#memories of polly gray

[call-sign-shark]

Of Bending and Breaking || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Always being the one who cares for others comes with a price: you break down, but the most unexpected person is here for you: Tommy, the man you were forced to marry.

Words: 2,3k

TW: Hurt/Comfort, very tiny mention of past sexual assault, no proofreading 'cause it comes from clearing my drafts.

Notes: Aunt Isabella's is a tribute to my own aunt Isabelle who, unfortunately, died because of cancer a few years ago.

It all started with Polly shaking Tommy like a tree, her thin hands firmly grabbing his nephew’s broad shoulders: “You can’t keep sabotaging yourself like this, Tom.” These were the words that left her quivering lips as she dragged his staggering frame to the bathroom and pushed his face into the bathtub right under the tap. When the freezing water splashed all over his neck, Tommy opened his blank eyes wide and inhaled sharply, as if he had suddenly come back to life. Since Grace’s awful death, the gangster was the shadow of his former self. When he wasn’t waging a senseless war with Father Hughes and the Italian, or when he wasn’t keeping his buzzing mind busy with work, Tommy usually numbed himself with a deadly combination of whisky and opium until his deep-seated pain became bearable. It was the night he almost overdosed that Polly decided to take charge of his nephew and found him a new wife, in the hope of soothing his nephew’s mind and finding a mother figure for poor little Charlie. The idea had obviously sent Tommy in a fit of anger but Polly Gray couldn’t care less.

Regarding your own situation, it was not the opium nor the loss of a dear lover that had led you to Birmingham’s most dangerous man but rather the bump in your belly. Aunt Isabella had understood what you were suffering from the moment you had stormed out of the vardo to throw up your breakfast in the nearest bush. The tall and lean woman, whose light brown and curly mane danced in the cold autumn wind, had looked at you right in the eyes and raised one of her thin eyebrows. If there was something pleasant with her, it was that words weren’t necessary.

Yet, later she encountered Polly, with whom she had been a great friend since childhood, and explained that a powerful American man had forced his seeds in you during his stay in England. Not willing to go through the traumatic experience of aborting, Isabella only saw one solution to your problem: you needed a husband who could protect you and your future baby from the evil man with his scarred lip. A wedding would be your salvation. At the realization of what Aunt Isabella had planned for you, you tried to run away from the camp in the middle of the night but she knew you too well and soon caught you, her sly hand firmly grabbing your wrist: “Y/N! It’s for your sake! He’s rich, he needs a wife and he is feared! You’ll be safe with him, don’t you understand?” She explained, cupping your face with her long fingers adorned with claws painted in red and far too many rings. “I don’t need a man to protect me! I don’t need anyone. He’s older and he’s a criminal! Who’s going to protect me from him eh? Have you think ‘bout that?” You cried, the soft light of the sunrise turning your tears into liquid gold.

But still, you wedded him and what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life turned out to be a dull event during which you dissociated the whole time. The only memories you had in mind were two piercing and frightening turquoise eyes staring right at your soul and soft whiskey-tasting lips stealing a quick peck from your cherry lips. A kiss devoid of any form of affection. And then, the groom left.

From what Aunt Isabella told you, your husband had spent most of the celebrations with his brothers, drinking and taking bets outside of Arrow House. Months had passed and still, you felt estranged to this place and its staff. The only moments your heart lightened were when Aunt Isabella visited you, or when Charlie spent time with you, otherwise you remained emotionally closed, trapped in your own mind. Overall you could not complain: You had a house far too big for you with plenty of workers willing to exhaust every one of your wishes. Charlie was a sweet boy, who loved you with all his heart even if you were well aware that you’ll never replace his mother. As for the Shelby clan, they were cordial with you without being really friendly either. And there was Tommy…

Cold and distant Tommy, who you only saw late at night when he discretely slipped under the bedsheet and turned his back to you without uttering a single word. Busy Tommy, whose replies remained concise and spoken with a quiet husky voice each time you asked him something — at least he talked to you a little bit. Trapped in a loveless marriage, that was what you were: Tommy was more a stranger, a mere gust of wind in your life, than the love of your life.

Still, the gangster stayed true to his words and he provided for everything, never refusing to give you money when you asked, and protecting you from the man who had taken your innocence. He even gifted you a wonderful stallion because he knew how much you missed riding. In exchange for his protection and riches, all you had to do was take care of Charlie and do your best to be there for your husband when his darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

You found out about the nightmares shortly after your wedding and quickly decided to do something about it. When he woke up screaming and drenched in sweat after tasting the tunnels’ dirt and Grace’s crimson blood in his troubled sleep, you always cradle him, your fingers losing themselves in his wet dark hair to pet his head gently. At first, you feared his reaction, expecting the infamous Tommy Shelby to push you and not-so-kindly ask you to keep your distance but, to your greatest surprise, he never did. Instead, he would bury his face in your cleavage, panting and trembling, and let you reassure him. Just like he let you bring dinner to him each time he drowned himself in paperwork and forgot to eat. He never commented on your cooking skills though, even if he always handed back empty plates.

The blood on his skin? You cleaned it.

The wounds of his flesh? You never failed to patched them up.

The hole in his heart? You tried to seal it off with caresses, soft kisses, and shoulder massages. Maybe one day he would slowly turn his iciness into affection. Little did you know that he needed it. And by it he needed you. Just like the whole family. How many times did you walk the streets of Birmingham at night, seeking for Arthur and then bringing him home to take care of a wasted and high him? Far too many to keep track. Similarly, you had spent countless evenings helping Ada when she felt overwhelmed, either nursing Karl or cleaning her house when, just like her brother, she overworked herself. And finally, Polly could never thank you enough for everything you did to soothe her mind after the gallows, still haunted by the bite of the hanging rope on her throat.

“Thanks Poppy.” Arthur muttered, the gravel in his voice coated with shame now that you were down clearing and disinfecting his split knuckles. The oldest brother had started to affectionately call you so for the sole reason that, according to him, you must probably grow better when blood was considering how much you had seen when patching the Shelby siblings. “Sorry for errr… For the mess.” He went on, his steel blue eyes fleeing yours.

“That’s okay.” You replied in Romani, “You, sweet idiot.” Endeared by how surprisingly soft Arthur’s harsh complexions could turn, you couldn’t help but gently put your hand on one of his cheeks. And during this tender display of affection, Arthur was convinced he had caught sight of a smile — a scarce event barely happening on your beautiful but resigned face. Comforted by the warmth of your palm, he leaned into your touch and looked at you through dark lashes, his lids half-closed.

“Tommy’s one lucky bastard to have ya for himself, eh."

"Let's both flee together then." You teased, the familiar tone of Romani language rendered even more melodious by your siren-like voice.

"Don't tempt me, little one." Arthur replied, softer than intended and probably only half-joking.

The oldest Shelby brother had barely closed the door when your smile disappeared and tears flooded your eyes. Admittedly, spending months of repressing your own anguish didn’t do any good to you despite thinking that focusing on others would have helped. Quite the contrary, all those negative emotions you had left on the back burner turned into a silent and deadly parasite that was eating you up. Dragging your tired frame to the cold and empty marital bedroom, you curled up in a ball in a corner of the room, your bruised knees pressed against your chest, “Positive. You gotta stay positive and push forwards y’see Y/N? Do the right things for the family…” You whispered to yourself as your breath started to quicken for the ball of sorrow in your throat was growing more and more. Yes, you had to smile and say that all was just fine because you knew you were lucky to be here and that you hadn’t any real reason to complain now according to the rest of the world. And yet, the truth was you were tired. So tired and overwhelmed by everything around you. With your wild soul trapped here in the mighty walls of Arrow House, you could not help but drown in an excruciating feeling of worthlessness.

You were lost in a world too difficult for you to understand. Lost and unprepared for a life that asked for too much. When you were living in the vardo with Aunt Isabella life seemed so much easier despite the lack of money and, sometimes, food. Prior to your wedding, she used to tell you that everything would become clear once you’d be a wife and a mother. You’d be an adult adult, you see? But she lied. They all lied. Even with a husband and kids, you still felt like a scared and confused child, who wanted to hide under the blanket of her warm bed and never face the world ever again. These concerns of yours? You never shared because you wanted the Shelby to keep seeing you as a reassuring presence— moreover, God knew how much their broken hearts needed your silent care.

Bringing your trembling fingers to your mouth, you muffled a first sob, convinced it would be enough to keep you from crying. What you didn’t expect was to burst into tears, uncontrollably weeping. After all this time forcing yourself to be strong, your mind had enough. As your heart-wrenching cries echoed in the room they muffled Tommy’s footsteps that were coming closer and closer. When the door flung open, you did not even move, lost in a spiral of pain and psychological exhaustion.

“Y/N?!” Tommy called you, his usual coldness swept away by a surge of panic. He closed the distance between you and him with hastened steps, and put one of his knees on the floor to be at your level, “What’s wrong, ay?” His husky voice asked, worries thickening his Brummie accent even more. You hiccuped and raised your flooded eyes towards him, parting your lips to answer. Yet, as soon as your gaze met his turquoise iris you started weeping again, louder this time. Words were at a loss by dint of never having the chance to express what you felt throughout your life. “Bloody Hell, Y/N! Speak!” Tommy hissed, his heart now drumming in his chest at the sight of his young and always-so-strong wife crumbling in bits in front of him. Never in his life, he had felt so powerless, not even in the tunnels… And, God, he hated it.

“N-nothing. I don’t… I don’t even know it’s just that— I’m so fucking tired, and lost, and confused, and afraid!” You spoke with a very fast pace, spitting years and years of repressed emotions flowing from you all the while feeling deeply ashamed of your mental breakdown. When you were done venting, you simply turned your head and waved off the topic, tears still rolling down your reddened cheeks “Anyway! You’ve got — more important things to do.”

“Stop it, Y/N,” He scolded, low voice rumbling in his chest. His strong and calloused hands, damaged by the war and hard work, cupped your face with a softness you didn’t know he possessed. For the first time in your life, his grip felt utterly reassuring as if you knew these scarred palms were not going to let you fall apart. Never. “You’re what’s important right now.” With that being said, Tommy leaned his forehead against yours and his enchanting eyes soon met yours to force you to focus on nothing else but the vast blue oceans which composed them. “I want you to calm down.”

“I can’t, I can’t—“ You tried to speak but you couldn’t, struggling to breathe under the crushing weight of your panic attack. Your mouth gaped, looking for the oxygen it couldn’t find.

“Oi!” Tommy said louder. So loud that his voice managed to overcome the cacophony of your beating heart and the buzzing sound of your anxiety that filled your head, “I want you to breathe with me, Y/N. Alright? You can do that for me, ay?” He asked, his eyebrows slightly frowned and charming crowfeet appearing at the corner of his eyes — how odd it was to see Tommy’s face veiled with something else than unsettling placidity. Caught off guard by the sudden realization of how close he was, you quieted down a little bit and soon followed the pattern of his breathing.

One long inhale through the nose, one longer exhale through the mouth, and a short pose.

Do it again.

Your shaky hands slowly grabbed his wrists in a desperate attempt to anchor you to reality. This, as well as the focus you had on his mesmerizing complexions.

His long dark lashes — you inhaled slowly.

His cat-like turquoise iris — you exhaled.

His salient cheekbones — You stopped breathing for a very short while.

The myriad of freckles — “Breathe with me, Y/N.”

The soft, hoarse lilt guided you through the dark and thick fog of your own brain, just like a lighthouse. Coming back to clearer waters, your body finally relaxed and fell almost limp in his arms. And once again he caught you, keeping you all safe against his chest. Tommy’s voice, low and steady, resonated one last time in the bedroom with a reassuring warmth as he uttered the simple yet powerful phrase, "I'm here." Each word carefully enunciated, carrying a quiet strength that soothed and reassured, like a comforting anchor in a stormy sea.

Keep your writers motivated: Reblog and/or comment if you liked it, you filthy animal! o/ English is not my first language btw.

Taglist: @adaydreamaway08 @theshelbyclan @jomarch-wannabe @esposadomd @zablife @woofgocows @anathemasworld @anastasia000 @kate654 @kxnnxy @babayaga67 @meowtastick @shelbyssins @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @bluevenus19 @raincoffeeandfandoms @kishie8 @zablife @alexandra-001 @dearshelby @alexizodd @helen06dreamer @kmc1989 @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings @peakyltd @chaosinkest1996 @vanhelsingsbigtoe @red-riding-wood

[dilf-issues]

Your Eyes Tell: 3 | T.S

Synopsis: Tommy could never accept a whore to love. But he did anyways, however his ego and pride might be the death of him.

Chapter Summary: Tommy is trying his best however, his efforts might not be noticed when an American mercenary meddles in their lives.

Warnings: None?

A/N: SPECIAL APPEARANCE BY CHRIS EVAN’s STEVE ROGERS WHOOOO. It’s my fic I can do whatever I want even if it means connecting two universes in one. Everything is non-canon. Should I change it to Thomas Shelby x Reader x Steve Rogers? Lol 🤨

PART 1 | PART 2

.

Y/N's once vibrant life had faded into a gray, monotonous existence. The colors of the world seemed muted, the laughter and joy of others an alien sound. The mere act of getting through the day had become a battle against her own mind, her thoughts constantly haunted by the memories of her lost baby. She longed for a way out, a ray of sunlight to penetrate the darkness that enveloped her soul, but the weight of grief and despair held her fast, refusing to loosen its grip.

Tommy had changed. He had changed completely, well, at least it was with her. He was still the same terrifying man in the Peaky Blinders. People had still feared him, and now they had feared approaching Y/N too.

Tommy had never put her under Peaky Blinder’a protection, he thought it wasn’t necessary. However, now, if any man or woman would as much as lay a single finger on her they would make their maker and Tommy wasn’t going to make it easy and smooth either, he would make them suffer.

These past few weeks, Tommy had tried everything to lift her spirits. He spent countless hours trying to cheer her up, showering her with words of encouragement and reassurances. He planned romantic dates and surprised her with small gestures of affection, hoping to bring back a glimpse of the woman he had fallen in love with. But no matter his efforts, the cloud of her depression remained over her, seemingly impenetrable, as if the very mention of the word ‘happiness’ was a foreign concept to her anguished heart.

Every time Tommy wanted to take her somewhere, she would refuse but Tommy never gave up he still tried. However, Polly had assured him that sooner or later she would move on but it would take some time. The once impatient man suddenly felt like he had all the time in the world

Tommy was is his office, as he always is--when he heard a a soft knock coming from his door, “Come in!” He grumbled as the door slowly opened.

“What?” Tommy questioned nonchalantly, his eyes never leaving the papers he was reading over.

“T-Tommy”

His heart had seemingly dropped at the voice that he recognized so well, for some reason his heart was pounding in his chest as he felt chills coarse through his body. It’s been a while since he heard her call his name.

“My love...” He breathed out, stopping whatever he was doing as he immediately stood up and walked towards her, leaning over his desk as he gestured for her to take a seat, “Is everything, alright? Is there anything that I can do? Anything?”

His voice had sounded so soft, hopeful, laced with a hint of happiness when he had heard her voice. Something she still wasn’t used to. Tommy sounded like this for the first few months she had met him but for some reason, his demeanor quickly changed as the years went by.

“I w-was thinking...” Her voice that were once soft, was now husky. She had spent so much time screaming and crying that her voice had changed but that didn’t make her any less beautiful in Tommy’s eyes, “I want to cook in the Garrison a-again”

His eyes softened at her request. He wanted so badly to impose, he wanted her to stay at home and continue to heal. Heal everything from her mind and her body. However, there was no danger if she wanted to continue working at the Garrison, it was filled with his men, and anything that happened to her, Tommy would end the world. Burn everything down to the ground if anybody tried to touch her.

“I’ll make the Garrison yours, love. If that’s what you want, you can do anything with it. You can bake again? Remember? You used to love to bake ur meat pies and everyone loved them” Tommy acknowledged, he remembered those days when Y/N would cook for everyone and they loved it. Tommy just wished he appreciated her meals more.

“No... I just want to do some work, make myself useful... And I’m sure Harry wouldn’t be too happy” The reason why she was keen on working in the Garrison is because she is trying to distract herself. Nobody knew about it but every night she couldn’t sleep due to the nightmares she was getting from what happened to her. She just felt so tired of having the same thing replaying in her mind over and over again, maybe if she kept herself busy, everything would be okay.

“Harry doesn't mind, I can make sure of that” Tommy protested, however, Y/N shook her head at his offer, “Well, fine then... I guess I can make some arrangements with Harry. If that makes you happy, it’ll make me happy”

Tommy had reached out, wanting to embrace her in his arms but Y/N flinched at the sudden contact, making Tommy stop in his tracks.

“I’m sorry, love... I shouldn't have done that” In his mind, he was disappointed and his heart was broken. He pushed his feelings away as he softly smiled at her.

Y/N turned around without saying anything else, leaving Tommy all alone with his thoughts.

He sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, it seems like every day the only thing he could feel...

…Was regret.

.

“Uh… alright Y/N, just do whatever you want, yeah? But don’t push yourself too much” Harry mumbled, avoiding her eyes. It was unusual for Harry to treat her this way, however, his mind recalled back at what happened yesterday.

HARRY’S FLASHBACK.

“You be fucking nice to her, yeah? If not I’ll fucking kill your granny and shove her dead body in your mouth”

We could all guess who had said that to him.

END OF FLASHBACK.

Y/N simply nodded, patting down her apron as she wiped the bar clean. They were opening in a few minutes and she felt at home. Being here in the Garrison made her feel so much better and she was in her element.

Y/N shuffled through the pub, her figure blending into the shadows. The patrons, most of whom were locals, glanced up briefly, their gazes lingering for a moment before returning to their drinks. She could hear their whispers. talking about the incident and Tommy. Y/N found her place behind the bar, her usual expression replaced by a mask of friendliness. She was uncomfortable with the gaze and people talking about her but she stayed positive either way. As the day wore on and the pub filled, the patrons grew more raucous, their conversations and laughter filling the air. Y/N mechanically poured drinks and served customers, her eyes never lingering on any one person, almost as if she were simply going through the motions.

As the Y/N was swiftly wiping down the counter, an unfamiliar voice cut through the noise of the pub. Not only that, his accent was different. He was an American. She looked up to see a man she hadn’t seen before. The man who had ordered a drink was tall, with a chiseled jaw and a certain air about him that she couldn’t describe. He was certainly a looker, she wouldn’t deny that. His blond hair was styled in a neat way, framing his intense blue eyes. He sported a worn pair of jeans and a fitted T-shirt, the casual clothing contrasting with the hard look in his eyes. She glanced down on the necklace hanging on his neck, he was wearing a dog tag.

His gaze fixed on her with a strange curiosity. He ordered a drink, his voice smooth and polite. For a moment, Y/N’s apathy was disrupted, a flicker of curiosity flashing across her face as she caught his gaze before she quickly masked her expression and began pouring the drink.

“Hi, I’m Steve” Y/N, who had been lost in her own thoughts, looked up as the man introduced himself. His sudden greeting caught her off guard, her expression betraying a hint of surprise before it settled back into its usual apathetic mask. She simply nodded in acknowledgment and hummed.

“Um… Hi, nice to meet you. You’re not from around here” She cuts straight to the chase, her curiosity getting the best of her. She had never seen a foreigner before and as everyone knew she always had a childlike curiosity.

Steve chuckled, “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?” She blushed, looking down as she felt slightly embarrassed by imposing on him. “Yes, I’m from Brooklyn actually”

No wonder it had sounded nice in her ears, Y/N didn’t know why but Steve’s voice sounded like the ones you hear on the news or movies. He seemed... Perfectly American.

“I’ve never met an American before” She muttered shyly, wiping down on the spot that had already been cleaned to make herself seem busy. Steve smiled softly as he tilted his head at her.

“Well, I’m glad I’m your first” She had stopped in her tracks, no longer wiping the counter as she felt the heat rush to her cheeks. Steve merely grinned at her reaction, taking a sip of his drink as he watched her with an amused expression on his face.

Suddenly, Harry lightly tapped on her shoulder and leaned into her ears “Alright love, get back to work yeah? I don’t think Tommy will be too happy if he sees you talking to another man”

Y/N was shocked. She wasn’t shocked at what Harry had said, instead, she was shocked at how he had said it.

“Tommy doesn’t own me now, does he?” Y/N uttered nonchalantly, filling the next customer's order as Harry trailed behind her.

“Well, he doesn’t own you but you are sure his. Just don’t make this hard for me, alright? I don’t want him to kill me in my sleep” Harry shuddered at the thought of Tommy burying him right next to his already-dead granny.

Y/N sighed deeply as she nodded and Harry smiled widely, holding his two thumbs up. She rolled her eyes, is the verge of death what it takes for people to be kind to her?

“So, will I ever get your name?” Steve questioned, catching her attention once again.

“I can’t talk to you in here...” She muttered cautiously as Steve raised his eyebrows in curiosity.

“Oh... Let me guess, you have a husband? My bad, it wasn’t my intention” Y/N’s shoulders dropped disappointingly, she wouldn’t say it out loud but he did want it to be his intention.

“He’s not... My husband...” She grumbled quietly.

Steve chuckled, “Well, then... That means I can still see you around?”

She returned a soft smile at him, she knew she shouldn’t but there was something about Steve that seemed so... Pure. She had never seen anything like it. He was nice and polite, he was the exact opposite of who Tommy was.

“Sure, I’m always here,” She said softly as Steve threw him an adorable grin. She had never seen a man smiled like that before, Tommy barely smiled.

“Great… I can’t miss the chance to know your name”

.

A/N: HHEHEHE DRAMA BOUTO COME UP

[wonderlanddreamer]

[1923] Watery Lane, Birmingham.

In the aftermath of a violent ambush on their home, the Shelby family must act quickly to help Lydia, who has been struck by a bullet.

Warnings: Mentions of violence, injury, and blood.

[Part of The Lydia Saga]

The Shelby home, once a bastion of strength and family, now lay in disarray, its proud facade marred by the violence that had shattered its peace. The front door hung askew on its hinges, an ominous welcome to the chaos within. Shattered glass crunched underfoot, mingling with the splintered wood of furniture that had been upturned in the frenzy. The wallpaper, once pristine, was now marred with bullet holes and streaked with soot, a testament to the gunfire that had torn through the house like a relentless storm.

In the hallway, a mirror lay cracked and discarded, its fractured surface reflecting the turmoil in jagged pieces. Family photographs, once lovingly displayed, were now scattered across the floor, their frames broken, and images of happier times lying amid the debris. The once comforting hearth in the parlour now seemed cold and distant, its warmth extinguished by the violence that had invaded.

The betting shop, a symbol of the Shelby enterprise, fared no better. The smell of burnt paper hung in the air, mixing with the lingering scent of smoke. Betting slips and ledger pages were strewn about like leaves in a gale, their contents rendered meaningless amid the destruction. The counter, usually bustling with activity, was now a barricade of chaos, its surface scarred by stray bullets and splintered wood.

The shelves that once held stacks of coins and tidy ledgers were bare, their contents either pilfered or scattered in the melee. Chairs lay toppled and broken, a testament to the frantic struggle that had taken place. The safe, usually a symbol of security and prosperity, stood ominously open, its contents rifled through and discarded in the frenzy.

Outside, the rain continued to fall, its relentless patter a stark contrast to the silence now enveloping Watery Lane. It washed away the blood and soot, but it could not cleanse the memory of what had transpired. Despite the fear and uncertainty, the family was rallying as they always did—together.

The memory of the ambush replayed in Lydia's mind with vivid clarity. She had been running, heart pounding in her chest, when she spotted John ahead—a beacon of safety amid the chaos. But before she could reach him, a sharp, searing pain had exploded in her side, stealing her breath and sending her crashing to the ground. The world had spun around her, the sounds of gunfire and shouting stretching into a distant echo as she lay there, paralyzed by shock and pain. She couldn't quite recall which of her brothers had reached her side first, but there was no mistaking who had exacted vengeance on the man responsible for her injury. Despite her blurred vision, the sight of blood splattered across Arthur’s clenched fists was unmistakable. In a fit of turbulent rage, he had forsaken all weapons, choosing instead to unleash his fury with his bare hands. Each blow landed with ferocious intensity, reducing the man’s face to a grotesque, unrecognisable mess.

Now, Lydia lay curled on her bed, the very act of breathing a torturous endeavour. The bullet had left a jagged wound in her side, a cruel reminder of the violence she had narrowly escaped. Blood had soaked through her shirt, forming a dark, ominous stain that spread with each painful breath. The skin around the injury was angry and inflamed, radiating a heat that spoke of the body's desperate fight against the intrusion.

Her small hands, normally so full of life and mischief, clutched the sheets in a white-knuckled grip, as if anchoring herself against the tide of pain threatening to sweep her away. Her eyes, dulled by agony and fever, flickered to her Aunt Polly, seeking reassurance in her steady presence.

Polly Gray moved with the grace of someone who had faced crises such as these before. Her heart ached for Lydia's suffering, but she buried her emotions beneath a mask of calm determination. She gently dabbed at the wound with a clean cloth, her movements careful and precise, trying to soothe Lydia's pain even as she prepared to alleviate it further.

The room around Lydia seemed to blur, the world reduced to a haze of pain that refused to relent. Each breath was a struggle, a sharp reminder of the bullet lodged in her side. Her pale skin felt like it was on fire, the wound throbbing with a relentless, searing agony that no amount of reassurance could ease. The damp cloth Ada used to wipe away her tears was a fleeting comfort, offering only momentary relief from the feverish heat that enveloped her.

Ada remained a tranquil presence, her gentle touch a beacon of calm in the storm of Lydia's suffering. Yet, despite Ada's soothing words and soft whispers, the pain clawed at Lydia's senses, drowning out the world around her. It was as if the hurt had taken on a life of its own, consuming her thoughts and rendering her oblivious to everything except the burning insistence of the injury. She had truly never felt anything like it, and never wanted to feel anything like it ever again.

Across the room, Finn stood beside Polly, trying to project an air of calm he didn't truly feel. His hands trembled slightly with the weight of responsibility, but he forced them to remain steady as he passed tools to Polly. Each time his fingers brushed Polly's, it was a silent exchange of strength and solidarity.

Finn's voice wavered as he spoke, reaching out to Lydia with a promise he desperately hoped to fulfil. "It’s going to be okay, Lyds," he said, his words laced with a mixture of hope and fear. But even as he spoke, he knew that his assurances were no match for the relentless pain that gripped his younger sister. His heart ached with the helplessness of watching Lydia suffer, wishing he could do more to ease her pain.

The door swung open and Tommy stepped inside, his presence commanding immediate attention. He carried with him a bowl of water in one hand and a cloth in the other. His appearance seemed to ease the tension in the room, his usually calculating gaze softened by concern as he looked at Lydia.

There was a tenderness in the way he approached, a complete contrast to the hardened leader he was known to be. His shirt was stained with blood, sleeves balled up to his elbows revealing injuries of his own that had been hastily patched up by John downstairs. Yet none of that mattered to him in that moment, his own pain of no importance to himself considering the juncture they were at.

As Tommy reached the bed, Ada quietly asked, her voice tinged with worry, “How are the others, Tommy?” He gave a brief nod as he set the bowl down with a gentle clink, his words concise but reassuring. “They’re managing,” he replied, not wanting to dwell on anything but Lydia at that moment.

Tommy carefully positioned himself on the bed so that Lydia could rest partially on his lap. His arms wrapped around her shoulders with a gentle strength, cradling her close against his chest. As Lydia settled against him, Tommy became acutely aware of the tremors coursing through her small frame. Holding her close, Tommy could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat against his arms, a frantic rhythm that echoed the turmoil within her. The sensation of her trembling tugged at something deep within him, a mixture of protectiveness and helplessness that he rarely allowed himself to feel. Tommy Shelby was accustomed to being the one in control, yet with Lydia in his arms, he was harshly reminded of the fragility of life and the limits of his power.

Lydia’s fear was palpable, a living thing that wrapped itself around her like a vice, squeezing tighter with each passing moment. The anticipation of having the bullet removed loomed over her like a dark cloud, and she was dreadfully aware of the pain it would bring.

"T-Tommy," she whimpered, her voice barely rising above the fragile whisper of her breath. It was a plea born of desperation and fear, her small hands clutching at his arms as if they were the only thing anchoring her to this world. “Please don’t. Don’t let them touch it. It hurts so much.”

Tommy's heart clenched at the painful vulnerability in her voice, an abdominal ache that resonated deep within him. He wanted nothing more than to take the pain away from her and take it upon himself, but he knew this was a battle she had to endure, and all he could do was be there, steadfast and unwavering.

He kept his voice steady and soothing, a lifeline in the tumultuous sea of her fear. "I know, love. I know it hurts," he murmured, brushing his lips against the top of her head with infinite tenderness. His breath was warm against her skin, a tangible promise of his presence. "But you're the bravest of us all, you know that? You're our little soldier."

Lydia sniffled, her tears soaking into his sleeves as she clung to him, drawing strength from his presence. She could feel the steady beat of his heart, a reassuring rhythm that spoke of safety and love. "It will all be alright, little one," he whispered, his voice a soft rumble, each word a balm against her fear. “We're all here with you, Lydia. You're not alone, alright?"

Her sobs quieted into small, hiccuping breaths as she clung to him, drawing strength from his presence. Tommy nodded to Polly, signalling that Lydia was as ready as she could be. Ada and Finn moved to help hold her steady, each offering murmured words of encouragement, their touches gentle and sure.

The moment Polly began her work, time seemed to slow, stretching each second into an agonising eternity. Lydia's scream tore through the room, a raw, anguished sound that pierced the air like a knife. It was a sound that clawed at Tommy's heart, each note of her pain resonating deep within his soul. He held her tighter, as if his embrace could somehow shield her from her suffering.

"It's okay, little one. I'm here. I’ve got you. Just a little longer," he whispered, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. He stroked her hair with a gentle hand, keeping her as steady as his strong arms would allow.

Polly worked with expert precision, her hands steady even as her heart ached for Lydia. She murmured soft reassurances as she carefully probed the wound, her fingers deft and sure despite the gravity of the task. The room was tense with anticipation, each person holding their breath as Polly continued her delicate work.

John and Arthur appeared in the doorway, drawn by the sound of their sister's distress. Their faces were grim, shadows etching deeper lines into their already weathered features. Each of them bore their own marks of the recent clash, Arthur’s knuckles were completely wrapped in bandages while John’s skin and clothes were still streaked with blood. They stood silently, knowing that too many hands would only add to the chaos, their presence a silent vow of solidarity and strength. Tommy caught their eyes, a brief exchange of looks that spoke volumes. At that moment, words were unnecessary.

Time seemed suspended, each moment stretching into an eternity filled with Lydia's cries and Tommy's whispered reassurances. Polly's focus was unwavering as she worked, her hands moving with a surgeon's precision despite the emotional weight of the task. Finally, with a deftness born of experience, she extracted the bullet.

The metallic clink as it fell into a dish was a sound that seemed to echo with finality, a signal that the worst was over. Relief washed through the room, palpable and profound, like a wave breaking against a weary shore. Lydia's cries subsided into soft whimpers, her body relaxing slightly as the immediate agony began to fade, replaced by a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.

Polly bandaged Lydia’s side with meticulous care, her touch embodying both the clinical precision of a healer and the tender affection of a mother. As she tied off the bandage, she leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Lydia's forehead. "There now, darling," she murmured, her voice a soothing lullaby. "It's done. You're such a brave girl."

Tommy's hold on Lydia did not waver; he kept her close, his cheek resting atop her head, his heart swelling with relief and pride. The tension that had gripped him slowly began to ease, though his arms remained wrapped protectively around her, a fortress against the world. "You did it, Lydia," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, each word a gentle caress. "It’s over, you did it."

Lydia nestled deeper into his embrace, her small body fitting perfectly against his. She was exhausted but comforted by the familiar presence of her family. "I was brave," she murmured, a small, tired smile playing on her lips, the pain of the moment already beginning to fade, replaced by the warmth of her brother's love and the safety of her family.

"The bravest," Tommy agreed, shifting slightly so she could rest more comfortably against him. His hand continued to stroke her hair, his touch gentle and reassuring, his presence a sanctuary of safety and love. As the room began to settle, the tension slowly dissipated like mist under the morning sun.

Ada leaned forward, brushing a stray lock of hair from Lydia's face, her touch tender and full of affection. "You were amazing, Lydia," she said, her voice a soft murmur that seemed to wrap around them all. Finn stood at the foot of the bed, his shoulders relaxing as the crisis passed, his eyes filled with admiration for his little sister's courage.

Gradually, the others began to leave the room, understanding that what Lydia needed most now was rest. They departed quietly, their footsteps soft against the floorboards, leaving Tommy and Lydia cocooned in the quiet intimacy of the dimly lit room.

As Lydia's eyelids grew heavy, her body finally succumbing to the pull of sleep, Tommy adjusted his hold, ensuring she was as comfortable as possible. In the quiet aftermath of chaos, as the candlelight flickered softly and the shadows danced less ominously, they were reminded once again of the power of family. Lydia drifted into a much-needed sleep, feeling safe and cherished, her brother's words echoing softly in her dreams.

Tags: @novashelby @lau219 @peakyswritings

Please like, comment and reblog.

[punkeropercyjackson]

Concept:Percy Jackson but he gets to fully embrace and participate in punk subculture

Afrosolarpunk/Afropunk with a mix and match of edgy and earthy fashion and lifestyle and kidcore thrown in there too

Thalia was his first real experience with the culture headon and it partially fueled his jealousy of her,along with some gender envy

Knows how to diy things that don't even exist

Straightedge because of Smelly Gabe trauma

Transfem bigender with he/she/they pronouns and a whole buncha neos and was on diy'd estrogen for a short amount of time compared to full transitions and got no surgeries for extra gender fuckery.Fem-leaning/femme ofc,she's about as manly as Ramona Flowers

Platonic soulmates by choice in every universe and intergenerational best friends with Nico and Hazel,who Sally legally adopted post-Boo,as the Dead Sea Siblings and radicalized them as their pseudo-parent and punk mentor who took them in from the start(literally already canon minus the Sally part).Nico is afrogothpunk and Hazel is pastel afrogothpunk

Harrasses Poseidon into giving her money for Nico's chronic pain meds and mobility aids and gives Hazel special treatment like the black princess she is to help her heal from adultification trauma and diy'd their hrt for them and taught them everything they know about punk

Family thrift stores trips,including Sally

Sets up a vegetable garden at home with her permission too

Has a pair of colbat blue and black demonias gifted to them by Beckendorf

Goes on petty crime sprees,to underground parties and shows and to protests and charity events and riots

Self-diagnoses with autism and bpd since doctors clearly weren't going to

Special interests in blue,the sea,anarchy,kidcore,cats,video games,energy drinks,child care and the Superfam(DC)

Only plays her games on secondhand consoles and emulators and free ones,pirates all her shows and movies and seeks out indie creators on anti-capitalist principal

Rachel is afrosolarpunk too and they researched their subculture together back in their freshman year at Goode High and picked the same subtype in an epic besties moment and they also started participating in it for the first time with eachother

6'4.I do not support the 'Annabeth should still be taller than Percy' agenda so hard in the reverse direction i ended up with that('isn't that heteronormative though-'i don't ship Perc.abeth,hope this helps!!)

Baby dreads in TLT,wicks by TTC,twists with a faded from gray to white streak in TLO,an afro for most of SON since he didn't remember what hairstyles he likes but gave himself dreads with muscle memory near the end,adds diy'd sea material based beads in MOA,grows out his hair so much by the time he's 19 he switches to locs and dyes it the mermaidcore style due to his transfem egg cracking(his chosen colors are aqua,purple,yellow and pink and per the style requirement the base black color and the white streak are still visible)

Spider bite,eyebrow piercing,forward helix on both ears and tongue ring(all done at home)

Favorite energy drink is cotton candy bang and perfers street truck fast food to restaurant chain fast food

Also learned how to diy McDonalds packaging(based on me irl btw)

Her battle jacket is black with silver studs and got dominican flag and anarchy symbol pins and a trans flag patch while all the personalized patches represent her most important people

Learned how to play guitar and has a sea blue one stacked with gifted to her stickers

Graffitis with Hazel on the regular

And helps her out with her supernatural bussiness website she coded herself,although he lets her handle things with it most of the time on her own at her insistence out of wanting to prove herself

Shark kin and calico cat therian who makes otherkin items both for herself and her loved ones(like Frank)

Steals Domo and Polly Pocket merch and the Dead Sea Siblings stole matching Aquapets for themselves at one point they still have to this day

Movie of all time is Wendell & Wild and it's fairly influenced by how much Kat Elliot reminds her of Hazel

Lifelong My Chemical Romance fan who got into it before The Black Parade even dropped and tweaks whenever people act like Mcr isn't a punk band and 'emo' and Gerard Way was and is her idol as a 2000s egg and she introduced Nico to Mcr inbetween Botl and Tlo as bonding as they repaired their friendship that would never be broken apart again.But she also listens to The Ramones(again,canon,she gifted Nico a shirt of them),Korn,Paramore,X-Ray Spexs,Direct Hit!,Alt Black Era,Meet Me @ The Altar,Lo-Fi Beats and rap in general with a preference for hip hop and her favorite rappers are Teezo Touchdown and Megan Thee Stallion.She hates Taylor Swift so much and has done multiple skits roasting her on her vlog channel

Killed Luke in Tlo as the true hero of the Great Prophecy and revolutionzed the greco-roman mythos world in a one year later four book four year Hoo sequel titled Tales of Dead Seas as a series and the four books in question titled in order Elysium on Earth,Petallic,Arcane Rot and Unmythologizable,kicked off with her shattering the cycle of abuse by killing Zeus in the first book

Blue laces on her doc martens thanks to above

She lugs around a blue backpack given to her by Hestia in Tods that regenerates that is full of essentials,emergency items and fun things like motivational stickers and she(Percy) dubbed it 'The Backhomepack'

When it comes to makeup,she does black eyeliner tears,glittery blue lipstick and aquarium nails and she even makes her own makeup

Gave up skateboarding because of posers but picked it up again when her transition started as symbolism(she was a skater boy,now she's a punk girl with a pretty face)

Has a 'Protect Trans Kids' banner in her room for Nico and Hazel but also the Camp Half-Blood kids,who she also radicalized but unintentionally simply by being so cool to them and nurturing in her treatment they went punk to be like her and some of them even call her 'Dad',which makes her tear up every time,and she teaches them about/gives them resources on punk too

Street cred in the mortal world went from 'weird troublemaker' to 'that cool Manhattan punk you can go to for basically anything because they know basically everything'

Instead of a marine biologist or camp counselor,he lives the urban punk life as above described and his job is working part time at the family bussiness Sally opened up called Familia Jackson Beach Shack

Her and Thalia meet up pretty often to catch up and punk it up i.e do what they usually do but x2 combo on the chaos/anarchism and Percy always takes her to FJBS for double cheeseburgers and copycat cotton candy bang at the end

(Also Percy looks like fanon Thalia and Thalia looks like fanon Percy but they're both trans women.Insert that one meme here)

[thehardy-boys]

The Platform (Tommy Shelby x Reader)

Hey! Its literally been like forever but I've had some time to myself and actually written something. This was not requested or anything but I just got inspired with all the new content recently. Anyways, pls enjoy. It's a series so there will be more parts to the story.

Warnings: Sadness, negative thoughts, flirting if you squint (In the future -- smut 😏)

Part 1

(y/n) hadn’t planned on ever coming back.

“I’ll put your tea here then mum. Alright?” (y/n) spoke fairly loudly so the elderly woman could hear. She was nearing eighty and she had lost most of her sight and hearing. She was a ghost nearing on a corpse. But there was no one else to look after her. As these kinds of responsibilities usually fall on the women, the daughters, they fell on (y/n) just the same.  

“I’m heading to work. Mrs. Iona will check in on you from time to time, alright?” The bedroom door was almost closed when she heard the slight mumble coming from the shriveled woman.

“Not supposed to be here. Don’t want her here. Take her away.”

She paused only for a moment suddenly hit with a wave of the past. The tide so strong it almost pulled her into its murky depths. But with the door closed and the sight of her mother taken away (y/n) turned her back and softly made her way out of her mother’s house.

She waved to Mrs. Iona as she shut the front gate and walked back down the street towards the main road. Her shoes already collecting the terrible coal dust.

She hated it here. The heavy air that the sunlight could never quite penetrate which resulted in the town being in a constant gloom. It made her skin crawl. The unhappiness was crippling. The drunkards already stumbling around the street at eleven o’clock in the morning, the starving children running back and forth, the haggard mothers one step closer to the grave and the dark alleys that were haunted with glistening knives, illegal pistols, and razor-sharp caps.

Get me out of here. Get me out of here. (y/n) screamed internally but she only pushed open the heavy wooden door of the newspaper agency and kindly greeted Mrs. Kelley the receptionist before making her way to the back of the building and sitting down at her desk. Another day. More editing. That was her lot in life: never to be the one writing and creating but only a ghost in the machine, a minion behind the scenes.

By the end of every long day at the newspaper house the words would blur into one huge muddle. She’d pack up her small bag, wish a good night to her boss Mr. Beavers, and head home. Her eyes would be sore and her brain throbbing with a headache. But that was just Small Heath, barely living.

(y/n) felt that she had something missing. She knew she had it when she was younger because of all her memories. The vibrancy of the trees she climbed, the scent of baking in the kitchen, the damp fur of their pet dogs after a rain storm. Everything was so vivid back then and full. Her eyes open and wanting, now she was shuttered, fragile, and tired. Her knees often ached and her neck sore from hunching over papers all day. She was decaying, slowly.

“(y/n)!” Her head popped up from her desk at the sound of her name. Polly Gray was making her way towards her. She was as formidable as (y/n) remembered. She rose up to return Polly’s hug.

“Mrs. Gray, It’s so nice to see you!” Polly squeezed a bit tighter. The warmth of her body rubbing off onto (y/n). She welcomed it. It had been so long since she had received any kind of touch.

“When the hell did you get back?”

“About a year now.”

“A year!? A whole year and you didn’t bother to drop me a line?” Her outrage wore the mask of humor but (y/n) could tell there was genuine worry, genuine hurt lurking behind it.

(y/n) shook her head in apology, “I know. I know. I’m sorry. I just wasn’t expecting to come back here and then a lot happened and I’ve just been so busy Mrs. Gray. I’m really sorry.”

“No, I know (y/n). I heard what happened. Awful stuff. I had no idea you were here dealing with it all. You should have asked for help.”

(y/n) began to shake her head and ward off Polly’s offer when her boss’s door opened up behind her.

“Ah, Mrs. Gray and Mr. Shelby do come in.” He gestured warmly into his office.

Polly rubbed her arm before stepping inside.

A tall man had been standing behind Polly. (y/n) hadn’t noticed him in the frenzy of the greeting but she didn’t need an introduction. Nobody in Small Heath did. He was just as the ladies described him at the grocers she went to weekly: cold, inscrutable, foreboding, and dangerous.  

(y/n) had lived in Small Heath only until she had turned thirteen and then her family had moved away. Her father had been close to Polly and consequently (y/n), over the years, had played with the young Shelby brothers. (y/n)’s older brother had gotten along well with Arthur and if she concentrated hard enough, she could remember playing hide and seek with Thomas and John Shelby. But it was all so long ago, and she realized she hadn’t seen any of them in over fifteen years. And yet she knew it was Thomas. She knew.

She wondered mildly if he remembered her, “(y/n) (l/n).” That was all he said with a quick nod he passed her by not glancing back and nor did she.

Polly left first and, on her way, reminded (y/n) to drop by. An hour or so later Thomas came out, as well. (y/n) was neck deep in the upcoming Sunday issue so she barely registered the figure standing next to her desk.

“Oh, Mr. Shelby! Did Mr. Beavers ask me to get you any forms?” She pushed away her paper hurriedly and stood up.

He shook his head slowly and continued to stare at her, hands deep in his pockets.

She tilted her head as a question, and he only shrugged slightly.

“I was trying to remember why you left, all those years ago.”

(y/n) sat back down. A flicker of fear coursed through her at the reminder of their family’s departure. A broken window, her father’s bruised face, and her mother’s hands constantly trembling.

“It wasn’t my decision; it was my parents.” She didn’t look up at him and instead pulled her papers back towards her. She didn’t want to sift through all those years. She could barely make it through the present.

He must have sensed the finality because he bid her good day and left but his stare stayed with her all day and even into the night. The frostiness of the blue. The condemnation they held for humanity.

Mr. Beavers explained the next morning that they were starting a partnership with Shelby Limited. They would be expanding their sports column to include more articles on the races. Mr. Beavers excitedly described the hope for a few informative articles on the intricacies of horse racing, training, and breeding. But it wasn’t just about horses Mr. Beavers went on, being attached to Shelby Limited allowed them an easy avenue for new stories and information. It was a ready-made news source.

“All this in exchange for what?” (y/n) asked.

“We give Mr. Shelby’s races publicity and well…occasionally we would publish or not publish certain articles for the company.”

(y/n) crossed her arms, “So they can censor us? What stops them from completely taking over the paper? What if next week they decide they don’t want the Theatre column? Evan and Nate would be out of the job.”

Mr. Beavers frantically shook his head, “It’s not like that, not like that at all. I know Mrs. Gray and I trust her. The company is not interested in that kind of control. I mean we’re only a small agency, (y/n).”

And thus, the partnership began and now not just (y/n) felt the steely stare of Mr. Shelby, but the entirety of the agency did.

It started slowly but Thomas began to come by once or twice a week. It was usually on Tuesdays and Thursdays. (y/n) learned from Mr. Beavers that they were working on a contract. She would here the tell-tale sound of expensive shoes on the marble floor and know even without looking up who it was. Thomas Shelby walked with such authority in his three piece suits all the young ladies at the agency were already gossiping about him during their lunch breaks. But (y/n) kept her distance.

She had always been an outsider in Small Heath. The community never welcomed her family, something to do with their Jewish ties. And now, after returning, people were even more wary. (y/n) could tell there were whispers behind her back. She ignored the fake apologies about the missing invitation when she caught her colleagues out for a bite to eat all together. It didn’t bother her, not really.

“Mr. Shelby, Mr. Beavers will be right out. His previous meeting’s running a bit late. Please sit down if you’d like.” She gestured to the few arm chairs by the window. He only nodded and sat. He lit his cigarette and did what he always seemed to do around her, stare. And she ignored him in favor of the monumental stack of paperwork in front of her.

“How much do they pay you here?” He asked out of the blue. His deep voice easily cutting through her concentration.

She looked over, “Minimum wage.”

“For all that?” He raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

(y/n) shrugged.

“You edit, organize, design, and manage each issue and only get minimum wage?”

“I’m not in a position to be picky, Mr. Shelby.” She bristled a bit.

He took another drag and let the smoke column upwards. He did look beautiful with the sunlight streaming in behind him. It caught the contours of his angular face and she thought yeah, I think I get it now.

He cleared his throat and sat back satisfied her attention was now on him, “Don’t you remember me?”

“Yes. I mean we were just kids.” She shrugged lightly.

“We met on the platform.” He took another inhale of his smoke, “After the war.”

(y/n) blinked.

“Yes, we did.” Her throat had gone dry.

He opened his mouth to continue but “(y/n)! I need the consumer reports.” It was Evelyn from the market section. Her plump red lips perking up at the sight of Thomas. (y/n) had the feeling Evelyn already knew he would be here; the reports weren’t needed until the end of the day.

“Yes. Here they are.” (y/n) sifted through her desk and handed over the packet.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Evelyn asked. She played with a few loose strands of her hair.

“Oh. Uh-Mr. Shelby this is Ms. Lowe. Ms. Lowe, Mr. Shelby from Shelby Limited.”

“Ever so pleased to meet you, sir.” She placed a sneaky hand on her hip and shifted her weight a tad to conform her body into an elegant pose.

And she was attractive (y/n) had to admit. She was young and full of vigor. Her hair always done to perfection and makeup never smudged. She looked like a movie star. She looked like a woman all men would fall head over heels for. (y/n) inwardly cringed. She could only imagine what she must look like next to this creature of beauty.

But when (y/n) looked over to see Thomas’ reaction, he seemingly hadn’t stopped looking at her. Only when their eyes met did Thomas glance over at Evelyn and give a slight nod.

“Mr. Shelby! Please come in, come in! I do apologize about the delay!” Mr. Beavers rushed out and hurriedly greeted the businessman.

After the door closed Evelyn let out a huff. She handed back the packet to (y/n).

“I don’t even need these. I just wanted him to get a look if you know what I mean.”

(y/n) gave a small smile hoping to be rid of the superficial woman but she had one last request.

“Put in a few good words for me, will you? He always comes by your desk. Just drop in a few hints?”

(y/n) sighed and re-organized a few papers, “I’ll try my best Evelyn, but I can’t promise anything.”

A few hours later, Evelyn really did come and collect the consumer reports but lucky for her the office door opened and the two men appeared.

“And wonderful (y/n) here will get the correct form for you to sign Mr. Shelby. Let’s organize a convenient day for her to drop the upcoming issue down at your office weekly.”

Evelyn who was too quick easily swooped in without any hesitation, “I can help, Mr. Beavers. You know that I have a much more open schedule than (y/n). I’d be happy to deliver the issue.” She smiled blindingly.

(y/n) just sat there watching the whole thing unfold. In fact, she was actually grateful Evelyn was sticking her nose into it because she didn’t want to see more of Thomas than she already had these past few weeks.

“That is true, Mr. Beavers. Evelyn has a bit more time on her hands these days.”

The boss was beginning to make the face of agreement before, “I’d like Ms. (l/n) to be the one making the deliveries.”

And there was no room for argument with Mr. Shelby.

“Of course, whatever works best for Mr. Shelby. Let’s say every Thursday?” Mr. Beavers heartily clasped the man’s hand and then beckoned Evelyn into his office for a round up on the recent reports. (y/n) didn’t miss the venomous look the other woman shot her.

(y/n) opened her desk drawer and took out the mentioned form that needed the signature.

“Just here, Mr. Shelby.” She held out a pen for him without bothering to look up. This turned out to be a bad idea because she jumped in surprise as he partially leaned over her to sign the paper. He smelled of oak and whisky. He carried the scent of the past.

She remembered seeing his eyes in the sea of green uniforms on the platform. And she knew. She just knew. After all those years. She had walked towards him. He stood there waiting for her. His beautiful blue eyes. That beautiful face.

“(y/n) (l/n).” He had said her name then with such certainty like it was law. Like it had some kind of divine meaning and not just a jumble of letters.

“Is that all?” He asked setting the pen down.

She cleared her throat, “Yes.”

She expected him to be on his way, but she looked up when she never heard the retreating footsteps. He still stood next to her one hand on the back of her chair. Looking down at her.

“Did you not expect me to remember you?”

She clenched her jaw, “Why would I expect you to remember me?”

He furrowed his brow and walked away.

Part 2

[mindful-of-ideas]

A/N: Finn and Polly aren’t in the gif, but they’re there, I promise!

You couldn’t remember the last time you were here. It felt like years since you last saw Birmingham, and even longer since you set foot in the betting shop. You would’ve gone home first, but you knew you had better chances of finding your family here. As you walked down the street, the shop in sight, memories flooded in.

Ever since you were little, you knew you wouldn’t stay here. You were too different, too clever and too kind to ever be a real Peaky Blinder. And well, you were a girl. But that never stopped you from trying your best… and getting up to no good. Growing up, you and Finn, your twin brother, were ruling the neighbourhood. You would do anything to annoy people. Parents were often mad at the both of you, but you still kept doing it. But as you grew up, you started getting a lot of praise from teachers and adults for doing good at school. The only way to get further was to stay in line though. So you kept your mouth shut. Slowly, you drifted away from your family destiny, focusing on your study. With help from your aunt Polly, you managed to get into a college in London and find a safe place to stay. And you had been there ever since. You found a job working as a secretary for one of the researchers to pay for school, which meant working even when the semester was over. But the researcher had fallen ill and you had enough money on the side to allow yourself a visit to your family.

You stepped into the betting shop. And it was empty.

“Well…” you said quietly.

You were about to turn around when you heard muffled voices. That ought to be them. They were probably having a meeting in the parlour. You looked around the room, trying to find a place to sit when someone cleared their throat.

“Who are you?” asked a man, stepping out of the shadow.

“Who are you?” you asked in return.

“I’m not telling you my name until you tell me yours.”

“And I’m not telling you my name until you tell me yours.”

“You think this is funny?”

“You think this is funny?”

This was definitely funny.

“I’m not here to play games with little girls.”

“And you think I am? I was about to step out when a little girl asked me my name,” you replied, looking the man up and down.

Man was a strong word. He was more of a boy pretending to be a man. You hated that type of guys, always thinking they were above everyone when they actually knew nothing about anything.

“No one talks to me like that, you understand!” he said, suddenly walking towards you.

“And who would you be?” you asked, hoping to trick him while he was angry.

“Michael Gray”

Oh shit, was that Polly’s…

“Well, Michael, unlike what you might believe, I am not here to start a fight. So you can just take a step back and a deep breath.”

“The shop is off limits today, what kind of idiot doesn’t know that,” he said, taking a step forward.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” you said, also taking a step forward.

“Are you calling me an idiot?”

Another step.

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

Another step.

“What even is your name?”

Another step.

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

Another step.

“Not this again! You better shut up before things get bad,” he said.

He was close, too close now. Yes, you were a Shelby but if this man was Polly’s son, then chances are he could match you in a fight. He looked you straight in the eyes and with a single finger lifted your chin.

“Are you scared yet, little girl?”

You smiled. The voices in the other room had stopped.

“Are you scared yet, little girl?” you finally replied.

“That’s it!”

He pulled back his fist, ready to punch you and the face. Before he could even reconsider, Tommy grabbed his arm from behind. You dashed between the two and jumped into Finn’s arms.

“Finny!” you said, hugging him tightly.

“Y/N, how did you… when did you…” he tried to ask, hugging you back.

“Well, if it isn’t the child wonder,” said Arthur, putting his hand on your head.

You flashed him a smile before hugging him too.

“Hi,” you mumbled, your face buried in his shoulder.

“What, how… who is that?” asked Michael, his expression a mix of disbelief and disgust.

“Michael, meet Y/N Shelby,” Tommy said, as you made your way over to John.

You hugged him too, but he quickly pushed you back. You and John had always gotten along well, sometimes even more than you and Finn. You knew he was worried that seeing you here meant you had to quit college.

“I’m on break and my boss is ill,” you whispered to him.

“That’s amazing then,” he said, pulling you in for a second hug.

Your aunt then made her way to you hugging you and kissing the top of your head. She knew you were coming, so this wasn’t really a surprise for her.

“How was your trip?” she asked.

“Great, it was him that was the worst part,” you said, pointing at Michael, “No offence.”

“None taken,” she said, smiling at you, “In the future, Michael, don’t hit people.”

“She started it,” he replied.

“He started it,” you said back.

“Alright, stop it!” said Tommy.

All you wanted to do was walk up to him and hug him. It was his turn after all. But his eyes were so cold. He didn’t even smile when he saw you. It’s been so long since you last saw him, how much could he have changed?

“Where’s Ada?” you asked.

“Home,” Tommy replied, looking straight at you.

“Oh…”

“I’m glad to see you Y/N.”

“Are you? You should tell it to your face.”

You gasped, putting both hands on your mouth. You had fucked up. Michael had gotten you all riled up. Being on a break surely didn’t help either. You had fallen back into old habits of pushing people’s buttons until they snapped. But this wasn’t someone you wanted to snap.

“Sorry…” you said, lowering your hands.

Tommy didn’t say anything then suddenly started laughing.

“It’s good to see you Y/N. Seems like things don’t really change, um?” he said, opening his arms to you.

You went in for the hug, still shocked by his reaction.

“It’s good to be home,” you finally said.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

The Theatre - A Vampire!John Shelby/Polly Gray One Shot Story.

I wanted to have this finished last night, guys, but I wasn't really up to writing by the time I'd finally sat down. So, here it is now. Enjoy.

Words - 1,647

Warnings - None. Though John is a vampire, there is nothing gory, just sadness from both sides as he and Polly meet again.

Polly knew the building she carefully entered of old, even though the once grand theatre had long been abandoned. It was the place where fastidiously saved shillings would be spent, best clothes donned, holding her father’s tobacco-scented hand as she trotted up the steps excitedly, ready to see whatever play was being held there.  

“Holy shit!” Her startled exclamation cut through the desolate quiet, a pigeon low flying in its bid for freedom through the door she’d just pulled open. There had certainly been none of those flying around when she’d visited there as a child. Scanning around, she was filled with a sense of nostalgia tinged with sadness, the beautiful building now lain to waste, a lack of care and upkeep over time as well as the obvious desecration performed by hoodlums adding to the overall decay of a once splendorous venue. 

It smelled of death, too. However, such an odour had nothing to do with the theatre itself. 

“I know you’re here.”  

Her words echoed through the grand hall, the high ceiling ripped open upon the huge dome, a blueish silver beam of moonlight pouring in through the hole. “You can’t hide from me forever, our John.” 

He’d been missing for months, the family worried sick for him, accusations thrown in every direction over who the perpetrator of his demise truly was. Because John wouldn’t simply vanish without a trace unless something nerfarious had happened to him. It wasn’t, Polly realised – and sooner than her nephews – any of the usual suspects, though. 

“Love, you’ve got to show yourself eventually,” she called, dusting off one of the seats, its velvet still plush beneath the gathering of fine debris. “I’m not leaving until you come out.”  

Resolute as always, she took a seat, crossing her legs. “Ain’t the same without you around, you know. I never thought I’d speak the words, but I miss the noise. Never one for being quiet, were you?” She hummed a chuckle, remembering all the times she’d had to see him into the house on shaky feet, drunk as a lord, singing. Without deviation, his song was always out of tune, but delivered with the kind of infectious mirth that never failed to warm her.  

The space remained veiled in silence, but she knew he was there, knew he heard every word. Hell, she could have been standing at the corner of the street outside the green grocers, whispering every one, and he still would have heard her.  

“I know what you are, John boy. I know why it is, that you went missing and never returned. If you want to stay away from us, that’s up to you. At least show your face to me once now I’m here.” Her sigh was borne upon a tremored breath, looking around the shabby surroundings once more with eyes that glassed. “I don’t want you to become a memory.”  

Whatever left within him that was human couldn’t quite harden to those words, the plea of an aunt broken by it, the love she carried for him so very clear. Polly was rarely soft, her grit and tenacity, her strength and fortitude pouring with the love she felt for her boys. She’d been more like a mother to them and Ada for a long, long time.  

“Maybe I should be.”  

She blinked, and it was in that single shutter of her eyes that he appeared, down by the stage, the moonlight bathing him. He was even paler than he’d always been. “Come here, John. Let me see you properly.” 

He walked to her, moving at the pace of a human, of what he’d once been. Of what he’d never be ever again. “How’d ya find me?” 

She almost hadn’t, had it not been for her intuition. The theatre, it hadn’t solely been her special place as a child; John had loved it too. Alas, his trips there had ended at just six years old when it had finally closed its doors, Polly unable to spend that special time with her little nephew of a Saturday afternoon. 

It was a fond memory, remembering watching him leaning over the brass guard rails in the upper mezzanine, his eyes sparkling with wonder at the scenes below. He’d laugh until his little belly ached at the antics of the actors; the slapstick comedy plays he treasured so much. Tommy and Arthur were always too rambunctious to sit still for more than five minutes, but John had been different.  

Of course, he’d still tear through the streets of Small Heath like a little freckled tornado of chaos, eagerly chasing a football or trundling a hoop, but if something made the child laugh until he cried, his attention could be caught and his little legs slowed down. 

“Because I know you, our John,” she smiled, “and I’ll never not know you either. I should have just bloody come straight here when you vanished, should have known instantly you’d be hiding here.” 

He nodded, but his face still showed he sought more. “And how’d ya know what I am now?” 

It was time. She had to reveal the secret she’d kept for so many years, only half believing it, not wanting to think such could ever befall one of her precious nephews. “You’ve heard me speak of your great aunt before, haven’t you?” she began, taking out her cigarettes and lighting one up, the air perfumed by the scent of cloves. 

“Ar, Lorna Boswell, weren’t she?” 

“Correct,” she confirmed, drawing fiercely on her smoke. “She read my tea leaves for me, used to do it a lot. Everything she saw, it came true. One evening, she told me of a creature that would come and take away a boy who was precious to me, one with hair like fire and a temperament to match. Ain’t gotta do much work putting two and two together there, eh?” 

He laughed softly through his nose, Polly continuing. “She said the creature would be living death, and take the boy away, make him the same, condemn him to the night.” Her breath clouded in the cold, shuddered, her heart fracturing a little further. “Nobody talks of the vampires, but our family, we always knew what they were. Our origins are the same, because we’re Roma people, John, and that’s where they sprung up from all those years ago.” 

His brow furrowed a little, but Polly knew there was no real indignance behind it. “And why didn’t you warn me, try and stop it from happening?” 

She scoffed softly, standing, walking to where he stood. “Because Lorna also told me that the boy with the hair like fire would seek it willingly, so tell me, who am I to stand in the way of fate?” She had him there, and he knew it. “Ain’t no fucking way a mere mortal can stop something that powerful either, fate aside.” 

It was true, but still, standing there in the presence of the one he’d truly ached to leave behind, John hated himself even more for the decision he’d made. “She said I couldn’t come home, Ena, the one who made me like this. Said it’d be too dangerous, with me urges an’ all that.” His eyes saddened, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I can’t come home with you cos’ of that, Pol.” 

The weight of it sank in her chest like a stone, a tear slipping from her kohl-blackened eyes. “The blood cravings, I know.” A loving hand touched his cheek, life meeting death, her warmth spreading over his chill. “Whatever you were, you still are to me. Never forget that.” 

His hand, chilled and deathly pale, covered hers. “What you gonna tell the family?” 

“Whatever you want me to, love.”  

“Say you ain’t seen me, just let me be gone for a bit, until I get it under control. Then I’ll come back. Until then, I’ve got this place, ain’t I? All the memories.” He looked up, pointing, the brass rails shining in the moonlight despite the tarnish. “Right there is where we used to sit, watching people clobbering one another, falling over things. Never laughed like I did when I was here with you in me whole life, Pol.” 

And he never would again.  

“I know, our John. I know.” She clasped his face, pulling him to her level, pressing a kiss of unbreakable love to his forehead. “Want me to come back and see you again, or...” 

He shook his head. “Not for a bit.” His hands grasped her shoulders, her human closeness stirring him, but not in the same way it always did. He still had love in his cold, dead heart for her, but the vampiric urges outweighed anything else. His body tingled, the hunger beginning to grow. He couldn’t, though. He wouldn’t. “Go on, get yourself home. Just know I ain’t gonna forget about any of ya. If there’s trouble in the night, I’ll look out for ya.” 

Of course, he would. She sighed, stroking his face one more time, her tears flowing as she turned and with the weight of reluctance and sadness weighing her down, left him there in their special place.  

If only fate could be fought against. Then again, if it could have been, it would have meant that two weeks from then, she’d have lost a drunken Arthur to being jumped by a gang of Sabini’s men, her wide eyed, wild nephew coming back into the house worse for wear, but alive. 

“I dunno, Pol. They was all there, fuckin’ laying into me with lead pipes and batons, giving me a right kicking. Fuckin’ fought ‘em back, though, I did! But then, gone. One by one, they just... vanished!” he boomed, scratching his chin. “I tell ya, someone was watching over me tonight.” 

Yes. Someone was. Polly smiled as she stared into the fire, thanking John silently. 

[juregim]

things i've watched/read and liked in September '24

Articles/Essays

for the articles behind a paywall, i recommend 12ft.io

‘Am I a Snob Or Is He a Simpleton?’ by Ask Polly

At Home With the Marquis de Sade by Francine du Plessix Gray

Brat Summer Is Dead, Long Live Brat Summer by Arielle Gordon

Decolonization is not a metaphor by Eve Tuck and K. Wayne Yang (reread)

Desire, Dopamine, and the Internet by L. M. Sacasas

Good Girl by Michelle Albanes-Davis

'I Can't Decide What I Truly Want!' by Ask Polly

Innovators, coolhunters, and recognition by Style Analytics

Letter from a Region in My Mind by James Baldwin

my life is boring by Jenny Clark

Resisting simulations of the self by McKenzie Wark

THE CULTURAL REVISIONISM INDUSTRY by R. E. Hawley

The New Generation of Online Culture Curators by Kyle Chayka

Well, are we living in a simulation? by Amy Francombe

What Self-Awareness Really Is (and How to Cultivate It) by Tash Eurich

Youtube

a deep dive into the impact of 9/11 on pop culture by culture kitsch

booktok, brainrot, and why it’s okay to be a hater by alisha not alihsha

Claire Saffitz Makes the Most Delicious Pastry: Kouign-Amann | Dessert Person by Claire Saffitz

How Do Female Artists Paint Women? by Behind the Masterpiece

LOLITA: The Worst Masterpiece by Horses

The Incredibly Satisfying Downfall of Vice by Moon

The Sound the CIA Doesn't Want You to Know About by CHUPPL

There Are Mountains in the Clouds by Horses

This Video is About Brain Rot by Malik Peace

Books

i have some of the books as epubs (*) and i can send them over to you if you want

Angels Before Man (reread), Angels and Man by Rafael Nicolás *

In the Miso Soup by Ryu Murakami *

Madonna in Black: A collection of short stories by Ryūnosuke Akutagawa

The Dangers of Smoking in Bed by Mariana Enriquez *

The Memory Theatre by Karin Tidbeck *

The Shepherd King duology (One Dark Window, Two Twisted Crowns) by Rachel Gillig *

The Wretched of the Earth by Frantz Fanon (reread)

Wintersleep by Kenzo Kitakata *

[mischievouslittlecreature]

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Succubus!OC

Summary: At the party, some horrific truths come to light regarding Tommy, and the monster he has become entangled with.

Word Count: 2,640

Notes: Warnings for depictions of smut, infidelity, and demons.

Previous Chapter • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 6: The Party

She spent the whole party avoiding Tommy.

Most of his family was nice enough, Ada chatted with her the most, and she got warm receptions from many of the other family members.

Well, warm on the outside; all bright smiles, welcoming handshakes, and hugs, but she could see the justified distrust in their eyes as they all looked at her.

She had never been so tired. And she was constantly questioning if anything that was going on around her was even real, or if she was still trapped within a dream of some kind. It made her head hurt to think about it.

Not to mention that stress around if Tommy knew her secret; if he’d been playing her this entire time.

Mumbling a quick excuse, she stepped away to get another drink and steady herself before another round of conversation. Slipping hastily through the door leading to a small sitting room, she froze at the realization that it was already occupied.

“Mrs. Gray,” she cleared her throat. “I didn’t–I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you–”

“It’s alright, dear,” Polly beckoned her to come closer, seated in a plush red armchair, black cigarette smoking between her fingers. Mrs. Shelby sank tentatively in the seat across from her, whiskey glass cupped between her hands. Polly raised an eyebrow. “You like the whiskey?”

Something told her if she lied to Polly, even about such a little thing, the consequences would be dire. “Actually…no, not really,” she set aside the glass on a nearby table. Polly chuckled, taking a drag from her cigarette, and looking up at the portrait hanging above the fireplace.

Mrs. Shelby followed her gaze, throat growing dry at the sight of the redhead who’d spent nearly the entire week tormenting her.

“I never really liked her,” Polly said after a moment. “But I do admit, she was useful. Invaluable, even,” she sighed. “We all learned that part the hard way.”

“Who…” she stuttered, realizing that as soon as she asked the question, there would be no taking it back. “Who is she?”

“Was she, dear,” Polly corrected. “She’s dead.”

Mrs. Shelby couldn’t say that she was entirely surprised. It explained a lot.

“Her name was Lucy Winters,” Polly continued. “She was Tommy’s assistant.”

Her fingers, clasped around each other, tightened in recognition at the name he’d whispered so reverently into her neck just the night prior. “Did he love her?”

Polly shot her a look. “Yes. Very much. After she died…” she frowned, glancing into the fire crackling in the fireplace. “He went mad with grief. Locked himself away in this house, alone, for months. None of us saw him. The company almost collapsed without him around to run things… “ she shook her head. “And then one day he showed back up at the office and announced he was running for parliament.”

“He won’t talk about her,” she followed Polly’s gaze to the embers in the fire, worrying at her lower lip. “I didn’t even know her name,” she could feel Polly’s eyes boring into her, but she couldn’t offer anything in acknowledgement, too lost in thought about the nightmares that had plagued her the last few nights: opening to her eyes only to be greeted with the sight of Tommy fucking the dead love of his life right there next to her in their bed.

She did not actually believe that they were just dreams anymore. They felt too real, the memories of them lingering too long. And the bruises on her wrists from her last encounter with the monster–Lucy, she supposed she ought to refer to her as–were still dark purple and aching under the sleeves of her dress.

“Dear,” Polly sat up, tapping the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray on the table beside her. “Do you know what a succubus is?”

The question caught her completely off guard. “I…I think I remember them being briefly mentioned in church, but I don’t really remember…”

“A succubus is a female demon. Typically they appear either in dreams or while a man is asleep with the intent to seduce him.”

A chill went down Mrs. Shelby’s spine. “Don’t they kill their victims by draining their souls through…through repeated sexual activity?”

Polly hummed. “More modern interpretations indicate that by repeatedly having sex with a succubus, a bond is formed between her and the man. Once that happens she can’t–or won’t–hurt him. Makes more sense, don’t you think?” Polly shot her a grin, though there was no humor in her eyes. “Succubi need semen to survive. Why kill off a steady supply of the stuff when you could just come back every night for a fresh helping?”

Mrs. Shelby felt herself go stiff.

“I gave you that whole week in Paris to yourselves during your honeymoon. Just about starved myself, actually.”

Oh. Oh, Christ, no…

She thought about the dreams. About the demonic characteristics that had manifested on Lucy’s body over the course of the week: horns and claws and fangs, even a pointed tail…

She thought about the books of necromancy and summoning demons in Tommy’s office, and had to suppress another shiver.

Was…was Tommy trapped in some sort of bond with the demonic manifestation of his deceased lover? Had she tempted him with promises that they could still be together, at least in some way, only to ensnare him in a trap to provide herself with the nourishment she required?

Mrs. Shelby thought she might be sick. He was her husband. Hers. This demon couldn’t have him. Not anymore.

Glancing back at Polly, she felt a rush of hope. Clearly she knew about the demon and the hold that she had on Tommy. She probably had an idea of how she’d been tormenting Mrs. Shelby too. And that meant that maybe she could help her.

“How do you kill one?” she asked.

Polly shot her a mockingly innocent look. “What do you mean?”

The hope in Mrs. Shelby’s chest seized. “Well, you know…”

Polly’s all knowing eyes hardened just a fraction. “In all honesty, I’m not entirely sure. I would imagine it’s incredibly difficult. Nearly impossible, probably, if the man involved with her is a willing and enthusiastic participant in their trysts. He won’t let you.”

There was no question who exactly the ‘he’ was that Polly was referring to.

“But…” she still clung to the tiny sliver of hope, even as it started to shrivel away. “But what if she hurts him?” Mrs. Shelby murmured, shocked at his aunt’s lack of concern over the possibility–no, reality–that her nephew had bonded himself to a monster.

Polly chuckled. “She won’t. Like I said, succubi need their men alive,” she paused to take a long drag from her cigarette, blowing the smoke up towards the ceiling. “And they share a bond.”

There was something that told Mrs. Shelby that last statement was referring to something far more than just the connection forged between a succubus and its mate through intercourse. 

Something deeper. Something that had already been there long before Lucy had died and transformed into a demon of lust. 

Staring at Polly, she waited for her to offer some other type of solution to the problem, but she gave none, just remained sitting there smoking her black cigarette and smiling at her wickedly.

“Why are you telling me all of this?” she whispered. Polly shrugged.

“Just thought it would make interesting conversation, dear.”

Her heart sank, mind feeling like it was going to burst with trying to process so much information at once.

Polly stood, the movement so sudden it made the nerve-wracked Mrs. Shelby jump, shrinking back into her chair. Plucking up the untouched glass of whiskey Mrs. Shelby had left on the table, she held it out to her.

“Come. You should get back to the party. Before you’re missed,” the way she smiled seemed to Mrs. Shelby to be more like the way a tiger bared its teeth before jumping on its prey, and she was struck by the feeling that, no matter how much Polly had disliked Lucy, if she knew anything about her spying business with her father, she probably hated her more.

Polly was probably just trying to scare her. She knew about her spying on Tommy for her father, and she was angry with her. That was all. 

It was what she told herself as she took her whiskey glass from her, trying in vain not to let her hands tremble.

The bruises on her wrists throbbed in disagreement.

But if everything Polly said was true…

She shook her head. It was too terrible to consider. Even if it made everything that had transpired these past couple of days make a whole hell of a lot more sense.

She passed through the rest of the party in a daze, her head swimming with everything Polly had told her.

What the fuck was she going to do? What could she do? She didn’t even know what was the truth and what was a lie. What was real and what wasn’t. Dream or reality.

If Tommy really was carrying out an affair with a sex demon that also happened to be his deceased lover…there were so many things to consider. She couldn’t possibly just up and leave, could she? Tommy was still her husband…

“Did you really think that he was actually yours at all?”

She flinched at the memory of the words.

Staring at Tommy from across the long dining room as he conversed with Arthur, smiling politely to his older brother with a glass of whiskey clutched in his hand, she felt her heart tighten in her chest. 

Could that man, the man she’d started to fall in love with, really have tethered his soul to a demon for all eternity?

She was struck by the fact that she did not know the answer. The best she could come up with was a solid maybe.

She did know him at all. He hadn’t even been willing to tell her the name of the woman he had loved.

Loves, she corrected herself. At least if it was all true; Lucy was far from gone.

Jealousy, hot and nearly blinding, ignited in her veins. It wasn’t fucking fair. The woman was dead. Why did she still get to stake a claim over him? Tommy was her husband, not Lucy’s.

Going to get herself another drink, she tilted her chin up pridefully at the portrait of the redhead that looked down at her from where it was hanging over the shelf of alcohol.

Lucy couldn’t have actually been that important to him. He’d never even married her.

Straightening her back, she set her jaw. Demon or no demon, Tommy had made vows to her. He had married her. Not that whore of hell. Lucy could go fuck herself. Find someone else’s semen to gorge herself on. Tonight, if she came, Mrs. Shelby would tell her. Put her foot down. Enough was enough.

And then she and Tommy would talk, honestly, about the business that transpired regarding her father. Come to some kind of understanding and agreement. She would apologize, of course, just like she would expect him to. And then they could move on from it and forward. Together.

This marriage would be a success. She would make sure of it.

With that decision made, she felt better, able to actually relax and somewhat enjoy the remaining hours of the party. By the time everyone had left to go home, she was so tired all she wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep for the next week.

Stretching out beneath the covers, she closed her eyes, sleep claiming her almost instantly. A new surge of confidence had encompassed her, and for the first time in nearly a week she was not fearful of what she would be faced with as she drifted off.

Who knows, maybe it would all finally be over, without the stress of the party weighing heavily over her head.

For a while, she slept a dreamless sleep.

And then she was roused, slowly, by the steady rocking of the bed.

Rolling over onto her side, she opened her eyes lazily. Even though she was ready for it, her heart still flew up into her throat at the sight that met her on the other side of the bed.

Tommy was sitting up, Lucy on his lap, straddling him. Her red hair was mussed around her horns, wings half unfurled at her back, dark red tail coiled on the pristine white sheets behind her. She was gripping his shoulders for stability as she rode him, bouncing up and down on his cock at a steady pace, red lips parted and eyes closed in pleasure.

Tommy was groaning, his arms around her, palm splaying across her back in the space between her wings, face dropping into her neck, pressing soft kisses there.

“Lucy,” he whispered, in the same worshiping, tender voice he’d mumbled it with the night before. His voice stuttered with a sound of pleasure when Lucy grinded down on him, raising his head to kiss her sloppily, hips bucking up to meet hers, bed rocking with their combined movements. When they broke the kiss, he dropped his face back into her shoulder.

“I love you more than anything,” he said, running his nose up and down her skin in a tender nuzzle.

Lucy made a small whining noise, head resting on Tommy’s shoulder, lips tracing along the shell of his ear.

“I love you too,” she said, and Mrs. Shelby could tell that she meant it. They both did. There was something entangled and twisted between them that would never be able to be broken.

Lucy turned her head, resting it more firmly and affectionately on Tommy’s shoulder, still riding him steadily. Her face pointed towards Mrs. Shelby, and then her eyes opened.

She was met with not the dark green eyes from the portrait, but instead two crimson orbs, the black pupils slitted like those of a cat. The succubus didn’t say a word, just making eye contact with her while she continued to make love to her husband.

Any conviction within Mrs. Shelby died. There was nothing she could do. If she tried to tell the succubus to leave, she would probably just laugh in her face.

And if she told Tommy he had to choose between the two of them, there was no question as to which one of them he was going to pick.

Feeling tears prick at her eyes, she tore her gaze away from the demon’s. Perhaps this was what she deserved. After all, she had betrayed him too, with her spying and the letters she’d sent to her father, even if Tommy had been playing her the entire time.

She slid quietly from the bed, moving about to pack a bag of her necessities. Tommy and Lucy did not cease their movements, not even when she looked over her shoulder at them once and found them sitting with their foreheads pressed together, staring into each other’s eyes. She wondered how Tommy could look into those crimson irises without balking.

They turned both their gazes onto hers, and she hastily looked away, continuing to shove clothes into her bag even as she felt them still watching her.

Maybe they would come after her. Or maybe not. Either way, she couldn’t stay here any longer, watching her husband love another woman.

Walking to Tommy’s bedside table, she forced herself to meet his unapologetic icy eyes, Lucy still in his lap, his hips thrusting up, fucking her shamelessly as he stared at her. Stealing what little remained of her resolve, Mrs. Shelby wriggled her wedding bands free from her left hand.

They dropped with a resounding, final clink onto the bedside table.

Previous Chapter • Fic • Next Chapter

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

[vivianleighwishesshewasme]

Ghost of you

Thomas's mother visits him at Arrow house while he's packing

Short one shot Language, mentions her death by suicided don't engage if under 18

Ghost of you

_____________________________________________________________________

“How much shit can a few people acquire in a fucking lifetime eh.” Tommy groaned, sounding like an empty specter himself. A ghost of a man. That's what Lizzie had said to him. He sat down at the dining table they’d all eaten at many times laughing, crying and eating. He wiped the dust off the table top with his hands inspecting his fingers now coated with a heavy gray cover. It had been far too long since he’d been here. His real home.

Not much was left of his family honestly. Wasn’t even a full lifetime for most of them he thought bitterly. He knew everyone but Ada and Arthur blamed him for that. Esme never forgave him. Pain eating her alive last time he saw her, thin and gaunt. Lizzie and Charlie hated him. Finn was on the run from him. He snorted. Fucking Finn, Tommy wasn’t even actively looking for him. Running, like the boy he’d always be. The brother you never got around too. Tommy always hated that he’d said that, which sounded like an excuse to be a weak man. Blame the others for his unhappiness. Finn wasn’t his child. He didn’t owe him to raise him but he had provided. Many times he'd given opportunities to him only for Finn to fizzle out in the end.

Tommy had factories and obligations he had to attend to, not chase a fucking child across the countryside. He lit his cigarette and closed his eyes. He knew he’d been sitting too long. His restlessness subsiding and his body aching from hauling boxes full of treasured memories up and down the stairs.

“Hullo mum, I already got rid of your stuff years ago, should’ve haunted me then.” He didn’t even bother to turn around. How many times had he replied to her soft gentle footsteps in his head like a symphony, one day foolishly hoping she’d come back down those stairs saying she’d faked her own death. He’d helped fish her lifeless soulless body out of the cut. He knew better.

“Your eyes weren't open then. Couldn’t have seen me. You weren't ready yet.” To his horror he could hear little water droplets falling off her frame and hitting the floor. He knew she was an apparition, no water to properly be found. He didn’t want to turn around and see her in her shift, long wavy black hair sticking to her drenched body. He shivered. Grateful he never saw the blood or bullet hole on Grace. Why was his mum appearing to him like this?

“Ready for what? Come to take me eh. I died long ago, mum, you didn’t seem to care then.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. If he could goad her, he could pretend her presence was not affecting him. He’d be in control. She shattered that as she drifted in front of his feet not touching the ground. He grabbed the back of the chair clutching it tightly as if it would save him.

She was as white as a freshly bleached sheet and her long raven black tresses a dark ebony black, stark contrast to her skin. She looked like death himself. He was grateful Ruby and Grace never appeared like that. Maybe she’d always looked like that but child like love had tinted his view.

“ I’m worried about you, tommy.” Her mouth never moved but her voice sounded through the room softly.

“Like you were when you threw yourself in the cut eh? Left us with that no good scoundrel of a dad huh? Like you worried about us then?” His false bravado was wrapped tightly around him like a shield. He pointed his waning cigarette at her and scowled. He’d waited years to tell her how he’d felt. The gravity of what she’d done to them to unload on her tiny thin shoulders..

“Polly did a good job.” she said softy unflinching.

“Wasn't her job. Now was it.” The accusation dripping like venom off his tongue caused bile to rise. He didn’t expect to be so angry with her after all those years. He hadn’t taken his fathers death hard at all. Fuck him was his eulogy.

“Did Not come to fight son just to put eyes on you since you are unburdening yourself again from your entanglement with family.”

“Where’s Grace? She just saw me a few days ago. I’ve spoken to Ruby and Polly recently. Don't you all talk?” His tone was ragged and his voice rose and fell like the tide. God, if anyone saw him now they'd have him committed.

“It takes a great deal of energy to appear, tommy. I Need to recharge for a while.” She wafted towards him and stopped when he flinched. She pulled back her hand and stared longingly at him. She had to see the pain, it was written all over him wasn’t it? His graying hair at his temples, his frown lines and so forth. He was beaten down and tired of life.

“Besides, you think we all just stand around waiting to appear to you. Ungrateful boy.” She scolded gently. He glared at her anger rekindling.

“Yes I am, greedy, selfish bastard.” He spat out.

“Soft, tender hearted, loyal and family oriented.” she countered crouching in front of him. He could see the water beading off her hair, lashes and shin like tears falling softly around her.

“At one time maybe. You should go to Finn, ask him if he shares that opinion, or Polly, Ruby or Michael.” He leaned forward trying not to touch her. He wanted to dry her off. Hated remembering her this way. He wondered if this was her punishment. To wander around dripping wet from the cut since she’d taken her own life. The others hadn’t.

“Polly and ruby adore you. No grudges held there.” He scoffed at her. He clutched his chest, tightening pain coils restricting him again. Panic pains the doctor had said.

“Those will get worse until you heal yourself.” she said to him.

“I’ll probably be long dead eh mum. Pass the pain to someone else, oh wait no one is here.” He glared at her. Hate evident in his eyes, except he still didn’t hate her, blame would have been a better emotion.

“Ada will grieve you dearly.”

“She’ll be the only one.” bitterness laced heavily through his tone.

“Most of Birmingham.” She offered with empty sympathy.

“Not everyone though.” He said to her, She rolled her eyes at him. He was grateful she didn’t have a ghostly frying pan with her or he’d have been struck against the head.

“You don't need everyone to love you tommy. Just your family.” Her voice was but an echo as a strong cold chill raced through the room to an open window. She slid out with the dust to the outside swirling in the sun.

“Came in like you always come out, eh mum, with the fucking wind.” He slumped down on the chair feeling the familiar exhaustion overtake him. Sad that he hadn’t gone with her.

END

[red-riding-wood]

OC: Charlotte Griffin

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Summary: Charlotte Griffin, on a quest to emerge from her family's dark shadow, becomes a spy in a gang war that puts her loyalties and desires into question as she grows closer to the man who is meant to be her enemy.

WARNINGS for whole story: eventual explicit sexual content and references, explicit violence and gore, mentions of physical abuse, language, ethnic slurs (mainly because of Alfie)

A.N. Been sitting on this chapter for a while because I honestly hated the second scene but I think I've finally come to peace with it!

Blood painted the shattered windows of the old greenhouse and soaked deep into the mosses and weeds that sprouted from the remnants of the floor. Though the bodies had been taken away by police the night of the vicious occurrence, their viscera must have fed the greenery that grew in something that once only gave life, that never took.

Investigators roamed about, though Polly had granted us both access to the crime scene from her name and association with the Blinders. I still had yet to understand what exactly she had taken me here to see and why, but I could’ve gotten lost in examining the carnage.

The Blinders, I realised now, were violent out of necessity. People like Arthur, people like Thomas. I’d seen it in the grave look Thomas had worn ever since. He looked as if he’d come home from the war yesterday rather than a near decade ago.

Men like Arthur and Thomas, they fought like animals because they had to survive. Because it was in their blood. Etched into their hearts.

Luca, on the other hand, he claimed to only wish to settle a vendetta, but something darker brewed beneath his flesh. I could practically sense it. But he did not fight like an animal. He thought himself above them. Everything that had happened here was meticulously orchestrated, planned to the most finite detail.

There were no men I’d met like Luca.

“Have you gotten a nice, long look, yet?” Polly asked, rousing me from my thoughts. I found them drifting to the serpent-gazed man far too often than what was comfortable to admit. Even when faced with the calamity of his devilish mind and my reckless actions.

“I don’t know what I’m meant to be looking at, Miss Gray,” I told her. My arms had been clutching the buttons of my coat, trying to hold the fabric in place so that the cold wouldn’t consume me.

“You’re looking at Tommy’s doing. And yours.” Her dark gaze turned to me sharply, an iciness in its depths that pierced my heart.

“Arthur and Thomas lived,” I told her, unsure as to why she concerned herself with such morality all of a sudden. She didn’t strike me as the sort to lose sleep over a few fallen soldiers.

“For now,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “But their time will come.”

I turned to her now, my arms falling as the wind buffeted the side of my face.

“Why did you bring me here? To guilt me?” I cocked my head slightly, and said, “Or stop me?”

Dark optics settled on me as she blew a gout of smoke. It was carried away by the wind. “I have a son,” she said. “His name is Michael.”

“So I’ve heard. He was with John when he was shot.”

Though I tried not to think of the body I had seen in the casket that day, his name could not be avoided. I hadn’t even known him, yet his likeness to my brother was forever etched into my memory. My mind used to have a much harder time picturing what Alexander’s corpse would have looked like, before I’d stepped foot in Small Heath.

“He’s still in the hospital,” Polly said. “Bedridden. Utterly defenseless. I know that Changretta will come for him. Perhaps you will even lead him straight there.” Her brows cocked in a silent challenge.

My flesh crawled, and my gut clenched, though I didn’t entirely know why. I hadn’t defied a single order of Thomas’ or gone behind his back. I had proven my loyalty.

“Are you insinuating that I might be working with the enemy, Miss Gray?”

Polly shrugged, but trapped me in an intense stare. “I wasn’t, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen a spy show her dark side.”

This was not the woman who had invited me into her home and had given me advice on how to deal with Luca. This was a woman who was lashing out, like an animal, because she was scared. I could see it gleam in the dark pearls of her eyes.

“Miss Gray…” I took a step forward, invading her space as Luca often did to mine. “With all due respect, you have not seen my dark side."

As it seemed, not even I had properly glimpsed my dark side.

She regarded me from an unwavering gaze, cigarette held elegantly by one cocked wrist.

“I did not decide to work for the Devil himself so that I could play games,” I continued. “I came here because I have ambitions. And I do not wish to squander those ambitions by betraying the very man that can grant me what I seek.” I straightened, and said, “So, I repeat: why did you bring me here today?”                  

Polly took a long drag of her cigarette, and blew its smoke into the wind. Her gaze darted only briefly to the greenhouse before settling on me with that familiar crease of stress in her brow.

“Michael is my only child,” she told me. “I will not see him slaughtered like these men here today.” She blew another quick puff, and added, as her gaze darted away again, “Or John.

“And I want you to get something straight, Charlotte. You do not work for Thomas. You work for me. He may be the face of the Blinders, but I’m the only one with a lick of sense around here.

“So what I’m about to tell you is an order. Not a request. And if you tell Thomas, I’ll cut your tongue out myself. I’ve never liked spies. They talk too much.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, but listened.

“I want you to make a deal with Luca. Offer Thomas, for Michael’s life to be spared. I can set up the date and the time. You only have to do what you spies do best. Talk.”

I eyed her with an increasing wariness now. A betrayal, from his very own aunt? I wasn’t sure if I could be surprised, after he had left her to hang in prison. And I couldn’t be surprised, I suppose, for her to value the life of her sole son over her nephew’s.

But she was mad if she thought I would turn against Thomas Shelby.

“If this is another test of character, Miss Gray, I can say that I have had quite enough of those,” I said, though I knew she was dead serious by the fear in that dark gaze of hers. And so I told her, “But this isn’t a test, is it? You wouldn’t have brought me here if it were.” I leaned in just a tad, just enough so that she knew she was not speaking to someone who would bow so easily. She did not frighten me in the way Luca did.

“You wanted to guilt me. Appeal to my humanity,” I said. “But when that doesn’t work for you, what then?”

Cigarette smoke blew in a puff, each tendril seeming to have a life of its own as it weaved through the air.

“The others don’t know that you set up the funeral ambush,” she said. “They wouldn’t be very happy if they found out.”

“And I can’t imagine they would be very happy finding out you chose to only spare Michael.”

“And just who do they think they’re going to believe?” Polly countered. “Like I said, I run this operation. I hold it together. I’m family.”

Something about her last words pierced my heart again, fractured it straight through to my soul.

Family.

Family, Luca had said, was the most important thing.

And it was the one thing I would not find here. Not with the Blinders. They thought me no more than a lowly spy.

But if this was all I would ever be to them, I was determined to do my job well. And I would not cave over petty blackmail.

“I will take my chances, Miss Gray,” I told her, before stepping away, the edges of my coat swishing against her legs as I made my departure.

Family, I thought the word again, nearly parting my lips to utter it. Ruminating on it. And I brought my fingers to brush the tail of my ribbon.

What was family, really, if you could not trust one another?

---

Polly Gray was not an easy woman to shadow.

She had left her house in the late evening and since then had been elusive, never taking a predictable route. On top of that, she was keen, and had her wits about her; her gaze swept across each corner of the street as if she owned the ground on which she walked, and those within her vicinity were only there by the grace of her good will.  I had needed to keep a ways back, and I wore black, indistinguishable clothing and my hair tied into a bun beneath the hat I wore that tipped downwards just enough to veil my gaze.

I was much more at ease when she entered the pub, when I was swallowed by the throng of bustling drunkards. They made much more commotion than I did, and I was able to blend seamlessly with the well-dressed ladies whom they courted.

What caused my state of alarm was the overwhelming amount of Italians that I quickly found myself surrounded by. Déjà vu hit me like a train as my eyes roved across the bar stools, searching for a black hat and a toothpick.

Polly sat at one of the stools, a mink fur wrapped elegantly around her shoulders and her earrings glinting in the glow of the chandeliers.

“Signorina.”

Startled by the word, I spun on my heel, my heart lifting in my chest as I recalled when a green eyed man had woven the same syllables with his silver tongue.

And though I knew that it wasn’t him, I couldn’t help but deflate when I glimpsed his chocolate gaze. Dressed in black, he was one of the Italian mobsters, and perhaps it was this that sparked the familiarity as I studied his clothing and his features.

“May I have a dance?” he asked me, extending a hand.

I eyed his hand cautiously, but with another glance cast to Polly, I decided to take him up on the offer. He brought me in close, but not as close as Luca, and his touch did not send shivers through me, nor did the heat of his breath flutter my heart.

And it was then that I realised I had never once compared a man to another, never wished for a stranger’s touch to be someone else’s so intimately. 

“What brings you to Birmingham?” he asked me, accent more lilted than the soothing New York tones of Luca’s. “This city, it does not suit you.”

“Is that so?” I said absently, only half-intrigued by the man’s statement. As we danced, I tried to sneak glances through the converging crowd, but he had led me into too many people.

“These streets are filthy,” he said. “Not like my hometown.”

“And your hometown would be better suited for me, would it?” I said, tipping my head back to look him in the eye.

He chuckled, and said, “A woman such as yourself, yes, I can picture you much better walking down the streets of…” His brow furrowed at me, eyes squinted, and his tonality changed on a dime. “You look familiar.”

My spine stiffened, and I downcast my gaze almost immediately. I had been too absorbed thinking of all the ways he wasn’t Luca that I hadn’t taken the time to uncover why I knew him.

He was one of Luca’s guards.

“Well, then I suppose I’m not all that special,” I purred out over his shoulder, so that he would not be able to glimpse my face.

As we turned, Polly’s earrings winked in the glow of the chandeliers. Next to the gold rings of slender fingers that placed a felt hat on the bar before her. Next to the inked black hand that poked from his sleeve.

“I must disagree, amore. Perhaps I know you from the silver screen. Let me take a look at your face.”

My heart could’ve stopped. From the man’s words, or from his boss’ arrival, I couldn’t tell.

“Maybe I prefer not to be recognised,” I told him. “There is an allure to mystery, is there not?”

We turned, and Luca and Polly disappeared from my gaze. I tried to speed up, tried to guide him into quicker, longer strides.

“Let me look at you,” he said, more pressingly, his finger prodding at my jaw.

Every instinct in me screamed to pull away, though I tugged him close, my lips grazing his neck as I brought him around to see Luca chuckling around a toothpick and Polly smiling as she wrapped her fur tighter around her shoulders.

My gut clenched with something wicked.                             

Suddenly, I hated her smile.

“Careful,” I whispered into the man’s ear as Luca and Polly disappeared from view. I dropped my voice into a purr again and said, “I have been known to bite.”

“All the more reason to have a look, then,” he murmured against my scalp, and my stomach knotted.

And yet, I cared more about coming around our next turn than I did convincing him otherwise.

Luca was close to Polly. Too close. His arm brushed hers as he reached for his drink. I couldn’t read either of their faces anymore, but I could only imagine her wearing that smile for him.

“Show me that pretty face,” the man said, his fingers cupping my chin once more.

“It’s not yours,” I snapped, jerking my head away in one quick motion. His thumb unhooked a blonde lock from my bun.

I could do nothing but stare into eyes that widened with recognition as he fully took in my face, and the world seemed to undulate in my peripheral and morph into lurid streaks of colour.

“I have to go,” I breathed, my stomach churning, and I shoved my way through the crowd as I left the Italian stunned.

Fresh air was both a welcomed luxury and a frigid curse as it filled my gasping lungs. I twisted and wove my way around the brick walls of the alleyways, the cars on the streets, never running but always casting a glance over my shoulder. I must’ve wound my way through an entire borough before I gauged that there was enough distance between me and the pub, and I slipped into the nearest telephone booth.

The transfer didn’t take long, but I still cast a wary gaze around as my heart began to calm and my breaths came more steady in my chest. The adrenaline was waning, leaving my shoulders and calves tense with ache.

“Matteo? Yes, hello, this is Charlotte. I would like to speak to Luca, please.”

“What is this regarding?” Matteo asked me over the line.

I rubbed my temples, nursing a burgeoning headache, and said, “I just need to speak with him. It’s urgent.”

“Luca is out on business.”

Business.

My stomach clenched again.

Was Polly making the same deal she tried to make with me?

Would Luca no longer have a use for me in this war?

Why had she been smiling?

“Charlotte?” Matteo spoke after what must’ve been a long silence, but for me, had been a frantic tide of cruel thoughts.

“Yes. Thank you. Tell him I need to speak with him as soon as possible.”

I hung up halfway through Matteo’s farewell, and I sank to the floor of the booth, the poorly constructed glass groaning against my weight and the metalwork biting into my spine. I dug a cigarette from my pocket and, with shaking fingers, held a lighter to the end.

I nudged open the door with my shoe for ventilation, and took a deep drag. I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining the notes of citrus and jasmine entwining with the smoke.

And when I opened them, I stared into my faint reflection in the glass, and the eyes that stared back at me were a pale, ice blue, and their frigidness warmed my aching heart, tugged at the bright of my soul.

And I watched, slowly, as they morphed to a green past the gout of smoke I blew, and a dark hat swept across the reflection’s forehead and the bright of citrus turned to the dark of ambrette.

And I stared into the reflection until the beating of my heart had finally lulled, and the smoke had swallowed the serpent gaze.

NEXT CHAPTER

SERIES MASTERLIST / FULL MASTERLIST

Please let me know if you would like to be added/removed to any of my taglists and notified of new works!

Taglist:

[desertpersephone]

Writing Patterns

tagged by no one, I just wanted to do it.

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

blue swallow motel, room 14, 7pm. hope to see you there, secret agent.

M, 3k, marmalade | bathing/washing, conversations

“So what was real?” Steam swirled around the tiny bathroom, and Otis’ toes curled into the fuzzy bath mat thrown down on tile that maybe at one point was white. Now the grout was gray and the tiles were tan and the bathmat was that old kind. The kind grannies have, the itchy kind, and he figured whoever had picked it must have thought it made the bathroom look homey.

He Peels An Orange And I Eat The Fruit On My Knees

E, 7.3k, steddie | valentines exchange, baker steve

There was something special about the early morning. It was quiet, but not quiet in the way that the evening was quiet, not quiet in the way an empty house was quiet. It was its very own kind of quiet. Almost peaceful, hazy and glowing with pre-dawn light. It had some kind of liminal feeling, both day and night or sleep and wakefulness. It was special. Except that waking up early also sucked absolute balls.

syrup sweet and lonesome

E, 17k, steddie | christmas exchange, subspace

The distant sound of cars echoed into the alley, and the frigid air of Indianapolis in the winter started to soak into his bones like cheap brandy. Steve kind of wished he had some cheap brandy to chase it away, to stoke the dying heat in his chest. With brick of questionable cleanness and graffiti against his back, Steve puffed out a lungful of smoke and stared at the phone in his hand again.

I had a feeling that I belonged. I had a feeling I could be someone.

E, 3k, 9-1-1 | eddie diaz character study, fatherhood

The day she tells him feels like the worst day of his life. Something forms in his chest. Tight. Maybe it's the worst day of their lives. She's supposed to go to college, got in at UT in Austin, and the fall semester starts in just a few weeks, and Eddie was going to put some hours in at his dad's company, and then he was going to move to Austin to be with her in a year, and they were going to start their lives — and now Shannon was telling him she was pregnant.

add salt to taste

T, 1.5k, 1/?, steddie | personal chef steve, rockstar eddie

The kitchen was so much quieter than the ones Steve had worked in before. There was no yelling, no work chatter, no fryer, no vents, no water boiling over. The only sizzling came from the one pan he had on the front burner, hot oil welcoming as he lay a nice fillet of catfish skin side down. He could feel eyes on his back, monitoring his process, making sure he actually knew what the fuck he was doing.

we're here tonight, and that's enough

G, 3.5k, steddie | christmas exchange, hard of hearing steve, steddie as dads

Snow fell outside, dimly visible as it reflected the streetlights, the heavy blanket of quiet already starting to enrapture the neighborhood. Eddie always swore he could hear it, when it was landing thick and soft on Steve’s rose bushes under the front window, or on the steps he would shovel for his husband in the morning, or on the plastic slide of the backyard play structure. But right now all he could hear was the quiet Christmas music coming from the living room stereo, echoing gently through the warm house.

Becoming. . .

G, 1.3k, stranger things | spiderman orgin story, spider!steve

Steve Harrington had never liked spiders. Of all the bugs in the world, they were the worst. He didn't really like any bugs — maybe rolly pollies or butterflies, but most of the rest? Awful. And spiders gave him the heebeejeebees.

THESE HANDS ARE GROWING COLD THEY'RE RUNNING OUT OF THINGS TO HOLD

G, 1.8k, stranger things | steve harrington character study, crochet, grief

Steve was intimately familiar with the emergency room at Hawkins Memorial by now. Even more familiar with the long, quiet halls of the nuero wing, with its big, private rooms. The rest of the hospital he knew from growing up there, being relegated to the doctors' lounge or the surgical waiting room when his parents couldn't find a babysitter, or when his mom was supposed to be off work and instead came to loiter around the hospital in hopes of snagging a new case.

rotting like a wreck on the ocean floor

T, 2.7k, 2/7, steddie | merman steve harrington, modern au

The beach after a storm was the best place in the world. There was a strange quiet to the sand and the mystery of what had been blown ashore; logs and ropes, chunks of debris lost at sea, shells and bottles and moon jellies. Eddie had developed quite a fondness for the beach after a storm, to the point that he would get up while his uncle was still sleeping to walk down the short trek to the beach and poke around. Sometimes he would find treasures -- and sometimes he would find trash.

i have never known peace like the damp grass that yields to me

M, 3.3k, the witcher | original character backstory, wounds and amputation

Oberyn hated taking monster contracts. He had always found that there was never enough coin on the other side, and more often than not they were either far too easy — and thusly boring — or too much effort for that little bit of coin. Humans just wanted him to be an exterminator, to come in and clean up their pests, with no understanding of the training that went in to being a witcher.

God I really like to Set the Scene don't I? I like people to Feel where we're meeting our characters before actually being introduced to the plot. Even in my smutty oneshots am taking you on a visual journey. Or I try at least.

[paper-collective]

[Ray📝:] to make this whole system thing work a little better we made a blog. we would love to talk to other systems, we know the value in feeling seen

[Gray 📝:] under the cut we have alter list, practical info and discourse stances.

[Annie & Rob📝:] use he/him if not otherwise implied. most alters use he/him and all the fem alters are comfortable with he/him. (I won't speak for the xenogender alters though)

she/her is used by: Annie (primary), Angel (casually), Polly (probably), Rega (in addition to he/him), Minian (only)

alter blogs: @annie-flying (Annie & Angel +?) (not accessible, full of undescribed images)

[📝Ray & Lee:] an attempt at an alter list. Some inaccuracies may exist. Not all alters are listed.

comment: [Cal📝:] this section is under reconstruction because well, this is grossly inaccurate

alters: Ink (he/him), Lee (he/him, admin), Forga (he/him), Marc (he/him) (symptom holder), Max (he/him) (strong dissociative barrier), Mint (he/him + any green neos), Ray (he/him), Lilly(she/they/he), Blue (blue/blueself / he/him), Luke/k (he/they) ,Rain (he/they), Roy (he/him), Rowan (he/him) (fictive?), Ore, Gold, Reya (trauma/memory holder), hidden name (1 & 2), Orange, Reya, Regal, Viola, gch1 (group chat host), gch2

alter count: ca 80-90 (known). [source: gray]

simplyplural alter count: 50-60. [source: QL] [outdated -Mint🌱]

[Blue & Ray📝:] system terms: traumagenic, questioning DID, has subsystems/groups (not sure if there's a difference). [Annie & Lee📝:] We have some issues with speech that we don't know the reason for.

[Rain 📝:] we're comfortable with most if not all language for alters/parts/headmates/sections and system.

[QL📝] We have very few fictives, but a lot of protectors and comfort seekers and quite a few without any named role.

[Marc & unnamed 📝:] we usually tag posts with [alter name].txt, but not all alters do it. overall formatting mostly depends on alter. "unnamed.txt" is for alters without a name who don't use alter/tag format. [ink📝:] similar names may indicate similar alters. Sometimes we use a series of concepts or letters to indicate alters (tagged: alter/tag) which usually means an alter doesn't have a name or is a blur between a couple different ones.

[gray📝:]Because some alters don't want us to we do not publicly display our (body) age, but we will give it to you if you ask. We try to follow age-based DNIs as best we can. We are ok with people of basically any age interacting, but preferably at least old enough to use this app. [Mint🌱:] regardless of age only interact platonically/socially/parasocially, no fl*rting or anything like that.

syscourse: we're anti-harrasment and anti-fakeclaiming. we're endo neutral/unaligned, though some alters are pro or anti so you might see some posts about it (see here for more info). [Lee 📝:] no member believes you can accidentally make an endogenic system, but some think you can intentionally make one. [not verified by multiple alters yet]. [forcibly unnamed 📝:] Some alters are pro and some are anti, and therefore we may want to interact with users who share these opinions. I hope this is ok. We don't really start any syscourse on here. we are currently considering moving all syscourse to a sideblog.

[Gray📝:] other discourse: we're pro-queer, the term and people (unnamed 📝: we don't support radqueer to be clear). [Gray 📝:] We don't have a stance on most labels. We are a bit uncomfortable with people with strong shipcourse opinions, but you can interact.

We are not at all caught up on shipcourse, but any and all shipping is a trigger so ship-centric blogs DNI. We are anti-war and believe in rehabilitation not punishment for crime and prisons. We believe in religious freedom.

We support the term transandrophobia and understand that men can face discrimination for not being the "right kind" of man (see also: toxic masculinity). We are against slut-shaming and virgin-shaming and believe in sex positivity.

We are against the term "narsissistic abuse" because we believe it's better described as "emotional abuse", "verbal abuse", "gaslighting", "manipulation" and/or "psychological abuse", and don't wish to stigmatize traumatized people's disorders even further.

[Blue & Lee📝:] We are in a lot of ways very dependent on boundaries, especially in friendships. So if we're chatting or even just mutuals PLEASE tell us if we ever overstep your boundaries or do anything with you you don't want, and any other boundaries. Also, applies to anyone, but tell us if you need anything tagged, we are willing to tag anything.

[acertainmoshke]

Character Intro: Cassandra Zoawin

Age 10 (now and forever)

Pronouns: she/her

Sexuality: look, I know kids get crushes but I didn't so can't really imagine it so she just has better things to think about

Abilities: actually, she's a completely non-magical human except for the aging thing. She does have some cool skateboard tricks and is quite an artist.

Physical description: small white girl with long blonde curls and gray eyes. Eternally scraped knees and her hair is always falling in her face if some nearby adult doesn’t braid it.

Clothes: likes to wear cute clothes, often princess-themed and almost exclusively in pastel shades. She begged Lily to paint her shoes, too. Has a charm bracelet. Generally stuffs her pockets with polly pocket, littlest pet shop, and other tiny toys that she is free to play with any time.

Basic backstory: born in 1916 but stolen at only 8 months old by a Fae in want of a human child, replaced by a being that at the time was glamoured to look like her. While Shaka's hair darkened by 5, Cassie's stayed blonde. The timeline is a little fuzzy in her memory, but she was at one point a toddler and a tiny girl, and at that point she was doted on like a puppy by the Fae around her, given fancy desserts and toys and it was nice. At some point though she got older and was expected to dress in fancy gowns and act less like a puppy to be petted and more like a decoration or entertainment. She doesn't know when she stopped aging, but she lived with several other kids who also never grew up. Things changed after a few decades when Shaka arrived to fight for her. After that, every 5 years she got a month to go spend in the human world with Shaka and Kris and she lived for these adventures when she got to just have fun and run around screaming with no fear or humiliation. So when one day, with no explanation, Shaka arrived and said she had to decide then whether to run away or stay forever, she went with them. It was a harder adjustment to regular life than she expected, and the way her friends outgrow her and she never gets older is really hard on her. But she does like cartoons and dolls and her bike and getting to talk back or throw fits without being hurt for it.

Basic inciting incident: in the first book, she has very little say. But the ultimate decision on where to live for the rest of her life was hers, and she wanted the world of colors and pigtails and whining to stay up too late instead of the one full of gowns and balls and learning new dances every month.

[amidst-wonderland]

{random nora + michael (ft. george + rosie) headcanons}

[part one] + [part two]

nora calls her english friends "hen" even if they're a few years older than her. like, esme, ada & gina but she wouldn't dare dream of doing it to her scottish friends who are older than her.

people in a past have assumed that nora was jack's wife when they moved to the us. what didn't help was michael and nora's son being called "jack" (named after john shelby) which resulted in nora wanting to call him ian instead. it didn't catch-on.

nora has a tattoo. it's a small rose at the bottom of her back. it was given to her by one of sabini's bartenders that eilidh swore fancied nora.

nora's got a few different nicknames:

michael calls her nonie the mcleod's call her nory esme calls her red john calls her trouble (alec is also partial to that)

nora calls michael ‘gray’ (she’d started it before they got married) and it seemed to just stick.

not having any cultural traditions really bothered nora now looking back on her wedding day and as someone who has a passion for colours, clothes and patterns she hated how bloody bland her wedding was.

     “never liked these ‘hings.” nora idly gestured picking at the leftover chicken george didn’t want to eat. “didnae even like ma ain.”      esme softly winces at the memory of nora’s rather disastrous wedding day. a pregnant nippy eighteen-year-old, johnny dogs mediating and polly's vulture-like dotting on the scottish girl making sure her future daughter-in-law couldn’t do a runner, did not make for an easy morning of.      “at least am no up the spout at this one but gray’s naewhere to be seen as-fucking-usual.”      “hardly an ideal situation – mine wasn’t any better. john ended it sleeping in the allotment.”      “alec’s wis nice. hid the auld traditional shite ah felt lit ah needed tae hiv – faither ae the bride, ceilidh and haundfasting ‘though didnae shed a tear over nae blackening. jane fucking stunk fir days, apparently.”

gina removed the ruby from nora's lighter (nora assumed it fell out due to its age) and years later gave her it back in a necklace for her birthday.

nora didn't end up selling john's rings to move out of the pub. she just stashed them away for emergencies.

[this] is modern!nora's wedding dress, just a little bit of a more fluffy, whimsical skirt

when they move into a bigger house in glasgow the kids, rosie more-so struggle to sleep in their own beds, let alone their own room as they've been sharing a bed with nora for the past five-years.

when rosie was born, colin bought his granddaughter a copy of 'winnie-the-pooh' and the sequel every subsequent birthday they released.

when the kids were a little older they'd play pretend and preform small plays from their books for a highly amused drunk crowd of their parents. rosie's favourite is always peter pan, and the seven-year-old likes making it clear to her cousins that, "my mum did the play so i get to be tinkerbell and katie has to be mrs. darling because she's ginger, like mum." (it helped that she was the youngest and the easiest to lift, so nobody really objected to their little cousin bossing them around.) the boys were just happy to smack each-other with wooden swords in the 'pirate fights'.

i have literally nowhere else to put this so here's modern!nora and teen rosie after she gets in trouble at school. (george's gone to uni to do an english degree and michael's in the us so she's acting out a bit):

     “oi, ah heard aff mrs morrison in the landin’ you gave that chantelle lassie a right thumpin’ oan yer lunch.” nora pulled her daughter off to the side by the wrist, “why?”      “wrong place, wrong time.”      “y’know i’d believe that pish fae yer uncle, yer faither and mebbe yer brother, but no you; no ma rosie.”      the teen scoffed, “that’s not very forward thinking of you mum, it’s the twenty-first century, lassie-“      “-rosie,” nora laughs, “don’t take this the wrang way hen, but you’re a lazy wee shite at the best ah times. you don’t dae nuthin’ fir nuthin’.”      “i’m a big girl now, puberty changes-”      “-wrap it hen, whit she say?”      “mum, its fine.”      “rosalin.”

polly and rosie are inherently alike and share a lot of similar traits but polly also has quite the soft-spot for george (although esme's convinced it's just unresolved projection).

nora still feels like george's protector in comparison to rosie. he won't take nonsense from the boys in school but he's pretty quiet compared to his peers and prefers his own company and she knows the type of trouble boys in the area get into, especially mcleods.

[sixty-silver-wishes]

Original short story- The Button

In a small town- well, I’m not sure you would call it a small town, as it may not be quite as small as you’d believe, depending on what your idea of a small town is- after all, there’s a sizeable population, and despite what you usually hear about small towns, not everybody knows each other. You always hear that people in small towns are always nice and wonderful and make you feel welcome- well, not everyone in this town is like that, especially Tommy Hopkins. God, I hate Tommy Hopkins. 

Wait; where was I? I was telling a story. Okay; let me start over. Sorry. 

In a small town, there was a house made of crooked slats of cypress wood all smushed together and, well, I’m not sure what color the house was- it’s been a long time since I’ve seen it, but I think it was some shade of ash gray- this house was on the very edge of town, right on the water. There’s something sort of funny about the water in Florida, where you look out at a big stretch of pond and all you can see is the duckweed overtop the surface, which makes you think it’s a lot more shallow than it is, but if you stick your foot into the water expecting to be able to wade across from one bank to the other, you find yourself waist-deep in muck. One of these big duckweed ponds was right behind this house, and in that house was a tiny little room, filled with all sorts of globes and maps, and in the room with the globes and maps lived an old man with at least three or four teeth and long, spindly fingers with warts right under the nails. 

When we were kids, Polly Brown said he came over with the Spanish way back in the old days, looking for the Fountain of Youth. At least, that’s the story she told visitors and passers-by, because it was so much more believable than the real story. You’ve never seen a girl like Polly Brown- real nice teeth and yellow galoshes on her feet and a crooked sort of smile. Only thing imperfect about her is the missing thumb on her left hand, which she lost when she stuck it in an anthill when she was five. I’ve been meaning to ask Polly Brown out- I’ve been in love with her since school days, you see- but I’ve never quite gotten the courage. But I hope Tommy Hopkins isn’t going to come along and pop the question first- after all, Polly Brown is one in a million, and you just don’t see girls every day with missing left thumbs that they lost to a colony of fire ants at the age of five. Tommy Hopkins is a real ass, he is, and if anyone deserves to lose a body part in an anthill, I’d say it’s him, although those ants had better take a part a bit more important to a man than his thumb, if you know what I mean.

 I don’t quite remember what I was trying to say now- something about Tommy Brown and Polly Hopkins- no, no- mustn’t call her Polly Hopkins; Polly Brown’s her name, although my last name would suit her just as well- but I was saying something about them, and before that- right. The old man.

The real story as to what he was looking for, at least the story everyone else in town knows, is that with all his globes and maps, he spent his time planning for a journey to search the whole world over for a button that had fallen off his trouser-pockets when he was just a boy. He’d never once stepped outside his house, because he found planning the search to be of the utmost importance. 

There was a clear memory of his head of a time when he was at the beach with his mother and father when he was just a little boy- certainly, he had been a little boy at some point, although with the wrinkles pruning up his face, it was very very hard to believe, but certainly, he had been a little boy at some point- and they were strolling along the shore, and when they came across an ice cream parlor, he reached into his pocket to see if he had any change for ice cream, but at some point the button on his pants had disappeared, and when he stuck his hand in his pocket, his pants slipped down his legs and fell into the sand, right in front of all the beachgoers and the sable palms and the fiddler crabs digging their burrows while the tide was in and even the seagulls, who were flocking around the ice cream parlor, as seagulls always do, and they all laughed at him. Even his parents, who, I am told, were very lovely people who would never in their lives laugh at their child, but the incident seemed so amusing that they just couldn’t help themselves. And of course, the boy felt quite mortified, especially since even the seagulls were laughing at him, although seagulls always sound like they’re laughing anyway, so perhaps he shouldn’t have taken that so seriously. But that day forward, he vowed he would find his missing button, but because he lost it in the ocean, there was a chance it could be just about anywhere. 

He wanted to set out at once for the button, but was suddenly seized by a terrible fear of the notion that, perhaps, while he was searching, someone would ask him what he was looking for, and out of obligation, or perhaps because he was never a very good liar, even as a child, he would end up telling the entire terrible story of the day he found he had lost his button to them. So he figured the best thing to do was to sit at home with all his globes and maps, tracing the currents of the oceans and considering every possible location until he found one he thought would be just right- clearly, when he stumbled across the right possibility, he would just know- and would go straight there and retrieve his button. And so he holed up in his house and, day after day, he pondered every possible location on earth, but would never get the feeling that any of them was quite right. And so it went, until he was a very old man.

One of these days, probably a Thursday or so, although other people will tell you it may have been a Friday, and Polly Brown swears up and down that it was a Monday, the old man finally decided to leave his house. He found a spot on his map- the only spot that wasn’t crossed out by a red X- and said to himself, “this is it. This is where my button is.” 

So he stood up out of his chair- real slow, so his brittle old bones wouldn’t break, you know, because he was very old and he’d been sitting in that chair for so long, so when he did sit up, the legs in his bones made this awful creaking noise- and started walking, all wobbly like, towards the door. I don’t know the last time that door had been open, but finally, it was swinging slowly forward on its hinges, creaking even louder than his leg-bones had. 

The people of the town looked to see the door swinging open and the old man coming out, his map in one hand and an enormous backpack on his shoulders. None of them had ever seen his door open, not even the oldest people there, and all gathered around to look inside his house, or at him, or at the enormous pack of supplies he was carrying. With all these people surrounding him, the old man grew very nervous, more nervous than I was when Tommy Hopkins asked Polly Brown to the dance back in high school and she said yes, and wanted to turn right back around and hole himself up right back in his house. But he couldn’t- not when he finally determined he would go and set out for his button.

 As they surrounded him, some people cheered. Others, especially the small children, stared in horror and surprise, as to them it was very likely they were witnessing the manifestation of a phantom. And it was true- with his warty hands and beard that trailed along the ground, he certainly looked the part. The townsfolk declared a local holiday- a parade and a feast to commemorate the day the old man, whom few had seen, if they looked through his window at just the right time at just the right angle, had at last left the rickety old house and set off down the road in search of his missing button. In fact, we celebrate Button Day, as it’s known around these parts, every year. Tommy Hopkins invited Polly Brown to the Button Day parade last year, but she said no. I was very thrilled about this and thought it meant she would ask me instead, but as it turned out, she’d refused because she was out of town for the week to attend her grandmother’s funeral. 

So, the old man left town in his faded old boots and set off down the path, all his pots and pans clanking on his pack behind him. You could hear him from miles away, I’m sure, with all his clanking pots and pans and the creaking of his bones and the swishing of his beard as it dragged along the ground. 

When people from up north come to Florida, they come for the theme parks and the beaches. They might come for the orange juice or the nice weather that they’re promised, before they learn what hurricane season is. Or they might be old and retired and come here to have somewhere pleasant to die. People come for all sorts of reasons. But nobody comes for the swamps, although they’re everywhere. Reason being, Florida swamps can be some of the nastiest, boggiest, muggiest, mosquito-iest spots in the state, maybe even the country. And that’s not even mentioning the alligators. I’ve seen five, ten, fifteen-footers in my day. Sure, most of the time they’re lazing in the water and not doing much, but when they’re hungry, they become enormous, scaly bullets with snapping teeth and jaws of death. Every kid in Florida learns three things in elementary school- who Ponce de Leon was, how to identify different types of mangrove trees, and how to outrun an alligator. Don’t run in zig-zags, like you do to escape most predatory animals, even though some may tell you to. And don’t even think about trying to climb a tree. Run as fast as you can for at least fifteen feet and hope you lose it. If it catches you, go for its nostrils. Maybe it’ll let you go. 

All that being said, the old man was now traversing through the dark, dripping bowels of the Florida swampland. He wasn’t seeing any gators, at least, of course, for the time being, but the pots and pans on his back were clinking and clanking and his beard was swishing through the mud and his bones were creaking, creaking, creaking. If any gators were asleep in the water, it was possible they could hear him. In the air, mosquitoes, gnats, no-see-ums, and other unpleasant insects buzzed in clouds, biting at any uncovered skin they could find, even the old man’s warts. He could have easily turned back, but he wanted that button, and had been wanting it for years, and wouldn’t stop until it was his. The ground squelched under his feet, water seeping muckishly into his worn-out boots. And the sun was hot overhead. 

The Florida sun is very rarely pleasant. It may be the Sunshine State, but as anyone who lives in Florida knows, even Tommy Hopkins, who failed the first grade twice, the sun can be dangerous. Many people consider sunscreen essential, as the sun is known to cause skin cancer. Or it can easily dehydrate you, sucking all the moisture out of your skin until you’re nothing more than a crumpled-up paper bag, or at least that’s how you look and feel. And as of now, the sun was high in the sky. Sweat was dripping out of every pore on the old man’s face, into his beard and soaking into his clothing. And, you know, the insects loved it. They swarmed to him all the more, guzzling themselves drunk on the sweat that gathered on his wrinkled old forehead, under his nose, and around his eyes and everywhere they could land their bristling legs.

As he clanked and creaked through the swamp, the old man wondered if he’d be better off returning home. After all, what was so special about a button? He wasn’t even sure if he remembered what the button looked like- the shape and size, what color it was, even whether it was a plastic button, a metal button, a felt button, or a button of some other material. What if he found a button, but it wasn’t the button? Would he even recognize it when he saw it?

“Of course I would,” he attempted to convince himself. He would recognize that button in the same way a mother would recognize her lost children, even after they had grown up. He was sure his map was leading him in the right direction, or at least, it felt right, for some reason he couldn’t explain, and at this point, he’d gone too far to turn back. And besides, if he returned to town without his button, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to show his face to anyone, ever again. Yes, he needed to find his button, especially as he had hardly done anything but ponder over its whereabouts for the past several decades, and now that he was actively on the search for it, it was of utmost importance that he find it at last.

He checked the map. He was getting closer to the space that he had left uncovered- where he knew his button must be. Ahead of him stretched a flooded expanse of water- he had no choice but to cross. The old man removed the pack from his back and began rifling through it, until he came across a roll of rubber yellow material. He promptly unrolled it, and an inflatable river raft stretched out before him. With his gnarled hands, he searched for the plastic tube he could breathe through in order to inflate it. 

As he blew as hard as he could into the inflatable raft, his breath whistled through his few teeth, very high and very sharp. Three pairs of black eyes rose out of the water. 

If you grow up in Florida, you’ll know that alligators have a filmy third eyelid, called the nictitating membrane, which allows them to see underwater. “Like built-in swimming goggles,” your kindergarten teacher may have said. It was now that these nictitating membranes were flashing over the black eyes, like shadows over a new moon, as they sank into the water, where alligators are much faster than on land. You may have a chance at outrunning an alligator. Outswimming one, however, is much harder. The old man, unsuspecting, climbed into the raft as soon as he was done blowing it up. 

The raft wobbled with his weight, and the weight of his pack, but it managed to stay afloat. Birds called through the trees, and the insects continued to buzz, hot and suffocating and sweat-drunk as ever. Behind the raft, three trails cut slowly, lazily, but stealthily, through the water.

You may be thinking, “Here are three alligators, pursuing the old man. Here are three terrifying beasts, waiting to snap their jaws over his pruny old face. And that will be the end of that. And then I can go home and have my toaster strudel and think about how the narrator of the story will end up with Polly Brown and Tommy Hopkins will not, because Tommy Hopkins is boring and has knees like a cow’s and can’t even grow a proper goatee.” And you would be right, at least about that last part. But the old man did not get eaten by alligators, because the story has just begun. 

The old man was aware of the alligators, you know. It was very hard for him not to be. After all, when three alligators are following very closely behind your raft, you can’t not be aware of their tails swishing through the water. But he was questioning something, something I’m sure you may have questioned at some point in your life, and that I definitely have. What truly was the point of living? He’d spent all his life pondering the whereabouts of a button, which had fallen off of his pants when he was just a child, and the laughter of everyone around him had never left his mind, although I do not know if anyone in the town was aware. They all regarded him as an oddity, an outcast. He was nearing the end of his life. To live in wait, to die unfulfilled, and if to be fulfilled, for what? Say he had found the button- then he would have his life’s goal achieved, but then what next? He’d spent his teenage, middle, elderly years, all ruminating over a button. Not taking action, only thinking, thinking, thinking of something he wanted, until the time was just right- but so much time had been wasted in the process. You may think, “what a strange old man,” but, you know, there are many, many people in this world, who spend all their time thinking about how they’ll shoot their shot, so to say, and but never do, or otherwise wait to try until it’s too late. 

Man, I’m glad I’m not like that.

In any case, here was the old man, sitting there on his raft, contemplating his life and being pursued by alligators. I’m sure we’ve all been in that position. As he sat there wondering whether it would be worth it to continue his journey at all, a branch from an overhead cypress tree creaked, falling onto the nearest gator’s head.

 This, of course, only made the alligator angry. It thrashed its tail about, propelling itself even faster through the water. It opened its jaws as it neared the raft, revealing all of its teeth. If you grow up in Florida, you learn how to tell an alligator from a crocodile. One of the easiest ways is to look at the teeth- alligator teeth do not protrude from their closed mouths, while a crocodile’s do. But now that its teeth were on full display, wickedly sharp and glinting in the blazing sunlight, the old man suddenly realized that this was not how he wanted to die. He had spent quite a bit of time before pondering all the best possible ways to die, and being eaten by an alligator certainly wasn’t one of them. 

He picked up the oars and began to paddle the raft as fast as he could, although his arms were weak and the weeds in the water slowed him down. Still, pure adrenaline caused him to put at least some distance between himself and the gator, although it glided ever closer. One alligator swam under his raft, throwing it forward. The old man hung on for dear life as the raft was hurled through the mucky water, and he only barely managed to stay onboard. As he paddled, the shore began to grow closer and closer in sight. If he could make it, perhaps he could have a chance. He neared the shore and leapt out of the raft, just as one of the alligators grabbed his long beard in its mouth. He was pulled backwards, but managed to escape. “Perhaps we will find something easier to hunt,” the alligator said to itself as it slid back into the water with a mouth full of beard-hair.

The old man watched the alligators give up the chase with triumph, and watched his raft drift away with considerably less triumph. Yes, his supplies were still on that raft, which was being carried away with the current. There was no way he’d be able to make his way to where he was sure the button was without his pack. Furthermore, the raft was leaking, and it was beginning to sink. The old man panicked, biting his barely-there fingernails (he had a habit of biting them when he was nervous, I believe, which was presumably very often) until they were worn down to less than stubs. His creaky leg-bones burned from all the energy it took to escape the alligators, but he couldn’t let his supplies go down, lest he be stranded in the middle of the swamp with nowhere to go and no way to survive. 

And so, despite having just escaped it seconds ago, he waded back into the water, hoping to drag out his raft onto the shore. Mud oozed into that spot between his overgrown toenails and his toes, making every slow step squelch and pop. While there was no longer any sight of the alligators, as they had gone and swam away elsewhere, small fish darted around him, picking at his skin- perhaps sampling to make sure they would like the taste of him if he were to drop dead and sink into the water. The old man reached the raft, dragging it laboriously through the water and back to shore, where he lay, exhausted, drying out the contents of his pack. The mosquitoes had returned and began to buzz around his emaciated, heaving body. He was so hungry he caught some out of the air and ate them. The old man did not much like the taste of mosquitoes, a sentiment I’m sure is probably shared by most people, except for maybe Tommy Hopkins, but after escaping three hungry alligators and dragging his supplies out of the water, he felt like a stronger, braver version of himself- someone who was willing to be adventurous and take risks. And if taking risks meant eating swarms of mosquitoes out of the air, then so be it. 

When he had eaten his fill, the old man dragged his supplies deeper and deeper into the swamp. The sun was beginning to set, so he pitched a tent right under a gnarled old tree and went to sleep, right there, snoring very loudly, so loudly he woke the roosting birds and they all started to squawk in unison and he woke up all over again. And so the cycle would continue.

 It was a very peaceful arrangement, sleeping under an old tree under the stars- much different than falling asleep at his desk after staring at books and maps all day. He was closer to his button than he had ever been, he knew, and tomorrow, he would wake up and go searching for it once again. He had brought all sorts of gadgets- a metal detector and a fishing rod and a butterfly net and even an old French rapier. I don’t remember when or where he got this, but as the story goes, it was right there in his pack, alongside all his other supplies. He didn’t use it against the alligators, as alligators do not know the rules of fencing, and it’s terribly rude to challenge an alligator to a fencing duel when the alligator does not know how to fence. Certainly all people know this.

The old man woke up the next morning to find his tent completely destroyed. A rainstorm had brewed up overnight, and the swamp flooded, leaving him quite soaked. He hurriedly gathered his things as they floated about him, although many of his food supplies had been carried off, stolen, or otherwise devoured by the surrounding birds, opossums, raccoons, fish, bugs, turtles- anything nearby. So much for all his labor recovering his things from the swamp! He shook his head miserably and sighed.

Still, as I always say whenever Tommy Hopkins tells me he gets an e-mail from what’s obviously a multi-level marketing scam, there was nothing to do but press forward. And so the old man gathered what was left of his supplies, creaked until he was standing all the way up, and took down the shreds of his tent. He must have looked a monstrous sight- all skin and bones and mosquito bites, walking about with his gator-torn beard. His shoes had come off in the mud when he went to recover his raft, and the dirt clung to his long, gnarled toes, so his feet were covered in clogs of clods that plodded over the soggy bog. 

And so, the old man headed ever deeper into the swamp, onto higher ground, where the water did not rise up to his ankles. Here, he could see that the land had a sort of beauty to it- a sort of beauty that every Floridian knows, and that every tourist in Florida often misses because they’re too busy looking for things like sandy beaches and El Castillo de San Marcos and how to pay as little money as possible to take a picture with a man in an oversized rodent suit. This was the sort of beauty that can only be found in the swamps, with the orange and white mushrooms climbing over the mossy logs and the great blue herons stalking through the swaying reeds and the sun filtering down through the trees, onto the ground where it makes the most unique dappled shapes that shift and change with the wind. The old man was looking at all of these things and sighing to himself and thinking of how he had missed out on them- missed out on all this natural beauty, you know, of course, because he had been sitting in his house all those years, looking at his books and maps and pondering over what-ifs and perhapses and maybes. I’ll never understand people like that. Such fools, working themselves into a tizzy and not bothering to take action and do something with their lives.

But now that the dawn was scintillating in all its glory over the grove, and the birds were singing, and even the raccoons were on their most charming behavior, the old man began to cry- great tears as big as tarantulas, weeping snottily for all he had lost. It was really quite a touching scene, I’d imagine- him in the grove there, thinking about all the time he would never get back, all for a button and his damaged pride. He sat there sniveling for a good long time, all through the day and into the next, and into the next day after that, until all his tears had dried. And then, with a loud noise like a vacuum cleaner, he blew his nose and continued on his way.

And so it was, as he continued through the swamp, which soon gave way to a forest, that he made his way to a bubbling stream. He went to wash his feet, which, of course, were caked in mud, and stepped eagerly into the water, letting it wash over and under his old toenails, sweeping away the sediment and dust and grime that had been lodged there for who knows how long. 

As the old man was washing his feet, he began to sing an old nonsense song from his childhood. He’d forgotten all the words, and I don’t think there’s anyone alive who still remembers them, but nonetheless, there he was, half-singing-half-humming a tune that he must have been the only one around to know. It brought back some happy memories, and some sad ones, and memories he wasn’t even sure he knew how to feel about. 

He scrubbed the dirt from his feet, dirt from his floorboards that had been there for ages, perhaps even before Florida became one of the United States of America, and as he did so, the sand in the bottom of the stream began to shift, creating clouds and miniature underwater dust-storms. When it settled, he saw that something was sticking out of the water.

It was a stick.

But next to the stick was something round and faded- maybe metal, maybe plastic, maybe even fabric. It was worn and weathered and old, old, old, so it was impossible to tell anyway. Not that the material it was made of mattered, of course. As for what color it was, this was not easily discernible, as when the water rippled over it one way, it appeared gray, and when the clouds passed over it, it seemed black, and when the sun hit it on a very specific angle it seemed as if it could easily be almost red, and perhaps even brown or blue or yellow or a very odd and not at all fetching combination of indigo and chartreuse. The old man knew what it was immediately, and began to weep his tarantula-tears all over again, falling to his knees in the water and breathing very heavily and clutching his heart, which pounded so hard it threatened to burst from his chest and take off slipping and sliding down the stream.

 It was the button- his button, there in this stream all this time after having fallen from his pants all those years ago, when he was just a child, and it had at last come to him, when he wasn’t even searching for it, but instead simply washing away the dirt from his feet in the stream. He would take it home with him, and burn all his old books and maps, and maybe even his house, and find somewhere else to live, and display the button on a silver mount on his wall, where all who wanted to could come round and admire it and ooh and ahh in hushed, astonished whispers. Certainly nobody would ever laugh at him again- it was his, finally his, and he would live out the rest of his days absolved and content and happy, happy to finally be reunited with the one thing he had spent his life dreaming about searching for.

And that would have happened, that is, if a catfish hadn’t come along and, with its great big mouth, swallowed the button up. The old man reached for the catfish with his warty old fingers, but it thrashed its great tail and wiggled its whiskers most threateningly- whiskers, that, as everyone knows, could cause great harm should they come into contact with human skin. But the old man was desperate. He fumbled about for the catfish, hoping and praying that it would at last cough up the button, but the catfish would not. At last, it wriggled and writhed away, breathing through its great old gills, and took off speeding down the stream. And it was there, at the banks of the stream, that the old man’s heart gave out from the exhaustion of his journey, and he promptly snuffed it.

The catfish, meanwhile, kept swimming, until it was snatched up in the talons of an osprey. The osprey carried it away from the stream, higher and higher, to its nest, where its screaming chicks awaited. And when the great bird fed the catfish to its chicks, they tore into it, but when they came upon the button, they found it inedible, and so tossed it into the air and down the tree, where it hit every branch on the way down, before it was picked up by a gust of wind and blown across the ground, until it was pawed by a panther, which sent it rolling along the ground for a very long time, until it landed right back in the town the old man had come from. And the fact that it happened was so miraculous that even today, we still celebrate Button Day.

If only that old man had not been such a fool! If only he had started his journey when he was much younger, and stronger, and unafraid to take risks! Then, who knows what may have happened.

 Perhaps things would have gone far better for him- perhaps far better than things had gone for me this morning, when Polly Brown had texted me and asked if I wanted to go to the Button Day parade. I didn’t know how I could respond to such a smart, beautiful, funny, attractive girl like Polly Brown, and so just didn’t. And she said she would ask someone else instead, since I wasn’t responding, and because I didn’t know what to say, I still didn’t answer.

And so it was at the Button Day parade this afternoon, I saw Polly Brown and Tommy Hopkins holding hands as they waved at the rows of dancers in catfish suits and the mayor, who sat atop a giant alligator float and tossed out buttons to the crowd. Tommy Hopkins went to pick up a button off the ground, and his own pants slipped down as he did so. The people around him laughed, and Polly Brown looked away, although I swear I saw a bemused smile on her face.

What a laugh Tommy Hopkins was! What an idiot! Losing his pants, just as the old man did! What a joke he made of himself, right in front of everyone! What a spectacle he was, as the crowd clapped and cheered for him, he gave them a blushing smile and a wave as he pulled up his pants, and Polly Brown gave him a kiss on the cheek!

 Some people, you know, never learn from the past.