#Peaky blinders OC

[followsfrankiep]

but arent they all mad though? 😂 ANYWAY IM SEATED!! CANT WAIT FOR THE NEXT ONE 😩❤️❤️❤️❤️

Sweet mourning lamb

When Tommy Shelby sits alone by the fire, haunted by the weight of war and business, an unexpected visitor steps out of the darkness—his sister, Delilah. But Delilah is dead. As she delivers a chilling warning, Tommy is forced to confront a truth that defies logic, setting both him and Delilah on a path where revenge and fate collide.

Inspired by Ethel cain’s album, Preachers Daughter. Try to guess which song of hers inspired the first part of the story! Also I changed my writing style a bit for this.

Word count: 5.3k

Content includes : Blood, Mentions of killing, Violence, Religious beliefs, Mentions of drugs and alcohol, Death. Might be heavy and disturbing to some readers so please do proceed with caution.

i. A prayer

The church smelled of wax and old wood, the air thick with incense that had long since stopped masking the rot of something deeper. A place of worship, of confession, of supposed salvation. Yet Delilah Shelby stood at its entrance as though she were being swallowed whole, a shadow of herself wrapped in a threadbare coat, her fingers trembling from something more than the cold.

Her boots, scuffed and damp from the night, made no sound as she stepped inside. It was quiet. Always quiet. The hush of a graveyard, the breath before an execution.

She came here when it hurt. When the grief inside her became a living thing, crawling beneath her skin, gnawing at her bones. Polly was gone, and there was nothing in this godless world that could bring her back. But there was Lucas Woods. The preacher. He stood near the altar, bathed in the glow of candlelight. He was waiting for her. As if he knew she would come, like he knew what she had done.

“Delilah,” he murmured.

His voice was like the low murmur of a hymn—soft, and careful. She exhaled, closing her eyes briefly as if to steady herself, before making her way forward.

“I failed,” she admitted, her voice hollow. “I—”

She swallowed hard. The words felt thick in her throat. “I went back to it. I started drinking and taking opium again... I thought I could—I thought I could stop, but then I heard about Tommy and Michael, about the war that’s about to come, and it just—” Her breath hitched. “It started to hurt again.”

Thomas had called her from her home and vaguely mentioned a “war” that was going to happen between them. Delilah had known about the dispute between him and Michael. And she knew that “war” meant that serious shit was about to get down. That also most definitely meant that one of them was going to die. And death was something she didn’t want for either of them.

Lucas watched her with half lidded eyes, his gaze was lazy. “You told me once that grief and worry is a sickness, and that I must suffer before I can be saved” she whispered, her hands trembling, “And I—I think it’s eating me alive”. But deep inside, she knew that salvation was never meant for her.

Lucas tilted his head slightly, his dark brown eyes solemn as he stepped forward, bridging the space between them. Gently, he lifted her chin, his fingers soft as a whisper against her skin.

“I was with you there, I invited you in twice, I did. You love blood too much.”

Her brows furrowed as she looked at him with glistening teary eyes, Lucas often spoke in metaphors that were slightly confusing to understand. “What do you mean?”. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them like the taut pull of a noose. When he finally spoke, his voice was as gentle as a lover’s confession.

“The first time I invited you in, I found you sprawled outside these very doors. Cold. Drunk. Sobbing.” His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, almost reverently. “I let you in to pray, did I not?”. Delilah’s breath shuddered out of her.

She remembered that night. The way the rain had seeped into her clothes, the way her body had felt so small, so insignificant against the vast, uncaring world. She was grieving the death of her Aunt Pol. How she had died so unfairly by the hands of the IRA. The one she believed was the pillar and backbone of her family. Delilah remembered weeping pathetically on the muddy ground and it was Lucas who had found her and brought her in for warmth.

“And the second?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. Lucas’ smile was small, almost pained.

“The second time was when I let you into my heart.”

Something inside her twisted. She searched his face, finding nothing but that same quiet devotion in his eyes, that unwavering gaze that had always felt like both salvation and damnation. Delilah had suspected that she might’ve fallen in love with Lucas the first time he put his hands so painfully gently on her shoulders and told her to pray. His brown eyes, so forgiving and polite. Her throat tightened. “And the blood?”.

He regarded her for a long moment before answering. “The blood is those who hurt you”. Her stomach squeezed and turned cold. She made the connection instantly. It was too painfully obvious.

Lucas said nothing. He didn’t need to.

For a long, excruciating moment, the weight of it pressed down on her chest, suffocating. She had spent so long trying to ignore it, trying to drown it in whatever poison she could find—this unbearable love for a brother who had done nothing but carve her heart into something unrecognizable.

But he was the one who had been there for her all her life. The only one who held her when she cried after her mother had passed, when her father would disappear for long periods of time. The one that made her heart feel safe. How could she not love him the way she did?

She felt Lucas’ hands on her face again, cradling her gently as if she was fragile and would break any second. His touch was warm, grounding. “I heard you,” he whispered. “Saw you. Felt you. Gave you. Needed you.”

“Loved you.”

His thumb softly pulled down on her bottom lip as he slowly leaned in. A soft and lingering kiss against her cheek. Then, his lips at her ear, his voice sinking into her bones like a prayer.

“You poor thing. Sweet, mourning lamb.”

Her eyes flutter shut as he murmured sweet nothings into her ears with his deep, syrupy voice.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he whispered.

“It’s already been done.”

His lips met with hers, interlocking naturally. She felt herself sink into it, into him, desperate and aching, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat as if he were the only thing tethering her to this world. He grabbed the softness of her nape, his other hand cupping her head, he groaned when her fingers tightened on his brown locs.

Delilah was slowly losing herself in his touch. Maybe this was all she needed, she thought to herself. She shut her eyes tightly and allowed herself to drown in this moment. She started to hear multiple voices, all sorts of different sounds, all around her spatial awareness. She grabbed onto his lapels tighter in hopes that the voices would go away. There was no time to pay the voices any attention. But the voices started becoming more coherent. It was calling her name.

“Delilah” the voice called.

Go away, not right now.

“Delilah”

Whoever you are, fuck off. I don’t need this right now.

“Show me your face”

Delilah remained keeping her eyes screwed shut. She recognised that voice. Her eyes flew open once she was sure who the voice belonged to. The church was gone and she was small again. A child.

She was crouched down with her knees pulled into her chest. Her small hands trembled as she raised them to her face, covering it, shielding herself from the gaze she knew was waiting for her. “Please don’t look at me”.

“Why won’t you show me your face, Delilah? Do you not love me anymore?” He said, crouching down to her who was curled into a ball.

“Because if I do, I’ll start crying again Tommy” she said, her voice cracking. She felt his hands, warm and steady, prying hers away. Forcing her to meet his icy blue eyes. He was young as well. The Tommy she remembered before France took the light away from her doting brother.

“I can see it in your eyes, you’re guilty” He said. Delilah sobbed softly when Tommy held her small face in his hands.

“Tell me, what have you done?” he wiped her falling tears with his thumbs.

Stop. Stop…stop. Make it stop.

“Why wont you tell me, Delilah? You don't love me anymore?” His voice slowly started to sound like her fathers.

Delilah shook her head, trying to get him to be silent. Tommy and her father loved asking her that when she was younger and she hated it a lot. They weren’t aware of how much it hurt her little heart. She always felt like she had to do something— anything as proof of her love. It almost never ended well. In pain most of the time.

Stop. Stop…stop. Make it stop.

“Why don't you listen to me, Delilah? Do you want to make Tommy sad?”

I’ve had enough.

Stop…

Stop…

Stop…

Stop…

STOP

Delilah gasped, her eyes widened and quickly pulled herself away from Lucas’ lips, trying to desperately catch her breath. Her chest heaved quickly, she could feel her heart pounding and held onto her chest to try and control its strong and painful palpitations. She turned her attention to Lucas who was already smiling at her lazily.

“After all I’ve done,” he mused, “you’re still crying for your brother.”

She could barely think. Her head, a dizzying and mushy mess. Her voice was hoarse when she finally spoke. “How do you know I’m crying for him…and not for you?” she asked breathily, trying to force a smile. Lucas’ eyes darkened, his coarse thumb brushed over her cheek, smearing away a tear.

“You’ll never cry for the one who doesn’t hurt you” he murmured. “Only the one who pains you”

He brought his lips closer to her ears and whispered, “The pain that only you can remember”. Lucas reached behind her head and that’s when she felt it—The cold kiss of a steel pistol at the back of her skull.

How long had it been there? Had it been there when he kissed her? How long had she clung to him?

She exhaled shakily. She knew what was to come, because when she lifted her gaze, she saw them. Mother, Polly and John. All standing behind Lucas and smiling so beautifully. She had spent so long running from the inevitable, drowning herself in opium, in whiskey, in prayers whispered into the collar of a preacher’s coat. Now, at last, there was no more running. It is as Lucas said, it’s already been done.

Her lips parted. A broken breath escaped. And before she could think of anything else the world went black. Her body went limp, falling back before she was caught by Lucas in his arms. He lifted her lifeless frame up and examined, bringing a chaste kiss to her lips. His fingers drew a cross on her chest with the blood from the back of her head as he prayed— The prayer that he had saved for Delilah.

“Blessed be the Daughter of the Shelbys,

Bound to suffering eternal through the sins of their fathers committed long before their conception.

Blessed be their whore mothers,

Tired and angry, waiting with bated breath in a ferry that will never move again.

Blessed be the children,

Each and every one comes to know their god through some senseless act of violence.

Blessed be the girl, born into blood, raised in grief.

Blessed be her restless soul, which will never find peace.

Blessed be the hands that held her, the lips that kissed her, the man who loved her.

And blessed be the bullet, the only true salvation I could give.”

ii. The priest

Lucas Woods watched as the body of Delilah Shelby bled out on the church’s marble floor. She looked like a beauty bleeding out in such a beautiful place of worship.

His mind was noisy. With thoughts that he couldn’t identify. But it was probably not that important. Lucas was the type of person who knew what he wanted and exactly how he wanted it. If he couldn’t pick out what it was that he felt while watching her, then the thought most likely didn’t serve him any good. Besides, there was no room left in his heart to grieve.

He recited every prayer he had ever known, In hopes her soul would forgive him. Not like he ever believed in any of the prayers that he recited. Not as if he believed that it would save her, but fear of the possibilities that there is heaven, not as if he believed any of them could get in but there was that little pathetic hope in him.

He bathed her in candlelight, traced crosses over her forehead, whispered to her in the darkness. He took off his robe, leaving it on top of her lifeless body and left before shutting the big wooden church doors, leaving her behind for the flies to keep her company.

Lucas had told her things he had never told another soul. The things he thought were unworthy to share. Lucas’ reasoning was that his value would not have changed either way— there was no benefit in knowing who he was and what he was inside.

Born to a Belfast family that never knew peace, similar to the Shelbys, Lucas had been raised on the promise of bringing justice to the weak. His father’s hands were always bloodied; his mother’s eyes were always swollen from grief.

“Some people have to be sacrificed for the greater good, Lucas” is what his father would say when he came home with blood on his clothes. His father was a preacher and often twisted the word of God to justify his bloodshed, poor little Lucas never could tell the difference between the devil, god and his own father.

The church had been his only solace, the only place where he could pretend, be a killer with a cross around his neck, for a moment, and not his father’s son.

But the IRA had taken him in before God ever could, stepping right into his fathers foots steps He had killed before he ever learned how to pray properly. And yet, when he met Delilah Shelby, he had felt something shift. Something softened. Maybe it was his damned heart.

She was not innocent—no one born a Shelby ever was—but she was something else entirely. The pain in her eyes, the quiet way she clung to him when she thought no one was watching, the desperation and sincerity in the way she sought absolution and repented even when she knew she could never truly be forgiven. Something about her desperation and loyalty pulled him closer. He had loved her.

Perhaps for his own selfish needs, for the way she made him feel like something more than a killer in a preacher’s robes, and more than his fathers obedient dog.

Loving that girl made him feel clean. The only ones whose hands were tender on his face. Maybe it was knowing how much she needed him. For whatever reasons he had, there was no denying in his heart, he had love for that girl. And maybe that’s why he had to destroy her. Because love like that doesn’t belong in a man like him.

iii. The awakening

Darkness consumed her. Not the soft, velvety blackness of sleep, nor the tranquil void of death she had once imagined—but something far heavier, more suffocating. It wrapped around her like a burial shroud, thick and endless, stretching into eternity without form or meaning.

For what she could only assume was more than an hour, she was aware of nothing but this abyss. No pain, no thought, just the cold, unfeeling void. She wondered, vaguely, if this was what it meant to die, or how it felt. If she had finally escaped the blood, the grief, the war that followed her like a specter. There was no peace in this emptiness, but neither was there suffering. Perhaps that was enough.

Delilah’s ears picked up a sound. Faint at first, distant, like an echo through water. A dull, rhythmic thump, steady and unrelenting. It pulsed through the void, rippling outward, drawing her toward it. It took her a moment to recognize it.

A heartbeat.

Her heartbeat.

The realization struck her like a hammer to the chest, sending shockwaves through the darkness. Sensation flooded in all at once—a slow, dragging pain that curled through her skull, a dull ache spreading through her limbs like fire smoldering beneath the surface of her skin. Her breath hitched, sharp and ragged, as a new awareness settled over her.

She was alive.

Or at least—she was something close to it.

Her fingers twitched against the hard cold surface beneath her, the texture rough and unyielding, pressing against her palms with an unbearable weight. Cold air wrapped around her, carrying the heavy scent of incense, candle wax, and something darker—something metallic. It clung to her, thick and suffocating, stirring something deep in her chest. Blood. She groaned helplessly.

Her lungs burned as she sucked in air, as if she had been drowning for an eternity and was only now breaking the surface. Her body rebelled against the motion, heavy and sluggish, as though she were made of lead. Her head lolled to the side, the sharp, dragging pain intensifying, throbbing at the base of her skull. She tried to move, tried to lift her arms, but they felt like dead weight, resisting her every attempt to reclaim control.

Something warm trickled down her forehead.

Slow, thick, and wet.

Her breath stilled. Forcing her muscles to obey, she dragged her hand upward, the movement strained and unnatural, her fingertips brushing against her temple. Her skin was slick, the texture strange and foreign. She pressed her fingers against it, feeling the warmth, the stickiness, the undeniable reality of it.

Her hand trembled as she pulled it away.The dim light overhead cast a dull glow over her skin, illuminating the color smeared across her fingertips. Deep crimson, nearly black in the flickering candlelight. It pooled in the creases of her palm, clung to the lines of her skin, refusing to fade. Blood. Her blood.

A sickening realization settled over her like a weight. She had felt the bullet, had heard it—the crack of the gunshot, the way the world had gone silent in its wake. The moment of impact had been sudden, sharp—then nothing.

And yet, she was here. Alive?

The floor beneath her was cold, the air thick with the scent of iron. Her breathing came shallow, uneven, her chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate motions, as if her body was still trying to understand what had happened. She should be dead. She was dead.

Then why did she feel like this?

Her vision swam as she forced herself to sit up, the world shifting violently around her, tilting at unnatural angles. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her, but she pushed past it, planting her hands against the floor, steadying herself. Her body felt foreign, her limbs sluggish and uncooperative, as though she had been stitched together all wrong.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, her movements unsteady, legs trembling beneath her. The sensation of blood running down her skin was maddening—warm, constant, unnatural. She needed to see.

Her gaze flickered across the dimly lit church, her surroundings unfamiliar in her disoriented state. The air felt heavier than before, thick with something unspoken, something watching. But there was no one else here.

A bitter laugh threatened to crawl up her throat, but she swallowed it down, forcing her body to move. She needed to find a mirror—needed proof of whatever had been done to her.

Each step felt wrong, as though she were walking through water’s tough tides, her body resisting the motion. The shadows in the church stretched long and sharp, flickering with the unsteady candlelight. The air was too still, too quiet, pressing in from all sides.

She reached the far end of the room, her fingers grazing the cool surface of an old mirror. The glass was fogged with age, its surface marred with scratches, but it was enough.

She hesitated, but slowly—she looked.

A sharp breath escaped her lips.

The woman staring back at her was a grotesque mockery of the one she had once been. Her skin, once warm and full of life, had taken on an unnatural pallor—too pale, too still, as though all warmth had drained from her body. Dark veins curled beneath the surface, spreading from the wound at her temple, reaching down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her dress.

The wound itself— A small, perfect hole, right at her hairline. The skin around it was raw, cracked, as if something had forced its way through and refused to heal. Blood had dried in uneven streaks down her face, crusted in places where it should have clotted, but never fully did. It oozed, slow and thick, an unnatural, endless trickle.

Her eyes were wrong. She leaned closer, her breath fogging the glass. The irises, once a deep brown, had darkened, their edges swallowed by shadow. They looked sunken, hollow, as if she had been awake for centuries. She wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, or if something inside her had shifted—something that could never be undone.

This was not survival. This was something else.

She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face, smearing blood across her cheek. She could only laugh at her own reflection.

It was quiet at first—soft, bitter, but it grew, shaking in her chest, a sound born from madness and exhaustion. A laugh with no joy, no warmth. Just the cold, sharp edge of realization sinking into her ribs like a knife.

She should be dead. But she wasn’t.

She turned from the mirror, dragging a hand through her blood-matted hair, her mind racing with the weight of what this meant.

There was a sudden shift in the air. The sensation of something unseen watching. She stilled. Slowly, she turned and there, standing in the flickering candlelight—was Polly.

Polly stood with her arms crossed, an unreadable expression resting on her sharp features. She looked exactly as Delilah remembered, before and after she left—proud, knowing, untouched by death. But Delilah knew what this meant. Polly always had something to say.

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t even think it was possible.Her lips parted, her voice hoarse when she finally spoke.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?”

Polly quirked a brow and tilted her head, “What do you think?”, amusement flickering in her sharp gaze.

Delilah let out a slow breath, glancing back at the mirror.Her reflection had not changed.She clenched her jaw, shaking her head.

“Fuck”.

Delilah clenched her jaw, dragging a hand through her blood-matted hair. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “I’m still standing here, aren’t I?”. Polly exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “Look at yourself, sweetheart,” she drawled. “And tell me—does that look alive to you?”. Delilah glanced back at the mirror, her stomach twisting. She let out a slow breath, licking her lips, tasting iron.

Delilah clenched her fists, shaking her head.

“Fuck” she said exasperatedly, releasing a soft and defeated laugh.

Delilah sat down on the benches and reached into her pocket, fingers brushing against something familiar—A pack of cigarettes. She pulled it out, along with a silver lighter, flipping it open with a flick of her wrist. The flame flared to life, casting shadows across her face. She placed the cigarette between her lips, lighting the tip, inhaling deeply before exhaling a long plume of smoke into the stagnant air.

“Being dead hurts,” She shook her head, smirking.

Polly smiled, watching her fondly. “You’re still here because you have something to say,” she said simply. “Something he needs to hear.” Delilah exhaled another breath of smoke, staring at Polly through the haze. Polly met her gaze, steady and sharp.

“You already know what it is.”

Delilah took another slow drag of her cigarette, watching the ember glow like a dying star. She exhaled through her nose, the smoke curling between them.

“And what if I don’t want to say it?”

Polly’s gaze didn’t waver nor did her smile, “Then you’ll never rest.”

iv. The message

The fire crackled, the embers rising into the night air like lost spirits, twisting and flickering before vanishing into the darkness. The flames burned low, a soft orange glow against the damp cold of the woods. Smoke curled upward in lazy tendrils, mixing with the heavy scent of damp earth and decayed leaves. The world was quiet here—no city noise, no voices, just the steady hum of insects and the rustling of branches overhead.

Tommy sat hunched on a fallen log, elbows on his knees, a cigarette hanging from his lips. The firelight carved shadows into his face, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes, making him look even more tired than he already felt. The weight of war pressed against him, the endless calculations of men and money and blood turning over in his mind like the cogs of a machine that never stopped. But for now—for this one moment—he let himself sit in silence, watching the flames dance.

Suddenly, Tommy heard the leaves shuffling and rustling, sounding like footsteps and that made his skin prickle before his mind even caught up. He turned his head, eyes sharp, fingers twitching toward the gun at his hip. The fire flickered, the shadows stretching, and then—she stepped into the light.

Tommy froze.

His cigarette slipped from his lips, landing in the dirt at his feet, the ember still glowing. His breath caught in his throat, heart hammering hard against his ribs.

Delilah.

She stood at the edge of the firelight, her skin pallid in the flickering glow. Her dark hair hung loose, disheveled, strands falling into her hollowed-out eyes. The dried blood on her temple had darkened to an unnatural black, a grotesque smear down her face. But it wasn’t just the wound—it was her.

The way she stood, too still. The way her breath didn’t fog in the cold air. The way her eyes blinked too slowly like a haunted doll. The way the firelight didn’t quite touch her.

His voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper.

“Delilah?”

She tilted her head slightly.

He was on his feet before he even realized it, moving toward her, hands reaching as if to steady her, as if to fix whatever had been done to her. “Fuck—Delilah, what happened to you?” His voice was sharper now, laced with urgency. “Come on, let me—Jesus Christ, let me get you to a doctor—” His hand hovers between them before finally gripping her wrist. Cold. Too fucking cold. His fingers flex, his breath stilling as if he’s afraid she might crumble beneath his touch.

She held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. “Tommy,” she said, her voice eerily calm, “I’m already dead.”

His breath left him all at once.

Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating. The fire popped, embers snapping in the air, but Tommy heard nothing but the pounding of his own heartbeat. He stared at her, at the blood, at the way her lips barely moved when she spoke.

She blinked, her expression unreadable.

“I saw Mom.”

It wasn’t possible. He’d been drinking, maybe—no, he hadn’t. He wasn’t asleep, so he couldn’t have been dreaming. But Delilah—his baby sister—was standing in front of him, pale and still, with a bullet hole in her skull.

“And Polly,” she continued, glancing at the fire.“And John.”

Tommy’s hands curled into fists. Teeth clenching against each other. His logical mind fights against what his heart already knows: this is Delilah. But it’s not. It can’t be. And yet, she speaks his name like she never left, like she isn’t a ghost standing by his fire, telling him the truth he doesn’t want to hear.

His jaw tightened. “Who?”

She met his gaze then, and something in her expression softened. Not with sadness, not with fear—but with something almost amused.

“A priest,” she said simply. “From the church I used to go to.”

Tommy’s lips parted slightly. She stepped forward then, sinking down onto the log beside him, sitting as if her body still remembered how. As if she hadn’t been shot dead. For a long moment, Tommy said nothing.

Then, moving on autopilot, he reached into his coat, pulling out his cigarette case. He lit one with slow, deliberate movements, inhaled deeply, then held the case out to her. She took one. The small gesture felt wrong. Like something out of a dream he hadn’t woken up from yet. He exhaled, smoke curling from his lips, and muttered, “Dead people smoke now?” Delilah smirked before lighting up her cigarette, she took a slow drag, and exhaled. “You’re in luck, then”

For a moment, they just sat there, side by side, watching the fire. It felt almost normal—almost. “Lucas Wood,” Tommy murmured, more to himself than to her. Delilah nodded slightly. “You’ve heard of him?.”

“I know the name”, Tommy admitted. “Never met him. I don’t go to church.” A bitter smirk, “And if I did, it wouldn’t be to pray.” She huffed a quiet laugh, taking another slow drag of her cigarette, “Yeah it was him alright”.

Tommy exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’ll get the police involved.” His voice was firm, but even as he said it, there was something hollow in his words. “I can’t send my men after him—I need them”.

Delilah scoffed softly, flicking the ash from her cigarette. “And what exactly do you think the police are gonna do, Tommy?” She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “It’s no use. Lucas is an IRA member”.

Delilah smirked, “Funny, isn’t it?” She tilted her head, watching the way his grip on his cigarette tightened. “It was the same with Polly, What goes around comes around.”

Tommy inhaled sharply, his cigarette burning dangerously close to his fingertips.

Delilah’s voice softened. “Lucas is coming in a few days,” she said. “He’s going to tell you about my death himself.” There was a slight pause before she added, “That’s when he plans to take you, Tommy.” Tommy was silent for once.

She turned to him fully, studying his face in the firelight. “Do you understand now?”

“Will you listen to me now? you love me, right?”

He looked at her for a long moment, taking her in. The way the fire cast flickering shadows across her face, the way her expression stayed calm despite the weight of everything. Tommy’s hands found her cheeks, her skin was cold, his thumb nearly freezing from simply rubbing across it. “I do love you” he responded, his eyes never leaving hers.

She was already dead. And yet, here she was. Waiting for him to finish what needed to be done.

He flicked his cigarette into the fire, the embers swallowing it whole. He closed his eyes for a moment and pulled her in, holding her tightly in his arms, hands cradling her head as if he was trying to comfort her. Tommy pressed a lingering kiss to her temple.

“Alright, for you Delilah”

To be continued…

[wonderlanddreamer]

Reader POV Masterlist

Main Lydia Masterlist

Edits, Drabbles & More

Multi-Chapter Fics.

Queen Of Kings - Nellie Ensor never expected to return to Small Heath, but fate had other plans. After her father's brutal murder at the hands of a ruthless gang, Nellie inherits the family business—a prize many would kill for. Torn between selling it off for safety and honouring her father's legacy, Nellie decides to stand her ground. Navigating a world steeped in danger, she finds herself entangled with the notorious Peaky Blinders. As threats loom and loyalties are tested, Nellie must find courage to protect her father's dream and carve out a place for herself in a world where survival is never guaranteed. In the heart of Birmingham, amidst the smoke and shadows, a legacy is about to be reborn.

Behind Enemy Lines - Fearless journalist Florence Fletcher is on a mission to expose the Peaky Blinders, but her relentless pursuit pits her against the dangerous and captivating John Shelby. When a greater threat looms, they must join forces, turning enemies into uneasy allies. Amidst the chaos and intrigue, sparks fly and forbidden passion ignites. Can they survive the shadows of Birmingham's underworld and find love, or will their secrets destroy them?

Blurred Lines - Florence Fletcher has always been a thorn in John Shelby's side, but when he finds her drunk and vulnerable on a night out, his protective instincts take over. As he steps in to help her, the hard edges of their contentious relationship start to blur, uncovering unexpected depths and hidden feelings.

[A modern spin-off of Behind Enemy Lines]

The Rook - Seeking refuge from his turbulent life, Tommy Shelby finds solace in The Rook, a quiet pub on Birmingham's outskirts. There, he meets Rosemary King, a barmaid whose sunny disposition offers him an unexpected sanctuary. Her kindness and warmth begin to thaw his hardened heart, creating a bond that takes the gangster by surprise. But peace is short-lived when Tommy's enemies track him to his hidden refuge, putting both The Rook and Rosemary in jeopardy. As danger looms, they must navigate the threats together, testing the strength of their growing connection. Can Tommy protect his newfound sanctuary, or will his criminal life shatter the fragile peace he's found?

[call-sign-shark]

Heaven in Your Eyes || Arthur Shelby x You

Summary: It was supposed to be an entertaining evening. Boxing fights, booze and party. It wasn't supposed to be one of the worst days of your life. || Featuring Tommy Shelby x Reader

Words: 4.5k

TW: angst+++, alteration of canon events, canonical violence, depictions of slaughter and body horror, main character death, Reader's husband dying, suicidal thoughts, graphic murder. Parts in bold are direct quotes from the show. Parts in Italics are direct quotes from preceding chapters. Also, Tommy will take more space in the next chapters.

Notes:

✞ Shorter chapter because it's extremely violent and angsty. Also, I'm super rusty so I tried to write it in a more direct style so it's prolly less poetic and beautiful.

✞ This is chapter 16 of the Arthur Shelby x You series Heaven in Your Eyes. Each chapter can be read as stand-alones but reading the whole series will make the experience far more intense.

PREVIOUS || Masterlist || NEXT PART

The extraordinary general meeting of the Shelby Ladies Club.

This is what Polly called this unexpected little meeting in the bathroom right in the middle of the rigged fight happening a few rooms away. When you entered the lavatory with Ada complaining about the sparring between Goliath and Bonnie, Aunt Pol was taking a cigarette from the silver case she was holding while Lizzie was fixing her hair.

“I love your messy bun, Heaven.” Lizzie complimented when she saw your reflection in the mirror she was using.

“Thank you Liz. Ada scolded me and decided that it would be a better hairstyle for tonight.”

“You never style your hair except for braids and it’s a fucking shame considering how beautiful and long your white mane is.” The young Shelby sister insisted.

“If you say so,” You snorted, amused, “What are you doing here? Plotting and scheming? Leave these for Thomas.” You smirked, sitting on the edge of a sink with movements as nimble as a cat. Your little cutting remark had the expected effect: the three girls laughed with sincerity, somewhat amused by the beef between you and the family’s boss. They had eventually learned that nothing could ever ease the tension between the two of you, so laughing about the matter was the only thing they could do. A part of you couldn’t help but think that they wouldn’t find it that amusing anymore if they knew the unhealthy turn your mutual hatred had taken.

What did you feel when we kissed? A shiver ran down your spine as you heard Tommy’s husky voice, as charming as venomous, whispering in your ear. It might only have been a memory, but you could almost feel his hot whisky breath brushing your skin.

“Heaven has some news.” Polly’s voice resounded in the bathroom, snatching you from your thoughts.

“Me?” You asked, batting your bambi lashes in incomprehension before the understanding of the situation slapped you right in the face.

“Well, tell her. Now! While the men are screaming for blood.”  Polly sneaked a cigarette between her thin, red lips. 

Your blood momentarily froze in your pale veins for this unexpected pregnancy wasn’t something you wanted to talk about. For sure Aunt Pol didn’t mean to do harm, but the surrounding chaos and your last encounter with Luca Changretta seriously eroded your wish to have a baby. The baby who made you so vulnerable during times that were anything but good. Moreover, a quick glance at Lizzie’s sad and anxious eyes had been enough for you to understand that something was weighing on her shoulders. Something you had guessed for a few days. Something she needed to talk about more than you. The corner of your mouth turned up in a half-smile.

“Well, I discovered something about Lizzie but I think she should be the one making the announcement. Shouldn’t you, Lizzie?” You winked, replacing one of your long white strands of hair behind your pierced ear with a naive pout. Glitters of hope and gratefulness suddenly sparkled in the ocean blue of the secretary’s eyes to whom you replied with a discreet nod before grabbing Polly’s cigarette case.

“I’m up the duff. And it’s Tommy’s.”

You took a long drag on the cigarette and slowly exhaled the smoke by your nostrils as the attention was now on Lizzie. Even though Ada almost choked on her sip of gin, she quickly showed interest in the tall woman’s pregnancy. The only one you didn’t fool was old and cunning Aunt Pol who gave you a brief “okay I get it” glance before turning back to Lizzie.

It’s a girl. Call her Ruby. Ruby Shelby. She’ll be a star in a Hollywood movie.

You watched the scene with a light smile floating upon your plump and glossy lips, satisfied by the outcome of your little trick as well as the surprising unconditional support Lizzie was receiving after years of being seen only through her job as a prostitute. Admittedly, the reason behind the little push you gave to Lizzie Stark was purely selfish, but you couldn’t deny the fact that you kind of liked the woman despite never really interacting with her. She got the attention, and you got peace. It was a win-win situation.

“Congratulations, Lizzie.” You said, your siren-like voice as soft as a lazy ocean.

“She’s a real Shelby lady now. Just like you, Devil.”  Polly’s smirk betrayed her amusement. You rolled your eyes teasingly before proudly showing your left hand and wiggling your small fingers to display the magnificent wedding ring Arthur had gifted you.

“What about you Hev? When are you planning to give us a little Arthur?” Ada suddenly asked, Lizzie's news had visibly rendered her sour mood better.

“I think one Arthur is enough for now, don’t you?” You got up from the sink and carefully smoothed the folds your revealing black dress, “Anyway. Ladies, let’s rejoin our gentlemen.”

“I guess the meeting is over.” Ada added with a little chuckle

Joining deeds to words, Polly gently hooked her arm with yours in a motherly gesture and guided you outside, where the crowd’s roars were echoing.

Laughs and cheers filled the room as Johnny Dog put on a show to get more men to bet on the winner of this fight. Swallowing a mouthful of gin, your seraphic traits turned into a wince at the burning sensation the alcohol left in your throat – that new batch was strong, indeed. The sweet taste that exploded on your tastebuds, when the tip of your rosy tongue licked your juicy lips, made you grin, or maybe it was the all-consuming smell of sweat and blood that lingered in the air. It might come off as surprising for other women, but you enjoyed watching fights. There was something brutal but so real about them. After all, humans were just animals wearing suits. Animals which, according to you, had barely learned to speak instead of growling.

Your lips pinched the cigarette as you took another drag you quickly blew, your eyes following blood spurting from Bonnie’s nose and splattering the ground. Although quieter than Polly, Lizzie, and Ada, who were laughing, screaming, and sometimes nudging you in excitement at each violent blow the Romani boy gave back to his opponent, you had a lot of fun. Until a peculiar but familiar feeling blossomed within.

It started with a chill creeping down your spine and ended up with light tremors shaking your frail silhouette. Instinctively, you raised your piercing gaze and searched for Arthur somewhere among the crowded rows of folded seats. Your usual calm demeanor faltered as you noticed that your husband seemed troubled by something, rapidly glancing from here and there, attempting to read the room for whatever reason. He didn’t even pay attention to you, far too busy observing the men that were around the boxing ring. Eventually, Arthur stood up and left, his steel blue eyes fixed on someone he followed through the depths of the building. Let me do my fucking job! That’s what he barked at Tommy, or at least what you thought you overheard.

You frowned as a strange sensation rippled through your mind – like a distant, haunting whisper of something looming, a threat. Nervously swallowing your saliva, your first reflex was looking at Tommy. You couldn’t place it, but the odd feeling gripped you tightly like an omen you couldn’t shake, warning you of an approaching storm. It seemed like little King Shelby shared your inner agitation though, for his mesmerizing turquoise eyes dived into yours with the same nervousness and incomprehension. Whatever the many reasons behind your hatred, you were definitely on the same wavelength at this very moment. The silent conversation, expressed through brief eyebrows and eye movements, was more or less the following:

-Where is he going?

-I don’t know. It’s prolly the booze and the pills.

-It’s not. I’ll check.

-Don’t fucking do that.

You stood up from your seat with a clenched jaw and, feeling the vibration of this bad omen quaking your soul itself, you nimbly snaked in and out through seats and followed Arthur’s steps. As was the case for your husband a few minutes ago, the dark corridor into which you rushed engulfed your ethereal silhouette like a hungry giant.

“Fuck.” Tommy mumbled, straightening on his seat and leaning forward, “Fuck.” He repeated, torn between his own doubts and his disdain for you. Nevertheless, if there was one thing he had learned since you joined the family was that your gut feelings were never wrong. You proved it several times, starting by foreseeing Charlie’s abduction. The dark-haired gangster sniffed and nervously rubbed his chin, his catlike eyes going back on forth between the corridor and the crowd. A few minutes later, Tommy finally left the fighting pit.

Something was definitely off.

Cautiously walking through the maze of dark hallways dimly lit by a bluish light, you tried to ignore the maddening beat of your heart that was drumming so loud you felt it hammering in your temples. You didn’t really know where you were heading, nor where Arthur went, but the more you moved forward, the more this unbearable feeling of dread and panic invaded you. Your aimless wandering came to an end when the strong and metallic smell of fresh blood and the atrocious sight that followed jumped at your face.

No.

Your heart nearly stopped when you saw him – your husband, slumped on the ground, blood soaking through the collar of his shirt as it gushed from the wound across his throat.

No!

Time seemed to slow down, and your heart seemed to stop as you took in the scene: the gun the Italian bastard was holding in his steady hand aimed at Arthur’s head.

Panic crashed over you like a tidal wave, washing away everything but the rage that had piled up within you during all these years. In that moment, something primal and destructive snapped inside of you. In a blur of rage and raw instinct, and with a guttural scream that seemed too inhumane to come from you, you launched yourself at the mafioso, who barely had the time to turn around. Another furious shriek escaped from your quivering lips, similar to the rabid screech of a wounded banshee, and with your fingers curled into claws, your sharp nails slashed across his face.  

“PUTTANA!” The man yelled and gasped, taken aback by your unleashed fury.

The mafioso fired with his gun in a desperate attempt to kill you but the brutal impact between your two bodies threw him off balance and the shot reached the wall instead of your brain. As his spine crashed against the tiled ground, Changretta’s henchman dropped the weapon. You gave it a brutal blow to make it slide away from him.

Another wave of insults followed as he realized that he struggled to overpower you. You were fighting like a cornered animal, wild and relentless. Your claws scratched him again and again, leaving raw and jagged lines of blood all over his face. The mafioso's strength was starting to falter as he realized that you weren’t just fighting to win; you were fighting to kill him, your body moved by the instinct of a bloodthirsty beast that refused to be caged.

"Stop it, you fucking bitch!" A scream of utter pain brutally tore the air as, completely out of your mind, you dug your thumbs into his skull, pushing harder and harder in an attempt to gouge his eyes. The Sicilian man produced a second sound so twisted that it seemed beyond anything a human throat could produce. The more you pushed with your thumbs, the more you felt his eyeball turning into a viscous pulp. The feeling of the moist and warm liquid on your fingers didn’t stop you. Nor the man’s wails of pure agony, with its pitch far too high and too broken.

“Ajùtami! Ajùtami!” He pleaded, his hands felt the ground in panic, searching for anything he could use to push you away from him. Anything to make you stop. Realizing that nothing was around him, not even the thread he used to attack Arthur, he managed to overcome the pain and gather his strength to grab your throat.

With your air squeezed, you wheezed and removed your fingers from his skull to claw his strong hands. “S-Stop!” Panic flooded you as your vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges. The harder you fought, the harder he strangled you. Seriously lacking air, you clawed at his arms, desperate to breathe, but his grip was iron. Now you had to do something and do it quickly if you wanted to have a chance to save Arthur.

Your thoughts raced, frantic, until instinct took over.

I love your messy bun, Hev!

The judas stick – now you had a chance. With one quick movement, you brought your hand to your bun and your fingers fumbled for the sharp metal judas stick that was holding your hair in place. It came in handy. With a choked sound, you drove it upward and sunk the sharp edge of the stick into the man’s side.

One time.

Two times.

Three, four, five, six…

Side, chest, shoulder, face… 

Each impact was vicious and powerful, tearing through the flesh like butter and drilling into organs and bones with the sheer will of maiming your enemy. Hot blood splashed all over you and around, but you didn’t care. The only thing that made you stop stabbing him was when you felt the man’s grip loosen around your throat until his arms dropped on the red-smeared ground in a loud thud.

“Fuck!” You sucked in a sharp breath, your voice hoarse from being choked. However, you quickly got up from the corpse to run to your husband.  “Arthur!” You screamed, rushing to his side, your hands trembling as you knelt beside him – or rather as you dropped to your knees, your legs unable to support your weight anymore. Panic seized you even more violently as you saw Arthur's deep wound and the blood—too much blood.

“No, no, no… not like this,” You whispered, voice cracking. You couldn’t lose him, not here, not now. Never. Your fingers brushed over his chest and, in your deepest desperation, you looked for his pulse. A pulse you found, but which was becoming slower and fainter as seconds flew by. “Arthur! Please!” You started sobbing, tears streaming down your face and mixing with the fresh blood that was painting your skin in a disgusting shade of red. You had to face the truth: Arthur was dying. The damages were too serious and the bleeding too much… But you were a witch. The gift of healing was coursing through your veins. The only problem was that if you tried to save him by using your magic, you’d hurt the baby. After all, that was what happened when you tried to kill Luca Changretta with a heart attack.

The baby.

Your husband or the baby?

Your heart painfully raced in your chest. Your erratic breathing and your sore throat made you feel like you weren’t getting enough air.

 “I’d love to have kids with ye, eh. Little white-haired and blue-eyed us running barefoot in the forest… Little embodiments of our love brightening our life.” His voice was merely a whisper now for he was slowly falling asleep, “I’ve always wanted to be a dad… but thought I was too messed up for that.”

You could save him. You had to. Despite this torture of a dilemma and the harshness of the decision, nothing could change your mind, not even the feeling of your heart shattering into millions of shards. Closing your eyes, you placed one hand over his throat, the blood warm under your palm, and the other on his chest. Wasting no time, you channel all your strength – the connection sparked, and the raw, untamed magic you inherited from your mother surged through you. It seemed to work at first, his pulse lightly responding to yours.

But the more the magic surged, the more you felt a terrible pain in your belly. It started as cramps but quickly escalated into suffering so high that you felt like someone was stabbing you. A trembling squeal escaped from your red lips. You were killing it, you knew it. You were killing your own baby.

"Come on, come on," You muttered, pushing harder, forcing your will into his body. "Stay with me, Arthur," You whispered, tears streaking down your face, each sentence cut by muffled cries of the mafioso you had slaughtered and who was still alive— not for too long to be honest. He seemed to say something in Sicilian but you couldn't understand what. And you didn't care. "Just... stay with me." You gritted your teeth, doing your best to put up with the pain.

Click.

You froze.

“You nosey little slut. You should've stayed with the others.” 

Your heart missed a leap at the unknown male voice, carried by a thick Italian accent. The mafioso’s colleague looked at you, gun pointed right to your head.

"Remember me?" He asked with a wicked smile, recalling the moment he had offered you a cigarette a few hours ago. During your brief chit-chat, he told you that his name was Damiano but you didn't make the connection between Changretta and his Italian heritage.

“Don't cry, you're going to meet with your husband again very soon." the imposing man added, a few seconds away from ending your life. However, Damiano didn't know what you were capable of. Even less now that you were driven by pure rage and despair.

“Shut the fuck up!” You suddenly yelled, your claws firmly anchored in your husband to make Damiano understand that no one would snatch him from your arms. Your voice, a seductive melody that could enchant like a siren’s song, suddenly sounded monstrous. Raw and primal, the way you screamed the threat echoed in the entire maze of hallways and made Tommy’s blood freeze in his veins, a few corridors away. “Fucking die!”

Damiano didn't know that he never stood a chance. You sealed that man's demise with one blunt arm movement as if you had wanted to chase a mosquito from your face.  

"Wh-What..."

Damiano, fell on his knees next to his dying friend, and writhed on the floor. With his two hands pressing on his chest, he suddenly started to choke and, right after, threw up a great amount of thick blood. Apart from the vomiting, blood soon seeped from his eyes and ears, bubbling like something inside was boiling them alive.

"P-Please!" He begged but you didn't stop. The man obviously tried to scream but the only sound he could produce was disgusting gurgles.

"Don't worry, you're going to meet your friend pretty soon." You replied with a cold and sardonic tone before closing your fist, the man's lungs responding to your gesture by imploding in his chest. Like his colleague's arms did a few minutes ago, Damiano's whole body crashed against the floor with a thud.

Quickly, you shifted back your attention to your husband and kept giving him all your energy while ignoring the black dots that were dancing in front of your eyes, as well as the awful, unbearable stabbing sensation in your core. You were definitely hurting yourself by using your power that much but you didn't give a fuck. “Arthur, please.” You growled, a feeling of dizziness building up so bad that you didn’t even hear the hurried footsteps that were coming closer, nor the hoarse, familiar voice of your brother-in-law.

"FUCK!" You exclaimed. You were losing Arthur again.

The three bodies lay strewn like discarded puppets, their lifeless forms twisted and broken on the blood-flown concrete floor. The once clean backroom had transformed into a nightmare realm of gore and horror that made Tommy's stomach turn upside-down.

The Peaky Blinder's boss took two steps back and brought his calloused hand to his mouth, fighting against the urge to puke – and God knew it took him a lot considering the atrocities he witnessed and did during the war. His turquoise gaze scanned the room, which had turned into a slaughterhouse. A fucking pool of crimson blood. First, he saw the limp and distorted corpse of Damiano, whose eyes were open wide in horror despite him being dead and cold. The terror in his frozen facial expression left no doubt about how awful his last moments must have been: he had suffered, and he had suffered more than a lot. Then, he caught a quick glimpse of the second victim. With his eyeballs reduced to a reddish foul mush, the lacerations on his face, and the abnormal number of stabbing wounds, the mafioso’s body was so maimed that it looked disgustingly grotesque.

Then he saw Arthur.

"Oh my God. Oh my fucking God — Arthur!"

Amidst the chaos, where the air hung heavy with the acrid and pungent scent of blood, Tommy's screams echoed far away in the distance as you knelt there, eyes wide open and silent tears streaming down your cheeks, mixed with dark trails of ruined mascara.

Tommy reacted immediately and knelt near his brother with a panic so uncontrollable that it swept away every ounce of coldness and self-control he usually displayed. He slapped his brother's cheeks several times in a vain attempt to help him come back to a conscious state but it didn't work. Thomas Shelby's fist hit the floor with frustration as the feeling of powerlessness crept into his heart. He was losing another brother and there was nothing he could do to save him.

But you could.

"Heaven, d'ya hear me?"

You let out a muffled whimper, or at least you thought you did as your senses saturated with one unique sound: a relentless ringing that echoed in the hollow caverns of your mind. With each pulse of your heart, the sound intensified, threatening to consume the last remnant of sanity you had left. The world around you had seemed to fade into obscurity, your sight blurry and reduced to only one color: red. Vibrant red splattered everywhere, on the walls, and yourself but most of it was on the floor. In fact, the ground itself seemed to writhe beneath the weight of the corpses, as crimson rivers flowed freely, painting the concrete in shades of crimson that gleamed like freshly spilled paint.

“Oi! Listen to me!” Tommy’s powerful voice suddenly snatched you from your daze just enough time to catch your attention and plunge his turquoise iris into your Arctic eyes.

“I—I can’t. I can’t, I can’t...” You repeated in a whisper, just like a broken record, because your husband’s pulse was weakening again, blind to your exhausting and painful efforts. Arthur was dying, your baby was dying and the intensity of the pain you went through was so insufferable that all you wanted to do was curl up in a ball and wait for death to make this nightmare stop.

Tommy rapidly shifted his body to be by your side, his sharp eyes focused, but softer than usual. “You’ve got this,” he whispered, meeting your panicked gaze. “Keep going. Don’t stop.” He pressed his hand firmly over yours, steadying the trembling fingers that worked to save his brother. His voice was low, gravelly, but laced with a quiet strength he tried to share with you. His grip was warm, grounding you in the chaos, his presence like an anchor. At that moment, the weight of the world felt momentarily lighter with him by your side. You replied to his help with a muffled sob.

"You've got this!" Tommy tried to keep you from falling apart but the sight of a thin trickle of blood slowly running down your nose worried him almost to death. He looked at you and he knew. He knew that you had given everything – every ounce of your energy to save his brother, your magic now drained. Your hand trembled, still pressed to Arthur’s chest, but the world around you was seriously fading to black.

Caught amid this Hell with Tommy by your side, you didn't hear nor feel Polly, who had found the crime scene.

"Oh lord please help us, oh Lord, oh Lord..." Polly cried, horrified by the bloodbath as well as by the sight of you clinging to Arthur's limp body. She had already lost one of her nephews and couldn't bear the weight of losing another one. Not her sweet Arthur. Not him,

"We're fucking losing her too!" Tommy exclaimed, "fucking help me!"

"Heaven!" She called, grabbing your shoulder and shaking you but all you did was scream one last time. A haunting and otherworldly wail that pierced the darkness. A sound so agonizing and inhumane that it seemed to tear at the very fabric of existence. It echoed across the building, carrying with it the weight indescribable of sorrow and despair as your arms tightened your grip around your dying husband.

The smell of blood hid Tommy's musky perfume that was tingling your nostrils. The deafening ringing in your ears covered Polly and her nephew's voice. Your breaths came shallow and weak, your body becoming heavier as darkness crept in. Slowly, your eyes fluttered shut. In one final movement, you collapsed beside your husband, your last thought a silent hope that he would live.

Or that you would at least die trying to save him.

✞ Any comment, review, reblog, or constructive criticism is welcome. Your reactions really motivate me and keep me alive, so please don't be shy. English is not my first language. gif by the wonderful @alicent-targaryen.

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[novashelby]

Forgive Me-Tommy Shelby Smut

Pairing: TommyxReader(third person)

Word count: 2k-ish

Summary: Tommy Shelby is attracted to his attorney's daughter, and decides to corrupt her little nun brain at work.

Prompt: "What makes you think I am going to fuck you?"

Warning: Degrading language, non-con, Dubcon, oral(m), religious banter.

@darlingsfandom

“Y’know,” Tommy said, weaving himself through the wooden pews. It was a rare occasion that he was in church as he and God didn’t talk very much. If not, at all. You see, they weren’t on the best of terms. But he could admit that. He had no shame in his religious affiliations, or lack of. But her? Looking at her kneeling in the novice robes with her hands folded was laughable, at best. Tommy pointed his finger at her, wiggling it. “This, honestly…Love, why?”

She’d been trying hard to focus on her prayer for the last thirty minutes, knelt down, hands folded. Stiffening, she rolled her eyes up and let out a long sigh of frustration. Perhaps she was a little wild in her teen years, but what did he know of any of it? He was just her father’s client. Her father was an attorney, a big wig one in London. However, she hardly ever associated with him. And the only times she ever spoke with Mr. Thomas Shelby was when she was required to go to dinner parties and he just so happened to be there. “Mr. Shelby,” she greeted, though he’d been circling the pews for quite some time.

Finally he made it to hers, sliding in and kneeling right next to her. When his elbow caressed her arm, she flinched away, giving him a wild look. Amused, he asked, “oh, sorry, is that a sin these days? I mean, you are a messenger of God…know all his updated terms of services, eh?”

Getting up, she looked down at him.  “Instead of saundering within the pews, perhaps you should head to confession, Mr. Shelby. I can direct you, if you’d like? Or….” She leaned in, a snarky grin playing on her face. “I can give you the fast pass to hell, surely the Devil can’t wait to meet his biggest fan from Birmingham, eh?” It was the mockery for him. The little teasing infliction of her voice. Eh. He reached up to grip her cheeks, but she turned away before he could. Tommy got up and followed her, and when she heard the click of his lighter, she stopped. “There is no smoking allowed in the church, Thomas. Put it out.”

The cigarette rested between his fingers. “Do the rules still apply to nonbelievers?”

“If you are such a nonbeliever,” she said, turning on her heels. “Then you’d best find better company elsewhere.” Instead of leaving, he sat on the priest’s velvet chair on the altar. He leaned back, crossing his legs as if it was his lounge chair. Luckily for her, she was the only one in the church besides a few custodians. 

“What would your father say,” he said, pointing at her with a cigarette, giving her a knowing look. “Being so disrespectful to his client. To an older person. To a man.”

“He’d say nothing,” she quipped, gathering her bag with her notes and bible. Some of her hair had been peeking through her white veil. Tommy pushed off the chair and walked over, grabbing her arm. Flinching, she pushed him off, a nasty glare on her face. “Don’t touch me-”

“C’mere,” he said, regaining his grip and pulling her in. “You’re being immodest,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes as he poked the loose strands back under the veil. People were weak under him. Once they were trapped by his little games, it was hard to push away. And she was no different, so small under him. Like the good girl she was meant to be, she stayed in place. “You see,” he started, words muffled slightly from the smoke perched between his lips. “I don’t think this is all you. I think…I think you are here just to be a little fuckin’ brat-”

“Mr. Shelby,” she interjected. “If you don’t mind, I have to get to study.”

When she tried to move from him, he gripped tighter. “I do mind, actually.” Yes, it was true, she had a wild era once in her teens. But it stopped at dancing and drinking. Never had she ever broken the seal. The church was safe. It was to keep her safe, and never had she considered the scenario where a man had her trapped. Mr. Shelby of all men. The small of her back pressed against the side of a wooden pew, digging into her body. The edge felt sharp, even through her thick robes. “I quite like your company. I find it…redeeming? As if my soul is just cleansing being in your presence.”

“You’re mocking me,” she said in a mere whisper, their eyes connecting.

“No,” he said, sarcastically while his knee pressed between her legs. “It’s true. Forgive me, I’m just thinking….” He paused, words trailing off. “Just how much you can save me.”

“I’ll pray for you,” she said, pushing at his chest, but he was just too strong for her.

Grinning, he leaned in, forehead resting against hers. “And how do you pray? On your knees? Hmmm…that’s a good idea. You’ll pray for me, right here. On your knees. Go on, be a good little girl and get on your knees.” He stepped back and waited. His face said it all…don’t try to move. Without breaking eye contact, she slid to her knees. A nun, sure, but she knew enough about life to understand what he wanted. “What do you think you should do?” he asked, all emotion leaving his voice. Her hands reached up to his trousers, closing her eyes. To his amusement, her fingers fumbled with the belt loop, struggling. “I guess those wild years did you no good. Or are you just out of practice? C’mon.” He took over, undoing the metal clasp on his belt and unzipping his trousers.

Eyes squeezed shut, chin quivering, she sobbed. “Mr. Shelby, please-”

“It’s coming, love,” he chuckled, flicking her forehead. “Take it out.”

“You don’t understand,” she said, pleading, tears streaming down her face. “I could lose my apprenticeship!”

“Then Mr. Shelby will give you a better one,” he said, grabbing her hand and placing it against his hardening cock. “Take it out, go on. Do your job.” She couldn’t look at him while doing it; pulling the waistband of his underwear down by the hooks of her fingers. Her fingers gently caressed the cock before it came out, displayed in front of her. Gently, he lifted her chin. “Open your eyes.” Her eyes fluttered open, averting her glance from his cock. Tommy laughed, and teased, “looks like you don’t wanna be here. Come on now, put a smile on that pretty face.” He pulled the sides of her trembling lips and forced a smile upon her face. “There we go, all happy to take your father’s cock.” The words were enough to send a chill up her spine, nevermind his throbbing cock lightly teasing at her lips. Releasing her lips, he snaked his hand around her head and grabbed her hair through her veil. “That’s what you call your priest, right? Haha, Father Shelby….Fuckin’ ‘ell. Never in my life….” 

“I’ll do it,” she agreed in a whisper. Just please stop taunting me. 

“I know you will,” he said, his other hand rubbing her cheek. What he did next took her by surprise; pulling her head back and a ball of spit forming at his lips. He spit in her face. “Cause I know and you know that deep, deep down you are a dirty fuckin’ girl that craves a cock buried in her holes.” She nodded to please him, repeating that she was a dirty girl and that she wanted his cock in one of her holes. The spit was running down her cheek, dripping to her dress leaving a wet streak. 

“Ahhh,” she moaned, opening her mouth wide and sticking her tongue out. He commented how no true good girl knows how to display her mouth so pretty. Leaning in, she took the tip first; kissing, sucking with a pop. Salty and feeling like sin, his precum rested on her tongue. Deeper he had told her, hands resting on the back of her head, pressing her lightly.

His hips jerked and twitched slightly as he cursed. “Shit,” he hissed, fingers digging into the veil. “C’mon, you can take daddy in more. I know you can…Fuck, baby. How dare you try to hide this mouth from me.” Nervously, she choked and tried to back away before taking him in a little more; tongue swirling around his length. 

With a free hand, she wrapped her fingers around the base of his cock and pumped while her tongue worked the tip. Removing him from her mouth, she slid her lips in an array of kisses and licks around the shaft before taking him in again, sucking up and down, drool dripping from her bottom lip. Tommy closed his eyes, gently rocking his hips into her, head thrown back. Fuck he hissed, enjoying how her mouth was so warm and wet around him. It took all his strength not to pick her up and throw her over the altar. No, no…he couldn’t be that disrespectful. “Fuck, baby girl…You’re too good. You’re so good for me. Look at you…being such a whore for the Devil of Birmingham.” She hated to admit it, but it was getting to her; his hands, his words, his cock. Her legs were trembling with need, and it made her feel ashamed. Sucking his cock, she moaned at his degrading, taunting banter.  “Faster, whore….C’mon, take your daddy deeper.” He pushed in more. The poor girl choked as it hit the back of her throat, but he loved that. It was the best feeling; dominating a cunt’s throat. The way it would make their throat burn. It certainly made hers burn in agony, but she wanted to make him happy. He paused, thumb wiping away tears from under her eyes, giving her a moment's beak. Then, to his surprise, it was her who started bobbing her head again, looking up at him with doe-like eyes. 

Tommy didn’t break eye contact, enjoying it as some form of submission. Bobbing her head faster, her moans matched the speed. To keep him the way she wanted, she gripped his hips. “What a pretty girl,” he commented when she pulled back, allowing the pool of spit in her mouth to drip over his twitching dick. She smiled up at him, lips puffy and abused, before sucking him back in; licking, sucking, swallowing. He helped her along, feeling his orgasm build up; bucking his hips forward, faster and with better rhythm. “Good girl, my good girl…fuck! You’re going to swallow it all for me, right?”

“Mmmhm,” she moaned, cock filling her mouth as she matched his speed.

“Daddy is going to fill all those fuckin’ holes,” he said mid high. “Every one, baby girl. You’re gonna drip his cum from your tight ass and daddy’s going to breed that tight fuckin’ cunt.” His words spilled out, and after a while, he was incoherent. His orgasm ripped through him, lacing the inside of her mouth with hot ropes of cum. “F-fuck,” he groaned, getting a few last pumps out while his eyes went hooded. Breaths jagged and uneven, he pulled away, gripping her chin. “Show daddy…ah, good fuckin’ girl. Swallow it.”

“Ahhh,” she moaned, mouth opened as if she was proud before swallowing it. It tasted salty and a bit sweet. Truthfully, perhaps a little vile, but it made her feel dirty. Tommy leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cocked ruined lips. “Thank you, sir.”

“I told you,” he said, teasing. “I know you are just a dirty little slut deep down. Now, are you going to go repent your dirty little sins or do you want to go for a ride with Mr. Shelby?” He tucked himself away and helped her up. “C’mon.” He answered for her, helping her out of the church and to his car. 

She looked up at him, and asked with a teasing glint in her eyes, “What makes you think I’m going to fuck you?” 

“We already established,” he started, pushing the wooden doors open. “You’re a dirty little girl.” 

[mischievouslittlecreature]

Part 1: Hidden Devotions

Summary: The impending arrival of guests in the Dreadfort has everyone in the castle on edge.

Word Count: 5,187

Warnings: A few slight allusions to abuse.

Notes: Heavenerys and Amos belong to @call-sign-shark.

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Chapter 1: Drawn to the Flame

The snow crunched under her boots, wet, thick flakes fluttering down from the sky to join the fine dusting already on the ground. Trees, naked of leaves, stretched their skeletal, twisting branches towards a sky that was almost entirely white with clouds. 

Lucilla Bolton shifted her weight from one foot to another, eyes cast out to across the half frozen lake she crouched on the embankment of. Her crossbow, a weighty, ornate weapon carved with intricate, swirling designs and the sigil of her house, rested heavily in her hands. 

Across the lake, a little red fox hopped out from the thick brush and trees that surrounded the lake on every side. It’s nose pointed to the ground, scrounging for food. Lucy watched it, the fox’s fur as red as her hair where it was coiled into a braid tossed over one shoulder. 

A sound must have alerted the fox, its ears pricking up before it went darting back into a nearby bush.

A cold nose nudged at Lucy’s elbow. Glancing over, she managed a weak smile to the large, black wolfdog currently nuzzling at her, his fluffy tail wagging from side to side when she raised her hand to stroke the top of his huge head. 

“I know,” she murmured, scratching him behind the ears. “Good boy, Shadow.”

His tail wagging increased. 

With a sigh, Lucy cast one last look across the lake. It would be a while, she expected, until she would have time enough to slip away and be on her own like this again. Not with all the non-stop celebrations that were about to occur over the next few days.

Tipping her head back, she battled to find the glimmer of the sun through the thick covering of clouds. She ought to be getting back. Her father would have a fit if she was late. 

“Come along, children,” she said to Shadow and the other two wolfdogs playing nearby. They fell into step beside her dutifully when she rose, walking to where her horse was tied to a nearby tree.

“No,” she pushed Lila’s head away from where she was sniffing at one of the rabbits Lucy had caught where they were dangling from the saddle. “You’ve already had one.”

Lila dipped her head obediently, white coat puffed up against the cold. Lucy gave a fond little ruffle to her head, and went to untie the rope securing the horse to the tree.

Unloading her crossbow and strapping it to her back, she then pulled herself up onto the back of the chestnut mare. Sin snorted once, sides flexing against Lucy’s legs, and set off at a steady canter through the woods, the wolfdogs flanking them on either side. 

She weaved through the trees until they came to the bank of the Weeping Water. On the opposite side of the river, a few men were ice fishing in the freezing depths. 

She followed along the bank until the Dreadfort came into view. A huge, strong fortress, her home was comprised of thick, grey stone walls. Massive towers reached for the sky. Triangular merlons pointed upwards like sharp teeth. 

Exiting the woods, Lucy pushed Sin into a fierce gallop across the massive field that sprawled between the trees and the castle. Her dogs raced alongside the horse, tongues lolling excitedly from their mouths. Freezing wind whipped at her face and hair, turning her cheeks pink from the chill.

She rode through the gates and into the courtyard, drawing Sin to a stop. There was a significant amount of bustle going on in the yard. Servants, stable boys, and armored guards running around to hastily complete the final preparations that needed to take place before their guests arrived.

“Did you have a good ride, my lady?” the stable master asked. She dismounted with a fluid motion and passed him the reins.

“Yes, thank you.” She gestured to her catch still dangling from the saddle. “Make sure that those rabbits are sent to the kitchens, will you?” 

“Of course.”

“And let my handmaids know that I’m back and would like a bath prepared for when I come upstairs.”

“Right away, my lady.”

She handed off her crossbow to an armorer, clicking her tongue to have her dogs converging in close to her.

“Do you want the dogs taken into the kennels, Lady Lucilla?” the kennel master asked when she passed him by where he was trying to wrangle Amos’s hounds into the various kennels located around the yard.  

“No, I’ll just keep them in my room during the festivities, thank you.” Her dogs and Amos’s hounds didn’t always get along. And the wolfdogs had a proclivity for howling when they decided that they wanted attention or weren’t pleased with their lodgings. 

She pulled her black leather gloves from her hands, keeping them clutched in one hand as she walked through the entrance leading into the castle. 

“Where have you been?”

She sighed heavily at the all too familiar voice.

“The woods,” she replied simply, continuing her walk towards the staircase. 

“And you’re only just getting back now?” Elyas stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop with a huff of annoyance.

He was tall. Likely to be the tallest of all her brothers–despite being the second youngest–when he was done growing. Lucy already had to crane her head up to look at him. They shared the red hair inherited from their Tully mother, but where Lucy’s eyes were a dark, gentle brown, Elyas’s were as cold as the snow outside. Just like their father’s. 

“I wanted to take the dogs out before they have to be cooped up for the rest of the day.” She picked at the sleeve of her riding jacket. “I already finished all the duties Mum and Aunt Lorelei gave me this morning. I just have to bathe and get changed.”

Elyas scowled, likely having hoped that he’d caught her skirting her responsibilities so he could get her into trouble. “Amos will kill you if you’re not ready when they arrive.”

“I have plenty of time.” She side-stepped him. “But I’ll have less if you keep chattering to me. Go find William wherever he is pulling the legs off insects or torturing mice if you need someone to go bother.”

He didn’t follow her up the rest of the stairs, thankfully. Annoying brat. Only four and ten, and yet he already thought that he had the authority to boss her around.  

When she opened the door to her chambers, it was to find her handmaids already present, finishing preparing the bath she had ordered, and a fire already crackling in the hearth. The dogs went to sprawl out on the fur rugs in front of it. 

“Thank you,” Lucy told Beatrice after she’d taken her riding jacket from her. 

“Is it snowing terribly outside, my lady?” Jill asked, finishing with the bath and approaching them. 

“A little. But they say it’s supposed to clear before our guests arrive.” She sat down to unlace her shoes, waving Beatrice and Jill away when they moved to help. “I can manage the rest. Go find my mother and tell her I’ll be ready to get dressed in ten minutes or so.” 

The girls nodded, and quickly departed. 

Lucy finished disrobing, tossing her riding clothes haphazardly over the back of a chair by the fire, and sinking into the steaming bathwater. A soft sigh of relief left her lips at the warmth enveloping her, head tipping back against the rim.

She’d always maintained that she was not built for such cold climates. Even when wrapped up in layers of the finest, warmest fabrics, she often caught herself getting chilled.

Her eyes cast lazily around her chambers. They were lit dimly, like most rooms within the Dreadfort. Very little natural sunlight came in through the rectangular windows, the majority of illumination in the room sourced from the hearth in which she almost always kept a fire burning. 

Turning her face away from the room, Lucy gathered up a handful of water from the bathtub, splashing it onto her face. Her fingers closed around the slab of soap, scented and perfumed with her preferred scents rose and vanilla. She scrubbed at her skin urgently, until it turned pink, taking care to wash away the lingering scent of horses, dogs, and forest. 

She just stepped from the bath and pulled on her dressing gown when her mother came sweeping into the room with Beatrice and Jill in tow.

Genevieve Tully was short, though not as short as Lucy, with auburn hair that fell in loose curls down to her waist. And while she and Lucy looked alike, sharing the same red hair and brown eyes, her mother’s face was rounder and softer. Lucy had often thought that her mother looked an awful lot like a doll. 

A sad, haunted doll. 

There was a large bundle of dark fabric clutched in her hands. Lucy watched her lay it out onto the bed. Her mother had been working on the various dresses they were to wear during all the festivities for months.

“How are the preparations coming along?” she asked, taking note of her mother’s frazzled expression, the skin around her lips tight with tension. Beatrice and Jill started helping her into her underlayers. 

“Well enough. You know how these things always go. They’re just putting the finishing touches on the great hall now. Lorelei is a nervous mess. She wants everything to be perfect.”

Lucy hummed in acknowledgement, her maids helping her into the dress. Her mother stood back, hands ringing nervously, eyes assessing the lay of the fabric, looking for any flaws. 

“I can do the rest. You two go along and help downstairs,” she ordered Beatrice and Jill. Soon as they were gone, she took an apprehensive step towards Lucy, peering at her from over her shoulder in the mirror they were standing in front of, reaching out to adjust the dress’s neckline. 

“You look lovely.”

Lucy cocked her head, examining herself in the mirror. The dress was of heavy black material, with glittering black beads embroidered into elegant swirls that bordered the neckline and cuffs. Her fingers trailed along the strip of pale skin that was revealed by the plunging neckline.

“Father won’t like how low cut it is.”

Her mother sighed, reaching back to start styling Lucy’s hair for her. “Bugger what he thinks. You’re meeting royalty today. You should look your best.”

“You’re sure it isn’t too tight in the waist?”

“It’s not. You have a beautiful figure. It would be a shame not to show it off.”

Lucy squinted at the face full of dense freckles that stared back at her in the mirror. “I doubt that our guests will be paying much attention to me.” Her father was the younger brother of the late Lord Bolton and Amos’s father. Set to inherit nothing. Their branch of the family was ultimately inconsequential. Especially in the eyes of the ruling house of Westeros. 

Her mother shot her a look over her shoulder. “You never know.” 

“I’m still surprised that they decided to have the wedding here and not in King’s Landing.”

“Perhaps they wish to strengthen their ties with the north. Some of the houses up here often feel neglected by the crown.”

Lucy cocked her head. She supposed that also would explain why the future queen was planning to live primarily in the Dreadfort for the time being, rather than King’s Landing.

“Besides, they’re already having the coronation in the capitol.” Her mother finished pinning her hair up and was just reaching for the cloak Beatrice or Jill had deposited onto the bed, when the door opened. She froze.

“Victor.”

Lucy looked up sharply at the name falling from her mother’s lips. He was standing in the doorway, jaw set tightly. His eyes stared at them, cold and unwavering. 

“Genevieve, will you give me a moment alone with Lucilla?” 

Her mother hesitated, shooting Lucy a nervous look. Lucy slipped into the chair in front of her vanity, reaching for her cosmetics. She gave her a small nod.

Her mother shifted uncomfortably, clearly still reluctant to leave her alone with him, but headed to the door. Beside the hearth, Shadow lifted his head from where it had been resting on top of his huge paws, eyes gleaming in the firelight, watching Lucy’s father suspiciously. 

She raised an eyebrow at him. She was fairly certain she hadn’t done anything particular today to anger him. “What do you want?” she asked, looking at him through the mirror, setting about dabbing perfume behind her ears and to her wrists, then sliding her gold rings into place on her fingers.

He approached her slowly, each footstep meeting the floor with an audible thud, until he was standing right behind her. 

“You are not to make any trouble today, do you understand?”

“Why would I make any trouble?” she asked, not looking at him, instead keeping her eyes lowered to the vanity. 

“Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t love to see this house plunged back into irrelevance.”

She felt her jaw twitch. Standing, she went to pick up the black leather gloves her mother had left for her sitting on the bed, pulling them on.

“This is an order from Amos directly, Lucilla,” her father continued. She had to fight the urge to roll her eyes.

It drove her mad, sometimes. How so much of the family acted as if Amos were a god. Yes, he had lifted House Bolton to a higher, more respectable position than they could ever have imagined. But the bodies and blood which had fueled that rise made her stomach churn. They were more respected than ever before, but only because they’d garnered a reputation for torture and cruelty. 

One could not rule through fear alone. Love was just as important. There had to be balance between the two.

Lucy could not help but wonder how much longer they could continue on like this, before their constituents had enough. 

And now Amos was about to be king. 

The idea of what he could do with that kind of power, what kind of pain he could inflict, made her muscles seize with horror. 

“If we can’t trust you to behave yourself, you can sit here in your room until the festivities are over,” her father decreed, those cold eyes still boring into her. 

“The queen is going to be living here after the wedding,” she pointed out. “What are you going to do? Keep me locked up in my chambers forever?”

One of his hands shot out to grip her face, fingers squeezing at her cheeks. Forcing her to meet his eyes.

“If you ruin this for him…”

She shoved his hand away, jerking her face back. “Do you really think I’m that stupid?” Her membership to their house was the only thing that had so far protected her from the absolute worst punishments her family liked to dole out, but she knew that even that would not be enough to save her if she wrecked Amos’s wedding to the future queen of Westeros.

Her father stared down into her eyes, jaw working. He was a severe, rugged looking man, with ice cold eyes and a meticulously trimmed beard. His blonde hair was inherited from his mother, who had been of a house in the crownlands, but the rest of him was pure Bolton. His lips downturned at the corners in an eternal frown, brow creased forever in a look of deep disapproval. Lucy could not even recall a time when she had ever seen her father smile. 

Turning away from her, he reached for the dark cloak laying on the bed, its collar made of soft, dark fur. He draped it over her shoulders in a way that, if done by anyone else, might have seemed gentle.

Hands still resting on her upper arms, he leaned into her shoulder, lips almost brushing against her ear. “Don’t embarrass me, Lucilla,” he whispered, the unspoken threat beneath his words obvious to them both.

He let her go without another word, and went to the door. Lucy shivered, tugging her cloak tighter around her. Shadow whined, getting up and coming over to nudge at her legs with his nose. Lucy gave him a few scratches behind the ear, then ventured to the window to peer outside. The snow had let up, the clouds beginning to break apart. 

Pulling away from the window, she made for the door, closing it securely behind her. Weaving through the corridors, she ventured down a hall and pushed open a door leading outside to a balcony. Leaning against the cold stone edge, Lucy cast her gaze down onto the bustle of people putting the finishing touches on the courtyard below.

There was slight stirring of the wind, just enough to have the loose locks of crimson hair resting against Lucy’s cheeks fluttering. That was her only warning before the sky erupted with a huge, bellowing roar. 

Her head whipped around, tilting upwards, eyes scanning the skies. Another roar answered the one which had just sounded. Then another. And another. 

And then a massive, pitch black shadow burst from the clouds, swooping down towards the castle. 

She felt her breath catch at the first sighting of a real, living dragon. Its scales were black as night, as were the horns and even the membranes of its two enormous wings. The only visible color on the creature were its two great, dark red eyes. Even in the daylight, they seemed to flicker and glow. Its horns were curved back towards its long neck, large spines sprouting like massive thorns from its back. 

It dive-bombed the castle, seemingly headed straight for her, and for a moment she thought that it wasn’t going to pull up in time, but instead collide head-on with her and smash her flat beneath its massive body.

But at the last moment it veered away, exposing its belly to her, revealing that the scales there were as black as the ones covering its back. The dragon whooshed over the castle, coming close enough for her to feel the rush of air when it flapped its wings. She watched it glide over the courtyard, heading for the large field just outside the castle walls. On the dragon’s back, she could make out the blot of a figure garbed in dark colors seated in the saddle. 

From the sky, more dragons began to descend. A massive one of pure white circled the castle twice before joining the black dragon in landing on the barren field. Another with black scales but with red scattered throughout its coloring followed right behind. Lucy watched, transfixed, as they each swooped over and around the castle, as if assessing it, before landing. Dragons of red, blue, green, and gold scales, varying in sizes, their roars to announce their presence each distinctive in their own right.

Lucy could not have pulled herself away from her position gawking down from the balcony even if the entire castle had been on fire. Wonderment flooded her veins at the beautiful creatures that, until that moment, she had only ever read about. Just barely, she could make out the little figures dismounting from their mounts’ backs.

She wondered if any of them would be kind enough to let her see the dragons up close. 

The black one that had dived towards her turned its head, and she could have sworn those crimson eyes looked directly at her. She felt her heart leap into her throat, the reality of the situation they’d found themselves suddenly feeling an awful lot more real than it had that morning. 

The Targaryens were here. 

∗ ∗ ∗

They received the dragon lords in the courtyard. Standing in a line straight as an arrow, shoulder to shoulder, with their household gathered behind them. Lucy could feel nerves tightening in her throat, eyes glued to the gates.

When they swung open, they all fell to their knees, heads bowed respectfully before the royal family.

Flanked by knights wearing the snow white cloaks of the Kingsguard, the Targaryens led the procession that came streaming in. Practically half of court looked to be behind them, waiting to be let inside or setting up camp in the fields surrounding the Dreadfort. Many from the south had made the journey north to be present at the wedding of the princess.

Dowager Queen Pollyanna Targaryen was at the front, her chin tilted upwards, hair that was half brown, half platinum blonde swung around her face. She had ruled over Westeros as Queen Regent for many years following her first husband’s death, until her only child with the king was of age to wed and claim her title as queen. For her part, Pollyanna looked every bit as Lucy had imagined she would: regal and wise beyond her years. A true matriarch of the Targaryen family in every possible way.

She marched towards them, coming to a halt directly in front of Amos. With an almost indiscernible twitch of her gloved fingers, she indicated for them all to rise. 

“Lord Bolton,” Pollyanna said once they were all back on their feet, gaze fixed upon him. 

“Queen Pollyanna,” he dipped his head respectfully.

Pollyanna looked him up and down. Then reached a hand back, gesturing to one of her family who had followed her into the courtyard. 

A small, unfathomably beautiful girl stepped forward. Her hair was the purest white, falling long and untethered down her back. Her eyes were wide and an unearthly, almost glowing blue, skin nearly as pale as her hair. She was young. Younger than Lucy, even, by at least a few years. She could only have been seven and ten at the most. 

She looked like an angel. A creature of winter and frost and ice. 

She would do well here, up in the north. Lucy could tell from just a glance. 

“May I present Princess Heavenerys Targaryen,” Pollyanna announced, the pride in her voice regarding her daughter obvious. 

Lucy watched Amos’s reaction to his future wife with interest, brow raising at the way his lips visibly parted, eyes widening at the sight of Heavenerys.

She could have almost said that he looked enamored–or at least as enamored as her cousin was capable of looking. 

The rest of the royal family were still gathered behind Heavenerys and Pollyanna. There was Prince Mikael, Pollyanna’s child with her second husband who she wedded after the king’s death. And then there were the children of Pollyanna’s brother, the late Aerthurys I. Standing at the front was Prince Aerthurys II, with his bushy mustache and a deep, pained look in his eyes. There was Prince Jon, gaze fixed like a protective hawk onto Heavenerys, and beside him was Princess Aedarya, her long dark hair shifting through the breeze, glinting almost auburn in the right light. She had a hand resting on the youngest, Prince Fynlor’s, shoulder. 

While none had hair as pale as Heavenerys, all had the same striking violet eyes that marked them indisputably as the blood of the dragon.  

All but one.

Prince Thomaryon Targaryen stood beside Aerthurys. His hair, dark as night, made him a notable outlier next to his siblings, even more so when paired with his piercing, pale blue eyes.

His lack of the typical Targaryen features had stirred up whispers across the realm that he was a bastard. It was even said that there were some within court and the royal family who had suspicions regarding his legitimacy. But Thomaryon, notorious for his ambition as much as for his solemn and cold disposition, had made himself invaluable to the ruling of Westeros. He may have been the second oldest of his line, but it was indisputable that he was the most clever and suited to politics out of all his siblings. Mumblings of his giftedness in the art of ruling had even made it all the way up to the most northern houses in the realm. 

Lucy’s gaze which had been sweeping across the royal family settled on him and refused to budge. There was a sudden tightening in her chest, her heartbeat kicking up a notch.      

He was absolutely breathtaking. Sharp, chiseled features, with high cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass. But the severity that his face could have held was somewhat softened by the fullness of his lips and the snub of his nose. 

She stared at him, feeling as though something had just been stirred awake inside her. It had become suddenly far clearer to her why many of the ladies who traveled south practically waxed poetic about the beautiful, melancholic prince and his eyes that were the color of sapphires. 

Those eyes shifted from where they had been fixed on Amos and Heavenerys to suddenly lock onto hers. Lucy met them for only a minuscule of a second, just long enough to see them widen a fraction, before she quickly looked down and away. Her cheeks warmed at having been caught staring. 

“Let me introduce you to my family,” Amos’s voice pulled her attention away. He had given Heavenerys his arm, guiding her down the line of Boltons, introducing her first to his mother, Lorelei, and then his younger brother, Orion.

“And this is my Uncle Victor and Aunt Genevieve,” Amos gestured to Lucy’s parents, who both bowed respectfully to the future queen. Lucy and her brothers were standing in order of birth, meaning that as the oldest she was standing beside her mother.

“My cousin, Lucilla.” It was likely that no one else noticed the slight way in which Amos’s voice tightened with irritation at her name.

“Princess Heavenerys,” Lucy smiled as warmly as she could, ignoring the way her cousin’s black eyes stared at her in silent warning. She bowed her head to the princess. Heavenerys smiled shyly at her. She truly was a little thing, only taller than Lucy by perhaps a few inches. It was strange to not have to crane her head up to meet her gaze.

Amos tugged Heavenerys further down the line, likely eager to get her away from Lucy.

“And these are her brothers, Theodan, Patrek, Elyas, and William…”

His voice faded as Lucy lifted her head to find the piercing blue of Thomaryon’s eyes still staring at her, the expression on his face indecipherable.       

Amos’s voice rose loud and clear across the courtyard, reiterating a welcome to the Targaryens, and inviting them into the castle to rest and relax after a long day of travel before the welcoming feast that was to be held that night. 

The Targaryens started to make their way inside. Lucy shifted from foot to foot, only half hearing her mother’s voice or feeling her hand on her arm when she started to draw her away.

Her mind was too preoccupied with the memory of Thomaryon’s bright blue eyes, staring at her intensely from across the courtyard. Or the interest that she could have sworn she saw in them. 

∗ ∗ ∗

The great hall of the Dreadfort was a dim and smoky abode. Rows of torches lined the walls, grasped by skeletal human hands. Long tables were set up before the dais that housed the high table and seat of the Lord of the Dreadfort. The ceilings were vaulted, wooden rafters dyed black from smoke.  

Food was piled high on every table, black and red candles flickering in their stands. Cutlery clinked against plates, chatter growing louder throughout the hall as its residents downed wine or ale and became more acquainted with each other. Cheery music echoed through the hall; a strange thing, Lucy could not even remember the last time they’d had actual minstrels play for them in the castle.

Lucy sat between her mother and brother, Teddy at the high table, where all of houses Bolton and Targaryen were seated for the feast. Though as the evening went on, a few got up to mingle about the hall with the other guests.

Lucy picked at her meal and sipped at her wine, bored. Normally, Teddy would be her primary companion during an event like this, but he had been placed on Ricky duty by Amos and her father for the duration of the Targaryen’s stay. Which meant that he had to spend the majority of the evening trailing after their troubled little brother, snatching wine glasses out of his hand before had a chance to become too inebriated and make a fool of himself, as he was oft to do.   

That left her on her own, gaze sweeping over their guests lazily. At the head of the table, Amos and Heavenerys sat side by side, talking animatedly. Lucy felt her brows draw in at the way that they were looking at each other. Heavenerys’s smitten expression was not entirely shocking; Amos had always been capable of being quite charming when he wanted to be. But the look on Amos’s face, one of almost complete captivation, took Lucy entirely by surprise. 

“He seems quite taken with her,” her mother commented into her ear, having followed her gaze. 

“Yes, he does.” Lucy shifted in her seat, swirling the red wine in her cup. “Who would have thought, eh?”

Her mother gave her a look. “Perhaps this was what he needed. Maybe she can…help him.”

You mean like how you helped Father? Remind me again how that’s worked out for you? She bit her tongue against the bitter words, glancing back over at their future king and queen.

“Perhaps,” she acquiesced. But I wouldn’t hold my breath.

That poor girl had no idea what she was in for. Amos may have turned up the charm now, but who knew if that would last after the other Targaryens returned to King’s Landing and left Heavenerys up here on her own. 

Her mother rose from her seat to go mingle, leaving Lucy to observe the rest of the party on her own. Mikael was speaking softly with her father in the corner. Pollyanna, still seated in her chair at the high table, watched the other guests in the hall with a scrutinizing eye. Jon had gotten himself caught up in a rowdy drinking game. Aedarya and Fynlor were chatting with Elyas and William. 

When her gaze shifted to fix across the room from her, it was to find a pair of what were becoming increasingly familiar blue eyes staring at her. 

As soon as her and Thomaryon’s gazes met, he quickly looked away. She wished that she was closer or that the lighting of the hall was not so dim, so that she could tell if the slight hue that flared across his cheeks was an actual blush, or just a trick of the light. He returned his gaze back to Lord Karstark, who was speaking to him from his spot seated across the table from the prince.

But every so often, throughout the rest of the duration of the feast, she sensed his eyes flickering over to gaze at her from across the room.

Previous Part • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

[shion-ah]

Death of me

Cillian Murphy as Thomas Fucking Shelby

"Do you honestly think I could ever forget?"

Hayley Atwell as Katherine Redwine

"Christ...just tell him or I will."

Annabelle Wallis as Grace Burgess

"Is that jealousy I hear?"

Joe Cole as John Shelby

"You'll always be a Shelby never get that."

Paul Anderson as Arthur Shelby

"Don't worry luv, we got you. Who do I gotta kill?"

Sophie Rundle as Ada Shelby

"You've always been there for me, of course I'll be here for you."

Helen McCrory as Polly Grey

"Us women are smarter. Now chin up, we have a job to do."

Chapter One

The air of Small Heath seemed to have a way of sticking to your skin or clothing. It left you feeling almost sticky and sweaty from the grim that would collect no matter how careful you chose to be. The people had grown used to such things and one could never be too precious about their clothing. Children seemed to run wild with their dogs and friends, men in the factories returning home covered in soot and the women trying to keep their homes cleaned to the best of their ability. Katherine Redwine had been brought up on Watery Lane and in her young mind, she believed that this was always going to be the case. “Kat, are you listening?” The annoyed voice of Ada rang through her ears pulling her attention away from the window. “Yes, of course. You were saying?” Katherine gave her friend a smile and lifted her cup of tea to her lips. It was rare that the two girls got moments like this and she didn’t mean to waste her time lost in the clouds. Ada watched Katherine with a sad smile of her own. Since the war Katherine hadn’t been the same, which she supposed was the common saying amongst the rest of the world. “I was saying that I think it is time that we get you back out there. You are a beautiful girl and I know anyone would be lucky to have you.” Ada leaned forward in her chair and crossed her ankles. “He wouldn’t want you to live like this. Pat-” “I’m alright I promise, I am just not ready. There’s still too much to do right now.” It wasn’t a complete lie. Since the men had come back home it had been a hard adjustment for her. First her brother had been killed and the man she had loved for most of her life had simply turned his back and had barely spoken a full sentence to her. And now that same man seemed to have found more trouble as if he had been fishing for it. Katherine shook her head placing the cup down back on the table giving the young Shelby woman’s hand a small squeeze. “But in the meantime I look forward to hearing all about how sweet and kind Freddie is.” At the mention of Freddie Thorne, Ada's cheeks began to flush, the usual reaction when the man was pulled into the conversation or whenever Ada told her friend of the latest escapades the two had gotten into. Katherine watched as Ada continued to talk about how much she loved Freddie and the latest times they had to meet up in secret, the forbidden romance felt like a dream she had had once. She had been so young when she first met him but those blue eyes of Thomas Shelby would forever haunt her. She was sure she would die with the image of his eyes, his smile permanently imprinted into her thoughts. She had been so angry with him, the sting of her slap across his face still stung her hand when she thought about it for too long. Of course when she had heard of what he found she wanted to try to knock some sense into him. 

And now she had a sinking feeling in her gut that felt like it was growing larger and larger each time she tried to swallow. Leave it to the most clever man she knew to bring down the eye of the government, the IRA, and god knows who else by finding and taking those guns. 

Thomas fucking Shelby. 

Those words rang in her mind when her man had told her, they rang when she confronted Charlie Strong and Curly. And once she had left Ada making her way down the street and heard of his stunt with the Chinese in a show to gather more bets. Any time she had tried to tell Thomas that he was getting into things he had no business doing, he would tell her that it “wasn’t women’s business” and would drop it at that, leaving Katherine to stare at him in a mix of frustration and continued heartache. 

Katherine began to make her way to the Garrison pub for her usual one drink with Harry giving a small nod and smile to the people she passed and in return would gain her own “Mrs. Shelby” greeting. She had grown numb to the nickname and had given up on correcting those that continued to use it and she decided to see it as a type of shield. No one fucked with the Peaky Blinders and the Shelby name went a long way in Small Heath. If Thomas had taught her anything it was to appear as calm and unbothered as possible when inside you just want to shoot something, or rather someone.

“Welcome in my lady, your usual?” Harry said, placing a glass down on the bar once Katherine had entered. She made her way to the middle of the bar and took her usual seat. “Yes please, Harry.” Katherine gave the older man a kind smile and glanced about the pub. The usual bar flies were about four glasses in and only acknowledged her with a simple nod or not at all. “How have you been Harry? Haven’t been given any trouble have you?”

“None, miss. Mostly the occasional drunkard fight but it ends well enough.” Harry placed the Irish whiskey down for the Redwine and leaned on the bar top. “You look as if you need a good drink and a good sleep.” Katherine huffed a laughed at her friend’s words and shrugged taking a sip from the amber liquid. “Don’t I always look this way?” She teased tilting her head. She had always enjoyed Harry’s company; he was kind in his own way and cared for the Garrison like it should have been. This was home and he had taken care of her when she had gotten so drunk she hadn’t been able to stand and he made sure that she would never reach that low again. He had made Katherine promise to not lose herself in her grief or heartbreak. He had been the father figure that she needed after Patrick had been killed. 

“Kat, don’t bullshit me.” Harry shook his head. Katherine spun her glass slightly, his gentle but stern tone was comforting in a sense. It was the same tone he had when he found her in the private room that Thomas always used. She had broken down and cried in Harry’s arms and was more whiskey than person and she was sure her breath could have caused an explosion if she lit a match. Earlier that day they had held a service for Patrick and it had really hit her that he was gone, her big brother, her protector was nowhere to be found. Just like her Tommy, sweet happy Tommy who was able to light up a room with his smile and whose laugh was contagious seemed to have died the same night. Harry had listened as she cried and mourned the lives lost and dreams that were crushed but once she was done he picked her up and helped her upstairs and cleaned her up and put her to bed. He had banned anyone giving her any kind of alcohol in the Garrison until she was able to function. He would be damned if the sweet girl turned into one of the men he served. “I’m fine Harry, I promise.” Katherine was touched as he watched her but before he could comment the doors to the Garrison were pushed open as the one man who she couldn’t stand walked through in the most attention way he could have. 

Fucking Thomas. 

(It will get better I promise but let me know what you think!)

[fireside-fanfics]

The Weight You Carry

Based on this prompt.

The rain drummed a soothing rhythm against the windows of Arrow House, a melody that usually lulled Jo into peaceful dreams. Tonight, however, sleep eluded her. She was wrapped in a blanket, curled in an armchair by the fireplace, her legs tucked beneath her. A book rested in her lap, but she hadn’t turned a page in over an hour. The flames cast a golden glow on the room, their warmth failing to chase away the unease that coiled in her chest.

The sound of the front door opening and closing startled her. She glanced at the clock on the mantel—well past midnight. Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, and she knew without looking who it was.

The door creaked open, and there he stood: Tommy Shelby, disheveled but still infuriatingly composed. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms lightly dusted with ink stains from his paperwork. His hair was slightly damp from the rain, the stray strands falling over his forehead making him look younger, softer. A small smile tugged at the corner of Jo’s lips at the sight of her husband entering their home.

“You’re still awake?” he asked, his voice low, laced with a hint of surprise. He stepped inside, letting the door close behind him. “I thought you’d be passed out by now.”

Jo gave a small shrug with a soft smile as she responded, “Couldn’t sleep... You’re back late.”

Tommy didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he crossed the room to her, his steps deliberate as though measuring the space between them. He sank into the chair opposite hers with a weary sigh, his body folding into the seat as though the weight of the day had finally caught up with him.

“Business,” he said simply, lighting a cigarette.

The flick of his lighter momentarily illuminated his sharp features—his eyes shadowed but attentive. He leaned back in his chair, studying her through the thin veil of smoke. Jo gestured toward the untouched glass of whiskey on the side table beside her.

“I poured that hours ago,” she murmured, “thinking it might help, but it didn’t feel right drinking alone.”

Tommy’s mouth tilted into a faint smirk. “Soft, are we? The Jo I know would’ve finished the bottle and dared me to keep up.”

She laughed softly, the sound warm and familiar, like the crackle of the fire. “The Jo you knew didn’t have a front-row seat to all your secrets. It changes a person.”

His smirk faded, his gaze flickering to the fire. “Does it, now?”

“It does,” she said, her tone softer now, less teasing. “You carry so much, Tommy. It’s hard not to feel it too.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Tommy inhaled deeply from his cigarette before leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

“You shouldn’t,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “You shouldn’t feel it, Jo. You shouldn’t carry anything I do. You’ve got enough on your own plate.”

Jo tilted her head, watching him with an expression that was equal parts exasperated and fond. “And yet, here I am on the sofa in my nightgown. Still awake. Still worrying about you.”

Tommy’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t quite a frown. “I’m not worth losing sleep over, Jo.”

“Not up to you to decide that,” she shot back, a hint of fire in her tone.

That drew a low chuckle from him. He extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray on the table between them, leaning back into his chair.

“Stubborn woman,” Tommy muttered, his eyes twinkling with delight beneath his lashes.

“Takes one to know one,” she countered with a grin.

Tommy shook his head, a rare softness creeping into his features as he watched her. There was something about the way the firelight danced on her skin, the way her eyes glimmered with unspoken determination, that made the exhaustion in his chest feel just a little lighter. The couple was silent for several minutes simply enjoying each other’s company. Tommy quietly watched Jo as she read her book.

“Do you ever regret it?” he asked suddenly.

Her brows furrowed. “Regret what, love?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely between them, his voice quieter now. “Being here. Staying.”

“Absolutely not, Tommy,” Jo answered firmly without hesitation. “Not once, not even for a second.”

Tommy’s gaze locked with hers, searching for any hint of doubt, but there was none. She stood, crossing the small space between them; she nudged his legs open with her knee and traced shapes on his thigh. Her hands found his, warm and steady against his calloused fingers.

“You’ve got this idea in your head,” she began, her voice soft but firm, “that you have to do everything alone. That no one could ever understand—that you have to keep it all locked up inside forever.”

Tommy opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off.

“I’m not asking for all of it, Tommy. I’m not even asking for most of it. I’m just asking for enough to know when you’re hurting, so I can remind you that you’re not alone.”

He stared at her, his throat working as he swallowed hard. For a man so accustomed to wielding control like a weapon, her words left Tommy disarmed. After a moment, he shifted and wrapped his hands around her waist. He guided her gently so she was seated on his lap; he wrapped an arm around her waist, anchoring her against him. Jo smiled widely as her knees bent and her legs listed on either side of him.

“Alright...” Tommy murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I can do that. I can give you that. Not tonight, but tomorrow.”

Jo leaned into him and rested her head against his shoulder, the tension in her body finally easing. “Sounds lovely, Tommy.”

For the first time that night, Tommy allowed himself to relax, his chin resting lightly atop her head as the fire crackled softly beside them. The rain continued its steady rhythm against the windows, but it no longer felt cold or lonely. For now, in the quiet warmth of the room, they were enough for each other.

[copinghex]

Summary: Tommy was just trying to get a cough syrup for Finn when she entered his life. Eleanor Clark lived twenty minutes away from his house and had never caught his eye, walking mostly under her mother's wing, their paths weren't meant to cross. The next seventeen years they spent together were blissful and their love was shiny as gold, but in a life on the edge of the law, love might not be enough. Could it be they were beguiled by fool's gold?

Chapter 1 - Lots of love, Thomas Shelby.

Eleanor welcomes Tommy back home, but the man who returns isn't the same who left.

Chapter 2 - Bloody money.

"Honestly, she knew the Shelby's currency was mostly illegal, she didn't care as long as it was brought home by her man. Currently, Tommy was far from it, he was closer to the devilish gangster from the gossip than anything."

Chapter 3 - Something great.

Amongst the dark, a glimpse of hope shines in Eleanor's life when she finds out Tommy is not indifferent as he shows.

Chapter 4 - Result of circumstance.

Tommy's distant behavior hasn't changed since Eleanor found out he doesn't want her to leave. Tired of his lack of reciprocation, her attitude pushes him out of his shell.

EXTRA STUFF:

All I need - Moodboard

Zodiac sign - Moodboard

Eleanor's dream life - Moodboard

Tommy must watch Bojack - Moodboard

Playlist

Eleanor's wardrobe

[evita-shelby]

The Archer

Sagittarius

it was pure coincidence that Eva was sagittarius

thanks for the idea @justrainandcoffee

[starlight045]

The Price of Revenge

| Chapter One |

| Luca Changretta X OC!

| Summarry: When Luca Changretta comes seeking revenge in the form of a Vendetta out for the Shelby family Elizabeth Shelby is forced to pick between two options. She can marry the man who has killed her brother or refuse and let the bloodshed continue. People get hurt, secrets are revealed and Elizabeth makes the unlikely decision. (This is set in 1925 during season 4 of the show Peaky Blinders.)

| I hope you guys like this story! And perusual feedback is encouraged. :)

Chapter One

1925, Birmingham, England

The rain came down steadily on the cobblestone streets in Birmingham. Luca Changretta stood in his hotel room looking out the window when Matteo came in. His sleeves were rolled up and his top buttons were undone.

“Luca,” Matteo said, taking his hat off. Luca stayed facing the window, turning his head over his shoulder to look at the man. He had his toothpick hanging out of his mouth.

“Matteo…dimmi.” he said, turning to look at him. Both Matteo and him had been close. Friends since infancy practically. Now they work together. Matteo helped him but sometimes Luca would lose his temper.

“John Shelby è morto. Abbiamo colpito Michael Grey ma pensiamo che sia sopravvissuto.” Luca nodded his head and walked up to the shorter Italian.

“Sì…sì, è grandioso. Perché quel fottuto Michael Grey è ancora vivo?” He asked, gritting his teeth.

“Someone managed to get him to the hospital on time I guess. I believe it was John’s wife.”

Luca shook his head and sighed.

“You can go Matteo.

____________________________________________________________

Angel Changretta who was Luca’s oldest brother and the eldest son of Vicente and Audrey Changretta was killed a year ago. It all started a year ago or so when the Shelby family found out Angel was the love interest of Lizzie Stark. So after Angel’s restaurant is burnt down Vicente goes to confront Arthur and John. But when both brothers threaten Angel the problem is made worse.

Vicente threatens the Shelby brothers and John gets into a fight with Angel beating him up and slashing his eyes. As a form of revenge, Vicente calls a hitman to kill Thomas Shelby but they end up killing his wife instead by mistake and later that week Angel is killed. This isn’t where the story ends as Vicente is ordered to be assassinated along with his wife Audrey but Audrey is spared and Arthur had shot Vicente.

With both his father and oldest brother dead Luca Changretta came from New York seeking revenge. The Changrettas were a family that belonged to a Mafia that dealt with liquor in New York. Luca was determined to avenge both his brother and father.

The Shelby family had all received black hands in their mail and were terrified. Everyone except for Elizabeth Shelby, the third oldest Shelby sibling.

When she received a call in her small neighborhood away from small heath she was surprised to hear the news. She came on the next train bags in hand as her family ushered her inside. “What’s going on? I got the call.” She asked setting her stuff down as Tommy and the whole family stood in the room together.

“Luca Changretta’s father and brother were killed by John and Arthur. Now he’s here from New York seeking revenge. It’s called a vendetta.” *He said, handing Elizabeth the card they all received.* __________________________________ And now here they were with John dead and Micheal in the hospital. Elizabeth hated staying in small heath; she promised herself she would never come back. She always hated what her brothers had been doing too. The killing, the illegal things, the never-ending wars.

But yet here she was and her younger brother was dead. He was killed by the men hired by an old flame. But her family didn’t know and she didn’t dare tell them.

Besides, it shouldn’t have mattered much. It happened when they were teenagers and Luca was just staying for a month as his father needed to clean up business.

He was different back then. Young, carefree, sweet, and caring. He was a doll. But now all Elizabeth heard was about how he had killed people or what he was doing in New York and that he had aged and grown cold. She knew a different Luca Changretta. And he knew a different Elizabeth Shelby.

____

The night was late and Polly Gray walked into a club wearing her red dress and fur shoulder wrap. She went to sit at the bar ordering champagne. As she sat a grey fedora was slowly placed next to her on the table.

The man’s tattoos were peaking out from under his sleeve, a black hand on his upper wrist, and a small cross on his middle finger. He stood letting the barman pour him a drink before sitting down next to her.

“This, is public enough, no?” he asked before taking a sip of the whiskey.

“yes.”

“So?” Luca asked in return.

“The boy in the hospital is out of bounds. And I’ll ask you to spare Finn and Arthur.” Polly said.

“In return for what?”

“Tommy Shelby.”

“And why should I trust you?” Luca asked before turning to look at Polly.

“Because you know our history. You know what happened between us.”

“You have an unlikely Cassius,” he said before drinking again. “You know…my mother. My mother knew your mother. She taught her how to read.” Luca said.

“Did she tell you that John and Arthur spared her life? When Tommy wanted her dead.” Polly asked not looking him in the eyes.

“Yeah and now she’s giving me the information about you people. So Tommy Shelby was right. his ruthlessness was justified. You should have killed her when you had the chance.” Luca told her.

“John was a good boy. Arthur tries. Tommy’s different. You take Tommy spare the rest.” Polly asked the man not once looking at him.

“But…What if it isn’t Tommy Shelby I want.” Luca asked which made Polly stop putting her dink down. “Years ago…I met this wonderful breathtaking girl. She was beautiful. Very polite in her mannerisms and all. I thought we’d get married one day.” Polly froze. He could only be talking about one person. “That is what I want. I want her.”

“Elizabeth is not a part of the deal.”

“Well, she is now. I marry her, we can end it.” Luca said as Polly sat there in disbelief not knowing what to do in this situation.

Polly didn’t look at Luca. She kept her eyes trained on anything but him.

“You know my mother used to say this about you. She said that ‘Polly Gray’ that child could never let go of a grievance.” Luca started making Polly look at him. “And she loves to dance. What do you say hm? Wanna dance?” Luca asked.

“I don’t dance, anymore,” Polly said as she stood up and pulled her fur shoulder wrap over her body before leaving.

“Yeah, that’s a shame. Cause you’re dancing with me.” Luca said as she walked off finishing his drink.

And Polly with this new news went to go tell Tommy that night. both she and him agreed that they wouldn’t settle with Luca’s new terms. There was no way they could marry off Liza who had never even picked up a gun in her life. It would kill her being married to an Italian mob boss.

A Week Later

It was a cold morning and tired of being cooped up in Small Health Elizabeth dressed up and went out. She was quite the painter and always had been. So as soon as she split from the chaos that was the peaky blinders she sold her art in upper Birmingham and even made it to a museum or two. She had planned on doing a few landscape portraits but couldn’t find the right tools at any of the nearby shops or vendors. So despite Tommy’s orders and wishes she went out in the outer parts of Birmingham and looked for what she needed.

It was at the fifth store of the day when she was looking at the different shades of blue when she felt the presence of someone standing behind her. Not thinking much of it she didn’t pay attention until it spoke up.

“That’s a nice shade.” He said and Elizabeth froze where she was at.

There was no way. It couldn’t be him. How did he find her if it was? Turning around Elizabeth’s suspicions were confirmed. It was Luca Changretta with his toothpick leaning against another shelf.

“Oh don’t tell me you don’t recognize me.” He smirked, taking his toothpick out and twisting it in his fingers.

Everyone was right. He did look older. He had a scar or two on his face and his eyes held more to them. As if he had seen the world and horrible things.

And of course, he was way taller and wore fine leather shoes along with tailored suits.

“Luca,” Elizabeth said softly.

“Elizabeth.” He said with a smirk.

“Are you here to kill me?” Elizabeth asked nervously.

“Because if you are just…just do it now.”

Luca just continued to smirk and he shook his head.

“No dolce I’m not here to kill you. Why would I do that?”

“Well because you killed my brother! You sent a black hand to my whole family except for me.”

“There’s a good reason for that Dolce. Besides it’s called a vendetta your brothers killed my brother and father.” And at that word, Elizabeth made a face.

“I just want to talk. Simple as that.” Luca shrugged putting his toothpick back between his lips.

“Fine,” Elizabeth muttered before going to buy her paints but Luca stopped her trying to buy them for her. “I can buy my own. I do make money Luca.”

“Let me be a gentleman, Liza,” he said putting the money down as Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

After the pair walked out Elizabeth was immediately met with the sight of Luca’s black Rolls Royce his men standing next to the car their pistols on their carriers.

Luca nodded to them before putting his hand on the small of Elizabeth’s back and walking down the street with him. She immediately swatted his hand away

With a spark of fear ready to ignite in her chest, she looked up at the tall mobster. “So Luca…if you’re not going to kill me. What the fuck do you want?”

“I met with your aunt, last night. She offered me a promising deal. To spare two of your brothers. and your cousin, for your brother Tommy.” Elizabeth’s head immediately snapped up to him her jaw dropped.

“Polly wouldn’t do that,” she said as Luca huffed out a laugh. “I didn’t think so either. She said uh, their history is why she’s doing it.” And Elizabeth thought about the story Ada had told her recently. how everyone was almost hung at the noose and Tommy saved them in the nick of time. Ironically it was also his fault.

“But I told her, Tommy isn’t the one I want,” Luca said looking down at Elizabeth. and Elizabeth felt the spark in her chest. Maybe he was there to kill her. Maybe he also grew into a liar. He was a mob boss now.

“I offered a deal. Marriage or vendetta?” which made her stop walking and Luca turned to look at her.

“You want to marry me.”

“I need a wife. I’ve got everything but one. Besides I liked what we had when we were young. I missed you.”

“Why would I marry you? You killed my brother. Almost killed my cousin. And you think things should be like when we were kids?” Elizabeth said getting bothered and upset.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Luca said gently grabbing her arm not wanting to draw attention.

“Get off of me,” she said yanking her arm off.

“I think you’d marry me, to stop this whole Vendetta. My mother told me about you now Elizabeth Shelby. You hate what your brothers do. You’ve never touched a gun. You hate your brothers for being like this. I hear you’re a great artist too. You already lost John. What about Arthur? or Finn? I know you’re close with Micheal at least. Wouldn’t be hard to kill that one. OR what about Ada hm? Your little sister.” Luca said as Elizabeth’s hands shook in fear and her eyes became wet.

Sure she wasn’t as bothered by Luca. But he unsettled her to her core. She knew she was no longer dealing with the sweet boy she once knew. She was now dealing with a grown man she didn’t know with the same eyes. They were essentially strangers. But strangers with memories.

“You choose, Liza. Vendetta…or marriage?” Luca told her. “You let me know soon amore,” he said pointing to her before Elizabeth turned around and walked away her legs wobbly. She couldn’t believe what had just happened.

____________________________________________________

[reiwanwan]

Sweet mourning lamb

When Tommy Shelby sits alone by the fire, haunted by the weight of war and business, an unexpected visitor steps out of the darkness—his sister, Delilah. But Delilah is dead. As she delivers a chilling warning, Tommy is forced to confront a truth that defies logic, setting both him and Delilah on a path where revenge and fate collide.

Inspired by Ethel cain’s album, Preachers Daughter. Try to guess which song of hers inspired the first part of the story! Also I changed my writing style a bit for this.

Word count: 5.3k

Content includes : Blood, Mentions of killing, Violence, Religious beliefs, Mentions of drugs and alcohol, Death. Might be heavy and disturbing to some readers so please do proceed with caution.

i. A prayer

The church smelled of wax and old wood, the air thick with incense that had long since stopped masking the rot of something deeper. A place of worship, of confession, of supposed salvation. Yet Delilah Shelby stood at its entrance as though she were being swallowed whole, a shadow of herself wrapped in a threadbare coat, her fingers trembling from something more than the cold.

Her boots, scuffed and damp from the night, made no sound as she stepped inside. It was quiet. Always quiet. The hush of a graveyard, the breath before an execution.

She came here when it hurt. When the grief inside her became a living thing, crawling beneath her skin, gnawing at her bones. Polly was gone, and there was nothing in this godless world that could bring her back. But there was Lucas Woods. The preacher. He stood near the altar, bathed in the glow of candlelight. He was waiting for her. As if he knew she would come, like he knew what she had done.

“Delilah,” he murmured.

His voice was like the low murmur of a hymn—soft, and careful. She exhaled, closing her eyes briefly as if to steady herself, before making her way forward.

“I failed,” she admitted, her voice hollow. “I—”

She swallowed hard. The words felt thick in her throat. “I went back to it. I started drinking and taking opium again... I thought I could—I thought I could stop, but then I heard about Tommy and Michael, about the war that’s about to come, and it just—” Her breath hitched. “It started to hurt again.”

Thomas had called her from her home and vaguely mentioned a “war” that was going to happen between them. Delilah had known about the dispute between him and Michael. And she knew that “war” meant that serious shit was about to get down. That also most definitely meant that one of them was going to die. And death was something she didn’t want for either of them.

Lucas watched her with half lidded eyes, his gaze was lazy. “You told me once that grief and worry is a sickness, and that I must suffer before I can be saved” she whispered, her hands trembling, “And I—I think it’s eating me alive”. But deep inside, she knew that salvation was never meant for her.

Lucas tilted his head slightly, his dark brown eyes solemn as he stepped forward, bridging the space between them. Gently, he lifted her chin, his fingers soft as a whisper against her skin.

“I was with you there, I invited you in twice, I did. You love blood too much.”

Her brows furrowed as she looked at him with glistening teary eyes, Lucas often spoke in metaphors that were slightly confusing to understand. “What do you mean?”. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them like the taut pull of a noose. When he finally spoke, his voice was as gentle as a lover’s confession.

“The first time I invited you in, I found you sprawled outside these very doors. Cold. Drunk. Sobbing.” His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, almost reverently. “I let you in to pray, did I not?”. Delilah’s breath shuddered out of her.

She remembered that night. The way the rain had seeped into her clothes, the way her body had felt so small, so insignificant against the vast, uncaring world. She was grieving the death of her Aunt Pol. How she had died so unfairly by the hands of the IRA. The one she believed was the pillar and backbone of her family. Delilah remembered weeping pathetically on the muddy ground and it was Lucas who had found her and brought her in for warmth.

“And the second?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. Lucas’ smile was small, almost pained.

“The second time was when I let you into my heart.”

Something inside her twisted. She searched his face, finding nothing but that same quiet devotion in his eyes, that unwavering gaze that had always felt like both salvation and damnation. Delilah had suspected that she might’ve fallen in love with Lucas the first time he put his hands so painfully gently on her shoulders and told her to pray. His brown eyes, so forgiving and polite. Her throat tightened. “And the blood?”.

He regarded her for a long moment before answering. “The blood is those who hurt you”. Her stomach squeezed and turned cold. She made the connection instantly. It was too painfully obvious.

Lucas said nothing. He didn’t need to.

For a long, excruciating moment, the weight of it pressed down on her chest, suffocating. She had spent so long trying to ignore it, trying to drown it in whatever poison she could find—this unbearable love for a brother who had done nothing but carve her heart into something unrecognizable.

But he was the one who had been there for her all her life. The only one who held her when she cried after her mother had passed, when her father would disappear for long periods of time. The one that made her heart feel safe. How could she not love him the way she did?

She felt Lucas’ hands on her face again, cradling her gently as if she was fragile and would break any second. His touch was warm, grounding. “I heard you,” he whispered. “Saw you. Felt you. Gave you. Needed you.”

“Loved you.”

His thumb softly pulled down on her bottom lip as he slowly leaned in. A soft and lingering kiss against her cheek. Then, his lips at her ear, his voice sinking into her bones like a prayer.

“You poor thing. Sweet, mourning lamb.”

Her eyes flutter shut as he murmured sweet nothings into her ears with his deep, syrupy voice.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he whispered.

“It’s already been done.”

His lips met with hers, interlocking naturally. She felt herself sink into it, into him, desperate and aching, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat as if he were the only thing tethering her to this world. He grabbed the softness of her nape, his other hand cupping her head, he groaned when her fingers tightened on his brown locs.

Delilah was slowly losing herself in his touch. Maybe this was all she needed, she thought to herself. She shut her eyes tightly and allowed herself to drown in this moment. She started to hear multiple voices, all sorts of different sounds, all around her spatial awareness. She grabbed onto his lapels tighter in hopes that the voices would go away. There was no time to pay the voices any attention. But the voices started becoming more coherent. It was calling her name.

“Delilah” the voice called.

Go away, not right now.

“Delilah”

Whoever you are, fuck off. I don’t need this right now.

“Show me your face”

Delilah remained keeping her eyes screwed shut. She recognised that voice. Her eyes flew open once she was sure who the voice belonged to. The church was gone and she was small again. A child.

She was crouched down with her knees pulled into her chest. Her small hands trembled as she raised them to her face, covering it, shielding herself from the gaze she knew was waiting for her. “Please don’t look at me”.

“Why won’t you show me your face, Delilah? Do you not love me anymore?” He said, crouching down to her who was curled into a ball.

“Because if I do, I’ll start crying again Tommy” she said, her voice cracking. She felt his hands, warm and steady, prying hers away. Forcing her to meet his icy blue eyes. He was young as well. The Tommy she remembered before France took the light away from her doting brother.

“I can see it in your eyes, you’re guilty” He said. Delilah sobbed softly when Tommy held her small face in his hands.

“Tell me, what have you done?” he wiped her falling tears with his thumbs.

Stop. Stop…stop. Make it stop.

“Why wont you tell me, Delilah? You don't love me anymore?” His voice slowly started to sound like her fathers.

Delilah shook her head, trying to get him to be silent. Tommy and her father loved asking her that when she was younger and she hated it a lot. They weren’t aware of how much it hurt her little heart. She always felt like she had to do something— anything as proof of her love. It almost never ended well. In pain most of the time.

Stop. Stop…stop. Make it stop.

“Why don't you listen to me, Delilah? Do you want to make Tommy sad?”

I’ve had enough.

Stop…

Stop…

Stop…

Stop…

STOP

Delilah gasped, her eyes widened and quickly pulled herself away from Lucas’ lips, trying to desperately catch her breath. Her chest heaved quickly, she could feel her heart pounding and held onto her chest to try and control its strong and painful palpitations. She turned her attention to Lucas who was already smiling at her lazily.

“After all I’ve done,” he mused, “you’re still crying for your brother.”

She could barely think. Her head, a dizzying and mushy mess. Her voice was hoarse when she finally spoke. “How do you know I’m crying for him…and not for you?” she asked breathily, trying to force a smile. Lucas’ eyes darkened, his coarse thumb brushed over her cheek, smearing away a tear.

“You’ll never cry for the one who doesn’t hurt you” he murmured. “Only the one who pains you”

He brought his lips closer to her ears and whispered, “The pain that only you can remember”. Lucas reached behind her head and that’s when she felt it—The cold kiss of a steel pistol at the back of her skull.

How long had it been there? Had it been there when he kissed her? How long had she clung to him?

She exhaled shakily. She knew what was to come, because when she lifted her gaze, she saw them. Mother, Polly and John. All standing behind Lucas and smiling so beautifully. She had spent so long running from the inevitable, drowning herself in opium, in whiskey, in prayers whispered into the collar of a preacher’s coat. Now, at last, there was no more running. It is as Lucas said, it’s already been done.

Her lips parted. A broken breath escaped. And before she could think of anything else the world went black. Her body went limp, falling back before she was caught by Lucas in his arms. He lifted her lifeless frame up and examined, bringing a chaste kiss to her lips. His fingers drew a cross on her chest with the blood from the back of her head as he prayed— The prayer that he had saved for Delilah.

“Blessed be the Daughter of the Shelbys,

Bound to suffering eternal through the sins of their fathers committed long before their conception.

Blessed be their whore mothers,

Tired and angry, waiting with bated breath in a ferry that will never move again.

Blessed be the children,

Each and every one comes to know their god through some senseless act of violence.

Blessed be the girl, born into blood, raised in grief.

Blessed be her restless soul, which will never find peace.

Blessed be the hands that held her, the lips that kissed her, the man who loved her.

And blessed be the bullet, the only true salvation I could give.”

ii. The priest

Lucas Woods watched as the body of Delilah Shelby bled out on the church’s marble floor. She looked like a beauty bleeding out in such a beautiful place of worship.

His mind was noisy. With thoughts that he couldn’t identify. But it was probably not that important. Lucas was the type of person who knew what he wanted and exactly how he wanted it. If he couldn’t pick out what it was that he felt while watching her, then the thought most likely didn’t serve him any good. Besides, there was no room left in his heart to grieve.

He recited every prayer he had ever known, In hopes her soul would forgive him. Not like he ever believed in any of the prayers that he recited. Not as if he believed that it would save her, but fear of the possibilities that there is heaven, not as if he believed any of them could get in but there was that little pathetic hope in him.

He bathed her in candlelight, traced crosses over her forehead, whispered to her in the darkness. He took off his robe, leaving it on top of her lifeless body and left before shutting the big wooden church doors, leaving her behind for the flies to keep her company.

Lucas had told her things he had never told another soul. The things he thought were unworthy to share. Lucas’ reasoning was that his value would not have changed either way— there was no benefit in knowing who he was and what he was inside.

Born to a Belfast family that never knew peace, similar to the Shelbys, Lucas had been raised on the promise of bringing justice to the weak. His father’s hands were always bloodied; his mother’s eyes were always swollen from grief.

“Some people have to be sacrificed for the greater good, Lucas” is what his father would say when he came home with blood on his clothes. His father was a preacher and often twisted the word of God to justify his bloodshed, poor little Lucas never could tell the difference between the devil, god and his own father.

The church had been his only solace, the only place where he could pretend, be a killer with a cross around his neck, for a moment, and not his father’s son.

But the IRA had taken him in before God ever could, stepping right into his fathers foots steps He had killed before he ever learned how to pray properly. And yet, when he met Delilah Shelby, he had felt something shift. Something softened. Maybe it was his damned heart.

She was not innocent—no one born a Shelby ever was—but she was something else entirely. The pain in her eyes, the quiet way she clung to him when she thought no one was watching, the desperation and sincerity in the way she sought absolution and repented even when she knew she could never truly be forgiven. Something about her desperation and loyalty pulled him closer. He had loved her.

Perhaps for his own selfish needs, for the way she made him feel like something more than a killer in a preacher’s robes, and more than his fathers obedient dog.

Loving that girl made him feel clean. The only ones whose hands were tender on his face. Maybe it was knowing how much she needed him. For whatever reasons he had, there was no denying in his heart, he had love for that girl. And maybe that’s why he had to destroy her. Because love like that doesn’t belong in a man like him.

iii. The awakening

Darkness consumed her. Not the soft, velvety blackness of sleep, nor the tranquil void of death she had once imagined—but something far heavier, more suffocating. It wrapped around her like a burial shroud, thick and endless, stretching into eternity without form or meaning.

For what she could only assume was more than an hour, she was aware of nothing but this abyss. No pain, no thought, just the cold, unfeeling void. She wondered, vaguely, if this was what it meant to die, or how it felt. If she had finally escaped the blood, the grief, the war that followed her like a specter. There was no peace in this emptiness, but neither was there suffering. Perhaps that was enough.

Delilah’s ears picked up a sound. Faint at first, distant, like an echo through water. A dull, rhythmic thump, steady and unrelenting. It pulsed through the void, rippling outward, drawing her toward it. It took her a moment to recognize it.

A heartbeat.

Her heartbeat.

The realization struck her like a hammer to the chest, sending shockwaves through the darkness. Sensation flooded in all at once—a slow, dragging pain that curled through her skull, a dull ache spreading through her limbs like fire smoldering beneath the surface of her skin. Her breath hitched, sharp and ragged, as a new awareness settled over her.

She was alive.

Or at least—she was something close to it.

Her fingers twitched against the hard cold surface beneath her, the texture rough and unyielding, pressing against her palms with an unbearable weight. Cold air wrapped around her, carrying the heavy scent of incense, candle wax, and something darker—something metallic. It clung to her, thick and suffocating, stirring something deep in her chest. Blood. She groaned helplessly.

Her lungs burned as she sucked in air, as if she had been drowning for an eternity and was only now breaking the surface. Her body rebelled against the motion, heavy and sluggish, as though she were made of lead. Her head lolled to the side, the sharp, dragging pain intensifying, throbbing at the base of her skull. She tried to move, tried to lift her arms, but they felt like dead weight, resisting her every attempt to reclaim control.

Something warm trickled down her forehead.

Slow, thick, and wet.

Her breath stilled. Forcing her muscles to obey, she dragged her hand upward, the movement strained and unnatural, her fingertips brushing against her temple. Her skin was slick, the texture strange and foreign. She pressed her fingers against it, feeling the warmth, the stickiness, the undeniable reality of it.

Her hand trembled as she pulled it away.The dim light overhead cast a dull glow over her skin, illuminating the color smeared across her fingertips. Deep crimson, nearly black in the flickering candlelight. It pooled in the creases of her palm, clung to the lines of her skin, refusing to fade. Blood. Her blood.

A sickening realization settled over her like a weight. She had felt the bullet, had heard it—the crack of the gunshot, the way the world had gone silent in its wake. The moment of impact had been sudden, sharp—then nothing.

And yet, she was here. Alive?

The floor beneath her was cold, the air thick with the scent of iron. Her breathing came shallow, uneven, her chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate motions, as if her body was still trying to understand what had happened. She should be dead. She was dead.

Then why did she feel like this?

Her vision swam as she forced herself to sit up, the world shifting violently around her, tilting at unnatural angles. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her, but she pushed past it, planting her hands against the floor, steadying herself. Her body felt foreign, her limbs sluggish and uncooperative, as though she had been stitched together all wrong.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, her movements unsteady, legs trembling beneath her. The sensation of blood running down her skin was maddening—warm, constant, unnatural. She needed to see.

Her gaze flickered across the dimly lit church, her surroundings unfamiliar in her disoriented state. The air felt heavier than before, thick with something unspoken, something watching. But there was no one else here.

A bitter laugh threatened to crawl up her throat, but she swallowed it down, forcing her body to move. She needed to find a mirror—needed proof of whatever had been done to her.

Each step felt wrong, as though she were walking through water’s tough tides, her body resisting the motion. The shadows in the church stretched long and sharp, flickering with the unsteady candlelight. The air was too still, too quiet, pressing in from all sides.

She reached the far end of the room, her fingers grazing the cool surface of an old mirror. The glass was fogged with age, its surface marred with scratches, but it was enough.

She hesitated, but slowly—she looked.

A sharp breath escaped her lips.

The woman staring back at her was a grotesque mockery of the one she had once been. Her skin, once warm and full of life, had taken on an unnatural pallor—too pale, too still, as though all warmth had drained from her body. Dark veins curled beneath the surface, spreading from the wound at her temple, reaching down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her dress.

The wound itself— A small, perfect hole, right at her hairline. The skin around it was raw, cracked, as if something had forced its way through and refused to heal. Blood had dried in uneven streaks down her face, crusted in places where it should have clotted, but never fully did. It oozed, slow and thick, an unnatural, endless trickle.

Her eyes were wrong. She leaned closer, her breath fogging the glass. The irises, once a deep brown, had darkened, their edges swallowed by shadow. They looked sunken, hollow, as if she had been awake for centuries. She wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, or if something inside her had shifted—something that could never be undone.

This was not survival. This was something else.

She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face, smearing blood across her cheek. She could only laugh at her own reflection.

It was quiet at first—soft, bitter, but it grew, shaking in her chest, a sound born from madness and exhaustion. A laugh with no joy, no warmth. Just the cold, sharp edge of realization sinking into her ribs like a knife.

She should be dead. But she wasn’t.

She turned from the mirror, dragging a hand through her blood-matted hair, her mind racing with the weight of what this meant.

There was a sudden shift in the air. The sensation of something unseen watching. She stilled. Slowly, she turned and there, standing in the flickering candlelight—was Polly.

Polly stood with her arms crossed, an unreadable expression resting on her sharp features. She looked exactly as Delilah remembered, before and after she left—proud, knowing, untouched by death. But Delilah knew what this meant. Polly always had something to say.

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t even think it was possible.Her lips parted, her voice hoarse when she finally spoke.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?”

Polly quirked a brow and tilted her head, “What do you think?”, amusement flickering in her sharp gaze.

Delilah let out a slow breath, glancing back at the mirror.Her reflection had not changed.She clenched her jaw, shaking her head.

“Fuck”.

Delilah clenched her jaw, dragging a hand through her blood-matted hair. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “I’m still standing here, aren’t I?”. Polly exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “Look at yourself, sweetheart,” she drawled. “And tell me—does that look alive to you?”. Delilah glanced back at the mirror, her stomach twisting. She let out a slow breath, licking her lips, tasting iron.

Delilah clenched her fists, shaking her head.

“Fuck” she said exasperatedly, releasing a soft and defeated laugh.

Delilah sat down on the benches and reached into her pocket, fingers brushing against something familiar—A pack of cigarettes. She pulled it out, along with a silver lighter, flipping it open with a flick of her wrist. The flame flared to life, casting shadows across her face. She placed the cigarette between her lips, lighting the tip, inhaling deeply before exhaling a long plume of smoke into the stagnant air.

“Being dead hurts,” She shook her head, smirking.

Polly smiled, watching her fondly. “You’re still here because you have something to say,” she said simply. “Something he needs to hear.” Delilah exhaled another breath of smoke, staring at Polly through the haze. Polly met her gaze, steady and sharp.

“You already know what it is.”

Delilah took another slow drag of her cigarette, watching the ember glow like a dying star. She exhaled through her nose, the smoke curling between them.

“And what if I don’t want to say it?”

Polly’s gaze didn’t waver nor did her smile, “Then you’ll never rest.”

iv. The message

The fire crackled, the embers rising into the night air like lost spirits, twisting and flickering before vanishing into the darkness. The flames burned low, a soft orange glow against the damp cold of the woods. Smoke curled upward in lazy tendrils, mixing with the heavy scent of damp earth and decayed leaves. The world was quiet here—no city noise, no voices, just the steady hum of insects and the rustling of branches overhead.

Tommy sat hunched on a fallen log, elbows on his knees, a cigarette hanging from his lips. The firelight carved shadows into his face, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes, making him look even more tired than he already felt. The weight of war pressed against him, the endless calculations of men and money and blood turning over in his mind like the cogs of a machine that never stopped. But for now—for this one moment—he let himself sit in silence, watching the flames dance.

Suddenly, Tommy heard the leaves shuffling and rustling, sounding like footsteps and that made his skin prickle before his mind even caught up. He turned his head, eyes sharp, fingers twitching toward the gun at his hip. The fire flickered, the shadows stretching, and then—she stepped into the light.

Tommy froze.

His cigarette slipped from his lips, landing in the dirt at his feet, the ember still glowing. His breath caught in his throat, heart hammering hard against his ribs.

Delilah.

She stood at the edge of the firelight, her skin pallid in the flickering glow. Her dark hair hung loose, disheveled, strands falling into her hollowed-out eyes. The dried blood on her temple had darkened to an unnatural black, a grotesque smear down her face. But it wasn’t just the wound—it was her.

The way she stood, too still. The way her breath didn’t fog in the cold air. The way her eyes blinked too slowly like a haunted doll. The way the firelight didn’t quite touch her.

His voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper.

“Delilah?”

She tilted her head slightly.

He was on his feet before he even realized it, moving toward her, hands reaching as if to steady her, as if to fix whatever had been done to her. “Fuck—Delilah, what happened to you?” His voice was sharper now, laced with urgency. “Come on, let me—Jesus Christ, let me get you to a doctor—” His hand hovers between them before finally gripping her wrist. Cold. Too fucking cold. His fingers flex, his breath stilling as if he’s afraid she might crumble beneath his touch.

She held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. “Tommy,” she said, her voice eerily calm, “I’m already dead.”

His breath left him all at once.

Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating. The fire popped, embers snapping in the air, but Tommy heard nothing but the pounding of his own heartbeat. He stared at her, at the blood, at the way her lips barely moved when she spoke.

She blinked, her expression unreadable.

“I saw Mom.”

It wasn’t possible. He’d been drinking, maybe—no, he hadn’t. He wasn’t asleep, so he couldn’t have been dreaming. But Delilah—his baby sister—was standing in front of him, pale and still, with a bullet hole in her skull.

“And Polly,” she continued, glancing at the fire.“And John.”

Tommy’s hands curled into fists. Teeth clenching against each other. His logical mind fights against what his heart already knows: this is Delilah. But it’s not. It can’t be. And yet, she speaks his name like she never left, like she isn’t a ghost standing by his fire, telling him the truth he doesn’t want to hear.

His jaw tightened. “Who?”

She met his gaze then, and something in her expression softened. Not with sadness, not with fear—but with something almost amused.

“A priest,” she said simply. “From the church I used to go to.”

Tommy’s lips parted slightly. She stepped forward then, sinking down onto the log beside him, sitting as if her body still remembered how. As if she hadn’t been shot dead. For a long moment, Tommy said nothing.

Then, moving on autopilot, he reached into his coat, pulling out his cigarette case. He lit one with slow, deliberate movements, inhaled deeply, then held the case out to her. She took one. The small gesture felt wrong. Like something out of a dream he hadn’t woken up from yet. He exhaled, smoke curling from his lips, and muttered, “Dead people smoke now?” Delilah smirked before lighting up her cigarette, she took a slow drag, and exhaled. “You’re in luck, then”

For a moment, they just sat there, side by side, watching the fire. It felt almost normal—almost. “Lucas Wood,” Tommy murmured, more to himself than to her. Delilah nodded slightly. “You’ve heard of him?.”

“I know the name”, Tommy admitted. “Never met him. I don’t go to church.” A bitter smirk, “And if I did, it wouldn’t be to pray.” She huffed a quiet laugh, taking another slow drag of her cigarette, “Yeah it was him alright”.

Tommy exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’ll get the police involved.” His voice was firm, but even as he said it, there was something hollow in his words. “I can’t send my men after him—I need them”.

Delilah scoffed softly, flicking the ash from her cigarette. “And what exactly do you think the police are gonna do, Tommy?” She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “It’s no use. Lucas is an IRA member”.

Delilah smirked, “Funny, isn’t it?” She tilted her head, watching the way his grip on his cigarette tightened. “It was the same with Polly, What goes around comes around.”

Tommy inhaled sharply, his cigarette burning dangerously close to his fingertips.

Delilah’s voice softened. “Lucas is coming in a few days,” she said. “He’s going to tell you about my death himself.” There was a slight pause before she added, “That’s when he plans to take you, Tommy.” Tommy was silent for once.

She turned to him fully, studying his face in the firelight. “Do you understand now?”

“Will you listen to me now? you love me, right?”

He looked at her for a long moment, taking her in. The way the fire cast flickering shadows across her face, the way her expression stayed calm despite the weight of everything. Tommy’s hands found her cheeks, her skin was cold, his thumb nearly freezing from simply rubbing across it. “I do love you” he responded, his eyes never leaving hers.

She was already dead. And yet, here she was. Waiting for him to finish what needed to be done.

He flicked his cigarette into the fire, the embers swallowing it whole. He closed his eyes for a moment and pulled her in, holding her tightly in his arms, hands cradling her head as if he was trying to comfort her. Tommy pressed a lingering kiss to her temple.

“Alright, for you Delilah”

To be continued…

[wonderlanddreamer]

The Rook

— Chapter Two

Summary: Unable to focus, Tommy finds himself snapping at those around him. Burdened by grief and guilt, he finds himself inexplicably drawn back to Rosemary, enslaved by her tranquil aura.

Series Masterlist • Chapter 1 • Chapter 3

The Shelby estate, an imposing structure of brick and shadow, lay under a shroud of quiet that was punctuated only by the rhythmic crackle of the fireplace in the study and the distant, indistinct murmur of voices wafting from the parlor. Despite the outward calm, the house was never truly silent. Arthur's restless pacing, like that of a caged animal, echoed through the corridors, while Polly's watchful eyes seemed to miss nothing, her presence a constant reminder of wisdom and vigilance. Ada, with her fiery temperament, frequently visited to admonish Arthur about his drinking habits, her voice cutting through the air with the sharpness of her words. Yet, on this particular night, an oppressive weight seemed to bear down on the household, rendering the atmosphere almost suffocating.

In the dimly lit study, Tommy Shelby sat hunched over his desk, a cigarette languidly burning between his fingers. The ember glowed intermittently, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Before him lay an untouched ledger, the pages filled with columns of numbers that blurred together, transforming into indecipherable scribbles of ink. He ought to have been immersed in work, devising strategies, and orchestrating plans. Yet, his thoughts drifted, scattered and unfocused, pulling him away from the pressing demands of the family business.

An empty whiskey glass sat beside him, a silent testament to his recent indulgence, though he could scarcely recall the moments he had spent drinking. The haze of alcohol mingled with the smoke of his cigarette, enveloping him in a cocoon of isolation.

"Thomas?" Polly's voice, familiar and tinged with concern, pierced the fog of his thoughts. Her silhouette framed the doorway, a resolute figure against the dim light. Tommy didn't bother to lift his head, acknowledging her presence with mere silence.

"You're staring at a blank page," she observed, her arms crossed in a gesture of both challenge and support. "That doesn't look like work to me."

Tommy exhaled a weary breath through his nose, dragging a hand down his face as if to wipe away his troubles. "I don’t need a nursemaid, Pol," he replied, his tone edged with irritation.

"No, you need a good knock over the head," Polly retorted, her voice unwavering. "You've been like this for days. Snapping at everyone, barely speaking. And don’t you dare tell me it’s business because I know the difference."

His jaw clenched, the tension evident in his posture. "You done?" he asked tersely.

"No, Thomas, I’m not done." The door clicked shut behind her as she stepped fully into the room, determination etched in her features. "You're grieving. And you're letting it eat you alive."

Her words struck a chord deep within him, igniting a burn in his throat. He knew precisely what she referred to—Grace. The loss of her had seeped into his very bones, a persistent ache that twisted like a knife wound that refused to heal.

Though months had passed since her death, the void she left behind was ever present. On most nights, it felt as though he had been the one to pull the trigger. In his mind, he had invited danger into their lives, inadvertently opening the door to tragedy.

Polly's tone softened, her eyes filled with empathy. "Arthur told me you were different when you came back the other night. That you looked like you’d been somewhere else."

Tommy's muscles tensed involuntarily. Arthur had noticed? He had made an effort to slip back into the house unnoticed, like a ghost, but evidently, his brother had discerned the change in him.

"I'm fine," Tommy muttered, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.

Polly scoffed, undeterred by his feigned indifference. "You’re drinking too much. You’re not sleeping. You keep looking at the fucking door like you expect someone to walk through it." She paused, searching his eyes. "What happened that night, Tommy?”

He considered confessing, sharing the darkness that had been stalking him, the way he had driven the streets with a loaded gun, feeling ready—almost eager—to end it all. But then, he had stumbled into The Rook, a dimly lit pub tucked away on a country lane.

There, amidst the clamour and the haze, someone had seen him as something other than a spectre of his own making.

Rosemary King.

Even thinking her name brought a peculiar sense of ease to his chest. He couldn't quite comprehend it. She was not significant in his life—not yet, at least. But there had been an undeniable warmth in her voice, a genuine kindness in her smile. She had spoken to him as if he were just another patron, oblivious to the weight of his past and the darkness that clung to him.

Initially, her unexpected kindness had unsettled him. He wasn't accustomed to such encounters—moments where his identity as Tommy Shelby, leader of the Peaky Blinders, didn't cast a shadow over every interaction. Yet, there in The Rook, Rosemary King had offered him a reprieve from the chains of his own reputation, if only for a fleeting moment.

Now, in the silence of the study, he found himself clinging to that memory, like a man drowning and reaching for a lifeline. It was bewildering, the way her mere presence had managed to cut through the fog of his grief, even if just slightly. 

"I had a drink," he finally admitted to Polly, offering her the smallest fraction of truth he could manage.

She studied him, her gaze penetrating, as if trying to unravel the myriad of emotions he kept tightly coiled within. After a prolonged pause, she sighed, her expression softening. "You need to sort yourself out, Thomas. Before this swallows you whole."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of unspoken concern and familial love. Tommy remained silent, unable to formulate a response that would adequately capture the turmoil within him. Polly, sensing his reluctance, turned slowly and made her way toward the door.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Tommy leaned back in his chair, exhaling a sharp breath. The room was once again enveloped in a profound quiet, interrupted only by the occasional pop and hiss from the dying embers in the fireplace.

He should have felt something—anger, frustration, a sense of urgency to heed Polly's advice. But instead, his mind drifted back to the memory of Rosemary's smile, the way her eyes had met his without flinching, without judgment.

In the midst of his grief and guilt, he found himself wanting to return to that moment, to see her again, to experience that unexpected solace she had unknowingly offered. He didn't understand why he felt this pull, this inexplicable desire to be near her, but it was there, undeniable and persistent.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he knew that seeking her out wouldn't solve the deeper problems gnawing at him. Yet, in the chaos of his life, the thought of her was a thread of hope, a possibility of something different, something that wasn't clouded by the spectres of his past.

The pub was just as he remembered it—dimly lit, warm, and tucked away from the world. It was early evening when Tommy stepped inside, his boots scuffing against the wooden floor. The familiar ambience wrapped around him like a comforting cloak, a temporary refuge from the storm of his thoughts.

Rosemary was behind the bar, her chesnut hair pinned back, sleeves rolled up as she wiped down the counter. Her movements were fluid and practised, exuding a quiet confidence that seemed to permeate the room.

The moment she saw him, she smiled—a genuine, welcoming smile that seemed to light up the dim space. "Mr. Passing Through," she greeted, as if she had been expecting him. "Back so soon?"

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before moving to the bar, allowing the warmth of her presence to draw him in. "Whiskey," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses.

She chuckled softly, pouring him a drink with a practised hand. "You know, most men don’t drink alone two nights in the same week unless they’ve got something on their mind."

He didn’t respond, just took a sip of the amber liquid, feeling its familiar burn slide down his throat. It was a ritual, a momentary escape, but the weight of his worries lingered, heavy and unrelenting.

Rosemary leaned on the counter, her gaze steady and unintrusive. "Rough day?" she inquired, her tone gentle, devoid of any judgment or expectation.

Tommy exhaled slowly, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "Something like that," he admitted, the words carrying a hint of weariness, a testament to the battles he fought within.

She didn’t pry, didn’t push. Just nodded, her understanding as palpable as the wooden bar between them. "Well, if you need something other than whiskey, I make a mean cup of tea."

The corner of his mouth twitched involuntarily, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Do I look like a man who drinks tea?" he retorted, a faint hint of amusement colouring his voice.

"You look like a man who needs showing a little kindness," she replied, her eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and sincerity, giving him that small, knowing smile that seemed to pierce through the armor he wore.

And maybe she was right.

Because Tommy Shelby, for the first time in a long time, didn’t want to leave. The thought of staying, of lingering in this modest sanctuary with Rosemary’s quiet presence, held a peculiar allure. It was a notion that defied logic, yet resonated with something deep within him—a yearning for connection, for a moment of reprieve from the relentless march of his responsibilities and regrets.

As the evening went on, Tommy found himself settling into the rhythm of the pub, a world that existed separate from his own turmoil. The warmth of the room, coupled with Rosemary’s quiet presence, was a balm to his restless spirit. There, amidst the muted conversations and the clinking of old glasses, he discovered a rare moment of solace. It was as if, within the walls, time itself had paused, granting him a reprieve from the relentless demands of his life. For the first time in what felt like eternity, Tommy Shelby allowed himself to be present, to simply be. And in that fleeting tranquillity, he sensed the faintest flicker of hope—a promise that perhaps, amidst the darkness, there could be more nights like this.

[call-sign-shark]

Heaven in Your Eyes || Tommy Shelby x You

Summary: For safety purpose and following Arthur's death, you are forced to live under your enemy and unforgiving brother-in-law's roof. It's only you and Tommy between the dreadful walls of Arrow house where grief, hatred, and attraction blend.

some musical background to read + the song that inspired it.

Words: 6.5k

TW: angst, rocky dynamic, pinning, sexual tension, graphic description of violence, strangulation, very very strong sexual innuendos, mention of blood, murder and grief, alteration of canon events + time.

Notes:

✞ Heaven in Your Eyes is an Arthur Shelby story but considering what happens to him in this part of S4, this chapter and the next one will be entirely focused on Reader/Heaven's relationship with Tommy.

✞ This is chapter 17 of the Arthur Shelby x You series Heaven in Your Eyes. Each chapter can be read as stand-alone.

PREVIOUS || Masterlist || NEXT PART

Your pale aquamarine eyes opened to an unfamiliar ceiling, far too different from the ceiling of your house in Watery Lane. The soft glow of morning light filtered through the dark and heavy curtains of the guest bedroom that was bathed in warm shadows. The bedding was too smooth, giving you the unpleasant impression that the mattress was slowly but surely swallowing you whole. As for the room itself, it was too silent, with no trace of the reassuring sounds or smells of your own home, like the floral fragrance of the lily of the valley perfume Arthur sprayed on your pillow each night before sleeping, fully aware that it reminded you of your mother.

A little cry escaped your lips when you turned your head towards the half-hidden window; its blinding light making your head throbbed painfully. You tried to move but your whole body ached, like a cruel and dull echo of the chaos that had ripped your world apart the night before. The chaos who took Arthur, your sweet Arthur, from you.

 Arthur.  With your heart pounding in your chest to the rhythm of invisible drums, you sat up – certainly a bit too violently. As the room spun around you, you clawed the fabric of the blanket not to fall back on the bed. Breathe, Hev. Just breathe, you told yourself. Exhaling slowly through your nostrils, you waited a bit until the dizziness and nausea became bearable and only then did you proceed to scan your surroundings. The place you had woken up in was a spacious bedroom, impeccably furnished yet so sparsely decorated that it ended up cold and impersonal. Just like a furniture store. But despite the unfamiliar setting, the peculiar smell of wood and faint traces of cigarette smoke that lingered in the air rung a bell. You recognized the man who owned it immediately.

Arrow House?

Tommy.

The memories violently surged back. The images of Arthur’s blood, the frenzied struggled to save him, the stabbing of a first Italian, then the murder of another, all of this leading to the moment you had lost consciousness. What the hell happened after? Why were you in Arrow House? Where was Arthur? Questions buzzed in your mind like a hive of furious hornets crashing against your skull. Through the fog, you thought you remembered Thomas’ low voice and arms wrapping you just before you fainted, but you weren’t sure – so came the necessity of finding out. Your sly hands shook as you scrambled out of the bed, even though the cold surface of the floor managed to ground you when your feet touched its polished wood.

You needed to find Tommy and ask for an explanation – or excavate that same explanation from him by using sheer strength and torture if you had to. Yes, you needed to know if Arthur made it. If he was safe, because he had to be safe after everything you did. He had to be safe, or else what would be left of you beside an empty shell? Wasting no time, you rushed out of the room like a fury without minding your poor state. In fact, your legs wobbled beneath your weight as you pushed the door open and made your way through the cool hallway, head spinning with disorientation. For sure, staying in bed would have been the best option but, as was the case that night you fled from your little town in the mountains, a combination of rage and panic controlled you. You braced yourself against the wall, your fingers curling into the wood and tapestry for balance. Each meters reached took a disproportionate amount of effort, each step felt unsteady. Your determination might be spotless, but your body betrayed as you swayed, to the extent that you careened into the wall with a dull thud from time to time. And when it weren’t the walls, it was the uneven carpet that made you almost trip. That damn corridor seemed endless, but the more you walked the sharper the scent of Tommy’s tobacco reached your senses and lifted the haze you were embedded in.

Little King Shelby was there.

That sole observation swept away the remnant of sickness you felt, your energy all regained as your steps, usually light and ethereal, echoed through the expensive house of Arrow house – a sumptuous mansion whose beauty only equaled its claustrophobic and maddening emptiness. The grand, austere décor loomed all around you in rich, dark wood paneling, chandeliers and old paintings staring from their frames. Ironically enough, it wasn’t the old and slightly obscure ones that made you feel uncomfortable, but rather Grace’s gigantic portrait. She was overhanging the house, her piercing blue eyes seemingly glistening in the sunlight and judging your every move.  Silently asking you what the hell you were doing in her home. A shiver ran down your spine, as if you could sense her presence, heavy and utterly sad, sipping through all the walls.  Arrow House might carry a distinct scent of polished wood and smoke, but beneath it lingered something as heavy as the Grace’s portrait – sorrow. It clung to the air like a haunting memory, subtle but inescapable, much like what Tommy himself hid under his expensive after-shave.

Finally, you reached the heavy double doors of Tommy’s office, your heart a relentless thud in your tight chest. Usually, little King Shelby despised being disturbed when he was in his study but you couldn’t care less considering the emergency of the situation – and you wouldn’t have cared in a more casual one. Without the slightest hesitation, you threw the doors open and your voice, already sharp, resounded in the room like a tigress’ roar.

“Where is he?” You demanded, as your pale iris, which were burning with Hell’s fire, surveyed the room until they found Tommy behind his desk.  His ice-cold stare met yours with a calm that only pushed you further to the edge of fury, “Where is Arthur?!”

The blue-eyed demon might have many flaws, but stupidity wasn’t one. He knew you would make a mess when you woke up so he had spent the last few hours patiently waiting for the chaos to storm, a glass of whiskey for sole companion to brace your thunder. He let out a sigh and reached for that same glass, which had remained untouched on his desk until now. After a sip, he leaned back on his chair, his eyes wandering on you as if he was calculating every possible outcome of your conversation.

Then only he spoke.

“Heaven, would you calm down ay?” He said with a smooth yet firm voice that carried an irking placidity. How could he be so serene after his brother got attacked and butchered? Was it the same Tommy who, overwhelmed with emotions you recalled, tried to help you last night? Or was he some kind of evil twin, who locked up his good brother somewhere in Arrow House most of the time?

“Don’t tell me to calm down!”  You snapped, walking toward him with your first clenched and stopping in front of his desk while he was still sitting, “After everything that happened last night, I wake up here and you think you can just sit there and act like this is normal? Tell me where Arthur is now.” You spat, your words like a winter blizzard.

Tommy stubbed his cigarette in the crystal ashtray that was on his deck before he stood, sky-blue eyes narrowed as he moved around slowly around the furniture. Your whole little body tense when he approached, his sole presence irking you.

“Arthur…” He started, his voice drawling, “Had to make a quick exit. We had to make him disappear for his own safety.”  His statement was heavy with the implications of danger and truth he didn’t wish to fully reveal. Tommy and his little secrets, you thought bitterly. Your jaw clenched, your icy eyes narrowing as you tried to swallow your burning fury in favor of a cold, quiet, anger.

“Disappear? Is he alive? Where is he?”

“I’m afraid I can’t give you any more information.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words pressing on you. Was he serious? Momentarily stunned by the audacity of the Peaky Blinders’ boss, you blinked. He couldn’t be serious.

“And I’m just supposed to accept that dumb answer? After everything I went through trying to save him?”

Tommy moistened quickly his lips with the tip of his pink tongue, his face an unreadable mask. Still, you could see through it, and you knew he was searching for his words, “It’s not about accepting or not. We suggested the idea to him, and he agreed. Arthur made his choice – he’s lying low, and right now, that’s the best place for him.”

A slap across your face would have been less painful that what he was saying. Trembling with frustration, you shoved your fist into his chest. Tommy didn’t move nor show any hint of paint. If anything, he just let you lash out at him.

 “So what—you’re just hiding him? Keeping him locked away while I’m left in the dark?”

“I’m not hiding him. Not keeping him from you. He’s the one who decided to leave.”  

“You’re lying. That’s just another of your fucked up games.” You hissed, plump lips curling and revealing your sharp canine teeth you dreamt of sinking into your brother-in-law’s throat.

Arthur had left. Without saying anything. Without a fucking warning. Without a fucking 'hi, I'm alive love". You couldn't believe it.

Tommy shook his head, cold but resolute, “I’m not playing. There are people out there looking for him. And if they know you’re alone and vulnerable, those same people will come after you, too.”

Another blow to his chest. The charming gangster closed his eyes a few seconds and exhaled loudly through his nose to swallow the pain.

“Go fuck yourself! I’m going to find him and murder those bastards myself!”

When Tommy reopened his eyes, his large and warm hand grabbed your wrist suddenly in mid-action and kept you from punching his strong chest again.

“Do you think Arthur would want you to risk your life? Do you think I’d let you go on a rampage with my niece or nephew in your belly?”

Your breath suddenly caught, the mention of your pregnancy striking a far too sensitive nerve. With your eyes wide-opened in surprise, you studied Tommy with an expression of pure shock on your seraphic face. How could he possibly know about the baby?

“You nearly lost that kid,” Tommy’s intense gaze softened as he continued, his husky voice dropping lower and his grip loosening around your frail wrist.

“How?” You whispered, your lower lip trembling.

“Polly is not the only one who can sense things eh,” Apart from being gifted with animals, Tommy had a sensibility you had never expected. He had known about the baby the same day you had talked to him about keeping Arthur busy during their meeting. It was the way you touched your belly sometimes, the way you had acted more feral than usually – which he hadn’t thought possible, “But that’s not the point. If you leave, you’ll risk everything. Arthur wants you safe, and right now safe means staying here.”

The air between you grew thick with desperation and frustration. You gritted your teeth so harshly you wouldn’t have been surprised if they would all broken, but it was the only thing that helped you biting down the urge to scream.

“So, you’re telling me I have no other choice than stay?” Your voice wasn’t loud, but its defiance and hatred cut as deep as the razor blades he kept in his cap. To be fair, the fact he talked about the baby made you falter more than you’d wish to admit. Your shoulders slumped in reluctant defeat.

“Yes,” Tommy said simply, leaving no room for argument, “You stay here, under my roof, until this fucking mess is sorted out and until it’s safe for both you and the baby. I don’t expect you to like it, but you just have to accept that situation.”  He finally released your wrist in a surprisingly soft gesture – the fire of your fury had been so bright you had completely forgotten that Tommy had been holding you during your entire exchange. And now that he had stepped back, you realized that his touch had been grounding, and you found yourself missing it.

“It will be temporary, I promise.”  He added, heading back to his office to grab his whiskey and gulp it down. The glass chimed when he put it back on the wooden surface.

Your fruity lips pressed into a tight line, your gaze falling to the floor. That burning anger that had fueled you earlier felt dulled, swallowed by exhaustion and creeping darkness settling deep in within the marrow of your bones. As much as you wanted to fight, to demand answers and storm out of the cage Arrow House was, you knew deep down that Little King Shelby was right. The stakes were too high and your strength, for once, too fragile. This was with reluctance and resignation that you looked up to meet Tommy’s eyes.

“Fine,” You muttered, “But don’t think this means I trust you.”

“It wouldn’t have crossed my mind.”  Tommy made a little tilt with his head while raising one brow, “So you’ll stay ay?”

“Hm. But I’ll get the fuck out of here whenever it will be safer. ”

A little glint of something — approval? Satisfaction? — flickered briefly in his eyes, “As long as you respect the terms of this arrangement, that’s all that matters, Devil.”

With a final, deathly glance, you turned on your heels and left the room, feeling the burn of his scorching gaze on your back. Staying with him was an awful idea, but for now you had no choice but to play along.

To abide by the rules he would set.

The fire flickered low in Arrow House’s main yet darkened living room, the dancing flames casting their undulating shadows along the wooden walls. Wrapped in Arthur’s long coat, you sat curled up in the armchair closest to the fire in a vain attempt to warm your cold soul up. A glass of whiskey was in your small hands, barely tasted. There was exquisite alcohol here, at least. To be honest, you hadn’t planned on staying up this late but killing time here was better than tossing and turning in bed, feeling near suffocating at the sensation of the bedsheet around you. A little sigh escaped your plump lips, whose skin had been picked at until you had bled at the bottom right. Sleep had been quite elusive ever since Arthur’s death – or rather, absence. A deliberate absence that gnawed at you, leaving you restless and hollow the same way you did after the tragedy that took your family from you on a cold October night.  The same way it did when you had left your former fiancé.

Another chill ran down your spine as the events that brought you to Arthur and what followed played in your head like a broken record: you felt like only a few days had passed from your unexpected encounter in the church to the awful evening during which you had held your husband bloodied and limp body. And with the memories came an even more aching revelation: all the people around you always ended up dead or hurt in the end, whether you pulled the trigger or not.

At this moment you would have given everything just to switch your brain off and let someone handle the rest. Everything to be in Amos’ reassuring arms, his tender velvet voice whispering in your ear that everything was going to be fine.

A thought that occurred for the second time, the first appearing when you danced with Luca Changretta.

The door suddenly creaked, the darkness of Arrow House’s corridor subsiding as Tommy appeared in the orange light with an unlit cigarette between his fingers. His steps were heavy and his mesmerizing turquoise eyes slightly glazed. As was always the case when you breathed the same air as this asshole, your body tense entirely, every muscle ready to pounce on him and shred him to piece. However, you only raised your head, your pale eyes falling on his face. What you saw made you frown: he was well into a drink himself, judging by the loose expression he wore and the very faint flush on his salient cheekbones.

Despite being intoxicated, the sharpness in his gaze didn’t dull when he spotted you by the fire. If anything, it intensified.

Ah! It was still the same old and hateful Thomas Shelby you knew.

“Couldn’t stay in your room, could you?” You muttered, your tone soft but laced with a mix of sarcasm and intrigue as the man approached. Tommy didn’t answer though and sunk onto the couch opposite you.

“This is my house, remember?��� He retorted, husky voice almost making the air rumble around him. A few days had passed since you argued in his office. A few days during which you mainly stayed locked up in the room, stubbornly sulking.

“And believe me, I’m counting down the hours until I can leave it,” He met his gaze when you finished speaking but, as surprising as it was, Tommy didn’t find defiance in your eyes. Only fatigue. For once, the insolent brat you usually were seemed too exhausted to bite. "I’d rather not be here, but we don’t always have the choice.” You had wanted to add that the choice was scarce when Tommy Shelby was around, but you didn’t. Not only would it be pointless, but you weren’t in the mood to fight.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips, “You’re right. Just like I didn’t have a choice when Arthur took you in, dragging all the trouble that followed,” He paused, attentively studying how your seraphic traits expressed your spitefulness at his words, then pointed at you with his finger “Thought you were above it all, didn’t you?”

“Above what?”

“Above everything. Untouchable. But here we are. Both haunted.”

Your grip tightened on your glass. So strongly you almost snapped it. “Don’t you dare blame me for what happened to him, Thomas. I know you’re used to do so but don’t fucking do it this time.” You warned.

Tommy’s blue eyes darkened as he looked away, shaking his head as if he had just remembered something awfully painful. The same thing that was plaguing your dreams: Arthur and his almost severed throat, “I don’t blame you for that – not for the attack nor for trying to save him.” He admitted. Wow, Tommy not blaming you for something was unexpected!

The gangster sighed and finally brought the cigarette to his mouth, rolling the filter onto his lower lip first before lighting it. Then, he threw the lighter on the small table near him and took a long drag. You carefully observed him all the while, afraid he would jump at your throat if you ought to lose your focus for one microsecond, “But it doesn’t change what came after, does it? You’ve done nothing but bring trouble to me. To all of us.”  He added with a hoarse voice, punctuating his sentence by blowing the smoke noisily. His voice didn’t carry the slightest aggressiveness though, only exhaustion. Yes, you were both drained by this fucking life.

Your jaw clenched, his word cutting deep. “I tried to save him with everything I had, Thomas. I’ve always tried to do my best for this family. Tried my best to make it work. But you –” You sneered, “You’re so determined to hate me that you won’t see it.”

Tommy snorted, the ghost of a desperate smile floated on his lips before it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. The look in his eyes was hard as steel, unyielding, but utterly melancholic. “Save him? Yes, it’s true, but you think that changes a thing? He was better off with you from the start.”

Things were always like this with Tommy. Even though you told yourself that you weren’t going to give in to your anger, the blue-eyed demon always knew which buttons to push to annihilate your self-control. And even if you didn’t want to play his twisted game, you always ended up getting pulled in. Your heart pounded in your tight chest, anger sparking beneath grief and the pain. Driven by a furious rage only he could fuel, you stood up from the armchair, Arthur’s black coat falling on the floor as you moved. “You don’t get to stand there and act like you know what is best for him. You only know what’s convenient for you. It’s always about you, innit?”

Following your movement, Tommy also got up from the couch to face you, cigarette hanging from his mouth and icy turquoise eyes burning fiercely. “What do you think you know about about me? Or about Arthur, for that matter?”

“About Arthur? Everything. About you? More than I needed to know.”  Your body moved instinctively, taking a step closer to him in utter defiance. “You really think you’re that unfathomable, do you? You think that no one except Thomas Shelby can understand what’s happening in this twisted and scheming mind of him, right?  No, let me correct my mistake, even you cannot understand yourself.”  Trying to calm down sheer anger and the acid you were made of, you took a quick gulp of whisky from your glass before putting it on the table.  Once the glass left your mouth, your lips curled in a mean smirk.

“I know the man you are because my former fiancé was cut from the same cloth. An egocentric criminal with bulging ambition, a far too high sense of self esteem and a greed beyond words. A man who dragged his loved ones down with him without even realizing it. But Tom, you are a poison. And even with good intentions and genuine love, everything you touch ends up rotting. Just like you.”

And just like him.

Your voice sounded like an angelic lilt as you spoke, but there was something horrifying in its softness: a belittling tenderness that was only aimed at mocking and hurting.

Tommy’s jaw clenched, dimples digging in his already sharp cheeks. Bitter, he stubbed his cigarette against the couch’s armrest and threw it right onto the carpet, not minding the damage he just did. For fuck’s sake, he had enough money to buy a new one. Even a new mansion had he wanted to.The tension that was floating in the room became thicker, intoxicating, as your cutting remarks threw sparks into the gasoline of his soul. One could even wonder if the crackling sound of the fire really came from the hearth or if they were made by the flames of your hatred. 

The gangster didn’t reply, yet his eyes were locked with yours, speaking a silent challenge none of you was willing to back down from. He might have remained mute, but his body didn’t. All of sudden, he walked closer to you, reducing the distance step by step until he stood in front of you only from a few inches, fierce and unafraid. He was so close that you could feel the warmth of his bare chest radiating off him, gently warming up your frozen skin without even touching it. The musky scent of his after shave, worn off by the shower but still strong enough for you to catch its fragrances, mixed with his whiskey breath.

“You think I’m scared of you?” You whispered only for him to hear, light tremor of defiance in your voice. “Be careful Thomas, you know I could kill you right here right now.”  You spat, the warm fire reflecting its dim light against the pearly white enamel of your sharp canine teeth and making your ivory mane shine like moonlight.

“It’s Tommy.” He corrected. The way you kept using his full name was starting to get on his nerves, especially after how delicate his nickname had sounded, melting on your tongue like sugar, the day you threw yourself in his arms, mourning John. Crying real tears and not staged ones.

“No, it’s Thomas. You said it yourself years ago.”  You cut him, the name as sharp as the shards of a broken mirror, whose cracked surface reflected Tommy on one side, and your own being on the other, like two perfectly intricated parts of the same puzzle.

A short silence hovered above the room, sharing the space with the electric air as you glared at each other, waiting for the next unpredictable move the other could make.

The blue-eyed demon didn’t bother picking up your little taunt, but rather went on with what you said just before, “Kill me…” He repeated, leaning over you. His void pupils relished every trait of your doll face, “That’s what you want ay?”  Tommy’s voice was dark and daring, but it held a flicker of something different. Something more dangerous. As he spoke, his husky and hushed tone feeding the electric tension, you both stood locked in that heated moment, your breaths mingling in the space between you. Why were you realizing how close you were, both invading each other’s private space, only now? 

This time, Tommy’s expression shifted again and before you could react, he reached for you, his strong calloused hands wrapped around your wrists with a firm yet tender grip and pulled you even closer. “Do it”, he urged in a low growl as he guided your hands around his neck. “Show me how strong you really are without that evil magic of yours...”

Your heart raced, missing a vertiginous beat, as your sly fingers curled instinctively around the hard line of his throat. There was a thrill in the danger, a rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins when you felt the steady thump of his pulse under the soft pulp of your thumb, a reminder that Tommy Shelby was indeed a mortal man. Without control of any sort, your eyes fell on his throat, which was a striking canvas of both strength and vulnerability, the sinewy muscles taut beneath his smooth, pale skin. The very, very thin layer of sweat which covered him glistened under the dim light, attracting your attention even more on the angular lines of his jaw. Your breath stopped for a few seconds when you noticed how the coolness of his complexions contrasted sharply with the heat that was radiating off him.  Tommy Shelby was a walking paradox, as cold as ice, as hot as fire. Just like you.

With a surge of anger, you tightened your hold and let your nails dig into his skin. “You think this is a game?”

“Life ain’t nothing but a cruel game, Devil” he replied with a hitching breath and a light smirk dancing on his seductive lips as he leaned more into your grip. The gangster exuded something primal you couldn’t really describe. “You can’t tell me you don’t feel it too—the tension, the way we keep pushing each other.”

Your faces were now inches apart, heat pooling in your body and overwhelming you.

 “You’re insane,” you hissed, a tremor of uncertainty creeping into your voice despite your bravado. You had tried to hide it but it was vain and you knew it didn’t go unnoticed.

“And yet here we are,” he murmured, his growling voice turning into a whisper that sent shivers down your spine. A raspy lilt that made all fibers of your being vibrate like a piano’s strings during a symphony of chaos and desire. Caught off guards by the intensity of his gaze, your grip faltered just a moment before your thumb pressed a bit more on his windpipe. The noise his breath made as well as the way he sharply sucked in for air left no doubt on the power of your grip – you were slowly but surely squeezing the air out of him and, this time, you didn’t need any kind of magic to do so. It made the whole act even more exciting. Suffocatingly intense. 

At this point, you were convinced that the black-haired gangster, with his intoxicating smell of whiskey, cigarettes, leather and expensive after shave, would back up but he did quite the opposite. Leaning forwards, his lips brushed against your ear with a tenderness you didn’t suspect he possessed. Another shiver ran through you, and you hated him even more for enabling this reaction. “Harder…” He breathed, voice already muffled, “ Y—You want this as much as I—I do.”

In that moment, the storm of your usually muffled emotions collided. Rage, desire, fear, hatred, loneliness, doubts, lust, all intertwined with the numbing effect of alcohol, blurred the line between Tommy and you even further.

“Harder, like your former fiancé loved, right?”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck me your – yourself ay.”

Lost in the intensity of everything, you felt the control slipping from your fingertip along with the will of fighting him. Tommy Shelby was sliding under your skin and the undeniable urge to give in was too much for you to resist. And somehow, you didn’t want to. What he made you feel was too similar to what you had lost after slashing Amos’ face and running away the day of your wedding.

This was why your grip suddenly tightened around him, your slow choking turning into the verge of deadly strangulation. In reply, Tommy let out a muffled moan. His strong hands, scarred by murder, grabbed your frail hips. So frail he felt like he could crush them easily and break you in half.

Your eyes maybe whole, But the story I'm told is your heart is as black as night.

As the room started to dangerously spin around him, the lack of oxygen building up gradually, the necessity of words faded away. Giving in, you leaned too and gently rubbed your cheek against your brother-in-law’s while still strangling him. Your lashes fluttered at the silky sensation of his perfectly shaved skin, your nerves sparkling with sensations at the lines of his sharp facial bones. His fire skin against the frost that constituted yours was ecstatic. Another little husky yet muffled moan echoed in the living room, his touch feeling as good as a shot of heroin and as brutal as getting crushed by a train. 

“Hev—” Tommy’s muscular body suddenly dropped to its knees, unable to hold his weight anymore.  At first you thought he would finally give up and admit he couldn’t take it anymore but the black-haired gangster didn’t. His rough hands didn’t leave your waist but rather pulled you closer, as if he couldn’t bear a single inch standing between you. The two turquoise gems that he called eyes locked onto yours — unfaltering and desperate. Tommy exhaled a shaky breath and surrendered himself fully to your touch. You wanted to kill him? So be it, he thought.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, fascinated for he looked so weak, so… willingly at your mercy that everything around you blurred, your focus only on him. Him and his freckles. Him and the too-perfect traits of his face from his adorable nose to his slightly chapped lips. Him and the sight of what you could be together.

Your lips maybe sweet such that I can't compete, But your heart is as black as night.

A far away cry resounded in the back of your head, pleading you to put a stop to this folly, but you were far too embedded in a primal trance to mind it. 

 Tommy’s head lowered until his cheek pressed against your belly, his arms snaking around your waist in an intimate, blazing embrace. And just like that it wasn’t a fight anymore; it was something else. The same thing you were both desperately pushing away for years — what fueled the vitriol of his hatred. For him and his twisted and tired mind, your deadly hands around his throat weren’t hurting him anymore, they were granting him a momentary relief from his untamable demons. The dirt couldn’t touch him here, your seraphic yet murderous aura keeping it from burying him alive. You strangled him, but he felt like he had never breathed this freely for a long, very long time. 

Soon the static hug turned into a sensual one, with Tommy softly rocking you in a way so soothing that you couldn’t help but bit your juicy lower lip. For a moment you both stayed like that, your body petrified and your hands still squeezing the air out of him while his scorching breath fanned over your belly when he moaned, sipping through the thin fabric of your silk nightgown. It was only after a while that all of Tommy’s energy fled from him. Now he hed had reached his limits. You felt the gangster waver, then he fell back onto the living room floor, dragging you along in his fall. You simply followed, letting him pull you on top to make you straddle him. A firework exploded into you when your hips collided together, your beings only separated by the thin layer of your lace thong and the fabric of his trousers. 

I don't know why it came along at such a perfect time, But if I let you hang around I'm bound to lose my mind.

Beneath you, Tommy’s body was entirely tensed, his breath hitching in difficulty, mouth gasping for air and a vein on his forehead pumping blood furiously. Yet, his hypnotic turquoise eyes didn’t waver from you except occasionally when he rolled them back in pure ecstasy. You shut your eyes closed, squeezing them very tight, unable to hold his gaze anymore when his hips started to sensually roll under you, the feeling of his hard length making you gasp.

“Tom… No.” You thought you had spoken with a stern tone but your voice had been nothing but a whisper that melted in a moan and, consequently, he didn’t stop. Quite the opposite, he kept rubbing against you, your hips dancing together in perfect rhythm and intensifying when he felt the warmth pooling between your legs and the small, damp spot on your sinful undergarment. It was too much for him to bear — Tommy growled, a low and primal noise that came from the depths of his soul, and his hips bucked under you. In a final scream of intense pleasure he came, stars waltzing behind the blackness of his eyelid and the mighty hands of God ripping all his suicidal thought from him just enough time to finally be at peace.

Peace, at last. He thought.

Shocked, confused and caught in the haze of the moment, you finally released your grip and freed his throat before curling up in a ball in his arms, trembling. 

“I’m fine.” He stuttered, panting, as if he had read through your concerns.

As you lay entwined on the floor, both of you breathless and tangled in each other’s arms as if your life depended on it, the silence of the room grew thick with unspoken desire and barely bridled resentment.

Would life be easier if you’d give in for good? Would he be the one, strong and steady, guiding you and protecting you? Could he be the one able to finally heal that open wound your attachment to Amos was?

No.

Tommy could never be your solace.

You would never let him.

You’d never do this to Arthur. Never.

Your hand tenderly reached his face. They lingered on his perfectly carved jaw to trace faint lines across his skin as though you were discovering him for the very first time. Had he always been so pretty? The soft caress of your fingers almost made him purr, but he was still panting too much to say something more judging by how his chest rapidly fell with each shallow breath. Only after a few minutes Tommy looked up at you, the eyes that once stared at you with disgust and burning rage now softened – though the remnant of something dark and fierce burnt inside his black pupils. 

He finally broke the silence with a voice both rough and tender, “You feel it ay? The weight of it. The weight of us.” It wasn’t a question for he knew he was right, no matter how hard you would deny it. He pulled you closer to make your embrace even more intimate until your nose nuzzled in the crook of his neck — his perfume soothing you, lulling you.

'Cause your hands maybe strong but the feelings are all wrong, Your heart is as black as night.

“Tommy. This has to stop.” You said slowly, fingers still caressing his face with sheer tenderness, “You have to let it go.”  Fighting against the torpor the sweet comfort of his arms brought you, you raised your head to plunge your gaze into his.  In response, Tommy let out a sigh and one of his hands found yours, intertwining your fingers together.

“You think he loves you the way I could?” His other hand moved to your face to tilt your chin towards him, keeping you from fleeing his vulture eyes which were filled with longing he didn’t bother to hide anymore, “I’m not letting you go.” 

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest at the thought that Tommy would never stop haunting you. 

He was talking exactly like Amos. Using the exact same words and sickly-sweet tone.

“Don’t say dumb shit like this.” You retorted, the warmth you had granted him with turning to freezing arctic ice again. With that being said, you gathered all your remaining strength to overcame the comforting haze he instilled in you, and managed to snatch yourself from his arms. You needed to leave this fucking room now. Surprised, Tommy tried to hold you, to keep you from leaving him but you had been too quick. Defeated, the gangster hauled himself with his forearms against the carpet and frowned.

“You know we’re meant to be.”

“And what are we meant to be Thomas?” You sneered, glaring at him from above your bony shoulder, “Can you tell me?!”

Your heart is as black… As mine.

“Each other’s death.”

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[mischievouslittlecreature]

Part 26: Do You Love Me

Summary: In an attempt to try to fix things, Tommy accidentally makes a mistake that sends shockwaves through his relationship with Lucy.

Word Count: 6,709

Warnings: Tommy being a fucking idiot, angst, polyamory, sexual content, insecurity, jealousy, suicidal thoughts, and drug use.

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Chapter 9: The Deal

“But this is the deal: You don’t fuck anybody else in my house. Nor within a day of holding our child by the hand. A day on either side. And you let me in sometimes. Into your head.”  

He had not thought. Had not even taken a moment to process it all. Truth be told, he was still quite drunk from all the whiskey and champagne he’d drank at the Garrison.

And he did not entirely take her conditions all that seriously. All he saw was a chance to finally put an end to all the ridiculous squabbles and battling he and Lizzie had been partaking in recently. And a chance to butter her up. So that when he asked where Linda was, she would not hesitate to tell him. 

And she didn’t. He had been successful in that regard, at least. She sold her dear friend down the river without a second thought when, after they were done, he looped his arm around her waist and murmured the question sweetly into her ear. 

He always somewhat dissociated from these encounters. Performed. Said and did what he figured she wanted him to say and do. It was easier that way. Kept her happy. 

Or, kept her happy enough at the very least. 

“To clear it out. That what needs clearing out. Agreed.”

But he had not thought of what he was agreeing to. Not really. Not until the concurrence had long ago left his lips. It was not until he had slipped out of bed, pulling his trousers back up and making his way to his office, that he started to really think about the deal Lizzie had just coaxed him into making. 

A sharp swell of horror and shame blossomed within him at the realization that he had not even thought of Lucy at all when agreeing to an arrangement that would effectively ban him from touching her anywhere but their apartment in London. 

He swallowed hard, fingers toying around the little cyanide capsule clutched between them. The idea of placing it between his teeth and biting down was tempting. Far better than having to go to Lucy’s room and tell her what he’d just done. 

The door to his office blew open, and Lizzie came in, demanding to know who he’d just been speaking to on the phone. Despair filled her eyes at his confirmation that it was Arthur.

What the fuck did you think I was going to do, Lizzie? Why do you think that I asked after Linda in the first place?

“You marry a Shelby, you stay fucking married,” he told her as he stood from his seat, going to the door. 

“Tommy.”

He could hear the trembling of anger in her voice. Sighing, he stopped, turning to face her. She drew herself up to her full height. 

“We made a deal.”

He drew in a ragged breath, a knot forming in his throat. Maybe it wasn’t too late to push forward a contingency. A special exception for Lucy from the new rules Lizzie had just put forth. “Lucy doesn’t count–” 

“Oh, yes, she does,” Lizzie took a step forward, a sneer twisting her face. “No exceptions, Tommy.” Something gleamed in her eyes when she threw those words he had once used when he first hired her as his secretary back into his face. 

He stared at her, and wondered where that woman had gone. She had been so sweet and fun, then. Hopeful. Happy, even. What happened to her? Was it him? Was he the one who had killed that version of Lizzie, leaving nothing but the bitter, spiteful person who now stood before him?

Maybe that was the real reason he’d given in so effortlessly to her demands. His guilt over what he put her through–and would continue to put her through–was a crushing weight on his shoulders. She didn’t deserve the bent, twisted bits that were all he was able to offer her. If he were a better, less selfish man, perhaps he would let her go. But he was neither of those things. 

He could tell her to fuck off. Just ignore her demands and carry on as he had been. But there was a very strong likelihood she would storm out on him, then.

Thinking back, he remembered the shimmer of unbending insistence in Lizzie’s eyes as she laid out her conditions. No; there would be no exceptions. He agreed to her terms, or she left. She did not have to even tell him that; he had read it in her face. 

And you still said fucking yes. 

Much as he hated it, he needed her. He couldn’t manage the kids and the house on his own, not to mention the importance of having a wife when it came to public image. 

But he had to try. At least he could say to Lucy that he tried…

“You cannot be serious, Lizzie. With her, it’s different…”

“To you, maybe. But not to me. To me, she’s just some slut that you fuck on the side.”

His fingers flexed, balling into fists, trying to keep his temper reigned in. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that,” he warned, voice a low growl. His eyes narrowed, challenging. “You don’t really mean any of that, anyway.”

Something wavered in Lizzie’s eyes, and he knew that he was right. As almost always was the case with her, she was just mad, and saying things that she only half meant.

She and Lucy had been halfway to being real friends, once. And there were still bouts of time, even after the marriage, that they had seemed to be getting close to being in that place again. That had to indicate that somewhere, under all the jealousy and bitterness, Lizzie held some semblance of fondness or affection for her. 

But her eyes hardened over again, stubbornness and resentment winning out over any sort of endearment for Lucy that may or may not have been there. “Those are my new conditions, Tommy. I’m not budging on them.”

He sighed. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with her on it tonight. She was too angry about him using her to find out where Linda was. 

“We’ll discuss it later,” he relented, and turned to leave once more. 

“You’re going to her,” she accused. 

“You expect me to believe that you want me to spend the rest of the night with you?”

Her jaw clenched, but she did not speak to the alternative. Shaking his head, Tommy shoved past her to the door.

“Not in the house! Or a day on either side of holding Ruby by the hand!” Lizzie yelled after him. 

“Yeah, I fucking got it!” he shouted back, footsteps heavy on the floor. He stomped miserably all the way to Lucy’s room, hand hovering uncertainly at the doorknob, balling his fingers briefly into a trembling fist. 

What the fuck am I going to tell her?

He forced himself to open the door, stepping into the darkened room. Laying across Tommy’s usual spot on the bed, Shadow lifted his huge black head from where it was resting on his paws. In the dark, his brown eyes shimmered, wolflike. Had he been an intruder, the dog likely would have leapt on him in an instant, sharp teeth snapping at his throat. But instead Shadow's tail wagged back and forth across the sheets at the sight of him. 

“Move over, mate,” he requested, stripping out of his trousers and gently encouraging Shadow to move out of his space and go sleep in his dog bed instead. There was still Trouble to contend with where she was snuggled against Lucy’s side, but at least there was room for him. 

He was thankful to the animals for keeping her company, and making sure that she stayed warm on the nights that he was away. 

Do you not feel ashamed? To climb into bed with your lover when your wife’s touch is still cooling on your skin?

He flinched at the thought, freezing halfway into climbing onto the mattress, suddenly tempted to go find a spare room and sleep there instead, to spare himself the shame and guilt. 

Hilarious, of course, to ever think that he could escape either of those. 

The opportunity was taken, however, when Lucy shifted in her sleep and cracked an eye open, squinting at him. 

“Hey.”

He cleared his throat roughly, hoping that his voice sounded somewhat normal. “Hi.”

“Lizzie throw you out?”

“Sort of.”

“Mm.” She scooted, making more room for him, and he finished climbing in beside her. Immediately she snuggled her head atop his chest. “Did you get what you needed from her?”

“I did.”

Her fingers stroked over his ribs. “Good.”

He stared down at her in the dark. Beautiful, even when still half asleep. Her red hair spread out across his chest, lips somewhat pouty with exhaustion. 

He opened his mouth, to tell her of the awful, terrible thing he had just done to them. And then she turned her head and laid a kiss to the center of his chest, growing heavier in his arms as she started to drift off. He closed his mouth, words dying in his throat. 

Coward. 

He would have to tell her eventually. But not tonight. He couldn’t bring himself to. 

“Lucy?” he said, instead.

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

He tipped his head back against the pillows, staring up at the canopy, one arm around her and the other thumbing at his brow. 

But will you still? After you learn what I’ve done?

∗ ∗ ∗

Lucy sighed as she set about straightening the papers in front of her, tucking them into a folder that went into one of the locked drawers in her desk. She checked her watch, frowning at the time. She was supposed to accompany Tommy to a restaurant for a meeting with several other politicians. If they didn't leave soon, they would be late. Tugging on her coat, she double checked to make sure that she had her notebook and pen in her pocket. A moment later, Tommy emerged from his office, shrugging on his coat. 

“Ready?”

She nodded, waved good-bye to Adam, and followed Tommy out into the hallway. 

“I thought that we’d walk,” he said as he held the door open for her. The London air was crisp, but not unpleasant against her cheeks. She raised an eyebrow.

“Alright.”

They walked in silence for a while, the bustle of people and cars around them a familiar sound. Lucy chanced a glance over at Tommy to find him frowning, head angled down so the shadows cast by his cap obscured his eyes. 

“About the talk that I had with Lizzie last night…” Tommy said finally, something that she would have almost considered to be nervousness in his voice. When he didn’t say anything more for a minute, she frowned. 

“Yes?”

“We made a deal,” he continued. Something close to dread twisted in her gut, though she couldn’t name why. “She’s not going to go through with the divorce.”

“That’s good.” Though she wasn’t really sure if it actually was. Useful as Lizzie was to them as Tommy’s wife, Lucy still wished at times that the poor woman would just let him go. Lizzie was a good woman. She deserved to be happy. To have someone who loved her as much as she loved them. Guilt churned in her chest. It was unfair and illogical, to think that she was in some way stealing Lizzie’s share of love from Tommy. And yet still the thought persisted.

Another glance over at Tommy and the deep frown on his face doubled the dread bubbling in her stomach. “What did she want?”

Tommy coughed. “She doesn’t want me to fuck anyone else at Arrow House. Or a day before or after holding Ruby by the hand.”

She almost tripped over her own feet, but somehow managed to keep her composure. It was like someone had punched her in the gut. “Oh.”

“Luce, listen,” he said softly, “we can still go to hotels. Or the apartment here in London…”

Lucy blinked hard, swallowing roughly. A sharp wave of hurt washed over her, mind whirling as she began to process all of the ways in which this new shift in their arrangement with Lizzie would change things. 

He hadn’t even thought to talk to her about it before agreeing to it…

A choking feeling of being discarded and unimportant clawed its way into her chest and burrowed itself there. 

“We’re here,” she nodded to the sign of the restaurant across the street.

“Lucy…” Tommy pressed softly, brow furrowed with worry. She sighed, feeling bad for having brushed him off. Giving his arm a small squeeze, she offered him the most reassuring smile that she could manage. 

“We’ll talk about it later, alright?”

Tommy didn’t look fully convinced, worry still evident in his brow, but he nodded, holding the door to the restaurant open for her.  

She moved through the rest of the day in a bit of a stupor. Her mind kept turning over cruel, self-deprecating thoughts. And as much as she tried to convince herself that they weren’t true, embers of doubt continued to burn in her mind. Tommy was quickly sucked back into the rhythm of work, though she could have sworn that he kept shooting worried glances in her direction when no one was looking. 

∗ ∗ ∗

Work was a welcome distraction, keeping her mind mostly occupied from her reawakened insecurities and a feeling she almost wanted to call betrayal. Despite her promise that they would discuss it later, she’d been consciously avoiding the topic of the new agreement between Tommy and Lizzie. He’d tried to bring it up once or twice, but she’d again brushed him off, not yet ready to deal with it. They had work to do. Once that was done, then they could worry about their personal lives.  

They had gotten back late, and she had gone straight to her office, depositing her briefcase.

“You’re back late.”

She looked up to see Lizzie standing in the doorway, arms crossed elegantly over her chest, head tilted to the side. Lucy swallowed dryly. Lizzie looked tall and regal. After a full day at work and the long drive home, Lucy felt disheveled and exhausted. 

“Meeting ran late,” she explained, walking to the door. Lizzie stepped back into the hallway to allow her through. The heavy wood closed behind her, keys jangling as she locked up the office so the children or animals wouldn’t get into it. 

“Did Tommy tell you about our new deal?”

When she glanced back, Lizzie was looking down at the floor, arms still crossed.

“Yes,” she began to walk towards her room. Lizzie followed her.

“It wasn’t anything personal, Lucy.”

She let out the smallest of bitter laughs, opening the door to her bedroom and leaving it open so Lizzie could follow her inside.

“You can see why it would be hard for me to believe that.”

Lizzie sighed, sitting down on the edge of Lucy’s bed. “I’m sorry.”

Lucy shook her head, not believing that for a second, and walked away to the window. “I don’t understand why neither of you could have at least talked to me before finalizing any sort of new arrangement.”

“This is my house–”

“I live under this roof, too, you know. This affects me. I’m not even saying that I would have said no. It just would have been nice to have at least been included.” Lucy gazed out the window for a long moment. “You knew from day one what the arrangement was going to be, Lizzie. No one lied to you about that. You knew exactly what you were marrying into. And you said that you were alright with that. And yet from the moment you’ve moved into this house, you’ve wanted me gone.” 

“That isn’t true.”

“Don’t try to lie to me. It doesn’t fucking work. What exactly did you think was going to happen? That after you were married, he’d fall in love with you and leave me? You have such an unfair, romanticized version of him in your head. And you're so furious every time he does something that challenges that. Even though he’s never lied to you or deceived you about who he is,” Lucy rubbed at her eyes. “Look, frankly, I don’t give a single fuck about your relationship with Tommy anymore. What is bothering me is that you two are making everyone else around you so miserable that it’s painful to even be in the same room as you.” She drew the curtains closed and turned around. “Believe it or not, I don’t want to see you unhappy. I’ve done everything that I could to try to accommodate you. I don’t know what else to do to make you happy.” She sat down on the opposite edge of the bed from her. “Actually, that’s not true,” she met Lizzie’s gaze. The taller woman pursed her lips, looking down at her hands almost in shame. “But I don’t think it’s very fair that I’m the one who should have to lose everything because you’ve realized that you bit off more than you can chew.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Lucy tilted her head to the side. “What exactly is it that you think you’d accomplish if I left?” There was no accusation in her tone, just simple curiosity. Lizzie looked away and didn’t answer. Lucy shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am the problem. Maybe I leave and he falls in love with you. Finally changes into the man that you’ve fantasized that he would be all these years. Or maybe he’ll resent you,” she shrugged, her eyes focusing on a portrait of a horse on the far wall, fingers picking at a stray thread in her trousers. “Maybe you’ll get to find out.” 

“What does that mean?” there was a trace of alarm in Lizzie’s voice. Lucy looked at her to find her eyes wide, almost worried. She was suddenly very tired.

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “Look, I don’t want to fight with you. I don’t have the energy right now,” she cleared her throat. “So, could you please leave me so that I can try to sleep?”

Something softened a fraction in Lizzie’s eyes, her long fingers reaching out to Lucy before she seemed to think better of it and pulled her hand back. She stood silently, going to the door. She turned back to look at Lucy from the doorway. Her mouth opened to say something, but then changed her mind, instead disappearing out the door without another word.   

∗ ∗ ∗

The next few days were spent locked in a limbo of uncertainty and awkwardness. Time spent at Arrow House hurt. In the handful of days since Tommy told her about the agreement she did her best to keep mostly to herself, actively avoiding both Tommy and Lizzie and instead spending most of her time locked away in her office or her room.

Lucy still was unsure of what exactly she wanted to do. Yet with every night she spent curled up alone in her bed, the deeper the thought of leaving burrowed into her brain. She was living in a house with four other people and a decently sized staff, and yet she had never felt so lonely. Perhaps her leaving really would be what was best for everyone.

It was the weekend. Lizzie had taken Charlie and Ruby out riding while Lucy and Tommy finished up on some work. She was in Tommy’s office, ruffling through a stack of papers, brow furrowed in concentration, when two strong arms wound around her waist, fingers toying with the buttons on her burgundy waistcoat. A kiss was pressed to the base of her neck, her back tugged to press fully against Tommy’s front.

“I like this waistcoat,” Tommy purred, pressing more kisses to her neck. Lucy giggled, squirming at the tickle of his lips against her skin. With one quick movement Tommy spun her around, fingers hooking in the belt loops of her trousers to pull her close and press a kiss to her lips. A contented sigh fell from her mouth, fingers twisting in his hair. His touch was addictive, voice a deep rumble that went straight to her core as he mumbled sweet nonsense to her in Romani. Big hands gripped her hips, lifting her up to set her on his desk. Her thighs fell open on near instinct, Tommy’s body slotting definitively between them, pressing himself firmly against her. 

She had nearly forgotten how easy it was for Tommy to make her forget everything else in the world with a simple caress. His kisses to her mouth were growing sloppier and more urgent, hips rutting forward to grind the growing bulge in his trousers against her clothed core. His hands fumbled at her shirt, undoing the buttons of her waistcoat, palms warm through the thin material of the white shirt she had layered beneath it. Her own hands smoothed across his shoulders, nails digging in and pulling a growl from his throat. Tommy’s left hand pulled away from her waist to instead cradle her cheek, tilting her head so he could press eager kisses to her neck. 

The feeling of the cool metal of his wedding band pressing against her skin was like a bucket of cold water being dumped over her head. Lucy froze, body tensing as Tommy nipped playfully at her pulse point. 

“Tommy,” she said, the hands on his shoulders pushing him away gently. “Tommy, stop.”

He froze, ceasing his movements and pulling back to look at her. Lucy heaved out a sigh, hand tracing along his jaw. She smiled sadly.

“We can’t.”

He blinked. The hands on her fell away, leaving her mourning the warmth and comfort that their touch brought. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Right,” his gaze fell to the floor. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” she lied. Her forehead bumped against his when she leaned forward. She knew that he felt bad about the whole situation. There were the constant worried glances in her direction, paired with the way he had been treating her more…softly lately. Not that Tommy had ever treated her in a way that could be described as harsh, but he was noticeably more delicate towards her now. Like he was afraid that one wrong word or movement would shatter her into a million pieces.  

She understood what he had been trying to do. He wanted to make her feel better. Sex was one of Tommy’s coping mechanisms. His way of forgetting all of the pain and bullshit for at least a little while.

For a moment they remained there, foreheads pressed together and eyes closed. Lucy was afraid to move, to even speak. That if she did it would kill what little resolve she still clung to and she’d give into the temptation that Tommy offered. Denying herself what she wanted, particularly when it came to him, wasn’t something that she was used to. But once they opened that door there would be no closing it, and the moment Lizzie thought that her rules were being broken…it wouldn’t be good. For anyone.  

“We should get back to work,” she finally whispered, voice a hoarse rasp. Tommy nodded.

“Yes,” his voice alarmed her a little, sounding so defeated and sad. He stepped away from her, smoothing his hair back into place and walking around the desk to sit down in his chair. Lucy watched him as she worked on re-buttoning her waistcoat. 

He seemed so far away, suddenly. Eyes glazed over and sorrowful. She wanted nothing more than to let herself fall into his arms and let him make them both forget about this sudden chasm that had opened up between them.  

Instead she smoothed herself down, shoved all thought and feeling deep down, and got back to work.

∗ ∗ ∗

Everything had remained as it was. Her clothes. Her boxes of jewelry. The bed in the middle of the room. Even the portraits on the wall. The maids were allowed in to dust and clean, but that was all. Only Lucy, Tommy, and Frances had keys to the room. Not even Lizzie was allowed access to it.

The bed was as soft as Lucy remembered when she sat down on the edge of it, gaze focused out the massive windows. She took a small sip from her little bottle of opium, closing her eyes as she felt the substance begin to seep into her mind. 

“This is a stupid idea.”

For the first time in what felt like days, Lucy’s lips twitched upwards into some semblance of a smile.

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“Stay here. Don’t let her run you out of your own home.”

“If I stay here, it’ll only increase the chances that Tommy and I slip up.”

“So?”

She sighed heavily. “Love…”

“What Lizzie doesn’t know won’t kill her.”

“You’re terrible, you know that?”

A chuckle. Lucy finally turned to look over her shoulder at the source of the low voice. Her hair was still bright golden, blue eyes stern but warm, hands shoved into her pockets. She was wearing that white blouse that she so often had on when she was working at the Garrison.

Grace smiled, moving to sit on the bed next to her. Lucy closed her eyes, letting her head rest on the ghost’s shoulder. Grace’s soft fingers stroked through her hair, her touch warm and soothing. Tears pricked in Lucy’s eyes.

“I miss you.”

Grace hummed, wrapping her arms around her. “I know, love.”

Lucy’s mind was at war with itself in its attempt to discern what Grace actually was. Part of her wanted to believe that it really was her deceased lover, watching over both her and Tommy all these years. But the rest of her could only reason that it was just her subconscious, no doubt having grown tired of her bullshit, conjuring up a recognizable figure to offer her comfort and counsel when she needed it.

“It doesn’t really have to do with Lizzie,” Lucy admitted finally. 

“Then what is it?”

She looked up at Grace sadly. “I don’t think that I can stand to stay somewhere where I feel so unwanted,” a few tears escaped her eyes that she hastily wiped away.

“Tommy wants you here.”

Lucy looked away, biting her lip.

“You don’t believe that?”

She shrugged. Grace hugged her tighter to her side. “Give him time, love. He’ll come up with some sort of solution. He always does. He knows that this current situation isn’t sustainable.”

“I can’t stay, Grace,” she sat up. “I can’t stay in this place that now makes me feel nothing but miserable and bitter. I don’t want to feel that way anymore.”

“And you think that if you leave, you won’t feel miserable and bitter?” 

Lucy looked down at her hands, the lump in her throat building. Grace rubbed her shoulder.

“It’s not just that,” the ghost said. “So what is it?” She rested her forehead against the top of Lucy’s head when she didn’t speak. “You can say it. It’s just me.”

“They didn’t even think to talk to me about it,” she whispered finally, the clear, blatant exclusion enough to pull a wounded sob from her throat. Grace squeezed her tightly. “And now,” she laughed painfully, “now Lizzie’s happier, since he agreed to her new rules. How can I challenge it without becoming a problem? Me just being here puts it all at risk.” She knew herself and Tommy well. It would only be so long before they inevitably slipped. Resisting temptation had never been their strong suit.  

“You’re not responsible for Lizzie and Tommy’s relationship, love,” Grace tried to soothe her.

“There’s something wrong. With Tommy. He’s just so…miserable, Grace. And I don’t know why, but maybe…maybe if things can get stabilized with Lizzie, he’ll be happier,” she ran a hand through her hair. “At the very least he’ll have a peaceful place to come home to each night.”

“And you think that he’ll be happy, coming home to this house each night when you’re not in it?”

She sighed, pulling away and wiping at her tear stained face. It was good that she was getting her crying out now, though. “I don’t know.”

Grace’s hand was on her shoulder. “I’m not talking you out of this, am I?”

A sad smile. “No.” A flash of anger shone in Grace’s eyes. “What?”

The blonde shook her head. “This isn’t fair. This is your home too.”

“Not anymore.”

Grace took her hand and squeezed it as Lucy looked around the room one last time. The blonde’s lips twitched upwards a bit. “I’ll still be right here with you whenever you need me, love. No need to say goodbye.”    

Lucy managed a small smile, leaning into the kiss Grace planted on her forehead, eyes closed. When she opened them, the space beside her on the bed was empty.

She was alone once again. 

∗ ∗ ∗  

Lucy opened the door to Tommy’s office to find him leaning back in his chair, face tilted towards the ceiling. His hands were crossed over his stomach, brow furrowed. Clearly deep in thought.

“I need to talk to you,” her voice was steadier than she felt. Tommy tilted his head to look at her, eyebrow raised. He sat up in his seat.

“Alright.” 

She glanced around the office, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. “Can we go outside?” She wasn’t sure if this conversation would end in a fight or not, but if it did, she’d rather no one else heard them shouting. Tommy blinked but nodded, getting up from his chair and walking out with her towards the front door. They tugged on their coats and hats stiffly, and then Tommy was holding open the door for her, shoes crunching on the gravel as they walked towards the grass that covered the expansive grounds surrounding Arrow House. 

Tommy coughed, opening his cigarette case and offering one to her. She took it thankfully, leaning forward as he lit it for her. They walked in silence until they came to a small hill, overlooking the trees that littered the property.

“What was it that you wanted to talk about?” Tommy asked. Lucy took another drag from her cigarette, so wracked with nerves that she thought she might be sick.

“I’ve been thinking a lot. These past couple of days,” she said, still looking out at the green fields. The wind kissed at her cheeks and pulled on her hair. She took in a deep breath. “It’s not working, Tommy,” she forced herself to look at him. His face had gone a bit paler than usual. Behind those winter blue eyes, she could see the cogs in his head beginning to whir, to process the meaning behind her words. “We’ve tried everything with this current arrangement and no matter what we do, someone’s always unhappy,” she shook a few loose red locks of hair out of her face. “I think…Tommy,” she straightened her back and squared her shoulders. She needed to be strong. “I think that I need to leave.”

She had expected him to shout. Maybe pace back and forth. Kick the trunk of the tree nearby. To fight her until the sun went down. But instead he just stood there, motionless, staring at her. As if in shock.

“Tommy…” she whispered, growing a bit unnerved when he didn’t say anything. 

“Are you-” he stopped for a moment, swallowing hard. “Are you saying that you want to break up?”

“No!” she started, taking a cautious step closer to him. “No, I don’t want to break up. And I don’t want to stop working with you. I just–” she heaved out a long, slow breath. “I think that it might be for the best. If Lizzie and I aren’t living under the same roof.”

“Is this about what happened in my office? Lucy, I’m sorry. I got carried away, it won’t happen again-”

“Tom,” she said, trying to keep her voice level and soothing. “We both know that’s not true.”

His gaze dropped from hers to fix on the grass beneath their feet. When he looked back up, his expression had hardened. “No.”

“Tommy, listen to me-”

“No!” he strode forward, until he was right in front of her, towering over her.     

“Tom, Lizzie can’t handle me being so…so…present all the time. She’s told us what her boundaries are and I’m not going to trample on them.”

“You can’t leave,” his eyes were frantic, the word passing his lips like it physically hurt him.

“I’m trying to save your marriage, Tom.”

“Fuck my marriage!”

“Tommy!”

“You are not fucking leaving!”

“Tommy, you need her. She’s an integral part of your social image as a politician.”

“I need you!”

“And I’ll still be with you Tommy. You’ll see me everyday at work. You can call me or send a driver to come bring me here from Small Heath if you need me. But Arrow House is Lizzie’s now, Tommy. There’s no place for me in it. Me being here…it’s a constant, physical reminder to Lizzie that you don’t love her,” he winced at her words. “It was cruel and selfish of me to stay as long as I already have.”

He was silent as he mulled over her words. Lucy could no longer fight the need to go to him, resting a hand on his chest while the other cupped his jaw. She made a sad attempt at a smile that was painfully undercut by the tears watering in her eyes. She shrugged her shoulders. 

“We’ve tried this current living arrangement for years, Tom. It’s not working and I am clearly part of the problem.” 

“You're not a problem, Lucy,” his thumb stroked her cheek. She leaned into him on instinct, closing her eyes both in response to his warm touch and because she could no longer bear to look into those devastated blue orbs. His grip on her tightened. “We can figure this out, eh? You don’t have to leave. We can find some way for us to still be together.”  

“We can still be together, Tommy. Just not under that roof. Not anymore.” She felt the tiniest of flinches beneath her palms at her words. “Let’s just…just try this. For a little while. After things have calmed down and are more stable, then maybe we can figure something else out.” The maybe hung in the air, the weight of it heavy enough to crush them both beneath it. 

Tommy cupped her cheeks, forehead pressed to hers. His eyes squeezed shut, face contorting into a look of such raw pain she almost burst into tears at the sight of it. An exhale that sounded more like a sob burst its way past his lips. His jaw clenched, throat flexing in what she recognized as an attempt to not let himself cry. She watched patiently as his face changed from blatant sorrow to defeated acceptance. Her hands came up to cover his, stroking over the warm skin. 

“It’s okay,” she whispered, voice breaking a tiny bit at the end, eyes blinking hard to fight back her tears. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t cry.

“Where will you go?” his voice sounded very tired.

“Charlie said I could stay in the spare room they have at the yard. It’s close. And you can pick me up in the mornings on your way to London.”

He nodded. “Take Shadow with you.”

“What? No, Tommy, I can’t take your dog–” 

“Please, Luce. For my own piece of mind.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“When will you leave?”

“Tonight.”

He sucked in a pained breath. Lucy let her hands slip around his wrists, tilting her head up to press a slow, soft kiss to his lips. Her attempt to pull back didn’t accomplish much, Tommy’s hands holding her face close to his.

“Oh, don’t go,” he begged, lips brushing over hers as he spoke, though she could hear the defeat in his voice. She rested her forehead once again against his.

“I have to.”

“No,” his grip on her didn’t loosen, even though she could hear it in his voice that she had already won.

“I have to go,” she began to tug away from him.

“No. Please, no,” her heart broke with each pleading word, her eyes closed as she forced herself to be strong. To not allow herself to just fall into him and take what she so badly wanted. 

“Yes. Yes. Tommy,” she forced her eyes to open, to look into those sorrowful blue eyes. “You have to let me go.”

His face crumpled, eyes squeezing shut as his head fell forward, arms winding around her waist to hug her tightly. He pressed one, two, three kisses to her lips. Paused a moment as if just breathing her in. And then finally his arms slackened, and he let his grip on her slide away.  

He didn’t let go of her hand as they walked back to the house in solemn silence. It was only once they’d crossed the threshold that he released her, mumbling something about having a car brought around for her.

The walk back to her room was excruciating, her eyes attempting to soak in every piece of the house she had spent so many years in. The two suitcases of packed belongings were heavy in her hands. There wasn’t nearly enough space in the cases to hold everything she owned, but she figured that once she knew where exactly she would settle down, she would come back for the rest of her belongings. Trouble was laying on her bed, lifting her head with a soft meow and watching her curiously. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” Lucy said to her, giving the cat a few pets on the head. She wished that she could take her with her to Charlie’s, but she was worried about her getting out and getting lost or into mischief while she was away at work. “It’ll be better for you to stay here. Tommy will take good care of you, yeah?”

Trouble gave her an unconvinced meow, rubbing her head against her palm. Lucy had to blink away the tears that welled up in her eyes.

“Try not to be too hard on him, sweetie, okay? You gotta take care of him for me here now.” She leaned down to give the cat a kiss on the top of her little head, then picked up her suitcases again. At the doorway she allowed herself one more quick glance at the bedroom before venturing out into the hallway.

The driver was waiting for her at the front of the house, dutifully taking her suitcases despite her weak protests that she could manage. Tommy was standing near the door, Shadow's lead clutched in his hand, a deep frown on his face as he watched her. With a trembling hand she took the lead from Tommy, Shadow happily trotting over to stand watchfully by her side. 

“I’ll come pick you up in the morning,” Tommy said, voice very matter-of-fact, eyes not really looking at her. There was little more that she could do other than nod.

“Okay.”

“You’ll call me, if you need anything?”

“Of course.”

“Alright.”

They were both quiet for a long, painful moment. Then Tommy’s palm cradled her cheek, thumb stroking along her cheekbone. “I’ll fix this,” he promised. She covered his hand with hers, fingers squeezing. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she forced herself to give him a small smile that Tommy didn’t return. And then she was clamoring into the backseat of the car, Shadow jumping up to sit on the seat beside her. She gazed out the window at Tommy’s figure standing there in the doorway as they pulled away. Her fingers stroked through the dog’s soft fur as she watched the house grow smaller and smaller in the distance. Finally, when it was little more than a blot in the rearview window, she buried her face in Shadow's fur, and began to sob.

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[shelbydelrey]

PREV.

2. MOTHER

“Ms. Shelby, there’s someone here to see you,” the secretary announced.

“Great, send them in,” Charlotte replied absent-mindedly; a decision that she would regret not even a minute later.

The visitor entered, revealing themselves to be a woman of high stature and dark hair.

“Lizzie,” The girl jumped out of her chair.

“Charlotte, how are you?”

The smallest of smiles appeared on the woman’s lips. Charlie glared at her brother, if in search of support or disapproval, and found him measuring the former Mrs. Shelby’s presence.

“Fine,” she responded, returning her attention to her stepmother. The first blow of surprise had subsided, “How are you?”

The other woman clasped her hands together.

“Worried. It is, in fact, the reason why i came to speak to you.”

“I’ll leave you two to it,” Duke declared. He got up and left but not before throwing Charlie a look that evoked his “Nothing good” sentiment from last friday. Lizzie paid him no mind, not when she arrived and not when he got out.

“What are you worried about?” she quizzed, suggesting with her hands that the woman should take a seat.

Sat, her stepmother wiggled her right leg while continuing to rub her hands together. 

“Charles.”

Charlie took a deep breath.

“In what sense?”

“He’s…” Lizzie sighed, “He’s different. Ever since he came back. He doesn’t talk to me, he doesn’t talk to Beth or anyone.”

Her voice trembled.

“And now Ada tells me he’s roaming around Small Heath.”

“Only to visit uncle Charlie,” the words jumped out of Charlotte before she could weigh them down, “He’s been at The Garrison too but he didn’t drink, i promise.”

Her hands curled into fists down the table. So apologetic. And what for? A man she didn’t even know?

“He’s your father’s son, Charlotte. When he came back from his war he brought hell with him.”

Her spine tensed.

“Aunt Ada won’t allow him to do anything. He’s welcome to work with her but illegitimate business is Duke’s.”

Only at the moment the glimmer of hope in Lizzie’s eyes died that Charlie noticed it was there to begin with and she watched as regret, not disappointment, took its place. A ball of heat lodged itself on her chest, stealing her breath, and the scorching fire expanded and expanded threatening to consume her whole. Charlotte knew. Charlotte knew that Lizzie never forgave her for rejecting her as a mother.

“If there was something Ada was never capable of doing was to control the men in her family,” Lizzie hammered down and rose from her seat.

Charlie closed her eyes while clenching her teeth. An idea, however, popped in her head.

“Wait!” 

Thankfully, Lizzie wasn’t out the door yet .

“I can talk to him.”

That’s what the woman’s presence meant, right? Mother, aunt and cousin couldn’t reach Charles but perhaps a sister could.

“I’ll drive some sense into him.”

Relief washed over Lizzie.

“Thank you.”

After the stepmother’s exit, exhausted, Charlie threw herself onto the chair.

The fourteen years hiatus since the last time she saw her brother would finally come to an end.

[prettybillycore]

"For Tommy" Series Masterlist

UPDATED: 5/14/24

Pairing(s): Thomas Shelby x Original Character

Universe: Peaky Blinders

Summary: Veela and Seer- a powerful combination of traits for one person to have. Edith Lillian Scamander falls in love with a young Thomas Shelby while working in a nurse’s ward during WWI. Will her feelings be requited, or will she be doomed to pine over the man of her dreams for eternity hopelessly?

Rating: Teen ✦ prologue | Your sister, Edith Lillian ✦ letter #1 | Yours, Thomas Shelby ✦ ONE ✦ letter #2 | All My Love, Lilli Scamander ✦ letter #3 | Sincerely, Your Peaky Blinder ✦ TWO ✦ letter #4 | Farewell, Edith Lillian ✦ letter #5 | Much Love and Hope, Edith Lillian ✦ THREE ✦ letter #6 | All My Love, Thomas Shelby ✦ letter #7 | Tread lightly, Newt

Read it on AO3 //