#Cuban Cigars In Birmingham

[thepeakyfckingblinders]

The Whore || John Shelby x reader

⤠ MASTERLIST⤟

Anon requested: “11&19 with John boy? cause I miss him “ (I miss him too, my poor heart aches)

Summary:  n.11 & 19 from prompt list: “Please, please, please” + “I’ll burn this fucking place down” Warnings: swearing, a lot of angst, prostitution, nudity, violence, mentions of abuse, mentions of rape, misogynistic talk, graphic description of signs of physical abuse

Author’s notes:

Behind each one of these works there are sleepless nights and something really close to multiple mental breakdowns, so, please, take a minute to send me a message about it, I need actual feedbacks to understand how to improve my skills and grow ♡

So, this request’s been in my mind for ages, and even though I’m not happy with its final part ‘cause it sucks, I’m literally obsessed with this idea, I love it so much that I’ll probably write a long fic about it, right after Contagio, but it will depend on you babes, because, first and froemost, I need to know what you think about this piece. ⤟ IMPORTANT

Please, if you’re a victim of any kind of abuse, talk to someone who can help you, nobody should go through something like that alone.⤟ IMPORTANT 

I edited the gif and added the text, it’s not an actual scene from the show, but I thought it could be a good idea, a small detail that could be added to my works. What do you think about it? Pls, let me hear your opinions babeees ⤟ 

I’m sorry for being this late, but I’ve been really busy in the past days and writing is never just easy, it demands concentration and effort, plus I don’t want you to be disappointed, so I’m always extra accurate while working. I hope this is worth the wait!

If you want to be added to my tag list, please, directly message me

I’m Italian, English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for every possible mistake I made. Also, please, help me improve my writing by telling me if there’s something wrong

ENJOY!

Birmingham was somehow silent that night, John noticed the unusually empty streets around him, as his feisty pace easily led him towards a well-known destination, his confident steps resounding in between the damp walls of those sordid blocks made of innumerable overcrowded flats. The unmistakable stench of stagnant urine viciously permeated his nostrils, soon causing a disgusted expression to taint his angelic face, while he avidly took the umpteenth drag of smoke from his Cuban cigar and finally stopped his unceasing walk in front of the most renowned brothel in the entire city. For about three years by then, day after day, his life had been perilously circling the drain: things had got totally out of hand, fate had pitilessly thrown him into profound despair, giving life to an apparently endless spiral of darkness and desolation, which was gradually corroding his fragile self, brutally strangling him, rapaciously plundering each of his already strained vital breaths. And, nevertheless, it was beyond hard to blame him for such catastrophic outcomes, after all, he’d scarcely survived the battlefield, only to find himself with a handful of nothing, left alone to deal with a dead wife and four children to raise on his own, while his guts crawled with excruciating grief and ravenous acrimony for the whole world, having him develop a tendency to self-destruction that was just as concerning as it was well concealed.  As a matter of fact, in spite of his private hell, he still remained a Shelby, and a Shelby wasn’t meant to be soft, nor weak, none of them could afford to succumb to their affliction, never, not for a moment. They had to be invulnerable. 

Or, at least, they had to look invulnerable, for truth was that John was scared, utterly frightened by all those unmerciful changes.  Deep inside he felt like a hopeless, undefended child, forsaken by God and discarded to wander that grim world without any destination other than death and misery, thus his blood boiled with virulence and venom, having his heart clench with blind wrath and his devastated young soul desperately long for sort of any distorted kind of unattached affection. That was basically the main reason why his bed was incessantly warm, or more accurately, warmer than it had always been before, because, needless to say, John Shelby had actually been an authentic ladies’ man since his first cry. His stunning beauty constantly teemed on everyone’s lips in Birmingham, there was not a single woman in the whole town who hadn’t dreamt of sleeping with him at least once in her life. Therefore, John was more than happy to please them all, literally, welcoming them with wide open arms, even during his past marriage; and, on those rare times when no girl went to knock on his door, he had now grown accustomed to seek relief into whorehouses, rather than sleep alone and become an easy prey for his ferocious demons.

So he eventually ended up dropping his smouldering cigar on the uneven asphalt of the most rundown place in Small Heath, “Le Belle Donne”, an Italian house of tolerance, quite dilapidated and about to fall to pieces, but which often happened to have his favourite prostitutes. Indeed, ever since the Peaky Blinders had defeated and subjugated Sabini’s clan, they’d occupied a prominent position among the country, to the point that several other Italian gangs on their territory, including the Changrettas who owned that brothel in particular, had finally given in to the Shelbys. As a direct consequence, to put it simply, John and all his brothers had, in a very real sense, earned the full right to abuse of whatever business the wops held.

“Hey, man!”  Johnny resonantly barked as he entered the hall, maintaining a pretty intimidating attitude and a menacing look on purpose, in order to strike even greater fear in his newest flunky. “C’mon, show me what you got” That rough order cunningly glided onto his lower lip, immediately followed by his hot tongue, while his famished gaze travelled around the room, examining the face of each harlot standing there with meticulous attention, without however finding something that could come anywhere close to seriously rapture him. Robert Turrini, the whoremaster, was a bizarre bloke, for his physical appearance could be probably described as both disturbing and amusing: his revortingly corpulent stomach wobbled and his short legs dangerously stumbled, when he made haste to stand up and accommodate his toughest client. “Mr. Shelby, what an honour and a pleasure to have you back!” Those sycophant words fled his moist and malodorous mouth, and nonetheless, his stubby fingers inexorably betrayed his true thoughts, since they were either nervously torturing each other or, as only alternative, convulsively running through his greasy, mangy bangs. “Please, sir, follow me, these are for yokels and boozers, nothing to do with gentlemen like yourself” Once again, Turrini’s shrill fawning tone relentlessly grated his ears, making clear reference to the bunch of second-rate whores who could be found at the entrance; thus the lame pimp quickly moved, his hand anxiously beckoning John to tread upon his heels, then headed towards an eerily narrow corridor, so scanty that it was almost impossible to cross, if not walking on the bias. The secret lounge was illuminated only in part by a squalid red light creating a gruesome atmosphere, a dull silence tyrannically reigned into that small space, although you were not alone, but practically glued to another girl; both sitting on a minuscle sofa, your elbows touching, still none of you dared emit a single sound. Everything felt like lead upon your papier-mâché ribcage, that horrible sensation forcing your traumatized brain to involuntarily keep counting the seconds until that heinous burden would’ve potentially staved in your sternum, definitively annihilating your splintered heart. As a result, when the ramshackle door opened and a high-pitched squeak scraped your skin, you really thought to be about to die. Your torturer made his entrance, and right after him, another man came in, yet you couldn’t spot his face, since the peak of his cap designedly casted a mysterious shadow on it. “These two right here, they're real young, real fresh” Robert flaunted his goods along with a nefarious grin, rubbing his soiled paws with evident greed. “Behold the finest offering of flesh and bone on the market” A sadistic snicker repugnantly accompanied his speech, instantly causing John to frown, visibly disgruntled with the way that man deliberately talked about human beings. Luckily, it was a known fact that the middle Shelby was used to treating his women with all due respect: whether he paid them or not, he always made sure they were comfortable with him and never shrank from giving them some good time as well; therefore, a vexed glare was shot in the direction of his gross interlocutor, before his crystalline eyes briefly fluttered around the place, then bumping into your elegant figure almost at once.

Your bloodstream seemed to benumb on the spot as the stranger’s confident stare entangled yours, his rawboned features being now fully displayed, for he had lifted his chin a little in order to properly look at you, and you only, despite Clarissa’s desperate and petulant attempts to get his attention with malicious smiles and ridiculous pet names. Even though your dazed mind had just been ruthlessly brutalized by the sudden, ablaze assault of his glacial irises, a few moments were enough for you to realize how profoundly different he was from all the low-down rats who usually came through that horrible place.

Each sharp, still somehow delicate, trait of his face was brimming with delicious youthfulness, a less keen eye might have even confounded his freshness with actual naivety, but not yours; you were far too clever to make such a coarse mistake. Furthermore, the midnight-blue posh fabric of the classy suit, remarkably folding his majestic body, left gaunt doubt that he was, in all likelihood, a considerably rich man, which was beyond disorientating you, since the price to pay for some tawdry delight in that brothel was outrageously derisory, to say the least. And ultimately, as much as it killed you to conceive it, he was without question one of the most enchanting men you had ever seen, to the point that you found yourself subconsciously wondering the possible reason why a heavenly creature of his kind would’ve needed to buy a miserable hour of dissembled love. 

“There she is” That malleable murmur, filled with longing and gratification, furtively sidled past John’s roseate mouth, as its corners seductively bent upwards and his gaze persevered in its praiseworthy commitment to scrupulously linger your finest shape in sheer adoration. Lace and organdy sublimely merged on the light crimson negligee you were wearing, your immaculate form appeared as a beguiling paradox into his dilated pupils, being your long legs lecherously left exposed, while every inch of your porcelain skin, from your lean neck to your groin, was painstakingly disguised by that unholy material, dark and inscrutable, albeit thin enough to allow him to glimpse the inviting turgidity of your nipples. His breath shuddered in awe when he went back to contemplate your aphrodisiac facial features, flushed cheeks and plump lips having him ache with desire, and then your doe eyes flooded by melancholy, strangling his soul with no mercy, entrenching into his brains the treacherous conviction that, at the end of the day, he would’ve gladly dilapidated his fortune, if only to venerate you from afar. “Oi, sweetheart!” His low voice finally rumbled within the walls of that small space, overwhelmingly vibrating into your abdomen, while you forced yourself to swallow the painful lump obstructing your throat and stand up, promptly responding to his command, aware as you had become that rebelling against your pitiable destiny would’ve served no purpose at all. Holding your client’s hand behind your back, but keeping your head down during the whole route, you silently guided him up the spiral staircase to the best room in the house, like you had previously been instructed by your pimp. His jacket and hat were quickly hung on the apposite coat-rack, leaving his muscular top covered with just his white shirt and blue vest, an alluring grin was flashed in your direction and you detected a libidinous sparkle in his irises, as he healed the rift between you at a slow pace. “What should I call you, sweetheart?” He knowingly used the same flattering pet name once more, whispering that barely audible question into your ear, for he was now behind you: his large hands laid around your waist, gently making your back and his vigorous chest fit together, while his skilled mouth brushed forthwith against your nape, drawing an ardent contrail of ephemeral pecks up until your jaw. “Just y/n” You gasped in response, the marked contrast between his warmth and your bitter cold body, along with crippling dread eating you alive, caused your scrambled stomach to squirm and your eyelids to distressingly shut into a frown. “Well, that’s a pretty good one, I’m John, by the way” A lovely, yet hinted giggle fleetingly filled your ears together with that little compliment; there was no record of mockery in his tone, though, it simply sounded like he wanted to be nice to you, without any aspiration of personal gain, and you almost blushed, caught off guard and no longer used to any form of kindness. Nevertheless, it was a matter of instants before another wet, long kiss was pressed on your jawline, making you startle with evident apprehension and, at a later time, definitively back away from him, as soon as you sensed his touch abandoning your hips only to climb your sides, till he reached for your nightgown’s collar and his fingers began to fiddle with its round buttons. “No, I’ll do it!” You curtly gave notice, as you temporarily lost control of both your speech and actions, placing your hands above his in order to shrug them off, then turning to face him with short breath, your open palms shielding you. “I got it” A noticeably softer voice supplanted your preceding rudeness once you gradually metabolised how much damage your incautious reaction could’ve done.

“Aye, aye, darling, as you wish” But John just chuckled, tenderly humouring you, while his forearms jokingly lift in surrender to your commands, although, truth be told, your strange behaviour had left him a bit bewildered, well-nigh confused. Carefully moving backwards, he cockily made himself comfortable on the edge of the double bed, sitting right in front of you with splayed legs, his yearning stare never deflecting from you, and started to unbutton his waistcoat along with his shirt and undershirt, until his statuesque torso was completely nude, in all its glory, as the moon transpired through the curtains and shed its faint rays on his every contour, superbly enhancing all of his muscles.

Without reprieve, he ogled up at you in pure adoration, devastatingly astonished afresh by your dazzling beauty, eager to feel your afire flesh around his, literally hanging on your every word or move, while a provocative smirk steadily rippled his lips. Still, he kept questioning why a seraphic vision like you was slowly withering away in that authentic hell on heart, adamantly squandering your blush of youth amidst that rabble of unrestrained putridity. It made absolutely no sense, and he couldn’t get rid of that pernicious thought haunting his mind ever since he had first seen you: you looked nervous, extremely defensive, almost paralyzed with fear; you seemed so different from all the whores he’d had before, hence his instincts, however obfuscated with cupidity, were screaming that something was wrong.  And when he watched you turn your back on him again, so to avoid his penetrating gaze as you reluctantly got undressed, it was enough for him to understand that his execrable hunch was right. Nevertheless, by the time his head managed to eventually reconnect to his mouth, it was already too late, the soft textile of your nightdress ineluctably fell to your feet, leaving you naked under his starving leer.

John choked on his own breath; for the very first time, he felt like a fledgling kid at his earliest experience, no matter if nothing could be further form the truth, in some turbid, cryptic way, you were able to make him vulnerable. His craw went hellishly dry while he continued to gape at you in awe, the sinuous curves of your flawless glutes, the meandering line of your superlatively arched back covered in part by your soft hair, your tensed shoulders and your refined legs, everything about you caused his mind to go entirely black, words stifling in his throat. Yet, as soon as you moved to face him and his sight was blessed with the full view of your voluptuous figure, something altered the light in his cerulean eyes, suddenly making it dark and gloomy. His jaw slightly dropped under the weight of that violent dismay: in conjunction, an obnoxious sense of nausea cruelly shot him in the gut and blind anger virulently assailed him, for your front bust was completely martyrized.

“What the hell...” That unmeant babble died in the gelid air, his shocked orbs demarcating the strokes of your damaged silhouette: your neck and collarbone were horridly plastered with several violet fingerprints, as if someone had mercilessly strangled you over and over, greenish bruises with the shape of full palms circled both your arms, there were conspicuous signs of ligature around your tiny wrists. Worse still, his eyelids had to squeeze a little in order to bring into focus the multiple oxblood dots stigmatizing your soft breasts, until he noticed in horror how those round specks were effectively cigarettes burns; all of the oxygen bluntly withdrew from his lungs, when he dwelled on the multiple blue and black marks barbarically desecrating the protuberances of your ribs. But what irremediably drove him over the edge were the two ghastly scars digging stretched grooves in your lower stomach, in parallel with your bulging pelvic bones and down almost to your livid groin.

Prey of that deleterious humiliation, you observed raw disgust contaminating his features and, with no apparent reason, the dormant hatred you had for yourself began to ferment inside your belly. “I-I’m sorry” you forced yourself to swallow your imminent tears, unexpectedly, the awareness of not being able to please him somehow inflicted more suffering on your mangled soul “If I’m not to your taste, y-you can...” The young man quickly stood up and, before you had the chance to finish your nonsensical sentence, he readily grabbed his shirt, approaching you with dispatch, his cold irises burning with an implausible mixture of fury and concern. “I don’t fucking care right now” His voice was unsteady, rolling down his tongue in fatigued panting, as his hands hastened to wrap his shirt around your shoulders, his trembling fingers struggling to put the buttons through the eyelets  “Who did this to you?” In truth, he was talking to himself rather than with you, noticeable impatience worsening his mad tone, yet you persistently steered clear of his inquiring look, more than determined to keep your mouth shut, forasmuch as your dizzy head was already helplessly spinning, along with your heart rabidly hammering against your sore ribcage. You were having a hard time figuring out what was going on, everything around you was so confused, you didn’t even know whether to trust him or not, you only wanted to close your eyes and forget about that lucid nightmare. “I’m not asking you, for fuck’s sake! Tell me who it was!”  That searing order tersely brought you back to reality and cleared how easily his rash temper could reemerge; indeed, all of a sudden, no trace was left of that kind, cheerful boy who earlier that night had succeeded in making you genuinely blush, on the contrary, when he cupped your cheeks and vehemently shook you, in a desperate effort to get your attention, his rough, authoritative command unbendingly hit you, and the sweet child within him ended up being thoroughly smothered by the scary, ruthless gangster that he truly was. That unforeseen contact had your feet automatically stagger backwards, your eyes fell to your tiptoes and your teeth started skewering your lower lip, while your exhausted brain resorted to its last ounce of strength, thereby obligating you to spit out a bit of your sorrow. “Three months ago, the man I once called father sold me to settle one of his debts with the Italians” Your thorax seemed to shrink to the point of absurdity once you became aware that it was essentially the first time you allowed yourself to say it all out loud. However, the presence of that compassionate stranger still represented for you a substantial barrier to surmount, leading your unquiet glance to franticly move from the grime on the floor, to the broken window on your left, anywhere, but never daring to meet his. “ I tried to run away, I swear I did, but they always caught me and-” 

A large knot callously plugged the bottom of your palate, causing you to hesitate for a minute, gently rubbing your own arms, in attempt to comfort yourself . “Robert has a short fuse, he g-gets pretty brutal when you don’t cooperate” Those disenchanted considerations carried an involuntary grin, it was nothing more than a spasm, but hid the unmistakable sign of an imminent cry, and John’s attentive irises certainly did not let it go unnoticed, yet he chose to stay quiet, because the last thing he would’ve wanted in that crucial moment was to scare you even more. “He beat me to death, each time harder than the time before, and then he let those men-... He-e kept me tied to that bed for days to teach me a lesson” Copious tears were now unremittingly streaming down your flushed face, your heart aching with raw affliction, preventing you from breathing properly, one of your palms instinctively went to cover the space between your breasts, in a vain whirl to ease that excruciating grief. “Oh, God” John simply sighed, he was precariously theetering on the verge of tears as well, thick veins untamedly pumped in the proximity of his temples, till his solid shape ruinously keeled over the longest side of the bed, his elbows piercing his own thighs, as he hid behind his clenched fists and finally permitted himself to indulge a couple of muffled sobs. Innumerable atrocities had clouded his eyes and soul during his brief life, he himself was capable of unspeakable acts of cruelty, still, that was absolutely intolerable, hearing your story was taking a terrible toll on him. Try as he might, he couldn’t conceive how somebody could have been so hopelessly evil, to abuse in such a heinous way a defenseless creature as pure as you were. That thought was irretrievably disturbing him, rancorously eroding his bowels, almost depriving him of his sanity.

“U-until I stopped fighting them”  Your last, indescribably anguished whisper struck the fatal blow, it unrelentingly plunged into his chest, sending an unbearable jolt of pain through his poisoned veins. For a brief instant, his expression, together with yours, harshly turned into a mask made of neat despair, as if your synapsis had been ravelled and both of you were enduring the exact same ache, at the exact same moment.

“I’ll fucking kill him!” Then, all at once, something apopletic inside him violently detonated, he berserkly stood up, roughly tripping over the beside table and everything placed on it. “Fucking kill that filthy bastard with my own two hands, bloody hell!” His hoarse yells made your bruised skin cringe and his furious steps covered the whole length of the room in the space of a scant minute; he was literally seething with murderous fits of rage, teeth grinding with irrepressible choler. “No!” your desperate voice erupted afresh and you hurried to reach for him, your hands unconsciously enveloping his cheekbones “Please, please, John, please, stop!” For the first time, his name slipped out of your aching throat in between those pathetic pleads, your wrists forced him to look at you, in attempt to dissuade him from his homicidal purposes; the mere thought of the potential disastrous consequences to his calamitous ire totally asphyxiated you, rampant panic assaulted your frail mind and, soon after, you found yourself hyperventilating and simultaneously rambling a bunch of incoherent words, your fingers gradually tightening their grip on him. “He’s gonna get so angry at me, he’s gonna- he-he’s...” “I’m a fucking Shelby, he does not draw a damn breath unless I say so” He firmly grabbed your chin with just two of his fingers, guiding your depleted pupils to entirely focus on his confident stare, and he growled that undisputable fact a span away from your nose. Petrified by that new awareness, you fell utterly silent, only gawking in his direction, while he put his undershirt back on with ease and rapidly grasped his cap. “Just stay here, do you hear me? Don’t move until I come back” An incandescent kiss was impulsively pressed to your forehead, no other words were spent, before he disappeared behind the door of your private hell. When your persecutor saw his special guest unyieldingly storming towards his desk with a truculent expression exuding fervent disappointment, he jumped on his feet, ready to find a solution to whatever problem had possibly arisen; one thing was sure, he never would’ve guessed what was about to happen. “Mr. Shelby, what’s wron-” John’s fist savagely collided with his jaw, nipping his cloying speech in the bud, without giving Turrini a second to process what was going on, another punch pitilessly smote him, and then another one, and then another, until hot, plenteous blood gushed from his multiple wounds. “You son of a bitch”   Animalistic groans left his rabid maws, sheer hate rushing through his brains, as he violently tossed him to the ground, immediately beginning to kick his torso with all of his brute force. “Mercy! I beg of you, sir, have mercy!” His victim’s prayers and harrowing screams barely titillated his ears, everything he could think about was your tragically marred body, hence an unbridled desire to give him a taste of his own medicine completely took over. “Where was your mercy when you were torturing her?”  Expertely holding his hat in the most efficient way, in a fury, John went down on his sacrificial lamb, promptly disfiguring just one side of his face, in order to take a quite theatrical pause from his wicked work.

“When she was imploring you to stop?”  Robert was now crying out loud, overwhelmed by that merciless agony, reduced to just invoke the glacial scynt of death, since nothing in his entire miserable existence had ever caused him more intense pain, than the coarse perception of a finely sharpened razorblade brutishly lacerating his flesh once more, inch by inch.

“Now bend your ear to this” despite his wrenching laments, John rudely lift him up by seizing the blood stained collar of his jacket “if anyone else but me goes near her fucking room again, I’ll burn this fucking place down!” And with that first, deadly threat the pimp’s head was brutally slammed into the wall, an umpteenth whine of contrition escaping his mouth filled with blood, nevertheless, no time was left for redemption.

“You lay a finger on her again” his skull was doggedly crashed into the bricks once again, a crimson spatter smeared the pale plaster covering them “I will break your neck” John’s knuckles clasped, having his red right hand effectively strenghten its hold on his neck, nearly killing him on the spot. However, fortunately for the whoremaster, Johnny would’ve not put an end to his sufferings, nor he could've simply taken you away, deep inside, he knew he needed to discuss it with his family, first and foremost, with Thomas, for the unstable equilibrium reached by the Peaky Blinder was far too fragile to start a new war against the Italians. Thus, with great difficulty, he forced himself to keep his mind clear and put a lid on his beastly instinct. “From now on, no one of you dirty swines is allowed to even look at her”  Throwing him to the floor, the middle Shelby delivered one last kick straight to his fat abdomen, and disrespectfully spit on him, marking with his salt slaver the end of his brutalized prey’s calvary. “By order of the Peaky Blinders”   As soon as the crackling door snapped open, your heart seemed to explode, your eyelids bolted with pure fear, whilst you pulled your knees closer to your clavicles, an ancient prayer lingering your lips together with heavy breaths, as you prepared for the worst. But the worst never came. “Y/n, hey, calm down. It’s all right” John’s husky voice echoed in your ears, and, you could’ve sworn it, that was, without the slightest doubt, the most beautiful sound you had ever heard. Your head abruptly tilted in his direction, an oxymoric mixture of fear and hope twinkling into your watery irises, deep pants still rocking your tiny self. “It’s me, it’s just me” Keeping his arms up to indicate his innocuous purpose, he carefully approached you. Almost immediately, you noticed the several scarlet handprints staining his pale top, eloquent sign that he had tried to wipe his palms on that ivory material as best as he could. Yet, you were so profoundly relieved to see his friendly face, that, to be honest, the sight of fresh blood didn’t upset you at all. It was like you had fallen into a fugue state, every single thing around you was so distant, your numb senses were only able to concentrate on John’s lean silhouette kneeling in front of you. “ No one will hurt you anymore, darling” his hands gently went to caress your thighs, while his worried gaze tirelessly sought yours and he spoke those soft, reassuring words “You need to trust me”. And you did want to put all of your faith in that young man. His delicate flair easily awakened you from that ostensible slumber, building a rousing fire inside your belly; without a thought about your unforeseen actions, you threw your arms around his strong neck, your knees producing a dry sound as they collided with the wooden pavement, still you didn’t care and you held him tight, letting out loud cries and drowning into his muscular chest, finally revelling in the feeling of that warm embrace. Soon, he entangled his callous fingers with your velvety locks, subconsciously narrowing his solid shoulders, as to shield your frangible figure from the outside world. “I'll get you out of here soon, I promise”

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[birminghamblinders]

tommy in a relationship with a man- headcanons

gif credits to @bonniebirddoesgifs​

Request: Hey could you please do headcanons for if tommy was with a guy? Thank you!!

I think that pretty much all LGBT people in the 1920s would have suffered from internalized homophobia just as a result of the oppressive society they were living in, and I don’t think Tommy would have been any exception from that.

So with that being established, while an integral part of Tommy’s personality is definitely the pride he takes in the life he’s created for himself and his refusal to bow to outside pressure, I do think that the overwhelming homophobia of the 1920s would have meant he struggled with his own homosexuality a lot.

I think that he would for sure have been in denial for a long, long time about his sexuality...I don't see him really coming to terms with it until a few years after the war ended. His flings with Greta and other girls were certainly attempts to force himself into heterosexuality and a hope against hope that the voices in his head might be wrong and he might be happy in a relationship with a woman.

Greta was certainly a lovely girl; she made Tommy laugh, and she was always warm to the touch, so he found legitimate comfort in holding her hand during the winter. In another life, he thinks, they would have made very compatible friends. In this life, though, he had to force himself to smile after kisses, and when he woke up the morning after the first night they had sex, he had to run to the bathroom to rid himself of the bile that had immediately forced itself up into his throat. 

During the war, it was a lot easier to hide; almost every man had a sweetheart back home, and it was almost laughably easy for Tommy to invent one too, to join in the crass conversations about sex and lipstick and the scent of a woman. So far removed from Birmingham, so far removed from any potential of intimate contact with an actual woman, he almost believed his lies.

And if once or twice, in the heat of a moment tinged with exhaustion and fear, he had allowed himself to be shoved up against the side of a deserted barracks and desperately kissed by a corporal from the highlands of Scotland, well, Arthur and John didn’t need to know about it.

After the war, though, comfortably seated on top of a burgeoning family business, an inherent respect from other members of society due to him being a veteran, and a lot more time alone with his thoughts, Tommy allowed himself to consider that he might be gay.

Shamefully, mortified by his own actions, on the nights that the shovels against the wall were loud as fireworks and sleep seemed a distant fantasy, Tommy would wrap his arms around his pillow as if it were another person and bury his head into the chest of his imaginary bedfellow. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost smell the stench of sweat and dirt that always seemed to follow the corporal from Scotland.

While he was in the long, tormented process of admitting his attraction to men to himself, he was nowhere near allowing himself to consider the possibility of a relationship with one. He knew gay men lived near him, had met Ada’s roommate and had to swallow his tongue so he didn’t accidentally spit out an invitation to dinner, but he was so petrified by the backlash from his family that he kept his urges to himself, held his pillow close at night, and swore to himself in quietly terrified moments to never actually act on his homosexuality. 

As militaristic as Tommy usually was in his self-control, it was during a moment of considerable weakness that he broke his promise to himself and unwittingly fell in love with another man. He’d tasked Isaiah with hiring a few more men for grunt work, and had asked him to just pick the most reasonable among his friends and give them decent guns. 

The new men had been sent to Tommy one by one for approval, and when the third one walked into his office for a brief interview, Tommy nearly choked on his tongue. He was tall, muscular to the point of being stocky, and his face was accentuated by a rash of red hair on the top of his head and a dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. 

Tommy, as observant as he was, didn't miss the brief up and down the younger man gave him, and from then on he was hopelessly hooked. He took the young man under his wing through the guise of some messy pretense of training him for a better position, and coped with his attraction by spoiling him with gifts: nicer guns, well tailored designer suits, Cuban cigars.

In the end, Tommy’s hints had become painfully obvious to the younger man, so it was he who bent over Tommy’s desk one dusky January afternoon and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

From that point on, he wasn’t just hooked, he was addicted. There was no point to putting a label on their relationship, no such thing as a “boyfriend” for an adult man in charge of a criminal organization, but Tommy would be damned if he let a hair on his lover’s head come in harm’s way.

He insisted quickly that the younger man move in with him, insisted it was “more convenient that we be close to one another,” but Tommy’s lover saw straight through him, and shot him a loving grin that hit Tommy like a bolt to the heart.

They slept in the same bed.

The first night they spent together, Tommy was the first to get under the covers, and glanced up at his lover with legitimate anxiety, breathing in a sigh of relief borne of decades of internal torment when the younger man simply crawled in next to him and pulled Tommy’s head into his chest.

Tommy burrowed himself into the expensive linen shirt he had bought his lover and slept more soundly than he had in years.

It was Arthur who eventually found out that the relationship between Tommy and his protegee was far more than platonic. He’d barged into Tommy’s office one evening and caught the two of them in a rare moment of recklessness, with their tongues down each other’s throats and intertwined in a close embrace.

Arthur had, in his rash nature, immediately run to tell the rest of the family. Polly and Ada had suspected it for years, but the men of the family were thrown for a loop, once which they quickly recovered from under threat of being shot by Tommy.

Once their relationship was established to the Shelby family, Tommy became slightly less guarded with his displays of affection, softly brushing his hand over his lover’s shoulders in passing or squeezing his thigh under the table at a family meeting. 

Still as violently protective of his secret as he had been since the beginning of his life, Tommy allowed himself to be legitimately happy with his lover, and to feel more at peace with himself than he’d ever been. Maybe he should write to that Scottish corporal, he thought. The man was owed a thank-you.

[everythingieverloved]

The Great Exhibition of 1851 & The Royal Family

The idea for the exhibition had been born the previous year, 1849, when Henry Cold and other dignitaries visited a large exhibition in Paris. They conceived the idea of a huge exhibition in London, the largest the world had ever seen, as demonstration of industrial design and expertise. Britain was supreme in the economies of the Western world. This exhibition - called from the first the “Great” Exhibition - would be the outward and visible sign of everything which had been achieved in the nation since the Industrial Revolution began...

Cole...soon realized that their idea for the Exhibition was too big to be administered by the Society of Arts alone, and needed the backing of a Royal Commission.

As soon as Prince Albert took the chair of this commission, in January 1850, he was taking a bold risk. What Cole and his friends were organizing could turn out to be a financial and propaganda disaster...Albert could surely see, as could the Queen, that the Royal Family were now intimately bound up with the Exhibition in the minds of the public. If this thing failed, it would be a royal failure...

It [The Crystal Palace] was to be 1,848 feet long, 456 feet wide at its broadest point and 108 feet high at the transept. Like many great architectural ideas, it was extremely simple, and rather than necessitating the destruction of trees...it actually incorporated the trees of the park within itself...

The entry in the Queen’s journal, 1 May 1851, is one of the most celebrated: “This day is one of the greatest & most glorious days of our lives, with which, to my pride & joy the name of my dearly beloved Albert is forever associated! “The Green Park & Hyde Park were one mass of densely crowded human beings, in the highest mood & most enthusiastic. I never saw Hyde Park look as it did, being filled with crowds as far as the eye could reach. A little rain fell, just as we started, but before we neared the Crystal Palace, the sun shone & gleamed upon the gigantic edifice, upon which the flags of every nation were flying...The glimpse through the iron gates of the Transept, the waving palms & flowers, the myriads of people filling the galleries & seats around, together with the flourish of trumpets, as we entered the building, gave a sensation I shall never forget, & I left much moved...the beautiful crystal fountain was magic & impressive. The tremendous cheering, the joy expressed in every face, the vastness of the building, with all its decorations & exhibits, the sound of the organ (with 200 instruments & 600 voices, which seemed nothing), & my beloved Husband the creator of this great “Peace Festival,’ inviting the industry & art of all nations of earth, all this, was indeed moving, & a day to live forever... The nave was full of people, which had not been intended & deafening cheers & waving of handkerchiefs, continued the whole time of our long walk from one end of the building, to the other. Every face, was bright & smiling, & many even, had tears in their eyes. Many Frenchmen called out ‘Vive la Reine.’”

It is tantamount to a manifesto... It was a prodigious demonstration of the alliance which now existed between the monarchy, and the future, as represented by glass and iron, by manufacturers, by economic liberalism, by British expansionism. If European counties wished to compete, they could not hope to do so by asserting autocratic structures of the past... The only future was the British future. Victoria and Albert had harnessed the Victorian economic success story to make it a political success story.

Charlotte Bronte...was one of the thousands of visitors to the Crystal Palace. “Its grandeur,” she wrote, “does not consist in one thing, but in the unique assemblage of all things. Whatever human industry has created you find there... It seems as if only magic could have gathered this mass of wealth from all ends of the earth.”

The range of exhibits was as magical as Charlotte Bronte observed. From India there were hundreds of exhibits - silks, cottons, furniture, rubber, foodstuffs, leather goods, ceramics. Other parts of the Empire demonstrated their distinctive wares: snow shoes and sleighs from Canada, as well as mats fashioned from porcupine quills by Native Americans. The architectural styles on display included Augustus Welby Pugin’s medieval court, hard by stands displaying the most up-to-date products of Birmingham: gas fitting, brass bedsteads, buttons, needles, while agricultural machinery signaled a new English countryside... Photography, ironworks, statues and ceramics...steam engines, globe, clocks, all were here in profusion... Here were French silks, German toys (400 moving dolls taking part in a garden fete...)... Gold ore from the Mariposa mine in California; a model of the Niagara Falls...marble statues...The four decorated rooms from Vienna...the Cuban room, heavy with cigar smoke; the Chinese room with silks and bamboo furniture, lacquered furniture, lanterns, fans, paintings on rice paper, samples of tea. The world itself had never seen anything like it, for the world was being shown to itself...

The crowds were prodigious. For the first two days, the price of admission was £1, which kept out all but the two of three thousand wealthy; but admission was lowered to half a crown on Fridays, and five shillings on Saturdays and a chilling for the rest of the week... The multitudes soon came - some 6 million visitors before the Exhibition closed.

When it did so, the newspapers, which had been so skeptical about the Exhibtion before its opening, were almost universal in their praise. The Morning Chronicle saw it as “an important chapter in the history of the human race...” Most of the papers congratulated themselves for bring British, saluting their own sang-froid, chauvinisme, élan and other English virtues. But what happened almost imperceptibly was that all these national characteristics - resourceful, stead in a crisis, financially astute, unflappable and rich - were the ones which the press, and perhaps the public at large, were not prepared to assign in more of less equal proportions to themselves and to the royal pair. The monarchy was now firmly harnessed to the Victorian success story.

“Victoria: A Life,” A. N. Wilson

[mgmcintyre]

Lease Old And Own Lush

Halifax is a city in name only, in a lot of ways. I'm not one of those people that just slags it off for fun, I genuinely like it here, but that's reality. We've only got a couple hundred thousand in the city proper, we lack the amenities that larger cities draw to them by virtue of the population density, and getting a decent band to travel here for a concert costs an arm and a leg and your life savings (trust me, I'm still paying it off). But we're the eastern hub of our country, we're the capital city of the Maritimes, arguably, and that leads us to straddle the definition somewhat. We get some big city things, but we keep some of the small town charm. Less shootings, more stabbings, that kind of thing. And the best part of being a small town that pretends to be a big city is that things stay the same. Not all the things, that would suck, things need to change, evolve, get with the times. But certain things you need to stay the same. To keep them as psychic anchors. To make sure you have one place to run when you just need a minute.

Tom's was that kind of place.

"Tom's Little Havana" isn't what anyone who goes there has called it in a dozen years or so, but that's what it was originally. A cuban themed cigar bar, tucked into a narrow, high ceiling'd slot in an old department of education building on Doyle street. For those of you too young to remember smoking in bars, I will tell you three things: smoking is stupid and will kill you, I haven't smoked in over a year, and if you told me this second I could light a cigarette or cigar at my table at whatever bar I was in I would immediately find one to light. Call it nostalgia I guess, but this is a eulogy for a bar. They had this big humidor and you could nab a cuban and smoke it with your scotch or beer. Sometimes you couldn't smoke cigarettes. Sometimes you could. Depended on who was working.

I don't think I ever went there when all the toilets were working at once. One time I went into the men's room and a guy was standing by the sink with his dick out, peeing into the stall and the toilet about seven feet away. The urinal was covered with a garbage bag. The spare stall was open, adorned with a printer paper sign, originally saying 'Please Hold Down To Flush'. In pen, someone had changed it to 'Lease Old And Own Lush'.

You read about dive bars that people loved, either journalists or literary figures or barflies, and they talk in this reverential tone that I never properly understood. They talked of the dirty floor tiles and the chipped tables and the cracking leather on the stool like it was a holy land they were hoping to visit again some day. I liked going to Toms, sure, but I wasn't about to pray at the alter. But then I realized all these people were writing about bars that didn't exist anymore. No one laments something that's still there.

Tom's shut down the original location because of development, and moved to the space on Birmingham. It was a converted mall front space, which was a little weird for sure, but it was weird as hell to me because part of it occupied the same space as a wine store I spent a year unhappily working in before changing my entire life and going back to school. So it felt like kismet to me. They brought the wall mural and booths and tables to the new space, so if you got enough of a drunk on it was like a weird dream. Like someone was making a film about the old Tom's with a slightly better budget.

They lost a lot of casual customers on that initial move to the new space, but the core regulars were there first day first pour. I bartended for four years, worked in liquor stores for 5 before that, the regulars at Toms are real regulars. Gus' Pub has them too. Charlie's has them. Characters. Back stories. Feuds. Someone chatted up the others ex-wife sixteen years ago and I'll be damned if I share a bar with him, unless he's buying.

The reason they have real regulars is because of their real bartenders. Ian, Angie, Crusher, Mark, a dozen others I can't remember because I always just nodded to them and never needed to order a drink. To work a room like that alone takes a lot of skill. In the industry we referred to Tom's as Bartender Retirement, because no one could possibly work there before running through the gamut of every problem there is and end up a master of juggling tasks and people. I never once gave a bartender a credit card for a tab at Tom's, and my bill was more or less accurate. Well. It was never more than I had. It was frequently less, especially in the old days. With a nod and a wink.

My pals became my friends became my family at Tom's. Tom Collins with Conor, scotch with Tristan, endless pints with Jeremy (IPA) and Kris (Keith's with a side car of lime cordial from a bottle they kept behind the bar for him). I celebrated parts of four birthdays at Tom's. I made the stupidest financial decision of my life at Tom's. I drank off two very bad break-up's at Tom's, one for a night and the other for three months.

A girl I used to know told me about a first date she went on at the old Tom's. They tucked into a quiet table around the back corner. He told her he was kind of broke, but he had brought a bottle of wine in his backpack and if they could just get glasses, he could open it with a pen. I think that's fucking beautiful.

Being nostalgic about the places you used to get drunk and make stupid life choices is incredibly ugly behaviour I'm sure, in anyone but yourself. But you still drift off into those Facebook photos after a few glasses of wine. Thinking about what it was like to be so young, or so thin, or so stressed, or so free. When I think about Tom's I don't think of 'good' memories. I think of memories. It's like a first house. Tom's was the first place I felt at home, that I felt like anyone could be at home. Tom's didn't judge. It's Tuesday at 3pm and you need a beer, haven't seen you in two months but let's talk about that fantasy novel I recommended, how's your dad?

I said I love you to my friends more times at Tom's than I think in any other room in this world. That's just what Tom's was for. It was for backgammon and card games and a coffee with something in it and talking about the play or the novel or the music festival or the movie or the new job or the new love or the new life you were working on. It was about eulogies and congratulations, hope and despair, laughter and tears.

It's a stupid sickness I have, to care so much about brick and mortar and kegs and table cloths. But the quiet comfort of that one solitary booth was everything to me when I needed it. That one stolen glance, that laughter echoing off every wall and reverberating in your chest, that sparkle of energy at 9pm on a Friday night telling you 'yes, this is real, this is good, this is your life, and you belong here'.

[uniliving]

Nightlife in Birmingham- The ‘Workshop of the World’

Apart from being a hub of art, music, history and of course Cadbury, Birmingham also rightfully boasts some of the best student nightlife in the UK. Be it club nights, acoustic sessions or live jazz sessions, there is something for everyone.                        

Check out some of these clubs where you can let loose on a Friday night:

1.The Craven Arms

Blocks down in the Upper Gough Street, is this pub with a striking display of teal blue and bright yellow glazed majolica tiles. There are a multiple handoulls to get a variety of craft beer. They have a nice and intimate vibe and also serve some good cobs, cheese boards and snacks.

2. Post Office Vaults

Nearby to the New Street Station, Post office serves a variety of ales, with 10+ ciders and perries and over 300 bottled beers from around the world. It is the best place if you are a connoisseur of beer. The place does not serve food but you are welcomed to bring your own and plates, cutlery & condiments are provided. Pretty cool, eh?

3. The Barton’s Arms

The Barton’s Arms is one of the finest places to have the best gin. The bar was built on the on the cusp of the Victorian and Edwardian eras in 1901 and has a magnificent stained-glass window that sheds light over a vibrant Birmingham. They also have good food.

4. Old Joint Stock

Tucked in the Victorian Bank building, Old Joint Stock is a premier pub theatre where you are guaranteed first class entertainment. The place hosts various performances throughout the year that includes local comedians and live jazz. They have a good collection of beer and food as well. It is perfect for some date night entertainment.

5. Prince of Wales

The pub has an expansive tented garden heated by a huge log burner called ‘Bruno’ in winters. They usually have a crowded weekend with a live band playing some kickass tunes. There is also a suave collection of fine wines, rum-based cocktails and a range of Cuban cigars.

Being the second most concentrated student city in the UK, Birmingham has all it takes to have a happening Friday night after a long week at college. Turn up to any of these bars and you sure will not regret going! Our promise. It's FRIDAY or in this town FRI..YAY.

University Living provides the best student accommodation to international students that helps them have a great campus as well as social life in the heart of the city.