#and despite every time he's feared this exact thing happening when arthur turns from him there's just plain shock on his face

[chronicowboy]

it's just like. despite everything. despite everything they've been through. despite every time arthur cursed magic. despite every time merlin said he'd never be able to be his true self. he's still so full of fucking hope when he tells arthur. you can see it on him plain as day. he's terrified yes, but more than that he's hopeful because this is arthur. arthur who is good and fair and who against all odds loves him deeply for reasons merlin cannot possibly begin to understand. so he hopes and that little child that merlin claims to have grown out of, he still lives within him, and that little boy thinks that nothing can come between a bond like theirs. it's naïve, it's hopeful and it's true. but. but not at first. no. first, arthur breaks his heart. and merlin. merlin feels all those years of loneliness and solitude and pain ten-hundred-thousand times worse in the face of arthur's refusal.

[theonewiththefanfics]

The Layers of Thomas Shelby - Frozen Fear (one-shot)

Synopsis: Fear was an emotion Tommy elicited in others. He never thought he'd feel it himself. Not like that. Never like that... 

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x fem!Reader

Genre: angst, slight fluff

Warnings: graphic descriptions of blood, injuries, kidnapping, swearing, death not sticking to canon whatsoever :)

Word count: 3028

Fear was something Thomas Shelby was intimately acquainted with. He elicited it and made others tremble to their very core with just a glance or a whisper of his name from someone else’s lips. Fear was as much a shadow in his life, as his daughter who followed him around wherever she could.

But fear was also what he felt in that exact moment as he stared at the bloodied napkin on his table, the silver locket he’d gifted Y/N when their child had turned one inside it, a simple note of “For Angel” attached to it.

Sadie was tight asleep on his chest when he’d received the damned box. Y/N had taken her to Ada’s so she could have the day to herself, get her body pampered, do up her hair and maybe spend a bit of money on some new shoes or a winter coat as a birthday present from him. If she’d asked, Tommy would’ve bought her the Eifel tower, and she’d bloody well deserve it. Valentine's was coming up, after all.

He was so proud of her. Despite the certain things that’d happened, he wouldn’t want anyone else to share a life with. She’d picked up the broken pieces Grace had left his heart in and mended it with gold. But gold didn’t matter at that moment when he didn’t know where she was. Where her body was.

When Frances had brought in the box that’d been left by the doorstep, Sadie had been softly snoring on his shoulder for the better part of an hour while he ran tired blue eyes over the logs of the previous week.

He thanked her, his voice a whisper to not stir his toddler, before cautiously examining the square. When he opened it, Tommy swore his heart stopped beating. Or he wished it did. Because it wasn’t like that time when Grace’s boyfriend had taken Y/N, or like that time she’d gotten mugged behind a shop. No. This time, he knew she was dead, and he wished he was too.

It took all of his self-control to ring up his brothers and tell them to get to Arrow House right that second. It took all of his restraint not to shout or scream, the only thing tethering him to earth and sanity his pride and joy asleep in his arms.

When Arthur and John got to his home office, Tommy simply threw them the note, his eyes trained on the small oval locket, thumb tracing the inscription upon it, smearing blood more and more over his own hands.

“Find her.” Those were the only words he uttered.

For a brief second, he’d glanced up and saw terror rush through the eyes of his brothers; he knew how much the two loved his wife, they loved her like they loved Ada and Polly, so without a second to spare, they ran back out, no doubt to gather every Blinder and search every nook and cranny while he clutched the brown-haired girl to his chest, the silver locket clutched in his other palm.

He wasn’t a religious man, didn’t even necessarily believe what his gipsy ancestors did or even his aunt Pol, but at that moment he turned his head to the ceiling and prayed to whoever might listen, old gods and new, Norse and Greek and Slavic – anyone that would hear his pleas.

Tommy thought back to every time Y/N had smiled at him, had laughed and filled his world with light. He even thought back to all those insane moments where he felt like his jaw would snap with how hard he’d been clenching it because of some stupid thing she’d done. He wished he’d appreciated those moments more because when two hours later Arthur came back to the house, the coat his wife had been wearing that morning in his hands, soaked and dripping freezing water onto the Turkish carpet, Tommy knew she was gone.

***

Her whole world consisted of cold, nothing else. It was the only thing she could feel, taste and sense. Was there anything to sense? Y/N didn’t know. She didn’t even fully believe her legs were still attached to her body, but somehow she was making her way across the field.

Time had become a concept she couldn’t comprehend, and the only thing that showed it had passed was the ever-changing position of the moon - her only companion through the long journey.

She had stopped shaking a while back, which it didn’t take her being a genius to know meant trouble if she didn’t find a way to get warm, but even that didn’t matter. Nothing but getting home did. If she had to die, she wanted to do it there, not somewhere in a ditch let alone beneath the frozen surface of the lake where Luka Changretta had dumped her.

He thought she’d been dead. He’d slit her throat, but not before ripping off the beautiful little necklace Tommy had gifted her.

“So he has something to remember you by,” the Italian mobster had given her a mocking smile before taking a knife from his side and slicing it across her neck.

The pain had been blinding, knocking all sense of reality out of her mind. She knew it would be the end. When her body lifted above the chair she’d been tied to, when her back greeted plush leather seats, her blood staining them forever. She knew she would die sooner or later. Then sweet blackness greeted her.

But death was a lot more painful than what it’d been described to be like in all the books she'd read and edited, especially the wound in her throat. Her breaths were white-hot knives dragging down her oesophagus and her lungs were on fire with each shallow take of air.

Through a haze, Y/N heard Italian being spoken before two rough hands grabbed her by the ankles and dragged her out of the car.

Her body hit the frozen ground with a thud, and it took every bit of remaining brainpower not to whimper from the pain. The winter air stung every piece of her body inside and out, caressing her with icy nails.

Slowly her mind was coming to, the cold sobering her up, but when someone took her wrists and another took her by the ankles, setting her flying, it was the frozen surface of the lake she cracked through that awoke her completely.

Y/E/C eyes flew open, murky depths of the water greeting her while every nerve and cell in her got shocked. Instinct told her to swim up, get a breath, and get out of the water before it pulled her under, but with the mightiness of a Norse goddess, Y/N suppressed all that and allowed the lake to gently pull her down, and her mind finally started to understand what’d happened.

They thought she was dead and decided to throw her body in some lake, probably hoping it would freeze over before she floated to the top and would remain that way until the very spring, prolonging the pain for her family.

The thought of her family grieving her was the only thing keeping Y/N from not trashing below the still surface. Instead, she slowly slipped her arms out from the coat and let it move to the top, while she sunk lower and lower.

Soon enough her feet touched the slimy earth below, which is when she once more opened her eyes and glanced up. There wasn’t really anything to see, apart from the light of the moon streaming in through the broken place where her body had been thrown and two retreating headlights.

Y/N waited two more seconds her whole being in shock and begging to get out and away from the cold when she pushed upwards and broke the surface. She gulped the air down in greedy takes, not caring about her split neck or the trembling of her body - at that moment all she cared for was air.

Her teeth were chattering so hard she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, afraid it might get caught between them and she’d bite it off. Swishing her head around, she looked if the ice had broken anywhere else. Out. She needed to get out. And to whatever god had taken pity on her after everything, underneath a small makeshift pier where kids would come and fish, the ice had cracked right to the very edge.

She knew every second spent in the water was a second closer to hypothermia, so as quick as her frozen limbs would allow, she swam to the land. It was a hand’s stretch away when another pair of headlights came into view. Y/N cursed and instead of getting out of the lake, she ducked underneath the wooden planks, pressing a palm to her mouth, so whoever it was wouldn’t notice the air steaming up in the air from her mouth.

Her ears were ringing, so Y/N couldn’t hear whatever the men were talking about, only see how they fished out her coat and took it with them. They left another minute later, and she swore at whoever it was for costing it to her. Home. She needed to get home and fast, but she couldn’t be seen, couldn’t let Changretta know he’d half-assed her murder and she’d survived. He wouldn’t do so again, so Y/N waited another bone-chilling minute, checking if any car passed by again.

And then she got out, her dress clinging to her body, hair against her face, matted with seaweeds and blood, one heel of her boot snapped off – a wraith come to life and ready to haunt.

The first step was agonising, and Y/N collapsed underneath her weight, needles piercing her feet. Her knees bruised and scraped raw against the stony earth as did her hands, but she welcomed the pain, let it ground her, and used it to remind herself – pain meant she was alive. No pain would be the real problem.

Y/N wrapped her hands around her body, digging her nails into her biceps, each step an arduous labour. Small pebbles cut the soles of her feet; she’d lost her shoes somewhere along the way; her bones ached from the very inside and each breath was a task, the wound in her neck, although scabbed over, split with every small movement, small streams of blood trickling down and staining her white dress.

Lights were visible in the distance, even as her vision blurred more and more, the small bright dots becoming stretched-out beams before everything tilted and she was staring up at the sky.

The stars were magnificent, she thought. You couldn’t really see them shine like that in the city. Even with Arrow House being further away from the centre, the beauty of it didn’t compare to that of the open field.

Her mind went back to Tommy, to how they met, how they used to bicker about every single thing and to that first morning she’d woken up beside him and instead of finding his pillow cold, a strong arm had been wrapped around the middle, his nose hidden in her hair.

Neither mentioned it a few hours later at breakfast, but it’d been the day things slowly had started to shift. Then she’d gotten shot, and the switch had completely been flipped. All those glances they’d shared, the soft smiles and tiny touches were no longer hidden, but out on full display. His hand now always gravitated to touch any part of her, they fell asleep facing one another, most times Y/N using Tommy’s chest as a pillow. And then someone else came along and used his chest as a pillow, his heartbeat as a lullaby and his eyes as the ocean to pull them in and never let go.

She’d been scared to become a mom, but even with that, she’d never seen Tommy so absolutely terrified. When Y/N had gone into labour, she thought he would pass out, but he swallowed the fear and stayed with her. Despite Ada being adamantly against a man being present during “women’s business”, she’d threatened to break her neck if she so much as looked at Tommy, Polly snorting beside her.

“He put me in this position, and by God, he will be here,” Y/N had sneered at her sister-in-law before a contraption rippled through her body and she almost crushed her husband’s hand.

But then the pain went away and a small wriggling person was placed on her chest. She’d never seen Tommy fully break down before that.

“Huh,” Ada had shrugged. “So he does have a heart.”

She’d promptly received a smack from Polly and Y/N for that comment, but Tommy had chuckled.

“No, I don’t.” He’d leaned in and pressed a kiss to his wife’s temple. “These two stole it a long time ago.”

After that day, it wasn’t uncommon to find Tommy either in his office or even in their bed with Sadie sound asleep on his chest. She just about melted each time.

But now all that stared back at her was the cloudless winter sky. Y/N wanted to sob at the thought she’d never see Tommy’s blue eyes anymore or fix the way Sadie’s curls framed her face, but every little movement was agonising, so she just laid there, staring at the cosmos and waiting for that black void to get her.

***

When Y/N came to she was confused as to why there was so much yelling when being dead, why her head was pounding and her body was racked by violent shivers.

“You undressed my fucking wife!” A deep voice boomed from somewhere very far away it seemed while at the same time, the noise echoed in her skull, rattling her brain.

“Oh, would you have liked me to have left her in that frozen fucking dress?” A deep, gruff one replied. “She was already hypothermic, but by all means, you’d rather no one saw her in her knickers than be alive.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Solomons!”

That name being said snapped her eyes open, which was a big fucking mistake, as even the warm light from a candle by the bed and from the fireplace was enough to make Y/N feel like she was looking directly at the sun and burning her retinas.

Another horrible shiver went through her frame, her teeth chattering nonstop. Pins and needles were running all over her skin and Y/N curled up in a ball as if trying to not let any of the heat she’d managed to get back escape, but that only made her feel more pain, a groan escaping her mouth. That small noise was enough though for the door to be busted open and for two men – one lean and tall, the other a burly, beard-covered menace to rush inside.

Tommy was by her in an instant, a careful palm placed on her cheek.

“Don’t try to talk,” his own voice was that of a whisper. “The wound’s pretty rough.”

If it didn’t feel like it’d hurt like hell, Y/N would’ve just rolled her eyes, but all she could do was squeeze them shut as shivers went through her body. When Tommy saw that, he was instantly on his feet, going for the fireplace and adding more logs to the dwindling flames.

When he turned around, Y/N had slid her shaking hand from underneath the duvet and extended it to him, a silent plea for him to come back.

It didn’t take much more than that for Tommy to take off his jacket and suit, not caring about the company in the room, his trousers following until he was in his breeches, sliding into the bed, wrapping her frozen body with his own warmth.

A groan escaped her mouth, as she clung to him, Tommy releasing a string of expletives when sensing just how cold Y/N actually was.

“Bloody hell, woman,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to her forehead and tucking her face into the crook of his neck.

Gently, he intertwined her legs with his, and his fingers went to card through her matted strands, the motion more so calming him down, than her.

He’d put their daughter in bed after calling for Polly to come, with the thought Y/N was dead, his whole being a numb void. He’d thought the only time he’d ever get to see her again was after her body was found, that was if it’d be in a recognisable condition, so he’d take her frozen feet against his calves, her cold lips against his chest and stiff fingers digging painfully in his sides, as long as it meant she was alive.

At some point, after Alfie and Tommy exchanged words, Solomons left, and they spent the whole night and early morning like that, tangled in one another until Y/N was no longer cold or more appropriately would snap her tongue off if she so much as opened her mouth. She still couldn’t speak despite how Alfie had cleaned and stitched the wound in her neck, but she could write.

Alfie had brought a pen and paper upon Tommy’s request so they could communicate and the first and only word she scribbled was “home”.

“We’ll go home soon,” Tommy promised. “Arthur’s just… taking care of a few things.”

To that Y/N just nodded; she didn’t need any more explanations.

She took the pencil again and flipped to a new page. “Alfie has shitty sheets.”

Tommy chuckled, tightening the grip he had around Y/N’s waist. “He does, doesn’t he? You’d think the fucker could afford silk by now. Did he even change them before he put you in the bed?”

She just smiled and nuzzled closer to Tommy pressing her no longer cold nose to his chest and breathing in his scent, as he cradled her nape.

Y/N could hear the rapid thuds of his heart. When he'd first joined her in the bed, it'd been racing like one of his horses, stuttering and trying to find a beat, but now it was a steady song, matching her own.

No longer were they afraid.

Tags (crossed out wouldn’t take): 

Everything tags: @palaiasaurus64​ @supernaturalbaesduh @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561​ @staryeyedgirl​ @deathbyarabbit​ @m-a-t-91​ @maladaptive-ninja-returns​ @averyrogers83​ @in-the-end-im-still-trash @gallifreyansass​ @dewy-biitch​ @avxgers​ @unlikelygalaxygiver​ @magicwithaknife​ @ollyoxenfrees​ @bnhvrdy​ @tvwhoresblog​ @thatkindofgurl​ @sj-thefan​ @lestersglitterglue​ @im-squished​ @strangersstranger​

Thomas Shelby tags: @datewithgianni​ @captivatedbycillianmurphy​ @screemqueen​ @mrsmalfoyshelby​ @theamuz​ @lyarr24​

A/N: sooo, it's been a while, hasn't it? Just wanted to drop something for the upcoming Valentines :)

P.S. hope you liked this :)

P.S.S. please don’t plagiarise my work and repost it/ translate it on other platforms (wattpad etc). re-blogs are very welcome

[commonwealthoccurences]

Cheers (Elder Maxson)

Note: We’re assuming Sole is around the same age as Maxson in this; a middle-aged Sole with 19 year old Maxson is an iffy concept to me. Thank you to the Discord server for fixing my writers block! Also, weird analogies for 500, anyone? Mildly OOC Maxson.

CW: Potential death mention, abstract/rhetorical poisoning

It’s easy, Sole thinks at the end of the day, to drink poison. To tilt your head back and surrender to what may come, no matter what. It’s easy to allow yourself to be captured in the will of whatever's been mixed into your glass, slightly acidic, barely masked, and pretend to be unknowing. Knowing Elder Maxson has been like drinking poison, and so, they think it must be very easy to allow oneself to do so.

They’re staring into the wine that’s been handed to them, a deep plum color swirling in the foggy glass it’s been poured into. In another timeline, this wouldn’t be the last they’d share with him, and there was a much more content life waiting for them at the end of their internal battles. But they often told themself they weren’t one for wishful thinking, and with that, returned their attention to the man himself, who sat, quiet and contemplative, across from them.

On any other evening he’d be lounged across the plush cushions next to them, a sharp contrast to the usual appearance he showed every other member of the Brotherhood. There’d be a lazy grin on his face, a little too much wine wiping away the stern expression that’d been burned into the lines of his skin, and the two of them would be deep in the throws of a playful debate. Sole had lost that privilege, though.

Just as Maxson had lost the privilege of seeing them with their head tilted back, a laugh shaking their frame, delight taking over the weight of the world that they held between their strong shoulders. Two friends, or something more, turned strangers. What a twist. “Is this it?” Sole spoke up. Maxson had resumed his public facade, and they knew he wouldn’t be the one to break the silence.

“I suppose it is.”

The meeting of their gazes brought both of their internal battles to the forefront, images of warfields flashing between the pair. Sole clenched their jaw and tilted their head up, still trying to remain casual in the way they spun the wine in the glass. They didn’t dare take a sip; they wouldn’t put it past him to actually poison it, and as much as they cared for him, there was a reason the air was so tense.

Sole had made it into the Brotherhood a little shell shocked from their experiences with the Wasteland, looking for structure and someone to have their back as they fought to survive. Of course, the Brotherhood was much more than that, and didn’t hesitate to introduce their bigotry, disguised as defensive beliefs, as soon as Sole stepped through the doors to the Prydwen.

They were unsure at first of where they stood. Ever the scholar, they tried to remain neutral and stand back, observing, as they made their way through the beginnings of their Brotherhood experience. Other than Nick Valentine, they had never met a synth; maybe he was an exception, and the Brotherhood was right in the idea that they weren’t to be trusted. They’d found themself in the company of Elder Maxson more than once at this point, eager to look through the cracks of the mask he wore and get to know the man behind the ideology, the intense scowls, and the unwavering leadership. They’d begun to debate as a pastime, and slowly, as the tapestry of his beliefs came into full view, they found themself suffocated.

The threads were frayed, woven by generations beforehand. Maxson’s contributions were made for no reason other than that he was told it was right, to add strength to a fabric that only caused pain to those that were innocent. Sole found themself edging closer to the tapestry with a thread ripper and magnifying glass, wanting to take apart every argument and excuse and bring forward the man behind the brainwashing that the Brotherhood was so fond of, but it was too late. It seemed that the threads had been woven into his skin as well, leaving no person outside of his anti-synth ideology.

They needed time away, and after one particularly intense debate-turned-argument, they asked for it. Maxson knew what was happening as soon as they were hesitant to look him in the eye, and when they finally did, there was no vulnerability like he was once given access to. They were choking on the smell of his soap and aftershave, suffocating on the tenseness flooding the room, and needed to get away to think.

After a month in Sanctuary, listening to synths and humans alike recount their tales, their life experiences identical in the way that both types of people hurt and thrived, became overjoyed and mourned losses, Sole went to seek out answers. In the back alleys of Diamond City they heard whispers of an organization, and went to find the Railroad.

They had a long talk with Deacon, looking over his own tapestry with a magnifying glass, shielding their eyes from the reflective, joking threads, so they could see the life lessons hidden beneath. Despite how hard it was to access, they found his tapestry much warmer, if not a bit worn from how many had taken refuge under its fabric. Every time they dug in and pulled at the threads, trying to find a fatal flaw, it held together like no other. One month away and they knew what they had to do.

It was hard to return to the Brotherhood, knowing their days there were limited. They’d seen the people before the ideology, instead of the other way around, and once considered many of them friends. But at the end of the day, the ends of their tapestries were coming loose, and Sole could no longer justify sticking around. They were smarter than that.

Maybe it was obvious, and a little immature, but they avoided Maxson upon their return to the best of their abilities. He tried to reach out to them, calling them in for meetings, upon which they kept their answers short and didn’t give any information as to what they had been up to during their escapades away from the Prydwen. But at the end of his third try, when his expression changed from curious and a little hurt to hardened and stern, they knew he understood. They had their own tapestry now, and didn’t need the refuge of any others. Certainly not his.

So when he invited them to one last evening together, they accepted. There was nothing they weren’t prepared for as they walked through the doors to his quarters and settled down on the couch. It was easier than they expected it to be, but they supposed the time away had already given them the opportunity to sever any hesitancy they would’ve once held.

They found themself indifferent to the intense discomfort in the air that would’ve pinned them to their seat just a month ago. Their breath remained in their lungs, their hands didn’t shake. They tilted their glass and stared at the liquid inside before placing it on the table in front of them and folding their hands together in their lap. “I sincerely hope you don’t plan on doing anything stupid, Sole.” Maxson’s voice was harsh, biting. He sipped his own drink.

They found a small smile betraying their lack of fear of the man in front of them. With a light sigh they glanced out the window. “Arthur, please. Let’s not pretend you haven’t been picking apart my brain for the last few months in the name of getting to know each other. Do you really believe me to be stupid?”

“I didn’t. And then you left for a month and returned doubting Brotherhood ideals. It seems you still have time to prove me wrong.”

“I think we can both agree a resistance to brainwashing is the exact opposite of stupidity.”

Sole sighed and brushed the palms of their hands down their thighs. They stood with little hesitancy and made their way over to one of the windows that decorated the walls of Maxson’s quarters. The view was one of the few things they’d miss about the Prydwen.

Of course, they supposed they could understand how members of the Brotherhood became so out of touch with the Wasteland. Everything felt so untouchable from their perch in the sky, rocking gently in the light winds that flooded the ground with radiation. Staying, surrounded by the hivemind and far away from any contradicting opinions, would’ve been the death of any independent thought from Sole.

They would miss Arthur, not Maxson, and the way they thought they were two separate people just a few months ago. It was easy to pretend, when he had been less than sober and forgot everything he thought was his responsibility. His thoughts flowed more readily into speech; the first slip he had made was calling Sole beautiful as they leaned against that very window, looking up at the stars that almost appeared to be within reach from where they sat in the sky.

It had caught Sole by surprise, though they supposed it shouldn’t have. Yes, Arthur was in a position of power, arguably one of the highest in the Wasteland across the factions, but they had spent enough time with him at that point to know he fell victim to alcohol. Well, that’s what they pretended.

Arthur was no lightweight. They could see it in the way his movements still remained controlled in contrast to his words. It was an excuse, they’d realized, after just two nights, to say what was on his mind instead of what he had been taught to say.

Maybe that’s why they thought they could get to him at first. Unravel some of the tapestry that had dug deep into his skin and latched onto his mind. It seemed as if he wanted free of the Brotherhood mindset and the way everyone looked to him. It showed when they were together in the low lamplight of his quarters, alone in a space that didn’t allow for his facade, and he looked 19 again instead of aged beyond recognition.

His hand brushed across their cheek and they fought hard to keep their attention out the window; they wouldn’t let him exploit vulnerability that should’ve never been given in the first place. They were hyper aware of the placement of his hand, knowing that into two smooth motions they could be on the floor, dead. Instead, he hooked a finger under their chin, and they felt a kiss placed to their forehead. Then, he was out of their space and across the room, busying himself behind his desk with paperwork. They were dismissed, for the last time.

Just a week later, it was easier than expected for the words to spill out of their mouth and into Deacon’s ears. Descriptions of the Brotherhood’s guard shifts, the weakest point of their aircraft, protocols and every hidden weapon they knew about. They didn’t choke, didn’t waver. They had seen too much upon their return to the Railroad; synths injured from the hate the Brotherhood had spread, members fatally wounded when they jumped to defend. Sole had reveled too long in the privilege of ignorance and the company of a man who, despite being tragically indoctrinated, they could no longer lend sympathy to when they had to bear witness to the consequence of his actions.

Maxson’s last mistake was assuming that the silent goodbye they’d shared just one week earlier would be their last. Sole was ready to take a torch to his tapestry, and they were the last person he should’ve assumed was stupid enough to let him go easily.

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Promises Not Kept Part 5

Summary: Tommy Shelby made a promise to Jonah Ward while in the war. A promise he didn't keep. But it comes to haunt him when he tries to drown out his sorrows with a young woman.

Part 5: After spending the night together, Tommy wishes he could solve conflict easily, Lizzie has some sage advice for Leah. Leah’s past isn’t all behind her. 

         Tommy rarely had hangovers anymore. Or at least ones that he even noticed. He usually had a migraine so it made no difference if it was a stress headache or that of a hangover. In fact, he felt a little lighter on that particular morning after the night out with Leah. If anything could get Thomas Shelby to fall asleep it was a copious amount of alcohol and a few rounds of sex. He actually slept through most of the night once he and Leah passed out in bed.

           Itching for a cigarette upon waking, Tommy opened his eyes and stretched an arm out for his always-nearby pack. After regaining awareness of his surroundings, he realized he was pinned to the bed by a particularly cozy blonde. A rare morning smile crossed his face and his mind wandered to how it used to be. Grace always curled up in his arms when they went to sleep. But by the end of the night, she managed to accumulate all the blankets, unknowingly keeping them far from Tommy. He never minded.

           Leah appeared to be the opposite. She was sprawled out over him, her cheek resting on his sternum, one hand resting on his collarbone, the other pressed to his heart. Her legs tangled with his and if she had been a full-grown man, Tommy wouldn’t be able to move. She was fast asleep and he was hesitant to wake her.

           But he needed a smoke. As carefully as he could, Tommy tried to ease out from under her. He froze when she stirred but she merely turned over, flopping off of him and onto the bed. Relieved, Tommy quietly sat up and saw his cigarettes weren’t on the night table. Remembering the night before, he realized he hadn’t gone through his typical night routine.

           After leaving the yard, they’d returned to Watery Lane and Tommy barely let Leah get up the stairs before kissing her. Pressing her up against the wall, his fingers already working at the buttons running down the back of her dress. It took some time but they eventually stumbled upstairs. The room showed evidence of their disregard for the world around them. They were too intently focused on each other. His things were scattered all over the floor. He’d tossed Leah’s dress to the furthest corner of the room and her stockings now adorned the dresser.

           Tommy rose quietly and slipped on a pair of boxers. He searched for his coat and found his cigarette pack. But he forgot they’d run out the night before. Cursing silently under his breath, Tommy hastily got dressed and headed down to find more. He locked the door behind him so no one would wander into the room and disturb Leah. Without his pocket watch, most likely lost among the cluttered room, he had no idea what time it was as he went downstairs.

~~~~~~~~~~

           No one was in the parlor so Tommy entered the betting shop to track down cigarettes. The shop was already bustling with activity. Bets were being called back and forth and money exchanging hands. His employees gave him polite nods in greeting as he maneuvered his way back to his office.

           Lizzie was waiting there for him. “Sleeping in today?” She questioned. It was rare for Tommy to not be up at dawn. The man never seemed to sleep.

           Bogged down by the extra hours of shuteye, he only gave her a glance in reply. He passed by her and dug through his desk for cigarettes. “I don’t have any meetings today, I can sleep in.” He muttered.

           Lizzie sighed and reached into her pocket to spare him a cigarette. Her boss couldn’t function without one nearby. “Arthur said you were out late.”

           “He was too.” Tommy graciously took the donation and lit it.

           "He wasn't sure where you went once you left."

           He shrugged and set the cigarette onto the ashtray for a moment to fix his cufflinks. He was definitely not as immaculately dressed as he usually was. But his outfit wasn't of any importance that morning, especially to Lizzie it seemed. "I headed down to the yard for a mo' then came back home."

           “He said you were with someone when you left.”

           He leaned against his desk, facing his secretary. After a few anxiety relieving puffs, he met her hard gaze. “You seem surprised.”

           She wasn’t. If anything, she was wounded by his callousness but wouldn’t show him. “Who is she?” Her tone was clipped as she hugged a binder to her chest like a shield for her heart.

           “I have a feeling Arthur already informed you.” Tommy retorted and walked around his desk to sit down. His eyes scanned over the list of things that needed to be done that coming week.

           “Maybe he did. I guess I want to hear it from you.” She lifted her chin higher and didn’t break eye contact even when he did.

           “I knew her husband, he passed during the war. He asked me to take care of her.”

           “So you’re sleeping with her? That’s taking care of her?”

           He cleared his throat and focused on the words in front of him. The last thing he wanted was a conflict with his assistant. Their relationship was complicated enough and he knew that it was mainly his own doing. He could be the villain if she wanted to paint him that way. He wouldn’t blame her. “If I want to talk about my personal relationships, I will. But for now, we’re running a business.”

           Lizzie rolled her eyes and gave a huff of annoyance. “Honestly, Tommy, you’re thick sometimes.” She spat before leaving the office and slamming the door behind him.

           He sighed deeply and scrubbed his hands over his eyes a few times to wake up. If only he could snap his fingers and instantly get rid of all the conflicts in his life. If only.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

           Leah woke up not much longer after Tommy went downstairs. Dazed and sporting a fine headache, she turned over. The bed was empty beside her, as was the small bedroom. She sat up and stretched her arms above her head. It was nearly impossible to pinpoint the exact emotions she was feeling. It was a mixture of everything all at once. She felt cared for, as Tommy had taken care of that need she had during his absence. He’d been tender with her, much more than when they were at the hotel. They’d taken their time and in that way, she felt more important to him. But in the light of day, fears and suspicions crept up on Leah. Was he just stringing her along for an occasional fuck? Was it simply the alcohol making her think their connection was more intense than it actually was? Was she being naïve?

           Leah bit her lip and stood up to find her slip. Slowly dressing, she glanced at the mirror every so often. Tommy’s presence was still strong, despite the empty room. He’d left bruising marks on her neck where he’d feverishly kissed and sucked at the skin. Her hips were mildly tender from where he’d gripped her so firmly. But she couldn’t remember ever being in pain.

           As she moved around the room, she passed over his discarded clothes. His scent lingered in the air. The evidence of their alcohol intake also remained within the fabric of the night before.

           Tommy’s room was tiny but mostly sparse. There wasn’t anything distinguishing it as his. She picked her stockings up off the dresser and found a drawer partly open. Overly curious, she slid it open and found a few neckties loosely folded inside. But a bit of dull silver poked out from under a black silk tie. She pulled it out and discovered it was his dog tags. The tarnished silver was dirty and dinged up from his service. But she could make out the information stamped into the small circle.

Thomas Shelby

Sergeant Major

179

           Leah’s thumb passed over the indented metal. Jonah’s tags were under her bed, sitting in the box with his letters. She closed her eyes for a moment to breathe evenly and deeply. For a brief moment, she let her mind wander to what might have happened if Jonah had come home to her. She might not have even met Tommy. But she would have her best friend back and in her arms again.

           She dropped Tommy’s tags and buried it back under the black tie. It was no good fixating on an alternate reality. Jonah would never return to her. Now she had Tommy. Or did she?

           “Time will tell.” She whispered under her breath and shut the drawer. She gathered the rest of her things to head downstairs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

          Leah donned the same blue dress she’d worn the night before. She stepped out of Tommy’s room and found the second floor was quiet. However, she could hear activity coming from downstairs. Men were talking and calling words that she couldn’t quite make out.

           Lizzie was in the parlor and heard Leah coming down the steps. The second she saw the unfamiliar woman, Lizzie could guess why Tommy gravitated her way. She had the same golden blonde hair his late wife had.

           “Sorry, I was looking for Tommy,” Leah explained.

           “You’re the girl he was with last night?” His assistant didn’t give her an answer and sipped at the tea she’d made.

           “Yes, I’m Leah.” She wasn’t sure who she was. But it was obvious the woman had a problem with her despite not meeting her before.

           “Where d’you work?”

           “The dress shop a few streets over.” Leah became uneasy under Lizzie’s harsh stare. It reminded her of how Teresa used to glare at her if a client chose Leah over her. Anger, jealousy, and a hint of threats.

           “And before that?” Lizzie raised an eyebrow. Tommy didn’t just go wandering into dress shops and sweeping the shop girl off her feet. She could tell Leah was new to Birmingham. Tommy had found her somewhere else and Lizzie had a sneaking suspicion of where.

           Leah didn’t look away. “If you’ll just tell him I had a lovely time and that I can’t wait to see him again. I would appreciate that.” She slipped on her coat to leave. There was no use in divulging her past to a woman she just met, and one who was being so standoffish.

           “You’d be wise to get out while you can,” Lizzie warned before she made it to the door. “He’s not a man you want to get involved with. You have to know he’s dangerous and I’m guessing you don’t care.” She set her teacup down and crossed her arms over her chest. “But he’ll break your heart and leave you for something better when it comes along. He’s restless and never happy with what he has. He could have the world in the palm of his hand and he’d still want more.”

           Leah swallowed under her cold gaze. The words were haunting and made her second guess herself. There was nothing she could say in response so she left the home without a word. She burrowed her hands in her pockets and braced against the fall chill. She wondered if she should cry or not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

           Those days, she wasn’t sure which way was up anymore. The world turned around her and she merely stood there. She’d felt numb, practically a ghost drifting about the world for years. People walked right through her without a care in the world. There didn’t seem to be any substance left to her. She used to be so sure who she was. Jonah and her family gave her a sense of purpose and identity.

           Tommy didn’t give her an identity. She still felt lost. But he filled her with feeling, emotions that she thought were unattainable after her loss of self. She could feel her heartbeat in her chest when he looked at her.

           Tears pricked her eyes as she made her way down Watery Lane. Birmingham went about its morning, not noticing the young woman dabbing her tears away. It didn’t feel her guilt and uncertainty. The city didn’t care if she cried.

           About a block away from her apartment, Leah could spot a few men. They were lingering inconspicuously around her front step. She paused, wary of their unnatural presence. One of the men turned and she instantly recognized the disfiguring scar over the left side of his face. His eye clouded over, blinded by shrapnel he’d caught in the war.

           Leah’s breath caught in her throat and her chest seized in panic. They were men under Madame Rosetta’s employ. Large men who kept the peace in the brothel, hunted down debts and intimidated the girls into obeying Rosetta.

           She’d been punished several times in her earlier days in the brothel. Anything from tardiness, refusing advances of aggressive clients or drinking heavily on the job.

           Andrew, the partially blind man, was always willing to dish out consequences. The man was rumored to have a high kill count during the war. He was excessively violent and seemed to have no problem with the pain he inflicted. He most likely enjoyed it.

           But Leah was not about to allow him the satisfaction again. Not while she had her life back on track. And especially not when she had Tommy Shelby in her corner.

           Before the men spotted her in the street, Leah turned and hurried to the dress shop. The store was closed because it was Sunday, but Beth lived in the flat upstairs.

           The younger woman was surprised to see Leah at her door, especially because the poor woman looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

           “Can I use your telephone?” Leah blurted before Beth could ask what had happened.

           “Um-sure.” She nodded and let her upstairs.

           Leah wasted no time in picking up the line and having the operator connect her to Tommy’s home.

           Polly had just entered when the phone began to ring. “Shelby residence.” She answered formally.

           “Hello, is Tommy available?” She was too shaken up to be polite.

           Not recognizing the voice, Polly was suspicious. “Who’s calling?”

           “Leah Ward, please it’s an emergency.” She begged. Her knuckles were white from gripping the receiver so tightly.

           Beth watched with worry. She couldn’t fathom what had spooked her friend so badly. Now, she was apparently trying to get in touch with Thomas Shelby. No one called a Shelby to have an idle chat. They called for business or action.

           Polly had heard about the woman from her nephews. They spoke about how Tommy had them keep an eye on a shop girl whose husband they knew from the war. “Alright, let me see if he’s nearby.” She could hear the urgency from the other end of the phone.

           Leah paced as far as the phone wire would allow her. She anxiously chewed on her nails while she waited. Beth wordlessly asked for an explanation but she could only shake her head in response.

           “Leah?”

           Tommy’s voice was like an angel’s; he was someone who could protect her. “Tommy, I need your help.”

           The man’s gut wrenched in worry. He’d been confused by his aunt explaining who was on the other line. As far as he knew, Leah was still upstairs in his room. He thought for sure she would come down and find him before leaving. He wasn’t aware of her interaction with Lizzie as his assistant had yet to pass along her message.

           “What’s going on? Where are you?” He asked.

           “I’m at Beth’s home.” Leah’s voice wavered. “There were men at my apartment. I-I don’t know why they were there but I know they work for Rosetta.”

           The mention of Leah’s old employer sparked anger in Tommy. He wanted to give her the freedom from that life. But it seemed Rosetta wasn’t about to let her loose.

           “Are you safe?”

           “Well, yes. But, Tommy I’m afraid they’ve been watching me. How’d they know where I live?”

           “S’alright, love.” Tommy did his best to soothe her over the phone. He didn’t even realize he was using such tender language or tone with her at the moment. “Stay where you are. I’ll take care of this.” He assured her in a steady voice. But he was already standing up and reaching for his gun to tuck into his coat. “I’ll come to the shop when I’m finished.”

           Leah shook her head frantically. “Don’t do anything foolish.” She begged. “I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.”

           “I won’t.” He promised. Tommy was more than certain he could handle a few dim-witted thugs. “Just stay with Beth for now. Take a deep breath and put the kettle on, eh? Calm yourself down, I won’t be long.”

           “Tommy-”

           The line went dead before Leah could interject again.

           “John, Arthur!” Tommy shouted as he exited his office.

           His younger brother was standing at the blackboard writing down odds. He paused for a moment, Tommy’s voice carrying above the bets. Arthur glanced up from a few slips, a questioning look on his face.

           Tommy slipped on his flat cap. “Follow me.”

Permanent Tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla @giftofdreams​ @biba3434​ @kimmietea​

Masterpost

PB Masterlist

[victoodles]

Heaven’s Gates

reviewed and edited by the absolute angel that is @verai-marcel​! find it and all my work on AO3!

A celebration for the ages. 

The Braithwaite’s legacy was now nothing more than ashes in the wind. One less inbred stain on Rhodes’ history - Dutch vehemently made sure of that. 

It was a bloody affair, bordering on barbaric. But Dutch insisted, as he is want to do, that it was necessary. Had to be done. And because of his spontaneous action fueled by a restless trigger finger, the youngest Van der Linde found himself home, nestled safely in his mother’s arms. 

The pain of past failures, grieving and loss are forgotten for the time being. There would be time to nurse those wounds later, but now is time for merriments! 

More importantly, drinking. 

Lots and lots of drinking. 

Crates of beer and whiskey are unboxed and passed around generously from one eager hand to the next as songs of victory begin to drift into the starry night. A choir so bombastic and jovial even the alligators lurking beyond the swampy underbrush seem entertained.

The party is shy a voice, however. Two to be exact. 

It seems Arthur had favored abandoning the festivities, tired of receiving the praise he adamantly believes he doesn’t deserve. He doesn’t need kind words in return for doing the right thing - something that needed to be done. 

If he is to be rewarded, Arthur yearns for something sweeter, honeyed and intoxicating. 

A craving he aimed to satiate with you. 

He wordlessly leads you from the campfire’s glow back to the imposing homestead that is Shady Belle, a faded scar against the skyline of Lemoyne.

From the way he grips your hand, firm and insistent, you know he needs you. Now. It’s a familiar hold. And again, again, again you comply, answering his every beck and call with the same silent affirmation and tender smile.     

Some of the men hoot and holler profanities in response to his intentions, lascivious but harmless in nature; Arthur will deal with them later.  

For now, he focuses on escorting you up the weathered staircase, so briskly the wood barely has time to creak under you. He’s ever chivalrous though despite his hurried pace, a hand on the small of your back as he makes sure you mount each step before himself. It’s endearing in its simplicity - at how it comes so naturally. 

The gossamer of said chivalry is soon pulled back before you even reach the door to his quarters. It’s replaced with rough hands on your cheeks as he pulls you in for a hungry kiss; silk and lace turn to leather and calloused palms.

You’re pressed immodestly against the wall as Arthur moves his lips against you with fervor. It’s a song and dance you’ve become well accustomed to thanks to his teachings, and you respond in kind. Lips soft against his, sighing in blissful content with each pass of his mouth. Pleasured elation transitions into surprise when you feel his tongue tracing your bottom lip, accompanied by a fervent hand palming your rear through layers of skirts.

Your relationship with Arthur was still relatively new, fresh, only engaging in kissing and occasional heavy petting. You had never been with another man before, not so much as a chaste kiss on the cheek in contrast to this emblazoned act of passion against a dirty, peeling wall in an outlaw camp. He had been considerate in that regard, gently easing you into physicality at a leisured pace. 

Arthur would never overstep himself, not with you; despite his incessant denial to the contrary, Arthur Morgan is a gentleman at heart. He’s patient, the tip of his tongue barely grazing your lips now as he awaits your consent, verbal or otherwise. 

He doesn’t wait long.

Timidly, you part your lips for him and he spares no time deepening the connection. Arthur revels at how sweet you taste and your head is reeling at the hint of whiskey on his tongue. It’s, again, all so new for you, another first for Arthur to claim. And you’d gladly give them all to him. 

You whine in response when he pulls away, but it’s shushed with a gentler kiss and a soft hand on your hip. 

“Hush now, darlin’.” His voice has a teasing lilt to it; you can’t help but smile. He kisses you again, with slightly more intensity before he leads you (finally) to his room. 

It’s as neat as it can be, considering the circumstances. You notice his bed is made, albeit with a single worn blanket and pillow, but it’s the thought that counts. A coy smile graces your lips and Arthur can’t help the tinge of pink that dusts his cheeks ever so slightly. 

“W-was hopin’ you’d be willin’ to - I mean I would be honored if ya-” he struggles to find the right words while still maintaining his composure. Arthur has spoken to women of high society before, courted one in particular. And he’s trying his best to show you the same respect, to remind you of home. Your smile only widens.

“Christ,” his words are becoming a jumbled mess and his face is growing hotter. “What I’m tryin’ to say is-”

Now it’s your turn to hush him up with a kiss. 

You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him with his same intensity. Arthur is momentarily caught by surprise, the back of his knees hitting the edge of the bed. It doesn’t take him long to recover, his hands finding purchase on your waist as he returns your affections in kind. 

“Yes,” is all you whisper against the shell of his ear. Arthur is a big man, as tough and tumble as they come. But feeling him shiver against you has a satisfaction surging through you, as well as a newfound sense of confidence as you dare to place one of Arthur’s large palms over your breast. He gawks at you, eyes going comically wide at this shift in dynamics. 

The other girls had teased you incessantly for your lack of...experience as they so ineloquently put it. It seems they had all had their fair share of romps in the hay, some even happening within the confines of camp! (Karen doesn’t have the decency to blush at the very easily proven accusations.) 

However, you were raised differently than them, proper as some might call it. A woman’s body was meant only children, any act of intimacy outside of a lawful marriage would bring damnation. Fire and brimstone and all the other horribly dreadful words your mother would caterwaul anytime you glanced at the opposite sex.

But now? There’s no mother hissing in your ear, no manor walls acting as the cold bars of a gilded cage. 

It’s just Arthur.

And the promise of something glorious.  

Arthur looks to you again. 

Are you sure...with me?  

You offer him a coy smile and a squeeze of his hand for reassurance - doubt has no place between the two of you. He can’t respond with anything but a shaky sigh as he starts to undo the buttons of your blouse with trembling hands. Your nervousness stems from a place of complete naivety, his comes from a long drought of knowing a woman’s touch. 

It’s a fresh experience for the both of you, but Arthur doesn’t plan on using you for a refresher of how man and woman lay together. 

The top buttons come loose slowly but surely. And it doesn’t take long for Arthur’s yearning to be sparked like flint and he picks up his pace, impatient. The skin of your collarbone is soon exposed to him and he hungrily latches on, making you keen. He sucks on it feverishly, not being able to help or stop himself from creating small red blossoms just shy of where is considered modest or decent. They’re a naughty secret, a reminder for the both of you. 

Your hands find purchase in his hair, soft under your fingertips from a recent bath. Arthur is exploring, his lips and tongue roaming new territory not even traversed by you. Fear had kept you from knowing your own body, an apprehension that quickly burns away from Arthur’s heated touches.

Let those wretched emotions join what’s left of the Braithwaite manor.

Arthur frees you from your blouse, leaving your chest fully bare to him. You can’t help the attempt to cover your indecency, face red with shame; how foolish of you to think you could overcome years of conditioning. 

You’re no nymph. 

You’re just a scared little girl playing at some semblance of confidence. 

Mother was right. 

Mother was right. 

Tears threaten to spill but Arthur doesn’t let them. With a reserved gentleness, he takes your hands and brings them up to his lips, placing a tender kiss on the inside of each palm. 

“You’re beautiful,” is all he says. It’s all you need. 

Again you kiss him - you just can’t help yourself. It seems Arthur can’t help himself either as he rolls his hips against your own. 

In that moment you feel him, truly feel him, warm, eager, and hard against you. 

It sets your body aflame. 

You hurriedly go to work rescuing Arthur from the burden of his own clothing, fingers deft as if they’ve done this before. Who ever said sewing and removing mens’ shirts couldn’t be one in the same?  Arthur mimics you, albeit a bit more clumsy in his motions as he works you out of your skirt and onto the bed. He’s getting greedy now, roaming and touching everywhere, anywhere he can. Timidness no longer rears its ugly head in your mind and you welcome each and every sensation, traveling further and further downward. 

Arthur somehow manages to shimmy out of his pants, leaving you both in nothing but undergarments. Your nervous flush is still heavily apparent but you barely notice it, too enamored by Arthur’s half naked physique. Karen and Mary-Beth had shared with you lewd cigarette cards from their “private” collection (you’d hardly call the piss poor hiding spot under Karen’s pillow private). 

But seeing Arthur undressed and on top of you: chest heaving, hair disheveled, and cheeks a deep crimson? It paints an entirely different picture than those glorified Adonises on flimsy cards. He’s real, adorned with scars from an unkind life but each with its own story to tell. 

You want to know them all, you muse as his mouth trails over your breast to capture a nipple between his lips. Gasps and sighs escape you, all melodic and decadent to Arthur’s ear. Such beautiful symphonies he aims to compose with your voice alone. 

You arch your back, desperate for more, more, more. 

Arthur was never one to deny a lady in waiting. 

He licks a circle around the tender flesh with the tip of his tongue, breath hot on your skin while his free hand dares to traverse to the hem of your drawers, toying idly with the linen as he sucks and nips as he pleases. 

Your blush turns into an unbearable heat all across your body, practically singeing the tips of your fingers and toes from its intensity. You feel the pulsing need for him in the pit of your stomach, begging to be satiated however he sees fit. However he’ll have you.

How lewd, you humor the thought for a moment.

It soon turns to oblivion within Hell’s second circle.  

Who cares? Who cares. Who cares!   

“A-Arthur,” you manage to pant. He never thought his name could sound so heavenly falling from your lips. 

He looks at you, expectantly, waiting to answer your every beck and call. Fingers dip beneath the fabric and your already ragged breathing hitches in your throat. 

“What is it darlin’?” It’s a rhetorical question, he’s fully aware. Arthur knows the cure to your incessant longing.

“Please,” you all but beg, voice trembling as you grip the sheet beneath you with white knuckles. You raise your hips, needing more contact. 

How could Arthur deny you of that - of anything?

In one fluid motion, your drawers are pulled off and discarded only God knows where. And again Arthur’s fingers move lower, brushing over your hip bones and leaving goosebumps in their wake until they reach the apex of your womanhood. The rough pad of his thumb ghosts over a spot so decadent you turn into a quivering mess. 

“You like that?” Arthur’s voice is smooth like the whiskey he was sampling, laced with the same warmth. It’s enveloping. All you can manage is a nod as he applies more pressure, tracing circles around your clit as his index finger rubs languidly at your entrance. 

A white hot electricity shoots through you as he slips a finger into you with ease, caressing it against your soft inner walls. It’s a foreign intrusion, one that takes a minute to acclimate to, but the discomfort is assuaged by Arthur’s skilled hand as he starts moving and curling not one, but two fingers at a steady pace.

“More.”

Arthur is no stranger following orders, dropping everything to do as he is bid or told. On occasion it’s both. It’s cumbersome, tiring even. But if you’re the one cracking the whip...

Your wish is his command. 

You can’t contain the cry of protest that wracks you as he withdraws his hand, leaving you terribly, horribly empty. But when you see him through half lidded eyes licking his fingers clean, the feeling is replaced with a white hot need. And a rapidly building pressure buried in the pit of your stomach that is ready to burst. 

The pearly glow of Heaven’s gate is tantalizingly close.

Arthur sits up on his knees, breathing labored as he looks at you. His eyes are a raging storm, calm seas long since lost, and every muscle is coiled and taught. He offers nothing except a rough moan of your name, taking himself in his hands to seek his own pleasure while you prepare yourself for what’s next.

The fear comes back, gnarled and ugly. 

“Arthur, I...I’ve never-“ The words refuse to come out and Arthur distracts you with a kiss as he climbs back on top of you. 

“I know, it’s okay,” he smiles at you so sweetly, “I’ll be gentle.” 

Arthur would never dream of hurting you. 

He inches into you as slowly as he can, grunting profanities at how tight you feel around him. The stretch is uncomfortable, bordering on painful, and you hold onto Arthur’s shoulders as he sinks deeper within you. 

“Are you-”

“I’m o-okay,” you reassure him. Arthur can’t help his concern, blatantly apparent on his face, but he trusts your judgement more than to let his worries hinder him. However, he still manages to practice some self restraint, pausing to allow you more time for pain to evolve into pleasure. 

He’s inside you now, completely. The clouds don’t turn black and the ground doesn’t crumble beneath your feet. There’s just a dull ache.

And an insatiable need for more.

Should there be a cacophony of chaos and hellhounds growling at your heels in your wake, so be it. 

You wrap your legs around his waist, silently urging him on. Arthur notices your readiness and begins to move slowly within you. Each roll of his hips has you writhing beneath him, gasps and moans escaping out the window to join the music of the night.

His composure is ironclad for your sake, careful to not overwhelm or hurt you in any capacity. But he’s far from perfect, and his resolve cracks with every moan of his name and pleasure induced beg. 

More, God please more!

Arthur’s steady pace breaks, devolving into a rapid, hard cadence as he indulges himself for the first time in what feels like years. You’re giving him an insurmountable amount of trust - you’re giving him everything there is to give. Arthur is by no means a selfish man but God does he want it all. 

Mine.

Dutch can take all the gold and Tahitian sand the world has to offer, leave Arthur with you in this god forsaken swamp on this rickety bed until his day of reckoning undoubtedly comes.  

You stand on the precipice of something glorious. You were close to something, close to unraveling. 

Arthur’s thrusts become forceful, erratic. One hand finds your clit while the other threatens to tear the pillow behind your head to shreds. And the world outside becomes overly acquainted with the sound of your lover’s name.

The pearl inlaid handle of Heaven’s gate unhinges. Angels reach out to lead you to rapture. 

Take me now.

You come undone, spectacularly so: synapses firing, nerve endings singing, and a beautiful array of colors blooming behind closed eyes. It’s a glorious symphony that crescendos to a grand finale as you feel Arthur release himself onto your stomach, his heavy grunts matching your cries of ecstasy. 

Basking in post orgasm opalescence, you suppose tomorrow the girls will have a new reason to tease you.

But who cares. 

Certainly not you, now that you’ve found your own key to Heaven.

[panharmonium]

well, we started season 5 the other night.

[disclaimer again for anyone who doesn’t know me: i’m rewatching because I NEVER FINISHED SEASON 5.  i have never seen the last four episodes.  i don’t know how it ends.  please help me enjoy (or, you know, maybe not enjoy, given how things are going in the first two episodes, but...experience, at least) season 5 without spoilers.  thank you!]

i’m going to try to keep up with posting some things during season 5, but despite the fact that i don’t actually know how it ends, this season still kind of makes me feel like i’m being marched to my own execution, and sometimes i feel TOO emotionally invested in what’s going on to even want to write about it, but we’ll see how much i get done.  

anyway - the most important takeaway i want to put down about the opener is that merlin is a mess.

the writers/directors do a really great job of flipping the script between seasons 4 and 5.  in season 4, arthur was the disaster, and merlin was the one who had to take charge of everything.  but in season 5, arthur's gotten his life together, and merlin’s the one having a crisis.

the turnaround that arthur makes between S4 and S5 is amazing.  it’s like he’s a completely different person.  a better person.  i love seeing him like this - after spending all of season 4 so fed up with him, suddenly i get into season 5 and finally see the king i was looking for.  there’s no more agonizing over what people will think of his decisions or what his father would do - he just looks inside himself and does the right thing.  he’s confident.  comfortable in his leadership role.  and you can see that it’s changed his entire demeanor.  despite everything that’s happening, he never seems excessively worried about their situation.  he never seems overly stressed (in contrast to merlin, who is losing his mind) - he stays positive and just does what has to be done.  he seems happy.

it’s the kind of peace of mind that comes from being certain that you’re doing the right thing.  he almost never experiences that in season 4, but in season 5, he’s finally comfortable with who he is and what he’s doing.  even the tone of his confrontation with morgana is different than it was in S4 - he’s not second-guessing everything he did that could have made her hate him anymore.  he regrets the situation they’re in, but he’s not tearing himself up over it.  he’s not afraid of her.  

merlin, on the other hand - 

merlin is afraid of everything.

merlin in season 5 is a grade A disaster.  the - you remember how in this old piece i kept saying ‘merlin’s life does not revolve around arthur pendragon?’  

well, it didn’t, then.  but it sure as hell does now.

and not in a nice ‘you’re my best friend’ kind of way, either.  the fear of what’s coming - the idea that Something Bad is coming for arthur and that only merlin can stop it from happening, the fear that everything he’s worked for will come to nothing - it swallows merlin whole.  it changes him.  from the very first episode, his fear twists him into something unrecognizable.  like - even before mordred comes on the scene, after annis says that it’s likely gwaine and percival are still alive and being held captive - merlin tries to convince arthur not to rescue them.  he says “i’m not sure we should go to ismere.”

like - excuse me?  merlin’s advocating for NOT rescuing someone?  for just leaving his friends to die?  for abandoning GWAINE, of all people?

something’s wrong.  something’s big-time wrong.  

and it’s not like we’ve never seen hints of this...ruthlessness in him before.  merlin's worst moments have always tried to poke through when he gets too caught up in what kilgharrah tells him is “supposed” to happen, when he lets his fear of failing at his destiny override his natural compassionate instincts.  he almost leaves mordred to be captured in 1.08.  he almost allows uther to be assassinated in 1.11.  he does poison morgana in 2.11, though i’ll grant that that was in dire circumstances and under extreme duress.  for the most part, though, in moments like these, merlin’s better nature wins out, and he ends up defying the “demands of destiny” to do what he thinks is the right thing, the better thing, the kinder thing.  even when confronting morgana in the crypts in the S3 opener, he tells her “it doesn’t have to be like this.  we can find another way.”

but this season, merlin’s better nature is losing.  he’s losing himself.  and it’s noticeable, even to other characters.  arthur tells him “i’ve not seen you smile these past three days,” and gaius notices he’s not himself:

what happened to the young boy who came into my chambers just a few years ago?

he grew up.

which is, of course, exactly what morgana says to arthur in 5.2.  

watching this happen is the most devastating thing.  it’s TRAGIC.  for a character whose base personality has always been so sunny - how absolutely inconceivable is it to hear arthur advocating mercy in a situation where there was no need for further violence, and then to have merlin be the one shouting “you should have killed him!”

the juxtaposition of ‘he showed us kindness’ with ‘YOU SHOULD HAVE KILLED HIM!’ is horrifying.  like.  good god.  even arthur thinks it’s bizarre.  he literally turns to look at merlin and goes “what is WRONG with you?”

and then when they’re contemplating getting inside the fortress, merlin says again “i told you.  you should have killed him when you had the chance.”

and arthur gives him this look and the tiniest little shake of the head.

what is wrong with you.

last season, it was merlin telling arthur “this isn’t like you.”  this season, somebody desperately needs to tell merlin the same thing.  

it’s bad.  it’s bad, bad, bad.  that’s all i can say about it.  we’re only at the opener of the season and merlin’s entire life has already been consumed by this fear.  everything else falls by the wayside.  he does things that go completely against his nature.  it’s a far cry from the merlin of yesteryear, who fought the dragon every step of the way when kilgharrah tried to make him abandon morgana or let the druid boy die or even allow uther to be killed.  it’s a far cry from the merlin of 2.11, who shouted “where does it say my destiny includes murder?!”  it’s a far cry from the merlin of previous seasons, who said things like this:

you're telling me that little boy is going to kill arthur?

it seems that is up to you.

no.  you can't know that for certain.

you have it in your power to prevent a great evil.

there must be another way.  the future isn't set in stone.

does season 5 merlin not remember what happened the last time he acquired a little bit of foreknowledge and tried to actively stop the future from happening?  he ended up causing the exact events he was trying to prevent.  

i repeat - HE ENDED UP CAUSING THE EXACT EVENTS HE WAS TRYING TO PREVENT!

and obviously i haven’t finished this season, so i don’t know, but i just don’t think anything good can come of this constant ‘trying to get mordred killed’ thing merlin has going on.  so far, mordred hasn’t even done anything to hurt any of them.  i actually like mordred, in fact, from what we’ve seen of him.  and yeah, okay, probably i’m going to get burned for that later, but the merlin we knew before would always rather get burned for trusting someone and seeing the best in people instead of just advocating for cold-blooded murder.  

like - maybe mordred IS secretly evil!  maybe he is!  but merlin in previous seasons would never have just taken kilgharrah’s word for it.  he always used to say ‘we can find another way.  there must be another way.’

nowadays, it’s like he’s given up.  he is single-mindedly focused on the only purpose he can see for his life anymore, and that purpose is simple, stark, and cold: ‘make sure arthur doesn’t die.’  there is literally no room in his life for anything else.  

and you know - some people would see that as like...i don’t know.  romantic, or something.  beautiful.  but i don’t. 

arthur and merlin actually love each other in this season, and i think that’s beautiful.  arthur’s finally gotten out of ‘be a dick’ mode, and even in just the opener he displays genuine care and concern about merlin, and that’s beautiful.  the two of them are on more equal footing than they ever have been in the past - for the first time, it feels to me like they’re actually friends - and that’s beautiful, too.

but the utter collapse of merlin’s entire sense of self and the dissolution of any bit of his life and worth that doesn’t have to do with ‘make sure arthur doesn’t die?’  that’s not beautiful at all.  merlin is miserable in season 5.  he’s lost so much of what made him who he was.  he’s hidden himself away for so long that the lie has stuck; he hardly remembers who he used to be, and he’s stopped hoping for better, because people kept telling him ‘your time will come’ but it NEVER DID, and arthur is king now but NOTHING HAS CHANGED, and i don’t think merlin’s ever felt more alone than he is when we see him in S5.  

i don’t think he remembers what it was like to think things could be different.  it’s been three years since he had a friend to love him for who he was.  lancelot is dead.  ealdor feels like a dream.  he has gaius, and that’s all - the rest of his life is a lie.  and it’s like he’s resigned himself to it now.  he doesn’t talk about telling the truth anymore.  he doesn’t chafe at not being able to reveal himself.  this is the season where he literally hears arthur say ‘maybe my father was wrong, maybe not all sorcery is evil’ and then merlin declines an opportunity to free himself, just to make sure mordred will die.  

it visibly kills him to do it.  you can see the agony of that decision on his face.  the pain that he is in during this season is slowly destroying him.  but it’s like he doesn’t think he has other options.  he’s given up on his own life, he’s given up on his own liberation, he’s given up on anything that isn’t ‘make sure arthur doesn’t die.’  

i hate that this is all he thinks his life can be.  i hate that he thinks this is all he was fashioned for.  merlin at his core has always been such a happy, hopeful, sunny person.  he’s always looked at things and seen the good.  he’s always been so curious, and gregarious, and loving.  he’s always had a smile for everybody.  but so much of that has just been crushed, now, under fear and stress and isolation.  

i don’t know.  this is only the first two episodes and it puts such a feeling of grief - and dread - into my heart.  i worry for the future.

[probably-writing-x]

Falling like the stars

~Shawn Mendes~

~Based on Falling Like the Stars by James Arthur~

Tour was an incredible experience to word in the most mundane way. Every night, Shawn's young soul felt utterly overwhelmed by the downpour of love that echoed through sold out arenas as he was welcomed with hours of reminders that all of his dreams were now real, present realities. It was all he could wish it could be.

But one thing was missing from those nights. He didn't have his star sitting cross legged on the left side of the stage, always the left. He didn't have her swaying in her seated position, only miming along since she wanted to make sure she took in as much of his voice as humanly possible. He didn't have her to give him a chaiste squeeze of his hand before he ran through the crowd. And that could sometimes make it feel like arenas might as well be empty.

"Come on man, are you alright?" Connor waves a hand in front of Shawn's face, "Stop missing her so much!"

"No, I'm not- I mean it's not-" Shawn stutters, running a hand across his hair, "I'm fine,"

Connor tips his head to the side in a typical 'don't bullshit me'.

"I'm fine," Shawn encourages, "Come on, we're missing the match,"

Connor turns his attention back to the screen of the tour bus that was currently playing the basketball game and it gives Shawn a chance to slip back into his feelings.

He'd promised you that he wouldn't think about you too much when he was away, thanks to you knowing how upset he got if he thought about not seeing you for too long. He'd also promised that, when he got home, he wouldn't let you leave his arms, he'd never let go. And the last few weeks had been spent with him constantly regretting not saying goodbye to you one more time before he left. Or not missing his taxi so that he could stay with you for another ten minutes.

You had been friends for long enough to know that you were destined to stay together for the rest of your lives. Up until recently, Shawn had assumed that eternity would remain completely platonic. And then he realised he was falling faster than he could keep up with. He realised that ache in his heart wasn't loneliness but instead it was the realisation that he'd already found the one to cure all loneliness, heal all sadness and give all love. He'd had you right beside him and now, he was halfway across the world feeling more distant from you than any ocean could represent.

Shawn excused himself silently from the group and found seclusion in the bed he took as his own at the back of the bus. It was just a little too short for his long legs and he always felt tangled in the sheets when his legs weren't intertwined with yours after somehow managing to fall asleep during another film.

The two of you weren't dating. No, definitely not. But neither showed any interest in dating anyone else and there had been far too many occasions where you did things above the friendship boundary. Hands that trickled into each others hold during a long car journey. Fingers that dropped low on your back as he guided you through a crowd, no inch of your skin feeling uncomfortable in his touch. Lips that ghosted almost too close too kissing - never going so far as to do so.

But, now, he was dialling your number because no other option seemed plausible.

"Hey Shawn!" Your voice sounds from the other end of the call, though he is only met with the image of your ceiling instead of the face he hoped to see, "I'm just making myself some lunch, are you okay?"

"I can't see you," He mumbles, pulling his knees up to his chest and tugging the cuffs of his hoodie a little more over his hands.

"Oh, shit, sorry," You chuckle, fiddling to prop the screen up against the coffee machine, "I didn't realise you were facetiming. How are you?"

"I'm good, just tired," He comments in a lousy attempt at shadowing his low state.

You frown and drop the wooden spoon in your hand into the pot, turning your full attention to the boy, "Dude, what's wrong?"

" Just, 'm missing you is all," Shawn mumbles, "It's been too long,"

"Come on man," You pout, "You're killing me! You know I miss you too, but it's only a few more days and then you're back, right?"

"But the shows are over now, I can't distract myself with them," He admits, taking a deep breath as his chest felt far too tight, "It's just interviews and press,"

"Then distract yourself with them, and then you can focus on coming home. This place feels so cold without you, and the view gets a little boring when you're not picking out things I haven't noticed," You laugh, "I've got everything planned for when you're home, too,"

"Tell me," Shawn says, shifting in the bed so that he flops a bit lower onto the pillow, the camera low in an angle that somehow still refused to give him a double chin as it did for you.

"Okay," You clap your hands, "I've already picked out enough films to last approximately 24 hours. I've got my shopping list of all of your favourites. And I've said to your mum that we'll go round there on Friday night - and I asked her to cook that meal you love,"

Despite his low state, Shawn can't help but smile at your efforts. His parents loved you as they would love any daughter-in-law. You still went there for dinners when he wasn't home and you still met up with Aaliyah to go out for a girly day. But it was always 'Shawn's friend' when they introduced you to anyone. And you didn't realise how much it would hurt every time those exact words were used.

"What are your plans for the next few days then?" You encourage at least some conversation from Shawn, moving your phone as you settle into a stool at the island in the kitchen.

"I don't want to talk about me, tell me what you're doing,"

You knew Shawn was really low when he got like this. When even the thought of himself felt like something he wanted to erase. When he wanted nothing but to focus his attention solely on someone else - namely you.

"Okay, well I've got my nieces and nephews coming tomorrow so that should be an interesting one," You laugh, "All four of them on my own! But it will be good, I'm sure we'll end up going on some adventure,"

As you continue to ramble about your upcoming days, Shawn can't help but fixate on the idea. He'd come to imagine his future if the two of you were really together. And he always imagined you two as parents. Four exactly. Sure, you'd be living on no sleep and an empty fridge and the desperation for a minute of silence but it would be somehow perfect. You'd have nights with one child on each knee, telling them stories about how you two met or how their Daddy embarrassed himself on countless occasions. Maybe you'd walk in on him singing to them and it would be the picture of everything you could ever ask for. Maybe he could be part of all you'd ever ask for.

"Honestly, S, I'm sure I'm losing my mind," You exclaim, laughing with your own mishap, "I just keep forgetting everything. Yesterday I walked all the way back from the shop and realised I'd driven there in the first place! It must be my old age,"

Shawn laughs absently and lets himself focus solely on that idea instead. When your kids have grown up and it is just you two once again, you changed in no way from the girl he learnt he could truly, truly love. You'd be one of those couples still completely engrossed in each other, devoted to making sure your past vows were still followed, through sickness and health.

"Brian's asked me to go out with him tomorrow night but I don't think I'll drink. You know he's a bad influence and you also know what happened last time I went out with him," You shake your head.

Yes. He did know. He remembered holding your hair back and stroking your back as you brought up the regret of that one last drink, and the next one, and maybe the one after that. He remembers finally giving up and letting you sleep on the couch, and he remembers not sleeping because he feared what would happen if he didn't keep an eye on you. Shawn remembers forcing himself to count at least fifty reasons why the two of you should just stay friends. He got one - he didn't want to lose you.

"Right, I'm going to have to go honey," You conclude, "Just, don't even think about home. Enjoy your last couple of days of freedom because, as soon as you get back, I expect you to catch up on all the chore days you've missed, understand Mendes?"

"I'll see you soon, okay?" He seals, "Real soon,"

Before you can respond, the facetime call ends.

That's when it washes over. These interviews could be cancelled, these flights could be moved forward. Anything could be twisted to make it possible. The only thing holding him back from being with you was his fear. Well... they say you're most fearless when you're young.

~~~

"You're sure about this?" Andrew chases after him as Shawn gathers up his already packed suitcase and his guitar case - the others could bring back the rest.

"No, god, no," Shawn shakes his head frantically, eyes wide to hopefully take in anything he'd left, "But I'd rather settle it now. Know where I stand, y'know?"

"What happens if she-" Andrew starts but he knows it will pain Shawn too much to think about the end of that sentence. He refrains from completing it.

"If she doesn't love me back? Then I've lost the most important person in my life, the entire future I want and things won't ever be the same between us," He clasps his friend on the shoulder, "But I'm trying to not think about that too much, buddy,"

Before anyone can say anything more, Shawn's got his bags in hand and he's stepping off the bus, walking the length beside the vehicle towards the waiting taxi.

~~~

He thought about it for the whole journey to the airport, he thought about it when he was going through security, all the way to the flight where he realised even loud music wouldn't drown out the questions flooding his mind.

Eyes focused on the sea underneath the blanket of clouds he now flew above, Shawn knew exactly where he stood. Vulnerable and fearful, throwing it all out on the line, Shawn was coming back to you. And the thought of you on the other side of the door to your place was enough to guide him home. Always.

~~~

You were sure you'd dreamt it when you first heard the knock. Sure it was the concoction of the fatigue in your mind and the ache in your heart. It couldn't have possibly been real. You'd been on the phone to him only 12 hours prior.

But there it was again.

And, somehow, as the early hours past midnight crept lonely through the apartment, you found yourself unable to resist the slight glimmer of hope that he would be on that other side of the door.

The almost-known source knocked again before you opened the door, wanting to truly make sure that it wasn't just a figment of your imagination. But, as the door between you opened, you were met with none other than the only person you hoped to see at this hour.

"Shawn what are you-" You begin, "I mean, how did you-"

"(Y/n), you talk way too much and it's one of the things I love about you but, right now, I've been planning what I'm going to say for the past six hours on that Goddamn flight so I just need to say it," Shawn says breathlessly, pausing to breathe once, twice before continuing, "When we were sixteen, you told me that there was one way you'd know you were in love. What did you say?"

You stutter a little and swallow the thick lump in your throat, "I... I told you that it would feel like you were falling through the stars,"

"Right," Shawn nods, "Well, I think I'm falling a bit too fast (Y/n),"

All of this was making your head ache and your heart race. You dug your nails into the middle of your palm just a little harshly. Would you wake up?

"See, what I've realised is that I lose myself when I'm not with you. And that's not just something platonic, it's because I've found the person I want to spend all my moments with. The person I'm not afraid to tell that..." He stops and looks you dead in the eye, "I love you,"

You're completely stunned speechless - which happened rarely but always seemed to be around Shawn. When you first heard his album. When he brought you to one of his live shows for the first time. When he asked you to move in with him. Now.

"I-" You begin but the attempts are filled with futile effort, "I can't-"

You watch Shawn's mouth drop slightly as he expects the rest of that sentence to be completely negative.

"I can't believe we're doing this in the doorway at 2am," You laugh, "You dickhead,"

With that you find yourself stepping forward to kiss him, latching onto lips you'd been longing for. His hands are uncertain at first, falling back into teenage fear, before they become sure of themselves and one moves to your hair, the other pressing against the small of your back like it could bring you any closer.

"You didn't say it," Shawn mumbles against your lips, trying to calm his breathing as he settles his forehead against yours.

"I'm not falling Shawn. I'm already there," You admit, "I'm in love with you. Completely and utterly in love with you,"

~~~

Tags: @imarypayne @sunshine112 @bringmethehorizonandpizza @supernatural-girl97 @vibhati123 @butithasntkilledyouyet @faefictions @carisi-sonny @trap-house-homiecide @spiderrpcrker @tommydaspidey @oneblckcoffee @darlingtholland @fanficparker @xxtomxo @httpfandxms

[braveskyered]

Knights (Part 4)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Arthur's mind is pretty cluttered.

I need a clue.

Part 4: It’s Got Me Reeling

Arthur is in the fifth garage that's usually closed off in Four of a Kind Queens, taking apart a car engine with a baby monitor on the desk nearby. He would glance at it every now and then, and see the twins sleeping together in their crib on the tiny little screen. It could also detect sound, which made Arthur easily hear the lullaby music and sea sounds the little aquarium light in the crib plays. Whenever he heard the sound of either of them crying, he could quickly clean himself up and tend to them, assuming Vivienne doesn't get to them first.

Turning away from the monitor, he went back to work and his mind drifted to the the series of events that led to him leaving Tempo. First he arrived in Cantabile, then he met Elaine hours after doing so. Then he got hired by her grandmother as a mechanic right then and there after he found a major case of vehicular sabotage... and then Elaine suddenly asked him out on a date three months later.

Instead of a typical dinner or movie date, she invited him to attend a robotics convention a few hours away with her family. It was there that Arthur discovered that he has a new partial fear: crowds. He learned to manage it as long as he remained with someone he knew, because if when he remained alone, he could've sworn he saw either Lewis or Mystery or even Vivi peering at him from the corner of his eye. When Elaine learned of his newfound fear, she remained with him for the remainder of the trip.

Elaine may not know anything about Vivi or Lewis, or the Mystery Skulls in general, since Arthur never told her or the Knights family their names, but he is happy that she wanted to help him all the same. He still hasn't told her about the exact circumstances that made him leave Tempo, but Elaine never pressed for details, and the rest of the Knights left it alone, too.

As he got to know them, Arthur learned that the Knights are actually a family clan that specialize in monster hunting, and they happen to be monsters that hunt their own kind in a sense. They actively fight the monsters with the very power in their bloodline. It's not just ghosts they handle, but anything supernatural and malicious in general. So essentially, they're like the Mystery Skulls, but instead of merely investigating any strange occurrences, they actively hunt for the reasons things become haunted or people disappearing.

He remembered being afraid of Elaine, and by extension, the Knights family for two whole weeks after learning their secret.

- - - - - - -

Arthur knew that he is at Elaine's mercy, he felt numb, unable to feel the stinging from the alcohol used to disinfect his wounds. He struggled to keep the fear down his throat, and used every last bit of restraint to keep himself from running away. After Elaine rescued him, she quickly took him back to her van to assess his injuries. With the cult's drug still in his system, he had difficulty walking straight, so Elaine guided him to the small cot in the back of the van and took out the first aid supplies.

Elaine looked down, tears beginning to form, “I... I was going to tell you once we reached our seven month anniversary, but I guess this renders that pointless.”

It definitely explains things. The reason they're so efficient at hunting monsters is that they are monsters themselves. Monsters with human ancestry, humans with strong magic, or humans with monster ancestry...? How that is possible, Arthur couldn't even start trying to figure that out.

“I... I know you're afraid. I can feel your fear, and I wouldn't be surprised if you're afraid of me right now,” she gave a dark chuckle to hold her tears back, “I'm not used to being feared, since I never had to use my power like that before, but I... I just only wanted to save you. I-if you don't want to be with me anymore... I will understand,” she wiped at her face with her hand.

Arthur isn't sure what to think anymore. After having a vengeful wraith try to kill him, a wraith of his former best friend at that, Arthur developed a fear of the many different kinds of ghosts and monsters that exist in the paranormal even though he still continued the path of being an investigator. Not even Arthur himself knows why he still keeps investigating the paranormal despite his fears, although part of him assumed that it, along with his talent at robotics and engineering, are the only things he's good at.

Even though he is afraid, it is only through sheer willpower that he keeps going despite his hands always shaking with fear. However, the trust Arthur thought he had with the Mystery Skulls themselves is long shattered and damaged beyond repair, and he knew that it's all his fault. It's why he left, and why he could never go back to what he once was.

When he was taken by the cult, he didn't expect that Elaine would turn into a giant skeleton monster that would then slaughter most of the cult itself, leaving few survivors in her wake.

He had only heard of the Gashadokuro a few times from Vivi before the cave. According to her, it is a powerful and frightening yokai that originated from Japan, made from the souls of masses of people that never received their last rites, their bones eventually developing into a giant skeleton, their collective consciousness becoming one. How Elaine could turn into one is beyond him, but it still didn't change the fact that she is a monster like Lewis and Mystery are. Despite Elaine's pleading for him to wait as she spoke in that form, Arthur tried to run, tears streaming down his face with fear, but fell down.

Even though he's afraid, she still helped him. The Gashadokuro are known to kill and eat humans and drink their blood, and Arthur knew as he clenched his teeth in angered despair that his soul is considered delicious prey for predators, so why wouldn't this monster just kill and eat him already if he's meant to be its prey?!

“Arthur... i-it's okay if... if you don't want to be with me anymore... it's okay if you're af-afraid... you can leave me... if that's what you want...”

Elaine is crying openly at him, snapping Arthur out of the numbness.

“Just... don't hate me... Please...!”

- - - - - - -

Arthur has to admit that he isn't really proud of that memory. If there is one thing he wanted to avoid, it's to see his wife cry so brokenly like that again. Granted, the two weeks after that were rough, but thankfully, he and the Knights family were able to... clear up the misunderstandings after many a trial, much to the family's happiness. The irony of Arthur having a paranormal significant other isn't lost to him, but the only difference is that Elaine isn't dead.

I'm sorry, Lewis...

Within a year after that, after many weekly dates and knowing each other through their mechanical work and paranormal investigations, Arthur realized, to both his joy and horror, that he had slowly fallen for Elaine once he fully accepted her for who and what she is. He briefly considered wanting to go to the next level in their relationship, but immediately threw the thought out, knowing that he doesn't deserve such a bond, and that he knew that she wouldn't want him. They only went as far as holding hands or the occasional hug, and Arthur knew that she could easily toss him aside like Vivi and Lewis did, despite her saying that she loved him.

Arthur scoffed at the memory of thinking like that, considering their current status now.

He thought back to the time he confessed to her despite knowing that he wouldn't receive any feeling of reciprocity, and remembered giving Elaine his treasured star pin as a romantic symbol of love, for he didn't have anything else to give her. But then he remembered Elaine's thrilled grin as she put the star pin on her jacket, and later that week she gave him a different pin representing a violet crescent moon made with amethyst with a white outline made from nacre. The pin is something she made with her own two hands, which threw any feelings of expected rejection out the window.

Arthur fingered the moon pin in question on his vest. Taking it off briefly, he turned the pin to see the back and looked at the four little stones, a black tourmaline, a black jet, a turquoise, and a rose quartz pressed inwards. He then saw the words engraved among them...

Arthur placed the pin back on, smiling slightly. Despite his many flaws, and the many secrets and guilt he hides, there is someone that loves him, and that is enough. With his current family, he knew that he can finally heal, one day at a time.

You are okay. This is your life now. Live for the twins. Defy those who wanted your life to end, and live on. You matter to someone, and they need you. You are okay.

He decided to stop reminiscing once again and went back to work. He had to dismantle the engine to find the crack on the head gasket, repair it, then put it back together before it's put back in the car itself. Apparently, the more wealthy regulars Four of a Kind Queens get every now and then prefer to just pay for the more expensive repair than purchase a new car entirely. He could think of two things, which is either one, they really really like that car, or two, buying a new car just isn't worth the hassle. He figured he could understand the second part, but still, either option is expensive.

Arthur thought a part went missing and glanced around briefly to look for Galahad, then reminded himself that the hamster wouldn't be going around stealing screws anymore. Even though it has been a little over a year ago, little Gally had passed away about a month after Arthur and Elaine were married due to old age, which devastated Arthur greatly. He knew it was coming since hamsters like Galahad have a lifespan of three years at the known max, but it still hurt when it actually happened.

He remembered Elaine being thoughtful enough to give Galahad a small burial, unusual it may have been. As the ground back then was too frozen to dig a small grave, Elaine instead took an oak sapling and carefully wrapped the deceased hamster, wheels and all, within the roots, then planted the tree in a large flower pot. Once spring came, she then planted the sapling itself alongside many other small trees in Vivienne's backyard, letting Galahad return to nature. He then remembered thanking her for her effort, knowing that it helped him move on from Galahad's passing.

With the twins being a higher priority, Arthur didn't get another hamster after Galahad. Maybe when the twins are older.

The work with dismantling the engine done, Arthur glanced at the baby monitor, and saw that the twins were still asleep, although Gwen is occasionally twitching her arms. Maybe she's dreaming? He hoped it wasn't a nightmare before wondering briefly if babies could get nightmares. Hopefully not, because he didn't want to fail the twins before they were old enough to remember things.

Arthur shook his head and chuckled at his daughter's movement, “Always the active one, aren't you, Gwen?”

Percy is usually the quiet one, only crying when he needed something. Gwen, on the other hand, is almost always active, babbling whether it's night or day, and crying at random intervals. Arthur didn't mind it most of the time, since tending to her usually distracted him from any nightmares he would wake from in the middle of the night, although he did wonder how Percy could sleep past Gwen's crying when a mere creak on the floor is enough to wake him.

Then again, babies are unpredictable.

Later that day, after finishing up the repair of the engine, Arthur went to clean himself up before tending to the twins. Elaine wouldn't be home until later tonight, so he had to make up for her absence. The twins had been fed and tended to by Elaine's grandmother Vivienne while he was working, which he is grateful for. Being a parent is no easy task, and Arthur knew it. Having Elaine's family help out every now and then has been a godsend, especially considering how close-knit they are. They all lived nearby, while Vivienne lived in the auto shop itself. It made sense, since she's the current matriarch of the Knights family and the owner of the repair shop itself.

“Hey, Arthur,” the old woman turned to him when he reached the living room, holding a somewhat squirming Gwen, “Everything turn out okay?”

“There's a crack in the main gasket like you said,” Arthur placed his good hand on the back of his neck, “We can replace the part, but it'll take all day to put everything back together after that once the part arrives. I already sent the report to Morgan, so hopefully we can get the repair done by the end of the week. Where's Percy?”

“He's still asleep,” Vivienne nodded to the direction of the guest bedroom where their crib is before looking down at Gwen, who stared at her father, “This one was getting a little fussy. I think she wants you now.”

Arthur let out a small smile before taking his daughter from his grandmother-in-law. The baby girl immediately cooed and tried to reach upward. He held out a finger from his left hand for Gwen to take, and she held it with both her hands.

“If this doesn't prove that you're a good father, I don't know what will,” Vivienne said as she used her phone to take a picture of the father and daughter, “I remember you being so nervous before they were born.”

Arthur didn't reply at first, instead focusing on his baby girl. Sitting down on the sofa nearby, he held Gwen close to let her hear his heartbeat, “I still am, to be honest,” he shifted his gaze over to Vivienne, and saw her using her phone to take more pictures, “You're not going to post those, are you?”

“Of course not!” Vivienne grinned impishly, although a concerned tone betrayed her mood, “You'd never let me take a picture of you if I did. I know you're camera shy in more ways than one, Arthur.”

“I just... I don't want them to find me, you know?” he rubbed a thumb over Gwen's cheek, “I had to get away from them. If they find out that I'm here, I don't know what they'll do.”

Vivienne lowered her phone before placing a hand on Arthur's left shoulder, “I know. You did a good thing to get away from an abusive relationship, and your scars are healing, just keep using the ointments like the doctor said and before you know it, they'll fade away. I still remember the first time we saw them when we first actually talked. Remember the look on Elaine's face? She looked like she was about to maim someone when she found out.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, trying not to smile. He did remember his first conversation with Vivienne, at how he had to leave home and was looking for a motel to sleep at, and had let slip that he had to leave a friendship that soured, which made Vivienne call it an abusive relationship instead. Arthur isn't sure if what he had with Lewis and Vivi should be considered abusive, but he didn't know what else to describe it. They didn't want him, Lewis would inflict those injuries on him when they were alone, and he felt isolated, so he left without telling anyone. That's all there is to it.

Arthur knew Vivi wouldn't hurt him on purpose, but he didn't want to take any chances with harming her love for Lewis, and thus suffer the wraith's vengeful temper. He had already taken away her and Lewis's chance at having a normal life after getting possessed in that cavern, and being with them even after they reunited and sorted out the facts only made things awkward. To Arthur, he didn't deserve anything from them anymore after the events at the cavern. Even though Lewis's murder was done unwillingly, it is the sort of thing that would gnaw at one's soul, throbbing the heart with pain and suffering.

Yet, Arthur endured, too afraid to end it all. He could only run away, much to his self disgust.

Elaine and her family didn't pursue the matter any further when Arthur asked them not to, wanting to leave it behind him and move on, or so he claims. Otherwise, he didn't know how else to cope with the fear of being found and hurt by them again.

It didn't take much to convince Vivienne that Arthur had nowhere to go, so she let him work in the family business, even though they didn't have any official openings, so he would have a way to pay rent for a small apartment she found for him (how she found it at such short notice, Arthur had no idea). The rest of the family except for Elaine were skeptical at letting a complete stranger work for them, but since Vivienne is the matriarch, what she says goes.

Now, if anything, Elaine is too good for him. She's too trusting, and Arthur wondered more than once at what exactly did she see in him, and why did the Knights family accept him so easily even though he was a complete stranger to them. He had a hard time believing that they would work so hard to help him, a stranger, get back on his feet.

...Why?

Arthur didn't get an answer until he heard his son cry from the guest bedroom. He shook his head in slight amusement before standing up, “I'll go get him. Could you hold Gwen for me in the meantime?”

“Of course,” Vivienne took the baby girl to her arms, “I'm always looking forward to being able to hold my great-grandkids.”

As Arthur went over to the guest bedroom to take Percy out of the crib, he felt a tightening feeling in his chest. Holding his son close, Arthur knew why he felt so guilty.

Holding Percy with one arm, he held a hand over his face to keep himself from breaking down. He hated the fact that he had to leave Tempo, the place he was always familiar with, to escape the pain and suffering he knew he would cause.

He wondered how the Mystery Skulls are faring for a moment before immediately shaking the thought out the window.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Arthur cuddled Percy protectively, positioning his son's head to his chest so he could allow the small babe to hear his heartbeat like he had with Gwen. For some reason, the twins always liked it, and it usually kept them calm. Humming the song he learned so many years ago, Percy was lulled back to sleep.

Elaine often complained at how Arthur was better at soothing the twins than her, prompting him to point out that she's better at feeding and changing them than he is.

Thinking back, he took a deep breath to ease the guilt away. Lance will never be able to love the twins as their grand uncle. If everything hadn't gone so wrong, then maybe Vivi and a living Lewis could dote on them, too...

Even though Arthur left the Mystery Skulls, and by extension Tempo, he still cared about them. Although he didn't want to go back, he can't just forget all the memories he built with them.

It's his punishment for leaving.

- - - - - - -

Notes: Who do you think is wrong?

Hamsters usually don't live past two and a half years, so Galahad probably broke a record or two.

Also, the drawing in this chapter is actually the first one I made for Knights. Here, I was trying to stick to the original style as much a possible, which is why I drew Arthur’s hand with four fingers. However, it is really hard for me to do that since it looks so alien every time I draw it, so I gave up and started drawing everyone with five fingers after that.

Knights Part 5

[starspatter]

Heroes and Thieves, Ch. 7

Title: Heroes and Thieves Fandom/Universe: BTAS, pre/post-RotJ flashback

Summary: A story about second chances, healing, and having hope.

Rating: PG-13, for references to character death, child psychological torture and trauma.

Genre: Romance/Family/Friendship/Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 2,067 Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Also on ff.net and AO3.

Well time has a way of throwing it all in your face The past, she is haunted, the future is laced Heartbreak, you know, drives a big black car Swear I was in the back seat, just minding my own

-Gregory Alan Isakov, "Big Black Car"

Now.

“The Bat Signal is not a toy, Ms. Brown.”

Startled, Stephanie swerved around at the sudden emergence of a man swathed in black from the shadows, cloak whipping wordlessly in the wind.  She hadn’t even heard him arrive on the rooftop.

How does he do that?

“You know my name?”

She asked, flustered.

“I make it my business to know.  You’re Stephanie Brown, daughter of Crystal and Arthur Brown, a.k.a. Cluemaster. …Tim Drake’s girlfriend.”

Stephanie blinked, sighing before lowering her mantle and removing the guise’s (apparently ineffectual) inner layer, letting luminescent locks fall free around her shoulders.  (Reasoning that if the cops hadn’t come up to bust her by now, then it seemed rather unlikely they’d show up anytime soon.)  …Wish I knew what the heck to do with my hair under this thing, she thought idly as she combed her hand through the tangles.  Maybe I should try putting it in a ponytail or something.

“Then you probably know why I called you here then.  Sorry about the theatrics,” she gestured towards the spotlight, “But I figured this was the fastest way to get your attention.”

“Tim told you about our history together.”

“Some of it.  He wouldn’t tell me why you two split up.”

There was a palpable beat.

“If he didn’t see fit to explain, then it’s not my place to intervene.”

“Please, Mr. Wayne.”  Those crescent slits narrowed at equally intimate address.  “I think I deserve to know at this point.”

“This isn’t any of your business, Ms. Brown.  I suggest you go home, and get rid of that silly costume.”

Like yours is any less ridiculous.

“This isn’t a game.  Quit before you get yourself into trouble.”

Holy déjà vu.

She crossed her arms frankly, standing firm.

“Tim said the same thing.  I’m getting real sick and tired of hearing it.”

“He’s right.  The streets are far too risky, especially for someone like you.”  There was a rough rigor to his tenor; like a razor blade scraping severely against the grain, incisive and insistent.  Deliberately rubbing salt and steel into the wound until it irritated. “I’ve seen how you operate: rash, reckless, impulsive, impetuous – not thinking before you act.  You might believe you’re being brave – that you’re endeavoring to prove something by jumping directly into danger, putting yourself in the constant thick of threats – but you’re just behaving brashly like a child. A person of your kind doesn’t belong in this field.”

Stephanie bristled at the blunt onslaught, blue irises burning boldly defiant.

“You don’t understand: My dad was supposed to be dead, and now he shows back up again in Gotham like nothing happened – except now he’s committing crimes without even leaving clues.  I couldn’t just stand aside and let him get away with it.  I had to do something.  After all, I’ve got a stake in this.”

Batman made a smothered sound, like a pained grunt – as if someone had just punched him in the gut.

“You sound just like he did.  All you stupid kids, don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“I know that without me you wouldn’t have been able to figure out the next place my father was planning to hit.”

Admit it, that “chopping mall” clue was a stroke of genius.

“And your assistance in bringing him down during the heist is appreciated. But this ends tonight.  You should leave the crimefighting to trained professionals.”

“I just wanted to help…”

Batman took a step forward, looming ominously over her.  His voice was dangerous.

“You don’t know what you want.  None of you ever did.”

Despite the fierce menace in his tone, she staunchly stood her ground, eyes stubborn and challenging as she declined to back down.  Her opponent carried on lecturing:

“You’ve accomplished your mission; succeeded in putting your father in jail.  Now that you’ve gotten your revenge, there’s no more reason for you to continue this fight anymore.  I suppose you’re just doing this now for fun, for the thrill.  Because you think it’s ‘cool’.”

Stephanie clenched her fists.  He had struck a chord, but she didn’t take kindly to being patronized either, her entire motivations being put down, brushed aside just like that.

“That’s not the only reason.  I mean, yeah this just kinda started out as a goof to get back at my dad of course, and sure I’ll confess I do get a kick out of the rush – but there’s more to it than that. I may not be all that smart or skilled at… anything really.  But this – this is something I can do to help others.  People in need.  For the first time in my life, it feels like I’m really doing something worthwhile, that I’m doing some good.  Like I’m making a real difference.  I’m doing this… I don’t know.  Not even for me.”  She turned towards the skyline, surveying over the (for the moment at least) peacefully sleeping city, lights reflecting above and below.  “I’m doing this for all of them.”

Batman stared at her.

“Regardless, this isn’t your responsibility.”

“And it’s supposed to be solely yours?  You’re just one man in a batsuit, you’re not in charge of this town.  You may be able to handle all the crimes within the city limits, but the suburbs don’t have anyone.  Not even you can be everywhere at once. Hell, no one can carry the weight of the world by himself.”

“This is a vow I took on my own shoulder’s, no one else’s.  I work alone.”

“If you really thought that, why’d you agree to take an apprentice on in the first place?”

While visibly there was no noticeable wince, another wounded growl escaped from the cowl.

“That was a mistake.”

“Oh really?  I’ve seen how you operate: Ever since you’ve gone partnerless, you’ve been colder, harsher, overly aggressive, and more unforgiving than ever before.  Everyone’s noticed; it’s been all over news reports everywhere, criminals claiming to be the ‘victims’ of vigilante violence. All the tabloids assume you’ve gone off the deep end, that you’ve finally cracked – or that you were off your rocker all along.  That’s why they say even the police won’t cooperate with you anymore.”  She looked towards the tarp lying on the ground, which had been covering the searchlight up to now.  Lucky for her they hadn’t removed the apparatus entirely.  “You accuse me of being hotheaded, but I could say the exact same of you.  Heck, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you seem to have some sort of death wish.”

“How I conduct myself is none of your concern.”

“It is when there are people suffering for it.  Tim included.  The truth is Batman needs a Robin, doesn’t he?  Since your parents died, you need – want company.  Otherwise you’ll go crazy, doing what you do all the time.  Anyone would.”

Way to play psychoanalyst with the most famous and powerful – not to mention richest – man in Gotham, girl.

Batman held her undeterred gaze.

“…You really do sound just like him.”

Grudgingly, he gruffly acknowledged the comparison – though it wasn’t quite a concession.

Still, Stephanie seized on the opening.

“Seriously, just what the hell happened?  You two used to be such a great team.  You guys were a legend, the ‘Dynamic Duo’ and all that.  Nightwing and Batgirl too, whatever happened to them?”

His answer was aggravatingly simple.

“Things change.”

Why do I get the feeling I’ve heard that somewhere before?

She exhaled in exasperation, sensing the discussion was going in circles. She wasn’t about to allow such curt tautology cut her off though.

“You used to mean something to people.  This,” she pointed purposefully at the symbol in the sky, before jabbing at the mirrored center of his chest, “…used to mean something.  Sure, you could be scary sometimes, but it was clear that you cared.  Now, it’s like all the lives you save don’t even matter anymore.  All that exists in your mind – or your heart, whatever’s left of it – that is, assuming you even still have one – is darkness and dread.  Am I wrong?”

Her assertive allegation was met with stony silence.  Tentatively, she tried to uplift the weight on the conversation somewhat.

“Not everything has to be about fear.  There’s room in our line of work for hope too, you know.”

Again, he merely remained mute, scrutiny slanting into the distance.

All right, fine.  Don’t answer me.

Growing annoyed by such obstinate reticence (which she recognized all too well at this point; it was no wonder where her boyfriend got it from) and desperate for some sort of reaction, she attempted to return again to the original topic – her whole goal for summoning this guy’s big broody butt in the first place.

“Look, I’m sure you’re as aware as I am this isn’t just about me trying to barge in on your territory – your private little crusade – is it?  I don’t mean to pry open old wounds just for the sake of sating my curiosity either.  Something obviously happened between you two – something that changed him – that changed the both of you – and I need to know what in order to get through to him.”  She placed a palm on her breast, clutching and curling fretful fingers against cloth as she bit her lip, baring honest emotion.  “I want to be able to understand what he’s going through, but every time I try to get him to talk about it, he won’t let me near.  Refuses to open up, shuts me out just like you’ve been doing all night.”

His vision panned back slowly, restoring rapt concentration.  Again, those slim slivers of snow were silent, searching – scant headlights scanning in the dark.  Stark and cold against coal, yet somewhere within seemed to spark a vestige of warmth; like stoking, coaxing the burnt out ashes of an old flame to stir and rise again.  To remember.

“Tim means a lot to you.”

“The whole world.  He’s a great guy.”

“Greater than he knows.”

“Please,” she begged, “Let me help him at least.  I’m worried about him.”

He regarded her unwavering expression, gauging sincerity.

“…You really care for him, don’t you?”

She nodded, thinking to herself that- despite his still-outwardly icy demeanor, there was indeed a thaw in his throat, a slight swell of sympathy slipping through the grave gravel.

He rotated with a sharp whisk of cape, heading for the edge of the roof.

“Come with me.”

She followed, taking cue to simultaneously fumble for her cheap grapple as he reached for his own (no doubt state-of-the-art) device.  Whilst descending down the decel line, Batman pressed a button on his utility belt, and a rumble hummed from down the road as a long, sleek, jet-black vehicle charged along the street, skidding to a stop right in front of them as they alighted on the sidewalk.  The hood automatically slid back upon recognizing its owner, inviting within the depths of its leather wings.

HolycraptheBatmobile.

She hesitated as he walked round to the driver’s side and climbed in, casting an expectant – impatient – glance at his guest.

“Well.  Hurry up and get in.”

“O- okay.”

Dear Diary, whatever you do, don’t tell my mom I agreed to get into a strange car in the middle of the night with a shady man wearing a mask.  Pretty sure she’d flip her shit.

She hopped in after, settling against the cozy cushions.  Leave it to a billionaire to be able to afford the best quality sitting material.  Admiring the impressive array of controls on the dashboard, she figured the machine in itself probably cost more than her whole house combined.

“Hang on,” he warned as they lurched forward, “And don’t touch anything.”

Stephanie hastily withdrew her itchy fingers from the nearest knob, sweating nervously.

“Can I ask what this does at least?”

“Passenger seat ejector.”

She shrank back sullenly, leaning slumped into the lavish upholstery.

Mock me at your peril, masked man.

As they sped past buildings and streetlamps, Steph inquired with a hunch as to their destination:

“So are we going to your hideout?”

“I prefer to think of it as a lair.”

She couldn’t tell whether that was supposed to be a joke or not.  Either way, she couldn’t help but feel a hint of giddy excitement at her current situation.  Not many people could proudly proclaim they got to ride in the freakin’ Batmobile once during their lives.

Cool.

Hope was a letter I never could send Love was a country we couldn't defend

And through the carnival we watch them go round and round All we knew of home was just a sunset and some clowns

[fire-bear]

Breathe With Me

Warning: panic attack and claustrophobia - both of these happen in this story.

The panic attack I've written in this might not be... accurate. I've hyperventilated a few times but I'm not claustrophobic or been stuck in that sort of situation before. Actually, it's only been about my fear of heights twice and didn't last for very long. So I'm sorry if it's all wrong.

Arthur had always been impressed with his company's office building. It was tall and sleek and shiny and new. There were barriers with little gates that you could only open with your fingerprint. The air conditioning was state of the art and changed its output depending on the weather, without any need for anyone's input. All of the computers were the latest models, with problems being fixed instantly. His job was challenging and he was paid well.

The lift was the only problem.

Unlike most places Arthur had been in, the building did not provide stairs for frequent use. To be used in an emergency only, the stairs were blocked by heavy fire doors which were alarmed. No-one could open them without alerting security and the fire department. There were horror stories of people who had been fired for using them without there being an emergency and Arthur didn’t want to risk it so, every weekday, he had to endure the five minute ride in the lift as he was cursed with the unfortunate fact that his office cubicle was on one of the upper floors.

On this particular morning, Arthur arrived a little later than usual. He always arrived with enough time to walk up to his cubicle on the off chance the lifts would be out of order. That day, though, Arthur’s journey to work was impeded by roadworks, a diversion and a traffic accident. So, when he hurried through the barrier, he found himself approaching Gilbert Beilschmidt, a man who was notorious for being only just in time for his shifts, as he waited for a lift to appear. They nodded in greeting and stood beside each other.

Gilbert Beilschmidt worked on the same floor as Arthur but he was in a different division. As such, Arthur didn’t know much about him. What he  did know was that he was behind most of the office pranks and had been the one to get their bosses to provide hot chocolate in the break rooms. Also, every year for the Secret Santa, he dragged in giant cuddly toys. Arthur had only ever seen him at a distance and he was usually smiling or laughing. But they’d never actually spoken so the wait was a little awkward.

Finally, the lift arrived and Gilbert stepped into the empty… box. Arthur gritted his teeth as he steeled himself. Then, as he did every weekday morning, he stepped inside, breathing quickened. He turned to face the door and took his last deep breath. Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Gilbert press the button for their floor. As the doors closed, Arthur took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment.  I am in a wide meadow  , he told himself,  with pretty flowers and a wide sky. After a moment, he opened his eyes and forced himself to breathe evenly. This would be over soon, he would be out in the wide spaces of the office.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Arthur startled at the voice. Nobody ever spoke to him when he was doing his usual calming procedure. What’s more, Gilbert sounded genuinely concerned, despite not really knowing him. “Oh,” he said, slowly. “I’m fine.”

“Dude,” said Gilbert, sending him a disbelieving look. “You look pale. Almost as pale as me. Except when I sunburn,” Gilbert added with a chuckle. “Then I look like a lobster.”

Sending Gilbert a wobbly smile, Arthur nodded. “I’m fine, honestly. I do this every day.”

“What, look like you're about to pass out?”

“Ride the lift,” Arthur answered, rolling his eyes.

And, at that exact moment, the lift jolted, there was a grinding noise and all sensations of movement stopped. The lights dimmed, giving the impression that it was dusk instead of dawn. Both of them stilled, glancing at each other. Arthur had no doubt that he'd gotten even paler. Seemingly realising that Arthur wasn’t about to move, Gilbert stepped forward to the control panel and pressed the door open button. When that didn't work, he tried pushing the button for their floor which had gone dark, Arthur noticed. When he dared to look up, he saw that there was no number on the display to tell them what floor they were on. Valiantly, Arthur tried not to panic as he watched Gilbert hit every single button. None of them lit up. The last button he hit was the emergency call button. Arthur told himself that, once the appropriate people had been notified, they would be able to get out of there in no time.

Nothing happened.

“What-What’s going on?” he asked, ashamed to realise that his voice was trembling. “Are… Are we…  stuck  here?”

“It looks like it,” Gilbert muttered.

“No- What-? That- can’t-” Arthur said, haltingly. He could feel the panic set in and he dropped the bag he had slung over his shoulder as he stepped back. His back hit the wall disturbingly quickly and his eyes flew wide. In all the months he had been at the company, Arthur hadn’t felt quite so trapped as he did then.

Only once had he felt as if he was helpless, stuck in the dark, everything closing in around him, his breath stuck in his throat…

Memories of a trunk at the foot of his grandpa’s bed overlaid the scene of an alarmed Gilbert staring at him. It had been the perfect hiding place for a five year old and Arthur had been delighted to have had none of his older brothers anywhere near him when he went into the room. But there had been things inside that he hadn’t wanted to break and he’d carefully laid them out on the bed. Then he’d clambered in and lay there, giggling.

The laughter stopped when his brothers found him and, thinking it funny, had placed something heavy on the lid. Arthur had been unable to push the lid off him, no matter how hard he had tried. To his younger mind, he had thought that his brothers would actually leave him in there forever. It had been dark, with only a tiny beam of light coming through the keyhole. At first, he had shouted and shouted but when he felt it hard to breathe, he had had to stop, whimpering until he cried himself to sleep.

A few hours later, his frantic mother had pulled him from the trunk, yelling at his brothers for doing something so stupid. It had taken them all a few days and several apologies to get over it. But Arthur hadn’t really recovered from the ordeal and they realised he had developed claustrophobia the next time they’d tried to take him into a lift and he’d screamed the place down. As he got older, he was able to go inside them but his fear was still evident. His brothers always looked guilty when they were with him which only made it worse.

Now, Arthur could feel the strangling grip the fear had on him rise up, gripping at his throat. If there was no way to contact anyone to tell them about this, how long would they be left there for? Would they ever escape? Would they run out of oxygen? That noise had sounded horrifying - would the lift stay up or would it plunge to their deaths?

“Hey, hey, hey, woah,” said Gilbert, suddenly in front of him. His hands hovered around Arthur, clearly unsure as to what he should do, whether or not he should touch him. “Are you okay?”

“No- Can’t- breathe- Claus-tro-phobic,” Arthur managed to get out. It was a miracle he did.

“Woah, what? You- Why the hell do you-? Oh.” Gilbert honestly sounded like he was panicking, too, and it made Arthur want to laugh. He just didn’t have the breath for it. “Okay. Okay, uh, what-? Is there anything I should be doing?”

“I- don’t-know-” Arthur shook his head, trying to clear it. He’d never been trapped like this, not without the knowledge that he’d be released soon.

“Right… Is it okay to touch you?”

Arthur looked up at him with wild eyes, unsure why he was asking him that. Then he saw that Gilbert’s hands were just inches from his arms and he suddenly felt as if he needed a hug. Though, with his shallow, harsh breaths, he wasn’t sure that was a good idea. Regardless, Arthur nodded.

Instantly, he had a pair of hands gripping his upper arms, manoeuvring them both until they were looking at each other. Arthur’s heart was already beating hard but he could feel himself flushing at the attention. He wasn’t used to this. Tears were gathered at the corners of his eyes and they threatened to fall when he spotted Gilbert’s worried expression, the barely suppressed panic at the situation clear in the way he was biting his lip.

“Okay, okay,” murmured Gilbert. “You’re okay.”

Narrowing his eyes, Arthur attempted to glare at him. “We- are- stuck- here- or- did you- forget-?”

“Yes, but… Okay,” said Gilbert, a little more firmly. “I want you to breathe, okay? Just… take a deep breath in and hold it.”

“If- I- could- do that- I-”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gilbert interrupted him. “Just… watch me and do what I do.” And Gilbert took in a great gulping breath, held it and let it out in a sigh that Arthur could feel on his face.

Wishing he could protest, Arthur tried to do as he was told. He took as deep a breath as he could - and found he couldn’t hold it. That made him panic a little more and his hyperventilating grew a bit worse. Without thinking, he found himself clutching at Gilbert’s arms, wide-eyed once again. He was sure he could feel something on his face and hoped it wasn’t tears.

His hopes were dashed when he saw Gilbert’s eyes widen. Gilbert gasped and twitched, as if he wanted to move but also didn’t want to let Arthur go. Eyes darting around, Gilbert took in Arthur’s situation once more. “Would- Would this be easier sitting down?” Gilbert asked. When Arthur only shrugged, Gilbert began to awkwardly help Arthur to the floor till they’d slid down, Arthur with his back to the wall and Gilbert kneeling with his legs either side of Arthur’s. “All right. Where’s the most peaceful place you’ve ever been?”

“Huh?” Arthur breathed.

“Where’s a place that makes you feel relaxed?”

“I-I don’t- know- But- I- usually-” Arthur had to pause to take several breaths before he could continue. “Usually- picture- a meadow-”

“Huh. Well, okay. So, can you picture that now. Just… Just imagine that you’re back in that meadow.”

“Kind- hard- with- you- here-”

“Well… Can’t you imagine I’m there with you?”

Arthur blinked at him for a moment. Then, once he’d glanced around the lift and realised it was too hard to do when he could see the reality, he closed his eyes. There was his meadow, with pretty blue and red and yellow flowers. Up above was the sky, dotted with fluffy white clouds. And Gilbert was there, wearing more casual clothes (though Arthur couldn’t settle on what they were), smiling at him.

“Got it?” Gilbert asked, quietly.

“Yes-” Arthur answered, his breathing still quick and harsh.

“Good. Look at all that air. All there for you. So, take a deep breath. Can you smell that, uh, grassy smell?”

Stifling the urge to snort, Arthur did as he was told - and was surprised that, despite being limited, he was still able to breathe in and hold it. He let it out rather quickly but he soon took another deep breath. Gilbert was murmuring as he did so, encouraging him. After a long period of time where he kept his eyes firmly shut, Arthur was finally able to breathe. Everything seemed to slow, calming.

“There. See? Everything's fine,” said Gilbert. “Feel better?”

“Yes,” Arthur murmured. “I don’t think I can stand, though.” He paused. “And… And I don’t want to open my eyes,” he added, quickly. Just the thought made him tense, gripping Gilbert tightly again.

“You don’t need to.” Gilbert shifted above him. “But I’m gonna move. Man, I could crouch like this without hurting my back in high school.” He began to move off him, his hands slipping from Arthur’s arms.

“No, wait-!” Arthur exclaimed, beginning to panic. His own grip on Gilbert tightened.

Gilbert’s hand landed on Arthur’s knee. “I’m right beside you, okay?” Sure enough, when Gilbert continued moving away, Arthur’s arms were pulled to the side.

“Oh,” said Arthur, feeling stupid. He forced himself to let go, his hands hovering and brushing against Gilbert’s suit jacket until he pulled them away. The panic threatened as soon as he had and he clasped his hands together in his lap, clutching them tightly.

There was silence for a moment, the only sounds Gilbert’s shifting. It wasn't long before the man broke it. “Hey, uh, can I give you a hug?”

Arthur’s eyes nearly flew open at the request. Instead, he squeezed them closed, frowning as he did so. His nails dug into his skin as his hands tightened their grip. “What?” he said, a little breathlessly.

“I just figured you need a hug. Wouldn’t that make you feel better?” Gilbert paused. “Besides, you look exhausted. You can sleep while we- Well.”

For a moment, Arthur had no idea what to do. He didn't want to inconvenience Gilbert any more than he already had. But… a hug sounded nice. The memory of the trunk had reminded Arthur of his mother's embrace when she’d pulled him from it. He had refused to leave her arms for the rest of the day, then. So a hug sounded perfect - except for the simple fact that Gilbert was pretty much a stranger. “I…”

“Come on,” Gilbert suddenly sang. “You know you want to!”

If Arthur’s eyes had been open, he would have rolled them. Instead, he whacked Gilbert lightly on the hand that still rested on Arthur’s knee. “Really?” he said. “You're going to act like that right now?”

“Well, yeah. It made you laugh - inwardly. I can tell!”

Unable to stop it, Arthur snorted. “Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself.

“So? Hug or no hug?”

Startled at how quickly Gilbert returned the conversation to its original topic, Arthur stilled. Should he give in or stay resolute and refuse? He flexed his fingers as he considered it. As he did so, Arthur realised he was trembling, almost shaking with fear. His so-called resolve crumbled.

“I-I suppose if it will make you happy…” he mumbled.

“Okay, cool,” said Gilbert and his hand disappeared. Arthur barely had the time to realise how frightening that was when Gilbert wrapped an arm around his hunched shoulders and tugged him sideways. Caught off guard, Arthur ended up sprawled across him. He scrambled to get off Gilbert’s lap but found himself caught as Gilbert wrapped his other arm around him. Arthur resigned himself to the inevitable and let himself settle against Gilbert, his legs curled on top of Gilbert’s and his arms hesitantly draped around Gilbert’s waist.

“This is ridiculous,” Arthur muttered, meaning their awkward position. He felt as if he was lying on top of Gilbert.

“No, it's not,” Gilbert insisted. “Here.” And, without waiting for an answer, Gilbert reached up and, with a gentle hand, tucked Arthur’s head against his shoulder. His free hand rubbed at what he could reach of Arthur’s back while still keeping his arm wrapped around him. It was comforting and, against his better judgement, Arthur relaxed fully against him, letting out a sigh of relief without meaning to.

Gilbert smelled of something sweet and Arthur found himself wanting to breathe deeply, to capture that calming scent.

The hand on the back of his head started stroking at his hair, Gilbert’s fingers tangling with the strands. His fingertips rubbed gently at Arthur’s scalp and he relaxed even further, contentment filling him. “Are you going to sleep?” asked Gilbert, his voice rumbling through his chest.

Though he was exhausted, Arthur shook his head. “I don’t think I can.”

“Come on, Arthur. You’re safe now.”

“Safe,” Arthur scoffed.

“Safer than I am!” Gilbert exclaimed. “My biggest fear could appear at any moment!”

Concerned, Arthur raised his head a little to frown at Gilbert. His eyes were open now and, this close, he could see where the roots of Gilbert’s hair were coming in. Gilbert was notorious for dying his hair white but Arthur could now see that his natural hair colour was a pale blond. As their gazes met, Arthur noticed that they were a reddish-brown colour, sharp but beautiful. They widened slightly as he blinked at him.

“What’s your biggest fear?”

“Clowns,” Gilbert admitted and shuddered. It was an odd sensation, to feel Gilbert shivering against him. “And those creepy mascot costumes. I have to run away.”

Arthur wasn’t sure if he should laugh or not. Instead of either, he shook his head, smiling, before he let his head drop back onto Gilbert’s shoulder. He let his eyes drop closed. After his hyperventilating, Arthur was beginning to feel heavy, perhaps a little sleepy.

“Don't laugh!” Gilbert protested, poking Arthur in the back. It was still gentle, though, and didn't make Arthur want to jolt away.

“I’m not,” Arthur assured him.

“There could be anyone under there!” Gilbert continued, waving the hand that had been playing with Arthur’s hair. He was quick to return it, running his fingers over Arthur’s ear. “It could be someone with a weapon.”

Without thinking, Arthur added, “It could be a clown.”

Again, Gilbert shuddered. “Stop!” he whined. “You’re making it worse!”

“Sorry.”

There was a pause. “’S’okay,” said Gilbert, his voice quiet. “You should sleep, though.”

“Hmm,” said Arthur, as if he was considering it.

“Go on,” encouraged Gilbert. “You’re safe. I’ll protect you. I swear, I won't let anything happen to you.”

Arthur couldn’t help but smile into Gilbert’s shoulder as the man began to repeat himself, starting up a mantra which relaxed Arthur even further. Strangely, he  did  feel safe, here in Gilbert’s arms. So he let his eyes drift closed and he unthinkingly nuzzled into Gilbert’s neck, his nose brushing against him. The low voice faltered for a moment but it continued on and Arthur sighed in contentment. It wasn't long before he had fallen asleep.

He woke to a jolting motion and his face pressed to the metal floor. Grimacing, Arthur peeled himself from it and sat up, looking around, slightly disoriented. What had happened…? His eyes widened as he realised that he was still in the lift, though it was now jerking upwards.

Over by the control panel was Gilbert. He didn't seem to have noticed Arthur waking and was holding onto the railing for dear life. For some reason, he was scowling upwards. Before Arthur could say or do anything, Gilbert turned back to the panel and jabbed at the button.

“Are you lot  trying  to shake us around?” he demanded.

“Sorry,” came a crackly voice from the intercom. “It seems that the electric winch isn't working properly.”

“Tsk. Then go get another one.”

“No!” Arthur exclaimed. He could feel the panic setting in again. In fact, he was already feeling a little breathless. How long had they been in there? Did they have enough oxygen? What if the next winch didn't work? Would they be trapped in here till they died of starvation or thirst?

“Scratch that,” said Gilbert, hastily. “Get us out of here already!” Not waiting for a reply, Gilbert rushed to Arthur’s side, dropping to his knees so fast that Arthur was sure his trousers would be ruined. “Woah, okay, breathe,” he said, reaching up to stroke at his hair.

“I- I am,” Arthur said, a little shakily. “It’s just…” He glanced around at the walls enclosing them. Had they been that close before?

“Hey, no, look at me.”

A hand cupped Arthur’s cheek and turned his head around. Their eyes met, Gilbert’s expression determined. Arthur didn’t know what he looked like, though he could feel something on his cheek. Hoping it wasn't tears, Arthur bit his lip to keep from making a sound. Gilbert’s expression softened. Gently, his thumb swept the wet sensation away, rubbing at the skin just under Arthur’s eyes.

“It’s okay,” Gilbert murmured, quieter than Arthur had ever heard him. “We’re fine. I promise.”

And the lift jerked again. Arthur’s eyes went wide and he clutched at Gilbert, his breathing growing shallow. Frowning, Gilbert used his free hand to rub at Arthur’s side, as if that would help. But the ticklish sensation made Arthur gasp and Gilbert immediately stopped, squeezing Arthur’s hip in apology. As an answer, Arthur reached down and grabbed Gilbert’s hand in order to move it away from him - just as the lift jerked once more and, instead of pushing Gilbert away, Arthur tightened his grip on Gilbert’s fingers and whimpered.

“Hey, come on, Arthur, look at me.” Rather obediently, Arthur looked up at him, frowning as Gilbert smiled. As their gazes met, Arthur had the fleeting thought that Gilbert’s eyes were beautiful, unique and warm. Before he could dwell on that, Gilbert spoke again. “We’re in a meadow, remember? Are there bunnies?”

“What?” said Arthur, confused.

“I wanna know what your meadow-” Gilbert began but he was interrupted by a screeching sound. They both jumped at that but neither of them moved away from each other. Gilbert turned slightly, though, to look at the doors. Arthur looked over his shoulder and saw light spilling through a gap. A couple of men were peering in.

Relief washed over Arthur and he let out a breath. He didn't care about the rather compromising position he and Gilbert were in. Nor did he care about manners when the men started talking to them; he simply ignored them, too drained to do much else. He did, however, stand when Gilbert coaxed him into it.

“Here,” he heard Gilbert say. “Take him out first.”

“Wait,” said Arthur, turning back to him. “Gilbert, I…” He faltered, unsure as to how to express the sheer magnitude of his gratitude.

“Go,” Gilbert urged him. “You can thank me later.” With a wink, Gilbert guided him towards the men standing there, hands outstretched.

Arthur smiled at him and decided that he definitely would do something to thank him properly.

I was gonna add in how Arthur thanked him but it didn't fit in right and I tried the ending three different ways. What happens is that Arthur gets ushered to the break room and the two of them don't actually speak for the rest of the day. They smile at each other when they see each other in passing but they don't spot each other much. Arthur gets sent home when it's clear it's still affecting him so he goes to a florist to make an order and comes in early the next day with a bouquet and a vase which he leaves on Gilbert's desk with a note asking him to dinner as thanks.

Gilbert agrees to the date and that's how their relationship starts.

(I also like to think that they end up somewhere with a clown once and Arthur has to calm Gilbert down.)

[flintwoodandco]

time and tide may change (but darling we are forever) - Chapter 7

Previous - Next

Chapter Summary: Nothing like a few injuries to bring people together

Words: 1443

A/N: welp back on my bullshit

-

AO3

or

Marcus is very rarely around the house.

Ben hadn’t noticed at first because of his active avoidance, but now, he realizes he only sees Marcus every few days at most. Finally, he strikes up the courage to ask someone where Marcus has gone off to and they try to explain it as best they can. He finds out Marcus is a double agent, working for the Dark Lord as well as the Order. Ben doesn’t understand how anyone could trust him like that and says as much.

“You told us we should,” is all Kingsley Shacklebolt responds with and raises his eyebrows at Ben.

By the time Kingley is done explaining everything, Ben is overwhelmed and wonders how Oliver got wound up in all of this in the first place. At any rate, he thinks he understands why Marcus is gone and doesn’t question it again. After all, he’d hate to admit that he found Marcus’ actions brave and admirable.

Ben worries though. Worries about everyone’s safety, if there will be nights when Marcus may not come back or if any of the Order might not for that matter. He listens for the telltale cracks and pops in the late night, rushing to the door as people bustle in. More often than not, it’s just news about the wizarding world, the impending war, a boy named Harry, but injuries are not an uncommon occurrence either. Ben doesn’t know how Molly works her magic so well, but he’s thankful that she hasn’t had to deal with anything too serious.

This particular night is foreboding as Ben managed to overhear the meeting from earlier that a life-or-death mission was to happen. Molly picked up immediately that Ben knew once everyone had left, doing her best to reassure him. The pit was already growing in his stomach and he had waited in his room in order not to stress out Molly anymore.

A harsh crack rips through the night and Ben doesn’t even hesitate, sprinting down to the first floor. He stops himself on the last steps, seeing Molly already waiting in the living room.

“Are they back?” Ben asks, despite already knowing the answer. He grips onto the railing, the worst already running through his mind. It had been a big night for Marcus, at least that’s what others had said. All Ben hopes is that Marcus is alive.

When the door flies open, Ben’s stomach drops at the sight. Marcus’s face is covered with blood and he can barely support himself as he’s carried over to the couch by members of the Order followed by Arthur.

“Marcus,” Ben breathes out and rushes over to where the man has been laid. “What happened?”

“Ambush,” Arthur shakes his head. “Marcus tried to warn us but it all happened too quickly.”

Swallowing, Ben crouches down and finds himself running his hand through Marcus’s hair. The man almost looks peaceful if it wasn’t for the blood.

“He’s unconscious. As for his injuries...”

Arthur pauses as Ben stares at him with widening eyes.

“No, no, they’ll heal. Our magic can handle that. I just can’t say how long the recovery will take,” Arthur quickly corrects himself.

Both Ben and Arthur let out a sigh of relief just as Molly comes bursting into the room again.

“Out of the way,” Molly pushes through before anything else can be said. She tends to Marcus’ wounds, having to shoo Ben out of the way every so often because of him trying to hold onto Marcus’ hand.

Ben is wrought with emotion, despite the small part of hostility he still holds towards Marcus. It’s as if another part of him has taken over and all he wants is Marcus to be okay.

The wounds are wrapped up quickly and Ben is moved out of the way again as Marcus is brought up to his room. Ben trails behind, trying to keep an eye on Marcus through the few blocking bodies in his way.

When Marcus is laid down on his bed, Ben pulls over a chair and sits by Marcus’ side. A few people filter in and out of the room to check on Marcus, but once he’s alone, it’s only then that Ben cups Marcus’ face in one of his hands. Looking down at the man, Ben can’t help the feeling of wanting to hold him close. Instead, he lets his hand trail from Marcus’ face down to his chest where he can feel his heartbeat.

Ben swallows down the lump forming in his throat and simply stares at Marcus. This is where he’s meant to be, he thinks.

~

Molly had said Marcus’s recovery would take a few days, but Ben couldn’t help checking on the man every moment he had. He’s not sure what he’s expecting as the fourth day rolls by, lingering at Marcus’s bedside yet again. Ben’s only thankful that everyone in the house is at the very least humoring him.

As he sits in his chair, Ben concentrates on Marcus’ uncharacteristic quiet. Asleep, there is a softness to the man that Ben simply hadn’t noticed before. He wonders if this is the same face Oliver gazed upon in early mornings and his body becomes numb. He wants this. He wants Marcus.

Ben lets his eyes trail down from Marcus’ face to the rest of his body, stopping at the hands, laid perfectly next to his side. There is a comfort Ben finds in them and his fingers twitch in hesitation. Lifting his hand, Ben reaches for Marcus’s own and then stops himself. He feels the turmoil in his mind, the one that feels he should still hate Marcus and the other that wants nothing more to embrace him fully.

Ben curses and takes to leaning back in the chair next to Marcus’ bed in attempt to straighten out his thoughts. He needs to make a decision, he can’t keep changing his mind every time something emotional happens.

He’s scared though. If Marcus is to be his, he wants to be accepted as Ben, not as who he used to be. Oliver might never come back and Ben fears he will be tossed aside when everyone realizes this. He runs a hand through his hair and exhales heavily. Then again, they would’ve gotten rid of him already if they truly did not care.

Movement catches his eye and Ben scoots back, eyeing Marcus as the man starts to move, his eyes slowly opening. Ben waits as Marcus collects himself and holds his breath when Marcus turns his head in his direction. It’s a stalemate of who’ll look away first before Marcus opens his mouth.

“What...happened?” Marcus asks, his voice hoarse and weak.

“Ambush. You were knocked off your broom,” Ben replies as he grabs a cup of water and helps Marcus lift his head to take a drink.

Marcus grimaces but a small portion of his strength seems to come back as he swallows and he attempts to sit up. Ben immediately goes to help him, trying to ignore Marcus’ curious gaze.

“How long have I been out?”

“Just a few days,” Ben attempts to say in a casual tone, but the tension has risen in the room and he feels stifled.

“Have you been with me the entire time?”

Ben hates how Marcus seems to ask the exact question he hopes to not answer. With a few glances out the windows, Ben half-heartedly shakes his head and is unable to stop his response of, “Yes.”

Glancing down at his hands still on Marcus, Ben pulls away to leave, but Marcus grabbing his arm stops him. Ben doesn’t want to fight, so he stands, waiting for Marcus to take the first move.

“Why?”

“I needed to make sure you’d be okay, that you’d–” Ben automatically answers and then clamps his mouth shut, embarrassed that he let his emotions slip.

Marcus’ hand squeezes his arm and Ben finally turns to him. “I am. Thank you for staying with me.”

Ben tries to hide the sigh that leaves his body, but Marcus has already noticed, giving Ben a small smile. “When I’m better, I’ll take you flying, alright?”

Flying. Ben’s heart soars at this and he can barely contain his excitement. He had forgotten until now but flying the remembrance of flying had filled so many of his sleepless nights before all of this. It was the only thing that felt real in both worlds.

Ben’s pulled from his haze by Marcus’ small laugh and he blushes. It’s wonderful to have Marcus back. It’s as if any stress Ben had from earlier has vanished and all that matters is Marcus.

[sherlockxreader]

A Fear of Losing Love (SherlockxFem!Reader)

Title: A Fear of Losing Love

Author: Nyla (@i-had-a-halo-once)

Pairings: SherlockxFem!Reader, mentions of SherlockxMolly and SherlockxIrene

Request: Hey love, my name is Nyla as well, but anyways i was wondering if you could do a scene where sherlock tells her he loves her based off the song “Suicide by James Arthur” much love xx — anonymous

Warnings: Angst, mentions of cheating, a song mentioning suicide, and a little cursing

A/N: So I really got into this request, and it became pretty long XD So, I hope you enjoy, and I’m sorry for the delay in posting it! Enjoy! -Nyla

Words: 5,295

____________________________________________________________

Sherlock Holmes hated waiting. It was boring, and took up time he could use for doing something else that was useful. He hated the dullness of sitting in his chair, fingertips steepled and hovering close to his mouth, his expression at first glance calm. A second glance would reveal his eyes to be hard — cold and unforgiving for the person he was waiting on.

John had left hours ago after extracting a promise from a tight-lipped Sherlock that the detective would let him know when she finally came home, if she did at all that night.

She. Y/N.

A young woman whose name always followed Sherlock’s when his was uttered in conversation. Y/N. A young woman who was equal in nearly every way to the genius detective now waiting on her, anger radiating off of him that would be instantly discernible to anyone who really knew him.

The clock ticked one a.m. Sherlock didn’t move, but his eyes grew fractionally colder with each hour that most called ungodly ticking by.

“You didn’t have to wait up.”

Her voice followed the shutting of the flat’s front door, and her footsteps were muffled on the carpet. She unwound her scarf and tossed it haphazardly over her chair, the one that used to be John’s before he moved in with Mary.

“Did you have fun?” Sherlock’s tone was sharp, and hinted at mocking.

She chose to ignore him, knowing he wouldn’t listen to her like this. It was a mark of her status in his eyes, and her confidence and familiarity with the abrasive detective, that she was unintimidated by his tone and felt comfortable with blatantly ignoring him.

Her coat was already coming off and being hung on the coat hanger she brought with her when she moved in with him.

“You know some people would call it cheating,” Sherlock spoke again, and his tone was sharper with annoyance at her refusal to be provoked by him.

“We’re not exactly the definition of a couple,” you replied evenly with a tone that implied you didn’t care about his opinion, but your vivid (E/C) eyes glinted with annoyance.

There was nothing he could say to that, and he knew it. You were absolutely correct, and he hated that. You had practically waltzed into Sherlock’s life one day, looking for a flat mate, and had beaten the detective at his own game of deduction. Of course, that caught his attention, which rarely happened. And one day he found you at a crime scene Lestrade had called him to. Sensing his unasked demand of what you were doing there, you had smirked at him and simply said, “I was bored.” From then on, he had viewed you with a more than casual interest, and you two had wordlessly agreed to become a team.

Eventually, a relationship grew between you two. And while the public thought it was a match made in heaven with their typical eagerness to have a celebrity couple to adore, you two were anything but perfect. In the public spotlight, you presented a unified front. In private, you fought constantly.

You were ruthless when it came to criminals, and now Sherlock realized you could be just as heartless with dating. If he could even call this relationship dating. You weren’t an official couple in your own words, and you saw that as an excuse to do whatever the hell you wanted.

Even meeting up with other men.

(One, two, ready Here we go)

It ain’t the gun It’s the man behind the trigger Gets blood on his fingers And runs It ain’t the lie It’s the way that the truth is denied

Sherlock regarded you coldly over his fingertips. “Clearly.” His response was clipped, and finally elicited a heated reaction he had wanted from you.

“And what exactly does that mean?” You shot back, turning to glare at him. “It wasn’t anything meaningful, either, just so you know. A couple of drinks. One kiss. That’s all.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Sherlock snapped back, anger heating his tone. “It went further than that, and you know it, Y/N. Of everything you could have said, I thought you knew better than to lie to me.”

“So what? It’s not like you don’t keep secrets either,” you retorted. “One minute you’re telling me we’re not a couple, the next you’re jealous of something that didn’t go further than a couple of kisses in a dark alleyway.”

“Oh, so it was only a couple of kisses. That makes it so much better, Y/N.” His tone was carried heavy sarcasm, and you rolled your eyes with a huff.

“Get over it, Sherlock. You’re being a brat about this, and you know it.” You turned on your heel, fuming, and reached for your coat. You had no intentions of staying here if Sherlock was going to be so bloody annoying and childish. Besides, it had never bothered him before, so you saw no reason for it to now.

“Going out again, then?” Came his angry retort. “Going to find someone you can sleep the night away with? Should I expect you back for tea in the morning, or will you be too busy with a stranger?”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock!” Your tone was rising, and you whirled to face him. He had come to a standing position, and was glaring at you. You returned the glare with equal passion. “I refuse to be around you when you’re so blinded with your hate of me! I suppose you have a list, then? Of all my sins? Of everything I’ve done to offend you? Go on, then, read it! Tell me exactly why I make you so angry constantly.”

Sherlock went to answer, then stopped, gauging your expression. He knew you better than anyone, of course. He knew almost everything about you, from the tiny movements that denoted your amusement to the slight twitch of your hand that indicted tears. And yes, there it was, a twitch in your left hand.

In that instance, he realized he had gone too far. Yes, you had been rude and hurtful, but his comments had been uncalled for.

So instead of making yet another one, he simply stood and stared at you, uncharacteristically silent. With a shake of your head, you turned and left for the second time that night, slamming the door behind you.

He made no move to follow you.

But if there is one thing that I’m guilty of It’s loving and giving when you take too much If somebody asked how we died Please look them straight in the eye

Sherlock remained frozen in his spot after you stormed out in a whirl of hurt and anger, resisting the urge to go after you. You had no right to go treating him like that, after all that you had put him through.

Evening after evening, you walked out early on only to return in the early morning hours when the city found a brief respite from the business of diurnal normality. Each of those mornings he heard you come in, your footstep light despite your exhaustion, and each of those mornings he heard you slip into your bedroom quietly. Each morning found him lying awake, listening for the sound of your return, different emotions playing across his face as he once again listened to you find your way into your bed and collapsed, tired from your night out and hoping to catch a few hours of sleep before you were supposed to rise and start a new day.

Sometimes, once he knew you were asleep, he rose from his own bed and quietly opened your door to look in at your sleeping form, knowing he needed to confront you but not wanting to disturb the tense relationship you two had shared, hyper aware that it could easily shatter should anything upset it.

Tonight, he was too tired and angry with your late night outings to care about what such a confrontation would mean for the future of your relationship. He had planned his words carefully, knowing you would fight with him. Ultimately, however, he had believed you would see his side and apologize.

He hadn’t counted on the extent of your own anger towards him.

And he wasn’t sure what had caused it.

This, he thought with a cold disappointment, was exactly why he had always avoided any sort of serious romantic relationship. Love. Love was a poison. It often did the exact opposite of what one expected it to, or seemingly on a whim forced one of its victims to do something completely out of character.

Say, for example, let someone endure the suffering caused by the one they were supposed to love and who was supposed to love them back.

Because despite it all, all the fights and the raised voices and the silent but cold looks you exchanged with him on a more common daily basis than either of you would have liked, Sherlock was wise enough to admit the truth.

He loved you.

Call it suicide Don’t fabricate Just tell them babe It was suicide Don’t sugarcoat it Just let them know

He wasn’t sure when he had realized it, but one day, during a crime scene preliminary survey where you were checking out a blood splatter across the brick wall nearby, he had looked up and his eyes had landed you, your expression a mask of concentration. And he had realized, with breathtaking clarity, his feelings for you.

Never, never, had Sherlock Holmes imagined the day where he could lay eyes on someone and feel something other than grudging acceptance of their presence. Well, except for John, but he had trouble sometimes there, too. But you…

How had he not realized it before? He, Sherlock Holmes, who was in control of his emotions and his mind, had been deceived into falling in love. Maybe it was the glint of excitement in your eyes that appeared whenever a new case was brought to your attention. Maybe it was the way you fearlessly ran into danger to pursue the truth no matter the cost. Maybe it was the way you stood up to him, unafraid of anything he could say or do to you in retaliation. Maybe it was the way you stood up to everyone who snapped at him to defend him with a crushing sentence.

No, he had never admitted his feelings for you, because he had been so sure it would pass. Eventually, this feeling would pass and everything would go back to normal. His mind wouldn’t become instantly obsessed with you every time you walked in a room, and his heart wouldn’t seem to skip beats when you looked or talked to him. He needed everything to go back to normal. He needed to rid himself of this dangerous emotion that seemed to hold unimaginable sway over him, a man of rationale and science.

His hand clenched and he threw his glass at the wall, not bothered by the crack of shattering glass against wallpaper that did nothing to soften the blow.

It ain’t the knife It’s the way that you use it How you abuse it in fights It ain’t about the life You feel you were given As long as you’re living it right

You waited until the door of the flat was slammed close and you were exiting the front door downstairs to hesitate. Your head turned almost of its own accord to allow you to see the window of your flat. Your gaze caught the dark figure standing in full view staring down at you with an unreadable expression, and you hesitated just another second before you shook your head, turning at the same time, an almost overwhelming urge to escape Sherlock’s judgment tugging you away from the flat and your confusing life within its walls.

You kept yourself together, afraid for anyone to see the tumultuous emotions raging within you and recognize your face. Sherlock’s words had cut you deeper than you had let on, and you cursed yourself quietly as the cold night air hit your face in a chilling wind.

You knew he was right, of course, no matter what the typical definition of a couple looked like. Even atypical couples usually tended to avoid meeting up with other people with the intention of what was basically cheating.

You hadn’t meant to cheat— No, you knew better and so did Sherlock, which made all excuses useless in your defense. You were brilliant, and you weren’t shy about that fact, so he knew that you had known exactly what you were doing when you allowed another man to kiss you and hold your hand in a public street. If you hadn’t wanted it, it wouldn’t have happened and that was a simple fact. And Sherlock knew it just as well as you did, which made it cheating. There was no other word for it.

Yes, you had chosen it, but you didn’t simply chose to go out and cheat for no reason. You did everything for a reason, and you were positive Sherlock was aware there was a reason behind your actions. You were angry and bitter, and you had wanted to teach him a lesson. Which had clearly backfired, but you weren’t surprised. You hadn’t been expecting it to really work anyway.

Still, some foolish part of your mind had been holding out for him to realize that you were angry with him.

A muffled ringtone sent your thoughts scattering away, and you glanced at the ID after pulling the phone out of your pocket. Why? Why the hell had he called you now?

“What?” You snapped by way of greeting as soon as you answered.

“Come back.” Sherlock stated, his tone still sharp but less frosty.

“Knock off, Sherlock. You’re angry, and all my return will do is invite more arguing. We both know that. So you either called me to argue with me further, or say something else. Which one is it?”

“Will you just talk this out with me without getting irrational about my intentions, Y/N?” He retorted.

“Look, Sherlock. When we met, we both agreed a professional relationship was the best we could manage, and then we both went and made a stupid mistake. So why don’t we just admit we were right the first time and part with the resemblance of friendship?” You spat. Hatred of him, of everything you had gone through with him, poisoned your tone.

“Y/N—”

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”

If there is one thing that I’m guilty of It’s loving and giving when you take too much If somebody asked how we died Oh, you look them straight in the eye

Sherlock hated many things. Idiots, Anderson, people who insulted or hurt you or John, his brother in general, and boredom. And on this occasion, he hated himself above all else, but more than anything, he hated losing you. And he knew that now. He couldn’t stand losing the only person who truly understood what it was like to be him, what it was like to be so bright and yet so insecure. And he knew he was going to get you back no matter what it took. Whatever happened between you two, he would fight for you and win because he was Sherlock Holmes and he didn’t lose.

Only he had no idea how to get you back.

So he called the only person he could.

He paced the flat anxiously, silently pleading for his other best friend to pick up despite the hour. The clock ticked the hour of one a.m. away while he waited and waited and waited.

And finally, there was an answer.

“Sherlock?” Came John’s sleepy, albeit worried, voice.

“John, I need your help.” Sherlock responded instantly, his voice upset. That in itself was enough to cause worry — Sherlock never let his emotions take over, and this tone was uncontrolled, unlike the times when the detective would call about a case, excited but controlled.

“What is it? Did something happen to Y/N?” Sherlock could hear the sounds of John sitting up and flipping on a light, and the resultant sleepy murmurs of Mary.

“I lost her, John, and I don’t know how to get her back,” Sherlock said, but his tone was pleading. Desperate. Completely uncharacteristic.

“You lost her?”

“Yes, John, understand! I lost Y/N. She broke up with me, and I need her back. I don’t know how to do that. How do I get her back, John?”

There was a pause, which found Sherlock pacing more furiously and close to another outburst, before he replied. “Fight for her, Sherlock. Where is she now?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Find her. Go after her. That’s what she wants, to know that you really do care about her.”

“She should know that already!”

“Sherlock,” John’s voice became a little stricter, “how is she supposed to know when you place everything before her? You cancel dates to work on cases. You brush her off when she comes to you. And, more recently, you constantly criticize her. And she’s tired of it. She’s probably going to find someone who doesn’t take her for granted.”

Sherlock was silent, the surprise of discovering how you truly felt from John of all people taking any response he could have given away from him. Did you really feel this way? Did he really take you for granted? He knew he could act like that towards others around him, but you… He had really thought he had acted differently towards you. And you never tended to show your emotions openly, but he had been able to read you easily. At least, he had thought so.

But then, maybe you had hidden your true feelings away too well and he had always been to busy to realize you were never really around anymore, that your heart had found a different place to be and it wasn’t with him anymore.

John was right. He needed to go after you, and explain why he needed you to come back.

There was only one way to do that, he realized as he swung his coat on and finally opened the door to chase down the woman he loved and had lost.

Call it suicide Don’t fabricate Just tell them babe It was suicide Don’t sugarcoat it Just let them know

Your hands were shoved deep into your pockets as you trudged along, reluctance dogging your every step while doubt and uncertainty plagued your mind, your anger cooling off in the frozen night air drifting invisibly around you. With each warm breath of air you released, a small area of cold air in front of you was lit up in small, misty clouds painted white by the street lamps guarding you nearby. Should you have stayed? Should you have heeded Sherlock’s words and returned to talk it out? You knew Sherlock was trying to be reasonable, and you had brushed him off with nothing more than a thinly-veiled breakup and hostility.

Still, you didn’t want to talk. Your anger with his treatment of you had gone beyond the talking point months ago. How did he not get that? Then again, Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant scientist and crime detective, wasn’t quite so smart when it came to his own relationships, and yours and his in particular.

You knew the best thing for you was to escape him and the unhealthy relationship that had developed, yet a small part of your heart was holding out for his arrival to announce something you had been waiting for ever since you had started dating him.

Unlike him, you knew you were in love with him. It had become obvious to you soon after you met him, but you had never told him, patiently waiting for him to ask you out. And then he did, but in all the months of your romantic relationship, three simple words you had longed to hear had never passed his lips and now it looked like they never would.

Your hand was already rising to brush the tears away when you first became aware of them, and you forced yourself to straighten up. You didn’t need Sherlock Holmes; it would hurt like hell, but you would walk away once and for all.

At least, that was the plan.

Except plans, even ones by world-famous geniuses, tended to upend themselves and never quite work out the way they were wanted to.

Some tiny part of you knew that.

You’ve been killing me softly And finally the pain is too much And I’m all out of whisky To soak up the damage you’ve done

Sherlock tracked your phone, correctly guessing you would still have it on you even after his call. You were too smart to go throwing phones away simply so he wouldn’t have your number right now. You could always quite easily get a new one, and he had doubt that if he let you go forever, you would do exactly that.

So he followed the directions coming from his phone to get to yours and to you. His step was hurried and full of anxiety, and it was clear to anyone watching. Absently, people wondered what the detective was worked up about as he brushed past them without even a cursory glance at their anonymous faces before returning to the pressing matters of their own busy lives.

He saw your phone was moving steadily, but slowly, away from him just a couple of streets away. His urgency increased, prompting his pace to do the same, and Sherlock shoved his phone into his pocket roughly, his mind flooded with the possibilities of words he could string together to convince you why this should have just been a minor argument and nothing to leave over. Hadn’t you once said angry arguments were just excuses that people to get worked up over for no reason? And he agreed. Reasonable discussion of differing opinions was one thing; actual arguments filled with emotional defenses and rising voices were another.

Oh, God, he hoped John was right and he could win you back. Sherlock had always prided himself on his independence from everyone else and the ability to detach himself from his emotions, but you were a different matter. No matter how he put it, Sherlock was faced with the truth.

He needed you.

And he knew you needed him just as much.

So he continued on, and finally turned a corner to step onto the street you were on. His eyes found your form almost immediately, moving away from another figure following you. As he drew closer, his eyes narrowing, your voice drifted back to him quite clearly.

“Stop following me, for God’s sake!” You snapped at the man, for Sherlock could now quite easily see it was a man now, dogging you.

“C’mon, darlin’, one kiss wouldn’t hurt,” the man slurred his words heavily and that alone was enough to make Sherlock’s opinion go from annoyance at his existence to downright hatred. His hand slipped inside his coat and he continued walking towards you as his fingers grasped the cold handle of the gun he had taken to carrying.

The sound of you slapping the man and your following curses, a string of language that would have made a Royal Navy sailor blush, followed the drunk’s imploring. The drunk fired back with his own curses, and a quest to grab your arm and drag you into a dark alleyway.

“She said no,” Sherlock’s voice rang out after he decided to make himself known. You and the man both turned instantly, and while his eyes widened at the sight of the handheld firearm pointing at him, disbelief and anger flickered across your features. Your mouth tightened into a thin line as your eyes met Sherlock’s as he continued. “So I suggest you leave before you pay for your actions.”

The man looked ready to pee himself with fear as he stumbled away, but you simply muttered a curse and turned away, angry with Sherlock for rescuing you and angry with yourself for providing a situation where he could. You didn’t need him, you were perfectly fine on your own.

“Y/N—” Sherlock started, his simultaneous action being to step forward and almost reaching for you with his free hand. Your automatic step back was enough to make him draw back, something flashing in his eyes.

“Don’t!” You snapped at him. “Please, just leave me alone. Just…” Your tone was exhausted more than anything at this point, and it hurt Sherlock to know he was the cause.

If there’s anything I’m guilty of It’s loving you too much If anybody asks how we died

“You don’t get to make a decision for the both of us, Y/N,” he stated, a little sharpness finding its way into his voice again. “Not when they affect both of us. You’re wrong. I was wrong. Can we both admit that and move on?” He pleaded a little.

“What exactly were we wrong about, Sherlock? You’re going to have to be specific, because it seems like we’ve both been wrong a lot lately.” You didn’t bother trying to hide the tears glittering in your eyes now. He would have been able to tell your emotional state even if you had looked completely calm. As it was, you looked like you were barely holding yourself together and felt like falling apart.

“We were wrong about each other,” he answered quietly, and that sentence stopped your lips as they were forming another angry response. Your eyes widened slightly, and he let that statement hang in the air above you two as your gazes locked. He continued just as softly a minute later. “We were wrong about each other, Y/N. I thought I didn’t need you. You thought I didn’t care about you after all. We both acted in ways we shouldn’t have.”

“I…” Your voice trailed off, swallowed by the pressing night air surrounding you two as you remained locked in your own little world where no one but Y/N L/N and Sherlock Holmes existed. Your tone wavered with the weight of your confusion and hesitancy.

“You know I’m right, Y/N. And you’re right — as far as your actions are concerned, tonight seemed to be no different. You followed your normal routine, and yes, I know all about it.” He smiled slightly after forestalling your question. You had been so sure he was oblivious to your nightly routine. Maybe he hadn’t been so occupied after all. “What I didn’t know is why you did it. I would lay awake at night, listening to your footsteps, and I would wonder, Y/N. I wondered why you of all people went out to find someone else to talk to, to be close to, to hang out with, instead of me. I doubted myself. Was I not good enough? Were you not sure you wanted to continue our relationship? Was I simply awful at all romantic relationships like I had always believed I was?” He shook his head at himself, but his gaze remained on yours, holding you in place, forcing you to listen to him.

“Sherlock…” You began again, but once again your voice was taken by both Sherlock holding up a gloved hand and the wind snatching away your words and any defense you might have thrown up.

“Y/N, please. Let me finish.” He took a staggering deep breath, seemingly steadying himself for what was coming next. “Most of all, I wondered why it bothered me. Never before had any such occurrence bothered me if it was completely separate from a case. What did romance, what did a serious relationship, mean to me? Nothing. Not if it couldn’t think for itself and help me solve a case. You know what happened with Molly. With Irene. With Janine.” He allowed a faint, bitter smile to twist his lips.

You did know what had happened to the women who had previously dated Sherlock. The one with Molly hadn’t ended pretty. She had left, crying and accusing Sherlock of being less than human in his priorities — when she had forced him to choose between her and a case involving another woman, he had picked the case, effectively ending their relationship. And Irene’s past with Sherlock was a complicated matter that one didn’t lightly approach with the intent of delving into. It had also ended with his priorities being mere cases over human beings interested in being around him. As for Janine... That relationship hadn’t even been real.

“So why, exactly, did your comings and goings and nights out with other men bother me so much I would lay awake, half hoping you wouldn’t dare walk through the front door again and half afraid that you wouldn’t, that something had happened. After spending so much time with you, somehow, I had begun to place you above mere cases. I began letting you have value in my life independent from crimes and mysteries. And then… Then I realized.”

He paused, and you felt your breath catching in your throat because of anticipated excitement chasing it, and your heart fluttering lightly like a million butterflies hovering together in one spot. Was he going to say it? Would he… He was so damn close, and your heart ached to hear the words fall from his lips.

Hell, if he said it, you knew you wouldn’t be able to stop your own words.

[Chorus x2:] Call it suicide Don’t fabricate Just tell them babe It was suicide Don’t sugarcoat it Just let them know

“Maybe it was the first day I saw you and I was too blind to my own emotions. Maybe it was after that that I realized what I hadn’t dared to think about. I don’t know when the hell I realized it, Y/N, and I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before. All I know is that I’ve realized it tonight,” he breathed, his body seeming to move of its own accord closer to you. You remained rooted to your spot, helpless as the man you loved drew closer and closer to you in a memorizing way.

“Realized what?” You whispered, the words barely audible with the strength and weakness of the hope they contained.

“That I love you, Y/N L/N. I love you so much it hurts, Y/N, and I can’t lose you. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and you are the one thing that I cannot be without anymore. I love you. I love you, so don’t you dare leave me. Please.” His voice was quiet, almost pleading and desperate, but his eyes shone strangely, almost watery, in the light of the streetlight a few meters away.

“Goddamnit, Sherlock Holmes, I love you too.” Your hand reached up before you realized it, brushing Sherlock’s cheek.

“We’re going to find a way through this, I promise. You’re everything, Y/N, and I will protect you. Just stay with me. Please.” His hands found yours, holding yours firmly in a grip that conveyed everything he couldn’t find the words to explain to you. You gave him a faint smile of your own.

“I would be a bloody fool to walk away from the man I love more than anything, Sherlock. Remember that. I love you, too, and that will never change.”

He laughed softly, and the next thing you knew was his warm lips against yours in a kiss that promised everything to you, and you returned it quite eagerly.

Oh baby Just let them know Just…