murderousginger

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Oh... this is also me.

Should we form a support group?

Why am I incapable of writing soft moments without FUCKING PUTTING ANGST INTO THAT

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Just a taste.

John's head snapped up as he realized Ruby hadn't calmed yet.

He looked at Lizzie, holding onto a screeching Ruby, her hair disheveled and her eyes sunken into caverns. Her pale skin was sallow and dull as she gave him an impatient stare.

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

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

Lizzie handed Ruby to John without thought, and John immediately went to rocking and hushing the baby, walking in circles around the fountain, illuminated by headlights. Ruby's voice slowly quieted and calmed, until John was cooing a sleeping baby. Lizzie wrapped her arms around her chest as a breeze reminded her that she was only in a silk shift dress for bed. John came back, stopping in front of Lizzie as he continued to rock Ruby.

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

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Domestic John does things to me.

Every fic has a song.

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Who wants heartache?

I just can't give Lizzie a happy ending no matter what I do.

We're on angst hours over here.

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"Did you know people are masturbating to your smut fics-- 🤢" I hope they get twice as wet as I did writing it, mind your fucking business.

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I just can't give Lizzie a happy ending no matter what I do.

We're on angst hours over here.

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tomhardygallery

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If John Survived

John Shelby was as surprised as everyone else that he lived through the bullets that ravaged his body. He grew tired of the questions, though.

Depending on the day, he would half smile and tell people that his Aunt Polly and wife must be witches. In darker, more self reflective moments, he would say that the Shelby clan was cursed, and Death wasn't ready to stop his torture just yet.

Besides, he already died once or twice, why is everyone amazed once more it didn't take?

When Tommy told everyone that he would be marrying Lizzie, and she was carrying his child, John tried to understand. He tried to let the seething feelings stay in his chest, at least until it clicked in his head.

Just a few regulars to keep the wolves away.

“You take me for a fool, don't you, brother?” John said, cornering Tommy one evening at a family gathering.

Tommy pursed his lips, pulling John away to the study.

“What's this, then?” Tommy asked, annoyance bleeding from the corners of his constant blank mask.

“You offered Lizzie the money, knowing she'd take it, because she had always taken your money,” John spat, pushing his brother against a bookcase. “You were fucking sleeping with her and never told me.”

“It worked out, didn't it, John?” Tommy said, pushing John back before he smoothed his suit of wrinkles. “You have Esme, we have a truce with the Lees, and I have a second wife that knows the fucking business and won't be surprised when someone comes to kill us all. When you do something stupid to cause a war.”

Tommy's cold eyes glared at his younger brother, absorbing the anger and resentment.

“Now we're going back in there, and I don't want more of your childish nonsense, yeah? It's done. It's accounted for. So go back to your fucking mouthy wife and kiss your children. I've got politics to win.”

John fought the mix of anger and guilt that bubbled within him. Finally, both extinguished, and all he felt was tired.

“Just,”John sighed. “Don't hurt her. She's a good woman. Don't break her like you do.”

“She knows what she agreed to, John,” Tommy said stiffly. “That's between us. Now go join your wife and let's have a nice family dinner, eh?”

John knew that Tommy would do whatever Tommy wanted. And even though he loved his wife, he still cared for Lizzie. The lust might have died, but his respect for her only increased as she not only survived the Shelby's, but thrived in the business.

To love a Shelby was to love Death and destruction. They were all broken in their own ways, each living a life they never expected to make it to after the war. They survived a war. Survived a hanging. And John survived bullets. And no one understood the pieces lost in each death quite like John. He could only hope Lizzie could break through the wall that was Tommy Shelby, more ambition than man at this point.

Tommy did as Tommy does, and soon enough, John noticed his brother chose not to come home more often than not. Even when the baby was born, (Ruby, she's going to be in pictures, Aunt Pol said) Tommy was busy with his politics.

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John, the heart of the Shelby family

It's the end of the night, everything is winding down and the boys are finally ready to sleep. The snow is gone, the whiskey is gone, and the cigarettes have lost their appeal.

Arthur's already started dozing in place and John's swung his arm over his brother as he stares off and lives inside his head. It's in the dead of night, when everyone's passed out or sleeping, that John can remove the mask of being the funny one, the goofy one, the light. He's just as dark as his brothers, broken from the war and the loved ones he's lost, but he knows his place and does his job. As long as he does his part he knows that Arthur and Tommy will do theirs and what family they have left will be taken care of. They'll keep going.

Shelbys might see spirits and walk with death, but it's his job to make it a joke. Make the journey tolerable as they trek. He keeps the boyish attitude because someone has to. Someone has to pretend that they didn't lose their playful nature and that it can be rekindled in the others, stoked from the depths of pain and loss.

John takes his job seriously and acts as if it's effortless, if only to keep his brothers grounded and present. Arthur's the brawn. Tommy's the brain. But John is the heart.

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Well, now I'm not even sure if my long intro fits the story at all.

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Me: I want to write *this scene*

Also, me: Here is 1,000 words of build-up back story to get to the thing I actually want to write.

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this is an implicit fact that everyone knows but no one is ready to face the implications of.

the British “innit” and Southern-American “ain’t it” are the same thing.

this fact haunts me.

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he doesn’t need words when his eyes already say: “don’t push your luck.”

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... I was raised by boomers. Most of these things were in my house.

Try this buzzfeed quiz it’s fun.

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Me: I want to write *this scene*

Also, me: Here is 1,000 words of build-up back story to get to the thing I actually want to write.