#fic: sic em

[dogmetaph0r]

SIC 'EM

Chapter 1: Fetch

A/N: We're FINALLY ready to get started here! So excited to share my work with you guys after talking about it for so long. Each chapter will come with its own warnings, tags, etc. but the chapters are not stand-alone. It's... more just because I am a pantser and not a planner so lord knows what will happen in the future.

Pairings: M!OC x F!OC, future M!OC x Tommy Shelby

Warnings: mentions of period accurate anti-Romani racism, mental health issues, generally just being a PB fic

Summary: Tommy Shelby needs a rat for the Grand National at Aintree Racecourse. Runaway lovers Samuel Lovell and Florence-Maria Lee need the money. It's a bulletproof plan, an easy job, and a chance to make things right with the Lee family... so what other choice does Sam have?

The other Lee girl was meant to meet him along the road halfway between Haydock and Collins Green just over twenty minutes ago, according to Tommy’s pocket watch. Esme had promised Tommy that Florence-Maria would make good on her word, but her lateness was beginning to wear on his resolve. Still, he had no choice but to wait, cigarette after cigarette burning down to embers at the tips of his fingers. Thomas Shelby was a man who valued the soldierly punctuality that would have been the difference between life and death on the Front. Esme’s sister or not, Florence was still an unknown variable, and the far travels of the Lee family could prove difficult if it came to tracking the young woman down. If she did not want to be found, she would not be found.

She certainly had her fair share of reasons to balk at their meeting. If Johnny Dogs’ story was to be believed, Florence was the first to object to the deal between the Shelbys and the Lees. The sisters were best friends, the closest in age of all of Zilpha’s children. Esme was Florence’s whole world. Strike one against the Shelbys, then, for taking Esme away. John’s account of the young woman was that she was skittish and not easily comforted by the promise of peace between the families. Tommy himself remembered seeing a girl roughly Esme’s age shying away from Cousin Nipper’s offer of a dance, flinching as though a touch from their accursed family could kill. Strike two. Most compelling of all was Esme’s own warning, delivered with the pride of an older sister: Florence does not take unnecessary risks. And Tommy was asking a very, very risky favor. Strike three.

He took a long drag of his cigarette, the smoke thick and acrid as he let the wind carry his sigh away. The prospect of making this deal work was too tempting to give up now. It kept Tommy leaning against his car, resolutely opposing the strong wind buffeting his side, the slightly-too-warm late spring sunlight beating down on his jacketed shoulders. If this plan went well, the Blinders could expand to Aintree Racecourse, taking the Grand National Steeplechase and cementing a reputation in Northwest England. While their security with Solomons and his Yiddishers meant they already had a place in booming London, the idea of staking a claim on Liverpool and Manchester was tempting. Tommy was nothing if not enterprising.

A low snort alerted him to the presence of a stout black filly cresting the top of the hill before him, a petite woman astride her unsaddled back. There was no mistaking her: this was certainly Florence. Her resemblance to Esme was evident, from her upturned nose to the brunette curls brushing her shoulders. Even the way she carried herself was familiar, bearing the unmistakable poise and dignity of a daughter of Zilpha Lee. Her dismount from the horse was gentle, nearly soundless even with the oversized riding boots she wore. It wasn’t until Florence turned to face him that Tommy could see the slight curvature of her lower belly below the loose fabric of her dress. When she caught the direction of his gaze, she pulled her colorful shawl more tightly over her abdomen, frowning slightly. Ah. That certainly explained her sudden departure from the Lee family caravans. Her mother was a stern and practical woman. If Zilpha were to find out about her daughter’s pregnancy, she would likely have been married off immediately to save her girl and the family the embarrassment. Perhaps to someone she didn’t know, whom Zilpha would approve of far more than her man. Not unlike how she and I married off her sister, Tommy thought, not without a small pang of guilt.

“Thomas Shelby, then?” She called out to him from a distance, keeping herself close to her filly. God, she even sounded like her sister: birdlike and light, but with a sharp edge of wariness.

“Aye,” he responded. “Florence-Maria Lee?” She nodded, glancing over him suspiciously. Undoubtedly, she already knew about the razor blades tucked unobtrusively into the brim of his cap. That wouldn’t help matters. Slowly, Tommy removed the cap and lay it out on the hood of his car, palms raised placatingly. The tension in her shoulders unwound slightly, though there was still a stubbornness to her voice when she spoke.

“He told me this morning he didn’t want to see you,” she called out. “Said he didn’t want a part in the Peaky devils’ business.”

It wasn’t ideal, that. It was always a possibility, coming all the way out here only to be turned away by the man he’d been hoping to see. But he would be damned if he gave up now, when the North was so close to being his that he could practically taste the factory soot in the air. “What would it take to change his mind?” Florence tilted her head, silently scrutinizing some unknown detail on Tommy’s face as she brought up a hand to stroke the cheek of the little black filly. Tommy had seen this type of horse often, when he’d been young. Only broad, compact horses were strong enough to pull a vardo across miles of open plain without complaint. He wondered if this was the sort of creature that Florence’s man worked with often: sturdy, dependable, solid. Hardly the leggy, lean build of a pedigree racehorse, but it had a unique charm that was difficult to deny. Rough-hewn and efficient, they were all that was needed with none of the frills.

“She’s a beauty,” Tommy said, breaking the silence as he jutted his chin towards the horse. “What’s her name?”

Florence relaxed a bit further, allowing the little horse to press her velvety nose in the cup of her palm. “Fleet Ypres,” she responded proudly. “She’s practically his baby. Not for sale, nor barter. So don’t try.”

Tommy nodded, daring to approach the horse, who eagerly flared her nostrils to examine the newcomer. From his left jacket pocket he withdrew an envelope stuffed with money– Florence’s share of the payment for her share of the negotiating –handing it over so the woman could safely tuck it behind the plain neckline of her dress. From his right, he procured a small pink taffy, which he unwrapped and fed to the eager horse. “He fought in Belgium, then?”

She didn’t respond immediately, instead clicking her tongue at the filly so that she would sidestep closer to the wooden fence along the side of the road. Using the rails as leverage, she mounted Fleet Ypres carefully, a hand resting protectively on her small bump as she pulled herself upright and adjusted her shawl again.

“He’s in a bad way today,” she commented in lieu of an answer. “You were a soldier. You’d know how it is.”

All too well, Tommy thought bitterly, the phantom scent of thick, burnt-sweet opium smoke assaulting his nostrils at the memory of one too many sleepless nights ending in a drugged-out haze. “I’ve seen men behave in all manner of ways, coming home.”

Florence gave him a sympathetic wan smile. She held his gaze contemplatively, a furrow between her brows as another strong wind blew against her back, making Fleet Ypres shiver and shift her balance. Her comfort with silence struck Tommy as unusual. Growing up in a household as crowded and hectic as his own, it was difficult to develop the patience to be so still. Florence, despite her own large, close-quartered family, seemed to possess this affinity for quiet. He respected that; it took discipline and an even temperament. She was exactly the type of person Tommy could rely on to keep this negotiation running smoothly.

A creeping chill settled over them as a thick cloud blotted out the midday sun. In the overcast light, he could see where Florence had become different from her older sister. Where Esme’s defiant gaze was fueled by stubbornness and fire, the younger Lee girl held a quiet desperation behind her cautious dark eyes. Her cheeks were beginning to sharpen despite her youthfully round face, something he’d learned to recognize when food was scarce and his younger brothers were at risk of going hungry for too many nights in a row. The combination of these factors would have typically made him wary, like some sort of primordial survival instinct developed to recognize when a person was at their breaking point. Once again, the girl (consciously or not, Tommy wasn’t sure) protectively rested a hand on her lower belly. No, he thought, not a threat. Someone in her position wouldn’t risk ruining the offer he’d laid out for her.

Florence was the first to break the silence with a resigned huff and a shrug, the tips of her ears pinking with the confession: “Fine, let’s go then.”

Tommy blinked. “Pardon?”

“He’s waiting to speak to you. I needed to vet you out first.” Florence gave him another critical once-over, waiting on his reaction. “Sorry for the delay, Mr. Shelby.”

It took a moment for Tommy to realize what Florence was saying. Then, half a second later, that she’d been misleading him on purpose. The mix between relief that the tension had broken and irritation that she’d outmaneuvered him must have shown on his face, judging by the slight cheeky smirk the Lee girl was struggling to suppress. Sorry my arse, he thought. You’ve been conducting this conversation to the exact tune you wanted. I just happened to sing in key. “Very well,” he sighed, turning towards his car and placing his hat neatly back on his head. “Alright. You have the money, now I’ll need the address.”

Florence scoffed, as if the very idea of such a thing was ridiculous. “There’s no address, Mr. Shelby.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

She turned Ypres back down the road she’d rode in on, the horse’s long tail catching the breeze in an unexpectedly graceful about-face. “If you’re going to find Sam Lovell,” she shouted over her shoulder, “you’re going to need to think like Sam Lovell.” Fleet Ypres kicked up a cloud of dust behind her as she cantered off, leaving Tommy to hop into the driver’s seat and start the ignition on his Model-T.

Fuck’s sake. He knew enough about Sam to know exactly where she was headed. He would need to follow behind quickly and keep his eyes peeled for a little red vardo, the one that had gone missing from the Lee caravans just a few months ago. That was the last Zilpha had seen of her daughter, and the last anyone had seen of the elusive Samuel Lovell. From what Esme had said of him, perhaps that’s been for the best. With that thought in mind, he sped off down the dirt path, following Florence’s lead.

At a canter, the horse wasn’t overly fast, but she had a steady gait. That speed wouldn’t do on the track, Tommy reasoned, but it was well enough for a caravan horse. Certainly well enough for Florence, who rode at least ten lengths from the car without a second glance behind her or an ounce of concern for her delicate condition. Even with the rumble of the car engine just out of sight, something startling to a horse with little to no city experience to be heard of, the little filly kept her course without a hint of anxiety. Bomb-proof, he thought, and a wave of relief brought a smile to his face. A horse like that could only come from a handler of integrity, a man who understood mutual respect. The type of man Tommy could do business with and walk away from without sweating over the fear of a bullet in his back.

The path Florence took him down grew dusty and dotted with sparse patches of grass, leading them away from the main road to Haydock. Past here, only tip carts and sure-footed horses disturbed the dirt, the natural grooves in the earth rattling the chassis of the automobile as it sped carelessly over each bump. Tommy could just make out forked sticks left in the grass along the trail as patrin signs urging fellow travelers onward, indicating safe passage and friendly company up ahead.

Just as sunlight broke through the cloud cover, the road curved around a copse of thin trees to reveal their destination: a small, red vardo bedecked with hand-painted blue and yellow flowers. Outside sat a tent and cooking fire, and just before that was another horse tied to a stake in the ground. The chestnut gelding was snorting and pawing at the ground, ears tilted back in warning as a tall, dark-haired man stood patiently outside of kicking range. Florence slowed Fleet Ypres to a stop to dismount by the vardo, and Tommy pulled to the side of the road, closing the car door behind him as gently as he could so as not to unsettle the hotheaded gelding further.

Florence and the man– Sam, he presumed –conversed in hushed Angloromani, darting furtive glances back at Tommy as he approached. With one last reassurance that he was fine, that the state he’d woken in had passed, Sam kissed Florence’s forehead sweetly.

His eyes were the first thing Tommy noticed. Large and dove grey, they gave Sam a distinctly melancholy appearance, like the sky just before a downpour. The bruise-dark circles just below stuck out harshly against pale, sallow skin. Despite this, Tommy couldn’t find himself to be put off by his appearance. Sickly and unassuming as he seemed, he didn’t shy away from Tommy’s gaze. Call it simple intuition or call it recognition of a fellow soldier, but Tommy could tell that this man was not the same one who had enlisted. He must’ve been handsome before the war.

“Mr. Shelby,” Sam greeted, wiping his calloused palms on his farrier’s apron. Tommy removed his driving gloves, shaking his hand firmly. “Sam Lovell. Henry’s son.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Samuel. Good to finally see the man I’ve been hearing of,” Tommy drawled, stepping back to take a look at the gelding as a whinny pierced the air. “And this is?”

Sam huffed, shaking his head. “Meska. Danny Lee’s new horse.” He rounded the gelding’s front and patted him firmly on the neck, despite the horse’s loud snorting. “He was sold with an abscess under the left back hoof. Danny-boy dropped him here a while ago to go, ah… have a word with the seller,” Sam looked askance at Tommy, quirking an eyebrow knowingly. “And to deliver a message from the Peaky Blinders. But you knew that already.”

Tommy pulled out a cigarette for himself, offering one to Sam. He declined. Instead, the man reached into his back pocket and revealed two slices of dried red apple wrapped in a handkerchief, popping one in his mouth and letting the horse cautiously eat the other from the palm of his hand. “Gave up smokes after the war. Gives me the shakes.” He sniffed and cleared his throat, trailing a hand along the gelding’s flank until he reached the troublesome hoof, bandaged and padded. “This’ll take some time. He’s got an attitude, won’t let me near without a fair bit of bribery. But he oughta be good for riding by the Appleby fair, God permitting.”

“You’re still a godly man after everything, Samuel?” Tommy lit his cigarette, letting it hang from his mouth as smoke curled around his head.

It was an innocent question, nothing more than a weak attempt at peeling back the layers of Sam’s guarded past, but it earned him a glare as cold and dead as still water in the trenches. Perhaps it was the change in light, the overcast above thickening as it cloaked the sun, but the circles under his eyes seemed to grow darker, deep and sunken. The man's lips were chapped and anxiously bitten to scabbing in places. It didn’t take a soldier’s experience to know that Sam was exhausted, laden with the kind of weight that didn’t shake with a good night’s sleep. If he could even manage such a thing, he thought. Tommy had seen men fall victim to their own minds with a lack of sleep in the Somme, going skittish and paranoid like cornered animals. Yet the look in Sam’s eyes wasn’t desperate, but fixed. Focused. It was a dizzying thing to be the subject of.

“You keep calling me Samuel,” he muttered, the ghost of a scouse accent coating his words as he stepped into Tommy’s space, breathing in his smoke. “God has heard, it means. D’you think God heard me in Ypres?” He leaned in close, right next to Tommy’s ear, lowering his voice to just a whisper. “Because I’ll tell you a secret, Tom. I did a lot of begging for it all to stop.”

Tommy steeled himself, slowed his breathing. It would do him no good to give in to the discomfort and back away, to put distance between himself and the war being stirred up in Sam’s brain. Whatever battle Sam had been fighting this morning had evidently not been won as easily as he’d told Florence it had. While Tommy did not come here looking for a confrontation, it was difficult to determine if Sam knew as much– or, rather, whether his mind could recognize the difference between friend and foe so far into this waking nightmare. The way he spat out God’s name felt like a provocation, tempting Tommy to fight back just to give Sam a reason to bite. Besides the fact that he and the heavens were no longer on speaking terms, Tommy knew better than to escalate. Knew that this was just the jagged edge the Western Front had left behind when it ripped Sam away from the safety of home. Something in the tension the other man held, an anticipatory rigor, told him that he had to keep playing his part in the verbal standoff if he wanted this conversation to go anywhere. He had to meet the soldier where he was at, even if that place was a trench only Sam could see. “And did God answer?”

Sam was the one to back up, hunching slightly to grin sardonically with that same ghostly eye contact. “Oh, yes. He sent me a bullet, right here,” He tapped a rib on his right side. “Nearly sent me up to my maker, it did. But the week I was due back on the front lines, the war ended. Lucky me.” He straightened up but didn’t move farther, just glared down at him like a priest at the pulpit. “So yeah, you could say that I’m a proper faithful man, Thomas.” Don’t fucking ask again, his tone said.

“Good.” Tommy looked him up and down slowly. Analytically. Waiting for the bite to follow his bark. “I like to see devotion.”

Sam’s nostrils flared, betraying his irritation that the older man would not stand down. He cut an imposing figure, Tommy had to admit. It was a shame how hard he tried to shrink into himself before this disruption, lean limbs pulled in and shoulders hunched as though he could hide in plain sight. This, in contrast, this…intensity was a force to be reckoned with. This was someone Tommy could use on his side. He had to teach him to harness that anger, refine him the same way he honed Arthur to a razor-sharp edge and wielded him like a weapon. Break him the way he might break a horse. Train him the way he might train a bloodhound. Their eye contact held until Florence stepped into his peripheral, a hand on Sam’s shoulder to guide him back gently. She whispered a question to him, inaudible over the sound of the gelding’s concerned huffs, to which he responded with a tight smile and slight shake of the head. The warm glow of Tommy’s cigarette quickly reached his lips, and he crushed the butt of it into the dirt with the heel of his shoe.

They didn’t have money, that much was clear. Between Sam’s unhealthy pallor and the frayed hem on Florence’s dress, they gave the impression of a couple working themselves ragged in an attempt to make ends meet. Tommy’s offer could get them out of the cold for the winter, put them up in a flat in the city where the factories could use a blacksmith. That wouldn’t appeal so much to someone like Sam, accustomed as he was to clean, fresh air and the sensitivities of horses, but it was work. Work meant food on the table. That realization must have reached Sam while he listened to Florence, because something like dread settled over his face as he took in the difference in their appearances: Tommy, clean-cut and offering him a job, and Sam, hunger gnawing behind his ribcage and no family left to take shelter with.

“Alright,” Sam returned to Tommy, the ice beginning to melt away from his pale eyes. “I’ll consider doing business with you, but it’ll be no tricks, aye? If I don’t like your plan, or if you change shit up on me day-of, I walk. Got a deal?”

Tommy nodded, emboldened by this show of trust. “Deal.”

Each man spat into his bare palm, and they shook on it.

Sam did not like Tommy. Not at first, at least. He carried himself as if he weren’t the upstart head of a Brummie street gang; an ill-fitting hand-me-down from his father that he had only just grown into, if he’d heard correctly. The tailored suit and shiny dress shoes were a poor fit for the dusty country road, as though he’d been planning to meet over crystal tumblers of gin and tonic at a fucking white tablecloth restaurant rather than the middle of a field miles from anything resembling a town. Sam had no such pretenses. Tommy knew he was just a farrier, knew he was the son of a farrier, knew he was dirt poor and barely scraping by even without the baby. But if Tommy wanted to flaunt his new status and play at the image of old money, he could go right on ahead. It cost him nothing when Sam knew he could see right through it.

Sam had to give him credit for one thing, though– he was a good businessman. The plan was solid, and the offer was just steep enough to be tempting while realistic enough to be trustworthy. He hardly had to act to fill the role he’d been set to play, just keep his eyes and ears open and his mouth shut at Aintree Racecourse. Tommy needed someone to integrate into the regular staff of farriers, veterinarians, trainers, and stableboys milling about the racecourse over the course of the two weeks leading up to the race, learning the ins and outs of the venue and discovering the weak points in security. After every few days he’d report to their go-between, Paul Knight– which he was sure was not the man’s real name –who was identifiable as a big bloke missing half a pinkie who would wait for him at the Queens Arms pub. But on Grand National day, his role would be the silent, inconspicuous observer posing as yet another nameless grunt in the stables, tracking the movements of every piece on the chessboard: the jockeys, the coppers, the bookies. Up until the minutes before the races start. From the bar, he’d create a distraction: a staged fight with another of the Blinders over something stupid and typical, like betting or women or offhand remarks. He’d involve others. Make a scene. And, with the Blinders’ help, their scuffle would escalate into an all-out pub brawl. The coppers would have no choice but to flood the scene just to untangle the whole mess, and Sam would flee. With no coppers and no eyes on the bookies, the Blinders could burn their permits and rob them of their earnings. A variation on the Epsom scheme, Tommy had said. A modus operandi in the making.

With the price Tommy was willing to pay for his cooperation, it was impossible to say no. He had a child on the way, a family to look after, a home to be the man of. There was already no other choice for him. The age of automobiles was upon him, and the type of people who could afford to pay good money for a good farrier were no longer the people who required his services. He wouldn’t be many clients’ first choice; it was easier to send the Rrom on his way and pay a higher price for someone whose parentage they respected. Anyone who wasn’t like him.

So there was no other choice. That’s what he told himself. It’s what he told Florence, later, when they were alone and settling in for the night. There was no other choice, and the money would be enough to keep them afloat, and she deserved to rest while he made things work. That he would take care of her. That he always did.

“Fia,” he whispered to her, fingers carding through her curls. Long ago, Florence-Maria became just Fia, and the name had stuck tighter than a burr in a wild colt’s mane. “Fia, listen. It’s just one job.”

She sighed, one heaping lungful of air saying more than words could. When it was just the two of them, words were hardly necessary anyway. “It’s always just one job with those men,” she muttered into his bare chest, “and then before you know it it’s just another job. And another. And a horse. And a few guns. And some cash. And a night in a cell.” And your big sister, he thought. It went unspoken.

“Yeah, well, next time I’ll just tell ‘em to fuck off.” He kissed the top of her head. “Just this time, I’ll do it. It’s not much effort, and a lot of money besides. The racecourse’ll pay me for the honest work on top of that. They’ll be none the wiser.”

She pouted. Sam couldn’t see it, but he could certainly feel it against his skin, the way her jaw tightened and her lower lip stuck out just slightly. He resisted the urge to poke that scowl, just to make her laugh. Something about this moment felt like no laughing matter.

After a moment of silence, she spoke up, her voice small and quiet: “I didn’t like the way he talked to you.”

Sam scoffed, rolling his eyes with the confidence of a man who knew he couldn’t be seen from her angle. “He hardly did, Fia. Puffed himself up like a rooster and said the vaguest shit you ever did hear, then it was right to business.”

“I don’t like the way he looked at you, then,” she moved, propping herself up with a hand on her cheek so that her chin rested on his shoulder. “Like you were a horse at auction.”

Like a piece of meat, more like. He shuddered. “And what if you’re wrong, eh? What if I do my job and go on my way, and the Peaky Blinders just leave us be?”

Florence shrugged, still skeptical. “Well, if I’m proven wrong, then I’m wrong.”

“My Fia? Proven wrong?” Sam gaped at her, gasping dramatically. “Hell might freeze over before I hear you admit that.” “Wanker.” That, at least, provoked a snort and a poorly-restrained grin to break out over her face. She wriggled up until she was partially propped upright by the pillows behind her, then took Sam’s hand and placed it right over her bump. A flicker of sadness shone behind her eyes for half a second. “Just… don’t let them keep you from being her father, alright?”

Sam grinned, scooting so that they were close again. “Her? You’re convinced we’re having a girl?”

“Oh, we are.”

“Nah, we’re having a boy. I know because I prayed.” He pressed his palms together and looked skyward, “Oh please God, send me a son! Send me a son so that I’m not stuck being nagged by two mares and a daughter and a wife all at the same time–”

She cackled, leaning down and bumping their foreheads together. “Sam, you can’t just say I’m your wife!”

“Gotta say that to keep the Big Man happy, eh?” Sam rolled so that he was hovering over her, nose-to-nose. “How else am I gonna get my prayers answered? Not with sex out of wedlock and spiriting you away from home, that’s for sure.”

That golden smile of hers deflated slowly, turning bittersweet as she stroked an overgrown lock of black hair away from his forehead. Ah. So that’s what this was about.

Sam sat back on his heels, taking her slender, work-calloused hands between his own. “Hey. Hey,” he waited until she was focusing on him, brown eyes meeting grey. “It’ll be okay, Fia. Esme’s the one who had Danny bring you the letter, wasn’t she? And besides, he left his new horse here, yeah?”

She nodded slowly, eyes glistening.

“Right. And if she was angry with you, or if your mum was angry with you… do you think they’d go and do that?”

Florence sniffled, shaking her head vehemently. “They hold grudges.”

Sam smiled. “Reminds me of someone I know. Fia, if your mum holds grudges, and Esme holds grudges, and Danny– bless his little arse-kissing heart –was sent all the way up here just to draw us into the Shelby family nonsense and then ‘borrow’ your mare while I doctored his proud-cut devil of a horse… do you really think they’d be upset at hearing from you?”

Florence sighed, reluctantly shaking her head no. Sam was sympathetic to her anxieties. It was world-shaking for her, finding out she was pregnant so soon after her best friend and older sister left home with a gangster. Their decision to leave in a stolen vardo when her monthly was late was impulsive, but not terribly unexpected. She’d threatened as much a number of times when Zilpha had told her that under no circumstances was she to marry the troubled boy from the troubled family in Liverpool. If Zilpha only knew the truth, her answer might’ve been different, he thought ruefully. It aggravated him, to think that they couldn’t see the way that he cared for her. That he would protect her. Love her. Do anything for her. Would they see that, if they knew why they’d run?

“They’ll have to figure it out eventually. You know that, right?” He tried to control his tone, struggling to keep the accusation out of his voice. Will you tell Esme? Will you tell Danny? Will you tell your mother?

Are you ashamed of me? Should I be ashamed of myself?

Florence rolled onto her side, curling up protectively. “I don’t want to go on about it, Sam. Not right now. I don’t feel well.”

Please tell me you aren’t ashamed.

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “That’s okay,” he said instead, lying down to hold her back against his chest. “We’ll figure it out when we get there. I promise.”

The tension in Florence’s shoulders evened out as sleep overcame her. Sam stayed awake, watching her breathe until the sun rose.

#fic: sic em #oc: samuel lovell #oc: florence-maria lee #peaky blinders #peaky blinders oc #peaky blinders fanfic

[awakenthemusic]

Satanic Panic

The sheriff, Tucker… Turner… whatever his name was, just would not shut up about the pentagrams the little punks had spray painted all around that grain silo. Now, Dean appreciated all the amazing things the eighties had contributed to society, but this sheriff was staging a one-man revival of the satanic panic that wouldn't do anybody any damn good at all.

Tags: Short fic, ~650 words, Case Fic, Funny(?)

For Suptober 2023 Day 8 - Satanic Panic

Under the cut or on Ao3

Dean tugged irritably at the collar of his fed suit, more than ready to take the damn thing off. He and Sam had pulled into this tiny town two days ago on a possible witch/demon case. The lead had been thin at best but, knowing their luck, would have been just the thing to escalate into something deadly if they hadn't stopped in to check it out.

They'd been running from case to case without a break for weeks. Dean was tired, he needed a shower, his stupid suit needed a trip to the dry cleaners, and he had never been so glad to see that the monster of the week was just kids messing around where they shouldn't have been messing.

Now if only they could convince this podunk sheriff that the threat had been neutralized, Dean could change back into his street clothes and get the hell back to the bunker.

The sheriff, Tucker... Turner... whatever his name was, just would not shut up about the pentagrams the little punks had spray painted all around that grain silo.

Now, Dean appreciated all the amazing things the eighties had contributed to society, but this sheriff was staging a one-man revival of the satanic panic that wouldn't do anybody any damn good at all.

The second Dean heard the word 'Illuminati', he decided he couldn't take any more. He chuckled quietly, ignoring the warning look that Sam shot him.

He leaned in toward the sheriff slightly and said, "Don't tell me you're still drinking the Kool-Aid on that one, Sheriff. C'mon, you're smarter than that."

Before the sheriff could do more than sputter out half a reply, Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket, setting it carefully down on the counter and motioning for the sheriff to do the same. The sheriff frowned, but must have heard enough about how phones could be used a listening devices to take the threat seriously.

Once he and Sam had put down their phones, Dean led sheriff what's-his-face a few steps away from the devices, making a show of checking the corners of the room as he went. He ignored the way Sam rolled his eyes behind the sheriff's back.

"Listen," Dean said, voice low enough that it wouldn't travel. "if my boss comes sniffing around, you didn't hear this from me. All that satanic panic bull, that's all a big cover-up."

The sheriff stared at Dean like he'd just run over the guy's worldview with a bus. "What?"

Dean nodded solemnly, casting one more distrustful look toward their phones before pulling the sheriff a little farther away. "Over 12,000 cases opened for the satanic panic, law enforcement spending time and resources running all over the country and do you know what they found?"

The sheriff shook his head.

"Nada."

The sheriff's eyes went wide and Dean knew that all he had to do was reel this guy in nice and slow. "Now, you know who benefits from keeping all of America's citizens so busy convinced the threat is in our own backyard and too distracted to look elsewhere?

"Who?"

Dean took one more careful look around, not daring to meet Sam's eyes now for fear of bursting out laughing. He leaned in close enough to whisper, "The Russians."

*****

A few minutes later, Dean grinned and slipped his tie off as he and Sam loped their way down the stairs in front of the combo police station/court house.

Sam sent him a wary look as they reached the Impala. "Should I be worried at how good you were at that?"

Dean's grin widened. "C'mon, everyone knows if you can't reason with someone like that you sic 'em on someone else as a distraction."

Sam frowned and mumbled, "I wouldn't say everyone."

Dean shot Sam his best shit-eating grin and hopped into Baby, more than ready to head toward home and the bunker's amazing water pressure.

#suptober23 #fanfic #fanfiction #spn #supernatural #myfics

[chunky-ruckus]

Unfinished fic: Lost in Coma (and Covered in Cake)

This fic was an Ardata character study slash ardata / chahut smut fic. I didn't get too far past the beginning; I needed to replay her friendsim. The fic felt a little ooc.

___

Prose written:

You were hatched in the red. Up an eye, you guess, but always something missing. Something lost. So, you know a thing or two about living in deficit. You’re attuned to all the itty bitty minutia of it, all those things you’ve lost.

Tonight it’s your idiot followers again. Highlights from last morning’s stream include: you’re loosing [sic] your touch, blue and wheeree’s thee guuts, ‘daataa? and ur manikure is lookin whakk, babygirl and more pet-names than a fucking porno. And who asked them, anyway? Like you’re someone to fucking pity.

Still, you scowl at the feeling of your traitorous heart stuttering in your chest when you look at your follower count. In the red. Again. 

Your hand itches toward the screwdriver.

A feeling flashes as your fingers brush the rough plastic. The desire to drive it into your socket and escape yourself, though you aren’t sure if the desire is your own or just some idiot’s fleeting memory you picked up along the way. But, suddenly, you’re craving steak, and you’re thinking of them.

A hm. A hm hm hm! You’re laughing a stifled laugh. How preposterous! You’re cerulean. A highblood; violence comes natural to you. Too bad for the philistines. 

The light from your husktop is giving you a fucking miiigraiine. You rub your eyes, providing counter pressure. When you pull away, some of your eyelashes have come away in your palms, stuck in the mascara. Oozy swipes of pitch sticky on your skin. 

You suppose you are a blueblood, in the sense that a ghost is a person. Sure, you occupy. Yes, you appear. The burgundies can sense you and they are afraid. But place hand to skin and it would phase right through. You aren't there, not really, haunting not a house but your caste, your cast; you’re playing a part but really, there's nothing substantial to you at all.

You think it might be because there’s something askew inside you, stewing low in your belly like this morning's malevolent parasite. Cut open anyone else, pull out their guts and put 'em on the table, and everything will curl wetly back back into place with enough time.

But you? You’re something different. Built wrong, from the inside. Cut you open, slice from hip to rib, and your guts would never stop spilling. Slide out of you and flee. Wet and slithering and hateful. Sucking your blood and viscera from your body in a never ending gush.

And, you think, that's why you bring them to your red room. Isn’t that trollmanity? To be fascinated by the unfamiliar? Isn’t that why people followed you in the first place? 

Your fist clenches; the eyelashes stuck to your palm tickle your fingers.

Fuck them.

Still, losing followers is becoming something of a trend. You need to... Do. Something. Something new.

Your arms cross over your stomach like you’re holding in your traitorous guts even now. Something drops in your belly- a feeling you refuse to name- even as you sneer through the feeling. 

Troll Picasso cut his fucking ear off for this shit, and you’re no troll Picasso. You won’t lose an eye, not even for another.

The moons roll high in the night like even the sky and stars are sick of your shit. That flavor of raw meat lingers in your tongue, curling your upper lip.

Maybe it’s true, then. Maybe your act is getting old.

It’s the middle of the night. Fuck it, you may as well admit it. You’re thinking of them. That bloom of warmth they put right inside you. It feels too right; you need something ugly....

(Your eyes are killing you.)

...Counterpressure.

(Taking too much space up in your head.)

And, you realize, your guts are roiling; you’re hungry, you guess. But you’re hungry all the time, something awful and aching that can’t be sated.

Perhaps it’s true, then... 

You’re just like your lusus.

[LINE BREAK]

What sort of piece of shit friend would you be if you didn’t religiously track the whereabouts of your one and only? And religiously is right; what the fuck where they doing with the funny folk? At the hive of worship, no less.

Still, you suppose it can’t be helped for a helpless, hapless, hornless idiot- said affectionately, of course- to find their way towards the ugly. Like attracts like.

And this place attracted you, tonight, which has to be some sort of cosmic fucking metaphor. The hive of violence stands before you stained in swirling glass and centuries of blood and shitty soda.

Your mind stirs, the familiar feeling of the weaker-willed in distress calling you from within. You’re disgusted by the pull they have on you; how their mind affects yours because your mind is always listening. Hey, it’s not like you can turn your psychicality off.

Without your permission, your traitorous stride has taken you to stand in front of a pair of heavy, mahogany doors. Inlaid in the wood on either side are two skulls, one painted in a ghoulish smile, the other in a frown. The sexy, clownish curlicues of their horns do little to detract from your desire to press your hand to the wood.

Your hand pulls away wet and globby, a puppet string of warm-hued blood lingering between your hand and the door. 

You scowl. What, they couldn’t have posted “Wet Paint” signs? You rub the coagulated blood between your fingers, comfort found in the familiar. Peering closer, and, yes, the doors are shiny wet. You catch a glimpse of your reflection, distorted over blood clots and the whirl of the wood, and fix your hair. And, god, your eyes are all fucked up. Using your nail, you neaten the lines of your eyeliner and scratch away stray streaks of mascara.

You hate looking in the mirror. It’s something lonely people do, like they have no one else to share the irony with. Like they have to look inwards to get the joke. But this? Reflected in blood like you are? You finally look like yourself. 

You make a pose, smiling malevolently with your hand demurely covering your mouth, and, like a shitty horror movie, the door opens a crack with a foreboding creak.

___

Outline / Snippets (kinda):

(It isn’t her fault she’s so unkempt. Clowns love the dishevelment; their raison d’être.)

(Yes, you’re inspired. Maybe you don’t kill them right away. Kill them slowly, start with their spirit. Give them life in trickles and take it away only slightly faster. Your lusus would love that. The idea makes you tired. It’d be so much work. So little reward.)

(Chahut and Ardata fight: data sends te rusties after chahut, chahut cuts them down lazily, no effort. She’s an artist (cue anger that Chahut doesn’t suffer for her art, justify data’s superiority) Later, checkov’s rustie: Data sends one of the half dead towards Cahhut and Chahut voodoos them, successfully getting into data’s mind.)

(Paint her face and call her holy? Are you one a them girles that buys into that eyeliner sharper than a knife shit? Chahut cuts her axe next to data’s eyeliner with the steady hand of one whos spend sweeps practicing in the mirror)

#the last bit... that's what my writing process is really like lmao #just snippets that i put slowly in order #my writing

[ladytauria]

have a deleted scene (+ some of the earlier scene for context) from a 5+1 fic i’m writing

When the wound is clean, Tim reaches for a local anesthetic. He glances at Jason. It’s always a toss-up, if he’ll be comfortable with it or not. Some nights they’ve made do with a few swigs of Jack and Jason biting into his belt. Those aren’t Tim’s favorite nights.

Tonight’s a good night, though, because Jason nods.

Once the area’s been numbed, he threads a needle. Jason focuses somewhere in the middle distance.

Tim’s no Steph (or Jason, for that matter), and he’s definitely no Alfred, but he’s had enough practice over the years that his stitches are neat and precise.

He’s also had enough practice that he doesn’t have to devote one hundred percent of his attention to them, which leaves him free to distract Jason.

“I didn’t think normal knives could pierce your armor,” he says.

“They can’t,” Jason says, voice no longer as tight with pain. “Whatever that asshole had, it wasn’t a ‘normal’ knife.”

Tim hums. “More evidence someone bigger is working with these guys. Any ideas who?”

“Mask,” Jason says. “Could be Penguin, but. My money’s on Mask.”

Tim agrees. “Well, you’ll have plenty of time to dig into them. If you pop these stitches before three days have passed, I’m siccing Alfred on you.”

“Cold, Timmy. Cold.”

“Yeah, well. Fair’s fair.” Tim glares up at him. The effect is ruined by the smile tugging at his mouth.

Jason grins back. “Concussions mean rest, Timbo. Not ‘print out casefiles to get around the no screens rule.’ You knew the rules before you broke ‘em.”

Tim ties off the stitches and snips the thread. He drops the needle in a biohazard bin and smacks Jason (lightly) in the shoulder. “You didn’t have to go running to Alfred, snitch.” He glances at Jason’s side and smirks. “See, that’s why you’re getting stitches now!”

Jason jabs Tim in the side, and Tim rolls with it, laughing. “You’re such an asshole.”

“You like it,” Tim says, cheekily, ignoring the way his heart beats rapidly in his chest.

Jason stands and goes for the spare clothes he keeps here. It’s one of Tim’s lesser used safe houses, so by all rights, Jason shouldn’t have stuff here. But he does. Tim... can’t quite remember when that happened. Not that he minds. In fact, judgy by the fuzzy, flipping feeling in his stomach, he’d say he doesn’t mind at all.

He watches Jason tug on a shirt, and as he goes for the button on his armored cargo pants, Tim can’t quite stop himself from saying—

“Seriously. Be more careful.” I don’t want to lose you.

Jason glances at him. Softens, just a little, and says, “Don’t worry ‘bout me, Timmy. It’ll take more than some asshole with a fancy knife to take me down.”

#tauriawrites #jaytim #dcu #the changed scene ended up being much softer #bc i’m a fucking sap #but i enjoy this banter #my posts

[meirimerens]

i think before i read ur burakhovsky fanfics i never knew emotions bc im feeling things in a very different and new ways that i didnt know was possible. like the way u just. tell a story????? absolutely breathtaking. the way u use metaphors??? im eating that shit right up. the way u depict the characters????? OUGH. just amazing. thank u so much for ur fic and the new fuel for my burakhovsky obsession

YOU'RE TOO KIIIINNNND THANK YEW..... bringing a tear to my eye + making me look away coyly + kick my feet in the air shyly while giggling... i think patho Unlocked in my brin new ways to write/new ways i want to write & it's Also new to me so it warms my heart people are Enjoying... i was always a lil scawed that the so many metaphors were Too Much (i've always. written With Metaphors that's how my brain's wired but i indulge in em way more with what i'm writing now) so knowing they're Enjoyable... teas(sic) to my eye... THANK YOU FOR READING.... more to come. won't lie, more to come.

#was it thou who left its last comment for now on it... the name seems familiar... #if it was... looking away shyly + giggling.. the first part made me blushing_husky.jpg #ring ring (answers) #the-celestial-bitch

[the-everqueen]

heehoo 11 14 20 25 for mansand. sic 'em

11. number of fandom-related words you've blocked ...i think it's six? possibly seven. variations on a theme.

14. that one thing you see in fics all the time tie between use of the word "hirsute" and very...intense descriptions of Dream's pale skin. the latter bothers me for Reasons.

20. part of canon you found tedious or boring ngl i skipped all of hob's scenes in the comix, except for the bit in Kindly Ones where he's like "you good, dude?" and Morpheus is like "yeah fine why" [dies].

25. common fandom complaint you're sick of hearing "if you could all stop being NEGATIVE about the Bad Things in fandom, then maybe you could recognize its Transformative Power" is the common response to anyone pointing out racism, sexism, fatphobia, etc. like...nah, actually, y'all don't get to have fun AND keep your antiblackness and misogyny. if yt ppl in fandom spaces think it's a Real Bummer when nonwhite fans point out their biases, they should try being a nonwhite person in a space where everyone is constantly ignoring the characters YOU relate to in favor of Minor White Dude No. 47 and then dogpiling you when you have Thee Nerve to not be insanely cheerful about that development.

#ask games #sandman #anyways i'm pleased to be yr local killjoy #thx to everyone letting me do violence on main

[all-things-tope]

Tribe syllables

Here's my cheat sheet for naming characters, cities, landmarks, and so on. It includes the original syllables for each tribe, as well as the ones I've added based on the culture each tribe is inspired by, since I didn't have enough syllables to work with. The canon ones will be listed first, followed by a semicolon, and then the ones I've added. Do as you wish with them. Also, either a dash or an apostrophe will be added in the syllables list if I use them in names.

Xin-xi

bu, cha, li, po, sha, szu, xi, yo; wa, ra, ha, na, ya, ri, hi, mi, chi, ki, i, fu, tsu, yu, mu, re, he, be, se, ro, ho, so, no, to, -

Imperius

ca, do, ica, ip, lo, lus, ma, mus, nu, pi, re, res, ro, sum, te; mi, fa, so, la, ti, le, te, tos, io

Bardur

ark, bu, fla, gru, gu, lak, lin, ork, ro, tof, ur; au, urn, hr, hn, hv, bar, ar, ut, dur

Oumaji

ba, dor, gh, ha, ji, ke, la, lim, mu, on, si, ye; if, dal, kha, sin, ra, feh, ta, kaf, lam, sad, jaa, ou, be, oj

Kickoo

an, ko, li, lo, lu, ma, no, nu, oki, si, va; ka, na, ca, ki, na, ta, mo, ne, sa, la, am, to, '

Hoodrick

ber, don, go, ick, in, ley, lo, ol, ry, th, wa, we; eth, he, aw, am, nun, me, lar, la, ar, da

Luxidoor

au, em, exi, ga, iss, ki, ly, lo, ni, ou, po, uss, ux; su, am, as, la, ka, ra, ir, dim, ud, iti, ush, sun, '

Vengir

ar, bu, ck, cth, dis, gor, he, im, na, nt, pe, rot, rz, st, the, tu, xas; tl, ex, ng, ro, sl

Zebasi

bo, co, la, mo, wa, ya, za, zan, zim, zu; on, gii, kz, ki, ko, vai, lo, ma, kp, pel, bas, sa, eri, be, dj, uk, wo, be, te

Ai-Mo

dee, fi, ki, lee, li, ni, po, pi, so, si, to, ti; ki, ke, ko, se, mi, me, hee, le, no, sa, see, ji, chi, po, '

Quetzali

el, ca, cho, chu, ex, ill, ix, ja, qu, tal, tek, tz, was, wop, ya; woc, wal, que, sol, tl, az, tu, che, '

Yadakk

ar, ark, az, ber, ez, ge, gy, kh, ki, kol, ka, mer, ol, sam, sh, st, tja, tsa, ug, urk, ul, um, an; be, ec, kir, bak, tre, pla

Aquarion

aq, at, do, eid, fic, ico, in, lan, nau, nep, po, pol, quo, sei, tic, tis, tun; tin, to, if, tan, iq, sic

Elyrion

(This one's a bit weird. I either follow the shapes of the syllables to make names, or I made up syllables depending on what the symbol is called irl)

til, da, i'i, th, ts, t'h, f'h, r'h, yph, eng, et, del, ta, pi, ob, el, isk, li, ra, eu, ro, an, at, es, si, ma, mi

Polaris

aa, an, do, il, iq, nuu, pi, pol, ta, to; am, ar, uq, aq, oq, qu, ir, roo, ri, naa, ni, swi, thoo, ye, yaa, yi, ai, ris, ar, '

Cymanti

aph, bio, bo, ca, ce, chy, ci, co, cy, di, dio, ea, exo, hex, ho, ia, ich, li, lo, ly, my, neo, ner, phy, pod, rhi, seg, sis, sy, ta, the, tic, um, zi, zo

#all-things-tope #polytopia #the battle of polytopia #general #xin-xi #imperius #bardur #oumaji #kickoo #hoodrick #luxidoor #vengir #zebasi #ai-mo #quetzali #yadakk #aquarion #elyrion #polaris #cymanti

[freakyhoard]

t/g g/ide for us. th/s we/rd text isnt a typ/ng qu/rk, se p/sonally dont s/pport th/se as some/ne who is v/sually imp/red and gets migr/ines. im just distort/ng t/xt so it wont show up in t/gs, since this blog is more of a publ/ca/ly avai/able pers/na/ arc/ive, and im a p/rano/d c/nt. s/rry to any/ne who uses scr/en rea/ers or has other difficu/ties with v/sua/s; this is purely a s/fety prec/ution, and th/s is the only way we are able to ba/ance that wh/le still being decip/erable and n/t pot/ntially a migr/ne tr/gger for us.

this l/st may be upd/ted. an/ther no/e to s/lf: all t/gs should st/rt with a . to pr/vent them from sh/wing up anywh/re. there may also be ext/a t/gs for more spec/fic categ/rizations; these lack . unless it becomes overs/turated enough to become its own c/tegory.

UBs (#UB)

#sb : syst/m ub.

#ab : a/ter ub.

#db : d/sabi/ity-re/ated ub.

#mb : men/al hea/th-re/ated ub.

#gb : g/nder-re/ated ub.

#srb : or/entat/on-re/ated ub.

#bb : bo/ndary ub.

#xb : m/dia or m/sic-re/ated ub.

#hb : h/rr/r-re/ated or “sc/ry” ub.

#ib : int/rest-re/ated ub.

#slb : s/lly ub.

#nb : n/gat/ve ub.

#pb : p/sit/ve ub.

#zb : exp/ici/ or k/nk-re/ated ub.

#fb : f/vor/te ubs.

#ob : oth/r ub. may res/rt.

G/ND/R (#GND)

#gg : gen/ral or b/se/ine gnd fl/gs.

#vg : v/rian/ gnd fl/gs.

#mg : m/sc-al/gned gnd fl/gs.

#fg : f/m-al/gned gnd fl/gs.

#yg : m/lti-al/gned gnd fl/gs.

#ug : unal/gned gnd flags.

#xg : gen/ral xen/gend/r fl/gs.

#sg : s/xua/ity-re/ated gnd fl/gs.

#ng : ne/rog/nder fl/gs.

#tg : m/sic-re/ated fl/gs.

#bg : m/dia-bas/d gnd fl/gs.

#cg : ch/ract/r-bas/d gnd fl/gs.

#rg : re/igi/n-re/ated gnd fl/gs.

#lg : lex/c-suff/x or s/m/lar gnd fl/gs.

#wg : w/b or t/ch-bas/d gnd fl/ga.

#eg : em/jig/nder fl/gs.

#ag : an/mal-bas/d gnd fl/gs.

#ig : inh/man or nonh/man gnd fl/gs.

#hg : h/rr/r-bas/d or “sc/ry” gnd fl/gs.

#slg : s/lly gnd fl/gs.

#zg : exp/ici/ gnd fl/gs.

#og : oth/r gnd fl/gs. may res/rt.

OR/ENTAT/ON (#SR)

#gs : gen/ral or b/se/ine s-r fl/gs.

#vs : v/rian/ s-r fl/gs.

#as : ar/ac/sp/c fl/gs.

#ds : d/abi/ity-rel/ted s-r fl/gs.

#ms : m/nta/ hea/th-rel/ted s-r fl/gs.

#zs : exp/ici/ s-r fl/gs.

#os : oth/r s-r or re/ated fl/gs. may res/rt.

OTH/R (#MSC)

#ah : alt/rh/man or th/r/an fl/gs.

#ad : a/dern/c fl/gs.

#vl : ves/l/ty fl/gs.

#dl : d/sabi/ity-re/ated fl/gs.

#mh : ment/l hea/th-re/ated fl/gs.

#sf : syst/m-rel/ted fl/gs.

#kf : ki/k or bd/m re/ated fl/gs.

#ot : oth/r fl/gs. may res/rt.

#rsc : gr/phics, p/xels, etc.

#sys : other m/sc sys th/ngs.

#emj : c/stom em/jis or other such v/suals.

#fv : f/vorit/s.

#.ub #.gnd #.sr #.msc #.fv #.sb #.ab #.gg #.vg #.xg #.gs #.vs

[loptrcoptr]

fanfiction is a gift, my dudes

#lmao sic 'em fam sic 'em #this is part of a whole series of one shots by various folks that's literally 'the ones where logan lives' #delightful lol. some good shit being pointed out. #there are some awkward oneshots and some weird crossovers but most are pretty solid #and i read this long fic the other night that was literally better written than the show (not saying much) and was done pre-movie #and the character development was 8000x more believable and the dialogue was flawless #wonderful that e live in a world where fanfic can be better written than canon but obv also terrible that we live in a world where tv is so #shittily written that anyone with a laptop and a wifi connection can haulass onto ao3 and outdo the fuck out of the screenwriters #god bless the internet #veronica mars #fyi this was a line in season 4 and in retrospect it was very manipulative and melodramatic #RUN TELL EM haha #uh i think this chap is by: #marshmellow bobcat

[dogmetaph0r]

SIC ‘EM

Chapter 3: Sit...

A/N: FIIIINALLY it's Fia time!!! Emetophobia warning in this one, sorryyyy they are so frail like baby birds 2 me....this one kinda sucked to write, not because of the content but because I had to get so many timelines straight (side note, the individual sections of these chapters kinda jump around a bit timeline-wise since we're in multiple different POVs). Apologies if there are inconsistencies because I (hopefully) won't force that kind of lore accuracy on myself ever again yayyy <3 this one has more Shelby brother humor and hijinks, so enjoy a lot of sass and questionable medical practices. Fun fact, the use of De Selby pt 1 and 2 actually provided most of the inspiration for Sam's backstory. Of course listen however you please, but for the best author-endorsed experience, I recommend listening to De Selby Pt. 1 during the beginning of the second part of the chapter.

Pairings: M!OC x F!OC, M!OC x Tommy Shelby

Warnings: descriptions of violence, PTSD episode (and poor handling thereof), hospitalization, blood and injury, vomiting, mild suicidality, narcotic misuse

Soundtrack: De Selby (Part 1) - Hozier // Army Dreamers - Kate Bush

Summary: With Sam injured, Fia journeys alone to Birmingham General Hospital with the help of a few friendly faces along the way. Meanwhile, Sam struggles with long-buried memories and Tommy grapples with the idea that he might've been had. Reunions and truces abound, some less expected than others.

It took two long days by horse and caravan to reach the stain on the map known as Birmingham. The skin of Fia’s lips and fingers were bitten raw in that time, dotted with pinprick-small scabs. What she’d heard on Saturday was so vague– Sam was injured, he fell unconscious on the way back, and they had rushed him to the hospital in Birmingham –that her rabbit-quick thoughts had no choice but to conjure new scenarios, each more horrific than the last. She couldn’t sleep. She could hardly even sit still long enough for it to be a possibility. Better this than overworking the horses, she told herself until the words hardly meant anything. Despite the sourness of guilt that sat in her mouth at the thought, she cursed the fact that Fleet Ypres and Queen Bathsheba couldn’t just go faster, trot on longer, need less.

But Fia was kind, and Ypres and Queenie were good girls. Every break took exactly as long as it needed to take, and every step was chosen for comfort over speed. Queenie had been hers as a child, bottle raised and babied through her clumsy, long-legged filly years. As such, she was more than happy to share the weight where Fia needed her, be it hitched to the head of the vardo or trailing alongside with a light pack of provisions. It soothed her fears to know that no matter what, Ypres would be taken care of in her rider’s absence.

Word had spread like lightning from one Pollyanna Gray to Fia’s employer through the telephone lines (bless the telephone for such a service), and Mrs. Davies had kindly allowed her to leave the mending until she returned. After losing her husband to the war, the old woman had grown a soft spot for Fia and her man that, in her own words, would be the absolute death of her. With only just enough breath left to thank her as she dashed out the door, Fia bundled up her and Sam’s few belongings and bid Fleet Ypres onward as quickly as she could manage that very afternoon.

After miles and miles of fresh spring air and fragrant grass, Birmingham’s stench of coal, garbage water, and drunkards was an assault on her already sensitive nose. She was glad for the fact that Danny had returned for Meska just days before, as she was sure that the grating industrial noise alone would have spooked him and his delicate sensibilities, never mind the sound of her dry heaving by the side of the canal. The horses stood idly by, shifting their weight as they grumbled nervously at the barrage of new stimuli. Now and then, she felt Queenie’s broad head nudge between her shoulder blades between shuddering breaths and uncontrolled cramps of her stomach. A small comfort, but a noble and appreciated attempt nonetheless.

A shuffling noise from a few yards away startled Fia from nitpicking her reflection in the oil-slick canal. Her heart dropped as she spun, expecting trouble, but her fears were quickly quelled when she was met with a quartet of dirt-smudged children. They clustered together around the tallest, a boy who couldn’t have been older than seven holding a tattered ball in his hands. The tiniest, a little girl, was beaming with all her might.

“That’s pretty,” she said, pointing a pudgy little finger at her vardo.

Now that the girl mentioned it, the vardo was probably the brightest splash of color Fia had seen since she’d arrived. It seemed that the very walls of the city were blanketed with grime and soot, long obscuring any indication of art and life that once belonged to the working people of Small Heath.

“Thank you,” Fia said, kneeling in front of the girl. “Have you ever seen one of these? It’s called a vardo.”

The girl shook her head, blonde braids whipping about her shoulders, and a skinny, freckled boy grasped her by the shoulders and pulled her back to the safety of their little group.

“Who’re you?” The boy asked, nose screwed up in suspicion.

“Are you a princess?” An older girl stepped forward. “With a carriage?”

“Your hair is big.”

“May I pat the dark horsie?”

“Are you gonna have a baby?”

Fia blinked at the bombardment of questions, unable to contain the laugh that sneaked out of her. Sweet Mary, if her little one was even half as curious, she had her work cut out for her. “You can pat her, if you’re gentle,” she told the girl already stretching her hand out to press her palm against Ypres’s curious nose. “And yes,” she turned to the boy with the ball, who was pointing at her belly, “I am having a baby, in a few months’ time.”

“Well– well I saw a vaw-dy one time,” the freckled boy shouted over the delighted squeals of his friends as Ypres took deep, inquisitive huffs of the tops of their heads. “In Mr. Charlie’s yard.”

Mr. Charlie, she thought. As in Charlie Strong? His stables were the ideal place to leave her horses and the vardo where she knew they would be safe from thieves and vandals. Perhaps Charlie would even be able to give her more information on what the hell was going on. She smiled at the little one, standing and smoothing her hands over her skirt.  “Would you take me to see Mr. Charlie?”

It didn’t take long to find the scrapyard belonging to John Shelby’s uncle after that. The children ran alongside and in front of the vardo (thank god for Ypres being so well-broken, with the number of times she had to remind them to be careful), beckoning her along with excited hoots and hollers. Their five-person crusade stopped just at the perimeter of the yard, the children falling quiet and shy as Charlie Strong squinted through the glare of scrap metal in the sun. He was an unassuming man, skinny and wiry with the lean muscles of hard labor. The edge of his peaky cap, however, glinted silver in the sun, and she could see the long-healed trophies of past fights littering his bare forearms.

“I know you,” Charlie called out as she hopped down to lead her horses forward. “You’re one of the Lee girls.” He unlatched the front gate, pulling it aside and beckoning her through. “Must be. You look like your pop. Got your mother’s nose, though.”

Fia smiled, unhitching the horses when they were far enough into the yard. “Does that get me a discount on stabling?”

Charlie laughed. “Good try. Nah, I’ll be reimbursed by Tom, I’m sure. Here for your sister?”

“Actually,” she said, assisting Charlie in untacking the horses and putting them in stalls fragrant with fresh barley straw, “I’m looking for Sam Lovell. Henry Lovell’s son? He was brought to the hospital a few days ago.”

Charlie frowned, grunting. “Haven’t seen him here. But the hospital is too far into the city to walk. You’d be better off finding your sister and waiting with her.”

Fia deflated, anxiety prickling her brow. She certainly would not be better off waiting. Esme had, presumably, no clue that she was even here. While she was sure Esme would never turn her away, it had been so long… who’s to say she wasn’t cross with her for running off? For turning her back on the Lees over a boy? “He’s hurt, Mr. Strong. Badly.” Charlie tracked the motion of her hand to her lower belly, eyes widening minutely.

The older man huffed a labored sigh, rubbing his chin as his eyes drifted over an incomprehensible mess of scrap metals and old, rotting wood. His eyes settled over a tarp on the gray water. “Tell you what, lass,” he strode over and yanked the canvas from the top of an engine-powered longboat, hopping aboard in a well-practiced motion. “I can get you as far as Digbeth through The Cut.”

Relief flooded her as she stepped onto the boat, Charlie’s hand firm on her arm to keep her steady on the rocking boat. She’d never been on a longboat, though in her life she had seen quite a few being led by canalside horses up through the waterways of England. It was smaller than she remembered as a child, though it could’ve been that the engine took up far more space and she had been far smaller many years ago. The whole of it was sooty despite having been covered, but Charlie laid out the clean side of the canvas tarp for her to sit on a sagging bag of horse feed.

“Right, if we’re all situated…” A clank came from the engine somewhere behind her, and the boat jolted to a start in the water. She looked back to see Charlie standing as tall and proud as a captain next to the smoke stack as it began to spit up clumps of charred black soot. “If you tend to get boatsick… just try and aim away from the deck.”

Fia cringed.

Whistle-whine roar of rockets. Shrieks like dying animals. Skull-rattling impact. Rain of dirt, shower of rocks.

Bomb after bomb, mud, blood, gunpowder in his nose. Mud, blood gunpowder. There were hands at his back, foreheads pressed to his shoulders, fingers gripping and pulling and scrabbling at his drabs. Get down, Lovell! Get the fuck down, you fucking idiot!

But for what? There was nothing to fear, nothing at all. How different was this from the blaze of fireworks? How much colder could the cold of a grave be, compared to the cold of the trench? How much darker could the dark get, when night already smothered the smoke-choked skies of Belgium? Who would miss him that didn’t already?

The skies settled to silence, a violent quiet ringing in the ears and vibrating the skin. Had it ended already? The war? The fight? Or just his fight? Sizzling earth like the scorched soils of hell, glittering-glistening-glowing fragments of mortar metal, hunks of meat shining in the light of the moon. Pieces of soldiers who once were. In a deep dark like this, which way was up and which was down? Were these gleaming surfaces the remains of metal and flesh, or were they stars? Was that inky black above the open air, or was it the bile-piss-gore-soaked earth? Who could say that these weren’t angels of death surrounding him, opposing him, pulling him up to heaven or down to hell. Whichever fucking way they were dragging him.

Lance Corporal, stand down!

It was so peaceful. Trembling-soft was his fellow-in-arms, clinging like hope to the leg of his pants.

Don’t, Sam, don’t. Stay here, Sam.

Sit down. Sit down, Sam, we’ve got you, that’s it.

How different could it be to climb out of the trench?

Oh my god! Oh my god!

Not so different. But here, away from the heat of a dozen hot mouths panting like dogs, he could feel the snow. Oh, the snow. It kissed the bridge of his nose, ran down the sides of his cheeks, dusted his eyelashes. Was that death, embracing him there? Did it reach out with ice-cold fingers, melt against the heat of his skin only to pool again in the hollow of his throat? Did it not caress him like a lover? Did it not whisper promises of peace, of freedom, of numbness?

Thud. Crushing, collapsing. Fire. Fire. Burning, sticky ribs, fingers grasping at frayed flesh and shredded wool. Some raw new cavity in his side blooming open like a flower, wet boiling globs of something flowing like rivers down his shirt, down his fingers.

Enemy fire! Oh god, oh fuck! Fuck, he’s down!

Down, down, down. Slower than snowfall, hotter than flame. Can’t breathe, can’t breathe. Thud. Mud, blood, gunpowder. Can’t breathe.

Can’t breathe.

Can’t breathe.

CAN’T BREATHE–

Sam! Sam!

Wake the–

“ –fuck up!” John batted open-handed at the side of his face, Sam’s forehead damp with nightmare sweat and tense with fear.

“Fuck!” Arthur shouted, fumbling with something to the sides of him, and before long his hands were tied fast to the rickety metal frame of the cot.

“Hold ‘is head, he’s thrashing.”

“Someone get his legs! Sam, breathe! Breathe!”

“Can’t,” Sam gasped, ribs pressing and pulling, rising and falling with no relief, a fish on a line dragged to dry land. He coughed, body wracked by pain. “Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.”

“You’re breathing.” Tommy’s hands were on either side of his face, thumbs at the tender hinges of his jaw. “Shh. You can breathe if you pull it together. You hear me? Calm down. Good, see? You’re doing it.”

“Do something, mate, he’s going to go full Barney any second!”

“He’s already gone, listen to him!”

Sam was shouting something between burning wheezes, the words bursting from him like steam through the cracks in his armor. Arthur and John shared a look, shock and realization steeling their faces.

“Lance Corporal, you need to breathe. Now!”

Like someone had snapped their fingers and lifted a spell, Sam’s lungs could expand and draw gulps of blessed cold air along the roof of his mouth, the back of his dry throat. It hurt like hell. It burned like fire. But fuck, he could breathe. He tried to sit up.

“Who–”

Tommy hushed him, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his forehead, ice-cold and steady. “That was just Arthur, Sam. The war’s over. Rein it in, eh? You don’t need to report to anyone. We’re in Birmingham, in the hospital. It’s Sunday. Do you remember?”

Sam shook his head instinctively within the limited space offered by Tommy’s broad hands. Too many words. His head felt like wet wool and his stomach like a bag of acid, roiling and frothing and threatening to spill over. His mouth flooded with saliva, the room spun, and–

Sam gagged and shuddered as rust-colored bile spilled from his mouth, just barely making it to the floor beside his bed. God, it hurt. His body cramped from the bottom of his stomach up to the top of his chest, white-hot needles pricking the twist of his abdomen as he leaned precariously over the side of the cot with one arm pulled uncomfortably back by the leather cuff around his wrist. Tommy’s right hand didn’t leave his forehead, pushing his greasy hair out of his eyes as Arthur patted his back hesitantly.

Rolling back into place was its own agony, bandages tight around his empty stomach and head still swimming. “The fuck–?”

“John, get the doctor?” Tommy replaced his hand with a cool, damp cloth, rising to draw the curtains away from the warped window panes. Pale beams of morning sunlight struck the wooden floorboards and clean tiled walls, illuminating spartan rows of empty hospital beds and a side table with piles of blood-dotted rags. The metallic, chemical smell of antiseptic singed his nostrils, but it was preferable to what was before. Mud, blood, gunpowder.

“We’re going to let your wrists out of the restraints. Will you sit still? If you can sit still, we won’t need any medicine because it won’t hurt. Got it?” Tommy’s voice was gentle and light as he knelt at the side of his bed, like Sam was a landmine he feared would go off if he stepped too heavily. The leather manacles fell away, and Sam’s hands came up slowly to rub the raw, red lines marking the bones of his wrists.

Tommy nearly smiled. Nearly. Relief softened his gaze, even as Arthur cringed at his other side and threw a small hand rag down onto the splatter of acidic bile. “Very good, Sam,” Tommy hushed. “That’s much better.”

Sam blamed his ears pinking on the disgruntled expression on the doctor’s face as he entered, taking in the poor attempt at mopping up the contents of Sam’s empty stomach.

“Concussion,” the bearded man proclaimed as he set a large leather bag on the bedside table, “has a tendency of upsetting the stomach. As does your medication, but there’s little to be done about that.” He threw a knowing glance at the leather cuffs dangling from the sides of the bed. Sam had the distinct impression that this wasn’t the first time he needed to be restrained.

The doctor withdrew several tools one by one– stethoscope, hypodermic needle, medicine vial, magnifying glass. Tommy and Arthur were employed in propping Sam upright, setting thin pillows behind his back. After a quick check of his lungs (Sam scowled at the diagnosis that his earlier inability to breathe was, essentially, all in his head), the doctor took the microscope to his pupils, scrutinizing the way he flinched and blinked at the bright bedside lamp thrust in his face. 

“All looks well,” the doctor announced, speaking more to the Shelbys than to Sam as they adjusted him to a lying position once more. “If we can go a day without coughing anything up, I believe the rest of the recovery may be done at home.”

Arthur frowned. “But the, ah… the vomming, Doc?” He gestured crudely to the now-soaked rag on the floor, the unmopped fluid now tinged a light brown.

“Likely an aftereffect of last night’s fit,” the old man dismissed. “In his panic, he may have tried to swallow it down with the remains of the nosebleed.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “S-swallowed what?”

All three of the men turned to look at him as though they forgot the subject of the exam was still lying there.

Tommy stood by his bedside, leaning down with a warning look at Arthur. “You’ve coughed up some blood,” he elaborated. “From your lungs.”

Sam’s jaw dropped. “Pardon the fuck–” he coughed (blissfully dry this time, though something in his chest grated uncomfortably) “–the fuck out of me?”

“Only a little!” Arthur said, hands out as though Sam were ready to lunge at him. “Only a little. Just a few times last night, just after you got in.”

“Nothing too terrible,” the doctor said, demeanor blasé as he drew a portion of the liquid medicine into a syringe. “It’s not uncommon with the type of injury you sustained.” Memories trickled in through the spaces between words. There had been a fight at the race. Aintree? Yes, Aintree, where he’d been hired as a spy for the Peaky Blinders. The fight wasn’t real, until… oh, yes, it became real. Real enough to be thrown against a tentpole, slammed to the ground, socked in the face. But who…?

John Shelby sauntered into the room with a pack of cigarettes in hand and a scabby split down his lower lip, but when he caught the fury boiling in Sam’s eyes, he turned heel and sauntered right back out.

That bastard. “I’ll fucking beat your ugly face in! Again!” Sam pointed at John’s back as he left.

Tommy sighed, putting his hands in his pockets as Arthur closed the door behind the doctor. “I’d rather you didn’t,” Tommy said. “Wouldn’t fix anything.”

The doctor cleared his throat. “Alright, this is just a little painkiller. Something to help you sleep a few more hours without incident.” The tip of a needle was pressed into a vein in his arm, pinching as it entered. Sam’s face screwed up in discomfort at the warmth under his skin.

“See, we could’ve gone with an intravenous drip and saved the trouble, but you were… resistant to that option last night.” He looked meaningfully at the bruises on Sam’s arm, standing out in stark contrast to the pale skin of his inner elbow and the circumference of his wrists.

Sam pouted, the aches of the previous day throbbing in his bones and muscles before they began to melt away. This was something he did remember a portion of, when he concentrated: wriggling out of his restraints and ripping the needle-tipped tube out of his arm in an attempt to escape before being cuffed again. The doctor packed his belongings into a neat leather bag, taking the bribe Tommy passed him on his way out the door.

“When’s Florence getting here?”

Arthur sat on the windowsill on his left. “Soon, mate. Real soon.”

“Tomorrow, hopefully,” Tommy added.

Sam was quiet, picking at the lint on his blanket as his eyelids grew leaden and low. He’d never been to Birmingham. Never even been in a hospital, a real one, the provisional war hospital notwithstanding. How would Fia know where to look? If something went wrong, how would he find her? The patrin signs would come down from Haydock; he’d have to retrace their steps all the way up north to find her trail. It all frightened him so badly, the idea of her traveling unprotected out in the West Midlands where muggings and murders abounded. Where gangs just like the Peaky Blinders vied for control over every square inch like mutts fighting over bones in the street.

“It’s… Sunday, right?” His voice was just a quiet mutter, pensive and somber. “Can I… can I have a Bible? Just to have it. I’d… I think I need it.”

Tommy and Arthur looked at each other, both men shifting uncomfortably. “We can do that, yes,” Tommy said. “Arthur?”

Arthur nodded and took it as his cue to leave, mentioning something about tracking John down to guard the door.

Tommy leaned against the windowsill within Sam’s periphery. “I want to apologize.”

Sam frowned. “For what?” There could have been a billion reasons, he knew, but none that came to mind as immediately relevant. Everything that could’ve been said already had been, he thought drowsily.

“I couldn’t find whoever had lamed the horse.”

If it weren’t for the subject matter, Sam would’ve laughed. It felt like so long ago, seeing to Little Tsarina’s hoof and feeling the pain of what had been done to her. “Oh my,” Sam said instead, the corner of his mouth twitching as he resisted a smile. Everything felt honey-slow, thoughts trickling through his mind too fleetingly to follow. “What made you think of that?”

Tommy couldn’t meet his eyes. Instead he rubbed a cigarette around his lips, cracking the window behind him for the smoke to dissipate as he lit the end. “No reason. Never mind.”

Sam wanted to demand more information, but the bed was so comfortable, and the pillow so soft, that he had no choice but to sink into a blissful, dreamless sleep.

After twenty minutes on the water (and only one retch over the side of the longboat), Charlie docked at Digbeth Branch Canal and pointed her in the direction of the red bricked and gray spired building in the distance. The cobbled roads were slick with a mess of garbage and petrol, and the sidewalks weren’t much better. Her riding boots were a poor match for the smooth stonework, and by the time she slid around the corner to Birmingham General Hospital, she was panting and overwhelmed, hands on her knees as her stomach flipped unpleasantly. She idly wondered, curls thrown around her neck and face haphazardly, whether or not the hospital staff would mistake her for a patient with the way she stumbled through the door. Fia didn’t have much time to ponder her concerns when her march through the sterile hallways of the hospital was abruptly stopped by something solid and suit-clad, gripping her upper arms and gentling her–

“Florence, hey, it’s alright,” John said. He looked a bit ridiculous once Fia had the wherewithal to take him in, lower lip scabbed and swollen and cheek bruised plum purple.

“John Shelby?” She backed up, brows furrowed. “What happened? Is…”

“Sam’s alright,” John reassured her, hands on her shoulders. “It was… there were some mistakes made.” He averted his eyes, embarrassed. Fia made a mental note to interrogate him about that, but she had no time to waste on arguing with him. She had to see Sam.

Pushing through John’s half-hearted attempt at slowing her down, Fia kept moving until she reached the large oak door– Room 26, John had shouted to her as she left –and, hands trembling, turned the handle to let herself in.

Dust motes floated gently through the golden beams of sunlight cutting in from the windows, an unnerving peace disturbed by the door slamming against the wall. Sam sat propped upright in the hospital bed, looking thoroughly displeased and uncomfortable as a spectacled doctor pressed a stethoscope to the right side of his chest. His glazed eyes lit up when he saw her, and only the quick reflexes of the man standing guard by him– Arthur, judging by the mustache and peaky hat –kept him from jolting up from the bed.

“Fi,” he gasped, interrupted by a rattling cough that doubled him over in pain.

“Sam,” she sighed, the fight draining from her body when she saw him– alive and in roughly one piece, thank God.

“Florence-Maria? Hang on, are you p–? ”

“Arthur, relax. Good afternoon, Florence.”

“Hello, Tommy. Arthur.”

“Tom, she’s–”

“I am, Arthur. He knows.”

“But Tom, is–?”

“Arthur, relax or go outside.”

“How about we all relax,” the doctor shot an accusatory look around the room, hand on Sam’s shoulder to guide him back into a reclined position against the pillow bolstering his back. Sam obeyed, sweet gray eyes never leaving Fia’s.

She approached his bedside carefully, heart still pounding from her mad dash. This wasn’t in the plan Sam had told her. He said that they would keep him away from the fighting, offering plausible deniability when the raid started. As things always had when the Shelbys were involved, things had evidently not gone to plan. The everpresent dark rings under Sam’s eyes were somehow even darker with mottled purple-green bruising, shades of shadow flooding across the bridge of his nose where a splint obscured the apex of the damage. Fia’s eyes followed as the doctor brought the stethoscope back in place, shaking his head in frustration at the commotion. Sam was bandaged around the ribs, more of the same colorful bruising peeking out from the edges in watercolor splotches.

“Hi, love,” she said, sitting in the seat that Arthur had left behind as Tommy told him off in the background.

“Hi,” he responded, smiling, voice quiet and clipped from the limited breath he was able to draw between the bandages and the pain.

“No talking, please,” the doctor grumbled.

Sam put a finger in front of his lips and playfully shushed her, which made her laugh in spite of herself. The doctor packed up his kit, explaining that his lungs were fine, ribs in the same state as the day before (and what the hell could that have meant? Fia’s jaw tightened with anger) and that after today, Sam just needed a few weeks’ rest at home with a very short daily walk to prevent pneumonic buildup. No ‘dirty money jobs’, he emphasized, darting a sharp look between both Sam and Tommy. Presumptuous, she thought. Sam’s scared of dirty money jobs and Tommy’s scared of me. No lifting, no running, and no strenuous exercise. The doctor drew a small amount of clear liquid from a little bottle into a syringe, pressing the tip of the needle into Sam’s vein as he winced. No smoking (not an issue), no drinking (somewhat an issue, if Sam’s expression was anything to go by), and absolutely no fighting (doubly not an issue, if she had anything to do with it). Sam took these orders gladly, nodding along with the doctor’s words even as his eyelids started to droop.

“Right, I’ll let Mr. Lovell rest. I suggest everyone do the same, if he’s to be discharged.” The doctor gathered his kit, shaking hands with Tommy on his way out as the gangster slipped what appeared to be a wad of cash into his palm.

Fia let the latch click shut on the door before casting a fierce glare at the men remaining in the room. “What happened?”

Sam snapped back into consciousness with a sharp inhale and gave her a wide, sleepy grin while the brothers did their best to avoid making eye contact. Arthur shoved his hands in his pockets as though the temperature in the room had dropped, and Tommy coughed awkwardly before scratching his nose with his thumb.

“There was… a disagreement,” Tommy started, choosing his words carefully, “between Samuel and John.”

Arthur nodded, staring at his shoes. “And the plan was for there to be a fight– not a real one, just makin’ a show of it –and they. Well.”

“I coughed blood out me lungs,” Sam slurred, still smiling as the scouse accent grew thicker than she’d ever heard it. The other two men shot an admonishing look at him.

Fia’s brows arched up towards her hairline at that. She blinked, casting a knife-sharp sidelong glare at the Shelbys as they did their best impressions of invisible men. “You what, love?”

“Only a little,” Arthur added quickly before Sam could elaborate, which Tommy echoed. Sam laughed, which, for lack of a better word, sounded crunchy before a spike of pain forced him to trail off into a hiccuping grunt.

She had to clench her eyes tight and count to ten before the impulse to wallop them each about the head subsided. Sam whined in pain, throwing a hand out to the side to grope at the side table. Tommy quickly intercepted him before he could get at the tiny vial of liquid medicine, tucking the bottle into a drawer and keeping the man’s hand restrained. Sam settled for holding onto his thumb as the first dose took effect, leaving Tommy standing awkwardly half-bent at the waist as Sam quickly forgot what, exactly, he was doing in favor of watching the dust dance circles above his head.

“The doctor says he’s got a concussion and a cracked rib,” Tommy explained, trying and failing to reclaim his hand. “Pleurisy and a small contusion. Meaning he’s–”

“I know what a contusion is, thank you,” she interrupted, voice even and assertive despite the rage boiling in her veins. “Do I even want to know what he’s on right now?”

Tommy muttered a quick “probably not” under his breath, taking Sam’s answering giggle as an opportunity to slip away. Fia gave Arthur a look instead, raising one eyebrow in a bid for him to elaborate.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably and toyed with the vines of a choked little philodendron sitting in the window, wincing when a leaf broke off and crumbled between his clumsy fingers. “Only a little morphine,” he said, voice tight and hesitant. “Morphine,” Fia huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“...Only a little.”

“A little,” Sam confirmed sloppily, pinching his fingers close together as if to demonstrate how little. Without the coordination granted by a clear and sober mind, he seemed unable to focus enough to make his fingers cooperate fully, frowning as he flexed his hand before letting it drop heavily to the bed. Fia stewed at the added context and held his hand as he sank into drug-saturated unconsciousness once again.

Tommy paced aimlessly around the room, lost in his head as Fia’d grown to know was common for him. He didn’t speak until it was clear that Sam had fallen asleep, halting little gasps of breath evening into a more gentle rise and fall of his chest within the bounds of the tight bandaging. “He didn’t want it, but it became necessary overnight.”

For any other person, she would’ve taken it as confirmation of the agonizing pain a rib fracture could induce. But this was Sam, her Sam, and he was a stubborn git. He didn’t like to show weakness– something to do with the early childhood he hardly spoke of. Fia remembered the time when he had been bitten by a client’s horse and had neglected to tell her until he undressed that night, the skin around his shoulder blade grazed raw and bleeding around a perfect ring of bruise-mottled tooth marks. Even when she’d fussed over him, he refused anything stronger than whiskey to dull the pain. It was his fault, he’d claimed, that he lost focus. If it didn’t get infected, it wasn’t worth spending the money on. Something like a broken rib, while excruciating, wouldn’t be fixed by expensive pain medication. So if it wasn’t pain that forced the doctor’s hand first…

“He was reporting for duty again, wasn’t he?” Fia’s shoulders drooped as the realization set in. “Wasn’t himself. Is that it?”

Tommy’s face went still and contemplative as he paused at the foot of Sam’s bed. “He was terrified,” he said, one hand tracing the tarnished metal bars of the footboard. “When the blood came up, he just screamed and screamed. It was hurting him to do it, but he just kept screaming.” Tommy’s expression was drawn, the angles of his face gaunt in the dramatic shadows of the sun-soaked room.

“They had to dope him up,” Arthur added somberly. “Said he’d puncture a lung the way he was struggling. The nurses tied him down when he came to, and from there… well, it was just easier to keep him calm.”

“Fought us all like a cornered animal.” Tommy rubbed the back of his hand, the movement catching Fia’s eye long enough for her to notice the tender-looking scratches gouged into the thin top layer of his skin, red and stark against the paleness of his wrist. Had Sam done that to him? Fia had never seen him get violent. Frightened, sure, when the phantom bullet between his ribs flooded his lungs with fire and kept him sunken in a dream. Confused when he woke up with the illusion of cold mud between his fingers, and frustrated when his attempt at smoking a cigarette ended in him lurching up the contents of his stomach into the wild grass at the side of the road. But violent? It was difficult to picture. Impossible, even, with the lengths he went to shield Fia from the horrors of the Great War. It wasn’t in his nature.

Then again, she had never seen Sam injured in such a way before. They hadn’t sent him home to recover from being shot, the bullet having avoided vital organs on its way out of his body and the battlefield of Ypres in dire need of every soldier they could keep. His fate stalled and uncertain in the base hospital, Fia hadn’t even heard of this injury until he came home freshly discharged and stitched together again when the bloodshed ended. Sam never liked the feeling of his breathing constricted after the war, always tugging the collars of his shirts open after too long buttoned up. His ribs were a particularly tender point, something he always shielded when Fia’s hand brushed a little too close to the shining scar of his bullet wound. It hurt her heart to think of how Sam must’ve been suffering before someone had made the executive decision to flood him with morphine.

“Wasn’t like that until the blood came up,” Arthur explained, wiping the shreds of dry plant from his hands and coming over to stand by her side. “He was in good spirits that first day, all things considered. Woke up a little confused but he was alright. Even cracked some jokes when we were tryin’ to carry him in.”

“Must’ve had a nightmare,” Fia said. She brushed the back of her hand over his sweaty temple.

Tommy hummed. “You said he’d been out of sorts when we were introduced.”

Fia nodded. The peace of early mornings, more often than not, was shattered with strangled cries of fear as Sam awoke from yet another nightmare, shouting for mercy, shouting for backup, shouting military nonsense. She would never be allowed to hear the details, but Sam would at least let her hold him and bring him down from the terror. Those were the nights that Sam could find rest in the first place. She figured he thought he was clever in trying to hide how little he slept, but the dark weariness of deprivation had long sunken into the lines and hollows of his face.

“So he leaves tomorrow?” She asked, voice smaller than she’d wanted it to be. Sam’s breathing was still shallower than was comfortable, the whispery puffs from the slight part in his lips the only indication that he was breathing at all.

“Hopefully,” replied Tommy. “So long as there’s no blood tomorrow, he can rest at home.”

Fia nodded, unable to look away from the slow rise and fall of Sam’s chest. When the sun began to sink in the sky, Tommy offered her a place to stay at Watery Lane. Fia wasn’t quite sure what she’d answered, but Tommy seemed to be satisfied with it as he ushered Arthur out, speaking in low tones with him about guards for the door and eyes on the doctors and nurses. It unnerved her, the seriousness with which they spoke. Of course she didn’t want any of their enemies to catch word of their arrival at the hospital, but Sam wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t a target for their enemies. Not even a regular associate of their gang. A guard outside the door made sense for just about anyone else, and she wasn’t about to talk them out of it, but it was frightening to think that Tommy found it necessary in his own city.

Once the sky had darkened, casting a deep inky blue over the otherwise-empty hospital room, the gangster at the door escorted in a kind-eyed older nurse.

“You ought to go home and get some rest, love.” She puttered around the room, checking Sam’s vitals and restocking all manner of bottles and boxes. “He’ll be alright overnight with so many eyes on him.”

A yawn threatened to escape her at the idea of putting her head down on a pillow of any sort, regardless of how lumpy or Birmingham-scented. The offer Tommy had made her was tempting; a lock on the door, wood in the fireplace, a tub to wash up in, a room that didn’t reek of antiseptic and sickness. She nodded drowsily, leaving Sam with a kiss on the forehead and a vice around her heart. The excitement and nerves of the day subsiding had left her weary to the bone. No sooner had the heavy double doors of the hospital shut behind her than a meek whimper reached her ears. Fia’s head whipped to the side.

Those were her eyes. Her nose. Those curls were the ones she’d learned how to braid before she learned to navigate her own, those hands the ones that had wiped the dirt from her skinned knees and the tears from her eyes. That expression on her face was the one she’d carried after their last argument, when Fia had lashed out because John Shelby was tearing her world in half and taking the portion he’d claimed miles away to Birmingham. That was the very same quiver in the very same chin.

“Flossie,” the woman breathed, voice cracking.

Fia’s throat clicked. “Esme.”

“Fuck,” Arthur hissed. “Fuck! What do we tell ‘em?” Arthur paced back and forth, fingers brushing over his mustache.

Tommy took a drag of his cigarette, the cherry glowing in the brisk night air. At the rate he was going at, he would run out shortly. The two of them watched as John drove Florence and Esme to Small Heath, the sisters pressed shoulder to shoulder. “We don’t tell them anything,” Tommy said, smoke trailing from his nostrils. “Not until we have all the details. It doesn’t leave us.”

Arthur paused. “Not even to John?”

“Especially not John. You know who he’ll point fingers at. I wouldn’t want it to drive a wedge between Esme and Florence.”

Arthur scoffed. “Since when did you care so much about things like that?”

It was a fair question, but Tommy bristled nonetheless. He cared about what he wanted to care about, and that was it. “I don’t. I care about the fallout.”

Arthur nodded, kicking a cigarette butt. “I don’t know that Florence would sabotage us.”

There was a beat. “I wouldn’t rule it out. For all we know, she’s already seen the paper.”

The night wind swept over the spires of the hospital with a ghostly howl. Arthur shivered, drawing his coat more tightly around him. “Do you want another man with eyes on the door?”

Tommy dropped the smoldering cigarette butt to the ground, making his way to the car. “Make it two.”

It was blissfully quiet in Esme and John’s house– if it could be called theirs, seeing as it shared space with an expansion of the betting shop. John had gone up to bed and to check on the kids, letting them have the parlor to themselves. Quiet was something that Esme had assured her was rarer than gold. Six beautiful little terrors, Esme had huffed, though the corner of her lip had twitched up as she said it. Four of John’s by his late first wife, two of both of them: Katie, John Jr., Annie, Albert, Daniel, and—

“Florence is two months old now,” Esme said, taking a sip of her tea as the two of them sat together in the parlor around midnight. “We’re thinking of calling her Flora around the family, to differentiate and all.”

Fia bit her lip as she smiled. She might’ve been surprised if she didn’t know her sister so well. Since they were little, a toddler and an infant, Esme would walk around with Fia on her hip despite just being barely tall enough to lift her. To everyone she’d meet, Esme would proclaim “Flossie is my baby”, and would mind her so carefully that their mother hardly even had the opportunity to do it herself. Even as a teenager, Fia had been the only one to call Esme’s bluff when she rebelliously declared that she didn’t like children. “You don’t like other families’ children,” she’d giggled. “That’s not the same thing.”

The house, while a modest size for a family as big as theirs, was lavishly decorated. It felt a bit like home, all these silks and paints and jewel-toned tiles. With everyone asleep, though, it lacked the warmth of a tiny caravan packed full with Lee children all trying to play in the same space. It was like a large, pricey decoration without the vibrancy of daylight. An addition onto the Shelby empire.

Esme shared the sentiment. “I keep wishing for that house in the country,” she said, pouring another cup for Fia– no milk, two sugars. “I need space. I feel cramped in this dingy city.”

Fia snorted. “I know what you mean. Been here for less than a day and the novelty’s worn off already.” She sighed deeply, settling into the brocade couch. “What’s it like?”

Esme swallowed her mouthful of tea, silently requesting elaboration.

“Being out here. Living…” like a Shelby.

“...Like a Shelby?” Esme smiled behind her teacup. Her older sister wasn’t the only one who was easy to read, it seemed. Fia rolled her eyes, but nodded. Esme thought for a moment. “It’s sort of like learning a new language. The more you speak it…”

“The easier it is to fit in?” Fia tried optimistically.

Esme sighed, less enthusiastic than she had been before. She collected their cups and saucers, loading them onto a tray with the teapot and carrying it to the kitchen. Despite Esme insisting that she stay off her feet for once, Fia trailed behind her, hands behind her back like a child in a shop instructed not to touch anything.

“The easier it is to forget what you’ve spoken your whole life.” She twisted the handle on the ceramic sink, allowing sputtering water to soak the dishware. “I don’t think you’d want it for you and your kid, if I know you. There are some things I like, though. It’s very comfortable to have everything we need, and then some. Nice to not have police breathing down my neck when I enter the shops. On top of that, I help out with the bookkeeping when needed, so I know they don’t think I’m stupid.”

There was always a caveat when her sister spoke in that tone. “But…?”

Esme whipped her head around, eyes desperate. “But it’s so bloody boring!”

The two of them giggled like little girls, doubling over into each other until their laughter gave way into silent shaking, then heaving gasps for breath.

“Christ,” Fia said, wiping her eyes. “Is it really that bad?”

“Worse,” Esme said. “I’m not joking, Flossie, I literally don’t know what I’ll do when the kids are all in school. Do I need– do I need to knit? Is that what wives do, knit scarves for the kids or whatever? Can’t bloody well have a garden in this smog. Forget chickens, they’ll go missing as soon as you hatch ‘em in this fucking neighborhood.”

“No,” Fia groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “I swear, Esme, if I ever move to the city and start knitting scarves, you’ll need to put me out of my misery.”

Their fit subsiding, they worked in companionable silence at washing and drying the dishes. Esme bumped her hip against Fia’s, jostling her as she dried the lid of the teapot.

“What’s your problem? Madwoman,” Fia laughed.

Esme just looked at her for a moment, warmth in her brown eyes. Their mother’s eyes. “I dunno. I missed you.”

Fia’s throat tightened. “I missed you too.”

Their goodbye, though temporary, was no less tearful. Fia was sent off with a little container of peppermint tea for the nausea and back pains, and Esme made sure Finn let her into the Shelby house next door, watching until the lock clicked. Three seconds later, Fia saw the beam of light from her sister’s parlor wane as she closed her own door behind her. Her heart ached something fierce the rest of the night.

“Samuel.”

Sam blinked awake, skull leaden and eyes heavy. Had he slept through the entire day? What time was it? The sky was watery blue, not yet light enough to give him much visibility through the thin slits in the curtains. He could make out the silhouette of a figure at the foot of his bed. For half a second he debated the possibility of it being some weird morphine-induced twist on his usual nightmares, but the click-snap of a lighter igniting revealed some details: broad hands, clean-shaven face, cigarette dangling from his lips. The smell of tobacco, not mud-blood-gunpowder. He relaxed a touch.

“Tommy,” he grumbled, drawing a hand up to rub at his dry eyes. “It’s early as all hell.”

“Get up.”

He froze. There was something about his voice that signaled danger, but if he moved on instinct now, he wouldn’t make it far. Between the state of him and the fact that Tommy was undoubtedly armed, he made the smart decision to stay in place.

“Dunno if I can. Tom, is everything alr–”

“What the fuck,” Tommy hissed, “do you think this is? Huh?”

The barrel of his pistol glowed blue in the dim light. Oh, hell.

“Tom, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think I can–”

“Get up and explain this!” A stack of paper landed on his lap. The lamp on his nightstand flicked on, and Sam’s heart nearly lept out through his throat when he saw that Arthur Shelby had been looming in the corner the whole time. The shadows cast on his face from below were something he didn’t think he would forget anytime soon, nor was the scowl he wore that twisted them into a wicked mask of fury. Sam swallowed, dry throat clicking as he turned his attention to whatever it was that Tommy had thrown at him.

From the way it had been folded, it appeared to be a newspaper, wrinkled and frayed at the corners as though it had been passed through many hands. The grayscale images were difficult to parse at first, but he recognized the shapes of the largest ones: Aintree racecourse. A gun.

“And this.” Arthur dropped another, newer one on top of it, the pages still smelling like ink. This time the main image was of an older woman’s smiling face. The sketch adjacent to it looked worryingly familiar.

Sam blinked, gritting his teeth as he pulled himself fully upright in the hospital bed. “You two are scaring me real bad now.”

“Psalms 94:1,” Tommy spat. “Sound familiar, Sam of God?”

“No, it doesn’t!” Sam huffed, exasperated. “Tommy, come on. Enough with the riddles.”

“The Lord is a God who avenges,” Arthur recited, the Bible they’d procured for Sam on Sunday open on the side table, “O God who avenges, shine forth.”

Tommy placed his hands on the footboard, looming over it to where Sam was caught in that piercing glare, no opportunity to look away. “We’ve got you found out, Samuel.”

That made Sam’s heart stop. What the fuck could they have found out? None of his silent guesses comforted him, leading him down darker and stranger paths. Did they know what the war was like for him, beyond what he’d divulged? Is that why they were reading the Bible to him? Did they know? A cold sweat broke out over his skin.

“I- I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Sam stammered, one placating hand up in front of him, “but I never… I wouldn’t. I’m not like that.” Who the fuck had snitched? Was it someone laying in the rat-infested, sodden trenches with him? A superior officer? Fuck, was it the American?

Tommy forcefully expelled a sigh, hovering the muzzle of the gun on top of the newest newspaper, right over the sketch. Right over my right kneecap, Sam thought, shuddering. “Tell me who that is.”

Black hair, sunken eyes, long nose… “That’s me.” Sam’s shoulders sagged a bit. Alright, so it’s probably not about that event. But Tommy was still glaring at him, vivid blue meeting dull gray.

“And what,” he tapped the headline sharply with the gun, “does this say?”

“Come on, Tommy, we don’t need to–”

“Read it.”

Sam was silent.

“Alright,” he snapped, ripping the newspaper away and pointing at the other one. “Let’s backtrack. Fucking tell me what this is about, then.”

Sam stayed silent, looking at Arthur for support and finding none behind hardened eyes. “I can’t.”

Tommy pushed himself back upright, holstering his gun and placing his hands on his hips as he paced towards the window. “Sam, you can’t play clueless all day, alright? This is the kind way, what we’re doing here. We don’t have to be kind.”

“I am clueless!” Sam shouted, even as the effort squeezed at his already-aching ribcage. “Tommy, really, I don’t know what you want from me right now.”

“Read the fucking headline! Tell me what you’ve done!”

“I can’t!” he said, hardly choking the words out. “I can’t.”

Tommy took a step toward Sam with coldness in his eyes, but Arthur put his hand out to intercept him.

“I can’t fucking read.”

Both brothers blinked before Tommy pointed the gun at his head. “You’re a fucking liar.”

“I’m not,” Sam panted. “I can’t read, mate. I– I never learned.”

“You slipped a note into Arthur’s pocket back at Aintree,” Tommy hissed. “Psalms 94:1. That’s what it said. Couldn’t help but make this about your guilty fucking conscience, could you? Did you pray about it? You were the one standing right next to him before we left. You were the one who told us to bet on that horse, and you were the last one to see her before she was taken out of the race.” Tommy cocked the gun as he stepped closer. “You asked for a Bible on Sunday, and now you’re telling me you can’t read?”

“I just hold onto it,” Sam pleaded. “I don’t read it, it’s just– it protects me, s’all. Just a comfort.”

The cold muzzle pressed against his forehead, and Sam went still. Of course it would end like this. All this time he had between Belgium and now was borrowed, anyway. It only made sense that someone would find that out eventually. He closed his eyes and expelled a shallow breath before staring Tommy down. If Tommy was going to take his life, he wouldn’t get the comfort of fear and submission.

A rattling noise across the room caught everyone’s attention just before the heavy door swung open. “You can’t go locking doors like that,” John said as he entered, slipping a lock pick back into his pocket. “That’s a fire hazard. And an… everything hazard, if you want to– hey, hang on.” The man pointed around in a triangle at Tommy, Arthur, and the gun.

Tommy didn’t look away, but he did tilt his head a bit as John announced his entrance. “John, lock the door behind you.”

“No,” he said, crossing his arms. Sam had a vision of John as a stubborn child, refusing to leave until his older brothers included him in their game. “You’re gonna have to explain this here. You two have been acting strange since last night.”

Arthur strode over to pat John on the chest. “We found our rat, Johnny-boy. Aintree’s ours once again.”

John looked confused, attention darting back and forth between Arthur and Sam. “But… how? You mean Sam?” He wrinkled his nose. “No way. Sam can’t have done it.”

“And why is that?” Tommy only pressed the muzzle harder into Sam’s head, forcing it to tip back slightly. Now his heart was racing. The chance of survival was an intoxicating feeling, now that it was a possibility. He peered down his nose at Tommy’s face, no longer cold and empty but pinched in confusion.

“Because,” John said. “Sam can’t read, and the ink on that note was fresh. Right, Arthur? It had to have been written right before you found it in your coat.”

Arthur grumbled, but nodded. He fell quiet, looking to Tommy for guidance.

Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “He can read, John. He asked for a Bible.”

John scoffed. “And Finn keeps those ratty old boxing gloves in his room. Doesn’t make him good at boxing.” John sidestepped Arthur, coming over to tug at Tommy’s shoulder. “Don’t you remember? It was big talk when his dad went insane. Sam hadn’t learned it yet, so he never did. The Lees gave me the whole story.”

“He’s not insane,” Sam said, flushing. “He was kicked by a horse.”

John shot him a look. “Hey, stupid. Don’t fight me on semantics when I’m defending you, alright?”

Sam shut his mouth with a click. Tommy took a few steps back with John’s persuasion, but he kept the gun trained on the space between Sam’s eyes. “There was chaos in that tent,” Tommy said. “How do you know it wasn’t him who pulled the trigger? He’d have every reason to shoot that woman and try to blame you.”

John barked out a laugh at that, chest puffed up with pride. “His sorry arse was too busy being dragged out of harm’s way by yours truly. And besides, I would’ve felt a gun somewhere on him while I was beating him black and blue, if he had one.”

Tommy seemed to accept this, at least temporarily. He holstered his gun, patting John on the shoulder before he paced a nervous lap around the room. Arthur stared down at his feet, embarrassment coloring his ears red.

“So,” Arthur said, clearing his throat, “if it weren’t Sam… who did it?”

“Hello,” Sam tried, voice creaky and dry. “Hi. Can someone tell me what just happened?”

All three brothers looked at him as though he were a ghost. Had he not spoken up, would they have just continued like this? It was a marvel that any of them had women in their lives, all stuck in their own bubble as they were.

Tommy picked up that morning’s newspaper he’d thrown to the ground, dusting it off and handing it to John. At the sight of it, John’s eyebrows raised. He looked at Tommy, who nodded, and then back at the headline.

“Sam, mate,” he said, voice wavering. “Forget snitching. Forget murder. Someone’s framing you for a fucking assassination.”

#fic: sic em #oc: samuel lovell #oc: florence maria lee #peaky blinders #peaky blinders oc #peaky blinders fanfic

[morgana-ren]

ur sic infit fic literally hit all the spots in my perfect vulpes/courier fic. A caesar vulpes obsessed with the courier and forcing her to be his wife? It's like u have read my mind (including the horny part) telepathically so plz I beg u to look into making another part 🙏❤❤

Hehehe those are my spots too. Vulpes wifin' it up.

I have a bunch of half written snippets that all follow the same sort of timeline so I figured I'd add them onto the same story as a new chapter, since I can't be assed to actually sit down and write out the damn timeline cause there is like zero market for the fox boy.

If you got any ideas, shoot 'em my way!

#morgana and friends

[zwowow]

First of all just wanna say I love all your fics. And I was wondering what your take would be on Kells and em when they first here each out here disstrack.

Ahhh ok First of all thank you!

I think Em would hate the disstrack and Kells at first. He'd rage and fume over a man, a grown man, talking about his daughter, accusing him of trying to stifle his career, and writing a whole disstrack about him after a throwaway line on an album full of disses. And come on, recording a video for a disstrack? Who does he think he is, Pac? Shit is corny and childish. He still can't help himself from watching and rewatching it over and over. He tries to convince himself it's for the diss he may or may not write back, but if it is, then why does it take him 8 watches to realize Kells made a mistake courting how many albums he's put out since Recovery and only 2 to get hard in his sweats?

Em would roll his eyes at the bad lines, but nod his head along to the beat. The fact that Kelly worked with a producer he'd worked with on his album only months before doesn't escape him, either. It's a detail he appreciates (as much as you can appreciate someone calling you old and washed) and doesn't see anyone picking apart on YouTube. Oh yeah, he'd do that too, watch YouTube videos reacting to Killshot, tearing it apart, calling it a top five disstrack, he'd watch everything. He's not obsessed though, he's just planning his attack.

He'd go back and forth on responding just as much as he'd go back and forth on how he feels about Kelly. Does he want to respond, fuel the fire and make Kelly more popular than he's ever been? Does he hate Kelly and want to humiliate him, want to sic the very worst of his depraved fans on him?

Or does he not respond? Does he leave it alone and just roll his eyes when another person asks about the diss to seem more apathetic and aloof than he is? Does he actually like Kelly, does he find humor in his disses and appreciate the balls it must take to come for him?

He stews on it all, jotting down lines to be scrapped or used. He rewatches the video so many times it feels like he only has one option. He has to hit back. If he doesn't, he's just obsessed, with a diss back, he's focused on a comeback.

Kells loves that Em responded. Nothing could be better. It's a good track, it rips him apart and shows more versatility than anything Em has done in years (even before the diss and the shade 45 drama, Kells thought his new stuff was falling off), and any normal person with more to lose might have hated it. But he's not normal.

He's a former fan, and he's got the attention of one of his favorites in the game and teenage crush. The excitement makes his fucking dick hard. He goes on radio shows and on twitter and calls it a 'leg shot' because he's a petty bitch, and because he's actually not that offended about the content. Em called him less talented than him, broke, and a Stan. It's no sweat off his back to admit that he probably is, he definitely is in comparison to Em, and he was at one point. But Kells isn't the one who spent almost his entire track on defense. Though maybe he should have, because there are things that sting.

He knew Em's fans would always come after him, but when celebrities start weighing in, hip hop heavyweights that have been cool to him in the past saying things like "He's over" and that he never had enough talent to fuck with Em in the first place, it hurts. It gets at him some nights, that he's burned a bridge without even crossing it, the small comfort that Em cared enough to do his research and respond with targeted blows isn't always enough. He counts his cash as the money starts to roll in and wonders if the crazy fans on his page and Em himself was right, is this as big as he's ever going to be? Is reaching this high worth it when it comes at this cost?

I think, when everything has cooled down, and Kells resigns himself to not responding, and Em has stopped refreshing Kells' Twitter to see if there has been any new addition to their beef, they'd be able to listen to each other's disstracks and hear what was really there. Em would hear Kells crying out for attention from a former idol, Kells would hear Em's shameful obsession with him.

I think, when they begin to hear that, everything would change.

#emgk #is my em bias showing? oops #killshot v rap devil discourse is so funny to me #also ahhhh thank u so much #compliments send me adrift on a wave of ego #on a boat made of paper #:') #zwowfic

[jmeelee]

Some of my past Halloween Sterek fics. Happy Halloween y’all 🎃

I’m Your Boogie Man

The Pumpkin Thief

Trick or Treat (you look good enough to eat)

And one of my fav drabbles written for the Sterek drabbles blog:

Hero, Say, Freeze (10/22/2018)

Stiles throws open the door before the bell stops ringing. “Happy Halloween!” He says, bubbling with excitement for the first holiday in their new home.

The trick-or-treater—a little old, in Stiles’ opinion— is wearing a generic superhero mask and black clothing. Stiles trustingly holds out the candy bowl. The teen snatches the entire dish, then runs for their life. “Hey! Freeze thief!” Stiles shrieks.

“Wha—?” Derek comes out of the kitchen, half-eaten snickers bar in his mouth.

Stiles gestures wildly toward the candy mugger scurrying down their driveway. “Sic ‘em.” Derek’s grin is predatory as he sprints out the door.

#Sterek #eternalsterek #my fic #halloween

[wantstoflyafraidtofall]

3x16 from Dean's perspective and the rescue from Hell

TW/CW: graphic depictions of Dean's death and what Demons look like.

read on Ao3

Tags: @kinda-not-really-vibing, @i-dont-even-wanna-know, @chris-krat

(fic under cut)

All that he has learned was how fragile and replaceable it all was. Every one of us gnats played a role but there were still too many for each one to matter. So why does Dean’s life seem matter more than the rest? Dean has been brought back more than anyone should be already, and it’s taken its toll. His soul is in tatters, held together by scotch tape and super glue, because he needed to be here longer for all the other souls that he could save.

And now it’s time to save them.

That’s what Dean had thought when he sold his soul for his brother, what he told himself so he wouldn’t feel like shit for bringing his brother back because he can’t stand to be alone. Now he wasn’t so sure that he had truly saved anyone.

The clock chimed, the black metal cutting across the white face of the clock to point its jagged claw at the twelve. The bell’s toll rang through the room, and Dean couldn’t help but to stare. It rang again and again as to mock holy churches and their white steeples filled with bronze bells being tugged into making music by their ropes.

The dark pillar of the grandfather clock melted into the shadows behind it, the pendulum swinging side to side with a smooth grace, pulling the chains and making the weights lift and fall, lift and fall, behind the clear crystal glass and thorny inlay.

The bells kept going, the sounds being knocked out of their bronze hollows. Each time the clapper struck the inside of the bells, making them shake to produce the beautiful symphony of noises, Dean couldn’t help feeling like those were more like melodic screams than music. He couldn’t help but feel like a bell, constantly knocked around to make harmonies for the pleasure of others.

When the dogs came, with their blood stained teeth in feral grins, dead white eyes framed in decaying flesh and matted fur, smelling of smoke and rot, Dean felt the miniscule vibrations of the bells deep in his bones, melting the marrow inside into a paste for the the dogs to lick out of each ivory shell.

He ran from the beasts who followed on legs of scorched bone and chunks of pulsing muscle that bent in all the wrong ways and places. There was no hope of keeping the things out now that he saw them, but he frantically poured the goofer dust in lines on the windowsills anyway.

Sam and Ruby stood by the door, Ruby asking for the demon knife and Sam debating handing it over. Dean’s body wretched when he saw Ruby’s face, skin hanging off the gnawed bones in fleshy, burnt ribbons. Patches of hair remained on the purple, white, and red skin and bone of her head, and her jaw was cracked and crooked, dangling from it’s socket, yellow, splintered teeth showing through the rotten holes in her cheek. When she spoke it jerked around, pulling the frayed tendons and clacking her crooked teeth together in sickening movements. But her eyes…

“Wait!” Dean finds his voice.

“You wanna die?” The demon turns to him, the scratchiness of her voice clawing out of her tongueless, flopping mouth.

Dean swallowed the rising bile in his throat as he watched her talk. “Sam, that's not Ruby,” He took a breath, “It's not Ruby!”

Lilith raises the remnants of her arm, launching Dean onto the desk in the back of the room, knocking the air out of his lungs and pinning Sam to the wall.

“How long you been in her?” Dean gasps out.

A vile grin twists the skin around her mouth in what Dean would assume would look like a childlike smile if she had more skin.

“Not long,” She gestures to her middle where light pink organs spilled out of the gaping holes in her skin, pulsating as they struggled to perform. “But I like it. It's all grown up and pretty.”

“And where's Ruby?” Sam interjected.

She tilted her head, the vertebrae of her back and neck clicking together in unnatural angles to make a sickening crunch. “She was a very bad girl, so I sent her far, far away.”

“You know, I should have seen it before... but you all look alike to me.” Dean grits out with a smile.

She glares at him before turning her attention to Sam, sauntering as well as a decaying corpse to Dean’s brother.

“Hello, Sam.” Lilith grabs Sam’s face in her rotten fingers, forcing him to look at her. “I've wanted to meet you for a very long time.”

Dean watches Lilith kiss his brother with her bloody lips, the muscles of her face convulsing under the thin, translucent skin where it remained on her face.

“Your lips are soft.” She whispered and Dean felt tears prickle in the corners of his eyes.

They wouldn’t have to deal with this if Dean had just left well enough alone. Sam has spent every waking hour(which was most hours) in pain trying to save Dean. Dean brought him back so he could keep living, and Sam isn’t even living. Now he has to watch his brother die.

“Right, so you have me. Let my brother go.” Sam snarled.

“Silly goose. You wanna bargain, you have to have something that I want.” Her body seemed to shake with her glee at the situation. “You don't.”

“So, is this your big plan, huh? Drag me to hell. Kill Sam. And then what? Become queen bitch?” Anger bubbled in his breast as he looked at the demon.

“I don't have to answer to puppy chow.” She hissed and a fresh wave of pain shot through Dean’s body, making him grimace and bite back a groan.

Lilith walks back to the door to the room where the hellhound sat outside. An exhilarated look took over her deteriorated features and blank eyes as she wrapped her fingers around the handle. “Sic 'em, boy.”

“No! Stop!” Sam screamed, still pinned to the wall.

The huge beast sprung through the open door, it’s scaldingly hot paws pinning Dean’s arms to the floor where he had dropped. It sunk it’s barbed teeth into Dean’s shoulder, ripping through the flesh with ease.

Dean screamed, squirming underneath the dog. Sam kept screaming while Lilith watched from the sidelines, a smile on her face.

The dog let it’s claws glide across Dean’s chest. Sam screamed again. Dean needed it to stop. He needed to tell Sam it’ll be okay and that he was sorry, but when he opened his mouth, he could only gargle through the hot blood bubbling up his throat.

The dog continued to tear at him, pulling his skin apart to bite at the soft organs inside and knaw his ribs. The pain melted together until everything felt like it was on fire and his vision was as red as the crimson puddle he was lying in.

Dean’s last thoughts before it all stopped was that he was that he deserved this. He deserved to go to hell and all the pain he’ll experience for the rest of eternity. And then the pain ended, only to be replaced in concentrated points where the beast gripped his soul, dragging him down through the earth.

He clawed at the dirt but it burnt his hands. He tried to scream but his lungs filled with ash and smoke as waves of scalding heat pummeled over him as they got closer to the waves of fire licking at the shores of ground up bone coating the ground. Hooks were driven through his limbs and the meat of his torso, jerking him up in the air above the lake of flames.

It was so loud. The roar of fire and cacophony of screams coming from the racks of mangled bodies. The cries from the bodies chained in the air or tied to the sizzling black pillars of stone holding up the inky black sky of smoke.

He deserves this.

~~~~

Long spiderwebs of cracks rocketed down the bedrock pillars as the ceiling of Hell ripped open. Dean dropped the rusted knife he held in his hand, the tatters of his soul reaching towards the creature pushing through the hole in the smoke. He watched as the white-blue being flew through the fire, the flames bending away from its many heads and hands. It opened its mouths and a high pitched screech overpowered the screams of the tortured souls.

Bolts of lightning struck out with each flap of the beings mighty wings, bending in arches and bouncing expertly off the many weapons brandished by the creature as it soared towards Dean, striking down the legions of demons rising to attack. It landed near him, shaping into a more human figure but remained haloed in bright light.

Dean let it approach him and wrap its arm around his chest, its hand burning into the skin of his shoulder as it took off, flapping its great wings and propelling them towards the bright gash in the smoke ceiling.

The creature was warm, not like the fire of hell, but warm like the distant memories Dean had of earth he held locked away where the black tendrils of hell would never reach. He let his soul reach out to the creature, wrapping itself in the soft feeling.

“DEAN WINCHESTER IS SAVED.” A deep voice rumbled through all of hell.

He was saved.

#dean winchester #sam winchester #lilith #castiel #ruby #angst #violence cw #blood cw #gore cw #death cw #pain cw #hell #angels #demons #fic #fanfic #supernatural #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #spn fanfciction #spn #my writing #fanfiction

[toonylune]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: The Adventure Zone (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Argo Keene & Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt, Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt & Rainer, Argo Keene & Rainer Characters: Argo Keene, Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt, Rainer (The Adventure Zone), Gray the Demon Prince (The Adventure Zone) Additional Tags: Angst, how much? to be determined, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts, Well, they're implied, kind of Summary:

You turn around to see Gray sitting on the steps of the school.

“I told you if you left without my permission, I would kill ten students a day. And yet you… didn’t listen. You must think me a demon of empty threats. Well, I am a demon of my word.”

He gestures to the big tree where you see ten unconscious students tied around it. And he yells, “Sic ‘em!” and you see a dozen hellhounds tear towards them.

This is just something I’ve been thinking about since the last episode (TAZ Grad ep. 25), and I wanted to get it out before the next one. Travis is going wild with this campaign and it’s so good, so I hope my contribution to this masterpiece is sufficient.

Also I haven’t written a single fic in four years. Let’s pray this isn’t complete trash.

#the adventure zone #the adventure zone graduation #taz graduation #taz grad #taz spoilers #taz fitzroy #taz argo #taz rainer #gray the demon prince #argonaut keene #argo keene #sir fitzroy maplecourt #rainer michelle #i love rainer so much #taz fic #taz fanfic #taz grad spoilers #taz grad fic #taz grad ep 25

[klonoadreams]

First scene from your alola fix, is when looker burst in, nanu house scaring and waking everyone in the house then nanu tell Zen to sic em. This is very realistic to when the police charge in your house. The 2nd is from your galar fic, where your oc goes on her first corviknight rides and freaks the fuck out. Something I could relate too since I did that exact thing when I went on my first roller coaster ride and has hated it every since.

Awww shucks, thanks for sharing!!