alphabetbill

[alphabetbill]

forbidden apple juice 😋

LOCKED (2025)

[alphabetbill]

Oh god pls let Jude live….. I lost my male best friend to an accidental overdose 8 years ago and he was the love of my life. Roman and Jude’s relationship reminds me so so much of us.. this story is so so so so beautiful. Can’t tell you enough. Thank you for your beautiful work. It personally means so much to me.

First of all I'd like to thank you for sharing this with me, and I am so sorry for your loss. If you ever want to talk, my messages are always open.

It makes me really happy to know that someone like you and potentially others can find solace in my writing of all things, and I suppose I'm turning this reply into somewhat of a vent.

I think about it a lot whenever I post a new chapter, debating on whether it's good enough, if it's too boring or if it's dragging too much. I've never been big on writing smut or really that confident with it, so I sometimes wonder if I'm just beating around the bush with those two characters, or if people might be turned off because it isn't really about that. This is part of why I don't post so often, because I burn out from this kind of anxiety so easily, or just burn out in general.

Even then, I post chapters and I think they're too short or boring, but this is a story I've literally just been making up as I go and figuring it out, which contributes to how long it takes to write. It's mostly been a process of learning to tell a story how I want to tell it and taking my time with it. When I say sitting down to write stuff for this story, or any story as of late, is like poking my brain with a stick and asking it to do something, I mean it.

On another note, I tend to be rather un-serious when it comes to writing about Roman and Jude, because like them I am a person who tends to mask my pain with humour so I feel like I can really relate to them. It's nice whenever I get comments such as this, or under each chapter even just to say what they thought about it, that allow me to take my writing seriously for a moment and appreciate it. Jude in particular is a very personal character to me, she's my favourite that I've created and definitely the most like me. She lives in my head rent free with Minnie where nothing can hurt her.

So basically, it means a lot to hear this and it definitely makes me want to keep doing what I love! I'm very proud of the story so far, and I'm looking forward to seeing where it goes. Really happy that you love it and thank you for the beautiful mesage.

[alphabetbill]

Macabre [ HEMLOCK GROVE ] - Chapter 11

~ description ~

A werewolf whose only skill is running from his fears and a half-upir with no idea of the true darkness lying inside of him, supernaturally bound to each other after the mysterious death of a girl they both knew, and the grim visions that haunt them.

Some secrets in Hemlock Grove should have just stayed buried. In a town that isn't so sleepy after all, monsters of all kinds are wide awake under the surface, crawling their way up.

~ warnings~

This story will contain mature and heavy themes that may involve potentially explicit content, gore and murder, talk of kidnapping and stalking victims, animal death, supernatural/paranormal/religious themes and trauma, any other themes not covered in the general description will probably be tagged here at the start of the chapters that other significant warnings apply to.

A list will be linked here upon completion and upload of each chapter:

Cicada and the Snake

Chapter 1 . Chapter 2 . Chapter 3 . Chapter 4 . Chapter 5. Chapter 6 . Chapter 7 . Chapter 8 . Chapter 9 . Chapter 10 . Chapter 11 .

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

c h a p t e r    e l e v e n .

Roman Godfrey

<<>>

ROMAN COULD NOT REMEMBER THE LAST TIME HE’D STOOPED TO DOING ANY KIND OF MANUAL LABOR, but for Peter son of a bitch Rumancek, he’d reserve his complaints until the night was over.

The day before Christmas, he found himself helping Peter’s mother moving some foldable tables out into the clearing. Rumancek, family and friends were having a get together while they were all in town, which promised a night of full bellies and unprecidented drunkenness.

It was what he needed, honestly. After weeks of stress and bullshit, Roman couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually looked forward to a gathering. Christmases at the Godfrey estate were quiet and lonesome—albeit extravagant. Crystal stemware, imported wine, dinners served on polished silver by people paid to act like they weren’t there. This would be different. Warm. Loud. Real.

Lynda barked orders like a general on a battlefield, cigarette pinched between two fingers as she directed Peter and Roman with theatrical flair.

“No, that table goes under the oak. And make sure the folding chairs don’t wobble— you’re Uncle Peter will end up on the ground again and you know he blames everything on curses.”

“You have an uncle with the same name as you?” Roman scoffed.

“Yeah. He’s really charming,” Peter muttered, dragging a crate of mismatched silverware across the clearing and dumping it on the nearest table.

Destiny was weaving fairy lights around the chairs, setting decorations out on the table cloths. She’d insisted on lighting actual candles despite the wind, and muttered incantations under her breath every time one blew out.

The air was sharp and dry, the sky dimming with the soft haze of snowclouds. Strings of lights buzzed in the trees, borrowed from neighbors and family members and maybe even a gas station sign. It was makeshift, chaotic, beautiful.

The clearing started to fill as relatives arrived—Peter’s cousins, uncles, aunts, some from out of state. There was loud laughter, cheek kisses, someone playing music from an old Bluetooth speaker. The air smelled like lamb, garlic, honey, cloves.

Letha arrived just before sunset, hair tucked beneath a velvet beret, cheeks pink from the cold. She brought a bottle of wine, even though she didn’t drink. Destiny teased her about it, and Letha only smiled, ever gracious.

Roman kept an eye on her.

Two rusted burn barrels had been rolled out into the clearing. Flames licked from their tops, casting a flickering orange glow against the snow. People stood near them with drinks in hand, rubbing their palms together or thawing their fingers over the warmth.

They sat down to eat as the first stars pricked through the clouds. Peter carved the meat. Lynda told a story about the time Peter tried to run away at age ten and only made it to the gas station two blocks away. Destiny played cards with Roman and a couple of Peter’s cousins. Someone spilled cider into the mashed potatoes and was met with a round of cackling forgiveness. A toast was made in Romani. Someone cried.

Roman had never seen anything like it. He’d been to parties. Black tie. Champagne. Pianos taller than some of the guests. But this—this wasn’t polished. It wasn’t perfect.

It was just family. Messy. Cracked. Loud. Real.

And Jude was missing from it all.

As the laughter rose and the music started up again, Roman quietly slipped away, volunteering to grab another bottle of cider from inside. He needed air, and the excuse. More than anything, he needed to see her.

The trailer was warm and dim, thick with the smell of clove and sugar. A sharp contrast to the cold, bright chaos outside.

He walked down the hallway and paused at her door—already open. He knocked anyway.

“You okay?” he frowned.

Jude was sitting on her bed, back to the door as she watched the group sitting at the table outside through the gaps of the shutters. He didn’t need to see her face to know she was crying– the way her shoulders trembled, the way her voice came out– strained, small, panicked.

“I want to go home,” she blubbered through her waterfall of tears, barely understandable. 

“Please I just want to go home I want to go home I wanna– I want to go home. I want my dad. I want my dog. I want– I don’t want to be dead. I don’t– I can’t–”

“Hey. Hey hey hey, it’s okay,” Roman crossed the room, setting the cider down on the nightstand before climbing onto the bed. He gathered her into his arms, careful but sure.

He kissed the top of her head.

“Just breathe, Jude. Breathe with me okay? In. Out. In. Out. You got it, just like that,” he rubbed his hands up and down her arms as her sobs evened out, allowing her to breathe normally again. 

“I hate this, Roman. I hate it so much,” she whispered. “I hate seeing everyone out there doing the shit I should be doing. Being with people. Celebrating. I hate being so fucking alone.”

“You’re not alone,” he said. “I’m right here. Peter and I—we’re with you in this.”

He tightened his grip on her hand.

“We’ll do something after this, okay? Just the three of us. We’ll pig out on leftovers and drink until dawn. You’re not going to be left out on Christmas.”

“No,” she shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him.

“It’s not just about the party. It’s everything else. I am alone. I’m dead, Roman. Murdered. Slaughtered. Left to rot in a ditch and forgotten in a week. A memory and nothing else. I’m stuck in this house, and it’s not because I’ll be seen. It’s because I’m terrified I won’t be. That I’ll walk down the street and nobody will notice. That I’ll never be a normal teenager again. Never finish school. Never figure out who I was supposed to be.”

She stared at her hands for a moment, toying with the frayed pillow tag.

“And the worst part is—I don’t even want to keep trying. I just want to rest. I’m tired. I want to go wherever the hell spirits are supposed to go, so I can stop holding on to something I’m never getting back.”

Roman squeezed her hand tighter, his throat burning.

“Don’t say that.”

She laughed bitterly.

“Just stop, okay? Stop giving me false hope. We both know things don’t just magically get better.”

“I already lost you once and I fucking lost my mind,” Roman snapped. “You died, Jude. And now you’re here. Somehow. And we have a chance to make this right, and you’re the one giving me hope. So no—I’m not going to let you disappear again. Not because you gave up.”

Her lip quivered. “It’s not just that I want to give up, okay?”

She wiped her eyes again.

“I see things sometimes. Hear things. Feel things. They make me not want to remember.”

Roman’s voice dropped. “What kind of things?”

“Sometimes when I stare into the porch light, I see his flashlight boring into my eyes in the dark. When I lay down in bed at night I can feel the grass stinging on my skin. His face becomes my ceiling. Sometimes when I pull a chair out from the table, the scraping rings in my ears like chains on a concrete floor,” she said. “Every time I turn my back I have the instict to run. I can’t keep my blinds open anymore because I always feel like something’s watching. When I’m in the shower, sometimes I look down and I see fresh wounds. Bruises in the shape of handprints. Knife wounds festering. Like I’m rotting all over again.”

Roman studied her face, which in the time since her death, had become pale and muted, her freckles faded. The circles beneath her eyes had deepened, and he’d do anything just to get her a good night’s sleep. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You should be out there enjoying the party, not babysitting the dead girl.”

“Judith,” he said, “when I tell you there’s nothing I’d rather be doing than making sure you’re okay, you bet your fucking ass I mean it.”

He stood.

“Come on. Get your ass up. We’re going for a drive.”

“You sure you’re up to that?” she wiped her face. Her concern was warrented, Roman was indeed partially drunk.

“It’ll be fine. We’ll take it slow.”

“I mean what’s the worst that could happen. I’m already dead,” she shrugged.

With a lot of less than gentle backseat driving from Jude, Roman drove her out to his favourite look out. His father used to take him here when he was little, just the two of them after they had gotten an ice cream.

The lake was half-frozen, a mirror of fractured ice stretching out beneath the stars. In the distance, the husk of the old steel mill jutted up like a ribcage, sharp and black against the snow.

Roman parked the car near the bluff, the tires crunching softly over gravel. He killed the engine, and for a moment, the world felt too quiet.

Jude climbed out and hoisted herself up onto the bonnet, crossing her arms tight over her chest.

“Nice spot. This where you bring all your chicks?” she teased, breath fogging the air.

“They aren’t at that level yet,” Roman grabbed two beers and handed one to her.

They sat in silence for a while, shoulder to shoulder. Jude leaned against him, fishing for warmth he didn’t have enough of. Her fingers were ice.

“I’ve seen this before. In a vision I think,” she said, staring out towards the mill that once belonged to Roman’s family. “It might– it might be where I died. Or near it. I don’t know. I know I’ve been there.”

“Why tell me now?” he asked. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

Jude was quiet.

She looked down at the bottle in her hands, then at the frost blooming over the hood of the car like white veins.

“I almost didn’t stay at the house tonight,” she admitted. “I didn’t want to see people being happy. Laughing. I didn’t want to be reminded that life kept going without me.”

Roman stayed still.

“But it’s a good thing that it hurts,” she went on. “Maybe that means I’m not ready to give up on it after all. Maybe there’s a reason that I just can’t accept what happened to me. Maybe you’re right and I shouldn’t let it go.”

“Look, Jude. If you don’t want to know what happened to you, I’m in no position to force you to remember,” Roman told her. “But you need to know that you can talk to me.”

He didn’t know how long they sat there before the words started clawing their way out of his throat.

“There’s something else I have to tell you,” he said.

Jude turned slightly, enough for their arms to brush. Roman’s hand found hers on the cold metal of the car hood. Her fingers didn’t twitch, but they didn’t pull away either.

“Jude, I—there’s a reason I don’t want you to go for good. There’s a reason I won’t let you give up.”

“Well duh.”

“No. Just… listen.” He exhaled hard. “The truth is that I think I’m in love with you. Like– love love. And I’m terrified that if you go, I’ll never hurt this badly for anyone ever again.”

He braced for silence. Or rejection. Or worse—pity.

Instead—

“You’re stupid if you thought I didn’t already know that,” Jude cackled.

It cracked through the tension like a glass dropped on tile.

Roman blinked at her, vaguely offended. “Excuse me?”

“God, you’re dramatic. And slow. Do you think I’ve been cuddling up to you because I’m cold? I’m dead, asshole. I’m always cold.”

“Okay, Jesus, forget I said anything then—”

She kissed him.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

👀👀👀

[alphabetbill]

i did a thing again

okay lowkey i ate with this next chapter i'm just saying. will probably post it within the next few days if my internet wills it.

[alphabetbill]

This one is a Medicine Cat who I'm gonna call Mintfreckle!

I've posted some speedpaint reels on my instagram.

Commissions are also available!

[alphabetbill]

Another character design! I'm thinking I'll name them Foxnettle?

[alphabetbill]

Macabre [ HEMLOCK GROVE ] - Chapter 10

~ description ~

A werewolf whose only skill is running from his fears and a half-upir with no idea of the true darkness lying inside of him, supernaturally bound to each other after the mysterious death of a girl they both knew, and the grim visions that haunt them.

Some secrets in Hemlock Grove should have just stayed buried. In a town that isn't so sleepy after all, monsters of all kinds are wide awake under the surface, crawling their way up.

~ warnings~

This story will contain mature and heavy themes that may involve potentially explicit content, gore and murder, talk of kidnapping and stalking victims, animal death, supernatural/paranormal/religious themes and trauma, any other themes not covered in the general description will probably be tagged here at the start of the chapters that other significant warnings apply to.

A list will be linked here upon completion and upload of each chapter:

Cicada and the Snake

Chapter 1 . Chapter 2 . Chapter 3 . Chapter 4 . Chapter 5. Chapter 6 . Chapter 7 . Chapter 8 . Chapter 9 . Chapter 10 . Chapter 11 .

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

c h a p t e r   t e n .

Peter Rumancek

<<>>

"YOU WANNA KNOW WHAT I THINK?" Roman Godfrey asked, because no one actually had.

"Not really," Peter replied.

He was stretched out on the couch with a joint dangling from his fingers, and at the current time, he possessed no interest in anything the half-upir had to ramble on about this time.

The rich boy paced back and forth across Peter's living room, covering the distance in a span of about four steps, which for Roman equated to the average stride of a giraffe.

"I think your cousin is a liar," he said. "Either all this ritual bullshit is fake, or she's not telling us on purpose."

He took a drag from the joint as Peter gave it back to him, shivering fingers concealed by designer winter gloves.

"Visions don't just appear on command, fuckwit. Even rituals don't work every time," Peter replied. "Besides, have you even considered the thought that maybe Jude's the one not telling us anything?"

"What?" Roman stopped his pacing, as though the audacity of the werewolf's suggestion had offended him on a profound level.

"That's bullshit. She'd tell me if she— she'd tell us if she saw something important."

"Would she though? Because I don't know what you've been seeing, but I've seen the way she stares off into space. I've seen the way her eyes go blank, like she's not really here, like she's somewhere else. When she wakes up screaming in the middle of the night and still insists everything is fine."

"Maybe she doesn't remember what she sees," Roman insisted.

Several weeks had passed since Jude and Destiny had tried to make contact with her spiritual memories, and since then, nothing had come of it. Of course, Peter wasn't stupid, and like the fresh snow accumulating outside, his doubts had begun to settle in too. Someone had seen something, one of them knew something, and whatever it was, there was a reason they didn't want him and Roman knowing. A reason he could only choose to respect for now.

"I'm gonna go check on her," Roman announced, as if he had been stressing in silence over whether or not he should, ultimately losing the battle. He took off down the hallway and rapped his knuckles thrice against the door to the spare room.

Peter couldn't shake the light smirk on his face. His concern for her was sweet in the most ridiculous, tragic way. Oh what the world had come to— in which his childhood best friend was Roman Godfrey's only soft spot, the only thing that shifted the attention away from himself for a while.

Peter tried to think of a world in which the two of them would be okay, but as it had many times before, the possibility escaped him.

It became clear after a while that the gypsy should find something else to occupy himself with, and so with his mother's grocery list in hand, he headed outside. The December morning air was cold and crisp, cutting cleanly through his coat like a knife. The boy climbed the wooden stairs leading up to the roadside, nearly slipping on several of the frosted steps.

Once in town he was on his way to the grocery store, rounding the corner near the ice cream shop, he spotted her.

Letha Godfrey. She was leaning against the brick wall, her gold-spun hair tucked under the fluffy hood of her woollen jacket, but the locks framing her face caught the sunlight at just the right angle.

The two of them had gotten to know each other more ever since he'd moved here, often opting to sit together in the classes they shared. Maybe it was just that she looked like an angel, or maybe it was just the allure of her being Roman's cousin, but he often found himself in quiet awe of her.

She was eating an ice cream cone, her glossy lips curling in a friendly smile as she caught sight of him.

"Oh hey Peter," she said, her voice light, teasing. "You know, all this time I thought you must be a hermit. I've never seen you out around town at all."

Peter grinned, eyes softening.

"And all this time I thought you were one of the only sane members of the Godfrey family, until I came across you eating ice cream in the middle of winter"

His gaze lingered on her a little longer than intended.

Letha laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as her cheeks flushed pink—not from the cold.

"It's ice cream, good to eat in any weather", she defended, despite her violent shivering. "Besides, I like to suffer for my pleasures."

There was a beat of quiet between them—comfortable, curious. He watched a flake of snow catch in her hair and melt without her noticing.

A quiet hum of energy existed between the pair, something unspoken, but familiar. A pleasant warmth that caressed his soul– providing a nice change from the stress of everything that was happening.

"You want to grab coffee or something?" he asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them. Groceries could wait. Letha didn't answer immediately– instead, she wiped her hand on her jeans and pushed off from the wall.

"Sure," she said, falling into step with him.

The smile on her face made the air feel warmer than it was.

They ducked into the cafe on the corner of the main street, the wood fireplace inside generating a comfortable heat. The place was small and cozy and smelled of cinnamon.

Letha ordered something sweet and absurdly complicated. Peter just asked for plain black coffee.

They slid into a booth near the window, stained glass fogged up. For a moment, neither of them said much. It wasn't the kind of silence that felt strained or forced, not the kind of silence that made things awkward.

He noticed the Godfrey girl observing him, and he didn't know why, but Peter felt a small, pleasant shiver go down the back of his neck.

"So. You and Roman," Letha started, stirring her drink lazily, "you two have gotten close."

Peter shrugged, blowing into his cup to cool down the beverage. "He's alright, when he's not being a pain in the ass."

She smiled at that, eyes glinting with some fondness. "He's always been a pain in the ass. But he means well, sometimes. He could really use a friend like you after everything he's been through."

There it was. The glimmer of sympathy in those pretty blue eyes.

"He um. He told me that you knew Judith too. When you were kids."

"Oh. Yeah. My family and hers were close before she and her dad moved here. We were kids the last time we saw each other."

"It can't have been easy, coming back like this. How are you dealing with it all?"

"It hasn't been too bad. I know Roman's been pretty shaken by it, he knew her for longer. He really liked her, didn't he?" Peter asked.

Letha's smile faltered for a moment—just for a flicker—before she took a sip of her drink.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I think he did."

She toyed with the edge of her napkin, gaze dropping briefly before meeting his again. "Roman doesn't open up easily, so when he finds someone he trusts, it's hard for him to let go."

Peter nodded. He watched the way the steam from her drink curled toward her face like it wanted to kiss her.

"He's been on edge lately. I don't know, he just thinks there's something's off with everything that happened."

Letha arched a brow. "Do you think something's off?"

Peter hesitated, the weight of all the things he couldn't say pressing into the space between them. "I think this town has a way of keeping secrets. I think there's no way something isn't off."

"That," she said, giving a quiet laugh, "might be the most accurate thing anyone's ever said about this place."

They lapsed into silence again, but this one was heavier, thoughtful. Outside, snow began to drift harder against the glass, muffling the world. Peter studied her a moment longer, her smile, the way her hair fell like light over her shoulders.

She looked soft.

Safe.

Peter dreamed that night.

He was standing naked in the middle of a lake, murky black water rising to his knees.

The cold slashed right to his bones, leaving him a shivering mess in the middle of the water as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.

A wall of trees lined the shore like monoliths, ancient and always, their branches clawing at a starless sky, trapping him in this endless place. Fog unfurled over the surface of the lake, like a living thing with a pulse.

A full moon swelled in the sky, the only source of light. Where he may have expected to hear the croak of a frog or the buzzing of mosquitoes, the wolf heard only silence, and the faint, distant scamper of his own heartbeat.

Sloshing through reeds and rotting fish that had died and begun to float, Peter caught sight of something on the shore which made him pause.

She was a figure of light, draped in milk white silk, her smooth pale skin stained with inky water and mud. Her back was facing him, golden hair spilling in perfect curls like a halo. He knew it without needing to see her face. 

Knew it was Letha Godfrey.

He knew it was her—not from the clothes or the hair, but from the feeling in his chest.

Relief bloomed in his ribs for a single, perfect second.

Then it curdled.

Something sour rose in his throat, leaving a bitter, almost bloody taste in his mouth. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t call out. The air around him thickened into something unbreathable, like thick smoke without fire. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to wake up, to do anything—but all he could do was stand there, locked in place, dread pooling in his gut. The longer he looked, the more wrong it felt. Her stillness wasn’t calm—it was eerie. It was final. 

As she walked further into the trees, disappearing in the dark, Peter could not submit to his temptation to follow her even if he wanted to, for the lake held him still, powerless.

In the dark between the trees, in a place he could not see, her scream rang out.

Peter shot up from his bed, sweat pooling in the sheets. Dragging a hand through his hair, he tried to steady himself, lungs heaving. For a long time he just sat there— frozen, heart slamming against his ribs. It wanted out.

The echo of Letha's cry never left him, not even after lurching out of bed and violently washing his face in the bathroom sink. Stop it. Stop it. Stop screaming.

When he looked up, he met his own blue gaze with a certain understanding.

He needed Jude to talk. Talk about what she had seen. Because if she didn't then they would never come close to avenging her. Never come close to finding out who was doing this. More would be next. More girls would die. 

Letha Godfrey would die.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Me when my diabolic plans for chapter 11 involve Christmas 👀

[alphabetbill]

New drawing! Don't have a name for this OC yet.

Commissions are available now!

[alphabetbill]

✨Commissions are open!✨ ~ $15 AUD per drawing!

Hey everyone! This is my very first time taking paid commissions, so thank you for your patience as I figure things out!

I'm offering headshot drawings only—of your Warrior Cats OCs, canon characters, or other cat designs. You can choose between:

Flat colour

Shaded, with added rim lighting for a pop-art look (examples below!)

Each headshot is $15 AUD [ $23.44 USD to allow for currency conversion]

Payments will be accepted through PayPal.

🎨 If you’re interested, please DM me!

Once you send through some reference images or a description of what you want done, I will request payment and get started once payment has been received. The process will consist of progress check-ins to make sure everyone is satisfied with the final product!

Please note that pricing at checkout could vary depending on the customer's country, due to currency conversion.

[ some of these examples are posted on my other account @bellvedeer which is my other official account. all artwork displayed in this post belongs to me and was made using firealpaca]

[alphabetbill]

𝐈 𝐃𝐈𝐃𝐍'𝐓 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐃 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐎𝐇

but then roman starts revealing those pieces of himself that no one else sees—compassion, longing, fear. the part of him that craves something deeper, something real. and in that moment, you realise you can't give him that. he would never ever give it back to you. so, maybe it’s easier to just ignore the way your heart feels when it's done.

𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍, 𝐈 𝐆𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐖𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐀 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌

well, baby, what was that?

[alphabetbill]

Blood on the Wire [CYBERPUNK 2077] teaser

blood on the wire [ part one ] teaser!

I pulled up the message, scanning it eagerly. "Sending a guy to pick up the car. Your reward's in the trunk, dollface. Enjoy. Oh and just a word of advice- keep your dog on its leash next time, you feel me? Pleasure doing business." I stared at the message, eyebrows knitted in confusion. "Oh for fuck's sake!" Eric cursed. Face falling, I scurried around to see what my partner had discovered in the trunk. Curled up and beat to high heaven was Eric’s brother — bleach-blond hair a matted, bloodied mess, pink hoodie torn and filthy, one sneaker missing. He blinked blearily up at us, his lip split, an eye already bruising to an ugly purple. "Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me," I groaned, raking a hand through my hair, resisting the urge to rip it out. "Hey, babygirl," Eddie rasped, flashing a crooked, bloody smile as he tried to sit up, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs. I loved him — God help me, I really did — but in that moment, it took everything in me not to reach in there and knock that stupid grin right off his face.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

me when i actually go through with starting a project 💀💀💀💀

[alphabetbill]

Just watched 'Locked' for the first time last night! I really enjoyed it, saw some cool parallels between it and 'Villains', which I thought were interesting.

Definitely makes me want to get my ass working on that idea I had for him and Eric a while back- would anyone still be interested if I set it in the same universe as Cyberpunk 2077?

It will still follow the same idea as before, with Eddie and Eric being brothers, mostly consisting of the main character and Eric having to keep Eddie out of trouble.

It wouldn't be super reliant on the main plot of the game, so even if you haven't played, I'd still write it in a way that makes sense to non-cyberpunk fans. I've kinda had it bouncing around in my brain for a while and don't know if I should commit to it or not.

[alphabetbill]

Not me getting a tattoo inspired partially by my Hemlock Grove fanfic 🤪

[alphabetbill]

thorns and foxes [ THE HUNGER GAMES ] - COMING SOON

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞.

[ T H E H U N G E R G A M E S ] suzanne collins

twenty years ago, the death of alma coin sparked a political usurpation, in which katniss everdeen and the rebels were executed, and catarina whitethorn assumed the role of president- the district 13 militia establishing control over the capitol. the games resume. no one is exempt. not children, not the elderly, not even the citizens of the capitol. lark ashford has no choice but to accept the end of her life when she arrives in district 0, the prison block built from the rubble of district 12. things change when she is brought to the capitol to work as a servant for the household of a renowned game maker. stripped of her identity and the district to which she belonged, she is reaped from the pool of capitol citizens and forced to participate in the games- forced to kill her own friends. vermillion fox is her mentor- the flamboyant, enigmatic son of her employer, and lark is unsure if he has what it takes to get her out of this alive, or if he even wants to.

featuring bill skarsgard as vermillion fox

this story is an alternate universe from the series and does not feature any canon characters, but may still mention them. it is an oc x oc story.

this story will be published on wattpad, on this tumblr account and most likely on ao3 as well. the first chapter is in the works and i cannot wait to share it!

[alphabetbill]

this will be the account I post the peaky blinders fic on if anyone here is interested in reading it. question is if I should include Bill Skarsgard as a face claim for a character as a little nod to this fandom and my main account. originally was gonna have him for silas's part, but went with oscar isaac instead.

Skin & Bones [ PEAKY BLINDERS ] - Chapter 1

𝐢 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐭

[ S K I N & B O N E S ] david kushner. _____________________

in which thomas shelby is still in love with elicie wilde, the girl who betrayed his family. or, in which both of them changed in ways neither can accept.

[ w a r n i n g s ]

this fanfiction contains mature content including, but not limited to, profane language, glorified violence, glorified crime, gambling, gang violence, murder, mysoginy, sex trafficking, abuse, ptsd, war, and some nsfw content.

this fanfiction is intended for an 18+ audience.

at the time of writing these warnings, some of these may change or be added to in the future, so i'd advise you not to read if you will be triggered or otherwise harmed by such content.

[ note - elicie wilde does not have a faceclaim. you are welcome to imagine your own for her, to imagine what she looks like or follow how i describe her in the book. if you've any suggestions, i may pick one for her in the future ]

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CHATTER IN THE GARRISON DISSOLVED INTO A CURIOUS MURMUR as the oak doors parted, and Thomas Shelby stepped inside.

A burst of cold air followed him in, the sky outside a dark grey in mourning, and the rain a light yet persistent drizzle, leaving a thin layer of moisture behind on his coat. The smell of smoke and whiskey enveloped him, beckoning him further into the warmth. He'd have disregarded his deep, long-time admiration for this place had it not been for his prolonged absence, had he not required liquor as a solution for his troubles.

Conversations all over the room parted to make space for him, glances passed between jittery women excited to see him again, hearty greetings given by old friends, glasses raised in tribute to a decorated sergeant, while others merely watched on as he drifted toward the bar—knowing in their eyes. A particular silence followed him, in that he did not speak much, and the man who once would have offered a grin now offered only a nod to those who greeted him.

This was not the man who left for France; it was a man without his former charm, the same purpose in his stride but without the swagger or spring. Shadows formed below his eyes, downcast yet still authoritative. A light stubble formed across his face, and his features seemed drawn into permanent concentration.

He took off his flat cap and set it down on the bar, the pad of his thumb caressing the razor blade nestled in its peak. It felt like forever ago when he first put it on.

"On the house, Mr. Shelby," the bartender, Harry, declared as he poured the man a drink. Yet the man still placed his coin.

His hand sought the glass, but his eyes sought the crowd—for a face, for a certain red-lipped, devilsome smile. He wondered if he'd see her, if she would take him in her arms away from this place and treat him as he truly was—a worn-out man, a troubled man.

"You won't find her here," said Harry as he dried off a glass, rag strung over his shoulder. He didn't need to preface who he spoke of; Tommy already knew. "She hasn't been around here for some time now. A couple years, I'd say."

Tommy didn't react right away. Just took a slow sip of whiskey and allowed it to burn for a moment. Burn away with the stinging realization of what Harry meant. She left. She's gone. She didn't wait for him.

"That so?" He raised his head. If any trace of shock ever lit up his eyes, then it did so only in a fleeting moment before the ice wall slammed down, any emotion replaced only with an eerie calm.

"Yeah. I'm not too clear on the details of it. Eh, not to worry, I'm sure you'll find plenty of good company without her," the bartender reassured him. Something in that tone felt rehearsed, a hurried attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere. An obvious confession that there was something Harry would rather not tell him. He didn't like that at all.

Thomas drank his piece and sat alone. His eyes scanned the dimly lit room again, and he caught sight of a lovely brunette woman standing by the end of the bar, chatting with a few regulars, her sharp eyes flicking over to him as soon as he stepped closer.

Hattie Moore was a familiar face at the Garrison, and even years away at war couldn't erase from his memory a strong personality like hers. Much like the other women, she had a way of making her presence known without saying much at all. She would have been younger than his Aunt Polly by a good few years and carried herself with a sense of superiority to almost everyone who came across her. She had the face of once timeless beauty, hair pulled back in a simple knot, lips painted a dull shade of red. He knew without having to look at her that she was sizing him up; the women in this place usually did, though most would not have been so brave as her in meeting his steel gaze.

"Well well, Mr. Shelby. I'd say you're deserving of a proper homecoming," she winked, scanning him up and down.

"Not tonight, Miss Moore. Perhaps another time," he dipped his head to her, a respectful yet disinterested gesture.

Her lips quirked at the corner. "It's a pity."

It didn't take long for a woman to hazard a guess at what was eating him. One look at him and she knew what—who—was on his mind.

"You're looking for her," her lips swirled into a knowing smile. "Sorry to say, but she got too big for us," the woman sighed, puffing on a cigarette. "Left for the Quarter a couple of years ago to work at some fancy club. If you ask me, we're all better for it. Thinks she's high and mighty, that one."

It wasn't like her, though. A piece to this puzzle that seemed ever so strange.

"I see. And you wouldn't happen to know where I can find her?" He queried.

Hattie thought about it, for not too long and not too hard, but her expression was one of perhaps genuine apology. "I've got not a clue on that one I'm afraid. My guess? She found the biggest, fanciest place she could find. Anything better than here."

His curiosity burned into a particular obsession that refused to let him sleep that night, so in the evening he spoke to Aunt Polly.

Inky shadows pooled at the edges of the room where light from the fireplace could not reach. She was sitting on one of the arm chairs, watching him waltz closer and closer, like a fox stalking a rabbit—one with a guilty conscience. He took off his hat and steeled himself to her vulture-like stare, turning to face the flames with his back partially to her.

"Where is she, Pol?" he asked, his tone sharpened to ice along with his gaze as it darkened with every word. He turned to look over his shoulder at the older woman with the expectation of a proper answer, and no intention of leaving without one.

He didn't need to say who he was talking about; Aunt Polly knew it would come to this sooner or later.

If anyone knew, it was her. She had kept the family business running in the years he had been gone, and there was no way she didn't have any answers to give. No possible way she didn't know what was going on, and no possible way she didn't have anything to do with it. He guessed that the woman didn't care about the girl enough to consider her departure significant. But Tommy was here now, and he would make sure she spoke of it.

"Harry Fenton says she hasn't been seen in years. Girls at the bar say she's trying her luck at some other pub in the Jewellery Quarter. Everyone I ask gives only half-truths. They're hiding something from me. And that look—" he stalked forward, "that look in your eye tells me you've got a clue of it. There's something you're not telling me, that all of you are not telling me, and I won't stand for it. Whatever the truth is, I can deal with it."

"You won't deal with it, Tommy," Polly shook her head, stubborn as ever. "The simple fact is that if you knew, you would never let it lie. She left, and that's all there needs to be to it. She is no longer your concern. Hasn't been for a while now."

"It is my bloody concern when I come back to find out one of our own up and left for no apparent reason. She's a Peaky Blinder, Pol. Not some girl from the street. Not just some whore from the Garrison. She's our girl, and you think I wouldn't notice her missing? You think I would just let it lie?"

"You want to hear the truth? Fine, here it is then," Aunt Polly frowned, arms crossed as she observed him. "She left two years ago, crawled right into Silas Wicker's lap, doing what that girl does best, and she's still sitting there to this day. That's right, Tommy. She left us for the Wickers. Left you. You'll let it go if you know what's good for you, or you'll never see the end of it."

Silas Wicker.

Tommy had been filled in well enough—he heard the whispers about the man and his crew setting sights on Small Heath while the Shelby boys were in France. He knew Wicker wasn't afraid of bloodshed—his own or his enemy's. He was a man of high society, of a certain power and regency that the Shelby family did not have.

To hear she had left the gang for him sent a cold shiver down his spine.

What is that girl thinking?

His jaw tightened at the woman's words. "And what would she possibly do that for, eh?"

"You and I both know that girl's never been one to lie still." Polly's stern expression remained. "My guess is as good as yours as to what exactly she did it for."

It didn't sit right with him, not at all. She'd known him for years; she had been with the family for years. Something had to have transpired in order for her to earn the ire of Pollyanna Gray, and a simple she left wasn't going to cut it for an explanation. A simple once a whore always a whore wasn't good enough.

"And you didn't think I'd want to know?" he demanded. "You thought I'd let it go without question? You didn't think I'd find it one bit strange that our best eyes and ears left for what? Because she's a whore?"

"People change Thomas. Your Elicie changed too after you left. Or perhaps she simply went back to what she knew."

Thomas couldn't believe what he was hearing, didn't want to believe what he was hearing. How had things come apart like this?

"I didn't wantyou to blow your stack and do something stupid the minute you found out about it," Polly continued. "You'd have only made a big thing of it; you'd have gone and started a war with Wicker's men for nothing. Promise me you won't. That you won't go and do something stupid about this."

Thomas Shelby would never resign himself to making a promise he knew he could not keep. And so, when the morning came, he shaved his face and dressed himself proper, and drove to the Jewellery Quarter. If no one would give him answers, then he would get them himself.

He spent the whole morning asking around to no avail.

He walked in and out of pubs, bars and restaurants, and not even bribery could turn up an answer. No one knew of a woman by the name for which he asked. No one knew of a woman by the description of which he gave. Peculiar, how one could just vanish into thin air in the very district he was told he could find her. It was well into the afternoon as he lit up a cigarette in defeat, smoke lifting away on the breeze along with his patience for the day.

Then something strange cut through the air. The scent of cherries, sharp and sweet—it caught him like a fish on a hook line, and God did it hook him. His gaze snapped around just fast enough to make out the swift motion of a woman with hair the colour of red mahogany disappearing around a corner into the nearest alley, a narrow sliver of a path cut between a bakery and a florist.

He knew that scent. He knew that scent. For the past few years, it had been one of the few things to ground him, to pull him back to reality when dreams got the better. He followed it almost blindly, desperate not to let it get away, crossing the road and into that alley, but when he arrived, the woman was nowhere to be found, and Thomas Shelby was alone again.

Throwing his hands up, he dragged a palm across his drawn-out face and cursed to himself. A figment of his wild imagination was all it had been.

Click.

A kiss of cold steel touched the back of his neck, and he stood still in place, kicking himself for not seeing it coming.

"Now now. I'm not after any trouble," he said. His hands rose slowly, as though to show that he wasn't a threat, but even while he spoke, he was already calculating his next move.

"Then you shouldn't follow women into alleys."

"I'm just looking for someone is all," he said.

"I know," the stranger answered.

Tommy turned around.

The ground fell away beneath him. Time stopped and so did all reason and thought. She was there- right there in front of him. Elicie Wilde, the true jewel of the Quarter. Her face was exactly as he remembered it—the same sharp cheekbones, the same fire in her lovely brown eyes—but there was something different now, something colder, harsher. Something unforgiving. Her coat was new—sharp and stylish, something she'd have never been able to afford before she left the Garrison. Even her signature scent, the cherries that Tommy could never forget, seemed so much more exquisite. She looked beautiful—healthy, and for a moment he felt a stroke of shame. Shame on him for being angry that she'd choose a life that made her happy over a life stuck in the gutter with the likes of him.

"So you're alive then," she glanced him up and down. "Though I'm not sure I should call it a relief," her grip on the firearm remained.

The words hit him like a blow to the face. The mockery in her tone, the bite in her voice—it was all too familiar. But this was different, it was personal.

"You've moved up in the world, Ellie. Or so I'm told" he clicked his tongue, putting his hands back down. He flicked his cigarette onto the ground, snuffing it with his boot. "Small Heath too small for you now? Or were you just that bored without me?"

"Fuck you, Tommy" she shoved him. He'd always liked that about her- the way her cheeks reddened when she was mad.

"You didn't say a word about leaving. Didn't tell me you were off to France. I had to find out from Polly that you'd gone. And you think you can come back now expecting me to welcome you after four years of silence?"

"No, see, what I expected from you was loyalty," he stepped forward, towering over her. "If not to me then to the family. You were one of us, and from what I hear you chose to run off. Now Pol seems to think you're the devil herself for what you've gone and done to us, but here I am still wishing I could give you the benefit of the doubt. So go ahead and tell me why you did it, hm? Why did you leave us for Silas fucking Wicker?"

"I don't need to explain myself to you," she retorted. "I was doing what I had to to survive. We all had to."

"Survival? Is that what we're calling it now? Come on now, you're smarter than that Ellie," he chuckled bitterly. "You were the best I had you know. You were more than just a pretty whore. I trusted you, we all did. You were family. So what changed? When did we become too good for you, hey?"

As he moved forward, Elicie's back met the wall, and Tommy moved in closer- pressing against her.

"When did you decide you were above all that mud and smoke? When did you decide you were too good for me?"

"Since the day you dared to leave without saying goodbye," she retorted.

"Enough of this," he shook his head. "Now the others will take some time to warm up to you again, but if you just—"

"I am not coming back, and you will not change my mind," she cut him off, her voice trembling with the barest hint of emotion. The flush of pink rising to her cheeks, however, betrayed her.

"You will walk away right now, and you will not seek me out again."

An element of danger laced her words—was it a warning, or was it fear?

"Or what?" he murmured, his thumb sliding under her chin, tilting her face upward. His voice hollowed into a challenging whisper. "You'll shoot me? Let's not waste time kidding ourselves, love. You could never bring yourself to do it if you wanted to."

"I ought to, Thomas Shelby. I really ought to," she shook her head, clasping his hand in hers and drawing it away from her face. Her small fingers played over his calloused palms, almost in contemplation. "Look—no matter what the women at the bar tell you, no matter what Polly says. I didn't do this on a whim, Tommy. I'd never do this to you if I had a choice."

A wall of silence came between them for a moment, a reprieve from all the thoughts telling him not to listen to her and to let his anger take over. But he knew he was wrong; of course he knew. Of course he knew there was so much more to this than perhaps what Elicie would ever be willing to tell him.

"Yeah, I know," he conceded. He did know, and the worst part was that he could see himself forgiving her. He just didn't want to let her go.

"You should go," she whispered, dropping his hand and dropping his heart.

In that moment, Tommy wanted nothing more than to lean down and kiss her—to cradle her soft face the way he once did—just to remember what it was like. But her lips were something he'd never forgotten, not once in his time away. He stood still a moment, contemplating whether or not he could really allow himself to go through with this—to walk away from her. To convince himself she really wasn't coming back to him.

There will be others, Aunt Polly would go on to reassure him, for no matter the wrath she held for his past lover, she knew this would not be an easy loss. And yes, perhaps he would take a new lover; perhaps he would see happiness again.

But Thomas Shelby knew, with all of his instinct, that something wasn't right here. One way or another, by one party or the other, he was being lied to.

One day he would get his truth, and today was not that day.

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first time writing a fic for peaky blinders so bear with me please

[alphabetbill]

Macabre [ HEMLOCK GROVE ] - Chapter 9

~ description ~

A werewolf whose only skill is running from his fears and a half-upir with no idea of the true darkness lying inside of him, supernaturally bound to each other after the mysterious death of a girl they both knew, and the grim visions that haunt them.

Some secrets in Hemlock Grove should have just stayed buried. In a town that isn't so sleepy after all, monsters of all kinds are wide awake under the surface, crawling their way up.

~ warnings~

This story will contain mature and heavy themes that may involve potentially explicit content, gore and murder, talk of kidnapping and stalking victims, animal death, supernatural/paranormal/religious themes and trauma, any other themes not covered in the general description will probably be tagged here at the start of the chapters that other significant warnings apply to.

A list will be linked here upon completion and upload of each chapter:

Cicada and the Snake

Chapter 1 . Chapter 2 . Chapter 3 . Chapter 4 . Chapter 5. Chapter 6 . Chapter 7 . Chapter 8 . Chapter 9 . Chapter 10 . Chapter 11 .

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c h a p t e r  n i n e .

Jude Evergreen

<<>>

JUDE WAS STANDING IN A LAKE OF SHALLOW, INKY BLACK WATER THAT ROSE TO HER KNEES, with no signs of life for what seemed like miles all around. Not a single mosquito hummed about, not a cricket chirped, not a bird called out. Time hung still, leaves caught mid-fall, the ripples upon the water frozen in motion. 

The luna moon hung in the sky, its reflection on the water's surface absent, like it was never meant to be there at all. If she squinted closely, the craters on its distant surface almost formed a face. Almost formed a smile.

The trees were thick, menacingly so. They clumped together in such a way that the branches interlocked, revoking any promise of a viable way to enter the forest beyond, effectively trapping her within the confines of the lake. The sound of water sloshing, as she waded barefoot through the reeds and mud, was alarmingly loud, and yet it did not move- did not swish around her, did not ripple, did not splash.

Out here in the open, there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide should some primordial creature be watching from the wall of trees. Out here there was no possibility of remaining silent when your only option was to head for shore, a feat unachievable without the creation of noise.

So, with no real choice, Jude made her way to the southern shore of the lake, picking her way through tangled reeds and bloated fish. Here the water spilled off onto the sandy bank and into a small creek, littered with fallen branches, foliage and stones. 

A heap of rancid, rotting matter barred the way forth, its contents and origin undeterminable even as she drew near. Fur, flesh and bones were snagged between branches and trash, clogged between scrap metal, bicycles, old clothes, and other waste. Something had died here. Many things had died here, trapped as the trash swept them along, drowned and left to rot, collecting them like ornaments. Something evil clung to the air sullied by the stench, something wrong and vile. It forced her skin to prickle, and it did not want her here. Move on, the feeling screamed at her, do not linger lest you join them. It is beneath your concern.

Holding her nose, she climbed over the mound of garbage, the skin of her legs stained a deep, residual red left behind by the water. 

Clumps of black fur, still tethered to slices of acrid flesh, scattered up the watery path forward. She had seen them before. Each one seemed like a new memory as she came across them, and something formed in her chest like a stone- sorrow? Heart ache? Remorse? 

Guilt.

A wolf lay at the hollow base of a tree, where the creek came to an abrupt end. Black fur matted and torn, patches of it missing- lining the path back to the lake. Its muzzle rested gently in the water lapping against it. Eyes open. It whimpered, exhausted, as Jude knelt down by its side, pressing a comforting hand against the gash across its chest, bleeding black through her fingers. Bleeding into the water, becoming it. It flowed in waves but never seemed to end, as though the beast were trapped here, forever bleeding its heart out, forever trapped and alone. Its eyes, a rich and mournful amber, begged for relief. Begged for its end. 

There was something familiar in those eyes, windows that allowed her to peer at the helpless thing inside. The thing in those eyes called her name, whispers on the wind, tickling the hairs on the back of her neck. In that moment she was not observing the fading light of a monster, but the slow, agonized passing of a once dear friend.

"You can't stay mad at me forever, Judy." 

A voice broke through the trees, and as the girl looked up- there was no forest anymore. 

There was only a cozy bohemian living room, the sway of beads hanging in the doorway and the mindless hum of the radio in the corner. There was Jude on the couch, mug of coffee turned cold. There was Destiny, who hovered in the kitchen over a little terrarium on the edge of the table by the window.

"I'm not," Jude rasped as reality reformed around her. "Mad at you- I'm not," she sighed, sitting the mug down on the coffee table, no longer interested in it. "I know it's not something you want to be involved in. I get that. It's dangerous to mess with and quite frankly, fucking scary now that I'm here" 

"Well if you're not mad at me, then what's going on in your head?" she reached out, ringed fingers touching her shoulder lovingly. "What's got you all quiet? Not the Judy I remember."

The girl who used to yap a lot, the girl who used to beg Destiny to let her practice braiding hair, who used to climb on her lap at family gatherings, who used to pester her to play dolls, to play dress ups, everything Peter didn't want to do with her, everything she didn't have a little sister before. She was the little sister Des had always wanted. Had always considered her to be.

"Nothing. Just thinking, about how all this is gonna go" she answered. "If we're really going to get anything out of this."

"Well, with any luck we'll find something," Destiny answered as she plucked something from the terrarium, something small, pale and wriggling.

A maggot.

She could already feel her stomach churning, could already feel its slimy texture on her tongue, the way it squished between her teeth as she bit down, or perhaps the way it would squirm inside should she swallow it whole.

"Absolutely not," she balked.

"It's part of the ritual," Destiny murmured, her voice patient but firm. "It eats from your flesh and becomes one with your body. You eat it, and just maybe you'll be able to reclaim your memories."

Jude wrinkled her nose, recoiling slightly. "Ah. So that's what my intestines were for," she said as she examined the now empty jar that once contained the entrails of her corpse, the ones that Peter had cut out.

The truth sat inside her, dead weight sinking deep into the pit of her stomach. She could feel the fear coiling inside of her, not of the maggot but of the realisation it inspired. 

"I'm not sure how well it will work, given this is usually for contacting the deceased's spirit- and well, you're already here. Theoretically, this should give us something to work with."

Jude did not want to know what happened to her anymore. 

Even from the bits and pieces she could string together from various split visions, she knew her end had been ugly and brutal and it didn't take a genius to guess it. She also knew, even deeper down than that, that gathering these memories would not bring her back from the dead, but merely force her to relive it all. All she wanted now was to find a way to get through this so that her spirit could move on to wherever the hell it was supposed to be.

Suddenly it wasn't a maggot twisting between Destiny's fingers, but an instrument of great terror. Her mouth went dry, and it felt like the breath in her lungs kept slipping away. 

"I.......I don't think I can, Des," she whispered. Her hands- palms itching from the sweat- trembled slightly, fists curled in her lap.

"I don't want to see. I don't want to see what happened to me."

Roman and Peter wanted to know, to find whoever it was and stop them from doing it again. It was Jude who was left stuck in this limbo, knowing deep down there was nothing to be done for her.

Knowing how she died didn't matter. Knowing who killed her, in what way, in what brutal fucking way, didn't matter. All that mattered was getting her out of this place, this space between life and death, before she wilted away into some hellish ghoul forever. 

"Maybe you don't have to," Destiny's expression softened in her contemplation. "What if I try it for you? See if I can find anything relevant to who your killer is. You don't have to see a thing."

"Would that even work?" Jude doubted. 

"It might. Might not. But we came this far," the woman shrugged. She beckoned for the girl to follow her into the kitchen, where she pulled out a chair from the dining table.

"Oh, and you should probably tie me to the chair, just in case" she shrugged, almost as an afterthought. 

As carefully as she could, Jude wrapped the rope around Destiny's torso and secured it at the back with several knots, ensuring escape would not be feasible while ensuring her safety.

Carefully the brunette tilted her head back, raising the squirming maggot to her tongue and dropping it into her mouth, swallowing it whole. Jude tried to imagine what it tasted like. 

A few minutes passed, and the medium began to seize.

Her eyes peeled back into an ocean of bloodshot white, swallowed by the void in the back of her skull. An inky black substance bled into her scleras, overflowing like a plugged faucet- droplets running down a face that rapidly paled. Her eyes continued to spin in their sockets, completing the circle- irises emerging in two small dots of red amongst the black.

The witch's trembling ceased, and now she sat panting on the chair, the rise and fall of her chest evening out as a sense of calm settled over her. It was no longer Destiny looking back at her, no- her friend was long gone, somewhere in the chasm behind those demon eyes.

The smell of wet fur hit Jude first- earthy and sour as though it had been waterlogged for centuries. Then came a faint, creeping stench of something not quite dead but on its way there. For a moment she found herself back in the woods, trolling through sludge and debris, through water a deep dark shade of blood. For a moment she was back kneeling by the side of a wolf suffering through its eternal death.

It's here, Jude realised as a profound sense of familiarity washed over her.

Destiny's face had been draped in a sheet of deathly white skin, dark veins crawling up her neck and seizing her throat- snatching up her right to speak and claiming it for itself. She tilted her head to the side, the way a curious creature would examine something intriguing.

With a slow and guttural voice, so deep you'd almost have to strain to understand it, the wolf inside her spoke. 

"You were mine."

No anger seemed to course through its tone, instead a calm and almost sad sound infiltrated the room. It looked at her as though she were a loss to be mourned, a wonder never experienced, a life never lived, a soul never saved. If she looked closely, Jude thought she could almost see its eyes glisten, right before the light returned, and black ink reverted to white.

A retched noise sounded from Destiny's throat as the woman lurched forward, hurling up black bile onto the linoleum. 

Jude rushed over and pulled her hair back, rubbing her back while she got it out of her system.

When it was over she helped her out of the chair, and promptly steered her far away from the open bottle of vodka on the table. She brought the brunette to her room, slow and steady, and just like a mother would for her child, tucked her blankets in for her.

After all that, Destiny Rumancek had no visions to report. But Jude wasn't stupid- she could see the deeply disturbed look in her eye, the look of someone who had seen something vile beyond comprehension. It was a look that spoke volumes, more than the sheen of sweat on her forehead or the chills racking her body. It was a look of sorrow. 

So, Jude played along and did not ask questions. 

It was evening by the time she stepped outside.

A red jaguar idled by the curb, the golden chariot of the prince leaning against it. He fixed his face with a usual grin as the girl drew near, a grin that never failed to reel her in, no matter the mood.

"Any luck?" he asked, smoke spilling from perfect bow-shaped lips. He regarded her with a look concealing something beneath it- concern, for the uncertainty of her future? Hope, that answers would finally start showing up? Fear, that perhaps they never would. 

She shook her head, taking up his other side. 

"Fuck," he muttered, flicking ash onto the pavement. He didn't sound angry, not really. Just tired. His eyes, viridian and shaded with a concerning lack of sleep, darted around as if to find a focus point or a purpose. And then those eyes found hers, and then Jude felt like she was drowning.

Drowning in a sick sense of guilt, because she didn't have the heart or stomach to tell him she wanted to give up. 

"So, what do we do now?" he asked her, antsy in the wake of her silence.

She shook her head. She didn't have a clue. She didn't have a clue and didn't want to have a clue. Sleep, she wanted sleep. On the way home she closed her eyes and sidled up against the passenger side window.

She thought back to the dreams. To the wolf, to whatever had possessed the medium before. Jude couldn't shake the feeling that darkness and depravity wasn't the only thing Destiny had seen in her trance.

Nor was it the only thing hunting her.

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i did something

[alphabetbill]

Peaky Blinders fic

Anyone think it's worth putting my new thomas shelby fic on here as well as wattpad?

here's a playlist to go with it