#if its on a moonless night it doesn't count

[fallatyourfeet]

Every Single Second (Thomas Shelby x Reader) One-shot

Word count: 1388

Warnings: Swearing, angst, blood, threats, violence against women. Both Tommy and reader are injured.

A/N: Full disclosure. I know what a whump fic is, but I have never written one before. Nor have I ever really sought them out to read. So I really hope this qualifies. Sorry anon, if it doesn't. I tried my best.

Please feel free to send me a message/comment/ask, I would love to know what you think.

If you like this, please feel free to visit my blog and take a look around! You can find my masterlist in my bio.

You remembered every single second. Every fucking one. It wasn’t supposed to be that way. You were always told that the moments before and during traumatic events, were lost to the dark and forgotten regions of your mind. Locked away. At least, until your body had time to heal. To come back to you, slowly and sporadically in flashes of hazy images. But no. Every second of that night replayed with vivid horrifying clarity, every time you closed your eyes in the cold hard bed of the hospital. And you guessed from the way Tommy woke up screaming out your name, that he remembered every fucking second too.  

It had been the perfect evening. Good food, good wine and the undivided attention of the man you loved. It had been a trying couple of months. Tommy had been distracted and absent, both physically, and when he was home, emotionally too. It was not an unusual thing, you had grown accustom; albeit reluctantly, to the ebbs and flows of Tommy’s behaviour. You understood it, knew the pressures and stress and dangers his ambitions created through every facet of his life. But you put up with it. Not only because you loved him, but because you knew he loved you. And you knew, with your help and patience, the distraction and emotional distance, would pass. He would always find his way back to you. And that night was the end of a very frustrating stretch of weeks.  

Tommy had come home that afternoon with a smile. Slipping a pearl necklace from his jacket, he handed it to you, kissing you softly as he whispered against your ear. “I’ve made reservations at your favourite restaurant.” Reaching into his pocket, he grabbed his watch, and after a quick glance, he added, “That gives us just over an hour.” Looking back to you, his blue eyes spoke without need of words, telling you exactly how he wanted to spend the majority of that time. But just in case you weren’t listening, his fingertips moved to the buttons of your blouse, while his teeth nibbled at your ear; it was torture of the most blissful kind. And the rest of the evening unfolded in an equally glorious way, from the second he walked through the door, until the moment the car reached the lonely road leading home, the night had been perfection. 

Tommy drove with his eyes trained to either one of two places, the road ahead, or you; struggling to keep his gaze from your features. You could see it... he was happy, your joy was his joy; and he didn’t want to look away. That’s why you were the one to notice it first. Heading towards the intersection just a few hundred yards from your driveway, you first heard the distant hum of an engine. Sitting up a little straighter, you searched the road around you, quickly catching Tommy’s attention. But the moonless sky made it impossible to see anything beyond the car's headlights... that was until you neared the intersection.  

The light spilled just far enough to catch sight of a lorry barrelling towards the car... its own headlights switched off. Speeding towards Tommy. It was going to hit his door, and it was too late to stop it. With your body angled towards him, you felt every muscle stiffen, your back pushing against the glass window of the door behind you... and yet, you spoke with surprising calm, “Speed up Tommy, floor it. Now.” Seeing your alarm, Tommy didn’t hesitate, his foot hitting the accelerator hard. But it wasn’t quite enough. The lorry clipped the back, the impact sending the car into the air, rolling and crashing across the ground, before finally stopping on its roof. 

Blood. So much blood. You didn’t even know if any of it was yours. But one look at Tommy ripped all the air from your struggling lungs, stealing any ability to scream. Thrown free of his seat, he was stuck halfway through the broken windscreen, his body lying bleeding and motionless across a bed of broken glass. And his head, his poor head, even in your shocked condition and terrible light, you could tell it was battered and already bruising. Anywhere but his poor head. It was already compromised, fragile; Father Hughes had seen to that. Panic ripped through you, stripping away your shock and the numbness it provided, every inch of you crying out in silent screams of pain. It felt like every bone was broken. Biting down, you tried to ignore the searing pain and dragged yourself towards him. With a gentle hand, you rubbed his shoulder, too scared to shake, worried you could cause more damage, “Tommy... Tommy. Please wake up.” 

Incoherent mumbles slipped through his lips as he fought to open his eyes, blinking weakly in an effort to see though the blood running freely from a deep wound above his brow. They were rolling around in his head, unable to focus on you, but his mumbles were getting clearer, even though they were just a string of random words, “Be. Are you? It's not. Gun.” 

“Shhh, Tommy, you’re concussed. Keep your eyes on me... Look at me Tommy.” With the sleeve of your dress, you wiped the blood from his eyes, as he still struggled to focus on you. Screaming, you called out into the darkness, “Help... Somebody help us, please.” Where was that fucking lorry driver? You could still hear the running engine somewhere off to the side, but you couldn’t see a thing, as you too, dealt with a stream of blood flowing from somewhere amongst your hair.  

In answer to your plea, you heard footsteps crunching through the gravel of the road, followed by a voice. It was threatening and menacing, far from offering the assistance Tommy so desperately needed. “Help? You want me to help you and your bastard husband?” Crouching down, the man’s face was covered in shadows and besides his London accent, you could make out no other distinguishing features. “What happened here, lovey, was no accident.” Tommy was in a bad state, but still, the threat in the man’s voice did not evade him. Struggling to move, his panic was evident, as he feebly tried to push you away, to shield you from the man. But he was too groggy and far too injured. With weak blood-stained hands, he grabbed at his jacket, but his fingers wouldn’t co-operate, only managing to bring himself to the attention of the shadowed face.  

That’s when you saw it, the glint of Tommy’s pistol in the halter under his jacket, the sight of it abruptly pushing a stupid thought into your head. It was silly, you knew that, but you couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Ignoring the pain, you threw yourself towards Tommy, hoping to reach the pistol before the man did. But he was too quick. In one single movement, he swiped it from Tommy’s halter and struck your temple with the hilt. The impact knocked you backwards, leaving you dazed, but somehow, conscious. You knew that because of the tormented sound that escaped Tommy’s mouth. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought the pistol struck him, his anguish and distress were unmistakable. Fighting to sit upright, Tommy was able to string a coherent sentence together, and though his voice was weak, it was also unhinged and savage, “Don’t you. Fucking. Touch her.” 

That was the moment relief flooded your body. A fleeting moment of relief that did not last long. In the distance came a set of headlights, barrelling towards you from the driveway of Arrow House, ruining the lorry drivers plans. Leaning into Tommy’s ear, he spoke in quiet tones, but every word reached you clearly, “You’re a lucky man, Mr Shelby. The crash didn’t kill you. And if that car wasn’t coming right now, I’d be unloading a bullet into your head.” Then grabbing a fistful of Tommy’s shirt, he lifted his head into the air, and smashed it back against the ground, sending Tommy back into darkness and ripping a horrified scream from your lungs. But not before he whispered his threat, making sure he was loud enough for the both of you to hear, “Next time though, neither you, or your bitch will be so lucky.”

#thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby whump #thomas shelby whump #thomas shelby fanfic #thomas shelby one shot #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders whump

[gaoau]

"Catastrophes are a set of syllables created by a vacuum."

I Love You(r Words) warnings — none. word count — 848

next.

It's a forty-minute train ride from Shibuya to Koto; it's a dull yet eventful Tuesday night. The weight of Komori's head against hers, the reflection staring back at her from across the empty wagon, the artist tearing their throat apart through the earphones they share. Goosebumps erupt on her arms as she closes her eyes briefly to find peace in the heaving of her chest. Hands intertwined, Komori reaches his thumb towards her wrist to caress over flawed skin, as uncomfortable as it is. When [Name] flutters her eyes open again, she meets his comforting smile merging with the twinkling stars.

He straightens his head, gazing down as [Name]'s cheek falls on his shoulder. A chuckle slips from her mouth, lips curling into a serene simper. She forgets adults she doesn't want to follow and recalls the clear tape covering a gaping hole in the glass of her window. Her eyes struggle to lock with his, but she will always put in a bit more effort into looking at him. She's convinced Komori is either psychic or has actually implanted a camera in her bedroom. He insists the vibes were off in her messages, but how do a bunch of W's have vibes?

"Do you prefer the ocean or the sky at night?" she mutters out while returning her attention to the window across from them. She knows what she'd choose.

He lets out a pondering hum that vibrates from his throat to his shoulder and reminds her they're together. "They're not comparable." Her frizzled hair tickles his jaw before he rests his cheek against her.

"Why's that?"

"You can't swim in the sky, can you?"

"Maybe you can't."

Their laughters are distinguishable in the emptiness of the train, revealing dimples and holding independence from each other's voices. The way Komori covers his mouth with his fist as he puffs his chuckles creates quietude in the jumbled mess of wrinkled thoughts that twist and turn to form her brain. The way [Name]'s tongue pokes out from between her teeth fills his stomach up with butterflies made from warming adoration for the friend whose hand he gets to hold. They settle down as they blow out sighs brimming with contentment. Glimpses of the waxing moon echo the earlier question.

"What's your answer?"

"Which do you want?"

"The sky—the midnight sky, of course. Clear of clouds, new moon, scars—stars, sorry. Stars of every color, Venus is probably visible."

"Go prettier."

She pulls away from his shoulder, the weight of his body transferring from her head to her lap as he makes no effort to sit up. He refuses to let go of her hand and squeezes it while cradling it atop his chest. The view is one she allows only for him; vulnerability, creativity, hope, love. There's delicacy in how her lips carefully wrap around the words she chooses and the syllables she whispers into soft clouds of her voice. Two for the blue he steals from the sky, two for that same vast and open sky, five for the lack of moon, four for her feelings.

"You hold the midnight sky in your gaze, stretching farther than mortal human hands can ever hope to reach. It's a welcoming darkness, inviting, safe. A moonless night where the only light comes from twinkling stars, dead and alive, dotting an endless canvas in glowing silver and red and gold and colors unknown to humans. They all glisten in the blue of your eyes and they're beautiful. I love you."

[Name] admires the realized smile growing on his lips. His thumb resumes its rubbing on the torn skin of her arms. "I love your words," Komori snickers in return. She laughs with him as she rolls her eyes. It's a language only the two of them can speak, sharing meanings twisted into codes for their own understanding.

Silence falls for her to relish in the disappearance of the anxiety that eats at her stomach and clogs her throat up and transforms speaking into torture. She owes it all to Komori, those stones he keeps throwing at her bedroom window, and his offer to run away from the discord at home if even for one night. Sentences flood over her lips effortlessly when it's his eyes she's staring into, although she can't see past them to find the end of the words she's spilling. He's the type of person that makes others want to hug and kiss them without trying. [Name] fears intimate touches as she saves herself from new bruises, but she's come to find the tips of his fingers heal.

She's come to find if it's Komori, she doesn't mind speaking until her vocal chords tear; she doesn't mind welcoming the warmth of his hand around her numb fingers; she doesn't mind closing her eyes to finally rest. She's come to find that if it's Komori, it's fine.

#I Love You(r Words) #Haikyuu #Komori Motoya #Komori Motoya x Reader #Komori x Reader #Haikyuu x Reader

[usuallyannoyingwhispers]

A ghost loves you since a thousand and four years and though you don't remember things

that old, you find yourself falling for the ghost

It is just another day- a comb with missing teeth and her knees are bruised with spring. Kate Bush is screeching from her dead grandma's room and hours are the golden horses of a carousel, merging and splitting. The sun is transparent pink of her mother's dupatta and minute by minute, the earth is pulling back the green of shadows inside her womb. A siren's call: No and she knows her heart cannot withstand its own prayer. She flinches at the sound of moon cracking at her feet and she looks at him for the first time. He is staring at the ground, and just like that, he pulls a ribbon of light out of his mouth and flings it into the moonless sky. Persephone! Her name is something fragile between the teeth of a wolf- but she can't tell whether it is a hunt or the wolf's own cub. Despite this, she holds his hand and the snakes coiling his wrist move on to hers. She feels a breaking inside her and he neatly folds the clayen skin she shed. She lets her bones fall and leave them for her mother to gather. He lets the pomegranate beads roll into her mouth of smoke and ash and her discarded bones glow in the dead dark. When death calls your name, you cannot not look back. She doesn't know how far she wants to go, she just wants to be in the dark a little longer. Her mother never told her that a woman's desires are not as simple as a yes or no and she cannot risk never to crush the bright dark of his face between her cupped hands. Shadows leap out of the walls to follow her and rain falls in and out of her dream. Somewhere, in the coast of night, a coyote hunts hours and Persephone's mother fingers deep cuts on the chopping board. The mother's body is filling up with salt and the raven's cry tells her what she already knew. Everyone is counting the mistakes she never made and she knows, if she returns now, the shock of cherry blossoms will be too much.

---

It's 6 o' clock and rust falls from air. When you were born the midwife found an orange in place of your heart and after peeling, she ate it and spat the seeds in the hollow of your body. Your therapist told you that aging is same as making love and as you feel hours opening their red mouths around your skin, you cannot think of a more ridiculous and a more accurate analogy. As the teeth of night chew everything living in the rhythm of sex you write a memo to the next body you'll wear and end it with- P.S. We are all morsels to satiate the hunger of time. You try to console yourself that if you become one with the unborn, the rain may answer you. The milk of night are the bones of your lovers returned to you and as labourers pass tobacco among themselves under the moon, you see your ancestors' bodies splitting with light. A yearning blackens your bones and the moon cracks and falls down, and it takes you an hour to brush the dark from your hair. Your body moonburnt and your desires distracted, everything sacred confuses you and you wander in and out of the walls of time. When you wake up, you can swear, the tall poplar outside the window, almost floats, its branches tearing the clouds. Light has failed you once again and now the hills around your village are turning to moons. The fog opens like a lover for you and now you know, it's possible to believe in both cemeteries and cherry blossoms.

#concept playlists #concept playlist #indian dark academia #indian moodboard #spooky #haunting #Ghost lover #Spotify

[katedrakeohd]

Cordonia 1885

Chapter 2

This is a TRR Fanfiction in the genre of the supernatural. Some characters belong to Pixelberry, and I'm just borrowing them to use as my macabre puppets.

Notes and Warnings: This series is Rated Mature for its grisly, bloody content, and may feature sexual situations. This chapter mentions Child Abuse and paranoia based on Fear of the Dark.

Word count: 1269

Catch up on previous chapters:

Prologue / Chapter One

Drake hated the dark, but would never admit it to anyone that he was afraid of it. He had Sister Agnes from the orphanage to thank for that. As a young boy she had punished him for soiling his pants and then locked him in a cupboard. He had battered the doors and cried to be let out until his throat was sore and his fists were bloody. Being trapped in there with his own dirty smell had made him even more miserable. When he had been set free that evening, he’d endured the extra punishment of having his backside scrubbed with a harsh brush during a cold bath. He'd gone to bed shivering, learning his lesson.

Now sitting in the dark, on the cold floor with his knees drawn up to his chest, he was reliving the indignities of childhood over again. He felt dirty, ashamed and helpless. It was a cloudy, moonless night and although he had a window there was little to dispel the gloom.  The dawn would come eventually, but he had no idea how many hours away that was.

Blinded by the dark, his other senses were working overtime. Every rustling, creak of floor board or scratching noise he heard sounded like it was in the room with him. Covering his ears didn't help either, trapping the sound of his own panicked heart and restless breathing inside his head.

Get a hold of yourself, and quit acting like a frightened child. Think about a way out of here.

Leaning his head back against the wall he blinked in the dark, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He could make out the shapes of the furniture and the outline of the window.

Open the window and climb out? At the very least I could get some fresh air. It's starting to smell bad in here.

Crawling carefully along the floor, his shoulder bumps into the corner of the bed. The musty smell of the mattress causes him to wrinkle up his nose. Reaching up he uses the bed to help himself to his feet. Although the room was cool, the exertion of standing up causes him to break out in a sweat.

What's wrong with me? This doesn't feel like the result of a night of overdrinking. I feel so tired, like I've been running for my life.

As the sweat trickles down the side of his neck it stings the itchy spot he'd been scratching at. Wincing, he wipes away the sweat on his brow with his sleeve and then tilts his head to scrape his neck against his shoulder. Shuffling along the end of the bed he uses it as a guide. He can smell the basin of bloody water on the dresser to his right. Taking a tentative shuffle step he reaches out with his hand and touches the corner of the dresser.

Ok. Now if memory serves me right there shouldn’t be any more obstacles between here and the window.

Glancing to his right he's startled by his shadowy reflection in the mirror. With his hair matted on one side of his head and sticking up on the other, his wide terrified eyes and the roughened state of his beard it’s no wonder the housekeeper screamed at him. He looked horrible.

Taking a deep breath to try to calm the rapid beating of his heart he holds his hands out in front of him and walks over to the window. Running his hands along the windowsill he feels for a draft. Looking down at the street, he sees a shadowy figure in black looking up at him.

Is that Bastien?

Drake angrily pushes up on the lower half of the window frame, wanting to vent his frustrations on the other man for getting him into this mess. The window won't budge. Groaning with frustration he rattles the frame and tries to dislodge a window pane.

I could break it. But I'm in enough trouble with the housekeeper as it is.

Panting with defeat he leans heavily against the windowsill, pressing his forehead against the glass.

Damn you Bastien. Get me out of here you smug Bastard.

Wiping the window with his sleeve he looks down at the street again, but the shadowy man is gone. Slumping down to the floor, he leans against the wall and closes his eyes.

I feel so tired, maybe sleeping will bring the morning faster. 

As his mind starts to drift toward sleep, he swears he hears a soft whisper.

“Draaake….”

His eyes snap open, and he looks around in the dark, “Huh..Who said that?”

But he was alone.

“Draaake,” he hears again in a soft sing-song voice.

This time it sounded like Elizabeth, or whatever her name was. Now he knows they're teasing him. But were the whispers real or just in his mind?

Getting up and stumbling across the room he goes over to the door. Pressing his ear against it he strains to listen but hears nothing. Nervous sweat blooms on his brow as he rattles the door latch.

“Is somebody out there? Please let me out?”, he pleads.

His rising panic and the erratic thumping of his heart were making it increasingly difficult to breathe. He bangs his fist against the door. Maybe if he woke somebody they'd come to his rescue.

This was like being locked in that damned cupboard all over again. Except this time he was facing more punishment than a scrub brush and a cold bath. What was he going to tell the police?

I was drunk and don't remember what happened. No, I don't think I killed anybody. Sorry I don't know who she really was.

The side of his neck started to itch intensely again, and he was starting to feel an uncomfortable  itchy sensation in more private places too. He hadn't properly bathed in days, and the fact that he didn’t have soap to clean the blood off of himself made him feel more dirty.

Leave it to me to choose a hotel that probably has fleas. But wait! I wouldn't have chosen this hotel. I have no money, so either Bastien or Elizabeth would have had to pay for the room. But who signed the register when we checked in?

“Draaaaake,” that phantom whisper again.

“Stop it, stop it!  You're not real.” Drake whimpers, clamping his hands over his ears.

Bastien and his female companion make their way up the stairs to the second floor.  Although the hallway was devoid of light, they had no problem finding Drake's room.

Drake backs up and then sits down onto the corner of the bed, his head hung low and his elbows resting on his knees. The creak of floorboards out in the hallway, makes his ear twitch involuntarily and he raises his head.

Somebody's coming.

Bastien reaches for the door latch, giving it a rattle. “Drake are you alright in there? Can we come in?”

Drake feels relief wash over him like a cool ocean wave as he calls out, “Yes please. But the door is locked from the outside.”

“Not a problem,” Bastien replies.

Bastien grasps the door handle firmly in his hand, giving it a hard twist to the right, the groan of splintering wood can be heard. He kicks the bottom of the door forcefully and it pops open.

Drake blinks with surprise. "H..how did you do that?"

The door creaks as it's forced open wide. Drake can just make out the vague shape of two figures in the dark doorway. "No time to explain. Let's get you out of here."

Chapter Three

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Tagging:

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#cordonia 1885 #drake walker #bastien lykel #vampire #long post