. I’m sorry for the delay and thank you for being patient. I hope you enjoy it. Cheers.

The summer air was sweet. Heather and hollyhock wafted in the wind. Henry was stretched out beneath a lonesome oak tree in the center of a grassy hill. The tree was a remnant of antiquity, gray and gnarled with time. It stood tall creating a massive umbrella of shade, sunshine dappling the young man’s face. The saccharine sting in the air made Henry tired. He could feel his eyelids grow heavy as he drifted in and out of daydreams. The languid afternoon was soon broken. Noxious gasoline fumes and the roar of a car engine ripped through the quiet country town. The beast of a machine belched an air of foreboding, smothering the remnants of freshness in the breeze. Henry propped himself on his forearms to better see the interloper. The car had pulled off on a lane that led to Henry’s knoll. The driver cut the engine. A renewed silence fell over the meadow in a heavy shroud. He watched suspiciously as a man and young girl climbed out of the vehicle and began to make their way to his ancient tree. As the pair approached, Henry stood to meet them and saw the slightest look of recognition in the man’s shrewd gaze. The girl remained ten paces behind, too shy or too cautious to keep pace.   

“How old are you, lad?” Tobacco smoke poured from his mouth as he spoke.

“Seventeen, eighteen in a few weeks time. Why?”

“Do live with a Mrs. Johnson? You go by Henry?”

“Yeah? Can I help you? Why do you ask?”  

There was a pause and Henry could feel anticipation and tension grow. The man inhaled from his cigarette and oozed a sense of cool. The visitors were a welcome distraction in Henry’s dull life. However, the oddity of the man’s questions charged the air with disagreeable intrigue. Henry could feel his cheeks grow red with self-awareness as the man stared at him in appraisal. The silence was long and hung thick in the summer heat. 

“You taken by the Parish?” The man’s words were acrid and blunt.

“What of it? That isn’t any of your concern.” 

“That a ‘yes’?”

Henry felt shame and hurt well in his stomach. Words sunk like lead in his throat. He managed a meek nod.

“Good, lad. I’m round asking because, like you said, you’ll be a man soon. Eighteen. Therefore, it’s your right to know your family and where you come from. I’m here to ensure that right is protected. My name’s Thomas, I’m your cousin. Your mother, Elizabeth Gray, sent me.  She just wants to talk Michael.” Henry quirked his head with suspicion, the name making an intimate moment feel strange. “That’s your real name, Michael Gray, not Henry Johnson. Your sister,” he turned, glancing over his shoulder and gesturing to the small girl, “is on her way to meet your mother now. You have a home with them, if you so choose. Take some time and think on it, Michael. Here,” he handed Henry a small card with a name and address. “You can find them there.” 

Henry couldn’t bring himself to be so blindly accepting. The man ensured that ‘Michael,’ was his true name, but the designation felt melancholic in Henry’s mouth. As he wrapped his mind around the cadence of the syllables, it reminded him of loss. It sat in his mind; alien, unnerving, like an old friend that had grown distant with time. Henry yearned to be reunited with his real family, but distrust chilled any hope at gayety. He needed evidence to know if this girl was his sister and if his birthmother still lived. He needed proof. His eyes were interrogating. The sun stung Henry’s eyes and he squinted to see the girl, sweat prickling at his neck. She had since moved forward to stand at the man’s side.

Her hair was laid into plaits, forming twin sheaves of golden wheat at her shoulders. Like her brother, her eyes seemed to glow with a brilliant celadon sheen. She had that thousand mile stare that ripped through time and space; the kind of look one develops when they’ve seen too much too young. Refugee eyes. Survivor eyes. It was a knowing look, the kind of look that cut through bullshit and silenced emotion. She didn’t seem to see much of anything; rather she just looked past it, through it. Although four years his junior her stare was ancient. He felt exposed and pinned down under her faded jade eyes. They mirrored back to him an imagined understanding of what his father must have looked like. Somewhere deep in that knowing gaze was the galaxy: an abyss of apathy and indifference that revealed her lack of innocence. The kid had seen some shit, and her stoicism showed it. 

Her somber eyes and smooth face were off-putting and unnerving. Her jaw was round and cherubic but her cheeks were gaunt; the jolliness of youth drained by hunger and illness. Her shoes were old and the soles had long since lost their glue; hanging precariously to the leather tops by a few shabby threads. Her dress was well worn. The matching jumper had mismatched patches at the elbow and hem where it had undoubtedly frayed with wear. She was short, but long limbed and gangly thin. He found her to be oddly reminiscent of a rag doll or a marionette with cut strings. She stood, chaos and rapture held at bay behind her silence. 

The omen of a man that brought her to Henry held similar power in his gaze. He was wealthy, as evidenced by the automobile and gold pocket watch. Henry found the man to be reminiscent of Death, handsome and villainous. The man with the posh car walked forward; smoke curling out of his nostrils. Everything about his presence read as sharp. He looked to be more serpent than man. His jaw was chiseled and smooth marble; eyes cerulean and frigid. The dragon wore a smart suit and a peaked cap. He looked beautiful and lethal, otherworldly. As he took an exceptionally long drag from his cigarette, he scanned the two children. Evaluating. Judging. Calculating. Henry could feel his gut turn. He was fascinated and frightened by the two ethereal terrors before him. Both the man and young girl were leviathans wrapped in beautiful faces; devilment only visible in their eyes. He could make out a possible ghost of kinship between the two. However, where her eyes held an opacity of emptiness, his held an icy fire, intense and electrically alive.

Taking another drag, the stranger pulled his hand from his pocket, reaching to hold the girl’s. His hands were scarred and rough but held hers with a tender softness.

“What do you say? He look up to snuff to be your brother?” his voice was smooth and playful, lightening the mood.

“I wouldn’t know, Tommy.” Her voice was like river-glass. 

Henry laughed nervously, realizing he wouldn’t either. He had memories, or rather shadows of memories, of the life he lived before. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Henry reached out his hand to shake hers. Her eyes narrowed.

“I’m sure it is.” The smoking man smirked at her reply. There was an edge in her tone that mirrored the man’s. She was quick-witted and her tongue sharp. “So this is what you got? A fucking home in the country?” Henry could practically taste the bitterness in her tone. “How long?”

“How long what?”

“How long were you a ward of the Parish? How long did you live with the Fathers? Even make it to the workhouse? Nah, I bet they took you in right away to this lovely, house in the country. Isn’t that right, Henry?” Her voice lingered on his name as an accusation, an insult to who he had become.

“It was little over two years.” He could feel the color drain from his face, a wave of nausea ebbing and tainted memories flowing. She nodded in silent agreement. She knew his pain. Henry couldn’t bring himself to imagine how time compounded her experience and trauma. He could feel himself fall into the well of shame and self-loathing that those vile memories slept in. He bit at the inside of his mouth in an attempt to stave off the embarrassment of tears. The girl reached into the pocket of her jumper retrieving a chocolate bar. She unwrapped it with precision and care, looking upon it with reverence. Henry could see that this treat was a treasure, something that she had been saving and protecting. She split the bar into three equal shares, handing one each to the men.

“To coming home.” She lifted the sweet in a mock toast and began eating. Thomas chuckled, halving his own chocolate then handing the pieces to the children. 

“Not one for sweets,” he soothed as tendrils of smoke danced in the still summer air.

Henry was grateful for the chocolate, but even more so for the understanding and care from apparent strangers. They both felt so wraithlike, so terrifying, and yet so nostalgic. The girl knew his secret. She had lived that secret. In their common suffering, she offered him an unspoken sympathy. Tommy checked his pocket watch and turned to face the girl.  

“Right. Into the car.”  He exhaled smoke into the command and it burned sweetly with his rough tambour. The girl walked robotically into the backseat.

“Goodbye then, Anna.” Her head lifted. She slowly turned to catch his gaze. As tears began to roll quietly down her hollowed cheeks, she formed a soft crooked smile in turn. Henry felt his heart soar and sing at her beaming face, surprised at the name tumbling from his tongue. The way her lips hooked slyly to the right mirrored his own. 

“I never said my name was Anna.” Her eyes had turned sharp, taking on the fire and conviction that Henry had seen in Thomas’ gaze. Hope kissed the corners of her cheeks as her smile broadened. In that moment he knew that she was indeed his sister. Something visceral and primal called out. The connection of kinship.

“Come on Michael, it’s just a chat.”

“Alright. Just so long as I’m back by sundown.”

[birdofdoom]

Hi everyone, I’ve received some pretty bad news today, so I’ll be away from Tumblr for a while. Sorry.

[birdofdoom]

Like mother, like son...

[birdofdoom]

I think that the parallels between Michael and Tommy are really interesting, especially in S3. For example, when Tommy and Pol are talking about Michael killing Hughes, Tommy explains that if Michael isn’t the one to pull the trigger a part of him will die with Hughes. This comment is interesting to me because Tommy missed out on wreaking vengeance against the man responsible for Grace’s death twice. Initially, the assasin is beaten to death by Finn, John, and Arthur and then later his attempts at hyperviolence and torture are cut short. Arthur steps in and essentially ‘saves’ Tommy from doing something extremely heinous in an attempt to preserve his humanity. However, in that conversation he has with Polly, we see that in saving one part of Tommy, Aruthur inadvertedly let another part of him parish. He can’t accept Grace’s death and has some intense residual emotional issues. This sets Michael and Tommy up in very similar, but oposing camps for S4. We see in S3 E6 that Michael looks pretty fucked up post-murder, but we don’t really know how he is coping. He seems fine at the final family meeting which interestingly mirrors Polly in S2 with Campbell.  

Anyway, TLDR, Michael and Tommy are interesting to compare and I hope they get their shit straight in S4. 

[stevenknightdrownedmyship]

“By order…” (via Paul Anderson’s instagram)

[birdofdoom]

I cannot be the only person that thinks this man looks like a fucking muppet... In all honesty, it makes me love him more.

[birdofdoom]

This little shit...

[birdofdoom]

Cinderella Pt. 3

This is part three of the Cinderella fic in which the Reader and Michael meet in the Eden Club to a rocky start. He’s just walked her home and she’s inviting him up for tea.

I know I’m a bit behind on things, but I’ve been quite ill as of late so I’m struggling to keep up. Again, I welcome feedback and would love any and all criticism because I want to get better at writing. I hope you enjoy. Cheers!

Michael x Reader

The apartment offered a welcome relief from the wintery night air. Michael stepped from the stoop into the narrow foyer of the brownstone. [Y/N] closed the door to the main entryway and gestured to the creaky stairs on his left. He climbed them slowly, allowing his body to acclimate to the heat.

“My flat’s letter ‘C’ it’s at the end of the hall to the right.” 

“Right,” his voice was soft, almost anemic. He had ventured into many a bedroom with women of all sorts with little hesitation, but now he could feel his heart race with worry. Embarrassment was kissing a warm flush into his cheeks. It wouldn’t be the first time he had gone home with a girl without knowing her name, but now he felt a sense of shame about it. Somehow in her quaint little brownstone, in her reserved blue dress, being alone together read as scandalous. He felt self-conscious of all his past escapades, now wondering if they were all indecent or if he was overthinking his current venture.  He mustered all his self-control, pushing perverse and scintillating thoughts from his mind. Michael took a deep breath, reminding himself that he had only been invited for tea, and that’s all he would stay for. After all, if she was Cinderella, it was his duty to play Prince Charming.

She laughed and Michael was pulled from his intense thought.

“Hmm?” he questioned, turning to face her.

“I need to get by. I have the key. Unless you want to will it to open on your own, Houdini.”

“Oh right,” he blushed more deeply, wondering how long he had been absentmindedly staring at the knob. She placed her hand on his bicep, gently leading him out of the way so she could make a path to the entrance. The touch was light, but he could feel blood rush to the spot, yearning for more. After fidgeting with the key in the lock, the door opened with a droning creak. She smiled and moved knowingly into the dark room. Somewhere along the wall, she reached for a switch and a lamp awakened, spreading a warm yellow glow over the flat. It was a small but charming studio. The sole window was large and leaded and hung like a painting on the east wall. Her kitchen was cramped and well used, pots and pans hung precariously from the ceiling to save space. Next to the radiator were two small mismatched armchairs and a sizable trunk, which she had repurposed into a table, complete with a white doily. Her bed was small, but neatly made, a hand-sewn quilt and crocheted duvet were folded tidily at its foot.

Michael smiled to himself. The petite flat felt like more than a place to live. She had made it a home. It smelled of cinnamon and tea and cigarettes. Books and journals were filed against the east wall, framing the window. Several more stood in a stack by the bed. As he took in the warmth of her flat, he knew it helped reveal who she was. He felt at ease in the kind lamplight, among volumes of knowledge and in the company of a mysterious girl.

“Sorry for the mess. I know it isn’t much, compared to what you’re used to, Landed Gentry.” He smiled at her playful jab. Nervousness wrecked his gut and left his heart aflutter, but watching her cheeks perk into a smile calmed him.

“No, it’s quite nice. Cozy.” He found his way to one of the armchairs and picked up a book to his left. She put the kettle on and placed two cups and saucers on the trunk. She pulled a tin from the shelf in the kitchen offering him a cigarette. Obliged, he lit it, relaxing into the chair.  

“Is this any good?” He picked up a red-bound copy of a book entitled We from beside the trunk.

“That really depends on your taste. I don’t know what you like. I loved it, but it is a bit on the intense side of things. It’s science fiction.”

“Oh like space men and H.G. Wells and stuff.” She laughed at his apparent disdain.

“Well, no, not really, it’s more of a political thriller about an authoritarian state. It’s violent and terrifying and beautiful all at the same time. It’s dystopian.” Michael raised his eyebrows intrigued. “Feel free to borrow it.” She smiled and he was again taken aback by her unabashed generosity.

“I think I will.”

“That means return it when you’re done. I expect you to treat it well.”

“So you want to meet again?” His voice was smooth and confident; the boldness was not lost on her. She still found him beautiful and charming and she could feel her cheeks aflame with desire. A hissing from the kitchen filled the silence between them.

“Yes, I suppose so.” She said quickly and walked to the whistling kettle, pouring the boiling water into a teapot and gradually dropping a sachet inside.  

“And why’s that?”

“Like you said, I’m new here. I don’t know anyone or have any friends, really. I enjoy your company. Plus, I would want my book back.” Her excuses were thinly veiled and she secretly hoped he could see through them.

“Well I don’t live around here,” he shrugged blowing out a cloud of smoke. He wanted to act cool, to make her admit that she wanted him.

“Oh, I just figured if you owned the club you lived here. Where do you live?” His attempts at aloofness were quashed by her genuine interest.

“Small Heath. Birmingham.”

“So that’s where you work as a gangster slash accountant?” Her playful sarcasm was as shocking as it was charismatic. He had met plenty of girls attracted and fascinated by the danger of his profession. They loved to ask about his gun or the number of men that he’d killed, as if his sinful life was sexy or en vogue. [Y/N], oddly enough, seemed to find Michael’s job as an accountant humorous and was indifferent to the illicit nature of the Peaky Blinders’ business.

“Yeah.”

“So will you be able to return my book? If not, I guess I could give you money to post it back to me. I don’t want to be a hassle.” He smiled at her as she poured the steeped tea into their cups on the trunk. He liked that she focused less on his occupation and more on their budding friendship.

“I just can’t seem to place you,” his lips closed into a smirk around his cigarette.

“What’s there to place? You literally know nothing about me. Hell, you don’t even know my name. It isn’t any wonder.” He snorted.

“True, but that can change.”

“I guess it could. What do you want to know?”

“Your name would be nice, for a start.”

“[Y/N]. Next?” She looked intensely into his eyes. Taking a cigarette from the tin, she leaned forward to light it off the end of his. Never breaking eye contact, she successfully chained them, tobacco wafting from her lips. Her witchy gaze was entrancing and he felt himself begin to lose self-control in her irises. She exhaled and licked her lips, trying to stymie the cigarette’s drying kiss. He couldn’t help but stare at her mouth as she did so, his eyes heavily lidded with desire.

“[Y/N].” He almost whispered it. He let her name dance around his mouth, tasting the consonants and vowels in turn. She smiled.

“Yes?”

“Just wanted to say it.”

“Anything else you want to know?” she exhaled as tendrils of smoke framed her face.

“What brings you to London? On the run from a stepmother?” She chuckled.

“No. I don’t have family anymore. I wanted a change of pace. Get out of the country. New start. All that. Dreams in the big city, ya know. Same as anyone else.”

“What do you mean ‘anymore’.”

“Oh, well the War took the men and then the influenza took the women. I’m the last one standing I guess.” She shrugged, looking resigned to her fate of coffins and lilies. He nodded and decided to swiftly change the subject, seeing a twinge of grief in her eye.

“What do you do?”

“Bookbinder, hence all the…” she gestured around the overstuffed apartment with her cigarette.

“Books, right.” He grinned. They took turns sipping tea and smoking in the tiny room, exchanging stories and laughs. Her smile was infectiously earnest. As her lips parted to show her teeth he felt heat radiate from her cheeks, melting his earlier trepidation. The radiator spurted and stuttered while keeping the flat toasty. The temperature and fragrant thickness of the air were relaxing, and as time passed Michael knew that he’d be out again to walk in the frigid night alone. He didn’t want to go home. He wanted to drink tea and tell stories and chat with [Y/N] until the sun rose, but he knew not to push his luck. He took a deep drag trying to savor the moment, committing it to memory.

“So, why aren’t you afraid of me, being a country mouse and all. Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to let strange men into your home?” His eyes narrowed and he wagged his finger in mock derision.

“What’s so strange about an accountant?” she asked with faux ignorance.

“You know what I am.”

“Yeah, you’re a country mouse too. I can tell by the way you talk. You aren’t from London and you sure as shit aren’t from Birmingham.” She giggled. Smoke poured from his smug Cheshire cat grin.

“You caught me. I was born in Birmingham, raised in the country.”

“That explains it.” He was relived when she didn’t pry further.

“Do you like jazz?”

“I love it. That’s why I went to the Eden. One of the girls at work said it has the best bands.” He nodded.

“We do try to have nothing but the best. What about dancing?”

“What about it?”

“Do you like to dance?”

“If the mood strikes me, yes I love to dance. I usually need some liquid courage to get started, though.”

“How long do you think this book will take to finish?”

“Dunno. Maybe a week or two? I found that it’s a pretty fast read.”

“So then are you free next Friday? I could give you your book back. We could meet at the Eden.”

“Sure.” Her eyes scrunched as her mouth was pulled taught across her cheeks in a broad simper. He reveled in her smile. He took another nip of tea and remembered their cold walk from the club to her flat.

“Actually, would it be alright if I met you here? That way you don’t have to go all that way alone at night.”

“Oh, no please, I wouldn’t want you to have to walk all this way just to turn back around and walk me to the club. It isn’t any trouble, I can manage.” He snorted.

“No, I have a car. I can drive you if you like.”

“Oh. In that case, yeah, you can come round at half eight.”

“That’s much too early to go dancing. Maybe we could have dinner beforehand?”

“Alright sure. Dinner at eight next Friday. It’s a date.” She rose from the plush armchair and walked over to the wall of books, pulling a diary from the bottom right. She uncapped a fountain pen serving as a bookmark between its pages and wrote down the time for their rendezvous.

“Is it?” he asked. He could feel the color drain from his face and trepidation suck the moisture from his mouth. He felt foolishly childish. He was struggling with the nervous pit that he had worried into his stomach. He hadn’t felt so anxious asking a girl out before, especially someone as naïve as she appeared to be.

“Yes, if you like it to be, it’s a date.” Her ears were a sharp shade of cherry. She averted her gaze from his, suddenly fascinated by the design of the rug. He found reassurance in her bashfulness and wondered if their reactions fed off of one another.

It was late and the arrangements for next week’s plans seemed to be a natural capstone to their conversation. Michael struggled to get up out of his seat, swallowed by the overstuffed cushions. He thanked her for the tea and cigarettes and made his way toward the door with We in hand.

“Wait.” He turned to see her shuffling through the trunk that had served as their side table. “It’s cold out there. I know you didn’t bring a coat, so take these.” She handed him a set of red knitted mittens with a matching hat and scarf. They were thick and warm wool.

“Thank you,” he said holding up his hands.

“It’s nothing,” she laughed.

“I’d love to make it up to you.”

“That’s what next week’s for,” her voice was soft but coy.

“Right then.” He walked out the door as she waved goodbye. He waited to hear the latch of a lock before moving down the hall to the stairs.

As he waited at the main door of the Brownstown, steeling himself against the bite of the winter wind to come, he held his nose to the woolen mittens and inhaled. They smelled like cinnamon and tea and cigarettes. They smelled like her. He smiled.

[isophhia]

[birdofdoom]

I love your idea of alining Peaky characters to the Myers Briggs and I was so excited when I saw that post but saw that mine (enfj) unfortunately wasn't included, just curious as to if you were going to add more or not I know it's probably a lot of work so I totally understand if you can't :)

I gotcha covered Anon. I posted a part two that has ENFJ and the rest of the types matched to characters. I'll make sure to include all 16 types and characters in my explanation posts too. Those will take a bit of time to post because I'm writing the analysis of each character's functional stack (which is how I originally typed each character). I know these aren't totally accurate, but they're fun to make, and I'm happy you enjoy them too. Thanks for the kind words btw. Cheers!

[birdofdoom]

Peaky Blinders MBTI Pt. 2

[tommybrokenshelby]

someone: Yeah, I really don’t like the show Peaky Blinders 

me: Unfriended, unfollowed, blocked, my mom’s calling your mom and you’re not invited to my teen queen sweet sixteen summer beach bash birthday party