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heavencanbeaprisontoo · 8 months

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The Princess of Birmingham

{Prologue: Where Have You Been, Sallyanna Gray?}

Isiah x Sallyanna!OC

Notes: Written in the second-person/"you."

2.6k words Warnings: Use of the word g-psy, angst, language, references to illegal substances, spoilers for Series 4.

The year is 1925.

You have many names. The one that was given at birth is lost to you. All you know is what others have called you and what you’ve made up on your own. Some folks have called you “Sally,” most folks know to call you “Anna.” The police of Western Australia know you as “Birdie Boswell,” and the good folks of Barton & Davies’ Traveling Circus just call you “Birdie.” After escaping from St. Joseph’s, Barton & Davies had been your salvation. You had been only twelve at the time. A real pitiful looking thing. Half-starved and pinching pockets to stay alive. For taking you in to work instead of turning you in, you were forever grateful.

Barton & Davies were a small circus, owning the train they used to get around. Much of your work involved cleaning up after the elephants and running booze to the clowns. After a few years, you got close to some of the performers. Like Madam Eudora, the fortuneteller. She was a total fraud but was good to you. Aside from Eudora you hung around the knife-thrower and his wife. They weren’t always good to you, but the circus was heaps better than wasting away in that bloody orphanage.

But it still wasn’t your home. Birmingham was.

The air here is cold, and thick. It feels like you’re swimming on land is a strange forest made of stone and smoke. With wide eyes, you try to find something familiar here. This is your home, Birmingham. Where you were born. Where you were stolen from. It should feel good to be here, but all you feel is damp. You wish you had a fucking cigarette.

You were taken away from your family when you were very small by people you can’t recall and for reasons that don’t matter to you. For as long as you can remember you’ve been consumed by this need to return home. To find your mother. You can’t remember her name, but you know her face. Dreams have painted her portrait to you every night. It was not until you stumbled across a specific newspaper that you knew what you dreamt of was accurate.

A story featuring one Mr. Thomas Shelby who had opened a children’s institute in his late wife’s name. He, along with his siblings, were depicted alongside Her.

Your mother.

Her face was quite small, as she was stood far from the main character of this play. Still, you knew her. You knew her the instant you saw her. For many nights before finding that news clipping, you saw her face in your dreams. This institute was in Birmingham, you knew you came from Birmingham. The nuns used to talk about it. They would whisper about how you came from gypsies there. To see something physical had given you your last push.

How you crossed from Australia back to the United Kingdom wasn’t precisely… legal. Not that you cared. All that mattered was that you made it here. Home was the closest it had been in fifteen years. Still, it would’ve been nice if someone had warned you how cold and wet Birmingham was. Your thin, tattered coat was made to keep out sand and dirt… not the cold. The boots you wore were thinning in the soles and were letting in rainwater with each step. Everything you owned was in a rucksack hanging over your shoulder. You tried to ask the locals if they knew where “Mrs. Gray,” lived. No one would give you a straight answer. One old woman pushed her bony finger to your chest and told you, “Don’t seek that woman, the whole family is troubled. The lot of them.”

Hardly the homecoming you dreamed of as a little girl.

For the better part of the day, all you’ve done is wear out the soles of your boots stomping around Birmingham. You trudged up and down the streets like one of those private detectives Madam Eudora liked to read. Searching for some trace of her. The woman who matched the photo in your coat pocket. It was well-traveled, that piece of newspaper. Folded into a tight square with soft, frayed creases from being opened again and again. You’d completely forgotten how many people there were in Birmingham. On a map, Australia was massive compared to the United Kingdom. Finding one woman in such a small place had seemed simple. You had no money to pay for a bed or buy a meal. No attempts to save money were made on your end. All thought had been to simply get here.

“Dedicated and steadfast, but short-sighted and prone to recklessness,” those had been Sister Moore’s words on you. A painfully accurate description. She was the only nun you really liked.

A chill ran down your spine and your dark curls stuck to your rain-soaked face. She was here. She had to be. Night fell fast, which only deepened the cold that clung to you now. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you passed by a man on a ladder. He was lighting a streetlamp. You asked him if he knew the way to Mrs. Gray’s house, all he did was give a subtle nod further up the road. When you tried to gain better direction, he took down his ladder and walked off as if you’d said nothing at all. With no better leads, you walked on. The further down you went, the nicer the houses got. The neighborhood you now found yourself in seemed wealthy. Two-story houses with shiny Fords parked all along the roads. A part of you wondered if this was the right spot to look. You came from gypsies, after all. Then again, your mother was dressed in a fine gown next to some widow who had enough money to fund an entire institution.

Headlights came toward you, blinding you for a moment as a well-dressed couple drove past you. This car slowed; the driver gawked at you in your weathered clothes. It was not a look you were shocked or unused to seeing, but you didn’t let it slide without a quick, “Bugger off then!” Which made the car speed up straight after. A groan left you, can’t escape that look anywhere, can you?

You come upon one house with the gutter coming loose from it. When your eyes fall on this one slight imperfection, it stops you. It wasn’t just an imperfect house. It was the only imperfect house. All others were completely identical, but not this one. There’s a pull here. A feeling that only grows as the door to this house opens. A woman with dark bobbed hair in a long burgundy coat stepped out. She lets the door shut behind her as she fishes through her purse, producing a cigarette and a lighter.

With a flick, she lights that cigarette. Your breath catches in your throat. From that one, brief flash, you see her face. You know her face. The distance between seeing her and recognizing her does not exist. She lets out a stream of pale grey cigarette smoke from between bright red lips into the night air. It is her. Your mother. Standing in fine clothes and sparkling jewelry, a fur draped over her shoulders and a castle of brick behind her.

Every nerve in your body is screaming, you can’t breathe, you can’t think. All you can do is open your mouth and shout, “Mrs. Gray!” Your voice seemed to echo in this near-empty street. The woman looked up quickly, her had moving over her purse. Though all that separates you is a road, it feels like a river. Light from the streetlamp illuminates you like a spotlight.

Her hand stays over her purse, she says nothing. Your chest can hardly hold your pounding heart, you shout again, “Mrs. Gray, I want to talk to you!”

Your mother’s head snaps to you. She stays frozen as the photograph in your pocket as you repeat yourself. Heart racing, you will your feet to move, and they obey, taking you into the road. Crossing over. She speaks, finally, a startled utterance of, “Who wants to speak with Polly Gray?”

Hands raised, you cried, “I know this is strange, but---“

With a brutal shove, the door behind your mother flew open. Out came a man with broad shoulders and a dark suitcoat. He charged to you, forcing you to scramble back to the sidewalk. He pointed at you, bellowing “This is private fucking property!”

“Michael!”

The man waved her off saying, “Get back inside.” She did not obey.

You tried to step around the younger man, “Mrs. Gray!” The stranger’s nostrils flared, and he caught you by your shoulders. The hold on you was firm but unpainful. Now standing under the streetlamp with you, the man’s face was clearer. His hair was a light brown, it was cut cleanly and close to his head. He was cleanshaven with a wide jaw and a strong brow, young. This man couldn’t have been much older than you.

He seemed to take your stillness for compliance as he spoke to you in an even tone, “Polly Gray isn’t taking any more visitors and isn’t giving any handouts after tonight. You tell your people to stay away, by order of the Peaky Blinders, you understand me?”

By order of the peaky what now? God, this bloke didn’t even seem that sure of what he said either! Well, this wouldn’t be the first time someone threatened you with words you didn’t understand. His pupils were almost raking up his entire iris, even under the streetlamp. Could be some good Tokyo. The smart thing to do would be to proceed carefully, and coolly. He could be dangerous and not in his right mind. That indeed would be the better thing to do.

Anyway, you shoved him with both hands and said, “Oi, fuck off mate! This’s got nothin’ to do with you.” From over his shoulder, you shouted again, “I just need a word!“

Again, the young man grabbed you, rougher this time. He gripped you by the fur-covered lapels of your coat. The young man lifted you to your tiptoes, “Get the fuck out of here!” Spittle flicked from his lips to your cheek. You kicked at his knees and gripped his wrists tight. All your attention was focused on the woman who was still making her way into her home. Once more, you shouted, “I need to talk to you! I need to, because… because you’re my mother!”

She stood frozen in the open doorway, a hand over her mouth. Her form disappeared as your feet fully touched the ground. The young brute had dropped you. Now he just stared at you, looking boyish now in his open shock. His shock boiled into a greater rage, “How dare you—”

“Michael, let me see her.”

Heels clicked against wet stone, quicker with each second. The young man, Michael, moved aside. You noted a visible vein throbbing on his temple. He started to speak, and she hushed him with a quick gesture. She was standing in the light now. With you. She was only slightly taller than you, her hair and eyes were a dark brown. Just like yours. Her cheekbones were high and very pronounced. Deep brown eyes took you in from head to toe, her expression unreadable, “You say you want to talk to me, because I’m your mother?”

Swallowing hard, you reply, “I do. And you are. I’m certain.”

She shuts her eyes. Wincing. Michael sighs deeply beside her. He turns his back to you. Your mother opens her eyes again, now dewy with unshed tears clinging to her lashes. Her expression remains ambiguous and her voice cold as she says, “My daughter died, she told me so herself. If what I know is wrong, you had better be good at convincing me so.”

“I told you that I…” was she mad? You shook your head, “Well, you’re wrong because you’re wrong. I’m alive, and I’m here. All I’ve done is try to come home.”

Your mother crosses her arms over her chest and winces again. She didn’t believe you. All this time, all these years, and she just didn’t believe you? Not once had this outcome crossed your mind. Especially not that you had somehow told her you were dead. You briefly pondered the odds of that happening. Was she insane, or you? She takes a long drag of her cigarette, not daring to look at you, “I have already grieved the loss of my girl. I don’t know who you are or why you’ve come here, but you should go back.”

“Yes, you do, you know me,” you spat “I’m Sally!”

Her already arched brows climbed higher up her forehead, “Sally?”

“I’m Sally… or I might be Anna,” you cringed slightly and started to twirl one of your thick curls around your finger. You carried on “I’ve been called both before. Not too fond of being called just Sally. Not sure why I gave that one first. Anna sounds classier but I hate when people call me "Annie." Don’t hardly know how to even introduce myself to strangers, I just say to call me “Birdie.” I gave the fake name of Birdie Boswell to the cops once and I still—"

A warm hand closed around your hand, making you release the curl in between your fingers. She was looking at you, hard this time. Different. Whatever you had said, or done, it had shaken her. What felt like seconds to you had been longer to her.

“I know your name,” her other hand came up to cup your cheek “your name is Sallyanna Gray.”

A scoff sounded off beside you, your mother hissed a quick, “Michael.” The man in question didn’t spare you a glance. He stormed right back inside, like a bull returning to his pen. She started again, “I saw your face in a hangman’s loop. Just as it is now. Like looking through a window. I… I thought you were welcoming me to the other side. Yet here you are. And it is you. It is.”

You didn’t know you were crying until her thumb brushed a tear aside, “It is. I’m Sallyanna Gray.” The name felt good to speak. Felt right.

All composure and dignity crumbled for her then. Her arms came around you, her cigarette left dying on the sidewalk. She held you tight. A barely restrained sob shaking her as you returned the embrace. There was so much to tell you. So much lost time to make up. So many questions. Where have you been? How did you find her? Why were you so thin and filthy? Who gave Tommy that false death report? Or did Tommy—

She sighed, parting just enough to look into your eyes. You still twirled your hair. You still had freckles. You still ramble when you’re nervous. And you knew the name Birdie, somehow. A sign from her own mother? Perhaps. All that mattered was that it was you. Polly smiled, despite all that she knew would come after this moment. She could at least enjoy this. Holding you again after all these years. The cold kept her from keeping you to that spot, she could feel you shivering. Polly squeezed your shoulders once, “My God, you’re soaked to the bone. Come inside before you freeze, we can talk after you put on something dry.”

All you could do was nod, sniffling as you wiped your face with your palms. You took one step before she stopped you. She cleared her throat, blinking back another bout of tears.

“Take my hand, I’d like to be the one to bring you home.”

Your smiled and said, “I would like that.”

She laced her fingers with yours and exhaled deeply before forcing a conversational tone. Your mother asked you the question that be repeated many, many times after this night:

“So, where have you been Sallyanna Gray?”

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders oc #peaky blinders x oc #sallyanna gray #Sallyanna Gray x Isiah Jesus #isiah jesus #isaiah jesus #peaky blinders x you

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thewomenofwindsor · 5 months

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Prince Harry was forced to apologise after breaking confidentiality rules in his own High Court case by sharing private information with Johnny Mercer.

Court documents reveal that the Duke of Sussex emailed the veterans minister confidential information concerning his security claim against the Home Office.

The Duke has long shared a close bond with Mr Mercer, with both having served in Afghanistan.

Mr Mercer is a vocal supporter of the Invictus Games and is spearheading the Government’s attempt to host the 2027 event in Birmingham. The pair were photographed drinking pints of beer together at last year’s event in Dusseldorf, Germany.

Mr Justice Lane revealed the Duke’s indiscretion in a costs ruling handed down on Monday concerning his failed application for a judicial review.

He said: “In November 2023, the claimant breached the terms of the confidentiality ring order by emailing certain information to a partner of Schillings, who was not within the confidentiality ring, and to the Rt Hon Johnny Mercer MP.”

The breach was almost immediately detected by the Duke’s own barrister, Shaheed Fatima KC, who promptly informed his solicitor, Jenny Afia, who works for Schillings.

“She in turn informed the defendant (via the Government Legal Department) as well as taking action to minimise the effects of the breach,” the judge said.

The Home Office argued that such breaches, for which the judge said the Duke had apologised, caused it to incur unnecessary costs.

The judge said he did not wish to minimise the “seriousness” of the breach but concluded that it did not have any bearing on the overall determination of costs.

#royal drama #lol always saying sorry

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scotianostra · 6 months

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On April 7th 1934 Ian Richardson was born.

A great classical actor, he was best known to TV viewers as the Machiavellian Urquhart in House of Cards, in his golden years at the Royal Shakespeare Company from 1960 to 1975, he played a long line of leading roles, television and film later brought Richardson wider renown.

Born as Ian William Richardson the only son and eldest of three children of Margaret and John Richardson in Edinburgh, Ian was educated at Balgreen and then Tynecastle schools, he thentrained for the stage at Glasgow’s College of Dramatic Art, with lightning speed, Richardson, at the age of 24, found himself playing Hamlet. Two seasons at Birmingham were followed by a swift transfer in 1960 to neighbouring Stratford where Richardson became a vital component. of the Royal Shakespeare Company where we was one of the founders.

After leaving the RSC, Richardson became a somewhat nomadic figure, turning up on Broadway as Higgins in My Fair Lady.

For a while he was on the dole — one morning he was even scrabbling round Covent Garden collecting fruit and vegetables. He also suffered a nervous breakdown, as a result of which he was sent to a nursing home run by nuns in Regent’s Park; after three weeks’ treatment he had recovered sufficiently to return home. I suppose it was his time unemployed that took him into a more regular career on the small screen.

From the late 1970′s onwards, he carved out a prosperous career in TV and film. Of course he had already made many TV appearances before now but audiences were peaking just at the right time for the wider public to appreciate his acting skills.

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, Private Schultz, Porterhouse Blue were the type of programmes I was watching Richardson in, he also played Sherlock Holmes and Dr Joseph Bell in shows about the detective. Then of course there was House of Cards and the brilliant portrayal of the anti-hero Francis Urquhart. He won the BAFTA Best Television Actor and nominations for the following two series.

In June 2006, he was made an honorary Doctor of the University of Stirling. The honour was conferred on him by the University’s Chancellor, fellow actor Dame Diana Rigg.

His final film appearance was as Judge Langlois in Becoming Jane, released shortly after his death.

During the last 15 years of his life he appeared five times on television acting opposite his son Miles Richardson, though this was usually with one or the other in a minor role

#scotland #scottish #history #edinburgh #actor #television #theatre #cinema

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havenmoon1369 · 3 months

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Not Again (Sequel to Getting Her Back)

- Chapter 9

Drew arrived in Birmingham just before sunrise, his anxiety was through the roof, all he wanted was his kid back safe and sound, and fate just kept pushing their reunion out further and further. He pulled into the driveway of the house where Heath had kept Quinn, Drew jumped out of the car, unlocked the door, and ran inside. "Quinn! It's me dad, where are you sweetheart?" Drew yelled but he was met with absolute silence, "Quinn! Where are you!" Drew yelled again but no response. Drew's heart dropped, he ran through the entire house but there was no sign of Quinn. The TV was still on from the night before and the news was showing Heath had been apprehended but there was no sign of Quinn, Drew seeing this lost it. He picked up the TV and smashed into the ground, screaming with tears coming down his face, Heath lied to him and he believed him. Drew knew deep in his heart Quinn was gone and unless Heath came clean he'd never find her. Drew collapsed on the floor in anguish and despair, he was reliving the nightmares in real life, the one thing that mattered most to him was gone. Drew laid there until he couldn't cry anymore, his heart completely shattered by the grief, and no strength left. His phone ringing brought him back out of his state, it wasn't a number he recognized and he let it ring but after a few seconds it called again, Drew still not caring let it go to voicemail, but again after a few seconds the phone rang again, this time Drew taking notice that whoever is calling needs to talk to him, he answered the phone with a broken voice. "Is this Drew Galloway, father of Quinnley Galloway?" the voice asked, "Yes it is, who is this?" Drew asked, "Mr. Galloway my name is Detective Curtis Goodwin, I'm with the Birmingham police department, we found your daughter, she's okay but we're taking her to the hospital just to be on the safe side." the detective said. "Is she okay? What hospital?" Drew said, his heart pounding in his chest, "We've taken her to the children's hospital in the city, she looks to be okay, we're just taking her just to be on the safe side." The detective said reassuring Drew, "Okay I'm on my way, thank you so much" Drew answered and he hung up the phone, he rushed out to his car and began the journey to the hospital to be reunited with Quinn.

Drew arrived in record time to the children's hospital and was met by Detective Goodwin, "Mr. Galloway, they just took Quinnley for an x-ray she was complaining of her ankle hurting, probably nothing too serious, but I would like to give you some information while we wait" he said. "Alright that's fine, at least I know she's safe that's all that matters" Drew said. The detective took him to a private room to speak to him. "So Quinnley told us that when Heath stepped outside to make a phone call last night she turned on the news and saw the amber alert for her and took off running, she ran through the woods, tripping over branches and rocks, that's probably how she hurt her ankle, to a neighboring house to hide from Heath. She alerted the people living in the house when one of them came out to walk their dog and they recognized her from the alert. She said she spoke to you during the time she was with Heath and was under the impression Heath was just babysitting her, why didn't you tell her about her being kidnapped?" The detective asked. "I was told by Heath if I did then he would hurt her and I didn't want to risk it, plus my daughter has severe anxiety and I didn't want her to be afraid, so I told her she was just staying with Heath for the time being. I drove to meet Heath last night to give him a ransom he demanded and he told me no police and that Quinn was going to be returned to me then, now I see why she wasn't with him or at the house where he was keeping her, I have the address that he gave me, I know you'll need it." Drew said. Just then the nurse came in to tell them Quinn was back in her room and she would be discharged shortly, "You go on be with your daughter, we'll have you answer some more questions later." the detective said, Drew nodded and followed the nurse to Quinn's room, Drew took a deep breath and entered, "Quinn?" he asked in a gentle voice, "Dad!" Quinn screamed and ran over to her dad and hugged him, Drew returned the favor. "I was so worried about you sweetheart I'm so sorry" Drew said as he started crying, "Why didn't you tell me Heath had taken me?" Quinn asked through her tears, "He was doing it to hurt me, he blamed me for something that wasn't even my fault, and I didn't want you to be scared. You running away and hiding was the bravest thing you could have done and I'm so proud of you for it." Drew said, still crying. "I just ran dad, I ran as fast as I could, I think I heard him leave, did they catch him yet?" Quinn asked panicked, "Yes they did, he's in jail and he's never going to hurt anyone ever again" Drew said. Drew and Quinn sat together until the doctor discharged her, luckily her ankle was just twisted a bit and she would be fine in a day or two. Drew had told the detectives that he was taking Quinn home and that whenever they were ready to ask questions just to call him.

Three hours later, Drew and Quinn returned home and were met by Stephen and Erin. They both rushed out to hug and embrace Quinn, grateful she was okay and unharmed.

#drew mcintyre #drew mcintyre fanfiction #wwe #wwe fanfiction #wwe stories #action stories

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systemtek · 6 months

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GCHQ Director and US cyber chief among speakers confirmed for CYBERUK 2024

GCHQ Director Anne Keast-Butler will be joined by the White House's National Cyber Director, Harry Coker, Jr., and an array of leading domestic and international experts shaping the world’s online landscape at a flagship summit in the West Midlands in May. The National Cyber Security Centre – a part of GCHQ – will host the flagship conference at the ICC Birmingham on 13–15 May 2024. Hosted by the National Cyber Security Centre (NCSC), which is a part of the world-leading intelligence agency GCHQ, CYBERUK 2024 will bring together the intelligence community, government, industry, and academia at the ICC Birmingham to explore the entire spectrum of future cyber challenges and solutions – from AI-driven threat detection and quantum computing to secure-by-design principles. Among those speaking at CYBERUK 2024 are - Anne Keast-ButlerDirector, GCHQ - Harry Coker, Jr.National Cyber Director, the White House - Professor Dame Angela McLeanUK Government Chief Scientific Adviser - Keiichi IchikawaDeputy National Security Advisor of Japan - Heather AdkinsVice President Security Engineering, Google - Dmitri AlperovitchCo-Founder and Executive Chairman, Silverado Policy Accelerator - Kemba WaldenPresident, Paladin Global Institute - Geoff WhiteInvestigative journalist and author - Professor Sadie CreeseProfessor of Cybersecurity, University of Oxford - Matthew GriffinFuturist For the first time, CYBERUK is coming to the West Midlands, a thriving cyber security hub with specialist university research centres, innovative startups, and a cluster of major cyber security enterprises. Over 2,000 UK and international cyber security experts will gather in the West Midlands to discuss the theme 'Future Tech, Future Threat, Future Ready'. Across a series of VIP keynotes, panels, and workshops, it will ask: - How do we build a cyber security ecosystem that can manage the threats and opportunities of the future? - How do we ensure future technologies are secure by design, not as an afterthought? - How do we anticipate the threat picture will change as new technologies, like AI and quantum computing, develop? NCSC CEO Felicity Oswald said: “CYBERUK is unique in its ability to bring together experts from the private sector, academia, and government national security teams for informed debate and discussion on how we keep cyberspace safe and prosperous now and in the future. “Birmingham is a city renowned for its history of innovation and more recently its thriving cyber community, and I'm looking forward to welcoming distinguished colleagues and experts from across the globe to the city to discuss how we improve our collective resilience. “With just over seven weeks to go until the event opens, I would encourage cyber security leaders and professionals to register and take advantage of the range of speakers and sessions we have on offer.” CYBERUK will be delivered by the NCSC and key partners across four distinct streams of activity: future threat, future tech, future ready, interactive workshops. In addition to a packed agenda, the event has a vibrant exhibition with over 100 companies including Akamai, Google Cloud, Ultra, Crowdstrike, AWS, Microsoft, BT to name just a few. More information on CYBERUK 2024’s programme, exhibitors, speakers and sponsors can be found on the CYBERUK website. Read the full article

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aspyrinvestigations · 2 years

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Hire a Private Investigator in Nottingham

The most frustrating situation is when you want to get to the bottom of a situation and you are unable to do so because of certain restrictions. You might feel extremely helpless in such situations but you should know that there is never a situation where you cannot seek help. You are dealing with something similar and if you think that hiring a private detective can help you in digging up the things and get to the bottom of the situation then you should immediately higher private detective or a private investigator in Nottingham as the private investigators in Nottingham are well known for their extremely efficient and professional investigation skills which can save you from a lot of anxiety.

You hire a professional private detective then the detective will take all necessary steps to maintain the confidentiality and will enjoy that you are identity is not revealed at any stage of the investigation and your name will not be directly or indirectly attached to any aspect of the case. Most private investigators in Nottingham take due care that their clients names do not get dragged into the case and take food responsibility of carrying out the investigation all by themselves. The best way to hire a private detective is to go online as consulting friends and families might prove to be count a productive as you might wish to maintain the secrecy and privacy.

#Private Investigator Cost Nottingham #Expert Private Detectives Birmingham #Private Detective Birmingham UK #Local Private Investigators #Private Detective Agencies Nottingham #Private Investigation Companies #Private Investigator UK #Private Detective UK #Private Detective Birmingham #Private Detective Hire Nottingham #Private Detective Agency Birmingham

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andersonco1 · 3 months

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Birmingham's Investigative Specialists: Exploring the World of Private Detectives

In the bustling city of Birmingham, UK, where the pace of life can be both exhilarating and demanding, a unique profession has carved out a niche for itself – that of the private detective. These discreet individuals have become indispensable partners in helping both individuals and businesses navigate the complexities of modern life, providing reliable solutions to a wide range of challenges.

At the heart of a private detective birmingham work lies the art of investigation. Whether it's tracking down a missing person, verifying the claims of a potential business partner, or unraveling the details of a suspected infidelity, these professionals possess the skills and resources to meticulously gather and analyze information. Through a combination of surveillance techniques, database searches, and meticulous record-keeping, they are able to piece together the puzzle and present their clients with a comprehensive understanding of the situation at hand.

Discreet Surveillance: Protecting Privacy and Safeguarding Reputations

In an era where digital footprints and social media have blurred the lines between public and private life, the need for discreet surveillance has become increasingly important. Private detectives in Birmingham offer specialized services to individuals and businesses seeking to protect their privacy, reputations, and sensitive information. Whether it's monitoring suspicious activities, investigating potential corporate espionage, or ensuring the safety of high-profile individuals, these professionals operate with the utmost discretion, ensuring that their clients' concerns are addressed without drawing unwanted attention.

Serving a Diverse Range of Clients

The clientele of private detectives in Birmingham spans a wide spectrum, reflecting the diverse needs of the modern world. From corporate executives seeking to safeguard their companies' interests to individuals grappling with personal or family-related challenges, these professionals tailor their services to meet the unique requirements of each client. Their expertise extends beyond traditional investigative work, as they often provide specialized services such as asset searches, fraud investigations, and even assistance with child custody disputes.

Navigating Legal Complexities: Ensuring Compliance and Ethical Practices

Integral to the role of private detectives in Birmingham is a deep understanding of the legal landscape. These professionals are well-versed in the relevant laws and regulations governing their industry, ensuring that their investigative methods and the information they gather are admissible in legal proceedings. By adhering to strict ethical guidelines and maintaining a strong code of conduct, private detectives in Birmingham strive to protect the rights and interests of their clients while upholding the integrity of the profession.

Embracing Technology: Adapting to a Rapidly Changing World

In an era of rapid technological advancement, private detectives in Birmingham have embraced the use of cutting-edge tools and techniques to enhance their investigative capabilities. From leveraging sophisticated surveillance equipment to utilizing advanced data analysis software, these professionals are constantly evolving their skillsets to stay ahead of the curve and provide their clients with the most comprehensive and reliable solutions.

Building Trust and Fostering Lasting Relationships

At the core of a private detective's work in Birmingham is the ability to build trust and foster lasting relationships with their clients. These professionals understand the sensitive nature of the issues their clients face and the importance of maintaining open and transparent communication throughout the investigative process. By prioritizing confidentiality, integrity, and a deep understanding of their clients' needs, private detectives in Birmingham have established themselves as trusted partners in navigating the complexities of modern life.

Conclusion

In the heart of Birmingham, UK, private detectives play a vital role in helping individuals and businesses navigate the challenges of the modern world. From discreet surveillance to specialized investigative services, these professionals possess the expertise and resources to uncover the truth, protect privacy, and safeguard reputations. By embracing technological advancements, adhering to ethical practices, and fostering trusting relationships with their clients, private detectives in Birmingham have become indispensable partners in navigating the complexities of life. As the world continues to evolve, the need for the services provided by these discreet and reliable professionals will only continue to grow, solidifying their place as essential contributors to the well-being and success of those they serve.

#private detective birmingham

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specialistscis-blog · 4 years

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In today’s time detective agencies are one of the important services that serve other businesses or provides business. With increasing popularity, it plays a significant role in tracing facts that are hidden or missing.

#Private detective Birmingham #Private Investigator Bristol #Detective Agency Cardiff #Detective Agency Birmingham

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written-in-flowers · 3 years

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Copycat: Pt.2

Pairing: Tommy x OFC

Genre: Angst, smut, crime, drama

Word Count: 3k

Summary: Private Detective Jane Dawes arrives in Small Heath in hopes of catching a serial killer. On the way, she finds an unexpected partner in Thomas Shelby, the cut-throat gangster who is boss of the streets. Can they work together to catch the killer or will their own ambitions get in each other's way?

Tags: graphic description of violence, strangers to lovers, murder mystery, blood and violence, gun violence, mentions of cannibalism, graphic descriptions of mutilation, crime scenes, PTSD, mentions of war, implied/referenced torture, panic attacks, drinking, smoking, childhood trauma, psycopathy,

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*****

Places like Small Heath made for perfect hunting grounds. A large populace in an impoverished setting created a cesspool of crime and debauchery. Jane thought as she exited the train station about the benefits of such a place. The copycat could kill high-risk victims and nobody would bat an eye. Nobody cared about prostitutes. Despite the modern age, people still looked down on the "unfortunate women". These women weren't even women in some eyes. They were worthless and tossed aside like garbage. They were sinners, heathens, and tempters of the flesh. They "stole" husbands and "seduced" young men. They weren't worth worrying over. It saddened Jane to think about it. Nobody truly understood the hardships. Jane imagined after the war many jobs were scarce for women. The men had taken them all back, leaving a lot of single women jobless. Some managed-like Vivian-while others resorted to different professions. If one of these women turned up dead, it didn't surprise anyone. Yet, she doubted such gruesome killings went unnoticed. In small towns such as this one, people knew about everything.

The town certainly didn't hide its seedy charm. Covered by smog and smoke, she took in the muddy roads and brick houses. She noticed a pub on almost every street. Another reason people wouldn't care about a place like Small Heath. The wealthy and holy looked down on drunkards. She walked by a group of men playing dice on a street corner; a trio of boys playing with wooden sticks rushed past her with their bare feet in the mud. Of course, the very women she was protecting were walking about with their customers. It was no different than London in her eyes. London was simply larger and hid it better. Jane found the police station, but didn't enter just yet. She needed a room to stay in first. Vivian suggested she stay in London and ride the train into Birmingham. Jane refused. She and this killer would share the same hunting ground. He'll hunt his victims while she'll hunt him.

Walking around for a while, she stumbled onto a street titled 'Garrison Court'. At the end stood a tall building with the name 'The Garrison Tavern' painted across the top. A little vacancy sign hung from the door. She supposed she'd start there. Entering the tavern, she wasn't surprised by the amount of people there. Factory and dock workers sat together in groups, drinking after a long morning working in the sun. They all noticed her walk in and she wasn't unnerved. A finely dressed woman holding two suitcases drew their attention right away. The bartender stared curiously along with them. A tall man with mouse-brown curls, he wiped down a glass as she approached the bar.

"Morning," she said, "I noticed your vacancy sign out front, and I was wondering how much for a room?"

"Yo-You want to stay here?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes," she nodded. "Why? Do you have mice or something?"

"No, it's just..." he paused, "We don't get your type in here a lot. You should try uptown or another pub."

"I can't go uptown," she said. "My work isn't up there. It's down here. So, I'd like a room, please."

"Your work?" he questioned. "Wh-What sort of work is that?"

She rifled through her purse and pulled out a little white card, "Jane Dawes, at your service."

"'Jane Dawes, Private Detective'," he snorted as he read. "A lady detective, eh? I've never seen one of those before."

"And now you have, Mr…?"

"Just call me Harry," he said, sticking out his hand.

She shook it, "Harry. Can I have a room, please?"

He named his price and she paid him on the spot. "You're here about those murders, aren't you?" a voice asked from behind.

Jane turned around as a man was coming towards her. Lanky with black hair matching his scruffy beard, his dark eyes stared at her in amusement. She looked him over as he leaned against the bar beside her. He wasn't hard to read. Then again, perhaps he did that on purpose. He worked in the mechanical factory outside of town and lived alone. She realized how much she missed reading people.

"I am," she answered. "Sergeant Moss said there's been three already. I'm guessing everyone in this town knows about them?"

"We do," he nodded. "Nobody's done anything to stop them though. The paper says there's no evidence other than the bodies."

"There's always evidence, sir," she said, "You just have to know where to look. Jane Dawes."

He smirked, "Freddie Thorne." They shook hands, "The police must be desperate if they need outside help. I thought they would just ask that Belfast inspector."

"Belfast inspector?" she asked. Moss never mentioned that there was anyone else on the case. "He's here for that too?"

"No," Freddie shook his head. "He's here about some stolen property, I've heard. A friend of mine has a sister who works in the BSA telegraph office. She said the message came down from Winston Churchill himself."

"That's an awful lot of information you have," she said, "For a working class factory man."

He raised an eyebrow, "How would you know I work in a factory? I could be anything. I could be a carpenter, a dock worker or a fisherman-"

"-If you were a carpenter, you'd have calluses on your hands from wood work and rough gloves. If you were a dock worker, you'd smell like fish and not coal. Fishermen work most of the day, so you wouldn't be here in mid-afternoon. Considering the lack of other professions in this town, you work in the mechanical factory. I can tell from the grease stains on your hands and trousers. Also there's only one big factory in town, which I assume deals in small arms and motorcycles, no?"

He stared at her for a moment, and then said, "Yes. It does. It's the Birmingham Small Arms factory. We make motorcycles, car parts, and small weapons. They make military weapons mostly. Lots of rumors and whispers go about in factories. If you know the right people, you can get whatever you need to know."

"Do you know the right people, Mr. Thorne?" she asked.

"I do," he said. "If you want to know about these murders, you should talk to Tommy Shelby. He's the crime prince around here. Nothing illegal happens in this town without him knowing."

"Would he protect such a person?" she doubted a man would let someone go around terrorizing women.

"Freddie…" Harry warned as he handed her a key, "Mr. Shelby doesn't have anything to do with that mess."

"I'm not saying he does," Freddie reasoned, "But he might have a clue or two. Tommy wasn't happy when the first murder popped up. It wouldn't surprise me if he already had men patrolling the streets at night."

"He doesn't trust the police then?"

Freddie laughed, along with those nearby, "No. No, Tommy doesn't like policemen too much. Neither do his brothers. Pays them plenty though to keep him in the loop. "

"I'll keep that in mind," she nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Thorne-"

"-Freddie," he corrected.

"Freddie," she said, "I'll be calling you again soon."

"I wouldn't complain if you did."

She nodded at him and then walked up the stairs. The Garrison didn't have many rooms, but she assumed they weren't for long-term use. She turned the key to Room Three and let herself inside. It wasn't a large room. It came with a toilet and small tub concealed by a curtain. The full bed sat in a corner and she even had a writing desk. It wasn't the worst place she'd stayed. She liked it. She set her suitcases on the bed and walked towards the window. Her view was interesting. From her second-story window, she could see the entire street. She'd spot anyone coming from half-way down. She examined the people below. Everyone there was working class. Everyone from manual laborers to shopkeepers walked down the street. She even spotted a few drunks and beggars. Jane liked nobody else better.

Jane settled into her room before heading back out to the police station. She took in the feel of Small Heath. It was rough, smokey and bleak. It wasn't polished and well-kept like other neighborhoods. She certainly didn't catch any friendly vibes either. She noted the cinema and the other pubs around town. She took in street names and the directions she walked. Jane needed a map of Small Heath. Her copycat knew these streets well enough to kill undetected. She'd need the same knowledge.

The police station was larger than she anticipated. Men in black uniforms bustled around the office or sat at their desks with criminals they'd caught. A group of men in the holding cells eyed her from behind bars. The desk officer couldn't believe the sight of her either. She imagined only prostitutes and disappointed wives walking into the station were what he was used to . In her plum dress and matching cloche hat it must've been unusual for them.

"Excuse me, I'm Jane Dawes. I'm here to see Sergeant Moss," she said to him.

The young man nodded and flipped through a book. "Um, yes, Ms. Dawes," he said, "The-The Sergeant is expecting you. His office is right down that way."

"Thank you," she said.

She walked further into the bull pit towards the indicated office in the back. Through the windows, she saw Moss doing paperwork at his desk. She knocked before opening the door. "Sergeant Moss?"

"Ms. Dawes," he said, eyes lighting up, "I'm so glad you could come!" He rounded his desk and shook her hand. "Please, sit down," he said, gesturing to a chair. Jane took a seat and crossed her legs. "I took the liberty of gathering up the reports and crime scene photos we took," he said, handing her files. "There isn't much to go on here," he told her, "But perhaps you'll find something we missed."

"Sergeant," she said, "I've recently heard that you have an inspector already here. He's from Belfast?"

Moss's pleasure faded. He nodded, rolling his pen with his fingers, "Yes. Yes, that would be Chief Inspector Campbell from Belfast. They brought him in on another case. It's about a robbery at the BSA factory. Someone stole a large shipment of guns bound for Libya, and he's come to retrieve them. I already asked him for his opinion, but he isn't interested."

"Well, I'm sure he's already preoccupied with his guns."

"He is," he said. "I've been helping him as is my duty. This," he motioned to the files, "Is sort of a side project for me. He doesn't even know I've called you in."

"It's your station," she said. "He shouldn't get a say in who you call."

"He's my superior," Moss stated. "Normally, I must run things by him until he leaves. I don't think he'd like that I brought you in on this case. It's supposed to be confidential."

Jane snorted, "It's not that confidential if the entire town knows about it."

"Well, I am hoping the more gruesome details stay confidential, Ms. Dawes," he said. "I've managed to keep a lot of it out of the papers for now. Things are bad enough with the factory strikes, IRA lurking about and now these guns."

"IRA?" she asked. "Irish Republican Army, you mean? You're having that problem here?"

"It's not much of a problem at the moment," he admitted. "There are rumors of them as well as the communists who live in Birmingham. But, they're only rumors for now."

"Communists and Irishmen," she said, "Small Heath seems to have more problems than imagined."

He sighed, "You don't even know half of it. Inspector Campbell is breathing down my men's necks to find these guns. He even brought in his own special force. They're like his personal army. I don't…" he paused, "I don't know what's become of my town, Ms. Dawes. Small Heath isn't the most welcoming or most wonderful of places, but it's my home. Now, it's terrorized by a madman and Special Police. I never dealt with anything like this before. I usually only had problems with the Peaky Blinders and the men they keep on their payroll. N-Now it's this too."

"There isn't much I can do about the Special Forces, Sergeant," she said, "But I will deal with your madman. I'll find him and I'll catch him. These women," she tapped the files, "Will see justice for what happened to them. I promise."

He smiled gratefully, "I-I just wanted to say, Ms. Dawes, that I'm glad you're here. Never in my life did I think I'd be relying on a woman to solve a case, but I'm glad I am now."

"So am I."

She walked back through the station with the files under her arm. Men still stared at her, but not in surprise. She noticed a few of them turn their heads as she passed them. Some offered her overly-friendly smiles and morning greetings. She noticed a group of women sitting in a separate cell from the men, looking bored and indifferent to the men around them. She stopped by their cell, greeting them and telling them why she was there. She didn’t question them, but offered a few of them her card. Should they come across anyone suspicious, or are in any kind of trouble, they could reach her at The Garrison. She doubted they would, but did not hurt to offer her services to them. If anyone could spread the word about her, it would be the women on the street. Halfway through the station, somebody stopped her.

"Excuse me, miss," a thick Irish accent voiced, "You dropped this."

She turned to see an older gentleman holding one of the filed papers. Bushy mustache, derby hat in hand, and Irish accent told her this was the Chief Inspector. Jane gratefully took the paper from him. "Thank you, sir," she said. She made to leave but she felt he wouldn't let her.

"May I ask," he said, coming beside her, "What a woman like you is doing in this station talking to women like that? On your church mission to save the unfortunate? I’ll be the first to tell you there’s no use."

"I'm sorry? A woman like me?"

"A proper lady," he explained. "We usually get the tramps and the wives of these men here. Unless your husband is here?"

As she said, men were easily distracted. "I don't have a husband. If you must know, sir, I'm here because Sergeant Moss invited me."

"Invited you?" he looked towards Moss's office and then back to her. "You mean, you're the detective?"

"I am."

He snorted, "That's adorable, miss. A lady playing detective."

"I'm not playing detective, sir," she said firmly. "Are you always this rude to women you've just met?"

He coughed over his chuckle, "I'm sorry, miss. We don't see many lady detectives where I'm from. Chief Inspector Campbell," he held out a hand, "At your service, Ms…?"

"Dawes," she shook his hand, "Jane Dawes."

"Ms. Dawes," she felt disgusted by his wandering eyes. "What sort of investigation are you here for?"

"The man who's been butchering women in the streets," she said. "Moss believes I can help, so I am. If you must know, those ‘unfortunate’ women over there are the best chance I have at getting some information. I was giving them my information should they come across anything."

"Is he still on about those whores?" He sighed, "I told him it was best left alone."

"You told him to ignore a murderer who is taking innocent lives?"

"Innocent? I'm sorry, Ms. Dawes, but those women were far from innocent. This madman-whoever he is-will get bored with them and stop eventually. There are more serious crimes going on in this god forsaken town than a few whores who got what they had coming."

His words disgusted her. She’d met pieous men before, but not like this one. The most decent of men would be at least a little bit concerned. "But until then women should stay in their homes and live in fear for their lives?"

"They should be doing it already from what I've seen," he said. "I suggest you do the same. He might stop killing whores and might move up the ladder to pretty ladies like you."

Jane stared at him curiously. Those were harsh words; uncalled for from a gentleman. She looked him up and down. There wasn't anything unusual about him; nothing she pinpointed right away. Then again, Copycat wouldn't be unusual to the common eye. He certainly had a contempt for women who sold their bodies to make a living. He most likely looked down on any woman who did not ‘know her place’.

"I'm sure I'll be fine on my own, sir. Thank you for your concern. Good day."

"Would you like me to escort you out?" he asked. She saw the hope in his eyes.

"No. I'm sure I can find it even with my little lady brain."

She left him standing there and walked out of the police station. She couldn't believe the nerve of men. She didn't understand their need to degrade and then impress their target. Campbell hadn't been the first to laugh at her profession. A lot of them took her as a rich girl entertaining herself. Arnold thought the same whenever she brought it to his attention. Her parents said she should marry a good man and then have his children. She'd become a slave. She saw these other married women who became their husband's servants. They cooked and cleaned all day. They watched over and cared for the children. They worked until their hands and feet were sore. Yet, their husband still expected a hot meal at night. Her mother said it was part of being a woman.

If that was so, Jane wanted no part in it.

She came back to The Garrison, placing her hat and purse on the bar. "Harry," she said, "A whiskey, please." She drew out her cigarette case and lit it between her painted lips. Harry poured her a whiskey which she downed in one shot. She took a drag of her cigarette and exhaled. She couldn't let herself become distracted. She opened the first case file to see the pale face of a young woman with damp black hair. Her name was Mary-Anne and she'd been 23-years-old. She’d been so young. Why her? Why women? There must’ve been a reason.

"Is that one of them?" Harry asked, coming back to her with a glass.

"It is," she said, "He mutilated her sex and chest." She pulled out a crime scene photo. "He hates women."

"I'm sorry? He hates women?" Harry asked. "What kind of man hates women?"

"Well, all of them do," she said, "But this one is special. He destroys what marks them as women." She noticed several things that she didn't say out loud. She didn’t want to scare Harry after just meeting him. "I'll have to see the medical examiner."

Harry scoffed, "They don't have one."

"What?" she looked at him, "How can they not have one? Every station has an examiner. How do they know the cause of death or find any evidence?

"They usually don't care if it's hard to guess," he said. He leaned in, "The Peaky Blinders are usually doing the murdering. 9 times out of 10 they're the ones who did it. It ain't hard to figure out a bullet to the head."

"Then do you know who they took the body…" she spotted a name, "Dr. Henry Lester? He's a local doctor?"

"Aye," Harry nodded. "He's the only good one in town. They go to him if they really have to."

"Do you know where he practices?" She took another puff of her cigarette and blew it sideways.

"Down on Kensington Road," he said. "You can find him there in the afternoon. He likes to drink, so he sleeps off his hangovers." Harry paused, tapping his fingers on the bar top, "Ms. Dawes, can you-can you really stop this man?"

Jane met his eyes. It wasn't a condescending or amused question. He stared with concern. "I can. Why?"

"Because, well it's my little girl, you see," he began, "She didn't choose to be like them. After the war, finding decent work was hard. She told me she'd only do it for a while until she found a proper job. She hasn't yet. She's out there at night with the other girls, selling themselves to the highest bidder. I worry about her, Miss. What if..." he took a breath, "What if she ends up like them?"

"She won't. She should stay indoors for the time being. This man isn't going away anytime soon." She hated saying it. Campbell was right. These women could either stick together or stay home. They needed each other now more than ever. "Tell her to stay in groups or crowded places. Tell her not to go with anyone she doesn't know; stick to her regulars. I am going to find him, but it won't be today or tomorrow. This man's clever and clean. He's not easy." The difficulty was what Jane loved the most. She then said, "Harry, there's no shame in what your daughter is doing." She touched his hand, "She's only trying to survive. A lot of women are."

He nodded, "Thank you, Ms. Dawes. I do hope you catch him. Another whiskey then?"

"Please," she said. She returned to her papers before she felt someone beside her. She could smell the strong scent of booze coming from him. It sickened her.

"Hello there lovely," the man said.

He had a trimmed mustache and dark hair. He wore an expensive suit with a bow tie, and his boots were slightly scuffed. He wasn't drunk like the others. He didn't sway or slur his words. The scent merely lingered on him. Jane shut her file from him. "Afternoon," she said, "Can I help you?"

"You certainly can," he smirked. "I've been looking for the prettiest flower I can find, and I think I've found it."

Jane only laughed. "Is that the best you can do?" she gave a good minute or so and then said, "Please, go throw your petty lines at someone else. I have work to do."

"What work?" he said, affronted by her rejection. He glanced at the files, his smirk fading for a second, "What are you doing with those?"

"I don't think it's any of your business," she said. "Are all the men in this town rude or is that how they welcome people?" she asked Harry, who stifled back a laugh.

"Do you know who I am?"

"No, and I don't really care." 'But you're going to tell me anyway.'

"I'm Arthur Shelby," he said. "Perhaps you've heard of me?"

"Not you," she said, "But I've heard that name thrown around a lot."

"Then you know we're not the kind of men you say 'no' to," he replied.

She then showed him a picture of Mary-Anne's corpse. It shocked him. "No, Mr. Shelby, this is a man you don't say 'no' to. I don't care what gang you're in or what your last name is. You don't scare me." She put down the picture and said, "Now, if you're done, I'm going now." She finished her drink and slid her money over to Harry.

"Who the hell do you think you are, woman?" he yelled after her.

"Jane Dawes," she answered, going up the stairs.

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfic #tommy shelby #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy x ofc #peaky blinders imagine

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scotianostra · 2 years

Photo

On April 7th 1934 Ian Richardson was born.

After leaving the RSC, Richardson became a somewhat nomadic figure, turning up on Broadway as Higgins in My Fair Lady.

In June 2006, he was made an honorary Doctor of the University of Stirling. The honour was conferred on him by the University’s Chancellor, fellow actor Dame Diana Rigg.

His final film appearance was as Judge Langlois in Becoming Jane, released shortly after his death.

During the last 15 years of his life he appeared five times on television acting opposite his son Miles Richardson, though this was usually with one or the other in a minor role

#Scotland #scottish #edinburgh #actor #tv star #theatre

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floatinginwords · 4 years

Text

Saved by the Devil (9/?) - Tommy Shelby

Summary: Reader goes to visit tommy at his office (sorry im bad at summaries lol)

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x fem!reader (Its getting romantic i promise. slowly but surely)

A/n: sorry this took so long to post and make. Semester is already kicking my ass and making me stress. Hope you enjoy and have a fantastic night.

It had been a week since you’ve seen Thomas. Since you told him that you wanted to help him. At first, he was very confused. He had expected you to be angry with him or maybe even cry. But you had asked to help assassinate a general with him.

“Im not getting you involved”

You ignored him already piecing together what the plan might be, “You wrote down, 23-24 seconds? Your gonna kill this guy in that a mount of time with a guard outside and possible more inside. Plus the guy fought so he’ll know self defense…” You had begun rambling and he was just baffled.

“Stop.” He told you, you were making some good points but he didn’t want to bring you in this mess. It was his alone that he must face.

Before the two of you can argue any further, Ada called for him. A phone call she had said. He left you room and never came back. And that was a week ago. You annoyingly asked her everyday and night when he was to return. Now that you knew of the plans and what he was involved in, you couldn’t just let it go. It was dangerous, you knew that. It wasn’t your run of the mill assassination. You don’t know how Thomas was going it on his own or how he even planned on doing it. You had heard the Inspectors words. You know that that held animosity toward the peaky blinder. You can hear in his voice, you felt it in his punches. There was no way that he would give him everything he promised. Thomas needed to be one step ahead of the game. Which you were already conducting for him. You weren’t sleeping as much at night anymore anyway so writing down every scenario and idea you had. And then when that week was done you had it.

“Ada, Ada, ada.” You ran through the halls calling for her.

“What is it?” She asks coming out of her sons bedroom, probably fishing tucking him in for the night.

“Your home in Birmingham, I need the address. Or the pub your brother owns.” You say to her with paper and pencil in hand ready to write down what she tells you.

“Why?” Ada raises an eyebrow before passing you to go to her own room. You follow her.

“Ada please.”

“Why are your trying to see my brother? Didn’t you tell me you weren’t gonna work for him?”

“I never said that.”

“What do you like him or something?” Ada fake gags at her own words. Your cheeks warm a little bit but you keep a serious face as you tap the pencil to the paper.

“Its not like that.”

She stares at you long and hard. “I called him for help when you never came home. The man rushed over here like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Ada, an address.”

“ (y/n) your my friend and hes also my brother I just-“

“Its just business.” You scoff at her.

She sighs, “He had someone about a year ago. She was the barmaid at the pub.”

“I’m not interested in your brothers history.” You can feel your temper rising at this topic jumping she was doing to you. It wasn’t about what she was implying at all. You wanted to help him that was all. You didn’t care about who he was with years ago or even now.

“You are in his whereabouts.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Ada tilts her head and smiles, thinking she’s got you. You turn around ready to leave to your room when she finally spills the address for you.

***************************************************************

You stood outside the building where Ada told you was Thomas’s office. You hoped he was there to hear you out. You were going to try to convince him but you had no certainty that you would succeed. You walked inside to find a bunch of woman inside talking. One was short and very pregnant, the other tall and slender and the last one a bit older but looked the scariest out of all of them. They stopped talking as soon as you entered.

“Umm excuse me…” You stuttered under their judging glares “Im looking for Thomas Shelby.”

At first none of them say anything. They continue to stare at you. You meet the older ones eyes. You regret it instantly as you feel a fearful shudder go down your spine. That was a woman you did not want to mess with.

“What do you need with mr. Shelby?” the tall one asks

“Look at her Liz, what do you think she’s here for to take your place,” the pregnant one snickers.

“Shut up Esme.” The older one says.

“I just wanted to talk…if he’s not here….” You trail off.

A door in the back opens and out walks the devil himself. He glances up expecting only the three woman from himself maybe Michael or Finn and instead finding one more woman amongst the group; you.

“(Y/n).” he simply states putting his hands in his pockets.

You don’t say anything observing how awkward and tense you feel with these women.

The older one speaks up, “Is this how your getting my son out of jail, Tommy. By fucking some whore?” She spats at him venom filling her voice.

You’re about to speak up for yourself when Thomas opens his mouth first.

“She’s not a whore, Polly. And Michael will be out soon. (Y/n) step inside..” He gestures for you to go in to his office. You feel very heavy under all their stares as you walk. You remember the name Michael. He was the young boy at the horse auction you had met.

Thomas closes the door after you. You sit down crossing your legs and lacing your fingers together. Thomas sat next to you on the chair rather than across.

“You’re looking better.” He says noticing the bruises on your face were fading.

“Thank you,” You say, “They seemed on edge, is everything all right?”

“That’s just the way they are.” He says.

You don’t say anything and just stare him. You knew he was lying. He chokes under your gaze.

“Arthur and Michael are in jail. I’m working on it though.” He says swallowing hard. You didn’t press further, you could tell he was having a rough time.

“I hope it works out.” You say, you clear your throat and adjust your self on the chair, “You shouldn’t kill the general at his house.” You spit out.

“Jesus Christ Woman.” He says shaking his head.

“Hear me out.” You plead.

“Why do you want to do this?”

You ignore him. Instead you tell him your whole plan. How he could kill two birds with one stone.

“If your still going to Epsom, you can get Sabini. Maybe not kill him but screw him over. Are you still seeing May?”

He nods.

“Good you probably already know she’s got influence on the board. You use that to your advantage when you take Sabini men licenses. You go through her to get your men to what they need. Then the races are yours.”

“How will we burn their licenses when theres fukin police everywhere.

“They wont be around when they hear gunshots.”

He takes a moment letting your words and plan sink in. He rubs his lip.

“We could burn the license’s gonna have to threaten them to take it,” He says muttering to himself, “The general why would he even go there?”

The two of you talk for hours inside that little office of his. Drinking and talking of the plan. He tried to shut it down multiple times, trying to get you think twice about getting involved. But your mind was already made up. He seemed to like you idea, adding on to yours and even sharing details of the private mission of to you. It was like a weight lifted off his shoulders as he told you the how he had even gotten involved in this political mess. Soon the drinks clouded both your minds and it was no longer business that you were just talking about.

“So what you want out of this?”

“You said the government involved right with this…the prime minister knows what your doing?”

“Aye…”

“Then maybe he could get me a new name or-“

“Why do you need that?” He asks you

“You can never live just one life…” You smile trying to joke.

He stares at you intently, “Why did your father lock you up in that place?”

Your smiles drops, he notices it his eyes softening just a bit. “Sorry, it just came up in my head.”

“Do I sound crazy to you or something?”

“Its just a question ive had in my head for awhile. Its none of my business.” He stares at you deeply.

“No its not,” You say softly, “I don’t know why he put me there either. Maybe cause he could. I mean I never asked him.”

“So when you get your new name what are you gonna do? Ride out in the hills, find a husband, push a few kids.”

You laugh at him, he smiles when the sound hits his ears. “You should smile more, Mr.Shelby.”

“Tommy. Why do you call me by my last name.”

“Its too make sure you don’t get comfortable. This,” you gesture to the two of you, “is strictly business.”

“Why of course. Another drink?” He asks getting up for more whiskey. You nod. Your cheeks were flushed and head dizzy. You were beginning to forget what self control was. You mouth moving before you can even comprehend your next thought.

“Ada told me how you had someone last year.”

He stops pouring the drinks to look at you. His back stiff and free hand curled into a fist.

You continue talking, not looking at him. You weren’t looking at nothing in particular really. “I never had anyone.” His figure relaxes when he looks you more closely. Your body a bit limp, eyes glossy, your speech a bit slurred. You didn’t hold your liquor too good.

“What else did Ada say?”

You giggle remembering. Ada thinking you had a thing for her brother. How ludicrous! You glance toward the man, a little smirk resting on his pink lips and head tilting toward you. His blue eyes shining at you with an emotion you couldn’t quite detect. A strange feeling flutters in your stomach. You stop giggling and clear your throat.

“I think I should go. It was good talking to you.” You stand up way too fast. You begin to see black spots all over and the loss of balance.

‘Fuck’ you think to yourself, thinking about how your gonna embarrass

yourself falling to the floor.

But then you feel a pair of hands grab at your arms and spin you around. You fall into Mr.Shelbys chest and for a moment he holds you there. And for that moment you smelled the cologne and whisky on his clothes. You felt the calluses on his rough hands against your soft skin. You felt the slight beating of his heart in his chest. You think if you look up you’ll get to see if the blues in his eyes are as clear as you think em to be.

But the moment is gone an you both step away from each other, awkwardly. You swaying on your feet trying to regain balance and him hitting the drawer behind him.

“You shouldn’t go home at this time (Y/N)” he finally says deciding to ignore what just happened. Which was fine with you. You felt very nervous all of a sudden and very, very confused.

“Come with me.” He says taking you by the crook of your elbow and leading you out of the building. You didn’t want to admit that you liked the way it felt when he had grabbed you and the two of you walked out together, you couldn’t help but think of when and if he would do it again.

Read Pt.10

Tags

@captivatedbycillianmurphy @enamouravecleslivresetlechocolat @evelyn-4034

@ms-dont-care

#peaky blinders #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x you #tommy shelby #peaky blinder fanfic

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clare-with-no-i · 3 years

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a list of Marauder/Jily AUs that I’m sure have been done before but have also been floating around my head ceaselessly and relentlessly so I’m putting them here to try and get some peace:

- Dead Poets Society AU — inevitably with wolfstar AND Jily because what is DPS without its ridiculously heavy-handed gay subtext. HEAVY Marauders focus here. (unclear who would be Robin Williams’s character but working on that)

- Pirates of the Caribbean AU — feat. Captain Sirius Black Sparrow and Sn*pe as Cutler Beckett, NOT Norrington because Norrington deserves better. also Peter the talking parrot

- New Girl AU — Marlene as Cece, obviously, and Lily as a slightly-less-bumbling Jessica Day. also James as a law school dropout somehow just...fits. Can’t entirely decide who’s Schmidt/Winston/Coach but we’ll get there.

- James and Sirius own a private detective agency AU — kind of Psych but not faking being a psychic. or maybe faking being a psychic? but I’m not making Lily or Remus cops so would focus more on (ahem) client relations.

- Peaky Blinders AU — the Marauders are the most fearsome gang in Birmingham...(yes I know the Peaky Blinders were real people but I’m just shamelessly trying to steal the show’s aesthetic)

- We-lock-eyes-at-a-Led-Zeppelin-concert-but-my-friends-pull-me-away-to-mosh AU — sort of speaks for itself, IMO. also, more 70s music! can you IMAGINE the tension between Jily at a concert. my word.

this is what I do when I’m supposed to be compiling excel spreadsheets, hope you’ve enjoyed

#my stuff #o how I wish I had time to write these rn #sigh

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1962dude420-blog · 3 years

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Today we remember the passing of Nina Simone who Died: April 21, 2003 in Carry-le-Rouet, France

Eunice Kathleen Waymon (February 21, 1933 – April 21, 2003), known professionally as Nina Simone, was an American singer, songwriter, musician, arranger, and civil rights activist. Her music spanned a broad range of musical styles including classical, jazz, blues, folk, R&B, gospel, and pop.

The sixth of eight children born to a poor family in Tryon, North Carolina, Simone initially aspired to be a concert pianist. With the help of a few supporters in her hometown, she enrolled in the Juilliard School of Music in New York City. She then applied for a scholarship to study at the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia, where she was denied admission despite a well-received audition, which she attributed to racial discrimination. In 2003, just days before her death, the Institute awarded her an honorary degree.

To make a living, Simone started playing piano at a nightclub in Atlantic City. She changed her name to "Nina Simone" to disguise herself from family members, having chosen to play "the devil's music" or so-called "cocktail piano". She was told in the nightclub that she would have to sing to her own accompaniment, which effectively launched her career as a jazz vocalist. She went on to record more than 40 albums between 1958 and 1974, making her debut with Little Girl Blue. She had a hit single in the United States in 1958 with "I Loves You, Porgy". Her musical style fused gospel and pop with classical music, in particular Johann Sebastian Bach, and accompanied expressive, jazz-like singing in her contralto voice.

The sixth of eight children in a poor family, she began playing piano at the age of three or four; the first song she learned was "God Be With You, Till We Meet Again". Demonstrating a talent with the piano, she performed at her local church. Her concert debut, a classical recital, was given when she was 12. Simone later said that during this performance, her parents, who had taken seats in the front row, were forced to move to the back of the hall to make way for white people. She said that she refused to play until her parents were moved back to the front, and that the incident contributed to her later involvement in the civil rights movement. Simone's mother, Mary Kate Waymon (née Irvin, November 20, 1901 – April 30, 2001), was a Methodist minister and a housemaid. Her father, Rev. John Devan Waymon (June 24, 1898 – October 23, 1972), was a handyman who at one time owned a dry-cleaning business, but also suffered bouts of ill health. Simone's music teacher helped establish a special fund to pay for her education. Subsequently, a local fund was set up to assist her continued education. With the help of this scholarship money, she was able to attend Allen High School for Girls in Asheville, North Carolina.

In order to fund her private lessons, Simone performed at the Midtown Bar & Grill on Pacific Avenue in Atlantic City, New Jersey, whose owner insisted that she sing as well as play the piano, which increased her income to $90 a week. In 1954, she adopted the stage name "Nina Simone". "Nina", derived from niña, was a nickname given to her by a boyfriend named Chico, and "Simone" was taken from the French actress Simone Signoret, whom she had seen in the 1952 movie Casque d'Or. Knowing her mother would not approve of playing "the Devil's music", she used her new stage name to remain undetected. Simone's mixture of jazz, blues, and classical music in her performances at the bar earned her a small but loyal fan base.

After the success of Little Girl Blue, Simone signed a contract with Colpix Records and recorded a multitude of studio and live albums. Colpix relinquished all creative control to her, including the choice of material that would be recorded, in exchange for her signing the contract with them. After the release of her live album Nina Simone at Town Hall, Simone became a favorite performer in Greenwich Village. By this time, Simone performed pop music only to make money to continue her classical music studies, and was indifferent about having a recording contract. She kept this attitude toward the record industry for most of her career.

Simone married a New York police detective, Andrew Stroud, in December, 1961. In few years he became her manager and the father of her daughter Lisa, but later he abused Simone psychologically and physically.

In 1964, Simone changed record distributors from Colpix, an American company, to the Dutch Philips Records, which meant a change in the content of her recordings. She had always included songs in her repertoire that drew on her African-American heritage, such as "Brown Baby" by Oscar Brown and "Zungo" by Michael Olatunji on her album Nina at the Village Gate in 1962. On her debut album for Philips, Nina Simone in Concert (1964), for the first time she addressed racial inequality in the United States in the song "Mississippi Goddam". This was her response to the June 12, 1963, murder of Medgar Evers and the September 15, 1963, bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama, that killed four young black girls and partly blinded a fifth. She said that the song was "like throwing ten bullets back at them", becoming one of many other protest songs written by Simone. The song was released as a single, and it was boycotted in some southern states. Promotional copies were smashed by a Carolina radio station and returned to Philips. She later recalled how "Mississippi Goddam" was her "first civil rights song" and that the song came to her "in a rush of fury, hatred and determination". The song challenged the belief that race relations could change gradually and called for more immediate developments: "me and my people are just about due". It was a key moment in her path to Civil Rights activism. "Old Jim Crow", on the same album, addressed the Jim Crow laws. After "Mississippi Goddam", a civil rights message was the norm in Simone's recordings and became part of her concerts. As her political activism rose, the rate of release of her music slowed.

Simone performed and spoke at civil rights meetings, such as at the Selma to Montgomery marches. Like Malcolm X, her neighbor in Mount Vernon, New York, she supported black nationalism and advocated violent revolution rather than Martin Luther King Jr.'s non-violent approach. She hoped that African Americans could use armed combat to form a separate state, though she wrote in her autobiography that she and her family regarded all races as equal.

In 1967, Simone moved from Philips to RCA Victor. She sang "Backlash Blues" written by her friend, Harlem Renaissance leader Langston Hughes, on her first RCA album, Nina Simone Sings the Blues (1967). On Silk & Soul (1967), she recorded Billy Taylor's "I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free" and "Turning Point". The album 'Nuff Said! (1968) contained live recordings from the Westbury Music Fair of April 7, 1968, three days after the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. She dedicated the performance to him and sang "Why? (The King of Love Is Dead)", a song written by her bass player, Gene Taylor. In 1969, she performed at the Harlem Cultural Festival in Harlem's Mount Morris Park.

Simone and Weldon Irvine turned the unfinished play To Be Young, Gifted and Black by Lorraine Hansberry into a civil rights song of the same name. She credited her friend Hansberry with cultivating her social and political consciousness. She performed the song live on the album Black Gold (1970). A studio recording was released as a single, and renditions of the song have been recorded by Aretha Franklin (on her 1972 album Young, Gifted and Black) and Donny Hathaway. When reflecting on this period, she wrote in her autobiography, "I felt more alive then than I feel now because I was needed, and I could sing something to help my people".

In an interview for Jet magazine, Simone stated that her controversial song "Mississippi Goddam" harmed her career. She claimed that the music industry punished her by boycotting her records. Hurt and disappointed, Simone left the US in September 1970, flying to Barbados and expecting her husband and manager (Andrew Stroud) to communicate with her when she had to perform again. However, Stroud interpreted Simone's sudden disappearance, and the fact that she had left behind her wedding ring, as an indication of her desire for a divorce. As her manager, Stroud was in charge of Simone's income.

In 1993, she settled near Aix-en-Provence in southern France (Bouches-du-Rhône). In the same year, her final album, A Single Woman, was released. She variously contended that she married or had a love affair with a Tunisian around this time, but that their relationship ended because, "His family didn't want him to move to France, and France didn't want him because he's a North African." During a 1998 performance in Newark, she announced, "If you're going to come see me again, you've got to come to France, because I am not coming back." She suffered from breast cancer for several years before she died in her sleep at her home in Carry-le-Rouet (Bouches-du-Rhône), on April 21, 2003. Her funeral service was attended by singers Miriam Makeba and Patti LaBelle, poet Sonia Sanchez, actors Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee, and hundreds of others. Simone's ashes were scattered in several African countries. She is survived by her daughter, Lisa Celeste Stroud, an actress and singer, who took the stage name Simone, and who has appeared on Broadway in Aida.

#april 21 #2003 #r.i.p.#nina simone

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jaceyneedsabetterusername · 4 years

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Doyenne ~ Part 6

Warnings: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Tommy needs help from one of Birmingham’s most powerful underground gangs, the Hemlock Angels. Little does he know, he’s not the king of Birmingham after all.

Warnings: SMUT (kinda Dom!Tommy but not really?, unprotected sex), mentions of death and violence

Word Count: 3081

_____________________________

“We are at war," You announced to the room full of Angels, all of whom had gathered at a moment's notice. An uneasy murmur rippled over the crowd of men and women alike, all eyes on you for further explanation. This was when you hated being a leader of a group like this. It reminded you that you were part of a criminal organization, no matter how much you denied that reality to yourself. But when people are kidnapped and murdered and you can’t do anything legally about it, it reminds you that this is something that needs to be taken care of yourself. But you had to be strong, be the leader.

"Yesterday morning, Darby Sabini, the night club owner, and his men were responsible for the kidnapping of myself, Jameson Smith, and Brandon Kipper directly following their release from prison. While I was able to get out, Jameson and Brandon were brutally murdered, tied and shot in the back of the head.”

You inhaled a shaky, betraying breath, fingers gripping the bar behind you tightly as the vivid memories of their bodies clouded your thoughts, “You all know that I value transparency with all of you. So to tell you honestly, we unknowingly came into possession of some information pertaining to Sabini’s business. We had no idea that he had anything to do with anything but nonetheless they saw a threat and they acted on it. As a result, Jameson and Brandon are dead. I know this is a hard hit for us. They were well loved but unfortunately this is a horrible reality of this job. Nonetheless, what happened to them was unacceptable and will not be tolerated. We will be retaliating against Sabini. I’ll be assigning a task force to burn his most successful club, located in London, to the ground. It will be a loss of hundreds of thousands of pounds. He has no idea that we exist as a group and hopefully, it will stay that way. This will be a lowkey, covert operation and those who take part will be compensated handsomely for it. We won’t kill him but we will destroy him.”

Finally, you found the strength to begin looking people in the eye, now that everyone had accepted the loss and was intent on hearing your plan. That is, until you locked eyes with a familiar pair of icy blue orbs that were not supposed to be there. Thomas Shelby stood in the back, leaning against the carved rock wall patiently while you spoke. The only indication to him that you even knew of his presence was the slightest hitch in your breath at the contact to which he returned with a barely detectable nod of acknowledgement. What the hell is he doing here? "l will be selecting those I’d like to participate and informing you individually. Thank you all for coming."

After a nod of permission from you, the crowd dispersed and you retreated to your office in the back and pulled out a drawer from your desk, flipping through the files. Each person who worked for you had a file. Name, address, description, family memories, criminal records, and any other note you had written down (and most of them had many). You prided yourself on how well you knew everyone, whether or not they were aware of it.

But you were looking for two things in particular. First off, Jameson and Brandon’s files. You needed their addresses to inform their widows themselves of the tragedy that had unfolded. Just the thought of it made your heart wrench and when you finally found their files, you couldn’t bring yourself to open them yet. Instead, you dove into your next search-

“That was a riveting speech.” Thomas stood in the opened door to your office.

“What the hell are you doing here?” You asked, looking up from the papers sprawled across your desk.

He slowly strutted into the room, closing the door behind him, “I came to check on you. Make sure you were alright.” It took all your power to keep a steady face. Now that you’d had a day away from him to clear your thoughts, you were no longer clouded by lust or whatever it was that was affecting your judgement the other night with him.

“Well thank you very much, Mr. Shelby, but I’m quite alright. And while we’re at it, I’d like to thank you for coming to the rescue the other night but I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.” You tried to sound professional but there was a little more venom behind your words than you’d intended.

He lifted his hands ever so slightly in defense, “I never said you weren’t. But I was also able to walk right past all your men on the way in here.”

You slammed your hand on the table and stood up, “Who the hell do you think you are? A week ago you were threatening me, couldn’t stand me. A few days ago, you’re breaking me out of Sabini’s and insisting that I stay the night with you. And now, you’ve crashed a meeting to come and make sure I’m okay. Do you know who I am? Do you know what I do? I am no incompetent little girl, Thomas. I’m a fucking boss, the head of a God damn underground empire. I may not flex my power to the world like you men who feel the need to overcompensate for what you lack in your pants with public brute force but believe me when I say that I have every power to destroy Sabini or anyone else that gets in my way if I so choose.”

The threat was clear in your words that ‘anyone else’ meant Thomas and he picked up on that very clearly but he had never been one to let anyone talk to him like that and he was not about to start with you. "Look," he pointed a finger at you, his voice low and angry, "I came to help you as a fucking favor but dont worry, it won't happen again, your highness."

Your blood boiled although you knew logically you'd snapped first but who was he to act like this?! "Did you actually need something, Mr. Shelby, or did you just come to prove some point?" You sat back down and picked up a random file, not actually reading it but just trying to look like you were too busy for this stupid interraction with him. Images of all the ways you could make him disappear ran through your mind. Showing him your little business could have been a mistake, especially if he'd abuse it by sneaking into your private meetings, but it was one that would be easily remedied by an untimely, unplanned (for all legal purposes) tragedy.

Tommy took several steps towards you, until his finger tips grazed the top on your desk and thighs were flush against the wood. He looked down on you, a slight sneer that felt like he was looking down on you, something that he hadn't done since your first meeting. "You're not nearly as in control as you think you are," he told you, "Maybe in control of the situation, yes, but not of yourself. This tough, calm, cool, in control front you put up is nothing more than a facade and I call your bluff."

You watched with your voice stuck in your throat as he came around your desk and leaned down to grip the arm rests of your chair, pinning you in and leaning down almost to the point where your noses touched, "The only question is," Tommy continued, his eyebrow flickering upwards, "why are you falling apart?"

From this close, his scent- whiskey, cigarette smoke, and some unnamable (most likely expensive) cologne - was engulfing you, overwhelming your senses and making you unable to formulate a coherent sentence so you chose to not speak for a moment in favor of returning his cocky scrutinizing gaze with ocular daggers.

And then a sudden primal version of you seemed to escape the chained prison within your heart, the prison in which you stored away your vulnerability, and you leaned forward, nearly closing the gap between the two of you. "Are we gonna fuck or are you gonna just keep playing games?"

The words would have shocked you if you weren't in such a state of emotional overload after the events of the last few days but you were and the filthy words left your lips without an ounce of hesitation.

Internally, Tommy was taken aback by your sudden exclamation but he was also smirking inside like a cocky teenager. He honestly wasn't sure what he was hoping for coming in here and the uncertainty of his own emotions made him angry and uncomfortable but all he knew is that some invisible force- call it whatever you will, the universe, fate, God- pulled him to see you at that exact time and place. The meeting and speech had come as a surprise to him but he found it surprisingly easy to slip in relatively unnoticed, blending in with the background. That had further complicated his lack of plan, lack of goal. But now you were here, pinned under his arms with an angry glare and almost threatening him to fuck you. Tommy would be lying if he said he hadn't secretly hoped some version of this scenario would come to fruition.

Without another word, barely with a beat after your words, Tommy reached down with his large hands and cupped your face, pulling your face to his and smashing your lips together. The force of this kiss was powerful and ignited your entire body. You pushed yourself up off the chair, gripping his biceps as leverage to stand from the awkward angle but your fingers soon ran across the close shaved hair of his head, disappointed that there wasn't much to pull on but reveling in the softness of his short hair that contrasted the rest of his often surly personality.

One hand found a home on the back of his neck, pulling him closer into your lips, while the other gripped his black jacket tightly. His lips were slightly chapped but still soft enough to not be unpleasant and he tasted much like he smelled, the ghosts of whiskey and ash dancing on his breath.

Tommy's hands gripped your hips tightly and shuffled your body back blindly until your ass hit the table. You grappled behind you blindly, shoving papers and pencils aside to make room for your body. His palm slipped down to cup your ass and he squeezed tightly, helping you as you slid yourself to sit on the dark cherry wood desk. You finally broke away from the kiss, an absolute feral wreck. It had been so long since you'd kissed anyone, let alone had sex with anyone. Two long years to be exact of loneliness and unfulfillment. It wasn't that you needed a man but boy were they fun to have at times.

You gripped the lapel of his deep black jacket and shrugged it off his shoulders, allowing it to fall onto the wine colored rug. He only bore his white button up, tie, and suspenders and holy fuck did he wear it well.

Tommy made quick work of the top four buttons of your dress and shoved the fabric of your bra aside so he could assault your breasts. He was far from gentle as he raked his teeth over your sensitive skin before sinking them in. You gasped at the mixture of pain and pleasure, pulling his longer hair when he did. He kneaded the neglected breast firmly as he rolled the delicate bud of the other between his teeth, teasing it with his tongue between nibbles.

You pulled his mouth back up to yours by his hair and as your lips crashed together once again, you grabbed his ass and pulled him closer to your core. Tommy's breath hitched and he moaned out quietly when he bulging erection came into contact with your barely clothed core.

The plan was to tease him, make him think he was in control at first but show him who the real boss was. Your hands traveled around the front and you nimbly undid his belt buckle, wiggling his pants and underwear down just enough to reveal his large erection.

God, it had been so long since you'd been in this position you were almost scared you didn't know what you were doing but muscle memory took over and you carefully took his cock his your hand and pumped him a few times before bringing your palm up to lick a long, wet stripe along your skin, and returning to stroke him. Tommy's fingertips dug sharply into your hips and he leaned his forehead against yours, looking down at your hand pumping his base and teasing the tip with your thumb.

He was fairly large, not the largest you'd been with but he certainly looked like he could get the job done. A single finger trailed along the underside of his cock, following the large vein there. Tommy shuddered under your touch and looked up to lock eyes with you when you began to circle only the tip with your thumb.

"Fuck…." A broken moan tumbled from his lips before he gripped your wrist tightly and stopped you, his eyes dark and serious. Tommy tapped your thigh harshly and pointed at the desk, "Turn over."

Typically you didn't take commands from anyone but Tommy made you want to listen just this once, hearing a hidden promise in that thigh slap. You obeyed, turning over to lie on your stomach on the desk, your ass out and open for Tommy to see. He hiked your dress over your hips and trailed his fingers along your thighs and up to your panties, teasing your overly sensitive skin. His fingers made their way just under the waistband of your cream colored underwear but just as you thought he was going to rip them down and take you there, he snapped the straps of your garter belts against your thighs on both legs.

“Ow! Fuck you…” You yelped, reaching back to caress the skin. Thomas watched almost as if in a trance as your hand slid over the curvature of your butt and down your thighs, smoothing over the rosy mark he’d left.

“I plan on it.” He assured, reaching out to tear your underwear down your legs, the fabric pooling with the garters around your ankles. The cool air hit your core as a welcomed breeze, cooling down your overheating body.

Behind you, Tommy gripped his length and pumped himself a few times before running his tips along your folds, slowly pressing into you. “Damn, no foreplay?” You rolled your eyes sarcastically. Just like every other man you’d been with.

“Sure doesn’t seem like much of a problem.” He pointed out as he slipped easily into you, just a testament to how wet you were. Your snarky quip was replaced by a gasp as you felt your walls stretch around him. Shit, it had been so long (and, yes, in both senses).

Tommy let out a low groan and clenched his jaw tightly. You were so tight. Tighter than he’d expected. He set a pace quickly, his hips rocking into yours steadily. He wasn’t moving very fast but he managed to rub up on every spot inside of you, making your body feel like fireworks. The motion in the ocean was rocking your boat but, of course, you couldn’t let his ego get too big. “You call that fucking?” You looked over your shoulder at him, gripping the other edge of the table tightly.

What you could see of his skin was shining with a sheen of sweat and his brows furrowed in simultaneous annoyance and insecurity at your words. He reached down and shoved your top half down onto the table, keeping his palm splayed firmly across your upper back. Once he felt like you wouldn’t move, he gripped your hips tightly and pulled them back against him, using the extra movement to fuck into you harder.

“Ah- fuck…” You grunted at the sudden harsh impact sending your body into the wood. The legs of the table creaked and scraped against the rug in a hollow thud. “Tommy!” You whined out, eyes shut as he reached around your front and rubbed your clit. You were quickly falling over the edge.

There it is, Tommy smirked to himself, Tommy again.

Without warning, your body shuddered and your legs shook as your walls spasmed around him. Wave after wave of pleasure watched over you as your orgasm took you. Tommy felt your walls around him and he struggled to keep his composure and after only a few more thrusts, he too busted inside of you.

The two of you stood there, breathing heavily, for a moment before he pulled out, a mixture of his seed and your juices dripping down your thighs. Shit, you thought, you’d have to wash up now before you saw anybody now. Tommy stuffed his softening length back in his pants and redressed himself as you buttoned up your dress and readjusted your garter belts.

“So that’s it.” He threw his jacket over his shoulders.

You looked indignantly at him, “What?”

“Why you’re falling apart.” Tommy lit a cigarette and took a deep drag before gesturing with the smoking stick, “A man.”

Your mouth fell open, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You haven’t fucked in a long time, that much is obvious. But it’s because a man hurt you.” He analyzed.

You didn’t know how to respond. First, was that an insult? You haven’t fucked in a long time, that much is obvious. Second, how did he know? How was he able to read you like a book?

Tommy watched as you tried to connect the dots but took the silence as an invitation to head out, “You have sex like you haven’t been touched in years and yet you’re angry and aggressive the whole time. You’re desperate but upset about something that’s happened romantically or sexually.” Your indignant silence only proved his theory and he raised an eyebrow, “You’re not the only one who can read people..” With a final adjustment of his tie, he nodded his farewell, “I’ll be seeing you on Friday with the rest of the money.”

____________

Taglist:

@kiaoizz

@sweatydragoncloudknight

@hinagiku0

@stressedandbandobessed7771

#thomas shelby #tommy shelby x reader #Tommy Shelby #tommy shelby imagines #Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders smut #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder headcanon #doyenne

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self-proclaimed-chaotic-good · 4 years

Text

The Governess and the Doctor’s Hunt for the Copper Beeches 1/4 | Sherlock x Reader

Prompt: Eight

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Words: 1836

A/N: Just an idea that popped into my head years ago since BBC Sherlock hadn’t introduced Violet Hunter from the Copper Beeches story, so I wanted to write my own version. Also, I wanted a story with Molly more involved in a dynamic with the reader similar to Sherlock and John’s.

Edit: I’m reposting this since tumblr still hasn’t sorted itself out about the tagging system because apparently it wasn’t showing under any of the tags

It had been eight hours since John’s last text. He had been nervous taking up cases with Sherlock again, even with a new babysitter looking after Rosie. You didn’t mind his frequent check-ins. Rosie had been a well-behaved baby, only crying when she needed changing or needed food. Other than that, it was pretty smooth sailing.

Eight hours was too long, though, even for a case like this. Another black market trail had been found and Sherlock was asked to look into it. You brought up your concerns with Mrs. Hudson, but she dismissed it, saying that this happened a lot and they always come back.

That night, you tucked Rosie in after her dinner, read her a story, and stayed in 221B. Thankfully, after weeks of working as Rosie’s babysitter, Mrs. Hudson mentioned that it would be easier if you lived close by, preferably in the vacant apartment room in the building. Sherlock reminded her what had happened in that room a couple of years prior, but the rent was cheap, a rarity in London, so you took the offer.

They did not come back the next day. You called Lestrade, who had not heard from them as well. You even asked Mycroft and he was firstly bewildered on how you managed to obtain his private number before saying that he had not heard from his little brother since the day he spoke of the case.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Molly assured you as she adjusted the microscope.

You sat on a metal stool across from her, chin resting in the palm of your hand as you sighed. You had Mrs. Hudson watched Rosie for a while, which she had not minded at all, before you went to see the one person that Sherlock confided in the most.

“Yeah?” you muttered.

“Yeah,” she said without confidence. She cleared her throat and continued to look through the lens. “They always manage to find their way out of dangerous situations. You know how they are. Sherlock would make things complicated, John would try to organize his thoughts, then Sherlock would have an epiphany. Then they come back with the case solved, Sherlock gloats at his brother, then they return to 221B, drinking tea with biscuits given by Mrs. Hudson.”

You hummed. “Okay. I’m just worried when Rosie realizes that her dad hasn't come home yet.”

Molly leaned away from the microscope and gave you a reassuring smile. “If you want, I can come over and help a bit.”

“Aren’t you busy?”

Molly shrugged. “It’s fine. Really.”

It had been eight days since the boys went missing. Rosie started to cry more frequently after not seeing her dad and uncle in a week. Molly had been helping you and Mrs. Hudson whenever she could and offered to ask Lestrade if he should look into their case. You declined her offer, knowing that Lestrade would consider doing it, but you didn’t want to use their resources. Instead, you looked through John’s notes. While Sherlock occasionally commented on John writing down their cases and adventures, you knew that he enjoyed it a bit. It helped them get more attention and cases after all.

The black market had ties with many of London’s rich art collectors and none of them were going to risk being exposed. You brought your findings to Molly, listing off your theories as she worked. You had asked once if your visits ever bothered her, but she never minded. She liked the company, since it was only her in the lab with human parts.

After almost two weeks of the boys being missing, Lestrade had spared a small team to look into it and offered any more help he could. As you were walking back to Baker Street with Rosie in a stroller, a small boy in grubby clothes bumped into you, stumbling slightly and waved over his shoulder in apology. You grimaced, then quickly checked your pockets. All of your things were still there, but… there was a folded piece of paper that wasn’t there before. You looked around before hurrying inside, making Rosie a bottle of milk before setting her down in her crib.

With a cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson in front of you, you sat down on the desk that you were able to organize now that the boys were gone, and took out the note. The top edge of the paper was unevenly ripped, possibly from a notepad. The writing was in pen, the grooves deep with a few punctures through the paper at the end of some of the letters. The surface that the person was writing on was not solid, not suitable for writing. Hastily written as well, so they were rushing.

You frowned, sorting through John’s papers and dragged out one from the stack with a decent amount of his handwriting. The slant and the cross of the T were similar, as was the angle of the As. how he dotted the Is. Those small details were what made you believe that the note was most likely from John.

You took out another piece of paper and placed them side by side. The words were passages paired by numbers. Sherlock must’ve been the one telling John what to write. Luckily, he allowed you free reign of his messy book collections, so you were familiar with most of the passages or at least had an idea of which book they were from. You scanned each passage and quickly scrambled to grab the books, plonking them onto the table.

The boys were trying to tell you something and Sherlock knew that you’d be able to figure it out.

“Clever girl,” he’d say before awkwardly patting you on the head.

People outside of your circle saw your friendship with the consulting detective as odd, mainly because even after all this time, they still thought that he was odd. Being friends with Sherlock Holmes meant that you were free to express your interests in crime and mystery, in science and random bits of trivia, and were able to exchange knowledge, especially on things that Sherlock had deleted from his mind palace. You two grew close, and you’d be lying if you said that you did not harbor a crush on him. You had to lie, though. Your best friend was in love with him before and you had a feeling she still does.

After decoding the message, you found that it was an address followed by the word “Start”. You leaned back in your chair, raking your brain to figure out what that meant. After a quick google search, you found the address to be in Birmingham, almost two hours by train. You had a bad feeling that it wasn’t going to be that easy. First of all, you would need to get there, then find out where exactly they are, if they are even there. It was unlikely that the case would be solved by the time you’ve found them, so you would have to help wrap that up before taking the boys back to Baker Street. You didn’t want to be away from Rosie too long and bother Mrs. Hudson, but you don’t want to waste Lestrade’s resources. You knew Sally gets irritated when Sherlock would call for help on the simplest of things during the times where he doesn’t feel all that bothered to do it himself. Plus, what would a nanny like you know where to start…

“Start”... of course, you thought, there must be a trail of clues. Maybe something to help trace back to the boys. You couldn’t do this alone and you knew, if the person was free and willing, just the right person to call.

“Morning, dear Molly,” you said, strolling through the lab door with the papers in your hand.

Molly looked up through goggles from a dish with a brain in it. “Uh oh, sounds like you’re up to something,” she teased before going back to your work.

“When are you free?” you asked, leaning against the counter across from her.

“Well, when I’m done with this examination, I should be free for a couple of days. Why?”

You hummed. “Perfect.”

“Why?” she asked again, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, nothing,” you said nonchalantly, placing the papers onto the counter. You folded your hands in front of you and smiled innocently at her.

Molly rolled her eyes. “You know, you’re hanging around Sherlock too much. He does that when he needs something but wants the other person to bring it up. What’s that?” She nodded over to the papers.

“A message…,” you said, “That I believe are from our boys.”

She paused her movements. “Are you sure?”

“It matches John’s handwriting and the words used could only come from Sherlock, I just know it,” you said.

“Why aren’t you going to Lestrade for this?”

You sighed. “Because… Lestrade’s busy and I don’t want to waste his time on something like this.” Molly shot you a worried look. “It’s fine. If things get serious, we can always call him. Besides, I believe that there are more than one message.”

Molly frowned. “I don’t know… I’ll see once I’m done with this,” she said.

“Okay,” you said, leaving the papers on the counter, “I’ll see you later, then. Text me first if you’re going to stop by. I’m planning to go to the shops later today.”

She nodded. “Alright, see you.”

You walked out of the lab and sighed. You would have to check this one out by yourself. No better way to prove a theory. That would also mean that you would have to leave Rosie.

“Oh, don’t worry, dearie, I’ve got it,” Mrs. Hudson said once you told her you had to take a trip. You didn’t tell her what it was for. Nothing was confirmed yet.

You packed lightly and got a train ticket to Birmingham. It had been years since you’d rode the train and you’d never done it alone before. How do you know you’re getting onto the right one? What if you’re late? You must’ve driven the station attendants mad that morning with your questions.

They kindly steered you towards the right train, notifying you when it was boarding. You stood at the platform, watching the tracks rattle as the train neared. There was momentary chaos as people boarded the train and you managed to find a seat by the window.

You busied yourself with looking up the address and the fastest route from the station to your destination. You hoped that the boys weren’t in a dire situation where time was of the essence. You didn’t have a developed mind palace like Sherlock had, you were still working on it. That would mean that with each clue, you’d have to go back and reference every book that you could think of that was in Sherlock’s messy bookshelves.

As London faded from view, you sighed, slumping back in your seat. What did the boys get into this time?

#WritersMonth2020 #sherlock #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x reader #bbc sherlock #apparently this post wasn't appearing in the tags ffs tumblr #i had a whole rant in the tags and everything then i had to delete the first post

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