#saw is a Found Family but its a dysfunctional Found Family

[avocadoraisin]

my favorite fucked up little guys

[astralmarionette]

im currently writing an atsugawa (I hate the name shin soukoku or whatever I'm sorry but I'm actually not. also I cannot pronounce soukoku {this is the real reason I don't use soukoku}) and I don't even ship it lmaoo

[slushiepizza]

Lazy Bones

Relationship : Guy & Guy's Dad, Guy & his parents

Tags : Father-Son Relationship, Dysfunctional Family, Mental Health Issues, Angst, Hurt-no-Comfort, Executive Dysfunction, Guy is more similar to his dad than he thought much to his dismay, and he has to grit his teeth and move on Toxic Family Dynamic

Word Count : 1,772

ao3 notes: something something he's gonna make it through this year if it kills him /j; both guy and his father are hinted to have mental health issues that i didn't specify for fear of ruining the immersion, but i do have a specific condition in mind when i wrote them this way

Guy knew what sort of day it was as soon as he woke up that afternoon.

His small dorm room was a vacuum, where time moved both like molasses and the speed of light. The dollar-store curtains did little to keep the afternoon sun away from the room. The AC slowly hummed. He could hear laughter outside- probably people coming back from class. His bones were stationary, and the defeated sort of embrace of the blanket welcomed him like a home. 

He mentally started counting down from ten and forced himself to move. He slowly made his way to the bathroom in the muted darkness, wincing when he accidentally kicked something plastic and sent it skidding across the floor. He’ll get it later. 

Guy found himself in front of the bathroom mirror and recognized what was in his eyes as something pathetic. The look on his face was familiar, and he’d seen that look a million times before. 

He hated what he saw.

—

Small hands slowly nudged a weary shoulder that early June. Everything was hazy in the heat of summer. A talk show- no, a sports program, was playing in the background from the CRT screen. 

“Dad. Daaad. Play with me,” he whined at the fresh age of five. “I’ll be the fire truck, ‘an you’ll be the train.” 

His Dad, a mountain of a man impossible to climb, laid himself against his chair. In that house, everyone shared everything except for that chair in the corner of the living room. That chair was his, and over the years, it’d soon mold itself into the shape of his body and its fabric would be stained with his beer. 

“Why don’t ‘cha bother your mom, instead, huh?” he grunted, unmoving. 

“She’s at the store,” Guy replied. 

“Go outside, or something. Y’know when I grew up, we used to just go to the woods and just. Played with sticks. You young’uns are soft, always need coddlin’ and buggerin’. Can’t even sit still for a second.” 

He looked up at his father’s stubbled, rugged face. Marred by the heat of the sun. “I can do that?!” 

“Sure, son,” the man looked at him with an almost sad sort of look. His labored arm, wiry and thick from long hours at the auto shop, reached out to muss up his hair.  “Your Pa’s… tired.” 

Guy was hunting for bugs in the backyard when his mother came back home from the store and yelled at her husband for letting him get dirty. And for sitting there all day, never doing anything useful. And that she wished that she never married someone who’d give up so easily as him.

He remembered that his father was tired a lot. 

—

Guy did the least he could do. He brushed his teeth and had a single slice of bread for breakfast. Anything is better than nothing, a dear friend told him. He guessed it was right because, on days when he felt like he wanted to let the mattress mold itself to the shape of his body, the only way he could survive was by keeping the ball rolling. A routine- or some form of it. What he did barely counted as one, but it was better than letting himself fall into the trap of falling back asleep. 

He opened the laptop, checked the calendar, and mentally kicked himself. 

The deadline was today. 

Guy liked to believe that he was a capable, competent person. But as soon as he opened the word document to write the last act of his script- a task that he’d put off from days before- his mind was full of noise. 

He craved mind-numbing comfort, so he sought it. He sunk into his chair and scrolled on his phone. In the back of his mind, he felt angry. 

_

Business was rough for the auto shop, and it later closed when Guy was sixteen. His dad never looked for another job- and he soon took his role as a stay-at-home father. 

The arguments soon died down, maybe because his parents had already worn each other out by that point. They barely saw each other anyway- his mother’s job at the hospital as a residential nurse kept it that way. 

His father was itching for control- and home was the only thing close enough to that. 

He was neurotic about where things were supposed to be. The chairs were supposed to be aligned with the floorboards, and Guy has had to sweep the floors multiple times. If a strand of his hair was found- it’d send his father into ballistics. 

Hair was another issue. 

“Isn’t it time for a haircut?” his dad asked as he vacuumed, without ever meeting Guy in the eyes. 

"I like it this way,” he replied. 

“Makes you look like a chick.” 

—

The videos on his phone flashed colors and various soundbites. It felt incomprehensible to him, and his mind fell into the space between awareness and daydream- a thick fog. 

He didn’t feel like catching the deadline. Maybe he should just give up and not do it. He could lie down and not do anything at all. 

“This is how I stayed productive even on days when I was exhausted and didn’t have any motivation. The Eisenhower matrix can help you manage your time-” the YouTube video droned and Guy felt himself slip away. 

He probably was just lazy.  He needed one day to get himself together and he could train himself to have discipline and not rely on motivation, or start time blocking, or start writing bullet journals and get his life together. 

—

Guy grew to realize that he hated his father. Hated the way he seemed to always park himself in front of the TV and not shower for days. Disgusting and good-for-nothing. The way he would only get up to go around the house and make sure that everything was in pristine condition. Unused, untouched. Guy hadn’t eaten in his dining room for ages. 

His father could’ve tried if he wanted to. He could’ve applied for other jobs, could’ve cared more about him. But he wallowed in the unknown frustrating corners of his mind and let days pass him by.

He could see the weight sagging his mother’s shoulders-the exhaustion in her eyes as she picked him up from school before going to her night shift. 

Guy’s biggest fantasy when he was growing up was for his parents to get a divorce. It never came, and in a sick and twisted way, they did need each other to survive. She needed the illusion of a family, and he needed the money.

“Why can’t you do it for me!” he yelled in a particularly heated fight. 

“I’m doing this for you! What do you even want?! For this family to be torn apart and to become the talk of the town?” 

“I don’t need you to stay together when all you do is yell at each other,” he pleaded. 

“You don’t understand,” she said and ended their discussion there. 

—

Before he knew it, it was dark outside and he hadn’t written a single word for his script. The deadline was in five hours, and he was sure that he’d be dropped from the project if he didn’t manage to make it.  

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. A mix of voices rang in his skull: ‘The deadline is in five hours. You’ve done nothing, stupid.’ And ‘maybe you should eat something. You’re hungry, and you’ve only had bread.’ with ‘you should try starting now. You can still fight for this gig. It’s not over yet.’ 

Guy stood up and approached the pile of laundry on the corner of his bed. He mechanically folded them and arranged them in his drawer of clothes. It gave him the feeling that he had his life together. He hated the fact that he had to do such an ordeal just to do basic tasks. Double the effort for half the result. 

Everything felt like a hill he had to climb. Strategies, timers, to-do lists, tricks. It was frustrating, the fact that he was so damaged that he couldn’t straightforwardly do anything. 

Tears started to cloud his vision and all he could do was blink them away in anger. Anger at himself for being affected by people who do not care for him in the slightest (A lie, he will soon realize. They did care- but it was the only sort of care that they understood.) He hated that he was a carbon copy of his father despite having tried so desperately to be different. 

He studied hard in school, and he worked double, and triple shifts at Max’s to support himself. But he couldn’t escape from what he was. This… sickness, the willingness to give up so easily was passed down from his father like a curse. It was in his blood, written in his bones. At the end of the day, he was still his father’s son. 

—

The thing is, his dad did try. Between the narcissist, and the mid-life crisis-ridden man, there were glimpses of what he was underneath it all. What he could’ve been. 

He remembered when it stormed all morning before he had to turn in a science project for freshman year in high school. He’d woken up late, and by the time he was at the bus stop, lugging poster board and styrofoam diagrams in a wheelbarrow behind him, it’d left. 

His father had run to catch up with him with an umbrella. 

“I’ll walk ‘ya to school. Don’t want ‘em to get wet when you’d barely sleep making them.” 

It’d been embarrassing. For someone his age to be walked to school by his dad. But all he noticed was the fact that his father had leaned the umbrella completely over him and the wheelbarrow. He was drenched, and he’d never been too fond of the cold. 

“I can wear my jacket,” he mumbled. “Just tilt it your way. You’re getting wet.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” his dad replied. “The only thing that matters is for you to get to school okay. Get good grades so you don’t become a loser.”

—

Guy wiped his tears and sat himself back down in front of the laptop. He let the all-encompassing, overwhelming mix of anger and sadness run through him. He wasn’t going to fuck it up. He wouldn’t let anything get in the way of the work that he loved doing. He gritted his teeth and did it even when every part of him protested. 

Despite his father, despite his restless mind. 

Despite it all, he’ll die fighting, bruised.

[artiststarme]

Ignorance is Bliss

Steve liked to pretend the Upside Down never happened, that he was a regular teen boy with regular teen issues. He didn’t like to focus on the new scars marring his skin, the ones with the questionable origins that he’d never be able to explain. The way he saw it, his nightmares and anxiety during the day focused on the past enough. So, he moved on as much as possible. He bottled everything up and acted like he was fine. He acted as a listening board for his friends to vent and kept his own problems under lock and key. It worked as much as one would expect and he was fine.  

But moving on caused its own problems. His friends started getting more distant with him and leaning on each other because how would Steve understand what they were going through if he moved on so quickly? Things only got worse on his own. His nightmares bled into the day, his fears kept him locked away, and his insecurities started to overwhelm him in the Party’s absence. 

That’s where Eddie and Robin came in. They forced Steve to accept the past, to talk about his feelings, and to drop the armored facade that held him captive. It took many tears, several hugs, and more than a few of Robin’s rants to get through to him. But eventually, Steve opened himself up to vulnerabilities and couldn’t fathom how he’d survived in the past without doing so. 

Things were so much better with open communication. Gone were the lonesome days of concealing his emotions and existing as a broken shell of trauma. He could feel what he went through without being weak and he’d never felt so… content. Happy. He had Robin by his side as his best friend and platonic soulmate. He had Eddie as his boyfriend once he found the guts to make a move. And once the Party spent some time with the new and improved communicative Steve Harrington, he had his friends back too. He wasn’t as collected as they thought he was and as soon as they saw how it had affected him, they crawled back with sorries on their lips and understanding in the air. 

The Upside Down came with a lot of bad but it brought some good with it too. It bulldozed into their lives with trauma and pain and public persecution. It tore the Party apart and they had to fight to stay together. But it gave Steve a best friend, a boyfriend, and a family. It brought the Party together and made them a family, dysfunctional as it was.

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[moth-related-inquiries]

Hi! I read your oneshot involving Micah and fem child reader and absolutely loved it! I never thought i could see Micah ever taking on the role of a parental figure but you did such a good job tying his character into a role that i thought would never fit him! I was wondering if you could expand more on their dynamic afterwards and how reader would interpret his ‘cull the weak beliefs’ do you think teaching her these would ever come to backfire on him later especially if used against him?

Micah Bell and Fem! Child Reader Pt2: Knives Out

Warnings: incredibly angsty, Micah Bell, you're gonna hate this if u love Micah LOL, lots of murder, terrible beliefs, graphic description of murder, and child death.

tldr: Micah Bell's teachings came to bite him back in the ass. :( Nobody close to him can be happy.

A/n: Hi, Anon! Thank you for the req ♡♡♡ I'm so glad you liked my last fic! I hope you like this one, too. Feel free to send any more requests you might have :p

Listen while you read?:

Today was your third month of 'bonding,' as Micah liked to call it. You'd slowly progressed from being as terrible of a shot as Sean Macguire to being fairly good at your shots. Of course, you weren't as good as Micah, but he congratulated you on your significant progress. Unlike the others, Micah has been surprisingly patient with you. There were a lot of things he had to teach and show you, and you seemed to learn best when you were in the middle of action.

Not only had you become a better shot, but you'd also become a more malleable tool. When you finished your first robbery, Micah decided that from now on you weren't going by your old name. The Bell family had a very specific practice they used when choosing names. For the first time in a long time, he flipped open a Bible and scoured its pages for a suitable name. Eventually, he settled on Elisabeth, the technical grandmother of Jesus. Not because she was a humble or remarkable woman, but because she was stubbornly faithful. Like a dog.

He hoped that, since he'd earned your trust, you'd follow him like a dog to the ends of the earth. And that you did. No matter what he did, where he went, or who he killed, he stayed as your role model. Beyond that, he was also your new father figure. Sure, you liked Dutch and Hosea, but they never saw things from your point of view like Micah did. The Dutch, for one, insisted on the dramatics constantly. He'd make up schemes to entertain himself and some big wig bastard, then steal the money. Which probably would've entertained you if you had the patience. And Hosea, well, he didn't enjoy the 'thrill' of murdering and robbing the same way that you did. Meaning that he liked making a fool of himself and then leaving with a small sum of money.

Not to mention that Micah secretly found both of them to be fools in their own ways. You thought, at first, that he saw you as a fool too, but he assured you that you were anything but. He called you his 'kinfolk.' His kid. You found it odd. He claims to be so strong, yet he practically creates his own weakness. With this idea in mind, you began to dissect some of his flaws.

When the two of you were in camp, you noticed that he was anything but pleasant to the other members. He often harassed and berated many of the women in camp, too, which you found odd. Even odder was the fact that he berated Jack, which made you curious. Was he perhaps jealous of John and Abigail for their achievements? It seemed so. You guessed that he was jealous because he too wanted a family, no matter how dysfunctional. Though he hadn't had much luck considering that, like the stupid man he is, he took his anger out on all the women around him.

Micah Bell could never score a woman, and he knew that very well. And now, so did you. And all you had to do was watch him like you normally do. Every time you did, he'd lean over and whisper in your ear about how someday he's going to get a nice and fine wife, and these floozies are going to be sorry. You knew better. Every time he'd provide some weird back-handed compliment, you wondered if he knew it only made him look weak. He had all bark and no bite. Which, in many cases, he did. All talk until Dutch struts over, then suddenly he's acting like he's a holy deity sworn to do nothing but good.

That was one major weakness you'd noticed about him. His one big fault. Micah seemed to assume that being a snake oil salesman made him a man. A man fit for survival in the natural world. A man who could do whatever he wanted and whenever he wanted as long as he still had his silver tongue. And it did, for a little while. He could go around murdering families and sleep like a little baby the night after. That is, until he met you.

See, Micah Bell had done himself dirty when he began 'training' you. Because, unlike Micah, you shut your mouth, and you watched everyone really well. You waited for someone to come to you, and you didn't, no matter how tough it was to resist, let your guard down. Yet Micah Bell had shown his since the day he decided to mentor you. Sure, you were unaware of the impact of his actions then, but he'd taught you well. He'd gifted you a higher consciousness without even knowing it.

So, after three long months of needlessly long interaction, you put his teachings to work. You woke up bright and early to listen to the birds chirp their jovial toons. It was nice to let the weak be, just for a moment, because sometimes they end up surprising you with their entertainment. Your steel gaze turned to Micah, who was fast asleep on his bedroll, facing the cliffside. He, too, was nice when you left him be. When he did sleep, it looked peaceful. And, for a moment, you decided to let him be, too.

You grabbed your satchel, one that Micah had bought for you, and opened it. From it, you produced a jagged stone that you'd found back in Strawberry, after the pair of you (and Arthur) murdered an entire town. You originally picked it up in order to execute whoever was holding Micah's precious revolvers, but he beat you to it. And, with savagery and cowardice, he murdered another family right in front of you. It was eerily thrilling when you first experienced it, but now? Now you feel nothing but guilt. Not for the town you'd helped murder, but for Micah.

You looked down at him, staring at his greasy forehead. As you lifted your stone, you teared up as you remembered all the times that he'd slipped up. A terrible feeling sank into your chest as you thought about your first robbery. How he wiped your tears away after you'd committed your first murder and rubbed your back like the father you never had. You'd given him your weakness, and he accepted it with unknowing tenacity. From then on, you gave him your weakness, and he allowed you to piggyback off of him like a little parasite.

For such a morally corrupt man, Micah had always done his best to assure your safety, no matter what. When the two of you were low on rations, he let you have the last. When the gang was ambushed, he made sure you were never there. When the two of you were caught in a rock and a hard place, he always made you run back to camp while he distracted the bastards following you. It's your fault that he turned into something he never wanted to be.

It's your fault that he became so weak.

Your brows furrowed, and your face twisted into anguish. You lifted the stone up above your head and, with all your might, sent it crashing down upon his skull. It made a sickening crunch, like a pumpkin being dropped, but Micah did not move. You repeated the action over and over again until his head finally caved in. Once you were done, you walked over to your horse, one that he had gifted you, and shot her, too. Baylock was smart enough to run off.

From then on, you decided that, out of the four of you, Baylock would be the strongest. He was the survivor because he ran like hell instead of sticking around to die. Finally, you walked back to the cliffside and erased the last remaining proof of Elisabeth Bell's entire existence.

A/N: i hope people like this :p i know child death is a very sensitive topic, but I think that this is how it would go in the eyes of a child. I tried to make it a little confusing so that we could really understand how uniquely this kind of situation would affect someone as vulnerable as a child versus an adult.

[healix17]

How much do you enjoy angsty sad shippy stuff? Cause, like, how about a fic where its after Breakdowns death and knockout has their sparkling (wildbreak). However raising a newborn cybertronian is difficult alone so knockout turns towards the only close assocates he knows Breakdown had; the stunticons. Cue Knockout getting their help (or "help" depending how competent they are) supporting themselves and raising wildbreak in exchange for his medical expertise and surgical skills.

And so the most dysfunctional found family on cybertron was born.

I love angst !!! AHHHH!!!

But here's the chaotic fanfiction:

Breakdown's Reinforcement

The medbay was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the usual bustle of the Nemesis. Knockout stood over the crib of his sparkling, Wildbreak, the tiny mech's optics dimly glowing as he slept. The silence was broken only by the occasional hum of the ship's engines and Wildbreak's soft ventilations.

Knockout's optics were weary, dimmed by the weight of exhaustion and grief. It had been a struggle, every day since Breakdown's death. The loss was a gaping wound that refused to heal, and now, he was left to navigate the complexities of raising a sparkling on his own. Knockout was a medic, not a caregiver. The constant demands of a newborn cybertronian were overwhelming, and he found himself teetering on the brink of collapse.

In a moment of desperation, Knockout had reached out to the only ones he knew had been close to Breakdown—the Stunticons. Breakdown had always spoken fondly of them, a ragtag group of misfits bound together by their shared insanity and loyalty.

"Wildbreak, my little mech," Knockout murmured, brushing a hand gently across the sparkling's helm. "Let's hope your uncles can help us."

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Knockout questioned himself for the umpteenth time as he paced the medbay, awaiting the arrival of the Stunticons. He had promised them medical expertise and his surgical skills in exchange for their support. A mutually beneficial arrangement, he hoped.

The door slid open with a hiss, and in swaggered Motormaster, followed closely by the rest of the Stunticons—Drag Strip, Dead End, Breakdown's replacement Wildrider, and the always chaotic, but surprisingly competent, Breakdown's former partner in crime, Swindle.

"Hey, Knockout!" Drag Strip called out, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. "Heard you needed some help with a sparkling?"

Knockout nodded, feeling a mixture of relief and trepidation. "Yes, I... Wildbreak has been quite a handful. I could use some assistance."

"Don't worry, doc. We've got this," Swindle assured him, his optics sparkling with mischief. "How hard can it be?"

As it turned out, raising a sparkling was indeed as difficult as Knockout had feared, even with the Stunticons' help. Their idea of "assistance" often bordered on chaotic. Drag Strip attempted to entertain Wildbreak with high-speed chases around the medbay, resulting in a few near-collisions with fragile medical equipment. Dead End, ever the pessimist, would occasionally mutter dire predictions about Wildbreak's future, much to Knockout's chagrin.

But despite their antics, the Stunticons' presence brought a strange sense of comfort. They were loud, brash, and often reckless, but they had formed a makeshift family around Knockout and Wildbreak. There were moments of levity that Knockout desperately needed. Like the time Wildrider, attempting to imitate Breakdown's booming laugh, ended up startling himself and Wildbreak, sending both into fits of laughter.

One night, as Knockout rocked a fussy Wildbreak to sleep, he felt a presence behind him. Turning, he saw Motormaster, the leader of the Stunticons, standing there awkwardly.

"Need a hand?" Motormaster rumbled, his deep voice surprisingly gentle.

Knockout hesitated for a moment before nodding. He carefully handed Wildbreak over to Motormaster, who cradled the tiny mech with surprising tenderness.

"Breakdown would've wanted us to be here for you," Motormaster said gruffly, his optics softening. "You're not alone, Knockout."

A lump formed in Knockout's throat, and he blinked back tears. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

The days turned into weeks, and while the grief of losing Breakdown never fully dissipated, Knockout found solace in the chaotic camaraderie of the Stunticons. They were a far cry from the traditional family, but they had their own way of showing support and care. Wildbreak thrived under their unconventional guidance, his optics bright and full of curiosity.

In the end, it wasn't just Knockout who benefited from their presence. The Stunticons found purpose in helping raise Wildbreak, their antics providing much-needed laughter and distraction. And through it all, the memory of Breakdown lived on, a silent presence that bound them together.

As Knockout watched Wildbreak take his first unsteady steps, supported on either side by Drag Strip and Dead End, he allowed himself a small, bittersweet smile. They were far from perfect, but they were a family. And in the midst of their shared grief and laughter, they found a way to move forward, one step at a time.

[gingergofastboatsmojito]

Just a matter of timelines

I 💯 believe Storer never envisioned The Bear as a love story per se but romance was rather a closure/ending for his original movie script. My reason to believe this is quite factual: He said The Bear was actually thought of as a movie about dysfunctional characters finding each other -found family- in a dysfunctional (realistic) kitchen. Not a rom-com. I already talked about that here quoting his interview with the Enquirer.

That being said, I also figured by 02x01 that he had been converted (I assumed by Calo, but ultimately doesn’t matter how) and turned into a Sydcarmy shipper. I go over that here. That’s why his constant gaslighting makes me sick! When I found out that Kasama means together in Filipino and that its owners are married IRL, I was soooo ready to sue this guy.

Anyway, my point is that now with S2 under our belts we can read more into S1 than what Storer wrote originally when all he had was the movie script adapted for TV and no guarantee about the show being picked up for a 2nd season, however, the fact that the ending of the movie/S1 was about leaving the door open for a potential romance between Carmy and Syd as Braciole (Storer has a fetish with naming characters and eps) foreshadowed and that threshold was indeed kinda crossed in S2 (aka the most Sydcarmy season so far), especially in ep 02x09,

it’s important to notice the storytelling length pattern here. Meaning: Storer starts in the opposite direction he actually wants to take, which is what most great writers do BTW and it's not uncommon, ofc. So if he wants to dive into Sydcarmy waters by the end of S3, we can expect a full-on Clairmy renaissance in the first half of the season. You guys know how I feel about her and thus how opposed I am to that, but on Storer terms, the fact that we see Claire get her fucking way at first is gonna be actually a good sign for Sydcarmy.

I have my mind set up to have to wait till S4 to get what I want but with all this new info about the pasta decoding and the storytelling patterns Storer is showing, I’m starting to believe in a S3 Sydcarmy breakthrough. 🤞

There is NO DOUBT in my mind about The Bear getting a star this season or some kind of award like the James Beard that is usually what all Michelin star chefs get first, that’s what makes it so important in the big leagues. More about that here and here.

I have also mentioned that the star will bring them together and also break them up because it comes with a price. And Carmy doesn’t want the star, he wants Sydney and to give her what she wants.

She’s the one who wants The Bear to be a Michelin star spot, Carmy just wanted it to be their spot.

He could have been content with just that. So he will get her the star and probably lose her in the process (I bet but wish I was wrong on this one), which leads me to believe that in S4 he will get her back and that’s why I have my $ on the grand finale, not on S3 for Sydcarmy, but if Storer wants to take a U-turn in S3 as now that I saw this I'm starting to kinda infer... I’m all for it, sure! Unfortunately, he chose the love triangle dynamic, which I hate, to do that, but I’ll take it.

If S3 is Sydcarmy territory as opposed to pre-Sydcarmy territory, I’m here for it.

[tobbesdiscordkitten]

here are my thoughts and i want to hear yours !!!

it stranges me how axl allegedly took erin as a target since she was more innocent and a virgin and all of that, i mean, what i thought was more rational was that mostly, a guy would feel comfortable protecting that more innocent naive looking partner you have beside you, but i wonder what made axl have erin as a target when it was so obvious how much less experienced she was in all the thing he was experienced in, like, why her? why didn’t axl hit stephanie?

Hi, anon! I shared a few of these details in my previous posts, but I'll gladly reiterate them again. Keep in mind, this is all hypothetical.

Erin believed she was an easy target for Axl because she didn't have a backbone like Stephanie where she could fight back, she'd just endure the abuse until it was over. Plus, if she did try to stand up for herself, she would be in a much worse predicament with Axl, and she probably would've received more marks on her body. Stephanie's different - she's more mature, more resilient, and she wasn't gonna tolerate a similar fate. Axl subconsciously viewed Erin as a "weaker" individual which could explain why he used her as an outlet for his frustrations.

Erin may have looked innocent and sweet in the photos and interviews, but was she really? She appeared to be a totally different person around Axl when they were alone. A few witnesses pinpointed how Erin was the aggressor in the relationship while Axl was the one who tried defending himself. Axl didn't mind having a partner who was “childish” in a sense. He loved Erin and was devastated when she left. If he didn't enjoy having a partner like Erin around then he would've left her in the dust on his own terms.

I don't want you to be under the impression that their relationship was awful all the time. It wasn't. They both shared romantic moments together over the years and when they're relationship was going good, it was great! However, when things were going bad, it turned to shit. Every relationship has its own ups and downs, fight or flight modes.

Another thing that separates Erin and Stephanie is Stephanie's son, Dylan. Axl always wanted to start his own family but couldn't because Erin suffered a miscarriage. Axl saw Dylan like his own son and used a healthier outlet to bond with him.

During this time [1991], Axl understood why his relationship with Erin never worked, and he explains it:

"I had an extremely volatile relationship with Erin. And I was projecting strong, negative feelings about myself onto other people. I was attracted to people with similar dysfunctional traits, people that I was going to end up not really getting along with. And it wasn't good for me or them, it just made me despise being with anyone, or meeting anyone, or having a good thoughts linked to someone."

He wanted to become a better person, not only for his future partners but for himself, too. This is also the another reason why l believe he hit Stephanie way less than Erin. He didn't want to go back to his old ways and use Stephanie as an unhealthy outlet. He didn't want to repeat the same, emotionally strained outcome twice. He only laid hands on Stephanie because he found out she cheated on him with multiple men. So...payback had to be served.

Another fact I think is worth mentioning is how fame affected Axl's mental health.

Axl describing his inspiration behind the song Coma on MTV with Kurt Loder.

"I started writing about when I OD'd 4 years ago. And the reason I OD'd was because of stress, I couldn't take it. I just grabbed the bottle of pills, in an argument, and just gulped them down, and I ended up in the hospital. What I liked was I wasn't in the fight anymore."

Before Axl made Guns N' Roses, he was in other bands such as Rapidfire, AXL, Rose, Hollywood Rose, New Hollywood Rose, and L.A. Guns. He wanted one of his bands to be big and that was what happened with GNR. The problem was he encountered a lot of stress and there was more responsibilities he had to take as the band grew in recognition. Which could also explain why he abused Erin more frequently, the stress from the band was creeping up on him, and it caused him to spiral into a breakdown.

[tired-of-being-nice]

hey whump fans and especially whumperless whump fans: you should check out the play that goes wrong

its a british tv show that you can watch free on tubi, based on i believe 2 or 3 full-length specials that aired on bbc? and its about an extremely unlucky and incompetent cast of actors whose plays keep going wrong. its truly hysterically funny, and also, very ripe for whump potential. very. characters are always getting injured or distressed in various new and interesting ways! and the fandom (small as it is) is Very Excited About It!

like. theres only 267 fics on ao3. but literally on the first page alone i saw the tags "hospital," "head injury," and "cornley typical injuries" (cornley being the home of the drama society).

also: dysfunctional found family. need i say more.

anyway go give the show, and/or the fics, some love! there's a lot of great material there and i feel like much can be done with it. this has been a psa thank you

[sanityshorror]

hi. its me again....how are you?

some questions:

how was maeve ? did she now that oran was gay?

orans other children...how they think about oran?

how was Qinn?

good day / night / whatever

<3 teddy

Hey there! Sorry I'm just getting to this now, my asks have been backed up to hell recently and I've also been dealing with a lot so I just haven't had to get to asks much! Anyway, here we go!

Maeve was very small, frail, quiet and a massive push over. She wasn't directly physically abusive to her children however she enabled Oran, whether it be from agreeing beatings were needed or simply pretending to be unaware of other abuse that went on. She was very emotionally abusive however, including her pretending Julius didn't exist for multiple years at one point.

It's really hard to say whether Maeve knew or not about Oran being gay because she would have pretended to have never heard or seen anything that would have given it away. Whether or not she knew is further irrelevant because Maeve and Oran had a loveless marriage, it was really only formality. Oran was expected to marry, Maeve was expected to marry. Oran came from a working class family on the city outskirts whereas Maeve lived in poverty out in the rural lands, so while by no means was she marrying into money, she was still moving up the the classes by marrying Oran - she found that appealing. Their marriage lacked any intimacy other than for reproductive purposes.

Oran and Maeve had six children. The first were fraternal twin boys - Aidan and Alexander. Then their daughter, Niamh, followed by another daughter, Annabella. After Annabella, there was an infant who died, then following said infant, Julius. After Julius they had another son, Rian.

Aidan and Alexander both had a very shitty relationship with Oran. He wasn't good to them and they both ran away when they were 18, and rarely would come home to visit.

Niahm was very quiet and distanced emotionally from everyone. She was easily the most stable out of the entire household and being a girl, she did not suffer the same treatment as her brothers, which left her with the ability to realize how terribly dysfunctional her family was as well as allowing her to be able to recognize abuse when she saw it. Being a child herself, she never stood up for any of her brothers and I can't blame her, as Oran would slapped her the one time she did and would have if she did again. She married at only 16 in a desperate attempt to get away from hert family.

Annabella was very close with Oran, she was the family golden child. Annabella was oblivious to the worse of the abuse her brothers suffered through - like her older sister, the worst she ever experienced from Oran was getting slapped across the face a few times. She did stand up for Julius rather often which is why she did get hit multiple times. However - and by no means is this to say getting smacked isn't abuse because it absolutely is abuse - this was very mild compared to what her brothers went through, Julius being the one to have the worst of the abuse. She was a "Daddy's girl" and went along mindlessly with everything Oran taught her and expected of her.

Julius, as we know, didn't have a good relationship with his father, not at all. He was horribly abused.

Rian was abused as well, though whereas Julius suffered through it since he was four years old, Rian was 13 when things first began to get seriously bad and everything went to hell when he was 14½. Rian used to love Oran as a child but after watching the way Julius was treated, the love started to fade for his father. It turned into numbness and eventually blind hatred as the years went by.

Aidan, Alexander and Niamh all remained in Ireland when Oran and Maeve made the choice to immigrate to the United States with their three younger children (though they were all adults/nearly by then).

Quinn O'Sullivan was Annabella's husband and Julius' "side piece" prior to Julius' death as a human. Annabella was unaware Quinn was bisexual and she was also unaware about his relationship with Julius. She found out briefly before she killed Julius, because Julius told her while laughing in her face. Julius started hooking up with Quinn as 'revenge' towards both Annabella (despite her not knowing) and Killian (he did know) after he found out Killian had slept with Annabella.

Quinn started hooking up with Julius after Julius told him about Annabella sleeping with Killian. Quinn always questioned if his third child was actually his, especially since said kid had blonde hair (Quinn had light brown hair) and was always a bit tall for his age (Quinn was tall but not that tall).

Killian and Quinn got into a big brawl a few times, due to jealousy on both sides. Quinn was mad that Killian slept with his wife (and possibly fathered a child with her), and Killian was mad that Quinn was sleeping with Julius. The fights always had to be broken up by Julius and Rian.

Quinn cared a lot about Julius and considered him to be one of his best friends, though he was aware that was a one sided friendship. Julius only saw Quinn as someone to keep him company when Killian wasn't there and to keep him amused.

I'll stop here since this has gotten long lol please feel free to ask if you want to know more!

[missrandomdreamer]

Kintsugi: Delphina and Sir Crocodile snippet

This is again has not been edited: this bad boy was written and barfed on to Tumblr :P its chaotic and honestly not sure about the ending but here ya go ~

If someone told him finding a frog in a barrel of supply food would change his life he would have told them they were absolutely idiotic. No way finding a little desert rain frog hiding in a barrel of fruit would turn his life upside down-but not if this frog changed into an angry small woman who gave him an earful-would change his view on life then maybe…maybe he would agree with that person. Sir Crocodile, Bonez and now Miss Delphina had been traveling for over a month now. The trio had got into some sort of routine though Delphina wanted to bite Sir Crocodile at any opportunity she got-she did seem to get along well with Bonez though. They had become a dysfunctional little ‘family’ though Crocodile hated to use that word. He didn’t want to admit it, but he had got used to Delphina’s presence on their ship. 

Bonez had gone to do recon on the island while Crocodile and Delphina stayed near the boat. They had built a fire on the sand, just to feel the earth underneath their feet again. They both wouldn’t admit it but they desperately loved feeling the sand under their feet more than they would like to admit, especially Delphina. They would return to the boat soon but for now they sat across from one another with the fire being the only light.

—------------------------------------------------------------------

Sir Crocodile stared at the young woman who sat across from him from the fire-pit. The flames light danced across her terracotta and light patches of skin, her strange golden eyes glowed by the light: her lips forever in a tight pout. Since meeting Miss Froggy, he couldn't help notice how her skin in certain lights sparkled as if her different tones of skin were inlaid with gold like kintsugi pottery. He huffed out a ring of smoke and shook his head.

"What are you staring at?" Princess Froggy spat, her golden eyes burning at him, bringing a chuckle from the large man, smoking his cigar.

"You. " Crocodile watched her features flush as she snapped her face away from him.

"Well stop-it's creepy, ya old pervert."

Sir Crocodile had to stop himself from choking on his cigar as he chuckled. "My apologies, Miss Delphina." He saw her face glow more, and couldn't stop himself from smiling.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------

To be fair, Delphina hadn’t really wanted to stay on the ship, she was only using them as transportation but after revealing herself to them-she hadn’t mind staying with them…at least for awhile. She could always slip away easily if she needed to: being a small frog (Being a small lady in general) had its perks. If she was being honest with herself she kind of liked their company. Bonez was quiet but kind to her  and Sir Crocodile…well he always acted like he had a hook up his ass but he was fun to annoy. She was actually surprised he hadn’t tried to kill her yet-not that he could. She would be too fast for him and well she had a secret weapon if he did.

Delphina caught him smiling at her now which made her frown more. She hated to admit it but he was good looking and that annoyed her..and he had a big chest to snuggle into …well at least the brief time she had snuggled into his chest when he first picked her up from the fruit barrel. Then he was made of sand??? Bonus points for the frog girl but he could also be an ass hole so minus points.  Delphina found herself glowering at him, yes he was attractive, and he had a big ole chest she could just stick her face in annnnd the scars and his stupid hair annnd he was made of sand but no no he smoked cigars (Which were stinky) and he could be a huge prick. She would not be falling for Captain Hooky nope nope nope. Then again, here he was opening admitting to staring at her with his stupid pretty eyes and his stupid face. He probably was just thinking how unattractive she was and how she looked like a big old pile of mud. 

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------

"What are you smiling at now, hook hand?" Delphina was giving him a glowing glare, her lips still pouting. God he wanted to just hold her face in his hand and kiss those lips. No. 

Crocodile didn't let his smile slip and merely just huffed on his cigar, attempting to erase his feelings and thoughts. He simply shrugged at her question which caused the woman just to get more angry. She was just a little spitfire and he couldn’t help being amused by her and her antics—as well as maybe poke the little frog just to get her riled up. 

“Ugh you're such a creep.” She turned to look away from him, crossing her arms over her chest. Sir Crocodile chuckled, he could see she was blushing. Though- he saw the young woman shiver, watching him fold into herself more.She had no shoes on-saying she preferred more than once to have the sand in her toes. Yet-he could tell she was cold-the girl hardly wore the right clothes for being warm.  The ex-warlord watched her carefully and before he gave it a second thought, he let his sand ability move under her.

Delphina let out an angry squeak as she tried to fight his suna suna no mi power. She thrashed and let her hands try to drag in the sand but it was no use. “CROCODILE! What the FU--”

Her voice was cut off when she felt the sandman’s arms around her, her face pressed against his large chest. Her face immediately felt hot and her small body no longer felt cold. Her breath hitched when she looked up to his face-he wasn’t looking at her, only the fire. Delphina-so talkative-went quiet and just stared up at the large man cradling her in his arms. 

“You looked cold- but don’t think I'll be holding your ass all night-”

Delphina felt her lips flicker into a mischievous grin, “You’re holding just my ass?” She couldn’t stop herself.

Immediately-Crocodile’s face changed color and he nearly choked on his cigar. He walked right into that one.  He turned his face slightly to her and grinned, that devilish grin, “Don’t tempt me woman.”

Delphina with the straightest of faces, moved her small hand near his chest-making eye contact with him. “You grab my ass, I’m squeezing one of your man titties.” Sir Crocodile glared at her and she just glared back but the little frog woman couldn’t keep her straight face up any longer and dissolved into a fit of giggles causing Crocodile to lose face, he ignored the way he felt his heart swell and nearly flat lined at her laughter.  “I won’t grab your man titties but please don’t grab my ass-at least not when I’m cold… and ya know Bonez could appear any second.”

 Sir Crocodile chuckled looking away from her, “Deal.” He brought  the woman closer to himself, causing the woman to make a soft content hum. Silence involved the two, to where the soft crackle of the fire was the only sound. The large man felt Delphina’s hands twitch and move to play with his green ascot around his neck. Her chubby fingers moving over the texture of it but not pulling at it to choke him. His eyes flickered to her, and she immediately stopped, looking embarrassed.

“Sorry.” she mumbled. Crocodile shook his head and brought up his good hand and took her small one into his own. He guided her fingers to undo the ascot and let it fall into the woman’s hands. Crocodile could hear her let out a soft squeak and felt her body tense in his embrace. When his violet eyes flickered to her kintsugi face, he saw it had turned the color of rose gold. He huffed in amusement but couldn’t help thinking of how beautiful she looked.

“Thanks.”

“Hmm.”

Again silence enveloped the two of them. Delphina was relaxed once again and let her head rest against Crocodile’s chest, as her fingers played with the lime grin ascot, finding it comforting to have such a soft material running through her fingers. Crocodile’s heart beat made for a comforting lullaby…Miss Froggy would never admit that. It didn’t take long for Delphina to fall asleep in the tall man’s arms. Crocodile didn't move until he knew the woman was dead asleep but once knowing that, using his devil fruit abilities he quietly went aboard the ship. The woman was still fast asleep when he reached their sleeping quarters, and even more so asleep when he laid her to bed. He removed the sand that had stuck peskily to her body and clothes then moved the bed sheet up over her body. Her small hands still held onto the green ascot. Crocodile smiled down softly at the woman, letting his ringed finger trace her vitiligo skin then brushing her mousy brown hair away from her face. 

“Good night Princess Kintsugi.” 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Bonez returned, he found his boss sitting alone by the fire, looking lost in thought. However, Mr. 1 knew Crocodile knew he was there, his violet eyes slid over to the sword armed man. He nodded to Mr. 1’s presence while Bonez dropped the firewood on the sand along with a basket of fruit he had gathered.  Bonez took notice Mr.0 no longer wore his ascot and his vest seemed to be disheveled-unlike his boss to have an unkempt appearance. Mr 1 remained silent, whatever happened between Crocodile and Delphina was none of his business he just hoped it wouldn’t be his boss’s downfall.

[fenkizard]

The ask game inspired me to leave some of my writing here. This is fairly old and only briefly edited but I still love it

The tv light was dim, nearly as unoffending as a night light to sleeping eyes when the brightness was cranked down.

A heavy hand carded through orange curls, the hours taken to remove the matting and nests within visibly paying off as strands slithered down his knuckles.

A bony, echoing knock rapped against the wood of the door. There was no hesitation to the taps but they carried a strange tone all the same. Like the person might have found it difficult to keep their hand there too long.

The towering man rose, languid, unrushed, child’s head eased off his leg. The absence privately mourned as the warmth of the air subtly brushed away the heated indent on his skin, drying off the perspiration on the back of his legs in the same breath.

He made his way to the front, door swung open, and there an older woman stood. She was only half his size if that and worse off than she was years ago. The last time she’d shown her face to the outskirts of the ol’ background town, she’d left him with a kid and a promise to get better.

Now though? Her eyes were sunken, bags prominent and sagging enough that one could imagine peeling her lids down so far as to run a finger between the bone and the rigid, glazed whites. The eyes themselves were uncomfortably pale in the night, rimmed by red.

She stood at his door, the sliver of a moon diving down into the deep of the cloud cover, and told him to bring out her child.

No, he said.

She raised her voice, and her finger waggled and jabbed at his chest. She had her yellowed teeth bared at him, voice grating over her throat when she suggested- threatened forcing past him into the home. Into the room Finch was set, slumbering shallowly on the old couch.

She took a step forward, body angled to the side where the door was hung open.

He could just smell her breath, rotten and putrid when she puffed.

Robin took his own pace towards her, rising from where he was leaned against the frame. Now he properly stood above her, mass blocking the doorway when he squared his arms to his sides.

She backtracked, feet hitting the dirt at strange angles as she backpedaled. She looked like a sickly animal, a dog with it’s chops twitching and bony bumped tail shuddering under its groin.

He would be quiet. Finch, in all his unshakable resilience, hated screams. The real gut curdling kind that swayed into wails, getting a few turned heads from coyotes and folks at the edges of the rural.

People in the community saw everything. Somebody always did. An environment where privacy was a thing you kept in the dysfunctional family of boarded window homes that lined the block. Everyone had one cracked pane of glass at the least.

The pig farmer would not not check on his pigs that dawn, assured by his brothers and his wife that the big man had done his community service, remnants of a big black garbage bag polished off by the swine come sun up.

The farmer would chortle and smack the splintered home table with a curse. It saved him a good few bucks on feed after all.

Later, in the sweltering heat of the midday, feet dangling off the fence of the pig pen, a red headed kid went tossing rotting carrots to the fat blotchy creatures.

As far as finch knows, his mother never came back for him.

Chances are I’ll write like two more one shots and throw them all on ao3 for fun

[dark-fanfiction]

Dark at Times

Zade Meadows + Reader

Trigger Warnings - mentions of unaliving, depression, alcohol consumption, stalking, self harm

Summary - Let’s get to know who Zade is going to be stalking. You’re an incredibly broken soul who’s lost a lot of the life you knew and have been thrown into complete turmoil.

You’ve never lived alone. You never considered the possibility that you would be living alone. When you met your now ex boyfriend, you believed you were at your worst. 8 years ago, you was in a battle with your eating disorder, undiagnosed and felt hated by everyone. Then he came along, he helped you, gave you purpose when you felt you had none. You soon moved in together, formed a relationship with his family, which felt completely alien and a little scary since your family was so dysfunctional and abusive.

He showed you a way of living that grounded you. After moving in together, things got bad. Your drinking escalated and you’d find yourself self harming again. Something you hadn’t done since you were 14 years old. I guess a lot can change in 4 years. At 18, to be living with someone you believed to be your soulmate and be thrown head first into a whole new family put immense pressure on you that sent you barrelling over the edge.

8 years you devoted to that man. 8 years you bettered yourself for someone who dropped like a rock in a lake, the second he got a promotion and flew across the world to a new job without even telling you. You came home from your bar shift and found all his stuff gone, and naturally you panicked. Ringing him off the hook, checking with all his friends and family, who all aired you as well. You were left reeling and confused until you saw his Instagram story. He was in a whole new country, far away from your life in Cincinnati. And then the reeling stopped and you shattered. A million teeny tiny pieces everywhere. Sharp, jagged shards flying all over the place.

You knew it was going to be messy to clean yourself up after this. You’d recently been going to counselling and had received a diagnosis for BPD and anxiety disorder. Both of which you were still learning to keep under control.

…~~…

2 weeks has passed since he left, and you’ve packed up everything inside of your once shared apartment, having now moved into Parsons Manor, an old Victorian gothic mansion once owned by your only close relative, your aunty, who passed away a year ago, leaving the manor to you. Your ex never wanted to live here, he said it was too creepy, even though your aunty had poured hundreds of thousands of dollars into renovating the mansion just before she passed. So you accepted that his decision and moved into his cramped, modern apartment. Hating every minute of it. But you did that, for him. Now look where it’s left you. Alone. But at least you get to live in a place filled with such fond memories to you.

As you walk through house, the floors creak and groan beneath your delicate steps. The dark walls still look in perfectly, fresh painted condition, with beautiful, ornate Victorian age paintings hanging all over them. Everything is as she left it for you, and you couldn’t be happier. She always had the best eye for interior design, lucky as that’s what she did for a living, which is one of the reasons she invested in Parsons Manor. She saw a jewel in the mud, quite literally. Parsons manor is so remote and far off any beaten track that it sits alone and secluded atop its rolling hills and daunting cliffs.

You’ve been living at parsons manor for the past week, now fully unpacked, not that you had much to unpack anyway. Your routine stays fairly consistent. You work that bar shift 11am-4pm each weekday, come home and drink wine. Rose wine, so it’s sweet and cold and you’re able to drink far too much of it in one sitting.

…~~…

You’ve been leaning at the edge of the bar nursing your hangover for the past 5 minutes. Pressing your cold bottle of water on your forehead and strumming your fingers on the counter you contemplate what you’re going to do when you get home. Maybe read a book, or get changed and go for a walk along the cliffs… “yeah, maybe I’ll throw myself off of them” you mumble to yourself. Now that enough time has passed, you’ve made it through the anger and grief stage of being abandoned once again, and are now left in that foggy area where you’ve lost your favourite person, and with it your whole personality.

That’s the thing with BPD, you lose yourself in your favourite persons personality, and then when they leave… they take your new personality with them. And you’re no one again.

While you daydream about the inevitable onset of depression, you completely miss the ding on the bell as someone walks in. Still daydreaming until a daunting shadow is standing above you, looming over you. You look up to meet the gaze of a tall, incredibly handsome man. He’s striking, and takes your breath away in an instant. One incredibly dark eye and the other as white and bright as the sun. Across his bright eye is an incredibly vicious looking scar that only adds to allure of his dark good looking features. His hair is tucked under his black hood, but from what I can see he has a loose, neat mop of dark, silky hair. He’s tall as well, like, inhumanely tall, I’d say a good 6ft6.

“You okay there?” He asks, looking inquisitively at me, one brow cocked almost in a mocking sense as he dips his head to one side, strands of hair flopping across his sharp face. You stare blankly for a second before fumbling for an answer “Sorry, I’m good thank you, how can I help?” You managed to rasp out. “Just a whisky, neat” he grins as he says. He sits at the stool opposite where you were leaning. “Asshole” you mutter as you realise you won’t be able to lean there again, but instead have to busy yourself with jobs so you aren’t sucked into a conversation with the devilishly handsome man. You slide a napkin his way and place the drink gently down, offering him a shy smile and you tell him the price. You key in the amount on the card machine when he flashes his card at you, and hold out the machine to him so he can tap. “Thanks, enjoy your drink” you say to him as you walk down the bar to ring it through the till. You feel his eyes on your back the whole time, from the moment you turn away from him right up until he stand, thanks you for your time and walks out. The longest 10 minutes of your life, pretending to polish glasses and wipe surfaces as he slowly sips and watches you. You can’t decide if you felt uncomfortable or at ease. He didn’t seem threatening, in fact the complete opposite. He felt warm and inviting, almost familiar.

You finish up your shift and perform the mandatory handover to the next member of staff taking over from you for the evening shift.

…~~…

Zade watches you finish your shift from his car, delicately moving around behind the bar, clearing up glasses, wiping surfaces. All the usual jobs you’d expect a bar maid to do. Yet you do it with such grace. He’s entranced by you. Your small, petite frame moving effortlessly around, twirling and reaching for different items. Your long, dark wave hair slowly falling and blowing around your face. When you looked up at him in the bar he nearly fell backwards. It was clear you was lost in an ocean of thought, however you was stunning. Full, naturally round lips, a perfect little button nose and the most dazzling green eyes he’d ever seen. A dark green ring encircled them, making the colour shine so bright. Yet, he could see in your eyes that you were hurting. The never ending pools of colour didn’t seem like they were shining as brightly as they could, and he noticed you looked tired. Not the kind of tired you’d notice in someone who’s losing sleep, but the kind of tired where a persons soul is slowly giving up. He’s seen that look many times before, in a lot of the women and children he’s saved.

He watched you leave the bar, head hung low and an oversized hoodie thrown over yourself as you walked to your car in the rain. He’d guess you was maybe 5ft4. He watched you cross the road, you didn’t even glance up to check for cars. You wasn’t on your phone, you wasn’t distracted, it seemed more like you simply didn’t care if a car were to plough you down. His brows dipped in concern at the idea that you was putting yourself in danger on purpose. His whole purpose is to save and protect people, but you were different.

That’s what attracted him to you. You had a dark air around you, intriguing and mysterious. What was plaguing you enough to cause such deep rooted issues such as the possibility of death not scaring you.

Zade thought about that the whole drive, as he followed you back to a seemingly derelict road leading through a forest. He couldn’t exactly turn off and follow you down it as it’d be obvious he was following you. He hung back, allowing 5 minutes before signalling and turning down the dirt track, spotting a sign that reads ‘Parson Manor’ at the mouth of the road.

…~~…

You sit in the bay window of Parson Manor, looking out as dusk engolfs the woods surrounding you. You’re holding a large glass of wine like your life depends on it, the bottle sat on the floor next to you, there and ready to top your glass up when you take your last sip. A deep feeling of depression and loneliness is starting to settle in your chest, blooming like a garden that’s just come into spring. You often find your depression coming and going, but this time it feels different. It feels like it’s going to keep you company for a long time. You drink late into the night, maybe even the early hours, drifting off into a deep sleep sat in your bay window chair. Unsettling dreams keep you fidgeting throughout the night, but you’ve drank enough that at least the nightmares won’t wake you.

You stir, feeling as though someone’s watching you. Slowly you blink your eyes open, rubbing away the sleep that is blurring your vision. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle, and you’re sure you heard something from behind you, but when you look there nothing or no one to be seen. You shake the feeling off and take yourself to bed, still wobbly on your feet as you check your phone for the time. 4:27am. Great, you’re going to feel like shit in a few hours time. “At least I’ll feel something…” you mumble as you face plant your bed, sleep and nightmares instantly welcoming you back.

…~~…

Zade has found himself in a routine now. Go off, do your work and come and watch you. It’s been 4 weeks since he’s been stalking you from afar. Sometimes he’ll keep an eye on you at work, but more often than not it’ll be through the windows of parsons manor. Even he finds this place creepy. He wonders how you must feel, but you seem so at home with darkness that he thinks that must be it. You surround yourself with darkness, including where you live.

He’s grown a deep love for you, and has developed a sense of protection over you. He watched as what seemed to be a group of familiar people to you speedily drove down the dirt track, slamming and skidding to a stop outside the mansion. At first you came out with what appeared to be a surprised smile on your face, only to see it drop in seconds when a stern faced woman came out screaming and shouting, telling you that you shouldn’t be here and that this house didn’t belong to you. She proceeded to drag items out of the house, your clothes, laptop and other personal belongings, tossing them all over the place, screaming at you to get out of her sisters house and leave the family alone. It only became apparent to Zade that she was your mother after hearing you screaming at her. The words hurt his soul to hear, wondering how any woman could ever tear down their daughter like that “You’re nothing to this family! No daughter of mine would be such a disappointment!” You of course would plead back to her, asking why she had to be this way to you. Your tiny physique made you seem so vulnerable as you held yourself, arms crossed and head down, tears falling from your cheeks. Zade wanted nothing more than to walk up to you, pick you up, cradle you and tell you everything was okay. That he was there and that you wasn’t alone. But he couldn’t yet.

Slowly, as the weeks passed he noticed bandages adorning your left arm. He’d been watching you long enough to know you didn’t go to the hospital to get whatever was wrong dressed. He had Jay check the hospital records for you, and nothing flagged up. Whatever had happened, you’d treated it yourself. Worry grew in Zades mind, and one afternoon while you worked, he came and installed the latest spy cams throughout your sprawling mansion. This way, he could always keep an eye on you and make sure you was okay, even if he’d have to ask Jay to check on you from time to time.

He was surprised when he reached your kitchen and saw several red roses placed in a vase, each one at a different stage of dying. One was nearly completely petal-less. You’d kept each rose he was sending to you. He smiled to himself “I’m glad you like the roses, baby” wishing desperately that he was holding you and saying it to your face.

…~~…

Each time you receive a rose and a note, mixed emotions rise to the surface. You have a stalker. A very real, possibly dangerous stalker. As soon as you received the first note and flower you instantly grabbed for your phone to check whether it was your ex. His stories on instagram would confirm that it wasn’t. The excitement died in less than a second and fear settled in its place. Through the fear though, you felt somewhat less alone. Parsons Manor can isolate a soul, imprison them and leave them wishing for death just like you had been each night. The notes gave you something to do, although short, they are sweet. You’d read them with a glass or few of wine. “One day, little mouse, you’ll smile. And that day will light up my whole entire world” that one in particular felt the warmest to read. While it is scary to have an unknown stranger watching you, at least someone cared… right?

[animereaderinsertwriter]

tags/warnings: a/b/o, omega trafficking, omega!reader, post-trafficked!reader, complex discourse on mating vs marriage, breakup then makeup, angst with a happy ending, mention of erectile dysfunction, eventual smut, dubcon elements, pseudo-infidelity

song: Careless Whisper // masterlist

Part I - Part II - ao3

The evening was dark and cold— the perfect backdrop for the warm glow of crystal chandeliers and the heat of a crowd flushed with drink. The air smelled sweetly of gardenias and mingling alpha, beta, and omega scents, marking the party as large but intimate as the guests mixed with one another, touching and kissing cheeks. Champagne and hors d'oeuvres were plentiful; as Shoto partook, the high-ceiling of the venue made his head spin with the dizzying luxury of the place. Being a wealthy son of a wealthy son, Shoto had been taught to appreciate such grandeur for what it was— but even so, the beauty around him faded, wilting in comparison to the beauty at his side. 

(Y/N). His wife. 

"You flatter me," he heard her saying, smiling kindly at a woman who had given her a back-handed compliment on her dress. "I hadn't thought that deeply on it, but I suppose I could have gone with something a bit more flashy for the occasion. I only thought of the time and effort it would take to make the gown, so I decided on something simple."

That, Shoto knew, was patently false. (Y/N) had thought a great deal about what she was to wear this evening and had even gone so far as to have the dress made to her exact measurements by the Todoroki family seamstress. It was a plain, simple garment with no embroidery or embellishments, stately blue in color and soft velvet in texture; its length brushed the floor, and with it, (Y/N) wore no jewelry save the simple sapphire earrings Shoto had gifted her on their anniversary and the tiny silver chain that had survived with her through the most difficult times of her life. 

It needs to be plain, she'd told him as he zipped her up in it for the first time. I don't want them to look at me and see my dress. I want to make them see me. 

As for Shoto, it was hard for him to look at (Y/N) and see anything else.

When you meet someone at the lowest point in their life, it is often that you will catch a glimpse of the most true version of them that exists. When Shoto had met his wife, she had been beaten so badly that she could barely see, and her body was littered with hundreds of scars from forced bond marks. She had been in the very pits of hell, denied proper food, water, and hygiene— and, when Shoto first saw her, her teeth were stained red with alpha blood, the sinewy strips of a man's throat between her unforgiving incisors. 

When he'd found her, she'd been a trafficked omega, what society would deem to be a person utterly destroyed— but even from that first moment, Shoto looked at her and saw a queen. He could never have stayed away from her if he'd tried; he had been half in love the moment he'd laid eyes on her, and he’d fallen the rest of the way when she spat the mangled throat from her teeth and said, 'I got the bastard,' before slumping to the ground, exhausted from the fight she'd had only moments before. 

Now, as she navigated the social intricacies of the gala with quiet grace, Shoto couldn't help but see that same woman. 

He loved his wife very much. 

"I'm tired, Shoto," she murmured, turning her bright eyes up to him once they were alone for the moment. She was so beautiful in the soft golden light that she took his breath away. "My head is starting to hurt."

Normally, Shoto's alpha instincts would have urged him to soothe her, whispering sweet, comforting words into her nape as they made their excuses. That had been the way of it for a very long time; once (Y/N) had been rescued, she’d found that often, intimately-mingling scents without ventilation were difficult for her to handle. It was something to do with increased sensitivity from so many forced bonds and the overstimulation of crowds, and in the event that Shoto was near (he always was), he would always help her navigate the crowd and find a safe place for her to breathe, allowing her body to rest. His instincts as well as his own innermost desires drove him to do it, the alpha in him calling to the omega in her.

Now, though, his body was at war with itself. Because of (Y/N)'s many, many previous bonds, the doctors had not recommended that they try to form a bond with Shoto's mating bite— which was fine, really. His mother and father had been a bonded pair, after all, and if nothing else, they were proof that mating bonds do not a happy marriage make. The problem was that (Y/N) had not claimed him with her own bite, the trauma of her own experiences too painful to allow it, and now Shoto had a new scar from an unfamiliar set of teeth. 

At (Y/N)'s need, his body felt…

Nothing. 

It had not been his intention for this to happen. Far from it— Shoto was utterly devoted to (Y/N). He had been over the moon to simply be in her life during her recovery, and then when they started dating, he had never imagined that he could feel so fulfilled by another person. She was his completion, his beginning and his end. It was by honest accident that this had happened— a truly catastrophic accident. 

"We'll leave soon," he told her, kissing her forehead. "Will you dance one more dance with me, darling?"

(Y/N)'s smile was weakened, but no less brave. 

"Of course," she replied, squeezing his hand. "Lead the way."

As Shoto led (Y/N) to the dancefloor, he marveled at how much of his life was wrapped up in her. After her rescue, (Y/N) had vowed never to be helpless ever again; as soon as she was well enough to walk, she'd immediately started looking for employment fit for her razor-sharp wit and had asked Shoto to train her to fight. By the time a few months had gone by, (Y/N) had started a brilliant career with the bureaucratic side of Endeavor's hero agency and could throw a punch like a convict; in a year's time, she followed Shoto as he opened his own agency, moving heaven and earth to keep everything afloat until the agency got its feet up under it. 

Looking at her there in her velvet gown, her scars on full display for the world, Shoto was reminded that anything he had, he had because of her. They didn't even sign a prenup before they got married— the way he saw it, everything he owned was rightfully hers anyway. 

"You seem distracted," (Y/N) said, her skin soft and warm beneath his hands as they swayed together. "Is everything okay?"

No. Nothing was okay, and Shoto refused to lie to her any more than he had to. 

"I am distracted," he replied, moving his thumb against the curve of her waist. "I want to forget everything that isn't this dance, be present in the moment, but—"

But I can't be, knowing that this is the last dance we'll share. 

(Y/N), so kind and understanding, smoothed her hand over his shoulder with an easy smile. 

"I get it," she told him. "Don't worry about it. You're doing just fine."

Shoto bit the inside of his cheek, fighting tears. 

If only he had listened when (Y/N) asked him to take a break from setting up yet another branch office for the agency. If only he had planned that surprise vacation he'd wanted to take (Y/N) on. If only, if only that secretary's heat hadn't been a week early, if only he could have seen her coming, if only there could have something between her stupid fucking teeth and his neck right there in the middle of the office—

But it was too late for that. In a freak biological anomaly, that poor omega secretary had felt a mating compulsion, and it destroyed both their lives just like that. Biological soulmates, the doctor had called them when they discovered the bond couldn't be undone. A perfect physical match.

The thought alone made Shoto feel sick to his stomach. 

"Baby," said (Y/N), stopping their movement altogether. Her eyes— so bright, like starlight— were somehow both soft and piercing. "What's wrong?"

It was time. Shoto couldn't hide it from her any longer. 

"Come outside with me," he said instead of answering. "This will be easier when your nose is clear."

(Y/N) didn't argue, but Shoto felt her anxiety spike like a physical ache. 

Soon, they were outside, and the chill of the evening was made biting by the wind. On instinct, Shoto made to tuck (Y/N) into his warmer side, but hesitated just before touching her. He'd lost that right. He didn't even deserve to breathe the same air as her. 

(Y/N) noticed the aborted motion. She turned to him, her eyes full of pain, and said,

"Shoto, you're frightening me."

"I'm sorry," he told her, and he meant it. "I'm just— I'm so, so sorry."

Her brows crinkled in confusion.

"For what?"

He told her everything. He told her every last detail from what had happened to what was currently happening— the omega's misery at the perceived rejection of her alpha and subsequent heat sickness, his own issues with his biology, everything. (Y/N) listened in perfect silence, her face never once moving, even when tears began to flow down her cheeks. Each wet line that fell from her eyes was like the lash of a whip against his heart, but Shoto withheld nothing. 

Total honesty was the very least he could give her. 

"I understand if you want a divorce," he said, though the very idea of it made him want to walk into traffic. "Anything you want, you can have."

For a long moment, (Y/N) did not speak. When she finally did, what she said felt like iodine poured in a puncture wound. 

"I don't want anything from you. Do what you think is best for everyone, Shoto, but leave me my career. It's the only thing I have that is truly mine."

Great God— how could she think he would do otherwise? 

"Of course." The words felt like they had been squeezed from him— it was like his throat was a tube of almost-empty toothpaste that had been crushed. He wanted to say more, but he choked on whatever he could possibly have said, his own body rejecting the grief he felt. 

(Y/N), as perceptive as ever, noticed immediately. Her nose wrinkled, doubtless registering the scent change beneath his fading topical blockers, and she looked as though she might be sick.

"I'm going to Momo's tonight," she said. "I don't think I can be at home."

At home. Her home. Their home. 

"Now, or ever?" he asked quietly, averting his gaze with shame.

"I'm not sure," she replied, her voice breaking. "I'll get someone to get my things—"

"No."

(Y/N) flinched at the harshness of his tone, but Shoto could bear it no longer. 

"Our house is your home," he said, struggling to keep the emotion out of his voice. "Even if you no longer want it, it's yours. It's always been yours. I'll— I'll move my things as soon as it can be arranged, if that will make you more comfortable."

(Y/N) shrugged. She turned her face from him, hiding her tears.

"Do whatever you like, Shoto. It doesn't make a difference to me."

This was bad, really bad. For years, they had worked together to develop (Y/N)'s sense of preference, to help her become reaccustomed to having agency in her own life; during the years she'd been trafficked, she had been conditioned to put aside every feeling, every preference of her own, and they had fought like hell to get her to a place where making choices and not submitting to another's preference was easy, normal. Now, in a single instant, she gave it up once more, withdrawing from Shoto in curdled complacency. 

"I'll call a cab," he said, passing her the keys to his car. "Will you—"

He caught himself. He had nearly asked (Y/N) to call him when she got to Momo's. 

“Don’t worry,” she told him, as though that were even physically possible, as though he were the one in need of comfort. “I’ll be okay. I’ve survived worse.”

That… wasn’t the point.

“Go to your mate,” she continued, though her body began to tremble. “I’m sure she needs you now more than I do.”

Shoto wanted to die. Instead, he just stood there, staring at (Y/N) as though it was the last time he would ever see her.

“Go,” she pleaded, shivering, shaking. “Please, Shoto. I’m— I’m not strong enough. I can’t do it.”

His gut roiled and rioted, but he forced himself to turn from her. One foot in front of the other, he managed to tear himself away; apology after apology clogged his throat, but he choked them all down, strangling himself on their acrid taste. (Y/N) had asked him to go, so he would go. He would do anything for her, even if it killed him. 

I’m sorry, he thought as the wind stung the tears on his cheeks. I’m so, so sorry.

***

Healing came once more for (Y/N) in slow and stumbling steps, but it did eventually come.

She never returned home after that evening. It was easier to excise herself from Shoto that way, to move out and move on without a single backward glance. After all, (Y/N) had the means and the money to buy new things— and why would she want all of her old things when they would just smell like broken memories? No, it was much better this way with her new apartment and her new life. She had started out with far less the first time, and if she had done it once, she could do it again. 

Of course, there were some things that remained the same. Her career, of course, was still her own despite being part of Shoto’s agency; to avoid being in the way, (Y/N) had relocated to a branch office outside of town, but her everyday tasks were still the same as they had always been. She kept her head down and worked hard, pouring blood, sweat, and tears into the success of the company, and she was rewarded with an exceptionally fulfilling work life and dear friends that she might not have otherwise met. (Y/N) had even learned to enjoy the commute out of the city in the early hours of the morning and late hours of the evening, using the time to relax and reflect on the blessings of being far, far away from her husband and his mate.

Surprisingly, the Todoroki family’s presence and friendship was another aspect of (Y/N)’s life that had not changed. They had been more than understanding throughout the whole ordeal, and they had given her comfort as well as space when she needed it. Her in-laws visited often for both business and pleasure, often dropping by to discuss potential mergers, business plans, and new additions to the family, and despite the pain that surfaced in their eyes when they thought (Y/N) wasn’t looking, she enjoyed their company greatly. Natsuo was of particular comfort, always regaling her with some new and horrible tale from the ER, his stories ranging from penises caught in M&M tubes to reattaching a thumb that had been blown off by some idiot holding lit pyrotechnics— it was nice, she thought, to still have family even when she had no longer had any right to them.

“He’s unhappy, you know,” Natsuo had told her privately one evening after they’d shared a dinner together with Fuyumi and Touya. “I’m sorry if it brings you pain, but I thought you had a right to know.”

He’d reached out and squeezed her hand, and (Y/N) had smiled at him as though his words hadn’t been like a blow to the gut. Even after six months of radio silence, the wound Shoto had left was still so raw that even so light a touch made her queasy.

“Touya also went to jail earlier this week,” he’d said in an effort to change the subject, raising his voice slightly so that his brother could hear him over the clanking of dishes. “Isn’t that right, Touya-nii?”

“Shut up, snitch!” Touya had growled from the kitchen. “It was for a good cause!”

The good cause in question was cold-cocking a reporter that was trying to ask some very leading questions about the split between (Y/N) and Shoto. There were some implications made about (Y/N)’s past, some commentary on her scars, and Touya, who had already been to prison, thank you very much, had done everyone a favor and punched the bastard right in his ‘ugly, gap-toothed face.’

Touya was not a very nice person, but (Y/N) loved him all the same for his kind heart.

And so life went on. Of course, there were moments of bone-deep agony, times when (Y/N) wasn’t sure if she wouldn’t die from the ache for Shoto— but those times passed, and in the aftermath, (Y/N) reminded herself that she would rather have this trouble than a thousand others. She was fortunate indeed that a broken heart was the most of her burdens. Things could always be much, much worse. 

It was with thoughts of this nature that (Y/N) made the trek from the parking lot of her apartment complex to her penthouse. The July heat still lingered in the moisture of the evening, clinging to the cloth of her starched work shirt, but she decided to take the stairs anyway, still uncomfortable with small, confined spaces like elevators even after these last few years. Besides, stretching her legs after a day of sitting at the office would probably be good for her.

Better get all the fresh air and exercise I can, she thought as she began climbing. My heat should start in a few hours, and once it starts, I’ll be trapped inside for a week.

Her good mood soured somewhat. This would be her first heat without Shoto since the beginning of their marriage— she would be lucky if she didn’t end up calling him in the haze of her heat, asking for an alpha that was no longer hers. Maybe she should hide her phone from herself. Yes, that would do, she thought as she fiddled with her key. She’d hide it from herself, and then—

(Y/N) froze. 

A strange scent filled her nose. It stank like alpha inside her home, and once she opened her door further, she saw that her apartment was thoroughly trashed. Fear lanced through her, and her heart pounded in her chest— in a thrill of sheer panic, she reached for her phone and used her speed dial, careless of who would be on the other end of the line. 

It rang once, twice. (Y/N) backed away from the threshold of her apartment, fear clutching tightly inside her breast. As she did so, she bumped into something solid, and before she could scream, pain blossomed in the back of her head, and she knew no more. Her last thought before her consciousness faded to black was of Shoto, and of how confused he would be that she would call him now, just before her heat.

She hoped he wouldn’t make any assumptions.

[artiststarme]

The Long-Lost Wheeler

This fic is based on this post from @kcsplace! I'm sorry it was such a long wait but thanks for letting me use your idea! There was no way I could compress all of my ideas into a one-shot so this will be a series. I hope you like it!

~*~*~*~

Eddie had never known who his mom was. He didn’t know her name or what she looked like. All he knew was that she left him with his dad when he was barely two months old and never turned around to look back. He would dream of meeting her as a child. His childish mind would dream up faceless women hugging him, making him lunch, playing games with him, and anything else moms were supposed to do with their sons. He would imagine being part of a happy family when he saw the other kids at school getting picked up by their moms and dads. 

After so many disappointments though and so many years gone by, he gave up hope on ever meeting her. She didn’t want anything to do with her own kid? He didn’t want anything to do with her. The nameless, faceless woman that gave birth to him was nothing but a surrogate in his mind. Just a stranger that brought him into this hard world to abandon him when the going got rough. From then on, he viewed her with little more than mild disinterest. 

Whenever he had asked his dad about her, he never had anything good to say. Old Richie Munson said she was a manipulative bitch that was always too good for everyone around her, always looking to find something better. His old man would get upset whenever Eddie brought her up and on one fateful occasion, shaved his entire head because ‘he looked too much like her’. After that, Eddie never asked his dad about her again. 

A few months after he moved in with Uncle Wayne, he felt safe enough to ask him if he knew who his mother was. Wayne was a lot more tactful and nice with his description of her. He told Eddie that she was just a scared lady, unsure of what she wanted and too skittish to take care of little Eddie with his dad. He made her sound like leaving Eddie was a byproduct of escaping his dad and Eddie lost some of his anger towards her after that. He’d been trying to get away from his dad for eleven years, he couldn’t fault her for fleeing when she had the chance. 

He thought about her even less after the Upside Down once he had a group of friends close enough to call family. They filled the void that his dysfunctional and fractured family had left behind. He also found an unexpected best friend in Nancy Wheeler. They had a lot more in common than he thought they would and they got on like a house on fire. Things were finally going well for Eddie which was ironic since it was a near death experience and week in hell that led to it. 

Hellfire was back in action after being banned from the school due to its “Satanic connotations” and was now being hosted in the Wheeler’s basement. Eddie didn’t have his throne anymore or his chalice of Mountain Dew and it smelled a bit like a sweaty armpit. However, he was surrounded by his friends and the happiness he felt more than made up for the downsides. 

They were on their fourth day of the campaign when everything blew up. The entirety of Hellfire club was situated around the Wheeler’s kitchen on the singular snack break that Eddie allowed over the course of the day. All of the boys were talking amongst each other while Eddie relaxed against the counter happily watching his friends being happy and munching on baby carrots. Everything was fine until Karen Wheeler walked in carrying several grocery bags that Eddie immediately went to help her with. 

“Here, I can help you with that,” he said, leaning down to her height to take some of the heavier bags out of her arms. 

“Oh, thank you. Mike never helps with the groceries, you would think one would want to help their mother-” Karen abruptly stopped talking once she made eye contact with Eddie. He stalled a bit in response before setting the bags down on the counter next to where he was previously situated. 

She nodded at him jerkily before moving over to Mike and dragging him by the ear just out of sight, not out of hearing though. Eddie could hear what she said loud and clear. 

“Michael, what is he doing here? You didn’t tell me that you were going to have that… that boy over to my house!” She sounded pissed and Eddie narrowed his eyes as he listened. 

“Who, Eddie? He’s my friend, I told you he was coming over. You said it was okay for me to have my friends over to play Dungeons and Dragons today!”

“I want him out of my house, Michael. Don’t invite him over again, he’s not welcome here.”

“What the hell, mom? Why? He didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Now, Michael!”

Eddie didn’t know what the fuck was going on but he knew when he wasn’t wanted. Prior to the Spring Break from Hell, he would have rebelled and relished in the unease his presence caused. However, with the majority of the town still gunning for his arrest even after he was proven innocent, he knew not to make waves. 

When Mike turned the corner into the kitchen, still glowering and angry, Eddie clapped his hands to gather the rest of Hellfire’s attention. “Alright my fellow gremlins, let’s call it a day. We’ll resume our merciless quest next Friday. Expect a call with the updated Hellfire destination sometime next week. Godspeed.” 

Understandably this caused an uproar with the Hellfire members protesting and even Mike tried to convince Eddie to stay. “No, no, no, we’re all done for the day. We don’t want to overstay our welcome. We’ll wrap up the campaign next week. End of discussion!”

He gave everyone one last look and made this way back downstairs to pack up his things. He didn’t really blame her, he thought as he grabbed his things hastily. He wouldn’t want an alleged murderer in his house either. When he made his way past Karen on his way out of the house, he paused in front of her. 

“Thanks for letting us play here a few times. I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable, Mrs. Wheeler. I didn’t mean to. We’ll meet somewhere else next time,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

And with that he walked out of the Wheeler’s house with the dulcet sounds of Mike screaming at his mother following behind him. 

When he brought it up to Nancy just a few days later, she was perplexed. She had no idea on why her mother would be so vocally against having Eddie in the house. Karen Wheeler was known to be the perfect doting mother. To have her kick Eddie out of her home and to hate him so blatantly was almost unfathomable. She told Eddie that she would get to the bottom of it and she did. She didn’t expect to discover that Eddie was her long-lost brother that her mother abandoned. Now how was she supposed to tell Eddie?

Permanent tag list: @doubleb11 @nburkhardt @zerokrox-blog @newtstabber @i-less-than-three-you @carlyv @pyrohonk @straight4joekeery @trippypancakes @conversesweetheart @estrellami-1 @suddenlyinlove @yikes-a-bee @swimmingbirdrunningrock @perseus-notjackson @anaibis @merricatty @maya-custodios-dionach @grtwdsmwhr @manda-panda-monium @lumoschild @goodolefashionedloverboi @mentallyundone @awkwardgravity1 @kcsplace

[foundtherightwords]

The Quiet Chaos - Chapter 4

Pairing: Billy Knight (Lethal White/Strike) x OFC

Summary: After a bad breakup throws her carefully-planned life into disarray, Esme has sworn off dating forever. However, when she forms an unexpected connection with a young man named Billy, who's dealing with his own struggles, Esme is forced to face the truth: sometimes you can't plan for love.  

Warnings: mental health issues, angst, slow-burn, developing relationship, dysfunctional family, some violence (non-graphic), some smut (non-explicit)

Chapter warning: discussions of mental illness (so sorry if I got anything wrong)

Chapter word count: 4.9k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

Chapter 4 - First Date(s)

It's strange, how putting a label on a relationship can change its nature. If Esme had been nervous about hanging out with Billy before, when they were not-dating, then she agonized about their "official" date now, wondering what to do, where to go, what to wear. It was so excruciating that she almost regretted asking Billy out. She should've just let their relationship progress naturally. But it was too late for that now.

Thinking back, Esme realized she'd never had to take the initiative on a first date. Her first boyfriend, Marco, was part of her friend group in school, so they just did a lot of the same things and went to the same places; she never had to decide anything. After Marco decided to take a gap year and completely ghosted her, he was followed by a string of casual dates, where she just went along with whatever her dates suggested. And then she met Neil during her third year in uni, and that was that.

Billy, on the other hand, was happy to defer to her, and now, for the first time in a long time, Esme found her suggestions being listened to and accepted. It was rather a heady experience.

She thought it best to stay in the area that they were both familiar with, but even then, the choices were overwhelming. In the end, she decided on an Indian restaurant she'd once eaten at, not far from the clinic. It was the safest bet. The food was good, there was something for everybody, and the atmosphere was cozy and homey, nothing to make one nervous.

Still, Esme couldn't stop her heart from hammering that Friday night, when she entered the restaurant with its colorful glass lamps swinging from the ceiling, their rainbow rays reflected on the walls, and the soft twang of sitar from the speakers. It was warm inside the restaurant, much too warm, and she started to regret her choice of a sky blue dress, afraid she was going to sweat and the sweat stains were going to show. But then the warm, spicy smell of food hit her, and her nervousness was temporarily forgotten as her stomach growled. She had hardly eaten anything that day, partly from nerves, but mostly from wanting to save room for the delicious fare.

She saw Billy seated at a table by the window and approached him. There were already some poppadoms and an array of dips in front of him, and he was so busy fiddling with them that he didn't notice her until she was quite near. Fumbling, he stood up and immediately knocked over the bowl of lime pickles. "Shit," he muttered to himself, then "Sorry," to Esme.

Esme smiled at him. It made her feel better, knowing that he was nervous too.

"You look nice," he said. She thanked him and smiled again, though with some uncertainty this time. She wished she could say the same to him. Although he had put on a clean pair of jeans and a nicer shirt than his usual tee-and-hoodie, there was something rather unkempt about him, different from his general scruffiness. The sunken, almost feverish look in his eyes didn't help either.

"I'm not late, am I?" she asked, though she knew she was not.

"No, I was early. I asked them not to bring out the poppadoms right away but they still did, and now they've gone kind of soft—I wonder if they would warm them—have you ever had a poppadom and cheese sandwich?"

In the few months they'd known each other, that was perhaps the most he had ever spoken to her in one go. "Uh, no, can't say that I have," she replied, slightly bemused.

"It's great. You get some old poppadom, warm it up in the oven, put in some cheese—something sharp, like Cheddar, was best—Double Gloucester was good too—why do they call it Double Gloucester? Is it bigger than the Single?—you let it melt a little, then some mango chutney, it's almost like jam—where is that waitress?!"

He was talking brightly and excitedly, but far too much and too fast. The prickle in Esme's stomach was back, and it was not from hunger. To calm herself, she picked up a piece of poppadom, only to realize Billy had almost crushed them into oblivion.

"When I was leftover—no, I mean when I was a kid, we would have leftover poppadoms from Indian the previous night, and I'd have poppadom and cheese for lunch," he continued. The waitress arrived just then, interrupting Billy's discourse on the superiority of a poppadom-cheese sandwich. Perhaps that was why he looked almost irritated when the waitress asked if they were ready to order, and barely glanced at the proffered menu. Esme ordered extra poppadoms, chicken madras, and rice. For a moment, she tried to remember how spicy the madras was and wondered if it was wise to eat something so strongly flavored on a first date. But if we both eat it, we'll cancel each other out anyway, she thought, and blushed when she realized the implication of that. To hide her embarrassment, she asked Billy if he wanted to share some bhindi bhaji. He didn't appear to be listening. His eyes were fixed on the rainbow patterns made by the lamps on the wall, like one hypnotized.

"Billy?"

With difficulty, he tore his eyes away from the light and started ordering a ton of food, in the same rapid-fire speech. The waitress couldn't write down his order fast enough. Esme kept quiet out of politeness, but once the waitress was gone, she turned to Billy and said teasingly, "Hungry, are we?"

"Sure am." He grinned at her. "We never had a lot of Indian when I was a kid," he said, picking up his story as if there was no interruption at all. "If you want decent Indian—go to Faringdon or Wantage. In our village, there was only this one curry place, and I remembered it was horrible. They would just add curry powder into some unidentified meat stew and call it a curry. Us kids used to tell all sorts of horror stories about what was really in that stew. Jimmy once told me it was dog meat—"

"Who's Jimmy?"

This time, she was sure he deliberately ignored her question. "How's Angua?" he said.

"She's fine, she's settling in—"

"You left her at home?" he interrupted her.

"She'll be all right for a few hours."

"But we might be at it all night!"

As soon as those words were out of his mouth, Billy looked horrified.

Esme raised an eyebrow.

"Please tell me that's a joke about how long it'll take us to eat all that food you've just ordered and not what I think it is," she said in an icy voice that her younger siblings all knew very well.

"I'm sorry!" Billy said through the fingers clamped over his mouth. "I'm so sorry! I didn't—I don't—I didn't mean to say that!"

"Then what did you mean to say?"

Billy looked at her with such despair in his eyes that Esme's anger was almost forgotten.

"I—I have something to tell you," he said.

"What?" She steeled herself for the worst and returned his gaze with a hard, unblinking stare that wouldn't look out of place on a certain stern old witch that was her namesake. On the inside, though, she was screaming. Oh please, please don't reveal some sort of awful secret. My self-esteem can't take another blow.

"I have this—condition." He took a deep breath.

Condition? What kind of condition?! Is that code for "I'm actually a terrible human being and this is my excuse"?

"I have schizoaffective disorder," he said, his earlier excitement gone, his shoulders slumped in misery.

It was so unexpected that for a moment, all Esme felt was a sense of anticlimactic relief. But then came confusion and concern. She wasn't familiar with mental illnesses. She had her share of anxiety, of course, and some of her friends from veterinary school had struggled with depression, but that was normal for anyone in the medical field. All she heard was "schizo", and her mind immediately went to schizophrenia. Probably there was a difference, but she didn't know what, and didn't feel like asking, for fear of stressing Billy out even more. Suddenly it all made sense, his tic, his jumpiness, his slight paranoia, his mentions of therapist and medications.

"Please say something," he said miserably.

Esme floundered for words. She felt sorry for him, but she didn't know enough about his condition to talk about it. In the end, she settled for honesty. "I'm sorry, but I don't know what to say," she said, trying to sound as kind as possible.

"I usually have it under control, but what with the stress and the excitement of the date, I got hypomanic," he explained, then immediately added, "I'm not blaming you!" His hands reached across the table for hers, but he appeared to think better of it and drew them back again, keeping them twisted in his lap. "I'm just—I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner—I was going to, I meant to, I really did. But I—I didn't want to frighten you away—" His words were running together again. His right hand started its tic-like movement to tap his nose and chest, but he slammed it on the table, so hard Esme was afraid he was going to knock over the rest of the dip. Several heads in the restaurant turned toward them. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Esme looked at his usually strong and capable hand, now trembling on the table, and it wrung her heart. Whatever it was that he was going through, it was not his fault. That much she knew. She put her hand over his. "It's OK," she said. It was all she could think of to say at the moment, but that seemed enough for Billy. His trembling ceased, and his breathing slowed.

Just then, the waitress arrived with their food. Esme turned to her with an apologetic look. "So sorry to bother you, but I'm not feeling very well. Could we have this as a takeaway?"

After seeing Billy safely back to his flat in East Ham, laden down with his takeaway boxes ("I'll be eating Indian for a week," he said with a sad, sheepish smile), Esme returned to her own flat. Mentally and emotionally, she was exhausted and just wanted to curl up in bed, but she was still starving—it's funny how your body still functions and craves sustenance, even when your mind doesn't. Eating an entire curry was too much for her though, so she just nibbled on some poppadoms. Then, without really thinking about it, she rummaged in her fridge and found some Cheddar to go with it. He was right, it was delicious. It was like eating cheese with very crispy crackers.

But the thought of Billy squeezed her heart again. Unable to sleep, she looked up his condition and soon fell down a rabbit hole of websites and blogs and forums about mental illnesses. Unfamiliar, unsettling phrases jumped out at her. Psychosis. Hallucinations. Delusions. Paranoia. Mood disorder. At first, it was only her bad luck that she lamented —she had finally found someone she liked, someone kind and considerate, and he turned out to have a mental illness.

Hang on, her voice of conscience piped up. He is still kind and considerate. His mental illness doesn't define him. It's a part of him, but not all of him. The more she read about Billy's condition, the less she thought about herself, and the sorrier for him she felt. How he must be struggling, and how difficult it must be for him, to build up the courage to just talk to her. And she knew that he didn't want her pity. He wanted her understanding and her support. But could she give it to him?

She hadn't been in a lot of relationships—just two long enough to be called serious, plus a handful of casual dates—but all of them have turned out disappointing, so she knew what it was like to put so much faith into someone, only for them to let you down. How much that hurt. And from what she'd been reading about it, Billy's condition was a tough one to deal with. It would be terrible if she made him a promise and couldn't keep it.

At times like these, Esme wished she had a close friend with whom she could confide everything. But she had always been a loner. Most of her friends from uni were busy with their own lives now, and she'd never been close enough with any of them to talk about things like this. As for her family... Her parents would just say vaguely "It's your life, darling, we trust your judgment" and go back to whatever their latest projects were. Dad was making a pool house for frogs out of glass, and Mum was writing a story about frogs building a pool house, probably. Her younger siblings might have cheered her on when she broke up with Neil, who they declared a snob and a half, but they would also remind her that she was the sensible one in the family, and therefore must make the sensible choice. Which, in this case, meant not getting into a relationship with someone struggling with a mental illness. Besides, they were not that kind of family. Oh, they were certainly friendly, even affectionate with each other, and her parents always encouraged Esme and her siblings to express themselves, but when it came to personal feelings, you'd better sort that out on your own, love.

Esme looked around at her living room with its perfect white walls and perfectly arranged furniture, and sighed. She'd always valued order in her life. It was one of the reasons she'd gone out with Neil. One of the reasons she studied science and medicine and became a vet. It wasn't teenage rebellion (in fact, her parents had been quite supportive.) It was to give her life some sense of order and control, after the chaos of being dragged from pillar to post by her parents throughout most of her childhood. And now, with Billy, she was facing another kind of chaos, chaos of the unknown, and she wasn't sure she could handle it.

More chaos than Neil's infidelity? More chaos than how your life has turned out in the past seven months? She recalled Billy's sweet eyes and warm smiles, how he calmed her down, paradoxically enough, how she could nerd out with him, without being afraid of getting mocked or laughed at, how she felt more sure of herself around him. Would that be enough? Would that be enough for her to stay with him and face these unknown things? And would that be enough to silence her insecurities?

The next day was Saturday. Esme went to the rescue center as usual, wistfully remembering how she and Billy had agreed on a Friday night date just in case it turned out disastrous, so they could have another go on Saturday, when they met to walk the dogs. But Billy didn't show up.

"Where's Billy?" Priya asked, while Esme was attaching the leashes to the dogs and trying in vain to fend off their excited jumps. Angua sat patiently to the side, waiting.

"He's—um, not feeling well." Which was technically the truth. She hadn't checked in with him since the previous night, but she imagined he would want some space. And then, because she had been turning the matter over in her head until it was as battered as one of the dogs' chew toys, she blurted out, "Priya, do you know anything about schizoaffective disorder?"

Priya shrugged. "Not much. Why'd you ask?"

Esme bent over the dogs again to hide her flush. She didn't want to go around revealing Billy's condition to people. "A friend of mine just got diagnosed, and I was wondering how I could help, that's all," she mumbled, hoping Priya wouldn't put two and two together.

"Oh, I'm sorry. That's rough," Priya said. "It's good that you want to help though, most people wouldn't even bother." Her words pricked at Esme's conscience. "It's like with the disabled dogs, you know," Priya continued.

Esme protested, with a shocked laugh, "A person with mental illness was not a dog, Priya!"

"I know. I'm just saying, most people won't adopt those dogs because they're disabled, but they're still lovely creatures, you know? And if we don't give them a chance, who would?"

Those words were still playing in loops in Esme's mind when she returned home that evening. If we don't give them a chance, who would? She wondered whether it was she who was giving Billy a chance, or the other way around.

She mulled over the matter for another day, reading some more first-hand accounts of people with the condition and their struggles with dating and relationships. Then, when she came into work that Monday evening and realized she actually missed Billy, her mind was made up.

She gave him a call. He picked up immediately, as if he was waiting by the phone.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"I'm alright," he said. "A bit calmer, now. I think it wasn't just the date, but the stress of keeping this a secret from you—"

"I'm sorry if I made you feel like you have to keep it a secret."

"No, no, it's not your fault, it's—it's just not something I want to go round advertising, you know?"

"I understand," she said quietly. And she did. She might not know what it was like to live with a mental illness, but she knew what it was like to be judged, to be pitied, for things that were out of her control. She'd had enough of that after the end of her engagement. Then she asked, "Can we talk?"

"We are talking." She could hear the slight smile in his voice, and it cheered her up to know she could still make him smile.

"Not on the phone." This was too important to discuss on the phone. "Can I come by your flat tomorrow? Or do you want to go somewhere else?"

Billy took a moment to answer. "It's OK, you can come by. I'm taking a few days off work anyway."

"We can go somewhere else, if that's too stressful for you."

"No. 's fine. I'll see you tomorrow."

Esme had been by Billy's flat a few times but never gone in. It was on a residential street lined with terraced houses and a few blocks of converted flats, some with tiny, neglected gardens out front, but most were just bordered by squares of concrete and stacked with garbage bins. While her own street was not exactly Belgravia, it always made Esme sad to know Billy lived in such a depressing place.

The inside was not much better. It was a tiny two-room flat, but the lack of furniture made it seem bigger. In the front room, which doubled as the living room and bedroom, there was a sofa bed, a TV stand that held no TV, only a CD player and a stack of audiobook CDs, and a rickety table. The other room, which was the kitchen/dining room, was equally spartan, with a small fridge, a hot plate, a toaster oven, a table and two chairs. The windows were covered with Venetian blinds, and the walls were empty, but Esme sensed that unlike her pristine flat, the emptiness was not by choice. There was no personal touch, no memento or decoration, unless one counted the blocks and slabs of wood of all shapes and sizes that were currently scattered on every available surface of both rooms.

"Sorry for the mess," Billy said awkwardly, sweeping some wood chips off of the sofa. "The charlady took the week off."

Clearly, it was a joke to make her feel more at ease. Esme smiled, and he visibly relaxed. "What are those?" she asked, pointing at the pieces of wood, which had all been carved or cut in some way, but didn't really resemble anything.

"There's going to be an exhibition at the studio, wood carvings and sculptures and things," he explained. "All of the apprentices are encouraged to enter. Last week, I kind of went mad"—he said the word evenly, without any hint of hesitation or self-consciousness—"and came up with loads of ideas, but I couldn't concentrate enough to actually carry one out. I get like that sometimes, when I'm bad. I have all these grandiose plans... A few years ago, I even—" But he cut himself off and said no more.

Esme wondered, again, as she had all weekend, if this was a bad idea. Billy did seem a little better compared to last Friday. His eyes were still sunken, but the feverish look in them was gone, and though he still fiddled with his hands, he moved more steadily. But there was still so much about him she didn't know, so much she couldn't prepare herself for.

She sat down on the sofa, Angua taking her now-customary place by Esme's side. "I brought you some food," she said, opening her tote. "You must be sick of Indian food by now. There're sausage rolls in there, some salad, and mini Bakewell tarts. Made those myself," she added, with a modest grin.

Billy remained standing, looking at her with a mixture of tenderness and mistrust, as though he still wasn't sure of her intentions. "You didn't have to do that," he said.

"I know. I just like to bake when I'm nervous."

"What do you have to be nervous about?"

Esme had prepared a whole speech about how she would like to continue seeing him, how she was willing to learn about his condition, and how she would always be there for him as long as he took care of himself first, but now, as she went over it in her head, it sounded so... rehearsed. Detached. Disingenuous. So she simply took Billy's hand, pulled him down onto the sofa next to her, and wrapped both of her hands around his.

"I've thought about what you told me," she said, "and I don't mind."

Happiness and doubt chase each other across Billy's face. Happiness won, and remained. "Honest?" he asked.

"Yes." She squeezed his hand. "But you have to talk to me. Tell me when you're feeling unwell or uncomfortable. Don't keep things from me. Promise?"

"Promise."

Another awkward pause. Esme wasn't sure if she should kiss him now or not. She was never any good at timing when it came to physical intimacy. But Billy solved her dilemma by throwing his arms around her. "Thank you," he said, his voice choked. She let herself melt into the hug and felt him relax as well.

An impatient whine from Angua, probably due to the enticing smell of the sausage rolls, reminded Esme. "We should eat, before the food gets cold," she said to Billy.

"I was hoping our first proper date would be a little more romantic than this," he said apologetically.

"I've been on worse first dates than this," Esme said, smiling. "Really, it didn't matter."

But something just occurred to Billy, and his face lit up. "How do you feel about a night picnic?"

"This isn't another symptom of your hypomania, was it?" Esme asked as Billy led her up the stairs of the tube station, down another residential street, and into a back lane that ran between allotments. It was late autumn, and already there was a bite in the air, signaling winter to come. Most of the crops had been harvested, but some rows of winter vegetables remained, and the greenhouses and poly tunnels gave the place a homey, rustic look.

"No. I told you, this allotment belongs to Jacob"—Jacob was his boss at the woodworking studio, the kindly Father Christmas-lookalike Esme had met the day she went there to find Billy—"and he lets me come here sometimes. He even gave me the key." He stopped in front of a particularly large greenhouse, which took up almost an entire allotment, and pulled a key out of his pocket to demonstrate. He unlocked the greenhouse and walked in. Angua happily followed him, and, after a moment's hesitation, Esme did as well.

Billy fumbled with some sort of switch in the corner, and strings of fairy lights twinkled to life along the greenhouse's ceiling. Esme blinked in amazement. She was standing in what appeared to be a tropical paradise. Shelves lined either side of the greenhouse, stacked with terracotta pots full of colorful orchids and lilies. Tall ferns were placed here and there amongst the blooms, their fronds almost reaching the ceiling, the fairy lights glimmering amongst them like fireflies. More orchids and ferns and air plants hung from the ceiling. A small bench was placed at the far end, between the shelves, just wide enough for two people.

"Do you help Jacob with any of these?" Esme asked, gesturing at the flowers.

"Don't have much of a green thumb," Billy shrugged. "I made the shelves though."

Esme sat down on the bench and opened the bag of food. Billy squeezed in next to her. "Sorry," he said to Angua, who was forced to stay on the ground, for there was no room left.

After the chill of the autumn air outside, the warmth of the greenhouse was delicious. As they sat and ate and talked, Esme decided to reconsider her idea of a first date. It didn't have to be perfect. This wasn't perfect. The bench was damp, the sausage rolls had gone cold, the salad was limp, and the Bakewell tarts were slightly burned. But it didn't matter, because they were enjoying each other's company, and that was all that mattered. She'd put too much pressure on herself, too much planning, too much second-guessing. That was the problem. She should let her hair down a little, as her younger siblings often said. Don't think, just do.

She glanced at Billy. He seemed to have unwound as well. He was leaning against the back of the bench, talking about his woodworking with an enthusiasm she'd never seen from him before, completely different from his manic ranting at the restaurant the other day. Were those the fairy lights reflected in his eyes, or were his eyes actually sparkling? Esme had always found brown eyes rather dull, but looking at Billy's eyes, framed by long, curling lashes, she could have sworn they could change color, going from a dark brown, almost black, to a warm chocolate, to a bright amber, depending on the light and his mood. They were glowing now, and Esme felt she could get lost in them.

Then he turned to her, and her heart lurched.

"So Jacob lets you come here whenever you want?" she asked, trying to regain her composure. "That's very kind of him."

"Yeah. When I'm—bad, or just want to be alone, all these flowers and plants calm me down."

"So why not go to a park, or a botanic garden?"

"It's safer here," he said. Esme nodded, embarrassed that she didn't think of it. Of course. If Billy was having an episode, the last thing he'd want to do was to go to some public place.

"And what does he say about you bringing girls here?"

Billy gasped. "I've never—I don't—" Then he saw Esme's lips quirk up in a grin, and he grinned too. "You're teasing me, aren't you?"

"I mean it," she said, still grinning. "If you haven't brought other girls here, you should start. Because it's working."

"What's working?" he asked, gazing at her with those mesmerizing eyes.

This would be another moment for a kiss, right? Right?

Don't think, just do.

Esme leaned over and kissed him, by way of answering. His lips were soft, and his beard tickled, the unfamiliar sensation making her laugh. Billy smiled as well, and their teeth knocked together, making Esme laugh harder.

"What's funny?" Billy asked, his lips hovering over hers.

"Nothing. Sorry. I just realized I've never kissed anyone with a beard before."

"You want me to shave?" 

"Maybe later—no, I'm joking! I don't mind the beard."

And to prove it, she kissed him again, still laughing. Billy moved into that laugh, pressing his mouth more firmly against hers, while his hands found their way to her back, holding her close.

She believed they would've stayed like that for much longer if Angua hadn't jumped up between them and demanded their attention. They turned to the dog, both fussing over her, trying to apologize for neglecting her, but unable to stay away for long, they returned to find each other's lips, again and again.

"Wanna go home?" Billy whispered, as they drew apart for the third time.

She pressed her forehead to his, so his eyes filled her vision. "Yes," she said.

Chapter 5

A/N: Poppadoms and Cheddar are really good, actually.

"Don't think, just do" is NOT a Top Gun: Maverick reference! It's a line from Snow Patrol's "You Could Be Happy". I only realized it was in Top Gun: Maverick after I finished the fic and looked it up.

And lastly, yes, I did give one of Eddie's lines (with a bit of modification to make it more British) to Billy. Just a little Easter egg for all the JQ fans out there :)

Taglist: @quinnypixie, @accidentalslag, @etherealglimmer (as always, if you want to be added to the taglist, just let me know!)