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apocryphalfemme · 4 years

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Designatory Date Night

Well, I lied. I finally played Mass Effect: Andromeda a week or so back and I’m here to report that I love Vetra Nyx so completely that I was inspired to write some simply brain-rotting fluff. (An entire two years ahead of schedule, I know!) Und so, I give you Designatory Date Night. Read it below the cut, or on AO3.

Love,

Clithroe

““Pathfinder?”

“Yeah, SAM?”

“If I may ask, what is it you’re thinking of doing?”

“I’m thinking...” As she recalled her earlier train of thought, Ryder’s face lit up. “I’m thinking I’ve got an idea for the best date night, ever.””

Ryder leverages the privileges of her job to show Vetra a good time.

“Anwar, what the hell am I looking at?”

“It appears to be a... a solar system, Pathfinder,” Suvi murmured. “The solar system, in fact. I believe we’ve found Avaarus.” Ryder drummed her fingers against her console, brimming with nervous anticipation.

“But it’s in the middle of nowhere. We’re not even in Heleus space anymore, right Kallo?” she asked.

“Confirmed, Pathfinder. We’re in deep space, just a ways outside of home. I should mention that the next known celestial cluster is the Boone Traverse and we’re not getting anywhere near there without a mass relay,” Kallo said. “Whatever this is, it’s a lone entity.”

“So... what?” Ryder breathed, disbelieving. “Heleus just lost an entire star and a handful of planets? Did it wander off when the angara weren’t looking or something?”

“Ryder,” Suvi piped up. “It’s possible that what we’re seeing here is one of the more dramatic effects of the Scourge. If Avaarus really was originally located where angaran maps say, then the system may have been wholly ejected from the cluster as the Scourge spread.” Their pilot chirped an incredulous noise.

“Is that even possible?”

“Come on Kallo, two whole years in Andromeda and you’re still asking questions like that?�� Suvi teased. Kallo cut back with something sarcastic, but Ryder wasn’t listening; her attention had been caught by what was orbiting their runaway star.

“Okay, no, that can’t be right. Avaarus is supposed to have four orbiting bodies. That,” she pointed, “is at least seven.” That got their attention. Kallo and Suvi’s conversation petered out as they each ran their own, individual counts of this bizarre, seemingly truant system. Kallo was first to break the silence.

“With eyes alone, I’m actually counting nine, Pathfinder”

“I think I’m seeing thirteen,” Suvi reported. SAM’s vox crackled to life over the bridge speakers, only to prove them all wrong.

“Pathfinder, there are at least sixteen distinguishable celestial bodies orbiting this star.” Kallo gaped, shocked into silence. Suvi giggled, a tad manic. Ryder swore.

“Holy shit. SAM, what… are they? Where did they come from?”

“The majority appear to be planets in varying states of compositional decay, Pathfinder. Preliminary scans indicate that many may have once been capable of bearing life. Cross-referencing with what remains of old angaran star charts and the inferable ejection path of the star Avaarus, I believe it is possible that we have discovered what happened to several planets that the angara report as having mysteriously disappeared over the last several centuries.”

“Holy shit,” Ryder swore again, for good measure. “So if this really is Avaarus… I guess our friend here decided it wasn’t going out alone, huh? Stole a few planets on the way out the door.”

“Ryder, the implications of this are incredible,” Suvi babbled, ecstatic. “We knew the Scourge was powerful, but to learn that it can generate gravitational effects significant enough to move entire stars… forget terraforming, this is stellaforming!”

“Tann’s going to have an aneurysm,” Ryder chuckled.

“Don’t forget why we’re here, guys. We’ve still got a job to do,” Kallo said, gently reminding them of their purpose in hunting down this most elusive system.

“Right, yes.” Ryder ran a hand through her hair before tapping her mic. “Jaal, can you come up to the bridge? I think we may have found what we’ve been looking for.” Their resident angaran’s voice crackled immediately back.

“Oh, really now? Of course! On my way, Ryder.”

“God, it isn’t half pretty, is it?” murmured Suvi, completely ignoring her instruments panel in favor of staring at the solar system projected before them with a slightly glazed look.

Ryder had to admit that her science officer’s assessment was dead on: Avaarus was a gorgeous system and that was putting it lightly. Around the titanic, vividly blue-white star, sharply violet shades of gas spiraled out in a tight corkscrew. At the edge of the heliosphere, thousands upon tens of thousands of asteroids spun in a truly magnificent debris disk. All throughout, a plethora of mostly ringed planets hung suspended in the void, bathed in astral gases, caught in the midst of their aeons-long cosmic dance. It was a perfect celestial tableau. The fact that Ryder had seen dozens of equally stunning systems did nothing to detract from the moment; this sort of thing was enough to steal the breath from your lungs and, for her, it still did, every time.

Vetra would love this, she thought. Before that particular idea could go anywhere, however, the quiet reverie they had fallen into was interrupted by the opening whoosh of the bridge doors.

“Alright Ryder, show me what you’ve got!” Jaal called cheerily, sauntering up to them. Ryder turned and grinned.

“Hey, Jaal. Allow me to present, for your consideration... the long-lost Avaarus system!” she said, spinning back to fling her arms wide. “Or at least, we think it is.” Jaal laughed.

“It’s a start, to be certain. Any luck in finding the colony?”

“Anj Guhloan was supposedly on the fourth planet from Avaarus, right?”

“Correct.” Ryder hummed an acknowledgement and cast a critical eye upon the projection.

“Right, then. SAM, scan everything that could be big enough for an angaran settlement to hide on. With all the crap this star picked up on the way out, who knows if Avaarus IV is still where it should be.” Only after the merest second of delay, her AI chirped his response.

“Done. I have identified what may be the remains of an angaran satellite in orbit around the fifth planet.”

“Bingo. Kallo, I know this place is a minefield, but can you get us in closer?”

“Oh, please,” Kallo scoffed. “I could fly through this blindfolded.”

“As entertaining as that sounds, I’d rather not be on the ship while you attempted it,” Jaal protested. Kallo chuckled to himself.

“Have it your way. Approach vector clear, Pathfinder; taking us in.” The ever-present hum of the drive core pitched up a little as Kallo wove through the debris disk and into the core of the heliosphere. Ryder had to hand it to him: while he could be a little over-sure at times, he was, inarguably, a pilot of sterling quality. The Tempest progressed at a healthy pace through a chunk of space so dense with detritus that a lesser navigator would have been reduced to crawl.

It was only a few short minutes before they were close enough to the planet in question for Suvi to start taking more detailed scans. Ryder was less than thrilled to see her science officer’s face falling as she pored over her gathered readings.

“That’s not a happy expression, Anwar. What are you getting?” Suvi muttered something unintelligible and tapped her mic to ping their AI.

“SAM, can you get me a scan of the star, please?”

“Of course, Ms. Anwar.” As her eyes flicked across the new influx of data, Suvi spat something foul.

“Keep us in the loop, Suvi, what have you got?” Ryder asked.

“Bad news, I’m afraid.” Suvi twisted in her seat to face them. “It looks like the star Avaarus is well on its way to becoming a superluminous supernova; this system’s going to go off like a firecracker sometime in the next couple centuries. Avaarus IV - or, Avaarus V now, I guess - if it ever really was Anj Guhloan, has been a molten, liquid hunk of rock for a long time now. I’m sorry, guys. The planet’s cooked.” A hand pressed to her forehead, Ryder sighed.

“Damn. I’m sorry, Jaal. That is not the news I wanted to give the angara.” She was surprised when Jaal smiled at her, apparently far less distraught than she had expected.

“Do not worry, my friend. The angara, myself included, have accepted that, between the Scourge, the kett, and our own occasional stupidity, many of the settlements that once were are now undoubtedly gone. Though I am disappointed the lost colony of Anj Guhloan was not waiting for us, I am thankful to have borne witness to its fate. The angara who lived here will not be forgotten, for we now know what happened to them.” Ryder smiled wistfully back.

“Well, I’m glad we could at least give you that. SAM, send a report to Aya and update the Initiative’s maps.” Ryder rolled her neck, eliciting a disconcerting crack in the process. She groaned. “And on that note, I think we’re done for the day. Kallo, Suvi, go eat something and get some sleep. And…” she trailed off as she checked her omnitool. “Oh my god, guys, tell me when we’ve been going for longer than eight hours!” Kallo and Suvi, now standing and working out their own muscular kinks, looked at her in surprise.

“I, uh… I didn’t notice, Pathfinder,” Kallo murmured.

“How long have we…?” Suvi asked.

“I believe you three have been up here flying for more than ten hours, actually. Last I checked, that is,” Jaal said, grinning. Head cradled in her hands, Ryder heaved another groan, this one infinitely more weary than the last.

“Then remind me instead to set an alarm next time, or something. Alright, clear the bridge you lot, I’m going to get enough hell as it is from Lexi about overworking you.”

“Oh, come on, Ryder,” Kallo argued.

Suvi cut over him, to say: “This is what we signed up for!” Ryder pointed at the door, but couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face.

“Out, now! Food and then bed; we can poke around the system in more detail tomorrow. Jaal, make sure they get some of that roast Drack made yesterday down their throats?”

“You’ve got it, Ryder.” Saint that he was, Jaal gently but firmly shepherded her protesting bridge crew out and down to the galley. The door slid shut behind them, leaving the Pathfinder by herself.

Sometimes, you don’t realize how tired you are until you’ve a second to yourself; the newfound silence afforded Ryder both a blissful moment of recuperation and the recognition of the fact that she was, indeed, knackered. She stretched her arms - damn, if she wasn’t stiff - and turned her attention back to the now rediscovered Avaarus system. Exhausted as she was, she didn’t quite want to leave it yet, especially for something so trivial as sleep. (Yes, she was entirely a hypocrite). There was something equal parts forlorn and magical about watching the silver-blue star floating alone in the void; so far away from everything. And yet, as if in defiance of its exile, Avaarus burned all the more beautiful. Though, it wasn’t really alone, was it? It had its stolen planets to comfort it through the coming explosion. In much the same way as the ultimate fate of Anj Guhloan was beheld by Jaal, so too would the fate of Avaarus be beheld by its stolen audience. It was a strangely reassuring thought. As she gazed at the plethora of elliptical orbiters, a thought occurred to her.

“Hey, SAM.”

“Yes, Ryder?”

“What’s the plan for these planets?”

“Initiative protocol dictates that they be scanned, designated, and marked on Initiative maps. Planets of note - those that could be potentially habitable or those with valuable resources - will be highlighted and the relevant officials made aware of their existence. In the case of these particular planets, considering they are molten slag bar none and located a significant distance from the Heleus cluster, it is unlikely the Initiative will take any interest beyond the academic. There may be some investigation into the stellaforming effects of the Scourge, as Ms. Anwar puts is it, but that is where it will likely end.”

“So this is as far as things go for them, huh? At least, as far as we’re concerned?”

“That is correct, Pathfinder. The Initiative has more immediate concerns.”

“That’s kind of sad. Something so beautiful deserves a bit more attention than... wait, SAM, what exactly are these planets being designated?”

“I have tagged the orbiting bodies, in order, as H-977, H-978, H-979a, H-979b, H-.” Before he could get too far into his alphanumeric monologue, Ryder cut him off.

“Okay, right, thanks SAM.” Chewing at the inside of her cheek, she stared off into space, thoughtful.

“Pathfinder?”

“Yeah, SAM?”

“If I may ask, what is it you’re thinking of doing?”

“I’m thinking...” As she recalled her earlier train of thought, Ryder’s face lit up. “I’m thinking I’ve got an idea for the best date night, ever.”

“Ah. I believe I understand. Would you like me to ask Ms. Nyx to come up to the bridge?”

“Nah, I’ll go grab her.” Ryder turned around and made for the door, but was arrested in her escape by SAM once more.

“Have fun, Ryder.” Ryder beamed.

“Thanks, buddy.”

With a hop, skip, and a slap to the face to keep herself awake, Ryder was away. She didn’t bother with the ladder to the lower deck - as she jogged onto the clear plex of the catwalk, she unceremoniously jumped off the side to land on the ground below. A combination of her biotics and sleep deprivation was enough to negate the jarring impact entirely and in the span of a heartbeat, she was off down the hall. As she hustled past the med bay, she caught at the very edge of her vision Lexi’s head poking out to investigate the noise.

“Ryder, what on earth did you just-.”

“No time, doc! Everything’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

“Ryder, you know full well that your telling me not to worry about something only ever makes me worry more!” But Ryder was gone and heading into the cargo bay before Lexi could get too far into giving a proper scolding. Lucky for her, it looked like just about everyone else was asleep - no one was around to see her eager jog over to what had become Vetra’s office.

Slowing to a stop, Ryder took a moment to catch her breath. She didn’t want to look excessively keen - though in a committed relationship she and Vetra may have been, she still had a calm and collected reputation to maintain. It didn’t matter that Vetra knew it all to be, by and large, a conscious affect: it was the principle of the thing. The Pathfinder was always composed - even in the face of giddying affection. Once she had herself together, Ryder headed in. The door slid open to reveal Vetra hunched over a mess of crates. She was, quite impressively, stacking them with just the one hand while simultaneously checking them against the list projected on her omnitool, all while muttering obscenities under her breath. Ryder crossed her arms and leaned against the frame, indulging in having caught her partner unawares and in her element. Vetra was much more relaxed when other people - Ryder aside - weren’t around and it gave Ryder a sort of tender joy to see her so at ease. But of course, such sappy sentiments would never stop her from teasing her girlfriend, not at all. As Vetra straightened back up, Ryder announced her presence in as serious a tone as she could fake.

“Ms. Nyx, your assistance is urgently required on the bridge.” Vetra turned around to meet Ryder’s gaze, crossing her own arms in the process.

“Is it now, Pathfinder?” she said, with a poorly constrained smile.

“Indeed. Life and death situation; fate of the cluster at stake. The usual.”

“Mmm, I’m sure. Unfortunately for you, Ryder, it just so happens that I’m currently having the time of my life processing requisitions. Can your little ‘situation’ measure up to the sheer euphoria of cataloguing rolls of toilet paper?” Vetra deadpanned the statement so completely that Ryder found herself staring at her partner in disbelief, mouth dropping. Vetra, clearly delighting in Ryder’s bewilderment, had the gall to wink at her. Too tired to retort, Ryder finally broke. She sprang forward, proffering a hand and letting all her excitement shine past the bit.

“Oh my god, come on already, you silly turian, I want to show you something!” Vetra smiled in turn and reached out to take said hand.

“Yeah, alright, I was getting pretty sick of checking for delivery discrepancies anyway. So what have you - whoah!” As soon as she had a hold on her, Ryder tugged Vetra into a jog, pulling her out of the office and around onto the cargo lift. She punched the ascent and the thing began its slow, clunky climb. Unfortunately, slow and clunky was something of an understatement; Ryder found herself tapping her foot with impatience as they rose ploddingly.

“Excited, are we?” Vetra poked.

“Trust me, babe, you’re going to love this.”

“If it’s whatever’s responsible for you smiling like this, then I’m sure I will.” Vetra slung an arm around Ryder’s shoulders, who in turn threw an arm around Vetra’s waist; overt affection came more easily when they were alone. Additionally, being wrapped around each other had the added benefit of slowing Ryder down a bit: pulled close to Vetra’s side, she was forced to adopt a slightly more sane pace as they made their way back through the ship and up to the bridge. Ryder didn’t mind. It was totally worth trading speed for. When they eventually came up on the bridge doors, Ryder called a halt before they could enter.

“Okay, close your eyes.”

“Seriously?”

“Hey, I did it that time you tried to kill me with a blackened piece of cow.”

“Fair point.”

“Look, I’d cover them for you if I could, but I can’t help the fact that you’re absurdly tall.” Vetra grinned evilly down at her.

“Well, I can’t help the fact that you’re a shrimp. And don’t pretend you don’t love it, short stack.”

“Yeah, I do, now close ‘em, Nyx!” Ryder muttered, her face flushing a little as Vetra eyed her. Apparently sufficiently appeased, her partner deigned to close her eyes. Ryder guided her temporarily sightless charge through the doors and to the fore of the bridge. With her implant, she signaled SAM to collapse the navigation panel and guided Vetra to sit on the now available ledge before joining her by her side.

“Okay, you can open your eyes.” Vetra did so and promptly gasped.

“Oh, wow.”

“Right?”

“That’s...”

“Right?!”

“Hot damn, Ryder. That’s gorgeous.” Ryder hummed an affirmation, thoroughly pleased with herself. “You know how to pick ‘em, babe.”

“What can I say? I’ve got exceptional taste in star systems.” Vetra elbowed her affectionately.

“You sure do.”

“So... do you wanna name them?” Vetra spluttered, incredulously amused.

“Be serious.”

“I am serious!”

“Ryder, is that even something you’re allowed to do?”

“Aw, c’mon, I’m the Pathfinder. If anyone can get away with naming a couple of planets, I think it’s me.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Vetra shook her head, but Ryder knew she just about had her. Her partner just needed the right incentive.

“I’m giving you dibs on naming the first one.” That got her. Vetra opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, and peered curiously into space.

“Which one’s that?” Ryder snorted and pointed.

“Purple-blue ice giant with the three moons, very edge of the heliosphere.”

“Oh, you spoil me.”

“I try. So, give us a name! What are you thinking?”

“Hmm. I’m thinking… Not Dead Yet.” Ryder stifled a chuckle.

“Why that?”

“Looks like it’s almost been ejected from the system, but the big bastard’s clinging on something fierce.”

“A name the Initiative can relate to, I’m sure.”

“That’s the idea. Alright, your turn, oh mighty Pathfinder. What’re we going to call that one?” The planet in question was a chthonian-in-progress; a gas giant in close orbit to Avaarus, its emerald-colored atmosphere in the process of being stripped away to reveal the molten aluminum-iron core.

“Stinky.” Vetra burst out laughing.

“What?! You’re messing with me.”

“Look at it! That thing is trailing bright green gas like no one’s business.”

“Ryder, I’m no scientist, but I’m pretty certain that’s burning atmosphere.”

“Yeah and it’s stinking up the neighborhood as it goes.” Vetra heaved a much-put upon sigh, but the breadth of her toothy turian grin and the fluttering of her mandibles betrayed her amusement.

“Alright, fine. Stinky it is. Which one next?”

“That one. Whatcha got?” The planet Ryder was indicating was another gas giant, though this one was significantly prettier than the newly-dubbed Stinky. Ivory clouds of gas billowed across it, cut though with the occasional twisting carmine storm. It was a bloody, alabaster gem, stark against the black. Vetra considered it thoughtfully.

“Would I sound crazy if I said it kind of looks like my sister?”

“Y’know... no, I see it, it kind of does.” Ryder and Vetra gave each other a dubious, slant-eyed look at exactly the same time and erupted in giggles.

“Spirits, babe, Sid’s going to flip if I tell her I named a planet after her!”

“All the more reason to do it!” Vetra huffed.

“Screw it. Planet, I dub thee Sidera.”

“She’ll be thrilled.” Falling victim to a yawn of massive proportions, Ryder leaned her head against Vetra’s shoulder and fought to keep her eyes open. “Go on, you can do the next one too.” Vetra cast her eyes around the system, searching for her next victim.

“How about that protoplanet?” she asked. As Ryder murmured her sleepy approval, Vetra curled an arm around her. “Well, as long as I’m being all sentimental… Prag’rath.” Ryder scrunched her nose in confusion.

“Prag’rath?”

“The batarian mercenary who taught me to shoot.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.”

“She’d kick my ass for it.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell.” Though there were yet planets in need of names, tiredness and the sheer splendor of the system had Vetra and Ryder lapsing into a warm and comfortable silence, pressed close together. The Avaarus system slowly and silently spun before them, its striking beauty framed by the stars so incredibly remote in the distance.

“Is this something normal couples do?” Ryder asked. Vetra peered down at her.

“Naming planets? I mean... no, probably not.” Vetra brought Ryder’s hand up to her lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “But I’d like to think it’s very us. This was a lot of fun, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m glad.” Ryder settled further against her partner and finally stopped fighting the exhaustion of the day, letting her eyes droop shut. Though already half-asleep, she whispered, “Vetra?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“I love you.” The last things Ryder registered before finally succumbing to sleep were the pale, sparkling light of Avaarus and Vetra’s voice, murmuring in her ear.

“I love you too.”

#clithroeshewrites #vetra nyx #mass effect: andromeda #me:a #vetryder #ryder #mass effect #fanfiction #hey look my motivation came back

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orionwhispers · 5 years

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Wishing It Was You; Tommy Shelby Imagine

(A/N - hey guys... its been a while. I started this in april and finally finished it. she might be my longest yet my fave imagine ive done. im tired and lazy so sorry if there are any mistakes. PLZ let me know what you think and my ask is always open!! ily)

Tommy knows he's standing next to Grace.

He can feel the warmth radiating off her skin, can feel the pressure of his hand against the curve of her waist, can smell her expensive perfume, with it’s notes of rose water and lemon, lingering on her neck, but all he sees is you. Grace is leaning into him, her giggles sounding like twinkling diamonds as she laughs at a joke he hasn’t registered, his mind completely preoccupied with thoughts of the woman standing at the other side of the room.

He hadn’t expected to see you here. In fact, he hadn’t expected to ever see you again. It strikes him like a bullet in his gut, leaving him winded and gasping for air in the middle of an expansive ballroom, the gin on his tongue suddenly as hot as acid.

Have you seen him yet? The thought fills his brain like a buzzing hornets nest, the feeling is immediate and prickling at the back of his skull.

Do you know he’s here? Have you noticed him?

Most importantly though… Did you come alone?

His hand unconsciously tightens around Grace’s waist and she smiles at him, as sweet as sugar, completely unaware of the femme fatale on the opposite side of the room, capturing her husbands attention and luring him like a siren.

He bites his tongue until he can taste metal and copper. A fresh wave of guilt and shame collapse over him but he swallows it down like it’s nothing but a lump in his throat.

He loves Grace, he adores her. He isn’t doing anything wrong.

And yet, he can’t take his eyes off of you.

At first he thought he was going mad. He hadn’t believed in ghosts and spirits since he was a boy, sat in a caravan, reading tarot cards with his Mum. He became too used to death and decay in the war, too used to seeing blood and rot to believe in a chance of a second life - not when he had sinned so much in his first.

He hadn’t thought of you in so long. Hadn’t conjured up the image of you in his mind like he used to do late at night, imagining the feel of your skin against the pads of his fingertips, the smell between your shoulder blades, the weight of your ribs underneath his.

You were always at the back of his mind though. No matter how hard he pushed you away, your smile and voice would always linger at the back of his head, a beam of sunlight whenever the shovels would get too loud.

You were real though. You were back. He could tell only because of the way you captivated everyone around you, the faces of those enchanted by you were proof that you weren’t just a memory his drunken mind had created. Throwing your head back and giggling, chewing on the bottom of your painted lips, you had everyone under your spell.

He can’t take his eyes away from you. Its like he’s a puppet and you’re toying with the strings without even realising. He’s tethered to you, no matter how far apart you may be.

“Tommy?”

Grace’s syrup like voice cuts through him like a blade, and he straightens up. He’s acting like a teenager and the thought repulses him, he’s a businessman, not a child. He’s fought in the war, dealt with fearless gangsters and killed men with his bare hands, how come seeing you has rendered him breathless?

He turns to look at her, her gentle features illuminated under the chandeliers, her brow is furrowed with a mixture of mild irritation and curiosity and he lets her familiarity wash over him like the ocean. She smiles kindly at him, turning her attention back to the guests surrounding her, and Tommy feels a clench of white hot shame that whilst he is stood next to his wife, his mind is dizzied with the thoughts of another woman.

Grace is Grace.

She’s beautiful and soft and kind and warm. She was the stability he needed, the type of woman he needed to come home to, she tended to his wounds and listened to his rants and kissed his scars. She was too good for him and he knew it. She had lied and deceived him in the past, but it strengthened their love, rebuilt their trust like a fortress. He loved her, he wanted to have a family with her.

But she would never be you.

You were as familiar as the peaked cap that adorned his head, you were as much as a part of him as the gun in his holster. Your face flashed in his mind whenever he heard the last gasp of air from an enemy, it was you who appeared in his dreams and rescued him from the depths of his nightmares. It was as if you were stitched into his skin since the very first day you met when you were children.

He needs to get home, he can’t stay. Too long and you’ll sink your claws into him. Too long and everything he’s worked so goddamn hard for will start to crumble around him.

He flattens his palm against the back of his wife’s dress, ready to make hasty excuses and polite apologies and leave, nestle her into the back of his car and drive far away.

He opens his mouth to speak, but before words can slip from his tongue, he spots a smug, sparkling eyed Polly approaching, arms spread, lips curled into a smirk.

Fuck being polite. He’s Tommy fucking Shelby, he can do whatever the fuck he wants.

His hands curve around Grace’s spine and she tuts in protest, ready to scold her husband for his haste, but she snaps her lips shut at his flushed expression.

“Oh Tommy! Isn’t it wonderful?”

Polly approaches, already buzzed, arms spread like a bird in flight, just waiting to engulf him. A cigarette dangles from the corner of her cherry painted lips, her eyes gleaming with a mix of alcohol and mischief.

He inwardly curses, Polly cornering him like a lioness, ready to tear him and his wife apart. She’s practically chomping at the bit, the delight of seeing your familiar face and the knowledge of what that’ll do to Tommy and Grace making her float across the floor. She’s drunk on elation and glasses of champagne, her mind too fucked to even think about the consequences.

“Oh Tom!” She repeats, cradling his face like he’s a boy again. Under any other circumstances he would be delighted to see his Aunt so happy, a sight he was rarely blessed with, but now he’s wishing for anything else. Grace’s grip tightens, he can feel her stare on the side of his skin, burning holes into his flesh. Polly feels her gaze and turns to the blonde beauty, her disdain for her nephews wife enough to drill the final holes into his coffin, sealing him shut into eternal darkness.

“It’s (Y/N)! She’s back.”

Grace stiffens beside him, arching a penciled eyebrow at her husband and opening her lips. Tommy can feel his palms moisten, an unfamiliar sensation that takes him back to being a teenager, one that only ever occurred around you.

“Who’s (Y/N), Thomas?”

————————————————————

You were the same age as Ada, reserved and soft spoken, new to Birmingham and all of its smoke and gristle coloured cobbles. She saw you one day in the school yard; sat alone on your first day, picking at the skin on your swollen lips, round doe eyes following the other children roughhousing and laughing. She was immediately drawn to you, her inquisitive mind growing protective, and it wasn’t long before she strode over to you, confident as ever, introducing herself and deciding to take you under her wing.

The two of you became fast friends, sharing jam sandwiches and apple slices under the sun, skipping along the streets and throwing stones into the cut at dusk before your parents hastily called you inside and scolded your recklessness. You barely left one another’s side, spending every night you could at each others house, giggling and gossiping under the covers, trying on your mothers makeup and making sticky pinkie promises to be best friends forever.

The years passed and you still remained attached at the hip, growing closer than ever as your limbs grew and you wandered into adolescence, facing every problem you encountered together. You were Ada’s shoulder to cry on when her mother passed, sleeping next to her in a single bed for month on end as the night terrors kept her awake. You grew closer to Ada’s family as well, especially considering the amount of time you spent there. Aunt Pol became a surrogate mother to you, chastising you and supporting you and always being there for you, sometimes with a smack on the back of the legs, like the time she caught you both smoking before you hit your teens.

You became a fond fixture in the Shelby household, slotting in like just another straggly stray at the dinner table every night. You were young, but you weren’t stupid, you had known the Shelby boys since the very first day you came back to their house and even as a child you could sense the mischievous aura surrounding them. As you grew, so did your curiosity, and it wasn’t long before you learnt of the betting shop located in the back room of Pol’s house. Ada and Polly were both protective of you, and managed to keep you out of trouble despite the spark of interest that brewed in your stomach and so that back room just became another chest to lock in the back of your mind.

They both knew that there was something different about you, and as you grew from a timid child to an inquisitive teenager your thirst became insatiable. Ada had always recognised the unpredictable nature the you harboured, you could be quiet and meek but under the surface your brain was a kaleidoscope of spontaneity. It was you who suggested late night adventures and rain splattered trips that got you both into trouble, you who dreamt of cities and lives bigger than the both of you. Ada adored that about you, your desire for change something she wasn’t used to in the dismal, grey town she grew up in but deep down she was terrified that you wouldn’t ever be satisfied.

She wasn’t the only one who noticed the impulse in you. From the very first time he saw you all those years ago he noticed the crackle of electricity under your docile exterior, bubbling under the surface like lightning that struck the sky. Of course, back then you were just a child and Tommy was far too interested in pursuing the betting shop than taking notice of his little sister’s friend, but he always kept an eye on you. The two of you had a bizarre relationship, despite the age gap between you both, you managed to find a level ground. Whilst Arthur and John would ruffle your hair and swing you over their shoulders as if you were still a toddler, Tommy would talk to you as if you were an adult, the two of you could bicker like siblings but there was a mutual respect underlying it all, you both connected by your need for more.

It came to a head when Tommy was counting money at the betting shop one evening in August. The sun was fading to the colour of a bruised peach and the air was still warm, notes stuck to his fingers and he hummed in frustration just as the large doors swung open. His head snapped up and he came face to face with a flushed Ada, her cheeks were as red as a Gala apple and tears welled in her wide eyes. Tommy immediately reached for the gun shoved in it’s holster ready to send bullets flying over his watery eyed sister, before her exasperated voice broke through the silence.

“It’s (Y/N)! She’s had a fight with her fucking dad and now she’s gone! Please, Tom, can you help me find her?”

As Tommy had the family car, he was left trawling through the country lanes surrounding the city whilst Ada and Pol searched your usual hiding spots in Small Heath. According to Ada, you had about a two hour head start from your house, and Tommy’s foot itched over the pedals at the thought. This was hardly the first time you had run away, usually it was over to Polly’s for the night after you had had enough of your family, but after a particularly bad spout with your parents last year, Ada had found you halfway to London. You were definitely a flight risk.

Tommy’s hands clenched over the steering wheel as the sky darkened, you were a beautiful teenager, walking alone through the streets at dusk; it was a recipe for disaster. Tom knew you could hold your own, but the creatures that lurked around at night were ravenous and there was no way in hell he would let them sink their claws in you.

Tommy could feel heat prick at the bottom of his spine. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that the feelings he harboured for you stemmed much more than the ‘sibling love’ he disguised them as. The attraction between the two of you had always been there, something magnetic joining you both before you could realise it. Over the years it had blossomed, despite his attempts to distinguish the fire that you brought out in him, something about you had captivated him.

All of his thoughts turned to wisps of smoke as he rounded a corner, nearly swerving into a thorn bush as he spotted you. You were walking with determination, and he couldn’t help the smirk that grew on his face as he watched you march forward like a solider, your small frame filled with force. Your hair was loose, draping around your shoulders like a halo, bouncing with every step you took.

He trailed behind you, edging his foot off the gas and waiting as the car slowed next to you. He knew you noticed the intrusion from the way your shoulders tensed briefly, and he allowed the car to match your pace, the two of you moving like boats on water. He knew you would be the first to speak, and allowed your words to run over him like warm milk and honey.

“Hello, Thomas. Out for a drive?”

He smiled, rolling his eyes slightly before responding. “C’mon (Y/N), time to come home.”

“No thank you.”

“It’s getting late.”

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

He tensed his foot against the gas, the car rumbling lowly and rolling forward. He pulled it into park right in front of you, the dark exterior blocking you from walking any further up the lane. You exhaled in frustration, the tips of your ears and the apples of your cheeks flushed the colour of Shepard’s delight, and he cant help but bite back the smile curling in his mouth. He patted the seat playfully and watched as you scuffed your foot into the mud like a child, coyly sucking on your tongue before clambering next to him, crossing your arms and settling into the leather.

Tommy’s hands rested on the steering wheel, he flexed his fingers for a moment before turning to face you, examining your skin under the dim light. Both of your fathers had a lot in common, alcoholic, nasty and violent, something dark like rum boiling inside of their blood, men who ruled with fear and aggression. There were no marks he could see, not like the time your arm was coated in purple thumb prints that left him seething, only calmed once you and Ada had snuck off to her room and he could control his thoughts with a cigarette. That night he pretended he couldn't see Polly watching him like a hawk.

“He didn’t hit me this time.”

Good. He would have killed him.

“Kind of wish he did though, Mum bought a new frying pan that could have come in handy.”

He let you talk, the birds and the wind the only noises disturbing the peace. You were quiet, and it was rare for you to open up like this, so he cherished the moment despite the underlying bleakness of it all.

“I know it seems childish, but it just feels easier to get away.”

He hesitated, looking down at you picking your nails in the front seat of his car. The words forming on the edge of his tongue tasting like whisky, not knowing how to comfort you without implicating himself. He tried to imagine himself as Polly or Ada, the kind of person who would know what to say.

“You have people that care about you, you don’t need to fuckin’ up and leave.”

“I know I do, but anywhere is better than Small Heath.”

He blew air through his teeth. “It ain’t so bad.”

You swivelled to face him, round eyes and raised eyebrows set on him like a sniper. “Really, Tom? You do know you’re saying all this sat in the front seat of a bloody Bugatti? Bought with dirty money might I add?”

It’s the first time he’s seen you so heated and despite the truth in your words the sight of your small face twisted in annoyance is enough to make his lips curl, only adding fuel to your fire.

“You can sit here and tell me that all you want, but you know better than anyone that there’s more out there than Birmingham. I can see it in you Tom, and if you want you can act like you don’t need anything more, then that’s fine by me! But I hope you’re alright with lying to yourself.”

He stared deep into your eyes, expression blank and solid as if your words had truly punched him in the gut. You watched him for a moment, cheeks flushing slightly and eyebrows scrunching, wondering if maybe you had over stepped the line before his eyes glimmered and he held his hands up playfully, peaked cap bouncing with every exaggerated movement.

“Alright, bloody hell. Remind me not to get in a fight with you. I can see how much our Ada has rubbed off on you.”

You let a tiny smile tug at the edge of your lips before it expanded and took over your face, tossing your head back and letting your hair fall over your shoulders as you grinned. Tommy swore he felt his heart skip a beat. He started the car as quickly as he had stalled it, feeling it purr and jut under his feet, the world righted once again now that you were sat next to him. The car rolled over a bridge, and after you crossed over onto the other side he cleared his throat, opening his mouth to speak.

“If you ever feel like running away again, come and see me first, alright?”

He kept his eyes on the road, but could feel yours on the side of is neck, running softly over his flesh like fingertips.

“If I didn’t know any better, Thomas,” You spoke teasingly, using his full name just to get under his skin, “I’d think you were going soft.”

The evening sun beat down onto the two of you, and as the car lurched forward he mirrored your own smile, because maybe he was, for you.

————————————————————————-

After that long drive home it was like a switch had flipped. The two of you became closer, as if an invisible thread was tying you both together. You were allowed into the betting shop more often, counting coins and change and bickering playfully with the Blinders. Tommy took you to your first horse race under the guise of “teaching you more about the business” you wore your finest dress and he pretended he couldn't feel his breath catch in his throat when he looked at you. His hands clung protectively around your waist as you downed a glass of strawberry wine, rolling his eyes and smiling as you laughed into him as the horses galloped and the crowds cheered. You spent evenings climbing through the window in his bedroom, sitting on the sloped roof tiles as rain pattered onto the streets below, sharing a cigarette and watching the stars peek through the smoky air, unsaid words bubbling behind both of your lips as yours knees pressed together.

The rest of the family noticed the change between the two of you, but said nothing. Even Ada couldn't help smiling to herself when she saw the glances that you shared, her kind and clever older brother was the only man she could possibly think was good enough for her best friend. Although she would never admit it, it meant he was distracted enough to not notice her leaving to spend time with a certain man named Freddie.

Tommy drove you to the beach for the first time, exploring the pier and walking barefoot across the sand. Your wide smile as you danced in the surf and talked under baying seagulls was forever cemented into his mind, he vowed silently that he would move mountains just to see you happy, the feeling unlike anything he had ever felt. He taught you how to shoot a gun, your body pulled flush against his as you squealed in delight as the bullet ricocheted off the can. Your conversations flowed like running water, able to converse and laugh about everything and anything from dusk till dawn. He was mischievous and playful and would crack jokes even on your worst days, when your father was mean and your mother was distant, he would make you feel whole again.

That’s why, on a rainy Thursday as the two of you walked side by side by canal, you pulled his face towards yours with your small hands and kissed him. He froze, with all of his previous girlfriends he had always initiated things first, but with you he had felt uncharacteristically hesitant, terrified of scaring you off and losing you. However as your parted lips met and he felt you smile into his mouth, tasting of cherry jam and stolen tobacco, he let his hands snake around your waist as if they had been carved there. The wind whistled and the rain splattered both of you, his peaked cap sheltering his ruffled hair and your face from the droplets, it was freezing but heat crackled between the two of you. You were practically half his size, resting on your tip toes to meet him fully, but in that moment he knew you had him utterly under your thumb.

The relationship the two of you shared was pure and untainted. It was all soft skin and moonlight painted faces, freckles and wide teeth and apricot coloured skies. His hand would brush against yours as he walked you home, you’d laugh into his neck at the Pictures, your words would mingle together at midnight as you sat and talked. Things couldn't have been more perfect, as sweet as the whisky tea you would drink with Ada and Polly, as merry as the laughs you shared with the brothers and as syrupy as the kisses you would have with your first love. But just like the smoke that filled the once clear sky above your heads, your life was soon to darken.

It all happened so suddenly, maybe your blissful youth had created a candy coated picture over the political dramas happening around you, but now they couldn’t be ignored. There was going to be a war. You knew from the start the brothers would be drafted, they were filled with pride for their country, they were young and fit and strong, they knew how to fight, punching and slashing with their razor blades, but you loathed the idea. You bit your tongue until it bled, knowing there was no point in arguing, but that didn't stop you staining your pillow with tears every night.

You refused to let the boys see you in such a state, and tried your best to enjoy the last few days you had until you would be separated from your family. The ache in your chest remained despite your false bravado, dinners were different, quieter, and you would often catch Polly staring at nothing, as if she could see a ghost.

Tommy took you away the night before. He drove the caravan for miles, his favourite dappled mare pulling you through fields of wildflowers as the sun followed you overhead. You parked in the woods by the river, silence falling over both of you. His hands laced through yours, thumb running over your soft skin, and you watched him, drinking in all of his beautiful features like whisky.

“Will you wait for me?”

His voice is quiet, so unlike his usual boyish, playful tone. Seeing him so vulnerable was like a bullet entering your heart. You rested your head on his shoulder, feeling the soft cotton of his shirt dance against your cheek.

“Forever.”

He intakes sharply. He plucks a daisy from the grass, toying with the tiny flower between his large palms before turning to you and pushing it behind your ear, looking at you in a way that makes your body melt like butter.

“I love you.” He watches you, gauging for your reaction, but you don’t give him any, you just look up at him with those big fucking eyes. He exhales, turning back to face the water as he continues. “Known it since we first met. Since that very first day, when we were just kids, I knew. You had a hold on me since day one. I couldn’t leave without telling you…telling you how grateful I am for you.”

His voice softens, “How much you mean to me and because of that,” He clears his throat as if struggling to get the words out, “I’ll understand if you want to move on, find someone else or…”

You don’t let him continue, you attach your lips to his as if they were magnetic, feeling him collapse under your touch. You pull away much too soon for his liking, a smile reaching your eyes as you press your forehead against his, the light making you look angelic. “Stop talking.” You kiss him again, harder, in that teasing way you have mastered so well.

“I love you too.”

Under the stars, as the moonlight bathes the caravan in a soft eerie glow, you pull off the straps off your sundress, watching Tommy follow you as if he’s in a trance. Calloused, firm hands meet your tender flesh as he worships you like a Goddess, unable to believe that you are human. You give yourself to him fully, and it’s unlike anything he’s felt, the connection flowing between your bodies stronger than anything, love and lust connecting as your bodies mesh. Despite his earlier sentiment, as he buries himself inside of you, he loathes the idea of another man touching you and you can feel the heat radiating from underneath his skin and pull his face to you, staring him down, telling him everything he needs to know.

You’re his, and he’s yours.

Candles flicker around you, painting your limbs the colour of the sunrise. You playfully touch his nose, and then his lips, dragging them open with your finger. Your bodies are slick with sweat, exhausted but alive, feeling as if you are the only two people in the world despite the knowledge of what lurks ahead, you just feel young and blissfully in love.

“You won’t forget about me, will you Shelby?” You tease. “Won’t find a nice French woman to take my place?”

You’re joking but he kisses you silent, eyes connecting to yours, “I’ll never be able to replace you, little one.”

——————————————————————

No one expected the war to last as long as it did, least of all you. Every day you sat by the radio, waiting and wanting desperately for news that it was over, but every day you would leave with tears filling your eyes. You busied yourself the best you could during those long, dark days. You and the girls ran the betting shop, you looked after John’s kids and Finn as if they were your own - despite your young age, the war had forced everyone to grow up.

Four years is a long time, and that’s exactly how you felt as you waited on the platform, hand in hand with Ada, waiting for your boys to come home. You felt as if you had swallowed rocks, nausea bubbling inside of you, acid in your throat. He had been home three times since it had started. Three times in four years had you been able to see his face in real life, touch his skin, tell him words that wouldn’t do justice on paper. You had seen the effects of the war distort the people around you, heard awful tales of shell shock and seen men returning home with missing limbs and broken hearts. Every day you waited for that call, that piece of paper that told you Tommy wouldn’t be returning, but blessedly it never came, and finally, he was coming home.

You’ll always remember that day he came off of the platform. The last time you had seen him had been so long ago, but even then you had noticed the grey of his skin, the pain in his eyes. He was quieter, milder, refusing to speak of the horrors he must have endured, instead focusing on light happy stories. You wondered how much he had changed since then.

He was beautiful.

He still had that boyish look, his sharp jaw and tousled hair, but he looked older, haunted. You felt your knees buckle at the mere sight of him, the way his eyes danced over the platform, looking for something, someone - you. Your eyes met and you watched them glimmer, something you had been starved of for so long that you devoured the feeling. Euphoria bit through your skin and tears pricked at your eyes. You ignored everyone else, storming through the crowd like you were the solider, racing with your arms wide open, not caring how childish you looked. He smiled in what looked like relief and laughed in exhaustion as you fell into his arms. He held you so tight that you could feel the air expel from your chest but you didn’t care, you cried hot, wet tears into his shoulder, and you felt him bury his head in your hair. He looked at you, breathing hard and opening his mouth, but before he could speak you smashed your lips onto his, melting into his touch like all those years ago.

“Welcome home, Tommy.”

——————————————————————

Weeks passed, and it was as if the darkness had seeped into his skin. You longed to tear it off of him, wished that you could swap yourself with him, carry a little bit of his pain, but you knew that was impossible. Night was when he found solace, with you wrapped up in his arms, breathing in your sweet clean scent, something he had been deprived of for far too long. If you strayed too far in the night, woke up for some tea for a sore throat or simply because your mind was restless, you would hear the gut wrenching moans and cries leave his lips and would dart up the stairs two at a time to crawl back onto him. The first time you heard it he sounded like a fox with its paw in a trap, something so inhumane that it stayed with you like an awful lullaby on loop in your brain. As you managed to wake him from his own nightmare, he pulled you impossibly close, breathing into your hair as you whispered words of comfort, feeling utterly helpless.

After the war, everyone had their own poison. Arthur started boxing, channeling his anger and frustration into fighting, Freddie started protesting, looking for change in places he found wrong, and for others like Danny Whizzbang, sometimes the war clung its teeth in too far and refused to let go.

Tommy however, became obsessed with power.

You had known about his incredible work ethic and savvy business skills since the very first day you met, but now his hunger was insatiable. He was up before the birds had started chirping, planting soft kisses on your collarbones as he left for work, and didn’t come to bed until you physically had to drag him away from his desk. You were worried, but as always he conducted himself in a manner that made it seem like he was always in control, smooth and charming, unfazed by his hectic schedule and the looks you sent him.

It came as no shock to anyone that Tommy had been leader of his unit, the kind of man that people would listen to and follow without hesitation, the kind of man that knew how to be in charge. You knew some things about what had happened in the tunnels, horrors so unimaginable that it tore your heart in two to think of him suffering, and you were just left wondering what kind of marks that would leave on a man. His high ranking earned him thanks and praise wherever he went, he was honourable and that lead more and more men to join the Blinders, wanting to be close to such a powerful man, wanting the things he could offer.

The experiences he’d suffered through had led him to become disillusioned and determined to move his family up in the world, especially you. He became increasingly overprotective, a trait you at first found endearing and then ultimately suffocating, you knew he meant you know harm, wanting to shield you from the things he had endured, but you felt like a child again. You longed for trips to the country, to walk along the beach with him, to sleep under the stars, but it was as if that part of him had been killed on the front line.

You would be a liar if you said you were unaware of the illegal activity going on in the betting shop, you had always known of the shady dealings going on behind closed doors, but they thrilled you, excited you, mainly because you always knew that Tommy was in control, he could never get hurt. Your whole life you had always wanted more, hungry for a lifestyle that never bored you, but now you were wondering if you had bitten off too much.

He was changing, morphing in front of your eyes like a creature you had read about in a storybook when you were a child. Growing up his violent tendencies were sporadic, but with both of your fathers being unpleasant men he was always tainted by his family reputation. You had helped sew razor blades into their peaked caps, had seen the fights in the school yard over petty childish things, and had wiped his knuckles clean when he beat Tim Green black and blue after he called you and Ada vile names. Back then it was exciting, the adrenaline making you fall onto him, enthralled by this beautiful man, feeling safer with him than you had ever felt before, but now you were wondering if you should be scared.

He would rather die than hit you. He had never called you anything other than sugary sweet pet names, never once raised a hand other than to caress your cheek, never in a million years did you think he would ever hurt you, not intentionally. But it pierced your heart like a bullet, walking down the street, watching those you once called friends hide in their houses, whisper his name like it was sour milk, spit at your feet once you had left. It never bothered you what those small minded people thought of you, but knowing the awful things they thought of your Tommy, that killed you. It felt like a knife in your ribs when you leant back against him and felt the unfamiliar weight of a gun tucked into the waistband of his expensive trousers, as if it was nothing more than the cigarettes he constantly carried. It clawed at your throat like a rabid dog, when he came home at midnight, covered in blood that wasn't his, his eyes grey and pale.

You wanted to be by his side throughout everything, holding his hand and being the woman that he had turned to for everything, but it felt like you were hidden in the shadows. He didn’t want you involved, wanting to rise up on his own merit, and give you all of the rewards without seeing the carnage he was leaving behind, but that wasn’t you. You weren’t some housewife who just tended to his wounds and looked the other way when he stuffed the local officers pockets with bribes, you wanted to be his equal.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you, it was that he didn’t trust anyone else.

Some nights you would sit staring at the moon from the windowsill of his small bedroom, reminiscing on making love under his scratchy sheets, giggling into his skin, thinking of days when you would tell him anything and everything, and he would always know what to say. You hated yourself for thinking this way, knowing that he had fought for his country, with the terrors he had lived through, of course he would be a changed man, but this seemed more than that and it tore your heart in half.

He’d slip into the room at midnight, any miseries of the day diminishing when he saw your small frame, and he’d wrap his arms around you, whispering into your hair. Any bad thoughts you had would vanish as he cradled you, reliving all the times you had in the past, feeling as if home was a person, but you would be jolt at his words. He’d tell you of all the things he would buy you one day, spun tales of all the things you deserved as if he could magic them from thin air. He spoke of a large manor, marrying you in a ceremony with a thousand roses, expensive cars and hand-cut jewels, things that were enough to make anyone salivate, but not you.

The war had forced you to put your life in perspective. Those gut wrenchingly long nights away from your lover, biting your lip raw wondering if he was suffering. Days spent feeling numb, trying to distract yourself from thoughts that plagued your head, you wanted to escape. Small Heath had suffocated you, the smoke and the ash now clung to your lungs thicker than ever, and you were desperate for a gasp of fresh air. You thought that was what Tommy wanted too, thought that the both of you would flee Birmingham, climb on to a ship, sail around countries neither of you could pronounce, kiss under hot rain and see the buildings you read about in the newspapers, but maybe not.

You would have to make sacrifices. That’s what love is, you told yourself, tying your hair up with an expensive silk hairband that Tommy had bought, that wasn’t really you. You loved him, adored him, you were so head over heels with him that the thought of leaving made you feel nauseous. You would follow him to the end of the earth if he asked you to. This was the man you wanted to marry, the only man you could picture yourself having a life with, and you knew that he felt exactly the same. That’s what love is, you remind yourself, staring at the unfamiliar painted face in the mirror, it’s about compromise, right?

When Arthur bought the Garrison, despite Tommy’s apprehension, you took a job as his accountant and secretary, helping him keep business afloat when all he wanted was to drink his money. You fell into a comfortable routine, waking up early and working late, taking extra time on Sundays to learn how to bake, going a little further into town to buy fresh vegetables from the market, reading books that had sat on their shelf for years. You wore a smile that could melt even the toughest of hearts, but deep down you were so mind numbingly bored, it felt like you had slipped on somebody else's skin, trapped in your own ivory tower. It all became worth it though, when Tommy would come home, his skin igniting against yours, lips savouring the taste of your flesh, the only good thing in both of your days. His hips pressed against yours, scratching your nails into his back and feeling him melt under you, enthralled by you, both of you so totally in love that it radiated around the small room, you knew why you did it. Curled under his arm he would smile and laugh, tell you snippets of his day, talk about the future, and hearing his words and charming accent, the way they fell from his lips like wisps of gold, running his hands through your hair, knowing that it was for a better future for both of you, you accepted your fate.

Ada noticed it first. Of course she did, you two were practically sisters. You knew each other like the back streets of Birmingham, like the lines and curves on your hands. She watched the way your vibrancy dimmed until you could fit in with the grey coloured photographs on Polly’s coffee table, listened as your giggles and playful teasing came to a halt and you spent more and more hours alone, separated from the world. She was heartbroken, torn between shaking you and forcing you to come to your senses, willing your vivacious personality to rise to the surface, and knowing that doing so could ruin the best thing Tommy had going for him, and shatter both of you into a million pieces. The rest of the family saw it as well, your light dulling with every day that passed, but they were unsure how to help without stepping over the protective line Tom drew around you, and with business tougher than ever, there was more than enough on their own plates.

To Tommy you were the most precious thing in his life. Because of you, his youth had been damn near perfect, meeting you had changed his life and he felt that he owed you the world. After the war you had rescued him from the depths of his own murky head, your letters and the image of you in his battered brain and been the only thing keeping him alive on he frontline. Whenever he felt like he was drowning, it had always been you that had pulled him from underwater, your smile putting the air back into his lungs. You made him feel alive, made him feel like in the world of smoke and debris he could breathe, that even on his lowest and darkest days, it was you that kept him going, but even he knew that was a lot for a person to carry.

You were wilting like a flower and he despised it. You had always been so beautiful. You could light up a room just by entering it, could trap men and enamour women with nothing but a look, could take his breath away with just a smile, but you were fading away. He had felt the darkness radiating off him since he returned home from the war, and he had fought tooth and nail to stop it corrupting you, you were too perfect, too pure, to be dragged down with him. He thought that he had kept you untainted, thought that he had done what was best for you, but now he wasn’t so sure.

He watched you when you weren’t looking, his eyes always finding your features no matter where you were. Whenever he was nervous or unsure he would find you and his breath would steady and his heartbeat would calm as if you were a shot of rum on his tongue. Almost a year after he had returned home did he start seeing you clearly, he had been so wrapped up in love, in coming home, in becoming the best man he could be, that he had clouded over you like fog on a winter morning. The glisten in your eyes had faded, they had dulled like a worn penny, and your collarbones and ribs began to rise from under your flesh. He tried to think of the last time he had made you laugh, a proper belly laugh like when you were kids, and he came up empty. He knew what the reason was but he refused to accept it, refused to admit that their might be cracks in your perfect relationship, because losing you just might break him.

He tried to be better for you, but he was too far gone. He could feel you slipping away from his fingertips and there was nothing he could do. You had tried to change for him and in the process you had lost part of yourself, and the war had carved a hole between both of you. It was heartbreaking and nauseating, both of you loving each other too much, but ultimately becoming different people. He refused to let you go without a fight, he knew he was being selfish and possessive but he couldn’t just let you leave, you had both been hopelessly in love since the very first day that you had met, you were soulmates. He chain-smoked you like a cigarette, took in your body like it was holy, craved your touch like it was medicinal, you were his everything. You were the reminder of the good days, looking at you and he was transported back to his youth, chasing you under apple trees, kissing until your lips were full and swollen, laughing until your ribs grew rough. You couldn’t imagine life without him, and every evening you clung onto his body, inhaling his sweat and tobacco covered skin, tracing his tattoos like they were bible verses, a million words lingering between you both. You were clinging on for dear life, knuckles glowing white as you refused to release your grip, desperate for everything to work out.

On a Friday, he let you go.

Curled up beside him, you felt otherworldly. He allowed himself moments of weakness around you, to everyone else he was the devil incarnate, but he softened whenever he touched you. He wanted these final moments to last forever, his girl wrapped up in his arms, the only bright light in his world of darkness. Tears were welling in his eyes, something so unfamiliar to him that he had to catch his breath, clear his throat before he could speak.

“I’ve not been good to you.”

Your head rose, resting on his strong chest as you peered at him, noticing how he refused to look at you.

“If I was a better man, a stronger man, I would have let you go sooner.”

“Tommy…”

“I’ve been selfish, little one. Too fucking selfish, and I see that now.”

You sat up further, already knowing his next words, your heart racing like one of his prize mares in your chest. You cling onto him, knuckles tensed as you feel him under you, willing him to look at you, but he can’t. He knows that if he sees your beautiful face, watches the tears slip down your cheeks and your lip quiver, he’ll crumble. That’ll be it, he’ll have broken, sweep you under him and try to piece you back together, but he knows this time he can’t.

You trace your fingertips over the hairs on his chest, the rhythmic motion helping to calm your rapid breathing. You feel like you’re in the firing line, on your knees, head bowed, just waiting for the final shot to blow your skull into pieces.

“I’ve never loved somebody the way I’ve loved you.” He coughs, rubbing his nose, and you’re not sure if its because it’s the tobacco in his lungs or the lump in his throat. “And know I’m realising that, what I’ve put you through, was wrong.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Tom, none of it. I’d do it all again if I could. In a heartbeat.” He knows you’re telling the truth, the honestly in your tone making his heart swell, but it doesn't make it any easier. He knows what he has to do, he has to be the bigger man, no matter how much it’ll wreck him, he has to do the best thing for you.

“I know you would, but that’s not the life you deserve.”

Silence falls across the room. Both of you bathed in smoke and ash and moonlight, memories flutter around you like torn photographs, drifting down onto the wood floor like snowflakes. The air is thick with tears that you both refuse to let slip, you had both known this time was coming since long before either had you had spoken the words. This was love. It tore you and ripped you in half, and neither of you had gone down without a fight. You loved one another so much that it had consumed you, swallowed you both whole and you wouldn’t change a thing. Despite the pain, it had been the best years of your life.

“I don’t think I know how to exist without you.” You confess, your lover such a part of you that it feels like you’re going to lose a limb, a terrible hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach.

“You will. You know I wouldn’t let you go if it wasn’t safe for you, you know I wouldn’t…I’ve got some money for you, to find a place to stay, somewhere far away from here, OK?”

“I’m not taking your money, Tom.”

“Yes you are.You’re not leaving unless I know you’ll be alright, eh?”

“No I’m not T, seriously -”

“Always so bloody stubborn!” He laughed, pinching your outer thigh playfully, a gesture so innocent and intimate and awfully familiar that it makes you both deflate with sadness.

You refuse to let the silence engulf you. Refuse to accept that this might be the last time either of you smell one another’s skin, the last time you can take comfort in one another, refuse to accept that forever might not mean what you thought. Refuse to accept that saying goodbye felt like the right thing.

“Tom. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’ll rule the world one day. But promise me something, promise me you won’t lose yourself? Promise me that you won’t do anything that you can’t come back from. For me?”

He nods, burying his face in your hair.

His exasperated laugh sounds like sparkling champagne, “I almost drove myself mad thinking of what I was gonna say to you, but I couldn’t find the right words. After everything we’ve been through though, we don’t need words do we, little one? I love you and you love me, that’s more than enough. No matter what happens, it’ll be us forever. Even if we’re apart. We don’t need words to say what we mean.”

Your lips met his, making him come alive just as you had done under the canal all those years ago.

“So let’s not talk.”

Tommy wished forever that he could burn the image of that final night behind his eyelids, see you whenever he closed his eyes. He dreamt that he tatted you on his skin, could trace your figure whenever things got too rough, that you would pull him back to shore. That final night felt like a dream, you both cried, sank into one another’s bodies, muffled one another tears with open mouthed kisses. Your beautiful gangster falling apart only for you, his darling angel clinging to just him in those final hours. Your bodies had intertwined for the last time, exhilarated with lust but exhausted from sadness, communicating through touches and kisses.

Tommy slept the best he had done for years. No dreams of shovels, no thoughts of the business racing through his skull. Instead he let himself get utterly wrapped up by you,falling into a satisfied sleep with his girl next to him. Woozy and delirious, when he first opened his eyes he forgot about everything that had happened, felt that unfamiliar emptiness in the bed beside him and thought that he’d find you nestled in an armchair drinking sweet tea, but nausea filled the pit of his stomach like acid when memories came flooding back.

It wasn’t until he saw the envelope he had filled with notes and coins for you, unopened on the desk, and your treasured photograph of the two of you from that very first beach visit, left on top, painted with a cherry red lipstick print and the words, “Goodbye, Tom. I love you.” Did he lose it. He flung the peaked cap off its hanger, let out an animalistic roar and shattered his fist through the wall, before falling to his knees and burying his head into his hands.

———————————————————————————————-

He had heard that you came back. Similar to a alley cat, you snuck in and out of the city under the cover of moonlight, only being seen by those you wanted. He had heard that when Ada fell pregnant, and she stayed locked away in Freddie’s basement flat, you were the only person she let in. Sometimes he would loiter on those back streets after work, hoping and dreaming for a glimpse of you, something to satisfy his hungry mind, but he never got so lucky. You kept in contact with the others, sending them letters and postcards, but they kept them hidden from him, and he pretended he didn't fantasise about ripping them open and devouring your words. Polly and Ada would speak of you sometimes, but would fall silent whenever he was nearby, and he would pretend he was unbothered, despite the want of knowing where you were clawing him inside out.

He threw himself into work harder than he had ever done before. He could feel himself slipping away, and without you to ground him he felt the darkness start to consume him, but he would never blame you, you were too good, and he would have ruined you. He dreamt of you every night, thought of you in every spare moment, so it was easier to be doused in another’s blood or making a dangerous deal than to be left alone to his own devices. Wondering if you had met someone new made him feel violently ill, it was like torture thinking of another man making you happy, another man touching you, making you smile. Almost every night he paid a visit to a whore house, fucking somebody else and dreaming it was you, he knew it was unhealthy, but he couldn’t stop. You lingered in his brain constantly like the smoke that left his sullen lips.

He became used the the thought of being alone. Enamoured with the idea of being on top; controlling and dominating the streets was all he cared about. You were always at the back of his mind, wherever he looked he saw you, thought of you, it drove him crazy, but then again you always had. He was in desperate need for a distraction, some form of happiness to grasp after you had left, he knew he had to move on, but he was uncertain he would ever find it again. He had to get used to the nauseating fact that you were gone, and then, like a ball of sunshine, the new blonde barmaid smiled at him and he felt his world lighten.

But now you were back.

————————————————————

He can’t remember walking towards you.

His feet and brain were disconnected, he had become an entirely different person than the calm, collected business man he usually was, his composure crumbling the moment he saw you. The second he saw a falter in your conversation, when you excused yourself from the enamoured, sleazy men around you, practically drooling as you stood before them, did he know he had to say something to you or risk regretting it for the rest of his life.

He apologised quickly to Grace, half heartedly and rushed, something he knew he’d have to explain later, but he couldn’t stop himself. He also didn’t miss the curl of Polly’s lip at the sight of her nephew infatuated with you, reminding her of the teenager she missed dearly.

Every move of his was calculated. From business to his personal life, he refused to let himself be ruled the same as the common man, everything he did was deliberate and precise, but even he’ll admit he was tongue tied as he pushed past the rest of the people in the ballroom, eager to reach his target.

You had stepped outside. Desperate for the relief of cool air against your flesh, the comfort of the stars above you and the solace of a must needed cigarette between your lips. Tommy couldn’t help the smile on his face, 5 years of separation pouring out of him as he exhaled at the sight of you, so close that he could reach out and graze your skin with his fingers. It was intoxicating, you were intoxicating, and he hated himself for still being enchanted with a woman he couldn’t have and shouldn’t want.

Movement behind you made you turn your head, dazed and hazy from the alcohol and the smoke filling your lungs, but you felt stone cold sober as your muddled mind placed the man before you. Air left your body like a pinched ballon, your chest expanding with surprise.

He’ll admit seeing you so flustered at the sight of him did wonders for his ego. Igniting the flame inside of his stomach that proved that you still thought of him, still cared for him. But just as quickly as you lost your cool, you regained it instantly, straightening up and letting a soft smile grace your features, and he felt himself melt.

You looked so familiar, yet different.

You were more tanned, freckles across the bridge of your nose, constellations he could remember tracing when he was a teen. Your hair was longer, tousled into a style he had never seen on you, but it looked right.

He could tell your dress was expensive, embroidered and embezzled with lace and crystals, a finely crafted necklace sliding off of your collar bone, and thoughts of gifts from admiring suitors sent him into a tailspin. He loathed himself for it, but his eyes narrowed to your left ring finger, audibly exhaling when it came up empty, and he didn’t know if he should feel relieved or ashamed.

A moment of silence and shared memories flashed between you quicker than the spark of a match. A warm familiar feeling brewed in the pit of your stomach, so gut wrenchingly nostalgic you feel as if you have been winded. Both of your senses are heightened, you can smell him, imagine the feel of his hair, despite it being almost shaved to his scalp, imagine the tattoos under his expensive suit, can practically recall your nails tracing them in a sleep induced haze. You had forgotten just how he made you feel, and the recognition makes you both halt.

He breaks the silence first; as if to prove to you his new status. He was no longer as boyish, as playful, he controlled the room, owned it, and the devil sitting on his shoulder wondered if that extended to you.

“Hello, (Y/N).”

“Hello, Tommy.”

He almost falls to pieces at the sound of his name on your sugar sweet lips, reminding him of the times before the war, the times he had locked away in his mind. You’ve turned a strong man weak, rendered him speechless and you grab the control as it slips from his fingertips.

“It’s been a long time, Tom.”

“That it has.”

“You’ve been away for quite some time.” He inhales sharply, determined to clasp the reins once again, determined to dismantle you and get a reaction, “Didn’t even see you at Freddie’s funeral, would have been nice of you to show up.”

The funeral was years ago but he still hates the fact that he hadn’t seen you that day, he was burying one of his best friends and yet you had clawed all over his mind like a virus. He even stayed after everyone had left, saying private words to his friend, and wondering if he could catch a glimpse of you, but that evening he walked home as alone as he came.

You raise a brow in challenge, your eyes glinting with a mix of disbelief and humour. “I stayed with our Ada for over a month when Freddie died, I was by her side through the thick of it. I didn’t come to the funeral out of respect, I didn’t want it to be about anything other than him.”

He swallows your words, nodding slowly. Letting the silence settle around him like smoke before he asks you his next question. “Where did you go?”

A small smile fell on your lips, and you looked up at him in a way that almost made him turn his head as it was too familiar, too painful.

“Anywhere and everywhere. Paris, Rome, Berlin. It was nice to see them rebuild after the war. I stayed in America for a year or so, Boston and New York, and then settled on the beach in California for a bit, it was beautiful.” He listens to every word that escapes your mouth, noting how happy you sound as you describe your travels, so breathless and elated as you reminisce.

“You did always love the sea.” He says gently.

“Yes,” you smile, “I do.”

“What brings you back? To a party like this?” He changes the subject, not wanting to linger in the past, fearful of what that might bring up in him.

“I’ve been in London with a friend, I owe him a favour and ended up here.”

Him. Three words that strike him in the gut and nearly make him double over. He can feel the heat rising in him, he’s married and it’s been years since he’s seen you, but the thought of you with another man makes vomit and red hot anger ascend inside of him.

“He’s just a friend, Tom.” You say slowly, offering him an olive branch, you shouldn’t have to explain yourself but you want to, because it’s just as hard for you. “He owns a distillery but he doesn’t do well at parties, so I offered to take his place.”

He laughs humourlessly, almost breathless from disbelief at the sheer incredulity of it all. “Solomons? Of fucking course.”

“You know of him?” You ask, tilting your head slightly.

“You could say that.”

“Well,” You grin, “Looks as if we have something in common.”

The knowledge that you were mere miles away, laughing with Solomon’s, head thrown back as you made time for a man that wasn’t him, drove the nail further into Tommy’s own coffin.

“So your dress? Your jewels? Presents from him?” It comes out harsher than he intended but he doesn’t care, the sight of you has made him as inebriated as a dozen shots of whisky on an empty stomach and he allows it to distort his words.

“I make my own money, Tommy.” You respond.

He steps closer, the toe of his expensive leather shoe inching towards you like a high tide.

“Do you ever think about me?” The words escape him before he has a chance to stop them, and he sees emotion pool in your eyes, and he watches a breath escape your lips.

“Everyday.”

He isn’t sure what to say, suddenly feeling 15 again, if anyone saw him now they would be in utter disbelief that he was the same ruthless gangster they knew. He is within reach now, you could extend your fingers and feel him under you like you had once done a million times before, you wonder just how different his lush suit would feel compared to the ones he had run around in when he was a teen. His eyes scour your face, drinking you in like water, comparing your face to the last time he had seen you. Neither of you let your eyes meet one another, darting away like rivals, and yours slip over his head back into the crowd.

“Is that your wife?”

His head snaps up as if he has been doused in ice water, and he follows your gaze across the floor. He sees Grace, surrounded by other women, but her eyes trained on the two of you. He knows later he’ll have a conversation he isn’t ready for, knows he’ll have to explain feelings he’s kept hidden for years, but he turns on his heel, away from his wife and towards you.

“Yes.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“She’s not you.”

Silence. He loathes himself for his words but hates himself even more that he doesn’t regret them.

“Good. You deserve someone better.”

Your eyes finally meet.

His are stoic and unwavering, lacking the spark you loved but still the same ocean eyes you loved to drown in. Yours are filled with emotion, finally exposing yourself after so many years, you soften him to the touch as your eyes meet his, melting him like an icicle.

“I know what you’re thinking, Tom.”

“You always have.”

You smile softly. “I almost came back you know.”

His ears prick up like a bloodhound, his heart bursting under his flesh.

“I heard rumours. People would whisper in the street about a devil, I knew exactly who they meant before they even spoke your name aloud.”

He inhales sharply, not knowing where the story will take him, desperate to regain control but ultimately knowing he’ll always be trailing after you.

“They said you were cunning and brilliant but they also said you were ruthless and cold blooded. They said you were a man on a mission, a man destined to get to the top, they told me they were scared of you. Terrified.”

He steps closer.

“I begged Ada to tell me everything, managed to get her drunk from expensive liquors, you know the ones she loves? The ones that taste like the sweets we would nick after school?”

He nods, the memory distant but familiar. The taste of sugar on your lips, teeth clashing together, giggles that sounded like bells.

“She told me the darkness came back, took you away. She said she was worried for you, she told me she didn’t want to lose her brother, not again. I was going to come back, but I was a coward.” Your voice falters, and he wants nothing more than to cradle you in his arms but he knows he can’t and instead watches the rise and fall of your chest. “I was worried that if I came back you would get worse, I’m not good for you Tom. You know that.”

“You’ve always been good for me.”

“You say that cause you love me,” You tease, “But we’re not kids anymore, Tommy.”

He looks at you, older now, taller. He can remember the colour of your hair from the sun, the grass that stained your knees, the way you felt under him. He can remember everything. If you aren’t good for each other, why is he still under your spell?

He can see the way your face contorts, passion evident on your features.“She told me you met a woman, fell in love and got married. I was mad with jealousy at first, like a bloody woman possessed.”

He hates the way your admission makes him feel smug.

“But Ada, she told me she was good for you. She told me how she makes the shovels stop Tom, she makes you a better man. I knew in that moment that you deserved her, and she deserved you. You deserve to be happy, because you’re a good man, Tom.”

You walk towards him, luring him to you like a ship to the shore. He responds immediately, so close that he can feel the warmth of your body, smell the wildflowers that linger on your neck.

“I asked for a sign that night,” you say softly, “a sign that you would be alright.”

“A sign?” He asks almost playfully, just enough teasing in his tone to remind both of you that maybe he isn’t too far gone.

“Yes, a sign, and I got one.”

You tear your eyes from him, down to your diamond encrusted purse in your hands. You open the clasp, and rummage around, slipping out a piece of paper no bigger than your palm. You rest it against your fingertips before holding it out to him, and he slowly takes it, not missing the sparks he feels as your hands touch.

He turns it over, and let’s out a genuine laugh, one that shocks you both.

It’s a newspaper clipping, from one year ago, the black and white print almost seeming harsh under the light of the moon. He traces the picture with the pads of his fingers, smiling more this evening than he can ever remember.

He clears his throat and reads softly, “Tommy Shelby’s mare “Little One” comes first place at national derby.”

Your eyes connect once again, the corners of your mouth upturned. “Little One.” You repeat, “She was my sign.”

He nods, looking down at the picture of the thoroughbred he loved dearly. “She’s the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen, but she’s stubborn as all hell, can be aggressive too.”

“She sounds lovely.”

“Oh, that she is.”

You tentatively place one hand onto his chest, as if you are taming a wild animal. He responds to your touch like he’s been craving it his entire life.

“I should go, Tom.”

He doesn’t know what to say, or do, something so rare for a man always one step ahead. All he can think of is to cling to you like a child, wanting to savour the moment for as long as he can.

“I don’t want to lose you, not again.” He admits, his tough facade shattering like glass.

“You let me go once before Tom, you can do it again.”

He holds you against his chest, not bothering to wonder who can see him in such a fragile state. A lifetime of memories flutters between you like pages of a book. Everything unwinding in your mind, tears pricking at the back of your eyes. You feel like a teenager again, can smell him beside you, feeling as if you are curled up back in his single bed, running your fingers through his hair.

“You’re going to go back to your wife, Tom. Your beautiful, kind wife. The wife who is good for you, and you’re going to go and be happy.”

He thinks of it all, the money and the mansion. The power, the gold and jewels and paintings that lather every wall in his house, he thinks of everything he has, and wonders how any of it compares to you.

You place one palm against the side of his cheek, pulling him into you and you shake your head as if you can read his mind. You plant a soft kiss against his skin, it scorches into him like a branding, like rubbing salt on a fresh wound. He exhales shakily, watching as you step away from him, forever beautiful and young and enchanting, slipping back into the teenager he chased around sunflower fields and danced with under the stars. Back then his hands were freckled and tanned, now they are covered in blood.

“Goodbye, Tommy.”

“Goodbye, Little One.”

He swears he only turns away for a second, to locate Grace, to try and think of any explanation for his erratic behaviour this evening, to not let you see the emotion flooding over his face like a tsunami, and when he turns back around, maybe to stop you, or maybe to get one final look before you go, you’re already gone.

#peaky blinders imagine #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby oneshot #peaky blinders oneshot #thomas shelby imagine #writing

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warmau · 5 years

Text

☆ countdown to halloween~ zombie boy!johnny au

maybe you just don’t have a green thumb, you reason, but that doesn’t make any sense because the plants you’ve grown everywhere else have been just fine

so why is it that everything dies in this garden?

you huff, crossing your arms as you stare at the wilting reminiscents of the tomatoes you’ve been trying to harvest for weeks

fruits, vegetables, plants, even garden weeds don’t survive longer than a couple of days

and when you touch the soil you frown

everything is just perfect for a good harvest - right down to the weather and sunlight so why - why is it all dying?!??!

you fix your hat, thinking of abandoning the packet of pumpkin seeds you’d brought out

no point - they’re not going to grow anyway

but you huff - you can’t give up - and so you fix your gloves and start to dig

every day you come back and check on the progress

nothing, nothing again, aaaaaaand nothing

you prod the dirt, frown, say a little prayer to the gardening gods

but still - nada

finally, as the days begin to get chillier and you’re coming to the point where you think instead of having your own pumpkins to decorate for the upcoming spooky season

you’re going to have to buy one from the store

you decide there has to be an explanation to why this is happening

you settle down - not minding the stains you’ll get on your overalls and you start to dig

but this time, you go beyond the usual amount

maybe something underneath is eating the seeds - or at least stopping them from growing?

you pull clumps of old roots and stones out as you dig further and further

the sky begins to slowly darken as the night blankets over the sun

but you’re frustrated and you can’t give up

not until you have an answer - not until

you pull back - staring wide-eyed at the hole you’ve dug up

“is- what is that?”

you lean in closer and touch the piece of loose fabric stuck under the ground

you tug at it - and yelp when some of the dirt shakes off of it but it doesn’t budge

curious, you keep digging around it - revealing more and more of the fabric

until

“WOAH!”

you jump back as the fabric begins to shake and move all on its own

before out of the dirt pops out an ,,,,,,,,,, an arm?!?!?

speechless you fall backward - watching as the arm, dinged with dirt starts to move its fingers

“wh-wh-what -”

you stutter and then suddenly it feels like the whole garden is shaking as something under the dirt moves and thrashes and just like a newly grown sprout sticks its head up through the dirt

you watch in horror as someone’s whole body does the same, sitting upright

and turning the dirt-covered, almost greenish face toward you

to be honest you expect grossness

you expect maggots in eyeballs, decaying rot, and like maybe even a missing limb

but what you get is

a handsome face - undead - but still handsome

the eyes open slowly, big and black and there’s dirt and leaves matted in the hair

“z-zo-zombie?!”

you squeak out

it turns its attention to you and you regret making a sound

“pretty sure my name is johnny, ow - hell it hurts to talk after being buried for ten years”

“wh-”

he picks his hand up, the bones making an audible crackin sound as he locks his unhinged jaw back into place

“that’s better”

you don’t really know what to say as you stare

“well - are going to help dig the rest of me out?”

so many questions swirl up in your head like

is your garden a cemetery? is this person - zombie - really the dead come back to life? are you in a comic book or a creepy pasta right now what is going on -

but then it clicks

“you’re the reason nothings been growing in my garden!”

“huh?”

you jump up - suddenly casting away any hint of fear - “of course, of course if there are zombies buried under my house the plants won’t grow - hey you -”

you drop down to your knees and start digging around him

the zombie blinks and you seem to forget the part about where - don’t these things try to eat humans?

“hey -”

you feel a cold hand on your wrist and freeze

“your plants didn’t grow because this place is infested with worms - not because my decomposing body was buried here.”

you pause

“w-worms?”

“yeah, don’t you know human remains actuall-”

you put your hands over your ears and make a face

the zombie boy blinks and bursts into laughter

“why are you laughing?”

“it’s been ten years since ive seen someones face and you just made a really funny one! cute - but funny!”

“hey!”

you push at his shoulder and then apologize when you hear it pop out of it’s socket

“no sweat!”

he takes his other hand and moves it right back in - obviously feeling no pain at all

“so - like i asked, are you going to help undig the rest of me?”

“are you going to try and eat my brains?”

he scratchse his head and makes a small ‘yikes’ when tufts fall out

“no - im not really hungry. don’t think ill ever be hungry again. but - i can help you plant these seeds again?”

he shoves his hand back into the dirt and retrieves the pumpkin seeds you’d placed a week ago

“bu-but the worms?”

he shoves his hand back in and pulls them out with ease - you scurry back and he laughs again

“i can help get rid of those too. you know before i died they used to call me johnny appleseed - except like because my names johnny and im good at farm stuff i guess i wasn’t actually johnny apple-”

“ok ok”

you nod, giving him a thumbs up as you start to help dig out his legs

this is either a great idea or the worst idea

you think and johnny lets out a small sound of surprise that nearly throws you back in shock

“what now?”

“i think my legs buried on the otherside of the garden!”

#johnny scenarios #johnny imagines #johnny au #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct mark #member: johnny #sfw #halloween #zombies/#blood/#death/#nct 127 imagines #nct 127 scenarios #nct 127 au #halloween au

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stunt-lads · 4 years

Note

Go off about richie ecks. Tell me about Richie Ecks. Gimme the good food, Ecks! Please, I'm starving. 😢

god

fucking

richie tozier

i love richie tozier so much lock, i love him to bits

but that boy is so fucked up and he needs a hug

lets operate under the assumption that richie is well loved by his family, like in book canon, he’s loved and appreciated

but like the thing is...they live in Derry

and we know how things are amplified in Derry, the good becomes bad, the bad becomes worse

and i imagine even good parents are gonna be distant in Derry. because that’s just how Its influence is. and let’s assume his well meaning and loving family is just a typical all American family, happy and healthy, but...richie’s afraid of going missing and that makes sense right? compared to Bill’s ‘deny and repress’ parents and Bev and Eddie’s ‘love is a means of control’ parents...yea richie has it pretty good. even if his parents maybe forget he exists sometimes. maybe wish he was someone else. maybe indulge him but it always feels superficial.

and that’s Its fault right? lets say yea, thats the reason they’re distant.

but like i feel like there’s a bigger reason we saw richie’s main fear as the missing poster. i know he said clowns scared him, and like sure, clowns are terrifying. i hate clowns and maybe richie shares that fear with me. idk

but i do know that when a kid like richie, one who has spent his whole life trying to make jokes, to make friends is afraid of something

its usually a fear of abandonment

i think richie is afraid of being abandoned because ‘what if they see the real me?’ and ‘if i don’t make jokes and keep them around are they going to want me to leave?’ seem like fitting fears for someone who makes jokes and can’t be serious for more than 10 seconds

and it also makes sense

for a closeted kid

and

like i know this is everywhere but like

heres the thing, we see richie being locked in a room with clowns but that...that’s not the main focus is it?

the main focus is richie’s own dead body in a puppet form right? sure the clowns are scary but, a missing poster?, a puppet that is decaying and rotting?, being told someone knows his secret?

richie is afraid of abandonment for being gay (or bi/pan, i’m going off my own headcanon here for simplicity’s sake)

and i think abt that a lot in regards to Ch. 2 (which yes ok ive seen 1 Time and i wanna rectify that as soon as my ps3 is unpacked)

i imagine as an adult, losing the memories of Derry, forgetting abt the crushes he had on a couple of boys, how much his friends meant to him, probably left a lasting mark on his ability to form meaningful relationships

but specifically friendships

he makes a joke and expects a retort that never comes from a person who’s name is on the tip of his tongue but he can’t, no matter how much he wracks his brain, remember

or he’ll turn instinctively to make a joke or receive a high five and catch himself because he doesn’t know why that muscle memory is so fucking intense and people see him and think he’s weird (bc hes not famous yet so he can’t be eccentric) and don’t want anything to do with him

and then when he gets his memories back, after mike calls and he goes on stage and just fucking tanks it, those memories, those fears are resurfacing

no one is going to want me around if i can’t make myself useful

and he’s right right? i mean it would be nothing for him to just tank and become a meme before disappearing into obscurity. so when he sees his friends, remembers everything they’ve been through, he’s probably overwhelmed and terrified and he goes back to that easy “make stupid jokes to pretend things are fine” mindset

especially when he sees the men he had a crush on.

and he

can

nothing

about it

because they’re both married.

imagine that.

it’s no wonder he wants to be the center of attention. it’s no wonder that in 27 years his fear hasn’t changed at all

because while this time he reads an obituary, it’s still the same isn’t it?

because maybe it wasn’t him going missing that really scared him. maybe it was facing his own death. his own mortality. being forgotten.

and he doesn’t want that. not even for others

like he made a point to visit the synagogue even though he didn’t have to when they were trying to find their tokens. he reminisced about stan. did anyone else?

no.

not while on their own. not really. not the same way richie did.

and at the quarry, after It is defeated, they all miss eddie, of course they do, but it’s not the same is it? none of them cry about eddie being gone like richie does.

and sure, unrequited love or whatever could play a factor, but richie probably doesn’t want eddie to be forgotten. imagine how terrifying that would be to deal with, living your own fear of being forgotten and forgetting people important to you and then you lose someone you care about and you wonder ‘is this going to disappear again? am i going to forget again?’ as much as richie wants to believe he wants to i dont think he does want to

i think he wants to remember them. all of them.

WHICH REALLY leads me to the whole heart of it!!

richie tozier got the worst deal from the whole fucking thing didn’t he?

bill is married, he has a lovely wife, a nice home, a (somewhat) stable career that he doesn't have to worry about when he returns to his life

mike gets to leave derry, finally, and travel and get away and not have to be the lighthouse for them all anymore

ben and bev get together, they’re childhood sweethearts, they get to ride off into the sunset together, have children maybe, definitely a dog, they get their happily ever after

and what does richie get?

a dead friend and a dead love interest.

a tanked comedy career (because lets be real, it would be tough (if not impossible by todays standards) to come back from that).

a fear of forgetting the two most important people to him.

and the ever-looming reality that he’s going to die too one day and disappear into obscurity.

#ecks barks back #'ecks this is incoherent' yeah thats the ADHD #richie tozier #thelxckblog #ask

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deadacclolz · 4 years

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Hiya! this is a little thing that ive been writing for.. 2 hours? yeah, probably that long. anywho! it’s about how Phone Dude died in my au, and it’s quite gorey. if you’re unable to handle things such as vomting, mass amounts of blood, disemboweling, Animal death, and murder please stop reading now, because im on mobile and am unable to put the cut!!!!

Austin slid the key into the rusted lock, twisting it to the left and then to the right. He caught the metal contraption in his left hand as it fell, sliding it into his coat. The blond-haired boy unwrapped the chain that held the big metal door shut, letting it fall and lay still on the floor next to him.

The young man pushed his glasses back up his nose, a loud screech breaking the beautiful night’s silence as the door was slowly pulled open. Austin stepped into the run-down building, greeted by an awful smell and a sickening squelch as his right foot was brought down. He flinched, swinging his leg back up again, his eyes darting to the place on the floor where his converse had landed.

There on the floor was a darkened shape. He couldnt tell what it was exactly, but it wasnt much bigger than his shoe. He sighed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. He turned the shattered iPhone 6 on, and then the flashlight, shining it towards the tiny shape. Austin winced, seeing what he’d stepped on.

It was a mangled corpse of a rat, definitely dead. It looked like something had thrown it back and forth at walls, and then beat the hell out of it like a damn punching bag.

“Well that’s fucking disgusting…” Austin murmured, shaking his foot out and kicking the poor thing out of the way and into a dark corner.

The hallway was barely illuminated, the only light coming from the glowing red Exit sign behind him, and his phone’s flashlight, which was currently pointed at the ground. The blonde turned his wrist up, yawning and walking down the eerie hallway. He was cautious, not knowing where the hell that thing had decided to rest for the day. Mike was always the last person to see him, so no one ever knew where the rotting bunny decided to hide for the day.

Austin turned down the short corridor, pausing. In the stillness, he could hear something being dragged across metal. There was a squeaking sound from the opposite side of the building, then a thump, then complete silence. A shiver ran down his spine, but he kept walking. Whatever it was wasnt moving any more, and there’s no way it was the bunny....That thing was fucking ancient... There was no possibility he wouldnt be able to hear it.

The 21-year-old trotted down the second hallway, turning off his flashlight and sliding his phone back into his pocket as he approached the glowing chica head. There was no need for it anymore. He whistled a tune, completely ignoring most of his surroundings. His chocolate brown eyes scanned the walls for any sight of the animatronic, relieved by the fact he hadn’t come across him this whole time.

He turned down the next hallway, looking to his right down at the arcade, and then to his left. It was the only way to get to his destination, and he got a weird vibe from it. The stoned male shrugged it off, seeing as the whole place gave him a weird vibe. As Austin went to turn right at the end of the hallway, he was stopped by something furry and wet. He stumbled backwards, looking up at whatever the fuck he just ran into.

Towering more than a foot over him was the bunny, it’s odd eyes staring down at him, one a glowing an almost striped purple and the other completely black with a glowing white iris. He was haunched over slightly, his left ear hanging down below his waist and the other torn and tattered near his shoulder. There was a low moan that he emitted every few seconds as if he was exhaling, and he smelt like Satan’s asshole.

“Fucking SHIT sticks-“ Austin yelped, turning to run back down the hallway. He heard the bunny practically roar, quiet footsteps and deep moans following him as he sprinted towards the other end of the hall.

Austin felt his footing falter, and his feet slipped out from under him. He fell to the floor with a thump, and whimpered when he felt something big press against the middle of his back. He looked over his shoulder to find a fluffy, rotting paw connected to the god forsaken rabbit holding him down. A robotic laugh found it’s way out of the monstrosity as it leaned over. Austin could hear muscles and fur ripping and tearing because of the motion, and it made him want to hurl. The rabbit grabbed him by the shoulders, violently turning him over and slamming his back against the floor. The wind was knocked out of him, and he felt an awful headache spurge from his head hitting the tile.

Springtrap’s eyes glowed a brighter shade than before. Finally, something worthy of killing. He was grateful of the little shit for setting him free, but that didnt overrule the fact that he needed something to kill and this was his first opportunity to do so with a person in god knows how long. Austin squirmed, trying desperately to get out from under the giant, metal furry pinning him down. Springtrap held him in place, quickly trying to think of some way to kill him. An idea struck, and a twisted smile appeared on the golden corpses’ face.

Springtrap grabbed Austin’s stomach with one bear-sized hand, the fur and glove torn and nearly entirely destroyed at this point. His grip tightened, causing Austin to cry out in pain. If this demon grabbed any tighter, he could probably shatter his hip bones like glass. Springtrap pulled his hand back a bit, eyeing the young adult’s stomach. His eyes glowed brighter as he cut through the soft flesh there like it was nothing, blood splattering onto the belly of this zombified beast.

Austin screamed in pain, thrashing and kicking like a child. Springtrap reached over, wrapping his freehand around Austin’s neck and squeezing. The blonde let out a choked sob, shakily reaching up to grab at the metal and decayed flesh around Springtrap’s wrist. Springtrap chuckled at the shitty attempt, before squeezing again. He let go, sliding both of his fucked-up hands into the cut he had made before. Austin vomited blood, choking and gaging on it due to being unable to get most of it out of his mouth without getting it in his nose. Springtrap wrapped his hands around Austin’s large intestine, yanking it out with little effort. The other let out a gargled scream, tears and blood streaking down his face.

Springtrap continued to pull out multiple of the young man’s insides, raking his claws along the fleshy walls. Austin eventually lost consciousness, and Springtrap took that as an invitation to plunge his hand into his chest, engulfing the dying male’s heart in his palm and squeezing it till it popped and sent blood splattering all over the hall and Springtrap himself.

The moldy, smelly animatronic stood, grabbing Austin’s small intestine and dragging it across the wall. He did the same to the dead man’s other intestine, and then threw his remaining organs either down the hall or at surrounding walls.

Using the fresh blood now coating his hands and the checkered tile, he scribbled multiple phrases across the damp walls.

#hah! told you you’d hate me!#sorry for the shitty drawing nsjdjdn #phone dude #fnaf 3 #springtrap #Austin Phillips #tw murder #tw vomiting #tw blood #tw disemboweling #tw gore #tw animal death #writing #fnaf #my artt

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theholycovenantrpg · 3 years

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CONGRATULATIONS, RACHEL! YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF CAPHRIEL.

Admin Cas: This decision felt practically impossible to me. We received two applications for Caphriel, and each application offered a completely different perspective of her, tapped into two totally opposite aspects of her character, but what drew me back to your application, Rachel, was your eagerness to tackle the — ah, less savoury aspects of Caphriel, shall we say? You said it yourself, it would be easy to look at Caphriel through rose-tinted glasses, given all she’s sacrificed and all she insists on doing for mortal-kind, but the matter of the fact is that she’s still an Angel. Yes, she’s kind, she’s selfless, she’s sombre; but she’s also haughty, she’s also resolute, she’s also violent. I think it was this line that sold me: “Though she despises war, Caphriel carries her sword wherever she goes – can she not say that she is prepared, if she must, to cut down those that stand in the way of her love?” I can’t wait to see what other terrible things Caphriel is willing to do in the name of love in your capable hands! Please create and send in your account, review the information on our CHECKLIST, and follow everyone on the FOLLOW LIST. Welcome to the Holy Land!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Rachel

Age | 22

Personal Pronouns | she/her

Activity Level | Inspiration comes in waves, but I try my best to keep a net one or two posts per day. It might mean I spam the dash with all my replies on one day and then am lurking the rest of the week, it might actually mean one reply a day, it all depends on work and life and such. I am around every day to chat about things, though! You can count on me lurking on discord an alarming amount of the day.

Timezone | PST

Triggers | REMOVED

How did you find the group? | Rosey was like Hey. I think you’ll enjoy this. and she was right!

IN CHARACTER

Character | Caphriel

What drew you to this character? | It took me a long while to settle myself on Caphriel. I was torn between a number of characters as they were posted, but I kept circling back to her – her radiant kindness, the exquisite pain of loving wholeheartedly, despite the weight of sorrows that she carries for others. She is a breath of light that is so deeply compelling to me. It could be easy to see her through rose tinted glasses, but I think there’s an edge to her that I really want to try to draw out.

What future plots do you have in mind for the character? |

I. TAKE UP THY BLADE

Love has brought Caphriel to violence, and it shall do so again. She committed unspeakable acts against God and her fellow angels in their great coup all for the sake of humanity, acts she would repeat tenfold if it meant they remain as they are: stumbling towards a light of their own making, figuring out their place as they define it. Though she despises war, Caphriel carries her sword wherever she goes – can she not say that she is prepared, if she must, to cut down those that stand in the way of her love?

If and when the divine beings start to chafe at their self-imposed equality with the human race, if and when they seek to be once again revered without question, Caphriel will once again take up her sword against her brethren. It is an inevitability, one she feels in her bones.

Caphriel may not go to bat for every human that she encounters, but there are individuals whom she found fight tooth and nail to spare the horrors of the world. She would put herself on the line for humanity as a whole in a heartbeat, if it came to it, though she would prefer to teach her brethren the things she’s learned from the humans first, instill in them the same deference that she holds. Break from them the desire to be worshipped, for that era seems firmly in the past. I think it would be very interesting to have her interfacing with her fellow angels, attempting to teach this point – in all likelihood, it would go poorly, especially among those that still crave power over anything. She cannot force love when it is absent, but she would bleed herself dry if it would make them understand.

Perhaps the angels get restless. Perhaps her shared animosity with Nerissa comes to a head. Perhaps someone dares to harm those that are beloved to her. I feel there are many paths that can lead to her digging back into that measure of destruction she holds within herself, all varying degrees of boundary-testing. This would be a longer-term arc for her as the plot develops, as there are a lot of dominoes that would have to fall first in order to get her to turn to violence – all other avenues must be closed, or she must really, truly feel like it is the right thing.

II. I WOULD DROWN IN THE FAVOR OF YOUR EYES

As an immortal being, Caphriel has lost a great many things. She watches the decay of mortals with a bittersweet resignation, but there are always a special few mortals whose loss she feels keenly, who she weeps for ages down the line. Luca Riche is one of these, though she has not lost him yet – and she is determined to keep him, greedy and indulgent, for as long as she can.

History repeats itself, it seems – she loved Abel then as she loves Luca now, but this time she is at his side, an equal rather than a distant observer. He is not hers to protect, but she aches to do so, would likely turn at an instant on one who did him harm. The thing is: did she love Cain less, for his sin? Did she resent him for his violence against his brother? She had wept for him as he bore the mark even as she turned her back on the darkness he harbored within himself. Her draw towards Luca unwittingly brings Jasper into her sphere, and she can sense a similar darkness about him. The brothers have her transfixed once again, but can the violence between them remain unfulfilled?

I would love to explore the established connection with Luca and how that affects her connections to Jasper. Does she see the animosity harbored by Jasper? Is she blinded to the issues by Luca’s own love for his brother, and her love for him in turn? She is a bit of a meddler, albeit a well-meaning one, so there’s a distinct possibility that she would try to facilitate some form of reconciliation, especially if the strain between the brothers begins to reflect negatively onto Luca. It might just blow up in her face.

Whether she eventually learns they are Cain and Abel does not, I think, truly matter – either way there is still the push and pull of her benevolent love vs. the specific instances of Jasper’s darker leanings, the sickly sweet danger of her love for Luca. She was not a direct actor in their story initially, but she could be now – I think she will cling to this, and it may eat at her. This possessive love could so easily turn to rot – she hovers on a precipice which, really, either brother could knock her over the edge of.

III. THERE IS BLOOD ON THE WALLS OF YOUR HOME

Caphriel’s position within the hierarchy of angels feels, despite her mantle as virtue of Charity, quite tenuous. She shuns Caelum in favor of Sanctus Terra, adores humanity more than she ever has her brethren. She took up the sword with the rest of them, followed Michael into the fray not because she believed in him, but because she believed that God had turned against His people. All that she has done has been for humanity – how plain is that for other angels to see? It is etched into the very marrow of her bones – it seems impossible that the other angels would not be wary of this, unsettled by this almost lack of loyalty.

Michael made her the virtue of Charity – but does he trust her? She had walked away while he was building his empire – does this not smart? Do the other angels view her has naïve for placing her lot so heavily with humanity? Her ferocity still lingers in their memory, but the goodness that she radiates now may turn the stomach of those angels lingering in the darker corners of Caelum.

She spends most of her time in Sanctus Terra, and I would like to really dig into her feelings about coming ‘home’ to Caelum. Whether she is drawn in some official capacity or simply visiting as part of her travels, there are a lot of mixed feelings about the place and the people. She harbors no ill will for her brethren, but their pride chafes on her after too long a stay.

It would be interesting to push this divide to the brink, test the limits of Caphriel’s love and loyalty. When given an ultimatum, which side would she choose? She was made to love and protect humanity, but can she really turn aside from her own divinity so easily?

IV. A HEART IS A MUSCLE LIKE ANY OTHER

This is building off something Minnie had in her sample app! I think it’s really compelling that Arianne and Caphriel occupy the same niche in a strange way. They both can assuage the suffering of another being, though Caphriel’s empathy is a bit less immediate of a fix than Arianne’s manipulation of the heart. There is an element of violence to both of their pathways – for Caphriel to take a memory permanently rather than just see it, she must wield her sword; for Arianne, it is easy to simply stop a heart entirely. Caphriel aims to soothe from a place of love; it seems that Arianne seeks the power that comes from dependance.

They are strange parallels, and I would love to have a possible confrontation between the two. Caphriel tries so hard to love all humanity, but I think that Arianne would push at her limits. She has made herself into humanity’s protector, though the threats she works against are myriad and deeply, deeply unexpected. Arianne’s ability poses a particularly strange threat, one that I believe Caphriel would keep an eye on, especially if she got wind that people were really hooked on Arianne. Her interest is equally a strange sort of covetousness for the position of humanity’s aid and wanting to mitigate what could be a real threat to people.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | If she were to go, it would not be without a fight. In short, yes, but only if it’s really compelling for the narrative/serves a strong purpose.

IN DEPTH

Driving Character Motivation |

Love. A deep, abiding love for humanity in all their glorious failures and corruptions, their triumphs and joys. Caphriel cannot rid the world of all its woes but she can ease the pain of them, and the desire to do so has driven her to the ends of the earth and back again. Her love is a ferocious thing, not the gauzy lightness of poetry but rich and radiant, forged in blood and tears.

Before God’s defeat, Caphriel ached to understand the woes of humanity on a more intimate level, to feel them herself rather than observe their effects from afar. Her empathic power allows her to do that, and she gladly takes humanity’s pain onto herself. She is a hardier being, at the end of it – they will not weigh her down as they do the frailer humans. She will not let them.

Her love is not always good. This is, I think, the crux of her character, and what keeps her from becoming something flimsy. She has spilled blood for this love. Overthrown her creator. Likely even committed violence against the humans she so loves for the sake of sparing the masses further pain. Though her love comes from a place of righteousness, it is, ultimately, her own, and there are those that would see it as a curse or as the delusions of one individual. Her love can blind her to elements of reality and she can lose herself in the memories of others.

She exists in a strange middle ground – not quite angel, not quite human. It is her divine nature that allows her to act as she does, yet she has always hungered to know the depths of humanity. This counterbalance propels her, though she may not even understand the true extent of it.

Character Traits |

+ STEADFAST

Caphriel’s love for humanity has not wavered for eons. She remains committed to them, driven by the desire to help, to ease their suffering, to feel as one with them. Her unwavering devotion to humanity has shaped her life and all her most important actions: her turn away from God, her participation in the coup, her retreat to Sanctus Terra once it became habitable. Though this devotion is overall a net positive, it can, in certain cases, take on a negative aspect.

- OBSESSIVE

There are certain things that she cannot let go of. Her love can turn to obsession, to covetousness, blinding her to the dangers of her actions. Her hunger for connection to humanity has gnawed at her for eons, driving her forward at times against her better nature. She can lose sight of the forest for the trees if she is not careful in moderating herself.

+ COMPASSIONATE

Her powers of empathy heighten her already compassionate nature. She wants to help, to listen to others when they talk of pain, of suffering, to work with them to ease their burdens.

- MEDDLESOME

Her acts of charity are not always welcomed by those she bestows them upon. Her ministrations and particularly her empathic ability often pry deep into a person’s psyche, which she doesn’t realize may alienate those that have not sought her presence.

+ GENTLE

Angels can be fearsome things. The sword worn across her back and the brilliant white sweep of her wings may be unsettling, but Caphriel’s calm and kind demeanor puts that to rest. She radiates a sense of contentment, in harmony with the hum of her blade, the sweep of her wings through the air.

- VIOLENT

She does not often give into her baser natures, but when Caphriel is incited to a fight, she is vicious. She made a name for herself among the angels during the war with God, her greatsword forged by Michael himself whetted on the bones of her kin. Her mild demeanor may belie her fighting prowess, but the truth is: every angel is terrible. Even one built for love such as she.

In-Character Para Sample |

When she descends to the earth at the end of it all, after the bones of her Lord God have stripped themselves bare, after the Blood Plague has ravaged the new, fledgling land, she weeps. The first touch of her foot to the land of Sanctus Terra breaks her chest open, pain and joy and love, uncompromising love, spilling from the very core of her, mirrored in the souls around her. She walks, heart open, into the fold, sword a comforting weight upon her back, wings a blinding mass behind her. She learns to fold them away, over time; saves the revelation of her erstwhile divinity for more intimate things. She tucks the gleaming herald of her wings out of sight, but still she glows, lit from within by the undying flame of her love.

She walks the length of the land, leaving no corner unexplored. Her footsteps are those of Moses, of John. Of all those that wandered the earth, driven by love for their people, for their Lord. She trails a path through the indelible marks of history, the eons crumbled to ash in the reformation of the world. She carries these pilgrims with her, their memory mingling with new stories, their pain and grief and love cradled between her ribs.

It is her sword that announces her presence now, its gentle hum blown by the breeze into the small town she has wandered to. Her cloak is heavy and warm in the noonday sun, her body one large and familiar ache that comes from hours on foot. A small child stops in their tracks at the sight of her – she offers them a warm smile. That seems to spook them more than anything, and they run to hide behind the legs of a woman who bustles around the yard of a nearby home. People peer from windows as she passes, pause in their ministrations to watch her go by. They listen to the radiant hum of the sword that glints on her back and they wonder.

She takes a deep breath, lets the energy of the town seep under her skin. They are all so tired, these people – they all seem to be, the further she moves from the center of the Holy Land. Settlers bending the will of the natural world to their own, terraforming the same soil their ancestors had once turned, eons ago. She has drawn up a crowd by the time she arrives in what seems to be the main square, a rough dirt clearing amidst the houses. The people keep their distance, intrigued but wary – she cannot begrudge them this, though she aches to close the space between them, to take them up in her arms and sooth the furrows from their brows. To nurture them as they nurture the land.

There are people in the square – older, she thinks, though she’s never been good at gauging these things, so used to faces that do not line with age. Humans pass so quickly, their meagre collected years a blip in her existence, yet she yearns to understand the scope of their lives, the honors of reaching fifty years, sixty, when all she knows are millennia. She sees the child from before in the corner of her eye, trailing behind her with their mother, so small. A man and a woman speak in hushed tones as she approaches - snippets blow to her, but she captures none but their names - Gideon, the woman says, Sarah, he responds. Old names, familiar ones, and Caphriel is overcome with her desperate adoration of a people too stubborn to die out, rooted deep into lives eons ago whose stories no longer grace people’s lips but in their most basic form: the name of it all.

“My name is Caphriel,” she intones, as the man named Gideon steps forward to meet her. “I come seeking shelter and to bring aid where it is needed.”

“Why do you hide your wings, Angel?” The man before her says. She sees the glint of mistrust in his eyes, the tension in his stance. She had hoped, once, that she might someday no longer be recognizable at first glance – her brothers had laughed at her when she’d said it, so she buried that seed deep within herself. Her cloak was a small concession to herself, though it seems in this case it had been a misstep. It is no hardship to her to assuage his fears, so she bows her head briefly and removes her cloak, unfurling her wings behind her, a blaze of white stark against the dirt road, the richness of her dark skin. She sees the spark of wonder in the man’s eyes and she smiles, a small but radiant thing.

“I do not mean to hide what I am, or to dissemble and take your hospitality under false pretenses.” The low murmur of the crowd quiets as she speaks. “I take solace in walking where my brethren would fly, and have found it convenient to cover them when they are not in use to shield them from the wind and dirt.” She cocks her head, coy, lets her smile bloom wider, drops her voice like she is telling a secret. “They are a true pain to clean when they get dirty.”

She hears a ripple of laughter from behind her, bright feminine voices, and she knows she has settled into the hearts of these people. Even Gideon, frame still stoic, returns her smile. “Come,” he says, gesturing her into a home along the central square. She folds her cloak in her arms as she walks beside him, eyes adjusting to the change in light as they duck indoors. It is sparse but comfortable, and Caphriel feels at peace. “We don’t get many visitors here, let alone the start of a host of angels.”

“No host,” she says, unlacing her scabbard from her back, laying it alongside her folded cloak. “Just me.”

“Well, that’s lucky,” he replies, “Seeing as I’ve only got one spare bed.”

Her laugh is melodic, filling up the space between them, bright and bubbling with happiness. “Gideon,” she smiles, tasting the prophet’s name on her tongue, rich with history and repetition. “I want to help you. If you tell me what you and your people need, I swear I will do everything in my power to aid you. All I ask in return is a roof over my head for as long as it takes.” She holds out her hand, palm up, a minute act of supplication. “Let me help you.”

“Well,” the man before her says, “Caphriel.” He clasps her hand to shake. She feels the warmth radiate up her arm, into her heart. “Let’s get started, then.”

#accepted #accepted: caphriel

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paramounticebound · 4 years

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Send me a symbol for five times... || ☪: five times our muses almost hold hands, and the one time they do || @fasciinating || accepting.

i. The first time is when his mouth is metallic, slurring the language of savagery over a molten tongue. He spit-swallows venom, a dark cloud among the crew. Implosion is likely. The collision course for reprieve is an abandoned corridor, where fist meets steel. He doesn’t notice the other, not with an imprint of his knuckles reverberating through his teeth, but the first officer needs his attention. Something’s come up. Spock almost grasps his free hand to snap him out of his storm, deciding that the sensation of skin could resolve him–

Sometimes it really is better to let a sleepwalker stay asleep.

ii. The second time is when the lights of the bridge illuminate him just enough to call him a ghost. Ghost and shadow. He’s a statue immutable, angular features sharp, highlighted beneath pale, flickering lights. He’s not alone, but he may as well be solitary, haunting the halls of the Enterprise even when night isn’t so readily defined. Spock’s not entirely certain what motivates him, or what wants to. The captain’s fingers are laced at the small of his back, and Spock admits that he wonders what it would take to break that hold. He perishes the thought, leaves the ghost to haunt his halls.

iii. Three thoughts manifest after the chaos. It’s not where Spock wants to be– Khan seems to be a natural– he’d never witnessed the captain falling apart. The Ceta Alpha V colony had also come in threes– first a message, then a home, and now a graveyard. Khan is in ruins, and he is a graveyard. This is not the first that Spock finds the human in him, hunched over the convulsing remains of his oldest friend, but it is the most visceral. He’s lost more than a crew member, he’s lost a brother. Tears ruin the blood on his face, pooling onto Joachim’s chest, as if that might bring him back. Spock almost reaches out to him, almost brushes his fingers against the quivering confession of his– and then decides against it.

He suffers alone because that is the grave he digs; he’ll eat the dirt.

iv. Four days, and Khan hasn’t slept. Screams and fire, the beautiful destruction left in its wake, how easily flesh melts away: his skull is a necropolis. It’s been a year to the day, and all of the mandatory counseling and mission prep hasn’t done a thing. It’s time for a new rotation, at least a few, and he needs his bravest face– it just isn’t there.

Night isn’t really night in the depths of space, yet everyone needs structure, something to find normalcy in, something stable.

Khan doesn’t think he’s ever been stable, not entirely.

Wandering the base has become an easy habit, and if his bed is the next best thing, it’s also become an easy companion. The only soul that dares to notice him is Spock, became he’s not afraid of the iron-hearted captain, the whirlwind about him, curing rage with broken and bruised knuckles. He ought to ask why there are two phantoms crowding the corridor; questions are dangerous and he’d rather not slice himself open for all of his demons to pour out.

It’s not like Spock doesn’t know.

Instead their voices retreat into the tresses, two silent specters staring into the infinite unknown. Khan thinks to take the other’s hand, to thank him– he vanquishes the thought before it becomes tangible.

v. Five minutes until stasis. Five minutes and Dr. Marcus will stop talking. Five minutes and he can pretend that everything about this mission isn’t somehow off, somehow digging under his skin, a warning that resonates so deeply inside of him that it physically makes him sick. Khan longs to believe that his fear is rooted in uncertainty and instinct, rather than the illogical dread that digs razor-sharp talons in, deep into the center of him. He knows that nothing will happen because it never has; nightmares are like that, he thinks. Like shadows, eternally trailing, without substance.

The captain is always the last one to sleep. His duty is to protect his crew, from afar, from the last-minute preparations as they already float. The Enterprise is too small, too claustrophobic for eternal avoidance, but it’s something to quell the thrum of war drums in his chest. Anxiety swells in his throat, burns his gut when it’s swallowed down. It’s been seven minutes.

Marcus, Chekov, Rand, Sulu, Scott, Uhura, Chapel, he pauses over Alkaev, Kirk, McCoy. Two empty chambers. He thinks he’s still, far from quivering, reminding himself that he doesn’t need to say goodbye.

Are you alright, Captain?

Of course. I am and I must always be.

If that were true, he wouldn’t have nearly reached out amid the silent comfort of the other, close enough for atoms to react in a bought of friction

– it’s been ten minutes, and they both enter the chambers.

vi. Sixth time is the charm. Khan watches the lights in the medbay flicker above him, staring idly into them as if they might heal him faster. This time it is his fault– he brings danger and breathes ruin.

He wants to blame the ship, he wants to blame Marcus– he wants to tear both apart. The hallucinations are becoming worse. The shadows, the slithering vines of violence, decaying darkness, the stench of rot permanently at the back of his throat. At least this time, he knows the pain is a mild concussion. An eternity of concussions were preferable to another moment on the Event Horizon.

It was his fault.

There hadn’t been a choice. There still isn’t.

“I am sorry.” It’s Khan that says it when Spock enters the room, because he has nothing else to say.

They both know that he’s not apologizing for the concussion– it’s for the strange words, hissing under the breath, staring at the gravity core for far too long. It’s for how he wants to claw out his own eyes, how he wants to skin Marcus alive. It’s for his descent into madness, how he is falling apart at the seams.

“I am sorry,” he says again, this time with a low voice, jagged with raw, unnameable melancholy. The sob in his throat chokes him– he knows it makes him weak. When Spock’s fingers clasp around his own, it hardly feels real. Khan hardly feels alive. If he were, he might have realized the irony of too little, too late.

#fasciinating #verse: hell is only a word; the reality is much much worse (event horizon.)#x: MY WITNESS IS THE EMPTY SKY (drabble.)#:')#tw blood #tw gore mention #tw violence #??#long post for ts

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ranekvilmas · 4 years

Text

Unraveled (Chapter 1, Part 2)

She doesn't answer, only pushing more power into her long legs. It's as she digs her antlers into the leg trap, closed around a bear cub's ankle--it opens its mouth to screech in pain, but no noise escapes it--that he reaches her. One prong of her right antler breaks, but she manages to pry it open. Ranek caught up just in time for the trap to open, a small sigh of relief. She was safe, and so was the cub. He kept his ears alert and his nose slightly elevated for unusual scents.

Dark, equine eyes stare after the cub as it limps away at a dash. "I know i' could 'ave been a trap," she states mutely, devoid of emotion in her tone. "Bu' if'n there was even a chance i' could no' 'ave been... I can't take tha' risk. I couldn' 'ave lived with m'self if'n I came back tomorrow an' found a day-ro'ed corpse in tha' trap."

He listened to her every word, reaching a claw up in an attempt to touch the broken antler. "Tomorrow? I did not say to not help whoever was in the trap, just... to take two seconds and be cautious. The little cub could have been bait, and you ran so far ahead...." He stopped himself, letting his hand fall to his side.

"The little one is safe, which is what matters." He spoke softly as the little one waddled away.

Contact with her broken prong causes Blythe to jerk backwards, eyes briefly wide. She's swift to relax, and the 'injury' doesn't appear to pain her--like as not, she can't even feel the extensions of her skull, what for their lack of surface nerves. Ranek's hand shot back as she recoiled, knowing full well it was instinct on her part. He also knew from past experiences that her reaction means to back away.

"They do away with 'em so quick, I..." She turns sun-bright eyes to the forest floor, frosted and quiet underhoof. "I've become so afraid o' wastin' even a second with caution. I've found i' better t' charge in an' use th' surprise as an ambush. Kill th' 'unter an' free their victim, aye?"

He took a step back, crouching to inspect the rusted trap, frowning. "You have killed so many hunters, don't you think they would start putting down bait if you charge in so often? It's what I would do.. especially if their leader is playing games with you."

"I don't know, lad. Th' 'unters 'emselves tend no' t' be very smar', an' they don' seem t' pay attention t' one another. I jus'... I don' know."

After speaking, and with a sigh, the druid steps aside. With gentle kicks to their sides, she begins disarming the rusted traps, whose trigger mechanisms snap at the slightest provocation due to the brittleness of the rust.

Ranek frowned, moving over to more traps and disarming some of the rusted contraptions. "It just... does not make sense to me. I am used to dealing with apex predators.. demons. Creatures from another plane of existence. I forget sometimes how simple these things can be." He walked over to her, running a clawed hand along her flank.

"I always suspect ulterior motives, tricks wrapped in riddles. But I will not let my guard down, because our kind is in danger, the animals as well. And especially you, darlin’." The worgen looked around, moving to disarm a few more that he spotted.

"This is... a 'ive o' nonsense with a single apex predator a' th' 'ead o' i', bu' 'e seems t' opera'e mos'ly on 'is own. I know i' makes no sense," the druid admits after disarming the last trap in the clearing. Ranek stood back up after disarming his last trap, looking around and letting his nose and ears survey the area. He walked back over to her, resting his nose on hers.

"C'mon. Let's make some rounds an' disarm wha'ever we see, an' we'll 'elp anyone we can--even if'n it's only t' bury 'em." With that, Blythe steps off on her split hooves, head slightly low while her ears twist and swivel in search of any potentially dangerous sounds.

"I will follow you forever, love. Lead the way." As they walked, he gently scratched her back. "We will give burials and honor to those that are killed, but I hope we find more empty traps."

With a glance towards her love and his hand, the druid continues on her way. She taps any rusted traps she sees, remarking that there are plenty to be found. They run across a few more skeletons and some less decayed corpses, but the number thins as they travel. The cold grows. Frost on underbrush turns to ice that catches under a hoof and nearly breaks Blythe's foreleg when she goes down, after which she resorts to a clawed form.

(Art by @theunfortunatedruid herself!)

The worgen stays close to her side, only moving away to help disarm traps as they patrol the area. Normally, it would be a perfect outing to spend with her, but the reason they are in the current space is more important than a hiking date. He hated having to bury the poor souls that were needlessly killed, hated having the feeling bubbling in his stomach of seeing another dead worgen or animal left to rot. He hated those hunters, the ones leaving prey to rot. It was not the way, in his mind.

As the amount of corpses thinned, he allowed himself to relax slightly, making a small huff and exhaling slowly. He began to survey the area with a tiny smile... then she fell. He was quick to try and help, but she had already compensated and changed forms to his relief.

It's as a feline that she directs Ranek to one of the most dense parts of the forest, her tail brushing the back of his calves with every other stride cycle. No traps litter the ground, and the bone cover underpaw is sparse at best compared to the rest of the forest, but the sensation of wrongness is at its thickest.

For Ranek, her tail was one of the few things keeping his own paranoia and alertness from becoming obsessive, and he kept a claw musing her fur to have that anchor. Though as he too noticed the clearer area, his ears twitched, moving to catch any sound. There was the faintest of annoyed growls that came from his throat, and his hand stopped moving through her fur to rest on his knife.

Blythe patiently allows Ranek to hold and pet her fur as they travel, though her hackles slowly rise as her long ears stand to nervous attention. Her gait grows stiff, and she glances about with thinned lips and narrowed eyes. The area falls rapidly silent, eerily so, not even a breeze or the faintest hint of animal life stirring. Every paw-step echoes like a gunshot, the crackle of frozen leaves underfoot deafening. The tip of Blythe's tail flicks and twitches as her nerves draw taut.

The eerie calm does nothing to help his paranoia and sends his sense into overdrive. He closes his eyes to calm and focus, letting his ears and nose take over instead of blurring his vision. The absolute silence is one of the things he dreads, his senses straining to the point of a dull ache.

Then the trap springs, making him almost jump out of his skin like his companion. His gut becomes a block of pure ice, his hands clenched into fists. "I want to kill them just for making those traps.." He muttered in a hushed tone.

A trap snaps in the distance and she leaps all but out of her fur, claws unsheathed in an instant. But nothing more happens, not even birds stirring far away, suggesting the snap was merely a rusted trap's mechanism finally giving out under its own chemical decay. The tenseness remains in the air, smothering like water in the lungs and stone weighing down on them. Seeing her startled as much as he is, he tried to force his heart to calm and eased his fists to unclench. "Let's find out what that was."

Should Ranek make to step away, Blythe doesn't follow. She stands with what can be mistaken for rigor mortis in her limbs, not even breathing as she stares into the distance with wide eyes. Her ears ever-so-slowly pin back. Ranek turned, noticing Blythe had not made a sound. When he caught her expression, his guts went cold...

"I did warn you about that companion, my dear." His voice is smooth and deep, echoing across icy leaves from where he stands atop a nearby boulder. "This is a game for two. And only two." Bumblebee yellow eyes, pinpricked with black-as-night pupils, smile down at the pair alongside the slow curl of his lips. And then the lead hunter adjusts his thick-barreled gun in his hands, the same as the other hunters utilize to fire darts for taking live targets. "We'll simply have to return things to the way they should be."

"Run, Rane'," Blythe whispers, her quietly panicked tone leaving no room for argument. Her eyes remain fixed on the hunter before them, tall and proud atop his boulder, confident in his abilities--and he must be justified in that, to strike such visible fear into the druid.

Run? No. Never.

"You made a promise this morning. I stay." He whispered back, his eyes now locking on the hunter to observe and predict his every move. He would never leave Blythe, and he would fight and die to protect her. But he was about to find out how wrong he was.

"Rane-" Blythe barely manages to begin, barely manages to breathe in warning for his disobedience in a situation she's far more familiar with, before the yellow-eyed man aims and fires an orange-filled dart faster than one can even blink. Nearly impossible to register in time, let alone evade from a standstill, it most likely buries itself in Ranek's flesh with a sharp sting and drains into his veins.

The effect is instantaneous, like fire or acid boiling its way through his blood and wiping clean the sanity of both the potion and years of tempering. It draws forth the frenzied, directionless fury of the curse... but without a focus. With a slow, cocky smile, he points a lax finger at Blythe, who drops her ears back and looks rapidly back and forth between Ranek and the hunter.

"Kill her." @theunfortunatedruid

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disabled-queen-hc-blog · 5 years

Note

One of the boys suffering Walking Corpse disorder and doing risky things because they think they can't die if they're already dead?

John tripped down a flight of stairs, got up and was convinced he was dead. It was really as simple as that.

He goes to his mum’s house and apologizes for dying so young and honestly, she thinks it’s just the 70′s, if you get what I mean (*ahem* drugs).

After that, he goes about his business as a dead person. He doesn’t eat, because dead people don’t eat. He doesn’t drink water either.

He still goes to band practice though because...you’d have to ask him. It’s been two days without any food or drink, so John promptly passes the fuck out not even half way through. The boys are fussing over him, saying he’s pale as a ghost and John is like, yeah of course I am. I’m dead.

They laugh it off because John has such a weird sense of humor and try to get him to eat but he violently refuses.

“I told you guys, I’m dead. I don’t eat. That’s ridiculous to think I could,” he says, arms crossed.

The boys are now worried! They think John is deliriously high. They try coaxing him to eat some more and John grows exasperated. He tells them to follow him. They climb to the top of the building they’re in (it’s only 3 stories) and John’s like, I’m going to throw myself off of here and be fine, because I’m dead!

Cue Roger wrangling John all the way to the first floor because he is absolutely not going to be trying out that party trick today.

The 3 are at a loss of what to do because other than thinking he’s dead, John doesn’t look high. Has he lost his mind over night?

Meanwhile as the boys deliberate, John’s fed up with them thinking he’s alive so he just stabs his thigh with a pen, to prove he’s dead. No blood will come out if he’s dead. Of course, blood does gush out of his leg, but he doesn’t see it.

Everyone’s panicking so they drag John into a car and take him to the ER.

As he’s being stitched up, his complaining the whole time because of how unnecessary all of this is. He’s dead!! He doesn’t need antibiotics or stitches. And he certainly doesn’t need an IV. It’s all going to make him rot faster, which the thought of makes him really agitated.

The doctors in the ER have no idea what’s wrong with John other than a hole in his thigh and some dehydration. They’ve never seen anything like it before. They’re thinking of sending him to the psych ward which the boys don’t want to entertain. Psych wards back then were horror shows. No, they’ll try to find another option, thank you very much!

Working with John’s mom, they find a therapist who thinks they can take on John’s case. John stays with Brian in the meantime, who he seems most receptive to. Brian has convinced John to take a bath (in order to clean off the “decay”) and eat something (he said it’s a funeral rite in some made up place in the world) Brian does have Freddie or Roger come help him, because keeping John in check in between therapy sessions is a full time job. John’s burnt both of his hands trying to prove he’s dead. Almost purposefully drowned himself in the tub. Tried to stay up for a few days in a row because dead people don’t sleep.

Once the medication he takes start kicking in, thanks to his mum being the brave one to shove it down his throat every single day, he starts to make small improvements. John doesn’t think he’s dead anymore. He thinks he’s in hell. Which is uhhhh an improvement. He’s more likely to eat and bathe that way.

Which progresses into him thinking his soul is stuck in his body.

And to him eventually thinking he is alive.

Not because he’s always been alive, but because he was somehow revived.

Honestly? Everyone is fine with that. John was dead for a few months and now he is alive. Sure. At least he isn’t trying to kill himself anymore.

The 4 of them, with John’s mum, take a vacation after all of this. They all really deserve it.

#john #cotards delusion!john #walking corpse syndrome!john #Anonymous

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naturallytom · 6 years

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Mind Games (Ex-best friend!Tom x reader haunted house au): part 4

A/N: second to last part!! I can’t believe it tbh I feel like I started this yesterday!! please leave me some asks/comments bc the ending comes out on Halloween and I'm excited for you guys to read it!!

Warnings: angst, mentions of death (kind of?), a bit of violence at the end

Tags: @lover-of-books-and-teas @ive-got-some-lies-to-tell @zendayacolemen @fandoms-stuff @pignolithecookie @savethebabyseals @its-livelovelife @spideysimpossiblegirl @caitlyn-blackwell @hollandroos @spiderboytotherescue @bisexualparkers @vloggerparker @moonlit-void-to-the-far-unknown @tony-starks-ego @chocolateandstorms @fuckyou-imspiderman @differentproselyricscash @thetryvlogs @spiderboytotherescue @moonlit-void-to-the-far-unknown @hollandroos

*strikethrough means tumblr won’t let me tag you :((*

______________________________________________________________________

Tom made sure you were breathing after you collapsed before he too fell asleep. He woke up to a piercing scream coming from you. You were sat up, hysterical, pointing at something in front of you.

“Hey, hey, love, you alright?” Tom soothed. You said nothing, just continued pointing shakily ahead of you. “D-Do you see that too?” You whispered, your voice shaking. “No, love, I don’t, what is it? What’s wrong?” Tom asked, rubbing your back gently. “T-There’s something there. I-I don’t k-know what it is.” You whimpered. “Can you describe it for me?” Tom inquired gently. “It-It’s not human. It’s dead. It’s crawling towards us slowly.” You whispered, curling into yourself and trying to move backwards. “Darling, it’s okay, there’s nothing-” he was cut off by another blood curdling scream from you, who was thrashing around, before you suddenly stopped, your head snapping towards Tom. “Tom, something is happening. Right now. A-And it’s happening to me. It’s something bad, Tom. Something bad is happening to me.” “W-What do you mean?” He spit out, fear taking over his own body. “Don’t you see it, Tom? This is what they do! They get inside your head, they play games. We’ve both seen things, don’t even try to deny it. We have no concept of time, hell I don’t even know if we have food or water anymore. We don’t know what’s real or not.” You cried. “That doesn’t explain why they’re doing this to you!” He snapped. “I was scared, Tom. They feed off of my fear. They’ve had this planned since the beginning.” You whimpered, your voice wavering.

Before Tom could respond, he was cut off by the creaking of the floorboards followed by a dull thumping “Do you hear that?” Tom whispered, pulling you closer. “Uh-uh. I’ve seen that man before.” You gulped. “You have?” Tom squeaked. You didn’t respond, only shutting your eyes, prompting Tom to do the same as you held onto each other as the man passed. “Okay. You’re good to open your eyes.” You mumbled, pulling away from him slightly. “So who was that?” Tom asked, focusing on you. “I dunno. He’s just, smiling. All the time. But not a friendly grin. One that’s more...sinister.” You explained softly, making Tom nod. “Hey, um, I know this isn’t uh, the best time, but I was wondering if we could talk?” Tom mumbled, his hand going to the back of his neck. “Nothing to talk about.” You responded, your gaze following the long hallway on your right. “But there is! I know I don’t have excuses for why I stopped talking to you, but fuck, I miss you!” He said, following you as you scoffed and began walking away.

“I missed you too, Tom! Don’t you remember? I’d call you and try to talk to you at school but you’d just ignore me! I’m done, so fucking done with you and your bullshit!” You cried, making Tom flinch.

“Y/N-please, just hear me out.” He pleaded. “No. It’s not like you’ve supportive so far since we’ve been in this hell house!” you snapped.

“Oh for fucks’ sake, Y/N, can’t you just listen? Is that so difficult?” Tom finally snapped, his voice raising. “You didn’t listen to me, why should I listen to you?” You yelled, both of you standing across from each other.

“Because I love you, Y/N! I fucking love you!” Tom finally yelled out, making you freeze. “No. No no no no. That’s not fair.” You muttered, running your hands through your hair. “What?” Tom asked, his breathing slightly heavy. “I loved you too, yanno. ‘S why I kept trying to contact you, even years later.” You mumbled. “Loved? Look Y/N-” “Tom, I can’t. I can’t do this.” You whispered, your eyes filling with tears.

“Why not?” Tom asked, confused as to what was happening. “I told you before. There’s something bad happening to me and I just can’t put you through that.” You spoke quietly. Tom felt his heart burst as your compassion for him, even though he didn’t deserve it. You were right, he had been kind of a dick in the beginning.

“Listen, I’m, uh, gonna try and sleep. I dunno what time it is or what day it is, but I need rest.” You mumbled, making your way to the worn out living room, laying down on the battered couch. “Good idea. I’ll keep an eye out.” Tom responded, making you nod slightly as your eyes fluttered shut.

Tom tried to keep watch, though his mind was racing. You still had no idea about the possession or the deal Tom made with William’s ghost. Before Tom realized what was happening, he felt himself being lured away from his position by a small voice murmuring “Tommy,” over and over again. It was like he was on autopilot, he wasn’t consciously leaving you, but he wasn’t necessarily unconscious either.

The voice led Tom down to a room in the basement, unbeknownst to him, it was the worst room in the house, where most of the kids were trained in performing the rituals. William and Nancy weren’t stupid, they knew they’d die eventually, but they wanted to keep their house of horrors alive when they weren’t.

It was then that Tom woke up, once again face to face with William’s ghost, the hollow spaces where his eyes once were staring deep into Tom’s chocolate brown eyes. Tom began to panic, wondering where he was and how he ended up in the room. Before he could say anything, William had him put under another trance.

“Now Tom, you gotta watch and listen to me. I’m gonna teach you how to perform the sacrifice.”

Meanwhile you woke up in a sweat, in a box. “Tom?” You asked, beginning to try and move around, only to find you couldn’t. Looking down, you saw your skin rotting, making you start to panic. To make things worse, when you looked up, you noticed there was a covering over you, confirming you were in a coffin. You began to panic, trying to get out. Looking around, there was one small hole, that was slowly being covered by dirt. Hearing muffled voices, you heard Tom talking to someone else. The other person was complimenting Tom for doing such a great job with you, making you gasp. Tom was the one who put you in this coffin. Thrashing around, you became hysterical as he started to call your name.

“Y/N! Y/N, wake up!” Tom called, causing you to jolt forward. “Don’t fucking touch me.” You mumbled, shaking his hands from you. “What? Why?” He asked, taken aback at your hostility. “You’re only going to hurt me.” You spit, moving away from him.

“Y/N- I love you! I would never hurt you.” Tom argued. “You don’t love me, Tom.” You shook your head. “Yes I d-” “You avoided me for years, Tom! You just completely abandoned me!” You cried, shaking from frustration and fear of your realistic nightmare. Tom sighed, letting his head drop. He knew you were right, but he really did love you. Just because he stopped talking to you didn’t mean he didn’t think of you. He thought of you every day and how much he messed up. He wanted to reach out, try to talk. But as time went on, he gradually accepted that you hated him for his actions and you moved on, until he made the bold move to invite you and Olivia to his house. He hoped to reconcile with you that night, but instead you were lured to your current hell and things between you weren’t getting much better. You were physically weak and fragile, small bruises covered your body and dark bags covered your eyes, a sign of the physical tolls this house had taken on your body. But Tom knew just how strong you were for enduring what you had endured in this house so far.

“Y/N, I know you’re upset and I understand why and I promise you when we get out of here, you can move on and I won’t bother you ever again, but we need to work together to get out of here.” Tom spoke gently and quietly, making you nod. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” You said softly.

With the knowledge that someone had managed to escape before, you and Tom began finding your way to the door you thought you came in through. You found lots of doors, all of them leading to dead ends, most of them walls. Both of you tried to block out the thought that there were bodies behind those walls, knowing whoever didn’t die in sacrifices or of lack of food and water was often sealed in the walls while they were alive and left to die.

“Tom I think we should give up.” You muttered, feeling tired and dizzy. “No way, Y/N. There’s gotta be a way out of here,” Tom replied, the two of you finding a door that looked the same as all the others, Tom opening it. Instead of being greeted with a wall, you were greeted with the woods. The outside. Finally, you could feel fresh air against your faces, you could smell the crisp autumn air. Tears filled your eyes as you turned to Tom, who looked disappointed.

“Why do you look upset? Tom we can get out of here!” You cried, still grinning. “Y/N, no, that doesn’t lead outside. This is the room where they perform sacrifices.” He said, giving you a look. You felt tears fall from your eyes as your glimpse of the outside world decayed to an unfamiliar room to you, but one that seemed vaguely familiar to Tom. “No, no no no. T-This led outside. T-There’s no way-” You breathed out, tears falling down your cheeks.

“Tommy.” A voice spoke, chills running down your spine.

“Tom who’s tha-” You got out before Tom hit you over the head with something, rendering you unconscious.

#tom holland #tom holland au #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x female!reader #tom holland x fem!reader #tom holland series #tom holland imagine #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfic #tom holland blurb #tom holland drabble #tom holland oneshot #tom holland one shot

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vloidunderscore42 · 5 years

Text

Ozymandias

Tuesday, june 11, 2019

I started to despise seeing the blank page of Tumblr. It gets me feeling weak, like a crybaby, waiting for attention of sorts.

"No one is afraid of heights, they're afraid of falling down. No one is afraid of saying I love you, they're afraid of the answer."

Kurt Cobain

I'm not even sure I know how, or where to start, I haven't posted for so long, just didn't feel the need to, or actually, I did, but I just wanted to ignore it.

Exams are to come in 7 days, first I'll have to take the romanian language exam and then the mathematics exam, I hope for at least a 9/10, but I can never be too sure.

"Forever isn't for everyone, is forever for you? It sounds like settling down or giving up, but it don't sound much like you girl"

Alex Turner

Love, such an irritating subject. I got this girlfriend, mainly to get my mind off someone who I tried something with, and didn't quite work (neither did 'getting my mind off of them', but nevermind), yet she wasan't even into me. Imagine trying to give someone space to get them comfortable with you, try make something work, and they don't even acknowledge your existence when you're near them. I just couldn't keep pushing, and not only that, I didn't want to.

I'm just so sick and tired of caring for people I find it easier to make them hate me, and settle down with some 'friends' who don't care that much about me to actually get mad at me. Didn't plan it to go like this, but once I saw it start, I didn't stop it, can't really see the point. All I'd do is hurt myself more and more, and annoy others on the long term. Short term annoyances and relationship degradation. Sounds like 'fun'.

Ozymandias

Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Ozymandias, a term I usually use when I think of relationships. Its a tale of perspectives. It tells the story of a long fallen king told through the perspective of a traveller to the poet, which then tells it to the reader. It's also very indicative of failure and something turning into ruins. I liked to use it as "yeah, our relationship is turning into an Ozymandias relationship", but its only something I get and no one else does. Now I don't really use it anymore, cause it feels like some sort of attack.

"Nostalgia is the hearts way of reminding you of something you once loved. It travels in many forms, on a song, in a scen or in photographs. But no matter how it comes to you it will always have the same bitter-sweet taste."

Ranata Suzuki

I feel like I'm rotting from the inside, and I've felt like this the past like 2 weeks. I just don't know what to do. Its like you see a nurse giving you cyanide instead of water, through your IV, yet you're too afraid to tell her she's doing something something really dangerous and should stop, cause she's the expert, so you just sit and let her poison you.

Its been so long, I just don't know what other things I should add, so I'll continue with the songs (more, cause lots of time passed)

Snap Out Of It - Arctic Monkeys

Entice Me - Colourblind

Haat De Stank - Demob Happy

Cleric Girl - Sisyfuss

Cornerstone - Arctic Monkeys

Goodnight.

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minyoongijjangjjangmanboongboong · 5 years

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Penumbra: An Interactive BTS Horror Story Part IV

Premise: Seven friends return to their old high school for one last night of mayhem before the building is condemned. But everything is not as it seems… What will the group do when they find themselves trapped in a warped hellscape with no means of escaping?

That…is up to you.

The Rules: To participate in this story, all you need to do is vote. At the end of each chapter, you will have five hours to make a decision via the poll provided. Do this or do that: you decide. Whichever option receives the majority of the votes is the path we will all follow together so please…choose wisely.

You have chosen well. Hoseok chooses to tell the group.

Another important choice lies ahead of you. What will Namjoon do? Vote here. Want to know more about the characters before you vote? Read this.

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Masterlist

WARNING: This story contains material that some readers may find frightening, disturbing, or unsettling. If you are sensitive to graphic imagery or dark situations, proceed with caution. Please read at your own risk.

“I…I’ll tell them,” says Hoseok with a wavering voice.

He sighs as Yoongi gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze. He knows it’s the right thing to do. But the way that girl died…always feeling the pain of her unfortunate end…he doesn’t ever want to imagine his friends could do that to him. Surely, she thought the same thing. The fear of not only losing his life, but losing his friends paralyzes him. He knows it’s stupid and that he should give his friends a little more credit than that, but something about the urgency of that spirit’s tone…

It felt like a bad omen.

Yoongi and Hoseok start off down the hallway once more, but Hoseok is fidgety. His fingers thrum against his thighs and his eyes dart around like the oblong shadows along the walls and floors are alive, slinking along behind them like death’s loyal attendants. He suppresses a shiver and rubs his upper arms, shaking his head and pressing slightly closer to Yoongi. Ever possessed of mental fortitude, Yoongi remains steadfastly unaffected by what has happened. Hoseok can’t understand him. While the two have always been close, often spending long days together producing passion projects with Yoongi’s Midi keyboard, in this new world it seems that their commonality in their reality is too flimsy a tether. Hoseok longs for human connection, for someone to just take him by the shoulders and give him a hug, a promise that everything will be fine even if it’s an empty one.

The longer he thinks about that corpse, the skin stretched over her bones tight like old canvas and nearly translucent with decay, the backpack still clutched between her fingers…Hoseok can’t help but feel sick to his stomach. It’s an isolating feeling. And, even though Yoongi came back for him, he doesn’t know where the other boys stand. Hoseok ran off, endangered the group, split everyone after demanding they stay together…

What if that spirit is really right?

What if the only person Hoseok can trust is himself?

“We’re here,” says Yoongi quietly, rousing Hoseok from his panicky, spiraling thoughts as the two approach the sliding door.

Hoseok forces a smile and nods. “Alright,” he says, following his friend into the empty room.

Without a word, Hoseok steps toward the window and looks out. It’s as if something and nothing is there, all at once, spread out endlessly like a night sky without any source of light. Even if they can get out, where exactly would they end up?

“I don’t think this is our world,” says Hoseok, still gazing sidelong out the window.

Yoongi, startled by this announcement, crosses his arms and widens his eyes. “Huh?”

“This building…I don’t think it exists in the plane we know,” says Hoseok quietly, still looking out into the nothing.

Yoongi sighs. “Listen…I know this is all really weird, and nothing makes much sense, but you’ve gotta keep your head on straight. Whether it’s our world or something else doesn’t really matter,” says Yoongi. “What matters is how we get back.”

Hoseok blinks at the window, perched by the sill, as his thoughts shroud his mind like a fine mist, just thick enough to warp his vision. “What if there’s no way back?”

Yoongi is stunned into silence for a good while, long enough to give Hoseok the answer he needs. If there’s no way back, then all of this is for nothing. All the fighting, all the clawing to survive, to find a way out…

It’s for nothing after all.

“Don’t go believing these ghosts, Hoseok. They just want to shake you up,” he says. Before he can go on, nine rasps on a 3:3 beat sound against the door. Yoongi is quick to attend to the other members of the group, sliding the door open. Perhaps he’s just eager not to be alone with Hoseok anymore.

Hoseok wouldn’t want to be alone with himself either…

Namjoon and Jimin slip inside and Yoongi greets each of them with a pat on the back, about the tenderest gesture the guy can muster. “You’re safe?” asks Yoongi.

Namjoon nods and offers a soft, almost sad smile. “Safe, but…stuck I’m afraid,” he says with a sigh. “We couldn’t find a way out.”

Jimin shrugs his shoulders. “Can’t find a way, then we’ll make a way.”

Hoseok stares at the small, dark-haired boy, his lips in a determined pout, the flushed kiss of life in his cheeks, and he can discern a tangible shift in his mood. Gone is the frightened, moping, sobbing boy who can’t so much as lift his head from his knees. In his place is a quietly resolute young man, a man who has steeled his nerves enough to at least pretend to be strong.

Hoseok can’t imagine Jimin ever betraying him.

But in a place that makes Hoseok question if he can even trust himself, how is he supposed to trust these people?

“How’d you get back to the classroom?” asks Hoseok softly, his voice weak and frail in the dusty air.

Jimin turns to him and approaches quietly, perching beside him beside the windowsill. He joins Hoseok in gazing out. “If you go up to the second floor and around to the east staircase, you can work your way around the hole.”

“It wasn’t dangerous?”

Jimin slides his eyes toward him and, with a knowing look in his expression, shakes his head. “Feels awfully quiet actually.” He sets his jaw starkly against his neck. Hoseok knows what he’s implying, and he can feel it too.

Something is coming.

The same rasping knocking pattern echoes through the room and this time it’s Namjoon who greets the other boys. Jungkook walks in first, eyes wide as if he’s got something important on his mind, followed by Taehyung who jitters with frenetic energy, and Jin who simply slides in and sits down in one of the crooked desks. He stares at the uneven floor with furrowed brows. Hoseok hates himself for feeling wary about their entrance. What has them all thinking so hard?

“We found a knife,” blurts Jungkook before sitting down on the ground, legs criss-crossed.

Hoseok’s eyes widen. A knife. A weapon. Something he can use to-

“I don’t really think we’ll be able to use it much though. Doesn’t seem like knives will work against ghosts,” says Taehyung with a sigh.

Yoongi settles on the ground beside Jungkook and, although he doesn’t offer even a smile by way of comforting gesture, Jungkook seems to settle a little. “Well,” begins Yoongi quietly. “It might work against something else…,” he says. Slowly, he eyes Hoseok from the floor and all at once everyone’s gazes are upon him.

His heart races for a moment before he clears his throat and shakes his head. He glances at the knife in Jungkook’s hand, dull but deadly. He questions his choice.

“What are you talking about?” asks Namjoon, although he is still staring right at Hoseok.

Jimin nudges Hoseok’s knee with his own and raises his brows, expectant. “You okay?” he asks.

Hoseok blinks a few times and coughs a little, something bitter rising in his throat. “There’s…something in here with us.”

Seokjin scoffs. “No shit. This place is full of spirits,” he says.

Hoseok turns to his friend gravely and shakes his head. “Something different.”

Seokjin cocks a brow. “Different how?”

“A man…or something that looks like a man…,” he says, then rakes his fingers through his hair. The old fear that he’d sated after Yoongi had come to the rescue is returning threefold, his chest constricting at the memory. “He’s got an axe.”

Namjoon’s eyes go wide. “Excuse me?” he asks.

Hoseok nods. “He tried to kill me,” he says, his voice wavering.

Jimin places a hand on Hoseok’s knee and squeezes, setting his warm eyes upon him. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” he breathes.

Hoseok offers a wan smile before returning his gaze to the rotting floorboards. “I don’t know exactly what or who he is, but…he’s angry.”

“How did you escape?” asks Seokjin, but his expression lacks its usual lightheartedness.

Hoseok exhales, steadying his breath, and runs his hands along his thighs. “Yoongi came just in time,” he says. “I guess whatever that thing was, it didn’t want to deal with two of us at once.”

“It just…left?” asks Taehyung, shaking his head.

Yoongi nods. “I watched it leave the nurse’s office. It seemed like it didn’t want anything to do with me,” he says.

“So it singles people out,” says Namjoon with an open-mouthed nod. “Maybe it preys on the vulnerable?”

Hoseok’s eyes widen and he glances at his friend. “You think so?”

Namjoon tosses his head to the side, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. “I can’t say for sure, but…it’s definitely possible. You were injured and alone and probably shitting yourself.”

The group chuckles a little at his joke and Hoseok himself offers his first genuine smile. Of course, his friends are reliable. He has nothing to fear from them, of course. Of course.

“I was,” says Hoseok, glancing around the group.

Nobody seems to begrudge him leaving. Nobody seems to hate him for it. Jimin is glad he’s safe. Namjoon is trying to find a solution. Yoongi came back for him. Jungkook was quick to reveal his weapon. Seokjin and Taehyung listen to him attentively without even a hint of malice. He settles a little, although that paranoia, like an all day itch that can’t be scratched, continues to beguile his sensitive mind.

“So new rule: nobody can be by themselves,” says Namjoon with a nod. “If we’re alone, we’re at risk of being attacked.”

Jungkook nods. “I agree,” he says, but his voice shakes. He seems fearful of even his own shadow.

The rest of the group express their assent through various nods and grunts of agreement. Hoseok joins them with a nod, eyes still on the floor. “Well…while we’re sharing, I found something weird along the walls,” says Taehyung, crossing his arms.

Hoseok glances at him and finds the boy with a troubled furrow in his thick brows. “Yeah?” asks Yoongi, listening closely.

Taehyung shrugs. “It could be nothing, but…on all the bulletin boards there’re newspaper clippings from 1976,” he says, raising his eyes to rest them on Namjoon.

Namjoon hums. “Weird,” he remarks. “I think it’s safe to say this place isn’t Haneul High. It’s…something else. So maybe it has to do with where we are?”

“Or what happened here…,” says Jimin quietly, barely whispering.

Hoseok glances at him with wide eyes. “What do you mean?” he asks.

Jimin lifts his gaze and there’s something serious in his expression. “You remember I mentioned there was a tragedy at Haneul Academy of the Arts?”

Jungkook visibly shivers. “Why are you bringing that up again?”

Jimin sighs. “Can’t you see it? That this building and that building are the same?” he asks, sweeping his arms around broadly.

Hoseok’s spine stiffens. “You mean to say we’ve been…sucked into a building that got torn down in the seventies?” asks Yoongi, incredulous.

Jimin rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “It’s not like it’s the weirdest thing to happen to us lately,” he says, and Hoseok has to admit the kid has a point.

Yoongi shrugs, shutting his eyes and leaning back on his palms as if this is the last thing he wants to talk about. It probably is. “So…presuming this is true, what’s the point? Why the newspapers?” asks Taehyung.

Jimin glances around for a moment, pursing his lips. “Well…remember how nobody knows exactly what happened? Since nobody talks about it? What if the clippings are the building’s way of telling us what happened here?”

“So it’s a sentient building?” asks Yoongi, deadpan.

“Kind of!” exclaims Jimin with a frustrated huff. “Jesus, don’t you remember what the ghost Jungkook talked to said?”

“And that spirit in the hallway,” adds Hoseok in a small voice. “Everyone who died here talks about this place like it’s…like it’s alive,” he says, the last word escaping his lips reluctantly like a curse.

Yoongi sighs and quiets down. His dissent, though well-meaning, is setting the group off into squabbling that isn’t productive. Namjoon nods his head and pushes off from the wall, wringing his hands. He stares at a singular spot on the floor, hyper focused on it as he takes a step forward.

“That kinda makes sense,” he says, then shakes his head and smiles at Yoongi softly. “Of course, it really doesn’t. But given the circumstances…it kinda does.”

Yoongi shrugs. “Believe whatever you guys want,” he says.

Namjoon heaves a sigh and pulls at the waistband of his pants, pulling something from beside his abdomen. He holds in his hand an old red notebook, its binding adhesive crusting and yellow, its pages seemingly jammed inside without much notice or care. He taps it against his palm and glances around, brows knit with indecision.

“I…I don’t know if this is the right thing to do, but…Jimin and I found this notebook in the basement. The door was locked really tightly,” he says. “Took using the crowbar to pry it open, but eventually…”

Seokjin leans back in his chair with a groan. “You didn’t take that fucking notebook,” he says, eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m sorry, Jin. But we had to-,”

“You didn’t have to do anything!” he shouts, standing to his feet and sending the small desk he rested in skittering across the floor. It clatters back against another desk, falling onto its side. Namjoon takes a step back with wide eyes. “You don’t fuck with dead people’s stuff! You know what happened to Eunjin!”

The group grows silent. None of them want to step into those roiling waters, even in a hellish, cursed, crumbling building. Seokjin settles himself, rubbing his chest and shaking his head.

“Jin, I know,” says Namjoon softly, placing a hand on his shoulder gently. “But this could be the key to us getting out.”

“If the door was locked, that means someone or something didn’t want us poking around in there,” says Jimin, nodding his head toward the notebook. “Probably because of that.”

Seokjin’s brows are low and his jaw is set, arms crossed. “If this ends up having horrible consequences, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says, shoving Namjoon’s hand off his shoulder with unnecessary aggression. He leans back against one of the broken desks and rolls his eyes. “Well, the deed’s done. Let’s hear what’s inside.”

Namjoon blinks for a moment before clearing his throat and nodding. “Ah, uh…well, we haven’t opened it yet.”

Seokjin scoffs. “Perfect. Awesome, yeah. I’m super glad you didn’t open it in the basement and brought it all the way here instead. Let’s get in a circle and listen to this story together, kids!” he says, shaking his head. “Christ,” he says under his breath.

Namjoon, clearly uncomfortable, blinks and opens his mouth a few times. “Um…I’ll just open it right now,” he says.

The group condenses in the center of the room, huddled over the notebook so they can read it together. Hoseok hopes that seven pairs of eyes poring over the same text might yield something useful at least.

Tuesday, September 7

Mr. H - - started calling me Minnie lately. It’s pretty, but I think I’m more happy that he l - - -s me enough to give me a nickn- - -. I hope that the rest of my cla- - starts to like me too. R - - - - now I don’t have many friends. I try to introduce myself, but it’s hard.

How should I introduce my - -lf?

Hello, my name is - - - - - - - - -.

Hi! I’m Kim M - - - - -!

Nice to me- - y-o I’m - - m - - -seo!

Call me Minnie…

I’ll have to try harder.

The boys sit silently for a long while, staring at the stained, dirty page. As hard as Hoseok tries to read the words, many of them are ruined with bleeding ink or stained with…something else. Some of the letters seem scratched out, and rather vigorously at that. Hoseok shivers and leans away slightly. What he can make out, Hoseok can’t understand. Mr. H and the nickname? An unpopular new student?

Why was this diary hidden and locked away?

“Let’s turn the page,” says Taehyung quietly. None of them seem quite comfortable.

Friday, October 15

The roles for Matilda were posted today. I really expected things to turn out different. I’ve been studying the roles and my lines for a few weeks now. But I didn’t do so good…

I DID GREAT!!

You’re looking at Haneul Academy of the Arts’ new leading actress! Ki - - - - - - -!! Wow, even writing it feels nice. Mr. H - - was really happy when he posted the cast list. I was happy too. Mr. H - - said that I’ll be a perfect Matilda, since she’s smart.

It’s strange. I’m 10, but Matilda is supposed to be 5 years old. The same age as my little brother. Only he’s rotten, and she’s a hero. Maybe my brother will come to the play and get inspired to stop being such a snot.

I love him anyway.

(But the next time he touches my script without asking, I’m really gonna sock him in that big nose of his.)

This page is significantly more readable. Fewer…stains. “She was an actress,” says Namjoon solemnly. There’s a quietude in the air that feels contemplative, melancholy.

In that quiet is the silent implication that this girl has met with a terrible fate.

Hoseok feels chilly and rubs his hands together. The friction does little to ease the cold, and by the fidgeting of his friends it’s clear they feel it too. “Should we…continue?” Hoseok offers.

They nod.

Monday, October 25

Things are str - - - -. Rehears - - - are going well. I know my lines. The other kids aren’t being me - - to me. In fact, I think I might be making a few fr - - nds. My grades are high and my parents aren’t fi - - - ing. Even my little brother is behaving.

But something is wei - - abo - - Mr. - - -. He keeps tel - - - - me to s - - him in his of - - - -. He’s one of the only t - - - - - - - who has hi - o - - - - - - - -! And inst - - - of the play, he t - - - - abou - - - - - - - - - - -. It’s like we’re becoming friends.

Does he want to be my fr - - - -?

There is a tangible chill in the air now, and all of the boys are affected by it. Jimin hugs his torso, knees pressed against his chest. Namjoon’s fingers are going pale as he touches the warped pages of the notebook. Seokjin, though sitting at the very edge of the group, is rubbing his arms and peering over Taehyung’s shoulder who is also shivering slightly. Jungkook and Yoongi huddle close together and Hoseok sits beside the two with wide eyes set on the page.

This one is particularly doctored. Not only are words scratched out with a frantic stroke, there are far more red splotches than on other pages. This Mr. H character seems sinister, and the more Hoseok stares at the page the colder he feels. He wants to throw the book across the room and forget it. He wants to shut his eyes and sleep, hoping to awaken back in his bright bedroom with the curtains swaying in the autumn breeze, the window left open overnight, letting in a slight chill. He wishes he could be cozy in his sheets, alone, the sunlight turning the backs of his eyelids red and translucent.

But instead he’s here, staring at this horrible diary with watery eyes and a pounding heart. None of them say anything.

Namjoon turns the page.

Saturday, December 11

It’s been months now. Something is w - - - -.

Next weekend is opening ni - - -. I’m excited to play the part! But I have a really b - - feel - - -. Like somethin - - - gonna hap - - - -. All of my teachers are happy to see the show. I am too. But I still - - - - - - - - - - -. Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe I’ll talk to - - - - - about it.

I hope my brother comes to the show. He said he wouldn’t go even if Mom and Dad dragged him. I know he’s a brat, but I’d feel better if he was there…

Wish me luck…

From there on, the pages are illegible. Not only are they stained beyond comprehension, the writing becomes horribly warped and frantic. There’s something about it that feels eerie and fills Hoseok with dread. Something must have happened to this young girl. Hoseok suspects that if they were to go through the remaining pages categorically, they could decipher at least something. But it seems that none of them want to do it.

Hoseok lurches to his feet and takes a few steps back, but even the space behind him is icy cold. He shivers and shakes his head. “This is fucked up,” he says, brows furrowed.

Jimin stares at him from the floor, eyes watery. He quickly rights himself, clearing his throat, and shakes his head. “It still doesn’t make any sense,” he says.

Taehyung leans away from the book and gnaws on his lower lip. “I…,” he begins, then glances up and meets Seokjin’s gaze. He sighs. “I think we need to collect the newspaper clippings.”

Seokjin stiffens and narrows his eyes at Taehyung. “Are you kidding?” he asks carefully.

Taehyung nods. “So we can have a full picture. If we wanna get out of here, we’ve gotta understand what here is and how it all connects,” he says. “All the exits are a bust anyway, so what else are we supposed to do?”

Seokjin’s nostrils flare for a moment before he composes himself. “Don’t you feel the energy in this room right now? Coming from that book?” he asks, pointing a ghostly pale finger at the diary.

Taehyung sighs. “Yes, I feel it. But we don’t have any other leads.”

“I’m not going,” says Jungkook, obstinately shaking his head.

“Count me out too,” says Yoongi, glancing at Jungkook. In his own weird way, perhaps he’s looking out for him.

Jimin, having finally recomposed himself, wipes beneath his eyes and shakes his head. “I…I think I need a break too,” he says.

“Me too,” Hoseok offers, voice meek and quiet.

Namjoon, Taehyung, and Seokjin exchange a loaded glance. “Then I guess that leaves us,” Namjoon says with a careful look at Seokjin.

He groans and runs his hands through his hair. “Jesus H. Christ,” he mumbles, standing to his feet and dusting off his pants. “Fine. I guess I should go anyway to keep you guys from doing something to disrespect the dead.”

Taehyung offers a smile, almost like a peace offering, but Seokjin doesn’t return it. Simply crosses his arms and taps his foot, clearly impatient.

“Hold onto the diary. Maybe…look for details or something,” Namjoon says quietly, examine the scene. “We’ll take the crowbar and you guys can keep the knife,” he says with a nod towards Jungkook.

Jungkook stiffens and looks down at the knife in his hand with another shiver. “Will do,” says Yoongi, clearly the most mentally stable of the bunch staying behind.

Seokjin and Taehyung depart for the dark hallway, but Namjoon lingers in the doorway, gazing at the boys left. There’s something severe in his eyes. Separating had been dangerous enough before, but now with that axe man wandering around…

It feels like they might never see each other again.

Hoseok shakes his head. That stupid, paranoid voice in his head keeps whispering in his ears and he struggles to quiet it. “Take care of yourselves, okay?” says Namjoon quietly, one hand on the doorframe.

Jimin stares up at him for a long moment before nodding. “You too,” he says. “Please.”

Namjoon smiles. “Will do, Dooly,” he says, then smiles at Yoongi. “Look after everyone, alright?”

Yoongi nods, expression dark and somber. “I will.”

And with that, Namjoon gives a final dimpled smile and takes his leave, turning on his heel into the hallway. He slides the door shut behind him, and the room descends into heavy silence in his wake.

Namjoon releases a shaky sigh and pats his chest a little. Why did it feel like he was saying goodbye to his friends forever? The severity of the situation hasn’t been lost on him, but now things seem much more grim than before. No exits, no escape, nowhere to hide.

Namjoon shakes his head and points his flashlight down the dark hall. The trio begins walking, past the corpse with the backpack and the blood on the walls. They traverse the hallway in silence, Taehyung standing close to Namjoon and Seokjin, unhappy with the both of them, takes up the back with crossed arms and a pout. Of course he wouldn’t be pleased. With all the speeches he’s given on why not to ever, under any circumstances, provoke the dead and absolutely never touch their personal effects, there’s no way he wouldn’t be upset with the boys.

A scream rips through the hallway, like a lonesome wail echoing and bouncing off the wafer-thin walls, ricocheting off the broken floorboards, piercing through the cracks in the plaster ceilings. Seokjin jumps and runs up to join Taehyung, taking up Namjoon’s left flank. The three huddle close together, hyperaware of every drip of standing water, every creak of old wood beams.

“W-Where are we going again?” asks Seokjin with a quiver, grabbing onto Namjoon’s elbow like a child.

Namjoon swallows his fear and keeps his gaze steadfastly frontward. “To the east stairs so we can get back to that bulletin board you guys saw be-” he says.

But as they round a corner Namjoon thinks he knows, expecting to see the staircase spread out before them, the group stumbles to an unwitting stop. Stunned, Namjoon’s sentence catches in his throat and he stares at the space before him with wide eyes. His object permanence, like his memory, is excellent. He is certain this is where that stairwell was when he and Jimin descended it just moments ago. He goes stiff as a board, staring now at a long stretch of near-black hallway, leading into someplace unknown.

“This…wasn’t here before,” says Taehyung quietly.

Seokjin shakes his head, clutching Namjoon’s arm even tighter. “Nope. This was not part of the plan. We’ve gotta go back. Wait it out in the room.”

“Wait what out?” asks Taehyung, turning to stare at Seokjin with furrowed brows. “Wait for that man with the axe to come swing at us too? Wait to die from dehydration?”

“No! Just…wait…,” says Seokjin, but his voice is faltering, flitting into silence.

“We should follow it,” says Taehyung with a certain nod. “It’s clearly leading somewhere. We need to know more about this building so we can fight back somehow.”

“Doesn’t it say something that the second we start poking around in that diary, the fucking building starts changing like the stairs in Harry Potter?” asks Seokjin, voice going shrill.

Namjoon clenches his jaw. It’s a fair point. “All the more reason to follow it,” says Taehyung. He’s resolute. “If we go back, we gain nothing. At least if we push on, we might find something that’ll help.”

“Or we’ll die,” levels Seokjin with a glare.

Namjoon stares down the hallway. There’s nothing special about it. Just a long corridor leading somewhere. It looks much like any of the other hallways in the building. Why would there be anything special down there?

But…

What if there is something important to be found? And besides, who’s to say that this is the only area of the school that’s changed. Maybe the whole blueprint is different, the floor plan has been flipped into something entirely new. The only way to know is to explore. The only way to figure this place out is to play its game.

But is it worth risking their lives?

Well…

Are their lives any safer in that classroom?

#bts #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts horror #bts horror au #bts au #bts ot7 #bts angst #bts imagines #bts reactions #bts scenarios #bts au fanfic

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