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murderousginger · 9 days ago

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Oh this is GORGEOUS and filthy and right. I adored this. Your writing is beautiful and the grit and feelings I got from this feel exactly like the show. I could practically hear his voice in my head.

Speak to me, torment me, use me to be your voice

MDNI, pure smut.

I'm watching Taboo again, went to sleep and had a wet dream with James. This inspired the fic.

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You don’t fall asleep so much as you tip into black water.

There is a shore that isn’t a shore—wet shingle and ash, something like the Thames but not, something like the mouth of a beast. It’s quiet the way a blade is quiet, and the air smells of iron filings and tide rot. You stand there barefoot, your breath a small white animal that keeps trying to escape your mouth. There are candles planted in the gravel like teeth, their flames thin and spiteful in the wind. Someone has scratched a circle around you with chalk and stubbornness. You recognise the writing because it’s yours.

You say it before you can talk yourself out of it. “Speak to me.”

The dark answers by drawing closer.

You try again, the sentence that carved itself into your ribs hours ago when the notebook wouldn’t shut up under your hand: “Torment me. Use me to be your voice.”

And like something snared at last, the night pulls—hard—and he steps out of it.

James Keziah Delaney is not a man in this first moment; he’s gravity made visible. The hat is in his hand, brim damp, coat hanging open like a warning. He is broader than your memory of his portraits—broader than the rumours that walked ahead of him—and his eyes are the colour of riverbed silt, reflecting only the fire. The scars across his face have softened into the kind of map you could swear you’ve travelled before.

“Ah,” he says, almost a sigh, as if he has been listening to you for hours already. “So it’s you.”

He looks down at your circle. His mouth tilts. “You drew that wrong.”

“You came,” you say, breathless, as if that were an argument. “It worked.”

“It did not.” He toes the chalk line with his boot, the careless press of a man who fears no hell and doesn’t mind if it begins now. “You called. I answered. There are other ways.”

“I don’t know them,” you admit. Your throat feels tight from the old, unspent fear that someone will laugh when you ask for what you want. “I only know how to ask.”

He considers you the way a sailor considers weather—checking for the premonition of storms. When he steps forward the candles lean toward him, greedy. He does not cross the chalk. Not yet.

“Ask,” he says.

You don’t mean to speak in prayer, but it comes out like that anyway. “Don’t leave.”

He huffs a small, astonished laugh. “We are still negotiating the beginning, and you’re bargaining for the end.”

“Stay,” you say, more stubborn now. “Please.”

“Say my name while you say it.”

“James,” you whisper, and the world rearranges around the sound.

Something in him clicks into place—jaw muscle, gun lock—and he steps cleanly into the circle as if it never meant a thing. The flames narrow to needles. The tide slaps pebbles behind you, greedy, greedy.

“Now,” he says, and his voice is a rasp of rope over a ship’s rail. “I’ll ask. Why me?”

You could say: because the first time I saw you, I understood the shape of a wound I’d been hiding from myself, and it looked like your hand. You could say: because you wear guilt like a crown and I am tired of feeling holy alone. You could tell him the truth: that you want to be wanted by something that bites.

“I don’t know,” you answer, and he approves of the honesty; you can see it in the small release of his shoulders.

“Yes, you do,” he says, but he says it like a mercy. His gloved hand rises, stops a breath from your cheek, the hesitation startling. “I’m not a good man.”

You feel mean enough to smile. “I didn’t call a good man.”

“You called a beast.”

“That, then.”

He strips the glove off. The hand beneath is a story: cuts and old ink, lines deepened by things you refuse to name. He touches your face like he warned you he wouldn’t, thumb skimming the hinge of your jaw, the edge of your lower lip. His breath smells of salt and smoke. Men like him don’t need to ask Are you sure in words; they ask with stillness, with the slackening of grip that lets you walk away if you’re going to.

You don’t walk. “I want everything,” you tell him, jaw aching around the confession. “I want to be ruined and then rebuilt and then ruined again.”

“Greedy girl,” he says, gentle and obscene. “Good. Greed keeps people alive.”

When his mouth finds yours it’s not tender; it’s accurate. He kisses like he knows what you meant and has chosen to give it to you anyway. There’s the scrape of his beard, the breath through his nose, the slow cruel patience of a man who knows exactly how long night can last. You open for him and he takes the opening, tongue heavy, intent. Your hands go to the back of his neck, to the ridge of scar under his hair, to the pulse that hits your fingertips like an oath.

“Look at me,” he orders when you drag back for air, and you do because how could you not. The river and the fire and the chalk all fall away to the black ring of his shrunken pupils. “Say my name again.”

You say it until it’s not a word. He hums—pleased, possessive—and grips your chin between two fingers, angling you how he wants. His other hand explores you with infuriating discipline, cataloguing through cloth: throat, collarbone, the place your heart is trying to break out of its house. When he finally closes his palm over your breast, you make a noise you don’t recognise as yours. He makes a darker one.

“Pretty,” he murmurs, and then filth, lazy and quiet, like a curse he didn’t bother to aim. “Soft little thing. You called for teeth and now you’re shaking.”

“Don’t be gentle,” you say.

“I never am,” he says, and kisses you again like the sea reclaiming what it lent.

He tastes of winter. He tastes of the tongue he uses to wound people and to bless them. His hands are under your clothes without asking how the fabric opens, just parting it like reeds, and when his mouth finds your throat you arch so quickly he laughs against your skin. The sound is perilous. You want to hear it again even if it means being dragged to the bottom.

“Mine,” he says without ceremony, and the word snaps something ceremonial inside you anyway.

“Say it again.”

“Mine.” He bites lightly under your jaw, testing. “Don’t make me prove it yet.”

“You think you can?” Your courage is a candle in the wind but it’s yours. “Prove it, then.”

His eyes go darker at that, as if some boundary inside him has been touched and he liked it. He doesn’t rush. He holds your gaze while he unfastens what needs unfastening, and the slow, rough-charmed efficiency stokes your humiliation into heat. The coat slides from his shoulders and hurts the air when it hits the ground. You flatten your palms to his shirt and then under it, hungry for the solidity, the warm weight of him, the violence he keeps coiled in muscle. He is mapped in scars, each a little confession you’ll ask about later when you’re not drowning.

“Hands here,” he says, capturing your wrists and placing them at the back of your neck. “Keep them until I tell you.”

The command steals some part of your brain and quiets it. You nod. He smiles a little, that jagged flash that says I’d raze heaven if it got in the way.

“Good.” His fingers slide down your body like an intention. He uses both palms, big and dirty and devout, shaping you, pressing you where he wants you to curve. When his hand settles between your legs you jerk as if he’s put you in contact with weather. “Wet for me already,” he says, too satisfied. “You do call like a bell.”

“James—”

“There.” He isn’t kind with the first touch; he’s right. He tests your edges with two fingers through the thin stuff left, teasing until your knees go insolent. The slick sound of him dragging over you makes your face burn. He seems to want that—embarrassment, complicity, the bloom of shame that sweetens everything. “Open.”

You do. The circle doesn’t feel like a circle anymore—it feels like a boundary you will drag him over with your teeth. He slides fabric aside, closes his mouth around your nipple through his knuckles as he slips two fingers inside you, a slow, violent welcome. Your gasp breaks. He hums. When his thumb presses up in that high cruel place he watches you break again on purpose.

“Say if it’s too much.”

“It’s not enough,” you throw back, and his eyes spark like struck flint.

“Greedy.” He rewards you by grinding his palm down and curling his fingers just so. Your body answers with treachery. He studies your face like it contains star charts. “You take me well. You’ll take all of me.” A pause like a knife laid down next to your throat instead of on it. “If you want.”

“Yes.” The yes is ripped out of you, messy with need and certainty both. “I want.”

“Look at me when you say it.”

“Yes, James.”

He presses a soft kiss to your mouth that feels like punctuation and lifts his head again. “Good girl.”

You didn’t know praise could make you feel like that—clean and filthy at once, as if you have climbed onto his palm and said do what you like with me. He works you through it, patient now, letting you shiver apart while he murmurs ugly little endearments in that low Docklands voice: “There you go. That’s it. Let me see you. Pretty thing, look at you,” and it’s like being worshipped by a ruin.

When it ebbs he doesn’t step back. He withdraws his fingers with obscene gentleness, brings them up to your mouth, and pauses. “Open.”

You do. Taste yourself from him, eyes open, and his gaze goes nearly black. He breathes like a man who has just heard a prophecy he likes. “You’ll do as I ask,” he says, not a question.

“Ask better.”

“On your knees, then.”

The gravel bites your skin. You welcome it like penance. He puts a hand in your hair and it isn’t tender; it’s reverent. When you open his trousers he says your name like a warning for both of you, and when you take him into your mouth, his hand tightens just shy of hurt, the sound he makes raw enough that you feel superior to God for a second.

“Fuck,” he says, a prayer this time. “Yes. That’s it.” He doesn’t shove; he guides. He lets you set the depth and the pace until you choose cruelty, until tears smart the corners of your eyes and he strokes your throat with his thumb to feel the drag of himself. “Look at me,” he orders again, and you try, you try, and he rewards you with praise so rough it scalds. “Beautiful. My clever thing. You’ll ruin me.”

You want to. You want to put bite marks on the ghost of him. You cup him with spit-slick hands and take him as deep as you can stand, swallowing, and he swears—old sailor curses, soft Hebrew you don’t understand—until he pulls you off with a jerk and a shaking breath.

“Enough,” he says, voice sandpapered. “Get up.”

You wobble. He steadies you by your throat, thumb gentle over the pulse, fingertips firm against the tendon where your hunger holds. He kisses you like he’s taking back everything you stole and then turns you by the hips, bodies aligning in a way that feels prophetic. He bends you without force, without doubt, one hand flattening the small of your back until your spine obeys, the other finding your mouth again, pushing two fingers between your lips this time as if he’s training you for something.

“Bite if you need,” he tells you, and you know he means the leather at his wrist, the night, the edge of your own control.

When he pushes into you you make a sound he must’ve been hoping for because he swears and stills, the control you admired shivering at its edges. He is big the way weather is big. He fills you until you don’t know where the chalk circle ends and you begin.

“All right?” he asks, and there is something like fear in it that makes you fierce.

“Yes,” you say, but the word is inadequate, so you push back against him until he groans. “Move.”

He does. The rhythm is not civilised; it’s maritime. He takes you like a man riding out a storm he paid for, hips heavy, deliberate, with a rough little twist at the end of each thrust that makes you see stars. The hand at your neck slides to your mouth again—two fingers, then three—gagging you just enough that the noises you make are his. He murmurs filth into the hinge of your jaw each time he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear. “Take it,” he says. “You can, you can, look at you bloody—good—girl,” and you are, you are, you are.

The candles stutter in the wind his body makes. The river slaps pebbles like applause. Somewhere a bell rings that wasn’t there a second ago. You hold his wrist with both hands and he laughs, broken, and then slows until he’s almost not moving at all.

“Beg,” he says, conversational, as if asking the time.

You thought you’d be proud. Instead you’re ruined enough to mean it. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please—James, please don’t stop. Please—” The rest dissolves. You find it again like a coin in mud. “Please make me yours.”

He makes a sound that is one third amusement and two thirds capitulation. “Mine,” he says again, and this time it’s a verdict. He fucks you like the word requires it, faster now, meaner, one hand wedged between you to rub tight circles until your knees fail their purpose and the world whites out. He doesn’t let up. He talks you through it—there, that’s it, let me feel it—and you do, spilling around him, clenching, making a mess on your own thighs and his, and he swears like he’s losing a fight he wanted to lose.

“Look at me,” he demands at the very edge of himself, and when you obey—twist to catch his mouth, your tear-wet cheek against his—you feel him go, rough and gorgeous, hissing your name like a curse he’s going to keep.

For a while there is only breath. His weight over you like shelter, not prison. He doesn’t collapse; he lowers. He presses his face into your neck and you feel the shape of the smile he gives the dark when he’s won something. His hands are gentle now, stroking you as if to smooth the violence back into place. After, he eases out of you slowly, smoothing your skirt like he’s tucking away evidence at a crime scene he committed on purpose.

You expect him to step back, to lift the mask and become idea again.

He doesn’t.

He turns you to face him, palms your cheeks, studies you like he’s deciding what to steal first. “Say it,” he tells you softly. “The thing that brought me.”

You swallow. Your throat feels raw from his fingers and your words and the salt air. “Speak to me,” you whisper. “Torment me. Use me to be your voice.”

He kisses the corner of your mouth as if sealing a letter. “Good.”

The circle has been scuffed to hell by your knees. The candles spit their last. Night hangs close enough to lick. You think it’s done, that this is the part where the dream remembers itself and starts to fade at the edges, taking him with it like the sea takes the names of drowned men.

“Do you want my truth?” he asks, terribly polite.

You nod because you don’t know how not to.

“I don’t haunt like other men,” he says. “I’m not a corridor they lurk in or a silhouette outside a window. When I haunt, it’s a tide. It takes your footing. It moves your small bones. It puts salt on the tongue of your prayers. It makes you dream of drowning and then it makes drowning the only thing that ever felt like air.” He tilts his head, considering you. “And you asked me to.”

“I did,” you say, steady.

He watches your mouth like he’s reading a blessing off it. “You’ll keep asking.”

“I will.”

His thumb strokes once along your lower lip. “I’ll keep answering.”

A gull laughs somewhere you can’t see. The chalk on your skin itches like a lover’s note. He slides his hands into your hair and pulls, just enough to make your eyes water, and you’re so gone for him that you thank him for the sting under your breath. He hears. Of course he hears.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.

“That I like it when you hurt me,” you say, and then, braver: “Because you hold.”

He blinks, slow. It feels like showing him a soft throat. He doesn’t bite it. “Aye,” he says. “I hold.”

“And I’m thinking,” you add, words tumbling over each other now, “that I don’t know if you’re inside my dream or if I’ve walked into yours.”

He smiles like a man who has hidden a coin behind your ear. “Yes.”

“Is that an answer?”

“It is both of them.”

You huff a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob. He crowds you a little, pleased. When you tip your head back he kisses your eyelids with the impossible care of a man who knows exactly how much damage he can do and chooses—for this breath, for this second—not to. The tenderness is worse than the roughness. It makes you want to weep and scratch him to pieces so you can count what falls away.

“Shall I torment you, then?” he asks, courtly, wicked.

“Please.”

He torments you by not moving. He torments you by brushing your hair from your face and letting the back of his knuckles whisper along your throat. He torments you by whispering three words that come like a promise you won’t survive whole: “I’ll come back.”

“When?”

“Whenever you say my name like a sin you intend to keep.”

You could keep him here with your body. You could pull him down again, demand your due in the currency he spends best. You could ask him to say pretty things, or ugly ones, while he fucks you open on his hand and then his cock until the sky breaks for dawn. You could. He would let you. But you recognise the cost. The safest way to keep a tide is to let it go when it goes, trusting it to return greedy as ever.

“Go, then,” you say, and your voice is steady because you’ve decided it will be.

He studies you as if weighing the truth for impurities. Finds none. Nods. “You’ll wake with the taste of salt,” he warns, faintly amused. “You’ll blame yourself.”

“I will,” you agree. “And I’ll call you again.”

He steps backward and the dark catches him like a coat. The candles bow their heads. As he fades you hear him one last time, intimate as breath in your ear: “Keep the circle open.”

“I drew it wrong,” you remind him.

“Aye,” he says, nothing left of him now but voice. “But you drew it around me.”

The wind goes out. The river recedes from the shingle as if forgiven. You are alone in the chalk until you are not; you are in your bed, sweat-slick, thighs sticky, your mouth sore in exactly the way his fingers promised. Your room smells faintly of smoke that shouldn’t be there and your tongue is salted like you’ve bitten the sea. You press your fingers to your throat where his thumb rested and feel your pulse behave like it belongs to someone else now.

“James,” you say, and the word is a dare and a doorway both.

Far away—or not far at all—something answers. Not a knock. Not a footfall. Just that sense of gravity shifting, of the tide turning cold and sure, of the night deciding to be long. Your body thrums to it like a bell.

You close your eyes and the shore returns behind them: candles, chalk, the black water asking if you want to try again. The yes is already forming in your mouth, hot and certain.

You will not sleep again so much as drown with intention. You will not wake so much as rise.

You will keep the circle open. You will go on drawing it wrong until it is right because it has his shape in it now, and that is what you chose.

And somewhere in the darkness that wants you back, James Keziah Delaney smiles like a man who has been summoned and is proud of the one who summoned him. He buttons his coat, tugs the brim of his hat down to shadow the gleam in his eyes, and murmurs, to himself or to you or to the river—who can say?

“Speak to me.”

The night leans in, greedy.

You do.

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Tried my best to use more comparison, and do better writing... I think.

#Ginger w(rec)ks #taboo

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murderousginger · 9 days ago

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😍 thank you.

I always wanted more of their dynamic and how it worked after he married Esme and Tommy openly took Lizzie as a lover. I think it was glossed over in the series when it really could have been fleshed out, especially since John's reaction to her dating Angel was what started the war.

I'm so glad you enjoyed!

Dancing After Death

Lizzie Shelby x John Shelby x Esme Shelby

Word count: 2,884

Warnings: Hurt, angst, comfort. Lots of feelings.

Lizzie paced the nursery in her silk nightie trying to settle Ruby back to sleep, but the baby wasn't having any part of it. Her wails echoed the wing and frazzled Lizzie's brain as she hushed and bounced the unhappy baby. Thomas was away again, and she hoped Charlie hadn't woken from the screams.

“Ma'am–” Mary said, slipping through the door.

“I told you, I can handle it,” Lizzie said impatiently as she continued to pace and bounce. “Thank you.”

“It's not that, ma'am,” Mary said, wringing her hands. “There's a man at the door. John Shelby. He's refusing to leave.”

“John?” Lizzie asked, bouncing the baby as she walked to the door. “Tommy's not here.”

“We told him, ma'am,” Mary said, following behind her. “He won't leave. It's mighty improper at this hour.”

Lizzie carried the wailing child through the house to the front to see John running around the fountain, two staff chasing him as he cursed and wobbled. John's car headlights illuminated the entire scene, door open as if he bailed out of it still running.

“Fucking off me, cunts!” John slurred, turning around to deck one of the men. The other grabbed his arm and yanked him to the ground, a string of curses following.

“Enough!” Lizzie yelled over the baby cries, the men all freezing in place.

“See?” John said, looking up at one of the men. “Fucking knew she was here.”

“It's alright, go back in the house and to bed.” Lizzie said, bouncing the yelling baby.

“But ma'am, Mr. Shelby isn't home,” Mary said, touching Lizzie's shoulder. “It's not proper to accept a man-”

“What will Mr. Shelby think if we refuse his brother while he's gone?” Lizzie said coldly. “Check on Charlie, then go to bed, Mary. Goodnight.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Mary said through thin lips.

John scrambled to his feet as the men left to go back inside. He snatched his cap off of his head, looking to her feet as he swayed in place.

“Liz, I-”

John's head snapped up as he realized Ruby hadn't calmed yet. He looked at Lizzie, holding onto a screeching Ruby, her hair disheveled and her eyes sunken into caverns. Her pale skin was sallow and dull as she gave him an impatient stare.

John stood tall, immediately sobered as he threw his hat to the ground and took steady steps to Lizzie, arms outstretched.

“Give ‘er here,” he said in a similar tone that she had heard Tommy speak to horses.

Lizzie handed Ruby to John without thought, and John immediately went to rocking and hushing the baby, walking in circles around the fountain, illuminated by headlights.

Ruby's voice slowly quieted and calmed, until John was cooing a sleeping baby. Lizzie wrapped her arms around her chest as a breeze reminded her that she was only in a silk shift dress for bed. John came back, stopping in front of Lizzie as he continued to rock Ruby.

“She's beautiful, Liz,” he said with a smile. “Pol was right, she'll be in pictures for sure.”

Lizzie watched, rubbing her arms as she shifted between feet and tears welled in her eyes.

“John, how did you-”

John's smile dropped as he shifted Ruby to touch Lizzie's arm.

“Oy, no, it's okay,” John hushed. “It's not you. It's not your fault. Babies feed off their mum, yeah? You're still healing and have all these new feelings, and she's feeding off of them. You both are feeding off each other and egging each other on. Sometimes an outside force can give you both a breath to help. That's all it is, Liz. Just a breath.”

“Why are you here, John?” Lizzie sniffled, rubbing her arms. “Thomas isn't home.”

John sighed, his eyes welling with tears as he cursed and looked down at Ruby.

“I really fucked it, Liz,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You're a girl. You can help. Help me make it right, Liz.”

John sniffed, pulling all his emotions back inside, tucked away in a little box, neat and tidy. Lizzie watched him closely as he pulled the mask back on, and she hated how much it reminded her of her husband.

“Let's get Ruby back to bed, yeah?” John said, sniffling again. “Then we can have a chat.”

Lizzie led John to the nursery, watching from the doorway as he placed her in her crib with such gentleness. He looked down on Ruby with such softness, Lizzie could feel her chest tighten as emotion bubbled within her. She silently wiped a tear before John turned back to her and she led him to the den.

John passed her and knelt to the fireplace to stoke the embers and throw another log on the fire, giving them a bit of light and warmth. Lizzie poured two glasses of whiskey before she sat on the edge of the sofa, holding John's glass out for him.

When the fire was to his liking, he turned to Lizzie and took his glass, downing it in one go.

“You can get another yourself if you're going to go through them like that,” Lizzie said with a smirk into her own glass.

“Yes ma'am,” John nodded, moving toward the whiskey.

John's swagger never left, but it was so easy for him to switch between cocky and polite. Unlike Tommy, his face flitted between every little emotion. After living with Tommy for so long, it felt almost offensive to be able to read every emotion, as if he was speaking every thought rather than leaving them in his head. Every nervous twitch, every hazy, lustful thought that crept through, only to be shaken away and guilt or hope replacing it. It was overwhelming, as if he was shouting at her.

“Talk, John,” Lizzie said. “Why are you here?”

John sighed.

“She left,” John said, voice breaking. “Took the kids, like she always threatened.”

John ran his hand over his mouth as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he looked into the fire.

“I don't even know how many days ahead of me she's got,” he said incredulously. “Been out of town. Didn't even fucking go home immediately. Went to the bar before. Came home to a shred of paper. ‘You chose.’ Two words, and they hurt like hell, Liz.”

Lizzie exhaled, shifting in her seat immediately wishing she had a cigarette.

“Fuck,” was all she said.

John gave a half hearted chuckle.

“Why aren't you chasing her?” Lizzie asked, twirling the amber liquid in her cup. “Why didn't you immediately run to the country side and drag her back?”

John broke his gaze of the fire to look at Lizzie.

Time is a funny thing when you have known someone for a long time. You see who they are, who they've been, and the in-between moments. Your mind fills in the spaces, the pauses, and pieces everything together.

Lizzie sat, straight back and proper in her silk nightgown, swirling her drink, white knuckles grasping her elbow, and a passive look on her face. The shadows under her eyes created black holes for John to look into. She was tired. Physically, but especially spiritually. Being so close to the damned will do that to you.

Shimmers of Lizzie flitted in the spaces between. Young. Still confident, but reckless about it. A slip of a girl that seemed earnest in her relationships with the men that were drawn to her. Broken, every last one, until they broke her, too.

John's gaze broke.

“I don't want to drag her, like Linda,” John said, brows bunched together. “Esme's right for leaving. But I want her back. You're here. With Tommy. You know this family better than anyone. Why haven't you ran?”

Lizzie scoffed.

“Shelbys don't believe in divorce,” she said bitterly.

“You had plenty of time to run, Liz,” John said. “Should have run when I proposed.”

“I never regretted telling you yes,” Lizzie hummed. “Plenty of regret on choices after.”

“You knew who we were, but you stayed around,” John pushed. “Hell, you kept Tommy's secrets for years before he had any right to ask you to.”

“And you kept following Tommy's orders long after you realized they were self-serving,” Lizzie bit back.

“That's why I need her, Liz,” John said, biting his lip as he looked away. “Esme, she's wild. She follows nothing but her heart and the wind. She reminds me to be more man than soldier. I need that.”

Lizzie sighed, tapping a finger on her glass as she stared at John. His eyes were earnest and clear, despite the alcohol.

The Shelbys might be brothers, but their blue eyes shone so differently. Tommy was cold. Calculating. Metal. You could see the cogs moving as he planned his every move. Arthur had the saddest eyes she had ever known. A sheet of ice that trapped the man within from getting to the surface for air. No wonder he calmed himself with drugs to ease the fight within. John, though, had no ice in his eyes. He felt full of life, like a refreshing bubbling spring on a hot day. All shimmer and refreshing.

“I once told your brother that you were twice the man he was,” Lizzie said, a slight warble in her voice. “Honestly, that was probably nicer to him than it should have been.”

John chuckled, looking back to Lizzie.

“Esme ran because you put Tommy first,” Lizzie said before taking another sip of her drink. “So put her first. She won't take anything less, John. She's stronger than most of us in that way.”

“But–”

“There's no but, John,” Lizzie said. “Tommy's put the illegal work behind him in most respects now that he's in parliament. Arthur can handle it. Take Esme and the kids and run. Tommy's already cut you out of most of it. You've felt his cold shoulder as much as I have over Grace.”

John gulped.

“He's no right to-”

“To take it out on the woman who's the reason he lost his wife?” Lizzie said bitterly. “We both know part of the reason he married me was to rub it in the Changretta family's face. You may have started the war by hurting Angel, but I'm the reason for the war in the first place.”

“I-”

“I have no interest in why, John,” Lizzie said, a tear in her eye. “The past is past, and we're where we are because of it, hmm? For a short while, I foolishly thought I could change him. But a Shelby doesn't change, do they? They only become more of themselves as they meet more and more death.”

Lizzie stood and cut the distance between them within a breath, placing a finger under his chin to lift his eyes to hers.

“You were always the best of them, John,” she whispered. “Follow her, and stay gone. Another brush with death and you might not return.”

“In the Bleak Midwinter,” John whispered solemnly.

“Let John Shelby die here, and you follow Esme,” Lizzie whispered as she let his chin go and sat beside him. “Be a father. Be a husband. Let the soldier die.”

“The world isn't what it once was,” Lizzie continued, leaning shoulder to shoulder. “And I don't see it getting better. The people Tommy are dealing with in parliament… it would be better to get away before it gets worse.”

“I'm not one to leave, Liz,” John rasped, laying his head on her shoulder. “This feels like deserting my family. Deserting you and Ruby.”

“You're choosing the family you created, John,” Lizzie said as she patted his knee. “If you want to see your children and Esme again, it's what has to be done.”

A wail echoed from down the hall.

“Ruby's hungry again,” Lizzie sighed as they reluctantly parted. “I'll need to feed her.”

“Let me get her,” John said as he stood up and held his hand out to help Lizzie stand. “To say goodbye.”

Lizzie smiled and gave a short nod as John turned to go to the nursery. She watched from the nursery doorway as John went in and picked up the fussy baby from the crib. He rocked and shushed her as she calmed for him.

Lizzie's smile grew brittle as she thought of the future that would never be. Ruby having John's blue eyes instead of Tommy's. The peace of sleeping next to a man that thought of her as a person, a woman, and not a chess piece. The moments that could have felt real rather than performative. They all flowed through her brain like sand through a sieve.

John gave her a sad smile as he handed Ruby to her and kissed her forehead.

“She's beautiful,” he said quietly. “Like her mother.”

Lizzie smiled, tears forming in her eyes. “Goodbye, John.”

---

Lizzie was on edge as she waited for Tommy to return from business. The day he came back, she jumped as he slammed the door open to the children's play room.

“John was here?” Tommy demanded as he stopped in front of Lizzie and the children.

All giggles and smiles left as he loomed above them. Lizzie braced herself as she looked up to her husband. Charlie shrunk into her side.

“He was,” she said evenly. “Came looking for you one night, drunk off his mind. Made quite a scene with our staff. I brought him inside to gather himself. Mary insisted it was improper, but I reminded her how much you value family.”

Tommy's jaw ticked as he chewed through what she said. Lizzie held onto her children, no one daring to move under his gaze. Charlie was practically in her lap and she held Ruby snugly in the crook of her arm. Finally, Tommy spoke.

“And what did he say?”

“Not much,” Lizzie shrugged. “He paced the den, drank a few whiskeys, and left before dawn. Why?”

“Mary said he wanted you,” Tommy glared. “What would my missing brother want from my wife?”

Lizzie glared back.

“Maybe you should ask Mary,” Lizzie clipped. “I told you what I know.”

Tommy held her gaze for a moment before he stormed away to his study. Lizzie squeezed Charlie's shoulder as a faint smile curved her lips.

“Show me again, Charlie?” She hummed, looking at the stack of blocks.

---

The sun peeked over the horizon as he raced his horse through the pasture. If he was fast enough, he could reach them before they began moving again. He heard a rooster make the first morning call and he dug his heels into the horse, urging it on. He had tossed his cap miles ago and the hair on the top of his head began to move in the wind that raced through the sides of his buzzed hair.

He yipped as he pushed his horse on, feeling the sweat beading along its back.

Soon John was on the doorstep of the wagon with a fist full of wildflowers, opening the door with too much force. Esme jumped from the bed with a knife, her hair flying in every direction, the children surrounding her like a pile of pups.

“What in the –”

“I brought you flowers,” he sing-songed as he shut the door lighter than he had opened it. “Thought I would help make breakfast before we get back on the road.”

The children echoed a mix of surprised and excited shouts as they realized their father was in front of them. Esme stood, knife pointing to John.

“John Shelby, if you think you're taking these children back to the city –”

“Goodness no,” John cut her off as she walked up to him to stand chest to chest, glaring into his eyes with the knife still in hand.

Esme faltered, searching his face as confusion led her steadfast demeanor to begin to shake. John slowly took the knife from her hand, replacing it with the wildflowers. He tossed the knife to the ground.

“I'm not sure where we're going, but we're not going back,” John said, smiling.

He cupped Esme's face, placing a soft kiss on her forehead before touching his forehead to hers.

“This family is no longer Shelby,” he said, watching her closely. “Whether we're Lee or anything else, we're not Shelbys any more. I chose, Esme. You were right about that. I chose.”

The kids gathered around them, perplexed but a growing excitement buzzing through them.

Esme's breath shuddered as she fought tears in her eyes. She sharply inhaled and then exhaled, breath shaking.

“Right,” she squeaked before regaining her normal voice. “Children, go find some dandelions and mushrooms to add to the eggs. We'll eat quickly before going back to the trails. Move along, now.”

Katie looked between them before smiling knowingly and ushering the children out. John smiled down at his wife.

“I missed you, love,” he murmured, taking her chin in his hand to lead her to his kiss. “I never want to miss you again.”

“What will we call you if you're not a Shelby?” Esme asked, wrapping her arms around John's neck. John's hands found her sides as he began to sway to music no one else could hear.

“Call me whatever you like, love,” he chuckled. “Care to dance with a dead man?”

Esme laughed, kissing her husband as they continued to sway.

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murderousginger · 9 days ago

Text

I can already tell this is going to be a tantalizing slow burn. The dichotomy of Tommy wanting to protect and ruin her is palpable and I can't wait for more!

The Perfect Girl (Part 3)

dark!Tommy x female reader

Part 2

Summary: Hopes of a fairy tale life at Arrow House dashed, you push all thoughts of Tommy Shelby from your mind. However, he can't forget you as easily.

A/N: This is a queued post and I will respond to all comments when I return from my holiday.

Divider credit: @olenvasynyt

"You made a fine mess of that, my boy," Polly chided as she accepted her coat from the maid. Shaking her head disdainfully, she tugged on her leather gloves with a force meant to ring his ungrateful neck. "Why do you insist on misery?" she huffed, the harsh rebuke carried away by the howling winds.

Tommy stood with his back to her, oblivious to his surroundings as he focused on your retreat. Watching your graceful gait as you ran from him, he couldn't help but notice how your dress clung to your body like crumpled tissue, the white fabric rapidly turning sheer.

This vulnerability stirred a protectiveness in him he'd rarely known, concerned that the next gust might scatter you about like the fluffy blooms of a dandelion. It was then he decided he must find you, if only to keep your innocence safe.

As Polly crossed in front of Tommy, she quickly realized he hadn't heard a word, the intensity of his gaze telling her the afternoon might not have been a waste after all. She'd seen the same fascinated stare when Grace arrived, the tell tale sign of a budding obsession. She'd done everything in her power to discourage his feelings back then, but had no such plans to interfere this time.

Secretly thrilling at the notion of him fixating over a woman of her choosing, she swept past him without further discussion. A deep smirk of satisfaction crossed her lips as she dashed to her waiting car, pleased with her day's work.

------------

Tommy made his way to Charlie's yard the next day with a spring in his step. As he passed the stall where his dark stallion, Dangerous was kept, he settled on a white Arabian instead. "Yes, I think you'll do," he hummed to the gentle mare.

He took his time brushing her before saddling up for his ride and as he did so he allowed his mind to wander, thinking only of you. His thoughts were soon interrupted by Curly who called out, "Where ya headed, Tom?"

"I'm going to see about a piece of property, Curly!" Tommy shouted in reply.

"Good luck to ya!" Curly replied with a wide grin, unaware of the real intention.

Tommy was determined on claiming you this day, appealing to your background by presenting himself within the confines of his. Perhaps if you could see him for the poor stable boy he'd started as, you could find it in your heart to forgive the crass businessman who'd appeared at luncheon.

-----------

As Tommy approached the village near Arrow House, he slowed the mare to a trot, eyes scanning the distance for any sign of you. To his great surprise he was rewarded moments later, finding you toiling in a nearby field.

The rain had subsided, but the mud left behind was causing you considerable effort. He watched as you wiped your brow with your apron, a small streak of brown earth coating your cheek. You wore your hair down on this day, the sweat soaked tendrils clinging to the back of your neck as you continued the back breaking labor required on a farm.

As he watched from afar, Tommy found he liked you better this way, a dirty coin to be polished and placed securely in his pocket. He could take you away from all of this and badly wanted to try so he approached slowly.

At first, you didn't realize he was tying his horse to your family's fence. But when he cleared his throat to be recognized, you instantly turned, cheeks burning with acknowledgement. "Mr. Shelby," you exclaimed, dropping the basket at your side.

"I'm sorry to bother," he quickly replied, ducking the fence to help you. Gathering the vegetables you'd dropped at your feet, he worked until the last of them was sitting snuggly in your basket once more.

Your eyes met as his hand passed the rough, wicker handle back to you, an expectant glance cast in both directions. "Thank you," you eventually replied as you remembered your manners.

Smoothing your apron, you asked, "Why are you here, Mr. Shelby?"

"Please, call me Tommy," he urged, quickly adding, "I hoped you would go for a ride with me."

"I...I should finish my chores," you demurred with downcast eyes.

However, Tommy wasn't in the habit of taking no for an answer and he didn't relent until he had you astride his horse, tugging your hips closer against his.

It was then that you asked of his plans. After all, wasn't he the one who had sent you running into the path of storm clouds days ago? You had to wonder what you were doing here now, lacing your fingers against his trim waist. Perhaps it was the simple attire he'd chosen or the mode of transportation, but you suddenly felt at ease in his presence.

Tommy relished the way you sat back in the saddle, pressing into his back with total coorperation. In that moment it was clear to him that you wanted this just as much as he did and he devoted all his energy to the pursuit of you.

Slowing his horse from a cantor to a trot, he pointed out the grove of apple trees lining his estate. "Shall we stop for a picnic?" he offered.

You dipped your chin demurely in response, hoping he hadn't heard the rumble in your belly. Apples were a favorite of yours, even if you didn't have much chance to sample the varieties so close to home.

As his horse carried you beneath the weighted limbs of the fruit trees, you stretched a hand out tentatively toward the enticing fruit, wanting nothing more than a single apple to satisfy your craving.

Tommy had seemingly read your mind, grasping not one, but two delicious apples from a nearby tree and trotting on into the clearing where he might share them with you.

As he helped you from his regal looking horse, you were mesmerized by the bright blue of his eyes. And soon you found yourself sitting opposite him in the shade of the small grove, munching happily on the perfect specimen he'd chosen for you.

"I want to apologize for the other day," he began in earnest, making your head snap to attention. "I'm sure you were expecting a perfect gentleman and there I stood in his place," he apologized with knit brow. "The man you see before you today is far more representative of my nature."

With the juicy nectar dribbling down your chin, you could only bob your head in agreement. Having witnessed his down to earth attitude first hand, how could you not? His roots ran far deeper than you'd imagined and you silently chastised yourself for rushing to judgement about him.

"Am I forgiven?" he asked, piercing sapphire eyes penetrating your soul.

Wiping the sticky remnants from your face, you nodded vigorously in agreement.

"Is that a yes?" Tommy asked, eyeing you carefully. "Will you agree to see me again?"

"Yes!" you replied emphatically, tossing the core to the side as you embraced him.

Tommy's heart thrilled, savoring the closeness of you if only for the briefest of moments.

"I'll come back for you," he promised as he returned you to the edge of the village and you had to admit that you were as eager as ever to find your happy ending with a man like him.

----------------

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#Ginger w(rec)ks #Peaky Blinders fanfiction #Tommy Shelby

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murderousginger · 9 days ago

Text

Oh I loved this slight menacing undertone. You've nailed Polly and the scheming perfectly. I'm excited to see what's next!

The Perfect Girl (Part 2)

dark!Tommy x female reader

Part 1

Summary: Polly convinces Tommy to see his new home for the first time and takes the opportunity to introduce him to you one stormy afternoon.

A/N: A huge ty to @littlepeakydevil for helping me navigate this chapter!

"What, might I ask, is so unacceptable about Arrow House?" Polly demanded with a sharp insistence Tommy knew better than to ignore.

He turned in his plush leather seat, leaning forward to deposit the ash from his cigarette with great care. As he did so, he exhaled a thick smoke screen between them. But Polly saw it for what it was, a childish attempt to hide, prolonged by his feigned ignorance.

"Where?" he asked with raised brow.

"Exactly!" Polly shouted, pounding the desk with her palm. "You haven't even been there!"

Tommy rolled his eyes in exasperation as he huffed, "Fucking ridiculous!"

"Your behavior? Yes, it is!," Polly declared, crossing her arms over her chest. "You're a respected businessman now and soon you'll be standing for Parliament. You need something more than a tiny bedsit to be taken seriously. What if you should need to entertain or..."

Tommy pinched the bridge of his nose as his eyes closed to her shrill voice, then raised a hand to stop her rant. "That's why I bought the Midland," he reminded her.

"Tommy, you have to start thinking more strategically about your future," Polly warned, taking a seat across from him to hold his gaze. "You need a proper home," she stressed.

"I suppose you'd choose a wife to go with it," he scoffed.

It was Polly's turn to look away, not wanting Tommy to see through the elaborate scheme to bring him the perfect girl... tomorrow no less. "You're a grown man capable of making your own decisions," she placated him, knowing how important it was to stroke his ego. If he thought he'd chosen you for himself he might be more willing to accept the match.

"Come with me tomorrow for a tour. You can meet the staff and eat lunch prepared by your new chef," she enticed him, realizing moments later how little that probably meant to her nephew. She quickly added, "there are beautiful stables with enough room to house as many race horses as you wish to buy." Much to her delight, Tommy perked up at the last bit, a sudden spark igniting his interest.

"I could drop in at lunchtime tomorrow," he remarked, making Polly smirk with deep satisfaction.

------------------------

Standing before the small oval mirror in your bedroom, you pressed onto your tip toes as you struggled to see as much of yourself as possible. You frowned when you realized your best dress didn't seem smart enough for such an important moment. As you tugged at the waist of the plain ivory frock, your older sister walked past with an amused giggle. "Off to meet Prince Charming?" she taunted with more than a hint of malice.

Inwardly chiding yourself for having confided in her during your initial excitement, you merely nodded.

"Well, good luck wearing that potato sack!" she snorted, attempting to hid her own jealousy. You could wear anything and look beautiful, but she wasn't about to bolster your ego with that information.

"It's my best," you exclaimed, defending your choice.

Your sister nodded sympathetically before delivering one last crushing blow, "Then I hope he likes peasant girls!"

Prince Charming fell in love with Cinderella, didn't he?, you thought, resorting to the consolation of your treasured fairy tales. As though on cue the clock downstairs chimed twelve. You raced from the house without any thought to the storm clouds drawing near, intent on locking eyes with your mysterious prince.

----------------

Polly retrieved a third cigarette from her bag, fumbling with her lighter impatiently as she watched the rain fall in torrents outside. She paced the empty drawing room, wondering if you'd show in this weather. It had been her decision not to send a car for you, unwilling to draw attention to today's affair. However, now she was feeling rather foolish for all the subterfuge. She mumbled incoherently about her bad fortune until the butler appeared to announce the arrival of a Bentley in the drive.

Of all days for him to be so punctual, Polly thought. "Bloody hell!" she hissed, crushing the butt of her cigarette into the crystal ashtray until it began to wobble precariously on the edge of the table.

Making her way to the front door, her heels clicked against the cherry hardwood in time with her heart beat and she inhaled deeply to regain control of herself. Clasping her hands at her waist, she anxiously waited beyond the threshold to save her expensive Parisian shoes from the damp, a forced smile painted on her face.

"Something wrong?" Tommy asked as he shook the water from his coat and hat before the butler appeared to take them from his hands.

"No," Polly lied as she leaned in to kiss his cheek, the unfamiliar show of affection halting Tommy long enough for her hazel eyes to dart past his shoulder. Squinting through the haze of the rain and fog, she searched for you, relinquishing her hold on her nephew only when she was certain the drive was empty.

"Let's get on with the tour, ey?" Tommy muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets as he began to wander down the corridor. He used two fingers to push a door ajar, surveying the space designated as an office. Missing the careful touches of equestrian decor and serene pastoral landscapes, he sighed, "Is there whisky?"

"You have nothing but the finest whisky, rum and brandy stocked in the cellar," Polly offered sweetly.

"Just the whisky for now," Tommy muttered, glancing at a nearby maid with a small nod. This wasn't a world he'd inhabited previously and yet, he was learning rather quickly.

As he crossed the hall to explore the sitting room, Polly remained rooted to the spot, eyes fixed upon the front door. Much to her relief, she was rewarded with the outline of your form just beyond the frosted glass and she nodded vigorously for the butler to open the door.

Though soaked to the skin, your youthful charm was apparent in the bright smile you flashed in her direction. "Tommy, you have a visitor," Polly called in cheerful sing song.

"Who would be visiting me here?" Tommy wondered aloud as he marched down the hall.

But before he could make his way to the door, the butler declared, “If you’re here about the position listed in the paper, it’s already been filled.”

You probably should have taken the opportunity to introduce yourself as a guest of Mrs. Gray, but the words escaped you, frozen lips trembling helplessly. With rainwater dripping onto the polished floor below, your heart began thudding against your rib cage, suddenly very afraid you'd be turned away.

However, your wide eyed stare was like a beacon to Tommy who instantly became enchanted with the subtle beauty of your wet hair clinging to your skin in tiny curled tendrils.

"Shall I dismiss her, Mr. Shelby?" the butler asked in emotionless monotone, gazing reproachfully at the water puddling beneath you.

"Of course not," Tommy chided, casting a stern look in his direction that dared him to make you leave. "Fetch her warm blankets immediately," he instructed as you looked on in disbelief of his chivalrous command.

Tommy offered his hand to you and you accepted, all thoughts of your disheveled appearance slipping from your mind as you stared into the vast ocean of his deep blue eyes.

However, the spell was broken the moment Polly greeted you, the brightness of his eyes diminishing as she called you by name from further down the corridor.

"You...you know each other?" Tommy asked in confusion, the tone of his voice bordering on outright accusation.

Not knowing how to respond, you only nodded in reply, casting your eyes to the floor.

Tommy's head jerked toward his aunt, an unreadable expression crossing his face as he allowed your hands to drop from his. "What's this about, Pol?" he asked.

"She's a neighbor I invited for luncheon," Polly shrugged nonchalantly, coming to gather you in her arms protectively. "Come with me, dear and we'll have you warm and dry in no time," she promised with a gentle squeeze.

Tommy lingered behind you a moment before deciding to follow, brow furrowed in deep thought. However, if he'd guessed Polly's scheme he didn't let on during the luncheon, peppering you with questions.

Somewhere between the various courses, you'd managed to regain your confidence, speaking to him candidly about your family and your upbringing. It felt comfortable and easy with Polly there, smiling at you, and the notions of your Prince Charming come to life soon reignited.

You seemed to please him with your idle chatter, his deep chuckle echoing through the nearly empty dining room as you regaled him with amusing tales of the village. It was only when you began to inquire about his past that he began to bristle, a decided change in the air as he struggled to respond with pleasant memories of his own.

However, it was an offhand remark about his new home that seemed to sour his mood most.

"Have you always lived in such exquisite homes?" you asked, eyes darting about the grand space with absolute awe.

"No," he admitted ruefully with slow, calculated movement toward his whisky glass. "In fact, I was raised on a long boat called the January. Until we moved to Watery Lane."

"Birmingham?" you asked, somewhat familiar with the town, considering the close proximity.

"Yes," he agreed. "So you see, I'm no lord, nor am I a gentleman," he admitted gruffly.

"Tommy's a businessman," Polly interjected, cutting off whatever melancholy rant Tommy was about to unleash and ruin his chances with you.

However, Tommy didn't take kindly to the interruption, his ire rising as he added spitefully, "It's true that I am a businessman, but not a noble one." Casting a sinister, yet knowing glance at Polly he added, "To answer your question, this home was gained through extortion. You see my brother found a lord with a gambling habit and pumped him full of opium.”

You gulped as he laid bare the bitter truth of his recent acquisition, an unsavory detail Polly had yet to confess. The rich food you'd consumed turned in your belly, making you feel ill. As you lurched from the table, Tommy stood to offer an arm, which you quickly dismissed. "I....I can manage," you stuttered as you excused yourself back to the village.

Polly dropped her head into her hands as you fled the dining room, wondering if she'd ever see your lovely face again. "Oh, Tommy," she murmured, shaking her head in disbelief and more than a little disappointment. “You certainly know how to pick your moments.”

However, she failed to realize the effect you'd had on her wayward nephew. As he watched you flee from his new home, he stood tall in the shadow of the doorway, utterly fixated on your delicate form. "Scurry off into the darkness, darling. But I will find you," he promised before closing the door against the sudden chill in the air.

Read Part 3

-----------------

Tag List:

@peakysgiri

@outlanderuniverse

@malatuadimadre

@helen06dreamer

@mrsnms

@brummiereader

@galactict3a

@murderousginger

@runnning-outof-time

@callsign-fangirl

@peakyswritings

@call-sign-shark

@justrainandcoffee

@wonderlanddreamer

@novashelby

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@look-at-the-soul

@cillianmurphyfanatic

@kpopgirlbtssvt

@garrison-girl-08

@littlepeakydevil

@copinghex

@thomaslittlegirl

@jelly-rei

#Ginger w(rec)ks #Peaky Blinders fanfiction #Tommy Shelby

167 notes · View notes

murderousginger · 9 days ago

Text

I definitely plan on writing more John x Lizzie content. It was so fun and heart wrenching to write, I'm addicted.

I love that you picked up on Lizzie's reaction to John's feelings. I had this thought that if you lived with someone that didn't share or show their feelings, having someone freely share their emotions would feel almost offensive. If you trained yourself to pick up every little twitch or sigh, any clear portrayal would start to feel like a neon sign or exaggerated.

I definitely wrote her in the thick of postpartum turmoil and as much as I love Lizzie, I think she willingly dooms herself because she doesn't think she deserves more.

Thank you for your review, it brings me life!