#I wish i had more pictures but when she was a toddler Nick took care of her all the time

[deathflowersims]

Nick's death is really affecting Blythe, even though he wasn't her bio dad, he definitely play a large role in her life and raising her and is her dad.

(the last pick is from my attempted funeral but it was more a party sims 4 Life and Death did ate with the funerals)

[warningimmental]

You made your choice. It's not to be a mother so....... Congratulations you're free!!!. Your Wish came true.

Yes this is public so people can see.#TRUTH

***See below as im not repeating again and again.***

My side of life.

P.s

Yeah I'll be fine. I always am in the end.

( Heres what needs to be said and has been said so not to repeat myself. From in PMs )

Sad thing is she knows ill forgive her just like I forgave dad and EVERYONE and EVERYTHING else. I care so no one else has to. I'm the one who picked up the pieces of everything but was tormented daily. She wonders why I was the way I was it was due to parenting and fobbing me off to anyone who would take me.

Anne and Bob should of kept me. They couldn't have kids they could of had me though. (neighbours I adopted as grandparents no blood but love ) My father was a shit most of my life my mother was everyones mother bar mine. They kept me quite with gadgets and as long as I went to school fed and watered job done.

Favourite quote was "it's your fault" and dads was "your making me ill"

Christ for someone who knows everyone elses business she never saw what was happening to her own daughter.

29 years im done. Sick of being a leighton.

I said Stockholm syndrome I loved my captives just happened to be the people I called mum and dad....

I still love them both but what I was "known as normal" was not remotely normal.

Eg. I was appendicitis and born 8 months in mum had no clue and I was "hiding" behind her ribs. It's medically impossible.

Not to mention lived in New York every other year from age of 6 months till I was 13. Dad would take me over and over and over mum came ONCE for my 13th.

I have no memories of New York. It's kind of a huge thing and place to have been wiped out of a memory.

Now im clear-minded im having pseudoseizures because my subconscious doesn't want me to remember what happened.

What mother would let a new born or toddler a child that can't speak fly to the other side of the world to only be with men. My dad and my fucked up uncle who sends stuff to "favourite" niece

I've tried so hard to get better and it's not even my family who acknowledged it.

There's so much you don't know.

She used to have me go in the house before her in case dad had killed himself so id find him first from the ages of 7 onwards. When dad past I went behind the curtain first. So I kept the is see him first. On 29th April 2018

I was always on eggshells she would say people die of lack of breath so EVERY NIGHT id check on mum and dad every hour. She would hold her breath to screw with me. Then say im not dead go to bed.

The house was toxic. For once in my life im actually sane.

She is not who you think she is.

If I've lost my mind it's because my environment sucked. I'm finally out. Sober can think clear and don't harm because I don't have to deal with the toxicity that I dealt with ALL my life.

If I told you everything you wouldn't believe me. Which is fine know one does because but it's true.

Always ask why or what causes someone to go off the rails and self destruct. I never felt safe, I was always told I was a mistake and everything was my fault. As long as I kept the family secrets mum was happy.

Dad was toxic. Mum the same. She wants drama so I finally said enough.

When I say mum knows everything I mean she saw it all and NEVER had it stop or put me safe. I can finally talk now dad is gone. I could write every TRUTH down and write a book. People would wonder how the hell did this girl cope and live to tell. I lived because I care about everything and everyone else. But im done now.

I doubt you'd believe me if im honest. My inbox is full of people defending her and my dad. If only they knew. its been a long time coming but im finally speaking out.

I know people don't understand but I don't want to burden with it. If You like my mum and dad id rather I let you keep the illusion. I know it's out there now that's enough.

If you want to see my life keep reading otherwise STOP HERE.

I'm fine and im safe finally. I just needed more as a child than fear of what should of been my safe place a home.

I don't want us to be strangers to the people who read this and thin sarahs lost it.

I don't want to cause a riff, I just couldn't not say it finally. Mum says always go to counselling but I couldn't. I couldn't tell anyone the truth about dad or mum. Or the truth on why I had to have a very intrusive operation due to assault by 3 at Halloween party. Mum now knows that. Dad was arrested for hitting the wrong lad. Dad and mum would have gone down for murder if I spoke out.

On the other hand there was also my home life in general. I was made to stay quiet about having a revolving door of strangers. Huge boozy parties after a night out. Mum and me being treat like muck on a shoe.

A abusive uncle who would have me and my cusion be "kissing cusions" .Every night when I was 15 to 26 I drank took sleeping pills and hid away in my room self destructive harm anything so not to deal.

I look like wolferrines attacked me because of the arguments or threats. Mum couldnt leave the house quick enough. I gave up on a career to care for my dad but I was always looked down on.

****** golden girl. left was I was guilt tripped saying "your still dads girl you won't leave me" while dad would cry. Every night.

Mum swears I was an appendicitis 8 months in term. I'd be handed to anyone and everyone. Every year or every other from birth id end up in america. Mum would say her holidays where when me and dad would leave. From 6 months old id always go back and forth to New York. I couldnt talk yet "apparently" begged to go with dad.

Mum would say after blazing rows im leaving.

Then just walk out the door. I was left with a highly angry father and confused were mum had gone and if she would come back for me. I'd stay up all night waiting. I'd hide crying and scream in a pillow so not to be to loud so dad didn't shout.

I was told my face doesn't fit. My nick name was ferret face or panda. I would hurt my self so not to hurt others. I wanted and trained to be a counsellor so one to understand what I did wrong and two and most importantly to be there for the people who needed support.

I went to rehab to be identified when found so my parents wouldn't have to. If it wasn't for craig I doubt if be here.

Craig saved my life. Mum has always put others before me or ignored it so it didn't exist.

Important in here (ears) none important (over your head)

I was terrified everyday of my life. I loved and do love my parents it's just I can't stay quite any longer.

Money or game consoles chocolate sweets where hush money. Dad would buy crates of spirits and beer and supple my / his pills so I was always foggy minded.

I'm finally sober clean and harm free my mind is the most composed it ever been.

No one knows what goes on behind closed doors.

Mum is a star and has a heart of gold to others but from age 7 onwards everyone else came first.

I pride my self on protecting, comforting trying to be there and support everyone, hell even risked my life enough times to save some. because I never had it. No one to fight for me protect me.

I wanted parents love encouragement happy I archived or even tried. But it never came.

Even my graduation was ruined.

I wasn't allowed to get a job they made me be sick and have PTSD mum still to this day loves to make me jump. I have terrifying nightmares.

I'd hear conversations no child should hear because they either didn't notice I was there or care. When ***** killed him self when *** did when dad tried and I was left with a random man being told "your dads took to many sweets"

The same man who later tried it on with me sending dirty pictures or dads other "mates" who would try there luck. I gained a shit ton of weight 21 stone so NO guy would come near me because the strangers who would come to the house used to try and feel me up or perv if door was unlocked as I was a kid.

She saw everything but wouldn't believe it. Or me. I phone our ***** one night years ago because she said I could and she yelled at me because she had work. I was silently screaming for help.

It was only at dads funeral she saw and realised and was so genuinely sorry for not believing me the night I phoned.

I wish every single thing I've said and keep telling was a lie but it's not it's 25/26 years of fear.

I'm 29 now. For the first time in my life im not on eggshells. I have a safe home. I can lock the door and not fear.

I wish these were lies I swear!!!!! I do but there not.

Yet NO ONE will even consider it's the TRUTH.

[oghoneytryst]

missing piece.

request: a sweet encounter between harry and y/n, a foreign and artistic contemporary dancer

or

where harry is in search of a muse and is running out of time

a/n: the only experience I have with dance is doing spotlight for dance shows so I apologize if anything is off. the request included specific characteristics but I wanted to avoid that so that everyone could enjoy, but still made sure y/n was foreign. thanks for reading <3

x the song i used was Talk Me Down by Troye Sivan x

Harry adores the summertime. It is something in the way the insects wander cynically on the victims of fresh and delicate skin; something in the way the schoolchildren skip across the concrete sidewalks with a step in their toes; something in the way the two lovers resting amongst the protruded roots of a healthy tree begin to frolic through the busy streets, hand-in-hand, in spite of London’s scorching heat...

It excites him. It is around this time, surrounded by these elements, where the inspiration stuck inside of his soul is usually eager to spill out, taking on the form of his well-recognized art.

Harry ponders on the leather seats of his luxurious sports car, a teasing sweat trailing down his plain and pricey t-shirt. It has only been a month or so since his legendary world tour came to a close. His friends have been caring enough to remind him that 30 days is not nearly enough time to have completely rested up from the constant months of traveling.

Regardless, he has been incapable of sitting still in the aftermath of the tour.

There has been no progress in his songwriting. Harry fears that he lacks the inspiration that is necessary for his second album, though his caring friends have also mentioned to him that he is in no rush to release anything new. He should not consider himself to be in a frustrating slump, but does so anyway, playing the role of his own worst critic while his mind becomes a rambled mess.

And yet, from Modena to Toronto, there is not a single muse in sight until he watches her move across that stage.

The hours-long program has fascinated Harry thus far.

Toddlers in bright and spiffy tutus have opened the show with their precious prancing across the stage. Harry senses relief in the lighthearted ambience that showers over the audience. He feels happy.

Teenage boys clad in only their nude tights take over mid-show, portraying their own expression of contemporary dance. Harry feels a strange and overwhelming sense of pride take control of him. His green eyes glisten with tears 

She appears during the closing piece of the show, and it is then he realizes that she is who captivates him entirely. She is who radiates brighter than the scorching sun and stands taller than the trunk of the lovers’ tree. It is her it is her it is her! 

His pezzo mancante. His pieza perdida, manke moso, peça faltante — whichever language he chooses to express it in does not matter. It is her who has brought the light back in his eyes and curiosity burns alive in his soul because he needs to know her name. 

“Right, well, I’ve got a cousin from me mum’s side, who’s got a friend, who owns a dance studio in London. She was lovely enough to send me an email about the summer show they’re putting on for today only and she insisted that I attend and bring along a friend.”

Harry leans forward in the driver’s seat to hide behind the steering wheel. This is not the first time that Nick has brought him somewhere without his knowledge of the destination. He only wishes that he could have been given a heads up before driving his car into the crowded parking lot and sticking out like a sore thumb.

“A dance show?” Harry questions, scanning over the creamy exterior of the auditorium.

“You’re going t’need these,” Grimmy advises, reaching into his tote to pull out an overused hat-and-sunglasses disguise. “Don’t want to steal away the attention from all the little girls, eh?”

In another life, Harry is not famous. Harry Styles is not a household name. He does not perform to sold out arenas, nor does he travel across the careless oceans. He does not have the privilege of crossing paths with incredible people and build connections with those who serve a great impact on his heavy heart and teach him many wisely lessons.

He does not do a great many things in another life that is far, far away.

Yet, it is in this one where he has discovered the world and all of its darling beauties. He has marveled at the runways of fashion shows; he has educated himself in abstract art galleries; he has cried during soul-gripping concerts that have taken place in venues he now has the honor of performing in himself.

So why it is that in all of his 24 years of life, he has never once been to a dance show?

‘I want to sleep next to you, but that’s all I wanna do right now...’

Harry recognizes the maturity of this final piece. Its dozen or so dancers are attentive to the cues of their music, long and whimsical skirts swaying with every synchronized movement. There is a range between them—tall to short, slim to plump, nervous to at ease—and he is impressed with how their distinctions complement each other and shape them into a single working entity.

 A minute into the song is when the dancers break away from their collective choreography to perform their own individual dynamics. Harry is awestruck by the mix of arches, lunges, contractions, and so forth. There are no two dancers who replicate the same movements at the same time and yet everything still looks so wonderfully put together.

‘If you don’t mind, I’ll walk that line, stuck in the bridge between us...’

These dancers then disappear in the blink of an eye. There is a gracefulness in the way they storm off behind the curtains, out of sight from the audience, leaving one of their own in the spotlight. 

She who remains is an illustrious fragment who portrays her emotions so elegantly through the flow of her dance. This is the first time that Harry sees her; he decides then that it is his favorite part of the show. 

“Maybe from this you can get the gears in your brain turnin’ again,” Nick tells him from their seats in the back row, waiting patiently for the show to start. “Find your muse or somethin’. Get to creatin’.”

“And if I don’t?” Harry retaliates with a cheeky grin.

“It’s still a lovely show, Harold.”

Harry is so intrigued by this woman. He finds it impossible to tear his eyes away from the stage in fear that he might miss even a second of her poise. The applause that erupts at her frozen, heavy-breathing figure is what escapes him from his trance. The music softly fades away as the auditorium turns to a mystical darkness.

Harry thinks to himself: that was not long enough. He has not satisfied himself enough with her artistry.

 The lights turn on. The audience are settling back into their seats and the stage reveals itself vacant of her presence. Harry begins to shortly panic. He skims through his glossy program to read over the limited information provided about that wonderful piece that he has experienced in this life only.

Talk Me Down – Contemporary Sunday Class, 2 pm with Ms. Y/n

“D’ya think I can meet her?” Harry asks Nick after the final bow with all of the teachers and students. His pale hands have gone red from the applause he has given in support of the lovely lady smiling off to the side. “That girl from the last dance, Ms. Y/n or somethin’ like that.” 

Nick grins knowingly at his friend, settling back into his seat while the rest of the audience shuffles out into the lobby with their colorful bouquets. “I think she’s more of a woman, Harry, but yeah, I’m sure that can be arranged. We’ll just have to wait until it cools down in here.”

15 minutes have never gone by slower. Harry had to force himself to sit impatiently in the backrow, smiling at the people who gave him a nice wave on their way out. He even took pictures with those who were courteous enough to ask.

“Junie! What a lovely show that was,” Nick greets the woman backstage, his cousin’s friend, who quite simply is his friend as well.

“Thank you so much for coming, darling. I hope you two enjoyed yourselves.”

“Absolutely,” Harry says, stretching his arms out to her for a welcoming hug. His vision sneakily wanders around the area, catching sight of wide-eyed, star struck females, yet none of them are her. “I must say, that last piece was absolutely amazing.” 

“Oh!” Junie exclaims, jolting out of Harry’s embrace. “Y/n’s class! D’you know what? I am so glad that she decided to move here. She’s proven to be such an important part of this journey.”

Harry repeats her name, “Y/n ... sounds lovely,” and nods to himself. He can already imagine his tongue getting used to those sweet syllables of hers, his lips giving the vibrations a little kiss on their way out.

“D’ya happen to know where she is?” Nick asks nonchalantly, throwing his arm around Junie’s shoulders. “I mean, Harry just adored that dance of hers. Absolutely adored. Perhaps even inspired him, or summat?”

“Thank you, Nicholas,” the younger man stops him, politely clasping his hands in front of him. He’s not one for violence, but he practically wants to slap that shit-eating grin off of his chiseled face.

Junie chuckles at their interaction. “Well, speak of the devil and she shall appear.”

The dance instructor nods her head in the direction behind Harry, and he can see the wiggle in her eyebrows before turning around with such quick desperation.

Speak of the angel and she shall appear. She shall walk through the double doors and crash upon your life without so much as a warning.

His heart drops down to his tummy, cradled by the ferns on his lower hips.

Y/n has taken it upon herself to change out of the costume that once hugged her body. She now suits a comfortable pair of sweats, the hem of a loose tank barely cascading over the thick waistband. There is a quickness in her mindless step, multitasking as she stuffs her belongings into the duffle bag draped over her shoulder. 

Harry hums contentedly and turns back to the pair. “Thank you, Junie,” he says, ignoring their teasing smirks as he begins to walk backwards. “It was lovely talking to you, but if you don’t mind—shit! 

Crash! The angel shall walk and crash upon your life, metaphorically and literally.

Harry covers his sinful lips, embarrassed that the mothers around him are probably scolding him for his foul language. He hears an item drop in the collision, and after he has balanced himself back on his own two feet, he turns around to apologize to the startled woman.

“Um...” Harry breathes out, shaking his head. Y/n looks even more alluring up close. “I’m ... ‘m sorry, y/n, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, it’s fine!”

“I shouldn’t have been walking—”

“It’s okay, I promise.”

“Jesus, ‘m so clumsy...”

Their sentences mix together, no single word being quite coherent to any pesky eavesdroppers. Harry has become exasperated with himself, spotting the frail book that has fallen from y/n’s hands. He does not hesitate to pick it up for her, a string of apologies continuously flowing from his lips.

Then he stops. He reads the title in blue.

BURNING IN WATER DROWNING IN FLAME. Charles Bukowski.

A poet from before his time that he has found himself infatuated in. A collection of written works that have inspired him since his discovery of them. These are some of the stanzas most precious to his heart, found in her possessions as well. 

“Can I ... can I have it back please?”

Harry raises his head to look at her. He doesn’t think it is possible to be even more intrigued with her existence, but the thick accent she swiftly carries makes it obvious to him that she is not from London, but rather someplace alien that he now has the desire to explore.

Her voice is what he imagines the clouds to sound like; he suddenly grows envious of the angels she kisses.

“Right, ‘f course,” he mumbles, smitten by the kind smile that paints her face when he returns her book. “That’s a good read there. Interesting choice.”

Y/n tilts her head. She looks down at the beaten copy, skimming through it as the pages flip against her thumb. “Thank you,” she says genuinely, “it helps me with my ideas.”

“Your ideas?” Harry raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “For your dances?”

Y/n nods, biting the inside of her cheek. “Yes. It is something about the words that ... motivate me. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“I know what y’mean,” Harry assures her. “Inspiration, right?” 

“Right...” she agrees, the two sharing a quiet laugh. “Um, can I ask how you know my name?”

Her question suddenly throws him off. Harry closes his eyes and curses himself for muttering out her name in the midst of his rambling.

“Uh ... it’s in the program,” he answers, raising the glossy booklet as evidence for her to see. “And Junie, she’s, she said it was you. I was just really blown away by your performance. Wonderful song choice, such incredible taste. I’m Harry, by the way.”

Y/n laughs, her shoulders pushing forward as she looks to the ground. He cannot think of a more melodious gift than her laugh 

“Thank you, Harry,” she says, dropping her poetry book into her duffle bag. She does not notice the way he swallows dryly when she says his name. “I love the song, too.”

There is a brief second in which a strange silence creeps up on the two. Harry doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the awkward background noise of the dancers shuffling around them.

“Did you, um,” he starts, refusing to let the conversation die. “Did you choreograph that piece all by yourself? Junie said it was your class, so I was jus’ wonderin’. 

“I had some help from the students. They were the ones who thought of the solo at the end.”

“Wow, yes, the solo. It was certainly, uh, fantastic. I really, really enjoyed—” 

“Harry?” she abruptly interrupts him, causing his lips to seal in anticipation.

“Hmm?”

The squint in y/n’s eyes makes Harry nervous. He feels like a barcode by the way she scans him up and down. He takes the moment to observe his overall appearance with that of everyone else. The people around him are dressed head-to-toe in a loose-fitting, affordable clothing, whereas Harry has decided to sport a more expensive look: a white Saint Laurent t-shirt, yellow Adidas track pants, and creamy colored Gucci loafers.

This is the first time his clothes have ever made him feel self-conscious.

Y/n, however, does not comment on his designer clothing. She seems to not even notice it when mentioning to him, “You look familiar.” There is perplexity in the way her eyes scream why have I seen these features of his before? “Have I met you before, maybe somewhere else?”

Harry lets out a relieved chuckle and runs a hand through his bouncy curls. “Well, it’s funny that you ask...”

“Are you coming to the after party, y/n?”

Junie interrupts the innocent conversation that has been spread out for almost an hour. Most of the people that once filled the backstage area are now gone. Harry can’t recall when it had become just him and y/n, but he likes this idea of her. She makes his fear of time falter; she even makes him forget.

“It sounds fun,” y/n gushes, hugging her friend goodbye. “But I think I am just going to pass time at the studio, if that’s alright with you?”

“Boo!” Nick suddenly appears, earning a laugh from Junie as she gives the key to the dancer. “What about you?” he asks Harry, nudging him on the arm. “What are you goin’ to do?”

Harry shrugs, stuffing his hands warm inside his pockets. He doesn’t want to go to this so-called after party if y/n isn’t going, but he also doesn’t want to seem rude and reject their invitation.

“You can join me at the studio, Harry,” y/n speaks up, swinging the keychain around a single finger. “If you’re not doing anything else...”

“‘m so sorry, y/n,” Harry apologizes when they enter the studio. “Someone must’ve posted a picture or something,” he realizes, shaking his head at the paparazzi that swarmed them upon leaving the auditorium. “They’ve probably followed us all the way here.”

“Harry,” y/n murmurs with a grin. “It’s fine. They’ll go away eventually. Besides, it is a good way for the word to get out about the studio.”

Harry raises his head, playfully scoffing at the teasing smile she is giving him. “Oh, is that all I’m good for then?”

“Of course not! You’re also excellent company.”

“Sure, I had to see for myself where the magic happens.” Harry stretches his arms out to his side, circling around the area with the large mirror for a wall and breathing in the open space. “I bet it’s got really sick acoustics, huh?”

“A little.” Y/n shrugs. “I like it here, when no one else is around. It’s ... quiet. Gives me a space to think, to dance, sometimes both at the same time.”

“Sounds lovely,” Harry says, adoring the way she looks into the mirror and gives a little twirl after she speaks.

“Can I ask you something, Harry?” she says, changing the topic of conversation with the snap of her fingers. “What is your dream? Something that you desire, and it makes you happy?”

“My ... dream?” he questions, once again thrown off by her questions. She is inquisitive, which makes her all the more intriguing. “My dream, well ... ‘m livin’ it.” 

Y/n scoffs, lowering her arms until they make a slap against her sides. “Besides that,” she says, little space left between them when she walks over to him. “Something else. You accomplished that dream at such a young age, you must have another, right?”

Harry blinks in a pensive manner. He’s trying to control his heartbeat, but at this close proximity, he can practically inhale her soft scent. “Um, I just want ... people to be kind to each other. I think that would be nice. Other than that, I don’t know. Maybe ‘m still trying t’figure it out.”

“You have plenty of time. Something will inspire that dream of yours soon, Harry.”

“Alright.” He laughs, nodding in agreement. “And yours? What’s your dream, y/n?”

The room seems to illuminate when he asks her that question. Perhaps it is because of the way she beams when she thinks of her dream, but Harry can’t recall when that grin of hers had ever left her face. 

“I want to be like Junie,” she answers, but is quick to explain. “I want to open up a studio like this. Dance until I can’t dance anymore. It’s going to take a lot of work, but I think that’ll make me very happy. Don’t you think?” 

Harry is so smitten. The dimples beside his smirk is enough of a hint, and he finds himself crossing his arms across his chest to keep from pulling this imaginative woman any closer.

“Yeah,” he whispers, though he doesn’t think he is in the right position to decide what will make y/n happy or not. Still, he has to agree with her. She’s clearly got a passion. “Um, about the cameras outside, you are aware that it may be hours before they leave?”

“Wow ... okay then.” Y/n exhales, the air flowing past her pursed lips which makes them flap against each other in a silly manner. She pensively tilts her head from side to side, but gasps as she suggests, “Maybe I can show you some techniques in the meantime? If you want to, you don’t have to.”

“Y/n.” Harry reaches down, enveloping her left hand in both of his. “I would love to.”

Harry doesn’t know how long it has been before he’s driving y/n home. He has been caught up in the dances she has performed for him, telling him to follow her movements because “it’s not hard, Harry!” He has even sung her a couple songs, the acoustics in the room proving to be more than exceptional. In a mix of their constant giggles, they’re unsure about when exactly the paparazzi have left them in their privacy.

In fact, the only certainty that Harry has when he drives himself back home is the powerful array of words storming in his mind. He’s practically aching to write them down.