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sempersirens · 10 months

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sun bleached flies | four

masterlist

chapter summary: joel seeks to make amends the only way joel knows how: messily

warnings: 18+, mdni. previous dark!joel/raider!joel. mention of ptsd, nightmares, some sexist/misogynistic comments, lotsa swearing, nihilism, alcohol & bad decisions.

a/n: hello! as you may know, i paused this series for a little while after receiving some comments about the content of this story. i was quite upset and reactive upon first seeing the comments and instantly pulled the series in order to give myself some time to consider whether i wanted to carry on. but, as is obvious, i really do not care anymore. i put detailed warnings before each chapter so everyone knows what they're getting into. if this isn't for you, that's okay! don't read! alas. thank you SO much to all of you who continue to read my silly little stories and send me such kind messages, reblog, and like. i love and cherish you ALL. this chapter is very much giving "it's the drama, mick. i love it.”

Joel's POV

In the movies about the end of the world, humanity always seemed so vulnerable. Not so much in the way that people would be literally picked off one by one by hordes of undead, but there was always the feeling that it took the end of the world for the human race to finally become their true selves. As if the worst of times brought out the best of people.

Joel had hated that trope. Whenever he, Tommy and Sarah picked out a zombie movie at Blockbuster on a Friday night they opted for the most gory, gruesome option on the shelf. They would simultaneously roll their eyes at any cheesy line snuck into the dialogue mid-fight scene - apart from Tommy, who would wipe his bleary eyes with the back of his sleeve in the hope that nobody had seen.

Sat amidst that gathering of lost survivors, each searching for some semblance of safety in the dire form of group therapy, Joel had perhaps for the first time in his life seen true, raw emotion reflecting in your eyes. You had always seemed so composed during your brief but sharp run-ins with one another, but this evening was different.

He'd watched your cheeks turn pink when the idiot stood at the front of the group prompted you to share your story. The way you unravelled speaking about Mia, it was as if your facade had shifted ever so slightly - perhaps even accidentally - because as soon as you realised your mask was slipping, you snatched it straight back and regained composure. Like she was your Achilles heel, the only thing in this world that could bring your walls tumbling down.

Joel had tried to follow you after the session to get you alone to talk about - he didn't even know what. He just knew was the right thing to do, and he had made a promise to himself to start following that gut feeling for once. But he had been trapped by his row of slow-moving attendees with little sense of urgency and menial small talk, and you were long gone by the time he had escaped the barricades of plastic chairs.

You'd had a child, his child. A child he had no right to see, and wasn't even sure if he wanted to see. How could he look her in the eye knowing the reason she had been brought into this world, knowing he had even let such a thing happen, to bring something so small and innocent into such a plagued existence?

A lot of things kept Joel up at night; too many things to count. The fire of bullets before feeling the limpness of Sarah's body in his arms. The mocking song of defeat, noise constantly muffled in his eardrums that reminded him of that damn flinch. Ellie's small body collapsing into his still-weak chest, fresh blood coating her pale skin. The smell of the burning building in their wake.

It was worse when the dreams reminded him of his own cruelty. Settlements raided and burned to the ground. Blades pressed through temples in the dead of night.

And then there was you.

He had stumbled upon you at the peak of his inhumanity. He wanted to blame it on being around the other raiders for so long, that the things he had only ever been a bystander for had finally seeped into his skin and corrupted him. He wished he could reject all of the shame and responsibility as an unconscious action of muscle memory.

When he saw you standing in your kitchen passing his brother a bottle of beer like it was the most mundane action, he thought his subconscious was punishing him again; like his first day in Jackson, when he'd dared to drop his shoulders ever so slightly at the sight of a woman he let himself believe to be Sarah. For that second all logic evaded him, all he could think was that his little girl was alive and well right before him. As if it had all been a bad dream and she would turn to face him like it had only been an hour at most since they'd been apart.

It took just as much time for his brain to remind him he was really seeing you and not another one of his nightmares. Despite the briefness of your encounter all those years ago, he would've known you anywhere. Even if he'd wanted to forget you, his brain wouldn't let him.

You had every right to despise him, to out him to his brother and the entirety of Jackson. Not only had he taken advantage of your vulnerability, he'd failed at the one measly promise he had made you in exchange.

His biggest regret manifested as a Bambi-eyed little girl staring up at him as if he were a stranger. Which in truth, he was.

It was still early when Joel returned home to an empty house. Ellie was staying the night at a friend's, Dina, or something. Tommy and Maria had reassured him that she was a good kid and it would do Ellie some good making friends if they planned on staying in Jackson for the foreseeable future.

So, he retired to bed and tried to disappear underneath the thin duvet in the hope of dreamless sleep.

After tossing and turning for what felt like hours, your feeble voice from earlier ricocheting through his ears, he admitted defeat.

One thing Joel appreciated about Jackson was the lenient opening hours of the Tipsy Bison. Something he didn't appreciate, however, was how the entirety of Jackson's male population seemed to think the same thing.

"Joel," Tommy called across the room as Joel entered the bar.

For god's sake, Joel muttered under his breath, all hope of a peaceful glass of whiskey dissipating at the sight of his little brother waving him over.

"What you doin' here so late?" Tommy questioned, trying to decipher whether Joel had seen through his suggestion of attending the support group.

"Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd make good of this... fine establishment." Joel replied as Tommy signalled to the bartender for two more of whatever he had already been drinking.

Two men Joel hadn't met yet were seated on either side of Tommy, and he didn't care to be introduced to them either.

"You go to that meetin' I told you about?" Tommy was never good at being discreet, making the situation sound more like Joel was eliciting some kind of drug run rather than going to a damn trauma support group.

"I did," the bartender placed a glass of whiskey on the table in front of Joel. "Saw your girl there."

"Oh yeah, she goes every week. How was she?" Tommy's face lit up at the mention of you.

"S'fine. Don't think she likes me very much."

Joel took a swig of his drink as one of the other men chirped up, questioning whether the topic of conversation was about you.

"She's my patrol partner sometimes. Doesn't like anybody very much, don't take it to heart."

"That so?" Joel mused, twirling the glass around in his fingers.

"Spends most of her time with her kid, and if not her, then she's with our Tommy and his Maria. Reckon they're all that's good enough for her in this town."

"Now, don't put yourself down like that, Keith. She's just a private gal, that's all." Tommy reassured the man to his left, earning a raised eyebrow in response.

"Hopefully not that private, I'm takin' her for a drink tomorrow night." Now the man on Tommy's right spoke up.

Joel felt his grip tighten around the glass, his eyes narrowing on the tall but weak-looking man sitting across from him.

"Well I'll be damned," Tommy laughed. "Y'finally wore her down, huh?"

"Other way round, really. I gave into her asking and asking."

"Now, now, Greg. She's a good girl, you better look after her."

"Yeah, really look after her, Greg. Be doin' us all a favour, might put a smile on her face for once." Keith added.

"C'mon now, boys. She's like a sister to me, don't be talkin' about her like that." Tommy grimaced slightly, which soon turned to a snort. He always did lose his backbone after a couple of drinks.

"Like any of you would say that to her face." Joel scoffed, taking a sip of his drink to stop him for saying anymore.

God knows why, but Joel felt defensive over you. Listening to the way Tommy was allowing his friends to speak on you made his blood boil. He could hear thumping in his eardrums, waving his hand in the general direction of the bartender for another glass of whiskey.

"They're just playing, Joel. She can be kinda icy to say the least."

"Yeah, why d'you think that is, Tommy? She's got a damn kid to look after, all on her own."

"I didn't realise you knew her so well." Greg retorted, his face looking more and more punchable by the second.

"I didn't know you were keepin' tabs on my life, who I know and who I don't." Joel spat back with a little too much vim in his voice.

The bartender replaced Joel's empty glass with a filled one, which he knocked back without a second thought before rising in his seat and slamming the glass back on the table.

He turned to leave, feeling the warmth of the alcohol settling in his chest.

"The hell was that all about?" Tommy had followed him outside.

"What?" Joel barked in response, turning to face his brother.

"In there, you gettin' all wound up over nothin'."

"Nothing? You said that girl's like your sister, yet you let them speak on her like that?"

"Oh c'mon, Joel. They're idiots I know, but they're harmless. What's it to you, anyhow?"

"I just thought you were better than that, Tommy."

"You're being crazy. Go home, Joel."

"Where d'you think I'm fuckin' going?"

He waved Tommy away, turning to walk back to his place. However, he didn't want to go home yet. He let his feet take him in the direction of your house, instead.

It wasn't too late, but he still knocked lightly on the front door so as to not wake Mia. He heard some shuffling from inside before the door creaked open.

"Jesus Christ." You breathed.

"Not quite."

"What the fuck do you want, Joel? Why do you keep showing up here?" You demanded, stepping out onto the porch and closing the door softly behind you.

"You know why, we have shit to talk about."

You scoffed and pushed your shoulders back, the smell of alcohol from Joel's breath making the thought process for his surprise visit clear.

"We have nothing to talk about. You. Are. Not. Welcome. Here."

"They were all in the Bison, just know, those pricks from patrol. Greg or whatever, talkin' shit about you. I couldn't stand it."

"Oh, please. What do you want me to do? Get on my knees and thank you for defending my honour?"

"No- not at all. Just don't want you wastin' your time with them when they don't respect you."

"And you do? Respect me?"

Joel couldn't find the words to respond. Everything came flooding over him at once.

"Please, I- I wanna see her."

He surprised even himself at the words that left his mouth, however, you didn't seem surprised. Your eyes narrowed while his widened, watching you take a step toward him, closing the gap between you both.

“Joel, I don’t think you understood at all. Why would I want you near her, when you’re the exact kind of man I'm trying to protect her from?”

taglist: apparently my tags don't always work so fingers crossed these come thru? sorry if i forgot anybody - if you want to be added/removed please lmk! @warm-tea-and-otp @mrsquill @ashleymsnodgrass @bluetattoos @mabermaple @hiroikegawa @casssiopeia @joeldjarin @southernbe @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @cool-iguana @drewharrisonwriter @none-of-this-makes-any-sense @randomhoex @ilovepedro @koshkaj-blog @ejuliet999 @love-the-abyss @jellybeanxc @mabermaple @radsanchez @powellssaturn @ok-boke @phoebe13 @ahintofkiwistrawberry @smexy-bucky-waifu @withasideofmeg @darkroastjoel @willowsvalley @forestfaeriequeen @radsanchez @moonlightdivine @noisynightmarepoetry @mysingularitybts @misshoneypaper @ezzynf @spideyyhoe @runningmom94 @disassociation-daydreams @serendipity22086 @lionlena @shotgun-shelby @daddy-din @dins-riduur-anthe @phoebe13 @bageldaddy

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castiologist · 2 months

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buck 4.0

535 words

Summary: Buck comes out to the team.

***

Buck spends the whole drive into work planning how to tell them. He doesn’t want it to feel formal or like a huge announcement. He’ll just bring it up, casually. So, I got a date for Maddie and Chim’s wedding, he’ll say. And when they ask who, he’ll say Tommy, like it’s not a big deal.

Only, he doesn’t get the chance to start the conversation.

“So, Maddie told me you got a last-minute date to the wedding,” Chimney says as they’re all standing around the kitchen counter with their coffee cups. “She wouldn’t tell me who, though.”

“Ooh, is it a surprise?” Hen asks.

“Uh, no,” Buck says. Okay, here it goes. Chill and casual. It’s not a big deal. “It’s actually- it’s Tommy.”

Hen’s looking at him with slightly widened eyes and brows raised, like she’s not sure if this is going where she thinks it’s going.

“Oh,” Chim says, sounding disappointed. “I thought it was gonna be a girl. Maddie seemed so secretive.”

“Actually, it’s…” Buck feels a buzzing noise in his ears and his palms are a little sweaty, but he forces himself to keep going. “It’s not a girl, but it’s still a date. Me and Tommy, we’re, we’re dating.”

Hen’s eyebrows are raised fully now, but she’s smiling.

“Oh, right,” Chim says, taken aback. “Sorry. I didn’t mean… I mean, that’s cool. Girl, guy, you can bring whoever you want.”

“I’m happy for you, Buck,” Bobby says, giving him a smile. “Tommy’s a great guy.”

Buck smiles back and nods appreciatively.

“Yeah, Tommy’s great,’ Chim adds. “And you’re great. Most of the time. Sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Hen says. “And congrats on… figuring this out, I guess?”

“Thanks,” Buck says. “It took a while, but I definitely feel more figured out.”

She gives him a sympathetic smile, then turns to Eddie, like Chim and Bobby already have. Eddie looks up from the sip of coffee he’s taking.

“Oh, I already knew,” he says. “About the dating thing, not the wedding thing, so I guess, congrats on that, man.”

“Yeah, he sort-of ran into us while we were on our first date,” Buck says, pointing a thumb at Eddie. “It was a little awkward, but we got over it. And now, I’m officially out to all of the most important people in my life.” He spreads his arms and grins. “So what do you think? Buck four-point-oh.”

Hen and Chim groan.

“Come on! Openly bisexual and proud Buck. You should approve of this.”

“I always approve of bisexuality,” Hen says. “But I’m still not calling you that.”

The bell rings before they can finish telling him their opinion on Buck 4.0. Buck smiles as they climb into the engine. He thinks to the date he has planned with Tommy the next night (and how he really, really hopes he’ll get to kiss him again then). He thinks about the next twenty-four hours, how they could be gruelling and gruesome and contain the sorts of things no-one should ever have to see, but he’ll get through it like he always does because he has the best team with him.

Hen catches his eye and smiles back at him, like she understands.

They have his back, they always do.

#9-1-1 #9 1 1 fic #bucktommy #again - also on ao3 username is mangolipgl0ss :)#mine #fic

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theshelbyclan · 2 years

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Monsters under the Bed

Summary: when John tells you a ghost story at night, you’re to scared to sleep on your own, so you run to your favourite brother

A/N: Once upon a time, I showed my youngest sister this interview with Charles Manson and she refused to sleep alone for a few nights. Subtly, she reminded me of this again yesterday, which gave me the idea for this fluffy little fic ☺️

Words: 2056

*****

You were far too old to be scared of monsters.

John was the craziest out of all the siblings and everyone knew if. He could imitate madness perfectly, maybe even a little too perfectly. So, when he’d suggested you’d exchange ghost stories, you really should’ve known better.

Sitting up on your bed in the smallest bedroom in Watery Lane, you’d told the first story. And then it was John’s turn, and then yours again. And with a rivalry as old as time, you each tried to trump the other. You told him of the old legends of witches and monsters and he, in turn, told you the most gruesome stories he could tell. You’d spend the better part of the evening sitting together, giggling like children, until he’d told his final story.

“Are you scared?” he’d asked with a smug face. But you had quickly shaken your head and had told him to piss off. But John had smirked again, “You look scared.”

When he’d left your room, you’d quickly buried your head beneath the blankets and tried to get the images out of your head. Because as soon as he started telling you about the mass murderer that used to roam Small Heath, who used to cut off people’s noses and ears and skin them alive, your mind had painted a very vivid image of it all. And in the dark, it haunted you.

You shook your head angrily and tried to sleep, but it wouldn’t come. Every time you closed your eyes, you could see the monster from John’s stories approaching you. “I’m thirteen!” you told yourself angrily, “I’m too old to be scared of monsters!”

*****

The next morning, you slouched down at the table during breakfast for lack of sleep.

“What’s with you?” Ada asked, not quite full of compassion.

“Nothing,” you grumbled in reply.

Your sister raised an eyebrow and continued eating, obviously not believing you.

John walked into the kitchen, cheerful and very well rested. He called out a “Morning!” but you just glared daggers at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Ada looked from John to you and explained to him, “Y/N didn’t sleep very well.”

“I’m fine,” you slouched down some more.

But a grin had started to form on John’s face, “Nightmares about scary big men, coming to cut you up in your sleep, was it?”

“John!” Ada called out, reprimanding him.

“What?” he shrugged, “I just told her a bedtime story, about this famous...”

But again, your sister came to your aid and cut him off, “Leave her alone.”

“Not my fault she’s a baby...” John chuckled, as he walked away.

“What’s this?” a low voice demanded from behind you, which made you jump into the air with fright, “John? Did you do this?”

“It’s nothing!” you called out in exasperation. The last thing you wanted was to attract any attention to yourself or talk about the topic some more. “I just didn’t sleep very well, that is all.”

“John’s been telling her bedtime stories again,” Ada told Tommy.

Tommy sighed and shot his brother a warning look. Then he sat down next to you with a worried expression on his face. “Don’t listen to John. It’s probably all lies, eh sweetheart?”

“I’m not a baby.” It came out a lot more pathetic than you had intended.

Ada commented sarcastically, “You are the baby of the family.” And you knew she was right, much to your own annoyance.

“What did John say to you?” Tommy asked, “Go on. Tell your big brother.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you sulked, “It was nothing anyways. I just couldn’t sleep.”

“If it was nothing, why can’t you talk about it?” Once again, Ada was a little too direct for your liking and you rolled your eyes. Tommy glared at her, noticing it too. Soon after Ada left, mumbling, “Fine. Talk to the big brother who does understand.”

So you were left with Tommy in the kitchen, but there was no way you were willing to admit John actually had managed to scare you. Tommy didn’t press the subject, he hardly ever did thank God. And when you told him you had to go to school, he simply said, “You’ll know where to find me when you need me, alright?”

You managed a smile and nodded. Tommy planted a kiss on your forehead and for a moment, you seriously considered telling him everything.

But you didn’t.

*****

That night, you were laying in bed, determined to get yourself over your silly fears. Angrily, you pulled up the blankets and closed your eyes. But the second you did, some unknown man, covered in blood, appeared before your closed lids and your eyes shot open again.

In the dark, you huffed and turned around to face the wall. But then you thought: what if he’s behind me and I can’t see him coming. Suddenly petrified, you were now convinced he was in the room with you. You were practically shaking with fear, but when you did manage to turn around, the room was empty.

“See,” you whispered to yourself, “no one’s here. Get over it!”

But still, you went over to Tommy’s room.

It was the middle of the night, of that much Tommy was certain. He was still half asleep, but could heard the tell-tale signs of someone sneaking into his room, quietly. Carefully, he opened one eye.

Before his eyes could even adjust to the darkness, he knew who it would be. And there it was: the bed dipped slightly and someone nimbly climbed over him. Then he felt gentle tug on his blankets and the warm body of his youngest sibling next to him in the bed.

“Good night,” you whispered, still believing your brother was asleep.

“Good morning,” a startlingly low reply came.

“Tommy!” you spun around and faced him, “I thought I was being quiet!” Your brother turned around slowly and replied groggily, “About as quiet as the bombs going off at the Somme.”

“Sorry...”

He adjusted himself a little and you waited for the questions to come, but he didn’t say a word. When you were little, you could often be found in one of your brothers’ beds, though it didn’t occur as often anymore. Polly used to say that the Shelby’s weren’t made for sleeping alone, which was true in many ways, but you’d decided a few years back that you were all grown-up now. Your brothers still saw you as a kid, but at thirteen, you no longer felt like a child. Not really.

“Tommy?” you finally asked, “Do you ever have nightmares?”

He cough a short laugh, but didn’t reply. And at once you realised how stupid your question had been, because everyone knew the men never got over the horrors of France. Everyone knew, but no one understood. “I’m sorry,” you apologised quickly.

Tommy looked at you, “You’re having nightmares?”

You thought of John’s story. And you knew it most likely wasn’t true, but you also knew te atrocities men were capable of. That’s what haunted you most of all: the idea that one person could hurt another like that. But instead you just shrugged, “Maybe.”

“Because of what John told you.” It wasn’t a question and there was no need for an answer either, so he continued, “Whatever it was, I’m already awake now, so you might as well tell me, eh?”

“I’m sorry I woke you...” There was no way you were going to burden Tommy with anther blood-covered image.

“You apologise too much,” Tommy locked eyes with you, feigning strictness, “Sorry is now a forbidden word.”

“Sor-... Okay,” you smiled, quickly correcting yourself.

“Good girl,” he smiled back at you. For a gangster, he could be surprisingly soft when it came to his little sister. And when he saw it wasn’t easy for you to talk, he decided to do it for you, “Do you remember when I told you about the witches?”

“The ones that lived in the walls?” you grinned, remembering it well, “Yeah, I do. I used to think I saw them in the mirrors. Scared me to death.”

Tommy nodded for a few seconds, “I really did scare you with those stories.”

You snuggled up a little closer to him. The room was cold, but his bed was warm and familiar. Then you told him, “Yeah, but I was only a baby back then.”

“Is that it, eh?” he asked pointedly, “Being scared makes you a baby?”

“Well, yeah...” you felt yourself getting embarrassed. Tommy was always the easiest to talk to, but at the same time, you wanted to impress him the most as well.

“Well, let me tell you Y/N, those witches or monsters in the walls? I hear them now too. And they give me nightmares every night.”

A few tears started welling up in your eyes. If only you could undo France, that would be your greatest wish. But you couldn’t.

Normally, Tommy took great care not to mention anything about their time in the trenches to you. But right now, it was like his nightmares spilled over into daytime, like an ink stain that seemed to muddy everything. So, he started reminiscing out loud, “In France, I’ve seen grown men cry and call out for their mothers. I’ve seen them go insane with fear and disillusion, all because of those fucking toffs up on top playing toy soldiers with good men. We all cried, Y/N, we cried our fucking eyes out just before going over the top. You’d be an idiot not to be scared.”

You held your breath as he talked and finally said, “Yeah, but that’s different. I never was in any war...”

Tommy wiped away a tear that’d spilled and carefully said, “There’s no shame in being scared, love.”

“Isn’t there?” you sniffled.

“Nope,” Tommy replied decisively, “and I’m right here, eh?”

“But I am too old to be scared of monsters,” you sighed.

A dark expression flitted over Tommy’s face, “Not when they’re real. You do best to remember that: people, real people, are the scariest monsters of them all.”

“You’re not,” you replied at once, sensing what your favourite brother was thinking.

“Some days, I’m not too sure.”

But you emphasised, “But I am. That’s why I came to you. No one comes to see a monster when they’re scared of monsters, right?”

He cleared his throat and nodded slowly. “We don’t deserve you,” he finally said, “and this world we live in, the one we created, is too hard for you.”

“Maybe...” You’d never quite felt at home in Small Heath. In many ways, this world you grew up in was too harsh for you. You were a Shelby and no mistake, but you lacked the cruelty of most people here. But, you weren’t alone: you had your brothers. “I know you’ll protect me.”

“Always,” Tommy confirmed, “Even if it means keeping bloody John away from you.”

You had to laugh at his words, “John’s not so bad.”

“He’s an idiot,” your other brother grumbled, but with some mirth and love in his eyes as well.

Suddenly, you felt tired again, and as you drifted off to sleep, you told Tommy, “I’m glad you’re my brother.”

“So am I, princess,” he confirmed, as he watched over you.

*****

And while you slept, you never noticed John creeping into the room as well. A little anxious, he asked Tommy, “Is she alright?”

“You and your fucking stories. Save them for someone else, eh? Or have you forgotten about France already?”

“I’m sorry, Tom, it was just meant as a joke...”

“Go on,” Tommy urged, remembering when John had been little and scared of monsters as well. Every night, Tommy used to comfort him and they’d developed their own little ritual for it, “Check under the bed.”

John grinned and dipped his head down under the bed. He emerged triumphantly, “All clear, sergeant major.”

“See? Nothing to be scared of.”

John leaned over his brother and looked at you again, “She’s asleep.”

“Let her sleep,” Tommy whispered, “Let her dream of a world without monsters. Without men.”

“But we’ll protect her, right though, Tommy?”

“Yes. We’ll protect each other.”

And for one night only, every Shelby at Watery Lane slept a peaceful and dreamless sleep.

*****

Masterlist

#peaky blinder #peaky blinders #tommy shelby #thomas shelby #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fanfic #john shelby #shelby sister #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x sister reader #Shelby sister reader #sister shelby #shelby sis #John Shelby x reader #peaky blinders fluff

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smok3r7 · 6 months

Text

Is Leaving Even An Option?

Joel x F!reader

Explicit, 18+

One: All Alone

Series Masterlist or Main Masterlist - My Ao3

Summary: Your days have become one in the same, even with the terrifying reality of death right outside the walls of Jackson. You never thought you’d be in the situation you’ve been stuck in for seven years now, the daily abuse you endure has become an expectation. You take whatever your husband throws at you, literally and figuratively, because you’ve been trained to believe this is normal. But a new man, Joel, moves next door and happens to be friendly towards you, this causes your husband’s anger to worsen. Your mind starts a gruesome war with itself - can you leave him or do you stay until the inevitable happens?

Chapter Summary: How did you, out of all people, end up in this situation? You knew about it all, yet it still happened to you. How does losing a significant person in your life make you vulnerable and weak? You meet the man who ends up being the reason your soul burns to death.

Word count: 3.4k

⚠️Warnings: Mentions of verbal and physical abuse from stepfather, mentions of women/children in shelters and domestic violence situations, self-hatred, angst, violence against raiders, blood, slit throat, young death, overkill by stabbing, vomiting, dark fic

—

Shameful. Detached. Callous. Numb.

These are the emotions that are now embedded into your skin, so much so that you can’t remotely begin to remember who you were as a human before your marriage to Nate, seven years ago. Ever since you found Jackson and got married the same year, you were known only as Mrs. Rossi, Nate Rossi’s wife, his beautiful little house wife who always made sure dinner was on the table and did everything for him, and in all honesty, you were fine with it for the first year. You were the happiest you could have been living in the apocalypse - Nate got you anything you wanted and made you feel safe.

He would go out on patrol for supplies with Tommy and he would bring you back the things you absolutely needed, from the best foods to the best board games. This was so different for you - you had always been independent and never let yourself rely on a man, or anyone for that matter. So you got comfortable and truly believed you were secure since you were being taken care of for the first time ever - big mistake, because just after the second year of being married, the true side of Nate started to come out.

—

When the outbreak started about twenty years ago, you were in your mid-twenties, lived in a small town in Tennessee and worked with women who wanted to leave their domestic situations. You spent a lot of time, more than you wanted, at women’s shelters trying to help these women who were at their lowest and completely suffering. You didn’t directly work for the police department, but you were technically working under the “Welfare Department”, and if the situations were bad, the cops would call you, or your one other partner, for help.

You had a love-hate relationship with your job. You absolutely loved it when you were able to save a woman, or her children, from the violence and yet, you despised it when you weren’t able to save them - which happened a lot more than you liked to admit. You knew how hard it was for a lot of women to leave their abusers, even if they were treated like the dirt they walked on, the men were able to sink their talons into these women for as long as they wanted. But you had a really hard time understanding how the women who had kids stayed with the man when he abused the kids also.

Your own mother experienced abuse so badly it almost killed her, and she had gone back and forth with him for four years, but she would not give up on him. It got so ugly that, one time, you found her bloody and a bruised mess, curled on the kitchen tile, unconscious. She would be dead if you hadn’t been there. Your step-father, Roy, had beaten her with a wooden baseball bat because he thought she was cheating on him with his best friend. Yet, she stayed with him for two years after that. You witnessed a lot of fighting between your mom and Roy between the age of fifteen and nineteen, to the point where you were stepping in to deflect his anger and violence from your broken mom, to you.

And this is why you had a hard time understanding why women stayed when the kids got involved. Your moms last straw was when Roy laid hands on you for the first and only time - she kicked him out that same night. He had cornered you while shouting in your face about how you and your mom were whores and didn’t appreciate anything he did. You pushed him away from you, and he backhanded you so hard that his knuckles left a mark on your cheek. You screamed bloody murder and your mom came in holding a knife with her eyes about to burst out of her head.

“Get. The. Fuck. Out.” is all she said, as her body was violently shaking but her face was blank.

He left that day and never came back, and your mom and you were thrilled that he was gone, the both of you finally feeling like you could relax. Soon, however, reality kicked in - the reality that your mom was reliant on Roy because he worked and paid the bills, so you and her inevitably ended up battling poverty, so badly that she almost lost the house she owned for eleven years.

In spite of this, your mom found her way, and she ended up getting promotion after promotion at her job. It took her five years after he was gone for her to feel genuinely comfortable again, with money and with herself. She was the reason why you decided to work with battered women and children, as you never wanted people to go through something like your mom and you had. You also knew that it was possible for women to get back on their feet, that it wasn’t easy, but it was possible.

But here you are, years later, in a worse marriage than your mother had, way worse than most of the women you’ve helped along the years, and your own self twenty years ago would be so disappointed in how you, out of all people, got stuck with an abusive husband.

——

Before marrying Nate and before living in Jackson, you were a badass. Surviving by yourself for thirteen years just by constantly moving, you never stayed in one location for longer than four days. In the beginning, you had overheard FEDRA talking about a camp in Boston, and ended up reaching it in the fall time. After about a month there, you found out about the fireflies and you knew Tommy through one or two incidents before he left everything and traveled out West, creating his own camp. You decided you wanted to leave Boston, realizing that the camp just wasn’t what you had imagined, so you snuck out six months later and headed West.

Doing it alone was the most efficient way to survive - you didn't have to worry about anyone else, only you. You quickly mastered shooting a bow and arrow along with guns - the bow was your talent though. You could shoot clickers from yards away and none of the others would be set off, and you were a quick thinker because If something didn’t go as planned, you instantly thought of a backup plan.

Evading FEDRA was another thing you were especially good at, all because you had a radio that had all the stations they used on their walkies. You knew their every play. Even if it didn’t pertain to you directly, you knew about it. Groups and raiders were something that you took care of from a distance, mainly due to the fact that a lot of these groups were men, and even though you could fight a man off, there was no way you could stop all of them by yourself - it was simply unrealistic. You would stumble upon a group of raiders inspecting a building for anything, and you would stay a couple of blocks away, following them for a few days just to study them. The way they talked to each other, what they talked about, who was the leader, who was the weakest link, how comfortable and trained they were with their weapons, and what was their watch rotation at night.

Depending on how smart and big the group was, you would either shoot them with your bow from afar as they were occupied with something and causing chaos, or you would sneak into their base at night, tiptoeing around and silently stabbing them one by one. You would then proceed to steal whatever you could carry with you. Killing was never something you looked forward to, but you looked at it like this; it was either killed or be killed in this new world. If they found you, they’d do worse than just killing, and you’d be damned if you allowed that to happen. So maybe sometimes you got pleasure from making sure these animals never got to hurt anyone again, and that didn’t make you evil, just a little malicious - which you didn’t mind being.

You didn’t mind being alone all the time either, except for when some nights got lonely. After the first three years, you started to hate being alone. You missed having someone to at least talk to - all you had was yourself. You kind of started to go stir crazy from talking to yourself, from reminiscing about your past life always, making you upset more often than you’d like to admit. But you always got up and did whatever you had to for the day, and you came to terms with the prospect of traveling and dying alone.

However, during the winter, after a couple days traveling through Nebraska and being by yourself for eight years, you stumble upon this girl, alone, stealthily trying to cross an open road. You’ve been hiding behind a tree up on the hill right by it, camping there for two days just to see if anyone would come by. But this girl looks no older than seventeen, and she reminds you a lot of yourself, looking like she knows what she’s doing and having things she needs. You’re still hiding, but peek your head to the side to see her, and she turns right towards you, making you snap your head back. “Shit,” you mutter to yourself.

“I saw you,” the girl yells towards you, in a raspy tone of voice, “I know you’re alone. As long as you don’t try to kill me, I won’t try to kill you.” You’re unsure of what to do or what to say, but your instincts tell you to show yourself, so you step out from the tree with your hands up like a truce.

“I’m cool with that,” you yell back, actually getting a chance to look at her.

She’s about five foot three, has the fit yet curvy body type, and looks healthy. Her hair is a dark red color in a messy bun but you can tell it’s long, and although she has a healed scar across her right cheek from what looks like a knife, her face still has this soft look to it. Her backpack and the gear on her back looks worn, like she’s had it for years, her ripped jeans and long sleeve shirt fitting her like they’re all she has along with her black combat boots. You also take note of the weapons that are visible, that she’s holding a bow in one hand with arrows on her back, a rifle strapped along her back, a pistol in her holder on her hip, and a large hunting knife on a thigh holster. This girl is smarter than she puts on, you think as you examine her.

“My name is Rosa, what’s yours?” She asks you, and the two of you are now only about ten feet away from each other, just talking, no weapons drawn. You tell her yours and ask how long she’s been alone.

“Forever. My mother died by FEDRA agents when I turned ten, but she had taught me everything I needed to know to survive,” she explains as her eyes scan your body, then repeats the question back to you.

“Forever. I was in the Boston camp just about eight years ago, but hated what they did. So I left and I’ve been heading West, a guy I know had left before me to head there also, I heard fireflies talk about a new settlement somewhere over there.”

She nods her head and asks, “So, like… Could I come along with you?” Her face shows that she is clearly tired and needs to rest, but you’re hesitant. This could be a big ass ploy, but there’s something screaming that she’s being sincere. You also have this weird gut feeling that you need to take care of her, and it’s the same feeling as seeing the kids in domestic situations back before the apocalypse. You are almost too eager to reply to her, “Yes, you can! I just have some ground rules that I follow, and as long as you can keep up with that, we’re all good, hun.”

She then comes up to you and hugs you, and your body freezes, not having had human contact in years. Yet, she somehow feels like home. Your arms naturally wrap around her shoulders and you two stay like that for a little while, and having the comfort of another living person who you trust is a feeling you can’t even explain.

Rosa and you grow to have a mother-daughter kind of relationship over the next five years, which actually makes a lot of sense in some way, since you were in your early thirties and she was about eighteen when you met. You two built a connection so strong, incredibly fast, like it was meant for you both to stumble upon each other that one day. But one night after you two go to bed in an isolated cabin Rosa found, the worst happens.

“NO-“ Echoes in the room you two share, shocking you awake in a panic, realizing that it’s Rosa’s voice. As you turn to look in the other bed, you see a dark shadow-figure slicing her throat with a large blade, and in a blind rage, you grab the knife under your pillow and lunge towards the attacker, who must’ve not realized you were even in the room. He has no time to react as you start to stab his body over and over and over, not stopping, not caring if he has others with him - he killed Rosa and you have to get revenge. By now, the attacker’s body is on the hardwood floor next to Rosa’s bed and you’re still on top of him, stabbing him repeatedly while screaming and sobbing.

“Why her?! Why not me?!” You scream at the top of your lungs as you stab him for the final time, leaving the knife in his chest and you stand up to look at the mess. You stare at her bloody, lifeless body, the long slice along her neck, full of blood that soaks the mattress under her and her body below, her golden brown eyes wide open along with her pale mouth, and her gorgeous red hair now soaked with blood. The sudden urge to throw up climbs your throat, so you cover your mouth with your right hand and sprint behind you to exit the bedroom, and as soon as you reach the other side of the door, you vomit onto the floor.

After a minute, you swipe your face with your bloody hand and walk out the front door, trying to process what just fucking happened. You open the front door and the sun and cold air hits you in the face immediately, the most gorgeous morning it’s been in weeks making you even more angry because Rosa should be here and be able to enjoy this weather - the way the white snow lays perfectly on the ground and trees, the sun causing the icicles to glisten as they hang, and the wind blowing just enough to make it a bit cooler. You’re standing outside, looking into the sky as tears sting your face, and a piece of your heart breaks in your chest. Rosa was like your child and she told you that you reminded her a lot of her mom. You just lost your girl.

You shake your body, clear your throat, and whisper, “Okay.” A minute later, you walk back inside, grab all of your belongings and some of Rosa’s things you either need or simply want to keep, then you stand over her body one more time as you kiss her forehead and close her eyes.

You leave the cabin, not looking back again, and after a day of walking, you come across a sign that reads, MOTEL 6. The building looks dirty and rundown, but you can’t really complain anymore. You end up clearing the whole building with no issue, which has about twelve rooms, and a total four clickers scattered throughout.

You find the room that is the least destroyed, room 616, and you whisper to yourself as you open the door and walk into the bedroom. After closing the door, you put your back to it and slide down, and as your ass hits the cheap dirty carpet, the true emotion is allowed to leave your body. The anger, grief, and pain is finally able to leak out of your skin with tears that come out of you like a waterfall. You end up in the bathroom and you stare at your reflection, at the amount of blood staining your hands, chest, and face - all horrific. The fact that you know that most of it is from Rosa's killer makes you feel disgusted. The reflection you see of yourself, makes you want to die, just to be with Rosa.

You make yourself shower, since this motel magically seems to still have running water - warm water at that. You scrub and scrub the blood that has stained your skin over the course of a day, just needing to feel clean again. After turning your skin almost raw, you change into the one other pair of clothes you have, and check your perimeter one last time before you go to lay down in your room and sleep for the night.

The sound of a shotgun cocking wakes you up, your eyes open and you see two men standing over your bed with guns pointing right at you. “Who the fuck are you?” The man closest to you demands, he’s blonde with a buzz cut and a patchy beard to match, but he has a face that looks like he doesn’t play around.

“I’m just moving around, was gonna leave when I got up,” you instantly respond, basically defenseless, then turning your attention to the other man at the foot of your bed. He looks kind of familiar but you can’t put your finger on where from. It’s right on the tip of your tongue too.

“You by yourself?” The familiar man asks with a southern twang to his question, and it then clicks in your brain, Tommy.

“Yes, my dau- my friend just died yesterday,” you remark, and they lower their guns to the floor.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tommy says with a different tone than before, and the other man stays quiet.

“Thank you,” you start, still very confused, “Um…who are you guys?”

The man next to you scoffs and replies, “You really don’t know?” You shrug your shoulders with honest curiosity, because last you checked on your map, you were still in Nebraska.

“Sugar,” Tommy laughs, “You are in Wyoming and you have stumbled upon Jackson.” You can’t believe it, you’re in disbelief and filled with sadness. Rosa just had to survive one more day and she would’ve made it with you.

“No way,” You laugh out of disbelief, the two men having a confused look on their faces.

“Yes ma’am. I’m Nate and he’s Tommy, he and his wife are a big founder of the camp,” Nate replies as he sits on the bed next to you, and that’s how you get introduced into the safe life of Jackson and how you meet your ultimate demise, Nate Rossi

#joel miller x f!reader #Is leaving even an option #traumadump story #dark fic #READ WARNINGS BEFORE READING #joel miller #joel miller x you

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call-sign-shark · 1 year

Text

Heaven in Your Eyes || Arthur Shelby x Reader!OC

Summary: What is supposed to be a chill afternoon at the grand opening of the Grace Shelby Institute for Orphaned Children, turns out to be a nightmare: Charles is kidnapped and chaos spreads in the Shelby family. This is when Thomas remembers something you had told him: "You should keep an eye on Charles. You really should.” He suddenly understands: You did it.

Words: 5K

TW: Angst, Child kidnapping, typical canon violence, graphic description of violence, death of secondary characters, murder, a very quick allusion to child abuse, gruesome kills, a lot of blood I guess

Notes:

✞ This chapter is based on the event of S3 Episode 6. Italicized parts are taken from the show. However, it contains many changes from the show's script, especially to accommodate this fanfiction's purposes and the characters' development.

✞ Theme song to listen to on repeat while reading if you want

✞ Heaven is OP's original character but written with the use of « you » (Moodboard here).

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“Say it Tom, say it to ‘em! ” Arthur’s loud voice exclaimed in a joyful tone, calloused hands clapping with strength to encourage his little brother and his speech. The whole crowd, as well as you, followed his example and stood up to applaud the founder of the Grace Shelby Institute for Orphaned Children. Admittedly, you recognized that the idea of opening such an establishment was surprising yet excellent, especially coming from the family’s boss. Quickly glancing at Arthur and his smile, you could not help but melt. The blinded love and trust he had for Tommy had something admirable despite your rocky relationship with little King Shelby.

You sit back and, as you did, Arthur gently put his hand on your thigh and took a look at you, his magnificent blue eyes shining with affection. He did not need to say a single word for you to understand what was going through his mind: he was just proud. Proud of Tommy, obviously, but particularly proud to attend such a significant ceremony with his stunning woman by his side. Even though most of the town knew about Arthur’s mysterious angel, attending the event with you had something official. The butterflies in his stomach flapped their wings when he introduced you to some guests as his sweetheart — you had even overheard him calling you his “future wife”. The way some of the visitors looked at both of you, their traits stretching in surprise as they realized that the sweetest creature they have ever seen was deeply enraptured with him, was enough to fill his heart with pride. A faint smile flattered your juicy lips at such an endearing vision, the joy it brought upon you making the whole crowd disappear for a few seconds as you lost yourself in Arthur’s beauty. Another thunder of applause popped your daydreams and forced you to shift your focus back on what was going on.

In fact, the first lyrics of Immortal Invisible brought you back to reality as it echoed in the room. You were about to join the chorus, Arthur’s fingers discreetly reaching for yours as a silent request to hear you sing with that lovely voice of yours, when you caught sight of Tommy leaving the room with hastened footsteps. The aura of sorrow that emanated from him stirred both your empathy and your worries — even though you did not get along, you could not help but commiserate with him on this difficult day that reminded him of Grace far too much to handle the event properly. Thomas’ beloved wife was everywhere around you, you could sense it. Her presence was so overwhelming that one could have expected to see her walk into the room at one moment or another. The cruel truth was that she was gone for good, and what was left of her slowly pushed Thomas Shelby to the edge of depression. Instinctively, your cold little hand tightened its grip around Arthur. His company kept your mind from drifting too far in the dark waters of your own loss. And by loss, you meant your Dad, hung high on a tree, as well as your Mom and little sister who had burned on the pyre.

The room was filled with chatters and guests, whose discussions blended together in an unintelligible cacophony. Alone in a corner, a glass of champagne in your hand, you swept the room with interest without really taking part in any conversations. Somehow, huge gatherings had never been your cup of tea — you came from a small town lost in the mountains after all, not from the city. Moreover, you were well aware of the curious, sometimes snobbish looks other ladies gave you and you were not sure they would be particularly delighted by your presence. They thought you did not fit the picture with your long and braided white hair, your ivory sun dress, and Arthur’s long and black coat resting on your shoulders. To be true, you could not blame them, you did not fit in but you were also surprisingly fine with it. When your lips grazed the sparkly alcohol, you winced a little bit. As ironic as it sounded for a French girl, you despised the taste of champagne, even though you still took the glass you had been offered out of sheer politeness. Giving up on the idea of drinking it, you just sighed. It did not take long for you to grow bored with analyzing people’s faces — they were more or less the same, and most of them took the shape of women giggling when Thomas walked past them. You soon caught sight of Arthur and John, both talking to their brother.

“Fuck me, Tom. I don’t know how you do it.” Arthur stated, his gruff voice and harsh words contrasting drastically with Thomas’ elegant elocution. He had barely finished his sentence when the latter was once again forced into another formal conversation with aristocratic ladies. He took a quick look at John, who was sipping on a tea, and rolled his eyes, annoyed. Understanding that having a real conversation with Tommy was going to be difficult, he waved off the idea and finally headed back to you. As soon as his eyes fell on your frame, his face relaxed and enlightened with a loving smile.

“Oi. Why are you all alone, Angel?” He inquired, his arms wrapping around your waist and bringing you close to his body for he could not keep his hands off you for too long, “want to go back home?” Arthur laid a tender kiss on your cheek, gently rubbing the tip of his nose against your skin in signs of deep affection. Your smile widened at the sensation of his mustache, to the point you could not hold the light chuckle that escaped from your mouth. He was so worried about your well-being that he went straight to the point: if you wanted to leave you had every right to do so.

“No need to go back home dear, I do enjoy the party. I’m just not really good at social gatherings nor making new friends I guess!”

“Ada told me you can join in her conversations if ye want.” His thumbs caressed your hips in a circular motion.

“I don’t want to bother Ada. She seems rather busy.” You put down your glass on a nearby table, and snuggled in his arms, more than thrilled to have his whole attention for yourself. The slight anxiety you had been feeling vanished into dust at his soothing warmth and his manly perfume. A perfume that had started to blend with yours, hence creating that unique fragrance of your love.

“Hey Arthur, move. You know she likes me hugs the best.” John teased — he had also decided to keep you company rather than waiting on Tommy.

“I’m really going to kick yer ass John, don’t care if I do it in front of all the people of this bloody room.” He growled, pulling you even closer for he refused to let you go. Even if it was with his own brother. Your grin widened, their never-ending sibling arguments never failing to amuse you.

“I would take your brother’s threats with the utmost seriousness if I were you. But at the same time, I really appreciate your dauntless nature. C’m’here.” One of your arms left Arthur’s neck to welcome John in the hug despite the hoarse complaints that followed. John, not hesitating for a slight second, joined in and held you in his arms for a few but indescribably comforting seconds. Each time he would pull you in a bear hug, he would make you feel at home.

“Okay, enough —“ Arthur nudged his little brother in the ribs, the corner of his lips curling up in a sadistic smirk only older siblings knew how to do.

“Why don’t you hug me longer? Afraid to show your sensitive side, Mon amour?” John said, making his best impression of your French accent and the pet name you were always giving to his brother. This time you could not help but genuinely laugh, a part of you astounded by John’s ability to be that annoying. The face Arthur made, contorted with both shock and anger, only cracked you up harder. Still, you softly stroke his neck to keep his spirit quiet and avoid him throwing a tantrum in the middle of the room.

Finally resigning himself not to bounce on John and beat the shit out of him, Arthur looked at you with the most irresistible puppy eyes he could do. Sometimes you had trouble realizing he, who could look like a beaten dog, was the same man that could kill someone with his bare fists out of jealousy and fuck you roughly in the shower still covered with fresh blood right after.

“Lemme smack him, please Angel. Just one little tiny punch in his fookin’ face.” He begged, “Just to shut his bloody mouth, eh.”

You raised a brow, your hand trailing up his neck to fix his hairstyle — Arthur shivered at your touch, his whole body responding with tremors of lust that shook him to the core, “Not here. But you’ll find a good moment to avenge yourself, Mr. Shelby” You said, punctuating your sentence with a knowing wink.

“Woah, calm down Devil. I thought you’d defend me!” John retorted, pretending to be outraged by your betrayal.

“Not my fault if you’re stupid enough to believe that.” Your grin turned into a sharky smile.

“That’s my girl,” Arthur purred when looking at you, “always on her good ol’ Arthur’s side,” He pressed his lips on the side of your head, laying an enamored kiss upon it. How much you liked his way of showering you with love no matter where you were. Nevertheless, the lighthearted conversation did not last long, for an unpleasant gut feeling alerted all your senses. You slightly pulled away from Arthur and frowned, instinctively looking in Thomas’ direction. He was talking with Ada, his face veiled with a deep worry you had never seen him wearing. Something happened, that was the first thought that crossed your mind — and how right you were. At this moment, Thomas walked to you, his piercing blue eyes expressing concern. You saw him coming before his own brothers.

“Heaven, love? Are ya alri—“

“Boys, have you seen Charlie?” Thomas cut him off.

“Eh…” Arthur softly released you from his sweet embrace to focus on Tommy, “I don’t know. He is playing, ain’t he?” His smile faded away as if he had just sensed that something was wrong.

The wind changed for Thomas Shelby, whose legendary self-control broke down at the moment he realized Charles had disappeared. As your mind proceeded with what was happening, he had already started to go from guest to guest asking if they had seen his son. The more he asked, the more his placid tone turned into the painful roars of a wounded lion. All it took was one tiny second for the whole ceremony to dive into chaos.

Deafened by the sound of your own beating heart racing in your chest, you started to look around you in a vain attempt to find Charles maybe playing under a table or behind furniture. That was all you could do, for your feet seemed stuck in invisible roots that were keeping you from moving. You stood there, useless, for you did not know what to do. Maybe Charles was still here, hidden somewhere to prank his nanny? But all Tommy’s hopes and yours crumbled when Ada, so stunning in her elegant outfit, caught everyone’s attention with precious information.

“Tommy. Someone said they saw a nurse take him through the back door.”

Fuck, you thought.

“Fuck.” Arthur swore out loud, grabbing his sister by the wrists before storming out of the room with the other Shelbys.

Boom. Boom.

You brought your hand to your chest, now convinced your heart was about to burst. Something had definitely happened to Charles — as you had sensed weeks ago at the Garrison. Ripping through the lethargy you were embroiled in, you ran up the stairs and rummaged through each room to look for Charlie. Voices, all mixed, came through the opened window. You froze, listening to them.

“Arthur! Somebody saw a woman and a kid getting into a car.”

“Ah, fuck!”

“CHARLIE!”

“Where is he? Tell me.

_Someone took him. Listen to me! They put in in a car. They put him in a car and drove south. We’ve got roadblocks, we’ve got spotters. I’ll set up shop and put every man we’ve got… between here and Maypole.

_ Right. You do that.

_ You gotta go to the office. You gotta sit by the phone. Whoever took him is going to call. Polly! Let’s go, Pol! Stay by that phone. Me and John will cover the roads.”

And that was how the world collapsed on Thomas’ head. Again.

You looked at his car disappearing in the dull horizon, knowing that dark hours were awaiting all of you. Lost in your thoughts, you did not notice the mighty silhouette of the crow that was staring at you from the nearest tree with his dark beady eyes. A dull caw sound tore the silence that had fallen upon the mansion and snatched you from your anxious mind.

Caw. He mocked.

And to think it had warned you!

When Tommy stormed into the office, all of the family already gathering there, the sound of his soles hammering the wooden floor made the whole skies shiver with fear.

“Where’s Heaven?” He asked, blue eyes looking dagger at Arthur because if someone knew about you it was obviously him.

“Coming. She was with Esme.” His gruff voice retorted, trying to remain calm for Tommy’s sake.

“Esme’s waters broke,” John answered right away, “I was just with her. Running around fucking broke the waters.”

“Where’s Finn?” Thomas insisted.

“With the young’uns looking for the Riley. We couldn’t reach him.” Arthur informed before bringing a glass of whisky to his mouth and taking one big gulp. The fire that trailed down his throat almost made him sigh with momentary relief.

“I need to know who spoke. Our enemies know everything. Everything. I need to know who spoke about business outside of the family. I need to know who spoke, who they’ve spoken to.” Tommy was trying hard to remain calm but his erratic breath and the quick pace of his words betrayed the rage that was boiling within him.

“Tommy…

_ Your future wife, Arthur?”

Arthur’s pinched his lips, swallowing the furious urge to yell at his little brother for uttering such an obnoxious accusation. He looked away as he tried to keep his composure.

“I’m gonna tell myself you’re not thinking straight. Your mind’s not clear.”

“I want to see her now, you hear me?”

It was at this moment you entered the room as if you had been summoned by Thomas’ words. You had appeared in the doorframe without a single noise, Arthur’s dark coat contrasting with the unsettling porcelain of your skin and the fair aquamarine of your iris. There you stood, all the family’s eyes staring at you for they had told you it would have been probably better if you did not come. All of them were more or less aware of Tommy's hostility toward you, and they knew he would certainly find a way to blame you in one way or another.

“Speaking of the Devil.” He said with his most collected tone, while his gaze darkened at the sight of your doll face. If Arthur saw an Angel when looking at you, Thomas could only recognize the threatening shadow of death floating around your silhouette, the long coat you were wearing reminding him of the Grim Reaper’s cloak. All that was missing from the picture was a scythe in your hand, “Did you speak?” He asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You simply replied, walking to Arthur. The wooden floor creaked under your heels. You were already exhausted by his accusations you knew that were awaiting you. But still, you came, because all you wanted was to be where you belonged: by Arthur's side, supporting him.

“I know Arthur can’t keep his fucking mouth shut and tells you everything.” He quickly glanced at his brother, who was staring at an invisible dot on the wall to keep calm, and shifted all his focus back to you again. You clenched your jaw at the petty comment, “So I’m gonna reiterate the question and you’re going to answer me, eh. Did you speak?"

“I did not speak, Tommy. I said nothing.”

“Don't lie to me.” He retorted right after you finished your sentence. His hands, pressed against the table, were now trembling with a rage he desperately tried to tame, “I know you’ve got something to do with all this shit. I know that’s you.”

You opened your mouth to protest but Arthur was quicker. Grabbing your wrist in case he needed to protect you from his brother, he stepped between the two of you, “Come on Tommy, I know yer angry and anxious, but that ain’t a reason to accuse her. She didn’t do anything.”

“Ah. Arthur Shelby protecting his damn fallen Angel, I was expecting it" His eyes went from him to you several times, "Do you think she didn’t? So, can you explain why did she tell me to keep an eye on Charles weeks ago?” Tommy's words were coated with poison. The quietness of his voice, highlighted by the rumble of his growling soul, only rendered him more impressive. Silence fell over the office at such a revelation no one knew.

Astounded, Arthur turned to you and, with his brows furrowed in confusion, stared at you, “Did ya — Did ya really say that?”

You blinked, stunned by Thomas’ vivid memory and by the gleam of shock in Arthur’s steel blue eyes.

“Hey, listen. I did not plot behind this family’s back nor did I hurt Charlie or anything.”

“Why would you say that to me then?” Tommy took a few steps toward you. He would usually avoid coming to close to you when other people were around, but you were not sure he would do so this time. You wanted to back off but Arthur’s grip tightened around your wrist, for he did not know what to think anymore. “Whose side are you on, uh?” Tommy asked, "Did anyone ever wonder whose side she's on?"

“I saw a crow on my way to the Garrison and I felt it was a bad omen. And then I had a gut feeling after our conversation. That’s all, Thomas! It was just a damn clairvoyant gut feeling!” You defended yourself, before looking at Arthur, “I swear it’s the truth.”

"Yeah, the truth," Arthur repeated, trying to overcome his insecurities.

“Oh my God, keep your witchcraft-coated excuses for someone else, Heaven. You talked at best, you work with Hughes at worst. After all, you knew him before you came into our lives” Tommy tried to come closer again but Polly grabbed him by the arm, keeping him at a safe distance, “No matter the makeup and the jewels you wear they won’t hide the Devil under there.”

“Don’t imply I have something to do with that fucking bastard!” You hissed through your teeth, hatred blooming within at the sole mention of the name. This time, Arthur’s calloused hands grabbed you by your shoulders to keep you still, for you were starting to get agitated. At this point, he was not sure if he did it to protect you from Tommy, or to protect Tommy from you.

“Heaven, calm down…” He said softly, trying to ease the wildfire of your anger.

“He’s accusing me of Charles’ kidnapping, Arthur! I can’t fucking believe it!” You protested, your doll face wearing injustice like the most beautiful jewel ever crafted. Arthur kept you firmly against his chest, his arms locking around you and his hoarse voice whispering “I know love…” in your ear.

“And I can’t believe you think I'm naive enough to believe you talked to a bloody crow and got a bad feeling. Tell me where’s my son, you Devil.” Thomas growled in the background.

Polly pulled his nephew’s arm, for he was starting to be too harsh with you “Why not? She has brought a bird back to life Tommy. I would not be surprised if she saw it coming one way or another.”

“'Scuse me?” He turned around in one vivid movement, his eyes diving into his Aunt’s. He could not believe what she had just said.

Another silence flew over the room as the rest of the Shelby family confirmed Pol’s information with a nod of the head. All the people in this office had witnessed the extent of your power at the last gathering you had organized in your garden — hence the fact they were not particularly surprised by your sharp instincts. John swallowed, recalling the way the bird first twitched in your small hands before flying away, wings flapping with newly breathed energy.

“Pol’s right, Tom,” Ada started, “I usually don’t believe in these kind of things but it’s true. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

It was too much for Tommy, who already was on the very edge of his patience. There went his mind, aching at the thought of his sweet son trapped between the monstrous and disgusting claws of that twisted priest. His boy, the last thing that kept Grace’s memory alive, had been snatched from him and here his family was, defending the one that probably did it. Of course, he believed in supernatural forces — he was convinced a curse took Grace away from him — but Tommy needed a more rational explanation. He needed anything that could help to get Charles back. He brought one of his trembling hands to his mouth, gathering all his remaining strength to restrain himself in such a catastrophic situation, “She resurrected a damn bird, and no one told me…” He said to himself, " She resurrected a bird," He repeated, a faint and nervous chuckle escaping from his lips before vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

“Heaven‘s really sensed it, nothing else. You know she would never harm Charles. She felt it coming Tommy. She is… She is gifted. Do you understand how useful she could be?” Polly’s words, coated with both softness and authority, managed to soothe the hurricane of violence that was raging within him. Thomas had stopped talking yet he kept looking at you with anger burning in his ice-cold eyes.

You frowned —still trapped in Arthur’s arms for your own sake—, and looked at Polly.

“Forget it, Pol. He’s not going to change his mind.” You finally said after letting out a long sigh. A part of you was well aware that bargaining with Thomas Shelby was useless. Moving your shoulders, you managed to free yourself from Arthur’s embrace and, to his greatest surprise, made your way to the exit. He almost jumped, catching your hand in his.

“Heaven.”

“No Arthur, this is fucking useless. I am not going to stay here and let him blame me for everything that happens to this family while I did nothing but share my clairvoyant feeling with him. He wants me to prove whose side I’m on? Fine! I’ll do it then! ”

Arthur opened his mouth, thinking about something that could convince you to stay but he knew you were right. He finally lowered his head, jaw clenched and eyes avoiding yours.

“Gonna come with you then,” His gruff voice mumbled.

“No, you stay there.” You said, which made Arthur frown even more and look at you with utter confusion, “Thomas needs you. He’s aching and vulnerable. Stay with him and do what you have to do, Arthur. I'll wait for you.”

“Alright.” He resigned himself, worries making his magnificent eyes shine, “ one last thing.” He said after a few seconds of hesitation.

“Hm?”

“Tell me you have nothing to do with Charles’ kidnapping.” He dared to say, feeling utterly ashamed by the fact he needed reassurance about it. But he had always trusted Tommy more than anyone else and now, he was conflicted between his loyalty to his brother and the maddening love he had for you.

“Arthur… Are you serious?” You asked, your heart hurting at such a demand. A sigh fell from your lips, whose red lipstick made even more hypnotizing. “ I promise I'm not involved in Charles' kidnapping. You have my word.” You finally said as you looked at him right in the eyes, trying to hide the pain.

“I— I trust you,” He paused, “I trust you.” He repeated, then he pulled you in a quick hug to soothe his inner turmoil. To be true, he would have probably died if it turned out you had been toying with his heart all along. But Arthur refused to believe Tommy was right, this awful thought almost leading him to the path of madness again, “Take care, love. See you later.”

You replied with a faint, exhausted smile and left the building, disappearing in the fog of Birmingham’s streets.

The fact remained that Tommy did not feel better after you left.

Or Esme getting cash for cocaine, eh, John?

All of a sudden, back in the family, Ada, eh. That’s a surprise. Out of the blue. On whose orders?

And you and your painter…

Down he went, spiraling into a paranoid craze and, to everyone's greatest surprise, you were not the only one that had triggered it.

The sound of Death Knell resonated in the night, its threatening shadow floating over Birmingham houses and souls. Following Tommy’s plan, John and Arthur roamed through the train station with the firm will of spreading calculated chaos at 10 o’clock in a grandiose murderous explosion. You can go with them but it’s better if you let them do the job, that was more or less what Arthur had told him before he left. Despite the orders given, Michael managed to leave the two henchmen behind and reached Hughes’ church without getting caught by another Peaky Blinder. It was not that Tommy’s plan was poor, but he indubitably needed to take care of this business alone. No one around him seemed to understand how deep his pain was entangled with Father Hughes. He had to wipe the priest out by himself — he had promised it to his little self after many sleepless nights recalling his dirty hands wandering on him.

And he did.

Michael was panting, a mix of thick repugnant blood and sweat dripping from his face. Still straddling Father Hugues’ corpse, the young Blinders’ hands were frozen on the knife he had thrust into the priest’s throat. The hot and sticky sensation almost made him throw up when it first poured over his skin. A crimson puddle had already formed under the body, growing bigger and bigger as minutes passed. And when that same puddle reached the floor’s grooves, it filled them with dark red blood and drew patterns on the wood.

Another grunt escaped from Michael’s quivering lips as he slowly realized what he had done. He killed. Again.

All wobbly on his legs, Michael Gray still managed to stand up and took a few steps back, his hand leaning on a bench. His fair eyes did not shift from Father Hughes’ motionless body for he forced himself to look at him— there lied the monster who had terrified him for years. There lied the child eater, his neck opened and his obscene glassy eyes staring blankly at the church’s ceiling.

Coming back to his senses the best he could, Michael stumbled to the heavy door of the room from which Father Hughes came out and opened it. All he wanted was to carry Charles in his arms, telling him everything would be fine, and flee from this cursed place. Yet, his heart missed a beat when he entered the small room and realized Charles was not there.

“Fuck!” Michael blurted out. Panic kicked in again as he tried to come up with a solution, or at least an idea of what to do. He knew he had to think, and he had to think pretty fast because Charles' life was threatened. He needed to find the kid before it was too late. The main reason behind his dedication was not only to show his worth, but also to keep a child from suffering at an Hughes’ hands ever again. However, Michael's thinking process shattered in pieces when he heard the heartbreaking cries of a kid yelling at the top of his lungs. Blood froze in his veins as he recognized Charles’ voice.

Following the screams, there was a thundering noise of something heavy dropped to the floor, and nothing. Nothing except a chilling silence that brought goosebumps to his pale flesh.

Oh no.

Michael stood still in the loud silence, as petrified as an animal in front of the blinding headlights of a car.

No, no, no!

They’ve killed him, he thought. Of course, they did. Father Hughes was probably not alone in that bloody church, even though Tommy said he did not expect them to come. Someone was here and took advantage of the chaos of his fight with Hughes to grab Charles and hurt him. Whoever his accomplice was, they had just ended Charles's life and it was all his fault. If only he had listened to Arthur. If only he had let the two henchmen do their job and handle the situation. Guilt started to beat him.

Michael shook his head, hoping it was not too late, and ran toward the direction the noise and cries came from. His heart raced in his chest as his legs almost automatically moved, winding up his anxiety like a mechanical toy, and led him to a second room he did not see at first.

“HANDS UP YOU BASTARD!” Michael yelled, storming into the room that was directly linked to a backdoor exit: the perfect spot for Hughes’ accomplice to flee with the kid in case of emergency. Or to kill him in case something happened to the priest. Pointing his gun in front of him, Michael was ready to shoot, hatred blazing in his eyes. He winced at the foul and slightly metallic smell of blood that jumped at his face as he entered the place. Michael was a brave boy. He was ready to use violence. He was ready to actively take part in the family business. Hell, he was even ready to die if that was what he had to do, but there was one thing no one prepared him to face and it was what he saw in this place.

“Oh my God!”

He cried out, his breath hitching with panic as his blue eyes, filled with tears, first caught sight of a second corpse lying in a lake of blood. If Hughes' dead body was already gruesome, it was nothing compared to his accomplice's.

The man, who was strong in stature and impressive in height, was staring at him with blank eyes, silently begging for help. His petrified face, splattered with dark blood, was distorted in a terrified expression as if he had seen the Devil itself before dying. Yet the cause of the poor lad’s death was not fright, but rather the dozen stabbing wounds that scattered his body, and the pair of huge scissors that was deeply stuck into his neck. Michael could not help but step back, so disoriented by the macabre spectacle that was in front of his bewildered eyes that he dropped the gun Tommy had given him. The sound it made when it crashed on the floor caused Charles to cry again.

“Shhhh, everything’s fine Charlie. Everything’s fine. Keep your eyes closed.” A soft and enchanting voice raised in the room, like it did the night Arthur wandered aimlessly to church. For a few seconds, Michael was convinced the voice did not come from a human being. It sounded so foreign, so alluring, it could only belong to an angel of justice, whose avenging blade fell on Hughes' associate. Then he saw her, the creature, and his eyes widened even more.

“Bloody fucking hell.“ He really tried to say something else but his brain could not proceed with the sight of Arthur’s woman holding Charles in her arms, her sweet angel face and frail body entirely covered with crimson stains.

“I know.” You simply replied, one of your hands tenderly resting behind Charles’ head to keep him from looking at the butchered dead man that had fallen on the floor when your scissors tore his jugular vein.

Michael stood still, staring at you with utter shock.

"How?" He managed to ask, one sole tear running down his cheek.

"Please Michael, don't ask questions. I just — I just want to go home." You whispered, the far too familiar smell of blood and after-taste of murder making your head spin. You closed your eyes for one second to keep the traumatizing images of your past from flooding your brain and let out a shaky exhale. When you came back to your senses, you walked to Michael and put Charles in his arms, still careful to keep the corpse out of his sight. Then you left the room.

As you passed by Father Hughes, you stopped and looked at him from above, indescribable hatred blazing in your iris.

"See you in Hell, sale fils de pute — You son of a bitch — "

Michael followed, still unable to keep his eyes away from your mesmerizing frame scattered with blood drop like millions of precious rubies. The way you looked at Hughes' corpse resonated with him so much he could not help but talk.

" Did he..." He left his sentence hanging, but you understood what he meant.

"No, he did not. But he still found another way to be the cause of my sorrow," You glanced at Michael from above your shoulder, "I'm glad you killed this bastard. There are people whose souls can't be saved, and he is one of them."

"Yes, he definitely is." Charles had calmed down in his arms, lulled by the soft movements as Michael walked outside the church by your side, "what about the second man?"

"He was about to kill Charlie and then come for you." You replied, trying your best to forget the unpleasant sensation of half coagulated blood on your delicate skin. Michael took a while to process the information and realized you had probably saved his and Charles' life.

"Are you okay?" He asked. His question brought a faint yet terribly melancholic smile to your lips for it reminded you that you had broken the only promise you did to yourself. The promise of not taking another life ever again.

"Are you?" You replied to his interrogation by another one.

"No, I'm not. I feel... Empty."

"So, you already know the answer."

When the door opened and Michael entered the house with Charles sobbing in his arms, Polly and Ada ran towards him and cried in relief as they hugged the child. Polly soon focused on his own son, whose blank expression left no doubt on what he had to do to save Tommy’s kid… He killed, and it changed him forever. She laid a gentle hand on his cheek, checking on him with tears in her eyes, knowing she could not do anything to ease Michael's pain anymore -- and what was more awful for a mother than watching his child suffer without being able to do something about it? What snatched her from the sorrowful conclusion she had come to was Ada’s gasp, who had just realized Michael was not alone. You had followed him, a cold expression etched on your face and a myriad of red ink stains soiling your whiteness.

“She helped,” Michael stated with a tired voice before anyone had the time to say something, “She helped me save him.”

Ada looked at you with surprise, trying to discover the mysteries your traits hid so well, but her focus was far too disrupted by the frightening amount of blood that was covering you. Blood everywhere on the stunning, little, murderous creature she never thought you were. Many questions raged in her skull, like a tornado of thoughts and speculations. After what seemed to be a whole eternity, she managed to speak,

“For God’ sake… It could have been dangerous!” She said, blinded to the simple possibility you had just killed someone without batting an eye, "You are wounded! Look at the blood!"

You sighed and remained silent, stealing the silver cigarette case that was on the nearby furniture. The tip of your tongue moistened your juicy lips, whose corner was stained with red lipstick you smeared all over your skin when you had tried to wipe the blood that had splattered on your face.

"It's not mine."

Your hands were still shaking from what you had to do, unpleasantly recalling their past crimes. Then, you slipped one cigarette between your teeth and lit it with the zippo you found in the pocket of Arthur’s coat that was still on your shoulders. Shivering with cold despite the fire burning in the hearth, you nestled a bit more in his coat in a desperate attempt to find a substitute for your man's comforting warmth.

"I beg your pardon? Whose blood is it?" She almost choked with surprise. Then it struck her. "Heaven..."

You did not say a single word and kept smoking in almost religious silence.

"Who the hell are you?" Ada inquired, her shaky voice coated with an odd mix of fear and fascination stirred by the eerie aura that was all around you.

You took a long puff from your cigarette before staring deep at Ada’s beautiful eyes. You looked at her for a while, then shift your focus on the fire burning in the fireplace. You watched the flames dance, the sound of wood cracking sending shivers down your spine. Ada swallowed, waiting for your answer. She, who had defended you in front of Tommy a bit earlier, could not tell anymore if you were the hero they needed or the villain they had to fear.

Saint or sinner? Spell or prayer? Blessing or curse?

Who are you, she asked.

“I am the one they really should have burned.”

A cloud of smoke came from your mouth as if hellfire was burning within you.

And somehow, it was certainly the case.

✞ gif by the talented @alicent-targaryen

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

✞ Normally, each chapter of this series can be read as stand-alone but not this one. It's far more enjoyable if you have read at least the previous chapter.

Tag: @meowtastick @babayaga67 @sired-to-hybridrid @shelbyssins @kxnnxyasdfg @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd

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artiststarme · 1 year

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What If Steve Were To Leave Hawkins? Part 7

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Ok so, I think the general consensus was for the angst to continue. I'm very sorry for the one person that asked for happiness. We're just not there yet, I guess. Anyways, here you guys go! As a warning, there is a poorly detailed panic attack towards the end. Enjoy!

~*~*~*~

For the next two weeks, Eddie and Steve would sit on the phone for hours a day talking to each other about both everything and nothing at all. Steve regaled Eddie with the horror stories of the coffee shop and its caffeine-addled patrons. Eddie provided him with tales of gruesome DnD deaths and the subsequent tantrums thrown by teenagers. They even start flirting through the phone calls, enough for each of the boys to blush and hiccup over their words.

It was on one of these phone calls that Eddie finally found out exactly why Steve left. It was towards the end of one of their calls and Eddie had asked the forbidden question.

“God, I miss having you around. Why’d you have to leave, Stevie?” Eddie realized his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. He froze in place and waited for Steve to announce his desire to never talk to him again.

Thankfully for him, Steve just let out a sigh. He explained, “I just didn’t think anyone would care if I left. No one was around for weeks and then my parents came home. My dad didn’t want me there and no one else did either so I left.”

Eddie’s eyes widened with the new information. He thought about what we should say for a moment before speaking. “Steve, we never stopped caring about you. You started getting distant so we tried to give you some space. We were trying to help you but went about it in the wrong way. We’re sorry and we all regret it now.”

Steve let out a self deprecating laugh, “I started pulling away because I thought I made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry for that by the way. But then no one stopped me so I just… stopped trying.”

Eddie’s jaw dropped in shock. “No! You didn’t make me uncomfortable! I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable!”

“Why would I be uncomfortable?” Steve asked confusedly. “I really liked spending time with you.”

Well now Eddie felt even more guilty. But, he was already in too deep and had to land the final blow for Steve to understand. Even if it made him hate him.

“I’m gay.”

There was silence for a moment before Steve spoke. “Okay? Thank you for telling me. Why would you make me uncomfortable?”

Now it was Eddie’s turn for silence. “Um, most straight guys wouldn’t appreciate their gay friend having a crush on them.”

“You have a crush on me? And I’m not straight.”

“What? What do you mean you’re not straight? Stevie, have you been holding out on me?”

“I never said I was straight. I’ve known that I liked guys since Tommy kissed me in sixth grade. Why did you stop hanging out with me then?”

Eddie felt very confused. This conversation had spun out of control in a way he could have never anticipated. What the fuck was happening?

“Wait a second. You kissed Tommy? Hagan?”

“Yeah. If you had a crush on me, why would you stop hanging out with me?”

Eddie shook his head back and forth and tried to refocus. What was the matter at hand again? Oh yeah. “Because I was falling in love with you and I knew you wouldn’t feel the same.”

“I do feel the same! That’s why I thought you stopped wanting to hang out! Because I made you uncomfortable.”

“No! Why would I stop hanging out with you if I thought you felt the same? If I thought I had a chance in hell with Steve Harrington, I would’ve made a move!” Eddie passionately exclaimed.

“Don’t say my name like that,” Steve laughed in disbelief. “We really messed this up, huh?”

“Yeah, I’d say. I ran you out of town, man.”

Steve smiled a shy smile in his empty apartment. “I mean, Chicago’s not that far from Hawkins. Only a couple of hours.”

Eddie’s brain malfunctioned. “Chicago?”

“Yeah. Remember when we talked about cities that day when we were high? You were right, it is a clean slate.”

“Maybe, maybe I could come visit you sometime or something,” Eddie stammered hopefully. Holy shit, he knew where he was.

“Yeah, you should. We could get dinner and you could stay the night with me.”

Eddie guffawed in surprise, “a little forward, don’t you think?”

Steve laughed in response, “I just meant you could stay in my apartment for a few days instead of driving all the way back!”

“Sure Stevie, I would love to. But-”

The trailer’s door slammed open at his words. Eddie jumped a foot in the air and let out an undignified yelp, still holding the phone in a white knuckled grasp. Dustin, Max, Lucas, and Mike were standing on the elevated porch of the trailer with murder in their eyes. “What. The. Hell.” Dustin hissed when he heard Steve’s name.

Steve yanked the phone away from his ear and gave the receiver a confusedly concerned glance. It wasn’t the first time Eddie had screamed in his ear, the dude was impassioned, but it was the first shout not immediately followed by enraged squabbles. “Eddie, you there? Did you fall or something?”

“Fuck,” Eddie shook his head readied himself to deal with the upcoming argument. “Steve, call me back tomorrow, okay? The kids are here and they’re pissed. I gotta go.”

Steve didn’t get a chance to answer before the line disconnected. Shit, this was not going to be good.

~*~*~*~

Eddie had been neglectful to the Party for weeks now. He’d been showing up late to Hellfire, new name yet to be determined, meetings and canceling preexisting plans for unknown reasons. The last time someone in the Party did that, their babysitter took off without telling anyone. So, the kids were understandably worried about their beloved Dungeon Master.

Dustin was at the forefront of the worry and convinced the kids of The Party, bar Will and Eleven who were having dinner at home, to check on Eddie at his trailer. They thought he might be hiding something. Really, it was only a matter of time until the rest of the Party found out about his dirty little secret. That secret being him talking to their missing babysitter without their knowledge.

When he heard Eddie say Steve’s name into the phone, Dustin saw red. His anger only heightened when Eddie said it again when he hung up.

“You’ve been talking to Steve and didn’t tell us?!”

Eddie sighed and raised his hands placatingly, “Dustin, I know you’re upset but-”

“I can’t believe you! We trusted you! We let you into the Party and you betrayed us!” Dustin shrieked, tears of anger building in his eyes.

Eddie tried to defend himself but the enraged shouts of the other kids left his attempts muted in comparison. In a moment of silence, Mike took the chance to voice his dismay.

“You should’ve told us that you were talking to Steve. We thought he was missing, maybe dead, and you didn’t tell us that he was okay. You betrayed us, friends don’t lie!”

Eddie jumped in to try to defend himself once more, “I didn’t lie! Steve wasn’t ready for anyone to know where he was and I didn’t want to betray his trust so-”

“You’re a coward,” Dustin spat and Eddie flinched back. “You never do the right thing! You tried to die when we were fighting the demobats and you made Steve leave. Now you’re not telling us that Steve called you. We knew Steve first, you have no right to keep him to yourself! You’re a coward and you’re selfish!”

Eddie stares at the seething teens in horror, his ears ringing and vision tunneled. He was a coward. Fuck. Was Vecna back? Because this was a scene from some of his worst nightmares. He couldn’t speak as he tried to control his breathing, the anger in the room stifling his ability to take in any air.

Just then, Uncle Wayne opens the door to the trailer and steps in behind the gaggle of teens. He doesn’t know what he was expecting when arriving home from a long shift at the plant but it certainly wasn’t his boy on the verge of a panic attack being accosted by his group of his young friends. As Eddie’s body started to shake and his eyes began to water, the usually even-tempered man angrily turned to the kids.

“I don’t know what the hell is going on but y’all need to leave my house now. Eddie’ll call when he wants to talk to ya. Get out. Now.”

The kids grumble and without a backwards glance to Eddie, they all take their leave. As soon as the last heathen is out the door, Eddie bursts into tears. His breaths are gasping and his fingers move to his hair to pull painfully on the strands.

Wayne watches the kids ride off on their bikes before he takes his boy into his arms in a comforting embrace. He doesn’t know what happened but for now, he will be there for his nephew like he has been since the bald-headed and knobby-kneed kid showed up at his doorstep all those years ago. Eventually, Eddie will find the words to explain to his uncle about the situation he stumbled in on today. But until then, he’ll hug Eddie and calm him down in the way only he knows how to.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 19 Part 20: Epilogue

Taglist:@nickavalens@conversesweetheart@themostunoriginalpersonever@swimmingbirdrunningrock@eddiethegreatteddybear @call-me-big-eyes @cornwallisandkerley @moonshadows-13 @glittergluekintsugi @cpidcupk @doubleb11 @mentalcyborg @amoris-no-smut-allowed @purple-lemonade @labels-are-for-the-weak @thebrazilianatheist @rajumat @livelaughlexa @5ammi90 @colorful565 @marvelousforlife @chaoticcoffeequeen @gregre369 @suddenlyinlove@thegreatmistake @stillfullofshit @nburkhardt @batxsignalsx @newunknowns @thosemessyvibes @tailsfromthecrypt@luciana-rowan @bird-with-pencils @adaed5 @lolawon @flustratedcas @iwillfindmyneverland @messrs-weasley @skoomy-doompy @yearningagain @darkwitchoferie @forest-fogg @bitchysunflower @stardust-era@newtstabber@bobatrash-queen @notjasontxdd @ohlook-afrog@00biscuit @grtwdsmwhr @oxidantdreamboat @the-witch-forever-lives @estrellami-1 @whatthemeepever @a-simple-gaywitch @imzadidragonfly

#yay reciprocated feelings!#Steve is having a great time #Eddie not so much #Dustin really went for the jugular on this one #sorry not sorry #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #dustin henderson #steddie #fanfic #I still hate writing dialogue #I don't have much experience with happy so angst it is

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w4s-t4ken · 3 months

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—INTRODUCTION—

Dream picked up the small screen off the table, curious as to what it was. He saw Sam with one back in his prison days- he always wondered what exactly it even was. He really didn’t care who it belonged to, he just took it. After guessing a few different passwords, he opened it- 12345. He’d have to change that.

He scrolled around on various things, taking in the new sights. He opened this app labeled tumblr out of curiosity, looking around it.

So, some “old friends” were on here too huh? This could be fun.

🐍 || This blog is an ask blog of c!Tommy from the DSMP. This blog takes place to whatever time the reader wishes to interpret, but I have it set at the end of exile / start of Las Nevadas. The writer may include bits of c!Tommys past arcs as well, like L’ManTommy or exile Tommy.

🐍 || For the most part, this is an in-character account. But if you wish to reach out, shoot me a private message. I love messages.

🐍 || Reader can send asks as another character if they would like, which can be from the DSMP or another story. Ocs or plain asks are always welcome as well!

🐍 || The writer will not respond to anything outside of character. If there are concerns, you can send me an ask and I will reply through DMs. I will only break character if I need something to be addressed or noted.

🐍 || This blog may discuss: past abuse, smoking, self-harm, attempted suicide, torture, and other gruesome topics. The writer will try to remember to tag all of these if they appear in the posts, but PLEASE remind me if I forget. If a reader is uncomfortable with any of these topics, you can totally leave and ignore this blog, whatever makes you comfortable!

🐍 || If a reader has a question or comment about the post itself [ex. misspell, wrong pronouns, question about content] then ask me! I am happy to clarify any misconceptions or mistakes.

📀 || I am an inconsistent uploaded as well as having ADHD, though there will be posts at least once a week. Requests or questions are welcome and encouraged! In terms of requests, I will list boundaries below.

🐍 || Lastly, this is NOT canon. This is a blog run solely out of me enjoying art, making others happy, and coping with my similar trauma. Please do enjoy!

—CHARACTER INFO BELOW. KEEP IN MIND THIS IS MY AU.—

🐍 || Names for charecter: Tommy innit craft, Tommy, Tom, innit, or any other given nicknames.

🐍 || Family for character: Puffy [mother], Schlatt [father], Drista, nightmare (yes, he exists here) [siblings] DreamXD [cousin]

🐍 || Pronouns for character: He/Him.

🐍 || Relationships for character: The reader can imply any relationship in the ask unless it is of DSMP charecters and it doesn't directly conflict what the writer writes. I will try to accommodate to any relationships, but favors romantic dreamnap, platonic dnf, platonic d-team.

—PLEASE READ—

⭐️ Hello! I’m your writer. I am Marley and go by she/they. just wanted to share some of my boundaries for this blog. ⭐️

THIS USER HAS PMDD, WHICH MEANS MOOD WILL CHANGE DRASTICALLY. PLEASE DO NOT BE ALARMED.

—BLOG BOUNDARIES. DO NOT DO OR MENTION ANYTHING LISTED BELOW.—

-any NSFW artwork.

-free shout outs or free promotion.

-attack me, my followers, my askers, or frankly anyone I speak about.

-send any hate, homophobia, disrespect, or anything negative to me or my askers/followers/friends. If you have a problem, message me privately and then we can handle it.

#Bio #opener #ask blog #roleplay #introduction #c!dream

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chronic-boogara · 2 years

Note

if you're taking requests could you do the slashers: thomas Hewitt, bubba sawyer, RZ! micheal myers, and poly ghostface(pr any you're really comfortable with) comforting their s/o over the death of their dog headcannons or small drabbles? mine died recently and ive been missing him a whole lot.

no omg that is one of the worst kinds of pain i am so so sorry. i sadly know the pain you are feeling i am sending hugs and kisses. i am more than positive your sweet pup is watching from the sky. love you so much darling. i hope this whole thing doesn’t come off as tone deaf,, if you need me to change ANYTHING just let me know.

ps. i am adding lester to this bc i feel like he is kind of essential to this

i have so many requests i need to finish rn but yours will go out first. to everyone else do not worry yours will be out in the next week or so.

thomas hewitt

•thomas will be absolutely crushed. he loved that dog as much as you did so he’s just as sad as you are

•he’ll feel so bad watching you fall to pieces before his eyes. please don’t be sad y/n

•he’s a patient man, he knows how long the grieving process can take

•tommy will help you dig a little grave a decorate it all nicely put it in a peaceful location far away from where his uncle can tamper with it

•if you want to have a little service he is more than happy to drop everything he’s doing and get the rest of the family to join in too

•he will use the fabric of the dogs old toys, bed, blankets and make a little stuffed dog with it. he knows it won’t bring him back but he hopes it brings you some comfort

•will hug you a lot. like a lot a lot. tommy wants you to know you’re not alone y/n he’s always here for you

•he writes you little notes in his sloppy handwriting for you every morning usually with a little sketch of a puppy on the bottom.

•luda is upset as well. she will be extra easy on you in the coming days. she even bakes special little treats for you while you rant about your feelings

bubba sawyer

•as a fellow animal lover bubba will not take this well. you both will be a mess for a few weeks

•he doesn’t want you to be sad but he knows it’s part of the process.

•he will most likely bury the dog similar to thomas but make little braclets out of his teeth for the two of you. not in a gruesome way just as a way to remember the sweet pup

•will make sure his brothers leave you be during this time. he’s extra sensitive to your needs

•he’ll take you out to visit the dogs grave at least once a week if not once a day. he doesn’t mind it. the silence is nice sometimes

•he will get you out of chores so you can do your own thing through out the day.

•the collar is sitting on the mantle in the living room. no one touches it but you.

•drayton feels a bit bad about the whole thing he’ll talk with you if you want. he’s not too good at all the feeling stuff but his brother loves you so he’ll make an exception

•bubba will probably surprise you with a puppy a few months later. it’s not the same but it’s nice to have another animal around the house

michael myers

•doesn’t understand why you’re so upset but he will do his best to empathize with you

•he sees how upset you are and just kind of hugs you and let’s you cry. michael doesn’t know what to do but he’s doing his very best

•tried digging a grave but the yard is not really suitable for things like that. instead he gets him cremated and gets a fancy urn from one of the surrounding neighbors

•he keeps a watchful eye on it and makes sure you like it

•overall he’s sweet about it. he’s just trying his best

stu&billy

•neither of them are any good with death much less dealing with it

•stu will try to make light of the situation with loads of jokes. he didn’t mean to make you cry y/n he just wants to make you feel better

•billy on the other hand has no clue what to do. he doesn’t want to just say “i’m sorry or your loss” and get it over with. i’m sorry y/n i love you but i don’t know what to say

•don’t worry though they’ll look up ideas as well as asking everyone around school what to do

•when you come home one day you see a little alter with pictures and items belonging to the pup sitting on your room.

•they went out of their way to get flowers, a pretty table cloth, pictures as well as frames and even little dog treats to set around it

•you feel overwhelmed in the best way

•they spend all their time with you, following you around everywhere and sneaking in at night

•stu makes a home made card for you about how sorry he is and a cute little note about his feelings and all that

•billy on the other hand does something a little less crafty and sets up a week long date for the three of you to help get your mind off of it all.

lester sinclair

•his heart goes out to you fully. he is there as a shoulder to cry on as well as an ear to listen

•lester has experienced more pet deaths than he would ever have liked so he’s an expert at aiding you through the grieving process

•he will bury him and give him the nicest service ever. he will dress up in his nicest clothes and have his brothers do the same

•he spends all his time with you making sure you never feel lonley. lester doesn’t want you to feel like you need to go through this alone

•lester asks vince to make a few pieces of your dog using different art mediums. and of course he delivers

•the whole family mourns together during this. bo tries to keep the atmosphere as light as possible though

•lester makes you a necklace with your dogs tag so you can hold it whenever you miss him.

•you are not alone y/n. lester and his siblings are here for you

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discodeviant · 1 year

Text

One More For You

Billy/Steve | Teen | 1.8k words Boxing AU, Nonviolent Fighting

Please take the realism/accuracy here with a grain of salt lol, I did some minor research but mostly wanted to focus on their relationship. Enjoy! <3

Made for @billyhargrovebingo!

Read on AO3

Billy couldn't see. Not really. Not clearly. Lights and people blurred, and he couldn't hear well anymore either as voices muffled like he was underwater and rushing his way deeper. Hands touched him from every direction, unfamiliar palms and fingers wrapping gauze and bandages around his head, his arms, his legs, his torso. Nothing he'd never gone through before; the touching, anyway, but the loss of his other senses was new. Blood fused taste and scent together into copper all down his throat that settled into his stomach, which may have been why he felt so sick.

Or maybe it was the one voice he could hear, asking, pleading, “Billy, are you okay? Can you hear me? Jesus Christ--please, I’m so sorry, baby, I’m so--fuck, I’m so sorry.”

— Before —

Steve was on his phone when he entered the gym, Tommy already waiting with his equipment all set up and ready for his last few hours of training. “Buzz will be here in an hour,” Tommy said, Steve distantly nodding, not really listening, not really caring. He sat on a bench and put his bag down, still nose-deep into articles about Hargrove v. Harrington! Harrington's Retirement Fight With Old Spar! Last Chance Tickets Available Now! He's Never Fighting Again, Folks!--Read Latest Interview Here! To burn them all and spit on the ash they left behind would have been a delight.

Fighting Billy Hargrove was the opportunity of a lifetime for guys like Steve: long-underground athletes who needed the name to get a leg up, but who still didn’t stand a goddamn chance because Hargrove was the best in the country. No one could best him at any game, much less his own when he held all the power in his eyes and his fists. He knocked those underground sewage rats right onto their low-standing pedestals and stood on his fifty feet in the air, and owned it.

But Steve was hardly underground anymore since he’d been in the ring against Hargrove more than once. Three times, to be exact, and each was more painful than the last. Not because Hargrove was better than him, or the years had been cruel, but because his heart broke a little more with each punch.

By then he’d known Hargrove for thirteen years, briefly meeting after their first fight at Steve’s quaint little Chicago apartment, and it was the former's idea. Steve didn't really know why he half-expected Hargrove to propose another fight for fun, but they didn't need to fight to have a good time together. It made the second a little more friendly, though, discussing beforehand that they wouldn't try to knock each other's teeth loose at least ("I want that smile to be intact," Hargrove had said, flustering Steve until the third and beyond).

Since the third, it had been five years since they had a real fight--in the ring with an audience, coaches and wingmen by their sides, ready to throw punches that both knew weren't personal.

But in that five years, something else happened that Steve never thought would happen again after high school: he fell in love. Deeply, wholly, and unfruitfully because Billy Hargrove had places to be and people to meet, and Steve waited tables for fun in between. He was a spectacle for fans who came to his restaurants to brag about meeting the Steve Harrington, how funny and charming he was in person, that one would never suspect he was into such a gruesome sport. And he enjoyed it, meeting people at home, not quite famous enough for paparazzi to follow his every move. He enjoyed the texts and phone calls with Billy before either had a match, small or large as it may have been. He enjoyed seeing Billy again every few months, sinking into a days-long affair that would leave him miserable knowing it would never be any more than that.

In that five years, Steve considered retirement. Mulling it over in his head every night, he daydreamed about leaving his B-list boxing career behind and telling Billy how he really felt. It had been a long time coming, really, since his competitive matches were sparse and minimally promoted by then. He’d always preferred swimming anyway; maybe he could take up coaching. Maybe he could stick to his restaurant gig for a while. He wasn't sure.

Then he told Billy that very same thing, and crystal-blue irises were all he saw. They'd boxed together for all thirteen years. Billy was the one who convinced Steve to start in the first place because he had years pent up behind fists that didn't have any relief, and now Steve wanted to quit.

"One more fight," Billy said.

"What?" It was nearing midnight, and they sat together at a burger joint not far from Steve's apartment. The windows were foggy from a humid rain, patrons entering and shaking their umbrellas out before leaving again.

"Come on, Stevie, for old time's sake." Billy let the other half of his waffle fry drop into the basket again. Looking at him was too hard. His eyes begged without shaping any differently, lips crooked down into a discouraged grin.

"I don't want to fight you, Billy," Steve said, and Billy's face fell into hurt. "I--" He sighed. "Why? I'm not good for your career anymore. That Brenner kid's way better for PR." Looking down, he shrugged, sipped his Coke, ate the rest of Billy's fry. Their shoes touched under the table.

Steve was waiting for the boom. "I don't give a shit about PR, you know that." The fuse behind Billy's every word that just grew and grew until it stopped growing and reached the end, sparked the end of the bomb just barely enough to explode--to win--but Billy's voice was still low. Calm. Sad, if Steve dared to think so. "What, you're gonna fight Byers and fall off the face of the Earth three months later?"

Steve huffed, amused. "So you care about my PR."

"No, I--" The fuse burned on, but it was fizzling out. "I wanna be your last fight, Stevie, not that asshole." A black boot nudged white hi-tops. "Please?" Steve could only stand to look into his eyes for a split second because his heart ached too much for more.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You're not gonna hurt me. When have you ever hurt me?"

"Breaking your nose doesn't count?" Billy laughed at that. Held Steve's hand right there by the window.

"Steve, look at me," he said, voice soft enough for Steve to know that the fuse was nothing but smoke on a wire. "One more. For me. I promise it'll be the last time."

—

On the fifth of October, Steve wondered why he let everybody talk him into it. Billy, Buzz, Tommy, his agent and manager; his parents, for fuck's sake, and he knew they didn't care that much.

And it was mostly his anger at Billy that fueled every punch he threw, right hooks to the gut and jabs to his cheek. It was thinking "the last time" meant the last time they were together in an expensive hotel room with soft linen sheets and wine, chocolate on each other's lips, nothing but city lights illuminating through sheer curtains. The rosy tint he'd formed around Billy over the years turned redder and redder with every look those blue eyes gave him, eager and challenging like he wanted Steve to hit him. And Maybe he did; Steve couldn't tell. Billy was self-destructive that way.

Meanwhile Billy's punches were swift and light, just enough to look good on camera because the live audience certainly couldn't tell a difference. He was a good actor. Disorient all over his face, languid motions as he pretended to lose his footing a little, standard Hargrove moves to save the winning blow for the end of the match. Steve wondered where it would land. He waited for a black-gloved hook to the jaw or jab at his liver to send him flying back, but it never came.

The fuse, it seemed, had not been reignited.

Billy wanted him to win.

And Steve didn't know how he ended up in the middle of the ring taking his final victory, against Billy Hargrove of all people, who lay on the floor and slipped on his own blood and crawled to the corner, letting his coach pull him down and onto a stretcher. The lights dimmed and went back up. Steve looked all around for him, catching back up with the memory of the last few minutes and hoping, praying, that he didn't seriously hurt Billy.

He ignored everybody who chased after him to the ambulance outside, not caring that he was barefoot and with a towel over his shoulders, bleeding from a split lip that dripped down his chin. "Talk to me, Billy, please--" he begged, but Billy was out like a light.

Hours later, Steve shivered in the hospital. Tommy had brought him some clothes and a hot cup of tea, but he was still so damn cold. Billy was under sedation for a minor surgery on his nose, and Steve just knew he would laugh when he woke up. He would say something stupid and smile and laugh and be just as obnoxious, and Steve wanted him to be.

But, when Billy did wake up, he was dead silent. Peered over at Steve before he had a chance to realize Billy was awake at all, then reached a hand out for him and braced in his panic. Steve wasn't even listening to the words coming out of his own mouth; too many all at once, all apologies and blubbering worry, and Billy shushed him like a mother shushed her wailing baby. Softly, gently, not a spark in sight.

"It's okay, Stevie, I'm okay."

"No you're not."

"Steve, baby." He raised his hand to Steve's cheek and held it there, cold fingertips on burning flesh. "You were fucking incredible out there. One hell of a finale, if you ask me." Steve grinned.

Billy pulled him down for a kiss. Long, slow, gentle like Steve was the most fragile thing in the world, like Billy wasn't the one in a hospital bed with a nose that was numb to the pain of touching Steve's cheek. "I'm so sorry, Billy."

"Stop apologizing." They whispered against each other's lips. "I don't love you less just because you broke my nose again, okay?" Billy laughed.

"You--"

Steve pulled away just enough to meet Billy's hazy eyes. "You heard me," he said, and Steve kissed him again, again and again, salt from his tears just seeping between.

"God, Billy, I love you..."

They would have much to discuss.

#.discowrites #stranger things #stranger things fic #steve harrington #billy hargrove #harringrove #boxing au #fluff #light angst #pining #hurt/comfort #is reverse hurt/comfort a thing bc #there's that too

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raesnovelsblog · 8 months

Text

Synopsis from IMDB:

Shadyside, 1978. School's out for summer and the activities at Camp Nightwing are about to begin. But when another Shadysider is possessed with the urge to kill, the fun in the sun becomes a gruesome fight for survival.

My synopsis:

No notes.

My review

Out of the trilogy, this one is my favorite. I’d give it a higher rating if it was dealing solely with the 78 story. But if you are a fan of 80’s slashers or Stranger Things, you’ll probably like this one. The characters are a lot more likable in this one and the plot is tighter.

Rating : 8/10

Spoilery thoughts I had while watching the movie below. You've been warned.

I unapologetically love Sadie Sink.

Where the 1st movie was Scream meets Halloween, this one is more like Friday the 13th in the best way.

They go from knocking to breaking and entering very quickly.

All those ticking clocks would drive me insane.

Sheila is a psycho.

Ziggy was strung up by a tree, but by all means, chastise her for talking out of turn.

That’s right Ziggy. You don’t fall at his feet just because he did his job.

She wore a white top and is now upset that it got dirty?

“Nurse Lane, I’m in trouble again.” I bet she has been to the infirmary a lot.

I like the neighbor they took the kids to from the 1st movie is the nurse in this movie. And also the mother to one of the serial killers. I like neat touches like that.

Cindy’s accusing Ziggy of being selfish, but Ziggy’s showing concern for nurse Lane.

Mother of a serial killer. Everyone would think she had gone insane. She was right though.

The bell rings and everyone snaps out of it and runs to get food. That rang true to me.

Now Cindy wants to know about nurse Lane.

Cindy is selfish. She covers it up with toxic positivity, but she only cares about how she’s seen and what she’s going to do.

The other campers are terrorizing Ziggy and the sister barely reacts.

“Carry On My Wayward Son” Will always think of Supernatural and I’m okay with that.

I’d want to check out the witch map over the color war too.

Nick sees Ziggy’s cabin defaced but his 1st instinct isn’t to punish anyone. They really do only punish the Shadyside kids.

“Ziggy sucks cocks in hell.” Exorcist reference - nice.

Would not go down the creepy stone steps. Sadly, I might have when I was a teenager.

You would have doubts simply seeing Tommy’s name on the rock, but after he attacked that guy with an ax all doubt is gone.

Why would she think Will set up a romantic meeting with her in the bathroom?

Saddie Sink is so amazing. Is there anyone she can’t have chemistry with?

I shipped them so hard.

I don’t care if the thing was calling to me, I don’t think I would touch it.

That crunch sound was too real.

There’s a distinct lack of shit for that to be directly under the outhouse.

Nick’s regretting what he’s done.

Did Ziggy not notice that even though Nick was in between them, Tommy left Nick to go after her?

She stabbed him and then tried to smother him. Ziggy doesn’t go down without a fight.

I doubt a hand that old would hold together.

She removed his head with a shovel. That was badass.

How do the killers know when to stop? They don’t have a quota.

So it wasn’t that Ziggy died and was brought back, it was that Nick brought her back. It’s a wonder that more people Nick knows don’t get hurt. He doesn’t have control over who they go after.

They left their bodies out in the rain? That’s messed up.

So is Ziggy still in danger or is she being paranoid?

If that red stuff is evasive as Cindy said it was, that janitor must have to clean around that tree nightly.

I like when anthologies swap stories but keep the same cast.

#horror #horror movie #horror movie review #ghosts #witch #witches #witchcraft #netflix #netflix original #fear street #fear street 1978 #fear street trilogy #triology #slasher #80s vibes #based on a book #serial killer movie #camp movie

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mixahrexlm · 10 months

Text

✦ BENJAMIN WADSWORTH, GENDERQUEER, HE/THEY ✦ MICAH REALM the TWENTY FIVE year old has been in Hidehill for THEIR WHOLE LIFE and was a CLASSMATE to Lucas Johnson, the missing persons. Whispers on the streets are that the BOOK CLERK AT UNDERCOVER BOOKS who lives in HADLEY PARK are said to be INTUITIVE and NOSEY but I guess we’ll find out for ourselves.

Trigger Warning: Drug & Alcohol Abuse, physical abuse suggested

Meet: Micah Realm

Tell me are we posing, or are we juxtaposed?

full name: Micah Kian Realm nicknames: Realm (Micah has gone exclusively by Realm since high school with very few exceptions.)*** important note gender & pronouns: genderqueer & He/They age & date of birth: 25, April 4th 1998 where do they live: Hadley Park time living in Hidehill: His whole damn life occupation: Book Clerk at Undercover Books positive traits: Intuitive negative traits: Noseyface claim: Benjamin Wadsworth

background.

Call it a curse that nothing ever came easy to the Realm Brothers. Micah Realm being the youngest of the three never quite understood how at home all he wanted in the world was to disappear, while to the rest of the world he felt like a total ghost. It was like living in this limbo he could never get out of. The curse of being the youngest of three brothers in a small town. Micah was still small when his father abandoned them the first time. As far as his oldest brother was concerned, the man had fucked off after an argument with their mother but a much younger Micah felt as though he could never be certain of the truth. The feelings clearly wavering when a string of men started coming and leaving at what sometimes felt like all hours of the night. Most of them were unobservant to her three sons still living in the home, but every so often she’d catch a real nasty one who always seemed to feel like he had something to prove. Didn’t really matter. Even those types didn’t last.

Micah could remember the first time he made it home and their dad was back sitting in the same old arm chair he had before he’d left. A small part of him was hopeful that their random string of strangers had come to an end. Unfortunately this wasn’t the case. He’d always seemed to have a problem with liquor, but on the benders where he’d return home, he’d become someone Micah could barely recognize. After the first couple of times this had happened, his brothers would make a point of waiting out his stay as far from home as they could. Oftentimes spending time dragging Micah along to spend his time with crowds he barely felt he'd fit in with.

When his oldest brother eventually moved out, Micah wondered if he and his brother would be enough to survive their father’s gruesome returns home. He managed to distract himself most of the time with his writing. Something he’d picked up on the days where he decided to stay late in his English class. The days where all he wanted was to avoid having to go home if he feared his father might be there. Micah could remember being told by his English teacher to write what felt familiar. Something he knew. Something that interested him. A challenge for sure when he kept to himself as often as he did. Always wondering how he missed the social gene that seemed to envelop his older brothers. So instead he let himself become wrapped up in their lives. Found solace in the control it brought him to play make believe with the very real lives of his brothers friends.

He’d only had the idea in his head to start writing about them for a short time when his first chapter came to mind. A story about an incident he’d seen at one his brother’s band rehearsals. It really was all fun and games until someone gets hit in the face with a symbol. Something about some kid named Tommy going around telling people one of the groupies gave second rate hand jobs. A fascinating display and there was Micah writing down every last detail, every thought he had, and every word that was said throughout the experience penned. Being home never really felt like an option but prior to this, Micah was certain he would have rather bathed in ketchup than have to spend his evenings being ignored by a group of people who barely knew he existed. That night was the start of what he’s referred to as his chance at greatness. The beginning of his very first novel that he declared was going to be his ticket out of Hidehill.

After the incident, he started spending more and more time with his brother’s friends thinking himself incapable of making any of his own, until she came into his life. Emery had always been the kind of person, Micah never expected would be willing to look twice at him. Everything about her seemed too cool. Too far away from the limbo he'd grown so accustomed too. Even of the few relationships he had built over the course of the years, none of them really felt like his own. He was the younger brother. The side thought. Emery was the first person who saw him and made him feel like maybe perhaps, he really was person shaped. She was always so quick to share her music with him, and though it definitely took time, he eventually opened up to sharing his work with her as well. So to say it was a dream come true when they decided to take the next step and become physically intimate, despite their agreement that it didn't have to mean anything, would have been an understatement. And yet despite all the discussion they'd had Micah could have never prepared himself for how it would make him feel after. Or how much it would sting when so shortly after she entered her relationship with Axel. The very same Axel who would steal her away as though the whole thing had been nothing more than a dream.

In the years since Emery had left, Micah found himself returning to his mostly lonely writer esque ways. He kept an eye on her band, always quietly supporting her from the sideways, and hated the twist in his stomach that occurred when she was no longer on the bands posters. Despite this, his pride kept him from reaching out. Instead, in recent years, he's decided to take up an interest in the investigations happening around Hidehill. He can't feel like there's a story written into this somewhere and he's dedicated himself to finding out what it is.

Wanted Connections/Plots:

Family: As mentioned in the bio, Micah does have two older brothers. I would eventually love to try and get these filled. I will probably send in requests for them eventually but for now if you're interested come hit me up!

Trailer Mates: Try as he might, as much as I'm sure he'd love to be able to live alone, he definitely can't afford that. I'm also just a sucker for roommate plots. So come gimme a live in homie.

Book Club: Yes I'm aware this is a murder mystery RP. Yes I still want a soft wholesome little book club. SUE ME

Pen Pal: Gimme a cute lil pen pal relationship where maybe they send each other/ dish and share theories on the Shadow happenings in Hidehill.

More to come...

#hidehillintro #bio #about me

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noahrussell · 2 years

Photo

Meet: Noah Russell

Does this deafening silence mean nothing to no one but me?

Hi hello! My name is T and in this essay I will be introducing you to my home boi Noah. There will be some triggering topics below so please proceed with caution! Full name: Noah Romero Russell Nicknames: tbd. Age: 19 Sign: Scorpio City of birth: Cherry The current place for living: Cherry Siblings: Casey Russell, Ronnie Russell Pets: Rex Russell Birthday: October 31st, 1966 Major: English Job: Bartender at The Pit Likes? Writing, poetry, drinking, Newports, black coffee, yo-yo’s, Dislike? most people, loud music, tomatoes, when he steps in a puddle and his socks get wet, cold fries

BACKGROUND

Call it a curse that nothing ever came easy to the Russell Brothers. Noah being the youngest of the three never quite understood how at home all he wanted in the world was to disappear, while to the rest of the world he felt like a total ghost. It was like living in this limbo he could never get out of. The curse of being the youngest of three brothers in a small town. Noah was still small when his father abandoned them the first time. As far as Ronnie what Ronnie told them, the man had fucked off after an argument with their mother but a much younger Noah felt as though he could never be certain of the truth. The feelings clearly wavering when a string of men started coming and leaving at what sometimes felt like all hours of the night. Most of them were unobservant to her three sons still living in the home, but every so often she’d catch a real nasty one who always seemed to feel like he had something to prove. Didn’t really matter. Even those types didn’t last.

Noah could remember the first time he made it home and their dad was back sitting in the same old arm chair he had before he’d left. A small part of him was hopeful that their random string of strangers had come to an end. Unfortunately this wasn’t the case. He’d always seemed to have a problem with liquor, but on the benders where he’d return home, he’d become someone Noah could barely recognize. After the first couple of times this had happened, Casey and Ronnie would make a point of waiting out his stay as far from home as they could. Oftentimes spending time with Ronnie’s friends who were getting ready to head off for college, or with some of Casey’s.

When Ronnie eventually moved out and took over The Pit, Noah wondered if he and Casey would be enough to survive their father’s gruesome returns home. He managed to distract himself most of the time with his writing. Something he’d picked up on the days where he decided to stay late in his English class to avoid having to go home if he feared his father might be there. Noah could remember being told by his English teacher to write what felt familiar. Something he knew. Something that interested him. A challenge for sure when he kept to himself as often as he did. Always wondering how he missed the social gene that seemed to envelop his older brothers. So instead he let himself become wrapped up in their lives. Namely Casey since all of his friends seemed to be a little closer in age to Noah himself.

He’d only had the idea in his head to start writing about them for a short time when his first chapter came to mind. A story about an incident he’d seen at one his brother’s band rehearsals. It really was all fun and games until someone gets hit in the face with a symbol. Something about some kid named Tommy going around telling people one of the groupies gave second rate hand jobs. A fascinating display and there was Noah writing down everything he saw, every thought he had, and every word that was said throughout the experience. Being home never really felt like an option but prior to this, Noah was certain he would have rather bathed in ketchup than have to spend his evenings being ignored by a group of people who barely knew he existed. That night was the start of what he’s referred to as his chance at greatness. The beginning of ‘The Glass Windows of Cherry High’.

After the incident, he started spending more and more time with his brother's friends but consistently struggled with concretely making any of his own. He was there the night he found out Elaine had picked Harvey over his brother. Watched the torment his brother went through and the sudden shift in him after the affair. He wrote about his back alley hangs with Freyja, the short films he wrote with Zev, and Kitty. Oh buddy he wrote about Kitty. But above all one of what was potentially one of his favorite story lines had been the one about Lux. If he hadn’t been so entranced by the chaotic energy that surrounded her, she likely would have pissed him off with all the horrible rumors he was well aware she’d spread about him. But as far as he was concerned, content was content.

At least that’s what he wanted to believe. It was all fun and games until things that seemed like they should be works of fiction started happening to them. Birthday sabotages, stabbings, the LDB? Break ups, hooks ups, rumors. A series of events that all seemed a little outside the realm of your average high school experience and yet they made it. One by one each member of their little gang made it out of Cherry High alive. Each one adding to his ever growing story of their lives. All except for the ever unfinished Lux who disappeared without a trace.

#bio #cusaintro

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therealcrimediary · 3 months

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Price: [price_with_discount] (as of [price_update_date] - Details) [ad_1] 36 True Crime Stories of Murder & Mayhem Readers love this series - More than 7,000 five-star ratings on Amazon and Goodreads Three Book Collection: Volumes 4, 5, and 6 of the True Crime Case Histories Series (2021) ***This series can be read in any order.***A quick word of warning. The true crime short stories within this three-book collection are unimaginably gruesome. I start all of my True Crime books with a quick word of warning. Most news articles and television true crime shows skim over the vile details of truly horrible crimes. In my books, I don’t gloss over the facts, regardless of how disgusting they may be. I try to give my readers a clear and accurate description of just how demented the killers really were. I do my best not to leave anything out. The stories included in these books are not for the squeamish. What you are about to read are Volumes 4, 5, and 6 of the True Crimes Case Histories Series. The stories in this collection will make you realize just how fragile the human mind can be. A sampling of the 36 stories includes: The Darlington Cannibal: The story of a young English man that had plans to become the UK’s most notorious serial killer but couldn’t keep his mouth shut after his first kill and bragged to over twenty of his friends. The Carnival Cult: A group of four young men who believed they could do anything they wanted because their lord Satan protected them. Satan apparently couldn’t protect them from prison. Dead in the Water: A father of eight children lured women to his boat, raped them, and threw them overboard. Ingenious forensic science was eventually used to catch the killer. The Crossbow Killer: A young, intelligent man that would rather kill his entire family with a crossbow than tell his girlfriend that he had been lying to her. The Broomstick Killer: The Texas Penal System failed to protect the people of Texas by releasing a brutal killer of three teenagers. As a result, he killed as many as eleven more women. Body in the Bag: A young man obsessed with the macabre followed voices in his head when his teenage girlfriend dumped him. Authorities found her eight weeks later stuffed inside a duffel bag. The Copper Gulch Killer: A sixteen-year-old prodigy child is found with five gunshots from three different guns, but police are convinced there was only one killer. Ten years later, crime scene evidence is found in an abandoned storage locker. The Incest Killer: Katie Fusco learned she was adopted when she was eighteen. Within a year, she was married to her biological father and pregnant with his child. When authorities force them apart, everybody dies. Plus, 21 more truly disturbing true crime stories. Scroll up to get your copy Included in this volume: Kenneth McDuff, Tommy Ragan, Bruce Kim, Will Matheson, Lyndsay Van Blanken, Stephen Grant, Tara Grant, Steven Pladl, Katie Pladl, Candace Hiltz, Rob Lemke, Brandi Hungerford, Rick Chance, Jennifer Pan, Austin Sigg, Sarah Ridgeway, Zach Bowen, Addie Hall, Denise Williams, Brian Winchester, Mike Williams, Vlado Taneski, Carri Williams, Larry Williams, Hana Alemu, Peter Madsen, Kim Wall, Dorothy Maraglino, Louis Perez, Jessica Lopez, Brittany Killgore-Wrest, William Earl Cosden Jr, Kathy Divine, Ed Gingerich, John Famalaro, Denise Huber, Sally Challen, Richard Challen, Jack Spillman, Melissa Ann Shepard, Brett Ryan, Father Gerald Robinson, Sister Margaret Ann Pahl, Dixie Dyson, Taw Benderly, Loretta Bowersock, Chadwick Wiersma, Michael Madison, Eddie Araujo, Gwen Araujo, Carl Eder, Donald Smith, Cherish Perrywinkle, Rayne Perrywinkle, Oba Chandler, Jimmie Lee Pence, Mark Goodwin, Keith Lawrence, Robert Mark Edwards, Sandy Murphy, Rick Tabish, Ted Binion, Robert Moorman, Shelly Mickelson, Kenneth Biros, Tami Engstrom, David Parker From the Publisher

Publisher ‏ : ‎ iDigital Group (February 8, 2021) Language ‏ : ‎ English Paperback ‏ : ‎ 400 pages ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 195656635X ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1956566352 Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 1.44 pounds Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 6 x 1 x 9 inches [ad_2]

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wildbluesorbit · 6 months

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London II: Refined || JTK

18+MDNI

LONDON SERIES MATERPOST

Paring: Jakexreader(f)

A/N: Howdy! I am honestly so nervous about the turn of this story. Although London is only my first, and is honestly a big smut sandwich, I’m a whore for character development and really wanted to challenge myself to dive into the potential of these characters …for now. This piece in particular exists in two variations. In the interest of everyone looking for the easier read, mama @tommie-gvf advised a revision to care for all their soft readers, which dawned this “Refined” edition. However, for all my trauma junkies alike I still wanted to share my original draft for the full teeth-gritting, soul-grating, angsty flourish, which lives as “London II: Uncensored”. Both pieces are the same story, and though still challenging, this alteration omits a few gruesome details and descriptions and is a bit reduced as far as depressive inner-monologues. If you’re not sensitive to any of the tags, I encourage you to read the original for the “very book” experience. (Tommie’s words not mine lol) I’m really crossing my fingers y’all enjoy the twists and turns to come but I am honestly already awed by all the love received. As always I am very open to criticism so pretty please let me know what you think!

p.s. I apologize for all these alliterations you’re about to read

Summary || Wounds fresh and head spinning, you try and find your footing without Jake in the picture. However, you are found by the dawn of a different peril.

Content Warnings || toxic relationship, depressive disposition, sickness such as fever, fatigue, vertigo, nausea, vomiting, and fainting, verbal aggression, graphic depictions of physical aggression/voilence/sexual assault and bodily injuries such as bruising, gashing, swelling and inflammation, and body aches, ptsd, nervous breakdown, mentions of alcoholic consumption and drugging, brief mentions of being undressed and bathed while unconscious, technical kidnap, allusions to rape,

Word Count || 7.1k+

The sweeping sound of the door swinging shut behind Jake only solidifies his parting words. Like a fool praying for snow in the desert, you remain still, naively pinning for him to rush back through that door and take back what he said. You swear to every star if he will just reappear you’ll forgive and forget every trivial thing he’s said to hurt you.

You are more than capable of leading a fruitful life without him, you just have no desire to. With every molecule of your being you ache for him to please just walk back through that door.

When he doesn’t, you can’t help the hot tears that now downpour.

Consternation weighs heavy on your limbs with the understanding of just how bonded you had become with the concept that there is always a next time with Jake. You had taken advantage, maybe even abused, his phone number underneath your finger on speed dial; you became cozy in the comfort of knowing that when you pressed it he would always answer.

It harrows you to think Jake might be right. Maybe you are no good for each other. Maybe he did the right thing. Too little too late is a cruel ascertainment; Jake is not just an ecstasy, a high you procured an addiction for, but he had become a sanctuary. One you’ve never met in anyone else. A shelter not even you could provide for yourself and like a child you went and broke it.

You will your begrudging limbs to ooze forward but as soon as your feet lead their trek the walls around you begin to whirl worse than before. You don’t dare let it deter you though; you fear the grief that threatens to swallow you whole in that very bathroom if you’re to stop for air.

You catch the corners of the sink for stability, your disheveled appearance ruthlessly relays your casualties. You smooth your hair down, wipe your running mascara, and run your hands down your skirt.

You sloppily make your exit out of the bathroom, no longer being able to withstand the ghosts of the haunted room where Jake had just kissed you goodbye.

You spill into the hall and rashly scour for any signs of your deserter. You figure he’s fled from the flat entirely as his twin has now vanished as well. Despite the vertigo, you propel yourself towards the table where Claire is without a Kiszka twin as well, but is now flirting with her own stranger.

Positively glowing, she radiates delight. A presence to be demolished by the foreboding whirlwind that you are. The last thing you want is to be the helpless girl who’s best friend can’t finish her regaling tale of a handsome stranger because of your shitshow, especially when Claire has made her stance sorely evident.

Mercy for Claire’s night presents itself in the form of a fleeting drive-by. You swiftly breeze past with a sweeping touch on her shoulder and briefly whisper in her ear that you need some air and are going to step out for a minute.

You know she protests but you make it your mission to distance yourself by half the room by the time she can process your abrupt bulletin and conceptualize her inquiries of, “But..," and, "What happened?”

It helps that your vertigo has germinated past tolerance; the sensation demands you not slow down or your body might continue its course without you, making a rolling tumbleweed out of you, held prisoner by this illness’s tempestuous winds.

You clumsy and cleat a path through the thicket of socializing bodies until you finally topple into an exit. You sling your body mass against the heavy portal to be transported to a stairwell that you pray spits you out in the main street.

You thrust yourself upon the railing and cling to it as you slosh down the stairs like a teetering toddler. The stairway traffic makes its way around you as if you are some stationary obstacle, some even slow down to behold the scene unraveling on the steps. Fortunately, the only concern that permeates through the fumes is the night’s cool air at the bottom of the staircase that promises remedy, and you have only a flight to go.

You brake your staggering down the incline to briefly rest against the wall. Fatigue has found a home as it settles in your bones. However, regret seeks you out the moment you become motionless as the spinning now invites a monstrous nausea.

Your want for fresh air has mutated into a need for your own bed. Any and all will to stay awake evaporates into the torrid air, and the concept of supporting your own weight any longer than necessary becomes a daunting notion.

You coach yourself into mobility again, telling yourself that you just need to make it out to the street and into a cab. You would feel better after you have a chance to recompose in a taxi until you reach your flat.

After you endure the marathon of the final flight, you achieve ground level; the price being your senses, including your best judgment, fogged by the fever’s stupor.

Foolishly, you pour out through the first exit door you spot and catch your weight against the opposing wall of a narrow alley.

You clamber against the wall a bit further to see where the alley lets out. By the time you realize the backway has no outlet the door has swung itself shut, the unnerving slam of the metal mass sending a jolt through your entire frame

You sluggishly creep back towards the door, your stomach kneading itself into nauseating knots as you discover the steel barricade is locked from the inside with no way back to shelter. With your sickly strength, you bang and beat on the door, begging for someone to free you.

You can barely hear your own knocks suffocated beneath the overbearing bass. Having foolishly spent what was so little of your energy left on trying to be heard through the steel frame, you finally accept that no one is going to find you unless they come looking for you.

You slump back against the wall once more, the fever journeys to the pit of your stomach. You hunch over, your weight finding balance against the brick wall and some sort of electrical box as your whole body begins to tremble devoutly. You burn alive as the high-grade heat rises to your face and you expel your guts right there.

Having all frail muscles tense up in commitment to the deed, you plunge to your knees and land on all fours. As soon as you feel able, you rock back on your legs and wipe the residual sickness from your mouth. You optimistically anticipate the familiar wave of relief to wash over you but it never arrives.

This sickness was not brought on by alcohol, this is something else entirely.

You momentarily careen, scrambling to summon strength to find your way back on two feet again just as the alley door swings open and you hear Hunter gasp out your name.

He runs over to you, paying absolutely no mind to the door due to shut behind him.

“The door,” you wheeze out and weakly gesture towards the entryway just as the lock clicks securely.

“What- Oh, I’ve got a key, don’t worry,” he mumbles as he leans down to gain access to you, “What happened?”

Your touch shoots for Hunter’s shoulders to regain your structure and you prompt him to help you back inside. Your request generates something of an indecipherable grimace to dart across his features. You can see the cogs turning in his head and you find your hands instinctively retract back to your sides. You watch the prospect of salvation wither away before you.

He must recognize your sudden vigilance as he immediately agrees to comply, but only after he’s made sure you’re okay. Hunter bluntly forces his mulish hands to your waist and sharply hoists you up against the wall, triggering upsetting shards to pierce your aching muscles.

Once you become vertical, you expect him to retire as your personal forklift and give you breathing room but he instead confines himself within your orbit, hands still digging into your hips.

“Okay, I’m up now,” you try to shoo him, “Would you just open the door?”

“Not yet,” he protests impetuously.

No longer bothered to maintain the cordial facade, Hunter’s gaze is now fully enamored by your pallid body; panic’s tide rising higher and higher.

His hands, ice cold against your feverish skin, shocks a hiss from you as his fingers slither their way under the hem of your top. He shrilly hushes you and takes liberty to plod his trail upwards towards your ribs. Forcibly, Hunter dips his fingertips into every ridge in your cage, eliciting another pained sibilation from you.

You make an effort to jerk away from his frisking but are far too wasted to make any sort of adequate escapade. You huff at your defeat as your exertion only results in you scantily swaying to the side. A defenseless speck absurdly fighting to escape the current it's been sentenced to.

You manage to limply place your hands against his chest in an attempt to disturb his afflictions.

“I’m just trying to help,” Hunter poorly disguises his unwelcomed touch as a well-intentioned examination of your health.

With your hands still planted against his sternum you thrust in order to pry him off, but you know the only force you create is a dull pressure, your fingertips barely even sinking into his flesh. He almost snickers at your second failed escape; fatigue only setting in deeper by the second.

“Get off me you, fucking creep,” you grunt, still sickly yet stubbornly squirming.

“Oh, really-,” he hisses, ”you were so into it earlier though. Why are you being such a fucking bitch now?”

Hunter intrusively shoves his gangly frame into yours, further crushing your achy flesh into the callous concrete rooted against your backside.

He brutally crowds your head with his, invading your earshot, “Keep squirming if you want to make this worse for yourself.”

You ignore his warnings and he closes in trying to force his mouth onto yours. His foul breath reeks of liquor, cigarettes, and an unidentifiable sulphuric odor that stirs your nausea. You snap your head to the side to gag.

“Be that way but your body won’t be able to fight off that drug much longer. I’m only taking what would have been mine had that wanker not ruined my night.”

And there it is, he confirms your suspicion of foul play and you immediately remember how he brought you a drink and seemed so pleased when you finished it. But this isn’t what angers you most from his admission, but the way he slanders Jake.

The very thought of Jake’s name in Hunter’s cruel disparaging mouth catapults you to new heights of contempt. He doesn’t even know Jake and doesn’t deserve to. How could he possibly categorize your Jake and a piece of shit like himself in the same league.

Although the last few affairs had been less than ideal, you had seen the most concentrated parts of Jake. To most he is some mysterious charismatic poetic rockstar invention of a man, but whether he meant to or not, Jake had let you behind the curtain to reveal the inventor.

You found behind the facade is a truly kind and attentive man. A man who loves to laugh and will do whatever he can to bring a smile to anyone else. A man who hides behind big words because he still gets nervous when he speaks. Someone who doesn’t like being angry and always tries to be the bigger person. Someone raised on chaos, morality, and the classics. And no matter what he endures, he’s a family man first. He likes to operate on a low profile but won’t hesitate to become loud and brash to make sure everyone around him is taken care of. A delicate wholesome rarity. To know Jake is to love him and you know anything he asks of you is already his.

Therefore, hearing Hunter traduce Jake’s name like some foul swear, only to implicate your night that would always belong to Jake was actually his set you ablaze.

You rear your head back towards Hunter’s face and spit on target, “Let go of me you sick fuck!”

He flinches as your saliva coats his face and his lip peels back in a snarl of disgust. You can’t help but feel some regain of control as one of his hands releases you to wipe his new glaze.

You unwisely decree this your opportunity to flee, gaining some advantage by shoving him away. Yet, Hunter only refills the space and barbarically thrusts you back into his pinhold. Your vulnerable skin catches the teeth of the exposed brick as it grates into your backside, eliciting a broken cry from you.

He irately swipes the back of his hand over the rest of his contaminated features and lifts it to the air in a fist. He tempestuously brings it down to make agonizing contact between your eye and cheekbone.

The sudden blow sends trauma throbbing throughout your head. The abrupt pain bleeding into the drug induced haze is paralyzing. You stand apathetic, striving to stay conscious at this point. Hunter matches his left forearm up to your shoulders to pin you against the wall and he moves his right to untie your blouse Jake had just gracefully done up minutes before. He yanks the material off your shoulders, the dark’s frigid wind and Hunter’s greedy gawk pricks your helpless frame against your concession.

Hunter reaches his hand to grope you freely now, lingering in annoyance where you're sure the love marks Jake had left behind are beginning to develop.

Even as hope for some sort of salvation begins to flicker out, you refuse to concede in your tussle to shimmy out of his hold.

He lets out an offended grunt, as if you are being a rude victim. He rolls his eyes and moves swiftly and precisely to jab you in the ribs, knocking all air out of your lungs and remaining will from your limbs; as well as pummel whatever fortitude your body was using to brave the drug’s gravity.

“I don't even know why you’re being so stubborn, you’re little wanker boyfriend isn’t around to see what a slut you are,” he growls through concentration and clenched teeth.

Out of all the elaborate ways he could have invented to torment you, this cuts you deepest. Simply because he is right.

Jake isn’t here. And it’s all your fault. If you hadn’t driven him away, you wouldn’t be here.

You’ve never possessed a moment more worthless than this moment. The thought of Jake seeing you like this is a weight you are sure you wouldn’t survive. You hope to never see him again. He would be absolutely heartbroken

All the torment and tears you had stifled while fighting for your freedom suddenly bubbles and bursts to the surface.

He curtly arrives at a diagnosis, “Oh, I see, he broke you.”

The concept that he might feel some perverted pity for you only diminishes your spirit further. But as quickly as it comes, he zones back into his mission.

Instead of returning his hand to your chest, Hunter travels to fumble with the zipper of your skirt.

Your pathetic shrieks voidly echoes throughout the lifeless alleyway, “Stop! No- Red- Get off- please!”

He grows impatient, demanding you shut up. Your teary vision starts to tunnel and you finally feel your conscious giving way to the void. You just hope it consumes you before his deed.

Just then, you feel a gap finally open between you and your oppressor. You spill onto unkind asphalt once again, scrambling to register what has occurred but you're unable to refocus. The only sight you can identify is the hazy reflective neon glow against the wet blacktop.

You flail about on the ground to best cover your indecency. As you can’t see, you listen for any clue of the phenomenon proceeding just above your head, except your audio is now faltering too.

You hear the slurs of two tussling and shouting. In between the intervals of din, a familiar rasp of your name rips through the tumultuous turbulence to grace your ears. Then again. And again.

You snap your head upwards to decipher whether this is just another trick of the drug. You can only make out his silhouette as your line of sight slowly becomes clouded with black spots.

It is Jake. It has to be. You need it to be.

Yet, you do not trust your senses as they are obviously failing. You hold your hand out to ward off the figure now reaching for you and faintly crawl away. The being flinches at your motion and frets your name out like a mantra, begging for something you can’t seem to process.

However, the poison in your blood holds no regard for this development. You are suddenly enwrapped in the amplified feverish fire you felt earlier and almost immediately eject the rest of your stomach.

All tension finally leaves your muscles as your body becomes a burden too heavy to support upright. You recognize the sensation of falling backwards but everything becomes so still, so quiet, so black before you ever feel the ground cruelly collide with you.

It's the sensation of the cool crisp white bed linens caressing your dormancy heated skin that wakes you. You force your lead heavy eyelids open and peer around what you suspect is a hotel room.

The space is dark except for a halo of light around the blackout curtained window, so you know it is daytime wherever you are. You tense in a stretch, freeing your bones of the deep slumber you had just escaped. You feel as if you have been asleep for a thousand years and struggle to recall anything existing before the darkness.

The recollection of how you ended up bedridden rushes through your mind in a searing headache. You spring yourself upward to find that the nausea and vertigo has left you but the febrile aching and a throbbing head remains.

Your first instinct is to flee until all at once your senses flurry with him. Jake’s aroma fills the sheets and emits from your skin as well. You seek refuge in the sight of his well-loved shirt draped against your torso; along with a pair of boxers, and fuzzy socks. You assume he must have helped you shower at some point.

You reach over to tug the remaining blanket off your limbs, the simple shoulder motion detonates a chain reaction of sore strain all over your body. A pain induced squeal resonates through you and against the foreign vanilla walls of the vapid hotel room.

You freeze and bite your bottom lip in an effort to stifle any other oncoming cries. You survey the room as if your siren can disturb anything within the lifeless compartment.

Nothing.

You draw in a deep breath against your aching rib’s wishes and wincingley scoot to the edge of the mattress to discover the bathroom is a few yards away. You vacillatingly make it on your feet, your legs shake as you stand but you are devoted to wobbling over to the bathroom.

Pitifully exerted from your trek, you throw your balance towards the counter and assign your weight to the marble slab by bracing the edge with your hand; careful to contain your yelps this time. You stabilize yourself before feeling out the wall behind you for a light switch, deliberate in your objective to only move the parts of your body necessary for this daunting task.

Immediately, regret pierces your eyes in blinding light. You swear the sudden attack on your sight is so vile it causes a ringing in your ears. What you logically know is mere seconds, seems to last for hours until your eyes finally focus.

As you cower your head to shield yourself from the bright sting, grisly bruises on your palms and legs that weren't visible in the bedroom are now illuminated.

You laggardly drag yourself over to the full body mirror in hopes the gruesome hues are an optical illusion and your reflection would prove you unharmed. You reexamine the skin in question, only for the glass to cruelly confirm your injuries. Sleeves of sporadic purple, green, yellow, and blue are strewn against your every limb.

You want so badly to be outraged at the sight. To be irate at how you were wronged. Yet the only words your mind will carve out for you are how could you be so foolish and so weak as to let this happen? It only further mocks your grief that you can’t seem to purchase any strand of anger.

But you don't let yourself succumb to the bleakness; your intuition anticipating the worst is yet to come.

You hesitantly raise your shirt to heed the discoloration traveling up your ribs. The sight abruptly brings back the petrifying sensation of Hunter excruciatingly shoving his prickly fingers into the crevices of your torso.

The intrusive recollection makes your stomach swell into your throat. For a brief instant, you think you might have to somehow shuffle to the toilet to be sick but you swallow it down.

You continue to raise your top past your breasts just enough to uncurtain your shoulders. The skin there is littered with dark fingerprint devised bruises.

It isn’t your victimhood now recorded all over your body that corrodes and eats away your insides, but is your inability to differentiate the assault from Jake's love marks. A palette of colors Jake left as a reminder in that moment you had given yourself to him completely; that he’d seen all of you, every last inch, and still he wanted more. He needed to consume you more than physically possible. A token he wants you to think of him just as much as he is thinking of you. A note that no matter how many times he unconvincingly tries to deny that he cares, he blatantly thinks of you as his. An objet d’art now defaced by the stains of a sick thief.

It is getting harder to see your reflection as grief starts to pool in your eyes and any desire you’d once had to examine your abrasions flees. You decide to barrel through the rest of your appraisal as you know your dark inquisitiveness will not let you rest till you have dug up the entirety of this aftermath’s hidden bones.

You try to lift the loose shirt completely from your body but are seized by an inadmissible fire catching throughout the flesh of your backside. Certain strips of your skin feel as if they’d split if you move too fast. Stubbornly, you trudge through the flames, determined to remove the piece of clothing. The sound of air shooting through your clenched teeth joins in with the rustling of the cotton material.

You finally rid yourself of the restriction and twist to see your back in the mirror, your expedition arriving at the concentration of the calamity; your skin tone a minority against the tyrenous bruising.

A shudder delivers the image of savagely being thrashed into that brick wall, rattling around your head like a pinball stuck on its course. A small sob drills its way into the room despite the defense of your palm sealing over your lips.

White rectangular bandages are taped exactly over where you had felt the splintering pressure threatening to tear your skin. You remove your hand from your mouth, no longer bothering to contain your shrills, and contort to the most accessible bandage starting at the bottom of your ribcage and extending to your pelvic bone. Your lethargic inertia only enables you to peel the material off slowly, the adhesive taking its time to part with your raw skin.

Fixating your gaze to your handiwork, you tug the gauze about halfway off to notice it is not white like the outside. The threads are dyed with streaks of dark red, brown, and discharge. Your eyes quickly flit up in the mirror to see a deep vile gash that hasn’t even yet begun to scab.

Your glistening brown eyes now overflow into warm streams down your cheeks. The left side of your face is pierced by a stinging sensation at the introduction of the salty tears.

You realize you have been avoiding your reflection above your shoulders and for the first time since the bar bathroom you allow yourself to study your own face. To your dismay, you discover your left eye and cheekbone are grotesquely swollen and bruised.

Ugly.

There is no other way to put it. No other word your brain would provide. No further way to break it down. You had never felt so broken and unlovable in your life.

You had never felt so fucking ugly.

You futilely attempt to wipe your tears away as they are already being replenished. As you vainly swat at your face your attention is drawn near the nape of your neck; alluring as it is the only pristine scene amongst your features. Your hair has been neatly brushed and delicately laid back into a single looped messy bun; just the way Jake always does his own.

A cruel notion ripples its way throughout your mind. Jake witnessed you beaten in that alley. He graciously undressed and bathed you and aided your wounds. He got to shelter you in his clothes and fix your hair and put you to bed.

And part of you hated him for it. You hate that he got to see you in such a vulnerable odious state. You hate that you let him.

How could he proclaim you are no good for each other only to turn around and take such inordinate care of you? You loathe his words of disownment that crash against such ardent acts of affection for you. This deep level of intimacy is the first for the two of you and most likely the last. Yet, you aren’t even sure if you were conscious, you certainly weren’t in your right mind. You don’t even get to archive the moment. He had no right.

You yank the band from your dotingly tied up hair, tangling it once again and thoroughly erase any evidence it had recently been combed. You thrust the band with as much might as your body will allow, intent for it to land in some bathroom abyss, never to be seen again.

Your glossy eyes dart to the population of hygienic products to pinpoint the first-aid supplies within the cluster. You swing your arm towards the kit, sending the medical equipment soaring off the counter. The clattering din of the tools crashing to the floor reverberates throughout the small room and rings in your ears.

You don’t even realize you are yelling until your voice cracks against you gasping for an air supply. You can’t bear the concept of facing your execrable appearance any longer and find your hands and knees bracing the piercing chill bathroom tile.

You give in to the malaise. You are swallowed whole by your own laments, the suite humming with the songs of your weeping howls. You have no will to ever cease your decimation. No desire to ever lift yourself from this very bathroom tile. You are going to decompose here.

But as quickly as you give in to your grief you are snatched from it. More than startling you, two hands from behind graze around your shoulders. You hadn’t heard any doors open or close, much less were you aware of any life stirring in the room.

Before any discernment or recognition can approach, you careen forward, leading with your pounding chest to cower near the floor.

You blare your terror in a panicked squeal, “No! Get off of me!”

“Whoa-,” the voice announces itself and you immediately recognize the lull as Jake, “hey- babygirl, you’re alright. It's me.”

He circles in front of you with his hands up indicating your safety and crouches down so he is eye level with you. Your favorite eyes, the prettiest pools of amber and fresh autumn now plagued by uneasiness. You immediately dive your beaten face into your hands not wanting to be held by those tormented brown eyes.

“You’re alright, you’re safe,” he passifies.

Jake places his hands to cup yours and slowly peels away the mask they were providing. You fling his hands away with your own and find you gain some unexpected relief from the slight blow.

Instinctually, you start to throw your hands towards him to achieve whatever contact you can, shoving at his shoulders and beating your fists against his soft chest. Jake doesn’t fight back or stop you or even protest. He only scrunches his eyes shut and lets out a shaky exhale; as if you are some toddler and he is simply tolerating your tantrum. He cups your jaw, freezing your thrashing movements.

He searches your eyes through his glassy ones and begins to fuss, “I know, babygirl, I’m so sorry.”

His sentiment does little to console you though. You shove him from your vicinity harsher this time, releasing you of his touch and knocking off his balance. He gently lands back against the nearby bathtub wall but he is still in reach. He frowns as you gain momentum again, thirsty for a mere drop of the initial remedy your first feeble impact released. Anything to rid you of this eroding ache in your chest.

His eyebrows turn upwards in clemency, which only makes you drive through your swings harder. However, it doesn’t seem to make any difference as he catches one of your wrists in his stark hands mid-swing, and then the other.

In one skillful motion, he jerks you forward into an upward kneeling position by both arms. Jake slings your limbs around his shoulders, causing you to lurch into him. Before you have any chance to protest, he nimbly takes hold of your hips and delivers the rest of your body into his lap.

Every nerve under your skin is on fire with the impulse to retreat, “No, Jake! I’m not worth it!”

Your own words draw light to why you are so hellbent on repelling from Jake’s touch. It hadn’t been that he said you are no good for each other but that some part of you had always felt he is too good for you. That's why when things got tough you would argue and run to someone else. You were constantly trying to flag his attention that never veered from you. He had fooled you with his placid exterior but little did you know you only had to ask and he would grant you the world.

You are not good enough for him, yet he still spoils you and when it came down to it he was your salvation; harbored you away from the monster that had its claws around you.

But you’re more trouble than you are worth. You are tainted now, only baggage he would grow to resent. Jake did not deserve to be dragged down by you. You won’t allow it. You certainly wouldn’t survive it.

You try to evacuate his embrace but he only squeezes you tighter, “I’m sorry, I never should have left you!”

You squirm further, lifting yourself to your knees in preparation to somehow walk away. But Jake is not having it. He clings to your waist and stabilizes you by placing his knees to the back of your thighs.

You frantically beseech him, “Jake, please, there’s no room for junk in your world, trust me.”

He shakes his head and nuzzles his face between your jaw and collarbone. He sighs against your neck and speaks a muffled decree against your skin, “Don’t speak about yourself that way. You’re more than worth it.”

Your need for space is overwhelming, but your urgency to be held together overpowers anything else in existence. Exhausted from fighting, you let your weary body go limp and melt back into his gravity.

He loosens his arms a bit that are sealed around you, no longer afraid you’re going to make a run for it. Your head heavy, you rest your forehead against his clavicle and your hands center against his supple chest, trapping your arms between bodies as you bend your legs to the side and lean into him.

Your grief returns to you as soon as you stop moving and you concede to its demands. You find that these clamors, though, are different. They’re muffled as they’re collected by someone else. Not echoing void into space, an expression lost and forgotten with no purpose once they’ve passed from you. Now there is someone to record your sorrow, you are no longer just an inconsolable calamitous clutter on the bathroom floor. You let yourself fall apart in the arms of someone you trust can put you back together again.

“Jake, he almost- I-,” you struggle through your hiccuping breaths.

“I know,” he doesn’t pressure you to finish your thought.

Your voice becomes concerningly soft, “You saw?”

“I did,” he gulps.

“I wish you hadn’t,” your shame doesn’t let you speak above a whisper.

“Don’t say that. What if I hadn't been there in time? What if I hadn’t- you could have-,” you can hear his voice begin to crack and splinter, rendering him unable to finish the unbearable horror.

For the first time it occurs to you that you are not the only victim. You imagine Jake must have lost his mind at the sight of you. You most definitely would have been petrified if the roles were reversed. And though he doesn’t owe you a thing he took you upon himself as his own responsibility. He acted while his mind must have been racing up and down, pondering the right thing to do. Whether you would wake up okay or not. Whether you’d wake up and blame him. Would you forgive him for leaving?

But you would never blame Jake for this. Even if you had, you’d never been capable of sentencing Jake to your storm for long. You’d forgiven him so many times before for a hundred things and you would continue to do so for the next ten-thousand offenses. And you prayed he’d never wake one day with enough sense to forget about you because you know now that you need him in this new season.

“Jake, hold me tighter,” you heedlessly pule, acutely aware of how needy and demented you sound, consumed by the exigency to be closer to him than ever, “tighter, please?”

“I want to, baby, more than you know, but I don’t want to hurt you,” he fretts.

You could hear the compulsion to accommodate you in his trembling tone and the sudden tense of his arms that carefully circled around you.

“How could I be so invisible? I feel like some foul disposable thing,” your own words ambush you, a blubbering tumble into the air on their own perturbing accord; subconscious thoughts you had not dared let slither into the forefront of your reality. Mere shadows come from the corners of your mind that have expedited any real contemplation.

“And I know I'm not supposed to but I feel like this is all my fault,” you sob out the confession.

Your sadistic ears register the fractious cries inhabiting the small room now as the same ones that haunted you in the alley. Sounds you hadn’t known you were capable of prior to your casualty. You have no idea whether the grotesque marks along your body would stay with you in a scar but you know that this despairing tune was one of an everlasting requiem and these tears would never dry.

Jake pulls away from you to tug his sleeves over his fists. He examines your face and shakes his head before swiping his cuffs to carefully towel the tears away from your afflicted skin. He kisses both of your eyelids shut and draws back into you, cradling the nape of your neck to bury you further into his shelter.

“Nothing you did, my love,” he begins to vow, “was even remotely deserving of what happened. Don’t you ever let anyone ever make you feel less than beautiful, not even me. You are perfect, I swear it.”

Your consoler rakes his fingertips along your backside, between your shoulder blades, down to your tailbone and back again. However the migration of his hand doesn’t follow your spine. The irregular pattern of his touch graces around your wounds without him having his eyes navigate. How long he must have studied your comatose skin to plot a mental map and detour your injuries. The cozy concept grounds you, enabling you to finally catch your breath.

The air eventually stills. The only stirring sounds of your sniffles and shared quaking breaths.

You hoarsely whisper, “Jake, where am I?”

“My hotel room, babygirl,” fragments of his side of the nightmare begin to spill out, “and I know I should’ve taken you to a hospital or something but- I’m sorry- I didn’t- I was terrified they might make me leave or not let me see you or something and I couldn't- I just- no- and we had to move on to the next city- I was not leaving you again- or ever.”

Now he holds you tighter as if he can no longer deny the urge; afraid you could still be confiscated from him, a kid clinging to his favorite blanket.

“I had one of the medics I trust come check you out,” he rambles on.

You choked a bit at the thought of another man having access to your unconscious body, “He-”

“No, no. She said you were going to be fine and your body was working through whatever it was you ingested. She only handed me pain meds and some heavy duty first aid for liability. I tried to dress your wounds as best I know how. I’m sorry if i-”

You slip your arms around his neck, cradling his nape to bring him closer into your orbit, “Stop apologizing. Thank you, Jake.”

“Don’t thank me, you could have told me you hated me a million different ways in that bathroom and I still would have done the same thing,” he precisely threads his words, conviction weighing down every syllable, “I take care of what's mine.”

The room grows quiet once more as you bask in contemplation of his last words. Jake starts to rub your back again and you find yourself tempted by a drowsy spell once more.

“Jake?”

His hand springs from your back, “God- Am I hurting you? I’m sor-,”

“No, just thank you for taking care of me,” you drowsily sigh against his skin as slumber cocoons you in its grasp.

You flicker in and out of consciousness until you wake to Jake carrying you back to bed. He sits you down on the edge and pulls a bottle of pills from his pocket.

“For the pain,” he gives the bottle a good shake and pulls a water canister from the amenities on the dresser, handing it to you.

After you’ve taken the medication he encourages you to drink the rest of the water. Once you appease him, Jake helps you recline, careful not to lay you on your back. In his assistance, you grab his hands, the bruised and split sight commandeering your regard.

“Your hand- It's bruised,” you gasp.

He lets out the smallest chuckle, “Yea, I broke his nose.”

“Jake, that's not funny,” you lethargically scold.

“I know-”

“But thank you,” you make sure he understands your gratitude before he can beat himself up.

Still holding onto his hand, you pull Jake to lay down next to you and curl around him. He reciprocates by tucking your head under his chin. The grounding warmth of him travels across your skin and brings you to safety.

He tilts his head towards your ear and bashfully asks, “No more games?”

“No more games,” you concur.

He draws in a breath deep of solemnity and panic as he runs a finger down your temple and tucks your hair behind your ear. You prepare yourself for his bad news before he can even speak the opposite.

“I think I love you but I can't keep chasing you from halfway around the world,” his confession so subtle you almost miss his first five words.

“Well, lucky for you I don’t think I can go back to London and I have nowhere else to go,” your antic tone does less than mesh with your words.

Jake mimics your earlier sentiment back to you, “That’s not funny, baby.”

“I know- I just- I don’t want to go to London,” you drop your facade.

“You know I have a few guest rooms at my house,” he begins fidgeting, twirling your hair around his fingers, “but they never see any guests. And I know my house gets so lonely when I’m gone.”

“You mean- your house-,” you gulp, “in Nashville?”

You can hear the smirk in his voice now, “Yes, gorgeous scenery and a lovely people. It also happens to be very far from London. You’d be doing me a real favor if you came and looked after it.”

You ponder his proposal as if you have a choice. As if you hadn’t slowly been moving towards this leap since the dawn of Jake and you. As if you could ever grant your caretaker any answer that isn’t yes.

And of course any life with Jake would be better than a life without but still you never thought the question would come, certainly not before others. You are clueless as to what role you are to play and what life is supposed to look like after this, outside of London. How would you even fit into his tumultuous musician’s life?

He breaks your thought flow. You can tell Jake is trying not to pressure you but your silence terrifies him, “What’s swirling around in that pretty head of yours?”

You tilt your face up towards his and speak against the corner of his mouth right where his lips begin to curl when he gets giggly.

The course hair there prickly against your whispered affirmation, “I love you too, Jacob.”

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