Michael Gray - Blog Posts

(I’m the anon who requested a part 2 of the Michael grey fic) I have some ideas :) if Michael grey is in the process of healing but still isn’t strong enough, what if his darling began missing home more than she loved him, and tried to escape to go home? Or maybe it could be when he’s healing he becomes very clingy and his darling is there for him to cling to? Have a good day/night!

Lost and Found (Yandere Michael Gray x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: Michael is weak and desperate for you after being bedridden with his gunshot wounds in the hospital, but after weeks of caring for him, you know your feelings for your former kidnapper have grown into something you don’t dare confess. One night, when you almost let your feelings slip, you decide to flee. Michael won’t let you go so easily.

Part 1

A/N: not exactly what was requested, but it was an idea I had rattling around in the ol' hat rack for a while. Can be read as a standalone, but it is part 2 of "Gray Chains," so either way ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ enjoy!

Word count: 2664

You can see him approaching you now. Through the crowds of swaying people, of hazy smoke and jazz hanging in the air of the dark, gilded nightclub, dressed in a tuxedo of white with a red bowtie at his throat. 

There’s a hungry look in his gaze, but that’s only because he’s been starved of you for hours. Five weeks of sitting in that hospital room with him, catering to his every need, his every desire. All because you’d accidentally fallen for the man that had left you tied to his bed for days on end.

In that white, suffocating room full of antiseptic and nurses filtering in and out, you’d sat there one night in a chair, pulled up next to his bed. Your bottom was numb and hot from the sheer number of times you’d been in that same position by his side.

His hand had been curled around yours, and according to the dimmed lights around the room and the darkness creeping in from the window, it was around ten or so at night. On his hospital bed, he lay flat on his back, still wrapped in surgical tape and stitches. The blue patches of skin under and around his eyes had begun to fade paler, almost matching the yellowed, stitched skin on his chest. His eyes drooped, the gunmetal blue in them tainted with exhaustion.

Still, somehow though, he found it in himself to smile at you, pulling your hand up to his lips with a doting sigh and peppering kisses along the back of your hand. His hair fell into his eyes during the act, and you brushed it back from his forehead into alignment with the other, freshly dampened strands. 

He paused his ministrations. Pressing his lips one final time against your knuckles, his gaze found yours. “I love you,” he whispered, his breath warm on your skin. 

He said it every night. He said it every morning too, and at least twice during each midday. 

You’d never said it back. You never felt the need to; to you, he was just supposed to be the kidnapper you’d found yourself forced to take care of. You’ve had the deplorable feelings and thoughts that came with you being around his loving self every day, but you’d never dared to give in to the words. 

Now, you’d felt them ghosting your lips. You’d felt your resolve break, and you’d actually told yourself there was no harm in returning the sentiment. He had won you over.

A panic struck your chest at your realization, and you fumbled back into your chair, mind frantic. 

Michael was completely unaware. Like usual, his brows twitched and furrowed at your lack of response, and he released your hand, settling himself carefully underneath the blanket and watching as you did the same in the chair beside him. Dutifully, he waited until your eyes fell closed and your breath steadied before giving into his own exhaustion. 

“Goodnight, love.”

And when his soft snores began to fill the room, you fled. With a pocketful of the stack of cash Tommy had delivered earlier to pay for Michael’s hospital bills, you walked, carefully blank-faced, through the quiet, marble halls and out the door before hailing a cab to London.

Eden Club. 

The pub the cab driver had recommended to you after the look on your face and your voiced need for a drink. You’d nodded absentmindedly, and now you found yourself in the heart of the thumping room, chandeliers twinkling on the ceiling and gold laced throughout the alabaster floor. At one of the few tables surrounding the group of dancers, you sipped on a red wine, the strong, thick flavor intoxicating your senses until you couldn’t understand why you were in the pub at all. 

But you knew it was Michael. It had to be. Who else would approach you in this pandemonium of sweaty, inebriated bodies? Saxophones wailed as a singer of sorts crooned into his microphone so many feet behind you, and you flinched as someone bumped into the back of your chair while making their way to the party floor. 

No, it wasn’t Michael, you realized now. The waiter in the all-white suit approached you now, a sommelier, in all actuality. The wine cloth over his arm was stained from many former visits, and you realize now that the bottle in his hand is of the same kind as the drink in your glass. 

The sommelier catches your eye, and before he can open his mouth to offer another glass, you shake your head, waving away the bottle. 

Not Michael. 

You watch as he nods, approaching the other tables around you in turn, the same offer filling their ears. 

No, you think to yourself, cupping your wine glass with both hands and losing yourself deeper in the crimson liquid. No more tonight. Your hands tighten, the one around the stem feeling so close to cracking the glass. 

A breath, not quite relieving after the fright you’d just had, escapes you. You’re not quite sure how long it’s been since you’d left, but it must be somewhere close to two a.m. by now. Michael will have awakened at least once or twice in the span of time you’d left, and certainly now he’s asking around about your whereabouts--presumably impolitely. 

Presumably with threats and torture, if his cousins had received a call. 

You try to care about the people who may have been hurt in your wake, but the fog that’s come to muddle your mind is making sympathy difficult. The rich, sweet taste is still on your tongue, and you wonder vaguely if your mouth is stained red at all.

Jewelry clutters and chimes on the dance floor, women’s bracelets and earrings and even men’s stopwatches jingling around the room. Some men, few and far between in the effervescent club, idle about with their canes, abrupt claps of solid wood against marble floor interrupting the beat of the song.

Behind you, that same clinking piques your ear in a steady rhythm, the pace surprisingly uninterrupted by the large number of people bumbling about. Though you haven’t seen the waiter with the cane before, his presence is uncomfortably close behind your back now. His hand reaches around, grasping the pair of yours in his own before his wine bottle comes into view. 

“No--sorry,” you stutter, watching a bit flustered as the glass fills substantially, “I told the other waiter I don’t need any more.”

“Believe me, love, you’ll need another drink.”

You snap your mouth shut, eyes locked on the glass as Michael keeps pouring until the wine is level with the rim. He slams the bottle onto the table, trembling the surface so hard liquid sloshes out and onto the tan tablecloth. 

He comes into view from behind you, and you draw a line from the clinking to the cane in his hand. You suppose you should have figured. Prior to leaving, one of the doctors seeing Michael had decided that he would soon be ready to walk, though with aid.

He sets the cane’s handle against the table before settling into the seat across from you. The lines in his forehead are angry and deep, especially in the dim lighting of the pub. Out of the pocket of his black overcoat, he pulls a pack of cigarettes, not bothering to offer one to you as he lights it with a match and adjusts himself. His mouth twists into a frown, and he hisses under his breath in pain. 

One cloud of smoke floats from his mouth through his nostrils and then escapes in one long stream. Then he draws his eyes up, and the second his gaze locks on yours, you know you can’t run any longer. 

You swallow. His eyes follow the movement, and when a flush crawls up onto your face, he inhales again. 

“You found me.”

“I did.”

You fall silent, and an air of sobriety seems to clean out the fog in your mind. You can feel it now, the pounding heartbeat in your ears down through your fingertips. Despite the implications of his presence, you can’t help the comfort that buzzes underneath your skin. 

Michael found you like he always did. 

That was supposed to be a bad thing. 

“Didn’t take you long.”

“You didn’t cover your tracks well.” He exhaled, two streams of smoke filling the air as he watched you. “The second you were mine, you were a Peaky Blinder. You left as a Peaky Blinder, so all eyes were on you.” His jaw tightened. “Perhaps you should have thought your escape through better.”

You pause, lips screwing shut as you traced with the rim of your wine glass. The room seems to have grown hotter, and for a second you feel like your breathing is far too audible. Underneath the table, a pressure against your knee causes you to flinch.

Michael crosses one knee over the other, a brow raised as his eyes bore into you. His stare crawls over your skin, claiming your face, your bare collar bones, down to the arms and then the fingers you can’t seem to keep steady. He’s unimpressed on the surface, especially with your performance tonight. Beneath all of that, though, you know he has some plan formulating in his mind. Perhaps it’s already in motion.

The look in his eyes is calculating, critical. As always, you feel as though he controls your next move. He was always so good at predicting you. That was how he got you in the first place. 

He takes another drag and taps the ashes out in the tray set on the table, waiting expectantly.

“It wasn’t planned,” you look away when Michael scoffs, “if that… makes you feel any better.”

“Do you think it does?” he jeered, leaning back into his seat with a curled lip.

You shook your head. “You don’t even know why I left.”

“I have a few guesses, love, but please, enlighten me.”

“Do you remember what happened? Before I left?”

“Only the usual things.” He huffed. “You fell asleep, or at least pretended to, and when I did, you bolted.”

“Before that.”

His jaw twitched, and he dropped his crossed leg to the ground, leaning forward and smothering his cigarette out with a slam of his hand, every movement quick and violent. “When I told you I fucking loved you, was that it? Was that why you did it?” He reached out and tore the glass from your grasp, throwing it against the floor. “You think I’m some fucking monster for loving you, for wanting you for myself.” His eyes flashed with rage, and with his teeth bared, he spat, “You left because I love you.” 

“I left because I love you,” you hissed.

Michael’s eyes widened just as yours did. His lips fell open, and all anger on his face softened and disappeared. 

“W-what?” he whispered breathlessly.

While a breath caught in your throat, you felt a tightness in your chest fade away. The fog that seemed to swim around inside your head for the last hour had finally dissipated, and you could clearly feel the regret clawing at your heart while battling another emotion. 

“It’s not right—it’s wrong. So fucking wrong.” Tears begin to prick at your eyes, and you try to fight them away with the pressure of your palms. 

“That’s why you left.” Michael sounded in a daze. “Because you love me.”

You stayed silent, battling a headache as the tears finally fell. It was hard to breathe, but at the same time it was as though you’d caught the first breath of fresh air in weeks. 

Fingertips grazed your wrists, peeled your hands from your eyes. 

“You really love me?” he asked quietly, almost desperately. 

You fell back into an old habit, the words I hate you grazing your lips, but even the thought of letting them fly pained you as much as you knew they would hurt him. 

God, you didn’t even want to hurt him. You loved him. 

“This is so fucking wrong,” you muttered again, a sob almost following. 

All it took was a smile on that fateful day. 

You saw the cute boy—man—on the street, the one whose eyes were watching you with fascination, and you’d smiled back.

The next time you saw him, he was breaking the glass of your bedroom window, fumbling to get inside and barely snagging your ankle when you’d tried to flee. 

It’s all so wrong.

Until recently, you could still feel it, that chain around your wrist, like a phantom that haunted you every other day you’d fallen asleep in the chair at his hospital bedside. The one he used to keep you in his bed, his home, the one that stopped you from fleeing and made it so that all you’d known for months was Michael and his overbearing, delusional love for you.

You couldn’t even feel that anymore. He’d finally gotten through. He won. 

So, so wrong.

Michael caressed the skin of your wrists, pulling your hands closer and littering kisses along your palms. “Love, you’re perfect, do you know that?” His lips ran along your fingertips. “Just perfect,” he hummed.

He rose to his feet, releasing one of your hands to grab his cane before rounding the table toward you. Beneath his shoes, broken glass crackled.

Using the hand in his grip, he lifted you to your feet. 

“Let’s get out of here, love. Come on,” he released you and instead placed a hand on the small of your back. “I have a cab waiting outside. Let’s get home.”

Michael ushered you past the swaying, sweaty crowd, out from underneath the smoke that hung in the air of the club, and into the clean, cold atmosphere of the outside. You barely registered the nodding of the club bouncers at Michael, nor the familiarity of your cab driver’s face as he led you into the back seat, his long coat draped over your bare shoulders. 

On the way back to Birmingham, Michael never stopped touching you. Either his hand held yours, or his arm was wrapped around your waist or shoulders. One of his knees always pressed against one of yours, and when you dropped your head onto his shoulder, his head leaned atop yours. 

When exhaustion began to nip at your fluttering eyelids and softened your mind, you lifted your head to look at Michael. He stared back, blue eyes wandering adoringly over your face. “What’s wrong, love?”

You bit your tongue, wanting to restrain the gentle pulsing in your chest in some way, but you couldn’t help it. You can’t stop how it slowly overtakes your senses, especially when Michael raises a hand to cradle your cheek, thumb caressing your bottom lip. 

“I love you.”

His hand begins to tremble against your skin, and his lips twitch into a smile as pure reverence floods his vision. “I love you too,” he breathes.

And when he rushes forward to press his lips to yours, you wrap your arms around him openly, hold him lovingly. He accepts everything you give him, every whine, moan, and whimper, and in return he worships your body with his hands, petting and stroking and clutching onto you with every fiber of his being. 

“I won’t let you go again,” he murmurs against your lips, and his arms tighten around you. “I can’t lose you anymore.”

“It’s okay,” you cup his face, pulling him impossibly closer. “You found me.”