bleaksummer

[bleaksummer]

𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭.

[bleaksummer]

Gold. Who was that guy that touched everything and, ‘ting!’ pure gold? All that money thrown at education and I don’t have the foggiest. I suppose mommy wanted me to have the best, and possibly meet some kids my own age, but honestly I’d have been better being thrown into the local high school, at least then I’d have had a chance at talking to people who are more likely to have a soul. 

I am well aware of my place, and truly, I know I could fall in shit and come out smelling of roses. Most of the time I don’t have to think at all, days upon days of blissful nothing and fuck me, I have no idea why the rest of my family make it look so fucking difficult. Forever jamming their fists into where they can make more of it; green. The thing that makes the world turn on its axis, so they say. Don’t make us any happier though, does it? I’m sure the foundations of this place are built on valium and loud sighs. 

We are, mostly, very stupid, and very far removed. It is wealth you simply cannot dream of, the gap between us and your average joe, middle class with a 401k, 2.5 kids and wife with a Louis Vuitton handbag is actually a fucking chasm. So deep and so wide it could unhinge it’s jaws, and snaffle the Grand Canyon. IT'S NOT REAL. A world of no consequence, no one need grow up, endless fucking frolicking at the bottom of Mary Poppins’ carpet bag with Peter bastard Pan and all of his merry men, or whoever the fuck Disney said. 

We just are. 

True enough, we could do more to help the needy, or…those that are on the breadline, whatever the PC term is now. But our ignorance means our own problems, usually of our own doing are usually far more important. Frivolous, but far more important than the fact you’ve shoved another kid out and can’t afford a grocery shop. The fact that those little colourful tickets designed to look like you aren't completely fucked, the ones you cash in at the foodbank, the proverbial begging bowl, is your life line. Who the fuck do we think we are?

Uncle Philip does an especially good job of knotting himself up to be the King on the funeral pyre of his making. Good businessman, fairly bad human, but so are we all I’d wager. Silly little footnotes stomping around unending halls crying at our fistfuls of cash. He hates it. Recently, he spends most of his time lurking and chain smoking, it almost appears it physically pains him to smile, which is a shame because I remember a time his lips would crack and his laughter would make his whole frame shake. He was, is…warm, he’s just forgotten in all the din of being one of the luckiest motherfuckers on planet earth. 

Our family is odd, though. I see that now, The Sheas are very much new money, it's a dirty term around people like us. This miserable nature hasn’t become engrained in them yet, they are still worker ants, bringing their wares back to the nest, stockpiling wealth for a rainy day. But fuck me, they are like sunshine, and they are just so…well, REAL Their emotions aren’t regulated by having a stick up ones ass, they've just fuckin’ grafted for the world they inhabit. There is a certain levity, to having them around, and they have so much familial turmoil and yet they are simply magic. It’s fascinating. 

I realise sometimes how tone deaf I am when I try to have conversations with them, or, well anyone outside of the Locke family prison. I am coveted, surrounded, and yet none of them fucking listen. I am nobody, not a victim, but a nobody. Just the prize pig, and I must say some of the most heinous shit, because our life is just playtime, and theirs actually means something. 

I am aware how trite I sound, rich kid wants to mean something. What’s wrong with that though? Well, I suppose the sun shines out of my ass, and therefore, I have to work harder to prove not everything of value I am capable of producing was funded entirely by the obscenity of the wealth in my estate. All at once I want to hide and I want to be seen, instead I am balls deep in a stereotype I am incapable of shaking off. How tragic.

[bleaksummer]

[bleaksummer]

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞.

The world under his feet was shifting at a rate that neglected to allow him to steady himself; and the air, the air was thick, hot. His Aunt Orla had always told him to take a step back.

It came with a sense of looming horror; the realisation that perhaps his world was as small and as insignificant as a snapped neck in hunters mouth - more often than not now, Tadgh Shea was drinking himself unsensible and these waves came more often than he cared to admit. Their family was slipping into something far darker, and he was powerless to stop it – and he was implicit.

Though they were brothers in arms; he and his father had always been different. Mick was graceful; would wring someones neck and somehow find a way to make it look graceful. As if perhaps the victim had slipped into peaceful asunder and he did it with a smile on his face. When Tadgh chose his side, there was still a small part of him that knew his Aunt and Blair would hurt for him if they knew, but equally, the demons in him knew she’d take him back into the fold eventually regardless. When you have everything to gain, Tadgh chose to gamble. What he neglected to realise was Mick relied on his unreliable memory, in his UNHINGED MENTALITY, on the gaps of time that turned black.

Blackness —- Thursday, Rapacity.

Cool palms grasp clammy cheeks, the scent of tobacco and whiskey seeps into his sinuses and the fuzz around him seems to settle. A steady tone cuts through the din and Tadgh begins to refocus; foggy irises seek to piece the splintering around him together and he chokes in air though it feels thick, like tar and coats the inside of his lungs until he splutters, sputum coating chapped lips, he tasted the iron of the blood on his tongue and his pupils dilate. 

Mick stood over him, grasping his face; and he blinked, his father's lips were pressed into a thin line, it had happened again, family meetings gone awry. Part of him knew his father had needed this, the animal within his son.

It happened every now and again; for years now - gaps of time he couldn’t explain, fits of panic that took over like fog rolling over the moorside. A last sharp pat to his face and his dear old twat of a father slid down at his side and patted his knee, his body heat serving to show him how he quivered despite how stifling the bar had become. He liked to think all sides of his family protected him, but they all knew he teetered as ever on the edge of a cliff, and falling off would only spell true madness. It was only Mick that underneath he knew would be the one to give him the final shove.

Little by little the room around him came into focus, and his ears rang. They sat on the dusty wooden floor of an old bar in Rapacity; owned and ran by a fella whom he only knew was in the way of something the elder Shea wanted. His volatility was an asset, he’d tell him. Recounting the way he handled other human beings as if they were made of rags - and yet, it wasn’t in his nature, he didn’t mean to though it was clear something in him needed to. 

Eyes flicker to the man beside him; and he feels his stomach drop as he looks at the damage around him; his conscience kicking in. They were brothers in arms; bound by a collective cause (or so Mickey thought) and slave to their secrets. Broken glass and moaning bodies; a scramble of furniture.

Another empty shell to add to the list of victories - the very kind of victories Orla would berate him for mind. Most of the time he still felt like a little boy; he had no control of himself, of his head. As though his foundations were collapsing in on himself. He was HEAVY. Damned if he did and damned if he didn’t - he had tried to opt for the quiet life, but there was a greed in him that playing the legitimate businessman wouldn’t sate. Tadgh Shea would never be one for a noble cause; he wasn’t as strong as Blair to be able to walk away entirely, his sister had an ethereal nature, much like his aunt, and he knew they would always be better than him. Despite all, he still moved with the ebb and flow of violent delights and added them to his mental anguish afterward. 

𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐧𝐨𝐰; 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐲𝐩𝐬𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐧.

[bleaksummer]

[bleaksummer]

Lachlan's family relations are - he don't got any.

None that he recognises anyhow other than the club. After being honorably discharged from the Royal Navy back in the UK, he embarked on a career in music. His life on the Glaswegian club scene ended with a smile cut from ear to ear, a wife he didn't want and a baby he couldn't afford.

Eventually he upped and took them both abroad. On the lam from the gangland Glasgow was fast becoming. The family he found in the MC as a prospect back then in Limbo was the dose of brotherhood he had craved since his navy days. Time wore on and he left his wife once she picked up a heroin addiction and damn near bled him and their family dry.

The marriage almost ended his relationship with the club when he stole from the club treasury to try and keep them afloat. His honesty in his struggles, and willingness to repay bought their trust.

He tried, really tried within the life to maintain being a dad. But his son followed his mother's influence - pathetic and entitled, he too stole from his dad and sold club information to the Jackals, rival MC he had been privy to when they gave Wren a chance to work in the clubhouse and tend bar. This severed his relationship with his last blood relative, and he will no longer recognise his son.

[bleaksummer]

(feat. @deadtimestorys as delia.)

[bleaksummer]

[bleaksummer]

The House Across the Street - number 40, West End Drive. Innocuous to some, but for Antigone, it was the nucleus in an already peculiar land to inhabit that altered the way she viewed the world. Buried at the end of the cul-de-sac out in Inertia Island. She and her sisters would play chicken whenever they’d visit their Aunt Peg. No one had lived there since the 70’s, and the neighbour, Marlene, a sickly looking older woman who’s fingertips were yellowed by years of nicotine use seemed to revel in telling the stories. 

Hauntings, poltergeists, perhaps the devil herself. Perhaps it was the placebo effect, but anyone who passed by would feel the tension headache that settled over the brow and crackled it’s way back over the skull and into the spine. 

The family that had moved in there, the Wood Family, had moved in not long after Marlene and number 40 had been finished. The paint had not yet inhaled the creatures pushing into it from the earth below. The cement had not yet settled, oven shiny and not marred by grease and yet.. From the very first day Gwyneth and her husband, Joe had stuck the key into their new family home, something wanted them out. Pools of liquid would appear as if from nowhere, marbles missing the inhabitants by no more than a whisker. their daughter Theresa had been pulled up the stairs, kicking and screaming. Taps on and off with no warning and large black shadow figures would be seen floating around the property. 

Antigone herself remembered being at Aunt Peg’s, she and her sister Aimee, nosey as they were had overheard the panicked voices of Marlene and Robert, the older gent across the street. He had banged and banged on Marlene’s door to wake her, to tell her - the thought, waking a sleepy neighbourhood at 7am to the empty house next door having the contents of its upstairs bedroom flittered over the front lawn. To anyone who didn’t pay attention, it looked as if the scorned wife had tossed out her husband…and yet, number 40 had seen no sign of human life since 1978 and truly, the Woods had given it their best shot. No one dared replace the items, merely placed them in a pile inside the front door. 

Truth be told, it fuckin’ terrified her. 

It had begun a lifelong obsession. There must be sense in the nonsensical, and she, the open minded skeptic, needed to find the root. Antigone was not stupid, every decision, every move was measured and calculated. Ask her any time, she would not be called a ghost hunter, even less a ‘paranormal investigator.’ and yet the things she collected from various so-called haunted locations were some of her most prized possessions. 

That’s why, when she married very well. She bought that fuckin’ house. An attempt for her to gain control of whatever inhabited it. Defiant in the face of the boogeyman that had haunted her childhood. Now, as a side job, something to keep the adrenaline pumping and perhaps a way to fancify the monsters in her waking hours, she opened Locke-d in. A paranormal investigation company and even still, 4 years after buying it, she had never managed more than an hour in it, long enough to change the way she saw everything. Long enough to tell her the tales that had shattered her sweet dreams as a kid were more than true. Photos slashed, knives shoved between couch cushions and EVP’s that would pick up unmistakable voices. 

Undeniable…and yet she denied she had seen it every time. Defiant in the face of it and terrified that if she admitted it, it had all won. 

Dermot, her husband thought her ridiculous, and refused to get involved, making it clear his upbringing would only serve to show that the scary ones were the living. Antigone was not one, and had never been one to sink into the shadows, and there was a level of idiocy to a woman of her stature pissing about in the dark looking for ghosts…or whatever the energy wanted to call itself. She had done multiple locations across Malvada with her team, but 40 West End Drive evaded her. 

It had been described by her staff as a property housing ‘pure evil’ and each time they said it, she’d chuckle. It was, however, still her everest. 

[bleaksummer]

[bleaksummer]

  ■■■■ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅𝐆𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐒. ■■■■ 「  01. ╱ ∞ 」          ⁽ with @bleaksummer as killian. ⁾

𝙲𝙻𝙸𝙲𝙺 𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝚁𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙴𝙽 𝚂𝚃𝚄𝙳𝚈.

[bleaksummer]

THIS WAS H̵̰̱̼̪͙͓͚̮̗̐͋̀̇͝E̷̤͚̞̭̟̫͓͙̥̓͝ͅR̶̳̐ LAND LONG BEFORE IT WAS OURS  ;

     𝙴𝙳𝙸𝚃𝚂. 𝙰𝙴𝚂 𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙶. 𝙿𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚃. ( dm for invite ) 𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙴𝚂.

#𝙳𝙴𝙰𝙳𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚈𝚂  :  an independent ⅋ mutually exclusive 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐘 multi - muse of original puppets with their strings pulled by 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒏. 「 25+. 𝒔𝒉𝒆, 𝒉𝒆𝒓. est. 」 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 feeling 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 in one place, the 𝒉𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓𝒔 that lurk, 𝒅𝒚𝒔𝒇𝒖𝒏𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 family dynamics, an inability to fight the 𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 that plague ⅋ ruin, 𝒑𝒔𝒚𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒇𝒂𝒓𝒆 either real or imagined, ⅋ the 𝒖𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒅 happenings within a community.    ┋  📍 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐕𝐀𝐃𝐀 , 𝐔𝐒𝐀.  ┋

𝙽𝙴𝚃𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙺. @inadeviltownㅤ,ㅤ@towalkinvisibleㅤ,ㅤ@bleaksummerㅤ,ㅤ@italianexotiicbeautyㅤ,ㅤ@prettypersuasicnㅤ,ㅤ@b1uedcollarㅤ,ㅤ@sleeptlking ╱ @gaspofairㅤ,ㅤ@holyfailed ╱ @cxttingteethㅤ,ㅤ@ner0ticㅤ.

                      NOTHING H̷̥̪̰͈̘̪̬͈͚̆̉̋̑̿̃͝͝O̴̖͉͋͐̃̀ͅL̴̛̛͈̻͈̲̼͊̃͐̈́̒̄͑͜Y̷̢̢͖̬͙͚̮̰̫͚̕ HAS LIVED HERE IN YEARS.

[bleaksummer]

���■■■ 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅𝐆𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝒇𝒕. 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅𝐆𝐀𝐍𝐆. ■■■■ 「  @bleaksummer 」

[bleaksummer]

[bleaksummer]

POLLY GRAY PEAKY BLINDERS S03E05