#churchills pub

[vox-anglosphere]

Anyone to join me at the Churchill Arms in London's upscale Notting Hill? It was named for Winston's grandfather, Duke of Marlborough.

[fuckyeahtravelphotos]

Late afternoon pub crowd on a winter afternoon, Churchill Arms in Kensington, London

[frothytundra]

Churchill Square at Night

As a follow-up to my previous post, and with thanks to Jeremy Nickaruk for the inspiration, I went back to Sir Winston Churchill Square this evening in order to take these pictures. As you can see, the Moon Garden light show by Lucion is quite lovely. The colours in the domes change every few minutes and I saw them purple, red, and orange. It surprised me to realize that as the model railway…

[emotoothtiger]

Churchill

This is the actual working model of Churchill as used for the statue at the Houses of Parliament. All very noble I'm sure. But you see quite something else at this level

and at this angle if you've been to the gents and seen an introspective old man next to you around his 3rd or 4th pint

[sorrowfulrosebud]

𝕮𝖔𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖙: 𝔦𝔫 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔥 ℌ𝔬𝔟𝔦𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔟𝔬𝔶𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔡

𝕲𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: 𝔣𝔩𝔲𝔣𝔣𝔶, 𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔰𝔱𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔪𝔲𝔱𝔱𝔶

༺ 𝕱𝖑𝖚𝖋𝖋 ༻

❦ Hobie is 10000% the boyfriend who kisses the insides of your wrist. Imagine smushing his cheeks together to tease him and he turns the tables by pressing gentle kisses to each pulse point

❦ Loves to send you selfies of the villains he beats up with goofy captions and him posing

❦ Introduces you to his friends at the pub, proudly showing you off

❦ Then proceeds to drunkenly ramble to said friends, arm tight around your shoulder with a protective hand over your drink

❦ Is an incredible cook when he wants to make something special for you, but otherwise makes low effort meals

❦ He loves to tickle your sides when he’s behind you. He comes over to you from behind under the guise of wanting a cuddle, but a devilish grin appears as he presses his long fingers into your sides, making you ugly chortle and shove him away

❦ Hobie would 10000% do the spiderman kiss with you

❦ Protective as FUCK but doesn't show it outwardly. Like, you’ll be walking down the street and some guy would cat call you, but Hobie doesn’t say anything. His grip on your shoulder gets tighter, and it’s not till he comes back past midnight with a bloodied lip do you feel pride flush your chest

❦ He lets you sit on his lap in bed as you do his eyeliner for his upcoming show. Gentle fingers rub against your hip as he looks at you with hooded eyes, letting you smudge his eyeliner. He looks at you with a charming grin, “thanks babe,” he’d say as he kisses you deeply

❦ Hobie lets you pick his nail polish colour and watches you delicately apply it to his nails. He thinks it's adorable when your tongue sticks out in concentration or when you nibble on your lip

❦ He invites the rest of the spidey squad to come to his dimension to play cards and other games, having you sat in his lap the entire time. If you’re playing poker or something, he nudges you in an attempt to silently communicate what he should pick. He gives you the occasional discreet kiss as Gwen cackles at Pav winning go fish over Miles

❦ Soft, classical music is NOT his style at all, so don't expect him to start playing Ed Sheeran on a regular guitar. If you struggle to fall asleep, he sets you on his tummy and makes patterns on your back based on the way his fingers would position themselves on his guitar

❦ He loves causing chaos with you, be it spray painting a Winston Churchill poster or statue of another bigot, or blasting his guitar near MPs houses, he loves it when you’re there, smiling happily with him

❦ DEFINITELY THE BF TO SMACK YOUR ASS. I SAID WHAT I SAID

❦ Doesn't have a set nickname for you, usually a play on your name or “luv”

❦ The type of bf who gets really invested in his S/O’s drama. Like you could be sat sipping tea, rambling about how this bitch tried to make you feel like shit and he’s just sat proudly like “oh yah? Then what’d you do babe?” With the dopiest ass look on his face

❦ Really stinking cute when drunk. Full on ambling into his flat, making you take care of him. Loves when you clean his piercings and rub off his eyeliner

❦ “Mf, thanks babe. Eyeliner makin’ it difficult to go to sleep,” he mumbles as you prop him upright on the bed. You roll your eyes fondly as you clean him up and start cleaning his piercings

❦ Thinks it's funny as fuck to make you smell his crust jacket. Punks are known to have jackets and not wash them to make them look as grunge as possible and Hobie is no different (bc fuck consistency)

༺𝕬𝖓𝖌𝖘𝖙༻

ఌ Is really stand-offish at the start of your relationship. His dislike for labels put a strain on your relationship; he would kiss you and make you feel loved, and then rip your heart out by saying you’re just friends to his pub mates

ఌ Struggles to fully take things seriously. You could be arguing over something and Hobie would just smirk, making the anger boil over. He doesn’t do it to emasculate or intimidate you, he just thinks it’s cute when you’re so passionate. This has definitely caused some worse arguments and either of you storming out

ఌ Definitely struggles with time and dates. If you arrange a date and he’s Spider-Punkin’ that day, be prepared to walk home and cry after waiting so long that the owners of the restaurant have to gently nudge you away

ఌ It can be seen as angsty or horny, but if you’re trying to start a fight or fussing over him when he’s tired, he’s not above shooting his web at your mouth to shut you up

ఌ Is low-key petrified every time he can’t get hold of you if you’re apart. He doesn’t want your death to become another canon event for him, so days where his anxiety manifest into something way deeper, he keeps you either at arms length or doesn’t let you out of his sight

ఌ Can actually be really mean in arguments if pushed far enough. Man is all for communication, but days where his mental health is struggling are usually days where his temper is short. He does his best to communicate to you that he’s not doing great but is physically fine and just needs some time, but if you keep pushing then he knows where to hit deep. (This is so so incredibly rare though)

ఌ Unintentionally gives you the silent treatment after an argument. If you had a really bad fight and he is still trying to cool off, he is in no mood to talk to anyone. I may be projecting, but I imagine Hobie is the type of person to need to be completely left alone to cool off and gets really upset again if someone tries to ask. He always wants to answer your text but sometimes forgets

ఌ Doesn’t let on but sometimes he has really bad nightmares from his role as protector of London. Sometimes it’s you getting hurt and sometimes it’s him. Either way, he wakes up in cold sweats and immediately feels for you before sighing in relief.

“Hi sweetheart, are you alright? You kept making noises in your sleep,” you murmur to him. Hobie’s eyes fluttered slightly before sinking back under the duvet with a sigh.

“Ughhhh, yeah. ‘M fine babe, jus’ a stupid bad dream,” he mutters, throwing his arm around your waist and nuzzling into your chest. Your arm wrapped around his lean tummy and rubbed soft circles to the skin.

“D’you wanna talk about it hun? I’m here for you,” you whisper softly into his ear. Hobie thought for a minute before shaking his head.

“No thanks. Not now. Jus’ lemme hold ya,” he grunts sleepily. Your fingers found a steady rhythm against his back as you heard him sigh deeply into your neck.

“I love you so much Hobes. I’m always gonna be right here, waiting for you,” you promise him. Slender fingers intertwined with yours, the slight tremble being the only movement in your dark shared bedroom. Tender but firm kisses were placed along your neck in silent thanks as the two of you slip back into dreamless slumber.

༺𝕾𝖒𝖚𝖙༻

༒ Is SUPER easy to turn on. The softest of praises is enough to turn his cock rock hard, but is also a major horn dog for being degraded 🤭🤭

༒ Gets SUPER horny when he catches you wearing his jewellery and jackets. He WILL fuck you right then and there

༒ He’s more of a grunter than a moaner, unless he’s quite deep in subspace. He’s definitely not above whimpering

༒ Hobie loves to send you videos of him wanking off, angled so you can see every lustful touch and hear every choked gasp

༒ A very versatile man. Doesn’t mind whether he’s domming or subbing, or even if there’s no dynamic

༒ Some of Hobie’s biggest kinks: edging, slight overstim, light impact play, light sensory deprivation and wax play

༒ If you’re female or someone without a peeny weeny, he would definitely take some good old cock up the ass <3 the male G spot is up there for a reason!

༒ He can often get lost in pleasure if he’s penetrating you, making his thighs shake as sweat drops and he’s biting into your shoulder like a man starved

༒ Definitely skilled with his fingers 😝😝 loves to finger you until you’re shaking and crying from overstim

༒ Is such a huge brat you wouldn’t believe 🤭🤭 he doesn’t deliberately say things to rile you up, but rather small displays. Rubbing his hands up your sides, murmuring soft teasings into your ears, lingering kisses right before a mission so you end up beating a villain with fire burning in your crotch

I absolutely adore this man, send asks and thots 🤭

[all-mirth-no-matter]

Time After Time | Chapter Sixteen

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader, Tommy Shelby x Original Female Character

Summary: A new threat comes to town, and a new applicant comes to the pub.

Warning: language, mentions of assault-ish

ao3 link | catch up on tumblr here

Chapter 16: Fear & Delight

I don’t show it but I quiver whenever you come near. And I cannot decipher between the thrill and the fear. I wanna stop it but like it too much to let it stop here. It’s wrong but I want you tonight.  It’s not my own volition but I fell in deep, by running the distance I’ve been advised to keep. I trot to the wolf like a doting sheep, it’s wrong but I want you tonight. — Fear & Delight, The Correspondents

There was news from Belfast. 

There was no way for you to anticipate the severity of what this actually meant when you heard a Shelby family counsel had been called. Apparently Arthur wanted you there specifically, which of course caused you some unease. 

While the oldest Shelby brother hadn’t called you a whore recently (at least not to your face), he still hadn’t exactly welcomed you with open arms into their business. Over the last month, you’d noticed an uncomfortable power dynamic shift between Arthur and Tommy. One that you were sure Arthur wasn’t too happy about. 

For a moment, you wondered if it had anything to do with your incident with Benji — something you still dreamed about. There was a looming ache in your heart that you imagined wouldn’t go way any time soon. 

“Eight o’clock,” Tommy said again, his voice low against the hum of the busy patrons of the Garrison. You nodded, continuing to wipe down the glassware. “I already told Harry, he’ll cover.” 

You gave him a disapproving look, still unhappy with the way he seemed to go about handling your pub-related business with Harry. But Tommy brushed you off. 

The man you recognized as Freddie stood up from his table in the back. Discreetly, you looked between him and Tommy, trying to busy yourself. 

You weren’t sure if Ada had told Freddie yet that you knew of their dalliance. He hadn’t made any indication that he did, heck he hardly ever even looked at you, so you assumed no. 

“I’ll take a mild,” he said to you, leaning against the bar as he looked toward Tommy, who continued to smoke his cigarette and avoid his old friend. 

You took another look between the two before pouring his glass, then watched as Freddie leaned over and took one of the two coins Tommy had laid down on the counter, and pushed it toward you. 

Looking between the two, you were surprised to see Tommy chuckle, flicking the ash off his cigarette. 

“Cheers, Thomas. Good health to you,” Freddie said, lifting his mug before taking a sip. When Tommy didn’t respond, Freddie reached over and grabbed his cap off the counter, examining the razor blade stitching. “Crown of a prince. Soon to be king, I’d bet–” 

“You don’t bet,” Tommy finally replied, still looking forward. 

“No, but these past few days I’ve been speculating.” 

You tried to appear busy, like you weren’t eavesdropping. It was the job of the bartender to blend into the background. So you continued to polish the glassware as you pretended not to listen to the scene before you. 

Tommy waited for Freddie to continue, but when he didn’t, Tommy took the bait. “About what?” 

“One of my union comrades has a sister who works in the telegraph office at the BSA factory.” 

You remained cool as you listened, but paused at hearing Freddie’s confession. Luckily, Freddie was leaning with his back against the bar counter, head leaned toward Tommy and away from you. You chanced a look at Tommy, who gave nothing away as he continued to look down at his cigarette and listen. You followed suit, going back to your task at hand as Freddie continued. 

“She says, over the past week, they’ve had messages coming up from London to the brass. From Winston Churchill himself.” Freddie paused, pushing up from the bar and moving closer to Tommy. He offered the next part in a softer voice, just loud enough for you to overhear. “Something about a robbery. ‘A robbery of national significance’ it said.” 

Tommy rose his brow unimpressed, still not bothering him with a glance. 

Freddie went on. “She found a list of names left on the telegraph machine. And on that list was your name and my name together. What kind of list would have the name of a communist and the name of a bookmaker side by side?” 

You chanced a peak toward Tommy, watching him set his tumbler down before finally addressing Freddie. “Perhaps it’s a list of men who give false hope to the poor. The only difference between you and me, Freddie, is that sometimes,” he leaned in closer, “sometimes my horses stand a chance of winning.” 

He sat back up, taking another hit off his cigarette as Freddie considered him before pushing off the counter. He moved in closer, and the tension rose, causing you to grow more cautious. If a fight were to go down, you weren’t sure what you would do – what you’d be allowed to do. You knew Harry was in the back room, but still. 

“You know,” Freddie said, leaning in toward Tommy, “there are days when I hear about the cuttings and beatings that I really wish I’d let you take that bullet in France.” 

Tommy huffed out a laugh, shaking his head slightly as he continued to look down. “Believe me, there are nights I wish you had.” 

The front door swung open, a man crashing through like a bull trapped in a pin. You gasped, jumping toward the back of the counter as you watched Tommy and Freddie spring into action at the sight of their friend Danny. 

“They’re gonna get me!” he shouted as Tommy and Freddie grabbed both sides of him, throwing him down to the ground together. 

“Breathe, Danny, breathe!” Freddie shouted when they finally got him face down. 

“Danny! Danny! You’re home!” Tommy said loudly as Danny continued to cry out on the floor. “We’re all home in England. You’re not in France. You’re not an artillery shell, Danny, you’re a man. Hey? You’re not a whizz-bang. You’re a human being, Danny. You’re all right, you’re all right.” 

You watched astounded as they managed to calm down Danny. According to Harry, this wasn’t the first time that Danny had barreled into the pub like this, lost in his mind and attacking everyone in sight. But this had been the first time you’d witnessed an incident. 

It reminded you of what your life could had been like, had your father not gotten help himself with his own PTSD. You knew that nowadays, the concept of PTSD wasn’t even an idea – no one could have anticipated the trauma influenced by the harrowing nature of the First World War on the veterans as they returned home to normal lives. 

You were beginning to wonder if Tommy had any sort of symptoms or triggers when they lifted Danny from the floor as Tommy comforted him back to the present. At some point, Harry had emerged from the back room during the commotion and began righting the tables and chairs. 

“Ah hell, did I do it again?” Danny asked Tommy, crying when he confirmed. 

Tommy pressed his forhead against his friend’s, “You’ve gotta stop doing this, man.” 

Danny offered his apologies as Tommy led him toward the door. 

“It’s all right. You go home to your wife now, Danny. Try and get all that smoke and mud out of your head, eh?” 

Danny apologized again until he left the pub. Tommy and Freddie shared a look before Tommy wiped his face with his hand and moved back to the counter. 

“Mr. Shelby,” Harry said as he gestured toward a broken table top. “You have to do something about him.” 

“Damn right, Harry,” Freddie said antagonizingly, patting the man on the shoulder. “You pay the Peaky Blinders a lot of money for protection.” He followed Tommy back toward the bar, where you’d already filled up his glass. “You’re the law around here now, Tommy, aren’t you? Maybe you should put a bullet in Danny Wizz-Bang’s head, like they do with mad horses.” Tommy paused in his walk toward the door. “Maybe you’ll have to put a bullet in my head someday, too.” 

Tommy shook his head, lifting his cap and straightening it back on his head before turning to look at you. For a moment, you could see the real hurt behind his eyes. A vision flashed before you, of Tommy putting a gun against his own head, and you shuttered. 

“Bring the bill to the Peaky Blinders,” Tommy said to Harry on his way out the door. “We’ll take care of it.” 

That night you approached the Shelby house with trepidation. Aside from that first family meeting, you hadn’t exactly been invited to any of the other meetings. Which was to be expected, you weren’t really family after all. Plus, at the time, there were members at these counsels that still didn’t know of your involvement in the company. 

After the Benji incident, Scudboat and Lovelock had become privy to your real status amongst the business. Polly assured you that they could be trusted, and that they would be useful security-wise. You had been receptive to this update, since neither man had ever had any kind of trouble with the books (aside from some bad math) and they’d always been kind toward you. 

“Finally, we can get started,” Arthur shouted when you walked through the den door. 

Apparently you were the last to arrive. Polly pushed a chair out for you to sit between her and Arthur, who stood and began to pass out small pamphlets. 

“Right, I’ve called this family meeting because I’ve got some very important news. Scudboat and Lovelock got back from Belfast last night. They were buying a stallion to cover their mares. They were in a pub on the Shankhill Road yesterday and in that pub there was a copper, handing out these.” 

He handed a paper to Ada, which John snatched away to read himself. He gave the remaining papers to Scudboat to pass to you, Polly, and Tommy, who was standing against a beam on the other side of Polly. 

“‘If you’re over five feet and can fight, come to Birmingham.’” John read from the pamphlet. 

“They’re recruiting Protestant Irishmen to come over here as Specials,” Arthur went on. 

Ada’s brow creased, “To do what?” 

“To clean up the city, Ada,” Tommy answered. “He’s a chief inspector. The last four years he’s been clearing the IRA out of Belfast.” 

“How do you know so bloody much?” Arthur asked acusatoringly. 

“‘Cause I asked the coppers on our payroll.” 

“And why didn’t you tell me?” 

Tommy continued to stare at his older brother, shrugging slightly, “I’m telling you.” 

Arthur fumed, taking a swig of his flask as Polly asked, “So why are they sending him to Birmingham?” 

“Well, there’s been all these bloody strikes at the BSA and the Austen works lately,” Tommy explained. Ada shared a quick look with you, knowing that it was Freddie who had a hand in most of those strikes. “Now the papers are talking about sedition, and revolution. I reckon it’s communist they’re after.” 

“So this copper’s gonna leave us alone, right?” Polly followed up. 

Tommy chanced a look with you before easily answering her question. 

“There are Irishmen in Green Lanes who left Belfast to get away from him. They say Catholic men who crossed him used to disappear in the night.” 

“Yeah, but we ain’t IRA,” John chimed in. “We bloody fought for the king. Anyway, we’re Peaky Blinders. We’re not scared of coppers.”

“He’s right,” Arthur added. 

“If they come for us, we’ll cut them a smile each.” 

“So, Arthur, is that it?” Tommy asked, ignoring his younger brother. 

Arthur pointed toward you. “Her.” Your brow rose as everyone turned to look at you. “Was the powder trick her idea?” 

Tommy’s brow furrowed, “Like I told you this morning–” 

“You brought her in to help us with the company. Ever since she got here you’ve been reckless. We don’t fuck with the Chinese!” 

You rose your finger, “I’d like to point out that I have no idea what a powder trick even is–”

“Y/N is only doing what we agreed to,” Tommy answered honestly. “I’ll have no more talk of it.” 

Arthur huffed, still staring daggers at his brother. 

“You have nothing more to say to this meeting, Thomas?” Polly asked, breaking the tension between them. 

Tommy shook his head. “No. Nothing that’s women’s business.” 

You rose a brow to that, curious what business was unfit for either you or his aunt to be privy to. 

Polly narrowed on him. “This whole bloody enterprise was women’s business while you men were away at war. What’s changed?” 

“We came back.”

“How could you let him do it?” 

Polly stormed into your flat that night, pulling off her black veil that she typically wore to the church. 

“Uh, sure, come on in Pol,” you joked, motioning for her to come in despite her already standing in the middle of your room with her hands on her hips. 

“Tommy told me about the guns.” 

You sobered up real fast at that, closing the door. 

“You have to convince him to get rid of them – throw them in the Cut.” 

Taking a deep breath, you moved to prepare you both a cup of tea. “How am I supposed to do that?” 

“Talk to him, he’ll listen to you. Do you know how much trouble he’ll be in if he’s caught with those guns, or selling them for that matter? He’ll hang!” 

You swallowed, the severity sinking in. You knew that Tommy was going through every possibility that these guns could serve him. 

“You know I don’t want anything bad to happen to him, but I can’t make Tommy do anything, Polly. You know that better than anyone.” 

She huffed, the sound of surrender as she knew you were right. She ran her hand across her forehead. “This copper is going to be trouble. I can feel it.” 

You had to meet Harry early the next morning. He’d closed early due to the mess Danny had caused and you offered to help him clean up. You were sweeping the floors when the door opened. 

A woman came in and you stopped her, “Oh, I’m sorry, we’re closed–”

“I’m here about the job as a barmaid,” she said with a polite smile.

You appraised the woman before you. She was beautiful, her features soft and polished. Her blonde hair stood out against the others in the town. 

A pang of jealousy filled you immediately, but you pushed it aside. You’d already convinced yourself that this place needed more help, and that no one was going to encroach on your territory. But dammit, why’d she have to be so pretty. 

“Y/N,” you offered her a smile and your hand. 

She reciprocated, “Grace.” 

“Harry!” you shouted, listening for Harry to come back from downstairs. “This is Grace. She’s here about the barmaid position.” 

“Are you mad?” he asked, looking her up and down. 

“Am I what?” 

“Job’s been filled.”

He turned back and you shared a confused look with Grace, knowing that the role hadn’t been filled, unless he’d hired someone without letting you know. 

She took a step forward, “It was in an advertisement in yesterday’s paper.” 

“Believe me, love,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m doing you a favor.” 

“I’m not asking for favors, I’m asking for employment.” 

You couldn’t help the small smirk on your cheek at her response. “Do you have any experience?”

“And references,” she replied, opening her bag and handing you her papers. “I worked in a pub in Dublin.” 

Harry walked over toward you, looking over your shoulder at her papers. “What part of Ireland are you from?” he asked.

“Galway.” 

He hummed, “my mother was from Galway.” 

“She does have experience,” you commented. “That’s better than any of the others who’ve come in to apply.” 

“I can’t have two pretty women in my pub. The coppers will think I’m runnin’ a brothel.” 

You shared a look with Grace, sighing at the real reason Harry didn’t want to hire her. 

She straightened as she took off her hat. “Watch. And listen.” 

Your brow knitted curiously as she picked up the spit bucket, then she began to sing. 

“I wish I was in Carrickfergus, only for nights in Ballygrand. 

I would swim over, the deepest ocean. The deepest ocean, for my love to find. 

My boyhood friends and my own relations, have all passed on now, like the melting snow.” 

She sat down the spit bucket, now filled with the spatoons she’d dumped inside as she sang. You and Harry shared a surprised look. Her singing really was magical, and the jealousy you’d been fighting off rose back up like vile in your throat. 

“In Ireland, my singing made them cry and stopped them fighting.” 

Harry chuckled, “I hope you know a lot of songs.” 

Grace nodded, smiling as she looked back toward you hopeful. 

You smiled back at her encouragingly, but something in your gut pulled at you to take caution. Something about her felt very disingenuous – she felt too polite, too posh, nothing at all like the other people you’d met in town since you’d arrived. 

You tried to convince yourself it was your jealousy, that you were being territorial, all the things you’d been afraid of – but something deeper felt off. 

Like you weren’t the only one here with secrets. 

“This investigator isn’t messing around,” Tommy commented as you brushed Monaghan Boy’s coat. 

It was just the two of you at the Yard, Charlie and Curly were on guard. Tommy used your interest in visiting the horse as his cover to check in on the crates, which hadn’t been touched since you left it the other night. 

“Our coppers say he made a big speech about taking down the Peaky Blinders and Fenians and Communists,” he continued. “Said he doesn’t trust any of them, and brought in his own brigade of men.” 

“This is getting serious, Tommy. Aren’t you worried?” 

“Nah,” he shrugged. “I’m told he didn’t serve. Reserved occupation—“

“Tommy!” Curly ran toward you, “It’s Arthur. He’s been beat bad!” 

You handed Curly the brush and hurried alongside Tommy, who led the way back toward the Lane. He stopped first at the Garrison to grab some rum – said it was the best for disinfection. You disagreed, but didn’t dare argue with his determination in the moment. The pub was packed, but the minute Tommy walked in, the crowded moved aside. 

He snaked through the snug and opened the window as you pushed your way behind the bar. 

“Doesn’t matter what kind, just any bottle,” he shouted, causing Harry and Grace to look toward him. 

“What are you doing, I thought you were off this morning?” Grace asked you, looking between you and Tommy. 

“I am,” you added, searching the shelf for an unopened bottle. 

You heard Harry whisper to Grace that whatever it is, it’s on the house. Tommy sat some money down on the window seal anyway, which Grace moved to collect. 

“Ready?” you said after finally finding the bottle. Tommy nodded, giving one last look to Grace before turning to leave. 

“If I say something’s on the house,” you heard Harry say to Grace as you moved to leave, “then say nothing to whoever you’re serving. If they decide that they want you, there’s nothing anybody could do about it. Lucky for you, Tommy there hasn’t looked at anyone other than Y/N since he got back.” 

You couldn’t help the swell in your chest and smirk on your lips as you gripped the bottle and made your exit from the pub. 

Your smirk immediately fell when you arrived at the Shelby house to the sight of Arthur beat up and bloody. 

“I’m not bloody chocking, am I?”

“You will when I wrap this cloth around your neck,” Ada said back to the older brother as she poured boiling water into a bowl. 

“Let me see him,” Tommy announced, opening the bottle of rum and ringing out a rag. Arthur took a swig of the bottle before Tommy took it back, pouring some onto the rag and pushing it against a nasty gash above his eye. 

Arthur hissed as Tommy reassured him he was alright, then grabbed his arm. “He said Mr. Churchill sent him to Birmingham. National interest, he said. Something about a robbery.” 

Tommy pushed away from him, taking a few steps backwards to breathe. 

“Who?” You asked innocently, moving to help Polly and Ada tend to some of his other cuts. 

“The inspector,” Ada answered. 

Your mouth fell again, surprised that an officer did this, and realizing just exactly how out of your depth you may be. 

“He said he wants us to help him,” Arthur continued, still watching Tommy as he leaned against the counter. 

“We don’t help coppers,” John commented. 

Arthur pointed to his younger brother. “He knew all about our war records. He said we’re patriots, like him. He wants us to be his eyes and ears.”

“Was this before or after he beat you to a pulp?” You scoffed, mostly to yourself. John breathed out a laugh, but Arthur remained serious. 

“I said—“ he hissed again as Polly bandaged up his hand. “I said we’d have a family meeting and take a vote.”

He waited a beat, watching Tommy until his head dropped down to his hand. 

“Why not? Hmm?” Arthur asked when Tommy still didn’t say anything. “We have no truck with Fenians or communists.”

Tommy continued to remain silent. 

“What’s wrong with ya?” Arthur asked, then looked to you. “What’s wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with him lately?” He finally asked, directing the last question to Polly. 

“If I knew, I’d buy the cure from Compton’s chemists,” she replied looking back at Tommy with that cut throat disapproving glare. 

Arthur set his sights on you, and you knew exactly what he was thinking. That it was you — you were what was wrong with him lately. 

After you all got him relatively cleaned up, he left and grumbled something about getting back his money’s worth. You didn’t ask what he meant by that. Ada and John soon followed, leaving just you, Polly, and Tommy left in the kitchen. 

Polly gave you a pointed look before leaving. 

“Tommy—“ you began the minute you two were alone. 

“I know what you’re gonna say.”

“Did you see Arthur’s face? And this guy wants your help,” you scoffed, dropping into the seat. “This man has to be insane.”

“And desperate,” Tommy added. “This changes our plans. They’ve shown their hand. We can use this. If they want them back this bad, they’ll have to pay.”

You blinked. “You think you can extort from this guy? God, you really would make a great politician, you know that?”

He shook his head. “This is our ticket for legitimacy.”

“In what world?” You all but laughed, thinking of the irony that something legitimate could come from theiving and blackmailing. 

“In this one! This is the way of the world!” He softly exclaimed. Despite the two of you being alone in the house, he still felt the need to be discreet.

You took a deep breath. “I understand that you believe the only way to get ahead is to play dirty, but this — you saw your brother’s face. This guy isn’t messing around. And Winston Churchill. I mean, that’s serious business. He’s the fucking prime minister—“ Tommy’s brow creased, and you shook your head. “I mean, he— he could be one day. He’s just, he’s— he’s powerful, I mean.”

“Fortune drops something valuable into your lap, you don’t just dump it on the bank of the Cut,” Tommy said strongly.

You swallowed, knowing there was no talking him out of it. “Okay. What’s your plan.”

“In France, I learned that it was frivolous to have a concrete plan. You had to adapt at a moment’s notice to survive. My Kimber plan remains, this just may be an opportunity to further my original goal.”

“Alright,” you conceded. 

You held his gaze for a moment before he sat down and took your hand. “This is good, Y/N. This is our chance.”

Outside of Birmingham, the new Inspector walked into an art museum, approaching a blonde woman wearing a large hat. 

“Are you in position?”

Grace rose her head, “I am, sir.”

“First impression?”

“I’m quite shocked at how these people live. Have you found anything out that might help me?”

“I interrogated the head of the Peaky Blinders. He didn’t know anything. A brute.”

Grace hummed. “It strikes me that it isn’t Arthur who heads the Shelby family. It’s the younger one, Thomas. They say he won two medals for gallantry in the war.”

“You sound fascinated,” Inpector Campbell commented, raising a brow. 

“There’s a woman at the bar. She seems very close with the family. I believe she may be my gate to learn more. However, my opinion has not changed. The bookmaker gangs have other business, and the communists are too weak to have planned this. I believe the guns were taken by the IRA.”

He hummed. “You must not let your personal history cloud your judgement.”

“What history?” Grace countered. “That the IRA murdered my father will not affect my judgement.”

“If you see any guns, check the serial numbers against that list,” he slipped a folded paper in her hands. “Your father was the finest officer I ever worked with. I know he’d be very proud of you.”

Back in Birmingham, you were helping Polly with the books when Tommy walked in, blood splattered across his white collar. You knew what this meant — Danny was gone. 

He’d accidentally killed someone during another fit. An Italian whose family wanted revenge. Tommy had promised to dispatch of him himself, with the Italians as witness. 

“Where are ya!” Arthur shouted from the other end of the empty shop. He slammed a paper in front of Tommy. “It bloody won! Monaghan Boy bloody won!”

“Yeah. It won. And word will spread. So the next time we do the powder trick, it won’t just be the Garrison that’ll bet on the horse. It’ll be the whole of Small Heath. And you know what? The horse will win again. And the third time we do it, we’ll have the whole of Birmingham betting on it. A thousand quid bet on the magic horse. And that time, when we’re ready, the horse will lose.” Arthur only stared at him as Tommy shut the book he’d opened. “Think about it.”

He walked the book over toward you and Polly, dropping it to the table along with a bag of coins. 

Polly picked it up, judging the weight. “Bad week?” Tommy didn’t reply. “There was no moon last night, I checked. Did you do the right thing?”

“Yes,” he replied, meeting your eyes. “I did the right thing.”

God, you hoped he did. 

>> next chapter << chapter masterlist

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[assortedseaglass]

The Seamstress & The Sailor - Chapter Twenty Two

Tom Bennett x Bess Vaughn (OFC)

[Masterlist]

Volume II Summary: Tom escapes occupied Europe to find home irreversibly changed. How will Tom and Bess cope when what was once familiar has changed forever?

Warnings: Strong Language, Angst, Smut, Violence (fairly mild), Depictions of War, Mentions of Death, Depictions of PTSD, Injury Detail, Era typical Sexism, Era typical Homophobia, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Mentions of Domestic Abuse (very brief), Depictions of Reproductive Health, Suicidal Thoughts, World on Fire Spoilers.

A/N: Characters we haven’t seen for a while? Trauma from way back in volume one? You betcha. Posted in haste, will fix mistakes later.

Fucking war.

Tom ripped open the cardboard packet of his Marlboro’s just in case. Nothing. No Rita Hayworth. No Betty Grable. Not even Vera fucking Lynn. He lit a cigarette and sighed.

A pint of pale was put on the table before him. Through a haze of cigarette fog and beer-blurred eyes he looked at the barkeeper.

“We’ve had men in here trading their old cigarette cards. Anything for something new,” he scoffed and picked up Tom’s three empty glasses. “’Waste of resources’, ‘s’what they say on the wireless. You’d think a bit of leg would do everyone good. Keep morale high.”

Tom took a long gulp of the beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his jacket sleeve. “Well, if you ever run for office, you’ve got my vote. Bring back the tart card.” He raised the half-drunk glass but the man had already walked away. “To Winston fucking Churchill!”

From their position at the bar, a few patrons looked over their shoulders at him. None could have been younger than fifty. “What?” Tom said to them, his volume a touch too loud, eyes dark over the rim of the glass. They ignored him.

“Dunkierka!”

Tom screwed his eyes shut. It had been hours, but still Grzegroz’s voice rattled around his mind.

“Dunkierka!”

How strange, incredible really, that he could be transported so quickly to the battlefield once more. One moment he was playing football with Jan in Mrs Chase’s garden, the next he was watching the man with the terrified eyes screaming at him on the beach.

“Shoot me!”

“Fuck.” Tom downed the rest of the beer. Eight o’clock. The pub was busying now. He’d arrived not an hour before, having walked from Mrs Chase’s back into town. Now, the shift’s had changed at the dockyard and the factory, and the weekend was free for these men to take.

The table wobbled as Tom used all of his weight to stand. He blinked hard. A rush of blood drained from his head and he faltered. A lifetime’s worth of bad memories did not mix with four pints and an empty stomach.

Tom wasn’t drunk. Not by his standards at least. Instead, he was balanced on a precipice. A precipice that could turn the night into one of infinite wonder or have him fear the world by 8 o’clock next morning. Would it send him down the Palais with Bess? Hadn’t she said there was a dance on? Or would it be a night in the pub, taking on any Tom, Dick or Harry that dared, and sleeping under a bench? Tom found he didn’t care which. One drink more would do him right. Let Lady Luck decide.

Tom wasn’t drunk. However, he did not slide onto the bar stool with as much grace as he would’ve liked and a few men tittered. “Another pint please.”

“Right you are, Tom.” The barkeep gave him a wary look but poured the pint all the same. He’d seen enough soldiers and marines to know that if they weren’t drinking in his pub, they were out drinking and making a nuisance. God knows he remembered the last war well enough.

Another pint appeared before him, and Tom watched the foam settle. He leant forward, caressing the cool glass, and took a long, pleasured sip.

“How’s the navy treating you anyway, Tom?”

“The navy? The bloody navy? Can’t even steer a pedalo.”

Tom jolted and looked over his shoulder. It had happened the night before too, and that morning. Drifting off, he’d heard his father’s voice. “My brave, brave boy.” Only to wake up and have reality hit him hard, all air leaving his chest before he’d taken his first waking breath. His dad was gone.

A glass smashed in the corner of the pub and a roar of laughter rang up.

“Watch it! You lot break anymore, and you’ll be paying.” The barkeeper sighed. “Tom?”

“You what?”

The barkeeper watched him. “Ah, don’t worry about it, son.” He patted Tom’s arm and made his way to the end of the bar. Tom’s eyes followed as the man collected a sweeping brush and gathered the broken shards into a pile. One of the men in the party was gesturing wildly around, trying in vain to help. It was Fergal Vaughn.

“Sit down, man,” the barkeep said good-naturedly. “You’re a hindrance, not a help.” 

Fergal flopped into his seat, the beer he held spraying everywhere. The friends surrounding him laughed. Sweat gleamed on the old man’s brow, his face red and shining. When he spoke, flecks of spittle flew from his mouth, and he laughed so hard Tom feared he might keel over for lack of breath. 

“Jesus Christ,” Tom muttered into his pint. Well, at least the old bastard isn’t at home, bothering the girls.

There was a great commotion and Tom looked back to the party. Fergal had stood abruptly, his round belly pushing the table and knocking yet more glasses. He raised his near empty pint of Guinness in the air. “To my Cora, and to her Roger!”

The men cheered, raising their glasses and swigging their beers. “To her roger!” The two men nearest Tom cried and fell about laughing. Fergal swiped at them pathetically but giggled at their joke.

Tom should have laughed too. Should have joined in their merriment. But sat there, five pints deep, listening to Fergal Vaughn’s witterings while the ghost of his own father lingered just beyond reach, Tom felt his blood curdle. On the step of the stool, his leg began to bounce. The din of the pub’s patrons gave way to the swirling of blood and breath in his ears. 

 “Dunkierka!”

Tom slammed his fists into his eyes and tried to rub away the sound. Fergal guffawed behind him. 

“You don’t think I’m genuine?” 

“Are you, son?”

Bess’ voice joined the fray.

“You’ve never committed to anything or anyone. It’s not because you’re a womaniser, or because you don’t believe in the war. It’s because you’re a coward.”

“Just fuck off!” Tom shouted. He didn’t hear the way the pub stilled. Didn’t notice the way the man beside him got off his stool and shuffled away. Slowly, the noise around him picked up as everyone ignored the screwball at the bar. 

He tried to calm himself and, naturally, thought of Bess. Almost half-past eight. She’d be at the dance by now. Hair rollered for once, a brush of lipstick. Tom’s body hummed with a warmth that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Who would she dance with, without himself or Albie there? Roger? From Fergal’s exclamations, it sounded like a night for celebration. Would Lois be there, singing with Connie? He hadn’t thought to ask Lois about her shift on the ambulance. 

“You made his life hell when he was alive and now you can never make it up to him.”

The last words Lois hissed at him before he crumpled and made his way back to Bess. She’d spat them at him like a weapon. She’d meant to hurt him, and hurt him it did. The moment she’d uttered them Tom saw every disheartened, disapproving and disappointed look that had shadowed his father’s prematurely aged face. Each one, directed at him. 

Yet another glass was placed next to him. An amber tot of whisky. “From Fergal,” said the barkeeper. Tom glanced over his shoulder to where Fergal had another pint raised in his direction.

“To Tom,” he slurred. “No doubt he’ll be stealing another of my girls away from me.” Fergal smiled at him and the other men silently raised their glasses.

Tom pushed the whisky away. “No thanks.” 

“Right you are,” The barkeeper said after a moment, taking the glass away while eyeing something over Tom’s shoulder. With a hard smack, a meaty hand landed on Tom’s back and he didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. The heavy breath and stench of ale told him everything. 

“Rude to refuse a drink from your father-in-law-” 

“You’re not my father-in-law.” Tom continued to stare straight ahead at the optics behind the bar.  

“I’m as good as!” Fergal chortled. “And don’t you tell me I won’t be one day,” he tried to lean on the bar beside Tom but stumbled. Despite himself, Tom reached out a hand to steady him. “With Cora engaged, everyone will be looking to you and Bess.” 

“Let them look.” 

Fergal wobbled, leaning forward slightly to observe Tom. Fed up, Tom stared back at him, watching the man struggle to stand straight. 

“God, you look like your Dad.” Fergal said after an unnaturally long pause. Tom snorted. 

“You made his life hell when he was alive and now you can never make it up to him.”

“We all miss him terribly, me and Bess especially,” Fergal continued. Did Tom miss him? He supposed he did not. He hadn’t been given enough time to comprehend the fact he was dead, let alone miss him. “My favourite drinking partner.” Fergal finally found the bar and leant upon it. 

“You’re doing alright, to me.” Tom watched the men in the corner watching him.

“Ah, but none were like your Da-A drink!” Fergal cut himself off. “Another whisky for me and Tom.” They appeared before them in an instant. Seemingly, the barkeeper hadn’t thrown them away. Fucking rationing. 

“I don’t want it,” Tom pushed it back and Fergal made to sip his own. 

“To Douglas!” The Irishman roared. 

“Stop!” Tom grabbed Fergal’s hand before the drink could reach his lips. “Stop.” 

“What’s gotten into you, boy? Used to love a drink with me and Albie and your Da-”

Tom stood from the bar and Fergal staggered backwards. “I’ll not share a drink with you, you fat old bastard. Not in my dad’s memory. Not when you’re like this.” 

“Now just a minu-”

“You’re a drunk!” Tom spat in Fergal’s face. He was towering over the man now, and for a flicker of time, Fergal looked like a scared child. “I’ll not drink to my dad’s memory, when it should have been you in his place.” 

Fergal looked like he had been struck. Tom didn’t care. A year’s worth of war, the immediacy of his grief, the way it awoke the longing he held for his mother, years of watching Fergal ruin his daughters. Tom felt every bruising blow life had dealt him, and was presented with the perfect outlet for his rage. The man before him. 

“My dad fought for what he believed in. Did I agree with him? No, but I damn well do now!” Tom was shouting and the barkeeper laid a hand on his arm. He wrenched it from his grip but lowered his voice to a menacing hiss. “He didn’t have much, but he did enough to make himself proud. To make me proud. Gave everyone the time of day. Grafted. Put up with me,” his voice wobbled. “And then there’s you. What have you ever done?”

Fergal opened his mouth but Tom cut him off. “Who do you think’s gonna look after you now Cora’s engaged? Do you know what?” He grabbed the whisky and raised it in the air. “Here’s to Roger. If it weren’t for him, Cora would be left to a life looking after you with not one bit of thanks.” He downed the drink with a wince. “And Dot! You’ve spoiled her beyond reason. Five minutes in the real world will ruin her, Fergal! Don’t you remember the last time!? All them battered men coming back, what they did to the women waiting for them at home? And Bess!” Tom’s voice cracked and he jabbed a finger into Fergal’s fleshy shoulder. “Do you know how many nights she’s spent crying because you said she wasn’t woman enough, like Cora and Dot? Or how you never stood up for her at school? It was Etta marching down there every day to set Frank Smith and Walter Watson right. Etta giving the teachers a bollocking because you didn’t have the guts. What did you do? Fucking nothing. Only thing you’re good for is fucking fertiliser-”

It happened quick as a flash. Fergal grabbed Tom by the scruff of his collar and hoisted him over the bar. Glasses clattered around them and the murmuring of the pub crescendoed to an excited clamour. The edge of the bar was rammed into Tom’s ribs as Fergal held him there, leaning over and growling in his face. Any trace of drunkenness was gone. 

“You’re one to talk, my boy.” He shoved Tom again, and Tom felt his head hit one of the pumps. “Fucking off to join the navy was the best thing you ever did. Brought nothing but shame to your father, and now you’re doing the same to my Bess.” At the mention of her name Tom struggled to get up. “You’re only courting my daughter because I see how happy you make her, God knows why, but when you get yourself blown up, well, it’ll be all the better.”

“ENOUGH!” The barkeeper bellowed, reaching between the two of them. Two of Fergal’s friends pulled him backwards off Tom, and he slid off the bar. “ENOUGH!” 

Tom straightened his jacket, stared down at Fergal and laughed bitterly. By some miracle, Fergal’s whiskey still sat unbothered amongst the debris of their argument. Tom downed it in one and, with his hands in his pockets, swaggered from the pub and into the night.

“-our Florence tailored her mam’s old dress. I suppose Bess could help you with that. And Roger will have a mourning suit, won’t he? Or will he get married in uniform? Oh, that would be best I think, that beautiful air force blue. It’ll look excellent in your wedding photograph-”

On discovering Cora Vaughn’s engagement to Roger, Queenie Warren had not drawn breath. Her curls bouncing animatedly as she spoke, Queenie quizzed Cora on everything from the colour of her bridesmaids’ dresses to whether the cake would be fruit or Victoria sponge.

Bess had tuned Queenie out ten minutes ago. Instead, she leant against the bar, glass in her hand, cigarette between her lips, and watched couples spin around the dancefloor. She wondered if the Palais would ever be as full as it was before the war.

The red lights of the room hid a multitude of sins. The floor was becoming sticky under foot, and wallpaper was starting to peel from the high ceiling. The darkness did well to hide the few couples, and the fewer men. Indeed, it was mostly full of women from the factories. There were some fellas that Bess recognised from about town, and other uniformed men she did not recognise, no doubt visiting women they had met on the front, or nurses from the infirmary.

Dancing at the centre of circle were Roberta and the teacher from the primary. With so many of the men off fighting, it was the first time Bobby had been able to step into the light with the woman, under the rouse of needing a dance partner. Hiding in plain sight, Bess had never seen her happier. Indeed, when they turned so that Bobby could look upon the bar, she caught Bess’ eye. Bess winked, and Bobby giggled. Tough, feisty Roberta actually giggled.

“-you’ll have your hands full soon I expect, Bess.”

“Pardon?”

Queenie was watching her eagerly. “A wedding dress and bridesmaids’ clothes for yourself and Dot. That’s an awful lot to be doing.”

“She’ll have to ask me first,” with a smile Bess nudged Cora, who looked up from gazing at the modest ring on her finger.

Her betrothed was not far away, sharing a drink with Frank Smith and a few other lads from the air force. He was bright and merry, and though the others congratulated him, Bess noticed the glances they cast the bride-to-be and her sisters. Namely, herself.

Bess knew what she was doing when she’d stepped out that night. Bedecked in a pinstriped suit, she wanted people to look at her. She felt deflated after Tom’s flit from Mrs Chase’s and his inability to confide in her. This did just the job to make her feel powerful again. She’d seen Marlene Dietrich where something similar in a copy of Vogue she’d read years ago at the atelier. It just so happened that they had a pattern there too.

A man cut across Bess’ vision of Bobby on the dancefloor. “Fucking dyke,” he muttered as he passed. Bess stood straight, prepared to defend her friend from the man, when she faltered. As he passed, the man looked over his shoulder at her, eyeing her suit from sharp collar to perfectly-ironed trouser.

“Don’t be jealous she’s a better dresser than you!” Dot piped up, just as Cora took her glass.

“That’s enough sherry, Dot.”

Before Dot could so much as take a breath to retort, the Palais’ double doors burst open. Even over the playing of the band, the noise caused the sisters to jump and cast their eyes towards the doors.

Bess knew that silhouette.

Against the streetlamps outside, the figure staggered sideways before moving forward towards the bar. With his hands in his pockets, he nearly fell over, and a few people rushed to help him. He brushed them off and, ascending the steps to the bar, smirked lopsidedly at the group.

“Bobby,”

“Tom.”

The enmity that lingered between Bobby and Tom had dwindled of late, and Bess tensed at the renewed hostility.

“How’s your friend?” Tom wobbled as he glanced around the old ballroom, his words dripping with intentional sarcasm. Roberta said nothing. “Suits you well, doesn’t it? No men about.” He swaggered towards her, his body a millisecond behind the movement of his feet. Bess prickled with mortification. All evening she’d been worried about him, what he was thinking, what he was doing, and it turned out he was the same as any other man; leaving their problems at the door of the first pub they came to.

He staggered a step towards Roger and Frank. Frank, having experienced Tom’s devastating right-hook in childhood, edged backwards.

“Watch yourselves, lads, she’ll be giving your girls ideas.”

He can embarrass himself all he likes, but leave Bobby out of it. In three high-heeled strides, Bess placed herself between Tom and the others. “Enough,” she said warningly. Tom eyed her. There was a hint of pride in the dark blue of his eyes. Then he glanced at her suit.

“If I didn’t know you better,” Bess could smell the beer on him. The stale cigarettes. “I’d say you were going the same way as your Roberta.” He looked her up and down, amusement evident on his features.

At this closeness, Bess’ worry returned. When he’d returned, the first thing she noticed about him was the hollowness of his cheeks. The way the skin clung his cheekbones like wax. In the red light of the Palais, his pale skin looked near translucent, and his eyes…

His brow bone jutted forward, casting them into shadow. Below, the soft skin beneath his lower lashes sagged, as though gravity was working harder to root him in one place. She’d seen this dogged look before. On her father. What a sinister concoction; grief and grain.

Gently, as though calming a wounded animal, Bess whispered in Tom’s ear. “Go home, my love-”

“I haven’t got one,” Tom slurred, blinking slowly, that ridiculous smile still plastered on his face.

“Albie’s bed is always made up, just sle-”

“In a dead man’s bed?” The sisters and their companions each took a sharp breath. “I’ll not be tempting fate, ‘my love’,” Tom tapped Bess on the nose. “Besides, I’m here for a dance.” He held out a hand, the other still firmly in his pocket as he swayed on the spot. “Come on,”

“No,”

There it was. That wrinkled brow and jutted jaw. He knew he was pushing it. Still, as he always did, he carried on.

“Why do you have to go around winding the rest of us up? That’s what you do.” Vic’s voice joined the chorus of ghosts in Tom’s mind. He shook his head.

“Come on,” he waggled the hand he held out to Bess. “Gotta dance with my best girl while I’m back.”

“I said no.”

With speed unexpected of a drunk, Tom made a beeline for Bess. Just as his arms made to grip her close to his body, someone blocked his path.

“Go away, Tom.”

His held jolted backwards before his body, and he stumbled. “Fuck,” he said. In this light, in this state, the Vaughn girls all looked the same. Steely, dark eyes were boring into his. It was only the smaller stature of the girl before him that gave it away.

“Dotty-”

“Go away-”

“Oh shut up, Dot. You’ll never get a fella with a mouth like that,” Roger and Cora straightened at the bar. Bess came to stand at her sister’s side. Frank gripped Queenie by the arm and steered her away. This was it. The showdown. The two cockiest kids in Longsight. Dot Vaughn and Tom Bennett.  “Shut up and use your mouth for something useful-”

SMACK

The force with which Dot walloped Tom near gave him whiplash. Like a felled tree, he hit the ground hard. No sooner was he looking up at the three red-headed furies, was someone dragging him along the ground. For the second time that night, someone had Tom by the scruff of his collar. His feet struggled to find footing as whoever had hold of him pulled him towards the door. He looked up.

“Fuck me. Didn’t think you had it in you Rog.”

The pilot said nothing, only continued to drag Tom from the Palais. The clacking of high heels followed the pair, and as Roger hurled Tom onto the damp road outside the dancehall, Cora came into view.

Tom lay there for a few seconds, looking up at the dark sky as drizzle speckled his face.

“Get up.”

“You gonna fight me, Rog?” He received no reply and, with great difficulty, stood up. His head was beginning to pound, as though his brain was fight to break free from his skull.

Roger’s arms were folded against his chest. Tom had never realised, despite Roger’s lanky height, how imposing he was. In his uniform, he looked like the perfect poster boy for the British military. Beside him, Cora glared.

“Where the hell have you been?” Her voice was quiet, challenging him to dare to fight back. Tom rolled his shoulders and squared his jaw.

“Pub.”

Cora tutted. “I might have guessed.”

“Saw your dad there,”

“I’m sure.” Cora’s eyes hadn’t left Tom’s. Her feet hadn’t faltered. All that distinguished her from a statue were the few strands of hair waving in the cold night air.

“Gave him a piece of my mind-”

“A very small piece then.”

Tom snorted. “Was there celebrating your happy news. Congratulations, by the way.” He added as an aside. “Never seen him at the pub so happy, usually there to forget his own fuck ups. Wouldn’t catch me in that state-”

“You’ve got a nerve.” Cora snapped. “Dadda’s got his faults but don’t think for a second that you don’t have your own, Thomas Bennett.”

Cora walked towards him, her steps so slow and purpose that for the first time in his life, Tom was scared of her. She folded her arms and looked at him with disgust.

“You’re not the only one that’s suffered-”

“Tell you about this afternoon, did she?” Tom shouted. Cora raised her eyebrows and he silenced like a petulant child.

“No, Bess didn’t,” Behind her, Roger watched on. He didn’t move, flanking her like a sentinel solider. “But I’ve known you long enough to know you’re a jumped-up little shit who never put much store by other people’s feelings, BE QUIET!” she shoutedwhen Tom opened his mouth to argue. “You’re not the only one that’s fighting. That’s lost someone. Roger flies over Germany every other night, looking at the destruction we’re wreaking. Coming home to discover who he lost along the way. You know Vernon was the last to go down? Disappeared over the Channel. I don’t suppose you’ve thought for one second that Lois lost her father and her fiancé?”

Tom shifted uncomfortably.

“That we loved your father too? That we lost our Albie?” Cora’s voiced wobbled and a few tears fell from her eyes. Her gaze, however, did not waver. “I can’t imagine what horrors you’ve seen, Tom, but it isn’t plain sailing here. The fear of getting bombed every night, worrying if we’ll ever see you all again? Pretending it’s all smiles when you come home in case you see the cracks and crumble. Because what’s the point of fighting for a world that doesn’t exist anymore?”

Finally, she brushed her tears from her eyes. With a shaky breath, as if to set herself right, Cora straightened.

“It’s not the world against Tom Bennett. I know it feels like it-”

“No you don’t.” Tom said bitterly. “You don’t have a fucking clue.” And with the little pride he had left, he turned on weak legs, stumbled down the nearest ginnel, and vanished from sight.

Next morning, Bess rose as the sun crept over the brick red houses of Longsight.

Beside her, Dot and Cora were sleeping soundly, their arms cast over each other’s waists. Slowly, so as not to wake them, Bess drew back the quilt and crept onto the landing. The floorboards creaked and she stilled. No-one stirred.

Tentatively, she opened the door to her father’s bedroom.

He was slumped, half sat against the cold wall, atop his bed. Albie’ remained empty, his folded jumper and photograph sat neatly on top of the covers.

A swell of dread rushed over Bess and she felt sick. So it had been dadda stumbling around the house, not Tom.

Fergal’s misuse of alcohol was no secret about the street, and every neighbour knew his routine. His daughters knew it better. Six o’clock. If Fergal wasn’t working as an air raid warden, he would arrive home from the dockyard, ready for his supper. After reading the newspaper and listening to the girls talk about their days, he would depart for the pub at approximately twenty past seven. If drinking at The Crown, he would be allowed room under one of the tables and arrive home next morning with the milk float or the postman. If The Red Lion took his fancy, Old Arthur, for that was what the girls had always called the publican, gave him board in the small flat he kept above the pub. Only if Fergal drank at The Swan did he stagger home, for Mrs Mallory always cast him out at eleven o’clock.

On tiptoe, Bess hurried down the stairs. The hammering of her heart doubled. Tom was not slumped on the piano stool, nor was he at the table or in Fergal’s armchair.

This was it. His years of aggravating, pestering, hiding, skiving and shirking had finally caught up with him. Or, someone had caught up with him.

Terrified, worried and entirely unsure of what to do, Bess busied her hands by rummaging through the Welsh dresser drawers. Flicking through dressmaker’s patterns, ones belonging to herself, her mother and her sisters too, she pulled out a set for women’s slacks.

For Kasia¸ she thought. Well, that was that job done.

Curled up in her father’s armchair, Bess watched the world beyond the window wake up. Mrs Mason collected the milk bottles from her front step. Dennis Warley, the miserable postman, began his rounds. A few men Fergal’s age cycled to work. She looked at the clock. Half past six. At seven, she would wake Cora, and together they would hunt from Tom. What good was it now, when most of the city was still sleeping? Who could help?

A sudden wailing caused Bess to startle. She jumped up from the armchair, clutching the trouser pattern to her chest. Dot looked lazily up from the table. Cora placed a plate of bacon and eggs upon it, and hurried to the window where baby Vera, in her Moses basket, continued to cry.  

“Got used to living alone and don’t want to share the bed?” Dot poured herself a cup of tea.

“Probably fed up of your snoring,” said Cora good-naturedly, the delight of Roger’s proposal radiating from her. “But Bess, love, why were you sleeping in the armchair?”

“I must have just drifted off,” Bess brushed the frizzy hair from her face. “Went to check in on dadda’s room. Tom didn’t stay last night, Cora.” Much to her surprise, Cora did not seem worried. Instead, she raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. Bess felt the temper she inherited from their mother spark into life. “Cora?”

“Connie said she saw him last night, on her way to her shift on the ambulance. Was with Frank and some other lads.” Dot said through a mouthful of food. Cora tutted.

“He-oh. Ok,” Bess deflated, relief Tom was alright and embarrassment at her assumptions fighting for pitiable dominance. “Connie was here?” She moved forward to take the now whinging Vera from Cora.

“Mhmm,”

“Dorothy Vaughn. Don’t eat with your mouthful.”

Dot swallowed pointedly at Cora and turned back to Bess. “She brought Vera over.”

“Why?”

Dot faced her sister fully and grasped her cup of tea eagerly in her hands. After new dresses, Dot’s favourite thing was gossip. “Lois had to go to the infirmary. Was helping a family out of a house that got hit in the raids last night over in Fallowfield, and the house came down around her. She’s fine,” Bess had gasped. “Cut her head but just fine. That’s why Connie brought Cora. Lois is resting.” Dot punctuated her news with a long slurp of tea.

Bess sat at the table beside her sister, Vera now settled back to sleep. “Tom won’t know, about Lois, he’ll have no idea-”

“Doubt she wants him to know.” Dot said matter-of-factly. Again, Cora tutted.

“Dot, stop being cryptic and-”

“Well,” Dot launched herself into hurried speech. “Connie told us that Lois told her that her and Tom had an argument the day he got back-something about Douglas dying and him not knowing-anyway he got all angry with Lois saying that if she’d been there then he-Douglas that is-might not have died-”

“Breathe, Dot.”

“-and of course Lois didn’t like that and gave him a piece of her mind about working on the ambulance and doing her bit for the war effort, and then Tom-get this Bess-Tom turned round and said her job was to look after Douglas and Vera!” She took a deep breath and another sip of tea.

The anger caused by Cora’s apathy was nothing compared to the flame roaring into life now. Bess’ cheeks reddened, her eyes darkened, and a rigidity settled in her bones that God himself could not have shaken.

“Oh he did, did he?”

Three miles away, in a terraced house that edged Cringle Park, Tom Bennett woke. The bedsprings beneath his back were hard, a few pressing into his bony side, and the frame wobbled as he struggled to get up.

Bile rose to his throat and he lay down again. Above him, the ceiling spun. At its centre, the ceiling light had been draped in a rose silk scarf. Turning his head slowly so that it lolled on the pillow, Tom looked over the vanity table. Make up covered its counter, and few dresses in reds, pinks and purples were crumpled on the stool.

Beside him, the clock read just after eight o’clock. Its ticking was so loud inside his head it sounded like machine gun fire, and he groaned. The knock that came at the door was thunderous and Tom thought the sound alone would make him vomit.

“Morning, pet,” A high voice said. “Brought you a cuppa. Poor thing,” a soft hand touched his forehead, as though testing his temperature, and brushed the hair from his eyes. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

Tom rubbed his bleary eyes and took the tea from the person above him. Perfectly manicured nails, ringlets, red lipstick and the overpowering smell of lavender.

“Cheers, Queenie.”

Notes: Cigarette cards (sometimes called tart cards, if they had women on) were banned in Britain at the start of 1940 because the government indeed declared them a “waste of raw material”. I don’t know about elsewhere, but in Britain “to roger” someone is to have sex, usually in a bit of a rough manner. In research, I also read a study about the increase in domestic violence post-WWI, in households with soldiers returning to civilian life. Fuck war and fuck the men that start them. 

Thank you to @arcielee, who helped me unfuck this chapter more than she realises! There’s a line direct for one of our chats in here. And thanks again to @theoneeyedprince for help with the Polish. Below is the inspo for Bess’ outfit. Saw it and knew she’d wear it.

Tags: @aemonds-wifey@multiple-fandoms-girl @jessssica1234@babyblue711 @heimtathurs @exitpursuedbyavulcan @myfandompromptsside @allthefandomtherapy @reblogedworks @valerie977 @bookwyrmsblog @phantomontheinternet @chainsawsangel @greenowlfactif @thelittleswanao3 @yentroucnagol@beiigegalx@skikikikiikhhjuuh @just-emmaaaa @mefools@aquakaris @its-actually-minicika @whoknows333 @arcielee @honeymaltgelato @girlwith-thepearlearring @fangirlninja67 @evita-shelby @cherievictore @shmexie @ewanmitchellcrumbs @blairfox04

[solace-flower]

me and churchill have been through a lot these past 8 hours of gameplay, including:

walking over a bridge and getting hit by 5 grenades

fighting four ghouls in an underground flooded tunnel before being fucking tsunamed!!

getting lost in a claustrophobic tower and chased by 10’s of mirelurk hatchlings (directly after the ghouls in the tunnel)

spending an hour trying to find the way to the vagabond pub and getting jumped by dudes dressed like the navy from 1784

died in the river thames from 250+ radiation a second

generally having to run away from every enemy and hope you dont run into a worse one.

doing all of this with barely any ammo and a knife

[mstowns62]

Saturday 6/15 - Politics in London

We started off our day heading over to Westminster Abbey to do a political walking tour that takes us through the abbey’s grounds and to talk about the political systems of London. We learned their constitution is “unwritten not unbuilt” meaning most of their political traditions are not actual laws of conduct rather traditions passed on by generations. We got lunch around the City of Westminster and ended up getting paninis. Afterwards we explored the house of lords and the house of commons at parliament building. The political part of our day ended with parliamenr and afterwards Kaitlin, Mimi and I headed to a famous pub called churchill arms. Afterwards we headed back to the hotel and got some much needed rest.

@danielcronrath

[deadendtracks]

"John starts a gang war, and Arthur either eggs him on or doesn't do anything to stop him."

Great write up but a clarification - Isn't Tommy the one started the war with the Changrettas by burning Angels restaurant in the first place, a gang that has been at peace for 2 years? What other outcome/message that entails between gangsters? John aggravated the situation for sure, but Tommy is the one that made the need for a sit down in the first place. Tommy handled the Angel debacle poorly, inflated ego I think. For a man who is knee deep in strategies and 10 steps ahead of everyone, this was just pure miscalculation especially during this crucial time dealing with Churchill/Russians? Isn't that why he never blamed anyone but himself for how it turned out?

I've posted about it before, but in that post I wasn't specific enough about the initial meeting with Changretta and also didn't talk about the restaurant fire. So I'll dig into it a bit more here.

It got very long.

In 3.01, there's a scene between Arthur, Michael and Lizzie at Arrow House during Tommy 's wedding. Michael talks about how Lizzie was told with all the other office girls about the rule against fraternizing with foreigners and that Angel Changretta has had a bunch of aliases and runs with the "Naples boys" which I guess means he's in the rival gang, as reasons he's off limits, because of Lizzie's important position in the company. This is often framed as Tommy trying to personally control who Lizzie dates, but that's really not what's going on here -- he's knee deep in espionage with the Russian business by then, and rather than tip anyone off by ordering them all to stay away from Russians, he's just banned dating 'foreigners.'

The discussion of the fire never is explicit about who gave the order: Lizzie tells Arthur "You set the fire." Which is probably a collective 'you' meaning the Peaky Blinders. So it's possible Tommy himself ordered it, but it's also possible this was something Arthur and John did on their own to enforce the 'no fraternizing' rule (or because of John's jealousy, see below). It's ambiguous, because at that point Tommy wasn't necessarily micromanaging everything they did -- in season 2 for example they go burn the pub where Isiah was accosted on their own. They like burning pubs.

But let's say Tommy did order the fire. The purpose of the meeting with Vincente Changretta would have been to restore peace, negotiate, not escalate things into an outright gang war. The fire itself wouldn't have been enough to do that, or Vincente wouldn't be accepting a meeting to talk about it. He would have retaliated. He didn't; he was still willing to talk.

That's the important thing, to me, when I talk about John starting the war -- everything that follows, which I'm going to get into detail about, because I think it tends to be glossed over or forgotten.

Unfortunately, Tommy was called away literally at the last minute and had to catch the early train to London to meet the Russian duke. I imagine he may not have given Arthur and John super specific instructions, just to smooth things over with Changretta in a way that lets him save face but maintains Peaky Blinder power, as Polly mentions later.

That's definitely not what happens.

Go back and watch the scene: Arthur and John start out the meeting in an insulting attitude immediately. If you look at how things are set up, they've left a bunch of horse manure on the side of the table the Italians are to sit on, and the side Arthur and John are standing on is clear. Arthur mentions the fine scent of shit. Both of them take a mocking tone with Changretta, showing him little respect, and John is constantly smirking. This is absolutely not how Tommy would have handled it.

Vincente says there's been peace between them for 2 years. Before he can continue, John interrupts and asks if he wants tea. It's obviously not meant to be polite, but to be further disrespectful. This provokes Vincente. He mentions the restaurant being burnt, Arthur and John joke further about Angel and continue to act disrespectfully.

Vincente: But you tell him from me that my son will walk with any woman in this city. Any woman he chooses. Even if that woman works for the Emperor, Thomas Shelby. My son is in love--

At this point, John starts laughing really insultingly.

Vincente: And if he wishes, he will walk with the woman he loves.

John: OK. You know, it'd be hard for your son to walk anywhere with a bullet in each knee, wouldn't it?

Immediately, the tone changes. Arthur gets serious finally. John looks at Vincente with a dangerous expression rather than mocking. He's making a specific threat on Angel Changretta.

John laughs as the Italians walk away in fury, but Arthur knows shit has hit the fan. He tells Isiah to put extra men in their pubs and tells John not to tell Tommy about the Italians breaking a chair (I read this as "don't tell Tommy we fucked this meeting up and they left angry").

Note: Tommy is still in London and has no idea this has happened.

The next scene Polly walks in to confront John. She says she doesn't want him to do anything about the situation :

Polly: Well, [Angel] heard you threatened him directly to shoot him in the knees and now he's going around Nechells telling everybody he's going to kill you. This is Lizzie's fault to start with, Tommy's for leaving it up to you.

John (acting really juvenile the entire time, look at his body language): What are you talking about? We run London. We run the north, we run the whole fucking country. What do we care about some fucking Nechells Green Eyeties?

Polly: We don't need to be getting involved in all these little piss pots. ...We own the city. But we don't need to rub everbody's noses in it. If the old man decides to make a stand, he might get Sabini feeling sentimental-

John: Sabini's done.

Polly: They're all done. And they all pay up. But we don't want rebellions.

I've quoted this at length because it's important to putting what John did in context, why it was so dangerous. By threatening Angel Changretta and treating Vincente so insultingly, John (and Arthur) have made things worse rather than settling them.

Polly goes on with her 'compromise' which is that Lizzie meets Angel and breaks up with him, saying it was all her fault. Setting aside the way Polly frames John and Arthur's fuckup as Tommy and Lizzie's responsibility both here and above, take note of John's reaction!

It's violent. He sweeps things from his desk and gets up, yelling, then starts talking about how this is all Linda's fault for her Christian talk (referring to Arthur wanting to apologize). Ask yourself why he's reacting violently now, at this point -- when Polly mentions Lizzie talking to Angel Changretta.

Notice that John only threatened Angel in the scene with Vincente when Vincente talked about his son being in love with Lizzie.

In both of these cases, John has an outsized reaction to mention of Lizzie being with Angel Changretta -- he's the one who is jealous, he's the one who is angry about the whole thing.

Polly tells John not to do anything, and 'it'll all calm down and nobody will lose face.' Again, an important line, because she's talking about dialing down tension with the Changretta family.

John's response? "I'll take his fucking face. How about that?"

In London, Tommy is only just now meeting with the Russian duke!

Next scene: Angel Changretta is picking up a suit from the tailor. John is there, assaults him, shouts at him to "stay away from Lizzie" and then cuts his face with a razor, disfiguring him.

Only then does Tommy get back from London. By the time he gets back the war has already started. It hadn't started with the restaurant fire, because Vincente didn't retaliate then, he'd only come to talk. The war starts because John deliberately starts it by attacking Angel Changretta!

When Tommy walks into the situation, it's too late for "apologize" and "compromise" because of John, specifically. Possibly if he'd gone to Vincente Changretta at that point and spoken to him, there would have been a way out of the war, but from Tommy's reaction, I think his stance is that once things have escalated that far they'd look weak and open themselves up to more 'rebellions' from other gangs if they didn't react swiftly and harshly.

You mentioned Tommy's flaw being inflated ego here; I don't think that's it at all. I think if you look at the context of the day Tommy had -- meeting the priest, the insinuations about the priest abusing children at Grace's school, being ordered to take the meeting in London, the whole way he's been coerced into this business in the first place -- I do think this contributed to him ordering them to basically squash the "rebellion" by extreme force.

He says the line about "if we lift our heel off their necks now, they'll just come at us." -- It's a wartime reaction, and he's feeling besieged on all sides at this point. This is something he can control and so that's the tactic he takes.

You can argue about whether or not it was a good decision, and it does end tragically, of course.

But he wouldn't have been put in that position if not for John!

The matter of Tommy blaming himself is a complex one -- and I've already written way too much tonight. But to me, he blames himself because he wasn't there at that first meeting, and Polly outright blames him for not being at the meeting. He blames himself because he sees himself in a way as the superior officer who is ultimately responsible for the actions of his soldiers, and because he escalated things when he got back from London. I also think he has a pattern of taking responsibility for the things his brothers do onto himself and tends to never articulate out loud his feelings about some of this but that's a whole other meta.

Of course a lot of this is up to interpretation; but I don't think the fact that John's the one responsible for starting the war with the Changrettas is one of them. That's just factually what happened.

[in-a-mountain-pool]

Playing House CH1

pronouns: she/her (afab)

warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort,

summary: A childhood friend and neighbour of the Bennett family, Y/N fights the war on the Homefront, and looks back on her life and *almost* love with a certain Sailor.

pairings: Tom Bennett x reader

wordcount: 1018

The nights were long during the first few months of the war. You'd desperately wanted to do your bit from the start, what with losing a father to the first great war. The war to end all wars, they had called it. You'd wanted to be a nurse just like your mum and make her and your dad proud. But after the selection process they'd decided you were too 'gentle' for a war hospital environment, and supposedly had a knack for maths and electronics. Before you knew it, you'd been taken on as a switch board operator at the war office sending messages across the country, often times the bearer of bad news more than good. This evening you'd pulled a gruelling shift and things were apparently only going to get worse as word came in there had been a particularly nasty battle out in the Java Sea. Whilst you'd avoided the sight of the bloodshed, being the first to know it had happened was almost even worse. Having to tell the poor sod on the other line that their squadron were not coming back was heart-breaking and never got any easier. There was no good way to tell anyone the sort of news which had become common place to you.

Your mind was working on autopilot, the 8-hour day soon turning to 14 hours, with hardly the time for even a tea break and a biscuit, or even a smoke. As your hands started to shake changing wires in the dim light of the room, a voice shakes you from your deep concentration, and gentle manicured hands take the wire from your grip softly.

"Y/N, girl, you've got to stop, alright? You'll waste away if you keep this up. Go home, yeah? We can take it from here. Your mum will be beside herself with worry."

Betty, your best mate at work had already brought you your coat and you were so tired you let her stand you up as she placed it on your shoulders and hooked your gas mask over your shoulder.

"Churchill would be proud of you today, love. Your finest hour indeed. But you've gotta take care of yourself, eh? Can’t fight the Germans without fuel and a good night’s rest."

The older woman gave me a warm knowing look and sent me on my way, and I walked down the streets of Manchester briskly in the dark of the night.

As I approached my childhood street and our small, terraced house, it was deadly quiet and crisp outside in the night that even the jangle of my housekeys seem disruptive. Not a soul was out, not even the patrons of local pub were kicking up a fuss, not even on a Friday night. It was hard not to feel a sense of discomfort, like the calm before the storm. I push the front door open quietly, Mum was almost definitely in bed at this hour and I didn’t want to risk waking her when she had a long shift ahead of her at the hospital in the morning... but then out of the corner of my eyes, I see a small rectangle of light peeking out from beneath the door to the living room. She never waited up for me. Not even when I went out with the girls at work for drinks. Tired and dejected, I decide to leave her be and deal with her dramas in the morning, and I start to climb the staircase slowly, until a soft creak gives me away.

"Y/N, is that you? Come in, I need to talk with you."

My hand grips the rail tighter, as a wave of discomfort washes over me, and my stomach turns. Mum appears in the hall, wrapped up tight in her dressing gown, bathed in the warm light of the fireplace.

"Darlin' come on, I just made a cuppa, come and sit with me alright?"

She gently coaxed me out of my coat and sat me down, placing a small plate of supper she'd obviously kept for me, and a warm cup of earl grey in my hands. She came to sit down opposite me at the dining room table and started staring at me expectantly, taking my hand in hers tightly. Why on earth was she being so careful with me? She was treating me like I was made of glass, and soon worrying thoughts started to race through my head as she began to speak.

"So... Did you hear the news...at the office today?"

My green eyes search hers cautiously as I take a sip of the warm tea and reply in a tired voice.

"When I was leaving, we'd just got news about a battle in the Indonesian Sea... but Betty insisted I come home, 'was getting the shakes and all that. No time for lunch when Jerry is wreaking havoc out there."

At this she grips my hand a little tighter and my heart gets colder as she quietly prods me on.

“So, you… you do know then?"

…

The pause goes on for a long moment, like she's waiting for me to crack or something, looking at me like whatever she was going to say might break me. I'm so knackered and aching from the day that my patience is worn thin, and my reply comes out as a harsh snap.

"Oh hell, Mother, do I know what? Please just tell me whatever has happened, alright? You're frightening me."

Her face drops, and I can see her start biting her lip, and it’s only then that I really look at her in the darkened room and I can see her eyes are swollen and pink from crying, with a worrisome look etched across her face.

"Love, the battle today against the Graf Spree... well, the HMS Exeter was there... and she's been sunk. Mr Bennett, he came by to see me all in a panic and-"

My whole world crashes down as I hear about Douglas, and the only thing I can picture is *his* face. Blue eyes flash in my memory, the smell of spring, the feeling of his hand in mine… and all of a sudden, I feel like I can hardly breath. I gasp harshly, only one word, one name, leaves my lips.

"Tommy."

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

🎬

For Diana, please. Or George if you'd rather be MotA about this.

thanks, george!! <3 Diana my loveeee let's go

who the fandom ships them with

I mean Diana and Reg is the big one ofc, but I feel like there's definitely some people who would ship her and Stirling, too. They're so sibling coded TO ME but some people would definitely go there - Diana would be multi-shipper heaven

why the fandom loves them

Because she's cool and hot and sexy duh (also the daddy issues would make people so insane)

why the fandom hates them

idk misogyny??? there's definitely people who wouldn't like the way she treats Paddy sometimes, but like. I promise he'll be Fine

what the cast relationship would be like

Honestly it's a bit 50/50??? being pretty much the only woman in an overwhelmingly male cast can go both ways - but she kicks ass so I'm sure she'll be grand

what was their audition scene

Either the scene at the prison from Chapter 1 or the opening scene of Chapter 8 with Stirling and Randolph Churchill. They're both so DIANA - I think the ensemble banter stuff is super important to her character and making sure she can mesh with the others

dependent upon the fandom, who they’d be on a press tour/at comic con with

Diana and Kershaw panel save me 🙏

if they spoil things

Yes. Probably on purpose

Y'KNOW WHAT?? bonus George Aarons under the cut:

who the fandom ships them with

The Curt/George and Blakely/George shippers would almost certainly be fighting it out (even though the ships co-exist perfectly imo), and there'd definitely be a minority faction of George/Frankie shippers just minding their business and having a nice time on the sidelines

why the fandom loves them

Her friendship with Frankie and the role she played in getting Frankie and Rosie together would make her soooo dearly beloved. I think the shipping possibilities with her would make her super popular in fandom spaces, too.

why the fandom hates them

I can just picture people going after her for not being 100% besties with Rosie. He's such a darling of the fandom that I feel like some people would really dislike that she finds him a little offputting. SHE LIKES HIM OK!!! HE'S JUST GOT A WEIRD VIBE!!!

what the cast relationship would be like

George and Frankie platonic soulmates in every universe, what can I say?? That being said, from the MoTA cast interviews I've seen I feel like George would fit in SO well, she just matches their energy 100%

what was their audition scene

I'm thinking that scene between Rosie and George in the pub from Chapter 8. We don't get many George scenes without Frankie, and I think it's a good moment for establishing her character independently. HOWEVER - Chapter 12 flashback scenes for chemistry reads, they'd work so well for establishing that dynamic

dependent upon the fandom, who they’d be on a press tour/at comic con with

I feel like George is one one those characters you could pair with ANYONE. Obviously the George and Frankie pairing is ideal, but Frankie and Rosie would get put together 9 times out of 10. I imagine she'd end up doing press with Lemmons - they've got a pretty equal footing when it comes to importance/screentime in their story

if they spoil things

Tries super hard not to - definitely caused a scandal when she accidentally let something major slip during press

if the show/movie has ended, are they happy with their character’s ending and the ending at large

The fic hasn't ended so I won't give any details but... yes

[uswnt5]

https://www.tumblr.com/uswnt5/755539780078567424/as-another-anon-going-to-london-i-also-would-love

I think depending what you like—if you like history then I would hit up the Imperial War Museum—2nd best museum I’ve been to in my life, and Churchill’s War Room. British museum if you want to see a bunch of stolen stuff 😏—it’s actually quite interesting and has some really cool stuff

Kensington Palace is nice, Harrods is worth the visit

Westminster Abbey Parliament and Big Ben a right next to each other. Trafalgar square has lots of protests at night—last time I was there it was when Russian invaded Ukraine so that was what the protest where about

Changing of the guard—but look at the schedule before you go—Windsor Castle is nice and a short train ride away and the town is lovely—there is a lady that works at St George’s chapel on the grounds of Windsor and she hates Megan!

Hamleys is a 6 story toy store and has nice small souvenirs if you’re bringing anything back for kids

All the little neighborhoods have different vibes

Shopping at Oxford street. Piccadilly if you want to see the tiniest version of Times Square ever

If you want to go to a premier league game I have used P1 Travel a few times—a bit pricey but you only get to experience that kind of atmosphere once. If you want to go to a women’s game tickets are super cheap—we went to both Arsenal men and women last time I was there and I’ve been to Tottenham since my son loves them🤮

Get the pass for the tube-it covers most of the zones around London

Skip Warner brothers unless you’re a Harry Potter enthusiast

A taxi is gonna cost a lot from Heathrow into the city so take the tube

Depending on when you go remember the time over there—it gets dark early in late fall and winter

If I think of anything else I’ll let you know

Have fun!

Ps they have a great Chinatown if you like Chinese and eat a roast dinner on a Sunday in a pub and try fish and chips!

Wow thanks!

How about restaurants and bars in central London? Near the river.

[smp-archive]

Scott Putesky performing Negative 3 at The Spooky Kids tribute show at Churchill's Pub, Miami, FL, Oct. 25, 2011. Video from sfbandvideos.

[brookstonalmanac]

Events 6.18 (after 1940)

1940 – Appeal of 18 June by Charles de Gaulle. 1940 – The "Finest Hour" speech is delivered by Winston Churchill. 1945 – William Joyce ("Lord Haw-Haw") is charged with treason for his pro-German propaganda broadcasting during World War II. 1946 – Dr. Ram Manohar Lohia, a Socialist, calls for a Direct Action Day against the Portuguese in Goa. 1948 – Columbia Records introduces the long-playing record album in a public demonstration at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in New York City. 1948 – Britain, France and the United States announce that on June 21, the Deutsche Mark will be introduced in western Germany and West Berlin. Over the next six days, Communists increasingly restrict access to Berlin. 1953 – The Egyptian revolution of 1952 ends with the overthrow of the Muhammad Ali dynasty and the declaration of the Republic of Egypt. 1953 – A United States Air Force C-124 crashes and burns near Tachikawa, Japan, killing 129. 1954 – Carlos Castillo Armas leads an invasion force across the Guatemalan border, setting in motion the 1954 Guatemalan coup d'état. 1958 – Benjamin Britten's one-act opera Noye's Fludde premiered at the Aldeburgh Festival. 1965 – Vietnam War: The United States Air Force uses B-52 bombers to attack guerrilla fighters in South Vietnam. 1972 – Staines air disaster: One hundred eighteen people are killed when a BEA H.S. Trident crashes minutes after takeoff from London's Heathrow Airport.[8] 1979 – SALT II is signed by the United States and the Soviet Union. 1981 – The Lockheed F-117 Nighthawk, the first operational aircraft initially designed around stealth technology, makes its first flight. 1982 – Italian banker Roberto Calvi's body is discovered hanging beneath Blackfriars Bridge in London, England. 1983 – Space Shuttle program: STS-7, Astronaut Sally Ride becomes the first American woman in space. 1983 – Mona Mahmudnizhad, together with nine other women of the Baháʼí Faith, is sentenced to death and hanged in Shiraz, Iran over her religious beliefs. 1984 – A major clash between about 5,000 police and a similar number of miners takes place at Orgreave, South Yorkshire, during the 1984–85 UK miners' strike. 1994 – The Troubles: Members of the Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF) attack a crowded pub with assault rifles in Loughinisland, Northern Ireland. Six Catholic civilians are killed and five wounded. It was crowded with people watching the 1994 FIFA World Cup. 1998 – Propair Flight 420 crashes near Montréal–Mirabel International Airport in Quebec, Canada, killing 11. 2006 – The first Kazakh space satellite, KazSat-1 is launched. 2007 – The Charleston Sofa Super Store fire happened in Charleston, South Carolina, killing nine firefighters. 2009 – The Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter (LRO), a NASA robotic spacecraft is launched. 2018 – An earthquake of magnitude 6.1 strikes northern Osaka. 2023 – Titan, a submersible operated by OceanGate Expeditions, imploded while attempting to view the wreck of the Titanic, killing all five people on board including the co-founder and CEO of the company, Stockton Rush in the North Atlantic Ocean.

[goblincow]

Having a recurring thought atm that I want a nice shiny black baseball bat with the words this machine kills fascists running up the side and a bag with straps to attach it to. Gonna scuff up the end on some statues of churchill so you know I mean business. And then I can buy a micro pub so I can put it above the bar and bring it out of retirement as needed. That would be sweet.