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briyourmotherdown · 1 year ago

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i’m tempted to leave this reblog blank simply because. i’m silent. i have no words. i’m staring blankly at my screen like :o but i will try to find words because. omfg.

my heart is genuinely racing. i. i’m. fuck. i’m feeling so many emotions right now this was a fucking roller coaster and i’m osifkskfkKSKFKSKD IM PIIIIIIISSED AT JAMES BUT ALSOFOSOKFKSKDKD holy shit dude. holy shit holy shit.

this. THIS. this is the good shit. alana, i’m sending you my therapy bill.

𝙱.𝙰.𝚁.𝙴.𝙵.𝙾.𝙾.𝚃

⋆ ★ 𝙹𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚝𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍

" 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐... " ⋆ ★

part nine of multiple

𝙱.𝙰.𝚁.𝙴.𝙵.𝙾.𝙾.𝚃 • 𝙲.𝙾.𝙽.𝚃.𝙴.𝙽.𝚃.𝚂

⋆ ★ warnings: smut

⋆ ★ word count: 7.4k

the contents of this story will not be for everyone. if you aren't comfortable with unethical and/or age-gap relationships, then do not read.

»»———-　story by 30-3am　———-««

Chapter Nine - Things I’ve Already Heard

He could still taste her, lingering on his bruised lips and tainting him with an amalgamation of guilt that was swimming around in the deep end of his brain, kicking closer and closer to where the water was shallow. He was annoyed, confused and disgusted with himself for not immediately shutting down her advances. The short-term embarrassment at his rejection wouldn’t be half as bad as the development of a relationship that would begin crashing as soon as it started. However, he hadn’t pushed her away. She had been so eager, her mouth moving against his with a greed that only occurred in youth, her hands fisting into his shirt with a desperation that had only come to him through the falsities of women he used to know. And, god, the way she had melted into him, so pliant in his grasp, her skin so soft under his undeserving hands; he had unleashed every repressed thought and urge, silently, into the kiss. No words had been exchanged, just the connecting of lips and her skin under his fingers.

He’d felt the twitch in his pants, the unmistakable hardening as his hands roamed over her soft…soft skin, and the only thought in his head was ripping those shorts off and breaking the boundary separating them.

Then, the phone rang and it was like he’d been hit clean over the head, passed out and woke up sensible.

He hadn’t wanted to pull away, but he needed to. He would've gone too far if he didn’t. He would’ve scared her away and hindered all kinds of progress they’d made since they’d embarked on this fucked up relationship. Although, from the look on her face as he pulled away, it was only fair to assume that whatever they had was already ruined. It was crumbling before his eyes, the kiss being a catalyst for the ruination and taking her away quicker than he anticipated. And even if there was some hope that it was salvageable, it was completely desecrated when he’d seen her face through the kitchen window.

As soon as he had stumbled outside, hastily closing the door behind him and trying to palm away the ache and the pressure between his legs, there was a strong sense of change. It rolled over him in waves, pressing down on his chest and cracking his ribcage with its force.

He couldn’t rely on his rationality to help him through his predicament because there was no reasonableness left within him. His, usually, organised thoughts weren’t filed how they normally were - paper everywhere and ink smeared. And when he’d turned back around to glance through the window, intent on seeing her face again, childishly hoping she would be smiling at him and waiting for him to return, everything around him collapsed.

He was greeted by the sight of her eyes on the ground, gnawing on her bottom lip and mind working fast as she questioned and questioned. The ringing of his phone had become more incessant as he stared at her, conflicted between keeping his morality and his righteousness. He wondered what would happen if he ran to her, wrapped her up in his arms to carry her up the stairs and lay her on the bed. He wanted to open her up on his tongue and his fingers…pull every cry and moan from her lips and love her. He wanted to give her so much love - show her what she hadn’t experienced and teach her things she had never been taught.

But it all circled back to the same point he had reiterated many times over. It would not work. Heather was so far out of reach, not even in the same realm as he. James had worked through his pain, the torment and terrors of being a young adult in a world that felt like it was not made for him and Heather, God bless her soul, was experiencing that same agony presently. He would only add to the pain if he were to give her the false impression that he could stay with her.

When he had met her, he had promised himself only one thing: he would help. That would be the extent of his kindness and once he knew she was safe and well, he would drive off into the sunset and leave her with the knowledge that there was someone out there willing to offer her a helping hand. Instead, she had construed his philanthropy as something more, something that, as soon as he realised himself what it was, terrified him to the point of no return. He should’ve known. He should’ve known that a girl like her, with little parental guidance would grasp him with an iron fist and refuse to let go. He should’ve known that someone like him showing up in her life would only lead to an inevitable and unmovable attraction. He just hadn’t known that he would ever feel that same attraction towards her - that he would change the harmless appeal shown by her into a depraved and injudicious relationship that had now reached its limit.

“James you there?” The voice over the phone was insignificant to him, his mind focused on her as he watched her through the window. She was lingering in the space where immorality lay, staring at the spot he had stood in. “James?” Then, she began to shake, and without noticing his longing gaze, hurried off and out of his line of sight. “James?”

The voice down the phone was irritated as it implored him to speak, pulling him from the feeling of dread and contrition making its way around his body and forcing bile to rise to his throat. He felt sick and shaky as he held the phone to his ear.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here.” He strode towards the nearest seat he could see, sinking into the cushion and running a hand down his face. “Connection’s shitty.”

The phone conversation lasted longer than he could bear, his head too full to answer the questions thrust at him down the phone. It was business. Nothing more, nothing less. Things that he hadn’t been there for were relayed to him, obligatory questions about how his vacation was going mingled in with the important information. James replied how he should, remaining calm and providing the right answers. It was hard to maintain the image given that all he wanted to do was kneel over the edge of the pool and throw up everything in his stomach.

The conversation which only lasted twenty minutes, seemed to drag on for far longer and gave him no time to process anything. The afternoon sun added to the heat spreading throughout his body, leathering his skin as the rays had sweat dripping off the end of his nose. He wanted to go back in the house to cool off and calm down but even after the phone had been put down, he couldn’t bring himself to move. There seemed to be weights on his ankles, preventing him from kicking to the surface as he was dragged under by the current.

The weight of his actions rested heavily on his shoulders and he ran his hands repeatedly over his face as if the movement would solve his problems. The sound of a dog barking in the distance met his ears, followed shortly by the slam of a door and then it was silent again.

He brushed his thumb over his bottom lip, closing his eyes as he remembered what it was like to have his mouth on hers. The tingling was only just beginning to die down, the sensation dwindling as it glowed weakly. Selfishly, he wanted it back. Illogically, he wanted to take it further. But he had so much shame running throughout his veins that he couldn’t even perform the simple pleasantry of seeing if she was okay.

The likelihood was that she had already run off. He didn’t expect her to be there when he went back into the house and didn’t expect to see her that night for their routine drive to the diner. If she ever came back to him, he wasn’t expecting it to be any time soon. When he had been on the phone, he briefly wondered if it would’ve been better if he just left Downey like he had done many times over. He wondered whether it would be better to get in his truck and drive away without a word. Then, he thought back to her and remembered what it felt like to look at her - how if her usual sadness was enough to make him fall to his knees in agony, the look on her face if he left her would finally kill him off.

So, as he was searching for resolutions, leaving Heather was one of many that he put a big red cross through until the paper ripped from how harshly he scribbled. He had whittled it down to two options: he could go back in the house and let her down lightly or he could give her what she wanted.

For his peace of mind, he liked to believe that he would not choose the second option, however tempting it was to him. The first option was sensible and what he liked to think he represented. The first option would not ruin his reputation and would not ruin an already broken girl. It would be the only option that would leave every party fairly happy and ensure that his return home would go as smoothly as possible.

But. But…

A singular ‘but’ was pushing its way around his brain, telling him that the second option wasn’t so bad. What would really happen? They’d continue their usual routine, driving to and from the diner every night and every morning but instead of leaving her with a simple goodbye, he’d leave her with a kiss instead. Also, he would not drop her off a street down from her house, he would take her back to his. Back here. Where all the good memories seemed to be. He’d kiss her some more, have her writhing underneath him as he loved her and then they’d both fall asleep in each other's arms, waiting for morning to befall them so they could do it all over again.

No one would need to know. No one would find out. How could they? He’d make sure that they were careful, especially around her dad and those friends of his who always seemed to be posted at every watchtower in the city. He’d tell her that she couldn’t inform anyone about them, that not even Brittany should know because he would be concerned if Heather’s friend didn’t immediately hate him upon understanding the true nature of their relationship.

However, it was all a strange dream - an unattainable one.

Just the thought of having to tell her to hide encompassed why a relationship would be so infelicitous; the nature of it was almost felonious.

James stared at the clear blue water filling the pool, the light from the sun making ripples appear on the surface. It fractured into profound shapes and blinded him as he refused to look away. He wanted to push his head beneath the water and hear it drown out the noise - feel the liquid trickle into his ears and destroy his cochlea.

The sun was still beating down upon his back, the black of his shirt helping him feel the burn of its rays. It spread throughout his body and a deep shade of red rose to the top layer of his skin. In a matter of minutes, it seemed to brown and leather. Then, it peeled away and as he shed his skin, his mind cleared. The storm that was set on destruction passed; the rain stopped, the wind died down to a gentle breeze and the thunder grumbled in exertion and found it had no voice left.

He had an answer. It wasn’t one she was going to particularly like but he had it.

The disaster a simple kiss could cause…

He scoffed as he stood and his knees cracked under the weight of him. He was old. That was another reason why when he saw her again, he would tell her that she was a very special girl but he was not special enough for her.

Youth brought opportunities. Youth was a time for growth and development. He would only stunt that. Because even if they embarked on a journey they both wanted to travel, it was inevitable that something would sputter and break on the highway; they’d crash and never find each other amongst the wreckage.

The more he thought about it, the more clear the answers became and he was unsure why he was so conflicted before. It shouldn’t have even been a thought.

He stepped through the patio doors he had left open in his bid to escape and left it ajar to let the little breeze cool down the house. Now, it was a case of finding her. If she had left he would go to her tonight. It was never busy in that diner. They would have plenty of time to talk. If she was still ghosting around his house, haunting every corner, he would take a deep breath and rationalise to her why what happened was a mistake. He would let her whine and kick like a bullied child until eventually, she realised what he had been trying to lay out clearly in front of her all this time.

Everything would go back to normal.

However, as he walked on shaky legs through his house, boots that were making his feet hot clicking against the floor, there was a voice in his head that was battling with his decision.

It was only faint, coming from behind him as he took the first step up the stairs, but it was there.

What about how you feel?

He took another step, then another. He gripped onto the bannister in genuine fear that if he didn’t support himself he would topple backwards.

What about how you think about her?

Slowly, he made his way to the landing, his stomach roiling with anxiety as he got closer.

What about what she wants?

It took three long strides across the landing before he was at her door.

She wants you.

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow it to happen. It had already gone too far. It had been too far the first time he thought of her in an unorthodox manner; it had gone much farther when he first took himself in his fist and imagined what she would look like underneath him. After that, his disgust outweighed his need and he knew nothing would come of it.

Nothing would come of it. Nothing except unbridled agony when they had to part ways.

The door was firmly shut, and the mystery of whether she remained on the other side was gnawing at his brain. He heard no movement - no indication that she was there. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure if he wanted her to be there. He hadn’t had enough time to think and there was a dull panic as he knocked twice on the wood.

After several moments of waiting, there was no reply; he tried again as he tapped his foot apprehensively.

Still no answer.

Briefly, he thought that maybe it would be best if he just left it alone. If she wanted, she would come to him. But there was a feeling that if she didn’t think he wanted her to, she would not be coming back. So, he reached for the door handle, feeling the cool metal pierce his palm in disapproval of his actions, and slowly began to turn it. His movements were steady and methodical as he heard the click as it opened and the creak as he pushed it agape.

The first thing he saw when he looked into the room was her: asleep on the bed.

He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, so he settled on the latter as he swallowed down his nerves.

The covers were untouched, the made bed indicating she had fallen atop the covers and fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. Her clothes were not off, her shorts still tempting and her shirt riding up her stomach.

The sight of her helped him soften a little, her parted mouth and her flickering eyelids making her look peaceful. However, there was a certain scrunch to her nose and a downturn of her mouth that reminded him why she was here in the first place. And as the light caught the side of her face, he could see a tear trailing from underneath her eye, journeying over her cheek and settling on the side of her nose. It refused to make the jump off her skin and stubbornly stayed put.

She mustn’t have been asleep long if the tear had managed to crawl its way out of her eye - a tear that had run astray from all the others she produced. His whole being stiffened at the realisation he was the one who had made her cry.

He’d made her cry.

That wasn’t what he was supposed to do. That wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

What a mess he’d made. And yet, as he watched her sleep, studied the pull of her brows as she frowned, he didn’t think he would change a thing about it.

She was still lingering on his lips and he didn’t think he’d ever be able to scrub her off.

But he didn’t mind.

As he watched her, he didn’t mind.

He’d been granted a taste and it was insatiable.

Turning away from her and closing the door behind him, he was grateful for her sleeping state. It gave him more time to think.

23:55

It had grown dark a while ago, the sun setting and casting an orange glow over Downey. The cicadas had turned quiet and the road remained unused except for the occasional car that flashed its headlights through his windows. The house was eerily quiet, a noiseless vibration running along every wall and tainting it with muddy footprints.

He was too aware of her presence upstairs and for the whole nine hours she slept, he did nothing but pace and think. Nothing could distract him and if it wasn’t for how altruistic he was around her, he would’ve woken her by now. But he let her sleep because she needed it. She had looked so tired. The bags under her eyes looked almost painful and she had yawned so much on the journey back to his house that tears had slipped from her eyes.

James hadn’t been that surprised when he’d found her asleep. Even if the kiss should’ve garnered sleeplessness, she had been through so much in one day that she could’ve lost everything all at once and still managed to drift off. He wondered what she was dreaming about. He hoped it wasn’t anything bad.

Sleep used to be a relief for him when he was her age and as he mindlessly flicked through the channels, searching for something that interested him, the thought that she used sleep in the same manner as he once did, had a brief wave of anger pass over him.

It was only short, a flash of rage - a lighter sparking and dying. But it was there. For a moment it was.

Because what kind of sick world would give Heather Palmer a reason to cry? What kind of people would want to see hot and fresh tears slide down her cheeks? To see her sad was like a knife to the heart; to see her cry was like being stabbed repeatedly. She was far from deserving of the treatment she had been subjected to. At times, James didn’t think he’d seen anything as sweet as her. Then, he’d realise that her kindness was a product of constant fear, of always needing to please the people she should’ve been comfortable enough to make mistakes around. Her kindness was her weakness.

What man would he be if he wanted her to stay in that state of subservience and meekness? He always liked a woman with a bite - a wide snapping jaw that rivalled the alligators that lazed in the Florida Everglades. He knew she had sharp teeth under the bluntness. He knew she had something under all that docility. He’d witnessed it. It had only been fleeting but he’d seen it.

“I don’t have anyone like you. I’ve never had anyone like you! And I don’t want you to not do something because you think you know what I need better than I do!”

There had been such a determination in her voice that she didn’t seem like the same person. There, she seemed like someone else. Someone more like herself and it was those words that had him rethinking. As he sat on the couch, watching the time dwindle to early morning, the battle began again. The stalemate ceased and attrition prevailed. His sins wore away at the enemy. His morality retreated into the trenches and cowered under the stone-cold glare of an army of transgression. It wasn’t as if she was innocent - something to be corrupted. Robert Palmer already had his hand on the lever, ready to open up the floor beneath Heather and watch her as she clawed at the rope around her neck; her efforts would be futile as her writhing stopped and the figure of darkness that loomed over the both of them smirked sadistically.

If James did nothing, if he did not point his gun at the executioner and see his brains splatter onto the wall, he’d have to watch Heather die.

He needed time to take the blood of Robert Palmer from her but he would make that time for her.

Even if his methods remained unconventional, he would do it.

The battle raged on as he let the TV flash before his eyes and virtue’s blood seeped into the floor as he heard a creak from the bottom of the stairs.

James snapped his head towards the source of the noise and he saw her through the open door, fluttering around like some strange phantom who’d come to test him. He was terrified of her presence in his house but he let her haunt him. Like a homeless child looking for shelter, she snuck around his house and refused to leave.

The noise from the TV muffled in the background, the channel he had landed on insignificant as he kept his eyes trained on her. She slinked around the door like the archangel Michael, ready to bring justice to their injudicious world.

Her hair had long since dried into waves down her back - sliding over her shoulders and falling in her face and there was a brightness to her features, a glow that edged her irises that told him the sleep had helped. However, as she stepped further into the living room and he inspected her more closely, the brightness was overshadowed by something more powerful: rage. Anger. It swirled in her eyes and travelled down to her clenched fists.

He opened his mouth to speak but was promptly cut off.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” She stood at the arm of the couch - building a barrier between them.

He tried to speak again. She didn’t let him.

“I missed work.” There was a hint of resentment in her voice as she gazed at him, eyes hard and unforgiving.

“You needed to sleep,” James reasoned.

“No.” Heather began to shake her head and her hair that he wanted to run his hands through fell over her shoulders at the movement. “No, I don’t need to sleep. I need to go to work.”

He didn’t think it was right to argue nor was it right to provoke so he attempted to settle the situation with a soft voice and soft eyes.

“I already called your manager, sweetheart,” he said, trying to ignore the fact that he had made her sad and had made her angry all in one day - the two emotions he strived to not make her feel. “I’ve sorted it all. You don’t have to worry.”

His mind flicked back to the conversation he’d had with Hal, how he’d had to explain to the grumbling man that Heather was sick and couldn’t come in. The disagreeable bastard had said that if she wasn’t dying, she was more than well enough to work. James had shut that down with an offer of $300 and Hal had said he would happily close down for the night. However, he wouldn’t mention that to Heather. She was angry enough.

“That wasn’t your decision to make,” she spat, jaw clenched and eyes shooting venom into his. “I’m not gonna get paid now.”

There was a sense of pride as the words tumbled out of her mouth - a small part of him that relished in her berating. This was the girl he had been wanting to see.

“Heather,” he said calmly. “I’ve sorted it.”

She began to stalk towards him, taking a few steps to stand in front of him. She towered over him in this position, her anger rolling off her as he sat like a coward and took whatever she was going to give him.

She looks pretty when she’s angry, he thought before kicking himself for taking away from her development into emotional liberation.

“Stop making decisions for me.” Her frame blocked his view of the TV and he could look nowhere except her. She was framed by the low lamplight, her eyes trained on him as she managed to look so effortlessly gorgeous - an angel. His angel. What a shame she would have to rise to heaven and he could not come with her. “When are you going to realise that this is my life? If I say I’m going to work then I’m going to work.” Something was building in the back of her throat and he waited patiently for it, studying the pull of her brows as she unleashed her frustration unto him. “If I say I want you I mean it. If I kiss you then it’s because I want to.”

There it was.

Simultaneously what he wanted to hear and what he didn’t want to hear.

“Heather…” It was fighting. It was bullying him into giving in. With every ally slaughtered, every laugh at his turmoil, he thought of giving in and with her guidance, he was ready to fall deep into the pit with all the angels exiled from heaven. Her persistence lorded over him - her kingdom raining down on his with ammunition more powerful than he could ever imagine.

“Please.” She shuffled a little closer - testing his boundaries. “James…please.”

Anger transformed into desperation, her eyes pleading and her mouth begging with every word that fell from it.

“Heather. No.”

Someone was testing him. Some fucker wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Why not?”

Her insistence was irritating him.

“It’s wrong.”

She scoffed, brushing hair from her face as she took two harsh breaths and swallowed down her frustration.

“Is it wrong if I want it?”

That stumped him and he gave no reply.

That was the only factor in the whole situation that swayed him just a little. She wanted it. She had clearly expressed that fact hours ago when she’d kissed him so hard he could still feel the bruises she’d left behind and she was expressing it now. She was telling him in the only way she knew how that it would be selfish if he were not to pursue her.

He supposed she was right - he was making decisions for her. And that contradicted everything he wished for her. He didn’t want to overpower her and make her feel small. He wanted to liberate her and show her that there was more to life than Downey - there was more to life than grief and self-pity.

She shuffled just a little closer, standing between his open legs and, as his eyes flicked down her body, he saw that her hands shook. It was only a slight tremor but it was enough for him to notice and when he looked back at her, he made sure that his eyes portrayed his wishes. His blue irises and widened pupils both silently conveyed what he wanted to say. He couldn’t speak honestly so he would let every urge in his body tell her what he truly wanted.

There was hope that she’d picked up on his desires as her calves hit the edge of the couch. If she dared go any further, she’d tumble into his open arms and it would all come falling down like blossoms drifting towards the ground and painting the mud pink.

“Please..” Heather said as she took the leap - her left knee perching on the space of the couch between his legs. “I know what I want.”

The daring she showed as her other knee settled beside his right leg, the space where her left knee was, too full to accommodate its twin. The determination on her face as she placed a hand on his chest and took a deep breath.

“Heather…” It’s all he can say: a weak, uncharacteristic whisper of her name that comes out more pleading than scolding.

In the moment, he doesn’t want to stop her.

“If you say you don’t want me, I’ll stop asking,” she says as her other hand rests on his shoulder and she settles herself over his right thigh.

He doesn’t think she understands the implications of the position she’s placed herself in - her hands shaking against his skin as her chest heaves. And the ultimatum stays in a raincloud between them, hanging over their bodies and waiting patiently for permission to precipitate.

James feels the shift in his body as he doesn’t speak, feels the weight of hiding for so long brushing from his shoulders as he reaches out and cups her cheek in his hand.

“This…” he swallows as he trails off, thumb running over her cheekbone and stroking away the pressure of concealment. “This has nothing to do with whether I want you or not.”

She didn’t seem to be listening as her knee unintentionally nudged his crotch and didn’t seem to notice as his whole body tensed. He could feel her warmth, the heat of her body rolling off her in waves and stifling him into submission.

His previous statement about her not listening was corrected as she replied to him.

“But you do?”

The movements of his thumb stopped, his eyes scanning her face to see if there was any disgust or revulsion at his blatant depravity but all he saw was desire. As expected, there was nothing that told him she was opposed to the situation - her body twitched towards his instead of away, her eyes begging him to touch her more.

He wouldn’t deny her. And with a roll of his stomach in anxiousness, he began to trail his hand down the length of her body. His palm, large and warm atop her skin, travelled from her collarbone to her shoulder - shoulder to her ribcage until it settled against the dip of her waist. Her breaths were heavy, chest heaving as she leaned into the feeling and gripped tightly onto his shoulder. Her grasp only grew harsher as he slipped his hand under her shirt and burnt himself into her skin.

The cogs turned in her mind, eyes flicking between his eyes and his lips as she leaned in a little closer.

The desire to taste her again, the ideas occurring in his mind with her legs bracketing his thigh overpowered everything he believed in. Everything he had lived for. Every moral he had picked up in his old age was thrown clean out the window.

It lay on the floor in a pathetic heap as she desperately pressed her lips to his and dug her nails into his shoulders. It blew far away in the wind when he wrapped both arms around her middle and tugged her to him - their chests pressed together.

The kiss was sweet like honey and cinnamon, her lips laced with additives to keep him coming back for more. Her skin was like velvet as he ran his hands up her spine - her shirt keeping his hands trapped in their position on her back. She was like nicotine in his veins, his body relaxing in relief as his mouth moved against hers with equal desperation and held her close to him.

It was like sitting by the fire after coming from the rain - relieved that there was finally warmth. After a month of driving her up and down the city, watching her every move, spending all his time formulating plans to get her out of that goddamn house and this was the only plan that had seemed to work so far. Her: in his arms where he could protect her.

A whine came from her throat as he pulled away from her needy lips and pressed his own to her neck, trailing kisses across her jaw and down to the juncture of her neck. It was there that he began to suck harshly onto her skin, her nails scratching at his clothed shoulders as he nipped and bit. His teeth dragged over the mark he made as he moved back to reclaim her mouth.

She pawed at his chest, unsure of where to put her hands as he gripped onto her hip and seated her on his thigh.

Something insignificant flew around his brain like a mayfly, telling him he should stop. But it was so faint that he didn’t hear its sense over the ringing in his ears. He didn’t feel anything except her fumbling mouth and her scratching little hands branding him. Nothing was more important to him than her and it dawned on him as her hips moved against his leg, that he had not felt this alive for so long.

The divorce had left him lonely; all he had been was a sad old man walking the Oregon trail in a pathetic attempt to get to the West. It was only at that moment that he realised he had already made it to his destination - that she had been waiting for him with food and water to nurse him back to health after the exertion of his long journey.

Her moans brought him back to life, her skin setting him alight like the burning bush and the movement of her hips as she dragged herself across his thigh sent him up to the highest heaven. They sang hallelujah as she pulled away from him, succumbing to the sensation igniting in her belly.

“N-need to take them off,” she stuttered out as she fumbled one-handedly with her button, desperate to rip away the denim barrier.

“Okay, Angel.” His voice was thick as he swatted her hands away, his fingers working at the button on his favourite shorts and tugging down the zip.

Instantly, she stood up, shimmying them over her hips until they fell to the floor with a faint thump.

He couldn’t help the groan as she fell back onto his lap and threaded her hands through his hands - her lips back on his. He could hardly breathe and could hardly care. Not when his mouth tasted of her, not when she resumed the desperate little jerks of her hips and whimpered into their kiss.

When the sensations became too overwhelming for her to continue kissing him, she pulled away, eyes fluttering shut as she moved on top of him. He could feel the heat of her centre on his thigh and as he looked down, could see the damp patch decorating her panties. It made his cock twitch in his pants, the ache he had been trying to ignore making him sensitive to every sound and every touch.

“James…” she breathed out and it was evident on her face that she was holding back. To spur her on, he dug his hands into her hips and pressed her harder into his leg

“It’s okay,” he assured her as she gasped. “I’ve got you…let it out.”

She sped up, her face flushed and lips parted as he moved her more insistently.

She was a goddamn sight. More gorgeous than the valleys in the morning, when the sun rose over the horizon and the dew glistened in the light.

Slowly and deliberately, their gazes lock, eyes meeting as a noise sobs out of her mouth and her muscles tighten underneath his touch.

“James…” she says again, her voice an octave higher and harmonising with his own as he whispers her name right back to her.

“Heather.”

That truly gets her going, the eye contact breaking as she flutters her eyes shut and leans forward to press her face into his neck.

He continues to guide her over his thigh and when he looks down, he sees the wetness seeping into his jeans, feels the wet warmth of her and a groan catches in his throat at the sight. It comes out in a strangled gurgle, his hand dragging upwards from her hip to her hair and keeping her huddled into his neck. His other hand trails up the notches of her spine and lets her finish herself off, letting her use her pent-up desire to fuel her stamina.

“That’s it, Angel,” he whispers into her ear, holding her close as her movements stutter and a cry escapes her throat.

“James,” she says almost warningly, clutching to him with an almost overwhelming intensity.

“I know,” he says. “It’s okay, I know…you can do it.”

The words seem to have her teetering, her hips speeding up in search of that sweet relief. He wants it for her, he wants her to feel it spread from her stomach and throughout her body.

“You can do it, Angel.” He uses his words to help her on the way - coaxing her over the edge.

“J-James,” she stutters, losing it as she hovers her foot over the edge of the cliff, her heartbeat in her ears as the adrenaline conquers her body.

There’s a single moment of hesitation as she grows silent, and then the wind knocks her off-kilter and she goes straight over the edge - the sounds from her throat only heard in his wildest dreams.

“There you go,” he praises as she shakes in his arms, her hips slowing to a slight rock as she rides herself through the feeling. “Thats it.”

There's a long pause as she comes back to herself, her breathing heavy as she stills in his arms, muscles corded tight, and then, all of sudden, she slumps against him with a sigh. Her head rests on his shoulder, lolling to the side and her lips brush against his neck.

Slowly and carefully he looks down at her, brushing her hair out of her face so he can see her clearly. There’s a faint smile on her face, her eyes still shut as she lets him hold her. A stray tear falls from her eye, mingling with the crusted streaks of old tears shed previously and, steadily, the brown of her eyes meets his blue and he doesn’t think there’s any going back from this point.

“You okay?” He has to ask, the thought that maybe she’d changed her mind about everything a very prominent one.

With a lazy smile, she nods her head, scanning his face once before turning her head away and nuzzling into his neck again.

She feels so right in his arms, slotting into him perfectly and she murmurs a simple “thank you” into his neck and his stomach sinks.

The excitement of the situation dies down in his chest and the weight of her is firm on top of him, keeping him in the moment as his head clears.

He shouldn’t have let that happen.

That was a mistake bigger than Eve’s when she ate the fruit. He’d taken from her tree and God was ready to show his wrath.

“Heather,” he alerts her.

She gives a singular “yeah” in reply, still tucked into him and not looking like she was ready to let go.

He didn’t want to be so hot and cold with her. He didn’t want to have her constantly guessing what his next move was going to be but it was such an impossible situation that he had no choice but to be those things. How many times he had said to himself that it was wrong - that he would never do anything like that with her. The amount of times he had told her those things too. And the same words were on his lips again and goddamn she wasn’t going to like it. She wasn’t going to like it at all. But what choice did he have?

He had let go of his morals because of his lust; she had not even touched him where the pressure was worse and he had still succumbed to passion’s inability to allow clear thoughts to enter his head. Now, she had died down, he had died down, their flame diminishing into smoke and burnt wick and he had to…he had to.

“This shouldn’t have happened.”

He felt her whole body tense and heard her sharp intake of breath as she stayed glued to him.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he continued, arms falling to his sides as if to put distance between them. She twitched at the nickname and he didn’t want to make her angry but wasn’t this the best way? “It’s just not right.”

Slowly but surely, she peels away from him, and the look on her face is enough to have him wanting to pull her right back down. But, his will wins. His principles overpower his immorality.

Confusion crosses her features and then quickly transforms into disgust, shooting daggers at him that go right through his heart and out the other side.

“What?” Her voice is deadly quiet - dangerously close to venomous.

“Heather-”

“No.” She shakes her head, looking away from him and practically jumps out of his lap as she desperately looks around for her shorts. Upon finding them, she snatches them, almost tripping as she steps into them and pulls them up to her hips.

“Heather,” he tries to reason, standing up with her and gazing at her frantic form.

“I’m gonna go.” Her chest heaves as she zips up her shorts and fumbles with the button - struggling to slip the metal into the slit.

“Heather,” he says more insistently, begging her to stay put so he can explain.

“I have to go.” Her voice cracks as she speaks and a part of him cracks at the same time.

This was a mess he couldn’t fix.

He couldn’t stop her as she stumbled up the stairs - the calls of her name not enough to cease her determination. He couldn’t stop her as she slipped her shoes on and hastily did up the laces. And he couldn’t stop her when she asked him to open the door and let her out.

She would be going back to that house. With Robert Palmer and all his little gargoyles watching her as she cried.

It had been beautiful for a moment, then it grew into something ugly - some bestial creature that loomed over the two of them and forced them apart with claws in their chests.

It was completely dark by the time she left his house and the hour was inhumanely early. The deep night left a silence that ran rampant throughout the house - a silence that killed him as soon as he heard it. He had asked her if she needed a ride and had said in the softest voice he could that she shouldn’t be walking around at night alone.

But she’d kicked and shoved and demanded that she go by herself.

So, he watched her walk away knowing that everything they had was gone. It swirled down a drain gutter and landed somewhere in the sewers.

He did not sleep that night in fear of her safety. He did not think of anything except her rocking against him, the taste of her that only became stronger with a second kiss and the look on her face when he denied her again and again and again.

⋆ ★

A/N: this chapter has been the bane of my existence for a good couple of weeks. it's a long one and one i'm not sure if i'm very happy with...either way if you like it, what i think doesn't really matter so i hope you enjoyed it! it was such a difficult chapter to write, especially since its from james' perspective and its so goddamn long but i'm hoping it met expectations.

next chapter is gonna be wild...

love ya.

alana

#reading this with dog days on repeat the whole way through #i’m actually in disbelief #like mouth open #james stop being so conflicted challenge #james be a man challenge #IM KIDDING BUT FUCK ME #JESUS #james hetfield #metallica #barefoot #fic recs

134 notes · View notes

briyourmotherdown · 1 year ago

Text

alana. ALANA. how dare you do this to me. and in my vulnerable state ? HOW AM I MEANT TO RECOVER FROM THIS? IM ASKING GENUINELY.

the audible gasp i let out. it happened. it happened. FUCK. i’m actually reeling i need to stare at a wall for a while and ponder. holy shit. holy shit.

and on another note ???

Since she was a girl and she’d watched the Hollywood perception of love, gazing longingly at the TV screen and waiting years for someone to come and sweep her away and protect her from the unforgivingness of the world. “I want this.”

i am going to scream and cry and throw up. this was my favourite line from this chapter and i don’t even have a reason i just actually felt the air leave me body when i read it.

fuck, man.

𝙱.𝙰.𝚁.𝙴.𝙵.𝙾.𝙾.𝚃

⋆ ★ 𝙹𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚝𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍

" 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚐𝚘𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚜 " ⋆ ★

part eight of multiple

𝙱.𝙰.𝚁.𝙴.𝙵.𝙾.𝙾.𝚃 • 𝙲.𝙾.𝙽.𝚃.𝙴.𝙽.𝚃.𝚂

⋆ ★ warnings: drug use

⋆ ★ word count: 6.4k

the contents of this story will not be for everyone. if you aren't comfortable with unethical and/or age-gap relationships, then do not read.

»»———-　story by 30-3am　———-««

Chapter Eight - Acceptance And Rejection

14th July, 10:07

Downey, CA

“You think he’s coming?” Thirteen years old. A teenager. A woman who had forcibly grown into the title years ago.

“Probably not.” There was ire laced in her tone, a contempt bubbling in the back of her throat as she lit up a cigarette, using the match to ignite the one candle that sat in the middle of a cake dowsed in pink icing.

“Can we wait for him?” Heather asked quietly.

“I ain’t waiting around for him.” Andrea tapped her ash onto a dirty plate that rested on the table she occupied, sniffing as she waited expectantly for the light of the candle to go out.

“Mama, please. I’m thirteen.” She protested.“Heather, he ain’t comin’ back.” She refuted.

“Mom-.”

“He ain’t coming back. Now, let's celebrate your birthday, okay?” She inhaled the smoke, puffing on the end of the cigarette and exhaling it with a cough. “Me and you is all we need.”

“I know, but Dad said he’d be here.”“He says a lot of shit, that father of yours.” She quickly performed the sign of the cross on account of her blasphemy, shaking her head as if to rid of the expletive and returned to her cigarette.

“I know he does but…just five more minutes to see if he’s coming?” Heather knew that he wasn’t going to arrive. He hadn’t attended her birthday the year before, or the year before that. She liked to hold onto hope though, to have faith in her father like her mother had faith in Christ. That faith was slowly trickling down the drain with each drop of a leaky tap.

“We can save him a piece.” Andrea’s tone was softer, seeing through her daughter's insistence and provided the solution with a drag of her cigarette, taking a long inhale before putting it out and placing a smile on her face. “C’mon, baby, you don’t want wax dripping on your cake do you?”

Heather supposed she was right. She did not want wax dripping on her cake and, when he came home, did not want to provide her dad with a piece of cake that was riddled with candle. He’d be disappointed. The last thing she wanted was to disappoint him.

“Yeah, okay.” She brushed her hair out of her face, holding the ends to her chest and closing her eyes, complying when her Mama told her to make a wish.

‘I wish Mama was happier and I wish Daddy was around more. I wish they’d get on so we can all be a normal family. ‘

She blew the candle out with a sharp exhale, watching it die and wither as she sucked the life from its dancing flame.

Heather couldn’t remember what her mom had said after that, the words fuzzy in her brain and not forming a cohesive sentence. Nor could she remember the inflexion in her accent that had been lost from her evocation years ago. She wasn’t sure why the memory had cropped up, her brain reaching into the darkest corner of the closet and searching for the moment she felt everything switch - when her awareness became her detriment and she couldn’t pretend there wasn’t anything wrong. Her dad had not come home that birthday. He had instead, been just a door over. At Stu’s. Getting drunk, high and sharing his friend's woman.

It had been a few days after when Stu came around looking for Andrea, nervously twitching and avoiding Heather’s eyes when she opened the door.

“You know where your Mom is?” He had asked, twitchy and sniffing; he hadn’t managed to wipe the white from his nose.

“At church…” Heather had replied. “What’s wrong?”

“Ah, shit, I probably shouldn’t be tellin’ ya, but Pammy’s gonna be openin’ that big mouth o’ hers and your Mom’s gonna find out before I can say anythin’.”

Heather had a confused expression plastered onto her countenance, impatiently waiting for an explanation.

“Find out what?”

There’d been a hiss from Stu, a comically pained look on his face as he leaned against the doorframe and avoided eye contact.

“Couple o’ days ago…your Daddy and I did some shit you should never do.” He paused to collect himself, building in a life lesson to appease any anger Heather might harbour towards him after what he was about to confess. “Pammy came home, and, well, you know Pammy.” He’d chuckled anxiously, biting the inside of his cheek and took a minute before placing a hand on Heather’s shoulder. “One thing led to another.” He ended his sentence there, staring at her and hoping she understood.

Heather had not felt anger like that in her life, the rage bubbling to the surface and spilling over like molten lava, crawling towards the closest thing she could reach.

“It was Pammy’s fault, really. Fuckin’ whore. And we were all drunk so-.”

Heather had slammed the door in Stu’s face, anger, flashing red in her eyes. That had been the day she broke her silence, when the facade she’d created in her mind, this father she craved and didn’t have shattered before her. She was walking over the shards of glass, numb to the bloodiness of her bare feet as a storm raged close behind her.

She had told her mother that night, listened to them argue, the sound of a smack and then silence.

For some reason, that had not been the last straw; her mother had stayed and the hopes of running from him were slandered, hanging by its neck on the gallows. Heather had asked why and her heart broke when her mom replied “Because it’s not right. God forbids it.” Heather had tried to argue, insisting that God would understand, that this relationship wasn’t sustainable and He, in all His omnibenevolence, would forgive her. She had not listened and she’d died because of it.

Now, Heather was back at the house that had killed everything she valued, with the murderer waiting in its centre to kill again.

James had dropped her off like he did most mornings, however, she had left with a tension that remained in her bones even now he was gone. Her stomach was churning as she made her way up the porch steps - memories of him so close, searing and melting her skin off as he comforted her, a look at his lips, leaning in close only to be met with rejection. The embarrassment curled around her throat and choked her until her eyes bulged out of her head. It consumed her as she fumbled around for her keys, fingers shaking as she passed over the one she used to unlock Brittany’s door and tears slipping from her eyes as she pushed her own into the lock.

How very foolish she had been - to believe that all the kindness he had shown her, the comfort he had given her had been anything more than what it was. Kindness and comfort: the works of decency and human morality which she had misconstrued as something other than that. No one had ever been decent with her without some ulterior motive.

There was a shake to her hands as she pushed open the door, a shake that had overtaken her body when she was sitting in her passenger seat, the subject of her tremors driving silently next to her. It grew worse now as her nose tickled with the scent of strong alcohol, cigarettes and body odour.

The sight of her dad passed out on the couch, Stu on the floor next to him had a sob escaping her throat. She didn’t have the energy to deal with them, didn’t have the strength to look at the sight of the living room she had left clean, now returned to its previous state. She had hoped he would not be home when she came back, had prayed that she’d have the house to herself - an open space to scream until her throat gave up.

Instead, she had not been granted reprieve. The living room was littered with empty beer cans, a bottle of Jim Beam thrown carelessly to the side and spilling out onto the floor, cigarette butts in every corner and two unwashed men invading her space. The pillows from the couch had been flung onto the floor, chip packets next to them and the sun danced over the scene - illuminating it. Shoving it in her face that she could never have what she wanted.

Throwing her bag down onto her armchair, wiping away the stray tears running down her cheeks, she carried on with the job she had found herself working years before she had been employed. Heather advanced to the two of them, crossing the threshold where her peace turned to chaos and averted her attention first to the man occupying the floor.

“Stu.” She gently knelt next to him, screwing her nose up at the sight of his unconscious form, the snores emitting from his open mouth and the line of dried drool crusting on one side of his face. Gently nudging him, she called his name again. “Stu.”

He didn’t stir and her frustration was increasing.

“Stu.” Her voice cracked as it got louder and her patience was wearing thin. “Stu, get the fuck up.” She shoved him harshly, him rolling onto his back due to her austerity. After a few more attempts, he grunted, mouth snapping shut and sniffing harshly.

“Stu.” His eyes peeled open, squinting at the light shining through the closed curtains that never seemed to be open nowadays.

“Shit…” He hissed out, rubbing at his forehead with one hand, the other comforting his stomach. She didn’t have the time for this. She really fucking didn’t. She had to get herself dressed, showered, food in her system like James had requested, and then get down to the hospital to see if they’d finally let her see Brittany (She had decided to do that against James’ request). Angry tears fell as she hovered over her neighbour. She daredn’t even look at her father - the man currently dancing in her peripheral - in fear that her bout of annoyance would turn into a breakdown.

“C’mon, you gotta go home.” She swallowed away the lump in her throat, trying to push it down to her stomach.

“Heather?” His confusion was not appeasing her vexation, the lack of haste he was displaying caused a surge of rage to overpower her.

“Yeah, it’s me now get the fuck out.” There was no time to be kind and understanding, to lower her voice to accommodate his obvious hangover. She just wanted him out. Gone.

“God, little girl, give a man a minute.” Little girl. He was making a fucking mockery of her; she wanted to throttle him and leave two bruises on each eye.

“No, get out.” Stu sent her a disgruntled look, managing to sit up and wincing at the aching of his body. Heather took great pleasure in it. He had come into her house, staining it with his fucking alcohol and his fucking drugs. The hatred she harboured for him in the moment would have her praying for forgiveness later on.

“Jesus Christ, Heather, give me a fuckin’ minute.” He seemed pained by the volume of his own voice, looking to the coffee table to grab a half-empty beer bottle. Heather followed his eyeline, gazing at the mess they’d created. Cans and bottles, cigarette butts and remnants of white powder that had her heart sinking.

She didn’t have time to calm herself down, the anger unstoppable as it curled over her skin and latched on tight, digging into her and injecting into her veins. It was everywhere, pushing her to the edge of the cliff and taunting her until she eventually jumped off.

“Stu, I swear if you don’t get the fuck out…” She was surprised by the authoritarianism in her tone, the meekness she usually had diminished. She sounded like her dad.

“What the fuck is up your ass-.”

“Get out.” The volume of her voice had Robert stirring and all at once, her wrath simmered away and scampered back to its cave.

“Fine! I’m goin’.” She didn’t hear Stu, only taking a few steps back as he stood and started gathering his things. All her attention was focused on the man on the couch who had rolled over, eyes fluttering and threatening to snap open.

Fear had encapsulated her in a tight grip, sending an icy chill through her bones as she carefully waited for him to wake.

“Fuckin’ bitch.” Stu was muttering under his breath, sluggishly stuffing a plastic bag into his pants pocket and taking his time doing as demanded of him.

Heather couldn’t care.

His eyes had peeled open.

“The fuck is goin’ on?”

She wanted to run but where would she go? She had already taken so much of James, using his kindness to her advantage in a desperate bid for a relationship with the only man she had ever trusted in this lifetime. She could not go to him. Brittany was unstable and in the hospital because of Heather’s carelessness and lack of awareness. She could not go to Brittany. Her mother was dead and so very far away. She could not go to Andrea.

“I’m getting fuckin’ ushered out o’ here.” Stu was quick to defend himself; no room for Heather to reason.

“Tell her to fuck off.” Robert waved a hand, rolling over so he was facing the back of the couch and closing his eyes again.

Relief flooded through her, the dam breaking and sending forth a tidal wave of consolation.

Stu, deeming her father’s request too harsh, gave her an unfriendly goodbye and took many unnecessary steps before slamming the door behind him.

There was quiet. Then he began to snore and Heather started to cry.

Why was she so afraid of him? Why did he have to defeat her with every word? Break down her heavily guarded fort with shells and shells of ammunition raining down upon her. As a child, when she would find him passed out, she would cry because she thought he was dead. Then, he’d let out a snore or a grunt or his body would twitch and her eyes would dry up; all she wanted to do was make him more comfortable. So, she’d pull a blanket over him, shimmy off his boots and, depending on where he had passed out, would curl into him, holding him tight and pretending that he was holding her back.

Then, she got older. She became more aware. She didn’t even want to touch him when she understood that he wasn’t the man she had envisioned him to be previously. He was not her saviour. He was mean, and ugly and cruel. To the core.

“Why do you do this to me?” She whispered, knowing that her words would not reach his brain and be transformed into anger; the knowledge helped her speak more clearly. “Why do you do it to everyone?”

The words only flowed freely when she knew he couldn’t hear. After her mom had died, she’d spoken to him every time he was asleep, cursing him and crying and then praying that in the morning, he’d hold her and they’d go out together and do something they both enjoyed. A normal relationship.

“I just want you to be normal.” Her voice cracked with the confession, tears she did not feel sliding over her skin and leaving streaks of mascara in its wake. She had cried so much today; she’d grown numb to the feeling. “I just want you to treat me like a daughter.”

Her mind briefly flicked to James who had been more of a father in the month he’d known her, than Robert Palmer had been his whole life. It was pathetic - pernicious that she couldn’t even call her own father after her friend had had an overdose. James wasn’t supposed to be the man comforting her; he was not supposed to be the man to father her.

“I miss you.” Heather wasn’t sure what exactly she missed. He wasn’t gone and he hadn’t changed since she was a kid but there was a strange sense of longing for him that never went away.

She sniffled, blinking violently and brushing the tears off her cheeks. It was pathetic. This was pathetic. Brittany was waiting for her at the hospital. James had asked her to call as soon as she got home and she did not want to disappoint him like she disappointed her dad. She did not want to hurry the inevitable break of their relationship when she fucked up and he left.

So, with bleary eyes and a head that ached, she turned away from the last root of the family tree, cut it down with an axe and retired to her room.

She needed to call James, to hear his soothing voice bring her down from the ledge.

The door clicked behind her and she threw her bag onto the bed, zipping it open to find her phone. A wave of nausea passed over at the intense memories of hours prior that scratched her mind. James could soothe it. He always did. A month and she was dependent. It was something she tried not to think about too much as she unlocked her phone and found his contact with ease.

It rang once…twice…three times…what if he didn’t pick up? A fourth…

“Kid.”

Sensitive to just the sound of him, her throat closed up and when she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out.

“Kid?” His tone became more questioning when she didn’t reply but she found she couldn’t say anything. If she tried, the words would come out in a mangled cry. “You there?”

At her continued silence, he tried the other option.

“Angel?” Her entire being opened up at the word, her mind releasing its hold on her speech and letting it run free with a cry. “Heather, what’s wrong?” He sounded alarmed at her sudden noise, tears slipping freely as she tried to sniffle them away.

“I’m sorry,” she managed to get out through the cracks in her voice. “I don’t-.” Heather plaintively couldn’t finish her sentence.

“Calm down.” He instructed, plucking at the strings of her and dragging her to the ground. “Deep breaths.” She did as he asked, even in her distressed state unwilling to disappoint him. “There you go.” He praised her compliance, the sound of her breathing passing through the phone - the sound of his voice passing through her. “What’s wrong, Angel?”

“I don’t- I can’t-.” She hated the display of weakness. Every time she cried in front of him, the shame overtook her body and she promised herself she would never break down her carefully built walls in front of him again. Each time, she broke her covenant.

“You wanna come over?” The question was simple - to the point. It was an attempt to allay her anguish. It only made her cry more, hands gripping onto the fabric of her dress and nodding her head like he could see her.

“Please.”

She heard shuffling on the other end, the jangle of keys as he spoke.

“If you pack a bag you can stay over, yeah?” Wiping at her face, she tried to cease the flow of tears. He wants you there. She tried to reason with her doubts, the thoughts swirling in her mind that he had invited her because he felt he had to. He has never treated you like an inconvenience.

But you are an inconvenience.

“Are you-.” She cut herself off as she swallowed away the whining tone the tears had created. “Are you sure?”

“I’m already out the door.” As if in confirmation, there was an unmistakable slamming and the sound of his steps on the driveway.

She paused a moment before replying, thinking and contemplating what she would do next.

You are not an inconvenience.

“Yeah…yeah, okay. Thank you.”

“Not a problem.”

There was a moment of pause, a shaking silence where only their breaths entered the space and the distant unlocking of a car from his end of the phone. She wanted to say more, to maybe talk about what she had done earlier. How sorry she was. The things she would do to take it back. He spoke before she could find the strength.

“I’ll see you soon then.”

With a cough, she replied with a singular syllable, a word of agreement to let him know she was not being ignorant. She just couldn’t think of any better words - could barely even think of a sentence.

“Stay strong, Angel,” was his closing phrase. Another pained “yeah” slipped from her lips before he put the phone down and she finally managed to stop crying.

13:07

In his house, time seemed to have slipped away quicker than it ever did. The car journey had been relatively quiet although peaceful and she’d managed to get a little sleep on the journey - drifting in and out of blissful inertia. His presence pardoned her of her anxiety and sated her need for quiet and calm. Then, he’d softly waken her when he pulled into the driveway, carrying her bag inside and parking it in the hallway. His house was no less impressive than last time. Tall ceilings, hardwood floor, clean, new and although sparsely decorated, felt like home.

Heather had only seen the kitchen and living room when she had been round last but the upstairs opened a whole new level of opulence and grandeur to the home and, if James wasn’t James, she would have deemed the entire house ostentatious and avaricious. There were four bedrooms and four bathrooms, two of them upstairs, and two of them downstairs and she wasn’t sure whether she had ever indulged in this amount of luxury in her life.

James had let her take her pick of the three out of four bedrooms that weren’t occupied and then let her use the bathroom at the end of the hall.

“If you wanna use the shower you can.” He’d offered, showing her the way and teaching her how to turn it on. “I don’t have…” he’d trailed off whilst rifling through relatively empty storage boxes. “...any extra soap…you got your own?”

She hadn’t thought that far ahead when she’d packed, only focused on the fact she was staying over at his, picking out her best pyjamas and then spending the majority of her time fixing herself up in the mirror.

“No, I’m sorry.”

“Well, kid, you can use mine if you want but then you’d end up smelling like me.”

She’d laughed, not thinking before she spoke.

“That wouldn’t be so bad.”

His smile had fallen, his jaw ticking and he’d stared at her with dark eyes for far longer than necessary before coughing and turning away.

“I’ll go get it for you.” He’d hastily left the bathroom and she’d felt the acid in her stomach turn cold.

Returning with a smile on his face, he handed over seemingly everything he had in his shower, telling her to “have at it” before closing the door and leaving her to her own devices.

The shower had been nothing short of blissful, the pressure far from the crappy spurt of water that emitted from her own and when she’d finally started to wash her hair with his shampoo and his conditioner (that he claimed he didn’t use but was already half-empty) and his soap, it felt like he was consuming her. It smelt of him throughout the whole bathroom, getting her high off the fumes of him, so much so, that it didn’t seem like a bad idea to go downstairs and bury herself in his chest again.

She put the thought on hold when she was finally finished, wrapping herself up in the towel he had left for her and padding along the hall to “her room.” Being in his house, using his shower, and dressing in his bedroom made her more comfortable than she had been in a while. It was like bathing in the sun, feeling her bare feet underneath the grass, swimming naked in the ocean when the sun was beginning to set and there was no one else on the beach. It felt like all the good things in life and she would never betray her old porch but James was strong competition and slowly moving up in favour until he reached heaven and she went with him.

“Was that shower up to your standards, Miss Palmer?” He asked as soon as she stepped into the kitchen. Her hair was still wet, making the fabric of her shirt damp, some dripping onto her shorts.

“It was really good, thank you.” There was a brief moment where his eyes flickered over the length of her body, taking in the sight of her, lingering on her legs and then fixing themselves back on her face.

“Good.” He turned away from her, gathering a glass from the cupboard and asking if she wanted a drink.

“Yes please.” She responded, awkwardly standing in the centre of the kitchen. There seemed to be a trend in her behaviour around him as it was the exact same spot she had gawkily stood last time. Noticing her uncertainty, he smiled and eased her discomfort.

“Sit down if you want.” He picked up his cigar from where it rested in the ashtray, casually holding it between his teeth as he pulled the fridge open. Watching him intently, she slid onto the barstool at the end of the island, the leather cold on her bare legs.“Still got plenty of your coke.” He pulled a silver can from the top shelf, cracking it open and pouring it into the glass. Taking a few puffs, he placed the cigar back down and slid the drink over to where she sat. “You can take some home with you if you want. I don’t drink it.”

The first sip was heaven. She hadn’t had a drink all day and it was starting to show through the dull aching in her head.

“If you don’t mind.”

Shaking his head, he picked the cigar back up and leaned against the counter, crossing his legs over one another and resting his unused hand on the surface.

“Not at all.”

Calm imbued the space, the afternoon sun shining in a straight line through the kitchen window and lighting the room with a hearty glow. She felt like a cat as she basked in the heat, cracking her neck as the fatigue began to set in.

“If you wanna put your work uniform in with the laundry, I’ll wash it for you.” He said suddenly, smirking at her as she yawned.

“That’s okay, I need it for tonight.”

There was a brief pause, James stopping mid-puff to raise his eyebrows at her.

“You’re goin’ in tonight?”

Heather shrugged, sipping on her drink and then setting it back down on the counter.

“I have to.”

There was not a moment where she had considered calling in and telling a mildly depressed Hal that she couldn’t work tonight. Knowing him, she’d lose her job or he’d close for the night and then blame her when they didn’t make any profit at the end of the week. And she needed the job. She needed the money.

“You sure you can’t just call in?” There was concern all over his face, brows knitted in confusion and eyes filled with worry. “Sweetheart, you’ve had a long day.”

“But…” She sighed, trying to dispute him but found she couldn’t deny the look in his eyes. “I need the money.” Her voice was quiet as she spoke, just above a whisper. There was something embarrassing about her confession. Being in his house, seeing how he lived his life: the cigars that were far from cheap, the clothes that were casual but high in quality. It was the same embarrassment she felt when he’d first come to her house, all those weeks ago, and she’d felt it everywhere. She felt it now, growing stronger and getting to its precipice. The speed at which it was expanding quickened now she’d found herself in this situation.

“You know if you need anything I can always-.”

“Please.” She cut him off quickly, swallowing down her perturbation at her rudeness. “I don’t want-.” Collecting herself with a sip of her drink, the bubbles churning in her empty stomach, she found the words she was looking for. “I appreciate…everything you do for me. You’ve been kinder than most people I’ve known but I can’t…” She shook her head to elucidate her point. “I can’t accept money, James.”

He studiously puffed on his cigar, nodding slightly before clicking his tongue and smiling her way.

“That’s fine. I get it, kid.”

Kid. Every time he said it, she physically had to restrain her mouth from speaking out against it. It was the one thing she didn’t like about him - the overuse of the nickname. Every other sentence, he’d add a ‘kid’ at the end, as if intentionally driving the point home she was not on his level. However, much she wanted to, she could not have him. Then, he’d call her ‘Angel’ and there was hope still, bright as the sun in high afternoon and glowing with prosperity and promise. But just as quick as optimism was given, it was slandered by his pessimistic use of the word: kid.

Usually, she was able to stop herself from saying something, letting it glide past and run over her shoulder. For some reason, however, today, it was extremely hard to disregard. Perhaps, it had been the environment she was in - so invitingly open and congenial that it had cured her of consternation. Maybe she was just tired of feeling so confused and refused to be stuck in that state anymore. Either way, with a large gulp of Coke, she was going to get answers.

“Can you…” For a brief moment, she lost all of her resolution. But he’d looked at her, so understanding, clearly listening to her and she couldn’t deny her own desires. “Can you stop calling me kid?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard, his eyes flickering with imperceptible emotion as his eyebrows pricked upward and he crossed his arms over his chest - cigar discarded.

“If…if you want.”

“It’s just, I’m not-.” She had to take her eyes off him, his hard stare shooting her clean in the head and causing the receptors in her brain to become unusable. “I’m not a kid. And I don’t want you to…think of me, as a kid.” Her words trailed off, the confession lingering on her tongue and leaving an acidic tang in the back of her throat. Her stomach was performing all manner of tricks, churning in protest to her apprehension.

“I don’t.” The words had her eyes back on his as she pushed a strand of wet hair from her line of sight and gnawed on her bottom lip, her silence an invitation for him to continue. “I don’t see you as a kid at all.”

She forgot what it felt like to breathe, losing every sense of normal bodily functions as she kept her eyes firmly on him.

“You don’t?” He shook his head, briefly averting his gaze to his shoes before bringing them back to her. The blue of his eyes was lighter than ever, staring at her with conviction and something else that, in her state, she couldn’t decipher.

“No.”

No. It echoed in her head, the implication behind the word rendering her immobile and stuck in her seat. No. A two-letter word capable of stopping her heart. She thought maybe she died when he uttered it but it was a false conclusion as she knew she had genuinely ascended when he started walking towards her. He stopped maybe a metre away, close enough that she had to look up at him to catch his eyes.

“Then-,” Her throat was dry and she tried lubricating it with a harsh, painful swallow. “Then what- what is…”

James was shaking his head, already knowing the question and already giving her the answer she didn’t want.

“Heather, you know I can’t.”

“But I want to.” She was going to fight for it. He had given her the opening to challenge his resistance and she would not make the same mistake she made in the parking lot - a thoughtless move that she couldn’t defend. Instead, she’d fight until he was knocked out clean and she had won the match.

“It’s wrong.” He seemed to be a worthy competitor, his assurance rivalling her own except something made him just a little weaker than she was.

“Why?”

“You’re a kid-.”

“I am not.” Each word was punctuated by the volume of her voice, the harshness of her stare and the sheer confidence with which she spoke.

He seemed to understand his mistake, looking to the ceiling with a painful-looking clench of his jaw and taking a deep breath.

“You’re right, you’re not,” he conciliated, bringing his eyes back to hers. Blue to brown. “But you’re young.” “What difference does that make?” She was beginning to grow agitated, tempestuously slipping from her seat and standing in front of him. With trembling hands, she reached up to grip his shirt, fists curling into the fabric and tugging ever so lightly.

“Heather…” He’s visibly conflicted, eyes pulling away from her as he groans out her name but body pulling her in - seeking her.

“Please.” She tugged committedly, begging him with her actions to look at her, listen to her, understand that this is what she wanted. It was all she had ever wanted. Since she was a girl and she’d watched the Hollywood perception of love, gazing longingly at the TV screen and waiting years for someone to come and sweep her away and protect her from the unforgivingness of the world. “I want this.”

Her voice was growing whiny with need, biting on her lip to stop it quivering when he looked at her.

“You’ve got a lot of life to live.” He gripped onto her shoulders, stooping down so they were on the same level. The proximity of his face to hers had her breath hitching in anticipation, licking her lips as she involuntarily looked at his. “I’m not what you need.”

“You are.” She scowled at him, wanting to push him away but finding his warmth too pleasant to repudiate. “I don’t have-.” There was a crack to her voice that only added to her piqued behaviour, scoffing as she held his shirt tight enough to crease it. “I don’t have anyone like you. I’ve never had anyone like you! And I don’t want you to not do something because you think you know what I need better than I do!”

The expression on his face was one of surprise, his grip loosening and hers tightening simultaneously.

“It’s not right.” It was like a lion hunting a rabbit, James’ voice diminished to nothing, their roles switching as he found he had nothing else to say. He could not argue with her and Heather took the victory as an opportunity, nudging her face closer to his, feeling his breath on her skin as his hands slid down from her shoulders to her back.

“It’s not wrong either.” He could not challenge that statement as his hands migrated to her waist, eyes flicking to her lips. Experimentally, she leaned in, the movement much more calculated than her messy attempt before, their breath mingling as their noses brushed.

“Heather…” She gave him no time to protest as she leant forward a few more inches, one hand sliding up to his neck and, just like that, she was kissing him.

The coarse hair of his moustache tickled her lip, a sensation not unwelcome as she slanted her mouth over his and pulled him down with a tug on his neck. There was a moment where he stayed still, hands unmoving on her body, lips motionless and then something snapped and just as she was about to pull away, he kissed her with such harshness that all the air in her lungs was removed and she was gasping into his mouth in search of oxygen.

Heather’s hands clawed at his neck, his gripping onto her waist and moving up and down, thumbs tracing her ribs and lips moving in tandem. There’s a grunt from low in his throat and the sound goes right through her, shooting down her spine and having her kissing back desperately, hands tugging at his hair and rolling up onto her tiptoes to accommodate his size. She presses her whole body flush against his, chest to chest, and that's when she feels it, the length of him pressing into her, subtly hard and inviting. It wakes up something inside her she didn’t know existed, her mewl earning his rough palms to slip under her shirt, feeling the skin of her waist and she forgets, for a moment, how to breathe.

His hands are on her, exploring and teasing and she can feel nothing but his lips, kissing her with a ferocity and passion she had not experienced in her lifetime. There was another groan from low in his throat when she bucked her hips into his, seeking friction from the unmistakable ache between her legs and he granted her some relief when he let go of her waist and grabbed a fistful of her ass, pulling her so tight that she did, genuinely, stop breathing.

Then, there was a buzz of a phone, vibrating and moving along the counter and he stopped. It dowsed her in ice water - drenching her in cold.

Heather can only stand there, chest heaving when he pulls away and steps so far back from her that her heart drops all the way to her feet. His face is twisted in guilt and desire; a permanent state of conflict.

“I’m sorry.” He says after a moment and turns away to pick up the phone. “I gotta take this.”

She takes a step towards him in a desperate bid for him back, but he’s already striding to the patio doors, pushing them open and disappearing into the garden.

⋆ ★

A/N: i have nothing to say. i will let you speak for me.

alana.

#i’m catching up and jesus fucking CHRIST #ALANA WHY #i’m hurt #and bricked #HELLO #james hetfield #barefoot #fic recs

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briyourmotherdown · 1 year ago

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bowl bitch! bowl!

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briyourmotherdown · 1 year ago

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to my beautiful tumblr babies. i miss you all and im so sorry it’s been radio silence. i just moved reaallllyyy far to a different country and its been chaotic and weird!!

i miss the boys and i miss you all and i’ll be back at it again soon.

in the meantime pls send me any pics of the boys in my inbox bc i miss them desperately.

#i miss reading fics too #i haven’t read a single fic in weeks #or joined a live !!#time differences man !!

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briyourmotherdown · 1 year ago

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Just saw your post from yesterday, hope you’re doing okay bby! When you said this time of year fucks you up, I FELT THAT. It makes me so anxious fr. But sending you some kisses till your feelin a little better💕💕💕

babe i just saw this and first of all thank you so so so much AHHH you’re an angel <33

but also, LITERALLY. what the hell is it with this time of year. it has all the girlies down so down bad

#literally september #is always so rough #september kicks my ass so bad dude #vxlkyrieee #ask #ALSO THANK YOU SWEETHEART #<3333

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briyourmotherdown · 1 year ago

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read this entire chapter with my dang jaw dropped and tears in my eyes and i wouldn’t have it any other fuckin way.

𝙱.𝙰.𝚁.𝙴.𝙵.𝙾.𝙾.𝚃

⋆ ★ 𝙹𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚝𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍

" 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 " ⋆ ★

part seven of multiple

𝙱.𝙰.𝚁.𝙴.𝙵.𝙾.𝙾.𝚃 • 𝙲.𝙾.𝙽.𝚃.𝙴.𝙽.𝚃.𝚂

⋆ ★ warnings: overdose

⋆ ★ word count: 6.3k

the contents of this story will not be for everyone. if you aren't comfortable with unethical and/or age-gap relationships, then do not read.

»»———-　story by 30-3am　———-««

Chapter Seven - Take From Me Everything I Have

14th July, 05:57

Downey, CA

Another week of normalcy passed as quickly as it began, riding fast on a white horse through the plains and punching James in the gut as it skidded to a halt. July was moving much too quickly for his liking. He had no time to think, to mull over the constant ache that sheathed his heart and it was infuriating. There was not a minute to sit with himself, to close his eyes, see through the fog and make his way out of the tall grass. There was a constant film over his head that became more blurry the more he saw her.

The rational part of him was screaming loud in his ear: it’s wrong and it will always be wrong. But, as the days went on, the screaming grew muffled and now it was only a muted ring. There was a louder part of his brain that fractured his will, the structure cracking and splintering until it all came tumbling down; fragments on the floor that seeped into the mud.

When he had held her, there had been a strong sense of…something. A dull pinching in his gut that only got harsher when he let go. How vulnerable she had been, how openly trusting she was of him. It made him feel all the more perverse. This was a girl who had been broken down by life, torn apart at the seams by death and abuse. From what he could gather, there had been no stability in that house and as soon as he provided it, she latched on tight, clinging onto him and forcing him to stay. It was something in her eyes, something in the way she spoke, something that weighed him down and pulled him into the depths of the ocean. He had not reached the seabed yet, but he could feel the seaweed tickling his toes and he was verging on something detrimental.

There was a strong urge within him to help her, to tuck her away under his arm and shield her from a world she had already entered. She was not naive but she was vulnerable, her wounds open to the earth, people jeering at her pain and sprinkling salt into the cuts. He was not sure what such a sweet girl had done to deserve it and found himself pondering the phenomenon when he was alone in bed, in the shower, when he had far too much time to himself and nothing to do with his hands. What did she do to deserve it? The question still remained unanswered but he so desperately wanted to understand. He wanted to understand her, the way she moved through life without breaking and he wanted to understand the fucked up man she called a father and how he could do such a thing to his only daughter.

More so than anything, he wanted her to understand that he was on her side. He may speak to that fucker, and he may be polite even when he didn’t want to be but his loyalty was not interchangeable. There was a civil war between the Palmers; he stood with Heather. He was prepared to be her right hand, the person who would lead her back onto the correct path when she ran astray. He was just unsure as to how he was supposed to get to such a level where he could end the war.

It wasn’t as if he could just bring her close, hold her, kiss her, fuck her. There was no use in scaring her away. She was like a pretty little rabbit that scampered at the first sign of danger, running on all four legs and back to the rabbit hole. To keep her, he would have to advance with light steps, stopping at every twitch of her nose, reaching and stretching until she let him pick her up and hold her to his chest.

He would take his time with her; he would let her come to him.

So, every day except Sundays he waited for her, stereo on, windows down, eyes fixed on the glass windows of Michelles and watching her through them. The uniform she was forced into wasn’t the most flattering, the pale pink dying away with every wash, the skirt reaching the tops of her knees; something straight from the early 80s. But, she managed to pull it off just like she did most things. Even those old, beat-up Converse that were ready to be replaced looked more than adequate on her. His favourite, however, were her little shorts that she never seemed to be out of. The denim latched onto her skin, a trail of buttons clambering up her stomach and riding high up her back.They gave him a full view of her legs, the plushness of her thighs that jeered at him every time he wanted to reach out and run his hands up the smooth skin. Those legs. The thoughts he had at night about burying himself between them…

He always made sure to get to the diner on time, not early, not late, just on time. After the first couple of days of picking her up, he realised that she liked to leave a few minutes earlier than mandated, her disappearing into the back, reappearing with her bag and then bounding out the doors; freedom waiting for her on the other side. She still stepped into his truck like it was the first time, unsure of where to put her feet, if her bag should go on the floor or on her lap, waiting for his permission to pick the music. It was endearing and frustrating all at once. Part of him wanted to rush, speed down the highway as fast as the old truck would let him and meet her on the other side. Sometimes, when she lingered before getting out of the truck, he just wanted to pull her close and press a harsh kiss on her lips, grasp onto the flesh of her thigh and love her until she cried. Somewhere inside him, however, he knew that that was not the solution and he’d restrain himself by digging his nails into his knees and would watch her unwillingly leave him questioning his morality.

The same ritual would soon be repeated as he saw her pushing open the door, stepping out into the morning that was already migrating into another unbearably hot day. He watched carefully from the truck, Heather advancing towards him with hurried steps. As soon as her face was visible, she sent him a strained smile, a cloud of doubt surrounding her that made him sit up straighter. She disappeared briefly as she moved towards the passenger side, the click of the door in his ears and the soft sound of her breathing as she clambered up into her seat.

“Good shift?” He asked once she was settled, already starting up the car as he sensed the mood she was in.

“It was okay.” She murmured.

He let the silence linger for a moment, reversing out of the parking space and traversing his way through the open lot.

“You sure?” Always double-checking.

Heather opened her mouth to speak before stopping herself, closing it slowly and sinking into her seat.

“Yeah, just…” Her mind seemed elsewhere, preoccupied with things he didn’t know. “Do you mind dropping me off somewhere else today?”

The first thought that popped through his mind was that he’d hurt her, he’d finally broken her down and killed her spirit. His second thought was how strangely hurt it made him that they still hadn’t got to a point where she could freely ask him for help.

Both worries were squandered as she began her reasoning.

“I need to go check on a friend.”

A metaphorical breath was released, a wave of shame and guilt overcoming him. He suppressed it with a clear of his throat.

“Of course I can, kid.” She had never mentioned a friend before although she had said a name he’d forgotten weeks ago when they’d engaged in their usual, idle conversation. “Where do they live?”

“She lives on Eastbrook Avenue. I can tell you how to get there.” Her speech was rushed, every word uttered hastily.

“Don’t worry, kid, I know where that is.”

The majority of his time in Downey had been spent driving and doing nothing but. Not much else had appealed to him. He drove and drove, getting himself reacquainted with the land, understanding what had changed whilst he had been gone and visiting places he hadn’t been to since he was a teen. With all the driving came a lot of thinking. Thinking about her: her idiosyncrasies, her habits, her situation. Wondering: what drove her? Why did she stay? Why did crippling anxiety gather in his gut every time she stepped out of the truck and advanced to her impending doom?

So many questions were left unanswered because he was too afraid to ask - fearful of the answer and fearful of the reaction to his audacity.

“Okay…” She took a deep breath, placing her hands on her lap, her skirt riding up the littlest bit; enough to be tempting. “Okay, thank you.”

A moment passed, the usual sound of whoever she had picked that day not filling the space. He decided to replace it with his burning question.

“You sure you alright?”

“Yeah.” He left it at that, refusing to provoke her further. He didn’t even have the courage to tell her to put her music on so he left it alone.

There was something wrong with her. He could tell by the constant fidgeting, the silence that wasn’t, as it usually was, comfortable. Her mind was far off. She was far off, somewhere just on the horizon and dancing on the tightrope - silhouetted by the sun.

Silence permeated the truck, the roads eerily quiet, the sun blinding him as it rose higher to the earth’s roof. He pulled the visor down and cast a singular glance at her before averting his attention back to the road. He couldn’t deny the worry, the growing anxiousness that wouldn’t cease as he tried to focus on driving, the roll of the wheels, the pedals under his feet, anything but the girl next to him. He wanted to know what was bothering her. Not knowing what was causing her shift in nature, gave him the urge to shake her until she answered him truthfully. Pulling out honest answers from her was like pulling teeth. He would be there until all she had left was her gums and her blood.

Time ticked by, the journey lengthened by the new destination. It took her thirteen minutes to finally speak.

“You know I don’t know how to drive stick.” He glanced over at her, the sudden shift in tone giving him severe whiplash. Her eyes were firmly fixed on the gearstick, watching as he shifted from three to four, back to three again.

“Not a lot of kids do.” He replied swiftly, although the conversation was still shrouded in secrecy, a third party knocking on their skulls and begging questions and false answers from them.

“I don’t usually see a lot of manual cars anymore.”

“They’re not that common in America.” Cars were something he was comfortable talking about and for a brief moment, he was happy with the change of pace. “I converted this one…” he absent-mindedly pointed at the car, waving his hand and settling it back down on the wheel.

“You converted it from automatic to manual?” She was perking up, sitting straighter in her seat and offering him deeper attention.

“Yeah.”

“Why would you do that?” Her laugh was light on her tongue, seeping into his skin and easing his worriment.

He paused for a second before answering and then shrugged, a lazy smile on his lips as he looked at her.

“Makes me look cooler.”

She tried to suppress her smile, biting on her bottom lip and flicking her eyes from his, back to where his hand rested on the gearshift and pushed it into fourth gear.

“I guess…” she muttered, chuckling lightly to herself. The mood was sufficiently lifted, lingering in the air and threatening to drift away. In order to maintain the comfort, he placed his right hand back on the wheel and nodded to the gearstick.

“Have a go.”

The look she gave him was comical, her eyes widening, lips tugging upwards and a lightness in her features that made him want to wrap her up and hold her close.

“Seriously?”

“It’s not that hard, kid.”

Unthinkingly, he let his hand drop from the wheel, steering with his left as he gathered hers from her lap and pulled it to rest on the gearstick. Her hand was cold underneath his as he enveloped it, gripping tightly and moulding his palm into her knuckles.

James noted the silence that occurred again, this time louder and more threatening as they inched closer and closer to something…something. He didn’t like that “something” wasn’t definitive, that it was blurred by the wool over his eyes which was held down by glue; he kept ripping at it until his skin was scarred and bloody.

There was no denying the tensing of her hand under his, the slight shift as she kept her eyes fixed on her lap and her hair covering her face to not reveal herself. Sometimes, in moments like these, he began to believe that his thoughts were okay to think, that it was all reciprocated and he was not a filthy old man. The way she looked at him when she thought he couldn’t see, the way she reacted when he touched her, the way she trusted him so implicitly that it made him feel nauseous. It made him believe, like some delusional, love-sick teenage boy, that she would accept him willingly.

“Just like…” Her swallow was audible, bordering on a gulp as he manoeuvred her hand with his, pushing the stick back. “That.” He didn’t remove his hand, letting it rest on top of hers. Her breathing was coming heavier, her eyes flicking to his once, catching his eye and hastily looking away. “Easy.”

“Yeah.” Her voice was quiet as she replied, losing its previous cadence and slipping back into subservience.

“You have to use the clutch at the same time but I can teach you about that another time.”

He moved the gearstick again, not letting her take her hand away. It twitched under him as he pushed the knob forward, leisurely driving down the road, the sun slathering them in a layer of light. He took his hand away once to use his blinker and found hers compliantly waiting for him to cover it up - to blanket his skin over hers. They did not move until he stopped where she told him to, outside the house that was near the laundromat; Eastbrook Avenue. He had to take his hand away from hers and his skin burned with the feel of her, the sight of her hand disappearing beneath his.

The worst of all was that she seemed calmer than when she had first entered the truck. Her whole being seemed lighter, her hand slowly peeling away from plastic and leather and finding its way back to her lap. She stared at her knuckles, the tops of her fingers and then at him. Pathetic as he succumbed to the tension permeating the vehicle, weak as he didn’t dismiss her when she smiled. Falling.

“Thank you.” Such a sweet smile. Sweet and sad.

“You’re alright, kid.” He noticed the falter of her lips as he muttered out the nickname, eyes flicking back to her lap and gathering up her bag. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yeah, okay.” Watching passively as she popped the door open, slid from her seat and planted herself on the ground, he tried to suppress the longing. And as she said her goodbyes, as he reciprocated, he stopped himself from believing that the situation was right, that he was the good person he claimed to be, that he was not a sad, perverted old man who couldn’t leave a young girl alone.

He was angry at himself. He had crossed many lines but he would not cross this one and he was so eager to get away that he drove off before he could watch her get inside.

06:38

Heather’s hand burned, glowing orange and then blue, smouldering down to the bone. It was enough to make her entirely forget about the situation at hand, one that had been gnawing at her brain since she’d stared at the red seat and saw it empty.

It had been a week since Brittany had come into the diner. A full fucking week. And she hadn’t realised. She had been so caught up with James and James and fucking James that when she was dawdling behind the counter, doing the crossword from the paper someone had left, all she thought about was him. She hadn’t even anticipated her friend, going to work and forgetting her usual routine, going out of work and being so nervous about seeing James again that she couldn’t think of anything else but how she was going to say hello to him.

Guilt consumed her. How could she have not noticed? Even if the routine was broken for just a day and Brittany didn’t come in, Heather would worry. It had been far longer than that and she had not noticed. Her mind forged the worst outcomes, painting pictures of her only friend lying dead on the floor with vomit oozing from her mouth - her being the single person at fault. Then, she’d seen him and she’d been angry. At first, she had been angry. Because her mind was so consumed with him, the possibilities of their relationships, a smile that she overanalyzed, a touch she lingered on far too long and she had stood and stared at the door, greeting customers familiar and unfamiliar, and she still had not thought of poor Brittany.

Heather had been anxious the whole drive over, her stomach twisting and pulling as the car rolled forward, the speed bumps in the road jolting her. Her anxieties had only been heightened when he’d grabbed her hand. Her body had frozen, incapable of movement as her brain begged her to recoil and not give him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered. But her head was confused and cloudy and she couldn’t find it in her to dismiss him. She’d let the warmth of his hand imprint itself onto her, let him force her over the campfire and spit-roast her until she was burnt.

She silently celebrated when he’d pulled away, cradling her wrist like it was broken. It still hung limp now, swinging from side to side as she took step after step to the front door. She couldn’t shake the dread that clung to the length of her and couldn’t rid of the thought of him. The guilt only grew worse as she couldn’t give all of her attention to the situation, every part of her begging to stop thinking about the subject of all her dreams.

I’m sorry, God. She swung her bag around to her front, zipping open the front pocket to produce a set of keys. Brittany had given her a spare one a while ago. She’d just come out of the hospital and thought it was necessary. Please. Don’t take her from me as well.

Her hands shook as she tried to get the key into the lock, missing thrice before finally hearing metal scraping against metal and the telling click as she turned the shaped nickel to the right.

You’ve already taken so much from me. It felt like she was running through the water as she pushed the door open, the wood creaking in protest as it swung on its hinges and collided with the wall. Don’t take her. I won’t be able to handle it.

“Britt?” The smell hit her first, unidentifiable alcohol, tobacco and smack. “Britt?” She called again, her voice cracking mid-way through. She swallowed down the lump in her throat, the house glowing orange with the morning sun, a quiet settling with the dust on the mantle and the dead flies on the windowsill. Everything was still as she continued through the hallway, the wood floors creaking every other step. It felt like she was the only thing sentient in the house, everything else quieting upon her arrival out of respect for what she was about to encounter. “Brittany?”

Are you so spiteful to take her away from me? What is this vendetta you have against me? God? Answer me!

Heather tried to control her breathing as she stumbled upon the half-open door of Brittany’s bedroom, the sunlight that danced across the floor taunting her - inviting her in.

“Britt?” Her voice failed her, the name falling from her lips in a strange, hushed whisper.

Don’t. She pushed the door open, staying firmly on the other side of the entrance. Don’t. A shaky breath emitted from her lips; it lingered in the space in front of her and then dissipated, curling around the doorframe and into the woods. Don’t.

A step, then another, her knees wobbling as she walked over where wood transformed into carpet.

“Britt?” She didn’t know if she could bear to look, her eyes fixed on the wall in front of her before searching…searching all the way to the left, eyes on the bed that was unmade and littered with wet stains and then to the floor. “Britt?” Why, God? Why? “Holy shit.”

The sight made her throat close up, the gurgling sounds coming from Brittany's mouth that her ears had been deaf to prior were now blaring. For a moment, she stood entirely still, eyes bulging, her legs shaking so much that she threatened to topple over entirely. The soles of her shoes were fixed to the floor, nailed into the wood like Jesus was nailed on the cross.

“Britt.” It was the only sound she could summon, a half-hearted, unhelpful call of her name. It took another frightening sound from her throat for Heather to finally snap and she yanked free of her shackles, lunging forward to kneel next to her. “Brittany.” She didn’t know what to do, her hands on her shoulders, shaking and shaking, Britt’s head banging against the force of her efforts. Her skin was unnaturally blue, and clammy under Heather’s inspection as she touched a hand to her cheek. “Shit.” Heather’s breathing was heavy, oxygen reaching her lungs quickly and in heaps of contaminated air. “Shit.” Curses slipped from her lips, panic setting in. She didn’t know what else to do except panic. Everything around her went blurry, just the sight of Brittany’s unconscious face in her vision.

Please, stop it.

Tears that she hadn’t felt accumulate dripped down her nose, falling off the tip and onto the space between Brittany's shirt and pants that exposed her skin. The liquid spread along her stomach, settling there and remaining still as her shallow breathing prevented the movement of her belly.

God, please.

“H-hang on…Britt…please.” She sputtered out futile comforts between harsh breaths, hands grabbing onto whatever skin she could, her hair that had greyed more in the space of a week than it had her whole life - fingers gripping to keep her here. She wanted James. James would know what to do. He would be calm, he would not be pathetically clutching onto a ghost, mortal form passing through the dead. He would stroke her hair, he would hold her like he had done once before, kiss her on the head and let her cry. She briefly thought about calling him, his voice that would certainly stabilise her and help her understand what the logical path from here was. However, logic came to her in its natural path. Phone. Ambulance.

Keep her safe, please, God, please, please, please.

Brittany had told her once, on a night when she had stayed longer than usual, her form diminished as she droned on: “Don’t you ever call that ambulance. Costs too much goddamn money. I’d rather die.”

Heather was fumbling for her phone. Goddamn thing was at the bottom of her bag, the blank screen glaring up at her as she yanked it into her grasp and shakily unlocked it.

Selfish; she knew. But she would find a way to pay. She would pay for everything if it meant she would not lose another. Too many people had left her. Brittany would not be one of them.

“You and me girl.” She’d said one night. “Like the daughter I never had.” She’d said another.

She dialled her saving grace, gripping onto Brittany’s cold hand, begging her body to transfer it’s life into hers.

The operator called to her on the other side of the phone, muffled and echoing around in a dark empty tunnel - no light at the end of it.

God, I repent. I am a sinner. I should not be rewarded. Smite thee, and save thee. Do not break what I’ve already broken.

Please.

She squeezed Brittany’s hand once as she worried over her motionless body, praying and praying and praying.

09:00

The metal cross between her fingers grew hot as she turned it over in her hands. They had not allowed her in the ambulance and had shut the door in her face whilst they drove Brittany away. Away. Once the sound of sirens grew distant enough to be unheard, her legs had given way and she’d collapsed on the concrete steps of Brittany’s front yard, her chest heaving as her body grew hot. Exhaustion, worry and disbelief set in as she cried, her throat hoarse and her body shaking. It took her a whole half hour to calm down and another five minutes for the vertigo to wash away before her love overtook her perturbation and she rose to her feet, mind set on the hospital.

Whilst she was walking, she briefly thought about calling James but after a long mental battle, chose not to disturb him. She already took too much of his time. But now the chemical smell of the hospital was making her feel sick and her stomach was churning and Jesus was not working. She needed him. She needed him here with her - if only to sing her to sleep.

The cross between her hands was growing hotter and hotter, her fingers tracing over the straight lines. Everything around her was a rush, people flitting in and out of the waiting room, nurses in scrubs with red faces and a baby that would not shut up, crying in the corner while it’s mother tried desperately to hush it. They would not let her see her. They would tell her nothing except “I’m sure your friend is fine.” Heather, in all her compliance, did not argue or ask for anything more. She went and sat on those hard, plastic chairs and pulled her cross from her neck; she prayed. It was all she knew how to do.

Upon realising that Jesus and the disciples were not there to guide her, to help her walk on the water, she called out to James. James who was more of a father than God ever had been. She called him. He had answered and did not question her when she said she was at the hospital. He had only given her the promise that he would be there; he was the only person in her life who ever kept their promise.

“I’m outside.” The text read and the abruptness with which she ran to him was embarrassing. However, she was so grateful to be rid of the hospital, the stench, the sickness and her humiliation was wiped from her mind.

It was too long to wait for the elevator so she took the stairs and her feet were quick on the slippy tile as she impatiently burst through the automatic doors. She wondered if he’d hug her or if he’d tell her she was being too dramatic. It was hard to know what would happen as she traversed, bleary-eyed through the parking lot to locate his truck - a truck that in many ways, was also hers.

How pathetically she desired his comfort, how, ever since she had gotten a taste for what it was like to be held by him, had not stopped craving it. He was her nicotine, coating her lungs in tar and sending receptors to her brain that said “She needs me.”

“Heather.” The name was called softly, coming from behind her and stopping her search. She turned around, swallowing away the lump in her throat as she saw him leaning against the hood of the truck, eyes pitying the state he’d found her in. She supposed she was piteous, her work clothes still on, her hair skewed in different directions and mascara running down her face like she was asking for attention. Brushing away the object of her dishevelment, she curled her arms around herself, stepping forward and into his space.

“Kid…” He began, trailing off as she shook her head.

She didn’t want to cry in front of him - not again.

“I’m sorry for calling.”

He pushed off the hood, standing tall and twisting his mouth into a comforting, and albeit, confused smile.

“It’s fine.” She sniffled, trying to stop the tears that threatened to spill. Her head was already pounding and she did not need to cry. He did not need to see her cry. “You okay?”

He’d done it. He’d pulled the lump out of her throat, letting it fall to the floor through the tear that slipped down her cheek.

“Oh, Angel.” She wanted to tell him to shut up, wanted to push him away as he wrapped a hand over her shoulder. But, she fell against his chest, seeking him out. She could not quit him, and, in all honesty, did not want to as he pulled her between his legs and leaned back down against the hood. “What happened?” She wanted to tell him to stop because his affection only made her cry more. The more she got a taste for his touch, the more she yearned for it.

“My- my friend.” She spluttered out, her hands trapped between their chests as he cradled her head. “She- she-.” Her breathing was growing erratic for the third time that day, reliving the scene in her head. Brittany: motionless. Her skin blue. That god-awful gurgling in the back of her throat that replayed on a loop in her ears.

“Shh, shh, It’s okay.” He secured her against him, hands tangling into the knots of her hair and holding her still. “Breathe with me, Heather.” He exaggerated his breathing, chest rising up and staying there for a few seconds before falling back down to its relaxed state.

She couldn’t copy him, her chest instead contracting and releasing in quick increments.

“Heather, sweetheart.” The vibrations of his voice travelled through her, settling deep in her lungs and loosening her muscles. “You gotta breathe with me.”

In. She held her breath in her lungs, eyes squeezing shut as more tears fell. Brittany was in her mind, on that floor, on a hospital bed with a sheet being pulled over her lifeless body. All because of Heather’s lack of care. She tensed up against him and he muttered something she couldn’t make out over the ringing in her ears. Almost knowingly, he clutched her close instead. Out. She let her entire body slacken, falling against him as she stabilised herself. She repeated the motions again. In. James now at the forefront. Out.

“There you go.” Both his hands were rubbing across the expanse of her back, squeezing her tight in a seemingly counterintuitive technique, but the closeness, the warmth of him and the smell of him made her feel secure and like her feet were back on the ground. “That’s it, Angel.”

They continued to breathe together until her whole body slumped into him, James holding her upright as stray tears fell. He waited a moment before repeating his previous question.

“What happened, hm?”

Heather took a long, shaky breath as she kept her head firmly against his chest, refusing to move from the comfort.

“My friend…Brittany.” She downgraded the relationship to just friend. She would explain to him what Brittany meant to her when she knew she was okay. “She, um…” Her voice was thick, and she had to keep swallowing to rid of the dryness. “She’s an addict.” Her voice cracked and he began his previous ministrations - stroking up and down her back. “She usually comes into the diner every night but- but she hasn’t this week.” And I didn’t notice because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. “I- I was worried so I went to check on her and…and…”

“It’s okay you don’t have to say it.” She squeezed a few tears out, her head throbbing with the image of Brittany, the fear she had felt when she’d found her. “Is she alright?”

“I don’t know, they won’t tell me.” Heather finally found the courage to pull away from him, her hands trapped between their chest as she lifted her head and looked into the shade of blue that she dreamed of.

He gazed down at her, his hat, at some point being pulled from his head and placed on the hood, hair a little messy and eyes visibly working to comfort her.

“We’ll find out, don’t worry.”

We: a promise.

She shook her head, eyes flicking to her hands that were bundled up against the cotton of his shirt.

“I shouldn’t have brought her here, she doesn’t have insurance.” Her voice was breaking, her composure cracking again; fragile as porcelain. “She told me she’d rather die, I- I don’t-.” “Don’t worry about that.” The tone of his voice was straightforward, giving her the truth to keep her locked in reality. “I’ll pay.

No. No, he couldn’t.

“James.” She looked at him incredulously, shaking her head. Brittany wouldn’t let him. Brittany didn’t even know him. Nor did he know her. “You can’t, you don’t even know her.”

“She means a lot to you, that’s all I need to know.” He cut her off immediately, his hand reaching up towards her face and cupping her cheek in a far too intimate display of affection for the public eye. His thumb dragged over her skin, rubbing back and forth. “I’m offering. I’m willing.”

“She’ll say no.” “Then I’ll insist.”

She grew silent, eyes fluttering shut as she leaned into the feeling of his rough fingers against her cheek. He would do that. He would do it for her. She needed to repay him. She needed to in some way but she had no idea how.

She flicked her eyes open again, staring at the space right in front of her. Her hands flattened against his chest, staring at the spread of her fingers against his shirt and the hitch in his breath as she copied his movements on her cheek; her thumb brushed against his muscle, the shirt bunching up as she did so.

“Thank you.” Heather’s eyes were back to his, reluctantly straying from the sight of her hands on his chest. It was okay to pretend for a moment, with him cupping her face and holding her close, it was okay to pretend. “For everything you’ve done for me.”

She could not pull her eyes away, his face dangerously close to hers. There was turmoil in his stare, his eyes flitting over her face and jaw painfully clenched.

“You’ve…” Experimentally, she leaned in a little closer. “You’ve helped me a lot.”

For a second, it seemed like he leaned in too, but his dismissal came fast and straightforward.

“No.” He shook his head, answering her silent question as his hand fell from her face and rested on her back. “Heather, no.”

“Why?” She wasn’t sure if it was her vulnerability that was making her so bold or the realisation that things could be taken from her if she wasn’t careful but she didn’t all that care in the moment. His arms were around her, he was close enough that she could taste his cologne in the back of her throat, the scent tangling around her uvula and there was a tang of hope in the air surrounding them. But, he was quick to shut it down, pushing her back so he could stand up straight and letting her go completely so he could put his hat back on his head.

“I’m gonna get you home, okay?”

It was hard to deny the hurt at his rejection, the bile that rose to the surface as embarrassment took over.

“I need to stay here.” She tried to speak over the humiliation, brushing through her hair just so her hands were preoccupied.

“We can come back later.” He was walking around to his side of the truck, tugging the door open. He seemed frustrated. He seemed angry with her. Or, the possibility she didn't want to consider, he was disappointed. “You need to eat something, maybe have a shower and get changed.”

“But what about Brittany?” “She’s gonna have to stay overnight either way, kid.” Kid. It was back and it was brutal. She wanted to rage, yell at him that she was the furthest thing from infantile. She was a grown goddamn woman. But, the very fact that she felt the need to defend that, made her believe that maybe he was right. Maybe all she was was a child. Maybe that would be the only way he’d ever see her.

She was never one to argue. So, she complied with his orders and started to advance towards the door.

I’M SORRY!

As always, He did not answer her cries. She would forever be the sinner, whose repentance went unheard.

⋆ ★

A/N: i finally got it out!! i told you. technically it's sunday but i don't care. it's not sunday until i wake up in the morning.

either way, this was a very heavy chapter with a lot a lot going on. it was kinda hard writing this because i didn't want to be too descriptive to the point that it was uncomfortable but brittany is a very important character in heather's life and this situation is a driving force for her to act on her feelings for james.

i've kinda set the tone for next chapter with that last scene so..take a guess. the slowburn is gonna be burning so fucking hot next chapter. it will be out as soon as possible. not next saturday but maybe the saturday after.

also, like i say every time if you see any mistakes you fucking tell me. if you don't i will hunt you down.

that being said, thank you so so much for reading. i can't wait to hear what you have to say :))

alana.

#this chapter hit close to home man #jesus #the way you wrote it all was so incredible #and the end scene WHEW RJEJJFJRJDF #i can smell james’ inner turmoil from here #and it smells GOOD #james hetfield #metallica #fic rec

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briyourmotherdown · 1 year ago

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i’m sorry i’ve been so inactive everyone i’m moving out of the country in two weeks and i’ve also been hot girl spiralling !!!

i love u all though and i really hope to be back to normal soon ):

#this time of year always fucks me up man #i don’t know what it is #listening to famous last words ethel cain and sitting on the floor crying #i said i’d write more cool water #but besties i haven’t even been able to think coherently #let alone write #sigh #it’ll get better soon #i literally only come on here when alana goes live #KDKSKKDDJ

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briyourmotherdown · 1 year ago

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alana this might be my favourite chapter so far i am crying my eyes out and an emotional mess i’m on my period too how could you do this to me this was beautiful I have no words i can’t even use punctuation

𝙱.𝙰.𝚁.𝙴.𝙵.𝙾.𝙾.𝚃

⋆ ★ 𝙹𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚝𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍

" 𝚒 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚢 " ⋆ ★

part six of multiple

𝙱.𝙰.𝚁.𝙴.𝙵.𝙾.𝙾.𝚃 • 𝙲.𝙾.𝙽.𝚃.𝙴.𝙽.𝚃.𝚂

⋆ ★ warnings: mentions of suicide, grief, religious imagery

⋆ ★ word count: 5.5k

the contents of this story will not be for everyone. if you aren't comfortable with unethical and/or age-gap relationships, then do not read.

»»———-　story by 30-3am　———-««

Chapter Six - Hold Me Heal Me

15:47, 9th July

Downey, CA

July passed through her like an arrow to the heart, the month creeping through the bushes, curling around the fences, forcing her mouth open and crawling down her throat to nestle in the far corners of her stomach. It brought an unforgiving heat, one that melted the tarmac and withered the grass until it was unrecognisable, one that warmed the tips of waves and caused dogs to pant and drool onto the sand. The breeze was unaccounted for in the high afternoon, and the relentless heat boiled blood and blistered skin; Hell on earth.

Downey had always been that - the home of the Devil and his demons, the sinners that had been banished there to suffer their eternal damnation. When she got a little older and was able to comprehend mortality, she always thought that maybe she was already dead, that this was Hell, she had sinned and she was suffering. Daddy was a demon, toying with her, torturing her until she was screaming and begging for it to be over, until God could hear that she was sorry so he could pull her up into the light. Her mother was hope that they’d made her foolishly believe in, showing her what she could have if she was not trapped in perdition, what she could be and then taking her away from her daughter when she needed her most.

Each event, every individual tragedy had pushed her back into Lucifer's grasp. Every time she found herself crawling back to Him, her knees bruised and bloody, some formidable force sent her flinging back down…down - her skull cracked open, her brains oozing out onto the ground and staining it red. Today was the day she would fall again. Eight years exactly. Heather tried not to think about it, tried to banish the ache that tugged at her heart and created a lump in her throat. Eight years on and it was still fresh and bleeding. The wound had not healed and she wasn’t sure if it ever would.

“Heather.” Her Dad had stalked into the kitchen, turning off the stereo that had been playing David Bowie, muttering something derogatory about the artist's sexuality and told her to stop washing the dishes. She removed her hands from the hot water, her fingers shrivelled up like prunes and wiped them on a towel. “Go sit down at the table.”

Robert had lit up a cigarette as he usually did, the lighter clicking, the smoke filling the room and the smell lingered in her nose as she walked over to the dining room table, sitting down on the one chair that didn’t match the rest - it was better than the one beside her which stood on uneven ground and wobbled with the weight of her. He stalked over slightly after, not an ounce of remorse in his eyes, nothing to indicate that he was about to secrete such information.

“What’s wrong?” He took a short drag, barely inhaling the smoke before passing it to Heather.

“Take that, girl.” He jerked the cigarette in front of her face, eyes wide as he silently commanded her to take it. She looked at it trepidatiously, gaze flicking between his yellow-stained fingernails, his calloused hands and the brown butt of the cigarette that glared at her with evil eyes. “Oh, come on, Heather I’m not stupid.” He took a step forward, raising his eyebrows at the cigarette and pushing it further towards her face. “You steal em’ from me all the time, fucking take it.”

She didn’t want to argue with him, sitting with her legs crossed, hands in her lap and the man she called daddy looming over her and forcing her to kill herself with the thing that kept him alive. She plucked the cigarette from his fingers, holding it between her own; she was too uncomfortable to smoke in front of him. He was content with that, sitting down opposite her and resting his palms on the tabletop.

“Your Mom,” he began, not willing to make eye contact.

“What about Mom?”

“Shut up.” Heather closed her parted mouth, leaning back in her seat and itching to inhale the smoke rising from the end of the burning paper. “Just…lemme talk.”

He took a deep breath, drumming his fingers on top of the veneer which had multiple water stains and coffee rings decorating its surface, and shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Well, you know she hasn’t been feeling herself.” Heather nodded to show she understood, entirely unsure of where the conversation was going. Mom had left last night and said she was going to a parish meeting. She had not come back yet.

Robert leaned forward, kissing his teeth and shaking his head. Then, he pointed to the cigarette.

“Smoke that while I talk.”

“O-okay.” She looked at him whilst bringing the cigarette to her lips, apprehensively taking a drag. He almost looked proud when she didn’t cough.

There was a pause, his face scrunching up uncomfortably as he let out a sharp breath.

“Your Mom’s dead, princess.”

Dead: the word travelled around in her head, reaching every corner, settling in every crack until it was all white noise. Her ears rang with it - dead, dead, dead. Mom. Dead. Mama. Dead.

The cigarette fell from her shaking fingers, burning into the rug. She didn’t feel the table knocking against her as her dad pushed it away from him, jumping up to step on the burning stick that melted into the fabric.

“Jesus fucking christ, Heather.” She didn’t hear him, his voice muffled and overpowered by one word. “Don’t burn my shit.”

No tears were produced in her eyes, no outward reaction that showed she was grieving, nothing to indicate she was distraught. Just nausea and numbness that had her head spinning and a wave washing over her mind and leaving one question drawn in the sand.

“How?” Her voice shook as she spoke, and her eyes which had blurred over white gazed at a chip in the table.

He barked out a laugh. A fucking laugh.

“All that God shit she went on and on about,” he said, sniffing as he made his way into the kitchen and opened up the fridge. A tear she did not feel slipped down her cheek as the sound of glass against glass echoed throughout the room. “She slit her fucking wrists, girl.”

Finally, the damn broke and a choked sob emitted from the depths of her throat, a tear slipping down her cheek and scarring the skin as it travelled. She thought of nothing except running and not stopping until there was no breath left in her lungs.

“They found her in a fucking motel on Lakewood Boulevard. Ridiculous.” She did not hear. She could not listen to anything except the harsh thudding in her heart, the shaking of her legs that had her on her feet and walking before she knew what was occurring. “Where the fuck are you goin’?”

Nothing could bring her to think of anything but her mother, the image of her…Tears were running hot and fast down her face, her throat closing and her head spinning. She refused to believe it. He was lying. He was a liar. She wanted to scream his sins into his face, to spit on him, to make him bleed and bruise until it brought her back.

It should’ve been him. It was always supposed to be him.

She ripped the front door open, her breathing coming ragged and painful as her heart beat so fast it was liable to burst.

And she ran. She ran until her chest burned and her eyes stung from the onslaught of tears that refused to cease - her denial and her grief fuelling her journey.

Everything was blurry when she finally stopped, the world around her spinning and merging into shapes and colours she couldn’t comprehend. She was stuck in a state of numbness, her body too weak to even produce a cry; silent tears slumped down her face, running hot and angry and dripping off her chin to make their escape from her sentience.

Her mother had been ripped from her.

She sat down on a nearby bench and stayed there until dark.

She was only fifteen years old.

As the years went on, Heather began to forget things about her mother she wanted to cherish. She forgot what she smelt like, what she looked like when she was praying, what it felt like to be held by her. The scariest moment was when she was recalling a memory at work, the day of her tenth birthday when, for once, everything had been normal, and could not remember what her mother sounded like. She had panicked and ran out the backdoor where Brittany had found her and calmed her down without question.

Nowadays, she does not care to remember what it feels like to miss her. Her brain had warded off the grief and guilt and compartmentalized it into a neat little box that only burst open when it was too big to keep inside.

“The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

She had read that once when she attempted to devote herself to God. She had been sixteen, still confused about who she was and who she was becoming, unable to truly comprehend what it meant to be a Daughter. Psalms 34:18. When she read the verse, repeating it over in her head, she had never felt more detached from God than in that moment.

Heather was brokenhearted and crushed in spirit; He had not saved her, nor did He feel close. She was a wayward daughter, straying from the passage of righteousness, betraying Him and her mother unintentionally. It wasn’t for lack of trying, God, she had tried her hardest, but He would not come. She screamed but He was deaf to her cries. Her throat was cracked and bloody but He was not there to heal her.

“Hattie, my girl.” For once, she was thankful for her father's interruption, her mind begging to be brought elsewhere. It was hard to distract and compartmentalize on days like this.

The door of her bedroom was harshly thrust open and the music playing from her stereo which was aged and damaged, promptly shut off. It didn’t bother her anymore. It was an expectation for him to impede on her world and vanquish any happiness that resided there.

“Yeah?” She questioned, the man in front of her feeling distant, her head refusing to give up the memories.

“The house smells like shit.” She bit her tongue and decided not to mention that the reason for that was the cigarette nestled between his fingers and his inability to clean up after himself. “It looks like shit and your best fucking friend James is coming round so you gotta get your shit sorted, princess.”

For a single, temporary moment, she forgot entirely what this day meant to her. The mention of his name, the bite of “James” on her father’s tongue sent a roll of nerves and excitement through her stomach that forced her mother from her mind. It was powerful, the way he could do such a thing. Even if it be for a moment, the mere thought of him being there made the day feel as if it wouldn’t be dominated by sulking and guilt and a need for things to be different.

Heather had forced herself to deny the feelings that had begun to brew for James because it was unfeasible to even consider her thoughts were shared. Over the weeks, their usual routine had begun again, the only adjustment being, that James parked at the end of the street, away from Robert's view. Apart from that, it was the same. He would tell her to pick the music which she would do happily, finding new cassettes she wasn’t sure how he had found, in the collection. They’d talk occasionally but both of them were comfortable to sit in silence, James drumming his fingers on the wheel, her humming along gently.

Nowadays though, she daresn’t close her eyes. Before, it was easier to let herself drift slightly, to feel the warmth of the morning sun, and the breeze of the dark night while she immersed herself in the moving colours beneath her eyelids; ever since she had woken up on his couch, disoriented, mouth wide open and a blanket falling off her body, the mortification had made it impossible to let her eyes rest, no matter how tired she was.

She’d sat up, rubbing at her eyes, the situation made worse by the mascara that collected on the skin of her fingers and reached for her bag which was not where she left it. Upon observing herself, panic began to set in. Her hair which she had spent far too long on was a mess, her makeup smudged and as she swiped her palm over her calve, it seemed like all her hair had grown back whilst she indulged in sleep.

When she was somewhat presentable, she’d folded the blanket up and put it on the chair, fluffing the cushions and making the room look like how she’d found it. The sheer thought of having to face James had her legs shaking and for a second, she thought about running far away and pretending that he had never even seen her. But there was that whisper of a name that had lightened her heart, one that she thought had appeared in her dreams and was not from her plane of reality. However, she had felt the warmth against her face, the oxymoron of rough skin and soft touch making her truly believe that it was her ascension. Then, he’d muttered “Angel” and she’d felt herself reach heaven and become exactly what he’d said she was.

It was then that she could no longer push away her thoughts, the feeling that maybe he was no longer just James - he was something more to her. There was guilt and tension at the realisation, paired with some form of disgust at herself for even thinking of him in that manner. Two days ago, when she could not sleep, she had slipped her hands into the waistband of her shorts, touching and teasing. Her mind had involuntarily flicked to the thought of him on top of her, his kisses light and loving on the taut skin of her neck, his fingers replacing hers and rubbing light circles. She thought of him whispering in her ear, muttering sweet nothings, approving of the sounds she made as he slipped a finger inside her, then another - fingers she had stared at far too much on their drives. She thought of his lips brushing the shell of her ear, that one name that sent her stomach flipping every time she thought of it on his lips. “Angel.” Bringing her closer to the edge. “There you go, Angel.” Closer. Her back arching into his touch, her eyes squeezed shut. “Come on, Angel.” His name on her lips, her name on his until she was hurtling towards a high that was unrelenting and euphoric, the light touch of his fingers making her jerk at the stimulation.

She had come back around and felt sick and on shaky legs, had gone to the bathroom, washed her hands and clambered back into bed, the stench of sin strong.

She had not touched herself since; she didn’t trust herself not to think of him.

“Yeah, daddy, I’ll clean up.” She dismissed him quickly, the smell of alcohol drifting slowly towards her and leaving her disappointed and exhausted. It wouldn’t have surprised her if he didn’t know what today was; July 9th was just another day, not the day his wife had taken her own life because she couldn’t bear to know him anymore.

“Go get me some cigarettes as well.” He rifled through his jeans pocket, pulling out two five-dollar bills and smacking them down on her bedside table. “Get yourself some as well.” He plucked the one he was currently puffing on from his lips, deciding he was done with it and scanning the contents of her room for somewhere to dispose of it. “Where the fuck is your ashtray?”

“Daddy, that’s not enough money.” She looked at the bills on the table, ignoring his question.

“Then make up the difference, I’ll pay you back.” He waved her off, always believing that she would fix things for him, that money was something disposable and flammable that was fun to burn. “Can’t believe you don’t have an ashtray in here,” she vaguely heard him say as he stumbled out of her room, forgetting to close the door behind him.

Begrudgingly, she slid off her bed, rubbing at her eyes. She was exhausted and would now have to (no matter how much her body protested) put in the extra effort to make sure she looked good enough for James. She would also have to go walk to the store and get her father cigarettes. Cigarettes she knew he would not pay her back for.

Always taking and never giving back.

19:28

Heather had been banished from the house, her father ushering her out the backdoor when the rumble of James’ truck indicated his arrival.

“Can I not say hello?”

“No, now go outside.”

She didn’t have the energy to argue, her free time was already spent cleaning the main rooms of the house whilst her dad continued his productivity and drank in the bar. She hadn’t even had time to get ready and part of her was grateful that she had been shunted away from his eyes that she felt would be judging and laughing at every inch of her. The bags under her eyes were ridiculously prominent, a bruise on her knee that had materialised unknowingly and a pimple sat on her chin, happy to ruin her entire face. She had picked at it but it had only made it worse.

So now she sat with her headphones on, Janis Joplin on full volume and a fresh pack slowly dwindling down to nothing. Her moderation of the habit disappeared when she was particularly distressed and she wouldn’t allow herself to feel guilty for it. She had enough guilt wriggling around under her skin. Indulging in the sweet tobacco was not another thing she could bring herself to worry about.

The sun was not yet setting, just gliding lower down in the sky and inching its way towards the horizon. She always preferred sitting on the porch in the evening. When she was in the backyard, the sun was in her eyes, blinding her no matter where she looked and the white plastic chairs that had suffered rain, earthquakes and extreme heat that should’ve melted it to the ground were incomparable to her porch swing. However, she would be visible on the front. Robert Palmer could not allow that and would not take any chances of the attention being taken from him. It wasn’t terrible. On any other day, it would’ve been quite pleasant sitting outside, smoking, music on and thinking about nothing in particular. But today was not any other day. He was inside the house and it was killing her that she couldn’t look at him, couldn’t see what he was wearing, if he was smoking a cigar or not.

The other day he had worn shorts when he was taking her to work; she wondered briefly if he had chosen to wear them again today. It was eating her alive knowing he was there, in the house she had stripped clean for him, drinking from the glasses she had washed and talking to the man who had killed her mother. It was juvenile to be mad at James for doing so, but she knew he knew. It was hard not to know from his constant pitying looks, buying her happiness with music and cigarettes and fucking soda. And if he knew, why was he here?

She didn’t want to think about it. Her irrationality was making her believe that the one man she had ever trusted, the one man in her life who wasn’t angry, was betraying her. The whole situation was so confusing, ripping apart pieces of her brain and eating at her stability. He was thrusting her back into a headspace she hadn’t entered in a long time but was still managing to bring her to a new state of mind that was so calm and soothing that she believed he could be the Messiah.

She closed her eyes and basked in the heat of the sun, blindly bringing the cigarette to her lips and breathing in. To Love Somebody slowed to a stop, her eyes snapping open as she fumbled for her phone and began to skip the song that followed it; it started before she could manage it and the panic in her body stilled. The piano began and she sunk back down in her chair. She closed her eyes again and sucked harshly on the end of the cigarette, trying to swallow down as much nicotine as possible.

Visions of her mother singing, humming along to the song whilst she hung the laundry on the line. They had never been able to afford a dryer. Andrea said it was better to let nature dry their clothes, that God had provided the sun for a reason. Even from a young age, Heather had known she just didn’t want to tell her that they were poor. They still were and still did not have a dryer. The freshest load of laundry was hanging from the line in front of her and she would have to get it in soon.

The music was eating at her heart, lulling her into mania as she thought back to her mother and how she was gone and not coming back. How there was no heaven and when she died they would not meet again. Strangely, she did not cry. Some part of herself would not let her cry and so she sat with the ache and the breeze and the music, her lungs protesting with every drag. She lost herself to the memories, drifting further away until she was harshly brought back by a hand on her shoulder.

She jumped, the cigarette almost falling from her fingers as she turned to the disruption. She had to blink twice, mouth gaping like a lost child and it took him gesturing to her headphones for her to take them off.

He was laughing at her, the music continuing to play from the headphones on account of how loud it was.

“Didn’t mean to disturb you, kid.”

She stopped herself from saying that it was a pleasant intrusion.

“No, it’s okay.” She switched off the music, the birdsong reaching her ears again and her eyes flicking worriedly to the door. He noticed, just like he seemed to notice everything else.

“He went out to get more beer.” She nodded gratefully at his understanding, the shortlived excitement of him being in her presence dwindling faster than she thought it would. “Can I sit?” He gestured to the other chair, identical to the one she was sitting in. She was speaking before she thought.

“I don’t know, these chairs are on the verge of breaking.” He raised his eyebrows at her, shaking his head in mock offence.

“What are you tryna say?”

Shit.

“No, no I- I didn't mean it like that.” She defended, face flushing. “I just meant that you know…these chairs are shitty and-.”

“Calm down, kid I know what you meant.”

He silenced her justification and sat down next to her, the chair creaking with his weight. He was back to wearing jeans, the outfit reminiscent of when they had first met except this time, she did not recognise whatever was on his shirt. Stubbing her cigarette out and flicking it into her empty Coke can, she pulled another one from the pack, pausing before lighting it.

“You don’t mind do you?” She gestured to the cigarette.

“Not at all, kid.” He leaned back against the chair, hands stroking along the arms and stretching his legs out in front of him. She was grateful for the cigarette as she lit it and peeled her eyes away. “How you been today?”

Heather had not expected that question, nor the sympathy that laced his tone. If it weren’t for the pitying look she could feel him giving her, she wouldn’t have thought the question held any underlying meaning at all.

Taking a drag of the cigarette, she let the question linger, mulling it over in her mind before replying.

“I’ve been okay.” It was a lie but a lie was better than pouring her heart out to him. She was not okay. Rarely ever was.

“That’s good.” The birds filled the prolonged gaps of silence, causing the uncomfortable pauses to become bearable. “Your dad seemed okay.” There was a slight undertone to his voice, one with a hint of malice and incredulity. She took the victory, her doubts of his loyalty dissipating.

“I just think he’s trying not to remember.” Heather would be surprised if he remembered at all.

“People grieve in different ways.” It took everything in her not to scoff - Robert Palmer had not grieved when it happened and refused to years after. Sometimes, she wished she could be like him, to just forget the horrors that flashed in her mind when she was in deep sleep. Her mom: lifeless with blood pooling around her.

“I guess.” The birds performed their next song, harmonising with one another and lifting spirits.

James recognised her inability to talk about the situation, her lack of wanting to express to him how she truly felt and changed the subject.

“Who were you listening to? Must’ve been good.” He laughed, teasing her on account of her previous lack of awareness. Unbeknownst to him, it was not the subject change he had hoped for.

“Janis Joplin.” She took another drag, holding the smoke in her lungs longer than necessary and blowing it out hastily. “Mama used to listen to her a lot.”

The shift in tone was palpable, James’ eyes fixed on the side of her head. She refused to look at him; if she saw his eyes and the sympathy that danced along the rim of blue she feared she would not be able to hold back her tears.

“I don’t blame her.” It was almost unfathomable, how easily he appeased her discomfort. If he was around her all the time, it wasn’t wrong to believe that maybe she’d finally be calm, that Downey would become a nirvana with him at the centre.

There’s a silence, James letting her guide the conversation wherever she wanted it to go. After a few moments of contemplation, she decided to ask her question.

“Did you know her well?” She puffs on the cigarette, shifting in the chair so that her knees are tucked into her chest, her bare feet on the edge of the plastic.

He clicked his tongue, his hands perched on his thighs as he spread his legs wider.

“If I’m being honest, kid, your dad wasn’t too fond on staying at the house when I came to visit.” That sounded about right but she didn’t interrupt him with her thoughts, picking a piece of grass from the top of her foot instead. “I saw her a lot in school though.”

Her eyes flicked to his, respectfully putting the cigarette out and giving him all her attention. Noting her curiosity, he smiled softly and began telling her the stories she desperately wished to know.

“I didn’t talk to her a lot, but everyone knew her as that one girl that had transferred from the south.” Heather smiled, imagining her mother with that strong southern accent of hers trying to talk to native Californians. “She was obsessed with your dad, always tryna talk to him you know?” Heather listened intently, her smile faltering at how much her father had failed her. Little Andrea had pined after him like the God she pined after when she grew up and he had ruined the standard she held him to, making her believe in a false image so he could corrupt and ruin her.

“Your dad…” He paused, looking over at her as if he needed confirmation to disclose the next bit of information. She didn’t accept but she didn’t protest either which was enough for him to carry on. “He was a dick.” He chuckled to himself, running his thumb and index finger down each side of his moustache. “He wouldn’t stop complaining about all the attention like she wasn’t the sweetest girl in that class.” His gaze connected with hers, their eyes meeting and his sympathy was evident - like it always was. “It’s where you get it from.”

“Where I get what from?” “Every good thing about you. It’s from her.”

Heather swallowed down the lump in her throat, averting her gaze away from him to stare at the sky and the sun that was descending towards the horizon. Her breath was shaky as it emitted from her lungs in one deep sigh, hugging her knees tighter to her chest in an attempt to not cry.

“I wanted to know her longer.” The confession is whispered, passing by her tongue like the breeze passing through the whisps of hair that refused to stay against her scalp.

“So did I.” His words had her hurtling over the edge, her nails digging into the flesh of her legs as she tried to regulate her breathing. “She’s proud of you, Angel.” The deadly concoction of reassurance and that goddamned nickname she had been thinking about for an entire two weeks, pulled tears from her eyes, hot and big that silently fell down her cheeks.

Heeding her silence, he snapped his head in her direction, not saying anything as he stood from the chair. It creaked as he moved, his steps muffled by the ringing in her ears and his shoes meeting her blurry vision as he stood in front of her.

“Come here.” She violently blinked the fuzziness away, wiping at the tears on her cheeks as she looked up at him, his arms open, his expression serious. She probably looked pathetic, eyes all red, lips pouted and sulking. But he showed no indifference. With his arms open, he looked like the son of God, sent to her to help find the path she desired. She had been searching for such an entity ever since she had seen Daddy strike Mama for the first time, ever since she had realised that her family were the subject of some insane melodrama that was too sad for even the poets to watch. And he was there: angelic, holy, sacred, his divinity bouncing off him like cosmic rays.

She was up on her feet and letting him embrace her before she could dwell on the intimacy of the situation. Her head was too full of grief to even consider his arms around her or the soft kiss he placed on the top of her head, but he was whole and warm and he was allowing her to be vulnerable. It pained her that she could not thank him in the ways she wanted to, that she couldn’t express every ounce of gratitude she had.

“Shh, it’s okay.” He soothed, stroking her hair with his right hand whilst the left stayed firmly wrapped around her back. “It’s okay, Angel.”

“I miss her.” She sobbed into his chest, an action which would’ve humiliated her under any other circumstances but in the moment, she couldn’t bring herself to be embarrassed. He was holding her and giving her more comfort than she had been shown in years, the touch something she had grown unaccustomed to but was nauseatingly hungry for. She pressed harder into his chest, him reciprocating by squeezing tighter and pressing another kiss to her forehead; it lingered and sent her stomach tumbling down a hill.

“I know you do.” His hand dragged through her hair, his breathing steady and heart beating, alive and well in her ear. “She misses you too.” Words were caught in her throat, thrashing on the fishing hook and waiting to be reeled in; they would escape their capture and swim away before she could think of anything to say. Tears were the only substitute her body granted her and they fell steadily down her face, dropping from each eye and soaking into his shirt. He didn't seem to mind so neither did she and he let her cry so she did not stop. She didn’t stop until they heard the shout of her father greeting Stu who, last time she checked, was sitting in his front yard with his feet in a bowl of cold water and beers in a cooler.

James had pulled away at the noise, eyes flicking to the source and then back to her. He affectionately brushed her hair away from her face, cradling her jaw in his hand and hastily said his goodbyes.

“You’re a good kid. Strong. But you don’t ever be afraid to call me, understood?”

He wiped away a tear that hadn’t even reached her cheekbone yet, keeping himself firmly in place until she answered him.

With a swallow, she replied.

“Understood.”

⋆ ★

A/N: this took longer than expected to get out but i hope the wait was worth it. the slow burn is burning hotter people. i'm getting there with it.

i'm also very aware of how heavy of a chapter this was. the warnings are there for a reason but if you are uncomfortable, like i say most chapters, please talk to me. i personally have not lost a mother but i know what it feels like to grieve the people you love and know what it feels like to lose someone in that manner. dm me if you ever need to talk <33

this chapter was only slightly proofread/edited so if you find any shocking spelling or things that just don't make sense then please tell me!!

that being said, i'll see you next time.

alana.

#how fucking beautifully written this was #wow i’m actually crying huh?#damn #james hetfield #metallica #barefoot #fic rec

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briyourmotherdown · 1 year ago

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i really needed this zoom in because i am on my knees crying and screaming.

FORGOT.

HOW.

TO.

BREATHE.

I LITERALLY DON'T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO SAY, I DON'T THINK THERE'S MUCH TO SAY ACTUALLY

#it’s actually unfair #how many times will i look at this picture?#who knows #i surely don’t #james hetfield #metallica

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briyourmotherdown · 1 year ago

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HOLY SHIT!!! HOLY SHIT!!! HOLY SHIT!!!

HIS BACK FRECKLES, THE ARMS akdkslañwjueismsllakdjqodnkwlam

*dies*

#the scream i screamt #his BACK on display #i am no better than a man #i am fucking FERAL #jesus christ #FUCK #james hetfield #metallica

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briyourmotherdown · 1 year ago

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He’s so…he’s so…

#gonna start screaming and crying #i hate him #no i don’t #but he also makes me SCREAM #therefore how dare he #metallica #james hetfield

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briyourmotherdown · 1 year ago

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briyourmotherdown · 1 year ago

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Holy shit! The new tattoo!!!

I think it says: "Thy will not mine be done"

#WWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE #omg #DJJDJFJDJDJDJD #screaming #james hetfield #metallica

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briyourmotherdown · 1 year ago

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OH LOOOOORRRRDDDDDYYYYYYY the moral dilemma is actually so good i’m eating this shit UP.

𝙱.𝙰.𝚁.𝙴.𝙵.𝙾.𝙾.𝚃

⋆ ★ 𝙹𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚝𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍

" 𝚒'𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒 𝚊𝚖, 𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚊𝚗 "

part four of multiple

𝙱.𝙰.𝚁.𝙴.𝙵.𝙾.𝙾.𝚃 • 𝙲.𝙾.𝙽.𝚃.𝙴.𝙽.𝚃.𝚂

⋆ ★ warnings: none

⋆ ★ word count: 5.0k

the contents of this story will not be for everyone. if you aren't comfortable with unethical and/or age-gap relationships, then do not read.

»»———-　story by 30-3am　———-««

Chapter Five - Slipping

10:48, 27th June

Downey, CA

Somehow, James had ended up with a clean house, a girl coming over, and twenty-four cans of coke in the fridge. He had been preparing for her arrival all Saturday, making sure his house was presentable, and that there was food in the cupboards and drinks in the fridge. He wasn’t particularly nervous about her coming around; he was fifty-eight, so there was no need to be nervous but he wanted to make her comfortable. He had an inkling that she was not the one who broke that ashtray and he wanted to help. Anger consumed him at the treatment she was subjected to, an anger he had tried to suppress for many years. In the current situation, however, he supposed his reactions were deserved. If James was younger and a little more stupid, Robert Palmer would have a black eye and a broken arm by now but he had outgrown his irrationality long ago and knew that hostility was not the answer.

More so irrational than his aggression was his infatuation; his interest. He had pushed the idea of Heather from his head many times over, reducing his unconventional thoughts to mere attraction. She was pretty. That wasn’t wrong to think and James did not see her or imagine her in any perverse manner. It was more of an intrigue, a desire to crack her open and understand who she was. It was friendly and normal - he would not jeopardise the relationship because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. It wasn’t worth it. She was only just becoming comfortable, starting to reveal herself through the music and finally starting to look him in the eye when speaking to him. It would be wrong to scare her off, to step on a twig whilst hunting a deer and have its grazing stop, head flicking up and waiting before scampering off in the other direction.

James believed it was his duty, his responsibility to rip her from that house. She had no one else and she looked at him with such joy and admiration that he couldn’t bring himself to leave it alone. Maybe it was self-righteousness, some sanctimonious need to prove himself good, but there was this girl. This girl. A girl who had gripped him by the neck and dragged him through tangles of brambles until he was scratched, bloody and at her mercy. The perpetual sadness in her eyes, the petulant pout and the mirage of innocence had pulled him in like a siren's call and he was trapped within her life. The moment he pulled into her drive, the moment she stepped into his truck, the entrance of his cage locked behind him and she swallowed down the key; he would have to go searching in the depths of her stomach if he wanted to get it back.

In a way, he didn’t want it back. He was content being trapped within her and spending his days filling in the cracks spreading like spiderwebs along her skin. It wasn’t difficult to see how much she valued him. The reluctance to get out of his truck every morning and night, the smiles that had slowly become genuine and the urge to please him at every turn. He noticed. It was hard not to.

Another thing he noticed was the fear that settled and turned stagnant in her mind. The look she had given him when they came home and Rob was on the porch stabbed him and stabbed him until his only urge was to speed out of the driveway and take her far away. How he hated Robert Palmer for giving that sweet girl a reason to be afraid and how dare he blame her for being disobedient instead of him. James wanted to take the fall for her. He would let Robert bruise and break him if it meant she would be safe.

James had watched her shuffle inside, her hands working and working at the straps of her bag, her steps unstable and looking entirely ready to give up on supporting her altogether. He’d seethed with anger when Rob walked over, all welcoming with his arms outstretched and feigning politeness with a toothy grin. The casual manner in which he spoke to James was wearing away at his civility; Robert fucking Palmer was lucky James was not the same man anymore otherwise his jaw would’ve been hanging from its hinges. The only thing that stopped him from aggression was the knowledge that it would only ricochet onto Heather.

James had stayed in that driveway for longer than necessary, wishing that some entity would open the curtains so he could see she wasn’t in danger. Only after a long moral battle between sense and blind heroism did he reverse and head on home. If she did not call, he would call her. And he waited the appropriate amount of time, driving aimlessly, his stomach roiling until he couldn’t stay in the dark anymore. He’d clicked on her name, puffed on his cigar whilst his knee bounced and had to physically prevent an audible sigh of relief when he heard her on the other end.

Then she’d asked him about the superglue that he didn’t have and once she’d gone, he’d scribbled it down onto his shopping list, Diet Coke following it.

He waited patiently for her on the couch, flicking through the Sunday daytime TV that didn’t interest him. He would’ve picked her up but he didn’t think she’d appreciate it given the circumstances. He had not dropped her off Friday night or picked her up Saturday.

Admittedly it was a little lonely, sitting in the house he hadn’t figured out how to decorate yet and not having the music he now associated with her wafting from the shitty speakers, the breeze gliding in through the windows and the muffled sound of her voice as she hums along. It was the only glimpse of her vocal ability she had granted him; he was still trying to get her to sing to him. She hummed so sweetly that it was only fair to assume she sang just as pleasantly.

Three careful knocks. The TV was flicked off, his cigar placed in the ashtray and he wiped his hands on his jeans before he took five long strides from the couch to the front door.

“You alright?” Were the first words that he uttered when he opened it. He couldn’t think of anything else to say, too busy subtly scanning her face for any marks. If he fucking touched her…James was good at controlling his emotions. He was amiable when it was required of him to be amiable, he was calm when years ago he would’ve unleashed his rage upon any unfortunate fucker who dared touch him and most importantly, he was empathetic. Fortunately for Heather, all his empathy was entirely directed at her. Unfortunately for James, the empathy was turning into an amalgamation of anger and a strange protectiveness that he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He stepped aside to let her in, holding the door open and smiling softly.

Over his many years and many relationships, he could tell when a woman was putting in the effort. When they were out to impress. Makeup heavier than usual, hair clean, legs smooth, the prettiest goddamn dress they could find on. She was the spit of that. It was endearing. It was cute. And he hadn’t seen her in a dress that wasn’t her uniform before. It was wrong to look given the circumstances but his body betrayed his sense as his eyes flicked downward as she was walking past. Her legs. Always on display. Always so tempting.

“Are you?” The sweet timbre of her voice entered his ears, bathing him in satisfaction.

She stood in the hallway, her eyes darting around her and trying desperately to stay focused on him. She lingered on the buck head he’d mounted on the wall. “I’m fine, kid.”

“Good.” She flicked her eyes away from the animal, watching as he started walking towards her. The last thing he wanted was for this to be awkward - every single urge he had only kicked him whilst screaming “Make her comfortable.”

“You want a drink, sweetheart.” He stood tall in front of her, his palm pressed to the soft skin of her forearm. “I got you coke.”

She succumbed to eye contact, her gaze flicking from her feet to his. The corner of her lips twitched, her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip to stop her from smiling.

“Diet?”

He squeezed her arm, a chuckle passing his lips. Sweet girl.

“Diet,” he consolidated, sending her a wink before letting go of her and making his way into the kitchen. Heather’s footsteps were light behind his, the sound of her shoes against the floor changing as it turned from wood to tile. He pulled the fridge door open, being overwhelmed by a mixture of silver and red cans - there was more in the cupboard that he couldn’t fit in the fridge. He would never forget the look on the cashier's face when he hauled the crates of soda up onto the conveyor belt.

“I’m tryna lose weight, you know?” He’d said to her and once he was out of there, he’d snickered at his own joke, smiling all the way home as he remembered the forced smile on the employee's face.

“You prefer it outta the can or you want a glass?” He shut the fridge, turning around and leaning against his counter.

“I don’t mind. Just in the can will be fine.” Some part of James wanted her to stop pleasing the others around her. She was always so compliant, doing the things she thought her peers wanted her to, and saying things she thought should be said. It had become apparent when he started picking her up, the way she shivered when he had the windows down, the way when he asked her if she was cold, she would vehemently deny it and go so red in the face that she must’ve warmed up by then. He wanted her, more than anything, to just say “Fuck you, James, put the goddamn windows up.”

Instead, she remained silent and compliant, defying her needs and denying her comfort.

“You sure?” He felt like he always had to double-check, to keep asking until she did what she wanted.

“Yeah, I usually drink out the can anyway. Saves washing more dishes.”

“Well, that’s why I got a dishwasher.” The laugh falling from her lips was sickly sweet, her disgustingly American teeth that did not get that perfect without help, on display as she smiled

“I’ll have a glass please.” “Atta girl.”

A small victory but it made him smile all the same as he turned around to reach into the cupboards and procure a glass.

“You didn’t have to buy me coke, you know?” He pours the soda into the glass, tilting it to avoid foam and instinctually crushing the can before throwing it in the trash.

“I wanted you to have something to drink.” He passes the beverage to her before she can protest or say that water was fine and that he didn’t have to go to the trouble. It also saved him from having to tell her that he wanted to go to the trouble, that if he wasn’t willing to help her, he wouldn’t have offered to drive her to work the very first night they met. The night he’d become so enamoured with her it was painful.

She takes it gratefully, sipping on it with a hint of a smile in approval.

“About that ashtray then.”

“Oh, yeah…” She places the glass down on the counter, slipping off a strap of her bag - a bag that was not her usual for work - and rummaging through it. She pulled out the major pieces of ceramic, small bits following it, placed them next to her coke and then pushed her bag back up onto her shoulder. “Like I said I was emptying it and dropped it. I didn’t think it would smash but it all broke into chunks and…you know.”

He couldn’t help the smile at her rambling, his hands gripping the edge of the counter as he leaned back and observed, legs crossed over one another.

“I don’t…can you fix it?” She let out an exasperated sigh, almost looking disappointed in herself. James was mildly amused, happy to listen to her speak no matter the situation.

“Don’t worry, kid.” He pushed off the counter, walking towards the pieces of broken ceramic and picking at them. “It won’t be perfect but it’ll still work.”

“I don’t mind.” She said abruptly, eyes flicking between the ashtray and him, hands always playing with something.

He gave her a slight nod before averting his attention back to the broken pieces, picking them up and seeing where each piece fit. Luckily for her, it was salvageable and luckily for him it’d take him him a while if she wanted it at least presentable.

“Give me a minute while I get the glue.” He touched her shoulder as he passed, feeling her eyes fixed on the back of his head as he retreated.

He needed to calm the fuck down. For some reason, he was so unbelievably worked up. It took all his mental stability to not look down at her legs, to not cast his gaze upon her chest, the dress not leaving much to the imagination. He felt gross. His mind kept wandering, thinking, wondering…it made him feel like some dirty old man, no better than some sixty-year-old pervert who spent his days groping and catcalling young girls. Thirty-six years. They were miles apart. They were on opposite ends of life, so far apart from one another that he would have to sail around the world ten times over before it was acceptable. The worst of it all was that she trusted him implicitly. It would rip her apart if she knew half of the unorthodox thoughts he had about her. So, he kept those thoughts to himself, however strong the impulses were.

It was wrong and that was that.

He grabbed the superglue from the dining room table and breathed deeply, frustrated that he had to prepare himself before seeing her again.

Fifty fucking nine in August, he had to remind himself as he returned to her, both hands clutched around her glass and sipping, clearly not sure what to do with herself. It shouldn’t have made him as hot as it did but he swatted away the thoughts intruding his mind and smiled as he approached.

“It won’t take me long to fix.” He passed by her, returning to the shattered pieces of ceramic and throwing the glue down next to it. “It’ll take a while to dry though.”

“How long?” Even her voice was pulling reactions from him and he was almost becoming too frustrated to be nice.

“Usually a day.” He preoccupied himself by picking up his glasses he’d left on the side, opening them up and placing them on his face.

“A whole day?” There was panic in her voice and although he wasn’t looking, he could just imagine how adorable she looked with her wide eyes and shock-parted mouth.

“It’s okay you can leave it overnight and I’ll get it to you tomorrow.”

“How?” He stifled his smile, hunching over the counter and pretending to glaze over the pattern of the cracks.

“When I pick you up, kid.”

“Oh, you don’t have to. I can keep walking.”

James allowed himself to look at her, her insistent refusal of his kindness forcing more frustration to cloud his judgment. It wasn’t her fault. She’d caught him on a bad day. His vexations with himself and the lack of progress he’d made with her called for an unpleasant mood. They’d actually gone backwards in concerns to progress. She hadn’t been in his truck for two fucking days and he could no longer smell her perfume that lingered strong and taunting until he couldn’t take it anymore.

Taking a metaphorical deep breath, he stood up straight, shooting her a strained smile.

“I’ll pick you up and drop you off a street down,” he said knowingly, not missing the grateful glint in her eye as she nodded.

“Thank you.”

His eyes lingered on her for a moment, gaze flicking between her face and her chest, his mental flagellation forcing him from going lower. Heather’s cheeks flushed under his observation, shifting her glass from her left to her right, swaying in her spot as she waited for him to speak.

“You’re welcome, kid.” The words came out unintentionally strained and he turned away from her with a clear of his throat, sighing a little too loudly and forcing himself to start on the ashtray.

James felt her gazing at him, firmly rooted in the same spot she’d stood since she arrived. He couldn’t focus with her there, his thoughts running wild, his body growing hot. He was goddamn frustrated - frustrated with her, with fucking Robert Palmer who had fucked his daughter up so terribly that James’ morality refused to leave her alone and he was frustrated with himself. Because the angel and the devil on his shoulders were fighting with one another, the sinner plaguing his mind with thoughts that slandered his righteousness and the virtuous forcing sense down his throat.

“You can wait in the living room if you want.” He unscrews the cap of the glue, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Watch some TV while you wait.”

“Oh.” Why did one syllable make him feel so guilty? “Okay, thank you.”

James let her go, concerning himself with the first chunk of ashtray, her footfalls dying out as she retreated to the living room.

As soon as she was gone, he dropped everything in his hand, muttering expletives to himself as he pinched the bridge of his nose. A tension headache was forming, his whole body aching with the heated debate he’d found himself in the middle of.

He wanted to help. And he couldn’t help if he couldn’t help himself. It was pathetic, really, the lack of control he had. At times, he chalked it down to the divorce, his right hand being his only friend for months and leading to some pent-up sexual frustration that couldn’t be remedied without a woman. It had only been a little over a week. Mere attraction. That was it. He would not pursue anything with the poor girl. She had enough on her plate, she didn’t need some old pervert taking advantage of her sadness, of her vulnerability and dependency. It was wrong. Plain and simple. Wrong.

He forced her out of his mind as he picked up the superglue again and started fixing what Robert Palmer had broken.

11:36

It took him longer to put the ashtray back together than anticipated, figuring out where the pieces went, the glue getting on his fingers, his exasperation and annoyance causing him to stop and take a breath whenever it wasn’t going his way.

But he was finally done, giving the stupid goddamn object the cold shoulder as he settled into a new cigar and sat down on one of the barstools that lined the island.

He hadn’t heard a peep from her the entire time, the sound of the TV muffled by the thick walls. The only reason he could hear it in the first place was because the door was wide open, her refusing to shut it. He supposed he should go and check on her, ask her if she wanted another drink, tell her that he’d fixed it so she should kindly fuck off while she waited for it to dry. Be a gracious host. He knew he was being irrationally abrasive but his mood was particularly off today, a combination of anger, sexual depravation and self-disgust fueling his saturine state.

Years ago, he would’ve settled it with a drink but he didn’t do that anymore. Quite frankly, he didn’t want to do that anymore. Another option he couldn’t pursue was sex. He could try. There was no lack of women out there but none of them appealed. Only one did and unfortunately, it was too inappropriate to even imagine a situation in which it would work.

It would be nice if he was mean enough to fuck her and leave her to the dust but he was not that guy anymore. Even if he was, not even the worst of men would think to leave her. She was fucking perfect.

He placed the cigar in his ashtray, standing up tall and deciding to bite the bullet and engage in small talk until he ushered her out of the house and could feel fresh oxygen enter his lungs once again. The sound of the TV was faint, growing as he got closer to the living room door.

“Hey, kid it’s-.” He stopped when he passed the threshold, eyes landing on her, asleep, on his couch. Soft breaths bordering on snores passed her lips, her head resting uncomfortably on her shoulder, neck at the wrong angle. A few strands of hair were in her eyes, her chest rising and falling with her breaths.

It was not helping his situation. Not one bit.

However, he found himself softening at the sight, his previous irritation dissipating - diffusing into the air and becoming lost.

He tucked his glasses into the neck of his shirt, letting them hang there as he gazed at her. Truthfully, she looked exhausted the moment he’d seen her. No amount of makeup could expel the fatigue etched into her features and he most certainly didn’t study her sleep schedule but he knew as soon as she got home, she went to bed to sleep off her shift. Friday morning he had called her up over an hour after the fact, hoping she wouldn’t answer - for her sake - but she’d picked up the phone, clearly, not asleep. He worried about her, hoping that she at least got a couple of hours.

From her clear weariness, she had not caught up on her sleep. So, he would let her rest. On his couch. Under his…watchful gaze.

The TV was shut off with a press of the remote, her bag moved from under her feet and onto the armchair off to the right. He took her empty glass from the coffee table, smiling at the coaster under it and traipsing into the kitchen to put it in the dishwasher. He hastily made his way back to the living room to make her more comfortable.

There was something so intimate about watching her sleep, seeing her in her most vulnerable state. There had been times in the truck when he thought she had been asleep, only to find out she had been drifting in and out of inertia, still aware of her surroundings but blissfully ignorant as to the happenings. Now, however, as he gazed at her, she was well and truly asleep. And, God if she didn’t look perfect.

When her eyes were shut, there was no sadness to penetrate his soul, making him just as despondent as she. There was no furrow to her brow, no constant state of stress on her face. Just calm. It made him calm too.

With that calm, came clouded judgement, no rectitude to make him believe he was a bad person for even thinking such things. He reached out a hand to her, thumb experimentally hovering over her cheekbone as he brushed her jaw with his palm. She didn’t stir. He seized the opportunity and covered the left side of her face with his hand.

To take her away. To shield her from the world. In this moment, he’d do anything she asked. He’d take her back to Vail if she let him, he’d sedate Robert by handing him a healthy sum, bundle her up into his truck and drive her far away. His stomach was growing hot as he ran his thumb over and over her cheekbone, mesmerised by her sleeping face, enamoured with the softness of her skin - the warmth of her cheek.

He stilled as she unconsciously nuzzled into his palm, her mouth closing and sighing through her nose. With a swallow, he peeled away the hair that covered the right side of her face, brushing it from her eyes and letting it settle behind her ear. She began shifting, her body aware of his touch but her brain unaware. At her movement, he snatched his hand back, breathing out and looking away.

Running his thumb and index finger over his moustache, he stole another look, her body still again and her breaths soft through her nose. She looked so uncomfortable with her neck on her shoulder that the urge to run was overpowered by the desire to make sure she slept well. It must be difficult to get a good night's sleep in that house - always on edge, listening for the sound of the front door, and footsteps on wood.

With hesitation, he leaned down to grab her calves, hands wrapping around the smooth skin and lifting. He checked once to make sure she was still soundly asleep and with the confirmation she would not be waking up, placed her legs down on the couch, her body slanting awkwardly to the side. He took care of that afterwards, arranging the pillows and guiding her head down onto them.

He dusted his hands off once he was done, standing up tall and scanning the room for a blanket. Pinpointing the one on the back of the chair, he plucked it from its resting place and unfolded it, draping it over her.

He stayed hovering over her for a while, watching the rise and fall of her chest, her hair splayed out beneath her and his hand was twitching at his side - wanting and needing. He’d got a taste for what her skin felt like against his palm, her hair beneath his fingers and his body screamed for that sensation back.

It was biting at him, begging him to reach out again, to feel her beneath him.

It didn’t seem so bad when she was asleep. He didn’t have her judgement, her rejection of him and his knuckles were stroking at her temples before he could think twice about his decision.

He was weak and he knew it. In every other aspect, he was secure. He was secure in his life, in his mind. He was figuring all his goddamn shit out but she had been sent to him. Someone had challenged him. She was no longer his vocation, she was an obstacle - an obstacle that he would either jump over without difficulty or would fall into and break his neck. As his knuckles brushed over her skin, her hair tickling him as he skimmed over it, he knew he was already falling into the hurdle. He had jumped too early. He would not land.

“Mhm.” She shifted under his touch, groaning as her eyes fluttered open. His heart hurtled to his throat and stopped beating there, his hand stopping its movement and staying stubbornly against her. “James?”

She grumbled his name sleepily and shame washed through him at the reaction his body granted him. He cleared his throat in an attempt to rid of the discomfort, gazing down at her. She was barely awake, her eyes half-open, disoriented and struggling to stay up.

“Go back to sleep, Angel.”

It seemed a fitting nickname, something he had thought about calling her before but deemed it too personal, too romantic to use on a twenty-two-year-old girl. She was an angel though, and he was fallen. If he continued, he’d drag her down with him. He’d ruin her.

And with a small, muttered “okay” from her, he removed his hand, his skin burning with the feel of her, the softness of her skin branded into him for eternity. She fell back to sleep quickly after his permission and his stomach roiled in mortification. He’d let himself slip. And she’d caught him.

He had no idea if she’d remember the interaction when she woke up, but he hoped, as he exited the living room and closed the door behind him, that she would have no recollection.

He returned to his cigar, letting the familiar taste fill his mouth and calm him just slightly. If he was younger, if she was older, he would’ve fucked her by now. But, alas, she was not. The harsh reality was that it was inappropriate and wildly immoral. He had said to himself when he got the divorce that young girls were off the table. He’d always frowned upon such relationships, an old man freshly free of his “dried up” wife preying on young girls; it disgusted him. And he was doing exactly what he was repulsed by.

After everything she had gone through, everything she had seen, had been subjected to, it was not fair to manipulate her into some strange and unethical relationship that would not work after two months of trying.

But he’d touched her, he’d felt her. Her warmth. Her soft skin. Everything from her head to her toes he was entirely infatuated with. Not only that, but she sang and she played guitar and she had the music taste of an old woman his age but it only added to the attraction. She worked hard, she was beautiful and she was her. Heather. Even her name was pretty. And he was slipping. Someone had poured liquid soap on the floor, lathering it until it was impossible to walk on without falling flat on your face. He had challenged it, thinking that he was better than the contenders before him but was rudely awakened as he slipped and smacked his nose on the ground.

He had slipped and he would continue to.

The devil on his shoulder was overpowering the angel with a harsh thwack to the face, beating it until it was a bloody pulp on the sidewalk.

⋆ ★

A/N: god, this was difficult to write and i'm still not entirely happy with it. writing from james' pov is really hard, especially for a full chapter. but the slow burn is starting to burn.

i promised there'd be some action this chapter. i just appreciate accuracy and you all know james would not jump into a relationship with someone as young as heather straight away.

also, i only went over this once so if there are any typos or sentences that don't make sense, please please don't be afraid to tell me. unless you write you won't understand the absolute mortification upon reading over something you wrote months ago and finding typos. i'd be forever grateful if you sent me what you found :))

alana.

#i loved reading james’ pov #him literally being a wreck over wanting her is everything #like YES the tension the drama #also my blog is just becoming a barefoot haven #i’m so inactive until a new chapter is posted and i’m like #oop REBLOG #ugh i love this #james hetfield #metallica #fic rec

113 notes · View notes

briyourmotherdown · 1 year ago

Text

i’m completely blown away with each new chapter. i haven’t been reading all too much recently because i’ve been kinda down but i always come back for this. jesus, this whole chapter was just,,,,incredible. the part where heather is describing the things she doesn’t like about herself are literally my physical appearance to a tee i was genuinely shook and i cried because that’s exactly how i feel JDJSJFJJDDKKF. not the mention the little joni mitchell reference? fuck, man. fuck.

𝙱.𝙰.𝚁.𝙴.𝙵.𝙾.𝙾.𝚃

⋆ ★ 𝙹𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝙷𝚎𝚝𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍

" 𝚘𝚑, 𝚒 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚛𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚔𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚗 " ⋆ ★

part four of multiple

𝙱.𝙰.𝚁.𝙴.𝙵.𝙾.𝙾.𝚃 • 𝙲.𝙾.𝙽.𝚃.𝙴.𝙽.𝚃.𝚂

⋆ ★ warnings: depictions of abuse, mentions of death, suicidal thoughts

⋆ ★ word count: 5.9k

the contents of this story will not be for everyone. if you aren't comfortable with unethical and/or age-gap relationships, then do not read.

»»———-　story by 30-3am　———-««

Chapter Four - The Wrath Of Man

06:37, 25th June

Downey, CA

James weaved himself into her routine like ivy growing between trestles, growing in fairness every time she clambered up into the passenger seat of his truck. He adorned a smile, sometimes with his cowboy hat, sometimes without, but always - morning or evening - with a cigar between his lips. The scent permeated through the cab, sinking into the seats and making a slow crawl towards Heather. Much like he, the cigar smoke consumed her. So much so, that on Wednesday night, Brittany had grabbed her by the collar, pulled Heather towards her and sniffed. Her face had curled into confusion, eyebrows furrowing as she let her friend go.

“You been smokin’ cigars?” She’d asked incredulously, scoffing in disbelief at the notion the woman in front of her was smoking stogies.

“No…” Heather had tried to contain her smile, giddy as she realised she spent so much time with James that she even started to smell like him. The crush was juvenile, something that had been developing since she set eyes on him. She denied that it was anything more than attraction, knowing that nothing would come of it if she attempted to make a pass at him. James was a respectable man. She was a kid, an overwhelming thirty-six years younger and she tried not to let her thoughts run too unorthodox in fear that her feelings would deepen and she’d find herself in a situation nobody was too fond of.

Cigar smoke was a smell she had come to love - the sweet aroma of tobacco and leather steadily turning into a comfort. It was so similar but so vastly different from the harsh combination of stale smoke and perilous chemicals that were the Camel Reds her daddy smoked.

It wasn’t just the cigars he smoked that were becoming her solace - it was everything about him. The warmth that settled in her stomach and spread throughout her body every time she spoke to him, the smile he pulled from her that had long been lost somewhere deep in the back of her throat. He helped her settle, singlehandedly stopping the shake of her hands and the loss of breath that caused panic to shower over her; he made her feel.

His stupid jokes made her laugh, his kindness bringing her to the brink of tears. He was a presence lathered in a sheen of calm, always granting her more than she thought she deserved. To be around him was to feel liberated - with the window down, Joni Mitchell (he had brought her two of her albums ever since she professed her love for the artist) spilling from the speakers, the sun rising in the east and crawling its way to connect in holy matrimony with the sky, she was liberated. She was calm.

It was a Friday morning, the weekend closing in on them and with every passing car and every turn of the wheel, she prayed that the journey would take just a minute longer. Sixty seconds more of undisturbed bliss was all she needed.

However, the steady roll of the car was slowing near her driveway and her closed eyes, opened in annoyance that her peace, her sample of heaven, was slowly slipping from her fingers.

Heather rubbed at her eyes, sitting up straight in her seat as James took a left and drove into the drive, gripping his cigar with his teeth.

She almost didn’t see him, shadowed by the porch and swinging absent-mindedly in her porch swing but the scent of Camel Reds entered her nose through the open window and a fear so striking that she thought she would’ve died from shock right there, travelled through her body and she couldn’t miss him. Her whole body tightened, the lethargy she had been experiencing from a long shift and the morning heat shedding off her skin and falling to the floor in a disused heap.

James saw him too; he stiffened in his seat.

Tears threatened her, the lump in her throat large and intimidating. Admittedly, she had been lucky to get this far without him noticing - had forgotten that there was a huge possibility that he could find out exactly what she had been up to. She had been lucky the Sunday he dropped her off that her dad had been only just waking; it was bad enough she was taking advantage of James’ kindness for something constructive like work, but when she was doing nothing but entertaining herself, there was no defence. He would rip into her like a bear devouring fresh meat, stealing her organs and dashing the entrails on the walls.

Heather didn’t want to get out of the car. She couldn’t will herself to move from the seat, her bare legs sticking to the leather and her eyes fixated entirely on his figure. He grew as she shrunk, towering over her like a predator and forcing her body to become immobile with shock.

“Hey,” James gained her attention, her eyes flicking from the porch to blue. As soon as she stepped from the vehicle she would be shunted from warmth and into the unforgivingness of a winter chill. “You call me if you need anything, okay, kid?”

She nodded, her stomach flipping in anxiety. Her concern must’ve been evident on her face because his body screamed out in pity, his eyes scanning over her and silently offering his condolences. Her hands were twitching towards his, begging him with every ounce of herself for him to not leave her alone.

Stay. Stay with me.

He remained in his seat, only offering her the comfort of his sympathy.

“Yeah…” She cleared her throat upon realising how quiet she sounded. “Yeah, I will.”

Picking up her backpack, her body regained its movement and shock turned into dread. Her ears rang as she popped the door open, her legs shaking as she stepped out of the passenger side and closed the door behind her. She had to retry and close it a second time after her weak arms were not strong enough to make it click shut.

“See you tonight, sweetheart,” James said through the open window. She didn’t have the heart nor the strength to tell him that that would not be the case, that he would be lucky if he ever saw her again after the berating that would soon befall her.

“Yeah.” She nodded, unable to think of any other words to express her emotions.

She was terrified. Plainly and simply frightened of what would occur when she faced him. She could feel his eyes, glowing under the shadow of the porch, staring at her with venom. His hatred burned through her skin and scarred underneath it.

The truck was still humming gently in the driveway, a beacon of safety that she was forced from - into danger.

Rob flicked the cigarette onto the porch, putting it out with his foot. She would pick it up for him later.

A smile was sent her way, toothy and big that garnered an underlying menace imperceptible to anyone but her. Then, he waved to James, advancing towards his truck - her safety. The porch creaked with each of his steps and he pushed his way into the light.

“Go inside, Hattie.” She nodded, knowing better than to argue. Compliance was key. Compliance was how she had managed to survive as long as she had. She briefly heard him greet James as she pushed the door open. It was cold in the house, the living room dowsed in a yellow glow from the coming sun. He had not opened the drapes yet and it was characteristically dark, dust particles swimming in the little light provided by the cracks in the stained curtains.

Poker chips littered the coffee table, cards filling the spaces between. Empty beer bottles with the labels peeled off and whiskey glasses empty of cheap liquor sat at the same table and there was a strong scent of cigars in the air. Not James’ cigars. Not the solace of his leather and wood but instead, burnt ammonia. The cigars of a poor man who craved the image of opulence.

“We left the bar early to play poker.” She jumped at the sound of his voice, grabbing the straps of her bag and breathing in the harshness of his fresh cigarette. “Called James to see if he wanted to come over but he didn’t answer.”

Her eyes were fixated on the shadow of a cross above the mantlepiece. He had taken it down. He had taken her hope - her God.

“That’s a-.” Heather cleared her throat, slowly turning in her preferred spot on the floor, her shoes squeaking against the wood. “That’s a shame.”

Robert sighed, his head hanging low as he shook it and brought the cigarette to his lips. She tried breathing the smoke in, wanting the sedation of nicotine to stop her shaking and to make her not as afraid as she was.

“Was a real shame.” He stalked across the room, his boots clanging loudly against the floor. When she was younger, she had studied the sound and revised it until she knew his walking pattern for every occasion: when he was drunk, when he was sober, and when he was angry. It was a sound she grew accustomed to - a sound that when it reached her ears, she tried desperately to avoid the creator of such noise.

Sometimes, she couldn’t avoid him. Those were the bad days.

“Sit down, Hattie.” She hated that goddamn nickname. It made her seeth with anger and brought her to a level she never dared cross. If she did she would be dead before her twenty-third birthday. So, she obeyed, forcing her shaky legs over to her armchair and peeling her bag from her back, placing it next to the furniture before sitting down atop the cushions.

He sniffed as he paced the length of the living room, taking long drags between scoffs of disbelief. The anger emanated from him in harsh waves, rolling through the house and shaking it until the ceiling cracked and caved in on her.

“You’re twenty-one and I’m still fucking telling you how to behave.” Each word was punctuated - each letter stabbing her in the chest with shame and disappointment and fear.

“I’m twenty-two,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she spoke, cracks that she knew he would relish in. What was man’s purpose if not to assert and instil fear?

“I don’t fucking care, Heather!” She flinched as he shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls and repeating in her head.

“Daddy, I’m sorry I-.” “Shut the fuck up.”

She sunk into her seat, trying to regulate her breathing as he glared right at her. Eye contact was unfathomable and she averted her gaze to the floor, pushing her hands into her thighs to stop her leg from jumping up and down anxiously.

“I told you…” He breathed in sharply, needing a moment to control himself. “I told you to stay away from him.”

He stopped his pacing near the front door, shaking his head and bringing the cigarette to his lips again.

“Why can’t you just listen?” He muttered, more so to himself.

Silence covered them like snow covered the plains, leaving Heather with nothing but the ringing in her ears and the harsh beating of her heart. With a swallow to soften the dryness in her throat, she found her voice, trying to reason with him to keep the wild animal locked tight within. When it broke out was when she was truly in danger.

“I’m sorry but he offered to drive me to work. I- I promise I said no but he insisted.” There was a pause as he processed her words, his brain working to find the right response.

“He insisted?” He scoffed, boots loud with each step he got closer. “I don’t fucking care if he insisted, Heather!” Closer and closer until he was standing in front of the coffee table, his right hand reaching for a beer bottle and slinging it at the wall. It shattered and fell to the floor, breaking with its death and loss of stability. Another thing Robert Palmer managed to shatter and crumble until it was nothing but dust settling on the windowsill.

Suddenly, his finger was in her face, his whole body looming over her as he rested his left hand on the arm of her seat. The smoke filled her nose and she glanced at the cigarette threatening to burn into the chair and kill them both.

“I don’t fucking care if he threatened to fucking kill you.” Spit landed on her face, her nose wrinkling at the sensation and the overwhelming scent of whiskey and Camels that danced along his body. “I told you.” The heat from his body curled into her, searing off her skin until it melted off her and left only bone and a broken soul.

The finger pushed into her chest, her whole body recoiling in protest. Just be good. Be good and he’ll go away.

“I’m not letting you fuck him over like you did the last one!” Swallowing away the lump in her throat, she attempted to breathe normally, to not display the hatred crawling through her flesh and be good. Be scared and be complaisant. “You be a whore with whoever else you want but not my friends you fucking understand me?”

Words refused to form, her whole body locked in defence. Her body garnered the opinion that if she played dead he might go away. But she knew he was aware of her mortality and wanted to keep her alive as long as possible so he did not have to find another weak soul to torment. Heather knew, if she were to die, it would not be sudden. He would torture her until she was begging to be taken to the Lord, to face his judgement and inevitably be placed into the hands of the Devil.

“Answer me.” The two words were not shouted, they were said concerningly quietly. The calm before the storm raged and hurt.

“He was just taking me to work.” Someone had granted her some bravery and she thanked whoever it was. Perhaps God, perhaps her mother and perhaps James. She would express her gratitude in her prayers. “I promise, Daddy, nothing is gonna happen.”

Crazed fury flashed beneath his eyes and seeped onto his features; his lip curled, his nose turned up at her in disgust and a vein popped out of his forehead. The finger in her chest loosened in disbelief and as he straightened up, she could see clearly the cage was cracked and she had no way of keeping the beast inside it.

“You’re a fuckin, whore.” He clenched his jaw hard enough to crack teeth and turned away from her with such disgust - like she was too ugly to even look at. He took a final drag of the cigarette, ash dropping to his feet and he pushed it into the ashtray sitting in the middle of the table. “Why…why are you always trying to get involved in my business?” The question was deemed rhetorical as he picked up the ashtray, one that they had had since she was little, the white ceramic not even recognisable as its original colour from constant use. Her mother had used it, she used it, her dad used it. It was the one thing that brought them together and now, it was in his rage-filled hands, impending danger washing over the poor object.

She wanted to scream in protest as he flung it at the wall, cigarette butts raining down on the rug and ceramic shattering in large chunks next to them. Silent submission was all she could muster, her hands too shaky to even attempt to brush away the singular tear that slipped down her cheek.

“I swear to God, Heather.” He took two long strides to the door, keys jangling as he pulled them from the bowl on the side table that nestled next to the entrance of her home. God, please make him leave. “I’m fucking sick of seeing your face. You’re just like your mother.” He stuffed his cigarettes into his pocket, picked up his lighter and tried to repeat his previous actions. When he was unsuccessful in his attempts to safely secure it and the lighter fell to the floor he screamed expletives, pushing the side table over, keys spilling out onto the floor. It hit the ground with a loud thump, the banging turning to stillness as he stopped moving.

Heather was silent, staying seated and not daring to move. She stifled a sob, afraid that any movement would provoke him. It even felt wrong to breathe.

There was a moment of calm as he stood there, eyes fixated on the mess he’d made. Then he uttered his version of goodbye, not bothering to pick up his lighter.

“Clean up.” The door opened and then slammed shut in one swift movement.

Heather sat there for a while, silent tears streaming down her face as she let the fear subside and transform into misery. When, she let out the first sob, her whole body broke down. Her hands covered her eyes, her body convulsing with sobs and tears stained her uniform. She cried until she felt sick, her chest aching and her head throbbing with the force of her sorrow

Why did he have to do this? Why did have to persist in ruining every good thing she had? He had ruined her mother, had forced her to a point that Heather felt looming over her in a grey raincloud that threatened to break and emit acid. However, God said it was wrong to fall off that ledge and it was the only thing keeping her alive. He had taken away her chance of knowing the love of a good father. He was now taking away the only glimmer of hope she had encountered since Mama died. It pained her. It left her body writhing in a heap on the floor with no one to stop the shake.

“Fuck.” She muttered to herself, her voice wobbling as she brushed her tears away and took a deep breath. It would be wise to start cleaning. There was no way of telling when he would be back and his wrath would return if the place was not put back together.

With a sniff, she stood, grabbing onto the back of the chair to stabilise herself as a wave of vertigo washed over her. When it passed, she took a singular step into the mess, broken glass littering the floor and glimmering with the sun. Tears filled her eyes again when she saw the chunks of ceramic on the floor.

Her mother had brought that ashtray. She had replaced it when her father broke the old one in a fit of rage not dissimilar to the one Heather just experienced.

Young Heather had been sitting next to her father on the couch when she brought it to its residence. It was a Sunday but Heather had been too sick to go to church so decided to watch TV with her dad instead. Mama had walked through the door an hour after service had ended and banged the ashtray down on the table. Heather had jumped and shuffled a little further away from Robert when he glared at his wife.

“Don’t break that one.” Andrea Palmer would never have spoken to her husband in such a way a few years later, his anger and power forcing her to be silent.

“Yeah, whatever.” He was a known liar. It was ignorant to believe that he was being honest. “Move outta the way I’m tryna watch the TV.”

That ashtray had remained with them when she was alive and when she died, succumbing to the passage of time.

He had burned everything Andrea owned when she was gone, had sent all of her clothes to Goodwill and called her a selfish bitch as he banished her from the Palmer household. It was either laziness or sentimentality that he had not removed the ashtray at the time. It was more than likely the former.

So, Heather had clutched onto it with an iron fist, the memory of her mother alight every time she stubbed out her Marlboros. Now, it was gone. Nothing but another thing to throw away.

She decided to leave it until all the glass was safely in the trash, the threat of breaking her skin a more sensible concern.

She didn’t know how long it took her to clean up but tears blurred her vision as she swept up the glass and picked up the side table. Her heart ached painfully in her chest as she put all the keys back in the bowl that had miraculously not broken and she placed the pieces of ashtray carefully in her palm. There was a small part of her that hoped she could salvage it and if it could not be put back together, she would keep it close as a reminder of her aspirations; the promise she had made to her mother exactly three days before she passed.

Once the house was presentable again, exhaustion set in. Her tears had left nausea swilling around in her gut, her head banging against her skull and her eyes heavy and threatening to close. She retired to her room, not wanting her father to find her asleep on his couch when he inevitably returned. Pressing kissed fingers to the picture of her mom, placing the broken ashtray next to her and with a sorry to God, she curled up atop the covers, her eyes filling with unwanted tears again.

She wanted to put on her music but was too afraid of the consequences to move, she wanted to play guitar but her hands were too shaky to press the strings and she wanted to sing but found she had no voice. He had ripped it from her, just like he ripped everything else.

As she stumbled into sleep, her body drifting away from the plane of reality, the buzzing of her phone in her uniform pocket jolted her upright; her head thrummed with the sudden movement.

If she wasn’t such a people pleaser, she would’ve ignored whoever wanted her attention but she didn’t enjoy any possibility of not answering. It could’ve been Brittany, begging for help because she was out of money again and couldn’t pay her bills, it could’ve been her dad barking instructions at her that, if disregarded, would result in his rage-filled fist coming down in a harsh thwack to her ambition. She pulled the phone from her pocket, an old thing that was scratched and died even when fully charged, and read the name.

James.

Oh, James.

“You call me if you need anything, okay, kid?” She had not called so he had come to her. His concern brought tears to her eyes which she quickly swallowed down, determined to not make him suspicious of her situation. He could not know. He would never know. Heather was already acutely aware of his pity, of his perception that she was weak. It stung that he saw her as a scared child, inconsolable as she cried in the corner and begged for help.

Heather answered the call with a shaky finger, sitting up and hugging her knees to her chest as she brought the phone to her ear.

“Hey, kid.” She stifled a sob with her hand, pulling the phone from her ear as she breathed heavily. She wanted to be held, she wanted someone to pull her close and whisper comforts she did not believe in. She wanted to feel the warmth of another human, to hear their heart beat in their chest and their support heal her woes. She had been alone for so long, but he was there and he was whole and she needed his consolation more than she needed to breathe.

“Hi.” She said simply as she sniffed, phone back to her ear so she could hear his steady breathing, the deep solace of his voice.

“You okay?” There was shuffling on the other end, a door slamming and keys rustling. She checked the time. It was almost eight o’clock.

“Yeah…yeah I’m good.” Trying to disguise the shake in her voice was unmanageable and his consolidation of his previous question made her know he didn’t believe her.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” It was easier to lie. Always was and she decided to repent for her deceit when she was on her deathbed. Hopefully, God, in all his omnibenevolence, would forgive her.

“Good.” He didn’t sound entirely convinced but he also didn’t push and she was grateful for it. “Just wanted to check.”

Thank you, she wanted to say but found that the words were stuck in her throat and she couldn’t force them out.

The phone was growing hot against the skin of her ear, her chin coming to rest on her knees and her head lolling to the side in fatigue. She was truly exhausted and as she looked in the mirror, her fatigue was evident on her face. It made her look all that uglier, the bags under her eyes dark, her sclera red and her cheeks swollen. Heather had never thought she was pretty. The colour of her hair and eyes were simultaneously boring and indistinctive, the same colour that the majority of the population held. Her nose had always been too big; as soon as she turned to the side the arch was visible and repulsive. Her eyebrows were too thin, her cheekbones not defined enough and the baby fat had still not managed to make its way off her face. Every time she smiled, she refused to show her teeth, too aware of what it felt like to smile when she was younger and be laughed at by the children who didn’t understand the perils of having crooked teeth. They were fixed now but the scars were still there. Truthfully, she was disgusted by herself.

She looked too much like her father to even entertain the idea that she was attractive.

Even as her eyes travelled down her body, she found that she liked nothing she saw. Her breasts had stayed the same size since she was fourteen, her thighs touched when she stood straight and there was a dip in her hips that had caused tears to fall from her eyes when she was twelve and realised they were there. She was ugly. Plainly and simply unattractive. No matter how many times Brittany told her she looked good, no matter how many times her mother had dressed her in her Sunday best and told her what a gorgeous girl she would become, there was always something telling her that they were liars.

“Well, I’ll see you later then?” James snapped her back, her eyes flicking from the godforsaken mirror that had been crushing her security since she was old enough to know what was desired and expected of her.

“Um…” She couldn’t. She shouldn’t. If he found out again, his wrath would rain down on her harder than when God sent the flood to earth. “I can walk today.”

Heather tried to keep her voice as light as possible as she picked at a scab on her shin, her head spinning and the room rotating with it. She wanted to sleep. She wanted her haven back. It was no longer the porch, it was his Ford, with the dodgy stereo and the scent of cigars. It was him when he let her rest her eyes, let her pick the music and displayed insurmountable kindness - the sort of kindness she had not experienced for as long as she had resided. He stopped her from feeling sad. She was always fucking sad and he was the only relief from that sadness she had ever been granted. Now, it was gone. Daddy had stolen it from her like Daddy had stolen everything else.

Thou shalt not steal. Thief. Sinner.

She wished to see him through the lens of youth, where she did not understand his drinking was more than recreation, when she did not understand why he treated Mama so harshly, when she still believed that he was good however much he persisted in showing he was not.

More than anything, she wanted a father.

“You sure?” That was the second time he had to consolidate and she hadn’t realised just how difficult it was to lie to him. She had never been very good at lying in the first place. She blamed God and her insistence to be holy for that.

“Yeah, I promise it’s okay.” It wasn’t. Every good thing she had was cramped into that truck but the sides were cracking and it all spilt out onto the floor until she had nothing left.

“Alright.” Part of her wanted him to beg for her, to confirm that her company was just as important to him as his was to her. But, however harsh the realisation was, however much it stung her to believe it, he did not see her as she saw him. He was her light, her beacon, the star that guided the three wise men to Jesus. Without him, it was like navigating the depths of a cave without a flashlight. She would inevitably become lost. The worst of it all was that he had only been around for a little over a week. How pathetic, to depend upon the first person who gave her even the smallest amount of attention. “Call me if you wanna be picked up, though. I’m always free.” She could sense his smile through the phone, the obligatory pity-filled smile that always seemed to make its way to her and her only.

“Yeah, okay. Thank you, James.”

“No problem.”

Heather gazed at the broken pieces of the ashtray on top of her drawers, then flicked her attention to the picture frame next to it. She supposed she had the same eyes as her mother, perpetual sadness filling them even in times of merriment and she did not remember the picture of her and Andrea ever being taken but oh, how she cherished it. Every morsel of Mama she found was better than finding the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. She had found that picture piled on top of all the other stuff friends had helped Dad accumulate in his time of grief. They did not know that their kindness was used in vain as when they left, all their hard work was destroyed or lost forever.

Robert had told Heather what he planned to do with her mother’s belongings and so, in the dead of night, the stuffed pink rabbit that still lay on her bed even now clutched to her chest and feet as light as possible on the floor, she snuck into Mama and Daddy’s room and snatched the picture. Her dad did not even recognise that the object was missing when he woke, hungover, the next morning.

There was silence over the phone that gradually started to become more awkward than she could bear and she kept her eyes firmly on her mother, the words they shared during her last days ringing in her ears.

“Be good for your father.”

“Look after him.”

“Look after yourself.”

“Say your prayers for me.”

“I’ll be proud of you no matter what.”

No matter what. Even if Heather broke the first two promises she had made, her mother would be proud.

Heather’s gaze burned into the picture, then into the ashtray, the silence building and building until it felt as if it was never-ending.

“Look after yourself.”

This was her looking after herself. To be with James was to be happy,

“Do you have any superglue?” It was a start.

“Superglue?”

Heather cleared her throat, pushing backwards until her head rested against the headboard of her bed and her back relaxed from being hunched over her knees for so long.

“Yeah.” The skirt of her dress inched down her thighs, nestling around her hips as she angled herself downward on the bed. She stared at the paleness, her legs not the colour of a woman who lived in California. She mapped the moles and freckles dotted across the skin and peeled her eyes away at the lack of a gap between her thighs. She pushed her feet further apart to create the illusion that she had what she desired. “I dropped the ashtray while I was trying to empty it and it’s ceramic and kinda broke in chunks, you know? I think it’s salvageable but I don’t have any glue to fix it with.”

She was almost certain that if she ventured out into the overgrown jungle that was the backyard and cracked open her dad’s old shed with the paint chipping off it and the hinges rusting, she would find what she was looking for. But she decided that was best not to mention and waited patiently for his reply.

“Uh…” He trailed off and there was shuffling from his end and the roll of a drawer as he opened it. He decided on his answer a second later. “Yeah…yeah, I think I do.” The drawer closed shut with a snap, the objects inside it rustling in annoyance. “You can come round now and I’ll fix it for you or just call me some other day and we can get it sorted.”

Her head begged her to take him up on the first offer, the prospect of seeing him so soon after leaving him, was too exciting to comprehend. But her body screamed out in exhaustion, every limb feeling heavy, every joint aching with toil and hardship. Besides, it would be nice to have something to look forward to when she woke up, something to keep her going through the working night and mundanity of the day.

“I’m kinda tired right now,” she lamented, ironically stifling a yawn. “But I can come round on Sunday when I’m not at work.”

It was Friday and she needed a day to prepare. Running her hands over her legs, hair prickled her palms so she would need to shave; another hand through the hair on her head and she was met with grease so she would need to wash it. Anything to impress the man. Even if she would not be in his truck, she would be with him. That counted for something.

“Fine by me, kid.” Despite herself, she cracked a small smile, her teeth veiled by her lips as they flicked upwards. It was a small relief from the intensity of the events that occurred but small victories were still victories. “What time you wanna come round?”

“Eleven?” She asked cautiously, a question with no right or wrong answer still making her nervous.

“Eleven.” He repeated confidently, soothing her anxiety. “I’ll make sure I’m home.”

As they said their goodbyes, Heather hesitant to put the phone down, she realised that eleven was her time for church, the time when she would wrestle with the Lord and pace outside the building until she couldn’t feel her legs. But, he was gone by the time she had the realisation and this Sunday slowly had become the first Sunday she would not bestow herself unto God. It was also the first time she was looking forward to a Sunday since she still believed in what was not there.

⋆ ★

A/N: i hope you enjoyed!! i pretty much banged this out in two days and i just edited it with two beers in my system at midnight so if there are any mistakes then please tell me.

as i say every time, if you are uncomfortable with any of the subjects mentioned, feel free to message me.

feedback is always appreciated.

alana.

#i’ve cried during every chapter so far #i don’t know how to explain it but this fic is a big hug #it feels like understanding #this is a fic for all the broken girlies with bad fathers #james hetfield #metallica #james hetfield fanfiction #fic rec

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